The news of Donat’s return was soon confirmed: it was scarcely mid-day, when she heard the drawbridge resounding beneath the hasty trampling of his black steed. She hastened to receive him at the gate with that smile of submissive duty, which she had accustomed herself always to wear in his presence. He repulsed her offered hand with a furious look, and shut himself up in his own chamber with such of his dependents, as were most in his confidence. An hour elapsed; his chamber-door was thrown open, and Donat rushed out again, to all appearance more incensed, if possible, than before.
—“Arm! arm!” cried he with a voice of thunder, which resounded through the whole fortress, and which soon collected all his soldiers around him, who, wearied with the journey from which they were just returned, were better fitted for repose than for a second expedition; “to horse, and away this instant; business of importance summons us, and which admits of no delay. Talk not of weariness, or exhausted strength! the deed, which now demands your faulchions, could be executed, if your arms were half useless; for I lead you not against stout warriors, but cowardly monks, on whom I swear to be revenged before sun-set!”—
They were too well accustomed to obey Count Donat at the first motion of his finger, to make any remonstrances. In a few minutes all were mounted, and their horses galloped over the echoing draw-bridge into the valley below, whence they disappeared from the eyes of those, who gazed after them, with the rapidity of lightning.
The Castle-inhabitants looked on each other in silent astonishment. The similarity of their present feelings produced a kind of confidence between the Countess and her women; and one of them confessed to her, her being almost certain, that she knew the cause of all this uproar. She would however only impart thus much of her knowledge: on his return homewards the Count had received a letter from one who was in the habit of sending him intelligence, and this letter most probably contained the spark, which had kindled such flames in the bosom of Count Donat; for as soon as he had read it to his confidents, he tore it in a thousand pieces, and trampled it under his feet. Besides this, in the midst of a torrent of execrations he had been heard to mention the Abbot of Curwald and his daughter Emmeline.
—“Emmeline and the Abbot?” exclaimed Helen delighted. “Is it possible, that some benevolent Being should have opened his eyes to the miseries of his daughter? Is it to rescue her, that he departed in such haste? Ah! then why have I so long delayed to take the nearest and surest way for effecting her deliverance? Had I but confest her danger to Count Donat.... Surely the worst of men could not endure, that his child should be overwhelmed in shame and ruin! The depravity of the Nuns of St. Roswitha must have been concealed from Count Donat, or he never would have made his daughter a member of their society!”—
These reflections, which were only half pronounced by Helen, were totally unintelligible to her attendants, who continued to discuss what had past, and to conjecture what was to follow; this occupied them so entirely, that they did not perceive, that their mistress had left them. She had hastened to her husband’s chamber, where she hoped to obtain some insight into the circumstance, which at once both rejoiced and alarmed her.
The fragments of the important letter still lay upon the floor; she eagerly seized them, and having secured herself against interruption, put them again together carefully. She learned from them the truth of what she had just been told; the writer warned Count Donat to beware of the Abbot’s artifices; discovered to him, that St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary was little better than the harem of the Monks of Curwald; and that by enclosing the Lady Emmeline within these sacrilegious walls, he had delivered up his daughter to the passion of her licentious lover.
No wonder, that information like this should have given a deadly wound to Count Donat’s pride: nor (in spite of his own excesses) was he so totally lost to shame as to endure patiently, that his daughter should become the prey of a libertine. He was almost frantic with rage, and for the first time in his life he drew his sword to punish the insulters of virtue.
Helen sank on her knees, and thanked God for this unexpected accomplishment of her wishes. She sent a thousand prayers after her husband for the good success of his expedition: she even went so far, as to begin to make preparations for receiving the rescued Emmeline, whom in fancy she already prest to her heart; and when this agreeable occupation was finished, she turned her thoughts towards guessing at the benevolent writer of the letter, which had induced the father to hasten to preserve his child.
Poor simple Helen! it entered not into her thoughts (and it was not till long after, that she made the discovery) that villainy often performs a seemingly virtuous action, in order to forward its own unholy designs. She knew not, that the author of that letter was Wolfenrad. It seems, that those oppressors of Rhœtian and Helvetian liberty, the lord governors and their assistants, carried on a very close though secret understanding with some of the most potent noblemen, whose object it was equally to bring the inhabitants of these unfortunate countries still more beneath the yoke, and to build upon their subjection the fabric of their own power and grandeur. Among the secret allies of Gessler and Landenberg, Count Donat and the Abbot of Curwald were the most distinguished; and Wolfenrad on account of his well-known skill in penmanship was frequently employed by both the governors to carry on their correspondence both with Curwald and Sargans.