Stories from the Operas

by Gladys Davidson

ROMEO AND JULIET

In the city of Verona, a fierce private feud had existed for many years between the two noble families of Capulet and Montague; and to such a degree was this hatred carried that it was even shared by the servants, followers, and friends of the two rival houses, with the result that if a Capulet partisan met a Montague partisan, they invariably came to blows, and did not hesitate to shed each other's blood.

One evening it happened that a grand supper and masked ball was held at the palace of Lord Capulet; and to this festival all the chief lords and ladies of Verona were invited, with the exception, of course, of any members of the hated Montague family.

However, the son of Lord Montague, whose name was Romeo, and who was a handsome and daring young man of a romantic disposition, boldly announced his intention of attending, uninvited, the revels at the house of his family foe; and, disguised in the dress of a pilgrim, and masked, he proceeded thither, accompanied by his bosom friends, Benvolio and Mercutio.

They were admitted, unquestioned, into the house, and mingled with the guests; and for awhile no one suspected that a Montague was taking part in the revels.

Amongst the merry throng of dancers, Romeo very quickly noticed a beautiful young girl, whose wonderful grace and charm strangely fascinated him; and drawing the attention of his friends to this maiden, he exclaimed enthusiastically:

"O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night!"

This speech was overheard by a kinsman of the Capulets, a fiery youth named Tybalt, who immediately recognised the voice as that of one of his detested foemen; and, furious that a Montague should have thus dared to enter the house of Capulet, he challenged Romeo, and would have slain him then and there, had not old Lord Capulet himself interfered, and commanded him to sheathe his weapon, declaring that his enemy's son should remain for that night, since he was a young man spoken of in the city with honour and respect.

So peace was temporarily restored; and presently Romeo secured an opportunity of speaking with the lovely maiden whose fair looks had so quickly enslaved his heart. He found that the lady's disposition was as sweet and gentle as her looks; and to his joy she evinced great pleasure in his conversation, and returned his advances with many signs of favour.

Presently, the maiden was called away, and when she had departed, Romeo learnt that she was the daughter of Lord Capulet, and that her name was Juliet.

Although filled with dismay that he had thus fallen in love with his enemy's daughter, and knowing that he would put himself in great danger should he venture to make further advances to her, Romeo was quite determined to see the lovely maiden again; and with this object in view, when the revels came to an end, he made his way into Lord Capulet's garden, thinking of this new joy which had already filled his heart so completely.

To his delight, Juliet presently stepped out on to the balcony outside her chamber window; for she also was thinking of the strange, sweet love which had so suddenly filled her whole being at the ardent gaze of the handsome young pilgrim who had conversed with her at the ball, and wished to breathe her happy thoughts into the moonlit night.

But Juliet had also learnt that this noble youth, whose eager words had so quickly and unresistingly won her heart, was the son of Lord Montague, and that she ought to hate, rather than love him; and as she thought of this troublesome difficulty in the path of her happiness, she murmured softly:

"O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name;
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy:
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague;
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title: Romeo, doff thy name;
And for thy name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself!"

On hearing these words, which proved to him that Juliet returned his love, Romeo crept softly forward and made his presence known to her, replying to her spoken thought thus:

"I take thee at thy word!
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo!"

Juliet was filled with joy at thus beholding the object of her sweet reflections, giving him a tender greeting; and in answer to her question as to how he had effected his entrance into the garden without the knowledge of her kinsmen, Romeo replied:

"With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out:
And what love can do, that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me!"

For a long while the lovers talked happily together; and in spite of the fact that Juliet had already been promised by her parents to a young man of noble family named Paris, she now gladly listened to Romeo's passionate declaration of love, and vowed that she would wed none other than he.

Several times their sweet converse was interrupted by Juliet's old nurse calling to her charge from within the chamber; and at last the maiden was obliged to tear herself away from the presence of her adoring lover, and retire to rest.

But Romeo did not return to his home immediately; and as dawn was already breaking, he made his way to a neighbouring monastery, in order to seek the help of a good old monk named Friar Laurence.

The old Friar, who had a deep affection for the youth, listened indulgently to his rapturous recital of the love he had conceived for the beautiful Juliet; but when Romeo eagerly besought him to unite them in marriage that very day, he was at first horrified at such a wild suggestion. However, when Romeo again begged him to comply with his request, the good father at last consented; for it now occurred to him that good might come of such a deed, since this union possibly would lead to the healing of the ancient feud between the two rival houses.

A little later in the day a message was secretly conveyed to Juliet, who, with the aid of her old nurse, in whom she had confided, found means to make her way to Friar Laurence's cell, where Romeo was awaiting her; and there the old monk performed the rite of marriage for the loving pair, and made them man and wife. Juliet then hurried back to her home with speed, fearing lest her absence should be remarked, for she did not dare to breathe a word of what had passed; and Romeo, after declaring that he would see her again in the garden after nightfall, went to join his friends, Benvolio and Mercutio, whom he had arranged to meet in a certain street.

To his dismay, he found them engaged in a hot dispute with the fiery-tempered young Capulet, Tybalt, who, having met them in the street, had quickly sought a quarrel in order to vent his suppressed rage at their temerity of the night before; and in spite of Romeo's efforts to make peace between them, being now desirous of establishing more friendly relations with his beloved Juliet's kinsfolk, Mercutio and Tybalt drew their swords, and engaged in a deadly fight, which ended in Mercutio receiving a mortal wound.

On seeing his friend fall in an expiring condition, Romeo, full of grief and indignation, at once made a furious onslaught upon Tybalt; and in the struggle which followed he killed the Capulet noble.

By this time, the news of the encounter had spread in the city, and soon members of both the Capulet and Montague families hurried to the spot, together with the Prince of Verona himself, who had been summoned by the watch.

Lady Capulet was overcome with grief at the death of Tybalt, who was her nephew, and with tearful entreaties insisted on Romeo's summary punishment; and Lady Montague as earnestly defended her son's action in avenging the death of his friend Mercutio. The matter ended in the Duke declaring sentence of immediate banishment upon Romeo; and, full of despair, the young man concealed himself until night-time in Friar Laurence's cell, being determined to see Juliet again before leaving the city.

When darkness fell, Romeo made his way once more to the Capulet's garden, and, scaling the balcony, bade a long and passionate farewell to the weeping Juliet. With the first signs of dawn, he was compelled to depart, with a last fond embrace, and then, with a heavy heart, and reluctant steps, he made his way to Mantua, from whence his messengers and friends could keep him acquainted with all news concerning the fair young bride from whom he had been thus so cruelly parted.

Very soon after the departure of Romeo, Juliet found herself in a position of the utmost difficulty; for her parents determined that her marriage with the brilliant young Count Paris should take place without further delay, and the nuptials were announced to be celebrated a few days hence.

It was in vain that the dismayed Juliet, not daring to reveal the fact of her secret marriage with the banished Romeo, pleaded her extreme youth, her indifference to Paris, and the family mourning for their kinsman, Tybalt; for her parents were indignant at her unwillingness and disobedience to their wishes, and declared that they would cast her off for ever should she fail to accept Paris as her husband on the Thursday appointed.

Poor Juliet, full of woe and dismay, sighed distractedly:

"Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
That sees into the bottom of my grief?"

Then, suddenly, she bethought her of the kind old monk who had wedded her to Romeo; and leaving the house with the utmost secrecy, she made her way to the cell of Friar Laurence, to whom she poured forth her tale of woe, and besought him to counsel her in this terrible dilemma.

It happened that the old Friar had studied the properties of many valuable drugs; and presently he declared that he could provide Juliet with a certain potion which, if she drank it just before the approaching wedding festivities began, would cause her to fall into a trance, so that her friends, thinking her to be dead, would place her in the family vault, from whence, on waking after forty-two hours had elapsed, she could be rescued by Romeo, and secretly conveyed to Mantua, where they could dwell happily together.

The Friar then asked the maiden if she had the courage to go through this ordeal; and Juliet, overjoyed at the thought of being thus preserved for her beloved Romeo, answered eagerly:

"Give me, give me! O tell not me of fear!
Love, give me strength! and strength shall help afford!"

So the old Friar gave her a phial containing the potion, and promised to send messengers to Romeo, that he might come secretly at night to the vault to rescue her on her awakening; and Juliet departed to her home much comforted.

She now no longer refused to wed Count Paris; and when the bridal day arrived, she moved quite calmly amongst the throng of merry guests. But she had not forgotten the old Friar's potion; and in spite of the horror she felt at the thought of awakening in the gloomy family vault, in which her cousin Tybalt was already lying, she had bravely conquered her fears, and secretly swallowed the contents of the phial with these words:

"Romeo, Romeo, Romeo! I drink to thee!"

Her parents and their guests were therefore horror-struck when, soon after the festivities had begun, the lovely Juliet fell to the ground, apparently dead; and the revels ended in the greatest confusion and dismay.

Lord and Lady Capulet were overcome with grief at what they supposed to be the sudden death of their fair young daughter; and with heart-rending tears and cries of woe, the still, cold form of Juliet was laid to rest on a bier in the family vault.

Friar Laurence, after waiting to hear how his plot had succeeded, despatched a messenger to Mantua to inform Romeo of all that had happened, and to bid him come secretly to rescue his bride on her awakening; but, unhappily, before the good father's messenger arrived in Mantua, Romeo had already heard from another source the terrible news of Juliet's supposed death.

Thus knowing nothing of the old monk's plan, and believing his beloved one to be dead, Romeo was distracted with grief; but, determined to at least look once more upon the sweet face of Juliet, even though in death, he instantly mounted a horse, and galloped at a furious pace to Verona.

He reached the city at midnight of the second day since Juliet had been reported dead; and making his way at once to the churchyard, he secured a torch and mattock, and began fiercely to break open the tomb of the Capulets. He was just about to enter the vault when he was interrupted by a newcomer, who cried to him sternly:

"Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague!"

These words were spoken by Count Paris, who had also come to weep beside the remains of his lost bride; and on seeing Romeo there before him, he believed him to have come for some evil purpose.

Romeo was now half frantic with his grief; and refusing to be delayed in his quest, he drew his sword upon Paris. The two fought furiously in the dark, until at last Paris fell mortally wounded; and when Romeo took up the torch to look upon the face of his fallen antagonist, and recognised the features of Paris, his sorrow was increased, and he said:

"O, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave!"

He therefore lifted the dead youth tenderly, and laid him within the vault, that he might at least share the resting-place of the maiden he had loved; and then, placing the torch against the wall, he knelt, overwhelmed with despair, beside the bier of Juliet.

So fair and lovely did she still appear that at first he could scarcely believe her to be dead; but when he felt her still, cold form, he could doubt it no longer. He had already determined that he could not bear to live on without Juliet; and with this object he had broken his journey once in order to procure from an apothecary some deadly poison which would act instantaneously. He now bent down to bid his beloved one farewell, and to kiss her cold lips for the last time; and then, drawing forth the phial, he swallowed the poison, saying:

"Here's to my love!...
... Thus with a kiss I die!"

The poison took effect immediately; and with a sigh, Romeo fell dead beside the bier of his bride.

It happened that this was the hour at which Juliet was to awaken from her trance; and Friar Laurence therefore now appeared at the opening of the vault, fearing that his messenger had been delayed, since he had seen nothing yet of the banished Montague; and when he entered the cell and beheld the dead bodies of Paris and Romeo, he guessed at the terrible catastrophe that had occurred, and uttered loud cries of woe.

At this moment, Juliet awakened from her death-like sleep, and looked around her in wondering horror; and the old Friar besought her earnestly to leave the vault.

But Juliet's eyes had already fallen upon the dead body of her beloved Romeo, and from the empty phial in his hand, she at once gathered that he had poisoned himself upon believing her to be dead; and in an agony of grief, she came down from her bier to clasp her lover's limp form in her arms, whilst the Friar fled in alarm at the sound of approaching steps, for the disturbance at the tomb had by this time attracted the notice of the watch, who were now hastily bringing both Capulets and Montagues to the churchyard.

Juliet also heard the approaching sounds, and knew she must act quickly; for she was determined to live no longer, since her lover was dead. As she clasped Romeo in her arms, she kissed him passionately, hoping to imbibe some of the poison from his silent lips; but finding this unavailing, she drew forth the dagger which he wore, and with it stabbed herself to the heart with these last words:

"O, happy dagger!
This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die!"

The kinsfolk of the two unfortunate lovers now rushed into the vault, accompanied by Friar Laurence, who had returned to relate the sad story; and as the bereaved parents wept together over the dead bodies of their beloved children, and understood that their tragic fate had entirely arisen from the old selfish family feud, they humbly joined hands in token of mutual forgiveness and renewed friendship.

A statue of the purest gold was raised to the memory of Juliet by the Capulet family, whilst the same honour was vouchsafed to Romeo by the sorrowing Montagues; and all who gazed upon these monuments of affection shed tears of sympathy for the hapless fate of the faithful lovers:

"For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo!"

HALÈVY

THE JEWESS
(La Juive)

Towards the end of the fourteenth century, Monseigneur de Brogni, Chief Magistrate of Rome, issued an Edict which decreed that all Jews were to be banished from the sacred city; and the persecuted people, knowing too well that delay meant torture and death, were compelled to submit to their enforced exodus, and to seek refuge in other lands.

Before all had departed, however, the Neapolitans, who were at that time waging war with the Roman Government, laid siege to the city, and having forced an entry, commenced ruthlessly to pillage and burn. During the absence of Monseigneur de Brogni, his splendid palace was sacked, and set ablaze; and when his arduous duties at length permitted the Chief Magistrate to return, he found his home destroyed, and was informed, to his horror, that his beloved wife and infant daughter had been left to perish in the flames.

But this was not in reality the truth, since, though the mother had indeed been burned, the babe had been rescued by a Jew, named Eleazar, who, having thus saved the child by a sudden impulse, immediately carried her away with him to share his own fortunes, rather than restore her to the hated enemy of his race.

De Brogni, frantic at the loss of his beloved ones, sought solace by joining the Church; and having attained to the rank of a Cardinal, he quickly rose to great eminence and power in the service of Sigismund, Emperor of the West.

Meanwhile, Eleazar, the Jew, had journeyed with many of his brethren to the city of Constance, then under the sway of the Pope; and, settling here, he engaged in the occupation of a dealer in gems, and by his industry soon became very wealthy. The little girl he had rescued was given the name of Rachel, and brought up as his own daughter, and in his own religion.

As time went on, Rachel grew up to be a very beautiful maiden; and as she had been always taught to regard Eleazar as her father, she rendered him due reverence and obedience as such, and proved herself to be a loving and devoted daughter. So the years passed peacefully enough for Eleazar and Rachel; but at last a change came, and terrible trouble fell upon them.

One day, in the year 1414, the city of Constance put on its gayest appearance, and the people prepared to celebrate a solemn festival in honour of recent brilliant victories gained by their young Prince, Leopold, over certain hated enemies, and as the Emperor Sigismund was to make a triumphal entry into the city during the day, all work was suspended, and the citizens prepared to receive their ruler with loyal rejoicings.

A solemn thanksgiving service was first held in the chief church of the city, which was situated in a great square, at one end of which was the jewel shop and dwelling of Eleazar the Jew; and presently, noticing signs of work going on within the Hebrew's abode, contrary to the decree gone forth that the day was to be observed as a sacred festival, the people in the crowded square gathered in angry groups before the gem shop, and indignantly shouted commands for the work to be stopped instantly.

Eleazar, having scorned to recognise the Christian Festival as applying to himself, had decided to carry on his work as usual; and now, hearing the menacing cries of the outraged populace, he appeared fearlessly at the door of his shop, accompanied by his daughter, and a handsome young man, whom he had recently taken into his service as an artist, though a complete stranger to him.

This stranger was in reality none other than the young Prince Leopold, who, having on a former visit to the city seen the jeweller's lovely daughter, had straightway fallen in love with her; and knowing that he would never be permitted to wed with a Jewess, he had resorted to a disguise in order to satisfy the longings of his heart, and enjoy intercourse with the object of his affections. For this purpose, he had left the Court a few weeks before the Emperor's entry into Constance, giving out that he would join the royal party when the day of rejoicing arrived, since great honours were to be showered upon him on that occasion; and then, disguising himself in the humble dress of an artist, he journeyed to Constance, and introduced himself as a Jew, named Samuel, to Eleazar, who willingly took him into his service, since he had great natural abilities. Here he quickly won the affections of Rachel; but, still remembering that he could never marry the beautiful Jewess, he persuaded her to keep their love for awhile from the knowledge of Eleazar, as he could not bear the thought of parting from her so soon.

As the three now appeared at the shop door, the indignant mob dragged them roughly outside, declaring that they deserved to die by torture for their sacrilege of a solemn Festival Day; and, in spite of Rachel's piteous plea for mercy, she and her father would have been quickly borne away to their death, had not an interruption occurred by the entry of the Cardinal de Brogni, who was at the time passing on his way to join the Emperor. Seeing that a disturbance was taking place, de Brogni stopped to inquire the reason for it; and this being explained to him, he gave orders for the persecuted pair to be released, recognising Eleazar as one of the prominent Hebrews he had known in Rome, although quite unconscious that the fair Rachel was in reality his own daughter, whose loss he had never ceased to mourn. Compelled to obey the command of the powerful Cardinal, the crowd drew back sullenly; and Eleazar and Rachel returned in safety to their home.

That evening, being the Jewish Feast of the Passover, a number of Hebrews met together to celebrate the solemn service at the house of Eleazar, who was a leader amongst his brethren of the faith; and amongst the company was the disguised Prince Leopold, who, though pretending to join in the ceremony, yet did not commit himself, for when the consecrated bread was handed to him, he surreptitiously flung it aside when he thought himself unobserved.

As the ceremony came to an end, a loud clamour was heard at the entrance, and upon the door being opened, to the astonishment of all, guards and attendants in the royal livery were seen without, escorting a richly-dressed lady, who entered the house alone, and announced herself to be the Princess Eudossia, niece of the Emperor. As she entered, Leopold quickly retired into the background, and kept himself concealed from view; for he was affianced to this same fair princess, and knew that ruin awaited him should he be discovered by her in the Jewish household.

The Princess, however, addressed herself to Eleazar, stating that she had come to purchase from him a handsome jewelled chain, which she wished to present to her betrothed, Prince Leopold, when he appeared at her uncle's Court on the morrow; and having chosen the most magnificent ornament of the kind which Eleazar possessed, she bade him bring it to the Palace next day, and then withdrew.

The Jewish brethren having also by this time all departed, Leopold and Rachel found themselves alone; and the beautiful Jewess, observing her lover's pale face and agitated looks, entreated him to tell her the reason of this. Then the young Prince, having been awakened by Eudossia's visit to a sense of the wrong he was doing Rachel by thus seeking to win her love by deception, and filled with remorse, confessed to the Jewish maiden that he was a Christian, though still not revealing his true rank; and Rachel, overcome with grief at this revelation, reproached him bitterly for having thus led her into the crime of having loved and sacrificed her honour to a Christian. But when her father, hearing their voices, suddenly entered the room, and hearing of the stranger's deception, was about to stab him in his wrath, her mood instantly changed; and, flinging herself upon her knees between them, she implored Eleazar to have pity on them both, and to permit them to marry.

"My father! Be not angry, but grant my wish!" she cried passionately, "for I love Samuel, and he is all the world to me!"

Eleazar, who loved his adopted daughter with great tenderness, gently raised her from the ground, and in tones from which the anger had all vanished, he said that he would consent to the marriage, since her happiness depended upon it. But Leopold, knowing that he, a royal prince, could never enter into such a marriage, now felt himself compelled to repudiate the bride offered to him, madly though he still loved and longed to possess her; and, declaring cruelly that he could never wed with a Jewess, he rushed hastily from the house, despising himself for his own base conduct, and followed by the furious curses of Eleazar.

Next day, the Jew and his daughter made their way to the royal Court, taking with them the splendid jewelled chain which the Princess Eudossia had purchased the evening before; and upon arriving at the Palace, they were at once ushered into the presence chamber. Here the Court was assembled with great magnificence, and Prince Leopold, seated on a throne beside his betrothed, was receiving the congratulations and praises of the courtiers upon his success in the recent war.

When Rachel beheld the young Prince, in spite of his resplendent attire, she at once recognised him as her false lover, Samuel; and as the Princess Eudossia was about to present her gift, determined to be revenged for her cruel treatment, she sprang forward, and, snatching the chain away, passionately denounced Leopold before the whole company, declaring that he had committed the sacrilegious crime of having betrayed a Jewess.

"I, Rachel, am the maiden he has sacrificed to his unlawful passion!" she added, in a voice that trembled with emotion. "And, since I, too, have shared in his guilt, I am prepared to suffer for my sin!"

Upon hearing Rachel's denunciation a wave of horror swept over the whole assemblage, for the deed of which she accused the young Prince was regarded at that time as a terrible crime, and was punishable by death; and since Leopold did not attempt to deny the accusation, but bent his head in acknowledgment of guilt, they knew that he had indeed committed this act of sacrilege against his religion.

The Cardinal de Brogni, who was also present, seeing that this was so, now rose in righteous indignation at this outrage which had been offered to the Christian Church, and declared that, in accordance with the existing law, Leopold and Rachel must both suffer death for their crime, and that Eleazar should also share their fate as an accomplice; and then, followed by the curses of the whole Court, the condemned three were led away to prison.

The Princess Eudossia was overwhelmed with grief at this terrible conclusion to all her dearest hopes; but, in spite of Leopold's faithlessness, she still passionately loved him, and determined to make an effort to save him from death.

Having obtained permission to visit Rachel in prison, she repaired to the fortress without delay, and when the young Jewess was brought before her, she besought her to save Leopold's life by declaring to the judges that he was not guilty of the crime of which she had accused him.

Rachel, however, at first indignantly refused to help one who had so basely betrayed and repudiated her; but when Eudossia fell on her knees, and passionately pleaded with her again and again to save the man they both loved, she relented, unable to struggle longer against the natural promptings of her own heart, in which her false lover's image was for ever enshrined. She therefore promised Eudossia to obey her wish; and when brought before the judges a short time later, she declared to them that Leopold was not guilty of the crime she had attributed to him. The Cardinal de Brogni, rejoicing at this news, now declared Leopold to be innocent, and gave orders for his instant release; but Eleazar and Rachel, being now accused of having fabricated the whole story to entrap the royal Prince, were condemned for such high treason to the terrible death of being flung into a cauldron of boiling oil.

The Cardinal, however, feeling pity for the dreadful fate about to fall upon the lovely Jewish maiden, gave Eleazar the opportunity of saving his daughter by abjuring his faith and becoming a Christian, but this suggestion the staunch Jew scornfully repudiated, declaring that he preferred to die in his own faith rather than live to join the ranks of the Christians, whom he hated. Then, having suddenly bethought him of a means of revenging himself upon the Cardinal for thus condemning him to so terrible a death, he related to him the story of how his infant daughter had been rescued from the fire years ago, saying that her preserver was a friend of his own, and that she was still living; and the Cardinal, who had never ceased to mourn for his lost child, implored him to say where the maiden was to be found, that he might cherish her once again.

But Eleazar refused to reveal the secret, having determined not to give de Brogni the information until Rachel was no more, that he might thus bring everlasting grief upon him for having condemned his own child to such an agonising death; and though the Cardinal even humbled himself by kneeling in supplication before the Jew he despised, the longing of his heart remained unsatisfied.

However, when the day of execution arrived, and Rachel and himself were brought out to meet their fate, and were left together for a few moments near the scaffold from which they were to be flung into the boiling oil, the old Jew's resolution broke down, and, feeling horror at the thought of sacrificing the beautiful maiden he had loved as his own daughter, to satisfy his private vengeance, he besought her with all his heart to become a Christian, since by that means she could save herself from the awful death that awaited her.

But Rachel declared nobly that she would never forsake the faith in which she had been brought up, and had learned to love; and thus firmly resolved to wear the martyr's crown, she heroically sprang upon the scaffold, and with a cry of exultation, leapt into the seething cauldron.

Eleazar's moment of revenge had now arrived, although he had sought to avert it; and as his beloved Rachel vanished from sight, he turned to de Brogni, and cried in a frenzied voice in which triumph and anguish struggled for the mastery, "Behold, your daughter, proud Cardinal, now lost to you for ever!"

DIE KÖNIGSKINDER
(The Kingly Children)

In the midst of the dense Hella Woods, at the back of which towered the great mountain known as the Hellagebirge, a small clearing had been made in one of the sunny glades; and here, many miles away from human habitation, a mysterious old witch had made her abode. A rough, tumble-down hut served her for shelter, winter and summer alike; and for companion she had a little maiden whom she had kidnapped when but a tiny toddler, and whom she had brought up to look upon her as her grandmother, to mind her geese for her and to assist in the brewing of her magic potions.

The little goose-girl, since babyhood, had never beheld any other human being, and was never permitted to wander beyond sight of the hut; but she knew that other people existed, since she had heard the old dame speak of the folk she had seen in her own journeyings to and fro, and whom she often cursed when muttering her evil spells.

In vain did the captured child ask for news of the bright world beyond the forest depths, and express her longings for beautiful things, for fair companions, and for the love and joy that her youth demanded; for, in reply, she only gained cruel beatings and harder tasks than ever, and she learned to hide her longings and to find pleasure in her secret thoughts.

When she was good and obedient, she was set to mind the geese and prevent them from straying far into the woodland depths; and this was a task she loved, for then she could sit outside in the sunshine, or gaze at the reflection of her own pretty face in the sparkling streamlet, and even deck herself with flowers when the old witch was not looking.

The geese all loved her, since she was gentle with them and regarded them as her friends, as well as the other birds and timid wild creatures that dwelt in the woods; and one fair dove that nested in a neighbouring linden-tree, she loved above them all, for its soft cooing often brought her comfort when she was sad at heart.

One sunny day, the little goose-girl lay stretched on a hillock beneath the linden-tree, whilst the geese snapped and plucked at the grass around her, or splashed in the pond close by; and as she lay there, she pulled at the daisies and hummed softly to herself, whilst her feathered friend, the gentle dove, cooed softly on a branch above.

Though still clad in a short, ragged gown, she was now in the first flush of fair young maidenhood, and possessed marvellous beauty, with the natural grace and noble bearing of a Princess; and in spite of the red kerchief which so tightly swathed her head, a few stray golden locks escaped to betray the hidden wealth of her woman's crowning glory.

She lay thus sweetly day-dreaming in full sight of the hut, on the roof of which hopped a tame raven cawing to a big yellow tom-cat on the ground below; but, presently, she was interrupted by the old witch, who popped her head out of the window and began to scold the girl for letting the geese stray too far.

The goose-girl sprang up and collected the geese together once more; and then, hearing the witch still calling to her, she entered the little garden, where she stopped again to gaze at a lovely golden-yellow lily-bud growing there, sighing because it refused to open to the light of day.

The old dame, however, soon dragged her away with a cuff, and, putting a kettle into her hands, bade her draw water from the trough near by; and when the girl stooped again to smile at her fair reflection in the water, she scolded her more than ever, and set her to knead a magic cake.

The goose-girl made the cake, kneading into it various strange powders and herbs given her for the purpose by the witch; and when it was done, she held it high above her head, declaring that he who ate of it should see his sweetheart quickly. The old witch, however, snatched it from her and declared instead that it would bring death to those who ate of it.

The girl, full of horror, ran off to rest beneath the linden-tree and seek comfort from her pet dove; and presently, the old witch departed into the forest depths beyond, to gather simples and loathsome things for her potions, first telling the young captive that it was useless for her to try to wander away, since she had cast a spell over the bushes and briars, and that they would thus hold her back.

As soon as the dame had departed, the little goose-girl's spirits rose at once, so that she began to sing and dance in the sunshine; and then, snatching up a wreath of wild-flowers she had made earlier in the day and hidden in a bush, she set it on her head, and ran to gaze at her reflection in the water trough.

The charming picture she saw there delighted her, and she called to the geese to come and admire her also; but whilst she laughed at their quacking and rejoiced in her own fair looks, she was suddenly addressed by a stranger, and, turning in haste, found herself face to face with a handsome youth, who, though clad in garments torn and travel-stained, yet had the proud and kingly air of one of royal birth.

Though at first terrified, the goose-girl gazed in amazement at the stranger, her fear quickly vanishing in wonder, admiration, and delight; and when the youth laughed at her surprise and begged her to give him greeting, she asked in awestruck tones:—"Are you a man?"

The stranger laughingly assured her that he was, keeping his own eyes fixed upon her face, for, though he had beheld many fair maidens before, he had never yet been confronted with one of such dazzling loveliness as this ragged child.

He told her that he was a king's son, but that, dissatisfied with the emptiness of his life, he had wandered forth from his royal home to seek adventures in the wide world and to gain renown alone and unaided, but that his sword had gained him little glory yet, and that his wanderings had reduced him to the point of beggary; and then he asked her if he might quench his thirst at the trough, begging her also to drink with him.

The goose-girl gladly agreed to his request; and afterwards she led him to her favourite nook beneath the linden-tree, where the pair sat together and gazed into each other's eyes, still entranced by their mutual beauty.

The King's Son could scarce believe his companion to be aught but a fairy, so fresh and fair were her looks; and his eyes grew more and more tender as, in answer to her wondering questions, he told her the uses of his flashing sword, of his father's kingship, of his own yearnings and dissatisfaction, and of his wanderings and adventures, in which he had learned to brave dangers, to despise wounds, and to take a proud delight in freedom and the joy of living.

The little goose-girl listened, enthralled and spellbound, to his every word; and when, at the end of his recital, the King's Son asked her if she had ever heard of anyone so foolish before, she put her hands in his and said earnestly:—"Nay; with thee I'd go, for thou hast grown so dear to me!"

For answer, the King's Son clasped the maiden in his arms in a tender embrace, telling her that she should indeed wander forth with him, since she was his love and he was hers; and after a long passionate kiss, the lovers remained silent for a while, too happy for words and lost to their surroundings.

Suddenly, however, a gust of wind blew off the goose-girl's wreath; and springing up in dismay, she ran after it. But the King's Son picked it up first, and thrusting it into the bosom of his tunic, declared he should keep it as a love token; and though his companion wept and entreated him to restore it to her, since it was precious in her sight as the symbol of her maidenhood, he refused to give it up.

Then, seeing that she still grieved for it, the King's Son unfastened a small bundle he had with him, and drawing from it a golden crown, he made as though he would place it upon her head in place of the one she had lost. But the goose-girl was afraid, and refused to allow him to place the crown on her head, declaring that she liked her own pretty flower wreath better, since she cared nothing for gold and jewels, but only wanted love and peacefulness; and the King's Son flung the golden crown into the grass, and putting his arms around the maiden, offered her his love once more and the protection of his good sword, if she would go forth with him.

The goose-girl said that his love was the only thing she valued, and that she would now gladly go with him; and, hand in hand, the happy pair ran to the edge of the wood. There, another strong gust of wind nearly took their breath away, and the straying geese came flocking around the goose-girl, who now stood stock-still and terrified, as she remembered the witch's parting words; and when the King's Son impatiently asked her what was wrong, she cried out wildly that she dared not leave the place, since a magic spell had been cast over the bushes and that they were holding her back.

The King's Son, not understanding her terror, but thinking that she cared more for her geese than for his love, was offended and declared that he would leave her if this was the case; and when the goose-girl, once more failing to free herself from the spell of magic she felt was cast around her, and fearful of the consequences of her disobedience to the witch, sank sobbing to the ground, the royal youth, beside himself with wrath and disappointment, poured forth angry reproaches upon the poor girl, declaring that a beggar-maid such as she was not fit to mate with kings, and that she would never behold him again unless a miracle should happen—until a star of light should fall from the heavens above into the opened heart of her closed lily-bud.

With these words the King's Son rushed away into the depths of the forest, and was quickly lost to sight; and the goose-girl, overcome with despair, flung herself face downwards on the grass, weeping and wailing because she had not been born a kingly child and the equal of her royal lover, whom she believed would not then have deserted her, forgetting that, if she had but conquered her fears, she would not have lost him.

She was quickly roused from her grief, however, by hearing the approaching steps of the witch; and hastily picking up the golden crown which still lay in the grass beside her, she slipped it over the head of her favourite goose and drove the bird behind a neighbouring bush just as the old dame appeared.

The witch, nevertheless, quickly guessed that a stranger had been with the girl, whom she forced to tell her the whole story of the visit of the King's Son; and then, hearing approaching sounds of music played upon a fiddle, together with men's voices, she cuffed the weeping maiden and bundled her into the hut, slamming the door just as three more strangers issued forth from the wood.

These were a fiddler, a woodcutter, and a broom-maker, who had all come thither to consult the witch, having been sent with an important message to her from the councillors and inhabitants of the town of Hellabrunn; but the two latter were a couple of cowards—though they had boasted of their great courage before setting out—and now that they had at last reached their goal, they trembled with fright, and would gladly have returned without delivering their message, in spite of the reward they had been promised.

The fiddler, however, was a seer, or wise man, who, having a brave and pure heart, had no fear of evil influences; and boldly marching up to the hut, he knocked long and loudly at the door, which was instantly opened by the witch, who angrily bade the three strangers begone if they valued their lives.

The woodcutter and the broom-maker shivered in their shoes on hearing these words, being mortally afraid of the dealer in magic; but the fiddler, after merrily paying a number of flowery compliments to the old hag, whose sour visage he pretended to admire, bade the quaking pair state their business.

In fear and trembling, the two cowards began to mumble out their message; but the fiddler soon pushed them to one side and told the tale himself. He stated that the good people of Hellabrunn had recently lost their beloved old King, who had died without leaving an heir to succeed him; and since they longed for a new and glorious ruler to place upon the empty throne, the present ambassadors had been sent to the wise witch-woman to ask if, by means of her magic, she could tell them where they could quickest find the ruler they sought, who might be either a prince or a princess, but who must be of royal birth and of the kingly kind.

Even as he spoke, the fiddler caught sight of the little goose-girl peeping out of the window; and recognising at once by her noble air that she must be of royal birth, he was filled with joy, and knew that here he should find a queen, at least.

He said nothing of what he had seen, however, but made a sign to the maiden to keep in hiding for the moment; and in reply to the petition, the old witch, eager to be rid of her unwelcome visitor, and remembering that the King's Son had departed towards the town, told the ambassadors that they might ring the joy-bells in Hellabrunn next day, since he who was of royal birth and worthy to be their King, even though he might come without pomp and poorly clad, would be the first person to enter their town at noon on the morrow—adding, moreover, that the townsfolk were all fools, and through their own stupidity would as likely as not lose the good King they sought; with which parting shaft, she retired into the hut and slammed the door once more.

The broom-maker and the woodcutter chuckled as they realised that by bringing this good news, they would certainly gain the fine reward which had been offered by the councillors and greybeards of the town; and the fiddler, disgusted with their mercenary natures, drove them away from the place, and then returned alone to the hut, determined to free the captive maiden, whom he felt sure was of royal birth.

He soon forced the old witch to bring forth the goose-girl; and when he had heard the old dame's story of how she had come by the child, he proved by a corresponding story he now remembered that the maiden was indeed of royal birth, and declared that she should come away with him to reign as Queen in Hellabrunn, since she was worthy to be the bride of the King's Son, who was to enter the town as its ruler on the morrow.

Full of joy on thus learning that she was a kingly child, the goose-girl quickly fetched out the hidden golden crown she had refused to wear that morning; and shaking down her long golden hair, which fell like a dazzling mantle around her, she placed the crown upon her head.

Twilight had now fallen; and the goose-girl, longing for a sign that she should indeed behold her royal lover once again, fell upon her knees and prayed for a token to be given to her; and, to her joy, a star of light fell from the heavens above into the heart of her beautiful golden lily-bud, which opened at that moment to receive it.

And now, full of exultation as she remembered the words of the King's Son, the goose-girl, no longer afraid of the old witch, whose power over her was thus broken, ran quickly out into the dark woodlands, closely followed by the happy fiddler, who sang merrily to the cheerful music of his fiddle; and the angry old hag was left alone, deprived of her captive, to curse and grind her teeth with rage.

Early next morning the worthy folk of Hellabrunn turned out in good time, in order to decorate their town and make preparations to receive their promised King; for the woodcutter and the broom-maker had returned the evening before with the news that the first person to enter the city gates at noon next day would be the royal ruler they desired—and, inflated with their own importance and eager to gain additional praises from the people, they gave out that the new ruler would come in a golden car, be clad in dazzling garments, and be surrounded by a splendour of great glory.

The consequence was that when the eventful day dawned, the expected royal stranger was already in their midst, unknown to anyone; for the King's Son, footsore, ragged, and travel-stained, had entered the town the evening before, passing through the gates unnoticed, being merely regarded by the gate-keepers as a poor beggar.

But the royal youth, though faint with hunger and weariness, was too proud to beg; and finding a sheltered spot behind the swine-pen adjoining an inn which stood at the entrance to the town, he passed the night there.

He slept until late in the morning, and then arose wearily; and knowing nothing of the excitement that prevailed in the town, he wandered into the yard of the inn. Here he was greeted by the inn-keeper's daughter, who had seated herself thus close to the town gates in the hope of being the first person to welcome the expected King; and being possessed of handsome looks, he greatly attracted the coquettish maiden who was eager for a new sweetheart, and always ready for a flirtation.

She ordered a maid to bring out for the hungry stranger some food, which, however, was so coarse that the King's Son could not touch it, though he gladly drank a little of the sour wine that accompanied it; and then the inn-keeper's daughter drew him aside and made him sit down with her upon a bench, brazenly inviting him to kiss her. But the King's Son refused to do so; and when he presently drew forth the little goose-girl's wreath of flowers from the bosom of his tunic, and pressed it tenderly to his lips instead, the bold hussy, furious at the rebuff, boxed his ears and rushed away into the inn in a pet.

The King's Son, heedless of the girl's tantrum, put the wreath back into his tunic, longing for the time when he should see his beloved one again; for he had long since regretted his hasty words to her of the day before, and knew now that she was his love for ever.

To such straits had he been reduced by his wanderings, however, that, since he was too proud to beg for food, he determined to work for it; so when the inn-keeper presently appeared in the courtyard, he asked him for employment, and gladly accepted the lowly work of a swineherd which was all the busy landlord had to offer him.

By this time a bustling crowd of townsfolk in gala attire had gathered together in the square before the closed city gates; and the worthy councillors and elders seated themselves on a decorated daïs, ready to receive the expected King, all chattering at once, every now and again stopping to listen eagerly to the exaggerated tales of their previous day's adventures told by the woodcutter and the broom-maker. The latter had brought his fifteen children with him, one of whom, a pretty little flaxen-haired girl of ten summers, immediately noticed the King's Son, and hastened to make friends with him; and the royal youth gladly played with the fair child, grateful for her welcome.

The King's Son next inquired the reason for the gay assemblage; and on learning that the people were actually in need of a king, and were, in fact, even now expecting a stranger of royal birth presently to appear in their midst, whom they were prepared to acclaim as their ruler, he for the moment, rejoiced, feeling that he, himself, must be the King prophesied for them. Too soon, however, he realised that they were not worthy to be the people of a great king, for when he described to them the kingly qualities of true nobility they should hope to find in their coming ruler, they all laughed him to scorn, declaring that they only looked for one who would do as their smug councillors bade him.

Then, seeing also that they expected their new King to appear before them in dazzling garments, he asked them if, supposing the stranger came before them clad in ragged or travel-stained apparel instead, they would still have sufficient wisdom and discernment to recognise him as of royal birth by his kingly bearing and nobility of heart; and when, in reply, they ridiculed the idea that royalty could be recognised by any other means than by obviously royal garments, the King's Son felt such contempt for their small-minded vulgar conception of kingship that his dark eyes flashed with scorn, and he passionately denounced them as unworthy to be the subjects of a real king.

A hubbub quickly ensued, since the dull, self-satisfied townsfolk were offended at hearing such home-truths from a ragged stranger; and when the inn-keeper's daughter now came forward and maliciously declared that she had supplied food to him for which he had not paid, the people accused him of being a thief, and rushed upon him with sticks, declaring that they would beat the life out of him.

At this moment, however, their hands were stayed by the clanging of the noon-tide bells, which suddenly rang out; and all the people drew back as the town gates were flung wide open, since this was the hour at which they expected the royal stranger to appear.

To their amazement and disappointment, however, no gorgeous king stood before them; but through the open gates there passed the fair young goose-girl, still clad in her short ragged gown, but with a golden crown upon her long, flowing locks. She was attended by her flock of faithful geese, and closely followed by the fiddler; and all the people stared in astonishment as she addressed the King's Son, holding out her arms to him and telling him that she was now worthy to wear his crown, since her love had cast out all her fears, and she would evermore be true and faithful to him.

The King's Son, full of joy, rushed forward to clasp the beautiful maiden in his arms, pouring forth sweet tender words of love and devotion, and addressing her as his queen.

On hearing the poorly-clad strangers thus addressing each other as king and queen, the crowd burst forth into peals of derisive laughter; and though the fiddler eagerly declared that the loving pair were indeed of royal birth and entreated his neighbours to receive them as their rulers, bidding all to observe that they possessed the noble bearing that only belonged to kingly children, the stupid people of Hellabrunn would have none of them, but drove out the King's Son and the beautiful royal goose-girl with contumely from their town, and closed the gates upon them.

Only one amongst them all believed the words of the fiddler; and this was the broom-maker's little flaxen-haired daughter, who flung herself weeping upon the ground, crying out aloud that they had driven forth from their midst the noble and gracious kingly children who had been sent to rule over them.

But no one paid any heed to the weeping little child, for all were too busy hustling the poor fiddler off to the town gaol, where they kept him for many months as a captive, because he had asked them to accept a couple of ragged strangers as their rulers.

Not satisfied with this, they also sent a party of stalwart men to seize the old witch, since they considered that she had deceived them, whereas, for once in her life, the old dame had told them the truth; and they burnt her at the stake as a dealer in magic which was of no avail.

When at last the fiddler was released from prison, it was winter-time; and he would certainly have starved had not the broom-maker's little flaxen-haired daughter brought him food, and helped him to reach the witch's deserted hut, for he was still lame from the broken leg he had received when dragged off to prison. He gladly made friends with the little maid, and was filled with great gladness when she told him that she had persuaded all the other children in the town into the belief that the luckless pair of strangers whom their parents and elders had so stupidly driven from their midst were indeed the expected King and Queen whose coming had been prophesied—the kingly children who were worthy to be their rulers; and one day, all the children came trooping out through the snow-clad woods to entreat him to go forth with them to seek the royal lovers whom they believed were still wandering in the forest.

At first the fiddler, wishing to spare them from exposure to the cold, asked them to wait until the spring should appear; but when they told him that by that time the kingly children might have perished, he agreed to go with them and guide them in their search.

That same day, whilst they thus talked together, the broom-maker and the woodcutter appeared with the news that the fiddler had now been forgiven by the townsfolk, who desired him to return to them, and cheer them with his merry music once more; but the fiddler indignantly refused to dwell with people who were too stupid and mean-spirited to understand the true meaning of noble kingship, and who had not the discernment to recognise a king, even though he came before them in humble garments. He turned aside, therefore, and led the children away into the woods to begin their search; and the broom-maker and the woodcutter took shelter for awhile in the hut, shutting the window and door to keep out the cold.

The Hellabrunn children were right in their belief that the royal wanderers were still in the forest; for, a little later in the day, the King's Son struggled out into the snow-clad glade, bearing in his arms the beautiful goose-girl, who was too exhausted and numbed with cold to walk another step. During the months that had passed they had found many sheltered spots in which to rest and partake of the scanty food which the woodlands had yielded to them; but now, at last, they had come to the end of all their resources and were dying for want of food and from exposure to the cold.

Seeing that the hut was occupied, the King's Son knocked at the door, and when it was opened, entreated for some food for his companion; but the stingy pair within refused to part with anything without payment.

The King's Son was in despair, for he had no money left; then taking the golden crown which he had always managed to preserve until now, he broke it and offered half in payment for the ancient cake which the woodcutter had found in a cupboard, and which had been left there by the old witch. The greedy woodcutter, however, demanded both the pieces of gold; and the King's Son, now thinking only of his beloved one's dire necessity, eagerly flung the entire crown to him, receiving in return the precious stale cake.

The goose-girl revived somewhat for the moment after swallowing some of the cake, and insisted upon her companion taking some of it too; and then the pair talked happily together for awhile in their weak low voices, recalling the bright days of the autumn-time when they had sat together in the sunshine and decked one another with flowers.

But the cake they had partaken of was a poisoned one, and the King's Son and the goose-girl soon felt that they were dying; and as another storm began to blow and the snowflakes quickly covered the royal lovers as they lay in each other's arms, they kissed one another tenderly for the last time, and softly sank into the sleep of death.

And there they were found at last by the fiddler and the children of Hellabrunn, who all fell on their knees and wept for the sad fate of the royal pair who had come to a people who knew them not—a people who, in their folly and stupidity, had driven forth their promised king and queen to perish in the forest, thus shutting out from their midst the light of a great glory that might have been theirs, because they lacked discernment to recognise the fact that inward nobility of heart and mind makes for true kingship, and not the outward pomp of fine raiment and gorgeous surroundings!

Alas, short-sighted, misguided townsfolk! And, alas, poor rejected kingly children!

PAGLIACCI
(The Mountebanks)

It was the Feast of the Assumption, and the light-hearted inhabitants of a pretty village in Calabria had turned out in full force to make the most of the last day of a successful fair that had been held in their midst. The fair ground was crowded with holiday-makers, all bent on amusement, and a brisk business was carried on at the various shows and booths from morning till night.

A company of strolling players had been one of the chief attractions of the fair; and when during the afternoon, Canio, the master of the troupe, mounted the steps of his portable theatre, and, beating a noisy drum, invited the holiday-makers to attend the last performance to be given that evening, the announcement was hailed with great delight. The merry youths and maidens all signified their intention of witnessing the play, and then Canio, assured of a good audience, went to spend the intervening time at the village tavern, together with his friend Beppo, the Harlequin of the company.

The travelling theatre had been set up close beside a high wall that separated the fair ground from the country road; and no sooner had Canio departed, than his pretty young actress wife, Nedda, came out from the booth, and began to stroll towards this wall, as though expecting to see someone appear above it.

At the same moment, a hunchback named Tonio, who was clown to the troupe, quickly approached and addressed her in endearing terms; for, though distorted in mind as well as in body, the poor buffoon had yet fallen a victim to the charms of his master's wife, and had long awaited this opportunity to declare his love. But the pretty Nedda, who hated and despised the hunchback, only laughed in derision at his protestations; and when the eager Tonio, rendered reckless by his passion, attempted boldly to seize her in his arms, she angrily snatched up a whip that was lying near, and began to belabour him with it. The wretched hunchback was now obliged to beat a hasty retreat; but, full of rage at her scornful treatment of him, he determined to revenge himself upon her, and slunk off with evil in his heart.

As Nedda heaved a sigh of relief after watching Tonio vanish in the crowd, she heard her own name softly uttered in tender accents; and, seeing the form of a handsome young man appearing above the wall, she hurried forward with delight, this second intruder on her solitude being as welcome as the first had been distasteful. For the pretty young actress had already wearied of her husband, whose coarser nature, and rough, almost savage love, repelled her; and so, when Silvio, a rich young farmer in the district who had fallen in love with her at the theatre, found an opportunity to declare his passion, she had quickly returned his love, finding relief and pleasure in his gentler manners and softer moods.

The lovers met in secret every day; for Nedda, though constantly afraid of her husband's anger should he discover the intrigue, was yet daring enough to seek happiness at the risk of danger; and now Silvio had come for a last interview, knowing that the troupe were to depart on the morrow, since this was the final day of the fair.

The rustic youth quickly scaled the wall; and, clasping his sweetheart in his arms, he besought her to fly with him that night, and leave a husband who was no better than a tyrant, and a life that was distasteful to her. For a short time, Nedda tried to resist Silvio's pleading, begging him not to tempt her; but at length, overcome by his passionate entreaties, she yielded, and promised to meet him that night after the last performance was over at the theatre, that they might escape away together.

Whilst the lovers were thus engrossed, Tonio returned, and watched this pretty scene for a few moments unobserved; and then suddenly seeing in this incident a means of revenging himself upon Nedda for her disdainful treatment of himself, he crept softly away, and departed to the village tavern to disclose to Canio the story of his wife's faithlessness.

On hearing the hunchback's tale, Canio was overwhelmed with rage and jealousy, and instantly returned with him to the theatre; and he arrived on the scene just in time to see Silvio disappearing over the wall and waving a tender farewell to Nedda, who answered him lovingly from below, repeating her promise to meet him after dark.

Enraged at this proof of his beautiful wife's infidelity, the injured husband ran forward to intercept the departing lover; but Silvio was already on the other side of the wall, and beyond his reach. Canio then turned furiously upon the trembling Nedda; and roughly seizing her by the arm, he demanded the name of her lover. But Nedda, though terrified by her husband's angry words and threatening aspect, boldly refused to betray the man she loved; and Canio, maddened by her refusal, impetuously drew his dagger from its sheath, declaring that he would kill her.

At this moment, Beppo appeared, having followed his friend from the tavern, fearing that something was wrong; and, hearing Canio's threat, he sprang forward, at once, and snatching the weapon from his hand, begged him to calm himself and prepare for the evening's performance at the theatre, since the holiday-makers were already clamouring for admission.

After much trouble, Canio was at length persuaded to remember the duties of his profession, and to release Nedda, who quickly escaped to the theatre; and having thus pacified his friend for the time being, Beppo began to make preparations for the approaching entertainment. The hunchback, too, seeing now that he must wait a little longer before carrying out his plan of vengeance, begged his master to dress for the play, cunningly suggesting that Nedda's lover would probably attend the theatre that night, and thus give them an opportunity of attacking him; and at last, Canio, full of grief and despair (for he loved his wife passionately in his rough, savage way), was persuaded to take part in the comedy, although a tragedy was in his heart.

A lively audience of village lads and maidens now quickly filled the benches that had been placed before the open stage; and those who could not get seats, stood on the rising ground at the back, all chattering together and eager for the play to begin.

Amongst those who managed to get a place near the front was the handsome Silvio, who, as Tonio had predicted, had not been able to resist the temptation of watching his sweetheart from afar; and when Nedda, now clad in her stage dress as Columbine (which part she took in the play) presently appeared amongst the audience to collect the entrance money, he whispered in her ear a tender reminder of their meeting later on.

As it happened, the play chosen for performance that night, by a strange coincidence, proved to be a burlesque of the very incidents the actors themselves had just experienced, and the unsuspecting audience, though they little guessed it, were to be regaled with a page from real life, a repetition of the events that had occurred unobserved by them outside the theatre that afternoon—a comedy that was to end in a tragedy!

When the curtain went up Columbine (personated by Nedda) was discovered waiting for her lover, Harlequin (played by Beppo), whom she was about to entertain to supper during the absence of her husband, Punchinello. An idiot-servant, Taddeo (played by Tonio), entered after the opening speech, carrying food for the supper; and after placing the viands on the table, he began to make a grotesque declaration of love to Columbine, causing much laughter amongst the audience. Columbine, however, scornfully rejected his addresses, and bade him begone, and Harlequin, who entered through the window at that moment, soon drove off the importunate servant, and sent him to keep watch below. Harlequin and Columbine next went through an exaggerated love-scene, the faithless wife yielding to her lover's request to fly with him that night; and then, just as they settled down to enjoy the feast together, Taddeo ran into the room again, announcing in dramatic tones to Columbine that her husband had just returned home unexpectedly, and was already vowing vengeance on her for entertaining a stranger during his absence. With a parting injunction, Harlequin very ungallantly disappeared through the window, following the example of Taddeo, who had already decamped in another direction; and just as Columbine called out a tender farewell to her departing lover, Punchinello (personated by Canio) dashed into the room.

Until now, the play had been a most amusing burlesque, and the audience had been kept in a state of constant laughter at the many ridiculous situations; but with the entrance of Punchinello, they quickly saw that more serious work was to follow. Now, it happened that Nedda, as Columbine, in her farewell speech to Harlequin, had unconsciously made use of the very same words she had addressed to her real lover in the afternoon; and Canio, remembering only too well the speech that had brought such despair to his heart, gave vent to his jealous rage once more, and, forgetting the words of the play, he seized his wife by the arm, and again demanded the name of her lover. Nedda, surprised and alarmed by this unrehearsed incident of the play, went on with her Columbine speeches, and for a short time Canio returned to his part of Punchinello, and the play proceeded. Columbine explained to her enraged spouse that it was only the foolish servant Taddeo who had been her guest at supper, and Taddeo, being discovered hiding in a cupboard, made a ludicrous speech, beseeching Punchinello not to doubt the fidelity of his wife, declaring in exaggerated terms that she would never deceive him. These words caused Canio's suppressed passion to break out once more, and, forgetting all but his own wrongs, he once more ordered Nedda to reveal the name of her lover, declaring passionately that he was Punchinello no longer, but the husband she had deceived.

The audience had at first been delighted at what they considered the fine acting of the injured Punchinello, frequently giving vent to enthusiastic rounds of applause; but now they began to grow restless, feeling uncomfortably that such an intensity of passion could hardly be assumed. It was in vain that Nedda endeavoured to go on with the words of the play; and, seeing that her maddened husband was in deadly earnest, she only sought to defend herself. In spite of his threats, she utterly refused to declare the name of her lover; and at last, driven to madness by her refusal, Canio, in a frenzy of jealousy, drew his dagger and plunged it into her heart.

The audience, no longer deceived, but now seeing that a real tragedy was going on before their eyes, uttered loud shrieks of dismay; and Silvio, full of horror and despair, sprang upon the stage at a bound, and, lifting his dead love in his arms, implored her in grief-stricken accents to speak to him once again. But Canio leapt upon him instantly, knowing now that the handsome young farmer was his rival and the cause of his woe; and with a second stroke of his dagger, he laid the bereaved lover dead beside his stricken mistress.

For a few moments, the frenzied Canio stood dazed and stupefied, gazing upon his dreadful handiwork; and then, as the spectators sprang forward to seize him, he yielded himself quietly into their hands, muttering as they led him away: "The comedy is finished!"

MASCAGNI

CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA
(Rustic Chivalry)

It was Easter morning, and the inhabitants of a certain pretty little village in the island of Sicily were wending their way towards the church to join in the customary special service of praise and thanksgiving in honour of the festival. They were light-hearted, peaceful peasants, who worked hard for their living, and so were glad to rejoice and be merry on feast days; and though shut off from the outside world, like other island folk, they had considerable pride, and jealously guarded the honour of their native village. As they approached the church this bright Easter morning, their simple hearts were filled with joy and gratitude for the life of peaceful calm allotted to them; and yet, though they knew it not, a tragedy was even now being enacted in their midst.

Turiddu, one of the handsomest youths in the village, had become a soldier, and before going off to the wars, had obtained the promise of his sweetheart, Lola, to remain faithful to him, that they might be wed on his return.

But the pretty Lola found the waiting time long and wearisome; and, at last, tiring of an ever-absent lover, she accepted the advances of Alfio, the prosperous village carrier, who had a comfortable home to offer and loved her dearly.

So when Turiddu at length returned from his military service, he found his faithless sweetheart the wife of the happy Alfio; but though filled with disappointment and grief, he determined in his pride not to let Lola see that he cared aught for his loss. To this end, knowing that he was looked upon with favour by another fair village maiden, named Santuzza, he began to pay his addresses to her with much ardour; and he pursued his false wooing with such success that in a very short time he had not only stolen this poor girl's heart, but her honour, also.

Now, when Lola saw that Turiddu had taken a new sweetheart in her place, she was filled with unreasonable resentment; and all her old love returning with the sting of jealousy, she sought to draw him back to her side once more, regardless of her wifely vows to Alfio. Nor did she find her task a difficult one; for Turiddu's passion for her had never altered, although he had found comfort for a time in the smile of Santuzza, and he gladly accepted her invitation to resume their old sweet intercourse.

Every day the lovers met in secret, being careful to keep all their movements concealed from the unsuspecting Alfio; and for a little while they were able to rejoice in their lawless love.

But the secret did not long remain hidden from the betrayed and deserted Santuzza, who still passionately loved Turiddu; and when she discovered that he had returned to his old love she was filled with grief and jealousy. For a while, she kept the secret to herself, hoping to persuade the man she loved to come back to her, and give up his dangerous intercourse with Lola; but when after many weeks had passed, and still Turiddu came not, she determined to go and seek him out.

Having learnt from a neighbour that her false lover had been seen lingering near the abode of Alfio on the previous evening, she made her way, full of misery, to the abode of Turiddu's mother, Lucia, a cottage situated near the church in an open square. Here she waited until Lucia came out from the cottage, ready for church; and then, hurrying towards the good dame, she asked her where Turiddu was to be found.

Lucia replied that her son had gone a few days ago into the neighbouring town of Francoflute to fetch wine, and had not yet returned; but Santuzza declared this could not be true, since he had been seen in the village only the evening before. On hearing this, Lucia was surprised and troubled; for, although she knew nothing of Turiddu's secret love, his movements had been mysterious to her of late, and she had felt that all was not right with him.

Just then, Alfio, the carrier, entered the square with his team, singing a merry song as he drove by. He stopped at the cottage to ask for a cup of wine, and upon the name of Turiddu being mentioned, he told Lucia, with a sudden frown, that her son had been lurking near his own cottage that very morning, and had been seen there several other times of late. Lucia was about to say more on the subject, when Santuzza, not wishing to betray her faithless lover, made a sign to her to desist; and a few moments later Alfio went off with his team, but with a troubled look on his face, for a suspicion as to Turiddu's object in haunting his wife's abode now flashed across his mind for the first time.

When he had gone, Santuzza, unable to bear her grief in silence any longer, determined to take Lucia into her confidence; and, in despairing tones, she now poured out the whole wretched story to the dame—how Turiddu, in pique, had won her love and betrayed her, deserting her in order to return to his former sweetheart, Lola.

Lucia listened to this sad story with grief in her heart for the sin of her son, and pity for the unhappy girl he had wronged; and when it came to an end, she folded Santuzza in her arms, and said that she would offer prayers for her comfort even now. She then went into the church, which was already filled with worshippers singing their Easter anthem; but Santuzza remained weeping by the cottage door.

Presently, she saw Turiddu enter the square, and, hurrying forward eagerly, she greeted him with reproaches, passionately imploring him to return to her love once more. But Turiddu, who had come to look for Lola on her way to church, was in no mood to hear the reproaches of Santuzza; and he declared that her pleadings were in vain to move him, for she was nothing to him, and Lola's love was all he wanted.

At this moment Lola herself came by, singing on her way to church, and seeing Santuzza and Turiddu together, a momentary wave of jealousy seized her. She began to mock at them both for choosing the public square for their love-making; and when Turiddu tried to draw her away with him, she shook herself free, and scornfully bade him stay with his beloved Santuzza. She then turned away with a careless laugh, and went into the church, and Turiddu, rendered furious at her mocking words, which had been incited by the presence of her rival, turned angrily away from Santuzza, and bade her leave him.

The wretched Santuzza, however, refused to be dismissed; and again she implored him to have pity and return to her loving heart once more. But Turiddu declared cruelly that everything was now over between them, his love for Lola being all-absorbing, and when Santuzza clung to his arm in her wild eagerness, he flung her passionately from him, and hastened into the church, heedless that she had fallen to the ground.

Poor Santuzza lay for a few moments where she had fallen; and when she had recovered sufficiently to raise herself, she saw that Alfio the carrier had returned to the square again, and was standing close beside her. Maddened by Turiddu's cruel treatment, she now determined to be revenged upon him, and, turning eagerly to Alfio, she related to him the story of his wife's intrigue. She kept nothing back, not even Turiddu's betrayal of herself, and Alfio knew from her deep distress and passion that she spoke the truth, which his own recently awakened suspicions too surely confirmed.

The injured husband listened with grief and rage in his heart, and when the story came to an end, he exclaimed vehemently that all his love for his faithless wife was now changed to hate, and that he would surely avenge himself speedily upon the betrayer of his honour.

Santuzza was terrified at the tumult of passion she had thus raised, and would gladly have recalled her words, could she have done so; but Alfio flung her detaining arm from him, and fled away to collect his agonised thoughts.

The service at the church was now at an end; and the worshippers came pouring forth into the square, laughing and rejoicing together, for the rest of the day was to be spent in merriment.

Turiddu and the pretty Lola came out together with happy faces, for the careless girl's jealous outburst had quickly flown; and as they passed a little inn at one side of the square, Turiddu snatched up a cup of wine from a table that stood without, and drank it off to the health of his sweetheart. Lola recklessly responded to the pledge; and then, Turiddu carried away by the delirium of the moment, began to sing a lively drinking song, in which he was heartily joined by the merry bystanders.

As the song came to an end, Alfio suddenly broke into the group; and from his pale, set face, and the look of suppressed passion in his burning eyes, it soon became plain to all that some fearful act was in contemplation. The women drew together, and began to whisper in frightened tones; but the men called out a friendly welcome to Alfio, who returned their greeting with calmness.

But when Turiddu, still keeping up his gay tone, offered the newcomer a cup of wine, and boldly invited him to drink to their friendship, Alfio refused with the utmost scorn, and he declared in resentful tones that wine offered by Turiddu was to him but deadly poison. On hearing these words, Lola uttered a cry of fear, knowing now that her wronged husband had discovered all; and, full of despair, she allowed herself to be led away by the trembling women, who quickly guessed that she was concerned in the quarrel, and were eager to remove her from the scene.

Turiddu also saw that his secret was known by the man he had wronged, but was not afraid to meet the consequences of his guilt; and seeing that Alfio meant to satisfy his honour by fighting, he went boldly forward and made the first challenge himself. This he did by biting the left ear of his opponent, according to the local custom of the island; and at the same time, he took all the blame of the intrigue upon himself, and begged Alfio not to deal harshly with Lola.

Alfio calmly accepted the challenge, and, leading the way to a garden near by, he bade Turiddu follow him, that they might fight there undisturbed. As Turiddu followed, he stopped at the door of his home and called for his mother, and when Lucia hurried out, alarmed at his excited tones, he begged her in case he was killed, to guard and care for poor Santuzza, whom he had so cruelly wronged. He also implored her to bless him and pray for his forgiveness; and then, with a last tender embrace, he drew his dagger, and rushed into the garden to begin the duel.

Lucia was terrified at her son's aspect, and guessed at once what had happened; and when, at that moment, Santuzza ran up, asking wildly for her lover, she folded her in her arms with a sobbing cry.

Suddenly, a loud shout of "Turiddu is slain!" came from those who had followed to watch the fight, and as the cry was taken up in the square, Lucia and Santuzza, grief-stricken, sank senseless to the ground.

Thus was rustic honour satisfied, and Alfio avenged of his wrongs; but the bright Easter morn that had dawned so joyously ended in gloom and the dark shadow of death!

MEYERBEER

ROBERT THE DEVIL
(Robert le Diable)

A brilliant scene was taking place in the port of Palermo one day in the beginning of the eleventh century, for a large number of noble cavaliers and knights had lately arrived from various cities in Europe to take part in a grand Tournament to be held there, and all were talking about the great event as they greeted one another and quaffed wine together.

The Tournament was to be held under the auspices of the Duke of Messina, the hand of whose daughter, the beautiful Princess Isabella of Sicily, was offered as the prize of victory; and it was for this reason that so many of the proudest knights in Christendom had determined to enter the lists, for the fair Princess was indeed a dazzling reward.

Amongst the latest arrivals was a handsome young knight, whose rich equipment and splendid train of attendants quickly attracted the attention of the assembled cavaliers, and excited their curiosity as to who he might be; for he was unknown to them, though not a stranger in Palermo. This newcomer was in reality Robert, Duke of Normandy, who had gained for himself the ill-famed title of "Robert the Devil"—a name which, though first bestowed on him from the supposition that his father had been a fiend, he had afterwards fully earned by his own recklessly wicked conduct, which had at length resulted in his expulsion from Normandy.

During his subsequent wanderings and adventures in Europe, Robert had made the acquaintance of the lovely Princess of Sicily, for whom he had instantly conceived a true and deep passion; and Isabella, though warned by his evil reputation, had quickly returned his love, being irresistibly attracted by his handsome looks, and the glimpses of a noble nature which he exhibited when in her presence.

His wild and passionate disposition, however, quickly led him into a violent outburst of jealous rage against his beloved one's father, who did not encourage his suit, and not content with insulting the proud ruler, he also challenged all his knights to combat. This brought disaster upon him, for the Duke of Messina's angry knights were too powerful for him to overcome, and soon compelled him to take to flight.

Robert was in despair at the result of his rash conduct, for Isabella was deeply offended, and though still secretly loving him well, seemed inclined to favour the addresses of the Duke of Granada, whose suit was constantly urged by her father. But when the Tournament and its prize for victory were shortly afterwards announced, Robert determined to seek pardon of the Princess, and enter the lists as a candidate; and to this end he now arrived in Palermo with a gorgeous retinue, displaying every mark of extravagant splendour.

Now, in all his evil pleasures and wild excesses, Robert had always been aided and encouraged by a sinister-looking knight, named Bertram, who was his constant companion, and who, though he knew it not, was in reality his fiend-father; and so, upon arriving in Palermo, this favoured friend was in close attendance upon the young Duke as usual.

Robert greeted the assembled nobles in a courtly manner; and then, observing that some Norman troubadours were also in the company, he tossed a piece of gold to one of these, and bade him sing a lay. The minstrel, whose name was Raimbaud, at once stepped forward; and little guessing that it was his royal master who stood before him, he announced to the expectant lords that he would sing to them the true story of Normandy's ill-fated young Duke known as "Robert the Devil."

He then tuned his harp, and began his lay, relating how the proud Princess Bertha of Normandy, after scornfully refusing many noble suitors, at length accepted the love of a stranger prince, who was, in truth, a fiend in disguise. He went on to describe how the son of this strange marriage was young Robert, called the Devil, because, inheriting a love of evil from his demon-father, he had constantly indulged in wicked excesses of every kind; and led away by the excitement of his theme, the minstrel portrayed the vices of Normandy's banished Duke in the glowing colours of popular dread.

Strange to say, Robert himself had never before heard the story of his supposed fiend-father; and as he listened to the minstrel's lay he became so full of rage that when it came to an end he could no longer restrain his feelings. Haughtily announcing that he himself was Robert of Normandy, he commanded his attendants to seize and hang the troubadour without delay; and instantly the wretched Raimbaud, realising what a terrible mistake he had made, fell on his knees, entreating for mercy. He declared that he had not recognised his royal master, for whom he had brought an important message; and he added that he and his betrothed, a young village maiden, had come to Palermo together for this very purpose.

On hearing this, Robert now declared that he would take the village maiden in compensation for the minstrel's life; and ordering Raimbaud's release, he sent for the girl, promising her as a prize to his cavaliers. The unhappy Raimbaud uttered a cry of woe; but the gay cavaliers quickly surrounded the pretty maiden he had indicated, squabbling fiercely as to which should obtain possession of her.

The poor girl cried aloud for mercy; but as she was helplessly dragged forward, Robert himself ran to her aid, for he had instantly recognised her as his foster-sister, Alice, with whom he had played as a child, in Normandy. He quickly released her from the rough hands of her lawless captors, and as the cavaliers fell back, grumbling at the loss of their prey, proclaimed that the maiden was under his protection, for the sight of her sweet, innocent face had roused within him once more the better feelings of his childish days.

He then asked her how she came to be in Palermo, and Alice replied that she and her betrothed, Raimbaud, had deferred the day of their union, in order to bring a message to their royal master from his sainted mother. In answer to Robert's eager questions, she told him that Princess Bertha was now dead, and that her last message to her erring son had been that as she prayed for him on earth, so would she also never cease to pray for him in Heaven.

Full of grief at hearing of the death of his mother, Robert told Alice that naught was left to him but despair, since he had also had another terrible trouble to bear; but on relating to her the story of his now hopeless love for Isabella, the village maiden comforted him greatly by declaring that she would seek out the Princess, and implore her to pardon him. But suddenly catching sight of the sinister knight, Bertram, she trembled violently, saying that his dark face reminded her of a picture she had once seen of the Evil One; and seeing that he was about to approach, she crept away to rejoin her released lover.

Bertram now persuaded Robert to indulge in a game of dice with their new friends; and encouraged by his evil companion to double and treble his stakes at each failure, the reckless young Duke quickly lost the whole of his fortune, even to his horses and armour.

Meanwhile, the gentle Alice had not forgotten her promise to her royal foster-brother; and on the day of the Tournament she sought an interview with the Princess of Sicily as she sat beneath her gorgeous canopy, and gave her a message from Robert, who implored pardon and humbly asked permission to contest for her hand in the lists that day. Isabella, who had never ceased to love Robert in spite of her displeasure at his wild conduct, was overjoyed to receive this contrite message, and readily granting the pardon he asked, sent back a gracious invitation to him to accept the challenge of her principal suitor, the Duke of Granada, who proudly called on all rivals to meet him in open combat.

But when at last the heralds blared forth the haughty Duke's challenge to Robert of Normandy, no response was made, and though the challenge was repeated again and again, still Robert did not stand forth. Nor did he appear throughout the whole of the Tournament; and when, at the end of the contests, the Duke of Granada was declared victor and winner of the fair Princess's hand, Isabella returned to her apartments overcome with grief and despair, feeling that Robert had betrayed her trust and scorned her love.

Now, Robert's absence from the Tournament had been cunningly contrived by the fiend-knight, Bertram, who had no desire for his victim to retrieve his character by gaining honour and glory in combat; so, having lured him away from the scene by a phantom in the form of his hated rival, the Duke of Granada, he led him to a desert place outside the city.

Having induced him to enter a gloomy cave, where he intended to reveal a secret to him, and also inquire of the spirits of darkness concerning him, Bertram returned for a moment to the open ground; and here, to his annoyance, he found Raimbaud the minstrel, who announced that he awaited Alice, his betrothed, whom he had asked to meet him there, as they intended to be wedded that day.

Being anxious for him to depart, the knight gave Raimbaud a handsome gift of gold, bidding him think no more of Alice, but return to his wanderings once again, since being now rich, he would quickly find many other pretty girls willing to love him; and the minstrel, held for the time being under the spell of Bertram's evil influence, at once hurried back to the city, where, however, better feelings prevailing again, he waited at the entrance for his betrothed.

Bertram now returned to the cave and invoked the evil spirits he knew so well. Whilst this invocation was going on, Alice appeared at the trysting-place, and, full of disappointment that her lover had failed to keep his engagement, crept into the mouth of the cave to await him.

Here she was alarmed to see vivid flashes of lightning, and to hear, amidst dreadful rumblings, the unearthly voices of demons calling a greeting to Robert; and fearing that her beloved foster-brother was in woeful danger, she was just about to spring forward to the spot where a flash of lightning presently revealed him to her sight, when Bertram suddenly blocked her path. He first attempted to address her in tones of gallantry, but the girl shrank back with such a look of unutterable horror in her eyes that the fiend knew at once she had guessed the secret of his true identity. Seizing her by the arm, he passionately declared that if she ever betrayed his secret, or revealed aught of what she had seen and heard in the cave, she should die, and also bring death upon her lover, and all whom she held dear; and Alice, though she longed to warn Robert, was so terrified by the awful aspect of Bertram that she dared not do so, but rushed wildly from the cave.

Bertram then returned to Robert, and divulged to him an evil scheme, by means of which he hoped to utterly destroy his soul. He invited him to visit the spot where Princess Bertha had been buried, and to pluck therefrom a certain magic bough that would give him resistless power, and enable him to satisfy every earthly desire, no matter how evil or impossible it might be; and Robert, deprived of the good influence of Alice, readily yielded to his solicitations, and set off at once with his fiend-counsellor for the Convent of Rosalie, where his mother's remains had been laid.

This Convent had been founded by Princess Bertha for pure Christian worship; but the spot had soon been deprived of its sanctity by the nuns themselves, who, forgetting their vows, had adored heathen gods, and offered impious sacrifices. Where virtue had once been cherished, vice only now dwelt, and when Bertram and Robert appeared amidst the gravestones, the evil spirits of the fallen nuns arose from all sides, and taking on the form of beautiful nymphs, assisted in the temptation of the victim.

For a short time Robert tried to resist the evil influences around him; but soon the insidious goading of Bertram prevailed, and plucking the magic bough, he rushed madly from the spot. His tempter quickly followed, bidding him to possess himself of the Princess of Sicily, whose innocence he might now destroy unhindered, in revenge for the scorn with which her proud father had treated him; and roused to madness by the subtle suggestion, Robert instantly returned to Palermo to carry it out.

It was the day of Princess Isabella's nuptials with the Duke of Granada, whom she still disliked, though forced by her father to wed with him; and her attendants, attired in wedding garments, were just waiting in the ante-room to conduct the unhappy bride to the adjoining church as Robert entered.

By the power of his magic bough, the frenzied young Duke instantly caused all the attendants to fall into a charmed sleep; and then, hurrying into the apartment beyond, he attempted to carry off the Princess by force. Isabella, quickly reading her ravisher's purpose in the evil passion that blazed in his eyes, fell on her knees, and implored him by the pure love he had once felt for her to show mercy upon her helplessness; and Robert, after a wild struggle with the evil desires within him, was at length overcome by her entreaties, and full of remorse, destroyed his talisman.

Instantly his magic powers vanished, so that the attendants, awakening from their charmed sleep in drowsy astonishment, suddenly beheld the intruder; and quickly divining his fell purpose, they rushed forward to seize him. Robert, however, taking to flight, escaped their hands, and the attendants, returning to the now grief-stricken bride, conducted her to the church in state, to await her bridegroom.

Robert found refuge in the cloisters of the church, and here he was soon joined by Bertram, who, at last revealing himself as his fiend-father, now produced a parchment, begging him to sign it, by which act he would be bound to him for ever.

Though amazed to learn of the true identity of Bertram, Robert did not draw back in horror, since, in his hopeless misery, he still regarded the fiend as his best friend; and he was just about to sign the contract, when the peasant girl, Alice, suddenly appeared in the cloisters, and implored him to refrain from such a dreadful deed, since she had brought a joyful message for him.

She announced that Heaven watched over him and favoured his union with the woman he loved, for the proud Duke of Granada and his attendants had not been able to cross the threshold of the church; and she added that the beautiful Isabella, whose love was still his, now awaited him at the altar, hoping, by their union, to lead him to a better life.

On hearing this, Robert's despair became greater still, torn between the prospects of pure joys held out by Alice, and the wicked enticements of Bertram; and a mighty struggle betwixt good and evil at once took place.

Alice, in her holy enthusiasm, no longer afraid of the fiend, fought desperately for the soul she longed to save; and as her final effort, she produced a letter from the deceased Princess Bertha, in which the redeemed mother warned her son against the fiend who sought to destroy him, and reminded him that she still prayed for him above.

This heavenly message at last prevailed over the wavering Robert, and decided him to adopt the better course; and refusing to be tempted longer by the wicked Bertram, he joyfully allowed himself to be led away by Alice to join his waiting bride at the altar.

The defeated fiend, realising that his cause was now lost for ever, instantly disappeared from the earth; and at the same moment a chorus of heavenly voices was heard rejoicing over the victory of a soul reclaimed from evil.

THE HUGUENOTS
(Les Huguenots)

Towards the close of an August day, in the year 1572, a festive scene was taking place in the Castle de Nevers, in the fair land of Touraine; for the young Count de Nevers, a Catholic nobleman of great wealth and vast estates, was entertaining his friends at a magnificent banquet, set out with all the luxurious extravagance customary to his high position.

All the gentlemen present were Catholics; and so, when De Nevers presently announced that he had invited a young Huguenot gentleman, one Sir Raoul de Nangis, to join them at the board, they were at first filled with surprise and displeasure; but upon their host assuring them that his new friend was of noble blood, and had been received well at Court, they were somewhat mollified, and awaited his arrival with eager expectation, intending to exercise their wit at his expense, for the feuds between the Huguenot and Catholic parties in France at this time had now reached the culminating point when an outburst between the two factions was daily looked for.

Consequently, when Raoul de Nangis was at length announced, he was received by the guests at first with suspicion, changing gradually to easy tolerance, for his handsome appearance and noble air dispelled the contempt usually expressed for those of the new faith; and seeing that he wore a somewhat pensive look, they presently began to rally him on his abstraction, declaring that he must be in love and thinking of his fair lady.

Raoul, being of a frank and sunny nature, readily fell in with their mood, and admitted that they had indeed guessed the truth; and upon being pressed further, he told them the story of his first meeting with his lady-love, which had happened only that very morning. During his rambles through the town, he had observed a sedan-chair in which was seated a very beautiful young girl, and which was at the moment surrounded by a group of hilarious students, who were annoying its fair occupant, and alarming her with their vulgar attentions; and, full of indignation, he had drawn his sword, and rushed amongst the importunate loiterers, quickly scattering them. Then, when the lady he had thus saved from annoyance had poured her grateful thanks upon him, he had been so enthralled by her witching smiles and sweet beauty, that he had fallen desperately in love with her at first sight, and now declared that she was the lady of his heart for ever.

As this pretty story came to an end, the entrance of Raoul's old Huguenot servant, Marcello, created a diversion; for his odd appearance, quaint dress, and severe puritanical manners made him a ready butt for the wit of the gay cavaliers in whose company he now found himself very much against his will. He could not refrain from expressing his disapproval of this frivolous scene, and upbraided his young master for sharing in what his strict notions compelled him to consider sinful pleasures.

Afraid that Marcello's severe remarks would offend the proud Catholic nobles, Raoul apologised for his outspoken manner, and craved their indulgence, since Marcello was an old and faithful retainer of his family, and had been accustomed to many privileges not usually extended to serving-men; but the merry guests declared that the old man amused them greatly, and they only treated his censure with laughing derision.

Whilst this slight diversion was taking place, a lady, closely veiled, was seen to enter the grounds, following a servant, who conducted her to an arbour within view of the banquet-hall; and presently the attendant entered to announce that the veiled lady desired an immediate interview in private with the Count de Nevers. The bantering now fell to the share of the young host, his guests declaring that he must indeed be fascinating, since his fair conquests even called him away from his feasts; and when De Nevers had excused himself, and departed to his interview, they all crowded to the window, dragging Raoul with them, in order to catch a glimpse of the mysterious fair one.

As De Nangis looked carelessly towards the arbour, the lady removed a portion of her veil as she addressed De Nevers; and to his surprise and grief, the young Huguenot recognised the beautiful face of the lady he had assisted in the morning, and by whom his heart had immediately been taken captive.

Full of sorrow and disappointment at thus discovering his lady-love to be, as he now naturally supposed from this incident, the mistress of De Nevers, Raoul uttered an exclamation of anger, and would have rushed out into the grounds to interrupt the interview, but was laughingly held back by the lively guests; and shortly afterwards De Nevers returned to the room, wearing a now weary and somewhat preoccupied air.

For the mysterious lady whom he had just interviewed, and whom Raoul had so sadly recognised, had proved to be his own fiancée, Valentina, the beautiful daughter of the Count de St. Bris, Governor of the Louvre, and one of the principal leaders of the Catholic party; and the object of her visit had been to implore De Nevers to relinquish her hand, since she did not love him, and was only being coerced into the union by the will of her ambitious father.

When De Nevers returned to the banquet-hall, he was instantly surrounded by the laughing guests, who showered eager questions upon him as to the identity of the veiled lady; but at this moment there came another interruption in the person of Urbano, one of Queen Marguerite's pages, who announced that he was the bearer of a letter from his royal mistress to Sir Raoul de Nangis.

Full of amazement, Raoul broke open the missive, and found that it contained a command from the young Queen to attend her Court that evening before sunset, and added that a carriage would be waiting for him at a certain time, to conduct him to his destination.

Surprised that the young stranger whom they had been inclined to treat somewhat disdainfully was thus about to be so greatly honoured, the fickle guests now began to pour enthusiastic congratulations upon Raoul, and to treat him with marked respect; and so, for the remainder of the banquet, the young Huguenot found himself the centre of attraction.

Meanwhile, Queen Marguerite of Navarre, with her Maids-of-Honour, was awaiting in the grounds of the Castle of Chenonceaux the return of Valentina, whom she intended to use as the means of uniting the antagonistic Catholic and Huguenot parties, having formed the plan of wedding this fair daughter of the Catholic leader, the Count de St. Bris, to the handsome Huguenot noble, Sir Raoul de Nangis; and for this purpose she had persuaded Valentina to visit her fiancé in secret, and beg him to release her hand.

Valentina had been willing enough to fall in with this plan, for she had already become deeply attached to Raoul, whom she had quickly identified with the gallant cavalier who had saved her from the annoyance of the students only that very morning; and when on her return from her painful mission she informed the Queen that De Nevers had promised to relinquish her hand, she was filled with joy, mingled with shyness, on being told that De Nangis was expected almost immediately, and that her betrothal to him would soon afterwards be announced before the whole Court, her father having been persuaded by Queen Marguerite to renounce the more ambitious match he had arranged for her, and to consent to this betrothal as a step towards reconciling the two religious parties.

Whilst they were talking together, Raoul arrived, and was conducted immediately into the presence of the Queen; and as greetings and courtly speeches were being exchanged, Valentina timidly crept away into the background.

Then Queen Marguerite explained to the young Huguenot her reason for desiring his presence, and the marriage she had arranged for him; and Raoul, no longer caring to have any choice in such a matter, since the one upon whom he had fixed his affections had proved to be unworthy, as he supposed, gave his consent readily enough.

Very soon afterwards, the Count de St. Bris and the other lords of the Court appeared on the scene, the Catholic lords ranging themselves in a group on one side of the Queen, and the Huguenots on the other. All had been made aware of the matter in hand; and so, when Queen Marguerite desired the two parties to vow friendship and peace with one another, they took the oath without demur.

Then, at a sign from the Queen, St. Bris led his beautiful young daughter forward to present her in betrothal to the young Huguenot noble; but Raoul drew back with a loud exclamation of repugnance, as he now beheld his offered bride to be none other than she whom he believed to be the mistress of De Nevers, and he declared passionately that he would not wed with one so perfidious.

The Queen and her Courtiers were amazed and indignant at this unexpected outburst, and Valentina was filled with despair, for she already loved De Nangis, and had hoped that her affection was returned; but Raoul, still believing her to be base, again declared that he would not bring disgrace upon his ancient name by wedding with one so unworthy, and with these words departed, leaving the company in a state of great confusion.

Soon after these events, the whole Court removed to Paris, where the Catholic plot for a general massacre of the Huguenots was quickly coming to a head; and the Count de St. Bris, who had only sworn friendship with the Huguenots to please Queen Marguerite, now lost no time in reopening negotiations for his daughter's marriage with the Catholic noble, De Nevers, after having first of all sent a challenge to Raoul de Nangis for satisfaction of the insult that had been put upon his name.

On the appointed day of the wedding, Valentina, who had broken-heartedly obeyed her father's wishes, entreated to be left alone in a little chapel situated on the banks of the Seine until evening, that she might spend the time in prayer and meditation; and in accordance with her wish, she was left in the sacred building until twilight had set in.

Shortly after dusk, De Nevers arrived on the scene with St. Bris and other lords, to claim his bride; but ere they entered the chapel, however, the old Huguenot retainer, Marcello, suddenly appeared, and handed a note from his master to St. Bris, in which Raoul accepted his challenge, and appointed a meeting for that night.

When Marcello was out of hearing, Maurevert, one of the lords present, suggested a plot to St. Bris, whereby they could surround and assassinate the young Huguenot without risk to their own lives; and having arranged this, they retired to await his arrival.

Now, though they knew it not, Valentina, through the open door of the chapel, had heard the whole plot; and when they had gone, she crept from the building with trembling steps, hoping that she might find some means of warning Raoul, who, in spite of his strange treatment of her, she still loved, and would willingly save from such a peril.

At that moment, old Marcello came by again; and, recognising him as De Nangis' servant, Valentina intercepted him, and, telling him of the proposed plot, besought him to devise some means of saving his master's life. Marcello, full of alarm, rushed off at once to seek help; and in a short time he returned, having arranged with a party of Huguenot soldiers, who were supping at a tavern close by, to come to his master's assistance at the first sound of strife.

Valentina then returned to the chapel; and shortly afterwards Raoul and St. Bris, with their seconds, appeared at the appointed place on the banks of the Seine, and the arrangements for the duel were made in accordance with the customary etiquette.

Ere the duel had begun, however, a band of the Catholic followers of Maurevert suddenly surrounded Raoul; and in another moment he would have been slain, but for the prompt arrival of the Huguenot soldiers, who dashed boldly amidst the assassins with drawn swords. The two parties now began to fight; but the combat was soon interrupted by the approach of Queen Marguerite and her escort returning to the Palace.

With an imperious gesture, the young Queen bade the combatants cease, and inquired the cause of the strife; and when Raoul's story was hotly contradicted by St. Bris, old Marcello came forward and verified his master's version, declaring that the warning of treachery had come from the lady who was even then issuing from the chapel.

Valentina, indeed, at that moment came forth, overcome with anxiety for her lover's safety, yet full of fear at being discovered interfering on his behalf. All were amazed at her appearance; and Raoul, who had not been able to quell his love for her, for all that he had spurned her, was bewildered at hearing that she had been the means of saving his life, and, doubtful now of his former suspicions, asked how she had come to be seen by him at the house of De Nevers that fatal evening.

Queen Marguerite answered for the agitated girl, saying that Valentina had gone at her own request to De Nevers, to implore him to renounce her hand; and when Raoul thus knew that Valentina's motive had been a pure and honourable one, and not as he had so jealously imagined, for an unworthy reason, he was filled with joy.

But his joy was quickly turned to grief once more, on learning that Valentina was about to become the bride of another; and at that moment, De Nevers appeared in a splendid barge, in which he was to carry away his bride-elect. As De Nevers landed St. Bris presented his daughter to him with pride, throwing a triumphant glance towards the wretched De Nangis; and, full of elation, the young Catholic noble led his beautiful though now half-fainting fiancée to the barge, in which they were conducted to his mansion, where their nuptials were celebrated that same evening.

Raoul was now plunged into despair at having thus lost the maiden he loved so well, and for several days was almost beside himself with grief; and at last, unable to bear his misery any longer, on the fatal eve of St. Bartholomew, he determined to make an effort to see Valentina once more even at the risk of his life.

Quite unsuspicious of the terrible fate that was to fall on those of his faith that night, the young Huguenot repaired to the mansion of De Nevers, and managed to make his way unperceived into the very room in which Valentina sat, lost in meditation; for she was at the moment bemoaning her sad fate at having been compelled to wed a man she did not love, when her heart was given to another.

As Raoul broke in upon these sad reflections, she was filled with dismay; but scarcely had she exchanged greetings with her distracted lover than she heard the approaching voices of her father and husband, and knew that the discovery of De Nangis alone with her at that hour would mean danger to him and disgrace to herself. In frightened tones she besought him to fly whilst he yet had time; but Raoul declared that he cared not for danger, and would gladly welcome death, since she was lost to him. Valentina, however, entreated him not to be so rash, since his safety was dear to her; and then, finding that the approaching voices were drawing nearer, and that there was no longer time for him to escape, she thrust him behind a heavy curtain, bidding him, by their love, to remain in hiding until the danger was past.

Almost immediately afterwards, De Nevers, St. Bris, and a number of other Catholic lords entered the room, and proceeded to hold a conference; and when they were all assembled, St. Bris unfolded to them the dreadful plot of the Catholic King, Charles IX., whereby at the tolling of a bell that night, the Huguenots, one and all, irrespective of age, sex, or position, were to be massacred without mercy. He next administered an oath, bidding them swear, as good Catholics, to assist in this terrible work, and to show no mercy. All took the oath except De Nevers, who, being of a noble disposition, indignantly refused to disgrace his ancient name by joining in such a murderous enterprise; but, in order to convince the now suspicious lords that he should not betray their plot, even though he would not share in it, he threw his sword at their feet and stood disarmed before them all.

St. Bris then gave his final instructions, bidding the conspirators to disperse in various directions and await the tolling of the bell, which should be the signal for commencing the carnage; and after tying white scarves round their arms, in order to distinguish themselves from their intended victims, the party left the room and departed on their awful mission, leaving the trembling Valentina alone.

No sooner had they gone, than Raoul sprang from his hiding-place, pale and filled with horror at the terrible plot that had, unknown to the assassins, been revealed to him; and hoping yet to be in time to warn his brother Huguenots of the calamity about to fall on them, he would have instantly rushed from the house, had not Valentina held him back, wildly imploring him not to venture into the streets that night, for since she now loved him with her whole heart, his life was too precious for her to bear the thought of his almost certain death, should he take such a risk.

Even in this moment of confusion and danger, Raoul's heart thrilled with a deep joy at thus learning that his love was returned, and he clasped Valentina in his arms in a passionate embrace; but, in spite of this double temptation to remain, his noble nature asserted itself, and upon hearing the sudden clanging of a deep bell, which he knew to be the signal for the Huguenots' doom, he struggled from the tender restraining arms of the now swooning Valentina, as she tried vainly to hold him back, and dashed from the house.

The massacre had already begun, and the streets of Paris were even now running with the innocent blood of the murdered Huguenots, whilst the night was made hideous with the shrieks of the helpless victims and the triumphant cries of those who, in such mistaken zeal, were thus carrying out the dreadful instructions that had been given to them.

As Raoul, filled with horror at the awful scenes of carnage that met his eyes on every side, hastened through the streets in the vain hope that he might yet be in time to save some of his doomed brethren of the faith, he stumbled against a wounded man, and, to his joy, he found that this was none other than his own faithful old body-servant, Marcello.

Equally glad at thus meeting with his beloved master, whom he had never expected to see again alive, Marcello described the terrible scenes that had already taken place, adding that they could now do nothing to help their Huguenot friends, since it was impossible to stem the fury of their remorseless foes, and that they themselves must also be prepared to meet death, since they could not hope to escape.

Whilst they were still standing together, they were overtaken by Valentina, who, on recovering from her swoon, had followed Raoul with frantic haste, hoping that she might even yet be able to save him from his enemies; and she now held out towards him a white scarf she had brought, beseeching him to allow her to fasten it round his arm, that he might then be taken for a Catholic, and so be safe from harm in the streets, adding that if he would proceed with her to the Louvre, and abjure his unfortunate faith, he would receive a free pardon. To strengthen her entreaty, she added that if he would fall in with her plan, when peace had afterwards been restored, they could be wed and be happy together yet; for Marcello had just related to them how his own life had been saved by the brave conduct of the Count de Nevers, who, by endeavouring to protect the old Huguenot from the hand of the Catholics, had himself been slain.

But Raoul, though now terribly tempted by this alluring picture of safety and happiness, was too noble to save himself by denying the religion for which his companions in the faith were still sacrificing their lives; and, refusing the white scarf, he declared that he would remain with Marcello and await his fate.

When Valentina saw that he was thus resolved, she threw herself into his arms, declaring that she would die with him as a Huguenot also, since without him she cared no longer to live; and then, hand-in-hand, they knelt together in the street, and old Marcello uttered a prayer of blessing, as the consecration of their love and devotion.

Whilst they thus prayed together, a party of Catholic musketeers surrounded them, and, eager for more victims, demanded if they were of the true faith or not; and without a moment's hesitation, Raoul replied that they were Huguenots. The musketeers instantly fired a volley upon the little group; and all three fell to the ground, mortally wounded.

The Count de St. Bris was at the head of this company; and upon approaching the fallen victims, he was filled with horror at discovering that he had fired upon his own beloved daughter!

On hearing his exclamation of grief, the dying Valentina opened her eyes once more, and weakly murmured a few words of forgiveness; and then, falling back, she expired in the arms of her dead Huguenot lover!

THE STAR OF THE NORTH
(L'Etoile du Nord)

One sunny noon-tide, towards the end of the seventeenth century, a number of workmen in the shipyard of a certain little village in Finland were resting from their labours during the dinner hour; and as they chatted and laughed together a pastry-cook presently appeared in their midst with a basket of fresh sweetmeats, and quickly began to do a roaring trade. For Danilowitz, the pastry-cook, though not a native of the village, was a great favourite with the workmen, being a lively fellow, and ever ready to join in a merry jest; and since his wares were good, and of that delicate kind usually only to be got in large cities, he always found a ready market in the shipyard.

Amongst the group of idlers was one young man who alone continued his work, even during this hour of general relaxation. This industrious worker was a stranger also to the village, who had only taken up his abode there some few weeks ago, and was known amongst the villagers as Peter Michaeloff. But, though the simple peasants little guessed it, the young carpenter whom they treated as an equal was in reality none other than the Czar of Russia, Peter I., who, in accordance with his accustomed energy of character and love of thoroughness, had come thus to the village in humble dress and hired himself out as a carpenter, in order to learn for himself the art of shipbuilding, to know that his navy was being properly constructed. On his arrival in the village, he had fallen ill, and during his illness was tenderly nursed back to health by a fair maiden named Catherine Skavronski, whose brother, George, was a teacher of music; and having afterwards fallen deeply in love with this maiden, whose beauty and wonderful strength of character exercised extraordinary fascination over him, the young King lingered on in the village long after the time when he should have left. He was encouraged to this course by hearing Catherine declare one day that her dead mother, who had possessed wonderful gifts of prophecy, had foretold a brilliant future for her; and he determined to persevere in his wooing, since the maiden would fulfil her destiny if she became his bride.

Catherine usually appeared in the shipyard at noon-day, to sell spirits to the workmen, in which she did a good trade, and earned enough money to keep herself and her brother, who, being of a weaker nature, had always allowed his energetic sister to take the lead in all things connected with their welfare.

But to-day the pretty cantinière was not at her usual trade, and the merry workmen presently began to rally Peter on his gloomy looks, knowing well enough that the cause was to be found in the absence of his sweetheart, Catherine, Peter's passionate nature at all times could ill brook badinage of this kind, and it was with difficulty he now restrained himself; but just at that time, one of the workmen began to sing a patriotic song in praise of Finland, and King Charles XII., and all joined in it uproariously, for the workmen were for the most part Finns or Swedes, to whom the sentiments of the song were acceptable.

Danilowitz, the pastry-cook, however, remained silent, with a frown on his face; and when the song came to an end, he raised his glass to his lips, and cried fearlessly, "I pledge the Czar, brave Peter the First!"

Instantly there was a tumult amongst the men, who indignantly rushed forward to punish the rash man who had dared to drink to one whom they regarded as the enemy of their country; but, to the surprise of Danilowitz, Peter sprang to his aid, and by his skillful defence, kept all at bay.

Just then, the bell for the recommencement of work clanged forth, and the workmen trooped off; and when they had gone, Peter and Danilowitz began to talk together, surprised at having thus discovered that they were countrymen, Danilowitz explaining that he found little opening for his trade in the small Finnish village, and thought of returning to his own country to seek employment under the Czar, whom he spoke of in terms of high praise, little dreaming that he stood before him; and Peter, pleased with the man's daring and evident ambition, invited him to return to Russia with himself, saying he also meant to seek service under the Czar, and prophesying success for his new friend should he join his army. Danilowitz eagerly agreed to his proposal, laughing light-heartedly at the honours which Peter declared were waiting for him; and when he had gone off to dispose of the remainder of his wares elsewhere, Peter made his way to the house of George Skavronski.

Hearing George playing one of Catherine's favourite airs, Peter took his own flute from his pocket, and began to play the same tune in answer; and George quickly appeared at the door, praising his excellent performance, and inviting him to enter for a lesson, since he was one of his most promising pupils. Upon Peter inquiring the cause of Catherine's absence from her accustomed duties, George explained that she had gone to plead his cause with the uncle and guardian of Prascovia, the pretty maiden whom he loved and desired to marry that day; and whilst they were thus talking together, Catherine herself came in, and announced exultantly that she had succeeded in her mission.

Peter now seized the opportunity of pleading his own cause with Catherine, who, as usual, only gave him sharp and merry rebuffs for answer, for although she had really loved him deeply from the beginning of their acquaintance, she so thoroughly understood the weak points of his character, that she always declared she could not marry him until he learned to keep his passions in control, to be less impetuous, and not so determined to have his own way in every matter.

Although Peter greatly appreciated Catherine's clear insight into his character, and knew that she admired his nobler qualities and instincts, he loved her so passionately that her rebukes constantly filled him with impatience; and this afternoon, as usual, he quickly lost his temper, to the great amusement of his tantalising sweetheart, who cried merrily, "There! There! A pretty husband you would make, to be sure!"

Whilst Peter was vainly endeavouring to choke back his right royal wrath at this saucy speech, the pretty little Prascovia hurriedly entered the house, in great agitation; and as George ran to her side in tender concern, she declared that she had been pursued by a party of Kalmuks and Cossacks, who were even now following her to the house with evil intent.

All were alarmed by this news, but Catherine boldly avowed that all would be well, since she herself would address these wild tribesmen, who were, indeed, her kinsmen, since her mother had been their priestess and held in great reverence by them. So when the Kalmuks presently came dashing up, the brave girl ran out fearlessly to meet them, and commanded them, in the name of her dead mother, the Princess Vlasta, instantly to forego their intention of raiding the house; and on hearing this revered name, the wild troop immediately withdrew respectfully.

Then Catherine approached their leader, Gritzenko, and, seizing his hand, prophesied that promotion quickly awaited him in the army of the Czar; and filled with dreams of glory, Gritzenko soon led his men away.

When they had gone, George and Prascovia went off to make arrangements for their wedding that evening; and thus Catherine and Peter were left alone. Catherine, having noticed with pleasure that during the whole time she had spoken with the Kalmuks, Peter had stood near at hand, grimly holding a hatchet, in readiness to dash out to her aid at the least sign of danger, now spoke tenderly to him, declaring that such noble conduct endeared him to her; and Peter was filled with joy, for he felt that his cause was not so hopeless after all, since he could see now that his love was returned, even though the high-spirited maiden did not as yet respect him. Thus fired with a passionate desire to win her regard at all costs, Peter impetuously determined to return with the Kalmuks to the army, and earn such renown as should compel her ungrudging admiration; and bidding Catherine a hasty farewell, he hurried off to seek out Danilowitz to return to Russia with him.

Catherine had not been long alone ere Prascovia returned, saying that all the preparations were now ready for her wedding that evening with George, who would shortly arrive with the wedding guests and musicians; and then, carelessly producing a letter, she handed it to her friend, saying it had been sent to her from the Burgomaster, and upon the letter being opened, the two girls read it together.

To their dismay, they found that this was an order for George to leave the village that night with the Muscovite soldiers who had just arrived, as he was one of twelve chosen recruits who had been impressed into the service of the Czar; but the Burgomaster added that if a substitute could be found to take his place, he would thus be freed from serving.

Prascovia was filled with distress and grief because her wedding could not now take place, and began to weep bitterly, knowing well that no substitute could be found for George, since all in the village hated the Russians, and would refuse to serve the Czar unless compelled to do so; but Catherine, accustomed always to take her brother's troubles upon her own strong young shoulders, bade her dry her tears, and declared that she would herself take George's place as a recruit for a fortnight, so that he might be married that night after all, and also remain with his bride a short time before taking up his soldier's duties.

So when George returned, this plan was eagerly explained to him, and he promised to relieve Catherine of her difficult undertaking in a fortnight's time; and then, as the wedding guests, with the priest and musicians, shortly afterwards arrived, the marriage was celebrated with all the accustomed rejoicings and merriment.

Catherine herself joined gaily in the lively wedding songs, for she delighted in the happiness of her brother, and was quite regardless of the hardships and dangers she would shortly have to endure for his sake; but when the festivities were at their height she stole away unnoticed from the merry throng, and, dressing herself in male attire, went off courageously to join the recruits who were to march with the Russian troops that night.

And now for Catherine came a very difficult and trying time, since the training of a raw recruit was exceedingly exhausting and full of hardships; but the girl's own wonderful powers of endurance and dauntless spirit carried her through without misadventure, or discovery of her real identity.

At the end of a fortnight, the recruits all arrived at the Russian camp, where the imperial forces were gathered and waiting to attack the armies of Sweden, with which country they were then at war; and here Catherine met with her first difficulty. For the Kalmuk, Gritzenko, who had already attained promotion to the rank of corporal, in accordance with her prophecy, had many times on the march eyed her with curiosity, as though he half recognised her; and on arriving in the camp, he called her up to him, saying that her face reminded him of a pretty maiden who used to sell spirits in the Finnish village they had just left.

Catherine, though trembling for fear of discovery, laughingly put him off by declaring that the maiden he spoke of must have been her own sister; and then, by entering into friendly conversation with the talkative soldier, she learnt from him, to her surprise and consternation, that a serious conspiracy amongst many of the chief officers was afoot in the camp, unknown to the general in command, and that Gritzenko himself was receiving large sums of money for carrying treasonable documents, though, being unable to read or write, he was quite ignorant of their contents and purpose, thinking conceitedly that the money bestowed upon him was given by the officers concerned as a reward for his own military zeal and good conduct. Catherine, however, being educated and quick-witted, quickly grasped the situation, and having hastily read the documents produced by Gritzenko, she kept the true knowledge of their contents to herself, leaving the ignorant soldier in his former belief, but afterwards wrote down the names of the officers concerned on a slip of paper, which she concealed in her coat, intending to form some plan of action later. Then, being ordered by Gritzenko to mount guard as sentinel outside a certain tent, within which a rich supper had been laid, pending the arrival of some distinguished officers, she commenced her patrol up and down.

Soon afterwards, whilst Catherine was at the far end of her beat, the expected officers arrived, and entered the tent, their features being unobserved by her; and these new arrivals were none other than Peter and Danilowitz, the latter already a colonel in the Russian army, and rejoicing in the confidence of his companion, whose true identity was of course now known to him.

Peter, though in the dress of a plain captain, was received respectfully by the general in command as Czar, but immediately requested that his incognito should be strictly preserved for the present, since he had been told of the conspiracy in the camp, and had boldly come to quell it in person, having already thought out a scheme by which success would be assured; and when the general had retired, astonished at the news, Peter and Danilowitz sat down to enjoy the supper that had been prepared for them, and which was served by two very pretty and lively little vivandières.

Peter, as he ever did in his moments of relaxation, gave himself up unreservedly to the pleasure of the moment; and casting aside for the time being the cares of State, he began to carouse gaily with Danilowitz, drinking deeply, and caressing the pretty vivandières with the accustomed licence of the times.

Catherine, attracted by the sounds of hilarity that issued from the tent, and forgetful of military discipline, could not refrain from peeping through the opening; and instantly recognising Peter, she was filled with joy on hearing her own name toasted by him at that moment. Her delight, however, quickly turned to indignation on beholding her lover, heated by the wine he had drunk, the next instant freely embracing the vivandière who so constantly kept his goblet filled; and as she continued to look angrily upon the scene, Gritzenko came by, and, discovering the sentry thus forgetful of his duty, instantly dragged her away, and ordered her into confinement.

Catherine, already upset by the scene within the tent, and resenting the rough handling of the Kalmuk, struck him angrily on the face, upon which Gritzenko, furious at being thus defied by a mere recruit, forced her into the tent before the officers, and, explaining her insubordination, demanded reparation.

Peter, impatient at this unwelcome interruption of his pleasure, and without even looking upon the offender, cried out carelessly: "Let him be shot!"

Catherine, now realising the danger of her position, called out as she was being dragged away to execution, "Peter! Peter! Do not let me be killed, but save me!"

At first, Peter, still under the influence of the strong wines he had been drinking, did not heed her appeal, but as her last despairing cry rang out as she was hustled from the tent, his attention was suddenly arrested, and at length, recognising the voice as that of his beloved Catherine, he sprang to his feet in bewilderment. Then, the shock of his discovery quickly restoring his clouded senses, he felt convinced that the young recruit was indeed the village maiden in disguise, and, overcome with horror that he had so carelessly given orders for her execution, he authoritatively commanded the pair to be brought back.

But Gritzenko, in his zeal, had already endeavoured to carry out the first command; and when he was at length brought back to Peter, he explained that the prisoner had attempted to escape by swimming the river close by, upon which he had promptly shot his victim in the water. Then, well satisfied with what he had done, the Kalmuk handed Peter a note, which he stated the young recruit had flung to him before plunging into the stream; and upon opening this missive, the now despairing lover saw that it contained the names of those officers concerned in the conspiracy, at the end of which was a message written in haste by Catherine, bidding him to use this information to advance himself in the favour of the Czar. Enclosed in the paper was the ring he had himself given to her; and as he gazed upon this ring, and read her last tender message of farewell, Peter was plunged into the deepest woe, realising that by his own rash impetuosity the maiden he loved so passionately was now lost to him for ever.

At that moment, the leaders of the conspiracy entered the tent, and, regarding Peter and Danilowitz as belonging to their party, began to talk over their plans of insurrection, declaring that at a given signal they intended to join the ranks of the enemy against the Czar, followed by all the men in the imperial army whom they had affected; and Peter, thus roused from his grief by this pressing need for immediate action, quickly determined to turn this moment of danger to advantage by his own fearless daring. In spite of the efforts made to restrain him by Danilowitz, who trembled for the safety of his beloved sovereign, thus unprotected in the midst of traitors, he sprang forward and rebuked the officers passionately for thus seeking to avenge their own petty grievances by the sacrifice of their honour at a time when their country was in danger; and having worked them up into the wildest enthusiasm of patriotism by his burning eloquence, he implored them to first drive away the enemies of their land, after which he swore that he would himself deliver up the Czar to them, unprotected and alone, to deal with as they chose.

The conspirators, although already rendered ashamed of their base designs by these scathing words, yet demanded who should be their guarantee of this; and Peter, without a moment's hesitation, answered fearlessly: "I, the Czar, whom you were about to betray! Now, slay me if you will!"

But for answer, the conspirators instantly fell on their knees, imploring pardon for their treachery; for they were completely conquered by the dauntless courage thus displayed by the young monarch, whose brave and warlike spirit they had ever admired, even whilst resenting his strict discipline, which had been the cause of their insurrection.

Thus, by a single bold action, and the influence of his own noble personality, did Peter quell the mutinous spirit which had threatened such disaster to his arms; and, having once restored the patriotism of his men, and their loyalty to himself as King, he was now able to lead them on to victory, and scatter the enemies of his country.

Whilst engaged in active warfare, as leader of his now enthusiastic army, Peter had no time to think of his lost Catherine; but when peaceful days came once again, and he returned to the royal palace, all his old grief broke out afresh, and he was plunged into the deepest melancholy.

In order to try to drown his sad thoughts, from time to time he would take up his carpenter's work once more; but even when labouring his hardest, the beautiful face of the maiden he had loved so dearly still intruded, a bright mental picture he could never forget.

Acting upon his instructions, Danilowitz had made every possible effort to discover what had become of the lost Catherine; for, though fired at in the water, Peter clung to the belief that she was not dead, but might possibly have escaped to land, since her body had never been recovered.

At first, Danilowitz found his task a hopeless one; but at length his efforts were crowned with success, and having learnt from a poor peasant woman that she had rescued a wounded soldier from the river some weeks ago, whom she had since discovered to be a female, he bade her bring the girl to his own private room in the palace.

The rescued maiden was accordingly brought to the palace, and proved indeed to be Catherine; but, to the consternation of Danilowitz, he discovered that the shock of her wounds and the terrible hardships she had gone through had told so heavily upon the poor girl's mental activities, that, though now restored to bodily health, she had completely forgotten all the circumstances connected with her love for Peter, the mention of whose name had no meaning for her.

Wondering how he should break this sad news to his royal master, Danilowitz went into the presence chamber with a preoccupied air, and upon Peter as usual peremptorily demanding if he yet had news of his lost love, afraid to tell him the truth, he endeavoured to put him off for a while by admitting that he had got a clue, though he feared that little would result from it.

Whilst they were talking together, Gritzenko entered, and upon Peter demanding the reason why his privacy should be thus disturbed, the conceited soldier announced that he had come to ask for promotion, saying that he considered this to be his due for the zeal he had displayed in having fired upon the recruit who had dared to strike him.

Now recognising Gritzenko as the man who had been the unconscious cause of all his woe, Peter flew into a violent passion on hearing his request, and, seizing a weapon, would have killed him instantly, had not Danilowitz restrained him; and then controlling himself by a violent effort, he left the room, after commanding the Kalmuk, upon pain of death, to produce, ere the next day ended, the recruit whom he had fired upon in the water.

As Gritzenko moved away, astonished at being thus blamed for having done, as he considered, his duty as a zealous soldier, and grumbling at the vagaries of the great, he encountered Prascovia and George Skavronski, the latter having come at last to relieve his sister and join the regiment he had been impressed into, and who, having discovered that Catherine had disappeared, had now came to the palace with his bride to get news of her; and having some days before received instructions to detain all who came from the little Finnish village, now beloved by the Czar, the Kalmuk took the pair into his charge, and kept them under guard, until he should receive the will of his royal master regarding their disposal.

Meanwhile, Peter, having heard Catherine singing as he passed along the corridor, and instantly recognising her voice with overwhelming joy, Danilowitz could no longer keep the secret of her presence from him; and as gently as possible he broke to him the sad news of her disturbed mental state and forgetfulness of himself.

Peter was again plunged into despair on thus learning that though his beloved Catherine was restored to him, she no longer remembered their love; but upon Danilowitz mentioning that the poor girl's thoughts all centred round her old home, and especially the events connected with her brother's marriage, a sudden hope sprang up within him, for he remembered having heard of cases similar to that of Catherine, where persons so affected had been restored to their normal state by being again brought into contact with scenes and incidents which had strongly impressed them in their happier days.

Determined to try this course with Catherine, whom he now longed to thus restore that she might become his Empress, Peter quickly pressed Danilowitz, together with Prascovia and George (of whose arrival he was presently informed by Gritzenko), and certain other peasants who had recently arrived from Finland, into his service; and with all a lover's eager hope, he proceeded to instruct them in their parts.

All were soon ready; and when Catherine was brought into the room, the peasants began to sing the same song they had sung at her brother's wedding, with George and Prascovia moving amongst them in their festive garments. Then Danilowitz, having donned his old pastry-cook's dress, sang the song he used to sing in the village when offering his wares; and finally, Peter himself took up his flute, and began to play Catherine's own favourite air, which was so closely bound up with the story of their love.

As Catherine listened to this sweet music, her memory was indeed gradually awakened, as her lover had hoped, until the cloud of forgetfulness was entirely removed from her mind; and at last, recognising in the kingly figure so eagerly watching her, the features of the man she had loved so dearly in the past, she moved forward with a glad cry, and was clasped in his arms.

Full of joy that his beloved one was thus restored to reason, Peter led her proudly forward to receive the homage of his friends and helpers, who one and all greeted her respectfully as their future Empress; and thus did the humble Catherine fulfil the brilliant destiny prophesied by her priestess mother, and become the bride and good genius of a great monarch, who always loved and revered her as his guiding star, his precious "Star of the North!"

THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO
(Le Nozze di Figaro)

One bright summer morning a pleasant hum of excitement pervaded Count Almaviva's noble castle near Seville; for that evening, Figaro, the Count's servant, was to be wedded to the Countess's pretty waiting-maid, Susanna, and the nuptials were to be celebrated with great festivities, in which not only the whole household, but the peasants on the estate were to join. Already the rustic maidens and their swains were decking themselves in holiday garb, for there was to be dancing and merry-making on the green during the day-time before the feasting and fireworks at night, and all were eager to begin the revels.

But, though the light-hearted peasants little guessed it, the bride and bridegroom elect were fated to go through many wild mishaps ere their hands could be joined that day, and even now, early though it was, the first cloud had arisen. For Figaro had just made the unpleasant discovery that his master, whose chief excitement in life was to engage in love intrigues, had suddenly become infatuated with the charms of Susanna, and though the information was given him by the pretty Susanna herself, who laughingly disclaimed any preference for the amorous Count, the future husband was filled with perplexing thoughts.

He now understood why Basilio, an old music-master established at the castle to help the great lord in his intrigues, had lately persuaded him to desire Susanna to accept a secret mission to London offered her by the Count, who was being sent by the King to that city as Ambassador, with Figaro attending him as Courier, for it was plain to see that his secret mission had been invented in order that the Ambassador might enjoy the society of his Courier's charming wife. However, Figaro was a lively fellow, whose keen wits had helped him out of many difficulties; and though indignant at the news, he merrily assured Susanna that he would soon devise a plan for thwarting the Count and his confederate.

MOZART

Now, Figaro, besides being witty and gay, was also of a handsome appearance; and so it happened that a certain dame, named Marcellina, who, though advancing in years, was of skittish and sentimental disposition, became enamoured of the fascinating valet, when on a visit to the castle about this time.

Being in need of money, owing to his extravagant habits, Figaro had consequently found Marcellina very willing to lend him a considerable sum, on condition that he signed a paper promising to marry her unless he refunded the money; and the gay valet, never dreaming that he would ever be called on to keep his agreement, carelessly signed the document.

However, Marcellina was in earnest, and, having got beyond the age when admirers were to be secured by her personal attractions, did not intend to let such a good chance of marriage slip through her fingers; and on discovering that Figaro was about to be wedded to Susanna, she was filled with indignation, and sent at once to Seville for Dr Bartolo, whose housekeeper she had been for many years, and with whom she had once indulged in a love intrigue.

The worthy doctor did not arrive until the very day of the wedding; but Marcellina, declaring that there was still time to secure her rights, produced the contract she had induced Figaro to sign, and begged him to help her to prevent the marriage. Dr Bartolo, who had also had a grudge against Figaro for having thwarted him on a former occasion, readily agreed to help her; and between them the pair arranged that Susanna should be frightened by a threat of making known her master's advances to her, when, to save her reputation, she would rebuff the Count, who, being piqued, would then give assistance to Marcellina's claim.

To this end, Marcellina presently waylaid Susanna in the pretty maid's own apartment, and began to squabble, hinting plainly that the Count's infatuation for her would soon be known to all; but Susanna, though somewhat alarmed, only met her taunts with saucy retorts, and soon forced her to beat a hasty retreat.

No sooner had she gone than the Countess's page, Cherubino, a handsome youth who adored his mistress, yet made love to all the maids in the castle, rushed into the room, and announcing that the Count had just dismissed him from his service, because he had found him flirting with the gardener's charming daughter, Barbarina, entreated Susanna to intercede for him.

Whilst they were talking together, the Count was heard approaching, and, terrified at the thought of being discovered with the favoured lady's-maid, Cherubino hastily hid behind a large arm-chair, just as his master entered the room.

The enamoured Count immediately began to make love to Susanna, entreating her to grant him an interview in the garden at twilight; but Susanna, remembering Marcellina's hints, received him coldly, and begged him to leave her. The Count, however, was not to be so easily repulsed, and was about to snatch a kiss, when he suddenly heard the voice of old Basilio, the mischief-making music-master, asking for him without; and not wishing to be discovered, even by his confederate, in such a compromising situation, he hastily sought a hiding-place, and rushed towards the very same chair behind which Cherubino was already concealed. The sprightly page, however, saw him coming, and in a twinkling he adroitly slipped round to the other side and ensconced himself in the seat of the chair, just as the Count crouched behind.

Susanna, trembling at the narrow escape she had had, hastily flung a dress over the curled-up form of Cherubino; and no sooner had she done so, than Basilio entered the room. The old scandal-monger had come to draw from Susanna all she knew of Cherubino's love for his mistress; and in spite of the waiting-maid's indignant denials and frantic efforts to stop him, he declared that the page's infatuation was the talk of the whole household.

Now, Count Almaviva, though frequently engaging in love intrigues himself, was extremely jealous where the honour of his Countess was involved; and furious at Basilio's words, he sprang from behind the chair, and at the same moment discovered the hapless page in the seat.

The Count, now doubly jealous, imagining that Cherubino had also been making love to Susanna, began to pour forth abuse on them both, and declared that Figaro should be told of his bride-elect's duplicity; but Susanna, assured of Figaro's trust in her, pleaded only for Cherubino's pardon, slyly reminding her master that the page had overheard his words of love to her, and should on that account be conciliated. Almaviva, thus compelled to admit the prudence of such a course, then agreed to pardon Cherubino, but only on condition that he set off immediately for military service, to command a company in the Count's own regiment; and the page was ordered to start for Seville at once.

Meanwhile, the Countess Almaviva had also been told of her husband's infatuation for the waiting-maid; and knowing that Susanna was too faithful to betray her, she bade the girl fetch Figaro to her boudoir, that the three might concoct a plot by means of which her husband should be exposed, and, thus cured of engaging in such intrigues, be led back to the arms of his still loving wife.

Figaro's keen wit soon furnished a scheme, and he said that he would send an anonymous letter to the Count, informing him that the Countess intended to grant a secret interview to a certain gallant at the revels to be held that night, which would rouse his jealousy to such a pitch that, whilst endeavouring to prove his suspicions, the wedding could take place before he had time to prevent it. He also suggested that, to entangle him further, Susanna should grant the Count the twilight meeting in the garden he had asked for, but that Cherubino, who had not yet departed, should take her place, dressed in her garments; and then the Countess should surprise the pair, and compel the Count, after thus discovering him in an intrigue, to sue for pardon and return to her affections.

The Countess gladly agreed to this plan, and Figaro, having despatched the letter to the Count by the hands of Basilio, sent the page to the boudoir to be dressed for his part. Cherubino, delighted to be once more in the company of his beloved mistress, readily entered into the plot, and Susanna, after locking the door to prevent interruption, began to dress him in a gown and head-dress of her own, the page's fresh complexion and curling hair helping to make the disguise more complete.

But just as Susanna had gone into an inner room to look for a ribbon, the Count himself knocked at the boudoir door, and finding it locked became suspicious and demanded to have it opened. Full of terror Cherubino ran to hide in a dress cupboard, which the Countess hastily locked, placing the key in her pocket; and then she admitted the Count, who was rendered more suspicious than ever on observing her confused looks.

Remembering the anonymous letter he had just received, he declared that she had a lover hidden within the cupboard, having heard a sound of shuffling from its depths; and when the Countess tremblingly announced that it was only Susanna, who had retired there, interrupted in the act of trying on a new dress, he angrily called on the maid to answer to her name. Cherubino, however, kept silence, and Susanna, who had returned unobserved and was now hidden behind a curtain, dared not speak. The Count now felt that his suspicions were confirmed, and, in a storm of jealousy, he dragged off the Countess to get tools to break open the cupboard, first locking the doors of the boudoir and inner chamber so that the captive should not escape.

As soon as they had gone, Susanna rushed to the cupboard and unfastened the door with a duplicate key she carried in her pocket, and Cherubino rushed wildly out, freed of his borrowed garments, which he had hastily discarded. Finding all the exits locked, he opened the window and sprang lightly into the garden below; and Susanna, having assured herself that he had come to no harm, took his place in the cupboard, fastening the door on the inside just as the Count and Countess returned.

The Count had brought tools to break open the cupboard lock, but the Countess, seeing that he was in earnest, produced the key, and in despair opened the door herself. A sigh of relief and wonder escaped her as Susanna stepped forth; and the Count, dumbfounded and ashamed of his suspicion, instantly sought pardon of his wife. However, remembering the letter he had received, he asked what it meant, and the Countess told him that it had been written by Figaro at her orders to provoke jealousy. But on Figaro himself entering at that moment to announce that the wedding guests were assembling, the Count decided to test the truth of this statement, and showing him the letter, he asked if he knew anything about it. The valet, not knowing that his master had been told the truth, at first denied all knowledge of it, and it was not until after sundry meaning glances from the Countess, and saucy pinches from Susanna, that he guessed his mistake, and admitted writing the note.

The situation might now have been saved had not old Antonio, the gardener, just then entered with several broken flower-pots in his hands, which he tearfully declared had been smashed by a man whom he had seen jump from the window of the boudoir into the very midst of them only a few minutes ago; and the Count's suspicions were quickly roused again.

But Figaro, warned by the distracted looks of the Countess and Susanna, immediately announced that it was he who had made the leap, explaining that he had been waiting for Susanna, when, on hearing his master's angry voice, he had become alarmed, remembering the letter he had written, and had jumped from the window to escape his presence.

This explanation, however, did not satisfy the Count, who still felt that he was being deceived; and when, a few minutes later, Dr Bartolo and Marcellina entered, having been awaiting this opportunity in the ante-room, he gladly listened to the charge they brought against Figaro. Marcellina produced the contract signed by the valet, both she and Dr Bartolo declaring that it proved a promise of marriage, and money lent; and the Count announced that his lawyer should attend to the matter at once, thus hoping, in his pique, to delay, or prevent, the marriage of Figaro and Susanna.

He was delighted when, a little later, Don Curzio, his lawyer, after reading the document, announced that it was legally binding, and that Figaro must either immediately pay back the money lent, or marry Marcellina, according to his agreement; for he knew that Figaro, being of an extravagant disposition, could certainly not produce the large sum of money named.

The Countess and Susanna were distracted at this decision, and Figaro indignantly declared that he could not be married against his will without the sanction of his parents, whom he believed were of high birth. When asked to produce his noble parents, he admitted that he knew not who they were, having been stolen from his home by gipsies when a little child; and he added that the only clue to his identity he now possessed was a private mark that had been made upon his arm in the form of a spatula.

On learning this, Marcellina uttered a cry of surprise and joy, and next moment she clasped Figaro in her arms, declaring that he was her own dear son, whom she had lost years ago, and whose arm had been marked with a spatula in his infancy. It now transpired that this was the truth, Figaro indeed being the son born of an amour between Marcellina and Dr Bartolo; and since the worthy doctor announced that he should now marry his old housekeeper and recognise her son as his heir, the Count felt that his scheme of revenge had crumbled to pieces.

Figaro and Susanna were overjoyed to find that there was no further bar to their union; and the Count, very much against his will, gave orders that their wedding should take place that evening after all, and high revels be held. The rustic guests had already assembled, and during the afternoon dancing and merry-making began with much spirit in the park.

Now, Cherubino had not yet departed for Seville, being determined to remain at the Castle at least so long as the revels lasted; and having induced his pretty sweetheart, Barbarina, to deck him in feminine garments once more, he joined in a procession of rustic maidens, who presently came to offer flowers to the Countess.

Barbarina introduced him as her cousin, who had come to see the wedding; and the Countess, greatly taken with the pretty looks of the pretended maiden, kissed him playfully on the forehead, to the inward delight of the saucy page. At this moment, however, the Count appeared with old Antonio, the gardener, who, having picked up Cherubino's hat in his cottage, had discovered the ruse, and brought his master to the scene to unmask the young scapegrace; and the Countess, disconcerted on hearing that she had kissed Cherubino in mistake for a girl, now thought it best to admit to the Count that it was indeed the page who had jumped from her boudoir that morning, and that she and Susanna had been dressing him to take part in a jest they had planned.

The Count angrily dismissed the crestfallen page; and then, turning to Figaro, who was just approaching, he sternly demanded what he meant by stating that he had jumped from the boudoir window, when Cherubino had now confessed that it was he himself who had performed that feat. But Figaro's ready wit prevented him from being at a loss, and he answered instantly that the statement only proved that they had both had the same fancy to leap through the window, which was not strange, since it was well known that great wits jumped together. He then ran off to join in a merry dance that was just commencing, and the Count was left to the perplexing thought that he was still being fooled.

Nor was the Countess satisfied; for although the bride and bridegroom elect were now happy and likely to gain their ends, she felt that her own purpose had not yet been achieved.

So, presently, she sought Susanna to arrange another plot with her, and between them the pair agreed that Susanna should now grant the Count the interview he had asked of her earlier in the day, but that the Countess should take her place. Susanna wrote a seductive little note to her master, appointing a meeting at twilight in a certain quiet glade; and this she gave to Barbarina to deliver to the Count, who was delighted at receiving it, thinking that Susanna meant to accept him as a lover after all.

Now, it happened that Figaro met Barbarina on her return from the Count, and gathered from her conversation that Susanna intended to meet her infatuated master that evening; and knowing nothing of the new plot that had been made, he imagined that she had been deceiving him all along, and jealously determined to watch her.

When twilight fell, the Countess and Susanna exchanged garments, and hastened to the secluded glade agreed upon, where Susanna presently retired beneath the trees, leaving her mistress in the open; and here they were immediately seen by Figaro, who was already hiding in the bushes.

By the merest chance, Cherubino, who had not yet departed, had also made an appointment in this same spot with little Barbarina, and seeing, as he imagined, Susanna approaching, he thought he might as well pass the waiting time by a little playful flirtation with the pretty lady's-maid. So, approaching the trembling Countess, whom he addressed as Susanna, he began to make pretty speeches to her, and even tried to snatch a kiss; but at that moment the Count suddenly appeared on the scene, and, boxing his ears smartly, made him beat a hasty retreat.

Also, mistaking in the twilight, the Countess for Susanna, Almaviva began to make love to her, and presently led her towards a summer pavilion; and then Susanna came out into the open once more, having caught sight of Figaro crouching amongst the bushes.

The angry valet, full of wild jealousy at the scene he had just witnessed, also emerged from his hiding-place, and began to pour forth his woes to the approaching lady, whom he imagined to be the Countess; but upon Susanna revealing herself, he was joyfully relieved, and readily agreed to assist in her plan.

So when the Count shortly afterwards appeared alone, having left the pavilion for a few minutes to reconnoitre, Figaro fell on his knees before the pretended Countess, and began to make violent protestations of love for her; and immediately the Count, rendered madly jealous at beholding what he supposed to be a clandestine meeting between his wife and a strange lover, rushed forward furiously, calling aloud for his attendants in the adjacent garden to seize the offender.

However, on discovering that the whole affair had been a hoax, his anger quickly evaporated; and realising that his wife had got the better of him, having detected him in an actual intrigue, he humbly besought her pardon when she presently emerged from the pavilion.

This was readily granted by the Countess, who had been delighted to learn from her husband's wild outburst of jealousy that he still loved her in spite of his propensity for flirtation, of which she hoped she had at last cured him; and since the mysteries and perplexities of the day had now been cleared away, all the plotters returned gaily to the castle, where the marriage ceremony of Figaro and Susanna at once took place amidst great rejoicings.

DON JUAN
(Don Giovanni)

It was night-time in Seville. A few distant lights were still calmly reflected in the peaceful river; but in the splendid palace of Don Pedro, the Commandant, darkness and silence reigned, for all the household had retired to rest. In the courtyard without, a stream of pale moonlight fell, outlining the stately building with ghostly clearness, and making the long dark shadows even deeper and more sombre still; and all was so quiet that not a sound was to be heard save the soft swaying of the trees when a stray breeze gently caught them.

Yet within the shadows, a man was crouching, vainly trying to find rest upon a hard stone seat, and though inwardly fretting and fuming, he did not betray his presence even by a sigh. For Leporello, confidential body-servant to Don Juan, the handsomest and most licentious cavalier in the whole of Seville, was quite used to midnight vigils, and many a dozen times had he kept watch in the chilly gloom without the walls of some fair lady's dwelling, whilst his gay, libertine master enjoyed a secret amour within. Usually, the pair afterwards departed as quietly as they had come; but to-night this was not to be.

Suddenly, the stillness of the night was broken by loud shrieks coming from within the building, and next moment Don Juan rushed from the palace out into the moonlit courtyard, closely pursued by a beautiful lady. This lady was Don Pedro's only daughter, the fair young Donna Anna, who, discovering a strange cavalier in her chamber, had fled from him with shrieks of alarm; but when the intruder, fearing that her cries would arouse the household, had retreated to the courtyard, her courage had returned, and she had pursued him in order to discover his identity. She caught up with the retreating cavalier in the courtyard, and dragging at the dark cloak that enveloped him, endeavoured vainly to scan his hidden features.

However, Don Juan roughly shook her off; but ere he had time to escape over the wall, Don Pedro, the Commandant, attracted thither by his daughter's shrieks, hastened out into the courtyard, with a drawn sword in his hand.

Quickly grasping the situation, the Commandant furiously challenged the intruder to combat, determined to defend the honour of his beloved child to his utmost. Don Juan, finding that there was no other escape for him, quickly crossed swords with his assailant; and, being a fatal adept in such encounters, he soon stretched Don Pedro dead at his feet.

The servant Leporello, who had prudently remained in hiding during the whole scene, now came from the shadows, and the pair hastily made their escape over the wall.

Meanwhile, Donna Anna had rushed back to the palace to bring assistance to her father; but when, on returning to the courtyard with her betrothed lover, Don Octavio, and several sleepy servants, she found that her beloved parent was already dead, she uttered a terrible shriek, and fell fainting upon his prostrate body.

Full of grief, Don Octavio gently restored the poor girl to consciousness once more, comforting her with tender words and bidding her regard him as her protector; and then, as the servants bore the dead Commandant back to the palace, Anna implored her betrothed to swear that he would aid her in bringing vengeance upon the murderer of her father. Gladly Don Octavio gave his word; and there, in the courtyard beneath the moonlit sky, the lovers registered their solemn vow.

Meanwhile, Don Juan and his servant had escaped to a lonely inn on the borders of his own estate, which lay just outside the walls of the city; and next morning, the gay cavalier, hardened by long indulgence in vice, and utterly regardless of the crime he had committed the night before, came jauntily forth into the courtyard, thinking only of conquests still in store for him. It was in vain that Leporello, who occasionally had qualms of conscience, warned his master that his evil course would sooner or later bring fell disaster upon him; for Don Juan cared not for the consequences of his sins, so long as he could satisfy his inborn craving for evil pleasure.

So, on coming forth from the inn, and seeing a veiled and cloaked lady, evidently a traveller, in the courtyard, he withdrew with Leporello behind some trees to watch her unobserved. As the lady drew near, she wrung her hands in distress, and from a few incoherent sentences uttered as she passed, the hidden watchers gathered that she had been abandoned by some false lover whom she angrily sought, in order to avenge herself upon him.

Don Juan now stepped forward with his usual gallant air, and accosted her; but as the young lady flung back her veil, he recognised, to his dismay, the features of a beautiful lady of Burgos, Donna Elvira, whom he had but recently betrayed and cast aside.

Instantly recognising the recreant lover who had so cruelly abandoned her, Donna Elvira began to pour forth bitter reproaches upon him; but Don Juan, callously familiar with such scenes, pushed forward Leporello, bidding him explain matters to the lady.

Then, as Donna Elvira eagerly approached the servant for his explanation, the heartless cavalier slyly made his escape; and when the poor lady presently turned impatiently from the vapid string of empty words uttered pompously by the experienced Leporello, she found that her expected prey had vanished. Bidding her be of good comfort, since she was neither the first nor the last of his master's numberless victims, Leporello now produced a book from his pocket, in which he had written the names of all the fair maidens who had been basely deceived in similar fashion; and having thus proved that she shared her abandoned position with many others, the servant suddenly took to his heels and ran away down the country road that led to Don Juan's estate.

For a few minutes, Elvira remained stunned, for she had loved Don Juan with her whole heart, willingly yielding herself to his embraces and insinuating temptations, and trusting fondly to his false promises; but now, dishonoured, betrayed, abandoned, she at last saw him in his true colours—a heartless libertine. Full of grief and rage, she determined to avenge herself for her outraged affections and ruined life; and knowing that her betrayer's residence was in the neighbourhood, she hurried along the road taken by Leporello.

When Don Juan arrived at his palace he found that great revels were being held by the peasants on the estates, in honour of the betrothal of a pair of rustic lovers; and seeing that the bride-elect, Zerlina, was an extremely pretty maiden, the gay lord of the soil determined to amuse himself with her.

Consequently, when Leporello presently arrived (having taken a short cut from the road), he bade him conduct all the peasants immediately to the palace, and entertain them with feasting and dancing within the banquet-hall and garden, whispering an injunction to keep the future bridegroom, Masetto, specially occupied.

As the merry rustics, eager for such an unexpected treat, trooped away willingly to the palace, Don Juan detained the pretty Zerlina, and putting his arm round her waist and whispering honeyed words of admiration and flattery, endeavoured to lead her aside to a secluded woodland glade.

The simple Zerlina, accustomed only to the clumsy love-making of a rustic clown, was greatly impressed by the ardent glances and sweet persuasive caresses of the great lord; and when Don Juan, declaring passionately that she should become his bride and never be wed to the boor, Masetto, presently led her to a small summer pavilion which he said should be her home, she gave way to the dazzling charm of the moment, and suffered herself to be led away with a beating heart.

But just at this moment, Donna Elvira, who, having found her way into the grounds, had watched and overheard the whole of this pretty scene, rushed forward, and dragging Zerlina to one side, explained to her that Don Juan was but an evil deceiver, who meant to ruin her. Zerlina, now full of horror, shrank back ashamed, and Elvira, throwing a glance of scorn at the faithless gallant, put a protecting arm round the frightened girl, and drew her gently away.

As the discomfited Don Juan turned angrily aside, he encountered a lady in deep mourning and a cavalier, who had just entered the grounds; and as he greeted them, he saw, to his dismay, that they were Donna Anna and her betrothed, Don Octavio. However, Anna did not at first recognise in him her father's midnight slayer; and having come with her lover to ask Don Juan's help in finding the villain who had brought such misery upon her, the pair quickly made known their quest, and the double-dealing cavalier promised to give them his aid.

But whilst they were thus talking together, Donna Elvira returned, and declaring earnestly to the two strangers that Don Juan was a false villain, implored them not to place any faith in his promises. Don Juan, coolly announcing that Elvira was a mad-woman, pretended to try and soothe her frenzy; but the poor lady, stung by this fresh outrage, reiterated her knowledge of his sins, and then, fearing she would not be believed, hurried away.

Don Juan, glad to escape, followed her by another path, saying that he wished to see she did herself no harm; and when he had gone, Donna Anna, who had been watching him constantly, declared to her betrothed that she now knew it was Don Juan who had been her would-be ravisher, and the murderer of her beloved father, since his agitated voice and angry gestures when disturbed by Elvira had betrayed him.

Full of horror that they had thus unwittingly sought help from the very villain they wished to punish, the lovers hurried after the retreating Elvira, whom they soon overtook; and after having listened to the sad story she had to tell of herself, the three determined to bring retribution on Don Juan, and to begin their scheme by exposing him as a villain before his own assembled guests that night. Having returned to the inn, they disguised themselves in long black dominoes and half-masks; and then when darkness fell they made their way back to the palace grounds, where they were soon seen by Leporello and invited to enter the great hall.

Meanwhile, the sly Leporello had also enticed back the timid Zerlina to the revels, and more than once Don Juan had tried to draw her away with him. But the rustic lover, Masetto, was jealous and suspicious of the great lord's attentions to his pretty sweetheart; and several times during the afternoon he had lain in wait behind bushes and stepped out in time to prevent a stolen interview. Zerlina tried to soothe him with her pretty coaxing ways, feeling that her high-born cavalier merely admired her, and meant her no harm; but later on she was undeceived.

The revels were to end in a masked ball at night, and as soon as darkness fell, the delighted peasants, all decked in dominoes and masks, trooped gaily into the palace once more, to dance and feast in the banquet-hall.

Don Juan, gorgeously attired, moved authoritatively about the gilded salons, ordering every kind of comfort and delight for his lively guests; but all the while he kept a watchful eye upon the pretty Zerlina, determined to gratify his sudden passion for her that evening. At last his opportunity occurred; and having bidden Leporello keep Masetto occupied for a short time, he secured Zerlina for a partner in the dance, and in its mazy movements sought to draw her into a private inner room.

Donna Anna and her two companions watched this manœuvre with anger in their hearts; and when Don Juan's fell purpose presently became patent to all, they pulled off their masks and denounced him before his own guests as a base villain, relating the many evil things they knew of him.

Masetto, now roused to fury, rushed boldly forward to attack his enemy, calling on his friends to help him; but Don Juan quickly drew his sword, and clearing a way for himself, managed to make his escape.

Seeing that their prey had slipped through their grasp once more, Donna Anna and her betrothed returned to the city; and shortly afterwards Elvira also took up her abode in Seville, hiring a house, and taking Zerlina with her as her maid.

Here, however, as the weeks went on, they were again discovered by the irrepressible Don Juan; and, still determined to carry on his amour with the pretty peasant girl, the gay cavalier repaired one dark evening to the courtyard of Elvira's house, where he hastily exchanged outer garments with his servant, Leporello.

When Elvira presently appeared at an open window, Don Juan from the darkness below called softly to her, declaring that he loved her yet, and begging her to come down and receive his caresses once more. The susceptible Elvira, who still loved her false sweetheart in spite of her better judgment, could not long resist this tender invitation, and presently came out into the courtyard, and fell into the arms of Leporello, who, wrapped in his master's cloak and hat, she mistook for Don Juan.

Then, taking fright at a noise purposely made by the real Don Juan, she allowed herself to be hurried out into the street beyond by the disguised Leporello.

Having thus secured the courtyard to himself, Don Juan began to sing a serenade to Zerlina, whom he knew was within the house; but he was almost immediately set upon by Masetto and a party of rustics, who had been closely following on his track ever since the night of the ball.

However, seeing that his assailants quickly recognised Leporello's garments and regarded him as the servant, Don Juan kept up the pretence, and professing sympathy with their cause, soon sent the rustics off in another direction on a wild-goose chase after their enemy; and then, having enticed Masetto to remain behind under pretence of inspecting his weapons, he presently struck the poor peasant a stunning blow and rushed off leaving him helpless on the ground.

Zerlina, attracted by the noise, now came forth from the house and helped the fallen man to rise; and recognising her lover with joy, she comforted him as best she could and afterwards accompanied him down the street in search of his companions.

Meanwhile, Elvira and the disguised Leporello had sought refuge in the courtyard outside the house of Donna Anna; and here they were presently discovered by Anna herself, who came out from the building to walk in the cool evening air with her betrothed, Don Octavio. Leporello tried to escape, but being met at the entrance by Masetto and Zerlina, who were passing at that moment, he was immediately set upon by them, and in order to protect himself, was compelled to reveal his true identity.

It was now evident to Donna Anna and her lover that Don Juan was still in the neighbourhood, and as they had already proved him to be the midnight assassin of the Commandant, Don Octavio declared that he would at once seek out the officers of Justice, and seize the base cavalier in his own palace that very night.

When Don Octavio had hurried away to carry out this purpose, Leporello tried to make his escape; but he was seen by Zerlina, who quickly pursued and caught him, owing him a grudge for having, as she supposed, belaboured her lover. Flourishing before him a razor she had secured from Donna Anna's palace, she bade him sit down in a stone seat near by; and when, in fear for his life, he had meekly done so, she firmly bound him hand and foot to the seat, and left him in a sorry plight.

For some time Leporello writhed and struggled vainly to free himself; but at length, to his joy, a peasant came by, and in answer to his cries, cut the cords that bound him.

Full of aches and pains, Leporello went off in search of his master, whom he found in an open square before the Cathedral of Seville, and approaching him with a woeful limp, declared to the waiting cavalier in aggrieved tones that he had been half-killed in his service.

Don Juan, however, only laughed at him, and being in a very gay mood, immediately began to tell his grumbling servant of several other lively adventures he had just experienced in pursuit of pretty maidens.

Now, in the centre of the square a splendid equestrian statue in marble had already been erected to the memory of the late Commandant, Don Pedro, bearing upon its pedestal the following inscription:

"I herewith await the vengeance decreed by Heaven unto the wretch who slew me!"

Whilst Don Juan was in the midst of his gay story, a sound of muffled words seemed to come from the Statue; and Leporello, full of terror, fell on his knees, trembling. Don Juan, however, bade him read out the inscription on the pedestal; and when the frightened servant had done so, he next gaily bade him invite the Statue to his palace for supper that night.

But, overcome by superstitious fears, Leporello could not find courage to do so, and it was not until his master threatened to thrust his sword through him that he at length uttered aloud the invitation he had been bidden to give. The Statue immediately bowed its head in response to the invitation, to the increasing alarm of Leporello, who uttered a loud shriek; but Don Juan, laughingly declaring that the Statue's movement was only fancy, dragged the quaking servant away, and repaired at once to his palace.

It so happened that the gay cavalier was indeed holding a splendid supper party that night, having invited a number of beautiful ladies to feast with him; and on arriving at the palace, he found his guests already assembled. He joined them at the table at once, whilst Leporello began to wait on the party; and in a short time the palace was filled with the sounds of music and revelry.

But suddenly, in the very midst of the feast, Donna Elvira appeared in the banquet-hall; for, still having a spark of love left in her heart for her false lover, she had come to warn him of his approaching danger, and to entreat him to repent whilst he still had time. But Don Juan, now recklessly hilarious, only laughed aloud at her entreaties; and Elvira, full of angry despair, declared she should now leave him to his fate.

But just as she reached the door she uttered a terrific shriek, which was quickly taken up by others near the entrance; for coming up the stairs with heavy, measured tread, they saw the Statue of the late Don Pedro, on foot, with a fierce look of righteous wrath upon its marble face!

Full of terror, the ladies fled from the room, whilst Leporello hid beneath the supper-table; and when the Statue presently entered the banquet-hall, all the lights suddenly burnt dim, and gradually went out altogether.

Don Juan stared at his strange visitor in utter astonishment, and demanded its business; and when the Statue of the Commandant replied in sepulchral tones that it had come to the feast in answer to his own invitation, the gay host attempted to regain his self-possession, and ordered Leporello to lay the table afresh.

But as Leporello crawled forth from his hiding-place, the Statue declared that, as its spirit dwelt in Heaven, it needed not mortal food; and turning to Don Juan, it said: "Thou badst me to thy banquet, and I, in turn, now invite thee to mine! Wilt come?"

Leporello implored his master to refuse; but Don Juan, scorning to show fear, recklessly accepted at once, and took the outstretched hand of his visitor in pledge of the compact. But when the icy-cold fingers of the Statue closed on his own in a grip like that of a vice, a shiver of intense fear passed through the whole frame of the cavalier; and feeling that his last hour had come, he struggled vainly to free himself. But the Statue only held him the tighter, and in deep, solemn tones, bade him repent, ere Heaven's sentence was passed upon him.

But Don Juan, though full of mortal fear, scorned repentance, and in spite of the entreaties of Leporello, and the further injunctions of the Statue, still passionately shrieked out his defiance. Then the Statue in an appalling voice declared that his doom was passed, and letting its victim's hand drop, it suddenly sank through the flooring into the ground below.

At the same moment, fierce flames sprang up on all sides, and from the deep abyss that had just engulfed the Statue, a host of demons rushed forth and seized Don Juan in their scorching grasp. It was in vain that the wretched man shrieked and struggled in their embrace, for in spite of his frantic efforts to free himself, they quickly overcame him, and sprang back into the fiery abyss, dragging their victim with them.

Then the flames died away, and the chasm closed; and when, next moment, Don Octavio entered with his friends and the officers of Justice, the banquet-hall had assumed its usual aspect once more.

But justice had already overtaken the offender they sought; and when Leporello presently described in trembling accents the visit of the Commandant's Statue, and the terrible doom that had overtaken his wicked master, all declared that vengeance was satisfied, since the Statue had fulfilled its vow.

Zerlina and Masetto now agreed to be married the very next day; and Donna Anna, since her father's death was at last avenged, smiled upon her faithful lover, and placed her hand in his, declaring that happiness might now be theirs.