The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
FEUDAL TYRANTS, Volume I.
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FEUDAL TYRANTS;
OR,
The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans.
A ROMANCE.
TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
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By M. G. LEWIS,
AUTHOR OF
The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c.
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VOL. I.
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SECOND EDITION.
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The portals sound, and pacing forth
With stately steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of regal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go.
— Gray.
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London:
Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho,
FOR J. F. HUGHES, WIGMORE STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
──
1807
FEUDAL TYRANTS,
&c. &c. &c.
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PART THE FIRST.
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ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG
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LETTERS.
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Conrad, Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, to Elizabeth, the Widowed Countess of Torrenburg[[1]].
[1]. The real name is Toggenburg; but as this would have sounded harsh in English ears, I have taken the liberty of softening it a little; and in several parts of this work I have changed the names of places and personages entirely.
Your resolution, noble Elizabeth, to remain in cloistered solitude, passing your hours in tears for your husband’s loss, and in prayers for the repose of his spirit, is dignified and worthy of the illustrious race to which you have the glory to belong. Model of female constancy! though years have elapsed since Frederick died, your tears flow as freely as on the first day of your widowhood! Unequalled lady! does there exist a virtue, whose seeds we ought not to depend on finding in a heart like yours? Is there a sacrifice so great that a soul like Elizabeth’s is incapable of making it?—In the bloom of life to tear yourself from the pleasures of the world and the eyes of a thousand admirers, that you may watch away the lonely nights by the sepulchral urn of an husband far advanced in years; to fly from the charms of sway and grandeur that you may humble yourself before the altar, kneeling in the dust, and praying for the repose of the deceased-one, oh! what an act of self-denial! an act, which reaches the summit of magnanimity, by not being established on the foundation of love; for in truth, how could love for the decrepit Frederick find a place in the heart of the young and blooming Elizabeth, whose warmest sentiment must have been filial respect towards a benefactor?
Oh! Elizabeth, is indeed your state of widowhood your only motive for taking refuge in a convent?
Elizabeth to Conrad.
An expression used in the conclusion of your letter fully explains the sentiment which I felt, and still feel for the Count of Torrenburg.
Yes, Conrad; Frederick was my benefactor in the strongest sense of the word—and therefore is it, that though years have elapsed since his decease, my tears for his loss still flow as freely as they did on the first day. But whether sorrow for my widowed state was my only motive for burying myself in a cloister.... Oh! Conrad, it was unnecessary for you to use flattery in order to obtain a knowledge of the truth. Without calling me “the model of female constancy,” or declaring me to be without an equal, I might have been Induced to confess, that Frederick’s death was not the only reason which at first induced me to take refuge in a convent, and which perhaps will induce me never to leave it more. Oh! much, very much lies heavy upon this heart of mine! I suffer under the pressure of misfortunes, of which but a small part is known to you; yet even that little must be sufficient to make you comprehend, why I feel compelled to abandon the world, and fly to solitude for relief and comfort. Conrad! Conrad! would to Heaven it were true, that there is no sacrifice so great, that I am incapable of making it! Alas! I feel but too strongly, that great sacrifices are in my power, for which I must prepare myself by supplication to Heaven, and the solitude and calm of a cloister.
Conrad to Elizabeth.
I know not to what sacrifices you allude in saying, there exist some which are too great for you to make. Worldly possessions, I am certain, are without value in your eyes: should then hereafter generosity or a sense of justice require of you some trifling renunciation in this respect, could it possibly cost you much pain, or would you long deliberate what course you should adopt? In order to be rich and powerful, Elizabeth needed not to become the heiress of Torrenburg. Independent of her husband’s attachment, fortune had already rendered her mistress of sufficient wealth to make it easy for her to afford posterity an admirable example of self-denial. She who can dispose of castles and villages[[2]] without receiving on the one hand any return but ingratitude, and on the other but hatred and rebellion, may surely bring herself in the course of time to restore those possessions (to which the prepossession of her fascinated husband could in fact give her no right) to the forsaken innocent orphans, whose claims have so undeservedly been set aside. How glorious a recompense hereafter would she earn by such an act! What gratitude, what tranquillity of soul would she obtain at present! what rapturous admiration would she be viewed with even by the latest posterity! How shining and how distinguished would be the place allotted to her among the illustrious ladies, who derive their blood from the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans.
[2]. Elizabeth of March (who inherited from her husband the valuable county of Torrenburg and other extensive possessions to the exclusion of his natural heirs) bestowed considerable districts of her territory on the people of Zurich, which excited great discontent among her vassals.
Elizabeth to Conrad.
Conrad, what am I to think of you?—you almost adopted in your first letters to me the tone of adoration; I was a “model of female constancy;” I was “an unequalled woman.” In your last, the secret seems to have escaped you, “that nothing but the prepossession of a fascinated husband could have made me what I am.”
I guess your views: you hope to draw from me some decision favorable to the claims of the Damsels of Werdenberg; but in truth I am not arrived at such high excellence in the science of self-denial. It is easy, my good Abbot, to give away half our property out of pure generosity, even though we meet in return with nothing but ingratitude; but it is hard, very hard to bestow that same half on those who think they have a title to it, even though all the universe should admire and praise us for ... having done our duty.
My brother Oswald, who has arrived here within these few days, salutes you, and recommends himself to your prayers.
Conrad to Elizabeth.
I was certain, before I read the conclusion of your letter, that Count Oswald was not far from you: uninfluenced, never could Elizabeth have suffered her hand to trace such words! Go then, ye innocent victims of slander, even from the generous Elizabeth have ye nothing to hope! she terms you “the Damsels of Werdenberg,” without recollecting that another name would have belonged to you, had not fortune robbed you of it in order to confer it upon her. Go then, go, thou gentle Constantia; go too, afflicted and much belied Ida; increase the number of the unfortunate ladies of Sargans, and live upon the bounty of the vassals of your forefathers: the heiress of Torrenburg has nothing to bestow upon you, not even unavailing pity; of justice I will not speak. Under what climate of Heaven you now exist, Elizabeth knows not, asks not, cares not!
Elizabeth to Conrad.
I have long remarked one fault in you, my good Abbot; you generally press your point too eagerly, and thus ruin the cause which you support, with those whose natural inclinations would have disposed them otherwise to do what you require. Not that this is the case with me; to convince you of which, I now entreat you for the present, and only for the present, to be silent on a subject which (from causes as yet unknown to you) pains my heart most cruelly. I am not ignorant of Constantia’s abode; as to Ida ... yet why should I concern myself about the Damsels of Werdenberg? If (as you assert) I have robbed them of a name which but for me would have belonged to them, they perhaps have deprived me of another, which was more precious to me than my life; a name, which was the long-wished-for goal of all my fondest hopes; a name, for which I would have exchanged the high-sounding title of “heiress of Torrenburg,” God knows how willingly!
Suffer me to chuse another subject—you seem to be well acquainted with the annals of the family with which I am become connected by marriage; it is certain at least, that neither in your conversations or letters have I ever heard you mention the knights and ladies of the houses of Carlsheim and Sargans, without applying to them some striking epithet. Even in your very last epistles, “the unfortunate ladies,”—“the illustrious ladies of Sargans,”—were mentioned. Who were these remarkable personages, and what were their misfortunes? If it lies in your power to give me any account of them, you will oblige me by making them the subject of your future letters. Otherwise I am necessitated to request a temporary interruption of our correspondence, as I am not desirous of reading more upon the subject which of late has employed your pen.
Conrad to Elizabeth.
The annals of the ladies of Sargans are in the possession of the Abbess of Zurich, whose convent you at present inhabit. I can myself do no more than furnish you with a short supplement to this family history, and which I will readily transmit to you, whenever you think proper to renew a correspondence, which ceases for the present with this letter.
Elizabeth to Count Oswald of March.
I have offended our good old Conrad: the correspondence which I have kept up for so many years with the faithful instructor of my childhood is at length laid aside; and many a vacant hour as this instructive intercourse has beguiled, I yet must confess, I am not sorry that it has ceased for the present. Conrad latterly began to press me too hard upon a subject, on which (in compliance, dear brother, with your advice) I am determined not to come to any hasty determination. Ah! the point would have been determined long ago, had I not been compelled to hesitate by your friendly representations and the weakness of my own heart!
And yet, dear Oswald, to confess the truth, the latter had more influence with me than the former. Paint to me in as brilliant colours as you chuse the advantage of being sovereign lady of such an extensive territory; ah! can the empty pride of governing a turbulent ungrateful people restore to me the ruined tranquillity of my heart? My wealth and power were even beyond my wishes, unaided by the liberal bequest of my dear, my partial husband; and long ago should Constantia have enjoyed those rights to which (so at least they say) her claim is undoubted, were it not that Ida must necessarily have shared in the good-fortune of her sister; Ida, who stole from me the heart of Montfort! Ida, who trampled on the fondest wishes of my soul! No! that thought is not to be endured! The wanton arts of that perfidious girl forced me from the bosom of my Henry into the aged arms of the Count of Torrenburg: now then let her enjoy the fruits of her good deed! Gratitude taught me to love Frederick, and to forget Henry; but to reward these traitors for having so successfully betrayed me; to enrich them with all that has been bestowed on me by the last will of the excellent possessor ... this is a pitch of heroic virtue, of which I can be capable but in a very few moments of romantic enthusiasm. In one of those moments, you, dear Oswald, came to my assistance, rouzed me from my dream of heroism, dissipated the vapours which bewildered my senses, and now you may rest secure that I shall make no rash resolutions.
I confess, the Abbot helped to give your advice effect, by preaching to me such endless sermons about justice. What then, my good Conrad? the conferring happiness on those perfidious hypocrites by whom my confidence has been so cruelly abused, this sacrifice which but to think upon makes all my long-inflicted wounds bleed afresh, all this would be nothing more than an every-day performance of a positive duty? Is this the way to estimate one of the most difficult tasks of self-victory that ever was prescribed to the heart of a woman?
Agitated as are my present feelings, I dare not trust myself to be much alone. I seek every where for subjects of amusement, but find every where ennui. You, my kind friend, are at a distance, and my epistolary communication with Conrad, to which I have been so long accustomed, has for the present ceased entirely. Yet the good Abbot, to whom I am already under such obligations, is also in this instance the cause of my looking forward to some future means of rescuing myself from this state of tedious indolence.
In hopes of leading him away from a topic, which I am at present unwilling to discuss, I reminded him of the antient histories of the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans; and I requested him to make them the subject of his future correspondence—you know, the old man is generally delighted to find an opportunity of talking over such matters; but just now he is too much offended with me, and too much occupied with a different business, to permit himself to be lured away from his point by this little artifice. He has coldly referred me for information to the Abbess of Zurich; and the want of other amusement has actually induced me to apply to her on this subject, which, when I first took it up, was merely a pretence for relieving myself from the pressure of Conrad’s too urgent solicitations.
The Abbess as yet has only given me distant hopes that my curiosity shall be indulged; but by dint of repeated petitions, I trust I shall persuade her to communicate to me these “important and remarkable writings,” as the Abbess calls them. Should I succeed, I shall not fail, oh! most learned of all knights of the present day! to lay whatever seems worthy of attention before your philosophical eyes.
Sigisbert, Bishop of Coira, to the Abbot Conrad.
Without attempting further to influence her conduct, let Elizabeth be permitted to act according to her own pleasure: I know her motives; I know that in the end we shall have reason to be satisfied with her. I am informed also, that she has already taken some such steps towards settling this important business as will bear but one interpretation. Letters have been received from her by our friend the Seneschal, a man whose superior for probity is not to be found in Zurich; in these letters Elizabeth explains the whole transaction, requests him to act as an impartial judge, and engages to obey his decision blindly. You know well the venerable Albert Reding, to whose justice the whole country refers every dispute of consequence; think you, he will decide to the disadvantage of innocence? Not that I have obtained my knowledge of these secret particulars from Albert himself, the delicacy of whose opinions on this species of confidence is extreme. In truth, he carries that delicacy so far, that he anxiously avoids mentioning the disputes between the Countess and her vassals, and endeavours, when others speak of them, to listen with a cold indifferent air: but I read plainly on his serious brow that he meditates deeply on the subject; he weighs the bequest of Count Frederick, and the situation of the unfortunate sisters, and I can prophecy to which side the balance will incline. He, who never yet gave an unfair judgment; he, who has never deserved to have an appeal made from his decision, cannot surely pronounce erroneously upon a business like this.
Your intention of laying before Elizabeth’s eyes the whole history of the rejected heiresses of Torrenburg is well imagined, and may produce a good effect: but what shall I say to you respecting your imprudence, in advising her to inspect the private annals of the house of Sargans? My good but inconsiderate friend, are you then ignorant of the part which your Abbey plays in these memorials of the days of yore? Is it adviseable, think you, to lay before the laity the transgressions of the church? Let us rejoice, that we walk ourselves in the paths of virtue, without endeavouring to make our own merits appear more shining, by contrasting them with the crimes of our predecessors.
Yet I know well, that so mean a design was far from the thoughts of my good Conrad; he has only erred through want of consideration. I shall immediately endeavour, if possible, to repair your fault; already must letters from me have reached the Abbess of Zurich, and I hope that Elizabeth will not be suffered to peruse a single line of the papers.
It is but a short time since these curious Memoirs were in my possession; and I can assure you (if, as I take for granted, you are not already conscious of it) they contain many circumstances, which for the honour of the Abbey of Curwald, and (with grief I write it) for that of some of my own ancestors, had better remain for ever unknown.
Elizabeth to Count Oswald
In vain do I strive to turn my thoughts from Montfort; the reflection “what is to become of him” occupies my mind incessantly. Alas! there was a time, when I loved him with such passion! when there was nothing which I would not have given to purchase for him one moment’s happiness! and now, oh! what a change! she, who once was ready to sacrifice for this Montfort every thing, even the affection of a warning brother, who saw deeper into the deceiver’s heart than herself; she now hesitates, by giving up a few superfluous miles of territory and some high-sounding empty titles, to rescue him from the very abyss of misery and ruin!—and all this change in her heart is produced by the sole reflection, that Montfort’s prosperity would now be shared no longer with herself. Oh! Elizabeth! Elizabeth! thou hast a groveling soul! thy passion for Henry, so falsely called heroic, was nothing better than mere self-love!
Chide me not, dear brother, for this want of resolution; I am conscious the expression of such feelings must be little expected by you after the temper of mind, in which you saw me when we parted: but you know not the dreadful contest between affection and duty, which has but lately been excited in my bosom—what! Henry imprisoned by his uncle, as a punishment for having bestowed his heart on the portionless Ida? Henry, commanded by the incensed Count de Montfort to purchase liberty by offering me his hand? What then, do I live to see my nuptial bed made the alternative of a dungeon? Oswald! Oswald! oh! what a humiliation for the proud Elizabeth, let what is required of him be refused or accepted by Henry!—as for myself, my resolution is fixed; but yet, through respect for you and your counsels, it has not been fixed till after mature deliberation. I will not have the appearance of acting either from an impulse of extravagant generosity, or from that spirit of refined vengeance, which induces us to crush our enemies under the load of obligations: no; I will do nothing but my duty. I have submitted the whole affair to the decision of an impartial judge: I will ascertain how much I ought to do for the Damsels of Werdenberg, and exactly that much will I do, without desiring to be thanked by any one. What would be my feelings, Oswald.... Heaven and Earth! what would be my feelings, were I to hear Montfort thank me for having kindly facilitated his union with his beloved Ida!
Elizabeth to Oswald.
My brother, we will in future chuse other subjects for discussion: Montfort and Ida ought now to hold a place no longer in my private thoughts, nor shall their names be ever again traced by my pen. To banish these spectres which haunt my mind so fearfully, and bury them for ever in oblivion, or at least only to remember them with contempt, surely I need but to recall that memorable day, when my dear exasperated brother forgave the lovesick-girl’s elopement, her elopement with this deceitful Montfort; when he promised still to acknowledge her as his sister, and condescended to make known to the traitor with his own lips, that Count Oswald would not disdain to honour and esteem him as his sister’s husband—and then let me remember, how Henry led the proud Elizabeth in triumph to the altar; and how at the very moment that he prepared to swear to her eternal constancy, the irrevocable word refused to pass his lips, because ... because among her attendants he discovered a face, whose features seemed to him more lovely than his bride’s.
Oh! when I recollect these circumstances, my brother! the Damsels of Werdenberg, the chosen friends of my bosom, were invited to place the nuptial garland on my brow, and the false-ones tore it in pieces, and trampled it under their feet. With what a look of horror and aversion did Henry throw away my hand! He affected to be suddenly indisposed too! oh! ’twas a mere pretence! his midnight flight from the Castle, and his consternation at hearing, that those perfidious girls were gone, ought to have left me no doubt upon the subject; yet I suspected nothing till the cruel news arrived, that Ida’s fate was as closely connected with Henry’s, as I once had flattered myself to have seen my own.
Again I repeat it, I will discuss this subject no longer. My prayers had once the power of soothing Oswald’s vengeance and saving the offender’s life; shall my lamentations excite afresh that sleeping vengeance?—No! I will be silent!—I thank you, dear Oswald, for all your kindness; still love Elizabeth, but strive not to avenge her.
Elizabeth to Oswald.
I doubt whether I act wisely in writing to you so often? a less interesting occupation would conduce more to the tranquillity of my bosom, and such an occupation am I earnestly endeavouring to procure. A visit to the Abbess, for the purpose of renewing my entreaties respecting the annals of Sargans, has exalted my curiosity to the very highest pitch. I am sensible, that anxiety to learn the sufferings of those who have been as unfortunate as myself, alleviates the weight of my own afflictions.
The Abbess appeared to be undecided whether she should indulge me with a sight of these writings, which she had already been drawn into an half promise to communicate.
—“My dear lady,” said she smiling, “had you not rather obtain a personal knowledge of those ladies, who are treated of in these moth-eaten ill-written leaves, and whose adventures, or at least as much of them as deserves your attention, I can myself relate to you concisely?—Look!” she continued, at the same time removing a silken curtain which extended itself over the whole western side of her closet; “look! here are the portraits of the most remarkable among those celebrated ladies, respecting whose lives some idle person has contrived to make you so inquisitive. I confess, I do possess the writings in question; but believe me, daughter, they are buried under such a heap of uninteresting papers relating to different matters, that to explore them would be too tedious a task for the leisure of an anchoret or the patience of a saint.”
I stood silent, and listened, and looked; but in truth the speaking portraits of these females, the most lovely and excellent of their day, and the interesting fragments of their annals which escaped from the Abbess of Zurich as she pointed them out to me by name, were by no means likely to cure me of my inclination to know more of their adventures.
You are not the only one of the family, Oswald, who possesses the talent of persuasion; your sister too inherits some little portion of that for which her brother is so remarkable. I conquered; and before evening arrived, I had the satisfaction to see brought into my chamber a large iron chest, which contained materials of sufficient interest to steal me from my own sorrows, and transport me into a different world from that in which I am existing—oh! how delightful is it for a wounded heart thus to steal itself away from the theatre of its afflictions!
Elizabeth to Oswald.
The morning broke, and found me still occupied in examining the moth-eaten parchments; selecting those which appeared to be the most interesting, and separating them from the rest, which I purposed to reserve for a future opportunity. It was fortunate, that I did not delay this examination till the next day. Scarcely were the nuns returned from matins, when my treasure was redemanded of me. The Abbess came to make excuses in person. She talked of secrets regarding the Convent, and the commands of the Bishop of Coira, though, as far as I can make out, the great lady (for such is the appellation which the nuns give the Domina of Zurich) is totally independent of him. She might as well have spared her apologies; I was angry, and scarcely could prevail on myself to answer her with common politeness. She had broken her word with me; and therefore I feel but little compunction for having over-reached her, and kept back several of the writings, which I had previously laid aside. They happen to be exactly those (at least I hope so) which the sight of those portraits in the Domina’s closet had made me most anxious to examine.
One parcel consists of the Memoirs of Urania Venosta; she is pale, and a black veil half conceals her features, yet the grief which is exprest in her countenance (the picture represents her in the decline of life) has still left her charms sufficient to make us guess, how perfect must have been her beauty while yet in the full bloom of youth.
Another packet contains some account of the unfortunate Adelaide, lady of the Beacon-Tower; she was a daughter of the house of Carlsheim, and had resolution enough to attend upon her unfortunate husband till his last breath, which he was doomed to breathe out upon the scaffold! Adelaide only left the place of execution to lay herself down, and die.
I possess also the adventures of two Damsels of Sargans, who particularly arrested my attention yesterday in the closet of the Domina.—The picture represented them as two solitary pilgrims, both imprest with beauty and innocence in every feature—features, which seemed to be not totally unknown to me, and which even recalled those to my memory, which my partial friendship once viewed with such fond admiration, while gazing on Constantia and her perfidious sister!—They were represented, as wandering on a barren mountain covered with snow, and endeavouring with inexpressible anxiety in different quarters to discover an out-let from this desolate pass, where they must inevitably perish, unless some higher power should graciously interpose in their behalf. In truth, I fancied that I could discover in the back-ground of the picture a faint shadow, which seemed to beckon one the poor wanderers to advance: probably it meant to convey the idea of a guardian angel, or a saint, who had descended from Heaven to guide the distressed pilgrims out of this fearful labyrinth.
Besides these, I have kept back several other fragments of less interest, which I shall not examine, till all those which I have mentioned have been gone through, and their contents communicated to you, dear Oswald. Into the bargain, the Domina (in hopes, I suppose, of softening my resentment) sent me by the hands of a lay-sister the life of one of her predecessors, who had also belonged to the family of Sargans, and respecting whom she thought, that what she had told me respecting her wisdom and piety, must needs have powerfully excited my curiosity. I took the ponderous roll of parchment with many thanks; I have already ran through it, and returned it, for it contained nothing except that this worthy Abbess was not only a saint, but was also a woman of great learning; that she had sacrificed to the Muses at the same time with Walter of Vogelfeld, the Counts of Hapsburg and Welsh-Neuburg, the Abbot of Einsiedel, and the Bishop of Constance, and had carried off the prize from those distinguished Authors; and finally, that she had instituted a weekly meeting of literati at the house of Rudiger Manstein, the burgo-master of Zurich.
These particulars possest very few charms for me; and the moment that I was left to myself, I had recourse to my precious stolen treasure, of which I shall immediately communicate to you as much, as I have as yet had leisure to peruse. Oh! my kind Oswald, will you not blame me, when I confess, that even this interesting occupation was insufficient to banish Montfort from my mind? Yet to waste another thought on this paragon of human perfidy is too great a weakness—I will return to my parchments, in hopes to collecting from the sorrows of others resolution enough to endure my own with patience.
PART THE SECOND.
MEMOIRS
OF
URANIA VENOSTA.
It affords the mind a melancholy pleasure to look back in the evening of life, and contemplate the path which conducted us to that place of shelter, where tranquillity awaits us, and which at length appears in sight. Yet in such a moment we obtain but an imperfect view of the scenes through which we past; and the sensations which we at the time experienced, have already lost much of their poignancy. The chillness of approaching night makes us almost forget our sufferings, while toiling under the heat of the mid-day sun; and our eye glides easily along the deep vallies in which we feared to lose our way, and over the lofty mountains which it cost us so much labour to ascend—The whole now seems blended together, and we perceive scarcely any thing but a level surface; for the distance of those objects which we have left behind, and the darkness growing deeper with every moment, delude our eyes, and hide from us almost every thing, which once inspired us with such well-founded terror.
Alas! the pleasures of our pilgrimage are lost to us, as well as its difficulties and its dangers! we no longer see the flowers of the vale, in which we loitered; we hear no more the murmur of the brook, whose clear streams refreshed us when fainting with fatigue and thirst! we retain of the whole but one sensation; that the whole is past!—and we wonder not a little, when the transient recollection of former events occasionally flits before us, how such trifles could have possest the power of affecting us with violence so extreme.
Such are our feelings in the decline of life; feelings which you too, beloved-ones, for whom I trace these lines, which you, my Amalberga, and you, my gentle Emmeline, will experience at the appointed hour. Alas! before that hour arrives, you must wander through a long and painful way, counting many a step of toil, and many a tear of sorrow: I feel it to be my duty once more to examine the road by which I have past myself; and by explaining to you the obstacles which impeded me in my progress, I hope to enable you to overcome those, which may present themselves before you in your own.
The spring of my life was bright and lovely. I was educated with the most illustrious young women of the age, and numbered the children of sovereigns among my play-mates. The daughters of the Count of Hapsburg lived with me like sisters; and even when Rudolf was elected Emperor, and their father’s elevation authorized them to expect to share the thrones of the first Sovereigns of Europe, still did our friendship continue in full force. What have innocence and inexperienced youth to do with dignity and grandeur? Things of this nature only furnished us with a subject for mirth; we past in review the Princes, both young and old, who solicited the good graces of the Emperor’s daughters; we discussed freely their merits and defects, portioned them out among our society, and amused ourselves with jesting at the unfortunate maiden, to whom the worst lot fell. The number of these illustrious suitors was seven; and as the Princesses with myself made exactly the same number, I necessarily came in for my share in this allotment.
Unfortunately, what at first was mere jesting at length became serious. The Duke of Saxony, who at his first arrival seemed to limit all his wishes to the possession of the Princess Matilda, (Rudolf’s eldest daughter,) began to imagine, that her companion Urania was the superior beauty of the two. As it was generally believed (both on account of the uniformity which prevailed in our society, and of our never being separated) that I was the sister of my friends, the Duke thought it a matter of very little consequence, to which of the Emperor’s daughters he paid his addresses; and he showed his election in my favour so plainly and so publicly, that Rudolf ordered me to quit his court. My removal was so sudden, that no step could be taken by the Duke in this important business: my father had fallen in the late popular commotions at Basle; I had never known my mother; I was consigned to the guardianship of an uncle, who had purchased considerable possessions in the neighbourhood of the Rhætian Alps, where he resided far from the tumult of the court in freedom and tranquillity.
Count Leopold Venosta received me with open arms. Painful as had been my separation from the friends of my childhood, still I was not insensible to the charm of being released from the chains of court etiquette, even though the chains which I had borne had been so light and easy. The air of liberty fanned my cheeks at every step I took; the peasants of Rhætia (who had now almost universally shaken off the fetters of their lordly masters) celebrated on all sides the feast of freedom, and invited the neighbouring inhabitants of the Valteline to participate in their happiness. Oh! what delightful scenes were these for a young and feeling heart!—and yet I had not sufficient experience to perceive their whole beauty and singularity.—Too often is liberty purchased dearly by the effusion of blood; and joy at obtaining the so long wished-for blessing is sullied by melancholy recollections of the means, by which that blessing was obtained. In this instance, it was the reward of temperance and industry, which had at length succeeded in their efforts to burst the chains of luxury and oppression. Knights and Monks, the former owners of these possessions, had long indulged without reflection or restraint every caprice of their voluptuous fancies, till they became the debtors of their own vassals; who in the mean while had been advancing silently towards their grand object through diligence in labour and propriety in morals, and now were able to set at defiance those, whose slaves and victims they had been so long. The impoverished libertines found themselves without resource; they were obliged to rest contented with bestowing angry looks on their enfranchised vassals, as often as accident brought them in their way, and with indulging their spleen in intemperate railing at (what they termed) the caprice of fortune.
But Count Leopold belonged not to the number of these reduced Lords. His opulence grew with every day; his possessions were increased by the purchase of those, which the debts of his neighbours compelled them to dispose of. Neither had the country reason to lament, that so much power was concentrated in his hands.
He allowed his vassals sufficient independence to prevent their sighing after a greater share of freedom; he parcelled out some of his estates into small farms, and bestowed them on the most industrious among his people; he even induced several of the inhabitants of the Valteline to settle upon his possessions, by allotting to them a portion of valuable but hitherto uncultivated land, which liberally replaced to them what little they abandoned in their own distracted country.
Oh! believe me, my children, the occupation renders us almost equal to the angels, when we employ our power in bidding some desart teem with harvest, and making it the habitation of happy creatures! I have witnessed many of these transformations, which the Princes of the earth could produce so often and so easily, had they but the inclination. It is in their power to copy the benevolence and might of the Creator; but they chuse rather to imitate his chastising justice, to convert the dwellings of men into heaps of stones, and to pour a deluge of blood over the smiling fruitful vallies.
Among the Lords of that part of Switzerland, whose chief possessions now belonged to my uncle, the Counts of Carlsheim held the most distinguished place. Ethelbert (the only remaining descendant of this family, at least as far as we knew) scarcely inherited from his father the tenth part of that property, which once belonged to his forefathers. Grief and vexation had bowed the young man to the ground; he sought to improve his fortune by entering into the service of foreign princes, failed in the attempt, and returned sorrowing to repair the ruined castles which still were his own, and to collect the fragments of his fallen greatness. He had no reason to reproach himself as the author of his distress; yet the consciousness of his situation and the feelings of wounded pride kept him in a constant state of humiliation, which became particularly painful at the sight of those, who had established their prosperity on the ruins of that of the house of Carlsheim.
Influenced by these sentiments, did Ethelbert most studiously avoid all intercourse with my uncle. On none of those occasions, which usually bring knights and noblemen together, did he ever appear, if there was the slightest probability of Count Leopold’s being present; and in spite of all my uncle’s endeavours to form an acquaintance with this young warrior, (for whom more reasons than one induced him to feel a lively interest,) still would his efforts in all likelihood have failed of success, had not a circumstance occurred, which absolutely enjoined their meeting, and which was the first link of a connexion which ... dare I say it?... which should never have been formed. Yet the ordinations of eternal Wisdom ought not to be censured: I press my finger on my lip, and am silent.
In the bosom of a tranquil valley situated near the Rhine rose the walls of a monastery, which in point of wealth was only inferior to the monks of Saint Basil in Solothurn, and to the valuable endowments and extensive possessions of the Great Lady of Zurich. Since time immemorial had this district belonged to the Lords of Carlsheim; and they were so conscious of its worth, that when they sold the rest of their estates beyond the power of redemption, they had only parted with this as a pledge. My uncle had already entered without success into various negociations with Count Werner (Ethelbert’s father) on this subject; and after the old man’s death, he had found his son equally determined never to relinquish entirely his right to “the jewel of the land,” for such was the popular name of the Cloister in the Wood. Various means were proposed to my uncle (several by the monks themselves) for subduing the obstinacy of the original possessor: but Leopold’s tender conscience thought some unjust, and some unfeeling, and every thing remained as it was.
—“Let us not,” he always answered, when prest upon this subject, “let us not rob this young man of the flattering hope, that by means of his claims on this delightful territory he may one day be enabled to get a firm footing in the land of his once opulent inheritance! I will not be the man who deprives him of it; far more willingly would I lend him my aid towards realizing his expectations, were I assured that he is really the character for which I take him. In the mean while, let him continue to feast his imagination with the hope of one day enjoying the treasures said to be buried in the Abbey of Curwald, and with the rest of those chimæras which have been painted to me in such brilliant colours for the purpose of seducing me to seize that by force of arms, to which without Ethelbert’s voluntary agreement I can never possess a satisfactory right.”—
It is but too certain, that no means were left untried, which might exasperate my uncle against Ethelbert of Carlsheim; who on his side suffered many an interested adviser to assail his ear with similar representations. Things were carried to such a length, that feudal war would certainly have been declared, and the dwellings of tranquillity must have been deluged with an ocean of blood, had not Count Venosta’s generosity induced him to give way on all possible occasions.
To talk over calmly these and similar circumstances with Ethelbert in person, such was my uncle’s object in endeavouring to throw himself in his way; and the obstinate care, with which the latter avoided every explanation, might as well be ascribed to a sentiment of false pride which made him feel humiliated by Count Venosta’s superior wealth, or to the insinuations of ill-disposed advisers, as to envy, or malignity, or any other bad feature in his character. Count Leopold and myself had always made it a rule to consider Ethelbert’s actions in the most favourable light. It is true, we had both been long the inhabitants of a court, the proper atmosphere of suspicion and mistrust; but on our first arrival among the frank and honest children of Helvetia, we dismissed those enemies of rural peace for ever, and determined to be open-hearted with those whose hearts were so open to us.
The circumstance which at length brought my uncle and Count Ethelbert together, was a dispute between the monks of Curwald and their Abbot; and which at last was carried to such a pitch, that it became necessary to refer it to the cloister’s liege-lord. But who was this same liege-lord? was it Leopold, who was in actual possession of the revenue, or Ethelbert, in whom the legal right still vested? The monks appealed from one to the other over and over again, and at length it became absolutely necessary that a meeting should take place between them, in order that the business might be finally adjusted.
My uncle had never forbidden my interference in matters, which did not exactly fall within the province of women; nor indeed would it have been in my power to remain inactive on this occasion, in which the honour and welfare of those persons who (after my uncle) were most dear to me, were very deeply implicated.
Christian, the persecuted Abbot of Curwald, was my father-confessor; the Prior Matthias, who shared with him the unmerited hatred of the monks, had been my instructor in botany, one of my most favourite studies, and which the Rhætian mountains afforded me every means of cultivating with success. I knew the excellence of both these men, and exerted all the powers of female persuasion, which consist in tears and entreaties, to keep my uncle steady in the interests of my venerable friends. I was too anxious about the issue of this affair to suffer Count Venosta to go alone to the place, which had been appointed for the interview between him and his rival. Report had informed me, that Ethelbert appeared disposed to protect the persecutors of innocence; I resolved, that he should be made thoroughly aware of the real state of the case; nor could I suppose, that any thing more could be requisite in order to obtain the decision, which I so ardently desired to hear pronounced. I was still to learn, that it is possible to act in opposition to a principle, of whose justice we are thoroughly convinced.
They say, that Female Innocence, forgetful of herself while she is occupied with the interests of others, was never known to supplicate without success. My uncle had exerted all his powers of argument without producing conviction in the bosom of the Count of Carlsheim. He was silent, and I was now permitted to advance a few representations on the subject. I spoke not much; but I spoke with force and feeling, and I flattered myself, that I could read in Ethelbert’s radiant eyes, that what I said had not totally failed of its effect. He answered not; but he cast on me a look so full of expression, that I felt my cheeks covered with blushes, hastily let fall my veil, and retreated towards my uncle:
—“Count Venosta,” said Ethelbert at length, “here is my hand! decide the business according to your own pleasure. So fair and virtuous a Damsel would never support the cause of guilt! the discontented monks shall keep their superior—and if the Abbot wishes to secure their obedience for ever, let him only request his powerful advocate to exert upon them the same powers of persuasion, which she has just now employed upon me, and he cannot fail to obtain his object. Methinks the Man might make himself Lord of the whole universe, would he but use this means, and though loaded with crimes might steal himself into Paradise, covered by the protecting mantle of such a saint.—”
These compliments seemed to me not less free than flattering. A look too of my uncle’s informed me, that they were by no means to his taste, and I quitted the room embarrassed and uneasy.
I had the satisfaction to see my friends justified and reinstated in their dignities, in defiance of their numerous foes; but I had also the mortification to experience some consequences of my well-intended interference, which were by no means agreeable. The first was a very severe remonstrance from Count Venosta respecting the ardour, or the importunity as he termed it, with which I had prest my suit upon Ethelbert.
—“Had Urania been a simple Alpine shepherdess,” said my uncle, “who, concealed, among her native mountains, had never heard of the insolent expectations, which men ground upon the slightest demonstration of female good-will towards them, I might, perhaps, find some excuse for the free tone with which she spoke to a stranger, and the tender expression which she infused into her supplicating looks; but Urania, educated in a Court, should have been more upon her guard. Handsome as are his features, the Count of Carlsheim’s bold and ardent gaze was such as by no means gave me a favourable opinion of his delicacy; and still less was I pleased by the liberty which he took of addressing you in a strain of flattery so undisguised. Hitherto I have been disposed to entertain a favourable opinion of the young man; but I confess, what I have seen of him to-day has shaken my goodwill not a little.”—
I only answered Count Leopold’s warning speech by a respectful silence; and I afterwards reproached myself for the manner in which I had acted, though I was unconscious what I had done, for which I deserved to be reproached. My heart was innocent; my intention was pure; the consequences of the step which I had taken, however, soon convinced me that I had really committed an error.
Ethelbert of Carlsheim, he who, during whole years that my uncle sought to obtain his acquaintance, was never to be found; he, who even now that they were at length known to each other, seemed by no means eager to cultivate a closer intercourse with the family of Venosta, from the time of our first meeting presented himself before me almost every day. If I sought the neighbouring church, it always so happened that he had chosen exactly the same hour for paying his devotions—if I sat in my balcony, he was sure to ride past the Castle—at the rural feasts, for which among our vassals an excuse was never wanting, and from which I dared not absent myself through fear of mortifying the good people, Ethelbert’s hand was always offered to conduct me to the dance. At length it so chanced, that I was under the necessity of confessing that it was to him, that I owed the preservation of my life. One evening as I was proceeding towards the Castle in the twilight, a procession of villagers, returning from a wedding, happened to cross my path, accompanied by a variety of instruments which produced the most noisy and discordant sounds imagiable. The white banners fluttering before the eyes of my palfrey, and the clattering cymbals which stunned her ears, caused her to take fright and set off at full speed; and in all probability she would have dashed with me from the brow of a neighbouring precipice, to which she was hastening, had not Count Ethelbert fortunately heard my shrieks. He rescued me from my danger, and in return had the happiness (as he called it) to accompany me back to the Castle, and took an opportunity to make by the way a declaration of the most passionate affection.
Another time, late at night I was alarmed by a fire breaking out in my anti-chamber, and the flames spread with sufficient rapidity to make me swoon through terror. When I recovered, I found myself supported by Count Ethelbert, who advised me to save myself by flight from the threatening danger, and seemed perfectly ready to assist me in putting his advice in execution. However, as I had now regained my presence of mind sufficiently to see, that there was no absolute necessity for taking such a step, my flight extended no further than to my uncle’s chamber, whither I requested to be conveyed without delay.
Leopold received my preserver with marked coldness, and concluded his expressions of gratitude with enquiring—“by what strange though fortunate accident he had arrived there so speedily and so exactly at the time, when his assistance was most wanted?”—Ethelbert in his answer talked much of the good angels who watch over the favourites of Heaven, which my uncle heard without any great appearance of satisfaction; and as soon as the Count of Carlsheim had taken his departure, I received a very serious lecture respecting him. My uncle was inclined to believe, that the accident which had lately alarmed my palfrey, and the fire which had thrown me under Ethelbert’s protection, were both devices intended to bind me to him by the chains of gratitude. It was at least certain, that no sooner had my accident taken place, than the bridal procession disappeared; and the fire had done no other damage, than consuming part of the arras with which my anti-chamber was hung.
—“If the Count of Carlsheim is anxious to win your affections,” said my uncle, “why does he not take the straight road to obtain them? why does he not explain his views respecting you to me? there was a time, when I should not have refused you to him, and in which I intended to have done an act of justice by making him once more lord over the possessions of his ancestors, by giving him the hand of Urania, the future heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—
I knew not, what intelligence or what observations could have induced Count Leopold (who was generally so much inclined to think well of every one) so soon to view Ethelbert’s actions in an unfavourable light. As for myself, I gave these accusations by no means implicit confidence; and I strove to find excuses for the conduct of a man, who every time that I saw him made a stronger impression on my heart, and who daily rendered it more difficult for me to suspect him of any thing wrong.
Ethelbert of Carlsheim was unfortunate, and had been deprived of the greatest part of those possessions, which ought to have been his birth right; this alone would have been a sufficient reason for my viewing him with interest; but how much was that interest increased by the discovery, that he employed the little power, which he still possest, in relieving the misfortunes of others; and that by the protection which he granted the opprest, he had himself incurred the animosity of many powerful foes? what could be more noble and more generous than such a proceeding, and how was it possible to suppose, that a man who could act thus, could ever deserve the most distant appearance of suspicion?
Edith, Countess of Mayenfield, was compelled to fly from her castle, by her bitter enemy the ambitious Abbot of St. Gall: she was a widow, and there were suspicions (and those no slight ones) that she was indebted for the removal of her husband to a present of wine from the cellar of this dignified prelate. Willingly would he have also sacrificed the unprotected lady, who was the more dangerous obstacle to the enjoyment of his hopes, inasmuch as she was daily expected to produce a child, which (if a son) would be entitled to the whole possessions of his deceased father.
Edith therefore was compelled to seek safety in flight; the time of her delivery was near; she was beset with enemies on all sides; nor could she doubt what would be the fate of herself and her offspring, should he fall into the Abbot’s hands. In this dreadful situation she summoned up all her courage, and under the protecting mantle of the night employed the only means of saving herself from destruction, which the severity of her fate had now left her. Her wearied horses refused to bear her further, and she was still far distant from the place, in which she hoped to find shelter and assistance. She doubted not, that the Abbot would pursue her; not a moment was to be lost; she quitted her litter, and resolved to prosecute her painful way on foot, unaccompanied except by her orphan daughter, the young and lovely Minna. She ordered her attendants to pursue their journey with as much diligence as possible, hoping by this artifice to lead her pursuers astray. As for herself, she determined to conceal herself in the depth of the forest, thinking she should find there some retired cottage, in which she might recover herself from anxiety and fatigue, and give birth in tranquil security to her unfortunate fatherless infant. As to being betrayed to her tyrant, she was too well acquainted with the honest and benevolent temper of the inhabitants of these mountains to harbour any apprehensions on that head.
The paths through which she wandered were solitary. At length the trampling of a steed was heard; and soon after a knight, unaccompanied, presented himself before the unfortunate lady, who, supported by the powerless hand of the youthful Minna, was scarcely able to prevent herself from sinking on the ground: this solitary knight was Count Ethelbert; he was returning from the chace, and had sent his attendants forward.
The Countess of Mayenfield found it unnecessary to represent to him, how much her situation required assistance, or to explain her name and the dangers which still menaced her. Before she had time to request his services, Ethelbert was already occupied in serving her: his pealing horn soon collected his attendants round him. A slight but easy litter was constructed with all diligence; and before an hour elapsed, the fugitives rejoiced to find themselves within the sheltering walls of a castle, whose strength was capable of defying the malice of their enemies, in case they should attempt to deprive them forcibly of their friendly retreat.
It so happened that Count Venosta also had dedicated this same day to the chace: the sport had enticed him to a distance from home. Midnight had long been past; and I still sat at my spinning wheel surrounded by my maidens, waiting with most anxious expectation for my uncle’s return. A thousand painful thoughts and confused images glanced across my imagination, in which, as usual, Count Ethelbert was not forgotten; suddenly the folding doors of my chamber were thrown open, and the object of my thoughts stood before me, almost breathless through haste and anxiety.
—“Dear lady,” said he, “I come to ask a boon of you. A guest of no mean rank has arrived at my castle, and there is no female there to bid her welcome: a litter waits at your door; suffer me to entreat that you will let it convey you to my residence.”—
—“Sir Knight, are you in your senses? This extraordinary request....”—
—“Is the boldest, the most unpardonable, that fancy can imagine: but judge by the want of preparation with which I propose it, how urgent is the necessity for its being gratified without delay.—”
The Count of Carlsheim had by no means chosen the most fortunate moment for obtaining any favour at all from me, much less one of so extraordinary a nature. In solitude I had reflected calmly and seriously on my uncle’s warning: the frightened palfrey, and the fire so easily extinguished, came into my head; and the uneasiness in which Count Venosta’s absence had obliged me to pass the last hours, by no means inclined me to view these circumstances so much to Ethelbert’s advantage as usual: at that moment I saw him with my uncle’s eyes; and of course this proposal appeared to me as nothing but a most bare-faced attempt on my lover’s part to betray me into his power.
—“You are offended?” said Ethelbert, who read displeasure strongly painted on my every feature; “well then! I must have recourse to a more eloquent pleader.”—
Saying this, he hastened into the anti-chamber, and returned with a little beautiful child, whose countenance expressed the deepest anxiety and sorrow, and whose blue eyes filled with tears strengthened the impression, which was made on me by her unexpected appearance.
—“Ah! dear good lady!” said the little mourner, while she sank on her knees before me, and kist my hand; “I entreat you, do what this knight requests of you! My mother and myself are alone in a gloomy castle, where there are none but stern-looking men, with great beards and heavy swords; and my mother is so very ill! and she asked so anxiously, ‘was there no lady who would comfort and assist her in her sickness!’ and then this knight who saved us from dying in the forest, answered, that he knew a lady whom he loved as his sister, and that he would bring her to my mother, if she could be persuaded to follow him; and then he took me along with him, that I might help to prevail on you to come and be kind to my poor mother: and now I am here, you will be prevailed on; I am sure of it, because you look on me so kindly! Come, dear good lady! Come!”—
I kist the pretty suppliant without thoroughly comprehending what it was that she requested me to do, and cast an inquiring look upon Ethelbert. He related his adventure with the Countess of Mayenfield in so interesting a manner, that it was impossible for me to hesitate a moment longer, as to what course I should pursue. Indeed, the history of this unfortunate lady was not unknown to me, when Ethelbert mentioned her name: her misfortunes had for some time been the general subject of conversation, and had already cost me many a sympathising tear, and many an ardent wish to find some means of giving her assistance.
I was deaf to all the suggestions of prudence, and threw myself into the litter, wishing that I could have given the horses wings, so eager was I to reach the illustrious sufferer. My nurse accompanied me; a discreet and benevolent woman, who was likely to be of much more use to the Countess than myself. So completely was I occupied by my anxiety for the poor lady, that I scarcely paid any attention to Ethelbert’s tender expressions of gratitude, or to the representations of my nurse, who hinted to me with some appearance of discontent, that I had acted with rather too much rashness in this business; she assured me, that her presence at the Castle of Carlsheim would be quite sufficient without my giving myself the trouble to go there; and she confest, that she thought Count Venosta would have good reason to be offended at finding on his return home, that I had quitted his house during his absence with a young knight, in spite of darkness and an heavy fall of snow.
We reached the Castle; the sight of us served to give new life to the exhausted lady, who surrounded by none but men had met with but sorry attendance. She embraced me, and called me by the tender name of sister. I soon confided her to the care of my nurse, and quitted her chamber for the purpose of making arrangements for her treatment; and I gave my directions in a tone of as much earnestness, as had I been in my uncle’s castle. Anxiety about the Countess made me take the whole business upon my own hands; I saw nothing extraordinary in what I was doing, and could by no means conceive, why Count Ethelbert’s people examined me with looks of such surprise; nor why he was himself always by my side, expressing the most excessive delight and satisfaction at every thing that I did, and loading me with such a profusion of thanks, that it was utterly impossible for me to ascribe them all to the interest, which he felt about his unfortunate guest.
Before day-break, Edith became the mother of a boy; and never did any other mother feel equal rapture with hers, when for the first time she prest him to her bosom. In this new-born babe she embraced not merely her child, but the future conqueror of her foes, and the preserver of her family. Nothing more than the birth of this boy was necessary to destroy every claim of the avaricious Abbot of St. Gall upon Mayenfield, and reduce him to the condition of a feudal dependent. Count Ethelbert on his part neglected not to spread abroad the news of the birth of a young Count of Mayenfield, and to invite through his heralds both friends and foes to convince themselves by their eyes of the existence of this infant nobleman.
Count Venosta had experienced no trifling anxiety on being informed of my midnight excursion, the motive of which no one was able to explain to his satisfaction. He determined to examine into the real nature of the transaction himself; accordingly the first sunbeams saw him cross the draw-bridge of Ethelbert’s castle, accompanied by his whole train of hunters, whom he had ordered to hold themselves prepared for a serious engagement, in case the nature of things should make it necessary to come to hostilities.
The Count of Carlsheim was already abroad, employed in business which regarded the adventure of the past night. My uncle found me sitting by the bed-side of the newly-delivered Countess, whose ardent thanks for the assistance, which I had afforded her, instantly removed every trace of anger from his brow; and the severe lecture which he intended to bestow on me, was softened into a gentle remonstrance against my acting in general with too much precipitation.
Ethelbert returned; he shared with my uncle and myself the office of presenting the new-born heir of Mayenfield at the baptismal fount, and we gave the child its father’s name, Ludolf. From motives of propriety, we were all anxious to remove the invalid (who earnestly entreated me not to abandon her) to my uncle’s castle; but she was at first too weak to bear the journey, and I was under the necessity of submitting for some time longer to act as the mistress of Count Ethelbert’s castle.
Now then affairs wore that appearance, which I am convinced it had always been my lover’s plan to give them. Doubtless had he thought proper, he might have contrived to show his fair guest all the duties of hospitality without any interference of mine: but he eagerly made use of the opportunity which presented itself, to draw me into a more intimate connection. He endeavoured to convince me by his reliance on my humanity of the esteem which he entertained for my character; and at the same time he hoped to inspire me with a favourable opinion of his own, by making me a daily witness of the noble treatment which he afforded to a stranger, who had no claim to his protection except her need of it, and who could make him no other return for his kindness, except the involving him in her own difficulties and dangers.
Ethelbert’s plan succeeded with me completely, and even my uncle began to view him in a more favourable light. Both were equally interested about the Countess, and swore to exert themselves to the utmost in endeavouring to reinstate her and her new-born son in the rights, which were still detained from them by the Abbot of St. Gall; the similarity of their objects naturally induced a sort of confidence between them; and Ethelbert lost no opportunity of turning this confidence to the best account. Perhaps he already reckoned himself on the point of obtaining that, which had long been the mark at which he aimed, though he had never acknowledged it in words; namely, the possession of my hand: but my uncle soon gave a fresh proof, that at present he by no means looked forward to, or desired a connection between the families of Carlsheim and Venosta.
The history of my nocturnal journey (many gave it the name of an elopement,) had not been kept a secret; the situation of the Countess’s affairs made it necessary for her to receive several strangers; they always found me at her side, saw that I acted as the mistress of Count Ethelbert’s house, and the remarks to which all this gave occasion were frequently by no means to my credit. Some asserted, that I was already betrothed to the Lord of Carlsheim; others fabricated out of facts and guesses such a story, as offended my feelings too severely to admit of my repeating it here, and which no sooner came to my uncle’s knowledge, than he resolved at all events to remove me from so unusual a situation. The invalid was now sufficiently recovered to bear the fatigue of a journey; and an abode in the house of the potent Count Venosta was likely to furnish her both with more consequence and security, than she could expect to find at the Castle of Carlsheim.
My uncle and Ethelbert looked gloomily; my heart was heavy and sad: the fair Edith of Mayenfield alone exprest in words, what no one else was willing to declare to the other.
—“Oh! Heaven,” she cried at taking leave of him, who had till then been her protector, while she prest mine and Ethelbert’s hands fast together, between her own “unite these two noblest souls, with which you ever blest humanity: this is the best recompense for such generosity and such disinterested friendship, as I have experienced from them both!”—
Edith’s expressive eyes were directed towards heaven; Ethelbert and myself blushed as we gazed on each other, without being able to pronounce a syllable. Methought, Ethelbert should have spoken on this occasion;—but he was silent.
The Countess was long our guest. Open feud was declared between her defenders and the obstinate Abbot of St. Gall, who was worsted in every skirmish without ever being entirely subdued. The contest was carried on for a considerable time: in the mean while my uncle (to whom age advanced with steps so lingering, that no one could easily have guest his years) discovered, that the charms of the fair widow were still of great power: yet perhaps it was I, to whom the idea first suggested itself, that an union between them would be productive of happiness on both sides. I soon observed, that my hints were far from disagreeable to either party; and I exulted in the hope of soon beholding my friend and my benefactor united in a new course of domestic happiness.
When I imparted my designs to Count Ethelbert, (who was now a frequent visitor at our castle) he listened to me with the greatest astonishment. His countenance at this moment assumed an expression, which I had never seen it wear before.
—“Lady!” said he, “am I awake, or dreaming?—An union, which must deprive you of your fairest expectations, and will put a stranger in possession of all those rights which ought to be your own, is such an union contrived by yourself?”—
—“And when did Count Ethelbert,” I answered with a look of surprise not inferior to his own, “when did Count Ethelbert discover the least trace of selfishness in my character? it is impossible, that such mean considerations should really hold a place in his bosom; or is this only intended as a trial of his friend?”—
He bit his lip, and was for some time silent. My eyes were fixed upon him steadily; and it was long, before he could recover himself sufficiently to assume a different air, and explain to me, that in an affair in which he had not personally the slightest concern, he could only be anxious about my interest; and he advanced many arguments to prove, that the most noble and generous soul might feel very differently on occasions which regarded his friend, than he would have felt in affairs, which only related to himself.
I believed every thing that Ethelbert told me; in fact he was soon after complaisant enough to allow, that my reasons were not entirely without weight, and at length even went so far as to declare that on consideration it appeared to him very possible, that an union between the Count Venosta and the widow of Ludolf of Mayenfield might be an advantageous event for all parties. He also promised, that as soon as the next expedition against the Abbot of St. Gall should have taken place, he would come to my assistance, and use every power of entreaty and persuasion to forward this connection, which I so ardently desired.
This expedition was directed against one of the Castles, which our common enemy detained from its rightful owner; on the morning appointed for its taking place, out forces set out before daybreak, in pursuit of a victory of which they reckoned themselves secure.
My friend and myself had already seen our heroes return victorious from their excursions too often, to make us think it necessary to accompany their departure with signs and expressions of anxiety. We had exactly ascertained the time, when we might expect them back, and had laid a plan (with the assistance of such warriors as were left behind) for receiving them with all the pageantry and honours of conquest. A procession of knights and ladies was intended to welcome them on their return, and at the head of the joyous band was to wave a banner adorned with mottos and emblems; this gorgeous ornament was to be embroidered by our own hands, and our needles were plyed with unwearied industry, in order that it might be finished at the appointed time.
While engaged at this delightful and now half completed task, infrequently termed the lovely Edith in jest “my most venerable aunt;” and in revenge she embroidered upon a vacant shield the united initials of Ethelbert and Urania. By degrees our discourse took a more serious turn. She declared to me her surprise at Ethelbert’s persisting in not publicly declaring his love for me, a circumstance which had long been the cause of much secret uneasiness and curiosity to myself. She assured me also, that she had no wish more ardent in becoming Countess of Vonosta, than to be authorized to insist on an explanation from the bashful knight (as she called the Count of Carlsheim,) and to become the instrument of accomplishing his happiness and mine.
It was at this moment, that a sudden noise in the court of the Castle interrupted our work and our discourse. We sprang from our seats: the trampling of horses would have led us to suppose, that our lovers were returned, had so speedy a termination of their business been possible. We bade our maidens hasten to enquire the news, and flew ourselves to the window in order to learn (if possible), with our own eyes, what had happened.
Instantly the Countess started back with a loud shriek, and fainted; nor was my own condition much better on beholding in the court a single warrior covered with blood, and holding two unmounted horses, whose trappings spoke too plainly the fate of their riders!
—“What has happened?” I cried from the balcony, in a voice half choaked by anxiety.
—“Ah! noble lady!” answered the messenger, “my lord your uncle ... the Count of Carlsheim too ... an ambuscade among the mountains ... both taken prisoners ... help! help for heaven’s sake!”—
Our people hastened to assist the soldier, who seemed to be desperately wounded, and could scarcely hold himself upright through loss of blood; the agony, which this news occasioned me, instead of overpowering me like my friend, gave me additional strength, and I lost not a moment in hastening to attempt the rescue of our knights. I directed the preparations myself, and before an hour had elapsed, all the warriors whom my uncle had left behind to protect the Castle, were completely armed and ready to set out. I determined to head them myself; and being accoutred in a light suit of armour, I hastened to bid farewell to my afflicted friend (whom I had committed to the care of her women), and to comfort her with the hope of my returning crowned with success.
—“What, Urania?” exclaimed Edith wringing her hands; “and do you too leave me?—Heavenly mercy! what will become of me! take me with you, Urania, or stab me before you go! foreboding terrors weigh down my heart! dreadful as my sufferings have been already, I feel that I have still much more to endure! Urania, we shall never meet again!”—
I prest my trembling friend to my heart with affection, recommended her the kindness of her attendants, and then hastened, where I was far less invited by courage and resolution than by urgent necessity and despair. We gave the reins to our coursers, flew over the plain, and soon reached the winding pass through the mountains, where our brave friends had been subdued by treachery and malice. Ah! what a dreadful sight! the place of combat floated with blood! various were the occasions presented to induce our pity to stop, in the hope of rescuing from death some of his yet lingering victims: but still more weighty considerations compelled us to close our ears against the cries of suffering humanity, and pursue our progress without delay. However, I failed not to leave some of my people behind to discharge those offices, which I would so much more gladly have fulfilled myself; and I charged them (in case any thing of importance could be learned from those who still survived) to lose no time in bringing me the information.
It was from them, that I learned the road, which the forces of the Abbot of St. Gall (whose number trebled ours) had taken with the captive knights. It was not yet evening, when I reached the fortress, which had been pointed out to me as the prison of my friends.
We prepared for storming the walls. I possest among my followers several experienced warriors, who supplied my want of intelligence in affairs of this nature, and who seemed to derive double strength from witnessing my resolution, the resolution of a distracted woman! It was not long, before we saw a white flag waved by the besieged; and soon after (having received our solemn promise for the security of his invaluable person) we beheld on the battlements the robber of my beloved friends, the oppressor of the unprotected innocent, in short the execrable Abbot of St. Gall.
I had taken off my helmet to cool my burning cheeks; and my ringlets still adorned with flowers, which in my haste I had forgotten to remove, streamed freely in the wind of evening: the Abbot therefore easily guest at my sex and name.
—“You are welcome, fair damsel of Sargans!” said the monk with a malicious smile; “the friends, of whom you are in pursuit, are no longer inmates of these walls: then forbear to persecute the innocent! lay aside that heavy armour, which so ill befits your sex, and enter to partake with us, poor monks, of a friendly though frugal entertainment!”—
I was already preparing to return the insulter such an answer, as his insolent speech demanded; but ere I had time to speak,—“treachery! treachery!”—was shrieked in my ears by an hundred voices. I looked round, and saw the glittering of hostile swords. My people were beaten back, and the ground was strewed with their corses—the soldiers of the perfidious Abbot had stolen upon us through secret passages, had taken my followers by surprise, and were hewing for themselves a way to me with their faulchions. Terror deprived me of my senses! what would have become of me in this dreadful moment of confusion and fear I know not, had not my faithful Gertrude, who had followed me to battle with undaunted courage, been close to my side; and ere I fell, she caught me in her arms. The loss of my helmet made it easy for me to be recognized by my pale and feminine features. She seized the casque of one of the Abbot’s soldiers, who happened to be struck down near us, and concealed my face with it; she then wrapped me in his cloak, on which the Abbot’s coat of arms was emblazoned; and under favour of this disguise she succeeded in extricating me from the throng, and in conducting me in safety towards the side, from which the combat seemed at that time to be retiring.
I recovered myself, and we hastened to seat ourselves on horseback. Gertrude convinced me that my presence was now quite unavailing, and that my being taken prisoner would be unavoidable, if I suffered the least delay. In truth, my nerves had been too much shaken by this last dreadful piece of treachery to admit of my adopting any other resource than flight, the woman’s constant refuge.
The darkness of the night enabled us to escape; and we arrived in safety at the castle, which (while unacquainted with my own want of strength and ability, and the power and perfidy of the foe with whom I had to deal) I had left with such sanguine hopes of victory. We were obliged to traverse the narrow pass through the mountains, where the fatal ambuscade had been stationed in the morning: as I hastened through it, methought the groans of dying men sounded in my ears, and my hair stood erect, and my blood ran cold, as I listened. Woman’s weakness re-assumed it’s rights; and she, who so lately had dared to trust herself among hostile faulchions, now trembled at a sound, at a shadow, which only existed in her over-heated imagination.
I reached the Castle more dead than alive. We found the Castle-gates closed. We called in vain for admittance; no signal was attended to; every thing within seemed to be silent as the grave: no glimmering of light was visible in the high-arched casements, and we were compelled to pass the night in a small ruined chapel at no great distance from the Castle.
Convinced, that nothing but the fear of being surprised by the enemy could have induced the Castle’s inhabitants to observe such obstinate discretion, we waited for morning with the utmost impatience and anxiety. Perhaps the enemy might pursue the fugitives hither, and make himself master of the Castle, before our vassals could be summoned to its defence? perhaps, it might already have been attacked, and might be at that very moment in possession of the foe? I had left the Countess of Mayenfield but ill-protected. My anxiety to rescue my uncle and Count Ethelbert had induced me to leave no one behind, except our women, the old seneschal, the warder, and a few domestics.
At break of day we again approached the Castle; we then perceived (what the extreme darkness of the night had before prevented our discovering) that the draw-bridge had not been raised. We crost it, and on approaching the gates had the satisfaction to see them opened for our admittance by the Seneschal. We were received by the weak old man with every appearance of alarm: the first questions which were asked on both sides related to our return unaccompanied, and to the ghastly appearance of the old man; but neither of us could restrain impatience sufficiently to give an answer. I hastened into the court yard, anxious to embrace my friend, and consult with her, what precautions should be taken for our future safety; but the first thing, which met my eyes on entering, was an heap of bleeding corses!
I started back in horror, and wished to ask, what dreadful events had taken place in my absence; but fear and agony choaked my words. Besides, I was soon summoned to the assistance of Gertrude, at whose feet the Seneschal (who probably had exhausted his little remaining strength in opening the gates) had now fallen senseless.
Yet while so many scenes of terror are reserved for my pen, why do I dwell with such minuteness on the first? I will not describe, how the whole shocking mystery gradually unfolded itself; I will rather state at once and briefly the total sum of my misfortune.
The only object which after the loss of Ethelbert and my uncle was still dear to me, my friend, my Edith, she too had been torn from me during my unfortunate expedition. Scarcely had I quitted her, when a troop of unknown enemies had forcibly gained entrance; had either slain or mortally wounded the few male inhabitants of the Castle; had confined the women in the upper apartments; and when they retired after their bloody work, had conveyed away with them the Countess of Mayenfield and her weeping children! The robbers closed the doors after them and fled, leaving the Castle in that fearful solitude, which had occasioned me so much anxiety and surprise. The Warder and the Seneschal were the only men, whose wounds had not already terminated their existence; but fainting through loss of blood they heard not the signals, which I made to obtain admittance. It was morning, before they were sufficiently recovered to examine into the circumstances of the former day; and while the first had dragged his feeble steps towards the Countess’s apartment, the other had sought the Castle-portal, with the intention of obtaining assistance from the neighbouring villagers.
The Countess’s women, with their hands still fettered, now threw themselves at my feet, and enquired, what was become of their beloved mistress, whom I had imprudently left behind under such inadequate protection. Grief for her loss overpowered our apprehensions of further danger; and had our foe thought proper to make use of the present opportunity, he would have found us an easy prey.
About mid-day, some peasants in the neighbourhood arrived, and brought with them the young Minna of Mayenfield, whom they had found weeping and bewildered among the mountains.
—“Oh! dear, dear lady!” she exclaimed, while she threw herself into my arms “my mother! oh! what have the villains done with my mother!”—
I could only answer with my tears. The child too was in such dreadful agitation, that it was long before I could obtain from her an explanation of the manner, in which the Countess had been conveyed away: as for herself, the ravishers became weary of her incessant tears and shrieks, and abandoned her among the mountains. How painful must the unhappy mother have felt this parting with her only daughter! nothing could have induced her to submit to it, except the threat of her persecutor to deprive her also of the baby at her bosom.
The evening was far advanced, before I could recover myself sufficiently to take some precautions for our security, and make such enquiries, as appeared to me highly necessary; the gates were carefully fastened; the draw-bridge was raised. As our strength was unequal to the task of burying the dead, we were obliged to throw the corses into a ruined well, situated in a back-corner in a remote part of the Castle: and this melancholy duty being performed, we employed ourselves in collecting every circumstance, which might assist us to guess at the authors of our late misfortune.
The Seneschal, before whose bed the consultation was held, produced many weighty reasons for asserting, that the Abbot of St. Gall (to whose account we were inclined to set down any wickedness) in the present instance was perfectly innocent. As to the person, at whose door he was disposed to lay the blame, he obstinately refused to give the least hint; but he made no scruple of avowing that he was not without suspicions.
The little Minna, who now never stirred a moment from my side, and to whom we were not paying the least attention, interrupted us to say,—“that she had never heard the Abbot of St. Gall speak, and that she was sure, that the voice of the chief robber was not unknown to her, though she could not recollect where she had heard it. She had even said as much, while in his power; but the only reward of her recollection had been a blow, which struck her senseless at his feet. Shortly after she had been forced from her mother’s arms, and left among the mountains.”—
—“Alas, my child,” said I, “you were probably deceived by some fancied resemblance!—But what must now be done? where is the messenger, who informed us yesterday of the fatal ambuscade?—Perhaps, he may be able to give us some insight into the author of this second attack.”—
—“Ah! would to God,” answered the old Seneschal, “that I had either examined that messenger more circumstantially, or at least had watched him closer! yet who could have imputed treachery to Dietrich, or suspect a man, who seemed to be at the point of death, of an intention to escape?”
—“To escape?” I exclaimed; “has Dietrich fled? when and how did this take place?”—
—“We were all busy in making preparations for binding up his wounds, of whose pain he complained bitterly, but which it seems none of us ever saw. We left him alone for a few moments, and in the meanwhile he disappeared. We sought him long, but he was not to be found; and we finished by conjecturing, that courage and fidelity had induced him to follow you in spite of his wounds, and to endeavour at contributing to his master’s rescue; though we doubted not from his apparently weak condition, that he must have died by the way.”—
—“And why should not your conjecture have been well-founded? Dietrich was ever one of Count Venosta’s most faithful servants.”—
The Seneschal assured me, that during the hostile attack which followed close on the heels of Dietrich’s disappearance, circumstances had occurred, which made him view the fellow’s escape in a very different light. He was proceeding to explain himself more clearly, when the sound of a trumpet threw us all into the most violent alarm! every one hastened to the place, where duty or inclination called them: the Warder ascended the watch-tower; my terrified damsels fled to conceal themselves; in the mean while, I and the little Minna descended to the lower battlements, in order to inform myself at once of the extent of my danger.
—“Almighty powers!” I exclaimed, on casting a fearful look on the plain before the fortress, which was now covered with warriors; “is it possible?—my uncle’s banner?—Count Ethelbert’s soldiers too!—surely this must be a dream!”—
Count Venosta now advanced before the rest, in order to answer in person the usual questions, which the Warder asked from the tower; but I had not patience enough to wait for the termination of this ceremony. The Castle-gates were thrown open; the draw-bridge was let down; and I already was clasped in the arms of my beloved uncle, ere I had yet convinced myself, that his delivery was real.
—“Yes! my dear child!” exclaimed Count Leopold, as soon as I had recovered myself from the first tumult of delight and astonishment; “yes! I am free, and knowest thou, to whom we are both indebted for life and all that we possess? ’tis to this hero, whose character I have so long mistaken, and from whom my suspicions have till now with-held the only gift, which is worthy to reward his merits!”—
—“What!” I replied—“Count Ethelbert? he, who was made prisoner at the same moment with yourself?”—
—“Heaven be thanked, that he escaped!” interrupted my uncle. “While the Abbot’s soldiers (after their successful ambuscade among the mountains) were conveying me to their lord, Count Ethelbert was employed in collecting his remaining vassals, whom he had left behind to protect his castle: with these he hastened to my succour, and this morning saw my deliverance effected. Oh! my Urania, help me to discharge my debts to this excellent man! none but yourself can do it!—Draw near, Count Ethelbert, and receive the hand of the sole heiress of all those possessions, of which your ancestors formerly were the lords; the hand of one, who boasts a still more precious title, the hand of that beloved-one, whom you have so long adored in secret.—Why advance you not? stretch forth your hand, and clasp that, which Urania has not hesitated to extend towards you.”—
Ethelbert was still silent for a moment: at length he advanced a few steps, his left hand placed on the hilt of his sword, his right upon his bosom.
—“Count Venosta,” said he, “have I demanded of you the hand of the heiress of Sargans?”—
—“I understand; you allude to my intended union with the Countess of Mayenfield.—But fear not, that I need recall my words: when I have restored your paternal possessions, I shall still have enough remaining to confer a rich dowry on my wife.”—
—“I speak not of that: I only ask, have I ever entreated you to make me the lovely Urania’s husband?”—
—“No, and I can well guess the reason of your silence! your fortunes are fallen; your heart is proud; you dreaded a rejection: but surely now there can exist no difference between us. You are my preserver; I offer you in gratitude my dearest treasure, and you love Urania with too much passion to reject her hand.”—
—“Yes, Count Venosta; yes, I love her!—but my pride requires that all the world should know, that I became your nephew through your own free-will; without your having been moved to pity by lovesick entreaties, and without my having been obliged to enter into humiliating explanations.”—
—“My friend! my preserver! why pain me by recollecting at such a time ... but you shall be satisfied!—Now then, all the world may know, that I freely offer my niece’s hand to the Count of Carlsheim, supplicate him to accept it, and wait his answer with impatience.”—
—“And you, lady?” said Ethelbert. —“Urania! pronounce my doom!”—
I was silent; I blushed and cast down my eyes. Oh! this noble pride, which made him hesitate to accept the hand of the richest heiress in Helvetia, lest he should be suspected of having sought it through interested motives, would have gained him my heart, had it not already long been his! my uncle was the interpreter of my looks; I did not contradict him; my lover clasped me in his arms for the first time, and I heard myself called by the title, which was dearest to me in the world.
These moments were heavenly! alas! how soon were they interrupted by the most bitter recollections!—my uncle turned from the scene of our happiness, and enquired—“where he should find the Countess of Mayenfield!”—
Oh Heaven! what did I suffer at hearing that question! what did I suffer, when compelled to answer it! vainly should I attempt to describe Count Venosta’s situation, when informed of the loss of his beauteous Edith!
Men express grief and resentment in a different manner from us, helpless females. My narrative of Edith’s carrying off was followed not by idle complaints, but by active exertions to recover her. The wearied soldiery again seated themselves on horseback, and were ordered to scour the country round in pursuit of the ravishers. I was myself too much interested in the business to oppose my uncle’s orders; but Count Ethelbert, who retained more presence of mind than the rest, enquired, whither we should first direct our course in hopes of delivering the Countess?
—“Doubtless,” answered my uncle, “the place most likely to be converted into her prison must needs be the nearest fortress belonging to the perfidious Abbot; no one can doubt, that this misfortune is a work of his hand.”—
Here I interrupted him by stating, that I had heard the Seneschal very positively contradict this supposition; and I entreated, that before the expedition set out, the old domestic might be examined, as he seemed to possess more information on the subject, than he had yet imparted to me. Unfortunately, we found on enquiry, that shortly after my uncle’s arrival the Seneschal had expired of his wounds; and Count Venosta (who in the violence of his despair preferred acting upon uncertainties to remaining entirely idle) immediately entered upon his search after the unfortunate Edith. At the end of several months of fruitless enquiry, we were obliged to abandon all hopes of success.
It was during this period of anxiety, which seldom permitted my uncle and Ethelbert to lay aside their armour, that I received the name of Countess of Carlsheim. The ceremony was sad and solemn, prognosticating the days, which were so soon to follow it.
I was now the wife of my lover, and enjoyed that sort of happiness, which most women enjoy who marry a warrior-husband; I was the object of a wild tempestuous passion, whose expressions were sometimes so rough and violent, that they might have been mistaken for those of hatred. In truth, I had fancied, that the happiness of marriage was somewhat different; but alas! what girl does not fancy the same, and find at length that she has been deceived?
No information could be obtained respecting the Countess of Mayenfield. The Abbot of St. Gall persevered in asserting his claim to her possessions; and the deep melancholy, which took possession of my uncle, betrayed but too plainly, that his love for the dear lost-one was stronger, than he had dared to acknowledge either to her, or to himself.
—“My children,” said he one day to me and Ethelbert, “Edith is lost to me, and with her the joys of life! It was folly in me to expect on the brink of the grave, that I should be so singularly fortunate, as to feel my eyes closed by the hand of affection. I have suffered for that folly; I feel that my powers of life are hourly growing weaker, feel that the day of death is at hand. The few evening hours which remain, before the night of the grave closes around me, will I dedicate to solitude and repose. All that I possess is now your property; I only reserve for myself the pleasant vale of Munster, and the Castle of Upper Halbstein on the banks of the Rhine. I will hide myself in the distant shades of the first, when opprest by serious melancholy thoughts, and repair to the second, whenever more lively moments make me wish for the society and comfort of Ethelbert and his beloved Urania.”—
I opposed this determination of Count Leopold; but my husband did not second me. He saw, that this arrangement was greatly to his advantage; and I had already found on several occasions, that he was not quite so incapable of attention to his own interest, as I had formerly supposed. It by no means occurred to him, that Count Venosta proposed to do too much for us; on the contrary, he lost no time in giving solidity to my uncle’s kind declarations, and only appeared to lament, that the deed of gift had not included his whole property. The waving shades of the vale of Munster and the proud castle on the Rhine seemed to have acquired double charms in his eyes, since Leopold declared his intention of retaining them for himself; and their value was increased beyond bounds on Ethelbert’s being given to understand, that my uncle did not intend to leave them to us even at his death, but destined them for a bequest to that beloved woman, whom he could not resolve to give up all hopes of recovering.
Count Venosta (that honest open-hearted man, who withheld no sentiment from those, whom he looked on as his children) was amusing himself one day with the youthful Minna, whom the recollection of her mother rendered inexpressibly dear to him. Ethelbert remarked, as if by accident, that the child already had acquired the sedate appearance of the station, which she was hereafter to occupy.
—“What station?” asked my uncle with surprise.
Minna, who had been accustomed to hear her future lot pronounced by my husband almost daily, answered with her accustomed candour—“What other shelter can a poor orphan expect to find, except a cloister?”—
—“What?” exclaimed Count Leopold, while he prest her still closer to his bosom, “you poor? you an orphan, while Venosta lives? No, no, my child; I know too well, what I owe to the memory of your excellent mother! Let who will forsake you, never shall you be forsaken by me!”—
Count Ethelbert had never been partial to the Damsel of Mayenfield; from that day he began to hate her.
Minna too on her side seemed to harbour towards my husband a secret aversion; whose expressions she would have been unable to restrain, had he not also inspired her with sentiments of the most unbounded terror.
—“Ah! dear Countess!” she said to me one day, when she found me weeping at having made new discoveries of his evil dispositions, discoveries which almost every day afforded; “you know not yet, what a bad, bad man he is! Scarcely do I dare to tell it you; but that voice which I heard among my mother’s ravishers.... I am certain, quite certain, that voice was Count Ethelbert’s—I had then never heard it speak but so gently and so kindly.... But the first time that I heard him rage, I recollected it that instant. How could I have been deceived? Oh! I remember too well the terrible sound! But I have been silent till now, for I tremble when I but think of the cruel manner, in which he used me, when (while imploring him to take pity on my mother) I let fall, that I was sure of having heard his voice before.”—
I was now better acquainted with the character of the man, whom I had once looked upon as an angel of light; and I recollected several hints of the old Seneschal, which seemed to imply a suspicion similar to that of Minna. Yet the fact appeared to me in a light too dreadful to admit of my giving it implicit confidence; and I judged it prudent to contradict it with my lips, though in my heart I could not help dreading, that the accusation was but too well-grounded.
Alas! it was not long, before I was thoroughly convinced, that my husband was capable of many a deed, of which during the happy days of my love-sick delusion I would have asserted his innocence with an oath, and have suffered the weight of his guilt to have been charged upon my own conscience! Alas! it was not long, before I had but too much reason to confess, that there was no impossibility in his having been concerned in that perfidious act, which his innocent accuser had alleged against him.
The persons, who had been the original means of bringing me acquainted with the Count of Carlsheim (an acquaintance which I already began to consider as a misfortune), the Abbot and Prior of Cloister-Curwald had been maintained in their rights by my good uncle; and under his powerful protection they lived in harmony with their monks from the time of my interference. However, no sooner had the jurisdiction of this monastery been made over by Count Venosta to my husband, than discontent and rebellion began to resume their influence over the younger monks, who felt themselves opprest by the restraints imposed on them by their virtuous superiors. Often did Abbot Christian, when I knelt before him in his confessional, return my confidence by an acknowledgment of his secret sorrows, and explain his melancholy forebodings of what would be his convent’s future fate, in a manner that touched me to the very heart. But I was myself too weak to assist the venerable man; my husband was deaf to my entreaties; and Count Venosta was at too great a distance to admit of any good effects being produced by my applying to him.
It was long past midnight, that I once happened to be sitting alone in my chamber, expecting my husband’s return from a carousal at a neighbouring Baron’s; and I was endeavouring to prepare myself for the painful scenes, which seldom failed to follow such entertainments. Suddenly Gertrude entered the room with a terrified countenance, and informed me that having seen from her window which overlooked the garden some dark-looking figures, whose appearance was made still more terrific by the contrast of the newly-fallen snow, she had descended to examine what they really were; and that she had found it necessary to admit into my anti-chamber the persons, who had given her so causeless an alarm.
—“Do not be terrified!” said she, “they are only poor afflicted spirits, who hope for relief from your hands.”—
I was too well acquainted with the friendly anxiety of my faithful attendant to spare me pain, and prepare me for unpleasant news by the manner in which she related it, to be deceived by her assurance, that I had nothing to fear. I waited for the appearance of these strangers with a beating heart. What was my surprise at recognizing the excellent Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, the venerable Matthias, and several other of the most respectable monks, whose evident consternation already seemed to implore my assistance, before they yet had time to give their petition words.
—“Oh! dear good lady,” exclaimed the Abbot, “we are undone! the dreaded storm has burst, and we must all be the prey of death, unless you can find means of preserving us! This morning while officiating at the altar, we were seized in the name of our liege-lord, the Count of Carlsheim, and imprisoned in a subterraneous dungeon. Our appeal to the Bishop of Coira was treated with derision; and we collected from some suspicious remarks of our jailor, that our doom would be finally determined, long before our appeal could be made to a superior jurisdiction. Alas! we know but too well, what can be done in convents! The fore-warnings of approaching death presented themselves on all sides; the noise of revelry resounding from the chambers above us increased our anxiety! What had we not to fear from the rage and malignity of these intoxicated monks!—Fortunately, one of my secret friends found means to gain admittance to our dungeon, and explain to us the real and pressing danger of our situation. It seems, that the enemies of order and of virtue are protected by the Count of Carlsheim; he was himself assisting at the dissolute entertainment; and probably at this moment we should no longer have been numbered among the living, had not the friend who brought us this intelligence, secretly assisted us to escape from the convent, and accompanied us in our flight. Now then our life is in your hands; save us, dear lady, either by softening your husband through your entreaties, or by pointing out to us some place of concealment. To you alone could we have recourse; had we sought any other refuge, we must surely have been overtaken before we could have reached it.”—
—“Save you by entreaties?” I exclaimed, while I hastened to unclose a door conducting to my baths; “entreaties to Count Ethelbert? Instant flight is your only chance for safety! Follow me, father! Follow me, and lose not a moment!”—
I hastened onwards, and conducted the trembling monks through a long subterraneous passage, unknown to all in the Castle except myself and the faithful Gertrude. The outlet was in the mountains; and here I quitted the fugitives, convinced that they would easily find their way through the intricate passes, with which the Prior Matthias was perfectly well acquainted, having frequently traversed them in his botanical pursuits.
Half of the night was consumed in this employment. On my return, I found the furious Ethelbert waiting for me in my apartment, and immediately a tremendous storm of rage burst over my devoted head. Convinced that my friends were now in safety, I attempted not to conceal my share in the transaction; and when he loaded me with insults, I replied to him by reminding him of the promise which he had formerly given me, to protect the opprest Abbot in the preservation of his rights, a promise which he had so shamefully broken. Truth and justice were on my side, but power was on that of my adversary. There was no one to hear me, and judge between Count Ethelbert and myself; he was the strongest; the reward of my remonstrances was the most unworthy treatment, and my chamber became my prison.
The vassals, who loved me, exclaimed against such an act of violence, as soon as they understood by means of Gertrude, how cruelly I was treated; but Ethelbert’s art soon succeeded in giving another colour to the transaction. He justified his severity by accusing me of a shameful intrigue with the banished Abbot of Cloister-Curwald. His assertions were so positive, that they soon produced the desired effect; and it was without any violent agitation, that the peasants a few days after saw me conducted away under a strong guard, no one knew whither; nothing gave me more pain in this abrupt departure than being deprived of the only comfort which was still left me, the society of my faithful Gertrude, and of my young friend, the Damsel of Mayenfield.
One man alone, one of the most distinguished inhabitants of that quarter, a man who breathed the true spirit of Helvetic courage, and of love of freedom, Henric Melthal alone dared openly to blame the proceedings of my tyrant. He spread his own noble sentiments around him, and communicated his feelings to his companions with a success, which might have rescued me from my bondage, had not Count Ethelbert resolved to withdraw me from public attention without a moment’s delay.
On the other side of the mountain of Halsberg, near the lake of Thun, stands an old Castle belonging to the family of Ravenstein, a family which has been in alliance with the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans since time immemorial. At the period of which I am now treating, it was entirely deserted. The owner resided in a remote part of Italy, where he had lived on terms of intimacy with Ethelbert; and having himself no occasion for this mouldering castle, he consigned the use of it to his friend the Count of Carlsheim; the use to which the Count applied it, was the only one for which it now appeared to be adapted, the confinement of the innocent.
Tedious and fearful was the way which conducted me to my destined abode; but the place itself, which I looked upon as my eternal prison, far exceeded all the horrors, which had struck my imagination so forcibly while approaching it. It was an antient fortress, perched high on the brow of a precipice like an eagle’s nest, which now received the unfortunate Urania. The peculiar form of its architecture announced it to have been raised in the time of Charlemagne; and the incessant howling of the storm, and raging of the billows seemed with every moment to threaten its downfall. I saw it from a distance seemingly suspended on the very brink of a steep and barren rock, which overhung the Lake, and I shuddered, when my conductors pointed it out as my future dwelling!
Fool that I was! I flew with rapture into the arms of Ethelbert, where I expected to find an earthly paradise and was deceived: with agony, keen as that of the dying, did I enter Ravenstein Castle ... and was deceived again! Ah! will short-sighted mortals never succeed in comprehending, that that which appears, and that which is, but rarely coincide? Yet, when we have experienced these deceptions twice or thrice, the experience makes us in future calm and resigned; and we acquire from it that indifference which raises us above the frowns and smiles of fortune, and enables us to repress with equal strength groundless apprehensions and unavailing wishes.
During the first days of my confinement I was in truth most wretched. My situation was rendered almost insupportable by the want of every convenience and comfort, and by the tediousness of unbroken solitude. I sighed after society of any kind, even though it had been such as (to judge from its outward appearance) would have promised me but little entertainment.
Some days had thus elapsed, when I observed through the bars of my closely-grated window, that a boy apparently between three and four years old, was sometimes suffered to amuse himself by playing in the neglected garden, which I was myself forbidden to visit. The innocent gaiety of the child made an impression on me, which frequently filled my eyes with tears.
—“Happy unthinking creature!” I exclaimed, wringing my hands in the bitterness of grief, “this garden appears to you a paradise, because you know none better. You are poor, forsaken, perhaps menaced by a thousand dangers which every moment brings nearer; but you see them not! Regret for the past troubles you as little as anxiety for the future; and it were difficult for a monarch with all his power to make you more happy, than you are even now! Oh! that I were like you. Oh! that at least I could clasp you in my arms, and learn from your sweet smile the art of smiling though in prison!”—
My wish to become more intimate with the happy trifler was too ardent to remain concealed. I entreated my jailor to gratify me with a nearer sight of him, and after a few difficulties I was at length permitted to receive the little Ludolf in my gloomy chamber.
—“Ludolf?” I exclaimed, when the child first told me his name—“Ludolf?” I repeated still more anxiously, while I examined his features, and fancied that I could trace a resemblance, which excited hopes in my bosom so sweet that I trembled to indulge them.
What then was my emotion, when the lovely boy convinced me that this was not the first time of our meeting, by naming as his mother, “Edith of Mayenfield!”
Yes! this dear, this long-lost friend was like myself an inmate of this place of terror! I breathed the same air with her; I was allowed to hope, that every succeeding day would afford me an opportunity of beholding her: the pleasure, which I felt from these reflections, was too great to admit of my observing, that Count Ethelbert’s confining me in the same place with a captive, whom he had secured in a manner so treacherous, was a proof that he designed my imprisonment to be eternal. Whatever might have originally been his motives for treating us with such severity, it was at least certain, that he would not permit either to regain her liberty, lest she should discover the mystery of his inhuman conduct, or take measures for rescuing from his power her companion in misfortune.
Considerations of this kind did not at first suggest themselves; I felt nothing but the joy of being once more united to my friend, an event which I now looked forward to with the most eager expectation. Heaven knows, it would have been no trifling comfort to me, had I met with the most insignificant of created beings, would but that being have listened to me with compassion, and endeavoured to soothe me in the paroxisms of my despair; but to dare to hope that Edith would now be my comforter in this dreary prison, oh! who can express the countless sources of satisfaction, which that single thought contained!
But alas! the completion of my hopes was not so easy as I expected. The Countess of Mayenfield was confined not less closely than myself; and our jailor was not to be prevailed on to depart in one single instance from the instructions of his inhuman lord. Yet methinks this man was not cruel by nature. Perhaps, it grieved him to be compelled to treat us with so much harshness; but he made it a point of conscience to adhere in the most punctual manner to the oath, which (as he frequently assured me, in answer to my complaints and reproaches) he had been compelled to give to the Count of Carlsheim.
—“You see,” said he, “that where ever it is in my power, I refuse no indulgence. I received no particular command respecting the child’s imprisonment, who was delivered to my custody at the same time with his mother, and therefore I allow him to enjoy all those advantages, from which I am compelled to debar her and yourself. Neither was it forbidden me to furnish the Countess of Mayenfield with such sources of mental amusement, as might beguile her solitary hours. She has a variety of books, has her spinning-wheel and her embroidery frame; if she chuses it, she may lay these aside, and employ herself with her pen; this indulgence, lady, shall also be granted to you; and methinks, it must be almost the same thing, whether what you have to say to each other is imparted in writing, or in person.”
Here then did our jailor kindly open a door for those communications, for which we had so long thirsted; we returned him our most ardent thanks for the hint, and lost no time in making use of it. We wrote to each other daily; and as the conscientious feelings of this trusty domestic of my tyrant would not allow him to deliver our letters himself, they were confided to the care of the little Ludolf. The lovely boy soon became attached to me; he was ever ready to visit my narrow chamber; and besides the information which Edith’s letters contained, I gleaned from him in conversation many interesting anecdotes, which however serious their subject, frequently assumed so whimsical an appearance through his infantine mode of relating them, that it was impossible either for his mother or myself to refrain from smiling. Heavens! we smiled! little did our tyrant imagine, that in the gloomy walls of Ravenstein Castle his captives would have ever found cause for mirth!
Edith’s letters contained explanations of many circumstances, which till then had appeared to me quite unaccountable. These precious memorials of the most sacred friendship are still in my possession. You, my dear children, for whom I write this narrative of my sufferings, will find them after my death, as documents serving to corroborate the veracity of my statements. Oh! how will you blush for your ancestor, when you read that Ethelbert had never been the character, which we (poor deceived ones!) believed him to be, and that from the very beginning his whole conduct had been an artifice!
Its true, my person at first was the object of his desires; but much more so were the possessions, which I was expected to inherit. Anxiously did he seek to bring about our union; but circumstances, with which Edith herself was unacquainted, forbade the explanation of his wishes, and compelled him to wait, till my uncle should actually force him to accept my hand. Fear, lest my expectations of being raised to power and wealth (on which his own depended) should be overturned by Count Venosta’s second marriage, induced him privately to remove the dreaded Edith. He had chosen the time for carrying her off admirably well. A secret understanding with the Abbot of St. Gall, (whose enemy he profest to be in public) enabled him at once to get rid of Count Venosta’s vigilance, entice me out of the fortress, and thus leave Edith totally without protection. It also afforded him an opportunity to establish himself in my uncle’s favour, by rendering him so essential a service as the restoring him to liberty; a service, which my too grateful uncle thought could only be rewarded by the gift of my hand, without allowing Ethelbert time to solicit it.
Alas! my fortitude fails me, while endeavouring to unravel the whole web of artifice and villainy, which our persecutor had woven to ensnare us with no less cunning than success. He contrived to cheat the Abbot of the prisoner, whom he had first himself betrayed into his power; Count Venosta of his possessions, his mistress, and his niece; poor Edith of her liberty; and me of the happiness and tranquillity of my whole life!
Never had Count Ethelbert felt for me one spark of real affection. Even the passion, with which my person had inspired him, was subordinate to his desire of becoming master of my large possessions. No sooner was this point accomplished, no sooner had the daily sight of it deprived what little beauty was mine of the charm of novelty, than the continual presence of a virtuous wife appeared to him a check upon his pleasures. He therefore seized with eagerness the first opportunity of delivering himself from my presence; nor did he forget to sully my reputation by imputations so disgraceful, that I appeared to the world unworthy of either relief or pity. Even my good uncle wept, and resigned me to my fate.
The Countess of Mayenfield had learned the greatest part of the circumstances, which she related in her letters, from the wife of the Castellan of Ravenstein; this good-hearted matron (who died a few days before my arrival at the Castle) had a son in Count Ethelbert’s service, by whom she was informed of most of his lord’s proceedings. The conversation of this compassionate woman had beguiled many of the heavy hours of Edith’s imprisonment; nor had she ever neglected an opportunity of evading the too conscientious adherence of her husband to his oath, and of furnishing to the noble captive many alleviations of her sorrows, all of which vanished at her death.
Oh! had I but found her still in existence on my arrival at Ravenstein, what might we not have hoped from her friendly aid! what would have been too difficult for three women to accomplish, of whom the one possessed power, the second prudence, and the third resolution! Surely it would have been easy for us to have obtained our freedom; at least, I should not have been so long deprived of the happiness of clasping my faithful Edith to my bosom.
Often in our epistolary conversations did we lament over the great loss, which we had sustained in being deprived of this worthy creature! yet the Countess comforted herself with the pleasure of knowing, that I was near her and in a place, where she looked upon me as enjoying both more happiness and more safety, than would have been my lot in the arms of Count Ethelbert.—As for myself, I wept, and prayed for better times.
And better times arrived! We had long suspected, that we were not the only unfortunates confined at Ravenstein; and in the truth of this suspicion we now were fully confirmed, though our curiosity was by no means fully satisfied.
The Castle, as I before stated, was built on the summit of a lofty rock, whose point appeared designed as a mark for the assaults of all the four winds of heaven. Storms here were frequent and tremendous. In the middle of a tempestuous night, when the whirlwind was raging with its greatest violence, suddenly a remote wing of the Castle burst into flames! the wind set towards our quarter; the sparks flew in at our grated windows; our danger increased with every moment, and every human being seemed to have totally forgotten us. No one had consideration enough to unlock our dungeons; no one showed the slightest disposition to come to our assistance. The general attention was directed towards the eastern wing of the fortress, which was entirely in flames.
Our terror is not to be described; yet certainly mine was far inferior to that of Edith, who had not to fear for herself alone. The preservation of a life, which was infinitely dearer to her than her own, occupied all her thoughts; she trembled for the life of her son!
She was desperate; she felt, that his destruction was inseparably united with her own, and resolved to dare every thing to preserve him. In the wall of her dungeon was an opening, barely large enough to suffer the child to pass through; she fastened her bed cloaths together; she resolved to let him down by them to the ground, and charged him, as soon as he should have reached it, to release himself and fly, or else to find some hiding place, where he might remain till the danger was past. The risque was dreadful; nothing but despair could have induced her to adopt such a resolution.
Edith’s endeavours to preserve her little darling were not unsuccessful. He reached the ground in safety; but scarcely had she parted with him, when the increasing heat (for by this time the balconies of the neighbouring buildings were in flames) and the volumes of smoke, which poured into her chamber, overpowered her senses, and she sank without animation on the floor.
My situation was exactly similar. At the moment when I fainted, the only thought, which employed my mind, was the hope of an happy meeting with Edith in another better world; an hope which (I fully believed) was accomplished, when on once more unclosing my eyes, I found myself breathing pure air in a light and spacious chamber, and perceived by my side the friend whom I loved so tenderly, and for whose sight I had so long and so anxiously sighed in vain.
—“Oh! Edith!”—“Urania! my Urania!”—we both exclaimed at once, while we sank into each others’ arms; “What has happened? are we rescued from captivity on earth, or released from the fetters of mortality? Where is it that we meet, in freedom, in captivity, or in the life beyond the grave?”—
Too soon were our doubts removed: too soon were we compelled to feel, that we were rescued from death, but not restored to liberty. The still smoking ruins, which met our eyes from afar, told us but too plainly, that we were still within the walls of Ravenstein; and the unremitting vigilance, with which we were observed, made us well aware, that we had reaped no other advantage from the transactions of the night, except the delight of seeing and embracing a long-lost friend. But alas! what cruel reflections embittered this delight. Edith sorrowed for her son, and reproached herself for having suffered herself to part with him in despair, when had she detained him with her in the dungeon, he would have been preserved as well as his mother.
I felt scarcely less sorrow for the loss of the beloved child, than Edith herself; I would gladly have comforted her, but alas! where was comfort to be found? Even should he have escaped from the flames, which were raging with such violence at the moment when he quitted his mother, how difficult still did his preservation appear! We failed not on the day after the fire to examine the place, whence Edith had caused him to descend. The opening was not situated very high in the tower; but close to the place, where he must have reached the ground, there yawned a tremendous precipice; the depth of which when we vainly endeavoured to measure with our eyes, the flesh crept upon our bones, and cold drops of terror chased each other down our foreheads.
Bitter was our grief, but no one heeded our lamentations; our guards attended to nothing but the adventures of the past night, and we collected from their discourse, that the fire had been kindled by a lady confined in the eastern wing of the Castle. Her object, as they supposed, was to find some means of escaping during the confusion, which her rash action had necessarily produced; she had not only failed in her design, but had suffered so severely by springing from a lofty window, and by the wounds which she had received from the fragments of a falling tower, that she was not expected to outlive the night.
The Castellan too, in his endeavours to prevent the escape of this prisoner (whose confinement seemed to be a greater object of anxiety to him, even than that of Edith and myself) had met with a fatal accident, and was every moment expected to breathe his last. We desired to see him before his death. With a feeble voice he entreated our pardon for the injustice, with which he had been compelled to treat us; but he called Heaven to witness, that the dreadful oaths which had been exacted from him, had deprived him of the power of acting differently. Yet did he not think it necessary to enjoin our future jailors to treat us with greater lenity; and they, being in all probability fettered by the same oaths with himself, esteemed it their duty to retain us in a captivity no less strict than before.
All we could obtain from them was, that we should not again be separated; and also that we should be permitted to visit that unfortunate lady, of whose existence in the Castle we were this day informed for the first time; who had made use of such violent means to obtain her liberty; and who (as our guards assured us) was on the point of paying with her life, for having dared to commit so desperate an action.
Curiosity, hope, the fear of finding some beloved acquaintance in this wretched captive, or the desire of giving some alleviation to the sufferings of an expiring partner in affliction, which of these motives induced us to make this melancholy visit, I cannot pretend to decide. When we received the permission to enter her dungeon, we were assured, that we should find nothing that would diminish our own distress, and the event justified the assurance.
They conducted us to a wretched pallet, on which lay a female, whose features were totally unknown to us, but whose appearance excited in us the deepest sentiments of pity; of that painful pity, which knows itself unable to afford relief! On hearing our footsteps she raised with difficulty her half-closed eyes, and with a smile of anguish extended her hand towards us. We exerted ourselves to afford her every little alleviation of pain, which our narrow means could furnish; and in executing these mournful services, our tears sufficiently declared the feelings of our hearts.
—“Forgive me!” said she, when after two or three hours our endeavours to relieve her had produced some little effect; “I wished to rescue myself from captivity, and had nearly brought the same fate on you, under which I am now groaning. But long suffering is the mother of despair!”—
Shortly after she seemed to be nearly delirious; she counted the years which she had already past in this dreary dungeon, and those during which she expected to be detained in it by her tyrant; then she raved about her son, for whose arrival she had so long waited in vain, and she entreated him to hasten to the rescue of his unfortunate mother!
Towards midnight she declared, that all pain had entirely left her. With an appearance of gaiety she thanked us for our attentions, and entreated to know the names of those, to whom she was so much indebted. The Countess revealed herself, and the captive in return bestowed upon her a look of interest and compassion.
—“Edith of Mayenfield?” repeated the invalid; “oh! I know your story well: you too have suffered much; not so much, its true, as I have suffered, yet enough to know what it is to incur a villain’s hatred.—And your name, gentle lady?” she continued, addressing herself to me.
—“I am Urania of Carlsheim and Sargans,” was my answer.
—“Urania of Sargans!” shrieked the stranger in a dreadful voice, while she clasped her hands violently together; “Urania? Ethelbert’s beloved Urania? Oh, Fortune, this blow was still wanting to make me completely miserable.—Away from my sight, abandoned woman! away, and leave me to die! But with my last breath I swear to be revenged! Even from my grave will I shriek to Heaven for vengeance! Tremble, detested girl; thou shalt not triumph over my corse unpunished!”—
I stood like one petrified near the bed of the sufferer; astonishment and terror almost deprived me of my senses, and nothing but the consciousness that she spoke in the heat of frenzy, could have preserved me from sinking on the earth.
—“Noble lady,” I said as soon as I could recover myself, at the same time advancing towards her, and offering to take her hand; “recollect yourself, for pity’s sake! I never saw you till now, and can never have offended you. You surely cannot have heard me aright. I am Urania, the unfortunate Urania Venosta, who rejected by a cruel husband, and undeservedly branded with shame, have been condemned in this Castle to wear eternal fetters, which the flames of last night in vain attempted to break.”—
—“Ha!” said the stranger in a gentler tone, “is it so?—Are you then Ethelbert’s rejected wife?—Unfortunate, let me clasp thy hand in mine; we are sisters in calamity.”—
Already was I advancing to take the hand which she held out, when Edith uttered a loud scream, and hastily drew me back. She had observed the captive’s countenance change suddenly, and we now saw, that she grasped a poniard till then concealed in her bosom. From that moment the senses of the wretched stranger were irrecoverably lost. Her eyes full of rage were constantly directed towards me; she foamed at the mouth; she loaded me with execrations, and I was compelled to retire, that she might have a chance of regaining some composure.
The meaning of this dreadful scene was to me an absolute enigma. I lamented the poor wretch’s condition; though a secret horror, whenever I recollected her words and manner, took complete possession of my soul. In this painful situation did I pass the night; the morning had scarcely dawned, when the Countess of Mayenfield rejoined me, and informed me that the unknown lady was no more. Edith was quite exhausted by the terrible occurrences of the past night. I enquired, whether she had made no discoveries, which might unravel these mysterious circumstances: but she answered by an assurance, that it was impossible for her to give me any light upon the subject.
In mournful silence did we follow to the grave the corse of our wretched partner in captivity. She was interred in one of the back-courts of our prison; and we were conducted after the burial into a gloomy apartment in a quarter of the Castle, which had escaped the violence of the flames. Our present dungeon was in no respect better, than our former had been; and the small portion of freedom, which we had enjoyed during the few last days, now appeared to our stern jailors too great an indulgence, and we were accordingly deprived of it.
We heard the door barred on the outside; we sank into each other’s arms, and wept bitterly: then we rejoiced, that at least we had been suffered to remain together, and then we wept again. We endeavoured to escape from present miseries by recalling former happiness, and indulging future hopes; but alas! this resource was but of little avail. Yet among all the agonizing reflections which tormented us, nothing was so painful to remember, as the loss of our little darling, Ludolf!
I will not pain your gentle hearts, my children, by dwelling on our sufferings in this forlorn situation, during which our only support was the soothing of mutual pity. A change at length took place in it, but we had little reason to expect, that it would turn out to our advantage! Our guards informed us one day, that the Count of Carlsheim had sent a new Castellan to superintend the government of this half-ruined fortress; and they added, we should soon find cause to regret under our new overseer that treatment, which we had complained of as being so harsh and rigid. We trembled, as we listened to this prophecy. Aversion and spite against this new instrument of Count Ethelbert’s vengeance were plainly exprest in every feature of our former jailors, yet did they scarcely dare to express their dislike of him aloud: what then had we to expect? How dreadful must that man be, who could strike terror even into the flinty hearts of these barbarians!
We had not long been informed of his arrival, when this dreaded Castellan entered our dungeon, accompanied by several of our former guards. We trembled, as we gazed on the gloomy brow of the man, to whose hands our fate was consigned. Walter Forest, for (so was our jailor called) scarcely deigned to honour us with a look, while he informed us, that we must prepare ourselves to quit Ravenstein at midnight, the Count of Carlsheim not thinking the Castle safe enough, since the late fire, for the confinement of prisoners of our consequence. We wished to address a few words to him, imploring better treatment for the future; but he turned away from us rudely, blamed the attendants for having suffered us to remain unfettered, and having caused heavy shackles to be brought immediately, he saw them rivetted before he left the dungeon.
The doors were fastened after him more cautiously, if possible, than before. Yet in spite of his vigilance and positive commands, the former chief of our guards (who seemed to look on his being deprived of his cruel office as an insult) contrived to gain admission to us privately, and to confirm by his warnings the dreadful suspicions, with which our imaginations were but too strongly imprest already.
—“I advise you by every means in your power,” said he, “to avoid committing yourselves to the power of this intruder: depend upon it, this removal to a different place of confinement is only a pretence to persuade you to follow him without trouble; and I doubt not, he intends to convey you to some solitary spot, and put an end at once to your captivity and your lives. But take my counsel, and you shall be rescued from this danger: Walter is accompanied but by few attendants, and those badly armed; our people are treble the number of his, and we can easily overpower him, if you will but give us the command. Call to us for assistance; we will all be on your side; and as we have carefully avoided asking to see our master’s orders for giving you into Walter’s custody, we can easily make it believed that we took him for an impostor, and thus shall we escape Count Ethelbert’s vengeance, if you will but engage not to betray our secret!”—
The fellow, who hitherto had seldom deigned to hold a parley with us, said much more to the same effect. He left us undecided, what we ought to think of this proposal, and what mode of conduct it would be most prudent for us to pursue: yet after mature deliberation, and having completely canvassed the business by ourselves, the consideration, that in a situation so desolate as ours, any change must be for the better, made us resolve to submit quietly Ethelbert’s lately-issued commands.—New situations might furnish new resources, perhaps even an opportunity for flight; at all events our present condition was so hopeless, that we could not wish it to continue; and when at midnight Walter Forest unbarred our dungeon door, we followed him without a murmur.
In all probability the enemies of our new comptroller had agreed, that our resistance should be the signal for falling upon him. We found our anti-chamber filled with them; all were armed, and the threatening looks, which they threw on our conductor, sufficiently declared their purpose.—But when they saw that we accompanied him willingly, their courage appeared to fail them. Some few indeed unsheathed their swords, and made a faint show of resistance; but Walter’s people were neither cowards nor ignorant of the use of arms, and we were soon permitted to quit the Castle unimpeded.
—“Tremble!” we heard Walter exclaim, as we crost the threshold, “tremble, rebels, when I return! You shall not have opposed our master’s will without reward, and you shall find, that I am able to preserve the office, which Count Ethelbert has thought fit to intrust to my care!”—
At the entrance of the steep and narrow path, by which we descended the rock on whose brow the fortress was situated, stood a close litter, to which we were conducted. We entered it; the carriage moved on with rapidity; and now it was, that I ventured to discover to my friend my astonishment, at a circumstance which had just occurred. In quitting the Castle one of Walter’s people had raised the visor of his casque for a moment, and had shewn me what seemed to be the countenance of Henric Melthal! My narrative had already made Edith acquainted with the character of this man. In the whole circle of the ten jurisdictions there existed not a heart more honest or more brave. He had been one of my uncle’s most faithful vassals; and even when that domain where he resided was made over to the Count of Carlsheim, Henric still remained most tenderly attached to the interests of Count Venosta and his unhappy niece.
—“Henric Melthal?” exclaimed the Countess; “Oh! Urania, if this honest man is among our attendants, we are already more than half at liberty.—He surely knows not the prisoners whom he is guarding, and doubtless if we can but find an opportunity of discovering to him our names and danger, he will omit no endeavour to free us from our chains.”—
To confirm her in these pleasing hopes I was on the point of informing her, that when I was forcibly removed from the Castle of Sargans, this very Henric was the only person who dared to assert my innocence; when Walter Forest rode up to the side of the litter.
—“Noble ladies,” said he, while the moon showed us, that the gloom, which had overspread his countenance, was replaced by the smile of benevolence, and while the tone in which he addrest us was the most gentle and respectful, “Fear nothing; you are safe, and here is the person, whom you have to thank for your rescue.”—
I will not attempt to describe our feelings at hearing these words, which were no sooner spoken, than Walter again withdrew. The litter was dark; we could not see the person who entered it; but how were our doubts converted into rapture, when Edith felt her neck encircled by two little arms, and heard herself called by the name of mother!
With one voice we both pronounced the name of the dear lost child, who was now restored to us so unexpectedly. Rapture almost deprived the Countess of speech and recollection; and I was myself too much bewildered with the joy of having recovered the little Ludolf and my own liberty at the same time, to be capable of affording my friend much assistance. As soon as we could recollect ourselves, we endeavoured to call Walter to the side of the litter, in order that he might explain these mysterious transactions; but he paid no attention to us. This was not a fit time for explanations and expressions of gratitude. Not a moment was to be lost, and we traversed the valley with the rapidity of the tempest. Till we were safe on the other side of the mountains, or had crost the lake of Thun, we were desired not to expect our curiosity to be fully gratified; in the mean while we were obliged to content ourselves with such circumstances, as we could collect from Ludolf’s unconnected account, which however left us no doubt, that we were indebted for our rescue to the courage and address of Walter Forest.