Along the roofs sounds the low peal of Death,
And Conscience trembles to the boding note;
She views his dim form floating o’er the aisles,
She hears mysterious murmurs in the air,
And voices, strange and potent, hint the crime
That dwells in thought, within her secret soul.

The Marchesa repaired, according to her appointment, to the church of San Nicolo, and, ordering her servants to remain with the carriage at a side-door, entered the choir, attended only by her woman.

When vespers had concluded, she lingered till nearly every person had quitted the choir, and then walked through the solitary aisles to the north cloister. Her heart was as heavy as her step; for when is it that peace and evil passions dwell together? As she slowly paced the cloisters, she perceived a monk passing between the pillars, who, as he approached, listed his cowl, and she knew him to be Schedoni.

He instantly observed the agitation of her spirits, and that her purpose was not yet determined, according to his hope. But, though his mind became clouded, his countenance remained unaltered; it was grave and thoughtful. The sternness of his vulture-eye was, however, somewhat softened, and its lids were contracted by subtlety.

The Marchesa bade her woman walk apart, while she conferred with her Confessor.

“This unhappy boy,” said she, when the attendant was at some distance, “How much suffering does his folly inflict upon his family! My good father, I have need of all your advice and consolation. My mind is perpetually haunted by a sense of my misfortune; it has no respite; awake or in my dream, this ungrateful son alike pursues me! The only relief my heart receives is when conversing with you — my only counsellor, my only disinterested friend.”

The Confessor bowed. “The Marchese is, no doubt, equally afflicted with yourself,” said he; “but he is, notwithstanding, much more competent to advise you on this delicate subject than I am.”

“The Marchese has prejudices, father, as you well know; he is a sensible man, but he is sometimes mistaken, and he is incorrigible in error. He has the faults of a mind that is merely well disposed; he is destitute of the discernment and the energy which would make it great. If it is necessary to adopt a conduct, that departs in the smallest degree from those common rules of morality which he has cherished, without examining them, from his infancy, he is shocked, and shrinks from action. He cannot discriminate the circumstances, that render the same action virtuous or vicious. How then, father, are we to suppose he would approve of the bold inflictions we meditate?”

“Most true!” said the artful Schedoni, with an air of admiration.

“We, therefore, must not consult him,” continued the Marchesa,” left he should now, as formerly, advance and maintain objections, to which we cannot yield. What passes in conversation with you, father, is sacred, it goes no farther.”

“Sacred as a confession!” said Schedoni, crossing himself.

“I know not,” — resumed the Marchesa, and hesitated; “I know not” — she repeated in a yet lower voice, “how this girl may be disposed of; and this it is which distracts my mind.”

“I marvel much at that,” said Schedoni. “With opinions so singularly just, with a mind so accurate, yet so bold as you have displayed, is it possible that you can hesitate as to what is to be done! You, my daughter, will not prove yourself one of those ineffectual declaimers, who can think vigorously, but cannot act so! One way, only, remains for you to pursue, in the present instance; it is the same which your superior sagacity pointed out, and taught me to approve. Is it necessary for me to persuade her, by whom I am convinced! There is only one way.”

“And on that I have been long meditating,” replied the Marchesa, “and, shall I own my weakness? I cannot yet decide.”

“My daughter! can it be possible that you should want courage to soar above vulgar prejudice, in action, though not in opinion?” said Schedoni, who, perceiving that his assistance was necessary to fix her fluctuating mind, gradually began to steal forth from the prudent reserve, in which he had taken shelter.

“If this person was condemned by the law,” he continued, “you would pronounce her sentence to be just; yet you dare not, I am humbled while I repeat it, you dare not dispense justice yourself!”

The Marchesa, after some hesitation, said, “I have not the shield of the law to protect me, father: and the boldest virtue may pause, when it reaches the utmost verge of safety.”

“Never!” replied the Confessor, warmly; “virtue never trembles; it is her glory, and sublimest attribute to be superior to danger; to despise it. The best principle is not virtue till it reaches this elevation.”

A philosopher might, perhaps, have been surprized to hear two persons seriously defining the limits of virtue, at the very moment in which they mediated the most atrocious crime; a man of the world would have considered it to be mere hypocrisy; a supposition which might have disclosed his general knowledge of manners, but would certainly have betrayed his ignorance of the human heart.

The Marchesa was for some time silent and thoughtful, and then repeated deliberately, “I have not the shield of the law to protect me.”

“But you have the shield of the church,” replied Schedoni; “you should not only have protection, but absolution.”

“Absolution! — Does virtue — justice, require absolution, father?”

“When I mentioned absolution for the action which you perceive to be so just and necessary,” replied Schedoni, “I accommodated my speech to vulgar prejudice, and to vulgar weakness. And, forgive me, that since you, my daughter, descended from the loftiness of your spirit to regret the shield of the law, I endeavoured to console you, by offering a shield to conscience. But enough of this; let us return to argument. This girl is put out of the way of committing more mischief, of injuring the peace and dignity of a distinguished family; she is sent to an eternal sleep, before her time. — Where is the crime, where is the evil of this? On the contrary, you perceive, and you have convinced me, that it is only strict justice, only self-defence.”

The Marchesa was attentive, and the Confessor added, “She is not immortal; and the few years more, that might have been allotted her, she deserves to forfeit, since she would have employed them in cankering the honour of an illustrious house.”

“Speak low, father,” said the Marchesa, though he spoke almost in a whisper; “the cloister appears solitary, yet some person may lurk behind those pillars. Advise me how this business may be managed; I am ignorant of the particular means.”

“There is some hazard in the accomplishment of it, I grant,” replied Schedoni; “I know not whom you may confide in. — The men who make a trade of blood” — “Hush!” said the Marchesa, looking round through the twilight — “a step!”

“It is the Friar’s, yonder, who crosses to the choir,” replied Schedoni.

They were watchful for a few moments, and then he resumed the subject. “Mercenaries ought not to be trusted,” —

“Yet who but mercenaries” — interrupted the Marchesa, and instantly checked herself. But the question thus implied, did not escape the Confessor.

“Pardon my astonishment,” said he, “at the inconsistency, or, what shall I venture to call it? of your opinions! After the acuteness you have displayed on some points, is it possible you can doubt, that principle may both prompt and perform the deed? Why should we hesitate to do what we judge to be right?”

“Ah! reverend father,” said the Marchesa, with emotion, “but where shall we find another like yourself — another, who not only can perceive with justness, but will act with energy.”

Schedoni was silent.

“Such a friend is above all estimation; but where shall we seek him?”

“Daughter!” said the Monk, emphatically, “my zeal for your family is also above all calculation.”

“Good father,” replied the Marchesa, comprehending his full meaning, “I know not how to thank you.”

“Silence is sometimes eloquence,” said Schedoni, significantly.

The Marchesa mused; for her conscience also was eloquent. She tried to overcome its voice, but it would be heard; and sometimes such starts of horrible conviction came over her mind, that she felt as one who, awaking from a dream, opens his eyes only to measure the depth of the precipice on which he totters. In such moments she was astonished, that she had paused for an instant upon a subject so terrible as that of murder. The sophistry of the Confessor, together with the inconsistencies which he had betrayed, and which had not escaped the notice of the Marchesa, even at the time they were uttered, though she had been unconscious of her own, then became more strongly apparent, and she almost determined to suffer the poor Ellena to live. But returning passion, like a wave that has ............