It was late in the evening when I disembarked and repaired to the
convent; so exhausted was I by contending hopes and fears, that it was
with difficulty I could support my own weight. I tottered to the wicket,
and demanded my Rosina.
"Are you a near relation," inquired the portress, "that you request the
presence of a sister?" Her interrogation decided the point; Rosina had
taken the veil, had abjured the world and me for ever. My brain reeled,
and I fell senseless on the pavement. Alarmed at the circumstance, the
portress ran to the Lady Abbess, informing her that a person had asked
for Sister Rosina, and, receiving her answer, had fallen senseless at
the wicket. Rosina was present at the narration; her heart told her who
it was; also told her that I had not been faithless. Joy at my fidelity,
and grief at her own precipitancy, which rendered it unavailing,
overpowered her, and she was led to her cell in a state as pitiable as
mine.
When I recovered my senses, I found myself in bed. I had been there for
weeks in a state of mental alienation. With reason and memory, misery
returned; but I was no longer in the frenzy of excitement; my mind was
as exhausted as my body, and I felt a species of calm despair. Convinced
that all was lost, that an insuperable bar was placed between Rosina and
me, I reasoned myself into a kind of philosophy, and resolved, as soon
as I could recover my strength, to fly from a place which had been the
scene of so much anticipated happiness, and of so much real woe.
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