“Is she there?” thought he. “What trouble this girl gives me! I must free myself from it.” And he prepared himself to send one of his ruffians to meet the carriage, and tell Nibbio to conduct the girl immediately to the castle of Don Roderick; but an imperious No, which made itself heard by his conscience, caused him to relinquish his design. Tormented, however, by the necessity of ordering something to be done, and insupportably weary of waiting the slow approach of the carriage, he sent for an old woman who was attached to his service.
This woman had been born in the castle, and had passed her life in it. She had been impressed from infancy with an opinion of the unlimited power of its masters; and her principal maxim was implicit obedience towards them. To the ideas of duty were united sentiments of respect, fear, and servile devotion. When the Unknown became lord of the castle, and began to make such horrible use of his power, she experienced a degree of pain, and at the same time a more profound sentiment of subjection. In time she became habituated to what was daily acting before her: the powerful and unbridled will of such a lord she viewed as an exercise of fated justice. When somewhat advanced in years, she had espoused a servant of the house, who being sent on a hazardous expedition, left his body on the high road, and his wife a widow in the castle. The revenge that her lord took for his death imparted to her a savage consolation, and increased her pride at being under his protection. From that day she rarely set foot beyond the castle walls, and by degrees there remained to her no other idea of human beings, than that of those by whom she was daily surrounded. She was not employed in any particular service, but each one gave her something to do as it pleased him. She had sometimes clothes to mend, food to prepare, and wounds to dress. Commands, reproaches, and thanks were equally mingled with abusive raillery: she went by the appellation of the old woman, and the tone with which the name was uttered varied according to the circumstances and humour of the speaker. Disturbed in her idleness and irritated in her self-love, which were her two ruling passions, she returned these compliments with language in which Satan might have recognised more of his own genius than in that of her persecutors.
“You see that carriage below there,” said the Unknown.
“I do,” said she.
“Have a litter prepared immediately, and let it carry you to Malanotte. Quick, quick; you must arrive before the carriage; it approaches with the slow step of death. In this carriage there is—there ought to be—a young girl. If she is there, tell Nibbio from me, that he must place her in the litter, and that he must come at once to me. You will get into the litter with her; and when you arrive here, you must take her to your room. If she asks you where you are leading her, whose is this castle, be careful——”
“Oh, do not doubt me,” said the old woman.
“But,” pursued the Unknown, “comfort her, encourage her.”
“What can I say to her?”
“What can you say to her? Comfort her, I tell you. Have you arrived at this age, and know not how to administer consolation to the afflicted? Have you never had any sorrow? Have you never been visited by fear? Do you not know the language that consoles in such moments? Speak this language to her then; find it in the remembrance of your own misfortunes. Go directly.”
When she was gone, he remained some time at the window, gazing at the approaching carriage; he then looked at the setting sun, and the glorious display of clouds about the horizon. He soon withdrew, closed the window, and kept pacing the apartment in a state of uneasy excitement.