“Weak and Puerile!” cried the exasperated Fiend: “Away with this folly! Sign the writing this instant, or I sacrifice you to my rage!” At this moment the bolt of the outward Door was drawn back. The Prisoner heard the rattling of Chains; The heavy Bar fell; The Archers were on the point of entering. Worked up to phrenzy by the urgent danger, shrinking from the approach of death, terrified by the Dæmon’s threats, and seeing no other means to escape destruction, the wretched Monk complied. He signed the fatal contract, and gave it hastily into the evil Spirit’s hands, whose eyes, as He received the gift, glared with malicious rapture. “Take it!” said the God-abandoned; “Now then save me! Snatch me from hence!” “Hold! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your Creator and his Son?” “I do! I do!” “Do you make over your soul to me for ever?” “For ever!” “Without reserve or subterfuge? Without future appeal to the divine mercy?” The last Chain fell from the door of the prison: The key was heard turning in the Lock: Already the iron door grated heavily upon its rusty hinges. “I am yours for ever and irrevocably!” cried the Monk wild with terror: “I abandon all claim to salvation! I own no power but yours! Hark! Hark! They come! Oh! save me! Bear me away!” “I have triumphed! You are mine past reprieve, and I fulfil my promise.” While He spoke, the Door unclosed. Instantly the Dæmon grasped one of Ambrosio’s arms, spread his broad pinions, and sprang with him into the air. The roof opened as they soared upwards, and closed again when they had quitted the Dungeon. In the meanwhile, the Gaoler was thrown into the utmost surprize by the disappearance of his Prisoner. Though neither He nor the Archers were in time to witness the Monk’s escape, a sulphurous smell prevailing through the prison sufficiently informed them by whose aid He had been liberated. They hastened to make their report to the Grand Inquisitor. The story, how a Sorcerer had been carried away by the Devil, was soon noised about Madrid; and for some days the whole City was employed in discussing the subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of conversation: Other adventures arose whose novelty engaged universal attention; and Ambrosio was soon forgotten as totally, as if He never had existed. While this was passing, the Monk supported by his infernal guide, traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a few moments placed him upon a Precipice’s brink, the steepest in Sierra Morena.