Still the fact was, that neither of these parties meant honestly to each other. Donat and the Abbot were determined only to go hand in hand with the vice-regents so long, as it suited their own views; and these on the other side intended, as soon as they had derived as much benefit as they could from the assistance of the Count and his ecclesiastical ally, to excite a quarrel between them, and then join with the one in plundering the other.
We have already seen, how imprudently Amabel had laid her secrets open to Wolfenrad. Her letters to Emmeline passed through his hands, and he missed not this opportunity to increase his knowledge of the affairs of the Count of Carlsheim; and though Emmeline’s letters to Amabel were not confided to him, by one artifice or another he had not failed to obtain a sight of them. Bloomberg’s simple wife observed indeed, that the seal of Emmeline’s packet had been forced; but she little guest by whom.
The contents of this letter immediately furnished him with the most certain means for producing an irreconcileable hatred between Count Donat and the potent Abbot of Curwald. The power of the latter was beginning to appear dangerous to the Lord Governors; but they could expect nothing but an accession of strength to themselves, while the Count of Carlsheim and the Abbot were mutually weakening themselves in feudal skirmishes. Such was Wolfenrad’s object in writing this warning-letter, whose author was loaded with blessings by the unsuspicious Helen, while waiting with a throbbing heart for the return of her Lord.
The night arrived. She now thought no longer of attempting to open the door of the mysterious chamber, which she had meant to attempt at this hour, since a principal object of her wish to visit the Hermitage was already accomplished. Besides, the design could not then have been possibly executed, since every one in the Castle was still awake, and waiting with impatience for Count Donat’s return.
It was almost morning, when some of her attendants rushed with looks of terror into Helen’s apartment, and entreated her to ascend the upper platform, whence she would discern towards the west indubitable marks of some dreadful conflagration.
—“God preserve us from some mishap!” exclaimed Helen, while she followed her women to the battlements; the whole quarter of the heavens towards Curwald seemed one blaze of red!—“Oh! Donat, Donat, what hast thou done? Were there no gentler means?—Emmeline, my poor Emmeline, where art thou at this moment?”—
Helen’s fears were but too well-founded. Donat, in doing what he thought it right to do, had done it in his usual manner. Wolfenrad’s letter had given him some hints of the midnight revels, which were frequently carried on between the inhabitants of the adjacent Convents of Curwald and St. Roswitha. He made enquiries of the neighbouring peasants, who were no friends of these ecclesiastical libertines; their report confirmed the truth of Wolfenrad’s assertions; and an old man (who declared himself particularly well informed respecting these disgraceful secrets) added—“that on that very night there was to be a superb entertainment given to celebrate the conversion of a Nun, who was the last admitted.”—
—“You may easily guess, valiant knight,” continued the old man, “what they mean by her conversion. I suppose the lady (I saw her brought into the Convent myself, and she seemed to be an angel of innocence and beauty) was a little violent at first; and so they have at last succeeded in taming her stern morality, as many another has been tamed in the same way before her.”—
—“Good heavens!” exclaimed one of the least depraved among Count Donat’s knights; “are such things spoken of in these parts so openly, and yet is Justice silent, and does the Bishop of Coira take no notice of such abominations?”—
—“Oh! the Lord have mercy on me, Sir Knight,” answered the old man, “such things are not talked of openly, or so many fathers would not plunge their children into yonder abyss of infamy! I warrant you, the parents of this converted damsel little thought, when they sent her to St. Roswitha, that they were placing the sweet creature in Satan’s own claws. But when one is speaking to gallant warriors like yourselves, who are able, and perhaps willing to help us, one must be open-hearted. I see that you are all well-armed, and yonder tall gentleman with his eye-brows bent so sternly and his hands clenched seems to feel for what we poor country-folks must suffer under the dominion of these voluptuous Monks, who make us contribute the chief part of our hard-earned gains to the support of their luxury. As to the Bishop of Coira.... I am afraid, you are in the right about him! The notice which he takes.... Aye; were old Hugo of Werdenberg still bishop indeed.... But the present Bishop.... Well! well! he and his boon-companion, the Abbot of St. Gall, make a pair of worthies indeed!”—