Chapter III: Part THE SECOND: Memoirs (2)

The only object which after the loss of Ethelbert and my uncle was still dear to me, my friend, my Edith, she too had been torn from me during my unfortunate expedition. Scarcely had I quitted her, when a troop of unknown enemies had forcibly gained entrance; had either slain or mortally wounded the few male inhabitants of the Castle; had confined the women in the upper apartments; and when they retired after their bloody work, had conveyed away with them the Countess of Mayenfield and her weeping children! The robbers closed the doors after them and fled, leaving the Castle in that fearful solitude, which had occasioned me so much anxiety and surprise. The Warder and the Seneschal were the only men, whose wounds had not already terminated their existence; but fainting through loss of blood they heard not the signals, which I made to obtain admittance. It was morning, before they were sufficiently recovered to examine into the circumstances of the former day; and while the first had dragged his feeble steps towards the Countess’s apartment, the other had sought the Castle-portal, with the intention of obtaining assistance from the neighbouring villagers.

The Countess’s women, with their hands still fettered, now threw themselves at my feet, and enquired, what was become of their beloved mistress, whom I had imprudently left behind under such inadequate protection. Grief for her loss overpowered our apprehensions of further danger; and had our foe thought proper to make use of the present opportunity, he would have found us an easy prey.

About mid-day, some peasants in the neighbourhood arrived, and brought with them the young Minna of Mayenfield, whom they had found weeping and bewildered among the mountains.

—“Oh! dear, dear lady!” she exclaimed, while she threw herself into my arms “my mother! oh! what have the villains done with my mother!”—

I could only answer with my tears. The child too was in such dreadful agitation, that it was long before I could obtain from her an explanation of the manner, in which the Countess had been conveyed away: as for herself, the ravishers became weary of her incessant tears and shrieks, and abandoned her among the mountains. How painful must the unhappy mother have felt this parting with her only daughter! nothing could have induced her to submit to it, except the threat of her persecutor to deprive her also of the baby at her bosom.

The evening was far advanced, before I could recover myself sufficiently to take some precautions for our security, and make such enquiries, as appeared to me highly necessary; the gates were carefully fastened; the draw-bridge was raised. As our strength was unequal to the task of burying the dead, we were obliged to throw the corses into a ruined well, situated in a back-corner in a remote part of the Castle: and this melancholy duty being performed, we employed ourselves in collecting every circumstance, which might assist us to guess at the authors of our late misfortune.

The Seneschal, before whose bed the consultation was held, produced many weighty reasons for asserting, that the Abbot of St. Gall (to whose account we were inclined to set down any wickedness) in the present instance was perfectly innocent. As to the person, at whose door he was disposed to lay the blame, he obstinately refused to give the least hint; but he made no scruple of avowing that he was not without suspicions.

The little Minna, who now never stirred a moment from my side, and to whom we were not paying the least attention, interrupted us to say,—“that she had never heard the Abbot of St. Gall speak, and that she was sure, that the voice of the chief robber was not unknown to her, though she could not recollect where she had heard it. She had even said as much, while in his power; but the only reward of her recollection had been a blow, which struck her senseless at his feet. Shortly after she had been forced from her mother’s arms, and left among the mountains.”—

—“Alas, my child,” said I, “you were probably deceived by some fancied resemblance!—But what must now be done? where is the messenger, who informed us yesterday of the fatal ambuscade?—Perhaps, he may be able to give us some insight into the author of this second attack.”—

—“Ah! would to God,” answered the old Seneschal, “that I had either examined that messenger more circumstantially, or at least had watched him closer! yet who could have imputed treachery to Dietrich, or suspect a man, who seemed to be at the point of death, of an intention to escape?”

—“To escape?” I exclaimed; “has Dietrich fled? when and how did this take place?”—

—“We were all busy in making preparations for binding up his wounds, of whose pain he complained bitterly, but which it seems none of us ever saw. We left him alone for a few moments, and in the meanwhile he disappeared. We sought him long, but he was not to be found; and we finished by conjecturing, that courage and fidelity had induced him to follow you in spite of his wounds, and to endeavour at contributing to his master’s rescue; though we doubted not from his apparently weak condition, that he must have died by the way.”—

—“And why should not your conjecture have been well-founded? Dietrich was ever one of Count Venosta’s most faithful servants.”—

The Seneschal assured me, that during the hostile attack which followed close on the heels of Dietrich’s disappearance, circumstances had occurred, which made him view the fellow’s escape in a very different light. He was proceeding to explain himself more clearly, when the sound of a trumpet threw us all into the most violent alarm! every one hastened to the place, where duty or inclination called them: the Warder ascended the watch-tower; my terrified damsels fled to conceal themselves; in the mean while, I and the little Minna descended to the lower battlements, in order to inform myself at once of the extent of my danger.

—“Almighty powers!” I exclaimed, on casting a fearful look on the plain before the fortress, which was now covered with warriors; “is it possible?—my uncle’s banner?—Count Ethelbert’s soldiers too!—surely this must be a dream!”—

Count Venosta now advanced before the rest, in order to answer in person the usual questions, which the Warder asked from the tower; but I had not patience enough to wait for the termination of this ceremony. The Castle-gates were thrown open; the draw-bridge was let down; and I already was clasped in the arms of my beloved uncle, ere I had yet convinced myself, that his delivery was real.

—“Yes! my dear child!” exclaimed Count Leopold, as soon as I had recovered myself from the first tumult of delight and astonishment; “yes! I am free, and knowest thou, to whom we are both indebted for life and all that we possess? ’tis to this hero, whose character I have so long mistaken, and from whom my suspicions have till now with-held the only gift, which is worthy to reward his merits!”—

—“What!” I replied—“Count Ethelbert? he, who was made prisoner at the same moment with yourself?”—

—“Heaven be thanked, that he escaped!” interrupted my uncle. “While the Abbot’s soldiers (after their successful ambuscade among the mountains) were conveying me to their lord, Count Ethelbert was employed in collecting his remaining vassals, whom he had left behind to protect his castle: with these he hastened to my succour, and this morning saw my deliverance effected. Oh! my Urania, help me to discharge my debts to this excellent man! none but yourself can do it!—Draw near, Count Ethelbert, and receive the hand of the sole heiress of all those possessions, of which your ancestors formerly were the lords; the hand of one, who boasts a still more precious title, the hand of that beloved-one, whom you have so long adored in secret.—Why advance you not? stretch forth your hand, and clasp that, which Urania has not hesitated to extend towards you.”—

Ethelbert was still silent for a moment: at length he advanced a few steps, his left hand placed on the hilt of his sword, his right upon his bosom.

—“Count Venosta,” said he, “have I demanded of you the hand of the heiress of Sargans?”—

—“I understand; you allude to my intended union with the Countess of Mayenfield.—But fear not, that I need recall my words: when I have restored your paternal possessions, I shall still have enough remaining to confer a rich dowry on my wife.”—

—“I speak not of that: I only ask, have I ever entreated you to make me the lovely Urania’s husband?”—

—“No, and I can well guess the reason of your silence! your fortunes are fallen; your heart is proud; you dreaded a rejection: but surely now there can exist no difference between us. You are my preserver; I offer you in gratitude my dearest treasure, and you love Urania with too much passion to reject her hand.”—

—“Yes, Count Venosta; yes, I love her!—but my pride requires that all the world should know, that I became your nephew through your own free-will; without your having been moved to pity by lovesick entreaties, and without my having been obliged to enter into humiliating explanations.”—

—“My friend! my preserver! why pain me by recollecting at such a time ... but you shall be satisfied!—Now then, all the world may know, that I freely offer my niece’s hand to the Count of Carlsheim, supplicate him to accept it, and wait his answer with impatience.”—

—“And you, lady?” said Ethelbert. —“Urania! pronounce my doom!”—

I was silent; I blushed and cast down my eyes. Oh! this noble pride, which made him hesitate to accept the hand of the richest heiress in Helvetia, lest he should be suspected of having sought it through interested motives, would have gained him my heart, had it not already long been his! my uncle was the interpreter of my looks; I did not contradict him; my lover clasped me in his arms for the first time, and I heard myself called by the title, which was dearest to me in the world.

These moments were heavenly! alas! how soon were they interrupted by the most bitter recollections!—my uncle turned from the scene of our happiness, and enquired—“where he should find the Countess of Mayenfield!”—

Oh Heaven! what did I suffer at hearing that question! what did I suffer, when compelled to answer it! vainly should I attempt to describe Count Venosta’s situation, when informed of the loss of his beauteous Edith!

Men express grief and resentment in a different manner from us, helpless females. My narrative of Edith’s carrying off was followed not by idle complaints, but by active exertions to recover her. The wearied soldiery again seated themselves on horseback, and were ordered to scour the country round in pursuit of the ravishers. I was myself too much interested in the business to oppose my uncle’s orders; but Count Ethelbert, who retained more presence of mind than the rest, enquired, whither we should first direct our course in hopes of delivering the Countess?

—“Doubtless,” answered my uncle, “the place most likely to be converted into her prison must needs be the nearest fortress belonging to the perfidious Abbot; no one can doubt, that this misfortune is a work of his hand.”—

Here I interrupted him by stating, that I had heard the Seneschal very positively contradict this supposition; and I entreated, that before the expedition set out, the old domestic might be examined, as he seemed to possess more information on the subject, than he had yet imparted to _me_. Unfortunately, we found on enquiry, that shortly after my uncle’s arrival the Seneschal had expired of his wounds; and Count Venosta (who in the violence of his despair preferred acting upon uncertainties to remaining entirely idle) immediately entered upon his search after the unfortunate Edith. At the end of several months of fruitless enquiry, we were obliged to abandon all hopes of success.

It was during this period of anxiety, which seldom permitted my uncle and Ethelbert to lay aside their armour, that I received the name of Countess of Carlsheim. The ceremony was sad and solemn, prognosticating the days, which were so soon to follow it.

I was now the wife of my lover, and enjoyed that sort of happiness, which most women enjoy who marry a warrior-husband; I was the object of a wild tempestuous passion, whose expressions were sometimes so rough and violent, that they might have been mistaken for those of hatred. In truth, I had fancied, that the happiness of marriage was somewhat different; but alas! what girl does not fancy the same, and find at length that she has been deceived?

No information could be obtained respecting the Countess of Mayenfield. The Abbot of St. Gall persevered in asserting his claim to her possessions; and the deep melancholy, which took possession of my uncle, betrayed but too plainly, that his love for the dear lost-one was stronger, than he had dared to acknowledge either to her, or to himself.

—“My children,” said he one day to me and Ethelbert, “Edith is lost to me, and with _her_ the joys of life! It was folly in me to expect on the brink of the grave, that I should be so singularly fortunate, as to feel my eyes closed by the hand of affection. I have suffered for that folly; I feel that my powers of life are hourly growing weaker, feel that the day of death is at hand. The few evening hours which remain, before the night of the grave closes around me, will I dedicate to solitude and repose. All that I possess is now your property; I only reserve for myself the pleasant vale of Munster, and the Castle of Upper Halbstein on the banks of the Rhine. I will hide myself in the distant shades of the _first_, when opprest by serious melancholy thoughts, and repair to the _second_, whenever more lively moments make me wish for the society and comfort of Ethelbert and his beloved Urania.”—

I opposed this determination of Count Leopold; but my husband did not second me. He saw, that this arrangement was greatly to his advantage; and I had already found on several occasions, that he was not quite so incapable of attention to his own interest, as I had formerly supposed. It by no means occurred to him, that Count Venosta proposed to do too much for us; on the contrary, he lost no time in giving solidity to my uncle’s kind declarations, and only appeared to lament, that the deed of gift had not included his whole property. The waving shades of the vale of Munster and the proud castle on the Rhine seemed to have acquired double charms in his eyes, since Leopold declared his intention of retaining them for himself; and their value was increased beyond bounds on Ethelbert’s being given to understand, that my uncle did not intend to leave them to us even at his death, but destined them for a bequest to that beloved woman, whom he could not resolve to give up all hopes of recovering.

Count Venosta (that honest open-hearted man, who withheld no sentiment from those, whom he looked on as his children) was amusing himself one day with the youthful Minna, whom the recollection of her mother rendered inexpressibly dear to him. Ethelbert remarked, as if by accident, that the child already had acquired the sedate appearance of the station, which she was hereafter to occupy.

—“What station?” asked my uncle with surprise.

Minna, who had been accustomed to hear her future lot pronounced by my husband almost daily, answered with her accustomed candour—“What other shelter can a poor orphan expect to find, except a cloister?”—

—“What?” exclaimed Count Leopold, while he prest her still closer to his bosom, “you poor? you an orphan, while Venosta lives? No, no, my child; I know too well, what I owe to the memory of your excellent mother! Let who will forsake you, never shall you be forsaken by me!”—

Count Ethelbert had never been partial to the Damsel of Mayenfield; from that day he began to hate her.

Minna too on _her_ side seemed to harbour towards my husband a secret aversion; whose expressions she would have been unable to restrain, had he not also inspired her with sentiments of the most unbounded terror.

—“Ah! dear Countess!” she said to me one day, when she found me weeping at having made new discoveries of his evil dispositions, discoveries which almost every day afforded; “you know not yet, what a bad, bad man he is! Scarcely do I dare to tell it you; but that voice which I heard among my mother’s ravishers.... I am certain, _quite_ certain, that voice was Count Ethelbert’s—I had _then_ never heard it speak but so gently and so kindly.... But the first time that I heard him rage, I recollected it that instant. How could I have been deceived? Oh! I remember too well the terrible sound! But I have been silent till now, for I tremble when I but think of the cruel manner, in which he used me, when (while imploring him to take pity on my mother) I let fall, that I was sure of having heard his voice before.”—

I was now better acquainted with the character of the man, whom I had once looked upon as an angel of light; and I recollected several hints of the old Seneschal, which seemed to imply a suspicion similar to that of Minna. Yet the fact appeared to me in a light too dreadful to admit of my giving it implicit confidence; and I judged it prudent to contradict it with my lips, though in my heart I could not help dreading, that the accusation was but too well-grounded.

Alas! it was not long, before I was thoroughly convinced, that my husband was capable of many a deed, of which during the happy days of my love-sick delusion I would have asserted his innocence with an oath, and have suffered the weight of his guilt to have been charged upon my own conscience! Alas! it was not long, before I had but too much reason to confess, that there was no impossibility in his having been concerned in that perfidious act, which his innocent accuser had alleged against him.

The persons, who had been the original means of bringing me acquainted with the Count of Carlsheim (an acquaintance which I already began to consider as a misfortune), the Abbot and Prior of Cloister-Curwald had been maintained in their rights by my good uncle; and under his powerful protection they lived in harmony with their monks from the time of my interference. However, no sooner had the jurisdiction of this monastery been made over by Count Venosta to my husband, than discontent and rebellion began to resume their influence over the younger monks, who felt themselves opprest by the restraints imposed on them by their virtuous superiors. Often did Abbot Christian, when I knelt before him in his confessional, return my confidence by an acknowledgment of his secret sorrows, and explain his melancholy forebodings of what would be his convent’s future fate, in a manner that touched me to the very heart. But I was myself too weak to assist the venerable man; my husband was deaf to my entreaties; and Count Venosta was at too great a distance to admit of any good effects being produced by my applying to him.

It was long past midnight, that I once happened to be sitting alone in my chamber, expecting my husband’s return from a carousal at a neighbouring Baron’s; and I was endeavouring to prepare myself for the painful scenes, which seldom failed to follow such entertainments. Suddenly Gertrude entered the room with a terrified countenance, and informed me that having seen from her window which overlooked the garden some dark-looking figures, whose appearance was made still more terrific by the contrast of the newly-fallen snow, she had descended to examine what they really were; and that she had found it necessary to admit into my anti-chamber the persons, who had given her so causeless an alarm.

—“Do not be terrified!” said she, “they are only poor afflicted spirits, who hope for relief from your hands.”—

I was too well acquainted with the friendly anxiety of my faithful attendant to spare me pain, and prepare me for unpleasant news by the manner in which she related it, to be deceived by her assurance, that I had nothing to fear. I waited for the appearance of these strangers with a beating heart. What was my surprise at recognizing the excellent Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, the venerable Matthias, and several other of the most respectable monks, whose evident consternation already seemed to implore my assistance, before they yet had time to give their petition words.

—“Oh! dear good lady,” exclaimed the Abbot, “we are undone! the dreaded storm has burst, and we must all be the prey of death, unless _you_ can find means of preserving us! This morning while officiating at the altar, we were seized in the name of our liege-lord, the Count of Carlsheim, and imprisoned in a subterraneous dungeon. Our appeal to the Bishop of Coira was treated with derision; and we collected from some suspicious remarks of our jailor, that our doom would be finally determined, long before our appeal could be made to a superior jurisdiction. Alas! we know but too well, what _can_ be done in convents! The fore-warnings of approaching death presented themselves on all sides; the noise of revelry resounding from the chambers above us increased our anxiety! What had we not to fear from the rage and malignity of these intoxicated monks!—Fortunately, one of my secret friends found means to gain admittance to our dungeon, and explain to us the real and pressing danger of our situation. It seems, that the enemies of order and of virtue are protected by the Count of Carlsheim; he was himself assisting at the dissolute entertainment; and probably at this moment we should no longer have been numbered among the living, had not the friend who brought us this intelligence, secretly assisted us to escape from the convent, and accompanied us in our flight. Now then our life is in your hands; save us, dear lady, either by softening your husband through your entreaties, or by pointing out to us some place of concealment. To you alone could we have recourse; had we sought any other refuge, we must surely have been overtaken before we could have reached it.”—

—“Save you by entreaties?” I exclaimed, while I hastened to unclose a door conducting to my baths; “entreaties to Count Ethelbert? Instant flight is your only chance for safety! Follow me, father! Follow me, and lose not a moment!”—

I hastened onwards, and conducted the trembling monks through a long subterraneous passage, unknown to all in the Castle except myself and the faithful Gertrude. The outlet was in the mountains; and here I quitted the fugitives, convinced that they would easily find their way through the intricate passes, with which the Prior Matthias was perfectly well acquainted, having frequently traversed them in his botanical pursuits.

Half of the night was consumed in this employment. On my return, I found the furious Ethelbert waiting for me in my apartment, and immediately a tremendous storm of rage burst over my devoted head. Convinced that my friends were now in safety, I attempted not to conceal my share in the transaction; and when he loaded me with insults, I replied to him by reminding him of the promise which he had formerly given me, to protect the opprest Abbot in the preservation of his rights, a promise which he had so shamefully broken. Truth and justice were on my side, but power was on that of my adversary. There was no one to hear me, and judge between Count Ethelbert and myself; he was the strongest; the reward of my remonstrances was the most unworthy treatment, and my chamber became my prison.

The vassals, who loved me, exclaimed against such an act of violence, as soon as they understood by means of Gertrude, how cruelly I was treated; but Ethelbert’s art soon succeeded in giving another colour to the transaction. He justified his severity by accusing me of a shameful intrigue with the banished Abbot of Cloister-Curwald. His assertions were so positive, that they soon produced the desired effect; and it was without any violent agitation, that the peasants a few days after saw me conducted away under a strong guard, no one knew whither; nothing gave me more pain in this abrupt departure than being deprived of the only comfort which was still left me, the society of my faithful Gertrude, and of my young friend, the Damsel of Mayenfield.

One man alone, one of the most distinguished inhabitants of that quarter, a man who breathed the true spirit of Helvetic courage, and of love of freedom, Henric Melthal alone dared openly to blame the proceedings of my tyrant. He spread his own noble sentiments around him, and communicated his feelings to his companions with a success, which might have rescued me from my bondage, had not Count Ethelbert resolved to withdraw me from public attention without a moment’s delay.

On the other side of the mountain of Halsberg, near the lake of Thun, stands an old Castle belonging to the family of Ravenstein, a family which has been in alliance with the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans since time immemorial. At the period of which I am now treating, it was entirely deserted. The owner resided in a remote part of Italy, where he had lived on terms of intimacy with Ethelbert; and having himself no occasion for this mouldering castle, he consigned the use of it to his friend the Count of Carlsheim; the use to which the Count applied it, was the only one for which it now appeared to be adapted, the confinement of the innocent.

Tedious and fearful was the way which conducted me to my destined abode; but the place itself, which I looked upon as my eternal prison, far exceeded all the horrors, which had struck my imagination so forcibly while approaching it. It was an antient fortress, perched high on the brow of a precipice like an eagle’s nest, which now received the unfortunate Urania. The peculiar form of its architecture announced it to have been raised in the time of Charlemagne; and the incessant howling of the storm, and raging of the billows seemed with every moment to threaten its downfall. I saw it from a distance seemingly suspended on the very brink of a steep and barren rock, which overhung the Lake, and I shuddered, when my conductors pointed it out as my future dwelling!

Fool that I was! I flew with rapture into the arms of Ethelbert, where I expected to find an earthly paradise and was deceived: with agony, keen as that of the dying, did I enter Ravenstein Castle ... and was deceived again! Ah! will short-sighted mortals never succeed in comprehending, that that which _appears_, and that which _is_, but rarely coincide? Yet, when we have experienced these deceptions twice or thrice, the experience makes us in future calm and resigned; and we acquire from it that indifference which raises us above the frowns and smiles of fortune, and enables us to repress with equal strength groundless apprehensions and unavailing wishes.

During the first days of my confinement I was in truth most wretched. My situation was rendered almost insupportable by the want of every convenience and comfort, and by the tediousness of unbroken solitude. I sighed after society of any kind, even though it had been such as (to judge from its outward appearance) would have promised me but little entertainment.

Some days had thus elapsed, when I observed through the bars of my closely-grated window, that a boy apparently between three and four years old, was sometimes suffered to amuse himself by playing in the neglected garden, which I was myself forbidden to visit. The innocent gaiety of the child made an impression on me, which frequently filled my eyes with tears.

—“Happy unthinking creature!” I exclaimed, wringing my hands in the bitterness of grief, “this garden appears to you a paradise, because you know none better. You are poor, forsaken, perhaps menaced by a thousand dangers which every moment brings nearer; but you see them not! Regret for the past troubles you as little as anxiety for the future; and it were difficult for a monarch with all his power to make you more happy, than you are even now! Oh! that I were like you. Oh! that at least I could clasp you in my arms, and learn from your sweet smile the art of smiling though in prison!”—

My wish to become more intimate with the happy trifler was too ardent to remain concealed. I entreated my jailor to gratify me with a nearer sight of him, and after a few difficulties I was at length permitted to receive the little Ludolf in my gloomy chamber.

—“Ludolf?” I exclaimed, when the child first told me his name—“Ludolf?” I repeated still more anxiously, while I examined his features, and fancied that I could trace a resemblance, which excited hopes in my bosom so sweet that I trembled to indulge them.

What then was my emotion, when the lovely boy convinced me that this was not the first time of our meeting, by naming as his mother, “Edith of Mayenfield!”

Yes! this dear, this long-lost friend was like myself an inmate of this place of terror! I breathed the same air with her; I was allowed to hope, that every succeeding day would afford me an opportunity of beholding her: the pleasure, which I felt from these reflections, was too great to admit of my observing, that Count Ethelbert’s confining me in the same place with a captive, whom he had secured in a manner so treacherous, was a proof that he designed my imprisonment to be eternal. Whatever might have originally been his motives for treating us with such severity, it was at least certain, that he would not permit either to regain her liberty, lest she should discover the mystery of his inhuman conduct, or take measures for rescuing from his power her companion in misfortune.

Considerations of this kind did not at first suggest themselves; I felt nothing but the joy of being once more united to my friend, an event which I now looked forward to with the most eager expectation. Heaven knows, it would have been no trifling comfort to me, had I met with the most insignificant of created beings, would but that being have listened to me with compassion, and endeavoured to soothe me in the paroxisms of my despair; but to dare to hope that Edith would now be my comforter in this dreary prison, oh! who can express the countless sources of satisfaction, which that single thought contained!

But alas! the completion of my hopes was not so easy as I expected. The Countess of Mayenfield was confined not less closely than myself; and our jailor was not to be prevailed on to depart in one single instance from the instructions of his inhuman lord. Yet methinks this man was not cruel by nature. Perhaps, it grieved him to be compelled to treat us with so much harshness; but he made it a point of conscience to adhere in the most punctual manner to the oath, which (as he frequently assured me, in answer to my complaints and reproaches) he had been compelled to give to the Count of Carlsheim.

—“You see,” said he, “that where ever it is in my power, I refuse no indulgence. I received no particular command respecting the child’s imprisonment, who was delivered to my custody at the same time with his mother, and therefore I allow him to enjoy all those advantages, from which I am compelled to debar her and yourself. Neither was it forbidden me to furnish the Countess of Mayenfield with such sources of mental amusement, as might beguile her solitary hours. She has a variety of books, has her spinning-wheel and her embroidery frame; if she chuses it, she may lay these aside, and employ herself with her pen; this indulgence, lady, shall also be granted to _you_; and methinks, it must be almost the same thing, whether what you have to say to each other is imparted in writing, or in person.”

Here then did our jailor kindly open a door for those communications, for which we had so long thirsted; we returned him our most ardent thanks for the hint, and lost no time in making use of it. We wrote to each other daily; and as the conscientious feelings of this trusty domestic of my tyrant would not allow him to deliver our letters himself, they were confided to the care of the little Ludolf. The lovely boy soon became attached to me; he was ever ready to visit my narrow chamber; and besides the information which Edith’s letters contained, I gleaned from him in conversation many interesting anecdotes, which however serious their subject, frequently assumed so whimsical an appearance through his infantine mode of relating them, that it was impossible either for his mother or myself to refrain from smiling. Heavens! we smiled! little did our tyrant imagine, that in the gloomy walls of Ravenstein Castle his captives would have ever found cause for mirth!

Edith’s letters contained explanations of many circumstances, which till then had appeared to me quite unaccountable. These precious memorials of the most sacred friendship are still in my possession. You, my dear children, for whom I write this narrative of my sufferings, will find them after my death, as documents serving to corroborate the veracity of my statements. Oh! how will you blush for your ancestor, when you read that Ethelbert had never been the character, which we (poor deceived ones!) believed him to be, and that from the very beginning his whole conduct had been an artifice!

Its true, my person at first was the object of his desires; but much more so were the possessions, which I was expected to inherit. Anxiously did he seek to bring about our union; but circumstances, with which Edith herself was unacquainted, forbade the explanation of his wishes, and compelled him to wait, till my uncle should actually force him to accept my hand. Fear, lest my expectations of being raised to power and wealth (on which his own depended) should be overturned by Count Venosta’s second marriage, induced him privately to remove the dreaded Edith. He had chosen the time for carrying her off admirably well. A secret understanding with the Abbot of St. Gall, (whose enemy he profest to be in public) enabled him at once to get rid of Count Venosta’s vigilance, entice me out of the fortress, and thus leave Edith totally without protection. It also afforded him an opportunity to establish himself in my uncle’s favour, by rendering him so essential a service as the restoring him to liberty; a service, which my too grateful uncle thought could only be rewarded by the gift of my hand, without allowing Ethelbert time to solicit it.

Alas! my fortitude fails me, while endeavouring to unravel the whole web of artifice and villainy, which our persecutor had woven to ensnare us with no less cunning than success. He contrived to cheat the Abbot of the prisoner, whom he had first himself betrayed into his power; Count Venosta of his possessions, his mistress, and his niece; poor Edith of her liberty; and me of the happiness and tranquillity of my whole life!

Never had Count Ethelbert felt for me one spark of real affection. Even the passion, with which my person had inspired him, was subordinate to his desire of becoming master of my large possessions. No sooner was this point accomplished, no sooner had the daily sight of it deprived what little beauty was mine of the charm of novelty, than the continual presence of a virtuous wife appeared to him a check upon his pleasures. He therefore seized with eagerness the first opportunity of delivering himself from my presence; nor did he forget to sully my reputation by imputations so disgraceful, that I appeared to the world unworthy of either relief or pity. Even my good uncle wept, and resigned me to my fate.

The Countess of Mayenfield had learned the greatest part of the circumstances, which she related in her letters, from the wife of the Castellan of Ravenstein; this good-hearted matron (who died a few days before my arrival at the Castle) had a son in Count Ethelbert’s service, by whom she was informed of most of his lord’s proceedings. The conversation of this compassionate woman had beguiled many of the heavy hours of Edith’s imprisonment; nor had she ever neglected an opportunity of evading the too conscientious adherence of her husband to his oath, and of furnishing to the noble captive many alleviations of her sorrows, all of which vanished at her death.

Oh! had I but found her still in existence on my arrival at Ravenstein, what might we not have hoped from her friendly aid! what would have been too difficult for three women to accomplish, of whom the one possessed power, the second prudence, and the third resolution! Surely it would have been easy for us to have obtained our freedom; at least, I should not have been so long deprived of the happiness of clasping my faithful Edith to my bosom.

Often in our epistolary conversations did we lament over the great loss, which we had sustained in being deprived of this worthy creature! yet the Countess comforted herself with the pleasure of knowing, that I was near her and in a place, where she looked upon me as enjoying both more happiness and more safety, than would have been my lot in the arms of Count Ethelbert.—As for myself, I wept, and prayed for better times.

And better times arrived! We had long suspected, that we were not the only unfortunates confined at Ravenstein; and in the truth of this suspicion we now were fully confirmed, though our curiosity was by no means fully satisfied.

The Castle, as I before stated, was built on the summit of a lofty rock, whose point appeared designed as a mark for the assaults of all the four winds of heaven. Storms here were frequent and tremendous. In the middle of a tempestuous night, when the whirlwind was raging with its greatest violence, suddenly a remote wing of the Castle burst into flames! the wind set towards our quarter; the sparks flew in at our grated windows; our danger increased with every moment, and every human being seemed to have totally forgotten us. No one had consideration enough to unlock our dungeons; no one showed the slightest disposition to come to our assistance. The general attention was directed towards the eastern wing of the fortress, which was entirely in flames.

Our terror is not to be described; yet certainly mine was far inferior to that of Edith, who had not to fear for herself alone. The preservation of a life, which was infinitely dearer to her than her own, occupied all her thoughts; she trembled for the life of her son!

She was desperate; she felt, that his destruction was inseparably united with her own, and resolved to dare every thing to preserve him. In the wall of her dungeon was an opening, barely large enough to suffer the child to pass through; she fastened her bed cloaths together; she resolved to let him down by them to the ground, and charged him, as soon as he should have reached it, to release himself and fly, or else to find some hiding place, where he might remain till the danger was past. The risque was dreadful; nothing but despair could have induced her to adopt such a resolution.

Edith’s endeavours to preserve her little darling were not unsuccessful. He reached the ground in safety; but scarcely had she parted with him, when the increasing heat (for by this time the balconies of the neighbouring buildings were in flames) and the volumes of smoke, which poured into her chamber, overpowered her senses, and she sank without animation on the floor.

My situation was exactly similar. At the moment when I fainted, the only thought, which employed my mind, was the hope of an happy meeting with Edith in another better world; an hope which (I fully believed) was accomplished, when on once more unclosing my eyes, I found myself breathing pure air in a light and spacious chamber, and perceived by my side the friend whom I loved so tenderly, and for whose sight I had so long and so anxiously sighed in vain.

—“Oh! Edith!”—“Urania! my Urania!”—we both exclaimed at once, while we sank into each others’ arms; “What has happened? are we rescued from captivity on earth, or released from the fetters of mortality? Where is it that we meet, in freedom, in captivity, or in the life beyond the grave?”—

Too soon were our doubts removed: too soon were we compelled to feel, that we were rescued from death, but not restored to liberty. The still smoking ruins, which met our eyes from afar, told us but too plainly, that we were still within the walls of Ravenstein; and the unremitting vigilance, with which we were observed, made us well aware, that we had reaped no other advantage from the transactions of the night, except the delight of seeing and embracing a long-lost friend. But alas! what cruel reflections embittered this delight. Edith sorrowed for her son, and reproached herself for having suffered herself to part with him in despair, when had she detained him with her in the dungeon, he would have been preserved as well as his mother.

I felt scarcely less sorrow for the loss of the beloved child, than Edith herself; I would gladly have comforted her, but alas! where was comfort to be found? Even should he have escaped from the flames, which were raging with such violence at the moment when he quitted his mother, how difficult still did his preservation appear! We failed not on the day after the fire to examine the place, whence Edith had caused him to descend. The opening was not situated very high in the tower; but close to the place, where he must have reached the ground, there yawned a tremendous precipice; the depth of which when we vainly endeavoured to measure with our eyes, the flesh crept upon our bones, and cold drops of terror chased each other down our foreheads.

Bitter was our grief, but no one heeded our lamentations; our guards attended to nothing but the adventures of the past night, and we collected from their discourse, that the fire had been kindled by a lady confined in the eastern wing of the Castle. Her object, as they supposed, was to find some means of escaping during the confusion, which her rash action had necessarily produced; she had not only failed in her design, but had suffered so severely by springing from a lofty window, and by the wounds which she had received from the fragments of a falling tower, that she was not expected to outlive the night.

The Castellan too, in his endeavours to prevent the escape of this prisoner (whose confinement seemed to be a greater object of anxiety to him, even than that of Edith and myself) had met with a fatal accident, and was every moment expected to breathe his last. We desired to see him before his death. With a feeble voice he entreated our pardon for the injustice, with which he had been compelled to treat us; but he called Heaven to witness, that the dreadful oaths which had been exacted from him, had deprived him of the power of acting differently. Yet did he not think it necessary to enjoin our future jailors to treat us with greater lenity; and they, being in all probability fettered by the same oaths with himself, esteemed it their duty to retain us in a captivity no less strict than before.

All we could obtain from them was, that we should not again be separated; and also that we should be permitted to visit that unfortunate lady, of whose existence in the Castle we were this day informed for the first time; who had made use of such violent means to obtain her liberty; and who (as our guards assured us) was on the point of paying with her life, for having dared to commit so desperate an action.

Curiosity, hope, the fear of finding some beloved acquaintance in this wretched captive, or the desire of giving some alleviation to the sufferings of an expiring partner in affliction, which of these motives induced us to make this melancholy visit, I cannot pretend to decide. When we received the permission to enter her dungeon, we were assured, that we should find nothing that would diminish our own distress, and the event justified the assurance.

They conducted us to a wretched pallet, on which lay a female, whose features were totally unknown to us, but whose appearance excited in us the deepest sentiments of pity; of that painful pity, which knows itself unable to afford relief! On hearing our footsteps she raised with difficulty her half-closed eyes, and with a smile of anguish extended her hand towards us. We exerted ourselves to afford her every little alleviation of pain, which our narrow means could furnish; and in executing these mournful services, our tears sufficiently declared the feelings of our hearts.

—“Forgive me!” said she, when after two or three hours our endeavours to relieve her had produced some little effect; “I wished to rescue myself from captivity, and had nearly brought the same fate on you, under which I am now groaning. But long suffering is the mother of despair!”—

Shortly after she seemed to be nearly delirious; she counted the years which she had already past in this dreary dungeon, and those during which she expected to be detained in it by her tyrant; then she raved about her son, for whose arrival she had so long waited in vain, and she entreated him to hasten to the rescue of his unfortunate mother!

Towards midnight she declared, that all pain had entirely left her. With an appearance of gaiety she thanked us for our attentions, and entreated to know the names of those, to whom she was so much indebted. The Countess revealed herself, and the captive in return bestowed upon her a look of interest and compassion.

—“Edith of Mayenfield?” repeated the invalid; “oh! I know your story well: you too have suffered much; not so much, its true, as _I_ have suffered, yet enough to know what it is to incur a villain’s hatred.—And your name, gentle lady?” she continued, addressing herself to me.

—“I am Urania of Carlsheim and Sargans,” was my answer.

—“Urania of Sargans!” shrieked the stranger in a dreadful voice, while she clasped her hands violently together; “Urania? Ethelbert’s beloved Urania? Oh, Fortune, this blow was still wanting to make me completely miserable.—Away from my sight, abandoned woman! away, and leave me to die! But with my last breath I swear to be revenged! Even from my grave will I shriek to Heaven for vengeance! Tremble, detested girl; thou shalt not triumph over my corse unpunished!”—

I stood like one petrified near the bed of the sufferer; astonishment and terror almost deprived me of my senses, and nothing but the consciousness that she spoke in the heat of frenzy, could have preserved me from sinking on the earth.

—“Noble lady,” I said as soon as I could recover myself, at the same time advancing towards her, and offering to take her hand; “recollect yourself, for pity’s sake! I never saw you till now, and can never have offended you. You surely cannot have heard me aright. I am Urania, the unfortunate Urania Venosta, who rejected by a cruel husband, and undeservedly branded with shame, have been condemned in this Castle to wear eternal fetters, which the flames of last night in vain attempted to break.”—

—“Ha!” said the stranger in a gentler tone, “is it so?—Are you then Ethelbert’s _rejected_ wife?—Unfortunate, let me clasp thy hand in mine; we are sisters in calamity.”—

Already was I advancing to take the hand which she held out, when Edith uttered a loud scream, and hastily drew me back. She had observed the captive’s countenance change suddenly, and we now saw, that she grasped a poniard till then concealed in her bosom. From that moment the senses of the wretched stranger were irrecoverably lost. Her eyes full of rage were constantly directed towards me; she foamed at the mouth; she loaded me with execrations, and I was compelled to retire, that she might have a chance of regaining some composure.

The meaning of this dreadful scene was to me an absolute enigma. I lamented the poor wretch’s condition; though a secret horror, whenever I recollected her words and manner, took complete possession of my soul. In this painful situation did I pass the night; the morning had scarcely dawned, when the Countess of Mayenfield rejoined me, and informed me that the unknown lady was no more. Edith was quite exhausted by the terrible occurrences of the past night. I enquired, whether she had made no discoveries, which might unravel these mysterious circumstances: but she answered by an assurance, that it was impossible for her to give me any light upon the subject.

In mournful silence did we follow to the grave the corse of our wretched partner in captivity. She was interred in one of the back-courts of our prison; and we were conducted after the burial into a gloomy apartment in a quarter of the Castle, which had escaped the violence of the flames. Our present dungeon was in no respect better, than our former had been; and the small portion of freedom, which we had enjoyed during the few last days, now appeared to our stern jailors too great an indulgence, and we were accordingly deprived of it.

We heard the door barred on the outside; we sank into each other’s arms, and wept bitterly: then we rejoiced, that at least we had been suffered to remain together, and then we wept again. We endeavoured to escape from present miseries by recalling former happiness, and indulging future hopes; but alas! this resource was but of little avail. Yet among all the agonizing reflections which tormented us, nothing was so painful to remember, as the loss of our little darling, Ludolf!

I will not pain your gentle hearts, my children, by dwelling on our sufferings in this forlorn situation, during which our only support was the soothing of mutual pity. A change at length took place in it, but we had little reason to expect, that it would turn out to our advantage! Our guards informed us one day, that the Count of Carlsheim had sent a new Castellan to superintend the government of this half-ruined fortress; and they added, we should soon find cause to regret under our new overseer that treatment, which we had complained of as being so harsh and rigid. We trembled, as we listened to this prophecy. Aversion and spite against this new instrument of Count Ethelbert’s vengeance were plainly exprest in every feature of our former jailors, yet did they scarcely dare to express their dislike of him aloud: what then had _we_ to expect? How dreadful must that man be, who could strike terror even into the flinty hearts of these barbarians!

We had not long been informed of his arrival, when this dreaded Castellan entered our dungeon, accompanied by several of our former guards. We trembled, as we gazed on the gloomy brow of the man, to whose hands our fate was consigned. Walter Forest, for (so was our jailor called) scarcely deigned to honour us with a look, while he informed us, that we must prepare ourselves to quit Ravenstein at midnight, the Count of Carlsheim not thinking the Castle safe enough, since the late fire, for the confinement of prisoners of our consequence. We wished to address a few words to him, imploring better treatment for the future; but he turned away from us rudely, blamed the attendants for having suffered us to remain unfettered, and having caused heavy shackles to be brought immediately, he saw them rivetted before he left the dungeon.

The doors were fastened after him more cautiously, if possible, than before. Yet in spite of his vigilance and positive commands, the former chief of our guards (who seemed to look on his being deprived of his cruel office as an insult) contrived to gain admission to us privately, and to confirm by his warnings the dreadful suspicions, with which our imaginations were but too strongly imprest already.