University of Virginia Library

THE STAR BRETHREN.

1. I.

“I will come to thee, at midnight, dear Anastasia
— with life only will I fail thee.”

These were the parting words of the enamored
boy; and the tones of his voice, not less than the
language which he used, spoke for his deep devotion.

“At midnight, dear Albert,” was the reply.

“I live not till then!” said the youth, passionately;
“and, if thou meet me not, Anastasia — if
thou fail me —”

“Fear me not!” was the low but emphatic interruption
of the maiden. “In life or death, dear
Albert, I am only thine. I will not fail thee.”

The leaves of the grove parted, and by the pale
glimmer of evening the two might be seen taking
their farewell and fond embrace. She, a tall and

slender maiden, lovely as the light, and softer than
the new born zephyr; and he, manly and strong,
yet young — having a frame of the most perfect
symmetry, and a face full of beauty and expression.
A fond, sweet kiss, a parting word and
sigh, an earnest and longing glance of rapture —
and the lovers separated.

They had not, however, been unseen. The
eyes of jealousy were upon them, and the gloomy
and fierce Wallenberg — a suitor for the hand of
the damsel — had watched them throughout the
interview.

“At midnight!” he muttered, as he saw the
youth depart. “It is well — I will be there also.”
And he shook his hand after the departing form of
Albert, and his brow was covered with a cloudy
anger, which sufficiently denoted the terrible
thoughts of his mind, and the malignant feelings
which were working in his heart. Yet Wallenberg
was a nobleman of high birth, and renowned
for deed of valor and great achievement. He
was not less so, for his great family estate and wide
possessions. These had commended him to the
family of Anastasia D'Arlemont, with which he
was connected. They all knew him for a coarse,
rude, rough-handed nobleman; yet, as the terrors
of his claws were calmed in gold, he was thought

no unfitting match for the gentle and shrinking
Anastasia. But she trembled at his approach, and
it was with a pang like death that she learned how
far his suit had met with the approbation of her
parents. Her attachment to Albert was unknown
to them, and to have made it known, would, she
well knew, avail her nothing. The passionate
persuasions of her sanguine lover relieved her
from the difficulty before her. He had persuaded
her that her only hope was in flight — in flight
with him. There was nothing so terrible in that.
Would she not have died for him? Could she live
without him; and what was life, with such a bear
as Count Wallenberg. Albert found but little
difficulty in convincing her reason, through the
medium of her heart — the medium through which
young damsels are most usually convinced. At
midnight, then, she was to fly with him. Such
were the resolves of the lovers; but Wallenberg
resolved otherwise.

Albert of Holstein was even then a student in
one of the German universities of the time, the
name of which is unnecessary to this narrative.
He was, at the period of which we write, just entering
his eighteenth year. Until his sixteenth, he
had been under the guardianship of a good, but
weak and misjudging mother. While yet an in

fant, he had lost his father, who had fallen in a domestic
feud with some rival baron, occasioned by
a difference of opinion on some matter of great
importance or of no importance at all, which had
suggested itself to them for discussion, while over
their cups. The son — Albert — but for a mind
and temper naturally excellent, would have been
utterly ruined by the various and misconceived indulgences
of his surviving parent. Nature, however,
who is not often strong enough for so trying
a toil, resisted the mother long enough to save the
son from utter ruination; and, when sixteen years
of age, he was ready to go to college. After the
usual preparation, he was admitted into one of the
leading universities, where he soon had occasion to
test for himself the propriety of that course to
which he had so imprudently been subjected. It
is not our object, however, to analyze or dwell
upon the impressions of his mind under the new
changes of his condition — affecting, as they must
have done, the whole structure of his early habits,
and pruning and converting, as it were, the dead
branches of excess into a new and fresh capacity
of life. It is enough to say that he rapidly threw
aside the follies of habit and of thought which the
error of his mother had engendered. The resources
of his own mind — a case not very common —
enabled him to contend with, successfully, and
finally to counteract, the thousand mistakes of a
foolishly fond parent, and a cringing crowd of domestic
parasites.

2. II.

The night came — a sweet night of many and
bright stars — a night for secret, and sacred, and
stolen love. But it was not a night for love only.
It was a night for hate, also, — for jealousy and
murder. There was one who watched for the
coming of Albert as anxiously as did the gentle
Anastasia; but it was with not such sweet and fond
regard as that which filled her devoted bosom.
With the darkness he stole into the silent groves
which had been assigned for the meeting, and
there waited for the hour and the victim. He had
no scruples at any crime — his hand had been often
imbrued in blood, which was not always shed in
battle — and he was resolved, at every hazard, to
remove his rival. He had seen enough in the
brief interview which he had witnessed, to feel that,
however secure he might be of the preference of
the family, he was very far from the hope of a like

preference in the estimation of the maiden, while
Albert lived. It was the natural error of a wretch
so coarse as Wallenberg, to imagine that he would
be more successful when he should have slain the
youth. The poor maiden despised him; though, as
he was favored by her parents, she dared not give
open expression to her disapprobation and scorn.
She was compelled to submit in silence which
seemed satisfied. Perhaps, she would not have
so readily consented to fly with Albert, but for the
tyranny of the union they were about to force
upon her. The necessity of the case would seem
to justify her fatal resolution. The suit of Albert
had been denied, and the language of denial by
her parents had been also that of contumely and
reproach. There was no hope for her but in flight;
and the preparations of the lovers were secret to
all but Wallenberg. As we have seen, his jealous
eyes had watched them — his keen ears noted their
arrangements, and now, his keener knife was ready
to prevent them. This sort of remedy was characteristic
of the time. The strong arm carried out
the strong word, and justice, which is now a matter
of calculation and cunning, was then a thing of
muscle and brutality. The murderer lurked in
the shadow of the groves, and the lover, impatient
for his prize, stole hurriedly through their recesses.
His heart was elate with its hope, and his
footstep was that of joy. He had almost reached
the place assigned for the meeting — a close bower
of sweet shrubs in the centre of the garden. But
the foe and fate lay in his path, and he was not
permitted to reach it. He heard the rustling of
the bushes.

“Dearest, — I am here,” he murmured at the
sound.

“And I am here!” was the fierce word of
Wallenberg, as he plunged the cruel weapon into
the bosom of the youth; — “this, boy, for thy presumption.”

The only word uttered by the unhappy lover,
was the name of his mistress; and he lay in the
sleep of death at the feet of his murderer. Wallenberg
stole away in silence when his felon deed
was done; satisfied that his own hope grew strong
in the annihilation of that of his rival. He knew
not the heart of Anastasia.

3. III.

How slowly passed the hours to the maiden,
while she waited for the coming of the youth.
From the lattice, long and anxiously had she

looked forth, listening for the dear accents of his
whispering voice; and when the clock tolled forth
the full hour of midnight, impatient to behold him,
she stole hurriedly down into the garden, treading
its flowery mazes, but seeking him every where in
vain. Her heart already began to fill with those
thousand mysterious fears, and apprehensive forebodings,
which are natural enough to a German
maiden, when she fancied she heard a sigh. She
followed the sound, and something seemed to float
in the air before her. A gentle breath moved the
leaves overhead, though elsewhere a universal
stillness prevailed. The sigh was repeated — the
breathing zephyr still guided her from above, and
when it ceased to move, the lifeless body of her
lover lay at her feet. With a single shriek,
scarcely less lifeless than himself, she sank down
beside him, and was only aroused to the consciousness
of a greater misery by a terrible voice which
sounded in her ears.

“Away with her!” cried the furious father, —
“take her home — remove her from my sight.”

She clung to the inanimate form, which could
no longer return her fond caresses.

“You shall not — no! no! I will not leave him.
I will cling to him to the last.”

But what could her strength avail against that

of the brutal retainers, assisted by the bloody Wallenberg.
They tore her from the corpse with
unmeasured violence.

“He is yet warm!” shrieked the maiden — “he
is not dead — I may yet save him — he will hear
my voice. Oh! leave me — leave me with him, I
implore you.”

“Home with her, I say,” were the words of the
implacable father, which silenced her entreaties.
She shuddered to behold the malignant and savage
exultation which were impressed upon his features
as he spoke. With the sight, a fearful fancy
gathered in her brain. She suspected him — her
own father — of the cruel crime, and this suspicion
increased her misery. The true assassin,
looking on the while, remained unknown. Inquiry
in a little time, having labored without success
to find the criminal, forbore its task; and if,
at any moment, public suspicion rested any where
in particular, the object was one quite too high
for the arm of public justice.

4. IV.

Meanwhile, the corpse of Albert was removed
to his former lodgings, and from thence to the

family vault in the country. But a strange report
— none knew whence — came to the ears of Anastasia.
It was whispered that Albert of Holstein
was still alive. The story went that a skilful physician
and careful hands had kept the spark of
life in his bosom, and that hopes were entertained
of his final recovery. But these hopes, though
they inspired new ones in the heart of Anastasia,
were for a long time illusive, and, perhaps, injurious.
They kept her mind in a state of feverish
inquietude, and prolonged, if they did not increase,
the sickness at her heart.

But little time was allowed her, however, for
idle meditation upon fancies such as these. Count
Wallenberg pressed his suit, and would not be denied.
In vain did the maiden plead for time —
for a brief indulgence to her sorrows. At that
early period in the history of civilization, parents
did not often trouble themselves to give ear to the
tastes and desires of their daughters. They did
not, in the present instance; but with the most cruel
disregard to her complaints and prayers, they decreed
her to the great bear, her wealthy lover.
They doomed her to the sacrifice, and the day was
appointed for placing the victim before the altar.
We may not speak of the anguish of Anastasia on
being instructed to prepare for the nuptials with

Wallenberg. She felt that it would be far easier
to die. But, hopeless of any aid from without,
and having no succor or show of mercy from
within, she prepared to resign herself without
struggling to the fate which now seemed inevitable.

It was only a few weeks after the death of her
lover, when this scarcely less cruel doom was uttered
in her hearing. She fled to her chamber,
desperate and desolate. She knew not where to
turn for consolation or counsel. It was midnight.
She threw herself down before her window, and
wished and prayed for death. The very associations
of memory, so full of pleasure and joy as the
reality had been, now brought her infinite pain.
They told her what she had enjoyed, but they also
told her what she had lost, and lost for ever. She
felt that it would be sweet then to lapse away into
forgetfulness, and, fleeing from the pressure and
the care of life, rejoin her departed lover in the
dwellings of the blessed.

Musing thus, and hopeless of all things and
thoughts, she starts and trembles. A sudden terror
is upon her. Her blood freezes in her veins
— her very heart grows cold. What is it that
she hears — what is it that rises up before her
sight?

Well may she start and tremble. The faint and
exquisite tones of music which now seek her ears
are such as she had long been accustomed to hear
from the lips of Albert. The words are those of
a familiar song, and the tones cannot be mistaken.
They breathe of the same sweet passion — they
speak the same blessed language. It is Albert's
voice and music, and Albert must be at hand.
Breathlessly, and half fainting, she lingered and
listened to the strains. She did not dare to move
— indeed she could not — while she heard them.
But soon they melted away in distance, and the
winds only remained sighing mournfully through
the lattice. Her frame seemed fastened — frozen
to the ground; and her terror, becoming insupportable
at length, with a shriek she rushed to the
innermost recesses of her chamber, and burying
her head in the thick drapery of the couch, strove,
in this way, to fly and hide from those strange and
terrible surmises which were fast gathering in her
soul.

But the strange and starling minstrelsy pursued
her even there, and its fascinations proved
too powerful for her mind to resist. She braved
all the terrors of her imagination, in the hope
again to hear it. With the approach of the next
midnight she again sought the lattice, and listened

impatiently for the returning strains. They came
at last, obedient to her senses. The same sweet,
mysterious air, rose swelling upon the night wind,
and was borne, as it were, directly to the window
where she sat. The tones were full of the warmest
melancholy — faint, but full — strange, but
sweet — mysterious and vague, but as familiar as
if they had all been learned in childhood. She
was no longer terrified; and, obeying an impulse
which she now found irresistible, and having no
fears, she gently undid the lattice, and looked out
with far-searching eyes among the trees of the garden.
Nor did she look in vain. She beheld a
form retreating away among the thick crowding
trees, so nearly resembling that of her departed
lover, that she involuntarily uttered his name.
She was answered by a sigh — so mournful, so
deep, that it seemed to reproach her for the indifference
of her grief — for her consenting to the
bridal sacrifice which had been decreed by her
father. Her sorrows burst forth afresh with this
thought, and she was convulsed by her emotions.
She lost all guidance of her reason at that moment,
and called upon Albert deliriously.

Had her voice indeed so much power? Had
the deity spoken from her lips, and was it in truth
her lover who now stood before her? Fair and

manly as when at first she had beheld him, she
beheld him now. He looked even lovelier and
nobler than ever. No trace of his hurts was perceptible.
He was alive, and utterly uninjured.
She grew faint as she surveyed him. She trembled
with a feeling of awe, lest, at that moment, she
should be standing in the presence of a spectre.
His eyes, though clear and intelligent as ever,
were sad, and full of a solemn expression. They
looked the divinity of wo — such an expression as
might well belong to a fallen and defeated deity. A
mingled feeling of love and adoration, which she
stove vainly to restrain, filled and inflamed her
heart. How gentle were all his tones — how soothing
his words — how tender their utterance. How
sweetly did he assure her of his existence — of his
continued love for her, even while that existence
was doubtful. He had been in deep extremity
from his wounds — on the verge of dissolution,
from which he had been saved only by the marvellous
skill of his physician. The moment of his
recovery brought him once more to the feet of her
without whom the skill which had saved him would
have been rejected. He had risked all danger
once more to see her — to hear from her lips that
she was not lost to him yet — that she would be
none other than his. How easy to give that assurance,
— how sweet to receive it. Long did they
linger in the sacred and silent garden, in fond communion,
with no watcher but the stars, and no
thought but of that true and blessing love which
they seemed to smile upon and sanction.

But the difficulty of escape from the approaching
bridal with Wallenberg distracted the maiden,
in the midst of all her new-born hopes and pleasures.
She had poured into her lover's bosom all
the sorrows which had troubled hers. His composure
satisfied and reassured her.

“Fear nothing,” he said, “I shall not lose you.
I will save you from this hated bridal. You shall
be mine, Anastasia — mine only, believe me.”

“I do — I do,” she repeated, fervently.

“Be ready, then, as I shall counsel you, and
fear nothing.”

He gave her directions for meeting him, made
his own preparations for flight, and with mutual
impatience they waited the approaching and appointed
evening.

It came — the hour which had been designated
for the marriage of Wallenberg. The chapel of
D'Arlemont Castle was pompously illuminated —
the company were already assembling in crowds,
and every thing was gay comparison, amusing
scandal, and good-humored clamor. There

were aunts and uncles, cousins and friends — the
whole world of various and motley elements which
such an occasion so commonly brings together.
At the head of a long train of connexions and dependants
came the bridegroom, as full of his own
consequence as of impatience for the ceremony.
The hour was dawing nigh for the sacrifice — but
a voice, under the lattice of Anastasia, said to her
in a whisper, which, though soft, yet reached her
ears —

“Come — come to me, beloved — I await thee,
Anastasia!”

A mournful but a sweet voice was his — a voice
of melody and love, — and she answered it in
like language — “I come.”

She stole away by a private passage into the
garden. She joined her lover, and they fled from
the boundaries of her father's domain, long before
the assembled company had dreamed of her absence.

5. V.

“Where is she? — where is Anastasia, my
bride? — why comes she not?” was the demand
of Wallenberg.

Where was she, indeed? The hour had elapsed
— the moment was past — why came she not, in
glittering robes, heading, in kindred gladness, the
garlanded group of damsels that had gathered to
wait upon her? The castle was soon in commotion,
and a strange anxiety filled every countenance.
The bridal chamber was empty — the
maiden was not to be found. The castle was
searched from turret-top to donjon, but in vain.
They were compelled to seek her elsewhere. They
hunted through grounds and gardens, dispersing
every-where, but without success. They next
sought the forests. As they penetrated the thick
woods, the sky suddenly became dark and over-cast
— vivid flashes of lightning added to, while
illuminating and making perceptible, the gloom.
A storm of frightful energy passed over the wood,
prostrating every thing before it, and subsiding
with equal suddenness. The sky became instantly
clear, and the moon shone forth in purity, unconscious
of a cloud. The firmament had not a
speck. The bewildered groups proceeded in their
search. A soft and gentle strain of melody seemed
to imbody itself with the winds. They followed
the sounds into a dark and gloomy enclosure
of high overarching trees, thickly fenced in with
knotted vines and brushwood. The thunderbolt

had been there, and it was scorched and blackened.
They advanced — the music still leading them
onward — until, in a small recess, they found indubitable
tokens of the maiden, in the half-consumed
remnants of her hat and shawl. They now
beheld her destiny. They saw that she had been
spirited away by the fiend. She had become the
victim of the demon. He had triumphed in the
garb of the early and lost lover — and she had
fallen a victim, in a moment of sad credulity, to
the arts of a designing and an evil angel. They
continued the pursuit no longer. She was lost to
them for ever — but still not lost. Amid the horrors
of the tempest she pursued her way with her lover.

“Oh, save me, Albert —what a dreadful storm!”
was her pleading and terrified address, as they hurried
on through the devious paths of the forest.
The violence of the storm filled her heart with apprehensions.
She knew not the fearful extent of
her security.

“I will — fear not, dearest — there, is no danger.”

“It pursues us,” she cried, with increasing terror.

“It will not harm us — it will soon be over,”
was his assurance.

A stream of ground lightning, like a wave of

the sea, rushed up the hill at that moment, and followed
close upon their footsteps. The maiden
darted forward in desperation — Albert seized her
in his arms, and throwing aside her hat and shawl,
which encumbered him, he bore her away like an
infant. He bore her to the edge of the forest,
and laid her down upon the greensward in safety.

6. VI.

When she recovered from the faintness which
had overcome her, the storm had passed away —
the night was beautifully clear. The moon had
risen, and the gray forests looked sweet and hallowed
in her light. A gentle strain of music rose
upon the distant breeze, and still more contributed
to the soft loveliness and languor of the scene.

The bright eyes of Albert looked down into the
dewy orbs of Anastasia, and she thought she
never before had seen them look so beautiful. His
arm supported her, and she fancied its pressure had
never been so fond before. She was blest in that
embrace — and fear, and sorrow, and fatigue, departed
in the consciousness that she then felt of
having all that she lived for, and all that before
had been denied her love.

“We must proceed, my Anastasia — our dwelling
is not far — we can reach it by the dawn.
Our steeds are now in waiting.”

While the moon was yet shining, they stood
upon the rocky cliffs which overhung a beautiful
river. A proud and lonely castle stood in sight
upon the highest crag. The stream glided below
it with a pleasant freshness, and rippling away
among the shelving rocks, in the placid moonlight,
it seemed to the eyes of the happy Anastasia a
home of faëry — a very heaven for the heart of
truest love.

7. VII.

The bird sings falsely who sings only of sunshine.
The song must sometimes speak of clouds.
Happy were the two — happy in the last degree
— in their mutual loves and constant intercourse.
Albert was all that Anastasia could desire in a
lover — he was fond — he was gentle. His language
was kind, always — and his very whispers
were musical. But he was melancholy — he was
always sad — even when he was most happy. He
seemed never to forget the mutability of happiness.
Yet his sadness was never gloom, nor did

he at any time complain. Still, the very fact that
he asked for no sympathy, and that she knew nothow
to address herself for his relief — these still
made her unhappy. There was yet another cause
of disquiet to the fond Anastasia. Their dwelling
was so lonesome. True, Albert seldom left
her, and there were a thousand pleasant amusements
which he had provided; but her heart was
too human for such a solitude; and the very winds
that mourned in music through the rocky crevices,
and the gentle river that rippled sweetly at the
castle's base, and the sweet birds that carolled in
the groves, and the stars that sang together harmoniously
in their courses, all seemed to tell her
of the many bright eyes, and cheerful hearts and
voices, with which she had been accustomed to
mingle. These thoughts gave her some occasional
annoyances, but a sweet word from Albert
consoled her.

“For a time, dearest, we must keep in solitude,
to avoid the search which your father will doubtlessly
institute after you. We must keep in secret
— we must avoid all exposure — and here they
will not be very apt to seek us.”

She was satisfied — she seemed to be satisfied,
at least — and that was something.

8. VIII.

One night they walked along the edge of the
precipice, and looked abroad upon the night and
river. The stars were shining in profusion, and
not a breath murmured but harmoniously.

“Tell me,” he said to her, in a sad but gentle
tone, “tell me, Anastasia — do you not tire of
our love, and the solitude to which it dooms you?”

“Not of our love, oh, no! dearest Albert, but
sometimes I feel so lonesome.”

“Yet are you not alone — am I not with you
always? With you, dearest, I have no such feeling.
You are all to me, Anastasia, and I feel no
want when you are absent. Ah! feel like me, I
implore you, my beloved. When you repine
about your solitude, I mourn — I am unhappy.”

“Be not unhappy, Albert — I will repine no
longer. I feel that you are all to me, and wherefore
should I repine for any change that may lose
me all?”

“Wherefore!” he replied — seizing her wrist
with a strong gripe as he pronounced the word
after her, with a singular energy. “Wherefore!

indeed? Repine not, dearest, or you may indeed
lose all!”

“What mean you, Albert?” she demanded,
with some apprehension.

“Look!” he exclaimed; and she beheld, even
as he pointed, where a bright star shot away from
its sphere in erratic flight, bearing along with it a
momentary train of glory, which, as it belonged
to, and came from, the sphere alone, was soon extinguished
upon leaving it.

“Look,” he cried, “look at that star! Be
not weary of thy place of watch and quiet, lest
thou become extinguished also. Thy sphere and
temple are in one heart — thou canst not inhabit
many.”

He paused, and his eye seemed to trace afar
upon its flight the pathway of the vanished star.
She looked at him with anxious apprehension.
His eye seemed rapt in sorrowful contemplation,
and though he shed no tear, the expression was
that of a sublime and subdued sadness. She
threw her arm tenderly around his neck, and she
felt that a thrilling shudder went all through his
frame.

“It grows cold — let us return, my beloved,”
she said to him, fondly.

“Leave me for a while, Anastasia — I will come
to thee soon. Leave me now.”

His words were gently spoken, but she felt that
they were rather a command than a solicitation.
She left him at his bidding; but ere she went, she
threw her arms again about his neck, and sweet
and pure was the kiss given by their mingling lips.
She went towards the castle; but, looking backward
as she went, it seemed to her that she saw a
bright and beautiful star moving across the river
to the crag whereon he stood. At length she beheld
it remain stationary beside him, and the distinct
outline of his person was developed by its
rays. She turned away with a strange terror —
she dared not look again; but hurried onward
with trembling steps to her chamber in the castle.

9. IX.

It was late that night before Albert came to the
chamber, and yet she had not slept. A strange,
sweet strain of music, wild, yet fine, came to her
ears at midnight, and soon after she heard it, he
appeared.

His looks were sad as when she left him — and
he did not seem pleased to find her watchful.

“Thou hast not slept, Anastasia?”

“No — I waited for thee, Albert. I can hope
for no sleep when thou art absent.”

“But sometimes I would have thee sleep, simply
because I am absent. Ah, my beloved, would that
I might sleep, and sleep for ever, when I can no
longer be with thee.”

“That music — that sweet music, Albert —
whence did it come?”

“Wilt thou not sleep now, my beloved? — I
am with thee,” was the evasive reply; and Anastasia
understood the gentle form of chiding which
he had adopted. She obeyed the suggestion —
she tried to sleep, and did sleep, but her slumbers
were greatly broken — she knew not why; and
whenever she awakened it was to hear whispering
voices and sudden gusts of music, that seemed to
be passing around the apartment with a rush of
wings.

10. X.

It was yet early morning when Anastasia awakened
and beheld Albert just about to leave the
chamber. She called to him, but he only smiled,
shook his head, waved his hand gently, and hurried

from her sight. She rose quickly from the
couch, and moved to the window, from which she
beheld him hastening down the rocks. He looked
back and caught her eye, and his finger was raised
as if in warning. The thought of the shooting
star came that moment to her mind, and she hurried
back to her couch.

He returned about mid-day, and seemed unhappy.
He started frequently, and looked around
him, as if in anxious expectation of the approach
of some desired person.

“You are troubled, Albert,” said Anastasia.
“Can I do any thing for you?”

“Yes!” was the sudden and almost stern reply.
“See not that I am troubled. When thou canst
not serve or sooth me, I will seek thee; — when I do
not seek thee, Anastasia, believe me, thou canst
not serve me. Seem then not to see that I suffer.”

“And thou dost suffer, Albert?”

“I live!” was the terrible response; and oh!
the immortal grief that looked forth in that moment
from his eyes.

“Would that I could die for thee, Albert!” was
her exclamation, as she flung herself upon his
bosom. He folded her fondly in his embrace,
while he replied to her as follows:

“Thou canst better serve me than by dying for

me, Anastasia — and far better serve thyself. Live
for me.”

“Do I not, dear Albert?”

“No — not yet — thou dost not live for thyself.”

She looked up wonderingly at the speaker —
he proceeded, and his voice was full of solemnity,
and there was an intense earnestness in his face
which she did not dare a second time to look
upon.

“Love thy condition for itself. Seek not to
see, and ask not to partake of, mine. Is there
any thing unknown to thee? — it is better for thee
that thou shouldst not know it. Has it come to
thee in a dream that a joy was in the valley awaiting
thee, beyond any ever known to thee before?
Turn thy footsteps with a fond solicitude from the
path which leads to the valley. The dream was a
lying one, sent for thy ensnaring. Thou wilt lose
what thou hast, in grasping at what thou hast not;
and the very hope which tells thee of a blessing to
come, steals a blessing from thee while it does so.
Beware, Anastasia, that thy head misleads not thy
heart, and thy fancy consumes not thy feelings.
Do we not love each other, Anastasia? Couldst
thou have a fonder or a truer love than mine?
Let it suffice thee — joy in what thou hast; — pray
to thy God, Anastasia; pray that, if thou dost not

yet, thou mayest soon learn to love thy condition
as thyself — it is more than thyself to thee.”

He kissed her, and left her with these mysterious
lessons, over which she pondered in doubt and
sadness.

11. XI.

The advice of Albert was good, but how unreasonable.
How is it possible for man, unless denied
to hope, to be content with his condition?
How much less possible for woman! To be content
with existing things is to desire no change —
to hope for nothing better — to live without a
thought of heaven. The requisition of Albert
sank deep into the mind of Anastasia, but not to
produce the effect which he desired. It came to
her as a restraint, and not a direction — as a controller,
and not a guide. Was he to suffer, and
was she to be denied to share with him in his
griefs, to console him under his torments? Love
itself rose in rebellion against such a requisition.
And when she beheld his sadness visibly increase
with each successive hour, her fond heart — her
sleepless affections — could no longer remain pacified
and silent.

“Albert, dear Albert, you do me injustice. I
am strong to share with you — ay, to endure all
your afflictions. I feel that I love you too well
not to rejoice in pain when I know that every
added sting to my heart takes from that which is
preying upon yours. Unfold to me your griefs —
say what afflicts you. Let me hear the worst,
and you will see how I can smile to place my hand
with yours in the flame, and, looking into your
eyes of love the while, feel and fear none of its
searching fires.”

It was thus she implored him for his secret —
her arms twining about his neck in the fondest
embrace — her dark, sweet eyes, looking with the
warmest devotion at the same instant into his
own.

“You know not what you ask,” was his reply.
“You ask for wo — for eternal wo — for a doom
for which you were never destined. Why, oh!
why will you be dissatisfied? Have you not my
love — all my love — my heart, truly and entirely
yours? The love of the unselfish and unexacting
man — of one who is above meanness or its reproach
— is the richest possession ever yet given
to the woman heart. Wherefore would you seek
for more?”

“You do not give me your heart — you will
not give me its sorrows. It is for these I ask.”

“You have them, Anastasia — it is only the
name you desire to know. You have them already.”

“How?”

“Your present care — your anxiety to know
them — is your sorrow now. You see that I am
grieved — and you grieve to see it. That is
enough for me, and should be enough for you.
You give me your sympathy when you grieve at
my suffering. You prove to me your love for me
when you wish to see me glad. I am satisfied
with thus much in the way of proof — be you satisfied,
dearest Anastasia, with the degree of confidence
I have already shown you. Seek not to
hear more. I, who know how much you can console,
and how greatly you ought of right to suffer
with me, deny you any farther knowledge of my
griefs than this. I would not have you even see
so much. But, at least, I desire that you should
seek to know no more.”

12. XII.

Compelled to be silent, she yet remained unsatisfied.
A feverish curiosity was gnawing at her

heart. What could be the matter with Albert?
Were they not secure in their retreat? — was he
impatient so soon of the pleasant fetters which
love and her fond arms had woven around him?
She conjectured, vainly, of a thousand causes for
his suffering, dismissing, as idle, each suggestion
of her mind, as soon as it presented itself. Her
thoughts were sleepless, and they kept her so.
That night she heard strange noises in her chamber
— strange though slight. She had resolved
to keep awake, and yet, even while she strove, it
seemed as if a blessed breeze came about her, in a
murmuring whisper, that glided into song at length,
and filled the air with a slumberous power. She
felt the sleep wrapping her still resisting limbs as
with a garment of melody, and though she strove
to burst its fetters, and her eyes persisted occasionally
in looking forth, they were at length compelled
to yield the struggle. Yet, ere they
closed entirely, it appeared as if a red and lovely
light, pointed and raying out like a golden star,
wavered and flickered around the couch where
she slept, fondly clasped in the arms of Albert. It
was not quite dawn when she awakened from
that sleep, and then it seemed as if she had been
awakened by a cold and sudden wind, which passed
over her face while yet in a state of dim and
doubtful consciousness; she felt the form of Albert,
which before had lain quietly beside her, suddenly
convulsed as if with spasms; and when she turned
to him and met the glance of his eyes, they were
wild beyond description. They glanced sadly,
and almost with an expression of gloom upon her,
and she felt as if he had repulsed her. But when,
under the agony of that thought, she threw her
arms around his neck, he returned her embrace
with a fondness that answered fully, if it did not
exceed, her own.

13. XIII.

All that day he was absent among the neighboring
rocks and woods. She had asked to go
forth with him, but he had resolutely, though gently,
denied her. Her thoughts, during his absence,
were all given, in spite of her will, to the one absorbing
subject — the mystery of his sorrows.
By a strange instinct, her mind continually reverted
to the image of that star, that seemed to cross
the river, and station itself close beside him where
he stood. A next and natural transition of her
thought reviewed the singular sensations which
she had experienced just when sinking into slumber,

and when awakening the previous night and
morning; and she now remembered, among other
circumstances which had attended her sleep, that
it had followed soon after the kind kiss which Albert
had impressed upon her eyes. The more she
meditated this matter, the more perfectly was she
convinced that the kiss of Albert had produced
that obliviousness which she was so very desirous
to avoid; and, as she was resolute, in spite of all
his counsels, to discover what she could of the
occasion of his sorrows, she determined, if possible,
to escape the repetition of that kiss upon her
eyelids when, at a future time, she desired that her
eyes might be kept open. It is not difficult for a
woman to effect her object when she aims to do
wrong; and it will be seen that Anastasia was
only too successful in repressing sleep when her
husband desired to impose it on her.

That very night she determined to try her experiments;
and accordingly, as a first step, she
aimed to set Albert's mind perfectly at rest as to
the degree of quiet which was in hers. When he
returned to the castle, which he did at early evening,
she received him with the fondest and most
satisfying smiles. Her good-humor and cheerfulness,
easy but not obtrusive, delighted him, and
she now saw the truth of what he had told her.

He was happy as he saw her happy, and his sadness
passed away, leaving not the trace of a cloud
upon his brow, as, to his eye, she appeared content
with her condition. Joyfully — ay, with an intoxication
of joy — he clasped her to his bosom,
and his words were never fonder, and his kisses
never half so sweet. She half resolved, if the appearance
of contentment on her part could produce
such a vast improvement on his, to make it
her study to obey him. Alas! why have we not
always the strength to obey good impulses only!

“Be ever thus, my Anastasia — be ever thus,
and we are most happy. You will then see no
sorrow on my brow, and I will secure you against
all that might otherwise assail your heart.”

“I will pray Heaven to be as you wish me, Albert.
I have little else to pray for.”

She retired for the night, and he promised to
follow her very soon. When she had gone, he
clasped his hands, and his eyes looked up in hope
to the blessed starlight that came shining through
the grated window of the castle. He spoke in
low tones of soliloquy as he looked up to the
wheeling and flickering fires.

“Let her but continue thus, and I am safe.
There will then be no more wanderings — no more
flight — no more incertitude. I shall resume my

station — I shall ever more burn with the fixed
fires that the winds move not — that the capricious
seasons check not — beyond the control of the
mortal, beyond the power and caprice of the immortal.
Yes, dearest Anastasia, in thy constancy
— in thy content — in thy love of thy condition,
clamouring for no change-begetting knowledge, I
shall be secure, and we shall both be happy.”

It was not long after this that he retired to the
chamber of his bride.

14. XIV.

She had played her part to admiration — she
had completely deceived her husband. She little
dreamed of the evils which spring from all deception
— even where the end seems to be most innocent,
and where a superficial thought esteems it
praiseworthy. She wished to know his griefs —
she persuaded herself because she could then the
better administer to and heal them. This was
her duty; and so regarding it, she entirely forgot
that obedience, in the inferior mind, is a duty also.
Albert was perfectly convinced that Anastasia
was dissatisfied no longer. That conviction
brought back his cheerfulness. His was a peculiar

destiny; and to be thought happy by her, and
to make her satisfied with his lot, by perfect happiness
in hers, was, according to the terms of that
destiny, the condition of his own happiness. Believing
and confiding, with renewed and increased
fondness, he leaned over her, as she seemed to
sleep, and sweet and long was the fond kiss which
he pressed upon her parted lips.

She did not sleep — she was watchful. With a
pertinacity that did not suffer fatigue or pause, she
kept resolutely awake until midnight. Remembering
the kiss upon her eyelids which her husband
had usually given her, and to which she attributed
the deep slumber which always seemed
to have followed it, she contrived so to dispose her
arms as to throw one of them effectually over her
eyes, and thus to prevent the possibility of his lips
pressing upon them. She found the position an
unpleasant and tiresome one after a little while;
but, bent upon her design, she determined to suffer
the annoyance rather than forego her purpose.
When a woman once sets her mind upon any thing,
it is no small matter which is to divert her from it.

Midnight came at last, to her great satisfaction.
She heard the clock of the castle toll forth the
hour with a solemn emphasis, and she could scarcely
restrain the deep sigh of her heart from forcing

its way to a corresponding sound to her lips.
But she did restrain herself, and in a moment after
she distinctly felt a cold wind rush through the
apartment. At that moment Albert half rose in
the couch, and bent over her. She felt his breathing
distinctly lift the lighter curls of her hair, and
with a keen ear he listened to her respirations. He
tried with a gentle finger to detach her arm from
its close place over her eyes; but the arm seemed
all at once to have become most obstinately rigid,
and he failed in his efforts, in which he did not
persevere for fear of awaking her. As if satisfied
that she slept, he seemed to turn away; and the
arm, so obstinately immoveable before, was now
slightly lifted, without being removed from her
eyes, and only sufficiently to enable her to give a
single glance around the apartment. As she had
seen before, she now distinctly beheld a shadowy
outline at the foot of the couch, in whose massive
brow a bright pale star shone fixedly and soft. A
moment more had elapsed when the form of Albert
became suddenly convulsed, and she could
scarcely forbear the fond impulse which prompted
her to forget every precaution, and clasp him in
her arms; but the secret stirred in her mind at that
moment, and she maintained her position and silence,
though several convulsions, each successive
one more severe than the preceding, shook his form
as with so many dreadful spasms. They were
scarcely over when a cold breath of air seemed
to pass above her neck, and she distinctly felt the
body of Albert sink down helplessly beside her.
Her heart beat impetuously — she could scarce
suppress her breathing, and nothing but the most
resolute determination enabled her to forbear
shrieking aloud. She did forbear, however; and
once more venturing to look forth, she now distinctly
beheld two shadowy forms glide through
the apartment, with each a red and similar star
shining brightly upon his forehead.

15. XV.

Anastasia could bear this no longer, particularly
when, turning to the side of the couch where
Albert lay, his body was cold, corpse-like, and immoveable.
Conviction forced itself upon her—
the secret was discovered, and the burden was insupportable.
She shrieked aloud in her agony;
she clasped the lifeless body in her arms, while her
eyes, addressing the star-fronted shadows that stood
at the foot of the bed, seemed to appeal to them
once more for the restoration of the inanimate form

beside her. With the first accents of that wild
and fearful shriek, indicating, as it did, the sudden
and startling intelligence which her mind had received,
a visible effect was produced upon the
strange aspects before her. While she looked,
she beheld one of the stars rise slowly, and sail
away without obstruction through the spacious
windows, while the other wavered and flickered
about as if in the gusts of an uprising storm. A
storm, indeed, seemed to rage through the apartment.
The shadowy figure appeared to expand
into a rolling and tossing cloud, in the midst of
which, as if it were the centre of its action, the
bright star now grew more bright, and of a deeper
red, and shot forth the most angry fires on every
side. Nothing could exceed the terrors of Anastasia.
The star seemed now to approach her, and
gust after gust, like the rushing of so many heavy
wings, passed and repassed over the couch where
she lay, lifting and rending its silken drapery.
She cried aloud once more in her apprehension.

“Forgive, forgive me, dearest Albert — forgive
me that I have offended. Come to me — be as
thou wert — I will obey thee — I will never offend
thee more.”

“Too late — too late,” cried a voice of sorrow
rather than of anger from the bosom of the cloud,

which now hung, like a dense wreath of vapour,
just above the couch where she lay.

“It is too late, dearest Anastasia — I can return
to thee no more.”

“Wherefore — wherefore?” was the interrogation
of the terrified woman.

“It is the doom!” was the hollow answer from
the cloud; and the star that still shone from the
vague form before her seemed to shed drops of
blood, that fell even upon the garments of her
couch, as the mournful voice thus responded to
her inquiry.

“Alas! alas! wherefore is this doom!” she
cried once more to the shadow and the star.

“Thou hast already asked too much. I warned
thee, my Anastasia. Was it not enough to know
that thou wert happy? Why wast thou not satisfied
with thy condition? Thou hast destroyed the
hope and the happiness of both by thy impatient
thirst after the why and the wherefore.”

“Alas! and for this are we to be disunited, my
Albert — for so slight a cause as this are we to
lose the blessing we have lived for?”

He replied to her in an allegory.

“Does the flower please thee? — wherefore destroy
it to know whence come the scent and the
beauty? The odor flies when thou dost so — and

the beauty fades. This is life — this, always, the
happiness of the mortal. But thou art mortal no
longer, my Anastasia — thou art now destined to
share, even as thou desiredst it, the terrible doom
which is mine!”

“What meanest thou, Albert?” she inquired,
tremblingly, as these fearful words reached her
ears.

“Albert no longer,” cried the star. “Thy
lover was a god!”

She sank from the couch where she had lain as
she heard these words, and she now lay extended
along the floor.

“Rise, Anastasia, still beloved, though mine no
longer — rise,” said the star, “and I will tell thee
what is given to thee to know.”

She rose — she stood tremblingly in the presence
of that fiery eye that looked down upon her, while
the cloud in which it was imbedded hung over her
like a protecting and mighty shield. How glorious,
how fearful, were the words which followed.

16. XVI.

“When I bade thee regard the flight from
heaven of a lovely star but a few nights ago,

Anastasia, I called thee to witness my own fate.
That star was a kindred light with mine, seduced
by me, as I had been seduced, from the sweet and
beautiful abode where it shone, happy and adored,
on high. I had my abode beside it, and was the
worshipped deity of a mighty nation. No eye
brighter then mine looked forth from the eastern
summits — no more pure or peaceful planet gave
light to the returning shepherds. Like the star
whose flight I pointed out to thy regard, I fell from
my place of glory, and the secret of my fall was
in the commission of thy error. I was discontented
with my condition.”

The spirit-lover paused, and the hapless Anastasia
wrung her hands in hopeless misery. He
proceeded —

“For ages, before the birth of time, had that
lovely abiding-place been the assigned station from
which I shone. Millions of lovely spirits shone
and revolved around me, with a light partly borrowed
from mine; but oh! how unapproachably
inferior to me. I was beloved — I was worshipped;
but, like thee, Anastasia, I knew not to be content
in my place, and incurred, in a hapless moment,
a doom not unlike, but far more terrible than
thine.”

The maiden moaned upon the floor of the a partment,

but without the utterance of a single word.
At that moment a pale star sailed along by the
window, and from the dim cloud, of which it was
the centre, she heard a voice crying mournfully —

“Come!”

Albert replied with a promise of compliance,
and the spectre-glory floated away in the distance
from her sight. He proceeded in his narration:

“One night — one fatal night — looking down
from my place of watch, I beheld, in undisturbed
quiet and loveliness, the various and the wondrous
worlds around me. A pale form passed hurriedly
along upon one planet, the earth, and it waved its
hands, and it shrieked in agony, and its cries of
sorrow came to my ears, even afar off as was my
dwelling. Thine was that form, Anastasia — thou
wert the mourner.”

“Alas! alas!” cried the hapless woman — but
she could exclaim nothing farther.

“Thine was the form, and such was the agony
of thy piercing shriek, that inly I mourned for
thee — I deemed it a cruel injustice that such as
thou shouldst suffer. Thou wert so lovely and so
sorrowful, and the sweetest loves in the thoughts
of the blessed, are those which are most allied to
sadness.”

With these words the spirit paused in his narration,

and the cloud in which the eye hung and
shone now veered away and approached one of the
windows of the apartment. At the same time,
many stars, floating in like forms, came before the
window, and strange words passed between Albert
and the rest, in tones of the most sweet but subdued
and melancholy music. In a few moments they
floated away like the last, and her companion again
approached and hung above her in the apartment.
He continued his narration:—

“With the thought and the desire which came
to me as I surveyed thee, Anastasia, a dim and
giant form came rushing towards me, from the
piled clouds that lay like so many rocks and towers
in the northern horizon. His speed was like
that of the lightning; and he made his way among
the stars around-me, obscuring their lustre, and
scorning their obstruction, with the rapid rush of
a mighty tempest. When he approached me, he
lay suspended on his outstretched wings, the curtain
of which clouded the earth and concealed it
that moment from my sight, and he gazed upon me
with an air of sorrowful pride, mixed with the most
mortifying expression of contempt. `I have heard
thy wish,' he cried — `thou canst dare to regret,
but not to repair. Thou canst see, but thou hast
not the courage to share the suffering which thou

seest. Truly, thou art a generous spirit — noble
in the estimation of the highest, and worthy of the
fixed place which thou holdest.' Such were his
words of scorn, and they touched my pride. `And
what better fortune is thine, dark spirit?' I replied
to the intruder. `What hast thou to boast beyond
me — in what is thy better portion?' He answered
readily, and his voice went through me with a
strange and mighty power, so that I trembled in
the sphere in which I had never before been
shaken.

“`I am free,' was his fierce and proud reply.
`I am free.'

“I heard his words with a throbbing and speechless
admiration, and began to feel a fond desire
that I too might be free. I little knew then the
nature of the blessing which I sought. I little
thought that, to be free, I should for ever after be
alone!

“But I was not yet free, and I replied to him
still as the appointed servant of my master: `My
state is glorious — my home is one of lights, and
love, and perpetual flowers; and my duty is only
to watch for the Mighty One.' He replied in
greater scorn —

“`Thy home is one of lights — true — but
they are spies which are set upon thee to report

when thou errest — the love which is given thee
is not given for thyself, but for thy service — and
the flowers of which thou art mad to boast — look,
fool, they are woven into chains. Thou art a
slave but to spy upon others — thou art spied
upon thyself, and held worthy of love only as thou
dost the appointed task of the menial.'

“He had spoken to me a dreadful truth — so I
deemed it at the time, and in my thoughts I wished
myself free — free as the fierce and mighty
form that lay prone like a fearless giant, proud
and scornful in his might, before my eyes. I wished
for freedom, and with the wish I felt the golden
link melt away that secured me in my station —
the bands of flowers, which like a chain had held
me with a spell which no foreign power or agency
could have broken, now, at my single wish, were
relaxed from about me, and a mighty and clear
voice from a world a thousand worlds above me,
came to me like the sudden sound of a trumpet —

“`Thou art free!'

17. XVII.

“Dreadful freedom! That instant I felt myself
alone. I was detached from the sphere in which

I had borne so small a labour, and enjoyed such a
high and worshipped glory, and I floated away
into a thousand regions, and journeyed with the
mighty spectre which had seduced me to his sorrows
and my own shame. But ere I had utterly
left the sphere in which I had dwelt so happily
and so long, I heard the sad lament of my companion
stars, stronger, yet more humble in station
than myself, whom I had left behind me. It was
a strain which told me my destiny, and shaped out
my only future hope, as it detailed my own duty
to myself and to the mighty master.

“Such was the mournful anthem which my
brethren sang in sorrow at my departure and fall,
and whose strains followed me afar, and still follow
me. I hear them now; and thou too, dearest
Anastasia, with whom I had commenced that new
being, and through whose beloved agency I had
hoped for my restoration, with thee beside me,
partaking my immortality and glory in that high
place — thou too mayst hear them now.”

And she did hear, for a gust of the breeze, that
seemed full of perfume, floated that moment by
the window, and her ears distinctly noted the last
words of the melancholy and imploring anthem: —

“I had commenced that new being with thee,
my Anastasia, and hoped to have succeeded in my
labours; but the very danger which I feared, and
against which I strove to counsel thee, has wrecked
the fond hope within my bosom, and now drives
me forth once more, alone, to commence my toils
anew. Thou wast not content with thy condition
or with mine — thou hast committed mine own
error.”

“And is there no forgiveness, Albert? — let me
but be tried once more, my beloved —”

“Thou shalt be tried, Anastasia — this is thy
doom, no less than mine. Thou hast striven to
know — it is now thy destiny — thou art now
doomed to partake of mine.”

“Ah! happy — happy shall I be, Albert, if so
permitted.”

“Alas! Anastasia, thou knowest not what it is
— thou canst not dream of its terrors,” was the
mournful answer of the spirit to the fond assurances

of the devoted woman. “Thou deemest that,
to share my destiny, thou wilt still remain with
me.”

“And will it not be so, my Albert?”

“Alas! no!” was the sad reply. “It is my
doom of loneliness which thou art to share — my
doom of isolation. Thou wilt not go with me,
nor I with thee, yet we must both go forth. Thou
hast to seek, as well as myself, for that condition
among the mortal which is borne without repining,
and with no desire of change. Make thyself
kindred to such a spirit, and thou livest with me
when I rejoin the stars.”

She lay shrieking at the foot of the cloud, which
now slowly descended, and seemed to encircle her.

“Come!” exclaimed a sober and sad, yet soft
accent, at the window; and there, in her sight,
floated once more the kindred star which had followed
her lover; she felt herself lifted from the
ground, and enveloped in a fold of the softest and
the sweetest air, while the bright eye of Albert,
starlike and pure, came close to her forehead.

“What wouldst thou?” demanded Anastasia,
in her bewilderment.

“Impress upon thee my immortality with my
doom,” was the answer; and that moment she
felt the star pressing like ice upon her forehead.

It seemed to sink, cold and chilling, into her very
brain, and she shrieked with the momentary agony
of that feeling. In another instant she was released
from his embrace, and, whirling round with
a motion not her own, she now found herself
wrapped in an airy mantle like that of her companion,
and she was conscious, while floating away
— away into the fathomless abysses of the air —
that she shone from the centre of a cloud like the
star which had personified her lover. Her next
feeling was that of utter isolation. She beheld the
beautiful star, which she had loved as a mortal,
sailing along, with a slow and steady light, above
the rocks and the river, and she strove to follow
and rejoin it. But a power restrained her movements
and checked her will, and she now felt herself
borne unresistingly in an opposite direction.
Then, for the first time, did she feel the horrible nature
of that destiny which she had so passionately
desired to share with him. The fearful truth which
he had uttered came like a knell of agony to her
suffering soul, as she felt and feared, in that desolate
moment, that she was destined for ever after
to remain alone!