Chapter II: Part 2

Ida had scarcely divested herself of her bridal robes, when a procession entered her chamber composed of the chief officers of the Count’s household, and headed by the reverend Father Hilarius. The formal manner of their entrance, and the gravity which reigned in every countenance, were alone sufficient to communicate to her mind some degree of confusion and alarm.—How greatly were these emotions increased, when the Chaplain began his examination, which was preceded by a terrible description of her guardian’s anger, and which consisted of questions so artfully worded, that taken by surprize and bewildered as she was, she found herself constrained either to return no answers at all, or such as were apparently to her disadvantage.—Sensible of this at length, she entreated, that time might be allowed her for recollection: the greatest part of her auditors were well inclined to the poor suppliant, and felt for her the most sincere compassion. The Monk therefore did not dare to act towards her with all the harshness, to which his heart prompted him; the further examination of this affair was postponed to three hours after sunrise of the next day, and Ida was left alone.

It was midnight.—Ida sat weeping, while a variety of unpleasant images crowded before her imagination, and retraced the many singular and painful transactions, of which that day had been a witness. Interesting as had been the events which took place at the Castle of March, still her mind was most occupied by those more recent ones, which surprized her at her return home.—“Her guardian Elizabeth’s rejected bridegroom.”—“Herself accused of having broken off his marriage.”—“_Some_ offences laid to her charge, which were totally incomprehensible.”—“_Others_, of which she was conscious, that her unguarded conduct had made her but too liable to be suspected.”—“The Count’s violent resentment.”—“His threats.”—“Expulsion from the Castle of Torrenburg.”—“The only choice, allowed her, the cloister for life, or an union with the decrepit Count Egbert.”—Poor, poor Ida! how wilt thou find a clue to guide thy bewildered steps aright through such a labyrinth of dangers!

Buried in these melancholy reflections, she heard not the door unlocked, by which her apartments communicated with the public gallery.—At length a hand gently removed the handkerchief, with which she had covered her face. She looked up, and beheld Father Hilarius.

—“Alas! my dear child,” said the Friar, “what avails your weeping?—believe me, your affairs are not in so ill a state, as you may imagine; though I cannot but confess, that appearances are greatly against you. Your secret correspondence with Elizabeth has been intercepted: I have tried in vain to convince your guardian, that you were ignorant of his having any concern in the affair. Then he looks on your presence at the marriage, as a personal and designed affront. It appears indeed from one of her letters, that your friend herself was in great doubt, whether you would accept her invitation. At the very time of her giving it, she pointed out the inconveniences of your coming; she warned you, that you would incur your uncle’s anger.... And yet in defiance of this warning, you went!—As to the confusion, which your presence produced at the wedding, of that we can make out nothing; you either _will_ not, or _can_ not explain the mystery; one thing only I can collect from your account, which is, that you have made a number of enemies there, who will spare no pains to injure you, and to prevent your innocence from being made clear to the Count.—For that you _are_ innocent, I have no manner of doubt; and I will venture to assert, that in process of time.... But time indeed, Heaven help us! that is exactly what is refused you—the punishment of your supposed offences will be immediate! the old Count of Montfort arrived here not an hour ago; and your guardian is determined, that to-morrow shall decide the destiny of your future life. Of your guilt he is thoroughly persuaded, and you will be compelled to-morrow to give your hand to Count Egbert, if he will condescend to accept it; or if the old man thinks that your conduct has now made you unworthy of such an honour, you will be immediately confined for life in the Convent of the Grey Penitents near Count Frederick’s Thuringian Castle.”—

—“And what then must be done?” cried Ida, wringing her hands in fear and agony.—“How can I escape so dreadful a destiny?”—

—“Escape?” repeated the Monk.—“Ha! right! right! my dear child, it was surely Heaven, that inspired you with the thought!—Yes! you must escape; you must fly from the Castle of Torrenburg!”—

—“Escape? fly?”—repeated the bewildered Ida; “and whither must I go?”—

“To a retreat,” replied the Monk, “where you may wait in security, till your uncle’s resentment is appeased, and your innocence can be made clear to him.—But you shall know more, as we go along. I know a secret passage, by which you may quit the Castle unobserved. Follow me, for you have not a moment to lose!—Nay, come, come! away!”—

Thus saying, he caught the lamp from the table with one hand, and grasping Ida’s arm with the other, he drew her from the chamber.—Bewildered, terrified, she had not presence of mind sufficient to form a resolution; and her exhausted frame was unable to resist the force, with which he urged her forwards, as she followed him through the long galleries, rather passively submitting, than wilfully consenting to his design.

I formerly mentioned, that Count Frederick still resided on the spot, which had once been the habitation of the antient Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans. To this he had chiefly been induced by the beauty of the situation: perhaps too his pride was secretly gratified by the recollection, that his residence was the same with that, whence his ancestors were accustomed to extend the sceptre of command over the surrounding provinces, and to set at defiance the resentment of many a sovereign prince, who possest much more lofty-sounding titles but much less real power and strength.—Still the gloomy, half-ruined Castle of Sargans was by no means a mansion suited to the taste of its modern possessor. Accordingly he had levelled to the ground the remains of a wing of this gigantic pile, which had formerly been destroyed by fire, and had erected in its place a stately palace, at once noble in its external form, and convenient in its interior accommodations. This was called the Castle of Torrenburg; while the forsaken halls and towers of Sargans were still distinguished by the name of the “Donat-Fortress,” the two buildings were separated by courts of considerable extent; the antient one was in a great measure suffered to go to ruin, except a few apartments which were kept up for the accommodation of domestics, when on solemn occasions the number of guests was too great to be received within the walls of the Count’s own residence.

Superstition had not failed to extend her dominion over the Donat-Fortress.—Traditions respecting the former Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans, which had been handed down from father to son, and with which you, Elizabeth, are already well acquainted, furnished subjects sufficient for a thousand wonderful stories. In truth, the prejudice, in favour of the opinion that the ruins were haunted, was so prevalent, that not merely among the Count’s domestics, but even among the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages numbers of ghost-seers were to be found, who had beheld at sundry times (and with their own eyes) the spirits of Ethelbert and Urania, of Donat, Helen, and other traditionary personages, wandering among those abandoned halls and moss-grown towers; and they augured either favourable or inauspicious events to the reigning possessor, according as the vision represented a lady or a Monk, an innocent wife or her haughty tyrant husband.

Ida’s character is naturally extremely timid, and she had not escaped the contagion of superstitious terrors. It was therefore with no slight emotion, that she found her conductor taking the way, which led to the ruins.

—“Whither are you leading me?” said she frequently, as she followed him with trembling steps.—“Whither are you leading me?” she again demanded almost with a shriek; and as she snatched her hand from the Friar’s, her blood froze in her veins at perceiving, that she had now past the last of the separating courts, and stood before the massy walls and lofty round towers of the Donat-Fortress, whose colossal portal seemed to stretch wide its enormous jaws, as if for the purpose of devouring her.

Father Hilarius was now compelled to stop for a moment, and support his fainting companion. She reclined her head against his shoulder; and when she had in some degree recovered her spirits, she related to him, that happening once to be standing in her balcony at midnight, she had seen with her own eyes the apparitions of two Monks come out of the very gate, before which they were at that moment standing; that they went up to the old well in the corner, whose mouth is overgrown with moss and weeds, and there they seemed to vanish; and that upon relating what she had seen the next morning, the old portress had related to her a terrible history of two Monks belonging to the Abbey of Curwald, who were starved to death in a subterraneous dungeon by the order of one of the tyrant-counts of Carlsheim; that their bones were buried in that ruined well, in which Heaven’s retribution had ordained, that the murderer himself should perish; and that ever since that time, the place had been haunted by the ghosts of the two unfortunate Friars.

Father Hilarius, who frequently made use of the deserted fortress, when he had any secret business to transact, could have easily removed the miraculous part of the appearances, which Ida had seen; but it did not suit his plans to quiet her anxiety by letting her into the truth. He contented himself with painting in the strongest colours the dangers, which awaited her on her return to the Count’s abode; and with reminding her, that her only chance of avoiding those dangers was an instantaneous flight by means, whose terrors were merely imaginary.

The priest, in spite of all his seeming simplicity, was by no means deficient in eloquence. His descriptions were so lively, and his arguments came so home to her feelings, that Ida was soon convinced, that she could meet with no ghost more terrible or more hideous than the old Count of Montfort. She therefore resolved to follow her guide without further remonstrance, and only requested that she might shut her eyes, and clasp one of his hands with both of hers in the form of a cross, which holy sign (she doubted not) would scare all evil spirits away. To this he consented, and promised to inform her when she should be arrived in a place of safety, and might relieve herself from this voluntary loss of sight.

As they proceeded, the Monk lighted several torches of yellow wax, which were fastened at intervals against the sides of a long passage, opening into a large hall; he took the same precaution, as he ascended a lofty marble staircase; and as soon as he entered a spacious saloon, he lost no time in illuminating twelve large chandeliers of brass, which were suspended from the roof.—He now desired Ida to open her eyes, and look round her.

He could not have pitched upon a better method for dissipating Ida’s fears of ghosts and goblins. Darkness is the mother of causeless terror; with the return of light, courage and confidence return to the trembling heart. The lamp, with which the Friar was still busied in lighting the last chandelier, assured her, that there was nothing supernatural in the light, by which she found herself surrounded; and her heart expanded with the agreeable impression, produced upon her by this sudden and unexpected splendour.

She had always pictured to herself the Donat-Fortress, as the residence of crows, bats, and screech-owls, a gloomy chaos of dirt, and dust, and fragments of moth-eaten furniture. How greatly then was she surprized to find, that though everything in truth was faded and antiquated, yet nothing could be more magnificent than the saloon, which she was then examining. It was hung with tapestry richly wrought and adorned with pictures, on whose frames gold and carving had been lavished most profusely: and through the open door she looked out upon the illuminated marble staircase, and down the long gallery, whose vista of lights presented an object at once noble and agreeable. Father Hilarius advised her to repose herself for a few minutes, and conducted her to an elevated seat under a canopy, which seemed like a throne.

—“It was here,” said he “that the antient lords of the ten jurisdictions were accustomed to receive the homage of their vassals, while that anti-chamber was thronged with their knights and retainers; and it was from yonder side-chambers, that crouds of the noblest dames and damsels of the country looked out, and admired the magnificence of the powerful Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—

Ida would not cast a single glance towards the side-chambers, where the dames and damsels of former days used to assemble, for in these there were no torches; and she could not help fearing, lest she should discover in them some inhabitant of the other world made visible by the light of his own burning brimstone. She therefore continued to look towards the illuminated gallery, and listened with pleased attention to Father Hilarius, while he dwelt upon the brighter parts of the family traditions, and by descriptions of splendid feasts and stately tournaments, contrived to beguile the trembling girl of her terrors.

—“But we forget ourselves,” said the Monk at length, suddenly breaking off his narration, “we must not suffer day-light to surprise us in these untenanted apartments, where we should undoubtedly be sought after, and then if found what would be the consequence? you would be consigned to the arms of the decrepit Egbert, while I should be sent back to my Convent with indignation by your uncle. Come, lady, come! follow me, where peace and security await your arrival.”—

—“Lead on, good father!” replied Ida; “be you but my guide, and I will not hesitate to follow.”—

—“Good!” said Hilarius; and then extinguishing some of the lights, he took them from the chandeliers.—“Then take special care of these tapers; they will be necessary for us on the way, by which we must escape. Now then hasten onwards, and be alarmed at nothing, which you may encounter. Be assured, there is no real danger.”—

Thus saying, he gave her a small basket, which already appeared to contain some provisions, and in which he now deposited the tapers. These preparations for a long journey through gloomy ways were by no means calculated to preserve in Ida’s mind that temporary tranquillity, which it had so lately recovered. An involuntary shuddering seized her; and as he lighted her forwards, he assured her so often of his acting honestly by her, that she began to suspect, that it must be his intention to deceive her.

They at length reached the most remote quarter of the Donat-Fortress, which by no means corresponded with the magnificence of those apartments, by which she had approached it. Here nothing was to be seen but winding staircases, narrow passages, low roofs, and gloomy vaulted dungeons, without end or number, whose labyrinth bewildered her memory, and whose aspect appalled her imagination. Most of them bore the strongest marks of the ravages of time: and now they entered an immense chamber, which according to the Monk’s account had at one period been the bedroom of the Countess Urania, and of many of the ladies, her successors.—A large vacant alcove still decorated with the remnants of silken curtains, appeared to have once been intended to contain a bed, and confirmed the assertion of Father Hilarius; an assertion, which the other ornaments of the room seemed calculated to contradict. Swords, spears, and coats of mail were fastened against the walls, and gave the apartment more the appearance of a well-furnished armoury, than of a lady’s bed chamber. Ida was on the point of asking the meaning of such unusual decorations, when her conductor removed a part of the worm-eaten tapestry, and opened a concealed door, through which she descried a staircase descending to a far greater depth, than her eye could reach.

—“Here is our way,” said Hilarius, “tremble not, my child, but follow me without hesitation.—A few hours will place you in safety.”—

Ida shrunk back, and weeping through extreme terror, inquired, whether this was the only means of escaping?—The Friar, who had already found out the quickest method of removing her apprehensions, descended part of the staircase, and as he past, kindled some tapers fixed on the balustrade. This experiment succeeded, as it had done before—Ida ventured down a few steps, and the Monk returned to assist her to descend the remainder; when suddenly springing past her, he rushed up the staircase, and passing through the door, closed it after him with a loud noise.

How the blood ran cold in the poor girl’s veins, when she found herself forsaken by her guide; how she hastened after him, in hopes of inducing him by entreaties to release her from this unexpected captivity; how she shuddered at being able to discover no traces of the concealed door; and how she at length sank down upon the steps in agony and despair, when she found no answer returned to her shrieks for relief and mercy, all this I need not describe to Elizabeth: her own good and tender heart will make her feel for the situation of a young creature, by nature the most fearful of her sex, exposed to all the horrors of night, solitude, and silence, at the entrance of a chain of gloomy caverns, whose existence till that moment had been unknown to her, and with whose outlet she was totally unacquainted.

Though she received no answer, she was certain, that her entreaties for help were not unheard by the unpitying Friar. She could plainly distinguish his footsteps, as he hastened away from the chamber; and the noise of closing doors and of bolts shooting back into their fastenings left her no room to doubt her being totally abandoned.

Ida was herself unconscious, how much time elapsed, before she could summon strength of mind sufficient to reflect, how it would be most adviseable for her to conduct herself in this perilous situation. Undoubtedly, before she could recover from the shock, a considerable period must have elapsed; for when she at length looked around her, she perceived, that the torches were on the point of expiring. The dread of being left in total darkness recalled her to herself: she sprang from the ground, and lost no time in kindling one of the tapers, with which the Monk (who was far from wishing her destruction) had providently supplied her basket.

—“He does not then desire my death?” said she, as she saw the flame rise bright and cheerful, and a kind of doubtful joy infused itself into her almost frozen heart.

This persuasion was confirmed, when faintness compelled her to examine the contents of her basket. Father Hilarius (who was no enemy to the pleasures of the table) had furnished it, as if he had been catering for himself: the provisions were the most delicate of their kind, and a small flask of costly and cordial wine had not been forgotten. Now then she began to think, what could have been his object in conducting her to this gloomy abode? It was evident, that he had not left her there to perish through hunger: was it possible, that he had meant honestly by her, and that this was really the best path, which she could take to quit the Castle? Suddenly, it struck her, that during their midnight wandering the Monk had frequently mentioned a subterraneous passage, which conducted to a small hamlet inhabited in former times by holy Hermits, and now the abode of simple villagers scarcely less pure in manners than their predecessors. He had described this passage to her with such minuteness, that she could not but suppose his account to have contained instructions for the direction of her progress; she had at the time paid but little attention to his remarks, not conceiving that she was at all interested in the subject; but she now carefully mustered up every hint which he had let fall, and employed her whole strength of mind in recalling the instructions, which he had given with such apparent indifference.

Having at length traced the map of her road on her imagination sufficiently to make her hope, that she should be able to find her way through the gloomy labyrinth, she ventured to begin her journey. She carefully avoided various low-vaulted, passages, which presented themselves on either side of her, and which Father Hilarius had already warned her not to enter; as he said, that they only led to small dungeons, in which many victims of the tyrant Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans had breathed their last, and which now formed the unwholesome abode of toads, snakes, and other loathsome reptiles. Apprehensive that her light might fail her, before she could reach the outlet of these caverns, she fled onwards with all her speed, and hoped with every moment, that the next would show her the magnificent tomb, raised by Count Herman of Werdenberg in honour of his wife the lady Emmeline, who had been long imprisoned in this subterraneous abode. The sight of this monument would assure her, that she had not mistaken the way; and the Monk had told her, that she would there find three paths branching out, of which the middle one would conduct her without a turning to the cavern’s mouth.

But still she hastened on, and still one taper after the other was consumed, and still the tomb was not to be descried! Sleep, and fatigue from the length of the way, began to operate upon her with force almost irresistible; yet did she not dare to close her eyes, lest during her slumber the taper should burn out, and leave her in absolute darkness to wander through the long chain of dungeons and passages, till she perished. In this painful situation her only advantage was, that her imaginary fears gradually subsided. Custom and necessity are frequently the parents of virtue; and Ida, the timid superstitious Ida, who so lately could only traverse the chambers of the Donat-Fortress with eyes closed, hands crost, and knees trembling, was now able to tread firmly, as she hurried along, and feared not to gaze steadfastly on the surrounding gloom, with which she was now become familiar.

The poor wanderer could only judge from the consumption of her tapers, that she must have journeyed for a considerable time, and that the mouth of the caverns could be at no great distance—this belief was confirmed, when she perceived a faint pale light glimmering through the obscurity of a narrow passage, which lay before her. The sight inspired her with renewed vigour. She hastened towards the gleam: but how did her spirits fail her, when after proceeding for some minutes down the passage she found, that the light proceeded (not from the day, as she had fondly hoped) but from a lamp, which served to illuminate with its blue rays a place, the sight of which a few days sooner would have made her swoon with horror, and upon which even now she had but too much reason to look with apprehension and disgust.

It was a round vaulted room, whose sides were hollowed out into niches, in each of which a coffin was placed; while here and there the eye rested on a stately marble monument adorned with carved work and statues.—Ida shrieked, and the taper fell from her hand.

—“Now then,” she exclaimed, “I am lost indeed! What said the Monk?—Above all, avoid a narrow passage, which lies towards the left; it conducts into the burying-place of a convent. Should you stray thither, and be discovered by the Nuns, the object of your flight will be lost irrecoverably, and you will only have exchanged one prison for another. The Abbess is entirely devoted to your uncle’s interests, and will not hesitate to restore you to his power.—Alas! alas!” she continued, wringing her hands, “how plainly do I now remember every word of his warning, though at the time I little thought of how much consequence it was to my safety!—Now remembrance comes too late! I am fallen into the toils: speedy flight indeed might perhaps yet save me; but sleep sits too heavy on my eye-lids, and my wearied limbs are unable to bear me further.—I must yield to the impulse, and repose for a few moments, for I am fatigued almost unto death!—then should no one discover me during my slumbers, when I awake, I can re-kindle my taper at yonder lamp, and shall be able to pursue my pilgrimage with recruited strength and courage.”—

She then lay down upon the floor near her extinguished taper, resting her head against an adjacent tomb; nor was it long before she sank into a profound sleep. Little till then did Ida believe it possible, that she could sleep among graves and coffins! Still less was she aware, how near she was at that moment to safety and protection! Oh! how would her sorrowing heart have been lightened, had she known, that a few hours must necessarily compel one of her best friends to enter her gloomy resting-place; one, who at that moment was grieving at the relation of her flight from the Castle of Torrenburg, which had reached him under the most scandalous mis-representations, and who was in the most painful uncertainty respecting her fate and the means of saving and supporting her. Ida had unconsciously wandered into the cemetery belonging to the Abbey of Curwald, which was under the direction of her friend and guardian, Abbot Conrad!—Oh! how eagerly would he have hastened to embrace and comfort the poor forlorn-one, could some kind angel have whispered to him in a dream.—“Ida, the unfortunate much-injured Ida slumbers among the mouldering bones of the Abbots of Cloister-Curwald!”—

Conrad had dispatched messengers on all sides in pursuit of Ida, as soon as he received the news of her flight, which Count Frederick transmitted to him without delay. It seems, that what Father Hilarius dreaded with so much reason, had actually taken place at the Castle of Torrenburg. No sooner was the first burst of passion over, than the Count’s justice made him resolve to give his accused niece a personal hearing—the morning had scarcely dawned, when he sought her apartments. Her favourite attendant was ordered to apprize her mistress of his approach: great was his astonishment, when the maid returned extremely agitated, and informed him, that Ida was no where to be found. Father Hilarius was immediately sent for; and his explanation of Ida’s motives for flight of course was such, as served greatly to increase his patron’s indignation, and throw a still deeper shade upon the character and conduct of the fugitive. Elizabeth’s bridegroom had disappeared, immediately after rejecting her hand at the altar; Ida was now become equally invisible: it required no great ingenuity to connect these two events together. Nothing could appear more probable, than that Ida had eloped with Henry, and that she was gone to form an union built upon the ruined happiness of her best friends, and to exult at having duped those, whose good-natured simplicity had prevented them from suspecting her designs.—Count Frederick’s generous heart was shocked beyond expression, when he thus saw the offences of his niece presented before him in such gigantic enormity.

—“Monstrous!” he exclaimed! “inconceivable! first she plunges a dagger in the breast of her benefactor, by robbing him of the woman whom he adored; next she stabs her dearest friend to the heart by seducing away the bridegroom, into whose arms she had herself delivered her! now then she believes, that her infernal work is complete; she knows well, that all ideas of an union between me and Elizabeth are prevented for ever; she doubts not, that vexation and disappointed love will soon conduct me to the grave; and then she means to divide my rich inheritance with the partner of her iniquities, the false capricious perjured Montfort!”—

Father Hilarius now stepped forward, and represented to him, that it only depended upon himself to ruin the plans of those, who had so grossly offended him; and that as to his union with Elizabeth, he for his part saw no impossibility in the case. The Count eagerly desired him to explain his meaning; and the obedient Monk proceeded to prove with the whole force of his eloquence, that Elizabeth deserved pity rather than blame for her share in these transactions; that she had been seduced from her duty more by Ida’s arts than by her own inclinations; and he declared his perfect conviction, that if the Count would now condescend to make the first advance towards a reconciliation, he would find her as full of penitence for her error, as grateful for his proffered affection, and as eager to unite with him in a plan of mutual revenge, as even the Count himself could desire.—Nor did he make this last assertion rashly. Father Jacob had already apprized him, that every thing at the Castle of March was favourable to their views; and he advised Hilarius to send his patron thither without loss of time, in order that Elizabeth’s resentment (upon which he chiefly grounded his hopes of success) might not be allowed time to cool.

Count Frederick took the Friar’s advice, which was greatly strengthened by a supposed vision of the Patron-Saint of Torrenburg, who had condescended in a dream that very night to assure Father Hilarius, that the consequence of a visit to the Castle of March would be an union with the lovely Elizabeth. Accordingly the Count lost no time in setting out to renew his once-rejected proposals, habited as a bridegroom, and attended by a princely retinue. In the mean while the worthy house-chaplain did not even allow himself time enough to say his paternoster, before he dispatched letters to the Bishop of Coira and Abbot Conrad, in which he related the flight of their ward, the Lady Ida of Werdenberg, in all its circumstances; stating also the alledged motives and supposed consequences of this step, and above all not forgetting to place every circumstance in the light most unfavourable to the Heroine of the Tale. As they perused these letters, the Abbot and the good Bishop alternately felt indignation at Ida’s errors, pity for her misfortunes, and anxiety for the dangers in which she had involved herself. Willingly would they have believed her innocent; but appearances were too strong against her, and the Abbot little imagined, that the only person capable of removing the suspicions, which he was so anxious to efface, at that very moment reposed so near him.

In the mean while Ida awoke greatly refreshed by a sound sleep of several hours. She re-kindled her taper, and resumed her anxious journey; yet she delayed it for a few moments, while she endeavoured to read the inscriptions on the monuments, and ascertain to what order the Abbess belonged, whom Hilarius had described to her in such odious and terrific colours. These clearly exprest, that the tombs were raised in honour of the former Abbots of Cloister-Curwald, in whose cemetery she was standing at that moment: what blessed information for her agitated heart!—the door was unguarded.—A marble staircase conducted to the interior of the Abbey!—But alas! the inscriptions were composed in the Latin language.—Ida vainly endeavoured to comprehend the meaning; and a few moments sufficing to convince her, that her endeavours must be vain, the poor wanderer turned away from the neighbourhood of her friend, and hastened to meet her ruin.

With trembling limbs and an heart almost bursting with anxiety, she pursued her gloomy path. She continued to proceed for a considerable time; and her last taper was almost expiring, when its beams fell upon the object, which she had wished to behold so long and so anxiously. She was now certain of having followed the right path, for she saw at a distance the monument of her progenitrix, the noble Emmeline of Sargans.

The polished and shining surface of the white marble reflected from afar the gleam of Ida’s taper—the pilgrim hastened towards it with eager joy, not untempered by religious awe and reverential terror. With scarce-heard foot-fall, as if she dreaded to disturb the dead silence of a place thus sanctified, did Ida ascend the steps leading to this memorial, raised in honour of faithful love and long suffering. It was some minutes, before she could resolve on venturing near enough to examine the statues, with which it was adorned. On one side stood a female angel (the counterpart of the lovely Emmeline) who trod under her feet the symbols of cruelty and voluptuousness, and who extended to a kneeling warrior her right hand, on whose wrist was still fastened part of the chain, which _he_ had broken.—On the opposite side appeared the same warrior, who with looks of gratitude held a ring towards Heaven, probably in allusion to the prophetic dream, which had guided Herman of Werdenberg to the deliverance of his mistress.

—“Spirits of my ancestors!” exclaimed Ida, as overpowered by her sensations she sank on the loftiest step, and kist the hallowed marble; “spirits of Herman and Emmeline, hear the prayer of your forsaken persecuted daughter! _I_ suffer now, as _you_ once suffered;—_I_ am innocent, as _you_ were then!—save me, ye blessed-ones! save the heiress of your sorrows!”—

Ida prayed long and fervently.—When she arose, she found that her last taper was exhausted, and had left her in total darkness; this however gave her little concern. The religious duties, in which she had just been engaged, had inspired her heart with enthusiastic courage: besides, she knew well, that of the three ways branching out of the circular vault in which she was at that moment, she had only to chuse the middle one, which (as Father Hilarius had informed her) would conduct her straight to the outlet of the subterraneous passages. She ascertained easily by examining the walls, which of the three was the proper path to take, and then hastened boldly forwards; for she was now persuaded, that the invisible spirits of her ancestors hovered over her, and she dreaded no danger, while protected by those celestial guardians.

The Monk had told her true—the way was straight and unembarrassed with windings: it soon began to ascend, and the delighted wanderer could at length discover the faint glimmering of day-light, through the distant opening. But alas! however near may be the goal of our wishes, who shall dare to count himself secure of reaching it!—Ida had for some minutes heard a dead hollow noise behind her, and the ill-boding sounds had already occasioned her sufficient anxiety to make her double her speed. Still the noise became more audible: and now she could plainly distinguish the steps of men, whose arms clattered, as they past along. She looked back, and could perceive the glimmering of faint lights at a distance. She rushed forwards with increased rapidity: the sounds, which became every moment louder, convinced her, not only that she was pursued, but that her pursuers gained upon her.—Fortunately, the opening was now at hand; she summoned up all her strength and activity to reach it, sprang through it, and found herself once more restored to air and light.

—“Praised be Heaven, I am safe!” she exclaimed: when at that moment she felt a cold hand seize her by the arm.—She shrieked, and fell on the earth senseless.

It was long, before her recollection returned. When she again unclosed her eyes, she found herself no longer in the open air. She was placed upon a kind of couch, in what she supposed to be a tent; a group of men of terrible and savage aspect surrounded her; and seated on a chest at no great distance, she perceived a warrior in complete armour, whose raised visor showed a countenance wild, ’tis true, but still noble and commanding.

—“At length then we have found her!” said the warrior in a tone of exultation—“the lovely pilgrim is in our power, whom we so long sought in vain through yon gloomy vaults and subterraneous passages.—You are welcome, fair lady: Father Hilarius gave us notice, that we might expect your visit; and I rejoice to find, that the description which he gave us of your charms, was far from exaggerated.”—

—“Have mercy on my distress, Sir Knight!” cried Ida, who now rose from her seat with difficulty, and sank at his feet, while she extended her fettered hands in supplication towards him.

—“Father Hilarius assured me,” she continued, “that I should find the habitation of some holy Hermits near the cavern’s mouth: oh! if any such habitation really exists, in pity guide me thither!”—

—“Compose yourself, lovely girl,” answered the stranger.—“Hilarius has not deceived you, neither has he deceived _us_.—He promised us the possession of a treasure, and he has kept his word, though we mean to make a better use of it than that, for which he consigned it over to us. He promised you, that you should find here the habitation of certain Hermits; and he told you true, for you are actually in a Hermitage at this moment: many years ago was this the retreat of some fugitive Monks, who were obliged to seclude themselves from the intercourse of mankind; and it still forms an abode for a band of daring and persecuted spirits, whom tyranny and injustice have banished from the world. We too are Hermits, though not quite such holy ones as those, whom you excepted to meet. But what does that signify? saints, or sinners, I warrant, you will fare better in our society, than you would with any company of Monks, that ever concealed hypocrisy under sackcloth.—Take this as a specimen of the whole canting-tribe. Father Hilarius has commissioned us to remove you so far from this province, that your face may never be seen here again: we have engaged to convey you to a place, where beauty like yours is always a marketable commodity, and sure of fetching a heavy price: but you are too fair, too good, too noble, to be sacrificed to the embraces of an infidel: no, child! we mean to do better for you. You shall remain with _us_, and your priestly enemy shall be foiled in his treacherous designs.”—

—“First understand,” interrupted Ida, whose indignation in spite of grief and terror burst forth upon hearing this insolent declaration of the outlaw; “first understand, to _whom_ you speak! I am no ordinary captive, no low-born girl the fit associate for a band of robbers!—you see in me the niece of Count Frederick of Torrenburg!”—

—“Indeed?” replied the outlaw,—“are you then _really_ Count Frederick’s niece?—why, to let you into the whole secret, we were told as much, though we did not give the Monk full credit, and suspected _that_ part of his story to be an invention for the purpose of obtaining a better price.—But since you are in truth the person whom he mentioned, so much the better; your rank and expectations make your possession doubly valuable. I have no sort of objection to exchange my precarious mode of life for security and opulence, nor by laying aside the title of captain of a band of outlaws to claim that of Count of Torrenburg in right of my wife, its lovely heiress. With the assistance of my companions I will reinstate you in your rights; the previous possession of your hand and person will entitle me to share your good fortune; and I shall be indebted to you for my restoration to my proper rank in society, which necessity has for some time past compelled me unwillingly to resign. Now then you are apprized of my whole plan, which suggested itself as soon as Hilarius informed us of your rank, and in which I am fully confirmed by the powerful impression produced upon my heart by your beauty.”—

He paused: Ida only answered with her tears—after a few minutes past in expectation of her reply, the robber thus resumed his discourse.

—“You are silent? you weep?—Ha! perhaps you are offended that your hands are fettered?—be comforted; those white hands shall instantly be restored to liberty!—instantly undo those bonds, barbarians that you are! how could it come into your heads, that it was necessary to bind a poor defenceless girl, whose escape is so impossible?—shame upon your flinty hearts, how could you bear to treat so inhumanly such innocence and such charms!”—

The other robbers now hurried to remove the fetters; but their captain drove them away with curses, and declared, that from that moment no one except himself should dare to approach his lovely captive on pain of instantaneous death.—He then kissed the unbound hands of Ida, led her respectfully into another tent, and there left her alone, after entreating her to compose her agitated spirits, and assuring her, that she might rely upon meeting from him with none but the most honourable treatment.

Ida, equally overcome with mental and bodily fatigue, sank into a state of unconsciousness and stupor, which the sentinels who were appointed to guard the entrance of her tent (and who from time to time looked in upon their charge) interpreted to be a tranquil sleep, and failed not to bring this welcome intelligence to their captain.—He received it with the highest satisfaction, hailed this refreshing slumber as the first step towards the restoration of tranquillity, doubted not that he should find Ida more composed and resigned to her fate on his evening visit, and found her almost frantic through despair.

The peremptory manner in which Ida rejected his addresses, and the little progress which he made in reconciling her to her present situation, grieved the robber-chief to the very heart, but did not excite his indignation. He continued to treat her with the utmost respect and attention. Nothing was denied her except liberty; and Randolf (for that was the name of the enamoured outlaw) carried his politeness and deference so far, that he never even presumed to enter her tent without having previously obtained her permission.

Ida, whose presence of mind gradually returned, and who became collected enough to reflect on the best means of conducting herself in such difficult circumstances, could not but feel, that such attention on the part of Randolf required some return on hers. She was totally in his power; it was unwise to exasperate him; and she therefore judged it prudent to allow him permission to pay her a daily visit of an hour, since she feared with reason, that without this voluntary concession he might be induced to allow himself greater liberties without asking her leave.

—“May I, lady,” said he one morning, after she had past some days in his power; “may I request permission to present to you one of my friends, who holds in this society the next place to myself?—he is a nobleman, whom misfortunes have compelled like me to adopt a mode of life, which we both look upon with abhorrence, and which with the first opportunity we are determined to exchange for one more honourable.”—

Ida was sufficiently aware, that the _opportunity_ to which he alluded, was the possession of her hand, by which he hoped to give himself a claim to the Count of Torrenburg’s rich inheritance. He frequently in conversation threw out hints of this nature, but which she judged it most wise to let pass without observation. She now only answered that part of his speech, which regarded the introduction of his friend, and to which (as she feared to irritate her jailor by a refusal) she gave an unwilling consent.

On his next visit he was accompanied by a man, whose countenance was much more wild and his manners much less prepossessing, than those of Randolf. The latter presented the new visitor by the name of Sir Gero of Altheim.

The captive soon understood from the conversation, which past between the associates, that the antipathy, which Gero’s first appearance had excited in her bosom, had not been excited without good grounds. He possest not the smallest share of that delicacy and respectful attention, by which her lover was characterized. He permitted himself to make the most licentious and offensive observations upon the extraordinary charms of her person, and raised her original disgust to abhorrence by blaming Randolf for having suffered his passion to remain so long ungratified; assuring him at the same time, that he would have dealt far differently with his own lovely mistress, had not her religious habit terrified him from using force, and thereby drawing down the vengeance of offended Heaven.—For it seems, this wretch, though he trampled upon all laws human and divine, was still a slave to the grossest superstition, and trembled at the very sight of a veil or a rosary.

—“She has now been some days in your possession,” observed Randolf; “have you made any progress with the fair Nun?”—

“Not I!” replied Gero; “she is a miracle of beauty, its true, but her obstinacy equals her charms. Since the day that I captured her on the road to Zurich, I have been able to obtain nothing from her but tears and entreaties for her liberty: and as to proceeding to violence, I am too much afraid of the resentment of holy mother church, or I should put an end to her resistance before to-morrow morning.”—

During this conversation Ida remained silent, and abandoned herself to the melancholy reflections excited by the increased consciousness of the execrable society, of which she was so unfortunately become a member. But now when she found that she had a companion in misfortune, and that a person of her own sex (a virtuous and persecuted Nun) was so near her, a sentiment of secret satisfaction and hope infused itself into her bosom.

—“Oh! Sir Knight,” she exclaimed, addressing herself to Randolf, “how happy would you make me, could you but procure for me the company of Sir Gero’s captive! it is disgraceful, it is dreadful, for a young maiden to be alone in a society entirely composed of men and strangers; and I feel, that the presence of a person of my own sex would be to me a source of the greatest consolation! it would conduce beyond all else to make me endure my confinement with resignation! oh! good Sir Randolf, plead for me with your friend, and persuade him to allow me this unexpected pleasure!”—

The smile, with which she accompanied this request (’twas the first which played upon her lips, since she became a captive) was irresistible. As she pronounced the last word, she extended her hand towards him, and he kissed it with rapture. A wish, exprest in a manner so fascinating and so unlooked for, was a law to the enamoured robber; and addressing himself immediately to his companion, he enforced her request with so much energy, that Gero though with a sorry grace found himself compelled to grant it.

—“Now then” said Randolf, as he left the tent with Gero, “now then you can judge for yourself, which of our modes of treating our captives is the most likely to succeed at the long run. When did your Nun ever speak to you with such gentleness, or favour you with so sweet a smile? when did she ever extend her hand towards you of her own accord, and suffer you to press your lips upon it? credit me, Gero; send her to my mistress, and I will bet my head upon it, that before long half her obstinacy and aversion will have disappeared. You see, how complaisant I have made the lady Ida; and it only requires a little kindness and flattery well applied to make our religious ladies, just as tame and as obliging as their sisters of the wicked world.”—

In the course of the day Randolf returned to inform Ida, that she must not expect the visit of the captive Nun till after midnight.

—“My friend,” said he, “is obliged to keep it a profound secret from the greatest part of our companions, that such a prisoner is in his possession. That he has a mistress, indeed, they are aware; but it would make a terrible uproar in our community, were it known that Gero had carried off a Nun; and many among our associates, who would think nothing of half a dozen murders, would expect the rocks to fall and crush us the very next moment, for daring to lay sacrilegious hands upon a damsel dedicated to Heaven. To be sure, we violated no sanctuary to get at her, for we found her trotting along the high road, when she ought to have been quiet within the walls of her Convent: but still the very sight of a veil has such influence over the common rabble, that Gero does not think it prudent to bring her to your tent except under the protecting shadow of night. He also implores you by me to reward him for this compliance with your wishes, by persuading her to lend a more favourable ear to his passion: he is also desirous of learning her name, which hitherto she has obstinately concealed; and above all he is anxious, that she should lay aside her religious habit, which hourly exposes him to danger from his superstitious associates. I know, what you are going to observe: you believe, that it is nothing but respect for this habit, which preserves her from Gero’s violence; but I swear to you by everything that is most sacred and solemn, that neither she nor yourself have anything to fear from the men who adore you. Our intentions towards you are the most honourable: we have great designs in hand, whose nature I am not as yet permitted to disclose to you; but be assured, that should they succeed, the Countess of Werdenberg and the fair Nun will have reason to bless the day when they fell into our hands, and thus escaped the being immured for life within the gloomy walls of a Convent; a fate, from which _she_ has been rescued, and to which _you_ were doomed.”—

The prudent Ida, (who saw that favours, which had cost her so little, were so well rewarded by her grateful admirer) took good care not to contradict the robber. She answered him by a thousand thanks for his intercession with Gero, and for his assurances of regard for her welfare; and she then dismissed him with a smile so gracious and so sweet, as riveted his chains for ever. When beauty, and sense are united in the same woman, alas! what puppets in her hands are the mighty lords of the creation!

Midnight arrived—the hearts of both the captives throbbed with impatience for the moment of meeting, though they knew not, what made them so impatient. Never seemed time to move so slowly with Ida, as while she waited for the stranger’s arrival; and on her side the lovely Nun quite trembled with joy, while she followed her conductors to the tent, in which (so Gero had informed her,) she should find a companion in captivity, whose heart was prepared to sympathize in her misfortunes—the robbers conducted her to the door of the tent; but thinking it would be most agreeable to the ladies, that their first interview should pass without intruders, they suffered her to enter alone.

It was well for both the captives, that this meeting took place without witnesses.—Ida was sitting in a melancholy posture, when she heard an approaching footstep.—She started up, and beheld by the pale gleams of her lamp a tall light figure, whose face was covered with a thick veil, advancing from the entrance of the tent. She hastened to meet her, but uttering a loud cry, she started back again. The religious habit worn by the stranger was but too well known to her.—It was the long grey garment decorated with a golden cross upon the breast, in which she had so often seen the Nuns gliding through the cloisters of Engelberg; and the white veil, edged with black and falling to the very ground, was of that particular form appropriated to the order of the Zurich Sisters. The veil was now hastily thrown back; Ida gazed eagerly upon the Stranger’s features, and astonishment, joy, and tenderness were carried to the highest pitch.

—“Constantia!” exclaimed Ida.—“Oh! Heaven! it is my Constantia!”—

—“Ida! my Ida!” shrieked the Nun, and clasped her almost fainting sister to her bosom.