APPLETON'S JOURNAL:


A MONTHLY



MISCELLANY OF POPULAR LITERATURE.




_NEW SERIES--VOL. II_




JANUARY-JUNE, 1877.




NEW YORK:

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

549 & 551 BROADWAY





THE HEIR OF MONDOLFO




BY




MARY SHELLEY




In the beautiful and wild country near Sorrento, in the Kingdom of
Naples, at the time it was governed by monarchs of the house of Anjou,
there lived a territorial noble, whose wealth and power overbalanced
that of the neighboring nobles. His castle, itself a stronghold, was
built on a rocky eminence, toppling over the blue and lovely
Mediterranean. The hills around were covered with ilex-forests, or
subdued to the culture of the olive and vine. Under the sun no spot
could be found more favored by nature.

If at eventide you had passed on the placid wave beneath the castellated
rock that bore the name of Mondolfo, you would have imagined that all
happiness and bliss must reside within its walls, which, thus nestled in
beauty, overlooked a scene of such surpassing loveliness; yet if by
chance you saw its lord issue from the portal, you shrunk from his
frowning brow, you wondered what could impress on his worn cheek the
combat of passions. More piteous sight was it to behold his gentle lady,
who, the slave of his unbridled temper, the patient sufferer of many
wrongs, seemed on the point of entering upon that only repose "where the
wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest."[1] The Prince
Mondolfo had been united early in life to a princess of the regal family
of Sicily. She died in giving birth to a son. Many years subsequently,
after a journey to the northern Italian states, he returned to his
castle, married. The speech of his bride declared her to be a
Florentine. The current tale was that he married her for love, and then
hated her as the hindrance of his ambitious views. She bore all for the
sake of her only child--a child born to its father's hate; a boy of
gallant spirit, brave even to wildness. As he grew up, he saw with anger
the treatment his mother received from the haughty Prince. He dared come
forward as her defender; he dared oppose his boyish courage to his
father's rage: the result was natural--he became the object of his
father's dislike. Indignity was heaped on him; the vassals were taught
to disobey him, the menials to scorn him, his very brother to despise
him as of inferior blood and birth. Yet the blood of Mondolfo was his;
and, though tempered by the gentle Isabel's more kindly tide, it boiled
at the injustice to which he was a victim. A thousand times he poured
forth the overflowings of his injured spirit in eloquent complaints to
his mother. As her health decayed, he nurtured the project, in case of
her death, of flying his paternal castle, and becoming a wanderer, a
soldier of fortune. He was now thirteen. The Lady Isabel soon, with a
mother's penetration, discovered his secret, and on her death-bed made
him swear not to quit his father's protection until he should have
attained the age of twenty. Her heart bled for the wretchedness that she
foresaw would be his lot; but she looked forward with still greater
horror to the picture her active fancy drew of her son at an early age
wandering forth in despair, alone and helpless, suffering all the
extremities of famine and wretchedness; or, almost worse, yielding to
the temptations that in such a situation would be held out to him. She
extracted this vow, and died satisfied that he would keep it. Of all the
world, she alone knew the worth of her Ludovico--had penetrated beneath
the rough surface, and become acquainted with the rich store of virtue
and affectionate feeling that lay like unsunned ore in his sensitive
heart.

Fernando hated his son. From his earliest boyhood he had felt the
sentiment of aversion, which, far from endeavoring to quell, he allowed
to take deep root, until Ludovico's most innocent action became a crime,
and a system of denial and resistance was introduced that called forth
all of sinister that there was in the youth's character, and engendered
an active spirit of detestation in his father's mind. Thus Ludovico
grew, hated and hating. Brought together through their common situation,
the father and son, lord and vassal, oppressor and oppressed, the one
was continually ready to exert his power of inflicting evil, the other
perpetually on the alert to resist even the shadow of tyranny. After the
death of his mother, Ludovico's character greatly changed. The smile
that, as the sun, had then often irradiated his countenance, now never
shone; suspicion, irritability, and dogged resolution, seemed his
master-feelings. He dared his father to the worst, endured that worst,
and prevented from flying by his sacred observance of his vow, nurtured
all angry and even revengeful feelings till the cup of wrath seemed
ready to overflow. He was loved by none, and loving none his good
qualities expired, or slept as if they would never more awaken.

His father had intended him for the Church; and Ludovico, until he was
sixteen, wore the priestly garb. That period past, he cast it aside, and
appeared habited as a cavalier of those days, and in short words told
his parent that he refused to comply with his wishes; that he should
dedicate himself to arms and enterprise. All that followed this
declaration--menace, imprisonment, and even ignominy--he bore, but he
continued firm; and the haughty Fernando was obliged to submit his
towering will to the firmer will of a stripling. And now, for the first
time, while rage seemed to burst his heart, he felt to its highest
degree the sentiment of hatred; he expressed this passion--words of
contempt and boundless detestation replied; and the bystanders feared
that a personal encounter would ensue. Once Fernando put his hand on his
sword, and the unarmed Ludovico drew in and collected himself, as if
ready to spring and seize the arm that might be uplifted against him.
Fernando saw and dreaded the mad ferocity his son's eye expressed. In
all personal encounters of this kind the victory rests not with the
strong, but the most fearless. Fernando was not ready to stake his own
life, or even with his own hand to shed his son's blood; Ludovico, not
as aggressor, but in self-defense, was careless of the consequences of
an attack--he would resist to the death; and this dauntless feeling gave
him an ascendency his father felt and could not forgive.

From this time Fernando's conduct toward his son changed. He no longer
punished, imprisoned, or menaced him. This was usage for a boy, but the
Prince felt that they were man to man, and acted accordingly. He was the
gainer by the change; for he soon acquired all the ascendency that
experience, craft, and a court education, must naturally give him over a
hot-headed youth, who, nerved to resist all personal violence, neither
saw nor understood a more covert mode of proceeding. Fernando hoped to
drive his son to desperation. He set spies over him, paid the tempters
that were to lead him to crime, and by a continued system of restraint
and miserable thwarting hoped to reduce him to such despair that he
would take refuge in any line of conduct that promised freedom from so
irksome and degrading a slavery. His observance of his vow saved the
youth; and this steadiness of purpose gave him time to read and
understand the motives of the tempters. He saw his father's master-hand
in all, and his heart sickened at the discovery.

He had reached his eighteenth year. The treatment he had endured and the
constant exertion of fortitude and resolution had already given him the
appearance of manhood. He was tall, well made, and athletic. His person
and demeanor were more energetic than graceful, and his manners were
haughty and reserved. He had few accomplishments, for his father had
been at no pains for his education; feats of horsemanship and arms made
up the whole catalogue. He hated books, as being a part of a priest's
insignia; he was averse to all occupation that brought bodily repose
with it. His complexion was dark--hardship had even rendered it sallow;
his eyes, once soft, now glared with fierceness; his lips, formed to
express tenderness, were now habitually curled in contempt; his dark
hair, clustering in thick curls round his throat, completed the wild but
grand and interesting appearance of his person.

It was winter, and the pleasures of the chase began. Every morning the
huntsmen assembled to attack the wild-boars or stags which the dogs
might arouse in the fastnesses of the Apennines. This was the only
pleasure that Ludovico ever enjoyed. During these pursuits he felt
himself free. Mounted on a noble horse, which he urged to its full
speed, his blood danced in his veins, and his eyes shone with rapture as
he cast his eagle glance to heaven; with a smile of ineffable disdain,
he passed his false friends or open tormentors, and gained a solitary
precedence in the pursuit.

The plain at the foot of Vesuvius and its neighboring hills was stripped
bare by winter; the full stream rushed impetuously from the hills; and
there was mingled with it the baying of the dogs and the cries of the
hunters; the sea, dark under a lowering sky, made a melancholy dirge as
its waves broke on the shore; Vesuvius groaned heavily, and the birds
answered it by wailing shrieks; a heavy sirocco hung upon the
atmosphere, rendering it damp and cold. This wind seems at once to
excite and depress the human mind: it excites it to thought, but colors
those thoughts, as it does the sky, with black. Ludovico felt this; but
he tried to surmount the natural feelings with which the ungenial air
filled him.

The temperature of the air changed as the day advanced. The clouded sky
spent itself in snow, which fell in abundance; it then became clear, and
sharp frost succeeded. The aspect of earth was changed. Snow covered the
ground and lay on the leafless trees, sparkling, white, and untrod.
Early in the morning a stag had been roused, and, as he was coursed
along the plain skirting the hills, the hunters went at speed. All day
the chase endured. At length the stag, who from the beginning had
directed his course toward the hills, began to ascend them, and, with
various windings and evolutions, almost put the hounds to fault. Day was
near its close when Ludovico alone followed the stag, as it made for the
edge of a kind of platform of the mountain, which, isthmus-like, was
connected with the hill by a small tongue of land, and on three sides
was precipitous to the plain below. Ludovico balanced his spear, and his
dogs drew in, expecting that the despairing animal would there turn to
bay. He made one bound, which conducted him to the very brow of the
precipice--another, and he was seen no more. He sprang downward,
expecting more pity from the rocks beneath than from his human
adversary. Ludovico was fatigued by the chase and angry at the escape of
his prey. He sprang from his horse, tied him to a tree, and sought a
path by which he might safely descend to the plain. Snow covered and hid
the ground, obliterating the usual traces that the flocks or herds might
have left as they descended from their pastures on the hills to the
hamlets beneath; but Ludovico had passed his boyhood among mountains:
while his hunting-spear found sure rest on the ground, he did not fear,
or while a twig afforded him sufficient support as he held it, he did
not doubt to secure his passage; but the descent was precipitous, and
necessary caution obliged him to be long. The sun approached the
horizon, and the glow of its departure was veiled by swift-rising clouds
which the wind blew upward from the sea--a cold wind, which whirled the
snow from its resting-place and shook it from the trees. Ludovico at
length arrived at the foot of the precipice. The snow reflected and
enhanced the twilight, and he saw four deep marks that must have been
made by the deer. The precipice was high above, and its escape appeared
a miracle. It must have escaped; but those were the only marks it had
left. Around lay a forest of ilex, beset by thick, entangled underwood,
and it seemed impossible that any animal so large as the stag in pursuit
could have broken its way through the apparently impenetrable barrier it
opposed. The desire to find his quarry became almost a passion in the
heart of Ludovico. He walked round to seek for an opening, and at last
found a narrow pathway through the forest, and some few marks seemed to
indicate that the stag must have sought for refuge up the glen. With a
swiftness characteristic even of his prey, Ludovico rushed up the
pathway, and thought not of how far he ran, until, breathless, he
stopped before a cottage that opposed itself to his further progress. He
stopped and looked around. There was something singularly mournful in
the scene. It was not dark, but the shades of evening seemed to descend
from the vast woof of cloud that climbed the sky from the west. The
black and shining leaves of the ilex and those of the laurel and myrtle
underwood were strongly contrasted with the white snow that lay upon
them. A breeze passed among the boughs, and scattered the drift that
fell in flakes, and disturbed by fits the silence around; or, again, a
bird twittered, or flew with melancholy flap of wing, beneath the trees
to its nest in some hollow trunk. The house seemed desolate; its windows
were glassless, and small heaps of snow lay upon the sills. There was no
print of footing on the equal surface of the path that led right up to
the door, yet a little smoke now and then struggled upward from its
chimney, and, on paying fixed attention, Prince Ludovico thought he
heard a voice. He called, but received no answer. He put his hand on the
latch; it yielded, and he entered. On the floor, strewed with leaves,
lay a person sick and dying; for, though there was a slight motion in
the eyes that showed that life had not yet deserted his throne, the
paleness of the visage was that of death only. It was an aged woman, and
her white hair showed that she descended to no untimely grave. But a
figure knelt beside her which might have been mistaken for the angel of
heaven waiting to receive and guide the departing soul to eternal rest,
but for the sharp agony that was stamped on the features, and the glazed
but earnest gaze of her eye. She was very young, and beautiful as the
star of evening. She had apparently despoiled herself to bestow warmth
on her dying friend, for her arms and neck were bare but for the
quantity of dark and flowing hair that clustered on her shoulders. She
was absorbed in one feeling, that of watching the change in the sick
person. Her cheeks, even her lips, were pale; her eyes seemed to gaze as
if her whole life reigned in their single perception. She did not hear
Ludovico enter, or, at least, she made no sign that indicated that she
was conscious of it. The sick person murmured; as she bent her head down
to catch the sound, she replied, in an accent of despair:

"I can get no more leaves, for the snow is on the ground; nor have I any
other earthly thing to place over you."

"Is she cold?" said Ludovico, creeping near, and bending down beside the
afflicted girl.

"Oh, very cold!" she replied, "and there is no help."

Ludovico had gone to the chase in a silken mantle lined with the
choicest furs: he had thrown it off, and left it with his horse that it
might not impede his descent. He hastened from the cottage, he ran down
the lane, and, following the marks of his footsteps, he arrived where
his steed awaited him. He did not again descend by the same path,
reflecting that it might be necessary for him to seek assistance for the
dying woman. He led his horse down the bill by a circuitous path, and,
although he did this with all possible speed, night closed in, and the
glare of the snow alone permitted him to see the path that he desired to
follow. When he arrived at the lane he saw that the cottage, before so
dark, was illuminated, and, as he approached, he heard the solemn hymn
of death as it was chanted by the priests who filled it. The change had
taken place, the soul had left its mortal mansion, and the deserted ruin
was attended with more of solemnity than had been paid to the mortal
struggle. Amid the crowd of priests Ludovico entered unperceived, and he
looked around for the lovely female he had left. She sat, retired from
the priests, on a heap of leaves in a corner of the cottage. Her clasped
hands lay on her knees, her head was bent downward, and every now and
then she wiped away her fast-falling tears with her hair. Ludovico threw
his cloak over her. She looked up, and drew the covering round her, more
to hide her person than for the sake of warmth, and then, again turning
away, was absorbed in her melancholy thoughts.

Ludovico gazed on her in pity. For the first time since his mother's
death, tears filled his eyes, and his softened countenance beamed with
tender sympathy. He said nothing, but he continued to look on as a wish
arose in his mind that he might wipe the tears that one by one fell from
the shrouded eyes of the unfortunate girl. As he was thus engaged, he
heard his name called by one of the attendants of the castle, and,
throwing the few pieces of gold he possessed into the lap of the
sufferer, he suddenly left the cottage, and, joining the servant who had
been in search of him, rode rapidly toward his home.

As Ludovico rode along, and the first emotions of pity having, as it
were, ceased to throb in his mind, these feelings merged into the strain
of thought in which he habitually indulged, and turned its course to
something new.

"I call myself wretched," he cried--"I, the well clad and fed, and this
lovely peasant-girl, half famished, parts with her necessary clothing to
cover the dying limbs of her only friend. I also have lost my only
friend, and that is my true misfortune, the cause of all my real
misery--sycophants would assume that name--spies and traitors usurp that
office. I have cast these aside--shaken them from me as you
bough shakes to earth its incumbrance of snow, not as cold as their
iced hearts, but I am alone--solitude gnaws my heart and makes me
savage--miserable--worthless."

Yet, although he thought in this manner, the heart of Ludovico was
softened by what he had seen, and milder feelings pressed upon him. He
had felt sympathy for one who needed it; he had conferred a benefit on
the necessitous, tenderness molded his lips to a smile, and the pride of
utility gave dignity to the fire of his eye. The people about him saw
the change, and, not meeting with the usual disdain of his manner, they
also became softened, and the alteration apparent in his character
seemed ready to effect as great a metamorphosis in his external
situation. But the time was not come when this change would become
permanent.

On the day that succeeded to this hunt, Prince Fernando removed to
Naples, and commanded his son to accompany him. The residence at Naples
was peculiarly irksome to Ludovico. In the country he enjoyed
comparative freedom. Satisfied that he was in the castle, his father
sometimes forgot him for days together; but it was otherwise here.
Fearful that he should form friends and connections, and knowing that
his commanding figure and peculiar manners excited attention and often
curiosity, he kept him ever in sight; or, if he left him for a moment,
he first made himself sure of the people around him, and left such of
his own confidants whose very presence was venom to the eye of Ludovico.
Add to which, Prince Mondolfo delighted to insult and browbeat his son
in public, and, aware of his deficiencies in the more elegant
accomplishments, he exposed him even to the derision of his friends.
They remained two months at Naples, and then returned to Mondolfo.

It was spring; the air was genial and spirit-stirring. The white
blossoms of the almond-trees and the pink ones of the peach just began
to be contrasted with the green leaves that shot forth among them.
Ludovico felt little of the exhilarating effects of spring. Wounded in
his heart's core, he asked nature why she painted a sepulcher; he asked
the airs why they fanned the sorrowful and the dead. He wandered forth
to solitude. He rambled down the path that led to the sea; he sat on the
beach, watching the monotonous flow of the waves; they danced and
sparkled; his gloomy thoughts refused to imbibe cheerfulness from wave
or sun.

A form passed near him--a peasant-girl, who balanced a pitcher,
urn-shaped, upon her head; she was meanly clad, but she attracted
Ludovico's regard, and when, having approached the fountain, she took
her pitcher and turned to fill it, he recognized the cottager of the
foregoing winter. She knew him also, and, leaving her occupation, she
approached him and kissed his hand with that irresistible grace that
southern climes seem to instill into the meanest of their children. At
first she hesitated, and began to thank him in broken accents, but words
came as she spoke, and Ludovico listened to her eloquent thanks--the
first he had heard addressed to him by any human being. A smile of
pleasure stole over his face--a smile whose beauty sank deep into the
gazer's heart. In a minute they were seated on the bank beside the
fountain, and Viola told the story of her poverty-stricken youth--her
orphan lot--the death of her best friend--and it was now only the benign
climate which, in diminishing human wants, made her appear less wretched
than then. She was alone in the world--living in that desolate
cottage--providing for her daily fare with difficulty. Her pale cheek,
the sickly languor that pervaded her manner, gave evidence of the truth
of her words; but she did not weep, she spoke words of good heart, and
it was only when she alluded to the benefaction of Ludovico that her
soft dark eyes swam with tears.

The youth visited her cottage the next day. He rode up the lane, now
grass-grown and scented by violets, which Viola was gathering from the
banks. She presented her nosegay to him. They entered the cottage
together. It was dilapidated and miserable. A few flowers placed in a
broken vase was a type only of poor Viola herself--a lovely blossom in
the midst of utter poverty; and the rose-tree that shaded the window
could only tell that sweet Italy, even in the midst of wretchedness,
spares her natural wealth to adorn her children.

Ludovico made Viola sit down on a bench by the window, and stood
opposite to her, her flowers in his hand, listening. She did not talk of
her poverty, and it would be difficult to recount what was said. She
seemed happy and smiled and spoke with a gleeful voice, which softened
the heart of her friend, so that he almost wept with pity and
admiration. After this, day by day, Ludovico visited the cottage and
bestowed all his time on Viola. He came and talked with her, gathered
violets with her, consoled and advised her, and became happy. The idea
that he was of use to a single human being instilled joy into his heart;
and yet he was wholly unconscious how entirely he was necessary to the
happiness of his _protégée_. He felt happy beside her, he was
delighted to bestow benefits on her, and to see her profit by them; but
he did not think of love, and his mind, unawakened to passion, reposed
from its long pain without a thought for the future. It was not so with
the peasant-girl. She could not see his eyes bent in gentleness on her,
his mouth lighted by its tender smile, or listen to his voice as he bade
her trust in him, for that he would be father, brother, all to her,
without deeply, passionately loving him. He became the sun of her day,
the breath of her life--her hope, joy, and sole possession. She watched
for his coming, she watched him as he went, and for a long time she was
happy. She would not repine that he replied to her earnest love with
calm affection only--she was a peasant, he a noble--and she could claim
and expect no more; he was a god--she might adore him; and it were
blasphemy to hope for more than a benign acceptation of her worship.

Prince Mondolfo was soon made aware of Ludovico's visits to the cottage
of the forest, and he did not doubt that Viola had become the mistress
of his son. He did not endeavor to interrupt the connection, or put any
bar to his visits. Ludovico, indeed, enjoyed more liberty than ever, and
his cruel father confined himself alone to the restricting of him more
than ever in money. His policy was apparent: Ludovico had resisted every
temptation of gambling and other modes of expense thrown in his way.
Fernando had long wished to bring his son to a painful sense of his
poverty and dependence, and to oblige him to seek the necessary funds in
such a career as would necessitate his desertion of the paternal roof.
He had wound many snares around the boy, and all were snapped by his
firm but almost unconscious resistance; but now, without seeking,
without expectation, the occasion came of itself which would lead him to
require far more than his father had at any time allowed him, and now
that allowance was restricted, yet Ludovico did not murmur--and until
now he had had enough.

A long time Fernando abstained from all allusion to the connection of
his son; but one evening, at a banquet, gayety overcame his caution--a
gayety which ever led him to sport with his son's feelings, and to
excite a pain which might repress the smile that his new state of mind
ceased to make frequent visits to his countenance.

"Here," cried Fernando, as he filled a goblet--"here, Ludovico, is to
the health of your violet-girl!" and he concluded his speech with some
indecorous allusion that suffused Ludovico's cheek with red. Without
replying he arose to depart.

"And whither are you going, sir?" cried his father. "Take you cup to
answer my pledge, for, by Bacchus! none that sit at my table shall pass
it uncourteously by."

Ludovico, still standing, filled his cup and raised it as he was about
to speak and retort to his father's speech, but the memory of his words
and the innocence of Viola pressed upon him and filled his heart almost
to bursting. He put down his cup, pushed aside the people who sought to
detain him, and left the castle, and soon the laughter of the revelers
was no more heard by him, though it had loudly rung and was echoed
through the lofty halls. The words of Fernando had awakened a strange
spirit in Ludovico. "Viola! Can she love me? Do I love her?" The last
question was quickly answered. Passion, suddenly awake, made every
artery tingle by its thrilling presence. His cheeks burned and his heart
danced with strange exultation as he hastened toward the cottage,
unheeding all but the universe of sensation that dwelt within him. He
reached its door. Blank and dark the walls rose before him, and the
boughs of the wood waved and sighed over him. Until now he had felt
impatience alone--the sickness of fear--fear of finding a cold return to
his passion's feeling now entered his heart; and, retreating a little
from the cottage, he sat on a bank, and hid his face in his hands, while
passionate tears gushed from his eyes and trickled from between his
fingers. Viola opened the door of her cottage; Ludovico had failed in
his daily visit, and she was unhappy. She looked on the sky--the sun had
set, and Hesperus glowed in the west; the dark ilex-trees made a deep
shade, which was broken by innumerable fire-flies, which flashed now low
on the ground, discovering the flowers as they slept hushed and closed
in night, now high among the branches, and their light was reflected by
the shining leaves of ilex and laurel. Viola's wandering eye
unconsciously selected one and followed it as it flew, and ever and anon
cast aside its veil of darkness and shed a wide pallor around its own
form. At length it nestled itself in a bower of green leaves formed by a
clump of united laurels and myrtles; and there it stayed, flashing its
beautiful light, which, coming from among the boughs, seemed as if the
brightest star of the heavens had wandered from its course, and,
trembling at its temerity, sat panting on its earthly perch. Ludovico
sat near the laurel--Viola saw him--her breath came quick--she spoke
not--but stepped lightly to him--and looked with such mazed ecstasy of
thought that she felt, nay, almost heard, her heart beat with her
emotion. At length she spoke--she uttered his name, and he looked up on
her gentle face, her beaming eyes and her sylph-like form bent over him.
He forgot his fears, and his hopes were soon confirmed. For the first
time he pressed the trembling lips of Viola, and then tore himself away
to think with rapture and wonder on all that had taken place.

Ludovico ever acted with energy and promptness. He returned only to plan
with Viola when they might be united. A small chapel in the Apennines,
sequestered and unknown, was selected; a priest was easily procured from
a neighboring convent and easily bribed to silence. Ludovico led back
his bride to the cottage in the forest. There she continued to reside;
for worlds he would not have had her change her habitation; all his
wealth was expended in decorating it; yet his all only sufficed to
render it tolerable. But they were happy. The small circlet of earth's
expanse that held in his Viola was the universe to her husband. His
heart and imagination widened and filled it until it encompassed all of
beautiful, and was inhabited by all of excellent, this world contains.
She sang to him; he listened, and the notes built around him a magic
bower of delight. He trod the soil of paradise, and its winds fed his
mind to intoxication. The inhabitants of Mondolfo could not recognize
the haughty, resentful Ludovico in the benign and gentle husband of
Viola. His father's taunts were unheeded, for he did not hear them. He
no longer trod the earth, but, angel-like, sustained by the wings of
love, skimmed over it, so that he felt not its inequalities nor was
touched by its rude obstacles. And Viola, with deep gratitude and
passionate tenderness, repaid his love. She thought of him only, lived
for him, and with unwearied attention kept alive in his mind the first
dream of passion.

Thus nearly two years passed, and a lovely child appeared to bind the
lovers with closer ties, and to fill their humble roof with smiles and
joy.

Ludovico seldom went to Mondolfo; and his father, continuing his ancient
policy, and glad that in his attachment to a peasant-girl he had
relieved his mind from the fear of brilliant connections and able
friends, even dispensed with his attendance when he visited Naples.
Fernando did not suspect that his son had married his low-born favorite;
if he had, his aversion for him would not have withheld him from
resisting so degrading an alliance; and, while his blood flowed in
Ludovico's veins, he would never have avowed offspring who were
contaminated by a peasant's less highly-sprung tide.

Ludovico had nearly completely his twentieth year when his elder brother
died. Prince Mondolfo at that time spent four months at Naples,
endeavoring to bring to a conclusion a treaty of marriage he had entered
into between his heir and the daughter of a noble Neapolitan house, when
this death overthrew his hopes, and he retired in grief and mourning to
his castle. A few weeks of sorrow and reason restored him to himself. He
had loved even this favored eldest son more as the heir of his name and
fortune than as his child; and the web destroyed that he had woven for
him, he quickly began another.

Ludovico was summoned to his father's presence. Old habit yet rendered
such a summons momentous; but the youth, with a proud smile, threw off
these boyish cares, and stood with a gentle dignity before his altered
parent.

"Ludovico," said the Prince, "four years ago you refused to take a
priest's vows, and then you excited my utmost resentment; now I thank
you for that resistance."

A slight feeling of suspicion crossed Ludovico's mind that his father
was about to cajole him for some evil purpose. Two years before he would
have acted on such a thought, but the habit of happiness made him
unsuspicious. He bent his head gently.

"Ludovico," continued his father, while pride and a wish to conciliate
disturbed his mind and even his countenance, "my son, I have used you
hardly; but that time is now past."

Ludovico gently replied:

"My father, I did not deserve your ill-treatment; I hope I shall merit
your kindness when I know--"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Fernando, uneasily, "you do not understand--you
desire to know why--in short, you, Ludovico, are now all my
hope--Olympio is dead--the house of Mondolfo has no support but you--"

"Pardon me," replied the youth. "Mondolfo is in no danger; you, my lord,
are fully able to support and even to augment its present dignity."

"You do not understand. Mondolfo has no support but you. I am old, I
feel my age, and these gray hairs announce it to me too glaringly. There
is no collateral branch, and my hope must rest in your children--"

"My children, my lord!" replied Ludovico. "I have only one; and if the
poor little boy--"

"What folly is this?" cried Fernando, impatiently. "I speak of your
marriage and not--"

"My lord, my wife is ever ready to pay her duteous respects to you--"

"Your wife, Ludovico! But you speak without thought. How? Who?"

"The violet-girl, my lord."

A tempest had crossed the countenance of Fernando. That his son, unknown
to him, should have made an unworthy alliance, convulsed every fiber of
his frame, and the lowering of his brows and his impatient gesture told
the intolerable anguish of such a thought. The last words of Ludovico
restored him. It was not his wife that he thus named--he felt assured
that it was not. He smiled somewhat gloomily, still it was a smile of
satisfaction.

"Yes," he replied, "I understand; but you task my patience--you should
not trifle with such a subject or with me. I talk of your marriage. Now
that Olympio is dead, and you are, in his place, heir of Mondolfo, you
may, in his stead, conclude the advantageous, nay, even princely,
alliance I was forming for him."

Ludovico replied with earnestness:

"You are pleased to misunderstand me. I am already married. Two years
ago, while I was still the despised, insulted Ludovico, I formed this
connection, and it will be my pride to show the world how, in all but
birth, my peasant-wife is able to follow the duties of her distinguished
situation."

Fernando was accustomed to command himself. He felt as if stabbed by a
poniard; but he paused till calm and voice returned, and then he said:

"You have a child?"

"An heir, my lord," replied Ludovico, smiling--for his father's mildness
deceived him--"a lovely, healthy boy."

"They live near here?"

"I can bring them to Mondolfo in an hour's space. Their cottage is in
the forest, about a quarter of a mile east of the convent of Santa
Chiara."

"Enough, Ludovico; you have communicated strange tidings, and I must
consider of them. I will see you again this evening."

Ludovico bowed and disappeared. He hastened to his cottage, and related
all that he remembered or understood of this scene, and bade Viola
prepare to come to the castle at an instant's notice. Viola trembled; it
struck her that all was not so fair as Ludovico represented; but she hid
her fears, and even smiled as her husband with a kiss hailed his boy as
heir of Mondolfo.

Fernando had commanded both look and voice while his son was within
hearing. He had gone to the window of his chamber, and stood steadily
gazing on the drawbridge until Ludovico crossed it and disappeared.
Then, unrestrained, he strode up and down the apartment, while the roof
rang with his impetuous tread. He uttered cries and curses, and struck
his head with his clenched fist. It was long ere he could think--he felt
only, and feeling was torture. The tempest at length subsided, and he
threw himself in his chair. His contracted brows and frequently-convulsed
lips showed how entirely he was absorbed in consideration. All at first
was one frightful whirl; by degrees, the motion was appeased; his
thoughts flowed with greater calmness; they subsided into one channel
whose course he warily traced until he thought that he saw the result.

Hours passed during this contemplation. When he arose from his chair, as
one who had slept and dreamed uneasily, his brows became by degrees
smooth; he stretched out his arm, and, spreading his hand, cried:

"So it is! and I have vanquished him!"

Evening came, and Ludovico was announced. Fernando feared his son. He
had ever dreaded his determined and fearless mode of action. He dreaded
to encounter the boy's passions with his own, and felt in the clash that
his was not the master-passion. So, subduing all of hate, revenge, and
wrath, he received him with a smile. Ludovico smiled also; yet there was
no similarity in their look: one was a smile of frankness, joy, and
affection--the other the veiled grimace of smothered malice. Fernando
said:

"My son, you have entered lightly into a marriage as if it were a
child's game, but, where principalities and noble blood are at stake,
the loss or gain is too momentous to be trifled with. Silence, Ludovico!
Listen to me, I entreat. You have made a strange marriage with a
peasant, which, though I may acknowledge, I cannot approve, which must
be displeasing to your sovereign, and derogatory to all who claim
alliance with the house of Mondolfo."

Cold dew stood on the forehead of Fernando as he spoke; he paused,
recovered his self-command, and continued:

"It will be difficult to reconcile these discordant interests, and a
moment of rashness might cause us to lose our station, fortune,
everything! Your interests are in my hands. I will be careful of them. I
trust, before the expiration of a very few months, the future Princess
Mondolfo will be received at the court of Naples with due honor and
respect. But you must leave it to me. You must not move in the affair.
You must promise that you will not, until I permit, mention your
marriage to any one, or acknowledge it if you are taxed with it."

Ludovico, after a moment's hesitation, replied:

"I promise that, for the space of six months, I will not mention my
marriage to any one. I will not be guilty of falsehood, but for that
time I will not affirm it or bring it forward in any manner so as to
annoy you."

Fernando again paused; but prudence conquered, and he said no more. He
entered on other topics with his son; they supped together, and the mind
of Ludovico, now attuned to affection, received all the marks of his
father's awakening love with gratitude and joy. His father thought that
he held him in his toils, and was ready to sweeten the bitterness of his
intended draft by previous kindness.

A week passed thus in calm. Ludovico and Viola were perfectly happy.
Ludovico only wished to withdraw his wife from obscurity from that
sensation of honest pride which makes us desire to declare to the whole
world the excellence of a beloved object. Viola shrank from such an
exhibition; she loved her humble cottage--humble still though adorned
with all that taste and love could bestow on it. The trees bent over its
low roof and shaded its windows, which were filled with flowering
shrubs; its floor shone with marble, and vases of antique shape and
exquisite beauty stood in the niches of the room. Every part was
consecrated by the memory of their first meeting and their loves--the
walks in snow and violets; the forest of ilex with its underwood of
myrtle and its population of fire-flies; the birds; the wild and shy
animals that sometimes came in sight, and, seen, retreated; the changes
of the seasons, of the hues of nature influenced by them; the
alterations of the sky; the walk of the moon; and the moving of the
stars--all were dear, known, and commented on by this pair, who saw the
love their own hearts felt reflected in the whole scene around, and in
their child, their noisy but speechless companion, whose smiles won
hopes, and whose bright form seemed as if sent from heaven to reward
their constant affection.

A week passed, and Fernando and Ludovico were riding together, when the
Prince said:

"Tomorrow, early, my son, you must go to Naples. It is time that you
should show yourself there as my heir, and the best representative of a
princely house. The sooner you do this the quicker will arrive the
period for which, no doubt, you long, when the unknown Princess Mondolfo
will be acknowledged by all. I cannot accompany you. In fact,
circumstances which you may guess make me desire that you should appear
at first without me. You will be distinguished by your sovereign,
courted by all, and you will remember your promise as the best means of
accomplishing your object. In a very few days I will join you."

Ludovico readily assented to this arrangement, and went the same evening
to take leave of Viola. She was seated beneath the laurel tree where
first they had made their mutual vows; her child was in her arms, gazing
with wonder and laughter on the light of the flies. Two years had
passed. It was summer again, and as the beams from their eyes met and
mingled each drank in the joyous certainty that they were still as dear
to one another as when he, weeping from intense emotion, sat under that
tree. He told her of his visit to Naples which his father had settled
for him, and a cloud passed over her countenance, but she dismissed it.
She would not fear; yet again and again a thrilling sense of coming evil
made her heart beat, and each time was resisted with greater difficulty.
As night came on, she carried the sleeping child into the cottage, and
placed him on his bed, and then walked up and down the pathway of the
forest with Ludovico until the moment of his departure should arrive,
for the heat of the weather rendered it necessary that he should travel
by night. Again the fear of danger crossed her, and again she with a
smile shook off the thought; but, when he turned to give her his parting
embrace, it returned with full force on her. Weeping bitterly, she clung
to him, and entreated him not to go. Startled by her earnestness, he
eagerly sought an explanation, but the only explanation she could give
excited a gentle smile as he caressed and bade her to be calm; and then,
pointing to the crescent moon that gleamed through the trees and
checkered the ground with their moving shades, he told her he would be
with her ere its full, and with one more embrace left her weeping. And
thus it is a strange prophecy often creeps about, and the spirit of
Cassandra inhabits many a hapless human heart, and utters from many lips
unheeded forebodings of evils that are to be: the hearers heed them
not--the speaker hardly gives them credit--the evil comes which, if it
could have been avoided, no Cassandra could have foretold, for if that
spirit were not a sure harbinger so would it not exist; nor would these
half revealings have place if the to come did not fulfill and make out
the sketch.

Viola beheld him depart with hopeless sorrow, and then turned to console
herself beside the couch of her child. Yet, gazing on him, her fears
came thicker; and in a transport of terror she rushed from the cottage,
ran along the pathway, calling on Ludovico's name, and sometimes
listening if she might hear the tread of his horse, and then again
shrieking aloud for him to return. But he was far out of hearing, and
she returned again to her cot, and, lying down beside her child,
clasping his little hand in hers, at length slept peacefully.

Her sleep was light and short. She arose before the sun, and hardly had
he begun to cast long shadows on the ground when, attiring herself in
her veil, she was about to go with the infant to the neighboring chapel
of Santa Chiara, when she heard the trampling of horses come up the
pathway; her heart beat quick, and still quicker when she saw a stranger
enter the cottage. His form was commanding, and age, which had grizzled
his hair, had not tempered the fire of his eye nor marred the majesty of
his carriage; but every lineament was impressed by pride and even
cruelty. Self-will and scorn were even more apparent. He was somewhat
like what Ludovico had been, and so like what he then was that Viola did
not doubt that his father stood before her. She tried to collect her
courage, but the surprise, his haughty mien, and, above all, the sound
of many horses, and the voices of men who had remained outside the
cottage, so disturbed and distracted her that her heart for a moment
failed her, and she leaned trembling and ashy white against the wall,
straining her child to her heart with convulsive energy. Fernando spoke:

"You are Viola Arnaldi, and you call yourself, I believe, the wife of
Ludovico Mondolfo?"

"I am so"--her lips formed themselves to these words, but the sound died
away.

Fernando continued:

"I am Prince Mondolfo, father of the rash boy who has entered into this
illegal and foolish contract. When I heard of it my plan was easily
formed, and I am now about to put it into execution. I could easily have
done so without coming to you, without enduring the scene which, I
suppose, I shall endure; but benevolence has prompted me to the line of
conduct I adopt, and I hope that I shall not repent it."

Fernando paused; Viola had heard little of what he had said. She was
employed in collecting her scattered spirits, in bidding her heart be
still, and arming herself with the pride and courage of innocence and
helplessness. Every word he spoke was thus of use to her, as it gave her
time to recollect herself. She only bowed her head as he paused, and he
continued:

"While Ludovico was a younger son, and did not seek to obtrude his
misalliance into notice, I was content that he should enjoy what he
termed happiness unmolested; but circumstances have changed. He has
become the heir of Mondolfo, and must support that family and title by a
suitable marriage. Your dream has passed. I mean you no ill. You will be
conducted hence with your child, placed on board a vessel, and taken to
a town in Spain. You will receive a yearly stipend, and, as long as you
seek no communication with Ludovico, or endeavor to leave the asylum
provided for you, you are safe; but the slightest movement, the merest
yearning for a station you may never fill, shall draw upon you and that
boy the vengeance of one whose menaces are but the uplifted arm--the
blow quickly follows!"

The excess of danger that threatened the unprotected Viola gave her
courage. She replied:

"I am alone and feeble, you are strong, and have ruffians waiting on you
to execute such crimes as your imagination suggests. I care not for
Mondolfo, nor the title, nor the possession, but I will never, oh!
never, never! renounce my Ludovico--never do aught to derogate from our
plighted faith. Torn from him, I will seek him, though it be barefoot
and a-hungered, through the wide world. He is mine by that love he has
been pleased to conceive for me; I am his by the sentiment of devotion
and eternal attachment that now animates my voice. Tear us asunder, yet
we shall meet again, and, unless you put the grave between us, you
cannot separate us."

Fernando smiled in scorn.

"And that boy," he said, pointing to die infant, "will you lead him,
innocent lamb, a sacrifice to the altar of your love, and plant the
knife yourself in the victim's heart?"

Again the lips of Viola became pale as she clasped her boy and
exclaimed, in almost inarticulate accents:

"There is a God in heaven!"

Fernando left the cottage, and it was soon filled by men, one of whom
threw a cloak over Viola and her boy, and, dragging them from the
cottage, placed them in a kind of litter, and the cavalcade proceeded
silently. Viola had uttered one shriek when she beheld her enemies, but,
knowing their power and her own impotence, she stifled all further
cries. When in the litter she strove in vain to disengage herself from
the cloak that enveloped her, and then tried to hush her child, who,
frightened at his strange situation, uttered piercing cries. At length
he slept; and Viola, darkling and fearful, with nothing to sustain her
spirits or hopes, felt her courage vanish. She wept long with despair
and misery. She thought of Ludovico and what his grief would be, and her
tears were redoubled. There was no hope, for her enemy was relentless,
her child torn from her, a cloister her prison. Such were the images
constantly before her. They subdued her courage, and filled her with
terror and dismay.

The cavalcade entered the town of Salerno, and the roar of the sea
announced to poor Viola that they were on its shores.

"O bitter waves!" she cried, "my tears are as bitter as ye, and they
will soon mingle!"

Her conductors now entered a building. It was a watch-tower at some
distance from the town, on the sea-beach. They lifted Viola from the
litter and led her to one of the dreary apartments of the tower. The
window, which was not far from the ground, was grated with iron; it bore
the appearance of a guardroom. The chief of her conductors addressed
her, courteously asked her to excuse the rough lodging; the wind was
contrary, he said, but change was expected, and the next day he hoped
they would be able to embark. He pointed to the destined vessel in the
offing. Viola, excited to hope by his mildness, began to entreat his
compassion, but he immediately left her. Soon after another man brought
in food, with a flask of wine and a jug of water. He also retired; her
massive door was locked, the sound of retreating footsteps died away.

Viola did not despair; she felt, however, that it would need all her
courage to extricate herself from her prison. She ate a part of the food
which had been provided, drank some water, and then, a little refreshed,
she spread the cloak her conductors had left on the floor, placed her
child on it to play, and then stationed herself at the window to see if
any one might pass whom she might address, and, if he were not able to
assist her in any other way, he might at least bear a message to
Ludovico, that her fate might not be veiled in the fearful mystery that
threatened it; but probably the way past her window was guarded, for no
one drew near. As she looked, however, and once advanced her head to
gaze more earnestly, it struck her that her person would pass between
the iron grates of her window, which was not high from the ground. The
cloak, fastened to one of the stanchions, promised a safe descent. She
did not dare make the essay; nay, she was so fearful that she might be
watched, and that, if she were seen near the window, her jailers might
be struck with the same idea, that she retreated to the farther end of
the room, and sat looking at the bars with fluctuating hope and fear,
that now dyed her cheeks with crimson, and again made them pale as when
Ludovico had first seen her.

Her boy passed his time in alternate play and sleep. The ocean still
roared, and the dark clouds brought up by the sirocco blackened the sky
and hastened the coming evening. Hour after hour passed; she, heard no
clock; there was no sun to mark the time, but by degrees the room grew
dark, and at last the Ave Maria tolled, heard by fits between the
howling of the winds and the dashing of the waves. She knelt, and put up
a fervent prayer to the Madonna, protector of innocence--prayer for
herself and her boy--no less innocent than the Mother and Divine Child,
to whom she made her orisons. Still she paused. Drawing near to the
window, she listened for the sound of any human being: that sound, faint
and intermittent, died away, and with darkness came rain that poured in
torrents, accompanied by thunder and lightning that drove every creature
to shelter. Viola shuddered. Could she expose her child during such a
night? Yet again she gathered courage. It only made her meditate on some
plan by which she might get the cloak as a shelter for her boy after it
had served for their descent. She tried the bars, and found that, with
some difficulty, she could pass, and, gazing downward from the outside,
a flash of lightning revealed the ground not far below. Again she
commended herself to divine protection; again she called upon and
blessed her Ludovico; and then, not fearless but determined, she began
her operations. She fastened the cloak by means of her long veil, which,
hanging to the ground, was tied by a slip-knot, and gave way when
pulled. She took her child in her arms, and, having got without the
bars, bound him with the sash to her waist, and then, without accident,
she reached the ground. Having then secured the cloak, and enveloped
herself and her child in its dark and ample folds, she paused
breathlessly to listen. Nature was awake with its loudest voice--the sea
roared--and the incessant flashes of lightning that discovered that
solitude around her were followed by such deafening peals as almost made
her fear. She crossed the field, and kept the sight of the white
sea-foam to her right hand, knowing that she thus proceeded in an
opposite direction from Mondolfo. She walked as fast as her burden
permitted her, keeping the beaten road, for the darkness made her fear
to deviate. The rain ceased, and she walked on, until, her limbs falling
under her, she was fain to rest, and refresh herself with the bread she
had brought with her from the prison. Action and success had inspired
her with unusual energy. She would not fear--she believed herself free
and secure. She wept, but it was the overflowing emotion that found no
other expression. She doubted not that she should rejoin Ludovico.
Seated thus in the dark night--having for hours been the sport of the
elements, which now for an instant paused in their fury--seated on a
stone by the roadside--a wide, dreary, unknown country about her--her
helpless child in her arms--herself having just finished eating the only
food she possessed--she felt triumph, and joy, and love, descend into
her heart, prophetic of future reunion with her beloved.

It was summer, and the air consequently warm. Her cloak had protected
her from the wet, so her limbs were free and unnumbed. At the first ray
of dawn she arose, and at the nearest pathway she struck out of the
road, and took her course nearer the bordering Apennines. From Salerno
as far south as the eye could reach, a low plain stretched itself along
the seaside, and the hills at about the distance of ten miles bound it
in. These mountains are high and singularly beautiful in their shape;
their crags point to heaven and streams flow down their sides and water
the plain below. After several hours' walking, Viola reached a pine
forest, which descended from the heights and stretched itself in the
plain. She sought its friendly shelter with joy, and, penetrating its
depths until she saw trees only on all sides of her, she again reposed.
The sirocco had been dissipated by the thunderstorm, and the sun,
vanquishing the clouds that at first veiled its splendor, glowed forth
in the clear majesty of noon. Southern born, Viola did not fear the
heat. She collected pine nuts, she contrived to make a fire, and ate
them with appetite; and then, seeking a covert, she lay down and slept,
her boy in her arms, thanking Heaven and the Virgin for her escape. When
she awoke, the triumph of her heart somewhat died away. She felt the
solitude, she felt her helplessness, she feared pursuers, yet she dashed
away the tears, and then reflecting that she was too near Salerno--the
sun being now at the sea's verge--she arose and pursued her way through
the intricacies of the wood. She got to the edge of it so far as to be
able to direct her steps by the neighboring sea. Torrents intercepted
her path, and one rapid river threatened to impede it altogether; but,
going somewhat lower down, she found a bridge; and then, approaching
still nearer to the sea, she passed through a wide and desolate kind of
pasture-country, which seemed to afford neither shelter nor sustenance
to any human being. Night closed in, and she was fearful to pursue her
way, but, seeing some buildings dimly in the distance, she directed her
steps thither, hoping to discover a hamlet where she might get shelter
and such assistance as would enable her to retrace her steps and reach
Naples without being discovered by her powerful enemy. She kept these
high buildings before her, which appeared like vast cathedrals, but that
they were untopped by any dome or spire; and she wondered much what they
could be, when suddenly they disappeared. She would have thought some
rising ground had intercepted them, but all before her was plain. She
paused, and at length resolved to wait for dawn. All day she had seen no
human being; twice or thrice she had heard the bark of a dog, and once
the whistle of a shepherd, but she saw no one. Desolation was around
her; this, indeed, had lulled her into security at first. Where no men
were, there was no danger for her. But at length the strange solitude
became painful--she longed to see a cottage, or to find some peasant,
however uncouth, who might answer her inquiries and provide for her
wants. She had viewed with surprise the buildings which had been as
beacons to her. She did not wish to enter a large town, and she wondered
how one could exist in such a desert; but she had left the wood far
behind her, and required food. Night passed--balmy and sweet night--the
breezes fanned her, the glowing atmosphere encompassed her, the
fire-flies flitted round her, bats wheeled about in the air, and the
heavy-winged owl hooped anigh, while the beetle's constant hum filled
the air. She lay on the ground, her babe pillowed on her arm, looking
upon the starry heavens. Many thoughts crowded upon her: the thought of
Ludovico, of her reunion with him, of joy after sorrow; and she forgot
that she was alone, half-famished, encompassed by enemies in a desert
plain of Calabria--she slept.

She awoke not until the sun had risen high--it had risen above the
temples of Pæstum, and the columns threw short shadows on the ground.
They were near her, unseen during night, and were now revealed as the
edifices that had attracted her the evening before. They stood on a
rugged plain, despoiled of all roof, their columns and cornices
encompassing a space of high and weed-grown grass; the deep-blue sky
canopied them and filled them with light and cheerfulness. Viola looked
on them with wonder and reverence; they were temples to some god who
still seemed to deify them with his presence; he clothed them still with
beauty, and what was called their ruin might, in its picturesque
wildness and sublime loneliness, be more adapted to his nature than
when, roofed and gilded, they stood in pristine strength; and the silent
worship of air and happy animals might be more suited to him than the
concourse of the busy and heartless. The most benevolent of spirit-gods
seemed to inhabit that desert, weed-grown area; the spirit of beauty
flitted between those columns embrowned by time, painted with strange
color, and raised a genial atmosphere on the deserted altar. Awe and
devotion filled the heart of lonely Viola; she raised her eyes and heart
to heaven in thanksgiving and prayer--not that her lips formed words, or
her thoughts suggested connected sentences, but the feeling of worship
and gratitude animated her; and, as the sunlight streamed through the
succession of columns, so--did joy, dove-shaped, fall on and illumine
her soul.

With such devotion as seldom before she had visited a saint-dedicated
church, she ascended the broken and rude steps of the larger temple, and
entered the plot that it inclosed. An inner circuit of smaller columns
formed a smaller area, which she entered, and, sitting on a huge
fragment of the broken cornice that had fallen to the ground, she
silently waited as if for some oracle to visit her sense and guide her.

Thus sitting, she heard the near bark of a dog, followed by the bleating
of sheep, and she saw a little flock spread itself in the field
adjoining the farther temple. They were shepherded by a girl clothed in
rags, but the season required little covering; and these poor people,
moneyless, possessing only what their soil gives them, are in the
articles of clothing poor even to nakedness. In inclement weather they
wrap rudely-formed clothes of undressed sheepskin around them--during
the heats of summer they do little more than throw aside these useless
garments. The shepherd-girl was probably about fifteen years of age; a
large black straw hat shaded her head from the intense rays of the sun;
her feet and legs were bare; and her petticoat, tucked up, Diana-like,
above one knee, gave a picturesque appearance to her rags, which, bound
at her waist by a girdle, bore some resemblance to the costume of a
Greek maiden. Rags have a costume of their own, as fine in their way, in
their contrast of rich colors and the uncouth boldness of their drapery,
as kingly robes. Viola approached the shepherdess and quietly entered
into conversation with her; without making any appeal to her charity or
feelings, she asked the name of the place where she was, and her boy,
awake and joyous, soon attracted attention. The shepherd-girl was
pretty, and, above all, good-natured; she caressed the child, seemed
delighted to have found a companion for her solitude, and, when Viola
said that she was hungry, unloaded her scrip of roasted pine nuts,
boiled chestnuts, and coarse bread. Viola ate with joy and gratitude.
They remained together all day; the sun went down, the glowing light of
its setting faded, and the shepherdess would have taken Viola home with
her. But she dreaded a human dwelling, still fearing that, wherever
there appeared a possibility of shelter, there her pursuers would seek
her. She gave a few small silver-pieces, part of what she had about her
when seized, to her new friend, and, bidding her bring sufficient food
for the next day, entreated her not to mention her adventure to any one.
The girl promised, and, with the assistance of her dog, drove the flock
toward their fold. Viola passed the night within the area of the larger
temple.

Not doubting the success of his plan, on the very evening that followed
its execution, Prince Mondolfo had gone to Naples. He found his son at
the Mondolfo Palace. Despising the state of a court, and careless of the
gaieties around him, Ludovico longed to return to the cottage of Viola.
So, after the expiration of two days, he told his father that he should
ride over to Mondolfo, and return the following morning. Fernando did
not oppose him, but, two hours after his departure, followed him, and
arrived at the castle just after Ludovico, leaving his attendants there,
quitted it to proceed alone to his cottage. The first person Prince
Mondolfo saw was the chief of the company who had had the charge of
Viola. His story was soon told: the unfavorable wind, the imprisonment
in a room barricaded with the utmost strength, her incomprehensible
escape, and the vain efforts that had subsequently been made to find
her. Fernando listened as if in a dream; convinced of the truth, he saw
no clue to guide him--no hope of recovering possession of his prisoner.
He foamed with rage, then endeavored to suppress as useless his towering
passion. He overwhelmed the bearer of the news with execrations; sent
out parties of men in pursuit in all directions, promising every reward,
and urging the utmost secrecy, and then, left alone, paced his chamber
in fury and dismay. His solitude was of no long duration. Ludovico burst
into his room, his countenance lighted up with rage.

"Murderer!" he cried, "where is my Viola?"

Fernando remained speechless.

"Answer!" said Ludovico. "Speak with those lips that pronounced her
death-sentence--or raise against me that hand from which her blood is
scarcely washed--Oh, my Viola! thou and my angel-child, descend with all
thy sweetness into my heart, that this hand write not parricide on my
brow!"

Fernando attempted to speak.

"No!" shrieked the miserable Ludovico; "I will not listen to her
murderer. Yet--is she dead? I kneel--I call you father--I appeal to that
savage heart--I take in peace that hand that often struck me, and now
has dealt the death-blow--oh, tell me, does she yet live?"

Fernando seized on this interval of calm to relate his story. He told
the simple truth; but could such a tale gain belief? It awakened the
wildest rage in poor Ludovico's heart. He doubted not that Viola had
been murdered; and, after every expression of despair and hatred, he
bade his father seek his heir among the clods of the earth, for that
such he should soon become, and rushed from his presence.

He wandered to the cottage, he searched the country round, he heard the
tale of those who had witnessed any part of the carrying off of his
Viola. He went to Salerno. He heard the tale there told with the most
determined incredulity. It was the tale, he doubted not, that his father
forged to free himself from accusation, and to throw an impenetrable
veil over the destruction of Viola. His quick imagination made out for
itself the scene of her death. The very house in which she had been
confined had at the extremity of it a tower jutting out over the sea; a
river flowed at its base, making its confluence with the ocean deep and
dark. He was convinced that the fatal scene had been acted there. He
mounted the tower; the higher room was windowless, the iron grates of
the windows had for some cause been recently taken out. He was persuaded
that Viola and her child had been thrown from that window into the deep
and gurgling waters below.

He resolved to die! In those days of simple Catholic faith, suicide was
contemplated with horror. But there were other means almost as sure. He
would go a pilgrim to the Holy Land, and fight and die beneath the walls
of Jerusalem. Rash and energetic, his purpose was no sooner formed than
he hastened to put it in execution. He procured a pilgrim's weeds at
Salerno, and at midnight, advising none of his intentions, he left that
city, and proceeded southward. Alternate rage and grief swelled his
heart. Rage at length died away. She whose murderer he execrated was an
angel in heaven, looking down on him, and he in the Holy Land would win
his right to join her. Tender grief dimmed his eyes. The world's great
theater closed before him--of all its trappings his pilgrim's cloak was
alone gorgeous, his pilgrim's staff the only scepter--they were the
symbols and signs of the power he possessed beyond the earth, and the
pledges of his union with Viola. He bent his steps toward Brundusium. He
walked on fast, as if he grudged all space and time that lay between him
and his goal. Dawn awakened the earth and he proceeded on his way. The
sun of noon darted its ray upon him, but his march was uninterrupted. He
entered a pine wood, and, following the track of flocks, he heard the
murmurs of a fountain. Oppressed with thirst, he hastened toward it. The
water welled up from the ground and filled a natural basin; flowers grew
on its banks and looked on the waters unreflected, for the stream paused
not, but whirled round and round, spending its superabundance in a small
rivulet that, dancing over stones and glancing in the sun, went on its
way to _its_ eternity--the sea. The trees had retreated from the
mountain, and formed a circle about it; the grass was green and fresh,
starred with summer flowers. At one extremity was a silent pool that
formed a strange contrast with the fountain that, ever in motion, showed
no shape, and reflected only the color of the objects around it. The
pool reflected the scene with greater distinctness and beauty than its
real existence. The trees stood distinct, the ambient air between, all
grouped and pictured by the hand of a divine artist. Ludovico drank from
the fount, and then approached the pool. He looked with half wonder on
the scene depicted there. A bird now flitted across in the air, and its
form, feathers, and motion, were shown in the waters. An ass emerged
from among the trees, where in vain it sought herbage, and came to grass
near these waters; Ludovico saw it depicted therein, and then looked on
the living animal, almost appearing less real, less living, than its
semblance in the stream. Under the trees from which the ass had come lay
someone on the ground, enveloped in a mantle, sleeping. Ludovico looked
carelessly--he hardly at first knew why his curiosity was roused; then
an eager thought, which he deemed madness, yet resolved to gratify,
carried him forward. Rapidly he approached the sleeper, knelt down, and
drew aside the cloak, and saw Viola, her child within her arms, the warm
breath issued from her parted lips, her love-beaming eyes hardly veiled
by the transparent lids, which soon were lifted up.

Ludovico and Viola, each too happy to feel the earth they trod, returned
to their cottage--their cottage dearer than any palace--yet only half
believing the excess of their own joy. By turns they wept, and gazed on
each other and their child, holding each other's hands as if grasping
reality and fearful it would vanish.

Prince Mondolfo heard of their arrival. He had long suffered keenly from
the fear of losing his son. The dread of finding himself childless,
heirless, had tamed him. He feared the world's censure, his sovereign's
displeasure--perhaps worse accusation and punishment. He yielded to
fate. Not daring to appear before his intended victim, he sent his
confessor to mediate for their forgiveness, and to entreat them to take
up their abode at Mondolfo. At first, little credit was given to these
offers. They loved their cottage, and had small inclination to risk
happiness, liberty, and life, for worthless luxury. The Prince, by
patience and perseverance, at length convinced them. Time softened
painful recollections; they paid him the duty of children, and cherished
and honored him in his old age; while he caressed his lovely grandchild,
he did not repine that the violet-girl should be the mother of the heir
of Mondolfo.


[Footnote 1: The posthumous story by Mrs. Shelley has not before
appeared in print. It was found among the unpublished papers of Leigh
Hunt, and is authenticated by S.R. Townshend Mayer, Esq., editor of
_St. James Magazine_, London.--ED. JOURNAL.]