The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume V

by Aphra Behn

AGNES DE CASTRO.

[ INTRODUCTION.]

The ‘sweet sentimental tragedy’ of Agnes de Castro was founded by Mrs. Behn upon a work by Mlle S. B. de Brillac, Agnès de Castro, nouvelle portugaise (1688), and various subsequent editions. In the same year (1688) as Mrs. Behn’s Agnes de Castro; or, The Force of Generous Blood was published there appeared ‘Two New Novels, i. The Art of Making Love.[1] ii. The Fatal Beauty of Agnes de Castro: Taken out of the History of Portugal. Translated from the French by P. B. G.[2] For R. Bentley’ (12mo). Each has a separate title page. Bellon’s version does not differ materially from Mrs. Behn, but she far exceeds him in spirit and niceness of style.

So much legend has surrounded the romantic history of the beautiful Ines de Castro that it is impossible fully to elucidate every detail of her life. Born in the early years of the fourteenth century, she was the daughter of Pedro Fernandez de Castro, major domo to Alphonso XI of Castille. She accompanied her relative, Dona Constança Manuel, daughter to the Duke of Peñafiel, to the court of Alphonso IV of Portugal when this lady was to wed the Infante Don Pedro. Here Ines excited the fondest love in Pedro’s heart and the passion was reciprocated. She bore him several children, and there can be no doubt that Dona Constança was madly jealous of her husband’s amour with her fair friend. 13 November, 1345, Constança died, and Pedro immediately married his mistress at Braganza in the presence of the Bishop of Guarda. Their nuptials were kept secret, and the old King kept pressing his son to take a wife. Before long his spies found out the reason of the Infante’s constant refusals; and, beside himself with rage, he watched an opportunity whilst Pedro, on a great hunting expedition, was absent from Coimbra where they resided, and had Ines cruelly assassinated 7 January, 1355. The grief of Pedro was terrible, he plunged the country into civil war, and it was only by the tenderest solicitations of his mother and the authority of several holy monks and bishops that he was restrained from taking a terrible revenge upon his father. Alphonso died, his power curtailed, his end unhappy, May, 1357.

A very literature has grown up around the lovely Ines, and many more than a hundred items of interest could be enumerated. The best authority is J. de Araujo, whose monumental Bibliographia Inesiana was published in 1897. Mrs. Behn’s novel was immensely popular and is included, with some unnecessary moral observations as preface, in Mrs. Griffith’s A Collection of Novels (1777), Vol. III, which has a plate illustrating the tale. It was turned into French by Marie-Geneviève-Charlotte Tiroux d’ Arconville (1720-1805), wife of a councillor of the Parliament, an aimable blue-stocking who devoted her life wholly to literature, and translated freely from English. This work is to be found in Romans (les deux premiers . . . tirés des Lettres Persanes . . . par M. Littleton et le dernier . . . d’un Recueil de Romans . . . de Madame Behn) traduits de l’ Anglois, (Amsterdam, 1761.) It occurs again in Mélanges de Litterature (12mo, 1775, etc.), Vol. VI.

A tragedy, Agnes de Castro, written by that philosophical lady, Catherine Trotter (afterwards Cockburn), at the early age of sixteen, and produced at the Theatre Royal, 1696, with Powell, Verbruggen, Mrs. Rogers in the principal parts, is directly founded upon Mrs. Behn. It is a mediocre play, and the same can even more truly be said of Mallet’s cold Elvira (1763). This was acted, however, with fair success thirteen times. Garrick played Don Pedro, his last original part, and Mrs. Cibber Elvira. Such dull exercises as C. Symmons, Inez, a tragedy (1796), and Ignez de Castro, a tragedy in verse, intended for Hoad’s Magazine call for no comment.

There is a French play by Lamotte on the subject of Ines de Castro, which was first produced 6 April, 1723. Voltaire found the first four acts execrable and laughed consumedly. The fifth was so tender and true that he melted into tears. In Italian we have, from the pen of Bertoletti, Inez de Castro, tragedia, Milano, 1826.

In Spanish and Portuguese there are, of course, innumerable poems, treaties, tragedies, studies, romances. Lope de Vega wrote Dona Inez de Castro, and the beautiful episode of Camoens is deservedly famous. Antonio Ferreira’s splendid tragedy is well known. First published in Comedias Famosas dos Doctores de Sa de Mirande (4to, 1622), it can also be read in Poemas lusitanos (2 Vols., 8vo, Lisbon, 1771). Domingo dos Reis Quita wrote a drama, Ignez de Castro, a translation of which, by Benjamin Thompson, was published in 1800. There is also a play Dona Ignez de Castro, by Nicolas Luiz, which was Englished by John Adamson, whose version was printed at Newcastle, 1808.

[1] Mr. Arundell Esdaile in his Bibliography of Fiction (printed before 1740) erroneously identifies this amusing little piece with Mrs. Behn’s The Lover’s Watch. It is, however, quite another thing, dealing with a pseudo-Turkish language of love.

[2] i.e., Peter Bellon, Gent. Bellon was an assiduous hackney writer and translator of the day. He has also left one comedy, The Mock Duellist; or, The French Valet (4to, 1675).

[ THE HISTORY OF]
AGNES de CASTRO.

Tho’ Love, all soft and flattering, promises nothing but Pleasures; yet its Consequences are often sad and fatal. It is not enough to be in love, to be happy; since Fortune, who is capricious, and takes delight to trouble the Repose of the most elevated and virtuous, has very little respect for passionate and tender Hearts, when she designs to produce strange Adventures.

Many Examples of past Ages render this Maxim certain; but the Reign of Don Alphonso the IVth, King of Portugal, furnishes us with one, the most extraordinary that History can produce.

He was the Son of that Don Denis, who was so successful in all his Undertakings, that it was said of him, that he was capable of performing whatever he design’d, (and of Isabella, a Princess of eminent Virtue) who when he came to inherit a flourishing and tranquil State, endeavour’d to establish Peace and Plenty in abundance in his Kingdom.

And to advance this his Design, he agreed on a Marriage between his Son Don Pedro (then about eight Years of Age) and Bianca, Daughter of Don Pedro, King of Castile; and whom the young Prince married when he arriv’d to his sixteenth Year.

Bianca brought nothing to Coimbra but Infirmities and very few Charms. Don Pedro, who was full of Sweetness and Generosity, lived nevertheless very well with her; but those Distempers of the Princess degenerating into the Palsy, she made it her request to retire, and at her Intercession the Pope broke the Marriage, and the melancholy Princess conceal’d her Languishment in a solitary Retreat: And Don Pedro, for whom they had provided another Match, married Constantia Manuel, Daughter of Don John Manuel, a Prince of the Blood of Castile, and famous for the Enmity he had to his King.

Constantia was promised to the King of Castile; but the King not keeping his word, they made no Difficulty of bestowing her on a young Prince, who was one Day to reign over a number of fine Provinces. He was but five and twenty years of Age, and the Man of all Spain that had the best Fashion and Grace: and with the most advantageous Qualities of the Body he possest those of the Soul, and shewed himself worthy in all things of the Crown that was destin’d for him.

The Princess Constantia had Beauty, Wit, and Generosity, in as great a measure as ’twas possible for a Woman to be possest with; her Merit alone ought to have attach’d Don Pedro, eternally to her; and certainly he had for her an Esteem, mix’d with so great a Respect, as might very well pass for Love with those that were not of a nice and curious Observation: but alas! his real Care was reserved for another Beauty.

Constantia brought into the World, the first Year after her Marriage, a Son, who was called Don Louis: but it scarce saw the Light, and dy’d almost as soon as born. The loss of this little Prince sensibly touched her, but the Coldness she observ’d in the Prince her Husband, went yet nearer her Heart; for she had given her self absolutely up to her Duty, and had made her Tenderness for him her only Concern: But puissant Glory, which ty’d her so entirely to the Interest of the Prince of Portugal, open’d her Eyes upon his Actions, where she observ’d nothing in his Caresses and Civilities that was natural, or could satisfy her delicate Heart.

At first she fancy’d her self deceiv’d, but time having confirmed her in what she fear’d, she sighed in secret; yet had that Consideration for the Prince, as not to let him see her Disorder: and which nevertheless she could not conceal from Agnes de Castro, who lived with her, rather as a Companion, than a Maid of Honour, and whom her Friendship made her infinitely distinguish from the rest.

This Maid, so dear to the Princess, very well merited the Preference her Mistress gave her; she was beautiful to excess, wise, discreet, witty, and had more Tenderness for Constantia than she had for her self, having quitted her Family, which was illustrious, to give her self wholly to the Service of the Princess, and to follow her into Portugal. It was into the Bosom of this Maid, that the Princess unladed her first Moans; and the charming Agnes forgot nothing that might give ease to her afflicted Heart.

Nor was Constantia the only Person who complained of Don Pedro: Before his Divorce from Bianca, he had expressed some Care and Tenderness for Elvira Gonzales, Sister to Don Alvaro Gonzales, Favourite to the King of Portugal; and this Amusement in the young Years of the Prince, had made a deep Impression on Elvira, who flatter’d her Ambition with the Infirmities of Bianca. She saw, with a secret Rage, Constantia take her place, who was possest with such Charms, that quite divested her of all Hopes.

Her Jealousy left her not idle, she examined all the Actions of the Prince, and easily discover’d the little Regard he had for the Princess; but this brought him not back to her. And it was upon very good grounds that she suspected him to be in love with some other Person, and possessed with a new Passion; and which she promised herself, she would destroy as soon as she could find it out. She had a Spirit altogether proper for bold and hazardous Enterprizes; and the Credit of her Brother gave her so much Vanity, as all the Indifference of the Prince was not capable of humbling.

The Prince languished, and concealed the Cause with so much Care, that ’twas impossible for any to find it out. No publick Pleasures were agreeable to him, and all Conversations were tedious; and it was Solitude alone that was able to give him any ease.

This Change surprized all the World. The King, who loved his Son very tenderly, earnestly pressed him to know the Reason of his Melancholy; but the Prince made no answer, but only this, That it was the effect of his Temper.

But Time ran on, and the Princess was brought to bed of a second Son, who liv’d, and was called Fernando. Don Pedro forc’d himself a little to take part in the publick Joy, so that they believ’d his Humour was changing; but this Appearance of a Calm endur’d not long, and he fell back again into his black Melancholy.

The artful Elvira was incessantly agitated in searching out the Knowledge of this Secret. Chance wrought for her; and, as she was walking, full of Indignation and Anger, in the Garden of the Palace of Coimbra, she found the Prince of Portugal sleeping in an obscure Grotto.

Her Fury could not contain it self at the sight of this loved Object, she roll’d her Eyes upon him, and perceived in spite of Sleep, that some Tears escaped his Eyes; the Flame which burnt yet in her Heart, soon grew soft and tender there: But oh! she heard him sigh, and after that utter these words, Yes, Divine Agnes, I will sooner die than let you know it: Constantia shall have nothing to reproach me with. Elvira was enraged at this Discourse, which represented to her immediately, the same moment, Agnes de Castro with all her Charms; and not at all doubting, but it was she who possest the Heart of Don Pedro, she found in her Soul more Hatred for this fair Rival, than Tenderness for him.

The Grotto was not a fit Place to make Reflections in, or to form Designs. Perhaps her first Transports would have made her waken him, if she had not perceived a Paper lying under his Hand, which she softly seiz’d on; and that she might not be surprized in the reading it, she went out of the Garden with as much haste as confusion.

When she was retired to her Apartment, she open’d the Paper, trembling, and found in it these Verses, writ by the Hand of Don Pedro; and which, in appearance, he had newly then compos’d.

In vain, Oh! Sacred Honour, you debate

The mighty Business in my Heart:

Love! Charming Love! rules all my Fate;

Interest and Glory claim no part.

The God, sure of his Victory, triumphs there,

And will have nothing in his Empire share.

In vain, Oh! Sacred Duty, you oppose;

In vain, your Nuptial Tye you plead:

Those forc’d Devoirs LOVE overthrows,

And breaks the Vows he never made.

Fixing his fatal Arrows every where,

I burn and languish in a soft Despair.

Fair Princess, you to whom my Faith is due;

Pardon the Destiny that drags me on:

’Tis not my fault my Heart’s untrue,

I am compell’d to be undone.

My Life is yours, I gave it with my Hand,

But my Fidelity I can’t command.

Elvira did not only know the Writing of Don Pedro, but she knew also that he could write Verses. And seeing the sad Part which Constantia had in these which were now fallen into her hands, she made no scruple of resolving to let the Princess see ’em: but that she might not be suspected, she took care not to appear in this Business her self; and since it was not enough for Constantia to know that the Prince did not love her, but that she must know also that he was a Slave to Agnes de Castro, Elvira caused these few Verses to be written in an unknown Hand, under those writ by the Prince.

Sleep betrayed th’ unhappy Lover,

While Tears were streaming from his Eyes;

His heedless Tongue without disguise,

The Secret did discover:

The Language of his Heart declare,

That Agnes’ Image triumphs there.

Elvira regarded neither Exactness nor Grace in these Lines: And if they had but the effect she design’d, she wished no more.

Her Impatience could not wait till the next day to expose them: she therefore went immediately to the Lodgings of the Princess, who was then walking in the Garden of the Palace; and passing without resistance, even to her Cabinet, she put the Paper into a Book, in which the Princess used to read, and went out again unseen, and satisfy’d with her good Fortune.

As soon as Constantia was return’d, she enter’d into her Cabinet, and saw the Book open, and the Verses lying in it, which were to cost her so dear: She soon knew the Hand of the Prince which was so familiar to her; and besides the Information of what she had always fear’d, she understood it was Agnes de Castro (whose Friendship alone was able to comfort her in her Misfortunes) who was the fatal Cause of it: she read over the Paper an hundred times, desiring to give her Eyes and Reason the Lye; but finding but too plainly she was not deceiv’d, she found her Soul possest with more Grief than Anger: when she consider’d, as much in love as the Prince was, he had kept his Torment secret. After having made her moan, without condemning him, the Tenderness she had for him, made her shed a Torrent of Tears, and inspir’d her with a Resolution of concealing her Resentment.

She would certainly have done it by a Virtue extraordinary, if the Prince, who missing his Verses when he waked, and fearing they might fall into indiscreet Hands, had not enter’d the Palace, all troubled with his Loss; and hastily going into Constantia’s Apartment, saw her fair Eyes all wet with Tears, and at the same instant cast his own on the unhappy Verses that had escaped from his Soul, and now lay before the Princess.

He immediately turned pale at this sight, and appear’d so mov’d, that the generous Princess felt more Pain than he did: ‘Madam, said he, (infinitely alarm’d) from whom had you that Paper? It cannot come but from the Hand of some Person, answer’d Constantia, who is an Enemy both to your Repose and mine. It is the Work, Sir, of your own Hand; and doubtless the Sentiment of your Heart. But be not surprized, and do not fear; for if my Tenderness should make it pass for a Crime in you, the same Tenderness which nothing is able to alter, shall hinder me from complaining.’

The Moderation and Calmness of Constantia, served only to render the Prince more asham’d and confus’d. How generous are you, Madam, (pursu’d he) and how unfortunate am I! Some Tears accompany’d his Words, and the Princess, who lov’d him with extreme Ardour, was so sensibly touch’d, that it was a good while before she could utter a word. Constantia then broke silence, and shewing him what Elvira had caus’d to be written: You are betray’d, Sir, (added she) you have been heard speak, and your Secret is known. It was at this very moment that all the Forces of the Prince abandon’d him; and his Condition was really worthy Compassion: He could not pardon himself the involuntary Crime he had committed, in exposing of the lovely and the innocent Agnes. And tho’ he was convinced of the Virtue and Goodness of Constantia, the Apprehensions that he had, that this modest and prudent Maid might suffer by his Conduct, carry’d him beyond all Consideration.

The Princess, who heedfully survey’d him, saw so many Marks of Despair in his Face and Eyes, that she was afraid of the Consequences; and holding out her Hand, in a very obliging manner to him, she said, ‘I promise you, Sir, I will never more complain of you, and that Agnes shall always be very dear to me; you shall never hear me make you any Reproaches: And since I cannot possess your Heart, I will content myself with endeavouring to render myself worthy of it.’ Don Pedro, more confus’d and dejected than before he had been, bent one of his Knees at the feet of Constantia, and with respect kiss’d that fair kind Hand she had given him, and perhaps forgot Agnes for a moment.

But Love soon put a stop to all the little Advances of Hymen; the fatal Star that presided over the Destiny of Don Pedro had not yet vented its Malignity; and one moment’s sight of Agnes gave new Force to his Passion.

The Wishes and Desires of this charming Maid had no part in this Victory; her Eyes were just, tho’ penetrating, and they searched not in those of the Prince, what they had a desire to discover to her.

As she was never far from Constantia, Don Pedro was no sooner gone out of the Closet, but Agnes enter’d; and finding the Princess all pale and languishing in her Chair, she doubted not but there was some sufficient Cause for her Affliction: she put herself in the same Posture the Prince had been in before, and expressing an Inquietude, full of Concern; ‘Madam, said she, by all your Goodness, conceal not from me the Cause of your Trouble. Alas, Agnes, reply’d the Princess, what would you know? And what should I tell you? The Prince, the Prince, my dearest Maid, is in love; the Hand that he gave me, was not a Present of his Heart; and for the Advantage of this Alliance, I must become the Victim of it—What! the Prince in Love! (reply’d Agnes, with an Astonishment mix’d with Indignation) What Beauty can dispute the Empire over a Heart so much your due? Alas, Madam, all the Respect I owe him, cannot hinder me from murmuring against him. Accuse him of nothing, (interrupted Constantia) he does what he can; and I am more oblig’d to him for desiring to be faithful, than if I possest his real Tenderness. It is not enough to fight, but to overcome; and the Prince does more in the Condition wherein he is, than I ought reasonably to hope for: In fine, he is my Husband, and an agreeable one; to whom nothing is wanting, but what I cannot inspire; that is, a Passion which would have made me but too happy. Ah! Madam, (cry’d out Agnes, transported with her Tenderness for the Princess) he is a blind and stupid Prince, who knows not the precious Advantages he possesses. He must surely know something, (reply’d the Princess modestly.) But, Madam, (reply’d Agnes) Is there any thing, not only in Portugal, but in all Spain, that can compare with you? And without considering the charming Qualities of your Person, can we enough admire those of your Soul? My dear Agnes, (interrupted Constantia, sighing) she who robs me of my Husband’s Heart, has but too many Charms to plead his Excuse; since it is thou, Child, whom Fortune makes use of, to give me the killing Blow. Yes, Agnes, the Prince loves thee; and the Merit I know thou art possest of, puts bounds to my Complaints, without suffering me to have the least Resentment.’

The delicate Agnes little expected to hear what the Princess told her: Thunder would have less surpriz’d, and less oppres’d her. She remain’d a long time without speaking; but at last, fixing her Looks all frightful on Constantia, ‘What say you, Madam? (cry’d she) And what Thoughts have you of me? What, that I should betray you? And coming hither only full of Ardor to be the Repose of your Life, do I bring a fatal Poison to afflict it? What Detestation must I have for the Beauty they find in me, without aspiring to make it appear? And how ought I to curse the unfortunate Day, on which I first saw the Prince?—But, Madam, it cannot be me whom Heaven has chosen to torment you, and to destroy all your Tranquillity: No, it cannot be so much my Enemy, to put me to so great a Tryal. And if I were that odious Person, there is no Punishment, to which I would not condemn my self. It is Elvira, Madam, the Prince loves, and loved before his Marriage with you, and also before his Divorce from Bianca; and somebody has made an indiscreet Report to you of this Intrigue of his Youth: But, Madam, what was in the time of Bianca, is nothing to you. It is certain that Don Pedro loves you, (answer’d the Princess) and I have Vanity enough to believe, that, none besides your self could have disputed his Heart with me: But the Secret is discover’d, and Don Pedro has not disown’d it. What, (interrupted Agnes, more surpriz’d than ever) is it then from himself you have learned his Weakness?’ The Princess then shew’d her the Verses, and there was never any Despair like to hers.

While they were both thus sadly employ’d, both sighing, and both weeping, the impatient Elvira, who was willing to learn the Effect of her Malice, returned to the Apartment of the Princess, where she freely enter’d; even to the Cabinet where these unhappy Persons were: who all afflicted and troubled as they were, blushed at her approach, whose Company they did not desire: She had the Pleasure to see Constantia hide from her the Paper which had been the Cause of all their Trouble, and which the Princess had never seen, but for her Spite and Revenge; and to observe also in the Eyes of the Princess, and those of Agnes, an immoderate Grief: She staid in the Cabinet as long as it was necessary to be assur’d, that she had succeeded in her Design; but the Princess, who did not desire such a Witness of the Disorder in which she then was, pray’d to be left alone. Elvira then went out of the Cabinet, and Agnes de Castro withdrew at the same time.

It was in her own Chamber, that Agnes examining more freely this Adventure, found it as cruel as Death. She loved Constantia sincerely, and had not till then any thing more than an Esteem, mixt with Admiration, for the Prince of Portugal; which indeed, none could refuse to so many fine Qualities. And looking on her self as the most unfortunate of her Sex, as being the Cause of all the Sufferings of the Princess, to whom she was obliged for the greatest Bounties, she spent the whole Night in Tears and Complaints, sufficient to have reveng’d Constantia for all the Griefs she made her suffer.

The Prince, on his side, was in no great Tranquillity; the Generosity of his Princess increas’d his Remorse, without diminishing his Love: he fear’d, and with reason, that those who were the occasion of Constantia’s seeing those Verses, should discover his Passion to the King, from whom he hoped for no Indulgence: and he would most willingly have given his Life, to have been free from this Extremity.

In the mean time the afflicted Princess languished in a most deplorable Sadness; she found nothing in those who were the Cause of her Misfortunes, but things fitter to move her Tenderness than her Anger: It was in vain that Jealousy strove to combat the Inclination she had to love her fair Rival; nor was there any occasion of making the Prince less dear to her: and she felt neither Hatred, nor so much as Indifference for innocent Agnes.

While these three disconsolate Persons abandon’d themselves to their Melancholy, Elvira, not to leave her Vengeance imperfect, study’d in what manner she might bring it to the height of its Effects. Her Brother, on whom she depended, shew’d her a great deal of Friendship, and judging rightly that the Love of Don Pedro to Agnes de Castro would not be approved by the King, she acquainted Don Alvaro her Brother with it, who was not ignorant of the Passion the Prince had once protested to have for his Sister. He found himself very much interested in this News, from a second Passion he had for Agnes; which the Business of his Fortune had hitherto hindred him from discovering: and he expected a great many Favours from the King, that might render the Effort of his Heart the more considerable.

He hid not from his Sister this one thing, which he found difficult to conceal; so that she was now possest with a double Grief, to find Agnes Sovereign of all the Hearts to which she had a pretension.

Don Alvaro was one of those ambitious Men, that are fierce without Moderation, and proud without Generosity; of a melancholy, cloudy Humour, of a cruel Inclination, and to effect his Ends, found nothing difficult or unlawful. Naturally he lov’d not the Prince, who, on all accounts, ought to have held the first Rank in the Heart of the King, which should have set bounds to the Favour of Don Alvaro; who when he knew the Prince was his Rival, his Jealousy increas’d his Hate of him: and he conjured Elvira to employ all her Care, to oppose an Engagement that could not but be destructive to them both; she promised him, and he not very well satisfy’d, rely’d on her Address.

Don Alvaro, who had too lively a Representation within himself, of the Beauties and Grace of the Prince of Portugal, thought of nothing, but how to combat his Merits, he himself not being handsome, or well made: His Fashion was as disagreeable as his Humour, and Don Pedro had all the Advantages that one Man may possibly have over another. In fine, all that Don Alvaro wanted, adorn’d the Prince: but as he was the Husband of Constantia, and depended upon an absolute Father, and that Don Alvaro was free, and Master of a good Fortune, he thought himself more assur’d of Agnes, and fixed his Hopes on that Thought.

He knew very well, that the Passion of Don Pedro could not but inspire a violent Anger in the Soul of the King. Industrious in doing ill, his first Business was to carry this unwelcome News to him. After he had given time to his Grief, and had compos’d himself to his Desire, he then besought the King to interest himself in his amorous Affair, and to be the Protector of his Person.

Tho’ Don Alvaro had no other Merit to recommend him to the King, than a continual and blind Obedience to all his Commands; yet he had favour’d him with several Testimonies of his vast Bounty: and considering the Height to which the King’s Liberality had rais’d him, there were few Ladies that would have refused his Alliance. The King assured him of the Continuation of his Friendship and Favour, and promised him, if he had any Authority, he would give him the charming Agnes.

Don Alvaro, perfectly skilful in managing his Master, answer’d the King’s last Bounties with a profound Submission. He had yet never told Agnes what he felt for her; but he thought now he might make a publick Declaration of it, and sought all means to do it.

The Gallantry which Coimbra seem’d to have forgotten, began now to be awakened. The King to please Don Alvaro, under pretence of diverting Constantia, order’d some publick Sports, and commanded that every thing should be magnificent.

Since the Adventure of the Verses, Don Pedro endeavour’d to lay a constraint on himself, and to appear less troubled; but in his heart he suffer’d always alike: and it was not but with great uneasiness he prepar’d himself for the Tournament. And since he could not appear with the Colours of Agnes, he took those of his Wife, without Device, or any great Magnificence.

Don Pedro adorn’d himself with the Liveries of Agnes de Castro; and this fair Maid, who had yet found no Consolation from what the Princess had told her, had this new cause of being displeas’d.

Don Pedro appear’d in the List with an admirable Grace; and Don Alvaro, who looked on this Day as his own, appear’d there all shining with Gold, mix’d with Stones of Blue, which were the Colours of Agnes; and there were embroider’d all over his Equipage, flaming Hearts of Gold on blue Velvet, and Nets for the Snares of Love, with abundance of double A’s; his Device was a Love coming out of a Cloud, with these Verses written underneath:

Love from a Cloud breaks like the God of Day,

And to the World his Glories does display;

To gaze on charming Eyes, and make ’em know,

What to soft Hearts, and to his Power they owe.

The Pride of Don Alvaro was soon humbled at the feet of the Prince of Portugal, who threw him against the Ground, with twenty others, and carry’d alone the Glory of the Day. There was in the Evening a noble Assembly at Constantia’s, where Agnes would not have been, unless expresly commanded by the Princess. She appear’d there all negligent and careless in her Dress, but yet she appear’d all beautiful and charming. She saw, with disdain, her Name, and her Colours, worn by Don Alvaro, at a publick Triumph; and if her Heart was capable of any tender Motions, it was not for such a Man as he for whom her Delicacy destin’d them: She look’d on him with a Contempt, which did not hinder him from pressing so near, that there was a necessity for her to hear what he had to declare to her.

She treated him not uncivilly, but her Coldness would have rebated the Courage of any but Alvaro. ‘Madam, said he, (when he could be heard of none but herself) I have hitherto concealed the Passion you have inspired me with, fearing it should displease you; but it has committed a Violence on my Respect; and I could no longer conceal it from you. I never reflected on your Actions (answer’d Agnes with all the Indifference of which she was capable) and if you think you offend me, you are in the wrong to make me perceive it. This Coldness is but an ill Omen for me (reply’d Don Alvaro) and if you have not found me out to be your Lover to-day, I fear you will never approve my Passion.’

‘Oh! what a time have you chosen to make it appear to me? (pursued Agnes.) Is it so great an Honour for me, that you must take such care to shew it to the World? And do you think that I am so desirous of Glory, that I must aspire to it by your Actions? If I must, you have very ill maintain’d it in the Tournament; and if it be that Vanity that you depend upon, you will make no great progress on a Soul that is not fond of Shame. If you were possest of all the Advantages, which the Prince has this day carried away, you yet ought to consider what you are going about; and it is not a Maid like me, who is touched with Enterprizes, without respect or permission.’

The Favourite of the King was too proud to hear Agnes, without Indignation: but as he was willing to conceal it, and not offend her, he made not his Resentment appear; and considering the Observation she made on the Triumphs of Don Pedro, (which increased his Jealousies) ‘If I have not overcome at the Tournament, reply’d he, I am not the less in love for being vanquish’d, nor less capable of Success on occasion.’

They were interrupted here, but from that day, Don Alvaro, who had open’d the first Difficulties, kept no more his wonted Distance, but perpetually persecuted Agnes; yet, tho’ he were protected by the King, that inspir’d in her never the more Consideration for him. Don Pedro was always ignorant by what means the Verses he had lost in the Garden, fell into the hands of Constantia. As the Princess appeared to him indulgent, he was only concerned for Agnes; and the love of Don Alvaro, which was then so well known, increas’d the Pain: and had he been possess’d of the Authority, he would not have suffer’d her to have been expos’d to the Persecutions of so unworthy a Rival. He was also afraid of the King’s being advertised of his Passion, but he thought not at all of Elvira, nor apprehended any Malice from her Resentment.

While she burnt with a Desire of destroying Agnes, against whom she vented all her Venom, she was never weary of making new Reports to her Brother, assuring him, that tho’ they could not prove that Agnes made any returns to the Tenderness of the Prince, yet that was the Cause of Constantia’s Grief: And, that if this Princess should die of it, Don Pedro might marry Agnes. In fine, she so incens’d the jealous Don Alvaro’s Jealousy, that he could not hinder himself from running immediately to the King, with the discovery of all he knew, and all he guest, and who, he had the pleasure to find, was infinitely inrag’d at the News. ‘My dear Alvaro, said the King, you shall instantly marry this dangerous Beauty: And let Possession assure your Repose and mine. If I have protected you on other Occasions, judge what a Service of so great an Importance for me, would make me undertake; and without any reserve, the Forces of this State are in your power, and almost any thing that I can give shall be assured you, so you render your self Master of the Destiny of Agnes.’

Don Alvaro pleas’d, and vain with his Master’s Bounty, made use of all the Authority he gave him: He passionately lov’d Agnes, and would not, on the sudden, make use of Violence; but resolv’d with himself to employ all possible Means to win her fairly; yet if that fail’d, to have recourse to force, if she continued always insensible.

While Agnes de Castro (importun’d by his Assiduities, despairing at the Grief of Constantia, and perhaps made tender by those she had caus’d in the Prince of Portugal) took a Resolution worthy of her Virtue; yet, amiable as Don Pedro was, she found nothing in him, but his being Husband to Constantia, that was dear to her: And, far from encouraging the Power she had got over his Heart, she thought of nothing but of removing from Coimbra. The Passion of Don Alvaro, which she had no inclination to favour, served her as a Pretext; and press’d with the fear of causing, in the end, a cruel Divorce between the Prince and his Princess, she went to find Constantia, with a trouble, which all her Care was not able to hide from her.

The Princess easily found it out; and their common Misfortunes having not chang’d their Friendship—‘What ails you, Agnes? (said the Princess to her, in a soft Tone, and with her ordinary Sweetness) And what new Misfortune causes that sadness in thy Looks? Madam (reply’d Agnes, shedding a Rivulet of Tears) the Obligations and Ties I have to you, put me upon a cruel Tryal; I had bounded the Felicity of my Life in hope of passing it near your Highness, yet I must carry to some other part of the World this unlucky Face of mine, which renders me nothing but ill Offices: And it is to obtain that Liberty, that I am come to throw my self at your feet; looking upon you as my Sovereign.’

Constantia was so surpriz’d and touch’d with the Proposition of Agnes, that she lost her Speech for some moments; Tears, which were sincere, express’d her first Sentiments: And after having shed abundance, to give a new mark of her Tenderness to the fair afflicted Agnes, she with a sad and melancholy Look, fix’d her Eyes upon her, and holding out her Hand to her, in a most obliging manner, sighing, cry’d—‘You will then, my dear Agnes, leave me; and expose me to the Griefs of seeing you no more? Alas, Madam, (interrupted this lovely Maid) hide from the unhappy Agnes a Bounty which does but increase her Misfortunes: It is not I, Madam, that would leave you; it is my Duty, and my Reason that orders my Fate. And those Days which I shall pass far from you, promise me nothing to oblige me to this Design, if I did not see my self absolutely forc’d to it. I am not ignorant of what passes at Coimbra; and I shall be an Accomplice of the Injustice there committed, if I should stay there any longer.—Ah, I know your Virtue, (cry’d Constantia) and you may remain here in all safety, while I am your Protectress; and let what will happen, I will accuse you of nothing. There’s no answering for what’s to come, (reply’d Agnes, sadly) and I shall be sufficiently guilty, if my Presence cause Sentiments, which cannot be innocent. Besides, Madam, the Importunities of Don Alvaro are insupportable to me; and tho’ I find nothing but Aversion to him, since the King protects his Insolence, and he’s in a condition of undertaking any thing, my Flight is absolutely necessary. But, Madam, tho’ he has nothing but what seems odious to me; I call Heaven to witness, that if I could cure the Prince by marrying Don Alvaro, I would not consider of it a moment; and finding in my Punishment the Consolation of sacrificing my self to my Princess, I would support it without murmuring. But if I were the Wife of Don Alvaro, Don Pedro would always look upon me with the same Eyes: So that I find nothing more reasonable for me, than to hide my self in some Corner of the World; where, tho’ I shall most certainly live without Pleasure, yet I shall preserve the Repose of my dearest Mistress. All the Reason you find in this Design, (answered the Princess) cannot oblige me to approve of your Absence: Will it restore me the Heart of Don Pedro? And will he not fly away with you? His Grief is mine, and my Life is ty’d to his; do not make him despair then, if you love me. I know you, I tell you so once more; and let your Power be ever so great over the Heart of the Prince, I will not suffer you to abandon us.’

Tho’ Agnes thought she had perfectly known Constantia, yet she did not expect to find so intire a Virtue in her, which made her think her self more happy, and the Prince more criminal. ‘Oh, Wisdom! Oh, Bounty without Example! (cry’d she) Why is it, that the cruel Destinies do not give you all you deserve? You are the disposer of my Actions, (continued she in kissing the Hand of Constantia) I’ll do nothing but what you’ll have me: But consider, and weigh well the Reasons that ought to counsel you in the Measures you oblige me to take.’

Don Pedro, who had not seen the Princess all that day, came in then, and finding ’em both extremely troubled, with a fierce Impatience, demanded the Cause: ‘Sir, answered Constantia, Agnes too wise, and too scrupulous, fears the Effects of her Beauty, and will live no longer at Coimbra; and it was on this Subject, (which cannot be agreeable to me) that she ask’d my Advice.’ The Prince grew pale at this Discourse, and snatching the Words from her Mouth (with more concern than possest either of them) cry’d with a Voice very feeble, ‘Agnes cannot fail if she follow your Counsel, Madam: and I leave you full liberty to give it her.’ He then immediately went out, and the Princess, whose Heart he perfectly possest, not being able to hide her Displeasure, said, ‘My dear Agnes, if my Satisfaction did not only depend on your Conversation, I should desire it of you, for Don Pedro’s sake; it is the only Advantage that his unfortunate Love can hope: And would not the World have reason to call me barbarous, if I contribute to deprive him of that? But the sight of me will prove a Poison to him—(reply’d Agnes) And what should I do, my Princess, if after the Reserve he has hitherto kept, his Mouth should add anything to the Torments I have already felt, by speaking to me of his Flame? You would hear him sure, without causing him to despair, (reply’d Constantia) and I should put this Obligation to the account of the rest you have done. Would you then have me expect those Events which I fear, Madam? (reply’d Agnes) Well—I will obey, but just Heaven (pursued she) if they prove fatal, do not punish an innocent Heart for it.’ Thus this Conversation ended. Agnes withdrew into her Chamber, but it was not to be more at ease.

What Don Pedro had learn’d of the Design of Agnes, caus’d a cruel Agitation in his Soul; he wished he had never loved her, and desir’d a thousand times to die: But it was not for him to make Vows against a thing which Fate had design’d him; and whatever Resolutions he made, to bear the Absence of Agnes, his Tenderness had not force enough to consent to it.

After having, for a long time, combated with himself, he determined to do what was impossible for him to let Agnes do. His Courage reproach’d him with the Idleness, in which he past the most youthful and vigorous part of his Days: and making it appear to the King, that his Allies, and even the Prince Don John Emanuel, his Father-in-law, had concerns in the World which demanded his Presence on the Frontiers, he easily obtain’d Liberty to make this Journey, to which the Princess would put no Obstacle.

Agnes saw him part without any Concern, but it was not upon the account of any Aversion she had to him. Don Alvaro began then to make his Importunity an open Persecution; he forgot nothing that might touch the insensible Agnes, and made use, a long time, only of the Arms of Love: But seeing that this Submission and Respect was to no purpose, he form’d strange Designs.

As the King had a deference for all his Counsels, it was not difficult to inspire him with what he had a mind to: He complain’d of the ungrateful Agnes, and forgot nothing that might make him perceive that she was not cruel to him on his account, but from the too much Sensibility she had for the Prince. The King, who was extreme angry at this, reiterated all the Promises he had made him.

The King had not yet spoken to Agnes in favour of Don Alvaro; and not doubting but his Approbation would surmount all Obstacles, he took an occasion to entertain her with it: And removing some distance from those who might hear him, ‘I thought Don Alvaro had Merit enough (said he to her) to have obtained a little share in your Esteem; and I could not imagine there would have been any necessity of my solliciting it for him: I know you are very charming, but he has nothing that renders him unworthy of you; and when you shall reflect on the Choice my Friendship has made of him from among all the great Men of my Court, you will do him at the same time Justice. His Fortune is none of the meanest, since he has me for his Protector: He is nobly born, a Man of Honour and Courage: he adores you, and it seems to me that all these Reasons are sufficient to vanquish your Pride.’

The Heart of Agnes was so little disposed to give it self to Don Alvaro, that all the King of Portugal had said had no effect on her in his favour. ‘If Don Alvaro, Sir, (answered she) were without Merit, he possesses Advantages enough in the Bounty your Majesty is pleased to honour him with, to make him Master of all things, it is not that I find any Defect in him that I answer not his Desires: But, Sir, by what obstinate Power would you that I should love, if Heaven has not given me a Soul that is tender? And why should you pretend that I should submit to him, when nothing is dearer to me than my liberty? You are not so free, nor so insensible, as you say, (answer’d the King, blushing with Anger;) and if your Heart were exempt from all sorts of Affection, he might expect a more reasonable Return than what he finds. But imprudent Maid, conducted by an ill Fate, (added he in fury) what Pretensions have you to Don Pedro? Hitherto I have hid the Chagrin, which his Weakness, and yours give me; but it was not the less violent for being hid. And since you oblige me to break out, I must tell you, that if my Son were not already married to Constantia, he should never be your Husband; renounce then those vain Ideas, which will cure him, and justify you.’

The courageous Agnes was scarce Mistress of the first Transports, at a Discourse so full of Contempt; but calling her Virtue to the aid of her Anger, she recover’d herself by the assistance of Reason: And considering the Outrage she receiv’d, not as coming from a great King, but a Man blinded and possest by Don Alvaro, she thought him not worthy of her Resentment; her fair Eyes animated themselves with so shining a vivacity, they answer’d for the purity of her Sentiments; and fixing them steadfastly on the King, ‘If the Prince Don Pedro have Weaknesses, (reply’d she, with an Air disdainful) he never communicated ’em to me; and I am certain, I never contributed wilfully to ’em: But to let you see how little I regard your Defiance, and to put my Glory in safety, I will live far from you, and all that belongs to you: Yes, Sir, I will quit Coimbra with pleasure; and for this Man, who is so dear to you, (answer’d she with a noble Pride and Fierceness, of which the King felt all the force) for this Favourite, so worthy to possess the most tender Affections of a great Prince, I assure you, that into whatever part of the World Fortune conducts me, I will not carry away the least Remembrance of him.’ At these words she made a profound Reverence, and made such haste from his Presence, that he could not oppose her going if he would.

The King was now more strongly convinc’d than ever, that she favour’d the Passion of Don Pedro, and immediately went to Constantia, to inspire her with the same Thought; but she was not capable of receiving such Impressions, and following her own natural Inclinations, she generously defended the Virtue of his Actions. The King, angry to see her so well intentioned to her Rival, whom he would have had her hated, reproached her with the sweetness of her Temper, and went thence to mix his Anger with Don Alvaro’s Rage, who was totally confounded when he saw the Negotiation of his Master had taken no effect. The haughty Maid braves me then, Sir, said he to the King, and despises the Honour which your Bounty offered her! Why cannot I resist so fatal a Passion? But I must love her, in spite of my self; and if this Flame consume me, I can find no way to extinguish it. What can I further do for you, replied the King? Alas, Sir, answered Don Alvaro, I must do by force, what I cannot otherwise hope from the proud and cruel Agnes. Well then, added the King, since it is not fit for me to authorize publickly a Violence in the midst of my Kingdom, chuse those of my Subjects whom you think most capable of serving you, and take away by force the Beauty that charms you; and if she do not yield to your Love, put that Power you are Master of in execution, to oblige her to marry you.

Don Alvaro, ravish’d with this Proposition, which at the same time flatter’d both his Love and his Anger, cast himself at the Feet of the King, and renewed his Acknowledgments by fresh Protestations, and thought of nothing but employing his unjust Authority against Agnes.

Don Pedro had been about three Months absent, when Alvaro undertook what the King counselled him to; tho’ the Moderation was known to him, yet he feared his Presence, and would not attend the return of a Rival, with whom he would avoid all Disputes.

One Night, when the said Agnes, full of her ordinary Inquietudes, in vain expected the God of Sleep, she heard a Noise, and after saw some Men unknown enter her Chamber, whose Measures being well consulted, they carried her out of the Palace, and putting her in a close Coach, forced her out of Coimbra, without being hinder’d by any Obstacle. She knew not of whom to complain, nor whom to suspect: Don Alvaro seem’d too puissant to seek his Satisfaction this way; and she accus’d not the Prince of this attempt, of whom she had so favourable an Opinion: whatever she could think or say, she could not hinder her ill Fortune: They hurried her on with diligence, and before it was Day, were a considerable way off from the Town.

As soon as Day began to break, she surveyed those that encompassed her, without so much as knowing one of them; and seeing that her Cries and Prayers were all in vain with these deaf Ravishers, she satisfied her self with imploring the Protection of Heaven, and abandon’d herself to its Conduct.

While she sat thus overwhelmed with Grief, uncertain of her Destiny, she saw a Body of Horse advance towards the Troop which conducted her: the Ravishers did not shun them, thinking it to be Don Alvaro: but when he approached more near, they found it was the Prince of Portugal who was at the head of ’em, and who, without foreseeing the occasion that would offer it self of serving Agnes, was returning to Coimbra full of her Idea, after having performed what he ought in this Expedition.

Agnes, who did not expect him, changed now her Opinion, and thought that it was the Prince that had caused her to be stolen away. ‘Oh, Sir! (said she to him, having still the same Thought) is it you that have torn me from the Princess? And could so cruel a Blow come from a Hand that is so dear to her? What will you do with an unfortunate Creature, who desires nothing but Death? And why will you obscure the Glory of your Life, by an Artifice unworthy of you?’ This Language astonish’d the Prince no less than the sight of Agnes had done; he found by what she had said, that she was taken away by force; and immediately passing to the height of Rage, he made her understand by one only Look, that he was not the base Author of her trouble. ‘I tear you from Constantia, whose only Pleasure you are! replied he: What Opinion have you of Don Pedro? No, Madam, tho’ you see me here, I am altogether innocent of the Violence that has been done you; and there is nothing I will refuse to hinder it.’ He then turned himself to behold the Ravishers, but his Presence had already scatter’d ’em, he order’d some of his Men to pursue ’em, and to seize some of ’em, that he might know what Authority it was that set ’em at work.

During this, Agnes was no less confus’d than before; she admir’d the Conduct of her Destiny, that brought the Prince at a time when he was so necessary to her. Her Inclinations to do him justice, soon repair’d the Offence her Suspicions had caus’d; she was glad to have escap’d a Misfortune, which appear’d certain to her: but this was not a sincere Joy, when she consider’d that her Lover was her Deliverer, and a Lover worthy of all her Acknowledgments, but who owed his Heart to the most amiable Princess in the World.

While the Prince’s Men were pursuing the Ravishers of Agnes, he was left almost alone with her; and tho’ he had always resolv’d to shun being so, yet his Constancy was not proof against so fair an Occasion: ‘Madam, said he to her, is it possible that Men born amongst those that obey us, should be capable of offending you? I never thought my self destin’d to revenge such an Offence; but since Heaven has permitted you to receive it, I will either perish or make them repent it.’ ‘Sir, replied Agnes, more concern’d at this Discourse than at the Enterprize of Don Alvaro, those who are wanting in their respect to the Princess and you, are not obliged to have any for me. I do not in the least doubt that Don Alvaro was the undertaker of this Enterprize; and I judged what I ought to fear from him, by what his Importunities have already made me suffer. He is sure of the King’s Protection, and he will make him an Accomplice in his Crime: but, Sir, Heaven conducted you hither happily for me, and I am indebted to you for the liberty I have of serving the Princess yet longer.’ ‘You will do for Constantia, replied the Prince, what ’tis impossible not to do for you; your Goodness attaches you to her, and my Destiny engages me to you for ever.’

The modest Agnes, who fear’d this Discourse as much as the Misfortune she had newly shunned, answer’d nothing but by down-cast Eyes; and the Prince, who knew the trouble she was in, left her to go to speak to his Men, who brought back one of those that belong’d to Don Alvaro, by whose Confession he found the truth: He pardon’d him, thinking not fit to punish him, who obey’d a Man whom the Weakness of his Father had render’d powerful.

Afterwards they conducted Agnes back to Coimbra, where her Adventure began to make a great Noise: the Princess was ready to die with Despair, and at first thought it was only a continuation of the design this fair Maid had of retiring; but some Women that served her having told the Princess, that she was carried away by Violence, Constantia made her Complaint to the King, who regarded her not at all.

‘Madam, said he to her, let this fatal Plague remove it self, who takes from you the Heart of your Husband; and without afflicting your self for her absence, bless Heaven and me for it.’

The generous Princess took Agnes’s part with a great deal of Courage, and was then disputing her defence with the King, when Don Pedro arrived at Coimbra.

The first Object that met the Prince’s Eyes was Don Alvaro, who was passing thro’ one of the Courts of the Palace, amidst a Croud of Courtiers, whom his Favour with the King drew after him. This sight made Don Pedro rage; but that of the Princess and Agnes caus’d in Alvaro another sort of Emotion: He easily divin’d, that it was Don Pedro, who had taken her from his Men, and, if his Fury had acted what it would, it might have produc’d very sad effects.

‘Don Alvaro, said the Prince to him, is it thus you make use of the Authority which the King my Father hath given you? Have you receiv’d Employments and Power from him, for no other end but to do these base Actions, and to commit Rapes on Ladies? Are you ignorant how the Princess interests her self in all that concerns this Maid? And do you not know the tender and affectionate Esteem she has for her.’ No, replied Don Alvaro, (with an Insolence that had like to have put the Prince past all patience) ‘I am not ignorant of it, nor of the Interest your Heart takes in her.’ ‘Base and treacherous as thou art, replied the Prince, neither the Favour which thou hast so much abused, nor the Insolence which makes thee speak this, should hinder me from punishing thee, wert thou worthy of my Sword; but there are other ways to humble thy Pride, and ’tis not fit for such an Arm as mine to seek so base an Employment to punish such a Slave as thou art.’

Don Pedro went away at these Words, and left Alvaro in a Rage, which is not to be express’d; despairing to see himself defeated in an Enterprize he thought so sure; and at the Contempt the Prince shewed him, he promis’d himself to sacrifice all to his Revenge.

Tho’ the King lov’d his Son, he was so prepossessed against his Passion, that he could not pardon him what he had done, and condemn’d him as much for this last act of Justice, in delivering Agnes, as if it had been the greatest of Crimes.

Elvira, whom the sweetness of Hope flatter’d some moments, saw the return of Agnes with a sensible Displeasure, which suffer’d her to think of nothing but irritating her Brother.

In fine, the Prince saw the King, but instead of being receiv’d by him with a Joy due to the success of his Journey, he appear’d all sullen and out of humour. After having paid him his first Respects, and given him an exact account of what he had done, he spoke to him about the Violence committed against the Person of Agnes de Castro, and complain’d to him of it in the Name of the Princess, and of his own: ‘You ought to be silent in this Affair, replied the King; and the Motive which makes you speak is so shameful for you, that I sigh and blush at it. What is it to you, if this Maid, whose Presence is troublesome to me, be removed hence, since ’tis I that desire it?’ ‘But, Sir, interrupted the Prince, what necessity is there of employing Force, Artifice, and the Night, when the least of your Orders had been sufficient? Agnes would willingly have obey’d you; and if she continue at Coimbra, it is perhaps against her Will: but be it as it will, Sir, Constantia is offended, and if were not for fear of displeasing you, (the only thing that retains me) the Ravisher should not have gone unpunished.’ ‘How happy are you, replied the King, smiling with disdain, in making use of the Name of Constantia to uphold the Interest of your Heart! You think I am ignorant of it, and that this unhappy Princess looks on the Injury you do her with Indifference. Never speak to me more of Agnes, (with a Tone very severe.) Content your self, that I pardon what’s past, and think maturely of the Considerations I have for Don Alvaro, when you would design any thing against him.’ ‘Yes, Sir, replied the Prince with fierceness, I will speak to you no more of Agnes; but Constantia and I will never suffer, that she should be any more expos’d to the Insolence of your Favourite.’ The King had like to have broke out into a Rage at this Discourse: but he had yet a rest of Prudence left that hinder’d him. ‘Retire (said he to Don Pedro) and go make Reflections on what my Power can do, and what you owe me.’

During this Conversation, Agnes was receiving from the Princess, and from all the Ladies of the Court, great Expressions of Joy and Friendship: Constantia saw again her Husband, with a great deal of satisfaction: and far from being sorry at what he had lately done for Agnes, she privately return’d him thanks for it, and still was the same towards him, notwith­standing all the Jealousy which was endeavour’d to be inspir’d in her.

Don Alvaro, who found in his Sister a Maliciousness worthy of his trust, did not conceal his Fury from her. After she had made vain attempts to moderate it, in blotting Agnes out of his Heart, seeing that his Disease was incurable, she made him understand, that so long as Constantia should not be jealous, there were no hopes: That if Agnes should once be suspected by her, she would not fail of abandoning her, and that then it would be easy to get Satisfaction, the Prince being now so proud of Constantia’s Indulgency. In giving this Advice to her Brother, she promis’d to serve him effectually; and having no need of any body but her self to perform ill things, she recommended Don Alvaro to manage well the King.

Four Years were pass’d in that melancholy Station, and the Princess, besides her first dead Child, and Ferdinando, who was still living, had brought two Daughters into the World.

Some days after Don Pedro’s return, Elvira, who was most dextrous in the Art of well-governing any wicked Design, did gain one of the Servants who belong’d to Constantia’s Chamber. She first spoke her fair, then overwhelm’d her with Presents and Gifts; and finding in her as ill a Disposition as in her self, she readily resolv’d to employ her.

After she was sure of her, she compos’d a Letter, which was after writ over again in an unknown Hand, which she deposited in that Maid’s Hands, that she might deliver to Constantia with the first Opportunity, telling her, that Agnes had drop’d it. This was the Substance of it:

I Employ not my own Hand to write to you, for Reasons that I shall acquaint you with. How happy am I to have overcome all your Scruples! And what Happiness shall I find in the Progress of our Intrigue! The whole Course of my Life shall continually represent to you the Sincerity of my Affections; pray think on the secret Conversation that I require of you: I dare not speak to you in publick, therefore let me conjure you here, by all that I have suffer’d, to come to-night to the Place appointed, and speak to me no more of Constantia; for she must be content with my Esteem, since my Heart can be only yours.

The unfaithful Portuguese serv’d Elvira exactly to her Desires; and the very next day seeing Agnes go out from the Princess, she carry’d Constantia the Letter; which she took, and found there what she was far from imagining: Tenderness never produc’d an Effect more full of grief, than what it made her suffer. ‘Alas! they are both culpable, (said she, sighing) and in spite of the Defence my Heart would make for ’em, my Reason condemns ’em. Unhappy Princess, the sad subject of the Capriciousness of Fortune! Why dost not thou die, since thou hast not a Heart of Honour to revenge it self? O Don Pedro! why did you give me your Hand, without your Heart? And thou, fair, and ungrateful! wert thou born to be the Misfortune of my Life, and perhaps the only cause of my Death?’ After having given some Moments to the Violence of her Grief, she called the Maid, who brought her the Letter, commanding her to speak of it to no body, and to suffer no one to enter into her Chamber.

She consider’d then of that Prince with more liberty, whose Soul she was not able to touch with the least Tenderness; and of the cruel Fair One that had betray’d her: Yet, even while her Soul was upon the Rack, she was willing to excuse ’em, and ready to do all she could for Don Pedro; at least, she made a firm Resolution, not to complain of him.

Elvira was not long without being inform’d of what had pass’d, nor of the Melancholy of the Princess, from whom she hop’d all she desir’d.

Agnes, far from foreseeing this Tempest, return’d to Constantia; and hearing of her Indisposition, pass’d the rest of the Day at her Chamber-door, that she might from time to time learn news of her Health: for she was not suffer’d to come in, at which Agnes was both surpriz’d and troubled. The Prince had the same Destiny, and was astonish’d at an Order which ought to have excepted him.

The next day Constantia appear’d, but so alter’d, that ’twas not difficult to imagine what she had suffer’d. Agnes was the most impatient to approach her, and the Princess could not forbear weeping, They were both silent for some time, and Constantia attributed this silence of Agnes to some Remorse which she felt: and this unhappy Maid being able to hold no longer; ‘Is it possible, Madam, (said she) that two Days should have taken from me all the Goodness you had for me? What have I done? And for what do you punish me?’ The Princess regarded her with a languishing Look, and return’d her no Answer but Sighs. Agnes, offended with this reserve, went out with very great Dissatisfaction and Anger; which contributed to her being thought criminal. The Prince came in immediately after, and found Constantia more disorder’d than usual, and conjur’d her in a most obliging manner to take care of her Health: The greatest good for me (said she) is not the Continuation of my Life; I should have more care of it if I loved you less: but— She could not proceed; and the Prince, excessively afflicted at her trouble, sigh’d sadly, without making her any answer, which redoubled her Grief. Spite then began to mix it self; and all things persuading the Princess that they made a Sacrifice of her, she would enter into no Explanation with her Husband, but suffered him to go away without saying any thing to him.

Nothing is more capable of troubling our Reason, and consuming our Health, than secret Notions of Jealousy in Solitude.

Constantia, who us’d to open her Heart freely to Agnes, now believing she had deceiv’d her, abandon’d her self so absolutely to Grief, that she was ready to sink under it; she immediately fell sick with the violence of it, and all the Court was concern’d at this Misfortune: Don Pedro was truly afflicted at it, but Agnes more than all the World beside. Constantia’s Coldness towards her, made her continually sigh; and her Distemper created merely by fancy, caus’d her to reflect on every thing that offer’d it self to her Memory: so that at last she began even to fear her self, and to reproach her self for what the Princess suffer’d.

But the Distemper began to be such, that they fear’d Constantia’s Death, and she her self began to feel the Approaches of it. This Thought did not at all disquiet her: she look’d on Death as the only relief from all her Torments; and regarded the Despair of all that approach’d her without the least concern.

The King, who lov’d her tenderly, and who knew her Virtue, was infinitely mov’d at the Extremity she was in. And Don Alvaro, who lost not the least Occasion of making him understand that it was Jealousy which was the cause of Constantia’s Distemper, did but too much incense him against Criminals, worthy of Compassion. The King was not of a Temper to conceal his Anger long: ‘You give fine Examples, (said he to the Prince) and such as will render your Memory illustrious! The Death of Constantia (of which you are only to be accus’d) is the unhappy Fruit of your guilty Passion. Fear Heaven after this: and behold your self as a Monster that does not deserve to see the Light. If the Interest you have in my Blood did not plead for you, what ought you not to fear from my just Resentment? But what must not imprudent Agnes, to whom nothing ties me, expect from my hands? If Constantia dies, she, who has the Boldness, in my Court, to cherish a foolish Flame by vain Hopes, and make us lose the most amiable Princess, whom thou art not worthy to possess, shall feel the Effects of her Indiscretion.’

Don Pedro knew very well, that Constantia was not ignorant of his Sentiments for Agnes; but he knew also with what Moderation she receiv’d it: He was very sensible of the King’s Reproaches; but as his Fault was not voluntary, and that a commanding Power, a fatal Star, had forc’d him to love in spite of himself, he appear’d afflicted and confus’d: ‘You condemn me, Sir, (answer’d he) without having well examin’d me; and if my Intentions were known to you; perhaps you would not find me so criminal: I would take the Princess for my Judge, whom you say I sacrifice, if she were in a condition to be consulted. If I am guilty of any Weakness, her Justice never reproach’d me for it; and my Tongue never inform’d Agnes of it. But suppose I have committed any Fault, why would you punish an innocent Lady, who perhaps condemns me for it as much as you? Ah, Villain! (interrupted the King) she has but too much favour’d you: You would not have lov’d thus long, had she not made you some Returns. Sir, (reply’d the Prince, pierced with Grief for the Outrage that was committed against Agnes) you offend a Virtue, than which nothing can be purer; and those Expressions which break from your Choler, are not worthy of you. Agnes never granted me any Favours; I never asked any of her; and I protest to Heaven, I never thought of any thing contrary to the Duty I owe Constantia.’

As they thus argued, one of the Princess’s Women came all in Tears to acquaint Don Pedro, that the Princess was in the last Extremities of Life: ‘Go see thy fatal Work, (said the King) and expect from a too-long patient Father the Usage thou deservest.’

The Prince ran to Constantia, whom he found dying, and Agnes in a swoon, in the Arms of some of the Ladies. What caus’d this double Calamity, was, that Agnes, who could suffer no longer the Indifferency of the Princess, had conjur’d her to tell her what was her Crime, and either to take her Life from her, or restore her to her Friendship.

Constantia, who found she must die, could no longer keep her secret Affliction from Agnes; and after some Words, which were a Preparation to the sad Explanation, she shewed her that fatal Billet, which Elvira had caus’d to be written: ‘Ah, Madam! (cry’d out the fair Agnes, after having read it) Ah, Madam! how many cruel Inquietudes had you spared me had you open’d your Heart to me with your wonted Bounty! ’Tis easy to see that this Letter is counterfeit, and that I have Enemies without Compassion. Could you believe the Prince so imprudent, to make use of any other Hand but his own, on an occasion like this? And do you believe me so simple to keep about me this Testimony of my Shame, with so little Precaution? You are neither betray’d by your Husband nor me; I attest Heaven, and those Efforts I have made to leave Coimbra. Alas, my dear Princess, how little have you known her, whom you have so much honoured? Do not believe that when I have justify’d my self, I will have any more Communication with the World: No, no; there will be no Retreat far enough from hence for me. I will take care to hide this unlucky Face, where it shall be sure to do no more harm.’

The Princess touched at this Discourse, and the Tears of Agnes, press’d her hand, which she held in hers; and fixing Looks upon her capable of moving Pity in the most insensible Souls, ‘If I have committed any Offence, my dear Agnes, (answer’d she) Death, which I expect in a moment, shall revenge it. I ought also to protest to you, That I have not ceas’d loving you, and that I believe every thing you have said, giving you back my most tender Affections.’

’Twas at this time that the Grief, which equally oppress’d ’em, put the Princess into such an Extremity, that they sent for the Prince. He came, and found himself almost without Life or Motion at this sight. And what secret Motive soever might call him to the aid of Agnes, ’twas to Constantia he ran. The Princess, who finding her last Moments drawing on, by a cold Sweat that cover’d her all over; and finding she had no more business with Life, and causing those Persons she most suspected to retire, ‘Sir, (said she to Don Pedro) if I abandon Life without regret, it is not without Trouble that I part with you. But, Prince, we must vanquish when we come to die; and I will forget my self wholly, to think of nothing but of you. I have no Reproaches to make against you, knowing that ’tis Inclination that disposes Hearts, and not Reason. Agnes is beautiful enough to inspire the most ardent Passion, and virtuous enough to deserve the first Fortunes in the World. I ask her, once more, pardon for the Injustice I have done her, and recommend her to you, as a Person most dear to me. Promise me, my dear Prince, before I expire, to give her my Place in your Throne: it cannot be better fill’d: you cannot chuse a Princess more perfect for your People, nor a better Mother for our little Children. And you my dear and faithful Agnes (pursu’d she) listen not to a Virtue too scrupulous, that may make any opposition to the Prince of Portugal: Refuse him not a Heart of which he is worthy; and give him that Friendship which you had for me, with that which is due to his Merit. Take care of my little Fernando, and the two young Princesses: let them find me in you, and speak to them sometimes of me. Adieu, live both of you happy, and receive my last Embraces.’

The afflicted Agnes, who had recover’d a little her Forces, lost them again a second time; Her Weakness was follow’d with Convulsions so vehement, that they were afraid of her Life; but Don Pedro never removed from Constantia: ‘What, Madam (said he) you will leave me then; and you think ’tis for my Good. Alas, Constantia! if my Heart has committed an Outrage against you, your Virtue has sufficiently revenged you on me in spite of you. Can you think me so barbarous?’—As he was going on, he saw Death shut the Eyes of the most generous Princess for ever; and he was within a very little of following her.

But what Loads of Grief did this bring upon Agnes, when she found in that Interval, wherein Life and Death were struggling in her Soul, that Constantia was newly expir’d! She would then have taken away her own Life, and have let her Despair fully appear.

At the noise of the Death of the Princess, the Town and the Palace were all in Tears. Elvira, who saw then Don Pedro free to engage himself, repented of having contributed to the Death of Constantia; and thinking her self the Cause of it, promis’d in her Griefs never to pardon herself.

She had need of being guarded several days together; during which time she fail’d not incessantly to weep. And the Prince gave all those days to deepest Mourning. But when the first Emotions were past, those of his Love made him feel that he was still the same.

He was a long time without seeing Agnes; but this Absence of his served only to make her appear the more charming when he did see her.

Don Alvaro, who was afraid of the Liberty of the Prince, made new Efforts to move Agnes de Castro, who was now become insensible to every thing but Grief. Elvira, who was willing to make the best of the Design she had begun, consulted all her Womens Arts, and the Delicacy of her Wit, to revive the Flames with which the Prince once burnt for her: But his Constancy was bounded, and it was Agnes alone that was to reign over his Heart. She had taken a firm Resolution, since the Death of Constantia, to pass the rest of her Days in a solitary Retreat. In spite of the precaution she took to hide this Design, the Prince was informed of it, and did all he was able to dispose his Constancy and Fortitude to it. He thought himself stronger than he really was; but after he had well consulted his Heart, he found but too well how necessary the Presence of Agnes was to him. ‘Madam (said he to her one day, with a Heart big, and his Eyes in Tears) which Action of my Life has made you determine my Death? Tho’ I never told you how much I loved you, yet I am persuaded you are not ignorant of it. I was constrained to be silent during some Years for your sake, for Constantia’s, and my own; but ’tis not possible for me to put this force upon my Heart for ever: I must once at least tell you how it languishes. Receive then the Assurances of a Passion, full of Respect and Ardour, with an offer of my Fortune, which I wish not better, but for your advantage.’

Agnes answer’d not immediately to these words, but with abundance of Tears; which having wiped away, and beholding Don Pedro with an air which made him easily comprehend she did not agree with his Desires; ‘If I were capable of the Weakness with which you’d inspire me, you’d be obliged to punish me for it: What! (said she) Constantia is scarce bury’d, and you would have me offend her! No, my Prince (added she with more Softness) no, no, she whom you have heap’d so many Favours on, will not call down the Anger of Heaven, and the Contempt of Men upon her, by an Action so perfidious. Be not obstinate then in a Design in which I will never shew you Favour. You owe to Constantia, after her Death, a Fidelity that may justify you: and I, to repair the Ills I have made her suffer ought to shun all converse with you.’ ‘Go, Madam (reply’d the Prince, growing pale) go, and expect the News of my Death; in that part of the World, whither your Cruelty shall lead you, the News shall follow close after; you shall quickly hear of it: and I will go seek it in those Wars which reign among my Neighbours.’

These Words made the fair Agnes de Castro perceive that her Innocency was not so great as she imagined, and that her Heart interested it self in the Preservation of Don Pedro: ‘You ought, Sir, to preserve your Life (reply’d Agnes) for the sake of the little Prince and Princesses, which Constantia has left you. Would you abandon their Youth (continued she, with a tender Tone) to the Cruelty of Don Alvaro? Live! Sir, live! and let the unhappy Agnes be the only Sacrifice.’ ‘Alas, cruel Maid! (interrupted Don Pedro) Why do you command me to live, if I cannot live with you? Is it an effect of your Hatred?’ ‘No, Sir, (reply’d Agnes) I do not hate you; and I wish to God that I could be able to defend my self against the Weakness with which I find my self possess’d. Oblige me to say no more, Sir: you see my Blushes, interpret them as you please: but consider yet, that the less Aversion I find I have to you, the more culpable I am; and that I ought no more to see, or speak to you. In fine, Sir, if you oppose my Retreat, I declare to you, that Don Alvaro, as odious as he is to me, shall serve for a Defence against you; and that I will sooner consent to marry a Man I abhor, than to favour a Passion that cost Constantia her Life.’ ‘Well then, Agnes (reply’d the Prince, with Looks all languishing and dying) follow the Motions which barbarous Virtue inspires you with; take these Measures you judge necessary against an unfortunate Lover, and enjoy the Glory of having cruelly refused me.’

At these Words he went away; and troubled as Agnes was, she would not stay him: Her Courage combated with her Grief, and she thought now, more than ever, of departing.

’Twas difficult for her to go out of Coimbra; and not to defer what appear’d to her so necessary, she went immediately to the Apartment of the King, notwith­standing the Interest of Don Alvaro. The King received her with a Countenance severe, not being able to consent to what she demanded: You shall not go hence, (said he) and if you are wise, you shall enjoy here with Don Alvaro both my Friendship and my Favour. I have taken another Resolution (answer’d Agnes) and the World has no part in it. You will accept Don Pedro (reply’d the King) his Fortune is sufficient to satisfy an ambitious Maid: but you will not succeed Constantia, who lov’d you so tenderly; and Spain has Princesses enough to fill up part of the Throne which I shall leave him. Sir, (reply’d Agnes, piqu’d at this Discourse) if I had a Disposition to love, and a Design to marry, perhaps the Prince might be the only Person on whom I would fix it: And you know, if my Ancestors did not possess Crowns, yet they were worthy to wear ’em. But let it be how it will, I am resolved to depart, and to remain no longer a Slave in a Place to which I came free.

This bold Answer, which shew’d the Character of Agnes, anger’d and astonished the King. You shall go when we think fit (reply’d he) and without being a Slave at Coimbra, you shall attend our order.

Agnes saw she must stay, and was so griev’d at it, that she kept her Chamber several days, without daring to inform herself of the Prince; and this Retirement spared her the Affliction of being visited by Don Alvaro.

During this, Don Pedro fell sick, and was in so great danger, that there was a general apprehension of his Death. Agnes did not in the least doubt, but it was an effect of his Discontent: she thought at first she had Strength and Resolution enough to see him die, rather than to favour him; but had she reflected a little, she had soon been convinc’d to the contrary. She found not in her Heart that cruel Constancy she thought there so well established: She felt Pains and Inquietude, shed Tears, made Wishes; and, in fine, discover’d that she lov’d.

’Twas impossible to see the Heir of the Crown, a Prince that deserved so well, even at the point of Death, without a general Affliction. The People who loved him, pass’d whole days at the Palace-gate to hear News of him: The Court was all over-whelm’d with Grief.

Don Alvaro knew very well how to conceal a malicious Joy, under an Appearance of Sadness. Elvira, full of Tenderness, and perhaps of Remorse, suffer’d also on her side. The King, altho’ he condemned the Love of his Son, yet still had a Tenderness for him, and could not resolve to lose him. Agnes de Castro, who knew the Cause of his Distemper, expected the End of it with strange Anxieties: In fine, after a Month had pass’d away in Fears, they began to have a little hopes of his Recovery. The Prince and Don Alvaro were the only Persons that were not glad of it: But Agnes rejoic’d enough for all the rest.

Don Pedro, seeing that he must live whether he wou’d or no, thought of nothing but passing his days in melancholy and discontent: As soon as he was in a condition to walk, he sought out the most solitary Places, and gain’d so much upon his own Weakness, to go every where, where Agnes was not; but her Idea followed him always, and his Memory, faithful to represent her to him with all her Charms, render’d her always dangerous.

One day, when they had carry’d him into the Garden, he sought out a Labyrinth which was at the farthest part of it, to hide his Melancholy, during some hours; there he found the sad Agnes, whom Grief, little different from his, had brought thither; the sight of her whom he expected not, made him tremble: She saw by his pale and meagre Face the remains of his Distemper; his Eyes full of Languishment troubled her, and tho’ her Desire was so great to have fled from him, an unknown Power stopt her, and ’twas impossible for her to go.

After some Moments of Silence, which many Sighs interrupted, Don Pedro rais’d himself from the Place where his Weakness had forced him to sit; he made Agnes see, as he approach’d her, the sad Marks of his Sufferings: and not content with the Pity he saw in her Eyes, You have resolved my Death then, cruel Agnes, (said he) my desire was the same with yours; but Heaven has thought fit to reserve me for other Misfortunes, and I see you again, as unhappy, but more in love than ever.

There was no need of these Words to move Agnes to compassion, the Languishment of the Prince spoke enough; and the Heart of this fair Maid was but too much disposed to yield it self: She thought then that Constantia ought to be satisfy’d; Love, which combated for Don Pedro, triumphed over Friendship, and found that happy Moment, for which the Prince of Portugal, had so long sighed.

Do not reproach me, for that which has cost me more than you, Sir, (replied she) and do not accuse a Heart, which is neither ingrateful nor barbarous: and I must tell you, that I love you. But now I have made you that Confession, what is it farther that you require of me? Don Pedro, who expected not a Change so favourable, felt a double Satisfaction; and falling at the Feet of Agnes, he express’d more by the Silence his Passion created, than he could have done by the most eloquent Words.

After having known all his good Fortune, he then consulted with the amiable Agnes, what was to be feared from the King; they concluded that the cruel Billet, which so troubled the last days of Constantia, could come from none but Elvira and Don Alvaro. The Prince, who knew that his Father had searched already an Alliance for him, and was resolv’d on his Favourite’s marrying Agnes, conjur’d her so tenderly to prevent these Persecutions, by consenting to a secret Marriage, that, after having a long time consider’d, she at last consented. I will do what you will have me (said she) tho’ I presage nothing but fatal Events from it; all my Blood turns to Ice, when I think of this Marriage, and the Image of Constantia seems to hinder me from doing it.

The amorous Prince surmounted all her Scruples, and separated himself from Agnes, with a Satisfaction which soon redoubled his Forces; he saw her afterward with the Pleasure of a Mystery: And the Day of their Union being arrived, Don Gill, Bishop of Guarda, performed the Ceremony of the Marriage, in the Presence of several Witnesses, faithful to Don Pedro, who saw him Possessor of all the Charms of the fair Agnes.

She lived not the more peaceable for belonging to the Prince of Portugal; her Enemies, who continually persecuted her, left her not without Troubles: and the King, whom her Refusal inrag’d, laid his absolute Commands on her to marry Don Alvaro, with Threats to force her to it, if she continu’d rebellious.

The Prince took loudly her part; and this, join’d to the Refusal he made of marrying the Princess of Arragon, caus’d Suspicions of the Truth in the King his Father. He was seconded by those that were too much interested, not to unriddle this Secret. Don Alvaro and his Sister acted with so much care, gave so many Gifts, and made so many Promises, that they discover’d the secret Engagements of Don Pedro and Agnes.

The King wanted but little of breaking out into all the Rage and Fury so great a Disappointment could inspire him with, against the Princess. Don Alvaro, whose Love was changed into the most violent Hatred, appeased the first Transports of the King, by making him comprehend, that if they could break the Marriage of ’em, that would not be a sufficient Revenge; and so poison’d the Soul of the King, to consent to the Death of Agnes.

The barbarous Don Alvaro offered his Arm for this terrible Execution, and his Rage was Security for the Sacrifice.

The King, who thought the Glory of his Family disgraced by this Alliance, and his own in particular in the Procedure of his Son, gave full Power to this Murderer, to make the innocent Agnes a Victim to his Rage.

It was not easy to execute this horrid Design: Tho’ the Prince saw Agnes but in secret, yet all his Cares were still awake for her, and he was marry’d to her above a Year, before Don Alvaro could find out an opportunity so long sought for.

The Prince diverted himself but little, and very rarely went far from Coimbra; but on a Day, an unfortunate Day, and marked out by Heaven for an unheard-of and horrid Assassination, he made a Party to hunt at a fine House, which the King of Portugal had near the City.

Agnes lov’d every thing that gave the Prince satisfaction; but a secret Trouble made her apprehend some Misfortune in this unhappy Journey. Sir, (said she to him, alarm’d, without knowing the Reason why) I tremble, seeing you today as it were designed the last of my Life: Preserve your self, my dear Prince; and tho’ the Exercise you take be not very dangerous, beware of the least Hazards, and bring me back all that I trust with you. Don Pedro, who had never found her so handsome and so charming before, embraced her several times, and went out of the Palace with his Followers, with a Design not to return till the next Day.

He was no sooner gone, but the cruel Don Alvaro prepared himself for the Execution he had resolv’d on; he thought it of that importance, that it required more Hands than his own, and so chose for his Companions Don Lopez Pacheo, and Pedro Cuello, two Monsters like himself, whose Cruelty he was assur’d of by the Presents he had made ’em.

They waited the coming of the Night, and the lovely Agnes was in her first Sleep, which was the last of her Life, when these Assassins approach’d her Bed. Nothing made resistance to Don Alvaro, who could do every thing, and whom the blackest Furies introduced to Agnes; she waken’d, and opening her Curtains, saw, by the Candle burning in her Chamber, the Ponyard with which Don Alvaro was armed; he having his Face not cover’d, she easily knew him, and forgetting herself, to think of nothing but the Prince: Just Heaven (said she, lifting up her fine Eyes) if you will revenge Constantia, satisfy your self with my Blood only, and spare that of Don Pedro. The barbarous Man that heard her, gave her not time to say more; and finding he could never (by all he could do by Love) touch the Heart of the fair Agnes, he pierc’d it with his Ponyard: his Accomplices gave her several Wounds, tho’ there was no necessity of so many to put an end to an innocent Life.

What a sad Spectacle was this for those who approach’d her Bed the next day! And what dismal News was this to the unfortunate Prince of Portugal! He returned to Coimbra at the first report of this Adventure, and saw what had certainly cost him his Life, if Men could die of Grief. After having a thousand times embraced the bloody Body of Agnes, and said all that a just Despair could inspire him with, he ran like a Mad-man into the Palace, demanding the Murderers of his Wife, of things that could not hear him. In fine, he saw the King, and without observing any respect, he gave a loose to his Resentment: after having rail’d a long time, overwhelm’d with Grief, he fell into a Swoon, which continu’d all that day. They carry’d him into his Apartment: and the King, believing that his Misfortune would prove his Cure, repented not of what he had permitted.

Don Alvaro, and the two other Assassins, quitted Coimbra. This Absence of theirs made ’em appear guilty of the Crime; for which the afflicted Prince vow’d a speedy Vengeance to the Ghost of his lovely Agnes, resolving to pursue them to the uttermost part of the Universe; He got a considerable number of Men together, sufficient to have made resistance, even to the King of Portugal himself, if he should yet take the part of the Murderers: with these he ravaged the whole Country, as far as the Duero Waters, and carry’d on a War, even till the Death of the King, continually mixing Tears with Blood, which he gave to the revenge of his dearest Agnes.

Such was the deplorable End of the unfortunate Love of Don Pedro of Portugal, and of the fair Agnes de Castro, whose Remembrance he faithfully preserv’d in his Heart, even upon the Throne, to which he mounted by the Right of his Birth, after the Death of the King.

THE HISTORY OF THE NUN;
OR, THE FAIR VOW-BREAKER.

[ INTRODUCTION.]

In the Epistle Dedicatory to Antony Hammond, Esq., of Somersham-Place, prefacing that pathetic tragedy, The Fatal Marriage; or, The Innocent Adultery[1] (4to, 1694), Southerne writes: ‘I took the Hint of the Tragical part of this Play from a Novel of Mrs. Behn’s, call’d The Fair Vow-Breaker; you will forgive me for calling it a Hint, when you find I have little more than borrow’d the Question, how far such a Distress was to be carry’d, upon the Misfortune of a Woman’s having innocently two Husbands, at the same time’.

In the many collected editions of Mrs. Behn’s popular novels and histories, from the first, published under the auspices of Gildon in 1696, to the ninth (2 vols, 12mo, London, 1751), there appears, however, no such novel as The Fair Vow-Breaker, but on the other hand all contain The Nun; or, the Perjur’d Beauty. For over two hundred years then, critics, theatrical historians, bibliographers alike have laid down that The Fair Vow-Breaker is merely another title for The Nun; or, The Perjur’d Beauty, and that it is to this romance we must look for the source of Southerne’s tragedy. The slight dissimilarity of name was truly of no great account. On the title-page of another novel we have The Fair Jilt; or, The History of Prince Tarquin and Miranda; on the half-title of the same The Fair Hypocrite; or, The Amours of Prince Tarquin and Miranda (12mo, 1688). And so Thomas Evans in the preface to his edition of Southerne (3 vols, 1774), writing the dramatist’s life, says: ‘the plot by the author’s confession is taken from a novel of Mrs. Behn’s called The Nun; or, The Fair Vow-Breaker’. All the modern writers have duly, but wrongly, accepted this; and Miss Charlotte E. Morgan in her monograph, The English Novel till 1749, informs us in more than one place that The Fair Vow-Breaker (12mo, 1689) was the name of the editio princeps of The Nun; or, The Perjur’d Beauty.

A crux, however, was soon apparent. Upon investigation it is obvious that the plot of The Fatal Marriage; or, The Innocent Adultery has simply nothing in common with The Nun; or, The Perjur’d Beauty. Mrs. Behn’s Ardelia is a mere coquette who through her trifling with three different men is responsible for five deaths: her lovers’, Elvira’s, and her own. Isabella, Southerne’s heroine, on the other hand, falls a sad victim to the machinations of Carlos, her wicked brother-in-law. She is virtuous and constant; Ardelia is a jade capable of heartless treachery. Both novel and play end tragically it is true, but from entirely different motives and in a dissimilar manner. There is no likeness between them.

Whence then did Southerne derive his plot, and what exactly did he mean by the statement that he owed ‘the Hint of the Tragical part’ of his drama to a novel of Mrs. Behn’s?

Professor Paul Hamelius of Liège set out to solve the difficulty, and in a scholarly article (Modern Language Review, July, 1909), he marshals the facts and seeks a solution. ‘Among her [Mrs. Behn’s] collected novels’[2] he writes ‘there is one entitled The Nun; or, The Perjur’d Beauty and Mr. Gosse has kindly informed me that the story is identical with The Nun; or, The Fair Vow-Breaker which appears in the editio princeps of 1689 (inaccessible to me).’ Unfortunately he can find no analogy and is obliged to draw attention to other sources. He points to The Virgin Captive, the fifth story in Roger L’Estrange’s The Spanish Decameron (1687). Again: there is the famous legend of the lovers of Teruel as dramatized in 1638 by Juan Perez de Montalvan, Los Amantes de Teruel. An earlier comedia exists on the same subject written by A. Rey de Artieda, 1581, and yet another play by Tirso de Molina, 1635, based on Artieda. Hamelius was obviously not satisfied with his researches, and with a half-suggestion that Southerne may have merely intended to pay a compliment to his ‘literary friend Mrs. Behn,’ his conclusion is that ‘the question is naturally still open whether Southerne was not drawing from some more immediate source—possibly even from some lost version of the story by Mrs. Behn herself.’

In the course of my preparing the present edition of Mrs. Behn’s complete works, Mr. Gosse, adding yet another to innumerable kindnesses and encouragements, entrusted me with a little volume[3] from his private library: The History of the Nun; or, The Fair Vow-Breaker (12mo, 1689, Licensed 22 October, 1688), and I soon found this to be the immediate source of Southerne’s tragedy, a totally different novel from The Nun; or, The Perjur’d Beauty, and one, moreover, which has never till now been included in any edition of Mrs. Behn’s works or, indeed, reprinted in any form. It were superfluous to compare novel and tragedy detail by detail. Many striking, many minor points are the same in each. In several instances the nomenclature has been preserved. The chief divergence is, of course, the main catastrophe. Mrs. Behn’s execution could ill have been represented on the boards, and Southerne’s heroine, the victim of villainies and intrigue, is, it must be confessed, an infinitely more pathetic figure than guilty Isabella in the romance.

The story of a man returning after long absence and finding his spouse (or betrothed) wedded to another, familiarized to the generality of modern readers by Tennyson’s Enoch Arden, occurs in every shape and tongue. No. 69 of Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles is L’Honneste femme à Deux Maris.[4] A more famous exemplar we have in the Decameron, Day IV, Novella 8, whose rubric runs: ‘Girolamo ama la Salvestra: va, costretto da’ prieghi della madre, a Parigi: torna, e truovala maritata: entrale di nascoso in casa, e muorle allato; e portato in una chiesa, muore la Salvestra allata a lui.’

Scenes of the amusing underplot of The Fatal Marriage which contain some excellent comedy, Southerne took directly from The Night Walker; or, The Little Thief (printed as Fletcher’s in 1640 and ‘corrected by Shirley’ in 1633 according to Herbert’s license). The purgatorial farce may be traced to the Decameron, Day III, 8. ‘Ferondo, mangiata certa polvere, è sotterrato per morto: e dall’ abate, chi la moglie di lui si gode, tratto dalla sepoltura, è messo in prigione e fattogli credere, che egli è in purgatoro; e poi risuscitato . . .’ It is the Feronde; ou, le Purgatoire of La Fontaine.

The Fatal Marriage; or, The Innocent Adultery long kept the stage.[5] On 2 December, 1757, Garrick’s version, which omitting the comic relief weakens and considerably shortens the play, was produced at Drury Lane with himself as Biron and Mrs. Cibber as Isabella. The actual name of the tragedy, however, was not changed to Isabella till some years after. Mrs. Barry, the original Isabella, was acknowledged supreme in this tragedy, and our greatest actresses, Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Crawford, Miss Young, Mrs. Siddons, Miss O’Neill, have all triumphed in the rôle.

[1] This has nothing to do with Scarron’s novel, L’ Innocent Adultère which translated was so popular in the 17th and 18th centuries. Bellmour carried it in his pocket when he went a-courting Laetitia, to the horror of old Fondlewife who discovered the tome, (The Old Batchelor, 1693), and Lydia Languish was partial to its perusal in 1775.

[2] Hamelius used the collected edition of 1705.

[3] It is interesting to note that the book originally belonged to Scott’s friend and critic, Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe.

[4] Reproduced by Celio Malespini Ducento Novelle, No. 9 (Venice, 4to, 1609, but probably written about thirty years before).

[5] A French prose translation of Southerne is to be found in Vol. VIII of Le Theâtre Anglois, Londres, 1746. It is entitled L’Adultère Innocent; but the comic underplot is very sketchily analyzed, scene by scene, and the whole is very mediocre withal.

[ To the Most Illustrious Princess,]
[The Dutchess of Mazarine].

Madam,

There are none of an Illustrious Quality, who have not been made, by some Poet or other, the Patronesses of his Distress’d Hero, or Unfortunate Damsel; and such Addresses are Tributes, due only to the most Elevated, where they have always been very well receiv’d, since they are the greatest Testimonies we can give, of our Esteem and Veneration.

Madam, when I survey’d the whole Toor of Ladies at Court, which was adorn’d by you, who appear’d there with a Grace and Majesty, peculiar to Your Great Self only, mix’d with an irresistible Air of Sweetness, Generosity, and Wit, I was impatient for an Opportunity, to tell Your Grace, how infinitely one of Your own Sex ador’d You, and that, among all the numerous Conquest, Your Grace has made over the Hearts of Men, Your Grace had not subdu’d a more entire Slave; I assure you, Madam, there is neither Compliment nor Poetry, in this humble Declaration, but a Truth, which has cost me a great deal of Inquietude, for that Fortune has not set me in such a Station, as might justifie my Pretence to the honour and satisfaction of being ever near Your Grace, to view eternally that lovely Person, and hear that surprizing Wit; what can be more grateful to a Heart, than so great, and so agreeable, an Entertainment? And how few Objects are there, that can render it so entire a Pleasure, as at once to hear you speak, and to look upon your Beauty? A Beauty that is heighten’d, if possible, with an air of Negligence, in Dress, wholly Charming, as if your Beauty disdain’d those little Arts of your Sex, whose Nicety alone is their greatest Charm, while yours, Madam, even without the Assistance of your exalted Birth, begets an Awe and Reverence in all that do approach you, and every one is proud, and pleas’d, in paying you Homage their several ways, according to their Capacities and Talents; mine, Madam, can only be exprest by my Pen, which would be infinitely honour’d, in being permitted to celebrate your great Name for ever, and perpetually to serve, where it has so great an inclination.

In the mean time, Madam, I presume to lay this little Trifle at your Feet; the Story is true, as it is on the Records of the Town, where it was transacted; and if my fair unfortunate VOW-BREAKER do not deserve the honour of your Graces Protection, at least, she will be found worthy of your Pity; which will be a sufficient Glory, both for her, and,

Madam,
Your Graces most humble,
and most obedient Servant,
A. BEHN.

[ THE HISTORY OF THE NUN;]
or, The Fair Vow-Breaker.

Of all the sins, incident to Human Nature, there is none, of which Heaven has took so particular, visible, and frequent Notice, and Revenge, as on that of Violated Vows, which never go unpunished; and the Cupids may boast what they will, for the encouragement of their Trade of Love, that Heaven never takes cognisance of Lovers broken Vows and Oaths, and that ’tis the only Perjury that escapes the Anger of the Gods; But I verily believe, if it were search’d into, we should find these frequent Perjuries, that pass in the World for so many Gallantries only, to be the occasion of so many unhappy Marriages, and the cause of all those Misfortunes, which are so frequent to the Nuptiall’d Pair. For not one of a Thousand, but, either on his side, or on hers, has been perjur’d, and broke Vows made to some fond believing Wretch, whom they have abandon’d and undone. What Man that does not boast of the Numbers he has thus ruin’d, and, who does not glory in the shameful Triumph? Nay, what Woman, almost, has not a pleasure in Deceiving, taught, perhaps, at first, by some dear false one, who had fatally instructed her Youth in an Art she ever after practis’d, in Revenge on all those she could be too hard for, and conquer at their own Weapons? For, without all dispute, Women are by Nature more Constant and Just, than Men, and did not their first Lovers teach them the trick of Change, they would be Doves, that would never quit their Mate, and, like Indian Wives, would leap alive into the Graves of their deceased Lovers, and be buried quick with ’em. But Customs of Countries change even Nature her self, and long Habit takes her place: The Women are taught, by the Lives of the Men, to live up to all their Vices, and are become almost as inconstant; and ’tis but Modesty that makes the difference, and, hardly, inclination; so deprav’d the nicest Appetites grow in time, by bad Examples.

But, as there are degrees of Vows, so there are degrees of Punishments for Vows, there are solemn Matrimonial Vows, such as contract and are the most effectual Marriage, and have the most reason to be so; there are a thousand Vows and Friendships, that pass between Man and Man, on a thousand Occasions; but there is another Vow, call’d a Sacred Vow, made to God only; and, by which, we oblige our selves eternally to serve him with all Chastity and Devotion: This Vow is only taken, and made, by those that enter into Holy Orders, and, of all broken Vows, these are those, that receive the most severe and notorious Revenges of God; and I am almost certain, there is not one Example to be produc’d in the World, where Perjuries of this nature have past unpunish’d, nay, that have not been persu’d with the greatest and most rigorous of Punishments. I could my self, of my own knowledge, give an hundred Examples of the fatal Consequences of the Violation of Sacred Vows; and who ever make it their business, and are curious in the search of such Misfortunes, shall find, as I say, that they never go unregarded.

The young Beauty therefore, who dedicates her self to Heaven, and weds her self for ever to the service of God, ought, first, very well to consider the Self-denial she is going to put upon her youth, her fickle faithless deceiving Youth, of one Opinion to day, and of another to morrow; like Flowers, which never remain in one state or fashion, but bud to day, and blow by insensible degrees, and decay as imperceptibly. The Resolution, we promise, and believe we shall maintain, is not in our power, and nothing is so deceitful as human Hearts.

I once was design’d an humble Votary in the House of Devotion, but fancying my self not endu’d with an obstinacy of Mind, great enough to secure me from the Efforts and Vanities of the World, I rather chose to deny my self that Content I could not certainly promise my self, than to languish (as I have seen some do) in a certain Affliction; tho’ possibly, since, I have sufficiently bewailed that mistaken and inconsiderate Approbation and Preference of the false ungrateful World, (full of nothing but Nonsense, Noise, false Notions, and Contradiction) before the Innocence and Quiet of a Cloyster; nevertheless, I could wish, for the prevention of abundance of Mischiefs and Miseries, that Nunneries and Marriages were not to be enter’d into, ’till the Maid, so destin’d, were of a mature Age to make her own Choice; and that Parents would not make use of their justly assum’d Authority to compel their Children, neither to the one or the other; but since I cannot alter Custom, nor shall ever be allow’d to make new Laws, or rectify the old ones, I must leave the Young Nuns inclos’d to their best Endeavours, of making a Virtue of Necessity; and the young Wives, to make the best of a bad Market.

In Iper, a Town, not long since, in the Dominions of the King of Spain, and now in possession of the King of France, there liv’d a Man of Quality, of a considerable Fortune, call’d, Count Henrick de Vallary, who had a very beautiful Lady, by whom, he had one Daughter, call’d Isabella, whose Mother dying when she was about two years old to the unspeakable Grief of the Count, her Husband, he resolv’d never to partake of any Pleasure more, that this transitory World could court him with, but determin’d, with himself, to dedicate his Youth, and future Days, to Heaven, and to take upon him Holy Orders; and, without considering, that, possibly, the young Isabella, when she grew to Woman, might have Sentiments contrary to those that now possest him, he design’d she should also become a Nun; However, he was not so positive in that Resolution, as to put the matter wholly out of her Choice, but divided his Estate; one half he carried with him to the Monastery of Jesuits, of which number, he became one; and the other half, he gave with Isabella, to the Monastery, of which, his only Sister was Lady Abbess, of the Order of St. Augustine; but so he ordered the matter, that if, at the Age of Thirteen, Isabella had not a mind to take Orders, or that the Lady Abbess found her Inclination averse to a Monastick Life, she should have such a proportion of the Revenue, as should be fit to marry her to a Noble Man, and left it to the discretion of the Lady Abbess, who was a Lady of known Piety, and admirable strictness of Life, and so nearly related to Isabella, that there was no doubt made of her Integrity and Justice.

The little Isabella was carried immediately (in her Mourning for her dead Mother) into the Nunnery, and was receiv’d as a very diverting Companion by all the young Ladies, and, above all, by her Reverend Aunt, for she was come just to the Age of delighting her Parents; she was the prettiest forward Pratler in the World, and had a thousand little Charms to please, besides the young Beauties that were just budding in her little Angel Face: So that she soon became the dear lov’d Favourite of the whole House; and as she was an Entertainment to them all, so they made it their study to find all the Diversions they could for the pretty Isabella; and as she grew in Wit and Beauty every day, so they fail’d not to cultivate her Mind; and delicate Apprehension, in all that was advantageous to her Sex, and whatever Excellency any one abounded in, she was sure to communicate it to the young Isabella, if one could Dance, another Sing, another play on this Instrument, and another on that; if this spoke one Language, and that another; if she had Wit, and she Discretion, and a third, the finest Fashion and Manners; all joyn’d to compleat the Mind and Body of this beautiful young Girl; Who, being undiverted with the less noble, and less solid, Vanities of the World, took to these Virtues, and excell’d in all; and her Youth and Wit being apt for all Impressions, she soon became a greater Mistress of their Arts, than those who taught her; so that at the Age of eight or nine Years, she was thought fit to receive and entertain all the great Men and Ladies, and the Strangers of any Nation, at the Grate; and that with so admirable a Grace, so quick and piercing a Wit, and so delightful and sweet a Conversation, that she became the whole Discourse of the Town, and Strangers spread her Fame, as prodigious, throughout the Christian World; for Strangers came daily to hear her talk, and sing, and play, and to admire her Beauty; and Ladies brought their Children, to shame ’em into good Fashion and Manners, with looking on the lovely young Isabella.

The Lady Abbess, her Aunt, you may believe, was not a little proud of the Excellencies and Virtues of her fair Niece, and omitted nothing that might adorn her Mind; because, not only of the vastness of her Parts and Fame, and the Credit she would do her House, by residing there for ever; but also, being very loth to part with her considerable Fortune, which she must resign, if she returned into the World, she us’d all her Arts and Stratagems to make her become a Nun, to which all the fair Sisterhood contributed their Cunning, but it was altogether needless; her Inclination, the strictness of her Devotion, her early Prayers, and those continual, and innate Stedfastness, and Calm, she was Mistress of; her Ignorance of the World’s Vanities, and those that uninclos’d young Ladies count Pleasures and Diversions, being all unknown to her, she thought there was no Joy out of a Nunnery, and no Satisfactions on the other side of a Grate.

The Lady Abbess, seeing, that of her self she yielded faster than she could expect; to discharge her Conscience to her Brother, who came frequently to visit his Darling Isabella, would very often discourse to her of the Pleasures of the World, telling her, how much happier she would think her self, to be the Wife of some gallant young Cavalier, and to have Coaches and Equipages; to see the World, to behold a thousand Rarities she had never seen, to live in Splendor, to eat high, and wear magnificent Clothes, to be bow’d to as she pass’d, and have a thousand Adorers, to see in time a pretty Offspring, the products of Love, that should talk, and look, and delight, as she did, the Heart of their Parents; but to all, her Father and the Lady Abbess could say of the World, and its Pleasures, Isabella brought a thousand Reasons and Arguments, so Pious, so Devout, that the Abbess was very well pleased, to find her (purposely weak) Propositions so well overthrown; and gives an account of her daily Discourses to her Brother, which were no less pleasing to him; and tho’ Isabella went already dress’d as richly as her Quality deserv’d, yet her Father, to try the utmost that the World’s Vanity could do, upon her young Heart, orders the most Glorious Clothes should be bought her, and that the Lady Abbess should suffer her to go abroad with those Ladies of Quality, that were her Relations, and her Mother’s Acquaintance; that she should visit and go on the Toore, (that is, the Hide Park there) that she should see all that was diverting, to try, whether it were not for want of Temptation to Vanity, that made her leave the World, and love an inclos’d Life.

As the Count had commanded, all things were performed; and Isabella arriving at her Thirteenth Year of Age, and being pretty tall of Stature, with the finest Shape that Fancy can create, with all the Adornment of a perfect brown-hair’d Beauty, Eyes black and lovely, Complexion fair; to a Miracle, all her Features of the rarest proportion, the Mouth red, the Teeth white, and a thousand Graces in her Meen and Air; she came no sooner abroad, but she had a thousand Persons fighting for love of her; the Reputation her Wit had acquir’d, got her Adorers without seeing her, but when they saw her, they found themselves conquer’d and undone; all were glad she was come into the World, of whom they had heard so much, and all the Youth of the Town dress’d only for Isabella de Valerie, that rose like a new Star that Eclips’d all the rest, and which set the World a-gazing. Some hop’d, and some despair’d, but all lov’d, while Isabella regarded not their Eyes, their distant darling Looks of Love, and their signs of Adoration; she was civil and affable to all, but so reserv’d, that none durst tell her his Passion, or name that strange and abhorr’d thing, Love, to her; the Relations with whom she went abroad every day, were fein to force her out, and when she went, ’twas the motive of Civility, and not Satisfaction, that made her go; whatever she saw, she beheld with no admiration, and nothing created wonder in her, tho’ never so strange and Novel. She survey’d all things with an indifference, that tho’ it was not sullen, was far from Transport, so that her evenness of Mind was infinitely admir’d and prais’d. And now it was, that, young as she was, her Conduct and Discretion appear’d equal to her Wit and Beauty, and she encreas’d daily in Reputation, insomuch, that the Parents of abundance of young Noble Men, made it their business to endeavour to marry their Sons to so admirable and noble a Maid, and one, whose Virtues were the Discourse of all the World; the Father, the Lady Abbess, and those who had her abroad, were solicited to make an Alliance; for the Father, he would give no answer, but left it to the discretion of Isabella, who could not be persuaded to hear any thing of that nature; so that for a long time she refus’d her company to all those, who propos’d any thing of Marriage to her; she said, she had seen nothing in the World that was worth her Care, or the venturing the losing of Heaven for, and therefore was resolv’d to dedicate her self to that; that the more she saw of the World, the worse she lik’d it, and pity’d the Wretches that were condemn’d to it; that she had consider’d it, and found no one Inclination that forbad her immediate Entrance into a Religious Life; to which, her Father, after using all the Arguments he could, to make her take good heed of what she went about, to consider it well; and had urg’d all the Inconveniencies of Severe Life, Watchings, Midnight Risings in all Weathers and Seasons to Prayers, hard Lodging, course Diet, and homely Habit, with a thousand other things of Labour and Work us’d among the Nuns; and finding her still resolv’d and inflexible to all contrary persuasions, he consented, kiss’d her, and told her, She had argu’d according to the wish of his Soul, and that he never believ’d himself truly happy, till this moment that he was assur’d, she would become a Religious.

This News, to the Heart-breaking of a thousand Lovers, was spread all over the Town, and there was nothing but Songs of Complaint, and of her retiring, after she had shewn her self to the World, and vanquish’d so many Hearts; all Wits were at work on this Cruel Subject, and one begat another, as is usual in such Affairs. Amongst the number of these Lovers, there was a young Gentleman, Nobly born, his name was Villenoys, who was admirably made, and very handsom, had travell’d and accomplish’d himself, as much as was possible for one so young to do; he was about Eighteen, and was going to the Siege of Candia, in a very good Equipage, but, overtaken by his Fate, surpris’d in his way to Glory, he stopt at Ipers, so fell most passionately in love with this Maid of Immortal Fame; but being defeated in his hopes by this News, was the Man that made the softest Complaints to this fair Beauty, and whose violence of Passion oppress’d him to that degree, that he was the only Lover, who durst himself tell her, he was in love with her; he writ Billets so soft and tender, that she had, of all her Lovers, most compassion for Villenoys, and dain’d several times, in pity of him, to send him answers to his Letters, but they were such, as absolutely forbad him to love her; such as incited him to follow Glory, the Mistress that could noblest reward him; and that, for her part, her Prayers should always be, that he might be victorious, and the Darling of that Fortune he was going to court; and that she, for her part, had fix’d her Mind on Heaven, and no Earthly Thought should bring it down; but she should ever retain for him all Sisterly Respect, and begg’d, in her Solitudes, to hear, whether her Prayers had prov’d effectual or not, and if Fortune were so kind to him, as she should perpetually wish.

When Villenoys found she was resolv’d, he design’d to persue his Journy, but could not leave the Town, till he had seen the fatal Ceremony of Isabella’s being made a Nun, which was every day expected; and while he stay’d, he could not forbear writing daily to her, but receiv’d no more Answers from her, she already accusing her self of having done too much, for a Maid in her Circumstances; but she confess’d, of all she had seen, she lik’d Villenoys the best; and if she ever could have lov’d, she believ’d it would have been Villenoys, for he had all the good Qualities, and grace, that could render him agreeable to the Fair; besides, that he was only Son to a very rich and noble Parent, and one that might very well presume to lay claim to a Maid of Isabella’s Beauty and Fortune.

As the time approach’d, when he must eternally lose all hope, by Isabella’s taking Orders, he found himself less able to bear the Efforts of that Despair it possess’d him with, he languished with the thought, so that it was visible to all his Friends, the decays it wrought on his Beauty and Gaiety: So that he fell at last into a Feaver; and ’twas the whole Discourse of the Town, That Villenoys was dying for the Fair Isabella; his Relations, being all of Quality, were extreamly afflicted at his Misfortune, and joyn’d their Interests yet, to dissuade this fair young Victoress from an act so cruel, as to inclose herself in a Nunnery, while the finest of all the youths of Quality was dying for her, and ask’d her, If it would not be more acceptable to Heaven to save a Life, and perhaps a Soul, than to go and expose her own to a thousand Tortures? They assur’d her, Villenoys was dying, and dying Adoring her; that nothing could save his Life, but her kind Eyes turn’d upon the fainting Lover; a Lover, that could breath nothing, but her Name in Sighs; and find satisfaction in nothing, but weeping and crying out, ‘I dye for Isabella!’ This Discourse fetch’d abundance of Tears from the fair Eyes of this tender Maid; but, at the same time, she besought them to believe, these Tears ought not to give them hope, she should ever yield to save his Life, by quitting her Resolution, of becoming a Nun; but, on the contrary, they were Tears, that only bewail’d her own Misfortune, in having been the occasion of the death of any Man, especially, a Man, who had so many Excellencies, as might have render’d him entirely Happy and Glorious for a long race of Years, had it not been his ill fortune to have seen her unlucky Face. She believ’d, it was for her Sins of Curiosity, and going beyond the Walls of the Monastery, to wander after the Vanities of the foolish World, that had occasion’d this Misfortune to the young Count of Villenoys, and she would put a severe Penance on her Body, for the Mischiefs her Eyes had done him; she fears she might, by something in her looks, have intic’d his Heart, for she own’d she saw him, with wonder at his Beauty, and much more she admir’d him, when she found the Beauties of his Mind; she confess’d, she had given him hope, by answering his Letters; and that when she found her Heart grow a little more than usually tender, when she thought on him, she believ’d it a Crime, that ought to be check’d by a Virtue, such as she pretended to profess, and hop’d she should ever carry to her Grave; and she desired his Relations to implore him, in her Name, to rest contented, in knowing he was the first, and should be the last, that should ever make an impression on her Heart; that what she had conceiv’d there, for him, should remain with her to her dying day, and that she besought him to live, that she might see, he both deserv’d this Esteem she had for him, and to repay it her, otherwise he would dye in her debt, and make her Life ever after reposeless.

This being all they could get from her, they return’d with Looks that told their Message; however, they render’d those soft things Isabella had said, in so moving a manner, as fail’d not to please, and while he remain’d in this condition, the Ceremonies were compleated, of making Isabella a Nun; which was a Secret to none but Villenoys, and from him it was carefully conceal’d, so that in a little time he recover’d his lost health, at least, so well, as to support the fatal News, and upon the first hearing it, he made ready his Equipage, and departed immediately for Candia; where he behav’d himself very gallantly, under the Command of the Duke De Beaufort, and, with him, return’d to France, after the loss of that noble City to the Turks.

In all the time of his absence, that he might the sooner establish his Repose, he forbore sending to the fair Cruel Nun, and she heard no more of Villenoys in above two years; so that giving her self wholly up to Devotion, there was never seen any one, who led so Austere and Pious a Life, as this young Votress; she was a Saint in the Chapel, and an Angel at the Grate: She there laid by all her severe Looks, and mortify’d Discourse, and being at perfect peace and tranquility within, she was outwardly all gay, sprightly, and entertaining, being satisfy’d, no Sights, no Freedoms, could give any temptations to worldly desires; she gave a loose to all that was modest, and that Virtue and Honour would permit, and was the most charming Conversation that ever was admir’d; and the whole World that pass’d through Iper; of Strangers, came directed and recommended to the lovely Isabella; I mean, those of Quality: But however Diverting she was at the Grate, she was most exemplary Devout in the Cloister, doing more Penance, and imposing a more rigid Severity and Task on her self, than was requir’d, giving such rare Examples to all the Nuns that were less Devout, that her Life was a Proverb, and a President, and when they would express a very Holy Woman indeed, they would say, ‘She was a very ISABELLA.’

There was in this Nunnery, a young Nun, call’d, Sister Katteriena, Daughter to the Grave Vanhenault, that is to say, an Earl, who liv’d about six Miles from the Town, in a noble Villa; this Sister Katteriena was not only a very beautiful Maid, but very witty, and had all the good qualities to make her be belov’d, and had most wonderfully gain’d upon the Heart of the fair Isabella, she was her Chamber-Fellow and Companion in all her Devotions and Diversions, so that where one was, there was the other, and they never went but together to the Grate, to the Garden, or to any place, whither their Affairs call’d either. This young Katteriena had a Brother, who lov’d her intirely, and came every day to see her, he was about twenty Years of Age, rather tall than middle Statur’d, his Hair and Eyes brown, but his Face exceeding beautiful, adorn’d with a thousand Graces, and the most nobly and exactly made, that ’twas possible for Nature to form; to the Fineness and Charms of his Person, he had an Air in his Meen and Dressing, so very agreeable, besides rich, that ’twas impossible to look on him, without wishing him happy, because he did so absolutely merit being so. His Wit and his Manner was so perfectly Obliging, a Goodness and Generosity so Sincere and Gallant, that it would even have aton’d for Ugliness. As he was eldest Son to so great a Father, he was kept at home, while the rest of his Brothers were employ’d in Wars abroad; this made him of a melancholy Temper, and fit for soft Impressions; he was very Bookish, and had the best Tutors that could be got, for Learning and Languages, and all that could compleat a Man; but was unus’d to Action, and of a temper Lazy, and given to Repose, so that his Father could hardly ever get him to use any Exercise, or so much as ride abroad, which he would call, Losing Time from his Studies: He car’d not for the Conversation of Men, because he lov’d not Debauch, as they usually did; so that for Exercise, more than any Design, he came on Horseback every day to Iper to the Monastery, and would sit at the Grate, entertaining his Sister the most part of the Afternoon, and, in the Evening, retire; he had often seen and convers’d with the lovely Isabella, and found from the first sight of her, he had more Esteem for her, than any other of her Sex: But as Love very rarely takes Birth without Hope; so he never believ’d that the Pleasure he took in beholding her, and in discoursing with her, was Love, because he regarded her, as a Thing consecrate to Heaven, and never so much as thought to wish, she were a Mortal fit for his Addresses; yet he found himself more and more fill’d with Reflections on her which was not usual with him; he found she grew upon his Memory, and oftner came there, than he us’d to do, that he lov’d his Studies less, and going to Iper more; and, that every time he went, he found a new Joy at his Heart that pleas’d him; he found, he could not get himself from the Grate, without Pain; nor part from the sight of that all-charming Object, without Sighs; and if, while he was there, any persons came to visit her, whose Quality she could not refuse the honour of her sight to, he would blush, and pant with uneasiness, especially, if they were handsom, and fit to make Impressions: And he would check this Uneasiness in himself, and ask his Heart, what it meant, by rising and beating in those Moments, and strive to assume an Indifferency in vain, and depart dissatisfy’d, and out of humour.

On the other side, Isabella was not so Gay as she us’d to be, but, on the sudden, retir’d her self more from the Grate than she us’d to do, refus’d to receive Visits every day, and her Complexion grew a little pale and languid; she was observ’d not to sleep, or eat, as she us’d to do, nor exercise in those little Plays they made, and diverted themselves with, now and then; she was heard to sigh often, and it became the Discourse of the whole House, that she was much alter’d: The Lady Abbess, who lov’d her with a most tender Passion, was infinitely concern’d at this Change, and endeavour’d to find out the Cause, and ’twas generally believ’d, she was too Devout, for now she redoubled her Austerity; and in cold Winter Nights, of Frost and Snow, would be up at all Hours, and lying upon the cold Stones, before the Altar, prostrate at Prayers: So that she receiv’d Orders from the Lady Abbess, not to harass her self so very much, but to have a care of her Health, as well as her Soul; but she regarded not these Admonitions, tho’ even persuaded daily by her Katteriena, whom she lov’d every day more and more.

But, one Night, when they were retir’d to their Chamber, amongst a thousand things that they spoke of, to pass away a tedious Evening, they talk’d of Pictures and Likenesses, and Katteriena told Isabella, that before she was a Nun, in her more happy days, she was so like her Brother Bernardo Henault, (who was the same that visited them every day) that she would, in Men’s Clothes, undertake, she should not have known one from t’other, and fetching out his Picture, she had in a Dressing-Box, she threw it to Isabella, who, at the first sight of it, turns as pale as Ashes, and, being ready to swound, she bid her take it away, and could not, for her Soul, hide the sudden surprise the Picture brought: Katteriena had too much Wit, not to make a just Interpretation of this Change, and (as a Woman) was naturally curious to pry farther, tho’ Discretion should have made her been silent, for Talking, in such cases, does but make the Wound rage the more; ‘Why, my dear Sister, (said Katteriena) is the likeness of my Brother so offensive to you?’ Isabella found by this, she had discover’d too much, and that Thought put her by all power of excusing it; she was confounded with Shame, and the more she strove to hide it, the more it disorder’d her; so that she (blushing extremely) hung down her Head, sigh’d, and confess’d all by her Looks. At last, after a considering Pause, she cry’d, ‘My dearest Sister, I do confess, I was surpriz’d at the sight of Monsieur Henault, and much more than ever you have observ’d me to be at the sight of his Person, because there is scarce a day wherein I do not see that, and know beforehand I shall see him; I am prepar’d for the Encounter, and have lessen’d my Concern, or rather Confusion, by that time I come to the Grate, so much Mistress I am of my Passions, when they give me warning of their approach, and sure I can withstand the greatest assaults of Fate, if I can but foresee it; but if it surprize me, I find I am as feeble a Woman, as the most unresolv’d; you did not tell me, you had this Picture, nor say, you would shew me such a Picture; but when I least expect to see that Face, you shew it me, even in my Chamber.’

‘Ah, my dear Sister! (reply’d Katteriena) I believe, that Paleness, and those Blushes, proceed from some other cause, than the Nicety of seeing the Picture of a Man in your Chamber’:

‘You have too much Wit, (reply’d Isabella) to be impos’d on by such an Excuse, if I were so silly to make it; but oh! my dear Sister! it was in my Thoughts to deceive you; could I have concealed my Pain and Sufferings, you should never have known them; but since I find it impossible, and that I am too sincere to make use of Fraud in any thing, ’tis fit I tell you, from what cause my change of Colour proceeds, and to own to you, I fear, ’tis Love, if ever therefore, oh gentle pitying Maid! thou wert a Lover? If ever thy tender Heart were touch’d with that Passion? Inform me, oh! inform me, of the nature of that cruel Disease, and how thou found’st a Cure?’

While she was speaking these words, she threw her Arms about the Neck of the fair Katteriena, and bath’d her Bosom (where she hid her Face) with a shower of Tears; Katteriena, embracing her with all the fondness of a dear Lover, told her, with a Sigh, that she could deny her nothing, and therefore confess’d to her, she had been a Lover, and that was the occasion of her being made a Nun, her Father finding out the Intrigue, which fatally happened to be with his own Page, a Youth of extraordinary Beauty. ‘I was but Young, (said she) about Thirteen, and knew not what to call the new-known Pleasure that I felt; when e’re I look’d upon the young Arnaldo, my Heart would heave, when e’re he came in view, and my disorder’d Breath came doubly from my Bosom; a Shivering seiz’d me, and my Face grew wan; my Thought was at a stand, and Sense it self, for that short moment, lost its Faculties; But when he touch’d me, oh! no hunted Deer, tir’d with his flight, and just secur’d in Shades, pants with a nimbler motion than my Heart; at first, I thought the Youth had had some Magick Art, to make one faint and tremble at his touches; but he himself, when I accus’d his Cruelty, told me, he had no Art, but awful Passion, and vow’d that when I touch’d him, he was so; so trembling, so surprized, so charm’d, so pleas’d. When he was present, nothing could displease me, but when he parted from me; then ’twas rather a soft silent Grief, that eas’d itself by sighing, and by hoping, that some kind moment would restore my joy. When he was absent, nothing could divert me, howe’re I strove, howe’re I toyl’d for Mirth; no Smile, no Joy, dwelt in my Heart or Eyes; I could not feign, so very well I lov’d, impatient in his absence, I would count the tedious parting Hours, and pass them off like useless Visitants, whom we wish were gon; these are the Hours, where Life no business has, at least, a Lover’s Life. But, oh! what Minutes seem’d the happy Hours, when on his Eyes I gaz’d, and he on mine, and half our Conversation lost in Sighs, Sighs, the soft moving Language of a Lover!’

‘No more, no more, (reply’d Isabella, throwing her Arms again about the Neck of the transported Katteriena) thou blow’st my Flame by thy soft Words, and mak’st me know my Weakness, and my Shame: I love! I love! and feel those differing Passions!’—Then pausing a moment, she proceeded,—‘Yet so didst thou, but hast surmounted it. Now thou hast found the Nature of my Pain, oh! tell me thy saving Remedy?’ ‘Alas! (reply’d Katteriena) tho’ there’s but one Disease, there’s many Remedies: They say, possession’s one, but that to me seems a Riddle; Absence, they say, another, and that was mine; for Arnaldo having by chance lost one of my Billets, discover’d the Amour, and was sent to travel, and my self forc’d into this Monastery, where at last, Time convinc’d me, I had lov’d below my Quality, and that sham’d me into Holy Orders.’ ‘And is it a Disease, (reply’d Isabella) that People often recover?’ ‘Most frequently, (said Katteriena) and yet some dye of the Disease, but very rarely.’ ‘Nay then, (said Isabella) I fear, you will find me one of these Martyrs; for I have already oppos’d it with the most severe Devotion in the World: But all my Prayers are vain, your lovely Brother persues me into the greatest Solitude; he meets me at my very Midnight Devotions, and interrupts my Prayers; he gives me a thousand Thoughts, that ought not to enter into a Soul dedicated to Heaven; he ruins all the Glory I have achiev’d, even above my Sex, for Piety of Life, and the Observation of all Virtues. Oh Katteriena! he has a Power in his Eyes, that transcends all the World besides: And, to shew the weakness of Human Nature, and how vain all our Boastings are, he has done that in one fatal Hour, that the persuasions of all my Relations and Friends, Glory, Honour, Pleasure, and all that can tempt, could not perform in Years; I resisted all but Henault’s Eyes, and they were Ordain’d to make me truly wretched; But yet with thy Assistance, and a Resolution to see him no more, and my perpetual Trust in Heaven, I may, perhaps, overcome this Tyrant of my Soul, who, I thought, had never enter’d into holy Houses, or mix’d his Devotions and Worship with the true Religion; but, oh! no Cells, no Cloysters, no Hermitages, are secur’d from his Efforts.’

This Discourse she ended with abundance of Tears, and it was resolv’d, since she was devoted for ever to a Holy Life, That it was best for her to make it as easy to her as was possible; in order to it, and the banishing this fond and useless Passion from her Heart, it was very necessary, she should see Henault no more: At first, Isabella was afraid, that, in refusing to see him, he might mistrust her Passion; but Katteriena who was both Pious and Discreet, and endeavour’d truly to cure her of so violent a Disease, which must, she knew, either end in her death or destruction, told her, She would take care of that matter, that it should not blemish her Honour; and so leaving her a while, after they had resolved on this, she left her in a thousand Confusions, she was now another Woman than what she had hitherto been; she was quite alter’d in every Sentiment, thought and Notion; she now repented, she had promis’d not to see Henault; she trembled and even fainted, for fear she should see him no more; she was not able to bear that thought, it made her rage within, like one possest, and all her Virtue could not calm her; yet since her word was past, and, as she was, she could not, without great Scandal, break it in that point, she resolv’d to dye a thousand Deaths, rather than not perform her Promise made to Katteriena; but ’tis not to be express’d what she endur’d; what Fits, Pains, and Convulsions, she sustain’d; and how much ado she had to dissemble to Dame Katteriena, who soon return’d to the afflicted Maid; the next day, about the time that Henault was to come, as he usually did, about two or three a Clock after Noon, ’tis impossible to express the uneasiness of Isabella; she ask’d, a thousand times, ‘What, is not your Brother come?’ When Dame Katteriena would reply, ‘Why do you ask?’ She would say, ‘Because I would be sure not to see him’: ‘You need not fear, Madam, (reply’d Katteriena) for you shall keep your Chamber.’ She need not have urg’d that, for Isabella was very ill without knowing it, and in a Feaver.

At last, one of the Nuns came up, and told Dame Katteriena, that her Brother was at the Grate, and she desired, he should be bid come about to the Private Grate above stairs, which he did, and she went to him, leaving Isabella even dead on the Bed, at the very name of Henault: But the more she conceal’d her Flame, the more violently it rag’d, which she strove in vain by Prayers, and those Recourses of Solitude to lessen; all this did but augment the Pain, and was Oyl to the Fire, so that she now could hope, that nothing but Death would put an end to her Griefs, and her Infamy. She was eternally thinking on him, how handsome his Face, how delicate every Feature, how charming his Air, how graceful his Meen, how soft and good his Disposition, and how witty and entertaining his Conversation. She now fancy’d, she was at the Grate, talking to him as she us’d to be, and blest those happy Hours she past then, and bewail’d her Misfortune, that she is no more destin’d to be so Happy, then gives a loose to Grief; Griefs, at which, no Mortals, but Despairing Lovers, can guess, or how tormenting they are; where the most easie Moments are, those, wherein one resolves to kill ones self, and the happiest Thought is Damnation; but from these Imaginations, she endeavours to fly, all frighted with horror; but, alas! whither would she fly, but to a Life more full of horror? She considers well, she cannot bear Despairing Love, and finds it impossible to cure her Despair; she cannot fly from the Thoughts of the Charming Henault, and ’tis impossible to quit ’em; and, at this rate, she found, Life could not long support it self, but would either reduce her to Madness, and so render her an hated Object of Scorn to the Censuring World, or force her Hand to commit a Murder upon her self. This she had found, this she had well consider’d, nor could her fervent and continual Prayers, her nightly Watchings, her Mortifications on the cold Marble in long Winter Season, and all her Acts of Devotion abate one spark of this shameful Feaver of Love, that was destroying her within. When she had rag’d and struggled with this unruly Passion, ’till she was quite tir’d and breathless, finding all her force in vain, she fill’d her fancy with a thousand charming Ideas of the lovely Henault, and, in that soft fit, had a mind to satisfy her panting Heart, and give it one Joy more, by beholding the Lord of its Desires, and the Author of its Pains: Pleas’d, yet trembling, at this Resolve, she rose from the Bed where she was laid, and softly advanc’d to the Stair-Case, from whence there open’d that Room where Dame Katteriena was, and where there was a private Grate, at which, she was entertaining her Brother; they were earnest in Discourse, and so loud, that Isabella could easily hear all they said, and the first words were from Katteriena, who, in a sort of Anger, cry’d, ‘Urge me no more! My Virtue is too nice, to become an Advocate for a Passion, that can tend to nothing but your Ruin; for, suppose I should tell the fair Isabella, you dye for her, what can it avail you? What hope can any Man have, to move the Heart of a Virgin, so averse to Love? A Virgin, whose Modesty and Virtue is so very curious, it would fly the very word, Love, as some monstrous Witchcraft, or the foulest of Sins, who would loath me for bringing so lewd a Message, and banish you her Sight, as the Object of her Hate and Scorn; is it unknown to you, how many of the noblest Youths of Flanders have address’d themselves to her in vain, when yet she was in the World? Have you been ignorant, how the young Count de Villenoys languished, in vain, almost to Death for her? And, that no Persuasions, no Attractions in him, no wordly Advantages, or all his Pleadings, who had a Wit and Spirit capable of prevailing on any Heart, less severe and harsh, than hers? Do you not know, that all was lost on this insensible fair one, even when she was a proper Object for the Adoration of the Young and Amorous? And can you hope, now she has so entirely wedded her future days to Devotion, and given all to Heaven; nay, lives a Life here more like a Saint, than a Woman; rather an Angel, than a mortal Creature? Do you imagin, with any Rhetorick you can deliver, now to turn the Heart, and whole Nature, of this Divine Maid, to consider your Earthly Passion? No, ’tis fondness, and an injury to her Virtue, to harbour such a Thought; quit it, quit it, my dear Brother! before it ruin your Repose.’ ‘Ah, Sister! (replied the dejected Henault) your Counsel comes too late, and your Reasons are of too feeble force, to rebate those Arrows, the Charming Isabella’s Eyes have fix’d in my Heart and Soul; and I am undone, unless she know my Pain, which I shall dye, before I shall ever dare mention to her; but you, young Maids, have a thousand Familiarities together, can jest, and play, and say a thousand things between Railery and Earnest, that may first hint what you would deliver, and insinuate into each others Hearts a kind of Curiosity to know more; for naturally, (my dear Sister) Maids, are curious and vain; and however Divine the Mind of the fair Isabella may be, it bears the Tincture still of Mortal Woman.’

‘Suppose this true, how could this Mortal part about her Advantage you, (said Katteriena) all that you can expect from this Discovery, (if she should be content to hear it, and to return you pity) would be, to make her wretched, like your self? What farther can you hope?’ ‘Oh! talk not, (replied Henault) of so much Happiness! I do not expect to be so blest, that she should pity me, or love to a degree of Inquietude; ’tis sufficient, for the ease of my Heart, that she know its Pains, and what it suffers for her; that she would give my Eyes leave to gaze upon her, and my Heart to vent a Sigh now and then; and, when I dare, to give me leave to speak, and tell her of my Passion; This, this, is all, my Sister.’ And, at that word, the Tears glided down his Cheeks, and he declin’d his Eyes, and set a Look so charming, and so sad, that Isabella, whose Eyes were fix’d upon him, was a thousand times ready to throw her self into the Room, and to have made a Confession, how sensible she was of all she had heard and seen: But, with much ado, she contain’d and satisfy’d her self, with knowing, that she was ador’d by him whom she ador’d, and, with Prudence that is natural to her, she withdrew, and waited with patience the event of their Discourse. She impatiently long’d to know, how Katteriena would manage this Secret her Brother had given her, and was pleas’d, that the Friendship and Prudence of that Maid had conceal’d her Passion from her Brother; and now contented and joyful beyond imagination, to find her self belov’d, she knew she could dissemble her own Passion and make him the first Aggressor; the first that lov’d, or at least, that should seem to do so. This Thought restores her so great a part of her Peace of Mind, that she resolv’d to see him, and to dissemble with Katteriena so far, as to make her believe, she had subdu’d that Passion, she was really asham’d to own; she now, with her Woman’s Skill, begins to practise an Art she never before understood, and has recourse to Cunning, and resolves to seem to reassume her former Repose: But hearing Katteriena approach, she laid her self again on her Bed, where she had left her, but compos’d her Face to more chearfulness, and put on a Resolution that indeed deceiv’d the Sister, who was extreamly pleased, she said, to see her look so well: When Isabella reply’d, ‘Yes, I am another Woman now; I hope Heaven has heard, and granted, my long and humble Supplications, and driven from my Heart this tormenting God, that has so long disturb’d my purer Thoughts.’ ‘And are you sure, (said Dame Katteriena) that this wanton Deity is repell’d by the noble force of your Resolutions? Is he never to return?’ ‘No, (replied Isabella) never to my Heart.’ ‘Yes, (said Katteriena) if you should see the lovely Murderer of your Repose, your Wound would bleed anew.’ At this, Isabella smiling with a little Disdain, reply’d, ‘Because you once to love, and Henault’s Charms defenceless found me, ah! do you think I have no Fortitude? But so in Fondness lost, remiss in Virtue, that when I have resolv’d, (and see it necessary for my after-Quiet) to want the power of keeping that Resolution? No, scorn me, and despise me then, as lost to all the Glories of my Sex, and all that Nicety I’ve hitherto preserv’d.’ There needed no more from a Maid of Isabella’s Integrity and Reputation, to convince any one of the Sincerity of what she said, since, in the whole course of her Life, she never could be charg’d with an Untruth, or an Equivocation; and Katteriena assur’d her, she believ’d her, and was infinitely glad she had vanquish’d a Passion, that would have prov’d destructive to her Repose: Isabella reply’d, She had not altogether vanquish’d her Passion, she did not boast of so absolute a power over her soft Nature, but had resolv’d things great, and Time would work the Cure; that she hop’d, Katteriena would make such Excuses to her Brother, for her not appearing at the Grate so gay and entertaining as she us’d, and, by a little absence, she should retrieve the Liberty she had lost: But she desir’d, such Excuses might be made for her, that young Henault might not perceive the Reason. At the naming him, she had much ado not to shew some Concern extraordinary, and Katteriena assur’d her, She had now a very good Excuse to keep from the Grate, when he was at it; ‘For, (said she) now you have resolv’d, I may tell you, he is dying for you, raving in Love, and has this day made me promise to him, to give you some account of his Passion, and to make you sensible of his Languishment: I had not told you this, (reply’d Katteriena) but that I believe you fortify’d with brave Resolution and Virtue, and that this knowledge will rather put you more upon your Guard, than you were before.’ While she spoke, she fixed her Eyes on Isabella, to see what alteration it would make in her Heart and Looks; but the Master-piece of this young Maid’s Art was shewn in this minute, for she commanded her self so well, that her very Looks dissembled and shew’d no concern at a Relation, that made her Soul dance with Joy; but it was, what she was prepar’d for, or else I question her Fortitude. But, with a Calmness, which absolutely subdu’d Katteriena, she reply’d, ‘I am almost glad he has confess’d a Passion for me, and you shall confess to him, you told me of it, and that I absent my self from the Grate, on purpose to avoid the sight of a Man, who durst love me, and confess it; and I assure you, my dear Sister! (continued she, dissembling) You could not have advanc’d my Cure by a more effectual way, than telling me of his Presumption.’ At that word, Katteriena joyfully related to her all that had pass’d between young Henault and her self, and how he implor’d her Aid in this Amour; at the end of which Relation, Isabella smil’d, and carelesly reply’d, ‘I pity him’: And so going to their Devotion, they had no more Discourse of the Lover.

In the mean time, young Henault was a little satisfy’d, to know, his Sister would discover his Passion to the lovely Isabella; and though he dreaded the return, he was pleas’d that she should know, she had a Lover that ador’d her, though even without hope; for though the thought of possessing Isabella, was the most ravishing that could be; yet he had a dread upon him, when he thought of it, for he could not hope to accomplish that, without Sacrilege; and he was a young Man, very Devout, and even bigotted in Religion; and would often question and debate within himself, that, if it were possible, he should come to be belov’d by this Fair Creature, and that it were possible for her, to grant all that Youth in Love could require, whether he should receive the Blessing offer’d? And though he ador’d the Maid, whether he should not abhor the Nun in his Embraces? ’Twas an undetermin’d Thought, that chill’d his Fire as often as it approach’d; but he had too many that rekindled it again with the greater Flame and Ardor.

His impatience to know, what Success Katteriena had, with the Relation she was to make to Isabella in his behalf, brought him early to Iper the next day. He came again to the private Grate, where his Sister receiving him, and finding him, with a sad and dejected Look, expect what she had to say; she told him, That Look well became the News she had for him, it being such, as ought to make him, both Griev’d, and Penitent; for, to obey him, she had so absolutely displeas’d Isabella, that she was resolv’d never to believe her her Friend more, ‘Or to see you, (said she) therefore, as you have made me commit a Crime against my Conscience, against my Order, against my Friendship, and against my Honour, you ought to do some brave thing; take some noble Resolution, worthy of your Courage, to redeem all; for your Repose, I promis’d, I would let Isabella know you lov’d, and, for the mitigation of my Crime, you ought to let me tell her, you have surmounted your Passion, as the last Remedy of Life and Fame.’

At these her last words, the Tears gush’d from his Eyes, and he was able only, a good while, to sigh; at last, cry’d, ‘What! see her no more! see the Charming Isabella no more!’ And then vented the Grief of his Soul in so passionate a manner, as his Sister had all the Compassion imaginable for him, but thought it great Sin and Indiscretion to cherish his Flame: So that, after a while, having heard her Counsel, he reply’d, ‘And is this all, my Sister, you will do to save a Brother?’ ‘All! (reply’d she) I would not be the occasion of making a NUN violate her Vow, to save a Brother’s Life, no, nor my own; assure your self of this, and take it as my last Resolution: Therefore, if you will be content with the Friendship of this young Lady, and so behave your self, that we may find no longer the Lover in the Friend, we shall reassume our former Conversation, and live with you, as we ought; otherwise, your Presence will continually banish her from the Grate, and, in time, make both her you love, and your self, a Town Discourse.’

Much more to this purpose she said, to dissuade him, and bid him retire, and keep himself from thence, till he could resolve to visit them without a Crime; and she protested, if he did not do this, and master his foolish Passion, she would let her Father understand his Conduct, who was a Man of temper so very precise, that should he believe, his Son should have a thought of Love to a Virgin vow’d to Heaven, he would abandon him to Shame, and eternal Poverty, by disinheriting him of all he could: Therefore, she said, he ought to lay all this to his Heart, and weigh it with his unheedy Passion. While the Sister talk’d thus wisely, Henault was not without his Thoughts, but consider’d as she spoke, but did not consider in the right place; he was not considering, how to please a Father, and save an Estate, but how to manage the matter so, to establish himself, as he was before with Isabella; for he imagin’d, since already she knew his Passion, and that if after that she would be prevail’d with to see him, he might, some lucky Minute or other, have the pleasure of speaking for himself, at least, he should again see and talk to her, which was a joyful Thought in the midst of so many dreadful ones: And, as if he had known what pass’d in Isabella’s Heart, he, by a strange sympathy, took the same measures to deceive Katteriena, a well-meaning young Lady, and easily impos’d on from her own Innocence, he resolv’d to dissemble Patience, since he must have that Virtue, and own’d, his Sister’s Reasons were just, and ought to be persu’d; that she had argu’d him into half his Peace, and that he would endeavour to recover the rest; that Youth ought to be pardon’d a thousand Failings, and Years would reduce him to a condition of laughing at his Follies of Youth, but that grave Direction was not yet arriv’d: And so desiring, she would pray for his Conversion, and that she would recommend him to the Devotions of the Fair Isabella, he took his leave, and came no more to the Nunnery in ten Days; in all which time, none but Impatient Lovers can guess, what Pain and Languishments Isabella suffer’d, not knowing the Cause of his Absence, nor daring to enquire; but she bore it out so admirably, that Dame Katteriena never so much as suspected she had any Thoughts of that nature that perplex’d her, and now believ’d indeed she had conquer’d all her Uneasiness: And one day, when Isabella and she were alone together, she ask’d that fair Dissembler, if she did not admire at the Conduct and Resolution of her Brother? ‘Why!’ (reply’d Isabella unconcernedly, while her Heart was fainting within, for fear of ill News:) With that, Katteriena told her the last Discourse she had with her Brother, and how at last she had persuaded him (for her sake) to quit his Passion; and that he had promis’d, he would endeavour to surmount it; and that, that was the reason he was absent now, and they were to see him no more, till he had made a Conquest over himself. You may assure your self, this News was not so welcom to Isabella, as Katteriena imagin’d; yet still she dissembled, with a force, beyond what the most cunning Practitioner could have shewn, and carry’d her self before People, as if no Pressures had lain upon her Heart; but when alone retir’d, in order to her Devotion, she would vent her Griefs in the most deplorable manner, that a distress’d distracted Maid could do, and which, in spite of all her severe Penances, she found no abatement of.

At last Henault came again to the Monastery, and, with a Look as gay as he could possibly assume, he saw his Sister, and told her, He had gain’d an absolute Victory over his Heart; and desir’d, he might see Isabella, only to convince, both her, and Katteriena, that he was no longer a Lover of that fair Creature, that had so lately charm’d him; that he had set Five thousand Pounds a Year, against a fruitless Passion, and found the solid Gold much the heavier in the Scale: And he smil’d, and talk’d the whole Day of indifferent things, with his Sister, and ask’d no more for Isabella; nor did Isabella look, or ask, after him, but in her Heart. Two Months pass’d in this Indifference, till it was taken notice of, that Sister Isabella came not to the Grate, when Henault was there, as she us’d to do; this being spoken to Dame Katteriena, she told it to Isabella, and said, ‘The NUNS would believe, there was some Cause for her Absence, if she did not appear again’: That if she could trust her Heart, she was sure she could trust her Brother, for he thought no more of her, she was confident; this, in lieu of pleasing, was a Dagger to the Heart of Isabella, who thought it time to retrieve the flying Lover, and therefore told Katteriena, She would the next Day entertain at the Low Grate, as she was wont to do, and accordingly, as soon as any People of Quality came, she appear’d there, where she had not been two Minutes, but she saw the lovely Henault, and it was well for both, that People were in the Room, they had else both sufficiently discover’d their Inclinations, or rather their not to be conceal’d Passions; after the General Conversation was over, by the going away of the Gentlemen that were at the Grate, Katteriena being employ’d elsewhere, Isabella was at last left alone with Henault; but who can guess the Confusion of these two Lovers, who wish’d, yet fear’d, to know each others Thoughts? She trembling with a dismal Apprehension, that he lov’d no more; and he almost dying with fear, she should Reproach or Upbraid him with his Presumption; so that both being possess’d with equal Sentiments of Love, Fear, and Shame, they both stood fix’d with dejected Looks and Hearts, that heav’d with stifled Sighs. At last, Isabella, the softer and tender-hearted of the two, tho’ not the most a Lover perhaps, not being able to contain her Love any longer within the bounds of Dissimulation or Discretion, being by Nature innocent, burst out into Tears, and all fainting with pressing Thoughts within, she fell languishly into a Chair that stood there, while the distracted Henault, who could not come to her Assistance, and finding Marks of Love, rather than Anger or Disdain, in that Confusion of Isabella’s, throwing himself on his Knees at the Grate, implor’d her to behold him, to hear him, and to pardon him, who dy’d every moment for her, and who ador’d her with a violent Ardor; but yet, with such an one, as should (tho’ he perish’d with it) be conformable to her Commands; and as he spoke, the Tears stream’d down his dying Eyes, that beheld her with all the tender Regard that ever Lover was capable of; she recover’d a little, and turn’d her too beautiful Face to him, and pierc’d him with a Look, that darted a thousand Joys and Flames into his Heart, with Eyes, that told him her Heart was burning and dying for him; for which Assurances, he made Ten thousand Asseverations of his never-dying Passion, and expressing as many Raptures and Excesses of Joy, to find her Eyes and Looks confess, he was not odious to her, and that the knowledge he was her Lover, did not make her hate him: In fine, he spoke so many things all soft and moving, and so well convinc’d her of his Passion, that she at last was compell’d by a mighty force, absolutely irresistible, to speak.

‘Sir, (said she) perhaps you will wonder, where I, a Maid, brought up in the simplicity of Virtue, should learn the Confidence, not only to hear of Love from you, but to confess I am sensible of the most violent of its Pain my self; and I wonder, and am amazed at my own Daring, that I should have the Courage, rather to speak, than dye, and bury it in silence; but such is my Fate. Hurried by an unknown Force, which I have endeavoured always, in vain, to resist, I am compell’d to tell you, I love you, and have done so from the first moment I saw you; and you are the only Man born to give me Life or Death, to make me Happy or Blest; perhaps, had I not been confin’d, and, as it were, utterly forbid by my Vow, as well as my Modesty, to tell you this, I should not have been so miserable to have fallen thus low, as to have confess’d my Shame; but our Opportunities of Speaking are so few, and Letters so impossible to be sent without discovery, that perhaps this is the only time I shall ever have to speak with you alone.’ And, at that word the Tears flow’d abundantly from her Eyes, and gave Henault leave to speak. ‘Ah Madam! (said he) do not, as soon as you have rais’d me to the greatest Happiness in the World, throw me with one word beneath your Scorn, much easier ’tis to dye, and know I am lov’d, than never, never, hope to hear that blessed sound again from that beautiful Mouth: Ah, Madam! rather let me make use of this one opportunity our happy Luck has given us, and contrive how we may for ever see, and speak, to each other; let us assure one another, there are a thousand ways to escape a place so rigid, as denies us that Happiness; and denies the fairest Maid in the World, the privilege of her Creation, and the end to which she was form’d so Angelical.’ And seeing Isabella was going to speak, lest she should say something, that might dissuade from an Attempt so dangerous and wicked, he persu’d to tell her, it might be indeed the last moment Heaven would give ’em, and besought her to answer him what he implor’d, whether she would fly with him from the Monastery? At this Word, she grew pale, and started, as at some dreadful Sound, and cry’d, ‘Hah! what is’t you say? Is it possible, you should propose a thing so wicked? And can it enter into your Imagination, because I have so far forget my Virtue, and my Vow, to become a Lover, I should therefore fall to so wretched a degree of Infamy and Reprobation? No, name it to me no more, if you would see me; and if it be as you say, a Pleasure to be belov’d by me; for I will sooner dye, than yield to what . . . Alas! I but too well approve!’ These last words, she spoke with a fainting Tone, and the Tears fell anew from her fair soft Eyes. ‘If it be so,’ said he, (with a Voice so languishing, it could scarce be heard) ‘If it be so, and that you are resolv’d to try, if my Love be eternal without Hope, without expectation of any other Joy, than seeing and adoring you through the Grate; I am, and must, and will be contented, and you shall see, I can prefer the Sighing to these cold Irons, that separate us, before all the Possessions of the rest of the World; that I chuse rather to lead my Life here, at this cruel Distance from you, for ever, than before the Embrace of all the Fair; and you shall see, how pleas’d I will be, to languish here; but as you see me decay, (for surely so I shall) do not triumph o’re my languid Looks, and laugh at my Pale and meager Face; but, Pitying, say, How easily I might have preserv’d that Face, those Eyes, and all that Youth and Vigour, now no more, from this total Ruine I now behold it in, and love your Slave that dyes, and will be daily and visibly dying, as long as my Eyes can gaze on that fair Object, and my Soul be fed and kept alive with her Charming Wit and Conversation; if Love can live on such Airy Food, (tho’ rich in it self, yet unfit, alone, to sustain Life) it shall be for ever dedicated to the lovely ISABELLA: But, oh! that time cannot be long! Fate will not lend her Slave many days, who loves too violently, to be satisfy’d to enjoy the fair Object of his Desires, no otherwise than at a Grate.’

He ceas’d speaking, for Sighs and Tears stopt his Voice, and he begg’d the liberty to sit down; and his Looks being quite alter’d, ISABELLA found her self touch’d to the very Soul, with a concern the most tender, that ever yielding Maid was oppress’d with: She had no power to suffer him to Languish, while she by one soft word could restore him, and being about to say a thousand things that would have been agreeable to him, she saw herself approach’d by some of the Nuns, and only had time to say, ‘If you love me, live and hope.’ The rest of the Nuns began to ask Henault of News, for he always brought them all that was Novel in the Town, and they were glad still of his Visits, above all other, for they heard, how all Amours and Intrigues pass’d in the World, by this young Cavalier. These last words of Isabella’s were a Cordial to his Soul, and he, from that, and to conceal the present Affair, endeavour’d to assume all the Gaity he could, and told ’em all he could either remember, or invent, to please ’em, tho’ he wish’d them a great way off at that time.

Thus they pass’d the day, till it was a decent hour for him to quit the Grate, and for them to draw the Curtain; all that Night did Isabella dedicate to Love, she went to Bed, with a Resolution, to think over all she had to do, and to consider, how she should manage this great Affair of her Life: I have already said, she had try’d all that was possible in Human Strength to perform, in the design of quitting a Passion so injurious to her Honour and Virtue, and found no means possible to accomplish it: She had try’d Fasting long, Praying fervently, rigid Penances and Pains, severe Disciplines, all the Mortification, almost to the destruction of Life it self, to conquer the unruly Flame; but still it burnt and rag’d but the more; so, at last, she was forc’d to permit that to conquer her, she could not conquer, and submitted to her Fate, as a thing destin’d her by Heaven it self; and after all this opposition, she fancy’d it was resisting even Divine Providence, to struggle any longer with her Heart; and this being her real Belief, she the more patiently gave way to all the Thoughts that pleas’d her.

As soon as she was laid, without discoursing (as she us’d to do) to Katteriena, after they were in Bed, she pretended to be sleepy, and turning from her, setled her self to profound Thinking, and was resolv’d to conclude the Matter, between her Heart, and her Vow of Devotion, that Night, and she, having no more to determine, might end the Affair accordingly, the first opportunity she should have to speak to Henault, which was, to fly, and marry him; or, to remain for ever fix’d to her Vow of Chastity. This was the Debate; she brings Reason on both sides: Against the first, she sets the Shame of a Violated Vow, and considers, where she shall shew her Face after such an Action; to the Vow, she argues, that she was born in Sin, and could not live without it; that she was Human, and no Angel, and that, possibly, that Sin might be as soon forgiven, as another; that since all her devout Endeavours could not defend her from the Cause, Heaven ought to execute the Effect; that as to shewing her Face, so she saw that of Henault always turned (Charming as it was) towards her with love; what had she to do with the World, or car’d to behold any other?

Some times, she thought, it would be more Brave and Pious to dye, than to break her Vow; but she soon answer’d that, as false Arguing, for Self-Murder was the worst of Sins, and in the Deadly Number. She could, after such an Action, live to repent, and, of two Evils, she ought to chuse the least; she dreads to think, since she had so great a Reputation for Virtue and Piety, both in the Monastery, and in the World, what they both would say, when she should commit an Action so contrary to both these, she posest; but, after a whole Night’s Debate, Love was strongest, and gain’d the Victory. She never went about to think, how she should escape, because she knew it would be easy, the keeping of the Key of the Monastery, [was] often intrusted in her keeping, and was, by turns, in the hands of many more, whose Virtue and Discretion was Infallible, and out of Doubt; besides, her Aunt being the Lady Abbess, she had greater privilege than the rest; so that she had no more to do, she thought, than to acquaint Henault with her Design, as soon as she should get an opportunity. Which was not quickly; but, in the mean time, Isabella’s Father dy’d, which put some little stop to our Lover’s Happiness, and gave her a short time of Grief; but Love, who, while he is new and young, can do us Miracles, soon wip’d her Eyes, and chas’d away all Sorrows from her Heart, and grew every day more and more impatient, to put her new Design in Execution, being every day more resolv’d. Her Father’s Death had remov’d one Obstacle, and secur’d her from his Reproaches; and now she only wants Opportunity, first, to acquaint Henault, and then to fly.

She waited not long, all things concurring to her desire; for Katteriena falling sick, she had the good luck, as she call’d it then, to entertain Henault at the Grate oftentimes alone; the first moment she did so, she entertain’d him with the good News, and told him, She had at last vanquish’d her Heart in favour of him, and loving him above all things, Honour, her Vow or Reputation, had resolv’d to abandon her self wholly to him, to give her self up to love and serve him, and that she had no other Consideration in the World; but Henault, instead of returning her an Answer, all Joy and Satisfaction, held down his Eyes, and Sighing, with a dejected Look, he cry’d, ‘Ah, Madam! Pity a Man so wretched and undone, as not to be sensible of this Blessing as I ought.’ She grew pale at this Reply, and trembling, expected he would proceed: ‘’Tis not (continued he) that I want Love, tenderest Passion, and all the desire Youth and Love can inspire; But, Oh, Madam! when I consider, (for raving mad in Love as I am for your sake, I do consider) that if I should take you from this Repose, Nobly Born and Educated, as you are; and, for that Act, should find a rigid Father deprive me of all that ought to support you, and afford your Birth, Beauty, and Merits, their due, what would you say? How would you Reproach me?’ He sighing, expected her Answer, when Blushes overspreading her Face, she reply’d, in a Tone all haughty and angry, ‘Ah, Henault! Am I then refus’d, after having abandon’d all things for you? Is it thus, you reward my Sacrific’d Honour, Vows, and Virtue? Cannot you hazard the loss of Fortune to possess Isabella, who loses all for you!’ Then bursting into Tears, at her misfortune of Loving, she suffer’d him to say, ‘Oh, Charming fair one! how industrious is your Cruelty, to find out new Torments for an Heart, already press’d down with the Severities of Love? Is it possible, you can make so unhappy a Construction of the tenderest part of my Passion? And can you imagin it want of Love in me, to consider, how I shall preserve and merit the vast Blessing Heaven has given me? Is my Care a Crime? And would not the most deserving Beauty of the World hate me, if I should, to preserve my Life, and satisfy the Passion of my fond Heart, reduce her to the Extremities of Want and Misery? And is there any thing, in what I have said, but what you ought to take for the greatest Respect and tenderness!’ ‘Alas! (reply’d Isabella sighing) young as I am, all unskilful in Love I find, but what I feel, that Discretion is no part of it; and Consideration, inconsistent with the Nobler Passion, who will subsist of its own Nature, and Love unmixed with any other Sentiment? And ’tis not pure, if it be otherwise: I know, had I mix’d Discretion with mine, my Love must have been less, I never thought of living, but my Love; and, if I consider’d at all, it was, that Grandure and Magnificence were useless Trifles to Lovers, wholly needless and troublesom. I thought of living in some loanly Cottage, far from the noise of crowded busie Cities, to walk with thee in Groves, and silent Shades, where I might hear no Voice but thine; and when we had been tir’d, to sit us done by some cool murmuring Rivulet, and be to each a World, my Monarch thou, and I thy Sovereign Queen, while Wreaths of Flowers shall crown our happy Heads, some fragrant Bank our Throne, and Heaven our Canopy: Thus we might laugh at Fortune, and the Proud, despise the duller World, who place their Joys in mighty Shew and Equipage. Alas! my Nature could not bear it, I am unus’d to Wordly Vanities, and would boast of nothing but my Henault; no Riches, but his Love; no Grandure, but his Presence.’ She ended speaking, with Tears, and he reply’d, ‘Now, now, I find, my Isabella loves indeed, when she’s content to abandon the World for my sake; Oh! thou hast named the only happy Life that suits my quiet Nature, to be retir’d, has always been my Joy! But to be so with thee! Oh! thou hast charm’d me with a Thought so dear, as has for ever banish’d all my Care, but how to receive thy Goodness! Please think no more what my angry Parent may do, when he shall hear, how I have dispos’d of my self against his Will and Pleasure, but trust to Love and Providence; no more! be gone all Thoughts, but those of Isabella!’

As soon as he had made an end of expressing his Joy, he fell to consulting how, and when, she should escape; and since it was uncertain, when she should be offer’d the Key, for she would not ask for it, she resolv’d to give him notice, either by word of Mouth, or a bit of Paper she would write in, and give him through the Grate the first opportunity; and, parting for that time, they both resolv’d to get up what was possible for their Support, till Time should reconcile Affairs and Friends, and to wait the happy hour.

Isabella’s dead Mother had left Jewels, of the value of 2000l. to her Daughter, at her Decease, which Jewels were in the possession, now, of the Lady Abbess, and were upon Sale, to be added to the Revenue of the Monastery; and as Isabella was the most Prudent of her Sex, at least, had hitherto been so esteem’d, she was intrusted with all that was in possession of the Lady Abbess, and ’twas not difficult to make her self Mistress of all her own Jewels; as also, some 3 or 400l. in Gold, that was hoarded up in her Ladyship’s Cabinet, against any Accidents that might arrive to the Monastery; these Isabella also made her own, and put up with the Jewels; and having acquainted Henault, with the Day and Hour of her Escape, he got together what he could, and waiting for her, with his Coach, one Night, when no body was awake but her self, when rising softly, as she us’d to do, in the Night, to her Devotion, she stole so dexterously out of the Monastery, as no body knew any thing of it; she carry’d away the Keys with her, after having lock’d all the Doors, for she was intrusted often with all. She found Henault waiting in his Coach, and trusted none but an honest Coachman that lov’d him; he receiv’d her with all the Transports of a truly ravish’d Lover, and she was infinitely charm’d with the new Pleasure of his Embraces and Kisses.

They drove out of Town immediately, and because she durst not be seen in that Habit, (for it had been immediate Death for both) they drove into a Thicket some three Miles from the Town, where Henault having brought her some of his younger Sister’s Clothes, he made her put off her Habit, and put on those; and, rending the other, they hid them in a Sand-pit, covered over with Broom, and went that Night forty Miles from Iper, to a little Town upon the River Rhine, where, changing their Names, they were forthwith married, and took a House in a Country Village, a Farm, where they resolv’d to live retir’d, by the name of Beroone, and drove a Farming Trade; however, not forgetting to set Friends and Engines at work, to get their Pardon, as Criminals, first, that had trangress’d the Law; and, next, as disobedient Persons, who had done contrary to the Will and Desire of their Parents: Isabella writ to her Aunt the most moving Letters in the World, so did Henault to his Father; but she was a long time, before she could gain so much as an answer from her Aunt, and Henault was so unhappy, as never to gain one from his Father; who no sooner heard the News that was spread over all the Town and Country, that young Henault was fled with the so fam’d Isabella, a Nun, and singular for Devotion and Piety of Life, but he immediately setled his Estate on his younger Son, cutting Henault off with all his Birthright, which was 5000l. a Year. This News, you may believe, was not very pleasing to the young Man, who tho’ in possession of the loveliest Virgin, and now Wife, that ever Man was bless’d with; yet when he reflected, he should have children by her, and these and she should come to want, (he having been magnificently Educated, and impatient of scanty Fortune) he laid it to Heart, and it gave him a thousand Uneasinesses in the midst of unspeakable Joys; and the more be strove to hide his Sentiments from Isabella, the more tormenting it was within; he durst not name it to her, so insuperable a Grief it would cause in her, to hear him complain; and tho’ she could live hardly, as being bred to a devout and severe Life, he could not, but must let the Man of Quality shew it self; even in the disguise of an humbler Farmer: Besides all this, he found nothing of his Industry thrive, his Cattel still dy’d in the midst of those that were in full Vigour and Health of other Peoples; his Crops of Wheat and Barly, and other Grain, tho’ manag’d by able and knowing Husbandmen, were all, either Mildew’d, or Blasted, or some Misfortune still arriv’d to him; his Coach-Horses would fight and kill one another, his Barns sometimes be fir’d; so that it became a Proverb all over the Country, if any ill Luck had arriv’d to any body, they would say, ‘They had Monsieur BEROONE’S Luck.’ All these Reflections did but add to his Melancholy, and he grew at last to be in some want, insomuch, that Isabella, who had by her frequent Letters, and submissive Supplications, to her Aunt, (who lov’d her tenderly) obtain’d her Pardon, and her Blessing; she now press’d her for some Money, and besought her to consider, how great a Fortune she had brought to the Monastery, and implor’d, she would allow her some Sallary out of it, for she had been marry’d two Years, and most of what she had was exhausted. The Aunt, who found, that what was done, could not be undone, did, from time to time, supply her so, as one might have liv’d very decently on that very Revenue; but that would not satisfy the great Heart of Henault. He was now about three and twenty Years old, and Isabella about eighteen, too young, and too lovely a Pair, to begin their Misfortunes so soon; they were both the most Just and Pious in the World; they were Examples of Goodness, and Eminent for Holy Living, and for perfect Loving, and yet nothing thriv’d they undertook; they had no Children, and all their Joy was in each other; at last, one good Fortune arriv’d to them, by the Solicitations of the Lady Abbess, and the Bishop, who was her near Kinsman, they got a Pardon for Isabella’s quitting the Monastery, and marrying, so that she might now return to her own Country again. Henault having also his Pardon, they immediately quit the place, where they had remain’d for two Years, and came again into Flanders, hoping, the change of place might afford ’em better Luck.

Henault then began again to solicit his Cruel Father, but nothing would do, he refus’d to see him, or to receive any Letters from him; but, at last, he prevail’d so far with him, as that he sent a Kinsman to him, to assure him, if he would leave his Wife, and go into the French Campagn, he would Equip him as well as his Quality requir’d, and that, according as he behav’d himself, he should gain his Favour; but if he liv’d Idly at home, giving up his Youth and Glory to lazy Love, he would have no more to say to him, but race him out of his Heart, and out of his Memory.

He had setled himself in a very pretty House, furnished with what was fitting for the Reception of any Body of Quality that would live a private Life, and they found all the Respect that their Merits deserv’d from all the World, every body entirely loving and endeavouring to serve them; and Isabella so perfectly had the Ascendent over her Aunt’s Heart, that she procur’d from her all that she could desire, and much more than she could expect. She was perpetually progging and saving all that she could, to enrich and advance her, and, at last, pardoning and forgiving Henault, lov’d him as her own Child; so that all things look’d with a better Face than before, and never was so dear and fond a Couple seen, as Henault and Isabella; but, at last, she prov’d with Child, and the Aunt, who might reasonably believe, so young a Couple would have a great many Children, and foreseeing there was no Provision likely to be made them, unless he pleas’d his Father, for if the Aunt should chance to dye, all their Hope was gone; she therefore daily solicited him to obey his Father, and go to the Camp; and that having atchiev’d Fame and Renown, he would return a Favourite to his Father, and Comfort to his Wife: After she had solicited in vain, for he was not able to endure the thought of leaving Isabella, melancholy as he was with his ill Fortune; the Bishop, kinsman to Isabella, took him to task, and urg’d his Youth and Birth, and that he ought not to wast both without Action, when all the World was employ’d; and, that since his Father had so great a desire he should go into a Campagn, either to serve the Venetian against the Turks, or into the French Service, which he lik’d best; he besought him to think of it; and since he had satisfy’d his Love, he should and ought to satisfy his Duty, it being absolutely necessary for the wiping off the Stain of his Sacrilege, and to gain him the favour of Heaven, which, he found, had hitherto been averse to all he had undertaken: In fine, all his Friends, and all who lov’d him, joyn’d in this Design, and all thought it convenient, nor was he insensible of the Advantage it might bring him; but Love, which every day grew fonder and fonder in his Heart, oppos’d all their Reasonings, tho’ he saw all the Brave Youth of the Age preparing to go, either to one Army, or the other.

At last, he lets Isabella know, what Propositions he had made him, both by his Father, and his Relations; at the very first Motion, she almost fainted in his Arms, while he was speaking, and it possess’d her with so intire a Grief, that she miscarry’d, to the insupportable Torment of her tender Husband and Lover, so that, to re-establish her Repose, he was forc’d to promise not to go; however, she consider’d all their Circumstances, and weigh’d the Advantages that might redound both to his Honour and Fortune, by it; and, in a matter of a Month’s time, with the Persuasions and Reasons of her Friends, she suffer’d him to resolve upon going, her self determining to retire to the Monastery, till the time of his Return; but when she nam’d the Monastery, he grew pale and disorder’d, and obliged her to promise him, not to enter into it any more, for fear they should never suffer her to come forth again; so that he resolv’d not to depart, till she had made a Vow to him, never to go again within the Walls of a Religious House, which had already been so fatal to them. She promis’d, and he believ’d.

Henault, at last, overcame his Heart, which pleaded so for his Stay, and sent his Father word, he was ready to obey him, and to carry the first Efforts of his Arms against the common Foes of Christendom, the Turks; his Father was very well pleas’d at this, and sent him Two thousand Crowns, his Horses and Furniture sutable to his Quality, and a Man to wait on him; so that it was not long e’re he got himself in order to be gone, after a dismal parting.

He made what hast he could to the French Army, then under the Command of the Monsignior, the Duke of Beaufort, then at Candia, and put himself a Voluntier under his Conduct; in which Station was Villenoys, who, you have already heard, was so passionate a Lover of Isabella, who no sooner heard of Henault’s being arriv’d, and that he was Husband to Isabella, but he was impatient to learn, by what strange Adventure he came to gain her, even from her Vow’d Retreat, when he, with all his Courtship, could not be so happy, tho’ she was then free in the World, and Unvow’d to Heaven.

As soon as he sent his Name to Henault, he was sent for up, for Henault had heard of Villenoys, and that he had been a Lover of Isabella; they receiv’d one another with all the endearing Civility imaginable for the aforesaid Reason, and for that he was his Country-man, tho’ unknown to him, Villenoys being gone to the Army, just as Henault came from the Jesuits College. A great deal of Endearment pass’d between them, and they became, from that moment, like two sworn Brothers, and he receiv’d the whole Relation from Henault, of his Amour.

It was not long before the Siege began anew, for he arriv’d at the beginning of the Spring, and, as soon as he came, almost, they fell to Action; and it happen’d upon a day, that a Party of some Four hundred Men resolv’d to sally out upon the Enemy, as, when ever they could, they did; but as it is not my business to relate the History of the War, being wholly unacquainted with the Terms of Battels, I shall only say, That these Men were led by Villenoys, and that Henault would accompany him in this Sally, and that they acted very Noble, and great Things, worthy of a Memory in the History of that Siege; but this day, particularly, they had an occasion to shew their Valour, which they did very much to their Glory; but, venturing too far, they were ambush’d, in the persuit of the Party of the Enemies, and being surrounded, Villenoys had the unhappiness to see his gallant Friend fall, fighting and dealing of Wounds around him, even as he descended to the Earth, for he fell from his Horse at the same moment that he kill’d a Turk; and Villenoys could neither assist him, nor had he the satisfaction to be able to rescue his dead Body from under the Horses, but, with much ado, escaping with his own Life, got away, in spite of all that follow’d him, and recover’d the Town, before they could overtake him: He passionately bewail’d the Loss of this brave young Man, and offer’d any Recompence to those, that would have ventur’d to have search’d for his dead Body among the Slain; but it was not fit to hazard the Living, for unnecessary Services to the Dead; and tho’ he had a great mind to have Interr’d him, he rested content with what he wish’d to pay his Friends Memory, tho’ he could not: So that all the Service now he could do him, was, to write to Isabella, to whom he had not writ, tho’ commanded by her so to do, in three Years before, which was never since she took Orders. He gave her an Account of the Death of her Husband, and how Gloriously he fell fighting for the Holy Cross, and how much Honour he had won, if it had been his Fate to have outliv’d that great, but unfortunate, Day, where, with 400 Men, they had kill’d 1500 of the Enemy. The General Beaufort himself had so great a Respect and Esteem for this young Man, and knowing him to be of Quality, that he did him the honour to bemoan him, and to send a Condoling Letter to Isabella, how much worth her Esteem he dy’d, and that he had Eterniz’d his Memory with the last Gasp of his Life.

When this News arriv’d, it may be easily imagin’d, what Impressions, or rather Ruins, it made in the Heart of this fair Mourner; the Letters came by his Man, who saw him fall in Battel, and came off with those few that escap’d with Villenoys; he brought back what Money he had, a few Jewels, with Isabella’s Picture that he carry’d with him and had left in his Chamber in the Fort at Candia, for fear of breaking it in Action. And now Isabella’s Sorrow grew to the Extremity, she thought, she could not suffer more than she did by his Absence, but she now found a Grief more killing; she hung her Chamber with Black, and liv’d without the Light of Day: Only Wax Lights, that let her behold the Picture of this Charming Man, before which she sacrific’d Floods of Tears. He had now been absent about ten Months, and she had learnt just to live without him, but Hope preserv’d her then; but now she had nothing, for which to wish to live. She, for about two Months after the News arriv’d, liv’d without seeing any Creature but a young Maid, that was her Woman; but extream Importunity oblig’d her to give way to the Visits of her Friends, who endeavour’d to restore her Melancholy Soul to its wonted Easiness; for, however it was oppress’d within, by Henault’s Absence, she bore it off with a modest Chearfulness; but now she found, that Fortitude and Virtue fail’d her, when she was assur’d, he was no more: She continu’d thus Mourning, and thus inclos’d, the space of a whole Year, never suffering the Visit of any Man, but of a near Relation; so that she acquir’d a Reputation, such as never any young Beauty had, for she was now but Nineteen, and her Face and Shape more excellent than ever; she daily increas’d in Beauty, which, joyn’d to her Exemplary Piety, Charity, and all other excellent Qualities, gain’d her a wonderous Fame, and begat an Awe and Reverence in all that heard of her, and there was no Man of any Quality, that did not Adore her. After her Year was up, she went to the Churches, but would never be seen any where else abroad, but that was enough to procure her a thousand Lovers; and some, who had the boldness to send her Letters, which, if she receiv’d, she gave no Answer to, and many she sent back unread and unseal’d: So that she would encourage none, tho’ their Quality was far beyond what she could hope; but she was resolv’d to marry no more, however her Fortune might require it.

It happen’d, that, about this time, Candia being unfortunately taken by the Turks, all the brave Men that escap’d the Sword, return’d, among them, Villenoys, who no sooner arriv’d, but he sent to let Isabella know of it, and to beg the Honour of waiting on her; desirous to learn what Fate befel her dear Lord, she suffer’d him to visit her, where he found her, in her Mourning, a thousand times more Fair, (at least, he fancy’d so) than ever she appear’d to be; so that if he lov’d her before, he now ador’d her; if he burnt then, he rages now; but the awful Sadness, and soft Languishment of her Eyes, hinder’d him from the presumption of speaking of his Passion to her, tho’ it would have been no new thing; and his first Visit was spent in the Relation of every Circumstance of Henault’s Death; and, at his going away, he begg’d leave to visit her sometimes, and she gave him permission: He lost no time, but made use of the Liberty she had given him; and when his Sister, who was a great Companion of Isabella’s, went to see her, he would still wait on her; so that, either with his own Visits, and those of his Sister’s, he saw Isabella every day, and had the good luck to see, he diverted her, by giving her Relations of Transactions of the Siege, and the Customs and Manners of the Turks: All he said, was with so good a Grace, that he render’d every thing agreeable; he was, besides, very Beautiful, well made, of Quality and Fortune, and fit to inspire Love.

He made his Visits so often, and so long, that, at last, he took the Courage to speak of his Passion, which, at first, Isabella would by no means hear of, but, by degrees, she yielded more and more to listen to his tender Discourse; and he liv’d thus with her two Years, before he could gain any more upon her Heart, than to suffer him to speak of Love to her; but that, which subdu’d her quite was, That her Aunt, the Lady Abbess, dy’d, and with her, all the Hopes and Fortune of Isabella, so that she was left with only a Charming Face and Meen, a Virtue, and a Discretion above her Sex, to make her Fortune within the World; into a Religious House, she was resolv’d not to go, because her Heart deceiv’d her once, and she durst not trust it again, whatever it promis’d.

The death of this Lady made her look more favourably on Villenoys; but yet, she was resolv’d to try his Love to the utmost, and keep him off, as long as ’twas possible she could subsist, and ’twas for Interest she married again, tho’ she lik’d the Person very well; and since she was forc’d to submit her self to be a second time a Wife, she thought, she could live better with Villenoys, than any other, since for him she ever had a great Esteem; and fancy’d the Hand of Heaven had pointed out her Destiny, which she could not avoid, without a Crime.

So that when she was again importun’d by her impatient Lover, she told him, She had made a Vow to remain three Years, at least, before she would marry again, after the Death of the best of Men and Husbands, and him who had the Fruits of her early Heart; and, notwith­standing all the Solicitations of Villenoys, she would not consent to marry him, till her Vow of Widowhood was expir’d.

He took her promise, which he urg’d her to give him, and to shew the height of his Passion in his obedience; he condescends to stay her appointed time, tho’ he saw her every day, and all his Friends and Relations made her Visits upon this new account, and there was nothing talk’d on, but this design’d Wedding, which, when the time was expir’d, was perform’d accordingly with great Pomp and Magnificence, for Villenoys had no Parents to hinder his Design; or if he had, the Reputation and Virtue of this Lady would have subdu’d them.

The Marriage was celebrated in this House, where she liv’d ever since her Return from Germany, from the time she got her Pardon; and when Villenoys was preparing all things in a more magnificent Order at his Villa, some ten Miles from the City, she was very melancholy, and would often say, She had been us’d to such profound Retreat, and to live without the fatigue of Noise and Equipage, that, she fear’d, she should never endure that Grandeur, which was proper for his Quality; and tho’ the House, in the Country, was the most beautifully Situated in all Flanders, she was afraid of a numerous Train, and kept him, for the most part, in this pretty City Mansion, which he Adorn’d and Enlarg’d, as much as she would give him leave; so that there wanted nothing, to make this House fit to receive the People of the greatest Quality, little as it was: But all the Servants and Footmen, all but one Valet, and the Maid, were lodg’d abroad, for Isabella, not much us’d to the sight of Men about her, suffer’d them as seldom as possible, to come in her Presence, so that she liv’d more like a Nun still, than a Lady of the World; and very rarely any Maids came about her, but Maria, who had always permission to come, when ever she pleas’d, unless forbidden.

As Villenoys had the most tender and violent Passion for his Wife, in the World, he suffer’d her to be pleas’d at any rate, and to live in what Method she best lik’d, and was infinitely satisfy’d with the Austerity and manner of her Conduct, since in his Arms, and alone, with him, she wanted nothing that could Charm; so that she was esteemed the fairest and best of Wives, and he the most happy of all Mankind. When she would go abroad, she had her Coaches Rich and Gay, and her Livery ready to attend her in all the Splendour imaginable; and he was always buying one rich Jewel, or Necklace, or some great Rarity or other, that might please her; so that there was nothing her Soul could desire, which it had not, except the Assurance of Eternal Happiness, which she labour’d incessantly to gain. She had no Discontent, but because she was not bless’d with a Child; but she submits to the pleasure of Heaven, and endeavour’d, by her good Works, and her Charity, to make the Poor her Children, and was ever doing Acts of Virtue, to make the Proverb good, That more are the Children of the Barren, than the Fruitful Woman. She liv’d in this Tranquility, belov’d by all, for the space of five Years, and Time (and perpetual Obligations from Villenoys, who was the most indulgent and indearing Man in the World) had almost worn out of her Heart the Thought of Henault, or if she remember’d him, it was in her Prayers, or sometimes with a short sigh, and no more, tho’ it was a great while, before she could subdue her Heart to that Calmness; but she was prudent, and wisely bent all her Endeavours to please, oblige, and caress, the deserving Living, and to strive all she could, to forget the unhappy Dead, since it could not but redound to the disturbance of her Repose, to think of him; so that she had now transferr’d all that Tenderness she had for him, to Villenoys.

Villenoys, of all Diversions, lov’d Hunting, and kept, at his Country House, a very famous Pack of Dogs, which he us’d to lend, sometimes, to a young Lord, who was his dear Friend, and his Neighbour in the Country, who would often take them, and be out two or three days together, where he heard of Game, and oftentimes Villenoys and he would be a whole Week at a time exercising in this Sport, for there was no Game near at hand. This young Lord had sent him a Letter, to invite him fifteen Miles farther than his own Villa, to hunt, and appointed to meet him at his Country House, in order to go in search of this promis’d Game; So that Villenoys got about a Week’s Provision, of what Necessaries he thought he should want in that time; and taking only his Valet, who lov’d the Sport, he left Isabella for a Week to her Devotion, and her other innocent Diversions of fine Work, at which she was Excellent, and left the Town to go meet this young Challenger.

When Villenoys was at any time out, it was the custom of Isabella to retire to her Chamber, and to receive no Visits, not even the Ladies, so absolutely she devoted her self to her Husband: All the first day she pass’d over in this manner, and Evening being come, she order’d her Supper to be brought to her Chamber, and, because it was Washing-day the next day, she order’d all her Maids to go very early to Bed, that they might be up betimes, and to leave only Maria to attend her; which was accordingly done. This Maria was a young Maid, that was very discreet, and, of all things in the World, lov’d her Lady, whom she had liv’d with, ever since she came from the Monastery.

When all were in Bed, and the little light Supper just carry’d up to the Lady, and only, as I said, Maria attending, some body knock’d at the Gate, it being about Nine of the Clock at Night; so Maria snatching up a Candle, went to the Gate, to see who it might be; when she open’d the Door, she found a Man in a very odd Habit, and a worse Countenance, and asking, Who he would speak with? He told her, Her Lady: My Lady (reply’d Maria) does not use to receive Visits at this hour; Pray, what is your Business? He reply’d, That which I will deliver only to your Lady, and that she may give me Admittance, pray, deliver her this Ring: And pulling off a small Ring, with Isabella’s Name and Hair in it, he gave it Maria, who, shutting the Gate upon him, went in with the Ring; as soon as Isabella saw it, she was ready to swound on the Chair where she sate, and cry’d, Where had you this? Maria reply’d, An old rusty Fellow at the Gate gave it me, and desired, it might be his Pasport to you; I ask’d his Name, but he said, You knew him not, but he had great News to tell you. Isabella reply’d, (almost swounding again) Oh, Maria! I am ruin’d. The Maid, all this while, knew not what she meant, nor, that that was a Ring given to Henault by her Mistress, but endeavouring to recover her, only ask’d her, What she should say to the old Messenger? Isabella bid her bring him up to her, (she had scarce Life to utter these last words) and before she was well recover’d, Maria enter’d with the Man; and Isabella making a Sign to her, to depart the Room, she was left alone with him.

Henault (for it was he) stood trembling and speechless before her, giving her leisure to take a strict Survey of him; at first finding no Feature nor Part of Henault about him, her Fears began to lessen, and she hop’d, it was not he, as her first Apprehensions had suggested; when he (with the Tears of Joy standing in his Eyes, and not daring suddenly to approach her, for fear of encreasing that Disorder he saw in her pale Face) began to speak to her, and cry’d, Fair Creature! is there no Remains of your Henault left in this Face of mine, all o’regrown with Hair? Nothing in these Eyes, sunk with eight Years Absence from you, and Sorrows? Nothing in this Shape, bow’d with Labour and Griefs, that can inform you? I was once that happy Man you lov’d! At these words, Tears stop’d his Speech, and Isabella kept them Company, for yet she wanted Words. Shame and Confusion fill’d her Soul, and she was not able to lift her Eyes up, to consider the Face of him, whose Voice she knew so perfectly well. In one moment, she run over a thousand Thoughts. She finds, by his Return, she is not only expos’d to all the Shame imaginable; to all the Upbraiding, on his part, when he shall know she is marry’d to another; but all the Fury and Rage of Villenoys, and the Scorn of the Town, who will look on her as an Adulteress: She sees Henault poor, and knew, she must fall from all the Glory and Tranquility she had for five happy Years triumph’d in; in which time, she had known no Sorrow, or Care, tho’ she had endur’d a thousand with Henault. She dyes, to think, however, that he should know, she had been so lightly in Love with him, to marry again; and she dyes, to think, that Villenoys must see her again in the Arms of Henault; besides, she could not recal her Love, for Love, like Reputation, once fled, never returns more. ’Tis impossible to love, and cease to love, (and love another) and yet return again to the first Passion, tho’ the Person have all the Charms, or a thousand times more than it had, when it first conquer’d. This Mistery in Love, it may be, is not generally known, but nothing is more certain. One may a while suffer the Flame to languish, but there may be a reviving Spark in the Ashes, rak’d up, that may burn anew; but when ’tis quite extinguish’d, it never returns or rekindles.

’Twas so with the Heart of Isabella; had she believ’d, Henault had been living, she had lov’d to the last moment of their Lives; but, alas! the Dead are soon forgotten, and she now lov’d only Villenoys.

After they had both thus silently wept, with very different sentiments, she thought ’twas time to speak; and dissembling as well as she could, she caress’d him in her Arms, and told him, She could not express her Surprize and Joy for his Arrival. If she did not Embrace him heartily, or speak so Passionately as she us’d to do, he fancy’d it her Confusion, and his being in a condition not so fit to receive Embraces from her; and evaded them as much as ’twas possible for him to do, in respect to her, till he had dress’d his Face, and put himself in order; but the Supper being just brought up, when he knock’d, she order’d him to sit down and Eat, and he desir’d her not to let Maria know who he was, to see how long it would be, before she knew him or would call him to mind. But Isabella commanded Maria, to make up a Bed in such a Chamber, without disturbing her Fellows, and dismiss’d her from waiting at Table. The Maid admir’d, what strange, good, and joyful News, this Man had brought her Mistress, that he was so Treated, and alone with her, which never any Man had yet been; but she never imagin’d the Truth, and knew her Lady’s Prudence too well, to question her Conduct. While they were at Supper, Isabella oblig’d him to tell her, How he came to be reported Dead; of which, she receiv’d Letters, both from Monsieur Villenoys, and the Duke of Beaufort, and by his Man the News, who saw him Dead? He told her, That, after the Fight, of which, first, he gave her an account, he being left among the Dead, when the Enemy came to Plunder and strip ’em, they found, he had Life in him, and appearing as an Eminent Person, they thought it better Booty to save me, (continu’d he) and get my Ransom, than to strip me, and bury me among the Dead; so they bore me off to a Tent, and recover’d me to Life; and, after that, I was recover’d of my Wounds, and sold, by the Soldier that had taken me, to a Spahee, who kept me a Slave, setting a great Ransom on me, such as I was not able to pay. I writ several times, to give you, and my Father, an account of my Misery, but receiv’d no Answer, and endur’d seven Years of Dreadful Slavery: When I found, at last, an opportunity to make my Escape, and from that time, resolv’d, never to cut the Hair of this Beard, till I should either see my dearest Isabella again, or hear some News of her. All that I fear’d, was, That she was Dead; and, at that word, he fetch’d a deep Sigh; and viewing all things so infinitely more Magnificent than he had left ’em, or, believ’d, she could afford; and, that she was far more Beautiful in Person, and Rich in Dress, than when he left her: He had a thousand Torments of Jealousie that seiz’d him, of which, he durst not make any mention, but rather chose to wait a little, and see, whether she had lost her Virtue: He desir’d, he might send for a Barber, to put his Face in some handsomer Order, and more fit for the Happiness ’twas that Night to receive; but she told him, No Dress, no Disguise, could render him more Dear and Acceptable to her, and that to morrow was time enough, and that his Travels had render’d him more fit for Repose, than Dressing. So that after a little while, they had talk’d over all they had a mind to say, all that was very indearing on his side, and as much Concern as she could force, on hers; she conducted him to his Chamber, which was very rich, and which gave him a very great addition of Jealousie: However, he suffer’d her to help him to Bed, which she seem’d to do, with all the tenderness in the World; and when she had seen him laid, she said, She would go to her Prayers, and come to him as soon as she had done, which being before her usual Custom, it was not a wonder to him she stay’d long, and he, being extreamly tir’d with his Journy, fell asleep. ’Tis true, Isabella essay’d to Pray, but alas! it was in vain, she was distracted with a thousand Thoughts what to do, which the more she thought, the more it distracted her; she was a thousand times about to end her Life, and, at one stroke, rid her self of the Infamy, that, she saw, must inevitably fall upon her; but Nature was frail, and the Tempter strong: And after a thousand Convulsions, even worse than Death it self, she resolv’d upon the Murder of Henault, as the only means of removing all the obstacles to her future Happiness; she resolv’d on this, but after she had done so, she was seiz’d with so great Horror, that she imagin’d, if she perform’d it, she should run Mad; and yet, if she did not, she should be also Frantick, with the Shames and Miseries that would befal her; and believing the Murder the least Evil, since she could never live with him, she fix’d her Heart on that; and causing her self to be put immediately to Bed, in her own Bed, she made Maria go to hers, and when all was still, she softly rose, and taking a Candle with her, only in her Night-Gown and Slippers, she goes to the Bed of the Unfortunate Henault, with a Penknife in her hand; but considering, she knew not how to conceal the Blood, should she cut his Throat, she resolves to Strangle him, or Smother him with a Pillow; that last thought was no sooner borne, but put in Execution; and, as he soundly slept, she smother’d him without any Noise, or so much as his Strugling: But when she had done this dreadful Deed, and saw the dead Corps of her once-lov’d Lord, lye Smiling (as it were) upon her, she fell into a Swound with the Horror of the Deed, and it had been well for her she had there dy’d; but she reviv’d again, and awaken’d to more and new Horrors, she flyes all frighted from the Chamber, and fancies, the Phantom of her dead Lord persues her; she runs from Room to Room, and starts and stares, as if she saw him continually before her. Now all that was ever Soft and Dear to her, with him, comes into her Heart, and, she finds, he conquers anew, being Dead, who could not gain her Pity, while Living.

While she was thus flying from her Guilt, in vain, she hears one knock with Authority at the Door: She is now more affrighted, if possible, and knows not whither to fly for Refuge; she fancies, they are already the Officers of Justice, and that Ten thousand Tortures and Wrecks are fastening on her, to make her confess the horrid Murder; the knocking increases, and so loud, that the Laundry Maids believing it to be the Woman that us’d to call them up, and help them to Wash, rose, and, opening the Door, let in Villenoys; who having been at his Country Villa, and finding there a Footman, instead of his Friend, who waited to tell him, His Master was fallen sick of the Small Pox, and could not wait on him, he took Horse, and came back to his lovely Isabella; but running up, as he us’d to do, to her Chamber, he found her not, and seeing a Light in another Room, he went in, but found Isabella flying from him, out at another Door, with all the speed she could, he admires at this Action, and the more, because his Maid told him Her Lady had been a Bed a good while; he grows a little Jealous, and persues her, but still she flies; at last he caught her in his Arms, where she fell into a swound, but quickly recovering, he set her down in a Chair, and, kneeling before her, implor’d to know what she ayl’d, and why she fled from him, who ador’d her? She only fix’d a ghastly Look upon him, and said, She was not well: ‘Oh! (said he) put not me off with such poor Excuses, Isabella never fled from me, when Ill, but came to my Arms, and to my Bosom, to find a Cure; therefore, tell me, what’s the matter?’ At that, she fell a weeping in a most violent manner, and cry’d, She was for ever undone: He, being mov’d with Love and Compassion, conjur’d her to tell what she ayl’d: ‘Ah! (said she) thou and I, and all of us, are undone!’ At this, he lost all Patience and rav’d, and cry’d, Tell me, and tell me immediately, what’s the matter? When she saw his Face pale, and his Eyes fierce, she fell on her knees, and cry’d, ‘Oh! you can never Pardon me, if I should tell you, and yet, alas! I am innocent of Ill, by all that’s good, I am.’ But her Conscience accusing her at that word, she was silent. If thou art Innocent, said Villenoys, taking her up in his Arms, and kissing her wet Face, ‘By all that’s Good, I Pardon thee, what ever thou hast done.’ ‘Alas! (said she) Oh! but I dare not name it, ’till you swear.’ ‘By all that’s Sacred, (reply’d he) and by whatever Oath you can oblige me to; by my inviolable Love to thee, and by thy own dear Self, I swear, whate’re it be, I do forgive thee; I know, thou art too good to commit a Sin I may not with Honour, pardon.’

With this, and hearten’d by his Caresses, she told him, That Henault was return’d; and repeating to him his Escape, she said, She had put him to Bed, and when he expected her to come, she fell on her Knees at the Bedside, and confess’d, She was married to Villenoys; at that word (said she) he fetch’d a deep Sigh or two, and presently after, with a very little struggling, dy’d; and, yonder, he lyes still in the Bed. After this, she wept so abundantly, that all Villenoys could do, could hardly calm her Spirits; but after, consulting what they should do in this Affair, Villenoys ask’d her, Who of the House saw him? She said, Only Maria, who knew not who he was; so that, resolving to save Isabella’s Honour, which was the only Misfortune to come, Villenoys himself propos’d the carrying him out to the Bridge, and throwing him into the River, where the Stream would carry him down to the Sea, and lose him; or, if he were found, none could know him. So Villenoys took a Candle, and went and look’d on him, and found him altogether chang’d, that no Body would know who he was; he therefore put on his Clothes, which was not hard for him to do, for he was scarce yet cold, and comforting again Isabella, as well as he could, he went himself into the Stable, and fetched a Sack, such as they us’d for Oats, a new Sack, whereon stuck a great Needle, with a Pack-thread in it; this Sack he brings into the House, and shews to Isabella, telling her, He would put the Body in there, for the better convenience of carrying it on his Back. Isabella all this while said but little, but, fill’d with Thoughts all Black and Hellish, she ponder’d within, while the Fond and Passionate Villenoys was endeavouring to hide her Shame, and to make this an absolute Secret: She imagin’d, that could she live after a Deed so black, Villenoys would be eternal reproaching her, if not with his Tongue, at least with his Heart, and embolden’d by one Wickedness, she was the readier for another, and another of such a Nature, as has, in my Opinion, far less Excuse, than the first; but when Fate begins to afflict, she goes through stitch with her Black Work.

When Villenoys, who would, for the Safety of Isabella’s Honour, be the sole Actor in the disposing of this Body; and since he was Young, Vigorous, and Strong, and able to bear it, would trust no one with the Secret, he having put up the Body, and ty’d it fast, set it on a Chair, turning his Back towards it, with the more conveniency to take it upon his Back, bidding Isabella give him the two Corners of the Sack in his Hands; telling her, They must do this last office for the Dead, more, in order to the securing their Honour and Tranquility hereafter, than for any other Reason, and bid her be of good Courage, till he came back, for it was not far to the Bridge, and it being the dead of the Night, he should pass well enough. When he had the Sack on his Back, and ready to go with it, she cry’d, Stay, my Dear, some of his Clothes hang out, which I will put in; and with that, taking the Pack-needle with the Thread, sew’d the Sack, with several strong Stitches, to the Collar of Villenoy’s Coat, without his perceiving it, and bid him go now; and when you come to the Bridge, (said she) and that you are throwing him over the Rail, (which is not above Breast high) be sure you give him a good swing, least the Sack should hang on any thing at the side of the Bridge, and not fall into the Stream; I’le warrant you, (said Villenoys) I know how to secure his falling. And going his way with it, Love lent him Strength, and he soon arriv’d at the Bridge; where, turning his Back to the Rail, and heaving the Body over, he threw himself with all his force backward, the better to swing the Body into the River, whose weight (it being made fast to his Collar) pull’d Villenoys after it, and both the live and the dead Man falling into the River, which, being rapid at the Bridge, soon drown’d him, especially when so great a weight hung to his Neck; so that he dy’d, without considering what was the occasion of his Fate.

Isabella remain’d the most part of the Night sitting in her Chamber, without going to Bed, to see what would become of her Damnable Design; but when it was towards Morning, and she heard no News, she put herself into Bed, but not to find Repose or Rest there, for that she thought impossible, after so great a Barbarity as she had committed; No, (said she) it is but just I should for ever wake, who have, in one fatal Night, destroy’d two such Innocents. Oh! what Fate, what Destiny, is mine? Under what cursed Planet was I born, that Heaven it self could not divert my Ruine? It was not many Hours since I thought my self the most happy and blest of Women, and now am fallen to the Misery of one of the worst Fiends of Hell.

Such were her Thoughts, and such her Cryes, till the Light brought on new Matter for Grief; for, about Ten of the Clock, News was brought, that Two Men were found dead in the River, and that they were carry’d to the Town-Hall, to lye there, till they were own’d: Within an hour after, News was brought in, that one of these Unhappy Men was Villenoys; his Valet, who, all this while, imagin’d him in Bed with his Lady, ran to the Hall, to undeceive the People, for he knew, if his Lord were gone out, he should have been call’d to Dress him; but finding it, as ’twas reported, he fell a weeping, and wringing his Hands, in a most miserable manner, he ran home with the News; where, knocking at his Lady’s Chamber Door, and finding it fast lock’d, he almost hop’d again, he was deceiv’d; but Isabella rising, and opening the Door, Maria first enter’d weeping, with the News, and then brought the Valet, to testify the fatal Truth of it. Isabella, tho’ it were nothing but what she expected to hear, almost swounded in her Chair; nor did she feign it, but felt really all the Pangs of Killing Grief; and was so alter’d with her Night’s Watching and Grieving, that this new Sorrow look’d very Natural in her. When she was recover’d, she asked a thousand Questions about him, and question’d the Possibility of it; for (said she) he went out this Morning early from me, and had no signs, in his Face, of any Grief or Discontent. Alas! (said the Valet) Madam, he is not his own Murderer, some one has done it in Revenge; and then told her, how he was found fasten’d to a Sack, with a dead strange Man ty’d up within it; and every body concludes, that they were both first murder’d, and then drawn to the River, and thrown both in. At the Relation of this Strange Man, she seem’d more amaz’d than before, and commanding the Valet to go to the Hall, and to take Order about the Coroner’s sitting on the Body of Villenoys, and then to have it brought home: She called Maria to her, and, after bidding her shut the Door, she cry’d, Ah, Maria! I will tell thee what my Heart imagins; but first, (said she) run to the Chamber of the Stranger, and see, if he be still in Bed, which I fear he is not; she did so, and brought word, he was gone; then (said she) my Forebodings are true. When I was in Bed last night, with Villenoys (and at that word, she sigh’d as if her Heart-Strings had broken) I told him, I had lodg’d a Stranger in my House, who was by, when my first Lord and Husband fell in Battel; and that, after the Fight, finding him yet alive, he spoke to him, and gave him that Ring you brought me last Night; and conjur’d him, if ever his Fortune should bring him to Flanders, to see me, and give me that Ring, and tell me—(with that, she wept, and could scarce speak) a thousand tender and endearing things, and then dy’d in his Arms. For my dear Henault’s sake (said she) I us’d him nobly, and dismiss’d you that Night, because I was asham’d to have any Witness of the Griefs I paid his Memory: All this I told to Villenoys whom I found disorder’d; and, after a sleepless Night, I fancy he got up, and took this poor Man, and has occasion’d his Death: At that, she wept anew, and Maria, to whom, all that her Mistress said, was Gospel, verily believ’d it so, without examining Reason; and Isabella conjuring her, since none of the House knew of the old Man’s being there, (for Old he appear’d to be) that she would let it for ever be a Secret, and, to this she bound her by an Oath; so that none knowing Henault, altho’ his Body was expos’d there for three Days to Publick View: When the Coroner had Set on the Bodies, he found, they had been first Murder’d some way or other, and then afterwards tack’d together, and thrown into the River, they brought the Body of Villenoys home to his House, where, it being laid on a Table, all the House infinitely bewail’d it; and Isabella did nothing but swound away, almost as fast as she recover’d Life; however, she would, to compleat her Misery, be led to see this dreadful Victim of her Cruelty, and, coming near the Table, the Body, whose Eyes were before close shut, now open’d themselves wide, and fix’d them upon Isabella, who, giving a great Schreek, fell down in a swound, and the Eyes clos’d again; they had much ado to bring her to Life, but, at last, they did so, and led her back to her Bed, where she remain’d a good while. Different Opinions and Discourses were made, concerning the opening of the Eyes of the Dead Man, and viewing Isabella; but she was a Woman of so admirable a Life and Conversation, of so undoubted a Piety and Sanctity of Living, that not the least Conjecture could be made, of her having a hand in it, besides the improbability of it; yet the whole thing was a Mystery, which, they thought, they ought to look into: But a few Days after, the Body of Villenoys being interr’d in a most magnificent manner, and, by Will all he had, was long since setled on Isabella, the World, instead of Suspecting her, Ador’d her the more, and every Body of Quality was already hoping to be next, tho’ the fair Mourner still kept her Bed, and Languish’d daily.

It happen’d, not long after this, there came to the Town a French Gentleman, who was taken at the Siege of Candia, and was Fellow-Slave with Henault, for seven Years, in Turky, and who had escap’d with Henault, and came as far as Liege with him, where, having some Business and Acquaintance with a Merchant, he stay’d some time; but when he parted with Henault, he ask’d him, Where he should find him in Flanders? Henault gave him a Note, with his Name, and Place of Abode, if his Wife were alive; if not, to enquire at his Sister’s, or his Father’s. This French Man came at last, to the very House of Isabella, enquiring for this Man, and receiv’d a strange Answer, and was laugh’d at; He found, that was the House, and that the Lady; and enquiring about the Town, and speaking of Henault’s Return, describing the Man, it was quickly discover’d, to be the same that was in the Sack: He had his Friend taken up (for he was buried) and found him the same, and, causing a Barber to Trim him, when his bushy Beard was off, a great many People remember’d him; and the French Man affirming, he went to his own Home, all Isabella’s Family, and her self, were cited before the Magistrate of Justice, where, as soon as she was accus’d, she confess’d the whole Matter of Fact, and, without any Disorder, deliver’d her self in the Hands of Justice, as the Murderess of two Husbands (both belov’d) in one Night: The whole World stood amaz’d at this; who knew her Life a Holy and Charitable Life, and how dearly and well she had liv’d with her Husbands, and every one bewail’d her Misfortune, and she alone was the only Person, that was not afflicted for her self; she was Try’d, and Condemn’d to lose her Head; which Sentence, she joyfully receiv’d, and said, Heaven, and her Judges, were too Merciful to her, and that her Sins had deserv’d much more.

While she was in Prison, she was always at Prayers, and very Chearful and Easie, distributing all she had amongst, and for the Use of, the Poor of the Town, especially to the Poor Widows; exhorting daily, the Young, and the Fair, that came perpetually to visit her, never to break a Vow: for that was first the Ruine of her, and she never since prosper’d, do whatever other good Deeds she could. When the day of Execution came, she appear’d on the Scaffold all in Mourning, but with a Meen so very Majestick and Charming, and a Face so surprizing Fair, where no Languishment or Fear appear’d, but all Chearful as a Bride, that she set all Hearts a flaming, even in that mortifying Minute of Preparation for Death: She made a Speech of half an Hour long, so Eloquent, so admirable a warning to the Vow-Breakers, that it was as amazing to hear her, as it was to behold her.

After she had done with the help of Maria, she put off her Mourning Vail, and, without any thing over her Face, she kneel’d down, and the Executioner, at one Blow, sever’d her Beautiful Head from her Delicate Body, being then in her Seven and Twentieth Year. She was generally Lamented, and Honourably Bury’d.