Volume 3 / Part 2 — PART II.

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MEMOIRS

Found in the Cell of a Nun, after her Decease, in the Convent of Zurich.

Since Amabel Bloomberg traced the letters which will be found with this, how many years have elapsed! how many changes have taken place! How 2many persons are now insensible dust, who are described as agitated with such anxious fears and ardent hopes, by the pens of Amabel and the Damsels of Sargans! Accident has also made me mistress of the letters of those unfortunate sisters. Accident, did I say? Surely, it was something more than mere chance, which brought them into the hands of her, who is most able to supply that chasm, which otherwise would have been left in these adventures.

To undertake this task I have both leisure and information sufficient. My fate was too closely united with that of the sisters, to permit the slightest particular concerning them to be concealed from me; and jointly with theirs will 3my name be handed down to posterity.

Yet is it not an idle vanity, a love of worldly fame, which makes me desire this species of immortality?—Well then, I will repress the wish. Long practised in self-denial, I will make even this last sacrifice to my celestial spouse, and will write, as if I treated of strangers and of interests quite foreign to myself. No one shall know my name except Heaven, to whom alone is thoroughly known, how much I have suffered!

When I entered the world, the course of innocence and beauty lay among a thousand snares and pit-falls, which were the more dangerous from being most artfully concealed. This is a truth 4which I learnt to my cost, before I sought, and found, tranquillity in a convent.

Amabel was blind to those snares; though they were spread carelessly enough for her to have seen them, had not her own guileless nature thrown a veil over her eyes, and had not female obstinacy made her reject the prudent warnings of her best friends.

The visit to Engelberg, which she had agreed upon in concert with her brother’s wife, was made the next day; and the latter, as young, imprudent, and unsuspicious as Amabel, undertook to excuse her sister-in-law’s absence to the jealous Arnold, and the sick old man, who suffered no quarter of an 5hour to pass without enquiring for his daughter. However, Juttila engaged to invent some means for satisfying him till Amabel’s return, which was delayed much longer than either of them intended.

How indeed could she return so speedily, since adventures encountered her on the road, on which she little reckoned, and whose nature was of sufficient consequence to have a fearful influence over herself, and over all those who were most dear to her? Alas! the cottage which she left with such a thoughtless heart, she was destined to revisit no more with such content: the fate of the two sisters, which she was so eager to learn, was now enveloped by such 6impenetrable darkness, that she in vain.... But I am running away from the proper order of events, which in truth it is natural for one of my profession and time of life to do. Be it known to you, my youthful readers that it is not easy for an old doating Nun to transcribe even a verse out of her Psalter, without tacking to it at least a dozen of her own childish observations.

At Engelberg Amabel found the Nun to whom Wolfenrad had directed her to apply, and who was his confidante and the secret instrument for effecting the carrying away of Amalberga. She assured Amabel, that her friend had by no means been forced away; but that on account of the assiduities of the 7Lord of Landenberg, and the popular disturbances which increased with every day, Amalberga had voluntarily chosen to withdraw herself from Engelberg.

—“Your partiality for the governor,” said the artful hypocrite, “and your incessant pleading in behalf of a man whom she could not love, made the Lady unwilling to let you know her design. I was her sole confidante on this occasion, and I think I have done well in enabling the dear soul to escape from the temptations of the wicked world! She has taken refuge in the Convent of Zurich, under the protection of an old Lady called Urania, who is either her friend or some near relation, for I understand, never was there joy 8known equal to that of their meeting.”—

In this account Amabel could not discover the least vestige of deception or improbability: still she blamed the Nun greatly for concealing the real cause of Amalberga’s disappearance, by which means the spirit of discontent was encouraged among the people against Landenberg, who bore the odium of having violated the sanctuary, and forcibly carried away an inmate of those holy walls.

The Nun made but an indifferent defence against this charge, and Amabel left her by no means satisfied with her conduct. However, she soon forgot what little had displeased her in the 9Nun’s conversation, and gave herself up entirely to the joy of being assured, that one of her friends at least was safe in the arms of friendship and of maternal love.

—“Oh! that I could but have the same assurance respecting my beloved Emmeline!” thus said Amabel to herself, as she hastened back to her brother’s cottage; “Oh! that as I pass homewards, chance would but throw Wolfenrad in my way, that I might learn from him what he knows about the dear-one! He might just tell me in half a dozen words, and then hurry away, in order that I might not blush too deep a crimson, when the severe Censurer of my actions looks me in the 10face, and says with his magisterial air,—‘Now, Amabel! whence do you come, and with whom have you spoken?’—How ridiculous, that Arnold should take it into his head, that an old man like Wolfenrad has designs upon a young creature like me, not yet twenty! Yet ridiculous as it is, his anxiety proceeds from the warmth of his affection for me, and I ought to forgive my good Arnold for the faults of his head, when I recollect the kindness of his heart.”—

Such were the thoughts which occupied Amabel, as she hastily retraced the long way between her home and the Convent; and as she past along, she threw many an anxious look on every 11side in hopes of seeing the man, who alone could confirm to her the fortunate escape of her friend. Wolfenrad had frequently business that carried him to Engelberg, and it was by no means improbable, that she should encounter him on her way.

In fact, the tempter had long been at no great distance from the fair pilgrim, though without her seeing him; since he stole along concealed by a thick hawthorn plantation, which bordered more than half the road between the village and the Convent of Engelberg.

It is easy for the wicked to guess what steps will be taken by unsuspecting innocence, whose proceedings are the natural result of existing circumstances 12and feelings. Wolfenrad knew how warmly Amabel’s heart was interested about her friends; he had given her hopes of obtaining intelligence respecting them; he had pointed out the place, where a part of those hopes might be realized; and he was therefore certain of finding her on the road to that place, before many days were elapsed. He had accidentally missed seeing her on her way to Engelberg; but when on her return she was descending the Convent-hill, he espied her from behind the watch-tower which stands at the farthest extremity of the mount, and then hastened to shelter himself behind the hawthorn hedge, in order that he might unseen watch her motions, and 13discover what temper she was in, before he accosted her.

And thus did he for some time steal along, examining every change of her expressive countenance, and drawing but too just conclusions of the subject, which employed her thoughts. Her look, now gay, now sorrowful, and the impatient glances which she frequently threw around her, would have been sufficient to betray her, even though a few broken sentences, which escaped from her in the anxiety of her mind, had not left him without a doubt of his presence being perfectly welcome.

Wolfenrad’s plans for the innocent girl’s ruin had been so long arranged, that they were ready to be carried into 14effect at a moment’s warning; nor could he have wished for a more favourable opportunity than the present. The fiercest passion for Amabel reigned in his bosom, and deceived him who was so well skilled in deceiving others. He fancied, that in her impatient looks, in the tone which she used in pronouncing his name occasionally, there was something more than mere friendship for Emmeline, and that love was the motive that made her so anxious to meet him! Immortal powers! Love! love from a girl, pure as innocence itself, for such an earthly dæmon, a dæmon both in person and in mind!

—“Yet however she may be disposed,” ’twas thus he argued with himself, 15 “too abrupt an appearance, too hasty a discovery of my views, might do me a prejudice, and put her too much upon her guard. When her impatience is worked up to the highest pitch, I shall be the more secure of her.”—

And therefore he still remained invisible, and hastened onwards, keeping still a little way before her; so that when the fair pilgrim reached the end of the plantation, and emerged into the open plain, she descried him crossing the path at some distance, as if totally unaware of her approach.

Amabel gave a cry of joy, called him by his name, and flew to join him.

—“Is it you, my fair dame?” answered Wolfenrad. “What would you 16with me?”—and he stopped, as waiting for her to come up to him.

—“Oh! tell me! tell me! give me some tidings of the damsel of Sargans!”—

—“You have been to Engelberg, and surely must have heard more there, than I am able to tell you.”—

“Oh! no, no, no! Emmeline! speak of Emmeline!”—

—“Why, the Lady Emmeline.... Concealment being absolutely necessary.... But we are close to your jealous brother’s house, and he may take offence at our conference—Farewell! I must find an opportunity of communicating what I know unobserved, when I return from Uri.”—

17“From Uri? Heavens! and when do you go thither, and how long shall you remain away?”—

—“I set out to-morrow; as to my stay, I fear the disturbances there will make my return very distant.”—

Amabel’s impatience to know something decisive respecting her friend now grew beyond all bounds. She entreated him at least to put it out of doubt that Emmeline had been saved from the flames, and hesitated not to follow him into a bye-path, which conducted to the Castle. As they passed along, the deceiver began a long and wonderful narrative of Emmeline’s adventures, which occupied his auditor’s whole attention; but as it contained not one syllable of truth, it 18would be superfluous to relate it here.

—“But one question more!” said Amabel at length, and stopped. “See! night is approaching; we are already at the foot of the Castle-hill, and I have still a weary way to traverse, ere I can regain my brother’s cottage, where, I fear, I must be already missed. You assure me that Emmeline is safe, and is concealed in the neighbourhood: Oh! tell me then where she is concealed, for my bosom pants to embrace her!”—

—“That were easily done. You see the Castle is close at hand: thither have I brought her, and I mean to convey her with me to Uri to-morrow, since the disturbances which prevail in 19these parts render them an unsafe abode.”—

—“To Uri? To-morrow? Cruel, cruel Wolfenrad! Would you then have removed her, without suffering me to see her for one moment?”—

—“How could I have contrived an interview without betraying the secret? Had not accident thrown you in my way, I should not have had an opportunity of even telling you, that she is in your neighbourhood. However, as soon as she was out of the reach of discovery, you would have received a letter explaining every thing. I left her occupied in writing it, and when finished it was to be delivered to your husband’s care, who is now with her at the 20Castle, and who has been the chief means of bringing her hither in safety.”—

—“What say you? My husband? Is Edmund then with Emmeline? Oh! lead me to him, dear Wolfenrad, I must accompany you to the Castle; permit me to pass this last evening with the dear lady; or at least suffer me to embrace her once more, and assure her of my unchanged affection, and then my husband can conduct me back to my brother.”—

Wolfenrad heard this proposal with a malicious smile, and answered that for his part he had no objection; but he suggested his fears, lest her taking such a step should displease the suspicious 21Arnold, who surpassed her husband in jealousy a thousand fold.

—“Oh! heed not that!” exclaimed Amabel; “while I am with you, I can set all suspicions at defiance!”—

She said this thoughtlessly, for she alluded to his age and ugliness. The miscreant however interpreted it to his own taste, and saw in it the confirmation of his insolent hopes. He was on the point of rewarding the avowal by a tender pressure of her hand, which perhaps might have opened her eyes, ere it was too late: but she prevented him by making a thousand fond enquiries respecting her beloved Edmund, which put him again upon his guard, and which were not ended till they arrived 22at the Castle. The gates were closed: Wolfenrad sounded his horn; the draw-bridge descended. He entered the Castle; Amabel followed him, and the moment that she had passed the threshold, heard with terror the noise of a port-cullis falling behind her.

How strange is it, that we should frequently remain thoroughly blind till we reach a certain point, and then be rouzed at once from our delusions by some unimportant circumstance! Amabel has frequently told me since, that the sound of that port-cullis (though nothing unusual in the Castle) gave her the first indistinct idea of her imprudence and the danger of her situation.

Her voice faltered, as she pronounced 23the names of Edmund and Emmeline, while she hastily withdrew her hand, which Wolfenrad had now seized with an air of impetuous passion. She looked him anxiously in the face, and her eyes read with horror in his an expression, which explained to her the whole fearful secret.

Yet she was still unwilling to believe that man so great a villain, whom she had long believed so much her friend. It was not till she was convinced, that neither Edmund nor Emmeline were in the Castle; that she found herself totally alone with the wretch, whom she had despised as being too insignificant to be dangerous; and that an old woman, whom (in order to calm the first 24violence of her feelings) he had produced to her as his wife, was nothing more than a domestic; it was not till then, that she saw the whole business clearly, and the sight was one of such danger, that perhaps had she been a woman of a common mind, it would have thrown her into such a state of bodily insensibility, or of mental dejection, as might effectually have prevented all endeavours to effect an escape. But Amabel was a daughter of Helvetia! that is, she was a woman, whose powers both of body and mind existed in their fullest vigour; neither the first was weakened by luxurious indulgence, nor the second liable to be subdued by imaginary terrors. In spite 25of all that credulity and imprudence which had betrayed her into her present danger, her imagination was still both clear and acute enough to suggest a means for effecting her rescue, or at least for gaining time.

She appeared reserved and shy, and sat down in silence to the voluptuous entertainment, which was now served up by Wolfenrad’s confidante; the only person, whom he suffered to penetrate into that part of the Castle. Yet did Amabel contrive to give her silence the appearance of being preserved much against her will; she refused not at Wolfenrad’s request to lay aside the large hat, which overshadowed her face, and which (as he complained) concealed 26from him numberless beauties; nor did she draw away very hastily or with a look of extreme displeasure her soft white hand, when he prest it passionately between his own.

—“May I flatter myself,” said the deceived deceiver, “that Amabel does not absolutely hate me?”—

—“My religion forbids my hating any one.”—

—“And you are not very much offended at my having employed a little artifice to procure myself the happiness of this evening?”—

“—Artifice?—Nay; the effect of accident, and ... and, I am afraid, my own inclination was so much on your side, that....”—

27—“My charming Amabel! then I may hope, that Wolfenrad is not entirely indifferent to you!”—

—“Indifferent? Oh! that you are not indeed!—And as to hoping ... why, nobody can prevent your doing that, you know.”—

And with this kind of doubtful and flattering discourse did she long entertain the betrayer, and forgot not to fill the silver bowls from time to time; though the effects of his frequent draughts prevented him from observing, that while she poured wine into his goblet, nothing but water entered into her own.

At the expence of a few disgusting kisses, which were forced from her occasionally, 28she at length had the pleasure to see Wolfenrad fall senseless from his chair. It was midnight; the old woman had long since betaken herself to rest, and Amabel found herself at liberty to wander through the vacant chambers in search of some means of escape.

Alas! the locks and bars were immoveable, and no keys were to be found.—She at length discovered an unfastened door opening into a balcony; it overhung the middle court; the height was fearful; yet would she have gladly ran the hazard of springing below, if she had not dreaded the meeting there with a greater danger, than that from which she was flying. The 29Castle-Garrison occupied this quarter. She heard from above the conversation, which passed between the sentinels; and its nature was such as to leave her no hope of finding from them protection or even pity. It also informed her, that Wolfenrad’s bounty, and his winking at their committing the most heinous offences, had united them too closely to his interests, to admit even a chance of their acting in opposition to his will.

She wept in agony! She wrung her hands! At length despair took possession of her whole soul. She eyed for a while the torch, which flamed in her hand, and in a moment of desperate resolution she determined to set the Castle on fire; in hopes of either being able to 30effect her escape during the conflagration, or at least of saving herself by death from existing for one instant with dishonour.

Thus resolved, she was on the point of quitting the balcony when a well-known name struck her ear. She stopt, and listened. Two sentinels stood beneath the balcony, and she heard one tell the other, that it would be necessary to wake Wolfenrad; for that he (the sentinel) was just returned from the outer wall, and had seen a company of soldiers crossing over the plain; that he had hailed one of them, and found them to be part of those who had accompanied Bloomberg to Sargans, and that their leader with the rest of his troops would follow them before mid-day.

31—“Bloomberg their leader?” said his companion. “And since when has the gentle peace-loving Bloomberg turned soldier, and what has Wolfenrad to fear from a fellow, who but yesterday followed the plough?”—

“Faith,” rejoined the first, “this is a time, when every countryman exchanges his sickle and ploughshare for a sword and spear; and I know enough of Edmund Bloomberg to be convinced, that the carrying off his pretty wife will make him rage like a mad bull.”—

—“Carrying off, d’ye call it?” said the other; “I think, she seemed to follow Wolfenrad of her own accord; and if Bloomberg draws his sword upon her account, the more fool Bloomberg!”—

32A burst of insulting laughter terminated this conversation, every syllable of which pierced Amabel to the heart; and the soldiers separated, having agreed that it was unnecessary to disturb Wolfenrad that night, and that the news of Bloomberg’s return might safely be delayed till the next morning.

Amabel burst into tears; but she soon recollected, that she had better occupation than weeping. A thousand ideas floated before her mind, inspired by the distant hope which she derived from the assurance, that in a few hours her husband would pass within sight of her prison. The great object therefore was to gain time to wait for his arrival with safety, and find means to inform him of her confinement in the Castle.

33Accident furnished her with both. She returned trembling into the apartment, where the vile Wolfenrad still lay sleeping, the most odious picture of intoxication that the eye ever witnessed. Despair made her snatch a knife from the table, and she rushed to plunge it into his heart; but here the softness of woman’s nature got the better of her resolution and her vengeance. She threw down the knife, and hastened into the balcony, that in the free air and under the sky thick sown with stars, she might implore the Creator of that sky to look down upon and assist her in this hour of fear and danger. She rose from prayer much comforted: she turned towards the East, and looked 34eagerly for the arrival of the dawn, whose approach was already announced. She soon perceived, that the balcony in which she stood, though much too high from the ground to admit of her throwing herself from it without being dashed to pieces, at least commanded an extensive view over the surrounding country, and was admirably calculated for summoning any passing travellers to her assistance.

Oh! now, would but the sleeping Libertine doze away the morning, all might be well! Often did she steal softly into the chamber to see, whether he gave any signs of waking; again the knife attracted her gaze. She seized it, and concealed it in her bosom, as her last resource should all others fail.

35It was now broad-day. Wolfenrad stretched himself, yawned, and opened his red eye-lids. Amabel fled to a distant corner, but his voice soon compelled her to return.

—“My charming angel,” said he, “come near me. You filled my goblet last night too generously, and this morning I feel myself still under the influence of the too potent liquor. Beshrew me, but I am marvellously indisposed.”—

—“Let not that trouble you, my dear friend,” answered Amabel, while she advanced a few paces, trembling with apprehension; “while I resided in the Castle of Sargans, Count Donat frequently found himself unwell from a 36similar indulgence in convivial pleasures; but he soon got the better of his indisposition by using a warm bath, which never failed to restore him to perfect health within an hour. In the next chamber there is a large brazen cistern; the water shall be heated for you without delay, and as soon as your bath is ready, I will call some of your attendants to convey you thither.”—

Without waiting for his answer, she hastened to her new occupation; she soon returned with one pitcher of water, then went back again for another, and thus contrived to get rid of near an hour, never failing as she passed the balcony to cast from it a glance of enquiry, whether there were yet no signs of her deliverer.

37It was in vain, that Wolfenrad desired her to call some of the servants to spare her this unnecessary labour. Amabel remonstrated against the impropriety of suffering herself to be seen by strangers in his apartment, and at the same time protested, that she felt the greatest pleasure in taking this trouble, since it was for him that she took it. Wolfenrad knew not how to find terms sufficiently strong to express his gratitude for her attention, and protested, that he had not flattered himself with the idea of possessing so warm an interest in her heart.

He was still expatiating on the satisfaction which this agreeable discovery gave him, when the sound of trampling 38at a distance struck her hearing. She looked towards the window, and descried a cloud of dust. Down fell the pitcher from her hand.

—“Your bath is ready!” she said in a voice scarcely audible from agitation; and while Wolfenrad staggered into the adjoining chamber, she hastened into the balcony. The horsemen came nearer; she recognized many countenances well known to her; she recognized among them that of Edmund Bloomberg.

His name pronounced in her loudest tone, the cry of “Help for the Virgin’s sake!” and her handkerchief waved in the air towards the horsemen, soon attracted their attention. With equal 39surprise and terror Bloomberg recognized his wife at a balcony of the Castle, heard her implore assistance, and flew with his brave companions to afford it. What followed, I shall relate briefly: the narrative of this adventure may appear already too circumstantial, since its connexion with the Sisters of Sargans is not at present evident; but it had too material an influence upon the fate of all Helvetia to admit of my passing it over with a slight mention.

Before the Castle-Garrison had time to communicate to their Superior that intelligence, which they ought to have conveyed to him the preceding night, and while all hands were busily employed in guarding against an attack on the 40main-quarter, Bloomberg and his friends had already forced their way into the Castle at that neglected side, whence Amabel had called to them for assistance.

The bath, in which the still half-intoxicated Wolfenrad hoped to get rid of the effects of his night’s excess, was crimsoned with his blood. Amabel again found herself safe in the hands of her husband, in whose bosom delight contended with indignation. The opposition of the garrison to the complete conquest of the Castle was but trifling; and this fortress would certainly have remained in the hands of the Helvetians (a circumstance to them of the greatest advantage) had their numbers been 41strong enough to resist the troops, who were shortly after sent against them by the Abbot of St. Gall and other allies of the governor. Bloomberg’s friends were inadequate to maintaining the possession of their conquest, and in a few days afterwards he was compelled to evacuate the Castle.

Hitherto, the resentment of the multitude had been restrained within some bounds: but Amabel’s adventure and the death of Wolfenrad were the signal for open rebellion. The whole country was floated with blood: would that I could say, that the blood which flowed was entirely that of the foes of freedom! But alas! the number of the oppressors was too mighty. The Helvetians 42were over-powered; and after displaying the sentiments and performing the actions of heroes, Edmund Bloomberg, Arnold Melthal, and his venerable father Henric (to whom patriotism and his daughter’s injuries had restored some of his youthful strength) were constrained to fly from those beloved unhappy vallies, which once had been the favourite abodes of freedom and tranquillity.

The name of “flight” was of itself offensive to Helvetian candour and courage; the place to which they were compelled to address their flight, made it no less painful than disgraceful. Altdorf, which was in the jurisdiction of Gessler, whose tyranny had already been the 43cause of such bitter sufferings to Henric and Arnold, was the only refuge which remained to them. By remaining here quiet and concealed, till time allowed them to find fresh means of resisting their enemies, they hoped to escape Gessler’s notice; and accordingly they hastened to take shelter at Altdorf, with the brave William Tell, Bloomberg’s half-brother: here also they were sure of a powerful protector in the person of Walter Forest, a man whose situation and native greatness of mind struck awe into the bosom even of the insolent Gessler.

Here then the fugitives remained concealed, and nourished hopes of better times, which perhaps would have 44made even the present chearful, had not domestic discord obtruded itself into their little circle. The imprudence with which Amabel had thrown herself into the seducer’s snare, in spite of all his warnings and remonstrances, had not passed uncensured by her brother. His bitter reproaches sometimes excited Edmund’s anger, and sometimes his jealousy; and the poor girl would have been absolutely wretched, had not her father sustained her cause, and had not her innocence found a most strenuous advocate in William Tell. It is true, the language of veracity, in which she related her unadorned story, was not to be mistaken; but still it required Tell’s cool unprejudiced nature, and his 45noble guileless heart, to see every circumstance in its real colours.

He at length succeeded in restoring perfect harmony in Bloomberg’s family, and Amabel blessed him for the second time as the author of all her earthly happiness. Perhaps, her entire reconciliation with her husband was a little forwarded by Arnold’s absence. This impetuous young man had been the ring-leader of those, who at the Easter feast had insulted the Abbot of St. Gall by singing the ballad of “Bishop Ulric;” the Abbot had not forgotten it; and the unfortunate Arnold at length fell into one of the many snares, which had been spread for him by his priestly foe. Doubtless, he would have fallen a 46victim to the Abbot’s vengeance, had not Werner Bernsdorf, by means which it is unnecessary to relate circumstantially, contrived to release him from his dungeon, and sheltered him in his own house.

Though Amabel had received her husband’s full pardon, still the reconciliation had taken place too freshly to allow her as yet to feel quite at her ease: and now when the news arrived that her brother (whom she loved most dearly in spite of his violence) was a prisoner, she would have had sufficient reason to be unhappy, even had she not been tormented by the most cruel anxiety respecting the fate of the Damsels of Sargans. She ceased not to make enquiries 47concerning them; and at length she received the confirmation of her bitterest apprehensions. Amalberga was beyond a doubt totally in Landenberg’s power, who (in spite of all Wolfenrad’s assertions to the contrary) kept her confined in the Castle of Rassburg; nor was it less certain, that the Lady Emmeline had perished in the flames of St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary. Report spread far and wide many strange anecdotes respecting that conflagration, which I shall relate in another place; in truth, there is no one better able to give an account of that dreadful incident than myself.

The tears, which Amabel shed for herself and for her beloved friends, were 48soon required by a still more painful cause: misfortunes now awaited her, which were worthy to be mourned with tears of blood.

The furious Gessler’s insolence increased with every succeeding day. His most earnest care was to discover those who disapproved of him, that he might revenge himself by their torments. At length his pride and folly grew to such a height, that he fixed the plumed bonnet (which he usually wore) upon a lance in the market-place of Altdorf, and ordered, that all who passed should bow before it. The sneering populace obeyed, and contented themselves with whispering to each other, that they had much rather pay their 49respect to the empty hat, than the wicked head which it was accustomed to decorate: but William Tell and some few others of the principal inhabitants passed by the bonnet proudly and with unbending necks. From that moment did Gessler mark them down as the future victims of his revenge and rancour.

Had the tyrant dared to lay violent hands on Tell, or had he contrived means of stamping the mark of infamy on his reputation; had he sold the wife of his bosom for a slave, or murdered his infants before his eyes; still would all these atrocities have been excelled by that, which now entered his infernal brain. A prize was to be contended for 50by archers. The sport was interrupted by the arrival of Gessler. What was the horror of all who heard him, when he commanded his guards to seize Tell’s son, a lovely child but four years old, and bind him to the tree which had been selected as a mark for the arrows. He then declared aloud with the most impious execrations, that the heads of six of Tell’s relations (whom he had confined upon some slight pretences) should fall before night, unless the father would engage at a considerable distance to fix a dart into an apple, which should be placed on the head of the child.

How did the father burn with secret indignation, when Gessler dared to lay before him this unnatural proposal! 51No earthly force could have compelled him to arm his hand for the performance of an action so uncertain and so fearful; yet in fact the bow and arrow could be scarcely called an uncertain weapon in the hands of the most dexterous archer in Helvetia: and after a few moments past in thought he confidently accepted a proposal, whose atrocity (he was certain) was thoroughly felt by all present; and whose consequence he trusted would be the kindling the fire of liberty in every bosom till it should at length break into open flames, and the emancipating his country for ever from its present state of ignominious bondage.

A glance, more expressing contempt 52than wrath, was darted by Tell’s dark eyes upon the Governor, as he rocked himself backwards and forwards upon his elevated chair of state, and looked down upon the circle of noble Helvetians, whom the sports had attracted to Altdorf, as if they had been creatures of an inferior kind.

Gessler was too void of sensibility to understand the meaning of the glance, which was darted on him by Tell’s piercing eye. He only smiled contemptuously at having compelled the pride of this great mind to stoop itself to his orders, when he saw him press the lovely laughing child, his latest-born, to his heart with passion, and then bear him in his arms to the tree, where he was 53destined to take his stand. The apple, which was the nominal mark for that arrow, whose point Gessler hoped to see crimsoned with human blood, was fixed on the child’s head by the hands of the unhappy father.

Gessler’s attendants prepared to bind the innocent creature to the tree; but a spark of paternal spirit already burned in the soul of the son.

—“I am an Helvetian!” cried he with boyish eagerness; “I am not afraid of death, but of bonds: why, if my father really wanted to kill me, do you think I would run away?”—

All withdrew from the place, where Death’s intended victim stood calm and sweetly-smiling, like a second Isaac. The 54multitude, agonized with terror, could scarcely be heard to breathe: Tell had already taken his station. All were still, all dreading, lest the father’s hand, rendered trembling and uncertain by anxiety for his darling, should for the first time miss the mark; when the arrow whistled through the air, and fixed itself in the apple just above the crown of the child’s head, who saw it coming towards him, and smiled as he marked its flight.

Now then all rushed, eagerly to learn the event of this awful scene. Some exclaimed—“He is fallen! he is fallen!”—But the boy had only stooped to pick up the apple which the force of the blow had struck from his head; and he 55now presented it to his father, who had flown to embrace his rescued darling with speed scarce inferior to that of his arrow.

—“I was certain, father,” cried the child, as he hung round the neck of the breathless Tell, “I was certain, that you were not really going to kill your own William!”—

—“Kill thee?” exclaimed the father; “sooner would I have driven the arrow into my own heart! But eternal curses and sudden death to him, who would have made a man the murderer of his own child! Look!” he continued, while he clasped the boy to his breast with one hand, and with the other drew from his bosom a dart, which he held 56towards Gessler, “Look, monster! had the first arrow pierced my son’s breast, this should have been buried to the very beard in thine.—For this time thou art safe; but yet rest thou assured, that at the last thou shalt not escape unpunished! Though I may spare thee, Heaven will not.”—

—“Vengeance! vengeance! death and curses to the tyrant! Eternal destruction to the infernal Gessler and all the miscreants who assist him!” thus exclaimed the multitude with one voice; while they closed round Tell in order to conduct him home in safety, and protect him from the Governor’s guards, to whom a signal had been given to fall upon him without delay.

57But the friends of liberty were too weak in numbers to resist their powerful oppressors. Before the gallant Tell had retraced half the way to his cottage, his companions were dispersed, and himself delivered into the hands of his enemy. Gessler commanded, that he should be bound, thrown into a vessel which was ready for sailing, and conveyed to the dungeons of Kussnach, as a violator of the respect due to imperial dignity.

No one was suffered to accompany Tell; but his little son clung to the bonds which were cutting the flesh of his father, and cried, that he would throw himself into the flood, if they tore him from him. Gessler’s soldiers 58had no objection to taking two victims instead of one, and yielded to the child’s request, whom Amabel followed into the vessel without being questioned. The boy was her darling, and it was she who had conducted him to the fatal archery, where it was his destiny to play so principal a part. The cry that he was safe had rouzed her from the swoon into which the sight of his danger had thrown her; and she now found it impossible to part so soon from the cherub, whom she had expected never more to clasp to her bosom but as a corse. She had also no slight grounds for apprehending new dangers for the rescued victim, should she leave him in the hands of his enemies with no other 59protector than his captive father. Gessler’s servile ministers could not have well pitched upon a more skilful or certain means of inflicting pain on Tell, than by murdering his son before his face.

Amabel was aware of this; and dreading lest this horrible plan of vengeance should occur to the soldiers, she took the first opportunity of enticing the child away from his father, and concealing him in a dark corner of the vessel. Here she charged the little William to remain quiet, and pointing to Tell, bade him observe how quiet his father was lying on the floor, his fettered hands clasped together and raised towards Heaven, whither his eyes directed 60devout and imploring glances, which reached the Preserver of innocence above the clouds.

—“What is my father doing?” enquired the child at length in a whisper.

—“He is praying for himself and for us,” answered Amabel.

—“Oh! then God will hear him, and help him; and then you know, we can creep out, and take away those ugly cords from his poor bleeding hands.”—

Amabel replied in the manner, which she thought most likely to satisfy the child; and a conversation was carried on in whispers between her and her little companion which gradually became interesting enough to prevent their observing that a dreadful storm was rising, 61that thick clouds had changed the day into night, and that the light vessel was forced far out of its intended course. The rolling of the thunder, the frequent flashes of lightning, and the heavy torrents of rain at length made both attentive and silent; till William proposed that he should steal to his father under covert of the thick darkness, and spread his little coat over him, for Tell lay entirely exposed to the tempest. Amabel burst into tears as she listened to the kind-hearted boy, then gave him her own cloak, and bade him hasten to alleviate the prisoner’s sufferings.

But Tell showed by no sign, that he was conscious of this affecting testimony 62of his child’s care: he remained with his hands clasped, and his eyes still fixed upon the heavens. Perhaps, the transactions of that day had blunted all his feelings; perhaps, he was revolving plans of escape, which never fail to occupy the thoughts of the captive hero, and whose future execution frequently prevent his being sensible of the weight of present calamities.

The tempest continued to rage: with every moment the danger of the slight vessel became more imminent. Tell, Amabel, and the child were now left by themselves. The other persons were employed in various quarters, endeavouring if possible to save the ship, which was already deprived of sail and 63mast. The prisoners were now the happiest of the party: they at least rejoiced in the hope of perishing together. The child too, who had no clear idea of the danger, and fancied that everything went wrong only because his father was in bonds, ceased not to exert all his little powers in endeavouring to untye the cords; but even with Amabel’s assistance he found the task too difficult for his strength.

While they were still employed in this unavailing labour, they heard the cry of distress increase with tenfold violence: presently some one on the upper deck exclaimed—“Now then all is lost! What winds and waves have failed in doing, will be done by the hidden rocks 64which abound upon this coast, and with which not a soul of us is acquainted. Oh! what would I now give to be as good a pilot as Tell, and to possess his knowledge of these shores!”—

Amabel started up, and listened with more attention. She heard the name of Tell frequently mentioned; and after a few minutes past in contention, some of the sailors approached the place, where she stood by the side of her unfortunate friend.

—“Tell,” said the Captain, “you know, that your life is forfeit to the law; but if you will engage to conduct the vessel safe to land, as a favour we will unbind you, and promise to do our utmost to obtain a milder sentence for you from the Emperor’s mercy.”—

65—“I have saved many a vessel,” answered Tell, “in a more desperate situation than the present; and that which has succeeded with me ten times before, I trust, will not fail with me now.—As to what you say about favours, bestow them on those who ask them; I expect mercy from no one, save from Him under whose hand we all now tremble!”—

Tell was unbound, and the rudder committed to his care. William and Amabel still remained close by his side, while the rest of the ship’s company dispersed to their several stations.

Tell’s rudder seemed to command the tempest: he steered confidently through the foaming waves, and already the 66companions of his danger shouted with joy at the certainty of their escape.

—“And what will be the reward of our preserver?” asked one of the most compassionate among Gessler’s soldiers.

—“What should it be?” answered their leader angrily. “The most he can lay claim to is a speedy death without being previously tortured; or perhaps his sentence may be softened into that of eternal imprisonment.”—

Tell was silent, and cast a despairing look through the dark clouds of the storm towards the Only-one, from whom he had hopes of assistance!

—“Oh! that I had no one here to tremble for, except myself!” said Tell to the afflicted Amabel, who knelt beside 67him after a silence of some minutes—“how quickly should I be safe from the malice of my enemies!”—

—“And what then would you do?”—

—“The rocks are not lofty! One bold and lucky spring, and I were in safety!”—

—“Throw me into the waves, father!” cried the boy, “throw me into the waves, for I am a hindrance to you!”—

At that moment a tremendous flash of lightning illuminated the whole scene. Tell descried an immense tree at a slight distance growing out of a rock which they were approaching, and extending its arms far over the foaming flood—

68“Amabel!” cried Tell, “dare you seize a bough of that tree as we pass under it, suffer the bark to be carried away from you, and cling fast to the branch, till I have time to come to your assistance?”—

—“I dare! I dare!” cried Amabel in the tone of desperation—“But the child! Oh! God! the child!”—

—“Be that my care!—Be prepared!—Now then!” he cried, and was obeyed. He saw that she had fast hold of the bough, and in the same moment he seized the boy with his left arm, with his right turned the rudder to-wards the rock, then sprang boldly from the deck, and left the vessel with its unthankful freight a prey to the 69raging flood. The tempest seized it; the rudder was broken in the shock, and dreadful was the shriek of the crew, as the fury of the winds and waves drove it far away over the roaring billows. Tell sprang upon the rock unhurt; he hastily climbed up the upper part of the coast, and having placed the boy on the ground, he flew to give Amabel his assistance. But she, who was deficient neither in strength of body or presence of mind, had already found means to gain the rock in which the tree was rooted, had forced her way through all impediments, and had nearly reached the loftiest of the broken cliffs, before he could arrive. He assisted her to attain the summit, when she 70instantly sank on her knees, and returned thanks to God with all the joy of one just rescued from destruction.

But I forget, that Tell and Amabel are in fact foreign to my story, and I have already suffered myself to dwell on their adventures too long, to the prejudice of my real heroines. I will therefore pass over in silence the circumstances which followed their escape from the vessel, and those which again threw them into Gessler’s power. Suffice it to say, that the dart which the Avenger of human nature seemed to have reserved for that express purpose, the dart which Tell had shown Gessler, in the first burst of his indignation, that very dart pierced the tyrant’s bosom; 71and thus was Helvetia freed from a monster, who had laid waste her tranquil vallies with circumstances of much greater cruelty, than were ever attributed to fabled dragons in the Legends of Romance.

After performing this dangerous act of justice, Tell betook himself to Stein, where he intended to take refuge with Werner Bernsdorf. Here he found new cause to rejoice at having rid the world of Gessler. Bernsdorf’s new-raised edifice, the admiration of the whole country, lay an heap of ashes! Gessler had thought it too good for a private man, and had threatened to pull it down. Werner laughed at his threats, for it seemed to be no trifle to destroy the 72property of a man of his consequence, while living in the midst of a neighbourhood, where every arm and every heart were devoted to his service: but he did not reflect, that villany can find a hundred secret means for effecting its purposes. In the depth of the night a fire broke out, which, from its bursting all at once from the four corners of the building, and at a time when all were buried in sleep, gained ground too rapidly to admit of its being got under. Werner and Gertrude saved nothing from the flames, except their lives. Every one exclaimed against secret incendiaries, and no one doubted by whose orders this shameful action had been committed: in fact, there were proofs 73sufficient to make it morally certain, that the author of this mischief could be no other than Gessler.

The sight of his friend’s distress (for this fire had reduced Werner to beggary) raised Tell’s indignation to the highest pitch. He left Amabel and his son to the care of Gertrude, and hastened with Bernsdorf in disguise back to Altdorf, to consult with Walter Forest and Henric Melthal on the best and speediest means of rescuing Helvetia from her disgraceful yoke. Arnold Melthal also, who had but lately escaped from the dungeons of the Abbot of St. Gall, increased their band; and the union of five men so remarkable for courage and for prudence produced such 74fortunate and such glorious consequences, as will immortalize their names to the latest posterity^[1].

Bloomberg hastened to Stein, to rejoice with his wife at her escape, and to efface in her embraces the injurious impressions, to which his too easy heart had given way during their separation. Spite and Envy had not neglected the opportunity of calumniating one of Amabel’s noblest actions. Her frank and guileless nature had prevented her from making it a secret, that the admirable William Tell had been the first love of her innocent heart; and her voluntary forsaking her family, in order 75that she might share the fate of that gallant prisoner (a circumstance of which all Altdorf had been an eye-witness) had found that misinterpretation, which Calumny is always so eager to bestow on those heroic actions, of which she feels herself incapable.

Fortunately the heart of Edmund Bloomberg was not more prone to jealous doubts, than open to conviction. Nothing more than the sight of his excellent brother, and the relation of the true circumstances of the case, was necessary to make him feel the folly of suspecting the integrity of such a man. He requested his lovely wife to forgive his unjust suspicions; and the temporary separation of their hearts seemed 76to have renewed his former love with such violence, that he could not resolve to tear himself away from her, in spite of his earnest desire to participate with his friends in the glorious attempt to rescue Helvetia from her chains.

Yet was not Edmund entirely idle. His wife’s anxiety respecting the Damsels of Sargans had formerly induced him to make enquiries respecting their fate; but Wolfenrad (whose sole view was to remove the husband, in order that the unprotected wife might fall a prey during his absence) had taken care to direct his search, where he well knew that it must be fruitless. Edmund at length discovered the trick, and incensed at having been sent on such a 77wild-goose-chase, he hastened back accompanied by a band of well-armed companions, determined to revenge the insult. His vengeance was complete, and now at Amabel’s request he again resumed his search after the Damsels of Sargans: nor was it long before he ascertained, that report had said no more than the truth, when she asserted that Amalberga was a captive in the dungeons of Rassburg, and that Emmeline had really perished among the flames. To rescue the one and to revenge the other now formed the only subject of the conversations, which passed between Gertrude, Amabel, and her husband.

The more they discussed the circumstances, 78the more dreadful did the fate of the two sisters appear, and the more difficult of execution did they find their plans respecting them. They were conscious, that without some powerful supporter, their strength was insufficient for the undertaking; and Amabel’s thoughts immediately suggested to her the names of two young knights, to whom at a former period the Damsels of Sargans had been by no means indifferent, and who (she doubted not) would still feel so much interest about them, as to forward her wish to avenge the death of the one and procure the deliverance of the other.

On enquiry, it appeared, that but few hopes could be grounded upon the aid 79of Count Herman of Werdenberg. Suspicions, injurious to Emmeline’s character, had made him resolve to conquer his passion for her: but to eradicate her from his heart had not been found a task so easy, as he imagined; and at length he had quitted Germany, tormented by his unsatisfied love, and by anger at himself for not having succeeded in overcoming it. He was at this time in England, whence his relations had solicited his return most earnestly, but in vain.

But little as was to be expected from Count Herman, so much the more was to be hoped from the noble Eginhart of Torrenburg, and it was resolved that Edmund should hasten to him without 80delay: it was not long before he returned accompanied by the youthful hero.

There are reasons, which it is unnecessary to disclose, which make it particularly painful to me to trace the name of Torrenburg, and to recollect how closely his fate is interwoven with that of Amalberga of Sargans: but it must be done, and I will not complain. Yes, there ought to be now no sacrifice too difficult for my heart to make: there shall be none!

Eginhart of Torrenburg, who had formerly been as closely bound to Helen of Homburg through motives of policy, as he was now attached by affection and his own choice to the lovely Amalberga, was at length free from his engagements 81to the former, and at liberty to bestow his hand according to the dictates of his heart.

Helen (alas for that poor Helen!) had been carried off on her bridal-day by that fierce terrific tyrant, Donat, Count of Carlsheim and Sargans: force had compelled her to become his wife! Angels of innocence, where were you then lingering, that you gave the unfortunate no warning-sign of the danger, into which she was on the brink of falling? Yet scarcely can I decide, which would have been the harder fate; to become the victim of Count Donat, or with a heart glowing with love to be delivered into the arms of a husband, whose soul was in secret devoted to another, and 82whose hand was only given to the wretched Helen from motives of honour and respect for his plighted word.

Instead of the expected bride, the news of her being carried off reached the Castle of Torrenburg, where the wedding was to have been celebrated. Though love had no share in his concern on this occasion, compassion for the unfortunate girl, and the insult thus offered to himself, made the young Count immediately place himself at the head of his vassals, and hasten to rescue the intended victim from Donat’s clutches.

Helen, who had been compelled to assent to this unhallowed union at the Castle of Upper Halbstein, was now ordered 83to follow her unamiable Lord to another of his fortresses situated southwards among the Rhœtian Alps. She received the command with joy, for at the Castle of Sargans she hoped at least to receive the consolations of friendship. Her step-daughters had been the play-fellows of Helen’s childhood during several weeks; and since their separation occasional letters and messages conveyed by third persons had frequently assured her, that she still lived in the remembrances of her early friends. In their embraces she hoped to find some alleviation of her sufferings: she flattered herself also, that the station which she was now to fill in their house, would give her frequent opportunities 84of making the situation of the poor girls more happy than it had been hitherto; and this reflexion prevented her from feeling herself quite miserable.

Cruel fate decreed, that her journey, which was made in company with her husband and under the protection of a numerous retinue, should be interrupted by the arrival of the Count of Torrenburg and his forces. It was now, that for the first time she saw the bridegroom, whom fortune had destined never to be hers; for whose character she had ever been taught to entertain the highest admiration; and whose sight (for oh! there never yet was man more formed to captivate the soul of woman) was sufficient to make her feel, how near her 85happiness had been, and how completely it was now lost to her for ever.

Torrenburg’s valour forced Count Donat to seek his safety in flight, and the trembling Helen was brought before the conqueror. Helen (who believed herself to be no less dear to her destined bridegroom, than He was dear to Her) for a few moments forgot her duty; but melancholy reflexion soon made her tear herself away from the embraces of the beloved warrior, and she commanded him to leave her.

—“My rescue comes too late!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; “I am Count Donat’s wife, and must remain so, though it should break my heart! Oh! Eginhart, restore me 86to my husband, and forget the unfortunate, whom fate has separated from you for ever.”—

Tears stood glittering in the warrior’s eyes. He advanced, as if he would have detained her, but she peremptorily forbade his nearer approach. She hastened to her palfrey, and giving the reins to the animal, she soon reached the valley, whither Donat and his vassals had directed their flight.

Helen’s conduct on this occasion, which might well have been termed a difficult effort, if virtue and duty did not make every effort easy, was rewarded by her stern husband with coldness, with sarcasms, with reproaches. She arrived at Sargans; and here was 87Helen destined to find the disappointment of her last poor promised pleasure, the society of her two friends.

Count Donat held out to her as a mark of his complaisance and of his consideration for her happiness, that he had ordered the only one of his daughters who remained to him (for the other had unaccountably disappeared) to quit the Castle. In vain did Helen implore him to recall Emmeline of Sargans from the Sanctuary of St. Roswitha: he was deaf to her entreaties, and she was left a prey to solitude and despair.

Nor had the husband, who had gained her hand by such unworthy means, reason to be entirely satisfied 88with his situation. The Counts of Torrenburg, Mayenfield, and Homburg, mortally offended at the carrying off of Helen, like a deluge over-ran with their forces the territories of Count Donat. His fortresses were forced and plundered one after another, and they now advanced to attack the Castle of Sargans. But Helen, whose only remaining consolation was derived from the most punctilious discharge of her duties, came forth to throw herself at the feet of her relations; and she implored for peace so fervently and so earnestly, and she asserted with so much solemnity her belief, that being once become the Count of Carlsheim’s wife, it was her duty to live and die with him, (a duty, which 89she was resolved to fulfill, whatever might be the consequences,) that her intercession was found irresistible. Dearly was Helen beloved by her parents; earnestly did they desire her happiness, which they well knew she never could find in the arms of Donat: but it was by themselves, that she had been taught the merit of sacrificing all other considerations to that of fulfilling her duties; how then could they advise her now to break through the rules, which they had themselves laid down for her?—Peace was granted, and granted solely to Helen’s intercession. The ravisher was left in possession of his unwilling bride; and her relations quitted his territories, having first exacted from 90him the most solemn and dreadful oath to recompense her for the happy station, of which he had deprived her, by unchanging love and never-ceasing anxiety for her welfare.

Donat took the oath: how he kept it, is a secret to all save the Almighty and Helen: but she has sworn in the presence of God to be silent on this subject, and she will carry that dreadful secret with her to the grave unpublished.

She was very—oh! very miserable! On those days only, when her stern husband was from home, had she any gleams of sunshine. On one of these days an unknown messenger arrived, and desired to speak with the Lady Emmeline of Sargans. He was informed, 91that she was not at the Castle, and he was conducted to Helen. He brought letters from the Lake of Thun, which he at length confided to her, though unwillingly, and only (as he said) induced by the frank expression of her countenance.

—“But,” said he, “will you deliver them to the Lady Emmeline with your own hands?”—

Helen, who lived at Sargans almost in a state of captivity, knew too well that she was not authorised to give such a promise, and only answered by a melancholy shake of the head. Her look, the suspicious countenances of the attendants, and the well-known character of her husband, alarmed the messenger, 92and made him suspect that his life was in danger: he stole unperceived to the gate, and hastened away. The packet was thus left in Helen’s possession. She knew, that it would be impossible to deliver it into the hands of her, for whom it was intended; she long sought for opportunities of doing so in vain; and at length ennui, and her anxiety to obtain some further information respecting the Sisters, which might possibly furnish her with the means of alleviating their cruel destiny, induced her to open the letters.

They were from Amabel Melthal and the lost Amalberga. Heavens! what unexpected discoveries did Helen make while perusing them; discoveries, 93which had no slight connexion with her own situation! God be thanked, that among other things they made it known to her, that nothing but duty to his parents, and consideration for his plighted word, had induced Eginhart of Torrenburg to offer her his hand, while every fond sentiment of his heart had long been Amalberga’s. This discovery at first wounded her to the very soul; but after a time she drew from it reasons for being better satisfied with her fate, and she resolutely banished the beloved youth from her memory, in which till then he had too frequently occupied a place.

Determined to abstract herself entirely from every thing which regarded 94herself, Helen now determined to consider the happiness of her two friends as her only object in life. She endeavoured to make herself mistress of every circumstance belonging to them. Mention was made in one of Amabel’s letters of an old maid-servant at Sargans, called Bertha, who had been Emmeline’s confidante during the latter days of her abode at her father’s mansion; and in hopes of gaining some further information Helen desired, that Bertha might be brought before her. She was answered, that the old woman had been sick for several weeks, and was now drawing near her end. To the great astonishment of the domestics Helen immediately hastened to Bertha’s chamber, saying, 95that she would go and comfort her in her last moments.

Helen had but little time allowed her to perform this charitable office: yet that little she employed to the best advantage, and in return Bertha’s gratitude rewarded her more amply, than she had hoped. Bertha, who had fallen ill soon after Emmeline’s departure, had only had time to forward the letter for Amabel; another packet, intended for the Countess Urania Venosta, was still in her possession. She gave it to Helen, and implored her to take care, that it reached its destination. That was not in Helen’s power; she kept it for some time, in constant terror lest her tyrant husband should discover it, 96and lest it should be the means of drawing down on herself and Emmeline fresh anger and increased sufferings. At length, she resolved at least to put the contents out of Count Donat’s power to bury in oblivion: she broke the seal, and what she read exalted her impatience to rescue the unfortunate writer to a degree, that was almost too strong to admit of concealment.

What Helen suffered at this period is not to be expressed; perhaps her own misfortunes had made her still more compassionate towards those of others, than it was her nature otherwise to be. Three objects were now never out of her thoughts for a moment. The first was, since the Count of Torrenburg 97was now lost to her for ever, to make known to him the present residence of Amalberga; but how to convey to him that intelligence, she in vain sought to discover. The second was, if possible, to rescue Emmeline from the detested Convent of St. Roswitha; but alas! she had but little hopes of delivering others, while she was herself a captive in the Castle of Sargans. The last was, to obtain possession of the key to that chamber, in which was the secret entrance to the subterraneous passages leading to the dwellings of the Anchorets.

The last seemed to afford her the most probable means of gratifying her two former wishes; perhaps too, she 98was unconsciously desirous of securing a means of escaping from the Castle, should she ever find such a step necessary. It is at least certain, that in her eagerness to carry her point, she took many steps, which prudence would not justify. Frequently did she repair to that chamber; she found the door guarded by seven locks. Frequently in the dead of the night, when all slept, or seemed to sleep, did she try the house-keys, which were in her charge; and when at length two of the locks shot back from their fastenings, she sank on her knees, and thanked Heaven with a flood of tears. She doubted not, that the rest of the locks would yield to her perseverance; but a sudden noise at no 99great distance prevented her from pushing the attempt farther that night, and she hastened back to her chamber with a heart filled with delight and expectation.

Joy, at being so near the accomplishment of her wishes, prevented her from sleeping during the remainder of the night, and she employed the vacant hours in revolving her future plans.

—“If,” said she to herself, after giving the matter her most serious consideration; “if I should be so fortunate as to obtain an entrance into the mysterious chamber to-morrow night, I will hasten to the subterraneous passage without losing a moment. A torch, and the clear description of the way 100given in Amalberga’s letter will guide me to the Hermitage to a certainty, and I need only use more than ordinary diligence, in order to be back at the Castle before day-break; for precious as liberty appears to me, I will not obtain it by improper means. I am Donat’s wife, and privately to withdraw myself from his protection were to commit an act of infidelity and treason against my husband. I will content myself therefore with relating what I know to the good hermits, and entreating them to take the best and speediest means of rescuing Emmeline from her dangerous abode, and for placing the fortunate Amalberga in the arms of Torrenburg!”—

101On second thoughts, she reflected, that merely to give this intelligence to the hermits would not be to do enough; it would also be necessary to give some explanation to the Countess Urania respecting the letters which she had opened, and by advising Torrenburg to make Amalberga his wife, to render it clear to him, that she had herself forgotten the tyes which once existed between them. Perhaps too, a threatening letter to the Abbot of Curwald (should all other means fail) might have some weight in inducing him to surrender Emmeline. In order that nothing might delay her on the ensuing night, she rose instantly from her bed, and began to write. But before 102her letters were concluded, it was morning, and her attendants, or rather her jailors, entered the apartment to wake her. They exprest no little surprise at finding her already out of bed.

—“I presume, noble Lady,” said the eldest of them, “either some joyous foreboding, or some prophetic dream has roused you from your couch so early. Our Lord will return to-day; in truth, we knew this yesterday, but we kept it to make our morning-greeting the more welcome, and also through apprehension lest your joy at this intelligence should spoil your night’s rest.”—

Helen only answered the speaker by one of those expressive glances, with 103which the open-hearted repay words, which belie the secret mind. She was well aware, that her women who had been so often the witnesses of her sufferings, could not but know the nature of those feelings, which Donat’s return was likely to excite in her bosom. Nor did she alone tremble in the presence of the fierce Count of Carlsheim; every creature that existed in the Castle listened to his name with terror, and nothing but irony had dictated this speech of the insolent Jutta. Yet dared not Helen find the least fault with any one of her female attendants, who were chiefly composed of her husband’s former favourites, and the meanest of whom had more influence with him still, than was allowed to his unhappy wife.

104The news of Donat’s return was soon confirmed: it was scarcely mid-day, when she heard the drawbridge resounding beneath the hasty trampling of his black steed. She hastened to receive him at the gate with that smile of submissive duty, which she had accustomed herself always to wear in his presence. He repulsed her offered hand with a furious look, and shut himself up in his own chamber with such of his dependents, as were most in his confidence. An hour elapsed; his chamber-door was thrown open, and Donat rushed out again, to all appearance more incensed, if possible, than before.

—“Arm! arm!” cried he with a voice of thunder, which resounded 105through the whole fortress, and which soon collected all his soldiers around him, who, wearied with the journey from which they were just returned, were better fitted for repose than for a second expedition; “to horse, and away this instant; business of importance summons us, and which admits of no delay. Talk not of weariness, or exhausted strength! the deed, which now demands your faulchions, could be executed, if your arms were half useless; for I lead you not against stout warriors, but cowardly monks, on whom I swear to be revenged before sun-set!”—

They were too well accustomed to obey Count Donat at the first motion 106of his finger, to make any remonstrances. In a few minutes all were mounted, and their horses galloped over the echoing draw-bridge into the valley below, whence they disappeared from the eyes of those, who gazed after them, with the rapidity of lightning.

The Castle-inhabitants looked on each other in silent astonishment. The similarity of their present feelings produced a kind of confidence between the Countess and her women; and one of them confessed to her, her being almost certain, that she knew the cause of all this uproar. She would however only impart thus much of her knowledge: on his return homewards the Count had received a letter from 107one who was in the habit of sending him intelligence, and this letter most probably contained the spark, which had kindled such flames in the bosom of Count Donat; for as soon as he had read it to his confidents, he tore it in a thousand pieces, and trampled it under his feet. Besides this, in the midst of a torrent of execrations he had been heard to mention the Abbot of Curwald and his daughter Emmeline.

—“Emmeline and the Abbot?” exclaimed Helen delighted. “Is it possible, that some benevolent Being should have opened his eyes to the miseries of his daughter? Is it to rescue her, that he departed in such haste? Ah! then why have I so long delayed to take the 108nearest and surest way for effecting her deliverance? Had I but confest her danger to Count Donat.... Surely the worst of men could not endure, that his child should be overwhelmed in shame and ruin! The depravity of the Nuns of St. Roswitha must have been concealed from Count Donat, or he never would have made his daughter a member of their society!”—

These reflections, which were only half pronounced by Helen, were totally unintelligible to her attendants, who continued to discuss what had past, and to conjecture what was to follow; this occupied them so entirely, that they did not perceive, that their mistress had left them. She had hastened to her 109husband’s chamber, where she hoped to obtain some insight into the circumstance, which at once both rejoiced and alarmed her.

The fragments of the important letter still lay upon the floor; she eagerly seized them, and having secured herself against interruption, put them again together carefully. She learned from them the truth of what she had just been told; the writer warned Count Donat to beware of the Abbot’s artifices; discovered to him, that St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary was little better than the harem of the Monks of Curwald; and that by enclosing the Lady Emmeline within these sacrilegious walls, he had delivered up his daughter to the passion of her licentious lover.

110No wonder, that information like this should have given a deadly wound to Count Donat’s pride: nor (in spite of his own excesses) was he so totally lost to shame as to endure patiently, that his daughter should become the prey of a libertine. He was almost frantic with rage, and for the first time in his life he drew his sword to punish the insulters of virtue.

Helen sank on her knees, and thanked God for this unexpected accomplishment of her wishes. She sent a thousand prayers after her husband for the good success of his expedition: she even went so far, as to begin to make preparations for receiving the rescued Emmeline, whom in fancy she already 111prest to her heart; and when this agreeable occupation was finished, she turned her thoughts towards guessing at the benevolent writer of the letter, which had induced the father to hasten to preserve his child.

Poor simple Helen! it entered not into her thoughts (and it was not till long after, that she made the discovery) that villainy often performs a seemingly virtuous action, in order to forward its own unholy designs. She knew not, that the author of that letter was Wolfenrad. It seems, that those oppressors of Rhœtian and Helvetian liberty, the lord governors and their assistants, carried on a very close though secret understanding with some of the most potent 112noblemen, whose object it was equally to bring the inhabitants of these unfortunate countries still more beneath the yoke, and to build upon their subjection the fabric of their own power and grandeur. Among the secret allies of Gessler and Landenberg, Count Donat and the Abbot of Curwald were the most distinguished; and Wolfenrad on account of his well-known skill in penmanship was frequently employed by both the governors to carry on their correspondence both with Curwald and Sargans.

Still the fact was, that neither of these parties meant honestly to each other. Donat and the Abbot were determined only to go hand in hand with 113the vice-regents so long, as it suited their own views; and these on the other side intended, as soon as they had derived as much benefit as they could from the assistance of the Count and his ecclesiastical ally, to excite a quarrel between them, and then join with the one in plundering the other.

We have already seen, how imprudently Amabel had laid her secrets open to Wolfenrad. Her letters to Emmeline passed through his hands, and he missed not this opportunity to increase his knowledge of the affairs of the Count of Carlsheim; and though Emmeline’s letters to Amabel were not confided to him, by one artifice or another he had not failed to obtain a sight of them. 114Bloomberg’s simple wife observed indeed, that the seal of Emmeline’s packet had been forced; but she little guest by whom.

The contents of this letter immediately furnished him with the most certain means for producing an irreconcileable hatred between Count Donat and the potent Abbot of Curwald. The power of the latter was beginning to appear dangerous to the Lord Governors; but they could expect nothing but an accession of strength to themselves, while the Count of Carlsheim and the Abbot were mutually weakening themselves in feudal skirmishes. Such was Wolfenrad’s object in writing this warning-letter, whose author was loaded 115with blessings by the unsuspicious Helen, while waiting with a throbbing heart for the return of her Lord.

The night arrived. She now thought no longer of attempting to open the door of the mysterious chamber, which she had meant to attempt at this hour, since a principal object of her wish to visit the Hermitage was already accomplished. Besides, the design could not then have been possibly executed, since every one in the Castle was still awake, and waiting with impatience for Count Donat’s return.

It was almost morning, when some of her attendants rushed with looks of terror into Helen’s apartment, and entreated her to ascend the upper platform, 116whence she would discern towards the west indubitable marks of some dreadful conflagration.

—“God preserve us from some mishap!” exclaimed Helen, while she followed her women to the battlements; the whole quarter of the heavens towards Curwald seemed one blaze of red!—“Oh! Donat, Donat, what hast thou done? Were there no gentler means?—Emmeline, my poor Emmeline, where art thou at this moment?”—

Helen’s fears were but too well-founded. Donat, in doing what he thought it right to do, had done it in his usual manner. Wolfenrad’s letter had given him some hints of the midnight revels, which were frequently carried 117on between the inhabitants of the adjacent Convents of Curwald and St. Roswitha. He made enquiries of the neighbouring peasants, who were no friends of these ecclesiastical libertines; their report confirmed the truth of Wolfenrad’s assertions; and an old man (who declared himself particularly well informed respecting these disgraceful secrets) added—“that on that very night there was to be a superb entertainment given to celebrate the conversion of a Nun, who was the last admitted.”—

—“You may easily guess, valiant knight,” continued the old man, “what they mean by her conversion. I suppose the lady (I saw her brought into the 118Convent myself, and she seemed to be an angel of innocence and beauty) was a little violent at first; and so they have at last succeeded in taming her stern morality, as many another has been tamed in the same way before her.”—

—“Good heavens!” exclaimed one of the least depraved among Count Donat’s knights; “are such things spoken of in these parts so openly, and yet is Justice silent, and does the Bishop of Coira take no notice of such abominations?”—

—“Oh! the Lord have mercy on me, Sir Knight,” answered the old man, “such things are not talked of openly, or so many fathers would not 119plunge their children into yonder abyss of infamy! I warrant you, the parents of this converted damsel little thought, when they sent her to St. Roswitha, that they were placing the sweet creature in Satan’s own claws. But when one is speaking to gallant warriors like yourselves, who are able, and perhaps willing to help us, one must be open-hearted. I see that you are all well-armed, and yonder tall gentleman with his eye-brows bent so sternly and his hands clenched seems to feel for what we poor country-folks must suffer under the dominion of these voluptuous Monks, who make us contribute the chief part of our hard-earned gains to the support of their luxury. As to the 120Bishop of Coira.... I am afraid, you are in the right about him! The notice which he takes.... Aye; were old Hugo of Werdenberg still bishop indeed.... But the present Bishop.... Well! well! he and his boon-companion, the Abbot of St. Gall, make a pair of worthies indeed!”—

While his knights were carrying on this discourse with the peasants, their Lord, whom fury had almost deprived of his senses, was considering what was to be done: the resolution which he took was worthy of his character, was worthy of no one but himself. Entrance into either of the two convents was demanded in vain; every other proposal which his attendants suggested, 121was rejected as incompetent to effect his object; at length his commands were obeyed, and by midnight St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary was enveloped in flames. It’s true, that a spark of paternal love still glimmered in his heart for the unfortunate Emmeline; but the idea, that in all probability she also had been converted after the fashion of the sisterhood, soon extinguished it, and he resolved to hide her and his shame together in the ashes of St. Roswitha. Impressed with this idea—“Drive them back into the flames!” roared the inhuman Donat, whenever either Friar or Nun tried to rescue themselves from the conflagration, without deigning to examine whether Emmeline might not be one of 122those unfortunates. The number of monks, whom the flames compelled to attempt their escape from St. Roswitha at this undue time of night, confirmed the reports of the mode of life practised in the convents; and the dresses of the Nuns, who had been arrayed for the feast, proclaimed how little their hearts were estranged from worldly vanities. The fire continued to spread; it now caught the adjacent Abbey of Curwald, and before day-break there remained of both the Sanctuaries and their infamous inhabitants nothing but heaps of smoaking ruins^[2].

123Such was the cause of those flames, whose reflexion on the sky excited so much consternation at Sargans: Helen’s heart had not throbbed with sad forebodings without necessity. In the course of the morning Donat returned home, and returned without Emmeline!

Helen flew to meet him, and eagerly enquired, where was his daughter? His answer was a short and cold narrative of the dreadful transaction, which had just taken place, and the consequence was, that overpowered with horror Helen fell senseless at the monster’s feet. When she recovered, her first words were to ask, where he had placed Emmeline, (for she doubted not, 124that previous to firing the Convent he had provided for his daughter’s safety,) and unfortunately her question was so worded, that it betrayed her more intimate knowledge of the business, than was by any means suspected by Donat. This discovery converted his unfeeling coldness into a degree of fury, that nearly approached delirium. He seized her roughly by the arm, and demanded, in a voice of thunder, how she came to be so well acquainted with his affairs? The unfortunate knew no other way of extricating herself from this dilemma, than repeating what she had heard mentioned by one of her attendants respecting Wolfenrad’s letter, which (she confest) had so strongly excited her anxiety 125about Emmeline, that she had not scrupled to piece the fragments again together. The storm of rage was now diverted from Helen to the woman, who had given her mistress this intelligence, and who had it in her power to disclose much more important secrets, if she had thought proper.

Incensed at Count Donat’s ill-treatment of her, for which she considered herself as indebted to Helen, Jutta resolved to disclose in her turn all that she thought most likely to injure her mistress. Accordingly she began an accusation, which among a thousand falsehoods contained some truths, calculated to make Helen shudder as she listened to them.

126The Countess (Jutta said) had some time before received a packet from an unknown messenger, who afterwards quitted the Castle with all speed, and whose arrival she ordered to be concealed from her husband. She had also received several letters from the hands of the dying Bertha; after reading which she had been frequently seen loitering about the door of that chamber, which (on account of the strange noises frequently heard within) was supposed to be haunted. Nay, on the night before last she had actually tried to force back the locks, but had been scared away, by hearing Jutta’s rosary fall on the ground, while she was watching her Lady’s proceedings concealed behind 127St. Martin’s statue. She had afterwards seen through the key-hole the Countess busily employed in writing, and during the confusion which followed Count Donat’s arrival, had found means to get the letters into her possession; which to confirm her story Jutta was now ready to lay before him.

These heavy charges against Helen failed not to produce the effect intended. Donat ordered the letters to be brought immediately: He was no scholar; yet was he not so totally deficient in the knowledge of writing, but that he could clearly decypher the addresses, which were written in large characters. His eyes flashed fire, while he spelt the names of “Eginhart of 128Torrenburg,” “the Abbot of Curwald,” and “Urania Venosta, the widowed Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.” These directions would have been sufficient to condemn the poor Helen, even had she been tried by a more impartial judge. It was certain, that these three persons were her husband’s bitterest enemies; with what propriety then could she be engaged in a secret correspondence with them? In particular, what motive could she have for writing to the Count of Torrenburg, who was her former lover, and had been so long her destined bridegroom? Alas! poor Helen! appearances were sorely against thee! Nor would Donat’s fury give him time to enquire further into the 129business. In a paroxysm of rage he tore the letters into a thousand fragments, and pronounced Helen to be in a secret correspondence with his implacable foe, the Countess Urania for the purpose of betraying him to his enemies; he asserted also, that she had been privy to the Abbot’s designs upon his daughter, and had encouraged them in order to be revenged on the father; and that she was still in love with the Count of Torrenburg and meant to have fled to him from Sargans, an intention which was sufficiently proved by her midnight efforts to obtain entrance into that chamber, which concealed a private outlet from the Castle. It’s true, that finding Emmeline had quitted that chamber of 130her own accord, and thinking the knowledge of the secret passage might be of use to himself on some future occasion, the Abbot had not mentioned to Count Donat his suspicions, that such a passage existed; and the room had been merely shut up from the report of its being haunted. But Wolfenrad had learned this secret from the perusal of Amalberga’s letter to Emmeline, and had communicated it to the Count, hoping thereby to increase the merit of his services. Now then Donat had no doubt, that the noises, which had been heard in that chamber, proceeded from no ghosts, but from persons who were waiting to assist his wife in her projected flight. Under the influence of these 131impressions, Helen was held convicted of the most infamous designs, and condemned to suffer the most exemplary chastisement. She was instantly confined in one of the strongest dungeons, probably in that where Urania had shed so many tears; in the mean while her tyrant with his confidents and those women of the Castle who were most her enemies, sat in council to decide, what punishment would be sufficiently severe to suit her crime.

I am in doubt as to Donat’s reasons for not immediately proceeding to the last extremities with his wife: that sentiment towards her, which he had chosen to dignify with the name of love, had long ago disappeared; and 132his late atrocious act, which had proved the destruction of the whole Orders of Curwald and St. Roswitha, had left him no scruples to overcome. One murder more or less, what did that signify to a man, who had arrived at so dreadful a height of guilt?—The most probable cause for Donat’s moderation was, fear: Helen was the Count of Homburg’s daughter; was niece to the Count of Mayenfield; and had been affianced to the Count of Torrenburg, who it was well known, would not suffer her to be injured with impunity. These considerations made Donat hesitate, as to the course which he was now to pursue.

Donat past two days in resolving, 133whether it would not be possible to bring Helen to confess herself guilty. This would justify him in the eyes of her relations for any severity, which he might think proper to inflict upon her; but when he considered his wife’s character, he saw little prospect of persuading her to declare herself infamous. In the mean while Helen was suffered to remain tranquil in her dungeon; and her husband was still meditating how to avoid the vengeance of her friends, when the Castle was unexpectedly attacked by enemies incensed upon a different account. He might indeed have foreseen, that the Bishop of Coira would not pass over the destruction of Cloister-Curwald in silence; occupied 134however by his anger against Helen, Donat had bestowed no thought upon the Bishop; and the avengers of the Monks of Curwald were at the gates of Sargans, before any one had even bestowed a thought on the possibility of such an attack.

Helen heard from her prison the noise of the assault, the shouts of the victors, and the expiring groans of those who fell beneath their swords; but her spirit was too much broken to enable her to guess at what was passing, or to offer up prayers or wishes for the success of either party. She lay almost in a state of insensibility, when the door of her dungeon was thrown open. The Count of Carlsheim entered, snatched her 135rudely from the earth, and more by gestures than speech, commanded her attendance. She followed her conductor in silence, like a lamb to the slaughter; he saw, that she was scarcely able to move through weakness, and either out of compassion or cruelty compelled her to swallow a cordial. She gradually recovered herself sufficiently to remark, that her husband was habited like a pilgrim on the point of setting out on some long journey, and that he guided her towards a part of the Castle remote from the clamour of the combat. Here they found a domestic waiting with a torch, who in a low voice and with few words assured his Lord, that the passage was still safe. A door, artfully 136concealed in the wall, was now unlocked, and Helen was commanded to ascend the stair-case, which presented itself before her.

She was too wreak, too hopeless, to think it worth while to make any reflections on Donat’s unaccountable conduct in regaining the upper apartments of the fortress, (which, she was convinced, was already in the enemy’s possession,) instead of employing these precious moments to effect his escape. They now arrived at the door of that chamber, which concealed the entrance to the subterraneous passages: the touch of a single key was sufficient to make all the seven locks fly back. Donat entered, and compelled his unhappy 137wife to follow him; he then took the torch from the domestic, and commanded him to execute his orders without delay, and then to provide for his own safety. The servant bowed, and retired.

Now then Helen was at length in that very spot, which she had so anxiously wished to visit, but not with such a companion. Donat paused for a moment; and she could hear distinctly, that the domestic fastened the door through which she had entered, not omitting a single lock. Her tyrant left her no time for reflecting on the purpose for which she had been conducted hither; he hastened to unclose the secret door which led to Urania’s 138baths, dragged her through it, and then commanded her to proceed, having first taken care to fasten the door after him.

Helen obeyed, and as she moved slowly forwards, through the subterraneous passages, she observed that her husband occasionally examined the side-walls with his hand or foot. At length he stopped before a small door half sunk in the ground; he forced it open with a violence which shook the whole cavern, and held his torch within, in order to examine it.

—“Yes, yes!” said he, “this is it! Found in good time!—Helen, return! or canst thou find the way through these vaults without assistance?”—

She dragged her feeble steps towards 139him: he grasped her arm, and dashed her with violence down a few steps terminating in a small cave. She sank on the ground with a shriek of pain, which her tyrant answered by a burst of diabolical laughter.

—“Here, traitress!” he exclaimed; “here is the place of your punishment and your perdition; and here is the last nourishment, which you shall ever receive on this side the grave. I give it not out of compassion, but that you may not perish in your present state of stupor, and thus escape the sense of what I have doomed you to suffer.—Eat! revive to the full consciousness of your misery; then die in agony, as others have died here before you!”—

140Thus saying, he placed by her side a loaf of bread and a small flask of water, which he had brought with him in his pilgrim’s scrip. She was not in a condition to make him any answer, and listened in morbid silence, while he quitted the cave, flinging the door after him with violence, and carefully barricading it on the outside to prevent her escape.

Nothing now animated the frame of Helen but mere animal life; and even that was half extinguished by the shock which she had sustained the day before and by long abstinence from all nourishment. She was scarcely conscious of what had past, and it afterwards cost her no little difficulty to recall the recollection 141of it. Instinct made her seize eagerly the food, of which she had so long been deprived; and the relief, which this afforded her, was the first thing, which brought her to herself, and gave her spirits to ask the question—“What has happened to me? Whither have I been conveyed?”—She thought, that she must be the sport of some fantastic vision, and with the sensation of being totally exhausted she closed her eyes, and endeavoured to end her dream.

A violent shock, which made the hollow ground tremble beneath her, forced her to start up in terror; and she now had strength and recollection sufficient to rush forward a few paces, 142which brought her to the steps, down which Count Donat had so lately dashed her. An instant after she was sensible of a second shock like that of an earthquake, and which was accompanied by a noise so loud, that for a few moments she was completely stunned. On recovering herself, she was sensible of a strong current of air blowing into the cave: her heart beat violently with hope and fear, while she thought it possible, that the late earthquake might have forced the dungeon open. She hastened up the steps, and with rapture ascertained by the touch that the door had been driven from its fastenings, and that nothing prevented her from quitting her prison. With as much speed, as her extreme 143weakness and the total obscurity would permit, she hastened to profit by this interposition of Providence. She crept along slowly and cautiously, when on turning a corner she perceived a distant gleam of light. With increased hopes she made the best of her way towards it, and found, that it proceeded from Count Donat’s torch, as it lay half extinguished in the rubbish, among which it had fallen.