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lution. Every moment announced the approach of Antonia's fate. Her sight failed, her heart beat sluggishly, her fingers stiffened and grew cold, and at two in the morning she expired without a groan. As soon as the breath had forsaken her body, father Pablos retired, sincerely affected at the melancholy scene. On her part, Flora gave way to the most unbridled sorrow. Far different concerns employed Ambrosio; he sought for the pulse whose throbbing, so Matilda had assured him, would prove Antonia's death but temporal. He found it—he pressed it—it palpitated beneath his hand, and his heart was filled with ecstacy. However, he carefully concealed his satisfaction at the success of his plan. He assumed a melancholy air, and, addressing himself to Flora, warned her against abandoning herself to fruitless sorrow. Her tears were too-sincere to permit her listening to his counsels, and she continued to weep unceasingly. The friar withdrew, first promising to give ordershimself
