Volume 4 — PART THE SEVENTH. (continued 2)

—“May I, lady,” said he one morning, after she had past some days in his power; “may I request permission to present to you one of my friends, who holds in this society the next place to myself?—he is a nobleman, whom misfortunes have compelled like me to adopt a mode of life, which we both look upon with abhorrence, and which with the first opportunity we are determined to exchange for one more honourable.”—

Ida was sufficiently aware, that the opportunity to which he alluded, was the possession of her hand, by which he hoped to give himself a claim to the Count of Torrenburg’s rich inheritance. 134He frequently in conversation threw out hints of this nature, but which she judged it most wise to let pass without observation. She now only answered that part of his speech, which regarded the introduction of his friend, and to which (as she feared to irritate her jailor by a refusal) she gave an unwilling consent.

On his next visit he was accompanied by a man, whose countenance was much more wild and his manners much less prepossessing, than those of Randolf. The latter presented the new visitor by the name of Sir Gero of Altheim.

The captive soon understood from the conversation, which past between the associates, that the antipathy, which Gero’s first appearance had excited in 135her bosom, had not been excited without good grounds. He possest not the smallest share of that delicacy and respectful attention, by which her lover was characterized. He permitted himself to make the most licentious and offensive observations upon the extraordinary charms of her person, and raised her original disgust to abhorrence by blaming Randolf for having suffered his passion to remain so long ungratified; assuring him at the same time, that he would have dealt far differently with his own lovely mistress, had not her religious habit terrified him from using force, and thereby drawing down the vengeance of offended Heaven.—For it seems, this wretch, though he trampled upon all laws human and divine, was still a slave to the grossest 136superstition, and trembled at the very sight of a veil or a rosary.

—“She has now been some days in your possession,” observed Randolf; “have you made any progress with the fair Nun?”—

“Not I!” replied Gero; “she is a miracle of beauty, its true, but her obstinacy equals her charms. Since the day that I captured her on the road to Zurich, I have been able to obtain nothing from her but tears and entreaties for her liberty: and as to proceeding to violence, I am too much afraid of the resentment of holy mother church, or I should put an end to her resistance before to-morrow morning.”—

During this conversation Ida remained silent, and abandoned herself to the melancholy reflections excited by the 137increased consciousness of the execrable society, of which she was so unfortunately become a member. But now when she found that she had a companion in misfortune, and that a person of her own sex (a virtuous and persecuted Nun) was so near her, a sentiment of secret satisfaction and hope infused itself into her bosom.

—“Oh! Sir Knight,” she exclaimed, addressing herself to Randolf, “how happy would you make me, could you but procure for me the company of Sir Gero’s captive! it is disgraceful, it is dreadful, for a young maiden to be alone in a society entirely composed of men and strangers; and I feel, that the presence of a person of my own sex would be to me a source of the greatest consolation! it would conduce beyond all else 138to make me endure my confinement with resignation! oh! good Sir Randolf, plead for me with your friend, and persuade him to allow me this unexpected pleasure!”—

The smile, with which she accompanied this request (’twas the first which played upon her lips, since she became a captive) was irresistible. As she pronounced the last word, she extended her hand towards him, and he kissed it with rapture. A wish, exprest in a manner so fascinating and so unlooked for, was a law to the enamoured robber; and addressing himself immediately to his companion, he enforced her request with so much energy, that Gero though with a sorry grace found himself compelled to grant it.

—“Now then” said Randolf, as he 139left the tent with Gero, “now then you can judge for yourself, which of our modes of treating our captives is the most likely to succeed at the long run. When did your Nun ever speak to you with such gentleness, or favour you with so sweet a smile? when did she ever extend her hand towards you of her own accord, and suffer you to press your lips upon it? credit me, Gero; send her to my mistress, and I will bet my head upon it, that before long half her obstinacy and aversion will have disappeared. You see, how complaisant I have made the lady Ida; and it only requires a little kindness and flattery well applied to make our religious ladies, just as tame and as obliging as their sisters of the wicked world.”—

In the course of the day Randolf 140returned to inform Ida, that she must not expect the visit of the captive Nun till after midnight.

—“My friend,” said he, “is obliged to keep it a profound secret from the greatest part of our companions, that such a prisoner is in his possession. That he has a mistress, indeed, they are aware; but it would make a terrible uproar in our community, were it known that Gero had carried off a Nun; and many among our associates, who would think nothing of half a dozen murders, would expect the rocks to fall and crush us the very next moment, for daring to lay sacrilegious hands upon a damsel dedicated to Heaven. To be sure, we violated no sanctuary to get at her, for we found her trotting along the high road, when she ought to 141have been quiet within the walls of her Convent: but still the very sight of a veil has such influence over the common rabble, that Gero does not think it prudent to bring her to your tent except under the protecting shadow of night. He also implores you by me to reward him for this compliance with your wishes, by persuading her to lend a more favourable ear to his passion: he is also desirous of learning her name, which hitherto she has obstinately concealed; and above all he is anxious, that she should lay aside her religious habit, which hourly exposes him to danger from his superstitious associates. I know, what you are going to observe: you believe, that it is nothing but respect for this habit, which preserves her from Gero’s violence; but I swear to 142you by everything that is most sacred and solemn, that neither she nor yourself have anything to fear from the men who adore you. Our intentions towards you are the most honourable: we have great designs in hand, whose nature I am not as yet permitted to disclose to you; but be assured, that should they succeed, the Countess of Werdenberg and the fair Nun will have reason to bless the day when they fell into our hands, and thus escaped the being immured for life within the gloomy walls of a Convent; a fate, from which she has been rescued, and to which you were doomed.”—

The prudent Ida, (who saw that favours, which had cost her so little, were so well rewarded by her grateful admirer) took good care not to contradict 143the robber. She answered him by a thousand thanks for his intercession with Gero, and for his assurances of regard for her welfare; and she then dismissed him with a smile so gracious and so sweet, as riveted his chains for ever. When beauty, and sense are united in the same woman, alas! what puppets in her hands are the mighty lords of the creation!

Midnight arrived—the hearts of both the captives throbbed with impatience for the moment of meeting, though they knew not, what made them so impatient. Never seemed time to move so slowly with Ida, as while she waited for the stranger’s arrival; and on her side the lovely Nun quite trembled with joy, while she followed her conductors to the tent, in which (so Gero 144had informed her,) she should find a companion in captivity, whose heart was prepared to sympathize in her misfortunes—the robbers conducted her to the door of the tent; but thinking it would be most agreeable to the ladies, that their first interview should pass without intruders, they suffered her to enter alone.

It was well for both the captives, that this meeting took place without witnesses.—Ida was sitting in a melancholy posture, when she heard an approaching footstep.—She started up, and beheld by the pale gleams of her lamp a tall light figure, whose face was covered with a thick veil, advancing from the entrance of the tent. She hastened to meet her, but uttering a loud cry, she started back again. The 145religious habit worn by the stranger was but too well known to her.—It was the long grey garment decorated with a golden cross upon the breast, in which she had so often seen the Nuns gliding through the cloisters of Engelberg; and the white veil, edged with black and falling to the very ground, was of that particular form appropriated to the order of the Zurich Sisters. The veil was now hastily thrown back; Ida gazed eagerly upon the Stranger’s features, and astonishment, joy, and tenderness were carried to the highest pitch.

—“Constantia!” exclaimed Ida.—“Oh! Heaven! it is my Constantia!”—

—“Ida! my Ida!” shrieked the Nun, and clasped her almost fainting sister to her bosom.

146And now the Sisters wept for joy to think, that they were once more united; and now they wept for grief at reflecting, that this union had only made each a partner in the other’s captivity. At length having sufficiently collected their scattered thoughts, they made mutual enquiries as to the events, which had produced a meeting so unexpected. Ida related the long and fearful tale of adventures, which had so rapidly crouded upon her since Elizabeth’s wedding: on the other hand, Constantia briefly stated, that on her way back to her Convent at Zurich, her party had been encountered by a band of robbers: the Cloister-Vassals, whom the Abbess had sent to protect her, were soon put to flight; and thus was she brought into the hands of Gero, 147whom she had the misfortune to inspire with so violent a passion, that he purchased her from his companions with his share of the booty arising from the whole produce of their excursion.

The night past away in mutual congratulations on this meeting so unexpected; and when morning broke, they recollected, that their plans for the future were still unarranged. They had now only time to settle, that as the knowledge of Ida’s rank had only served to make the robbers consider her possession as of double value, it would be most prudent to conceal Constantia’s real title; and accordingly she resolved to resume her former appellation of Mary Tell, an appellation under which she had past the only happy part of her existence.

148When Randolf the next morning inquired of Ida, what she thought of the fair Nun, she replied, that her society was extremely pleasing, and would be much more so, were it not for a certain coldness and reserve, which probably would wear off upon further acquaintance. In a few days she informed Gero, that she had discovered the name of his mistress to be Mary Tell; and thus did Constantia avoid the dangerous importance attached to the title of a Countess of Werdenberg. By her sister’s advice, she abated somewhat of the haughty coldness, with which she had hitherto represt the addresses of her ferocious lover; though they both judged it unwise for her to comply with his request, that she should lay aside her religious habit. This had hitherto been 149the means of protecting her against more violent means of enforcing his passion; and they were of opinion, that too many restraints could not well be imposed upon an affection so ill-regulated as the sentiment, which Gero dignified with the name of love. However, gentle looks and expressions of gratitude for his attentions were not occasionally refused by Constantia: Gero had been so little accustomed to be thus mildly treated by her, that even these trifling condescensions appeared to him of inestimable value; and when in return for his assurances of future respect, she one day deigned to extend towards him her alabaster hand, the robber was so transported, that he took the first opportunity of thanking Ida upon his knees for a change, which he attributed 150entirely to her powerful influence, and which he implored her to exert still further in his behalf.

—“Noble lady,” said he, “you have often heard Randolf hint, that we have great plans in agitation, whose chief object is the promotion of your interests; nor are they unconnected with the happiness of myself and my adorable Nun. A dreadful oath forbids my saying more on this subject at present; but rest assured, when the time for explanation arrives, that explanation will be such, as must perforce content you. In the mean while suffer me to make to you one request. It is necessary for the success of our undertaking, that yourself and the lovely Mary (together with our jewels, gold, and all things which we possess of value) should be removed 151from this valley to a retreat at some distance. During the journey, and your residence at this new abode, promise me, that you will keep a watchful eye over your fair companion, on whose attachment I can by no means rely with the same confidence, which Randolf places on yours. In this respect, he is far more fortunate than his friend; since the kind reception, which he never fails to meet from you, in spite of the awe with which your modest air and dignified demeanour inspires him, leaves but little doubt, that you are sensible of his worth, and will in time be disposed to reward so steady an attachment. Besides this, I am convinced, that you have too much solid understanding to think of escaping from a place, whose very nature will convince 152you on your arrival, that any such attempt must be unsuccessful: but no one can say, what dangerous impossibilities a Nun may not be induced to undertake, animated by religious enthusiasm, and confident in the supposed protection of the Saint, to whom her service is dedicated. These illusions may heat her brain, till she desperately braves every peril, overlooks every difficulty, and will draw down inevitable ruin on her own existence, while she leaves me to lament over my baffled hopes. Then mark me, Lady!—watch over Mary’s steps with unceasing assiduity: when we again meet, restore her to me safe and lovely, as I now leave her; or never hope to see yourself re-instated in your claims by the valour of my arms and those of my companions, 153nor restored to society by the acknowledged title of Countess of Werdenberg, and heiress of the wide domains of Torrenburg, Carlsheim, and Sargans.”—

This speech, which was begun in a kneeling posture and in the softest tone, which a voice so naturally rough could adopt, assumed as it proceeded an air of menace, and was terminated by Gero with a terrible frown and a loud stroke upon the brazen pommel of his sword. Nearly the same discourse was repeated to her in the evening, (though conveyed in much milder language) by Randolf. She delivered such a reply, as circumstances compelled her to give, and trembled, as she listened to some obscure hints and disjointed observations, which fell from the outlaw, but which no solicitations 154could induce him to explain. However, she had heard enough to excite in her mind the most painful apprehensions, though not enough to certify their being well-grounded.

The preparations for setting out were soon completed: the treasures were packed up; and the Sisters were now informed, that the place of their destination was a narrow valley situated in the heart of the Mountains of Hapsburg. Gero and Randolf took a tender but respectful leave of the fair travellers, who were escorted by a small band of soldiers, composed of such members of this lawless society as were unfitted by advanced years for taking part in that great undertaking, to assist in which, the young and active were detained. The ladies set forward, but not till Ida 155had made some observations, which rendered her doubly impatient to commence her journey.

—“Oh! my sister,” she said, as soon as she found an opportunity of conversing without being overheard, “did you not observe among Randolf’s followers countenances, which you had seen before? In spite of their change of dress, I am certain, that the two who rode next to Gero were Friars, who often visited the Castle of Torrenburg.”—

—“Alas!” answered Constantia, “it is not now, that I learn for the first time, that a perfect understanding subsists between these robbers and the unworthy members of some religious community. During my confinement in Gero’s tent I frequently observed monks among 156his visitors; of whose principles you will judge, when I inform you, that they made no scruple to counsel my encouraging the licentious addresses of my jailor, though they were thoroughly persuaded, that I was a dedicated Nun: they offered to release me from my vows, laughed at (what they termed) the absurdity of my prejudices, promised me entire absolution, and advised me to pay no more respect to my veil, than they did to their cowls and scapularies. Conceive, dear Ida, my sufferings, while compelled to listen to such profane suggestions, and to repress the indignation, which they excited in my bosom.”—

—“And have you then no guess,” demanded Ida, “what is the object of an union so singular?—Did they never 157let fall a syllable, whence you could collect the nature of this mysterious enterprize, on which they are now departed?”—

Constantia declared her perfect ignorance on the subject.

“Alas! alas!” resumed Ida, “dreadful apprehensions force themselves upon my mind! Randolf frequently suffered hints to escape him, which the more that I reflect on them, serve but to confirm my fears the more. The robbers have a private understanding with the false Hilarius.—The Monks, whom I discovered in Randolf’s train, are of the same order with that betrayer!—It’s true, Count Frederick has treated me cruelly and unjustly, and now little merits, that I should feel anxiety on his account. Yet, oh! that I were but 158near him for one half hour, that I might warn him of the dangers, which hang over him and his, and which I would willingly avert, though the price were the last drop of my blood and the last breath existence.”—

The Sisters had full leisure in the wild solitude to which they were conveyed, to communicate to each other their mutual fears and melancholy forebodings. Ida’s insinuating manners soon rendered her a favourite with her grey-headed guards; and the persuasion of Constantia’s religious vocation made them bow with superstitious reverence at her approach, and hold it an honour to be suffered to kiss the hem of her sanctified garment. In consequence of these prepossessions in their favour, the Sisters had no other reason to complain 159of their treatment in confinement, than the confinement itself.

The place, in which they now resided, was inaccessible to all, except the robbers, and the rays of the sun. It was a flat spot surrounded by a chain of snow-covered mountains; one narrow footpath hewn in the rock was the only entrance, whose windings were known to none except the ferocious inhabitants of this valley; and which the sudden descent of weights of snow and of ice-splinters^[1] from the over-hanging rocks frequently rendered for some time impracticable even for them. The Sisters shuddered, as they gazed upon the gigantic masses of rocks of ice, which glittered coldly around them as far as the eye could reach; and they could not conceal their terrors at reflecting, that a single 160motion of those cloud-covered summits would be sufficient to convert the valley into their inevitable grave. The chief of their guards, however, upon hearing them make this remark assured them, that this never would happen, because it never had happened yet.

—“You must know, fair ladies,” said he, “that I am one of the most antient among the heroes, who have the honour to serve under the banners of Sir Randolf of Mansfeld. While I was but a child, I fled hither with my poor father, then the innocent victim of monkish persecution, and we found a kind refuge in the bosom of these mountains. The man, who was then at the head of this hospitable community, had been acquainted with the first institutor of the band, and had learned 161from him many remarkable particulars respecting this valley; some of them in good truth enough to curdle the young blood in your veins with very terror: but as to such an accident as that which you apprehend, never had such a thing been known to happen. Therefore set your hearts at rest, ladies: the valley lasted out his time; you see, it has almost lasted out mine, and I warrant you, it will last out yours also.”—

The Sisters had no better means of passing the tedious hours of captivity than in listening to the old robber’s never-ending narratives: besides, they thought it by no means impossible, that in the warmth of discourse some particulars might escape him, which might tend to the improvement of their own situation. They therefore often entreated 162him to relate the adventures of his father, who had been so unjustly persecuted; as also to tell them, what he had learnt, from his first captain, respecting the original founder of this society of freebooters, and to give them some account of the various singularities of the mountains. They could not be better pleased to listen, than the old man was to talk; and he answered these inquiries at much greater length, than I shall repeat at present: with his persecuted father we have no occasion for concerning ourselves; and as to the wonders of the mountains, we are likely to obtain a more particular description of them from another quarter: the only point then, which need be repeated for the gratification of the curious, is the manner, in which the habitation of holy 163Anchorets became converted into a retreat for banditti.

Whoever is acquainted with the antient history of Sargans, cannot but remember, that these private recesses of the mountains were inhabited by a society of fugitive Monks from Cloister Curwald. The institution of this society took place in the time of Count Ethelbert of Carlsheim; and it was continued by the occasional reception of new members, as often as death reduced the number, to which it had been limited by its founder, Abbot Christian. That number was six; but for want of novices it was reduced to two, at the period, when Luprian, the licentious Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, (flying from the vengeance of Count Herman of Werdenberg, and from the punishment 164due to his inhuman treatment of the Lady Emmeline) was conducted by chance to this secluded Hermitage.

The pious Anchorets received him with the most benevolent welcome: they gave full credit to his tale of persecuted innocence, and looked upon the virtuous sufferer as an angel conducted thither by the hand of Heaven, that he might comfort and sustain them under the infirmities of age, and might close their eyes, when death should draw nigh their stony couches. This last piece of service Luprian lost no time in rendering them. He imagined, that they possest concealed treasures of immense value, which would enable him to lead once more a life of luxury in some foreign country, could he but obtain the inheritance of his hosts. In 165consequence of this persuasion, the old hermits slept in the grave sooner, than nature had intended; and Luprian without an hour’s delay ransacked every corner of the cave. His expectations were cruelly disappointed. He found nothing more than the usual possessions of an Anchoret; cowls, scapularies, crosses, and a few relics of saints and martyrs. But of gold or jewels there appeared not the slightest vestige; and Luprian had the mortification to find, that he had committed one of the most horrible crimes ever perpetrated on earth, without deriving from it even the most insignificant advantage.

Yet was it not its guilt, which made him lament the commission of this action; no, ’twas its having been committed without reward. His conscience 166was by no means of so delicate a texture, as to make him feel uncomfortable, while inhabiting the scene of this atrocious murder. On the contrary, he resolved on making this well-concealed retreat the theatre of fresh offences, and immediately employed himself in collecting a set of men, whose hearts were depraved, whose characters were blasted, and whose prospects in the world were ruined like his own. These he conducted to the mountain-valley, and became the founder of a band of free-booters, which had now existed above a hundred years, and which had brought inexpressible calamity on all the neighbouring country. The rich and the poor, the nobleman and the peasant, alike mourned over their ravaged fields, and plundered 167dwellings, their murdered children and dishonoured wives; and yet did the authors of all this mischief set punishment at defiance, protected by their secret caverns and their snow-clad impracticable rocks.

Their numbers had gradually increased. Hither fled for refuge many a ruined nobleman, no longer able by honest means to supply his pampered appetites with those indulgencies, which habit had now made absolutely necessary: many a fugitive Monk, who dreaded the chastisement so justly due to his violated vows: many a blood-guilty culprit, to whom the world offered no happier prospect than the gibbet or the rack: and alas! many an innocent sufferer, driven by the persecution of the powerful or by the bann of the church to 168this wild society, in whose polluted bosom he for the first time became acquainted with guilt. The numbers of these banditti now considerably exceeded a thousand, all of whom acknowledged as their chiefs Randolf and Gero.

Besides the above information, the old robber communicated to his fair questioner many particulars respecting the neighbouring mountains, every succeeding one of which was more wonderful and terrific than its predecessor. The Sisters believed no more of these extraordinary tales than they thought proper: however, they obtained much more credit with the one, than with the other. Ida’s solitary wanderings through the subterraneous caverns of her uncle’s castle had given her a degree 169of confidence in danger, which before was totally wanting in her character: and the experience which she had thus acquired, in addition to her natural high spirits and enthusiastic imagination, converted her from being the most timid of created beings into a kind of demi-heroine, ready for adventures, and disposed to set all perils at defiance.

—“All things well considered,” said she to her sister, as they sat one star-light night before the door of their cavern, round which their guards lay sleeping; “all things well considered, I am convinced, that flight is absolutely necessary, and by no means unlikely to be attended with success. Whether Randolf and Gero prosper in their plans, or fail, their return will equally bring with it our certain ruin. Then before 170that dreaded return takes place, let us summon up our resolution, and seize the first favourable opportunity to explore the way through yonder chain of mountains, which old Hugo has described to us in such terrible colours. The way, by which I fled from the Castle of Sargans, was not without its horrors: yet I soon grew accustomed to them; and how far inferior were they to those, which I had heard attributed to the caverns, and which I believed to be real, till experience convinced me of my error! Oh, be assured, Constantia! we shall find, that a similar deception has been used in the present case. Yonder mountains, I am persuaded, are not entirely covered with ice and snow; between them may be found, no doubt, many a green and 171sheltered valley, where we may rest occasionally, and recover strength sufficient to endure and to conquer the dangers and difficulties of the way, which still remains to be traversed. Who knows, but their lofty heads conceal from us some happy smiling regions, where we may pass the rest of our lives unknown and unnoticed in innocence and peace, and may become once more as happy, as we were in the morning of our youth on the banks of the Lake of Thun and in the green vallies of Frutiger?—Dearest Constantia, be resolute, and let us hazard the attempt! For the worse, our situation cannot change: we can lose nothing, even should we fail; we may gain every thing, if we succeed: even at the worst, the attempt however unprosperous must obtain for 172us one advantage, a release from captivity by death without dishonour.”—

In answer to these representations, Constantia reminded her sister of the fearful traditions, which Hugo had related to them, respecting the mountains, and the fantastic beings supposed to inhabit them. She pointed to the Halsberg Rock, whose steep and lofty head rose exactly opposite to them, glittering through the gloom of night like an immense star; and she inquired of Ida, to what cause she attributed this extraordinary splendour? Was it by any means improbable (she asked) that these inaccessible heights were appropriated to the residence of evil spirits; who by night endured there the punishment due to their crimes in sulphureous fires, of which that light was 173the reflection; and who by day employed themselves in leading astray such unwary travellers, as ventured too near the place of their mysterious torments, and in hurling them down frightful precipices into depths and abysses, never to rise again?

Ida replied, that it was by no means her intention to travel into the clouds so far as the place, whose dazzling brightness had induced her sister to people it with such terrific inhabitants: and she added, that being determined on flight, she was better pleased to believe, that the brightness itself, which seemed like a crown of diamonds encircling the brows of the venerable Halsberg and his brethren, proceeded merely from the reflection of the moon and stars on the ice-covered cliffs and crags, 174than from brimstone and sulphur burning in a terrestrial Hell.

Constantia’s long abode in a convent and her visionary turn of mind, made it difficult for Ida to get the better of these superstitious terrors: yet at length she succeeded. They began to make the necessary preparations for their attempt. They lost no opportunity of secreting such provisions, as were not of a very perishable nature and were easy of conveyance; they also endeavoured to accustom themselves to taking but little sustenance in the course of the day; and they soon flattered themselves, that whatever might otherwise be the dangers of their expedition, they were at least secure against suffering from the attacks of those two most cruel enemies of poor pilgrims, hunger and thirst. 175As to pretences for absenting themselves from the valley, they were easily to be found. The robbers were too thoroughly persuaded, that flight was impossible, and too strongly imprest with the idea, that women were too great cowards to hazard such an attempt, for them to keep any very strict watch over their prisoners.

Constantia was particularly dexterous in laying springes for snipes, woodcocks, and other birds, which frequented these rocks in great numbers; and the light-footed Ida would often explore places in search of their eggs, where the chamois himself would scarcely have ventured to climb. Then when the Sisters were successful, they knew so well how to prepare their booty for the table in a manner the best calculated to 176please the palate, that even old Hugo did not think it beneath him to accept a part of the savoury repast. Sometimes, the eagerness of this pursuit prevented the girls from perceiving the flight of time; and night was already closing in, before they regained the cavern. However, as they seldom returned with empty hands, and as they always did return at last, these long excursions were seldom found fault with.—One of the robbers indeed thought proper in a moment of ill-humour to remonstrate with Hugo on the too great liberty allowed the captives, and to represent the possibility of their seizing the opportunity to escape; but the old man was faithful also on this occasion to the opinion, which he had formerly given respecting the fall of 177the ice-crags; and continued to content himself with thinking,—“that which never had happened, in all probability never would happen at all;” indeed this was on all occasions a favourite maxim with him: and he frequently averred, that his adhering to it through life had saved his head many an unnecessary care, and his limbs many an unnecessary journey.

In the course of these excursions, the Sisters had examined the lower part of most of the mountains towards the north. They agreed, that a particular path, which seemed to lead straight over the Halsberg Rock, appeared to offer the most convenient passage and the greatest prospect of a successful end to their journey. By this path then they determined to set forward, 178as soon as they could summon up resolution sufficient to enter upon so dangerous an undertaking; but this was no easy matter, and they still thought it better with every succeeding day to postpone their journey to the next.

In the mean while, it appeared that Gero and Randolf had not found their plans so easy of execution, as they had flattered themselves would have been the case. This was evident from their thinking it necessary to send for the greatest part of those of their associates, who had been appointed to watch over the captives and treasures concealed in the secret valley; and who, being chiefly men, whose strength was considerably impaired by age or wounds, could only be required to give assistance in some case of most urgent necessity. This 179unexpected demand for their services produced much disturbance among the grey-headed miscreants. The Sisters thought this a favourable opportunity for putting their design in execution. Their preparations were already completed: each took a basket well-filled with wine and provisions in her left hand, and grasped with her right a strong and knotted staff to support her tottering feet, as she traversed the slippery paths of the mountains: and then with hearts beating anxiously, and with cheeks, almost as pale as the snow-hills to which their steps were addrest, they set forward to pursue a path till then never trodden by the foot of mortal.

Each was persuaded, that she was thoroughly acquainted with the nature of these mountains, because they had 180examined the two or three first miles of them. They dreamed of green vales and silvery fountains, because they had occasionally found such among the lower parts of the Halsberg Rock. But how bitter were their sensations, when they perceived, that with every moment the path became more rough and difficult; when they found, that their endeavours to keep on the same level were in vain, and that they were compelled to ascend into the more bleak and lofty regions of the mountain! at length they stopped in despair: they exchanged looks of terror, and murmured a few broken words, respecting the hopelessness of their attempt and the necessity of returning. They embraced each other with a sigh of anguish, and then began to retrace their 181way to the robber’s valley; for even this now appeared to them an object less terrible, than certain death in this kingdom of frost and desolation. However, they had not proceeded far, before they discovered, that (miserable as it was) even this last resource was denied to them. It was evident, that they had missed their way; to which ever side their course was directed, they still found themselves compelled to ascend. It seemed, as if they were inclosed in some magician’s circle, from whence there was no escaping; or as if incensed at their invasion of his territories, the spirit of the mountain had so fascinated their eyes, that they could only see the paths which led upwards to his cloudy palace, but none which by descending into the vale would enable them to escape from his vengeance.

182As yet they had not felt themselves quite solitary in these realms of terror. Sometimes a chamois bounded by them; sometimes their footsteps, echoing from the frozen rock, scared from its nest a screaming eagle: but still the further that they advanced, the more silent and awful seemed all around them; and the greater that the number became of those gigantic masses of ice, which they left behind, the greater number still were seen towering before them in the distance. Here all animation seemed to end: here the stillness of death appeared to have fixed its everlasting dwelling. No solitary weed, no single blade of grass showed itself from between the frozen rifts. Only here and there appeared some scanty patches of moss, and of another plant without colour, taste, or smell; thin, frail and white as 183the snow, from which it was produced.

Constantia paused for a moment: she prest her sister’s hand, and silent tears streamed down her cheeks, while she pointed to a pair of milk-white butterflies; the only living creatures to be seen in this melancholy place, and perhaps the last, which they should ever see. It was clear, that not their own sport or inclination had brought the insects thither, but that some unlucky gust of wind had forced them into these inhospitable desarts. The poor little flutterers flew round each other for a while in still contracting-circles, and then sank on the ground, overpowered by the killing wind which blew from the Ice-hills. The Sisters gazed upon them with looks of compassionate 184anguish; in the fate of these two unfortunate wanderers they read their own. Their feet were already seized by the frost; it would have been impossible for them to have proceeded much further, had not a better path presented itself before them. This, it is true, was free from ice and snow; but on the other hand it was much more difficult and rough, on account of immense masses of fallen rock, which occasionally barred up the path completely. Over these they were obliged to climb, not without danger; neither did they suffer themselves to be scared from proceeding by the precipices, which frequently yawned on both sides of them, and threatened the poor Pilgrims with death in their abysses. But oh! how amply were they repaid 185for all which they had suffered in traversing this path, when they perceived some narrow planks laid from one of those precipices to another. Here then were certain proofs, that human beings had past this way before them; had performed the journey with success; and had left these memorials to assure any wanderers who might follow them, that it was not impossible for patience and perseverance to overcome the obstacles, which opposed their painful progress. Now then the Sisters hastened onwards with fresh spirits and recruited hopes. Alas! it was not long, before each separately perceived skulls, and other fragments of human skeletons, which told them but too plainly, how vain was the attempt of escaping from these rocks with life! each knew but too 186well the object which shocked her; each felt but too plainly the truth, which the sight of that object conveyed: but neither told what she had seen to the other, lest she should make her sister’s bosom share the anguish of her own.

Thus did the poor weary girls continue to wander onwards, till day-light faded; the increasing gloom made the surrounding objects appear doubly terrific. At length the moon rose. Ida and Constantia were passionate admirers of the charms of nature: it is true, that their hearts were too full of anxiety, and their limbs too much tortured by the severity of the frost, to admit of their feeling in its whole strength of beauty the admirable scene, which the moon-beams now exhibited to their 187view: yet was not that beauty entirely disregarded by them. Each called her sister’s attention to the dazzling and indescribable splendour, which now unexpectedly surrounded them: each, in hopes of imparting a gleam of momentary satisfaction to the other, exaggerated her admiration at the pompous show, and forced an expression of pleasure into her countenance, which was totally foreign to her heart. The moon rose still higher; her image was reflected a thousand-fold from the enormous crystallizations, which presented themselves on all sides, hanging from the broken crags, and threatening every moment to fall into the profound gulphs beneath them. The objects around seemed on a sudden like some region described in romance, where 188diamond-rocks and palaces of precious stones are raised in an instant in a wild desart by the wand of some arch-magician: everything appeared enchanted, and the Sisters, as they now hastened onwards, seemed wandering in a flood of silver light: but alas! that light was cheerless and unwarming. It only enabled them to contemplate the regions of frost around them, but gave them no relief from the pain, which that frost inflicted! with a sentiment of sorrow not to be exprest, they folded each other in a strict embrace.

—“All around us is so bright and fair!” said Ida; “alas! and we are so wretched!”—

Constantia only answered her with tears—yet after remaining for a few moments in this attitude of tender sorrow, they 189were sensible, that a kind of cheering warmth had communicated itself from each bosom to the other. Yet Constantia now declared, that she found it impossible for her to proceed onwards: but if any place could be found, not so totally frozen as to threaten any one, who should rest there, with the sleep of death, she trusted, that after a short repose she should be able to resume her journey with recruited strength and spirits. They had fancied for some time, that they could distinguish the distant murmur of a stream of water; and they now naturally concluded, that a place, where water was still unfettered enough to flow, could not be altogether destitute of warmth.

Ida encouraged her fainting sister to drag herself a few paces further, in 190hopes of discovering that place of rest, which she had just declared so necessary.

They ventured to enter one of the enormous caverns, which the penetrating moon-beams deprived of some part of its natural terrors. As they proceeded, they were sensible of a different temperature of air from that, which they breathed in the more exposed parts of the mountain: by comparison they could almost call the sensation, which they now experienced, by the pleasing name of warmth; and the feel of something like soft moss under their feet encouraged them with the conviction, that here at least all vegetation was not completely at an end. The roar of the water-fall by this time was almost deafening; but no persuasions 191could induce the timid Constantia to advance one step further into the cavern, than where it was illuminated by the moon-beams.

She sank almost insensible upon the mossy carpet; while the more active Ida bethought herself of every possible means of alleviating the sufferings of her fellow-Pilgrim. The contents of their baskets remained untouched, for anxiety of heart had prevented them hitherto from being sensible either of thirst, or hunger. Ida now bathed her sister’s pale lips with some drops of wine; she then splintered the staves, which had guided their tottering steps in this hazardous journey; and she hastened to collect a few precious fragments of broken wood, which while entering the cavern she had remarked 192in the moon-shine; probably they were the remains of a plank, which had served some former traveller as a bridge over the wide chasms between the rocks.

With a flint and the steel clasp of her girdle she contrived to strike out a few sparks of fire. It was not long, before she had the satisfaction to see the wood blazing; and she started in admiration and astonishment at the magnificent show, which the strengthening fire-light presented before her; the Sisters were at the entrance of an immense and vaulted cavern, whose sides and roof appeared to be entirely formed of ice: from the extreme end of it the rush of the water-fall proceeded and was repeated by innumerable echoes: while the flames played sometimes on large sheets of crystal, smooth, bright, 193and polished as Venetian mirrors, and sometimes fell upon the broken crags of the rock, whence they were reflected in a thousand ways, and which they tinged with a thousand colours.

But this was not the time for amusing herself with unprofitable observation, and Ida soon recovered herself from her momentary enthusiasm. Constantia lay by the side of the little fire, still in great need of comfort and assistance; and it was long, before her sister’s efforts to revive her produced the desired effect. The first favourable consequence of these endeavours was a gentle slumber, as she lay reclined upon the moss, which by this time, had acquired a slight degree of warmth; Ida seated herself close by the fire, 194occupied in feeding and preserving it, and determined not to allow her eyes to close, in order that she might devote herself to watching the slumbers of her sister.

Yet the night appeared so long, that she would have found it impossible to resist her inclination to sleep, if she had not sought some more active employment. Accustomed by her adventures in the Donat-Fortress to long wanderings in caves and darkness, she resolved to beguile the tedious hours with exploring the more retired depths of the rock, and tracing to its source the water, whose distinct roar assured her, that it could be at no great distance. The kindly warmth of the fire had recruited her spirits and restored her 195strength in a great measure; and she found herself able to undertake the task of wandering through the frozen cavern, without being in danger of yielding to the cold. Midnight was past, when guiding her course by the light of a blazing fire-brand she drew near the thunders of the cataract, and her limbs trembled less with cold, than with expectation of the sight which she was now on the point of witnessing. Who can penetrate without emotion into the earth’s interior sanctuary? who can presume to pry into Nature’s secret abodes, where the great Mother brings forth those children of her strength the mighty Floods, without feeling awe-struck by the bold and desperate undertaking?

196The blazing fire-brand was here unnecessary. An opening in the cavern’s roof gave free admittance to the moon-beams, and the whole extent was brilliantly illuminated. Ida now beheld a spectacle, to which she doubted whether the whole universe could produce a rival. From the summit of a rock of ice, whose height the eye measured with difficulty, and which was entirely formed of the river’s own frozen evaporations, did the rapid torrent of the Aar precipitate the whole volume of its waters headlong, till it reached an enormous mass of broken pieces of rock, the probable accumulation of ages. Here it divided itself into more than twenty lesser rivers, which sought their passage into the vale below, in a variety of directions.—The 197scene was most splendid, but also was most awful!—the moon-light made the foaming flood appear like a torrent of liquid silver; which produced the most singular and fantastic effects, as it rushed with rebellowing roar among the groupes of colossal rocks around it, and interrupted with the glitter of its streams, the deep gloom occasioned by their shadows, Ida looked up to the awful height, whence the torrent descended, covering her with the light sprinkling of its foam: she looked down into the fearful gulph, in which its waters were buried: she looked upon the cavern’s glittering walls, covered with incrustations of innumerable shapes and colours, and upon the moving shadows, which fell from the surrounding 198gigantic rocks. The sight was too much for her; she felt her head grow giddy; the fire-brand dropt from her grasp, and she sank upon the ground almost insensible.

She soon recovered herself, and hastened to quit a scene, whose awful beauties were more than she could bear in the weak and agitated state of her nerves. She could discern the glimmerings of the distant fire, and hastened back to the outward cavern; where she found Constantia still buried in repose. The flame was now getting low, and more fuel was not to be procured: but it had already warmed the cave sufficiently to remove any apprehension, lest the sleeper should be frozen. Since therefore her watching ceased to 199be necessary, Ida no longer resisted the drowsiness, against which for some time past she had found it so difficult to contend. Besides, through the opening of their resting-place she could already discern the first faint reddening of the approaching morn; she therefore laid herself down by Constantia’s side with the pleasing reflection, that the cave would soon be warmed and gladdened by the power of the sun; and that when her still-slumbering sister should open her eyes, she would not behold those gloomy appearances, which during that long sad night had produced upon herself such deep and melancholy impressions.

Ida had not long closed her weary 200eye-lids, before Constantia awoke greatly refreshed. Unconscious of the manner in which her sister had past the night, she lost no time in waking her, and advising the prosecution of their journey. Ida was contented with her short repose, and obeyed the summons. Yet before they quitted the hospitable cavern, to whose shelter from the night-blast they undoubtedly were indebted for life, Ida led her sister to the place, which had appeared to her so awfully splendid when viewed at midnight; but which (she doubted not) would produce a different impression than in those moments, when her fortitude was completely subdued by anxiety of mind and lassitude of body.

201The beams of the morning-sun now stained the waters of the Aar with crimson light: its streams, as they precipitated themselves into the vales beneath, glowed with a thousand beautiful colours. A shower of diamonds seemed to fall from the summit of the ice-rock, and the clifts, which during the night had thrown such deep and solemn shadows around them, now were gaily arrayed in verdant moss and covered with such hardy plants, as can endure cold without inconvenience, and which generally fasten their roots in the fissures of stones and among the broken crags of mountains. The sight was at once majestic and enlivening! the two pilgrims sank upon their knees opposite to the newly-risen 202sun, and poured out the sentiments of pious enthusiasm, with which they felt their hearts overflow. Not complaints, not murmurs, not sighs proceeded from the lips of these poor forlorn-ones: no; they exprest their delight at this wonderful creation and their admiration of its Creator, though at that moment they were themselves struggling against calamities so desperate, as scarcely to afford them the remote possibility of a rescue. Never perhaps was a nobler sacrifice offered up by suffering humanity to the power and magnificence of the Supreme!

Yet Ida’s sacrifice was the greatest, since Constantia possest a source of satisfaction in her bosom, of which her sister was not yet aware.

203—“To-day,” said she, while her countenance was brightened with smiles, at the same time detaining Ida, who (having finished her orisons,) was on the point of turning from the cave; “to-day it is my turn to be the guide through our doubtful journey. Ida, I dreamt last night, that we were still wandering along the paths, which we traversed yesterday: methought, that you went foremost, and bewildered yourself in a narrow nook, where precipices on all sides impeded your further progress. I was lamenting over your distress; when lo! on a sudden St. Engeltruda stood before me, such as she is represented on the altar-piece in her Chapel at Engelberg. A ray of golden light detached itself from the aureol, which 204blazed round her head, and guided me to a small opening in a rock, exactly resembling that, which caught my eye in the first moment of my entering this cavern. I past through it: a narrow winding-way descended gradually into the valley. Suddenly, as if it had been by some magic spell, we were transported into those happy plains, where we past the years of infancy, and which I shall never cease to regret our ever leaving: there we became once more Mary and Rosanna Tell, and forgot in the humble tranquillity of Rutelis the sorrows and sufferings of our lofty hateful station.”—

Ida gave way to the enthusiastic hopes of her sister, and followed her, as with difficulty she forced her way 205through a narrow opening, which she had discovered at no great distance from the torrent. After springing boldly at the hazard of their lives over a few wide-yawning chasms, they reached a kind of green plain, where it was possible for them to proceed above a hundred yards without meeting any obstacle. A circumstance so new in their painful journey inspired Constantia with added confidence. She turned smiling to her sister, and pointed out two small white butterflies, who were sporting in the sunshine, and which (she was firmly persuaded) were the very same, whom she had seen sinking exhausted to the ground on the day before.

—“Yesterday,” said she with exultation, 206“yesterday they were the emblems of our distress; to-day they are the prophets of our speedy rescue. See, see! a favourable western gale wafts them kindly to the lower vallies, where they may flutter through fields of flowers, and forget how much they suffered from the frost, while they bask in the bright and cheering sunshine.”—

Her long undisturbed night’s rest, and her confidence in the protection of her Patron-Saint had greatly improved Constantia’s spirits: Ida’s on the contrary were much more deprest than at the beginning of their journey. They soon reached the termination of their easy road; and as fresh obstacles seemed again to impede their progress with every step, Ida asserted, that the difficulties, 207which they found in their present path were sufficient to prove, that they had judged ill in altering their direction. It was in vain, that Constantia attempted to demonstrate, that the course, which she so much regretted, would have led them into the most remote recesses of the Grimsel-Mountain, which towered above them on the one side; or that she pointed out the Tempest-horn, which rose on the other like some threatening giant, and on whose ice-covered limbs no path was discernable, which could possibly have been trodden by any mortal feet.

A narrow passage between two almost joining rocks guided them to the mountain of Gemmi: and now they perceived with joy, that instead of being one unvaried acclivity, their road every 208now and then suffered them to descend. It’s true, this road seemed rather calculated for the clambering of goats, than for the use of human beings: but though it was frequently interrupted by extensive chasms, they frequently found themselves assisted in passing them by broad planks, already laid over them by some friendly hand. Where there were none, and the Sisters were obliged to traverse the abyss with extreme hazard on some narrow shelf by clinging to the broken crags, still Constantia never would proceed, till she had discovered either an unemployed plank, which she brought from some other place, or the shattered branch of some wild fig-tree; in order that she might stretch it across the chasm, and enable any future wanderer to cross it with less trouble and risque. She also 209(as they proceeded onwards) began to relate a wonderful legend, which had been told her by one of the nuns of Zurich, explaining, why of all these mountains that of Gemmi alone was observed never to be whitened with snow or ice. But Ida was too much out of heart, and too fearful of their being engaged in a wrong direction, to permit herself to pay much attention to the legend; and as she did not think it worth notice, there can be no sort of occasion for my repeating it here.

From a rock, whose height made their heads giddy, they had ventured at mid-day to cast their eyes down into the regions beneath them, and which the sinking heart of Ida now made her despair of ever reaching. They could perceive from hence several dark spots, 210which Ida pronounced to be abysses, in which their path would at length terminate: and this decision she delivered with such positiveness, that Constantia would undoubtedly have consented to return, or else have chosen a different path, had either a return been now practicable, or another path been to be found. But as the day advanced, and the road still continued to sink itself lower and lower, with what rapture did they ascertain, that these supposed abysses in fact were parts of a village; whose smoking chimnies announced to them the neighbourhood of domestic comforts, and to whose peaceable shelter the cattle were at that moment returning from pasture.

The quick-sighted Ida was the first to make this discovery. She sank weeping 211upon the bosom of her sister, and entreated her to forgive the wayward humour, with which she had embittered their journey. Constantia folded the suppliant to her heart, and the Sisters united in offering up a prayer of fervent gratitude to the Saint, who had guided their wanderings so wonderfully and so well.

They resumed their journey, and now how easy did it seem to them! As they descended, the path gradually enlarged itself; and before the shutting in of night they found themselves safe under one of the cottage-roofs, where they learned for the first time after a long, long interval, what it was to rest without anxiety: in truth the short and broken slumbers, which visited them in the robber-valley, were scarcely worthy 212of being called by the sweet name of rest.

While the Damsels of Werdenberg were engaged in the above adventures; while one of them was anxiously and vainly expected at the Convent of Zurich, and while the other was most unjustly censured and despised for her supposed elopement with the acknowledged bridegroom of her friend; Count Henry of Montfort was eagerly pursuing the wrong track, into which he had been enticed by the perfidious chaplain of Castle-March. Persuaded that he should soon overtake Ida, he continued to rush forwards without allowing himself to rest for a moment; till in a little village belonging to the Canton of Glarus he was attacked by a severe fever, produced by the violence of his mental 213agitation, and by the inconsiderate speed, with which his journey had been performed. Nature at length yielded, and Henry was compelled to stop, and make his option either of recovering slowly, or of dying at once.

According to the established custom of all knight errants, he had commenced his expedition, not merely without forming a plan or consulting common sense, but without furnishing himself with a necessary supply of cash. He had left all his attendants far behind him; and as several days had elapsed since his separation from them, and as he had not thought proper to inform them of the object of his journey, they were totally unable to form even a guess as to the place, where it would be most 214likely for them to rejoin their master. Luckily for Henry, in the paroxysms of his fever he frequently pronounced the name of Montfort. From this the good simple people of the village (who in truth had rendered him all the assistance, which their sorry means could allow) concluded, that the invalid must certainly belong to the old Count of Montfort. A messenger was dispatched to verify the fact: and Count Egbert lost no time in sending able physicians to his nephew’s aid, by whose care the fever was at length vanquished. As soon as the step could be taken without endangering his life, the Convalescent was removed to his paternal mansion, where he saw nothing but frowning countenances, and heard nothing from morning till night, except reproaches 215for his extraordinary conduct on his bridal day with Elizabeth. It seems, that Count Egbert now thought himself entitled to assume a higher tone of authority with his nephew, since the news was just arrived, that Henry’s firm friend and powerful patron, the Emperor, was no more. He perished, in consequence of a malady which he contracted during an expedition against the Turks, and was no longer able to vindicate and enforce the claims of his favourite.

—“You cannot but acknowledge,” said the old Count one day to his pale and still emaciated nephew, “that I have done every thing in my power to establish your happiness on a firm basis. Elizabeth of March, young, lovely, wise, 216powerful, and (above all!) enormously rich, would have been your own at this moment, if you had not thought proper to abandon her for the laudable purpose of scampering away after a will-o’-the-wisp!—But now the business is over! No regrets can now put matters to rights again! Elizabeth is Countess of Torrenburg, is lost to you for ever, and what counsel to give you now, I protest, I know not!—Truly, your affairs are in a wretched condition: your claims on my succession cannot avail you till after my decease; and even then, they stand a fair chance of being worth but little, since I am now seriously thinking of contracting a matrimonial engagement: though you thought proper to break off my former 217match by running away with my intended bride, the light and wanton Ida!”—

Here Henry assured him for the twentieth time, that he had not beheld Ida since the bridal day at the Castle of March; and his uncle for the twentieth time replied, by assuring Henry, that in that case it was very extraordinary, that nobody else should know any thing at all about her. However, whether she had gone off with Henry or with any other person, for his own part he was determined, that anxiety about her should never turn one more hair of his head grey; but that he would marry the first woman of a decent family, whom luck or accident should throw into his way.

In the course of his reproaches the old Count had mentioned Elizabeth’s 218marriage: this was a fact. Within a few days after Ida’s disappearance, Elizabeth became Countess of Torrenburg. It has already been mentioned, that Count Frederick set forward for the Castle of March, in all the pomp of a bridegroom, to renew his addresses, fortified by an encouraging vision of his patron-saint, and assisted by the prayers of the worthy Father Hilarius. On the other hand, the house-priest of March had managed to screw the indignation of Elizabeth and her relations to the highest pitch against the fugitive Montfort and the Heiresses of Sargans; and the lady’s parents were proportionably penitent for the ill-judged rejection of Count Frederick’s addresses. Finding his mistress and her friends in a temper of mind so favourable to his wishes, 219the superannuated lover needed only to make his proposals, in order to have them accepted. But little discussion was necessary; all parties were soon of the same mind, and Elizabeth in a few days entered the Castle of Torrenburg as its mistress. From that hour her every word, her every action was such, as proved her to be worthy of the high station, in which she was placed by the choice of this excellent nobleman; against whom no possible objection could be suggested, except that he was old enough to be the grand-father of his blooming wife. But to Elizabeth’s disappointed heart his age was rather a recommendation than an objection. After Montfort’s perfidy she felt it impossible for her ever to love another 220man as her husband; but she loved Count Frederick as her father; she esteemed and reverenced him, nor from her conduct towards him would any one have supposed, that her happy husband was not still in possession of all the advantages and charms of youth. All affection for the ungrateful Henry seemed extinguished in her bosom, and the good old Count enjoyed with her a much greater share of happiness, than he had any reason to expect would have been the case. Nor was her behaviour towards her husband alone praiseworthy: she conducted herself on all occasions with so much discretion, and displayed throughout such winning graces and enlarged benevolence, that she became the object of universal 221respect, and was proposed as a model to be admired and imitated by all the daughters of Helvetia.

In one point alone her prudence was in default. There was an individual in the Castle of Torrenburg, whose influence with her husband was omnipotent; but for whom she felt an aversion so insurmountable, that scarcely could she endure him in her presence; and whom she was rash enough to endeavour at removing, before she had examined whether her strength was equal to the undertaking, and whether this offence offered to the antient household gods, might not draw down some heavy punishment upon her own unsuspecting head.

This detested and persecuted object of Elizabeth’s efforts was no other, than 222the keeper of all the consciences in the Castle of Torrenburg, was no other than the devout Father Hilarius! She was not aware, that it was to him and his saints, that she was chiefly indebted for the illustrious title which she bore, and the splendid station which she occupied. Perhaps, even had she been conscious of her obligation, she would have but little approved of the crooked paths, by which the Friar had contrived to conduct her to her elevated situation.

In fulfilment of his vow, Count Frederick had recompensed the patron-saints of his two clerical allies most liberally for the possession of his adored Elizabeth. The chaplain of Castle-March (whose only capital fault was avarice) was well contented with the reward of 223his exertions: not so was Hilarius! He had formed far greater plans, and indulged more glorious expectations. He had made no sort of doubt, that he should gain no less a share of the wife’s confidence, than he already possest of the husband’s. Instead of this, he obtained from her nothing but aversion and contempt; and from the moment of his being convinced, that such were her sentiments towards him, fury took entire possession of his misanthropic heart, and he brooded day and night over plans of swift-coming vengeance.

His disappointment in the present was greatly embittered by his foreseeing the failure of all those hopes, which he had long grounded upon the future. Much time had not elapsed since his marriage, when the superannuated Frederick communicated 224to the chaplain in confidence certain dispositions of his estates after his death, which could not fail to be highly disagreeable to the avaricious Monk. Every day more fascinated by the perfections of his beautiful wife, the Count tortured himself to discover some means, by which he might express in the most striking manner his gratitude to her, whose attentions shed a gleam of such bright sunshine over the evening of his closing life. He secretly bequeathed to her every thing, which it was possible for him to give, without entirely laying aside all justice to the young Countesses of Werdenberg: since much as he held himself insulted by their late conduct, still he was too generous to deprive them of any thing, to which the name which they bore could 225enable them to advance the claims of justice.

His confessor was initiated into all these mysteries. Scarcely while he listened to them, could Hilarius restrain his rage within the bounds of decency. He saw all the fond hopes, which he had built upon Frederick’s want of heirs and attachment to the church and its servants, destroyed at one blow; and he gnashed his teeth for spite to think, that it was out of his power to prevent the Count’s benevolent intentions towards his wife from being carried into immediate and complete effect.

As for Elizabeth, she was entirely ignorant of those weighty proofs of his affection, which Count Frederick designed for her after his decease. She was equally ignorant of the spite and envy, 226which this large bequest had excited against her in one of the most malignant of human hearts. She continued to proceed in her straight-forward benevolent course without turning to the right or to the left: she treated her decrepit husband with unabated kindness and attention unwearied; and she denied herself no opportunity of convincing Hilarius, that he was the object of her fixed aversion, and that she was decidedly bent on procuring sooner or later his expulsion from the Castle of Torrenburg.

Oh! that she had carried that design into execution before one of the basest attempts, that ever was plotted by a villain’s brain, was ripe enough for action! Yet perhaps the will of Heaven ordained, that this plan should be suffered to ripen, in order that it might effect 227the overthrow of its guilty author, and exhibit the merits of the noble lady of the Castle in the fullest blaze of all their purity and lustre!

Oh! generous Elizabeth! you for whom I write, and for whom I trust, that I have not written in vain! Is it permitted me to relate your own glorious actions to yourself? Yet why do I hesitate?—She, who (I doubt not) while perusing these leaves has not hesitated to bestow many a tear of compassion on the undeserved sorrows, many a tribute of admiration on the heroic patience, many an expression of delight and gratitude at the fortunate escape, of those whom she calls—“her enemies,”—surely she need not avert her eyes, while my faithful hand places her before the glass, in which she may behold the 228reflection of her own excellence! She knows well, that I am no flatterer. I have not concealed from her, that she is proud, rash, not disinclined to resentment for injuries, and obstinate in adhering to her determinations, however inconsiderately those determinations may have been formed. But neither will I conceal, that I know her to be generous, benevolent, courageous, resolute, disinterested; an avowed enemy of vice, however fascinating be the shape which it assumes; an enthusiastic adorer of virtue, however humble be the station which it occupies, however lowly be the habit which it wears. Such is the faint portrait of her, whom future historians will paint in far more brilliant colours; such is the portrait of Elizabeth of Torrenburg!

229Hilarius had long been secretly connected with a society of mountaineers, who (by means of the private entrance to the Donat-Fortress) might be reckoned the Count’s nearest neighbours. The precise nature of this union between the Monk and the Banditti belongs to the secret history of these miscreants, in which we are not sufficiently well instructed to authorize our giving any account of it in these memoirs. Let it suffice, that the union was a very close one; perhaps, it was a long-established custom for the robbers to connect themselves with some ecclesiastic, in memory of the original founder of their society, the celebrated Abbot Luprian. Alas! it is a very painful task for me, myself an ecclesiastic, the successor of that Abbot Luprian, the cotemporary of this 230Monk Hilarius, to point out the stains, with which the vices of individuals have polluted the sacred habit!—Yet it is essential, that the whole truth should be laid before Elizabeth’s eyes, and I will not hesitate to perform my duty to the full.

The avarice of Hilarius was insatiable. The custody of that deserted quarter of the Count’s residence, which was now only known by the name of the Donat-Fortress, was intrusted to him; nothing could be more convenient for the robbers than such a retreat, where they could either take refuge, when the pursuit after them was too hot to admit of their venturing back to their valley; or where they could remain concealed and unsuspected of being in the neighbourhood, till the precise moment should 231arrive for executing their plans of devastation with the most complete success. Accordingly, no sum appeared to them to counterbalance the value of such a refuge; and Hilarius annually received an immense tribute for allowing them the use of the subterraneous passage, and also of such of the apartments of the Donat-Fortress, as were best adapted to their purposes and profession. Here they had a well-appointed armoury; here they deposited their prey, till circumstances admitted of its removal to the valley; and here (among many other precautions for their safety) they had not neglected to lay in a large stock of provisions, and above all several hogsheads of the best old Rhenish wine.

232But though they did not neglect any occasion of increasing their wealth by the plunder of passengers and of the country at large, still there was one vast undertaking, which lay most at the hearts of the Warriors of the Mountains; for that was the title, by which the free-booters preferred being distinguished.—Of this undertaking Hilarius was the original suggestor, and without his aid they were well aware, that it never could be carried into execution. The object of it was nothing less, than to put the Warriors of the Mountains in possession of the whole domains of the Count of Torrenburg, with the exception of such parts as his pious enthusiasm should have induced him to bequeath to the Convent, of which Hilarius was a worthy member. 233The plans were so well arranged, that nothing could seem more improbable than a failure: nothing indeed prevented their having been already carried into execution except the immoderate price, which Hilarius demanded in recompense of his services.

Matters, however, were so nearly concluded between the contracting parties, that Hilarius had occasionally introduced some of the principal robbers into the Castle in various disguises, in order that they might become thoroughly acquainted with the nature of the place, which they were to attack; might spy out the weaker parts of its defences; and by being aware of the obstacles to their designs, might be prepared to overcome them. Confiding in the terrific tales respecting the ghosts, which 234haunted it, he had even ventured frequently to give his allies midnight entertainments in the deserted chambers of the Donat-Fortress. The superstitious domestics shook with terror, as they saw gleams of light streaming through the worm-eaten casements, and doubted not, that the ghosts of the antient tyrants of Carlsheim and Sargans had invited all the other infernal spirits to a feast in their former earthly residence. In this manner had the Count’s enemies frequently been within a few hundred yards of him unsuspected; while he (good man) was dreaming, that his barred portals and lifted draw-bridge secured him against any possible attack.

Yet his good fortune so ordained it, that the striking this important blow, 235was still delayed from time to time: Hilarius too was of opinion, that the fittest time for making the long-meditated attack would be immediately after the Count’s decease, when the want of lineal heirs must necessarily produce much confusion among the numerous claimants, and when in all probability the Castle’s inhabitants would be found entirely off their guard. The impatient robbers were by no means satisfied with this opinion: they were for making the attempt immediately; but unless they could convince Hilarius, their opposition availed them nothing. He consented to their taking possession of the Donat-Fortress; but he took care to keep it well locked and bolted, so that the supposed spectres could not by any means invade the inhabited part of the 236Castle, till it should be his own good will and pleasure to admit them.

It was at this period, that the Countesses of Werdenberg were acknowledged by Count Frederick, and were immediately considered by the Monk as obstacles to his designs. Looking upon Constantia as destined to the veil, his whole undivided hatred was monopolized by Ida; and he never rested, till he had ruined her in her uncle’s good opinion, nay (by means of her mysterious flight) in the good opinion of the world. I have already related, in what manner he delivered her into the power of the robbers; who gratified him doubly, first by relieving him from a person whose absence he wished, and whose blood he was not quite villain enough to shed with his own 237hands, and secondly by rewarding him for the possession of so lovely a girl with a considerable sum of money.

As to what became afterwards of the unhappy Ida, that was a matter of little interest to Father Hilarius: but it would have been a matter of very great interest, if he had guest Randolf’s intention of giving himself a legal claim to the inheritance of Sargans by the possession of her hand, and of reinstating the detested Ida hereafter in those rights, of which the Monk had taken so much trouble to deprive her.

The daily presents, which Frederick’s generosity bestowed on his spiritual guide, made the latter by no means anxious to see the moment of his patron’s dissolution. He had forwarded 238to the utmost of his power Elizabeth’s marriage, not only on account of the advantages promised both to himself and his Convent by the superannuated lover, whenever this union should be accomplished, but also from being persuaded, that the affectionate care of such a wife would be giving the Count a new lease for many years of existence.

But when the Monk perceived Elizabeth’s decided aversion to himself, and that her remonstrances had already produced a degree of coolness in her husband towards both his person and his counsels, he found it necessary to hasten the execution of his plans. The venom of spite and vengeance, which had so long been working in his heart, at length overflowed; the glimmering sparks of treason broke into flames; 239his intercourse with the Warriors of the Mountain grew more close than ever; and the peaceable inhabitants of the Castle were almost terrified out of their senses at the frequent feasts given by the ghosts of the antient Lords of Sargans.

The reports relative to the goblins of the Donat-Fortress at length reached Elizabeth. She had the rashness on one of these terrific nights, when all the other inmates of the Castle went about obstinately with their eyes and ears shut, as obstinately to keep hers wide open. Unattended, she ventured to approach the deserted chambers; and the sounds which reached her, as she stood without, convinced her, that if they really proceeded from spirits, those spirits must needs have retained a considerable 240portion of their former earthly habits.

Not the most distant suspicion of what really was the occasion of this uproar, was likely to suggest itself to her mind. She only concluded, and very naturally, that the belief in apparitions served some of her domestics as a cloak to hide their midnight and dissolute entertainments from the knowledge of their superiors. This was a practice, to which as mistress of the family she thought it absolutely necessary to put an immediate stop. Accordingly, without loss of time she informed her husband of what she had observed, and of what she supposed to be the fact: the household was immediately summoned, and ordered to attend their Lord and Lady to the 241haunted chambers, which they were determined to examine without a moment’s delay.

But the uninvited guests were already aware of their approach. One of Elizabeth’s women was in the confidence of the Monk, and hastened to warn him by a signal previously agreed upon, that danger was at hand. Hilarius immediately insisted, that the lights should be extinguished, and that the Banditti should retire with all speed through the secret passage, which (he asserted) would be the most spirit-like way of taking their departure. But the robbers, who were heated with wine, declared, that it was high time for them to lay aside the characters of spirits, and that they never should find a more prosperous moment for making their long-meditated 242attack, than the present. The continual postponement of this attack had long made them suspect their ally of playing them false, and they had prepared themselves for taking the power out of his hands with the very first favourable opportunity—the caverns below were filled with Banditti: those who were in the fortress were no inconsiderable number; and confident of a fresh supply of troops if necessary, they rushed forwards to meet the Lord of the Castle, without deigning to summon to their assistance their friends in the cavern. Indeed, they looked upon victory not only as certain, but easy, when their only antagonists were terrified domestics, headed by no better generals than an inexperienced female, and a gray-headed man just 243escaped from the bed of sickness, and weighed down by the number of his years. Accordingly, without listening to the Monk’s remonstrances, they rushed towards the great portal; and Elizabeth with her followers no sooner entered the court, in which the Donat-Fortress was situated, than to their utter surprize they found themselves attacked on all sides.

How lively were the colours, in which the enraptured Frederick described to me this the most glorious transaction of Elizabeth’s life!—with what enthusiasm did he relate, with what enthusiasm did I hear, how in this moment of consternation Elizabeth alone preserved her presence of mind and the look of undaunted resolution; how, when her terrified attendants recoiled 244at the approach of the supposed spectres, she showed them the sword, which gleamed in the weak hands of their aged master, urged them to defend a life so precious, and shamed them by reproaches into following his example; how she wrested from the hand of a beardless robber the weapon, which he already pointed against her husband’s heart, and instantly buried it in the assassin’s own; how when the weak old Frederick was at length struck to the earth, she threw herself before him, and made her breast his shield; and how while occupied in this generous office, and while thus devoting her own life in order to preserve his, she received a wound upon her brow, whose scar now forms the noblest ornament of the most lovely face in all Helvetia!

245Frederick was wounded, and his attendants conveyed him away from the scene of action; but Elizabeth still maintained her post, directing by her advice, and invigorating by her presence the small but faithful body of her retainers. The Banditti found by this time, that victory was not to be so easily gained, as they had hitherto expected; and they thought it prudent to summon to their assistance the lurkers in the subterraneous caverns. Elizabeth perceived, that the numbers of the assailants was suddenly and alarmingly increased. Every moment seemed to add to their strength, and it was evident, that unless some means of preventing the foe from profiting by this new accession of power could be discovered, every thing was lost. 246Fortunately, in this critical moment the eye of the Heroine rested upon the portcullis, which on account both of its weight and workmanship was esteemed a master-piece of art. She sprang forwards; she still grasped the sword, of which she had deprived the robber, and with a single blow she severed the sustaining cord. It fell with a heavy crash, and destroyed in its descent several of the new-comers, who were over-hasty in flying to the assistance of their hardly-pressed companions.

—“Courage, my friends!” exclaimed Elizabeth with a sudden burst of joy; “resist your enemies but for a few minutes longer, and we are safe! hark, how the alarm-bells make the air resound! and see! the castle-portals are 247thrown open! rejoice! rejoice! our preservers are at hand!”—

It had been one of the Countess’s first orders, that the alarm-bells should be sounded without delay, and as soon as any signs were observed of obedience to the signal for assistance, that the Warder should set wide the gates for the reception of those, who might hasten to their relief. She was obeyed; but no one expected, that these precautions would bring them any more powerful succour than the presence of a few bands of peasants, armed in haste, and unaccustomed to such midnight attacks; or else perhaps the troops of some of the neighbouring noblemen, but who were all at too great a distance to admit of their reaching the Castle of Torrenburg, before the business should have been finally decided.

248But Elizabeth, when she gave these orders, was better aware of their importance. The terrible event, which I have just been describing, took place on the night preceding St. Martin’s festival. St. Martin’s day was also the birth-day of the Count of Torrenburg; a day, which Elizabeth now celebrated for the first time, since she became a wife, and which she was determined to distinguish by a most splendid entertainment. For many weeks had her messengers been employed in traversing the neighbouring provinces, for the purpose of inviting the most distinguished noblemen and their families to be present at a tournament, to be held at the Castle of Torrenburg in honour of the nativity of its Lord. Count Frederick, though he was now too much enfeebled by age to admit of his 249taking a part in them himself, still delighted in witnessing such martial sports: they recalled to him many a pleasing and many a glorious occurrence of his honourable life; and Elizabeth had not failed to select for his amusement on his birth-day that particular species, which, her own observation and the experience of others had given her reason to know, would be most acceptable to her husband.

It was on this very night, that the invited guests were expected at the Castle, accompanied by their wives and daughters with a numerous retinue. It had been settled, that they should not arrive till after midnight, in order that their being in the Castle might continue unknown to the Count till the next morning; when it was Elizabeth’s 250design to conduct him (still ignorant of what was going to take place) to the prepared lists, where he would unexpectedly find himself seated in the circle of his best friends and well-wishers, in order to witness that kind of entertainment, in which he most peculiarly delighted. All her preparations had been made with the greatest secrecy; none but a few of her most immediate friends and domestics were in her confidence; and therefore few except herself were aware, that the alarm-bells were sounded for the purpose of calling to her assistance those expected guests, who (she was certain from the lateness of the hour) must needs be at no great distance.

Her hopes were soon verified. The draw-bridge had scarcely fallen, when 251it re-echoed under the hasty trampling of horses’-hoofs. The court-yard was soon filled with soldiers, who without staying to demand what was the matter, hastened with drawn swords to assist the Countess and her faithful supporters. Elizabeth was a heroine in the moment of need; but her heart was still that of a weak and tender female. She was anxious to rejoin her bleeding husband; her wound was painful; and still more painful to her feelings was the sight of the blood, which streamed around her, and of the mangled corses with which the pavement was strewed. Most joyful was she, when she found herself at liberty to resign her dangerous and hateful post; her friend of youth, Richard of Ulmenhorst, and Count Oswald of March (her brother) 252took the command of her forces; and she now flew to the chamber of that husband, who but a few minutes before had been indebted to her for his life. She found, that his wound (it was but a slight one) was already drest; and that he was earnestly insisting, that his attendants should lead him to rejoin his glorious wife, and suffer him either to conquer by her side, or perish with that dear one: they sank into each other’s arms, and melted into tears of joy at finding themselves once more in safety. Seldom have youthful lovers, even in their happiest moments, felt such unmixed pleasure, as was now felt by Elizabeth, while she clasped the decrepit Frederick to her heart.

Before day-break the victory was complete. The knights, who had been 253invited to a mock-fight, and had found one so serious, did not leave their work only half finished—the portcullis was raised again; every corner of the Donat-Fortress was investigated: the entrance to the subterraneous vaults was found open and unguarded, and these also underwent an examination. Here a considerable number of the free-booters were discovered, and after an obstinate resistance slaughtered; but a few of them found means to effect their escape from the caverns, and carried the news of this disaster to their associates in the valley of Halsberg.

Gero was one of the first, who fell in the assault; Randolf was taken prisoner: as to the author of all this mischief, the infamous Hilarius, he was found to all appearance lifeless in one 254of the caverns, whither he had retreated during the heat of the combat. He had suffered so severely both in the conflict, and from the pressure of those, who (like himself) crowded to take refuge in the secret vaults, that though life was not quite extinct in him, he expired, before he had time to acknowledge his numerous transgressions, and receive their absolution. My knowledge of his private transactions and views was gleaned from the writings, which were afterwards found in his chamber, and in his cell at the Convent, of which he was so unworthy a member. These papers were confided to me by the Bishop of Coira; and their contents were such as rendered them highly improper to meet the eyes of the laity; who are already but too apt to 255scoff, when a church-man slips, and from whom the servants of Religion ought carefully to veil the errors of her unsteady children.—But the love of truth, the interests of justice, and the welfare of two poor persecuted creatures, made it necessary for me to place everything in the clearest light before the eyes of her, who (I am certain) needs only to be convinced, that they are really persecuted, in order to become their most strenuous defender.

So entirely had their evil star the ascendant, that even this overthrow of their enemies only served to make the Sisters appear in the eyes of the world in a still more odious point of view. Hilarius died without having time to acknowledge the pains, which he had taken to effect Ida’s ruin: it was not till 256lately, that I obtained the certainty of the Monk’s perfidy, and of the innocence of my poor wards; facts appeared so strong against her, that even I for a considerable time was compelled to give up the fruitless office of defending her; and the proofs, which spoke so loudly in her disfavour, seemed to increase in number with every fresh occurrence. Several of the robbers had been made prisoners, and underwent a close examination respecting the authors of their enterprize and its object. Among other things, they confest, that a damsel, understood to be a Countess of Werdenberg, had made a long abode in their society; that she was evidently the object of their captain’s affection; and that it was reported among the Banditti, that she had consented to 257become his wife, on condition of his establishing her claims to the domains of Sargans and Carlsheim by force of arms. Randolf, being questioned respecting these assertions, in a great measure confirmed them; he only denied, that Ida had ever given her consent in express words to the enterprize; but he profest his firm belief, that on those conditions he had every reason to believe her disposed to unite her fate with his. He had dropped such plain hints of his designs against the Count, that she could not possibly have misunderstood him, though her discretion made her prefer the appearing ignorant of a scheme, whose object was the ruin of her former benefactor: but as she must have gathered his intention from various circumstances, and as she 258continued to treat him, not merely with unabated, but even with increased complaisance, he had certainly good reason to suppose, that his meditated plan was by no means disagreeable to her.—Alas! poor Ida! had she dared to abate that complaisance, and to express the sentiments of abhorrence, with which the robber’s views inspired her, what would have been her reward?—ill usage; death perhaps; or what would have been still worse, life with the loss of honour!

But these reflections did not occur to Randolf or his hearers; they believed his arguments to be well founded, and that Ida had approved of the design, which had so nearly terminated her benefactor’s existence. That she had been privy to it, is true: she had not 259misunderstood Randolf’s hints, though she was not aware of the exact nature of his intentions; but no sooner was she in safety, than her first object was to provide for that of the Count of Torrenburg.

The village, which at length afforded them security and rest, was called Edel-Bothen: here they were compelled to pass the night and the succeeding morning, in order to recover from the fatigues of their late painful journey; and it was from hence, that a messenger was dispatched to the Castle of Torrenburg with a letter, written by Constantia in a disguised hand and without a signature. Ida, who still trembled at the thoughts of being either compelled to give her hand to the old Count of Montfort, or to seclude herself for life 260within the dreary walls of a cloister, was unwilling to let her incensed uncle know, where she might be found; and Constantia, though she had herself no motive for concealment, was afraid of being the means of discovering her sister. With much difficulty, and after many unsuccessful attempts, the following lines were at length completed, and a peasant was dispatched with them to the Castle of Torrenburg.

261

Count of Torrenburg!

Peruse these lines from an unknown but sincere friend, who trembles, lest the warning should come too late. In your domestic priest, the worthless Hilarius, you nourish a traitor, whose plans if successful will terminate in your destruction. He has already driven many innocent persons into the jaws of ruin: and now to finish his career with a master stroke of villainy, he meditates the overthrow of his generous benefactor. Secure him, and let him and his papers undergo a strict examination. Above all, set a watch over the Donat-Fortress, and let the private entrance 262be carefully closed up, which you will find on the left hand of the window in the large chamber, which terminates the southern wing of the ruins. That entrance communicates with a subterraneous passage, well known to the robbers, who have so long been the terror of Helvetia, and with whom Hilarius carries on the most intimate correspondence. Hasten then to prevent their making any ill use of their knowledge of this communication; and if this warning should be in time to save you from danger, the writers of this letter will thank Heaven as for a benefit conferred upon themselves.