English 4245, Jane Austen

Dr. Eric W. Nye, University of Wyoming

Course Packet of Supplementary Readings

Contents:

Gothic Literature:

Horace Walpole, The Castle of Otranto (1764).

Ann Radcliffe, The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne (1789).

Robert Burns, "Tam o'Shanter" (1791).

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "Christabel" (1798-1816).

 

Contexts in Contemporary Literature:

William Wordsworth, "Simon Lee" from Lyrical Ballads (1798)

Wordsworth, "Tintern Abbey" (1798)

Coleridge, "Frost at Midnight" (1798)

Wordsworth, "The Old Cumberland Beggar" (1800)

Coleridge, "Dejection: an Ode" (1802)

Wordsworth, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality" (1802-04)

Wordsworth, "The Solitary Reaper" (1807)

 

Supplements in Modern Literature:

William Butler Yeats, "A Prayer for my Daughter" (1919)

 


Horace Walpole (1717-1797), The Castle of Otranto (1764).

Transcribed from the 1901 Cassell and Company edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic family in the north of England.  It was printed at Naples, in the black letter, in the year 1529.  How much sooner it was written does not appear.  The principal incidents are such as were believed in the darkest ages of Christianity; but the language and conduct have nothing that savours of barbarism.  The style is the purest Italian.

If the story was written near the time when it is supposed to have happened, it must have been between 1095, the era of the first Crusade, and 1243, the date of the last, or not long afterwards.  There is no other circumstance in the work that can lead us to guess at the period in which the scene is laid: the names of the actors are evidently fictitious, and probably disguised on purpose: yet the Spanish names of the domestics seem to indicate that this work was not composed until the establishment of the Arragonian Kings in Naples had made Spanish appellations familiar in that country.  The beauty of the diction, and the zeal of the author (moderated, however, by singular judgment) concur to make me think that the date of the composition was little antecedent to that of the impression.  Letters were then in their most flourishing state in Italy, and contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, at that time so forcibly attacked by the reformers.  It is not unlikely that an artful priest might endeavour to turn their own arms on the innovators, and might avail himself of his abilities as an author to confirm the populace in their ancient errors and superstitions.  If this was his view, he has certainly acted with signal address.  Such a work as the following would enslave a hundred vulgar minds beyond half the books of controversy that have been written from the days of Luther to the present hour.

This solution of the author�s motives is, however, offered as a mere conjecture.  Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the execution of them might have, his work can only be laid before the public at present as a matter of entertainment.  Even as such, some apology for it is necessary.  Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, and other preternatural events, are exploded now even from romances.  That was not the case when our author wrote; much less when the story itself is supposed to have happened.  Belief in every kind of prodigy was so established in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful to the manners of the times, who should omit all mention of them.  He is not bound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as believing them.

If this air of the miraculous is excused, the reader will find nothing else unworthy of his perusal.  Allow the possibility of the facts, and all the actors comport themselves as persons would do in their situation.  There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions.  Everything tends directly to the catastrophe.  Never is the reader�s attention relaxed.  The rules of the drama are almost observed throughout the conduct of the piece.  The characters are well drawn, and still better maintained.  Terror, the author�s principal engine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and it is so often contrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in a constant vicissitude of interesting passions.

Some persons may perhaps think the characters of the domestics too little serious for the general cast of the story; but besides their opposition to the principal personages, the art of the author is very observable in his conduct of the subalterns.  They discover many passages essential to the story, which could not be well brought to light but by their na�vet� and simplicity.  In particular, the womanish terror and foibles of Bianca, in the last chapter, conduce essentially towards advancing the catastrophe.

It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adopted work.  More impartial readers may not be so much struck with the beauties of this piece as I was.  Yet I am not blind to my author�s defects.  I could wish he had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this: that �the sins of fathers are visited on their children to the third and fourth generation.�  I doubt whether, in his time, any more than at present, ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of so remote a punishment.  And yet this moral is weakened by that less direct insinuation, that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St. Nicholas.  Here the interest of the Monk plainly gets the better of the judgment of the author.  However, with all its faults, I have no doubt but the English reader will be pleased with a sight of this performance.  The piety that reigns throughout, the lessons of virtue that are inculcated, and the rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt this work from the censure to which romances are but too liable.  Should it meet with the success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint the original Italian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour.  Our language falls far short of the charms of the Italian, both for variety and harmony.  The latter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative.  It is difficult in English to relate without falling too low or rising too high; a fault obviously occasioned by the little care taken to speak pure language in common conversation.  Every Italian or Frenchman of any rank piques himself on speaking his own tongue correctly and with choice.  I cannot flatter myself with having done justice to my author in this respect: his style is as elegant as his conduct of the passions is masterly.  It is a pity that he did not apply his talents to what they were evidently proper for - the theatre.

I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark.  Though the machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, I cannot but believe that the groundwork of the story is founded on truth.  The scene is undoubtedly laid in some real castle.  The author seems frequently, without design, to describe particular parts.  �The chamber,� says he, �on the right hand;� �the door on the left hand;� �the distance from the chapel to Conrad�s apartment:� these and other passages are strong presumptions that the author had some certain building in his eye.  Curious persons, who have leisure to employ in such researches, may possibly discover in the Italian writers the foundation on which our author has built.  If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which he describes, is believed to have given rise to this work, it will contribute to interest the reader, and will make the �Castle of Otranto� a still more moving story.


SONNET TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARY COKE.

The gentle maid, whose hapless tale
These melancholy pages speak;
Say, gracious lady, shall she fail
To draw the tear adown thy cheek?
No; never was thy pitying breast
Insensible to human woes;
Tender, tho� firm, it melts distrest
For weaknesses it never knows.

Oh! guard the marvels I relate
Of fell ambition scourg�d by fate,
From reason�s peevish blame.
Blest with thy smile, my dauntless sail
I dare expand to Fancy�s gale,
For sure thy smiles are Fame.

H. W.
                                                                       

CHAPTER I.

Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda.  Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promising disposition; yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed any symptoms of affection to Matilda.  Manfred had contracted a marriage for his son with the Marquis of Vicenza�s daughter, Isabella; and she had already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad�s infirm state of health would permit.

Manfred�s impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family and neighbours.  The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their Prince�s disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this precipitation.  Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early, considering his great youth, and greater infirmities; but she never received any other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had given him but one heir.  His tenants and subjects were less cautious in their discourses.  They attributed this hasty wedding to the Prince�s dread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy, which was said to have pronounced that the castle and lordship of Otranto �should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it.�  It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; and still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in question.  Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make the populace adhere the less to their opinion.

Young Conrad�s birthday was fixed for his espousals.  The company was assembled in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready for beginning the divine office, when Conrad himself was missing.  Manfred, impatient of the least delay, and who had not observed his son retire, despatched one of his attendants to summon the young Prince.  The servant, who had not stayed long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad�s apartment, came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes staring, and foaming at the month.  He said nothing, but pointed to the court.

The company were struck with terror and amazement.  The Princess Hippolita, without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned away.  Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the procrastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, asked imperiously what was the matter?  The fellow made no answer, but continued pointing towards the courtyard; and at last, after repeated questions put to him, cried out, �Oh! the helmet! the helmet!�

In the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whence was heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise.  Manfred, who began to be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get information of what occasioned this strange confusion.  Matilda remained endeavouring to assist her mother, and Isabella stayed for the same purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had conceived little affection.

The first thing that struck Manfred�s eyes was a group of his servants endeavouring to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable plumes.  He gazed without believing his sight.

�What are ye doing?� cried Manfred, wrathfully; �where is my son?�

A volley of voices replied, �Oh! my Lord! the Prince! the Prince! the helmet! the helmet!�

Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, he advanced hastily, - but what a sight for a father�s eyes! - he beheld his child dashed to pieces, and almost buried under an enormous helmet, an hundred times more large than any casque ever made for human being, and shaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.

The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this misfortune had happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon before him, took away the Prince�s speech.  Yet his silence lasted longer than even grief could occasion.  He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision; and seemed less attentive to his loss, than buried in meditation on the stupendous object that had occasioned it.  He touched, he examined the fatal casque; nor could even the bleeding mangled remains of the young Prince divert the eyes of Manfred from the portent before him.

All who had known his partial fondness for young Conrad, were as much surprised at their Prince�s insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves at the miracle of the helmet.  They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the hall, without receiving the least direction from Manfred.  As little was he attentive to the ladies who remained in the chapel.  On the contrary, without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, the first sounds that dropped from Manfred�s lips were, �Take care of the Lady Isabella.�

The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were guided by their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly addressed to her situation, and flew to her assistance.  They conveyed her to her chamber more dead than alive, and indifferent to all the strange circumstances she heard, except the death of her son.

Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement, and thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent.  Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who returned that tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarce less assiduous about the Princess; at the same time endeavouring to partake and lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress, for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy of friendship.  Yet her own situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts.  She felt no concern for the death of young Conrad, except commiseration; and she was not sorry to be delivered from a marriage which had promised her little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from the severe temper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by great indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from his causeless rigour to such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.

While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfred remained in the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless of the crowd which the strangeness of the event had now assembled around him.  The few words he articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether any man knew from whence it could have come?  Nobody could give him the least information.  However, as it seemed to be the sole object of his curiosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spectators, whose conjectures were as absurd and improbable, as the catastrophe itself was unprecedented.  In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant, whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed that the miraculous helmet was exactly like that on the figure in black marble of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in the church of St. Nicholas.

�Villain!  What sayest thou?� cried Manfred, starting from his trance in a tempest of rage, and seizing the young man by the collar; �how darest thou utter such treason?  Thy life shall pay for it.�

The spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the Prince�s fury as all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new circumstance.  The young peasant himself was still more astonished, not conceiving how he had offended the Prince.  Yet recollecting himself, with a mixture of grace and humility, he disengaged himself from Manfred�s grip, and then with an obeisance, which discovered more jealousy of innocence than dismay, he asked, with respect, of what he was guilty?  Manfred, more enraged at the vigour, however decently exerted, with which the young man had shaken off his hold, than appeased by his submission, ordered his attendants to seize him, and, if he had not been withheld by his friends whom he had invited to the nuptials, would have poignarded the peasant in their arms.

During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to the great church, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed, declaring that the helmet was missing from Alfonso�s statue.  Manfred, at this news, grew perfectly frantic; and, as if he sought a subject on which to vent the tempest within him, he rushed again on the young peasant, crying -

�Villain! Monster! Sorcerer! �tis thou hast done this! �tis thou hast slain my son!�

The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their capacities, on whom they might discharge their bewildered reasoning, caught the words from the mouth of their lord, and re-echoed -

�Ay, ay; �tis he, �tis he: he has stolen the helmet from good Alfonso�s tomb, and dashed out the brains of our young Prince with it,� never reflecting how enormous the disproportion was between the marble helmet that had been in the church, and that of steel before their eyes; nor how impossible it was for a youth seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece of armour of so prodigious a weight

The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself: yet whether provoked at the peasant having observed the resemblance between the two helmets, and thereby led to the farther discovery of the absence of that in the church, or wishing to bury any such rumour under so impertinent a supposition, he gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a necromancer, and that till the Church could take cognisance of the affair, he would have the Magician, whom they had thus detected, kept prisoner under the helmet itself, which he ordered his attendants to raise, and place the young man under it; declaring he should be kept there without food, with which his own infernal art might furnish him.

It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposterous sentence: in vain did Manfred�s friends endeavour to divert him from this savage and ill-grounded resolution.  The generality were charmed with their lord�s decision, which, to their apprehensions, carried great appearance of justice, as the Magician was to be punished by the very instrument with which he had offended: nor were they struck with the least compunction at the probability of the youth being starved, for they firmly believed that, by his diabolic skill, he could easily supply himself with nutriment.

Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed; and appointing a guard with strict orders to prevent any food being conveyed to the prisoner, he dismissed his friends and attendants, and retired to his own chamber, after locking the gates of the castle, in which he suffered none but his domestics to remain.

In the meantime, the care and zeal of the young Ladies had brought the Princess Hippolita to herself, who amidst the transports of her own sorrow frequently demanded news of her lord, would have dismissed her attendants to watch over him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her, and visit and comfort her father.  Matilda, who wanted no affectionate duty to Manfred, though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders of Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended to Isabella; and inquiring of the domestics for her father, was informed that he was retired to his chamber, and had commanded that nobody should have admittance to him.  Concluding that he was immersed in sorrow for the death of her brother, and fearing to renew his tears by the sight of his sole remaining child, she hesitated whether she should break in upon his affliction; yet solicitude for him, backed by the commands of her mother, encouraged her to venture disobeying the orders he had given; a fault she had never been guilty of before.

The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause for some minutes at his door.  She heard him traverse his chamber backwards, and forwards with disordered steps; a mood which increased her apprehensions.  She was, however, just going to beg admittance, when Manfred suddenly opened the door; and as it was now twilight, concurring with the disorder of his mind, he did not distinguish the person, but asked angrily, who it was?  Matilda replied, trembling -

�My dearest father, it is I, your daughter.�

Manfred, stepping back hastily, cried, �Begone!  I do not want a daughter;� and flinging back abruptly, clapped the door against the terrified Matilda.

She was too well acquainted with her father�s impetuosity to venture a second intrusion.  When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter a reception, she wiped away her tears to prevent the additional stab that the knowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who questioned her in the most anxious terms on the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss.  Matilda assured her he was well, and supported his misfortune with manly fortitude.

�But will he not let me see him?� said Hippolita mournfully; �will he not permit me to blend my tears with his, and shed a mother�s sorrows in the bosom of her Lord?  Or do you deceive me, Matilda?  I know how Manfred doted on his son: is not the stroke too heavy for him? has he not sunk under it?  You do not answer me - alas! I dread the worst! - Raise me, my maidens; I will, I will see my Lord.  Bear me to him instantly: he is dearer to me even than my children.�

Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita�s rising; and both those lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and calm the Princess, when a servant, on the part of Manfred, arrived and told Isabella that his Lord demanded to speak with her.

�With me!� cried Isabella.

�Go,� said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her Lord: �Manfred cannot support the sight of his own family.  He thinks you less disordered than we are, and dreads the shock of my grief.  Console him, dear Isabella, and tell him I will smother my own anguish rather than add to his.�

As it was now evening the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch before her.  When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about the gallery, he started, and said hastily -

�Take away that light, and begone.�

Then shutting the door impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against the wall, and bade Isabella sit by him.  She obeyed trembling.

�I sent for you, Lady,� said he - and then stopped under great appearance of confusion.

�My Lord!�

�Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment,� resumed he.  �Dry your tears, young Lady - you have lost your bridegroom.  Yes, cruel fate! and I have lost the hopes of my race!  But Conrad was not worthy of your beauty.�

�How, my Lord!� said Isabella; �sure you do not suspect me of not feeling the concern I ought: my duty and affection would have always - �

�Think no more of him,� interrupted Manfred; �he was a sickly, puny child, and Heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might not trust the honours of my house on so frail a foundation.  The line of Manfred calls for numerous supports.  My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes of my prudence - but it is better as it is.  I hope, in a few years, to have reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad.�

Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella.  At first she apprehended that grief had disordered Manfred�s understanding.  Her next thought suggested that this strange discourse was designed to ensnare her: she feared that Manfred had perceived her indifference for his son: and in consequence of that idea she replied -

�Good my Lord, do not doubt my tenderness: my heart would have accompanied my hand.  Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and wherever fate shall dispose of me, I shall always cherish his memory, and regard your Highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents.�

�Curse on Hippolita!� cried Manfred.  �Forget her from this moment, as I do.  In short, Lady, you have missed a husband undeserving of your charms: they shall now be better disposed of.  Instead of a sickly boy, you shall have a husband in the prime of his age, who will know how to value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous offspring.�

�Alas, my Lord!� said Isabella, �my mind is too sadly engrossed by the recent catastrophe in your family to think of another marriage.  If ever my father returns, and it shall be his pleasure, I shall obey, as I did when I consented to give my hand to your son: but until his return, permit me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ the melancholy hours in assuaging yours, Hippolita�s, and the fair Matilda�s affliction.�

�I desired you once before,� said Manfred angrily, �not to name that woman: from this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must be to me.  In short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my son, I offer you myself.�

�Heavens!� cried Isabella, waking from her delusion, �what do I hear?  You! my Lord!  You!  My father-in-law! the father of Conrad! the husband of the virtuous and tender Hippolita!�

�I tell you,� said Manfred imperiously, �Hippolita is no longer my wife; I divorce her from this hour.  Too long has she cursed me by her unfruitfulness.  My fate depends on having sons, and this night I trust will give a new date to my hopes.�

At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half dead with fright and horror.  She shrieked, and started from him, Manfred rose to pursue her, when the moon, which was now up, and gleamed in at the opposite casement, presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal helmet, which rose to the height of the windows, waving backwards and forwards in a tempestuous manner, and accompanied with a hollow and rustling sound.  Isabella, who gathered courage from her situation, and who dreaded nothing so much as Manfred�s pursuit of his declaration, cried -

�Look, my Lord! see, Heaven itself declares against your impious intentions!�

�Heaven nor Hell shall impede my designs,� said Manfred, advancing again to seize the Princess.

At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh, and heaved its breast.

Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture, saw not the motion, nor knew whence the sound came, but started, and said -

�Hark, my Lord!  What sound was that?� and at the same time made towards the door.

Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached the stairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture, which began to move, had, however, advanced some steps after her, still looking backwards on the portrait, when he saw it quit its panel, and descend on the floor with a grave and melancholy air.

�Do I dream?� cried Manfred, returning; �or are the devils themselves in league against me?  Speak, internal spectre!  Or, if thou art my grandsire, why dost thou too conspire against thy wretched descendant, who too dearly pays for - �  Ere he could finish the sentence, the vision sighed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him.

�Lead on!� cried Manfred; �I will follow thee to the gulf of perdition.�

The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the gallery, and turned into a chamber on the right hand.  Manfred accompanied him at a little distance, full of anxiety and horror, but resolved.  As he would have entered the chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by an invisible hand.  The Prince, collecting courage from this delay, would have forcibly burst open the door with his foot, but found that it resisted his utmost efforts.

�Since Hell will not satisfy my curiosity,� said Manfred, �I will use the human means in my power for preserving my race; Isabella shall not escape me.�

The lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal staircase.  There she stopped, not knowing whither to direct her steps, nor how to escape from the impetuosity of the Prince.  The gates of the castle, she knew, were locked, and guards placed in the court.  Should she, as her heart prompted her, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt but Manfred would seek her there, and that his violence would incite him to double the injury he meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosity of his passions.  Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measures he had conceived, or produce some circumstance in her favour, if she could - for that night, at least - avoid his odious purpose.  Yet where conceal herself?  How avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make throughout the castle?

As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she recollected a subterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the castle to the church of St. Nicholas.  Could she reach the altar before she was overtaken, she knew even Manfred�s violence would not dare to profane the sacredness of the place; and she determined, if no other means of deliverance offered, to shut herself up for ever among the holy virgins whose convent was contiguous to the cathedral.  In this resolution, she seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase, and hurried towards the secret passage.

The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate cloisters; and it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the door that opened into the cavern.  An awful silence reigned throughout those subterraneous regions, except now and then some blasts of wind that shook the doors she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness.  Every murmur struck her with new terror; yet more she dreaded to hear the wrathful voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursue her.

She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, yet frequently stopped and listened to hear if she was followed.  In one of those moments she thought she heard a sigh.  She shuddered, and recoiled a few paces.  In a moment she thought she heard the step of some person.  Her blood curdled; she concluded it was Manfred.  Every suggestion that horror could inspire rushed into her mind.  She condemned her rash flight, which had thus exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries were not likely to draw anybody to her assistance.  Yet the sound seemed not to come from behind.  If Manfred knew where she was, he must have followed her.  She was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps she had heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she had come.  Cheered with this reflection, and hoping to find a friend in whoever was not the Prince, she was going to advance, when a door that stood ajar, at some distance to the left, was opened gently: but ere her lamp, which she held up, could discover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately on seeing the light.

Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether she should proceed.  Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other terror.  The very circumstance of the person avoiding her gave her a sort of courage.  It could only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to the castle.  Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and conscious innocence made her hope that, unless sent by the Prince�s order to seek her, his servants would rather assist than prevent her flight.  Fortifying herself with these reflections, and believing by what she could observe that she was near the mouth of the subterraneous cavern, she approached the door that had been opened; but a sudden gust of wind that met her at the door extinguished her lamp, and left her in total darkness.

Words cannot paint the horror of the Princess�s situation.  Alone in so dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the day, hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred, and far from tranquil on knowing she was within reach of somebody, she knew not whom, who for some cause seemed concealed thereabouts; all these thoughts crowded on her distracted mind, and she was ready to sink under her apprehensions.  She addressed herself to every saint in heaven, and inwardly implored their assistance.  For a considerable time she remained in an agony of despair.

At last, as softly as was possible, she felt for the door, and having found it, entered trembling into the vault from whence she had heard the sigh and steps.  It gave her a kind of momentary joy to perceive an imperfect ray of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault, which seemed to be fallen in, and from whence hung a fragment of earth or building, she could not distinguish which, that appeared to have been crushed inwards.  She advanced eagerly towards this chasm, when she discerned a human form standing close against the wall.

She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Conrad.  The figure, advancing, said, in a submissive voice -

�Be not alarmed, Lady; I will not injure you.�

Isabella, a little encouraged by the words and tone of voice of the stranger, and recollecting that this must be the person who had opened the door, recovered her spirits enough to reply -

�Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a wretched Princess, standing on the brink of destruction.  Assist me to escape from this fatal castle, or in a few moments I may be made miserable for ever.�

�Alas!� said the stranger, �what can I do to assist you?  I will die in your defence; but I am unacquainted with the castle, and want - �

�Oh!� said Isabella, hastily interrupting him; �help me but to find a trap-door that must be hereabout, and it is the greatest service you can do me, for I have not a minute to lose.�

Saying a these words, she felt about on the pavement, and directed the stranger to search likewise, for a smooth piece of brass enclosed in one of the stones.

�That,� said she, �is the lock, which opens with a spring, of which I know the secret.  If we can find that, I may escape - if not, alas! courteous stranger, I fear I shall have involved you in my misfortunes: Manfred will suspect you for the accomplice of my flight, and you will fall a victim to his resentment.�

�I value not my life,� said the stranger, �and it will be some comfort to lose it in trying to deliver you from his tyranny.�

�Generous youth,� said Isabella, �how shall I ever requite - �

As she uttered those words, a ray of moonshine, streaming through a cranny of the ruin above, shone directly on the lock they sought.

�Oh! transport!� said Isabella; �here is the trap-door!� and, taking out the key, she touched the spring, which, starting aside, discovered an iron ring.  �Lift up the door,� said the Princess.

The stranger obeyed, and beneath appeared some stone steps descending into a vault totally dark.

�We must go down here,� said Isabella.  �Follow me; dark and dismal as it is, we cannot miss our way; it leads directly to the church of St. Nicholas.  But, perhaps,� added the Princess modestly, �you have no reason to leave the castle, nor have I farther occasion for your service; in a few minutes I shall be safe from Manfred�s rage - only let me know to whom I am so much obliged.�

�I will never quit you,� said the stranger eagerly, �until I have placed you in safety - nor think me, Princess, more generous than I am; though you are my principal care - �

The stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices that seemed approaching, and they soon distinguished these words -

�Talk not to me of necromancers; I tell you she must be in the castle; I will find her in spite of enchantment.�

�Oh, heavens!� cried Isabella; �it is the voice of Manfred!  Make haste, or we are ruined! and shut the trap-door after you.�

Saying this, she descended the steps precipitately; and as the stranger hastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his hands: it fell, and the spring closed over it.  He tried in vain to open it, not having observed Isabella�s method of touching the spring; nor had he many moments to make an essay.  The noise of the falling door had been heard by Manfred, who, directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his servants with torches.

�It must be Isabella,� cried Manfred, before he entered the vault.  �She is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but she cannot have got far.�

What was the astonishment of the Prince when, instead of Isabella, the light of the torches discovered to him the young peasant whom he thought confined under the fatal helmet!

�Traitor!� said Manfred; �how camest thou here?  I thought thee in durance above in the court.�

�I am no traitor,� replied the young man boldly, �nor am I answerable for your thoughts.�

�Presumptuous villain!� cried Manfred; �dost thou provoke my wrath?  Tell me, how hast thou escaped from above?  Thou hast corrupted thy guards, and their lives shall answer it.�

�My poverty,� said the peasant calmly, �will disculpate them: though the ministers of a tyrant�s wrath, to thee they are faithful, and but too willing to execute the orders which you unjustly imposed upon them.�

�Art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance?� said the Prince; �but tortures shall force the truth from thee.  Tell me; I will know thy accomplices.�

�There was my accomplice!� said the youth, smiling, and pointing to the roof.

Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of the cheeks of the enchanted casque had forced its way through the pavement of the court, as his servants had let it fall over the peasant, and had broken through into the vault, leaving a gap, through which the peasant had pressed himself some minutes before he was found by Isabella.

�Was that the way by which thou didst descend?� said Manfred.

�It was,� said the youth.

�But what noise was that,� said Manfred, �which I heard as I entered the cloister?�

�A door clapped,� said the peasant; �I heard it as well as you.�

�What door?� said Manfred hastily.

�I am not acquainted with your castle,� said the peasant; �this is the first time I ever entered it, and this vault the only part of it within which I ever was.�

�But I tell thee,� said Manfred (wishing to find out if the youth had discovered the trap-door), �it was this way I heard the noise.  My servants heard it too.�

�My Lord,� interrupted one of them officiously, �to be sure it was the trap-door, and he was going to make his escape.�

�Peace, blockhead!� said the Prince angrily; �if he was going to escape, how should he come on this side?  I will know from his own mouth what noise it was I heard.  Tell me truly; thy life depends on thy veracity.�

�My veracity is dearer to me than my life,� said the peasant; �nor would I purchase the one by forfeiting the other.�

�Indeed, young philosopher!� said Manfred contemptuously; �tell me, then, what was the noise I heard?�

�Ask me what I can answer,� said he, �and put me to death instantly if I tell you a lie.�

Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour and indifference of the youth, cried -

�Well, then, thou man of truth, answer!  Was it the fall of the trap-door that I heard?�

�It was,� said the youth.

�It was!� said the Prince; �and how didst thou come to know there was a trap-door here?�

�I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of moonshine,� replied he.

�But what told thee it was a lock?� said Manfred.  �How didst thou discover the secret of opening it?�

�Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was able to direct me to the spring of a lock,� said he.

�Providence should have gone a little farther, and have placed thee out of the reach of my resentment,� said Manfred.  �When Providence had taught thee to open the lock, it abandoned thee for a fool, who did not know how to make use of its favours.  Why didst thou not pursue the path pointed out for thy escape?  Why didst thou shut the trap-door before thou hadst descended the steps?�

�I might ask you, my Lord,� said the peasant, �how I, totally unacquainted with your castle, was to know that those steps led to any outlet? but I scorn to evade your questions.  Wherever those steps lead to, perhaps I should have explored the way - I could not be in a worse situation than I was.  But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: your immediate arrival followed.  I had given the alarm - what imported it to me whether I was seized a minute sooner or a minute later?�

�Thou art a resolute villain for thy years,� said Manfred; �yet on reflection I suspect thou dost but trifle with me.  Thou hast not yet told me how thou didst open the lock.�

�That I will show you, my Lord,� said the peasant; and, taking up a fragment of stone that had fallen from above, he laid himself on the trap-door, and began to beat on the piece of brass that covered it, meaning to gain time for the escape of the Princess.  This presence of mind, joined to the frankness of the youth, staggered Manfred.  He even felt a disposition towards pardoning one who had been guilty of no crime.  Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants who wanton in cruelty unprovoked.  The circumstances of his fortune had given an asperity to his temper, which was naturally humane; and his virtues were always ready to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason.

While the Prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of voices echoed through the distant vaults.  As the sound approached, he distinguished the clamours of some of his domestics, whom he had dispersed through the castle in search of Isabella, calling out -

�Where is my Lord? where is the Prince?�

�Here I am,� said Manfred, as they came nearer; �have you found the Princess?�

The first that arrived, replied, �Oh, my Lord!  I am glad we have found you.�

�Found me!� said Manfred; �have you found the Princess?�

�We thought we had, my Lord,� said the fellow, looking terrified, �but - �

�But, what?� cried the Prince; �has she escaped?�

�Jaquez and I, my Lord - �

�Yes, I and Diego,� interrupted the second, who came up in still greater consternation.

�Speak one of you at a time,� said Manfred; �I ask you, where is the Princess?�

�We do not know,� said they both together; �but we are frightened out of our wits.�

�So I think, blockheads,� said Manfred; �what is it has scared you thus?�

�Oh! my Lord,� said Jaquez, �Diego has seen such a sight! your Highness would not believe our eyes.�

�What new absurdity is this?� cried Manfred; �give me a direct answer, or, by Heaven - �

�Why, my Lord, if it please your Highness to hear me,� said the poor fellow, �Diego and I - �

�Yes, I and Jaquez - � cried his comrade.

�Did not I forbid you to speak both at a time?� said the Prince: �you, Jaquez, answer; for the other fool seems more distracted than thou art; what is the matter?�

�My gracious Lord,� said Jaquez, �if it please your Highness to hear me; Diego and I, according to your Highness�s orders, went to search for the young Lady; but being comprehensive that we might meet the ghost of my young Lord, your Highness�s son, God rest his soul, as he has not received Christian burial - �

�Sot!� cried Manfred in a rage; �is it only a ghost, then, that thou hast seen?�

�Oh! worse! worse! my Lord,� cried Diego: �I had rather have seen ten whole ghosts.�

�Grant me patience!� said Manfred; �these blockheads distract me.  Out of my sight, Diego! and thou, Jaquez, tell me in one word, art thou sober? art thou raving? thou wast wont to have some sense: has the other sot frightened himself and thee too?  Speak; what is it he fancies he has seen?�

�Why, my Lord,� replied Jaquez, trembling, �I was going to tell your Highness, that since the calamitous misfortune of my young Lord, God rest his precious soul! not one of us your Highness�s faithful servants - indeed we are, my Lord, though poor men - I say, not one of us has dared to set a foot about the castle, but two together: so Diego and I, thinking that my young Lady might be in the great gallery, went up there to look for her, and tell her your Highness wanted something to impart to her.�

�O blundering fools!� cried Manfred; �and in the meantime, she has made her escape, because you were afraid of goblins! - Why, thou knave! she left me in the gallery; I came from thence myself.�

�For all that, she may be there still for aught I know,� said Jaquez; �but the devil shall have me before I seek her there again - poor Diego!  I do not believe he will ever recover it.�

�Recover what?� said Manfred; �am I never to learn what it is has terrified these rascals? - but I lose my time; follow me, slave; I will see if she is in the gallery.�

�For Heaven�s sake, my dear, good Lord,� cried Jaquez, �do not go to the gallery.  Satan himself I believe is in the chamber next to the gallery.�

Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror of his servants as an idle panic, was struck at this new circumstance.  He recollected the apparition of the portrait, and the sudden closing of the door at the end of the gallery.  His voice faltered, and he asked with disorder -

�What is in the great chamber?�

�My Lord,� said Jaquez, �when Diego and I came into the gallery, he went first, for he said he had more courage than I.  So when we came into the gallery we found nobody.  We looked under every bench and stool; and still we found nobody.�

�Were all the pictures in their places?� said Manfred.

�Yes, my Lord,� answered Jaquez; �but we did not think of looking behind them.�

�Well, well!� said Manfred; �proceed.�

�When we came to the door of the great chamber,� continued Jaquez, �we found it shut.�

�And could not you open it?� said Manfred.

�Oh! yes, my Lord; would to Heaven we had not!� replied he - �nay, it was not I neither; it was Diego: he was grown foolhardy, and would go on, though I advised him not - if ever I open a door that is shut again - �

�Trifle not,� said Manfred, shuddering, �but tell me what you saw in the great chamber on opening the door.�

�I! my Lord!� said Jaquez; �I was behind Diego; but I heard the noise.�

�Jaquez,� said Manfred, in a solemn tone of voice; �tell me, I adjure thee by the souls of my ancestors, what was it thou sawest? what was it thou heardest?�

�It was Diego saw it, my Lord, it was not I,� replied Jaquez; �I only heard the noise.  Diego had no sooner opened the door, than he cried out, and ran back.  I ran back too, and said, �Is it the ghost?�  �The ghost! no, no,� said Diego, and his hair stood on end - �it is a giant, I believe; he is all clad in armour, for I saw his foot and part of his leg, and they are as large as the helmet below in the court.�  As he said these words, my Lord, we heard a violent motion and the rattling of armour, as if the giant was rising, for Diego has told me since that he believes the giant was lying down, for the foot and leg were stretched at length on the floor.  Before we could get to the end of the gallery, we heard the door of the great chamber clap behind us, but we did not dare turn back to see if the giant was following us - yet, now I think on it, we must have heard him if he had pursued us - but for Heaven�s sake, good my Lord, send for the chaplain, and have the castle exorcised, for, for certain, it is enchanted.�

�Ay, pray do, my Lord,� cried all the servants at once, �or we must leave your Highness�s service.�

�Peace, dotards!� said Manfred, �and follow me; I will know what all this means.�

�We! my Lord!� cried they with one voice; �we would not go up to the gallery for your Highness�s revenue.�  The young peasant, who had stood silent, now spoke.

�Will your Highness,� said he, �permit me to try this adventure?  My life is of consequence to nobody; I fear no bad angel, and have offended no good one.�

�Your behaviour is above your seeming,� said Manfred, viewing him with surprise and admiration - �hereafter I will reward your bravery - but now,� continued he with a sigh, �I am so circumstanced, that I dare trust no eyes but my own.  However, I give you leave to accompany me.�

Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the Princess had retired thither.  Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with anxious fondness to meet her Lord, whom she had not seen since the death of their son.  She would have flown in a transport mixed of joy and grief to his bosom, but he pushed her rudely off, and said -

�Where is Isabella?�

�Isabella! my Lord!� said the astonished Hippolita.

�Yes, Isabella,� cried Manfred imperiously; �I want Isabella.�

�My Lord,� replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behaviour had shocked her mother, �she has not been with us since your Highness summoned her to your apartment.�

�Tell me where she is,� said the Prince; �I do not want to know where she has been.�

�My good Lord,� says Hippolita, �your daughter tells you the truth: Isabella left us by your command, and has not returned since; - but, my good Lord, compose yourself: retire to your rest: this dismal day has disordered you.  Isabella shall wait your orders in the morning.�

�What, then, you know where she is!� cried Manfred.  �Tell me directly, for I will not lose an instant - and you, woman,� speaking to his wife, �order your chaplain to attend me forthwith.�

�Isabella,� said Hippolita calmly, �is retired, I suppose, to her chamber: she is not accustomed to watch at this late hour.  Gracious my Lord,� continued she, �let me know what has disturbed you.  Has Isabella offended you?�

�Trouble me not with questions,� said Manfred, �but tell me where she is.�

�Matilda shall call her,� said the Princess.  �Sit down, my Lord, and resume your wonted fortitude.�

�What, art thou jealous of Isabella?� replied he, �that you wish to be present at our interview!�

�Good heavens! my Lord,� said Hippolita, �what is it your Highness means?�

�Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed,� said the cruel Prince.  �Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here.�

At these words he flung out of the room in search of Isabella, leaving the amazed ladies thunderstruck with his words and frantic deportment, and lost in vain conjectures on what he was meditating.

Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the peasant and a few of his servants whom he had obliged to accompany him.  He ascended the staircase without stopping till he arrived at the gallery, at the door of which he met Hippolita and her chaplain.  When Diego had been dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the Princess�s apartment with the alarm of what he had seen.  That excellent Lady, who no more than Manfred doubted of the reality of the vision, yet affected to treat it as a delirium of the servant.  Willing, however, to save her Lord from any additional shock, and prepared by a series of griefs not to tremble at any accession to it, she determined to make herself the first sacrifice, if fate had marked the present hour for their destruction.  Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had visited the gallery and great chamber; and now with more serenity of soul than she had felt for many hours, she met her Lord, and assured him that the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable; and no doubt an impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal hour of the night, on the minds of his servants.  She and the chaplain had examined the chamber, and found everything in the usual order.

Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had been no work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so many strange events had thrown him.  Ashamed, too, of his inhuman treatment of a Princess who returned every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty, he felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes; but not less ashamed of feeling remorse towards one against whom he was inwardly meditating a yet more bitter outrage, he curbed the yearnings of his heart, and did not dare to lean even towards pity.  The next transition of his soul was to exquisite villainy.

Presuming on the unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flattered himself that she would not only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would obey, if it was his pleasure, in endeavouring to persuade Isabella to give him her hand - but ere he could indulge his horrid hope, he reflected that Isabella was not to be found.  Coming to himself, he gave orders that every avenue to the castle should be strictly guarded, and charged his domestics on pain of their lives to suffer nobody to pass out.  The young peasant, to whom he spoke favourably, he ordered to remain in a small chamber on the stairs, in which there was a pallet-bed, and the key of which he took away himself, telling the youth he would talk with him in the morning.  Then dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a sullen kind of half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own chamber.

CHAPTER II.

Matilda, who by Hippolita�s order had retired to her apartment, was ill-disposed to take any rest.  The shocking fate of her brother had deeply affected her.  She was surprised at not seeing Isabella; but the strange words which had fallen from her father, and his obscure menace to the Princess his wife, accompanied by the most furious behaviour, had filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm.  She waited anxiously for the return of Bianca, a young damsel that attended her, whom she had sent to learn what was become of Isabella.  Bianca soon appeared, and informed her mistress of what she had gathered from the servants, that Isabella was nowhere to be found.  She related the adventure of the young peasant who had been discovered in the vault, though with many simple additions from the incoherent accounts of the domestics; and she dwelt principally on the gigantic leg and foot which had been seen in the gallery-chamber.  This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much, that she was rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to rest, but would watch till the Princess should rise.

The young Princess wearied herself in conjectures on the flight of Isabella, and on the threats of Manfred to her mother.  �But what business could he have so urgent with the chaplain?� said Matilda, �Does he intend to have my brother�s body interred privately in the chapel?�

�Oh, Madam!� said Bianca, �now I guess.  As you are become his heiress, he is impatient to have you married: he has always been raving for more sons; I warrant he is now impatient for grandsons.  As sure as I live, Madam, I shall see you a bride at last. - Good madam, you won�t cast off your faithful Bianca: you won�t put Donna Rosara over me now you are a great Princess.�

�My poor Bianca,� said Matilda, �how fast your thoughts amble!  I a great princess!  What hast thou seen in Manfred�s behaviour since my brother�s death that bespeaks any increase of tenderness to me?  No, Bianca; his heart was ever a stranger to me - but he is my father, and I must not complain.  Nay, if Heaven shuts my father�s heart against me, it overpays my little merit in the tenderness of my mother - O that dear mother! yes, Bianca, �tis there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred.  I can support his harshness to me with patience; but it wounds my soul when I am witness to his causeless severity towards her.�

�Oh! Madam,� said Bianca, �all men use their wives so, when they are weary of them.�

�And yet you congratulated me but now,� said Matilda, �when you fancied my father intended to dispose of me!�

�I would have you a great Lady,� replied Bianca, �come what will.  I do not wish to see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you had your will, and if my Lady, your mother, who knows that a bad husband is better than no husband at all, did not hinder you. - Bless me! what noise is that!  St. Nicholas forgive me!  I was but in jest.�

�It is the wind,� said Matilda, �whistling through the battlements in the tower above: you have heard it a thousand times.�

�Nay,� said Bianca, �there was no harm neither in what I said: it is no sin to talk of matrimony - and so, Madam, as I was saying, if my Lord Manfred should offer you a handsome young Prince for a bridegroom, you would drop him a curtsey, and tell him you would rather take the veil?�

�Thank Heaven!  I am in no such danger,� said Matilda: �you know how many proposals for me he has rejected - �

�And you thank him, like a dutiful daughter, do you, Madam?  But come, Madam; suppose, to-morrow morning, he was to send for you to the great council chamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young Prince, with large black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly curling locks like jet; in short, Madam, a young hero resembling the picture of the good Alfonso in the gallery, which you sit and gaze at for hours together - �

�Do not speak lightly of that picture,� interrupted Matilda sighing; �I know the adoration with which I look at that picture is uncommon - but I am not in love with a coloured panel.  The character of that virtuous Prince, the veneration with which my mother has inspired me for his memory, the orisons which, I know not why, she has enjoined me to pour forth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that somehow or other my destiny is linked with something relating to him.�

�Lord, Madam! how should that be?� said Bianca; �I have always heard that your family was in no way related to his: and I am sure I cannot conceive why my Lady, the Princess, sends you in a cold morning or a damp evening to pray at his tomb: he is no saint by the almanack.  If you must pray, why does she not bid you address yourself to our great St. Nicholas?  I am sure he is the saint I pray to for a husband.�

�Perhaps my mind would be less affected,� said Matilda, �if my mother would explain her reasons to me: but it is the mystery she observes, that inspires me with this - I know not what to call it.  As she never acts from caprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom - nay, I know there is: in her agony of grief for my brother�s death she dropped some words that intimated as much.�

�Oh! dear Madam,� cried Bianca, �what were they?�

�No,� said Matilda, �if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes it recalled, it is not for a child to utter it.�

�What! was she sorry for what she had said?� asked Bianca; �I am sure, Madam, you may trust me - �

�With my own little secrets when I have any, I may,� said Matilda; �but never with my mother�s: a child ought to have no ears or eyes but as a parent directs.�

�Well! to be sure, Madam, you were born to be a saint,� said Bianca, �and there is no resisting one�s vocation: you will end in a convent at last.  But there is my Lady Isabella would not be so reserved to me: she will let me talk to her of young men: and when a handsome cavalier has come to the castle, she has owned to me that she wished your brother Conrad resembled him.�

�Bianca,� said the Princess, �I do not allow you to mention my friend disrespectfully.  Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soul is pure as virtue itself.  She knows your idle babbling humour, and perhaps has now and then encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and enliven the solitude in which my father keeps us - �

�Blessed Mary!� said Bianca, starting, �there it is again!  Dear Madam, do you hear nothing? this castle is certainly haunted!�

�Peace!� said Matilda, �and listen!  I did think I heard a voice - but it must be fancy: your terrors, I suppose, have infected me.�

�Indeed! indeed!  Madam,� said Bianca, half-weeping with agony, �I am sure I heard a voice.�

�Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath?� said the Princess.

�Nobody has dared to lie there,� answered Bianca, �since the great astrologer, that was your brother�s tutor, drowned himself.  For certain, Madam, his ghost and the young Prince�s are now met in the chamber below - for Heaven�s sake let us fly to your mother�s apartment!�

�I charge you not to stir,� said Matilda.  �If they are spirits in pain, we may ease their sufferings by questioning them.  They can mean no hurt to us, for we have not injured them - and if they should, shall we be more safe in one chamber than in another?  Reach me my beads; we will say a prayer, and then speak to them.�

�Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world!� cried Bianca.  As she said those words they heard the casement of the little chamber below Matilda�s open.  They listened attentively, and in a few minutes thought they heard a person sing, but could not distinguish the words.

�This can be no evil spirit,� said the Princess, in a low voice; �it is undoubtedly one of the family - open the window, and we shall know the voice.�

�I dare not, indeed, Madam,� said Bianca.

�Thou art a very fool,� said Matilda, opening the window gently herself.  The noise the Princess made was, however, heard by the person beneath, who stopped; and they concluded had heard the casement open.

�Is anybody below?� said the Princess; �if there is, speak.�

�Yes,� said an unknown voice.

�Who is it?� said Matilda.

�A stranger,� replied the voice.

�What stranger?� said she; �and how didst thou come there at this unusual hour, when all the gates of the castle are locked?�

�I am not here willingly,� answered the voice.  �But pardon me, Lady, if I have disturbed your rest; I knew not that I was overheard.  Sleep had forsaken me; I left a restless couch, and came to waste the irksome hours with gazing on the fair approach of morning, impatient to be dismissed from this castle.�

�Thy words and accents,� said Matilda, �are of melancholy cast; if thou art unhappy, I pity thee.  If poverty afflicts thee, let me know it; I will mention thee to the Princess, whose beneficent soul ever melts for the distressed, and she will relieve thee.�

�I am indeed unhappy,� said the stranger; �and I know not what wealth is.  But I do not complain of the lot which Heaven has cast for me; I am young and healthy, and am not ashamed of owing my support to myself - yet think me not proud, or that I disdain your generous offers.  I will remember you in my orisons, and will pray for blessings on your gracious self and your noble mistress - if I sigh, Lady, it is for others, not for myself.�

�Now I have it, Madam,� said Bianca, whispering the Princess; �this is certainly the young peasant; and, by my conscience, he is in love - Well! this is a charming adventure! - do, Madam, let us sift him.  He does not know you, but takes you for one of my Lady Hippolita�s women.�

�Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!� said the Princess.  �What right have we to pry into the secrets of this young man�s heart?  He seems virtuous and frank, and tells us he is unhappy.  Are those circumstances that authorise us to make a property of him?  How are we entitled to his confidence?�

�Lord, Madam! how little you know of love!� replied Bianca; �why, lovers have no pleasure equal to talking of their mistress.�

�And would you have me become a peasant�s confidante?� said the Princess.

�Well, then, let me talk to him,� said Bianca; �though I have the honour of being your Highness�s maid of honour, I was not always so great.  Besides, if love levels ranks, it raises them too; I have a respect for any young man in love.�

�Peace, simpleton!� said the Princess.  �Though he said he was unhappy, it does not follow that he must be in love.  Think of all that has happened to-day, and tell me if there are no misfortunes but what love causes. - Stranger,� resumed the Princess, �if thy misfortunes have not been occasioned by thy own fault, and are within the compass of the Princess Hippolita�s power to redress, I will take upon me to answer that she will be thy protectress.  When thou art dismissed from this castle, repair to holy father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the church of St. Nicholas, and make thy story known to him, as far as thou thinkest meet.  He will not fail to inform the Princess, who is the mother of all that want her assistance.  Farewell; it is not seemly for me to hold farther converse with a man at this unwonted hour.�

�May the saints guard thee, gracious Lady!� replied the peasant; �but oh! if a poor and worthless stranger might presume to beg a minute�s audience farther; am I so happy? the casement is not shut; might I venture to ask - �

�Speak quickly,� said Matilda; �the morning dawns apace: should the labourers come into the fields and perceive us - What wouldst thou ask?�

�I know not how, I know not if I dare,� said the Young stranger, faltering; �yet the humanity with which you have spoken to me emboldens - Lady! dare I trust you?�

�Heavens!� said Matilda, �what dost thou mean?  With what wouldst thou trust me?  Speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to a virtuous breast.�

�I would ask,� said the peasant, recollecting himself, �whether what I have heard from the domestics is true, that the Princess is missing from the castle?�

�What imports it to thee to know?� replied Matilda.  �Thy first words bespoke a prudent and becoming gravity.  Dost thou come hither to pry into the secrets of Manfred?  Adieu.  I have been mistaken in thee.�  Saying these words she shut the casement hastily, without giving the young man time to reply.

�I had acted more wisely,� said the Princess to Bianca, with some sharpness, �if I had let thee converse with this peasant; his inquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own.�

�It is not fit for me to argue with your Highness,� replied Bianca; �but perhaps the questions I should have put to him would have been more to the purpose than those you have been pleased to ask him.�

�Oh! no doubt,� said Matilda; �you are a very discreet personage!  May I know what you would have asked him?�

�A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play,� answered Bianca.  �Does your Highness think, Madam, that this question about my Lady Isabella was the result of mere curiosity?  No, no, Madam, there is more in it than you great folks are aware of.  Lopez told me that all the servants believe this young fellow contrived my Lady Isabella�s escape; now, pray, Madam, observe you and I both know that my Lady Isabella never much fancied the Prince your brother.  Well! he is killed just in a critical minute - I accuse nobody.  A helmet falls from the moon - so, my Lord, your father says; but Lopez and all the servants say that this young spark is a magician, and stole it from Alfonso�s tomb - �

�Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence,� said Matilda.

�Nay, Madam, as you please,� cried Bianca; �yet it is very particular though, that my Lady Isabella should be missing the very same day, and that this young sorcerer should be found at the mouth of the trap-door.  I accuse nobody; but if my young Lord came honestly by his death - �

�Dare not on thy duty,� said Matilda, �to breathe a suspicion on the purity of my dear Isabella�s fame.�

�Purity, or not purity,� said Bianca, �gone she is - a stranger is found that nobody knows; you question him yourself; he tells you he is in love, or unhappy, it is the same thing - nay, he owned he was unhappy about others; and is anybody unhappy about another, unless they are in love with them? and at the very next word, he asks innocently, pour soul! if my Lady Isabella is missing.�

�To be sure,� said Matilda, �thy observations are not totally without foundation - Isabella�s flight amazes me.  The curiosity of the stranger is very particular; yet Isabella never concealed a thought from me.�

�So she told you,� said Bianca, �to fish out your secrets; but who knows, Madam, but this stranger may be some Prince in disguise?  Do, Madam, let me open the window, and ask him a few questions.�

�No,� replied Matilda, �I will ask him myself, if he knows aught of Isabella; he is not worthy I should converse farther with him.�  She was going to open the casement, when they heard the bell ring at the postern-gate of the castle, which is on the right hand of the tower, where Matilda lay.  This prevented the Princess from renewing the conversation with the stranger.

After continuing silent for some time, �I am persuaded,� said she to Bianca, �that whatever be the cause of Isabella�s flight it had no unworthy motive.  If this stranger was accessory to it, she must be satisfied with his fidelity and worth.  I observed, did not you, Bianca? that his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of piety.  It was no ruffian�s speech; his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth.�

�I told you, Madam,� said Bianca, �that I was sure he was some Prince in disguise.�

�Yet,� said Matilda, �if he was privy to her escape, how will you account for his not accompanying her in her flight? why expose himself unnecessarily and rashly to my father�s resentment?�

�As for that, Madam,� replied she, �if he could get from under the helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father�s anger.  I do not doubt but he has some talisman or other about him.�

�You resolve everything into magic,� said Matilda; �but a man who has any intercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use of those tremendous and holy words which he uttered.  Didst thou not observe with what fervour he vowed to remember me to heaven in his prayers?  Yes; Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety.�

�Commend me to the piety of a young fellow and a damsel that consult to elope!� said Bianca.  �No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is of another guess mould than you take her for.  She used indeed to sigh and lift up her eyes in your company, because she knows you are a saint; but when your back was turned - �

�You wrong her,� said Matilda; �Isabella is no hypocrite; she has a due sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not.  On the contrary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister; and though I own the mystery she has made to me of her flight confounds me; though it seems inconsistent with the friendship between us; I cannot forget the disinterested warmth with which she always opposed my taking the veil.  She wished to see me married, though my dower would have been a loss to her and my brother�s children.  For her sake I will believe well of this young peasant.�

�Then you do think there is some liking between them,� said Bianca.  While she was speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber and told the Princess that the Lady Isabella was found.

�Where?� said Matilda.

�She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas�s church,� replied the servant; �Father Jerome has brought the news himself; he is below with his Highness.�

�Where is my mother?� said Matilda.

�She is in her own chamber, Madam, and has asked for you.�

Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to Hippolita�s apartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella.  While he was questioning her, word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him.  Manfred, little suspecting the cause of the Friar�s arrival, and knowing he was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be admitted, intending to leave them together, while he pursued his search after Isabella.

�Is your business with me or the Princess?� said Manfred.

�With both,� replied the holy man.  �The Lady Isabella - �

�What of her?� interrupted Manfred, eagerly.

�Is at St. Nicholas�s altar,� replied Jerome.

�That is no business of Hippolita,� said Manfred with confusion; �let us retire to my chamber, Father, and inform me how she came thither.�

�No, my Lord,� replied the good man, with an air of firmness and authority, that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help revering the saint-like virtues of Jerome; �my commission is to both, and with your Highness�s good-liking, in the presence of both I shall deliver it; but first, my Lord, I must interrogate the Princess, whether she is acquainted with the cause of the Lady Isabella�s retirement from your castle.�

�No, on my soul,� said Hippolita; �does Isabella charge me with being privy to it?�

�Father,� interrupted Manfred, �I pay due reverence to your holy profession; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest to interfere in the affairs of my domestic.  If you have aught to say attend me to my chamber; I do not use to let my wife be acquainted with the secret affairs of my state; they are not within a woman�s province.�

�My Lord,� said the holy man, �I am no intruder into the secrets of families.  My office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach repentance, and teach mankind to curb their headstrong passions.  I forgive your Highness�s uncharitable apostrophe; I know my duty, and am the minister of a mightier prince than Manfred.  Hearken to him who speaks through my organs.�

Manfred trembled with rage and shame.  Hippolita�s countenance declared her astonishment and impatience to know where this would end.  Her silence more strongly spoke her observance of Manfred.

�The Lady Isabella,� resumed Jerome, �commends herself to both your Highnesses; she thanks both for the kindness with which she has been treated in your castle: she deplores the loss of your son, and her own misfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble Princes, whom she shall always respect as Parents; she prays for uninterrupted union and felicity between you� [Manfred�s colour changed]: �but as it is no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent to remain in sanctuary, till she can learn news of her father, or, by the certainty of his death, be at liberty, with the approbation of her guardians, to dispose of herself in suitable marriage.�

�I shall give no such consent,� said the Prince, �but insist on her return to the castle without delay: I am answerable for her person to her guardians, and will not brook her being in any hands but my own.�

�Your Highness will recollect whether that can any longer be proper,� replied the Friar.

�I want no monitor,� said Manfred, colouring; �Isabella�s conduct leaves room for strange suspicions - and that young villain, who was at least the accomplice of her flight, if not the cause of it - �

�The cause!� interrupted Jerome; �was a young man the cause?�

�This is not to be borne!� cried Manfred.  �Am I to be bearded in my own palace by an insolent Monk?  Thou art privy, I guess, to their amours.�

�I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises,� said Jerome, �if your Highness were not satisfied in your conscience how unjustly you accuse me.  I do pray to heaven to pardon that uncharitableness: and I implore your Highness to leave the Princess at peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by such vain and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man.�

�Cant not to me,� said Manfred, �but return and bring the Princess to her duty.�

�It is my duty to prevent her return hither,� said Jerome.  �She is where orphans and virgins are safest from the snares and wiles of this world; and nothing but a parent�s authority shall take her thence.�

�I am her parent,� cried Manfred, �and demand her.�

�She wished to have you for her parent,� said the Friar; �but Heaven that forbad that connection has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt you: and I announce to your Highness - �

�Stop! audacious man,� said Manfred, �and dread my displeasure.�

�Holy farther,� said Hippolita, �it is your office to be no respecter of persons: you must speak as your duty prescribes: but it is my duty to hear nothing that it pleases not my Lord I should hear.  Attend the Prince to his chamber.  I will retire to my oratory, and pray to the blessed Virgin to inspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore the heart of my gracious Lord to its wonted peace and gentleness.�

�Excellent woman!� said the Friar.  �My Lord, I attend your pleasure.�

Manfred, accompanied by the Friar, passed to his own apartment, where shutting the door, �I perceive, Father,� said he, �that Isabella has acquainted you with my purpose.  Now hear my resolve, and obey.  Reasons of state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demand that I should have a son.  It is in vain to expect an heir from Hippolita.  I have made choice of Isabella.  You must bring her back; and you must do more.  I know the influence you have with Hippolita: her conscience is in your hands.  She is, I allow, a faultless woman: her soul is set on heaven, and scorns the little grandeur of this world: you can withdraw her from it entirely.  Persuade her to consent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery - she shall endow one if she will; and she shall have the means of being as liberal to your order as she or you can wish.  Thus you will divert the calamities that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saying the principality of Otranto from destruction.  You are a prudent man, and though the warmth of my temper betrayed me into some unbecoming expressions, I honour your virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for the repose of my life and the preservation of my family.�

�The will of heaven be done!� said the Friar.  �I am but its worthless instrument.  It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thy unwarrantable designs.  The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have mounted to the throne of pity.  By me thou art reprimanded for thy adulterous intention of repudiating her: by me thou art warned not to pursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter.  Heaven that delivered her from thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on thy house ought to have inspired thee with other thoughts, will continue to watch over her.  Even I, a poor and despised Friar, am able to protect her from thy violence - I, sinner as I am, and uncharitably reviled by your Highness as an accomplice of I know not what amours, scorn the allurements with which it has pleased thee to tempt mine honesty.  I love my order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of thy Princess - but I will not betray the confidence she reposes in me, nor serve even the cause of religion by foul and sinful compliances - but forsooth! the welfare of the state depends on your Highness having a son!  Heaven mocks the short-sighted views of man.  But yester-morn, whose house was so great, so flourishing as Manfred�s? - where is young Conrad now? - My Lord, I respect your tears - but I mean not to check them - let them flow, Prince!  They will weigh more with heaven toward the welfare of thy subjects, than a marriage, which, founded on lust or policy, could never prosper.  The sceptre, which passed from the race of Alfonso to thine, cannot be preserved by a match which the church will never allow.  If it is the will of the Most High that Manfred�s name must perish, resign yourself, my Lord, to its decrees; and thus deserve a crown that can never pass away.  Come, my Lord; I like this sorrow - let us return to the Princess: she is not apprised of your cruel intentions; nor did I mean more than to alarm you.  You saw with what gentle patience, with what efforts of love, she heard, she rejected hearing, the extent of your guilt.  I know she longs to fold you in her arms, and assure you of her unalterable affection.�

�Father,� said the Prince, �you mistake my compunction: true, I honour Hippolita�s virtues; I think her a Saint; and wish it were for my soul�s health to tie faster the knot that has united us - but alas! Father, you know not the bitterest of my pangs! it is some time that I have had scruples on the legality of our union: Hippolita is related to me in the fourth degree - it is true, we had a dispensation: but I have been informed that she had also been contracted to another.  This it is that sits heavy at my heart: to this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the visitation that has fallen on me in the death of Conrad! - ease my conscience of this burden: dissolve our marriage, and accomplish the work of godliness - which your divine exhortations have commenced in my soul.�

How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt, when he perceived this turn in the wily Prince!  He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he saw was determined; and he feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering Isabella, that his impatience for a son would direct him to some other object, who might not be equally proof against the temptation of Manfred�s rank.  For some time the holy man remained absorbed in thought.  At length, conceiving some hopes from delay, he thought the wisest conduct would be to prevent the Prince from despairing of recovering Isabella.  Her the Friar knew he could dispose, from her affection to Hippolita, and from the aversion she had expressed to him for Manfred�s addresses, to second his views, till the censures of the church could be fulminated against a divorce.  With this intention, as if struck with the Prince�s scruples, he at length said:

�My Lord, I have been pondering on what your Highness has said; and if in truth it is delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of your repugnance to your virtuous Lady, far be it from me to endeavour to harden your heart.  The church is an indulgent mother: unfold your griefs to her: she alone can administer comfort to your soul, either by satisfying your conscience, or upon examination of your scruples, by setting you at liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means of continuing your lineage.  In the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can be brought to consent - �

Manfred, who concluded that he had either over-reached the good man, or that his first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, was overjoyed at this sudden turn, and repeated the most magnificent promises, if he should succeed by the Friar�s mediation.  The well-meaning priest suffered him to deceive himself, fully determined to traverse his views, instead of seconding them.

�Since we now understand one another,� resumed the Prince, �I expect, Father, that you satisfy me in one point.  Who is the youth that I found in the vault?  He must have been privy to Isabella�s flight: tell me truly, is he her lover? or is he an agent for another�s passion?  I have often suspected Isabella�s indifference to my son: a thousand circumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion.  She herself was so conscious of it, that while I discoursed her in the gallery, she outran my suspicious, and endeavoured to justify herself from coolness to Conrad.�

The Friar, who knew nothing of the youth, but what he had learnt occasionally from the Princess, ignorant what was become of him, and not sufficiently reflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred�s temper, conceived that it might not be amiss to sow the seeds of jealousy in his mind: they might be turned to some use hereafter, either by prejudicing the Prince against Isabella, if he persisted in that union or by diverting his attention to a wrong scent, and employing his thoughts on a visionary intrigue, prevent his engaging in any new pursuit.  With this unhappy policy, he answered in a manner to confirm Manfred in the belief of some connection between Isabella and the youth.  The Prince, whose passions wanted little fuel to throw them into a blaze, fell into a rage at the idea of what the Friar suggested.

 �I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue,� cried he; and quitting Jerome abruptly, with a command to remain there till his return, he hastened to the great hall of the castle, and ordered the peasant to be brought before him.

�Thou hardened young impostor!� said the Prince, as soon as he saw the youth; �what becomes of thy boasted veracity now? it was Providence, was it, and the light of the moon, that discovered the lock of the trap-door to thee?  Tell me, audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast been acquainted with the Princess - and take care to answer with less equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall wring the truth from thee.�

The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the Princess was discovered, and concluding that anything he should say could no longer be of any service or detriment to her, replied -

�I am no impostor, my Lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language.  I answered to every question your Highness put to me last night with the same veracity that I shall speak now: and that will not be from fear of your tortures, but because my soul abhors a falsehood.  Please to repeat your questions, my Lord; I am ready to give you all the satisfaction in my power.�

�You know my questions,� replied the Prince, �and only want time to prepare an evasion.  Speak directly; who art thou? and how long hast thou been known to the Princess?�

�I am a labourer at the next village,� said the peasant; �my name is Theodore.  The Princess found me in the vault last night: before that hour I never was in her presence.�

�I may believe as much or as little as I please of this,� said Manfred; �but I will hear thy own story before I examine into the truth of it.  Tell me, what reason did the Princess give thee for making her escape? thy life depends on thy answer.�

�She told me,� replied Theodore, �that she was on the brink of destruction, and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was in danger in a few moments of being made miserable for ever.�

�And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl�s report,� said Manfred, �thou didst hazard my displeasure?�

�I fear no man�s displeasure,� said Theodore, �when a woman in distress puts herself under my protection.�

During this examination, Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita.  At the upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded gallery with latticed windows, through which Matilda and Bianca were to pass.  Hearing her father�s voice, and seeing the servants assembled round him, she stopped to learn the occasion.  The prisoner soon drew her attention: the steady and composed manner in which he answered, and the gallantry of his last reply, which were the first words she heard distinctly, interested her in his flavour.  His person was noble, handsome, and commanding, even in that situation: but his countenance soon engrossed her whole care.

�Heavens!  Bianca,� said the Princess softly, �do I dream? or is not that youth the exact resemblance of Alfonso�s picture in the gallery?�

She could say no more, for her father�s voice grew louder at every word.

�This bravado,� said he, �surpasses all thy former insolence.  Thou shalt experience the wrath with which thou darest to trifle.  Seize him,� continued Manfred, �and �bind him - the first news the Princess hears of her champion shall be, that he has lost his head for her sake.�

�The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me,� said Theodore, �convinces me that I have done a good deed in delivering the Princess from thy tyranny.  May she be happy, whatever becomes of me!�

�This is a lover!� cried Manfred in a rage: �a peasant within sight of death is not animated by such sentiments.  Tell me, tell me, rash boy, who thou art, or the rack shall force thy secret from thee.�

�Thou hast threatened me with death already,� said the youth, �for the truth I have told thee: if that is all the encouragement I am to expect for sincerity, I am not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity farther.�

�Then thou wilt not speak?� said Manfred.

�I will not,� replied he.

�Bear him away into the courtyard,� said Manfred; �I will see his head this instant severed from his body.�

Matilda fainted at hearing those words.  Bianca shrieked, and cried -

�Help! help! the Princess is dead!�  Manfred started at this ejaculation, and demanded what was the matter!  The young peasant, who heard it too, was struck with horror, and asked eagerly the same question; but Manfred ordered him to be hurried into the court, and kept there for execution, till he had informed himself of the cause of Bianca�s shrieks.  When he learned the meaning, he treated it as a womanish panic, and ordering Matilda to be carried to her apartment, he rushed into the court, and calling for one of his guards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the fatal blow.

The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation that touched every heart but Manfred�s.  He wished earnestly to know the meaning of the words he had heard relating to the Princess; but fearing to exasperate the tyrant more against her, he desisted.  The only boon he deigned to ask was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, and make his peace with heaven.  Manfred, who hoped by the confessor�s means to come at the youth�s history, readily granted his request; and being convinced that Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to be called and shrive the prisoner.  The holy man, who had little foreseen the catastrophe that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the Prince, and adjured him in the most solemn manner not to shed innocent blood.  He accused himself in the bitterest terms for his indiscretion, endeavoured to disculpate the youth, and left no method untried to soften the tyrant�s rage.  Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome�s intercession, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been imposed upon by both, commanded the Friar to do his duty, telling him he would not allow the prisoner many minutes for confession.

�Nor do I ask many, my Lord,� said the unhappy young man.  �My sins, thank heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be expected at my years.  Dry your tears, good Father, and let us despatch.  This is a bad world; nor have I had cause to leave it with regret.�

�Oh wretched youth!� said Jerome; �how canst thou bear the sight of me with patience?  I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal hour upon thee!�

�I forgive thee from my soul,� said the youth, �as I hope heaven will pardon me.  Hear my confession, Father; and give me thy blessing.�

�How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?� said Jerome.  �Thou canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes - and canst thou forgive that impious man there?�

�I can,� said Theodore; �I do.�

�And does not this touch thee, cruel Prince?� said the Friar.

�I sent for thee to confess him,� said Manfred, sternly; �not to plead for him.  Thou didst first incense me against him - his blood be upon thy head!�

�It will! it will!� said the good main, in an agony of sorrow.  �Thou and I must never hope to go where this blessed youth is going!�

�Despatch!� said Manfred; �I am no more to be moved by the whining of priests than by the shrieks of women.�

�What!� said the youth; �is it possible that my fate could have occasioned what I heard!  Is the Princess then again in thy power?�

�Thou dost but remember me of my wrath,� said Manfred.  �Prepare thee, for this moment is thy last.�

The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the sorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as into the Friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet, and unbuttoning, his collar, knelt down to his prayers.  As he stooped, his shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the mark of a bloody arrow.

�Gracious heaven!� cried the holy man, starting; �what do I see?  It is my child! my Theodore!�

The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted.  The tears of the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by joy.  They seemed to inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought to feel.  Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the countenance of the youth.  He received with modest submission the effusion of the old man�s tears and embraces.  Yet afraid of giving a loose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed the inflexibility of Manfred�s temper, he cast a glance towards the Prince, as if to say, canst thou be unmoved at such a scene as this?

Manfred�s heart was capable of being touched.  He forgot his anger in his astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected.  He even doubted whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the Friar to save the youth.

�What may this mean?� said he.  �How can he be thy son?  Is it consistent with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant�s offspring for the fruit of thy irregular amours!�

�Oh, God!� said the holy man, �dost thou question his being mine?  Could I feel the anguish I do if I were not his father?  Spare him! good Prince! spare him! and revile me as thou pleasest.�

�Spare him! spare him!� cried the attendants; �for this good man�s sake!�

�Peace!� said Manfred, sternly.  �I must know more ere I am disposed to pardon.  A Saint�s bastard may be no saint himself.�

�Injurious Lord!� said Theodore, �add not insult to cruelty.  If I am this venerable man�s son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the blood that flows in my veins - �

�Yes,� said the Friar, interrupting him, �his blood is noble; nor is he that abject thing, my Lord, you speak him.  He is my lawful son, and Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara.  But alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility!  We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures.  It is piety alone that can distinguish us from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return.�

�Truce to your sermon,� said Manfred; �you forget you are no longer Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara.  Let me know your history; you will have time to moralise hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there.�

�Mother of God!� said the Friar, �is it possible my Lord can refuse a father the life of his only, his long-lost, child!  Trample me, my Lord, scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my son!�

�Thou canst feel, then,� said Manfred, �what it is to lose an only son!  A little hour ago thou didst preach up resignation to me: my house, if fate so pleased, must perish - but the Count of Falconara - �

�Alas! my Lord,� said Jerome, �I confess I have offended; but aggravate not an old man�s sufferings!  I boast not of my family, nor think of such vanities - it is nature, that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of the dear woman that bore him.  Is she, Theodore, is she dead?�

�Her soul has long been with the blessed,� said Theodore.

�Oh! how?� cried Jerome, �tell me - no - she is happy!  Thou art all my care now! - Most dread Lord! will you - will you grant me my poor boy�s life?�

�Return to thy convent,� answered Manfred; �conduct the Princess hither; obey me in what else thou knowest; and I promise thee the life of thy son.�

�Oh! my Lord,� said Jerome, �is my honesty the price I must pay for this dear youth�s safety?�

�For me!� cried Theodore.  �Let me die a thousand deaths, rather than stain thy conscience.  What is it the tyrant would exact of thee?  Is the Princess still safe from his power?  Protect her, thou venerable old man; and let all the weight of his wrath fall on me.�

Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of the youth; and ere Manfred could reply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet, which hung without the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded.  At the same instant the sable plumes on the enchanted helmet, which still remained at the other end of the court, were tempestuously agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by some invisible wearer.

CHAPTER III.

Manfred�s heart misgave him when he beheld the plumage on the miraculous casque shaken in concert with the sounding of the brazen trumpet.

�Father!� said he to Jerome, whom he now ceased to treat as Count of Falconara, �what mean these portents?  If I have offended - � the plumes were shaken with greater violence than before.

�Unhappy Prince that I am,� cried Manfred.  �Holy Father! will you not assist me with your prayers?�

�My Lord,� replied Jerome, �heaven is no doubt displeased with your mockery of its servants.  Submit yourself to the church; and cease to persecute her ministers.  Dismiss this innocent youth; and learn to respect the holy character I wear.  Heaven will not be trifled with: you see - � the trumpet sounded again.

�I acknowledge I have been too hasty,� said Manfred.  �Father, do you go to the wicket, and demand who is at the gate.�

�Do you grant me the life of Theodore?� replied the Friar.

�I do,� said Manfred; �but inquire who is without!�

Jerome, falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood of tears, that spoke the fulness of his soul.

�You promised to go to the gate,� said Manfred.

�I thought,� replied the Friar, �your Highness would excuse my thanking you first in this tribute of my heart.�

�Go, dearest Sir,� said Theodore; �obey the Prince.  I do not deserve that you should delay his satisfaction for me.�

Jerome, inquiring who was without, was answered, �A Herald.�

�From whom?� said he.

�From the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre,� said the Herald; �and I must speak with the usurper of Otranto.�

Jerome returned to the Prince, and did not fail to repeat the message in the very words it had been uttered.  The first sounds struck Manfred with terror; but when he heard himself styled usurper, his rage rekindled, and all his courage revived.

�Usurper! - insolent villain!� cried he; �who dares to question my title?  Retire, Father; this is no business for Monks: I will meet this presumptuous man myself.  Go to your convent and prepare the Princess�s return.  Your son shall be a hostage for your fidelity: his life depends on your obedience.�

�Good heaven! my Lord,� cried Jerome, �your Highness did but this instant freely pardon my child - have you so soon forgot the interposition of heaven?�

�Heaven,� replied Manfred, �does not send Heralds to question the title of a lawful Prince.  I doubt whether it even notifies its will through Friars - but that is your affair, not mine.  At present you know my pleasure; and it is not a saucy Herald that shall save your son, if you do not return with the Princess.�

It was in vain for the holy man to reply.  Manfred commanded him to be conducted to the postern-gate, and shut out from the castle.  And he ordered some of his attendants to carry Theodore to the top of the black tower, and guard him strictly; scarce permitting the father and son to exchange a hasty embrace at parting.  He then withdrew to the hall, and seating himself in princely state, ordered the Herald to be admitted to his presence.

�Well! thou insolent!� said the Prince, �what wouldst thou with me?�

�I come,� replied he, �to thee, Manfred, usurper of the principality of Otranto, from the renowned and invincible Knight, the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre: in the name of his Lord, Frederic, Marquis of Vicenza, he demands the Lady Isabella, daughter of that Prince, whom thou hast basely and traitorously got into thy power, by bribing her false guardians during his absence; and he requires thee to resign the principality of Otranto, which thou hast usurped from the said Lord Frederic, the nearest of blood to the last rightful Lord, Alfonso the Good.  If thou dost not instantly comply with these just demands, he defies thee to single combat to the last extremity.�  And so saying the Herald cast down his warder.

�And where is this braggart who sends thee?� said Manfred.

�At the distance of a league,� said the Herald: �he comes to make good his Lord�s claim against thee, as he is a true knight, and thou an usurper and ravisher.�

Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it was not his interest to provoke the Marquis.  He knew how well founded the claim of Frederic was; nor was this the first time he had heard of it.  Frederic�s ancestors had assumed the style of Princes of Otranto, from the death of Alfonso the Good without issue; but Manfred, his father, and grandfather, had been too powerful for the house of Vicenza to dispossess them.  Frederic, a martial and amorous young Prince, had married a beautiful young lady, of whom he was enamoured, and who had died in childbed of Isabella.  Her death affected him so much that he had taken the cross and gone to the Holy Land, where he was wounded in an engagement against the infidels, made prisoner, and reported to be dead.  When the news reached Manfred�s ears, he bribed the guardians of the Lady Isabella to deliver her up to him as a bride for his son Conrad, by which alliance he had proposed to unite the claims of the two houses.  This motive, on Conrad�s death, had co-operated to make him so suddenly resolve on espousing her himself; and the same reflection determined him now to endeavour at obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage.  A like policy inspired him with the thought of inviting Frederic�s champion into the castle, lest he should be informed of Isabella�s flight, which he strictly enjoined his domestics not to disclose to any of the Knight�s retinue.

�Herald,� said Manfred, as soon as he had digested these reflections, �return to thy master, and tell him, ere we liquidate our differences by the sword, Manfred would hold some converse with him.  Bid him welcome to my castle, where by my faith, as I am a true Knight, he shall have courteous reception, and full security for himself and followers.  If we cannot adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall depart in safety, and shall have full satisfaction according to the laws of arms: So help me God and His holy Trinity!�

The Herald made three obeisances and retired.

During this interview Jerome�s mind was agitated by a thousand contrary passions.  He trembled for the life of his son, and his first thought was to persuade Isabella to return to the castle.  Yet he was scarce less alarmed at the thought of her union with Manfred.  He dreaded Hippolita�s unbounded submission to the will of her Lord; and though he did not doubt but he could alarm her piety not to consent to a divorce, if he could get access to her; yet should Manfred discover that the obstruction came from him, it might be equally fatal to Theodore.  He was impatient to know whence came the Herald, who with so little management had questioned the title of Manfred: yet he did not dare absent himself from the convent, lest Isabella should leave it, and her flight be imputed to him.  He returned disconsolately to the monastery, uncertain on what conduct to resolve.  A Monk, who met him in the porch and observed his melancholy air, said -

�Alas! brother, is it then true that we have lost our excellent Princess Hippolita?�

The holy man started, and cried, �What meanest thou, brother?  I come this instant from the castle, and left her in perfect health.�

�Martelli,� replied the other Friar, �passed by the convent but a quarter of an hour ago on his way from the castle, and reported that her Highness was dead.  All our brethren are gone to the chapel to pray for her happy transit to a better life, and willed me to wait thy arrival.  They know thy holy attachment to that good Lady, and are anxious for the affliction it will cause in thee - indeed we have all reason to weep; she was a mother to our house.  But this life is but a pilgrimage; we must not murmur - we shall all follow her!  May our end be like hers!�

 �Good brother, thou dreamest,� said Jerome.  �I tell thee I come from the castle, and left the Princess well.  Where is the Lady Isabella?�

�Poor Gentlewoman!� replied the Friar; �I told her the sad news, and offered her spiritual comfort.  I reminded her of the transitory condition of mortality, and advised her to take the veil: I quoted the example of the holy Princess Sanchia of Arragon.�

�Thy zeal was laudable,� said Jerome, impatiently; �but at present it was unnecessary: Hippolita is well - at least I trust in the Lord she is; I heard nothing to the contrary - yet, methinks, the Prince�s earnestness - Well, brother, but where is the Lady Isabella?�

�I know not,� said the Friar; �she wept much, and said she would retire to her chamber.�

Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the Princess, but she was not in her chamber.  He inquired of the domestics of the convent, but could learn no news of her.  He searched in vain throughout the monastery and the church, and despatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to get intelligence if she had been seen; but to no purpose.  Nothing could equal the good man�s perplexity.  He judged that Isabella, suspecting Manfred of having precipitated his wife�s death, had taken the alarm, and withdrawn herself to some more secret place of concealment.  This new flight would probably carry the Prince�s fury to the height.  The report of Hippolita�s death, though it seemed almost incredible, increased his consternation; and though Isabella�s escape bespoke her aversion of Manfred for a husband, Jerome could feel no comfort from it, while it endangered the life of his son.  He determined to return to the castle, and made several of his brethren accompany him to attest his innocence to Manfred, and, if necessary, join their intercession with his for Theodore.

The Prince, in the meantime, had passed into the court, and ordered the gates of the castle to be flung open for the reception of the stranger Knight and his train.  In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived.  First came two harbingers with wands.  Next a herald, followed by two pages and two trumpets.  Then a hundred foot-guards.  These were attended by as many horse.  After them fifty footmen, clothed in scarlet and black, the colours of the Knight.  Then a led horse.  Two heralds on each side of a gentleman on horseback bearing a banner with the arms of Vicenza and Otranto quarterly - a circumstance that much offended Manfred - but he stifled his resentment.  Two more pages.  The Knight�s confessor telling his beads.  Fifty more footmen clad as before.  Two Knights habited in complete armour, their beavers down, comrades to the principal Knight.  The squires of the two Knights, carrying their shields and devices.  The Knight�s own squire.  A hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, and seeming to faint under the weight of it.  The Knight himself on a chestnut steed, in complete armour, his lance in the rest, his face entirely concealed by his vizor, which was surmounted by a large plume of scarlet and black feathers.  Fifty foot-guards with drums and trumpets closed the procession, which wheeled off to the right and left to make room for the principal Knight.

As soon as he approached the gate he stopped; and the herald advancing, read again the words of the challenge.  Manfred�s eyes were fixed on the gigantic sword, and he scarce seemed to attend to the cartel: but his attention was soon diverted by a tempest of wind that rose behind him.  He turned and beheld the Plumes of the enchanted helmet agitated in the same extraordinary manner as before.  It required intrepidity like Manfred�s not to sink under a concurrence of circumstances that seemed to announce his fate.  Yet scorning in the presence of strangers to betray the courage he had always manifested, he said boldly -

�Sir Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome.  If thou art of mortal mould, thy valour shall meet its equal: and if thou art a true Knight, thou wilt scorn to employ sorcery to carry thy point.  Be these omens from heaven or hell, Manfred trusts to the righteousness of his cause and to the aid of St. Nicholas, who has ever protected his house.  Alight, Sir Knight, and repose thyself.  To-morrow thou shalt have a fair field, and heaven befriend the juster side!�

The Knight made no reply, but dismounting, was conducted by Manfred to the great hall of the castle.  As they traversed the court, the Knight stopped to gaze on the miraculous casque; and kneeling down, seemed to pray inwardly for some minutes.  Rising, he made a sign to the Prince to lead on.  As soon as they entered the hall, Manfred proposed to the stranger to disarm, but the Knight shook his head in token of refusal.

�Sir Knight,� said Manfred, �this is not courteous, but by my good faith I will not cross thee, nor shalt thou have cause to complain of the Prince of Otranto.  No treachery is designed on my part; I hope none is intended on thine; here take my gage� (giving him his ring): �your friends and you shall enjoy the laws of hospitality.  Rest here until refreshments are brought.  I will but give orders for the accommodation of your train, and return to you.�  The three Knights bowed as accepting his courtesy.  Manfred directed the stranger�s retinue to be conducted to an adjacent hospital, founded by the Princess Hippolita for the reception of pilgrims.  As they made the circuit of the court to return towards the gate, the gigantic sword burst from the supporters, and falling to the ground opposite to the helmet, remained immovable.  Manfred, almost hardened to preternatural appearances, surmounted the shock of this new prodigy; and returning to the hall, where by this time the feast was ready, he invited his silent guests to take their places.  Manfred, however ill his heart was at ease, endeavoured to inspire the company with mirth.  He put several questions to them, but was answered only by signs.  They raised their vizors but sufficiently to feed themselves, and that sparingly.

�Sirs� said the Prince, �ye are the first guests I ever treated within these walls who scorned to hold any intercourse with me: nor has it oft been customary, I ween, for princes to hazard their state and dignity against strangers and mutes.  You say you come in the name of Frederic of Vicenza; I have ever heard that he was a gallant and courteous Knight; nor would he, I am bold to say, think it beneath him to mix in social converse with a Prince that is his equal, and not unknown by deeds in arms.  Still ye are silent - well! be it as it may - by the laws of hospitality and chivalry ye are masters under this roof: ye shall do your pleasure.  But come, give me a goblet of wine; ye will not refuse to pledge me to the healths of your fair mistresses.�

The principal Knight sighed and crossed himself, and was rising from the board.

�Sir Knight,� said Manfred, �what I said was but in sport.  I shall constrain you in nothing: use your good liking.  Since mirth is not your mood, let us be sad.  Business may hit your fancies better.  Let us withdraw, and hear if what I have to unfold may be better relished than the vain efforts I have made for your pastime.�

Manfred then conducting the three Knights into an inner chamber, shut the door, and inviting them to be seated, began thus, addressing himself to the chief personage:-

�You come, Sir Knight, as I understand, in the name of the Marquis of Vicenza, to re-demand the Lady Isabella, his daughter, who has been contracted in the face of Holy Church to my son, by the consent of her legal guardians; and to require me to resign my dominions to your Lord, who gives himself for the nearest of blood to Prince Alfonso, whose soul God rest!  I shall speak to the latter article of your demands first.  You must know, your Lord knows, that I enjoy the principality of Otranto from my father, Don Manuel, as he received it from his father, Don Ricardo.  Alfonso, their predecessor, dying childless in the Holy Land, bequeathed his estates to my grandfather, Don Ricardo, in consideration of his faithful services.�  The stranger shook his head.

�Sir Knight,� said Manfred, warmly, �Ricardo was a valiant and upright man; he was a pious man; witness his munificent foundation of the adjoining church and two converts.  He was peculiarly patronised by St. Nicholas - my grandfather was incapable - I say, Sir, Don Ricardo was incapable - excuse me, your interruption has disordered me.  I venerate the memory of my grandfather.  Well, Sirs, he held this estate; he held it by his good sword and by the favour of St. Nicholas - so did my father; and so, Sirs, will I, come what come will.  But Frederic, your Lord, is nearest in blood.  I have consented to put my title to the issue of the sword.  Does that imply a vicious title?  I might have asked, where is Frederic your Lord?  Report speaks him dead in captivity.  You say, your actions say, he lives - I question it not - I might, Sirs, I might - but I do not.  Other Princes would bid Frederic take his inheritance by force, if he can: they would not stake their dignity on a single combat: they would not submit it to the decision of unknown mutes! - pardon me, gentlemen, I am too warm: but suppose yourselves in my situation: as ye are stout Knights, would it not move your choler to have your own and the honour of your ancestors called in question?�

�But to the point.  Ye require me to deliver up the Lady Isabella.  Sirs, I must ask if ye are authorised to receive her?�

The Knight nodded.

�Receive her,� continued Manfred; �well, you are authorised to receive her, but, gentle Knight, may I ask if you have full powers?�

The Knight nodded.

��Tis well,� said Manfred; �then hear what I have to offer.  Ye see, gentlemen, before you, the most unhappy of men!� (he began to weep); �afford me your compassion; I am entitled to it, indeed I am.  Know, I have lost my only hope, my joy, the support of my house - Conrad died yester morning.�

The Knights discovered signs of surprise.

�Yes, Sirs, fate has disposed of my son.  Isabella is at liberty.�

�Do you then restore her?� cried the chief Knight, breaking silence.

�Afford me your patience,� said Manfred.  �I rejoice to find, by this testimony of your goodwill, that this matter may be adjusted without blood.  It is no interest of mine dictates what little I have farther to say.  Ye behold in me a man disgusted with the world: the loss of my son has weaned me from earthly cares.  Power and greatness have no longer any charms in my eyes.  I wished to transmit the sceptre I had received from my ancestors with honour to my son - but that is over!  Life itself is so indifferent to me, that I accepted your defiance with joy.  A good Knight cannot go to the grave with more satisfaction than when falling in his vocation: whatever is the will of heaven, I submit; for alas! Sirs, I am a man of many sorrows.  Manfred is no object of envy, but no doubt you are acquainted with my story.�

The Knight made signs of ignorance, and seemed curious to have Manfred proceed.

�Is it possible, Sirs,� continued the Prince, �that my story should be a secret to you?  Have you heard nothing relating to me and the Princess Hippolita?�

They shook their heads.

�No!  Thus, then, Sirs, it is.  You think me ambitious: ambition, alas! is composed of more rugged materials.  If I were ambitious, I should not for so many years have been a prey to all the hell of conscientious scruples.  But I weary your patience: I will be brief.  Know, then, that I have long been troubled in mind on my union with the Princess Hippolita.  Oh! Sirs, if ye were acquainted with that excellent woman! if ye knew that I adore her like a mistress, and cherish her as a friend - but man was not born for perfect happiness!  She shares my scruples, and with her consent I have brought this matter before the church, for we are related within the forbidden degrees.  I expect every hour the definitive sentence that must separate us for ever - I am sure you feel for me - I see you do - pardon these tears!�

The Knights gazed on each other, wondering where this would end.

Manfred continued -

�The death of my son betiding while my soul was under this anxiety, I thought of nothing but resigning my dominions, and retiring for ever from the sight of mankind.  My only difficulty was to fix on a successor, who would be tender of my people, and to dispose of the Lady Isabella, who is dear to me as my own blood.  I was willing to restore the line of Alfonso, even in his most distant kindred.  And though, pardon me, I am satisfied it was his will that Ricardo�s lineage should take place of his own relations; yet where was I to search for those relations?  I knew of none but Frederic, your Lord; he was a captive to the infidels, or dead; and were he living, and at home, would he quit the flourishing State of Vicenza for the inconsiderable principality of Otranto?  If he would not, could I bear the thought of seeing a hard, unfeeling, Viceroy set over my poor faithful people? for, Sirs, I love my people, and thank heaven am beloved by them.  But ye will ask whither tends this long discourse?  Briefly, then, thus, Sirs.  Heaven in your arrival seems to point out a remedy for these difficulties and my misfortunes.  The Lady Isabella is at liberty; I shall soon be so.  I would submit to anything for the good of my people.  Were it not the best, the only way to extinguish the feuds between our families, if I was to take the Lady Isabella to wife?  You start.  But though Hippolita�s virtues will ever be dear to me, a Prince must not consider himself; he is born for his people.�  A servant at that instant entering the chamber apprised Manfred that Jerome and several of his brethren demanded immediate access to him.

The Prince, provoked at this interruption, and fearing that the Friar would discover to the strangers that Isabella had taken sanctuary, was going to forbid Jerome�s entrance.  But recollecting that he was certainly arrived to notify the Princess�s return, Manfred began to excuse himself to the Knights for leaving them for a few moments, but was prevented by the arrival of the Friars.  Manfred angrily reprimanded them for their intrusion, and would have forced them back from the chamber; but Jerome was too much agitated to be repulsed.  He declared aloud the flight of Isabella, with protestations of his own innocence.

Manfred, distracted at the news, and not less at its coming to the knowledge of the strangers, uttered nothing but incoherent sentences, now upbraiding the Friar, now apologising to the Knights, earnest to know what was become of Isabella, yet equally afraid of their knowing; impatient to pursue her, yet dreading to have them join in the pursuit.  He offered to despatch messengers in quest of her, but the chief Knight, no longer keeping silence, reproached Manfred in bitter terms for his dark and ambiguous dealing, and demanded the cause of Isabella�s first absence from the castle.  Manfred, casting a stern look at Jerome, implying a command of silence, pretended that on Conrad�s death he had placed her in sanctuary until he could determine how to dispose of her.  Jerome, who trembled for his son�s life, did not dare contradict this falsehood, but one of his brethren, not under the same anxiety, declared frankly that she had fled to their church in the preceding night.  The Prince in vain endeavoured to stop this discovery, which overwhelmed him with shame and confusion.  The principal stranger, amazed at the contradictions he heard, and more than half persuaded that Manfred had secreted the Princess, notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her flight, rushing to the door, said -

�Thou traitor Prince!  Isabella shall be found.�

Manfred endeavoured to hold him, but the other Knights assisting their comrade, he broke from the Prince, and hastened into the court, demanding his attendants.  Manfred, finding it vain to divert him from the pursuit, offered to accompany him and summoning his attendants, and taking Jerome and some of the Friars to guide them, they issued from the castle; Manfred privately giving orders to have the Knight�s company secured, while to the knight he affected to despatch a messenger to require their assistance.

The company had no sooner quitted the castle than Matilda, who felt herself deeply interested for the young peasant, since she had seen him condemned to death in the hall, and whose thoughts had been taken up with concerting measures to save him, was informed by some of the female attendants that Manfred had despatched all his men various ways in pursuit of Isabella.  He had in his hurry given this order in general terms, not meaning to extend it to the guard he had set upon Theodore, but forgetting it.  The domestics, officious to obey so peremptory a Prince, and urged by their own curiosity and love of novelty to join in any precipitate chase, had to a man left the castle.  Matilda disengaged herself from her women, stole up to the black tower, and unbolting the door, presented herself to the astonished Theodore.

�Young man,� said she, �though filial duty and womanly modesty condemn the step I am taking, yet holy charity, surmounting all other ties, justifies this act.  Fly; the doors of thy prison are open: my father and his domestics are absent; but they may soon return.  Be gone in safety; and may the angels of heaven direct thy course!�

�Thou art surely one of those angels!� said the enraptured Theodore: �none but a blessed saint could speak, could act - could look - like thee.  May I not know the name of my divine protectress?  Methought thou namedst thy father.  Is it possible?  Can Manfred�s blood feel holy pity!  Lovely Lady, thou answerest not.  But how art thou here thyself?  Why dost thou neglect thy own safety, and waste a thought on a wretch like Theodore?  Let us fly together: the life thou bestowest shall be dedicated to thy defence.�

�Alas! thou mistakest,� said Matilda, signing: �I am Manfred�s daughter, but no dangers await me.�

�Amazement!� said Theodore; �but last night I blessed myself for yielding thee the service thy gracious compassion so charitably returns me now.�

�Still thou art in an error,� said the Princess; �but this is no time for explanation.  Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my power to save thee: should my father return, thou and I both should indeed have cause to tremble.�

�How!� said Theodore; �thinkest thou, charming maid, that I will accept of life at the hazard of aught calamitous to thee?  Better I endured a thousand deaths.�

�I run no risk,� said Matilda, �but by thy delay.  Depart; it cannot be known that I have assisted thy flight.�

�Swear by the saints above,� said Theodore, �that thou canst not be suspected; else here I vow to await whatever can befall me.�

�Oh! thou art too generous,� said Matilda; �but rest assured that no suspicion can alight on me.�

�Give me thy beauteous hand in token that thou dost not deceive me,� said Theodore; �and let me bathe it with the warm tears of gratitude.�

�Forbear!� said the Princess; �this must not be.�

�Alas!� said Theodore, �I have never known but calamity until this hour - perhaps shall never know other fortune again: suffer the chaste raptures of holy gratitude: �tis my soul would print its effusions on thy hand.�

�Forbear, and be gone,� said Matilda.  �How would Isabella approve of seeing thee at my feet?�

�Who is Isabella?� said the young man with surprise.

�Ah, me!  I fear,� said the Princess, �I am serving a deceitful one.  Hast thou forgot thy curiosity this morning?�

�Thy looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self seem an emanation of divinity,� said Theodore; �but thy words are dark and mysterious.  Speak, Lady; speak to thy servant�s comprehension.�

�Thou understandest but too well!� said Matilda; �but once more I command thee to be gone: thy blood, which I may preserve, will be on my head, if I waste the time in vain discourse.�

�I go, Lady,� said Theodore, �because it is thy will, and because I would not bring the grey hairs of my father with sorrow to the grave.  Say but, adored Lady, that I have thy gentle pity.�

�Stay,� said Matilda; �I will conduct thee to the subterraneous vault by which Isabella escaped; it will lead thee to the church of St. Nicholas, where thou mayst take sanctuary.�

�What!� said Theodore, �was it another, and not thy lovely self that I assisted to find the subterraneous passage?�

�It was,� said Matilda; �but ask no more; I tremble to see thee still abide here; fly to the sanctuary.�

�To sanctuary,� said Theodore; �no, Princess; sanctuaries are for helpless damsels, or for criminals.  Theodore�s soul is free from guilt, nor will wear the appearance of it.  Give me a sword, Lady, and thy father shall learn that Theodore scorns an ignominious flight.�

�Rash youth!� said Matilda; �thou wouldst not dare to lift thy presumptuous arm against the Prince of Otranto?�

�Not against thy father; indeed, I dare not,� said Theodore.  �Excuse me, Lady; I had forgotten.  But could I gaze on thee, and remember thou art sprung from the tyrant Manfred!  But he is thy father, and from this moment my injuries are buried in oblivion.�

A deep and hollow groan, which seemed to come from above, startled the Princess and Theodore.

�Good heaven! we are overheard!� said the Princess.  They listened; but perceiving no further noise, they both concluded it the effect of pent-up vapours.  And the Princess, preceding Theodore softly, carried him to her father�s armoury, where, equipping him with a complete suit, he was conducted by Matilda to the postern-gate.

�Avoid the town,� said the Princess, �and all the western side of the castle.  �Tis there the search must be making by Manfred and the strangers; but hie thee to the opposite quarter.  Yonder behind that forest to the east is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of caverns that reach to the sea coast.  There thou mayst lie concealed, till thou canst make signs to some vessel to put on shore, and take thee off.  Go! heaven be thy guide! - and sometimes in thy prayers remember - Matilda!�

Theodore flung himself at her feet, and seizing her lily hand, which with struggles she suffered him to kiss, he vowed on the earliest opportunity to get himself knighted, and fervently entreated her permission to swear himself eternally her knight.  Ere the Princess could reply, a clap of thunder was suddenly heard that shook the battlements.  Theodore, regardless of the tempest, would have urged his suit: but the Princess, dismayed, retreated hastily into the castle, and commanded the youth to be gone with an air that would not be disobeyed.  He sighed, and retired, but with eyes fixed on the gate, until Matilda, closing it, put an end to an interview, in which the hearts of both had drunk so deeply of a passion, which both now tasted for the first time.

Theodore went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his father with his deliverance.  There he learned the absence of Jerome, and the pursuit that was making after the Lady Isabella, with some particulars of whose story he now first became acquainted.  The generous gallantry of his nature prompted him to wish to assist her; but the Monks could lend him no lights to guess at the route she had taken.  He was not tempted to wander far in search of her, for the idea of Matilda had imprinted itself so strongly on his heart, that he could not bear to absent himself at much distance from her abode.  The tenderness Jerome had expressed for him concurred to confirm this reluctance; and he even persuaded himself that filial affection was the chief cause of his hovering between the castle and monastery.

Until Jerome should return at night, Theodore at length determined to repair to the forest that Matilda had pointed out to him.  Arriving there, he sought the gloomiest shades, as best suited to the pleasing melancholy that reigned in his mind.  In this mood he roved insensibly to the caves which had formerly served as a retreat to hermits, and were now reported round the country to be haunted by evil spirits.  He recollected to have heard this tradition; and being of a brave and adventurous disposition, he willingly indulged his curiosity in exploring the secret recesses of this labyrinth.  He had not penetrated far before he thought he heard the steps of some person who seemed to retreat before him.

Theodore, though firmly grounded in all our holy faith enjoins to be believed, had no apprehension that good men were abandoned without cause to the malice of the powers of darkness.  He thought the place more likely to be infested by robbers than by those infernal agents who are reported to molest and bewilder travellers.  He had long burned with impatience to approve his valour.  Drawing his sabre, he marched sedately onwards, still directing his steps as the imperfect rustling sound before him led the way.  The armour he wore was a like indication to the person who avoided him.  Theodore, now convinced that he was not mistaken, redoubled his pace, and evidently gained on the person that fled, whose haste increasing, Theodore came up just as a woman fell breathless before him.  He hasted to raise her, but her terror was so great that he apprehended she would faint in his arms.  He used every gentle word to dispel her alarms, and assured her that far from injuring, he would defend her at the peril of his life.  The Lady recovering her spirits from his courteous demeanour, and gazing on her protector, said -

�Sure, I have heard that voice before!�

�Not to my knowledge,� replied Theodore; �unless, as I conjecture, thou art the Lady Isabella.�

�Merciful heaven!� cried she.  �Thou art not sent in quest of me, art thou?�  And saying those words, she threw herself at his feet, and besought him not to deliver her up to Manfred.

�To Manfred!� cried Theodore - �no, Lady; I have once already delivered thee from his tyranny, and it shall fare hard with me now, but I will place thee out of the reach of his daring.�

�Is it possible,� said she, �that thou shouldst be the generous unknown whom I met last night in the vault of the castle?  Sure thou art not a mortal, but my guardian angel.  On my knees, let me thank - �

�Hold! gentle Princess,� said Theodore, �nor demean thyself before a poor and friendless young man.  If heaven has selected me for thy deliverer, it will accomplish its work, and strengthen my arm in thy cause.  But come, Lady, we are too near the mouth of the cavern; let us seek its inmost recesses.  I can have no tranquillity till I have placed thee beyond the reach of danger.�

�Alas! what mean you, sir?� said she.  �Though all your actions are noble, though your sentiments speak the purity of your soul, is it fitting that I should accompany you alone into these perplexed retreats?  Should we be found together, what would a censorious world think of my conduct?�

�I respect your virtuous delicacy,� said Theodore; �nor do you harbour a suspicion that wounds my honour.  I meant to conduct you into the most private cavity of these rocks, and then at the hazard of my life to guard their entrance against every living thing.  Besides, Lady,� continued he, drawing a deep sigh, �beauteous and all perfect as your form is, and though my wishes are not guiltless of aspiring, know, my soul is dedicated to another; and although - �  A sudden noise prevented Theodore from proceeding.  They soon distinguished these sounds -

�Isabella! what, ho! Isabella!�  The trembling Princess relapsed into her former agony of fear.  Theodore endeavoured to encourage her, but in vain.  He assured her he would die rather than suffer her to return under Manfred�s power; and begging her to remain concealed, he went forth to prevent the person in search of her from approaching.

At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed Knight, discoursing with a peasant, who assured him he had seen a lady enter the passes of the rock.  The Knight was preparing to seek her, when Theodore, placing himself in his way, with his sword drawn, sternly forbad him at his peril to advance.

�And who art thou, who darest to cross my way?� said the Knight, haughtily.

�One who does not dare more than he will perform,� said Theodore.

�I seek the Lady Isabella,� said the Knight, �and understand she has taken refuge among these rocks.  Impede me not, or thou wilt repent having provoked my resentment.�

�Thy purpose is as odious as thy resentment is contemptible,� said Theodore.  �Return whence thou camest, or we shall soon know whose resentment is most terrible.�

The stranger, who was the principal Knight that had arrived from the Marquis of Vicenza, had galloped from Manfred as he was busied in getting information of the Princess, and giving various orders to prevent her falling into the power of the three Knights.  Their chief had suspected Manfred of being privy to the Princess�s absconding, and this insult from a man, who he concluded was stationed by that Prince to secrete her, confirming his suspicions, he made no reply, but discharging a blow with his sabre at Theodore, would soon have removed all obstruction, if Theodore, who took him for one of Manfred�s captains, and who had no sooner given the provocation than prepared to support it, had not received the stroke on his shield.  The valour that had so long been smothered in his breast broke forth at once; he rushed impetuously on the Knight, whose pride and wrath were not less powerful incentives to hardy deeds.  The combat was furious, but not long.  Theodore wounded the Knight in three several places, and at last disarmed him as he fainted by the loss of blood.

The peasant, who had fled on the first onset, had given the alarm to some of Manfred�s domestics, who, by his orders, were dispersed through the forest in pursuit of Isabella.  They came up as the Knight fell, whom they soon discovered to be the noble stranger.  Theodore, notwithstanding his hatred to Manfred, could not behold the victory he had gained without emotions of pity and generosity.  But he was more touched when he learned the quality of his adversary, and was informed that he was no retainer, but an enemy, of Manfred.  He assisted the servants of the latter in disarming the Knight, and in endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed from his wounds.  The Knight recovering his speech, said, in a faint and faltering voice -

�Generous foe, we have both been in an error.  I took thee for an instrument of the tyrant; I perceive thou hast made the like mistake.  It is too late for excuses.  I faint.  If Isabella is at hand - call her - I have important secrets to - �

�He is dying!� said one of the attendants; �has nobody a crucifix about them?  Andrea, do thou pray over him.�

�Fetch some water,� said Theodore, �and pour it down his throat, while I hasten to the Princess.�

Saying this, he flew to Isabella, and in few words told her modestly that he had been so unfortunate by mistake as to wound a gentleman from her father�s court, who wished, ere he died, to impart something of consequence to her.

The Princess, who had been transported at hearing the voice of Theodore, as he called to her to come forth, was astonished at what she heard.  Suffering herself to be conducted by Theodore, the new proof of whose valour recalled her dispersed spirits, she came where the bleeding Knight lay speechless on the ground.  But her fears returned when she beheld the domestics of Manfred.  She would again have fled if Theodore had not made her observe that they were unarmed, and had not threatened them with instant death if they should dare to seize the Princess.

The stranger, opening his eyes, and beholding a woman, said, �Art thou - pray tell me truly - art thou Isabella of Vicenza?�

�I am,� said she: �good heaven restore thee!�

 �Then thou - then thou� - said the Knight, struggling for utterance - �seest - thy father.  Give me one - �

�Oh! amazement! horror! what do I hear! what do I see!� cried Isabella.  �My father!  You my father!  How came you here, Sir?  For heaven�s sake, speak!  Oh! run for help, or he will expire!�

��Tis most true,� said the wounded Knight, exerting all his force; �I am Frederic thy father.  Yes, I came to deliver thee.  It will not be.  Give me a parting kiss, and take - �

�Sir,� said Theodore, �do not exhaust yourself; suffer us to convey you to the castle.�

�To the castle!� said Isabella.  �Is there no help nearer than the castle?  Would you expose my father to the tyrant?  If he goes thither, I dare not accompany him; and yet, can I leave him!�

�My child,� said Frederic, �it matters not for me whither I am carried.  A few minutes will place me beyond danger; but while I have eyes to dote on thee, forsake me not, dear Isabella!  This brave Knight - I know not who he is - will protect thy innocence.  Sir, you will not abandon my child, will you?�

Theodore, shedding tears over his victim, and vowing to guard the Princess at the expense of his life, persuaded Frederic to suffer himself to be conducted to the castle.  They placed him on a horse belonging to one of the domestics, after binding up his wounds as well as they were able.  Theodore marched by his side; and the afflicted Isabella, who could not bear to quit him, followed mournfully behind.
  
CHAPTER IV.

The sorrowful troop no sooner arrived at the castle, than they were met by Hippolita and Matilda, whom Isabella had sent one of the domestics before to advertise of their approach.  The ladies causing Frederic to be conveyed into the nearest chamber, retired, while the surgeons examined his wounds.  Matilda blushed at seeing Theodore and Isabella together; but endeavoured to conceal it by embracing the latter, and condoling with her on her father�s mischance.  The surgeons soon came to acquaint Hippolita that none of the Marquis�s wounds were dangerous; and that he was desirous of seeing his daughter and the Princesses.

Theodore, under pretence of expressing his joy at being freed from his apprehensions of the combat being fatal to Frederic, could not resist the impulse of following Matilda.  Her eyes were so often cast down on meeting his, that Isabella, who regarded Theodore as attentively as he gazed on Matilda, soon divined who the object was that he had told her in the cave engaged his affections.  While this mute scene passed, Hippolita demanded of Frederic the cause of his having taken that mysterious course for reclaiming his daughter; and threw in various apologies to excuse her Lord for the match contracted between their children.

Frederic, however incensed against Manfred, was not insensible to the courtesy and benevolence of Hippolita: but he was still more struck with the lovely form of Matilda.  Wishing to detain them by his bedside, he informed Hippolita of his story.  He told her that, while prisoner to the infidels, he had dreamed that his daughter, of whom he had learned no news since his captivity, was detained in a castle, where she was in danger of the most dreadful misfortunes: and that if he obtained his liberty, and repaired to a wood near Joppa, he would learn more.  Alarmed at this dream, and incapable of obeying the direction given by it, his chains became more grievous than ever.  But while his thoughts were occupied on the means of obtaining his liberty, he received the agreeable news that the confederate Princes who were warring in Palestine had paid his ransom.  He instantly set out for the wood that had been marked in his dream.

For three days he and his attendants had wandered in the forest without seeing a human form: but on the evening of the third they came to a cell, in which they found a venerable hermit in the agonies of death.  Applying rich cordials, they brought the fainting man to his speech.

�My sons,� said he, �I am bounden to your charity - but it is in vain - I am going to my eternal rest - yet I die with the satisfaction of performing the will of heaven.  When first I repaired to this solitude, after seeing my country become a prey to unbelievers - it is alas! above fifty years since I was witness to that dreadful scene!  St. Nicholas appeared to me, and revealed a secret, which he bade me never disclose to mortal man, but on my death-bed.  This is that tremendous hour, and ye are no doubt the chosen warriors to whom I was ordered to reveal my trust.  As soon as ye have done the last offices to this wretched corse, dig under the seventh tree on the left hand of this poor cave, and your pains will - Oh! good heaven receive my soul!�  With those words the devout man breathed his last.

�By break of day,� continued Frederic, �when we had committed the holy relics to earth, we dug according to direction.  But what was our astonishment when about the depth of six feet we discovered an enormous sabre - the very weapon yonder in the court.  On the blade, which was then partly out of the scabbard, though since closed by our efforts in removing it, were written the following lines - no; excuse me, Madam,� added the Marquis, turning to Hippolita; �if I forbear to repeat them: I respect your sex and rank, and would not be guilty of offending your ear with sounds injurious to aught that is dear to you.�

He paused.  Hippolita trembled.  She did not doubt but Frederic was destined by heaven to accomplish the fate that seemed to threaten her house.  Looking with anxious fondness at Matilda, a silent tear stole down her cheek: but recollecting herself, she said -

�Proceed, my Lord; heaven does nothing in vain; mortals must receive its divine behests with lowliness and submission.  It is our part to deprecate its wrath, or bow to its decrees.  Repeat the sentence, my Lord; we listen resigned.�

Frederic was grieved that he had proceeded so far.  The dignity and patient firmness of Hippolita penetrated him with respect, and the tender silent affection with which the Princess and her daughter regarded each other, melted him almost to tears.  Yet apprehensive that his forbearance to obey would be more alarming, he repeated in a faltering and low voice the following lines:


�Where�er a casque that suits this sword is found,
With perils is thy daughter compass�d round;
Alfonso�s blood alone can save the maid,
And quiet a long restless Prince�s shade.�


�What is there in these lines,� said Theodore impatiently, �that affects these Princesses?  Why were they to be shocked by a mysterious delicacy, that has so little foundation?�

�Your words are rude, young man,� said the Marquis; �and though fortune has favoured you once - �

�My honoured Lord,� said Isabella, who resented Theodore�s warmth, which she perceived was dictated by his sentiments for Matilda, �discompose not yourself for the glosing of a peasant�s son: he forgets the reverence he owes you; but he is not accustomed - �

Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked Theodore for his boldness, but with an air acknowledging his zeal; and changing the conversation, demanded of Frederic where he had left her Lord?  As the Marquis was going to reply, they heard a noise without, and rising to inquire the cause, Manfred, Jerome, and part of the troop, who had met an imperfect rumour of what had happened, entered the chamber.  Manfred advanced hastily towards Frederic�s bed to condole with him on his misfortune, and to learn the circumstances of the combat, when starting in an agony of terror and amazement, he cried -

�Ha! what art thou? thou dreadful spectre! is my hour come?�

�My dearest, gracious Lord,� cried Hippolita, clasping him in her arms, �what is it you see!  Why do you fix your eye-balls thus?�

�What!� cried Manfred breathless; �dost thou see nothing, Hippolita?  Is this ghastly phantom sent to me alone - to rue, who did not - �

�For mercy�s sweetest self, my Lord,� said Hippolita, �resume your soul, command your reason.  There is none here, but us, your friends.�

�What, is not that Alfonso?� cried Manfred.  �Dost thou not see him? can it be my brain�s delirium?�

�This! my Lord,� said Hippolita; �this is Theodore, the youth who has been so unfortunate.�

�Theodore!� said Manfred mournfully, and striking his forehead; �Theodore or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul of Manfred.  But how comes he here? and how comes he in armour?�

�I believe he went in search of Isabella,� said Hippolita.

�Of Isabella!� said Manfred, relapsing into rage; �yes, yes, that is not doubtful -.  But how did he escape from durance in which I left him?  Was it Isabella, or this hypocritical old Friar, that procured his enlargement?�

�And would a parent be criminal, my Lord,� said Theodore, �if he meditated the deliverance of his child?�

Jerome, amazed to hear himself in a manner accused by his son, and without foundation, knew not what to think.  He could not comprehend how Theodore had escaped, how he came to be armed, and to encounter Frederic.  Still he would not venture to ask any questions that might tend to inflame Manfred�s wrath against his son.  Jerome�s silence convinced Manfred that he had contrived Theodore�s release.

�And is it thus, thou ungrateful old man,� said the Prince, addressing himself to the Friar, �that thou repayest mine and Hippolita�s bounties?  And not content with traversing my heart�s nearest wishes, thou armest thy bastard, and bringest him into my own castle to insult me!�

�My Lord,� said Theodore, �you wrong my father: neither he nor I are capable of harbouring a thought against your peace.  Is it insolence thus to surrender myself to your Highness�s pleasure?� added he, laying his sword respectfully at Manfred�s feet.  �Behold my bosom; strike, my Lord, if you suspect that a disloyal thought is lodged there.  There is not a sentiment engraven on my heart that does not venerate you and yours.�

The grace and fervour with which Theodore uttered these words interested every person present in his favour.  Even Manfred was touched - yet still possessed with his resemblance to Alfonso, his admiration was dashed with secret horror.

�Rise,� said he; �thy life is not my present purpose.  But tell me thy history, and how thou camest connected with this old traitor here.�

�My Lord,� said Jerome eagerly.

�Peace! impostor!� said Manfred; �I will not have him prompted.�

�My Lord,� said Theodore, �I want no assistance; my story is very brief.  I was carried at five years of age to Algiers with my mother, who had been taken by corsairs from the coast of Sicily.  She died of grief in less than a twelvemonth;� the tears gushed from Jerome�s eyes, on whose countenance a thousand anxious passions stood expressed.  �Before she died,� continued Theodore, �she bound a writing about my arm under my garments, which told me I was the son of the Count Falconara.�

�It is most true,� said Jerome; �I am that wretched father.�

�Again I enjoin thee silence,� said Manfred: �proceed.�

�I remained in slavery,� said Theodore, �until within these two years, when attending on my master in his cruises, I was delivered by a Christian vessel, which overpowered the pirate; and discovering myself to the captain, he generously put me on shore in Sicily; but alas! instead of finding a father, I learned that his estate, which was situated on the coast, had, during his absence, been laid waste by the Rover who had carried my mother and me into captivity: that his castle had been burnt to the ground, and that my father on his return had sold what remained, and was retired into religion in the kingdom of Naples, but where no man could inform me.  Destitute and friendless, hopeless almost of attaining the transport of a parent�s embrace, I took the first opportunity of setting sail for Naples, from whence, within these six days, I wandered into this province, still supporting myself by the labour of my hands; nor until yester-morn did I believe that heaven had reserved any lot for me but peace of mind and contented poverty.  This, my Lord, is Theodore�s story.  I am blessed beyond my hope in finding a father; I am unfortunate beyond my desert in having incurred your Highness�s displeasure.�

He ceased.  A murmur of approbation gently arose from the audience.

�This is not all,� said Frederic; �I am bound in honour to add what he suppresses.  Though he is modest, I must be generous; he is one of the bravest youths on Christian ground.  He is warm too; and from the short knowledge I have of him, I will pledge myself for his veracity: if what he reports of himself were not true, he would not utter it - and for me, youth, I honour a frankness which becomes thy birth; but now, and thou didst offend me: yet the noble blood which flows in thy veins, may well be allowed to boil out, when it has so recently traced itself to its source.  Come, my Lord,� (turning to Manfred), �if I can pardon him, surely you may; it is not the youth�s fault, if you took him for a spectre.�

This bitter taunt galled the soul of Manfred.

�If beings from another world,� replied he haughtily, �have power to impress my mind with awe, it is more than living man can do; nor could a stripling�s arm.�

�My Lord,� interrupted Hippolita, �your guest has occasion for repose: shall we not leave him to his rest?�  Saying this, and taking Manfred by the hand, she took leave of Frederic, and led the company forth.

The Prince, not sorry to quit a conversation which recalled to mind the discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered himself to be conducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore, though under engagement to return to the castle on the morrow (a condition the young man gladly accepted), to retire with his father to the convent.  Matilda and Isabella were too much occupied with their own reflections, and too little content with each other, to wish for farther converse that night.  They separated each to her chamber, with more expressions of ceremony and fewer of affection thou had passed between them since their childhood.

If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with greater impatience, as soon as the sun was risen.  Their minds were in a situation that excluded sleep, and each recollected a thousand questions which she wished she had put to the other overnight.  Matilda reflected that Isabella had been twice delivered by Theodore in very critical situations, which she could not believe accidental.  His eyes, it was true, had been fixed on her in Frederic�s chamber; but that might have been to disguise his passion for Isabella from the fathers of both.  It were better to clear this up.  She wished to know the truth, lest she should wrong her friend by entertaining a passion for Isabella�s lover.  Thus jealousy prompted, and at the same time borrowed an excuse from friendship to justify its curiosity.

Isabella, not less restless, had better foundation for her suspicions.  Both Theodore�s tongue and eyes had told her his heart was engaged; it was true - yet, perhaps, Matilda might not correspond to his passion; she had ever appeared insensible to love: all her thoughts were set on heaven.

�Why did I dissuade her?� said Isabella to herself; �I am punished for my generosity; but when did they meet? where?  It cannot be; I have deceived myself; perhaps last night was the first time they ever beheld each other; it must be some other object that has prepossessed his affections - if it is, I am not so unhappy as I thought; if it is not my friend Matilda - how!  Can I stoop to wish for the affection of a man, who rudely and unnecessarily acquainted me with his indifference? and that at the very moment in which common courtesy demanded at least expressions of civility.  I will go to my dear Matilda, who will confirm me in this becoming pride.  Man is false - I will advise with her on taking the veil: she will rejoice to find me in this disposition; and I will acquaint her that I no longer oppose her inclination for the cloister.�

In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart entirely to Matilda, she went to that Princess�s chamber, whom she found already dressed, and leaning pensively on her arm.  This attitude, so correspondent to what she felt herself, revived Isabella�s suspicions, and destroyed the confidence she had purposed to place in her friend.  They blushed at meeting, and were too much novices to disguise their sensations with address.  After some unmeaning questions and replies, Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of her flight?  The latter, who had almost forgotten Manfred�s passion, so entirely was she occupied by her own, concluding that Matilda referred to her last escape from the convent, which had occasioned the events of the preceding evening, replied -

�Martelli brought word to the convent that your mother was dead.�

�Oh!� said Matilda, interrupting her, �Bianca has explained that mistake to me: on seeing me faint, she cried out, �The Princess is dead!� and Martelli, who had come for the usual dole to the castle - �

�And what made you faint?� said Isabella, indifferent to the rest.  Matilda blushed and stammered -

�My father - he was sitting in judgment on a criminal - �

�What criminal?� said Isabella eagerly.

�A young man,� said Matilda; �I believe - �

�I think it was that young man that - �

�What, Theodore?� said Isabella.

�Yes,� answered she; �I never saw him before; I do not know how he had offended my father, but as he has been of service to you, I am glad my Lord has pardoned him.�

�Served me!� replied Isabella; �do you term it serving me, to wound my father, and almost occasion his death?  Though it is but since yesterday that I am blessed with knowing a parent, I hope Matilda does not think I am such a stranger to filial tenderness as not to resent the boldness of that audacious youth, and that it is impossible for me ever to feel any affection for one who dared to lift his arm against the author of my being.  No, Matilda, my heart abhors him; and if you still retain the friendship for me that you have vowed from your infancy, you will detest a man who has been on the point of making me miserable for ever.�

Matilda held down her head and replied: �I hope my dearest Isabella does not doubt her Matilda�s friendship: I never beheld that youth until yesterday; he is almost a stranger to me: but as the surgeons have pronounced your father out of danger, you ought not to harbour uncharitable resentment against one, who I am persuaded did not know the Marquis was related to you.�

�You plead his cause very pathetically,� said Isabella, �considering he is so much a stranger to you!  I am mistaken, or he returns your charity.�

�What mean you?� said Matilda.

�Nothing,� said Isabella, repenting that she had given Matilda a hint of Theodore�s inclination for her.  Then changing the discourse, she asked Matilda what occasioned Manfred to take Theodore for a spectre?

�Bless me,� said Matilda, �did not you observe his extreme resemblance to the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery?  I took notice of it to Bianca even before I saw him in armour; but with the helmet on, he is the very image of that picture.�

�I do not much observe pictures,� said Isabella: �much less have I examined this young man so attentively as you seem to have done.  Ah?  Matilda, your heart is in danger, but let me warn you as a friend, he has owned to me that he is in love; it cannot be with you, for yesterday was the first time you ever met - was it not?�

�Certainly,� replied Matilda; �but why does my dearest Isabella conclude from anything I have said, that� - she paused - then continuing: �he saw you first, and I am far from having the vanity to think that my little portion of charms could engage a heart devoted to you; may you be happy, Isabella, whatever is the fate of Matilda!�

�My lovely friend,� said Isabella, whose heart was too honest to resist a kind expression, �it is you that Theodore admires; I saw it; I am persuaded of it; nor shall a thought of my own happiness suffer me to interfere with yours.�

This frankness drew tears from the gentle Matilda; and jealousy that for a moment had raised a coolness between these amiable maidens soon gave way to the natural sincerity and candour of their souls.  Each confessed to the other the impression that Theodore had made on her; and this confidence was followed by a struggle of generosity, each insisting on yielding her claim to her friend.  At length the dignity of Isabella�s virtue reminding her of the preference which Theodore had almost declared for her rival, made her determine to conquer her passion, and cede the beloved object to her friend.

During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered her daughter�s chamber.

�Madam,� said she to Isabella, �you have so much tenderness for Matilda, and interest yourself so kindly in whatever affects our wretched house, that I can have no secrets with my child which are not proper for you to hear.�

The princesses were all attention and anxiety.

�Know then, Madam,� continued Hippolita, �and you my dearest Matilda, that being convinced by all the events of these two last ominous days, that heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto should pass from Manfred�s hands into those of the Marquis Frederic, I have been perhaps inspired with the thought of averting our total destruction by the union of our rival houses.  With this view I have been proposing to Manfred, my lord, to tender this dear, dear child to Frederic, your father.�

�Me to Lord Frederic!� cried Matilda; �good heavens! my gracious mother - and have you named it to my father?�

�I have,� said Hippolita; �he listened benignly to my proposal, and is gone to break it to the Marquis.�

�Ah! wretched princess!� cried Isabella; �what hast thou done! what ruin has thy inadvertent goodness been preparing for thyself, for me, and for Matilda!�

�Ruin from me to you and to my child!� said Hippolita �what can this mean?�

�Alas!� said Isabella, �the purity of your own heart prevents your seeing the depravity of others.  Manfred, your lord, that impious man - �

�Hold,� said Hippolita; �you must not in my presence, young lady, mention Manfred with disrespect: he is my lord and husband, and - �

�Will not long be so,� said Isabella, �if his wicked purposes can be carried into execution.�

�This language amazes me,� said Hippolita.  �Your feeling, Isabella, is warm; but until this hour I never knew it betray you into intemperance.  What deed of Manfred authorises you to treat him as a murderer, an assassin?�

�Thou virtuous, and too credulous Princess!� replied Isabella; �it is not thy life he aims at - it is to separate himself from thee! to divorce thee! to - �

�To divorce me!�  �To divorce my mother!� cried Hippolita and Matilda at once.

�Yes,� said Isabella; �and to complete his crime, he meditates - I cannot speak it!�

�What can surpass what thou hast already uttered?� said Matilda.

Hippolita was silent.  Grief choked her speech; and the recollection of Manfred�s late ambiguous discourses confirmed what she heard.

�Excellent, dear lady! madam! mother!� cried Isabella, flinging herself at Hippolita�s feet in a transport of passion; �trust me, believe me, I will die a thousand deaths sooner than consent to injure you, than yield to so odious - oh! - �

�This is too much!� cried Hippolita: �What crimes does one crime suggest!  Rise, dear Isabella; I do not doubt your virtue.  Oh! Matilda, this stroke is too heavy for thee! weep not, my child; and not a murmur, I charge thee.  Remember, he is thy father still!�

�But you are my mother too,� said Matilda fervently; �and you are virtuous, you are guiltless! - Oh! must not I, must not I complain?�

�You must not,� said Hippolita - �come, all will yet be well.  Manfred, in the agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said; perhaps Isabella misunderstood him; his heart is good - and, my child, thou knowest not all!  There is a destiny hangs over us; the hand of Providence is stretched out; oh! could I but save thee from the wreck!  Yes,� continued she in a firmer tone, �perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for all; I will go and offer myself to this divorce - it boots not what becomes of me.  I will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the remainder of life in prayers and tears for my child and - the Prince!�

�Thou art as much too good for this world,� said Isabella, �as Manfred is execrable; but think not, lady, that thy weakness shall determine for me.  I swear, hear me all ye angels - �

�Stop, I adjure thee,� cried Hippolita: �remember thou dost not depend on thyself; thou hast a father.�

�My father is too pious, too noble,� interrupted Isabella, �to command an impious deed.  But should he command it; can a father enjoin a cursed act?  I was contracted to the son, can I wed the father?  No, madam, no; force should not drag me to Manfred�s hated bed.  I loathe him, I abhor him: divine and human laws forbid - and my friend, my dearest Matilda! would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored mother? my own mother - I never have known another� -

�Oh! she is the mother of both!� cried Matilda: �can we, can we, Isabella, adore her too much?�

�My lovely children,� said the touched Hippolita, �your tenderness overpowers me - but I must not give way to it.  It is not ours to make election for ourselves: heaven, our fathers, and our husbands must decide for us.  Have patience until you hear what Manfred and Frederic have determined.  If the Marquis accepts Matilda�s hand, I know she will readily obey.  Heaven may interpose and prevent the rest.  What means my child?� continued she, seeing Matilda fall at her feet with a flood of speechless tears - �But no; answer me not, my daughter: I must not hear a word against the pleasure of thy father.�

�Oh! doubt not my obedience, my dreadful obedience to him and to you!� said Matilda.  �But can I, most respected of women, can I experience all this tenderness, this world of goodness, and conceal a thought from the best of mothers?�

�What art thou going to utter?� said Isabella trembling.  �Recollect thyself, Matilda.�

�No, Isabella,� said the Princess, �I should not deserve this incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured a thought without her permission - nay, I have offended her; I have suffered a passion to enter my heart without her avowal - but here I disclaim it; here I vow to heaven and her - �

�My child! my child;� said Hippolita, �what words are these! what new calamities has fate in store for us!  Thou, a passion?  Thou, in this hour of destruction - �

�Oh! I see all my guilt!� said Matilda.  �I abhor myself, if I cost my mother a pang.  She is the dearest thing I have on earth - Oh! I will never, never behold him more!�

�Isabella,� said Hippolita, �thou art conscious to this unhappy secret, whatever it is.  Speak!�

�What!� cried Matilda, �have I so forfeited my mother�s love, that she will not permit me even to speak my own guilt? oh! wretched, wretched Matilda!�

�Thou art too cruel,� said Isabella to Hippolita: �canst thou behold this anguish of a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it?�

�Not pity my child!� said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her arms - �Oh! I know she is good, she is all virtue, all tenderness, and duty.  I do forgive thee, my excellent, my only hope!�

The princesses then revealed to Hippolita their mutual inclination for Theodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to Matilda.  Hippolita blamed their imprudence, and showed them the improbability that either father would consent to bestow his heiress on so poor a man, though nobly born.  Some comfort it gave her to find their passion of so recent a date, and that Theodore had had but little cause to suspect it in either.  She strictly enjoined them to avoid all correspondence with him.  This Matilda fervently promised: but Isabella, who flattered herself that she meant no more than to promote his union with her friend, could not determine to avoid him; and made no reply.

�I will go to the convent,� said Hippolita, �and order new masses to be said for a deliverance from these calamities.�

�Oh! my mother,� said Matilda, �you mean to quit us: you mean to take sanctuary, and to give my father an opportunity of pursuing his fatal intention.  Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to forbear; will you leave me a prey to Frederic?  I will follow you to the convent.�

�Be at peace, my child,� said Hippolita: �I will return instantly.  I will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will of heaven, and for thy benefit.�

�Do not deceive me,� said Matilda.  �I will not marry Frederic until thou commandest it.  Alas! what will become of me?�

�Why that exclamation?� said Hippolita.  �I have promised thee to return - �

�Ah! my mother,� replied Matilda, �stay and save me from myself.  A frown from thee can do more than all my father�s severity.  I have given away my heart, and you alone can make me recall it.�

�No more,� said Hippolita; �thou must not relapse, Matilda.�

�I can quit Theodore,� said she, �but must I wed another? let me attend thee to the altar, and shut myself from the world for ever.�

�Thy fate depends on thy father,� said Hippolita; �I have ill-bestowed my tenderness, if it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him.  Adieu! my child: I go to pray for thee.�

Hippolita�s real purpose was to demand of Jerome, whether in conscience she might not consent to the divorce.  She had oft urged Manfred to resign the principality, which the delicacy of her conscience rendered an hourly burthen to her.  These scruples concurred to make the separation from her husband appear less dreadful to her than it would have seemed in any other situation.

Jerome, at quitting the castle overnight, had questioned Theodore severely why he had accused him to Manfred of being privy to his escape.  Theodore owned it had been with design to prevent Manfred�s suspicion from alighting on Matilda; and added, the holiness of Jerome�s life and character secured him from the tyrant�s wrath.  Jerome was heartily grieved to discover his son�s inclination for that princess; and leaving him to his rest, promised in the morning to acquaint him with important reasons for conquering his passion.

Theodore, like Isabella, was too recently acquainted with parental authority to submit to its decisions against the impulse of his heart.  He had little curiosity to learn the Friar�s reasons, and less disposition to obey them.  The lovely Matilda had made stronger impressions on him than filial affection.  All night he pleased himself with visions of love; and it was not till late after the morning-office, that he recollected the Friar�s commands to attend him at Alfonso�s tomb.

�Young man,� said Jerome, when he saw him, �this tardiness does not please me.  Have a father�s commands already so little weight?�

Theodore made awkward excuses, and attributed his delay to having overslept himself.

�And on whom were thy dreams employed?� said the Friar sternly.  His son blushed.  �Come, come,� resumed the Friar, �inconsiderate youth, this must not be; eradicate this guilty passion from thy breast - �

�Guilty passion!� cried Theodore: �Can guilt dwell with innocent beauty and virtuous modesty?�

�It is sinful,� replied the Friar, �to cherish those whom heaven has doomed to destruction.  A tyrant�s race must be swept from the earth to the third and fourth generation.�

�Will heaven visit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty?� said Theodore.  �The fair Matilda has virtues enough - �

�To undo thee:� interrupted Jerome.  �Hast thou so soon forgotten that twice the savage Manfred has pronounced thy sentence?�

�Nor have I forgotten, sir,� said Theodore, �that the charity of his daughter delivered me from his power.  I can forget injuries, but never benefits.�

�The injuries thou hast received from Manfred�s race,� said the Friar, �are beyond what thou canst conceive.  Reply not, but view this holy image!  Beneath this marble monument rest the ashes of the good Alfonso; a prince adorned with every virtue: the father of his people! the delight of mankind!  Kneel, headstrong boy, and list, while a father unfolds a tale of horror that will expel every sentiment from thy soul, but sensations of sacred vengeance - Alfonso! much injured prince! let thy unsatisfied shade sit awful on the troubled air, while these trembling lips - Ha! who comes there? - �

�The most wretched of women!� said Hippolita, entering the choir.  �Good Father, art thou at leisure? - but why this kneeling youth? what means the horror imprinted on each countenance? why at this venerable tomb - alas! hast thou seen aught?�

�We were pouring forth our orisons to heaven,� replied the Friar, with some confusion, �to put an end to the woes of this deplorable province.  Join with us, Lady! thy spotless soul may obtain an exemption from the judgments which the portents of these days but too speakingly denounce against thy house.�

�I pray fervently to heaven to divert them,� said the pious Princess.  �Thou knowest it has been the occupation of my life to wrest a blessing for my Lord and my harmless children. - One alas! is taken from me! would heaven but hear me for my poor Matilda!  Father! intercede for her!�

�Every heart will bless her,� cried Theodore with rapture.

�Be dumb, rash youth!� said Jerome.  �And thou, fond Princess, contend not with the Powers above! the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away: bless His holy name, and submit to his decrees.�

�I do most devoutly,� said Hippolita; �but will He not spare my only comfort? must Matilda perish too? - ah!  Father, I came - but dismiss thy son.  No ear but thine must hear what I have to utter.�

�May heaven grant thy every wish, most excellent Princess!� said Theodore retiring.  Jerome frowned.

Hippolita then acquainted the Friar with the proposal she had suggested to Manfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of Matilda that he was gone to make to Frederic.  Jerome could not conceal his dislike of the notion, which he covered under pretence of the improbability that Frederic, the nearest of blood to Alfonso, and who was come to claim his succession, would yield to an alliance with the usurper of his right.  But nothing could equal the perplexity of the Friar, when Hippolita confessed her readiness not to oppose the separation, and demanded his opinion on the legality of her acquiescence.  The Friar caught eagerly at her request of his advice, and without explaining his aversion to the proposed marriage of Manfred and Isabella, he painted to Hippolita in the most alarming colours the sinfulness of her consent, denounced judgments against her if she complied, and enjoined her in the severest terms to treat any such proposition with every mark of indignation and refusal.

Manfred, in the meantime, had broken his purpose to Frederic, and proposed the double marriage.  That weak Prince, who had been struck with the charms of Matilda, listened but too eagerly to the offer.  He forgot his enmity to Manfred, whom he saw but little hope of dispossessing by force; and flattering himself that no issue might succeed from the union of his daughter with the tyrant, he looked upon his own succession to the principality as facilitated by wedding Matilda.  He made faint opposition to the proposal; affecting, for form only, not to acquiesce unless Hippolita should consent to the divorce.  Manfred took that upon himself.

Transported with his success, and impatient to see himself in a situation to expect sons, he hastened to his wife�s apartment, determined to extort her compliance.  He learned with indignation that she was absent at the convent.  His guilt suggested to him that she had probably been informed by Isabella of his purpose.  He doubted whether her retirement to the convent did not import an intention of remaining there, until she could raise obstacles to their divorce; and the suspicions he had already entertained of Jerome, made him apprehend that the Friar would not only traverse his views, but might have inspired Hippolita with the resolution of talking sanctuary.  Impatient to unravel this clue, and to defeat its success, Manfred hastened to the convent, and arrived there as the Friar was earnestly exhorting the Princess never to yield to the divorce.

�Madam,� said Manfred, �what business drew you hither? why did you not await my return from the Marquis?�

�I came to implore a blessing on your councils,� replied Hippolita.

�My councils do not need a Friar�s intervention,� said Manfred; �and of all men living is that hoary traitor the only one whom you delight to confer with?�

�Profane Prince!� said Jerome; �is it at the altar that thou choosest to insult the servants of the altar? - but, Manfred, thy impious schemes are known.  Heaven and this virtuous lady know them - nay, frown not, Prince.  The Church despises thy menaces.  Her thunders will be heard above thy wrath.  Dare to proceed in thy cursed purpose of a divorce, until her sentence be known, and here I lance her anathema at thy head.�

�Audacious rebel!� said Manfred, endeavouring to conceal the awe with which the Friar�s words inspired him.  �Dost thou presume to threaten thy lawful Prince?�

�Thou art no lawful Prince,� said Jerome; �thou art no Prince - go, discuss thy claim with Frederic; and when that is done - �

�It is done,� replied Manfred; �Frederic accepts Matilda�s hand, and is content to waive his claim, unless I have no male issue� - as he spoke those words three drops of blood fell from the nose of Alfonso�s statue.  Manfred turned pale, and the Princess sank on her knees.

�Behold!� said the Friar; �mark this miraculous indication that the blood of Alfonso will never mix with that of Manfred!�

�My gracious Lord,� said Hippolita, �let us submit ourselves to heaven.  Think not thy ever obedient wife rebels against thy authority.  I have no will but that of my Lord and the Church.  To that revered tribunal let us appeal.  It does not depend on us to burst the bonds that unite us.  If the Church shall approve the dissolution of our marriage, be it so - I have but few years, and those of sorrow, to pass.  Where can they be worn away so well as at the foot of this altar, in prayers for thine and Matilda�s safety?�

�But thou shalt not remain here until then,� said Manfred.  �Repair with me to the castle, and there I will advise on the proper measures for a divorce; - but this meddling Friar comes not thither; my hospitable roof shall never more harbour a traitor - and for thy Reverence�s offspring,� continued he, �I banish him from my dominions.  He, I ween, is no sacred personage, nor under the protection of the Church.  Whoever weds Isabella, it shall not be Father Falconara�s started-up son.�

�They start up,� said the Friar, �who are suddenly beheld in the seat of lawful Princes; but they wither away like the grass, and their place knows them no more.�

Manfred, casting a look of scorn at the Friar, led Hippolita forth; but at the door of the church whispered one of his attendants to remain concealed about the convent, and bring him instant notice, if any one from the castle should repair thither.

CHAPTER V.

Every reflection which Manfred made on the Friar�s behaviour, conspired to persuade him that Jerome was privy to an amour between Isabella and Theodore.  But Jerome�s new presumption, so dissonant from his former meekness, suggested still deeper apprehensions.  The Prince even suspected that the Friar depended on some secret support from Frederic, whose arrival, coinciding with the novel appearance of Theodore, seemed to bespeak a correspondence.  Still more was he troubled with the resemblance of Theodore to Alfonso�s portrait.  The latter he knew had unquestionably died without issue.  Frederic had consented to bestow Isabella on him.  These contradictions agitated his mind with numberless pangs.

He saw but two methods of extricating himself from his difficulties.  The one was to resign his dominions to the Marquis - pride, ambition, and his reliance on ancient prophecies, which had pointed out a possibility of his preserving them to his posterity, combated that thought.  The other was to press his marriage with Isabella.  After long ruminating on these anxious thoughts, as he marched silently with Hippolita to the castle, he at last discoursed with that Princess on the subject of his disquiet, and used every insinuating and plausible argument to extract her consent to, even her promise of promoting the divorce.  Hippolita needed little persuasions to bend her to his pleasure.  She endeavoured to win him over to the measure of resigning his dominions; but finding her exhortations fruitless, she assured him, that as far as her conscience would allow, she would raise no opposition to a separation, though without better founded scruples than what he yet alleged, she would not engage to be active in demanding it.

This compliance, though inadequate, was sufficient to raise Manfred�s hopes.  He trusted that his power and wealth would easily advance his suit at the court of Rome, whither he resolved to engage Frederic to take a journey on purpose.  That Prince had discovered so much passion for Matilda, that Manfred hoped to obtain all he wished by holding out or withdrawing his daughter�s charms, according as the Marquis should appear more or less disposed to co-operate in his views.  Even the absence of Frederic would be a material point gained, until he could take further measures for his security.

Dismissing Hippolita to her apartment, he repaired to that of the Marquis; but crossing the great hall through which he was to pass he met Bianca.  The damsel he knew was in the confidence of both the young ladies.  It immediately occurred to him to sift her on the subject of Isabella and Theodore.  Calling her aside into the recess of the oriel window of the hall, and soothing her with many fair words and promises, he demanded of her whether she knew aught of the state of Isabella�s affections.

�I! my Lord! no my Lord - yes my Lord - poor Lady! she is wonderfully alarmed about her father�s wounds; but I tell her he will do well; don�t your Highness think so?�

�I do not ask you,� replied Manfred, �what she thinks about her father; but you are in her secrets.  Come, be a good girl and tell me; is there any young man - ha! - you understand me.�

�Lord bless me! understand your Highness? no, not I.  I told her a few vulnerary herbs and repose - �

�I am not talking,� replied the Prince, impatiently, �about her father; I know he will do well.�

�Bless me, I rejoice to hear your Highness say so; for though I thought it not right to let my young Lady despond, methought his greatness had a wan look, and a something - I remember when young Ferdinand was wounded by the Venetian - �

 �Thou answerest from the point,� interrupted Manfred; �but here, take this jewel, perhaps that may fix thy attention - nay, no reverences; my favour shall not stop here - come, tell me truly; how stands Isabella�s heart?�

�Well! your Highness has such a way!� said Bianca, �to be sure - but can your Highness keep a secret? if it should ever come out of your lips - �

�It shall not, it shall not,� cried Manfred.

�Nay, but swear, your Highness.�

�By my halidame, if it should ever be known that I said it - �

�Why, truth is truth, I do not think my Lady Isabella ever much affectioned my young Lord your son; yet he was a sweet youth as one should see; I am sure, if I had been a Princess - but bless me!  I must attend my Lady Matilda; she will marvel what is become of me.�

�Stay,� cried Manfred; �thou hast not satisfied my question.  Hast thou ever carried any message, any letter?�

�I! good gracious!� cried Bianca; �I carry a letter?  I would not to be a Queen.  I hope your Highness thinks, though I am poor, I am honest.  Did your Highness never hear what Count Marsigli offered me, when he came a wooing to my Lady Matilda?�

�I have not leisure,� said Manfred, �to listen to thy tale.  I do not question thy honesty.  But it is thy duty to conceal nothing from me.  How long has Isabella been acquainted with Theodore?�

�Nay, there is nothing can escape your Highness!� said Bianca; �not that I know any thing of the matter.  Theodore, to be sure, is a proper young man, and, as my Lady Matilda says, the very image of good Alfonso.  Has not your Highness remarked it?�

�Yes, yes, - No - thou torturest me,� said Manfred.  �Where did they meet? when?�

�Who! my Lady Matilda?� said Bianca.

�No, no, not Matilda: Isabella; when did Isabella first become acquainted with this Theodore!�

�Virgin Mary!� said Bianca, �how should I know?�

�Thou dost know,� said Manfred; �and I must know; I will - �

�Lord! your Highness is not jealous of young Theodore!� said Bianca.

�Jealous! no, no.  Why should I be jealous? perhaps I mean to unite them - If I were sure Isabella would have no repugnance.�

�Repugnance! no, I�ll warrant her,� said Bianca; �he is as comely a youth as ever trod on Christian ground.  We are all in love with him; there is not a soul in the castle but would be rejoiced to have him for our Prince - I mean, when it shall please heaven to call your Highness to itself.�

�Indeed!� said Manfred, �has it gone so far! oh! this cursed Friar! - but I must not lose time - go, Bianca, attend Isabella; but I charge thee, not a word of what has passed.  Find out how she is affected towards Theodore; bring me good news, and that ring has a companion.  Wait at the foot of the winding staircase: I am going to visit the Marquis, and will talk further with thee at my return.�

Manfred, after some general conversation, desired Frederic to dismiss the two Knights, his companions, having to talk with him on urgent affairs.

As soon as they were alone, he began in artful guise to sound the Marquis on the subject of Matilda; and finding him disposed to his wish, he let drop hints on the difficulties that would attend the celebration of their marriage, unless - At that instant Bianca burst into the room with a wildness in her look and gestures that spoke the utmost terror.

�Oh! my Lord, my Lord!� cried she; �we are all undone! it is come again! it is come again!�

�What is come again?� cried Manfred amazed.

�Oh! the hand! the Giant! the hand! - support me! I am terrified out of my senses,� cried Bianca.  �I will not sleep in the castle to-night.  Where shall I go? my things may come after me to-morrow - would I had been content to wed Francesco! this comes of ambition!�

�What has terrified thee thus, young woman?� said the Marquis.  �Thou art safe here; be not alarmed.�

�Oh! your Greatness is wonderfully good,� said Bianca, �but I dare not - no, pray let me go - I had rather leave everything behind me, than stay another hour under this roof.�

�Go to, thou hast lost thy senses,� said Manfred.  �Interrupt us not; we were communing on important matters - My Lord, this wench is subject to fits - Come with me, Bianca.�

�Oh! the Saints!  No,� said Bianca, �for certain it comes to warn your Highness; why should it appear to me else?  I say my prayers morning and evening - oh! if your Highness had believed Diego!  �Tis the same hand that he saw the foot to in the gallery-chamber - Father Jerome has often told us the prophecy would be out one of these days - �Bianca,� said he, �mark my words - ��

�Thou ravest,� said Manfred, in a rage; �be gone, and keep these fooleries to frighten thy companions.�

�What! my Lord,� cried Bianca, �do you think I have seen nothing? go to the foot of the great stairs yourself - as I live I saw it.�

�Saw what? tell us, fair maid, what thou hast seen,� said Frederic.

�Can your Highness listen,� said Manfred, �to the delirium of a silly wench, who has heard stories of apparitions until she believes them?�

�This is more than fancy,� said the Marquis; �her terror is too natural and too strongly impressed to be the work of imagination.  Tell us, fair maiden, what it is has moved thee thus?�

�Yes, my Lord, thank your Greatness,� said Bianca; �I believe I look very pale; I shall be better when I have recovered myself - I was going to my Lady Isabella�s chamber, by his Highness�s order - �

�We do not want the circumstances,� interrupted Manfred.  �Since his Highness will have it so, proceed; but be brief.�

�Lord! your Highness thwarts one so!� replied Bianca; �I fear my hair - I am sure I never in my life - well! as I was telling your Greatness, I was going by his Highness�s order to my Lady Isabella�s chamber; she lies in the watchet-coloured chamber, on the right hand, one pair of stairs: so when I came to the great stairs - I was looking on his Highness�s present here - �

�Grant me patience!� said Manfred, �will this wench never come to the point? what imports it to the Marquis, that I gave thee a bauble for thy faithful attendance on my daughter? we want to know what thou sawest.�

�I was going to tell your Highness,� said Bianca, �if you would permit me.  So as I was rubbing the ring - I am sure I had not gone up three steps, but I heard the rattling of armour; for all the world such a clatter as Diego says he heard when the Giant turned him about in the gallery-chamber.�

�What Giant is this, my Lord?� said the Marquis; �is your castle haunted by giants and goblins?�

�Lord! what, has not your Greatness heard the story of the Giant in the gallery-chamber?� cried Bianca.  �I marvel his Highness has not told you; mayhap you do not know there is a prophecy - �

�This trifling is intolerable,� interrupted Manfred.  �Let us dismiss this silly wench, my Lord! we have more important affairs to discuss.�

�By your favour,� said Frederic, �these are no trifles.  The enormous sabre I was directed to in the wood, yon casque, its fellow - are these visions of this poor maiden�s brain?�

�So Jaquez thinks, may it please your Greatness,� said Bianca.  �He says this moon will not be out without our seeing some strange revolution.  For my part, I should not be surprised if it was to happen to-morrow; for, as I was saying, when I heard the clattering of armour, I was all in a cold sweat.  I looked up, and, if your Greatness will believe me, I saw upon the uppermost banister of the great stairs a hand in armour as big as big.  I thought I should have swooned.  I never stopped until I came hither - would I were well out of this castle.  My Lady Matilda told me but yester-morning that her Highness Hippolita knows something.�

�Thou art an insolent!� cried Manfred.  �Lord Marquis, it much misgives me that this scene is concerted to affront me.  Are my own domestics suborned to spread tales injurious to my honour?  Pursue your claim by manly daring; or let us bury our feuds, as was proposed, by the intermarriage of our children.  But trust me, it ill becomes a Prince of your bearing to practise on mercenary wenches.�

�I scorn your imputation,� said Frederic.  �Until this hour I never set eyes on this damsel: I have given her no jewel.  My Lord, my Lord, your conscience, your guilt accuses you, and would throw the suspicion on me; but keep your daughter, and think no more of Isabella.  The judgments already fallen on your house forbid me matching into it.�

Manfred, alarmed at the resolute tone in which Frederic delivered these words, endeavoured to pacify him.  Dismissing Bianca, he made such submissions to the Marquis, and threw in such artful encomiums on Matilda, that Frederic was once more staggered.  However, as his passion was of so recent a date, it could not at once surmount the scruples he had conceived.  He had gathered enough from Bianca�s discourse to persuade him that heaven declared itself against Manfred.  The proposed marriages too removed his claim to a distance; and the principality of Otranto was a stronger temptation than the contingent reversion of it with Matilda.  Still he would not absolutely recede from his engagements; but purposing to gain time, he demanded of Manfred if it was true in fact that Hippolita consented to the divorce.  The Prince, transported to find no other obstacle, and depending on his influence over his wife, assured the Marquis it was so, and that he might satisfy himself of the truth from her own mouth.

As they were thus discoursing, word was brought that the banquet was prepared.  Manfred conducted Frederic to the great hall, where they were received by Hippolita and the young Princesses.  Manfred placed the Marquis next to Matilda, and seated himself between his wife and Isabella.  Hippolita comported herself with an easy gravity; but the young ladies were silent and melancholy.  Manfred, who was determined to pursue his point with the Marquis in the remainder of the evening, pushed on the feast until it waxed late; affecting unrestrained gaiety, and plying Frederic with repeated goblets of wine.  The latter, more upon his guard than Manfred wished, declined his frequent challenges, on pretence of his late loss of blood; while the Prince, to raise his own disordered spirits, and to counterfeit unconcern, indulged himself in plentiful draughts, though not to the intoxication of his senses.

The evening being far advanced, the banquet concluded.  Manfred would have withdrawn with Frederic; but the latter pleading weakness and want of repose, retired to his chamber, gallantly telling the Prince that his daughter should amuse his Highness until himself could attend him.  Manfred accepted the party, and to the no small grief of Isabella, accompanied her to her apartment.  Matilda waited on her mother to enjoy the freshness of the evening on the ramparts of the castle.

Soon as the company were dispersed their several ways, Frederic, quitting his chamber, inquired if Hippolita was alone, and was told by one of her attendants, who had not noticed her going forth, that at that hour she generally withdrew to her oratory, where he probably would find her.  The Marquis, during the repast, had beheld Matilda with increase of passion.  He now wished to find Hippolita in the disposition her Lord had promised.  The portents that had alarmed him were forgotten in his desires.  Stealing softly and unobserved to the apartment of Hippolita, he entered it with a resolution to encourage her acquiescence to the divorce, having perceived that Manfred was resolved to make the possession of Isabella an unalterable condition, before he would grant Matilda to his wishes.

The Marquis was not surprised at the silence that reigned in the Princess�s apartment.  Concluding her, as he had been advertised, in her oratory, he passed on.  The door was ajar; the evening gloomy and overcast.  Pushing open the door gently, he saw a person kneeling before the altar.  As he approached nearer, it seemed not a woman, but one in a long woollen weed, whose back was towards him.  The person seemed absorbed in prayer.  The Marquis was about to return, when the figure, rising, stood some moments fixed in meditation, without regarding him.  The Marquis, expecting the holy person to come forth, and meaning to excuse his uncivil interruption, said,

�Reverend Father, I sought the Lady Hippolita.�

�Hippolita!� replied a hollow voice; �camest thou to this castle to seek Hippolita?� and then the figure, turning slowly round, discovered to Frederic the fleshless jaws and empty sockets of a skeleton, wrapt in a hermit�s cowl.

�Angels of grace protect me!� cried Frederic, recoiling.

�Deserve their protection!� said the Spectre.  Frederic, falling on his knees, adjured the phantom to take pity on him.

�Dost thou not remember me?� said the apparition.  �Remember the wood of Joppa!�

�Art thou that holy hermit?� cried Frederic, trembling.  �Can I do aught for thy eternal peace?�

�Wast thou delivered from bondage,� said the spectre, �to pursue carnal delights?  Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre, and the behest of Heaven engraven on it?�

�I have not, I have not,� said Frederic; �but say, blest spirit, what is thy errand to me?  What remains to be done?�

�To forget Matilda!� said the apparition; and vanished.

Frederic�s blood froze in his veins.  For some minutes he remained motionless.  Then falling prostrate on his face before the altar, he besought the intercession of every saint for pardon.  A flood of tears succeeded to this transport; and the image of the beauteous Matilda rushing in spite of him on his thoughts, he lay on the ground in a conflict of penitence and passion.  Ere he could recover from this agony of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita with a taper in her hand entered the oratory alone.  Seeing a man without motion on the floor, she gave a shriek, concluding him dead.  Her fright brought Frederic to himself.  Rising suddenly, his face bedewed with tears, he would have rushed from her presence; but Hippolita stopping him, conjured him in the most plaintive accents to explain the cause of his disorder, and by what strange chance she had found him there in that posture.

�Ah, virtuous Princess!� said the Marquis, penetrated with grief, and stopped.

�For the love of Heaven, my Lord,� said Hippolita, �disclose the cause of this transport!  What mean these doleful sounds, this alarming exclamation on my name?  What woes has heaven still in store for the wretched Hippolita?  Yet silent!  By every pitying angel, I adjure thee, noble Prince,� continued she, falling at his feet, �to disclose the purport of what lies at thy heart.  I see thou feelest for me; thou feelest the sharp pangs that thou inflictest - speak, for pity!  Does aught thou knowest concern my child?�

�I cannot speak,� cried Frederic, bursting from her.  �Oh, Matilda!�

Quitting the Princess thus abruptly, he hastened to his own apartment.  At the door of it he was accosted by Manfred, who flushed by wine and love had come to seek him, and to propose to waste some hours of the night in music and revelling.  Frederic, offended at an invitation so dissonant from the mood of his soul, pushed him rudely aside, and entering his chamber, flung the door intemperately against Manfred, and bolted it inwards.  The haughty Prince, enraged at this unaccountable behaviour, withdrew in a frame of mind capable of the most fatal excesses.  As he crossed the court, he was met by the domestic whom he had planted at the convent as a spy on Jerome and Theodore.  This man, almost breathless with the haste he had made, informed his Lord that Theodore, and some lady from the castle were, at that instant, in private conference at the tomb of Alfonso in St. Nicholas�s church.  He had dogged Theodore thither, but the gloominess of the night had prevented his discovering who the woman was.

Manfred, whose spirits were inflamed, and whom Isabella had driven from her on his urging his passion with too little reserve, did not doubt but the inquietude she had expressed had been occasioned by her impatience to meet Theodore.  Provoked by this conjecture, and enraged at her father, he hastened secretly to the great church.  Gliding softly between the aisles, and guided by an imperfect gleam of moonshine that shone faintly through the illuminated windows, he stole towards the tomb of Alfonso, to which he was directed by indistinct whispers of the persons he sought.  The first sounds he could distinguish were -

�Does it, alas! depend on me?  Manfred will never permit our union.�

�No, this shall prevent it!� cried the tyrant, drawing his dagger, and plunging it over her shoulder into the bosom of the person that spoke.

�Ah, me, I am slain!� cried Matilda, sinking.  �Good heaven, receive my soul!�

�Savage, inhuman monster, what hast thou done!� cried Theodore, rushing on him, and wrenching his dagger from him.

�Stop, stop thy impious hand!� cried Matilda; �it is my father!�

Manfred, waking as from a trance, beat his breast, twisted his hands in his locks, and endeavoured to recover his dagger from Theodore to despatch himself.  Theodore, scarce less distracted, and only mastering the transports of his grief to assist Matilda, had now by his cries drawn some of the monks to his aid.  While part of them endeavoured, in concert with the afflicted Theodore, to stop the blood of the dying Princess, the rest prevented Manfred from laying violent hands on himself.

Matilda, resigning herself patiently to her fate, acknowledged with looks of grateful love the zeal of Theodore.  Yet oft as her faintness would permit her speech its way, she begged the assistants to comfort her father.  Jerome, by this time, had learnt the fatal news, and reached the church.  His looks seemed to reproach Theodore, but turning to Manfred, he said,

�Now, tyrant! behold the completion of woe fulfilled on thy impious and devoted head!  The blood of Alfonso cried to heaven for vengeance; and heaven has permitted its altar to be polluted by assassination, that thou mightest shed thy own blood at the foot of that Prince�s sepulchre!�

�Cruel man!� cried Matilda, �to aggravate the woes of a parent; may heaven bless my father, and forgive him as I do!  My Lord, my gracious Sire, dost thou forgive thy child?  Indeed, I came not hither to meet Theodore.  I found him praying at this tomb, whither my mother sent me to intercede for thee, for her - dearest father, bless your child, and say you forgive her.�

�Forgive thee!  Murderous monster!� cried Manfred, �can assassins forgive?  I took thee for Isabella; but heaven directed my bloody hand to the heart of my child.  Oh, Matilda! - I cannot utter it - canst thou forgive the blindness of my rage?�

�I can, I do; and may heaven confirm it!� said Matilda; �but while I have life to ask it - oh! my mother! what will she feel?  Will you comfort her, my Lord?  Will you not put her away?  Indeed she loves you!  Oh, I am faint! bear me to the castle.  Can I live to have her close my eyes?�

Theodore and the monks besought her earnestly to suffer herself to be borne into the convent; but her instances were so pressing to be carried to the castle, that placing her on a litter, they conveyed her thither as she requested.  Theodore, supporting her head with his arm, and hanging over her in an agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her with hopes of life.  Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with discourses of heaven, and holding a crucifix before her, which she bathed with innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to immortality.  Manfred, plunged in the deepest affliction, followed the litter in despair.

Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed of the dreadful catastrophe, had flown to meet her murdered child; but when she saw the afflicted procession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of her senses, and she fell lifeless to the earth in a swoon.  Isabella and Frederic, who attended her, were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow.  Matilda alone seemed insensible to her own situation: every thought was lost in tenderness for her mother.

Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was brought to herself, she asked for her father.  He approached, unable to speak.  Matilda, seizing his hand and her mother�s, locked them in her own, and then clasped them to her heart.  Manfred could not support this act of pathetic piety.  He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the day he was born.  Isabella, apprehensive that these struggles of passion were more than Matilda could support, took upon herself to order Manfred to be borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to the nearest chamber.  Hippolita, scarce more alive than her daughter, was regardless of everything but her; but when the tender Isabella�s care would have likewise removed her, while the surgeons examined Matilda�s wound, she cried,

�Remove me! never, never!  I lived but in her, and will expire with her.�

Matilda raised her eyes at her mother�s voice, but closed them again without speaking.  Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness of her hand soon dispelled all hopes of recovery.  Theodore followed the surgeons into the outer chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence with a transport equal to frenzy.

�Since she cannot live mine,� cried he, �at least she shall be mine in death!  Father!  Jerome! will you not join our hands?� cried he to the Friar, who, with the Marquis, had accompanied the surgeons.

�What means thy distracted rashness?� said Jerome.  �Is this an hour for marriage?�

�It is, it is,� cried Theodore.  �Alas! there is no other!�

�Young man, thou art too unadvised,� said Frederic.  �Dost thou think we are to listen to thy fond transports in this hour of fate?  What pretensions hast thou to the Princess?�

�Those of a Prince,� said Theodore; �of the sovereign of Otranto.  This reverend man, my father, has informed me who I am.�

�Thou ravest,� said the Marquis.  �There is no Prince of Otranto but myself, now Manfred, by murder, by sacrilegious murder, has forfeited all pretensions.�

�My Lord,� said Jerome, assuming an air of command, �he tells you true.  It was not my purpose the secret should have been divulged so soon, but fate presses onward to its work.  What his hot-headed passion has revealed, my tongue confirms.  Know, Prince, that when Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land - �

�Is this a season for explanations?� cried Theodore.  �Father, come and unite me to the Princess; she shall be mine!  In every other thing I will dutifully obey you.  My life! my adored Matilda!� continued Theodore, rushing back into the inner chamber, �will you not be mine?  Will you not bless your - �

Isabella made signs to him to be silent, apprehending the Princess was near her end.

�What, is she dead?� cried Theodore; �is it possible!�

The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda to herself.  Lifting up her eyes, she looked round for her mother.

�Life of my soul, I am here!� cried Hippolita; �think not I will quit thee!�

�Oh! you are too good,� said Matilda.  �But weep not for me, my mother!  I am going where sorrow never dwells - Isabella, thou hast loved me; wouldst thou not supply my fondness to this dear, dear woman?  Indeed I am faint!�

�Oh! my child! my child!� said Hippolita in a flood of tears, �can I not withhold thee a moment?�

�It will not be,� said Matilda; �commend me to heaven - Where is my father? forgive him, dearest mother - forgive him my death; it was an error.  Oh!  I had forgotten - dearest mother, I vowed never to see Theodore more - perhaps that has drawn down this calamity - but it was not intentional - can you pardon me?�

�Oh! wound not my agonising soul!� said Hippolita; �thou never couldst offend me - Alas! she faints! help! help!�

�I would say something more,� said Matilda, struggling, �but it cannot be - Isabella - Theodore - for my sake - Oh! - � she expired.

Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore threatened destruction to all who attempted to remove him from it.  He printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every expression that despairing love could dictate.

Isabella, in the meantime, was accompanying the afflicted Hippolita to her apartment; but, in the middle of the court, they were met by Manfred, who, distracted with his own thoughts, and anxious once more to behold his daughter, was advancing to the chamber where she lay.  As the moon was now at its height, he read in the countenances of this unhappy company the event he dreaded.

�What! is she dead?� cried he in wild confusion.  A clap of thunder at that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and the clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind.  Frederic and Jerome thought the last day was at hand.  The latter, forcing Theodore along with them, rushed into the court.  The moment Theodore appeared, the walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared in the centre of the ruins.

�Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!� said the vision: And having pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it ascended solemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the form of St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso�s shade, they were soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of glory.

The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine will.  The first that broke silence was Hippolita.

�My Lord,� said she to the desponding Manfred, �behold the vanity of human greatness!  Conrad is gone!  Matilda is no more!  In Theodore we view the true Prince of Otranto.  By what miracle he is so I know not - suffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! shall we not, can we but dedicate the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the further wrath of heaven? heaven ejects us - whither can we fly, but to yon holy cells that yet offer us a retreat.�

�Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!� replied Manfred, �my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions.  Oh! could - but it cannot be - ye are lost in wonder - let me at last do justice on myself!  To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left to offer to offended heaven.  My story has drawn down these judgments: Let my confession atone - but, ah! what can atone for usurpation and a murdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place?  List, sirs, and may this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!�

�Alfonso, ye all know, died in the Holy Land - ye would interrupt me; ye would say he came not fairly to his end - it is most true - why else this bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs.  Ricardo, my grandfather, was his chamberlain - I would draw a veil over my ancestor�s crimes - but it is in vain!  Alfonso died by poison.  A fictitious will declared Ricardo his heir.  His crimes pursued him - yet he lost no Conrad, no Matilda!  I pay the price of usurpation for all!  A storm overtook him.  Haunted by his guilt he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto.  The sacrifice was accepted: the saint appeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo�s posterity should reign in Otranto until the rightful owner should be grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue male from Ricardo�s loins should remain to enjoy it - alas! alas! nor male nor female, except myself, remains of all his wretched race!  I have done - the woes of these three days speak the rest.  How this young man can be Alfonso�s heir I know not - yet I do not doubt it.  His are these dominions; I resign them - yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir - I question not the will of heaven - poverty and prayer must fill up the woeful space, until Manfred shall be summoned to Ricardo.�

�What remains is my part to declare,� said Jerome.  �When Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land he was driven by a storm to the coast of Sicily.  The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and his train, as your Lordship must have heard, was separated from him.�

�It is most true,� said Manfred; �and the title you give me is more than an outcast can claim - well! be it so - proceed.�

Jerome blushed, and continued.  �For three months Lord Alfonso was wind-bound in Sicily.  There he became enamoured of a fair virgin named Victoria.  He was too pious to tempt her to forbidden pleasures.  They were married.  Yet deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow of arms by which he was bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials until his return from the Crusade, when he purposed to seek and acknowledge her for his lawful wife.  He left her pregnant.  During his absence she was delivered of a daughter.  But scarce had she felt a mother�s pangs ere she heard the fatal rumour of her Lord�s death, and the succession of Ricardo.  What could a friendless, helpless woman do?  Would her testimony avail? - yet, my lord, I have an authentic writing - �

�It needs not,� said Manfred; �the horrors of these days, the vision we have but now seen, all corroborate thy evidence beyond a thousand parchments.  Matilda�s death and my expulsion - �

�Be composed, my Lord,� said Hippolita; �this holy man did not mean to recall your griefs.�  Jerome proceeded.

�I shall not dwell on what is needless.  The daughter of which Victoria was delivered, was at her maturity bestowed in marriage on me.  Victoria died; and the secret remained locked in my breast.  Theodore�s narrative has told the rest.�

The Friar ceased.  The disconsolate company retired to the remaining part of the castle.  In the morning Manfred signed his abdication of the principality, with the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of religion in the neighbouring convents.  Frederic offered his daughter to the new Prince, which Hippolita�s tenderness for Isabella concurred to promote.  But Theodore�s grief was too fresh to admit the thought of another love; and it was not until after frequent discourses with Isabella of his dear Matilda, that he was persuaded he could know no happiness but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul.

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Ann Radcliffe (1764-1823), The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne: A Highland Story (1789).

This web edition published 2009 by eBooks@Adelaide.
Rendered into HTML by Steve Thomas.
The University of Adelaide Library
University of Adelaide
South Australia 500

 
                                                                                  

� For justice bares the arm of God,
And the grasp�d vengeance only waits his nod.

--CAWTHORN


CHAPTER I

ON the north-east coast of Scotland, in the most romantic part of the Highlands, stood the Castle of Athlin; an edifice built on the summit of a rock whose base was in the sea. This pile was venerable from its antiquity, and from its Gothic structure; but more venerable from the virtues which it enclosed. It was the residence of the still beautiful widow, and the children of the noble Earl of Athlin, who was slain by the hand of Malcolm, a neighbouring chief, proud, oppressive, revengeful; and still residing in all the pomp of feudal greatness, within a few miles of the castle of Athlin. Encroachment on the domain of Athlin, was the occasion of the animosity which subsisted between the chiefs. Frequent broils had happened between their clans, in which that of Athlin had generally been victorious. Malcolm, whose pride was touched by the defeat of his people; whose ambition was curbed by the authority, and whose greatness was rivalled by the power of the Earl, conceived for him that deadly hatred which opposition to its favourite passions naturally excites in a mind like his, haughty and unaccustomed to controul; and he meditated his destruction. He planned his purpose with all that address which so eminently marked his character, and in a battle which was attended by the chiefs of each party in person, he contrived, by a curious finesse, to entrap the Earl, accompanied by a small detachment, in his wiles, and there slew him. A general rout of his clan ensued, which was followed by a dreadful slaughter; and a few only escaped to tell the horrid catastrophe to Matilda. Overwhelmed by the news, and deprived of those numbers which would make revenge successful, Matilda forbore to sacrifice the lives of her few remaining people to a feeble attempt at retaliation, and she was constrained to endure in silence her sorrows and her injuries.

Inconsolable for his death, Matilda had withdrawn from the public eye, into this ancient seat of feudal government, and there, in the bosom of her people and her family, had devoted herself to the education of her children. One son and one daughter were all that survived to her care, and their growing virtues promised to repay all her tenderness. Osbert was in his nineteenth year: nature had given him a mind ardent and susceptible, to which education had added refinement and expansion. The visions of genius were bright in his imagination, and his heart, unchilled by the touch of disappointment, glowed with all the warmth of benevolence.

When first we enter on the theatre of the world, and begin to notice its features, young imagination heightens every scene, and the warm heart expands to all around it. The happy benevolence of our feelings prompts us to believe that every body is good, and excites our wonder why every body is not happy. We are fired with indignation at the recital of an act of injustice, and at the unfeeling vices of which we are told. At a tale of distress our tears flow a full tribute to pity: at a deed of virtue our heart unfolds, our soul aspires, we bless the action, and feel ourselves the doer. As we advance in life, imagination is compelled to relinquish a part of her sweet delirium; we are led reluctantly to truth through the paths of experience; and the objects of our fond attention are viewed with a severer eye. Here an altered scene appears; � frowns where late were smiles; deep shades where late was sunshine: mean passions, or disgusting apathy stain the features of the principal figures. We turn indignant from a prospect so miserable, and court again the sweet illusions of our early days; but ah! they are fled for ever! Constrained, therefore, to behold objects in their more genuine hues, their deformity is by degrees less painful to us. The fine touch of moral susceptibility, by frequent irritation becomes callous; and too frequently we mingle with the world, till we are added to the number of its votaries.

Mary, who was just seventeen, had the accomplishments of riper years, with the touching simplicity of youth. The graces of her person were inferior only to those of her mind, which illumined her countenance with inimitable expression.

Twelve years had now elapsed since the death of the Earl, and time had blunted the keen edge of sorrow. Matilda�s grief had declined into a gentle, and not unpleasing melancholy, which gave a soft and interesting shade to the natural dignity of her character. Hitherto her attention had been solely directed towards rearing those virtues which nature had planted with so liberal a hand in her children, and which, under the genial influence of her eye, had flourished and expanded into beauty and strength. A new hope, and new solicitudes, now arose in her breast; these dear children were arrived at an age, dangerous from its tender susceptibility, and from the influence which imagination has at that time over the passions. Impressions would soon be formed which would stamp their destiny for life. The anxious mother lived but in her children, and she had yet another cause of apprehension.

When Osbert learned the story of his father�s death, his young heart glowed to avenge the deed. The late Earl, who had governed with the real dignity of power, was adored by his clan; they were eager to revenge his injuries; but oppressed by the generous compassion of the Countess, their murmurs sunk into silence: yet they fondly cherished the hope that their young Lord would one day lead them on to conquest and revenge. The time was now come when they looked to see this hope, the solace of many a cruel moment, realized. The tender fears of a mother would not suffer Matilda to risque the chief of her last remaining comforts. She forbade Osbert to engage. He submitted in silence, and endeavored by application to his favourite studies, to stifle the emotions which roused him to aims. He excelled in the various accomplishments of his rank, but chiefly in the martial exercises, for they were congenial to the nobility of his soul, and he had a secret pleasure in believing that they would one time assist him to do justice to the memory of his dead father. His warm imagination directed him to poetry, and he followed where she led. He loved to wander among the romantic scenes of the Highlands, where the wild variety of nature inspired him with all the enthusiasm of his favourite art. He delighted in the terrible and in the grand, more than in the softer landscape; and, wrapt in the bright visions of fancy, would often lose himself in awful solitudes.

It was in one of these rambles, that having strayed for some miles over hills covered with heath, from whence the eye was presented with only the bold outlines of uncultivated nature, rocks piled on rocks, cataracts and vast moors unmarked by the foot of traveller, he lost the path which he had himself made; he looked in vain for the objects which had directed him, and his heart, for the first time, felt the repulse of fear. No vestige of a human being was to be seen, and the dreadful silence of the place was interrupted only by the roar of distant torrents, and by the screams of the birds which flew over his head. He shouted, and his voice was answered only by the deep echoes of the mountains. He remained for some time in a silent dread not wholly unpleasing, but which was soon heightened to a degree of terror not to be endured; and he turned his steps backward, forlorn, and dejected. His memory gave him back no image of the past; having wandered some time, he came to a narrow pass, which he entered, overcome with fatigue and fruitless search: he had not advanced far, when an abrupt opening in the rock suddenly presented him with a view of the most beautifully romantic spot he had ever seen. It was a valley almost surrounded by a barrier of wild rocks, whose base was shaded with thick woods of pine and fir. A torrent, which tumbled from the heights, and was seen between the woods, rushed with amazing impetuosity into a fine lake which flowed through the vale, and was lost in the deep recesses of the mountains. Herds of cattle grazed in the bottom, and the delighted eyes of Osbert were once more blessed with the sight of human dwellings. Far on the margin of the stream were scattered a few neat cottages. His heart was so gladdened at the prospect, that he forgot he had yet the way to find which led to this Elysian vale. He was just awakened to this distressing reality, when his attention was once more engaged by the manly figure of a young Highland peasant, who advanced towards him with an air of benevolence, and, having learned his distress, offered to conduct him to his cottage. Osbert accepted the invitation, and they wound down the hill, through an obscure and intricate path, together. They arrived at one of the cottages which the Earl had observed from the height; they entered, and the peasant presented his guest to a venerable old Highlander, his father. Refreshments were spread on the table by a pretty young girl, and Osbert, after having partook of them and rested awhile, departed, accompanied by Alleyn, the young peasant, who had offered to be his guide. The length of the walk was beguiled by conversation. Osbert was interested by discovering in his companion a dignity of thought, and a course of sentiment similar to his own. On their way, they passed at some distance the castle of Dunbayne. This object gave to Osbert a bitter reflection, and drew from him a deep sigh. Alleyn made observations on the bad policy of oppression in a chief, and produced as an instance the Baron Malcolm. These lands, said he, are his, and they are scarcely sufficient to support his wretched people, who, sinking under severe exactions, suffer to lie uncultivated, tracts which would otherwise add riches to their Lord. His clan, oppressed by their burdens, threaten to rise and do justice to themselves by force of arms. The Baron, in haughty confidence, laughs at their defiance, and is insensible to his danger: for should an insurrection happen, there are other clans who would eagerly join in his destruction, and punish with the same weapon the tyrant and the murderer. Surprized at the bold independence of these words, delivered with uncommon energy, the heart of Osbert beat quick, and �O God! my father!� burst from his lips. Alleyn stood aghast! uncertain of the effect which his speech had produced; in an instant the whole truth flashed upon his mind: he beheld the son of the Lord whom he had been taught to love, and whose sad story had been impressed upon his heart in the early days of childhood; he sunk at his feet, and embraced his knees with a romantic ardor. The young Earl raised him from the ground, and the following words relieved him from his astonishment, and filled his eyes with tears of mingled joy and sorrow: �There are other clans as ready as your own to avenge the wrongs of the noble Earl of Athlin; the Fitz�Henrys were ever friends to virtue.� The countenance of the youth, while he spoke, was overspread with the glow of conscious dignity, and his eyes were animated with the pride of virtue. � The breast of Osbert kindled with noble purpose, but the image of his weeping mother crossed his mind, and checked the ardor of the impulse. �A time may come my friend,� said he, �when your generous zeal will be accepted with the warmth of gratitude it deserves. Particular circumstances will not suffer me, at present, to say more.� The warm attachment of Alleyn to his father sunk deep in his heart.

It was evening before they reached the castle, and Alleyn remained the Earl�s guest for that night.

CHAPTER II

THE following day was appointed for the celebration of an annual festival given by the Earl to his people, and he would not suffer Alleyn to depart. The hall was spread with tables; and dance and merriment resounded through the castle. It was usual on that day for the clan to assemble in arms, on account of an attempt, the memory of which it was meant to perpetuate, made, two centuries before, by an hostile clan to surprize them in their festivity.


In the morning were performed the martial exercises, in which emulation was excited by the honorary rewards bestowed on excellence. The Countess and her lovely daughter beheld, from the ramparts of the castle, the feats performed on the plains below. Their attention was engaged, and their curiosity excited, by the appearance of a stranger who managed the lance and the bow with such exquisite dexterity, as to bear off each prize of chivalry. It was Alleyn. He received the palm of victory, as was usual, from the hands of the Earl; and the modest dignity with which he accepted it, charmed the beholders.

The Earl honoured the feast with his presence, at the conclusion of which, each guest arose, and seizing his goblet with his left hand, and with his right striking his sword, drank to the memory of their departed Lord. The hall echoed with the general voice. Osbert felt it strike upon his heart the alarum of war. The people then joined hands, and drank to the honour of the son of their late master. Osbert understood the signal, and overcome with emotion, every consideration yielded to that of avenging his father. He arose, and harangued the clan with all the fire of youth and indignant virtue. As he spoke, the countenance of his people flashed with impatient joy; a deep murmur of applause ran through the assembly: and when he was silent each man, crossing his sword with that of his neighbour, swore that sacred pledge of union, never to quit the cause in which they now engaged, till the life of their enemy had paid the debt of justice and of revenge.

In the evening, the wives and daughters of the peasantry came to the castle, and joined in the festivity. It was usual for the Countess and her ladies to observe from a gallery of the hall, the various performances of dance and song; and it had been a custom of old for the daughter of the castle to grace the occasion by performing a Scotch dance with the victor of the morning. This victor now was Alleyn, who beheld the lovely Mary led by the Earl into the hall, and presented to him as his partner in the dance. She received his homage with a sweet grace. She was dressed in the habit of a Highland lass, and her fine auburn tresses, which waved in her neck, were ornamented only with a wreath of roses. She moved in the dance with the light steps of the Graces. Profound silence reigned through the hall during the performance, and a soft murmur of applause arose on its conclusion. The admiration of the spectators was divided between Mary and the victorious stranger.
She retired to the gallery, and the night concluded in joy to all but the Earl, and to Alleyn; but very different was the source and the complexion of their inquietude. The mind of Osbert revolved the chief occurrences of the day, and his soul burned with impatience to accomplish the purposes of filial piety; yet he dreaded the effect which the communication of his designs might have on the tender heart of Matilda: on the morrow, however, he resolved to acquaint her with them, and in a few days to rise and prosecute his cause with arms.

Alleyn, whose bosom, till now, had felt only for others� pains, began to be conscious of his own. His mind, uneasy and restless, gave him only the image of the high-born Mary; he endeavoured to exclude her idea, but with an effort so faint, that it would still intrude! Pleased, yet sad, he would not acknowledge, even to himself, that he loved; so ingenious are we to conceal every appearance of evil from ourselves. He arose with the dawn, and departed from the castle full of gratitude and secret love, to prepare his friends for the approaching war.

The Earl awoke from broken slumbers, and summoned all his fortitude to encounter the tender opposition of his mother. He entered her apartment with faultering steps, and his countenance betrayed the emotions of his soul. Matilda was soon informed of what her heart had foreboded, and overcome with dreadful sensation, sunk lifeless in her chair. Osbert flew to her assistance, and Mary and the attendants soon recovered her to sense and wretchedness.

The mind of Osbert was torn by the most cruel conflict: filial duty, honour, revenge, commanded him to go; filial love, regret, and pity, entreated him to stay. Mary fell at his feet, and clasping his knees with all the wild energy of grief besought him to relinquish his fatal purpose, and save his last surviving parent. Her tears, her sighs, and the soft simplicity of her air, spoke a yet stronger language than her tongue: but the silent grief of the Countess was still more touching, and in his endeavours to sooth her, he was on the point of yielding his resolution, when the figure of his dying father arose to his imagination, and stamped his purpose irrevocably. The anxiety of a fond mother, presented Matilda with the image of her son bleeding and ghastly; and the death of her Lord was revived in her memory with all the agonizing grief that sad event had impressed upon her heart, the harsher characters of which, the lenient hand of time had almost obliterated. So lovely is Pity in all her attitudes, that fondness prompts us to believe she can never transgress; but she changes into a vice, when she overcomes the purposes of stronger virtue. Sterner principles now nerved the breast of Osbert against her influence and impelled him on to deeds of arms. He summoned a few of the most able and trusty of the clan, and held a council of war; in which it was resolved that Malcolm should be attacked with all the force they could assemble, and with all the speed which the importance of the preparation would allow. To prevent suspicion and alarm to the Baron, it was agreed it should be given out, that these preparations were intended for assistance to the Chief of a distant part. That when they set out on the expedition, they should pursue, for some time, a contrary way, but under favour of the night should suddenly change their route, and turn upon the castle of Dunbayne.

In the mean time, Alleyn was strenuous in exciting his friends to the cause, and so successful in the undertaking, as to have collected, in a few days, a number of no inconsiderable consequence. To the warm enthusiasm of virtue was now added a new motive of exertion. It was no longer simply an attachment to the cause of justice, which roused him to action; the pride of distinguishing himself in the eyes of his mistress, and of deserving her esteem by his zealous services, gave combined force to the first impulse of benevolence. The sweet thought of deserving her thanks, operated secretly on his soul, for he was yet ignorant of its influence there. In this state he again appeared at the castle, and told the Earl, that himself and his friends were ready to follow him whenever the signal should be given. His offer was accepted with the warmth of kindness it claimed, and he was desired to hold himself in readiness for the onset.

In a few days the preparations were completed, Alleyn and his friends were summoned, the clan assembled in arms, and, with the young Earl at their head, departed on their expedition. The parting between Osbert and his family may be easily conceived; nor could all the pride of expected conquest suppress a sigh which escaped from Alleyn when his eyes bade adieu to Mary who, with the Countess, stood on the terrace of the castle, pursuing with aching sight the march of her beloved brother, till distance veiled him from her view; she then turned into the castle weeping, and foreboding future calamity. She endeavoured, however, to assume an appearance of tranquillity, that she might deceive the fears of Matilda, and sooth her sorrow. Matilda, whose mind was strong as her heart was tender, since she could not prevent this hazardous undertaking, summoned all her fortitude to resist the impressions of fruitless grief, and to search for the good which the occasion might present. Her efforts were not vain; she found it in the prospect which the enterprize afforded of honour to the memory of her murdered Lord, and of retribution on the head of the murderer.

It was evening when the Earl departed from the castle; he pursued a contrary route till night favoured his designs, when he wheeled towards the castle of Dunbayne. The extreme darkness of the night assisted their plan, which was to scale the walls, surprize the centinels; burst their way into the inner courts sword in hand, and force the murderer from his retreat. They had trod many miles the dreary wilds, unassisted by the least gleam of light, when suddenly their ears were struck with the dismal note of a watch-bell, which chimed the hour of the night. Every heart beat to the sound. They knew they were near the abode of the Baron. They halted to consult concerning their proceedings, when it was agreed, that the Earl with Alleyn and a chosen few, should proceed to reconnoitre the castle, while the rest should remain at a small distance awaiting the signal of approach. The Earl and his party pursued their march with silent steps; they perceived a faint light, which they guessed to proceed from the watch-tower of the castle, and they were now almost under its walls. They paused awhile in silence to give breath to expectation, and to listen if any thing was stirring. All was involved in the gloom of night, and the silence of death prevailed. They had now time to examine, as well as the darkness would permit, the situation of the castle, and the height of the walls; and to prepare for the assault. The edifice was built with Gothic magnificence upon a high and dangerous rock. Its lofty towers still frowned in proud sublimity, and the immensity of the pile stood a record of the ancient consequence of its possessors. The rock was surrounded by a ditch, broad, but not deep, over which were two draw-bridges, one on the north side, the other on the east; they were both up, but as they separated in the center, one half of the bridge remained on the side of the plains. The bridge on the north led to the grand gateway of the castle; that on the east to a small watch-tower: these were all the entrances. The rock was almost perpendicular with the walls, which were strong and lofty. After surveying the situation, they pitched upon a spot where the rock appeared most accessible, and which was contiguous to the principal gate, and gave signal to the clan. They approached in silence, and gently throwing down the bundles of faggot, which they had brought for the purpose, into the ditch, made themselves a bridge over which they passed in safety, and prepared to ascend the heights. It had been resolved that a party, of which Alleyn was one, should scale the walls, surprize the centinels, and open the gates to the rest of the clan, which, with the Earl, were to remain without. Alleyn was the first who fixed his ladder and mounted; he was instantly followed by the rest of his party, and with much difficulty, and some hazard, they gained the ramparts in safety. They traversed a part of the platform without hearing the sound of a voice or a step; profound sleep seemed to bury all. A number of the party approached some centinels who were asleep on their post; them they seized; while Alleyn, with a few others, flew to open the nearest gate, and to let down the draw-bridge. This they accomplished; but in the mean time the signal of surprize was given, and instantly the alarm bell rang out, and the castle resounded with the clang of arms. All was tumult and confusion. The Earl, with part of his people, entered the gate; the rest were following, when suddenly the portcullis was dropped, the bridge drawn up, and the Earl and his people found themselves surrounded by an armed multitude, which poured in torrents from every recess of the castle. Surprized, but not daunted, the Earl rushed forward sword in hand, and fought with a desperate valour. The soul of Alleyn seemed to acquire new vigour from the conflict; he fought like a man panting for honour, and certain of victory; wherever he rushed, conquest flew before him. He, with the Earl, forced his way into the inner courts, in search of the Baron, and hoped to have satisfied a just revenge, and to have concluded the conflict with the death of the murderer; but the moment in which they entered the courts, the gates were closed upon them; they were environed by a band of guards; and, after a short resistance, in which Alleyn received a slight wound, they were seized as prisoners of war. The slaughter without was great and dreadful: the people of the Baron inspired with fury, were insatiate for death: many of the Earl�s followers were killed in the courts and on the platform; many, in attempting to escape, were thrown from the ramparts, and many were destroyed by the sudden raising of the bridge. A small part, only of the brave and adventurous band who had engaged in the cause of justice, and who were driven back from the walls, survived to carry the dreadful tidings to the Countess. The fate of the Earl remained unknown. The consternation among the friends of the slain is not to be described, and it was heightened by the unaccountable manner in which the victory had been obtained; for it was well known that Malcolm had never, but when war made it necessary, more soldiers in his garrison than feudal pomp demanded; yet on this occasion, a number of armed men rushed from the recesses of his castle, sufficient to overpower the force of a whole clan. But they knew not the secret means of intelligence which the Baron possessed; the jealousy of conscience had armed him with apprehension for his safety; and for some years he had planted spies near the castle of Athlin, to observe all that passed within it, and to give him immediate intelligence of every war-like preparation. A transaction so striking, and so public as that which had occurred on the day of the festival, when the whole people swore to avenge the murder of their Chief, it was not probable would escape the valiant eye of his mercenaries: the circumstance had been communicated to him with all the exaggerations of fear and wonder, and had given him the signal for defence. The accounts sent him of the military preparations which were forming, convinced him that this defence would soon be called for; and, laughing at the idle tales which were told him of distant wars, he hastened to store his garrison with arms and with men, and held himself in readiness to receive the assailants. The Baron had conducted his plans with all that power of contrivance which the secrecy of the business demanded; and it was his design to suffer the enemy to mount his walls, and to put them to the sword, when the purpose of this deep-laid stratagem had been nearly defeated by the drowsiness of the centinels who were posted to give signal of their approach.

The fortitude of Matilda fainted under the pressure of so heavy a calamity; she was attacked with a violent illness, which had nearly terminated her sorrows and her life; and had rendered unavailing all the tender cares of her daughter. These tender cares, however, were not ineffectual; she revived, and they assisted to support her in the severe hours of affliction, which the unknown fate of the Earl occasioned. Mary, who felt all the horrors of the late event, was ill qualified for the office of a comforter; but her generous heart, susceptible of the deep sufferings of Matilda, almost forgot its own distress in the remembrance of her mother�s. Yet the idea of her brother, surrounded with the horrors of imprisonment and death, would often obtrude itself on her imagination, with an emphasis which almost overcame her reason. She had also a strong degree of pity for the fate of the brave young Highlander who had assisted, with a disinterestedness so noble, in the cause of her house; she wished to learn his further destiny, and her heart often melted in compassion at the picture which her fancy drew of his sufferings.

CHAPTER III

THE Earl, after being loaded with fetters, was conducted to the chief prison of the castle, and left alone to the bitter reflections of defeat and uncertain destiny; but misfortune, though it might shake, could not overcome his firmness; and hope had not yet entirely forsaken him. It is the peculiar attribute of great minds, to bear up with increasing force against the shock of misfortune; with them the nerves of resistance strengthen with attack; and they may be said to subdue adversity with her own weapons.


Reflection, at length, afforded him time to examine his prison: it was a square room, which formed the summit of a tower built on the east side of the castle, round which the bleak winds howled mournfully; the inside of the apartment was old and falling to decay: a small mattrass, which lay in one corner of the room, a broken matted chair, and a tottering table, composed its furniture; two small and strongly grated windows, which admitted a sufficient degree of light and air, afforded him on one side a view into an inner court, and on the other a dreary prospect of the wild and barren Highlands.

Alleyn was conveyed through dark and winding passages to a distant part of the castle, where at length a small door, barred with iron, opened, and disclosed to him an abode, whence light and hope were equally excluded. He shuddered as he entered, and the door was closed upon him. The mind of the Baron, in the mean time, was agitated with all the direful passions of hate, revenge, and exulting pride. He racked imagination for the invention of tortures equal to the force of his feelings; and he at length discovered that the sufferings of suspense are superior to those of the most terrible evils, when once ascertained, of which the contemplation gradually affords to strong minds the means of endurance. He determined, therefore, that the Earl should remain confined in the tower, ignorant of his future destiny; and in the mean while should be allowed food only sufficient to keep him sensible of his wretchedness.

Osbert was immersed in thought, when he heard the door of his prison unbarred, and the Baron Malcolm stood before him. The heart of Osbert swelled high with indignation, and defiance flashed in his eyes. �I am come,� said the insulting victor, �to welcome the Earl of Athlin to my castle; and to shew that I can receive my friends with the hospitality they deserve; but I am yet undetermined what kind of festival I shall bestow on his arrival.�

�Weak tyrant,� returned Osbert, his countenance impressed with the firm dignity of virtue, �to insult the vanquished, is congenial with the cruel meanness of the murderer; nor do I expect, that the man who slew the father, will spare the son; but know, that son is nerved against your wrath, and welcomes all that your fears or your cruelty can impose.�

�Rash youth,� replied the Baron; �your words are air; they fade from sense, and soon your boasted strength shall sink beneath my power. I go to meditate your destiny.� With these words he quitted the prison, enraged at the unbending virtue of the Earl.

The sight of the Baron, roused in the soul of Osbert all those opposite emotions of furious indignation and tender pity which the glowing image of his father could excite, and produced a moment of perfect misery. The dreadful energy of these sensations exasperated his brain almost to madness; the cool fortitude in which he had so lately gloried, disappeared; and he was on the point of resigning his virtue and his life, by means of a short dagger, which he wore concealed under his vest, when the soft notes of a lute surprized his attention. It was accompanied by a voice so enchantingly tender and melodious, that its sounds fell on the heart of Osbert in balmy comfort: it seemed sent by Heaven to arrest his fate: � the storm of passion was hushed within him, and he dissolved in kind tears of pity and contrition. The mournful tenderness of the air declared the person from whom it came to be a sufferer; and Osbert suspected it to proceed from a prisoner like himself. The music ceased. Absorbed in wonder, he went to the grates, in quest of the sweet musician, but no one was to be seen; and he was uncertain whether the sounds arose from within or from without the castle. Of the guard, who brought him his small allowance of food, he inquired concerning what he had heard; but from him he could not obtain the information he sought, and he was constrained to remain in a state of suspense.

In the mean time the castle of Athlin, and its neighbourhood, was overwhelmed with distress. The news of the earl�s imprisonment at length reached the ears of the countess, and hope once more illumined her mind. She immediately sent offers of immense ransom to the baron, for the restoration of her son, and the other prisoners; but the ferocity of his nature disdained an incomplete triumph. Revenge subdued his avarice; and the offers were rejected with the spurn of contempt. An additional motive, however, operated in his mind, and confirmed his purpose. The beauty of Mary had been often reported to him in terms which excited his curiosity; and an incidental view he once obtained of her, raised a passion in his soul, which the turbulence of his character would not suffer to be extinguished. Various were the schemes he had projected to obtain her, none of which had ever been executed: the possession of the earl was a circumstance the most favourable to his wishes; and he resolved to obtain Mary, as the future ransom of her brother. He concealed, for the present, his purpose, that the tortures of anxiety and despair might operate on the mind of the countess, to grant him an easy consent to the exchange, and to resign the victim the wife of her enemy.

The small remains of the clan, unsubdued by misfortune, were eager to assemble; and, hazardous as was the enterprize, to attempt the rescue of their Chief. The hope which this undertaking afforded, once more revived the Countess; but alas! a new source of sorrow was now opened for her: the health of Mary visibly declined; she was silent and pensive; her tender frame was too susceptible of the sufferings of her mind; and these sufferings were heightened by concealment. She was prescribed amusement and gentle exercise, as the best restoratives of peace and health. One day, as she was seeking on horseback these lost treasures, she was tempted by the fineness of the evening to prolong her ride beyond its usual limits: the sun was declining when she entered a wood, whose awful glooms so well accorded with the pensive tone of her mind. The soft serenity of evening, and the still solemnity of the scene, conspired to lull her mind into a pleasing forgetfulness of its troubles; from which she was, ere long, awakened by the approaching sound of horses� feet. The thickness of the foliage limited her view; but looking onward, she thought she perceived through the trees, a glittering of arms; she turned her palfry, and sought the entrance of the wood. The clattering of hoofs advanced in the breeze! her heart, misgave her, and she quickened her pace. Her fears were soon justified; she looked back, and beheld three horsemen armed and disguised advancing with the speed of pursuit. Almost fainting, she flew on the wings of terror; all her efforts were vain; the villains came up; one seized her horse, the others fell upon her two attendants: a stout scuffle ensued, but the strength of her servants soon yielded to the weapons of their adversaries; they were brought to the ground, dragged into the wood, and there left bound to the trees. In the mean time, Mary, who had fainted in the arms of the villain who seized her, was borne away through the intricate mazes of the woods; and her terrors may be easily imagined, when she revived, and found herself in the hands of unknown men. Her dreadful screams, her tears, her supplications, were ineffectual; the wretches were deaf alike to pity and to enquiry; they preserved an inflexible silence, and she saw herself conveying towards the mouth of a horrible cavern, when despair seized her mind, and she lost all signs of existence: in this state she remained some time; but it is impossible to describe her situation, when she unclosed her eyes, and beheld Alleyn, who was watching with the most trembling anxiety her return to life, and whose eyes, on seeing her revive, swam in joy and tenderness. Wonder; fearful joy, and the various shades of mingled emotions, passed in quick succession over her countenance; her surprize was increased, when she observed her own servants standing by, and could discover no one but friends. She scarcely dared to trust her senses, but the voice of Alleyn, tremulous with tenderness, dissolved in a moment the illusions of fear, and confirmed her in the surprising reality. When she was sufficiently recovered, they quitted this scene of gloom: they travelled on in a slow pace, and the shades of night were fallen long before they reached the castle; there distress and confusion appeared. The Countess, alarmed with the most dreadful apprehensions, had dispatched her servants various ways in search of her child, and her transports on again beholding her in safety, prevented her observing immediately that it was Alleyn who accompanied her. Joy, however, soon yielded to its equal wonder, when she perceived him, and in the tumult of contending emotions, she scarce knew which first to interrogate. When she had been told the escape of her daughter, and by whom effected, she prepared to hear, with impatient solicitude, news of her beloved son, and the means by which the brave young Highlander had eluded the vigilance of the Baron. Of the Earl, Alleyn could only inform the Countess, that he was taken prisoner with himself, within the walls of the fortress, as they fought side by side; that he was conducted unwounded, to a tower, situated on the east angle of the castle, where he was still confined. Himself had been imprisoned in a distant part of the pile, and had been able to collect no other particulars of the Earl�s situation, than those he had related. Of himself he gave a brief relation of the following circumstances:

After having lain some weeks in the horrible dungeon allotted him, his mind involved in the gloom of despair, and filled with the momentary expectation of death, desperation furnished him with invention, and he concerted the following plan of escape: � He had observed, that the guard who brought him his allowance of food, on quitting the dungeon, constantly sounded his spear against the pavement near the entrance. This circumstance excited his surprize and curiosity. A ray of hope beamed through the gloom of his dungeon. He examined the spot, as well as the obscurity of the place would permit; it was paved with flag stones like the other parts of the cell, and the paving was everywhere equally firm. He, however, became certain, that some means of escape was concealed beneath that part, for the guard was constant in examining it by striking that spot, and treading more firmly on it; and this he endeavoured to do without being observed. One day, immediately after the departure of the guard, Alleyn set himself to unfasten the pavement; this, with much patience and industry, he effected, by means of a small knife which had escaped the search of the soldiers. He found the earth beneath hard, and without any symptoms of being lately disturbed; but after digging a few feet, he arrived at a trap; he trembled with eagerness. It was now almost night, and he overcome with weariness; he doubted whether he should be able to penetrate through the door, and what other obstructions were behind it, before the next day. He therefore, threw the earth again into the hole, and endeavoured to close the pavement; with much difficulty, he trod the earth into the opening, but the pavement he was unable exactly to replace. It was too dark examine the stones; and he found, that even if he should be able to make them fit, the pavement could not be made firm. His mind and body were now overcome, and he threw himself on the ground in an agony of despair. It was midnight, when the return of his strength and spirits produced another effort. He tore the earth up with hasty violence, cut round the lock of the trap door, and raising it, unwilling to hesitate or consider, sprung through the aperture. The vault was of considerable depth, and he was thrown down by the violence of the fall; an hollow echo, which seemed to murmur at a distance, convinced him that the place was of considerable extent. He had no light to direct him, and was therefore obliged to walk with his arms extended, in silent and fearful examination. After having wandered through the void a considerable time, he came to a wall, along which he groped with anxious care; it conducted him onward for a length of way: it turned; he followed, and his hand touched the cold iron work of a barred window. He felt the gentle undulation of the air upon his face; and to him, who had been so long confined among the damp vapours of a dungeon, this was a moment of luxury. The air gave him strength; and the means of escape, which now seemed presented to him, renewed his courage. He set his foot against the wall, and grasping a bar with his hand, found it gradually yield to his strength, and by successive efforts, he entirely displaced it. He attempted another but, it was more firmly fixed, and every effort to loosen it was ineffectual; he found that it was fastened in a large stone of the wall, and to remove this stone, was his only means of displacing the bar; he set himself, therefore, again to work with his knife, and with much patience, loosened the mortar sufficiently to effect his purpose. After some hours, for the darkness made his labour tedious, and sometimes ineffectual, he had removed several of the bars, and had made an opening almost sufficient to permit his escape, when the dawn of light appeared; he now discovered, with inexpressible anguish, that the grate opened into an inner court of the castle, and even while he hesitated, he could perceive soldiers descending slowly into the court, from the narrow staircases which led to their apartments. His heart sickened at the sight. He rested against the wall in a pause of despair, and was on the point of springing into the court, to make a desperate effort at escape, or die in the attempt, when he perceived, by the increasing light which fell across the vault, a massy door in the wall; he ran towards it, and endeavoured to open it; it was fastened by a lock and several bolts. He struck against it with his foot, and the hollow sound which was returned, convinced him that there were vaults beyond; and by the direction of these vaults, he was certain that they must extend to the outer walls of the castle; if he could gain these vaults, and penetrate beyond them in the darkness of the ensuing night, it would be easy to leap the wall, and cross the ditch; but it was impossible to cut away the lock, before the return of his guard, who regularly visited the cell soon after the dawn of day. After some consideration, therefore, he determined to secrete himself in a dark part of the vault, and there await the entrance of the guard, who on observing the deranged bars of the grate, would conclude, that he had escaped through the aperture. He had scarcely placed himself according to his plan, when he heard the door of the dungeon unbolted; this was instantly followed by a loud, voice, which founded down the opening, and �Alleyn� was shouted in a tone of fright and consternation. After repeating the call, a man jumped into the vault. Alleyn, though himself concealed in darkness, could perceive, by the faint light which fell upon the spot, a soldier with a drawn sword in his hand. He approached the grate with execrations, examined it, and proceeded to the door; it was fast, he returned to the grate, and then proceeded along the walls, tracing them with the point of his sword. He at length approached the spot where Alleyn was concealed, who felt the sword strike upon his arm, and instantly grasping the hand which held it, the weapon fell to the ground. A short scuffle ensued. Alleyn threw down his adversary, and standing over him, seized the sword, and presented it to his breast; the soldier called for mercy. Alleyn, always unwilling to take the life of another, and considering that if the soldier was slain, his comrades would certainly follow to the vault, returned him his sword. �Take your life,� said he, �your death can avail me nothing; � take it, and if you can, go tell Malcolm, that an innocent man has endeavoured to escape destruction.� The guard, struck with his conduct, arose from the ground in silence, he received his sword, and followed Alleyn to the trap door. They returned into the dungeon, where Alleyn was once more left alone. The soldier, undetermined how to act, went to find his comrades; on the way he met Malcolm, who, ever restless and vigilant frequently walked the ramparts at an early hour. He enquired if all was well. The soldier, fearful of discovery, and unaccustomed to dissemble, hesitated at the question; and the stern air assumed by Malcolm, compelled him to relate what had happened. The Baron, with much harshness, reprobated his neglect, and immediately followed him to the dungeon, where he loaded Alleyn with insult. He examined the cell, descended into the vault, and returning to the dungeon stood by, while a chain, which had been fetched from a distant part of the castle, was fixed into the wall; � to this Alleyn was fastened. �We will not long confine you thus,� said Malcolm as he quitted the cell, �a few days shall restore you to the liberty you are so fond of; but as a conqueror ought to have spectators of his triumph, you must wait till a number is collected sufficient to witness the death of so great an hero.� �I disdain your insults,� returned Alleyn, �and am equally able to support misfortune, and to despise a tyrant.� Malcolm retired enraged at the boldness of his prisoner, and uttering menaces on the carelessness of the guard, who vainly endeavoured to justify himself. �His safety be upon your head,� said the Baron. The soldier was shocked, and turned away in sullen silence. Dread of his prisoner�s effecting an escape, now seized his mind; the words of Malcolm filled him with resentment, while gratitude towards Alleyn, for the life he had spared, operated with these sentiments, and he hesitated whether he should obey the Baron, or deliver Alleyn, and fly his oppressor. At noon, he carried him his customary food; Alleyn was not so lost in misery, but that he observed the gloom which hung upon his features; his heart foreboded impending evil: the soldier bore on his tongue the sentence of death. He told Alleyn, that the Baron had appointed the following day for his execution; and his people were ordered to attend. Death, however long contemplated, must be dreadful when it arrives; this was no more than what Alleyn had expected, and on what he had brought his mind to gaze without terror; but his fortitude now sunk before its immediate presence, and every nerve of his frame thrilled with agony. �Be comforted,� said the soldier, in a tone of pity, �I, too, am no stranger to misery; and if you are willing to risque the danger of double torture, I will attempt to release both you and myself from the hands of a tyrant.� At these words, Alleyn started from the ground in a transport of delightful wonder: �Tell me not of torture,� cried he, �all tortures are equal if death is the end, and from death I may now escape; lead me but beyond these walls, and the small possessions I have, shall be yours for ever.� �I want them not,� replied the generous soldier, �it is enough for me, that I save a fellow creature from destruction.� These words overpowered the heart of Alleyn, and tears of gratitude swelled in his eyes. Edric told him, that the door he had seen in the vault below, opened into a chain of vaults, which stretched beyond the wall of the castle, and communicated with a subterraneous way, anciently formed as a retreat from the fortress, and which terminated in the cavern of a forest at some distance. If this door could be opened, their escape was almost certain. They consulted on the measures necessary to be taken. The soldier gave Alleyn a knife larger than the one he had, and directed him to cut round the lock, which was all that with-held their passage. Edric�s office of centinel was propitious to their scheme, and it was agreed that at midnight they should descend the vaults. Edric, after having unfastened the chain, left the cell, and Alleyn set himself again to remove the pavement, which had been already re-placed by order of the Baron. The near prospect of deliverance now gladdened his spirits; his knife was better formed for his purpose; and he worked with alacrity and ease.

He arrived at the trap door, and once more leaped into the vault. He applied himself to the lock of the door, which was extremely thick, and it was with difficulty he separated them; with trembling hands he undrew the bolts, the door unclosed, and discovered to him the vaults. It was evening when he finished his work. He was but just returned to the dungeon, and had thrown himself on the ground to rest, when the sound of a distant step caught his ear; he listened to its advance with trembling eagerness. At length the door was unbolted; Alleyn, breathless with expectation, started up, and beheld not his soldier, but another; the opening was again discovered, and all was now over. The soldier brought a pitcher of water, and casting round the place a look of sullen scrutiny, departed in silence. The stretch of human endurance was now exceeded, and Alleyn sunk down in a state of torpidity. On recovering, he found himself again enveloped in the horrors of darkness, silence, and despair. Yet amid all his sufferings, he disdained to doubt the integrity of his soldier: we naturally recoil from painful sensations, and it is one of the most exquisite tortures of a noble mind, to doubt the sincerity of those in whom it has confided. Alleyn concluded, that the conversation of the morning had been overheard, and that this guard had been sent to examine the cell, and to watch his movements. He believed that Edric was now, by his own generosity, involved in destruction; and in the energy of this thought, he forgot for a moment his own situation.

Midnight came, but Edric did not appear; his doubts were now confirmed into certainty, and he resigned himself to the horrid tranquillity of mute despair. He heard, from a distance, the clock of the castle strike one; it seemed to sound the knell of death; it roused his benumbed senses, and he rose from the ground in an agony of acutest recollection. Suddenly he heard the steps of two persons advancing down the avenue; he started, and listened. Malcolm and murder arose to his mind; he doubted not that the soldier had reported what he had seen in the evening, and that the persons whom he now heard, were coming to execute the final orders of the Baron. They now drew near the dungeon, when suddenly he remembered the door in the vault. His senses had been so stunned by the appearance of the stranger, and his mind so occupied with a feeling of despair, as to exclude every idea of escape; and in the energy of his sufferings he had forgot this last resource. It now flashed like lightning upon his mind; he sprung to the trap door, and his feet had scarcely touched the bottom of the vault, when he heard the bolts of the dungeon undraw; he had just reached the entrance of the inner vault, when a voice sounded from above. He paused, and knew it to be Edric�s. Apprehension so entirely possessed his mind, that he hesitated whether he should discover himself; but a moment of recollection dissipated every ignoble suspicion of Edric�s fidelity, and he answered the call. Immediately Edric descended, followed by the soldier whose former appearance had filled Alleyn with despair, and whom Edric now introduced as his faithful friend and comrade, who, like himself, was weary of the oppression of Malcolm, and who had resolved to fly with them, and escape his rigour. This was a moment of happiness too great for thought! Alleyn, in the confusion of his joy, and in his impatience to seize the moment of deliverance, scarcely heard the words of Edric. Edric having returned to fasten the door of the dungeon, to delay pursuit, and given Alleyn a sword which he had brought for him, led the way through the vaults. The profound silence of the place was interrupted only by the echoes of their footsteps, which running through the dreary chasms in confused whisperings, filled their imaginations with terror. In traversing these gloomy and desolate recesses they often paused to listen, and often did their fears give them the distant sounds of pursuit. On quitting the vaults, they entered an avenue, winding, and of considerable length, from whence branched several passages into the rock. It was closed by a low and narrow door, which opened upon a flight of steps, that led to the subterraneous way under the ditch of the castle. Edric knew the intricacies of the place: they entered, and closing the door began to descend, when the lamp which Edric carried in his hand was blown out by the current of the wind, and they were left in total darkness. Their feelings may be more easily imagined than described; they had, however, no way but to proceed, and grope with cautious steps the dark abyss. Having continued to descend for some time, their feet reached the bottom, and they found themselves once more on even ground; but Edric knew they had yet another flight to encounter, before they could gain the subterraneous passage under the fosse, and for which it required their utmost caution to search. They were proceeding with slow and wary steps, when the foot of Alleyn stumbled upon something which clattered like broken armour, and endeavouring to throw it from him, he felt the weight resist his effort: he stooped to discover what it was, and found in his grasp the cold hand of a dead person. Every nerve thrilled with horror at the touch, and he started back in an agony of terror. They remained for some time in silent dismay, unable to return, yet fearful to proceed, when a faint light which seemed to issue from the bottom of the last descent, gleamed upon the walls, and discovered to them the second staircase, and at their feet the pale and disfigured corpse of a man in armour, while at a distance they could distinguish the figures of men. At this sight their hearts died within them, and they gave themselves up for lost. They doubted not but the men whom they saw were the murderers; that they belonged to the Baron; and were in search of some fugitives from the castle. Their only chance of concealment was to remain where they were; but the light appeared to advance, and the faces of the men to turn towards them. Winged with terror, they sought the first ascent, and flying up the steps, reached the door, which they endeavoured to open, that they might hide themselves from pursuit among the intricacies of the rock; their efforts, however, were vain, for the door was fastened by a spring lock, and the key was on the other side. Compelled to give breath to their fears, they ventured to look back, and found themselves again in total darkness; they paused upon the steps, and listening, all was silent. They rested here a considerable time; no footsteps startled them; no ray of light darted through the gloom; every thing seemed hushed in the silence of death: they resolved once more to venture forward; they gained again the bottom of the first descent, and shuddering as they approached the spot where they knew the corpse was laid, they groped to avoid its horrid touch, when suddenly the light again appeared, and in the same place where they had first seen it. They stood petrified with despair. The light, however, moved slowly onward, and disappeared in the windings of the avenue. After remaining a long time in silent suspense, and finding no further obstacle, they ventured to proceed. The light had discovered to them their situation, and the staircase, and they now moved with greater certainty. They reached the bottom in safety, and without any fearful interruption; they listened, and again the silence of the place was undisturbed. Edric knew they were now under the fosse, their way was plain before them, and their hopes were renewed in the belief, that the light and the people they had seen, had taken a different direction, Edric knowing there were various passages branching from the main avenue which led to different openings in the rock. They now stepped on with alacrity, the prospect of deliverance was near, for Edric judged they were now not far from the cavern. An abrupt turning in the passage confirmed at once this supposition, and extinguished the hope which had attended it; for the light of a lamp burst suddenly upon them, and exhibited to their sickening eyes, the figures of four men in an attitude of menace, with their swords pointed ready to receive them. Alleyn drew his sword, and advanced: �We will die hardly,� cried he. At the sound of his voice, the weapons instantly dropped from the hands of his adversaries, and they advanced to meet him in a transport of joy. Alleyn recognized with astonishment, in the faces of the three strangers, his faithful friends and followers; and Edric in that of the fourth, a fellow soldier. The same purpose had assembled them all in the same spot. They quitted the cave together; and Alleyn, in the joyful experience of unexpected deliverance, resolved never more to admit despair. They concluded, that the body which they had passed in the avenue, was that of some person who had perished either by hunger or by the sword in those subterranean labyrinths.

They marched in company till they came within a few miles in of the castle of Athlin, when Alleyn made known his design of collecting his friends, and joining the clan in an attempt to release the Earl; Edric, and the other soldier, having solemnly enlisted in the cause, they parted; Alleyn and Edric pursuing the road to the castle, and the others striking off to a different part of the country. Alleyn and Edric had not proceeded far, when the groans of the wounded servants of Matilda drew them into the wood, in which the preceding dreadful scene had been acted. The surprize of Alleyn was extreme, when he discovered the servants of the Earl in this situation; but surprize soon yielded to a more poignant sensation, when he heard that Mary had been carried off by armed men. He scarcely waited to release the servants, but seized one of their horses which was grazing near, instantly mounted, ordering the rest to follow, and took the way which had been pointed as the course of the ravishers. Fortunately it was the right direction; and Alleyn and the soldier came up with them as they were hastening to the mouth of that cavern, whose frightful aspect had chilled the heart of Mary with a temporary death. Their endeavours to fly were vain; they were overtaken at the entrance; a sharp conflict ensued in which one of the ruffians was wounded and fled: his comrades seeing the servants of the Earl approaching relinquished their prize, and escaped through the recesses of the cave. The eyes of Alleyn were now fixed in horror on the lifeless form of Mary, who had remained insensible during the whole of the affray; he was exerting every effort for her recovery, when she unclosed her eyes, and joy once more illumined his soul.

During the recital of these particulars, which Alleyn delivered with a modest brevity, the mind of Mary had suffered a variety of emotions sympathetic to all the vicissitudes of his situation. She endeavoured to conceal from herself the particular interest she felt in his adventures; but so unequal were her efforts to the strength of her emotions, that when Alleyn related the scene of Dunbayne cavern, her cheek grew pale and she relapsed into a fainting fit. This circumstance alarmed the penetration of the Countess; but the known weakness of her daughter�s frame appeared a probable cause of the disorder, and repressed her first apprehension. It gave to Alleyn a mixed delight of hope and fear, such as he had never known before; for the first time he dared to acknowledge to his own heart that he loved, and that heart for the first time thrilled with the hope of being loved again.

He received from the Countess the warm overflowings of a heart grateful for the preservation of her child, and from Mary a blush which spoke more than her tongue could utter. But the minds of all were involved in the utmost perplexity concerning the rank and the identity of the author of the plan, nor could they discover any clue which would lead them through this intricate maze of wonder, to the villain who had fabricated so diabolical a scheme. Their suspicions, at length, rested upon the Baron Malcolm, and this supposition was confirmed by the appearance of the horsemen, who evidently acted only as the agents of superior power. Their conjectures were indeed just. Malcolm was the author of the scheme. It had been planned, and he had given orders to his people to execute it long before the Earl fell into his hands. They had, however, found no opportunity of accomplishing the design when the castle was surprized, and in the consequent tumult of his mind, the Baron had forgot to withdraw his orders.

Alleyn expressed his design of collecting the small remnant of his friends, and uniting with the clan in attempting the rescue of the Earl. �Noble youth,� exclaimed the Countess, unable longer to repress her admiration, �how can I ever repay your generous services! Am I then to receive both my children at your hands? Go-my clan are now collecting for a second attempt upon the walls of Dunbayne, � go! lead them to conquest, and restore to me my son.� The languid eyes of Mary rekindled at these words, she glowed with the hope of clasping once more to her bosom her long lost brother; but the suffusions of hope were soon chased by the chilly touch of fear, for it was Alleyn who was to lead the enterprize, and it was Alleyn who might fall in the attempt. These contrary emotions unveiled to her at once the state of her affections, and she saw in the eye of fancy, the long train of inquietudes and sorrows which were likely to ensue. She sought to obliterate from her mind every remembrance of the past, and of the fatal knowledge which was now disclosed; but she sought in vain, for the monitor in her breast constantly presented to her mind the image of Alleyn, adorned with those brave and manly virtues which had so eminently distinguished his conduct; the insignificance of the peasant was lost in the nobility of the character, and every effort at forgetfulness was baffled.

Alleyn passed that night at the castle, and the next morning, after taking leave of the Countess and her daughter, to whom his eyes bade a respectful and mournful adieu, he departed with Edric for his father�s cottage, impatient to acquaint the good old man with his safety, and to rouse to arms his slumbering friends. The breath of love had now raised into flame those sparks of ambition which had so long been kindling in his breast; he was not only eager to avenge the cause of injured virtue, and to rescue from misery and death, the son of the Chief whom he had been ever taught to reverence, but he panted to avenge the insult offered to his mistress, and to achieve some deed of valour worthy her admiration and her thanks.

Alleyn found his father at breakfast, with his niece at his side; his face was darkened with sorrow, and he did not perceive Alleyn, when he entered. The joy of the old man almost overcame him when he beheld his son in safety, for he was the solace of his declining years; and Edric was welcomed with the heartiness of an old friend.

CHAPTER IV

MEANWHILE the Earl remained a solitary prisoner in the tower; uncertain fate was yet suspended over him; he had, however, a magnanimity in his nature which baffled much of the cruel effort of the Baron. He had prepared his mind by habitual contemplation for the worst, and although that worst was death, he could now look to it even with serenity. Those violent transports which had assailed him on sight of the Baron, were, since he was no longer subject to his presence, reduced within their proper limits; yet he anxiously avoided dwelling on the memory of his father, lest those dreadful sensations should threaten him with returning torture. Whenever he permitted himself to think of the sufferings of the Countess and his sister, his heart melted with a sorrow that almost unnerved him; much he wished to know how they supported this trial, and much he wished that he could convey to them intelligence of his state. He endeavoured to abstract his mind from his situation, and sought to make himself artificial comforts even from the barren objects around him; his chief amusement was in observing the manners and customs of the birds of prey which lodged themselves in the battlements of his tower, and the rapacity of their nature furnished him with too just a parallel to the habits of men.


As he was one day standing at the grate which looked upon the castle, observing the progress of these birds, his ear caught the sound of that sweet lute whose notes had once saved him from destruction; it was accompanied by the same melodious voice he had formerly heard, and which now sung with impassioned tenderness the following air:

When first the vernal morn of life
Beam�d on my infant eye,
Fond I survey�d the smiling scene,
Nor saw the tempest nigh.

Hope�s bright illusions touch�d my soul,
My young ideas led;
And Fancy�s vivid tints combin�d,
And fairy prospect spread.

My guileless heart expanded wide,
With filial fondness fraught;
Paternal love that heart supplied
With all its fondness sought.

But O! the cruel quick reverse!
Fate all I loved involv�d;
Pale Grief Hope�s trembling rays dispers�d,
And Fancy�s dreams dissolv�d.

Lost in surprize, Osbert stood for some time looking down upon an inner court, whence the sounds seemed to arise; after a few minutes he observed a young lady enter from that side on which the tower arose; on her arm rested an elder one, in whose face might be traced the lines of decaying beauty; but it was visible, from the melancholy which clouded her features, that the finger of affliction had there anticipated the ravages of time. She was dressed in the habit of a widow, and the black veil which shaded her forehead, and gave a fine expression to her countenance, devolved upon the ground in a length of train, and heightened the natural majesty of her figure; she moved with slow steps, and was supported by the young lady whose veil half disclosed a countenance where beauty was touched with sorrow and inimitable expression; the elegance of her form and the dignity of her air, proclaimed her to be of distinguished rank. On her arm was hung that lute, whose melody had just charmed the attention of the Earl, who was now fixed in wonder at what he beheld, that was equalled only by his admiration. They retired through a gate on the opposite side of the court, and were seen no more. Osbert followed them with his eyes, which for some time remained fixed upon the door through which they had disappeared, almost insensible of their departure. When he returned to himself, he discovered, as if for the first time, that he was in solitude. He conjectured that these strangers were confined by the oppressive power of the Baron, and his eyes were suffused with tears of pity. When he considered that so much beauty and dignity were the unresisting victims of a tyrant, his heart swelled high with indignation, his prison became intolerable to him, and he longed to become at once the champion of virtue, and the deliverer of oppressed innocence. The character of Malcolm arose to his mind black with accumulated guilt, and aggravated the detestation with which he had ever contemplated it: the hateful idea nerved his soul with a confidence of revenge. Of the guard, who entered, he enquired concerning the strangers, but could obtain no positive information; he came to impart other news; to prepare the Earl for death; the morrow was appointed for his execution. He received the intelligence with the firm hardihood of indignant virtue, disdaining to solicit, and disdaining to repine; and his mind yet grasped the idea of revenge. He drove from his thoughts, with precipitation, the tender ideas of his mother and sister; remembrances which would subdue his fortitude without effecting any beneficial purpose. He was told of the escape of Alleyn; this intelligence gave him inexpressible pleasure, and he knew this faithful youth would undertake to avenge his death.

When the news of Alleyn�s flight had reached the Baron, his soul was stung with rage, and he called for the guards of the dungeon; they were no where to be found; and after a long search it was known that they were fled with their prisoner; the flight of the other captives was also discovered. This circumstance exasperated the passion of Malcolm to the utmost, and he gave orders that the life of the remaining centinel should be forfeited for the treachery of his comrades, and his own negligence; when recollecting the Earl, whom in the heat of his resentment he had forgot, his heart exulted in the opportunity he afforded of complete revenge; and in the fullness of joy with which he pronounced his sentence, he retracted the condemnation of the trembling guard. The moment after he had dispatched the messenger with his resolve to the Earl, his heart faultered from its purpose. Such is the alternate violence of evil passions, that they never suffer their subjects to act with consistency, but, torn by conflicting energies, the gratification of one propensity is destruction to the enjoyment of another; and the moment in which they imagine happiness in their grasp, is to them the moment of disappointment. Thus it was with the Baron; his soul seemed to attain its full enjoyment in the contemplation of revenge, till the idea of Mary inflamed his heart with an opposite passion; his wishes had caught new ardor from disappointment, for he had heard that Mary had been once in the power of his emissaries; and perhaps the pain which recoils upon the mind from every fruitless effort of wickedness, served to increase the energies of his desires. He spurned the thought of relinquishing the pursuit, yet there appeared to be no method of obtaining its object, but by sacrificing his favourite passion; for he had little doubt of obtaining Mary, when it should be known that he resolved not to grant the life of the Earl upon any other ransom. The balance of these passions hung in his mind in such nice equilibrium, that it was for some time uncertain which would preponderate; revenge, at length, yielded to love; but he resolved to preserve the torture of expected death, by keeping the Earl ignorant of his reprieve till the last moment.

The Earl awaited death with the same stern fortitude with which he received its sentence, and was led from the tower to the platform of the castle, silent and unmoved. He beheld the preparations for his execution, the instruments of death, the guards arranged in files, with an undaunted mind. The glare of externals had no longer power over his imagination. He beheld every object with indifference, but that on which his eye now rested; it was on the murderer, who exhibited himself in all the pride of exulting conquest: he started at the sight, and his soul shrunk back upon itself. Disdaining, however, to appear disconcerted, he endeavoured to resume his dignity, when the remembrance of his mother, overwhelmed with sorrow, rushed upon his mind, and quite unmanned him; the tears started in his eyes, and he sunk senseless on the ground.

On recovering, he found himself in his prison, and he was informed that the Baron had granted him a respite. Malcolm mistaking the cause of disorder in the Earl, thought he had stretched his sufferings to their utmost limits; he therefore had ordered him to be re-conveyed to the tower.

A scene so striking and so public as that which had just been performed at the castle of Dunbayne, was a subject of discourse to the whole country; it was soon reported to the Countess with a variety of additional circumstances, among which it was affirmed, that the Earl had been really executed. Overwhelmed with this intelligence, Matilda relapsed into her former disorder. Sickness had rendered Mary less able to support the shock, and to apply that comfort to the ambitions of her mother, which had once been so successfully administered. The physician pronounced the malady of the Countess to
be seated in the mind, and beyond the reach of human skill, when one day a letter was brought to her, the superscription of which was written in the hand of Osbert; she knew the characters, and bursting the seal, read that her son was yet alive, and did not despair of throwing himself once more at her feet. He requested that the remains of his clan might immediately attempt his release. He described in what part of the castle his prison was situated, and thought, that by the assistance of long scaling-ladders and ropes, contrived in the manner he directed, he might be able to effect his escape through the grate. This letter was a reviving cordial to the Countess and to Mary.

Alleyn was indefatigable in collecting followers for the enterprize he had engaged in. On receiving intelligence of the safety of the Earl, he visited the clan, and was strenuous in exhorting them to immediate action. They required little incitement to a cause in which every heart was so much interested, and for which every hand was already busied in preparation. These preparations were at length completed; Alleyn, at the head of his party, joined the assembled clan. The Countess for a second time beheld from the ramparts the departure of her people upon the same hazardous enterprize; the present scene revived in her mind a sad membrance of the past: the same tender fears, and the same prayers for success she now gave to their departure; and when they faded in distance from her sight, she returned into the castle dissolved in tears. The heart of Mary was torn by a complex sorrow, and incapable of longer concealing from herself the interest she took in the departure of Alleyn, her agitation became more apparent. The Countess in vain endeavoured to compose her mind. Mary, affected by her tender concern, and prompted by the natural ingenuousness of her disposition, longed to make her the confidant of her weakness, if weakness that can be termed which arises from gratitude, and from admiration of great and generous qualities; but delicacy and timidity arrested the half-formed sentence, and closed her lips in silence. Her health gradually declined under the secret agitation of her mind; her physician knew her disorder to originate in suppressed sorrow; and advised, as the best cordial, a. confidential friend. Matilda now perceived the cause of her grief; her former passing observations recurred to her memory, and justified her discernment. She strove by every soothing effort to win her to her confidence. Mary, oppressed by the idea of ungenerous concealment, resolved at length to unveil her heart to a mother so tender of her happiness. She told her all her sentiments. The Countess suffered a distress almost equal to that of her daughter; her affectionate heart swelled with equal wishes for her happiness; she admired with warmest gratitude the noble and aspiring virtues of the young Highlander; but the proud nobility of her soul repelled with quick vivacity every idea of union with a youth of such ignoble birth: she regarded the present attachment as the passing impression of youthful fancy, and believed that gentle reasoning, aided by time and endeavour, would conquer the enthusiasm of love. Mary listened with attention to the reasonings of the Countess; her judgment acknowledged their justness, while her heart regretted their force. She resolved, however, to overcome an attachment which would produce so much distress to her family and to herself. Notwithstanding her endeavours to exclude Alleyn from her thoughts, the generous and heroic qualities of his mind burst upon her memory in all their splendor, she could not but be conscious that he loved her; she saw the struggles of his soul, and the delicacy of his passion, which made him ever retire in the most profound and respectful silence from its object. She solicited her mother to assist in expelling the destructive image from her mind. The Countess exerted every effort to amuse her to forgetfulness; every hour, except those which were given to exercises necessary for her health, was devoted to the cultivation of her mind, and the improvement of her various accomplishments. These endeavours were not unsuccessful; the Countess with joy observed the returning health and tranquillity of her daughter; and Mary almost believed she had taught herself to forget. These engagements served also to beguile the tedious moments which must intervene, ere news could arrive from Alleyn concerning the probable success of the enterprize.

Misery yet dwelt in the castle of Dunbayne; for there the virtues were captive, while the vices reigned despotic. The mind of the Baron, ardent and restless, knew no peace: torn by conflicting passions, he was himself the victim of their power.

The Earl knew that his life hung upon the caprice of a tyrant; his mind was nerved for the worst; yet the letter which the compassion of one of his guards, at the risque of his life, had undertaken to convey to the Countess, afforded him a faint hope that his people might yet effect his escape. In this expectation, he spent hour after hour at his grate, wishing, with trembling anxiety, to behold his clan advancing over the distant hills. These hills became at length, in a situation so barren of real comforts, a source of ideal pleasure to him. He was always at the grate, and often, in the fine evenings of summer saw the ladies, whose appearance had so strongly excited his admiration and pity, walk on a terrace below the tower. One very fine evening, under the pleasing impressions of hope for himself, and compassion for them, his sufferings for a time lost their acuteness. He longed to awaken their sympathy, and make known to them that they had a fellow-prisoner. The parting sun trembled on the tops of the mountains, and a softer shade fell upon the distant landscape. The sweet tranquillity of evening threw an air of tender melancholy over his mind: his sorrows for a while were hushed; and under the enthusiasm of the hour, he composed the following stanzas, which, having committed them to paper, he the next evening dropp�d upon the terrace.

SONNET

Hail! to the hallow�d hill, the circling lawn,
The breezy upland, and the mountain stream!
The last tall pine that earliest meets the dawn,
And glistens latest to the western gleam!

Hail! every distant hill, and downland plain!
Your dew-hid beauties Fancy oft unveils;
What time to shepherd�s reed, or poet�s strain,
Sorrowing my heart its destin�d woe bewails.

Blest are the fairy hour, the twilight shade
Of Ev�ning, wand�ring thro� her woodlands dear,
Sweet the still sound that steals along the glade;
�Tis fancy wafts it, and her vot�ries hear.

�Tis fancy wafts it! � and how sweet the sound!
I hear it now the distant hills uplong;
While fairy echos from their dells around,
And woods, and wilds, the feeble notes prolong!

He had the pleasure to observe that the paper was taken up by the ladies, who immediately retired into the castle.

CHAPTER V

ONE morning early, the Earl discerned a martial band emerging from the verge of the horizon; his heart welcomed his hopes, which were soon confirmed into certainty. It was his faithful people, led on by Alleyn. It was their design to surround and attack the castle; and though their numbers gave them but little hopes of conquest, they yet believed that, in the tumult of the engagement, they might procure the deliverance of the Earl. With this view they advanced to the walls. The centinels had descried them at a distance; the alarm was given; the trumpets sounded, and the walls of the castle were filled with men. The Baron was present, and directed the preparations. The secret purpose of his soul was fixed. The clan surrounded the fosse, into which they threw bundles of faggots, and gave the signal of attack. Scaling ladders were thrown up to the window of the tower. The Earl, invigorated with hope and joy, had by the force of his arm, almost wrenched from its fastening, one of the iron bars of the grate; his foot was lifted to the stanchion, ready to aid him in escaping through the opening, when he was seized by the guards of the Baron, and conveyed precipitately from the prison. He was led, indignant and desperate, to the lofty ramparts of the castle, from whence he beheld Alleyn and his clan, whose eager eyes were once more blessed with the sight of their Chief; � they were blessed but for a moment; they beheld their Lord in chains, surrounded with guards, and with the instruments of death. Animated, however, with a last hope, they renewed the attack with redoubled fury, when the trumpets of the Baron sounded a parley, and they suspended their arms. The Baron appeared on the ramparts; Alleyn advanced to hear him. �The moment of attack,� cried the Baron, �is the moment of death to your Chief. If you wish to preserve his life, desist from the assault, and depart in peace; and bear this message to the Countess your mistress: � the Baron Malcolm will accept no other ransom for the life and the liberty of the Earl, than her beauteous daughter, whom he now sues to become his wife. If she accedes to these terms, the Earl is instantly liberated, � if she refuses, he dies.� The emotions of the Earl, and of Alleyn on hearing these words, were inexpressible.


The Earl spurned, with haughty virtue, the base concession. �Give me death,� cried he with loud impatience; �the house of Athlin shall not be dishonoured by alliance with a murderer: renew the attack, my brave people; since you cannot save the life, revenge the death of your Chief; he dies contented, since his death preserves his family from dishonour.� The guards instantly surrounded the Earl.

Alleyn, whose heart, torn by contending emotions, was yet true to the impulse of honour, on observing this, instantly threw down his arms, refusing to obey the commands of the Earl; a hostage for whose life he demanded, while he hastened to the castle of Athlin with the conditions of the Baron. The clan, following the example of Alleyn, rested on their arms, while a few prepared to depart with him on the embassy. In vain were the remonstrances and the commands of the Earl; his people loved him too well to obey them, and his heart was filled with anguish when he saw Alleyn depart from the walls.
The situation of Alleyn was highly pitiable; all the firm virtues of his soul were called upon to support it. He was commissioned on an embassy, the alternate conditions of which would bring misery on the woman he adored, or death to the friend whom he loved.

When the arrival of Alleyn was announced to the Countess, impatient joy thrilled in her bosom; for she had no doubt that he brought offers of accommodation; and no ransom was presented to her imagination, which she would not willingly give for the restoration of her son. At the sound of Alleyn�s voice, those tumults which had began to subside in the heart of Mary, were again revived, and she awoke to the mournful certainty of hopeless endeavour. Yet she could not repress a strong emotion of joy on again beholding him. The soft blush of her cheek shewed the colours of her mind, while, in endeavouring to shade her feelings, she impelled them into stronger light.

The agitations of Alleyn almost subdued his strength, when he entered the presence of the Countess; and his visage, on which was impressed deep distress, and the paleness of fear, betrayed the inward workings of his soul. Matilda was instantly seized with apprehension for the safety of her son, and in a tremulous voice, enquired his fate. Alleyn told her he was well, proceeding with tender caution to acquaint her with the business of his embassy, and with the scene to which he had lately been witness. The sentence of the Baron fell like the stroke of death upon the heart of Mary, who fainted at the words. Alleyn flew to support her. In endeavouring to revive her daughter, the Countess was diverted for a time from the anguish which this intelligence must naturally impart. It was long ere Mary returned to life, and she returned only to a sense of wretchedness. The critical situation of Matilda can scarcely be felt in its full extent. Torn by the conflict of opposite interests, her brain was the seat of tumult, and wild dismay. Which ever way she looked, destruction closed the view. The murderer of the husband, now sought to murder the happiness of the daughter. On the sentence of the mother hung the final fate of the son. In rejecting these terms, she would give him instant death; in accepting them, her conduct would be repugnant to the feelings of indignant virtue, and to the tender injured memory of her murdered Lord. She would destroy for ever the peace of her daughter, and the honour of her house. To effect his deliverance by force of arms was utterly impracticable, since the Baron had declared, that �the moment of attack should be the moment of death to the Earl.� Honour, humanity, parental tenderness, bade her save her son; yet, by a strange contrariety of interests, the same virtues pleaded with a voice equally powerful, for the reverse of the sentence. Hitherto hope had still illumined her mind with a distant ray; she now found herself suddenly involved in the darkness of despair, whose glooms were interrupted only by the gleams of horror which arose from the altar, on which was to be sacrificed one of her beloved children. Her mind shrunk from the idea of uniting her daughter to the murderer of her father. The ferocious character of Malcolm was alone sufficient to blight for ever the happiness of the woman whose fate should be connected with his. To give to the murderer the child of the murdered was a thought too horrid to rest upon. The Countess rejected with force the Baron�s offer of exchange, when the bleeding figure of her beloved son, pale and convulsed in death, started on her imagination, and stretched her brain almost to frenzy.

Meanwhile Mary suffered a conflict equally dreadful. Nature had bestowed on her a heart susceptible of all the fine emotions of delicate passion; a heart which vibrated in unison with the sweetest feelings of humanity; a mind, quick in perceiving the nicest lines of moral rectitude, and strenuous in endeavouring to act up to its perceptions. These gifts were unnecessary to make her sensible of the wretchedness of her present situation; of which a common mind would have felt the misery; they served, however, to sharpen the points of affliction, to increase their force, and to disclose, in stronger light, the various horrors of her situation. Fraternal love and pity called loudly upon her to resign herself into the power of the man whom, from the earliest dawn of perception, she had contemplated with trembling aversion and horror. The memory of her murdered parent, every feeling dear to virtue, the tremulous, but forceful voice of love awakened her heart, and each opposed, with wild impetuosity, every other sentiment. Her soul shrunk back with terror from the idea of union with the Baron. Could she bear to receive, in marriage, that hand which was stained with the blood of her father? � The polluted touch would freeze her heart in horror! � could she bear to pass her life with the man, who had for ever blasted the smiling days of him who gave her being? � With the man who would stand before her eyes a perpetual monument of misery to herself, and of dishonour to her family? whose chilling aspect would repel every amiable and generous affection, and strike them back upon her heart only to wound it? To cherish the love of the noble virtues, would be to cherish the remembrance of her dead father, and of her living lover. How wretched must be her situation, when to obliterate from her memory the image of virtue, could alone afford her a chance of obtaining a horrid tranquillity; virtue which is so dear to the human heart, that when her form forsakes us, we pursue her shadow. Wherever in search of comfort she directed her aching sight, Misery�s haggard countenance obtruded on her view. Here she beheld herself entombed in the arms of the murderer; � there, the spectacle of her beloved brother, encircled with chains, and awaiting the stroke of death, arose to her imagination; the scene was too affecting; fancy gave her the horrors of reality. The reflection, that through her he suffered, that she yet might save him from destruction, broke with irresistible force upon her mind, and instantly bore away every opposing feeling. � She resolved, that since she must be wretched, she would be nobly wretched; since misery demanded one sacrifice, she would devote herself the victim.

With these thoughts, she entered the apartment of the Countess, whose concurrence was necessary to ratify her resolves, and, having declared them, awaited in trembling expectation her decision. Matilda had suffered a distraction of mind, which the nature of no former trial had occasioned her. On the unfortunate death of a husband tenderly beloved, she had suffered all the sorrow which tenderness, and all the shock which the manner of his death could occasion. The event, however, shocking as it was, did not hang upon circumstances over which she had an influence; it was decided by an higher power; � it was decided, and never could be recalled; she had there no dreadful choice of horrors, no evil ratified by her own voice, to taint with deadly recollections her declining days. This choice, though forced upon her by the power of a tyrant, she would still consider as in part her own; and the thought that she was compelled to doom to destruction one of her children, harrowed up her soul almost to frenzy.

Her mind, at length exhausted with excess of feeling, was now fallen into a state of cold and silent despair; she became insensible to the objects around her, almost to the sense of her own sufferings, and the voice, and the proposal of her daughter, scarcely awakened her powers of perception. �He shall live,� said Mary, in a voice broken and tender; �He shall live, I am ready to become the sacrifice.� Tears prevented her proceeding. At the word �live,� the Countess raised her eyes, and threw round her a look of wildness, which settling on the features of Mary, softened into an expression of ineffable tenderness, she waved her head, and turned to the window. A few tears bedewed her cheek; they fell like the drops of Heaven upon the withered plant, reviving and expanding its dying foliage; they were the first her eyes had known since the fatal news had reached her. Recovering herself a little, she sent for Alleyn, who was still in the castle. She wished to consult with him, whether there was not yet a possibility of effecting the escape of the Earl. In afflictions of whatever degree, where death has not already fixed the events in certainty, the mind shoots almost beyond the sphere of possibility in search of hope, and seldom relinquishes the fond illusion, till the stroke of reality dissolves the enchantment. Thus it was with Matilda; after the grief produced by the first stroke of this disaster was somewhat abated, she was inclined to think that her situation might not prove so desperate as she imagined; and her heart was warmed by a remote hope, that there might yet be devised some method of procuring the escape of the Earl. Alleyn came; he came in the trembling expectation of receiving the decision of the Countess, and in the intention of offering to engage in any enterprize, however hazardous, for the enlargement of the Earl. He repelled, with instant force, every idea of Mary�s becoming the wife of Malcolm; the thought was too full of agony to be endured, and he threw the sensation from his heart as a poison which would destroy the pulse of life. To preserve Mary from a misery so exquisite, and to save the life of the Earl, he was willing to encounter any hazard; to meet death itself as an evil which appeared less dreadful than either of the former. He came prepared with this resolution, and it served to support that fortitude which affliction had disturbed, though it could not subdue. When he came again to the Countess, his distress was heightened by the scene before him; he beheld her leaning on a sofa, pale and silent; her unconscious eyes were fixed on an opposite window; her countenance was touched with a wildness expressive of the disorder of her mind, and she remained for some time insensible of his approach. Such is the fluctuation of a mind overcome by distress, that if for a moment a ray of hope cheers its darkness, it vanishes at the touch of recollection. Mary was standing near the Countess, whose hand she held to her bosom. Her present sorrow had heightened the natural pensiveness of her countenance, and shaded her features with an interesting langour, more enchanting than the vivacity of blooming health; her eyes sought to avoid Alleyn, as an object dangerous to the resolution she had formed. Matilda remained absorbed in thought. Mary wished to repeat the purpose of her soul, but her voice trembled, and the half-formed sentence died away on her lips. Alleyn enquired the commands of the Countess. �I am ready,� said Mary, at length, in a low and tremulous voice, �to give myself the victim to the Baron�s revenge. � I will save my brother.� At these words, the heart of Alleyn grew cold. Mary, overcome by the effort which they had occasioned her, scarcely finished the sentence; her nerves shook, a mist fell over her eyes, and she sunk on the sofa by which she had stood. Alleyn hung over the couch in silent agony, watching her return to life. By the assistance of those about her, she soon revived. Alleyn, in the joy which he felt at her recovery, forgot for a moment his situation, and pressed with ardor her hand to his bosom. Mary, whose senses were yet scarcely recollected, yielded unconsciously to the softness of her heart, and betrayed its situation by a smile so tender, as to thrill the breast of Alleyn with the sweet certainty of being loved. Hitherto his passion had been chilled by the despair which the vast superiority of her birth occasioned, and by the modesty which forbade him to imagine that he had merit sufficient to arrest the eye of the accomplished Mary. Perhaps, too, the diffidence natural to genuine love, might contribute to deceive him. It was not till this moment, that he experienced that certainty which awakened in his heart a sense of delight hitherto unknown to him. For a moment he forgot the distresses of the castle, and his own situation; every idea faded from his mind, but the one he had so lately acquired; and in that moment he seemed to taste perfect felicity. Recollection, however, with all its train of black dependancies soon returned, and plunged him in a misery as poignant as the joy from which he was now precipitated.

The Countess was now sufficiently composed to enter on the subject nearest her heart. Alleyn caught, with eagerness, her mention of attempting the deliverance of the Earl, for the possibility of accomplishing which, he declared himself willing to encounter any danger: he seconded so warmly the design, and spoke with such flattering probability of success, that the spirits of Matilda began once more to revive; yet she trembled to encourage hopes which hung on such perilous uncertainty. It was agreed, that Alleyn should consult with the most able and trusty of the clan, whom age or infirmity had detained from battle, on the means most likely to ensure success, and then proceed immediately on the expedition: having first delivered to the Baron a message from the Countess, requiring time for deliberation upon a choice so important, and importing that an answer should be returned at the expiration of a fortnight.

Alleyn accordingly assembled those whom he judged most worthy of the council: various schemes were proposed, none of which appeared likely to succeed; when it was recollected that the Earl might possibly have been removed from the tower to some new place of confinement, which it would be necessary first to discover, that the plan might be adapted to the situation. It was therefore concluded to suspend further consultation till Alleyn had obtained the requisite information; and that in the mean time he should deliver to Malcolm the message of the Countess: for these purposes Alleyn immediately set
out for the castle.

CHAPTER VI

THE castle of Dunbayne was still the scene of triumph, and of wretchedness. Malcolm, exulting in his scheme, already beheld Mary at his feet, and the Earl retiring in an anguish more poignant than that of death. He was surprized that his invention had not before supplied him with this means of torture: for the first time he welcomed love, as the instrument of his revenge; and the charms of Mary were heightened to his imagination by the ardent colours of this passion. He was confirmed in his resolves, never to relinquish the Earl, but on the conditions he had offered; and thus for ever would he preserve the house of Athlin a monument of his triumph.


Osbert, for greater security, was conveyed from the tower into a more centrical part of the castle, to an apartment spacious but gloomy, whose gothic windows partly excluding light, threw a solemnity around, which chilled the heart almost to horror. He heeded not this; his heart was occupied with horrors of its own. He was now involved in a misery more intricate, and more dreadful, than his imagination had yet painted. To die, was to him, who had so long contemplated the near approach of death, a familiar and transient evil; but to see, even in idea, his family involved in infamy, and in union with the murderer, was the stroke which pierced his heart to its center. He feared that the cruel tenderness of the mother would tempt Matilda to accept the offers of the Baron; and he scarcely doubted, that the noble Mary would resign herself the price of his life. He would have written to the Countess to have forbidden her acceptance of the terms, and to have declared his fixed resolution to die, but that he had no means of conveying to her a letter; the soldier who had so generously undertaken the conveyance of his former one, having soon after disappeared from his station. The manly fortitude which had supported him through his former trials, did not desert him in this hour of darkness; habituated so long to struggle with opposing feelings, he had acquired the art of managing them; his mind attained a confidence in its powers; resistance served only to increase its strength, and to confirm the magnanimity of its nature.

Alleyn had now joined the clan, and was ardent in pursuit of the necessary intelligence. He learned that the Earl had been removed from the tower, but in what part of the castle he was now confined he could not discover; on this point all was vague conjecture. That he was alive, was only judged from the policy of the Baron, whose ardent passion for Mary was now well understood. Alleyn employed every stratagem his invention could suggest, to discover the prison of the Earl, but without success: at length compelled to deliver to Malcolm the message of the Countess, he demanded as a preliminary, that the Earl should be shewn to his people from the ramparts, that they might be certain he was still alive. Alley hoped that his appearance would lead to a discovery of the place of his imprisonment, purposing to observe narrowly the way by which he should retire.

The Earl appeared in safety on the ramparts, amid the shouts and acclamations of his people; the Baron frowning defiance, was seen at his side. Alleyn advanced to the walls, and delivered the message of Matilda. Osbert started at its purpose; he foresaw that deliberation portended compliance: � stung with the thought, he swore aloud he never would survive the infamy of the concession; and addressing himself to Alleyn, commanded him instantly to return to the Countess, and bid her spurn the base compliance, as she feared to sacrifice both her children to the murderer of their father. At these words, a smile of haughty triumph marked the features of the Baron, and he turned from Osbert in silent joy and exultation. The Earl was led off by the guards. Alleyn endeavoured in vain to mark the way they took; the lofty walls soon concealed them from his view.

Alleyn now experienced how strenuously a vigorous mind protects its favourite hope; wayward circumstances may shock, disappointment may check it; but it rises superior to opposition and traverses the sphere of possibility to accomplish its purpose. Alleyn did not yet despair, but he was perplexed in what manner to proceed.

In his way from the ramparts, Osbert was surprized by the appearance of two ladies at a window near which he passed: the agitation of his mind did not prevent his recognizing them as the same he had observed from the grates of the tower, with such lively admiration, and who had excited in his mind so much pity and curiosity: In the midst of his distress, his thoughts had often dwelt on the sweet graces of the younger, and he had sighed to obtain the story of her sorrows; for the melancholy which hung upon her features proclaimed her to be unfortunate. They now stood observing Osbert as he passed, and their eyes expressed the pity which his situation inspired. He gazed earnestly and mournfully upon them, and when he entered his prison, again enquired concerning them, but the same inflexible silence was preserved on the subject. As the Earl sat one day musing in his prison, his eyes involuntarily fixed upon a pannel in the opposite wainscot; � he observed that it was differently formed from the rest, and that its projection was somewhat greater; a hope started into his mind, and he quitted his seat to examine it. He perceived that it was surrounded by a small crack, and on pushing it with his hands it shook under them. Certain that it was something more than a pannel, he exerted all his strength against it, but without producing any new effect. Having tried various means to move it without success, he gave up the experiment, and returned to his seat melancholy and disappointed. Several days passed without any further notice being taken of the wainscot; unwilling, however, to relinquish a last hope, he returned to the examination, when, in endeavouring to remove the pannel, his foot accidentally hit against one corner, and it suddenly flew open. It had been contrived that a spring which was concealed within, and which fastened the partition, should receive its impulse from the pressure of a certain part of the pannel, which was now touched by the foot of the Earl. His joy on the discovery cannot be expressed. An apartment wide and forlorn, like that which formed his prison, now lay before him; the windows, which were high and arched, were decorated with painted glass; the floor was paved with marble; and it seemed to be the deserted remains of a place of worship. Osbert traversed, with hesitating steps, its dreary length, towards a pair of folding doors, large and of oak, which closed the apartment: these he opened; a gallery, gloomy and vast, appeared beyond; the windows, which were in the same style of Gothic architecture with the former, were shaded by thick ivy that almost excluded the light. Osbert stood at the entrance uncertain whether to proceed; he listened, but heard no footstep in his prison, and determined to go on. The gallery terminated on the left in a large winding stair-case, old and apparently neglected, which led to a hall below; on the right was a door, low, and rather obscure. Osbert, apprehensive of discovery, passed the staircase, and opened the door, when a suite of noble apartments, magnificently furnished, was disclosed to his wondering eyes. He proceeded onward without perceiving any person, but having passed the second room, heard the faint sobs of a person weeping; he stood for a moment, undetermined whether to proceed; but an irresistible curiosity impelled him forward, and he entered an apartment, in which were seated the beautiful strangers, whose appearance had so much interested his feelings. The elder of the ladies was dissolved in tears and a casket and some papers lay open on a table beside her. The younger was so intent upon a drawing, which she seemed to be finishing, as not to observe the entrance of the Earl; the elder lady, on perceiving him, arose in some confusion, and the surprize in her eyes seemed to demand an explanation of so unaccountable a visit. The Earl, surprized at what he beheld, stepped back with an intention of retiring; but recollecting that the intrusion demanded an apology, he returned. The grace with which he excused himself, confirmed the impression which his figure had already made on the mind of Laura, which was the name of the younger lady; who on looking up, discovered a countenance in which dignity and sweetness were happily blended. She appeared to be about twenty, her person was of the middle stature, extremely delicate, and very elegantly formed. The bloom of her youth was shaded by a soft and pensive melancholy, which communicated an expression to her fine blue eyes, extremely interesting. Her features were partly concealed by the beautiful luxuriance of her auburn hair, which curling round her face, descended in tresses on her bosom; every feminine grace played around her; and the simple dignity of her air declared the purity and the nobility of her mind. On perceiving the Earl, a faint blush animated her cheek, and she involuntarily quitted the drawing upon which she had been engaged.

If the former imperfect view he had caught of Laura had given an impression to the heart of Osbert, it now received a stronger character from the opportunity afforded him of contemplating her beauty. He concluded that the Baron, attracted by her charms, had entrapped her into his power, and detained her in the castle an unwilling prisoner. In this conjecture he was confirmed by the mournful cast of her countenance, and by the mystery which appeared to surround her. Fired by this idea, he melted in compassion for her sufferings; which compassion was tinctured and increased by the passion which now glowed in his heart. At that moment he forgot the danger of his present situation; he forgot even that he was a prisoner; and awake only to the wish of alleviating her sorrows, he rejected cold and useless delicacy, and resolved, if possible, to learn the cause of her misfortunes. Addressing himself to the Baroness, �if, Madam,� said he, �I could by any means soften the affliction which I cannot affect not to perceive, and which has so warmly interested my feelings, I should regard this as one of the most happy moments of my life; a life marked alas! too strongly with misery! but misery has not been useless, since it has taught me sympathy.� The Baroness was no stranger to the character and the misfortunes of the Earl. Herself the victim of oppression, she knew how to commiserate the sufferings of others. She had ever felt a tender compassion for the misfortunes of Osbert, and did not now with-hold sincere expressions of sympathy, and of gratitude, for the interest which he felt in her sorrow. She expressed her surprize at seeing him thus at liberty; but observing the chains which encircled his hands, she shuddered, and guessed a part of the truth. He explained to her the discovery of the pannel, by which circumstance he had found his way into that apartment. The idea of aiding him to escape, rushed upon the mind of the Baroness, but was repressed by the consideration of her own confined situation; and she was compelled, with mournful reluctance, to resign that thought which reverence for the character of the late Earl, and compassion for the misfortunes of the present, had inspired. She lamented her inability to assist him, and informed him that herself and her daughter were alike prisoners with himself; that the walls of the castle were the limits of their liberty; and that they had suffered the pressure of tyranny for fifteen years. The Earl expressed the indignation which he felt at this recital, and solicited the Baroness to confide in his integrity; and, if the relation would not be too painful to her, to honour him so far as to acquaint him by what cruel means she fell into the power of Malcolm. The Baroness, apprehensive for his safety reminded him of the risk of discovery by a longer absence from his prison; and, thanking him again for the interest he took in her sufferings, assured him of her warmest wishes for his deliverance, and that if an opportunity ever offered, she would acquaint him
with the sad particulars of her story. The eyes of Osbert made known that gratitude which it was difficult for his tongue to utter. Tremulously he solicited the consolation of sometimes revisiting the apartments of the Baroness; a permission which would give him some intervals of comfort amid the many hours of torment to which he was condemned. The Baroness, in compassion to his sufferings, granted the request. The Earl departed, gazing on Laura with eyes of mournful tenderness; yet he was pleased with what had passed, and retired to his prison in one of those peaceful intervals which are known even to the wretched. He found all quiet, and closing the pannel in safety, sat down to consider the past, and anticipate the future. He was flattered with hopes, that the discovery of the pannel might aid him to escape; the glooms of despondence which had lately enveloped his mind, gradually disappeared, and joy once more illumined his prospects; but it was the sunshine of an April morn, deceitful and momentary. He recollected that the castle was beset with guards, whose vigilance was insured by the severity of the Baron; he remembered that the strangers, who had taken so kind an interest in his fate, were prisoners like himself; and that he had no generous soldier to teach him the secret windings of the castle, and to accompany him in flight. His imagination was haunted by the image of Laura; vainly he strove to disguise from himself the truth; his heart constantly belied the sophistry of his reasonings. Unwarily be had drank the draught of love, and he was compelled to acknowledge the fatal indiscretion. He could not, however, resolve to throw from his heart the delicious poison; he could not resolve to see her no more.

The painful apprehension for his safety, which his forbearing to renew the visit he had so earnestly solicited, would occasion the Baroness; the apparent disrespect it would convey; the ardent curiosity with which he longed to obtain the history of her misfortunes; the lively interest he felt in learning the situation of Laura, with respect to the Baron; and the hope, � the wild hope, with which he deluded his reason, that he might be able to assist them, determined him to repeat the visit. Under these illusions, the motive which principally impelled him to the interview was concealed.

In the mean time Alleyn had returned to the castle of Athlin with the resolutions of the Earl; whose resolves served only to aggravate the distress of its fair inhabitants. Alleyn, however, unwilling to crush a last hope, tenderly concealed from them the circumstance of the Earl�s removal from the tower: silently and almost hopelessly meditating to discover his prison; and administered that comfort to the Countess, and to Mary, which his own expectation would not suffer him to participate.

He retired in haste to the veterans whom he had before assembled, and acquainted them with the removal of the Earl; which circumstance must for the present suspend their consultations. He left them, therefore, and instantly returned to the clan: there to prosecute his enquiries. Every possible exertion was made to obtain the necessary intelligence, but without success. The moment in which the Baron would demand the answer of the Countess, was now fast approaching, and every heart sunk in despair, when one night the centinels of the camp were alarmed by the approach of men, who hailed them in unknown voices; fearful of surprize, they surrounded the strangers, and led them to Alleyn; to whom they related, that they fled from the capricious tyranny of Malcolm, and sought refuge in the camp of his enemy; whose misfortunes they bewailed, and in whose cause they enlisted. Rejoiced at the circumstance, yet doubtful of its truth, Alleyn interrogated the soldiers concerning the prison of the Earl. From them he learned, that Osbert was confined in a part of the castle extremely difficult of access; and that any plan of escape must be utterly impracticable without the assistance of one well acquainted with the various intricacies of the pile. An opportunity of success was now presented, with which the most sanguine hopes of Alleyn had never flattered him. He received from the soldiers strong assurance of assistance; from them, likewise, he learned, that discontent reigned, among the people of the Baron; who, impatient of the yoke of tyranny, only waited a favourable opportunity to throw it off, and resume the rights of nature. That the vigilant suspicions of Malcolm excited him to punish with the harshest severity every appearance of inattention; that being condemned to suffer a very heavy punishment for a slight offence, they had eluded the impending misery, and the future oppression of their Chief, by desertion.

Alleyn immediately convened a council, before whom the soldiers were brought; they repeated their former assertions; and one of the fugitives added, that he had a brother, whose place of guard over the person of the Earl on that night, had made it difficult to elude observation, and had prevented his escaping with them; that on the night of the morrow he stood guard at the gate of the lesser draw-bridge, where the centinels were few; that he was himself willing to risque the danger of conversing with him; and had little doubt of gaining him to assist in the deliverance of the Earl. At these words, the heart of Alleyn throbbed with joy. He promised large rewards to the brave soldier and to his brother, if they undertook the enterprize. His companion was well acquainted with the subterraneous passages of the rock, and expressed himself desirous of being useful. The hopes of Alleyn every instant grew stronger; and he vainly wished, at that moment, to communicate to the Earl�s unhappy family the joy which dilated his heart.

The eve of the following day was fixed upon to commence their designs; when James should endeavour to gain his brother to their purpose. Having adjusted these matters, they retired to rest for the remainder of the night; but sleep had fled the eyes of Alleyn; anxious expectation filled his mind; and he saw, in the waking visions of fancy, the meeting of the Earl with his family: he anticipated the thanks he should receive from the lovely Mary; and sighed at the recollection, that thanks were all for which he could ever dare to hope.

At length the dawn appeared, and waked the clan to hopes and prospects far different from those of the preceding morn. The hours hung heavily on the expectation of Alleyn, whose mind was filled with solicitude for the event of the meeting between the brothers. Night at length came to his wishes. The darkness was interrupted only by the faint light of the moon moving through the watery and broken clouds, which enveloped the horizon. Tumultuous gusts of wind broke at intervals the silence of the hour. Alleyn watched the movements of the castle; he observed the lights successively disappear. The bell from the watch-tower chimed one; all was still within the walls; and James ventured forth to the draw-bridge. The draw- bridge divided in the center, and the half next the plains was down; he mounted it, and in a low yet firm voice called on Edmund. No answer was returned; and he began to fear that his brother had already quitted the castle. He remained some time in silent suspense before he repeated the call, when he heard the gate of the draw-bridge gently unbarred, and Edmund appeared. He was surprized to see James, and bade him instantly fly the danger that surrounded him. The Baron, incensed at the frequent desertion of his soldiers, had sent out people in pursuit, and had promised considerable rewards for the apprehension of the fugitives. James, undaunted by what he heard, kept his ground, resolved to urge his purpose to the point. Happily the centinels who stood guard with Edmund, overcome with the effect of a potion he had administered to favour his escape, were sunk in sleep, and the soldiers conducted their discourse in a low voice without interruption.

Edmund was unwilling to defer his flight, and possessed not resolution sufficient to encounter the hazard of the enterprize, till the proffered reward consoled his self-denial, and roused his slumbering courage. He was well acquainted with the subterraneous avenues of the castle; the only remaining difficulty, was that of deceiving the vigilance of his fellow-centinels, whose watchfulness made it impossible for the Earl to quit his prison unperceived. The soldiers who were to mount guard with him on the following night, were stationed in a distant part of the castle, till the hour of their removal to the door of the prison; it was, therefore, difficult to administer to them that draught which had steeped in forgetfulness the senses of his present associates. To confide to their integrity, and endeavour to win them to his purpose, was certainly to give his life into their hands, and probably to aggravate the disastrous fate of the Earl. This scheme was beset too thick with dangers to be hazarded, and their invention could furnish them with none more promising. It was, however, agreed, that on the following night, Edmund should seize the moment of opportunity to impart to the Earl the designs of his friends, and to consult on the means of accomplishing them. Thus concluding, James returned in safety to the tent of Alleyn, where the most considerable of the clan were assembled, there awaiting with impatient solicitude, his arrival. The hopes of Alleyn were somewhat chilled by the report of the soldier; from the vigilance which beset the doors of the prison, escape from thence appeared impracticable. He was condemned, however, to linger in suspense till the third night from the present, when the return of Edmund to his station at the bridge would enable him again to commune with his brother. But Alleyn was unsuspicious of a circumstance which would utterly have defeated his hopes, and whose consequence threatened destruction to all their schemes. A centinel on duty upon that part of the rampart which surmounted the draw-bridge, had been alarmed by hearing the gate unbar, and approaching the wall, had perceived a man standing on the half of the bridge which was dropped, and in converse with some person on the castle walls. He drew as near as the wall would permit, and endeavoured to listen to their discourse. The gloom of night prevented his recognizing the person on the bridge; but he could clearly distinguish the voice of Edmund in that of the man who was addressed. Excited by new wonder, he gave all his attention to discover the subject of their conversation. The distance occasioned between the brothers by the suspended half of the bridge, obliged them to speak in a somewhat higher tone than they would otherwise have done; and the centinel gathered sufficient from their discourse, to learn that they were concerting the rescue of the Earl; that the night of Edmund�s watch at the prison was to be the night of enterprize; and that some friends of the Earl were to await him in the environs of the castle. All this he carefully treasured up, and the next morning communicated it to his comrades.

On the following evening the Earl, yielding to the impulse of his heart, once more unclosed his partition, and sought the apartments of the Baroness. She received him with expressions of satisfaction; while the artless pleasure which lighted up the countenance of Laura, awakened the pulse of rapture in that heart which had long throbbed only to misery. The Earl reminded the Baroness of her former promise, which the desire of exciting sympathy in those we esteem, and the melancholy pleasure which the heart finds in lingering among the scenes of former happiness, had induced her to give. She endeavoured to compose her spirits, which were agitated by the remembrance of past sufferings, and gave him a relation of the following circumstances.

CHAPTER VII

LOUISA, Baroness Malcolm, was the descendant of an ancient and honourable house in Switzerland. Her father, the Marquis de St. Claire, inherited all those brave qualities, and that stern virtue, which had so eminently distinguished his ancestors. Early in life he lost a wife whom he tenderly loved, and he seemed to derive his sole consolation from the education of the dear children she had left behind. His son, whom he had brought up to the arms himself so honourably bore, fell before he reached his nineteenth year, in the service of his country; an elder daughter died in infancy; Louisa was his sole surviving child. His chateau was situated in one of those delightful vallies of the Swiss cantons, in which the beautiful and the sublime are so happily united; where the magnificent features of the scenery are contrasted, and their effect heightened by the blooming luxuriance of woods and pasturage, by the gentle winding of the stream, and the peaceful aspect of the cottage. The Marquis was now retired from the service, for grey age had overtaken him. His residence was the resort of foreigners of distinction, who, attracted by the united talents of the soldier and the philosopher, under his roof partook of the hospitality so characteristic of his country. Among the visitors of this description was the late Baron Malcolm, brother to the present Chief, who then travelled through Switzerland. The beauty of Louisa, embellished by the elegance of a mind highly cultivated, touched his heart, and he solicited her hand in marriage. The manly sense of the Baron, and the excellencies of his disposition, had not passed unobserved, or unapproved by the Marquis; while the graces of his person, and of his mind, had anticipated for him, in the heart of Louisa, a pre-eminence over every other suitor. The Marquis had but one objection to the marriage; this was likewise the objection of Louisa: neither the one nor the other could endure the idea of the distance which was to separate them. Louisa was to the Marquis the last prop of his declining years; the Marquis was to Louisa the father and the friend to whom her heart had hitherto been solely devoted, and from whom it could not now be torn but with an anguish equal to its attachment. This remained an insurmountable obstacle, till it was removed by the tenderness of the Baron, who entreated the Marquis to quit Switzerland, and reside with his daughter in Scotland. The attachment of the Marquis to his natal land, and the pride of hereditary dominion, was too powerful to suffer him to acquiesce in the proposal without much struggle of contending feelings. The desire of securing the happiness of his child, by a union with a character so excellent as the Baron�s, and of seeing her settled before death should deprive her of the protection of a father, at length subdued every other consideration, and he resigned the hand of his daughter to the Baron Malcolm. The Marquis adjusted his affairs, and consigning his estates to the care of trusty agents, bade a last adieu to his beloved country; that country which, during sixty years, had been the principal scene of his happiness, and of his regrets. The course of years had not obliterated from his heart the early affections of his youth: he took a sad farewell of that grave which enclosed the reliques of his wife, from which it was not his least effort to depart, and whither he ordered that his remains should be conveyed. Louisa quitted Switzerland with a concern scarcely less acute than that of her father; the poignancy of which, however, was greatly softened by the tender assiduities of her Lord, whose affectionate attentions hourly heightened her esteem, and encreased her love.


They arrived at Scotland without any accident, where the Baron welcomed Louisa as the mistress of his domains. The Marquis de St. Claire had apartments in the castle, where the evening of his days declined in peaceful happiness. Before his death, he had the pleasure of seeing his race renewed in the children of the Baroness, in a son who was called by the name of the Marquis, and in a daughter who now shared with her mother the sorrows of confinement. On the death of the Marquis it was necessary for the Baron to visit Switzerland, in order to take possession of his estates, and to adjust some affairs which a long absence had deranged. He attended the remains of the Marquis to their last abode. The Baroness, desirous of once more beholding her native country, and anxious to pay a last respect to the memory of her father, entrusted her children to the care of a faithful old servant, whom she had brought with her from the Vallois, and who had been the nurse of her early childhood, and accompanied the Baron to the continent. Having deposited the remains of the Marquis according to his wish in the tomb of his wife, and arranged their affairs, they returned to Scotland, where the first intelligence they received on their arrival at the castle, was of the death of their son, and of the old nurse his attendant. The servant had died soon after their departure; the child only a fortnight before their return. This disastrous event affected equally the Baron and his lady, who never ceased to condemn herself for having entrusted her son to the care of servants. Time, however subdued the poignancy of this affliction, but came fraught with another yet more acute; this was the death of the Baron, who, in the pride of youth, constituting the felicity of his family, and of his people, was killed by a fall from his horse, which he received in hunting. He left the Baroness and an only daughter to bewail with unceasing sorrow his loss.

The paternal estates devolved of course to his only brother, the present Baron, whose character formed a mournful and striking contrast to that of the deceased Lord. All his personal property, which was considerable, with the estates in Switzerland, he bequeathed to his beloved wife and daughter. The new Baron, immediately on the demise of his brother, took possession of the castle, but allowed the Baroness, with a part of her suit, to remain its inhabitant till the expiration of the year. The Baroness, absorbed in grief, still loved to recall, in the scene of her late felicity, the image of her Lord, and to linger in his former haunts. This motive, together with the necessity of preparation for a journey to Switzerland, induced her to accept the offer of the Baron.

The memory of his brother had quickly faded from the mind of Malcolm, whose attention appeared to be wholly occupied by schemes of avarice and ambition, His arrogance, and boundless love of power, embroiled him with the neighbouring Chiefs, and engaged him in continual hostility. He seldom visited the Baroness; when he did, his manner was cold, and even haughty. The Baroness, shocked to receive such treatment from the brother of her deceased Lord, and reduced to feel herself an unwelcome guest in that castle which she had been accustomed to consider as her own, determined to set off for the continent immediately, and seek, in the solitudes of her native mountains, an asylum from the frown of insulting power. The contrast of character between the brothers drew many a sigh of bitter recollection from her heart, and added weight to the sorrows which already oppressed it. She gave orders, therefore, to her domestics, to prepare for immediate departure; but was soon after told that the Baron had forbade them to obey the command. Astonished at this circumstance, she had not time to demand an explanation, ere a message from Malcolm required a few moments private conversation.  The messenger was followed almost instantly by the Baron, who entered the apartment with hurried steps, his countenance overspread with the dark purposes of his soul. �I come, Madam,� said he, in a voice stern and determined, �to inform you, that you quit not this castle. The estates which you call yours, are mine; and; think not that I shall neglect to prosecute my claim. The frequent and ill-timed generosities of my brother, have diminished the value of the lands which are mine by inheritance; and I have therefore an indispensable right to repay myself from those estates which he acquired with you. In point of justice, he possessed not the right of devising these estates, and I shall not suffer myself to be deceived by the evasions of the law; resign, therefore, the will, which remains only a record of unjust wishes, and ineffectual claims. When the receipts from your estates have satisfied my demands, they shall again be yours. The apartments you now inhabit shall remain your own; but beyond the wall of this castle you shall not pass; for I will not, by suffering your departure, afford you an opportunity of contesting those rights which I can enforce without opposition.�

Overcome with astonishment and dread, the Baroness was for some time deprived of all power of reply. At length, roused by the spirit of indignation, �I am too well informed, my Lord,� said she, �of my just claims to the lands in question; and know also too well the value of that integrity which is now no more, to credit your bold assertions; they serve only to unveil to me the darkness of a character, cruel and rapacious; whose boundless avarice, trampling on the barriers of justice and humanity, seizes on the right of the defenceless widow, and on the portion of the unresisting orphan. This, my Lord, you are permitted to do; they have no means of resistance; but think not to impose on me by a sophistical assertion of right, or to gloss the villainy of your conduct with the colours of justice; the artifice is beneath the desperate force of your character, and is not sufficiently specious to deceive the discernment of virtue. From being your prisoner I have no means of escaping; but never, my Lord, will I resign into your hands that will which is the efficient bond of my rights, and the last sad record of the affection of my departed Lord.� Grief closed her lips. The Baron denouncing vengeance on her resistance, his features inflamed with rage, quitted the apartment. The Baroness was left to lament, with deepening anguish, the stroke which had deprived her of a beloved husband; and reflection gave her the wretchedness of her situation in yet more lively colours. She was now a stranger in a foreign land, deprived by him, of whom she had a right to demand protection, of all her possessions; a prisoner in his castle, without one friend to vindicate her cause, and far remote from any means of appeal to the laws of the country. She wept over the youthful Laura, and while she pressed her with mournful fondness to her bosom, she was confirmed in her resolution never to relinquish that will, by which alone the rights of her injured child could ever be ascertained.

The Baron, bold in iniquity, obtained, by forged powers, the revenues of the foreign estates; and by this means, effectually kept the Baroness in his power, and deprived her of her last resource. Secure in the possession of the estates, and of the Baroness, he no longer regarded the will as an object of importance; and as she did not attempt any means of escape, or the recovery of her rights, he suffered her to remain undisturbed, and in quiet possession of the will.

The Baroness now passed her days in unvaried sorrow, except in those intervals when she forced her mind from its melancholy subject, and devoted herself to the education of her daughter. The artless efforts of Laura, to assuage the sorrows of her mother, only fixed them in her heart in deeper impression, since they gave to her mind, in stronger tints, the cruelty and oppression to which her tender years were condemned. The progress which she made in music and drawing, and in the lighter subjects of literature, while it pleased the Baroness, who was her sole instructress, brought with it the bitter apprehension, that these accomplishments would probably be buried in the obscurity of a prison; still, however, they were not useless, since they served at present to cheat affliction of many a weary moment, and would in future delude the melancholy hours of solitude. Laura was particularly fond of the lute, which she touched with exquisite sensibility, and whose tender notes were so sweetly in unison with the chords of sorrow, and with those plaintive tones with which she loved to accompany it. While she sung, the Baroness would sit absorbed in recollection, the tears fast falling from her eyes, and she might be said to taste in those moments the luxury of woe.

Malcolm, stung with a sense of guilt, avoided the presence of his injured captive, and sought an asylum from conscience in the busy scenes of war.

Eighteen years had now elapsed since the death of the Baron, and the confinement of Louisa. Time had blunted the point of affliction, though it still retained its venom; but she seldom dared to hope for that which for eighteen years had been with-held. She derived her only consolation from the improvement and the tender sympathy of her daughter, who endeavoured, by every soothing attention, to alleviate the sorrows of her parent.

It was at this period that the Baroness communicated to the Earl the story of her calamities.

The Earl listened with deep attention to the recital. His soul burned with indignation against the Baron, while his heart gave to the sufferings of the fair mourners all that sympathy could ask. Yet he was relieved from a very painful sensation, when he learned that the beauty of Laura had not influenced the conduct of the Baron. Her oppressed situation struck upon his heart the finest touch of pity; and the passion which her beauty and her simplicity had inspired, was strengthened and meliorated by her misfortunes. The fate of his father, and the idea of his own injuries, rushed upon his mind; and, combining with the sufferings of the victims now before him, roused in his soul a storm of indignation, little inferior to that he had suffered in his first interview with the Baron. Every consideration sunk before the impulse of a just revenge; his mind, occupied with the hateful image of the murderer was hardened against danger, and in the first energies of his resentment he would have rushed to the apartment of Malcolm, and striking the sword of justice in his heart, have delivered the earth from a monster, and have resigned himself the willing sacrifice of the action. �Shall the monster live?� cried he, rising from his seat. His step was hurried, and his countenance was stamped with a stern virtue. The Baroness was alarmed, and following him to the door of her apartment, which he had half opened, conjured him to pause for a moment on the dangers that surrounded him. The voice of reason, in the accents of the Baroness, interrupted the hurried tumult of his soul; the illusions of passion disappeared; he recollected that he was ignorant of the apartment of the Baron, and that he had no weapon to assist his purpose; and he found himself as a traveller on enchanted ground, when the wand of the magician suddenly dissolves the airy scene, and leaves him environed with the horrors of solitude and of darkness.

The Earl returned to his seat hopeless and dejected, and lost to every thing but to the bitterness of disappointment. He forgot where he was, and the lateness of the hour, till reminded by the Baroness of the dangers of a longer stay, when he mournfully bade her good night; and advancing to Laura with timid respect, pressed her hand tenderly to his lips, and retired to his prison.

CHAPTER VIII

HE had now opened the partition, and was entering the room, when by the faint gleam which the fire threw across the apartment, he perceived indistinctly the figure of a man, and in the same instant heard the sound of approaching armour. Surprize and horror thrilled through every nerve; he remained fixed to the spot, and for some moments hesitated whether to retire. A fearful silence ensued; the person whom he thought he had seen, disappeared in the darkness of the room; the noise of armour was heard no more; and he began to think that the figure he had seen, and the sound he had heard were the phantoms of a sick imagination, which the agitation of his spirits, the solemnity of the hour, and the wide desolation of the place, had conjured up. The low sounds of an unknown voice now started upon his ear; it seemed to be almost close beside him; he sprung onward, and his hand grasped the steely coldness of armour, while the arm it enclosed struggled to get free. �Speak! what wretch art thou?� cried Osbert, when a sudden blaze of light from the fire discovered to him a soldier of the Baron. His agitation for some time prevented his observing that there was more of alarm than of design expressed in the countenance of the man; but the apprehension of the Earl was quickly lost in astonishment, when he beheld the guard at his feet. It was Edmund who had entered the prison under pretense of carrying fuel to the fire, but secretly for the purpose of conferring with Osbert. When the Earl understood he came from Alleyn, his bosom glowed with gratitude towards that generous youth, whose steady and active zeal had never relaxed since the hour in which he first engaged in his cause. The transport of his heart may be easily imagined, when he learned the schemes that were planning for his deliverance. The circumstance which had nearly defeated the warm hopes of his friends, was by him disregarded, since the knowledge of the secret door opened to him, with the assistance of a guide through the intricacies of the castle, a certain means of escape. Edmund was well acquainted with all these. The Earl told him of the discovery of the false panel; bade him return to Alleyn with the joyful intelligence, and on his next night of watch prepare to aid him in escape. Edmund knew well the apartments which Osbert described, and the great staircase which led into a part of the castle that had long been totally forsaken, and from whence it was easy to pass unobserved into the vaults which communicated with the subterraneous passages in the rock.


Alleyn heard the report of James with a warm and generous joy, which impelled him to hasten immediately to the castle of Athlin, and dispel the sorrows that inhabited there; but the consideration that his sudden absence from the camp might create suspicion, and invite discovery, checked the impulse; and he yielded with reluctance to the necessity which condemned the Countess and Mary to the horrors of a lengthened suspense.

The Countess, meanwhile, whose designs, strengthened by the steady determination of Mary, were unshaken by the message of the Earl, which she considered as only the effect of a momentary impulse, watched the gradual departure of those days which led to that which enveloped the fate of her children, with agony and fainting hope. She received no news from the camp; no words of comfort from Alleyn; and she saw the confidence which had nourished her existence slowly sinking in despair. Mary sought to administer that comfort to the afflictions of her mother, which her own equally demanded; she strove, by the fortitude with which she endeavoured to resign herself, to soften the asperity of the sufferings which threatened the Countess, and she contemplated the approaching storm with the determined coolness of a mind aspiring to virtue as the chief good. But she sedulously sought to exclude Alleyn from her mind; his disinterested and noble conduct excited emotions dangerous to her fortitude, and which rendered yet more poignant the tortures of the approaching sacrifice.

Anxious to inform the Baroness of his approaching deliverance, to assure her of his best services, to bid adieu to Laura, and to seize the last opportunity he might ever possess of disclosing to her his admiration and his love, the Earl revisited the apartments of the Baroness. She felt a lively pleasure on the prospect of his escape; and Laura, in the joy which animated her on hearing this intelligence, forgot the sorrows of her own situation; forgot that of which her heart soon reminded her-that Osbert was leaving the place of her confinement, and that she should probably see him no more. This thought cast a sudden shade over her features, and from the enlivening expression of joy, they resumed their wonted melancholy. Osbert marked the momentary change, and his heart spoke to him the occasion. �My cup of joy is dashed with bitterness,� said he, �for amid the happiness of approaching deliverance, I quit not my prison without some pangs of keen regret; � pangs which it were probably useless to make known, yet which my feeling will not suffer me at this moment to conceal. Within these walls, from whence I fly with eagerness, I leave a heart fraught with the most tender passion; a heart which, while it beats with life, must ever unite the image of Laura with the fondness of love. Could I hope that she were not insensible to my attachment I should depart in peace, and would defy the obstacles which bid me despair. Were I even certain that she would repel my love with cold indifference, I would yet, if she accept my services, effect her rescue, or give my life the forfeiture.� Laura was silent; she wished to speak her gratitude, yet feared to tell her love; but the soft timidity of her eye, and the tender glow of her cheek, revealed the secret that trembled on her lips. The Baroness observed her confusion, and thanking the Earl for the noble service he offered, declined accepting it. She besought him to involve no further the peace of his family and of himself, by attempting an enterprize so crowded with dangers, and which might probably cost him his life. The arguments of the Baroness fell forceless when opposed to the feelings of the Earl; so warmly he urged his suit, and dwelt so forcibly on his approaching departure, that the Baroness ceased to oppose, and the silence of Laura yielded acquiescence. After a tender farewell, with many earnest wishes for his safety, the Earl quitted the apartment elated with hope. But the Baron had been informed of his projected escape, and had studied the means of counteracting it. The centinel had communicated his discovery to some of his comrades, who, without virtue or courage sufficient to quit the service of the Baron, were desirous of obtaining his favour and failed not to seize on an opportunity so flattering as the present, to accomplish their purpose they communicated to their Chief the intelligence they had received.

Malcolm, careful to conceal his knowledge of the scheme, from a design to entrap those of the clan who were to meet the Earl, had suffered Edmund to return to his station at the prison, where he had placed the informers as secret guards, and had taken such other precautions as were necessary to intercept their flight, should they elude the vigilance of the soldiers, and likewise to secure those of his people who should be drawn toward the castle in expectation of their Chief. Having done this, he prided himself in security, and in the certainty of exulting over his enemies, thus entangled in their own stratagem.

After many weary moments of impatience to Alleyn, and of expectation to the Earl, the night at length arrived on which hung the event of all their hopes. It was agreed that Alleyn, with a chosen few, should await the arrival of the Earl in the cavern where terminated the subterraneous avenue. Alleyn parted from James with extreme agitation, and returned to his tent to compose his mind.

It was now the dead of night; profound sleep reigned through the castle of Dunbayne, when Edmund gently unbolted the prison door, and hailed the Earl. He sprung forward, and instantly unclosed the pannel, which they fastened after them to prevent discovery, and passing with fearful steps the cold and silent apartments, descended the great staircase into the hall, whose wide and dark desolation was rendered visible only by the dim light of the taper which Edmund carried in his hand, and whose vaulted ceiling re-echoed their steps. After various windings they descended into the vaults; in passing their dreary length they often paused in fearful silence, listening to the hollow blasts which burst suddenly through the passages, and which seemed to bear in the sound the footsteps of pursuit. At length they reached the extremity of the vaults, where Edmund searched for a trapdoor which lay almost concealed in the dirt and darkness; after some time they found, and with difficulty raised it, for it was long since it had been opened; and it was besides heavy with iron work. They entered, and letting the door fall after them, descended a narrow flight of steps which conducted them to a winding passage closed by a door that opened into the main avenue whence Alleyn had before made his escape. Having gained this, they stepped on with confidence, for they were now not far from the cavern where Alleyn and his companions were awaiting their arrival. The heart of Alleyn now swelled with joy, for he perceived a gleam of distant light break upon the walls of the avenue, and at the same time thought he heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps. Impatient to throw himself at the feet of the Earl, he entered the avenue. The light grew stronger upon the walls; but a point of rock, whose projection caused a winding in the passage, concealed from his view the persons his eyes so eagerly sought. The sound of steps was now fast approaching, and Alleyn gaining the rock, suddenly turned upon three soldiers of the Baron. They instantly seized him their prisoner. Astonishment for a while overcame every other sensation; but as they led him along, the horrid reverse of the moment struck upon his heart with all its consequences, and he had no doubt that the Earl had been seized and carried back to his prison. As he marched along, absorbed in this reflection, a light appeared at some distance, from a door that opened upon the avenue, and discovered the figures of two men, who on perceiving the party, they retreated with precipitation, and closed the door after them. Alleyn knew the Earl in the person of one of them. Two of the soldiers quitting Alleyn, pursued the fugitives, and quickly disappeared through a door. Alleyn finding himself alone with the guard, seized the moment of opportunity, and made a desperate effort to regain his sword. He succeeded; and in the suddenness of the attack, obtained also the weapon of his adversary, who, unarmed, fell at his feet, and called for mercy. Alleyn gave him his life. The soldier, grateful for the gift, and fearful of the Baron�s vengeance, desired to fly with him, and enlist in his service. They quitted the subterraneous way together. On entering the cavern, Alleyn found it vacated by his friends, who on hearing the clash of armour, and the loud and menacing voices of the soldiers, understood his fate, and apprehensive of numbers, had fled to avoid a similar disaster. Alleyn returned to his tent, shocked with disappointment, and lost in despair. Every effort which he had made for the deliverance of the Earl, had proved unsuccessful; and this scheme, on which was suspended his last hope, had been defeated at the very moment when he exulted in its completion. He threw himself on the ground, and lost in bitter thought, observed not the curtain of his tent undraw, till recalled by a sudden noise, he looked up, and beheld the Earl. Terror fixed him to the spot, and for a moment he involuntarily acknowledged the traditionary visions of his nation. The well-known voice of Osbert, however, awakened him to truth, and the ardor with which he embraced his knees, immediately convinced him that he clasped reality.

The soldiers, in the eagerness of pursuit, had mistaken the door by which Osbert had retired, and had entered one below it, which, after engaging them in a fruitless search through various intricate passages, had conducted them to a remote part of the castle, from whence, after much perplexity and loss of time, they were at length extricated. The Earl, who had retreated on sight of the soldiers, had fled in the mean time to regain the trap-door; but the united strength of himself and of Edmund was in vain exerted to open it. Compelled to encounter the approaching evil, the Earl took the sword of his companion, resolving to meet the approach of his adversaries, and to effect his deliverance, or yield his life and his misfortunes to the attempt. With this design he advanced deliberately along the passage, and arriving at the door, stopped to discover the motions of his pursuers: all was profoundly silent. After remaining some time in this situation, he opened the door, and examining the avenue with a firm yet anxious eye as far as the light of his taper threw its beams, discovered no human being. He proceeded with cautious firmness towards the cavern, every instant expecting the soldiers to start suddenly upon him from some dark recess. � With astonishment he reached the cave without interruption; and unable to account for his unexpected deliverance, hastened with Edmund to join his faithful people.

The soldiers who watched the prison, being ignorant of any other way by which the Earl could escape, than the door which they guarded, had suffered Edmund to enter the apartment without fear. It was some time before they discovered their error; surprized at the length of his stay, they opened the door of the prison, which to their utter astonishment, they found empty. The grates were examined; they remained as usual; every corner was explored; but the false pannel remained unknown; and having finished their examination without discovering any visible means by which the Earl had quitted the prison, they were seized with terror, concluding it to be the work of a supernatural power, and immediately alarmed the castle. The Baron, roused by the tumult, was informed of the fact, and dubious of the integrity of his guards, ascended to the apartment; which having himself examined without discovering any means of escape, he no longer hesitated to pronounce the centinels accessary to the Earl�s enlargement. The unfeigned terror which they exhibited was mistaken for artifice, and their supposed treachery was admitted and punished in the same moment. They were thrown into the dungeon of the castle. Soldiers were immediately dispatched in pursuit; but the time which had elapsed ere the guards had entered the prison, had given the Earl an opportunity of escape. When the certainty of this was communicated to the Baron, every passion whose single force is misery, united in his breast to torture him; and his brain, exasperated almost to madness, gave him only direful images of revenge.

The Baroness and Laura, awakened by the tumult, had been filled with apprehension for the Earl, till they were informed of the cause of the general confusion; and hope and dubious joy were ere long confirmed into certainty, for they were told of the fruitless search of the pursuers.

It was now the last day of the term in which the Countess had stipulated to return her answer; she had yet heard nothing from Alleyn; for Alleyn had been busied in schemes, of the event of which he could send no account, for their success had been yet undetermined. Every hope of the Earl�s deliverance was now expired, and in the anguish of her heart, the Countess prepared to give that answer which would send the devoted Mary to the arms of the murderer. Mary, who assumed a fortitude not her own, strove to abate the rigor of her mother�s sufferings, but vainly strove; they were of a nature which defied consolation. She wrote the fatal agreement, but delayed till the last moment delivering it into the hands of the messenger. It was necessary, however, that the Baron should receive it on the following morn, lest the impatience of revenge should urge him to seize on the life of the Earl as the forfeiture of delay. She sent, therefore, for the messenger, who was a veteran of the clan, and with extreme agitation delivered to him her answer; grief interrupted her voice; she was unable to speak to him; and he was awaiting her orders, when the door of the apartment was thrown open, and the Earl, followed by Alleyn, threw himself at her feet. A faint scream was uttered by the Countess, and she sunk in her chair. Mary, not daring to trust herself with the delightful vision, endeavoured to restrain the tide of joy, which hurried to her heart, and, threatened to overwhelm her.

The castle of Athlin resounded with tumultuous joy on this happy event; the courts were filled with those of the clan who had been disabled from attending the field, and whom the report of the Earl�s return, which had circulated with astonishing rapidity, had brought thither. The hall re-echoed with voices; and the people could hardly be restrained from rushing into the presence of their Chief, to congratulate him on his escape.

When the first transports of the meeting were subsided, the Earl presented Alleyn to his family as his friend and deliverer; whose steady attachment he could never forget, and whose zealous service he could never repay. The cheek of Mary glowed with pleasure and gratitude at this tribute to the worth of Alleyn; and the smiling approbation of her eyes rewarded him for his noble deeds. The Countess received him as the deliverer of both her children, and related to Osbert the adventure in the wood. The Earl embraced Alleyn, who received the united acknowledgments of the family, with unaffected modesty. Osbert hesitated not to pronounce the Baron the author of the plot; his heart swelled to avenge the repeated injuries of his family, and he secretly resolved to challenge the enemy to single combat. To renew the siege he considered as a vain project; and this challenge, though a very inadequate mode of revenge, was the only honourable one that remained for him. He forbore to mention his design to the Countess, well knowing that her tenderness would oppose the measure, and throw difficulties in his way, which would embarrass, without preventing his purpose. He mentioned the misfortunes of the Baroness, and the loveliness of her daughter, and excited the esteem and the commiseration of his hearers.

The clamours of the people to behold their Lord, now arose to the apartment of the Countess, and he descended into the hall, accompanied by Alleyn, to gratify their zeal. An universal shout of joy resounded through the walls on his appearance. A noble pleasure glowed on the countenance of the Earl at sight of his faithful people; and in the delight of that moment his heart bore testimony to the superior advantages of an equitable government. The Earl, impatient to testify his gratitude, introduced Alleyn to the clan, as his friend and deliverer, and immediately presented his father with a lot of land, where he might end his days in peace and plenty. Old Alleyn thanked the Earl for his offered kindness, but declined accepting it; alleging, that he was attached to his old cottage, and that he had already sufficient for the comforts of his age.

On the following morning, a messenger was privately dispatched to the Baron, with the challenge of the Earl. The challenge was couched in terms of haughty indignation, and expressed, that nothing but the failure of all other means could have urged him to the condescension of meeting the assassin of his father, on terms of equal combat.

Happiness was once more restored to Athlin. The Countess, in the unexpected preservation of her children, seemed to be alive only to joy. The Earl was now for a time secure in the bosom of his family, and, though his impatience to avenge the injuries of those most dear to him, and to snatch from the hand of oppression the fair sufferers at Dunbayne, would not allow him to be tranquil, yet he assumed a gaiety unknown to his heart, and the days were spent in festivals and joy.

CHAPTER IX

IT was at this period, that, one stormy evening, the Countess was sitting with her family in a room, the windows of which looked upon the sea. The winds burst in sudden squalls over the deep, and dashed the foaming waves against the rocks with inconceivable fury. The spray, notwithstanding the high situation of the castle, flew up with violence against the windows. The Earl went out upon the terrace beneath to contemplate the storm. The moon shone faintly by intervals, through broken clouds upon the waters, illumining the white foam which burst around, and enlightening the scene sufficiently to render it visible. The surges broke on the distant shores in deep resounding murmurs, and the solemn pauses between the stormy gusts filled the mind with enthusiastic awe. As the Earl stood wrapt in the sublimity of the scene, the moon, suddenly emerging from a heavy cloud, shewed him at some distance a vessel driven by the fury of the blast towards the coast. He presently heard the signals of distress; and soon after shrieks of terror, and a confused uproar of voices were borne on the wind. He hastened from the terrace to order his people to go out with boats to the assistance of the crew, for he doubted not that the vessel was wrecked; but the sea ran so high as to make the adventure impracticable. The sound of voices ceased, and he concluded that the wretched mariners were lost, when the screams of distress again struck his ear, and again were lost in the tumult of the storm; in a moment after, the vessel struck upon the rock beneath the castle; an universal shriek ensued. The Earl, with his people, hastened to the assistance of the crew; the fury of the gust was now abated, and the Earl, jumping into a boat with Alleyn and some others, rowed to the ship, where they rescued a part of the drowning people. They were conducted to the castle, and every comfort was liberally administered to them. Among those, whom the Earl had received into his boat, was a stranger, whose dignified aspect and manners bespoke him to be of rank; he had several people belonging to him, but they were foreigners, and ignorant of the language of the country. He thanked his deliverer with a noble frankness, that charmed him. In the hall they were met by the Countess and her daughter, who received the stranger with the warm welcome, which compassion for his situation had inspired. He was conducted to the supper room, where the magnificence of the board exhibited only the usual hospitality of his host. The stranger spoke English fluently, and displayed in his conversation a manly and vigorous mind, acquainted with the sciences, and with life; and the cast of his observations seemed to characterize the benevolence of his heart. The Earl was so much pleased with his guest, that he pressed him to remain at his castle till another vessel could be procured; his guest equally pleased with the Earl, and a stranger to the country, accepted the invitation.


New distress now broke upon the peace of Athlin; several days had expired, and the messenger, who had been sent to Malcolm, did not appear. It was almost evident, that the Baron, disappointed and enraged at the escape of his prisoner, and eager for a sacrifice, had seized this man as the subject of a paltry revenge. The Earl, however, resolved to wait a few days, and watch the event.

The struggles of latent tenderness and assumed indifference, banished tranquillity from the bosom of Mary, and pierced it with many sorrows. The friendship and honours bestowed by the Earl on Alleyn, who now resided solely at the castle, touched her heart with a sweet pride; but alas! these distinctions served only to confirm her admiration of that worth, which had already attached her affections, and afforded him opportunities of exhibiting, in brighter colours, the various excellencies of a heart noble and expansive, and of a mind, whose native elegance meliorated and adorned the bold vigour of its flights. The langour of melancholy, notwithstanding the efforts of Mary, would at intervals steal from beneath the disguise of cheerfulness, and diffuse over her beautiful features an expression extremely interesting. The stranger was not insensible to its charms, and it served to heighten the admiration, with which he had first beheld her, into something more tender and more powerful. The modest dignity, with which she delivered her sentiments, which breathed the purest delicacy and benevolence, touched his heart, and he felt an interest concerning her, which he had never before experienced.

Alleyn, whose heart amid the anxieties and tumults of the past scenes, had still sighed to the image of Mary; � that image, which fancy had pictured in all the charms of the original, and whose glowing tints were yet softened and rendered more interesting by the shade of melancholy with which absence and a hopeless passion had surrounded them, found, amid the leisure of peace, and the frequent opportunities which were afforded him of beholding the object of his attachment, his sighs redouble, and the glooms of sorrow thicken. In the presence of Mary, a soft sadness clouded his brow; he endeavoured to assume a cheerfulness foreign to his heart; but endeavoured in vain. Mary perceived the change in his manners; and the observation did not contribute to enliven her own. The Earl, too, observed that Alleyn had lost much of his wonted spirits, and bantered him on the change, but thought not of his sister.

Alleyn wished to quit a place so destructive to his peace as the castle of Athlin; he formed repeated resolutions of withdrawing himself from those walls, which held him in a sort of fascination, and rendered ineffectual every half-formed wish, and every weak endeavour. When he could no longer behold Mary, he would frequently retire to the terrace, which was overlooked by the windows of her apartment, and spend half the night in traversing, with silent, mournful steps, that spot, which afforded him the melancholy pleasure of being near the object of his love.

Matilda wished to question Alleyn concerning some circumstances of the late events, and for this purpose ordered him one day to attend her in her closet. As he passed the outer apartment of the Countess, he perceived something lying near the door, through which she had before gone, and, examining it, discovered a bracelet, to which was attached a miniature of Mary. His heart beat quick at the sight; the temptation was too powerful to be resisted; he concealed it in his bosom, and passed on. On quitting the closet, he sought, with breathless impatience, a spot, where he might contemplate at leisure that precious portrait, which chance had so kindly thrown in his way. He drew it trembling from his bosom, and beheld again that countenance, whose sweet expression had touched his heart with all the delightful agonies of love. As he pressed it with impassioned tenderness to his lips, the tear of rapture trembled in his eye, and the romantic ardour of the moment was scarcely heightened by the actual presence of the beloved object, whose light step now stole upon his ear, and half turning he beheld not the picture, but the reality! � Surprized! � confused! � The picture fell from his hand. Mary, who had accidentally strolled to that spot, on observing the agitation of Alleyn, was retiring, when he, in whose heart had been awakened every tender sensation, losing in the temptation of the moment the fear of disdain, and forgetting the resolution which he had formed of eternal silence, threw himself at her feet, and pressed her hand to his trembling lips. His tongue would have told her that he loved, but his emotion, and the repulsive look of Mary, prevented him. She instantly disengaged herself with an air of offended dignity, and casting on him a look of mingled anger and concern, withdrew in silence. Alleyn remained fixed to the spot; his eyes pursuing her retiring steps, insensible to every feeling but those of love and despair. So absorbed was he in the transition of the moment, that he almost doubted whether a visionary illusion had not crossed his sight to blast his only remaining comfort-the consciousness of deserving, and of possessing the esteem of her he loved. He left the place with anguish in his heart, and, in the perturbation of his mind, forgot the picture. 

Mary had observed her mother�s bracelet fall from his hand, and was no longer in perplexity concerning her miniature; but in the confusion which his behavior occasioned her, she forgot to demand it of him. The Countess had missed it almost immediately after his departure from the closet, and had caused a search to be made, which proving fruitless, her suspicions wavered upon him. The Earl, who soon after passed the spot whence Alleyn had just departed, found the miniature. It was not long ere Alleyn recollected the treasure he had dropped, and returned in search of it. Instead of the picture, he found the Earl: a conscious blush crossed his cheek; the confusion of his countenance informed Osbert of a part of the truth; who, anxious to know by what means he had obtained it, presented him the picture, and demanded if he knew it. The soul of Alleyn knew not to dissemble; he acknowledged that he had found, and concealed it; prompted by that passion, the confession of which, no other circumstance than the present could have wrung from his heart. The Earl listened to him with a mixture of concern and pity; but hereditary pride chilled the warm feelings of friendship and of gratitude, and extinguished the faint spark of hope which the discovery had kindled in the bosom of Alleyn. �Fear not, my Lord,� said he, �the degradation of your house from one who would sacrifice his life in its defence; never more shall the passion which glows in my heart escape from my lips. I will retire from the spot where I have buried my tranquillity.�

�No,� replied the Earl, �you shall remain here; I can confide in your honour. O! that the only reward which is adequate to your worth and to your services, it should be impossible for me to bestow.� His voice faultered, and he turned away to conceal his emotion, with a suffering little inferior to that of Alleyn.

The discovery which Mary had made, did not contribute to restore peace to her mind. Every circumstance conspired to assure her of that ardent passion which filled the bosom of him whom all her endeavours could not teach her to forget; and this conviction served only to heighten her malady, and consequently her wretchedness.

The interest which the stranger discovered, and the attention he paid to Mary, had not passed unobserved by Alleyn. Love pointed to him the passion which was rising in his heart, and whispered that the vows of his rival would be propitious. The words of Osbert confirmed him in the torturing apprehension; for though his humble birth had never suffered him to hope, yet he thought he discovered in the speech of the Earl, something more than mere hereditary pride.

The stranger had contemplated the lovely form of Mary with increasing admiration, since the first hour he beheld her; this admiration was now confirmed into love; � and he resolved to acquaint the Earl with his birth, and with his passion. For this purpose, he one morning drew him aside to the terrace of the castle, where they could converse without interruption; and pointing to the ocean, over which he had so lately been borne, thanked the Earl, who had thus softened the horrors of shipwreck, and the desolation of a foreign land, by the kindness of his hospitality. He informed him that he was a native of Switzerland, where he possessed considerable estates, from which he bore the title of Count de Santmorin; that enquiry of much moment to his interests had brought him to Scotland, to a neighbouring port of which he was bound, when the disaster from which he had been so happily rescued, arrested the progress of his designs. He then related to the Earl, that his voyage was undertaken upon a report of the death of some relations, at whose demise considerable estates in Switzerland became his inheritance. That the income of these estates had been hitherto received upon the authority of powers, which, if the report was true, were become invalid.

The Earl listened to this narrative in silent astonishment, and enquired, with much emotion, the name of the Count�s relations. �The Baroness Malcolm,� returned he. The Earl clasped his hands in extasy. The Count, surprized at his agitation, began to fear that the Earl was disagreeably interested in the welfare of his adversaries, and regretted that he had disclosed the affair, till he observed the pleasure which was diffused through his features. Osbert explained the cause of his emotion, by relating his knowledge of the Baroness; in the progress of whose story, the character of Malcolm was sufficiently elucidated. He told the cause of his hatred towards the Baron, and the history of his imprisonment; and also confided to his honour the secret of his challenge.

The indignation of the Count was strongly excited; he was, however, prevailed on by Osbert to forego any immediate effort of revenge, awaiting for awhile the movements of Malcolm.

The Count was so absorbed in wonder and in new sensations, that he had almost forgot the chief object of the interview. Recollecting himself, he discovered his passion, and requested permission of the Earl to throw himself at the feet of Mary. The Earl listened to the declaration with a mixture of pleasure and concern; the remembrance of Alleyn saddened his mind; but the wish of an equal connection, made him welcome the offers of the Count, whose alliance, he told him, would do honour to the first nobility of his nation. If he found the sentiments of his sister in sympathy with his own on this point, he would welcome him to his family with the affection of a brother; but he wished to discover the situation of her heart, ere his noble friend disclosed to her his prepossession.

The Earl on his return to the castle enquired for Mary, whom he found in the apartment of her mother. He opened to them the history of the Count; his relationship with the Baroness Malcolm, with the object of his expedition, and closed the narrative with discovering the attachment of his friend to Mary, and his offers of alliance with his family. Mary grew pale at this declaration; there was a pang in her heart which would not suffer her to speak; she threw her eyes on the ground, and burst into tears. The Earl took her hand tenderly in his; �My beloved sister,� said he, �knows me too well to doubt my affection, or to suppose I can wish to influence her upon a subject so material to her future happiness; and where her heart ought to be the principal directress. Do me the justice to believe, that I make known to you the offers of the Count as a friend, not as a director. He is a man, who from the short period of our acquaintance, I have judged to be deserving of particular esteem. His mind appears to be noble; his heart expansive; his rank is equal with your own; and he loves you with an attachment warm and sincere. But with all these advantages, I would not have my sister give herself to the man who does not meet an interest in her heart to plead his cause.�

The gentle soul of Mary swelled with gratitude towards her brother; she would have thanked him for the tenderness of these sentiments, but a variety of emotions were struggling at her heart, and suppressed her utterance; tears and a smile, softly clouded with sorrow, were all she could give him in reply. He could not but perceive that some secret cause of grief preyed upon her mind, and he solicited to know, and to remove it. �My dear brother will believe the gratitude which his kindness-� She would have finished the sentence, but the words died away upon her lips, and she threw herself on the bosom of her mother, endeavouring to conceal her distress, and wept in silence. The Countess too well understood the grief of her daughter; she had witnessed the secret struggles of her heart, which all her endeavours were not able to overcome, and which rendered the offers of the Count disgusting, and dreadful to her imagination. Matilda knew how to feel for her sufferings; but the affection of the mother extended her views beyond the present temporary evil, to the future welfare of her child; and in the long perspective of succeeding years, she beheld her united to the Count, whose character diffused happiness, and the mild dignity of virtue to all around him: she received the thanks of Mary for her gentle guidance to the good she possessed; the artless looks of the little ones around her, smiled their thanks; and the luxury of that scene recalled the memory of times for ever passed, and mingled with the tear of rapture the sigh of fond regret. The surest method of erasing that impression which threatened serious evil to the peace of her child if suffered to continue, and to secure her permanent felicity, was to unite her to the Count; whose amiable disposition would soon win her affections, and obliterate from her heart every improper remembrance of Alleyn. She determined, therefore, to employ argument and gentle persuasion, to guide her to her purpose. She knew the mind of Mary to be delicate and candid; easy of conviction, and firm to pursue what her judgment approved; and she did not despair of succeeding.

The Earl still pressed to know the cause of that emotion which afflicted her. �I am unworthy of your solicitude,� said Mary, �I cannot teach my heart to submit.� �To submit! � Can you suppose your friends can wish your heart to submit on a point so material to its happiness, to aught that is repugnant to its feelings? If the offers of the Count are displeasing to you, tell me so; and I will return him his answer. Believe that my first wish is to see you happy.� �Generous Osbert! How can I repay the goodness of such a brother! I would accept in gratitude the hand of the Count, did not my feelings assure me I should be miserable. I admire his character, and esteem his goodness; but alas! � why should I conceal it from you? � My heart is another�s-is another�s, whose noble deeds have won its involuntary regards; and who is yet unconscious of my distinction, one who shall for ever remain in ignorance of it.� The idea of Alleyn flashed into the mind of the Earl, and he no longer doubted to whom her heart was engaged. �My own sentiments,� said he, �sufficiently inform me of the object of your admiration. You do well to remember the dignity of your sex and of your rank; though I must lament with you, that worth like Alleyn�s is not empowered by fortune to take its standard with nobility.� At Alleyn�s name, the blushes of Mary confirmed Osbert in his discovery. �My child,� said the Countess, �will not resign her tranquillity to a vain and ignoble attachment. She may esteem merit wherever it is found, but she will remember the duty which she owes to her family and to herself, in contracting an alliance which is to support or diminish the ancient consequence of her house. The offers of a man endowed with so much apparent excellence as the Count, and whose birth is equal to your own, affords a prospect too promising of felicity, to be hastily rejected. We will hereafter converse more largely on this subject.� �Never shall you have reason to blush for your daughter,� said Mary, with a modest pride; �but pardon me, Madam, if I entreat that we no more renew a subject so painful to my feelings, and which cannot be productive of good; � for never will I give my hand where my heart does not accompany it.� This was not a time to press the topic; the Countess for the present desisted, and the Earl left the apartment with a heart divided between pity and disappointment. Hope, however, whispered to his wishes, that Mary might in time be induced to admit the addresses of the Count, and he determined not wholly to destroy his hopes.

CHAPTER X

THE Count was walking on the ramparts of the castle, involved in thought, when Osbert approached; whose lingering step and disappointed air spoke to his heart the rejection of his suit. He told the Count that Mary did not at present feel for him those sentiments of affection which would justify her in accepting his proposals. This information, though it shocked the hopes of the Count, did not entirely destroy them; for he yet believed that time and assiduity might befriend his wishes. While these Noblemen were leaning on the walls of the castle, engaged in earnest conversation, they observed on a distant hill a cloud emerging from the verge of the horizon, whose dusky hue glittered with sudden light; in an instant they descried the glance of arms, and a troop of armed men poured in long succession over the hill, and hurried down its side to the plains below. The Earl thought he recognized the clan of the Baron. It was the Baron himself who now advanced at the head of his people, in search of that revenge which had been hitherto denied him; and who, determined on conquest, had brought with him an host which he thought more than sufficient to overwhelm the castle of his enemy.


The messenger, who had been sent with the challenge, had been detained a prisoner by Malcolm; who in the mean time had hastened his preparations to surprize the castle of Athlin. The detention of his servant had awakened the suspicions of the Earl, and he had taken precautions to guard against the designs of his enemy. He had summoned his clan to hold themselves in readiness for a sudden attack, and had prepared his castle for the worst emergency. He now sent a messenger to the clan with such orders as he judged expedient, arranged his plans within the walls, and took his station on the ramparts to observe the movements of his enemy. The Count, clad in arms, stood by his side. Alleyn was posted with a party within the great gate of the castle.

The Baron advanced with his people, and quickly surrounded the walls. Within all was silent; the castle seemed to repose in security; and the Baron, certain of victory, congratulated himself on the success of the enterprize, when observing the Earl, whose person was concealed in armour, he called to him to surrender himself and his Chief to the arms of Malcolm. The Earl answered the summons with an arrow from his bow, which missing the Baron, pierced one of his attendants. The archers who had been planted behind the walls, now discovered themselves, and discharged a shower of arrows; at the same time every part of the castle appeared thronged with the soldiers of the Earl, who hurled on the heads of the astonished besiegers, lances and other missile weapons with unceasing rapidity. The alarum bell now rung out the signal to that part of the clan without the walls, and they immediately poured upon the enemy, who, confounded by this unexpected attack, had scarcely time to defend themselves. The clang of arms resounded through the air, with the shouts of the victors, and the groans of the dying. The fear of the Baron, which had principally operated on the minds of his people, was now overcome by surprize, and the fear of death; and on the first repulse, they deserted from the ranks in great numbers, and fled to the distant hills. In vain the Baron endeavoured to rally his soldiers, and keep them to the charge; they yielded to a stronger impulse than the menace of their Chief, who was now left with less than half his number at the foot of the walls. The Baron, to whom cowardice was unknown, disdaining to retreat, continued the attack. At length the gates of the castle were thrown open, and a party issued upon the assailants, headed by the Earl and the Count, who divided in quest of Malcolm. The Count fought in vain, and the search of Osbert was equally fruitless; their adversary was no where to be found. Osbert, apprehensive of his gaining admittance to the castle by stratagem, was returning in haste to the gates, when he received the stroke of a sword upon his shoulder; his armour had broke the force of the blow, and the wound it had given was slight. He turned his sword, and facing his enemy, discovered a soldier of Malcolm�s who attacked him with a desperate courage. The encounter was furious and long; dexterity and equal valour seemed to animate both the combatants. Alleyn, who observed from his post the danger of the Earl, flew instantly to his assistance; but the crisis of the scene was past ere he arrived; the weapon of Osbert had pierced the side of his adversary, and he fell to the ground. The Earl disarmed him, and holding over him his sword, bade him ask his life. �I have no life to ask,� said Malcolm, whose fainting voice the Earl now discovered, �if I had, �tis death only I would accept from you. O! cursed-� He would have finished the sentence, but his wound flowed apace, and he fainted with loss of blood. The Earl threw down his sword, and calling a party of his people, he committed to them the care of the Baron, and ordered them to proceed and seize the castle of Dunbayne. Understanding their Chief was mortally wounded, the remains of Malcolm�s army had fled from the walls. The people of the Earl proceeded without interruption, and took possession of the castle without opposition.

The wounds of the Baron were examined when he reached Dunbayne, and a dubious sentence of the event was pronounced. His countenance marked the powerful workings of his mind, which seemed labouring with an unknown evil; he threw his eyes eagerly round the apartment, as if in search of some object which was not present. After several attempts to speak, �Flatter me not,� said he, �with hopes of life; it is flitting fast away; but while I have breath to speak, let me see the Baroness.� She came, and hanging over his couch in silent horror, received his words: �I have injured you, Madam, I fear beyond reparation. In these last few moments let me endeavour to relieve my conscience by discovering to you my guilt and my remorse.� The Baroness started, fearful of the coming sentence. �You had a son.� �What of my son?� �You had a son, whom my boundless ambition doomed to exile from his parents and his heritage, and who I caused you to believe died in your absence.� �Where is my child!� exclaimed the Baroness. �I know not,� resumed Malcolm, �I committed him to the care of a man and woman who then lived on a remote part of my lands, but a few years after they
disappeared, and I have never heard of them since. The boy passed for a foundling whom I had saved from perishing. One servant only I entrusted with the secret; the rest were imposed upon. Thus far I tell you, Madam, to prompt you to enquiry, and to assuage the agonies of a bleeding conscience. I have other deeds-� The Baroness could hear no more; she was carried insensible from the apartment. Laura, shocked at her condition, was informed of its cause, and filial tenderness watched over her with unwearied attention.

In the mean time the Earl, on quitting Malcolm, had returned immediately to the castle, and was the first messenger of that event which would probably avenge the memory of his father, and terminate the distresses of his family. The sight of Osbert, and the news he brought, revived the Countess and Mary, who had retired during the assault into an inner apartment of the castle for greater security, and who had suffered, during that period, all the terrors which their situation could inspire. They were soon after joined by the Count and by Alleyn, whose conduct did not pass unnoticed by the Earl. The cheek of Mary glowed at the relation of this new instance of his worth; and it was Alleyn�s sweet reward to observe her emotion. There was a sentiment in the heart of Osbert which struggled against the pride of birth; he wished to reward the services and the noble spirit of the youth, with the virtues of Mary; but the authority of early prejudice silenced the grateful impulse, and swept from his heart the characters of truth.

The Earl, accompanied by the Count, now hastened to the castle of Dunbayne, to cheer the Baroness and her daughter with their presence. As they approached the castle, the stillness and desolation of the scene bespoke the situation of its lord; his people were entirely dispersed, a few only of his centinels wandered before the eastern gate; who, having made no opposition, were suffered by the Earl�s people to remain. Few of the Baron�s people were to be seen; those few were unarmed, and appeared the effigies of fallen greatness. As the Earl crossed the platform, the remembrance of the past crowded upon his mind. The agonies which he had there suffered, � the image of death which glared upon his sight, aggravated by the bitter and ignominious circumstances which attended his fate; the figure of Malcolm, mighty in injustice, and cruel in power; whose countenance, smiling horribly in triumphant revenge, sent to his heart the stroke of anguish; � each circumstance of torture arose to his imagination in the glowing colours of truth; he shuddered as he passed; and the contrast of the present scene touched his heart with the most affecting sentiments. He saw the innate and active power of justice, which pervades all the circumstances even of this life like vital principle, and shines through the obscurity of human actions to the virtuous, the pure ray of Heaven; � to the guilty, the destructive glare of lightning.

On enquiring for the Baroness, they were told she was in the apartment of Malcolm, whose moment of dissolution was now approaching. The name of the Count was delivered to the Baroness, and overheard by the Baron, who desired to see him. Louisa went out to receive her noble relation with all the joy which a meeting so desirable and so unlooked for, could inspire. On seeing Osbert, her tears flowed fast, and she thanked him for his generous care, in a manner that declared a deep sense of his services. Leaving him, she conducted the Count to Malcolm, who lay on his couch surrounded with the stillness and horrors of death. He raised his languid head, and discovered a countenance wild and terrific, whose ghastly aspect was overspread with the paleness of death. The beauteous Laura, overcome by the scene, hung like a drooping lily over his couch, dropping fast her tears. �My lord,� said Malcolm, in a low tone, �you see before you a wretch, anxious to relieve the agony of a guilty mind. My vices have destroyed the peace of this lady, � have robbed her of a son-but she will disclose to you the secret guilt, which I have now no time to tell: I have for some years received, as you now well know, the income of those foreign lands which are her due; as a small reparation for the injuries she has sustained, I bequeath to her all the possessions which I lawfully inherit, and resign her into your protection. To ask oblivion of the past of you, Madam, and of you, my Lord, is what I dare not do; yet it would be some consolation to my departing spirit, to be assured of your forgiveness.� The Baroness was too much affected to reply but by a look of assent; the Count assured him of forgiveness, and besought him to compose his mind for his approaching fate. �Composure, my Lord, is not for me; my Life has been marked with vice, and my death with the bitterness of fruitless remorse. I have understood virtue, but I have loved vice. I do not now lament that I am punished, but that I have deserved punishment.� The Baron sunk on his couch, and in a few moments after expired in a strong sigh. Thus terminated the life of a man, whose understanding might have reached the happiness of virtue, but whose actions displayed the features of vice.

From this melancholy scene, the Baroness, with the Count and Laura, retired to her apartment, where the Earl awaited their return with anxious solicitude. The sternness of justice for a moment relaxed when he heard of Malcolm�s death; his heart would have sighed with compassion, had not the remembrance of his father crossed his mind, and checked the impulse. �I can now, Madam,� said he, addressing the Baroness, �restore you a part of those possessions which were once your Lord�s, and which ought to have been the inheritance of your son; this castle from henceforth is yours; I resign it to its lawful owner.� The Baroness was overcome with the remembrance of his services, and could scarcely thank him but with her tears. The servant whom the Baron had mentioned as the confidant of his iniquities, was sent for, and interrogated concerning the infant he had charge of. From him, however, little comfort was received; for he could only tell that he had conveyed the child, by the orders of his master, to a cottage on the furthest borders of his estates, where he had delivered it to the care of a woman, who there lived with her husband. These people received at the same time a sum of money for its support, with a promise of future supplies. For some years he had been punctual in the payment of the sums entrusted to him by the Baron, but at length he yielded to the temptation of withholding them for his own use; and on enquiring for the people some years after, he found they were gone from the place. The conditions of the Baroness�s pardon to the man depended on his endeavours to repair the injury he had promoted, by a strict search for the people to whom he had committed her child. She now consulted with her friends on the best means to be pursued in this business, and immediately sent off messengers to different parts of the country to gather information.

The Baroness was now released from oppression and imprisonment; she was reinstated in her ancient possessions, to which were added all the hereditary lands of Malcolm, together with his personal fortune: she was surrounded by those whom she most loved, and in the midst of a people who loved her; yet the consequence of the Baron�s guilt had left in her heart one drop of gall which embittered each source of happiness, and made her life melancholy and painful.

The Count was now her visitor; she was much consoled by his presence; and Laura�s hours were often enlivened by the conversation of the Earl, to whom her heart was tenderly attached, and whose frequent visits to the castle were devoted to love and her.

The felicity of Matilda now appeared as perfect and as permanent as is consistent with the nature of sublunary beings. Justice was done to the memory of her Lord, and her beloved son was spared to bless the evening of her days. The father of Laura had ever been friendly to the house of Athlin, and her delicacy felt no repugnance to the union which Osbert solicited. But her happiness, whatever it might appear, was incomplete; she saw the settled melancholy of Mary, for love still corroded her heart and notwithstanding her efforts, shaded her countenance. The Countess wished to produce those nuptials with the Count which she thought would re-establish the peace of her child, and insure her future felicity. She omitted no opportunity of pressing his suit, which she managed with a delicacy that rendered it less painful to Mary; whose words, however, were few in reply, and who could seldom bear that the subject should ever be long continued. Her settled aversion to the addresses of the Count, at length baffled the expectations of Matilda, and shewed her the fallacy of her efforts. She thought it improper to suffer the Count any longer to nourish in his heart a vain hope; and she reluctantly commissioned the Earl to undeceive him on this point.

With the Baroness, month after month still elapsed in fruitless search of her son; the people with whom he had been placed were no where to be found, and no track was discovered which might lead to the truth. The distress of the Baroness can only be imagined; she resigned herself, in calm despair, to mourn in silence the easy confidence which had entrusted her child to the care of those who had betrayed him. Though happiness was denied her, she was unwilling to withhold it from those whom it awaited; and at length yielded to the entreaties of the Earl, and became its advocate with Laura, for the nuptials which were to unite their fate.

The Earl introduced the Countess and Mary to the castle of Dunbayne. Similarity of sentiment and disposition united Matilda and the Baroness in a lasting friendship. Mary and Laura were not less pleased with each other. The dejection of the Count at sight of Mary, declared the ardour of his passion, and would have awakened in her breast something more than compassion, had not her heart been pre-occupied. Alleyn, who could think of Mary only, wandered through the castle of Athlin a solitary being, who fondly haunts the spot where his happiness lies buried. His prudence formed resolutions, which his passion as quickly broke; and cheated by love, though followed by despair, he delayed his departure from day to day, and the illusion of yesterday continued to be the illusion of the morrow. The Earl, attached to his virtues, and grateful for his services, would have bestowed on him every honour but that alone which could give him happiness, and which his pride would have suffered him to accept. Yet the honours which he refused, he refused with a grace so modest, as to conciliate kindness rather than wound generosity.

In a gallery on the North side of the castle, which was filled with pictures of the family, hung a portrait of Mary. She was drawn in the dress which she wore on the day of the festival, when she was led by the Earl into the hall, and presented as the partner of Alleyn. The likeness was striking, and expressive of all the winning grace of the original. As often as Alleyn could steal from observation, be retired to this gallery, to contemplate the portrait of her who was ever present to his imagination: here he could breath that sigh which her presence restrained, and shed those tears which her presence forbade to flow. As he stood one day in this place wrapt in melancholy musing, his ear was struck with the notes of sweet music; they seemed to issue from the bottom of the gallery. The instrument was touched with an exquisite expression, and in a voice whose tones floated on the air in soft undulations, he distinguished the following words, which he remembered to be an ode composed by the Earl, and presented to Mary, who had set it to music the day before.

MORNING

Darkness! through thy chilling glooms
Weakly trembles twilight grey;
Twilight fades-and Morning comes,
And melts thy shadows swift away!

She comes in her �therial car,
Involv�d in many a varying hue;
And thro� the azure shoots afar,
Spirit-light-and life anew!

Her breath revives the drooping flowers,
Her ray dissolves the dews of night;
Recalls the sprightly-moving hours.
And the green scene unveils in light!

Her�s the fresh gale that wanders wild
O�er mountain top, and dewy glade;
And fondly steals the breath, beguil�d,
Of ev�ry flow�r in every shade.

Mother of Roses-bright Aurora! � hail!
Thee shall the chorus of the hours salute,
And song of early birds from ev�ry vale,
And blithesome horn, and fragrant zephyr mute!

And oft as rising o�er the plain,
Thou and thy roseate Nymphs appear,
This simple song in choral strain,
From rapturing Bards shall meet thine ear.

CHORUS

Dance ye lightly-lightly on!
�Tis the bold lark thro� the air,
Hails your beauties with his song;
Lightly-lightly fleeting fair!

Entranced in the sweet sounds, he had proceeded some steps down the gallery, when the music ceased. He stopped. After a short pause it returned, and as he advanced he distinguished these words, sung in a low voice mournfully sweet:

In solitude I mourn thy reign,
Ah! youth beloved-but loved in vain!

The voice was broken and lost in sobs; the chords of the lute were wildly struck: and in a few moments silence ensued. He stepped on towards the spot whence the sounds had proceeded, and through a door which was left open, he discovered Mary hanging over her lute dissolved in tears. He stood for some moments absorbed in mute admiration, and unobserved by Mary, who was lost in her tears, till a sigh which escaped him, recalled her to reality; she raised her eyes, and beheld the object of her secret sorrows. She arose in confusion; the blush on her cheek betrayed her heart; she was retiring in haste from Alleyn, who remained at the entrance of the room the statue of despair, when she was intercepted by the Earl, who entered by the door she was opening; her eyes were red with weeping; he glanced on her a look of surprize and displeasure, and passed on to the gallery followed by Alleyn, who was now awakened from his trance. �From you Alleyn,� said the Earl, in a tone of displeasure, �I expected other conduct; on your word I relied, and your word has deceived me.� �Hear me, my Lord,� returned the youth, �your confidence I have never abused; hear me.� �I have now no time for parley,� replied Osbert, �my moments are precious; some future hour of leisure may suffice.� So saying, he walked away, with an abrupt haughtiness, which touched the soul of Alleyn, who disdained to pursue him with further explanation. He was now completely wretched. The same accident which had unveiled to him the heart of Mary, and the full extent of that happiness which fate with-held, confirmed him in despair. The same accident had exposed the delicacy of her he loved to a cruel shock, and had subjected his honour to suspicion; and to a severe rebuke from him, by whom it was his pride to be respected, and for whose safety he had suffered imprisonment, and encountered death.

Mary had quitted the closet distressed and perplexed. She perceived the mistake of the Earl, and it shocked her. She wished to undeceive him; but he was gone to the castle of Dunbayne, to pay one of those visits which were soon to conclude in the nuptials, and whence he did not return till evening. The scene which he had witnessed in the morning, involved him in tumult of distress. He considered the mutual passion which filled the bosom of his sister and Alleyn; he had surprized them in a solitary apartment; he had observed the tender and melancholy air of Alleyn, and the tears and confusion of Mary; and he at first did not hesitate to believe that the interview had been appointed. In the heat of his displeasure he had rejected the explanation of Alleyn with a haughty resentment, which the late scene alone could have excited, and which the delusion it had occasioned alone could excuse. Cooler consideration however, brought to his mind the delicacy and the amiable pride of Mary, and the integrity of Alleyn; and he accused himself of a too hasty decision. The zealous services of Alleyn came to his heart; he repented that he had treated him so rigorously; and on his return enquired for him, that he might hear an explanation, and that he might soften the asperity of his former behaviour.

CHAPTER XI

ALLEYN was no where to be found. The Earl went himself in quest of him, but without success. As he returned from the terrace, chagrined and disappointed, he observed two persons cross the platform at some distance before him; and he could perceive by the dim moon-light which fell upon the spot, that they were not of the castle. He called to them: no answer was returned; but at the sound of his voice they quickened their pace and almost instantly disappeared in the darkness of the ramparts. Surprized at this phenomenon, the Earl followed with hasty steps, and endeavoured to pursue the way they had taken. He walked on silently, but there was no sound to direct his steps. When he came to the extremity of the rampart, which formed the North angle of the castle, he stopped to examine the spot, and to listen if any thing was stirring. No person was to be seen, and all was hushed. After he had stood some time surveying the rampart, he heard the low restrained voice of a person unknown, but the distance prevented his distinguishing the subject of the conversation. The voice seemed to approach the place where he stood. He drew his sword, and watched in silence their motions. They continued to advance, till, suddenly stopping, they turned, and took a long survey of the fabric. Their discourse was conducted in a low tone; but the Earl could discover by the vehemence of their gesture, and the caution of their steps, that they were upon some design dangerous to the peace of the castle. Having finished their examination, they turned again towards the place where the Earl still remained; the shade of a high turret concealed him from their view, and they continued to approach till they arrived within a short space of him, when they turned through a ruined arch-way of the castle, and were lost in the dark recesses of the pile. Astonished at what he had seen, Osbert hastened to the castle, whence he dispatched some of his people in search of the unknown fugitives; he accompanied some of his domestics to the spot where they had last disappeared. They entered the arch-way, which led to a decayed part of the castle; they followed over broken pavement the remains of a passage, which was closed by a low obscure door almost concealed from sight by the thick ivy which overshadowed it. On opening this door, they descended a flight of steps which led under the castle, so extremely narrow and broken as to make the descent both difficult and dangerous. The powerful damps of long pent-up vapours extinguished their light, and the Earl and his attendants were compelled to remain in utter darkness, while one of them went round to the habitable part of the castle to relume the lamp. While they awaited in silence the return of light, a short breathing was distinctly heard at intervals, near the place where they stood. The servants shook with fear, and the Earl was not wholly unmoved. They remained entirely silent, listening its return, when a sound of footsteps slowly stealing through the vault, startled them. The Earl demanded who passed; � he was answered only by the deep echoes of his voice. They clashed their swords and had advanced, when the steps hastily retired before them. The Earl rushed forward, pursuing the sound, till overtaking the person who fled, he seized him; a short scuffle ensued; the strength of Osbert was too powerful for his antagonist, who was nearly overcome, when the point of a sword from an unknown hand pierced his side, he relinquished his grasp, and fell to the ground. His domestics, whom the activity of their master had outran, now came up; but the assassins, whoever they were, had accomplished their escape, for the sound of their steps was quickly lost in the distance of the vaults. They endeavored to raise the Earl, who lay speechless on the ground; but they knew not how to convey him from that place of horror, for they were yet in total darkness, and unacquainted with the place. In this situation, every moment of delay seemed an age. Some of them tried to find their way to the entrance, but their efforts were defeated by the darkness, and the ruinous situation of the place. The light at length appeared, and discovered the Earl insensible, and weltering in his blood. He was conveyed into the castle, where the horror of the Countess on seeing him borne into the hall, may be easily imagined. By the help of proper applications he was restored to life; his wound was examined, and found to be dangerous; he was carried to bed in a state which gave very faint hopes of recovery. The astonishment of the Countess, on hearing the adventure, was equalled only by her distress. All her conjectures concerning the designs, and the identity of the assassin, were vague and uncertain. She knew not on whom to fix the stigma; nor could discover any means by which to penetrate this mysterious affair. The people who had remained in the vaults to pursue the search, now returned to Matilda. Every recess of the castle, and every part of the ramparts, had been explored, yet no one could be found; and the mystery of the proceeding was heightened by the manner in which the men had effected their escape.


Mary watched over her brother in silent anguish, yet she strove to conceal her distress, that she might encourage the Countess to hope. The Countess endeavoured to resign herself to the event with a kind of desperate fortitude. There is a certain point of misery, beyond which the mind becomes callous, and acquires a sort of artificial calm. Excess of misery may be said to blast the vital powers of feeling, and by a natural consequence consumes its own principle. Thus it was with Matilda; a long succession of trials had reduced her to a state of horrid tranquillity, which followed the first shock of the present event. It was not so with Laura; young in misfortune, and gay in hope, she saw happiness fade from her grasp, with a warmth of feeling untouched by the chill of disappointment. When the news of the Earl�s situation reached her, she was overcome with affliction, and pined in silent anguish. The Count hastened to Osbert, but grief sat heavy at his heart, and he had no power to offer to others the comfort which he wanted himself.

A fever, which was the consequence of his wounds, added to the danger of the Earl, and to the despair of his family. During this period, Alleyn had not been seen at the castle; and his absence at this time, raised in Mary a variety of distressing apprehensions. Osbert enquired for him, and wished to see him. The servant who had been sent to his father�s cottage, brought word that it was some days since he had been there, and that nobody knew whither he was gone. The surprize was universal; but the effect it produced was various and opposite. A collection of strange and concomitant circumstances, now forced a suspicion on the mind of the Countess, which her heart, and the remembrance of the former conduct of Alleyn, at once condemned. She had heard of what passed between the Earl and him in the gallery; his immediate absence, the event which followed, and his subsequent flight, formed a chain of evidence which compelled her, with the utmost reluctance, to believe him concerned in the affair which had once more involved her house in misery. Mary had too much confidence in her knowledge of his character, to admit a suspicion of this nature. She rejected, with instant disdain, the idea of uniting Alleyn with dishonour; and that he should be guilty of an action so base as the present, soared beyond all the bounds of possibility. Yet she felt a strange solicitude concerning him, and apprehension for his safety tormented her incessantly. The anguish in which he had quitted the apartment, her brother�s injurious treatment, and his consequent absence, all conspired to make her fear that despair had driven him to commit some act of violence on himself.

The Earl, in the delirium of the fever, raved continually of Laura and of Alleyn; they were the sole subjects of his ramblings. Seizing one day the hand of Mary, who sat mournfully by his bed-side, and looking for some time pensively in her face, �weep not, my Laura,� said he, �Malcolm, nor all the powers on earth shall tear you from me; his walls-his guards- what are they? I�ll wrest you from his hold, or perish. I have a friend whose valour will do much for us; � a friend-O! name him not; these are strange times; beware of trusting. I could have given him my very life-but not-I will not name him.� Then starting to the other side of the bed, and looking earnestly towards the door with an expression of sorrow not to be described, �not all the miseries which my worst enemy has heaped upon me; not all the horrors of imprisonment and death, have ever touched my soul with a sting so sharp as thy unfaithfulness.� Mary was so much shocked by this scene, that she left the room and retired to her own apartment to indulge the agony of grief it occasioned.

The situation of the Earl grew daily more alarming; and the fever, which had not yet reached its crisis, kept the hopes and fears of his family suspended. In one of his lucid intervals, addressing himself to the Countess in the most pathetic manner, he requested, that as death might probably soon separate him for ever from her he most loved, he might see Laura once again before he died. She came, and weeping over him, a scene of anguish ensued too poignant for description. He gave her his last vows; she took of him a last look; and with a breaking heart tearing herself away, was carried to Dunbayne in a state of danger little inferior to his.

The agitation he had suffered during this interview, caused a return of phrenzy more violent than any fit he had yet suffered; exhausted by it, he at length sunk into a sleep, which continued without interruption for near four and twenty hours. During this time his repose was quiet and profound, and afforded the Countess and Mary, who watched him alternately, the consolations of hope. When he awoke he was perfectly sensible, and in a very altered state from that he had been in a few hours before. The crisis of the disorder was now past, and from that time it rapidly declined till he was restored to perfect health.

The joy of Laura, whose health gradually returned with returning peace, and that of his family, was such as the merits of the Earl deserved. This joy, however, suffered a short interruption from the Count of Santmorin, who, entering one morning the apartment of the Baroness, with letters in his hand, came to acquaint her that he had just received news of the death of a distant relation, who had bequeathed him some estates of value, to which it was necessary he should immediately lay claim; and that he was, therefore, obliged, however reluctantly, to set off for Switzerland without delay. Though the Baroness rejoiced with all his friends, at his good fortune, she regretted, with them, the necessity of his abrupt departure. He took leave of them, and particularly of Mary, for whom his passion was still the same, with much emotion; and it was some time ere the space he had left in their society was filled up, and ere they resumed their wonted cheerfulness.

Preparations were now making for the approaching nuptials, and the day of their celebration was at length fixed. The ceremony was to be performed in a chapel belonging to the castle of Dunbayne, by the chaplain of the Baroness. Mary only was to attend as bride-maid; and the Countess also, with the Baroness, was to be present. The absence of the Count was universally regretted; for from his hand the Earl was to have received his bride. The office was now to be supplied by a neighbouring Laird, whom the family of the Baroness had long esteemed. At the earnest request of Laura, Mary consented to spend the night preceding the day of marriage, at the castle of Dunbayne. The day so long and so anxiously expected by the Earl at length arrived. The morning was extremely fine, and the joy which glowed in his heart seemed to give additional splendour to the scene around him. He set off, accompanied by the Countess, for the castle of Dunbayne. He anticipated the joy with which he should soon retrace the way he then travelled, with Laura by his side, whom death alone could then separate from him. On their arrival they were received by the Baroness, who enquired for Mary; and the Countess and Osbert were thrown into the utmost consternation, when they learned that she had not been seen at the castle. The nuptials were again deferred; the castle was a scene of universal confusion. The Earl returned home instantly to dispatch his people in search of Mary. On enquiry, he learned that the servants who had attended her, had not been heard of since their departure with their lady. Still more alarmed by this intelligence he rode himself in pursuit, yet not knowing which course
to take. Several days were employed in a fruitless search; no footstep of her flight could be traced.

CHAPTER XII

MARY, in the mean time, suffered all the terror which her situation could excite. On her way to Dunbayne, she had been overtaken by a party of armed men, who seized her bridle, and after engaging her servants in a feigned resistance, carried her off senseless. On recovering, she found herself travelling through a forest, whose glooms were deepened by the shades of night. The moon, which was now up, glancing through the trees, served to shew the dreary aspect of the place, and the number of men who surrounded her; and she was seized with a terror that almost deprived her of reason. They travelled all night, during which a profound silence was observed. At the dawn of day she found herself on the skirts of a heath, to whose wide desolation her eye could discover no limits. Before they entered on the waste, they halted at the entrance of a cave, formed in a rock, which was overhung with pine and fir; where, spreading their breakfast on the grass, they offered refreshments to Mary, whose mind was too much distracted to suffer her to partake of them. She implored them in the most moving accents, to tell her from whom they came, and whither they were carrying her; but they were insensible to her tears and her entreaties, and she was compelled to await, in silent terror, the extremity of her fate. They pursued their journey over the wilds, and towards the close of day approached the ruins of an abbey, whose broken arches and lonely towers arose in gloomy grandeur through the obscurity of evening. It stood the solitary inhabitant of the waste, � a monument of mortality and of ancient superstition, and the frowning majesty of its aspect seemed to command silence and veneration. The chilly dews fell thick, and Mary, fatigued in body, and harassed in mind, lay almost expiring on her horse, when they stopped under an arch of the ruin. She was not so ill as to be insensible to the objects around her; the awful solitude of the place. and the solemn aspect of the fabric, whose effect was heightened by the falling glooms of evening, chilled her heart with horror; and when they took her from the horse, she shrieked in the agonies of a last despair. They bore her over loose stones to a part of the building, which had been formerly the cloisters of the abbey, but which was now fallen to decay, and overgrown with ivy. There was, however, at the extremity of these cloisters a nook, which had withstood with hardier strength the ravages of time; the roof was here entire, and the shattered stanchions of the casements still remained. Hither they carried Mary, and laid her almost lifeless on the grassy pavement, while some of the ruffians hastened to light a fire of the heath and sticks they could pick up. They took out their provisions, and placed themselves round the fire, where they had not long been seated, when the sound of distant thunder foretold an approaching storm. A violent storm, accompanied with peals which shook the pile, came on. They were sheltered from the heaviness of the rain; but the long and vivid flashes of lightning which glanced through the casements, alarmed them all. The shrieks of Mary were loud and continued; and the fears of the ruffians did not prevent their uttering dreadful imprecations at her distress. One of them, in the fury of his resentment, swore she should be gagged; and seizing her resistless hands to execute the purpose, her cries redoubled. The servants who had betrayed her, were not yet so entirely lost to the feelings of humanity, as to stand regardless of her present distress; though they could not resist the temptations of a bribe, they were unwilling their lady should be loaded with unnecessary misery. They opposed the ruffians; a dispute ensued; and the violence of the contest arose so high, that they determined to fight for the decision. Amid the peals of thunder, the oaths and execrations of the combatants, added terror to the scene. The strength of the ruffians were superior to that of their opponents; and Mary; beholding victory deciding against herself, uttered a loud scream, when the attention of the whole party was surprized by the sound of a footstep in the cloister. Immediately after a man rushed into the place, and drawing his sword, demanded the cause of the tumult. Mary, who lay almost expiring on the ground, now raised her eyes; but what were her sensations, when she raised them to Alleyn-who now stood before her petrified with horror. Before he could fly to her assistance, the attacks of the ruffians obliged him to defend himself; he parried their blows for some time, but he must inevitably have yielded to the force of numbers, had not the trampling of feet, which fast approached, called off for a moment their attention. In an instant the place was filled with men. The astonishment of Alleyn was, if possible, now increased; for the Earl, followed by a party, now entered. The Earl, when he perceived Alleyn, stood at the entrance, aghast. � But resuming his firmness, he bade him defend himself. The loud voice of Osbert re-called Mary, and observing their menacing attitudes, she collected just strength sufficient to throw herself between them. Alleyn dropped his sword, and raised her from the ground; when the Earl rudely pushed him away, and snatched her to his heart. �Hear me, Osbert,� was all she could say. �Declare who brought her hither,� said the Earl sternly to Alleyn. �I know not,� replied he, �you must ask those men whom your people have secured. If my life is hateful to you, strike! and spare me the anguish of defending it against the brother of Mary.� The Earl hesitated in surprize, and the generosity of Alleyn called a blush into his face. He was going to have replied, but was interrupted by some of his men, who had been engaged in a sharp contest with the ruffians, two of whom they had secured, and now brought to their lord; the rest were fled. In the person of one of them, the Earl discovered his own servant, who sinking in his presence with conscious guilt, fell on his knees imploring mercy. �Wretch,� said the Earl, seizing him, and holding his sword over his head, �declare by whose authority you have acted, and all you know of the affair; � remember your life depends on the truth of your assertions.� �I�ll tell the truth, my Lord,� replied the trembling wretch, �and nothing else as I hope for mercy. About three weeks ago, � no, it is not so much; about a fortnight ago, when I was sent on a message to the lady Malcolm, the Count de Santmorin�s gentleman-� �The Count de Santmorin!� re-echoed the whole company. �But proceed,� said Osbert. �The Count de Santmorin�s gentleman called me into a private room, where he told me to wait for his master, who would soon be there.� �Be quick,� said the Earl, �proceed to facts.� �I will, my lord; the Count came, and said to me, �Robert, I have observed you, and I think you can be faithful,� he said so, my lord, � God forgive me!� �Well-well, proceed.� �Where was I?� � �Oh! he said, �I think you can be faithful.�� � �Good God! this is beyond endurance; you trifle, rascal, with my patience, to give your associates time for escape; be brief, or you die.� �I will, my lord, as I hope for life. He took from his pocket a handful of gold, which he gave me; � �can you be secret, Robert?� said he, � �yes, my lord Count,� said I, God forgive me! � �Then observe what I say to you. You often attend your young lady in her rides to Dunbayne.�� � �What, then it was the Count de Santmorin who commissioned you to undertake this scheme!� �Not me only, my lord.� �Answer my question; was the Count the author of this plot?� �He was, my lord.� �And where is he?� said Osbert, in a stern voice. �I know not, as I am a living creature. He embarked, as you know, my lord, not far from the castle of Dunbayne, and we were travelling to a distant part of the coast to meet him, when we were all to have set sail for Switzerland.� �You cannot be ignorant of the place of your destination,� said the Earl, turning to the other prisoner; �where is your employer?� �That is not for me to tell,� said he, in a sullen tone. �Reveal the truth,� said the Earl, turning towards him the point of his sword, �or we will find a way to make you.� �The place where we were to meet the Count, had no name.� �You know the way to it.� �I do.� �Then lead me thither.� �Never!� � �Never! Your life shall answer the refusal,� said Osbert, pointing the sword to his breast. �Strike!� said the Count, throwing off the cloak which had concealed him; �strike! and rid me of a being which passion has made hateful to me; � strike! � and make the first moment of my entering this place, the last of my guilt.� A faint scream was uttered by Mary; the small remains of her strength forsook her, and she sunk on the pavement. The Earl started a few steps back, and stood suspended in wonder. The looks of the whole group defy description. �Take a sword,� said the Earl, recovering himself, �and defend your life.� �Never, my lord, never! Though I have been hurried by the force of passion to rob you of a sister, I will not aggravate my guilt by the murder of the brother. Your life has already been once endangered through my means, though not by my design; Heaven knows the anguish which that accident cost me. The impetuosity of passion impelled me onward with irresistible fury; it urged me to violate the sacred duties of gratitude, of friendship-and of humanity. To live in shame, and in the consciousness of guilt, is a living death. With your sword do justice to yourself and virtue; and spare me the misery of long comparing what I am, with what I was.� �Away, you trifle,� said the Earl, �defend yourself.� The Count repeated his refusal. �And you, villain,� said Osbert, turning to the man who had confessed the plot, �you pretended ignorance of the presence of the Count; your perfidy shall be rewarded.� �As I now plead for mercy, my lord, I knew not he was here.� �The fellow speaks truth,� said the Count, �he was ignorant of the place where he was to meet me. I was approaching this spot to discover myself to the dear object of my passion, when your people surprized and took me.� Mary confirmed the testimony of the Count, by declaring that she had not till that moment seen him since she quitted the castle of Dunbayne. She pleaded for his life, and also for the servants, who had opposed the cruelty of their comrades. �I am no assassin,� said the Earl, �let the Count take a sword, and fight me on equal terms.� � �Shall virtue be reduced to an equality with vice?� said the Count, �No, my lord, � plunge your sword in my heart, and expiate my guilt.� The Earl still urged him to defence; and the Count still persisted in refusal. Touched by the recollection of past friendship, and grieved that a soul like the Count�s should ever be under the dominion of vice, Osbert threw down his sword, and, overcome with a sort of tenderness-�Go, my lord, your person is safe; and if it is necessary to your peace, � stretching forth his hand, � take my forgiveness.� The Count, overcome by his generosity, and by a sense of his own unworthiness, shrunk back: �Forbear, my lord, to wound by your goodness, a mind already too sensible of its own debasement; nor excite, by your generosity, a remorse too keen to be endured. Your reproaches I can bear, � your vengeance I solicit! � but your kindness inflicts a torture too exquisite for my soul.� �Never, my lord,� continued he, the big tear swelling in his eye, �never more shall your friendship be polluted by my unworthiness. Since you will not satisfy justice, by taking my life, I go to lose it in the obscurity of distant regions. Yet, ere I go, suffer me to make one last request to you, and to that dear lady whom I have thus injured, and on whom my eyes now gaze for the last time, � suffer me to hope that you will blot from your memory the existence of Santmorin.� He concluded the sentence with a groan, which vibrated upon the hearts of all present; and without waiting for a reply, hurried from the scene. The Earl had turned away his head in pity, and when he again looked round to reply, perceived that the Count was departed; he followed his steps through the cloister, � he called-but he was gone.


Alleyn had observed the Count with a mixture of pity and admiration; and he sighed for the weakness of human nature. �How,� said the Earl, returning eagerly to Alleyn, � �how can I recompense you for my injurious suspicions, and my injurious treatment? � How can you forgive, or I forget, my injustice? But the mystery of this affair, and the doubtful appearance of circumstances, must speak for me.� �O! let us talk no more of this, my lord,� replied Alleyn; with emotion; �let us only rejoice at the safety of our dear lady, and offer her the comfort she is so much in want of.� The fire was re- kindled, and the Earl�s servants laid before him some wine, and other provisions. Mary, who had not tasted any food since she left the castle, now took some wine; it revived her, and enabled her to take other nourishment. She enquired, what happy circumstance had enabled the Earl to trace her route. �Ever since I discovered your flight,� said he, �I have been in pursuit of you. Chance directed me over these wilds, when I was driven by the storm to seek shelter among these ruins. The light, and an uproar of voices, drew me to the cloister, where, to my unutterable astonishment, I discovered you and Alleyn: Spare me the remembrance of what followed.� Mary wished to enquire what brought Alleyn to the place; but delicacy kept her silent. Osbert, however, whose anxiety for his sister had hitherto allowed him to attend only to her, now relieved her from the pain of lengthened suspense. �By what strange accident was you brought hither?� said he to Alleyn, �and what motive has induced you so long to absent yourself from the castle?� At the last question, Alleyn blushed, and an involuntary sigh escaped him. Mary understood the blush and the sigh, and awaited his reply in trembling emotion. �I fled, my lord, from your displeasure, and to tear myself from an object too dangerous, alas! for my peace. I sought to wear away in absence, a passion which must ever be hopeless, but which, I now perceive, is interwoven with my existence. � But forgive, my lord, the intrusion of a subject which is painful to us all. With some money, and a few provisions, I left my father�s cottage; and since that time have wandered over the country a forlorn and miserable being, passing my nights in the huts which chance threw in my way, and designing to travel onward, and to enlist myself in the service of my country. Night overtook me on these wastes, and as I walked on comfortless and bewildered, I was alarmed by distant cries of distress. I quickened my pace; but the sound which should have directed my steps was ceased, and chilling silence ensued. As I stood musing, and uncertain which course to take, I observed a feeble light break through the gloom; I endeavoured to follow its rays; it led me to these ruins, whose solemn appearance struck me with a momentary dread. A confused murmur of voices from within struck my ear; as I stood hesitating whether to enter, I again heard those shrieks which had alarmed me. I followed the sound; it led me to the entrance of this cloister, at the extremity of which I discovered a party of men engaged in fight; I drew my sword and rushed forward; and the sensations which I felt, on perceiving the lady Mary, cannot be expressed!� �Still-still Heaven destines you the deliverer of Mary!� said the Earl, gratitude swelling in his eyes; �O! that I could remove that obstacle which withholds you from your just reward.� A responsive sigh stole from Alleyn, and he remained silent. Never was the struggle of opposing feelings more violent, than that which now agitated the bosom of the Earl. The worth of Alleyn arose more conspicuously bright from every shade with which misfortune had veiled it. His noble and disinterested enthusiasm in the cause of justice, had attached him to the Earl, and had engaged him in a course of enterprizes and of dangers, which it required valour to undertake, and skill and perseverance to perform; and which had produced services for which no adequate reward could be found. He had rescued the Earl from captivity and death; and had twice preserved Mary in dangers. All these circumstances arose in strong reflection to the mind of Osbert; but the darkness of prejudice and ancient pride, opposed their influence, and weakened their effect.

The joy which Mary felt on seeing Alleyn in safety, and still worthy of the esteem she had ever bore him, was dashed by the bitterness of reflection; and reflection imparted a melancholy which added to the langour of illness. At the dawn of day they quitted the abbey, and set forward on their return to the castle; the Earl insisting upon Alleyn�s accompanying them. On the way, the minds of the party were variously and silently engaged. The Earl ruminated on the conduct of Alleyn, and the late scene. Mary dwelt chiefly on the virtues of her lover, and on the dangers she had escaped; and Alleyn mused on his defeated purposes, and anticipated future trials. The Earl�s thoughts, however, were not so wholly occupied, as to prevent his questioning the servant who had been employed by the Count, concerning the further particulars of his scheme. The words of the Count, importing that he had once already endangered his life, had not escaped the notice of the Earl; though they were uttered in a moment of too much distraction to suffer him to demand an explanation. He now enquired of the man, concerning the mysterious scene of the vaults. �You, I suppose, are not ignorant who were the persons from whom I received my wound.� �I, my lord, had no concern in that affair; wicked as I am, I could not raise my hands against your life.� �But you know who did.� �I� I� ye-yes, my lord, I was afterwards told. But they did not mean to hurt your lordship.� �Not mean to hurt me! � What then were their designs, and who were the people?� �That accident happened long before the Count ever spoke to me of his purpose. Indeed, my lord, I had no hand in it; and Heaven knows how I grieved for your lordship; and-� �Well-well, inform me, who were the persons in the vaults, and what were their design.� �I was told by a fellow servant; but he made me promise to be secret; but it is proper your lordship should know all; and I hope your lordship will forgive me for having listened to it, � �Robert,� said he, as we were talking one day of what had happened, � �Robert,� said he, �there is more in this matter than you, or any body thinks; but it is not for me to tell all I know.� With that, I begged he would tell me what he knew; he still kept refusing. I promised him faithfully I would not tell; and so at last he told me-�Why, there is my lord Count there, he is in love with our young lady; and to be sure as sweet a lady she is, as ever eyes looked upon; but she don�t like him; and so finding himself refused, he is determined to marry her at any rate; and means some night to get into the castle, and carry her off.�� �What, then! � was it the Count who wounded me? � Be quick in your relation.� �No, my lord, it was not the Count himself-but two of his people, whom he had sent to examine the castle; and particularly the windows of my young lady�s apartment, from whence he designed to have carried her, when every thing was ready for execution. Those men were let within the walls through a way under ground, which leads into the vaults, by my fellow servant, as I afterwards was told; and they escaped through the same way. Their meeting with your lordship was accidental, and they fought only in self-defence; for they had no orders to attack any body.� �And who is the villain that connived at this scheme!� �It was my fellow servant, who fled with the Count�s people, whom he himself let within the ramparts. Forgive me, my lord; but I did not dare tell; he threatened my life, if I betrayed the secret.�

After a journey of fatigue and unpleasant reflections, they arrived, on the second morning at the castle of Athlin. The Countess, during the absence of her son, had endured a state of dreadful suspense. The Baroness, in her friendship, had endeavoured to soothe her distress, by her constant presence; she was engaged in this amiable office when the trampling of horses in the court reached the ears of Matilda. �It is my son,� said she, rising from her chair! � �it is my son; he brings me life or death!� She said no more, but rushed into the hall, and in a moment after clasped her almost expiring daughter to her bosom. The transport of the scene repelled utterance; sobs and tears were all that could be given. The general joy, however, was suddenly interrupted by the Baroness, who had followed Matilda into the hall; and who now fell senseless to the ground; delight yielded to surprize, and to the business of assisting the object of it. On recovering, the Baroness looked wildly round her; � �Was it a vision that I saw, or a reality?� The whole company moved their eyes round the hall, but could discover nothing extraordinary. �It was himself; his very air, his features; that benign countenance which I have so often contemplated in imagination!� Her eyes still seemed in search of some ideal object; and they began to doubt whether a sudden phrenzy had not seized her brain. �Ah! again!� said she, and instantly relapsed. Their eyes were now turned towards the door, on which she had gazed; it was Alleyn who entered, with water which he had brought for the Countess, and on whom the attention of all present was centered. He approached ignorant of what had happened; and his surprize was great, when the Baroness, reviving, fixed her eyes mournfully upon him, and asked him to uncover his arm. � �It is, � it is my Philip!� said she, with strong emotion; �I have, indeed, found my long lost child; that strawberry on his arm confirms the decision. Send for the man who calls himself your father, and for my servant Patrick.� The sensations of the mother and the son may be more easily conceived than described; those of Mary were little inferior to theirs; and the whole company awaited with trembling eagerness the arrival of the two persons whose testimony was to decide this interesting affair. They came. �This young man you call your son?� said the Baroness. �I do, an� please your ladyship,� he replied, with a degree of confusion which belied his words. When Patrick came, his instant surprize on seeing the old man, declared the truth. �Do you know this person?� said the Baroness to Patrick. �Yes, my lady, I know him too well; it was to him I gave your infant son.� The old man started with surprize-�Is that youth the son of your ladyship?� �Yes!� �Then God forgive me for having thus long detained him from you! but I was ignorant of his birth, and received him into my cottage as a foundling succoured by lord Malcolm�s compassion.� The whole company crowded round them. Alleyn fell at the feet of his mother, and bathed her hand with his tears. � �Gracious God; for what hast thou reserved me!� He could say no more. The Baroness raised him, and again pressed him in transport to her heart. It was some time before either of them could speak; and all present were too much affected to interrupt the silence. At length, the Baroness presented Laura to her brother. �Such a mother! and have I such a sister!� said he. Laura wept silently upon his neck the joy of her heart. The Earl was the first who recovered composure sufficient to congratulate Alleyn; and embracing him-�O happy moment, when I can indeed embrace you as my brother!� The whole company now poured forth their joy and their congratulations; � all but Mary, whose emotions almost overcame her, and were too powerful for utterance.

The company now adjourned to the drawing-room; and Mary withdrew to take that repose she so much required. She was sufficiently recovered in a few hours to join her friends in the banquetting-room.

After the transports of the scene were subsided-�I have yet much to hope, and much to fear,� said Philip Malcolm, who was yet Alleyn in every thing but in name, �You madam,� addressing the Baroness, � �you will willingly become my advocate with her whom I have so long and so ardently loved.� �May I hope,� continued he, taking tenderly the hand of Mary, who stood trembling by, � �that you have not been insensible to my long attachment, and that you will confirm the happiness which is now offered me?� A smile of ineffable sweetness broke through the melancholy which had long clouded her features, and which even the present discovery had not been able entirely to dissipate, and her eye gave the consent which her tongue refused to utter.
The conversation, for the remainder of the day, was occupied by the subject of the discovery, and with a recital of Mary�s adventure. It was determined that on the morrow the marriage of the Earl should be concluded.

On this happy discovery, the Earl ordered the gates of the castle to be thrown open; mirth and festivity resounded through the walls, and the evening closed in universal rejoicings.

On the following morn, the chapel of the castle was decorated for the marriage of the Earl; who with Laura, came attended by Philip, now Baron Malcolm, by Mary, and the whole family. When they approached the altar, the Earl, addressing himself to his bride, � �Now, my Laura,� said he, �we may celebrate those nuptials which have twice been so painfully interrupted, and which are to crown me with felicity. This day shall unite our families in a double marriage, and reward the worth of my friend. It is now seen, that those virtues which stimulated him to prosecute for another the cause of justice mysteriously urged him to the recovery of his rights. Virtue may for a time be pursued by misfortune, � and justice be obscured by the transient triumphs of vice, � but the power whose peculiar attributes they are, clears away the clouds of error, and even in this world reveals his THRONE OF JUSTICE.�

The Earl stepped forward, and joining the hands of Philip and Mary, � �Surely,� said he, �this is a moment of perfect happiness! � I can now reward those virtues which I have ever loved; and those services to which every gift must be inadequate, but this I now bestow.�

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Robert Burns (1759-1796), "Tam o'Shanter" (1791).

A Tale.

"Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke."
--Gawin Douglas.

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi' the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming saats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white�then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.�
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.

Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.�
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
Each in its cauld hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The Piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linkit at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A' plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!�
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping an' flinging on a crummock.
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o' the brig;^1
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

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Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1771-1834), Christabel (1798-1816).


PART I:
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
Tu�whit! Tu�whoo!
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betroth�d knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest misletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.�
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek�
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
       What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandl'd were,
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she�
Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel) And who art thou?

The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet:�
Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!
Said Christabel, How camest thou here?
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet:�

My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
He placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell�
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she).
And help a wretched maid to flee.

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
And comforted fair Geraldine:
O well, bright dame! may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father's hall.

She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
All our household are at rest,
The hall as silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth,
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.

They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Where an army in battle array had marched out.
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again,
And moved, as she were not in pain.

So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
And Christabel devoutly cried
To the lady by her side,
Praise we the Virgin all divine
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!
Alas, alas! said Geraldine,
I cannot speak for weariness.
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make!
And what can ail the mastiff bitch?
Never till now she uttered yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:
For what can ail the mastiff bitch?

They passed the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will!
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady passed, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
O softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well.

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And jealous of the listening air
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron's room,
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain,
For a lady's chamber meet:
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fastened to an angel's feet.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.

O weary lady, Geraldine,
I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.

And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn?
Christabel answered�Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the grey-haired friar tell
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle-bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! that thou wert here!
I would, said Geraldine, she were!

But soon with altered voice, said she�
'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!
I have power to bid thee flee.'
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine�
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.'

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue�
Alas! said she, this ghastly ride�
Dear lady! it hath wildered you!
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, ' 'tis over now!'

Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright:
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countr�e.

And thus the lofty lady spake�
'All they who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befel,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'

Quoth Christabel, So let it be!
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woe
So many thoughts moved to and fro,
That vain it were her lids to close;
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
And slowly rolled her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom and half her side�
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly, as one defied,
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden's side!�
And in her arms the maid she took,
       Ah wel-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say:
'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
       But vainly thou warrest,
               For this is alone in
       Thy power to declare,
               That in the dim forest
       Thou heard'st a low moaning,
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'

THE CONCLUSION TO PART I

It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak tree.
       Amid the jagg�d shadows
       Of mossy leafless boughs,
       Kneeling in the moonlight,
       To make her gentle vows;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale�
Her face, oh call it fair not pale,
And both blue eyes more bright than clear,
Each about to have a tear.

With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is�
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine�
Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubilant anew,
From cliffand tower, tu�whoo! tu�whoo!
Tu�whoo! tu�whoo! from wood and fell!

And see! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance;
Her limbs relax, her countenance
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds�
Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
Like a youthful hermitess,
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit 'twere,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call:
For the blue sky bends over all!

PART II

Each matin bell, the Baron saith,
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said,
When he rose and found his lady dead:
These words Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day!

And hence the custom and law began
That still at dawn the sacristan,
Who duly pulls the heavy bell,
Five and forty beads must tell
Between each stroke�a warning knell,
Which not a soul can choose but hear
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.

Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell!
And let the drowsy sacristan
Still count as slowly as he can!
There is no lack of such, I ween,
As well fill up the space between.
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair,
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t'other,
The death-note to their living brother;
And oft too, by the knell offended,
Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borrowdale.

The air is still! through mist and cloud
That merry peal comes ringing loud;
And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
And rises lightly from the bed;
Puts on her silken vestments white,
And tricks her hair in lovely plight,
And nothing doubting of her spell
Awakens the lady Christabel.
'Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
I trust that you have rested well.'

And Christabel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by her side�
O rather say, the same whom she
Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!
For she belike hath drunken deep
Of all the blessedness of sleep!
And while she spake, her looks, her air
Such gentle thankfulness declare,
That (so it seemed) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
'Sure I have sinn'd!' said Christabel,
'Now heaven be praised if all be well!'

And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet
With such perplexity of mind
As dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed
That He, who on the cross did groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown,
She forthwith led fair Geraldine
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.

The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
And pacing on through page and groom,
Enter the Baron's presence-room.

The Baron rose, and while he prest
His gentle daughter to his breast,
With cheerful wonder in his eyes
The lady Geraldine espies,
And gave such welcome to the same,
As might beseem so bright a dame!

But when he heard the lady's tale,
And when she told her father's name,
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o'er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:
They parted�ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining�
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between;�
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.

Sir Leoline, a moment's space,
Stood gazing on the damsel's face:
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine
Came back upon his heart again.

O then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heart swelled high with rage;
He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side
He would proclaim it far and wide,
With trump and solemn heraldry,
That they, who thus had wronged the dame,
Were base as spotted infamy!
'And if they dare deny the same,
My herald shall appoint a week,
And let the recreant traitors seek
My tourney court�that there and then
I may dislodge their reptile souls
From the bodies and forms of men!'
He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!

And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again�
(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,
Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)

Again she saw that bosom old,
Again she felt that bosom cold,
And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:
Whereat the Knight turned wildly round,
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.

The touch, the sight, had passed away,
And in its stead that vision blest,
Which comforted her after-rest
While in the lady's arms she lay,
Had put a rapture in her breast,
And on her lips and o'er her eyes
Spread smiles like light!
                      With new surprise,
'What ails then my belov�d child?
The Baron said�His daughter mild
Made answer, 'All will yet be well!'
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else: so mighty was the spell.

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,
Had deemed her sure a thing divine:
Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
As if she feared she had offended
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!
And with such lowly tones she prayed
She might be sent without delay
Home to her father's mansion.
                      'Nay!
Nay, by my soul!' said Leoline.
'Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou, with sweet music and loud,
And take two steeds with trappings proud,
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest,
And over the mountains haste along,
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
Detain you on the valley road.

'And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,
My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,
And reaches soon that castle good
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.

'Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,
More loud than your horses' echoing feet!
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free�
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me!
He bids thee come without delay
With all thy numerous array
And take thy lovely daughter home:
And he will meet thee on the way
With all his numerous array
White with their panting palfreys' foam:
And, by mine honour! I will say,
That I repent me of the day
When I spake words of fierce disdain
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!�
�For since that evil hour hath flown,
Many a summer's sun hath shone;
Yet ne'er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.

The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing;
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
His gracious Hail on all bestowing!�
'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell;
Yet might I gain a boon of thee,
This day my journey should not be,
So strange a dream hath come to me,
That I had vowed with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest.
Warned by a vision in my rest!
For in my sleep I saw that dove,
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
And call'st by thy own daughter's name�
Sir Leoline! I saw the same
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,
Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
Which when I saw and when I heard,
I wonder'd what might ail the bird;
For nothing near it could I see
Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.

And in my dream methought I went
To search out what might there be found;
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,
That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
I went and peered, and could descry
No cause for her distressful cry;
But yet for her dear lady's sake
I stooped, methought, the dove to take,
When lo! I saw a bright green snake
Coiled around its wings and neck.
Green as the herbs on which it couched,
Close by the dove's its head it crouched;
And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!
I woke; it was the midnight hour,
The clock was echoing in the tower;
But though my slumber was gone by,
This dream it would not pass away�
It seems to live upon my eye!
And thence I vowed this self-same day
With music strong and saintly song
To wander through the forest bare,
Lest aught unholy loiter there.'

Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,
Half-listening heard him with a smile;
Then turned to Lady Geraldine,
His eyes made up of wonder and love;
And said in courtly accents fine,
'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song,
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!'
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine
She turned her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couched her head upon her breast,
And looked askance at Christabel
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy;
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she looked askance!�
One moment�and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance
Stumbling on the unsteady ground
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turned round,
And like a thing, that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief,
She rolled her large bright eyes divine
Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees�no sight but one!
The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
I know not how, in fearful wise,
So deeply she had drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resigned
To this sole image in her mind:
And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate!
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance;
Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy
Full before her father's view�
As far as such a look could be
In eyes so innocent and blue!

And when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly prayed:
Then falling at the Baron's feet,
'By my mother's soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away!'
She said: and more she could not say:
For what she knew she could not tell,
O'er-mastered by the mighty spell.

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,
So fair, so innocent, so mild;
The same, for whom thy lady died!
O by the pangs of her dear mother
Think thou no evil of thy child!
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She prayed the moment ere she died:
Prayed that the babe for whom she died,
Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!
       That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
               Sir Leoline!
       And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
               Her child and thine?
Within the Baron's heart and brain
If thoughts, like these, had any share,
They only swelled his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
Dishonoured thus in his old age;
Dishonoured by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the wronged daughter of his friend
By more than woman's jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end�
He rolled his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere�
'Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed;
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The ag�d knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine!

THE CONCLUSION TO PART II

A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it 's most used to do.

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William Wordsworth (1770-1850), "Simon Lee" from Lyrical Ballads (1798)

The Old Huntsman: With an incident in which he was concerned

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,--
'Tis said he once was tall.
For five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee             10
When Echo bandied, round and round
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled, and was stone-blind.                 20
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!

But, oh the heavy change!--bereft
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead--and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;                         30
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.                         40

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do;                50
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
'Tis little, very little--all
That they can do between them.

Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell.                             60
My gentle Reader, I perceive,
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear that you expect
Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must kindly take it:                         70
It is no tale; but, should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.                 80

"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run         90
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done. --
I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning;
Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning.

Wordsworth, "Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13, 1798 " (1798)

Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view                     10
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses.  Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,                 20
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.

                                    These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration:--feelings too                         30
Of unremembered pleasure:  such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love.  Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,                                     40
Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,--
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

                                                If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft--                         50
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart--
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

     And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,                                 60
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years.  And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led:  more like a man                             70
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,                                     80
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, not any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures.  Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense.  For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes                 90
The still sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.--And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels                                 100
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.  Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul             110
Of all my moral being.

                                    Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes.  Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,                         120
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all                 130
The dreary intercourse of daily life
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings.  Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,                     140
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations!  Nor, perchance--
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence--wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream                 150
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love.   Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

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Coleridge, "Frost at Midnight " (1798)

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud--and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,                           10
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit                          20
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.

                                                But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,                            30
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,                             40
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
 
      Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,                           50
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou , my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
Of that eternal language, which thy God                                 60
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

       Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall             70
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.


Wordsworth, "The Old Cumberland Beggar" (1800)

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;

And he was seated, by the highway side,

On a low structure of rude masonry

Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they

Who lead their horses down the steep rough road

May thence remount at ease.  The aged Man

Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone

That overlays the pile; and, from a bag

All white with flour, the dole of village dames,

He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;             10

And scanned them with a fixed and serious look

Of idle computation.  In the sun,

Upon the second step of that small pile,

Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills,

He sat, and ate his food in solitude:

And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,

That, still attempting to prevent the waste,

Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers

Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds

Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,             20

Approached within the length of half his staff.

 

Him from my childhood have I known; and then

He was so old, he seems not older now;

He travels on, a solitary Man,

So helpless in appearance, that from him

The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack

And careless hand his alms upon the ground,

But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin

Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,

But still, when he has given his horse the rein,             30

Watches the aged Beggar with a look

Sidelong, and half-reverted.  She who tends

The toll-gate, when in summer at her door

She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees

The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,

And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.

The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake

The aged Beggar in the woody lane,

Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned,

The old Man does not change his course, the boy         40

Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,

And passes gently by, without a curse

Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

 

He travels on, a solitary Man;

His age has no companion. On the ground

His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,

They move along the ground; and, evermore,

Instead of common and habitual sight

Of fields, with rural works, of hill and dale,

And the blue sky, one little span of earth                     50

Is all his prospect.  Thus, from day to day,

Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground,

He plies his weary journey; seeing still,

And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,

Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,

The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left

Impressed on the white road,--in the same line,

At distance still the same.  Poor Traveller!

His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet

Disturb the summer dust; he is so still                         60

In look and motion, that the cottage curs,

Ere he has passed the door, will turn away,

Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,

The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,

And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by:

Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

 

But deem not this Man useless.--Statesmen! ye

Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye

Who have a broom still ready in your hands

To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,                     70

Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate

Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not

A burden of the earth!  'Tis Nature's law

That none, the meanest of created things,

Of forms created the most vile and brute,

The dullest or most noxious, should exist

Divorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good,

A life and soul, to every mode of being

Inseparably linked.  Then be assured

That least of all can aught--that ever owned                 80

The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime

Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed,

So low as to be scorned without a sin;

Without offence to God cast out of view;

Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower

Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement

Worn out and worthless.  While from door to door,

This old Man creeps, the villagers in him

Behold a record which together binds

Past deeds and offices of charity,                                 90

Else unremembered, and so keeps alive

The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,

And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,

Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign

To selfishness and cold oblivious cares,

Among the farms and solitary huts,

Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,

Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,

The mild necessity of use compels

The acts of love; and habit does the work                     100

Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy

Which reason cherishes.  And thus the soul,

By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,

Doth find herself insensibly disposed

To virtue and true goodness.

 

Some there are

By their good works exalted, lofty minds

And meditative, authors of delight

And happiness, which to the end of time

Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds         110

In childhood, from this solitary Being,

Or from like wanderer, haply have received

(A thing more precious far than all that books

Or the solicitudes of love can do!)

That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,

In which they found their kindred with a world

Where want and sorrow were. The easy man

Who sits at his own door,--and, like the pear

That overhangs his head from the green wall,

Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,                 120

The prosperous and unthinking, they who live

Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove

Of their own kindred;--all behold in him

A silent monitor, which on their minds

Must needs impress a transitory thought

Of self-congratulation, to the heart

Of each recalling his peculiar boons,

His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,

Though he to no one give the fortitude

And circumspection needful to preserve                     130

His present blessings, and to husband up

The respite of the season, he, at least,

And 't is no vulgar service, makes them felt.

 

Yet further.--Many, I believe, there are

Who live a life of virtuous decency,

Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel

No self-reproach; who of the moral law

Established in the land where they abide

Are strict observers; and not negligent

In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,             140

Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

 

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!

But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;

Go, and demand of him, if there be here

In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,

And these inevitable charities,

Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?

No--man is dear to man; the poorest poor

Long for some moments in a weary life

When they can know and feel that they have been,         150

Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out

Of some small blessings; have been kind to such

As needed kindness, for this single cause,

That we have all of us one human heart.

--Such pleasure is to one kind Being known,

My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week

Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself

By her own wants, she from her store of meal

Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip

Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door                     160

Returning with exhilarated heart,

Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

 

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!

And while in that vast solitude to which

The tide of things has borne him, he appears

To breathe and live but for himself alone,

Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about

The good which the benignant law of Heaven

Has hung around him: and, while life is his,

Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers                 170

To tender offices and pensive thoughts.

--Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!

And, long as he can wander, let him breathe

The freshness of the valleys; let his blood

Struggle with frosty air and winter snows;

And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath

Beat his grey locks against his withered face.

Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness

Gives the last human interest to his heart.

May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,            180

Make him a captive!--for that pent-up din,

Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,

Be his the natural silence of old age!

Let him be free of mountain solitudes;

And have around him, whether heard or not,

The pleasant melody of woodland birds.

Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now

Been doomed so long to settle upon earth

That not without some effort they behold

The countenance of the horizontal sun,                     190

Rising or setting, let the light at least

Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.

And let him, where and when he will, sit down

Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank

Of highway side, and with the little birds

Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,

As in the eye of Nature he has lived,

So in the eye of Nature let him die!

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Coleridge, "Dejection: an Ode" (1802)

      Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
      With the old Moon in her arms;
      And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
      We shall have a deadly storm.

      Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence

                                    I

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
    The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
    This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
        Upon the strings of this {AE}olian lute,
        Which better far were mute.
    For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
    And overspread with phantom light,
    (With swimming phantom light o'erspread
    But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
    The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
    And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
        And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

                                    II

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
    A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
    Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
        In word, or sigh, or tear--
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
    All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
    And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

                                    III

        My genial spirits fail;
        And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
        It were a vain endeavour,
        Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

                                    IV

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
    And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
    Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
        Enveloping the Earth--
And from the soul itself must there be sent
    A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

                                    V

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
    Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
    A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud--
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud--
        We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
    All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.

                                    VI

There was a time when, though my path was rough,
    This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
    Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
        But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
    My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
    But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
    From my own nature all the natural man--
    This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

                                    VII

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
        Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
    Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
    Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
    Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
    Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
        What tell'st thou now about?
        'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
    With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds--
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
    And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings--all is over--
    It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
        A tale of less affright,
        And tempered with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,--
        'Tis of a little child
        Upon a lonesome wild,
Nor far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

                                    VIII

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
    And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
    Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
        With light heart may she rise,
        Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
    Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
    O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

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Wordsworth, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" (1802-04)

      The Child is Father of the Man;
      And I could wish my days to be
      Bound each to each by natural piety.

                                I

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
                 To me did seem
            Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
             Turn wheresoe'er I may,
              By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

                                II

            The Rainbow comes and goes,
            And lovely is the Rose;,
            The Moon doth with delight
     Look round her when the heavens are bare,
            Waters on a starry night
            Are beautiful and fair;
     The sunshine is a glorious birth;
     But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

                                III

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
     And while the young lambs bound
            As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
            And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
            And all the earth is gay;
                Land and sea
     Give themselves up to jollity,
            And with the heart of May
     Doth every beast keep holiday;--
                Thou Child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
        Shepherd-boy!

                            IV

Ye bless�d Creatures, I have heard the call
     Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
     My heart is at your festival,
       My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
         O evil day! if I were sullen
         While Earth herself is adorning
              This sweet May-morning,
         And the Children are culling
              On every side
         In a thousand valleys far and wide
         Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:--
         I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
         --But there's a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
              The Pansy at my feet
              Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

                               V

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
          Hath had elsewhere its setting,
               And cometh from afar:
          Not in entire forgetfulness,
          And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
               From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
               Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
               He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
     Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
          And by the vision splendid
          Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

                            VI

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother's mind,
               And no unworthy aim,
               The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
               Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

                            VII

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learn�d art;
          A wedding or a festival,
          A mourning or a funeral;
               And this hath now his heart,
          And unto this he frames his song:
               Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
          But it will not be long
          Ere this be thrown aside,
          And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
          As if his whole vocation
          Were endless imitation.

                            VIII

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
          Thy Soul's immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,--
          Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
          On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
               To whom the grave
Is but a lonely bed, without the sense of sight
          Of day or the warm light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

                            IX

          O joy! that in our embers
          Is something that doth live,
          That Nature yet remembers
          What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:--
          Not for these I raise
          The song of thanks and praise;
     But for those obstinate questionings
     Of sense and outward things,
     Fallings from us, vanishings;
     Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
          But for those first affections,
          Those shadowy recollections,
     Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
     Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
               To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
               Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
   Hence in a season of calm weather
          Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
               Which brought us hither,
          Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

                            X

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
          And let the young Lambs bound
          As to the tabor's sound!
     We in thought will join your throng,
          Ye that pipe and ye that play,
          Ye that through your hearts to-day
          Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
     Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
          We will grieve not, rather find
          Strength in what remains behind;
          In the primal sympathy
          Which having been must ever be;
          In the soothing thoughts that spring
          Out of human suffering;
          In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

                            XI

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
               Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

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Wordsworth, "The Solitary Reaper" (1807)

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands      10
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.  

Will no one tell me what she sings?�
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:                                  20
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?  

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;�
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,                  30
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

W. B. Yeats (1865-1939), "A Prayer for my Daughter" (1919)

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on.  There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,                10
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,                                        20
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.

Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool,
While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet chose a bandy-legg�d smith for man.
It's certain that fine women eat                                          30
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.

In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful;
Yet many, that have played the fool
For beauty's very self, has charm made wise,
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.                        40

May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound,
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.

My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
The sort of beauty that I have approved,                            50
Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there's no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn,                                    60
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?

Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;
She can, though every face should scowl                           70
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.

And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.                            80