FEUDAL TYRANTS, Volume I.

                                 ◆ ◆ ◆






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                            FEUDAL TYRANTS;


                                  OR,


                 _The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans_.


                               A ROMANCE.

                        _TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN._

                            IN FOUR VOLUMES.


                                 ◆ ◆ ◆

                            BY M. G. LEWIS,

                               AUTHOR OF

            _The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c._

                                 ◆ ◆ ◆

                                VOL. I.


                          ═══════════════════
                           _SECOND EDITION_.
                          ═══════════════════

               The portals sound, and pacing forth
                 With stately steps and slow,
               High potentates, and dames of regal birth,
                 And mitred fathers in long order go.

                                         — GRAY.

                   ══════════════════════════════════

                                London:

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

          FOR J. F. HUGHES, WIGMORE STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
                                   ──
                                  1807


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                            FEUDAL TYRANTS,

                              &c. &c. &c.

                         ═════════════════════


                            PART THE FIRST.


                         ═════════════════════

                        ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG

                                 ◆ ◆ ◆
                                LETTERS.
                                 ◆ ◆ ◆


_Conrad, Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, to Elizabeth, the Widowed Countess
   of Torrenburg[1]._

Footnote 1:

     The real name is _Toggenburg_; but as this would have sounded harsh
     in English ears, I have taken the liberty of softening it a little;
     and in several parts of this work I have changed the names of
     places and personages entirely.

Your resolution, noble Elizabeth, to remain in cloistered solitude,
passing your hours in tears for your husband’s loss, and in prayers for
the repose of his spirit, is dignified and worthy of the illustrious
race to which you have the glory to belong. Model of female constancy!
though years have elapsed since Frederick died, your tears flow as
freely as on the first day of your widowhood! Unequalled lady! does
there exist a virtue, whose seeds we ought not to depend on finding in a
heart like yours? Is there a sacrifice so great that a soul like
Elizabeth’s is incapable of making it?—In the bloom of life to tear
yourself from the pleasures of the world and the eyes of a thousand
admirers, that you may watch away the lonely nights by the sepulchral
urn of an husband far advanced in years; to fly from the charms of sway
and grandeur that you may humble yourself before the altar, kneeling in
the dust, and praying for the repose of the deceased-one, oh! what an
act of self-denial! an act, which reaches the summit of magnanimity, by
not being established on the foundation of love; for in truth, how could
love for the decrepit Frederick find a place in the heart of the young
and blooming Elizabeth, whose warmest sentiment must have been filial
respect towards a benefactor?

Oh! Elizabeth, is indeed your state of widowhood your only motive for
taking refuge in a convent?


                         _Elizabeth to Conrad._

An expression used in the conclusion of your letter fully explains the
sentiment which I felt, and still feel for the Count of Torrenburg.

Yes, Conrad; Frederick was my _benefactor_ in the strongest sense of the
word—and therefore is it, that though years have elapsed since his
decease, my tears for his loss still flow as freely as they did on the
first day. But whether sorrow for my widowed state was my only motive
for burying myself in a cloister.... Oh! Conrad, it was unnecessary for
you to use flattery in order to obtain a knowledge of the truth. Without
calling me “the model of female constancy,” or declaring me to be
without an equal, I might have been Induced to confess, that Frederick’s
death was _not_ the only reason which at first induced me to take refuge
in a convent, and which perhaps will induce me never to leave it more.
Oh! much, very much lies heavy upon this heart of mine! I suffer under
the pressure of misfortunes, of which but a small part is known to you;
yet even that little must be sufficient to make you comprehend, why I
feel compelled to abandon the world, and fly to solitude for relief and
comfort. Conrad! Conrad! would to Heaven it were _true_, that there is
no sacrifice so great, that I am incapable of making it! Alas! I feel
but too strongly, that great sacrifices are in my power, for which I
must prepare myself by supplication to Heaven, and the solitude and calm
of a cloister.


                         _Conrad to Elizabeth._

I know not to what sacrifices you allude in saying, there exist some
which are too great for you to make. Worldly possessions, I am certain,
are without value in your eyes: should then hereafter generosity or a
sense of justice require of you some trifling renunciation in this
respect, could it possibly cost you much pain, or would you long
deliberate what course you should adopt? In order to be rich and
powerful, Elizabeth needed not to become the heiress of Torrenburg.
Independent of her husband’s attachment, fortune had already rendered
her mistress of sufficient wealth to make it easy for her to afford
posterity an admirable example of self-denial. She who can dispose of
castles and villages[2] without receiving on the one hand any return but
ingratitude, and on the other but hatred and rebellion, may surely bring
herself in the course of time to restore those possessions (to which the
prepossession of her fascinated husband could in _fact_ give her no
right) to the forsaken innocent orphans, whose claims have so
undeservedly been set aside. How glorious a recompense _hereafter_ would
she earn by such an act! What gratitude, what tranquillity of soul would
she obtain at _present_! what rapturous admiration would she be viewed
with even by the latest posterity! How shining and how distinguished
would be the place allotted to her among the illustrious ladies, who
derive their blood from the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans.

Footnote 2:

  Elizabeth of March (who inherited from her husband the valuable county
  of Torrenburg and other extensive possessions to the exclusion of his
  natural heirs) bestowed considerable districts of her territory on the
  people of Zurich, which excited great discontent among her vassals.


                         _Elizabeth to Conrad._

Conrad, what am I to think of you?—you almost adopted in your first
letters to me the tone of adoration; I was a “model of female
constancy;” I was “an unequalled woman.” In your last, the secret seems
to have escaped you, “that nothing but the prepossession of a fascinated
husband could have made me what I am.”

I guess your views: you hope to draw from me some decision favorable to
the claims of the Damsels of Werdenberg; but in truth I am not arrived
at such high excellence in the science of self-denial. It is easy, my
good Abbot, to give away half our property out of pure _generosity_,
even though we meet in return with nothing but ingratitude; but it is
hard, very hard to bestow that same half on those who think they have a
_title_ to it, even though all the universe should admire and praise us
for ... having done our _duty_.

My brother Oswald, who has arrived here within these few days, salutes
you, and recommends himself to your prayers.


                         _Conrad to Elizabeth._

I was certain, before I read the conclusion of your letter, that Count
Oswald was not far from you: uninfluenced, never could Elizabeth have
suffered her hand to trace such words! Go then, ye innocent victims of
slander, even from the generous Elizabeth have ye nothing to hope! she
terms you “the Damsels of Werdenberg,” without recollecting that
_another_ name would have belonged to you, had not fortune robbed you of
it in order to confer it upon _her_. Go then, go, thou gentle
Constantia; go too, afflicted and much belied Ida; increase the number
of the unfortunate ladies of Sargans, and live upon the bounty of the
vassals of your forefathers: the heiress of Torrenburg has nothing to
bestow upon you, not even unavailing pity; of justice I will not speak.
Under what climate of Heaven you now exist, Elizabeth knows not, asks
not, cares not!


                         _Elizabeth to Conrad._

I have long remarked one fault in you, my good Abbot; you generally
press your point too eagerly, and thus ruin the cause which you support,
with those whose natural inclinations would have disposed them otherwise
to do what you require. Not that this is the case with _me_; to convince
you of which, I now entreat you for the present, and _only_ for the
present, to be silent on a subject which (from causes as yet unknown to
you) pains my heart most cruelly. I am not ignorant of Constantia’s
abode; as to Ida ... yet why should I concern myself about the Damsels
of Werdenberg? If (as you assert) I have robbed them of a name which but
for me would have belonged to them, _they_ perhaps have deprived me of
_another_, which was more precious to me than my life; a name, which was
the long-wished-for goal of all my fondest hopes; a name, for which I
would have exchanged the high-sounding title of “heiress of Torrenburg,”
God knows how willingly!

Suffer me to chuse another subject—you seem to be well acquainted with
the annals of the family with which I am become connected by marriage;
it is certain at least, that neither in your conversations or letters
have I ever heard you mention the knights and ladies of the houses of
Carlsheim and Sargans, without applying to them some striking epithet.
Even in your very last epistles, “the unfortunate ladies,”—“the
illustrious ladies of Sargans,”—were mentioned. Who were these
remarkable personages, and what were their misfortunes? If it lies in
your power to give me any account of them, you will oblige me by making
them the subject of your future letters. Otherwise I am necessitated to
request a temporary interruption of our correspondence, as I am not
desirous of reading more upon the subject which of late has employed
your pen.


                         _Conrad to Elizabeth._

The annals of the ladies of Sargans are in the possession of the Abbess
of Zurich, whose convent you at present inhabit. I can myself do no more
than furnish you with a short supplement to this family history, and
which I will readily transmit to you, whenever you think proper to renew
a correspondence, which ceases for the present with this letter.


                 _Elizabeth to Count Oswald of March._

I have offended our good old Conrad: the correspondence which I have
kept up for so many years with the faithful instructor of my childhood
is at length laid aside; and many a vacant hour as this instructive
intercourse has beguiled, I yet must confess, I am not sorry that it has
ceased for the present. Conrad latterly began to press me too hard upon
a subject, on which (in compliance, dear brother, with your advice) I am
determined not to come to any hasty determination. Ah! the point would
have been determined long ago, had I not been compelled to hesitate by
your friendly representations and the weakness of my own heart!

And yet, dear Oswald, to confess the truth, the latter had more
influence with me than the former. Paint to me in as brilliant colours
as you chuse the advantage of being sovereign lady of such an extensive
territory; ah! can the empty pride of governing a turbulent ungrateful
people restore to me the ruined tranquillity of my heart? My wealth and
power were even beyond my wishes, unaided by the liberal bequest of my
dear, my partial husband; and long ago should Constantia have enjoyed
those rights to which (so at least they say) her claim is undoubted,
were it not that Ida must necessarily have shared in the good-fortune of
her sister; Ida, who stole from me the heart of Montfort! Ida, who
trampled on the fondest wishes of my soul! No! that thought is not to be
endured! The wanton arts of that perfidious girl forced me from the
bosom of my Henry into the aged arms of the Count of Torrenburg: now
then let her enjoy the fruits of her good deed! Gratitude taught me to
love Frederick, and to forget Henry; but to reward these traitors for
having so successfully betrayed me; to enrich them with all that has
been bestowed on me by the last will of the excellent possessor ... this
is a pitch of heroic virtue, of which I can be capable but in a very few
moments of romantic enthusiasm. In one of those moments, _you_, dear
Oswald, came to my assistance, rouzed me from my dream of heroism,
dissipated the vapours which bewildered my senses, and now you may rest
secure that I shall make no rash resolutions.

I confess, the Abbot helped to give your advice effect, by preaching to
me such endless sermons about _justice_. What then, my good Conrad? the
conferring happiness on those perfidious hypocrites by whom my
confidence has been so cruelly abused, this sacrifice which but to think
upon makes all my long-inflicted wounds bleed afresh, all this would be
nothing more than an every-day performance of a positive duty? Is this
the way to estimate one of the most difficult tasks of self-victory that
ever was prescribed to the heart of a woman?

Agitated as are my present feelings, I dare not trust myself to be much
alone. I seek every where for subjects of amusement, but find every
where ennui. You, my kind friend, are at a distance, and my epistolary
communication with Conrad, to which I have been so long accustomed, has
for the present ceased entirely. Yet the good Abbot, to whom I am
already under such obligations, is also in _this_ instance the cause of
my looking forward to some future means of rescuing myself from this
state of tedious indolence.

In hopes of leading him away from a topic, which I am at present
unwilling to discuss, I reminded him of the antient histories of the
Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans; and I requested him to make them the
subject of his future correspondence—you know, the old man is generally
delighted to find an opportunity of talking over such matters; but just
now he is too much offended with me, and too much occupied with a
different business, to permit himself to be lured away from his point by
this little artifice. He has coldly referred me for information to the
Abbess of Zurich; and the want of other amusement has actually induced
me to apply to her on this subject, which, when I first took it up, was
merely a pretence for relieving myself from the pressure of Conrad’s too
urgent solicitations.

The Abbess as yet has only given me distant hopes that my curiosity
shall be indulged; but by dint of repeated petitions, I trust I shall
persuade her to communicate to me these “important and remarkable
writings,” as the Abbess calls them. Should I succeed, I shall not fail,
oh! most learned of all knights of the present day! to lay whatever
seems worthy of attention before your philosophical eyes.


           _Sigisbert, Bishop of Coira, to the Abbot Conrad._

Without attempting further to influence her conduct, let Elizabeth be
permitted to act according to her own pleasure: I know her motives; I
know that in the end we shall have reason to be satisfied with her. I am
informed also, that she has already taken some such steps towards
settling this important business as will bear but one interpretation.
Letters have been received from her by our friend the Seneschal, a man
whose superior for probity is not to be found in Zurich; in these
letters Elizabeth explains the whole transaction, requests him to act as
an impartial judge, and engages to obey his decision blindly. You know
well the venerable Albert Reding, to whose justice the whole country
refers every dispute of consequence; think you, he will decide to the
disadvantage of innocence? Not that I have obtained my knowledge of
these secret particulars from Albert himself, the delicacy of whose
opinions on this species of confidence is extreme. In truth, he carries
that delicacy so far, that he anxiously avoids mentioning the disputes
between the Countess and her vassals, and endeavours, when others speak
of them, to listen with a cold indifferent air: but I read plainly on
his serious brow that he meditates deeply on the subject; he weighs the
bequest of Count Frederick, and the situation of the unfortunate
sisters, and I can prophecy to which side the balance will incline. He,
who never yet gave an unfair judgment; he, who has never deserved to
have an appeal made from his decision, cannot surely pronounce
erroneously upon a business like this.

Your intention of laying before Elizabeth’s eyes the whole history of
the rejected heiresses of Torrenburg is well imagined, and may produce a
good effect: but what shall I say to you respecting your imprudence, in
advising her to inspect the private annals of the house of Sargans? My
good but inconsiderate friend, are you then ignorant of the part which
your Abbey plays in these memorials of the days of yore? Is it
adviseable, think you, to lay before the laity the transgressions of the
church? Let us rejoice, that we walk ourselves in the paths of virtue,
without endeavouring to make our own merits appear more shining, by
contrasting them with the crimes of our predecessors.

Yet I know well, that so mean a design was far from the thoughts of my
good Conrad; he has only erred through want of consideration. I shall
immediately endeavour, if possible, to repair your fault; already must
letters from me have reached the Abbess of Zurich, and I hope that
Elizabeth will not be suffered to peruse a single line of the papers.

It is but a short time since these curious Memoirs were in my
possession; and I can assure you (if, as I take for granted, you are not
already conscious of it) they contain many circumstances, which for the
honour of the Abbey of Curwald, and (with grief I write it) for that of
some of my own ancestors, had better remain for ever unknown.


                      _Elizabeth to Count Oswald_

In vain do I strive to turn my thoughts from Montfort; the reflection
“what is to become of him” occupies my mind incessantly. Alas! there was
a time, when I loved him with such passion! when there was nothing which
I would not have given to purchase for him one moment’s happiness! and
_now_, oh! what a change! _she_, who once was ready to sacrifice for
this Montfort every thing, even the affection of a warning brother, who
saw deeper into the deceiver’s heart than herself; _she_ now hesitates,
by giving up a few superfluous miles of territory and some high-sounding
empty titles, to rescue him from the very abyss of misery and ruin!—and
all this change in her heart is produced by the sole reflection, that
Montfort’s prosperity would now be shared no longer with herself. Oh!
Elizabeth! Elizabeth! thou hast a groveling soul! thy passion for Henry,
so falsely called heroic, was nothing better than mere self-love!

Chide me not, dear brother, for this want of resolution; I am conscious
the expression of such feelings must be little expected by you after the
temper of mind, in which you saw me when we parted: but you know not the
dreadful contest between affection and duty, which has but lately been
excited in my bosom—what! Henry imprisoned by his uncle, as a punishment
for having bestowed his heart on the portionless Ida? Henry, commanded
by the incensed Count de Montfort to purchase liberty by offering me his
hand? What then, do I live to see my nuptial bed made the alternative of
a dungeon? Oswald! Oswald! oh! what a humiliation for the proud
Elizabeth, let what is required of him be refused or accepted by
Henry!—as for myself, my resolution is fixed; but yet, through respect
for you and your counsels, it has not been fixed till after mature
deliberation. I will not have the appearance of acting either from an
impulse of extravagant generosity, or from that spirit of refined
vengeance, which induces us to crush our enemies under the load of
obligations: no; I will do nothing but my _duty_. I have submitted the
whole affair to the decision of an impartial judge: I will ascertain how
much I _ought_ to do for the Damsels of Werdenberg, and exactly that
much will I do, without desiring to be thanked by any one. What would be
my feelings, Oswald.... Heaven and Earth! what would be my feelings,
were I to hear Montfort thank me for having _kindly_ facilitated his
union with his beloved Ida!


                         _Elizabeth to Oswald._

My brother, we will in future chuse other subjects for discussion:
Montfort and Ida ought now to hold a place no longer in my private
thoughts, nor shall their names be ever again traced by my pen. To
banish these spectres which haunt my mind so fearfully, and bury them
for ever in oblivion, or at least only to remember them with contempt,
surely I need but to recall that memorable day, when my dear exasperated
brother forgave the lovesick-girl’s elopement, her elopement with this
deceitful Montfort; when he promised still to acknowledge her as his
sister, and condescended to make known to the traitor with his own lips,
that Count Oswald would not disdain to honour and esteem him as his
sister’s husband—and then let me remember, how Henry led the proud
Elizabeth in triumph to the altar; and how at the very moment that he
prepared to swear to her eternal constancy, the irrevocable word refused
to pass his lips, because ... because among her attendants he discovered
a face, whose features seemed to him more lovely than his bride’s.

Oh! when I recollect these circumstances, my brother! the Damsels of
Werdenberg, the chosen friends of my bosom, were invited to place the
nuptial garland on my brow, and the false-ones tore it in pieces, and
trampled it under their feet. With what a look of horror and aversion
did Henry throw away my hand! He affected to be suddenly indisposed too!
oh! ’twas a mere pretence! his midnight flight from the Castle, and his
consternation at hearing, that those perfidious girls were gone, ought
to have left me no doubt upon the subject; yet I suspected nothing till
the cruel news arrived, that Ida’s fate was as closely connected with
Henry’s, as I once had flattered myself to have seen my own.

Again I repeat it, I will discuss this subject no longer. My prayers had
once the power of soothing Oswald’s vengeance and saving the offender’s
life; shall my lamentations excite afresh that sleeping vengeance?—No! I
will be silent!—I thank you, dear Oswald, for all your kindness; still
love Elizabeth, but strive not to avenge her.


                         _Elizabeth to Oswald._

I doubt whether I act wisely in writing to you so often? a less
interesting occupation would conduce more to the tranquillity of my
bosom, and such an occupation am I earnestly endeavouring to procure. A
visit to the Abbess, for the purpose of renewing my entreaties
respecting the annals of Sargans, has exalted my curiosity to the very
highest pitch. I am sensible, that anxiety to learn the sufferings of
those who have been as unfortunate as myself, alleviates the weight of
my own afflictions.

The Abbess appeared to be undecided whether she should indulge me with a
sight of these writings, which she had already been drawn into an half
promise to communicate.

—“My dear lady,” said she smiling, “had you not rather obtain a personal
knowledge of those ladies, who are treated of in these moth-eaten
ill-written leaves, and whose adventures, or at least as much of them as
deserves your attention, I can myself relate to you concisely?—Look!”
she continued, at the same time removing a silken curtain which extended
itself over the whole western side of her closet; “look! here are the
portraits of the most remarkable among those celebrated ladies,
respecting whose lives some idle person has contrived to make you so
inquisitive. I confess, I _do_ possess the writings in question; but
believe me, daughter, they are buried under such a heap of uninteresting
papers relating to different matters, that to explore them would be too
tedious a task for the leisure of an anchoret or the patience of a
saint.”

I stood silent, and listened, and looked; but in truth the speaking
portraits of these females, the most lovely and excellent of their day,
and the interesting fragments of their annals which escaped from the
Abbess of Zurich as she pointed them out to me by name, were by no means
likely to cure me of my inclination to know more of their adventures.

You are not the only one of the family, Oswald, who possesses the talent
of persuasion; your sister too inherits some little portion of that for
which her brother is so remarkable. I conquered; and before evening
arrived, I had the satisfaction to see brought into my chamber a large
iron chest, which contained materials of sufficient interest to steal me
from my own sorrows, and transport me into a different world from that
in which I am existing—oh! how delightful is it for a wounded heart thus
to steal itself away from the theatre of its afflictions!


                         _Elizabeth to Oswald._

The morning broke, and found me still occupied in examining the
moth-eaten parchments; selecting those which appeared to be the most
interesting, and separating them from the rest, which I purposed to
reserve for a future opportunity. It was fortunate, that I did not delay
this examination till the next day. Scarcely were the nuns returned from
matins, when my treasure was redemanded of me. _The_ Abbess came to make
excuses in person. She talked of secrets regarding the Convent, and the
commands of the Bishop of Coira, though, as far as I can make out, the
_great lady_ (for such is the appellation which the nuns give the Domina
of Zurich) is totally independent of him. She might as well have spared
her apologies; I was angry, and scarcely could prevail on myself to
answer her with common politeness. She had broken her word with me; and
therefore I feel but little compunction for having over-reached her, and
kept back several of the writings, which I had previously laid aside.
They happen to be exactly those (at least I hope so) which the sight of
those portraits in the Domina’s closet had made me most anxious to
examine.

One parcel consists of the Memoirs of Urania Venosta; she is pale, and a
black veil half conceals her features, yet the grief which is exprest in
her countenance (the picture represents her in the decline of life) has
still left her charms sufficient to make us guess, how perfect must have
been her beauty while yet in the full bloom of youth.

Another packet contains some account of the unfortunate Adelaide, lady
of the Beacon-Tower; she was a daughter of the house of Carlsheim, and
had resolution enough to attend upon her unfortunate husband till his
last breath, which he was doomed to breathe out upon the scaffold!
Adelaide only left the place of execution to lay herself down, and die.

I possess also the adventures of two Damsels of Sargans, who
particularly arrested my attention yesterday in the closet of the
Domina.—The picture represented them as two solitary pilgrims, both
imprest with beauty and innocence in every feature—features, which
seemed to be not totally unknown to me, and which even recalled those to
my memory, which my partial friendship once viewed with such fond
admiration, while gazing on Constantia and her perfidious sister!—They
were represented, as wandering on a barren mountain covered with snow,
and endeavouring with inexpressible anxiety in different quarters to
discover an out-let from this desolate pass, where they must inevitably
perish, unless some higher power should graciously interpose in their
behalf. In truth, I fancied that I could discover in the back-ground of
the picture a faint shadow, which seemed to beckon one the poor
wanderers to advance: probably it meant to convey the idea of a guardian
angel, or a saint, who had descended from Heaven to guide the distressed
pilgrims out of this fearful labyrinth.

Besides these, I have kept back several other fragments of less
interest, which I shall not examine, till all those which I have
mentioned have been gone through, and their contents communicated to
you, dear Oswald. Into the bargain, the Domina (in hopes, I suppose, of
softening my resentment) sent me by the hands of a lay-sister the life
of one of her predecessors, who had also belonged to the family of
Sargans, and respecting whom she thought, that what she had told me
respecting her wisdom and piety, must needs have powerfully excited my
curiosity. I took the ponderous roll of parchment with many thanks; I
have already ran through it, and returned it, for it contained nothing
except that this worthy Abbess was not only a saint, but was also a
woman of great learning; that she had sacrificed to the Muses at the
same time with Walter of Vogelfeld, the Counts of Hapsburg and
Welsh-Neuburg, the Abbot of Einsiedel, and the Bishop of Constance, and
had carried off the prize from those distinguished Authors; and finally,
that she had instituted a weekly meeting of literati at the house of
Rudiger Manstein, the burgo-master of Zurich.

These particulars possest very few charms for me; and the moment that I
was left to myself, I had recourse to my precious stolen treasure, of
which I shall immediately communicate to you as much, as I have as yet
had leisure to peruse. Oh! my kind Oswald, will you not blame me, when I
confess, that even this interesting occupation was insufficient to
banish Montfort from my mind? Yet to waste another thought on this
paragon of human perfidy is too great a weakness—I will return to my
parchments, in hopes to collecting from the sorrows of others resolution
enough to endure my own with patience.


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                            PART THE SECOND.

                                MEMOIRS

                                   OF

                            URANIA VENOSTA.


It affords the mind a melancholy pleasure to look back in the evening of
life, and contemplate the path which conducted us to that place of
shelter, where tranquillity awaits us, and which at length appears in
sight. Yet in such a moment we obtain but an imperfect view of the
scenes through which we past; and the sensations which we at the time
experienced, have already lost much of their poignancy. The chillness of
approaching night makes us almost forget our sufferings, while toiling
under the heat of the mid-day sun; and our eye glides easily along the
deep vallies in which we feared to lose our way, and over the lofty
mountains which it cost us so much labour to ascend—The whole now seems
blended together, and we perceive scarcely any thing but a level
surface; for the distance of those objects which we have left behind,
and the darkness growing deeper with every moment, delude our eyes, and
hide from us almost every thing, which once inspired us with such
well-founded terror.

Alas! the _pleasures_ of our pilgrimage are lost to us, as well as its
difficulties and its dangers! we no longer see the flowers of the vale,
in which we loitered; we hear no more the murmur of the brook, whose
clear streams refreshed us when fainting with fatigue and thirst! we
retain of the whole but one sensation; that the whole is _past_!—and we
wonder not a little, when the transient recollection of former events
occasionally flits before us, how such trifles could have possest the
power of affecting us with violence so extreme.

Such are our feelings in the decline of life; feelings which you too,
beloved-ones, for whom I trace these lines, which you, my Amalberga, and
you, my gentle Emmeline, will experience at the appointed hour. Alas!
before that hour arrives, you must wander through a long and painful
way, counting many a step of toil, and many a tear of sorrow: I feel it
to be my duty once more to examine the road by which I have past myself;
and by explaining to you the obstacles which impeded me in _my_
progress, I hope to enable you to overcome those, which may present
themselves before you in your own.

The spring of my life was bright and lovely. I was educated with the
most illustrious young women of the age, and numbered the children of
sovereigns among my play-mates. The daughters of the Count of Hapsburg
lived with me like sisters; and even when Rudolf was elected Emperor,
and their father’s elevation authorized them to expect to share the
thrones of the first Sovereigns of Europe, still did our friendship
continue in full force. What have innocence and inexperienced youth to
do with dignity and grandeur? Things of this nature only furnished us
with a subject for mirth; we past in review the Princes, both young and
old, who solicited the good graces of the Emperor’s daughters; we
discussed freely their merits and defects, portioned them out among our
society, and amused ourselves with jesting at the unfortunate maiden, to
whom the worst lot fell. The number of these illustrious suitors was
seven; and as the Princesses with myself made exactly the same number, I
necessarily came in for my share in this allotment.

Unfortunately, what at first was mere jesting at length became serious.
The Duke of Saxony, who at his first arrival seemed to limit all his
wishes to the possession of the Princess Matilda, (Rudolf’s eldest
daughter,) began to imagine, that her companion Urania was the superior
beauty of the two. As it was generally believed (both on account of the
uniformity which prevailed in our society, and of our never being
separated) that I was the sister of my friends, the Duke thought it a
matter of very little consequence, to which of the Emperor’s daughters
he paid his addresses; and he showed his election in my favour so
plainly and so publicly, that Rudolf ordered me to quit his court. My
removal was so sudden, that no step could be taken by the Duke in this
important business: my father had fallen in the late popular commotions
at Basle; I had never known my mother; I was consigned to the
guardianship of an uncle, who had purchased considerable possessions in
the neighbourhood of the Rhætian Alps, where he resided far from the
tumult of the court in freedom and tranquillity.

Count Leopold Venosta received me with open arms. Painful as had been my
separation from the friends of my childhood, still I was not insensible
to the charm of being released from the chains of court etiquette, even
though the chains which I had borne had been so light and easy. The air
of liberty fanned my cheeks at every step I took; the peasants of Rhætia
(who had now almost universally shaken off the fetters of their lordly
masters) celebrated on all sides the feast of freedom, and invited the
neighbouring inhabitants of the Valteline to participate in their
happiness. Oh! what delightful scenes were these for a young and feeling
heart!—and yet I had not sufficient experience to perceive their whole
beauty and singularity.—Too often is liberty purchased dearly by the
effusion of blood; and joy at obtaining the so long wished-for blessing
is sullied by melancholy recollections of the means, by which that
blessing was obtained. In _this_ instance, it was the reward of
temperance and industry, which had at length succeeded in their efforts
to burst the chains of luxury and oppression. Knights and Monks, the
former owners of these possessions, had long indulged without reflection
or restraint every caprice of their voluptuous fancies, till they became
the debtors of their own vassals; who in the mean while had been
advancing silently towards their grand object through diligence in
labour and propriety in morals, and now were able to set at defiance
those, whose slaves and victims they had been so long. The impoverished
libertines found themselves without resource; they were obliged to rest
contented with bestowing angry looks on their enfranchised vassals, as
often as accident brought them in their way, and with indulging their
spleen in intemperate railing at (what _they_ termed) the caprice of
fortune.

But Count Leopold belonged not to the number of these reduced Lords. His
opulence grew with every day; his possessions were increased by the
purchase of those, which the debts of his neighbours compelled them to
dispose of. Neither had the country reason to lament, that so much power
was concentrated in his hands.

He allowed his vassals sufficient independence to prevent their sighing
after a greater share of freedom; he parcelled out some of his estates
into small farms, and bestowed them on the most industrious among his
people; he even induced several of the inhabitants of the Valteline to
settle upon his possessions, by allotting to them a portion of valuable
but hitherto uncultivated land, which liberally replaced to them what
little they abandoned in their own distracted country.

Oh! believe me, my children, the occupation renders us almost equal to
the angels, when we employ our power in bidding some desart teem with
harvest, and making it the habitation of happy creatures! I have
witnessed many of these transformations, which the Princes of the earth
could produce so often and so easily, had they but the inclination. It
is in their power to copy the benevolence and might of the Creator; but
they chuse rather to imitate his chastising justice, to convert the
dwellings of men into heaps of stones, and to pour a deluge of blood
over the smiling fruitful vallies.

Among the Lords of that part of Switzerland, whose chief possessions now
belonged to my uncle, the Counts of Carlsheim held the most
distinguished place. Ethelbert (the only remaining descendant of this
family, at least as far as we knew) scarcely inherited from his father
the tenth part of that property, which once belonged to his forefathers.
Grief and vexation had bowed the young man to the ground; he sought to
improve his fortune by entering into the service of foreign princes,
failed in the attempt, and returned sorrowing to repair the ruined
castles which still were his own, and to collect the fragments of his
fallen greatness. He had no reason to reproach _himself_ as the author
of his distress; yet the consciousness of his situation and the feelings
of wounded pride kept him in a constant state of humiliation, which
became particularly painful at the sight of those, who had established
their prosperity on the ruins of that of the house of Carlsheim.

Influenced by these sentiments, did Ethelbert most studiously avoid all
intercourse with my uncle. On none of those occasions, which usually
bring knights and noblemen together, did he ever appear, if there was
the slightest probability of Count Leopold’s being present; and in spite
of all my uncle’s endeavours to form an acquaintance with this young
warrior, (for whom more reasons than one induced him to feel a lively
interest,) still would his efforts in all likelihood have failed of
success, had not a circumstance occurred, which absolutely enjoined
their meeting, and which was the first link of a connexion which ...
dare I say it?... which should never have been formed. Yet the
ordinations of eternal Wisdom ought not to be censured: I press my
finger on my lip, and am silent.

In the bosom of a tranquil valley situated near the Rhine rose the walls
of a monastery, which in point of wealth was only inferior to the monks
of Saint Basil in Solothurn, and to the valuable endowments and
extensive possessions of the Great Lady of Zurich. Since time immemorial
had this district belonged to the Lords of Carlsheim; and they were so
conscious of its worth, that when they sold the rest of their estates
beyond the power of redemption, they had only parted with this as a
pledge. My uncle had already entered without success into various
negociations with Count Werner (Ethelbert’s father) on this subject; and
after the old man’s death, he had found his son equally determined never
to relinquish entirely his right to “the jewel of the land,” for such
was the popular name of the Cloister in the Wood. Various means were
proposed to my uncle (several by the monks themselves) for subduing the
obstinacy of the original possessor: but Leopold’s tender conscience
thought some unjust, and some unfeeling, and every thing remained as it
was.

—“Let us not,” he always answered, when prest upon this subject, “let us
not rob this young man of the flattering hope, that by means of his
claims on this delightful territory he may one day be enabled to get a
firm footing in the land of his once opulent inheritance! I will not be
the man who deprives him of it; far more willingly would I lend him my
aid towards realizing his expectations, were I assured that he is really
the character for which I take him. In the mean while, let him continue
to feast his imagination with the hope of one day enjoying the treasures
said to be buried in the Abbey of Curwald, and with the rest of those
chimæras which have been painted to me in such brilliant colours for the
purpose of seducing me to seize _that_ by force of arms, to which
without Ethelbert’s voluntary agreement I can never possess a
satisfactory right.”—

It is but too certain, that no means were left untried, which might
exasperate my uncle against Ethelbert of Carlsheim; who on _his_ side
suffered many an interested adviser to assail his ear with similar
representations. Things were carried to such a length, that feudal war
would certainly have been declared, and the dwellings of tranquillity
must have been deluged with an ocean of blood, had not Count Venosta’s
generosity induced him to give way on all possible occasions.

To talk over calmly these and similar circumstances with Ethelbert in
person, such was my uncle’s object in endeavouring to throw himself in
his way; and the obstinate care, with which the latter avoided every
explanation, might as well be ascribed to a sentiment of false pride
which made him feel humiliated by Count Venosta’s superior wealth, or to
the insinuations of ill-disposed advisers, as to envy, or malignity, or
any other bad feature in his character. Count Leopold and myself had
always made it a rule to consider Ethelbert’s actions in the most
favourable light. It is true, we had both been long the inhabitants of a
court, the proper atmosphere of suspicion and mistrust; but on our first
arrival among the frank and honest children of Helvetia, we dismissed
those enemies of rural peace for ever, and determined to be open-hearted
with those whose hearts were so open to us.

The circumstance which at length brought my uncle and Count Ethelbert
together, was a dispute between the monks of Curwald and their Abbot;
and which at last was carried to such a pitch, that it became necessary
to refer it to the cloister’s liege-lord. But who was this same
liege-lord? was it Leopold, who was in actual possession of the revenue,
or Ethelbert, in whom the legal right still vested? The monks appealed
from one to the other over and over again, and at length it became
absolutely necessary that a meeting should take place between them, in
order that the business might be finally adjusted.

My uncle had never forbidden my interference in matters, which did not
exactly fall within the province of women; nor indeed would it have been
in my power to remain inactive on this occasion, in which the honour and
welfare of those persons who (after my uncle) were most dear to me, were
very deeply implicated.

Christian, the persecuted Abbot of Curwald, was my father-confessor; the
Prior Matthias, who shared with him the unmerited hatred of the monks,
had been my instructor in botany, one of my most favourite studies, and
which the Rhætian mountains afforded me every means of cultivating with
success. I knew the excellence of both these men, and exerted all the
powers of female persuasion, which consist in tears and entreaties, to
keep my uncle steady in the interests of my venerable friends. I was too
anxious about the issue of this affair to suffer Count Venosta to go
alone to the place, which had been appointed for the interview between
him and his rival. Report had informed me, that Ethelbert appeared
disposed to protect the persecutors of innocence; I resolved, that he
should be made thoroughly aware of the real state of the case; nor could
I suppose, that any thing more could be requisite in order to obtain the
decision, which I so ardently desired to hear pronounced. I was still to
learn, that it is possible to act in opposition to a principle, of whose
justice we are thoroughly convinced.

They say, that Female Innocence, forgetful of herself while she is
occupied with the interests of others, was never known to supplicate
without success. My uncle had exerted all his powers of argument without
producing conviction in the bosom of the Count of Carlsheim. He was
silent, and I was now permitted to advance a few representations on the
subject. I spoke not much; but I spoke with force and feeling, and I
flattered myself, that I could read in Ethelbert’s radiant eyes, that
what I said had not totally failed of its effect. He answered not; but
he cast on me a look so full of expression, that I felt my cheeks
covered with blushes, hastily let fall my veil, and retreated towards my
uncle:

—“Count Venosta,” said Ethelbert at length, “here is my hand! decide the
business according to your own pleasure. So fair and virtuous a Damsel
would never support the cause of guilt! the discontented monks shall
keep their superior—and if the Abbot wishes to secure their obedience
for ever, let him only request his powerful advocate to exert upon
_them_ the same powers of persuasion, which she has just now employed
upon _me_, and he cannot fail to obtain his object. Methinks the Man
might make himself Lord of the whole universe, would he but use this
means, and though loaded with crimes might steal himself into Paradise,
covered by the protecting mantle of such a saint.—”

These compliments seemed to me not less free than flattering. A look too
of my uncle’s informed me, that they were by no means to his taste, and
I quitted the room embarrassed and uneasy.

I had the satisfaction to see my friends justified and reinstated in
their dignities, in defiance of their numerous foes; but I had also the
mortification to experience some consequences of my well-intended
interference, which were by no means agreeable. The first was a very
severe remonstrance from Count Venosta respecting the ardour, or the
importunity as he termed it, with which I had prest my suit upon
Ethelbert.

—“Had Urania been a simple Alpine shepherdess,” said my uncle, “who,
concealed, among her native mountains, had never heard of the insolent
expectations, which men ground upon the slightest demonstration of
female good-will towards them, I might, perhaps, find some excuse for
the free tone with which she spoke to a stranger, and the tender
expression which she infused into her supplicating looks; but Urania,
educated in a Court, should have been more upon her guard. Handsome as
are his features, the Count of Carlsheim’s bold and ardent gaze was such
as by no means gave me a favourable opinion of his delicacy; and still
less was I pleased by the liberty which he took of addressing you in a
strain of flattery so undisguised. Hitherto I have been disposed to
entertain a favourable opinion of the young man; but I confess, what I
have seen of him to-day has shaken my goodwill not a little.”—

I only answered Count Leopold’s warning speech by a respectful silence;
and I afterwards reproached myself for the manner in which I had acted,
though I was unconscious what I had done, for which I deserved to be
reproached. My heart was innocent; my intention was pure; the
consequences of the step which I had taken, however, soon convinced me
that I had really committed an error.

Ethelbert of Carlsheim, he who, during whole years that my uncle sought
to obtain his acquaintance, was never to be found; he, who even now that
they were at length known to each other, seemed by no means eager to
cultivate a closer intercourse with the family of Venosta, from the time
of our first meeting presented himself before _me_ almost every day. If
I sought the neighbouring church, it always so happened that he had
chosen exactly the same hour for paying his devotions—if I sat in my
balcony, he was sure to ride past the Castle—at the rural feasts, for
which among our vassals an excuse was never wanting, and from which I
dared not absent myself through fear of mortifying the good people,
Ethelbert’s hand was always offered to conduct me to the dance. At
length it so chanced, that I was under the necessity of confessing that
it was to him, that I owed the preservation of my life. One evening as I
was proceeding towards the Castle in the twilight, a procession of
villagers, returning from a wedding, happened to cross my path,
accompanied by a variety of instruments which produced the most noisy
and discordant sounds imagiable. The white banners fluttering before the
eyes of my palfrey, and the clattering cymbals which stunned her ears,
caused her to take fright and set off at full speed; and in all
probability she would have dashed with me from the brow of a
neighbouring precipice, to which she was hastening, had not Count
Ethelbert fortunately heard my shrieks. He rescued me from my danger,
and in return had the happiness (as he called it) to accompany me back
to the Castle, and took an opportunity to make by the way a declaration
of the most passionate affection.

Another time, late at night I was alarmed by a fire breaking out in my
anti-chamber, and the flames spread with sufficient rapidity to make me
swoon through terror. When I recovered, I found myself supported by
Count Ethelbert, who advised me to save myself by flight from the
threatening danger, and seemed perfectly ready to assist me in putting
his advice in execution. However, as I had now regained my presence of
mind sufficiently to see, that there was no absolute necessity for
taking such a step, my flight extended no further than to my uncle’s
chamber, whither I requested to be conveyed without delay.

Leopold received my preserver with marked coldness, and concluded his
expressions of gratitude with enquiring—“by what strange though
fortunate accident he had arrived there so speedily and so exactly at
the time, when his assistance was most wanted?”—Ethelbert in his answer
talked much of the good angels who watch over the favourites of Heaven,
which my uncle heard without any great appearance of satisfaction; and
as soon as the Count of Carlsheim had taken his departure, I received a
very serious lecture respecting him. My uncle was inclined to believe,
that the accident which had lately alarmed my palfrey, and the fire
which had thrown me under Ethelbert’s protection, were both devices
intended to bind me to him by the chains of gratitude. It was at least
certain, that no sooner had my accident taken place, than the bridal
procession disappeared; and the fire had done no other damage, than
consuming part of the arras with which my anti-chamber was hung.

—“If the Count of Carlsheim is anxious to win your affections,” said my
uncle, “why does he not take the straight road to obtain them? why does
he not explain his views respecting you to _me_? there was a time, when
I should not have refused you to him, and in which I intended to have
done an act of justice by making him once more lord over the possessions
of his ancestors, by giving him the hand of Urania, the future heiress
of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—

I knew not, what intelligence or what observations could have induced
Count Leopold (who was generally so much inclined to think well of every
one) so soon to view Ethelbert’s actions in an unfavourable light. As
for myself, I gave these accusations by no means implicit confidence;
and I strove to find excuses for the conduct of a man, who every time
that I saw him made a stronger impression on my heart, and who daily
rendered it more difficult for me to suspect him of any thing wrong.

Ethelbert of Carlsheim was unfortunate, and had been deprived of the
greatest part of those possessions, which ought to have been his birth
right; this alone would have been a sufficient reason for my viewing him
with interest; but how much was that interest increased by the
discovery, that he employed the little power, which he still possest, in
relieving the misfortunes of others; and that by the protection which he
granted the opprest, he had himself incurred the animosity of many
powerful foes? what could be more noble and more generous than such a
proceeding, and how was it possible to suppose, that a man who could act
thus, could ever deserve the most distant appearance of suspicion?

Edith, Countess of Mayenfield, was compelled to fly from her castle, by
her bitter enemy the ambitious Abbot of St. Gall: she was a widow, and
there were suspicions (and those no slight ones) that she was indebted
for the removal of her husband to a present of wine from the cellar of
this dignified prelate. Willingly would he have also sacrificed the
unprotected lady, who was the more dangerous obstacle to the enjoyment
of his hopes, inasmuch as she was daily expected to produce a child,
which (if a son) would be entitled to the whole possessions of his
deceased father.

Edith therefore was compelled to seek safety in flight; the time of her
delivery was near; she was beset with enemies on all sides; nor could
she doubt what would be the fate of herself and her offspring, should he
fall into the Abbot’s hands. In this dreadful situation she summoned up
all her courage, and under the protecting mantle of the night employed
the only means of saving herself from destruction, which the severity of
her fate had now left her. Her wearied horses refused to bear her
further, and she was still far distant from the place, in which she
hoped to find shelter and assistance. She doubted not, that the Abbot
would pursue her; not a moment was to be lost; she quitted her litter,
and resolved to prosecute her painful way on foot, unaccompanied except
by her orphan daughter, the young and lovely Minna. She ordered her
attendants to pursue their journey with as much diligence as possible,
hoping by this artifice to lead her pursuers astray. As for herself, she
determined to conceal herself in the depth of the forest, thinking she
should find there some retired cottage, in which she might recover
herself from anxiety and fatigue, and give birth in tranquil security to
her unfortunate fatherless infant. As to being betrayed to her tyrant,
she was too well acquainted with the honest and benevolent temper of the
inhabitants of these mountains to harbour any apprehensions on that
head.

The paths through which she wandered were solitary. At length the
trampling of a steed was heard; and soon after a knight, unaccompanied,
presented himself before the unfortunate lady, who, supported by the
powerless hand of the youthful Minna, was scarcely able to prevent
herself from sinking on the ground: this solitary knight was Count
Ethelbert; he was returning from the chace, and had sent his attendants
forward.

The Countess of Mayenfield found it unnecessary to represent to him, how
much her situation required assistance, or to explain her name and the
dangers which still menaced her. Before she had time to request his
services, Ethelbert was already occupied in serving her: his pealing
horn soon collected his attendants round him. A slight but easy litter
was constructed with all diligence; and before an hour elapsed, the
fugitives rejoiced to find themselves within the sheltering walls of a
castle, whose strength was capable of defying the malice of their
enemies, in case they should attempt to deprive them forcibly of their
friendly retreat.

It so happened that Count Venosta also had dedicated this same day to
the chace: the sport had enticed him to a distance from home. Midnight
had long been past; and I still sat at my spinning wheel surrounded by
my maidens, waiting with most anxious expectation for my uncle’s return.
A thousand painful thoughts and confused images glanced across my
imagination, in which, as usual, Count Ethelbert was not forgotten;
suddenly the folding doors of my chamber were thrown open, and the
object of my thoughts stood before me, almost breathless through haste
and anxiety.

—“Dear lady,” said he, “I come to ask a boon of you. A guest of no mean
rank has arrived at my castle, and there is no female there to bid her
welcome: a litter waits at your door; suffer me to entreat that you will
let it convey you to my residence.”—

—“Sir Knight, are you in your senses? This extraordinary request....”—

—“Is the boldest, the most unpardonable, that fancy can imagine: but
judge by the want of preparation with which I propose it, how urgent is
the necessity for its being gratified without delay.—”

The Count of Carlsheim had by no means chosen the most fortunate moment
for obtaining any favour at all from me, much less one of so
extraordinary a nature. In solitude I had reflected calmly and seriously
on my uncle’s warning: the frightened palfrey, and the fire so easily
extinguished, came into my head; and the uneasiness in which Count
Venosta’s absence had obliged me to pass the last hours, by no means
inclined me to view these circumstances so much to Ethelbert’s advantage
as usual: at that moment I saw him with my uncle’s eyes; and of course
this proposal appeared to me as nothing but a most bare-faced attempt on
my lover’s part to betray me into his power.

—“You are offended?” said Ethelbert, who read displeasure strongly
painted on my every feature; “well then! I must have recourse to a more
eloquent pleader.”—

Saying this, he hastened into the anti-chamber, and returned with a
little beautiful child, whose countenance expressed the deepest anxiety
and sorrow, and whose blue eyes filled with tears strengthened the
impression, which was made on me by her unexpected appearance.

—“Ah! dear good lady!” said the little mourner, while she sank on her
knees before me, and kist my hand; “I entreat you, do what this knight
requests of you! My mother and myself are alone in a gloomy castle,
where there are none but stern-looking men, with great beards and heavy
swords; and my mother is so very ill! and she asked so anxiously, ‘was
there no lady who would comfort and assist her in her sickness!’ and
then this knight who saved us from dying in the forest, answered, that
he knew a lady whom he loved as his sister, and that he would bring her
to my mother, if she could be persuaded to follow him; and then he took
me along with him, that I might help to prevail on you to come and be
kind to my poor mother: and now I am here, you _will_ be prevailed on; I
am sure of it, because you look on me so kindly! Come, dear good lady!
Come!”—

I kist the pretty suppliant without thoroughly comprehending what it was
that she requested me to do, and cast an inquiring look upon Ethelbert.
He related his adventure with the Countess of Mayenfield in so
interesting a manner, that it was impossible for me to hesitate a moment
longer, as to what course I should pursue. Indeed, the history of this
unfortunate lady was not unknown to me, when Ethelbert mentioned her
name: her misfortunes had for some time been the general subject of
conversation, and had already cost me many a sympathising tear, and many
an ardent wish to find some means of giving her assistance.

I was deaf to all the suggestions of prudence, and threw myself into the
litter, wishing that I could have given the horses wings, so eager was I
to reach the illustrious sufferer. My nurse accompanied me; a discreet
and benevolent woman, who was likely to be of much more use to the
Countess than myself. So completely was I occupied by my anxiety for the
poor lady, that I scarcely paid any attention to Ethelbert’s tender
expressions of gratitude, or to the representations of my nurse, who
hinted to me with some appearance of discontent, that I had acted with
rather too much rashness in this business; she assured me, that _her_
presence at the Castle of Carlsheim would be quite sufficient without my
giving myself the trouble to go there; and she confest, that she thought
Count Venosta would have good reason to be offended at finding on his
return home, that I had quitted his house during his absence with a
young knight, in spite of darkness and an heavy fall of snow.

We reached the Castle; the sight of us served to give new life to the
exhausted lady, who surrounded by none but men had met with but sorry
attendance. She embraced me, and called me by the tender name of sister.
I soon confided her to the care of my nurse, and quitted her chamber for
the purpose of making arrangements for her treatment; and I gave my
directions in a tone of as much earnestness, as had I been in my uncle’s
castle. Anxiety about the Countess made me take the whole business upon
my own hands; I saw nothing extraordinary in what I was doing, and could
by no means conceive, why Count Ethelbert’s people examined me with
looks of such surprise; nor why he was himself always by my side,
expressing the most excessive delight and satisfaction at every thing
that I did, and loading me with such a profusion of thanks, that it was
utterly impossible for me to ascribe them all to the interest, which he
felt about his unfortunate guest.

Before day-break, Edith became the mother of a boy; and never did any
other mother feel equal rapture with hers, when for the first time she
prest him to her bosom. In this new-born babe she embraced not merely
her child, but the future conqueror of her foes, and the preserver of
her family. Nothing more than the birth of this boy was necessary to
destroy every claim of the avaricious Abbot of St. Gall upon Mayenfield,
and reduce him to the condition of a feudal dependent. Count Ethelbert
on _his_ part neglected not to spread abroad the news of the birth of a
young Count of Mayenfield, and to invite through his heralds both
friends and foes to convince themselves by their eyes of the existence
of this infant nobleman.

Count Venosta had experienced no trifling anxiety on being informed of
my midnight excursion, the motive of which no one was able to explain to
his satisfaction. He determined to examine into the real nature of the
transaction himself; accordingly the first sunbeams saw him cross the
draw-bridge of Ethelbert’s castle, accompanied by his whole train of
hunters, whom he had ordered to hold themselves prepared for a serious
engagement, in case the nature of things should make it necessary to
come to hostilities.

The Count of Carlsheim was already abroad, employed in business which
regarded the adventure of the past night. My uncle found me sitting by
the bed-side of the newly-delivered Countess, whose ardent thanks for
the assistance, which I had afforded her, instantly removed every trace
of anger from his brow; and the severe lecture which he intended to
bestow on me, was softened into a gentle remonstrance against my acting
in general with too much precipitation.

Ethelbert returned; he shared with my uncle and myself the office of
presenting the new-born heir of Mayenfield at the baptismal fount, and
we gave the child its father’s name, Ludolf. From motives of propriety,
we were all anxious to remove the invalid (who earnestly entreated me
not to abandon her) to my uncle’s castle; but she was at first too weak
to bear the journey, and I was under the necessity of submitting for
some time longer to act as the mistress of Count Ethelbert’s castle.

Now then affairs wore that appearance, which I am convinced it had
always been my lover’s plan to give them. Doubtless had he thought
proper, he might have contrived to show his fair guest all the duties of
hospitality without any interference of mine: but he eagerly made use of
the opportunity which presented itself, to draw me into a more intimate
connection. He endeavoured to convince me by his reliance on my humanity
of the esteem which he entertained for _my_ character; and at the same
time he hoped to inspire me with a favourable opinion of his own, by
making me a daily witness of the noble treatment which he afforded to a
stranger, who had no claim to his protection except her need of it, and
who could make him no other return for his kindness, except the
involving _him_ in her own difficulties and dangers.

Ethelbert’s plan succeeded with me completely, and even my uncle began
to view him in a more favourable light. Both were equally interested
about the Countess, and swore to exert themselves to the utmost in
endeavouring to reinstate her and her new-born son in the rights, which
were still detained from them by the Abbot of St. Gall; the similarity
of their objects naturally induced a sort of confidence between them;
and Ethelbert lost no opportunity of turning this confidence to the best
account. Perhaps he already reckoned himself on the point of obtaining
that, which had long been the mark at which he aimed, though he had
never acknowledged it in words; namely, the possession of my hand: but
my uncle soon gave a fresh proof, that at present he by no means looked
forward to, or desired a connection between the families of Carlsheim
and Venosta.

The history of my nocturnal journey (many gave it the name of an
elopement,) had not been kept a secret; the situation of the Countess’s
affairs made it necessary for her to receive several strangers; they
always found me at her side, saw that I acted as the mistress of Count
Ethelbert’s house, and the remarks to which all this gave occasion were
frequently by no means to my credit. Some asserted, that I was already
betrothed to the Lord of Carlsheim; others fabricated out of facts and
guesses such a story, as offended my feelings too severely to admit of
my repeating it here, and which no sooner came to my uncle’s knowledge,
than he resolved at all events to remove me from so unusual a situation.
The invalid was now sufficiently recovered to bear the fatigue of a
journey; and an abode in the house of the potent Count Venosta was
likely to furnish her both with more consequence and security, than she
could expect to find at the Castle of Carlsheim.

My uncle and Ethelbert looked gloomily; my heart was heavy and sad: the
fair Edith of Mayenfield alone exprest in words, what no one else was
willing to declare to the other.

—“Oh! Heaven,” she cried at taking leave of him, who had till then been
her protector, while she prest mine and Ethelbert’s hands fast together,
between her own “unite these two noblest souls, with which you ever
blest humanity: this is the best recompense for such generosity and such
disinterested friendship, as I have experienced from them both!”—

Edith’s expressive eyes were directed towards heaven; Ethelbert and
myself blushed as we gazed on each other, without being able to
pronounce a syllable. Methought, Ethelbert _should_ have spoken on this
occasion;—but he was silent.

The Countess was long our guest. Open feud was declared between her
defenders and the obstinate Abbot of St. Gall, who was worsted in every
skirmish without ever being entirely subdued. The contest was carried on
for a considerable time: in the mean while my uncle (to whom age
advanced with steps so lingering, that no one could easily have guest
his years) discovered, that the charms of the fair widow were still of
great power: yet perhaps it was I, to whom the idea first suggested
itself, that an union between them would be productive of happiness on
both sides. I soon observed, that my hints were far from disagreeable to
either party; and I exulted in the hope of soon beholding my friend and
my benefactor united in a new course of domestic happiness.

When I imparted my designs to Count Ethelbert, (who was now a frequent
visitor at our castle) he listened to me with the greatest astonishment.
His countenance at this moment assumed an expression, which I had never
seen it wear before.

—“Lady!” said he, “am I awake, or dreaming?—An union, which must deprive
you of your fairest expectations, and will put a stranger in possession
of all those rights which ought to be your own, is such an union
contrived by yourself?”—

—“And when did Count Ethelbert,” I answered with a look of surprise not
inferior to his own, “when did Count Ethelbert discover the least trace
of selfishness in my character? it is impossible, that such mean
considerations should really hold a place in his bosom; or is this only
intended as a trial of his friend?”—

He bit his lip, and was for some time silent. My eyes were fixed upon
him steadily; and it was long, before he could recover himself
sufficiently to assume a different air, and explain to me, that in an
affair in which he had not personally the slightest concern, he could
only be anxious about my interest; and he advanced many arguments to
prove, that the most noble and generous soul might feel very differently
on occasions which regarded his friend, than he would have felt in
affairs, which only related to himself.

I believed every thing that Ethelbert told me; in fact he was soon after
complaisant enough to allow, that my reasons were not entirely without
weight, and at length even went so far as to declare that on
consideration it appeared to him very possible, that an union between
the Count Venosta and the widow of Ludolf of Mayenfield might be an
advantageous event for _all_ parties. He also promised, that as soon as
the next expedition against the Abbot of St. Gall should have taken
place, he would come to my assistance, and use every power of entreaty
and persuasion to forward this connection, which I so ardently desired.

This expedition was directed against one of the Castles, which our
common enemy detained from its rightful owner; on the morning appointed
for its taking place, out forces set out before daybreak, in pursuit of
a victory of which they reckoned themselves secure.

My friend and myself had already seen our heroes return victorious from
their excursions too often, to make us think it necessary to accompany
their departure with signs and expressions of anxiety. We had exactly
ascertained the time, when we might expect them back, and had laid a
plan (with the assistance of such warriors as were left behind) for
receiving them with all the pageantry and honours of conquest. A
procession of knights and ladies was intended to welcome them on their
return, and at the head of the joyous band was to wave a banner adorned
with mottos and emblems; this gorgeous ornament was to be embroidered by
our own hands, and our needles were plyed with unwearied industry, in
order that it might be finished at the appointed time.

While engaged at this delightful and now half completed task,
infrequently termed the lovely Edith in jest “my most venerable aunt;”
and in revenge she embroidered upon a vacant shield the united initials
of Ethelbert and Urania. By degrees our discourse took a more serious
turn. She declared to me her surprise at Ethelbert’s persisting in not
publicly declaring his love for me, a circumstance which had long been
the cause of much secret uneasiness and curiosity to myself. She assured
me also, that she had no wish more ardent in becoming Countess of
Vonosta, than to be authorized to insist on an explanation from the
bashful knight (as she called the Count of Carlsheim,) and to become the
instrument of accomplishing his happiness and mine.

It was at this moment, that a sudden noise in the court of the Castle
interrupted our work and our discourse. We sprang from our seats: the
trampling of horses would have led us to suppose, that our lovers were
returned, had so speedy a termination of their business been possible.
We bade our maidens hasten to enquire the news, and flew ourselves to
the window in order to learn (if possible), with our own eyes, what had
happened.

Instantly the Countess started back with a loud shriek, and fainted; nor
was my own condition much better on beholding in the court a single
warrior covered with blood, and holding two unmounted horses, whose
trappings spoke too plainly the fate of their riders!

—“What has happened?” I cried from the balcony, in a voice half choaked
by anxiety.

—“Ah! noble lady!” answered the messenger, “my lord your uncle ... the
Count of Carlsheim too ... an ambuscade among the mountains ... both
taken prisoners ... help! help for heaven’s sake!”—

Our people hastened to assist the soldier, who seemed to be desperately
wounded, and could scarcely hold himself upright through loss of blood;
the agony, which this news occasioned me, instead of overpowering me
like my friend, gave me additional strength, and I lost not a moment in
hastening to attempt the rescue of our knights. I directed the
preparations myself, and before an hour had elapsed, all the warriors
whom my uncle had left behind to protect the Castle, were completely
armed and ready to set out. I determined to head them myself; and being
accoutred in a light suit of armour, I hastened to bid farewell to my
afflicted friend (whom I had committed to the care of her women), and to
comfort her with the hope of my returning crowned with success.

—“What, Urania?” exclaimed Edith wringing her hands; “and do you too
leave me?—Heavenly mercy! what will become of me! take me with you,
Urania, or stab me before you go! foreboding terrors weigh down my
heart! dreadful as my sufferings have been already, I feel that I have
still much more to endure! Urania, we shall never meet again!”—

I prest my trembling friend to my heart with affection, recommended her
the kindness of her attendants, and then hastened, where I was far less
invited by courage and resolution than by urgent necessity and despair.
We gave the reins to our coursers, flew over the plain, and soon reached
the winding pass through the mountains, where our brave friends had been
subdued by treachery and malice. Ah! what a dreadful sight! the place of
combat floated with blood! various were the occasions presented to
induce our pity to stop, in the hope of rescuing from death some of his
yet lingering victims: but still more weighty considerations compelled
us to close our ears against the cries of suffering humanity, and pursue
our progress without delay. However, I failed not to leave some of my
people behind to discharge those offices, which I would so much more
gladly have fulfilled myself; and I charged them (in case any thing of
importance could be learned from those who still survived) to lose no
time in bringing me the information.

It was from them, that I learned the road, which the forces of the Abbot
of St. Gall (whose number trebled ours) had taken with the captive
knights. It was not yet evening, when I reached the fortress, which had
been pointed out to me as the prison of my friends.

We prepared for storming the walls. I possest among my followers several
experienced warriors, who supplied my want of intelligence in affairs of
this nature, and who seemed to derive double strength from witnessing my
resolution, the resolution of a distracted woman! It was not long,
before we saw a white flag waved by the besieged; and soon after (having
received our solemn promise for the security of his invaluable person)
we beheld on the battlements the robber of my beloved friends, the
oppressor of the unprotected innocent, in short the execrable Abbot of
St. Gall.

I had taken off my helmet to cool my burning cheeks; and my ringlets
still adorned with flowers, which in my haste I had forgotten to remove,
streamed freely in the wind of evening: the Abbot therefore easily guest
at my sex and name.

—“You are welcome, fair damsel of Sargans!” said the monk with a
malicious smile; “the friends, of whom you are in pursuit, are no longer
inmates of these walls: then forbear to persecute the innocent! lay
aside that heavy armour, which so ill befits your sex, and enter to
partake with us, poor monks, of a friendly though frugal
entertainment!”—

I was already preparing to return the insulter such an answer, as his
insolent speech demanded; but ere I had time to speak,—“treachery!
treachery!”—was shrieked in my ears by an hundred voices. I looked
round, and saw the glittering of hostile swords. My people were beaten
back, and the ground was strewed with their corses—the soldiers of the
perfidious Abbot had stolen upon us through secret passages, had taken
my followers by surprise, and were hewing for themselves a way to me
with their faulchions. Terror deprived me of my senses! what would have
become of me in this dreadful moment of confusion and fear I know not,
had not my faithful Gertrude, who had followed me to battle with
undaunted courage, been close to my side; and ere I fell, she caught me
in her arms. The loss of my helmet made it easy for me to be recognized
by my pale and feminine features. She seized the casque of one of the
Abbot’s soldiers, who happened to be struck down near us, and concealed
my face with it; she then wrapped me in his cloak, on which the Abbot’s
coat of arms was emblazoned; and under favour of this disguise she
succeeded in extricating me from the throng, and in conducting me in
safety towards the side, from which the combat seemed at that time to be
retiring.

I recovered myself, and we hastened to seat ourselves on horseback.
Gertrude convinced me that my presence was now quite unavailing, and
that my being taken prisoner would be unavoidable, if I suffered the
least delay. In truth, my nerves had been too much shaken by this last
dreadful piece of treachery to admit of my adopting any other resource
than flight, the woman’s constant refuge.

The darkness of the night enabled us to escape; and we arrived in safety
at the castle, which (while unacquainted with my own want of strength
and ability, and the power and perfidy of the foe with whom I had to
deal) I had left with such sanguine hopes of victory. We were obliged to
traverse the narrow pass through the mountains, where the fatal
ambuscade had been stationed in the morning: as I hastened through it,
methought the groans of dying men sounded in my ears, and my hair stood
erect, and my blood ran cold, as I listened. Woman’s weakness re-assumed
it’s rights; and she, who so lately had dared to trust herself among
hostile faulchions, now trembled at a sound, at a shadow, which only
existed in her over-heated imagination.

I reached the Castle more dead than alive. We found the Castle-gates
closed. We called in vain for admittance; no signal was attended to;
every thing within seemed to be silent as the grave: no glimmering of
light was visible in the high-arched casements, and we were compelled to
pass the night in a small ruined chapel at no great distance from the
Castle.

Convinced, that nothing but the fear of being surprised by the enemy
could have induced the Castle’s inhabitants to observe such obstinate
discretion, we waited for morning with the utmost impatience and
anxiety. Perhaps the enemy might pursue the fugitives hither, and make
himself master of the Castle, before our vassals could be summoned to
its defence? perhaps, it might already have been attacked, and might be
at that very moment in possession of the foe? I had left the Countess of
Mayenfield but ill-protected. My anxiety to rescue my uncle and Count
Ethelbert had induced me to leave no one behind, except our women, the
old seneschal, the warder, and a few domestics.

At break of day we again approached the Castle; we then perceived (what
the extreme darkness of the night had before prevented our discovering)
that the draw-bridge had not been raised. We crost it, and on
approaching the gates had the satisfaction to see them opened for our
admittance by the Seneschal. We were received by the weak old man with
every appearance of alarm: the first questions which were asked on both
sides related to our return unaccompanied, and to the ghastly appearance
of the old man; but neither of us could restrain impatience sufficiently
to give an answer. I hastened into the court yard, anxious to embrace my
friend, and consult with her, what precautions should be taken for our
future safety; but the first thing, which met my eyes on entering, was
an heap of bleeding corses!

I started back in horror, and wished to ask, what dreadful events had
taken place in my absence; but fear and agony choaked my words. Besides,
I was soon summoned to the assistance of Gertrude, at whose feet the
Seneschal (who probably had exhausted his little remaining strength in
opening the gates) had now fallen senseless.

Yet while so many scenes of terror are reserved for my pen, why do I
dwell with such minuteness on the first? I will not describe, how the
whole shocking mystery gradually unfolded itself; I will rather state at
once and briefly the total sum of my misfortune.

The only object which after the loss of Ethelbert and my uncle was still
dear to me, my friend, my Edith, she too had been torn from me during my
unfortunate expedition. Scarcely had I quitted her, when a troop of
unknown enemies had forcibly gained entrance; had either slain or
mortally wounded the few male inhabitants of the Castle; had confined
the women in the upper apartments; and when they retired after their
bloody work, had conveyed away with them the Countess of Mayenfield and
her weeping children! The robbers closed the doors after them and fled,
leaving the Castle in that fearful solitude, which had occasioned me so
much anxiety and surprise. The Warder and the Seneschal were the only
men, whose wounds had not already terminated their existence; but
fainting through loss of blood they heard not the signals, which I made
to obtain admittance. It was morning, before they were sufficiently
recovered to examine into the circumstances of the former day; and while
the first had dragged his feeble steps towards the Countess’s apartment,
the other had sought the Castle-portal, with the intention of obtaining
assistance from the neighbouring villagers.

The Countess’s women, with their hands still fettered, now threw
themselves at my feet, and enquired, what was become of their beloved
mistress, whom I had imprudently left behind under such inadequate
protection. Grief for her loss overpowered our apprehensions of further
danger; and had our foe thought proper to make use of the present
opportunity, he would have found us an easy prey.

About mid-day, some peasants in the neighbourhood arrived, and brought
with them the young Minna of Mayenfield, whom they had found weeping and
bewildered among the mountains.

—“Oh! dear, dear lady!” she exclaimed, while she threw herself into my
arms “my mother! oh! what have the villains done with my mother!”—

I could only answer with my tears. The child too was in such dreadful
agitation, that it was long before I could obtain from her an
explanation of the manner, in which the Countess had been conveyed away:
as for herself, the ravishers became weary of her incessant tears and
shrieks, and abandoned her among the mountains. How painful must the
unhappy mother have felt this parting with her only daughter! nothing
could have induced her to submit to it, except the threat of her
persecutor to deprive her also of the baby at her bosom.

The evening was far advanced, before I could recover myself sufficiently
to take some precautions for our security, and make such enquiries, as
appeared to me highly necessary; the gates were carefully fastened; the
draw-bridge was raised. As our strength was unequal to the task of
burying the dead, we were obliged to throw the corses into a ruined
well, situated in a back-corner in a remote part of the Castle: and this
melancholy duty being performed, we employed ourselves in collecting
every circumstance, which might assist us to guess at the authors of our
late misfortune.

The Seneschal, before whose bed the consultation was held, produced many
weighty reasons for asserting, that the Abbot of St. Gall (to whose
account we were inclined to set down any wickedness) in the present
instance was perfectly innocent. As to the person, at whose door he was
disposed to lay the blame, he obstinately refused to give the least
hint; but he made no scruple of avowing that he was not without
suspicions.

The little Minna, who now never stirred a moment from my side, and to
whom we were not paying the least attention, interrupted us to
say,—“that she had never heard the Abbot of St. Gall speak, and that she
was sure, that the voice of the chief robber was not unknown to her,
though she could not recollect where she had heard it. She had even said
as much, while in his power; but the only reward of her recollection had
been a blow, which struck her senseless at his feet. Shortly after she
had been forced from her mother’s arms, and left among the mountains.”—

—“Alas, my child,” said I, “you were probably deceived by some fancied
resemblance!—But what must now be done? where is the messenger, who
informed us yesterday of the fatal ambuscade?—Perhaps, he may be able to
give us some insight into the author of this second attack.”—

—“Ah! would to God,” answered the old Seneschal, “that I had either
examined that messenger more circumstantially, or at least had watched
him closer! yet who could have imputed treachery to Dietrich, or suspect
a man, who seemed to be at the point of death, of an intention to
escape?”

—“To escape?” I exclaimed; “has Dietrich fled? when and how did this
take place?”—

—“We were all busy in making preparations for binding up his wounds, of
whose pain he complained bitterly, but which it seems none of us ever
saw. We left him alone for a few moments, and in the meanwhile he
disappeared. We sought him long, but he was not to be found; and we
finished by conjecturing, that courage and fidelity had induced him to
follow you in spite of his wounds, and to endeavour at contributing to
his master’s rescue; though we doubted not from his apparently weak
condition, that he must have died by the way.”—

—“And why should not your conjecture have been well-founded? Dietrich
was ever one of Count Venosta’s most faithful servants.”—

The Seneschal assured me, that during the hostile attack which followed
close on the heels of Dietrich’s disappearance, circumstances had
occurred, which made him view the fellow’s escape in a very different
light. He was proceeding to explain himself more clearly, when the sound
of a trumpet threw us all into the most violent alarm! every one
hastened to the place, where duty or inclination called them: the Warder
ascended the watch-tower; my terrified damsels fled to conceal
themselves; in the mean while, I and the little Minna descended to the
lower battlements, in order to inform myself at once of the extent of my
danger.

—“Almighty powers!” I exclaimed, on casting a fearful look on the plain
before the fortress, which was now covered with warriors; “is it
possible?—my uncle’s banner?—Count Ethelbert’s soldiers too!—surely this
must be a dream!”—

Count Venosta now advanced before the rest, in order to answer in person
the usual questions, which the Warder asked from the tower; but I had
not patience enough to wait for the termination of this ceremony. The
Castle-gates were thrown open; the draw-bridge was let down; and I
already was clasped in the arms of my beloved uncle, ere I had yet
convinced myself, that his delivery was real.

—“Yes! my dear child!” exclaimed Count Leopold, as soon as I had
recovered myself from the first tumult of delight and astonishment;
“yes! I am free, and knowest thou, to whom we are both indebted for life
and all that we possess? ’tis to this hero, whose character I have so
long mistaken, and from whom my suspicions have till now with-held the
only gift, which is worthy to reward his merits!”—

—“What!” I replied—“Count Ethelbert? he, who was made prisoner at the
same moment with yourself?”—

—“Heaven be thanked, that he escaped!” interrupted my uncle. “While the
Abbot’s soldiers (after their successful ambuscade among the mountains)
were conveying me to their lord, Count Ethelbert was employed in
collecting his remaining vassals, whom he had left behind to protect his
castle: with these he hastened to my succour, and this morning saw my
deliverance effected. Oh! my Urania, help me to discharge my debts to
this excellent man! none but yourself can do it!—Draw near, Count
Ethelbert, and receive the hand of the sole heiress of all those
possessions, of which your ancestors formerly were the lords; the hand
of one, who boasts a still more precious title, the hand of that
beloved-one, whom you have so long adored in secret.—Why advance you
not? stretch forth your hand, and clasp that, which Urania has not
hesitated to extend towards you.”—

Ethelbert was still silent for a moment: at length he advanced a few
steps, his left hand placed on the hilt of his sword, his right upon his
bosom.

—“Count Venosta,” said he, “have I demanded of you the hand of the
heiress of Sargans?”—

—“I understand; you allude to my intended union with the Countess of
Mayenfield.—But fear not, that I need recall my words: when I have
restored your paternal possessions, I shall still have enough remaining
to confer a rich dowry on my wife.”—

—“I speak not of that: I only ask, have I ever entreated you to make me
the lovely Urania’s husband?”—

—“No, and I can well guess the reason of your silence! your fortunes are
fallen; your heart is proud; you dreaded a rejection: but surely now
there can exist no difference between us. You are my preserver; I offer
you in gratitude my dearest treasure, and you love Urania with too much
passion to reject her hand.”—

—“Yes, Count Venosta; yes, I love her!—but my pride requires that all
the world should know, that I became your nephew through your own
free-will; without your having been moved to pity by lovesick
entreaties, and without my having been obliged to enter into humiliating
explanations.”—

—“My friend! my preserver! why pain me by recollecting at such a time
... but you shall be satisfied!—Now then, all the world may know, that I
freely offer my niece’s hand to the Count of Carlsheim, supplicate him
to accept it, and wait his answer with impatience.”—

—“And you, lady?” said Ethelbert. —“Urania! pronounce my doom!”—

I was silent; I blushed and cast down my eyes. Oh! this noble pride,
which made him hesitate to accept the hand of the richest heiress in
Helvetia, lest he should be suspected of having sought it through
interested motives, would have gained him my heart, had it not already
long been his! my uncle was the interpreter of my looks; I did not
contradict him; my lover clasped me in his arms for the first time, and
I heard myself called by the title, which was dearest to me in the
world.

These moments were heavenly! alas! how soon were they interrupted by the
most bitter recollections!—my uncle turned from the scene of our
happiness, and enquired—“where he should find the Countess of
Mayenfield!”—

Oh Heaven! what did I suffer at hearing that question! what did I
suffer, when compelled to answer it! vainly should I attempt to describe
Count Venosta’s situation, when informed of the loss of his beauteous
Edith!

Men express grief and resentment in a different manner from us, helpless
females. My narrative of Edith’s carrying off was followed not by idle
complaints, but by active exertions to recover her. The wearied soldiery
again seated themselves on horseback, and were ordered to scour the
country round in pursuit of the ravishers. I was myself too much
interested in the business to oppose my uncle’s orders; but Count
Ethelbert, who retained more presence of mind than the rest, enquired,
whither we should first direct our course in hopes of delivering the
Countess?

—“Doubtless,” answered my uncle, “the place most likely to be converted
into her prison must needs be the nearest fortress belonging to the
perfidious Abbot; no one can doubt, that this misfortune is a work of
his hand.”—

Here I interrupted him by stating, that I had heard the Seneschal very
positively contradict this supposition; and I entreated, that before the
expedition set out, the old domestic might be examined, as he seemed to
possess more information on the subject, than he had yet imparted to
_me_. Unfortunately, we found on enquiry, that shortly after my uncle’s
arrival the Seneschal had expired of his wounds; and Count Venosta (who
in the violence of his despair preferred acting upon uncertainties to
remaining entirely idle) immediately entered upon his search after the
unfortunate Edith. At the end of several months of fruitless enquiry, we
were obliged to abandon all hopes of success.

It was during this period of anxiety, which seldom permitted my uncle
and Ethelbert to lay aside their armour, that I received the name of
Countess of Carlsheim. The ceremony was sad and solemn, prognosticating
the days, which were so soon to follow it.

I was now the wife of my lover, and enjoyed that sort of happiness,
which most women enjoy who marry a warrior-husband; I was the object of
a wild tempestuous passion, whose expressions were sometimes so rough
and violent, that they might have been mistaken for those of hatred. In
truth, I had fancied, that the happiness of marriage was somewhat
different; but alas! what girl does not fancy the same, and find at
length that she has been deceived?

No information could be obtained respecting the Countess of Mayenfield.
The Abbot of St. Gall persevered in asserting his claim to her
possessions; and the deep melancholy, which took possession of my uncle,
betrayed but too plainly, that his love for the dear lost-one was
stronger, than he had dared to acknowledge either to her, or to himself.

—“My children,” said he one day to me and Ethelbert, “Edith is lost to
me, and with _her_ the joys of life! It was folly in me to expect on the
brink of the grave, that I should be so singularly fortunate, as to feel
my eyes closed by the hand of affection. I have suffered for that folly;
I feel that my powers of life are hourly growing weaker, feel that the
day of death is at hand. The few evening hours which remain, before the
night of the grave closes around me, will I dedicate to solitude and
repose. All that I possess is now your property; I only reserve for
myself the pleasant vale of Munster, and the Castle of Upper Halbstein
on the banks of the Rhine. I will hide myself in the distant shades of
the _first_, when opprest by serious melancholy thoughts, and repair to
the _second_, whenever more lively moments make me wish for the society
and comfort of Ethelbert and his beloved Urania.”—

I opposed this determination of Count Leopold; but my husband did not
second me. He saw, that this arrangement was greatly to his advantage;
and I had already found on several occasions, that he was not quite so
incapable of attention to his own interest, as I had formerly supposed.
It by no means occurred to him, that Count Venosta proposed to do too
much for us; on the contrary, he lost no time in giving solidity to my
uncle’s kind declarations, and only appeared to lament, that the deed of
gift had not included his whole property. The waving shades of the vale
of Munster and the proud castle on the Rhine seemed to have acquired
double charms in his eyes, since Leopold declared his intention of
retaining them for himself; and their value was increased beyond bounds
on Ethelbert’s being given to understand, that my uncle did not intend
to leave them to us even at his death, but destined them for a bequest
to that beloved woman, whom he could not resolve to give up all hopes of
recovering.

Count Venosta (that honest open-hearted man, who withheld no sentiment
from those, whom he looked on as his children) was amusing himself one
day with the youthful Minna, whom the recollection of her mother
rendered inexpressibly dear to him. Ethelbert remarked, as if by
accident, that the child already had acquired the sedate appearance of
the station, which she was hereafter to occupy.

—“What station?” asked my uncle with surprise.

Minna, who had been accustomed to hear her future lot pronounced by my
husband almost daily, answered with her accustomed candour—“What other
shelter can a poor orphan expect to find, except a cloister?”—

—“What?” exclaimed Count Leopold, while he prest her still closer to his
bosom, “you poor? you an orphan, while Venosta lives? No, no, my child;
I know too well, what I owe to the memory of your excellent mother! Let
who will forsake you, never shall you be forsaken by me!”—

Count Ethelbert had never been partial to the Damsel of Mayenfield; from
that day he began to hate her.

Minna too on _her_ side seemed to harbour towards my husband a secret
aversion; whose expressions she would have been unable to restrain, had
he not also inspired her with sentiments of the most unbounded terror.

—“Ah! dear Countess!” she said to me one day, when she found me weeping
at having made new discoveries of his evil dispositions, discoveries
which almost every day afforded; “you know not yet, what a bad, bad man
he is! Scarcely do I dare to tell it you; but that voice which I heard
among my mother’s ravishers.... I am certain, _quite_ certain, that
voice was Count Ethelbert’s—I had _then_ never heard it speak but so
gently and so kindly.... But the first time that I heard him rage, I
recollected it that instant. How could I have been deceived? Oh! I
remember too well the terrible sound! But I have been silent till now,
for I tremble when I but think of the cruel manner, in which he used me,
when (while imploring him to take pity on my mother) I let fall, that I
was sure of having heard his voice before.”—

I was now better acquainted with the character of the man, whom I had
once looked upon as an angel of light; and I recollected several hints
of the old Seneschal, which seemed to imply a suspicion similar to that
of Minna. Yet the fact appeared to me in a light too dreadful to admit
of my giving it implicit confidence; and I judged it prudent to
contradict it with my lips, though in my heart I could not help
dreading, that the accusation was but too well-grounded.

Alas! it was not long, before I was thoroughly convinced, that my
husband was capable of many a deed, of which during the happy days of my
love-sick delusion I would have asserted his innocence with an oath, and
have suffered the weight of his guilt to have been charged upon my own
conscience! Alas! it was not long, before I had but too much reason to
confess, that there was no impossibility in his having been concerned in
that perfidious act, which his innocent accuser had alleged against him.

The persons, who had been the original means of bringing me acquainted
with the Count of Carlsheim (an acquaintance which I already began to
consider as a misfortune), the Abbot and Prior of Cloister-Curwald had
been maintained in their rights by my good uncle; and under his powerful
protection they lived in harmony with their monks from the time of my
interference. However, no sooner had the jurisdiction of this monastery
been made over by Count Venosta to my husband, than discontent and
rebellion began to resume their influence over the younger monks, who
felt themselves opprest by the restraints imposed on them by their
virtuous superiors. Often did Abbot Christian, when I knelt before him
in his confessional, return my confidence by an acknowledgment of his
secret sorrows, and explain his melancholy forebodings of what would be
his convent’s future fate, in a manner that touched me to the very
heart. But I was myself too weak to assist the venerable man; my husband
was deaf to my entreaties; and Count Venosta was at too great a distance
to admit of any good effects being produced by my applying to him.

It was long past midnight, that I once happened to be sitting alone in
my chamber, expecting my husband’s return from a carousal at a
neighbouring Baron’s; and I was endeavouring to prepare myself for the
painful scenes, which seldom failed to follow such entertainments.
Suddenly Gertrude entered the room with a terrified countenance, and
informed me that having seen from her window which overlooked the garden
some dark-looking figures, whose appearance was made still more terrific
by the contrast of the newly-fallen snow, she had descended to examine
what they really were; and that she had found it necessary to admit into
my anti-chamber the persons, who had given her so causeless an alarm.

—“Do not be terrified!” said she, “they are only poor afflicted spirits,
who hope for relief from your hands.”—

I was too well acquainted with the friendly anxiety of my faithful
attendant to spare me pain, and prepare me for unpleasant news by the
manner in which she related it, to be deceived by her assurance, that I
had nothing to fear. I waited for the appearance of these strangers with
a beating heart. What was my surprise at recognizing the excellent Abbot
of Cloister-Curwald, the venerable Matthias, and several other of the
most respectable monks, whose evident consternation already seemed to
implore my assistance, before they yet had time to give their petition
words.

—“Oh! dear good lady,” exclaimed the Abbot, “we are undone! the dreaded
storm has burst, and we must all be the prey of death, unless _you_ can
find means of preserving us! This morning while officiating at the
altar, we were seized in the name of our liege-lord, the Count of
Carlsheim, and imprisoned in a subterraneous dungeon. Our appeal to the
Bishop of Coira was treated with derision; and we collected from some
suspicious remarks of our jailor, that our doom would be finally
determined, long before our appeal could be made to a superior
jurisdiction. Alas! we know but too well, what _can_ be done in
convents! The fore-warnings of approaching death presented themselves on
all sides; the noise of revelry resounding from the chambers above us
increased our anxiety! What had we not to fear from the rage and
malignity of these intoxicated monks!—Fortunately, one of my secret
friends found means to gain admittance to our dungeon, and explain to us
the real and pressing danger of our situation. It seems, that the
enemies of order and of virtue are protected by the Count of Carlsheim;
he was himself assisting at the dissolute entertainment; and probably at
this moment we should no longer have been numbered among the living, had
not the friend who brought us this intelligence, secretly assisted us to
escape from the convent, and accompanied us in our flight. Now then our
life is in your hands; save us, dear lady, either by softening your
husband through your entreaties, or by pointing out to us some place of
concealment. To you alone could we have recourse; had we sought any
other refuge, we must surely have been overtaken before we could have
reached it.”—

—“Save you by entreaties?” I exclaimed, while I hastened to unclose a
door conducting to my baths; “entreaties to Count Ethelbert? Instant
flight is your only chance for safety! Follow me, father! Follow me, and
lose not a moment!”—

I hastened onwards, and conducted the trembling monks through a long
subterraneous passage, unknown to all in the Castle except myself and
the faithful Gertrude. The outlet was in the mountains; and here I
quitted the fugitives, convinced that they would easily find their way
through the intricate passes, with which the Prior Matthias was
perfectly well acquainted, having frequently traversed them in his
botanical pursuits.

Half of the night was consumed in this employment. On my return, I found
the furious Ethelbert waiting for me in my apartment, and immediately a
tremendous storm of rage burst over my devoted head. Convinced that my
friends were now in safety, I attempted not to conceal my share in the
transaction; and when he loaded me with insults, I replied to him by
reminding him of the promise which he had formerly given me, to protect
the opprest Abbot in the preservation of his rights, a promise which he
had so shamefully broken. Truth and justice were on my side, but power
was on that of my adversary. There was no one to hear me, and judge
between Count Ethelbert and myself; he was the strongest; the reward of
my remonstrances was the most unworthy treatment, and my chamber became
my prison.

The vassals, who loved me, exclaimed against such an act of violence, as
soon as they understood by means of Gertrude, how cruelly I was treated;
but Ethelbert’s art soon succeeded in giving another colour to the
transaction. He justified his severity by accusing me of a shameful
intrigue with the banished Abbot of Cloister-Curwald. His assertions
were so positive, that they soon produced the desired effect; and it was
without any violent agitation, that the peasants a few days after saw me
conducted away under a strong guard, no one knew whither; nothing gave
me more pain in this abrupt departure than being deprived of the only
comfort which was still left me, the society of my faithful Gertrude,
and of my young friend, the Damsel of Mayenfield.

One man alone, one of the most distinguished inhabitants of that
quarter, a man who breathed the true spirit of Helvetic courage, and of
love of freedom, Henric Melthal alone dared openly to blame the
proceedings of my tyrant. He spread his own noble sentiments around him,
and communicated his feelings to his companions with a success, which
might have rescued me from my bondage, had not Count Ethelbert resolved
to withdraw me from public attention without a moment’s delay.

On the other side of the mountain of Halsberg, near the lake of Thun,
stands an old Castle belonging to the family of Ravenstein, a family
which has been in alliance with the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans
since time immemorial. At the period of which I am now treating, it was
entirely deserted. The owner resided in a remote part of Italy, where he
had lived on terms of intimacy with Ethelbert; and having himself no
occasion for this mouldering castle, he consigned the use of it to his
friend the Count of Carlsheim; the use to which the Count applied it,
was the only one for which it now appeared to be adapted, the
confinement of the innocent.

Tedious and fearful was the way which conducted me to my destined abode;
but the place itself, which I looked upon as my eternal prison, far
exceeded all the horrors, which had struck my imagination so forcibly
while approaching it. It was an antient fortress, perched high on the
brow of a precipice like an eagle’s nest, which now received the
unfortunate Urania. The peculiar form of its architecture announced it
to have been raised in the time of Charlemagne; and the incessant
howling of the storm, and raging of the billows seemed with every moment
to threaten its downfall. I saw it from a distance seemingly suspended
on the very brink of a steep and barren rock, which overhung the Lake,
and I shuddered, when my conductors pointed it out as my future
dwelling!

Fool that I was! I flew with rapture into the arms of Ethelbert, where I
expected to find an earthly paradise and was deceived: with agony, keen
as that of the dying, did I enter Ravenstein Castle ... and was deceived
again! Ah! will short-sighted mortals never succeed in comprehending,
that that which _appears_, and that which _is_, but rarely coincide?
Yet, when we have experienced these deceptions twice or thrice, the
experience makes us in future calm and resigned; and we acquire from it
that indifference which raises us above the frowns and smiles of
fortune, and enables us to repress with equal strength groundless
apprehensions and unavailing wishes.

During the first days of my confinement I was in truth most wretched. My
situation was rendered almost insupportable by the want of every
convenience and comfort, and by the tediousness of unbroken solitude. I
sighed after society of any kind, even though it had been such as (to
judge from its outward appearance) would have promised me but little
entertainment.

Some days had thus elapsed, when I observed through the bars of my
closely-grated window, that a boy apparently between three and four
years old, was sometimes suffered to amuse himself by playing in the
neglected garden, which I was myself forbidden to visit. The innocent
gaiety of the child made an impression on me, which frequently filled my
eyes with tears.

—“Happy unthinking creature!” I exclaimed, wringing my hands in the
bitterness of grief, “this garden appears to you a paradise, because you
know none better. You are poor, forsaken, perhaps menaced by a thousand
dangers which every moment brings nearer; but you see them not! Regret
for the past troubles you as little as anxiety for the future; and it
were difficult for a monarch with all his power to make you more happy,
than you are even now! Oh! that I were like you. Oh! that at least I
could clasp you in my arms, and learn from your sweet smile the art of
smiling though in prison!”—

My wish to become more intimate with the happy trifler was too ardent to
remain concealed. I entreated my jailor to gratify me with a nearer
sight of him, and after a few difficulties I was at length permitted to
receive the little Ludolf in my gloomy chamber.

—“Ludolf?” I exclaimed, when the child first told me his name—“Ludolf?”
I repeated still more anxiously, while I examined his features, and
fancied that I could trace a resemblance, which excited hopes in my
bosom so sweet that I trembled to indulge them.

What then was my emotion, when the lovely boy convinced me that this was
not the first time of our meeting, by naming as his mother, “Edith of
Mayenfield!”

Yes! this dear, this long-lost friend was like myself an inmate of this
place of terror! I breathed the same air with her; I was allowed to
hope, that every succeeding day would afford me an opportunity of
beholding her: the pleasure, which I felt from these reflections, was
too great to admit of my observing, that Count Ethelbert’s confining me
in the same place with a captive, whom he had secured in a manner so
treacherous, was a proof that he designed my imprisonment to be eternal.
Whatever might have originally been his motives for treating us with
such severity, it was at least certain, that he would not permit either
to regain her liberty, lest she should discover the mystery of his
inhuman conduct, or take measures for rescuing from his power her
companion in misfortune.

Considerations of this kind did not at first suggest themselves; I felt
nothing but the joy of being once more united to my friend, an event
which I now looked forward to with the most eager expectation. Heaven
knows, it would have been no trifling comfort to me, had I met with the
most insignificant of created beings, would but that being have listened
to me with compassion, and endeavoured to soothe me in the paroxisms of
my despair; but to dare to hope that Edith would now be my comforter in
this dreary prison, oh! who can express the countless sources of
satisfaction, which that single thought contained!

But alas! the completion of my hopes was not so easy as I expected. The
Countess of Mayenfield was confined not less closely than myself; and
our jailor was not to be prevailed on to depart in one single instance
from the instructions of his inhuman lord. Yet methinks this man was not
cruel by nature. Perhaps, it grieved him to be compelled to treat us
with so much harshness; but he made it a point of conscience to adhere
in the most punctual manner to the oath, which (as he frequently assured
me, in answer to my complaints and reproaches) he had been compelled to
give to the Count of Carlsheim.

—“You see,” said he, “that where ever it is in my power, I refuse no
indulgence. I received no particular command respecting the child’s
imprisonment, who was delivered to my custody at the same time with his
mother, and therefore I allow him to enjoy all those advantages, from
which I am compelled to debar her and yourself. Neither was it forbidden
me to furnish the Countess of Mayenfield with such sources of mental
amusement, as might beguile her solitary hours. She has a variety of
books, has her spinning-wheel and her embroidery frame; if she chuses
it, she may lay these aside, and employ herself with her pen; this
indulgence, lady, shall also be granted to _you_; and methinks, it must
be almost the same thing, whether what you have to say to each other is
imparted in writing, or in person.”

Here then did our jailor kindly open a door for those communications,
for which we had so long thirsted; we returned him our most ardent
thanks for the hint, and lost no time in making use of it. We wrote to
each other daily; and as the conscientious feelings of this trusty
domestic of my tyrant would not allow him to deliver our letters
himself, they were confided to the care of the little Ludolf. The lovely
boy soon became attached to me; he was ever ready to visit my narrow
chamber; and besides the information which Edith’s letters contained, I
gleaned from him in conversation many interesting anecdotes, which
however serious their subject, frequently assumed so whimsical an
appearance through his infantine mode of relating them, that it was
impossible either for his mother or myself to refrain from smiling.
Heavens! we smiled! little did our tyrant imagine, that in the gloomy
walls of Ravenstein Castle his captives would have ever found cause for
mirth!

Edith’s letters contained explanations of many circumstances, which till
then had appeared to me quite unaccountable. These precious memorials of
the most sacred friendship are still in my possession. You, my dear
children, for whom I write this narrative of my sufferings, will find
them after my death, as documents serving to corroborate the veracity of
my statements. Oh! how will you blush for your ancestor, when you read
that Ethelbert had never been the character, which we (poor deceived
ones!) believed him to be, and that from the very beginning his whole
conduct had been an artifice!

Its true, my person at first was the object of his desires; but much
more so were the possessions, which I was expected to inherit. Anxiously
did he seek to bring about our union; but circumstances, with which
Edith herself was unacquainted, forbade the explanation of his wishes,
and compelled him to wait, till my uncle should actually force him to
accept my hand. Fear, lest my expectations of being raised to power and
wealth (on which his own depended) should be overturned by Count
Venosta’s second marriage, induced him privately to remove the dreaded
Edith. He had chosen the time for carrying her off admirably well. A
secret understanding with the Abbot of St. Gall, (whose enemy he profest
to be in public) enabled him at once to get rid of Count Venosta’s
vigilance, entice me out of the fortress, and thus leave Edith totally
without protection. It also afforded him an opportunity to establish
himself in my uncle’s favour, by rendering him so essential a service as
the restoring him to liberty; a service, which my too grateful uncle
thought could only be rewarded by the gift of my hand, without allowing
Ethelbert time to solicit it.

Alas! my fortitude fails me, while endeavouring to unravel the whole web
of artifice and villainy, which our persecutor had woven to ensnare us
with no less cunning than success. He contrived to cheat the Abbot of
the prisoner, whom he had first himself betrayed into his power; Count
Venosta of his possessions, his mistress, and his niece; poor Edith of
her liberty; and me of the happiness and tranquillity of my whole life!

Never had Count Ethelbert felt for me one spark of real affection. Even
the passion, with which my person had inspired him, was subordinate to
his desire of becoming master of my large possessions. No sooner was
this point accomplished, no sooner had the daily sight of it deprived
what little beauty was mine of the charm of novelty, than the continual
presence of a virtuous wife appeared to him a check upon his pleasures.
He therefore seized with eagerness the first opportunity of delivering
himself from my presence; nor did he forget to sully my reputation by
imputations so disgraceful, that I appeared to the world unworthy of
either relief or pity. Even my good uncle wept, and resigned me to my
fate.

The Countess of Mayenfield had learned the greatest part of the
circumstances, which she related in her letters, from the wife of the
Castellan of Ravenstein; this good-hearted matron (who died a few days
before my arrival at the Castle) had a son in Count Ethelbert’s service,
by whom she was informed of most of his lord’s proceedings. The
conversation of this compassionate woman had beguiled many of the heavy
hours of Edith’s imprisonment; nor had she ever neglected an opportunity
of evading the too conscientious adherence of her husband to his oath,
and of furnishing to the noble captive many alleviations of her sorrows,
all of which vanished at her death.

Oh! had I but found her still in existence on my arrival at Ravenstein,
what might we not have hoped from her friendly aid! what would have been
too difficult for three women to accomplish, of whom the one possessed
power, the second prudence, and the third resolution! Surely it would
have been easy for us to have obtained our freedom; at least, I should
not have been so long deprived of the happiness of clasping my faithful
Edith to my bosom.

Often in our epistolary conversations did we lament over the great loss,
which we had sustained in being deprived of this worthy creature! yet
the Countess comforted herself with the pleasure of knowing, that I was
near her and in a place, where she looked upon me as enjoying both more
happiness and more safety, than would have been my lot in the arms of
Count Ethelbert.—As for myself, I wept, and prayed for better times.

And better times arrived! We had long suspected, that we were not the
only unfortunates confined at Ravenstein; and in the truth of this
suspicion we now were fully confirmed, though our curiosity was by no
means fully satisfied.

The Castle, as I before stated, was built on the summit of a lofty rock,
whose point appeared designed as a mark for the assaults of all the four
winds of heaven. Storms here were frequent and tremendous. In the middle
of a tempestuous night, when the whirlwind was raging with its greatest
violence, suddenly a remote wing of the Castle burst into flames! the
wind set towards our quarter; the sparks flew in at our grated windows;
our danger increased with every moment, and every human being seemed to
have totally forgotten us. No one had consideration enough to unlock our
dungeons; no one showed the slightest disposition to come to our
assistance. The general attention was directed towards the eastern wing
of the fortress, which was entirely in flames.

Our terror is not to be described; yet certainly mine was far inferior
to that of Edith, who had not to fear for herself alone. The
preservation of a life, which was infinitely dearer to her than her own,
occupied all her thoughts; she trembled for the life of her son!

She was desperate; she felt, that his destruction was inseparably united
with her own, and resolved to dare every thing to preserve him. In the
wall of her dungeon was an opening, barely large enough to suffer the
child to pass through; she fastened her bed cloaths together; she
resolved to let him down by them to the ground, and charged him, as soon
as he should have reached it, to release himself and fly, or else to
find some hiding place, where he might remain till the danger was past.
The risque was dreadful; nothing but despair could have induced her to
adopt such a resolution.

Edith’s endeavours to preserve her little darling were not unsuccessful.
He reached the ground in safety; but scarcely had she parted with him,
when the increasing heat (for by this time the balconies of the
neighbouring buildings were in flames) and the volumes of smoke, which
poured into her chamber, overpowered her senses, and she sank without
animation on the floor.

My situation was exactly similar. At the moment when I fainted, the only
thought, which employed my mind, was the hope of an happy meeting with
Edith in another better world; an hope which (I fully believed) was
accomplished, when on once more unclosing my eyes, I found myself
breathing pure air in a light and spacious chamber, and perceived by my
side the friend whom I loved so tenderly, and for whose sight I had so
long and so anxiously sighed in vain.

—“Oh! Edith!”—“Urania! my Urania!”—we both exclaimed at once, while we
sank into each others’ arms; “What has happened? are we rescued from
captivity on earth, or released from the fetters of mortality? Where is
it that we meet, in freedom, in captivity, or in the life beyond the
grave?”—

Too soon were our doubts removed: too soon were we compelled to feel,
that we were rescued from death, but not restored to liberty. The still
smoking ruins, which met our eyes from afar, told us but too plainly,
that we were still within the walls of Ravenstein; and the unremitting
vigilance, with which we were observed, made us well aware, that we had
reaped no other advantage from the transactions of the night, except the
delight of seeing and embracing a long-lost friend. But alas! what cruel
reflections embittered this delight. Edith sorrowed for her son, and
reproached herself for having suffered herself to part with him in
despair, when had she detained him with her in the dungeon, he would
have been preserved as well as his mother.

I felt scarcely less sorrow for the loss of the beloved child, than
Edith herself; I would gladly have comforted her, but alas! where was
comfort to be found? Even should he have escaped from the flames, which
were raging with such violence at the moment when he quitted his mother,
how difficult still did his preservation appear! We failed not on the
day after the fire to examine the place, whence Edith had caused him to
descend. The opening was not situated very high in the tower; but close
to the place, where he must have reached the ground, there yawned a
tremendous precipice; the depth of which when we vainly endeavoured to
measure with our eyes, the flesh crept upon our bones, and cold drops of
terror chased each other down our foreheads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here Minna eagerly interrupted Gertrude’s narrative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—“Minna of Mayenfield.”—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


                        END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.




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            _Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho._


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 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Errata listed in volume IV have been applied to this volume.
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).