“My daughter,” said the priest, while the tears rolled fast down his cheeks--“my daughter, you are passing to bliss--the conflict was fierce and short, but the victory is sure--harps are tuned to a new song, even a song of welcome, and wreaths of palm are weaving for you in paradise!” “Paradise!” uttered Isidora, with her last breath--“_Will he be there!_” CHAPTER XXXVIII. Loud tolled the bell, the priests prayed well, The tapers they all burned bright, The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, They told their beads all night! * * * * * The second night------ * * * * * The monk and the nun they told their beads As fast as they could tell, And aye the louder grew the noise, The faster went the bell! * * * * * The third night came------ * * * * * The monk and the nun forgot their beads, They fell to the ground dismayed, There was not a single saint in heaven Whom they did not call to their aid! SOUTHEY. Monçada here concluded the tale of the Indian,--the victim of Melmoth’s passion, no less than of his destiny, both alike unhallowed and unutterable. And he announced his intention of disclosing to him the fates of the other victims, whose skeletons were preserved in the vault of the Jew Adonijah in Madrid. He added, that the circumstances relating to them, were of a character still darker and more awful than those he had recited, as they were the result of impressions made on masculine minds, without any excitement but that of looking into futurity. He mentioned, too, that the circumstances of his residence in the house of the Jew, his escape from it, and the reasons of his subsequent arrival in Ireland, were scarcely less extraordinary than any thing he had hitherto related. Young Melmoth, (whose name perhaps the reader has forgot), did “seriously incline” to the purpose of having his dangerous curiosity further gratified, nor was he perhaps altogether without the wild hope of seeing the original of that portrait he had destroyed, burst from the walls and take up the fearful tale himself. The narrative of the Spaniard had occupied many days; at their termination, young Melmoth signified to his guest that he was prepared to hear the sequel. A night was fixed for the continuation of the recital. Young Melmoth and his guest met in the usual apartment--it was a dreary, stormy night--the rain that had fallen all day, seemed now to have yielded to the wind, that came in strong and sudden bursts, suddenly hushed, as if collecting strength for the tempest of the night. Monçada and Melmoth drew their chairs closer to the fire, looking at each other with the aspect of men who wish to inspire each other with courage to listen, and to tell, and are the more eager to inspire it, because neither feels it himself.