For time at last sets all things even;
And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.
Byron.
Years had passed away. The storm of war had rolled over the country, and the white eagle of Poland had ceased to wave over an independent land. Count Willnitz and his daughter had returned to the old castle; the former stern and harsh as ever, the latter completely in the power of an inexorable master. She had received no tidings of Alexis, and had given him up as lost to her forever. Her father, straightened in his circumstances and menaced with ruin, had secured relief and safety by pledging his daughter's hand to a wealthy nobleman, Count Radetsky, who was now in the castle awaiting the fulfilment of the bargain.
"Go, my child," said the count, with more gentleness than he usually manifested in his manner. "You must prepare yourself for the altar."
"Father," said the young girl, earnestly, "does he know that I love him not?"
"I have told him all, Alvina."
"And yet he is willing to wed me!" She raised her eyes to heaven, rose, and slowly retired to her room.
Louisa, the old woman presented in the first scene of our tale, decked the unfortunate girl in her bridal robes, and went with her to the chapel, where her father and Radetsky awaited her. An old priest mumbled over the ceremony, and joined the hands of the bride and bridegroom. The witnesses were few—only the vassals of the count; and no attempt at festivity preceded or followed the dismal ceremony.
Alvina retired to her chamber when it was over, promising to join her bridegroom at the table in a few moments. The housekeeper accompanied her.
"I give you joy, Countess Radetsky," said the old woman.