While his knights were carrying on this discourse with the peasants, their Lord, whom fury had almost deprived of his senses, was considering what was to be done: the resolution which he took was worthy of his character, was worthy of no one but himself. Entrance into either of the two convents was demanded in vain; every other proposal which his attendants suggested, was rejected as incompetent to effect his object; at length his commands were obeyed, and by midnight St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary was enveloped in flames. It’s true, that a spark of paternal love still glimmered in his heart for the unfortunate Emmeline; but the idea, that in all probability she also had been converted after the fashion of the sisterhood, soon extinguished it, and he resolved to hide her and his shame together in the ashes of St. Roswitha. Impressed with this idea—“Drive them back into the flames!” roared the inhuman Donat, whenever either Friar or Nun tried to rescue themselves from the conflagration, without deigning to examine whether Emmeline might not be one of those unfortunates. The number of monks, whom the flames compelled to attempt their escape from St. Roswitha at this undue time of night, confirmed the reports of the mode of life practised in the convents; and the dresses of the Nuns, who had been arrayed for the feast, proclaimed how little their hearts were estranged from worldly vanities. The fire continued to spread; it now caught the adjacent Abbey of Curwald, and before day-break there remained of both the Sanctuaries and their infamous inhabitants nothing but heaps of smoaking ruins[[2]].
[2]. Some historians date the burning of Cloister-Curwald several years later than the period adopted in this narrative.
Such was the cause of those flames, whose reflexion on the sky excited so much consternation at Sargans: Helen’s heart had not throbbed with sad forebodings without necessity. In the course of the morning Donat returned home, and returned without Emmeline!
Helen flew to meet him, and eagerly enquired, where was his daughter? His answer was a short and cold narrative of the dreadful transaction, which had just taken place, and the consequence was, that overpowered with horror Helen fell senseless at the monster’s feet. When she recovered, her first words were to ask, where he had placed Emmeline, (for she doubted not, that previous to firing the Convent he had provided for his daughter’s safety,) and unfortunately her question was so worded, that it betrayed her more intimate knowledge of the business, than was by any means suspected by Donat. This discovery converted his unfeeling coldness into a degree of fury, that nearly approached delirium. He seized her roughly by the arm, and demanded, in a voice of thunder, how she came to be so well acquainted with his affairs? The unfortunate knew no other way of extricating herself from this dilemma, than repeating what she had heard mentioned by one of her attendants respecting Wolfenrad’s letter, which (she confest) had so strongly excited her anxiety about Emmeline, that she had not scrupled to piece the fragments again together. The storm of rage was now diverted from Helen to the woman, who had given her mistress this intelligence, and who had it in her power to disclose much more important secrets, if she had thought proper.
Incensed at Count Donat’s ill-treatment of her, for which she considered herself as indebted to Helen, Jutta resolved to disclose in her turn all that she thought most likely to injure her mistress. Accordingly she began an accusation, which among a thousand falsehoods contained some truths, calculated to make Helen shudder as she listened to them.
The Countess (Jutta said) had some time before received a packet from an unknown messenger, who afterwards quitted the Castle with all speed, and whose arrival she ordered to be concealed from her husband. She had also received several letters from the hands of the dying Bertha; after reading which she had been frequently seen loitering about the door of that chamber, which (on account of the strange noises frequently heard within) was supposed to be haunted. Nay, on the night before last she had actually tried to force back the locks, but had been scared away, by hearing Jutta’s rosary fall on the ground, while she was watching her Lady’s proceedings concealed behind St. Martin’s statue. She had afterwards seen through the key-hole the Countess busily employed in writing, and during the confusion which followed Count Donat’s arrival, had found means to get the letters into her possession; which to confirm her story Jutta was now ready to lay before him.
These heavy charges against Helen failed not to produce the effect intended. Donat ordered the letters to be brought immediately: He was no scholar; yet was he not so totally deficient in the knowledge of writing, but that he could clearly decypher the addresses, which were written in large characters. His eyes flashed fire, while he spelt the names of “Eginhart of Torrenburg,” “the Abbot of Curwald,” and “Urania Venosta, the widowed Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.” These directions would have been sufficient to condemn the poor Helen, even had she been tried by a more impartial judge. It was certain, that these three persons were her husband’s bitterest enemies; with what propriety then could she be engaged in a secret correspondence with them? In particular, what motive could she have for writing to the Count of Torrenburg, who was her former lover, and had been so long her destined bridegroom? Alas! poor Helen! appearances were sorely against thee! Nor would Donat’s fury give him time to enquire further into the business. In a paroxysm of rage he tore the letters into a thousand fragments, and pronounced Helen to be in a secret correspondence with his implacable foe, the Countess Urania for the purpose of betraying him to his enemies; he asserted also, that she had been privy to the Abbot’s designs upon his daughter, and had encouraged them in order to be revenged on the father; and that she was still in love with the Count of Torrenburg and meant to have fled to him from Sargans, an intention which was sufficiently proved by her midnight efforts to obtain entrance into that chamber, which concealed a private outlet from the Castle. It’s true, that finding Emmeline had quitted that chamber of her own accord, and thinking the knowledge of the secret passage might be of use to himself on some future occasion, the Abbot had not mentioned to Count Donat his suspicions, that such a passage existed; and the room had been merely shut up from the report of its being haunted. But Wolfenrad had learned this secret from the perusal of Amalberga’s letter to Emmeline, and had communicated it to the Count, hoping thereby to increase the merit of his services. Now then Donat had no doubt, that the noises, which had been heard in that chamber, proceeded from no ghosts, but from persons who were waiting to assist his wife in her projected flight. Under the influence of these impressions, Helen was held convicted of the most infamous designs, and condemned to suffer the most exemplary chastisement. She was instantly confined in one of the strongest dungeons, probably in that where Urania had shed so many tears; in the mean while her tyrant with his confidents and those women of the Castle who were most her enemies, sat in council to decide, what punishment would be sufficiently severe to suit her crime.
I am in doubt as to Donat’s reasons for not immediately proceeding to the last extremities with his wife: that sentiment towards her, which he had chosen to dignify with the name of love, had long ago disappeared; and his late atrocious act, which had proved the destruction of the whole Orders of Curwald and St. Roswitha, had left him no scruples to overcome. One murder more or less, what did that signify to a man, who had arrived at so dreadful a height of guilt?—The most probable cause for Donat’s moderation was, fear: Helen was the Count of Homburg’s daughter; was niece to the Count of Mayenfield; and had been affianced to the Count of Torrenburg, who it was well known, would not suffer her to be injured with impunity. These considerations made Donat hesitate, as to the course which he was now to pursue.
Donat past two days in resolving, whether it would not be possible to bring Helen to confess herself guilty. This would justify him in the eyes of her relations for any severity, which he might think proper to inflict upon her; but when he considered his wife’s character, he saw little prospect of persuading her to declare herself infamous. In the mean while Helen was suffered to remain tranquil in her dungeon; and her husband was still meditating how to avoid the vengeance of her friends, when the Castle was unexpectedly attacked by enemies incensed upon a different account. He might indeed have foreseen, that the Bishop of Coira would not pass over the destruction of Cloister-Curwald in silence; occupied however by his anger against Helen, Donat had bestowed no thought upon the Bishop; and the avengers of the Monks of Curwald were at the gates of Sargans, before any one had even bestowed a thought on the possibility of such an attack.
Helen heard from her prison the noise of the assault, the shouts of the victors, and the expiring groans of those who fell beneath their swords; but her spirit was too much broken to enable her to guess at what was passing, or to offer up prayers or wishes for the success of either party. She lay almost in a state of insensibility, when the door of her dungeon was thrown open. The Count of Carlsheim entered, snatched her rudely from the earth, and more by gestures than speech, commanded her attendance. She followed her conductor in silence, like a lamb to the slaughter; he saw, that she was scarcely able to move through weakness, and either out of compassion or cruelty compelled her to swallow a cordial. She gradually recovered herself sufficiently to remark, that her husband was habited like a pilgrim on the point of setting out on some long journey, and that he guided her towards a part of the Castle remote from the clamour of the combat. Here they found a domestic waiting with a torch, who in a low voice and with few words assured his Lord, that the passage was still safe. A door, artfully concealed in the wall, was now unlocked, and Helen was commanded to ascend the stair-case, which presented itself before her.