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THE
CASTLES
ot
ATHLIN and DUNBAYNE.





THE
CASTLES
or j
PI
ATHLltf and DUNBAYNE.
A HIGHLAND STORY.
(Imu list,'! t,I
——— FOR JUSTICE BARES THE ARM OF GOD,
AMD THE CRASp'd VENGEANCE ONLY WAITS HIS NOD.
CAWTH.
Æfie Seconb Edition.

LONDON:
■PRINTED FOR HOOKHAM AND CARPENTER,
BOND-STREET.
M.DCC, XCIII,





THE
CASTLES
o r
ATHLIN and DUNBAYNB.
/^N the north-east coast of Scotland,
in the most romantic part of the
Highlands, stood the castle ofAthlin;
an edifice built on the summit of a
rock whose base was in the sea. This
pile was venerable from its antiquity,
and from its gothic structure; but more
venerable from the virtues which it
enclosed. It was the residence of the
still beautiful widow, and the children,
B of


( 2 )
of the noble Earl of Athlin, who was
slain by the hand of Malcolm, a neigh-
bouring chief, proud, oppressive, re-
vengeful; and still refiding in all the
pomp of feudal greatness, within a few
miles of the castle of Athlin. Encroach-
ment on the domain of Athlin, was
the occasion of the animosity which
subsisted between the chiefs. Frequent
broils had happened between their
clans, in which that of Athlin had
generally been victorious. Malcolm,
whose pride was touched by the defeat
of his people; whose ambition was
curbed by the authority, 'and whose
greatness was rivalled by the power of
the Earl, conceived for him that deadly
hatred which opposition to its favourite
passions naturally excites in a mind
like his, haughty and unaccustomed to
controul; and he meditated his destruc-
tion. He planned his purpose with
all that address which so eminently
marked his character, and in a battle
which


( 3 )
which was attended by the chiefs of
each party in person, he contrived, by
a curious finesse, to entrap the Earl,
accompanied by a small detachment, in
his wiles, and there slew him. A gene-
ral rout of his clan ensued, which
was followed by a dreadful slaughter;
and a few only escaped to tell the horrid
catastrophe to Matilda. Matilda, over-
whelmed by the news, and deprived of
those numbers which would make re-
venge successful, forbore to sacrifice the
lives of her few remaining people to a
feeble attempt at retaliation, and she
was constrained to endure in silence
her sorrows and her injuries.
Inconsolable for his death, Matilda
had withdrawn from the public eye,
into this ancient feat of feudal govern-
ment, and there, in the bosom of her
people and her family, had devoted
herself to the education of her chil-
dren. One son and one daughter were
B 2 all


( 4 )
all that survived to her care, and their
growing virtues promised to repay all
her tenderness. Olbert was in his nine-
teenth year: nature had given him a
mind ardent and susceptible, to which
education had added refinement and
expansion. The visions of genius were
bright in his imagination, and his heart,
unchilled by the touch of disappoint-
ment, glowed with all the warmth of
benevolence.
When first we enter on the the-
atre of the world, and begin to no-
tice its features, young imagina-
tion heightens every scene, and the
warm heart expands to all around it.
The happy benevolence of our feelings
prompts us to believe that every body
is good, and excites our wonder why
every body is not happy. We are fired
with indignation at the recital of an act
of injustice, and ?t the unfeeling vices
of which we are told. At a tale of
distress


( 5 )
distress our tears flow a full tribut*
to pity: at a deed of virtue our heart
unfolds, our foul aspires, we bless the
action, and feel ourselves the doer.
As we advance in life, imagination is
compelled to relinquish a part of her
sweet delirium; we are led reluctantly
to truth through the paths of expe-
rience; and the objects of our fond
attention are viewed with a severer eye.
Here an altered scene appears ;—frowns
where late were smiles; deep shades
where late was sunshine: mean passions,
or disgusting apathy stain the features of
the principal figures. We turn indig-
nant from a prospect so miserable, and
court again the sweet illusions of our
early days; but ah! they are fled for
ever! Constrained, therefore, to behold
objects in their more genuine hues,
their deformity is by degrees less pain-
ful to us. The fine touch of moral
susceptibility, by frequent irritation,
becomes callous, and too frequently
B 3 we


( 6 )
tye mingle with the world, till we arc
added to the number of its votaries.
Mary, who was just seventeen, had
the accomplishments of riper years,
with the touching simplicity of youth.
The graces of her person were inferior
only to those of her mind, which illu-
mined her countenance with inimitable
expression.
Twelve years had now elapsed since
the death of the Earl, and time had
blunted the keen edge of sorrow. Ma-
tilda's grief had declined into a gentle,
and not unpleasing melancholy, which
gave a soft and interesting shade to the
natural dignity of her character. Hi-
therto her attention had been solely
directed towards rearing those virtues
which nature had planted with so libe-
ral a hand in her children, and which,
under the genial influence of her eye,
had flourished and expanded into beauty
and


( 7 > .
and strength. A new hope, and new
solicitudes, now arose in her breast:
these dear children were arrived at an
age, dangerous from its tender suscep-
tibility, and from the influence which
imagination has at that time over the
passions. Impressions would soon be
formed which would stamp their destiny
for life. The anxious mother lived
but in her children, and she had yet
another cause of apprehension.
When Osbert learned the story of his
father's death, his young heart glowed
to avenge the deed. The late Earl,
who had governed with the real dignity
of power, was adored by his clan; they
we're eager to revenge his injuries;
but oppressed by the generous com-
passion of the Countess, their murmurs
funk into silence: yet they fondly che-
rished the hope that their young Lord
would one day lead them on to conquest
and revenge. The time was now come
B 4 when


( * )
.w hen they looked to see this hope, the
solace of many a cruel moment, realized.
The tender fears of a mother would not
suffer Matilda to risque the chief of her
last remaining comforts. 'She forbade
Olbert to engage. He submitted in
silence, and endeavoured, by application
to his favourite studies, to stifle the
emotions which roused him to arms.
He excelled in the various accomplish-
ments of his rank, but chiefly in ihe
martial exercises, for they were conge-
nial to the nobility of his foul, and he
had a secret pleasure in believing, that
they would one time assist him to do
justice to the memory of his dead father.
His warm imagination directed him to
poetry, and he followed where she led.
He loved to wander among the roman-
tic scenes of the Highlands, where the
wild variety of nature inspired him with
all the enthusiasm of his favourite art.
He delighted in the terrible and in the
grand, more than in the softer landscape;
and»


( 9 )
and, wrapt in the bright visions of
fancy, would often lose himself in
awful solitudes.
It was in one of these rambles, that
having strayed for some miles over hills
covered with heath, from whence the
eye was presented with only the bold
outlines of uncultivated nature, rocks
piled on rocks, cataracts and vast moors
unmarked by the foot of traveller, he
lost the path, which he had himself
made; he looked in vain for, the ob-
jects which had directed him, and his
heart, for the first time, felt the repulse
of fear. No vestige of a human being
was to be seen, and the dreadful silence
of the place was interrupted only by the
roar of distant torrents, and by the
screams of the birds which flew over his
head. He shouted, and his voice was
answered only by the deep echos of the
mountains. He remained for some time
in a silent dread not wholly unpleasing,
B 5 but


( io )
but which was soon heightened to a
degree of terror not to be endured;
and he turned his steps backward,
forlorn, and dejected. His memory
gave^him back no image of the past;
having wandered some time, he came
to a narrow pass, which he entered,
overcome with fatigue and fruitless
search: he had not advanced far, when
> an abrupt opening in the rock suddenly
presented him with a view of the most
beautifully romantic spot he had ever
seen. It was a valley almost surrounded
by a barrier of wild rocks, whose base
was shaded with thick woods of pine
and fir. A torrent, which tumbled from
the heights, and was seen between the
woods, rushed with amazing impe-
tuosity into a fine lake which flowed
through the vale, and was lost in the
deep recesses of the mountains. Herds
of cattle grazed in the bottom, and
the delighted eyes of Olbert were once
more blessed with the fight of human
dwel-


( II )
dwellings. Far on the margin of the
stream were scattered a few neat cot-
tages. His heart was so gladdened at
the prospect, that he forgot he had yet
the way to find which led to this Ely-
fian vale. He was just awakened to this
distressing reality, when his attention
was once more engaged by the manly
figure of a young Highland peasant,
who advanced towards him with an air
of benevolence, and, having learned his \
distress, offered to conduct him to his
cottage. Olbert accepted the invita-
tion, and they wound down the hill,
through an obscure and intricate path,
together. They arrived at one of the
cottages which the Earl had observed
from the height; they entered, and the
peasant presented his guest to a venera-
ble old Highlander, his father, Refresh-
ments Were spread on the table by
a pretty young girl, and Oflbert, after
having partook of them and rested
awhile, departed, accompanied by Al-
B 6 leyn,


( 12 )
leyn, the young peasant, who had offered
to be his guide. The length of the
walk was beguiled by conversation.
Osbertwas interested by discovering in
his companion a dignity of thought, and
a course of sentiment similar to his'
own. On their way, they passed at
some distance the castle of Dunbayne.
This object gave to Osbert a bitter
reflection, and drew from him a deep
sigh. Alleyn made observations on the
bad policy of oppression in a chief,
and produced as an instance the Baron
Malcolm. These lands, said he, are
his, and they are scarcely sufficient
to support his wretched people, who,
sinking under severe exactions, suffer
to lie uncultivated, tracts which would
otherwise yield riches to their Lord.
His clan, oppressed by their burdens,
threaten to rife and do justice to them-
selves by force of arms. The Baron,
in haughty confidence, laughs at their
defiance, and is insensible to his dan-
ger:


ger; for should an insurrection hap-
pen, there are other clans who would
eagerly join in his destruction, and
punish with the same weapon the tyrant
and the murderer. Surprised at the
bold independence of these words, de-
livered with uncommon energy, the
heart of Osbert beat quick, and "O
God! my father!" burst from his lips.
Alleyn stood aghast! uncertain of the1
effect which his speech had produced;
in an instant the whole truth flashed upon
his mind:, He beheld the son of the
Lord whom he had been taught to love,
and whose sad story had been impressed
upon his heart in the early days of child-
hood; he sijnk at his feett and em-
braced his knees with a romantic ardor.
The young Earl raised him from the
ground, and the following words re-
lieved him from his astonishment, and
filled his eyes with tears of mingled joy
and sorrow: "There are other clans
as ready as your own to avenge the
wrongs


( H )
wrongs of the noble Earl of Athlin;
the Fits-Henrys were ever friends to
virtue." The countenance of the youth,
while he spoke, was overspread with
the glow of conscious dignity, and his
eyes were animated with the pride of
virtue. The breast of Osbert kindled
with the noble purpose, but the image
of his weeping mother crossed his mind,
and checked the ardor of the impulse.
"A time may come my friend," said
he, "when your generous zeal will be
accepted with the warmth of gratitude
it deserves. Particular circumstances
will not suffer me, at present, to say
more." The warm attachment of Al-
leyn to his father funk deep in his
heart.
It was evening before they reached the
castle, and Alleyn remained the Earl's
guest for that night.
CHAP-


( 15 )
CHAPTER H.
THE following day was appointed
for the celebration of an annual
festival given by the Earl to his people
and he would not suffer Alleyn to de-
part. The hall was spread with tables;
and dance and merriment resounded
through the castle. It was usual on
that day for the clan to assemble in
arms, on account of an attempt, the
memory of which it was meant to per-
petuate, made, two centuries before, by
an hostile clan to surprize them in their
festivity.
In the morning were performed the
martial exercises, in which emulation
was excited by the honorary rewards
bestowed on excellence. The Countess
and her lovely daughter, beheld, from
the ramparts of the castle, the scats
performed on the plains below. Their
atten-
4


( 16 )
attention was engaged, and their cu-
riosity excited by the appearance of a
stranger, who. managed the lance and
the bow with such exquisite dexterity,
as to bear off each prize of chivalry. It
was Alleyn. He received the palm of
victory, as was usual, from the hands
of the Earl; and the modest dignity
with which he accepted it, charmed
the beholders.
The Earl honoured the feast with his
presence, at the conclusion of whichj
each guest arose, and seizing his goblet
with his left hand, and with his right
striking .his sword, drank to the memory
of their departed Lord. The hall
echoed with the general voice. Olbert
felt it strike upon his heart the alarum
of war. The people then joined hands^
and drank to the honour of the son
of their late master. Osbert under™
stood the signal, and overcome with
emotion, every consideration yielded to
that


r 17 )
that of avenging his fathc r. He arose,
and harangued the clan with all the fire
of youth and of indignant virtue. As he
spoke, the countenance of his people
flashed with impatient joy; a deep mur-
mur of applause ran through the assem-
bly; and when he was silent, each man,
crossing his sword with that of his /
neighbour, swore by that sacred pledge
of union, never to quit the cause in
which they now engaged, till the life
of their enemy had paid the debt of
justice and of revenge.
In the evening, the wives and daugh-
ters of the peasantry came to the castle,
and joined in the festivity. It was usual
for the Countess and her ladies to
observe from a gallery of the hall, the
various performances of dance and song;
and it had been a custom of old for the
daughter of the castle to grace the oc-
casion by performing a Scotch dance
with the victor of the morning. This
victor


victor now was Alleyn, who beheld
the lovely Mary led by the Earl into the
hall, and presented to him as his part-
ner in the dance. She received his
homage with a sweet grace. She was
dressed in the habit of a Highland lass,
and her fine auburn tresses, which waved
in her neck, were ornamented only with
a wreath of roses. She moved in the
dance with the light steps of the Graces.
Profound silence reigned through the
hall during the performance, and a soft
murmur of applause arose on its conclu-
sion. The admiration of the spectators
was divided between Mary and the vic-
torious stranger. She retired to the
gallery, and the night concluded in
joy to all but the Earl, and to Alleyn;
but very different was the source and *
the complexion of their inquietude.
The mind of Osbert revolved the chief
occurrences of the day, and his foul
burned with impatience to accomplish
the purposes of filial piety; yet he
dreaded


( 19 J
dreaded the effect which the communi-
cation of his designs might have on the
tender heart of Matilda: on the mor-
row, however, he resolved to acquaint
her with them, and in a few days to
rife and prosecute his cause with arms.
Alleyn, whose bosom, till now, had
felt only for others' pains, began to be
conscious of his own. His mind, uneasy
and restless, gave him only the image
of the high-born Mary; he endea-
voured to exclude her idea, but with
an effort so faint, that it would still
intrude! Pleased, yet sad, he would
not acknowledge, even to himself, that
he loved; so ingenious are we to con-
ceal every appearance of evil from our-
selves. He arose with the dawn, and
departed from the castle full of grati-
tude and secret love, to prepare his
friends for the approaching war.
The Earl awoke from broken num-
bers,


( 20 J
bers, and summoned all his fortitude to
encounter the tender opposition of his
mother. He entered her apartment
with faultering steps, and his counte-
nance betrayed the emotions of his foul.
Matilda was soon informed of what
her heart had foreboded, and overcome
with dreadful sensation, funk lifeless
in her chair. Osbert flew to her as-
sistance, and Mary and the attendants
soon recovered her to sense and wretch-
edness..
The mind of Ofbert was torn by
-the most cruel conflict: filial duty, ho-
nour, revenge, commanded him to go z
filial love, regret, and pity, entreated
him to stay. Mary fell at his feet, and
clasping his knees with, all the wild
energy of grief, besought him to relin-
quish his fatal purpose, and save his
last surviving parent. Her tears, her
sighs, and the soft simplicity of her
air, spoke a yet stronger language than
her


( 21 )
hear tongue: but the silent grief of the
Countess was still more touching, and
in his endeavours to sooth her, he was
on the point of yielding his resolution,
when the figure of his dying father
arose to his imagination, and stamped
his purpose irrevocably. The anxiety of
a fond mother, presented Matilda with
the image of her son bleeding and
ghastly; and the death of her Lord was
.revived in her memory with all the
agonizing grkf that fad event had im-
pressed upon her heart, the harsher
characters of which, the lenient hand
of time had almost obliterated. So
lovely is Pity in all her attitudes, that
fondness prompts us to believe she can
never transgress; but she changes into a
vice, when she overcomes the purposes
of stronger virtue. Sterner principles
now nerved the breast of Osbert against
her influence, and impelled him on to
deeds of arms. He summoned a few of
the most able and trusty of the clan, and
held


t 22 )
held a council of war; in which it
was resolved that Malcolm should be
attacked with all the force they could
assemble, and with all the speed which
the importance of the preparation would
allow. To prevent suspicion and alarm
to the Baron, it was agreed it should be
given out, that these preparations were
intended for assistance to the Chief of a
distant part. That, when they set out
on the expedition, they should pursue,
for some time, a contrary way, but
under favour of the night should sud-
denly change their route, and turn upon
the castle of Dunbayne.
In the mean time, Alleyn was stre-
nuous in exciting his friends to the
cause, and so successful in the under-
taking, as to have collected, in a few
days, a number of no inconsiderable
consequence. To the warm enthusiasm
of virtue was now added a new motive
of exertion. It was no longer simply
an
I


( 23 )
an attachment to the cause of justice,
which roused him to action; the pride
of distinguishing himself in the eye3
of his mistress, and of deserving her
esteem by his zealous services, gave
combined force to the first impulse
of benevolence. The sweet thought of
deserving hex thanks, operated secretly
on his soul, for he was yet ignorant
of its influence there. In this state he
again appeared at the castle, and told the
Earl, that himself and his friends were
ready to follow him whenever the signal
should be given. His offer was accepted
with the warmth of kindness it claimed,
and he was desired to hold himself in
readiness for the onset.
In a few days the preparations were
completed, Alleyn and his friends were
summoned, the clan assembled in arms,
and, with the young Earl at their, head,
departed on their expedition. The
parting between Osbert arid his family
may


( 24 )
may be easily conceived; nor could
all the pride of expected conquest sup-
press a sigh which escaped from Alleyn
when his eyes bade adieu to Mary,
who, with the Countess, stood on the
terrace of the castle, pursuing with
aching sight the march of her beloved
brother,. till distance veiled him from
her view; she then turned into the castle
weeping, and foreboding future cala-
mity. She endeavoured, however, to
assume an appearance of tranquillity,
that she might deceiva the fears of
Matilda, and sooth her sorrow. Ma-
tilda, whose mind was strong as her
heart was tender, since she could not
prevent this hazardous undertaking,,
summoned all her fortitude to resist
the impressions of fruitless grief, and
to search for the good which the occa-
sion might present. Her efforts were
not vain; me found it in the prospect
which the enterprize afforded of honour
to the memory of her murdered Lord,
and


( 25 )
and of retribution on the head of the
murderer.
It was evening when the Earl de-
parted from the castle; he pursued a
contrary route till night favoured his
designs, when he wheeled towards the
castle of Dunbayne. The extreme
darkness of the night assisted their plan,
which was to scale the walls, surprize
the centinels; burst their way into the
inner courts sword in hand, and force
the murderer from his retreat. They
had trod for many miles the dreary
wilds, unassisted by the least gleam
of light, when suddenly their ears, were
struck with the dismal note of a watch-
bell, which chimed ,the hour of the
night. Every heart beat to the sound.
They knew they were near the abode
of the Baron. They halted to consult
concerning their proceedings, when it
was agreed, that the Earl, with Al-
leyn and a chosen few, should proceed
C to


f 26 )
to reconnoitre the castle, while the rest
should remain at a small distance await-
ing the signal of approach. The Earl
and his party pursued their march with
silent steps ; they perceived a faint light,
which they guessed to proceed from
the watch-tower of the castle, and
they were now almost under its walls.
They paused awhile in silence to give
breath to expectation, and to listen if
any thing was stirring. All was in-
volved in the gloom of night, and
the silence of death prevailed. They
had now time to examine, as well as
the darkness would permit, the situa-
tion of the castle, and the height of
the walls; and to prepare for the aslkult.
The edifice was built with gothic mag-
nificence upon a high and dangerous
rock. Its lofty towers still frowned in
proud sublimity, and the immensity of
the pile stood a record of the ancient
consequence of its possessors. The rock
was surrounded by a ditch, broad, but
not


t 27 )
tint deep, over which were two draw-
bridges, one on the north side, the
other on the east; they were both
up, but as they separated in the center,
one half of the bridge remained on
the side of the plains. The bridge on
the north led to the grand gateway of
the castle; that on the east to a small
watch-tower: these were all the en-
trances. The rock was almost per-
pendicular with the walls, which were
strong and lofty. After surveying the
situation, they pitched upon a spot where
the rock appeared most accessible, and
which was contiguous to the principal
gate, and gave signal to the clan. They
approached in silence, and gently
throwing down the bundles of fag-
got, which they had brought for the
purpose, into the ditch, made them-
selves a bridge over which they passed
in safety, and prepared to ascend the
heights. It had been resolved that a
party, of which Alleyn was one, should
C 2 scale


( 28 )
scale the walls, surprize the centinels,
and open the gates to the rest of the
clan, which, with the Earl, were to
remain without. Alleyn was the first
who fixed his ladder and mounted;
he was instantly followed by the rest of
his party, and with much difficulty,
and some hazard, they gained the ram-
parts in safety. They traversed a part
of the platform without hearing the
sound of a voice or a step; profound
sleep seemed to bury all. A number
of the party approached some centinels
who were asleep on their post; them
they seized; while Alleyn, with a few
others, flew to open the nearest gate,
and to let down the drawbridge. This
they accomplished; but in the mean
time the signal of surprize was given,
and instantly the alarm bell rang out,
and the castle resounded with the clang
of arms. All was tumult and confu-
sion. The Earl, with part of his peo-
ple,


( 29 )
pie, entered the gate; the rest were fol-
lowing, when suddenly the portcullis
was dropped, the bridge drawn up, and
the Earl and his people found them-
selves surrounded by an armed multi-
tude, which poured in torrents from-
every recess of the castle. Surprized,
but not daunted, the Earl rushed for-
ward sword in hand, and fought with .
a desperate valour. The soul of AUeyn
seemed to acquire new vigour from the
conflict; he fought like a man panting
for honour, and certain of victory;
wherever he rushed; conquest flew be-
fore him. He, with the Earl, forced his
way into the inner courts, in search of
the Baron, and hoped to have satisfied
a just revenge, and to have concluded
the conflict with the death of the
murderer; but the moment in which
they entered the courts, the gates were
closed upon them; they were environed
by a band of guards; and, after a short
C 3 resist-


f 30 )
resistance, in which Alleyn received a
flight wound, they were seized as pri-
soners of war. The slaughter without was
great and dreadful: the people of the Ba-
ron inspired with fury, were insatiate for
death; many of the Earl's followers were
killed in the courts and on the platform j
many, in attempting to escape, were
thrown from the ramparts, and many
were destroyed by the sudden raising of
the bridge. A small part, only, of
the brave and adventurous band who
had engaged in the cause of justice, and
who were driven back from the walls,
survived to carry the dreadful tidings to
the Countess. The fate of the Earl
remained unknown. The consternation
among the friends of the slain is not
to be described, and it was heightened
by the unaccountable manner in which
the victory had been obtained ; for it was
well known that Malcolm had never,,
but when war made it necessary, more
soldiers,


( 3i )
soldiers in his garrison than feudal
pomp demanded $ yet on this occasion,
a number of armed men rushed from
the recesses of his castle, sufficient to
overpower the force of a whole clan.
But they knew not the secret means of
intelligence which the Baron possessed;
the jealousy of conscience had armed
him with apprehension for his safety;
and for some years he had planted spies
near the castle of Athlin, to observe all
that passed within it, and to give him
immediate intelligence of every warlike
preparation. A transaction so striking,
and so public as that which had oc-
curred on the day of the festival, when
the whole people swore to avenge the
murder of their Chief, it was not pro-
bable would escape the vigilant eye of
his mercenaries: the circumstance had
been communicated to him with all the
exaggerations of fear and wonder, and
had given him the signal for defence*
C 4 The


( 32 )
The accounts sent him of the military,
preparations which were forming, con-
vinced him that this defence would
soon be called for; and, laughing at the
idle tales which were told him of distant
wars, he hastened to store his garrison
with arms and with men, andheld him-
self in readiness to receive the affiiilants.
The Baron had conducted his plans with
all that power of contrivance which the
secrecy of the business demanded; and
it was his design to suffer the enemy to
mount his walls, and to put them to
the sword, when the purpose of this
deep-laid stratagem had been nearly
defeated by the drowsiness of the cen-
tinels who were posted to give signal of
their approach.
The fortitude of Matilda fainted
under the pressure of so heavy a cala-
mity; she was attacked with a violent
illness^ which had nearly terminated
her


( 33 )
her sorrows and her life; and had ren-
dered unavailing all the tender cares of
her daughter. These tender cares, how-
ever, were not ineffectual; she revived,
and they assisted to support her in the
severe hours of affliction, which the
unknown fate of the Earl occasioned.
Mary, who felt all the horrors of the
late event, was ill qualified for the
office of a comforter; but her generous
heart, susceptible of the deep sufferings
of Matilda, almost forgot its own dis-
tress in the remembrance of her mo-
ther's. Yet the idea of her brother,
surrounded with the horrors of im-
prisonment and death, would often
obtrude itself on her imagination,
with an emphasis which almost over-
came her reason. She had also a strong
degree of pity for the fate of the
brave young Highlander who had
assisted, with a disinterestedness so no-
ble, in the cause of her house; she
C 5 wished


( 34 )
wished to learn his further destiny, and
her heart often melted in compassion at
the picture which her fancy drew of his
sufferings.
CHAPTER


f 35 )
CHAPTER III.
'j^HE Earl, after being loaded with
fetters, was conducted to the chief
prison of the castle, and left alone
to the bitter reflections of defeat and
uncertain destiny; but misfortune,
though it might shake, could not over-
come his firmness; and hope had not
yet entirely forsaken him. It is the
peculiar attribute of great minds, to
bear up with encreasing force against
the shock of misfortune; with them the
nerves of resistance strengthen with at-
tack; and they may be said to subdue
adversity with her own weapons.
Reflection, at length, afforded him
time to examine his prison: it was a
square room, which formed the summit
of a tower built on the east side of the
castle, round which the bleak winds
howled mournfully; the inside of the
C 6 apart-


f 36 J
apartment was old and falling to decay:
a small mattrass, which lay in one cor-
ner of the room, a broken matted chair,,
and a tottering table, composed its fur-
niture; two small and strongly grated
windows, which admitted a sufficient
degree of light and air, afforded him on
one side a view into an inner court, and
on the other a dreary prospect of the
wild and barren Highlands.
Alleyn was conveyed through dark
and winding passages to a distant part
of the castle, where at length a small
door, barred with iron, opened, and
disclosed to him an abode, whence light
and hope were equally excluded. He
stiuddered as he entered, and the door
was closed upon him.
The mind of the Baron, in the mean
time, was agitated with all the direful
passions of hate, revenge, and exulting
pride. He racked imagination for the
inven-


( 37 )
invention of tortures equal to the force
of his feelings; and he at length disco-
vered that the sufferings of suspense are
superior to those of the most terrible
evils, when once ascertained, of which
the contemplation gradually affords to
strong minds the means of endurance.
He determined, therefore, that the Earl
should remain confined in the tower,
ignorant of his future destiny; and in
the mean while should be allowed food
only sufficient to keep him sensible of
his wretchedness.
Osbert was immersed in thought,
when he heard the door of his prison
unbarred, and the Baron Malcolm stood
before him. The heart of Osbert
swelled high with indignation, and de-
fiance flashed in his eyes. "I am come,"
said the insulting victor, "to welcome
the Earl of Athlin to my castle; and to
shew that I can receive my friends with
the hospitality they deserve; but I am
yet


C 38 J
yet undetermined what kind of festival
I shall bestow on his arrival."
"Weak tyrant." returned Osbert,
his countenance impressed with the firm
dignity of virtue," to insult the vanquish-
ed, is congenial with the cruel mean-
ness of the murderer; nor do I expect,
that the man who slew the father, will
spare the son; but know, that son is
nerved against your wrath, and welcomes
all that your fears or your cruelty can
impose."
"Rash youth," replied the Baron,
** your words are air; they fade from
fense, and soon your boasted strength
shall sink beneath my power. I go to
meditate your destiny.'' With these
words he quitted the prison, enraged at
the unbending virtue of the Earl.
The sight of the Baron, roused, in the
soul of Osbert all those opposite emo-
tions,


( 39 >
tions of furious indignation and tender
pity, which the glowing image of his.
father could excite, and produced a
moment of perfect misery. The dread-
ful energy of these sensations exaspe-
rated his brain almost to madness; the
cool fortitude in which he had so lateljr
gloried, disappeared; and he was on the
point of resigning his virtue and his-
life, by means of a short dagger, which
he wore concealed under his vest, when
the soft notes of a lute surprised his-
attention. It was accompanied by a
voice so enchantingly tender and me-
lodious, that its sounds fell on the heart
of Olbert in balmy comfort: it seemed
sent by Heaven to arrest his fate:—
the storm of passion was hustied with-
in him, and he dissolved in tears of
pity and contrition. The mournful
tenderness of the air, declared the per-
son from whom it came to be a sufferer;
and Osbert suspected it to proceed from
a prisoner like himself. The music
ceased j.


( 40 )
ceased. Absorbed in wonder, he went to*
the grates in quest of the sweet musi-
cian, but no one was to be seen; and he
was uncertain whether the sounds
arose from within or from without the
castle. Of the guard, who brought
him his small allowance of food, he
enquired concerning what he had heard;
but from him he could not obtain the
information he sought, and he was con,
strained to remain in a state of sus-
pense.
In the mean time the castle of Ath-
lin, and its neighbourhood, was over-
whelmed with distress. The news of the
Earl's imprisonment at length reached
the ears of the Countess, and hope once
more illumined her mind. She imme-
diately sent offers of immense ransom
to the Baron, for the restoration of her
son, and the other prisoners; but the
ferocity of his nature disdained an in-
complete triumph. Revenge subdued
his


( 41 )
his avarice; and the offers were rejected
with the spurn of contempt. An addi-
tional motive, however, operated in his
mind, and confirmed his purpose. The
beauty of Mary had been often reported
to him in terms which excited his curi-
osity; and an accidental view he once
obtained of her, raised a passion in his
foul, which the turbulence of his cha-
racter would not suffer to be extin-
guished. Various were the schemes he
had projected to obtain her, none of
which had ever been executed; the
possession of the Earl, was a circum-
stance the most favourable to his wishes,
and he resolved to obtain Mary, as the
future ransom of her brother. He con-
cealed, for the present, his purpose,
that the tortures of anxiety and despair
might operate on the mind of the Coun-
tess, to grant him an easy consent to the
exchange, and to resign the victim the
wife of her enemy.
The


f 4* )
The small remains of the clan, un-
subdued by misfortune, were eager to
assemble; and, hazardous as was the
enterprize, to attempt the rescue of
their Chief. The hope which this un-
dertaking afforded, once more revived
the Countess; but alas! a new source
of sorrow was now opened for her: the
health of Mary visibly declined; me
was silent and pensive; her tender
frame was too susceptible of the suf-
ferings of her mind; and these suffer-
ings were heightened by concealment.
She was prescribed amusement and gen-
tle exercise, as the best restoratives of
peace and health. One day, as she was
seeking on horseback these lost trea-
sures, she was tempted by the fine-
ness of the evening to prolong her
ride beyond its usual limits: the fun
was declining when she entered a wood,
whose awful glooms so well accorded
with the pensive tone of her mind. The
soft serenity of evening, and the still
solemnity


( 43 )
solemnity of the scene, conspired to lull
her mind into a pleasing forgetfulness of
its troubles; from which slie was, ere
long, awakened by the approaching
found of horses' feet. The thickness of
the foliage limited her vievv; but look-
ing onward, Ihe thought she perceived
through the trees, a glittering of arms;
she turned her palfry, and sought the
entrance of the wood. The clattering
of hoofs advanced in the breeze! her
heart misgave her, and she quickened
her pace. Her fears were soon justified;
she looked back, and beheld three
horsemen armed and disguised ad-
vancing with the speed of pursuit.
Almost fainting, she flew on the wings
of terror; all her efforts were vain; the
villains came up; one seized her horse,
the others fell upon her two attendants;
a stout scuffle ensued, but the strength of
her servants soon yielded to the weapons
of their adversaries; they were brought to
the ground, dragged into the wood, and
there


( 44 )
there left bound to the trees. In the
mean time, Mary, who had fainted in the
arms of the villain who seized her, was
borne away through the intricate mazes
of the woods; and her terrors may be
easily imagined, when she revived, and
found herself in the hands of unknown
men. Her dreadful screams, her tears,
her supplications, were ineffectual; the
wretches were deaf alike to Dity and tc*
enquiry; they preserved an inflexible
silence, and lhe s*w herself conveying
towards the mouth of a horrible cavern,
when despair seized her mind, and she
lost all signs of existences in this state
she remained some time; but it is im-
possible to describe her situation, when
she unclosed her eyes, and beheld Alleyn,
who was watching with the most trem-
bling anxie*f her return to life, and
whose eyes, on seeing her revive, swam
in joy and tenderness. Wonder, fear-
ful joy, and the various shades of
mingled emotions, passed in quick suc-
cession


( 45 )
cession over her countenance; her sur-
prize was increased, when she observed
her own servants standing by, and could
discover no one but friends. She
scarcely dared to trust her senses, but
the voice of Alleyn, tremulous with ten-
derness, dissolved ih a moment the
illusions of fear, and confirmed her in
the surprising reality. When file was
sufficiently recovered, they quitted this
scene of gloom; they travelled on in a
slow pace, and the shades of night were
fallen long before they reached the
castle; there distress and confusion ap-
peared, The Countess, alarmed with
the most dreadful apprehensions, had
dispatched her servants various ways in
search of her child, and her transports
on again beholding her in safety, pre-
vented her observing immediately that
it was Alleyn who accompanied her.
Joy, however, soon yielded to its equal
wonder, when she perceived him, and
in the tumult of contending emotions,
she


( 46 )
flie scarce knew which first to interro-
gate. When she had been told the
escape of her daughter, and by whom
effected, she prepared to hear, with im-
patient solicitude, news of her beloved
son, and the means by which the brave
young Highlander had eluded the vigi-
lance of the Baron. Of the Earl, Al-
leyn could only inform the Countess,
that he was taken prisoner with himself,
within the walls of the fortress, as they
fought side by side; that he was con-
ducted, unwounded, to a tower situated
on the east angle of the castle, where he
was still confined. Himself had been
imprisoned in a distant part of the pile,
and had been able to collect no other
particulars of the Earl's situation, than
those he had related. Of himself he
gave a brief relation of the following
circumstances:
After having lain some weeks in the
horrible dungeon allotted him, his
mind


( 47 )
mind involved in the gloom of despair,
and silled with the momentary expecta-
tion of death, desperation furnished him
with invention, and he concerted the
following plan of escape:—He had ob-
served, that the guard who brought
him his allowance of food, on quitting
the dungeon, constantly sounded his
spear against the pavement near the en-
trance. This circumstance excited his
surprize and curiosity. A ray of hope
beamed through the gloom of his dun-
geon. He examined the spot, as well
as the obscurity of the place would per-
mit; it was paved with flag stones like
the other parts of the cell, and the
paving was every where equally firm.
He, however, became certain, that some
means of escape was concealed beneath
that part, for the guard was constant in
examining it by striking that spot, and
treading more firmly on it; and this he
endeavoured to do without being ob-
served. One day, immediately after
the


( 4* )
the departure of the guard, Alleyn set
himself to unfasten the pavement; this,
with much patience and industry, he
effected, by means of a small knife which
had escaped the search of the soldiers.
He found the earth beneath hard, and
without any symptoms of being lately
disturbed; but after digging a few feet,
he arrived at a trap door; he trembled
with eagerness. It was now almost night,
and he was overcome with weariness;
he doubted whether he mould be able
to penetrate, through the door, and
what other obstructions were behind it,
before the next day. He therefore,
threw the earth again into the hole, and
endeavoured to close the pavement;
with much difficulty, he,^trod the earth
into the opening, but the pavement he
was unable exactly to replace. It was
too dark to examine the stones; and he
found, that even if he should be able to
make them fit, the pavement could not
be made firm. His mind and body
5 were


( 49 )
were now overcome, and he threw him-
self on the ground in an agony of de-
spair. It was midnight, when the re-
turn of his strength and spirits produced
another effort. He tore the earth up
with hasty violence, cut round the lock
of the trap door, and raising it, unwil-
ling to hesitate or consider, sprung
through the aperture. The vault was
of considerable depth, and he was
thrown down by the violence of the
fall: an hollow echo, which seemed to
murmur at a distance, convinced him
that the place was of considerable ex-
tent. He had no light to direct him,
and was therefore obliged to walk with
his arms extended, in silent and fearful
examination. After having wandered
through the void a considerable time, he
came to a wall, along which he groped
with anxious care; it conducted him
onward for a length of way: it turned;
he followed, and his hand touched the
cold iron work of a barred window.
D He


( So )
He felt the gentle undulation of the air
upon his face; and to him, who had been
so long confined among the damp va-
pours of a dungeon, this was a moment
of luxury. The air gave him strength;
and the means of escape, which now
seemed presented to him, renewed his
courage. He set his foot against the
wall, and grasping a bar with his hand,
found it gradually yield to his strength,
and by successive efforts, he entirely dis-
placed it. He attempted another, but
it was more firmly fixed, and every
effort to loosen it was ineffectual; he
found that it was fastened in a large
stone of the wall, and that to remove
this stone, was his only means of dis-
placing the bar; he set himself, there-
fore, again to work with his knife, and
with much patience, loosened the mor-
tar sufficiently to effect his purpose.
After some hours, for the darkness made
his labour tedious, and sometimes inef-
fectual, he had removed several of the
bars,


( 5* )
bars, and had made an opening almost
sufficient to permit his escape, when the
dawn of light appeared; he now dis-
covered, with inexpressible anguish, that
the grate opened into an inner court of
the castle, and even while he hesitated,
he could perceive soldiers descending
flowly into the court, from the narrow
staircases which led to their apartments.
His heart sickened at the sight. He
rested against the wall in a pause of
despair, and was on the point of spring-
ing into the court, to make a desperate
effort at escape, or die in the attempt,
when he perceived, by the encreasing
light which fell across the vault, a massy
door in the opposite wall; he ran to-
wards it, and endeavoured to open it; it
was fastened by a lock and several bolts.
He struck against it with his foot, and
the hollow found which was returned,
convinced him that there were vaults
beyond; and by the direction of these
D 2 vaults,


( 52 0
vaults he was certain that they must
extend to the outer walls of the castle;
if he could gain these vaults, and pene-
trate beyond them in the darkness of
the ensuing night, it would be easy to
leap the wall, and cross the ditch; but
it was impossible to cut away the lock,
before the return of his guard, who re-
gularly visited the cell soon after the
dawn of day. After some consideration,
therefore, he determined to secrete him-
self in a dark part of the vault, and
there await the entrance of the guard,
who on observing the deranged bars of
the grate, would conclude, that he had
escaped through the aperture. He had
scarcely placed himself according to his
plan, when he heard the door of the
dungeon unbolted; this was instantly
followed by a loud voice, which sounded
down the opening, and " Alleyn" was
stiouted in a tone of fright and conster-
nation. After repeating the call, a man
jumped into the vault. Alleyn, though
himself


( 53 )
himself concealed in darkness, could
perceive, by the faint light which sell
upon the spot, a soldier with a drawn
sword in his hand. He approached the
grate with execrations, examined k»
and proceeded to the door; it was fast;
he returned to the grate, and then pro-
ceeded along the. walls, tracing them
with the point of his sword. He at
length approached the spot where Al-
leyn was concealed, who felt the sword
strike upon his arm, and instantly 'grasp-
ing the hand which held it, the weapon
fell to the ground. A short .scuffle en-
sued; Alleyn threw down his adversary,
and standing over him, seized the sword,
and presented it to his breast; the soldier
called for mercy. Alleyn, always unwil.
ling to take the life of another, and con-
sidering that if the soldier was slain, his
comrades would certainly follow to the.
vault, returned him his sword. "Take-
your life," said he, " your death can
avail me nothing ;—take it, and if you
D 3 can,


( 54 )
can, go tell Malcolm, that an innocent
man has endeavoured to escape destruc-
tion." The guard, struck with his con-
duct, arose from the ground in silence,
he received his sword, and followed Al-
leyn to the trap door. They returned
into the dungeon, where Alleyn was
once more left alone. . The soldier, un-
determined how to act, went to find his
comrades; on the way he met Malcolm
who, ever restless and vigilant, fre-
quently walked the ramparts at an early
hour. He enquired if all was well.
The soldier, fearful of discovery, and
unaccustomed to dissemble, hesitated at
the question; and the stern air assumed
by Malcolm, compelled him to relate
what had happened. The Baron, with
much harshness, reprobated his neglects
and immediately followed him to the
dungeon, where he loaded Alleyn with
insult. He examined the cell, descended
into the vault, and returning to the
dungeon, stood by, while a chain, which
had


( 55 )
had been fetched from a distant part of
the castle, was fixed into the wall;—to
this Alleyn was fastened. ** We will
not long confine you thus," said Mal-
colm, as he quitted the cell, "a few
days shall restore you to the liberty you
are so fond of; but as a conqueror
ought to have spectators of his triumph,
you must wait till a number is collected
sufficient to witness the death of so great
an hero." "I disdain your insults,"
returned Alleyn, "and am equally able
to support misfortune, and to despise a
tyrant." Malcolm retired, enraged at
the boldness of his prisoner, and utter-
ing menaces on the carelessness of the
guard, who vainly endeavoured to jus-
tify himself. "His safety be upon
your head," said the Baron. The soldier
was shocked, and turned away in sullen
silence. Dread of his prisoner's effect-
ing an escape, now seized his mind;
the Words of Malcolm filled him with
resentment, while gratitude towards
D 4 Alleyn,


( 56 )
Alleyn, for the life he" had spared, ope-
rated with these sentiments, and he he-
sitated whether he should obey the Ba-
ron, or deliver Alleyn, and fly his op-
pressor, At noon, he carried him his
customary food; Alleyn was not so loft
in misery, but that he observed the
gloom which hung upon his features;
his heart foreboded impending evil:
thei soldier bore on his tongue the sen-
tence of death. ;He told Alleyn, that
the Baron had appointed the following
day for his execution; and his people
were ordered to attend. Death, how-
ever long contemplated, must be dread-
ful when it arrives; this was no more
than what Alleyn had expected, and on
what he had brought his mind to gaze
without terror; but his fortitude now
funk before its immediate presence, and
every nerve of his frame thrilled with
agony, "Be comforted," said the sol-
dier, in a tone of pity, "I, too, am no
stranger to misery; and if you are wil-
ling


( 57 )
i
ling to risque the danger of double
torture, I will attempt to release both
you and myself from the hands of a
tyrant." At these words, Alleyn started
from the ground in a transport of de-
lightful wonder: "Tell me not of
torture," cried he, " all tortures are
equal if death is the end, and from
death I may now escape; lead me but
beyond these walls, and the small pos-
sessions I have, shall be your's for ever."
"1 want them not," replied the gene-
rous soldier, " it is enough for me, that
I save a fellow-creature from destruc-
tion." These words overpowered the
heart of Alleyn, and tears of gratitude
swelled in his eyes. Edric told him, that
the door he had seen in the vault below,
opened into a chain of vaults, which
stretched beyond the wall of the castle,
and communicated with a subterraneous
way, anciently formed as a retreat from
the fortress, and which terminated in
the cavern of a forest at some distance.
Dl If


f 58 )
If this door could be opened, their
escape was almost certain. They con-
sulted on the measures necessary to be
taken. The soldier gave Alleyn a
knife larger than the one he had, and
directed him to cut round the lock,
which was all that with-held their pas-
sage. Edric's office of centinel was
propitious to their scheme, and it was
agreed that at midnight they mould
descend the vaults. Edric, after hav-
ing unfastened the chain, left the cell,
and Alleyn set himself again to remove
the pavement, which had been already
re-placed by order of the Baron. The
near prospect of deliverance now glad-
dened his spirits; his knife was better
formed for his purpose; and he worked
with alacrity and ease. He arrived at
the trap door, and once more leaped into
the vault. He applied himself to the
lock of the door, which was extremely
thick, and it was with difficulty he sepa-
rated them; with trembling hands he un-
drew


( 59 )
drew the bolts, the door unclosed, and dis-
covered to him the vaults. It was even-
ing when he finished his work. He
was but just returned to the dungeom
and had thrown himself on the ground
to rest, when the sound of a distant step
caught his ear; he listened to its ad-
vance with trembling eagerness. At
length the door was unbolted; Alleyn,
breathless with expectation, started up,
and beheld not his soldier, but another;
the opening was again discovered, and
all was now over. The soldier brought
a pitcher of water, and casting round
the place a look of sullen scrutiny, de-
parted in silence. The stretch of human
endurance was now exceeded, and Al-
leyn funk down in a state of torpidity.
On recovering, he found himself again
enveloped in the horrors of darkness,
silence, and despair. Yet amid all his
sufferings, he disdained to doubt the in-
tegrity of his soldier: we naturally re-
coil from painful sensations, and it is
D 6 one


( 6o )
one of the most exquisite tortures of a
noble mind, to doubt the sincerity of
those in whom it has confided. Alleyn
concluded, that the conversation of the
morning had been overheard, and that
this guard had been sent to examine the
cell, and to watch his movements. He
believed that Edric was now, by his
own generosity, involved in destruction;
and in the energy cs this thought, he
forgot for a moment his own situation.
Midnight came, but Edric did not
appear; his doubts were now con-
firmed into certainty, and he resigned
himself to the horrid tranquillity of
mute despair. He heard, from a dis-
tance, the clock of the castle strike one;
it seemed to sound the knell of death;
it roused his benumbed fenses, and he
rose from the ground in an agony of
acutest recollecton. Suddenly he heard
the steps of two persons advancing
down the avenue; he started, and lis-
tened.


( Si )
tened. Malcolm and murder arose to
his mind; he doubted not that the
soldier had reported what he had seen in
the evening, and that the persons whom
he now heard, were coming to execute
the final orders of the Baron. They
now drew near the dungeon, when sud-
denly he remembered the door in the
vault. His fenses had been so stunned
by the appearance of the stranger, and
his mind so occupied with a feeling of
despair, as to exclude every idea of
escape; and in the energy of his suffer-
ings he had forgot this last resource. It
now flashed like lightning upon his
mind; he sprung to the trap door, and
his feet had scarcely touched the bot-
tom of the vault, when he heard the
bolts of the dungeon undraw; he had
just reached the entrance of the inner
vault, when a voice sounded from above.
He paused, and knew it to be Edric's.
Apprehension so entirely possesled his
mind, that he hesitated whether he
l should


( 62 )
should discover himself; but a moment
of recollection dissipated every ignoble
suspicion of Edric's fidelity, and he an-
swered the call. Immediately Edric
descended, followed by the soldier
whose former appearance had filled Al-
leyn with despair, and whom Edric
now introduced as his faithful friend
and comrade, who, like himself, was
weary of the oppression of Malcolm,
and who had resolved to fly with them,
and escape his rigour. This was a mo-
ment of happiness too great for thought!
Alleyn, in the confusion of his joy*
and in his impatience to seize the mo-
ment of deliverance, scarcely heard the
words of Edric. Edric having returned
to fasten the door of the dungeon, to
delay pursuit, and given Alleyn a sword
which he had brought for him, led the
way through the vaults. The profound
silence of the place was interrupted
only by the echoes of their footsteps,
which running through the dreary
chasms


( G3 >
chasms in confused whisperings, filled
their imaginations with terror. In tra-
versing these gloomy and desolate re-
cesses they often paused to listen, and
often did their fears give them the dis-
tant sounds of pursuit. On quitting
the vaults, they entered an avenue,
winding, and of considerable length,
from whence branched several passages
into the rock. It was closed by a low
and narrow door, which opened upon a
flight of steps, that led to the subterra-
neous way under the ditch of the castle.
Edric knew the intricacies of the place:
they entered, and closing the door began
to descend, when the lamp which
Edric carried in his hand was blown
out by the current of the wind, and
they were left in total darkness. Their
feelings may be more easily imagined
than described; they had, however, no
way but to proceed, and grope with
cautious steps the dark abyss. Having
continued to descend for some time,
their


their feet reached the bottom, and they
found themselves once more on even
ground; but Edric knew they had yet
another flight to encounter, before they
could gain the subterraneous passage
under the fosse, and for which it re-
quired their utmost caution to search.
They were proceeding with slow and
wary steps, when the foot of, Alleyn
stumbled upon something which clat-
tered like broken armour, and endea-
vouring to throw it from him, he felt
the weight resist his effort: he stooped
to discover what it was, and found in
his grasp the cold hand of a dead per-
son. Every nerve thrilled with horror
at the touch, and he started back in an
agony of terror. They remained for
some time in silent dismay, unable to
return, yet fearful to proceed, when a
faint light which seemed to issue from
the bottom of the last descent, gleamed
upon the walls, and discovered to them
the second staircase, and at their feet
the,


( 65 )
the pale and disfigured corpse of a man
in armour, while at a distance they
could distinguish the figures of men.
At this sight their hearts died within
them, and they gave themselves up for
lost. They doubted not but the men
whom they saw were the murderers;
that they belonged to the Baronand
were in search of some fugitives from
the castle. Their only chance of con-
cealment was to remain where they
were; but the light appeared to ad-
vance, and the faces of the men to turn
towards them. Winged with terror,
they fought the first ascent, and flying
up the steps, reached the door, which
they endeavoured to open, that they
might hide themselves from pursuit
among the intricacies of the rock; their
efforts, however, were vain, for the
door was fastened by a spring lock, and
the key was on the other side. Com-
pelled to give breath to their fears, they
ventured to look back, and found them-
selves


( 66 )
selves again in total darkness; they
paused upon the steps, and listening, all
was silent. They rested here a consi-
derable time; no footsteps startled
them; no ray of light darted through
the gloom; every thing seemed hushed
in the silence of death: they resolved
once more to venture forward; they
gained again the bottom of the first de-
scent, and sliuddering as they ap-
proached the spot where they knew the
corpse was laid, they groped to avoid
its horrid touch, when suddenly the
light again appeared, and in the same
place where they had first seen it. They
stood petrified with despair. The light,
however, moved stowly onward, and
disappeared in the windings of the ave-
nue. After remaining a long time in
silent suspense, and finding no further
obstacle, they ventured to proceed. The
light had discovered to them their situ-
ation, and the staircase, and they now
moved with greater certainty. They
reached


( 67 )
reached the bottom in safety, and with-
out any fearful interruption; they lis-
tened, and again the silence of the
place was undisturbed. Edric knew
they were now under the fosse, their
way was plain before them, and their
hopes were renewed in the belief, that
the light and the people they had seen,
had taken a different direction, Ed-
ric knowing there were various pas-
sages branching from the main avenue
which led to different openings in the
rock. They now stepped on with ala-
crity, the prospect of deliverance was
near, for Edric judged they were now
not far from the cavern. An abrupt
turning in the passage confirmed at'
once this supposition, and extinguished
rhe hope which had attended it; for the
light of a lamp burst suddenly Upon
them, and exhibited to their sickening
eyes, the figures of four men in an atti-
tude of menace, with their swords
pointed ready to receive them. Alleyn
drew


( 68 )
drew his sword, and advanced," We will
die hardly," cried he. At the sound
of his voice, the weapons instantly
dropped from the hands of his adversa-
ries, and they advanced to meet him in
a transport of joy. Alleyn recognized
with astonishment, in the faces of the
three strangers, his faithful friends and
followers; and Edric in that of the
fourth, a fellow soldier. The fame puo*
pose had assembled them all in the
fame spot. They quitted the cave to-
gether; and Alleyn, in the joyful expe-
rience of unexpected deliverance, re-
solved never more to admit despair.
They concluded, that the body which
they had passed in the avenue, was that
of some person who had perished either
by hunger or by the sword in those sub-
terranean labyrinths.
They marched in company till they
came within a few miles of the castle of
Athlin, when Alleyn made known his
design


( 69 )
design of collecting his friends, and
joining the clan in an attempt to re-
lease the Earl; Edric, and the other
soldier, having solemnly enlisted in the
cause, they parted; Alleyn and Edric
pursuing the road to the castle, and the
others striking off to a different part of
the co 'nrry. Ailcyn and Edric had not
proceeded far, when the groans of the
"wounded servants of Manlda drew them
to the wood, in which the preceding
dreadful scene had been acted. The
surprize of Alleyn was extreme, when
he discovered the servants of the Earl
in this situation; but surprize soon
yielded to a more poignant sensation,
when he heard that Mary had been car-
ried off by armed men. He scarcely
waited to release the servants, but seiz-
ing one of their horses which was graz-
ing near, instantly mounted, ordering
the rest to follow, and took the way
which had been pointed as the course of
the ravifhers. Fortunately it was the
right


( 70 )
right direction; and Alleyn and the
soldier came up with them as they were
hastening to the mouth of that cavern,
whose frightful aspect had chilled the
heart of Mary with a temporary death.
Their endeavours to fly were vain; they
were overtaken at the entrance; a (harp
conflict ensued in which one of the
ruffians was wounded and fled: his com-
rades seeing the servants of the Earl ap-
proaching, relinquished their prize, and
escaped through the recesses of the cave.
The eyes of Alleyn were now fixed in
horror on the lifeless form of Mary,
who had remained insensible during the
whole of the affray; he was exerting
every effort for her recovery, when she
unclosed her eyes, and joy once more
illumined his foul.
During the recitital of these particu-
lars, which Alleyn delivered with a mo-
dest brevity, the mind of Mary had suf-
fered a variety of emotions sympathetic
to


( V )
to all the vicissitudes of his situation.
She endeavoured to conceal from herself
the particular interest she felt in his ad-
ventures; but so unequal were her ef-
forts to the strength of her emotions,
that when Alleyn related the scene of
Dunbayne cavern, her cheek grew pale,
and she relapsed into a fainting fit.
This circumstance alarmed the penetra-
tion of the Countess; but the known
weakness of her daughter's frame ap-
peared a probable cause of the disorder,
and repressed her first apprehension. It
gave to Alleyn a mixed delight of hope
and fear, such as he had never known
before; for the first time he dared to
acknowledge to his own heart that he
loved, and that heart for the first time
thrilled with the hope of being loved
again.
He received from the Countess the
warm overflowings of a heart grateful
for the preservation of her child, and
from


( 72 )
from Mary a blusli which spoke more
than her tongue could utter. But the
minds of all were involved in the ut-
most perplexity concerning the rank
and the identity of the author of the
plan, nor could they discover any clue
<which would led them through this in-
tricate maze of wonder, to the villain
who had fabricated so diabolical a
scheme. Their suspicions, at length,
rested upon the Baron Malcolm, and
this supposition was confirmed by the
appearance of the horsemen, who evi-
dently acted only as the agents of supe-
rior j ower. Their conjectures were
indeed just. Malcolm was the author
of the scheme. It had been planned,
and he had given orders to his people to
execute it long before the Earl fell into
his hands. They had, however, found
no opportunity - of accomplishing the
design when the castle was surprized,
and in the consequent tumult of his
i
mind,


( 73 )
mind, the Baron had forgot to with-
draw his orders.
Alleyn expressed his design of col-
lecting the small remnant of his friends,
and uniting with the clan in attempting
the rescue of the Earl. "Noble youth,"
exclaimed the Countess, unable longer
to repress her admiration, "how can I
ever repay your generous services! Am
I then to receive both my children at
your hands? Go—my clan are now col-
lecting for a second attempt upon the
walls of Dunbayne,—go 1 lead them to
conquest, and restore to me my son."
The languid eyes of Mary re-kindled
at these words, (he glowed with the
hope of clasping once more to her bo-
som her long lost brother; but the suf-
fusions of hope were soon chaced by the
chilly touch of fear, for it was Alleyn
who was to lead the enterprize, and it
was Alleyn who might fall in the at-
tempt. These contrary emotions un-
E veiled


r 74 )
veiled to her at once the state of her
affections, and she saw in the eye of
fancy, the long train of inquietudes and
sorrows which were likely to ensue.
She sought to obliterate from her mind
every remembrance of the past, and of
the fatal knowledge which was now
disclosed to her; but she sought in vain,
for the monitor in her breast constantly
presented to her mind the image of Al-
leyn, adorned with those brave and man-
ly virtues which had so eminently dis-
tinguished his conduct; the" insignifi-
cance of the peasant was lost in the no-
bility of the character, and every effort
at forgetfulness was baffled.
Alleyn passed that night at the castle,
and the next morning, after taking leave
of the Countess and her daughter, to
whom his eyes bade a respectful and
mournful adieu, he departed with Edric
for his father's cottage, impatient to
acquaint the good old man with his
safety,


{ 75 )
safety, and to rouse to arms his num-
bering friends. The breath of love
had now raised into flame those
sparks of ambition which had so long
been kindling in his breast; he was
not only eager to avenge the cause of
injured virtue, and to rescue from mi-
sery and death, the son of the Chief
whom he had been ever taught to reve-
rence, but he panted to avenge the
insult offered to his mistress, and to
atchieve some deed of valour worthy
her admiration and her thanks.
Alleyn found his father at break-
fast, with his niece at his side 5 his
face was darkened with sorrow, and
he did not perceive Alleyn when he
entered. The joy of the old man
almost overcame him, when he be-
held his son in safety, for he was the
solace of his declining years; and Edric
was welcomed with the heartiness of
an old friend.
E 2 CHAP.


( 76 )
CHAPTER IV.
J^JEANWHrLE the Earl remained
a solitary prisoner in the tower;
uncertain fate was yet suspended over
him; he had, however, a magnanimity
in his nature which baffled much of the
cruel effort of the Baron. He had pre-
pared his mind by habitual contempla-
tion for the worst, and although that
worst was death, he could now look to
it even with serenity. Those violent
transports which had assailed him on
fight of the Baron, were, since he was
no longer subject to his presence, re-
duced within their proper limits; yet
he anxiously avoided dwelling on the
memory of his father, lest those dread-
ful sensations should threaten him with
returning torture. Whenever he per-
mitted himself to think of the sufferings
of the Countess and his sister, his heart
melted


( 77 )
melted with a sorrow that almost un-
nerved him; much he wished to know
how they supported this trial, and much
he wished that he could convey to them
intelligence of his state. He endea-
voured to abstract his mind from his
situation, and sought to make himself
artificial comforts even from the barren
objects around him; his chief amuse-
ment was in observing the manners and
customs of the birds of prey which
lodged themselves in the battlements of
his tower, and the rapacity of their na-
ture furnished him with too just a paral-
lel to the habits of men.
As he was one day standing at the
grate which looked upon the castle,
observing the progress of these birds,
his ear caught the found of that sweet
lute whose notes had once saved him
from destruction; it was accompanied
by the fame melodious voice he had
formerly heard, and which now fung
E 3 with


( 78 )
.with impassioned tenderness the follow-
ing air:
When first the vernal morn oslife
Beam'd on my infant eye,
Fond I survey'd the smiling scene,
Nor saw the tempest nigh.
Hope's bright illusions touch'd my soul,,
My young ideas led;
And Fancy's vivid tints combin'd,
And fairy prospects spread.
My guileless heart expanded wide,
With filial fondness fraught;
Paternal love that heart supplied
With all its fondness sought.
But O I the cruel quick reverse!
Fate all I loved involv'd;
Pale Grief Hope's trembling rays dispers'd.
And Fancy's dreams dissolv'd.
Lost in surprize, Osbert stood for
some time looking down upon an inner
court, whence the sounds seemed to
arise; after a few minutes he observed
a young


( 79 )
a young lady enter from that side on
which the tower arose, on her arm rested
an elder, one, in whose face might be
traced the lines of decaying beauty; but
it was visible, from the melancholy
^ w hich clouded her features, that the
finger of affliction had there anticipated
the ravages of time. She was dressed
in the habit of a widow, and the black
veil which shaded her forehead, and
gave a fine expression to her counte-
nance, devolved upon the ground in a
length of train, and heightened the na-
tural majesty of her figure; she moved
with flow steps, and was supported by
the young lady whose veil half disc losed
a countenance where beauty was touched
with sorrow and inimitable expression;
the elegance of her form, and the dig-
nity of her air, proclaimed her to be of
distinguished rank. On her arm was
hung that lute, whose melody had just
charmed the attention of the Earl, who
was now fixed in wonder at what he
E 4 beheld,


( 80 )
beheld, that was equalled only by his
admiration. They retired through a
gate on the opposite side of the court,
and were seen no more. Osbert fol-
lowed them with his eyes, which for
some time remained fixed upon the
door through which they had disap-
peared, almost insensible of their de-
parture. When he returned to himself,
he discovered, as if for the first time,
that he was in solitude. He conjectured
that these strangers were confined by
the oppressive power of the Baron, and
his eyes were suffused with tears of pity.
When he considered that so much beau-
ty and dignity were the unresisting vic-
tims of a tyrant, his heart swelled high
with indignation, his prison became in-
tolerable to him, and he longed to be-
come at once the champion of virtue,
and the deliverer of oppressed innocence.
The character of Malcolm arose to his
mind black with accumulated guilt,
and aggravated the detestation with
which


( 8i )
which he had ever contemplated it:
the hateful idea nerved his foul with a
confidence of revenge. Of the guard,
who entered, he enquired concerning
the strangers, but could obtain no posi-
tive information; he came to impart
other news; to prepare the Earl for
death; the morrow was appointed for his
execution. He received the intelli-
gence with the firm hardihood of indig-
nant virtue, disdaining to solicit, and
disdaining to repine; and his mind yet
grasped the idea of revenge. He drove
from his thoughts, with precipitation,
the tender ideas of his mother and sister;
remembrances which would subdue his
fortitude without effecting any benefi-
cial purpose. He was told of the escape
of Alleyn; this intelligence gave him
inexpressible pleasure, and he knew this
faithful youth would undertake to avenge
his death.
When the news of Alleyn's flight
E 5 had


( 82 )
had reached the Baron, his foul was
stung with rage, and he called for the
guards of the dungeon; they were no
where to be found; and after a long
search it was known that they were fled
with their prisoner; the flight of the
other captives was also discovered. This
circumstance exasperated the pasfion of
Malcolm to the utmost, and he gave
orders that the life of the remaining
centincl should be forfeited for the
treachery of his comrades, and his own
negligence; when recollecting the Earl,
whom in the heat of his resentment he
had forgot, his heart exulted in the op-
portunity he afforded of complete re-
venge; and in the fullness of joy with
which he pronounced his sentence, he
retracted the condemnation of the trem-
bling guard. The moment after he had
dispatched the messenger with his re-
solve to the Earl, his heart faultered
from its purpose. Such is the alter-
nate violence of evil passions, that they
never


( 83 )
never suffer their subjects to act with
consistency, but, torn by conflicting
energies, the gratification of one pro-
pensity is destruction to the enjoyment
of another; and the moment in which
they imagine happiness in their grasp,
is to them the moment of disappoint-
ment. Thus it was with the Baron;
his foul seemed to attain its full enjoy-
ment in the contemplation of revenge,
till the idea of Mary inflamed his heart
with an opposite passion; his wishes had
caught new ardor from disappoint-
ment, for he had heard that Mary had
been once in the power of his emissaries;
and perhaps the pain which recoils
upon the mind from every fruitless effort
of wickedness, served to encrease the
energies of his desires. He spurned
the thought of relinquishing the pursuit,
yet there appeared to be no method of
obtaining its object, but by sacrificing
his favourite passion; for he had little
doubt of obtaining Mary, when it should
E 6 be


( 84 )
be known that he resolved not to grant
the life of the Earl upon any other ran-
som. The balance of these passions
hung in his mind in such nice equili-
brium, that it was for some time uncer-
tain which would preponderate; re-
venge, at length, yielded to love; but
he resolved to preserve the torture of
expected death, by keeping the Earl
ignorant of his reprieve till the last
moment.
The Earl awaited death with the fame
stern fortitude with which he received
its sentence, and was led from the tower
to the platform of the castle, silent and
unmoved. He beheld the preparations
for his execution, the instruments of
death, theguards arranged in files, with
an undaunted mind. The glare of exter-
nals had no longer power over his ima-
gination. He beheld every object with
indifference, but that on which his eye
now rested; it was on the murderer,
who


( 85 )
who exhibited himself in all the pride
of exulting conquest: he started at the
fight, and his foul stirunk back upon
itself. Disdaining, however, to appear
disconcerted, he endeavoured to resume
his dignity, when the remembrance of
his mother, overwhelmed with sorrow,
rulhed upon his mind, and quite un-
manned him; the tears started in his
eyes, and he funk senseless on the
ground.
On recovering, he found himself in
his prison, and he was informed that the
Baron had granted him a respite. Mal-
colm mistaking the cause of disorder in
the Earl, thought he had stretched his
sufferings to their utmost limits; he
therefore had ordered him to be re-con-
veyed to the tower.
A scene so striking and so public as
that which had just been performed at
the castle of Dunbayne, was a subject of
discourse


s 86 j
discourse to the whole country; it was
soon reported to the Countess with a va-
riety of additional circumstances, among
which it was affirmed, that the Earl had
been really executed. Overwhelmed
with this intelligence, Matilda relapsed
into her former disorder. Sickness had
rendered Mary less able to support the
shock, and to apply that comfort to the
afflictions of her mother, which had
once been so successfully administered.
The physician pronounced the malady
of the Countess to ,be seated in the
mind, and beyond the reach of human
skill, when one day a letter was brought
to her, the superscription of which
was written in the hand of Osbert; she
knew the characters, and bursting the
seal, read that her son was yet alive,
and did not despair of throwing himself
once more at her feet. He requested
that the remains of his clan might im-
mediately attempt his release. He de-
scribed in what part of the castle his
prison
4


( «7 )
prison was situated, and thought, that by
the assistance of long scaling-ladders and
ropes, contrived in the manner he di-
rected, he might be able to effect his
escape through the grate. This letter
was a reviving cordial to the Countess
and to Mary.
Alleyn was indefatigable in collect-
ing followers for the enterprize he had
engaged in. On receiving intelligence
of the safety of the Earl, he visited the
clan, and was strenuous in exhorting
them to immediate action. They re-
quired little incitement to a cause in
which every heart was so much inte-
rested, and for which every hand was
already busied in preparation. These
preparations were at length completed;
Alleyn, at the head of his party, joined
the assembled clan. The Countess for
a second time beheld from the ramparts
the departure of her people upon the
fame hazardous enterprize; the present
scene


( 88 )
scene revived in her mind a fad remem-
brance of the past; the same tender
fears, and the fame prayers for success
she now gave to their departure; and
when they faded in distance from her
sight, she returned into the castle dis-
solved in tears. The heart of Mary
was torn by a complex sorrow, and
incapable of longer concealing from ,
herself the interest she took in the de-
parture of Alleyn, her agitation became
more apparent. The Countess in vain
endeavoured to compose her mind.
Mary, affected by her tender concern,
and prompted by the natural ingenu-
ousness of her disposition, longed to
make her the confidant of her weakness,
if weakness that can be termed which
arises from gratitude, and from the ad-
miration of great and generous qualities;
but delicacy and timidity arrested the
half-formed sentence, and closed her
lips in silence. Her health gradually
declined under the secret agitation of
her


( 89 )
her mind; her physician knew her dis-
order to originate in suppressed sorrow,
and advised, as the best cordial, a confi-
dential friend. Matilda now perceived
the cause of her grief; her former
passing observations recurred to her me-
mory, and justified her discernment.
She strove by every soothing effort to win
her to her confidence. Mary, oppressed
by the idea of ungenerous concealment
resolved at length to unveil her heart
to a mother so tender of her happiness.
She told her all her sentiments. The
Countess suffered a distress almost equal
to that of her daughter; her affectionate
heart swelled with equal wishes for her
happiness; she admired with warmest
gratitude the noble and aspiring vir-
tues of the young Highlander; but the
proud nobility of her foul repelled with
quick vivacity every idea of union
with a youth of such ignoble birth: she
regarded the present attachment as the
passing impression of youthful fancyj
and


( 9° )
and believed that gentle reasoning, aided
by time and endeavour, would conquer
the enthusiasm of love. Mary listened
with attention to the reasonings of the
Countess; her judgment acknowledged
their justness, while her heart regretted
their force. She resolved, however, to
overcome an attachment which would
produce so much distress to her family
and to herself. Notwithstanding her
endeavours to exclude Alleyn from her
thoughts, the generous and heroic qua-
lities of his mind burst upon her me-
mory in all their splendor, she could
not but be conscious that he loved her;
she saw the struggles of his foul, and
the delicacy of his passion, which made
him ever retire in the most profound
and respectful silence from its object.
She solicited her mother to assist in ex-
pelling the destructive image from her
mind. The Countess exerted every ef-
fort to amuse her to forgetfulness; every
hour, except those which were given to
exercises


( 9' )
exercises necessary for her health, was
devoted to the cultivation of her mind,
and the improvement of her various
accomplishments. These endeavours
were not unsuccessful; the Countess
with joy observed the returning health
and tranquillity of her daughter; and
Mary almost believed she had taught
herself to forget. These engagements
served also to beguile the tedious mo-
ments which must intervene, ere news
could arrive from Alleyn concerning
the probable success of the enterprize.
Misery yet dwelt in the castle of
Dunbayne; for there the virtues were
captive, while the vices reigned despo-
tic. The mind of the Baron, ardent
and restless, knew no peace: torn by
conflicting passions, he was himself the
victim of their power.
The Earl knew that his life
on the caprice of a tyrant;
hung up-
his mind
was


( 9* )
was nerved for the worst; yet the letter
which the compassion of one of his
guards, at the risque of his life, had un-
dertaken to convey to the Countess,
afforded him a faint hope that his people
might yet effect his escape. In this
expectation, he spent hour after hour
at his grate, wishing, with trembling
anxiety, to behold his clan advancing
over, the distant hills. These hills be-
came at length, in a situation so barren
of real comforts, a source of ideal plea-
sure to him. He was always at the grate,
and often, in the fine evenings of summer,
saw the ladies, whose appearance had so
strongly excited his admiration and pi-
ty, walk on a terrace below the tower.
One very fine evening, under the pleas-
ing impressions of hope for himself, and
compassion for them, his sufferings for
a time lost their acuteness. He longed
to awaken their sympathy, and make
known to them that they had a fellow-
prisoner. The parting sun trembled
on


C 93 )
on the tops of the mountains, and a
softer shade fell upon the distant land-
scape. The sweet tranquillity of even-
ing threw an air of tender melancholy
over his mind: his sorrows for a while
were hushed; and under the enthusiasm
of the hour, he composed the following
stanzas, which, having committed them
to paper, he the next evening dropp'd
upon the terrace.
SONNET.
Hail! to the hallow'd hill, the circling lawn,
The breezy upland, and the mountain stream!
The last tall pine that earliest meet* the dawn,
And glistens latest to the western gleam!
Hail! every distant hill, and downland plain!
Your dew-hid beauties Fancy oft unveils;
What time to shepherd's reed, or Poet's strain,
Sorrowing my heart its destin'd woe bewails.
Blest are the fairy hour, the twilight (hade
Of Ev'ning, wand'ring thro' her woodlands dear;
Sweet the still found that steals along the glade;
'Tis Fancy wafts it, and her vot'ries hear.
'Tis


( 94 )
'Tis Fancy wafts it!—aud how sweet the sound!
I hear it now the distant hills uplong;
While fairy echos from their dells around,
And woods, and wilds, the feeble notes prolong!
He had the pleasure to observe that
the paper was taken up by the ladies,
who immediately retired into the castle.
CHAPTER


( 95 )
CHAPTER V.
ONE morning early, the Earl dis-
cerned a martial band emerging
from the verge of the horizon; his
heart welcomed his hopes, which were
soon confirmed into certainty. It was
his faithful people, led on by Alleyn.
It was their design to surround and attack
the castle; and though their numbers
gave them but little hopes of conquest,
they yet believed that, in the tumult
of the engagement, they might pro-
cure the deliverance of the Earl. With
this view they advanced to the walls.
The centinels had descried them at dis-
tance; the alarm was given; the trum-
pets sounded, and the walls of the castle
were filled with men. The Baron was
present, and directed the preparations.
The secret purpose of his soul was fixed.
The clan surrounded the fosse, into
which


( 96 )
which they threw bundles of faggots,
and gave the signal of attack. Scaling
ladders were thrown up to the window
of the tower. The Earl, invigorated
with hope and joy, had by the force of
his arm, almost wrenched from its fas-
tening, one of the iron bars of the grate;
his foot was lifted to the stanchion,
ready to aid him in escaping through
the opening, when he was seized by the
guards of the Baron, and conveyed pre-
cipitately from the prison. He was led,
indignant and desperate, to the lofty
ramparts of the castle, from whence he
beheld Alleyn and his clan, whose eager
eyes were once more blessed with the
sight of their Chief ;—they were blessed
but for a moment; they beheld their
Lord in chains, surrounded with guards,
and with the instruments of death. Ani-
mated, however, with a last hope, they
renewed the attack with redoubled fury,
when the trumpets of the Baron sounded
a parley, and they suspended their arms.
The
5


( 97 )
The Baron appeared on the ramparts;
Alleyn advanced to hear him. "The
moment of attack," cried the Baron,
"is the moment of death to your Chief.
If you wish to preserve his life, desist
from the assault, and depart in peace;
and bear this message to the Countess,
your mistress:—the Baron Malcolm
will accept no other ransom for the life
and the liberty of the Earl, than her
beauteous daughter, whom he now sues
to become his wife. If she accedes to
these terms, the Earl is instantly libera-
ted,—if she refuses,—he dies." The
emotions of the Earl, and of Alleyn, on
hearing these words, were inexpressible.
The Earl spurned, with haughty virtue,
the base concession. "Give me death,''
cried he with loud impatience; " the
house of Athlin shall not be dishonoured
by alliance with a murderer: renew the
attack, my brave people; since you can-
not save the life, revenge the death of
your Chief; he dies contented, since his
F death


( 9* )
death preserves his family from disho-
nour." The guards instantly surrounded
the Earl.
Alleyn, whose heart, torn by con-
tending emotions, was yet true to the
impulse of honour, on observing this,
instantly threw down his arms, refusing
to obey the commands of the Earl; a
hostage for whose life he demanded,
while he hastened to the castle of Athlin
with the conditions of the Baron. The
clan, following the example of Alleyn,
rested on their arms, while a few pre-
pared to depart with him on the em-
bassy. In vain were the remonstrances
and the commands of the Earl; his peo-
ple loved him too well to obey them,
and his heart was filled with anguifli
when he saw Alleyn depart from the
walls.
The situation of Alleyn was highly
pitiable; all the firm virtues of his foul
were


( 99 )
were called upon to support it. He was
commissioned on an embassy, the alter-
nate conditions of which would bring
miser/ on the woman he adored, or death
to the friend whom he loved.
When the arrival of Alleyn was an-
nounced to the Countess, impatient joy
thrilled in her bosom; for she had no
doubt that he brought offers of accom-
modation; and no ransom was pre-
sented to her imagination, which she
would not willingly give for the resto-
ration of her son. At the sound of Al-
leyn's voice, those tumults which had
began to subside in the heart of Mary,
were again revived, and site awoke to
the mournful certainty of hopeless en-
deavour. Yet she could not repress a
strong emotion of joy on again behold-
ing him. The soft blush of her cheek
shewed the colours of her mind, while,
in endeavouring to sliade her feelings,
she impelled them into stronger light.
F 2 The


The agitations of Alleyn almost sub-
dued his strength, when he entered the
presence of the Countess; and his vi-
sage, on which was impressed deep dis-
tress, and the paleness of fear, betrayed
the inward workings of his foul. Ma-
tilda was instantly seized with appre-
hension for the safety of her son, and
in a tremulous voice, enquired his
fate. Alleyn told her he was well, pro-
ceeding with tender caution to acquaint
her with the business of his embassy,
and with the scene to which he had
lately been witness. The sentence of
the Baron fell like the stroke of death
upon the heart of Mary, who fainted at
the words. Alleyn flew to support her.
In endeavouring to revive her daugh-
ter, the Countess was diverted for a
time from the anguish which this intel-
ligence must naturally impart. It was
long ere Mary returned to life, and she
returned only to a sense of wretched-
ness. The critical situation of Matilda
can


( 101 )
can scarcely be felt in its full extent*
Torn by the conflict of opposite inte-
rests, her brain was the feat of tumult,
and wild dismay. Which ever way she
looked, destruction closed the view. The
murderer of the husband, now sought
to murder the happiness of the daugh-
ter. On the sentence of the mother
hung the final fate of the son. In re-
jecting these terms, she would give him
instant death; in accepting them, her
conduct would be repugnant to the
feelings of indignant virtue, and to the
tender injured memory of her mur-
dered Lord. She would destroy for
ever the peace of her daughter, and the
honour of her house. To effect his de-
liverance by force of arms was utterly
impracticable, since the Baron had de-
clared, that " the moment of attack
mould be the moment of death to the
Earl." Honour, humanity, parental
tenderness, bade her save her son; yet,
by a strange contrariety of interests, the
F 3 fame


( 102 )
same virtues pleaded with a voice equal-
ly powerful, for the reverse of the sen-
tence. Hitherto hope had still illu-
mined her mind with a distant ray; she
now found herself suddenly involved in
the darkness of despair, whose glooms
were interrupted only by the gleams of
horror which arose from the altar, on
which was to be sacrificed one of her
beloved children. Her mind shrunk
from the idea of uniting her daughter
to the murderer of her father. The
ferocious character of Malcolm was
alone sufficient to blight for ever the
happiness of the woman whose fate
should be connected with his. To give
to the murderer the child of the mur-
dered was a thought too horrid to rest
upon. The Countess rejected with
force the Baron's offer of exchange,,
when the bleeding figure of her be-
loved son, pale and convulsed in death,
started on her imagination, and stretched
her brain almost to frenzy.
Meanwhile


( IC3 )
Meanwhile Mary suffered a conflict
equally dreadful. Nature had bestowed
on her a heart susceptible of all the sine
emotions of delicate passion; a heart
which vibrated in unison with the
sweetest feelings of humanity; a mind,
quick in perceiving the nicest lines of
moral rectitude, and strenuous in en-
deavouring to act up to its perceptions.
These gifts were unnecessary to make
her sensible of the wretchedness of her
present situation; of which a common
mind would have felt the misery; they
served, however, to sharpen the points
of affliction, to encrease their force, and
to disclose, in stronger light, the various
horrors of her situation. Fraternal love
and pity called loudly upon her to resign
herself into the power of the man whom,
from the earliest dawn of perception,
she had contemplated with trembling
aversion and horror. The memory of
her murdered parent, every feeling dear
to virtue, the tremulous, but forceful
1' 4 voice


( io4 )
voice of love awakened her heart, and
each opposed, with wild impetuosity,
every other sentiment. Her soul shrunk
back with terror from the idea of union
with the Baron. Could she bear to re-
ceive, in marriage, that hand which was
stained with the blood of her father?—
The polluted touch would freeze her
heart in horror!—could she bear to pass
her life with the man, who had for ever
blasted the smiling days of him who
gave her being?—With the man who
would stand before her eyes a perpetual
monument of misery to herself, and of
dishonour to her family? whose chilling
aspect would repel every amiable and
generous affection, and strike them back
upon her heart only to wound it? To
cherish the love of the noble virtues,,
would be to cherish the remembrance of
her dead father, and of her living lover.
How wretched must be her situation,
when to obliterate from her memory
the image of virtue, could alone afford
her


her a chance of obtaining a horrid tran-
quillity; virtue which is so dear to the
human heart, that when her form for-
sakes us, we pursue her shadow. Where-
ever in search of comfort she directed
her aching sight, Misery's haggard^
countenance obtruded on her view.
Here she beheld herself entombed in the
arms of the murderer;—there, the spec-
tacle of her beloved brother, encircled
with chains, and awaiting the stroke of
death, arose to her imagination; the
scene was too affecting; fancy gave her
the horrors of reality. The reflection,
that through her he suffered, that she
yet might save him from destruction,
broke with irresistible force upon her
mind, and instantly bore away every op-
posing feeling. She resolved, that since
she must be wretched, she would be no-
bly wretched; since misery demanded
one sacrifice, she would devote herself
the victim.
F 5 With,


f 106 )
With these thoughts, she entered the
apartment of the Countess, w hose con-
currence was necessary to ratify her
resolves, and, having declared them,
awaited in trembling expectation her
decision. Matilda had suffered a distrac-
tion of mind, which the nature of no
former trial had occasioned her., On
the unfortunate death of a husband ten-
derly beloved, (he had suffered all the
sorrow which tenderness, and all the
shock which the manner of his death
could occasion. The event, however,
shocking as it was, did not hang upon
circumstances over which she had an ,
influence; it was decided by an higher
power;—it was decided, and never could
be recalled; slie had there no dreadful
choice of horrors, no evil ratified by her
own voice, to taint with deadly recol-
lections her declining days. This
choice, though forced upon her by the
power of a tyrant, she would still consi-
der as in part her own; and the thought
that


( 107 J
that she was compelled to doom to de-
struction one of her children, harrowed
up her foul almost to frenzy.
Her mind, at length exhausted with
excess of feeling, was now fallen into a
state of cold and silent despair; she be-
came insensible to the objects around her,
almost to the fense of her own sufferings,
and the voice, and the proposal of her
daughter, scarcely awakened her powers
of perception. "He mall live," said-
Mary, in a voice broken and tender;
"He shall live, I am ready to become
the sacrifice." Tears prevented herpro-
cecding. At the word " live," the
Countess raised her eyes, and threw
round her a look of wildnefs, which set-
tling on the features of Mary, softened
into an expression of ineffable tender-
ness, she waved her head, and turned to
the window. A'few tears bedewed her,
cheek; they fell like the drops of Hea-
ven upon the withered plant, reviving
. . F 6 and


s 108 )
and expanding its dying foliage; they
were the first her eyes had known since
the fatal news had reached her. Reco-
vering herself a little, she sent for Al-
leys who was still in the castle. She
wished to consult with him, whether
there was not yet a possibility of effect-
ing the escape of the EarL In afflicti-
ons of whatever degree, where death
has not already fixed the events in cer-
tainty, the mind shoots almost beyond
the sphere of possibility in search of
hope, and seldom relinquishes the fond
illusion, till the stroke of reality dissolves
the enchantment. Thus it was with
Matilda; after the grief produced by
the first stroke of this disaster was some-
what abated, she was inclined to think
that her situation might not prove so
desperate as she imagined; and her
heart was warmed by a remote hope,
that there might yet be devised some
method of procuring the escape of the
Earl. Alleyn came; he came in the
trembling


( i°9 J
trembling expectation of receiving the
decision of the Countess, and in the in-
tention of offering to engage in any en-
terprize, however hazardous, for the
enlargement of the Earl. He repelled,
with instant force, every idea of Mary's
becoming the wife of Malcolm; the
thought was too full of agony to be en-
dured, and he threw the sensation from
his heart as a poison which would destroy
the pulse of life. To preserve Mary
from a misery so exquisite, and to save
the life of the Earl, he was willing to
encounter any hazard; to meet death
itself as an evil which appeared less
dreadful than either of the former. He
came prepared with this resolution, and
it served to support that fortitude which
affliction had disturbed, though it could
not subdue. When he came again to the
Countess, his distress was heightened
by the scene before him; he beheld her
leaning on a sofa, pale and silent; her
unconscious eyes were fixed on an op-
, posite


( no J
polite window; her countenance was
touched with a wildness expressive of
the disorder of her mind, and she re-
mained for some time insensible of his
approach. Such is the fluctuation of a
mind overcome by distress, that if for
a moment a ray of hope chears its dark-
ness, it vanishes at the touch of recollec-
tion. Mary was standing near the Count-
ess, whose hand she held to her bosom.
Her present sorrow had heightened the
natural pensiveness of her countenance,
and shaded her features with an interest-
ing languor, more enchanting than the
vivacity of blooming health; her eyes
sought to avoid Alleyn, as an object
dangerous to the resolution she had
formed. Matilda remained absorbed in
thought. Mary wished to repeat the
purpose of her soul, but her voice trem-
bled, and the half-formed sentence died
away on her lips. Alleyn enquired the
commands of the Countess. "I am
ready," said Mary, at length, in a low"
and


( III )
and tremulous voice, "to give myself
the victim to the Baron's revenge.—I
will save my brother." At these words,
the heart of Alleyn grew cold. Mary,
overcome by the effort which they had
occasioned her, scarcely finished the sen-
tence; her nerves shook, a mist fell
over her eye, and she sunk on the sofa
by which she had stood. Alleyn hung
over the couch in silent agony, watching
her return to life. By the assistance of
those about her, stie soon revived. Al-
leyn, in the joy which he felt at her reco-
very, forgot for a moment his situation,
and pressed with ardor her hand to his
bosom. Mary, whose senses were yet
scarcely recollected, yielded unconsci-
ously to the softness of her heart, and
betrayed its situation by a smile so ten-
der, as to thrill the breast of Alleyn with
the sweet certainty of being loved. Hi-
therto his passion had been chilled by
the despair which the vast superiority
of her birth occasioned, and by the mo-
desty


C )
desty Which forbade him to imagine that
he had merit sufficient to arrest the eye
of the accomplished Mary. Perhaps,
too, the diffidence natural to genuine
love, might contribute to deceive him.
It was not till this moment, that he ex-
perienced that certainty which awaken-
ed in his heart a fense of delight hither-
to unknown to him. For a moment he
forgot the distresses of the castle, and his
own situation; every idea faded from
his mind, but the one he had so lately
acquired; and in that moment he
seemed to taste perfect felicity. Re-
collection, however, with all its train
of black dependancies soon returnedj
and plunged him in a misery as poig-
nant as the joy from which he was now
precipitated.
The Countess was now sufficiently
composed to enter on the subject nearest
her heart. Alleyn caught, with eager-
ness, her mention of attempting the
deliverance


( H3 )
deliverance of the Earl, for the possi-
bility of accomplishing which, he de-
clared himself willing to encounter any
danger: he seconded so warmly the
design, and spoke with such flattering
probability of success, that the spirits
of Matilda began once more to revive;
yet she trembled to encourage hopes
which hung on such perilous uncer-
tainty. It was agreed, that Alleyn
should consult with the most able and
trusty of the clan, whom age or infir-
mity had detained from battle, on the
means most likely to ensure success,
and then proceed immediately on the
expedition: having first delivered to
the Baron a message from the Countess,
requiring time for deliberation upon a
choice so important, and importing that
an answer should be returned at the expi-
ration of a fortnight.
Alleyn accordingly assembled those
whom he judged most worthy of the
council i


( "4 )
council: various schemes were pro-
posed, none of which appeared likely to
succeed; when it was recollected that
the Earl might possibly have been re-
moved from the tower to some new
place of confinement, which it would
be necessary first to discover, that the
plan might be adapted to the situation.
It was therefore concluded to suspend
further consultation till Alleyn had ob-
tained the requisite infonnat'on; ;;-id
that in the mean time he shou'.J ;cuvet
to Malcolm the message of tru Count-
ess: for these purposes Alleyn imme-
diately set out for the castle.
CHAP-


( tli )
CHAPTER. VI.
THE castle of Dunbayne was still
the scene of triumph, and of
wretchedness. Malcolm, exulting in
his scheme, already beheld Mary at his
feet, and the Earl retiring in an anguish
more poignant than that of death. He
was surprized that his invention had
not before supplied him with this means
of torture: for the first time he wel-
comed love, as the instrument of his
revenge; and the charms of Mary were
heightened to his imagination by the
ardent colours of this passion. He was
confirmed in his resolves, never to re-
linquish the Earl, but on the conditions
he had offered; and thus for ever would
he preserve the house of Athlin a monu-
ment of his triumph.
Osbert, for greater security, was con-
veyed from the tower into, a more cen-
trical


( ix6 )
trical part of the castle, to an apartment
spacious but gloomy, whose gothic win-
dows partly excluding light, threw a
solemnity around, which chilled the
heart almost to horror. He heeded not
this; his heart was occupied with hor-
rors of its own. He was now involved
in a misery more intricate, and more
dreadful, than his imagination had yet
painted. To die, was to him, who had
so long contemplated the near approach
of death, a familiar and transient evil;
but to fee, even in idea, his family in-
volved in infamy, and in union with the
murderer, was the stroke which pierced
his heart to its center. He feared that
the cruel tenderness of the mother
would tempt Matilda to accept the
offers of the Baron; and he scarcely
doubted, that the noble Mary would
resign herself the price of his life. He
would have written to the Countess to
have forbidden her acceptance of the
terms, and to have declared his fixed
resolution


( "7 3
resolution to die, but that he had no
means of conveying to her a letter; the
soldier who had so generously under-
taken the conveyance of his former one,
having soon after disappeared from his
station. The manly fortitude which
had supported him through his former
trials, did not desert him in this hour
of darkness; habituated so long to strug-
gle with opposing feelings, he had ac-
quired the art of managing them; his
mind attained a confidence in its pow-
ers; resistance served only to increase
its strength, and to confirm the magna-
nimity of its n*ture.
Alleyn had now joined the clan, and
was ardent in pursuit of the neceflary
intelligence. He learned that the Earl
had been removed from the tower, but
in what part of the castle he was now
confined he could not discover; on this
point all was vague conjecture. That
he was alive, was only judged from the
policy


( u8 )
policy of the Baron, whose ardent pas-
sion for Mary was now well under-
stood. Alleyn employed every strata-
gem his invention could suggest, to dis-
cover the prison of the Earl, but with-
out success: at length compelled to
deliver to Malcolm, the message of the
Countess, he demanded, as a prelimi-
nary, that the Earl should be shewn to
his people from the ramparts, that they
might be certain he was still alive. Al-
leyn hoped that his appearance would
lead to a discovery of the place of his
imprisonment, purposing to observe nar-
rowly the way by which he should re-
tire.
The Earl appeared in safety on the
ramparts, amid the shouts and acclama-
tions of his people; the Baron, frown-
ing defiance, was seen at his side. Al-
leyn advanced to the walls, and deli-
vered the message of Matilda. Osbert
started at its purpose; he foresaw that
deliberation


( "9 )
deliberation portended compliance:—
stung with the thought, he swore aloud
he never would survive the infamy of
the concession; and addressing himself
to Alleyn, commanded him instantly to
return to the Countess, and bid her
spurn the base compliance, as she feared
to sacrifice both her children to the
murderer of their father. At th ese words,
a smile of haughty triumph marked the
features of the Baron, and he turned
from Osbert in silent exultation. The
Earl was led off by the guards. Alleyn
endeavoured in vain to mark the way
they took; the lofty walls soon concealed
them from his view.
Alleyn now experienced how strenu-
ously a vigorous mind protects its fa-
vourite hope; wayward circumstances
may shock, disappointment may check
it; but it rises superior to opposition,
and traverses the sphere of possibility to
accomplish its purpose. Alleyn did not
yet


( 120 )
yet despair, but he was perplexed in
what manner to proceed.
In his way from the ramparts, Osbert
was surprized by the appearance of two
ladies at a window near which he
passed: the agitation of his mind did
not prevent his recognizing them as the
fame he had observed from the grates of
the tower, with such lively admiration,
and who had excited in his mind so
much pity and curiosity. In the midst
of his distress, his thoughts had often
dwelt on the sweet graces of the youn-
ger, and he had sighed to obtain the
story of her sorrows; for the melan-
choly which hung upon her features
proclaimed her to be unfortunate. They
now stood observing Osbert as he passed,
and their eyes expressed the pity which
his situation inspired. He gazed ear-
nestly and mournfully upon them, and
when he entered his prison, again en-
quired concerning them, but the same
4 inflexible


( 121 )
inflexible silence was preserved on the
subject.
As the Earl sat one day musing in
his prison, his eyes unvoluntarily fixed
upon a pannel in the opposite wainscot;
—he observed that it was differently
formed from the rest, and that its pro-
jection was somewhat greater; a hope
started into his mind, and he quitted his
feat to examine it. He perceived that
it was surrounded by a small crack, and
on pushing it with his hands it shook
under them. Certain that it was some-
thing more than a pannel, he exerted
all his strength against it, but without
producing any new effect. Having
tried various means to move it without
success, he gave up the experiment, and
returned to his feat melancholy and dis-
appointed. Several days pasted with-
out any further notice being taken of
the wainscot; unwilling, however, to
relinquish a last hope, he returned to
G the


( 122 >
the examination, when, in endeavouring
to remove the pannel, his foot acci-
dentally hit against one corner, and it
suddenly flew open. It had been con-
trived that a spring which was concealed
within, and which fastened the partition,
should receive its impulse from the
pressure of a certain part of the pannel,
which was now touched by the foot of
the Earl. His joy on the discovery
cannot be expressed. An apartment
wide and forlorn, like that which formed
his prison, now lay before him; the
windows, which were high and arched)
were decorated with painted glass; the
floor was paved with marble; and it
seemed to be the deserted remains of
a place of worship. Osbert traversed,
with hesitating steps, its dreary length,
towards a pair of folding doors, large
and of oak, which closed the apartment:
these he opened; a gallery, gloomy and
vast, appeared beyond; the windows,
which were in the fame style of Gothic
architecture


( »23 >
architecture with the former, were
shaded by thick ivy that almost ex-
cluded the light. Osbert stood at the
entrance, uncertain whether to pro-
ceed; he listened, but heard no foot-
step in his prison, and determined to go
on. The gallery terminated on the left
in a large winding stair-cafe, old and
apparently neglected, which led to a
hall below; on the right was a door,
low, and rather obscure. Osbert, ap-
prehensive of discovery, passed the stair-
case, and opened the door, when a suite
of noble apartments, magnificently fur-
nished, was disclosed to his wondering
eyes. He proceeded onward without
perceiving any person, but having
passed the second room, heard the faint
sobs of a person weeping; he stood for
a moment, undetermined whether to
proceed; but an irresistible curiosity im-
pelled him forward, and he entered an
apartment, in which were seated the
beautiful strangers, whose appearance
G 2 had


{ 12+ )
had so much interested his feelings.
The elder of the ladies was dissolved in
tears, and a casket and some papers lay
open on a table beside her. The younger
was so intent upon a drawing, which she
seemed to be finishing, as not to observe
the entrance of the Earl. The elder
lady, on perceiving him, arose in some
confusion, and the surprize in her eyes
seemed to demand an explanation of so
unaccountable a visit. The Earl, sur-
prised at what he beheld, stepped back
with an intention of retiring; but recol-
lecting that the intrusion demanded an
apology, he returned. The grace with
which he excused himself, confirmed
the impression w hich his figure had al-
ready made on the mind of Laura,
which was the name of the younger
lady; who on looking up, discovered a
countenance in which dignity and sweet-
ness were happily blend,ed. She ap-
peared to be about twenty, her person
was of the middle stature, extremely
delicate,


( 125 )
delicate, and very elegantly formed.
The bloom of her youth was shaded by
a soft and pensive melancholy, which
communicated an expression to her sine
blue eyes, extremely interesting. Her
features wefe partly concealed by the
beautiful luxuriance of her auburn hair,
which curling round her face, descended
in tresses on her bosom; every feminine
grace played around her; and the simple
dignity of her air declared the purity and
the nobility of her mind. On perceiving
the Earl, a faint blusti animated her
cheek, and she involuntarily quitted the
drawing upon which she had been en-
gaged. ,
If the former imperfect view he had
caught of Laura had given an impres-
sion to the heart of Osbert, it now re-
ceived a stronger character from the op-
portunity afforded him of contemplat-
ing her beauty. He concluded that
the Baron, attracted by her charms, had
G 3 entrapped


.( 126 )
entrapped her into his power, and de-
tained her in the caltle an unwilling
prisoner. In this conjecture he was
confirmed by the mournful cast of her
countenance, and by the mystery which
appeared to surround her. Fired by
this idea, he melted in compassion for
her sufferings; which compassion was
tinctured and encreafed by the passion
which now glowed in his heart. At
that moment he forgot the danger of his
present situation; he forgot even that
he was a prisoner; and awake only to
the wish of alleviating her sorrows, he
rejected cold and useless delicacy, and
resolved, if possible, to learn the cause
of her misfortunes. Addressing himself
to the Baroness, "if, Madam," said he,
"I could by any means soften the af-
fliction which I cannot affect not to per-
ceive, and which has so warmly inte-
rested my feelings, I should regard this
as one of the most happy moments of
mv life; a life marked, alas! too strong-


( 127 )
ly with misery! but misery has not beers
useless, since it has taught me sympa-
rhy." The Baroness was no stranger to
the character and the misfortunes of the
Earl. Herself the victim of oppression,
she knew how to commiserate the suffer-
ings of others. She had ever felt a tender
compassion for the misfortunes of Osbert,
and did not now with-hold sincere ex-
pressions of sympathy, and of gratitude,
for the interest which he felt in her sor-
row. She expressed her surprize ac
seeing him thus at liberty; but observing
the chains which encircled his hands,
she shuddered, and guessed a part of the
truth. He explained to her the disco-
very of the pannel, by which circum-
stance he had found his way into that
apartment. The idea of aiding him to
escape, ruihed upon the mind of the
Baroness, but was repressed by the con-
sideration of her own confined situation.
>
and Ihe was compelled, with mournful
reluctance, to resign that thought which.
G 4 reverence-


f 1,2* )
reverence for the character of the late
Earl, and compassion for the misfortunes
of the present, had inspired. She la-
mented her inability to assist him, and
informed him that herself and her
daughter were alike prisoners with him-
self 3 that the walls of the castle were
the limits of their liberty; and that they
had suffered the pressure of tyranny for
fifteen years. The Earl expressed the
indignation which he felt at this reci-
tal, and solicited the Baroness to confide
in his integrity; and, if the relation
would not be too painful to her, to ho-
nour him so far as to acquaint him by
what cruel means she fell into the power
of Malcolm. The Baroness, apprehen-
sive for his safety, reminded him of the
risk of discovery by a longer absence
from his prison; and, thanking him
again for the interest he took in her suf-
ferings, assured him of her warmest
wishes for his deliverance, and that if
an opportunity ever offered, she would
acquaint


( I29 )
acquaint him with the sad particulars of
her story. The eyes of Osbert made
known that gratitude which it was diffi-
cult for his tongue to utter. Tremu-
lously he solicited the consolation of
sometimes re-visiting the apartments of
the Baroness; a permission which would
give him some intervals of comfort
amid the many hours of torment to
which he was condemned. The Ba-
roness, in compassion to his sufferings,
granted the request. The Earl de-
parted, gazing on Laura with eyes of
mournful tenderness; yet he M as pleased
with what had passed, and retired to his
prison in one of those peaceful inter-
vals which are known even to the
wretched. He found all quiet, and
dosing the pannel in safety, sat down to
consider the past, and anticipate the fu-
ture. He was flattered with hopes, that
the discovery of the pannel might aid
him to escape; the glooms of despond-
ence which had lately enveloped his
G 5 mind,


( 13° )
mind, gradually disappeared, and joy
once more illumined his prospects; but
it was the sunshine of an April morn,
deceitful and momentary. He recol-
lected that the castle was beset with
guards, whose vigilance was insured by
the severity of the Baron; he remem-
bered that the strangers, who had taken
so kind an interest in his fate, were pri-
soners like himself i and that he had no
generous soldier to teach him the secret
windings of the castle, and to accom-
pany him in flight. His imagination
was haunted by the image of Laura >
vainly he strove to disguise from him-
self the truth; his heart constantly be-
lied the sophistry of his reasonings. Un-
warily he had drank the draught of
love, and he was compelled to acknow-
ledge the fatal indiscretion. He could
not, however, resolve to throw from his
heart the delicious poison; he could
not resolve to see her no more. The
painful apprehension for his safety,
which


f 13 f )
which his forbearing to renew the visit
he had so earnestly solicited, would oc-
casion the Baroness; the apparent dis-
respect it would convey; the ardent
curiosity with which he longed to ob-
tain the history of her misfortunes; the
lively interest he felt in learning the
situation of Laura, with respect: to the
Baron; and the hope,—the wild hope,,
with which he deluded his reason, that
he might be able to assist them, deter-
mined him to repeat the visit. Under
these illusions, the motive which prin-
cipally impelled him to the interview
was concealed.
In the mean time Alleyn had re-
turned to the castle of Athlin with the
resolutions of the Earl; whose resolves
served only to aggravate the distress of
its fair inhabitants. Alleyn, however,
unwilling to crush a last hope, tenderly
concealed from them the circumstance,
of the Earl's removal from the tower;
G 6 silently


( )
silently and almost hopelessly meditating
to discover his prison? and adminis-
tered that comfort to the Countess and
to Mary, which his own expectation
would not suffer him to participate. He
retired in. haste to the veterans whom
he had before assembled, and acquaint-
ed them with the removal of the Earl;
which circumstance must for the pre-
sent suspend their consustations. He
left them, therefore, and instantly re-
turned to the clan: there to prosecute
his enquiries. Every possible exertion
was made to obtain the necessary intel-
ligence, but without success. The
moment in which the Baron would de-
mand the answer ef the Countess, was
now fast approaching, and every heart
funk in despair, when one night the cen-
tinels of the camp were alarmed by the
approach of men, who hailed them in
unknown voices; fearful of surprize,
they surrounded the strangers, and led
them to Alleyn; to whom they related,
that


( 133 )'
that they fled from the capricious tyran-
ny of Malcolm, and sought refuge in
the camp of his enemy; whose misfor-
tunes they bewailed, and in whose cause
they enlisted. Rejoiced at the circum-
stance, yet doubtful of its truth, Alleyn
interrogated the soldiers concerning the
prison of the Earl. From them he
learned, that Osbert was confined in a
part of the castle extremely difficult of
access; and that any plan of escape
must be utterly impracticable without
the assistance of one well acquainted
with the various intricacies of the pile.
An opportunity of success was now pre-
sented, with which the most sanguine
hopes of Alleyn had never flattered
him. He received from the soldiers
strong assurances of assistance; from
them, likewise, he learned, that discon-
tent reigned among the people of the
Baron; who, impatient of the yoke of
tyramy, only waited a favourable op-
portunity to throw it off, and resume
.... the


( 7
the rights of nature. That the vigilant
suspicions of Malcolm excited him to
punish with the harshest severity every
appearance of inattention; that being
condemned to suffer a very heavy pu-
nishment for a slight offence, they had
eluded the impending misery, and the
future oppression of their Chief, by
desertion.
Alleyn immediately convened a coun-
cil, before whom the soldiers were
brought; they repeated their former
assertions; and one of the fugitives
added, that he had a brother, whose
place of guard over the person of the
Earl on that night, had made it difficult
to elude observation, and had prevented
his escaping with them: that on the
night of the morrow he stood guard at
the gate of the lesser draw-bridge, where
the centinels were few; that he was
himself willing to risque the danger of
conversing with him; and had little
doubt


( 13S )
doubt of gaining him to assist in the de-
liverance of the Earl. At these words,
the heart of Alleyn throbbed with joy.
He promised large rewards to the brave
soldier and to his brother, if they un-
dertook the enterprize. His companion
was well acquainted with the subter-
raneous passages of the rock, and ex-
pressed himself desirous of being useful.
The hopes of Alleyn every instant grew
stronger; and he vainly wished, at that
moment, to communicate to the Earl's
unhappy family the joy which dilated
his heart.
The eve of the following day was
fixed upon to commence their designs;
when James should endeavour to gain
his brother to their purpose. Having
adjusted these matters, they retired to
rest for the remainder of the night; but
sleep had fled the eyes of Alleyn; anxi-
ous expectation filled his mind; and
he saw, in the waking visions of fancy,
the


( 136 )
the meeting of the Earl with his family j
he anticipated the thanks he should re-
ceive from the lovely Mary; and he
sighed at the recollection, that thanks
were all for which he could ever dare to
hope.
At length the dawn appeared, and
waked the clan to hopes and prospects
far different from those of the preceding
morn. The hours hung heavily on the
expectation of Alleyn, whose mind was
filled with solicitude for the event of the
meeting between the brothers. Night
at length came to his wishes. The
darkness was interrupted only by the
faint light of the moon moving through
the watery and broken clouds, which en-
veloped the horizon. Tumultuous gusts
of wind broke at intervals the silence of
the hour. Alleyn watched the move-
ments of the castle; he observed the
lights successively disappear. The bell
from the watch-tower chimed one; all
was


( 137 )
was stilt within the walls; and James
ventured forth to the draw-bridge. The
draw-bridge divided in the center, and
the half next the plains was down; he
mounted it, and in a low yet firm voice,
called on Edmund. No answer was re-
turned; and he began to fear that his
brother had already quitted the castle.
He remained some time in silent sus-
pense before he repeated the call, when
he heard the gate of the draw-bridge
gently unbarred, and Edmund appeared;
He was surprized to see James, and
bade him instantly fly the danger that
surrounded him. The Baron, incensed
at the frequent desertion of his soldiers,
had sent out people in pursuit, and had
promised considerable rewards for the
apprehension of the fugitives. James,
undaunted by what he heard, kept his
ground, resolved to urge his purpose to
the point. Happily the ccntinels who
stood guard with Edmund, overcome
with the effect of a potion he had admi-
nistered


( 13* I
nistered to favour his escape, were sunk
in sleep, and the soldiers conducted their
discourse in a low voice without inter-
ruption. ..
- - .. i'
Edmund was unwilling to defer his
flight, and possessed not resolution suffi-
cient to encounter the hazard os the en-
terprize, till the proffered reward con-
soled his self-denial, and roused his
slumbering courage. He was well ac-
quainted with the subterraneous avenues
of the castle; the only remaining diffi-
culty, was that of deceiving the vigi-
lance of his fellow-centinels, whose
watchfulness made it impossible for the
Earl to quit his prison unperceived.
The soldiers who were to mount guard
with him on the following night, were
stationed in a distant part of the castle,
till the hour of their removal to the
door of the prison; it was, therefore,
difficult to administer to them that
draught which had steeped in forget-
fulness


( '39 )
1
fulness the fenses of his present associates.
To confide to their integrity, and endea-
vour to win them to his purpose, was
certainly to give his life into their hands,
and probably to aggravate the disastrous
fate of the Earl. This scheme was be-
set too thick with dangers to be ha-
zarded, and their invention could fur-
nish them with none more promising.
It was, however, agreed, that on the
following night, Edmund should seize
the moment of opportunity to impart to
the Earl the designs of his friends, and
to consult on the means of accomplish-
ing them. Thus concluding, James
returned in safety -to the tent of Alleyn,
where the most considerable of the clan
were assembled, there awaiting with im-
patient solicitude, his arrival. The
hopes of Alleyn were somewhat chilled
by the report of the soldier; from the
vigilance which beset the doors of the
prison, escape from thence appeared im-
practicable. He was condemned, how-
ever^


( HO )
ever, to linger in suspense till the third
night from the present, when the return
of Edmund to his station at the bridge
would enable him again to commune
with his brother. But Alleyn was unsus-
picious of a circumstance which would
utterly have defeated his hopes, and
whose consequence threatened destruc-
tion to all their schemes. A centinel
on duty upon that part of the rampart
which surmounted the draw-bridge, had
been alarmed by hearing the gate unbar,
and approaching the wall, had perceived
a man standing on the half of the bridge
which was dropped, and in converse
with some person on the castle walls.
1 He drew as near as the wall would per-
mit, and endeavoured to listen to their
discourse. The gloom of night pre-
vented his recognizing the person on the
bridge; but he could clearly distin-
guish the voice of Edmund in that
of the man who was addressed. Ex-
cited by new wonder, he gave all his
« attention


[ Hi >
attention to discover the subject of their
conversation. The distance occasioned
between the brothers by the suspended
half of the bridge, obliged them to speak
in a somewhat higher tone than they
would otherwise have done; and the
centinel gathered sufficient from their
discourse, to learn that they were con-
certing the rescue of the Earl; that the
night of Edmund's watch at the prison
was to be the night of enterprize; and
that some friends of the Earl were to
await him in the environs of the castle.
AU this he carefully treasured up, and
the next morning communicated it to
his comrades.
On the following evening the Earl,
yielding to the impulse of his heart,
once more unclosed his partition, and
sought the apartments of the Baroness.
She received him with expressions of
satisfaction; while the artless pleasure
which lighted up the countenance of
Laura,


f 142 )
Laura, awakened the pulse of rapture in
that heart which had long throbbed only
to misery. The Earl reminded the Ba-
roness of her former promise, which the
desire of exciting sympathy in those we
esteem.and the melancholy pleasure which
the heart finds in lingering among the
scenes of former happiness, had induced
her to give. She endeavoured to com-
pose her spirits, which were agitated by
the remembrance of past sufferings, and
gave him a relation of the following
circumstances.
4
CHAP-


( H3 )
CHAPTER VII.
LOUISA, Baroness Malcolm, was
the descendant of an ancient and
honourable house in Switzerland. Her
father, the Marquis de St. Claire, inhe-
rited all those brave qualities, and that
stern virtue, which had so eminently dis-
tinguished his ancestors. Early in life
he lost a wife whom he tenderly loved,
and he seemed to derive his sole conso-
lation from the education of the dear
children she had left behind. His son,
whom he had brought up to the arms
himself so honourably bore, fell before
he reached his nineteenth year, in the
service of his country; an elder daughter
died in infancy; Louisa was his sole
surviving child. His chateau was situ-
ated in one of those delightful vallies of
the Swiss cantons, in which the beauti-
ful and the sublime are so happily uni-
ted; where the magnificent features of
the


( )
the scenery are contrasted, and their ef-
fect heightened by the blooming luxu-
riance of woods and pasturage, by the
gentle windings of the stream, and the
peaceful aspect of the cottage. The
Marquis was now retired from the ser-
vice, for grey age had overtaken him.
His residence was the resort of foreign-
ers of distinction, who, attracted by the
united talents of the soldier and the
philosopher, under his roof partook of
the hospitality so characteristic of his
country. Among the visitors of this
description was the late Baron Mal-
colm, brother to the present Chief, who
then travelled through Switzerland.
The beauty os Louisa, embellished by
the elegance of a mind highly culti-
vated, touched his heart, and he soli-
cited her hand in marriage. The manly
sense of the Baron, and the excellencies
of his disposition, had not passed unob-
served, or unapproved by the Marquis;
while the graces of his person, and of
his


s HS )
his mind, had anticipated for him, in the
heart of Louisa, a pre-eminence over
every other suitor. The Marquis had
but one objection to the marriage; this
was likewise the objection of Louisa;
neither the one nor the other could en-
dure the idea of the distance which was
to separate them. Louisa was to the
Marquis the last prop of his declining
years; the Marquis was to Louisa the
father and the friend to whom her heart
had hitherto been solely devoted, and
from whom it could not now be torn
but with an anguish equal to its attach-
ment. This remained an insurmount-
able obstacle, till it was removed by the
tenderness of the Baron, who entreated
the Marquis to quit Switzerland, and
reside with his daughter in Scotland.
The attachment of the Marquis to his
natal land, and the pride of hereditary
dominion, was too powerful to suffer him
to acquiesce in the proposal without
much struggle of contending feelings.
H The


( 146 )
The desire of securing the happiness of
his child, by a union with a character so
excellent as the Baron's, and of seeing
her settled before death should deprive
her of the protection of a father, at
length subdued every other considera-
tion, and he resigned the hand of his
daughter to the Baron Malcolm. The
Marquis adjusted his affairs, and con-
signing his estates to the care of trusty
agents, bade a last adieu to his beloved
country; that country which, during
sixty years, had been the principal
scene of his happiness, and of his re-
grets. The course of years had not ob-
literated from his heart the early affec-
tions of his youth: he took a fad fare-
well of that grave which enclosed the
reliques of his wife, from which it was
not his least effort to depart, and whi-
ther he ordered that his remains should
be conveyed. Louisa quitted Switzer-
land with a concern scarcely less acute
than that of her father; the poignancy
of


( 147 )
of which, however, was greatly softened
by the tender assiduities of her Lord,
whose affectionate attentions hourly
heightened her esteem, and encreased
her love.
They arrived at Scotland without any
accident, where the Baron welcomed
Louisa as the mistress of his domains.
The Marquis de St. Claire had apart-
ments in the castle, where the evening
of his days declined in peaceful hap-
piness. Before his death, he had the
pleasure of seeing his race renewed in
the children of the Baroness, in a son
who was called by the name of the Mar-
quis, and in a daughter who now shared
with her mother the sorrows of confine-
ment. On the death of the Marquis it
was necessary for the Baron to visit
Switzerland, in order to take possession
of his estates, and to adjust some affairs
which a long absence had deranged. He
attended the remains of the Marquis to
H 2 their


their last abode. The Baroness, desirous
of once more beholding her native coun-
try, and anxious to pay a last respect to
the memory of her father, entrusted her
children to the care of a faithful old ser-
vant, whom she had brought with her
from the Vallois, and who had been the
nurse of her early childhood, and accom-
panied the Baron to the continent.
Having deposited the remains of the
Marquis according to his-wish in the
tomb of his wife, and arranged their
affairs, they returned to Scotland, where
the first intelligence they received on
their arrival at the castle, was of the death
of their son, and of the old nurse his at-
tendant. The servant had died soon
, after their departure; the child only a
fortnight before their return. This dis-
astrous event affected equally the Baron
and his lady, who never ceased to con-
demn herself for having entrusted her
son to the care of servants. Time, how-
ever, subdued the poignancy of this
4 affliction,


( 149 )
affliction, but came fraught with another
yet more acute; this was the death of
the Baron, who, in the pride of youth,
constituting the felicity of his family,
and of his people, was killed by a fall
from his horse, which he received in
hunting. He left the Baroness and an
only daughter to bewail with unceasing
sorrow his loss.
The paternal estates devolved of
course to his only brother, the present
Baron, whose character formed a mourn-
ful and striking contrast to that of the
deceased Lord. All his personal pro-
perty, which was considerable, with the
estates in Switzerland, he bequeathed to
his beloved wife and daughter. The
new Baron, immediately on the demise
of his brother, took possession of the
castle, but allowed the Baroness, with a
part of her suit, to remain its inhabi-
tant till the' expiration of the year. The
Baroness, absorbed in grief, still loved to
H 3 recall


( ijo )
recall, in the scene of her late felicity,
the image of her Lord, and to linger in
his former haunts. This motive, toge-
ther with the necessity of preparation for
a journey to Switzerland, induced her to
accept the offer of the Baron.
The memory of his brother had
quickly faded from the mind of Mal-
colm, whose attention appeared to be
wholly occupied by schemes of ava-
rice and ambition. His arrogance,
and boundless love of power, em-
broiled him with the neighbouring
Chiefs, and engaged him in continual
hostility. He seldom visited the Ba-
roness; when he did, his manner was
cold, and even haughty. The Baroness,
shocked to receive such treatment from
the brother of her deceased Lord, and
reduced to feel herself an unwelcome
guest in that castle which slie had been
accustomed to consider as her own, de-
termined to set off for the continent im-
mediately*


( iS' )
mediately, and seek, in the solitudes of
her native mountains, an asylum from
the frown of insulting power. The con-
trast of character between the brothers
drew many a sigh of bitter recollection
from her heart, and added weight to the
sorrows which already oppressed it. She
gave orders, therefore, to her domestics-,
to prepare for immediate departure;
but was soon after told that the Baron
had forbad them to obey the command.
Astonished at this circumstance, she had
not time to- demand an explanation, ere
a message from Malcolm required a few
moments private conversation. The
messenger was followed almost instantly
by the Baron, who entered the apart-
ment with hurried steps, his counte-
nance overspread with the dark purposes
of his soul. "I come, Madam," said
he, in a. voice stern and determined, a *
"to inform you, that you quit not this
castle. The estates which you call yours,
are mine; and think not that I shall
H 4 neglect


( '5* )
neglect to prosecute my claim. The
frequent and ill-timed generosities of
my brother, have diminished the value
of the lands which are mine by inhe-
ritance; and I have therefore an indis-
pensable right to re-pay myself from
those estates which he acquired with
you. In point of justice, he possessed
pot the right of devising these estates,
and I shall not suffer myself to be de-
ceived by the evasions of the law; re-
sign, therefore, the will, which remains
only a record of unjust wishes, and inef-
fectual claims. When the receipts from
your estates have satisfied my demands,
they shall again be yours. The apart-
ments you now inhabit shall remain your
own; but beyond the wall of this castle
you shall not pass; for I will not, by
suffering your departure, afford you an
opportunity of contesting those rights
which I can enforce without oppo-
sition."
Overcome


Overcome with astonishment and
dread, the Baroness was for "some time
deprived of all power of reply. At
length, roused by the spirit of indigna-
tion; " I am too well informed, my
Lord," said me, "of my just claims to
the lands in question; and know also
too well the value of that integrity
which is now no more, to credit your
bold assertions; they serve only to un-
veil to me the darkness of a character
cruel and rapacious; whose boundless
avarice, trampling on the barriers of jus-
tice and humanity, seizes on the right
of the defenceless widow, and on the
portion of the unresisting orphan. This,
'my Lord, you are permitted to do;
they have no means of resistance; but
think not to impose on me by a sophisti-
cal assertion of right, or to gloss the vil-
lany of your conduct with the colours
of justice; the artifice is beneath the
desperate force of your character, and is
not sufficiently specious to deceive the
H 5 discernment


f 15* )
discernment of virtue. From being
your prisoner I have no means of escap-
ing; but never, my Lord, will I resign
into your hands that will which is the
efficient bond of my rights, and the last
fad record of the affection of my de-
parted Lord." Grief closed her lips.
The Baron denouncing vengeance on
her resistance, his features inflamed with
rage, quitted the apartment. The Ba-
roness was left to lament, with deepening
anguish, the stroke which had deprived
her of a beloved husband; and reflection
gave her the wretchedness of her situa-
tion in yet more lively colours. She
was now a stranger in a foreign land,
deprived by him, of whom she had a
right to demand protection, of all her
possessions; a prisoner in his castle,
without one friend to vindicate her
cause, and far remote from any means
of appeal to the laws of the country.
She wept over the youthful Laura, and
while me pressed her with mournful
fondness


( iS5 )
fondness to her bosom, she was con-
firmed inherresolution never to relinquish
that will, by which alone the rights of
her injured child could ever be ascer-
tained.
The Baron, bold in iniquity, obtained,
by forged powers, the revenues of the
foreign estates; and by this means, ef-
fectually kept the Baroness in his power,
and deprived her of her last resource.
Secure in the possession of the estates,,
and of the Baroness, he no longer re-
garded the will as an object of import-
ance; and as she did not attempt any
means of escape, or the recovery of her
rights, he suffered her to remain un-
disturbed, and in quiet possession of the
will.
The Baroness now passed her days in
unvaried sorrow, except in those inter-
vals when she forced her mind from its
melancholy subject, and devoted herself
<* H6 to


i 156 )
to the education of her daughter. The
artless efforts of Laura, to assuage the
sorrows of her mother, only fixed them
in her heart in deeper impression, since
they gave to her mind, in stronger tints,
the cruelty and oppression to which her
tender years were condemned. The
progress which she made in music and
drawing, and in the lighter subjects of
literature, while it pleased the Baroness,
who was her sole instructress, brought
with it the bitter apprehension, that
these accomplishments would probably
be buried in the obscurity of a prison;
still, however, they were not useless,
since they served at present to cheat af-
fliction of many a weary moment, and
would in future delude the melancholy
hours of solitude. Laura was particu-
larly fond of the lute, which she touched
with exquisite sensibility, and whose ten-
der notes were so sweetly in unison with
the chords of sorrow, and with those
plaintive tones with which she loved to
accompany


( 157 )
accompany it. While she sung, the
Baroness would sit absorbed in recollec-
tion, the tears fast falling from her eyes,
and she might be said to taste in those
moments the luxury of woe.
Malcolm, stung with a fense of guilt,
avoided the presence of his injured cap-
tive, and sought an asylum from con-
science in the busy scenes of war.
Eighteen years had now elapsed since
the death of the Baron, and the confine-
ment of Louisa. Time had blunted the
point of affliction, though it still re-
tained its venom; but she seldom dared
to hope for that which for eighteen years
had been with-held. She derived her
only consolation from the improvement
and the tender sympathy of her daugh-
ter, who endeavoured, by every soothing
attention, to alleviate the sorrows of her
parent.
It


C )
It was at this period that the Baroness
communicated to the Earl the story of
her calamities.
The Earl listened with deep attention
to the recital. His foul burned with
indignation against the Baron, while
his heart gave to the sufferings of the
fair mourners- all that sympathy could
ask. Yet he was relieved from a very
painful sensation, when he learned that
the beauty of Laura had not influenced
the conduct of the Baron. Her op-
pressed situation struck upon his heart
the finest touch of pity; and the passion
which her beauty and her simplicity
had inspired, was strengthened and me-
liorated by her misfortunes. The fate
of his father, and the idea of his own
injuries, rushed upon his mind; and,
combining with the sufferings of the
victims now before him, roused in his
foul a storm of indignation, Httle inferior
to


( 159 )
to that he had suffered in his first inter-
view with the Baron. Every consider-
ation funk before the impulse of a just
revenge; his mind, occupied with the
hateful image of the murderer was har-
dened against danger, and in the first
energies of his resentment he would have
rushed to the apartment of Malcolm, and
striking the sword of justice in his heart,
have delivered the earth from a monster,
and have resigned himself the willing sa-
crifice of the action. "Shall the mon-
ster live?" cried he, rising from his feat.
His step was hurried, and his counte-
nance was stamped with a stern virtue.
The Baroness was alarmed, and follow-
ing him to the door of her apartment,
which he had half opened, conjured him
to pause for a moment on the dangers
that surrounded him. The voice of
reason, in the accents of the Baroness,
interrupted the hurried tumult of his
foul; the'illusions of passion disap-
peared;


( 160 )
peared; he recollected that he was ig-
norant of the apartment of the Baron,
and that he had no weapon to assist his
purpose; and he found himself as a
traveller on enchanted ground, when
the wand of the magician suddenly
dissolves the airy scene, and leaves him
environed with the horrors of solitude
and of darkness.
The Earl returned to his feat hopeless
and dejected, and lost to every thing but
to the bitterness of disappointment. He
forgot where he was, and the lateness of
the hour, till reminded by the Baroness
of the dangers of a longer stay, when he
mournfully bade her good night; and
advancing to Laura with timid respect,
pressed her hand tenderly to his lips, and
retired to his prison.
CHAP-


( ttt )
CHAPTER VIII.
HE had now opened the partition,
and was entering the room, when,
by the faint gleam which the fire threw
across the apartment, he perceived indis-
tinctly the figure of a man, and in the
same instant heard the sound of ap-
proaching armour. Surprize and horror
thrilled through every nerve: he re-
mained fixed to the spot, and for some
moments hesitated whether to retire. A
fearful silence ensued; the person whom
he thought he had seen, disappeared in
• the darkness of the room; the noise of
armour was heard no more; and he
began to think that the figure he had
seen, and the found he had heard, were
the phantoms of a sick imagination,
which the agitation of his spirits, the
solemnity of the hour, and the wide de-
solation of the place, had conjured up.
The


( i*a )
The low sounds of an unknown voice
now started upon his ear j it seemed to»
be almost close beside him; he sprung
onward, and his hand grasped the steely
coldness of armour, while the arm it
enclosed struggled to get free. ** Speak f
what wretch art thou?" cried Osbert,
when a sudden blaze of light from the
fire discovered to him a soldier of the
Baron. His agitation for some time
prevented his observing that there was
more of alarm than of design expressed
in the countenance of the man; but the
apprehension of the Earl was quickly
lost in astonishment, when he beheld'
the guard at his feet. It was Edmund;
who had entered the prison under pre-
tence of carrying fuel-' to the fire, but
secretly for the purpose of conferring
with Osbert. When the Earl under_
stood he came from Alleyn, his bosom
glowed with gratitude towards that ge-
nerous youth, whose steady and active
zeal had never relaxed since the hour irt
which.


( i*3 )
which he first engaged in his cause.
The transport of his heart may be easily
imagined, when he learned the schemes
that were planning for his deliverance.
The circumstance which had nearly de-
feated the warm hopes of his friends,
was by him disregarded, since the
knowledge of the secret door opened to
him, with the assistance of a guide
through the intricacies of the castle, a
certain means of escape. Edmund was
well acquainted with all these. The
Earl told him of the discovery of
the false pannel; bade him return
to Alleyn with the joyful intelligence,
and on his next night of watch
prepare to aid him in escape. Ed-
mund knew well the apartments which
Osbert described, and the great stair-
case which led into a part of the castle
that had long been totally forsaken, and
from whence it was easy to pass unob-
served into the vaults which communi-
cated


( 164 J
cated with the subterraneous passages in
the rock.
Alleyn heard the report of James with
a warm and generous joy, which impelled
him to hasten immediately to the castle of
Athlin, and dispel the sorrows that in-
habited there; but the consideration
that his sudden absence from the camp
might create suspicion, and invite dis-
covery, checked the impulse; and he
yielded with reluctance to the necessity
which condemned the Countess and
Mary to the horrors of a lengthened
suspense.
The Countess, meanwhile, whose de-
signs, strengthened by the steady deter-
mination of Mary, were unshaken by the
message of the Earl, which she considered
as only the effect of a momentary im-
pulse, watched the gradual departure of
those days which led to that which enve-
loped the fate of her children, with ago-
ny


( *65 )
ny and fainting hope. She received no
news from the camp; no words of com-
fort from Alleyn; and me saw the confi-
dence which had nourished her existence
slowly sinking in despair. Mary sought
to administer that comfort to the afflic-
tions of her mother, which her own
equally demanded; she strove, by the
fortitude with which she endeavoured to
resign herself, to soften the asperity of
the sufferings which threatened the
Countess; and she contemplated the
approaching storm with the determined
coolness of a mind aspiring to virtue as
the chief good. But she sedulously
sought to exclude Alleyn from her
mind; his disinterested and noble con-
duct excited emotions dangerous to her
fortitude, and which rendered yet more
poignant the tortures of the approaching
sacrifice.
Anxious to inform the Baroness of
his approaching deliverance, to assure
her


( 166 )
her of his best services, to bid adieu to
Laura, and to seize the last opportunity
he might ever possess of disclosing to her
his admiration and his love, the Earl re-
visited the apartments of the Baroness.
She felt a lively pleasure on the prospect
of his escape; and Laura, in the joy
which animated her on hearing this in-
telligence, forgot the sorrows of her own
situation; forgot that of which her heart
soon reminded her—that Osbert was
leaving the place of her confinement,
and that she should probably see him no
more. This thought cast a sudden
lhade over her features, and from the
enlivening expression of joy, they re-
sumed their wonted melancholy. Osbert
marked the momentary change, and his
heart spoke to him the occasion. "My
cup of joy is dashed with bitterness,"
said he, " for amid the happiness of ap-
proaching deliverance, I quit not my
prison without some pangs of keen re-
gret;—pangs which it were probably
useless


( 167 )
useless to make known, yet which my
feelings will not suffer me at this mo-
ment to conceal. Within these walls,
from whence I fly with eagerness, I
leave a heart fraught with the most ten-
der passion;—a heart which, while it
beats with life, must ever unite the
image of Laura with the fondness of
love. Could I hope that (he were not
insensible to my attachment I should de-
part in peace, and would defy the obsta-
cles which bid me despair. Were I
even certain that she would repel my
love with cold indifference, 1 would
yet, if she accept my services, effect her
rescue, or give my life the forfeiture."
Laura was silent; she wished to speak
her gratitude, yet feared to tell her love;
but the soft timidity of her eye, and the
tender glow of her cheek, revealed the
secret that trembled on her lips. The
Baroness observed her confusion, and
thanking the Earl for the noble service
he offered, declined accepting it. She
besought


( 168 )
besought him to involve no further the
peace of his family and of himself, by
attempting an enterprize so crowded
with dangers, and which might proba-
bly cost him his life. The arguments
of the Baroness fell forceless when op-
posed to the feelings of the Earl; so
warmly he urged his suit, and dwelt so
forcibly on his approaching departure
that the Baroness ceased to oppose, and
the silence of Laura yielded acqui-
escence. After a tender farewell, with
many earnest wishes for his safety, the
Earl quitted the apartment elated with
hope. But the Baron had been in-
formed of his projected escape, and had
studied the means of counteracting it.
The centinel had communicated his
discovery to some of his comrades, who,
without virtue or courage sufficient to
quit the service of the Baron, were de-
sirous of obtaining his favour, and failed
not to seize on an opportunity, so flat-
tering as the present, to accomplish
their


t 1% )
their purpose. They communicated to
their Chief the intelligence they had
received.
Malcolm, careful to conceal his know-
ledge of the scheme, from a design to
entrap those of the clan who were to
meet the Earl, had suffered Edmund to
return to his station at the prison, where
he had placed the informers as secret
guards, and had taken such other pre-
cautions as were necessary to intercept
their flight, should they elude the vigi-
lance of the soldiers, and likewise to se-
cure those of his people who should be
drawn toward the castle in expectation of
their Chief. Having done this, he
prided himself in security, and in the
certainty of exulting over his enemies,
thus entangled in their own stratagem.
After many weary moments of impa-
tience to Alleyn, and of expectation to
the Earl, the night at length arrived on
I which*


( i/O )
which hung the event of all their hopes,
It was agreed that Alleyn, with a chosen
few, should await the arrival of the
Earl in the cavern where terminated
the subterraneous avenue. Alleyn parted
from James with extreme agitation, and
returned to his tent to compose his
mind.
It was now the dead of night; pro-
found sleep reigned through the castle
of Dunbayne, when Edmund gently
unbolted the prison door, and hailed the
Earl. He sprung forward, and instantly
unclosed the pannel, uhich they fas-
tened after them to prevent discovery,
and passing with fearful steps the cold
and silenf apartments, descended the
great Hair-case into the hall, whose
wide and dark desolation was rendered
visible only by the dim light of the
taper which Edmund carried in his
hand, and whose vaulted ceiling re-
echoed their steps. After various wind-
ings


( *v )
ings they descended into the vaults; in
passing their dreary length they often
paused in fearful silence, listening to the
hollow blasts which burst suddenly
through the passages, and which seemed
to bear in the sound the footsteps of
pursuit. At length they reached the
extremity of the vaults, where Edmund
searched for a trap-door which lay al-
most concealed in the dirt and darkness;
after some time they found, and with
difficulty raised it, for it was long since
it had been opened; and it was besides
heavy with iron work. They entered,
and letting the door fall after them,
descended a. narrow flight of steps
which conducted them to a winding
passage closed by a door that opened into
the main avenue whence Alleyn had
before made his escape. Having gained
this, they stepped on with confidence,
for they where now not far from the ca-
vern were Alleyn and his companions
were awaiting their arrival. The heart
I 2 of


[ 172
of Alleyn now swelled with joy, for he
perceived a gleam of distant light break
upon the walls of the avenue, and at the
fame time thought he heard the faint
found of approaching footsteps. Im-
patient to throw himself at the feet of
the Earl, he entered the avenue. The
light grew stronger upon the walls; but
a point of rock, whose projection caused
a winding in the passage, concealed from
his view the persons his eyes so eagerly
sought. The sound of steps was now
fast approaching, and Alleyn gaining
the rock, suddenly turned upon three
soldiers of the Baron. They instantly
seized him their prisoner. Astonish-
ment for a while overcame every other
sensation; but as they led him along, the
horrid reverse of the moment struck
upon his heart with all its consequences,
and he had no doubt that the Earl had
been seized and carred back to his pri-
son. As he marched along, absorbed in
this reflection, a light appeared at
some


( m )
some distance, from a door that opened
upon the avenue, and discovered the
figures of two men, who on perceiving
the party, retreated with precipitation,
and closed the door after them. Alleyn
knew the Earl in the person of one of
them. Two of the soldiers quitting
Alleyn, pursued the fugitives, and
quickly disappeared through a door.
Alleyn finding himself alone with the
guard, seized the moment of opportu-
nity, and made a desperate effort to re-
gain his sword. He succeeded; and in
the suddenness of the attack, obtained
also the weapon of his adversary, who,
unarmed, fell at his feet, and called for
mercy. Alleyn gave him his life. The
soldier, grateful for the gift, and fearful
of the Baron's vengeance, desired to fly
with him, and enlist in his service.
They quitted the subterraneous way to-
gether. On entering the cavern, Alleyn
found it vacated by his friends, who on
hearing the clash of armour, and the
13 loud


f '75 )
The soldiers, in the eagerness of pur-
suit, had mistaken the door by which
Oibert had retired, and had entered one
below it, which, after engaging them in
a fruitless search through various intri-
cate passages, had conducted them to a
remote part of the castle, from whence,
after much perplexity and loss of time,,
they were at length extricated. The
Earl, who had retreated on sight of the
soldiers, had fled in the mean time to
regain the trap-door; but the united
strength of himself and of Edmund was-
in vain exerted to open it. Compelled
to encounter the approaching evil, the
Earl took the sword of his companion,
resolving to meet the approach of his
adversaries, and to effect his deliver-
ance, or yield his life and his misfor-
tunes to the attempt, With this design
he advanced deliberately along the pas-
sage, and arriving at the door, stopped
to discover the motions of his pursuers:
all was profoundly silent. After rc-
I 4 maining


( 176 )
maining some time in this situation, he
opened the door, and examining the
avenue with a firm yet anxious eye as
far as the light of his taper threw its
beams, discovered no human being.
Ke proceeded with cautious firmness
towards the cavern, every instant ex-
pecting the soldiers to start suddenly
upon him from some dark recess.—
With astonishment he reached the cave
without interruption; and unable to ac-
count for his unexpected deliverance>
hastened with Edmund to join his faith-
ful people.
The soldiers who watched the prison,
being ignorant of any other way by
which the Earl could escape, than the
door which they guarded, had suffered
Edmund to enter the apartment without
fear. It was some time before they
discovered their error; surprized at the
length of his stay, they opened the door
of the prison, which, to their utter asto-
nishment,


C *77 )
nishmenf, they found empty. The
grates were examined; they remained
as usual; every corner was explored;
but the false pannel remained unknown;
and having finished their examination
without discovering any visible means
by which the Earl had quitted the pri-
son, they were seized with terror, con-
cluding it to be the work of a super-
natural power,, and immediately alarmed
the castle. The Baron, roused by the
tumult, was informed of the fact, and
dubious of the integrity of his guards,
ascended to the apartment ;, which hav-
ing himself examined without discover-
ing any means of escape, he no longer
hesitated to pronounce the centinels ac-
cessary to the Earl's enlargement. The
unfeigned terror which they exhibited
was mistaken for artifice, and their
supposed treachery was admitted and
punished in the same moment. They
were thrown into the dungeon of the
castle. Soldiers were immediately dis-
patched in pursuit; but the time
I 5 which,


( 178 )
which had elapsed ere the guards had
entered the prison, had given the Earl
an opportunity of escape. When the
certainty of this was communicated to
the Baron, every passion whose single
force is misery, united in his breast to
torture him; and his brain, exasperated
almost to madness, gave him only dire-
ful images of revenge.
The Baroness and Laura, awakened by
the tumult, had been filled with appre-
hension for the Earl, till they were in-
formed of the cause of the general con-
fusion; and hope and dubious joy were
ere long confirmed into certainty, for
they were told of the fruitless search of
the pursuers.
It was now the last day of the term
in which the Countess had stipulated to
return her answer; she had yet heard
nothing from Alleyn; for Alleyn had
been busied in schemes, of the event of
which


( 179 )
which he could send no account, so?
their success had been yet undetermined.
Every hope of the Earl's deliverance was
now expired, and in the anguish of her
heart, the Countess prepared to give that
answer which would send the devoted
Mary to the arms of the murderer.
Mary, who assumed a fortitude not her
own, strove to abate the rigor of her
mother's sufferings, but vainly strove;
they were of a nature which defied con-
solation. She wrote the fatal agree-
ment, but delayed till the last moment
delivering it into the hands of the mes-
senger. It was necessary, however, that
the Baron should receive it on the fol-
lowing morn, lest the impatience of re-
venge mould urge him to seize on the
life of the Earl as the forfeiture of delay.
She sent, therefore, for the messenger,
who was a veteran of the clan, and with
extreme agitation delivered to him her
answer; grief interrupted her voice; she
was unable to speak to him; and he was
I 6 awaiting


( 180 )
awaiting her orders, when the door of
the apartment was thrown open, and
the Earl, followed by Alleyn, threw
himself at her feet. A faint scream was
uttered by the Countess, and she funk
in her chair. Mary, not daring to trust
herself with the delightful vifion, endea-
voured to restrain the tide of joy, which
hurried to her heart, and threatened to
overwhelm her.
The cast le of Athlin resounded with
tumultuous joy on this happy event;
the courts were rilled with those of the
clan who had been disabled from attend-
ing the field, and whom the report of
the Earl's return, which had circulated
with astonishing rapidity, had brought
thither. The hall re-echoed with voices;
and the people could hardly be re-
strained from rushing into the presence
of their Chief, to congratulate him on
his escape.
4 "When


( 181 )
When the first transports of the meet-
ing were subsided, the Earl presented
Alleyn to his family as his friend and
deliverer; whose steady attachment he
could never forget, and whose zealous
services he "could never repay. The
cheek of Mary glowed with pleasure and
gratitude at this tribute to the worth
of Alleyn; and the smiling approbation
of her eyes rewarded him for his noble
deeds. The Countess received him
as the deliverer of both her children,,
and related to Osbert the adventure
in the wood. The Earl embraced
Alleyn, who received the united ac-
knowledgments of the family, with
unaffected modesty. Osbert hesitated
not to pronounce the Baron the author
of the plot; his heart swelled to avenge
the repeated injuries of his family, and
he secretly resolved to challenge his
enemy to single combat. To renew the
siege he considered as a vain project;
and this challenge, though a very inade-
quate mode of revenge, was the only
honourable


f 182 J
honourable one that remained for him.
He forbore to mention his design to the
Countess,, well knowing that her tender-
ness would oppose the measure, and
throw difficulties in his way, which
would embarrass^ without preventing
his purpose. He mentioned the mis-
fortunes- of the Baroness, and the love-
liness of her daughter, and excited the
esteem and the commiseration of his.
hearers.
The clamours of the people to be-
hold their Lord, now arose to the
apartment of the Countess, and he de-
scended into the hall, accompanied by
Alleyn, to gratify their zeal. An uni-
versal shout of joy resounded through
the walls on his appearance. A noble,
pleasure glowed on the countenance
of the Earl at sight of his faithful peo-
ple; and in the delight of that moment
his heart bore testimony to the superior
advantages of an equitable government.
The


s 183 )
The Earl, impatient to testify his grati-
tude, introduced Alleyn to the clan, as,
his friend and deliverer, and immedi-
ately presented his father with a lot of
land, where he might end his days in
peace and plenty. Old Alleyn thanked
the Earl for his offered kindness, but
declined accepting it; alledging, that
he was attached, to his old cottage, and,
that he had already sufficient for the
comforts of his age.
On the following morning, a messen-
ger was privately dispatched to the Ba-
ron, with the challenge of the Earl.
The challenge was couched in terms of
haughty indignation, and expressed, that
nothing but the failure of all other
means could have urged him to the
condescension of meeting the assassin of
his father, on terms of equal combat.
Happiness was once more restored to
Athlin. The Countess, in the unex-
pected


( **+ )
pected preservation of her children;
seemed to be alive only to joy. The
Earl was now for a time secure in the
bosom of his family, and, though his
impatience to avenge the injuries of
those most dear to- him, and to snatch
from the hand of oppression the fair
sufferers at Dunbayne,. would not allow
him to be tranquil, yet he assumed a
gaiety unknown to his heart, and the
days were spent in festivals and joy.
CHAP-


( 185 )
CHAPTER IX.
TT was at this period, that, one stormy
evening, the Countess was sitting
with her family in a room, the windows
of which looked upon the sea. The
winds burst in sudden squalls over the
deep, and dashed the foaming waves
against the rocks with inconceivable
fury. The spray, notwithstanding the
high situation of the castle, flew up with
violence against the windows. The
Earl went out upon the terrace beneath
to contemplate the storm. The moon
shone faintly by intervals, through bro-
ken clouds upon the waters, illuming
the white foam which burst around, and
enlightening the scene sufficiently to ren-
der it visible. The surges broke on the
distant shores in deep resounding mur-
murs, and the solemn pauses between
the stormy gusts silled the mind with
enthusiastic-


( 186 >
enthusiastic awe. As the Earl stood
► wrapt in the sublimity of the scene, the
moon, suddenly emerging from a heavy
cloud, shewed him at some distance a
vessel driven by the fury of the blast to-
wards the coast. He presently heard
the signals of distress; and soon after
shrieks of terror, and a confused uproar
of voices were borne on the wind. He
hastened from the terrace to order his
people to go out with boats to the assist-
ance of the crew, for he doubted not
fhat the vessel was wrecked; but the sea
ran so high as to make the adventure
impracticable. The sound of voices ceased,
and he concluded that the wretched
mariners were lost, when the screams of
distress again struck his ear, and again
were lost in the tumult of the storm; in
a moment after, the vessel struck upon
the rock beneath the castle; an univer-
sal Ihriek ensued. The Earl, with his
people, hastened to the assistance of the
crew; the fury of the gust was now.
abated,,


( »87 )
abated, and the Earl, jumping into a
boat with Alleyn and some others, rowed
to the ship, where they rescued a part
of the drowning people. They were
conducted to the castle, and every com-
fort was liberally administered to them.
Among those, whom the Earl had re-
ceived into his boat, was a stranger,
whose dignified aspect and manners be-
spoke him to be of rank; he had seve-
ral people belonging to him, but they
were foreigners, and ignorant of the
language of the country. He thanked
his deliverer with a noble frankness, that
charmed him. In the hall they were
met by the Countess and her daughter,
who received the stranger with the warm
• welcome, which compassion for his situa-
tion had inspired. He was conducted
to the supper room, where the magnifi-
cence of the board exhibited only the
usual hospitality of his host. The stran-
ger spoke English fluently, and dis-
played in his conversation a manly and
vigorous


s i8» J
vigorous mind, acquainted with the
sciences, and with life; and the cast of
his observations seemed to characterize
the benevolence of his heart. The
Earl was so much pleased with his guest,
that he pressed him to remain at his
castle till another vessel could be procu-
cured; his guest equally pleased with
the Earl, and a stranger to the country,
accepted the invitation.
New distress now broke upon the
peace of Athlin; several days had ex-
pired, and the messenger, who had been
sent to Malcolm, did not appear. It
was almost evident, that the Baron, dis-
appointed and enraged at the escape of
his prisoner, and eager for a sacrifice,
had seized this man as the subject of a
paltry revenge. The Earl, however,
resolved to wait a few days, and watch
the event.
The struggles of latent tenderness
and;


( 189 )
and assumed indifference, banished tran-
quillity from the bosom of Mary, and
pierced it with many sorrows. The
friendship and honours bestowed by the
Earl on Alleyn, who now resided solely
at the castle, touched her heart with a
sweet pride; but alas! these distincti-
ons served only to confirm her admira-
tion of that worth, which had already
attached her affections, and afforded
him opportunities of exhibiting, in
brighter colours, the various excellen-
cies of a heart noble and expansive, and
of a mind, whose native elegance melio-
rated and adorned the bold vigour of its
flights. The languor of melancholy,
notwithstanding the efforts of Mary,
would at intervals steal from beneath the
disguise of cheerfulness, and diffuse over
her beautiful features an expression ex-
tremely interesting. The stranger was
not insensible to its charms, and it
served to heighten the admiration, with
which he had first beheld her, into some-
thing


C 19° )
tting more tender and more powerful.
The modest dignity, with which me de-
livered her sentiments, which breathed
the purest delicacy and benevolence,
touched his heart, and he felt an interest
concerning her, which he had never be-
fore experienced.
Alleyn, whose heart amid the anxieties
and tumults of the past scenes, had still
sighed to the image of Mary;—that
image, which fancy had pictured in all
the charms of the orignal, and whose
glowing tints were yet softened and ren-
dered more interesting by the shade of
melancholy with which absence and
a hopeless passion had surrounded
them, found, amid the leisure of peace,
and the frequent opportunities which
were afforded him of beholding the ob-
ject of his attachment, his sighs re-
double, and the glooms of sorrow thick-
en. In the presence of Mary, a soft
iadness clouded his brow; he endea-
voured


{ )
Toured to assume a cheerfulness foreign
to his heart; but endeavoured in vain.
Mary perceived the change in his
manners; and the observation did not
contribute to enliven her own. The
Earl, too, observed that Alleyn had
lost much of his wonted spirits, and
bantered him on the change, but thought
not of his sister.
Alleyn wished to quit a place so de-
structive to his peace as the castle of
Athlin* he formed repeated resolutions
of withdrawing himself from those walls,
which held him in a sort of fascination,
and rendered ineffectual every half-
formed wish, and every weak endea-
vour. When he could no longer be-
hold Mary, he would frequently retire
to the terrace, which was overlooked by
the windows of her apartment, and
spend half the night in traversing, with
silent, mournful steps, that spot, which
afforded him the melancholy pleasure
of being near the object of his love.
Matilda


s 192 )
Matilda wished to question Alleyn
concerning some circumstances of the
late events, and for this purpose or-
dered him one day to attend her in her
closet. As he passed the outer apart-
ment of the Countess, he perceived
something lying near the door, through
which me had before gone, and, examin-
ing it, discovered a bracelet, to which
was attached a miniature of Mary. His
heart beat quick at the sight; the
temptation was too powerful to be re-
sisted; he concealed it in his bosom, and
passed on. On quitting the closet, he
sought, with breathless impatience, a spot,
where he might contemplate at leisure
that precious portrait, which chance had
so kindly thrown in his way. He drew
it trembling from his bosom, and beheld
again that countenance, whose sweet ex-
pression had touched his heart with all
the delightful agonies of love. As he
pressed it with impassioned tenderness
lo his lips, the tear of rapture trembled
in


( m )
in his eye/and the romantic ardour of the
moment was scarcely heightened by the
actual presence of the beloved object,
whose light step now stole upon his ear,
and half turning he beheld not the
picture, but the reality!—Surprized!
—confused !—The picture fell from
his hand. Mary, who had accidentally
strolled to that spot, on observing the
agitation of Alleyn, was retiring, when
he, in whose heart had been awakened
every tender sensation, losing in the
temptation of the moment the fear of
disdain, and forgetting the resolution
which he had formed of eternal silence,
threw himself at her feet, and pressed
her hand to his trembling lips. His
tongue would have told her that he
loved, but his emotion, and the repul-
sive look of Mary, prevented him. She
instantly disengaged herself with an air
of offended dignity, and casting on him
a look of mingled anger and concern,
withdrew in silence. Alleyn remained
K sixed


( 194 )
fixed to the spot; his eyes pursuing her
retiring steps, insensible to every feeling
but those of love and despair.|So absorbed
was he in the transition of the moment,that
he almost doubted whether a visionary
illusion had not crossed his sight to blast
his only remaining comfort—the con-
sciousness of deserving, and of possessing
the esteem of her he loved. He left
the place with anguish in his heart,
and, in the perturbation of his mind, for-
got the picture.
Mary had observed her mother's
bracelet fall from his hand, and was no
longer in perplexity concerning her mi-
niature; but in the confusion which his
behaviour occasioned her, she forgot to
demand it of him. The Countess had
missed it almost immediately after his
departure from the closet, and had
caused a search to be made, which
proving fruitless, her suspicions wavered
upon him. The Earl, who soon after
passed


( 195 )
passed the spot whence Alleyn had just ,
departed, found the miniature. It was
not long ere Alleyn recollected the
treasure he had dropped, and returned
in search of it. Instead of the picture,
he found the East: ■ a conscious blush
crossed his cheek; the confusion of his
countenance informed Osbert of a part
of the truth; who, anxious to know by
what means he had obtained it, pre-
sented him the picture, and demanded
if he knew it. The soul of Alleyn
knew not to dissemble; he acknow-
ledged that he had found, and concealed
it; prompted by that passion, the con-
fession of which, no other circumstance
than the present could have wrung from
his heart. The Earl listened to him
with a mixture of concern and pity;
but hereditary pride chilled the warm
feelings of friendship and of gratitude,
and extinguished the faint spark of hope
which the discovery had kindled in the
bosom of Alleyn. "Fear not, my
K 2 Lord,"


( 196 )
Lord," said he, " the degradation of
your house from one who would sacri-
fice his life in its defence; never more
shall the passion which glows in my
heart escape from my lips. I will re-
tire from the spot where I have buried
my tranquillity." "No," replied the
Earl, " you shall remain here; I can
confide in your honour. O! that the
only reward which is adequate to your
worth and to your services, it should be
impossible for me to bestow.'' * His
voice faultered, and he turned away to
conceal his emotion, with a suffering
little inferior to that of Alleyn.
The discovery which Mary had made,
did not contribute to restore peace to
her mind. Every circumstance con-
spired to assure her of that ardent passion
which filled the bosom of him whom all
her endeavours could not teach her to
forget; and this conviction served only
to


( 197 )
to heighten her malady, and conse-
quently her wretchedness.
Tha interest which the stranger dis-
covered, and the attention he paid to
Mary, had not passed unobserved by
Alleyn. Love pointed to him the pas-
sion which was rising in his heart, and
whispered that the vows of his . rival
would be propitious. The words of
Osbert confirmed him in the torturing
apprehension; for though his humble
birth had never suffered him to hope,
yet he thought he discovered in the
speech of the Earl, something more
than mere hereditary pride.
The stranger had contemplated the
lovely form of Mary with increasing
admiration, since the first hour he
beheld her; this admiration was now
confirmed into love; — and he re-
solved to acquaint the Earl with his
birth, and with his passion. For this
K 3 purpose*


{ '9* )
purpose, he one morning drew him
aside to the terrace of the castle, where
they could converse without interrup-
tion; and pointing to the ocean, over
which he had so lately been borne,
thanked the Earl, who had thus softened
the horrors of shipwreck, and the deso-
lation of a foreign land, by the kind-
ness of his hospitality. He informed
him that he was a native of Switzer-
land, where he possessed considerable
estates, from which he bore the title of
Count de Santmorin; that.enquiry of
much moment to his interests had
brought him to Scotland, to a neigh-
bouring port of which he was bound,
when the disaster from which he had
been so happily rescued, arrested the
progress of his designs. He then related
to the Earl, that his voyage was under-
taken upon a report of the death of some
relations, at whose demise considerable
estates in Switzerland became his inhe-
ritance. That the income of these estates
had


( m )
had been hitherto received upon the
authority of powers, which, if the report
was true, were become invalid.
The Earl listened to this narrative in
silent astonishment, and enquired, with
much emotion, the name of the Count's,
relations. "The Baroness Malcolm,"
returned he. The Earl clasped his hands
in extasy. The Count, surprized at his
agitation, began to fear that the Earl
was disagreeably interested in the welfare
of his adversaries, and regretted that he
had disclosed the affair, till he observed
the pleasure which was diffused through
his features. Olbert explained the cause
of his emotion, by relating his know-
ledge of the Baroness; in the progress
of whose story, the character of Mal-
colm was sufficiently elucidated. He
told the cause of his hatred towards
the Baron, and the history of his im-
prisonment; and also confided to his
honour the secret of his challenge.
K4 The


( 200 )
The indignation of the Count was
strongly excited; he was, however,
prevailed on by Osbert to forego any
immediate effort of revenge, awaiting
for awhile the movements of Malcolm.
The Count was so absorbed in won-
der and in new sensations, that he had
almost forgot the chief object of the in-
terview- Recollecting himself, he dis-
covered his passion, and requested per-
mission of the Earl to throw himself at
the feet of Mary. The Earl listened to
the declaration with a mixture of plea-
sure and concern; the remembrance of
Alleyn saddened his mind; but the wish
of an equal connection, made him wel-
come the offers of the Count, whose alli-
ance, he told him, would do honour to
the first nobility of his nation. If he
found the sentiments of his sister in
sympathy with his own on this point,
he would welcome him to his family
with the affection of a brother; but he
wished


C 201 )
wished to discover the situation of her
heart, ere his noble friend disclosed to
her his prepossession.
The Earl on his return to the castle
enquired for Mary, whom he found in
the apartment of her mother. He
opened to them the history of the Count;
his relationship with the Baroness Mal-
colm, with the object of his expedition,
and closed the narrative with discover-
ing the attachment of his friend to
Mary, and his offers of alliance with his
family. Mary grew pale at this decla-
ration; there was a pang in her heart
which would not suffer her to speak 5
she threw her eyes on the ground, and
burst into tears. The Earl took her
hand tenderly in his; "My beloved
sister," said he, "knows me too well to
doubt my affection, or to suppose I can
wish to influence her upon a subject so
material to her future happiness, and
where her heart ought to be the princi-
K$ pal


( 202 )
pal directress. Do me the justice to be-
lieve, that I make known to you the
offers of the Count as a friend, not as a
director. He is a man, who from the
short period of our acquaintance, I have
judged to be deserving of particular
esteem. His mind appears to be noble;
his heart expansive; his rank is equal
with your own; and he loves you with
an attachment warm and sincere. But
with all these advantages, I would not
have my sister give herself to the man
who does not meet an interest in her
heart to plead his cause."
The gentle foul of Mary swelled with
gratitude towards her brother; Ihe
would have thanked him for the ten-
derness of these sentiments, but a variety
of emotions were struggling at her
heart, and suppressed her utterance; tears
and a smile, softly clouded with sorrow,
were all she could give him in reply-
He could not but perceive that some se-
cret


( 203 )
cretr cause of grief preyed upon her
mind, and he solicited to know, and to
remove it. "My dear brother will
believe the gratitude which his kind-
ness ." She would have finished
the sentence, but the words died away
upon her lips, and she threw herself on
the bosom of her mother, endeavouring to
conceal her distress, and wept in silence.
TheCountess too well understood the grief
of her daughter; she had witnessed the
secret struggles of her heart, which all
her endeavours werenot able to overcome,
and which rendered the offers of the
Count disgusting, and dreadful to her
imagination. Matilda knew how to
feel for her sufferings; but the affection
of the mother extended her views be-
yond the present temporary evil, to the
future welfare of her child; and in the
long perspective of succeeding years, she
beheld her united to the Count, whose
character, diffused happiness, and the
mild dignity of virtue to all around him.
K 6 she


( 204 )
she received the thanks of Mary for her
gentle guidance to the good she pos-
sessed; the artless looks of the little
ones around her, smiled their thanks;
and the luxury of that scene recalled the
memory of times for ever passed, and
mingled with the tear of rapture the
sigh of fond regret. The surest method
of erasing that impression which threat-
ened serious evil to the peace of her
child if suffered to continue, and to
secure her permanent felicity, was to
unite her to the Count; whose amiable
disposition would soon win her affecti-
ons, and obliterate from her heart every
improper remembrance of Alleyn. She
determined, therefore, to employ argu-
ment and gentle persuasion, to guide
her to her purpose. She knew the mind
of Mary to be delicate and candid;
easy of conviction, and firm to pursue
what her judgment approved; and slie
did not despair of succeeding.
The


( 20$ )
The Earl still pressed to know the
cause of that emotion which afflicted
her. "I am unworthy of your soli-
citude," said Mary, " I cannot teach
my heart to submit." "To submit!
—Can you suppose your friends can
wish your heart to submit on a point so
material to its happiness, to aught that
is repugnant to its feelings? If the
offers of the Count are displeasing to
you, tell me so; and I will return him his
answer. Believe that my first wish is to
fee you happy." "Generous Osbert!
How can I repay the goodness of such
a brother! I would accept in gratitude
the hand of the Count, did not my feel-
ings assure me I should be" miserable.
1 admire his character, and esteem his
goodness; but alas!—why should I
conceal it from you ?—My heart is
another's—is another's, whose noble
deeds have won its involuntary regards;
one who is yet unconscious of my dis-
tinction, and who shall for ever remain
in


( 206 J
rn ignorance of it." The idea of Alleyrr
flashed into the mind of the Earl, and
he no longer doubted to whom her
heart was engaged. "My own senti-
ments," said he,, " sufficiently inform
me of the object of your admiration.
You do well, to remember the dignity
of your sex and of your rank; though 1
must lament with you, that worth like
Alleyn's is, not impowered by fortune to
take its standard with nobility." At
Alleyn's name, the blushes of Mary con-
firmed Osbert in his discovery. "My
child," said the Countess, " will not
resign her tranquillity to a vain and
ignoble attachment. She may esteem
merit wherever it is found, but she will
remember the duty which she owes to
her family and to herself, in contracting
an alliance which is to support or dimi-
nish the ancient consequence of her
house. The otfers of a man endowed
with so much apparent excellence as the
Count, and whose birth is equal to
your


I 207;
your own, affords a prospect too pro-
mising of felicity, to be hastily re-
jected. We will hereafter converse:
more 'largely on this subject." "Ne-
ver shall you have reason to blush
for your daughter," said Mary, with
a modest pride; " but pardon me,,
Madam, if I entreat that we no more
renew a subject so painful to my feel-
ings, and which cannot be productive
of good;—for never will I give my
hand, where my heart does not ac-
company it." This was not a time
to press the topic; the Countess for
the present desisted, and the Earl left
the apartment with a heart divided be-
tween pity and disappointment. Hope,
however, whispered to his wishes, that
Mary might in time be induced to admit
the addresses of the Count, and he de-
termined not wholly to destroy his
hopes.
CHAP-


( )
CHAPTER X.
HE Count was walking on the
ramparts of the castle, involved
in thought, when Osbert approached;
whose lingering step and disappointed
air, spoke to his heart the rejection of
his suit. He told the Count that Mary
did not at present feel for him those
sentiments of affection which would
justify her in accepting his proposals.
This information, though it shocked
the hopes of the Count, did not entirely
destroy them; for he yet believed that
time and assiduity might befriend his
wishes. While these Noblemen were
leaning on the walls of the castle, en-
gaged in earnest conversation, they ob-
served on a distant hill a cloud emerging
from the verge of the horizon, whose
dusky hue glittered with sudden light;

4


( 2°9 )
in an instant they descried the glance of
arms, and a troop of armed men poured
in long succession over the hill, and
hurried down its side to the plains be-
low. The Earl thought he recognized
the clan of the Baron. It was the Baron
himself who now advanced at the head
of his people, in search of that revenge
which had been hitherto denied him;
and who, determined on conquest, had
brought with him an host which he
thought more than sufficient to over-
whelm the castle of his enemy.
The messenger, who had been sent
with the challenge, had been detained a
prisoner by Malcolm; who in the mean
time, had hastened his preparations to
surprize the castle of Athlin. The de-
tention of his servant had awakened
the suspicions of the Earl, and he had
taken precautions to guard against the
designs of his enemy. He had sum-
moned his clan to hold themselves in
readiness


( 2IO J
readiness for a sudden attack, and had
prepared his castle for the worst emer-
gency. He now sent a messenger to
the clan with such orders as he judged
expedient, arranged his plans within the
walls, and took his station on the ram-
parts to observe the movements of his
enemy. The Count, clad in arms, stood
by his side. Alleyn was posted with a
party within the great gate of the
castle.
The Baron advanced with his people,
and quickly surrounded the walls. With-
in all was silent; the castle seemed to
repose in security; and the Baron, certain
of victory, congratulated himself on the
success of the enterprize, when observ-
ing the Earl, whose person was concealed
in armour, he called to him to surrender
himself and his Chief to the arms of
Malcolm. The Earl answered the sum-
mons with an arrow from his bow,
which, miffing the Baron, pierced one of


( 211 )
his attendants. The archers, who had been
planted behind the walls, now discovered
themselves, and discharged a shower of
arrows; at the fame time every part of
the castle appeared thronged with the
soldiers of the Earl, who hurled on the
heads of the astonished besiegers, lances
and other missile weapons with unceasing
rapidity. The alarum bell now rung
out the signal to that part of the clan
without the walls, and they immedi-
ately poured upon the enemy, who,
confounded by this unexpected attack,
had scarcely time to defend themselves.
The clang of arms resounded through
the air, with the shouts of the victors,
and th« groans of the dying. The fear
of the Baron, which had principally
operated on the minds of his people,
was now overcome by surprize, and the
fear of death; and on the first repulse,
they deserted from the ranks in great
numbers, and fled to the distant hills.
In vain the Baron endeavoured to rally
his


( 212 )
his soldiers, and keep them to the
charge; they yielded to a stronger im-
pulse than the menaces of their Chief*
who was now left with less than half his
numbers at the foot of the walls. The
Baron, to whom cowardice was un-
known, disdaining to retreat, continued
the attack. At length the gates of the
castle were thrown open, and a party
issued upon the aflailants, headed by the
Earl and the Count, who divided in
quest of Malcolm. The Count sought
in vain, and the search of Osbert was
equally fruitless; their adversary was
no where to be found. Osbert, appre-
hensive of his gaining admittance to the
castle by stratagem, was returning in
haste to the gates, when he received the
stroke of a sword upon his shoulder;
his armour had broke the force of the
blow, and the wound it had given was
slight. He turned his sword, and facing
his enemy, discovered a soldier of Mal-
colm's who attacked him with a despe-
rate


( 215 )
vering to you my guilt and my re-
morse." The Baroness started, fearful
of the coming sentence. "You had a
son." "What of my son?" « You
had a son, whom my boundless ambition
doomed to exile from his parents and
his heritage, and who I caused you to
believe had died in your absence."
"Where is my child?'' exclaimed the
Baroness. "I know not," resumed
Malcolm, ** I committed him to the
care of a man and woman who then
lived on a remote part of my lands, but
a few years after they disappeared, and
I have never heard of them since. The
boy passed for a foundling whom I had
saved from perishing. One servant only
I entrusted with the secret; the rest
were imposed upon. Thus far I tell
you, Madam, to prompt you to enqui-
ry, and to assuage the agonies of a bleed-
ing conscience. I have other deeds
"The Baroness could hear no
more; Ihe was carried insensible from
the


( 216 )
the apartment. Laura, (hocked at her
condition, was informed of its cause,
and filial tenderness watched over her
with unwearied attention.
In the mean time the Earl, on quit-
ting Malcolm, had returned immediate-
ly to the castle, and was the first messen-
ger of that event which would probably
avenge the memory of his father, and
terminate the distresses of his family.
The sight of Oibert, and the news he
brought, revived the Countess and Ma-
ry, who had retired during the assault
into an inner apartment of the castle for
greater security, and who had suffered,
during that period all the terrors which
their situation could inspire. They
were soon after joined by the Count and
by Alleyn, whose conduct did not pass
unnoticed by the Earl. The cheek of
Mary glowed at the relation of this
new instance of his worth; and it
was Alleyn's sweet reward to observe
her


( 2'7 )
her emotion. There was a sentiment
in the heart of Osbert which struggled
against the pride of birth; he wished to
reward the services and the noble spirit
of the youth, with the virtues of Mary;
but the authority of early prejudice
silenced the grateful impulse, and swept
from his heart the characters of truth.
The Earl, accompanied by the Count,
now hastened to the castle of Dunbayne,
to cheer the Baroness and her daughter
with their presence. As they approached
the castle, the stillness and desolation of
the scene bespoke the situation of its
lord; his people were entirely dispersed,
a few only of his centinels wandered
before the eastern gate; who, having
made no opposition,, were suffered by
the Earl's people to remain. Few of
the Baron's people were to be seen;
those few were unarmed, and appeared
the effigies of fallen greatness. As the
Earl crossed the platform, the remem-
brance of the past crowded upon his
L mind.


s 218 )
mind. The agonies which he had there
suffered,—the image of death which
glared upon his sight, aggravated by
the bitter and ignominious circum-
stances which attended his fate; the
figure of Malcolm, mighty in injustice,
and cruel in power; whose counte-
nance, smiling horribly in triumphant
revenge, sent to his heart the stroke of
anguish;—each circumstance of tor-
ture arose to his imagination in the
glowing colours of truth; he shuddered
as he passed; and the contrast of the
present scene touched his heart with the
most affecting sentiments. He saw the
innate and active power of justice, which
pervades all the circumstances even of
this life like vital principle, and shines
through the obscurity of human acti- -
ons to the virtuous, the pure ray of
Heaven;—to the guilty, the destruc-
tive glare of lightning.
On enquiring for the Baroness, they
4. were


( 219 )
were told she was in the apartment of
Malcolm, whose moment of dissolution
was now approaching. The name of
the Count was delivered to the Baroness,
and overheard by the Baron, who desired
to fee him. Loaisa went out to receive
her noble relation with all the joy
which a meeting so desirable and so un-
looked for, could inspire. On seeing
Osbert, her tears flowed fast; and she
thanked him for his generous care, in a
manner that declared a deep fense of his
services. Leaving him, she conducted
the Count to Malcolm, who lay on his
couch surrounded with the stillness and
horrors of death. He raised his languid
head, and discovered a countenance wild
and terrific, whose ghastly aspect was
overspread with the paleness of death.
The beauteous Laura, overcome by the
scene, hung like a drooping lily over
his couch, dropping fast her tears.
"My lord," said Malcolm, in a low
tone, " you see before you a wretch}
L 2 anxious
-


( 220 )
anxious to relieve the agony of a guilty,
mind. My vices have destroyed the
peace of this, lady,—have robbed her of
a son—but she will disclose to you the
secret guilt, which I have now no time
to tell. I have for some years received,
as you now well know, the income of
those foreign lands which are her due;
as a small reparation for the injuries she
has sustained, I bequeath to her all the
possessions which I lawfully inherit, and
resign her into your protection. To
ask oblivion of the past of you, Madam,
and of you, my Lord, is what 1 dare not
do; yet it would be some consolation
to my departing spirit, to be assured of
your forgiveness." The Baroness was
too much affected to reply but by a look
of assent; the Count assured him of
forgiveness, and besought him to com-
pose his mind for his approaching fate.
*' Composure, my Lord, is not for me;
my Life has been marked with vice, and
my death with the bitterness of fruitless
remorse.


( 221 J
femorse. I have understood virtue, but
I have loved vice. I do not now lament
that I am punished, but that I have de-
served punishment." The Baron sunk
on his couch, and in a few moments af-
ter expired in a strong sigh. Thus ter-
minated the life of a man, whose un-
derstanding might have reached the hap-
piness of virtue, but whose actions dis-
played the features of vice.
From this melancholy scene, the Ba-
roness, with the Count and Laura, re-
tired to her apartment, where the Earl
awaited their return with anxious soli-
citude. The sternness of justice for a
moment relaxed when he hea-rd of Mal-
colm's death; his heart would have
sighed with compassion, had not the re-
membrance of his father crossed his
mind, and checked the impulse. "I
can now, Madam," said he, addressing
the Baroness, " restore you a part of
those possessions which were once your
L z Lord's,


( 222 )
Lord's, and which ought to have been
the inheritance of your son; this castle
from henceforth is your's; I resign it to
its lawful owner." The Baroness was
overcome with the remembrance of his
services, and could scarcely thank him
but with her tears. The servant whom
the Baron had mentioned as the confi-
dant of his iniquities, was sent for, and
interrogated concerning the infant he
had charge of. From him, however,
little comfort was received; for he could
only tell, that he had conveyed the
child, by the orders of his master, to a
cottage on the furthest borders of his
estates, where he had delivered it to the
care of a woman, who there lived with
her husoand. These people received at
the fame time, a sum of money for its
support, with a promise of future sup-
plies. For some years he had been
pundtual in the payment of the sums
entrusted to him by the Baron, but at
length he yielded to the temptation of
with-


( 223 )
withholding them for his own use; and
on enquiring for the people some years
after, he found they were gone from the
place. The conditions of the Ba-
roness's pardon to the man, depended
on his endeavours to repair the injury
he had promoted, by a strict search for
the people to whom he had committed
her child. She now consulted with her
friends on the best means to be pursued
in this business, and immediately sent off
messengers to different parts of the
country to gather information.
The Baroness was now released from
oppression and imprisonment; she was
re-instated in her ancient possessions, to
which were added all the hereditary
lands of Malcolm, together with his
personal fortune: she was surrounded
by those whom she most loved, and in
the midst of a people who loved her;
yet the consequence of the Baron's
guilt had left in her heart one drop of
L 4 gall


( 22$ )
t
Mary, for love still corroded her heart,
and notwithstanding her efforts, shaded
her countenance. The Countess wished
to produce those nuptials with the Count,
which she thought would re-establish
the peace of her child, and insure her
future felicity. She omitted no oppor-
tunity of pressing his suit, which she
managed with a delicacy that rendered
it less painful to Maryj whose words,
however, were few in reply, and who
could seldom bear the subject to be long
continued. Her settled aversion to the
addresses of the Count, at length baffled
the expectations of Matilda, and shewed
her the fallacy of her efforts. She
thought it improper to suffer the Count
any longer to nourish in his heart a vain
hope; and she reluctantly commissioned
the Earl to undeceive him on this
point.
With the Baroness, month after
month still elapsed in fruitless search of
L 5 her


( 226 )
her son; the people with whom he had
been placed where nowhere to be found,
and no track was discovered which
might lead to the truth. The distress
of the Baroness can only be imagined;
she resigned herself, in calm despair, to
mourn in silence the easy confidence
which had entrusted her child to the care
of those who had betrayed him. Though
happiness was denied her, she was un-
willing to with-hold it from those whom
it awaited; and at length yielded to
the entreaties of the Earl, and became
his advocate with Laura, for the nup-
tials which were to unite their fate.
The Earl introduced the Countess
and Mary to the castle of Dunbayne.
Similarity of sentiment and disposition
united Matilda and the Baroness in a
lasting friendship. Mary and Laura
were not less pleased with each other.
The dejection of the Count at sight of
Mary, declared the ardor of his passion,
and


( 227 )
and would have awakened in her breast
something more than compassion, had
not her heart been pre-occupied. Al-
leyn, who could think of Mary only*
wandered through the castle of Athlin a
solitary being, who fondly haunts the
spot where his happiness lies buried.
His prudence formed resolutions, which
his passion as quickly broke; and cheat-
ed by love, though followed by despair,
he delayed his departure from day to
day, and the illusion of yesterday conti-
nued to be the illusion of the morrow.
The Earl, attached to his virtues, and
grateful for his services, would have
bestowed on him every honour but that
alone which could give him happiness,
and which his pride would have suffered
him to accept. Yet the honours which
he refused—he refused with a grace so
modest, as to conciliate kindness rather
than wound generosity.
In a gallery on the North side of the
L 6 castle,


( 228 )
castle, which was filled with pictures of
the family, hung a portrait of Mary.
She was drawn in the dress which she
wore on the day of the festival, when
she was led by the Earl into the hall,
and presented as the partner of Alleyn.
The likeness was striking, and expres-
sive of all the winning grace of the ori-
ginal. As often as Alleyn could steal
from observation, he retired to this gal-
lery, to contemplate the portrait of her
who was ever present to his imagina-
tion: here he could breathe that sigh
which her presence restrained, and shed
those tears which her presence forbade
to flow. As he stood one day in this
place, wrapt in melancholy musing, his
ear was struck with the notes of sweet
music; they seemed to issue from the
bottom of the gallery. The instrument
was touched with an exquisite expres-
sion, and in a voice whose tones floated
on the air in soft undulations, he distin-
guished the following words, which he
remembered


( 229 )
remembered to be an ode composed by
the Earl, and presented to Mary, who
had set it to music the day before.
MORNING.
Darkness! thro' thy chilling glooms,
Weakly trembles twilight grey;
Twilight fades—and Morning comes,
And melts thy shadows swift away!
She comes in her ætherial car,
Involv'd in many a varying hue;
And thro' the azure slioots afar,
Spirit—light—and life anew.'
Her breath revives the drooping flowers,
Her ray dissolves the dews of night; j
Recalls the sprightly-moving hours,
And the green scene unveils in light!
- Her's the fresh gale that wanders wild
O'er mountain top, and dewy glade;
And fondly steals the breath, beguil'd,
Of ev'ry flow'r in ev'ry made.
Mother


( "*3* )
The voice was broken and lost in
fobs; the chords of the lute were wildly
struck: and in a few moments silence
ensued. He stepped on towards the
spot whence the sounds had proceeded,
and through a door which was left open,
he discovered Mary hanging over her
lute dissolved in tears. He stood for
some moments absorbed in mute admi-
ration, and unobserved by Mary, who
was lost in her tears, till a sigh which
escaped him, recalled her to reality; she
raised her eyes, and beheld the object
of her secret sorrows. She arose in con-
fusion; the blush on her cheek betrayed
her heart; she was retiring in haste from
Alleyn, who remained at the entrance
of the room the statue of despair, when
she was intercepted by the Earl, who
entered by the door she was opening;
her eyes were red with weeping; he
glanced on her a look of surprize and
displeasure, and passed on to the gallery
followed by Alleyn, who was now awak-
eued


( 233 >
ened from his trance. "From you,
Alleyn," said the Earl, in a tone of dis-
pleasure, "I expected other conduct;
on your word I relied, and your word
has deceived me." "Hear me, my
Lord," returned the youth, "your
confidence I have never abused; hear
me." "I have now no time for parley,"
replied Osbert, "my moments are pre-
cious; some future hour of leisure may
suffice." So saying, he walked away
with an abrupt haughtiness, which
touched the foul of Alleyn, who dis-
dained to pursue him with further ex-
planation. He was now completely
wretched. The fame accident which
had unveiled to him the heart of Mary,
and the full extent of that happiness
which fate with-held, confirmed him in
despair. The same accident had ex-
posed the delicacy of her he loved to a"
cruel shock, and had subjected his ho-
nour to suspicion; and to a severe re-
buke from him, by whom it was his
pride


( 233
pride to be respected, and for whose
safety he had suffered imprisonments and
encountered death.
Mary had quitted the closet distressed
and perplexed. She perceived the mis-
take of the Earl, and it shocked her.
■ She wished to undeceive him; but he
was gone to the castle of Dunbayne, to
pay one of those visits which were soon
to conclude in the nuptials, and whence
he did not return till evening. The
scene which he had witnessed in the
morning, involved him in tumult of
, distress. He considered the mutual pas-
sion which filled the bosom of his sister
and Alleyn; he had surprized them in a
solitary apartment; he had observed
the tender and melancholy air of Alleyn,
and the tears and confusion of Mary;
and he at first did not hesitate to believe
that the interview had been appointed. In
the heat of his displeasure he had reject-
ed the explanation of Alleyn with a
haughty


( 234 )
haughty resentment, which die late scene
alone could have excited, and which the
delusion it had occasioned alone could
excuse. Cooler consideration, however,
brought to his mind the delicacy and the
amiable pride of Mary, and the integrity
of Alleyn; and he accused himself of a
too hasty decision. The zealous services
of Alleyn came to his heart; he repented
that he had treated him so rigorously;
and on his return enquired for him, that
he might hear an explanation, and that
he might soften the asperity of his for-
mer behaviour.
CHAP-


( 235 )
CHAPTER XI.
ALLEYN was no where to be
found. The Earl went himself in
quest of him, but without success. As
he returned, from the terrace, chagrined
and disappointed, he observed two per-
sons cross the platform at some distance
before him; and he could perceive by
the dim moon-light which fell upon the
spot, that they were not of the castle;
He called to them: no answer was re-
turned; but at the found of his voice
they quickened their pace, and almost
instantly disappeared in the darkness of
the ramparts. Surprized at this phce-
nomenon, the Earl followed with hasty
steps, and endeavoured to pursue the
way they had taken. He walked on
silently, but there was no found to di-
rect


( 236
rect his steps. When he came to the
extremity of the rampart, which formed
the North angle of the castle, he stopped
to examine the spot, and to listen if any
thing was stirring. No person was to be
seen, and all was hushed. After he had
stood some time surveying the rampart,
he heard the low restrained voice of a
person unknown, but the distance pre-
vented his distinguishing the subject of
the conversation. The voice seemed to
approach the place where he stood. He
drew his sword, and watched in silence
their motions. They continued to ad-
vance, till, suddenly stopping, they
turned, and took a long survey of the
fabric. Their discourse was conducted
in a low tone; but the Earl could dis-
cover by the vehemence of their gesture,
and the caution of their steps, that they
were upon some design dangerous to the
peace of the castle. Having finished
their examination, they turned again to-
wards the place where the Earl still re-
mained i


( 237 )
mained; the fliade of a high turret con-
cealed him from their view, and they
continued to approach till they arrived
within a short space of him, when they
turned through a ruined arch-way of
the castle, and were lost in the dark re-
cesses of the pile. Astonished at what he
had seen, Osbert hastened to the castle,
whence he dispatched some of his peo-
ple in search of the unknown fugitives;
he accompanied some of his domestics
to the spot where they had last disap-
peared. They entered the arch-way,
which led to a decayed part of the cas-
tle; they followed over broken pave-
ment the remains of a passage, which was
closed by a low obscure door almost
concealed from sight by the thick ivy
which overshadowed it. On opening
this door, they descended a flight of
steps which led under the castle, so ex-
tremely narrow and broken as to make
the descent both difficult and dangerous.
The powerful damps of long pent-up
vapours


( 238 )
vapours extinguished their light, and
the Earl and his attendants were com-
pelled to remain in utter darkness,
while one of them went round to the
habitable part of the castle to relume
the lamp. While they awaited in silence
the return of light, a short breathing
was distinctly heard at intervals, near the
place where they stood. The servants
shook with fear, and the Earl was' not
v wholly unmoved. They remained en-
tirely silent, listening its return, when a
found of footsteps slowly stealing
through the vault, startled them. The
Earl demanded who passed;—he was
answered only by the deep echoes of his
voice. They clashed their swords and
had advanced, when the steps hastily
retired before them. The Earl rushed
forward, pursuing the sound, till over-
taking the person who fled, he seized
him ; a short scuffle ensued; the strength
of Osbert was too powerful for his anta-
gonist, who was nearly overcome, when
the


( 239 )
the point of a sword from an unknown
hand pierced'his side, he relinquish-
ed his grasp, and fell to the ground.
His domestics, whom the activity of
their master had outran, now came up;
but the assassins, whoever they were,,
had accomplished their escape, for the
sound of their steps was quickly lost in
the distance of the vaults. They endea-
voured to raise the Earl) who lay speech-
less on the ground; but they knew not
how to convey him from that place of
horror, for they were yet in total dark-
ness, and unacquainted with the place.
In this situation, every moment of delay
appeared an age. Some of them tried
to find their way to the entrance, but
their efforts were defeated by the dark-
ness, and the ruinous situation of the
place. The light at length appeared,
and discovered the Earl insensible, and
weltering in his blood. He was con-
veyed into the castle, where the horror
of the Countess on seeing him borne- in-
to


( 240 )
to the hall, may be easily imagined.
By the help of proper applications he
was restored to life; his wound was ex-
amined, and found to be dangerous; and
he was carried to bed in a state which
gave very faint hopes of recovery. The
astonishment of the Countess, on hearing
the adventure, was equalled only by her
distress. All her conjectures concern-
ing the designs, and the identity of the
assassin, were vague and uncertain. She
knew not on whom to fix the stigma;
nor could tiiscover any means by which
to penetrate this mysterious affair. The
people who had remained in the vaults
to pursue the search, now returned to
Matilda. Every recess of the castle, and
every part of the ramparts, had been
explored, yet no one could be found;
and the mystery of the proceeding was
heightened by the manner in which the
men had effected their escape.
Mary watched over her brother in
silent


( 24I )
silent anguish, yet she strove to conceal
her distress, that she might encourage
the Countess to hope. , The Countess
endeavoured to resign herself to the
event with a kind of desperate fortitude.
There is a certain point of misery, be-
yond which the mind becomes callous,
and acquires a fort of artificial calm.
Excess of misery may be said to blast
the vital powers of feeling, and by a
natural consequence consumes its own
principle. Thus it was with Matilda;
a long succession of trials had reduced
her to a state of horrid tranquillity,
which followed the first ssiock of the
present event. It was not so with Lau-
ra; young in misfortune, and gay in
hope, she saw happiness fade from her
grasp, with a warmth of feeling un-
touched by the chill of disappointment.
When the news of the Earl's situation
reached a her, she was overcome with
affliction, and pined in silent anguish.
The Count hastened to Osbert, but grief
M sat


( 242 )
sat heavy at his heart, and he had no
power to offer to others the comfort
which he wanted himself.
A fever, which was the consequence
of his wounds, added to the danger of
the Earl,, and to the despair of his fa-
mily. During this period, Alleyn had
not been seen at the castle; and his ab-
sence at this time, raised in Mary a va-
riety of distressing apprehensions. Os-
bert enquired for him, and wished to see
him. The servant who had been sent
to his father's cottage, brought word
that it was some days since he had been
there, and that nobody knew whither he
was gone. The surprize was universal j
but the effect it produced was various
and opposite. A collection of strange and
concomitant circumstances, now forced
a suspicion on the mind of the Countess,
which her heart, and her remembrance
of the former conduct of Alleyn, at
once


( 243 )
once condemned. She had heard of
what passed between the Earl and him in
the gallery; his immediate absence; the
event which followed, and his subse-
quent flight, formed a chain of evidence
which compelled her, with the utmost
reluctance, to believe him concerned in
the affair which had once more involved
her house in misery. Mary had too
much confidence in her knowledge of
his character, to admit a suspicion of
this nature. She rejected, with instant
disdain, the idea of uniting Alleyn with
dishonour; arid that he should be guilty
of an action so base as the present, soared
beyond all the bounds of possibility.
Yet she felt a strange solicitude concern-
ing him, and apprehension for his safe-
ty tormented her incessantly. The an-
guish in which he had quitted the apart-
ment, her brother's injurious treatment,'
and his consequent absence, all conspired
to make her fear that despair had driven
M 2' him


( 244 )
him to commit some act of violence on
himself.
The Earl, in the delirium of the
fever, raved continually of Laura and
ofAlleyn; they were the sole subjects of
his ramblings. Seizing one day the
hand of Mary, who fat mournfully by
his bed-side, and looking for some time
pensively in her face, "weep not, my
Laura," said he, "Malcolm, nor all the
powers on earth shall tear you from
me; his walls — his guards what
are they? I'll wrest you from his hold,
or peristu 1 have a friend whose valour
will do much for us;—a friend—O!
name him not; these are strange times;
beware of trusting. I could have given
him my very life—but not—I will
not name him." Then starting to the
other side of the bed, and looking
earnestly towards the door with an ex-
pression of sorrow not to be described,
"not


( 246 )
took of him a last look; and with a
breaking heart tearing herself away, was
carried to Dunbayne in a state of danger
little inferior to his.
The agitatation he had suffered during
this interview, caused a return of phren-
zy more violent than any fit he had yet
suffered; exhausted by it, he at length
sunk into a sleep, which continued with-
out interruption for near four and twenty
hours. During this time his repose
was quiet and profound, and afforded
the Countess and Mary, who watched
over him alternately, the consolations
of hope. When he awoke he was per-
fectly sensible, and in a very altered
state from that he had been in a few
hours before. The crisis of the disor-
der was now past, and from that time it
rapidly declined till he was restored to
perfect health. , .
The


( 247 )
The joy of Laura, whose health gra-
dually returned with returning peace,
and that of his family, was such as the
merits of the Earl deserved. This joy,
however, suffered a short interruption
from the Count of Santmorin, who, en-
tering one morning the apartment of
the Baroness, with letters in his hand,
came to acquaint her that he had just
received news of the death of a distant
relation, who had bequeathed him some
estates of value, to which it was neces-
sary he should immediately lay claim;
and that he was, therefore, obliged, how-
ever reluctantly, to set off for Switzer-
land without delay. Though the Ba-
roness rejoiced with all his friends, at
his good fortune, she regretted, with
them, the necessity of his abrupt depar-
ture. He took leave of them, and par-
ticularly of Mary, for whom his passion
was still the fame, with much emotion;
and it was some time ere the space he
M 4 had


( 248 )
had lest in their society was filled up,
and ere they resumed their wonted
cheerfulness.
Preparations were now making for
the approaching nuptials, and the day
of their celebration was at length fixed.
The ceremony was to be performed
in a chapel belonging to the castle of
Dunbayne, by the chaplain of the Ba-
roness. Mary only was to attend as
bride-maid; and the Countess also,
with the Baroness, was to be present.
The absence of the Count was uni-
versally regretted; for from his hand
the Earl was to have received his bride.
The office was now to be supplied by
a neighbouring Laird, whom the fa-
mily of the Baroness had long esteemed.
At the earnest request of Laura, Mary
consented to spend the night preceding
the day of marriage, at the castle of
Dunbayne. The day so long and so
anxiously


C 249 )
anxiously expected by the Earl, at
length arrived. The morning was ex-
tremely fine, and the joy which glowed
in his heart seemed to give additional
splendor to the scene around him. He set
off, accompanied by the Countess, for the
castle of Dunbayne. He anticipated
the joy with which he should soon re-
trace the way he then travelled, with
Laura by his side, whom death alone
eould then separate from him. On
their arrival they were received by
the Baroness, who enquired for Mary;
and the Countess and Osbert were
thrown into the utmost consternation,
when they learned that she had not been
seen at the castle. The nuptials were
again deferred; the castle was a scene
of universal confusion. The Earl re-
turned home instantly to dispatch his
people in search of Mary. On en-
quiry, he learned that the servants
who had attended her, had not been
M 5 heard


( 250 )
heard of since their departure with
their lady. Still more alarmed by
this intelligence he rode himself in
pursuit, yet not knowing which course,
to take. Several days were employed
in a fruitless search; no footstep of her
Might could be traced.
CHAP-


( 25I )
t
I"
CHAPTER XII.
MARY, in the mean time, suffered
all the terror which her situation
could excite. On her way, to Dun-
bayne, (he had been overtaken by a
party of armed men, who seized her
bridle, and after engaging her servants
in a feigned resistance, carried her off"
senseless. On recovering, she found her-
self travelling through a forest, whose
glooms were deepened by the shades of
night. The moon„ which was now up,
glancing through the trees, served to
shew the dreary aspect of the place, and
the number of men who surrounded her;; ,
and she was seized with a terror that al-
most deprived her of reason. They
travelled all night, during which a pro-
found silence was observed. At the
dawn of day stie found herself on the
M, 6 skirts;


( ass )
and the frowning majesty of its aspect:
seemed to command silence and vene-
ration. The chilly dews fell thick, and
Mary, fatigued in body, and harasted
in mind, lay almost expiring on her
horse, when they stopped under an arch
of the ruin. She was not so ill as to be
insensible to the objects around her;
the awful solitude of the place, and the
solemn aspect of the fabric, whose effect
was heightened by the falling glooms
of evening, chilled her heart, with hor-
ror; and when they took her from the
horse, she shrieked in the agonies of a
last despair. They bore her over loose
stones to a part of the building, which
had been formerly the cloisters of the
abbey, but which was now fallen to
decay, and overgrown with ivy. There
was, however, at the extremity of these
cloisters a nook, which had withstood
with hardier strength the ravages of
time; the roof was here entire, and the
shattered stanchions of the casements
still
*


( *55 J
had betrayed her, were not yet so en-
tirely lost to the feelings of humanity,
as to stand regardless of her present dis-
tress; though they could not resist the
temptations of a bribe, they were un-
willing their lady should be loaded with
unnecessary misery. They opposed the
ruffians; a dispute ensued; and the
violence of the contest arose so high,
that they determined to fight for the
decision. Amid the peals of thunder,
the oaths and execrations of the com-
batants, added terror to the scene. The
strength of the ruffians were superior to
that of their opponents; and Mary, be-
holding victory deciding against herself,
uttered a loud scream, when the atten-
tion of the whole party was surprized
by the sound of a footstep in the cloister^
Immediately after a man rushed into
the place, and drawing his sword, de-
manded the cause of the tumult. Mary,
who lay almost expiring on the ground,
now raised her eyes ., but what were
her


( 257 )
and snatched her to his heart. "Hear
me, Osbert," was all she could say.
"Declare who brought her hither,"
said the Earl sternly to Alleyn. "I
know not," replied he, "you must ask
those men whom your people have se-
cured. If my life is hateful to you,
strike! and spare me the anguish of de-
fending it against the brother of Mary."
The Earl hesitated in surprize, and the
generosity of Alleyn called a blush into
his face. He was going to have replied,
but was interrupted by some of his
men, who had been engaged in a sharp
contest with the ruffians, two of whom
they had secured, and now brought
to their lord; the rest were fled. In
the person of one of them, the Earl dis-
covered his own servant, who sinking in
his presence with conscious guilt, fell on
his knees imploring mercy. " Wretch,"
said the Earl, seizing him, and holding
his sword over his head, " declare by
whose authority you have acted, and all
you


( 258 J %
you know of the affair;—remember
your life depends on the truth of your
assertions. "I'll tell the truth, my
lord," replied the trembling wretch,
"and nothing else as I hope for mercy.
About three weeks ago,—no, it is not
so much; about a fortnight ago, when
I was sent on a message to the lady Mal-
colm, the Count de Santmorin's gentle-
man "" The Count de Sant-
morin!" re-echoed the whole company.
"But proceed," said Osberr. ** The
Count de Santmorin's gentleman called
me into a private room, where he told
me to wait for his master, who would
soon be there." "Be quick," said the
Earl, " proceed to facts." "I will^
roy lord; the Count came, and said to
me, " Robert, I have observed you, and
> I think you can be faithful," he said
so, my lord, — God forgive me 1"
"Well — well, proceed." "Where
was I?"—" Oh !" he said, "I think you
can be faithful."—*" Good God! this
is


( 259 )
is beyond endurance; you trifle, rascal,
with my patience, to give your associ-
ates time for escape; be brief, or you
die." "1 will, my lord, as I hope for
life. He took from his pocket a hand-
ful of gold, which he gave me;—• can
you be secret, Robert?' said he,—yes,
my lord Count, said I, God forgive me!
—-c Then observe what I say to you.
You often attend your young lady in
her rides to Dunbayne.'—" What, then
it was the Count de Santmorin who
commisiioned you to undertake this
scheme!" "Not me only, my lord.'*
"Answer my question; was the Count
the author of this plot?" "He was,
my lord." " And where is he?" said
Osbert, in a stern voice. "I know not,
my lord." "You know not! Wretch!
remember—your life" "I know not,
as I am a living creature. He em.
barked, as you know, my lord, not far
from the castle of Dunbayne, and we
were travelling to a distant part of the
coast


( 26o )
coast to meet him, when we w ere all to
have set sail for Switzerland." "You
cannot be ignorant of the place of your
destination," said the Earl, turning to
the other prisoner; " where is your em-
ployer?" "That is not for me to tell,"
said he, in a sullen tone. "Reveal the
truth," said the Earl," turning towards
him the point of his sword, ** or we
will find a way to make you," K The
place where we were to meet the Count,
had no name." "You know the way
to it." « I do" « Then lead me thi-
ther." "Never!" « Never! Your life
shall answer the refusal," said Osbert,
pointing the sword to his breast.
"Strike!" said the Count, throwing off
the cloak which had concealed him;
"strike! and rid me of a being which
passion has made hateful to me;—
strike!—and make the first moment of
my entering this place, the test of my
guilt." A faint scream was uttered by
Mary; the small remains of her strength
forsook


f 261 )
forsook her, and she sunk on the pave-
ment. The Earl started a few steps
back, and stood suspended in wonder.
The looks of the whole group defy
description. "Take a sword," said the
Earl, recovering himself, " and defend
your life." "Never, my lord, never!
Though I have been hurried by the
force of passion to rob you of a sister,
I will not aggravate my guilt by the
murder of the brother. Your life has
already been once endangered through
my means, though not by my design;
Heaven knows the anguisli which that
accident cost me. The impetuosity of
passion impelled me onward with irre-
sistible fury; it urged me to violate the
sacred duties of gratitude—of friend-
ship—and of humanity. To live in
shame, and in the consciousness of guilt,
is a living death. With your sword do
justice to yourself and virtue; and spare
me the misery of long comparing what
I am, with what I was." "Away—
you


( 268 )
rays; it led me to these ruins, whose
solemn appearance struck me with a mo-
mentary dread. A confused murmur
of voices from within struck my ear;
as I stood hesitating whether to enter, I
again heard those shrieks which had
alarmed me. I followed the found; it led
me to the entrance of this cloister, at the
extremity of which I discovered a party of
men engaged insight; I drew my sword
and rushed forward; and the sensations
which I felt, on perceiving the lady
Mary, cannot be expressed!" "Still,
—still Heaven destines you the deliverer
of Mary!" said the Earl, gratitude
swelling in his eyes; "O! that I could
remove that obstacle which with-holds
you from your just reward!" A respon-
sive sigh stole from Alleyn, and he re-
mained silent. Never was the struggle
of opposing feelings more violent, than
that which now agitated the bosom of
the Earl. The worth of Alleyn arose
more conspicuously bright from every
sliade


( 269 )
ihade with which misfortune had veiled
it. His noble and disinterested enthu-
siasm in the cause of justice, had attached
him to the Earl, and had engaged him
in a course of enterprizes and of dangers,
which it required valour to undertake,
and skill and perseverance to perform;
and which had produced services for
which no adequate reward could be
found. He had rescued the Earl from
captivity and death; and had twice pre-
served Mary in dangers. All these cir-
cumstances arose in strong reflection to
the mind of Osbert; but the darkness of
prejudice and ancient pride, opposed
their influence, and weakened their
effect.
The joy which Mary felt on seeing
Alleyn in safety, and still worthy of the
esteem she had ever bore him, was
dashed by the bitterness of reflection;
and reflection imparted a melancholy
which added to the languor of illness.
N 3 At


( 2.72 )
we were talking one day of what had
happened;—* Robert,' laid he, ' there
is more in this matter than you, or any
body think?; but it is not for me to
tell all I know.' With that, 1 begged
he would tell me what he knew; but
he still kept refusing. I promised him
faithfully 1 would not tell; and so ac
last he told me—* Why, there is my
lord Count there, he is in love with our
young lady; and to be sure as sweet a
lady she is, as ever eyes looked upon;
but she don't like him; and so finding
himself refused, he is determined to
marry her al any rate; and means some
night to get into the castle, and carry
> her off.' "What, then !—was it the
Count who wounded me?—Be quick
in your relation." "No, my lord, it
was not the Count himself—but two
of his people, whom he had sent to
examine the castle; and particularly
the windows of my young lady's apart-
ment, from whence he designed to have
carried


( 273 )
carried her, when every thing was ready
for execution. Those men were let
within the walls through a way under
ground, which leads into the vaults,
by my fellow servant, as I afterwards
was told; and they escaped through the
same way. Their meeting with your
lordship was accidental, and they sought
only in self-defence; for they had no
orders to attack any body." "And
who is the villain that connived at this
scheme?" "It was my fellow servant,
who fled with the Count's people, whom
he himself let within the ramparts.
Forgive me, my lord; but I did not
dare tell; he threatened my life, if 1
betrayed the secret."
After a journey of fatigue, and un-
pleasant reflections, they arrived on the
second morning at the castle of Athlin.
The Countess, during the absence of her
son, had endured a state of dreadful
suspense. The Baroness, in her friend-
ship,


• ( 275 )
nary. '* It was himself; his very air,
his features; that benign countenance
which 1 have so often contemplated in
imagination!" Her eyes still seemed
in search of some ideal object; and
they began to doubt whether a sudden
phrenzy had not seized her brain.
"Ah! again! said flic, and instantly
relapsed. Their eyes were now turned
* towards the door, on which she had
gazed; it was Alleyn who entered, with
water which he had brought for the
Countess, and on whom the attention
of all present was now centered. He
approached ignorant of what had hap-
pened; and his surprize was great,
when the Baroness, reviving, fixed her
eyes mournfully upon him, and asked
him to uncover his arm.—" It is,—
it is my Philip!" said she, with strong
emotion; I have, indeed, found my
long lost child; that strawberry on his i
arm confirms the decision. Send for
the man who calls himself your father,


( 276 )
and for my servant Patrick." The sen-
sations of the mother and the son may
be more easily conceived than described;
those os Mary were little inferior to
theirs; and the whole company awaited
with trembling eagerness the arrival of
the two persons whose testimony was
to decide this interesting affair. They
came. "This young man you call
your son?" said the Baroness. "I do,
an' please your ladyihip," he replied,
with a degree of confusion which belied
his words. When Patrick came, his
instant surprize on seeing the old man»
declared the truth. "Do you know
this person?" said the Baroness to
Patrick. ** Yes, my lady, I know him
too well; it was to him 1 gave your
infant son." The old man started with
surprize—" Is that youth the son of
your ladyship?" "Yes!" "Then
God forgive me for having thus long
detained him from you! but I was ig-
norant of his birth, and received him
into


( 277 )
into my cottage as a foundling suc-
coured by lord Malcolm's compassion."
The whole company crowded round
them. Alleyn fell at the feet of his
mother, and bathed her hand with his
tears.—" Gracious God! for what hast
thou reserved me!" He could say no
, more. The Baroness raised him, and
again pressed him in transport to her
heart. It was some time before either
of them could speak; and all present
were too much affected to interrupt the
silence. At length, the Baroness pre-
sented Laura to her brother. "Such a
mother! and have I such a sister!"
said he. Laura wept silently upon his
neck the joy of her heart. The Earl
was the first who recovered composure
sufficient to congratulate Alleyn; and
embracing him—O happy moment,
when I can indeed embrace you as my
brother! The whole company now
poured forth their joy and their con-
gratulations;— all but Mary, whose
i emotions


( 278 )
emotions almost overcame her, and were
too powerful for utterance.
The company now adjourned to the
drawing-room; and Mary withdrew to
take that repose she so much required.
She was sufficiently recovered in a few
hours to join her friends in the ban-
quetting-room.
After the transports of the scene were
subsided—" I have yet much to hope,
and much to fear," said Philip Mal-
colm, who was yet Alleyn in every
thing but in name. ** You, madam,"
addressing the Baroness,—" you will
willingly become my advocate with her
whom I have so long and so ardently
loved." " May I hope," continued he,
taking tenderly the hand of Mary, who
stood trembling by,—" that you have
not been insensible to ray long attach-
ment, and that you will confirm the
happiness which is now offered me?"
A smile


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