touched the door: It turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and
a narrow winding staircase of black marble presented itself to
her eyes. She descended it. Ambrosio remained above, watching
the faint beams of the Lamp as they still proceeded up the
stairs. They disappeared, and He found himself in total
darkness.

Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the
sudden change in Matilda's character and sentiments. But a few
days had past since She appeared the mildest and softest of her
sex, devoted to his will, and looking up to him as to a superior
Being. Now She assumed a sort of courage and manliness in her
manners and discourse but ill-calculated to please him. She
spoke no longer to insinuate, but command: He found himself
unable to cope with her in argument, and was unwillingly
obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every moment
convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind: But what
She gained in the opinion of the Man, She lost with interest in
the affection of the Lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the
gentle, and submissive: He grieved that Matilda preferred the
virtues of his sex to those of her own; and when He thought of
her expressions respecting the devoted Nun, He could not help
blaming them as cruel and unfeminine. Pity is a sentiment so
natural, so appropriate to the female character, that it is
scarcely a merit for a Woman to possess it, but to be without it
is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his
Mistress for being deficient in this amiable quality. However,
though he blamed her insensibility, He felt the truth of her
observations; and though He pitied sincerely the unfortunate
Agnes, He resolved to drop the idea of interposing in her behalf.