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Feudal Tyrants; or The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans. Vol. III

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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. III.

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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 FIFTH.

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COUNT DONAT’s DAUGHTERS.

PART II.

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MEMOIRS

Found in the Cell of a Nun, after her Decease, in the Convent of Zurich.

Since Amabel Bloomberg traced the letters which will be found with this, how many years have elapsed! how many changes have taken place! How many persons are now insensible dust, who are described as agitated with such anxious fears and ardent hopes, by the pens of Amabel and the Damsels of Sargans! Accident has also made me mistress of the letters of those unfortunate sisters. Accident, did I say? Surely, it was something more than mere chance, which brought them into the hands of her, who is most able to supply that chasm, which otherwise would have been left in these adventures.

To undertake this task I have both leisure and information sufficient. My fate was too closely united with that of the sisters, to permit the slightest particular concerning them to be concealed from me; and jointly with theirs will my name be handed down to posterity.

Yet is it not an idle vanity, a love of worldly fame, which makes me desire this species of immortality?—Well then, I will repress the wish. Long practised in self-denial, I will make even this last sacrifice to my celestial spouse, and will write, as if I treated of strangers and of interests quite foreign to myself. No one shall know my name except Heaven, to whom alone is thoroughly known, how much I have suffered!

When I entered the world, the course of innocence and beauty lay among a thousand snares and pit-falls, which were the more dangerous from being most artfully concealed. This is a truth which I learnt to my cost, before I sought, and found, tranquillity in a convent.

Amabel was blind to those snares; though they were spread carelessly enough for her to have seen them, had not her own guileless nature thrown a veil over her eyes, and had not female obstinacy made her reject the prudent warnings of her best friends.

The visit to Engelberg, which she had agreed upon in concert with her brother’s wife, was made the next day; and the latter, as young, imprudent, and unsuspicious as Amabel, undertook to excuse her sister-in-law’s absence to the jealous Arnold, and the sick old man, who suffered no quarter of an hour to pass without enquiring for his daughter. However, Juttila engaged to invent some means for satisfying him till Amabel’s return, which was delayed much longer than either of them intended.

How indeed could she return so speedily, since adventures encountered her on the road, on which she little reckoned, and whose nature was of sufficient consequence to have a fearful influence over herself, and over all those who were most dear to her? Alas! the cottage which she left with such a thoughtless heart, she was destined to revisit no more with such content: the fate of the two sisters, which she was so eager to learn, was now enveloped by such impenetrable darkness, that she in vain.... But I am running away from the proper order of events, which in truth it is natural for one of my profession and time of life to do. Be it known to you, my youthful readers that it is not easy for an old doating Nun to transcribe even a verse out of her Psalter, without tacking to it at least a dozen of her own childish observations.

At Engelberg Amabel found the Nun to whom Wolfenrad had directed her to apply, and who was his confidante and the secret instrument for effecting the carrying away of Amalberga. She assured Amabel, that her friend had by no means been forced away; but that on account of the assiduities of the Lord of Landenberg, and the popular disturbances which increased with every day, Amalberga had voluntarily chosen to withdraw herself from Engelberg.

—“Your partiality for the governor,” said the artful hypocrite, “and your incessant pleading in behalf of a man whom she could not love, made the Lady unwilling to let you know her design. I was her sole confidante on this occasion, and I think I have done well in enabling the dear soul to escape from the temptations of the wicked world! She has taken refuge in the Convent of Zurich, under the protection of an old Lady called Urania, who is either her friend or some near relation, for I understand, never was there joy known equal to that of their meeting.”—

In this account Amabel could not discover the least vestige of deception or improbability: still she blamed the Nun greatly for concealing the real cause of Amalberga’s disappearance, by which means the spirit of discontent was encouraged among the people against Landenberg, who bore the odium of having violated the sanctuary, and forcibly carried away an inmate of those holy walls.

The Nun made but an indifferent defence against this charge, and Amabel left her by no means satisfied with her conduct. However, she soon forgot what little had displeased her in the Nun’s conversation, and gave herself up entirely to the joy of being assured, that one of her friends at least was safe in the arms of friendship and of maternal love.

—“Oh! that I could but have the same assurance respecting my beloved Emmeline!” thus said Amabel to herself, as she hastened back to her brother’s cottage; “Oh! that as I pass homewards, chance would but throw Wolfenrad in my way, that I might learn from him what he knows about the dear-one! He might just tell me in half a dozen words, and then hurry away, in order that I might not blush too deep a crimson, when the severe Censurer of my actions looks me in the face, and says with his magisterial air,—‘Now, Amabel! whence do you come, and with whom have you spoken?’—How ridiculous, that Arnold should take it into his head, that an old man like Wolfenrad has designs upon a young creature like me, not yet twenty! Yet ridiculous as it is, his anxiety proceeds from the warmth of his affection for me, and I ought to forgive my good Arnold for the faults of his head, when I recollect the kindness of his heart.”—

Such were the thoughts which occupied Amabel, as she hastily retraced the long way between her home and the Convent; and as she past along, she threw many an anxious look on every side in hopes of seeing the man, who alone could confirm to her the fortunate escape of her friend. Wolfenrad had frequently business that carried him to Engelberg, and it was by no means improbable, that she should encounter him on her way.

In fact, the tempter had long been at no great distance from the fair pilgrim, though without her seeing him; since he stole along concealed by a thick hawthorn plantation, which bordered more than half the road between the village and the Convent of Engelberg.

It is easy for the wicked to guess what steps will be taken by unsuspecting innocence, whose proceedings are the natural result of existing circumstances and feelings. Wolfenrad knew how warmly Amabel’s heart was interested about her friends; he had given her hopes of obtaining intelligence respecting them; he had pointed out the place, where a part of those hopes might be realized; and he was therefore certain of finding her on the road to that place, before many days were elapsed. He had accidentally missed seeing her on her way to Engelberg; but when on her return she was descending the Convent-hill, he espied her from behind the watch-tower which stands at the farthest extremity of the mount, and then hastened to shelter himself behind the hawthorn hedge, in order that he might unseen watch her motions, and discover what temper she was in, before he accosted her.

And thus did he for some time steal along, examining every change of her expressive countenance, and drawing but too just conclusions of the subject, which employed her thoughts. Her look, now gay, now sorrowful, and the impatient glances which she frequently threw around her, would have been sufficient to betray her, even though a few broken sentences, which escaped from her in the anxiety of her mind, had not left him without a doubt of his presence being perfectly welcome.

Wolfenrad’s plans for the innocent girl’s ruin had been so long arranged, that they were ready to be carried into effect at a moment’s warning; nor could he have wished for a more favourable opportunity than the present. The fiercest passion for Amabel reigned in his bosom, and deceived him who was so well skilled in deceiving others. He fancied, that in her impatient looks, in the tone which she used in pronouncing his name occasionally, there was something more than mere friendship for Emmeline, and that love was the motive that made her so anxious to meet him! Immortal powers! Love! love from a girl, pure as innocence itself, for such an earthly dæmon, a dæmon both in person and in mind!

—“Yet however she may be disposed,” ’twas thus he argued with himself, “too abrupt an appearance, too hasty a discovery of my views, might do me a prejudice, and put her too much upon her guard. When her impatience is worked up to the highest pitch, I shall be the more secure of her.”—

And therefore he still remained invisible, and hastened onwards, keeping still a little way before her; so that when the fair pilgrim reached the end of the plantation, and emerged into the open plain, she descried him crossing the path at some distance, as if totally unaware of her approach.

Amabel gave a cry of joy, called him by his name, and flew to join him.

—“Is it you, my fair dame?” answered Wolfenrad. “What would you with me?”—and he stopped, as waiting for her to come up to him.

—“Oh! tell me! tell me! give me some tidings of the damsel of Sargans!”—

—“You have been to Engelberg, and surely must have heard more there, than I am able to tell you.”—

“Oh! no, no, no! Emmeline! speak of Emmeline!”—

—“Why, the Lady Emmeline.... Concealment being absolutely necessary.... But we are close to your jealous brother’s house, and he may take offence at our conference—Farewell! I must find an opportunity of communicating what I know unobserved, when I return from Uri.”—

“From Uri? Heavens! and when do you go thither, and how long shall you remain away?”—

—“I set out to-morrow; as to my stay, I fear the disturbances there will make my return very distant.”—

Amabel’s impatience to know something decisive respecting her friend now grew beyond all bounds. She entreated him at least to put it out of doubt that Emmeline had been saved from the flames, and hesitated not to follow him into a bye-path, which conducted to the Castle. As they passed along, the deceiver began a long and wonderful narrative of Emmeline’s adventures, which occupied his auditor’s whole attention; but as it contained not one syllable of truth, it would be superfluous to relate it here.

—“But one question more!” said Amabel at length, and stopped. “See! night is approaching; we are already at the foot of the Castle-hill, and I have still a weary way to traverse, ere I can regain my brother’s cottage, where, I fear, I must be already missed. You assure me that Emmeline is safe, and is concealed in the neighbourhood: Oh! tell me then where she is concealed, for my bosom pants to embrace her!”—

—“That were easily done. You see the Castle is close at hand: thither have I brought her, and I mean to convey her with me to Uri to-morrow, since the disturbances which prevail in these parts render them an unsafe abode.”—

—“To Uri? To-morrow? Cruel, cruel Wolfenrad! Would you then have removed her, without suffering me to see her for one moment?”—

—“How could I have contrived an interview without betraying the secret? Had not accident thrown you in my way, I should not have had an opportunity of even telling you, that she is in your neighbourhood. However, as soon as she was out of the reach of discovery, you would have received a letter explaining every thing. I left her occupied in writing it, and when finished it was to be delivered to your husband’s care, who is now with her at the Castle, and who has been the chief means of bringing her hither in safety.”—

—“What say you? My husband? Is Edmund then with Emmeline? Oh! lead me to him, dear Wolfenrad, I must accompany you to the Castle; permit me to pass this last evening with the dear lady; or at least suffer me to embrace her once more, and assure her of my unchanged affection, and then my husband can conduct me back to my brother.”—

Wolfenrad heard this proposal with a malicious smile, and answered that for his part he had no objection; but he suggested his fears, lest her taking such a step should displease the suspicious Arnold, who surpassed her husband in jealousy a thousand fold.

—“Oh! heed not that!” exclaimed Amabel; “while I am with you, I can set all suspicions at defiance!”—

She said this thoughtlessly, for she alluded to his age and ugliness. The miscreant however interpreted it to his own taste, and saw in it the confirmation of his insolent hopes. He was on the point of rewarding the avowal by a tender pressure of her hand, which perhaps might have opened her eyes, ere it was too late: but she prevented him by making a thousand fond enquiries respecting her beloved Edmund, which put him again upon his guard, and which were not ended till they arrived at the Castle. The gates were closed: Wolfenrad sounded his horn; the draw-bridge descended. He entered the Castle; Amabel followed him, and the moment that she had passed the threshold, heard with terror the noise of a port-cullis falling behind her.

How strange is it, that we should frequently remain thoroughly blind till we reach a certain point, and then be rouzed at once from our delusions by some unimportant circumstance! Amabel has frequently told me since, that the sound of that port-cullis (though nothing unusual in the Castle) gave her the first indistinct idea of her imprudence and the danger of her situation.

Her voice faltered, as she pronounced the names of Edmund and Emmeline, while she hastily withdrew her hand, which Wolfenrad had now seized with an air of impetuous passion. She looked him anxiously in the face, and her eyes read with horror in his an expression, which explained to her the whole fearful secret.

Yet she was still unwilling to believe that man so great a villain, whom she had long believed so much her friend. It was not till she was convinced, that neither Edmund nor Emmeline were in the Castle; that she found herself totally alone with the wretch, whom she had despised as being too insignificant to be dangerous; and that an old woman, whom (in order to calm the first violence of her feelings) he had produced to her as his wife, was nothing more than a domestic; it was not till then, that she saw the whole business clearly, and the sight was one of such danger, that perhaps had she been a woman of a common mind, it would have thrown her into such a state of bodily insensibility, or of mental dejection, as might effectually have prevented all endeavours to effect an escape. But Amabel was a daughter of Helvetia! that is, she was a woman, whose powers both of body and mind existed in their fullest vigour; neither the first was weakened by luxurious indulgence, nor the second liable to be subdued by imaginary terrors. In spite of all that credulity and imprudence which had betrayed her into her present danger, her imagination was still both clear and acute enough to suggest a means for effecting her rescue, or at least for gaining time.

She appeared reserved and shy, and sat down in silence to the voluptuous entertainment, which was now served up by Wolfenrad’s confidante; the only person, whom he suffered to penetrate into that part of the Castle. Yet did Amabel contrive to give her silence the appearance of being preserved much against her will; she refused not at Wolfenrad’s request to lay aside the large hat, which overshadowed her face, and which (as he complained) concealed from him numberless beauties; nor did she draw away very hastily or with a look of extreme displeasure her soft white hand, when he prest it passionately between his own.

—“May I flatter myself,” said the deceived deceiver, “that Amabel does not absolutely hate me?”—

—“My religion forbids my hating any one.”—

—“And you are not very much offended at my having employed a little artifice to procure myself the happiness of this evening?”—

“—Artifice?—Nay; the effect of accident, and ... and, I am afraid, my own inclination was so much on your side, that....”—

—“My charming Amabel! then I may hope, that Wolfenrad is not entirely indifferent to you!”—

—“Indifferent? Oh! that you are not indeed!—And as to hoping ... why, nobody can prevent your doing that, you know.”—

And with this kind of doubtful and flattering discourse did she long entertain the betrayer, and forgot not to fill the silver bowls from time to time; though the effects of his frequent draughts prevented him from observing, that while she poured wine into his goblet, nothing but water entered into her own.

At the expence of a few disgusting kisses, which were forced from her occasionally, she at length had the pleasure to see Wolfenrad fall senseless from his chair. It was midnight; the old woman had long since betaken herself to rest, and Amabel found herself at liberty to wander through the vacant chambers in search of some means of escape.

Alas! the locks and bars were immoveable, and no keys were to be found.—She at length discovered an unfastened door opening into a balcony; it overhung the middle court; the height was fearful; yet would she have gladly ran the hazard of springing below, if she had not dreaded the meeting there with a greater danger, than that from which she was flying. The Castle-Garrison occupied this quarter. She heard from above the conversation, which passed between the sentinels; and its nature was such as to leave her no hope of finding from them protection or even pity. It also informed her, that Wolfenrad’s bounty, and his winking at their committing the most heinous offences, had united them too closely to his interests, to admit even a chance of their acting in opposition to his will.

She wept in agony! She wrung her hands! At length despair took possession of her whole soul. She eyed for a while the torch, which flamed in her hand, and in a moment of desperate resolution she determined to set the Castle on fire; in hopes of either being able to effect her escape during the conflagration, or at least of saving herself by death from existing for one instant with dishonour.

Thus resolved, she was on the point of quitting the balcony when a well-known name struck her ear. She stopt, and listened. Two sentinels stood beneath the balcony, and she heard one tell the other, that it would be necessary to wake Wolfenrad; for that he (the sentinel) was just returned from the outer wall, and had seen a company of soldiers crossing over the plain; that he had hailed one of them, and found them to be part of those who had accompanied Bloomberg to Sargans, and that their leader with the rest of his troops would follow them before mid-day.

—“Bloomberg their leader?” said his companion. “And since when has the gentle peace-loving Bloomberg turned soldier, and what has Wolfenrad to fear from a fellow, who but yesterday followed the plough?”—

“Faith,” rejoined the first, “this is a time, when every countryman exchanges his sickle and ploughshare for a sword and spear; and I know enough of Edmund Bloomberg to be convinced, that the carrying off his pretty wife will make him rage like a mad bull.”—

—“Carrying off, d’ye call it?” said the other; “I think, she seemed to follow Wolfenrad of her own accord; and if Bloomberg draws his sword upon her account, the more fool Bloomberg!”—

A burst of insulting laughter terminated this conversation, every syllable of which pierced Amabel to the heart; and the soldiers separated, having agreed that it was unnecessary to disturb Wolfenrad that night, and that the news of Bloomberg’s return might safely be delayed till the next morning.

Amabel burst into tears; but she soon recollected, that she had better occupation than weeping. A thousand ideas floated before her mind, inspired by the distant hope which she derived from the assurance, that in a few hours her husband would pass within sight of her prison. The great object therefore was to gain time to wait for his arrival with safety, and find means to inform him of her confinement in the Castle.

Accident furnished her with both. She returned trembling into the apartment, where the vile Wolfenrad still lay sleeping, the most odious picture of intoxication that the eye ever witnessed. Despair made her snatch a knife from the table, and she rushed to plunge it into his heart; but here the softness of woman’s nature got the better of her resolution and her vengeance. She threw down the knife, and hastened into the balcony, that in the free air and under the sky thick sown with stars, she might implore the Creator of that sky to look down upon and assist her in this hour of fear and danger. She rose from prayer much comforted: she turned towards the East, and looked eagerly for the arrival of the dawn, whose approach was already announced. She soon perceived, that the balcony in which she stood, though much too high from the ground to admit of her throwing herself from it without being dashed to pieces, at least commanded an extensive view over the surrounding country, and was admirably calculated for summoning any passing travellers to her assistance.

Oh! now, would but the sleeping Libertine doze away the morning, all might be well! Often did she steal softly into the chamber to see, whether he gave any signs of waking; again the knife attracted her gaze. She seized it, and concealed it in her bosom, as her last resource should all others fail.

It was now broad-day. Wolfenrad stretched himself, yawned, and opened his red eye-lids. Amabel fled to a distant corner, but his voice soon compelled her to return.

—“My charming angel,” said he, “come near me. You filled my goblet last night too generously, and this morning I feel myself still under the influence of the too potent liquor. Beshrew me, but I am marvellously indisposed.”—

—“Let not that trouble you, my dear friend,” answered Amabel, while she advanced a few paces, trembling with apprehension; “while I resided in the Castle of Sargans, Count Donat frequently found himself unwell from a similar indulgence in convivial pleasures; but he soon got the better of his indisposition by using a warm bath, which never failed to restore him to perfect health within an hour. In the next chamber there is a large brazen cistern; the water shall be heated for you without delay, and as soon as your bath is ready, I will call some of your attendants to convey you thither.”—

Without waiting for his answer, she hastened to her new occupation; she soon returned with one pitcher of water, then went back again for another, and thus contrived to get rid of near an hour, never failing as she passed the balcony to cast from it a glance of enquiry, whether there were yet no signs of her deliverer.

It was in vain, that Wolfenrad desired her to call some of the servants to spare her this unnecessary labour. Amabel remonstrated against the impropriety of suffering herself to be seen by strangers in his apartment, and at the same time protested, that she felt the greatest pleasure in taking this trouble, since it was for him that she took it. Wolfenrad knew not how to find terms sufficiently strong to express his gratitude for her attention, and protested, that he had not flattered himself with the idea of possessing so warm an interest in her heart.

He was still expatiating on the satisfaction which this agreeable discovery gave him, when the sound of trampling at a distance struck her hearing. She looked towards the window, and descried a cloud of dust. Down fell the pitcher from her hand.

—“Your bath is ready!” she said in a voice scarcely audible from agitation; and while Wolfenrad staggered into the adjoining chamber, she hastened into the balcony. The horsemen came nearer; she recognized many countenances well known to her; she recognized among them that of Edmund Bloomberg.

His name pronounced in her loudest tone, the cry of “Help for the Virgin’s sake!” and her handkerchief waved in the air towards the horsemen, soon attracted their attention. With equal surprise and terror Bloomberg recognized his wife at a balcony of the Castle, heard her implore assistance, and flew with his brave companions to afford it. What followed, I shall relate briefly: the narrative of this adventure may appear already too circumstantial, since its connexion with the Sisters of Sargans is not at present evident; but it had too material an influence upon the fate of all Helvetia to admit of my passing it over with a slight mention.

Before the Castle-Garrison had time to communicate to their Superior that intelligence, which they ought to have conveyed to him the preceding night, and while all hands were busily employed in guarding against an attack on the main-quarter, Bloomberg and his friends had already forced their way into the Castle at that neglected side, whence Amabel had called to them for assistance.

The bath, in which the still half-intoxicated Wolfenrad hoped to get rid of the effects of his night’s excess, was crimsoned with his blood. Amabel again found herself safe in the hands of her husband, in whose bosom delight contended with indignation. The opposition of the garrison to the complete conquest of the Castle was but trifling; and this fortress would certainly have remained in the hands of the Helvetians (a circumstance to them of the greatest advantage) had their numbers been strong enough to resist the troops, who were shortly after sent against them by the Abbot of St. Gall and other allies of the governor. Bloomberg’s friends were inadequate to maintaining the possession of their conquest, and in a few days afterwards he was compelled to evacuate the Castle.

Hitherto, the resentment of the multitude had been restrained within some bounds: but Amabel’s adventure and the death of Wolfenrad were the signal for open rebellion. The whole country was floated with blood: would that I could say, that the blood which flowed was entirely that of the foes of freedom! But alas! the number of the oppressors was too mighty. The Helvetians were over-powered; and after displaying the sentiments and performing the actions of heroes, Edmund Bloomberg, Arnold Melthal, and his venerable father Henric (to whom patriotism and his daughter’s injuries had restored some of his youthful strength) were constrained to fly from those beloved unhappy vallies, which once had been the favourite abodes of freedom and tranquillity.

The name of “flight” was of itself offensive to Helvetian candour and courage; the place to which they were compelled to address their flight, made it no less painful than disgraceful. Altdorf, which was in the jurisdiction of Gessler, whose tyranny had already been the cause of such bitter sufferings to Henric and Arnold, was the only refuge which remained to them. By remaining here quiet and concealed, till time allowed them to find fresh means of resisting their enemies, they hoped to escape Gessler’s notice; and accordingly they hastened to take shelter at Altdorf, with the brave William Tell, Bloomberg’s half-brother: here also they were sure of a powerful protector in the person of Walter Forest, a man whose situation and native greatness of mind struck awe into the bosom even of the insolent Gessler.

Here then the fugitives remained concealed, and nourished hopes of better times, which perhaps would have made even the present chearful, had not domestic discord obtruded itself into their little circle. The imprudence with which Amabel had thrown herself into the seducer’s snare, in spite of all his warnings and remonstrances, had not passed uncensured by her brother. His bitter reproaches sometimes excited Edmund’s anger, and sometimes his jealousy; and the poor girl would have been absolutely wretched, had not her father sustained her cause, and had not her innocence found a most strenuous advocate in William Tell. It is true, the language of veracity, in which she related her unadorned story, was not to be mistaken; but still it required Tell’s cool unprejudiced nature, and his noble guileless heart, to see every circumstance in its real colours.

He at length succeeded in restoring perfect harmony in Bloomberg’s family, and Amabel blessed him for the second time as the author of all her earthly happiness. Perhaps, her entire reconciliation with her husband was a little forwarded by Arnold’s absence. This impetuous young man had been the ring-leader of those, who at the Easter feast had insulted the Abbot of St. Gall by singing the ballad of “Bishop Ulric;” the Abbot had not forgotten it; and the unfortunate Arnold at length fell into one of the many snares, which had been spread for him by his priestly foe. Doubtless, he would have fallen a victim to the Abbot’s vengeance, had not Werner Bernsdorf, by means which it is unnecessary to relate circumstantially, contrived to release him from his dungeon, and sheltered him in his own house.

Though Amabel had received her husband’s full pardon, still the reconciliation had taken place too freshly to allow her as yet to feel quite at her ease: and now when the news arrived that her brother (whom she loved most dearly in spite of his violence) was a prisoner, she would have had sufficient reason to be unhappy, even had she not been tormented by the most cruel anxiety respecting the fate of the Damsels of Sargans. She ceased not to make enquiries concerning them; and at length she received the confirmation of her bitterest apprehensions. Amalberga was beyond a doubt totally in Landenberg’s power, who (in spite of all Wolfenrad’s assertions to the contrary) kept her confined in the Castle of Rassburg; nor was it less certain, that the Lady Emmeline had perished in the flames of St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary. Report spread far and wide many strange anecdotes respecting that conflagration, which I shall relate in another place; in truth, there is no one better able to give an account of that dreadful incident than myself.

The tears, which Amabel shed for herself and for her beloved friends, were soon required by a still more painful cause: misfortunes now awaited her, which were worthy to be mourned with tears of blood.

The furious Gessler’s insolence increased with every succeeding day. His most earnest care was to discover those who disapproved of him, that he might revenge himself by their torments. At length his pride and folly grew to such a height, that he fixed the plumed bonnet (which he usually wore) upon a lance in the market-place of Altdorf, and ordered, that all who passed should bow before it. The sneering populace obeyed, and contented themselves with whispering to each other, that they had much rather pay their respect to the empty hat, than the wicked head which it was accustomed to decorate: but William Tell and some few others of the principal inhabitants passed by the bonnet proudly and with unbending necks. From that moment did Gessler mark them down as the future victims of his revenge and rancour.

Had the tyrant dared to lay violent hands on Tell, or had he contrived means of stamping the mark of infamy on his reputation; had he sold the wife of his bosom for a slave, or murdered his infants before his eyes; still would all these atrocities have been excelled by that, which now entered his infernal brain. A prize was to be contended for by archers. The sport was interrupted by the arrival of Gessler. What was the horror of all who heard him, when he commanded his guards to seize Tell’s son, a lovely child but four years old, and bind him to the tree which had been selected as a mark for the arrows. He then declared aloud with the most impious execrations, that the heads of six of Tell’s relations (whom he had confined upon some slight pretences) should fall before night, unless the father would engage at a considerable distance to fix a dart into an apple, which should be placed on the head of the child.

How did the father burn with secret indignation, when Gessler dared to lay before him this unnatural proposal! No earthly force could have compelled him to arm his hand for the performance of an action so uncertain and so fearful; yet in fact the bow and arrow could be scarcely called an uncertain weapon in the hands of the most dexterous archer in Helvetia: and after a few moments past in thought he confidently accepted a proposal, whose atrocity (he was certain) was thoroughly felt by all present; and whose consequence he trusted would be the kindling the fire of liberty in every bosom till it should at length break into open flames, and the emancipating his country for ever from its present state of ignominious bondage.

A glance, more expressing contempt than wrath, was darted by Tell’s dark eyes upon the Governor, as he rocked himself backwards and forwards upon his elevated chair of state, and looked down upon the circle of noble Helvetians, whom the sports had attracted to Altdorf, as if they had been creatures of an inferior kind.

Gessler was too void of sensibility to understand the meaning of the glance, which was darted on him by Tell’s piercing eye. He only smiled contemptuously at having compelled the pride of this great mind to stoop itself to his orders, when he saw him press the lovely laughing child, his latest-born, to his heart with passion, and then bear him in his arms to the tree, where he was destined to take his stand. The apple, which was the nominal mark for that arrow, whose point Gessler hoped to see crimsoned with human blood, was fixed on the child’s head by the hands of the unhappy father.

Gessler’s attendants prepared to bind the innocent creature to the tree; but a spark of paternal spirit already burned in the soul of the son.

—“I am an Helvetian!” cried he with boyish eagerness; “I am not afraid of death, but of bonds: why, if my father really wanted to kill me, do you think I would run away?”—

All withdrew from the place, where Death’s intended victim stood calm and sweetly-smiling, like a second Isaac. The multitude, agonized with terror, could scarcely be heard to breathe: Tell had already taken his station. All were still, all dreading, lest the father’s hand, rendered trembling and uncertain by anxiety for his darling, should for the first time miss the mark; when the arrow whistled through the air, and fixed itself in the apple just above the crown of the child’s head, who saw it coming towards him, and smiled as he marked its flight.

Now then all rushed, eagerly to learn the event of this awful scene. Some exclaimed—“He is fallen! he is fallen!”—But the boy had only stooped to pick up the apple which the force of the blow had struck from his head; and he now presented it to his father, who had flown to embrace his rescued darling with speed scarce inferior to that of his arrow.

—“I was certain, father,” cried the child, as he hung round the neck of the breathless Tell, “I was certain, that you were not really going to kill your own William!”—

—“Kill thee?” exclaimed the father; “sooner would I have driven the arrow into my own heart! But eternal curses and sudden death to him, who would have made a man the murderer of his own child! Look!” he continued, while he clasped the boy to his breast with one hand, and with the other drew from his bosom a dart, which he held towards Gessler, “Look, monster! had the first arrow pierced my son’s breast, this should have been buried to the very beard in thine.—For this time thou art safe; but yet rest thou assured, that at the last thou shalt not escape unpunished! Though I may spare thee, Heaven will not.”—

—“Vengeance! vengeance! death and curses to the tyrant! Eternal destruction to the infernal Gessler and all the miscreants who assist him!” thus exclaimed the multitude with one voice; while they closed round Tell in order to conduct him home in safety, and protect him from the Governor’s guards, to whom a signal had been given to fall upon him without delay.

But the friends of liberty were too weak in numbers to resist their powerful oppressors. Before the gallant Tell had retraced half the way to his cottage, his companions were dispersed, and himself delivered into the hands of his enemy. Gessler commanded, that he should be bound, thrown into a vessel which was ready for sailing, and conveyed to the dungeons of Kussnach, as a violator of the respect due to imperial dignity.

No one was suffered to accompany Tell; but his little son clung to the bonds which were cutting the flesh of his father, and cried, that he would throw himself into the flood, if they tore him from him. Gessler’s soldiers had no objection to taking two victims instead of one, and yielded to the child’s request, whom Amabel followed into the vessel without being questioned. The boy was her darling, and it was she who had conducted him to the fatal archery, where it was his destiny to play so principal a part. The cry that he was safe had rouzed her from the swoon into which the sight of his danger had thrown her; and she now found it impossible to part so soon from the cherub, whom she had expected never more to clasp to her bosom but as a corse. She had also no slight grounds for apprehending new dangers for the rescued victim, should she leave him in the hands of his enemies with no other protector than his captive father. Gessler’s servile ministers could not have well pitched upon a more skilful or certain means of inflicting pain on Tell, than by murdering his son before his face.

Amabel was aware of this; and dreading lest this horrible plan of vengeance should occur to the soldiers, she took the first opportunity of enticing the child away from his father, and concealing him in a dark corner of the vessel. Here she charged the little William to remain quiet, and pointing to Tell, bade him observe how quiet his father was lying on the floor, his fettered hands clasped together and raised towards Heaven, whither his eyes directed devout and imploring glances, which reached the Preserver of innocence above the clouds.

—“What is my father doing?” enquired the child at length in a whisper.

—“He is praying for himself and for us,” answered Amabel.

—“Oh! then God will hear him, and help him; and then you know, we can creep out, and take away those ugly cords from his poor bleeding hands.”—

Amabel replied in the manner, which she thought most likely to satisfy the child; and a conversation was carried on in whispers between her and her little companion which gradually became interesting enough to prevent their observing that a dreadful storm was rising, that thick clouds had changed the day into night, and that the light vessel was forced far out of its intended course. The rolling of the thunder, the frequent flashes of lightning, and the heavy torrents of rain at length made both attentive and silent; till William proposed that he should steal to his father under covert of the thick darkness, and spread his little coat over him, for Tell lay entirely exposed to the tempest. Amabel burst into tears as she listened to the kind-hearted boy, then gave him her own cloak, and bade him hasten to alleviate the prisoner’s sufferings.

But Tell showed by no sign, that he was conscious of this affecting testimony of his child’s care: he remained with his hands clasped, and his eyes still fixed upon the heavens. Perhaps, the transactions of that day had blunted all his feelings; perhaps, he was revolving plans of escape, which never fail to occupy the thoughts of the captive hero, and whose future execution frequently prevent his being sensible of the weight of present calamities.

The tempest continued to rage: with every moment the danger of the slight vessel became more imminent. Tell, Amabel, and the child were now left by themselves. The other persons were employed in various quarters, endeavouring if possible to save the ship, which was already deprived of sail and mast. The prisoners were now the happiest of the party: they at least rejoiced in the hope of perishing together. The child too, who had no clear idea of the danger, and fancied that everything went wrong only because his father was in bonds, ceased not to exert all his little powers in endeavouring to untye the cords; but even with Amabel’s assistance he found the task too difficult for his strength.

While they were still employed in this unavailing labour, they heard the cry of distress increase with tenfold violence: presently some one on the upper deck exclaimed—“Now then all is lost! What winds and waves have failed in doing, will be done by the hidden rocks which abound upon this coast, and with which not a soul of us is acquainted. Oh! what would I now give to be as good a pilot as Tell, and to possess his knowledge of these shores!”—

Amabel started up, and listened with more attention. She heard the name of Tell frequently mentioned; and after a few minutes past in contention, some of the sailors approached the place, where she stood by the side of her unfortunate friend.

—“Tell,” said the Captain, “you know, that your life is forfeit to the law; but if you will engage to conduct the vessel safe to land, as a favour we will unbind you, and promise to do our utmost to obtain a milder sentence for you from the Emperor’s mercy.”—

—“I have saved many a vessel,” answered Tell, “in a more desperate situation than the present; and that which has succeeded with me ten times before, I trust, will not fail with me now.—As to what you say about favours, bestow them on those who ask them; I expect mercy from no one, save from Him under whose hand we all now tremble!”—

Tell was unbound, and the rudder committed to his care. William and Amabel still remained close by his side, while the rest of the ship’s company dispersed to their several stations.

Tell’s rudder seemed to command the tempest: he steered confidently through the foaming waves, and already the companions of his danger shouted with joy at the certainty of their escape.

—“And what will be the reward of our preserver?” asked one of the most compassionate among Gessler’s soldiers.

—“What should it be?” answered their leader angrily. “The most he can lay claim to is a speedy death without being previously tortured; or perhaps his sentence may be softened into that of eternal imprisonment.”—

Tell was silent, and cast a despairing look through the dark clouds of the storm towards the Only-one, from whom he had hopes of assistance!

—“Oh! that I had no one here to tremble for, except myself!” said Tell to the afflicted Amabel, who knelt beside him after a silence of some minutes—“how quickly should I be safe from the malice of my enemies!”—

—“And what then would you do?”—

—“The rocks are not lofty! One bold and lucky spring, and I were in safety!”—

—“Throw me into the waves, father!” cried the boy, “throw me into the waves, for I am a hindrance to you!”—

At that moment a tremendous flash of lightning illuminated the whole scene. Tell descried an immense tree at a slight distance growing out of a rock which they were approaching, and extending its arms far over the foaming flood—

“Amabel!” cried Tell, “dare you seize a bough of that tree as we pass under it, suffer the bark to be carried away from you, and cling fast to the branch, till I have time to come to your assistance?”—

—“I dare! I dare!” cried Amabel in the tone of desperation—“But the child! Oh! God! the child!”—

—“Be that my care!—Be prepared!—Now then!” he cried, and was obeyed. He saw that she had fast hold of the bough, and in the same moment he seized the boy with his left arm, with his right turned the rudder to-wards the rock, then sprang boldly from the deck, and left the vessel with its unthankful freight a prey to the raging flood. The tempest seized it; the rudder was broken in the shock, and dreadful was the shriek of the crew, as the fury of the winds and waves drove it far away over the roaring billows. Tell sprang upon the rock unhurt; he hastily climbed up the upper part of the coast, and having placed the boy on the ground, he flew to give Amabel his assistance. But she, who was deficient neither in strength of body or presence of mind, had already found means to gain the rock in which the tree was rooted, had forced her way through all impediments, and had nearly reached the loftiest of the broken cliffs, before he could arrive. He assisted her to attain the summit, when she instantly sank on her knees, and returned thanks to God with all the joy of one just rescued from destruction.

But I forget, that Tell and Amabel are in fact foreign to my story, and I have already suffered myself to dwell on their adventures too long, to the prejudice of my real heroines. I will therefore pass over in silence the circumstances which followed their escape from the vessel, and those which again threw them into Gessler’s power. Suffice it to say, that the dart which the Avenger of human nature seemed to have reserved for that express purpose, the dart which Tell had shown Gessler, in the first burst of his indignation, that very dart pierced the tyrant’s bosom; and thus was Helvetia freed from a monster, who had laid waste her tranquil vallies with circumstances of much greater cruelty, than were ever attributed to fabled dragons in the Legends of Romance.

After performing this dangerous act of justice, Tell betook himself to Stein, where he intended to take refuge with Werner Bernsdorf. Here he found new cause to rejoice at having rid the world of Gessler. Bernsdorf’s new-raised edifice, the admiration of the whole country, lay an heap of ashes! Gessler had thought it too good for a private man, and had threatened to pull it down. Werner laughed at his threats, for it seemed to be no trifle to destroy the property of a man of his consequence, while living in the midst of a neighbourhood, where every arm and every heart were devoted to his service: but he did not reflect, that villany can find a hundred secret means for effecting its purposes. In the depth of the night a fire broke out, which, from its bursting all at once from the four corners of the building, and at a time when all were buried in sleep, gained ground too rapidly to admit of its being got under. Werner and Gertrude saved nothing from the flames, except their lives. Every one exclaimed against secret incendiaries, and no one doubted by whose orders this shameful action had been committed: in fact, there were proofs sufficient to make it morally certain, that the author of this mischief could be no other than Gessler.

The sight of his friend’s distress (for this fire had reduced Werner to beggary) raised Tell’s indignation to the highest pitch. He left Amabel and his son to the care of Gertrude, and hastened with Bernsdorf in disguise back to Altdorf, to consult with Walter Forest and Henric Melthal on the best and speediest means of rescuing Helvetia from her disgraceful yoke. Arnold Melthal also, who had but lately escaped from the dungeons of the Abbot of St. Gall, increased their band; and the union of five men so remarkable for courage and for prudence produced such fortunate and such glorious consequences, as will immortalize their names to the latest posterity[^[1]].

[1]. Bernsdorf’s real name was Staufacher.

Bloomberg hastened to Stein, to rejoice with his wife at her escape, and to efface in her embraces the injurious impressions, to which his too easy heart had given way during their separation. Spite and Envy had not neglected the opportunity of calumniating one of Amabel’s noblest actions. Her frank and guileless nature had prevented her from making it a secret, that the admirable William Tell had been the first love of her innocent heart; and her voluntary forsaking her family, in order that she might share the fate of that gallant prisoner (a circumstance of which all Altdorf had been an eye-witness) had found that misinterpretation, which Calumny is always so eager to bestow on those heroic actions, of which she feels herself incapable.

Fortunately the heart of Edmund Bloomberg was not more prone to jealous doubts, than open to conviction. Nothing more than the sight of his excellent brother, and the relation of the true circumstances of the case, was necessary to make him feel the folly of suspecting the integrity of such a man. He requested his lovely wife to forgive his unjust suspicions; and the temporary separation of their hearts seemed to have renewed his former love with such violence, that he could not resolve to tear himself away from her, in spite of his earnest desire to participate with his friends in the glorious attempt to rescue Helvetia from her chains.

Yet was not Edmund entirely idle. His wife’s anxiety respecting the Damsels of Sargans had formerly induced him to make enquiries respecting their fate; but Wolfenrad (whose sole view was to remove the husband, in order that the unprotected wife might fall a prey during his absence) had taken care to direct his search, where he well knew that it must be fruitless. Edmund at length discovered the trick, and incensed at having been sent on such a wild-goose-chase, he hastened back accompanied by a band of well-armed companions, determined to revenge the insult. His vengeance was complete, and now at Amabel’s request he again resumed his search after the Damsels of Sargans: nor was it long before he ascertained, that report had said no more than the truth, when she asserted that Amalberga was a captive in the dungeons of Rassburg, and that Emmeline had really perished among the flames. To rescue the one and to revenge the other now formed the only subject of the conversations, which passed between Gertrude, Amabel, and her husband.

The more they discussed the circumstances, the more dreadful did the fate of the two sisters appear, and the more difficult of execution did they find their plans respecting them. They were conscious, that without some powerful supporter, their strength was insufficient for the undertaking; and Amabel’s thoughts immediately suggested to her the names of two young knights, to whom at a former period the Damsels of Sargans had been by no means indifferent, and who (she doubted not) would still feel so much interest about them, as to forward her wish to avenge the death of the one and procure the deliverance of the other.

On enquiry, it appeared, that but few hopes could be grounded upon the aid of Count Herman of Werdenberg. Suspicions, injurious to Emmeline’s character, had made him resolve to conquer his passion for her: but to eradicate her from his heart had not been found a task so easy, as he imagined; and at length he had quitted Germany, tormented by his unsatisfied love, and by anger at himself for not having succeeded in overcoming it. He was at this time in England, whence his relations had solicited his return most earnestly, but in vain.

But little as was to be expected from Count Herman, so much the more was to be hoped from the noble Eginhart of Torrenburg, and it was resolved that Edmund should hasten to him without delay: it was not long before he returned accompanied by the youthful hero.

There are reasons, which it is unnecessary to disclose, which make it particularly painful to me to trace the name of Torrenburg, and to recollect how closely his fate is interwoven with that of Amalberga of Sargans: but it must be done, and I will not complain. Yes, there ought to be now no sacrifice too difficult for my heart to make: there shall be none!

Eginhart of Torrenburg, who had formerly been as closely bound to Helen of Homburg through motives of policy, as he was now attached by affection and his own choice to the lovely Amalberga, was at length free from his engagements to the former, and at liberty to bestow his hand according to the dictates of his heart.

Helen (alas for that poor Helen!) had been carried off on her bridal-day by that fierce terrific tyrant, Donat, Count of Carlsheim and Sargans: force had compelled her to become his wife! Angels of innocence, where were you then lingering, that you gave the unfortunate no warning-sign of the danger, into which she was on the brink of falling? Yet scarcely can I decide, which would have been the harder fate; to become the victim of Count Donat, or with a heart glowing with love to be delivered into the arms of a husband, whose soul was in secret devoted to another, and whose hand was only given to the wretched Helen from motives of honour and respect for his plighted word.

Instead of the expected bride, the news of her being carried off reached the Castle of Torrenburg, where the wedding was to have been celebrated. Though love had no share in his concern on this occasion, compassion for the unfortunate girl, and the insult thus offered to himself, made the young Count immediately place himself at the head of his vassals, and hasten to rescue the intended victim from Donat’s clutches.

Helen, who had been compelled to assent to this unhallowed union at the Castle of Upper Halbstein, was now ordered to follow her unamiable Lord to another of his fortresses situated southwards among the Rhœtian Alps. She received the command with joy, for at the Castle of Sargans she hoped at least to receive the consolations of friendship. Her step-daughters had been the play-fellows of Helen’s childhood during several weeks; and since their separation occasional letters and messages conveyed by third persons had frequently assured her, that she still lived in the remembrances of her early friends. In their embraces she hoped to find some alleviation of her sufferings: she flattered herself also, that the station which she was now to fill in their house, would give her frequent opportunities of making the situation of the poor girls more happy than it had been hitherto; and this reflexion prevented her from feeling herself quite miserable.

Cruel fate decreed, that her journey, which was made in company with her husband and under the protection of a numerous retinue, should be interrupted by the arrival of the Count of Torrenburg and his forces. It was now, that for the first time she saw the bridegroom, whom fortune had destined never to be hers; for whose character she had ever been taught to entertain the highest admiration; and whose sight (for oh! there never yet was man more formed to captivate the soul of woman) was sufficient to make her feel, how near her happiness had been, and how completely it was now lost to her for ever.

Torrenburg’s valour forced Count Donat to seek his safety in flight, and the trembling Helen was brought before the conqueror. Helen (who believed herself to be no less dear to her destined bridegroom, than He was dear to Her) for a few moments forgot her duty; but melancholy reflexion soon made her tear herself away from the embraces of the beloved warrior, and she commanded him to leave her.

—“My rescue comes too late!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; “I am Count Donat’s wife, and must remain so, though it should break my heart! Oh! Eginhart, restore me to my husband, and forget the unfortunate, whom fate has separated from you for ever.”—

Tears stood glittering in the warrior’s eyes. He advanced, as if he would have detained her, but she peremptorily forbade his nearer approach. She hastened to her palfrey, and giving the reins to the animal, she soon reached the valley, whither Donat and his vassals had directed their flight.

Helen’s conduct on this occasion, which might well have been termed a difficult effort, if virtue and duty did not make every effort easy, was rewarded by her stern husband with coldness, with sarcasms, with reproaches. She arrived at Sargans; and here was Helen destined to find the disappointment of her last poor promised pleasure, the society of her two friends.

Count Donat held out to her as a mark of his complaisance and of his consideration for her happiness, that he had ordered the only one of his daughters who remained to him (for the other had unaccountably disappeared) to quit the Castle. In vain did Helen implore him to recall Emmeline of Sargans from the Sanctuary of St. Roswitha: he was deaf to her entreaties, and she was left a prey to solitude and despair.

Nor had the husband, who had gained her hand by such unworthy means, reason to be entirely satisfied with his situation. The Counts of Torrenburg, Mayenfield, and Homburg, mortally offended at the carrying off of Helen, like a deluge over-ran with their forces the territories of Count Donat. His fortresses were forced and plundered one after another, and they now advanced to attack the Castle of Sargans. But Helen, whose only remaining consolation was derived from the most punctilious discharge of her duties, came forth to throw herself at the feet of her relations; and she implored for peace so fervently and so earnestly, and she asserted with so much solemnity her belief, that being once become the Count of Carlsheim’s wife, it was her duty to live and die with him, (a duty, which she was resolved to fulfill, whatever might be the consequences,) that her intercession was found irresistible. Dearly was Helen beloved by her parents; earnestly did they desire her happiness, which they well knew she never could find in the arms of Donat: but it was by themselves, that she had been taught the merit of sacrificing all other considerations to that of fulfilling her duties; how then could they advise her now to break through the rules, which they had themselves laid down for her?—Peace was granted, and granted solely to Helen’s intercession. The ravisher was left in possession of his unwilling bride; and her relations quitted his territories, having first exacted from him the most solemn and dreadful oath to recompense her for the happy station, of which he had deprived her, by unchanging love and never-ceasing anxiety for her welfare.

Donat took the oath: how he kept it, is a secret to all save the Almighty and Helen: but she has sworn in the presence of God to be silent on this subject, and she will carry that dreadful secret with her to the grave unpublished.

She was very—oh! very miserable! On those days only, when her stern husband was from home, had she any gleams of sunshine. On one of these days an unknown messenger arrived, and desired to speak with the Lady Emmeline of Sargans. He was informed, that she was not at the Castle, and he was conducted to Helen. He brought letters from the Lake of Thun, which he at length confided to her, though unwillingly, and only (as he said) induced by the frank expression of her countenance.

—“But,” said he, “will you deliver them to the Lady Emmeline with your own hands?”—

Helen, who lived at Sargans almost in a state of captivity, knew too well that she was not authorised to give such a promise, and only answered by a melancholy shake of the head. Her look, the suspicious countenances of the attendants, and the well-known character of her husband, alarmed the messenger, and made him suspect that his life was in danger: he stole unperceived to the gate, and hastened away. The packet was thus left in Helen’s possession. She knew, that it would be impossible to deliver it into the hands of her, for whom it was intended; she long sought for opportunities of doing so in vain; and at length ennui, and her anxiety to obtain some further information respecting the Sisters, which might possibly furnish her with the means of alleviating their cruel destiny, induced her to open the letters.

They were from Amabel Melthal and the lost Amalberga. Heavens! what unexpected discoveries did Helen make while perusing them; discoveries, which had no slight connexion with her own situation! God be thanked, that among other things they made it known to her, that nothing but duty to his parents, and consideration for his plighted word, had induced Eginhart of Torrenburg to offer her his hand, while every fond sentiment of his heart had long been Amalberga’s. This discovery at first wounded her to the very soul; but after a time she drew from it reasons for being better satisfied with her fate, and she resolutely banished the beloved youth from her memory, in which till then he had too frequently occupied a place.

Determined to abstract herself entirely from every thing which regarded herself, Helen now determined to consider the happiness of her two friends as her only object in life. She endeavoured to make herself mistress of every circumstance belonging to them. Mention was made in one of Amabel’s letters of an old maid-servant at Sargans, called Bertha, who had been Emmeline’s confidante during the latter days of her abode at her father’s mansion; and in hopes of gaining some further information Helen desired, that Bertha might be brought before her. She was answered, that the old woman had been sick for several weeks, and was now drawing near her end. To the great astonishment of the domestics Helen immediately hastened to Bertha’s chamber, saying, that she would go and comfort her in her last moments.

Helen had but little time allowed her to perform this charitable office: yet that little she employed to the best advantage, and in return Bertha’s gratitude rewarded her more amply, than she had hoped. Bertha, who had fallen ill soon after Emmeline’s departure, had only had time to forward the letter for Amabel; another packet, intended for the Countess Urania Venosta, was still in her possession. She gave it to Helen, and implored her to take care, that it reached its destination. That was not in Helen’s power; she kept it for some time, in constant terror lest her tyrant husband should discover it, and lest it should be the means of drawing down on herself and Emmeline fresh anger and increased sufferings. At length, she resolved at least to put the contents out of Count Donat’s power to bury in oblivion: she broke the seal, and what she read exalted her impatience to rescue the unfortunate writer to a degree, that was almost too strong to admit of concealment.

What Helen suffered at this period is not to be expressed; perhaps her own misfortunes had made her still more compassionate towards those of others, than it was her nature otherwise to be. Three objects were now never out of her thoughts for a moment. The first was, since the Count of Torrenburg was now lost to her for ever, to make known to him the present residence of Amalberga; but how to convey to him that intelligence, she in vain sought to discover. The second was, if possible, to rescue Emmeline from the detested Convent of St. Roswitha; but alas! she had but little hopes of delivering others, while she was herself a captive in the Castle of Sargans. The last was, to obtain possession of the key to that chamber, in which was the secret entrance to the subterraneous passages leading to the dwellings of the Anchorets.

The last seemed to afford her the most probable means of gratifying her two former wishes; perhaps too, she was unconsciously desirous of securing a means of escaping from the Castle, should she ever find such a step necessary. It is at least certain, that in her eagerness to carry her point, she took many steps, which prudence would not justify. Frequently did she repair to that chamber; she found the door guarded by seven locks. Frequently in the dead of the night, when all slept, or seemed to sleep, did she try the house-keys, which were in her charge; and when at length two of the locks shot back from their fastenings, she sank on her knees, and thanked Heaven with a flood of tears. She doubted not, that the rest of the locks would yield to her perseverance; but a sudden noise at no great distance prevented her from pushing the attempt farther that night, and she hastened back to her chamber with a heart filled with delight and expectation.

Joy, at being so near the accomplishment of her wishes, prevented her from sleeping during the remainder of the night, and she employed the vacant hours in revolving her future plans.

—“If,” said she to herself, after giving the matter her most serious consideration; “if I should be so fortunate as to obtain an entrance into the mysterious chamber to-morrow night, I will hasten to the subterraneous passage without losing a moment. A torch, and the clear description of the way given in Amalberga’s letter will guide me to the Hermitage to a certainty, and I need only use more than ordinary diligence, in order to be back at the Castle before day-break; for precious as liberty appears to me, I will not obtain it by improper means. I am Donat’s wife, and privately to withdraw myself from his protection were to commit an act of infidelity and treason against my husband. I will content myself therefore with relating what I know to the good hermits, and entreating them to take the best and speediest means of rescuing Emmeline from her dangerous abode, and for placing the fortunate Amalberga in the arms of Torrenburg!”—

On second thoughts, she reflected, that merely to give this intelligence to the hermits would not be to do enough; it would also be necessary to give some explanation to the Countess Urania respecting the letters which she had opened, and by advising Torrenburg to make Amalberga his wife, to render it clear to him, that she had herself forgotten the tyes which once existed between them. Perhaps too, a threatening letter to the Abbot of Curwald (should all other means fail) might have some weight in inducing him to surrender Emmeline. In order that nothing might delay her on the ensuing night, she rose instantly from her bed, and began to write. But before her letters were concluded, it was morning, and her attendants, or rather her jailors, entered the apartment to wake her. They exprest no little surprise at finding her already out of bed.

—“I presume, noble Lady,” said the eldest of them, “either some joyous foreboding, or some prophetic dream has roused you from your couch so early. Our Lord will return to-day; in truth, we knew this yesterday, but we kept it to make our morning-greeting the more welcome, and also through apprehension lest your joy at this intelligence should spoil your night’s rest.”—

Helen only answered the speaker by one of those expressive glances, with which the open-hearted repay words, which belie the secret mind. She was well aware, that her women who had been so often the witnesses of her sufferings, could not but know the nature of those feelings, which Donat’s return was likely to excite in her bosom. Nor did she alone tremble in the presence of the fierce Count of Carlsheim; every creature that existed in the Castle listened to his name with terror, and nothing but irony had dictated this speech of the insolent Jutta. Yet dared not Helen find the least fault with any one of her female attendants, who were chiefly composed of her husband’s former favourites, and the meanest of whom had more influence with him still, than was allowed to his unhappy wife.

The news of Donat’s return was soon confirmed: it was scarcely mid-day, when she heard the drawbridge resounding beneath the hasty trampling of his black steed. She hastened to receive him at the gate with that smile of submissive duty, which she had accustomed herself always to wear in his presence. He repulsed her offered hand with a furious look, and shut himself up in his own chamber with such of his dependents, as were most in his confidence. An hour elapsed; his chamber-door was thrown open, and Donat rushed out again, to all appearance more incensed, if possible, than before.

—“Arm! arm!” cried he with a voice of thunder, which resounded through the whole fortress, and which soon collected all his soldiers around him, who, wearied with the journey from which they were just returned, were better fitted for repose than for a second expedition; “to horse, and away this instant; business of importance summons us, and which admits of no delay. Talk not of weariness, or exhausted strength! the deed, which now demands your faulchions, could be executed, if your arms were half useless; for I lead you not against stout warriors, but cowardly monks, on whom I swear to be revenged before sun-set!”—

They were too well accustomed to obey Count Donat at the first motion of his finger, to make any remonstrances. In a few minutes all were mounted, and their horses galloped over the echoing draw-bridge into the valley below, whence they disappeared from the eyes of those, who gazed after them, with the rapidity of lightning.

The Castle-inhabitants looked on each other in silent astonishment. The similarity of their present feelings produced a kind of confidence between the Countess and her women; and one of them confessed to her, her being almost certain, that she knew the cause of all this uproar. She would however only impart thus much of her knowledge: on his return homewards the Count had received a letter from one who was in the habit of sending him intelligence, and this letter most probably contained the spark, which had kindled such flames in the bosom of Count Donat; for as soon as he had read it to his confidents, he tore it in a thousand pieces, and trampled it under his feet. Besides this, in the midst of a torrent of execrations he had been heard to mention the Abbot of Curwald and his daughter Emmeline.

—“Emmeline and the Abbot?” exclaimed Helen delighted. “Is it possible, that some benevolent Being should have opened his eyes to the miseries of his daughter? Is it to rescue her, that he departed in such haste? Ah! then why have I so long delayed to take the nearest and surest way for effecting her deliverance? Had I but confest her danger to Count Donat.... Surely the worst of men could not endure, that his child should be overwhelmed in shame and ruin! The depravity of the Nuns of St. Roswitha must have been concealed from Count Donat, or he never would have made his daughter a member of their society!”—

These reflections, which were only half pronounced by Helen, were totally unintelligible to her attendants, who continued to discuss what had past, and to conjecture what was to follow; this occupied them so entirely, that they did not perceive, that their mistress had left them. She had hastened to her husband’s chamber, where she hoped to obtain some insight into the circumstance, which at once both rejoiced and alarmed her.

The fragments of the important letter still lay upon the floor; she eagerly seized them, and having secured herself against interruption, put them again together carefully. She learned from them the truth of what she had just been told; the writer warned Count Donat to beware of the Abbot’s artifices; discovered to him, that St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary was little better than the harem of the Monks of Curwald; and that by enclosing the Lady Emmeline within these sacrilegious walls, he had delivered up his daughter to the passion of her licentious lover.

No wonder, that information like this should have given a deadly wound to Count Donat’s pride: nor (in spite of his own excesses) was he so totally lost to shame as to endure patiently, that his daughter should become the prey of a libertine. He was almost frantic with rage, and for the first time in his life he drew his sword to punish the insulters of virtue.

Helen sank on her knees, and thanked God for this unexpected accomplishment of her wishes. She sent a thousand prayers after her husband for the good success of his expedition: she even went so far, as to begin to make preparations for receiving the rescued Emmeline, whom in fancy she already prest to her heart; and when this agreeable occupation was finished, she turned her thoughts towards guessing at the benevolent writer of the letter, which had induced the father to hasten to preserve his child.

Poor simple Helen! it entered not into her thoughts (and it was not till long after, that she made the discovery) that villainy often performs a seemingly virtuous action, in order to forward its own unholy designs. She knew not, that the author of that letter was Wolfenrad. It seems, that those oppressors of Rhœtian and Helvetian liberty, the lord governors and their assistants, carried on a very close though secret understanding with some of the most potent noblemen, whose object it was equally to bring the inhabitants of these unfortunate countries still more beneath the yoke, and to build upon their subjection the fabric of their own power and grandeur. Among the secret allies of Gessler and Landenberg, Count Donat and the Abbot of Curwald were the most distinguished; and Wolfenrad on account of his well-known skill in penmanship was frequently employed by both the governors to carry on their correspondence both with Curwald and Sargans.

Still the fact was, that neither of these parties meant honestly to each other. Donat and the Abbot were determined only to go hand in hand with the vice-regents so long, as it suited their own views; and these on the other side intended, as soon as they had derived as much benefit as they could from the assistance of the Count and his ecclesiastical ally, to excite a quarrel between them, and then join with the one in plundering the other.

We have already seen, how imprudently Amabel had laid her secrets open to Wolfenrad. Her letters to Emmeline passed through his hands, and he missed not this opportunity to increase his knowledge of the affairs of the Count of Carlsheim; and though Emmeline’s letters to Amabel were not confided to him, by one artifice or another he had not failed to obtain a sight of them. Bloomberg’s simple wife observed indeed, that the seal of Emmeline’s packet had been forced; but she little guest by whom.

The contents of this letter immediately furnished him with the most certain means for producing an irreconcileable hatred between Count Donat and the potent Abbot of Curwald. The power of the latter was beginning to appear dangerous to the Lord Governors; but they could expect nothing but an accession of strength to themselves, while the Count of Carlsheim and the Abbot were mutually weakening themselves in feudal skirmishes. Such was Wolfenrad’s object in writing this warning-letter, whose author was loaded with blessings by the unsuspicious Helen, while waiting with a throbbing heart for the return of her Lord.

The night arrived. She now thought no longer of attempting to open the door of the mysterious chamber, which she had meant to attempt at this hour, since a principal object of her wish to visit the Hermitage was already accomplished. Besides, the design could not then have been possibly executed, since every one in the Castle was still awake, and waiting with impatience for Count Donat’s return.

It was almost morning, when some of her attendants rushed with looks of terror into Helen’s apartment, and entreated her to ascend the upper platform, whence she would discern towards the west indubitable marks of some dreadful conflagration.

—“God preserve us from some mishap!” exclaimed Helen, while she followed her women to the battlements; the whole quarter of the heavens towards Curwald seemed one blaze of red!—“Oh! Donat, Donat, what hast thou done? Were there no gentler means?—Emmeline, my poor Emmeline, where art thou at this moment?”—

Helen’s fears were but too well-founded. Donat, in doing what he thought it right to do, had done it in his usual manner. Wolfenrad’s letter had given him some hints of the midnight revels, which were frequently carried on between the inhabitants of the adjacent Convents of Curwald and St. Roswitha. He made enquiries of the neighbouring peasants, who were no friends of these ecclesiastical libertines; their report confirmed the truth of Wolfenrad’s assertions; and an old man (who declared himself particularly well informed respecting these disgraceful secrets) added—“that on that very night there was to be a superb entertainment given to celebrate the conversion of a Nun, who was the last admitted.”—

—“You may easily guess, valiant knight,” continued the old man, “what they mean by her conversion. I suppose the lady (I saw her brought into the Convent myself, and she seemed to be an angel of innocence and beauty) was a little violent at first; and so they have at last succeeded in taming her stern morality, as many another has been tamed in the same way before her.”—

—“Good heavens!” exclaimed one of the least depraved among Count Donat’s knights; “are such things spoken of in these parts so openly, and yet is Justice silent, and does the Bishop of Coira take no notice of such abominations?”—

—“Oh! the Lord have mercy on me, Sir Knight,” answered the old man, “such things are not talked of openly, or so many fathers would not plunge their children into yonder abyss of infamy! I warrant you, the parents of this converted damsel little thought, when they sent her to St. Roswitha, that they were placing the sweet creature in Satan’s own claws. But when one is speaking to gallant warriors like yourselves, who are able, and perhaps willing to help us, one must be open-hearted. I see that you are all well-armed, and yonder tall gentleman with his eye-brows bent so sternly and his hands clenched seems to feel for what we poor country-folks must suffer under the dominion of these voluptuous Monks, who make us contribute the chief part of our hard-earned gains to the support of their luxury. As to the Bishop of Coira.... I am afraid, you are in the right about him! The notice which he takes.... Aye; were old Hugo of Werdenberg still bishop indeed.... But the present Bishop.... Well! well! he and his boon-companion, the Abbot of St. Gall, make a pair of worthies indeed!”—

While his knights were carrying on this discourse with the peasants, their Lord, whom fury had almost deprived of his senses, was considering what was to be done: the resolution which he took was worthy of his character, was worthy of no one but himself. Entrance into either of the two convents was demanded in vain; every other proposal which his attendants suggested, was rejected as incompetent to effect his object; at length his commands were obeyed, and by midnight St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary was enveloped in flames. It’s true, that a spark of paternal love still glimmered in his heart for the unfortunate Emmeline; but the idea, that in all probability she also had been converted after the fashion of the sisterhood, soon extinguished it, and he resolved to hide her and his shame together in the ashes of St. Roswitha. Impressed with this idea—“Drive them back into the flames!” roared the inhuman Donat, whenever either Friar or Nun tried to rescue themselves from the conflagration, without deigning to examine whether Emmeline might not be one of those unfortunates. The number of monks, whom the flames compelled to attempt their escape from St. Roswitha at this undue time of night, confirmed the reports of the mode of life practised in the convents; and the dresses of the Nuns, who had been arrayed for the feast, proclaimed how little their hearts were estranged from worldly vanities. The fire continued to spread; it now caught the adjacent Abbey of Curwald, and before day-break there remained of both the Sanctuaries and their infamous inhabitants nothing but heaps of smoaking ruins[^[2]].

[2]. Some historians date the burning of Cloister-Curwald several years later than the period adopted in this narrative.

Such was the cause of those flames, whose reflexion on the sky excited so much consternation at Sargans: Helen’s heart had not throbbed with sad forebodings without necessity. In the course of the morning Donat returned home, and returned without Emmeline!

Helen flew to meet him, and eagerly enquired, where was his daughter? His answer was a short and cold narrative of the dreadful transaction, which had just taken place, and the consequence was, that overpowered with horror Helen fell senseless at the monster’s feet. When she recovered, her first words were to ask, where he had placed Emmeline, (for she doubted not, that previous to firing the Convent he had provided for his daughter’s safety,) and unfortunately her question was so worded, that it betrayed her more intimate knowledge of the business, than was by any means suspected by Donat. This discovery converted his unfeeling coldness into a degree of fury, that nearly approached delirium. He seized her roughly by the arm, and demanded, in a voice of thunder, how she came to be so well acquainted with his affairs? The unfortunate knew no other way of extricating herself from this dilemma, than repeating what she had heard mentioned by one of her attendants respecting Wolfenrad’s letter, which (she confest) had so strongly excited her anxiety about Emmeline, that she had not scrupled to piece the fragments again together. The storm of rage was now diverted from Helen to the woman, who had given her mistress this intelligence, and who had it in her power to disclose much more important secrets, if she had thought proper.

Incensed at Count Donat’s ill-treatment of her, for which she considered herself as indebted to Helen, Jutta resolved to disclose in her turn all that she thought most likely to injure her mistress. Accordingly she began an accusation, which among a thousand falsehoods contained some truths, calculated to make Helen shudder as she listened to them.

The Countess (Jutta said) had some time before received a packet from an unknown messenger, who afterwards quitted the Castle with all speed, and whose arrival she ordered to be concealed from her husband. She had also received several letters from the hands of the dying Bertha; after reading which she had been frequently seen loitering about the door of that chamber, which (on account of the strange noises frequently heard within) was supposed to be haunted. Nay, on the night before last she had actually tried to force back the locks, but had been scared away, by hearing Jutta’s rosary fall on the ground, while she was watching her Lady’s proceedings concealed behind St. Martin’s statue. She had afterwards seen through the key-hole the Countess busily employed in writing, and during the confusion which followed Count Donat’s arrival, had found means to get the letters into her possession; which to confirm her story Jutta was now ready to lay before him.

These heavy charges against Helen failed not to produce the effect intended. Donat ordered the letters to be brought immediately: He was no scholar; yet was he not so totally deficient in the knowledge of writing, but that he could clearly decypher the addresses, which were written in large characters. His eyes flashed fire, while he spelt the names of “Eginhart of Torrenburg,” “the Abbot of Curwald,” and “Urania Venosta, the widowed Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.” These directions would have been sufficient to condemn the poor Helen, even had she been tried by a more impartial judge. It was certain, that these three persons were her husband’s bitterest enemies; with what propriety then could she be engaged in a secret correspondence with them? In particular, what motive could she have for writing to the Count of Torrenburg, who was her former lover, and had been so long her destined bridegroom? Alas! poor Helen! appearances were sorely against thee! Nor would Donat’s fury give him time to enquire further into the business. In a paroxysm of rage he tore the letters into a thousand fragments, and pronounced Helen to be in a secret correspondence with his implacable foe, the Countess Urania for the purpose of betraying him to his enemies; he asserted also, that she had been privy to the Abbot’s designs upon his daughter, and had encouraged them in order to be revenged on the father; and that she was still in love with the Count of Torrenburg and meant to have fled to him from Sargans, an intention which was sufficiently proved by her midnight efforts to obtain entrance into that chamber, which concealed a private outlet from the Castle. It’s true, that finding Emmeline had quitted that chamber of her own accord, and thinking the knowledge of the secret passage might be of use to himself on some future occasion, the Abbot had not mentioned to Count Donat his suspicions, that such a passage existed; and the room had been merely shut up from the report of its being haunted. But Wolfenrad had learned this secret from the perusal of Amalberga’s letter to Emmeline, and had communicated it to the Count, hoping thereby to increase the merit of his services. Now then Donat had no doubt, that the noises, which had been heard in that chamber, proceeded from no ghosts, but from persons who were waiting to assist his wife in her projected flight. Under the influence of these impressions, Helen was held convicted of the most infamous designs, and condemned to suffer the most exemplary chastisement. She was instantly confined in one of the strongest dungeons, probably in that where Urania had shed so many tears; in the mean while her tyrant with his confidents and those women of the Castle who were most her enemies, sat in council to decide, what punishment would be sufficiently severe to suit her crime.

I am in doubt as to Donat’s reasons for not immediately proceeding to the last extremities with his wife: that sentiment towards her, which he had chosen to dignify with the name of love, had long ago disappeared; and his late atrocious act, which had proved the destruction of the whole Orders of Curwald and St. Roswitha, had left him no scruples to overcome. One murder more or less, what did that signify to a man, who had arrived at so dreadful a height of guilt?—The most probable cause for Donat’s moderation was, fear: Helen was the Count of Homburg’s daughter; was niece to the Count of Mayenfield; and had been affianced to the Count of Torrenburg, who it was well known, would not suffer her to be injured with impunity. These considerations made Donat hesitate, as to the course which he was now to pursue.

Donat past two days in resolving, whether it would not be possible to bring Helen to confess herself guilty. This would justify him in the eyes of her relations for any severity, which he might think proper to inflict upon her; but when he considered his wife’s character, he saw little prospect of persuading her to declare herself infamous. In the mean while Helen was suffered to remain tranquil in her dungeon; and her husband was still meditating how to avoid the vengeance of her friends, when the Castle was unexpectedly attacked by enemies incensed upon a different account. He might indeed have foreseen, that the Bishop of Coira would not pass over the destruction of Cloister-Curwald in silence; occupied however by his anger against Helen, Donat had bestowed no thought upon the Bishop; and the avengers of the Monks of Curwald were at the gates of Sargans, before any one had even bestowed a thought on the possibility of such an attack.

Helen heard from her prison the noise of the assault, the shouts of the victors, and the expiring groans of those who fell beneath their swords; but her spirit was too much broken to enable her to guess at what was passing, or to offer up prayers or wishes for the success of either party. She lay almost in a state of insensibility, when the door of her dungeon was thrown open. The Count of Carlsheim entered, snatched her rudely from the earth, and more by gestures than speech, commanded her attendance. She followed her conductor in silence, like a lamb to the slaughter; he saw, that she was scarcely able to move through weakness, and either out of compassion or cruelty compelled her to swallow a cordial. She gradually recovered herself sufficiently to remark, that her husband was habited like a pilgrim on the point of setting out on some long journey, and that he guided her towards a part of the Castle remote from the clamour of the combat. Here they found a domestic waiting with a torch, who in a low voice and with few words assured his Lord, that the passage was still safe. A door, artfully concealed in the wall, was now unlocked, and Helen was commanded to ascend the stair-case, which presented itself before her.

She was too wreak, too hopeless, to think it worth while to make any reflections on Donat’s unaccountable conduct in regaining the upper apartments of the fortress, (which, she was convinced, was already in the enemy’s possession,) instead of employing these precious moments to effect his escape. They now arrived at the door of that chamber, which concealed the entrance to the subterraneous passages: the touch of a single key was sufficient to make all the seven locks fly back. Donat entered, and compelled his unhappy wife to follow him; he then took the torch from the domestic, and commanded him to execute his orders without delay, and then to provide for his own safety. The servant bowed, and retired.

Now then Helen was at length in that very spot, which she had so anxiously wished to visit, but not with such a companion. Donat paused for a moment; and she could hear distinctly, that the domestic fastened the door through which she had entered, not omitting a single lock. Her tyrant left her no time for reflecting on the purpose for which she had been conducted hither; he hastened to unclose the secret door which led to Urania’s baths, dragged her through it, and then commanded her to proceed, having first taken care to fasten the door after him.

Helen obeyed, and as she moved slowly forwards, through the subterraneous passages, she observed that her husband occasionally examined the side-walls with his hand or foot. At length he stopped before a small door half sunk in the ground; he forced it open with a violence which shook the whole cavern, and held his torch within, in order to examine it.

—“Yes, yes!” said he, “this is it! Found in good time!—Helen, return! or canst thou find the way through these vaults without assistance?”—

She dragged her feeble steps towards him: he grasped her arm, and dashed her with violence down a few steps terminating in a small cave. She sank on the ground with a shriek of pain, which her tyrant answered by a burst of diabolical laughter.

—“Here, traitress!” he exclaimed; “here is the place of your punishment and your perdition; and here is the last nourishment, which you shall ever receive on this side the grave. I give it not out of compassion, but that you may not perish in your present state of stupor, and thus escape the sense of what I have doomed you to suffer.—Eat! revive to the full consciousness of your misery; then die in agony, as others have died here before you!”—

Thus saying, he placed by her side a loaf of bread and a small flask of water, which he had brought with him in his pilgrim’s scrip. She was not in a condition to make him any answer, and listened in morbid silence, while he quitted the cave, flinging the door after him with violence, and carefully barricading it on the outside to prevent her escape.

Nothing now animated the frame of Helen but mere animal life; and even that was half extinguished by the shock which she had sustained the day before and by long abstinence from all nourishment. She was scarcely conscious of what had past, and it afterwards cost her no little difficulty to recall the recollection of it. Instinct made her seize eagerly the food, of which she had so long been deprived; and the relief, which this afforded her, was the first thing, which brought her to herself, and gave her spirits to ask the question—“What has happened to me? Whither have I been conveyed?”—She thought, that she must be the sport of some fantastic vision, and with the sensation of being totally exhausted she closed her eyes, and endeavoured to end her dream.

A violent shock, which made the hollow ground tremble beneath her, forced her to start up in terror; and she now had strength and recollection sufficient to rush forward a few paces, which brought her to the steps, down which Count Donat had so lately dashed her. An instant after she was sensible of a second shock like that of an earthquake, and which was accompanied by a noise so loud, that for a few moments she was completely stunned. On recovering herself, she was sensible of a strong current of air blowing into the cave: her heart beat violently with hope and fear, while she thought it possible, that the late earthquake might have forced the dungeon open. She hastened up the steps, and with rapture ascertained by the touch that the door had been driven from its fastenings, and that nothing prevented her from quitting her prison. With as much speed, as her extreme weakness and the total obscurity would permit, she hastened to profit by this interposition of Providence. She crept along slowly and cautiously, when on turning a corner she perceived a distant gleam of light. With increased hopes she made the best of her way towards it, and found, that it proceeded from Count Donat’s torch, as it lay half extinguished in the rubbish, among which it had fallen.

Without giving herself time to guess, what motive could have induced her husband to throw away his only guide through the gloom, or how he could have found his way out of these intricate passages without its aid, she caught it eagerly from the ground, cleared the wick from the dust with which it was clogged, and made the flame burn brightly; while she frequently cast a look of anxiety round her, lest some one should be advancing to rob her of this invaluable prize. This apprehension made her proceed with still greater exertion of speed; but she had not gone far, before her way was barred by large heaps of stones and earth: she fancied too, that she heard a faint murmur at no great distance, like some one groaning. She stopped; she listened;—it struck her, that from beneath a pile of stones, which seemed to have lately fallen down, there came a voice, whose accents were familiar to her; but before she could recover herself from the horror, which this idea occasioned her sufficiently to ascertain the truth of her suspicions, a third shock, similar to the two first, but if possible more violent and terrible, overpowered her faculties so completely, that she sank upon the earth, unable to move for several minutes. Fortunately her torch was not extinguished by her fall. She rose; the way, so lately open before her, was now completely blocked up by the earth, which had fallen in; and it seemed to her in the first moments of terror, that she saw the roof tottering above, and felt the ground giving way beneath her. Fear gave her strength, and she fled hastily down a side passage, which accident presented to her, nor rested, till she thought, that the place, which she had reached, was not totally unknown to her. She stopped, and looking down discovered lying on the earth, torn from its hinges, and considerably shattered the low door of that dungeon, which Donat had destined for her grave.

She now exerted her whole strength to pass onwards, without falling into an enormous chasm, which had been formed by the late convulsion, and which occupied almost the whole breadth of the passage. She shuddered, as she remarked, that the earth had fallen into the dungeon, and would infallibly have smothered her, had she remained there but a few minutes longer.

She reached the opposite side of the chasm with much difficulty, but unhurt. She was now certain, that the Castle was at no great distance: but she dreaded either to miss the proper road, or to find it rendered impassable by earth and rubbish. Should either happen, she had no alternative left but perishing of hunger in these frightful dungeons: nor had she much time left her for deliberation, since her torch already began to draw towards its end. Observing this, she rushed forwards with desperate resolution, and committed herself to the guidance of chance. Accident, or rather a benevolent Providence directed her footsteps; and she reached the staircase and Urania’s chamber, before her strength entirely failed her. Here then she rested at length; but that rest was insensibility.

After some time her recollection returned. She raised herself, and saw with surprise, that the chamber, which Donat to favour his escape had caused to be fastened so carefully, was filled with people. She felt, that they conveyed her to a couch, and rendered her every possible assistance; and she heard them make a thousand kind enquiries respecting her health and her wishes: but her strength both of mind and body was so completely exhausted, that she found it impossible to pronounce a word, or even make a sign, that she was sensible of their attentions.

It was pain, which enabled her to give the first token of sensation. Her arms and bosom were much bruised, and the blood streamed copiously from a wound on her head. She has never been able to recollect, whether she received these injuries, when Donat threw her down the dungeon steps, or from her being struck by the falling stones while making her escape. The persons, who surrounded her couch, lost no time in binding up her wounds, and the pain of this operation forced from her a feeble cry. Finding that she was now sensible, they repeated their enquiries as to what had happened to her, and how she had been brought into so terrible a condition. She stammered out the word “earthquake!” Where was Count Donat, was the next demand, which she answered by pointing to the private door conducting to the vaults.

She was soon removed to a more quiet chamber, and the care which was taken of her convinced her, that she had not fallen into the hands of enemies.

On the fourth day she was already declared to be convalescent; and it was announced to her, that the Commander of the Bishop of Coira’s forces, which had, conquered the Castle, requested an audience of her. She consented to receive him, and shortly after a young man of prepossessing appearance entered the room.

—“Noble Lady,” said he, “though you are the wife of the cruel owner of this fortress, we are well aware, that you are not a partner in his crimes. His people are some of them slain; others have betaken themselves to flight; and it is in vain, that we have endeavoured to find the place of his concealment. Your pointing out the door into the vaults has not been sufficient; he cannot have made his escape through that passage, since the falling-in of the roof has rendered it impracticable; and had he in his flight been overtaken by the vengeance of Heaven, how could you have avoided the sharing his fate? Be frank with us, noble Lady; I conjure you in the name of humanity, tell us, where he is concealed, and depend on our dealing better with him, than he has been accustomed to deal with others.”—

Helen mustered up all her strength, and endeavoured to relate the circumstances of her escape: but anxiety to be as brief as possible, and her endeavours to conceal Donat’s ill-usage of her, (which she thought, duty to her husband forbade her revealing,) rendered every thing she said obscure and improbable. She mentioned the earthquake, and to prove it showed the bruises and wounds, which it had occasioned her. The stranger, however, assured her, that she must have received them in some other manner, for that no one in the Castle had perceived the slightest symptoms of an earthquake.

Helen, however, endeavoured to establish her assertion; and while recalling the various circumstances which had passed in the caverns, she suddenly recollected the groans, which had struck her hearing. She earnestly entreated, that the heap of rubbish might be examined; she was obeyed; the stones were removed, and beneath them was discovered the shattered and lifeless form of the Count of Carlsheim.

It was now the general opinion, that the violence which Donat had used in forcing open the dungeon-door, had shattered the rotten cavern, had made the supports crack, and had brought down the roof, whose fall had involved in it his own destruction.

Helen’s horror at this discovery, her urgent entreaties that the corse might have christian burial, and the many hours which she past in prayers for the repose of Donat’s spirit, startled the present masters of the Castle not a little. They began to suspect, that she was not by any means so innocent a creature, and so unfortunate a victim of conjugal tyranny, as she had been represented, and as in truth she was. They therefore ceased to trouble her with questions, considering her as the confidante and accomplice of Count Donat’s crimes; but as they had no other fault to lay to her charge, and as the power of her relations compelled them to treat her with respect, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered, she was removed to the Convent of Zurich, and left there with a hint by no means equivocal,—“that all things considered, she would do well to pass the remainder of her days within that sanctuary.”—

Helen’s joy at understanding, that she had been conveyed to Zurich, was indescribable: she immediately requested to see the venerable Countess Urania, and discovered to the patroness of her mother both herself and all that had happened. It was now, that her fate seemed disposed to abate its severity. In an unrestrained intercourse with this excellent woman, who received her with open arms, and to whom she unveiled her whole heart, she looked forward to a life of tranquil happiness. Urania’s conversation poured balsam into her wounded soul, and explained to her many things, which had hitherto appeared to her unaccountable. Donat’s resolution to make her his wife was produced by a former passion, which he had entertained for her mother, and by a desire to be revenged on her father, the Count of Homburg; and that unknown cavern to which he had conducted her, was doubtless the same, in which (as it was reported) the worthy father of such a son had starved to death two of the fugitive monks of Curwald. Oh! Towers of Sargans, what crimes have been committed within your gloomy bounds! And will then the vengeance of the Eternal Judge sleep for ever? Will neither the heavens rain down fire to consume you, nor the earth unclose to swallow you in its womb, and thus prevent you from reminding posterity of those horrible acts, to which you have been so long a witness?—Yet the blood of your barbarous master has purified you, and you are now the abode of innocence and virtue. Peace, long peace be with you, and be with your lawful possessors; and may the curse of retribution only fall on those, who shall dare to deprive those possessors of their right!

Solitude and experience sometimes endow the soul, which has withdrawn itself from earth to devote itself to Heaven, with a prophetic power. Even now I see into futurity! I see, that the family of Carlsheim and Sargans, which has already suffered so much, has still much more to suffer; but again I say it—“Alas for those, by whom the descendants of Amalberga and Emmeline shall be robbed of their lawful inheritance, and compelled to experience the calamities of their predecessors.”—

I have deviated from my narrative, to which I now return.—Helen lived tranquil by Urania’s side, equally unconscious of the evil reports, which were circulated respecting her late misfortunes by her enemies, and of the benevolent intentions of her powerful friends. Her parents soon visited her at Zurich, and now that she was a widow, requested her to accept the hand of her former bridegroom, the Count of Torrenburg: but Helen knew but too well, that no Count of Torrenburg existed for her. She had courageously torn his image from her heart; and she avowed to her friends her knowledge of his passion for Amalberga, and declared, that to see them happy in the possession of each other was now the only wish of her heart.

Helen’s relations listened to this declaration with no trifling regret: they would willingly have rewarded her for her past sufferings by the certainty, that the remainder of her life would be past in happiness with one of the noblest of Helvetian youths. But they had brought with them (for the purpose of persuading Helen to the proposed marriage) some of Torrenburg’s relations, to whom his passion for Amalberga was by no means so unpleasant a subject. She was now a rich heiress; as Count Donat’s only surviving daughter, she was entitled to the extensive domains of Carlsheim and Sargans, and consequently she was a much more advantageous match than Helen. This gave rise to some disputes between the friends of the different parties: but the solemn declaration of Count Donat’s widow, that she never would lay aside that name, at length silenced every opposition; and she obtained from them all a promise, that they would mutually exert themselves to accomplish the only wish, which she indulged on this side of the grave; namely, the union of Eginhart of Torrenburg with Amalberga of Sargans. They were informed by her, that according to Amabel’s letter the lady was concealed in the Convent of Engelberg, and thither they hastened to apprize her of the happiness, which awaited her.

I need not say, that they sought her there in vain; the Count of Torrenburg’s endeavours to discover her were also unsuccessful, till the arrival of Bloomberg, who assured him, that she must be in Landenberg’s power, and that the most likely place to look for her was the Fortress of Rassburg. The consequence of this information was a bond of union between Torrenburg and the Friends of Freedom against Landenberg and his brother in iniquity, the insolent Gessler; and the Count immediately accompanied Bloomberg to Stein, that he might consult with his new allies the best means for effecting Landenberg’s overthrow and Amalberga’s deliverance.

In the mean while William Tell’s plan, for throwing off the Governor’s yoke, and asserting the liberty of his beloved country, had been gradually ripening. The impression, which he and his friends, Walter Forest, Bernsdorf, and the two Melthals, had made upon the general mind was great, and their adherents were numerous; but the success of their enterprise still depended entirely upon its being kept a profound secret. Those men, whose plans were soon to burst out into flames terrible as the explosion of a volcano, and to give posterity an example of heroic devotion to the cause of Freedom, were as yet compelled to work in darkness, and arrange their vast designs in corners and by stealth.

It was not till the 28th of December (being the Festival of St. Alexander) that they ventured to muster their numbers in a large meadow near the Lake of the Four Cantons; this was to be their last conference, and even this they took the precaution of holding under covert of the night. The Count of Torrenburg and Edmund Bloomberg were also present; but the former by his impatience had nearly ruined the whole design. Conscious of his exalted station, and of the valour of his new allies, he could not endure the degrading idea of skulking about in darkness and concealment, as if he were plotting the execution of some crime. He insisted upon an instant declaration of hostility against Landenberg, and that an attempt to rescue his beloved should be made without delay: it was not without difficulty that William Tell convinced him, how impossible it would be to rescue Amalberga any other way than by artifice, without exposing her to the most imminent danger; and that he persuaded him to wait patiently till St. Sylvester’s Eve, when (it was determined) the tyrant should have an open and forcible attack made upon him; though in making that attack, there would still be an absolute necessity for conducting it with the utmost caution.

Amalberga’s friends had obtained some intelligence respecting her present situation. One of Arnold Melthal’s sons, a spirited lad, equally well adapted to daring enterprise and the winding paths of artifice, found means to enter the Fortress of Rassburg in disguise, and examine whether any thing could be attempted towards the rescue of the lady. During her abode on the banks of the Lake of Thun, her sweetness and humility of manners; her majestic air accompanied by the condescension of an angel; the little difference which she seemed to make between herself and the girls of the village, whom she honoured with the name of her companions; all these together had made her an universal favourite; and had not every appearance of a chain been hateful in the eyes of the sons of Freedom, it would have been easy for Amalberga to have established herself as the queen of one of the best people that the earth holds, and to have mounted Helvetia’s throne by general acclamation.

To an eager desire for rescuing this adored lady from the power of Landenberg, was now united the wish to gain possession of the strong Castle of Rassburg; which would secure to Helvetia the success of all those mighty plans, whose accomplishment still lay concealed within the bosom of futurity.

Alwyn, Arnold Melthal’s son, when he ventured to approach the fortress in disguise, was not aware, that his was one of those countenances, which cannot pass unobserved. Fortunately, the eyes, whose notice he attracted, were those of one, by whom features like his were seldom viewed with displeasure. Landenberg happened to be absent, and had left his fair prisoner to the charge of a female attendant, who had formerly stood high in his estimation for the sake of her own beauty, and who now preserved her influence with him by condescending to watch over those, who were in present possession of that heart, to which she was herself become indifferent. Well skilled in manly beauty, she no sooner saw Alwyn pass along with a bucket on his head (for he had obtained entrance into Rassburg under the disguise of a common water-carrier) than she was convinced of his being something better, than his dress denoted. She accosted, and questioned him. His affected simplicity could not deceive her; and he saw himself compelled either to adopt some artifice, or to be reduced to that suspicious silence, which in such a situation would have been scarcely better than a confession of the truth.

—“And so you continue to deny,” continued the girl, “that there is any secret reason for a man like you being here, habited in a manner to which, I am certain, you have never been accustomed? Young man, be frank with me! I should be sorry to give you over to some other questioner, who might use rough means to obtain an answer, or to order that you should be kept in custody, till the Governor returns. Then tell me honestly at once, who you are, and what motive has brought you hither?”—

Alwyn during this speech had examined the countenance of his new acquaintance, and fancied, that he could read in it marks of a partiality for him by no means doubtful. His resolution was taken in a moment, and he threw himself at her feet.

—“What brought me hither?” he exclaimed; “’twas Love, most beautiful of all earthly creatures! But who I am.... Ah! shall I dare to avow myself one of the lowliest among the inhabitants of yonder valley, and thus make it certain, that my suit will be rejected, and myself driven with scorn from the presence of her whom I adore?”—

—“And who is it that you adore?” demanded Ursula.

“You, lovely angel! you!” he exclaimed passionately, while he seized her hand, and prest upon it a thousand kisses; “my heart is devoted to you alone, and your cruelty will kill me!”—

The astonished and delighted Ursula forced herself from his embrace, and fled; but it was not long before she returned, anxious to convince herself, that her half-faded charms had really made so valuable a conquest. To make a woman’s vanity believe any thing flattering, Heaven knows, is no difficult task; and half an hour was sufficient to leave her no doubt of her triumph. She soon grew weary of playing the prude, and she gave him to understand, that he would not find her heart absolutely marble; and thus did the handsome Alwyn find himself involved in an amour, at whose termination he could not guess, and of which, while it lasted, he thought, that he had but little reason to be vain.

At present he reaped no great advantages from his artifice. It was impossible to get a sight of Amalberga, or convey to her a hint, that her friends in the valley were making preparations for her rescue. He was also soon compelled to retire by the return of the Governor, who was now frequently absent for days together from Rassburg on account of the popular disturbances, and who could only bestow a few isolated hours on the prosecution of his suit to the heiress of Sargans. As soon as the warder’s horn announced the Governor’s return, Ursula (who trembled, lest her supposed lover should be discovered by others, as he had been by her) requested him to be gone; yet still there was a secret means left for him to gain entrance into the fortress of the rock, which (disagreeable as it was) for Amalberga’s sake and the general advantage, he did not refuse to employ. At midnight his doating inamorata used to let a bucket down through a chasm in the wall; the rock was steep and flat; the unwilling Lover was then drawn up to the top, where he was obliged to purchase every little scrap of intelligence, which it was requisite for him to know, by a thousand lies and flattering speeches; every one of which, to an heart filled with Helvetian honesty, was scarcely less painful than the stab of a dagger.

He was rewarded, however, for this sacrifice by obtaining the important information, that hitherto Landenberg’s behaviour towards the Lady of Sargans had been restrained within the limits of the most respectful adoration: but that he had assured her with the most dreadful imprecations, that a period was fixed, beyond which he would no longer submit to be the patient victim of her severity. The first day of the ensuing year, he was determined, should make the cruel beauty completely his by fair means or by force. This intelligence induced Alwyn to be more frequent in his midnight visits; he repeated them, till every part of the fortress was become perfectly familiar, and till every little circumstance had been carefully gleaned by him, which might assist his friends in their design of storming the fort and rescuing the lovely captive.

By the Festival of St. Sylvester every necessary preparation was completed; and all the machines were ready to be worked at once in various parts of the country, which might secure the success of an enterprise, of whose views the release of an imprisoned damsel made but a very trifling part—those views were of the most extensive nature; yet if the plan had failed, in spite of the justice of Tell’s cause posterity would no doubt have branded him with the name of rebel, and confounded him with the common herd of unsuccessful adventurers, who have dared to attempt objects beyond their power to attain. But as his plan was arranged with the utmost foresight, and its execution was followed with the most prosperous issue, after-ages have viewed his deed with admiration, have reckoned it as the proudest triumph of the rights of nature over cruelty and oppression, and have bestowed on its author the title of a Hero: so certain is it, that actions are almost always weighed according to their result, and the most impartial judge (without being aware of it) is frequently induced to decide unfairly of events, dazzled by the lustre of the success with which they were attended.

Had nothing but the Count of Torrenburg’s inclination been consulted, the attempt, which was to decide upon his future happiness or despair, would not have been deferred till the latest day possible; neither when it was made, would so small a number of men have been employed to carry it into effect. Perhaps in this respect something would have been sacrificed in consideration of the impatience natural to a lover; but Helvetia’s deliverers were not without a certain portion of that obstinacy, which so often accompanies valour and resolution. Torrenburg’s opinion would doubtless have had more influence with them, had he not been a nobleman and one who was able to bring so powerful a force either to their aid or against them. They considered the most distant trace of authority over them with abhorrence, and were determined, that every step, which they made in the service of liberty, should be taken of their own free will. It was certain, that the fortress was but ill garrisoned, and that its security consisted solely in its inaccessible situation: in spite therefore of Torrenburg’s entreaties and anger, they resolved, that no more than one hundred men should be allotted for this service; and among these the jealous Helvetians, who could not endure that any hands but their own should break their fetters, would not suffer one of Torrenburg’s warriors to be introduced. It was not without some difficulty, that the Count obtained permission to accompany the party himself, and to be the next to Alwyn Melthal, who should penetrate into the Castle of Rassburg.

Never did any summer’s day seem so long to the Count as St. Sylvester’s, while he waited with impatience for the departure of light. No sooner was it dark, than the allies began to assemble by twos and threes from different quarters. It was one of the most gloomy winter nights, that ever favoured a secret enterprise; and the glimmering taper, which was the usual signal for Alwyn to ascend the wall, was not yet discernible. Midnight was already past; still there was no token of Ursula’s approach; when suddenly the trampling of horses was heard, and the gleam of approaching torches showed them a body of soldiers coming from the Castle by a path, which was well guarded by sentinels and provided with several draw-bridges. Landenberg was at the head of the troop. Unmoved by her tears and fainting, he had just informed Amalberga, that he should return the next day to hear her final decision; and he was now bending his course to Sarno, in order to exact the usual new-year’s gift from the inhabitants of the Valley, and hear them renew the oath of submission to their Leige-Lord, the Emperor. It was an established custom of the vice-gerents to receive from the hands of the vassals on the first day of the new year, what little had escaped their extortion during the old one; in return for which they never failed to promise greater indulgence for the future, nor in spite of that promise to conduct themselves with increased oppression.

As he journeyed onwards, Landenberg recapitulated to himself the advantages, which this year had produced to him; the quantity of wealth which he had collected in gold, jewels, and other valuables; the possession of the lovely Amalberga, whom he already looked upon as his own; and above all, the power of throwing off the wearisome mask of hypocrisy, which he had at first been compelled to assume.

—“As to Gessler’s death,” said he to himself, “that has rather improved my situation, than done me any harm. It has relieved me from the rival of my greatness, and authorises me to exercise that severity, which is necessary for my own views, under the fair-sounding name of just revenge. These late unavailing efforts to oppose my will have convinced me, that I have to do with a weak, powerless people, who may be incensed indeed so far as to make some show of resistance at first, but whom firmness and chastisement will soon reduce within the limits of abject submission. There are not many Tells among them, God be thanked! He was the only man whom I feared, and luckily he is either dead, or a voluntary exile in some distant country; report says the former; but let him be where he will, so he be not here to spirit up my slaves against me with his poisonous influence. My slaves? Right; they are mine, no other’s. The ensuing year will, I trust, make clear to the world, for whom I am labouring, and whose advantage and peril are most implicated in the business! Then when I have attained the height at which I aim, doubtless my new dignity being shared with their adored Amalberga will have no slight influence in reconciling these people to my authority; and her popularity will induce them to protect her husband against the wrath of the deceived Emperor. The precious prize once secure, I shall then have no need of this assumed severity; the affection of my subjects will suffice to preserve them in obedience; I shall be at liberty to follow the bent of my inclinations by ruling with a gentle sway; and all of us will at once be made happy, Amalberga, myself, and the country which we govern.”—

Such was the subject of Landenberg’s reflections, many of which he occasionally imparted to some of his confidential attendants, as he rode along, totally unconscious of the foes so near him, and of the danger which threatened the speedy overthrow of all his ambitious hopes and projects. Here and there a sentence or two spoken in a louder voice than ordinary reached the hearing of the Helvetians, who were concealed among the various caverns Of the Castle-rock: and then was many a sword half drawn from the scabbard to impose eternal silence upon the insolent boaster. The vigilance of the prudent chiefs, however, and consideration for the public welfare compelled them to repress their unseasonable zeal. An over-hasty attack would have been sufficient to ruin every thing. Landenberg, it’s true, would probably have perished, but only to make room for a successor perhaps even worse than himself. The object here was not to make away with a single tyrant; no, it was to throw off a disgraceful yoke for ever, and to bequeath the precious treasure Liberty to their children, and to the children of their children even down to the latest posterity. Landenberg therefore was suffered to proceed with his attendants unmolested; nothing gave them warning of the danger, which lurked so near, except now and then a low whispering noise among the brambles, which made their hair stand an end, for it was now the ghostly hour; and as they dreaded its being something supernatural, the sound only served to make those who heard it pursue their course with the greater speed.

Scarcely had the last horseman disappeared in the farther part of the Valley, or rather scarcely had darkness dropt her thick curtain between the enemies; scarcely had the mountain-echoes ceased to reverberate the last sound of the hoofs of their steeds, when Alwyn’s guiding-star made its appearance: Ursula’s lamp was seen glimmering on the battlements above. A few hasty words were spoken among the confederates respecting the conduct of the enterprise; the last directions were given; and then young Melthal sprang into the bucket destined to convey him to her who expected him so impatiently, and whom he now met for the last time with expressions of pretended love. It was no trifling sacrifice, which poor Alwyn made on this occasion to the general welfare. To conceal the feelings of his honest guileless heart; to dissemble love for one who was totally indifferent to him; in many a rude tempestuous night to encounter dangers, such as nothing but the most sincere and ardent passion would have induced any other man to risk; and then at last to throw aside the mask, and to hear himself called a betrayer and a hypocrite, and called so with justice; this task was a most painful one, and keenly did Alwyn feel that his situation was disgraceful. Yet he thought, that even this sacrifice was not too much to make for his native land; and duty and patriotism made him submit to do that, which was of all things the most cruel to his feelings, and repugnant to his nature; they made him submit to play the hypocrite.

Silently lamenting the ignominious character which he was obliged to sustain, Alwyn followed his supposed mistress to a retired chamber, where (she told him) they should be secure from disturbance till morning; for hitherto the fear of discovery had only suffered their interviews to last for a few minutes. But at the moment when she expected to receive the kiss of ardent love, and when she turned to her lover after having carefully closed the door, to her utter astonishment a gag was forced into her half-opened mouth; and then seizing her arms, her supposed admirer fastened them with strong cords to the bed-posts. It is true, that the general safety had been declared to require the death of this wretched creature; but the noble heart of Alwyn revolted at the idea. Even the precautions, which circumstances now made it absolutely necessary for him to take, caused his cheeks to burn with indignation against himself; he took care to confine Ursula’s hands in such a way, that the pressure of the bonds could give her no pain; nor could he resolve to leave even a creature, whom in his heart he despised, a prey to absolute despair.

—“Fear nothing, Ursula,” said he in a gentle voice, while quitting the room; “every thing shall be explained shortly, and on my soul no harm shall happen to you”—a promise, which was religiously fulfilled.

Alwyn now hastened back to the battlements, and drew up the Count of Torrenburg in the same manner, by which he had ascended himself; and anxious as Eginhart was to fly to Amalberga’s assistance, still did he not quit his station, till two more of the confederates were safely landed on the platform of the Castle. These in their turn rendered the same service to their companions, and a sufficient number were soon mustered within the wails to authorize their proceeding to more hazardous attempts. Half of them seized the sleeping sentinels, while the rest without noise made the best of their way to the great gate. They opened it, and the approach through the rock was soon made practicable for the remainder of their friends, whom time had not permitted to ascend in the bucket.

No slight expectations had been entertained by the Helvetians, that this midnight attack would have made them masters of Rassburg, without its costing them a single drop of blood; but they had miscounted the strength of the garrison. Sufficient opposition was made to compel the besiegers to purchase their conquest dearly. Many a brave Helvetian bit the dust, and shared the grave of the enemy, who had just expired at his feet. The dawn of morning discovered the walls of the Castle of the Rock dyed with the blood both of friends and foes. By the time that the sun was fully risen, the work was completed; Helvetia’s sons had achieved their object, and the sheaths once more received their bloody swords. The chiefs now employed themselves in giving orders and making dispositions to preserve their conquest, while Torrenburg flew to deliver his Amalberga. He found her in a stately chamber; she was on her knees praying for him. The noise of the combat had roused her from sleep; yet convinced that her situation could not alter for the worse, she experienced no alarm for herself, till as the clash of arms occasionally drew nearer to her chamber door, she heard the name of Torrenburg shouted, and concluded, that he was among the combatants: then indeed she trembled, and sought refuge from her terrors in supplication to her Patron-Saint. The heart of the pious girl was full of confidence in the Divine justice: she doubted not, that the Ruler of all things had decreed every thing for the best; she knew, that neither herself nor Torrenburg had merited to suffer, and she trusted, that Heaven would act towards her with gentleness. In her supplications therefore she rather spoke of the goodness of Providence, than implored its help: or if she prayed for any thing, it was that a speedy stop might be put to the shedding of blood, of whose flowing she was but too well convinced by the clashing of arms, and the dying groans of some, who were slaughtered at no great distance from her chamber.

A long and fearful silence now succeeded. Suddenly her door was thrown open, and a knight in complete armour entered the room. He hastened towards her, raised his visor, and well did she recollect the noble countenance of him, whose portrait was engraved on her heart in characters indelible: but she recollected also his engagements to Helen; she was conscious of her danger and the weakness of her heart, and attempted to force away the hand, which he had seized, and prest to his lips with passion. It was long, before she recovered from her surprise and confusion sufficiently to comprehend the whole extent of those delightful views, which were now presented before her by indulgent Fortune.

A Nun is but a sorry describer of love-scenes; and she, who traces this narrative, though she may not perhaps have always been a stranger to tender sentiments, still is unwilling to dwell longer than is necessary upon those, which filled the heart of the happy Amalberga, when she sank into her lover’s arms, and murmured—“Torrenburg, I am thine!”—I have since been assured, that in these first moments of rapture the name of Helen was not forgotten. In truth some trifling recollection, some little portion of gratitude at least was due to the unfortunate, who to procure the happiness of Amalberga and Torrenburg had not hesitated to immolate her own. The sacrifice was indeed a most difficult and painful one; but never did Helen once regret, that she had made it.

While the lovers forgot every thing in the contemplation of those flattering prospects, which futurity showed them on all sides; and while the Helvetians were employed in taking every possible precaution, that might preserve to them the Fortress, of which they had so valiantly obtained possession; the other Patriots (as had been previously arranged) were carrying their glorious designs into execution in different parts of the country.

Peregrine of Landenberg had reached Castle-Sarno before day-break. He slept for a few hours, and then rose to welcome the day, which, he was determined, should see him the husband of the Heiress of Sargans. He had commanded, that towards evening a strong guard should conduct her thither from Rassburg, when a Friar, belonging to the Abbot of St. Gall, and who was entirely devoted to the Governor, had engaged to perform the marriage ceremony between them: whether with her consent, or without it, the good father cared but little.

Anxious to give as creditable an appearance as possible to this most important transaction of his life, Landenberg thought it best for the general edification to open the day’s business by walking in solemn procession to the neighbouring church. For this purpose he was already descending the great staircase accompanied by a numerous train of courtiers, when he was informed, that the inhabitants of the adjacent districts had assembled in the valley below, each bringing the accustomed New-year’s offering.

Landenberg had great confidence in omens; he looked upon it as a pledge of future good fortune, that before he had set his foot without the Castle-walls, his course was impeded by presents. The procession to the church was deferred for awhile: part of his attendants were sent to take charge of the gifts, which had been brought to him; of the fatted oxen, the corn, the fruit, the cloth woven by the skilful hands of the industrious Helvetian housewives; the casks of wine; and here and there a few bags of coin, which were not the least welcome part of the offerings. In the mean while the Governor himself remained in the front-court, attended by a few of his most confidential attendants, and prepared for the reception of “the slaves of his servants,” as it was usual for him to term the brave Helvetians.

The deputation arrived. It consisted of fifty persons, with Henric Melthal at their head, Henric, on whose locks eighty winters had now shed their snows.

—“Lord Governor,” said the venerable man, approaching Landenberg, “the old year expired yesterday; the new one begins to-day. How you have sustained the character of Imperial Majesty among the opprest children of a free-born nation, that is your affair. How we begin the new, is our’s! Be God the judge between you and us, Peregrine of Landenberg; God, who has already judged Gessler, as he will judge you! But as for you, my sons, do as ye see me do, nor hesitate to lay down your lives in the cause of liberty and justice.”—

It is inconceivable to me, how the daring old man was suffered to proceed so far in his speech. The Almighty must have struck a panic into the tyrant and his base dependents; but now recovering themselves, they hastily drew their side-weapons, which (from being rather intended for ornament than use, and able to do but little injury) were generally called “holy-swords.” Some, who were unprovided with even these weak instruments, hastened into the Castle in search of arms; in the mean while old Melthal and his trusty companions had drawn concealed pike-heads from under their cloaks, which they fixed dexterously and with promptitude on the tops of their long white staves; and now was the signal given for beginning a massacre, which once commenced was not concluded hastily. Among the first who fell was the Governor. The feeble arm of Henric Melthal, strengthened by Heaven and the justice of his cause, gave the decisive blow; and Edmund Bloomberg hastened to extricate his father-in-law from the crowd of those, who (now that they were recovered from their first consternation) prest on him to destroy the slayer of their chief. Landenberg cursed his fate, that he should fall so disgracefully by the arm of a dotard, and poured out his last breath in execrations. The combat became general. The Friends of Liberty were attacked by the Governor’s remaining attendants, who were now better armed; but this opposition was not of much avail, since at a given signal a second party of Helvetians, who were in waiting on the outside of the Castle, hastened to support their confederates.

The superiority of numbers being now on their side, the conquerors proclaimed quarter in the name of Henric Melthal. The loss of their chief had deprived the scanty band of his adherents of all their courage: they were glad to sheathe their weapons, and the conquering Helvetians took them under their protection, and conducted them uninjured to the boundaries. The gallant men were unwilling to stain their native soil with blood shed unnecessarily, and doubted not, that such a barbarous measure would have induced the Almighty to withdraw his blessing from their enterprise. They lost no time in taking measures for maintaining themselves in the possession of Castle-Sarno. Towards evening intelligence arrived, that Rassburg also had been attacked with success, and during the three or four succeeding days similar tidings were received from other parts of the country: Schwannau, Kussnach, Zinguri (which was not yet finished) and many other places of importance, had been wrested from the hands of Helvetia’s tyrants. Such universal success testified, that the arm of the Protector of innocence had fought in their cause; and they thought, the best means of showing their gratitude for such powerful aid to him, who detests unnecessary bloodshed, was to use their victory with mildness and moderation. They had expelled their enemies, and reinstated themselves in their natural rights: more they sought not, more they desired not; and it was this laudable moderation, which, by preventing them from aiming to obtain further advantages, enabled them to secure, what they had won already.

Peace after so long an absence returned once more to these happy vallies; and a firm fraternal union for offence and defence was established, which I pray, that God may grant to last, as long as the world exists.

Has not the ignorant Nun suffered herself to be enticed out of her proper sphere, while she described scenes of war and the efforts of Liberty? She, a weak defenceless woman, a slave bound in lasting fetters? Yet Heaven be thanked for it, those fetters are light: pious submission enables me to bear them, and they will ere long be loosened by the hand of Death.

Count Donat’s widow lived in tranquil seclusion at Zurich in the society of the Countess Urania; and their prayers were frequently offered up for the success of the honest Helvetians. They rejoiced to hear of their victories, of Amalberga’s rescue, and of her union with the Count of Torrenburg. But Helen did not wish to be herself a spectatress of their felicity; nor (when shortly after their marriage the happy pair visited her to express their mutual gratitude) could she be prevailed upon to pass more than one hour in their society; and many, many of the succeeding days were for her days of anguish. Poor Helen was but a weak mortal, no saint, no angel: and alas! to forget is a task not so easy, as some may think!

Yet in recompence for her past sorrows Heaven had still reserved one pleasure for her future life. Oh! Blessed Virgin, what a pleasure was that! what a surprise! what an unexpected re-union!—But let me proceed regularly.

The good Domina of Zurich was dead; the Princess Euphemia had already been appointed Abbess of Tull, and therefore could not accept the vacant dignity. No persuasion could induce Urania, at her advanced age, to fill so laborious a situation, and the lot now fell upon Count Donat’s widow. She obeyed the general voice, and was well-pleased to have a means for exerting benevolence in a more extended circle. She became (what I say of her ought not to be counted to her as a merit, since she did but her duty) she became the mother of the opprest; and the man, who intrusted to her a daughter, a sister, or a mistress, knew, that she could be no where safer than in her arms. This was universally known; and many a knight, before he set out on some distant expedition, secured under her protection those treasures, which he valued dearer than all others, which the world contained.

One day a knight requested an audience of her: as soon as she saw him, it struck her, that his features were not altogether unknown to her.

—“Sir Knight,” said she, “it appears to me, that we have met before.”—

—“You say truly, holy mother,” answered he; “it was I, who by the Bishop of Coira’s command took the Castle of Sargans by storm, and afterwards conducted you to this Convent. Methinks, you placed but little confidence in me on that occasion, though perhaps it would have been for your advantage, had you shown more: but its true, you knew not my name; knew not, that never had any one reason to repent the trust, which he reposed in Herman of Werdenberg. I will not follow your example; I am now preparing to reveal to you my dearest secrets, and solicit you to become the guardian of my most precious treasure. Grief of heart some time ago drove me from my native land: my uncle’s death necessitated my return; and being once more in Germany, I suffered myself to be persuaded to remain there: nay, under a borrowed name I consented to act as the knight-protector of the new Bishop’s subjects, and to become the assertor of his rights and privileges.

“It was in this capacity, that I became acquainted with you, Lady, in the Castle of Sargans: report, and mysterious circumstances respecting your conduct, I confess, had not prejudiced me in your favour; and perhaps I did not treat you with so much respect and attention, as (I am now well convinced) was justly due to your merits. After escorting you hither, I returned to Sargans, being commissioned to defend the Castle against Landenberg and his associates, in the name of Count Donat’s daughters; whom the Bishop had adopted as his wards, and whom he publicly declared his intention of reinstating in their rights, as soon as the place of their concealment could be ascertained. It seems, the rebellious Landenberg thought, that this was the fit time for making himself master of all Rhœtia, while the Ten Jurisdictions were torn to pieces by the tumults and confusion, to which his artifices had given rise; but report must have already informed you, how soon those vain hopes were crushed by the noble efforts of the assertors of Liberty.

“In order that I might not be quite idle during my undisturbed residence at Sargans, the Bishop (who has no antipathy to gold) commissioned me to enquire into the truth of an old tradition very current among the people, that immense treasures lie buried in the foundation of that antient fortress. Upon asking some questions, I was conducted to an old and ruined well in a remote court, and assured that it contained wealth inexhaustible. The Bishop on this report desired me to cause the well to be cleared out; but its contents furnished nothing but venomous reptiles, filth, and some human bones, the melancholy memorials of former cruelties, whose commission Heaven no doubt had long since punished.

“Other places were afterwards pointed out to me as the repository of this buried wealth; but no better success attended their examination. At length I resolved to set my workmen to clear out that subterraneous passage, the falling-in of whose roof had so nearly proved your destruction. It seemed to me much more probable, that I should find here that of which I was in search, than in those places which I had already examined; but it was my full determination, in case of discovering the supposed treasures, not to give them up to the Bishop, but to reserve them for the heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans, who had lately been rescued from Landenberg’s power, and was now Countess of Torrenburg. It was however less my object to find wealth which I despised, than to furnish my followers with a harmless occupation, and by restoring the concealed passage (which in our turbulent times is absolutely necessary in every fortress) to render a trifling service to posterity. The work was difficult and tedious; however, I was just rejoicing in the reflection, that a few days would suffice to finish it, when the Bishop of Coira found it impossible to delay any longer with common decency the restoring of Sargans to the Countess Amalberga and her husband. One branch of the passage alone remained in ruins, and I would gladly have completed my task; but Count Eginhart was already at the gates of Sargans. I hastened to deliver up every thing, which had been committed to my custody, and we renewed our former friendship; a friendship, which in the earlier part of our lives had been most intimate.

“It was my intention to request his permission to finish the repairs of the subterraneous caverns: unluckily, as we sat conversing together, and recalling the events of former days over our flowing goblets, he mentioned the sister of his bride, who had once made upon my heart a very forcible impression; but my passion was not strong enough to make me consent to commit my honour to the keeping of a daughter of Count Donat. The Count painted in glowing colours the happiness, which he enjoyed with Amalberga; and he finally accused me of having treated the Lady Emmeline unworthily, and of having driven her into the jaws of perdition by my rigour and contempt. As her relations have always wrapt in mystery the latter scenes of Emmeline’s life, I am even at this moment ignorant, as to what is become of Her, who was once so dear to me; nor could I understand, to what the Count alluded in the conclusion of his speech. I could not, however, allow, that I had acted by her with injustice, and asserted, with that warmth which is natural to me, that no man of prudence and honour would have acted otherwise. Our conversation grew bitter; and at length we parted in such anger, that it was impossible for me to submit to asking of him as a favour, that I might prosecute my subterraneous labours.

“Perhaps you will be surprised at my being so anxious about such a trifle, as the repairs of these vaults; I must therefore confess to you, that the real motive of my wish to examine this passage thoroughly, was nothing more than a dream; but that dream was in truth a very remarkable one.

“The first time that I broke a lance at a public tournament, it was my fortune to obtain the prize, a ring apparently of considerable value. I was pleased both with the jewel, and with the manner in which I obtained it, and never failed to wear it on all solemn festivals; till a person well skilled in precious stones convinced me, that the diamond was false and the ring itself scarcely worth three golden shields[^[3]]. Incensed at having been so grossly imposed upon, I snatched it from my finger, and threw it over the battlements: the circumstance of its having been the reward of my address soon made me wish to recover it; but though my squire was immediately dispatched, he returned without having been able to find it. I had quite forgotten this ring and all its circumstances; but on both the two nights preceding Torrenburg’s entry into the Castle of Sargans, I dreamt, that in traversing the subterraneous passage I found my lost ring, and that the false stone was changed into a diamond, which illuminated the whole cavern with its radiance.

[3]. A coin so called, from its bearing a shield imprest upon it.

“I cannot account for the strong impression, which this dream made upon my fancy; yet (Heaven knows!) I set but little store upon the treasures of this world, and were I possest of all the diamonds which the earth contains, I should only employ them to adorn our Redeemer’s cross; that cross, which it is my firm resolution to wear in future against the Saracens, and other enemies of our holy religion. Yet in spite of this contempt of wealth, and of the little faith which I put in omens, the repetition of this dream struck my imagination so forcibly, that I could not rest without ascertaining, whether the vaults did really contain the ring, which I had so long lost.

“My disagreement with Torrenburg had made it impossible for me to satisfy my doubts by means of the Castle-entrance: but I thought it by no means unlikely, that there might be some communication between the passage and the ruined Abbey of Curwald, which was situated at no great distance, and was just beginning to be rebuilt.

“I was well acquainted with Father John; a worthy man, who had lately been appointed the Superior of those few Monks, who had escaped from Count Donat’s barbarity. He readily acceded to my request, and I immediately began my work.

“For several days the ruins were examined without success: yet the assurance of one of the elder Monks, that he remembered having heard (but merely as a tradition) that a private communication had formerly existed between the Convent and Sargans, made me unwilling to give up the pursuit. It was frequently my custom after dismissing my labourers (wearied with their fruitless endeavours to discover that, which they were firmly persuaded had no existence) to wander by myself, and mark the melancholy contrast made by the slowly-rising walls of the new building, with the ruins of the old one which had not yet been removed. The vaults beneath the Convent being generally the scene of our enquiries, as affording us the best chance for finding the so much wished-for passage, I frequently loitered here alone, after my workmen had left me for the evening, A fixed melancholy had taken possession of my soul: in truth, it could not well be otherwise, surrounded as I was on all sides by memorials of mortality, and the marks of celestial judgments!

—“Where,” said I often to myself, “where are now the voluptuous pleasures of the Monks of Curwald? where the pride and power of the tyrants of Carlsheim and Sargans? The grave has swallowed them all; nothing remains of them, but the memory of their crimes and the detestation of posterity!—Herman, still preserve in your heart unshaken the love of virtue, and not less the hatred of vice: be at once the terror of the profligate and the friend of the innocent and the helpless. Bring equally before the world’s eye the rights of the opprest and the crimes of the oppressor, and unite in one person the protecting and the avenging angel.”—