—“You must know, fair ladies,” said he, “that I am one of the most antient among the heroes, who have the honour to serve under the banners of Sir Randolf of Mansfeld. While I was but a child, I fled hither with my poor father, then the innocent victim of monkish persecution, and we found a kind refuge in the bosom of these mountains. The man, who was then at the head of this hospitable community, had been acquainted with the first institutor of the band, and had learned from him many remarkable particulars respecting this valley; some of them in good truth enough to curdle the young blood in your veins with very terror: but as to such an accident as that which you apprehend, never had such a thing been known to happen. Therefore set your hearts at rest, ladies: the valley lasted out his time; you see, it has almost lasted out mine, and I warrant you, it will last out yours also.”—
The Sisters had no better means of passing the tedious hours of captivity than in listening to the old robber’s never-ending narratives: besides, they thought it by no means impossible, that in the warmth of discourse some particulars might escape him, which might tend to the improvement of their own situation. They therefore often entreated him to relate the adventures of his father, who had been so unjustly persecuted; as also to tell them, what he had learnt, from his first captain, respecting the original founder of this society of freebooters, and to give them some account of the various singularities of the mountains. They could not be better pleased to listen, than the old man was to talk; and he answered these inquiries at much greater length, than I shall repeat at present: with his persecuted father we have no occasion for concerning ourselves; and as to the wonders of the mountains, we are likely to obtain a more particular description of them from another quarter: the only point then, which need be repeated for the gratification of the curious, is the manner, in which the habitation of holy Anchorets became converted into a retreat for banditti.
Whoever is acquainted with the antient history of Sargans, cannot but remember, that these private recesses of the mountains were inhabited by a society of fugitive Monks from Cloister Curwald. The institution of this society took place in the time of Count Ethelbert of Carlsheim; and it was continued by the occasional reception of new members, as often as death reduced the number, to which it had been limited by its founder, Abbot Christian. That number was six; but for want of novices it was reduced to two, at the period, when Luprian, the licentious Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, (flying from the vengeance of Count Herman of Werdenberg, and from the punishment due to his inhuman treatment of the Lady Emmeline) was conducted by chance to this secluded Hermitage.
The pious Anchorets received him with the most benevolent welcome: they gave full credit to his tale of persecuted innocence, and looked upon the virtuous sufferer as an angel conducted thither by the hand of Heaven, that he might comfort and sustain them under the infirmities of age, and might close their eyes, when death should draw nigh their stony couches. This last piece of service Luprian lost no time in rendering them. He imagined, that they possest concealed treasures of immense value, which would enable him to lead once more a life of luxury in some foreign country, could he but obtain the inheritance of his hosts. In consequence of this persuasion, the old hermits slept in the grave sooner, than nature had intended; and Luprian without an hour’s delay ransacked every corner of the cave. His expectations were cruelly disappointed. He found nothing more than the usual possessions of an Anchoret; cowls, scapularies, crosses, and a few relics of saints and martyrs. But of gold or jewels there appeared not the slightest vestige; and Luprian had the mortification to find, that he had committed one of the most horrible crimes ever perpetrated on earth, without deriving from it even the most insignificant advantage.
Yet was it not its guilt, which made him lament the commission of this action; no, ’twas its having been committed without reward. His conscience was by no means of so delicate a texture, as to make him feel uncomfortable, while inhabiting the scene of this atrocious murder. On the contrary, he resolved on making this well-concealed retreat the theatre of fresh offences, and immediately employed himself in collecting a set of men, whose hearts were depraved, whose characters were blasted, and whose prospects in the world were ruined like his own. These he conducted to the mountain-valley, and became the founder of a band of free-booters, which had now existed above a hundred years, and which had brought inexpressible calamity on all the neighbouring country. The rich and the poor, the nobleman and the peasant, alike mourned over their ravaged fields, and plundered dwellings, their murdered children and dishonoured wives; and yet did the authors of all this mischief set punishment at defiance, protected by their secret caverns and their snow-clad impracticable rocks.
Their numbers had gradually increased. Hither fled for refuge many a ruined nobleman, no longer able by honest means to supply his pampered appetites with those indulgencies, which habit had now made absolutely necessary: many a fugitive Monk, who dreaded the chastisement so justly due to his violated vows: many a blood-guilty culprit, to whom the world offered no happier prospect than the gibbet or the rack: and alas! many an innocent sufferer, driven by the persecution of the powerful or by the bann of the church to this wild society, in whose polluted bosom he for the first time became acquainted with guilt. The numbers of these banditti now considerably exceeded a thousand, all of whom acknowledged as their chiefs Randolf and Gero.
Besides the above information, the old robber communicated to his fair questioner many particulars respecting the neighbouring mountains, every succeeding one of which was more wonderful and terrific than its predecessor. The Sisters believed no more of these extraordinary tales than they thought proper: however, they obtained much more credit with the one, than with the other. Ida’s solitary wanderings through the subterraneous caverns of her uncle’s castle had given her a degree of confidence in danger, which before was totally wanting in her character: and the experience which she had thus acquired, in addition to her natural high spirits and enthusiastic imagination, converted her from being the most timid of created beings into a kind of demi-heroine, ready for adventures, and disposed to set all perils at defiance.
—“All things well considered,” said she to her sister, as they sat one star-light night before the door of their cavern, round which their guards lay sleeping; “all things well considered, I am convinced, that flight is absolutely necessary, and by no means unlikely to be attended with success. Whether Randolf and Gero prosper in their plans, or fail, their return will equally bring with it our certain ruin. Then before that dreaded return takes place, let us summon up our resolution, and seize the first favourable opportunity to explore the way through yonder chain of mountains, which old Hugo has described to us in such terrible colours. The way, by which I fled from the Castle of Sargans, was not without its horrors: yet I soon grew accustomed to them; and how far inferior were they to those, which I had heard attributed to the caverns, and which I believed to be real, till experience convinced me of my error! Oh, be assured, Constantia! we shall find, that a similar deception has been used in the present case. Yonder mountains, I am persuaded, are not entirely covered with ice and snow; between them may be found, no doubt, many a green and sheltered valley, where we may rest occasionally, and recover strength sufficient to endure and to conquer the dangers and difficulties of the way, which still remains to be traversed. Who knows, but their lofty heads conceal from us some happy smiling regions, where we may pass the rest of our lives unknown and unnoticed in innocence and peace, and may become once more as happy, as we were in the morning of our youth on the banks of the Lake of Thun and in the green vallies of Frutiger?—Dearest Constantia, be resolute, and let us hazard the attempt! For the worse, our situation cannot change: we can lose nothing, even should we fail; we may gain every thing, if we succeed: even at the worst, the attempt however unprosperous must obtain for us one advantage, a release from captivity by death without dishonour.”—
In answer to these representations, Constantia reminded her sister of the fearful traditions, which Hugo had related to them, respecting the mountains, and the fantastic beings supposed to inhabit them. She pointed to the Halsberg Rock, whose steep and lofty head rose exactly opposite to them, glittering through the gloom of night like an immense star; and she inquired of Ida, to what cause she attributed this extraordinary splendour? Was it by any means improbable (she asked) that these inaccessible heights were appropriated to the residence of evil spirits; who by night endured there the punishment due to their crimes in sulphureous fires, of which that light was the reflection; and who by day employed themselves in leading astray such unwary travellers, as ventured too near the place of their mysterious torments, and in hurling them down frightful precipices into depths and abysses, never to rise again?
Ida replied, that it was by no means her intention to travel into the clouds so far as the place, whose dazzling brightness had induced her sister to people it with such terrific inhabitants: and she added, that being determined on flight, she was better pleased to believe, that the brightness itself, which seemed like a crown of diamonds encircling the brows of the venerable Halsberg and his brethren, proceeded merely from the reflection of the moon and stars on the ice-covered cliffs and crags, than from brimstone and sulphur burning in a terrestrial Hell.