University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Our discussion had taken an essayical form, and was fast losing
its interest. Continued desultorily, it became descriptive.

“I was travelling through North Carolina last season,” said
one of the South-Carolinians present, “and was assailed upon
the route by a hale and rather pursy old farmer, with a long
and curious examination on the subject of South Carolina politics.
It was the time of the threatened secession movement.

“`Well,' said he, `what are you people gwine to do in South
Car'lina! Air you in airnest now?'—`I think so!'—`And
what will you do — cut loose?'—`It is not improbable.'—`But
you're not all for it.'—`No! by no means. It is yet to be decided
whether there's a majority for separate state secession;
there is very little doubt that a vast majority favors the formation
of a Southern Confederacy.'—`And do you reckon that
the Federal Government will let you go off quietly.'—`It is
so thought by certain among us.'—`But you?'—`I think
otherwise. I think they can hardly suffer us to do so. It
would be fatal to their revenue system.'—`Well, and if they
try to put you down — what are you gwine to do?'—`I suppose
we shall have to carry the attack into the enemy's country, and
put them down in turn.' — `That's right, and I'm one of them
that stand ready to take a hand whenever you want help. I
aint of the way of thinking of Mr. Dockery (it may be Dickery
— Dickery, Dickery, Dock — something of the sort it is), who
says he's for j'ining the Federal government agin you, and voting
men and money to put you down. I reckon there's very few
in the Old State to agree with him. He's a native from your
country, too, I'm a-thinking. We are a rether slow people in
North Carolina, but I reckon we're sure and sound, and true
grit, and true South. We don't think you're right, in what you're
a-doing, owing to the fact that South Carolina's always a leetle
too fast, and mighty apt to go off at a half cock; but ef she's

too quick, we believe it's a quickness pretty much on the right
side. I'm a-thinking there's no chance for us in the eend, unless
we cut loose from the whole Yankee consarn. Old Isaac Coppidge,
one of my neighbors, he said more than twenty years ago,
when you was for Nullifying — that you would do right to break
up the Union, you South-Carolinians — that the Union was jest
a sort of Union between a mighty fat frog and a hungry blacksnake
— that the fat frog was the South, and the hungry snake
the North. And, says he, it's because the frog is so big and so
fat, that the snake kaint swallow him all at once. But the snake's
got fast hold, and the frog's a-gitting weaker every day — and
every day a little more of him goes down; when the day comes
that the frog gives up and lies quiet, the snake'll finish him.
That was what old Ike Coppidge used to say, and jest what he
says now. As I said, my friend, we don't altogether like your
doings, but there's a many among us, who didn't like 'em in the
Nullification times. But we see that the thing's getting worse,
the frog's gitting lower and lower in the snake's swallow, and
we've hafe a notion that you're pretty nigh to be right efter all.
We'd like you to wait a bit on us; but ef you don't, we'll have
a turn at the pump-handle, whenever there's a fire in your
house. There's mighty few that think with Squire Dickery (or
Dockery), and we'll git right side up before we're swallowed.
I kin tell you that Clingman will distance his man by three thousand
votes, or I'm a sinner in mighty great danger.'”

The anecdote brought out one of our passengers from North
Carolina, who had not before spoken. He showed himself
equally jealous of Virginia on one hand, and South Carolina on
the other. The Virginian dashed in; and in a little while the
conversation became general. But we soon subsided again into
description,

“Harper's Ferry disappointed me,” said one of the party.
In fact, the traveller wonders at that extravagance of admiration,
which, in the case of Mr. Jefferson and others, dilated in
terms of such wonder and admiration, upon the sublimity and
grandeur of a scene, which in no place rises above the picturesque.
It is impossible for anybody to identify any spot in
this neighborhood with the scene described by the sage of Monticello.
But Jefferson, though a very great man, in certain respects,

was, also, no little of a humbug. His superlatives were
apt to be bestowed, even where his imagination was unexcited.
It is barely possible that he himself felt the wonders which he
described as visible in this region; but to most other persons his
description appears to be the superb of hyperbole. The scene
is undoubtedly a fine one — pleasing and picturesque. The
junction, of two broad rivers, at the feet of double mountain ranges,
can not be otherwise. Beauty is here, and dignity, and
the eye lingers with gratification upon the sweet pictures which
are made of the scene, at the rising and the setting of the sun.
Standing upon a jagged peak below the junction, and suffering
the eye to sweep over the two broad gorges within its range —
green slopes gradually ascending from, or abrupt rocks sullenly
hanging above, the shallow waters glittering in the sunlight,
you will naturally choose a hundred different spots upon which
you would fancy the appearance of a Gothic or Grecian cottage.
But no ideas of majesty, grandeur, force, power or sublimity, lift
you into the regions of enthusiasm. The rivers are shallow and
forceless. There are no impetuous rages, no fierce, impulsive
gushings, no fearful strifes with crag, and boulder — no storms,
no torrents, no agonies of conflict between rock and river. The
waters are not only placid, but quiet even to tameness. They
seem to have made their way through the rocks insidiously;
with the gliding sinuosity of the snake, rather than the wild
flight of the eagle, or the mighty rush of the tiger. They have
sapped the mountain citadels, not stormed them; and never
could have possessed the volume to have done otherwise. The
description of Mr. Jefferson would better suit the French Broad
in North Carolina, to which the scene at Harper's Ferry can
not for a moment compare, whether as regards beauty, majesty,
or sublimity. In contrast, the streams are absolutely sluggish.
They neither rive, nor rend, nor rage, nor roar among the rocks.
They have no wild rapids, no foaming wrath, no headlong plunges,
no boiling abysses, and to him who goes thither, with his
mind full of Mr. Jefferson's description, there is nothing in reserve
but disappointment.

“But what of the Shenandoah Valley as a whole?”

“The valley of the Shenandoah might realize to the youthful
romancer his most perfect idea of Arcadia. Reposing cosily in

the bosom of protecting mountains, she unfolds to the embrace
of the sun the most prolific beauties. Her charms are of a sort
to inspire the most perfect idylls, and to mature the mind for
contemplation, and to enliven the affections for enjoyment. A
dream of peace, sheltered by the wings of security, seems to
hallow her loveliness in the sight of blue mountains, and the
smiling heavens. On every hand spread out favorite places for
retreat and pleasure, the most grateful of all, in which life suffers
no provocations inconsistent with mental revery, and where
the daily necessities harmonize pleasantly with the most nutritious
fancies. Here the farmer may become the poet; here solitude
may yield proper occasion for thought: and thought, enlivened
by the picturesque, may rise to a constant enjoyment of
imagination. There is no scene so uniform as to induce monotony
or weariness. Green fields terminate in gentle heights,
heights are rendered musical with companionable voices, by the
perpetual murmur of rills and waterfalls. The eye that rests
upon the rock is charmed away by the sunny shadows that chase
each other, in perpetual sport, over valleys and sloping lawns;
and the heart feels that here, if it be not the case, it should be,
that the spirit of man may be as divine as the region in which
he finds his abode. That the heart is not here sufficiently subdued
to appreciate justly its possessions of nature — that the
tastes have not here sufficiently refined, in accordance with the
sweetness, simplicity, beauty and sincerity of the place — is only
due to the freshness of the scene and the newness of society. In
proportion as the sense awakens to what it enjoys — as the
means of life increase, and as prosperity leads to leisure, will
be the improvement, mentally and spiritually, of a region, which
only needs to be justly known, in all its charms and treasures.
Time will bring about the necessary improvement. As it is, the
scene is one where the heart, already matured, and the tastes
already cultivated, may find a thousand abodes, in which life
may pass away as a long and grateful sunny day, lapsing
sweetly into sleep at last, in a couch hung with purple, and under
a sky of blue, draped with the loveliest hues and colors of a
peaceful sunset.”

Somehow, we got back to the “Eastern Shore,” which we
had already left behind us, both in ship and story. One of the

party was an advocate for modest scenery, that which required
you to seek its beauties in the shade, and never sought to compel
your admiration by its own obtrusiveness. He had found
pictures for the eye where few persons seek them. Thus: —
The argument depending upon moral, really, and not physical
aspects: —

“In approaching the `Eastern Shore' of Virginia,” said he,
“passing from `Old Point' across the bay, you find yourself gliding
toward such scenes of repose, delicacy, and quiet beauty, as
always commend themselves to eyes which are studious of detail.
To value the beautiful, apart from the sublime, requires
the nicely discriminating eye. Here, you pass, in rapid succession,
from headland to harbor. — Gentle promontories shoot
forth to welcome you, crowded with foliage, and affording protection
to sweet waters, and the most pleasant recesses for timid
nymphs. You almost look to see the naiads darting through
the rippling waters, in fond pursuit, with shouts and laughter.
The ocean arrested by the headlands, which have been mostly
upheaved from its own sandy hollows, subsides here into so
many lakelets, whose little billows just suffice to break pleasantly
the monotony of their glassy surface. These bays are
scooped out from the shore, scooped into it, rather, in the half-moon
form, leaving to each a sandy margin, and a hard beach,
upon which you see the gentleman's yacht, or the fisherman's
boat drawn up, while the children of both are rollicking together,
rolling out among the rollers of the deep. Peace and sweetness
and love, seem to be the guardian genii of these secluded
places; repose and contemplation are natural occupations; one
feels that the passions here do not exercise themselves madly and
suicidally — that they are economized and employed only under
the guidance of the affections — and that it is possible still to
realize in fact the fictions of the Golden Age.”

“You should be a poet.”

“One can hardly escape such fancies, beholding such a
scene.”

“And the solitude of the region, though along the Atlantic
shore, and contiguous to great marts of civilization, is quite as
profound as among the gorges of our own Apalachian mountains.”

“Yes, indeed; and the proof may be found in the character
and manners of the people of the `Eastern Shore.' These
have scarcely undergone any vital change in the last hundred
years. They will tell you that here you find the best specimens
of the old Virginian: one of the `Lions' of the `Eastern
shore' by the way, is an ancient vault, to which I was conducted
with considerable interest. It lies upon an ancient farmstead,
looking out upon the `bay,' and occupies the centre of an old
field, of which, sheltered by some old trees, it is the only prominent
object. It belonged to a member of the Custis family, a
branch of the same stock with which Washington intermarried.
Its curious feature is to be found in its inscription. The vault,
which is now in a state of dilapidation, is of white marble, made
in London and curiously carved. Old Custis, the incumbent,
was a queer old codger, and rather hard upon the fair sex, if we
may judge by his epitaph, which runs literally as follows:—

This inscription, we are told by another, on the opposite side,
“was put on the tomb by his own positive orders.” The gist
of it, as the ladies will painfully perceive, consists in the line
we have italicised; the force of which will be better felt and
understood from the additional fact, which does not appear, that
this bachelor, who lived only in his bachelor condition, was actually
married three times. His experience, if we are to believe
his epitaph, was greatly adverse to the idea of any happiness in
the marriage state; yet how strange that he should have ventured
thrice upon it! The natural conclusion is that the Hon.
John Custis was a singularly just and conscientious man, who,
unwilling to do the sex any wrong by a premature judgment,
gave them a full and fair trial, at the expense of his own happiness,
and pronounced judgment only after repeated experiments.
Tradition has preserved some anecdotes of the sort of experience
which he enjoyed in the marriage state, one of which I will relate.
It appears that he was driving in his ancient coach toward

Cape Charles, with one of his wives — and, to do him justice, we
must assure the reader that, unlike our modern Brighamites, he
had but one at a time. A matrimonial discussion ensued between
the pair, which warmed as they proceeded. The lord grew
angry, the lady vociferous.

“It was the diamond,” said one — and “I insist,” quoth the
other, “that it was the club.”

“You will drive me mad!” cried John Custis.

“I should call that admirable driving?” retorted the wife.

“By —!” he exclaimed, “if you say another word I will
drive down into the sea!” They were even then upon the
beach!

“Another word!” screamed the lady. “Drive where you
please,” she added — “into the sea — I can go as deep as you
dare go any day!”

He became furious, took her at her word, and drove the horses
and chariot into the ocean. They began to swim. He held in,
looked into her face, and she — laughed in his.

“Why do you stop?” she demanded, exultingly — not a whit
alarmed.

“You are a devil!” he exclaimed flinging the horses about,
and making for the shore with all expedition.

“Pooh! pooh!” laughed his tormentor. “Learn from this
that there is no place where you dare to go, where I dare not
accompany you.”

“Even to h—!” he groaned.

“The only exception,” she answered with a chuckle — “there
my dear, I leave you.” She had conquered. He never drove
in at Cape Charles again, but groaned with the recollection of
the seven years bachelor-life at Arlington.

When this little narration had ended, an intelligent German
of the party, from whose grave features and silent tongue we
had expected nothing, now pleasantly surprised us by volunteering
a legend of his own country — a domestic legend of dark
and gloomy character. We expressed our gratification at the
offer, drew our chairs into the circle, lighted fresh cigars, and
listened to the following tale, which, as if parodying the title of
a previous story, he called —

THE BRIDE OF HATE; OR, THE PASSAGE OF A NIGHT.

—Samson Agonistes.

1. I.

At length I was permitted to behold my benefactress. The
messenger who brought my quarterly remittance was the bearer
of a letter, the first which had ever been addressed by her to
myself, in which this grateful permission was accorded. I read
and reread it a thousand times. My first emotions were those
of pleasure — a pleasure enhanced by the hope of satisfying a
curiosity, which, awakened in my earliest boyhood, had never
yet been gratified. Why had I been so kindly treated, so well
provided for, so affectionately considered, in all the changes of
my brief existence, my sickness and my health, by a lady of
such high condition? Why, again, should she, whose care and
consideration had been so unvarying and decided, have shown
so little desire to behold the object of her bounty? Years had
elapsed since I had become her charge; — years, to me, of continued
satisfaction — if one small matter be excepted. There
was one alloy to my enjoyments, which, in its most rapturous
moments, my boyhood did not cease to feel. It was the mystery
which overhung my origin. Who am I? was the question, not
so natural to the boy, yet natural enough to the sensitive and
thoughtful. I was both sensitive and thoughtful; and my boyish
associates, contrived on this very subject, to keep me so.
Their inquiries disordered me; their surprise at my ignorance
alarmed me; their occasional doubts gave me pain, and the suspicions
of their minds readily passed into my own. `Who am
I?' was the perpetual inquiry which my mind was making of
itself. I could address it nowhere else. My tutor, with whom
I also lodged, declared his ignorance; and I believed him. He

was too good a man, too kind, and himself betrayed too great
an interest in the question, not to have spoken sincerely. He
saw my disquiet, and endeavored to allay it; and the endeavor
added to the burden, since it sufficiently declared his equal inability
and desire. His anxiety, though unequal to, was not
unlike, my own. I know not if his conjectures led him to like
conclusions with myself. I only know that mine were sufficiently
painful to extort my tears and tremors.

Vainly, at each quarterly return of the agent of the baroness,
did I endeavor, by question and insinuation, to gather from
him some clue to the facts of which I sought to be possessed.
He had been the person who brought me to the school — who
made the contract for my education and support with my tutor
— and who alone, through each successive period of my life
afterward, had been the medium for conveying the benefactions
of my friend. To whom, then, could I so naturally apply?
whence could I hope to obtain better information? Besides, he
always treated me with marked affection. I can remember,
when a mere child, how frequently he took me upon his knee,
how kindly he caressed me, what affectionate words he poured
into my ear; the gentleness of his tones, the tenderness of his
regards! Nor, as I advanced in years, did his attentions alter,
though they assumed different aspects. He was more reserved,
though not less considerate. If he no longer brought me toys,
he brought me books; if he no longer took me on his knee, he
lingered with me long, and seemed to regret the hour that commanded
his departure. There was something too — so I fancied
— in what he said, did, and looked, that betrayed the fondness
of one who had known me with a tender interest from the beginning.
His arms, perhaps, had dandled me in infancy; he had
been my follower, my attendant. But why linger on conjectures
such as these? My speculations ran wild, as I thought
over the circumstances of my condition, and painfully resolved,
hour after hour, the secret of my birth.

From Bruno, however, I could obtain nothing. When questioned,
he affected a stolid simplicity which, even to my
boyish understanding, seemed wholly inconsistent with his. I
knew that he was no fool — still less was I willing to consider
him a churl. My conclusion was natural. He knew something.

He could tell me much. Could he not tell me all, and where
could be the motive for concealment? The answer to this question
inevitably overwhelmed me for a time, until the elasticity
of the youthful heart could disencumber itself from the desponding
tendency of a premature activity of thought. The only
motive of concealment must be guilt. I was the child of sin —
I was the foredoomed of suffering. My present anxieties gave
a gravity and intensity of expression to my features which did
not become one so youthful. I felt this: I felt the seeming unnaturalness
of my looks and carriage; but how could I relieve
myself? I felt the pain of thought — thought unsatisfied — and
could already imagine how natural was the doom which visited
the sins of the father to the third and fourth generation.

When I failed to extort from the cunning of Bruno the secret
which I was persuaded he yet possessed, I turned naturally to
the letter of my benefactress. I read and reread it, each time
with the hope of making some discoveries — of finding some
slight clue to the truth — which might relieve my anxiety. An
ambiguous sentence, the latent signification of a passage (and
how many of these did my desire enable me to discover in a
billet of twenty lines?) awakened my hopes and caused my
heart to bound with double pulsation. But when I had gone
through it again and again, until my head ached, and my senses
seemed to swim, I was compelled to acknowledge to myself that
there was nothing in the epistle that I had not readily comprehended
at the first. It simply expressed the writer's gratification
at the improvement and good conduct of the youth whom
she had thought proper to educate and provide for, until manhood
should bring around the period of independence; and
expressed — though without emphasis (and how earnestly did I
look for this quality in every word, syllable and point!) — a
very natural desire to remark, with her own eyes, the personal
deportment and carriage of her protégé — subjects which she
seemed to regard as equally important with my intellectual improvement,
and of which neither my letters nor my exercises —
which were duly transmitted to her by my tutor — could give her
much, if any, satisfaction. Failing to find any occult signification
in the language, I next addressed my scrutiny to the style
and manner of the letter — the handwriting, the air, the roundings

equally of letters and periods. How soon, where the hopes
and anxieties are awakened, will the boy learn to think, examine,
and become analytical! To trace the mind of the writer in
his penmanship is a frequent employment with the idly curious;
but a deep interest led me to the same exercise. The style of
the composition was clear and strong, but it struck me as quite
too cold for the benevolent tenor which the note conveyed.
Why should one speak the language of reserve whose deeds
are the very perfection of generosity? Why should the tones
be frigid where the sentiments are as soft as summer and sweet
as its own bird-music? There was, to my mind, some singular
contradiction in this. I could very well understand how one,
doing, or about to do, a benevolent or generous action, should
speak of it as slightly and indifferently as possible — nay, should
avoid to speak of it at all, if to avoid it be within the nature of
the occasion; — but this did not apply to the character of the
epistle I examined. The writer spoke freely of her friendly
purposes; but her language to the recipient was cold and freezing.
If she had said nothing of what she had done and still
meditated, and had spoken to me in more elaborate tones, I
should have been better satisfied. But there was not an unnecessary
word in the whole epistle — not one which I could fancy
put in at the moment when the current of feeling, being at its
height, forbade the reserve of prudence, or the cautious considerateness
of deliberate and calculating purposes. There was
evidently considerable pains taken — so my youthful judgment
inferred — in the reserved language and manner of this letter;
and why should my benefactress, moved only in what she had
done by a high but ordinary sentiment of charity, strive to
express herself in such language to a boy? This question led
me into newer intricacies, from which, I need scarcely add, I
did not readily extricate myself. The penmanship of the writer
did not call for a less earnest examination than the language
which she employed. It was evidently feminine in its character,
but how masculine in its tone. The utter absence of ornament
was a deficiency, which struck me as forming a surprising
feature in the handwriting of a lady. She used capitals constantly
in beginning words as well as sentences; but these capitals
exhibited the cold Gothic aspects of the Roman, rather than
the lively ornamented outlines of the Italian letters. The T of
her signature, for example, was a simple perpendicular stroke,
carried much below the line, with a thick heavy cap upon it,
having a dip at each end almost as great as that of an umbrella.
The letters were remarkably clear, but how irregular! They
seemed to have been written under a determination to write,
even against desire and will — dashed spasmodically down upon
the paper, not coherent, and leaving wide gaps between the several
words, into which an ingenious hand might readily have
introduced other words, such, as I fondly conjectured, might
have given to the composition that friendly warmth and interest
in my fate, which it seemed to me it needed more than anything
besides. My grand conclusion, on finishing my study, was this,
that the writer had taken some pains to write indifferently; that
the studied coldness of the letter was meant to conceal a very
active warmth and feeling in the writer; and (though I may not
be able to define the sources of this conjecture so well as the
rest) that this feeling, whatever might be its character, was not
such as could compel the admiration or secure the sympathy of
mine. This conclusion may seem strange enough, when it is
recollected that the baroness was my benefactress, who had
always carefully anticipated my wishes; provided for my
wants; afforded me the best education which the condition of
the palatinate afforded; and, in all respects, had done, through
charity, those kindly deeds which could not have been exacted
by justice. The next moment I reproached myself for ingratitude
— I prayed for better thoughts and more becoming feelings
— but my prayer was not vouchsafed me. The conclusion
which I have already declared had taken a rooted possession of
my mind, and I commenced my journey to the castle of T—
with a mixed feeling of equal awe, anxiety, and expectation.

2. II.

I now remarked some alteration in the looks and bearing
of my companion, Bruno, which also surprised me and awakened
my curiosity. Hitherto, he had always seemed a person of little
pretension, having few objects, and those of an humble class;
a mere yeoman; a good retainer, in which capacity he served

at T— castle; modest in his deportment, without arrogance
of any kind; and, in all respects, a very worthy personage. I
I do not mean to say that he now assumed the appearance of
one who had become less so; but he certainly was no longer the
quiet, subdued and somewhat melancholy man whom I had
heretofore been wont to find him. A certain boyish lightness
of manner and gayety of speech distinguished him as we rode
together; — and, though these qualities might not be altogether
inconsistent with what is becoming in a man of forty, yet were
they, at the same time, very far from corresponding with the
usual characteristics which he had borne in our previous intimacy.
Until now I should have called him a dull person, possessed
of good, benevolent feelings; rather grave and sombre
in his discourse; and, altogether, having no qualities to recommend
him to a higher destination than that which he filled in
the castle of the baroness. Now, he suddenly became the man
of spirit; his words were mirthful, his voice musical, his opinions
playful and even witty; and, not unfrequently, he would
burst into little catches of song, that sounded unpleasantly in
my ears, since I could neither conjure up cause of merriment in
my own mind, nor conjecture the sources for so much of it in
his. Nor did this conduct seem the result of simple natural
feelings — the play of health in an exercise which was agreeable,
or of sensations which lie beneath the surface only, and obedient
to the summons of any cheerful wayfarer, who, having no
cares, is susceptible of the most ordinary pleasures. There was
an air of positive exultation in his looks, a triumphant consciousness
in his manner, which he vainly strove to hide, and in the
business of which I quickly inferred, from his frequent smile
and searching gaze upon me, I myself had no little interest.
When I commented upon his gayety and spirit, he would suddenly
control himself, relapse, as it were by an effort, into his
ancient gravity, and possibly mutter a few clumsy words of
denial. But his struggle to contain himself did not long continue,
and before we reached the end of our journey, he had
fully surrendered himself to the joyous mood which possessed
him on our setting out.

Having no knowledge of Castle T—, I endeavored by a
series of direct questions to obtain from him as much information

as possible in respect to it and the lady thereof. He seemed to
be surprised at the avowal of my ignorance on the subject of the
castle, and surprised me even more by expressing his wonder at
the fact; concluding by assuring me that I was born in it — at
least he had been told so. His mention of my place of birth
necessarily provoked an eager renewal of my old inquiries, but
to these I obtained no satisfactory answers. Enough, however,
was shown me by what he said, and still more by what he
looked, that he knew much more than he was willing, or permitted,
to reveal. His reserve increased the mystery; for if
any of my acquaintance had ever convinced me of their unequivocal
regard, it was my old friend Bruno. That he should know,
yet withhold, the secret, the desire for which was making my
cheek paler every day, and filling my heart with the gloom that
seldom afflicts the young, argued, to my understanding, a painful
history, which, perhaps, when heard, I should wish for ever
buried in oblivion. When I inquired after my benefactress, as
I had frequently done before, his brow became clouded, and it
was only at such moments that he seemed to part easily with
that gayety of manner which had striven to cheer our tedious
journey. Stern glances shot from beneath his bushy gray eyebrows,
and his lips became compressed, as closely as if some
resolute purpose of hostility was gathering in his mind.

“It seems to me, Bruno, that you love me no longer. You
will not answer my questions — questions which seriously affect
my happiness — and yet it is clear to me that you can do so.
Why is this? Why should there be any mystery in the case
of one so poor, so humble, such a dependant as myself?”

“Love you, Herman! Do I not love you!” he exclaimed;
and I could see a big tear gathering within his eye, as he replied
in reproachful accents — “Ah, my son, you know not how
much I love you; you know not now — perhaps you will shortly
know — and when you do, you will see that what I have withheld
from you was wisely withheld. There is a season given
for truth, Herman, and if Bruno forbears the truth in your ears,
it is only that he may wait for a season.”

“But why should you not tell me of the baroness? I should
like to form some idea of, and to love her, before I see her.”

“Then you do not love her?” he demanded with some quickness;

and I could perceive a smile gleam out upon his countenance,
in which I fancied there was even an expression of
bitter satisfaction. His question confused me — it conveyed a
reproach which he certainly never intended. Could it be possible
that I did not love my benefactress — one to whom I owed so
much — to whom, indeed, I owed everything? I blushed, hesitated,
stammered, and, before I could reply, he again spoke, and
anticipated the feeble excuse which I was preparing.

“But how should you love her?” he exclaimed, in tones
rather of soliloquy than conversation. “How, indeed! It
would have been wonderful, indeed, if you did.”

Here he arrested himself in the manner of one who thinks he
has said too much. The true feeling with which he spoke I
gathered rather from the tone of his utterance than from what
he said. The words, however, might have been made to apply
much more innocently than the emphasis permitted me to apply
them.

“How! what mean you, Bruno?” I demanded, with an astonishment
which was sufficiently obvious. He endeavored to
evade the effects of his error with the adroitness of a politician.

“How could you be expected to love a person whom you had
never seen — whom you do not know — of whom, indeed, you
know nothing?”

“Except by her bounties, Bruno.”

“True, these demand gratitude, but seldom awaken love, unless
by other associations. Mere charity, gifts and favors, have
but little value unless the donor smiles while he is giving —
speaks kind words, and looks affection and regard. The baroness
has erred, if your affection was an object in her sight, in
not personally bestowing her bounty and showing, to your own
eyes, the concern which she felt in your success, and the benevolence
she intended. Without these, her bounty could scarce
secure your love; and the feeling which dictates it might have
no such motive for its exercise — might be dictated by pride,
vanity, the ostentation of a virtue; or, indeed, might be the consequence
of a simple sense of duty.”

“Duty! How should it be the duty of the baroness to provide
for my support and education?”

“Nay, I say not that such is the case. I simply suggest one

of the causes of that favor which men are very apt, when they
name, to confound with benevolence.”

“But why should you speak as if it were doubtful that the
baroness really desires to secure my affection? Do you know,
Bruno, that she does not?”

“He or she who aspires to secure the affection of another will
scarcely succeed by the mere act of giving in charity. The
gift must be accompanied by other acts, other expressions,
which shall exhibit the attachment which the giver desires to
awaken. It must be shown that there is a pleasure felt in the
benevolence, that the heart which bestows enjoys a kindred satisfaction
with that which receives. As for any knowledge on
the subject of the feelings of the baroness, I pretend none. I
but state a general truth when I say, that, if her object had
been to make you love her, she should have carried her gifts
in person, shown herself frequently to you, counselled you from
her own lips, exhorted your industry and diligence, prompted
your ambition, cheered your labors, and encouraged all your
honorable desires.”

“Ah, if she had done this, Bruno?”

“Doubtless, you would then have loved her, and then she
would have been—”

He paused abruptly; the same stern expression of countenance
denoted the suppression of a sentiment, such as more than
once before, during our dialogue, had seemed to fill his mind with
bitterness. I eagerly demanded of him the conclusion of the sentence,
and, with a smile which was half a sneer, he replied: —

“Then she would have been — secure of your love.”

I smiled also, and, perhaps, a like sarcastic sneer passed over
my own lips, as he came to this lame and impotent conclusion.

“Bruno, you deceive me, and possibly wrong my benefactress.
You know more than you will tell me. There is some
strange mystery in this business—”

“Which I believe, Herman, but—”

“Which you know, Bruno.”

“Perhaps so; but let me ask you, Herman, my dear Herman,
do you believe me to be your friend?”

“I do.”

“That I have ever shown you kindness, watched over you,

counselled you, guided you, protected you, done all, in short,
that a father could have done for the son he most loved?”

“Truly, good Bruno, I believe, I think, I know, that you
have been all this to me. You have supplied those performances,
which, if your thinking be right, the benevolence of the
baroness imprudently omitted.”

“Enough, Herman. Believe then a little more. Believe
that he who has been friendly and faithful hitherto, without
hesitation, without exception, without going back, and without
sign of reluctance, will still be true, faithful, and affectionate.
There is something that I might say, but not wisely, not beneficially
for you, and therefore I forbear to say it. But the time
will come, I think it will come very soon, and all my knowledge
shall then be yours. Meanwhile, be patient and learn the first
best lesson of youth — learn to wait! By learning to wait, you
learn to endure, and in learning to endure, you learn one of the
principal arts of conquest. I speak to you the lesson of experience,
of my own experience. Never did a young man pass through
a more trying term of endurance than myself. I have suppressed
my nature, stifled the passions of my heart, kept down
those struggles of my soul which, as they would have vainly
striven for any release, were premature; and, after twenty
years of bondage I am at length free. Your visit to the castle
of T—, is the epoch of my emancipation.”

3. III.

Having thus spoken, Bruno became suddenly silent, and no
effort that I could make could induce him to resume the conversation.
Yet, how had this conversation excited me! — what
strange commotion did it occasion among the thoughts and fancies
of my mind. Where had he obtained the power to speak
with so much authority, words so full of animation, thoughts so
far beyond his seeming condition? His words seemed to lift
and expand himself. His eye glittered with the fire of an
eagle's as he spoke, his lip quivered with equal pride and enthusiasm,
and his form, it seemed to rise and tower aloft in all the
majesty of a tried and familiar superiority. The mystery which
enwrapped my own fate, seemed of a sudden to envelop this

man also. He had dropped words which indicated an alliance
of our destinies, and what could he mean, when, at the close of
this speech, he said, that my visit to the castle of T— was the
epoch of his emancipation. The words rang in my ears with the
imposing solemnity of an oracle; but, though I felt, in vain did
I strive to find something in them beyond their solitary import.
They increased the solemnity and anxiety of those feelings
which oppressed me on my nearer approach to the gloomy towers
of T— castle. As we came in sight of them I could
perceive that the countenance of my companion assumed an expression
of anxiety also. A dark cloud, slowly gathering, hung
about his brows, and at length spread over and seemed to settle
permanently upon his face. He now seldom spoke, and only in
answer to my inquiries and in monosyllables. Something of
this, in the case of each of us, may have been derived from the
sombre and gloomy tone of everything in the immediate neighborhood
of this castle. The country was sterile in the last
degree. We had travelled the whole day and had scarcely encountered
a human being. But few cottages skirted the cheerless
and little-trodden pathway over which we came, and a
general stuntedness of vegetation and an equally general poverty
of resource in all respects, fully accounted to us for, and
justified the absence of, inhabitants. Bruno, however, informed
me that the country on the other side of the lake on which the
castle stood, and from which it derived its resources, was as fertile
and populous as this was the reverse. A succession of little
hills, rugged and precipitous, which were strewed thickly over
our pathway, added to the difficulties of our approach, and the
cheerlessness of the prospect. The castle was gray with years
— one portion of it entirely dismantled and deserted — the residue
in merely habitable condition — the whole presenting such
a pile as would be esteemed a ruin among a people of romantic
temperament, but carefully avoided by the superstitious as
better calculated for the wanderings of discontented ghosts, than
as a dwelling for the living. The wall which was meant to protect
it from invasion on the side we came, was in a worse state
of dilapidation than even the deserted portions of the castle, and
we entered the enclosure through a fissure, and over the overthrown
masses of lime and stone by which it had been originally
filled. There were too many of these openings to render formal
ports or gateways necessary. Within the enclosure I had an opportunity
to see how much more desolate was the prospect the
nearer I approached it. Its desolation increased the feelings of
awe with which the mystery of my own fate, the ambiguous words
and manner of Bruno, and the vague conjectures I had formed in
reference to my benefactress, had necessarily filled my mind;
and I was conscious, on first standing in the presence of the baroness,
of far more apprehension than gratitude — an apprehension
not so creditable to my manhood, and only to be excused
and accounted for, by the secluded and unworldly manner in
which my education had been conducted.

The baroness met me with a smile, and such a smile! — I
could not comprehend its language. It was clearly not that of
affection; it did not signify hatred — shall I say that it was the
desperate effort of one who seeks to look benevolence while
feeling scorn; that it was a smile of distrust and bitterness, the
expression of a feeling which seemed to find the task of receiving
me too offensive and unpleasant even to suffer the momentary
disguise of hypocrisy and art. I was confused and stupefied.
I turned for explanation to Bruno, who had accompanied me into
the presence; and the expression in his face did not less surprise
me than that in the face of the baroness. His eyes were fixed
upon hers, and his looks wore an air of pride and exultation;
not dissimilar to that which I have already described as distinguishing
them while our dialogue was in progress. There was
something also of defiance in his glance, while gazing on the
baroness, which puzzled me the more. Her eyes were now
turned from me to him.

“And this then is the — the youth — the —” She paused.
I could no longer misunderstand those accents. They were those
of vexation and annoyance.

“The same!” exclaimed Bruno, “the same, my lady, and a
noble youth you see he is; well worthy of your patronage, your
love!”

There was a taunting asperity in his tones which struck me
painfully, and at length stimulated me to utterance and action.
I rushed forward, threw myself at her feet, and, while I poured
forth my incoherent acknowledgments for her benefactions, would

have seized and carried her hand to my lips. But she shrunk
back with an impulse if possible more rapid than my own, her
hands uplifted, the palms turned upon me as if beckoning me
away, her head averted, and her whole attitude and manner that
of one suffering contact with the thing it loathes.

“No, no! None of this. Take him away. Take him away.”

I rose upon my feet and turned to Bruno. His form was
erect, his eye was full of a stern severity as he gazed upon the
baroness, which seemed to me strangely misplaced when I considered
his relative position with the noble lady to whom I owed
so much, and, in respect to whom it would seem so unaccountable,
so unnatural. Bruno paused and did not regard me as I approached
him. His eyes were only fixed upon his mistress. She repeated
her injunction, with a wild and strange addition: —

“Have you not had enough? Would you drive me mad?
Away with him. Away!”

“Come!” he exclaimed, turning to me slowly, but with an
eye still fixed upon the baroness, whose face was averted from
us. He muttered something further which I did not understand,
and we were about to depart, he frowning as if with indignation,
and I trembling with equal apprehension and surprise.

“Stay!” she exclaimed, “where would you take him, Bruno?”

“To the hall below, your ladyship.”

“Right, see to his wants. His chamber is in the northern
turret.”

“There!” was the abrupt exclamation of Bruno.

“There! There!” was all the reply; a reply rather shrieked
than spoken, and the manner of which, as well as the look of
Bruno, when he beheld it, convinced me that there was something
occult and mysterious in the purport of her command.
Nothing more, however, was spoken by either the baroness or
himself, and we left the presence in silence together.

4. IV.

We descended to the salle a mangér, where we found a bountiful
repast prepared. But neither of us seemed disposed to eat,
though the long interval of abstinence since the morning meal,
would, at another time, and under different circumstances, have

justified a vigorous appetite and an enormous consumption of
the various viands before us. I remarked one thing in the management
of the feast which occasioned my astonishment. There
was a regular taster of the several dishes, who went through his
office before Bruno invited me to eat. I had heard and read of
this officer and the objects of this precaution in the history of
past and barbarous centuries, but that he should be thought
necessary in a modern household and in a Christian country was
a subject of very natural wonder; and I did not hesitate to say
as much to my companion and friend. But my comment only
met his smile; he did not answer me, but contented himself with
assuring me that I might eat in safety. He even enlarged on
the excellence of some of the dishes, most of which were new to
me. I did little more in the progress of the repast than follow
the example of the taster, who, his office over, had instantly
retired, but not before casting a glance, as I fancied, of particular
meaning toward Bruno, who returned it with one similarly significant!
I observed that all the retainers exhibited a singular
degree of deference to this man, that his wishes seemed anticipated,
and his commands were instantly obeyed. Yet he spoke
to them rather in the language of an intimate companion than a
master. He was jocose and familiar, made inquiries into their
exclusive concerns, and seemed to have secured their affections
entirely. It was not long before I discovered that this was
the case. From the salle à mangér, as neither of us cared
to eat, we retired after a brief delay, and, leaving the castle,
emerged by a low postern into an open court which had once
been enclosed and covered, but of the enclosure of which only
one section of the wall remained, connecting the main building
with a sort of tower, which, as I afterward found, contained the
apartments assigned me by the baroness. To this tower Bruno
now conducted me. Crossing the court, we entered a small door
at the foot of the tower, which my conductor carefully bolted
behind him. We then ascended a narrow and decaying flight
of steps, which, being circular, gradually conducted us to an
upper chamber of greater height from the ground than, looking
upward from below, I had at first esteemed it. This chamber
was in very good repair, and at one time seemed, indeed, to
have been very sumptuously furnished. There was, however,
an air of coldness and damp about the apartment that impressed
me with unpleasant sensations. But a single window, and that
a small one, yielded the daylight from the eastern sky, while
two small narrow doors, that appeared to have been shut up for
a century and more, occupied opposite sections of the northern
and southern walls. The little aperture at the head of the
stairs was closed by a falling trap, and fastened or not at the
pleasure of the incumbent, by a bolt in the floor above. A
massive bedstead, of carved columns and antique pattern, stood
almost beside the trap, making flight easy by that means in the
event of such a proceeding seeming desirable. A venerable
table, of the same style and century as the bedstead, stood in
the middle of the apartment, sumptuously covered with a rich
damask cloth, the massive fringes of which swept the floor around
it. The solitary window of the apartment was shaded by a curtain
of similar hue, but of softer and finer material. But the upholstery
and decorations of my chamber, or my prison — for such it
seemed with all its decaying splendor — called for little of my
notice then, and deserves not that of my reader. A casual glance
sufficed to show me the things of which I have spoken, and I
do not think I bestowed upon them more. There were matters
far more serious in my mind and important to my interest. Two
stools which the apartment contained, afforded seats to Bruno
and myself; and I scarcely allowed myself to be seated before
I demanded an explanation of the strange scene through which
we had gone with my benefactress.

“A little longer, dear Herman — be patient a little longer —
and then you shall have no cause to complain of me. I shall strive
soon to convince you of my wishes for your happiness and welfare,
and, perhaps, of the continued labors which I have undergone,
having your fortunes in view only. Yet, I do not promise you to
unfold the mystery entirely, or even partially, which enwraps this
castle and its unhappy mistress. Perhaps I can not. I confess
freely there is something beyond my knowledge, though not, I
trust, beyond my power. Should I succeed in what I purpose,
and this very night may show, then may you expect such a
revelation as will satisfy your curiosity and make you better
content with your position. Of one thing I may assure you;
your fortunes are better than you think them, the prospect is

favorable before you, and the time is not far distant when you
may realize my hopes in your behalf, and reap some of the
fruits of my toils. But I must leave you now. Nay, do not
stay me, and do not seek to question me further. I can not
now, I will not, speak more on this subject. It is your interest
that calls me from you.”

I would have detained him for further questions, spite of his
admonition, but he broke away from me, and was hurrying
through the small southern door of the apartment when he suddenly
stopped.

“Herman, I had almost forgotten a most important matter.
I must give you some cautions. This door, you perceive, has a
bar, which drops within these fissures of the wall and secures it
thoroughly. You will close it after me, and keep it fast at all
hours. Do not open it to any summons unless it be mine, and
even my voice, or what may seem to be my voice, must not persuade
you to violate this caution. When I desire entrance, you
will hear these sounds, but no words” — here he breathed, rather
than whistled, a slight note, interrupted by a singular quaver,
which seemed the very soul of mystery — “above all,” he continued,
“let no woman's voice persuade you to undo the bar.”

“But suppose the baroness should send?”

“Do not you hear. She may send — nay, I am sure she
will — she may come herself.'

“But I must then open?”

“No, not then! Not for your life.”

“Ha, Bruno! What may this mean?”

“Inquire not now, my son; but believe me that my precautions
are not idle, not unnecessary. I live but to serve and save
you.”

“Save me! You confound me, Bruno.”

“Yes, I have saved you until now, and require nothing but
your obedience to be your preserver still. Do as I ask, as I
command you! and all will be well, and we shall be triumphant.”

His words were no less strange to me than had been those of
the baroness, and what was more strange than all was that
sudden air of authority, parental indeed, which he now assumed
for the first time. I did not, at the moment, feel the greater

singularity of my own tacit obedience, without disputation, to
the authority of this man. I acted, all the while, as if under
the sway of an instinct. His eye, in the next moment, gave a
hasty glance to the solitary window of my chamber and to the
door in the southern wall of the apartment.

“That door is almost unapproachable,” he said, seeing that
my eye followed the direction of his; “it leads to an abandoned
terrace which overhangs the lake. The portion of wall which
connected it with the castle is almost in ruins. Still it may be
well that you should keep it bolted. The window, which is
grated and inaccessible, will yet afford you a pretty view of the
neighboring mountains; these, as there is a lovely moon to-night,
you will be able to distinguish readily. Should the hours
seem tedious in my absence, you can amuse yourself by looking
forth. But, let me warn you at parting, Herman, open to no
summons but mine.”

5. V.

He left me at these words, and left me more perplexed, if not
more apprehensive, than ever. My meditations were neither
clear nor pleasant. Indeed, I knew not what to think, and,
perhaps naturally enough, ended by distrusting my counsellor.
The change in his deportment and language had been no less
marvellous than was the reception which I had met with from
the baroness. The inference seems usually justified that where
there is mystery, there is guilt also; and Bruno had evidently
been more mysterious and inscrutable than the baroness. She,
indeed, had spoken plainly enough. Looks, words, and actions,
had equally denounced and driven me from her presence; and,
ignorant and innocent of any wrong, performed or contemplated,
I necessarily regarded my benefactress as the victim of sudden
lunacy. Still, it was impossible to reconcile the conduct of
Bruno, however strange and unaccountable it might seem, with
the idea of his unfaithfulness. He certainly, so far as I knew,
had ever been true to my interests. He had been something
more. He had shown himself deeply attentive to all my feelings.
Never had father bestowed more tender care on a beloved
son, and shown more of parental favor in his attachments,
than had been displayed toward me from the first by this person.

It was not easy now to distrust him; and, racked by conflicting
conjectures, I passed two weary hours before anything
happened to divert my thoughts from speculations which brought
me no nigher to the truth. In the meanwhile, I had made sundry
attempts, by looking around me, to lessen the influence of
my thoughts upon my feelings. I examined by chamber with
the appearance, if not the feeling, of curiosity. I mounted to
the window, and for a little while was soothed by the soft, silvery
light of the moon, as it seemed to trickle down the brown,
discolored sides of the rocks that rose in the distance, hill upon
hill, until the last was swallowed up in the gloomy immensity
beyond. The moon herself, in the zenith, was beyond my
glance. But this prospect did not relieve the anxiety which
it failed to divert. I turned from the pleasing picture, and,
resuming my seat beside the table in my gloomy apartment,
again surrendered myself up to those meditations which, however,
were soon to be disturbed. My attention was called to
the door through which Bruno had taken his departure, and
which — though I did not then know the fact — led through a
long, dismal corridor, to a suite of rooms beyond. A distinct
tap, twice or thrice repeated, was made upon the door. I was
on the eve of forgetting the solemn injunctions of my companion,
and had nearly risen from my seat for the purpose of opening it.
I recollected myself, however, before doing so, and maintained
an inflexible silence. But I could not stifle the beatings of my
heart, which, on a sudden, seemed to have acquired fourfold
powers of pulsation. I almost tottered under my emotion; and
nothing but a resolution of the most stern character, and the
feeling of shame that came to my relief and reproached me with
my weakness, enabled me to preserve a tolerable degree of composure.
I kept silence and my seat; suppressed my breathings
as well as I could; and, with ears scarcely less keen than those
of the watch-dog when the wolf-drove trots about the enclosure,
did I listen to the mysterious summons from without. Again
and again, though still in moderate force, as if some caution was
necessary to prevent the sounds from reaching other senses than
my own, were the taps repeated upon the door; and, after a
full quarter of an hour, passed in a condition of suspense the
most trying and oppressive, I was at length relieved by hearing
the tread of retiring footsteps, preceded by the murmurs of a
voice which I had never heard before, and none of the words
of which could I distinguish.

I breathed more freely for a while, but for a while only. Perhaps
an hour elapsed — it might have been less — it certainly
could not have been more; I had fallen into a sort of stupor,
akin to sleep, for nature was not to be denied her rights, even
though care had begun to insist on hers; when the summons was
renewed upon the entrance, and, this time, with a considerable
increase of earnestness. Still, I followed the counsel of Bruno,
returned no answer, and strove to retain my position in the most
perfect silence. The knocking was repeated after a little interval,
but with the same want of success. Then I heard voices.
A whispering dialogue was evidently carried on between two
persons. How acute will the ears of anxiety become when
sharpened by apprehension. I heard whispers, evidently meant
to be suppressed, through a stone wall nearly three feet in
thickness. The whispering was succeeded by a third summons,
to which I paid as little attention as before, and then the whispers
were exchanged for murmurs — sharp, quick murmurs —
in the tones of that voice, which, once heard, could never have
been forgotten. It was the voice of the baroness. I could now
distinguish her words; for, in her passion, she lost all her prudence.
“Said you not that you saw them enter together?”
The reply was not audible, though the whisper which conveyed
it was sufficiently so.

“And you saw Bruno go forth alone?”

Again the whisper, which must have been affirmative.

“And he took the way to the convent?”

The response was immediate, and, I suppose, affirmative also,
though still in a whisper too soft for me to hear.

“Then he must be here!”

The remark was followed by a louder knocking, in the intervals
of which my name was called three several times in the
voice of the baroness; each time with increased emphasis, and
evidently under the influence of a temper, roused from the first,
and growing momently more and more angry, under disappointment.
I began to reproach myself with my conduct. How
could I justify this treatment of my benefactress? By what

right did I exclude her, and what reason could I give to myself
or others for such disrespectful treatment? The discussion
of this question in my own mind led to various and conflicting
resolves. My reflections all required that I should answer the
summons, and open the door to the mistress of the castle; but
my feelings, swayed equally by the mystery of my situation,
and the singular influence which Bruno had acquired over me,
were opposed to any compliance. While I debated, however,
with myself, I heard another voice without — the voice of Bruno
— which seemed to produce as much annoyance and fluttering
among my nocturnal visiters, as their summons had occasioned
in my own excited heart. His tones were loud, and he seemed
to be under as much excitement as the baroness. The words
of his first address were clearly audible.

“Ah, madam,” he exclaimed, “it is as I apprehended; you
have then violated your promise — you have dared!”—

“Dared — dared!” was the almost fierce exclamation in reply.

“Ay, madam, dared. You knew the penalty of faithlessness
when you complied with the conditions; can it be that you
would defy it. How is it then —”

“Stand from my way, insolent!” cried the baroness, interrupting
him in haughty accents, and evidently moving forward.

“Willingly,” was the answer; “willingly, but I go with you
for awhile. Dismiss the girl.”

Strange to say, this command, for command it was, was instantly
obeyed. I heard the baroness clearly address a third
person, of whom I knew nothing, but whom I conceived to be
the person meant by Bruno, in terms which despatched her from
the presence. The dialogue between the two was then resumed,
but the sounds gradually died away from my ears, as it seemed
in consequence of the parties retiring to some more distant spot.
My agitation may be fancied all the while. So long as the interlocutors
were within hearing, I was more composed and quiet.
When I ceased to hear them and to be conscious of their neighborhood,
my anxiety became utterly unrestrainable. I defied
the fears which oppressed me, the warning which had been
given me, the nice scruples of propriety and delicacy, which, at
another time, I should have insisted upon as paramount to every

other law. I lifted the bar from the door, which I opened, and
emerged into the long and gloomy gallery, of which I have already
briefly spoken. I was resolved to pursue the parties,
and satisfy that intense curiosity — a curiosity which was strictly
justified by my own entire dependence upon the circumstances
in progress — possibly, for life and death, weal and wo, bondage
and freedom — which was preying upon me like a fever. With
many misgivings, some momentary scruples, and a few fears,
all of which I contrived to keep in subjection, I pursued this
gallery with the most cautious footstep, resolved to hear the
dreadful truth, for such I now esteemed it to be, upon which
turned the mysterious history of my birth and fortunes. I
groped my way, almost in entire darkness, along a ruinous part
of the castle. The gallery seemed to be winding, and there
were openings in the wall, which I felt on either hand at intervals,
and which seemed to indicate other chambers and apartments.
Through these a chill wind passed, confirming me in
the belief that they were ruinous and deserted, and satisfying
me that the parties I pursued were not to be found in either of
them. At the end of the gallery I was stopped by a door, and
beyond it the voices were again heard, sometimes low, at other
times in angry emphasis, but seemingly with little or no cessation
either of one or of the other. The words were seldom sufficiently
audible to be syllabled clearly, and my curiosity would
not suffer me to remain satisfied. I tried the door, which, to my
great joy, was unfastened, and advanced with increased caution
into a second and small apartment which seemed a dressing-room.
A faint light gliding through a chink in the opposite
wall, together with the distinct voices of the persons I sought,
guided me to a spot where I could see them with tolerable ease,
and hear all their words distinctly. The chamber into which I
looked was similarly furnished with my own. It seemed to
have been equally unoccupied. An ancient ottoman received
the form of the baroness, who, as she spoke, alternately rose
from, or sunk back upon its cushions. She scarcely uttered a
sentence without accompanying it with great and corresponding
action; now rising from her seat and advancing passionately
upon her companion with hand uplifted as if to strike, her eye
flashing fury and resolution while her lips poured forth a torrent
of impetuous indignation and rage; — then suddenly receding
at the close of her words, she would sink back as if exhausted
upon the ottoman, burying her face within her hands
and sobbing with disappointed anger. Bruno, meanwhile,
looked the very embodiment of coolness and resolution.

“Ulrica,” I heard him say, as I approached the aperture,
“these are follies from which you should be now freed. They
are frenzies which must only destroy you, while they do no
good to your purpose, enfeeble you in my sight and humble
you in your own. Of what avail is all this violence — of what
avail your further struggles to prevent that consummation which
is, at length, at hand: let me implore you to be wise ere it be
too late. Welcome with a smile the necessity which you can
baffle no longer.”

“Welcome it with a curse — welcome it with death, rather.
Well do you call it a necessity; it is a necessity like death, and
as such, and such only, shall it have my welcome.”

“And the wise welcome death with a smile, if only because
it is a necessity,” replied Bruno. “You can not now escape me,
you can not longer evade compliance with my wishes. Long,
long, and wearisome indeed, have been my labors. I have at
length triumphed! I have succeeded in my purpose, and am,
at length the master of your fate! I witness your struggles
with sorrow, as they only drive you on the more certainly to
humiliation — perhaps to madness. It is pity, Ulrica, genuine
pity, and no other feeling, which would move me to implore of
you a willing concession of that which you can no longer avoid
to make. The necessity is now inevitable, and I would spare
you those further struggles which tend only to your exhaustion.
You are so completely in my power, that your hatred and fury
no longer awaken my indignation.”

“Do you exult, wretch — do you then exult? Beware!
You are not yet secure of your triumph.”

“I am. Let this night pass only without harm to the boy,
and all is well, and our triumph is complete. I am then your
master.”

“Master! master! Away, insolent, and leave me. You are
still my slave.”

“No, Ulrica, you know better than this. The epithet is no

longer applicable. I am your master, and the master of your
fate.”

“Slave! slave! slave!” was the oft-repeated and bitter exclamation,
which came forth from her lips in foamed impotence.

“If to conquer is to acquire the rights of a master, then are
these rights mine. Still I say not `Wo to the conquered.'
No, Ulrica, again and again, I conjure you to seek favor and to
find it. It is still in your power — it is in your power while this
night lasts — to receive indulgence. Be merciful to yourself as
well as to him, the youth, who now, for the first time, from that
awful hour of storm and meditated crime, the hour of his birth,
enters the dwelling of —”

“Say it not, man — wretch, fiend! Hell's curses and consuming
fire be upon that hour, and the vile thing of which you
speak. Slave! Hence! hence and leave me! and hear from
my lips — lips which have seldom spoken the language of vengeance
and of hate in vain, that the night is not yet over, and
he who shouts at the close of one day may howl ere the beginning
of another.”

“I do not despise your threats, Ulrica — I fear them; — but I
guard against them also. Did you fancy that you could penetrate
to that chamber undiscovered by the watchful eyes that
for the last seventeen years have been busy in penetrating
every movement of your mind and soul?”

“Accursed period! Fiend, wherefore will you torment me
with the recollections of that time?”

“Curse not the time, Ulrica, but the deed which it witnessed,
and the worse deeds to which it led — your deeds, Ulrica, not
mine — your free and voluntary deeds, to which neither the
counsels of wisdom, nor of others, but your appetites and evil
passions impelled you. You have called me slave repeatedly
to-night — it is your favorite epithet when you deign to speak
of, and to me. It is now time that I should relieve myself from
the epithet, as I am now able to prove myself your master, and
the master of your fate. If, seventeen years ago, I was the
bondman of your father, annexed to the soil, his serf — your
slave — I have been emancipated from all such relationships by
your crime. You asserted the power which was transmitted
you, to command my obedience. You required of me a service,

as a slave, which released me from all obligations of that condition;
and though I wore the aspect, the demeanor, the burden
of the slave, from that moment I resolved to be one no longer.
When that boy —”

“Curse him! — Hell's curses be upon him and you!” was the
fiendish exclamation, accompanied by looks equally fiendish.

“Those curses, Ulrica, will cling to your neck and strangle
you for ever!” was the stern and indignant answer of Bruno to
this interruption. “Of one thing be certain, they neither vex
me nor baffle me in my purpose. They have never hitherto
done so, nor shall they now, when my labors are on the eve of
successful completion. But I resume: When that boy was born,
I resolved to secure him from the fate of the others! Did it
not prove my fitness for freedom when my mind was successful
in the struggle with my master? How long has that struggle
continued — what has been its history — what now is its termination?
My triumph — my continued triumphs — my perfect
mastery over you! I have baffled you in your purposes — prevented
many — would I could have prevented all — of your evil
deeds and desires; protected the innocent from your hate — preserved
the feeble from your malice, and secured, to this moment,
the proofs equally of your crime and my superiority. Did
these achievements seem like the performances of a slave? Did
these betray the imbecility, the ignorance, or the pliability of
the slave? No, Ulrica, no! He who can rank with his master
has gained a sufficient, perhaps the only sufficient title to his
freedom! But that title was already gained when you descended
to the level, and contented yourself with sharing the
pleasures of the slave; when you were willing—”

A torrent of the most terrific imprecation, in a voice more like
the bursting of a thunderbolt, drowned the narrative of the
speaker, and prevented me from hearing the conclusion of a
speech, the tenor of which equally surprised and confused me.
What Bruno said was just enough to advance me to a mental
eminence whence I could survey only a sea of fog, and haze,
and mystery, much deeper than before. When his words again
became intelligible, he had discontinued his reminiscences.

“Hear me, Ulrica. You know not yet the extent of my
knowledge. You dream not that I am familiar with your secrets

even beyond the time when I was called to share them.
Till now I have kept the knowledge from you, but when I
name to you the young but unhappy Siegfried! His fate—”

“Ha! Can it be! Speak, man, monster, devil! How
know you this? Hath that vile negress betrayed me?”

“It needs not that you should learn whence my knowledge
comes. Enough that I know the fate of the unhappy Siegfried
— unhappy because of your preference, and too vain of his elevation
from the lowly condition of his birth, to anticipate the
fearful doom which in the end awaited him; and to which I,
too, was destined. But the kind Providence which has preserved
me, did not suffer me to be blinded and deceived by the
miserable lures which beguiled him to his ruin, and which you
vainly fancied should mislead me. You would have released
my limbs from fetters to lay them the more effectually upon my
soul. You commanded my submission, you enforced it, but you
never once deceived me. I saw through you from the first, and
prayed for the strength to baffle and overcome you. I obtained
it through prayer and diligence; and more than once it was my
resolution, as it long has been in my power, to destroy you, and
deliver you without time for repentance, to the fearful agent of
evil which has so long had possession of your heart. That boy
has saved you more than once. The thought of him, and the
thought of what he was, and should be, to you, has come between
me and my purpose. You have been spared thus long,
and it is with you to declare, in this place, and at this moment,
whether you will be wise in season, whether you will forego
the insane hatred which has filled your bosom from the hour of
his birth, and accept the terms of peace and safety which I now
offer you for the last time. Hear me through, Ulrica, and know
that I do not heed your curses. I am too strong, too secure in
my position, to be moved by the idle language of wrathful impotence.
This night must determine equally for him and yourself.
To-morrow, which witnesses his public triumph, will be
too late for you unless to share it. I have already seen his holiness,
who will be here at noon, armed with plenary powers to
search and examine; and it needs only that I should point my
finger, and your doom is written, here and eternally. You are
not in the temper to die; and you may escape for repentance.

Nor is the condition a hard one. The youth is noble, intelligent,
and handsome; he will do honor to any house. It is only to
acknowledge—”

“Say no more, slave! Base, blackhearted, bitter slave! Say
no more to me on this hateful subject. You have deceived me
long; but you have not yet baffled me, as you insolently boast.
Still less are you the master of my fate! — The master of my
fate! Ha! ha! ha! That were, indeed, to be humbled to the
dust. Away, fool, and know that my foot shall yet be upon
your neck, while your false tongue licks the ground in which
you grovel. Away! I defy you now, and spit upon you with
disgust and scorn. Give me way, that I may lose sight of your
false and hateful aspect.”

The words of the man were full of a calm, but bitter sorrow,
as he stood before her.

“For your own sake and safety, Ulrica, I implore you. Be
not rash; yield to the necessity which must go forward; yield
to it with grace, and all may yet be well. There is still time
for safety and for repentance. On my knees, Ulrica, I supplicate
you to be more merciful to yourself, to me, to him!”

“Never, never!” she exclaimed, as, with violent hand and
sudden blow, she struck the speaker, who had knelt before her,
over the yet unclosed lips, and rapidly passed toward an opposite
entrance. He did not rise, but continued to implore her.

“This, too, I forgive, Ulrica. Once more I pray you!”

“Slave! Slave! Slave! Do your foulest — base traitor, I
defy you!”

She disappeared in the same instant, and Bruno rose slowly
and sorrowfully to his feet; while, trembling with equal wonder
and apprehension, I stole back with hurried but uncertain footsteps
to my chamber, and hastily fastened the door behind me.

6. VI.

I naturally expected that Bruno, in a short time, would follow
upon my footsteps, and deep indeed was the solicitude with
which I waited for his coming. No words could convey to the understanding
of another the singular and oppressive feelings, doubts
and anxieties which had been awakened in my mind by the

strange and terrible scene which I had witnessed. The curious
relation in which the parties stood to each other — the calm assurance
and stubborn resolution which was shown by Bruno, in
defiance of one whom I had regarded only in the light of a mistress
equally without reproach or fear — her fury, which, as it
awakened no respect in him, was the sufficient proof of the weakness
and his power — his mysterious accusations, which I was
too young to comprehend and too inexperienced to trace; —and,
not least, the fearful threats to which every sentence which he
uttered tended — subdued all my strength, and made me weaker
in limb and in heart than the infant for the first time tottering
on uncertain footsteps. There was something, also, in the brief
space which he allowed the baroness — but the single night on
which she had already entered — for repentance before doom,
which fearfully increased the terrors with which my imagination
invested the whole fearful subject. And what could be the
judgment — what the penalty — for those crimes, of which, as
nothing was known to me, all seemed vast, dark, and overwhelming?
The more I strove to think, the more involved I
became in the meshes of my own wild-weaving fancies; and,
failing to fix upon any certain clue which might lead me to a
reasonable conclusion, I strove, at length, in headache and vexation,
to dismiss all thought from my mind, patiently awaiting the
approach of Bruno and the morning for the solution of my doubts
and conjectures. But Bruno and the morning promised to be
equally slow in their approaches. The stillness of death now
overspread the castle, and the buzzing of a solitary insect within
my chamber, acquired, in the tomb-like silence of the hour, a
strange and emphatic signification in my ear. Hopeless of Bruno's
immediate return — as nothing could be more natural than
the conclusion that his labors must be great that night in preparation
for those morning results of which he had spoken so confidently
— I determined to yield myself to slumber; and, without
undressing, I threw myself upon the massive and richly decorated
couch of my chamber. But I might as well have striven
for flight to the upper clouds, as to win the coy and mocking
sleep which I desired. My imagination was wrought up to an
almost feverish intensity. The breathing of the wind through
a crevice startled and distressed me, and in the very silence of
the scene and hour I felt a presence which stimulated my fancies
and increased my anxiety and dread. I no longer strove
for sleep. I rose and approached the little window, and looked
down upon the court. There the moonlight lay, spread out like
a garment, so soft, so spiritual, that thought naturally became
mysticism as I surveyed it, and the vague uncertainties of
the future crowded upon the arena of the present world. I
could fancy shadows — which were images rather than shadows
— which passed to and fro in the cold, thin, but hazy atmosphere;
that tossed their wild arms above their marble brows, as,
melting away in the distance, they gave place to wilder and pursuing
aspects. Sounds seemed, at length, to accompany these
movements, and that acute sense of the marvellous, which all
men possess in proportion to their cultivated and moral nature,
and which seems a quality of sight and hearing only — a thing
all eyes and ears — conjured syllables from the imperfect sounds,
and shrieks of pain from the vague murmurs which now really
reached my ears from a distance, and which, probably, were only
murmurs of the wind over the little lake that lay at the foot of
the castle. As this conviction stirred my mind, I remembered
the door to which the attention of Bruno had been drawn for a
moment while he was discussing the securities of my chamber.
I remembered that this door, as he described it, led to the terrace
which immediately overlooked the lake. The remembrance,
in my feverish state of mind, led me to desire to survey
this scene, and I approached the door, and had already begun to
undo the fastenings, which, by the way, I found far less firm
and secure than my friend had imagined. The inches of the
wall, into which the bar was dropped, were crumbling and decayed
to so great a degree, that the shoulder of a vigorous man,
from without, might, without much effort, have driven it from
the slight fragments which still held it in its place. Nor was
even this degree of violence necessary to effect an entrance.
From a further examination I discovered that the wall had been
tempered with — a fragment of the stone dislodged, though not
withdrawn, through the opening of which a hand from without
might readily lift the bar and obtain access. The cement having
been carefully scraped away, the stone was suffered to remain,
so nicely adjusted to the place, that it was only from one point
of view that I could discern a faint glimmer of the moonlight
through the aperture. The suspicions of Bruno, not to speak
of my own, received strong confirmation from this discovery;
and my apprehensions being naturally aroused, I now strove for
means to secure the door which I had been about to open. It
was apparent to me that I was now threatened with danger
from without. I looked about my chamber, and my eye rested
upon the massive table standing in the midst. I immediately
seized upon that, and placed it though with some difficulty,
against the door. While I meditated in what manner to increase
my defences, my ear, which had acquired all the keen
sensibilities of an Indian scout on the edge of an enemy's
encampment, detected a light buzzing sound, which drew my
attention to the terrace. But I had scarcely stopped to the aperture,
when a scream — a torrent of screams — rang so suddenly
on the late silent atmosphere, that I was staggered, almost
stunned, as if a thunderbolt had on the instant fallen at my feet
in the deep stillness of the unbroken forests. The sounds came
from the terrace; and as soon as I could recover from the enfeebling
effect of my first surprise, hearing the screams still
repeated as wildly as ever, I obeyed the natural impulse of my
feelings, and prepared to rush out to the scene of clamor. I
dashed the table from the door, against which I had taken such
pains to bear it, and tearing the slight fastenings away which
otherwise secured the entrance, I threw it open and darted out
upon the scene. The object that met my eyes, that instant, fastened
my feet. There stood the baroness, about twenty steps from
me, and at nearly the same distance from a door in the opposite
wall, which was open, and from which she had evidently
emerged. Behind her stood a negress — a dwarf — the blackest,
strangest and most hideous-looking animal I had ever in
my life beheld. The baroness had been approaching my
apartment — her face was toward me, but her eyes were turned
— nay, fixed and frozen, it would seem, as if in the contemplation
of some object upon the parapet which overlooked the lake.
Her attitude exhibited the intense and strained action of insanity.
One hand — the left — was uplifted, and averted, as if
to hide her eyes from the object which they yet resolutely
strained to see. In the other hand, glistening in the moonlight,
was a poinard, bared and borne aloft, as if designed for immediate
service. I shuddered with an uncontrollable emotion of
sickness — heart-sickness — as I associated the dialogue to which
I had listened, with this instrument of death. But, though her
progress had evidently been toward my chamber, her eyes were
not now given to me. Her thoughts — if thought she had —
were all elsewhere. Her fancies were hurrying her to other
worlds, and scenes, and objects, visible to no senses but her
own. Wildly she pointed to the parapet overlooking the lake,
and gazed and spoke — a speech whose every accent was a
scream of agony — as if still in sight lay some object of hate
and fear, which she vainly struggled not to see.

“There — there — will it never sink — will it never die — will
those hideous eyes never turn away! Down, down! — Thrust
it down when I command ye — the rock is heavy in its garments
— the lake is deep, deep, and still and silent — down with it,
slave — for ever from my sight! Or, if ye tremble, set me free
and I will do it — I have no fears — none! none!”

Thus, fixed and terrible, ghastly and staring wild, with idiot
frenzy, she stood gazing and intent upon the fancied object in
her sight — immovable, seemingly, as a statue, and conscious of
nothing beside. I lost my fears in the contemplation of hers,
and approached her, though hardly with any distinct purpose.
She seemed not to notice my approach — not even when the negress
who followed in her train rushed to her at my appearance
and strove, with an excitement of manner only less than her own,
to direct her attention upon me. But the wretched one turned
not once aside at the interruption. Her eyes took but the one
direction, and could not be averted; and her incoherent language
was poured forth in rapid, though inconsecutive syllables, to the
object of her mind's vision, which so effectually froze to darkness
all her capacities of sight. Never did I behold — never could I
have fancied or believed a spectacle so wild and fearful. Imagine
for yourself a woman, once eminently beautiful — of a dark
and mysterious beauty — tall in form — majestic in carriage — in
little more than the prime of life — wearing the dignity of age,
yet, in every look, movement, feature, and gesture, exhibiting
the impulsive force and passionate energy of youth; — her person
bending forward — her eyes straining as if to burst from the

burning sockets — her lips slightly parted, but with the teeth
gnashing at occasional intervals with a spasmodic motion — her
hair, once richly black and voluminously massive, touched with
the gray that certainly ensues from the premature storms of a
winter of the soul, escaping from all confinement, and streaming
over her cheeks and neck — the veins of her neck and forehead
swelling into thick ridges and cording the features with a tension
that amply denoted the difficulty of maintaining any such restraint
upon them! — Imagine such a woman! — the ferocity of the
demon glaring from her eye, in connection with the strangest
expression of terror which that organ ever wore — the raised
dagger in her hand — her hand uplifted — her foot advanced —
and so frozen! — so fixed in the rigidity of marble! — the image
above the sepulchre! — no unfitting emblem of the dread and enduring
marriage, which nothing can ever set asunder, between
unrepented Guilt, and unforgiving Death!

I was nearly maddened even to behold this spectacle, and it
was a relief to me, when, with a no less terrible and terrifying
energy she shook off the torpor which stifled life in all its wonted
forms of expression, and renewed those fearful tones of memory
and crime, which, though revealing nothing, amply testified
to a long narrative equal of shame, and sin, and suffering.

“There! there!” she exclaimed, still addressing herself to
some imaginary object which seemed to rest or to rise before her
upon the parapet which overhung the lake —“There again! —
its hands — its little hands — will nothing keep them down!
They rise through the water — they implore — but no! no! It
were a mistaken mercy now to save! — let me not look — let me
not see — will you not fling it over — the lake is deep — the rock
is heavy in its little garments — it will soon sink from sight for
ever, and then — then I shall be safe. Ha! it goes — it goes at
last! — Do you not hear the plunge! — the water gurgles in its
nostrils — closes over it, and — God spare me, what a piercing
shriek — Another! another! — Keep me not back — I will look
if it be gone! — No! no! its little face smiles upon me through
the white water!”

And this was followed by a shriek, piercing like that which
she described, which penetrated to the very marrow of my bones.
With the cry she bounded toward the parapet, looked wildly

down into the lake at the foot of the castle, then recoiled with a
scream to which every previous cry from her lips was feeble
and inexpressive. The climax of her frenzy had been reached.
I was just in time to save her. She fell backward and I received
her in my arms. The shock seemed to bring her back
to a more human consciousness. Her eyes were turned upon
my own; a new intelligence seemed to rekindle them with
their former expression of hate — her hand vainly strove to use
the dagger against my person. In the effort, it fell nerveless at
her side, while a sudden discharge from the mouth and nostrils
drenched my garments with her blood.

7. VII.

Bruno at that instant appeared and received her from my
arms. The relief was necessary to me — I could not have
sustained her much longer. I was sick almost to exhaustion.
I felt unable to endure a sight to me so strange and
terrible, yet I strove in vain to turn my eyes away. They
were fixed as if by some fearful fascination. Hers, too,
were now riveted upon me. At first, when I transferred
her to the arms of Bruno, they were turned upon him; but,
in the next moment, as suddenly averted, with an expression
of loathsomeness and hate, which suffering had not softened, nor
the seeming approach of death diminished of any portion of intensity.
On me they bestowed a more protracted, but scarcely a
more kindly expression. Broken syllables, stifled and overcome
by the discharge of blood, struggled feebly from her lips; and,
fainting at last, she was borne to the chamber from which she
had emerged at the beginning of that scene, the purposes of
which seemed to me so inscrutable, and the progress of which
was in truth so terrible. Medical assistance was sent for, and
every succor bestowed in the power of skill and humanity. Need
I say that a deep interest in her fate affected my bosom. A
vague conjecture, dark and strange, which coupled the fate and
history of this noble but wretched lady with my own, had naturally
arisen in my mind, from the dialogue to which I had been
a listener. What was she to me? I shuddered with an apprehension
and painful terror whenever this question suggested itself

to my thoughts. What was she not? What had she not
been? and what had been her purposes — her baffled purposes?
Let me not fancy them lest I madden.

“It is no subject of regret, Herman,” were the first words of
Bruno, when, yielding the baroness up to her attendants, we retired
to another apartment. “God has interposed to save us
from a greater trial, and to save her from an exposure even more
humbling than this. The dawn of another day, the sight of
which she will now be spared, would have been worse than
death to a spirit such as hers.”

“But, will she die, Bruno? Can she not be saved? is it
certain?”

“It is; and I am glad of it for your sake, as well as hers.”

“For my sake?”

“Ay! the moment of her death puts you in possession of this
castle and all her estates.”

“Me!”

“You.”

“And I am”—

“Her heir — yet not her heir. You are the heir to a power
beyond hers, and which proved her destiny. Her death makes
atonement at once to the living and to the dead. She now, involuntarily,
compensates for a long career of injustice. But, inquire
no further; death, which will place you in possession of
your rights, will, at the same time, deprive you for ever of a
knowledge of certain secrets, which, had she lived till to-morrow's
noon, must have been revealed in order to compel that
justice which has been too long denied. It is fortunate that she
will perish thus — fortunate for her — for you — for —”

He paused, and with an impulse which I could not withstand,
I desperately concluded the sentence —

“And for yourself!”

“For me! Ha! — Can it be? — Herman, my son, what have
you done?”

“Followed you through the corridor, when, this evening, you
led the baroness away from my apartment.”

“And did you trace our footsteps — did you find us where we
were — did you hear what was spoken?”

“All! All!”

He covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud in the
bitterness of an anguished and disappointed spirit.

“This pang,” he exclaimed at length, “I had hoped to spare
you. I have toiled for this at all seasons and hours, by night
and day, in crowds and solitudes. Unhappy boy! your curiosity
has won for you that partial knowledge of the truth which
must only bring delusion, doubt, and anxiety.”

“But why should it be partial, Bruno. I know from what
you have already said, that you know more, that you know all.
You will complete my knowledge, you will terminate my doubts.”

“Never! Never! If God has spared me, by his act this
night, that dire necessity from which he well knows I would
have shrunk, shall I now voluntarily seek it? No! No! The
fearful chronicle of shame is sealed up for ever in her death.
Blessed dispensation! Her lips can no longer declare her folly,
and mine shall be silent on her shame. You have heard all
that you can ever hear of these dreadful mysteries.”

“Nay, Bruno! Say not this, I implore you. Tell me, at
least, tell me, that this most fearful woman is not—”

I shrunk from naming the word, the word signifying the relationship
which I suspected to exist between us, which, indeed,
seemed now to be infinitely more than a doubt, a suspicion. I
looked to him to comprehend, to answer, without making necessary
the expression of my fear. But he was silent, and I forced
out the reluctant word:—

“Tell me, Bruno, tell me at least, that this fearful woman is
not — my mother.”

“And of what avail if I should tell you this? Would that
terminate your doubts — would that satisfy your curiosity?”

“It would — it would.”

“No, Herman, I know your nature better — to know this
would only lead to other and more annoying questions, questions
which, if answered, would take peace from your mind for ever.
You would know next—”

He now paused.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, “I would then seek to know — and I
now do — what was he, Bruno — my father — and what is the
secret of your power over her — and who are you?”

“Let it be a matter of thanks with you, Herman, in your

nightly prayers, that you can never know these things,” was the
hoarsely spoken reply. I threw myself at his feet, I clasped
his knees, I implored him in tears and supplications, but he was
immovable. He pressed me to his heart, he wept with me, but
he told me nothing.

8. VIII.

At dawn we were summoned to the chamber of the baroness.
A crisis was at hand. His reverence, the cardinal —, whose
presence had been expected at a late hour in the day, and for
another purpose, had been solicited to attend in haste, and had
complied with Christian punctuality, with the demands of mortal
suffering. But his presence effected nothing. The miserable
woman clearly enough comprehended his words and exhortations.
She listened without look of acknowledgment, or regret, or repentance.
She heard his prayers for her safety, and a smile of
scorn might be seen to mantle upon her lips. The Host was
elevated in her sight, and the scorn deepened upon her countenance
as she beheld it. Truly was she strong in her weakness.
The sacred wafer was presented to her lips, but they were closed
inflexibly against it. The death struggle came on; a terrible
conflict between fate on the one hand and fearful passions on the
other. The images of horror will never escape from my memory.
They are engraven there for ever. She raised herself to a sitting
posture in the bed without assistance. The effort was momentary
only. But, in that moment, her glance, which was
fixed on me, was the very life-picture of a grinning and fiendish
malice. The expression horrified the spectators. His eminence
once more lifted the sacred emblem of salvation in her sight, and
the last effort of her struggling life was to dash it from his
hands. In that effort she sank back upon the pillows, a fresh
discharge of blood took place from her mouth, and strangulation
followed. The sufferings of the mortal had given place to those
of which there can be no mortal record.

And I was the master, undisputed, of all these domains. And
Bruno had gone, none knew whither. Nothing more could I
fathom of these mysteries, but there was one search that I instituted,

one discovery that I made, which tended to deepen them
yet more, in seeming to give them partial solution. That little
lake, I had it drained, and, just beneath the wall of the parapet,
we found the tiny skeleton of an infant — bleached and broken
into fragments, but sufficiently perfect to leave no doubt of its
original humanity. A rude fragment of stone such as composed
the outer wall enclosing the castle, lay upon its little ribs. Need
I say that I gathered up, with the solicitude of a nameless love,
every remnant of this little relic, that it was inurned with the
tenderest care, and consigned to sacred keeping, with the feelings
of one who knew not well that he might not even then possess,
though he had never known, the love of an angel sister.