“Isidora shook her head. “The presages,” said she, “that visit me, are such as never visited mortality in vain. I have always believed, that as we approach the invisible world, its voice becomes more audible to us, and grief and pain are very eloquent interpreters between us and eternity--quite distinct from all corporeal suffering, even from all mental terror, is that deep and unutterable impression which is alike incommunicable and ineffaceable--it is as if heaven spoke to us alone, and told us to keep its secret, or divulge it on the condition of never being believed. Oh! Melmoth, do not give that fearful smile when I speak of heaven--soon I may be your only intercessor there.” “My dear saint,” said Melmoth, laughing and kneeling to her in mockery, “let me make early interest for your mediation--how many ducats will it cost me to get you canonized?--you will furnish me, I hope, with an authentic account of legitimate miracles--one is ashamed of the nonsense that is sent monthly to the Vatican.” “_Let your conversion be the first miracle on the list_,” said Isidora, with an energy that made Melmoth tremble--it was dark--but she felt that he trembled--she pursued her imagined triumph--“Melmoth,” she exclaimed, “I have a right to demand one promise from you--for you I have sacrificed every thing--never was woman more devoted--never did woman give proofs of devotion like mine. I might have been the noble, honoured wife of one who would have laid his wealth and titles at my feet. In this my hour of danger and suffering, the first families in Spain would have been waiting round my door. Alone, unaided, unsustained, unconsoled, I must undergo the terrible struggle of nature--terrible to those whose beds are smoothed by the hands of affection, whose agonies are soothed by the presence of a mother--who hears the first feeble cry of her infant echoed by the joy of exulting noble relatives. Oh Melmoth! what must be mine! I must suffer in secresy and in silence! I must see my babe torn from me before I have even kissed it,--and the chrism-mantle will be one of that mysterious darkness which your fingers have woven! Yet grant me one thing--one thing!” continued the suppliant, growing earnest in her prayer even to agony; “swear to me that my child shall be baptised according to the forms of the Catholic church,--that it shall be a Christian as far as those forms can make it,--and I shall feel that, if all my fearful presages are fulfilled, I shall leave behind me one who will pray for his father, and whose prayer may be accepted. Promise me,--swear to me,” she added, in intenser agony, “that my child shall be a Christian! Alas! if my voice be not worthy to be heard in heaven, that of a cherub may! Christ himself suffered children to come unto him while on earth, and will he repel them in heaven?--Oh! no,--no! he will not repel _yours_!”