University of Virginia Library

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.