Chapter IV (3)

I was at first unable to explain this singular circumstance, but then it occurred to me that her lovely features had been said to be much distorted in death, and doubtless her friends had taken this means of concealing them from the gaze of vulgar curiosity. I would see her though, I thought; I would kiss those lips, once so warm and love-breathing, now so pale and chilled. The better if, in her death-like embrace, I found an end to my life and suffering. I stretched out my hand to detach the mask, which was by no means unpleasing in its appearance. It reminded me of the one spoken of by my father in one of his letters; and as I stood looking at it, I little by little persuaded myself it must be the same. The lips curved into a mournful smile, an attractive expression on the features; only the sockets for the eyes were empty, and through them shone the glazed orbs of the departed.

Whilst given up to these reflections, I suddenly heard a slight rustling noise near me. I looked round, and saw a muffled figure sitting at a short distance off, in which I thought I recognized some old nun keeping her drowsy vigil by the dead. I took no heed of her, but stretched out my hand to tear the mask from Natalie's face, when suddenly the figure rose, and with three long, noiseless strides, stood close beside me. The robe in which it was muffled opened, and I beheld--Manucci! not the Manucci I had seen at the faro-table, nor yet he who had lived for years near my mother's house, but the grey old man who had appeared to me on the night of my father's arrival, and had said, "Do I look like a murderer?"

"Thou here, villain!" I exclaimed, on beholding this unexpected apparition. "The hand of heaven is in this!"

I stretched forth my arm to seize the murderer, who thus braved me beside the corpse of his last victim; but as I did so I experienced a strange stunning sensation, and fell, as though struck by a thunderbolt, lifeless to the ground. The first persons who entered the church upon the following morning found me in this state, and carried me to the nearest house, where I lay for weeks in a raging fever, during which time Natalie was buried, and the flowers that sprang up on her grave were withered by the frosts and snows of winter. When I at last became convalescent, and re-appeared amongst men, Natalie was forgotten; and the strange circumstances that had occurred to me in the church would have obtained no credence, or at most would have been considered as the precursors of fever, the visions resulting from a heated imagination and exhausted frame. Indeed my memory was in so confused a state, and the weeks I had passed in the unconsciousness of delirium, caused every thing that had previously happened to appear so remote and indistinct, that I was myself almost unable to give any clear and definite form to the occurrences that preceded my illness. My health was greatly shaken, and I was no longer equal to any occupation that required sustained exertion and application. I resigned my commission, therefore, and formed a plan to divide my life amongst the various large cities of Europe, changing from time to time, and constantly endeavouring to seize again the thread that had escaped me, and if possible to discover and unmask the vile impostor who had destroyed my life's happiness. I may, perhaps, some day write down the various and strange adventures that I have met with during these researches, and in my wandering course of life. In this portfolio, however, I will put nothing but what relates to any further discoveries I may make concerning the base Italian and his machinations.

* * * * *

Here Adrian's manuscript ended; but between the two following blank leaves I found a letter dated from St Petersburg, written in a different hand, and that seemed to form a sort of appendix or continuation to the preceding narrative. This letter, from the different dates scattered through it, appeared to have been continued from time to time, several weeks elapsing between its commencement and the period at which it was sent off. The envelope was wanting, and there was no address; but, from its contents, it appeared that it had not been written to Adrian, but to a friend of his who had handed it to him. At the end came a dozen lines in Adrian's handwriting, leaving off somewhat abruptly. Here follows the letter:--

_St Petersburg, 12th June._

My dear Augustus,--Of all the wealthy and distinguished
foreigners whom this gay season has brought together in St
Petersburg, not any attract so much attention as the Marchese
d'Emiliano and his daughter. The father is as remarkable for his
learning and talents as the daughter is for her innumerable
graces and accomplishments, which draw all eyes upon her. She has
only one extraordinary peculiarity, which is--but stay, I will
first describe her to you, so that this singularity, when I tell
you of it, may appear the more striking. Picture to yourself a
brunette, slender and perfectly formed, possessing the exact and
beautiful proportions of a Grecian statue--a foot smaller and
better shaped than I ever yet beheld--an exquisite hand, slender
and tapering, not one of those short fleshy hands with dimpled
fingers, which it is now the fashion to admire, but for which no
precedent is to be found in the Medicean goddess or in any other
standard of beauty. A magnificent bust, an arm like alabaster, a
profusion of dark flowing hair, grace in every movement. But--now
comes the wonder, my friend--instead of a face corresponding in
beauty with this perfect form, there is--a mask. Can you imagine
a greater absurdity? and yet they are people who, in every other
respect, show extreme good taste.

From the lips of this mask proceeds a voice which, for melody and
sweetness, I have never heard equaled. In speaking, its tones are
of silver, but when she sings one forgets mask and every thing
else to give one's-self up to an ecstacy of perfect enjoyment.
She knows a vast deal of Italian, French, and Spanish music,
languages that she speaks with the utmost purity, and she
accompanies herself alternately on piano, guitar, or mandoline,
of which instruments she is a perfect mistress. Her dancing is no
less admirable than her singing; and, at every ball to which she
goes, crowds collect around her to watch the sylph-like grace
with which she glides through the dance. In short, she unites
every womanly accomplishment, and yet this heavenly creature
persists in concealing her face under that vile mask, which fits
so closely that not the smallest portion of her countenance can
be perceived. However hideous the latter may be, it would be
preferable to this horrid covering. Not that the mask is ugly; on
the contrary, it is the handsomest I ever saw, and in itself has
nothing disagreeable. It is formed of wax, and has a mournful
expression which is quite attractive, at least when its owner
sits still; but when she moves or speaks, the dead look of the
mask has an indescribably unpleasant effect. Several persons have
indirectly questioned the Marchese on this subject, but he evades
or turns off their enquiries with all the tact of a consummate
man of the world. Of course it would be indelicate, if not
unfeeling, to ask her about it. Meantime the public amuses itself
with all sorts of absurd suppositions. First it is a vow; then
she has got a pig's face; then her waiting-maid had said that she
had once caught her unmasked, and that her face was covered with
feathers and had a beak in the middle of it. Then, again, it is a
stratagem, to try the man whom she shall marry, and to see if he
will love her for something besides her appearance, and on her
wedding-day she will take off the mask and disclose features of
perfect beauty. All this is of course mere gossip; for nobody
knows any thing about these Italians, except that the Marchese is
enormously rich, and that his daughter, in spite of her mask, is
the most amiable and fascinating of women. Amongst other
absurdities, a report was spread that the marquis was no other
than the celebrated St Germains, who, as is well known, was
himself no other than the Wandering Jew. It is ridiculous to hear
the extraordinary things they tell of him. Only the other day it
was asserted that he had been met in a distant country, where he
passed under another name, and was remarkable for his constant
and almost suspicious success in gambling. I should be very
curious to trace all these reports to their source. Their
inventors can at least have no lack of imagination. The fact is,
that there is unquestionably something strange and mysterious
about the old man--but what does it amount to after all? He is an
old Italian marquis, his foreign manners and appearance, and
imposing title, work upon the imagination of us northerns, and at
once make us suspect an adventurer in this worthy old nobleman.
The mere presence of Natalie (that is his daughter's name) is
sufficient to refute such a suspicion. She is the incarnation of
all that is pure and beautiful; and I confess to you, my friend,
that I am each day becoming more and more the slave of her
attractions. If in society she exhibits her varied
accomplishments, on the other hand, when we are alone, she is the
simple and unsophisticated girl. During our _tête-à-têtes_,
however, it has not escaped me that she is frequently melancholy;
a something seems at times to weigh upon her spirits; and,
although she evidently struggles to hide this, she has been
unable to conceal it from my close and interested observation.
Yes, my friend, interested, for deeply interested I am in all
that concerns Natalie; and, I own to you, that in spite of her
mask, in spite of the mystery that surrounds her, nothing would
make me so happy as to call her mine.

_27th June._--A week ago it was Natalie's birth-day. She had felt
herself somewhat indisposed, and had begged the Marchese not to
invite any guests. Nevertheless, when I called to offer my good
wishes on the occasion, they kept me there till evening. We then
walked out in the garden--Natalie and myself, that is to say--and
sat down upon a rustic seat, amidst a cluster of flowering shrubs
that perfumed the air around us. I know not of what we spoke,
but, after a short time, I found myself with my arm round
Natalie's waist, her hand clasped in mine, her mask--alas! that I
cannot say her face--resting upon my shoulder. It was one of
those sweet moments with which past and future have nought to do,
but during which one lives upon the present. Gradually my lips
drew nearer and nearer to her waxen ones, but, half-jesting, she
turned her head away. I became more persevering, and without
saying any thing to her I raised my arm gently till my hand
touched her hair, amongst which the fastenings of the mask were
apparently concealed. In another moment the mystery would be
solved, and I should gaze doubtless on the most lovely
countenance that ever blessed a lover's sight. At that very
instant she uttered a sort of shriek, and sprang from my embrace.
In vain did I entreat and supplicate her to suffer me to remove
that envious mask. She was inexorable, and just then, attracted
perhaps by Natalie's cry, the Marchese appeared.

"What!" said he in a distant and somewhat angry tone and manner,
"nearly midnight, and you are still here?"

The time had indeed passed rapidly. The hint was too direct for
me to do otherwise than apologize and depart.

Since that evening they have treated me with some coolness, nor
can I wonder at it. My constant visits to their house have become
the talk of all St Petersburg; and it is evident that I must
either declare myself the suitor of Natalie or avoid her
altogether. Avoid her! How can I do it? Do not blame me,
Augustus, when I tell you that I have decided to go this day to
the Marquis and ask his daughter's hand. Rank, fortune, every
thing in short, is suitable. Only that mystery--but I will not
think of it. I lay down my pen, and go instantly to execute my
intention.

_30th June._--You will set me down as a fool when you read what I
last wrote. I should perhaps say the same of you, were our
positions reversed; and yet, were you not my old friend and
comrade, I should feel disposed to be angry with you for saying
it of me on this occasion. She is mine, Augustus--mine by her
own and her father's promise. My friend, I am unutterably happy.
I am not able to look forward with any thing like coolness to the
moment when she shall remove that odious mask, and disclose the
lovely countenance which I am persuaded it conceals.

_8th July._--I cannot understand Natalie. She seems happy at the
prospect of becoming my wife; and yet that same melancholy which
I have before noticed, hangs about her, and seems impossible to
be dissipated. Can she have had some previous attachment, some
disappointed affection, which has left its lingering regrets, and
which her present engagement recalls more vividly to her
recollection? And yet, why torment myself thus? She loves
me--that I cannot doubt; and surely her approaching change of
condition, and the separation from her father which it must
sooner or later entail, are sufficient to account for an
occasional pensiveness on the part of a young and susceptible
girl. In vain do I seek for any other probable cause of her
melancholy. At times I fancy that she has some disclosure or
confession to make to me, which she has difficulty in repressing.

_23d July._--The secret is out. Natalie is ugly. You laugh
already at the poor dupe. But beware of laughing too soon: for he
can be no dupe who becomes the husband of Natalie; should her
face prove as hideous as that of Medusa. You will perceive from
this that I have not yet seen it, nor, truth to tell, am I now so
anxious to do so. She has been tormenting herself with the fear
that I should cease to love her when I once saw her unmasked, and
has reproached herself innumerable times for having encouraged my
passion. She has decided what to do. On her marriage-day, before
I lead her to the altar, I am to see her without her mask.
To-morrow is that day; and although I am prepared for the very
worst, yet my uneasiness increases with every hour that brings me
nearer to the decisive moment. My regrets are infinite that she
has persisted so long in her disguise. If at the commencement of
our attachment she had had the courage to remove that fatal mask,
I must still have loved her; no deformity of feature would have
been sufficient to neutralize the effect of her other charms and
accomplishments. But now, at the moment that I have been looking
forward to as the happiest of my life, to have my bliss disturbed
by such a revelation--it is cruel! Yet how can I blame her for
conduct so natural in a woman who loves? She feared to see my
growing affection turned into aversion, and delayed to the utmost
the much dreaded disclosure. Enough for to-day. I send off this
letter. After my marriage you shall hear from me again. Ever
yours,

Paul S----.

What a ray of light thrown upon my dark uncertainties! "To St Petersburg, instantly! The trace is found!"

Such was my exclamation after reading the above letter, which was communicated to me at Vienna by an old and tried friend. In an incredibly short time I had reached the Russian capital. What I there learned was as follows:--

On the day appointed for the marriage of Natalie d'Emiliano and the young Swedish count, Paul S----, when all were in readiness to proceed to the church, and the guests were only waiting the appearance of the bride and bridegroom, a piercing cry was suddenly heard in a room adjoining that in which the bridal party was assembled. The company hurried, in the direction of the sound, and there found the Count lying apparently lifeless on the floor, while the bride was hastily securing the fastenings of her mask. The guests thronged round the former, and tried every means of recovering him from the death-like swoon into which he had fallen. After much trouble they were successful. The Marchese and Natalie were then sought for, but both had disappeared; and neither of them were ever afterwards seen or heard of in St Petersburg. The bridegroom could never be induced to tell what it was that the mask concealed.

TRADITIONS AND TALES OF UPPER LUSATIA.

No. IV.

THE MOOR MAIDEN.

"Wildernesses and heaths are not the only spots that boast of their _Fata Morgana_," said Woldemar, in a society of torch-bearers which regularly assembled in the old castle on Christmas night.

"The vision appears in a hundred places, in shapes answering to the peculiarity of soil and country in which she rises. Here she is an apparition of the air, beaming with splendour; there she unfolds herself in glittering mist. On the unbounded plain, you behold her in the form of an enchanted city--a paradise of leafy loveliness, or it may be simply as a fantastic Erl-King, a giddy dazzling vapour. Let her appear, however, where and how she will, she is ever seductive, mysterious, and beautiful, and attended with the awe of a strange nameless delight.

"You know the high table-land, strewed with countless blocks of granite, between C---- and K----. Inclosed upon two sides by mountains and thick groves of beech, it would be a perfect desert but for the clear crystal brook which purls its way along the glistening stones. This labyrinthine brook, indeed, fills the barren spot with animation, whilst it creates too that singular power of attraction which we cannot explain to ourselves, but which, nevertheless, becomes our unfailing companion in regions with which the heart of the people has intimately associated itself by tales of wonder and tradition.

"The Tradition touching this very table-land is dim and shapeless, like the thick mist of a sultry summer's day, hanging over hill and valley. It is most convenient to the common working mind to retain and hold fast in a history only so much as is needful for the great catastrophe. The people are content to abide by the beginning and end of things, not concerning themselves with the important connecting links. All that lies between is left to the imagination of the more inquisitive to fill up. A tradition of this order occurs to me this moment, and, by your leave, I will do my best to complete it:--

"A mysterious curse lay upon the noble house of Gottmar. No male scion was suffered to perpetuate the race. The bride of his selection died on her wedding-day, and he himself was doomed to follow quickly after. The rich possessions passed to the nearest relative, who, by virtue of an ancient law, assumed the name of Gottmar. The family was very ancient. It traced its origin back to the Sclavonian priests, the sacrificers to the God Mahr, and bore in its armorial ensigns a sacrificial axe and a blood channel, in shape like that which at this day is found cut into the granite-blocks of the high mountain that bears the name of Gottmar. The later descendants of this powerful and widely-ramified house could no longer explain the cause of their cruel condition. It had been deemed advisable by their ancestors to exterminate every record of it, hoping thereby perhaps to weaken, in the course of time, the curse itself. The precaution was fruitless. No alteration whatever took place in the fate of the doomed family, which at length was regarded, no less by itself than by the world, as the outlawed of heaven.

"The last living representative of the house of Gottmar entered upon the family inheritance upon the death of his cousin. Bolko was a mild yet enthusiastic youth, glowing with deep, ripe feeling, and needy of human love. He had little joy in the acquisition of what, in other circumstances, might have been considered his enviable fortune. He thought only of the miserable destiny that sentenced him to celibacy or death. His immediate predecessor, riding across a heath to take a last farewell of his bride, had been struck dead by lightning, and the maiden herself had been hurled from life at the edge of a precipice. Bolko, attired in mourning, sat at the window of his lofty castle, and surveyed the lovely prospect before him, bathed as it was in the golden light of evening. Here were rich forests, there teeming fields; in the depths of the valleys prosperous labouring villages; and in the far distance, towering above all, the blue crests and jagged peaks of a mountain region.

"'And all has become mine!' he exclaimed, resting his forehead dejectedly upon his hand; 'to pass quickly away again, and unenjoyed! And I, in ignorance, why! To be a sinner, a criminal, and not conscious of one criminal aspiration. Yet, to be punished for crime--to be killed for crime. Oh, it is hard! And heaven, sweet and fair as she appears, is crueler than I could have believed.'

"His preceptor, confessor and friend stepped into the apartment. Hubert was an aged man, learned and pious, and well skilled, it was believed, in cabalistic science. He had buried three Gottmars, and received their last confessions. From these he had drawn conjectures and conclusions which induced him to investigate the traditions current amongst the people respecting his unhappy patrons; and out of all, he was able at last to form a picture of probability, to the completeness of which some demonstrative evidence of its truth was wanting. At the period of which I speak--it was still before the Reformation--books were held in slender esteem. Nevertheless, there was a library in Gottmar castle, consisting of numerous manuscripts, the production of monks, and chiefly on religious subjects. The lords of the castle, engaged in the chase, in fishing, and other knightly pastimes, had not, from time out of mind, disturbed the repose of their written treasures. They lay piled one upon another, covered with dust, mildewed, and worm-eaten. Hubert, in the prosecution of his purpose, did not fail to examine the neglected documents; and he had reason to rejoice at his labours, when he found amongst the rolls a learned treatise on astrology, a science which he himself had studied with unwearied industry and ardour. His joy and astonishment, however, were not complete, until he found himself master of a decaying parchment, which, in almost obsolete characters, expounded to his eager senses the mysterious destiny of the house of Gottmar. He hugged the knowledge to his soul, deciphered the ancient syllables in his own quiet cell, and waited for the proper hour to communicate the marvellous secret to his lord and pupil. He heard the complainings of the youthful Bolko, and he recognised in them a hint from heaven. He now approached him with tenderness, and pressed his pupil's hand.

"'Courage, my son!' said he. 'The veil is withdrawn.'

"Bolko drew a heavy sigh.

"'I have spoken the truth, my child!' continued Hubert. 'Believe and trust!'

"'Thanks for thy kind words, good Hubert,' replied the youth. 'I revere thy wisdom, I esteem thy love. How shall I believe that it has been permitted thee to break open the gloomy vaults of the past?'

"'And yet if this were so! If an auspicious--a heaven-sent chance'--

"'Hubert!'

"'Hast thou courage, Bolko, to penetrate into the past?--Then read this roll attentively. It offers us the means, as I most solemnly believe, to weaken, if not annihilate, the curse which has so long persecuted thy unhappy race.'

"Hubert drew a parchment from the folds of his garment, and placed it in the hands of the astounded Bolko. The priest immediately withdrew. The youthful noble as quickly drew a chair to the window; and by the vanishing light of the evening sky, he read the following history:--

"'_This is the last Confession of Walter, baron of Gottmar, which
I, his Confessor, write down by his command, that it may be
preserved in everlasting remembrance, by all who are Descendants
of the House of Gottmar._

"'My great-uncle Herbert, the tenth inheritor of this territory,
was a passionate lover of the chase. In all seasons of the year,
in good weather and in bad, by day and night, he scoured the
boundless forests which he called his own. In his time, the
hunting of the boar was a noble and especial sport, and hence
the breeding of these beasts was diligently fostered and
encouraged. The immense forests of beech and fir upon the slopes
of the mountain which bears our name, attracted to their
neighbourhood an extraordinary number of these boars; so that at
all times my ancestor could indulge his passion to the full.
During one of his grand expeditions, two remarkable events had
place. A gigantic boar dug open with his tusks a marvellously
clear spring, which bubbled forth so vigorously, and purled so
bright and cool along the mossy fields, that a brook was formed
from it immediately. This discharged itself into the low grounds
with rare turns and windings; so that Herbert was fain to fix a
village there, and to name it after the boar, and the brook which
his ferocity had brought to light. Whilst this was happening on
the western declivity of the mountain, a similar accident took
place upon the slope projecting to the eastward. Here, in like
manner, a considerable bed of turf was discovered, and close upon
it, beneath granitic sand, another powerful spring. This Herbert
caused empty itself into large ponds; and the turf-pit he had
worked by skilful men, over whom he placed as chief Wittehold his
page. The profit from this turf was so large that the wealth of
Herbert grew more and more, and the population of the
newly-founded village rose as rapidly; since every new settler
was suffered to take on the turf-bed as much fuel as he needed
for firing during the space of five years.

"'Wittehold, too, the overseer, was well contented with his post.
He enjoyed the confidence of his lord, and became independent. He
married; and, after the lapse of a year, had the happiness to
press a lovely child to his fond bosom. But the birth of the
child cost him the life of her mother. Herbert promised to
provide for the orphan, and maintained his word. My great-uncle
was a bachelor, who had never been able to meet with a maiden
possessing all the qualities which he demanded in a wife. He
postponed the all-important step of marriage from year to year,
without suffering any inconvenience from the delay.

"'In the mean time the beautiful daughter of Wittehold--who had,
I know not why, been christened AURIOLA--grew to womanhood, and
unfolded a sweetness and grace that fascinated all beholders.
Herbert, whose heart had so long resisted the attacks of love,
was not proof against the beauty, ingenuousness, and innocence of
Auriola. He confessed his affection to the maiden, and petitioned
Wittehold for his child. With the last, contrary to expectation,
he found but little favour. Wittehold submitted that his daughter
was not born to be the consort of so great and rich a lord, and
respectfully declined the honour of her advancement. Moreover, he
had already promised her to a faithful comrade, a worthy overseer
at the turf-works. Herbert expostulated, appealed to his
protection of Auriola, to her affection for him, but in vain. He
plied the obstinate Wittehold with threats. In spite of them the
latter held out: he did more; he bore his child with his own hand
from the castle, and carried her to his cottage near the pit,
hoping, by such a step, and by sound remonstrance, to lead his
fascinated master on to other and to better thoughts.

"'The conduct of Wittehold threw Auriola into a deep melancholy.
She hurried to the cottage door a hundred times a-day, and looked
with straining eye towards the lofty castle of her lover. Her
father being absent, she would bound, swift as a fawn, through
the silvery grass that trembled and sparkled in the sunny light,
and seat herself upon the high margin of the spring, feeding her
vision with the pearly drops that bubbled from the bottom. The
spot, visited by few, was rendered almost sacred by a cluster of
broad-armed beech-trees that overshadowed it. Herbert encountered
his Auriola in this retreat. Who shall tell their joy? Herbert
urged his suit--Auriola followed him through bush and thicket,
and was powerless before his ardent supplications. Wittehold
surprised the pair. His fury and indignation were ungovernable.
Herbert, in self-defence, had recourse to his good sword, but
this was as a lath against the ire of his assailant. Wittehold
slew his lord. Not yet satisfied, the madman pursued his
fugitive child, whose screams for aid only brought her to a
speedier end. He met her at the spring--there seized the
trembling creature, and mercilessly cast her in. The maiden
struggled for an instant; but, the short conflict over, she
uttered a piteous wail, and sank for ever beneath the
softly-rippling water. Even whilst she struggled, the inhuman
father raised his clenched fist, and pointed with it towards
Gottmar's castle. 'God of heaven!' he exclaimed, 'hear my curse;
and may it fall like the unerring bolt upon this execrated race.
May no male offspring take to his arms a bride, or brighten his
hearth with her presence, until a Gottmar restore my daughter's
virgin honour. Until this happen, let the poor victim be
accursed, and evil work with the posterity of her betrayer!' The
miserable murderer invoked the infernal powers to assist in the
fulfilment of his curse, and then, as if beside himself, ran to
the turf-pits. Here he procured a shovel and an axe. With their
help he choked up the crystal grave of his daughter, and diverted
the strong current into the pit, which it soon flooded. This
done, he fled into the woods, and has not since been heard of.
But his curse has been fulfilled with frightful regularity in the
family of Gottmar. Not one has married with impunity. Bridegroom
and bride have fallen. Auriola, crying for vengeance, hovers
above the turf-pit, which since that hour has become a wide
unfathomable moor.

Heinrich Wendelin, _Chaplain_.'

"The hand of Bolko dropped as he finished the narrative. The evening twilight thickened before his eyes. He sank into a solemn musing. When he awoke from it, Hubert was again at his side.

"'Hast thou read?' enquired the teacher.

"Bolko slowly raised his head, and looked full in the face of his confessor.

"'Canst thou vouch for this, Hubert?' he asked in his turn. 'Is it genuine, is it true?'

"'Since when hast thou learned to suspect me of deception?' replied the old man calmly.

"'Forgive me, Hubert. This narrative confounds me. I am unable to distinguish truth from falsehood. But do thou advise me. What dost thou think of it? Can a curse such as this is represented to have been--can it have retained its force so long?'

"'Universal nature is one tremendous mystery,' replied the priest; 'who shall decide wherein her power consists? At the best we can but conjecture at her connexion with the world of man--her weaving and working. No one can deny that a solemn curse, spoken with a determined and haughty purpose, has often, on the very instant, accomplished its fulfilment. If this be so, why may it not work again and again? The disregarded belief of the people--that a curse floats in the air until it finds its victim, and then drops down upon him--is not so worthless as men would have us think. There is at least expressed in it, dimly and perhaps unconsciously, the inseparable union that subsists between the spirit of man and the all-governing spirit of nature.'

"The youth had risen from his chair, and was pacing the apartment to appease his agitated soul.

"'Well, well!' said he, drawing a heavy breath; 'it is a decree which we must receive without a murmur, and suffer patiently.'

"'And who says that?' replied the priest with quickness. 'The wisdom of nature has created an antidote for every poison.'

"'Art thou serious?' asked Bolko earnestly.

"'Heaven is merciful!' continued Hubert. 'Pardon is unlimited where repentance is sincere.'

"'Who shall repent in this case?' answered Bolko. 'The criminal is long since dead. Can another atone for his offence?'

"'Dost thou yet doubt, and art thou my pupil?' said Hubert. 'The WILL can kill and also vivify.'

"The eyes of Bolko sparkled in the gloomy chamber. He grasped the hand of his aged teacher, and drew him to the casement.

"'Speak!' he exclaimed. 'I will hear thee, and do thy bidding--do all that thou holdest lawful and right.'

"Hubert directed his countenance, over which a few hoary locks still lingered, towards the landscape before them.

"'You have often heard, my son,' said he, 'that yon desolate spot, called to this day the _Gold Spring_, is the deadliest spot on earth to those who bear your name. Far as the wood extends on either side, extended formerly the turf-pit. The deep moor is covered now by an unsteady earth-crust, overgrown with pale red sedge, and from its centre, as from a grotto, the beautiful rivulet ripples forth that irrigates and renders fruitful all your land. I doubt not that this grotto, with its golden vault of granite, is the very spring into which the furious Wittehold cast his daughter. The place is to this hour deemed unholy. No one willingly sets foot there; no man ventures to draw water from the fount. Temerity has already been punished for the attempt. Strange sights have met the eyes of the daring one, and he has fled like a coward from the spot. Have not many seen--have not I myself beheld that fairy-like, almost transparent form, with her unearthly pitcher, drawing water from the spring, then pouring it over the moor in curious arches by sun and moonlight; and ever so, that the rays of light kindled therein the most huey gleamings? Is it not well attested, that when at such times mortals have addressed her, the delicate creature has grown o' the sudden pale--paler and more transparent, until, melting into silvery cloud, she has glided pillar-like along the moor, and vanished at length into the cool and wondrous grotto?'

"'You describe the Maiden of the Moor,' said Bolko, interrupting him.

"'So she is called!' returned Hubert. 'It was her apparition which drew my attention to the neighbourhood, and to the tales that are current respecting it. When I had discovered the manuscript, I saw at once in the Maiden of the Moor the complaining spirit of the unhappy Auriola.'

"'And the spirit, as you deem, may be appeased?'

"'Assuredly, my son; and thou art he who must perform the expiation.'

"'I!--Father Hubert?--I'----

"'Thou art guileless, sound of heart, leading a life of innocence and nature. To a pure spirit, a determined will, a feeling heart--much is possible.'

"'But how, father?--how?'

"Hubert remained silent for a few minutes. He then proceeded--

"'Thy heart is still free, but it yearns for love--for the mysterious, magical response of another--a _womanly_, heart. It may be that Auriola will afford thee thy delight, if thou couldst once behold her.'

"'What! The Moor Maiden! Father, thou mockest me. What can this female be to me, appearing as a vision to man, a creature of air?'

"'And if she appear to _thee_, hast thou courage to address her?'

"'Father, a lovely form shall hardly frighten me,' said Bolko, with a smile.

"'I exact thy promise,' said Hubert quickly. 'From this day forward, shun the Gold Spring no more. Thou art a lover of nature and her creations. I have seen thee for hours lost in admiration of the form and colour of choice butterflies. That spot abounds in the rarest. Thou mayst find them at any hour of the day. It would seem, indeed, that the delicate insects of peace had retreated thither to find security from the tumult of busy money-lusting men. The realm of the Moor Maiden is the paradise of these tenderest of winged beauties. Bolko, thou wilt visit them!'

"The baron gave his right hand to his preceptor without uttering one word of assurance or affirmation. Hubert had done. He left his young lord to his own meditations.

* * * * *

"Bolko passed some days in restless suspense. Now he was a wanderer in the woods, now a prisoner in the apartment that looked upon the moor, watching intently during the day every slight phenomenon that arose there. The morning and evening mist and the yellow vapour of noon were his best discoveries. Not a human being approached a place shunned, as it appeared, by every living thing. The conversation, however, with Hubert had proved a secret spur to him, and he found no rest until he visited the dreary moor in person. It was late in the afternoon, when, furnished with a hunting-knife and insect-net, he set out on his adventure. Bolko had never before visited the spring, and his surprise was naturally great when he beheld the peculiar condition of the soil around him. Along the entire surface of the notorious moor--and its extent was considerable--there appeared a singularly-coloured sedge. It was not red, or yellow, or brown, but a mixture of all three, and it marked, by the sharpest line, the confines of the moor from the green turf of the remaining country. At every step, the ground, although very strong, yielded, as it threatening to give way. Towards the centre of the moor there was an elevation surrounded with bushes. This was the source of the silvery water that took its serpentine course along the moor, and through the luxuriant woods beyond.

"Bolko made his way towards this point, and, reaching it, his eye rested with delight upon the basin and its border of golden granite. The water ascended noiselessly from its immeasurable depths in countless glistening pearls. Over the refreshing fountain, and far away upon the nodding blades of grass, and bearded turf-flowers, hovered, in giddy graceful sport, a variegated troop of gorgeous butterflies. The majestic and solemn _Silver-mantle_, the cherub of these winged dwellers of the air, the soft and exquisite _Peacock's-eye_, the burning _Purple-bird_, were here assembled. Bolko was ravished with the sight, and thought of nothing but a glorious capture. Delicate and lovely as the creatures were, his cruel hand robbed them of their gladsome life; and he pursued them further and further across the moor, and with such ardour and desire, that he forgot all other things, and suffered the very object of his visit to escape from his remembrance. Suddenly, and in the act of imprisoning a multitude of these illuminated beings, he perceived a Maiden sitting at the extremity of the moor, her back towards him. Her form was slender, and her hair, golden as the sun, travelled in burnished tresses from her shoulders to the earth, where it curled along the moor-grass like rays of the divine orb itself. After the manner of Sclavonian girls, the stranger wore a closely-fitting snow-white cap, or rather frontlet, from which, as from a chaplet, the beautiful hair streamed down. Bolko had approached the maiden unperceived, near enough to discern a butterfly of rare magnitude and unequaled beauty oscillating about her marble forehead. The youth stole cautiously behind the fair one, and tried to catch the flutterer. He touched the maiden in his eager movement, and she turned round immediately.

"'Forgive me, lovely child!' said he. 'I'----The words died upon his tongue. He could say no more. The butterfly escaped from his hands, and flew slowly towards the Gold Spring, changing its brilliant colours with every motion of its wing.

"The singular beauty of the maiden had struck the baron dumb. From a soft transparent countenance of the purest form, there beamed upon him a pair of eyes which had derived their holy light from the very fountain-head of Love. She wore an uncommon but most becoming dress.

"To a party-coloured gown, scarcely reaching to her ankle, was attached a sky-blue boddice in front, united by perfect silver clasps, and not so closely as to prevent the sweetest glimmering of a snow-white virgin bosom. Her arms, round, delicate, and pure as marble, were uncovered to the shoulders. Her small feet were bare, yet protected partly by fairy-looking slippers profusely ornamented. The beauteous object smiled upon the youth, and answered him in a voice that dropped like melody upon his ear.

"'Thou art the robber then,' said she; 'the merciless purloiner of my fairest thoughts! Can I wonder now that I have been so destitute of late!'

"'How?' stammered Bolko, more astonished than ever.

"'Strange man!' continued the maiden, in the same ravishing voice, 'thou revelest with thy fancies, and dost thou wonder that I, too, love to dally with my thoughts and dreams? The tiny creatures whom thou hast taken from me were, and still are, threads of my heart, which I permit at times to issue into the sunny light of day. Restore them, living, and beautiful as thou hast found them, or I accuse thee of breaking this poor heart!'

"'Who art thou, sweetest child?'

"'They call me AURIOLA. I know thee well. Thou art Bolko of Gottmar--Bolko, the accursed!'

"'Yes--the accursed!' repeated the youth, pressing his hands to his eyes as if he would forget his doom. When he removed them, Auriola had risen, and was standing before him. Her lovely countenance, her matchless eyes were turned full upon him. At her feet he perceived an earthen pitcher of a peculiar and not ungraceful form. It bore a strong resemblance to the sacrificial pitchers which are still discovered in places once inhabited by Sclavonians.

"'What wilt thou, poor child?' said Bolko in a tone of kindness. 'Can I help thee?'

"Auriola smiled.

"'Thou hast come to me at thine own bidding. I invited thee not, for I invite none. Yet he who visits me must do my will. Thou hast wrought me pain in stealing away the thoughts which were soaring in mid air decked in their brightest robes. Thou must be punished for thy misdeed. Come!'

"The marvellous creature took Bolko's hand, and drew him after her towards the Gold Spring. Before her, and above her head, the butterflies formed with their magnificent wing-shells a glowing arched pavilion. The youth was allured by an irresistible attraction, and would not, if he could, have dragged himself away from the celestial being; albeit, he still regarded her as a mere apparition. Every feeling, every thought, every desire of his heart, streamed towards Auriola. Fleeting shadow that she was, he loved her already to idolatry.

"At the margin of the spring, Auriola released her companion, descended the grotto with her pitcher, and filled it with the purest water. In a few minutes she was again at his side. She placed the pitcher on the ground, and her two hands upon the shoulders of the youth. In this trustful, graceful, loving posture, fixing her wondrous eyes upon the boy, the maiden spoke.

"'And canst thou love, too?'

"He answered not; but he pressed the beauteous Auriola to his heart, and passionately kissed her forehead. But Bolko started back affrighted, for he had kissed a forehead colder than ice.

"'Note me well!' said she, and her voice sounded more melancholy than before. She seated herself upon the high ledge of the spring, drew Bolko beside her, and placed the pitcher of water between herself and him. The butterflies stood now in the full light of the sun over the rippling spring. A scattered few only still hovered about the moor.

"'We must tarry yet awhile,' said Auriola, 'until my heart is quite my own again!' As she spoke, her ecstatic eyes glanced to the single flutterers on the moor. As if caught by a magnet, they directed their flight instantly towards the Gold Spring.

"'Now I am myself--for what is yet wanting rests in thee. Take heed!'

"Auriola now poured from the pitcher into her small left hand as much water as this would hold, and extended the right to her companion. He, surprised by love, encircled the maiden's waist, brought his ear close to her delicate cheek, and watched with eagerness her strange performance. Auriola blew at first softly, then more vehemently, into the hollow of her hand, so that the water, bubbling up, ran to the slender rosy fingers, and, in glittering drops, sprinkled from the finger-tips.

"'Look!' she exclaimed, 'look! Tell me what thou see'st?'

"The pearly drops had scarcely touched the air before they joined, when, on the instant, a vision rose before the sight. There was a bright green meadow, edged by waving beech-trees, through whose foliage the evening sun shed burnished gold. A youth was on his knees before a maiden, in the act of offering her a golden ring. The picture was, in the beginning, dim and indistinct, but it grew clearer and clearer, until by degrees it dissolved again, and was lost in the atmosphere.

"'What means this, Auriola?' enquired the ravished Bolko. 'Chain not my unguarded heart to thine with such witchery. Misery and death will be the penalty.'

"'Dream and listen,' replied Auriola. 'Hearts and souls have nothing better to do. We do but speak into the future, to catch back the tones which strike in unison with our desires.'

"'_Our_ future?' whispered Bolko.

"'Say _thine_, if it likes thee better,' answered Auriola, filling her hand anew with water, and once more urging the sparkling fluid towards her finger-ends. Bolko perceived a horseman galloping across a gloomy heath, and looking back with horror. This apparition, like the former, shone distinctly for a time, and then, in the same manner, vanished by degrees, and expired.

"'And what is this?' asked Bolko.

"Auriola shook her head in silence, poured water again into her hand, and blew it again along her fingers into the air. A lofty, many-towered castle was visible. A rope-ladder was fastened to a gallery. A man was climbing up. As soon as he reached the gallery, the vision was lost.

"'It is the castle of my ancestors!' cried Bolko.

"'Thou art mistaken,' answered Auriola. 'But tell me--canst thou love?'

"Her voice was again mournful.

"The youth drew the fair questioner to his heart. His lips fastened on hers, and hallowing fire streamed through his frame.

"Auriola heaved a melancholy sigh, and once more filled her hand with water. At the usual signal there arose a brilliantly illuminated hall. Dancers, gaily dressed, were in happy motion. Music was heard, and then the strains and the colours died away in the twilight.

"'I smart!' exclaimed Bolko. 'I am tortured! My soul is gnawed with agony!'

"'Hush, and listen,' said Auriola, in a tone of command--filling her hand, and impelling the crystal water into the air, as before. A roaring was heard, like the course of a hurricane sweeping through a forest. The air grew black. Then the moon broke through night and mist, and lit up a hilly region, surrounded by wood and cliff. Out of the wood issued a carriage and four, making at full speed for a solitary open space, that looked dismal and deserted. The form of a maiden floated before the carriage, her painfully smiling countenance ever turned towards it until she evaporated, like a cloud, in the wood. A flash of lightning from the murky sky struck a beech-tree, near whose flames the carriage slowly disappeared into the ground.

"This vision at an end, Auriola bent her head, and tears fell upon her bosom.

"'Lovely enchantress,' said Bolko, 'why perform these miracles if they afflict thee?'

"'Because there is no longer love upon the earth.'

"'Say not so!' exclaimed the youth. 'Love still exists--deep, eternal, holy love. I feel it now. Auriola, I, whose arms never encircled maiden yet--I love thee, Auriola, with every fibre of my body--with every faculty of my soul. I will be thine--thine for ever; be thou mine, my Auriola!'

"'BE CONSTANT!' The words were uttered in the clear voice of Auriola; as if from the air. Bolko saw the lovely form grow pale, felt her vanishing, at his heart. The brilliant cloud of butterflies arose from the spring, and flew towards heaven by a hundred roads. A thin misty streak sank into the grotto. Bolko was alone upon the barren moor. Sultry vapours were exhaling in the twilight. Indescribable sensations preyed on the soul of Bolko, as he remembered that he had given his heart to one who was no longer a dweller upon earth--that he had plighted his faith to the Maiden of the Moor. He hurried from the scene of his unhallowed engagement, to seek from the wisdom of his Hubert consolation for the peace of mind which had been so sadly disturbed, if not for ever taken from him.

* * * * *

"The priest listened to the account of Auriola's appearance with secret delight, and did not fail to comfort the unhappy youth. Bolko, restored to peace, passed the night in blissful dreams. Once more the sweet form of the Moor Maiden floated before him--once more the magical pictures gleamed, ravishing his senses. With sunrise he quitted the castle, and obeyed the sorcery that allured him to the moor. All fear and alarm had disappeared. Solitude, erewhile so hateful to him, was now enchanting! The stony, brown, and barren plain, the gloomy confines of the wood, the vapours of the boggy soil, united to create an earthly paradise. He took his seat upon the margin of the limpid spring, and, gazing on the charmed waters, invoked the presence of the fair magician. Auriola, however, appeared not. At noon he quitted the moor unsatisfied, but the approach of evening found him there again. Still she came not, and nothing remained to assure him of the reality of his former interview but the illuminated winged cloud of butterflies which, like a living rainbow, overarched the spring. Impatient and distressed, the ardent lover scoured the extensive moor, and at last approached the borders of the forest. Suddenly he saw--scarce twenty paces from him--the wished-for figure gliding through the rustling grass, the earthen pitcher drooping from her hand. Auriola regarded him not, but waved the vessel gracefully around her head, scattering its contents in glittering jets, that leaped about her like garlands of the precious diamond.

"'Auriola!' exclaimed the boy, rushing forward as he spoke. 'My own Auriola--mine, now and for ever!' He threw himself before her, seized her hand, and in an instant fixed a golden ring upon her taper finger.

"The maiden offered no resistance. But when the passionate Bolko rose from the ground, and was about to embrace his beloved, she lifted the ring-decked hand, and, in a voice of touching melancholy, exclaimed--

"'Behold!'

"Bolko followed the direction of her finger. Over the live and swarming cloud there appeared, now here, now there, the apparition of the previous evening; only that to-day it was larger and more distinct, and continued longer to the view.

"Bolko recognised, to his astonishment, the forms of Auriola and himself.

"'What does this mean?' said Bolko. 'Is it reality or illusion?'

"'Thou beholdest!' answered Auriola. 'The air abhors falsehood, and reflects nothing but truth.'

"Bolko advanced. Auriola waved the pitcher, and the vision was lost.

"'Wilt thou be constant?' asked the maid. 'Misery is mine if thou canst forget this day and its betrothal.'

"The eyes of Bolko were fixed in amazement on the air where the picture had shone so palpable a moment before. He saw not, he heard not, Auriola, and the agony of the preceding evening tortured his whole frame. When he recovered his suspended faculties, Auriola was gone. The usual tranquil, solemn repose, the old desolate gloom, universally prevailed. The low-lying meadows breathed out their thin vapours, the more distant ponds were enveloped in mist, and the grey shadows vanished by degrees from hill and thicket.

"Bolko arrived, agitated and breathless, at his castle gate. He went at once to the library, where he found, as he expected, his friend and counsellor.

"'Save me, save me, father!' cried the young lord. 'Thou hast beguiled me into a compact with a being of another world. Womanly love has cozened and betrayed me. Passion has overmastered me. I have bound myself to the Moor Maiden, and am eternally made over to her sorcery.'

"'And wherefore should this frighten you?' replied the hoary chaplain. 'Thou hast done my bidding; and since thou art permitted to destroy a curse which threatens to annihilate thy race, gratitude, not fear, should move thee. Yonder Moor Maiden contents herself with the sweet semblance, and will not ask for dull reality. Auriola never looks to wed thee--never to possess thee--body and soul.'

"'But I love her--love her to madness!' cried Bolko, furiously.