The Monks immediately crowded round his Bed, and expressed their satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his senses, and free from every complaint except feeling weak and languid. Pablos gave him a strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for the two succeeding days: He then retired, having desired his Patient not to exhaust himself by conversation, but rather to endeavour at taking some repose. The other Monks followed his example, and the Abbot and Rosario were left without Observers. For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his Attendant with a look of mingled pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side of the Bed, her head bending down, and as usual enveloped in the Cowl of her Habit. “And you are still here, Matilda?” said the Friar at length. “Are you not satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, that nothing but a miracle could have saved me from the Grave? Ah! surely Heaven sent that Serpent to punish....” Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air of gaiety. “Hush! Father, Hush! You must not talk!” “He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjects on which I wish to speak.” “But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am appointed your Nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.” “You are in spirits, Matilda!” “Well may I be so: I have just received a pleasure unexampled through my whole life.” “What was that pleasure?” “What I must conceal from all, but most from you.” “But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda....” “Hush, Father! Hush! You must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my Harp?” “How? I knew not that you understood Music.” “Oh! I am a sorry Performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight and forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my Harp.” She soon returned with it. “Now, Father; What shall I sing? Will you hear the Ballad which treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?” “What you please, Matilda.” “Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your Friend! Those are the names, which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen!” She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect Mistress of the Instrument. The air which She played was soft and plaintive: Ambrosio, while He listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda changed the strain: With an hand bold and rapid She struck a few loud martial chords, and then chaunted the following Ballad to an air at once simple and melodious. DURANDARTE AND BELERMA Sad and fearful is the story Of the Roncevalles fight; On those fatal plains of glory Perished many a gallant Knight.