_Mon._ Well, well, truly, sir! you look and speak like an honest gentleman; but tho' I consent, I doubt whether my lodger will receive you; her mind is ill at ease for visitors. All last night I overheard her pacing up and down her chamber, moaning piteously and talking to herself; towards day-break, all became quiet, then I peeped thro' the crevice of her door and saw that she was writing. I never knew her write before, I knocked for admittance, but she prayed me not to interrupt her for another hour. _Bert._ Does she still keep her chamber? _Mon._ She has not quitted it this morning--hark! I think I hear her stir, (_goes to the stair-foot and looks up_) ay! her door now stands open, place yourself just here, and you may view her plainly without being seen yourself; her face is turned towards us, but her eyes are fixed upon a writing in her hands. [_Bertrand_ looks for a moment to satisfy his doubts, then rushes forward and casts himself upon his knee transportedly.] _Bert._ She lives! Eternal mercy! thanks! thanks! _Mon._ Holy St. Dennis! the sight of her has strangely moved you: collect yourself, I pray, she comes towards us. _Bert._ Oh! let me cast myself before her feet! _Mon._ (_restraining him_) Hold, sir! whatever be your business, I beseech you to refrain a little, I must prepare her for your appearance, her spirits cannot brook surprise, back! back! [_Bertrand_ withdraws, and _Eugenia_ descends the stair with a folded paper in her hand--she appears to struggle with emotion, and running towards _Monica_, casts her arms passionately around her.] _Eug._ My kind mother! this is perhaps our last embrace; we must part. _Mon._ Part! my child! what mean you? _Eug._ Ah! it is my fate, my cruel unrelenting fate that drives me from you, from the last shelter and the only friend I yet retain on earth. _Mon._ Explain yourself; I cannot comprehend. _Eug._ Mother! I have an enemy, a dreadful one. Seventeen years have veil'd me from his hate in vain: those years have wasted the victim's form, but the persecutor's heart remains unchanged: my retreat is discovered: the wretches who were here last night too surely recognized me; soon they may return, and force me; oh! thought of horror. No, no, here I dare not stay. _Mon._ My poor innocent! whither would you go? _Eug._ To the woods and caves from which you rescued me. Mother, the wilderness must be my home again. I fly to wolves and vultures to escape from man! Receive this paper, 'tis the written memoir of my wretched life; read it when I am gone: my head burned and my hand trembled while I traced those characters: yet 'tis a faithful history. Mother! I dare not thank your charity, but heaven will remember it hereafter: bestow upon me one embrace, and then let me depart in silence. (_Monica_ gives a sign to _Bertrand_ to advance.) _Mon._ Yet hold some moments; a stranger has been inquiring here this morning who describes himself your friend.