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weeping. While she bent over Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his cheek.
"Ah! I have disturbed him," cried Matilda, and retreated hastily.
Her alarm was ungrounded. None sleep so profoundly as those who are determined not to wake. The friar was in this predicament: he still seemed buried in a repose, which every succeeding minute rendered him less capable of enjoying. The burning tear had communicated its warmth to his heart.
"What affection! what purity!" said he internally. "Ah! since my bosom is thus sensible of pity, what would it be if agitated by love?"
Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some distance from the bed. Ambrosio ventured to open his eyes, and to cast them upon her fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She rested her head in a melancholy posture upon her harp, and gazed on the picture which hung opposite to the bed.
"Happy,
