Volume 1 — PART THE SECOND. (continued 2)

Bitter was our grief, but no one heeded our lamentations; our guards attended to nothing but the adventures of the past night, and we collected from 182their discourse, that the fire had been kindled by a lady confined in the eastern wing of the Castle. Her object, as they supposed, was to find some means of escaping during the confusion, which her rash action had necessarily produced; she had not only failed in her design, but had suffered so severely by springing from a lofty window, and by the wounds which she had received from the fragments of a falling tower, that she was not expected to outlive the night.

The Castellan too, in his endeavours to prevent the escape of this prisoner (whose confinement seemed to be a greater object of anxiety to him, even than that of Edith and myself) had met with a fatal accident, and was every moment expected to breathe his 183last. We desired to see him before his death. With a feeble voice he entreated our pardon for the injustice, with which he had been compelled to treat us; but he called Heaven to witness, that the dreadful oaths which had been exacted from him, had deprived him of the power of acting differently. Yet did he not think it necessary to enjoin our future jailors to treat us with greater lenity; and they, being in all probability fettered by the same oaths with himself, esteemed it their duty to retain us in a captivity no less strict than before.

All we could obtain from them was, that we should not again be separated; and also that we should be permitted to visit that unfortunate lady, of whose existence in the Castle we were this day 184informed for the first time; who had made use of such violent means to obtain her liberty; and who (as our guards assured us) was on the point of paying with her life, for having dared to commit so desperate an action.

Curiosity, hope, the fear of finding some beloved acquaintance in this wretched captive, or the desire of giving some alleviation to the sufferings of an expiring partner in affliction, which of these motives induced us to make this melancholy visit, I cannot pretend to decide. When we received the permission to enter her dungeon, we were assured, that we should find nothing that would diminish our own distress, and the event justified the assurance.

They conducted us to a wretched 185pallet, on which lay a female, whose features were totally unknown to us, but whose appearance excited in us the deepest sentiments of pity; of that painful pity, which knows itself unable to afford relief! On hearing our footsteps she raised with difficulty her half-closed eyes, and with a smile of anguish extended her hand towards us. We exerted ourselves to afford her every little alleviation of pain, which our narrow means could furnish; and in executing these mournful services, our tears sufficiently declared the feelings of our hearts.

—“Forgive me!” said she, when after two or three hours our endeavours to relieve her had produced some little effect; “I wished to rescue myself from 186captivity, and had nearly brought the same fate on you, under which I am now groaning. But long suffering is the mother of despair!”—

Shortly after she seemed to be nearly delirious; she counted the years which she had already past in this dreary dungeon, and those during which she expected to be detained in it by her tyrant; then she raved about her son, for whose arrival she had so long waited in vain, and she entreated him to hasten to the rescue of his unfortunate mother!

Towards midnight she declared, that all pain had entirely left her. With an appearance of gaiety she thanked us for our attentions, and entreated to know the names of those, to whom she was so 187much indebted. The Countess revealed herself, and the captive in return bestowed upon her a look of interest and compassion.

—“Edith of Mayenfield?” repeated the invalid; “oh! I know your story well: you too have suffered much; not so much, its true, as I have suffered, yet enough to know what it is to incur a villain’s hatred.—And your name, gentle lady?” she continued, addressing herself to me.

—“I am Urania of Carlsheim and Sargans,” was my answer.

—“Urania of Sargans!” shrieked the stranger in a dreadful voice, while she clasped her hands violently together; “Urania? Ethelbert’s beloved Urania? Oh, Fortune, this blow was still wanting 188to make me completely miserable.—Away from my sight, abandoned woman! away, and leave me to die! But with my last breath I swear to be revenged! Even from my grave will I shriek to Heaven for vengeance! Tremble, detested girl; thou shalt not triumph over my corse unpunished!”—

I stood like one petrified near the bed of the sufferer; astonishment and terror almost deprived me of my senses, and nothing but the consciousness that she spoke in the heat of frenzy, could have preserved me from sinking on the earth.

—“Noble lady,” I said as soon as I could recover myself, at the same time advancing towards her, and offering to take her hand; “recollect yourself, for 189pity’s sake! I never saw you till now, and can never have offended you. You surely cannot have heard me aright. I am Urania, the unfortunate Urania Venosta, who rejected by a cruel husband, and undeservedly branded with shame, have been condemned in this Castle to wear eternal fetters, which the flames of last night in vain attempted to break.”—

—“Ha!” said the stranger in a gentler tone, “is it so?—Are you then Ethelbert’s rejected wife?—Unfortunate, let me clasp thy hand in mine; we are sisters in calamity.”—

Already was I advancing to take the hand which she held out, when Edith uttered a loud scream, and hastily drew me back. She had observed the captive’s 190countenance change suddenly, and we now saw, that she grasped a poniard till then concealed in her bosom. From that moment the senses of the wretched stranger were irrecoverably lost. Her eyes full of rage were constantly directed towards me; she foamed at the mouth; she loaded me with execrations, and I was compelled to retire, that she might have a chance of regaining some composure.

The meaning of this dreadful scene was to me an absolute enigma. I lamented the poor wretch’s condition; though a secret horror, whenever I recollected her words and manner, took complete possession of my soul. In this painful situation did I pass the night; the morning had scarcely 191dawned, when the Countess of Mayenfield rejoined me, and informed me that the unknown lady was no more. Edith was quite exhausted by the terrible occurrences of the past night. I enquired, whether she had made no discoveries, which might unravel these mysterious circumstances: but she answered by an assurance, that it was impossible for her to give me any light upon the subject.

In mournful silence did we follow to the grave the corse of our wretched partner in captivity. She was interred in one of the back-courts of our prison; and we were conducted after the burial into a gloomy apartment in a quarter of the Castle, which had escaped the violence of the flames. Our present dungeon was in no respect better, than our 192former had been; and the small portion of freedom, which we had enjoyed during the few last days, now appeared to our stern jailors too great an indulgence, and we were accordingly deprived of it.

We heard the door barred on the outside; we sank into each other’s arms, and wept bitterly: then we rejoiced, that at least we had been suffered to remain together, and then we wept again. We endeavoured to escape from present miseries by recalling former happiness, and indulging future hopes; but alas! this resource was but of little avail. Yet among all the agonizing reflections which tormented us, nothing was so painful to remember, as the loss of our little darling, Ludolf!

193I will not pain your gentle hearts, my children, by dwelling on our sufferings in this forlorn situation, during which our only support was the soothing of mutual pity. A change at length took place in it, but we had little reason to expect, that it would turn out to our advantage! Our guards informed us one day, that the Count of Carlsheim had sent a new Castellan to superintend the government of this half-ruined fortress; and they added, we should soon find cause to regret under our new overseer that treatment, which we had complained of as being so harsh and rigid. We trembled, as we listened to this prophecy. Aversion and spite against this new instrument of Count Ethelbert’s vengeance were plainly exprest 194in every feature of our former jailors, yet did they scarcely dare to express their dislike of him aloud: what then had we to expect? How dreadful must that man be, who could strike terror even into the flinty hearts of these barbarians!

We had not long been informed of his arrival, when this dreaded Castellan entered our dungeon, accompanied by several of our former guards. We trembled, as we gazed on the gloomy brow of the man, to whose hands our fate was consigned. Walter Forest, for (so was our jailor called) scarcely deigned to honour us with a look, while he informed us, that we must prepare ourselves to quit Ravenstein at midnight, the Count of Carlsheim not thinking 195the Castle safe enough, since the late fire, for the confinement of prisoners of our consequence. We wished to address a few words to him, imploring better treatment for the future; but he turned away from us rudely, blamed the attendants for having suffered us to remain unfettered, and having caused heavy shackles to be brought immediately, he saw them rivetted before he left the dungeon.

The doors were fastened after him more cautiously, if possible, than before. Yet in spite of his vigilance and positive commands, the former chief of our guards (who seemed to look on his being deprived of his cruel office as an insult) contrived to gain admission to us privately, and to confirm by his warnings 196the dreadful suspicions, with which our imaginations were but too strongly imprest already.

—“I advise you by every means in your power,” said he, “to avoid committing yourselves to the power of this intruder: depend upon it, this removal to a different place of confinement is only a pretence to persuade you to follow him without trouble; and I doubt not, he intends to convey you to some solitary spot, and put an end at once to your captivity and your lives. But take my counsel, and you shall be rescued from this danger: Walter is accompanied but by few attendants, and those badly armed; our people are treble the number of his, and we can easily overpower him, if you will but give us the 197command. Call to us for assistance; we will all be on your side; and as we have carefully avoided asking to see our master’s orders for giving you into Walter’s custody, we can easily make it believed that we took him for an impostor, and thus shall we escape Count Ethelbert’s vengeance, if you will but engage not to betray our secret!”—

The fellow, who hitherto had seldom deigned to hold a parley with us, said much more to the same effect. He left us undecided, what we ought to think of this proposal, and what mode of conduct it would be most prudent for us to pursue: yet after mature deliberation, and having completely canvassed the business by ourselves, the consideration, that in a situation so desolate as ours, 198any change must be for the better, made us resolve to submit quietly Ethelbert’s lately-issued commands.—New situations might furnish new resources, perhaps even an opportunity for flight; at all events our present condition was so hopeless, that we could not wish it to continue; and when at midnight Walter Forest unbarred our dungeon door, we followed him without a murmur.

In all probability the enemies of our new comptroller had agreed, that our resistance should be the signal for falling upon him. We found our anti-chamber filled with them; all were armed, and the threatening looks, which they threw on our conductor, sufficiently declared their purpose.—But when they saw 199that we accompanied him willingly, their courage appeared to fail them. Some few indeed unsheathed their swords, and made a faint show of resistance; but Walter’s people were neither cowards nor ignorant of the use of arms, and we were soon permitted to quit the Castle unimpeded.

—“Tremble!” we heard Walter exclaim, as we crost the threshold, “tremble, rebels, when I return! You shall not have opposed our master’s will without reward, and you shall find, that I am able to preserve the office, which Count Ethelbert has thought fit to intrust to my care!”—

At the entrance of the steep and narrow path, by which we descended the rock on whose brow the fortress was 200situated, stood a close litter, to which we were conducted. We entered it; the carriage moved on with rapidity; and now it was, that I ventured to discover to my friend my astonishment, at a circumstance which had just occurred. In quitting the Castle one of Walter’s people had raised the visor of his casque for a moment, and had shewn me what seemed to be the countenance of Henric Melthal! My narrative had already made Edith acquainted with the character of this man. In the whole circle of the ten jurisdictions there existed not a heart more honest or more brave. He had been one of my uncle’s most faithful vassals; and even when that domain where he resided was made over to the Count of Carlsheim, Henric still remained 201most tenderly attached to the interests of Count Venosta and his unhappy niece.

—“Henric Melthal?” exclaimed the Countess; “Oh! Urania, if this honest man is among our attendants, we are already more than half at liberty.—He surely knows not the prisoners whom he is guarding, and doubtless if we can but find an opportunity of discovering to him our names and danger, he will omit no endeavour to free us from our chains.”—

To confirm her in these pleasing hopes I was on the point of informing her, that when I was forcibly removed from the Castle of Sargans, this very Henric was the only person who dared to assert 202my innocence; when Walter Forest rode up to the side of the litter.

—“Noble ladies,” said he, while the moon showed us, that the gloom, which had overspread his countenance, was replaced by the smile of benevolence, and while the tone in which he addrest us was the most gentle and respectful, “Fear nothing; you are safe, and here is the person, whom you have to thank for your rescue.”—

I will not attempt to describe our feelings at hearing these words, which were no sooner spoken, than Walter again withdrew. The litter was dark; we could not see the person who entered it; but how were our doubts converted into rapture, when Edith felt her neck 203encircled by two little arms, and heard herself called by the name of mother!

With one voice we both pronounced the name of the dear lost child, who was now restored to us so unexpectedly. Rapture almost deprived the Countess of speech and recollection; and I was myself too much bewildered with the joy of having recovered the little Ludolf and my own liberty at the same time, to be capable of affording my friend much assistance. As soon as we could recollect ourselves, we endeavoured to call Walter to the side of the litter, in order that he might explain these mysterious transactions; but he paid no attention to us. This was not a fit time for explanations and expressions of gratitude. Not a moment was to be lost, 204and we traversed the valley with the rapidity of the tempest. Till we were safe on the other side of the mountains, or had crost the lake of Thun, we were desired not to expect our curiosity to be fully gratified; in the mean while we were obliged to content ourselves with such circumstances, as we could collect from Ludolf’s unconnected account, which however left us no doubt, that we were indebted for our rescue to the courage and address of Walter Forest.

Providence had made use of Edith’s desperate resolution of dropping her little darling from the prison-window, to effect our deliverance. You see in this an example, my children, what insignificant trifles furnish the Omnipotent Ruler of all things with the means of blessing his creatures! Our imprudences, 205nay even our very faults are not without their use in the great chain of accidents; and managed by a hand of superior power they often produce consequences totally different from those, which might naturally have been expected to follow!

In that night of terror Ludolf’s better angel had guided him safely through a dangerous path on every side beset with steep precipices and vast tremendous chasms. Weeping and exhausted with fatigue, he was found at the foot of a rock by a peasant from the vale of Frutiger. On being informed that he had just made his escape from the burning Castle, and was unwilling to return thither, the honest countryman conducted him to the house of Walter Forest, one of the most distinguished inhabitants of 206those parts. He received the child with that hospitable kindness, which no true Helvetian ever refuses to the unfortunate. Walter was indeed a true Helvetian; and he felt double pleasure in giving protection to a child like Ludolf, who to the beauty of a cherub united the most unprotected helplessness: surely there is no chain more powerful to bind a noble heart.

It was long, before his new guardian could comprehend the meaning of the child’s broken narrative; but the names of his mother and myself (both of whom Ludolf supposed to have perished in the conflagration) and his calling himself the Count of Mayenfield, roused Walter’s attention sufficiently to induce him to enquire farther into the business; 207and those enquiries at length made him master of the whole truth.

The virtuous inhabitants of that tranquil valley troubled themselves but little about what past in the rock-founded Castles of the neighbouring lords. They looked upon them as the abodes of vice and of injustice, loathed their possessors for the one, and feared them for the other. Their power was too weak to permit their preventing the commission of those crimes, which frequently took place in these fortresses, though the report of such deeds of horror occasionally reached them; therefore their most earnest wish, respecting these dens of robbers, was to escape the notice of their owners, who might otherwise have been 208tempted to make them also experience the weight of their oppression.

But Walter Forest (a man, whose sentiments and actions were in every respect far superior to those of his co-temporaries) needed only to be informed, that two unhappy women stood in need of his protection, to make him resolve on granting it. By making enquiries cautiously and discreetly among the household of the Count of Carlsheim, he ascertained the truth of what he had collected from the child’s narration, and also that the captives of whom he spoke had been rescued from the flames. His resolution was immediately adopted, and swift and successful was the execution of his design.

209Henric Melthal was an old acquaintance and friend of Walter; and it was to him, that the latter applied for information respecting the history of Edith and myself. That faithful vassal of Count Venosta had long lamented in secret the fate of his former mistress, and anxiously wished to discover the place of her confinement. Readily therefore did he enter into Walter’s plan for my deliverance; and in the mean while (through fear of losing time) he dispatched his son in all haste to give my uncle information of every thing that had taken place.

The measures adopted for our rescue by these two honest Helvetians is easy to be guest from what has been already related. Henric brought with him a 210small band of faithful friends from the neighbourhood of Sargans, which Walter strengthened with some of the bravest inhabitants of the vale of Frutiger. They were daring enough to present themselves at Ravenstein, as Envoys from the Count of Carlsheim; and the very rashness of the design made it pass without suspicion. The firm and commanding tone, which they assumed, overawed the numerous soldiers of Ravenstein; our friends were well aware, that their artifice could not remain long undiscovered, and therefore they lost not a moment in endeavouring to reap the fruits of it; they were successful, and the captives were once more free!

Edith! Ludolf! dear partners in 211affliction, ye were restored with me to liberty!—Walter! Henric! our benevolent deliverers, what thanks could suffice to reward your services!—But the generous men expected neither rewards nor thanks. What they had done appeared to them an act so simple, that they rather supposed, we should complain that our rescue had been delayed so long; and they thought it necessary to assure us a thousand times, that ignorance of our situation and want of power to assist us had unavoidably prevented their coming sooner to break our chains; excuses, which we (only awake to sentiments of gratitude and joy) thought perfectly unsuited to the occasion.

These excellent men, who had bravely 212hazarded their lives in a manner so perfectly disinterested, belonged to the inferior class of people; they were the sons of labour, and strangers to the refinements of wealth and grandeur. Yet does there really exist an inferior class among a people, who inhale with every breath of air the spirit of generosity and the love of freedom? Oh! rocks of Helvetia, ’tis only among you, that we find that mixture of magnanimity of soul and unaffected simplicity, which attracts to your children so large a portion of our admiration and our love at once!

Prevented by distance and by the increasing infirmities of age, Count Venosta had not yet completed his preparations for attempting our rescue, 213when we threw ourselves at his feet. Arnold Melthal (Henric’s son, whom his father had dispatched with the account of our situation) had assured him, that it was unnecessary for him to collect his forces, since we should certainly be delivered without their assistance; but when those we love are concerned, who ever believes, that too many precautions can be taken? The news, that Edith still lived, and that his niece was innocent, had agitated the venerable warrior’s mind so violently, that had he been master of it, he would have summoned the whole world to our assistance.

The small estate, which Count Leopold had alone reserved for himself out of all the wide-extended possessions, 214which his generosity had bestowed on my ungrateful husband, was in a perfect uproar, and his few vassals were already in arms. As our arrival made these preparations unnecessary for our rescue, it was determined that they should be employed for our revenge. As for Edith and myself, we entreated that peace might be preserved; we implored my uncle to recollect the great superiority of strength and riches, which our foes possest: but how difficult is it to prevail on an antient warrior to lay aside the sword long accustomed to victory!

—“Oh! Edith,” he replied to our supplications, “spare me these entreaties; the unmanly conduct of your tyrant is too base to be permitted to pass 215unpunished. Reflect, of how many happy years the monster has deprived us, which we might have passed together in peace and joy; reflect too, that he robbed you, my innocent Urania, of your good name, and by that means of the assistance of your best, your only friend. Fool that I was, how could I have been so credulous as to believe his calumny! How artfully did he long contrive to keep me ignorant of his separation from you! and when at length the remonstrances of Henric Melthal, and the cries of your faithful Gertrude, penetrated to my solitude, how skilfully did he lull to rest my love and my anxiety by slanderous tales, to which your uncle (under whose eye you had so long past a life of the purest innocence) 216ought never to have given credit?”—

Such being his feelings, it was impossible for our entreaties to make any impression on Count Venosta. He was positively determined to punish the Count of Carlsheim, not only for the crimes which he had committed, but for the error which (through him) he had himself been induced to commit. For this purpose he conducted us to the strong Castle of Upper Halbstein, on the banks of the Rhine, which was situated not far from the scene of action, and consequently was then more convenient for our abode than the distant vale of Munster.

Scarcely had we reached the Castle, when we received a pleasure totally 217unexpected, but long most anxiously desired. In vain had we endeavoured to discover, what was become of the youthful Minna of Mayenfield, whom I had been compelled to leave behind in Count Ethelbert’s power. My uncle assured us, that no sooner had he been informed of my departure from the Castle of Sargans, than in hopes of gaining some consolation for my loss, he had requested the Count of Carlsheim to entrust her to his care. His application however had been unsuccessful; and the only intelligence which he could gain respecting her was, that on the day after my forcible departure from Sargans, Gertrude had found means to quit the Castle privately, and had been accompanied in her flight by the Damsel 218of Mayenfield. Yet when Gertrude made her appearance at Count Venosta’s to prevail on him to attempt my deliverance, and was questioned respecting the above report, she denied any knowledge of the place of Minna’s concealment. The mystery was now dissolved; on the day after our arrival at the Castle on the Rhine, I had the pleasure of being welcomed by my faithful Gertrude!

—“Oh! my dear ladies!” she exclaimed, while she threw herself at our feet, and prest an hand of each alternately to her lips, “how much have I felt for your misfortunes! how much trouble has it cost me to preserve for you that treasure, which I am now going to restore! I dared not intrust it to the custody of the weak and credulous 219Count Venosta; but under your care our lovely girl can have nothing to apprehend.”—

Scarcely had Gertrude ceased to speak, when a blooming maiden about sixteen, whose charms perfectly answered the expectation of what was promised by the childhood of Minna of Mayenfield, rushed into the room, and bedewed with tears of filial affection the bosom of the delighted Edith: it was her beloved, her long-lost daughter. Bewildered with joy, for some time neither the mother nor myself could do any thing but gaze upon and embrace the weeping Minna; and Gertrude recounted without being attended to, why she had so obstinately denied any knowledge of her concealment, and had resolved not 220to intrust her to the care of my uncle, who had suffered himself to be so grossly deluded by the slanders of the Count of Carlsheim.

It was long, before we could recover ourselves enough to thank the trusty Gertrude, and listen to the tale of Minna’s adventures, of which a detailed account will be found among my papers (as well as a supplement containing what afterwards happened to her) under the title of “Minna of Homburg.” Suffice it to say in brief, that I had no sooner been torn from the arms of the afflicted Minna in order to be conveyed to Ravenstein, than Gertrude hurried her away from Sargans, and hastened to conceal her in the celebrated convent of Zurich. Their whole wealth in gold 221and jewels was scarcely sufficient to pay for their entrance into this consecrated retreat, which (as is well known) is seldom open but to ladies of the highest rank; and Gertrude’s prudence forbade her announcing her young charge as a daughter of the House of Mayenfield.

Here they remained under feigned names quiet and concealed, unknown to, and even scarcely remarked by their hostesses the Nuns, till Minna’s expanding beauty began to excite attention. The Abbot of St. Gall, and the Bishop of Coira were more frequent than usual in their visits to the Domina, and never suffered an opportunity to escape them of bestowing a blessing on the lovely stranger. Gertrude, who had never been observed to judge the actions of 222the dignitaries of the church too favourably, suspected that her pupil was no longer safe at Zurich, and determined to change her abode, which she had the power of doing without difficulty.

This excellent woman had been long courted by a man of no small consequence in the village of Stein; he was in every respect deserving of a reciprocal attachment, and she had long since acknowledged her consciousness, of his merit; but still the affection which she felt for me, with whom she had lived even from my infancy, was so great, that she could not prevail on herself to quit me. After the loss of me and Edith, when the young Minna was left entirely to her care, she was less disposed than ever to think of altering her situation. 223A cloister seemed to her the only proper retreat for herself and her adopted daughter; and she contented herself with only seeing her faithful lover at such few hours, as she could steal from her attentions to Minna. Then she confided to him her grief for our loss, and her anxiety for the fate of her pupil. He was her only confident; and now that the holy walls seemed to afford no longer a secure retreat, Werner Bernsdorf became more urgent in his entreaties, that Gertrude would exchange her abode at the Convent for an husband’s house.

Gertrude at length consented to become his wife, and accepted the protection, which he offered for herself and her lovely charge. She quitted the Convent 224privately; and they had already past a year in his dwelling at Stein in a manner which left them nothing to desire, except that which they now enjoyed, the embraces of those dear friends whose loss they had never ceased to lament.

No sooner had the intelligence reached her of our release and arrival at Upper Halbstein, than Gertrude hastened to restore Minna to our arms, and give us an account of the manner, in which she had preserved this treasure. Her husband, the worthy Werner Bernsdorf, accompanied her, and brought with him a considerable number of his country neighbours to assist my uncle against the Count of Carlsheim, whose conduct had made him the object of universal detestation.

225Here Minna eagerly interrupted Gertrude’s narrative.

—“Oh!” said she, “however good Werner’s intentions may be, we are already provided with a much more powerful ally. You are not aware, dear mother, that Count Lodowick of Homburg....”—

—“Forgive me, lady,” said Gertrude smiling, “for having so long omitted the mention of that favourite name!”—then turning again to us, “you must know, my dear mistresses, that the assistance, which the Count of Homburg prepares to give you, is given solely, because one of the persons injured by Ethelbert is the mother of Minna. Count Lodowick is my husband’s declared patron; he saw the Damsel of 226Mayenfield in one of his visits at Stein, and from that moment his heart....”—

—“Have mercy on me, dear Gertrude,” exclaimed the blushing Minna; “you punish me too severely for my imprudence!”—

Gertrude was silent, but we insisted on an explanation. We now heard all the circumstances of an attachment, which are detailed at length in Minna’s history, but which I could not relate in this place without breaking the thread of my narrative, which I shall now pursue without interruption.

The arrival of the forces of the Count of Homburg and of Werner Bernsdorf was highly acceptable to Count Venosta. A variety of circumstances had already 227convinced him, that by the gift of his estates to Ethelbert he had purchased a dangerous enemy, too powerful for him to subdue without assistance. Long was the contest doubtful; but the vengeance of Heaven at length was made manifest, and the balance inclined towards the rightful cause.

Ethelbert was now reduced to solicit an accommodation. He enquired, what satisfaction for the injuries, which I had suffered, would content Count Leopold; and he flattered himself, that an acknowledgement of my innocence, and the offer of receiving back his repudiated wife, would cancel all offences: but the demands of Count Venosta extended much farther. He required the restoration 228of the whole of that property, which he had made over to Ethelbert with such imprudent generosity; property, to which the latter had only a right in quality of my husband, and to which he had forfeited his right, when he ceased to consider me as his wife. The negotiation continued for some time; each side abated something in their respective demands; large sums were offered to facilitate the conclusion of the business; but I doubt much, whether an adjustment involving so many difficulties on both sides could ever have been brought, to an amicable termination, had not fate collected some few bitter dregs still remaining in the cup of sorrow, that cup which I could not 229have completely emptied, without submitting to a re-union with my barbarous husband!

Almighty Providence, if ever I have murmured against thy decisions, if even now a tear of discontent steals down my cheek, oh! think on the weakness of human nature, and pardon mine! Still, still I suffer!—But doubtless there will one day come an hour, when time, or oblivion, the shadows of the grave, or the brightness of eternal life, will efface the memory of what I have endured. Till I can learn forgetfulness, I can never forbear to sorrow!

Not the most distant rumour had ever led me to believe, that there existed another Count of Carlsheim besides Ethelbert. Now all at once the assurance 230reached me from all quarters, that Count Donat of Carlsheim was arrived from Italy; that after having made many enquiries respecting Ethelbert’s situation, (whom he called his father) he had established himself in the old Fortress of Ravenstein; and that he was there collecting a considerable military force, whose destination was still a profound secret.

We, poor anxious females, trembled in our solitary Castle, while we listened to this account of the proceedings of one, whose very name made us already look upon him as our enemy. Yet I could by no means understand, how he should be the son of Ethelbert, never having heard, that my husband had been married, till I gave him my hand, nor that 231he had any natural children, whose existence (I had no cause to flatter myself) he would have concealed out of respect for me!—Edith sighed, when I stated to her my reasons for disbelieving, that Ethelbert had a son; and my uncle, who just at that moment happened to return from one of his daily skirmishes with his enemy, explained to me the cause of her sighing.

—“Alas, my child,” said he, “it is not without reason, that you look with terror on this newly-arrived Count of Carlsheim. It is but too probable, that he is Ethelbert’s son, and is come to strengthen his father’s party. Before your union with him a report had reached me, that Count Ethelbert was already the husband of another, though 232his passion for you induced him to conceal his marriage. This story, making me look upon him as a seducer, was the motive of my unexplained antipathy towards him, and of the displeasure with which I observed your growing attachment. I therefore took an opportunity of questioning him seriously respecting the report; but no sooner had the first hint escaped my lips, than his pride took the alarm.

—“To justify myself from such an accusation,” said he haughtily, “is beneath me; thus much I will answer, and no more. Yes; some years ago I married a noble Italian lady (alas! now she will never claim her rights!) rich and beautiful. Before I was deprived of her, she bore to me a son, whom I 233left to the guardianship of his mother’s relations; they were anxious to retain him with them, as being all that remained of a person so justly dear to them. The partiality of his mother has made this boy already master of very large possessions; nor would his birth at all interfere with the rights of any future children, should ever a second wife.... But why do I thus condescend to explain the circumstances of my private life to one, who looks on me as a seducer?—You have suspected me of artfully endeavouring to ensnare your niece’s affections for the basest purposes; here then I solemnly swear in the face of Heaven that nothing shall ever tempt me to offer her my hand, or condescend to seek a connexion with a man, who 234has exprest an opinion of me so degrading! I love Urania, love her passionately; but never will I become her husband, unless you solicit me with your own lips to accept her hand, and thus wipe off the injurious aspersion, which you have cast upon the character of one, whose sentiments are as elevated, and whose honour is as strict as your own.”—

—“At hearing this declaration,” continued my uncle, “I could not restrain a smile; so impossible did it appear to me at that time, that a situation should ever occur, which could induce me to force the heiress of all my possessions on the noblest and most powerful man on earth.—But from that moment Ethelbert never missed an opportunity 235or working himself into my heart. The services, which he rendered me, increased in number so rapidly, and were of such material consequence; and his countenance bore so plainly the melancholy impression of hopeless love, that I could not avoid wishing to gratify him with your hand. I now began to make all possible enquiries respecting his former marriage. Proof upon proof met me at every step, that he had acted by me with candour; I daily received fresh assurances, that he had indeed been married to an Italian heiress; but that his wife was dead, and his son richly provided for. The last and most essential service which he rendered me, the delivering me from the chains of the Abbot of St. Gall, put the finishing-hand to my 236resolution in his favour. I solicited him to become your husband; cursed be the hour, in which I did so! Ah! what did it avail, that Ethelbert’s wife was no more, since her death only left him at liberty to contract an union with one, who has with every hour had fresh cause to lament the moment, in which that union was formed?”—

—“And are you then quite certain,” interrupted his wife (for Edith was now the Countess Venosta) “that when Ethelbert became Urania’s husband, his hand was really free?—Oh! Leopold, how much have we all reason to lament, that your own guileless nature should have made you so unwilling to suspect, that others were deceivers! that even when your suspicions were so justly 237excited, your inclination to find them groundless should have so lightly made you abandon them, and resume your good opinion of a man, whose only talent consisted in concealing his vices with dexterity!—Alas! alas! even from the grave thy voice, unfortunate Lucretia, calls Ethelbert a murderer! Soon may the curse, which you breathed against him in your last moments, fall on the tyrant’s head; but far be its accomplishment from her, whom your unjust fury joined with him in the malediction. Urania is guiltless of your sufferings; surely had not frenzy and despair made you deaf to all conviction, you could not have resisted the arguments, which I advanced in proof of her unconscious innocence!”—

238Struck dumb with astonishment stood my uncle and myself, and gazed in silence on Edith. Her arms were crossed upon her bosom; her eyes were raised towards Heaven; the tears streamed down her cheeks. She replied not to the anxious enquiries, which her extraordinary agitation and incoherent exclamations at length compelled us to make.

—“Be patient with me for a few moments!” said she after some time; “the dreadful scene, which I witnessed at Ravenstein Castle, stands before me exprest in such strong and lively colours, that horror almost robs me of my senses! Allow me time to recover myself, in pity!”—

We now remained in anxious expectation 239of the moment, when Edith should be sufficiently herself to clear up this mystery. My uncle was totally in the dark as to her meaning; but certain obscure suspicions flitted before my recollection, which Edith’s narrative soon confirmed. That unfortunate captive, who had endeavoured to destroy by fire the gloomy prison, in which she had groaned away so many wretched years; she, in whom the bare mention of my name had produced so violent an emotion, that it threw her into the delirium, in which she ended her life; she, that unhappy one, had a claim to Ethelbert’s hand prior to that of the betrayed Urania! In her last moments she called me the cause of her misfortunes! In 240her last moments she cursed me ... and I was innocent!

Edith’s tenderness had induced her to conceal from me the dreadful scene which she had witnessed, and in which Lucretia had made known to her this important secret. She was well acquainted with the weakness of my nature; she thought, that for an heart so tender and so fond as mine, to remain ignorant of the whole extent of the misfortunes, which had been the consequence of my so earnestly desired marriage would be more supportable, than to know that I had been the cause (however innocent) of Lucretia’s sufferings, and had been myself so grossly deceived by a man, whom I had once 241loved so passionately, and whom in spite of all his cruelty I could not yet bring myself to hate.

The veil was now withdrawn! I now found, that I had for many years been the unlawful consort of one, who only deserved my love so long, as I remained ignorant of his real character. I now found, that I who would not willingly have crushed a worm, who would gladly have banished from the earth every trace of sorrow, had for many years caused the sufferings of an unknown, who perhaps was good and amiable!—But no! that was not Lucretia’s character. Of this you will be convinced, my children, on reading her story traced by the hand of Edith, and entitled “Lucretia Malaspina.” You 242will there see, that she had obtained Ethelbert’s hand by a series of the vilest artifices; that her conduct afterwards had been such, as almost justified his treatment of her; that the son (whose arrival she so eagerly expected, though in vain) had been abandoned by her to early licentiousness, and bred up in hatred of his father; and her miserable death was exactly such an end, as was best adapted to a life so destitute of virtue.

But alas! this knowledge of her want of merit was still insufficient to support me under the weight of her dying malediction. Methinks, undeserved as it was by me, her curse still hangs over my head, and sooner or later I shall experience its effects.—My children, 243I must here break off for a few moments—Dreadful emotions overpower me: I am unable to proceed!

Edith possest still more information respecting Count Ethelbert’s family. She knew, that by some means or other the news of Lucretia’s sufferings had at length reached her son in Italy; but sunk in voluptuousness and totally engrossed by his libertine pursuits, he had delayed from day to day the hastening to succour his imprisoned mother. At length he arrived at Ravenstein, and demanded the liberty of her, whose bones were already mouldering among the ruins of the half-burnt Castle. The 244reflection—“hadst thou come sooner, she had been saved,”—drove him almost frantic, and in the violence of his despair he committed the most inhuman outrages. The whole garrison of the fortress was sacrificed to the shade of Lucretia; the remaining towers of the Castle were converted into her funeral pile, and were consumed to ashes! He was informed, that the unfortunate Urania (whom he, as well as his mother accused of having caused all these misfortunes) had once been an inmate of those walls; and he foamed with rage at not finding her still there, that he might have sacrificed her also to his hatred and revenge!

The inhabitants of the tranquil vale of Frutiger, to whom I had formerly been indebted for my rescue, did not 245escape without feeling the weight of his fury. They too suffered for the dilatoriness, with which he had fulfilled his duty to an unfortunate mother; a crime, which he punished in those guiltless people, but of which he could accuse no one justly but himself.

Every one fled before the raging Donat, whose cruelties were supported by a strong army composed of his Italian vassals. He now was advancing towards the place of our abode by rapid marches, though no one yet knew, against whom in particular his fury would be directed. We trembled at his approach, for our feuds with Count Ethelbert had greatly diminished our strength, and we were ill-prepared for encountering troops so fresh and numerous, 246as those which accompanied our new enemy. Neither was Ethelbert without his fears. He imagined with no small probability, that his son was coming to demand the blood of his mother at his hands; and he was himself already engaged in a contest with the Count Venosta, whose military prowess supplied the deficiency of numbers in his army. Nothing could save both us and him, but an union of our forces against the common enemy; and now it was, that I was compelled to place myself in a situation, than which no other could ever have entailed on me even half such misery.

In the anxiety of his heart Count Ethelbert made proposals, which my uncle (who had scarcely less cause for 247anxiety) judged it imprudent entirely to reject. A negotiation was entered into; an alliance was concluded against Donat between Ethelbert and Count Leopold; and the wretched Urania was the victim sacrificed to their mutual fears. Almighty Heaven! the man who had deceived my uncle, imprisoned Edith, murdered Lucretia, and branded myself with shame, this man was I obliged for the second time to call by the name of husband.—It was in vain, that I resisted; that I wept, and knelt at the feet of my uncle. He bade me remember, that I had for many years lived with Ethelbert as his wife, and that should I go to my grave without a legal claim to that title, it would leave such a stain upon the family honour, as 248all the waters of the Rhine and Danube could never wash away.—Nor was this reflection without its weight in my own balance—to be handed down to posterity as the licentious votary of pleasure! “Urania Venosta, the concubine of the Count of Carlsheim!” was such the description, by which I must be known in after ages? As the hateful thought glanced upon my imagination, I recoiled with horror; a crimson blush suffused my cheeks, and the blood as it rushed through my veins, seemed boiling.—And yet to prevent this odious image from being realized, there existed no possible means except the consenting to give the most inhuman of men a second legal claim to torture and insult me!—Yet still did I resist; and still 249did the dreaded Donat advance towards us. Count Venosta’s persuasions became every hour more urgent. Entreaties, threats, anger, kindness, were employed alternately to obtain my unwilling consent.—Edith felt for me, and aided not her husband; but she felt too for the dangers of her situation, and shuddered involuntarily at the bare mention of Donat’s name. Her silent terrors affected me to the very soul: I was not insensible to apprehensions on my own account: Ethelbert’s arms at least afforded me a refuse from disgrace: I yielded, and with my eyes open doomed myself to a life of wilful suffering.

Yes! I became again the wife of Ethelbert!—Expect not from me a circumstantial 250account of my first interview with a man, whose crimes had now made him as much the object of my aversion, as he had once been the object of my love. The news of his approach made me shrink with terror! I painted to myself this imperious tyrant in the most frightful colours, which imagination could supply; but in the present instance, as had been the case on many former ones, I was deceived in my expectations. It’s true, the scene which I had to go through was a most painful one, but very different from that for which I had prepared myself.

Three years, which had elapsed since I parted from Count Ethelbert, had produced a change in him, which struck me with astonishment; he was no longer, 251as in former times, either an object of love, or of terror: his appearance was capable of exciting, even in the bosoms of those whom he had injured, no sentiment but compassion. It seemed, as if the natural consequences of his dissolute life had made a much more wretched creature of himself, than he had been able to make of the victims of his tyranny. Edith and myself had lost that pale and emaciated appearance, which we brought with us from Ravenstein, and were fast resuming our natural bloom and health; while on the contrary our persecutor seemed to have but just escaped from the dungeons of that gloomy Castle. Nor was it only his body’s strength which had suffered; his excessive libertinism, the stings of conscience, 252and his terror of impending punishment had broken down the fortitude of his mind completely.

No sooner did he enter the room in which I waited for him, than he threw himself at my feet, and entreated me in the most abject manner to pardon what was past. He also bathed Edith’s feet with his tears, and stammered out a long confession of the injuries which he had done her, and of which she was already but too well informed.

This excessive and unmanly degradation of himself was neither what we expected, nor wished from him. My sensations were equally composed of contempt and pity, and I could not decide, which of the two was the more powerful. The latter at length prevailed, 253and I suffered myself to be drawn by Ethelbert’s entreaties into making a promise, which I found in the end most painful to perform!

I am not certain, what were my uncle’s feelings on this occasion: methought I could read in his eyes a strong expression of pity for the poor victim, who was thus sacrificed to the common safety, and of anger against himself for having consented to the renewal of a connexion, whose consequences must needs prove to be the most bitter sufferings, that could have been inflicted on his unfortunate niece. Terror of his two powerful enemies had compelled him to free himself from one of them by this sacrifice; but alas! he had soon to find his regret at having made this sacrifice 254increased by the knowledge, that it had been made without advantage. It was only at a distance, that Count Ethelbert appeared dreadful. Our scanty troops, under the command of the martial Leopold (who in spite of his increasing age was still an hero) were of much more effective consequence, than all the thousands who were ranged under the banners of the powerful Count of Carlsheim and Sargans; for their chief was a wretch, infirm both in body and mind, made fearful of encountering the wrath of man by his consciousness of deserving the vengeance of Heaven, and who (as we had soon but too much reason to suspect) was not always in his proper senses.

This last was a circumstance, which 255had been carefully concealed from all our family: but I had not resumed the title of Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans more than a few days, when I made some observations respecting my husband’s conduct, which opened before me the most terrific prospects for the future. I never could ascertain, whether Ethelbert’s incurable disorder owed its origin to his imagination having been struck by any one particular circumstance, for it was seldom prudent, or indeed possible to speak to him on this subject; but why should we seek for a cause, knowing the life which he had led? Seldom does the hand of licentiousness fail at length to guide her votaries to the brink of an abyss, the very sight of which makes the brain 256turn giddy, and scares away reason, never to resume her seat again!

Ethelbert’s profound and fearful melancholy afflicted him at periodical intervals. There were times, when he shut himself up from every one, but more particularly from me, in order to indulge himself in solitary sufferings. In one of these hours of voluntary seclusion I was induced (not by curiosity, but by my earnest wish to afford him some relief) to intrude upon his privacy. All that I gained by this well-intended interference was, (besides beholding a sight the most heart-rending that ever was presented to the eye of woman) that I drew down on me in the present moment the whole storm of my distracted husband’s fury, and in future was compelled to witness 257those sufferings, which out of a sort of delicacy for my feelings he had hitherto been careful to hide from my observation. His secret being now discovered, he constrained himself no longer. Till this unfortunate day I had never seen the wretched man except in those gloomy and capricious humours, which occupied the greater part of his time. I was now forced to witness his delirious follies, which sometimes rose to such a pitch of extravagance, that Edith and myself had good reason to tremble for our lives. Often have we been pursued by the frantic Ethelbert through every chamber of the Castle, without being able to find a place secure from his fury, except on the borders of that ruined well, in which I had caused my vassals to inter the dead 258bodies of those, who had fallen by the swords of Edith’s ravishers.

Never did Ethelbert dare to enter the Court, in which this well was situated. The moment that he attempted to cross the threshold, he shrieked out that he saw bleeding spectres rising out of the abyss; that Lucretia was among the number; and that he could hear her threaten to drag him down with her to the grave.

Tortures of a guilty conscience, who can paint you in colours sufficiently strong! Who can endure you without sinking at last beneath your weight! The phantoms, which in his disordered moments terrified the mind of Ethelbert, presented themselves in a thousand different forms. Many of them were 259totally unintelligible to me, as I was not fully instructed in the history of his past errors; nor was I at all inclined to inquire further into events, whose consequences sufficiently assured me, that their knowledge would afford me no sources of consolation.

Count Venosta was at this period compelled to be often absent from the Castle of Sargans. His renewed connection with Ethelbert made it incumbent on him to become the General of those troops, whom their master’s infirmity would otherwise have left without a leader. Such preparations therefore, as were necessary for our safety, were made by the sore orders of my uncle; and alas! every succeeding day made us feel with an added certainty, 260that no precautions could be superfluous.

Our dreaded enemy, the fierce and incensed Donat, was now daily expected to appear. I knew well his animosity against myself; and it is not to be wondered at, that in spite of the consciousness of my innocence, I shuddered when I heard of his approach. But my anxiety was not to be compared with the horror, which shook Count Ethelbert’s frame, whenever he heard Donat mentioned. He no longer recollected, that he was his own son; he only saw in him Lucretia’s offspring and avenger; and often when his bewildered brain pictured him present, did he fly for shelter to my arms, and entreat me to save him from Donat’s imaginary dagger.

261What I endured at this period, is not to be believed! My friend Edith had often advised me to quit my frantic husband; and so excruciating were my sufferings, that I probably should have taken her counsel, had not compassion in the first moments of my re-union with the wretched man forced from me the inconsiderate promise, “that I never would abandon him through life, but that whatever fate was allotted to him should be shared by me;” a promise, which I had confirmed by too solemn an oath, and on which Ethelbert relied with too much confidence, to admit of my departing from it without his consent.

Previous to Donat’s approaching so near the Castle, I had been offered many opportunities of exchanging my melancholy 262situation for a secure retreat in the arms of friendship; but I was too strictly bound by my fatal oath to profit by the kind offices of my friends. Count Lodowick of Homburg, the declared admirer of the young Damsel of Mayenfield, had been compelled to leave us for a time, that he might support the claims of the family of his mistress against the usurping Abbot of St. Gall. Fortunately, the sudden death of this tyrant greatly facilitated the completion of his views. He now returned to Sargans, for the purpose of conducting the young Count Ludolf to Mayenfield, and seeing him re-instated in his natural rights.

It was thought necessary, that Ludolf should be accompanied by his mother; 263but she protested, that she could not consent to leave me exposed to such dangers, and insisted on my accompanying her to a place, where I should be in security. Oh! how gladly would my heart have embraced her offer! Nor in truth did Count Ethelbert positively forbid my leaving him: in his calmer moments he acknowledged in a tone of humility, that after his treatment of me he had no right to detain me contrary to my inclination; he left it entirely to myself to decide, whether I would go or stay; and declared, that he would not oppose my abandoning him, if after what I had sworn, I could reconcile it to my own conscience.

You may be certain, my dear children, that having witnessed in my husband 264the tortures of an accusing conscience, I had not courage to run the risque of imposing the slightest burthen upon my own. I had sworn, and was compelled to keep my oath: I even renewed it, engaged once more never to forsake my husband, and only entreated my friend, that she would yield to her daughter’s entreaties not to be separated from me at a time, when I was so much in want of consolation. Habit had attached me so tenderly to the charming girl, that to have parted with her would have seemed to me like the stroke of death; and even Ethelbert felt such reverence for the angelic innocence which beamed in her every feature, that in his unhappy moments I had frequently found a safe retreat from his 265violence in Minna’s arms. Minna too was resolutely determined to share my dangers: nor was it affection for me, which alone made her unwilling to depart from Sargans. Count Lodowick was soon to rejoin us for the purpose of defending our boundaries against the still encroaching enemy, and I extorted a confession from Minna, that she was anxious to continue near him.

We separated; I lost my Edith! Minna remained with me, and with beating hearts did we look forward to futurity, whose gloom appeared to increase with every moment. Will not my hand fail me, when I attempt to describe the most cruel blow, which ever fell upon my heart? Edith was dear to me; so was her daughter, the gentle 266affectionate Minna; but dearer than either, oh! dearer a thousand times, was my uncle, my second father, the venerable Count Venosta!

Count Lodowick’s appearance at the Castle of Sargans made my uncle’s return necessary. The young warrior was desirous of discussing in person with an hero of such experience in military affairs, what mode of proceeding would be most likely to produce advantage to the cause of those, whose interests were equally dear to both. Till this business was settled, the Count of Homburg did not think it prudent to quit the Castle, and leave Minna and myself exposed to the enterprizes of the enemy, under no better protection than Ethelbert’s. The venerable Leopold therefore set forward 267for the purpose of acquainting his ally with every thing relating to the present situation of our affairs, and at the same time to inspire our drooping spirits by his presence with hope and consolation.

Yet once more (alas! but once!) did I clasp my benefactor to my bosom; I bedewed his furrowed cheeks with tears of gratitude, and imparted to him my anxiety for a life so precious! The next tears, which I shed on his account, were destined to fall on his grave. He accompanied Count Lodowick to review his forces; here he parted with his youthful friend, and the path which he traversed on his return to Sargans conducted him to death. In the deepest part of the wood assassins were lurking; 268his attendants were few, and their resistance was soon overpowered. Count Venosta fell by the hands of villains, as many a brave man had fallen before him; and the dreadful news was brought to the Castle of Sargans by two or three of his followers, the swiftness of whose steeds had enabled them to escape from the massacre.

What name shall I give to my feelings, at receiving this most cruel blow of fate? Shall I say, that I sorrowed? that my senses forsook me? that despair took possession of both my head and heart?—No! no! all this would but ill describe what I suffered. The excess of agony can never be justly exprest; grief like mine can only be pictured in a veil.

I felt only how dear he was to me, 269how much I had lost in him. These recollections made me incapable of all others; and I reflected not, that his death was the certain pledge to me of approaching danger, and future sufferings. Count Donat was no longer more than two leagues distant from the Castle. No one doubted, that the hand which murdered my uncle, was armed by Donat: how indeed could he sooner gain possession of his destined victims, than by depriving them of their most able protector?—It is true, Count Lodowick of Homburg ... but his youth, his inexperience, even his consternation and sorrow for the loss of his heroic guide in the paths of glory, all tended to prevent his being to us of as much assistance, as he would gladly have been, and 270as we too fondly expected that he would be.

I will pass over in silence the days of anxiety, which followed my uncle’s death, nor will torture your tender hearts, my children, by relating how cruelly I suffered from terror while looking forward to events, which (dreadful as my imagination painted them) you will find, were far exceeded by the reality!

Count Lodowick fought bravely, but unsuccessfully. His troops were cut to pieces; their chief was compelled however reluctantly to find safety in flight. The most faithful of our vassals under the command of Henric Melthal still defended for a while the approaches to the Castle of Sargans; but they too at 271length were compelled to give way.—And now there was nothing to prevent the dreadful victor from seizing the unfortunates, who trembled at his approach.

Among the many unpleasant circumstances, which had followed my re-union with the wretched Ethelbert, it was not the least of my griefs, that I was compelled almost constantly to endure the presence of a man, whom I had but too just grounds for abhorring.—This person, whom I half despised and half dreaded, was at that time Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, and by name Guiderius. Had there been no other reason for my disliking him, it would have been sufficient, that it was he, whom the rebellious monks of that monastery had 272elected their Superior after the expulsion of my friends Christian and Matthias; and that he had taken a conspicuous part against his predecessor, whose dignity he coveted, and whose blameless life made his own appear the more disgusting. Never did I see him approaching the Castle, in all the state and splendour of a petty prince, without comparing his ostentation with the dignified simplicity of my venerable friend; of whose fate no intelligence had ever reached me, after I had procured his escape by the private passage conducting to the mountains.

But the repugnance towards him, which these reflections inspired, was not my only reasons for disliking the society of Guiderius. He had formerly 273been Ethelbert’s companion in his profligate enjoyments; he was now his confessor and the only confidant of his secret sins, and in this quality he assumed a much greater share of authority in the Castle, than was left to its weak master and his powerless wife. At first I occasionally forced myself to throw aside that timidity, which I had acquired from so many years of suffering, and endeavoured to dispossess the hypocrite of my husband’s favour and of such immoderate influence: but the attempt was always attended with so little success, that I was compelled to abandon it, and submit patiently to bear the yoke, which the omnipotent Abbot imposed on all the Castle’s inmates.

Guiderius was young; he might 274have been called handsome, had not every feature betrayed the traces of riot and licentiousness. When I complained of his usurped authority, he frequently assured me, that I was not his captive as I stated, but much rather was he mine: but these declarations, which made him still more hateful to me, were received and answered with such contempt and bitterness, that he at length desisted from making them. Instead of these insulting liberties, he seemed to adopt a particularly delicate and humble manner in all things, in which I was concerned, and about which I appeared interested. So that as I now began to feel easy respecting his professions of too warm an attachment, and in this moment of most urgent necessity, when our terrible 275foe was at our gates, and as every one had recourse to me for that advice, which I, poor trembling woman, would so willingly have asked of others; in such a situation, helpless and bewildered as I was, I did nor think it wise to reject without an hearing the proposition, which the Abbot of Curwald requested leave to lay before me, and whose adoption (he said) would be greatly for my advantage. It proved to be of a nature so innocent, that ill as I thought of the person who proposed it, I could find no reasonable grounds for its rejection.

—“There are few hearts,” said Guiderius, “so hardened as to resist the tears which flow from the eyes of women, or the voice of God when it speaks from the lips of his servants. I am thoroughly 276persuaded, that Count Donat’s fury would be this moment disarmed, could he witness the streams of anguish, which fear of his vengeance forces into eyes so bright; nor did he once see you kneeling at his feet, could he resist raising you, to fall himself at yours. But you are unconscious of the power which Heaven confided to you, when he formed you so lovely; or knowing it, you will not condescend to make it of use. Well then! Let us have recourse to some other means of softening Count Donat. Permit me to assemble the whole brotherhood of my convent in the Castle-chapel: these holy monks shall form around you with their prayers a wall more solid than one of brass; as soon as your dreaded foe approaches, I will 277place myself at their head, go forth with them to meet him, command him in the name of our patron-saint to lay aside his blood-thirsty designs, and you will be astonished to witness the effects of our interference.”—

I consented to his proposal. Guiderius gave his orders; and it was not long before the holy monks (no one but their Abbot could have had the assurance to call them holy) set forth on their march with all possible solemnity, and with every circumstance of pomp, which might make them appear of the more consequence in the eyes of him, to whom their embassy was addrest. They laid no slight stress upon the merit of this act of heroism, as they scrupled not to call their interference; and one of the 278most learned brethren went so far, as to compare their conduct with that of the Roman Deeii, who for the general good devoted themselves to the infernal gods; a comparison, which would have extorted a smile from Minna and myself, had any thing at that moment of danger been capable of making us smile.

We waited for the return of these modern Deeii with inexpressible anxiety. Yet unhappy as we were, and much as we required all our strength of mind and body to support ourselves, we were compelled to exhaust our powers in the difficult task of preventing Ethelbert from sinking under his apprehensions of his foe’s approach, which he dreaded, as if it had been that of an avenging Deity.

During the consultation, which took 279place on the proposition of Guiderius, we had been necessitated to leave the wretched sufferer to himself. After the departure of the monks, we found him to our great astonishment busied in removing the stone, which covered the mouth of that well, which I have already mentioned as being so terrible to him in his hours of distraction. A variety of circumstances, as well as some broken sentences, which at first escaped from him, left us no doubt, with what object he had sought that particular spot, and what would have been the event, had we not arrived in time to rescue him from his own fury.

In the situation in which he then was, it was unsafe for us to suffer him out of our sight for a moment. We 280employed all our powers of persuasion to his agitated mind; Minna, whose kind and gentle manner had great influence over him, at length succeeded in kindling a faint spark of hope in his anxious bosom; and he seemed to derive some comfort from her assurances, that (even should Count Donat prove the furious tyrant, which report described him to be) still it was impossible for him to have so totally laid aside all vestiges of humanity, as to look on his father as on a foe, and punish him for offences, which it was now beyond his power to remedy.

—“You are right, sweet angel!” said Ethelbert with a childish vacant smile, which generally took possession of his countenance, when he felt himself exhausted 281by any violent breaking out of his delirium; “you are quite right! Donat should not revenge his mother’s death on me; I never hated Lucretia; no, no; she was my first love. Its true, I was unfaithful to her; but though Urania was more beautiful and rich, that could only have injured Lucretia for a while. Had but death relieved me from my second wife, nothing need have prevented my restoring my first to liberty, and permitting her to resume her legal rights! then all would have been well; then Lucretia and Donat would have been appeased: fool that I was! Oh! that I had not suffered Urania to live!”—

The pious Minna shrunk back in horror at this proof of aggravated wickedness, 282which she had undesignedly drawn from an heart, whose sentiments (I had so vainly flattered myself) had been chastened by adversity. Minna dropt the miscreant’s hand in disgust, while she cast upon me a look expressive of the deepest sorrow and compassion; I could not restrain my feelings, and burst into a flood of tears.

—“Nay, weep not!” said the wretched man, whose senses had quite forsaken him; “trust me with a dagger for a few minutes, and neither you nor I shall have reason any longer to tremble at the thoughts of Donat’s vengeance!”—

This conversation, which became more painful with every minute that it lasted, and which was only calculated to make two unprotected women apprehend 283a nearer danger than Count Donat’s sword, was interrupted by the return of two of the monks, who had accompanied Guiderius. They accosted us with countenances expressing the greatest consternation, and gave us to understand, that the eloquence of their holy brethren had by no means produced the desired effect. Count Donat, an avowed enemy of the church and her servants, had ordered them all to be made prisoners, and flight alone had enabled these two to hasten back to the Castle, and apply to us for assistance.

—“For assistance? assistance from us?” Minna and myself exclaimed at the same moment.

—“Yes, noble ladies, from you!” answered one of the monks, whose 284name was Hilderic; “a sign from our discreet Abbot gave us to understand, what steps he wished to be taken. He is certain, that the intercession of the Damsel of Mayenfield, one tear falling from her dove-like eyes, one word spoken in her touching voice, would be sufficient to preserve us all! Oh! dear lady, be not deaf to our entreaties! A mule stands ready at the Castle-gate to bear you to the camp, and we will accompany you thither, and protect you back in safety.”—

—“Oh! for the love of Heaven,” exclaimed my husband eagerly, “go, Minna, go! Soften my son’s heart towards his wretched father, and I will bless you with my latest breath.”—

Minna shuddered, while she listened 285to Hilderic’s proposal and Ethelbert’s entreaties: nor did I hear this singular request without making many objections. Yet Hilderic’s powers of persuasion, and the humble supplications of his companion, the unsuspicious Mark, began to make us relax in our opposition, when the Abbot himself made his appearance, and decided our conduct at once.

—“If it is your intention to preserve us,” said he, addressing himself to Minna, “hasten to the camp, ere it is yet too late! Under our safe-guard you cannot have any danger to apprehend, and in the few minutes, which I passed with him, I took care to make your situation so well known to Count Donat, that you need not fear, lest the power 286of your charms should produce an effect on his heart prejudicial to the rights of your destined husband.”—

These assurances Guiderius failed not to strengthen with a variety of others; Hilderic also exerted all his eloquence in support of his superior; and their joint efforts were so successful, that Minna was obliged to give a promise to follow them to the camp.

What line of conduct was it now most proper for me to adopt? My ideas were too confused, my apprehensions too painful, to admit of my observing a thousand contradictions in the Abbot’s statement, a thousand trifling circumstances indicating some concealed design, which could not have failed to strike any indifferent person. Besides, as Minna 287had now promised to accompany the monks, it seemed impossible that I should suffer her to set out without the sanction of a female’s presence, and expose her beauty and innocence to the perils, which threatened them in Count Donat’s camp. It was equally impossible for me to leave my poor weak husband to himself, and resign him to the dangerous caprices of his delirium, which during our absence would most probably return. Yet my blood ran cold at the idea of remaining alone in the power of a desperate man, who had so lately declared his intentions to destroy me; intentions, which in his frenzy he would find but little difficulty in carrying into effect. Part of our adherents had already hastened to the camp, in hopes of 288avoiding Count Donat’s vengeance by a voluntary surrender; the rest of them had either betaken themselves to flight, or had sought various places of concealment, till the first storm should have subsided. After Minna’s departure I should be left quite alone with the frantic Ethelbert. I knew not what to resolve, and yet it was necessary to resolve on something without delay.

At length it was settled, that accompanied by the fathers Mark and Hilderic I should set forward with Minna, and throw myself at the feet of our enemy. In the mean while the Abbot consented to watch over my husband’s actions; a consent, which he seemed to give with evident reluctance, though the great influence which he possest over the maniac’s 289mind pointed him out as well suited for the employment.

We proceeded slowly, as those are accustomed to do, whose road conducts them to certain sorrow. The learned Hilderic endeavoured to inspire the trembling Minna with confidence, for which purpose he vainly exhausted every argument of consolation, which religion or philosophy could furnish. In the mean while, I was busied in trying to draw such information out of the simple Mark, as might confirm either my hopes, or my apprehensions. This man, both in conduct and inclinations, was in truth the best among the brotherhood of Cloister-Curwald; but his perception was so limited, that the world 290might have perished, without his having the least suspicion of such an event taking place, or being able to give the least account of it after it had happened. All that he could produce to satisfy me, were repeated assurances, that he believed the step which we were taking to be right and prudent; but as to what had past between Guiderius and Count Donat, or what reception we might reasonably expect from the latter, I found that father Mark was no less ignorant than myself.

We drew near the conqueror’s tent. My heart beat violently: what was I to expect from one, who had sworn to sacrifice me to the manes of his mother! I endeavoured to muster up all my resolution; 291I threw back my veil, and followed with desperate courage, whither the Monks conducted us. Count Donat stood before me. I threw myself at his feet, and strove to comprise in one imploring look all that I wished to ask of him, but which terror prevented me from expressing in words.

Donat’s piercing eyes dwelt for some moments on my face in silence. He then turned to one of the Friars of Curwald who stood behind him, and asked, “if this was the person, whose beauty he had heard him praise so highly?”

—“That is Urania Venosta,” answered the Monk, “Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—

Instantly the expression of Donat’s 292features changed, and the look of satisfaction, which they had worn at first, was replaced by that of aversion. He turned from me without speaking, and advanced to receive Minna, who approaching slowly raised her veil, and sank on her knees before him with that inexpressible grace, which accompanied even the most trifling of her actions.

—“Mercy! mercy!” she exclaimed, while she extended towards him her hands clasped in supplication; “mercy for the helpless and the innocent! Is it possible, that the victorious Donat should stain the glory of his sword, by directing it against trembling women, against an infirm father, against a people who willingly submit themselves to 293his power?—Oh! be that far from him!”—

Donat drew back a few steps, and gazed on her with a look, in which we endeavoured vainly to read the sentiments of his bosom. No one could guess from it, whether he suffered the fair suppliant to remain kneeling through forgetfulness of every thing but her beauty, or from feeling the same contempt for her entreaties, with which he had treated mine.

—“Rise!” said he at length in a stern voice, but whose sternness was evidently assumed; “who are you?”—

—“Minna of Mayenfield.”—

—“And your companion?” he resumed, pointing to me.

294—“Urania Venosta, my adopted mother, and the wife of your father, of your father who shudders at your approach! Oh! Donat, think how dreadful it is to be the cause of terror to a repentant father!—Mercy, Donat! Oh! mercy for us all!”—

Donat raised the imploring girl without replying; he also motioned to me to quit my kneeling posture, and then ordered his attendants to conduct us into another tent.

Towards evening he visited us, and gave that answer in person, which we had vainly solicited in the morning. Now that he had laid aside his threatening casque and blood-stained armour, he appeared to be entirely a different 295person. His manner was respectful to Minna, courteous to me. He mentioned his father in terms rather of grief than anger; Lucretia’s name, (which, as we had been informed, used to be constantly on his lips) was not pronounced by him; and in the course of conversation he once so far forgot his wrath, as to mention me by the title of “his mother.”—

—“Oh! rejoice with me, dear Minna,” I exclaimed, while I prest the Damsel of Mayenfield to my bosom; “it is now certain, that we are safe! Heard you not, that Count Donat called me mother? See’st thou in him that terrific conqueror, such as report described him? Oh! that Ethelbert were 296but here to know, and love the real character of his so dreaded son: all would be pardoned, all forgotten!”

—“That is possible,” answered Donat, who could not help smiling at the unrestrained expression of my feelings; “the only person who has anything to pardon is myself; and I cannot deny that beauty like Urania’s may well excuse an act of injustice, even though it should be monstrous as that, which was suffered by the poor Lucretia!”—

We saw, that at the recollection of Lucretia a cloud seemed to pass over Donat’s countenance, though it soon disappeared again. We therefore lost no time in mentioning to him the only request about which we were now 297anxious, fearful lest he should alter his good dispositions towards us, before they had produced the effect which was so earnestly desired.

We entreated him to suffer us to return to his anxious father, and inform him, how unjustly he had doubted his son’s filial affection. Donat hesitated, and inquired, why we were desirous of leaving him in such haste?—Besides our wish to relieve Count Ethelbert from his apprehensions without loss of time, we alleged as an excuse the impropriety of our remaining in a camp without any other females.

—“Oh!” replied Donat, “this last reason can be none for your departure; and if you have no better, I flatter myself, 298that I shall not lose your company, till after I have been presented by you to-morrow to my long-estranged father in the Castle of Sargans. You are not the only ladies in my camp; I have a wife and sister with me, who will be delighted to welcome you, and who (to confess the truth) pleaded with me in your behalf most urgently, ere I was yet decided, what answer I should make to your request.”—

It is impossible to express the various causes of satisfaction, which we discovered in these few words. It is no trifling comfort for bashful timid women to meet with persons of their own sex in a place, where they expected to find only rude turbulent soldiers; and 299here we found two benevolent beings, whose kind hearts had already induced them even without knowing us to interest themselves in our behalf. But that which above all seemed music to my ear, was the information, that one of these unknown ladies was Count Donat’s wife. In the course of our conversation, our conqueror’s eyes had frequently dwelt on Minna’s face with an expression by no means equivocal; I was strongly inclined to attribute his unexpected lenity entirely to my companion’s charms. Minna was the betrothed of another. Donat was a tyrant. My heart foreboded from these circumstances a long succession of difficulties and dangers; all of which were 300banished as phantoms existing only in my imagination, as soon as I understood, that Donat was already married, and that he hesitated not to place the young creature, whom he looked upon with so much interest, under the protection of his wife.

We were presented to the ladies, who composed Count Donat’s family. We were graciously received: yet we could not help remarking, that the behaviour of the young Countess of Carlsheim rather exprest that condescension which is only used with inferiors, than the friendly openness which marked our reception by Count Donat’s sister, who was made known to us by the name of Adelaide, Lady of the Beacon-Tower.

301Besides this, it must be confest that the appearance of the Countess Mellusina (such was the name of Donat’s wife) was by no means such, as prejudiced us in her favour. The best that could be said of her, was that she was not ugly; and the haughty manners, which she thought proper to assume, were but ill calculated to make her person appear to advantage.—Oh! how different was Mellusina from the interesting Lady of the Beacon-Tower!

—“Can this lovely woman,” I said to Minna, as soon as we were left alone, “can she be Lucretia’s daughter, and the sister of Count Donat? I vainly endeavoured to find in that heavenly 302countenance a single feature, which resembled her nearest relations.”—

Minna however maintained, that she could discover a strong likeness to Count Donat; we at length determined, that early misfortune had extinguished the brilliant fire of Lucretia’s eyes, which (on further reflection I was compelled to own) had descended to her daughter; and also that female delicacy prevented her superior stature and commanding make (in both of which she was her brother’s very counterpart) from inspiring that terrific awe, which at sight of Count Donat made every beholder’s heart tremble.

The night, which succeeded a day, in which we had gone through so much, 303and with success so unexpected, was past in a state of no trifling anxiety. Finding ourselves obliged to accept the invitation prest upon us most earnestly by Count Donat and the ladies (to remain with them till the next morning, when the camp would be raised) we entreated, that at least a messenger might be dispatched to assure Ethelbert, that his fears were without foundation. Adelaide lost no time in causing Mark and Hilderic to hasten back to the Castle, and relieve the Abbot from the difficult task of watching over the actions of a man, who was by no means fit to be trusted with himself; they were also commissioned to request Guiderius to return without delay to the camp, and 304inform us, in what manner our absence had affected the unfortunate Count of Carlsheim.

Gladly would Adelaide have accompanied the Friars, and thrown herself at the feet of her wretched father, whom she had never seen. Her brother however did not think proper to permit her departure; and she now shared in our uneasiness at perceiving, that one hour after another stole away without the arrival of any intelligence from the Castle.

Yet great as was my own anxiety, it was evidently far inferior to Adelaide’s. Her evident agitation was so excessive, that I found some difficulty in ascribing it entirely to the interest, which she felt 305about a father, whom she had never seen, and for whom she had nothing to fear, since his fate depended on her brother. She had suddenly left the tent during supper without taking leave of us: it was already past midnight; when, guiding her steps with a dark lanthorn, we saw her return, under the pretence of paying us those compliments of the night, which she had before omitted, and of talking over with us undisturbed the circumstances of our mutual inquietude. But it was clear, that she had not yet mentioned all her motives for visiting us at this unusual hour. Somewhat lay concealed in her heart, which she longed to reveal; unluckily she delayed the wished disclosure, 306till the opportunity was lost. The curtain, which closed our tent, was suddenly withdrawn, and Mellusina entered.

While her manner gave us to understand, that her presence was an honour which she bestowed on us extremely against her own inclination, she entreated permission to share our nocturnal conference. Adelaide inquired with her accustomed gentleness, why her dear sister should think it necessary to deprive herself of her night’s repose?

—“You have not the same cause that we have,” said she, “to watch away the melancholy hours; sleep is not banished from your eyes, by anxiety 307for the fate of an husband and a father, and by those foreboding fears of some misfortune having befallen him, which the long delay of our messenger must needs excite.”—

—“Whatever may be the reason,” answered the Countess coldly, “I found it impossible to sleep. The glimmering of your lamp attracted me hither, and I was much surprised ... much rejoiced, I meant to say, ... at finding that you, Adelaide, had arrived here before me!”—

Good heavens! how is it possible for any being possest of common feeling, to intrude into a circle without any other object, than disturbing the pleasure of those who are already assembled! 308Mellusina’s situation must have been as unpleasant to herself, as her presence was to us. She resisted with difficulty her inclination to slumber; and on the other hand, we suffered under the most torturing impatience to see her either departing, or asleep. It was more evident with every moment, that matters of the utmost importance floated upon the lips of Adelaide, and we waited with inexpressible anxiety for the moment, when she would be at liberty to disclose them.

Thus did we mutually torment each other during more than half the night; when suddenly we were startled by a circumstance, at once the most unaccountable and the most impossible for 309me to forget.—It was almost morning. We were all silent, for we had long exhausted the few uninteresting topics, on which we could converse with Mellusina.

Adelaide had already made two or three movements, as if she would have taken leave of us, and yet could not resolve to abandon all hopes of finding an opportunity of speaking to us unobserved. The lights burned faintly. Mellusina’s eyes at length closed; and to our great delight we saw her head recline against her shoulder with a look, which convinced us, that sleep had at last taken complete possession of her. Adelaide drew nearer to us, and pressing her finger on her lip with an air of 310caution, pointed with her other hand to the sleeping Mellusina. At that moment * * * * *

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho.

Transcriber’s Notes: Errata listed in volume IV have been applied to this volume. Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. Typographical errors were silently corrected. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book.