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FAUST,
A ROMANCE.
BY
GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS.
WITH ELEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS,
BY
SIR JOHN GILBERT AND HENRY ANELAY.
LONDON: JOHN DICKS, 313, STRAND.





FAUST.
PROLOGUE .
IT was the commencement- of August, 1493.
The advance of rosy-fingered Morn had dispelled the
clouds of darkness from the bosom of the Elbe, and the
rays of the rising sun were reflected from the gilded pin-
nacles of the Castle-Church of Wittenberg. ~
On one side of the ancient town, from the banks of the
river to the verge of a vast forest of pines, the luxuriant
harvests waved their golden heads: on the other side
the rich pasture-lands were covered with the flocks and
herds of the Lord of Rosenthal.
But while the sun dawned on the fair scene, and the
town, the University, the Castle, and the feudal mansion
of Rosenthal, which stood on an adjacent hill, awoke to
the light and bustle of a new day, it was still dark in the
subterranean dungeons of the prison of Wittenbcrg.
Of all the wretched inmates of those drear abodes,
none kept his e es fixed upon the grated window of his
solitary cell wit more anxious longing than a youth in
the unassuming garb of a student.
Seated on the straw in the corner of his lonely dungeon,
he eagerly watched for the first beam that might deign
to visit him.
For six long months had he ined in solitude in that
gen—the deepest and darkest in the prison of Witten-
erg.
Time had passed; but with the hours and days that
dmvged themselves along with {such leaden feet, each
{)ondly-cherished hope had departed from the student’s
roast.
Even his imagination—once so lowin and so enthu-
siastic in its visions—had at lenvt faile to conjure 11
those phantoms which might maize him believe that deh-
verance was near. .
Yes—for six months had he lin red in that dungeon,
anxiously awaitin the hour whic should enable him to
justify himself begore the criminal tribunal.
Six months had passed away in mingled hope and bit-
terness of heart; and he had prayed and wept, and wept
and prayed by turns—how vainly !
Then he had shut his eyes, even in the midnight dark-
ness of the do eon, as if he could thus draw a veil over
his maddening t oughts.
But still those thou hts haunted him in a thousand
ghastly and appallings pes, till he became afraid of the
obscurity of his cell—hence his ardent longing for the
presence of the sun.
What was that youth's crime ?
He had loved—and still loved—a noble lady—dearly,
madly loved her.
0 Theresa! thine image seemed to smile at times amidst
the gloom of his imprisonment, as the star from the
midst of tho thunder-clouds cheers the ocean-tossed
mariner.
Yes—thee he loved as fervently and well as ever man
acould love; and thy young heart beat with reciprocal
""tenderness for him.
‘ But he was poor—a humble student; and Theresawas
tive father, the youth was thrown, on certain fictitious
charges, into the prison of Wittenberg.
Such an atrocity was easil perpetrated in those times,
when feudal power was pre ominant; and the same in-
fluence which had effected it had hitherto succeeded in
delaying judicial investigation.
Thus the once noble and5 generous heart of that young man
had been tutored by adversit and persecution to entertain
and cherish sentiments of eadly vengeance against the
powerful lord who had been the tause of his sufferings.
Those sufierin s were so intense that oft-times had he
exclaimed, “ L! that some power, celestial or infernal,
would listen to my supplicating voice, and aid me in my
misery! Fain would I give all hopes in this life for one
hour of Theresa’s love, and all my chances of heaven for
one short minute of revenge !"
And these words he now repeated, for the thousandth
time, as he sat upon his straw, watching for the appear-
ance of the light.
Suddenl the bolts of his dun cn-door were drawn
back, the eavy chain outside fe with a clankin din
upon the stone floor, and the turnkey entered, bearing a
lam .
That light fell upon the handsome but care-worn
features of the youth, whose chestnut hair, blue eyes.
indlflair complexion denoted him to be a true son of Saxon
irt .
“ What do you require of me ?" exclaimed the student,
startin from his straw pallet, and drawing up his noble
and we -knit form to its full height. “ It is not the hour
for my poor provender to be renewed ; _that duty you
fulfil at night; and now, methinks, morning must beabout
to dawn. But, ah ! perhaps you come to tell me that I
am free,” added the youth, his tone assuming a hasty
expression of joy—“ to announce to me the order for my
liberation ? Speak—is it so F“
And he clasped his hands together.
"Faust," returned the man, “in such a place as this
one must be nerved to hear sad rather than happy tidings.
It is for to-day !”
“ Today—my liberty !" ejaculated the young man, his
pale countenance becoming flushed with a glow of anima-
ticn.
“ ’Tis not your liberty which I-have to announce," said
the turnkey ; “ but in an hour you must prepare to render
an account of all your misdeeds to the Tribunal. Morning
has already dawned, and by the time its beams can reac
this cell, t e officers will come to fetch you to the J udg-
ment-Hall,”
“ This announcement is most welcome," said the young
student. “ Know you not that you bring me certain
hopes of my release ? I shall refute with ease the foul
aspersions which have been thrown upon me, and freedom
then must follow.”
“ Think not so, poor youth,“ returned the gaoler;
“ buoy not yourself up with ho es which must experience
bitter disappointment. 0f w t crime do you imagine
yourself to be accused P”
‘-‘ The calumnies of the Lord of Roseuthal have implied
that I sought to carr off his daughter and force her mto
marriage,” the youth; “ but my love for her
if tlfie {)nly daughter and the heiress of the Lord of Rosen-
s a .
2-: It was a crime in the haughty Baron’s eyes for one so
:1 low as the ioung studentto as ire to the love of a. maiden
is of such big degree; and by t e influenceofthe vindic-
answer
was of too pure, too holy, and too disinterested a nature
to ermit me even to contemplate such a deea of perfidy
an violence.”


6 FA US T.

“ And know you not that from her birth the Lady
Theresa has been betrothed to the Archduke Leopold,
the nephew of his Imperial Majest , Maximilian the
First P“ demanded the turnkey, signi cantly.
“ I know it well,” replied Faust, with a mournful air.
“ But Theresa and I met—and loved ; and her generous
heart preferred the humble student whom she saw and
knew, to the mighty prince whom she never saw and'never
knew.”
“ Then hast thou confessed thine own crime, Faust P”
said the turnke .
“ How crime g” ejaculated the student. “ Is it acrime
to love in obedience to Nature’s dictates—those prompt-
ings which haughty men cannot control P"
“It is a crime to look with the eyes of love upon'a.
maiden betrothed to one of the imperial blood,” answered
the turnkey; “ and the penalty of that crime is death."
“ Death !” cried the unhappy youth, suddenly aroused
to a full sense of his danger. “ But this is horrible! It
cannot be! You dream—you rave! Human injustice
does not fly to such extremes."
“ It is enough that one so great and powerful as the
Baron of Rosenthal should be your enemy. You were
doomed to die the day you entered here.”
“ But how know you so well the intent of the Tribunal
—you who are onl a subordinate, and to whom the judge ,
would never revea the foul iniquity of this proceeding P"
demanded Faust. '
“ I have assed through the ordeal,” answered the
turnkey; “indeed, I am a prisoner now, for I was but
too ha py to purchase my life upon the one condition
thatI s ould pass the remnant of my sad existence in the
condition of a gaoler."
“ What was your crime ?” demanded Faust.
1‘; 011’ that no matter. My sentence was death upon the
w ee ."
“And could nothin save you, except the condition
which you have nam ?"
“ Nothing could save me. But, stay!” ejaculated the
man, after a pause; “ I had for otten! Yes—there was
one dread alternative more hi eous still, and to that I
nearly yielded. But m good genius inte osed to save
me—and I would rather inger out my life in t is degraded,
wretched occu ation, than purchase legal power and
countless wealt by means of that alternative.”
“ Was it, then, so very terrible P" asked Faust, shudder-
ing—he knew not why.
“ Nay—urge me not to speak more, said the man,
apparently recoiling with inefi'able horror from the
subject, as if it were something monstrously, hideously
palpable.
“ Good turnke , give me further explanation!” cried
Faust. “ Thou ast pricked my curiosity in a most
sensitive point."
“ But I will not gratify it,” said the turnkey, glancing
arfiund with afirighted looks : “ for this—this is the very
ce .”
“ N ay—refuse me not this boon!" exclaimed Faust.
“ See! here is my purse—it contains all my wealth. I
give it to thee; t on may'st find a use for it—I shall have
none, perhaps," he added, mournfully.
“ Thanks for the gold," said the turnkey, greedily
clutching the purse: “it is an argument which hushes
all m scruples. Listen, then. An old tradition, but
little nown beyond these walls, declares that on a time,
a century and a half ago, a learned man, whose days and
nights were spent in deep researches after the hidden
mysteries of science, became a prisoner in this self-same
dungeon. He was well versed in cabalistic lore, and knew
the power of incantations over demons. He was con-
demned to death on the wheel ; but by his detestable art
he escaped that punishment. For, by a certain s ell, he
raised up a demon from the de the of hell, and to im he
sold himself, bod and soul, or liberty, riches, power,
and long life. T e incantation which he used remains
deep-graven upon this wall. Tradition says that his own
hand wrote it there, and that all mortal attempts to efiace
it are vain and useless. Such was the alternative to which
I ere now alluded, and which is within the reach of him
who may choose to consummate so horrible a sacrifice !”
With these words, the turnkey, shuddering from head
to foot, held the lamp towards that ortion of the wall
which overhung the student's bed, an exclaimed—
tf‘l‘lf'loly Virgin protect us !—yes, the inscription is there
s i ."
Faust turned his eyes ea erly towards it.
“ Nay—read it not!" cried the gaoler, in alarm, “else
would the demon yield obedience to the spell, and stand
before us here, clothed in all his terrors.”

At the same time the man retreated a few_steps, so
that the glare of his lamp no longer fell upon the inscrip-
ion.
“1 must now leave you, Faust,” he said. “Prepare
y0urself—in a short half-hour the oflicers will be here.“
The turnkey left the cell, taking the lamp with him.
Faust was again lunged in total darkness.
“Yes,” he exclaimed aloud, when he was once more
alone, “ that man did well to shun so fearful an alterna-
tive. Ma God give me equal courage to resist the temp-
tation! h, Theresa,” he continued, wildly, after a
moment’s pause, “ dear Theresa, thou knowest that I
would dare all for thee! Alas! how changed have all
my sentiments become within the last half-hour! Oh,
that I had never heard that fearful tale, which rings like
atocsin in my ears, and seems to find an echo in my
heart! I feel rebellious thoughts rising within me. They
teach me to as ire t0'those dread heights where I might
haply linger or a time, but whence it would be my
destiny to fall into the pit of hell’s eternal fires! Oh,
Theresa! to clasp thee in my arms—to hear thy silver
tones sound in m ears—to catch the sweet glances of thy
melting e es, an to watch the throbbing of thy cntle
breast—o , this—this indeed were paradise! And t en,”
he continued, his voice changing from a plaintive tone
to one of extreme bitterness, “ and then to wreak my
vengeance upon that proud baron and the unjust judge,
who have condemned me ere my trial—to wreak that ven-
geance which will be second in sweetness only to Theresa’s
eve, but which even that love ma not avert, although
one of the victims be her father. 0 , this were also para-
dise! Yes, Theresa, for love of thee I would renounce
my hopes of heaven, and to gratify my vengeance I
giililild not refuse to sign a compact, with the powers of
e I)
At this moment the door aglain opened, and an oflicer
entered the cell, bearing a lig t.
“ Faust," he said, “I am come to lead thee into the
presence of the chief ‘udge, who in a few minutes will
take his seat in the J u cut-Hall."
“ One moment only !” cried Faust, a cold shudder
creeping over his whole frame. “ Or, stay—grant me
three minutes to reflect upon my dangerous position.”
“I will not refuse the request of a man who cannot
have many hours to live," said the oflicer, in a compas-
sionate tone.
He then placed the lamp upon the floor, and retired.
“ A man who cannot have many hours to live !" repeated
Faust, when he was ain alone. “ My fate, then, is
d ided on ; the (gaoler id not deceive me.”
e paused, an reflected profoundly.
“ Alone—once more alone!“ he exclaimed, at the expi-
ration of a minute. “ Oh, dangerous solitude ! Alone
with in own thoughts—those perilous companions of an
interva like this ! Away, rebellious sentiments !
Avaunt, unhallowed aspirations! I will not—cannot
barter all my future hopes for a short period of terrestrial
Joy .2:
The officer returned to the cell.
“ The time you asked has gone, and you must follow
me," he said.
“Again I pray thee—I implore thee for a moment’s
grace,” cried the unhappy student. Only two minutes
more—two oor, short minutes, just to collect my scat-
tered thong ts—and I shall be at thy disposal.”
“ I risk the anger of the chief judge," returned the
oflicer; “ and yet I cannot find it in my heart to disre-
gard your supplication.“
The oflicer once more left the dungeon, into which a
strag ling beam of the sun now found its wa .
“ ! no—no, I cannot die so young, an leave all I
hold dear behind!" cried Faust, now pacin the cell in
an agitated manner, while his eyes beamed wit unnatural
tire. “ Beloved Theresa, we will meet again! I will
pour forth the fervour of my passion at thy feet, and I
will wreak deadly vengeance on thy sire and his corrupt
judge. My fates decree it—my destilifi' is fixed—I _must
obey their mandates! Yes, yes—I w' live for love and
vengeance !“
With these words, he took the lamp in his hand, and
advanced towards the inscription on the wall.
But even then he dared not accomplish his terrific
purpose.
“No, no—better to die now than resign all hopes of
salvation!” he cried, while his soul was a prey to the
most agonizing emotions. “ What! are the three minutes
gone already ? Hark—a step apgroaches! Now it lingers
without. Perhaps that kind 0 cer may yet accord me


FA US T. 7
s...
another minute. Oh, I cannot dare death now—I who
have scarcely seen two and twenty summers I”
A shudder crept over his frame—his brain seemed to
whirl.
At length he exerted all his mental energies, and, by a
desperate effort, turned his eyes upon the inscription.
“ One bold, decided step,” he said, “ and all will be
ghiilnged! Yes, I will take that step, although it lead to
e l ’
Then, without another moment’s hesitation, he ap-
proached the lamp close to the wall, and read, in a rapid
tone, the following incantation :—
“ By the snicide’s grave, deserted and drear ;
By the howl of the jackal, and creaks of the bier;
By the cold, creeping worm which preys on the dead;
By the skull that provides the foul toad with a bed;
By the ravens that flap their wings o’er the grave;
By the witches’ abode and the skeleton’s cave;
By the murderer’s bones which bleach on the tree,
I command thee, 0 Demon, appear unto me I”
The moment the last words issued from the lips of the
daring student, he fell back a few <paces involuntarily,
the lam dropped from his hand, an a spirit, wearing a
human orm, stood before him.
There was nothing terrible in the appearance of the
Demon; on the contrary, his countenance wore an ex-
pression of melancholy—nay, even of anguish, as if the
eternal fire were gnawin at his heart.
But around iim was s ed a powerful light, which illu-
minated the w ole dungeon.
“ What wouldst thou with me P” be asked, in a deep,
sonorous voice.
“ Save me—save me from this horrible place!” cried
Faust.
“ I will !“ answered the Demon, and he caught the
student firmly by the arm.
Then, with the rapidity of lightning, they rose together
through the roof 0 the dungeon, and Faust became in-
sensible.
* a _ a e a a
When Faust awoke, he was reclining upon the pallet
at his own humble lod 'ng, in a street close to the prin-
ci a1 entrance of the niversity of Wittenberg.
e opened his eyes, and glanced fearfully around; it
was broad da light.
But when his glance fell on the wainscot of the room
instead of the massive stone walls of the dungeon—when
he beheld the little table, with the writing materials on
it, and the shelf whereon la a few manuscripts which
he had borrowed from the li rary of the University for
the purpose of study—his countenance became animated
with an ineffable joy.
“ It is a dream—a very fearful dream !” he exclaimed,
sitting up on his pallet. “ And I have thus been frightened
at a dream I But, in good sooth, it was very terrible.
Let me reflect! Methought I was cast into a noisome
dungeon, and that I lingered there six months or more—-
hope after he e departing day blyl da . And then I
dreamt—holy ir 'n! I shudder st' —t at by some s ell
I raised a fiend, w o snatched me in a moment from t at
horrible abode, just as the officer came in to lead me into
the presence of the chief judge. But Heaven be thanked,
it was a dream—an idle vision! I’ll now away to Theresa,
and tell her what I dreamt, and how I suffered in my
dream. Dear girl! her tears will flow for me, as if I
had indeed experienced all that I have fancied in my
terrific vision. Yes, let me rise, and then away to
Theresa l”
Faust threw himself, with a joyous smile upon his arch-
ing lips, and with a light heart, from the pallet ; but no
pen-no human language can describe the horror of his
soul when, in the shade of the curtain which overhung the
head of the humble couch, he beheld the Demon !
“ Merciful heavens!" exclaimed the wretched youth,
staggering towards the table, whereon he leant to save
himself from falling, “ it is not, then, a dream P” ~ .
The Demon, with his arms folded across his breast, and
with an infernal smile of scorn curling that lip which ere
now was alone expressive of profound melancholy—en-
velo ed, moreover, in a species of haze or dim mist which
partially obscured his form—the Demon advanced slowly
towards Faust.
“ N o—it is not a dream !” he said, in that deep, sonorous
voice which had before made every chord in the heart of
the student vibrate ; “ it is a reality in all its details—one,
too, that involves your hopes of a hereafter state of bliss,
and may make you mine. But still it is not too late! You

may renounce mine aid—you may send me hence, and take
your destinies in your own hand."
“ Say you it is not too late P” exclaimed Faust. “ 0h!
then, I will not have thine aid—I will not surrender all
my hope and all my chance of future happiness. No—I
will not use thy power. Thou may’st depart.”
“ Hear but one word,” said the Demon. “If you re-
nounce my aid and send me hence, that very moment
must you return to the depths of yonder prison. Thence
wilt thou be dragged to the J ndgment-Hall—and from the
J udgment-Hall t e way is short which leads to the
scaffold!”
“I will dare it all!” cried Faust. “Heaven will not
desert me. My faith is fixed on a power su erior to thine
—to that all-seeing power I look for aid. An even Theresa
yet may be my own I"
“ Fond fool, you rave !“ exclaimed the Demon, with an
ironical laugh. “ Think you that the hi h-born dau hter
of one of Germany’s most owerful no Ice, and w o is
a-flianced to a prince, pines or the humble student who
has been absent and silent now for half a year? Think
you her sire has not forged some fine tale of your indiffer-
ence—some histoagof your fond devotion for some more
favoured lady ? eresa knows not of your imprisonment
—she only knows of your absence. Do you su pose, then,
that she remains faithful to one whom she eems insin-
cere ? Such constanc belongs not unto mortals."
“ Ah! if I thought hat Theresa was unmindful of me—
if I could believe that her heart had changed—that her
love was now another’s—I would dare all which I might
have to undergo by signing a compact with thee! Yes—I
would have wealth and power,“ continued the student,
powerftu excited, " that I might triumph over my rival
-—even be he the Archduke Leo old himself ! But I dis-
credit thee, mali ant fiend! ou canst not prove one
tittle of th tale No—Theresa is faithful still !"
“ Why s ould I demonstrate my power to you ?” de~
inlandied the Demon, sneeringly, “ since you mistrust nic
t as ”
“ I swear,” cried Faust, “ that if you can confirm all you
have ere now told me concerning Theresa’s faithlessness,
I will be yours—body and soul—s0 that I might enjoy
wealth, power, vengeance, and triumph, during my stay
on earth.“- .
“ You swear P” demanded the Demon.
“ I swear most solemnly," answered Faust.
“ And you will sign a compact to the effect of what you
just have said," pursued the fiend; “ wealth, wer, ven-
geance, and triumph during your stay on cart ?"
“ I will sign that compact,” rephed the student, un-
hesitatingly—for he was.maddened to despair by all he had
heard concernin his well-beloved Theresa.
“ Have then t y wish i” cried the Demon ; and ex-
tending the right arm towards the window, he chanted
these lines—-
“ By the sgells that you fear,
By the 0 arms that have power,
Fair Theresa, appear
As thou art at this hour !”
. A dark cloud rolled slowly across the window, and as
it passed awa , it gradually revealed the interior of a
room in the astle of Rosenthal. There, upon a divan
or sofa of Oriental fashion, Theresa was seen reclining,
her lon fair hair floating over her alabaster neck, her
sunn b uc eyes ing attentively upon a miniature
whic she held in or hand.
“ ’Tis she! ’tis she !” ejaculated the enraptured Faust ;
and he would have rushed towards the Vision, had not
the Demon forcibly held him back. “ Yes—'tis she, my
own beloved Theresa. I will fly to her !”
“Poor fool, be still,“ said the sonorous voice of the
Demon, sounding ominously in his ears. “ That is thy
rival’s miniature! See with what ardour she hangs over
it! And now she places next to her heart that portrait
of him whom she loves so fondly."
f‘ You have the power to do such wondrous things,”
saidFaust, in a tone of rofound melanchol , “ that I
dare not doubt you. es—‘tis too true— heresa is
faithless! May curses light upon the love which she has
given to another 1”
The vision was now overshadowed by a mist, which
gradually became more and more dense until it grew into
a dark cloud. Then the dark cloud itself began to roll
away, and in a few minutes all was as at first.
“ Yes—it must be so,” mused Faust, for an instant un-
mindful of the presence of the Demon; “I comprehend
it all—it is natural! She thought herself neglected. Not
a visit-not a letter from me for six long months! How


8 ' FAUST.

could it, then, be otherwise P My imprisonment [was con-
cealed from her, and her mind was poisoned against me!
Revenge alone would prompt her to contract a umon
with one more assiduous than myself !“
“ Faust, wilt thou be mine, now that thine eyes have
seen the confirmation of all I told 'thee i’" demanded the
fiend.
“ What? Be thine l—Oh, no! I did not promise!"
ejaculated the student, wildl . " For what should I
live since she is faithless? o—no—back to my dun-
eon !“
g “ Perjured wretch!" cried the Demon. “ Has such a
coward as thou the nerve to dare death upon the
wheel?" 7
“ Prove that such is the fate in store for me, I am
thine 1" said Faust, his blood running cold at the idea of
that terrible penalty.
“ You swear once more to be mine ?" _
“Upon the conditions already named, I swear!" said
Faust, “ nor will I fall back from my oath !"
“Again thou hast thy wish!” exclaimed the Demon.
And, once more extending his arm towards the Window,
he chanted the following incantation :—
“ By the spoils that all fear,
By the charms that have power,
Let the scafiold a pear,
With the multitu e near,
As it is at this hour!"
The dark cloud rolled once more athwart the window,
and as it cleared by degrees away, it revealed to the view
of the aff hted student the great square in_ front of the
prison. T at vast arena was crowded With countless
multitudes, and all eyes were turned towards the scafiold
which was erected in the midst, and upon whose platform
was all the apparatus for the mode of execution by break-
ing upon the wheel.
“ Enough! enough i” cried Faust, turning away
horror-struck from the appalling spectacle. _ ‘
“ Nay—be convinced t t all that preparation is for
thee," said the Demon. “ Look once more 1"
Faust glanced again towards that appalliii scene, and
in the midst of the crowd he perceived the pu ic crier.
The crier rang his bell, and exclaimed, in a loud and
solemn tone, “ Pray forthe soul of Wilhelm Faust, who
is to expiate his crimes upon the scafiold at mid-day !
Pray for his soul!" _
“ Save me! 'save me l” ojhaculated Faust, turning with
an imploring air towards t e Demon.
“ I will! " replied the fiend. “ Power, wealth, vengeance,
iu'ium h, and love for founand-twenty years—and then
thou s t be mine 1"
“ For four-and-twenty years I No more P“
“ No more," answered the fiend; “ and for that period
I am thy slave l"
“ Power, wealth, vengeance, triumph, and love—
Theresa's love! 0h, these are t boons l" cried the
student, his heart beating violent y with mad excitement.
“Agreed! agreed 1"
The Demon placed a scroll upon the table, and pointing
with his finger to the bottom of it, said—“ Si nl '
Rendered des rate with fear, and wild wit ambition,
the daring yout hesitated not a moment, but seizing a.
pen, affixed his name to the parchment.
The instant the dread compact was concluded, a terrific
peal of thunder burst over the town of Wittenberg—
the air became darkened, and a fearful storm began to
rage.
“ Wretch that I am!" exclaimed Faust, “what have I
now done F“
The infernal chuckle of the Demon fell upon his ears,
rising ominously above the appalling din of the warring
. elements.
Faust sank upon the floor, overwhelmed with an inde-
scribal 1e terror.
u
CHAPTER I.
run eonn we mean.
Tun day was verging to a close, in the middle of August,
1493, when a sohtary horseman stopped at a hostel, or
inn, in the little village of Kemberg.
He was a young man upon whose head scarcely three
and twenty summers had shed their blessings, or as many
winters their afflictions—physically and morally speak-
ing, and, although not positively handsome, he had some-
thing both engaging and commanding about him which
created interest and inspired respect.

He was attired
in gpod, though by no means costly, apparel; yet his
slas ed doublet, his plain cap without a lume, and his
ihortdicloak, were worn in a manner which spoke gentle
ree ng.
He was not above the middle hei ht; but his form
denoted great muscular strength, an seemed endowed
with a vigour matured beyond his years. His coal-black
hair fell in long curls over his lace collar, his chin was
shaven close, but his small moustaches were evidently
cherished with care. His large, dark eyes beamed with
intelligence, and his lofty brow and arching lip were
characterized by a certain huuteur that suited not alto-
gether well wit the modesty of his garb et seemed to
accord with the loftiness of his hearing. e wore along
ra ier attached to his plain leathern belt, and in the
ho sters of his saddle was a of pistols of the heavy
and clumsy fashion of the period.
Mine host of the Black Swan hurried to assist the
young stranger to alight; but the traveller, repulsing his
ofliciousncss, did not offer to move from his seat upon
the fine chestnut steed which he bestrode.
" Worth friend," he said, in a pleasin but somewhat
authoritative tone, “ how far do you itlfrom hence
to Wittenberg P"
“ Two leagues and better," answered the landlord, who
was a fine, portly man of about fifty, “ and througha bad
district—uneven roads, and those of evil repute. Is it
not so, Father Theodosius ?"
These last words were addressed to a tall, thin, elderly
monk, who, aroused from his flask of wine and chat with
the landlord by the arrival of the traveller, had lounged
from the parlour to the door of the tavern during the
above short colloquy.
“ Of evil repute, indeed!“ echoed the monk, now sur-
ve 'ng the young traveller with the most intense interest,
w ' e a smile of mingled surprise and joy played on his
thin and emaciated countenance. “No one who values
his life would venture through the mazes of yonder pine
forest after dusk, or without an escort, however brave he
might be.”
“ What! is the Lord of Rosentlial so neglectful of the
interests of travellers," demanded the stran er, some-
whatangril , “that he permits lawless ban tti to bar-
bour in his omains P“ _
“You pine forest belongs not to the feudal possessions
of his lordship of Rosenthal,“ answered the monk, “but
to Count Manfred of Linsdorf,“ he added, dryly.
“What!” exclaimed the young man, “to that same
Count who, as report says, alone of all the great nobles of
the German Empire, appeared not at Court on the day of
Maximilian's coronation i‘" ‘
“ The same," answered the landlord, with some em-
barrassment of manner, while the monk turned aside.
“But it is dangerous to speak of the affairs of Count
Manfred," continued mine host, sinking his voice almost
to a whisper; “ as dangerousas to travel through yonder
forest after sunset."
The traveller appeared to hesitate’for a moment; then,
as if decided upon some fixed plan, he leapt from his
horse, threw the bridle to the landlord, and said—-
“ I will not be deterred from lHrosecuting my onrney
this evening. Nevertheless, I w‘ refresh my with a
draught of our best wine, while youéirocure me a couple
of sturdy fo lows by way of escort. ee that this be done
guickly, aud'let my horse in the meantime be well cared
He then entered the tavern, and called for refresh-
ments, which were immediately served him by the land-
lord’s better-half.
The moment the young traveller had crossed the
threshold of the Black Swan, the monk accosted the
landlord, who was leading the horse'to the stable, and
said, in an imperative tone—
_“hlt1e’rmau, that stranger must not proceed farther this
111 .
g:lHow can I prevent him, my lord?" asked the land-
or .
“ Let his horse go suddenly lame or fall sick, and on
cannot procure him another until the morrow," rep ied
the monk. “ Moreover, you can assure him that no escort
is to be had."
“It shall be done, my lord,” said the landlord, with 'a
submissive tone and manner.
“ And you will place him in the Wainscot Chamber,"
added the monk.
"I will, my lord."
The monk then returned to the public room, and the
landlord led the traveller‘s steed to the stable.
" Will your reVerence condesccnd to partake of my


FA UST. 9

flask ?” said the young stranger, with great urbanityl'J of
manner, when Theodosius entered the apartment. “ he
wine is none of the worst for a village hostel.“ _
“ It might be more indifferent,” said the monk, seating
himself at the table, and fillin his cup. “ Have you
journe ed far to-day, Sir Trave er ?”
“ To erably,” was the repl , “ But we were speaking
ere now of Count Manfred o Linsdorf. If rumour speaks
truly, he is not on the best terms with his powerful neigh-
bour, the Baron of Rosenthal." -
“ So sa s report,” answered the monk, dryly.
“ And have also heard that the Count is much feared
by his vassals, and leads'in man respects a strange life,”
continued the traveller. “ I be icve he is a widower, and
has no heir to his vast estates?" _
“ So says report,” again replied the monk, who seemed
to relish the wine better than the conversation.
d “1Had he not an elder brother, who died sud-
en —IJ
“ ir Traveller,” interrupted the monk, “I am a riest
of God, and meddle not with the temporal affairs 0 men
—their spiritual welfare alone concerns me. If you
would obtain information relative to the dwellers in
these parts, I pray you address yourself to the worthy
Herman.”
Scarcel were the words uttered, when the landlord
entered t e room.
“What news, mine host ?” demanded the young tra-
veller, turning with an ill-concealed disgust away from
the morose ecclesiastic.
“ Sorry news,” was the landlord’s re ly. “ My lad
has 'ust come back from his search a ter a brace of
stu y fellows, and without success. There's a marriage
at Farmer Bertholf’s, and not a man will leave it for love
or money.”
“ Then I must proceed alone," said the traveller, coolly.
“ I have not much to lose, and my life can avail the law-
less horde but little.”
“ But I had not told you all," continued the landlord.
“ Your horse has fallen suddenly sick.”
“ Perdition !" ejaculated the young stranger, starting
from his seat; “are the fates then leagucd to compel me
to waste m time in this miserable hamlet of Kemberg?
I will go With you to the stable—lead the way.”
These words were uttered in an imperious tone, which
made the landlord bustle about to light a lamp, for it was
Lnow dark. He then conducted the traveller to the stable,
Whenethe hofie was in reality found to be in a condition
which annihilated all hope of prosecuting the journey by
its means.
“ You gave him to drink too soon," said the traveller ;
“ the poor animal was heated, and the water was too
cold. I must make nip my mind to pass the night here;
and, after all,” he ad ed, in a musing tone, as e patted
the horse’s neck, “ my time is my own.”
The traveller then took from his saddle-bags a certain
drug], observing—
“ ortunately, I have with me a medicament which
will restore my brave steed to his usual vigour in a few
hours. See that all be in readiness for my departure at
da brea .”
e drug was administered to the horse, and the tra-
veller returned to the public room in the tavern. Some
food was served up to him, another flask was broached,
and he endeavoured to lead the landlord into conversa-
tion upon the affairs of the Count of Linsdorf and the
Baron of Rosenthal. But the monk sat there ; and
though he uttered not a word, but appeared to sleep be-
neath the cowl which he had drawn over his face, his
presence seemed to act as a spell to seal the lips of the
0st of the Black Swan.
Annoyed at the monosyllabie answers which he received
from that individual, the young stranger at length rose,
and said—-
“ Show me to my chamber."
The landlord instantly obeyed this command. Taking
a lamp in his hand,‘he led his guest up a flight of steps
and along a corridor to the Wainscot Chamber—a large
and gloomy apartment, but tolerany well-furnished for
a room in a small village inn.
Placing the lamp on the old-fashioned mantelpicce, the
landlord wished the traveller a good night’s rest, and
was about to withdraw, when the young man caught him
by the arm, and said, in a tone of command—-
“ Who is that monk in the room below ‘1’”
“ A worthy ecclesiastic, named Theodosius,” was the
answer ; and the landlord hurried from the room, evidently
fearful of further interrogatory.
The door closed behind the host, but it struck the tra-

veller that the creaking of a bolt immediatelyfollowed
the shutting of the door.
He hastened to assure himself on this head. The door
was indeed bolted outside 1
“ What can this mean ?” said the traveller, to himself;
and, by a natural immllse, he hastened to examine the
window. “ Strong iron bars !” he continued. “ Surely
no treachery can be meditated against me F”
Taking the lamp in his hand, he proceeded to scrutinize
the room more narrowly. In a species of recess there
stood a massive oak table, on which were a basin and
ewer.
As his glance strayed in that direction, he perceived a
panel in the wainscot of the recess suddenly glide back-
wards, and a naked arm was thrust from the aperture.
The hand struck a dagger forcibly into the table, the arm
was then withdrawn as speedily as it had appeared, and
thglpanel glided back into its place.
this was the work of a single moment.
The young man rushed forward, and tried to remove
the panel—but in vain.
He then turned his eyes upon the dagger that stuck
upright upon the table, into which it had been so violently
thrust. A cord was twisted round the handle, and to
that cord was fastened a slip of parchment.
The traveller tore the parchment away, and glanced
his eyes in profound alarm, over the lmes that were
traced upon it, and which ran thus :—
“ By the Dagger and Cord you are commanded to
follow, without resistance, and in profound silence, the
PGIt‘SOII who will visit you at midnight. Herein fail
no .0,
The parchment fell from the young traveller’s hand,
and, overcome by terror, he threw himself upon a seat,
exclaiming—
“Holy ' 'n defend me! This is a summ0ns which
even such as dare not disobey l’-’
——
CHAPTER II.
THE vnnm TRIBUNAL.
WHEN the first emotions of fear had subsided, the young
traveller felt ashamed at having givenWay to that terror
With which the appearance of the Cord and Dagger, and
the imperious summons, had inspired him.
“ What have I done," he said, in a musing tone, as he
paced the apartment, “that I should be afraidof‘flic
Vehm Tribunal ? I know that I dare not disobey its
summons: I know that, were I to do so, the Free Count
would adj udge me to death, and the secret servants of the
Tribunal would exercise the sentence at any risk to them-
selves! Holy Virgin !" he continued, in a tone of in-
creased excitement, “ what is the ower of emperors,
archdukes, or princes, when an association of a hundred
thousand men, linked by secret signs and modes of greet~
ing, and including members of the highest as well as of
the lowest classes—an association that takes the functions
of the laws in its own hands, and tries and punishes in the
name of the emperor and the empire—an association
which causes to tremble the proudest lords and mightiest
knights, when its servants raise their voices b night at
the castle-gates of those feudal despots, an summon
them, by the Cord and Dagger, before the 'Vehm—the
power of the Emperor of Germany and King of the
Romans is as nothing, I say, when weighed with that
which this dread association exercises !”
The young man aused and shuddered in spite of him~
self; for he knew t at the members of the Vehmgericht,
or Secret Court, were bound by a fearful oath, and b the
dread of death, to conceal the judgments which mig t be
passed u on anyone; and he asked himself, “ Can it be
possible hat any unknown or private enemy, belonging
to the Vehm, can contemplate so terrible a fate for me? ’
Then he paced the room with agitated steps.
“ But, no,” he said, after an interval of deep medita-
tion, “ these courts can never use their power, or direct
their influence to private vengeance. They were founded
as a barrier a ainst the rude and brutal force of crime ;
and when the mperor Sigismund, in 1429, became one of
the initiated, he must have known well the principles
which actuated them ! Let me, then, confront with bold-
ness these men who dare to judge even me ,-—and let me
not show a craven heart in the presence of a tribunal
against whose laws I am unconscious of having offended.”
There was something noble and commanding about that
young man, as he thus nerved himself to support an ordeal


10
FA UST.
_ stones he was le

which was known to be of a nature calculated to make the
boldest tremble. .
Midnight arrived, and found the traveller animated
with that stern courage which he was resolved nothing
should subdue.
Nor did he quail when he heard the bolts outside his
chamber door cautiously drawn back.
That door was opened slowly ; and a man, armed to the
teeth, but whose countenance was totally unknown to the
young traveller, entered the chamber.
In his hand he carried a naked poniard, around the
handle of which was twisted the symbolic cord.
The traveller uttered not an exclamation of either sur-
prise or fear, but bowed his head in acknowledgment of
the authority whose messenger he was now prepared to
accompany. .
The man also observed a profound silence as he beckoned
the traveller to follow him.
They descended the stairs, passed out of the tavern by
the back way, and struck into a path, which soon led them
into the forest of pines.
But as the young stranger accompanied the servant of
the Vehm, he soon perceived that other armed men kept
pace with them at a short distance.
The moment they entered the pine-forest, the mes-
senger, who had charge of the traveller, lighted a torch ;
and the young stranger, as well as the dependants of the
Vehm, who followed at short distances, took that sombre
glare, which seemed a supernatural will-o'-the-Wisp, as
their guide.
Thus they all advanced in solemn silence through the
dense mazes of the forest.
At length they came into an open space, where a rude
chafiel was constructed for the use of pious wayfarers.
T ere they stopped: and the messenger who had charge
of the stranger now spoke for the first time.
“ You must be blindfolded,” he said; “ but fear
nothing: I am a mere dependant, and neither intend nor
wish you harm.” '
“ Whither are you leading me ?” demanded the young
stranger, who, in spite of himself, experienced a sense of
va e and ineifable terror creeping over him.
he messenger pointed significantly to the dagger and
cord, which now occupied a place in his girdle, amongst
other formidable wea ens—as much as to say, “ You are
going to the seat of at tribunal of which these are the
emblems."
The stranger strove to con uer his emotions, and
allowed himself to be blindfolde without resistance—for
he knew that an attempts at such were vain, and fraught
with appalling anger.
The party then resumed its march, the messenger
carrying his torch in one hand, and leading the stranger
by the hand.
In this manner they proceeded for nearly half an hour;
when they came to a sudden halt. .
Then the blast of a trumpet echoed around; anda veice
exclaimed from an eminence—
“ Who are e P” _
“ Frieschofien,” cried the messenger, in answer to this
challenge—thereby intimating that the ofiicers of the
Vehmgericht demanded admittance.
“'Tis well," said the voice of the sentinel; and in a
few minutes the young stranger heard the din of bars and
the clanking of chains.
His military experience was sufficient to enable him to
know that a ortcullis was raised, a draw-bridge was
lowered, and t e massive gates of a fortified place were
thrown open.
Nor was he mistaken; for, when the party resumed its
march, he knew by the sound of his steps, and the vibra-
tion of the planks beneath, that he was passing over a
draw-bridge. Then echo told him that he was proceeding
beneath an archway; and thence he merged upon what
he took to be a s acious paved court. Over the rugged
(i) a short distance; then a door was
opened; he was conducted up a narrow spiral stone stair-
case to a considerable height ; and at length the mes-
senger guided him into a room, where a blaze of light
immediately struck his eyes, even beneath the thick
bandage which had been tied over them.
“ Loosen the bandage,” said a voice, which did not
seem alto ether unfamiliar to the ears of the stranger,
who was, iowever, labouring under too powerful a state
of excitement to be very collected in his ideas.
For, in spite of that young man’s courage, the inci-
dents of the night—the mysterious journey through the
forest, the uncertainty which he experienced relative to
the place where he now was, and his knowledge of the

tremendous power, as well as the unscrupulous darinfli
of the tribunal before which he was about to appear
these circumstances combined together constituted a
source of terror calculated to dismay the mostundaunted.
The bandage fell from his eyes.
He found himself in a large apartment, fitted up as a
tribunal of justice.
At the farther end was a species of throne raised upon
a dais, and overshadowed by a canopy of velvet; and on
that exalted seat was the Free Count, or president of the
court. He was dressed in rich ap arel, as a knight or
noble of the age; and bewilder . though the young
stranger was, he nevertheless recognised at a glance the
thin and peculiar countenance of the monk whom he had
met a few hours previously at the Black Swan.
On the benches, rising in an amphitheatrical semi-
circle round the dais, sat the members of the Vehm-
gericht, all bareheaded, and without arms or armour.
Upon a table, before the seat of the Free Count, la
the sword, which, as the archives of the Vehm reco ,
“ was deemed the symbol of supreme justice, at the same
time re resenting in the form of its handle the cross of
Christ. ’ Near to it lay the Wyd, or coil of cord, em-
blematic of the right which the tribunal assumed over
life and death.
The hall was illuminated with numerous candles, placed
in rude iron branches, fixed against the wall, beneath
niches containing i es of the saints.
“ Peace 1" exclaim the Free Count ; and in a moment
the din of voices sank into low whisperin .
“ Peace 1" said the Free Count a secon time; and the
whispering subsided into indistinct murmurs.
“ Peace I" cried the Free Count a third time; and the
most solemn silence instantly prevailed.
“ Let the individuals cited stand forward," said the
Count, after a short pause.
“ I am here,” answered the stranger, advancing into
the centre of the semi-circle.
“ Why are you here 1’" asked the Free Count.
“ In obedience to the summons of the Cord and
Dagger,” was the firm reply ; for the young man had
now recovered his wonted self- ossession.
“ Then on were aware of t e power and competency
of that tri unal which the Cord and Dagger represent 1’"
“ I am aware of the power of this tribunal," answered
the stranger. .
“Do you deny its competency ?” demanded the Free
Count. 0
The young traveller made no reply.
“ We will endeavour to teach you whether we be com-
petent or not,“ said the Count. “ What is your name P”
“ Nay, surely you must know me,” exclaimed the
stran er; “ or else why summon me hither P”
“ e do not put replies into your mouth,” observed
the Free Count. “ Under what name are you travelling ?
b—eitftetliat mode of interrogatory suit your purpose
r. ’
“ As a simple citizen, mwassport from the Im rial
Chancery at Vienna being in e out in the name of C rles
Hamel. Here it is.”
And the young man took a roll of parchment from the
brgast of his doublet, and handed it to the presiding
u e.
J “8A simple citizen!" exclaimed the Free Count, ironi-
cally. “ And yet that reply suits us as well as any other,
for all are equal in the resence of the Vehmgericht.
Whither were you rocee 'ng P"
“ To the Castle 0 Rosenthal,” was the answer.
“ Do you know wh you have been summoned hither P”
“ I do not,” said amel, ha htily.
“ Road that document," continued the Free Count.
A messenger handed a large sheet of parchment to the
prisoner, who immediately began to peruse the lengthy
document with profound attention and interest.
This task occupied nearly a quarter of an hour, during
which the countenance of the young man became red and
white by turns, in accordance with the various emotions
that agitated his breast.
“ I have read it,” he at length said; and be tossed the
document indignantly upon the floor.
“ You are required to sign that, and you will then be
free,” observed the president.
“ And if I refuse P” demanded Hamel.
“ Death is the only alternative,” answered the Free
Count, solemnly.
“ You know whom you thus threaten? You are aware
whose life you thus dare to menace P" cried the prisoner,
drawing himself up to his full height, and speaking in a.
tone of proud authority.


FA UST.
11

“ We know all,” replied the Free Count, laconically. “ It
is not for us to implore nor beseech: our function is to
command. Nevertheless, I, the Free Count of this tri-
bunal, earnestly pray you to accede to the conditions
named in that document which you so unwisely s urn.”
“ Never,” exclaimed the young man, in a tone 0 gallant
resolution.
“ Then must the law of the sacred Vehm take its
course,” cried the president. “ Once more, reflect."
“I have no need of reflection,” said Hamel, firmly.
“ ’Tis for you to reflect whether you dare perpetrate this
atrocity, which will make every echo of vengeance ring
against you throughout the Germanic and Roman em-
ires.”
p “ Stubborn boy,” ejaculated the Free Count, “ you drive
me to a cruel extremity. Nevertheless, seeing that you
are confirmed in your wilful obstinaey, the law of the
Vehm must take its course. The sentence of the tribunal
must be pronounced.”
The president paused for a few moments, apparently to
draw breath, but in reality to give Hamel an opportunity
to recall his refusal to comply with the conditions pro-
posed to him.
But the young man maintaineda profound and dignified
silence.
Then, while the eye of eve one resent was fixed with
extraordinary interest upon t e prisoner, the Free Count
passed the terrific sentence of the Vehm in the following
terms :—
“ As new a certain individual who chooses to pass by the
name of Hamel has been cited, prosecuted, and adjudged
before me, he having appeared in obedience toa summons
of the Cord and Dagger; and whereas he is so indifferent
to the vital interests of this empire as to object to certain
proposals made to him in writing, in presence of certain
competent members who have all been made cognisant of
those conditions ; whereas, moreover, he will neither
render deference to honour nor justice, and holds in con-
tempt the highest tribunal of the holy emPire—I hereby
denounce him, by all the royal power and orce as is just
and proper, and in accordance with the imperial and royal
ban. I declare him to be an outcast, unworthy of the
peace, justice, and freedom which he has enjoyed ever
since he was baptized; I declare him unworthy of the four
elements which God made and gave as a solace to human
nature ;—I denounce him as a being without right, with-
out law, without peace, without honour, without security ;
-—I declare him to becondemned and lost, so that any man
ma act towards him as with any other capital criminal;
an I herewith curse his flesh and blood ; and may his body
never receive burial; but ma it be borne away by the
wind, and may the ravens an crows, and wild birds of
rey, consume and destroy him. And I hereby adjudge
his neck to the rope, and his body to be devoured by the
birds and beasts of the air, sea, and land; but his soul I
commend to the Lord of heaven, if he will receive it.”'
Having pronounced this awful sentence, which the
young man heard without dismay, the Free Count took a
rope from behind his seat, and threw it into the midst
of the semicircle.
Six servants of the Vehm rushed forward: and while
one took up the cord, the others seized upon the con-
demned prisoner.

"' This was indeed the terrible formula of the sentences
of death pronounced by the Vehmgericht. A recently pub.
lished German work, in a chapter devoted to the subject
of the Vehmgericht, and after enumerating the horrors of
the tribunal, says, “ Besides this, the Scheifen of this
secret court possessed the privilege of hanging without a
trial every criminal taken in the fact, if, aithful to the
laws of honour, they took nothing from him which they
found about him, and left behind the sign of the Vehm.
We are astonished when we contemplate this terrific and
mighty power of the Schefien alliance, and can at the same
time easily comprehend how the most extraordinary tra-
ditions of this Vehmgericht, based upon their nocturnal
assemblies, their mysterious customs, their initiation and
course of justice, together with their condemnation and
execution of the enminal, have been preserved in the
mouths of the people, for even the plain historical descrip-
tions thereof are sufliciently striking. That the power of
the Free Counts was not exaggerated by the mere imagina-
tion, excited by terror, nor in reality by any means insig-
nificant, is proved by a hundred undeniable examples,
supported by records and testimonies, that numerous
princes, counts, knights, and wealthy citizens were seized
by these Scheffen of the tribunal, and in execution of its
sentence perished by their hands.

“ I command thee," said the Free Count, addressing
himself to the servitors of the tribunal, “ to lead the
criminal forth into the forest, and there within the hour
fulfil this most just sentence. And, according to usage,
I do ordain that, as a sign of his having been executed
by the holy Vehm, and not put to death by banditti or
private enemies, e do stick a dagger girt with a cord in
the tree whereto e shall be suspended by the neck.”
Then Charles Hamel raised his voice, and said-—
“ I retest, by all laws human and divine, against this
most oul and atrocious wron ; and I pray to Almighty
God that he will so move the eart of some good knight
now present as to induce him to report the deed—”
“ Silence, criminal ” exclaimed the Free Count; “ the
members of the Vehm dare not mention what occurs in
the holy tribunal, even though the condemned be their
grother, son, father, or dear riend. Minions, away with
1m."
The servitors of the Vehmgericht hurried the young
man from the apartment; and this time, as they‘led him
down the spiral staircase of the donjon, and across the
spacious court of a strong castle, they did not bandage his
eyes.
There was no need to conceal the seat of the tribunal
from a man about to die!
The moon rode high in the heavens; and its soft mellow
li ht was comming ed with that of innumerable stars,
w ich shone like diamonds upon a velvet canopy of the
deepest purple.
But as the young man glanced upwards, the mighty
towers and lofty battlements of the castle stood out all
black and sombre, in strong relief, within the circuit of
his view.
Little time and little inclination, however, had the
poor young man for a survey of the scene around
im; for his mind was filled with the most melancholy
reflections.
All hope of escape was vain: his own rapier had been
taken from him; and six drawn swords formed an im-
penetrable fence around him.
He aecordin ly resigned himself to his fate; and new
prayed earnest y, but inaudibly, as he proceeded to the
place of execution.
The portcullis was lifted up once more; the massive
gates were thrown open; the drawbridge was lowered;
and the mournful procession passed beyond the precincts
of the castle.
The foremost of the servitors of the Vehm carried a
torch, which shed a lurid glare around, and the black
smoke of which ever and anon swept over the counte-
nances of those behind.
Not a word was spoken as they thus pursued their
way.
At length the entered the pine forests, into the depths
of which they p unged, the man with the torch acting as
their guide.
In a short time the party reached the open space where
the little chapel stood.
“ It is here that you are to die,” said the officer who
commanded the band, as he pointed to a tall tree, “ and
at that shrine you can ay your last devotions."
Charles made no rep y, but walked with a firm step to
the front of the altar, which was protected by a range of
solid iron bars.
There he knelt and prayed fervently'for several minutes,
his guards forming a semicircle behind him.
A length he rose, and said, in a tone which trembled
not nor expressed the slightest fear—-
“ I am ready."
The, officer could not help exclaiming, “ You are a brave
man. ’
“ I know how to die, rather than succumb to the
tyrants of your tribunal,” answered Hamel.
One of the men now threw a lon cord over the arm of
the tall tree which the officer had ready indicated ; and
the noose was slipped roimd the neck of the condemned,
while another of the band pinioned his arms.
The young man went through this fearful ceremony
without a murmur; his lips only moved in prayer.
And now all was in readiness for the consummation, and
the condition of the victim seemed beyond the chance of
human relief.
But at the very moment when two of the servitors were
about to run the young man up to the bough which waved
so ominously over his head, a tall form, muffled in a long
dark cloak, suddenly appeared upon the spot.
“ Release your pre 1 ’ exclaimed the stranger, in a com-
manding tone ; and awing his sword, with the rapidity
of lightning he severed the cord with a blow.


12
FA UST. '
“Seize him!“ cried the officer; “we will teach him
thus to meddle with the justice of the Vehm."
Two of the servitors secured Charles Hamel, while the
remainder precipitated themselves upon' the stranger.
“ Rash fools!” he exclaimed, in a tone of _witherin
contempt; ye know not whom ye would assail. Stan
back !"
To the astonishment of Hamel, who had expected to
behold the generous stranger immolated upon the spot,
the men retreated as if panic-struck, and dropped their
weapons by a simultaneous but incomprehensible im-
pulse. The torch also fell, but burnt as it lay upon the
ground.
Then, without any degree of haste, but rather with the
leisurely movements of a person having no danger to
apprehend, and no fear of interruption to entertain, the
stranger advanced towards Hamel, pushed aside the two
guards who still held him in their grasp, and with his
sword c t the cord that pinioned the young man's arms.
“ Fo ow me,” said the stranger; and striking into the
forest, he led the way—not precipitately, as if afraid of
pursuit, but with a moderate speed, as ' perfectly at his
case, in spite of the perilous action whic he had com-
mitted in venturing to interpose himself between the
Vehmgericht and its victim.
Hamel followed him in amazement, while the sei'vitors
of the Vehm stood motionless as statues, as if a spell had
riveted them to the spot; but by the light of the still
burning torch, which played upon their features, the
yonn man perceived that their countenances wore an
giide nable expression of mingled horror, wonder, and
smay.
“ Let us hasten our steps, generous stranger,” said
Charles, “ or we may be overtaken yet.”
“ Were an army to pursue you, ” answered his
mysterious deliverer, “ you would be safe with me.”
These words were uttered in a tone of calm conviction,
and not of empty vaunt; and Hamel was almost stupefied
when be reflected that their truth was justified by the
extraordinary facility with which the stranger had efiected
his deliverance.
Still he was unwilling to believe that there was anything
supernatural in the transaction; but he clung to the
idea that his deliverer was some powerful chief of the
Vehm, who, for reasons as yet unknown, and by means
of some sign unseen by him, had been enabled to produce
such a sudden effect upon the myrmidons of the
tribunal.
Nevertheless, Hamel experienced a strange feeling of
awe as he followed the stranger through the forest, and
this sensation prevented him from intruding upon the
silence which the other observed.
In a short time they emerged from the forest, and
Hamel behold the village of Kemberg at a little distance,
the slated roofs of its houses bathed in the mellowed
flood of the moonlight.
When they reached the entrance of the village, the dark-
cloaked stranger, of whose countenance Hamel had not
as yet caught a glimpse, so closely was it muflied, turned
shortly round, and said-—
t “ (litemain here for a few moments—I will fetch you your
s cc .”
fHe fihen hurried away, and was almost immediately out
0 sig t.
Hamel now felt alarmed at being alone. A thousand
vague fears haunted him ; he had not shrunk from death ;
but he trembled lest he should be captured by the officers
of the Vehm; and his mind was, moreover, agitated by
certain wild and indefinite ideas relative tohis strange
deliverer.
He thought of hastening, with all possible speed,
towards the Castle of Rosenthal, where he was sure of
obtaining protection. But, alas I he suddenly remembered
that his credentials to the Baron were in the little valise
which was attached to the back part of his saddle when
he journeyed, but which had been taken into his room at
the _Black Swan, ere he had retired thither in the
evening.
He was in the middle of his conflicting reflections and
plans, when the tramp of horses suddenly fell upon his
ears, and in a few moments his mysterious deliverer gal-
loped up to the spot.
He was mounted upon a tall and powerful coal-black
steed, and he led Hamel’s gallant chestnut, now perfectly
recovered, by the bridle.
“ Mount,” said the stranger, laconically. ‘
Hamel gladly obeyed; but, to his profound surprise, he
perceived, as he sprang upon his horse’s back, his valise
astened to the saddle, as if it had not been removed.

“ Even my valise of necessaries and papers 1” he ex-
claimed, unable to contain his astonishment.
“ Yes,“ said his deliverer, carelessly, “ I fancy you will
find that nothing has been left behind.”
“ But who are you, then, that has thus befriended me,
generous man ?” cried Hamel; “ and by what name may
I thank my deliverer P”
“ We shall meet again, and I will then tell you,” was
the calm reply.
“ We shall meet again!” repeated Hamel, powerfully
excited; “ where shall we thus meet 2’”
“ At Rosenthal Castle,” answered the stranger. “ You
are going thither—the road is now straight as an arrow
before you. Fear not farther molestation' You are well
rotected,” added he, with a strange laugh, “ though you
now it not. Seven days hence there will be a grand
festival at Rosenthal Castle—I shall be there!"
With these words, the mysterious stranger put spurs to
his coal-black horse, the powerful animal stretched like
a greyhound along the road, and both rider and steed
disappeared with the rapidity of a whirlwind.
CHAPTER III.
ROSENTHAL CASTLE.
THE ancestral fortalice of the proud Baron of Roseuthal
was situate upon an eminence, at a short distance from
Wittenberg.
It was one of those old feudal castles, the ruins of which
are still to be seen crowning the heights that overhang
the principal rivers of Germany.
The stronghold of Rosenthal was nearlyy a quarter of a.
mile in circumference, for within its wa ls there was a
perfect town. In fact it was built to stand a long siege
in case of need, and contained granaries, armouries, and
barracks, capable of maintainin a garrison of athousand
men for at least a year, even if communication with the
town were cut ofi.
A proud and mighty lord, then, was the Baron of
Rosenthal: his domains were spacious, his vassals
numerous, and his coffers wealthy ; and so powerful was
he, that, when in her infancy, his daughter Theresa had
been contracted to his Imperial Highness the Archduke
Llcopold, who was also a child when that betrothal took
p ace. ‘
But the Baron had one especial cause of constant an-
noyance, and that was the enmity which subsisted between
himself and Count Manfred of Linsdorf, a neighbouring
feudal lord, as powerful as himself.
For Count Manfred had demanded the hand of the Lady
Theresa in marriage; but the bold aspirant was fifty
years of age, enjoyed not the best repute, and was, more‘
over, eclipsed by'the more splendid contract which had
been made between her and the Archduke. He was con-
sequently refused by the Baron of Rosenthal; but from
that moment (about two years before the opening of our
tale) the count had cherished the most inveterate malig-
qnity against his great'feudal rival.
Then commenced a series of contentions between the
vassals of the two domains; mutual incursions and in‘
roads took place; a constant interchange of complaints
and demands for redress sprang up; and the worthy
citizens of Wittenberg lived in daily expectation of
seeing actual warfare break out between the two chiefs.
~ The Baron of Rosenthal had lost his wife shortl after
the birth of Theresa, who was his only child; and 1e had
not thought of marrying again, for he was deeply at-
tached to his daughter, and wished that his immense
wealth and extensive domains should descend to her at
his decease. For as he fondly hoped that the infantine
betrothal would be now shortly realized, he regarded
the heirship of Rosenthal as a prospective appanage,
ghelt rendered his daughter well worthy of the arch-
u 'e. ‘
It only remains for us to observe, ere we pursue our
tale, that Theresa and the Archduke had never seen each
other; nor had the Baron of Rosenthal ever beheld his
intended son-in-law since the young prince was a child of
six or seven years old. 7
Thus stood the position of affairs at the period when
this narrative commenced.
Y We shall now re uest our readers to imagine to them-
selves the lovely T eresa, sittingat her embroidery in
one of the sumptuous saloons of Rosenthal Castle.
' Hertwo favourite maidens, Ida and Maria, were seated
on low ottomans near her, engaged with their s inning-
wheels—for such was the usual employment of t e supe-
rior class of female dependants in those times.


1 '--l US T.
13
Theresa was surpassineg lovely. Her figure was tall,
slight, and faultlesst symmetrical; her bodice, which
fitted tightly to her swelling bust, gave her ashort waist,
in accordance with the fashion of the time; and thus the
length of her form, from that slender waist to the ele-
gant slippers which imprisoned her little feet, imparted
to her appearance a sylph-like and yet commanding air.
Then, when she walked, her step was so light, that it
seemed as if her delicate foot would scarcely crush the
most fragile flower ; and when she joined in the mazes of
the dance, her lovely form appeared to float, with aerial
grace, upon the wing of the zephyr.
Her fair hair, clustering in rich curls on either side
and collected in braids behind her exquisitely formed
head, set off a face whose transparent complexion and
soft beauty were calculated to ravish the least susceptible
leart.
Hers was not that beauty, so gorgeous, so grand, and
so splendid, which bursts upon the eye like the nocnday
sun, and wherein the awe of majesty is blended with a
lustre too dazzling to be gazed upon: hers was not the
beauty suited to an empress or a queen; but it was a
loveliness which stole gradually upon the senses, like the
soft light of the spring morning, and on which the eye,
awaking by degrees to the influence of those charms, is at
length riveted by an invincible fascination.
Ida and Maria were two sweet creatures, and would
have been deemed very beautiful, were their mistress not
nigh to eclipse them. They were res ectively nineteen
and seventeen, and were attired in a p ain and unassum-
ing manner, which seemed to denote the cod taste and
unpretending disposition of the lady w ose slightest
pleasure they were bound to consult.
Ida was a brunette, with glossy black hair, large dark
eyes, and a fine form; Maria was fair, like her mistress,
with light hair, blue eyes, and a delicate shape.
These three maidens were occupied in the manner al-
ready described, the day after the events recorded in the
two preceding chapters.
It was noon ; but the rays of the bright sun which
streamed into the saloon where Theresa and her maidens
were seated, were mellowed to a soft and pleasant lustre
by the stained glass of the easements.
“ What think you, girls, of my father's nest ?" asked
Theresa, after a long pause, during which t 0 young lady
had been plunged into a melancholy reverie.
“ I caught but a parting limpse of him ere now, as he
repaired to the hall where t 0 morning meal was served,"
answered Ida; “and, save that he was somewhat pale
and careworn, methought his appearance was of a most
comely kind." -
“ It seems that he met with some vexations during the
early part of the night, at the villa e of Kemberg,” said
Theresa; “ but of what nature he (as not speak. ndeed,
be avoided the subject the moment he broached it."
“ Old Fritz, the porter, assures me that the counte-
nance of the young gentleman was as pale as death, and
his manner strange—nay, even wild beyond conception,
when he sounded the trum st for admittance, at about
three o’clock this morning,’ said Ida.
“ He was doubtless alarmed by his j ourne amidst the
pines during the hours of darkness," 0 served the
bashful but beautiful Maria.
“ May it please your ladyship, of what degree is Messer
Hamel P” asked Ida.
“Of-his family my father knows nothing, I believe,”
replied Theresa. “ Indeed, all that he does know concern-
ing his young guest is contained in the letter which
Messer Hamel presented to him ere now, previous to the
morning’s repast. That letter was from the Arch-Chan-
cellor o the Empire, and recommended Messer Hamel to
the good care and attention of the faithful lords and
peers of the empire; enjoining them to award him hospi-
tality wheresoever he should demand it; and stating
that he was a gentleman of good family, travelling for
his pleasure—and in accordance with that good pleasure,
travelling alone.”
“And of course my lord received with befitting wel-
come a guest so well recommended," said Ida.
“ As in duty bound, my girl,” answered Theresa; then,
with a melancholy smile, she added, “ But wherefore are
you thus curious concerning him, Ida P Hast thou lost
thine heart already ?”
“ No, lady—I’m afraid to love," replied the dependant,
somewhat seriously ; “ but men are ever deceivers."
“ Alas ! well mayst then say that," observed Theresa,
with a mournful air. “ You are both aware of that affec-
tion which I formed, and which— in spite of myself—I
“Oh! lady, has he not roved himself an ingrate, un-
worthy of such a love as t ine P“ asked Ida.
“ We will not judge him hastily,” said Theresa. “ For
six long months I heard nought of him; . he was as one
dead to everything, save the unextinguishable vitality of
my love! My father told me that he had fled from Wit-
tenberg, and espoused a low-born maiden in another
state. You both believed the tale—“
“ Because it accorded so well with the known faithless-
ness of men,” said Ida.
“ And I gave credence to it, because methought his
lordship, your noble father, my lady, could not err,”
added the gentle Maria.
“ And I alone believed not the tale,” continued Theresa.
“ Holy Virgin, forgive me for doubting m parent! but
something seemed to whisper to me, ‘ Wil elm lives, and
loves thee still!’ Nor was I deceived. But—merciful
heavens! how did the truth reach me P You well re-
member how abruptly the tidings came that Faust was
condemned to die, for certain high crimes and treasons,
after having languished for six months in the prison of
Wittenberg! Oh! that fatal mornin , when the scaffold
was prepared for him whom to save would have given
my own life 1“
“ Dost then then love him so very fondly, lad P” asked
Maria, timidly, but with a glance of infimte a ection to-
wards her mistress.
“ Thou knowest how well I love him, girl! I was re-
clining on the sofa in my own chamber, contemplating
his portrait—that portrait which thy brother, Ida, drew
of him, and which Wilhelm never knew that I possessed ;
I was zin on his portrait, I say, marvelling when I
should beho d the dear original again. Then a strange
thing occurred. It suddenly seemed to me that Faust was
zing upon me from a great distance—and only for a
ew moments ; and there appeared to be a rapid transfu-
sion of ardent passion—a sort of blending s int—between
us! But I know that this was a more elusion of my
imagination.”
“ And yet how singular !” exclaimed Ida.
" Most singular,” murmured Maria.
“ Alas! that sweet reverie was cruelly interrupted!"
continued Theresa. “ My father entered, and imparted to
me the sad truth that Faust was about to die—that the
scaffold was even then erected in the great squar of Wit-
tenberg. Oh ! in that moment of bitter anguis I re-
proached m sire as the cause of this fatal deed. win-
dignantly did he deny the imputation; and I fell inseit-
sible at his feet." ,_ ‘- ’ Y
“ It was then that he summoned us, lady,” said Ida;
“ and we here you to your couch, where you lay, as we
then ht dying, for some hours.
“ es : and how joyous, et how wonderful was the
news with which you gree me when I awoke once more
to hfe and consciousness! Wilhelm had escaped—none
knew how !"
“ And no one has since discovered how, I understand,"
observed Ida.
“ The authorities have endeavoured to hush up the
matter as well as they could, I believe," added Maria.
_ “ And nearly two weeks—two long weeks—have passed
since that terrible day," continued Theresa ; “ and I have
not seen him." ~ .
“ But what is more extraordinary still,” said Ida, “ he
has been seen—aye, and spoken to, in Wittenberg, and
none molest him; the authorities seek not to put their
sentence in execution against him.”
“ The Holy Virgin be thanked for that!” exclaimed
Theresa, fervently.‘
At this moment the conversation, which, as the reader
may perceive, was dually growing more interesting
amongst the three maidens, was interrupted in a manner
calculated to fill them with the most lively apprehen-
sions.
C H APT E R IV
THE ATTACK.
Tun conversation between the Lady Theresa and her two
maidens was cut short by the sudden entrance of a man-
at-arms.
“ Pardon for this rude intrusion, my lady," exclaimed
the warrior; “ but I have sorry news for thy tender
ears."
“ Speak, good Dewitz,” said Theresa, starting from
her seat, an example which was instantaneously followed

fltill entertain for the poor but handsome student—”
by her affrighted maids, when they beheld the captain of


1 I
. FA UST.
the castle (the Baron’s chief officer) enter in an evident
state of unusual perturbation. .
“ You must retire to the donjon, fair lady,” returned
the captain; “ for in a short time we shall have hot work
upon the ramparts, and a stray shot from the enemy
might reach this apartment.”
“ The enemy ” ejaculated Theresa. _
“ The enemy!” repeated Ida~and Maria, in the same
breath as it were.
“Yes, lady; but fear not,” answered Dewitz. “ The
roud Count of Linsdorf is marching against us at the
head of a powerful force. Away, ladies, to the donjon ;
there no harm can reach on.”
“And my father ?” cried Theresa, catching the old
warrior by the arm.
“ He is on the rampants, commanding the preparations
for defence,” replied Dewitz. “ He sent me to on with
the message which I have delivered. Messer amel is
with him, and seems well disposed to take his part in the
la .”
p Dsewitz then bowed his plumed head, and hastened
from the apartment. His huge sword clanking upon the
floor of the corridor outside as he retired, raised a din
which struck ominously to the hearts of the three
maidens.
Theresa did not however delay in followin the advice
conveyed to her from her father, but with ew to the
donjon, or keep, in pursuance of that counsel.
Meantime a herald from the Count of Linsdorf had
arrived at the gate of Rosenthal Castle, having a white
pennon upon his lance, and demanding a arley.
The Baron, accompanied by Hamel, tened to the
tower which commanded the principal entrance, and
answered the herald, who stood on the opposite side of
meat, the drawbridge having been already raised at the
first news of the advance of a hostile force.
“ What wouldst thou ?” demanded the Baron, in a loud
tone.
“ I require, in the name of the high and mi hty lord the
Count of Linsdorf,” answered the herald, “ t t a certain
individual, bearing the name of Hamel, and whom he has
good reason to suppose an inmate of Rosenthal Castle, be
now and forthwith delivered up to me, under fitting
escort to ensure his safe arrival in the presence of my
Lord of Linsdorf; and this demand I make for good and
sufficient reason, which there is no need to reveal."
“ Whatever offence Messer Hamel may have committed
against thy lord,” answered the Baron, “ he is, now in
guest; and, by the laws of hospitality, I will defend his
person to the death. Take back that reply to thy proud
master.”
“ Then against thee and thine, in Lord of Rosenthal,”
exclaimed the herald, “ I hurl de co, in the name of
the and mighty Count of Linsdorf l” .
. Wit these words the herald drew the gauntlet from his
fight hand, and threw it with all his force across the
moat, against the escarp of the castle wall.
“ We accept the defiance,” said the Baron.
“ My lord,” said Hamel, “ I would not that I should be
the cause of that waste of human life which must ine-
Vitably ensue ; and yet I declare to thee most solemnl that
I know not how I could have incurred the Count 8 dis-
leasure, for, to my belief, I never saw him in my life.
rue, I leg-gke of him somewhat freely to a monk, whom I
afterwa saw elsewhere in another guise—_“ -
_ “ Gramercy for thine explanations, Messer Hamel,’
interrupted the doughty Baron. “ Thou art my guest,
and thou shalt be protected: thou art well recommended
to all the barons of the empire, and to the Lord of
Rosenthal in particular, and thou shalt find that I am not
unmindful of the quarter whence such commendation
cometh. To work, then; thou shalt aid us in resisting
you proud chieftain.”
“To the death !” cried Charles,elaaging his hand upon
the sword with which he had alr yprovided himself.
“ Generous noble I” believe me, thy gallantry shall be
recompensed in a manner—”
The Baron stayed not to listen to the young man, but
bustled about the ramparts, giving his orders with all the
cheerfulness and experience of a practised warrior.
He was a tall, powerfully built man, of about fifty; his
cOuntenance was stern and haughty, as was his dis-
position; and, being naturally a cruel and uncompro-
mising temperament, the thought of bloodshed was to
him nothing more than a casualty inevitably connected
with1 his high feudal position in respect to a powerful
riva .
He wore a bright helmet with crimmn lumes upon his
brow; a corslet of polished steel, inlaid wit gold, defended

his body; cuishes and steel boots protected his legs. By
his side was an immense two-handed sword; and in his
hand he carried a carbine.
“ Well, good Dewitz,” he exclaimed, accosting his
captain ; “ how fare the preparations ?“
“ My lord may glance along the wall, and he will see
twenty good carronades pointed in the direction whence
the enemy are advancing,” answered Dewitz. “ All other
points are equally well defended.”
“ How many men muster ye P”
“ Three hundred and seven, my lord. A messenger
has gone to Wittenberg to command the authorities, in
your lordship’s name, to send p reinforcements ; and
other couriers have been despatched to summon the
vassals of Rosenthal.”
“ Good!” cried the Baron.
of the enemy P“
“ The man who first brought us tidings of the hostile
march reported them as being nine hundred strong,“
rephed Dewitz. “ Since then a scout, whom I sent forth,
has returned, with news to the effect that athousand men
march under the banner of Linsdorf."
“ Little reek we for the proud Count’s numbers,” cried
the Lord of Rosenthal. “ I am not sorry that the
thunder, which has now for two years growled in the
distance, is about to burst at len h : I was weary of
petty contentions, and regret not t at we may come to
blows in right earnest.“
“ I entertain my lord’s opinion,” said the captain of the
castle. “ When our reinforcements arrive we will sally
forth and give them fair and equal battle.“
“Well spoken, good Dewitz. But see, the van of the
Count’s troops are already defiling from the forest.”
This was indeed true. At a distance of about a mile a
dense column of infantry was issuing from the wood ; and
a few moments afterwards a small band of cannoniers,
dragginglheavy field-pieces, appeared at the angle of the
forest, t ree hundred yards to the right of the body that
was first seen. The artillery had evidentl made a circuit
in order to avail itself of the main r0 , which allowed
free locomotion for the cannon.
A quarter of an hour elapsed, during which a force of
about a thousand men had emer ed from the thickets of
the forest, or from the road w ich wound circuitoust
by its side; and, at the expiration of that interval, a band
of upwards of fifty horsemen appeared from the same
direction as that taken by the artillery.
“ There is the Count himself, in complete armour,
attended by his knights,” exclaimed Dewitz.
The captain of the castle waited a few minutes longer
to watch the proceedings of the enemy; and at len h
observing that they advanced, he gave a signal to is
men.
The cannoniers who manned the wall-pieces instantly
obeyed that sign; the guns vomited forth clouds of smoke
and flame; and the thunder of the artillery raised every
echo throughout the fortalice.
“ We have reached them!" cried the Baron, perceiv-
ing a stir amongst the enemy, which, to his experienced
eiyie, showed that the cannon had been pointed with good
e ect.
“ Yes,” said Dewitz, coolly; “ our good earthouns,
sakers, and falconets,‘ have done their duty."
The troops of Linsdorf now formed into three columns,
in addition to the isolated march of the artillery, and ad-
vanced with extraordinary rapidity towards the castle.
“ The Count is wrong, he should have ke t to the left,”
said the Baren, examining the motions of t e enemy with
a critical eye. _ _
“ No, my lord,” returned Dewitz ; “he is going to
make the most of his numbers. He has perhaps learnt
the weakness of our garrison, unaware as we were of so
sudden an ebullition of hostilities ; and he intends to
direct all his force against our principal gate."
“ Right, good Dewitz; let those four double-carthouns
be wheeled more towards the postern.”
This order was immediately obey ed. .
And now the artiller on the castle wall again sent
forth its thunderbolts o destruction; but the voile was
immediately returned from an eminence on who the
Count of Linsdorf had by this time posted his cannon.
“ They have bombards on their side, Dewitz,” exclaimed
the Baron, as a shell fell and exploded on the o posite
side of the meat, at a distance of about fifty yar s from
the counterscarp. _
“ Our bombards will match them, my lord,” replied
“ What opinion have you
* The names of the best species of artillery then in
use.


FA US T. 15

the undaunted Dewitz. “ See—our men are preparing
them on the tower over the entrance.“
The conflict now became animated; the men of Rosen-
thal no longer waited for a signal to discharge their
wall-pieces, but fired them as rapidly as they could
reload.
A strong body of men-at-arms, furnished with escalading
ladders, was seen advancing, under cover of the Linsdorf
artillery, towards the gate; and, in a short time, that
detachment reached the o posite side of the moat.
Reckless of the terrific tire that played 11 on them from
the artillery and carbineers upon the wa s, the soldiers
of Count Linsdorf hastil constructed a number of rafts
by means of planks whic they here with them ; and in a
short time the were floating across the moat ; while the
remainder of t e enemy’s infantry advanced to keep the
foe occupied on the ramparts, and thus cover the attack
of the escalading party.
And new the conflict became fearful in the extreme.
Three times did the assailants plant their ladders against
the wall, and mount to the escalade; and three times
were they repulsed.
The Baron, Hamel, Dewitz, and the soldiers of Rosen-
thal performed prodigies of valour; but numbers were
against them; and the bombards of the enemy did more
desperate execution than the stalwart captain of the
castle had anticipated.
A fourth assault was made by the besiegei's; and at
that terrible crisis, a panic seized upon the vassals of
Rosenthal.
A murmur ran along the walls that another force be-
longing to the enemy had assailed the castle on the
opposite side, and had totally repulsed the Rosenthal
vassals who defended that oiut. .
In a few minutes these tidings were ascertained to be
too true: a wounded vassal hurried up to the Baron of
Rosenthal, exclaiming, “ Allis lost, my lord! The soldiers
of Linsdorf have gained the western wall, and have
assaulted the donjon l”
“My daughter!” ejaculated the Baron, maddened by
these tidings : “ haste to the defence of my daughter l”
But his words were unheeded: Dewitz was endeavour-
ing to rally his panic-struck troops ; and Charles Hamel
was closely pressed by two of the sealing party who had
already succeeded in obtaining a footing upon the
rampart. -
Hamel, weak with loss of blood, was about to yield to
the united strength of the two soldiers who were assail-
ing him ;——already was the weapon of the foremost raised
to inflict upon him the death-blow,—when a knight, clad
in complete armour, with his vizor closed, and with snow-
white plumes waving above his shining helm, suddenly
appeared upon the wall.
Waving his sword, apparently rather as a commanding
wand than as a weapon of offence, the stranger knight
repelled the two soldiers who were about to immolate
Hamel to their rage; and they retreated horror-struck
to their scaling ladders, down which they fell headlong,
in their haste to retreat, and perished in the moat.
Then_ the knight passed hastily alon the wall: the
escalading forces of Linsdorf shrank rom him as he
waved his threatening wea on; the men of Rosenthal
rallied as suddenl as they ad been panic-struck; and
in a few minutes t e ramparts were cleared of thelenemy.
Still the knight passed along the wall, but so' rapidly,
in s ite of his heavy armour, that the vassals of Rosen-
tha , who had rallied as if by a spell under the magic
giifluence of his appearance, could scarcely keep pace with
111.
Qn—on he went, until he reached the western rampart,
which was occupied by the tree s of Linsdorf.
“ Charge them i” cried the knight, now speaking for the
first time : “ you will obtain an easy victory!"
The troops _of Rosenthal burst with irresistible fury
upon the besiegers, and put them to a complete rout.
In proportion as the former seemed animated by the
presence of the knight, so did the latter appear dis-
pirited.
But what was more singular still, the knight himself
now took no part in the fray: leaning in a stately manner
u on his naked sword at a little distance, that une ected
.c ampion of Rosenthal seemed to content himse with
contemplating the success which his presence ensured.
And that success was complete. .
The sun went down amidst curtains of gold, and purple,
and red; and by that hour the castle of Rosenthal was
delivered.
But, alas! the conflict had not been unattended with
dire disasters.

In addition to the sorrow created by the fall of many
of the bravest soldiers of Rosenthal, another source of
ineffable woe was communicated to the Baron, to damp
the joy excited by this signal deliverance.
The enemy, during the interval of their success, had
forced the donjon, and carried off the Lady Theresa!
And now where was the knight who had so suddenly
ap ared to turn the fortune of the day P Who was he i’
W ence had he come P Whither had he gone P
None knew him ; no one could say how he had gained
admittance to the castle; no one remembered to have
seen him leave it.
All that regarded him was a complete—an impene-
trable mystery.
Charles Hamel alone entertained a suspicion concerning
him ; but he dared not mention it. An invincible
influence appeared to seal his lips, andfill him with vague
terrors, when he was about to express his thoughts
upon the subject.
But that the author of his deliverance on this occasion
was not unconnected with him who had saved him from
the myrmidons of the Vehm, he felt convinced.
His meditations were interru ted by a request to
attend the Baron, Dewitz, and t e chief officers of the
garrison, at a council which was summoned to deliberate
upon the best mode to pursue in order to effect the rescue
o the Lady Theresa.
CHAPTER V.
mum. AND nnwnrz.
“ FRIENDS and faithful followers,” said the Baron, when
the council was assembled, “ there can be no doubt that
the false caititf, the proud Lord of Linsdorf, has inflicted
upon me this grievous wrong. From the account given
me by Ida, my daughter's chief handniaid, it would
appear that half a dozen of the Linsdorf men-at-arms
burst into the chamber where the Lady Theresa and her
females had taken refuge; and, selecting the Lady
Theresa from the rest, bore her forcibly away. Ye all
know that I refused to bestow her fair hand upon the
Count Manfred; and now he has robbed me of a jewel
which was destined for a Prince l" _
“ My lord," said Dewitz, “ the town authorities have
promised two hundred men to-morrow by daybreak ; the
vassals of Rosenthal have already begun to pour in from
all oints ; and by sun-rise twelve hundred brave warriors
wil have mustered beneath the banner of Rosenthal. If
thou thinkest well, entrust the command to thy faithful
servant who now addresses on: and I Will rescue the
Lady Theresa, or perish be ore the walls of Linsdorf
Castle.”
“ And in the meantime the false Count may force my
daughter into marri e with him,“- said the Baron.
“ Knows he that ‘the Lady Theresa is betrothed to a
Prince of the German Em ire P” demanded Hamel.
“ He knows it ri ht wel ," answered the Baron ; “ but
he is capable of de yin the Emperor himself. Invested
with some mystic in uence, he has powerful friends
amongst the (principal chieftains all around ; and he has
often boaste that even the great Mammilian, who sits
upon the throne of the Caesars, dares not gimsay him.’_'
“ Insolent vassal !" ejaculated Charles amel, a smile
of inefi’able pride and scorn curling his lip; then, after a
minute’s ause, he added, “ But, as I have brought all
this trou le on your lordship, permit me to repair to
Linsdorf Castle, and reason with its haughty lord."
“ You would risk your life in vain, generous young
man,” returned the Baron. “ But know you how you have
provoked the anger of Count Manfred, that he should
have demanded you to be delivered up to him P" _
“ I can only suppose that certain observations which I
made last evening to a monk at the hostel of Kemberg
must have reached the Count's ears, and provoked his
an er,” answered Hamel.
t however new struck him for the first time that the
extraordinary measures adopted by the Count to_ obtain
possession of his person, might be connected With the
proceedings of the Vehm ; but on this head he dared not
utter a word.
“ I see it all I” suddenl exclaimed the Baron. “ Count
Manfred sought an occasion to carry off my daughter by
violence; he knew full well that I should spurn his
demand to deliver up to him a guest who claimed the
rights of hospitality at my hands: and there was his
excuse for assailing m dwelling.” _
“ Such is doubtless be true reading of his conduct, my
lord," observed Dewitz. “ Violence must be met by
violence."


16
FAUST.

“ Then, by Saint J nde !”'cried the Baron, dashing his
hand violently upon the table; “ we will settle this quarrel
at the sword’s point ! Be it so as you say, good DeWitz;
at day-break we will march against the recreant Count.
I will lead my faithful troops in my daughter’s cause.”
The Baron rose; andtho council broke up.
That evening the banquetting-hall was deserted in
Rosenthal Castle. Hasty refreshment was snatched by
each individual; and all then applied themselves to the
preparations for the inorrow’s march.
But amidst the various arrangements which he had to
superintend, Dewitz found a leisure half hour to walk
round the ramparts with Charles Hamel, to whom the
old soldier had formed an attachment. The stalwart
captain had not failed to observe how gallantly the young
man had comported himself in the da 's conflict; and
bravery was ever a ready passport to t e old warrior's
esteem.
“ What think you will be the issue of to-morrow’s
fray P“ asked Charles.
“ I have every hope," answered Dewitz; “ and if the
varlets who will gather beneath our banner, only remain
firm and perform their duty, the red flag of Rosenthal
shall in twenty-four hours float over the Donjon of
Linsdorf.”
“ Is the Castle of Linsdorf deemed strong by those well
skilled in military craft P", inquired Charles.
“ It has its weak points, as I will show thee ere we be a
day older. Moreover, the forest is so near it as to afford
protection to the artillery of a besieging force.”
“ In which direction is it situate P“
“ Some three leagues to the south-east of Kemberg."
“ Ah ! and is there no other fortalice in the same neigh-
bourhood P” asked Hamel, anxiously, as a sudden thought
struck him.
“ None," replied the old warrior.
“ Tell me,” exclaimed Charles, with increasing excite-
ment, “ is the main postern of Linsdorf Castle defended
by a round battlemented tower whereon floats the Count’s
banner P”
“ Thou art accurate in thy description.
visited the fortalice of the Count P"
Charles Hamel made no reply: he was now convinced
it was in Linsdorf Castle that he had appeared before the
tribunal of the Vehm ; and his suspicion that Count
Manfred’s demander the delivery of his person resulted
from those proceedings, was consequently confirmed.
But he knew too much of the deeply-ramified power
and influence of the Bloody League, as the Vehm was
often called, to dare to utter aword concernin it: the
very individual with whom he was walking might be a
member of the terrible confederation ; and the walls
themselves would have ears to catch the slightest syllable
which tended to betray the proceedings of the Vehm. .
He, therefore, avoided a reply to the question of Dewitz;
and, after a short interval of silence, during which he
recovered his composure, he said, “ Are there not many
gtrgnge tales afloat relative to the proud Count of Lins-
o ‘9!)
“ By the reed, I have heard many such l” ejaculated
Dewitz, who detested the Count from the bottom of his
honest heart. “ I remember when he was but a poor officer
in the imperial service; but that’s many years ago."
“ How long P” inquired Charles.
“ Some eighteen or twenty years, youn man,” answered
Dewitz. “ The old Count of Linsdo had two sons,
Sigisde and Manfred. Sigismund was a fine, noble-
hearted man ; Manfred was always designing, crafty, and
busy with intrigue. The old Count discarded Manfred—-
no one ever knew precisely why ; but rumour did state that
Manfred was detected in an attempt to poison his father
and elder brother. Recollect, I do not tell you that such
was really the case: I only report what rumour asserted.
Manfred was discarded from the paternal dwelling: that
much is positive. He was about thirty at the time ; and
he joined the imperial army. He and I were brother
ofiicers : but we never agreed. His crafty disposition did
not suit a blunt soldier like me. In a short time after he
entered the imperial service, his father died, and Sigis-
mund succeeded to the title and estates. Count Sigismund
was then about four-and-thirty, I have understood: he
had been only lately married to a lovely youn lady, the
orphan daughter of noble parents, whose ric es she in-
herited and brought her husband asadowry. The union
was blessed with a daughter; and the happiness of
Count Sigismund and the Countess Ildegarda seemed
Hast ever
complete. But the story now becomes sad, Messer
Hamel; and methinks we had better change the dis-
course."

“ I pray thee, proceed," exclaimed Charles ; “ I feel
deeply interested in your narrative.”
“ I said that the happiness of the noble couple was
complete," continued Dewitz, “ )ecanse they were blessed
with an heiress; for Linsdorf, like Rosenthal, is not ex-
clusively a male fief. But that happiness was cut short
as it were in a moment. One day Count Sigismund went
out to the chase ; and he never came home alive. He
separated, in the ardour of the hunt, from his followers ;
and a few hours afterwards he was found murdered in
Shit midst of a wild heath about two leagues from Lins-
0 .ll
“ And were not the assassins detected P" asked Hamel.
Dewitz did not immediately reply to this question ; but,
after the lapse of some moments, he said in a low,
solemn tone, “ The cord and dagger were found near the
corpse I"
“ Holy Virgin !” cried Hamel, a cold shudder passing
over him. “And what became of the Countess and her
infant daughter P”
“ It was rumoured that the unhappy lady, rendered
desperate by the untimely death of her beloved husband,
put a voluntary termination to her sufferings; and, afraid
perhaps to leave her child unprotected in a world whose
sorrows she herself had so bitter] experienced, the
wretched mother added murder to siucide l"
“ I understand you,” said Hamel, painfully affected by
this narrative. “ She would not allow her infant to sur-
vive her."
“ So. report stated. There were two splendid funerals,
followmg closely upon each other; one cofiin for the
Count, and the second for the mother and her child.
Thus was it that Manfred became Lord of Linsdorf some
sixteen or seventeen years ago. But I must not waste my
time in idle converse, good Messer Hamel : the sentinels
should be duly posted, in case of a surprise."
Dewitz bade the young man good night; and Hamel,
dmcending from the ramparts, crossed the court-yard
towards the donjon in which his own private apartment
was situate.
As he passed through a vestibule at the end of which
was the )rincipal staircase of that important part of the
Castle, t e sound of a plaintive female voice fell upon his
ears.
He glanced around, and perceived a dim light shining
through a half-open wicket belonging to a high and arched
door on his right hand.
He was about to continue his way, when that plaintive
voice suddenly burst into sobs and such dismal expressions
of woe, that the young man considered himself bound to
ascertain if his presence could impart aid in such an evi-
dent case of distress.
Pushin open the wicket, Charles crossed the threshold,
and foun himself in the chapel of the Castle.
Upon the altar at the farther end two wax-candles
afforded a feeble light ; and on the steps of the holy shrine
a female was kneeling.
She had her back turned towards Hamel; and, her
grief having somewhat subsided, she now appeared to be
praying with the most heartfelt sincerity.
T 0 young man drew near, and was struck by the
exquisite symmetry of the figure on which his eyes were
rivetted.
“ Blessed Virgin !" said the most sweetly soft and
musical voice that had ever met his ears, “ deign to shield
from harm my beloved mistress—protect from injury her
who never injured human being! Whithersoever foul
grea'chery may have conveyed her, let thy goodness follow
or
Again the prayer was interrupted by profound sobs.
Hamel remained motionless at a little distance, unwill-
ing to retreat,.and yet afraid to interrupt a sorrow which
seemed too sacred to admit of intrusion.
In a few minutes the female rose from her suppliant
position : and then a lovely countenance, with mild blue
eives, a rosy mouth, anil damask cheeks, set off—not
s iaded—by long fair hair, was revealed to the gaze of the
young man.
The beautiful creature started when she beheld Hamel
standing at a short distance.
“ Pardon this intrusion, fair one,” said he, advancing
towards her; “ I heard a voice of: mourning as I passed
the door, and was induced to enter to ascertain the cause
of distress.”
“ I was praying for the welfare of my beloved mistress,
the Lady Theresa,” answered Maria—for it was she.
“ You are then deeply attached to her,” said Charles,
struck by the sweet manners as much as he had been by
the personal appearance of the maiden.


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FAUST. 19

“I have been brou ht up with her from my infancy,”
was the bashful rep y; “and from her I have received
ht but kindness. 0h!“ she added, with animation,
“ I should be ungrateful indeed, did I not love her dearly
—-very dearl .”
“ May restore her to you, fair maiden,” exclaimed
Charles, enthusiastically ; “ and if heaven maybe moved
by rayer in this instance, your intercessions Will not fail
to find favour with the Almighty.”
“ Methought that I found consolation in prayer, Messer
Hamel,“ said Maria, casting down her eyes, into which
fresh tears had started. “ But, alas, I have heard so
much evil of the Lord of Linsdorf, that I tremble for the
safety of my beloved mistress.”
“ All that her father can do towards her rescue will be
undertaken to-morrow,” observed Hamel. “ The re-
inforcements pour in; and, heaven willing! we may
speedily deliver your lady from the hands of that false
chieftain.”
“ My best prayers will accompany you, sir,“ said the
damsel ; then with a modest inclination of the head, she
passed out of the chapel. _
Her soft and bashful beauty made a powerful impres-
sion upon the young man; and his eyes followed her fairy
form until she disappeared by the wicket.
He then withdrew from the chapel and sought his own
apartment. '
Throughout the greater portion of the night the
fortalice was the scene of bustle and alacrity.
But while the inmates of Rosenthal were preparing for
the expedition against Linsdorf Castle, a strange and
mysterious being was bent upon delaying the march of
the Baron’s forces.
CHAPTER VI.
LINSDORF CASTLE.
RETURN we now to the Lady Theresa, at the moment
when the minions of the Count of Linsdorf burst into
the donjon of Rosenthal Castle.
In a fainting state the heir of Rosenthal was hurried
away between two powerful men, while several others,
before and behind, covered the abduction a ainst the few
retainers of the Baron who were in a con 'tion to make
any resistance in that part of the castle.
Theresa was borne awa —-the western postern was
. passed, and she was lac upon a fleet steed which a
pa 0 was holding on t e opposite side of the moat.
hen, escorted, or rather guarded, by the men-at-arms
who had first carried her 0 from the donjon, and whose
horses were also in readiness for them, the hapless
maiden was forced away from the paternal building.
Recovering her presence of mind, Theresa demanded
whither her guards were conducting her.
“ Thou wilt know shortly, lad ,” was the reply. “ But
fear not; no harm shall befall t ee.“
Theresa saw that it was useless to question her stern
companions. She accordingly resigned herself in silence
to the fate that might be in store for her.
Circumstances naturally led her to believe that this
antif'age upon her was perpetrated by the Lord of Lins-
or .
Nor was she mistaken.
In a short time the proud towers of that nobleman’s
feudal hold a peared above the trees ; but Theresa’s heart
sank within {fer as the heavy hoofs of the steeds clattered
upon the vibrating drawbridge.
The cavalcade passed into the spacious courtyard of
Linsdorf.
One of the men-at-arms assisted the maiden to alight,
and led the way in silence to a low door opening into one
of the four towers which formed the angles of the quad-
rangular donjon or keep.
Up the narrow staircase to which the low door led was
Theresa compelled to igoceed, the vassal following her
close, while his mailed ots clanked heavily on the stone
s eps. ‘
Having ascended to a considerable height, they reached
a landing, where the man knocked with the pommel of his
, sword at an arched door deeply set in a rudely-sculptured
1 Gothic recess.
_ The door was opened by an old woman with one of those
impassable countenances which de the hrenologist—a
countenance which neither deno the 8&881108 or exist-
ence of passions within the breast—a countenance, in a
word, which afforded not the slightest index to the dis-
position.
In attire and general appearance, the old woman seemed
to be a domestic or dependent of a superior grade.

Such, indeed, was the fact, for she exercised the im-
portant functions of housekeeper or matron in the Castle
of Linsdorf—a situation of considerable trust and privilege
in the extensive establishment of a feudal lord, and where
there was no lady to superintend the domestic economy of
the household.
“ Dame Winifred, I bring thee the guest whose presence
was more than half promised thee when the expedition
started this morning," said the man. “ Thou art doubt-
less aware what befitting treatment to show a lady whom
our lord loves.”
The man bowed to Theresa, and slowly retraced his
steps down the stairs.
“ Walk in, youn lady,” said Dame Winifred.
Theresa follow the ancient matron into a spacious
room, comfortably fitted up, and where a table was
spread with many dainty viands, delicious fruits, and
choice wines. ‘
“ You had better partake of some refreshment, lady,”
said the matron. “ Whatever you require, speak, and I
will endeavour to gratify your wishes.”
“ Tell me, good woman, why I am brought hither?”
demanded Theresa, in an imploring tone.
“ Nay, I am ready to serve you, but not to answer
questions,“ re lied Dame Winifred.
Theresa san ' upon a seat, and gave way to the most
gloomy apprehensions.
“ That ( oer,” said the matron, after a lo pause,
“ opens into a suite of apartments which you wi 1 please
to call your own. I am not dis osed to annoy you with
more of my presence than on 0 case.”
As she spoke, she points to a door facing the one by
which Theresa had entered the room.
“ I should wish to retire,” said the you lady.
The matron lighted a lamp, and led t e way into a
suite of three apartments, the first fitted up as a sitting-
room, the second as a bedchamber, and the third as an
oratory.
The furniture was very old, and the rooms appeared as
if they had not been occupied for many years. Indeed,
it was evident that pains had been take to dispel the
gloom of their appearance, and adapt them for the recep-
tion of the lady on whose presence in his castle the Count
of Linsdorf had reckoned with so much confidence.
Flowers were arranged in vases upon the antique mantel;
several ornaments of the latest fashion of the time were
scattered about. The old tapestry had been hastily re-
paired in several places, and fires were burning in the
sitting and bedrooms. Nevertheless, the aspect of the
apartments-large and lofty, with narrow windows pro-
tected by bars, and smelling of dam as if they had been
long shut up—struck additional g 00m to the already
sinking heart of the Lady Theresa.
The matron placed the lamp upon the table in the
sitting-room, and said—
“ I am to be found when you wish my services, lady, in
my own chamber, which you have just seen. If the appear-
ance of these apartments is not so cheerful as con (1 be
desired, you must excuse us on that account, for it was
but at daybreak this morning that the Count resolved
upon makin€ you his giiest, and I had little time for pre-
paration. hese are t e only apartments in the castle at
all fitted for the reception of one of your sex and rank, as
his lordship is not accustomed to behold such fair faces
within his walls. Hence his entire abode rather resembles
one vast barrack than the tenements of a knight and
noble peer.”
Theresa made no reply to this lengthy explanation,
or apology, and the matron withdrew into her own
chamber, closing the door of Theresa’s sitting-room be-
hind her.
The moment the heiress of Rosenthal was alone she
threw herself upon a seat, and burst into an agony of
cars.
“ For what destiny am I reserved?” she exclaimed,
“and what will become of my dear father? His castle
sacked—his vassals defeated—his proud spirit perhaps
broken—and his daughter torn away from him 1 Oh! how
full of terrible events has been this day l" _
For a considerable time Theresa remained plunged In
her sorrowful reverie.
At length she started up, for the idea of escape darted
into her mind. ,
“ Escape!” she murmured at the next moment ; _“ silly
maiden that I am! Will the fowler who has tolled 80
hard to snare a poor, weak bird leave the door of its cage
open when once it is caught P”
Then again she wept. .
“ And yet,“ she thought, after another interval of soul-
0


20
FA UST.

harrowing meditation, “the most desperate and deter-l
mined in their wicked purposes often neglect the most
common precaution to ensure the final success of their
schemes. When proud man closes one door, a merciful
Providence opens another.“
Inspired by this idea, catching at straws when immersed
in the ra ing whirl ool, Theresa took the lamp in her
hand, an proceedc to examine her apartments with
wistful scrutiny.
There was nothing peculiar about the sitting-room
beyond the general appearance which we have described
already, save, perhaps, the fact that, on a closer
inspection, Theresa found the tapestry and furniture to
be far more antique than she had at first supposed, while
the eneral aspect of the room showed that it could
not ave been tenanted for many, many years until
then.
The furniture and appointments of the sitting and bed-
rooms must originally have been very handsome—indeed,
most costl ; but the velvet cushions of the chairs were
faded, moth-eaten, and dusty; the woodwork was thickly
dotted all over with those little holes, scarcely bigger
than the pricks of pins, which insects and decay form in
the strongest oak. The hangings of the spacious couch
in the bedroom were falling to pieces, in spite of the
hasty attempts made during the day to patch them to-
gether ; and, when shaken, a cloud of dust was raised in
the room. '
The third apartment was the smallest of the suite, and
was fitted up as an oratory, or cha el for private devo-
tions. Upon a dais approached by t ree ste s, stood an
altar, the drapery of which was soiled wit dust, and
rendered as brittle as tinder by age. Four massive silver
candlesticks were as black with age and neglect as if they
were of bronze.
On one side of the oratory was the full-length portrait
of a handsome man in the prime of life. The picture was
covered with dust; but Theresa stepped upon a stool and
shook it. She was then enabled to obtain a better view
of the figure represented, which was as large as life. The
portrait was that of a nobleman of high rank—a circum-
stance evinced by the attire.
On the op osite side of the oratory was the picture of a
lovely fema e, in the full bloom of her youth ul charms.
Her dress bespoke her exalted station ; and her face was
clothed with an expression of ineffable softness and con-
descension.
Theresa was articularly struck with this charming
countenance, which did not appear altogether unfamiliar
to her. The light hair, the mild blue eyes, the delicate
complexion, the pale, high forehead, and the sweet smile
which the skill of the artist had literally represented as
playing 11 on the mouth, formed an assemblage of charms
that pro need a strange and wonderful effect upon the
young maiden. . .
In order to obtain a better view of a portrait that in-
terested her so deeply as even to banish for a few minutes
the sense of her own situation, Theresa placed the stool
below it, and was enabled by these means to shake the
canvas to rid it of the dust which had settled upon it, when,
to her surprise and alarm, a door, whose existence she had
not before perceived, flew open in the wainscot imme-
diately beneath the picture. At the same time a violent
gust of wind nearly extinguished her lamp.
Theresa started back in dismay, expecting to see some-
one emerge from the aperture thus strangely revealed ;
but not a soul appeared.
She then recovered her courage, and advanced to exa~
mine the door; when she perceived that it opened with a
spring, which, bein somewhat unsettled through age, given way by the s aking of the wainscot against which
the picture hung.
Theresa marked how the spring must be pressed in order
to act ; she then closed the door, and returned to her sitting-
room, fearful that the matron might detect her in the
midst of her investigations.
But as she placed the lamp u on the table she heard a
slight noise at the farther end 0 the apartment, and cast-
in a terrified lance in that direction, to her surprise she
2e eld him w ose image was so deeply engraven in her
eart.
Wilhelm Faust stood before her.
For a moment Theresa thought that she saw a spirit,
and she fell back a few paces, with horror and alarm de-
picted upon her countenance.
“ She dares not meet my looks—she feels all her per-
fidy!” murmured Faust, in a rapid and inaudible tone;
then, advancing towards the maiden, he said, aloud, “ Dost
thou regret to see a friend so near thee, Theresa?”

“ Oh! it is he—it is he!" she exclaimed, and, darting
forward, she fell into his arms.
“ Now thou art my own Theresa once again 1" cried
Faust, as he pressed his lips to hers.
“ Wilhelm—dear Wilhelm,” murmured the maiden,
“ how camest thou here ' Are you, too, a prisoner ?”
“ Bars and bolts, Theresa, would scarcely impede my
way," answered Faust, in a proud et bitter tone.
“ Oh! I know that you are )rave and dauntless,
Wilhelm!” exclaimed Theresa, not understanding the real
meaning of those words. “ But how came you here P"
“ Ask no questions, Theresa—but listen to me,” re-
turned Faust, in a rapid tone. “ We have not a moment
to spare! In a few minutes the proud Count of Linsdorf
will be here—here in this chamber l”
“Hol Virgin protect me!” exclaimed Theresa, clasp-
ing her ahds together.
‘Listen, I say,” cried Faust, somewhat impatiently.
“It is in my power to bear thee hence—_”
“ Then delay not, Wilhelm—delay not, I conjure you I”
said Theresa, imploringly.
“ Yes—I can deliver thee—bear thee hence—awa from
the power of the heartless noble who will force t ee to
es ouse him if thou remainest here. But wilt thou be
mine, Theresa—wilt thou fly with me whither I shall pro-
pose to conduct thee—afar from this neighbourhood where
the will of your father op oses our love ?”
“Wilhelm—is it possib e? Do you impose conditions
upon me in such an hour as this P” demanded Theresa,
bursting into tears.
“ I do—I do, Theresa—~for I adore you !" cried Faust,
again snatching her to his arms, and covering her with
such 1gjlowing, burning kisses that the maiden withdrew
herse , almost alarmed, from his embrace.
“ I cannot abandon my father—not even for you,
Wilhelm!” she faltered, her cheeks suffused with blushes.
“ Then I cannot—will not deliver thee," exclaimed
Faust, in an impassioned tone. “ Be to me all—every-
thing—mine wholly, solely—_”
At this moment a loud voice was heard in the matron’s
apartment.
“ The Count l” exclaimed Faust. “ Theresa—wilt
thou be mine ? Speak—you have not an instant to deli-
berate l”
“ Save me—save me, Wilhelm.”
“ I will—but swear that you will be mine.”
“ Oh! I cannot—dare not draw down u on myself my
father's curse l” returned Theresa, painful y excited.
“ Then I must leave thee now,” said Faust, in a hoarse
but rapid tone. “ But fear not. I will visit thee again.
Demand two da s to consider the Count’s pro osals. ’
“ He leaves— e abandons me i” murmurs T cresa.
And she fell 11 on her knees, with her hands claspet'l,i
and her head inc 'ning upon her bosom. .
“No, think of my proposal! To-morrow I will visrt
thee again.”
These words fell distinctly upon the maiden’s ears; but
when she raised her head a moment afterwards, Faust
had disappeared.
Almost at the same instant the door was thrown open,
and the Count of Linsdorf entered the room. -'
A cloud sat on his brow, an angry smile was upon h s
thin lips, and his lean countenance was flushed wit !‘ ‘
indignation. _
“ Maiden,” he said, endeavouring to render his co‘ and harsh voice as conciliatory as possible, “ wherefo; "
on thy knees in my presence? Were I a courtly gallan 'i
it was for me to kneel to thee. But I am a man mo: ‘
acquainted with camps than the bowers of love, and wh: --
I lack in gentleness of words I make up in generosity i
deeds. Rise, lady.” 5
With those words he forced Theresa to rise from h 'j
suppliant posture, which he fancied that she had assumi
on his entrance and on his account. l
i
“What wouldst thou with me, my lord P" demand r
the maiden, all the pride of the Rosenthals flashing
her eye and animating her brow._
“ Holy Virgin! A pretty question," cried the Cour t'
“ But I have no time to bandy idle words. To~morr<
shalt thou accompany me a willing or unwilling bride
the altar—and I had rather it were the former. '
“To-morrow, my lord,” echoed Theresa. “Oh! cc i"
sider how unprepared I am for such an announcemeni '
“Did I think that delay would render thee favm .
able-—-“ mused the Count, surveying the lady wi
admiration. . ,_
“ Oh! hurry me not so rashly to a decision, my lord .
cried Theresa, remembering the words of Faust. “ Gra


FA US T.
21
1

me a little time—two short days—to reflect upon your
proposal.”
“ Be it so, lady,” said the Count, after a moment’s
pause.
He then abru tly left the room.
“ My father!’ murmured Theresa, as the door closed
behind him. “ He did not tell me of my father !”
And, overcome by her emotions, she fell upon a seat,
and gave free scope to her poignant grief.
CHAPTER VII.
THE BROCKEN.
"ll‘is morning, and the sun appears above the eastern
p ams. '
Rising from a flat and sandy country, the Brocken lifts
its colossal summit to the sky.
That giant of the Harz, with its heart of granite and
its sides abounding in silver, iron, and gold, gives birth
to innumerable streams, which flow from it in all direc-
tions.
Here and there those waters fall in boisterous cascades
amidst rude masses of granite, which the continuous
action of the streams has separated and the tempest or
thekearthquake shaken down from the high surrounding
roc s.
Nature is grand, and wild, and awe-inspiring in those
solitudcs.
From the summit of the Brockeu naught higher save
the heavens can be seen.
The eye is impeded by no obstacle, as it glances around;
but fails to distinguish objects in the monotonous and
unbroken distance.
Everywhere around is the horizon lost in a light blue
obscurity.
Four thousand feet above the level of the sea is the
highest peak of that mountain wilderness, and from its
eminence the eye commands a circle of a hundred and
fifty miles.
Within the horizons that constitute that line is com-
prised the two-hundredth part of Europe.
Europe commands not such another view ! -
Escaping from the huge piles of granite rock which the
hand of Time has broken from their parent mass, the
Ilsenstein and the Oder wind their separate ways amid the
plains that touch the foot of the Brocken.
And on those rivers’ banks are green fields and shady
woods, but on the heights that command them nature
rei s in all its savage wildness.
here the human voice raises echoes of a fearful kind,
which multiply until the whole mountain rings with a
myriad articulate tones, as if legions of evil spirits were
present to repeat the syllables of man.
Every cavern and every hollow seems armed with a
metallic tongue, which sends forth its clamorous notes in
answer to the signal that first awakes the echoes of the
colossal hill.
The broken paths overhang precipitous depths, and
giftd beneath jutting cliffs. Danger above, and peril
e ow. .
The projecting bou hs and the stunted shrubs menace
the safety of those reary roads, and from their dizzy
hei hts the eye may plunge across yawning abysses, into
wil ravines, where the torrent falls with deafening
.,roar.
1 Unearthly sounds mingle with the din of the waters and
;the echoes of the hills, venomous reptiles hiss in the dank
grass, the toad squats in the moist hollows near the
nstreams, slow-worms of unusual len th wind their slimy
,way along the sides of the paths, bi s of ominous ap ear-
ance flap their huge wings amidst the dark shade o the
gpines, snake-flowers, nettles, and noisome weeds twine
,,iuto meshes to entangle the feet of the traveller.
Upon the highest point of the Brocken two forms were
L standing.
The arms of one were folded across his breast, and his
eyes were turned, with a penetrating glance, upon his
fimpanion, who surveyed with awe the scene around
m.
“ Art thou still of the same mind, Faust ?" demanded the
Demon.
“ I am," was the reply. “ Have I not told thee that it
ifsuits ;ny plans to prevent the march of the Rosenthal
orce “
“ I ask not to know thy desi 5," observed the Demon,
with a sardonic smile. “ All t at I seek for is to execute
thy will."
“ My will is that thou dost devise a means to allow this

day to ass without an effort on the part of the Lord of
Rosent al to rescue his daughter.”
“ Canst thou not accomplish that by virtue of the power
wherewith I have vested thee ?” demanded the Demon,
scornfully.
“ True! With abreath I can destroy that gallant force
—-with a word I can deliver Theresa from her prison.
But no power that thou hast 'ven to me, and no power
that thou dost possess, can ena le me to direct at Will the
heart of a pure virgin. Is it not so ?“
“ It is,” replied the Demon, and he smiled grimly.
“Then procure me that delay which will enable me to
ractise artifice,“ said Faust. “ Why dost thou hesitate I"
therefore didst thou transport me hither, when ere now
I signified my will to thee P"
“ brought thee hither, because it is here that I must
work thy will," returned the Demon. “ I hesitate, because
the means that I must call to aid to effect thy purpose will
carry desolation over that scene which thou may'st behold
from hence—so peaceful, so tranquil beneath the soft light
of the dawn.”
“ So that thou sheddest no blood—for I can do that by
virtue of my own power—I care not for other con-
sequences. Proceed."
Faust spoke in a decided and impatient tone. The sun
was now above the horizon, and he feared lest the troops
of Rosenthal should be already on the march.
“ I will obey thee," said the Demon.
Then, turning his face towards the north, be extended
his right hand, and chanted the following incantation—-
“ Wake, S irit of the Storm ! Come forth
From the rk mansions of the north;
Burst from the prisons where you rave
In Greenland’s ever ice-bound cave ;
Bring howling tempests from the shore
Of bleak and wintry Labrador;
Gather each chilling blast that blows
Over the Pole’s eternal snows ;
Gird thyself with the bail and sleet
That on Spitzbergen’s mountains beat ;
Muster the wild winds that surround
Iceland’s inhospitable ground;
Collect the hurricanes that roam
O'er the Siberian exile’s home ;
Marshal the whirlwind’s furious host
On Nova Zembla’s frozen coast ;
Dip your black plumage, as you ride
O’er the maelstrom’s boiling tide.
Wake, Spirit of the Storm 1 Come forth
From the dark mansions of the north 1“
By a natural impulse Faust had turned his eyes
towards the quarter to which the Demon addressed this
fearful incantation.
By de ees, as the fiend spoke, the blue obscurity of
the nort iern horizon—that obscurity on which the olden
rays of mornin were gradually uring their eff gence
from the east— eeame over-clou ed: first a mist arose :
then the mist grew more dense, until it grew into a cloud
of ominous blackness.
“ Thou didst not appeal to the thunder and lightning,“
said Faust, but litt e moved by the appearance of the
northern horizon.
“Mortal,” returned the Demon, his countenance as-
suming a sudden sternness that made Faust tremble,
“ the thunder and the lightning obey only Him whose
name I dare not mention.”
There was a short pause, during which Faust kept his
eyes fixed 11 on the ground, for he was abashed—nay,
alarmed by t at solemn reply ; while the countenance of
the Demon was convulsed With the agony of ineffable re-
miniseences.
“ Dost ause in thy work ?” at length exclaimed
Faust, raising his head, and looking once more towards
the north.
fi “ (Ii)ost thou command me to proceed?" demanded the
en .
“ I do,” was the resolute answer.
“Then have thy will,” said the Demon; and he con-
cluded his incantation thus:—
“ Hie, Spirit of the Storm! Go forth
From the dark mansions of the north;
Uproot the pine, and rend the rock,
Shake tower and town with sudden shock;
Level the tallest, stateliest trees
That e’er coquetted with a breeze ;
Hurl from the giddy precipice
The granite mass into th’ abyss ;


FAUST.

Sweep with thy desolating train
Over the mountain and the lam ; _
Scour the green meadow an _the hill,
To torrent swell the limpid l'lll‘;
Scatter the harvest, tear the vine,
Level the tomb, unroof the shrine.
Hie, Spirit of the Storm! G0 forth
From the dark mansions of the north 1"
B degrees, as the fiend spoke, the breeze from the north
freshened, then it blew in one continued gust, gather-
ing force as it swept along,_until it was fraught With the
terrific violence of the hurricane. _ .
And now r wed that appalling tempest which, in the
year 1498, deso ated the entire territory between the two
streams of the Elbe, and the memorable narrative of
which is preserved in the annals of Saxony. _
From the height of the Brpcken were beheld the
ravages of that tremendous hurricane. .
Huge masses of granite, which a.thou_sand men With
pulleys and levers would not have stirred in a week, were
torn from their stay, and hurled down into the abyss
beneath in an instant. _
As they rolled down, bounding from_ rock to rock—
tearing away the strongest pines as a child might scatter
flowers—the echoes which t ey raised reverberated amidst
the Harz mountains like the rapid discharge of numerous
cannon.
Then, when they fell into the floods that boiled in the
profundities beneath, they threw up the spray to tre-
mendous height, as if a voldano had exploded in the
caverns of the earth, and heaved up the bed of the
torrents. - 0
The eye rested for one moment on a knot of mighty
pines ; in the next they were gone ;_ but the glance could
follow them skimming along the sides of the mountains
like things of no weight. . '
Colossal oaks were rent and burned away with in-
credible speed, as if they were feathers upon the wings
of the whirlwind.
The torrents boiled and foamed, and rushed onwards
with a roaring and deafening din.
The earth seemed to shake to its very centre.
The Brocken appeared to totter upon its mighty base.
Terrific hurricane!
And far—far as the eye could reach from that eminence
of four thousand feet, the ravages of the whirlwind were
equally appalling.
Groves of pines were suddenly levelled as if a giant had
cut them down with one blow of a mighty sickle.
Towns and villages were shaken; houses were blown
down, and the strongest edifices were unroofed as easily
as a child fillips off with his finger the topmost card of
his miniature structure.
The tempest overturned the watch-towers on the tops
of the hills; levelled the cornfields, and made the vine-
yards a scene of desolation.
The tombs in the cemeteries were hurled in shapeless
masses upon the graves whose inmates they commemo-
rated. The bells in the church steeples rang the dismal
tocsin of their own accord.
The chapels by the wayside were split asunder, and the
sacred ornaments of the shrines scattered hither and
thither.
For six hours did this appalling tempest endure.
fl B11111} the 'thunder roll not, neither did the lightning
as .
The wind, the raging wind, worked all that mischief,
for in the intervals of its fury, the sleet and hail which it
bore upon its wings added to the desolation, spoilingthe
grain that was levelled, and cutting to pieces the vines
that had been beaten down.
But the moment that the hurricane commenced, Faust
had disappeared from the summit of the Brocken. .
There, however, the Demon remained, calmly surveying
the progress of the whirlwind.
Towering above the ruin he had worked, he seemed the
prince of evil, giving encou ement by his presence to
the mad elements that raged a his commands.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE nvsrnnins or ilmsnoar CASTLE.
THE La-ly Theresa awoke at an early hour, before the
ap ailing tempest began.
_ or a few instants she could scarcely believe that the
incidents of the preceding day were more than the pro-
minent features of a disagreeable dream. ‘

But when she cast her eyes around, and beheld that
moth-eaten tapestry, and those antique articles of furni-
ture—when she recalled to mind her mysterious inter-
view with Faust, and the visit of the haughty Count of
Linsdorf—she became fully aware of the sad reality of
her position.
The idea of her own. danger was associated with the
most appallin uncertainty in res act to the fate of her
father; andt us the hap ess mai en had enough upon
her mind to overwhelm her with des air.
In order todivert her thoughts rom the contempla-
tion of these disagreeable subjects, Theresa rose from
lieii souch, and hastily performed the duties of the
.01 e .
But even while she was thus engaged, various per-
plexing sentiments agitated her bosom.
" In two days,“ she thou ht, “ I am to announce my
decision to the Lord of Lins orf! Wilhelm promised to
see me again ; but how can he obtain admittance hither
unless he be leagued with my enemies? Oh! yes-he
can scarcely love me with that pure and holy devotion
which he once showed towards me; or how would he
wish to impose conditions upon me in the hour of my
bitter anguish and deep distress P”
Then the maiden wept.
Scarcely had she completed her toilet, when Dame
Winifred entered the bedroom, and announced that the
morning's repast was served in the adjacent apartment.
In the meantime that terrific storm, whose rava s we
narrated in the preceding chapter, had commence ; and
so loud was the warring of the wind—so boisterous the
howling of the hurricane—that it drowned all other
sounds throughout the castle.
So thick, however, were the walls of the donjon of
Linsdorf, that the din of the raging element was miti-
gated in a considerable degree.
Still Dame Winifred was compelled to repeat her an-
nouncement that the repast was prepared, before it met
Theresa's ears.
Theresa followed her in silence, and took her seat at
the table, which was covered with dainties of that solid
description which constituted a breakfast in those times-
The young lady, however, ate but sparingly; her heart
was so full!
“ Thou dost not do justice to the viands which our
manciple has provided for thy table, lady," saileini-
fred. “ Perchance my resence is disagreeable to you;
and yet I did but intru e myself on you for the purpose
of keepingyou company. Or haply this terrific tempest
appals thee P“
“ Are you surprised that I should be unhappy?“ de-
manded Theresa, “ when I have been snatc ed away
from my home, and im risoned in a strange fortress P“
“ .The lord of which oves you to distraction," rejoined
Dame Winifred. “ Foolish maiden that you are—to rc-
fuse the hand of one who is so generous, so brave, and
so wealth ! But, if report speak truly, a humble
stuggnt o Wittenberg has found more favour in thy
_ll
6
Good woman,” exclaimed Theresa, hastily, “know
you that same young student to whom you allude P”
“ yname onl , lady,” answered Winifred. “ I have
nevertheless ha a fair report of his comeliness. But,
holy Virgin! how the storm rages!”
“ And you have never seen him ?” asked Theresa,
musingly.
“W at‘excitement about apoor student!" exclaimed
Dame Winifred. “No—lady: I'know him not,“ she
added, more calmly. “ I seldom stir abroad; years have
elapsed since I last visited Wittenber ; and I am not very
likely to see the outh in! this castle. ’
Theresa held own her head, and reflected profoundly
upon this assurance. 7
“ Did any stranger visit your apartment last evening,
a short time prior to the arrival of the Count your
master P" demanded Theresa, after a long pause.
“Assuredly not,” replied the matron. “But what
stragge vagaries are passing in your imagination, fair
one ”
“ One question more,’ said Theresa: “are there two
means of egress from this apartment on the side of your
own chamber, good dame P”
“Again I answer thee with a denial, lady,” returned
the matron, surveying Theresa with attention. “ Y0u
have been troubled with dreams, my sweet bird: your
student has haunted you ;-—-but I would advise you to
expel him from your memory, and think only of the Lord
of Linsdorf."
“ I ask thee not for counsel,” said Theresa, haughtily.


FAUST.
23

“ Wouldst then serve me, I will put thy good will to the
test!
“In which manner, lady P”
“I would in uire of you for news of my father,” said
Theresa. “ iat was the issue of that dreadful combat
of yesterda P”
“ If it wi in any way compose your mind to know the
truth ” answered the matron, “ I—-”
“ Oh! it will—it will," cried the young lady. “ I could
endure imprisonment with resignation, did I know that
my poor father was safe 1”
“ He is safe,” said Dame Winifred: “ his lordship my
master withdrew his forces the moment the principal
object of his attack was accomplished.”
The old woman did not choose to acquaint Theresa with
the strange and mysterious manner in which the vassals
of Linsdorf had been repulsed from the ramparts of
Rosenthal.
“ Then my father is safe in his own halls l” exclaimed
Theresa, clasping her hands together; and in a whisper
she murmured, “He will not leave me in the power of
this daring Count I"
' “ Trust not to your father’s means to rescue you from
hence, lady,” said Winifred, who saw what was passing
in her mind. “ His forces are shattered, his wer
crippled ; and he will rather consent to peace on con ition
that you es use the Count of Linsdorf, than renew the
feudal stri e with the hope of wresting you from my
master’s power.”
Theresa made no reply: she knew the inutility of pro-
voking a discussion 11 on that point: and she moreover
felt anxious to seek t e solitude of her bed-chamber, in
order to reflect and meditate upon her position-without
restraint. The old woman did not attempt to retain her;
for the truth was that Dame Winifred was growing more
and more alarmed at that aplpalling tempest which raged
so furiously without; and s e was anxious to betake her-
self to the chapel of the castle in order to put up prayers
for her safety.
Theresa rose from her seat at the table in her sitting-
room, and repaired to the adjoining chamber.
There, however, she soon grew weary of pondering over
her own misfortunes; and she was suddenly seized with
an invincible desire to contemplate once more that female
portrait in the oratory which had so excited her attention
on the preceding evening.
Having secured the lock of her bed-chamber door, in
order to prevent the old matron from intruding upon her,
she entered the oratory. .
The moment she crossed the threshold, it seemed to her
as if the mild and benignant countenance of the lady in
the picture smiled upon her. Of course this was only
fancy; but the effect reduced by the momentary idea,
in her mind, was one o respect mingled with awe.
As Theresa stood gazing up at the picture, she gradually
- associated the features and expression of the portrait
with the countenance of her own dependant Maria, until
she became overwhelmed with surprise at the wonderful
resemblance which existed between them, and was not a
little astonished that the circumstance should have failed
to strike her on the preceding evening. This can, how-
ever, scarcely- be wondered at, when we remember the
state of her mind on that occasion, and the different
effects roduced by the portrait when seen by the artificial
light of) a dim lamp and the natural lustre of the broad
a
“ Strange—most strange!” thought Theresa, as she
surveyed the portrait; “ and yet the resemblance is per-
fect! The same eyes—the same hair-the same sweet
expression of the lips—the same 'aceful neck. Yet what
can there be in common between t is poor peasant’s orphan
Maréia, and'the high-born lady whose portrait is before
me I)
From the picture Theresa’s eyes wandered to the
wainscot beneath; and she felt a powerful curiosity to
carry her investigation of that part of the spacious castle
farther than the oratory.
The tempest continued to rage with such desperate fury
without, that it added to the gloom which filled her mind;
and she longed for some motive of bustle and excitement
to divert her thou hts from the dispiriting topics on
which they settled t e moment she gave way to them.
She apprehended no danger from the whirlwind, well
aware that the thickness of the walls would def its rage;
but from time to time she was startled by the end crash
of huge stones or tiles dislodged from the roofs and hurled
violently into the court below. -
Longing to be enabled to avert her attention from the
various sources of discouragement which surrounded her,

she sought an occupation of some kind; and, in the
absence of her usual companions and her embroidery, she
gladly obeyed the curiosity which now prompted her.
Accordingly, with but little hesitation, her finger
pressed the secret spring; and the mysterious door in-
stantly flew open.
For an instant Theresa experienced a sensation of
alarm; but, well aware that old feudal strongholds fre-
quently contained secret doors and rivate modes of
communication between the various suites of rooms, she
speedily recovered her presence of mind.
The door that now stood open before her, revealed to
her eyes a passage that was lighted by several loopholes,
thus proving that it ran along the wall of that part of the
building.
She entered the passage, or corridor, which was almost
twenty feet in length, and perceived a door at the farther
end. Towards this she advanced, and listened. Not a
sound emanated from within. She placed her hand upon
the latch ; the door was locked ; but even the gentle
pressure which it received from the maiden as she thus
tried it, caused it to burst open. The wood-work in which
the bolt of the lock fitted had yielded- through decay,
arising from age and damp.
Theresa now found herself in a small chamber, fitted
up as a bed-room, but with the furniture so decayed, the
hangings so moth-eaten, and the whole place so dusty, as
to present indubitable signs of having remained neglected
and forsaken for many, many years.
But what seemed most remarkable to the yOung lady,
was a certain appearance which indicated that the cham-
befi; never been set~ to rights since the last tenant had
e i .
.The bed-clothes, all tattered with age and discoloured
With dust, were turned down, as the person who last
slept in that couch had left them; and the vestiges of a
repast were upon the table. There were the remains of
the na kin, torn and soiled,-—the knives and forks,
covers with rust,—the earthenware lates and dishes,
black with dust,——the flagon and drinainghoru clothed
in cobwebs. .
Years—many years must have passed since that bed
had been pressed by a living form, and since that repast
was served up I
There was something awe-inspiring in the contempla-
tion of those traces of the last tenant of that secluded
room.
And when the eye of Theresa behold the window de-
fended With massive bars, and the prospect impeded by a
wooden shade projecting from the ledge outside to a
height of more than half way up the window, so that no
one could seen from without, and no one within could
catch a glimpse of the scene beyond that cruelly~con-
trived barrier to the view,—wheu she reflected u on the
mysterious approach to that chamber, and thong t that
the eXistence of the room itself might be unsuspected by
those who were not well acquainted with that part of the
castle,-—she could not help thinking that the chamber >
had been originally devised as a secret prison, and per-
ha s last used as such!
he shuddered when she reflected that some persecuted
being had haply passed nights of apprehension, terror,
and despairm that bed, and had sate down in sorrow
abltlie solitary meal whose vestiges were upon that
c.
Theresa felt a sensation of terror and apprehension
stealing over her, as she surveyed the mysteries of that
oublwtte; and she tin'ned to leave the ominous lace,
when her e es fell upon the half-o en door of a cup oard
{gamed in t e thickness of the near the foot of the
Conquering her apprehensions, and actuated by the
feeling which rendered everything an object of curiosity
in that strange room, Theresa approached the cupboard.
On a close examination she perceived the tattered,
moth-eaten, and blackened remains of several articles of
female raiment upon the shelves.
‘f It was, then, one of my own sex who last occupied
this chamber l" said Theresa within herself. “ Poor
woman! everything here convinces me that she was a
prisoner. Perha s, too, she was unfairly dealt with;
perhaps that mea was the last she ever tested 1“
As this idea flashed through her mind, one of the
loudest and most appalling gusts which characterized the
tempest, swept over the castle ; and the banner-staff upon
She summit of the donjon snapped in halves with a loud
in.
Theresa felt her heart for a moment sink within her ;
and she was about to turn with horror from the room.


24
FA UST.

But an irresistible feeling of interest,—a sentiment far
superior to mere vulgar curiosity,—prompted her to exer-
cise all ssible command over herself, and inspect that
en hear more closely still.
s her glance plunged into its depths, she perceived an
object which resembled a roll of paper, although covered
with dust and enveloped in cobwebs.
She drew it forth: her conjecture in res et to its
nature was not incorrect. It was a‘ small ro of aper,
tied round with a piece of string. The exterior eaves
were soiled with dust, and the edges were eaten away
with damp and age. Theresa shook the dust from the roll
with great care, and ascertained that there was writing
upon the inner sheets. She was about to remove the
strin , when she remembered that she had been absent a
cansi erable time from her apartments, and that the
matron might have sought admittance for some purpose
or another.
She accordingly resolved to
examination of the papers unt
opportunity.
Being, however, b no means anxious to return to that
room, she conveye the manuscript into the. oratory,
where she concealed it in a secure lace.
She then repaired to her bedc mber, unlocked the
door, and entered the sitting-room.
In the meantime that appalling tempest continued to
r with unabated fury.
e sentinels were com elled to leave the ramparts;
the light falconets, or sma l cannon, upon the walls were
overturned.
The banner-staff was broken in twain, as ere now
stated; and the flag itself was rent to shreds and scat-
tered far and wide.
“ H01 Virgin! defend the poor co ers l” murmured
Lady T eresa, devoutly crossing hersel : “ alas! fearful
will be the results of this hurricane. Those who dwell
50stpone any farther
a more convenient
inhabitant of the frail hut—the tenant of the little cot—
the poor villager—Oh ! how will they suffer !”
Lady Theresa’s reverie was interrupted by a low knock
at the door; and Faust entered the apartment.
0 H A P T E R I X.
nxrmus'rxons.
“ WILHELM !” ejaculated Theresa, flying towards him as
if h?! were her guardian angel: “ thou has kept thy
wor " -
“ Have you then thought of me, Theresa? have you
looked forward to my coming P" he asked, as be embraced
her with unfeigned ardour.
“ Can you doubt it, Wilhelm P” said the maiden, half-
reproachfully. “ Since first we met, when have I ever
ceased to think of you ?“
“ Didst thou not forget the poor student, Theresa,"
asked Faust, fixing his eyes upon her as if to read her
soul, “ when he was immersed in a horrible dungeon ?"
“ N ever—never—not for a single moment !” exclaimed
Theresa, enthusiastically. “ I was told that you had fled
from Wittenberg with some low-born maiden—that reck-
less extravagances had plunged you into an inextricable
labyrinth of debts—that you had even committed mean-
nesses and frauds towards your college friends, to re-
plenish your purse ;—all this I heard—all this was told
to estrange my heart from you :-but, no-no—I loved
ygul, and believed you true, faithful, and honourable
s 1 .”
“ Ah! Theresa—if this were true—_”
“ True!” echoed the young maiden; “ and wherefore
should you doubt my word? Have I ever deceived thee,
Wilhelm? have I ever given thee reason to suspect the
sincerity of my love ?”
“ Theresa—Theresa,” exclaimed Faust, in a tone of re-
proach ; “ that portrait which thou hast been accustomed
to contemplate so fondly—~—”
“ The portrait !” cried the lady, “ what! dost thou
know that ?"
“ I know all, Theresa,” answered Faust. “ I know
that, when alone in thy chamber, thou hast gazed upon
that (portrait with eyes expressive of such deep, such pro-
foun afiection, that if the inanimate countenance could
but have received one article of transfusion from your
spirit, it would have smiled—it would have wept—through
joy—through inefl’able happiness I"
“ And am I to be reproached for that—when thou wast
away P" said Theresa, contemplating her lover with
almost wild astonishment.

‘ cerated u
. continu
in castles and strongholds need not fear; but the humble ‘

“ Oh! you thought me false—you fancied me ruined in
fame, and beggared in fortunes!” exclaimed the oung
man: then, drawing himself up with an air of pri e and
trium h, he said “But if you require a lover who can
deck t ee with the costliest gems of the universe—who
can call forth from the far-off mines the most precious
stones to form baubles to enhance thy beauty;—if you
seek to be adored by one who can bear thee away to
lordly halls, where countless domestics shall be ready at
thy nod; if you court pomp, splendour, rank, wealth,
and homage,——speak, Theresa—speak—for I can gratify
the wildest dreams of mortal ambition, and fulfil the
fondest hopes of human vanity!"
As Faust spoke, his countenance became animated with
a warm glow, and his eyes were fired with replendent
lustre: he seemed a prince at whose slightest word trea-
sures were poured forth and courtiers read to how the
knee ;—every syllable he uttered denoted conscious
su eriority and unbounded capacity.
heresa was alarmed.
For a moment she feared lest his reason had deserted
him; but there was a firmness and a consistency in his
words which forbade that idea, and filled her with in-
describable astonishment.
“ You speak as if you thought me selfish, ambitious, and
vain, Wel elm," said Theresa. “ Oh! how are you mis-
taken! Whoever you may be—whatever you are,—
under however deep a disguise you may have hitherto
veiled yourself,—remember that I only knew you as the
poor and humble student. And this can be no reproach,
since on are neither poor nor humble; but it ought to
give t ee everfi confidence in me! I bestowed my heart
upon you, wit out asking who you might be—thinking
that I already knew who and what you were I"
“ And when I was plunged into a dun eon,—incar-
n the most shallow and wretch pretences,”
Faust,—“pretences whose nature and whose
author I will not now reveal to you,—then—then, Theresa,
you forgot him whom you believed to be, and who really
was at that period, the poor and humble student !"
“ Why reproach me—why insult me thus !” demanded
the heiress of Rosenthal.
“ Didst thou not admit ere now that thine eyes were
often bent over that portrait—”
“ I said so, and I blush not to repeat the avowal," in.-
terrupted Theresa. “ If there were aught unmaidenly—
aught indiscreet in my conduct, the reproach should not
come from your lips.”
“ From my lips!" re ated Faust, sorrowfully. “ From
whose lips, then, she d such reproach come? Haply,
from the rival who at this moment little thinks that 1!
am here with thee !”
“ A rival!” murmured Theresa.
“Yes,” exclaimed Faust: “ he whose portrait forms
the topic of our discourse !” .
“ Oh, this is too much !” cried Theresa bursting into
tears. “Did true lover ever complain t' 1 now that his
portrait was his own rival !"
“ Miserable subterfuge!” thundered Faust, his lip;
growing white with ra e. “ How camest thou by a per-
trait of me, false one P '
“ Sir, if I condescend to inform you,”said Theresa, be r
maiden dignity, which was now so deepl ofi'endec' ,
enabling her to command her emotions to sue a degre e
as to reply to her lover with calmness and resolution,— ~
“if I condescend to inform you, it is simply because I
would not lie under an unjust imputation from any livin ;
being. Hadst then not an associate at the Universit; ',
named Otto Pianalla P"
“ Yes; how does his name serve thy purpose ?” criei
Faust. “ I am well aware that his sister is one of th v
serving-women. ’Twas through that circumstance yo 1
and I first knew each other."
“Are you ignorant that Pianalla is an artist of big I
merit ?” continued Theresa: “ and is there aught extr: -
Ordinar in the fact that I should desire his sister Ida 1 )
Obtain rom him, in secret, a portrait of thee F"
“ Theresa !" ejaculated Faust; “ thou knowest not he I
deeply all this touches me ! Answer me, as thou would! b
answer to thy—”
“ As I would answer to my God !" added Theresa, con -
posedly.
“No—not thus,” exclaimed Faust, with a species c E
inward shudder : “ as then wouldst answer to thy fathe ,
didlhg adjure thee on his death-bed—hast thou spokr l
tru y ”
“ Wilhelm, all the love I bear for thee will not perm t
me to endure this insult,” said Theresa.


FA US T.
25
'. which ha

“ And that portrait—where is it P” cried Faust, most
unnaturally excited.
“ It is here,” said Theresa, drawing the miniature from
he'r bosom : “ it never leaves me i”
Faust cast one glance upon it, and his countenance be-
came immediatel convulsed with horror.
“ I have been eceived—deceived—basely deceived,” he
murmured, in a hollow tone: “ but, oh! to what has that
deception led P”
“ You have been deceived, dear Wilhelm," said Theresa:
“ those who made thee suspicious of my constant affection,
deluded—baser deluded you.” '
“I comprehend it all, Theresa,” answered Faust, en-
deavouring to conquer his terrible emotions. “ Oh, had
I known that you (possessed a portrait of me all this would
not have happene .”
“You alarm me, Wilhelm—your manner is so wild.
And now tell me what signifies those words which ere now
bespoke you great and powerful? and, moreover, relieve
my suspense by telling me how you obtain admittance
hither P"
“ Theresa," replied Faust, now king with singular
volubilit , “ this is no time nor p ace for such exp ana-
tions. , hou lovest me—thou hast never ceased to love
me—— ’
“ Never—never, for a single moment!” exclaimed the
youn led in an impassioned tone.
“ T en will trust all to thy enerous—thine affection-
ate heart,” cried Faust. “ I Will not attempt to impose
conditions u on thee: thine attachment to me will make
thee mine,” 0 murmured in a low tone: then, again
speaking in an audible voice, he said, “ I will save thee
from this rison Theresa—for it is a prison to thee: I
will save t lee—for I have the power. At midnight be
prepared to leave the Castle of Linsdorf, and to return to
thy father.”
“Generous Wilhelm! thou art all m fond heart ever
loved to fancy thee!” said Theresa, yie ding her cheek to
his rapturous kiss.
“ At midnight, Theresa—at midnight,” exclaimed
Faust, “ I will be here 1”
“He then hurried from the apartment by the door
opening into the matron’s room, through which he passed,
Dame Winifred being still occupied With her devotions in
the chapel.
“At midnight he will be here!” thought the maiden,
her bosom swelling with emotions of joy and anxie ;
“ and I shall be restored to my father! But how does e
thus easily traverse the interior of Linsdorf Castle?”
- CHAPTER X.-
'rnu MANUSCRIPT.
THE storm still continued to rage with appallin fury;
and shortly after mid-day Dame Winifred returneg to her
apartment, having prayed sufficiently, in her own estima-
tion, to avert danger at least from herself, if not from the
other inmates of the Castle of Linsdorf.
The noon meal was served up; and as soon as it was
over the matron hurried back to the cha el.
Theresa retired to her bed-chamber, t e door of which
she carefully locked; for now that her mind was to a
considerable degree tranquillized by the promise of de-
liverance made to her b her lover, she determined to
while awa the time by t e inspection of the manuscript
come into her possession in so strange a
manner.
She accordingl fetched it from the place where she had
- concealed it in t e oratory; and seating herself in her
‘ chamber, proceeded to examine the roll of pa ers.
' We have before said that it was in'ured y the dust
- and damp, as well as by the ravages 0 time. N everthe-
less, Theresa was enabled to decipher many passages of
the writing, which was in an elegant female hand.
" We place on record those fragmentary portions of the
manuscript which were sufficient y preserved to be legible;
and we need scarcely say it was with the greatest interest
that the oung maidenuperused those isolated pass es,
which le t such fearf 1y mysterious blanks foraier
' imagination to fill up :—
THE MANUSCRIPT.
, . _ . blackest treachery which ever mortal
i could conceive! But to be immured in this awful soli-
tude, with such dread uncertainty relative to the fate
that may be reserved for me—oh! this is terrible—ter-
rible! What can he mean to do with me? Does he in-
tend to murder me in cold blood F That can scarcely be

—else why would he allow me to have existed a single
day, when I was so com letely in his power? And now
six long and dreary wee s have I passed in this dungeon
——for it is nothing else—trembling every time a step ad-
vances in that assa e, shuddering whenever the door
opens. Oh! to su denly snatched from so much hap-
piness and plunged into so much misery is enough to
drive one mad. And there are times when m brain .
seems to whirl—when my eyes behold uneart ly, un-
natural sights—when strange noises ring in my ears.
How long will this last? What fate is in reality reserved
for me ? Have I lost all that could make earth tolerable
to me? Is nothing left ? Holy Virgin! when . .
. . . . . cord and dagger,
terrific emblem of his death! Then how well could I
divine who ordered the blow to be struck, even if he did
not inflict it with his own vile hand. But to snatch from
me my child—to tear my beloved daughter from my
bosom—ah! that was too cruel! And I who have never
injured any one! No—never was I presuming or proud
on account of the high rank which I enjoyed, or the
wealth by which I was surrounded. I who would visit
the humblest cottage where poverty required succour,
grief needed consolation, or sickness demanded aid. I
who studied how to render all those around me happy,
and who was beloved b all the dependents of my noble-
hcarted husband. I w o . . . . .
. . . beloved child, shall I ever see
thee more? Oh! if my persecutor would only permit me
to retire into some humble cot, I should end my days in
peace, so that thou wast restored to me! But that inter-
view of this morning—what hope does it lcaVe me? Now
his fearful projects are revealed in all their blackness—
now I com rehend but too well why he has permitted me
to live! nd to tell me with such demoniac calmness
that the world believes me dead, and that there is no
hope for me on this side of the tomb, unless I consent to
smile upon him even as I did on the beloved one whom
he has murdered !
But what does he propose ? Did my ears hear ari ht P
That his interests demanded my total exclusion rom
that world which believes me to be dead, but that my
child should be restored to me, and my condition in}-
proved in every respect save the enjoyment of liberty, 1f
would disgrace myself—dis ce my husband’s name—-
disgrace my innocent child— submitting to his odious
ad resses! Can it be possib e that he was bold enon h
to appear in my presence ? Was it really true that e
could find words to frame his hateful, his dishonouringr
proposal ? And then with what horrible efirontery did
e offer to save my feelings by allowing the chaplain—.a
creature of his own—to read the marriage ceremony in
the oratory adjoining this dungeon!
But how his li s quivered with rage, how his e es
flashed fire, when urned his advances, and upbrai ed
him for his crimes. cannot expect his forbearance after
this; no, I feel that I must prepare for death. Every
time that a step approaches, I must breathe a prayer to
heaven to receive my soul in the abode of eternal mercy,
for the next moment may be my last! And were it not
for thee, my dear little daughter, how gladly I would
meet death! I would even court it. I
But so long as the duration of life permits the indul-
gence in a hope that I may see thee again—that Provi-
ence may restore thee to me—so long must I clin to
existence. And that there is a faint hope of such a b iss-
ful event I am inclined to believe. That man Hugo, who
brings me my meals, and who has so far taken compas-
sion on me as to provide me the means of thus placing
my thoughts on record, in spite of the positive commands
of his cruel master to the contrar -—that man’s heart has
already been softened in my behalf ; and who knows that
I may not move him by my tears, and by my promises of
great reward, to connive at my escape? Yet I am wrong
thus to cherish a hope which may never be fulfilled !
I again threw myself at Hugo’s feet. I implored—I
entreated—I menaced. He remains inexorable. Still he
wept when he saw me at his feet, and when I s oke in
such agonizing terms of my child. Perhaps he is imself
a father; if so, he must have felt for me who am a
mother. But I dislike his moody silence: those shakes
of the head with which he discourages my queries are
full of dread import. What could he mean bl}; pmnting
towards the passage, and interrupting me vnt a frown,
when I was about to repeat my thanks to him for having
SuPplied me with this paper to which I commit my wrl
and disjointed thoughts ? Oh! I understand: he is not
altogether trusted; he is watched—some one wants at


26
FA US T.

the other end of the passage when he comes to my room.
Yes—this must be the reason of his silence and his strange
motions. Perhaps, then, he would assist me to escape,
were he not thus watched; perhaps he will seek an op-
portunity to come and speak to me alone? This new
idea consoles me. Why IS it that the bitterness of my
grief is somewhat mitigated, why is it that the acuteness
of my anguish is to some extent soothed, when I thus
place my hopes and fears on record? In a word, why
should I write these lines at all P Alas! should I indeed
perish by the command or by the hand of him who has
already done me such deep and irreparable wrong, haply
this short narrative of my wrongs will be permitted to
remain unmolestcd in the place where I conceal it each
time that a step a preaches. Haply it will some day
meet the eyes of t iosc who may at least avenge me,
should I be no more! Alas! how changed must be my
heart from what it once was when I can think of ven-
eance! And yet—to be plunged from the pinnacle of
uman happiness into the depths of ineifable woe—oh!
human nature could not support these bitter, bitter
wrongs without a feeling of deadly rancour towards him
who has caused them.
. . . . and another da has passed! But
how did I tremble when that horrib e man again visited
me this afternoon, and renewed his odious roposals.
“ What!” I exclaimed, as I felt my cheeks flus ing with
the glow of indescribable indignation ; “ do you imagine
me vile and base enough to join my hand to yours at the
altar of God—your hand. which is red with the blood of
my husband-!”—“ Rash woman !" he cried ; “ you know
not how terrible will be my vengeance if you thus receive
my honourable addresses with disdain. Your husband
died by virtue of the decree of a competent tribunal:
he had offended against the laws of the Holy Vehm ; and
he perished.”—“ Wretch l" I exclaimed ; “ did the Holy
Vehm pursue its usual course P Did it summons my hus-
band to appear at the court of some Free Count, either
in his castle-hall or beneath the lime tree on the hill top,
according to established usage P”-——“ I came not hither
to handy words with you,” he answered ; “ I am here to
propose to thee the conditions on which thou mayst have
thy daughter restored to thee and enjoy life.”—“ Life!”
I exclaimed; “ how could existence have any charm for
me, when he whom I loved so tenderly is no more, and
while I am a prisoner in this odious dungeon P”—“ I give
you three days to reflect upon my roposal,” he said.
“ Beware how you trifle with me w en I come again!”
And then he went away.
. . Hugo came ; and his countenance de-
noted morc sympathy than he had ever before shown
towards me. Again I threw myself at his feet, and im-
plored his aid to release me from this horrible place.
He said, in a low tone, “Lady, I pity you. I have
already proved how dee 1y I feel for you. But I am not
altogether trusted myse f, although my master considers
me to be amongst the most faith ul of his followers. I
am watched b another; and it was with the greatest
difficulty that could contrive to come to you alone on
this occasion.”—“ And my child, Hugo P” I exclaimed.—
;‘ Your child, lady, is safe and wel . She is entrusted
o . . . . . .
It only, then, now remains for me to hope that this
record of my wrongs will some day meet the eyes of those
who, through my attachment to my husband’s name, or
from love of justice and abhorrence of crime, will avenge
us both! From what Hugo assured me, it is certain that
my little daughter will be spared. Perhaps the monster,
who hesitates not to imbrue his hands in the blood of
persons that are grown up, trembles at the idea of assas-
sinating an infant. May God grant that my darling child
may one day recover her just rights!
The fear of death will not induce me to consent to the
proposals of my mortal enemy—my husband’s murderer
_my persecntor! No; in a few hours he will be here to
know my decision; and then I. must prepare for death.
Everything is ominous to-day. Hugo as been ' laced
by another ; and that other—oh, how dark and forbidding
is his countenance! N ot a word would he utter to my
courteous observations. And then, again, the little bird
which hitherto has every morning perched upon the
ledge of that huge wooden shade which bars the prospect
from the window—even that little creature seems to shun
this place with horror now! Alas! the lines which m
feverish hand traces upon this paper, that is moist wit
my tears, are perhaps the last outpourings of that anguish

_which has already lasted for two long months, but which
13 new so near its termination! At the commencement
of this narrative, when I related the entire history of
those fearful events, which . . .

The remainder of the manuscript was totally illegible;
but only another leaf seemed to have ever been written
on beyond the last break ; and the lines upon that page
were completely obliterated by age. “
“ Poor creature!” thought Theresa; “ how deeply she
appears to have suffered! And yet, perhaps, the manu-
script may only be a portion of a romance! It speaks of
an entire history of certain frightful events which are
often alluded to; but that portion is the commencement,
which is obliterated. Alas! if this indeed be the true
picture of sufferings actually endured, how sad must
have been the condition of the unhappy lady—how cruel
the conduct of her persecutor!”
Then, as Lady Theresa fell into a train of profound re-
flection relative to the manuscript, she recalled to mind
the histh of the Count of Linsdorf which had been
related to er when she was young.
By degrees her imagination associated the narrative ‘
whose outlines she had gathered from the manuscript
fragments with the history of the Count. The writer of
that manuscript struck her to be the Countess Ildegarda;
her husband who had been murdered by the Holy Vehm
was the noble-hearted Sigismund, whose good qualities
were yet remembered and recounted by the older inhabi-
tants of the district ; and the persecntorof the noble lady
could be none other than the present Count.
Such was the connected narrative which arranged itself
in Theresa’s imagination.
And if the character of Count Manfred of Linsdorf had
before appeared hateful to the gentle maiden, it now
seemed literally appalling to her; and her re soul re-
volted from the mere reminiscence that s e had been
compelled to listen to the proposals of a man whose soul,
she felt convinced, was stained with the most appalling
crimes.
It was, therefore, if possible, with increased anxiety
that she looked forward to the hour when Faust had pro-
mised to liberate her.
——-
C H A P T E R X I .
MIDNIGHT.
THE deep, _sonorous tone of the castle bell proclaimed
midnight.
Theresa was awaiting Faust's arrival in the most pain-
ful sus use. '
The amp was already flickering, for the wick had burnt
down to its socket. -
But scarcely had the bell ceased to ring the signal for
the change of the sentinels around the walls when the
door opened, and Faust entered the room.
“ Theresa, I have kept my word," he said.
“ Oh! I knew that you would come, dearest Wilhelm,"
returned the maiden. “ But how can you effect my
escape P By what means do you thus easily traverse the
guarded castle P Tell me, Wilhelm—for, though I may
seem foolish in your eyes, my mind is oppressed with,
strange, and yet indescribable ideas when I reflect upon
the subject."
“ Theresa, I have bribed the guards heavily,” answered
Faust, in a hurried tone; “and the old matron sleep.=
soundly. Come!”
The young lady hesitated not to accompany her lover,
whose explanation seemed perfectly natural, and was, at
all events, satisfactory.
He took his cloak from his shoulders, and bade Theresa-
envelope herself in its ample folds.
She obeyed him, and did not forget the manuscript,
which she had carefully rolled up in her kerchief.
“ I am ready," she said.
“ I will lead the way,” returned Faust.
fearlessly: no one will dare to stop you.”
The manner in which these words were uttered im-
parted confidence to the mind of the maiden.
The passed through the matron’s room; the old we-
man s ept profoundly.
On the landing outside a man-at-arms was posted, with
his halberd in his hand.
Theresa drew back instinctively; but Faust seized her
by the hand, laid his finger upon his lip, and'led her
towards the stairs.
The man-an retained his station, without appear-
“ Follow me


28
PA US T.
At about five o’clock in the evening, Dewitz the captain
of the castle, marshalleda guard of honour which formed
two ranks on either side 0 the principal entrance to the
fortalice ; the drawbridge was lowered, and the chief
steward posted himself in a convenient spot, holding in
his hand a long list of those to whom invitations had been
sent.
Meantime, the Lady Theresa, dressed in an elegant
attire befittin her rank and greatly enhancin her beauty,
roceeded to the principal saloon, attended by er maidens,
da and Maria.
Charles Hamel, wearing the costume of a gentleman of
that period, and carrying his plumed hat in his hand, was
already seated in that apartment. When Theresa entered
he rose, lightly touched with his lips the hand which she
presented to him ; and, having thus fulfilled the courteous
usage of the times, he placed himself by the side of Maria,
in whose eyes a gleam of leasure shone when the hand-
some youth thus distinguished her with his preference.
Theresa seated herself on a large ottoman near a window
that commanded a view of the gate by which the guests
were to arrive. The reader may guess what was passing
in her mind; and her somewhat pale cheek, her palpita-
ting bosom, and her anxious glance showed that the lovely
heiress of Rosenthal was not altogether a stranger to
suspense.
In a few minutes the Baron, dressed as a nobleman of
the German empire, and wearing the gold collar which
denoted his high rank, entered the saloon, attended by two
pages in waiting.
After exchanging a few words with his daughter, he
observed her restlessness of manner, and bending over her
said, in a whisper—
“ Theresa, you are unhappy. Can you not call a smile
to your lips to welcome your father’s guests, who are even
now arrivin P”
“ My lor , we cannot alwa s command our feelings,”
returned Theresa, in a respec ul tone. “ But I trust that
I shall not be found wanting in courtesy towards those
who are about to assemble in your halls.”
“ You are grieved, Theresa, that I did not invite the
young student who has so long persecuted you with his
addresses.”
“ And who delivered me from the power of the
haughty Count of Linsdorf,” added Theresa, em hatically.
“ admit the eminence of that service, an hter,"
answered the Baron; “ and I despatched our aithful
Dewitz to his lodging to desire him to name his reward,
as well as the amount of the heavy sum which he must
have expended to bribe the Count’s guards. How he_
could have obtained such resources is to me the most in-
com rehensible. A pauper student l—”
“ e is not altogether what he seems,” said Theresa;
“ and without having any positive proof, I feel certain
that his means and his power—perhaps also his rank and
lgame—are higher than your lordship is inclined to be-
eve.“
“ On that head let us not dispute. Peradventure, I
behold him with less partial, and therefore more correct
eyes than you," continued the Baron. “ But as I was ere
now observing, I did all that became a peer and a belted
knight to acknowledge a service rendered by one of far
inferior de ree. My faithful Dewitz sought him in his
humble logging, and conveyed my mes e in the most
courteous terms. But the young man ras ly refused my
offers of forgiveness for the past, reward for the present,
and protection for the future ; and there was that in his
manner and his discourse which convinced the captain
that he is an em ty, even if not an insane, boaster."
Scarcely had t e Baron uttered these words, when the
foldin doors of the saloon were thrown open, and the
senesc l of the castle—an old and venerable man,
decked with the massive gold chain which was the
emblem of his office—announced “the most worshipful
and excellent Messer Kircher, the chief judge of Witten-
ber ."
Tiis important personage was about fift years of a c,
with a handsome countenance, but wea and slen er
form. His hair was only so far tinged with white that it
seemed an iron gray, his eyes were expressive of cunning,
and his lips wore a sardonic smile that denoted a cruel
and unrelenting disposition.
When he had saluted the Lady Theresa, the Baron
drew him aside, and said—
“ My daughter is still infatuated with that beggarly
student who lately escaped in so incomprehensible a
manner from the prison into which your excelleney had
thrown him."
At these words, which were spoken in a low and solemn

whisper, the countenance of the chief judge suddenly
lost all its ferocity, and assumed an expression of pro-
found terror.
“ My lord,” he answered, “ I dare not meddle further
with that young man.”
“ Nay, I seek not now to do him harm,” returned the
Baron. “ He has conferred an eminent service upon me,
by rescuing my daughter from the false caitifi of Lins-
dorf, and I dare not inflict the full measure of my wrath
upon him. But he must be removed from this district.
Your excellency will see that this be done with fitting
despatch and secrecy."
‘ Not for worlds, my lord,” replied the chief judge,
“ would I interfere with him again. Do you suppose
that when he was at large in Wittenberg, after having
esea ed from his dungeon, and thus dared the power of
the w—does your lordship suppose that I would have
suffered him to laugh at our authority, had I not suf-
ficient reason to wash my hands of him and his affairs 1‘”
“ And that reason P” asked the Baron.
For some moments the chief judge made no reply,
but his countenance grew ominously lowering and
sombre.
“ Were I on m death bed, my lord,“ he at length
answered, “ I won d scarcely reveal that secret to the
priest who confessed me.”
The find e turned away, to avoid further conversation
u ont isfiead, and the Baron’s attention was immediately
terwards diverted'from the subject by the announce
ment of other guests.
And nowa number of elegantly-dressed ladies and gay
knights and gentlemen entered the saloon. There were
also the chiefs of the university and the municipal
authorities, in their official costumes. Many of the young
ladies were distin ished for their beaut , but none
eclipsed Theresa, w 0 was the queen of love 'ness as well
as of the festival.
Presently the great bell on the castle donjon tolled;
and this was a signal to announce that the banquet was
served up.
Then the seneschal a peared at the door, holding a
white wand in his han , and bowed three times to the
assembled company. Such was the usage in the great
feudal habitations of the German peers in those times.
The chief judge presented his hand to Theresa, and the
other gentlemen and ladies formed a procession to the
banqueting hall. '
Charles Hamel conducted the fair Maria; for on these
occasions the favourite dependents of the lady of the
mansion were numbered amongst the guests.
The banqueting hall was lighted in a brilliant manner;
the tables groaned beneath the weight of the luxurious
viands and delicious wines spread upon them. Tilel
scene was altogether gorgeous and attractive in the‘
extreme.
The Baron took his seat at the head of the table ; his
daughter sat on his right hand. When all the guests, to
the number of a hundred, had taken their places,
Theresa cast a rapid glance around; but her eye en-
countered not him whose presence she expected, but
which she more or less dreaded, in consequence of the
opposition of her father to the young student’s suit.
Charles Hamel might have occupied a seat at the
upper art of the hall, by virtue of his rank as a entle-i
man, t e strong recommendations he had receiv from
high quarters, and his quality as the Baron’s guest; bm
he preferred a place in a less honoured part of the room.
because he would not separate from his fair comlpanion.
Thus, while the conversation was general e sewhere.
Charles was whispering tender things in the ears of Maria;
and the young maiden listened with joy in her eye and a
blush upon her cheek.
By degress, as the wine flowed more freely, and when
the viands had given place to vases of delicious fruits set
off with flowers, Charles and Maria were enabled to dis-
course without reserve, especially as the guest who had
hitherto occupied a seat next to Hamel had been com-
pelled to retire through sudden indis ition. 1
“ Sweet maiden," whispered Char es, “ not many da, ;
have I known thee; but encugh have I seen of thy gently;
disposition to learn to love thee. I am not rich, neither
am I noble, but I possess enough of the world’s most
coveted metal to insure a happy competency, and my
name has never been disgraced.”
"You honour me, Messer Hamel, with your offer,”
faltered Maria; “ but, remember, I am naught save a poor
peasant's orphan—one whom the Lady Theresa‘s mother
took compassion upon—_"
“ Were you still the inhabitant of a cottage, and were I


FA US T.
29

the proudest prince in Germany,” interrupted Hamel, en-
thusiastically, “ I should esteem myself blessed in your
love. Tell me, Maria—tell me, dearest maiden—can you
lipvedtge poor gentleman who now oifers you his heart and
an i)
The beautiful girl made no reply, but cast upon the
young man a look so full of tenderness and devotion that
he read the happy answer in her melting blue eyes—an
answer couched in all the sweetest meanings of the mute
language of love.
Maria then hastily glided out of the hall. Her heart
was too full of emotions of joy, and hope, and love to con-
tain its feelings ; for when bliss comes unexpectedly it
often demands a vent in tears, as well as sudden anguish.
Scarcely had the receding form of the charmin girl
disappeared when Charles Hamel felt someone touc him
upon the shoulder.
He looked round, and beheld a handsome young man,
splendidly attired, in the seat next to him-that seat which
had remained for some time vacant in consequence of the
sudden indisposition of the est who had quitted it. For
a moment Hamel thought t at it was the same guest, who
had returned to his seat; but a second glance at theyoung
man’s countenance convinced him that he was a new
comer.
“ You love that gentle maiden who has just retired P”
said the stranger, in a whisper.
“ And in what does that concern you P" demanded
Hamel, eyeing the young man, indignantly.
“ I will presently show you,” calmly replied the other.
“ Would you not consider that you owed a service to any-
one who was fortunate enough to save you from a des-
perate peril—to rescue you, in a word, from the abyss of
destruction ?”
“ Aye, certainly would I, Sir Stranger,” returned
Hamel, the scornful expression of his countenance now
yielding to an appearance of extreme curiosity. “ But am
I at this moment hovering on the eve of such danger, and
hast thou the power to save me P”
“ No—that is past,” rejoined the young stranger.
“ Wast then not rescued from the hands of the ofl‘icers of
the Bloody League in the midst of Linsdorf Forest P”
“ I was,” answered Hamel; “ and if you know my
delivercr~—’ ’
“ Patience for one moment. Wast thou not also saved
from death on the ramparts of this castle ?“ continued
the stranger.
“ Yes; and again I say——
“ The tall form mufiled in a long, dark cloak ”
“ Who saved me from the Vehm ?” added Charles.
“ And the knight in complete armour—“
“ Who rescued me on the ramparts P”
“ They were one and the same person,” said the
stran er.
“ en, how deep a debt of atitude do I owe to that
individual,” returned Charles amel. “ This strange and
mysterious—I had almost said supernatural—preserver on
these two occasions———-”
“ We have not time to waste words," interrupted the
stranger, impatiently. “ The moment is now at hand when
you can perhaps tcstif your atitude to your deliverer.”
“ My deliverer! W ere is e P What does he require P
How can I serve him P” said Charles Hamel, in a hurried
whisper.
“He is here,” replied the stranger.
liverer. “ .
“ You ?” said Charles.
“ Yes—I,” was the calm reply.
“ Then, generous man, name your demand—~and I swear
by the imperial—”
“ Nay—the task is an easy one, since you love the Lady
Theresa’s dependent, the beautiful Maria," interrupted
the stranger.
He then drew from the bosom of his doublet a paper,
which he unrolled and handed to Charles Hamel.
Charles glanced over its contents with the most pro-
found astonishment; and when he had perused them, he
turned a glance of mingled surprise and suspicion upon
the stranger.
“ I know you—no matter how,’ observed this singular
individual ; “ I have served you well upon two occasions
—-no matter why. Do I ask too great a been in return
for those services when I desire you to sign that paper P”
"‘ No; I owe you my life—I cannot hesitate to comply
with your request,” answered Charles. “ But I must
withdraw to my own chamber for pen and ink.”
“ Not so; I have both here,” said the stranger; and
he took from his doublet a small case containing writing
implements.

“ I am your de-

“ The guests will observe us—the Baron will deem our
conduct strange—”
“ See you not that we are unnoticed?” interrupted the
young stranger. “ The guests near us are intent upon
their own discourse—those at the upper end are listening
to some anecdote which the chief judge is relating—in a
word, not an eye is upon us.” '
A single glance convinced Charles Hamel that such was
the fact.
Accordingly, without another moment’s hesitation, he
seized the pen which the stranger presented to him, and
wrote something at the bottom of the paper.
The stranger instantly took the document from the
table, and handed it to someone who at that moment
passed behind him.
Charles Hamel cast a glance of surprise upon the
stranger.
“ I merely gave it to my valet,” remarked the latter,
calmly ; “ he will convey it to a place of safety.”
Hamel was about to make some answer, when cries of
horror from the upper end of the table, and a tremendous
ejaculation of rage from the Baron of Rosenthal, caused
hlign and the other guests near to start from their seats in
a rm. -
CHAPTER XIII.
THE INTERRUPTION or THE FESTIVAL.
IN order to explain the cause of this sudden and alarming
interru tion of the festivities, we must relate what had
been ta 'ng place at the upper end of the room while that
singular scene was enacting between Charles Hamel and
the young stranger.
Theresa endeavoured to respond as courteousl as
possible to the lively sallies and llant hrases w ich
were circulated at the su erior en of the all; but ever
and anon her cheek flus ed suddenly, and as suddenly
grew pale—for her mind was a prey to deep suspense and
all the emotions of anxiety.
The chief judge was b no means averse to the wine-
cup; and the quantity 0 mighty venison pasty which he
had appropriated to his use during the banquet appeared
to him to require a proportionate amount of good mal-
voisie to wash it down.
The Baron was by no means averse to keep his excellency
com any in emptying the silver flagon, and the other
kni ts, gentlemen, and worthies at the upper table
co (11 not do otherwise than follow so excellent an ex-
amp e.
The ladies in that quarter of the hall did not hesitate to
quaflf a cup of Rhcnish, as an agreeable accompaniment
to the fruits and sweetmeats which formed the dessert ;
and thus wit circulated, laughter raised its kindred echoes,
compliments evoked sweet smiles and tender glances, and
spailghtly anecdotes added to the conviviality.
armed by the generous wine, the chief judge, ad-
dressing himself to the Baron, Theresa, and those guests
who were in his immediate vicinity, exclaimed—-
“ You have hitherto done naught save laugh at every
tale and joyous saying that has met your ears. I will,
with your permission, relate an anecdote, which, me
thinks, you will not hear without interest."
“ Attention to his excellency i” cried the Baron.
All were immediately silent in that particular vicinity,
and as the chief judge went on with his narrative, several
of the guests who had been previously seated at a distance,
rose and approached the place which his excellency occu-
pied, in order to hear a tale characterised by an interest
that grew more absorbing as it proceeded—-
“ It was, as nearly as I can guess, twenty-four years
ago when I was appointed prothonotary to the Imperial
Chancery at Vienna. My duty, as you are doubtless well
aware, was to keep the archives of the empire and the re-
gisters of the Court. I had occupied that situation for
nearly a year, when I was one evening summoned in
haste to the palace of the Archduke Charles, the brother
of the present Emperor. I was ushered into amagnificent
saloon, where the Chancellor of the Empire and other
great dignitaries of the Court were already assembled. I
then learned that the Archduchess was momentarily ex-
pected to become a mother, and I accordingly prepared
my pa era for the re istry of the important event. here
were t ree doors to t at vast saloon. The first commu-
nicated with the grand staircase by which I had been
conducted thither ; the second 0 ened into the apartment
of the Archduchess ; and the t ird, which was exactly
opposite, belonged to the Chamber of the Cradle. You
are not, perhaps, all acquainted with the ceremonial ob-


30
FAUST.

served on occasions of the birth of German rinces, and
I will therefore explain the use and object of t 0 Chamber
of the Cradle. The moment a prince or a princess is
born the nurse receives the infant from its illustrious
mother and takes it into the adjoining apartment, where
it is shown to the great dignitaries there assembled.
The prothonotary then registers the hour of its birth, its
sex, the appearance of the infant—whether healthy or
sickly—and any other particulars which the medical at-
tendant may suggest as a means of proving the identity
of the imperial ofispring in case of need.
“ This ceremonial being accom lished, the nurse pro-
ceeds straight into the Chamber 0 the Cradle, where she
remains with the child until the next morning. During
the interval a soldier of the Imperial Guard, the members
of which all draw lots to decide on whom the honour is
to fall, mounts guard at the door of the Chamber of the
Cradle. Thus the child is said to be in the care of the
army. It is death to that sentinel to sleep on his post, or
to admit anyone save the physician into the Chamber of
the Cradle. Early on the morning following the birth,
the troops are drawn up in front of the palace where the
illustrious offspring was born, and that soldier who has
been chosen by lot to be its guard has the supreme honour
of appearing with it in his arms upon the balcony, and
presenting it to the people. Then that soldier receives
promotion and reward, and the ceremony of the Chamber
of the Cradle is concluded.”
“ How singular!” exclaimed several of the guests.
“That ceremony has existed for a lon period,“ said
the chief judge ; “ and now that you are f y acquainted
with the particulars, you will the better understand my
narrative. I observed ere now that her Im erial High-
ness the Archduehess was about to fulfil the opes of her
affectionate husband. We had not been long assembled
when the Archduke Charles made his appearance amongst
us, and greeted us most cordially. Then passed an hour
of suspense—almost of uninte ted silence. At length
the Duchess’s chamber was opene , and the chief hysic'ian
came forward to announce that her Imperial ighness
had given birth to a prince. That prince, I need scarcely
observe, is the present Archduke Leopold."
“To whom my daughter is betrothed,” said the Baron,
proudly; “ and who will no doubt shortly visit Rosenthal
to claim his bride.”
Theresa with difliculty repressed a profound sigh.
“ The moment that this announcement was made,”
continued the chief judge, “we all congratulated his Im-
perial Highness the Archduke Charles upon the birth of
an heir to his illustrious house, and the Archduke re-
sented the physician with a ring of immense value. he
physician then returned into the chamber of the Arch-
duchess ; and in another hour the nurse appeared, bearing
the infant prince in her arms. My duty was speedily ful-
filled; the child was healthy, and the Archduke was
enraptured with the honours of paternity. A messenger
was immediately despatched to the barracks of the Im-
perial Guard, to notify to the commandin officer that it
was now time to send to the archducal p ace the soldier
who had been chosen to perform the duty of sentinel at
the door of the Chamber of the Cradle. Presently that
sentinel arrived. He was a tall, handsome man, about
thirty years of age—a native of Hungary, and named
Ulric Kinis. But there was something in his countenance
which I did not like—although I scarcely knew why I
conceived that sudden prejudice against him. However,
it was not for me to mention my capricious suspicions,
and the ceremonial proceeded. The nurse repaired, with
the illustrious child in her arms, into the Chamber of the
Cradle ; the door closed behind her, and the sentinel took
his place near it. The Archduke, the Chancellor, and the
various dignitaries retired, and I was, of course, compelled
to follow them. A banquet was served up to us in an-
other apartment, but I withdrew early, for I felt unmsy
--and yet I knew not why —-relative to the fidelity of
Ulric Kinis.”
“ Simply because he had a countenance which did not
please your excellency,” returned the Baron, laughing.
“ Whether I was justified or not in my suspicions, your
lordship will presently see,” continued the chief jud e.
" I stole away from the banquet, and hastened to t 0
great saloon in which the sentinel was mounting guard.
By virtue of my situation I had right of access to that
part of the archducal palace, for, as eeper of the archives
and register of the imperial births, marriages, and deaths,
I was justified in satisfying m self that the sentinel kept
due and careful watch at the cor of the Chamber of the
Cradle. I entered the saloon very gently; the lamps were
burning brightly, and their lustre was enhanced by re-

mirrors. To my surprise Ulric Kinis
advanced to the door of the Chamber of
‘ At
flection in man
was not there.
the Cradle, and heard persons speaking within.
midnight,’ said one voice, which I recognised to be that '
of the hysician.—‘ The palace will then be quiet, and
there Will be no fear of interruption,’ observed the nurse-
—‘ And my reward ?’ said Kinis, the sentinel.—‘ It is
here,’ answered the physician : ‘ I will give thee this ring
of incalculable price, which his Imperial Highness pre-
sented to me. The moment that the change is effected
and that I see you are really devoted to my interests, and
those of my sister, this ring shall be transferred from my
finger to yours.’—‘ In that case, I am willing to adhere to
our bargaiu,’ said Kinis.—‘ And you will ever find myself
and my husband disposed to befriend you in any emer-
gency,’ observed the nurse.—‘ Yes,’ continued the phy-
sician; ‘for I have staked fortune, life, and everything
upon this design ; and my wife, in accept' the appoint-
ment of nurse to carry out the schemgfiias done the
same.’—‘ It shallbe as you desire,’ said Kinis; ‘ did I not
assure you this afternoon, when you sought me after the
lot had fallen upon me, that I was anxious to enrich
myself at any sacrifice ?’—‘ True,’ replied the physician ;
‘ and you shall be enriched, for this ring will realize for
you a fincer fortune.’—As I then heard a movement
within he Chamber of the Cradle, as if the sentinel were
about to come forth, and as I had heard quite suficient
to convince myself that some infernal treachery was in
train, I hastily withdrew from the saloon.”
“ Now the plot thickens,“ said the Baron. “ Attention
to his excellency.“ -
But scarcel had the Baron uttered these words when
some one rus ed from behind the high back of his chair,
and struck a naked dagger forcibl into the table.
So suddenly was this deed e ormed, and such a sen-
sation did it produce,that the individual who pe etrated
it disappeared before any one thought of even 100 ' g for
im.
The Baron uttered an ejaculation of furious rage, and
the guests gave vent to a simultaneous cry of horror.
For round the handle of the weapon was twisted the
cord—dread emblem of the Vehm ; and to that cord was
fastened a slig of parchment, whose significant signature
consisted of t ree daggers.
Theresa screamed, and cast a glance of ineifable agony
around, when she beheld that fearful symbol, so abruptly
thrown, as it were, amongst the assembled guests.
“ By the Virgin l” ejaculated the Baron, “ he must be
a bold man who hath done this! He! minions, let the
drawbridge be raised; let the sentinels be doubled round
the walls; and see that no one leaves the castle, on peril
of your lives!”
The men-at-arms who were stationed near the door of
the hall hastened to execute these orders.

“And now,” said the Baron, “let us see what this in- ,
solent missive contains.”
But though he spoke thus boldly, the Lord of Rosenthal
could scarcely subdue a shuddering sensation, nor sup-
press a partial quivering of the lip as he read aloud the
contents of the parchment slip :—
“ By the Cord and Dagger you are commanded to ap-
ear beneath the lime tree on Wallenstein-hill, at mid-
ay, 0n the Sabbath ensuing the receipt of this summons;
and thither you are ordered to repair unarmed and un-
attended. Wherein see that you fail not. “ Hf ”
“ I swear,” continued the Baron, his 0 es now flashing
fire, “ that I will accord to him who sh I detect the per-
petrator of this outrage whatsoever boon he may ask,
provided that it be in my power to grant it; and this I
vow by my rank as a noble of the German Empire, and
by my honour as a belted knight !”
“ Amen l“ exclaimed the chief justice.
“Be mine that task!” cried the young stranger who
was seated next to Charles Hamel, and who started from
his seat, elevating his fine but slender form to its full
height as he uttered those words.
“What? Faust !” ejaculated the Baron, in astonish-
ment at beholding the young student amongst his guests.
“ Well—be it as you say!"
“Wilhelm l” murmured Theresa; and vague hopes
which she could scamer define, were suddenly excited in
the maiden’s gentle breast.
_—


PA US T. 31

CHAPTER XIV.
run THREE OBJECTIONS.
11‘ may be readily supposed that the interruption which
the festivities had sustained in so sudden a manner pro-
duced the greatest excitement amongst the guests
assembled in the hall of Rosenthal Castle.
All eyes were turned towards Faust, and Charles
Hamel now learned for the first time the name of him
who was his deliverer, and at whose request hehad signed
a certain document a few moments greviously.
But the excitement thus reduce amon st those pre-
sent was not immediately a lowed to subsi e ; for Faust,
waving his hand in an authoritative manner, as if to com-
mand the com any to retain their places until his return,
passed abrupt y from the hall.
Several minutes elapsed in profound silence, then a few
stifled whispers arose here and there; but these were
suddenly cut short by the opening of the folding doors of
the hall once more, and Faust reappeared.
In the midst of the most solemn silence, he advanced
towards the upper end of the hall, and said—-
“ My lord, the culprit is in custody. Your men-at-arms
have him in their power.”
“ Thanks, worthy sir,” answered the Baron. “ I will
keep my promise to thee as soon as the daring wight shall
have been disposed of. Fortunatel , to assist our pro-
ceedings, his excellency the chief ju go is resent, and it
remains for him to say how fara self-constituted tribunal
is justified in sending its murderous agents to menace the
lives of the peers and chief of the German Empire in their
very halls.”
“ As a superior of one of the legally appointed courts,”
answered the chief judge, “ I cannot do otherwise than
detest proceediu that take the functions of justice
from the hands 0 hose tribunals which ri htfully exist;
and I consider the members of the oly Vehm as
opponents to the sovereign privileges of our most glorious
Emperor.”
Although the chief judge spoke these words with great
firmness, they were nevertheless heard with a shudder by
many present, and the blushing check of beauty and the
contracting brow of knighthood bore testimony to the
alarm excited by so audacioust expressed an opinion of
the tremendous tribunal of the Blood League.
“ Of a surety,” said the Baron, “ the violence of these
secret assassins passes all bounds. There can be no doubt
that this summons emanated from the Count of Linsdorf,
who is well known to be a chief amongst the members of
the Vehm. The proud noble, unable to conquer me in
fair fight, seeks my life b the means of the cord and
dagger. Sa , Mcsser Kirc er,” he continued, addressing
himself to t e chief judge, “what punishment should I
inflict upon the wretch who has dared to mar our festivi-
ties this evening ?”
“ Is the accuser well prepared to prove that the prisoner
is the person who did rean and truly perpetrate that
outrage!" exclaimed the j u go.
“ He does not deny the fact; be rather glories in it,”
answered Faust. ‘ Moreover, the secret instructions
which he received from his superiors have been found
upon him.“
“ In that case,” continued the judge, “ we may spare
this fair company the pain of gazing upon a member of a
fraternity of assassins—we will not have him brought
hither; but do you, my lord, command that he be forth-
with hanged over the principal entrance of Rosenthal
Castle, as an examele to all those who venture to obey
the behests of the loody League.”
“ Dewitz,” cried the Baron, “ let the prisoner be forth-
with punished as his excellency has ordained; and
hesitate not—pause not—show no mercy, be he who or
what he may.’
“ Such is also no command, good captain,’ exclaimed
‘ the chief judge, w 0 was ever anxious to adopt roceed_
ings which mi ht impair the influence and wea en the
authority of t e Vehm—a feeling which he shared in
common with all the legally appointed judicial authorities
of Germany. “ Hesitate -not—— pause not—show no
mercy," he continued, his dark eyes flashing and his lips
wearing a more cruel expression than ever. “And should
there be any member of that unholy and illegal con-
federation now present,” he added, “ let him take warning
from the course which the only true justice recognised in
the realm is now about to take.”
Dcwitz bowed, and hurried from the hall.
80 profound an impression of terror had this bold pro-
ceeding on the part of the Baron and the chief judge
I
' ‘ discourse.

produced amongst the guests, that not a voice—not even
a female voice—was raised to implore mercy for the
prisoner.
Theresa alone cast a lance of compassionate appeal
towards her father; but e answered it with a frown, and
the maiden’s eyes fell, abashed and overawed, beneath
that ominous look.
“And now, Sir Student,” cried the Baron, after a pause,
“ I pledged my word as a peer and my honour as a knight
to grant whatever request should be demanded of me by
him who would deliver the agent of the Bloody League
into my power. From that pledge I am in nowise in-
clined to fly; for it behoves me to show that I can reward
as well as punish. At the same time remember, Sir
Student,” continued the Baron, si ificantly, “ that there
is a qualification to my vow, which only permits me to
grant what I may not consistently refuse.”
“ Your lordship’s words were these,” said Faust,
boldly :—-“ ‘ I will accord to him who shall detect the per-
petrator of this outrage whatsoever boon he may ask,
provided it be in my power to grant it.’ ”
“ Your memory is a good one, Sir Studen ,” answered
the Baron ; “ and as I owe you large recompense for
another service which you performed, in delivering the
Lady Theresa from the power of the Count of Linsdorf,
hesitate not to name a reward that will satisfy all the
obligations due from me to thee at once.”
“ Ere I name my demand,” said Faust, “ it wereas well
to inform your lordship that there was another small
service which I was enabled to render you, and which need
not remain concealed. On the day when the warriors of
Linsdorf stormed your castle, it was I who, attired in
complete armour and wearing snow-white plumes, re-
stored coui co to your troops, and enabled them to
repulse your oemen.”
“ The tale has reached thine ears, Sir Student,” said the
Baron, sarcastically; “ and thou dost untruly proclaim
thyself the hero of that day.”
“ Do you doubt me?” cried Faust, his- countenance
flushing with the deepest crimson. “ I could give your
lordship such convincin proof——— But, no; I appeal to
Messer Hamel, whether will put faith in my assertion."
“ I cannot doubt it,“ re lied Charles; “ I believe Iowe
my life to that brave you on two distinct occasions.”
“ Then am I bound to thank thee, Sir Student, for that
service also,” returned the Baron, with but indifferent
grace. “ Therefore would you do well to combine the three
rievivards I owe you in one, and name it without further
e a .“
“ t shall be so,” said Faust; then, elevating his voice,
he exclaimed, “ I appeal to your lordship and to all this
honoured com any, whether the man who delivered the
home of the no le race of Rosenthal from the pillage and
plunder of revengeful assailants—who restored your
ordship’s daughter to her father’s arms when her fate
seemed to depend upon the success of the hostilities which
you meditated, and which might have ended in defeat-—
who has new fulfilled your earnest wish in placing at
your lordship’s disposal the individual b whom a vile
outrage was erpetrated against you in t 0 presence of
your guests— appeal to you whether the man who has
done this, asks too much when he demands the hand of
your beauteous daughter ?”
All eyes were turned towards the Baron; and from him
they were cast, as if bya common impulse, upon Theresa.
For a few moments the brow of the former became
overshadowed ; but he evidently exerted himself to subdue
his angry feelings.
Theresa blushed deeply and hung down her head.
“ The services that you have rendered me, Sir Student,"
at length spoke the Baron, “ are so great that it would be
inconsistent with true chivalry and knightl courtes to
answer you rudely. At the same time you ave ma e a
demand which it is beyond my power to grant, and my
refusal is shielded by the qualification to my vow, of
which I latel made mention.“
“ My lord, ’ replied Faust, while all present listened to
this strange colloquy with profound interest, “ there are
but three reasons which could induce you to refuse me
your daughter’s hand. The first is a supposition that I
am poor in purse and ignoble in position—tho second is
that the Lady Theresa herself may not be willing to
bestow her affections upon me—the third is that she is
betrothed to another." ‘
“ Thou art a most subtle casuist against thyself, Faust,”
observed the Baron, growin somewhat impatient at the
“ Even his exce ency the chief judge, who is
famed as a subtle lawyer, could not make out a better
case against thee.”


32
FA UST.

“ Let us see,” answered Faust, proudly. “ Not far from
Vienna stands the lordly castle of Aurana; and thereto
belong broad lands whose horizon is far more extensive
than that of the fief of Rosenthal. To these possessions
is attached the style and title.of Count and peer of the
German Empire—a distinction and rank, my lord, as
great as thine.”
“And how does all this avail thee, Sir Student P” de-
_ manded the Baron. “ I am well aware that the fief of
which thou speaketh lately devolved, through default of
the heirship, to the imperial crown ; but who in Germany
is wealthy enough to purchase it P”
“That fief is mine,” answered Faust ; “mine also is
the title.”
Then, taking a parchment from the bosom of his
doublet, he opened it before the chief judge, saying—
“ His excellency, who was once prothonotary in the
Imperial Chancery, can testify whether this be a true
deed or a base fabrication.”
Messer Kircher cast a rapid and astonished glance over
the document, and then said-
“ This is a‘good and legal title.
signature right well.”
“ My lord Count of Aurana,” exclaimed the Baron,
astounded at this news, “ your place is at this board—with.
as. Thou hast proved thy rank and fortune; and I give
thee great joy of their possession. It may also be that
my daughter would not repulse thy suit—but the third
objection which your lordship’s self started is invincible.
The Lady Theresa is betrothed to another.”
“ And that troth is broken,” exclaimed Faust.
“ Broken, how say you ?” cried the Baron.
“ I will explain this new eni ma,” continued Faust.
“ Few here are unaware that I ately languished in the
prison of the neighbouring city. My release was effected
by one—”
Here the chief judge trembled from head to foot.
“ By one,” continued Faust, “ who possesses wealth
and power beyond your limited conception. He took
com assion on me; and not content with restoring me to
free om, employed a pertion of his wealth to purchase
the fief which enriches and ennobles me. By day and
night he travelled till he reached Vienna, where business
was concluded in a few hours. There he encountered the
Archduke Leopold, who intrusted him with a document
for the Baron of Rosenthal. By day and night he tra-
velled till he arrived at Wittenberg again. He returned
but a few hours since; and now let him deliver his sealed
packet to your lordshifi.”
An individual of ta form, plain attire, and with a
melancholy cast of countenance, advanced from the lower
%&rt of the hall, and presented a sealed document to the
aron.
While the Lord of Rosenthal was opening it, Faust, who
had advanced to the upper table, inclined his head over
Theresa’s chair, and said in a hasty whisper, “ Beloved
one, thou shalt be mine i”
The Baron glanced his e es hastily over the document,
and then threw it upon t e table with an air of bitter
disappointment, exclaiming at the same time, “ The Arch-
duke cancels the betrothal of his own accord?”
The chief judge drew the parchment towards him, and
read it attentively.
“ His Imperial Highness,” he observed, when he had
perused it, “ acts most nobly. He says that he is aware
that the Lad Theresa has conferred her affections upon
another ; an be as candidly admits that he himself is
enamonred of one whose virtues and good qualities have
made his heart unalterably hers.”
“ What answer does your lordship now give to my
suit?” demanded Faust, after a few minutes of profound
silence.
“ Count of Aurana,” replied the Baron, “ you have con-
quered ever objection.”
Faust too the hand which Lady Theresa extended to
him and kissed it respectfully, while many voices offered
him their congratulations.
I know the imperial
CHAPTER XV.
THE CONDITION—THE nnvnnen.
THE incidents which we have narrated in the last chapter
took place with a rapidity which hurried the attention
and_the interest of the guests along with a species of gal-
vanic ower. .
Eac consecutive event was of a nature to banish the
preceding one from the minds of the inmates of the hall,
and engross all curiosity to itself.

Thus, when the cord and dagger so suddenly ap ared
uplon the table, the chief judge’s anecdote concermng the
C amber of the Cradle was forgotten : then, when the
Baron and the judge doomed a member of the Vehm to
death unheard, and in so summary a manner, the outrage
which the cul rit had erpetrated was absorbed in the
terror which is punis ent inspired around =—-and,
in its turn, this feeling was displayed by the interest,
suspense, curiosity, and surprise excited by the demand
that Faust had made for Theresa’s hand, and the incidents
which had led him to triumphant success in his difficult
suit.
Having drunk a cup of wine in honour of the Count of
Aurana and his intended bride, the ladies all withdrew
from the banqueting hall to the magnificent saloons
above, where tables were spread with cakes, sweetmeats,
and pastry, and all the refinements of German cookery
known at that period.
Faust also 1e t the hall upon some pretext; but it was
not to follow the fair portion of the guests. His ste s
were bent to the ramparts, and there, in an obscure noo ,
formed by the angle of one of the works, he accosted an
individual who was lounging over the parapet, and ap-
parently waiting for him.
“ Thou hast succeeded, Faust,” said the Demon—for it
was he—in his deep, sonorons voice.
“ I have succeeded, truly,” answered the Count of
Aurana : “ the ceremony shall take place three days
hence. But can no entreaties move thee to relax the
awful conditions which thou hast imposed upon me P’ ’
No human power can make me change,” was the reply.
“ Weak mortal, art thou ever repenting of the past—ever -
looking with anxiet to the future?”
“ The future l" adyded Faust, with a shudder. “ Oh ! to
me that idea is horrible l”
“ Think, then, of the joys of the present,” returned the
demon. “ Theresa wilt be thine—naught now can separate
her from thee. Thou hast humbled her proud and
ban hty father: there thy vengeance is satisfied. And
on t e chief judge the thunderbolt of thy wrath has fallen
with terrific fury.”
“ He has yet to feel the blow—and that will be ere
long," answered Faust; and, as the Demon reminded him
of all he had done, the young man rejoiced and felt pride
in that power for which he was to pay so terrific a price
hereafter.
“ Did I not counsel thee wisely,” continued the Demon,
“ when I advised thee to save the life of him whom the
members of the Vehm were about to hang to the tall pine
in the forest? Did I not instruct thee for thy good when
I told thee to rescue him again on the ramparts of Rosen-
thal? Was I not right when I enjoined thee to allow the
Lord of Linsdorf to succeed in carrying away Theresa, ere -
thou didst hasten to the assistance of the Baron P Short-
» sighted mortal l hadst thou listened to my advice through-
out, there would have been no need to raise that appalling
storm which desolated the land! Thou shouldst have
rescued Theresa at once, as thou didst at last when her
virtue proved stronger than thine eloquence and thine
allurements.”
“Had you not deceived me, fiend, in respect to her love -
for another ? Did you not beguile me with thy delusion
of the portrait P” demanded Faust, enraged at the Demon’s
reproaches. I '
“ Well—well—enon h of that!” cried the Demon, with
a sardonic laugh. “ did all I could to make thee mine;
and now do I not serve thee faithfully P In three days,
thou sayest, the bridal ceremony is to take place.”
“ In three days I shall make Theresa mine,” returned
Faust. “ And yet I hesitate—yes, I hesitate to comply
with that cruel condition which will entail an early death
upon my first-born son.” . _ _
“ Nay, do not hesitate to secure thine own happiness,
Faust," said the Demon: “ and, at all events, do not re.
proach me 1”
“ Reproach you! Whom, then, should I reproach?”
“ Yourself! You should have argued every clause of
that agreement which makes me thine for fourand twenty
years, and then makes thee mine for all eternity.”
“ Oh! much should I have. gained,” exclaimed Faust,
bitterly, “ had I reasoned, debated, ar ed, and _con-
sidered every condition with you! Your i ernal sophistry
would have overcome me.”
“ Perha s," said the Demon, with a low chuckle. “ But
how stan s the present case P Let us contemplate it
fairly. Onr agreement stipulates that thou shalt not
enter a sacred fane or place of holy worship, to perform
therein any rite or ceremony, without my consent—under
penalty of giving me immediate and full power over thee.


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FA US T.
35



Thou best seen that Theresa would not desert her father
and forget her maidenly position to fly with thee. Thou
hast been compelled to gain her by means apparently
fair and honourable; and now then hesitatest upon the
portal of the church wherein is the altar to which you
must conduct her.”
“ Hesitate!” ejaculated Faust; “and wherefore do I
hesitate ?” he continued, wildly. “ Because, as the sole
condition on which you consent to waive that clause
which would make me thine at once—because as the
only inducement by which thou wilt permit me to appear
at the altar where Theresa is to be made mine, you de-
mand that I assign to thee the same power over my first-
born son as thou dost already possess over me ! Oh!
have I not already given up enough P” cried Faust, con-
vulsed with rage: “why wouldst thou demand more—-
and that more so much 7”
“ My thirst for conquest over man is perhaps insati-
able,’ ’ returned the Demon, with cold and provoking calm-
ness.
“ Fiend—vile, remorseless fiend!” ejaculated Faust;
“ wouldst thou even make a man who is not yet wedded
—far less nearer ipaternity—“piledge the body and soul of
his prospective o sprin to t ee P”
“ I would,” answere the Demon.
dition I insist on now.”
“ Then, if those who people hell are all like-thee,” eon-
tinned Faust, in a tone of mingled rage and despair,——“ if
the denizens of that far-off world whence you come are
as cruel and remorseless as thou,—-oh! to what a fate
have I consigned myself! Did poor unconscious mortals
know what I feel now—what I apprehend in future—and
what I have learnt from studying thee, they would sooner
rot in the deepest dungeons all their lives,—-sooner crawl
like the veriest worms in nakedness and misery,-sooner
embrace starvation, rags, and every nameless wretched-
ness, as a been and as a glory—than turn one single
step aside to amend their position by acrime, and thereby
risk the company of such as thou in eternal fires of
hell !”
“Thy rage is useless,” said the Demon, unmoved by
this address. “ But let me draw a picture for thy con-
templation. Surrounded by delicious gardens, where all
the fairest flowers and choicest fruits of the earth are
found,—commanding a view of beauteous landscapes
through which the streams wind their silver way between
banks whereon countless herds and flocks are grazing;—
while in the horizon green woods and verdant groves woo
the steps of youthful lovers into the shade of their calm
retreats, and where the air is filled with the delicious
melody of myriads of birds,—in the midst of all those
joyous and inviting scenes stands a. sumptuous mansion.
Within its walls all the luxuries and enjoyments that art,
device, or wealth can procure, are found. The marble
halls are in summer refreshed and rendered pleasant by
the play of limpid fountains, margined with flowers ; and
the saloons, in winter, are filled with a warm and per-
fumed atmosphere which inspires the most voluptuous
and luxurious thoughts. For one in all the vigour .of
youth and health, to wander amidst those fair scenes
without the walls, supgiorting on his arm the loveliest of
earth’s women—the air one of his choice,—to loiter
with her in those cool halls when the vertical sun of
summer makes the air heavy and oppressive elsewhere ;
—-or, again to recline with her upon a downy ottoman, in
a saloon whose warmth, well and equally sustained by
artificial means, defies the nipping frost of winter,——tell
me, what earthly happiness can compete with all this P"
“ Oh! the picture is indeed delightful l” exclaimed
Faust, in a tone of ra ture—his late rage, remorse, and
despair having melted ' e snow before the glowing and
impassioned language of the cunning Demon.
“ That scenery and that mansion re resent the flef of
Auraua !” replied the fiend: “ that ten er couple, leading
so blissful a Mo, are yourself and Theresa."
“ Enough—enon h! I agree to your condition,” ex-
claimed Faust. “ iet me sign it now.”
“ 'Tis well,” said the Demon.
He produced a parchment scroll and writing materials
on the spot : the moon sent forth a light so beautiful and
clear, that those two beings required no artificial lamp
to aid them in concluding their unnatural compact.
The Demon then departed in one direction, and Faust
proceeded along the ramparts in another.
In a few minutes he drew near the tower overlooking
the princi al entrance.
To a gi bet upon that eminence hung a human form,
the chain by which it was suspended creaking ominously.
The body was oscillating gently; and every now and

“ Such is the con-

then the pure light of the moon fell, as the corpse turned
round, upon its ghastly countenance.
“ Thus does justice overtake the cowardly menials
of the Vehm I” said a voice close by Faust,
“ True,” returned the Count of Aurana, who imme-
diatel recognised the chief judge. “But, meseems, you
shoul know the wretch that is swinging there.”
“ I!’ ejaculated Messer Kireher ; “ that is scarcely pro-
bable, my lord,”
“ Approach, and let us see," said Faust ; and he has-
tened up the steps leading from the rampart to the top of
the tower.
The chief judge followed him.
“ New canst thou obtain a full view of that pale and
ghastly countenance,” said Faust, in a tone of malignant
—infernal triumph.
The chief judge drew nearer, cast one look upon the
face of the corpse, and uttered a piercing cry, exclaim-
ing, “ My son—my son! my only son !”
And he staggered against the parapet.
“ Corru t and cruel judge," said Faust; “ now have
I repaid t e debt I owe thee for the long and undeserved
captivit to which you doomed me, and the untimely
death w ich you had reserved for me on the scaflold !”
While the wretched father rent the air with his agoniz-
ing but nnavailing cries, Faust walked slowly away,
triumphing in the ferocity of his revenge.
__.._
CHAPTER XVI.
' THE vrsrr TO THE PALACE.
OUR narrative now takes a leap of a few weeks, and the
reader must transport himself to Vienna.
There, at a house in one of the narrowest, poorest, and
most obscure streets of the imperial city, and in a room
but indifferently furnished, sat Charles Hamel and his
lovely bride, Maria.
It was evening : a lamp burned upon the table, whereon
the frugal meal was also spread.
Charles anxiously watched the charming countenance
of his wife as they partook of that repast ; but whenever
her eyes were turned—and that was often—with looks of
ineifable tenderness and love towards him, he hastened
to meet her glance, as it were, so as not to allow her to
perceive with what attention he had been endeavouring
to read her thoughts by the expression of her face.
And she was happy—oh! su remely happy: bright
smiles played upon her lips, an joy lighted up her eyes
—for she was with her husband, whom she fondly loved.
“ We have been more than ten days in Vienna, dearest,”
said Charles, “ and you have not once thought of visiting
the great public buildings. Our rambles have been few
-—and those always in the unfrequented paths beyond the
suburbs.”
“ When we walk abroad, Charles," answered Maria,
“ I feel as I do when we are at home. I have no ears for
any sound save your voice—no eyes for an ht save your
countenance. When you smile upon me, am happy-—
and desire nothing more."
“ But you will not always be content to lead this lonely
life—even with me P” said Charles.
“ Yes—alwa s,” replied Maria.
“ Sweet gir , how amiable is your dis osition—how
sincere your heart I” cried the enraptured C arles. “ You
have never once allowed me to know that you remember
how I have deceived you."
“ Deceived me !" exclaimed Maria, taking his hand and
pressing it fondly. “ Impossible, Charles ! You have
not deceived me—you would not deceive me! Oh! what
do you mean by those mysterious words?”
“ Nay—they cease to be mysterious when you look
around you, aria,” returned Charles. “ Did I not assure
thee, on that evening when I revealed my love, and re-
ceived the sweet avowal of thine, at Rosenthal Castle,
that I possessed a competent fortune P”
“And have we not enough ?" asked Maria, with a sweet
smile; “a house to shelter us, and food to sustain us?
What more can we require—440 long as we are together
“ Oh! Maria,” exclaimed the young man, “ you will not
admit that I have deceived you! And yet, when you look
around and see these naked walls—this scanty furniture——
and this frugal meal, you must feel that such is not the
happy competency which you believed me to possess, and
which you eXpected to find !”
“ Charles—dearest Charles," answered Maria, “I call
heaven to witness the truth—the sincerity with which I
assure you that I need no splendour, no opulence, to make
me happy! There breathes not a woman on the face of


36
FA US T.

the earth more blessed than I—in my own estimation!
What was I when you first saw me ?-a menial "
“Yes; but you inhabited a splendid mansion, where
you shared in all the luxuries which surrounded its mis-
tress,” interrupted Hamel.
“ Oh! Charles, 'you do not know my heart !” cried
Maria, tears trickling down her cheeks. “ Had you been
a peasant, compelled to toil from morn to night to earn a
scanty and precarious livelihood—and had I, in wedding
you, been forced to perform the lowest and most menial
offices; were we reduced to share a crust, and drink from
the stream—or compelled to wander houseless about the
wide world, not knowing when we rose at morn where
we should lay our heads again at night—dependent even
upon charity for the means to sustain existence, and
without a hearth that we could call our own, or any
other curtain to shield us than heaven’s own natural
canopy—oh! then—even then, dear Charles, would you
see smiles upon my lips and joy in my eyes—so long as
those smiles were met by thine, and that joy was reflected
back in thy glances!” °
“ Fond, amiable, disinterested being !" exclaimed
Charles, pressing his charming wife to his bosom. “ Oh!
I knew not when, three days after I first asked thy love,
our hands were joined at the same altar where the Count
of Aurana was also blest with his beloved Theresa—I
knew not then the full value of the treasure which I pos-
sessed in thee !”
“ When on speak thus to me, Charles,” murmured
Maria, as s e imprinted a tender kiss upon her husband’s
brow, “ I feel that it were better to wed a beggar whom
one loves than a prince on whom the heart cannot be
conferred. Oh ! never talk again of deceiving me! You
romised me your love—and you have kept your word;
had you promised me a palace, and conducted me to a
hovel, I should not think that you had deceived me, so
long as I owned that love of thine !"
“Providence will in some way reward you for this
noble—this enerous conduct on your part, Maria,” re-
turned Char es. “ I now perceive that the love of woman
exists not only in romance, and song, and legend : it has
life and enduring vitality in her gentle heart! Maria,
you have made me happ ~supremely happy. Yes—this
room is large, naked, an dreary; and that solitary lamp
diffuses but a sad lustre around. But when you are here,
all is bright, brilliant, and beautiful: your smiles are
more pleasinithan the rich appointments of gilded saloons
—your eyes, right with the rays of love, by far outshine
the myriads of resplendent lamps. Yes, Maria—I am
happy beyond all description."
“And never shall you experience woe through me,”
answered Maria.
There was such profound sincerity in the words and
manner of the young wife, that to doubt her would have
been as monstroust wicked, and as palpably absurd as
to deny the presence of the beanteous flowers which de-
eplrate the earth, or the warmth of the sun which nurtures
t em.
“ It is not my intention, nor my wish,” continued
Charles Hamel, after a long pause, “ that we should lead
the lives of hermits because we are poor. There are spec-
tacles in this city, on which the humblest and most needy
are permitted to gaze, as well as the proudest and most
opulent. Such sights cheer the spirits, and interrupt,
in a wholesome manner, the monotony of a regular life.
To-morrow, my sweetest Maria, we will inspect one of the
principal palaces of Vienna, which, in consequence of the
absence of its princely owner, is, on certain days, open to
the public. You are fond of beautiful paintings, and
choice specimens of the arts; your good taste will find
food for its study there."
“ Supported on your arm, dearest eCharles,” replied
Maria. “ I shall experience the sincerest pleasure in con-
templating those specimens of which you speak. Whose
palace is it that we shall visit P” -
“ That of the Archduke Leopold,” replied Charles.
“ The prince whom the Lord of Rosenthal had so long
looked upon as his intended son-in-law ?” asked Maria.
“ The same. But it appears that he loved another, and
espoused her in preference to the Lady Theresa. Do you
blame him ?"
“ Oh! no !” answered Maria, enthusiastically. “ Had
he insisted upon my dear lady accompanying him to the
altar, and thus fulfil a contract ma e for them, and not
by themselves—while she herself had bestowed her affec-
tions on another—I should have despised him. As it is,
I honour and respect him.”
“ Thou hast spoken well, Maria," observed Charles.
“ To-morrow we will visit the archducal palace; and


as we must not appear in a garb denoting our humble
SOSlthD, thou wilt please me by wearin the same costly
_ ress in which {on accom anied me to t e altar, and the
{iiwels which t 0 Lady eresa gave thee on that happy
y.
_“If it will please you, Charles,” answered the young
Wife, “ I will do as you direct me."
That happy pair then retired to their humble pallet in
an adjacent room.
On the following morning, Maria arrayed herself in her
best attire; and never had she a peared more lovely in
the eyes of her enraptured husband).
He also was dressed in his iyest a parel ; and any-
one who had'then gazed upon t at han some young man
and that lovely creature, who clun so fondly to his arm,
would have perceived a fitness in t leir union, and a wise
ordination of heaven which had brought them thus
together. ,
And now, having partaken of the morning’s frugal
meal, they set out together towards the palace of the im-
perial prince—the dwelling of the individual who bore a
rank next to that of the Emperor and his son.
The principal gate of the palace was soon reached ; and
the young couple entered Without a question being asked
of them.
The pile was spacious, lofty, and magnificent. A vast
hall, crowded with officials in gorgeous dresses, was tra-
versed ; and the two visitors ascended a grand marble
staircase, which led them to several handsome ante-rooms,
ornamented with beautiful statues.
The contemplation of these works of art occupied some
time; and thence they proceeded to a spacious apartment
called the “ Hall of Ceremony.”' From this saloon two
doors opened into other rooms.
“ That door," said Charles, pointing to one, “leads into
the Chamber of the Cradle.”
He then described to Maria the object of that apart-
ment, with the purpose of which the reader is already ac-
quainted. '
“ A stran 0 story is connected with that room,” he
continued. ‘ It ap ears that at the precise time when the
present Archduke Eco old was born, the physician, who
attended upon his mot er, conceived the audacious idea of
substituting the infant child of his sister for the imperial
prince. That sister became a mother almost at the same
moment as the Archduehess; and the physician procured
the situation of nurse to the oung prince for his own
wife. He, moreover, bribed t 10 sentinel, who was ap-
pointed to keep guard during the night at the door of the
Chamber of the Cradle, to suffer the change to be effected.
His villanous measures were so well taken, that he would
have assuredly succeeded, had not the prothonotary sus-
pected that treachery was intended. The prothonotary
was confirmed in his suspicion by a conversation which he
overheard between the physician, the nurse, and the
sentinel. He accordingly communicated his suspicions to
the .Archdnke Charles, and proper precautions were
adopted. At midnight, the physician introduced into the
alace a female, who was also in the secret, and who bore
in her arms his sister’s infant. The persons implicated in
this detestable plot were immediately arrested. I will not

tell you their fate ; I have already said enough to interest ‘
you in the Chamber of the Cradle. But who, think you,
was that prothonotary ? None other than Messer Kircher,
who, as a reward forthe im ortant service thus rendered,
was appointed chief judge o Wittenberg."
“ The unhappy father who became suddenly mad on that
night——-“ began Maria, with a shudder.
“ When his own son was executed at Rosenthal Castle,”
added Charles Hamel. “ Yes ! would that he had been
spared that misery! But his own tongue pronounced the
death sentence.”
“And the Count of Anrana knew not that the indivi-
dual who summoned the Baron with the cord and dagger
was the judge's son," added Maria.
“ It is to be hoped not,” said Charles. “ At all events,
the Count protested his ignorance of that fact at the tim 0‘
he accused the unfortunate young man; and he showed so
noble a disposition towards me on two occasions, that I
dare not doubt him.”
Charles now conducted his wife into the Chamber of the
Cradle, which was furnished with much splendour. Thence
they retraced their steps across the saloon, and proceeded
to inspect the other apartments of the palace.
Maria was astonished at the evidence of immense wealth
and magnificence, as well as the good taste, which were
displayed in all she saw. The Castle of Rosenthal had
appeared to her a perfect palace ; but It was as inferior to


FA UST. 37
__ _.ir.

the dwelling of the Archduke as base metal is to the
genuine gol .
The beautiful hangings at the windows—the sumptuous
carpets from the looms of Linz—the chairs inlaid wrth
mother of pearl, or silver—the ottomans of truly Oriental
luxuriousness— the magnificent mirrors—the crystal
chandeliers, with four or five tiers of lustres—the silver
sconces which projected from the cornices and pilasters
—the immense vases filled with the choicest flowers—and
all the other'elements of grandeur and sources of com-
fort, formed a combination of s lendour calculated to
dazzle alike the most owerful an the most callous mind.
Nevertheless, Char es Hamel seemed but little excited
by what he saw; and when questioned by his fair com-
panion, he explained his apathy by stating that he had
seen the palace before.
“ And now there is but one more scene of interest and
attraction to visit in this vast edifice," said Charles, when
nearly three hours had been expended in the inspection of
the alace; “and that is the picture-gallery. There you
will ehold the portraits of many princes of the imperial
dynasty-princes, most of whom are now no more. But,
if I mistake not, the portrait of the present Archduke
Leopold, of whom you have heard so much, is in the
collection.”
“ I must admit that I have some curiosity to behold the
likeness of him for whom the Lady Theresa was originally
destined," said Maria.
“ And if he be very handsome,” returned Hamel, with
a smile, “ take care that you do not fall in love with
him.”
“Uh, Charles l” exclaimed the beautiful bein who hung
upon his arm: “ you should not even jest wit a love so
sincere as mine.”
Hamel smiled again, but made no reply.
They now entered the picture-gallery—a long and noble
avenue, and on whose walls were the portraits of nume-
rous princes of the imperial family.
“ I have learnt some peculiar circumstances connected
with the young Archduke Leo old,“ observed Charles.
“ It appears that his Im erial ighness was unaware of
the contract which had u made for him, when in his
infancy, by the late archduke and the Baron Rosenthal,
until the death of his father. That event took place a
year and a half a 0. As soon as the time for mourning
had expired, and is affairs were placed in roper order,
he set off to behold, without announcing is rank, the
lady who had been destined for him. As a simple entle-
man he was introduced to Theresa; and he soon earut
that she loved another. That circumstance alone would
have been sufficient to induce him to release her from
any en agement to him; but another occurrence con-
firmed im in that resolution. He beheld in the same
district, a maiden, whose beauty, modesty, and amiable
qualifications made an immediate, but not less profound,
impression u on his heart!”
“0h, Char es!” e'aculated Maria, whose wonder had
increased as her hus and thus addressed her, and whose
surprise had now arrived at its height of intense interest
and wild uncertaint —for, while Hamel was still speak-
ing, they paused be ore a portrait, whose lineaments it
was impossible to mistake. “ 0h, Charles !" she ex-
claimed, clinging to his arm for support, “ what do I see?
Your likeness here! Yes—it is the same—it is you ! Oh !
I am frightened—I am alarmed—speak to me! what does
this mean ?”
And she would have fallen upon her knees had he not
sustained her. "“ . _
Then, dr'awing himself up to his full height, while his
handsome countenance assumed an expression of mingled
triumph and joy, said—
“ You ask what all this means, beloved one ? It means
that the riod of trial is past, and the hour of reward is
come! t means, Maria, that you shall henceforth take
your rank amongst the highest princesses in the universe ;
that a ducal coronet shall grace thy brow, already so
ennobled by the diadem in which thy countless virtues
glitter like precious stones; it means, sweet girl, that you
are the adored and worshipped spouse of Leopold, Arch-
duke of the German Empire."
“ My lord— our Imperial Highness7—”
Maria coul say no more : she glided from her hus-
band’s arm, and sank at his feet, covering his hands With
her kisses and her tears. _
“ Rise, beloved one,” exclaimed Leopold; “ and be this
henceforth your home. And for ive me if I put thy heart
to the test of supposed obscuri y and poverty ;-—pardon
me if I tried thy virtues severely, that I might recom-
pense them noblyl And, oh l” he continued, as be pressed

the blushing girl to his heart, “ if I ever rejoiced in that
rank which gives me such power to do good—if I ever
felt proud 0 that lofty position, which clothes with
honour all on whom I choose to smile-it is now, Maria
—now that I proclaim thee the mistress of this splendid
palace, which you came to visit as a stranger—it is now
that I hail thee Archduchess of the German Empire!”
We must (pass over the scene of tenderness and joy
which ensue .
“ And think not,” continued the Archduke, “that I
wedded thee under a false name. No—thc priest who
united us was made acquainted with the secret of my
rank; and the holy register is signed with the name
which my illustrious father gave me. And now come
with me: let us return to the saloon whence opens the
door of the Chamber of the Cradle.“
Leopold (Charles Hamel now no more) took the hand
of his charming wife, and conducted her to the Hall of
Ceremonies.
The foldin -doors were open; and the saloon was
thronged by t e male and female scions of the noblest
houses of Germany.
Then, as Leo old led the beautiful and blushing Maria
to the dais at t e upper end of the hall, the musqueteers,
who were arranged along the walls, resented arms, and
every plumed hat was dofi‘ed, while t e ladies’ heads bent
low, to welcome the illustrious bride and bridegroom to
their palace-home.
CHAPTER XVII.
'rnn 'rwo FAMILIES.
IN the meantime, the Count and Countess of Aurana were
installed in their splendid mansion at a short distance
from Vienna.
The Demon, in his poetical description of the edifice
and its circumjacent land, had in no way exaggerated
the luxuriousncss of the former, nor the beauty of the
atter.
And Theresa was happy—oh! supremely happy in the
society of her husband.
Faust communicated to her the real name and rank of
him whom she had known as Charles Hamel; and the
amiable daughter of the Lord of Rosenthal, so far from
being jealous of the good fortune of the beautiful Maria,
rc'oiced that such destinies had been in store for her.
t may be well susposed that the two families were
intimate: the Arch uke felt that he was under the
deepest obligations to Faust, who had twice saved his
life; and Maria was never wearied of proving to Theresa
her gratitude for the kindness which she, when an un-
protected 0 han, had received from the late Baroness
if Rosentha , and which Theresa had continued towards-
er. '
Thus the Count and Countess of Aurana were frequent
visitors at the archducal palace; and now and then
Leo old, accompanied by Maria, honoured the mansion
of t 10 Count with their resence.
The Emperor Maximilian approved of the matrimonial
connection which his nephew Leopold had formed; for
the sovereign loved his relative too sincerely to question
the ropriety of an union which had contributed so much
to t 10 young prince’s happiness.
Thus nothing seemed wanting to promote the felicity
0f the two families.
But, alas! an undying worm was gnawing at the heart
of Faust—an unqu enchable fire was consumin g his inmost
sou . ‘
Nevertheless, he veiled his rief from Theresa so
effectually, that she never perceived a cloud hang upon
his brow; and in his love he found a solace which miti-
gated the sting of that worm, and subdued the fierceness
of that undying flame.
Still, how bitter a pang shot to the heart of the un-
happy Faust, when his Theresa, a few months after their
marriage, held out to him the fondest hopes that their
giniou would soon be blessed with a pledge of their affec-
ion.
And how different were the sensations of the Archduke
Leo old when his well-beloved Maria made to him a
simi ar avowal! '
Faust sought an excuse to retire to his private a art-
ment, where he for some hours abandoned himse f to
despair.
“ Oh! what a wretch am I l" he exclaimed, dashing his
0 en alm violent] against his forehead; “my child——
t e c ild which Theresa bears in her bosom—is fore-
doomed! Monster that I am! in order to gratify my own


38
FAUST.

\
f
s"lfiSh passions, I have entailed misery—eternal miseri—
upon an innocent being, who has yet to see the light, ut
who will not have asked to be born! Madman—fool that
I was! Oh! it is too hard that my punishment should
commence in this life—I who am to undergo such dread
torments hereafter! Oh ! that I could pray—that I
could pra to Heaven to redeem me from this a yss of in-
describab e woe! Yes—an idea strikes me! I will seek
out some holy priest, and pour forth my soul into his
heart ;—-not one of those pampered abbots, or mitred
prelates, who, beneath their sacred garb, conceal the
hearts of voluptuaries, and all the sentiments of worldly
selfishness! N 0-1 will find some pious father of the
church—some poor curate, whose patriarchal life is
passed in deeds of charity and ways of peace—or some
lonely anchorite, who, afar from men, and the scenes of
this busy existence, dwells in a cave, his drink water, and
his food fruits! Yes, to such an one will I hasten, and
to him will I unburden myself! Oh! I must save my
child—I must save the innocent being that will some day
call me ‘father!’ ” \
“And the moment that thou settest thy foot on the
threshold of the holy curate’s dwelling, or at the entrance
of the pious dnehorite’s cave, thou art lost—lost accord-
ing to our agreement!" said the deep, sonorous voice of
the Demon.
“ What I dost thou come uncalled ?” etclaimed Faust,
maddened with rage and despair. “ Wherefore thus
intrude thyself upon my presence P”
“ I come to congratulate thee on therprospect of thy
paternity," answered the Demon, in that cold and mock-
ing manner which had before irritated his victim almost
beyond the bounds of endurance.
f‘Ah! now you would revile me —now on taunt me
with my misery—now you make me feel a the hideous
weight of that serpent-coil which you have fastened
around me!” ejaculated Faust, almost foaming with rage.
“ Avaunt! infernal miscreant, that knows no mercy—
avaunt, I say 1”
Then, as the Demon did not move, Faust drew his
sword, and rushing towards him, cried—-
“ Thou urgest me to desperation. Draw—defend your-
self—I must rid myself of thee, 0r perish at once !”
And blinded by his rage, the Count aimed a tremendous
blow at the Demon.
The fiend merely waved his arm contemptuously, and
the weapon was snapped in two.
“Fond fool, knowest thou not my power P—thinkest
thou that I am mortal, like those earthly babes for
whose play such tovs as that which now lies broken at
thy feet were made ? Ah! would that I were indeed
susceptible of the death which overtakes them !” added
the Demon, hIlS sardonic tone suddenly changing to one of
profound melancholy. .
“ Yes—I am indeed a fond fool to imagine that I can
rid myself of thee l” cried Faust, throwing himself upon
a sofa, and burying his face in his hands.
The Demon stood contemplating him for a moment, his
melancholy expression having again changed to one of
infernal triumph and malignant spite, and then the fiend
slowly withdrew.
Some time elapsed, and Faust was aroused from his
painful reverie by the announcement of the Archduke.
“ My dear Count,” said Leopold, “my beloved Maria
and myself have taken your mansion by storm—know-
ing, however,’that we shall be welcome. The Arch-
duchess is with your Theresa; and I insisted upon seeing
you in your own apartment. The truth is,” continued
Leopold, throwin himself upon a sofa, “ I am so
truly happy, I 00 d not rest until I communicated the
cause of that felicity to my friend—for I consider you
my friend, Count—one of my dearest and best friends.”
“ And I rejoice in being thus honoured by the favour
of your highness,” answered Faust, who, according to
usage, had shaken off all traces of despair and anguish
the moment a visitor was announced.
“ Yes—I am indeed happy,” proceeded Leopold. “ The
Archduchess is in a way to become a mother !”
“ Indeed, my lord i" cried Faust, “ I sincerely congra-
tulate you; and the more so, as our joy is mutual, and
for the same reason.”
“ Then will my wild dream become fulfilled yet !"
ejaculated the Archduke. “ Do you know, Faust,” he
added, after a pause, “that I last night fancied that our
wives became mothers on the same day—yours of a
daughter, mine of a son. Then, in a moment, whole
years seemed to pass away ; and I beheld them grown up
in beauty—the pride of their parents. Again the scene
changed, and I dreamt that my son led your daughter to

the altar; and I was happy, for I thought within myself,
‘ The frimzdship of the parents is perpetuated injhe union
of the children 1' “
“ Nothing would give me greater happiness than to see
such a result," answered Faust, a melancholy idea start-
ing into his mind, as he thought of the different destinies
which awaited the first-born of himself and of the
prince.
“Oh! what a bright moment will that be for me!”
continued the Archduke, “ when I see my own—Maria’s
infant conveyed into the Chamber of the Cradle. Ah!
there are no precautions that I will not adopt to prevent
the cheat that was attempted in respect to myself at my
lgiirtht—should any evil-disposed person be inclined to prac-
se 1 ." .
“ I do not understand your highness,” answered Faust,
whose curiosit was aroused by this observation.
“ Then you ave never heard that singular tale," said
the Archduke. “ I was relating it to Maria some months
ago—the day I conducted her to the palace, which has
since been her home. And, by the bye, I understood
afterwards from the Baron of Rosenthal, that the chief
judge was relating it on that festive evening when the
dread summons 0 the Cord and Dagger interrupted the
harmony of the festival ;—but you and I were so occu-
pied with that paper which I signed, and concerning
which, in order to keep the secret of my rank, you in-
vented so admirable a tale relative to the speed of your
friend to Vienna and back—we were so occupied, I say,
that we did not know what was passing at the upper end
of the room. I will, however, relate to you the-story of
the Chamber of the Cradle; and we will then join‘he
Princess and your amiable Countess.”
Leopold accordingly detailed those particulars concern-
ing the Chamber of the Cradle with which the reader is
already acquainted.
Faust listened with attention; and, as the narrative
proceeded, his countenance was lighted up with joy, as if
some new and felicitous idea had struck him.
When the Archduke had brought his histor to an end,
they both repaired to the saloon, where Clyheresa and
Maria were engaged in pleasing discourse.
The remain er of the day was passed in recreation
suited to the rank and tastes of the two families.
But the narrative of the Chamber of the Cradle was
uppermost in the imagination of the soul-doomed Faust.
CHAPTER XVIII.
'rnn GRANGER-Y.
POSSESSION had robbed of its romance the ardent pas
sion which Faust had originally experienced for Theresa.
He still loved—still respected her: he entertained for
her the most sincere friendship; and, as he would not
willingly have done aught to interfere with the fond
dream of her happiness, so he would also have resented
with the most signal vengeance the slightest wrong
which another might offer her.
But his soul was restless—his mind unsettled. In lea-
sure alone did he feel relief from the dread secret 0 his
fate,—-that secret which he was compelled to retain in
his own breast, and which he dared not relieve of a por-
tion of its pangs by imparting it to another !
His mansion was the scene of constant festivities. The
proudest and richest nobles of Vienna sought his friend-
ship; and their wives and daughters were equally sedulous
in cultivating that of Theresa.
There were two circumstances which struck with sur-
prise not only this charming lady herself, but ‘also the
whole circle of Faust’s acquaintance, including the Arch~
duke and Maria.
These were, firstly, the fact that there was no resident
chaplain in the establishment of the Count of Aurana;
and, secondly, that he himself was never seen in a place
of worship.
Every individual of wealth and rank at that time main-
tained a chaplain in his household; and those families
whose means were inconsistent with such an expense,
were attended by a confesscr. Thus the absence of so
necessary an appendage of rank, and so important a
guarantee of piety, as a resident priest at the chiteau of
Aurana, was well calculated to excite astonishment.
Maria hinted to Theresa in the most delicate manner
in the world, the nature of the observations which reached
her ears on this subject; and the Countess of Aurana
promised to speak to Faust relative to so important a
matter. '
Accordingly, one morning, when they were sitting in a


FA UST.
39
l
r

saloon that commanded a view of the finest part of the
(state, on which, however, the groves had lost their
verdure'and the plants their flowers,—for it was now
winter,—Theresa took her husband's hand, and gazing
tenderly on his countenance, said, “ On Sunday next the
Archbishop of Vienna presides at mass in the cathedral of
Saint Stephen: shall we not attend {he holy ceremony
31=gcl31181'-—t0 implore the blessings 0 Heaven upon the
i'nture destinies of our babe who is yet unborn P"
“Theresa, on can accompany the Archduchess to
Saint Stephen s,” answered Faust, hastily. “I shall not
be able to attend the ceremony next Sunday.”
“ Forgive me, Wilhelm," said Theresa, a tear trembling
on her long lashes,—“for 've me if I importune on on
this subject; but since t e day when our han were
united by my father’s chaplain, we have never once
appeared together at the altar of the Highest, to return
thanks for the blessings which He has so profusely
showered upon us.”
“ Theresa, I believe that you are regular in your de-
votion: you can pray for'me,” answered Faust, with a
satirical smile.
“ Oh! treat not sacred matters so lightly,’ exclaimed
the Countess. “ Remember how hopeless was our pros-
pect but six months a ,—-and how strangely—how
signally Providence inte ered to bless us! You escaped
the death which the chief judge had reserved for you ;—
you escaped from your dungeon at the moment when
the scaffold was erected to receive you! Oh ! I shudder
when I think of the perils that environed you, but which
the hand of the Almighty dispersed from around you!
Then that same All-wise, All-powerful Bein sent you a
friend—as you have often told me—who lavished his gold
to purchase for you rank and wealth ;-at the same mo-
ment the Archduke resigned his claims to me; and a
variety of circumstances contributed to induce my father
to consent to our union 1“ _
“ Well—well, Theresa," said Faust, somewhat im-
patiently; “I know all this! Wherefore recapitulate
_ events which are so deeply engraven in the memories of
us both ?”
“ Because I would remind thee, my well-beloved—my
worshipped husband,” replied Theresa,—“ I would re~
mind thee that all those circumstances which combined
to make us happ , must have been the results of Provi-
dential comman ! Oh! it would be impious—it would
be mad to suppose that more chance or accident thus
favoured us! No—no: I see the finger of Heaven in it
all-—-”
“ Theresa! Theresa!” ejaculated Faust, goaded almost
to desperation by this language—a language to respond
to which with sincere sympathy he won (1 have given
worlds.
“ Why do you thus turn 'away from me? why did your
countenance wear an expression of fear—nay almost
horror, when you thus wildly mentioned my name twice P”
asked Theresa, detaiw‘ing her husband’s hand and press-
ing it tenderly. “Oh! tell me—do you not believe in
that Omnipotent Being who rules the heaven and the
earth, which He made with his own hand P"
“Believe!” repeated Faust. “ Oh! yes—Theresa: I
believe———and tremble!”
“ Thank God for that avowal !” cried Theresa earnestly.
“Thou believest—and thou tremblest! So-does every
_ious Christian; and, although I would not have my
iusband an illiberal bigot, nor one who deems it neces-
sary to pass away his life in sackcloth and ashes,—
shrinking from innocent pleasure as if aserpcnt lurked
beneath every fair flower which God has thrown upon the
earth ;—still do I implore thee to pay those devotions
which manifest gratitude for present enjoyments, and
which ensure a continuation of Heaven’s favour.”
“Well-well, Theresa,” answered Faust, cruelly em-
barrassed by this conversation; “I will gratify thee in
this respect—to the utmost of my power. But on Sun-
day next I cannot accompany thee. Another time—on
some future occasion—when I have nothing to occupy
me——— '
And Faust, bewildered by the shallowness of his excuses,
hastily disenga ed his hand from the tender grasp of his
wife, and left the room.
He hurried to the garden in the rear of the mansion—
for he felt the want of air.
His emotions almost stifled him.
“Accursed being that I am !" he murmured to him-
self: “shall my breath now poison the purity of that
angelic creature’s devotions? Must she learn to look
upon me as an infidel—an unbeliever? or shall I confess
to her that I am an outcast from heaven’s mercy? N 0—
no: that may never be! Oh! when she attributed, in
the fervour of her grateful piety, our union and m ele-
vation to rank and fortune,-—when she attributed a l the
prosperity which we enjoy, to the bounty of Heaven, how
my cart sank within me—how every pulse pal itated
violently—how my brain throbbed,—for I felt as ' some
terrible voice would thunder the dread truth in her ears,
and dissipate her error~that error which makes her cast
her adoring glances upon HEAVEN as the source of the
happiness which she enjoys, whereas it all springs from
the agency of HELL! 0h! wretched—thrice wretched
mortal that I am !"
And Faust ground his teeth with mingled rage and
anguish. ' '
At the extremity of the spacious garden stood a mag-
nificent glass-house, which was termed the orangery. ~
There the citron, the olive, the lime,,the orange, and
other luxuriant fruits enjoyed a summer climate in the
depths of winter; and that warmth, created by artificial
means, also nurtured many beautiful flowers. ~
As Faust assed the orangery, be perceived afemaie
within, and instantly recognised Ida, his wife's principal
lady of the bed-chamber.
The maiden was occupied in tending some favourite
exotics; and for a few moments she was unaware that
any one observed her.
Never until the present occasion had it struck Faust
that Ida was very beautiful ; but now, as he contemplated
her fine oval countenance,——as his glance swept her tall
and elegantly modelled figure,—and as be marked her
long black lashes resting on her checks, as she looked
down u on her flowers—while her uting lips, apart,
reveal teeth white as orient pear s,—his soul was in-
flamed—his heart palpitated.
Suddenly the maiden raised her eyes, and encountered
the ardent glances which were rivetted upon her.
A deep blush suffused her countenance; and her looks
fell—but not instantaneously :—-rapid as lightning, those.
orbs darted a glance of mingled joy and hope upon the
Count, ere they were veiled by their dark-fringed lids.
That glance which she threw upon Faust seemed to
express any sentiment rather than anger at the impas-
sioned manner in which he was contemplating her.
He hesitated for a moment: then he entered the
orangery.
“ The fairest flowers around thee are not more charm-
ing than thyself, sweet Ida,” said Faust, approaching the
maiden, and regarding her tenderly.
“ My lord!" murmured Ida, a deep blush again over-
spreading her countenance.
L “ Nay—believe me, Ithink so,” continued Faust, taking
her hand, which she abandoned to him with but a feeble
struggle to withdraw it. “ Is it possible to see thee once
without being anxious to see thee again? and can there
be a heart so cold as not to warm with tenderness for
thee, sweet damsel, when living beneath the same roof as
thyself P”
“ Oh! my lord, your words are traitorous to the lady
whom it is my good fortune to serve," said Ida; “ and
what opinion could you form of me if I were to listen to
them with a smile P”
“ I should esteem myself happy—thrice happy, dearest
Ida~f0r thou art adorable!” replied Faust, raising her
hand to his lips.
“ My lord—my lord!” faltered Ida; “ you are endea-
vouring to put my virtue to a test—you are anxious to
convince yourself that I am one deserving the honour of
being the companion of your lady. Leave me, my lord——
this is cruel!"
And tears trickleddown her cheeks.
“ N o—by my honour, you misunderstand me, Ida," ex-
claimed Faust : “ I love you—I love you !"
“ Oh ! if that WU?) true—” murmured Ida : and she
raised her eyes, melting with love, and their lustre sub-
dued by tears, towards the countenance of Faust.
“ True! it is as true as that you are lovely!” cried
Faust. “ And now, may I—without vanity—explain the
manner in which I read the glances that our beauteous
eyes threw upon me—thc mode in which interpret that
sigh —tl e meaning I attach to the trembling of that soft
hand which I hold in mine,—may I hope, Ida, that you do
not survey me with aversion ?"
“ Ah! my lord," answered the blushing girl ; “ it is
i ideed too true that I do not look upon you with aversion !
Were I wise—were I prudent—were I strong, I should
tear myself away from you; but, alas! my ord—I am
foolish—I am imprudent—J am weak :--and now you
Nknow my secret !"


40
FA UST.
,4. '

Her head drooped upon her breast, as she uttered these
words in a tremulous and plaintive tone.
“ You love me, Ida—you love me !” exclaimed Faust,
clasping her in his arms, while she fondly returned his
caresses.
“ Yes—I love ou—I have long loved you,’ murmured
the beautiful gir . “ Oh! what opinion must you form of
me now ?”
“ Listen!" cried Faust, suddenly disengaging himself
from her embrace, and retreating a step or two : then, as
he fixed his eyes upon her with a burning glance which
denoted other emotions besides love and tenderness, he
said in a low, measured, and solemn tone, “ Ida, on are
the being who can impart some happiness to my existence.
Do not interrupt me: you are su rised that I should
even hint at such a thing as infehcity—I who to the
world seem amon st the most favoured of that world’s
denizens! But it is so. Here—here, Ida," he continued,
striking his hand violently upon his heart,-—“ here does a
worm prey upon my vitals—here does an unquenchable
flame torture me, unseen—unknown —unfelt by all save
me! I love Theresa—I love her as a friend, as one who
loves me well and faithfully! But she could not be my
confidant: my secret would ison her youn life—harrow
up her gentle soul—blast er as with lig ituing! And
yet I need one into whose ear I could our the dread
narrative of my fate,—one who would not oathe, but who
would comfort me,—-one who would not shrink from the
dread secret which is too heavy for me to bear alone!
Oh! Ida—can you be all this to me? If so, I can love
you too! Love you, do I say ? Oh! I could worship—I
could adore you; for the love which I should bear for you
would be of a nature so different from that which I ex-
perience for Theresa—dependent on principles so distinct
—confirmed by bonds so strange and solemn—that you
would be happy, and I should be consoled,—and there
would exist between us a mysterious intimacy—a wild and
romantic attachment, wherein there would be much that
was terrible as well as much that was charming and
delicious !”
“ My lord, you alarm me I” exclaimed Ida, gaziugu on
him in an affrighted manner, as if she were afraid t at
his reason was deserting him.
“ Oh! if you quail now, you would never have courage
to hear that dread secret which must kill me ere my time,
if I thus continue to nurse it without a friend to whom I
can im art it! r For know you not that man finds solace
in confiding to one who loves him the sources of his
sorrows P”
“ Fear not that I shall tremble," answered Ida. “ You
know not the firmness—the strength of my soul! Love
alone subdues me; but had you an enemy, and did you
place a dagger in my hand, saying, ‘ Ida, prove to me thy
ove!’ I would plunge the‘ weapon to the hilt in your
foeman’s heart! Does my voice tremble now? do my
lips quiver as I thus address thee ? If so, then taunt me
with boasting of a courage which I do not possess: but
if not, then tell me that I am worthy of your confidence.”
Faust contemplated her with admiration for some
moments: then, clasping her in his arms, he said, “ Yes,
dearest—beloved Ida, thou art worthy of my confidence !"
And he embraced her with ardour.
“ But not here—not here,” he continued, after a lon
pause :——“ not here, in the light of day, must that drew.
secret be revealed to you. No—the dark night alone is
fitted for such a tale as that which I have to breathe into
your ears! Ida, my adored one,” added Faust, “ thou
must meet me to-mght—in Vienna—at the gate of St.
Stephen’s Cathedral; and let the hour be twelve. Hast
thou the courage P"
“You shall see,” returned the maiden, firmly. “At
twelve—near St. Stephen’s gate P I will be there.”
“ Till then, farewell, sweet Ida !" exclaimed Faust.
“ Adieu, my well-beloved I” answered the fair one.
Telaey embraced each other tenderly, and then sepa-
ra .
f
_—
CHAPTER XIX.
run sncun'r.
THE night was dark and stormy.
The wind howled around the ramparts and whistied
through the streets of Vienna: dark clouds rolled
rapidly along on the face of heaven, obscuring moon and
s rs.
The huge trees on the fortifications bent their roud
heads, their mighty arms creaking ominously; whi e the
wind moaned g oomin amidst the branches which stern
wmter had robbed of their foliage.

The Stephen’s-platz, or square in which the cathedral
stands, was deserted.
The mighty edifice seemed built of black marble, so
sombre and gloomy was its appearance, dimly shadowed
forth as it was, in the almost complete obscurity of the a
night. The spire,——not built upon a tower, but rising
from the ground to a height of five hundred feet,—was
lost amidst the murky clouds.
A few minutes before midnight a female, enveloped in
a dark cloak, stopped near the front entrance of the
cathedral.
Almost immediately afterwards, a man, also wrapped ‘
in a mantle, arrived at the same spot.
“ Ida 1” said the latter, halting.
“ Faust !" returned the maiden.
“ Thou art a brave and courageous girl,” answered
Faust. “ Say—does the darkness of the night alarm
thee g" Has the moaning of the wind terrors for thine
ears
“ Were I afraid, I should not for a moment do violence
to m feelings by remaining here,” replied Ida .~ “ neither
sho d I have come at all, had I experienced the least
failing at my heart."
“ Excellent girl!" cried Faust : “thou art indeed the
being that I can love with all the wildest —maddest—most
frenzi'ed excess of passion! But wilt thou accompany me
whithersoever I shall lead P”
“ I came for that purpose,” answered Ida.
you—that is sufficient. ead on.”
Faust proceeded round the cathedral, until he reached
the houses at the back of the edifice.
He paused at a low door, which he opened ; and, closely
followed by Ida, he hurried up a narrow passage at the
end of which was another door, Ida having shut the first
one behind her.
This second door was opened by Faust; and when Ida
had crossed the threshold, he seized her by the arm, say-
ing, “ Pause for a few moments : there is a flight of stone
steps at your feet."
Faust then closed the door; and taking from beneath
his cloak a species of lantern, he lighted it immediately
—-but by what means Ida could not perceive.
And now the feeble light of that lantern threw out a
sickly glare amidst the dense obscurity of the place.
The atmosphere was damp and fetid; it seemed to be
laden with an odour as of the decom osing dead.
“ Will you descend these stairs wit 1 me, dearest Ida P"
asked Faust, holding down the li ht so that she could
perceive a narrow flight of steps eading down into an
ably‘ss whose depths were lost in total darkness.
or one single instant the maiden hesitated: then in a
firm tone, she answered, “ I will accompany you whither-
soever you may desire.”
“ Ida—Ida 1' ejaculated Faust, in a tone of mingled
sorrow and reproach : “ you hesitated !”
“ Pardon me that moment of weakness—it is ;vast, and
cannot—shall not return! Here—take my hand —feel,
does it tremble P"
“ No, dearest,” answered Faust.
“ And does my voice indicate fear P" asked Ida.
“ Those tones are as firm and et as soft and melodious
as the most ravishing music, ' said Faust. “ Ida—I
adore you. Come on."
They slowly descended the ste s together, Faust carry-
ing the light which only tend to make the darkness
more visible.
As they drew near the bottom of the ste s, the fetid
odour before noticed became more powerf , and more
nauseous. At len h they reached a narrow passage,
which soon turn abruptly round to the right ; and
then they found themselves at the top of another flight
of steps, wider and more conveniently built than the
former.
The odour now became more and more intense.
“ This is a gloomy place—far in the bowels of the earth,
Ida,” observed Faust.
“The way that leads in, also leads out, dearest Wil-
helm,” answered the heroic girl, calmly.
“ True,” rejoined Faust. “ We shall retrace our steps
presently.
“ Not before on have told me everything,” said Ida.
“ No—you s all learn all—all,” answered her com-
panion.
They had now reached the bottom of the steps ; and a
few;l paces brought them to the entrance of a large square
va t.
“Now, Ida—will you come farther with me? or will
you retreat at once—and forget that I ever spoke to you
“ I love
, of the secret which I nurse P” demanded Faust.


PA US T.
41
_ '— *iH.__
W-Elflb-B--~

“ I love you, Wilhelm ; and I must know all.”
These words were uttered with a firmness and decision
which banished all hesitation on the part of the Count of
Aurana.
“ Then behold the place where my secret must be re-
vealed to you, Ida !” he exclaimed.
At the same time he advanced into the vault, holding
the lantern low, in order that its light might fall upon
the horrors of the subterranean.
Ida kept by his side, and did not shrink from the con-
templation of those horrors!
Horrorsl—Stretchcd upon the stone floor, in careless
confusion, were multitudes of corpses—naked, uncoliined,
ghastly!
For Ida and her companion were now in the catacombs
of St. Stephen’s.
The decomposition which almost invariably follows
death, had not occurred in that place ; and the skin had
become dry, and resembled in colour and substance well-
tanned leather. Here, however, an arm was broken off
—-there a leg: in some instances a head lay separated
from the trunk—and in others a trunk had lost its head.
The lips had shrank away from the teeth, which were
left exposed; and the bodies seemed to grin horribly at
those who now invaded their place of rest.
In their death, they all appeared alive!
“ Ida, dost thou tremble now ?" asked Faust, when a
sufficient time had elapsed to permit her to contemplate
the full extent of the horrors of that vault.
“ No,” answered the heroic girl ; “ I have ever enter-
tained more fear of the living than of the dead.”
“ Then let us seat ourselves on this stone bench,” said
Faust; “ and I will communicate to you that dread
secret which fills my soul! For you have declared that
you love me, Ida—and I love you; and when you are
acquainted with the cause of that unhappiness at which
I have only as yet darkly hinted, you will see how much
I need the consolation of a strong and owerful mind
like yours! But first let me tell you why brought you
hither,—here, amidst these dread epitomes of mortality,
It was because my secret is one which is calculated to
freeze the blood in the veins of the timid—to make the
hair stand on end with horror—t0 strike as it were with
a barbed arrow into the profound recesses of the heart.
I brought you hither to try your courage—to put your
strength of soul to the severest test which I could imagine
——to accustom you to the horrible, that you might be the
better nerved to hear the terrible! This test you have
withstood bravely, Ida! Moreover, mine is a secret
which could not be breathed at mid-day, when the
glorious sun is shining in all its splendour; nor in the
open air, at night, when a listener might be near and
yet unobserved. No :—a eharnel house—the abode of
death—the place where all the hideous relics of mortality
are huddled thus confusedly together,—such is the fitting
scene for a revelation like the one I am now about to
make to thee !"
“I am prepared to hear thee, Faust: speak on,’
Ida, in a firm and decided tone.
Faust placed the lantern on the ground, and taking
Ida in his arms, pressed his lips to hers.
“ Here shalt thou swear, beloved one,” he cried, “ that
what I am about to tell thee shall never pass thy lips
save in converse with me; here shalt thou swear that
not to thy confessor—no, nor even wast then on thy
dying bed—wilt thou breathe a syllable of the dread
secret which I am now to communicate to thee! Here
also shalt thou swear to love me—to be mine—wholly,
solel mine,—to solace me in my dark hours and gloomy
1110 s with the sweet melody of thy voice,—to give me
thine heart unalterably, devotedly.”
“ Oh! my adored Wilhelm,” exclaimed Ida. “ I swear
to keep thy secret even were I stretched upon'the rack;
and, as for loving thee, heaven knows how sincerely—
how madly I love thee, my worshipped one! If the
secret you are now about to impart to me be one that
must teach me henceforth to look upon thee as a mur-
derer,—if the hand which I now press be stained With
I
said
. human blood—oh! even then I could not love thee less !
For mine, Faust, is a proud and a hau hty mind, which
would not shrink from aught that mig t serve in pur-
poses or enhance in ideas of happiness. Only vvit you
1' —in loving you, an in being beloved by you in return,—
“ :1;
only in this am I a weak, frail, and gentle woman! And
now thou knowest me, my Faust—thou canst compre-
hend me! Hesitate no longer to make me thy conti-
dant.” '
“Listen, then," said Faust after a long pause, and
now speaking in a low and thick tone, as if his throat

were parched; “listen—and you shall know all. But a
few months ago I was a poor student—friendless—almost
penniless. I was in prison and doomed to death. I
loved Theresa—but not as I new love thee, my sweet
Ida ;—nevertheless I loved her, and I longed to possess
her. Then I thirsted for revenge on those who had per-
secuted me; for it was the Baron himself who was the
author of my imprisonment.”
“ The Baron !” exclaimed Ida, in surprise.
“ Yes—the roud Baron, who would not that I should
be united to his daughter. But I have never breathed to
Theresa this fact. Why should I render her unhap y,
since she loves me so well? I had, then, to save my ' e
—to render my love successful—and to gratify my
revenge! Oh! da—can you be surprised if in a moment
of an ish, of ambition, and of irresistible temptation,—
the gibbet here, and boundless wealth and power there,
—on one side all darkness, on the other all light,—racked
by a thousand conflictin emotions that bewildered me;
—can you be surprised, da, if in such a moment as that
I consigned my soul to Satan F"
“No—no, Faust!” ejaculated Ida, a shudder passing
over her as these terrific words met her ears ; “ oh! no—
it cannot be !”
“ What! do you already loathe me P” cried the Count
of Aurana bitterly.
“ Again I say no—no,” answered Ida. “ Be you what
you may, I have sworn to love you; and, even without
the oath, my heart would remain unalterabl yours.
There—by that kiss, Wilhelm, I renew my vow in all its
solemnity.“ '
“Pardon me for mistrusting you, Ida” said Faust.
“ Now you can comprehend why the undying worm preys
ever upon my vitals—why the quenchless fire creates un-
ceasing angs in my heart’s core. Now you can under-
stand w y I need consolation! Oh! Ida, could I recall
the past—could I return to my dun n in Wittenberg,
thence to pass forth to the scatfol ,—and annul that
dread contract which makes me Ssrsn’s OWN—how
gladly would I make the exchange! For four-and-twenty
years is the Demon my slave ; but when the clock strikes
the last hour of that period, he becomes my master for
all eternity! That is my secret.”
“ You are a bold and a great man, Faust, thus to have
soared be end the limited privileges and narrow circum-
ference 0 power allotted to mortals,” said Ida; “ and I
admire thee—yes, I admire thee, my adored one! Oh!
now admiration is united to love; and I am thine—thine
wholl and solely !"
“ T e ardour of your passion consoles me more than I
can express," exclaimed Faust. “ But let me tell thee
all—for there is worse yet to reveal. My compact with
the Evil One permits me not to enter any place of wor-
ship, nor the residence of a minister of God. To possess
Theresa, I was forced to wed her; my arts could not pre-
vail upon her to entrust her fate into my hands, unless
her father sanctioned and the priest blessed our union.
Then, Ida, to obtain the consent of the Demon to my ap-
pearance at the altar on that one occasion—that one
occasion only—oh! I agreed to a fearful price—I pledged
the soul of my first-born son !”
“ Frightful alternative !" cried the maiden.
“ Frightful indeed. Pray, Ida— ray to Heaven—for
thou canst pray, and I dare not—t iat the child which
Theresa bears in her breast be of our own sex I”
“I will ray night and morning," answered Ida, en-
thusiastica ly.
“ And for me also,” added Faust, mournfully ; “ though
prayers and masses will be, I fear, but of small avail in
my behalf! But now let us depart, Ida: thou knowest
my secret—and thou wilt love me not the less on that
account!"
“ Oh! I love thee the more devotedly—thc more
earnestly—the more fervently," returned Ida, throwing
her arms around his neck.
They embraced each other tenderly, and then retraccd
their steps away from the dread vaults of death.
C H A P T E R X X.
'rnn naornrza.
THREE months after the incidents related in the preceding
chapter, a young man,——whose shabby attire denoted
great ppverty, and who, by the soiled condition of that
misera 1c clothin , had evidently walked a. considerable
distance,—arrive in the neighbourhood of Aurana
mansion.


42
PA US T.
His countenance was handsome, though careworn; and
neither rivation nor mental suffering had dimmed the
lustre 0 his dark black eyes.
It was evening when, cold, hungry, and sinking with
fatigue, he opened a small wicket in the park-railings,
and threaded a path leading to the back premises of the
Chitteau of Aurana.
“ Thirty miles have I toiled this day to reach the ’place
of my destination," he said to himself, as he dragged his
almost sinking form along ; “ thirty long miles—with no
other refreshment than the icy water of the brpdk by the
road-side. And twenty, or twenty~five miles on each of
many precediu days have I toiled on in the same manner!
But my spirits iave not sunk within me—neither has my
courage droo ed! N o—Jfor I have been sustained by the
hope that w ien I -reach Aurana, I shall find one who
will not let me starve! 0h ! had my own laborious exer-
tions sulliced to give me bread, I would have died sooner
than seek the aid of anotherecven though that other be
my sister! For I know her proud and haughty disposi-
tion—I know her ambitious and aspiring mind ! Still
must her heart warm towards her brother! Yes—she
will welcome me with smiles ; and, even should the Count
choose to forget his late college-friend, my sister has the
means of giving me bread! My poor mother! Three
weeks onl have elapsed since I c osed thine cycs,—three
short weeks since thou wast consigned to the tomb! Oh!
how I wept and prayed—and prayed and wept by turns '
over the cold grave where thou art laid! And al I pos-
sessed I sold to bury thee! Oh! my mother—if the spirits
of the departed be indeed allowed to look down from the
mansions of the blest, and watch the career of those
whom they loved on earth—how wilt thou be afflicted to
contemplate the sad position of thy son! And yet it is
not idleness that has made me penniless and clothed me
in rags : it is not debauchery nor extravagance that has
reduced me to the verge of mendicancy ! Noumisfortune
alone is my evil genius; and—poor, beggar-ed, wretched
though I am—I can look the world in the face, and declare
that my character is Without a stain!"
Thus mused the unhappy traveller as he advanced
towards the Chateau of Aurana.
Darkness now firevailed around ; but his steps were
guided by the bril 'ant lights that shone through the case-
ments of the lordly mansion.
The traveller reached a lofty iron railing, which sepa-
rated the ark from the gardens of the chateau. The
perpendicu ar bars of this railing were fashioned like
spears, the heads whereof were gilt.
Along this barrier the traveller dragged himself, until
he reached a gate which was fortunately unlocked.
“ This is a good omen," said the traveller, as he entered I
he garden. “ Heaven grant that my sister may receive
me with a smile! And, oh! if her heart be like mine in
respect to filial afiection, how will she mourn over the
memo'ry of her mother—that mother who is now no 1
more .”
Thus musing again, the young man continued his way
amidst plants and evergreens which defied the ravaging
hand of winter. When within a hundred yards of the
chateau, the traveller beheld a solitary light at a little
distance on his left hand.
He immediately concluded that this gleam, detached as
it was from the brilliant galaxy of lights which shone
from the easements of the mansion straight before him, I
emanated from some outhouse, where he might make the
inquiries concerning his sister.
He accordingly advanced in the direction of that single
light, and speedily ascertained that it came from the
upper window of a pavilion which stood alone, and near a
small lake, in the midst of the spacious gardens.
The door of the pavilion was unfastened: and he entered
without obstacle. '
But no sooner had he crossed the threshold than he
paused :-—might he not be intruding upon the privacy of
the occupant of that pavilion P Would not his presence
there be attended with suspicions of a derogatory
nature P
He hesitated !
“ And yet,” he said to himself, “ I cannot present
myself in this sorry plight at the door of onder mansion.
The proud soul of my sister would shrin ' from the idea

that a wretch like me Awith matted hair, haggard look,
tattered raiment, and broken shoes—came to claim her g
as a near relative! I am hungry, too—I am starving: I
iltm faint and weary! Yes—l! will make my inquiries
iere .
Then he slowly ascended a staircase which led to a


landing whence a single door opened.
He was about to knock at that door, when the sound of
a well-known voice within met his ear. ‘
“ What would you have me do, Ida P" said the Count of
Aurana.
“ Faust—Ida —here together!" murmured the stranger
to himself.
And then he listened attentively.
“ Oh ! my beloved one,” returned Ida, “ you must save
me from this disgrace.“
“ But how ? speak l" returned Faust. “ Perchance
you have some plan uppermost in your mind. Name it!
You know my wealth~~you know my power. Tell me,
beloved Ida, what can I do to serve thee in this emer-
gency P"
“ My shame must be concealed~and yet I have no
plan,” answered Ida. “ No—you mistake me : I seek
thlllnsel at your hands, and have not a suggestion to
0 er."
“ There are but two schemes to adopt, dearest,” said
Faust. "Either you must leave this neighbourhood and
seek retirement—some time hence, when it,will be im-
possible to conceal your condition longer; or else I must
find some youth of good name but of small fortune, who,
in consideration of the handsome dower which I can give
thee, will espouse thee !"
“ The latter plan pleases me best, beloved Faust," an-
swered Ida. “Yes—be it as 'ou say. There is no want
of titled paupers in Vienna, w o, to reconstruct their for-
tunes, will gladly embrace the opportunity—no matter
what the condition be. Then, also, dear Faust,” she
added, in an impassioned tone, “ we need not be separated
for ever I" '
“ True, Ida : for you are well aware that in two
months’ time I" shall r uire your aid in that pro'ect
which we have arranggd, and which, should acci ent
perlmit both events to take place at the same time,
wil —-”
The traveller, who listened outside the door, was unable
to catch the remainder of this sentence.
And what of that traveller now?
When first he had become convinced that Ida and Faust
were together, he was seized with such sudden surprise,
that, forgetting his naturally noble principles, ‘he became
transformed into an eavesdropper—a character which in
his tranquil moments he would have abhorred.
But there was much excuse for him !
Then, as he listened with breathless attention—anxious,
greedy to drink in every word that fell from the lips of
the inmates of the room,——the tender terms in which
those inmates addressed each other, struck him as with a
thunderbolt—transfixed him—rivetted him to the spot.
But when Ida avowed her shame in terms too unequivocal
to he mistaken~a cold perspiration burst out upon the ;
brow of the unhappy stranger : his knees bent beneath
him—a sickness, a faintness, adizzmess came over him ;—
and, had he not suddenly exerted an almost superhuman
efl'ort over himself, both mentally and bodily, he would
have fallen heavily on the floor.
Then the conversation was continued, as above related;
and once more the stranger listened attentively.
“ Yes," continued Faust, “ you will .be enabled to
conceal your situation until then. And now that I reflect
upon the plan which I ere now proposed to save you from
eventual disgrace, I remember a certain Baron von
Czernin, who will—_"
At that moment the door flew open ; and the traveller
—pale, haggard, but infuriate with rage—burst upon the
guilty pair. ,
“ My brother!“ shrieked Ida, sinkin from the arms of
Faust, and falling on the carpet at the cot of the ottoman
on which they had been sitting together.
“ Otto Pianalla !" ejaculated Faust, instinctively
springing from the voluptuous cushions, and laying his
hand upon his sword. '
_—
C'HAPTER XXI.
'rnn nvrmon.
Tm: reader may more easily conceive, than we can
describe, the painful situation in which the three persons
in the pavilion were plunged at that meeting with which
we closed the precedin chapter.
Faust beheld before im a young man who was once his
friend, but who had been dishonoured and outraged, in
the person of his sister ;—-Ida, awaking to the conscious‘
ness of her shame, saw the pale, wasted, but wrathful
countenance of her brother gazing on her with an expres-l
sion which struck terror to her soul y—and Otto himself


FA UST.
43

was labouring under the appalling conviction that his
sister—that sister whom he so tenderly loved—was a
wanton, lost to honour and to virtue.
At length Otto sank upon a seat, covered his face with
his hands, and burst into tears.
Faust, who had expected a manifestation of hostility on
the part of his late friend, smiled scornfully, and glanced
towards Ida. -
But she saw him not : her proud soul was'for a moment
subdued by the anguish of her brother. '
It was evident that he had overheard all!
“ Ah! my sister," suddenly exclaimed Otto, turning his
tear-bedimmed eyes upon her, “ what have I just learnt?
I have dragged myself from Wittenberg to Vienna to clasp
my sister in my arms :—poor, hungry, way-worn, and
with but these scanty garments to protect me from the
frosts of winter, I have sustained my oft-sinking Courage
by the idea that at the end of my journey I should be
welcomed by thee! Oh! that hope has consoled me—or
I should have died of misery and wretchedness during my
long and painful journey. Alas! Ida, when at night I
craved a lodging at some peasant’s hut, and was repulsed
by the rude inhospitable churl, I murmured to myself,
‘ Thank heaven that Ida knows not a penurfi like mine!”
Then, when sinking with want, I im lored a crust of the
shepherd whom I saw tending his floc , and received from
him a morsel tossed towards me with a brutality which he
would not have shown his dog, I consoled myself with the
reflection that " Ida had bread enough—and to spare !’
Amidst all my privations—all my sorrow—all y suffer-
ings, I have found solace in the thought that ‘Ida "was
with kind and honourable friends, who would protect and
cherish the poor orphan !' ” ' '
- “ Orphan l’,’ exclaimed Ida, whose tears had flowed
rapidly while her brother thus addressed her; “ orphan!"
she repeated, a sudden terror seizing upon her-soul :—
“ yes—I am fatherless—but my mother—"
“ Your mother, Ida,” returned Otto, in a tone of pro- ‘
found melancholy—“that mother, who, though poor,
looked upon her children as treasures of inestimable
value, and upon their virtues as gems beyond all price—
that poor mother, Ida—"
“ Speak, Otto—speak!” cried she, hastenin
him, and clasping his arm convulsively with
“ speak—I say—what of my mother P”
"‘ She is no more l” replied Otto; “ and God be thanked
that she is no longer on that earth which is the scene of
her daughter’s shame.”
"‘ My mother—my dear mother—dead l” ejaculated
Ida; and she fell upon her knees, a prey to ineffable
anguish.
“ Rise, Ida—rise,” said her brother; “it is not to me
that yen must humiliate yourself :——it is to your God.”
And lifting her from her suppliant posture, he led her
to the ottoman.
“Now, sir—or my lord,” added Otto, bitterly, as he
addressed himself to Faust, “for I am aware that you
are ennobled in name, though debased in nature—~my
business is with you."
“‘ Otto, my good friend, the past cannot be recalled,”
said Faust; “ but the future is still within the sphere of
reparation !”
“ Reparation !” exclaimed the young artist, with a
scornful emphasis ; “ dost thou suppose that all the gold
which is now in the treasuries of man on the surface of
the earth, or all which lies yet buried in the depths
beneath our feet, can make reparation for that girl’s lost
honour? Dost thou conceive that all the most precious
gems which the greedy hand of mortals has raised from
the bosom of the earth, can sup 1y a lustre that may
compete with the glorious light 0 female purity P N o,
my lord; for when that lamp of chastity is extinguished,
the costliest diamonds would shine but dimly in the
chamber which that lost honour once made radiant!
Such, at least, are my sentiments. ’Tis true, I am in
rags—I am poor—I am without a hope; but no wealth
that you can confer-mo honours that you can bestow,
will serve to give back joy to my heart—now that the
humble name bear is tarnished in the person of that
wanton, who ere now so cooll plotted with your lordship
how she should disguise her s me i”
“ These are harsh words, Otto," said Faust; “reflec-
tion will make you view the matter in another li ht.”
“ Were I to ponder upon all that I have this night
learnt—ponder until my imagination sank beneath the
weight of thought—ponder until the wing of the spirit
was borne down by the deep sense of this calamity, I
should not entertain other sentiments than those which
I have now expressed. But, I understand you well, my
towards
er hand ;

lord," continued Otto, his cheek flushing, and his eyes
flashing fire, as he spoke :—“ you think that a great and
wealthy noble like yourself can seduce with im unity the
poor, humble, dependent minion of his wife ! ou think
that it is a pleasant pastime—and to be remedied by gold!
Or, pcradventnre, you suppose that you even honour me
by bestowing your favours upon my sister. N ow, it may
well suit those fathers or those brothers whose ideas are
as abandoned as your own, and whose principles are as
heartless, to receive benefits from the hands of those
great lords who ruin their daughters and their sisters.
Otto Pianalla is not-one of those! But why do I stand
thus parleying with thee? Thou hast done me this in-
jury—wilt then make me the reparation which I re-
quire?"
“ I will—I will," answered Faust. “ Name your
terms.”
“ They are these. Give me a cup of wine to restore my
fleeting strength for a short space—lend me a sword——
and God will grant the victory to him whose cause is the
most just.” ' .
“ Rash youth !” exclaimed Faust, smiling contemp-
tuousl ; “ what do you ask of me? Weak as you are,
your hfe.would be at my mercy. It were a murder on
my art!" ,
“ he battle is not always to the strongi" Said Otto.
“ You promised to accede to my terms: do you mean to
retract your lordly pledge ?“
These words were uttered with a bitter and penetrating
scorn. -
“ And should I fall, on the contrary," observed Faust,
smiling contemptuously'at the mere supposition, “ what
will become of your sister, Ida ?”
“ True! I had forgotten," exclaimed Otto, dashing his
hand against his forehead. “ If I slay thee, false Count,
I deprive an unborn babe of its father : if I do not seek
to avenge the honour of our name, I am a recreant, de-
serving only of contempt.“
“ Listen, Otto,“ said Faust, who now observed that
Ida had dually dried her tears, and had recovered a
portion 0 her lost courage : “ I have done your sister an
injury—I will regair it to the utmost of my power. I
will provide for_ er and her child, in any way she may
point out.” * _ - '
“ To that you pledge yourself?" exclaimed Otto, after
along pause, during which he had remained wrapped up
iuprofound thought.
‘ I pledge myself,” returned Faust.
“ Then write what I shall dictate, my lord," said Otto.
“ You have the materials on the table near you."
Faust, who was anxious 'to conclude this unpleasant
affair without a scandalous exposure which mi ht reach
the ears of Theresa, and without being forc to do an
injury to the brother of Ida—Faust seated himself at the
table, took up a pen, and prepared to write.
Otto advanced, and leant over his shoulder, to be con-
vinced that the Count accurately followed his dictation.
“ Write thus, my lord :—-
“ I acknowledge myself to be the father of the babe "which
Ida Pianalla bears in her bosom. I bequeath to her the sum
of one thousand crowns, as a means-—“
“Nay-I will write ten thousand," exclaimed Faust,
emphatically.
“ N o, my lord,“ returned Otto. “ She shall not accept
wealth at your hands—but merely a bare subsistence for
herself and child, until the latter—should it live—be
enabled to aid the mother in obtaining the bread of
honesty. Proceed, my lord: ~
“ As a means of subsistence, and to enable her to rear the
ofispring of my crime and her weakness in a manner be-
fitting its future interests. .And I charge those who may
survive me, and who succeed to my wealth, to see this be.
quest of mine duly fulfilled."
“ Is that all P" asked Faust, somewhat impatiently.
“ It is all I desire—saving your signature, my lord,"
answered Otto. -
The Count of Aurana immediately completed the re-
quisite formality. 'Otto signed the document as a wit-
ness ; then, carefully foldin it, he handed it to his sister,
saying, “ Keep it, Ida—you now not how soon you may
have naught in the world save that bequest to depend
upon for your bread."
“ What mean those mysterious words P" she exclaimed,
as at: placed the paper beneath the folds of her gar-
men .


44
FA US T.
“They mean that his lordship can now 've me the
satisfaction which I require—a cup _of wine, an a sword l”
returned Otto, solemnly,
“ My dearest brother, do not peril your . life for me !"
exclaimed Ida, seizing him by the hand ;—for strong as
the mind of this young female was; still that natural
affection which not even savages can entirely subdue in
their hearts, and those ties of blood which the most ruth-
less cannot altogether forget, possessed a softening influ-
ence upon her heart.
“ Interfere not with the course of that justice which I
must render to our name—our dishonoured name I”
answered Otto, solemnly; then, . turning towards the
Count, he said, “ Now, my lord, will you grant me the
only reparation which I can receive? or shall I provoke
you by a blow and a harsh word ?” _
“ Nay—that shall you not !” exclaimed Faust, his own
anger now excited. “ But, beware, rash young man !
In my hands your life is as an infant in the grasp of a
iant !” . .
g “ I am not to be alarmed by idle threats, my lord,” re-
turned Otto, with a smile of contempt.
“ Then have your will,” said Faust. “ In the room
beneath there is a cupboard containing choice wines ; and
on the walls hang weapons of the finest Milan steel. You
shall quaff a goblet—which will be your last; and you
shall choose a sword—which will not avail you. Then, if
thou hast the courage to engage in mortal combat amidst
the almost utter darkness of the night, we will seek a
secluded spot, where there will be no fear of interrup-
tion."
“ Be it as you say,” said Otto; then, turning towards
his sister, he exclaimed, “ Farewell, Ida ! Be the event
of this duel what it may, you will never see me more; for
if I survive it, I shall seek some distant clime, where,
under another name, I may conceal the one which you
have dishonoured. On her death-bed, Ida, your mother
blessed you ! Treasure that dying proof of your departed
arent’stenderness—treasurc it as a talisman that may '
enceforth protect thee from guilt! Farewell, Ida—
farewell 1"
He bent forward, imprinted one kiss upon his sister’s
brow, and then turned away.
“ My lord,” he said, “ I am ready to accompany you.”
As he uttered these words, he mo'ved towards the door.
Ida spran after him, exclaiming, “ Otto—my brother
_my dear rother—I implore thee to beware! Thou
knowest not the power of him. against whom—”
At that moment, Faust seized her forcibly by the arm,
drew her back, whispering at the same time in her ear,
“ Ida! hast thou forgotten thine oath? Wouldst thou
betray me P"
In an instant she became comparativel calm and tran-
quil : the thoughts and scenes which t ose words sud-
denl called up to her imagination, produced an almost
para yzing effect upon her.
“ But you will spare him—you will spare him,” she
murmured in her lover’s ear, after a momentary pause,
and glancing towards Otto, who was now already in the
landing outside the door.
“ Yes—yes—Ida—do not fear,” answered Faust. “ Re-
main here until my return.”
He then hastened after Otto.
Ida retreated to the sofa, and coVering her face with
her hands, she exclaimed, “ M mother is gone for ever;
and now—what will become 0 m brother 3’”
But, as the reader has alr y seen, she was not the
woman to bow for an length of time beneath the weight
of either shame or a iction.
She rose, wiped away her tears, and drawing forth the
paper which Faust had signed, she glanced her eyes rapidly
over it.
“ He acknowledges his child!” she- exclaimed. “This
document may be of use to me—it may serve to forward
my views,” she added, speaking slowly, but in an excited
tone. “ The time is not, however, arrived ; no —he must
be completel in my power—and then—"
She pause , and smiled complacently.
Her ambition predominated over the idea of her
mother's death and her brother’s danger.
“ Yes, Faust,” she continued, “ I love thee well—dearly
love thee: but through thee must I obtain rank and
wealthl—How tedioust the time passes !“ she added;
“ surely they must have decided their quarrel ere now!
Faust cannot succumb—his terrible power protects him ;
—but my brother—Otto !—oh no—Faust has promised to
spare him 1”
Then she approached the window, and gazed upon the
brilliantly-illuminated chateau at a little distance.

“Theresa believes that business of importance has
called her husband to Vienna; and she entertains the
Archduke and the Archduchess in his absence! To
think that the baby-faced Maria should succeed in capti-
vating a prince! Oh! it was that—it was that which gave
me the courage and endowed me with the strength to 0
through that fri htful ordeal in the vaults beneath t 0
Cathedral of St. tephen—because I saw that Faust had
some powerful secret to reveal; and I knew that when he
made me his confidant, he would place himself in my wer!
——But the time asses-,and he does not return! What
can it mean? or a time the sudden appearance of my
brother—then the abru t announcement of my mother's
death—these united to nd my proud spirit. But that
weakness is past—and Ida once more dreams only of her
ambition!”
Nearly an hour had now passed since Otto and Faust
left the pavilion.
But scareel had Ida reached that climax in her
musings, at w ich she nerved herself with the idea that
her_ambition should be her only consideration, when a.
rapid step ascended the stairs; and in a few moments
Faust made his appearance.
“ Have ou spared him I” asked Ida, rushing forward to
meet her over.
“ I have—for your sake,” replied Faust. “ But when
my sword was at his throat, I made him vow never toseek
to molest us more."'
“ You acted wisely,” observed Ida.
—-and he will keep his word."
“We must now return to the chateau," said Faust.
“ Do you re air forthwith to your own chamber—I will
gain the principal entrance by a circuitous path. To-
morrow evening, dearest, we will converse again upon
those plans the discussion of which was interrupted by
your brother.”
Ida having embraced her lover, threw her mantilla
around her, and took her departure towards the mansion.
Faust lingered for a few minutes in the pavilion, and
then proceeded, by another path, towards the same point.
“ He is honourable
_—
CHAPTER XXII.
THE CHAMBER or run caan.
SPRING had now returned, and covered the earth with
flowers and the trees with verdure.
Again, one evening, were Faust and Ida in earnest con-
versation in the pavilion.
The rays of the setting sun shone through the easement,
upon the guilty pair, as they sat upon the voluptuous
ottoman together.
Upon the table were flagons of wine, and crystal dishes
full of fruits—the produce of the orangery, or hot-1101150,
where Faust and his frail companionhad first exchange»!
glances of intelligence and passion.
“ Thus far, Ida," said Faust, “ all our plans have pros-
pered. Theresa is already lodged in the palace of ill"
Archduke, that she may have the benefit of his physician’s
aid, in case of danger :—and that hysician is devoted tn
my interests! As nearly as can calculated, the he
events Will take place about the same time: a few day.-
now must decide it all! Did I not assure thee that 1
should gain over both those grey-beard physicians as WeL‘
as the nurse P”
“ Nor did I doubt you,” answered Ida. “ Your inex-
haustible wealth could almost purchase Maximilian‘s
crown. But I must not waste my time here, deares:
Wilhelm: remember that I am to be at the archduerd
palace early in the morning, with your lady’s jew el-casket
and the, various articles of her wardrobe which she re
quires.
“ Then once more let me ray thee, Ida, to remembu
_well all I have told thee. I accident favour my scheme
in respect to the birth of these ex ected little ones, you an
well aware how much will depen upon you ! "
“ Do not fear on that account,” returned Ida. “ Bu:
the sex—”
.“ N ay—I have provided for that also : the old physicians
will both serve me in all ways wherein their word alum
W111 be received without a suspicion. Only perform your
part well, Ida—I will take care of mine."
“ One more question, dear Faust,” said the young lady;
“ and.I must return to the chateau. Have you taken any
step in respect to the sentinel who must guard tln
Chamber of the Cradle?"
“ That need not be cared for,” answered Faust ; “ even

were the soldier already chosen by ballot, I do not require


FA UST.
45

to tamper with him ! Have I not told on that Ipossess
the power of rendering myself, and any uman being who
accompanies me, invisible at will? Was it not thus that
I rescued Theresa from the Castle of Linsdorf P And shall
I not be thereby enabled—”
“ I understand you!” interrupted Ida. “ Pardon my
numerous queries : they are dictated only by a deep
anxiety on your account 1”
“ I know it—I know it, beloved Ida,” answered Faust,
embracing her. “ New depart, dearest: I shall not see
thee again until we meet to-morrow at the archducal
palace, whither I must now proceed, in obedience to the
promise which I made Theresa. this morning."
3 i # 1* i I!
A week after this interview, all was bustle and expecta-
tion in the palace of the Archduke Leopold. _
It was five o’clock in the evening; and—smgular as
the coincidence may seem—the Archduchess and the
Countess of Aurana were momentarily expected to be-
come mothers.
Dr. Dorenberg, the archducal physician,was in attend-
ance upon Maria, who occupied the same room in which
her husband himself was born, and which, as the reader
may remember, communicated with the Hall of Cere-
monies.
In another a. artment, opening on the spacious landing
outside the Ha l of Ceremonies, was Theresa, attended by
Dr. Lutzen, one of the most eminent physicians of the
German capital. .
Ida was by the side of her mistress, on whom she
lavished every attention with an apparent sincerity which
made the Countess rejoice that she had such friend—she
no longer called her a “ dependent ’_’—near her.
Faust and the Archduke were in the Hall of Cere-
monies, where the prothonotary and two or three officials
of the Imperial Chancery were also congregated.
In the apartment of the Archduchess was the nurse
ap ointed to the honour of attending on the expectant
balie. She was an elderly woman, an Faust had gained
her entirely over to his interests, as well as the two
ph sicians.
The Archduke drew Faust into the recess of one of
the windows of the spacious saloon, and said, “ My dear
friend, this is an anxious time for us. But how ex-
traordinary—how providential, I might almost say——
you start! are you ill? Does suspense prove too
much——"
“No, my lord,” answered Faust: “a sudden pain, to
which I am sub'ect, shot through my head; but it is
gone! Your hig ness was observing———” .
“How wonderful is this coincidence,” continued the
Archduke Leopold. “That the wives of two friends
should be about to bless their husbands with pledges of
their affection almost at the same moment, strikes me as
an omen—as a heavenl indication, I migllit say,_that,
should one be a boy, an the other a girl, t ose children
are intended for each other at a future day.” _
“In that case the dream of your Imperial Highness
would be fulfilled,” said Faust, with a smile.‘ “But,
hark! what mean those shouts outside! They emanate
from the barracks opposite the palace.”
“ They are doubtless the congratulations offered by the
soldiery to their two fortunate comrades who have been
chosen—”
“ Two, my lord!” ejaculated Faust.
“Yes,” answered the Archduke. “ Have you forgotten
the narrative which I one day related to on concernigg
the abominable plot that an ungirineipl physician h
conceived in respect to mysel , when, as a new-born
infant, I was consigned to the Chamber of the Cradle 3’”
“No, my lord—I have not forgotten it,” returned
Faust: “ I remember it well ; and I hope your Highness
has adopted those precautions which are necessary to
prevent a similar atrocity on the present occaswn."
“ I have not failed in that respect,” said Leopold. “ In
the first place, I can rely upon that excellent man, Dr.
Dorenberg-—oh! I can rely upon him as if he were my
own father.” _
“ He is assuredly a most respectable and trustworthy
personage,” observed Faust, a slight smile of contempt
curling his lip. _ _
“Then, again, Dame Herder, the nurse is meorrup-
tible,” continued the Archduke.
“ Evidently so, my lord,“ returned Faust,‘ whose gold
had crossed the dame's palm to no insignificant amount
some ten days previously.
“ Moreover,” said the Archduke, “ I have ordered
two sentinels to be drawn by lots for the service of the
Chamber of the Cradle, at the door of which they Will
‘

mount guard together, and thus be spies on each other’s
actions." '
“ The best preparation your Highness could devise!"
exclaimed Faust.
“ ISO-not the best,” observed the Archduke, laughing ;
“ for as an additional safeguard—not that I suspect
either the physician or the nurse; but as a duty I owe
to myself, to her Imperial Highness, and to the babe of
which she will shortly make me the happy father—I
shall remain in this saloon from the moment the child is
conveyed to the Chamber of the Cradle, until that when
the sentinel will present it to the troops from the
balcony.”
“ Your Imperial Highness has resolved most wisely,”
observed Faust; “ and, with your ermission, I will keep
your lordship compan in this vig' .”
“ Do so, my friend,’ returned the Archduke.
At this moment, Dame Herder, the imperial nurse,
issued from the apartment of the Archduchess, closed
the door carefully behind her, and, erossin the Hall of
Ceremonies, disappeared by the principa door at the
farther end".
On the landing outside, she met Ida, who was hastening
in the direction from whence the nurse had come.
“ Well met!” said Ida, glancing round to satisfy her-
self that no stranger was near. “ I was coming to you,
under retence of conve 'ng a message of affectionate in-
quiry rom my mistress yoursz”
“ And I was about to seek you on a similar pretence,”
observed the nurse. “ What news ?”
“ The Lady Theresa has a lovely boy " returned Ida.
“ And the Archduchess a beautiful girl," said the
nurse.
“ Then Dr. Dorenburg has assured the Archduchess
that hers is a. boy ?” whispered Ida, interrogatively.
“ Yes. And has Dr. Lutzen acquainted the Lady
Theresa that she is blessed with a daughter f” asked the
nurse.
“ He has,” replied Ida.
They then separated.
Ida returned to the Lady Theresa; and the nurse re-
traced her steps to the apartment of the Archduchess.
Their absence and conversation had not altogether
lasted five minutes.
But as the nurse traversed the Hall of Ceremonies, she
darted a rapid and significant glance towards Faust—
ginseen by everyone beside, but fully comprehended by
m.
A glow of triumph animated his countenance.
Shortl after the return of the nurse to the apartment
of the rchduchess, Dr. Dorenberg' issued forth, and
announced to the Archduke that he was father of a son.
And in a few minutes Dr. Lutzen entered the saloon to
acquaint the Count of Aurana that he was father of a
daughter.
The medical gentlemen each received a valuable present
in acknowledgment of these welcome tidings, and they
returned to their patients.
Then the Archduke took Faust's hand, and said—
“ M dream will yet be fulfilled! My son shall espouse
your tighter!"
“ Be it so, my lord,” returned the Count.
The prothonotary and the other officials now offered
their congratulations to the Archduke on the birth of an
heirto his im erial house; and their compliments were
acknowledged in a suitable manner.
A messenger was immediately despatched to the bar-
rack ; and in a short time he returned, accompanied by
two stalwart men-atarms, who were to guard the door
of the Chamber of the Cradle.
We shall pass over the congratulations which the
Archduke and Faust offered each other on the events
which had just occurred. Leo old's countenance was
radiant with unfeigned joy; and 1e longed for the happy
moment when he mi ht embrace his dearly beloved
Maria, and thank her or the felicity which she had con-
ferred upon him. On the other hand, Faust felt a bitter
pang when he reflected that he was about to consign his
child to the possession of others, and receive the offspring
of those others as his own! But he concealed his anguish
beneath that veil of imperturbable tranquillity which
circumstances had so wel instructed him how to assume.
An hour had now elapsed since the announcement of
the contemporaneous births, when the nurse issued from
the apartment of the Archduchess, bearing the infant in
her arms.
Dr. Dorenberg accompanied her.
The Archduke hastened to meet Dame Herder, and
kissed the infant's forehead with great tenderness.


.15 PA US T.


“This hall strikes cold to the little being,” said Dr.
Dorenberg, almost immediately.
“ In that case, let the nurse proceed at once into the
Chamber of the Cradle,” exclaimed the Archduke; “ and
you, good doctor, can give the prothonotary all the in-
formation _he requires. Not for worlds would I risk the
safety of that dear babe.”
The nurse passed without farther delay into the Chain
ber of the Cradle, the door of which was immediately
closed behind her; and the sentinels took up their posi-
'. tion near it.
“ You contrived admirably well to shorten the cere-
mony of presentin the ,child to her father,” whispered
Faust rapidly to t e doctor. “ He had scarcely time to
contemplate it for a moment.”
“ Nor was it prudent that he should,” answered Doren-
berg in the same low and rapid tone. " But there are
two sentinels.”
“ Never fear,” said Faust. “ I will bribe them both.”
The doctor gave a slight nod of satisfaction, and turned
towards the prothonotary to fulfil the ceremony of re-
. istering the birth of the child, w in he represented to
fie a. Prince_(instead of a Princess , and on whom the
Archduke conferred the name of Maximilian, in honour
of his imperial uncle. '
We must observe that Faust had not the s ’ htest in-
tention of making the two sentinels his conf . crates in
the damnable treachery which he contemplated; but he
had 'ven the above-recorded answer to the hvsician,
simp y because he did not dare reveal to him t e means
{vhilch he possessed of obviating the difiiculty hinted at
y 11m.
* l 3 It‘- * *
It was midnight.
The Archduke and Faust sat at a table covered with a
sumptuous banquet, in the Hall of Ceremonies.
The two sentinels stood, motionless as statues, by the.
door of the Chamber of the Cradle.
The saloon was brilliant with hght; and the lustre of
the silver lamps was reflected in the ruby wine which
crowned the crystal cups upon the table.
“ You are happier, Count, than I for the present,”
said the Archduke ; “ for you have been able to contem-
plate your child as long as your heart prompted you;
whereas I am deprived of that pleasure until to-morrpw.
But, tell me—does your amiable Theresa seem supremely
happy with her little one cradled on her bosom ?"
“ 1 think I informed your Highness,” said Faust, “that
the moment after .my little Adela—for I shall call her
Adela—was born, Dr. Lutzen was compelled to administer
a soporific to the Countess; so that she has not yet
actually seen her babe.”
“ Ah ! I remember—you told me that ere now, Faust,"
observed the Archduke. “ Pardon me, if I be abstracted
—-if I forget anything which regards you or your amiable
Countess, I do not feel the less interest in you ; but the
idea of my own happiness in being a father makes me
selfigh, and occupies all my thoughts Is it so with
you “
“ Nearly so, my lord," returned Faust.
“ I will leave you for a few moments,” said Leopold,
after a brief ause ; “ but do not laugh at my anxiet to
assure In so that the Archduchess is indeed beyon all
dan r. on will not leave this room,” added the Prince,
si ficantly, as he glanced towards the door of the
C mber of the Cradle.
“ Assuredly not, my lord,” answered Faust.
“ For I know,” observed the Archduke, in a whisper,
“ that your friendship for me rompts you to regard with
almost as much interest as I, experience the sanctity of
that chamber.“
“ Do not say almost, my lsrd,” returned Faust; “ I can
completely identify myself with your Highness in that
res ect.”
e Archduke acknowledged this friendly assurance
with a teful smile, and then passed into the apartment
of his ' olized Maria.
Faust drew a. small phial from beneath his doublet, and
removed the cork :—-then, under pretence of reaching a
fruit-dish, he emptied the contents of the bottle into the
Archduke’s crystal cup.
This was done so skilfully and so rapidly that the
sentries—even had they been attentively watching the
Count of Aurana’s movements—could not have perceived
his manoeuvre.
_ Nor did the countenance of Faust manifest any emo-
tion; but his heart leapt within him~and a voice of
triumph sang in his soul.



“I shall outwit the Demon yet!” he thought within
himself.
In a short time the Archduke returned, his counte-
nance radiant with joy.
“ How fares her Imperial Highness ?" asked Faust-
“ So prosperously that we have conversed together
without drawing a rebuke from good Dr. Dorenberg,"
was the reply.
“ With your Highness’s permission, we will pledge good
Dr. Dorenbcrg,” exclaimed Faust.
“ And with him we will couple your Dr. Lutzen,” added
the Archduke, as he filled his cup with the rich red wine
of Burgundy. _
Faust followed his example : and the two cups were
immediately drained.
Then followed a conversation on the topics nearest and
dearest to the heart of the Archduke, and which, as his
Highness imagined, were equally near and dear to that of
the Count.
But in a short time Leopold experienced a drowsiness
which he could not shake off. He rose and paced the
room; but this was of no avail. He re-seated himself,
drank another cup of wine, ate some fruit, and at length
sank into a profound slumber.
Faust allowed some little time to elapse ere he moved
from his seat. .
At length he arose, and, addressing the sentinels, said,
“ My good friends, your task of watching is an onerous
one. A cup of wine and a morsel of food will not render
ye less fit for your duties. You have my permission to
seat yourselves at the table, and partake of the dainties
spread thereon ;—and, in giving ye this license, I do but
obey the commands which his Imperial Highness ere now
im arted to me. In a few minutes I shall return."
he sentinels were by no means unwilling to avail
themselves of this invitation; and they accordingly took
their seats at the board.
Faust then left the Hall of Ceremonies.
In a few minutes he returned, bearing his child—his
sow—in his arms.
But the sentinels neither perceived nor heard him.
He hastened to the Chamber of the Cradle; and thence
he issued again almost immediately, now carrying the
daughter of the Archduke. .
Nor on this occasion did the sentinels either perceive or
hear him!
He crossed the saloon, quitted it, and remained absent
several minutes.
Then he returned; and this time the sentinels both saw
and heard him !
They uafl'cd each another cup, by his desire, and re-
sumed t eir watch at the door of the Chamber of the
Cradle—little suspecting the perfidy which had just been
consummated. '
Faust remained in the Hall during the night; and the
Archduke slept until the morning.
The ccremon of presentin the young Prince Maxi-
milian to the so diery then too place ; and the child was
conveyed to the Archduchess, who fondly believed her-
self to be its mother. ’
In the meantime Theresa had awoke from the deep
sleep into which her physician had urposely thrown
her; and to her bosom she pressed t e infant girl to
whom, she was led to imagine, she had iven birth.
Thus, Faust’s son remained with t e Archduchess ;
{Fad that Princess’s daughter was dearly cherished by
cresa.
CHAPTER XXIII.
vnsovms.
ONE year has elapsed since the events narrated in the
preceding chapter.
It was now the spring of 1495.
But our scene changes.
Seated in the bosom of a vast bay, Naples extends her
grandeur along the coast from Portici to Miseno. The
shelving shores, the adjacent heights, and the mountains,
still further in the background, are covered with palaces
and charming villas.
Two hundred and forty thousand individuals live in
wealth or com etency in that city; and sixty thousand
miserable wretc es have not where to lay their heads.
But the gardens and the groves which adorn the heights
behind the capital of the Two Sicilies are incomparany ‘
lovely and inviting. The grounds, too, are there ever
clothed with verdure, for_ cold winter's sceptre is power-
less in that domain.


PA US T. 47
5
\Vith the earliest dawn, a refreshing gale sweeps from
the Mediterranean, wafting vigour and coolness into the
stifling streets ; and when the sun sinks to rest, a breeze
comes, laden with perfume, from the hills, to fill the
dwellings with fragrance, and lull their inmates to rest.
But it is in the still and silent morning that Naples is
seen with its best aspect. Then it is that, amid the tem'
porary lull—so soon to be broken by the uplifting of
myriads of voices—the Queen of the Mediterranean
appears to smile royally upon the sea that spreads before
her, with its bay, its promontories, and its island—while
above stretches an unclouded canopy of azure, whose
pure tints assume a mellow, then gradually a golden
glow, as it a preaches the horizon in the east.
And that horizon is broken by mountains and rocks,
rising in every fantastic shape; and in the centre of that
uneven background, towers, in frowning majesty to the
sky, the scorched cone of Vesuvius. -
The mountains of Somna and Ottajano, by which it is
bounded, and which have one common base, seem pigmies
by the side of that colossus of nearly four thousand feet.
The lower part of Vesuvius is covered on all sides with
large towns, delightful villas, and beautiful hamlets.
There fertility, natural loveliness, and artificial embel-
liishment, combine to create a species of terrestrial para-
isc.
But farther up the mountain, the scene is one of devas-
tation, the utter barrenness of the soil being marked with
black lines, which show the furrows that have been
ploughed by rivers of lava.
Naples was not serene in its queenly beauty or its
iky unclouded, nor its sea tranquil, on the 1515* May,
495. -
For on the preceding evening the shock of an earth-
quake had been felt ; and an hour before sunrise on the
ensuing morning, millions of red-hot stones were sud-
denly shot into the air from the bowels of Vesuvius.
Then ensued one of the most terrific eruptions recorded
in the history of the mountain. .
First the crater vomited forth flames, which rose to a
height of three thousand feet, and which were crowned
by a canopy of dense and sombre smoke.
The glare of those terrific flames rendered the light
painful to contemplate, and the heat dreadful to endure,
or miles and miles around.
In a short time mighty fissures were opened in the
quermost part of the crater; and then the streams of
lava poured forth—slowly at first, but speedily gathering
violence and force, until the torrents rushed down with
overwhelming fury.
Then, adieu to the villas, the hamlets, and the casinos
on the acclivity of the mountain’s base; adieu to the
groves, the citron and orange trees, the fruit-laden vines,
and the parterres of flowers. >
The palace of the peer and the cot of the rustic were
involved in one common ruin. As the lava approached
each dwellin , the glass melted from the window-frames ;
then, when t e torrent sWept over the habitations, the
roofs fell in with a terrific crash.
And hither and thither rushed the afirighted people—
women sending forth piteous shrieks, as the clasped
their babes to their bosoms, men wearing on t eir faces
an expression of blank despair, as they dragged their
little ones hurriedly alon , for the lava pursued them like
ah black and open-moat ed monster, ready to devour
t em.
The sun rose, red and ominous; but his light was not
needed to exhibit the full horrors of the scene. And now
the mountain vomited forth columns of water, scalding
hot; and which, after rising like a transparent pillar to
the sky, branched off at the top into myriads of jets,
which fell in boiling showers around the base of Vesuvius.
For an hour did this deluge continue, and then the
crater sent up clouds of hot dust and ashes; while the
atmosphere rapidly grew dark and murky. The sun was
veiled in a deep gloom; a black, oppressive, and fetid
vapour settled upon the land for miles around the volcanic
mount, and shocks of an earthquake were again felt.
Then the sea began to rock and rear, as if its very bed
were broken up, and it dashed on the coasts with a deafen-
i din.
nThe darkness increased to such a degree that, like the
lague of Egypt, it was felt. Still, in the distance, red,
urid flames played on the summit of the crater, like the
forked tongues of enormous serpents, whose folds were
agitating within the mount itself.
Ever and anon the volcano threw up masses of rock and
immense stones, which rebounded from the side of the
mountain where they fell, or else, breaking into a thou-


sand fragments, were carried far and wide, to add to the
general devastation.
While the affrighted inhabitants of the towns, hamlets,
villas, casinos, and cots, upon the lower part of the
mountain were flying from the scene of horror—flying in
wild confusion, some _with prayers, and some with curses
on their li s~flying from the danger behind, as if pursued
by myri s of ravenous wolves—while parents were com~
pelled to relinquish the h ds of their laggard little ones,
and thus abandon their 0 spring to the lava that wound
its wa like a black serpent at their heels~while nature.
seeme convulsed, earth trembling, sea roaring, and
heaven darting forth forked lightnings through the dense
clouds—two beings were wcnding their way up the
mountain.
Threading their path between the streams of lava, they
appeared unmindful of the boiling water and red-hot
ashes which showered around them.
While others were flying from the scene of peril and of
horror, those two beings were climbing up the height,
towards the crater of the volcano.
Terrible journey !
Now the wind swept furiously over them—now streams
of lava meandered near them—then pestiferous vapours
and fcetid heats assailed them—now lightnings darted
through the dense cloud, and played upon their counte-
nances—now storms of stones, and cinders, and fragments
of rock, ploughed up the earth around them—then the
breath of the volcano, like the exhalations from the
venomed jaws of a huge ser ent, enveloped them in its
sickening atmos here—then ames, red and lurid, darted
by their side, licking their very garments—but still they
pursued their way—unhurt—uninjured—untouched!
The terrific shrieks of women, the screams of lost or
abandoned children, and the agonizing cries of strong and
vigorous men, who struggled impotently in the lava which
had overtaken them, met the ears of those two strange
beings, but did not divert them from their urpose.
The roar of the sea, as it raged and rock in its mighty
bed—the din of the enormous masses -of rock which
thundered down the sides'of the mountain—the terrific
howl of rushing winds—the crash of habitations-the
fall of stately trees—the hollow rumbling which came
from the bowels of the volcano—and the sweeping sound
of the storm of cinders—these also met the ears of the
two adventurous travellers, but did not drive them back-
And now the mountain gradually assumed an appear-
ance so terrific, so appalling, amidst the utter darkness
which prevailed, that had not those two men ossessed
some superhuman power, they would have s unk in
dismay from the fearful spectacle.
The crater grew rapidly red with heat, and the lurid
glow descended farther and farther, spreading deeper and
deeper all round, until, ina short half-hour, the entire
mountain seemed one tremendous pile of red-hot cinders.
And it was now up the burningl eminence that the two
travellers pursued their way, un urt, uninjured.
But though the mountain glowed as if the fires within
shone through porous and trans rent sides—though the
volcano shone like a pyrimidal urnace of diaphanic con-
struction—the cloud of darkness still hun around it,
closing it in, borrowing no illumination from 1t, losing not
one shade of its density in its immediate contact with that
colossal pile of glowing matter.
Strange and terrible phenomenon!
Suddenly there was an awful and a crushing din—-
louder than the roar of the tossing billows in the bay—-
louder than the rebounding of the huge stones flung from
the bowels of the volcano—louder than all the complicated
sounds which characterised that day of horror.
Then two wondrous things occurred.
First, the summit of the truncated cone of Vesuvius
was split in two, and an awful chasm was opened between
the mighty glowing masses thus riveu asunder.
Next, the waves of the Lucrine Lake, in the neighbour-
hood of the volcano, tossed and heaved, as if agitated by
an earthquake at their dc ths; and slowly there arose
from the midst of the tur id waters a new hill, which,
displacing the foaming, raging element, grew ra idly,
;md 'in a few hours, to the height of four hundred an fifty
eet .
It settled thus on the site of the Lucrine, with a base
of a mile and a half in circumference, and reducing the
lake itself to a shallow pool.
It is now known as Monte Nuovo, or the “ New Moun-
tain.” 7
But while nature thus waged its elemental war, and
performed its prodigies, the two travellers pursued their


48
FA UST.
way up the sides of the glowing volcano—lunhurt—un-
injured!
While houses, groves, hamlets, and green woods disap.
peared as if they stood on trap-doors that suddenly gave
way, and plunged them into profound abysses beneath—
while thousands of men, women,_ and children were
flying far, far away from the acclivities of the mountain,
those two travellers threaded the mazes between the
streams of lava, up the glowing pyramid, scatheless and
secure as the Israelites in the passage of the Red Sea.
“ Say, fiend;H cried Faust, as he followed the calm and
measured step of the Demon, “ is all this indeed your
handiwork P“ -
“ ’Tis mine, if thou wilt," answered the deep, sonorous
voice of the Demon; “ but ’tis also thine!”
“ Mine !" repeated Faust, as if recoiling with horror
from the thought. “ Nay, impute not to me the deso-
latin powers which thou dost wield!”
“ ort-sighted mortal!” ejaculated the Demon, with
a fearful and unearthly laugh—a mocking, bitter, sar-
donic laugh, which made the blood of Faust run cold in
his veins; “ perha s then wilt say next that when we
stood on the summit of the Brocken, and my voice evoked
from the caverns of the north that tempest which deso-
lated the entire territory in the neighbourhood of the
Elbe—perhaps thou wilt say that thou wast innocent of
all the evil which I then worked.”
“No,” replied Faust, in a melancholy tone, “ I have
often pondered since on the useless wickedness-the in-
effectual iniquity of that mad whim of mine !”
“ ’Tis well that you confess when you are wrong," said
the Demon, changing his lofty tone of mocking defiance
to one of chuckling railery. “ How seldom is it that
poor weak mortal chooses to avow his error! how
earnestly he clings to his own assertions, even when he
knows that he is wrong. There is a little demon,” he
continued, in a tone of jeeriug sarcasm, which it was
horrible to hear, “that lurks in every mortal’s breast,
and that undermines his happiness more surely—more
secretly—more rapidly than even his great and prominent
vices.”
“ And what is that P” asked Faust.
“ PRIDE !” answered the Demon. “ That sentiment
controls all the actions of you miserable mortals. I have
seen a trivial dispute between a husband and wife, who
dote upon each other, become a grave and serious quarrel
—-ay, one which has led to separation, and turned their
love to hatred, simply because Pride—that wretched, fri-
volous feeling—prevented the one who was wrong from
acknowledging the error, and making the first advance
towards a reconciliation. I have seen a man, in a moment
of anger, say a harsh word to his best friend, and then
lose that friend for ever, because he could not so bend his
Pride as to allow him to murmur the simple words, ‘ I
was wrong !’ I have seen," continued the Demon, and he
raised his voice almost exultingly as he spoke, “ I have
seen the son abandon his father—thedaughter alienated
from her mother—the sister resign the love of a brother,
only because they could not humble themselves to say,
‘Forgiee me ; I was wrong !’ Ay—and I have seen kings
lose their most faithful minister—maidens their adoring
lovers—lovers their worshipping fair ones—and all
because that little contemptible demon called PRIDE
would not permit their lips to frame a confession of
hastiness or error. You see I call PRIDE a demon; but
it is one whom I—even I—most cordially despise.”
“But why this long tirade ?“ demanded Faust, who
shrank from the bitter, biting words of the Demon.
“ Our conversation led me to trouble you with those
remarks,” answered the Demon; “and yet it does not
become me to teach you moralities,” he added, with
another sardonic laugh. “We will, however, return to
our original topic. You asked me if I indeed worked all
this desolation. I answer Yes—and for. you, too 1”
“ For me I” cried Faust, again startled by the observa-
tion.
“ For you," returned the Demon. “ Oh! I can assure
‘ you, I am a thoughtful and obedient slave !”
“ A slave I" muttered Faust, with bitter irony; “ a
master !" '
“I shall be a master—twenty-two years hence, if we
add a month or so to the present reckoning,” returned
the Demon. “ But I will not leave you in sus ense con-
cerning the remark I ere now made, and whie startled
on so strangely. When last evening we were conversing
in Vienna, you asked me to tell you somewhat of that
region which calls me sovereign. I offered—with becom-
ing courtesy "—and here he chuckled horribly—“ to
introduce you to my Kingdom. You accepted the invita-

tion. But such horrors will you see there, Faust,” he
continued, seriously, “ that I dared not show you the
secrets of your future dwelling-place, until I had plunged
you amidst the utmost terrors which earth’s elemental
warfare can afford; and they are poor, or indeed, in
com arison with those dread scenes whic on will pre-
sent contemplate below! Yes—I deemed 1t well to let
you fie! this oppressive darkness—to behold yon glowing
mountain—to mark the effects of that scalding lava—to
view the ravages of this whirlwind of ashes—to judge of
the force of that internal fire, which can split asunder
the summit of Vesuvius, and cast up a mountain from
the depths of the Lucrine Lake! I suffer you to see and
feel all this—and yet to remain unhurt. Such a foretaste
will prepare you—oh! prepare you well to behold the
terrors of my Kingdom. And yet, as I ere now said,
these are feeble emblems of the features of my domains.
Here are no hideous serpents, which coil themselves
around the palpitating form, and lick the countenance
with their forked tongues of flame. Here are no monsters
—ten thousand times more fri htful than the alligators
of the Nile—which lay wit their victims, and then
prey upon them—ans yet those victims never dying!
Here are no eternal torments, which you must see to
understand! For if the lava overtake some few of you
fugitive mortals, it consumes them in a short space; and
their agony is only of a few minutes! But in my Kingdom,
the agony is eternal—the lava unceasing—the flames un-
quenchable !"
“ Enough—enough !" “Oh! this is too
horrib !”
“ Do on repent your wish to behold my domains P”
asked t e Demon. If so, you are the master, and can
command—for the present 1”
“ No," returned Faust. “ A desperate sentiment of
curiosity inspires me. I will not retreat. But, remember
-—this evening I must again be in Vienna,”
“ Order—and I obey. You know that my will is a rapid
wing, that can annihilate the distance between Naples
and the imperial city of Germany."
They had now reached that point on the mountain's
side down to which the upper part of the crater had been
riven.
From thence branched off the paths that, amidst
streams of lava, led to the summits of the two heads of
the volcano.
“Do you roceed in that direction,” said the Demon,
“ while I ta c this.”
“ But why should we separate?” asked Faust.
" Because two cannot stand together on the topmost
innacle of either of those heights into which the mountain
as been split,“ replied the Demon.
Then they separated, and pursued their way, one up
the southern division, the other up the northern head of
Vesuvius. _
In a short time they each gained the summit.
But though now an immense interval divided them,
Faust could behold the Demon’ s form, and hear his voice
as laiuly as if they were but a few yards asunder.
or the darkness had rolled away, the sun once more
shone brightly, and the eruption from the depths of the
volcano had ceased.
It was mid-day.
Faust glanced upwards to the blue sky, in the centre
of which hung the glorious lamp of heaven; then he
cast his looks downwards, and beheld a terrible abyss,
whose tprofundities no mortal eyes could fathom, yawning
at his ect.
The mountain was no longer candescent; the ragin of
the sea in the bay, at a distance of three leagues,%ad
subsided; the tempest had ceased; and the streams of
lava were rapidly becoming cold.
But the devastation around the base of the volcano still
remained. ~
The bells of Naples were ringing joyfully to summon the
inhabitants to prayer, that they might return thanks to
Heaven for the safety of their queenly city, whose dwell-
in s the lava had not reached.
or the towns, hamlets, and villas on the lower part of
the volcano had alone been destroyed in this memorable
convulsion.
And that devastation was enough!
Faust shuddered as his glances plunged into those
hideozlis depths whence the stream of burning matter had
flowe .
“ Behold one of the avenues to my Kingdom!” sud-
denly rang the sonorous voice of the Demon 1n the ears of
Faust. “ Hast thou the courage to venture there P"
“ I have,” answered Faust.
cried Faust.



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FA UST.
51

“ Then let us delay no longer I” exclaimed the fiend.
And almost at the same moment the mountain seemed
1 to rock upon its base: the clefts in the crater closed with
l a hideous din, again becoming an unbroken but rugged
i circle, inclosing an abyss as black as night.
Suddenly the Demon stood by the side of Faust, whose
hand he took.
“ Are you pre iarcd P” he demanded, fixing his penetra-
ting eyes upon t e young Count.
“ I am,“ answered the latter.
“ Then, come !"
And they plunged together headlong into the crater of
Vesuvius.
CHAPTER XXIV.
run macs or cznanm.
ON the same day when the terrific eruption of Vesuvius
devastated the immediate vicinity of the mountain, and
menaced the safety of Naples, certain events not the less
wprthy of bein?r recorded in these chapters occurred in the
imperial city0 Vienna.
In one of the principal streets stood a splendid dwelling,
inhabited by the Baron and Baroness of Czernin.
The Baron was a man of about forty ears of age.
had once been handsome; but dissipation and intempcr-
ance had made sad ravages on his constitution, the effects
of which wei'etoo well epicted on his pale countenance
and in his hollow eyes. He concealed a naturally vulgar
mind and coarse manners beneath an affectation of blunt-
iiess and honesty of speech, which, he declared, were
natural to him ; and as he was a convivial com anion, had
travelled much, and gambled deeply, when e had the
means, he was more or less a favourite among the dissi-
pated portion of the nobility of Vienna. Moreover, the
refinements of cinilization had not, in those times, reached
a degree which pointed the contrast between politeness
and vu rity so nicely as in the subsequent age.
The aron’s history contained certain peculiarities,
which it is necessary to mention.
His parents died when he was very youn", and left him
to the care of his uncle, a wealthy om ' l in one of the
government departments. The orphan was not, how-
ever, de endent upon this relative. His father had be-
queath to him an immense fortune, the stewardshi of
which was invested in the hands of the uncle unt' the
young Baron should attain the 0'e of twenty-three. The
uncle wasan upright, honest, an laborious man, who not
only took the best possible care of the young Theodore,
but also exerted his utmost to improve the estate to which
he was the heir. Thus when Theodore reached the age at
which he was entitled to assume the direction of his own
affairs, he found himself one of the richest nobles in the
German empire. Shortly after he attained his majorit
his uncle died, leaving him a munificent addition to his
already princely fortune.
Theodore new set out on his travels—for he had ever
entertained, from his youth upwards, aviolent inclination
to visit foreign countries, especially the Ottoman empire.
In those times there were few facilities for obtaining the
remittance of money from place to place by means of bills
of exchange or the agency of bankers : all financial
matters were in the hands of Jews .- and with the members
of this misunderstood and nn'ustly persecuted race the
more fastidious kinds of Christians would have as litttle to
do as possible. Of this nature was Theodore von Czernin ;
and as he did not choose to entrust his affairs into the hands
of the Israelite a cnts, he provided himself with jewels
and other valuab es, which were easily convertible into
money, and of which be furnished himself with an amount
requisite for the expenses of an absence of three or four
years.
Thus provided, he set out. Twelve years passed away ;
and no tidings of him reached his friends in Vienna. At
the expiration of that period, the officials of the Imperial
Chancery mazle certain representations to the Emperor,
to the effect that the Baron of Czernin had been absent
for the above-mentioned time ; that he had not written
to any of his acquaintances or friends; that there was
every reason to believe he had met with an untimely end
in some foreign country; that his tenants were enjoying
the use of his lands without pa ing any rents for the
same; and that, as he had no heirs, a decree of for-
feiture to the crown, in respect to the Czcrm'n estates,
had better issue, with the usual proviso that they should
be restored to the rightful owner, if he ever came for-
ward to claim them with sufficient proofs of his iden-
tity.
H0=
___.
This representation was duly considered by the Em.
peror; and in a short time the decree was issued. But
scarcely had it been promulgated, when the Baron of
Czernin re-appeared at Vienna. He was sadly altered in
appearance ; and those who had remembered the elegant,
courteous, and fascinating young nobleman, who had Set
out on his travels upwards of twelve years previously,
could liardl recognise the same individual in the coarse,
blllunt, and dissipated person who now returned amonrrs':
t em. ,
He preferred his claims at the Imperial Chancery for
the restoration of his estates. The authorities subjected
him to a searching examination. But he presented the
most unquestionable proofs of his identity. He related
all his early history with readiness and accuracy; he de-
tailed the particulars of his property and the names of
his tenants; he even displayed some of the jewels which
he had taken with him, and which his former friends im-
mediater recognised. Then he gave a long, but clear and
connected narrative of his travels in European and
Asiatic Turkey, and showed how a long and rigorous im-
prisonment at Erzeroum, for a political offence of which
he was not really guilty, had occasioned his prolonged
absence, and his silence in respect to epistolary commu-
nication with any of his friends in Vienna. Then the
servants whom he had left behind at his house in the
German capital, and many persons who had known him
well ere he set out on his travels, came forward‘and
proved that, although considerably altered, his personal
ap earance was indeed that of Theodore von Czernin.
The Imperial Chancery admitted his claims and re.
stored his property. This event occurred about four years
previous to the time when we now introduce him to the
reader.
The moment he obtained possession of his estates, he
plunged into a career of dissipation and extravagance
whic alienated all the friends of his youthful days. He
moreover discharged those faithful dependents whom he
had left behind him when he set out on his travels, and
whom he found at his mansion on his return after so
wear an absence. He filled their places with persons of
indi erent character, and whom he admitted as the com-
panions of his orgies. His usual associates were, how-
ever, the most dissolute of the nobility of Vienna,—ineri
of broken fortunes and suspected fame, and whose only
recommendation to the Baron was their readiness to keep
his com any in his obscene pursuits and drunken revel-
ries. T ey treated him as their parallels, in these times,
always treat the poor fool who encourages such han ers-
on ; they plundered him in the most open and bare- aced
manner; and when his immense wealth was exhausted
in the miserably short career of three years after his re-
tilirn from his foreign travel, they deserted him, one and
a I.
Then did be open his eyes to the folly of his past con-
duct ; and he cursed his own extravagance while he
anathematized the ingratitude of those whom he had
deemed his friends.
It was about this time that Faust introduced himself
to the Baron of Czernin. Theresa had a few weeks before
become a mother ; and Ida had performed her part in the
atrocious drama of changing the children.
Faust therefore no lon er required Ida to be in attend-
ance upon his wife ; and e new set to work to provide a
a husband—a complaisant husband, for his mistress.
With this object had he sought the acquaintance of the
Baron of Czernin; and a bargain was speedily concluded
between them. The Baron received an enormous bribe
from the hands of Faust; and, about a month after
Theresa had become a mother, Ida bestowed her hand on
r the Baron of Czernin. Immediatel after the ceremony,
the newly-married couple repairet to a distant town.
where they remained several months, passing under a
feigned name. There Ida became the mother of a child
-—the fruit of her intimacy with Faust—which did not
survive its birth above four-and-twcnty hours. As soon
as she was sufficiently recovered to bear the fatigue of
travelling, she accompanied her husband back to Vienna,
the secret of her past shame being thus successfully veiled
from the eyes of the world.
Since this recaution was adopted, it may be asked by
the reader w ierefore Faust had troubled himself at all to
find a husband for his guilty mistress. Ida was necessary
to Faust ; she knew the secret of his fate—she was
acquainted with the particu rs relating to the Chamber
of the Cradle. She love Faust with all the ardour
which belonged to her warm temperament—for, as her
family name indicated, she was of Italian origin. More-

over, Faust entertained a strange and mysterious pas-


52
FA US T.
sion for her,—a passion whose principal ingrediment was
sensuality,—and which does not essentially interfere
with the mellowed and less enthusiastic, but still sincere,
feeling which he now experienced towards Theresa. Thus
Faust was anxious, from necessity and inclination, to
maintain his intimacy with Ida ; and this he could
only do, without danger as to the results, by providing
her with a husband who should be so in name only. On
his part, the Baron cared little how his wife conducted
herself, so longas he possessed the means of gratifying
his own dissipated habits and licentious pursuits.
Thus stood matters in respect to the Baron and
Baroness of Ozernin at the time when we propose to in_
troduce the reader to their habitation; and it must be
remembered that this retrospection' over a period of
nearly a year, brings us to the 1st of Ma , 1495.
We said, then, that on the same day w on the eruption
of Vesuvius occurred in the vicinity of N agles, certain
events took place in the Baron’s mansion at ienna.
Ida was sitting in her own chamber, contemplatin a
casket of jewels which Faust had presented to her a ew
days previously, when her principal female attendant,
Gertrude, entered the room with something bordering on
trepidation.
“ Oh, my lady!” she exclaimed, “ there is such a
strange man in the marble hall, who insists upon seeing
you.’
“ Seeing me !” repeated Ida, her thoughts immediately
settling—and not without alarm—upon her brother Otto.-
“ Wha kind of a person is he P“
“ Short, thin, and with a great red beard, my lady,
that seems as if it had never been acquainted with a
comb,” answered Gertrude.
“ He cannot wish to see me—I know no such monster,"
said Ida, whose mind was relieved by this description,
from the idea that the visitor might be her brother.
“ There must be some mistake.”
“ There really is no mistake, my lady,” continued Ger-
trude. “ He presented himself at the gate, and demanded
speech of m lord. The porter assured him that my lord
was not wit ' . Then the uncouth fellow pushes by the
porter, enters the hall, takes a seat, and declares that he
will wait till my lord comes in. In a few minutes he calls
the porter, and desires to be conducted into a room where
some food and wine may be served up to him. The porter
refuses ; the stranger storms; and at that moment I was
passing through the hall. The porter tells me all that
had occurred—_"
“ Gertrude, you are tedious,” interrupted Ida, im-
patiently. “ What has this drunken intruder to do with
me? Let some of our lacqueys thrust him from the
door.”
“ That is more easily said than done, my lady,” returned
Gertrude. “ The man brandishes a huge stick in his
handl; and beneath his doublet I caught a glimpse of
isto s.”
“But did he inquire for me P” asked the Baroness of
Czerniu.
“ Yes, my lady. While I was remonstrating with him
on the impropriet of his conduct, in thrusting himself
so unceremonious y into a mansion, where he could have
no possible business, I happened to observe that my lady
would be very angry with him, when he flies u in a
moment, and says, ‘Oh! your lord is married, is e?’—
and then he insists upon seeing your ladyship."
“You have a very excellent mode of making a short
story as long as you can, Gertrude,” said Ida. “ But I
will see this rude wight, and ascertain his business.” '
To this ste the Baroness was impelled by her curiosity
20 discover w ether it was any one of her husband’s boon
companions who dared to make so free in that abode. ,
She proceeded to the hall, attended by Gertrude; and,
on reaching that place, was immediately confronted by
an individual of a out forty-five, whose attire was of a
coarse description, and whose personal appearance corre-
L sponded with the portrait already drawn by Gertrude.
“ I suppose you’re my Lady Baroness, are you P” he ex-
claimed, carrying his hand hastily to his rusty travelling
cap.
“ I am the Baroness of Czernin, sir,” answered Ida;
“ and I am waiting to know who you may be."
“ Who I may be!" repeated the intruder, with a coarse
laugh ; “ that’s as the case turns out—friend or foe,
according to circumstances—but more inclined to be the
former. All that, howeve , must be talked over In
private between me and t Baron. Oh! I can assure
on, he will not frown on me as your ladyship is doin .
{1e and I are old friends, althou h we have not seen cac
When w'
other for some years. he return, my lady?”

“ In time, I hope, to thrust an insolent and familiar
serf like you from the door,” answered Ida, with ineifable
contempt.
“ I reall do not think that he will do that, my lad ,”
returned t e man, in a tone of confidence which somewhat
amazed the Baroness. “However, as I do not. wish to
halvffe any harsh words with so sweet a creature as your-
se _-
“ Im ertinent menial !" ejaculated Ida, the blood rush.
ing to or countenance. Begone !”
“ That is just what I am going to do, my lady," ob-
served the stranger, coolly. ‘ But I shall return in the
evening, shortly after sunset ; and you may tell his lord-
shi that his friend Schurmann will pay him a visit. . He
wil be quite charmed to see me.”
The man made another attempt at a salute, and turned
upon his heel to leave the hall.
“ I do not think your reception will be quite so pleasant
as you seem to fancfi,” grumbled the porter, as he opened
the gate to afford t 0 man egress.
“ Oh I you entertain that opinion, do you ?” said Schur-
mann, in a cool, independent fashion ; and at the same
time he let the knobbed end of his staff fall pretty heavily
on the porter’s hand as it gras the key of the door.
The porter uttered a volley 0 abuse against the insolent
stran er ; but the latter sauntered leisurely away, chant-
in a acchanalian song.
da anxiously watched for the return of her husband;
for she felt uneasy at the insolent confidence with which
Schurmann had spoken of the reception he anticipated at
the hands of the Baron.
That nobleman did not, however, make his appearance
until a full hour after sunset ; and then he returned with
his countenance flushed with wine.
“ Her ladyshi wishes to speak a few words with you,
my lord," said t e porter.
“ Her ladyship is very condescending,” observed the
Baron, who was in a particularly unpleasant temper, he
having just lost an enormous sum at a gaming-table—for
with the (possession of fresh resources, his old habits
were rapi ly returning.
At that moment, Ida, attended by Gertrude, made her
appearance from a room adjoining the great marble hall.
“ It it well that we meet here,” my lord,” said she,
accosting him; “because as I have been insulted in the
presence of the portemaifd of my own female dependant,
your lordship can, in their hearin , give me an assurance
that the insolent intruder, to w om I allude, will ex~
perience a befitting reception at your hands, should he
dare to make his ap earance within these walls ain.”
“ Your ladyship as been insulted P“ hiccoug ed the
Baron, who did not seem rightly to comprehend the
meaning of his wife’s words.
“ Yes—grossly insulted, by a vulgar serf, who dares to
claim acquaintance with your lordship, and who has
threatened to return this evening,” continued Ida,
anxiously watching her husband’s countenance.
“ And who may this intruder be P” demanded the
Baron. “ Did he give no name ?"
“ He said that you would know him as your friend
Schurmann, my lord !” answered Ida.
“ Schurmann !" ejaculated the Baron, his face turning
deadly pale, and the fumes of wine fleeting away from his
brain in a moment.
“ Yes—Schurmann,” repeated Ida.
him P"
“ Unfortunately, I do—too well!” cried the Baron ;
then, in another moment, he seemed to recover himself,
and affecting to smile, said, “ Your ladyship need not be
alarmed—he will do us no harm. But I must see him—
see him privately, too, the instant he arrives. I will
await his coming in this apartment.”
With these words, he hurried into one of the rooms
which opened from the hall, and closed the door violently
behind him.
The mention of Schurmann’s name had evidently pro—
(éuceda strange and mysterious effect upon the Baron of
zcrmn.
“ Do you know
_—
CHAPTER XXV.
'rnn WALPURGIS NIGHT.
IDA remained standing in the hall—transfixed as it were
to the spot, with astonishment at the conduct of her
husband.
The agitation of his manner, when the name of Schur-
mann met his ears, was so remarkable, that Ida felt con-
vinced that some alarming mystery was connected with
the knowledge which that vulgarian had of her husband.


FA US T.
53
5
Was theirs the intimacy of crime P were pecuniary
affairs connected with the visit of Schurmann and the
agitation of the Baron P or had the boon companionship
81f} driirnkcn orgies become a link of friendship between
em
Such were the questions which Ida rapid] revolved in
her mind, immediately after the Baron h precipitated
himself into the adjacent room, in the manner related in
the preceding chapter.
But Ida's reverie was very shortly interrupted ; for
the bell suddenly rang with unusual violence ; and
Schurmann swaggered into the hall.
“ Well, fair lady,” he cried, “is the noble Baron come
home yet P If so, I pra thee to conduct me to his most
gracious presence ; for long to pledge him in a friendly
cup, I care not whether of sparkling Rhenish or of
foaming beer.” ‘
“ His lordship, whom
turned Ida, with superb auteur,
should be admitted to his presence.”
“ The devil l” ejaculated Schurmann, leering im u-
dently at Ida. “What! he plays the lord, then? is
presence, forsooth! A precious drunken one at times, I
guess—eh, my lady ?”
“ Insolent varlet l” cried the Baroness, har whole coun-
tenance becoming suddenly crimson, and her dark eyes
flashing fire; “ this to me in my own house l"
Then throwing open the door of the a artment to
which the Baron had retired, she exclaime , “ My lord,
do you permit a vulgar, unmannerly hind like this to
insult your wife by his familiar talk, and to speak in the
most disrespectful manner of yourself?"
“ He means no harm, Ida—it is his way,” cried the
Baron, hastening forward to receive his visitor. “ Schur-
mann—my dear friend—you are welcome !”
“ I knew that I should be," said that individual, with
a glance of triumph towards Ida. “ What is the use of
this fine lady calling me names and giving herself such
airs? It would have served her right if I had used my
lips as a seal to close her pretty mouth.”
“ Hush, hush, Schumann—for God’s sake!" whis-
pered1 the Baron, in a tone of appeal rather than of com-
man .
“ When your lordship has a few moments to devote to
me,” said Ida, whose ears had not failed to catch her
husband's words, although they were only intended for
Sehurmann, “I shall be glad to receive an explanation
of such unparalleled conduct on the part of this base-
born rufiian."
Having thus spoken, Ida walked majestically out of the
room; but ere the door closed behmd her, she heard
Schurmann say, in a voice that was almost choked with
rage “ E ! Baron What’s-your-name, we must punish
her for this insolence !"
Ida repaired to her chamber, and directed Gertrude to
bring her word when Schurmann took his leave.
An hour elapsed; and the servant returned to her
mistress. '
“ Has he departed P” asked Ida, hastily.
“ No, my lady,” was the reply ; “ but his lordship
craves an interview with you."
“ Inform his lordship that I will receive him here,”
said Ida.
Gertrude retired; and in a few minutes the Baron
made his appearance.
“ I presume you are as anxious to give as I am to re-
ceive an explanation of the proceedings of this day,”
began Ida. “An unmannerly knave insults us both to
our faces—in our own abode; and your lordship treats
him with courtesy—nay, even with cringing attention, as
if he were the superior, and you the menial."
“ I have no e lanation to give you,“ cried the Baron,
impatiently. ‘311 I can say to satisfy you is, that if you
will grant the request I am about to make, you will never
be annoyed again with Schurmann’s presence.”
“ And what may this request be ?" demanded Ida,
haughtily.
“Money—and a considerable sum too,” returned the
Baron. “ For my part, I have not a stiver left.”
“ Is the fellow Schurmann still in this house, my lord
“ He is. He wants some money—and I have none to
give him. You can command the purse of the Count of
Aurana, and must aid me on this occasion.”
“Am I to understand, my lord,” said Ida, fixing her
dark eyes keenly upon him, “ that some terrible mystery
places you in the power of this man who insults your wife
to your face ?"
“ My wife, indeed!” ejaculated the Baron, contemp-
tuously. “ Is it my place to protect you? Are you my
)’
on call your friend, sir, rc-
‘ is desirous that you
F),

wéife in the eyes of Heaven, although you may be in those
0 men “
“Our hands were united at the altar, my lord,” re~
turned Ida; “and there you vowed to defend me.”
“ Yes—our hands were united, truly ;—but not our
hearts,” continued the Baron. “ Neither have I ever
claimed the privileges of a husband. But I need scarcel '
remind you of the terms on which we were tied to em:
other. One thing is certain—I do not seek to be admitted
to your confidence; and you have no right to penetrate
into my secrets."
“ Be it so,” said Ida. “ I may, however, refuse to supply
you with mone for purposes the nature of which I can-
not comprehen .”
“ Take care what you are doin , Ida,” exclaimed the
Baron : “ you may repent this 0 stinacy on {our part.
Schurmann has a certain claim upon me ; and cannot—
I dare not refuse to liquidate it. Sup ly me with the means
to do this, and I can assure you t lat his presence here
shall never again disturb you. Refuse me, and I have no
alternative left but-—--"
“ But what, my lord P” asked the Baroness.
“ I have no alternative, I repeat,” continued Von
Czernin, “ save to a ply to the Count on my own behalf.“
“ And if he shoul refuse you ?”
“ I must raise the amount I r uire from some Jew, who
will receive all the movable artic es of value in this house
by way of security."
“ Then your case is very desperate, my lord," exclaimed
Ida ; “ and you must have committed some dreadful
crime, which has placed you in this wretch Schurmann’s
power.”
“ Crime !" said the Baron, contemptuously. “ Does
Ida—late minion to the Countess of Aurana, and now
Baroness of Czernin—dare to reproach me with a crime-—
even if I had actually committed one ? Does your lady-
ship, who—when a lovely babe lay pillowed on your
bosom—the child of Faust, your paramour—“
“ Hold! hold I” cried Ida, a deadly pallor overspreading
her countenance. “ We are wro to reproach each other,
my lord. There is the ke of you er bureau : in the secret
drawer you will find gol . Take the amount you require
—and arrange with that man in such a fashion that he
may trouble us no more."
The Baron took the key, and opened the bureau, whence
he hel ed himself to the sum he needed.
He t en left the room.
In a uarter of an hour afterwards, Gertrude conveyed
to Ida t e welcome intelligence that Schurmann had taken
his departure.
Ida re . rded the water~clepsydra, or time-glass, which
stood in er apartment, and, murmuring to herself, “ The
hour draws near!” made a sign for Gertrude to retire.
Then having filled her arse with gold, and envelopin
herself in an ample cloa , with a hood which eoncealeg
her countenance, she issued from the house by a private
door at the back of the premises.
She wended her way through several dark, dirty, and
lonely streets—every now and then pausing and gazing
around, as if ‘to assure herself that she was ursuing the
right course,—-then hurrying onward again wrth increased
ce erity.
At length she stop ed at the door of a small house of
sordid appearance. he shutters of the lower windows
were all closed; but from the upper easements a feeble
light glimmered forth—its flickering rays playing faintly
on the opposite building.
It was at the door of that miserable abode that Ida
knocked.
The summons remained for a long time unanswered;
she did not, however, repeat it. She knew the habits of
the inmate well.
At length the door was cautiously 0 mod, and an old
woman, with hair as white as silver, an a countenance as
pale as that of a corpse, appeared in the passage, holding
a lamp in her hand.
Ida muttered her name, and hurried into the house.
The door was immediately closed, and the old woman
led the way up a narrow staircase to a large room, with
the interior of which we must make our readers well
uainted.
_ 11 one corner was a large cupboard, the door of which
stood open, and revealed a number of shelves covered
with bottles of fantastic sha es, various sizes, and dif-
ferent colours. Some of the giials were of stained glass ;
others borrowed their tints 'rom the liquids which they
contained.
Near the fire-place stood a table, on which were a
crucible, alembic, retort, and several other chemical


54
PA US T.

instruments. A large marble mortar, with a pestle of
the same material, filled a recess between the cupboard
and the chimney. On the mantel lay a glass mask.
In another corner of the room was a hutch, or wooden
cage, containing several rabbits.
Near the hutch was a large box, the lid of which was
perforated with innumerable small holes. 0
The atmosphere of this room was close and fetid, and
impregnated with the odours of chemical substances.
()n a shelf which ran all along the wall, on one side of
the apartment, were large glass jars, wherein were pre-
served in spirits of wine various objects more useful
to the anatomical experimentalist than pleasing to the
gaze of the uninitiated beholder. These jars were all her-
meticall covered with parchment and wax. One con-
tained t e corpse of a monster-child, with two perfect
bodies and only one head ; another held an infant speci-
men of nature’s frolics, its head having an enormous wen
or swelling on the crown ;—-a third displayed through its
transparent side the horrible coils of a huge black snake;
——a fourth enclosed some rare and hideous species of
toad ;—a fifth contained a human heart pierced with a
silver skewer ;—-and the others, to the number of twenty,
were filled with ob'ects equally revolting to the eye.
Beneath this sheif stood a large wooden case, with glass
doors; and‘ within were curiously fashioned waxwork
representations of the various internal parts of the
human frame—the heart, liver, lungs, spleen, entrails,
brain, &0. They were all coloured with due regard to
the actual reality; and so perfect were these anatomical
models, that they appeared, at a first glance, to be the
still warm and palpitating portions of a recently dissected
human being.
One word relative to the old woman herself, and we will
proceed.
She was of unusual height for a female; and, though
seventy winters had shed their snows upon her hair, her
f -rm was unbent, as if time weighed not with a heavy
burden upon her shoulders.
Her eyes were gray, glassy, and motionless ; they never
seemed to be for a moment averted from the countenance
of the erson with whom their possessor was conversing,
save when her head itself was turned aside.
Her face was entirely colourless ; it was as white as that
of a corpse, a thin blueish streak marking the 1i s.
Altho h her eyes were of the light hue described, and
her com‘ifiexion never could have been shaded with the
slightest tint of that lustre which marks the children of
southern climes, this woman was nevertheless an Italian,
and her name was Fontana.
“ Sit down, my child,” she said, as she introduced
Ida into her apartment. “ What can I do for thee this
evening ?“ ‘
“ Signora,” answered Ida, “ I require a drug which
will be long—very long in its operation; so that the
cause of that gradual decay which it will produce cannot
be suspected.”
“ I can give thee a transparent liquid of which six
drops will prove fatal, leading slowly but surely to the
tomb—” -
“ How long will it be in thus operating F" demanded
Ida, impatiently.
“ Six weeks, my pretty bird," answered the old woman.
"Oh! that time is too short,” exclaimed Ida; “ so
rapid a change from health to a fatal sickness would
create suspicion—and, in using it, I shall have to deceive
the most wary of men.”
“ It is, then, for a man P” said the woman.
“ No, it is for a female,” replied the Baroness, “ But
she is married to a man whose suspicions would be easily
aroused ; and, did they fall on me, he would perhaps
loathe me!"
“ I comprehend you, my beautiful lady,” said Signora
Fontana, who never spared her com liments where she
knew that flattery was welcome. “ ou wish to remove
a certain female, but under appearances so natural that
her husband may not suspect foul play 1’”
“ Precisely so," answered Ida. “ Can you assist me P”
“ The drug that I gave you on a former oceasion———”
“ Well, well—we will not allude to that," interrupted
Ida. “ See—her'e is a purse full of gold; wilt thou earn
it ere I leave thee?"
“ I will,” returned the old woman. “ I now bcthink me
of a com ound which will produce a gradual and im er-
ceptibly increasing decay of strength, accompanied y a
disgust for life, a want of appetite, and an aggravating
thirst—th without bodily pain, fever, inflammation, or
convulsions—and at length terminating in death. When
once this poison is in the system, there is no antidote

which human skill can devise to meet it ; neither is there
any test b which its presence can be detected."
“ That is the drug I require ;" exclaimed the Baroness,
a ferocious joy flashing from her dark black eyes. “ Let
it conduct its victim so slowly—so gradually to the tomb,
that a year or more may elapse while it works its insidious
wizyltto the spot where the last spark of life cherishes its
vi a. i y.
“ You shall be obeyed,” said the poison-vender. “ Have
you the courage to remain here while I mix the com-
pound?"
“ Yes," answered the Baroness ; “ I would fain see the
process.”
Signora Fontana rose from her seat, and, approaching
the cupboard, took from it sevéral phials which she
placed upon the table.
From the contents of these bottles s'he composed a
mixture, measuring the quantities of the fluid ingredients
with the nicest care.
Then she turned to the rabbit hutch, and took thence
one of the innocent little creatures that were disporting
so laifully within.
‘ I ad these rabbits brought to me ere now,” she ob-
served, “for some experiments that I intend to make during
the night. Here also are living things that are necessary
to me in my art," she added, as she o sued the box, the
lid} of which was perforated with innumerable small
0 es.
Ida approached the box ; but she started back with an
exclamation of horror. Twined together on a piece of
flannel, a knot of hideous snakes agitated their slimy folds,
wreathing themselves into a horrible mass, amon it
which their eyes glistened with that peculiar light which
belongs to the reptile species.
The poison-vendor laughed at Ida's alarm, and plung-
ing her hand into the box, caught up several of the
snakes, which hissed and thrust forth their forked
tongues—it might be in playfulness—as they twisted
themselves round her naked arm.
“ Holy Virgin! cease this folly," ejaculated Ida.
“ There is nothing to be afraid of, my charming lady,”
returned the poison-vender; “ they will not hurt me ;”
and she tossed the reptiles back again into the box, the lid
of which she closed.
“Are they not venomous?” demanded Ida, who now
breathed more freely.
“ The poison secreted in their jaws is of the most
deadly description, and will all be distilled this night ere.
I seek rest,” replied Signor Fontana: “ but I had steeped
my arms a few minutes before you entered in a certain
liquid which renders the flesh nauseous to their taste
when their tongue comes in contact with it.”
The oison-vender now continued her task.
Seating herself upon a stool, she held the rabbit between
her knees, and poured down its throat a few drops of the
liquid meisture which she had compounded.
She then placed the rabbit upon the floor.
The little animal ran merrily about the room for a
short time; but at the expiration of a. few minutes it
slackened its pace, and dragged itself along with dif-
ficulty :—a sense of weakness seemed to increase upon it :
it languished alpably in the presence of the experi-
mentalist and da; until at length it sank and expired
without a moan, and apparently without a pang.
There was a clepsydra upon the mantel; and by its aid
the poison-vender ascertained that death had ensued
precisely sixteen minutes after the administration of the
poxson.
“ Thus is it,” she coolly observed, “ that I can form an
accurate idea of the stren h of my mixture. It is too
powerful even now. I w ltrouble your sweet ladyship
to move as far as possible from the fire.“
Ida obeyed this request. The old woman oured the
mixture into an iron vessel, which she set on t e embers.
She then opened the door and the window for the purpose
of creating a draught to carry away the exhalations of the
poison; and, when she had adopted this precaution, she
fixed the glass mask 11 on her countenance.
Ida watched her wit profound attention and curiosity.
The old woman stooped over the fire, and fanned the
embers with her long, thin, withered hands.
The languid flame played on the transparent mask, and
rendered the corpse-like countenance of the poison-
vender absolutely ghastly.
She seemed as if she were a witch who had paid the debt
of nature, but whose resuscitated coi se had emerged
from the tomb, in that dark hour of nig t, to superintend
semi mystic and horrible rite belonging to her ancient
crat' .


FA US 1'.
55

Her appearance, with her silvery hair flowing down her
back, and with the flames reflected in the transparent
mask behind which was that ghastly countenance with its
stony, death-like eyes,——her appearance was more than
hideous—it was horrible.
Even Ida—that woman of iron nerves and desperate
purpose,--that woman who, though so young, had plunged
so boldl into ci'imer—even she trembled as she contem-
plated t e revolting spectacle.
She cast a hurried glance around her: the shelf covered
with glasses containing frightful monsters—the cupboard
in the recesses of which were poisons of the most deadly
nature—the ease wherein the wax-work representations
had so terrible an aspect of rcality--the box enclosing that
knot of hissing, twining snakes—and the spectre-like being
that hung over the fire, pursuing her terrible avocation,——-
all these combined to fill the soul of the Baroness of
Canada with indescribable terror.
But suddenly a strange dizziness seized upon her: the
fumes of the poison, emanating from the retort, pene_
trated to her brain : she endeavoured to rise from her
chair;——but she could not; and she sank in a profound
lethargy. '
And then all the horrors which she had just contem-
plated, were re-produced with friglitfully exaggerated
hues and shapes in her imagination. - The room suddenly
appeared to swarm with life. The hideous monsters in’ the
glass are opened their eyes—moved their limbs—and
dance up and down in their transparent tenements. The
waxen representations in the ease palpitated visibly, while
a thin vapour steamed around them, and black drops of
gore dripped down from them. A small cupboard at the
further end of the room threw open its door spontaneously,
and within was a human skeleton, that grinned with its
eyelcss skull, and danced u and down with its rattling
bones. Then from the box ghded forth the hissing snakes ;
and creeping rapidly along, they twined themselves
around the sleeper's limbs, their cold slimy coils touching
her flesh, making the blood freeze in her veins, and pro-
ducing a feelin of indescribable horror. At the same
time a corpse, in its winding-sheet, hung over the fire,
fanning the embers with its putrid breadth, and stirring
up some deadly hell-broth with its white and ghastly
hands. In another moment the corpse turned away from
the .fire, and advancing in its grave-clothes towards the
sleeper, extended the steaming poison towards her, ex-
claiming in a deep and sepulchral voice, “ It is ready “
Ida awoke with a loud scream.
“ It is ready !” repeated the voice.
She started up, and glanced rapidly around her—almost
expecting to find the horrors which she had dreamt really
enacting around her, and the serpents encircling her
limbs in their revolting folds.
But in another moment she became aware that those
horrors had only existed in a vision; and the old woman,
now divested of her mask, stood before her.
“ How long have I slept ?” she demanded, hastily.
“ A good hour,” replied the poison-vendor. “ The fumes
of this mixture ove wered you. But wherefore that cry
with which you awo e ?”
“ Oh! I had a fearful dream—a very fearful dream,”
returned Ida, actually shakin herself to get rid of that
cold, chilling sensation whic the horror of the vision
had left behind it.
“ I remember l” eganculated the old woman, her ghastly
countenance expan ' into a witch-like smile : “ this is
the first of May—the alpurgis night-the time when evil
spirits have power over our dreams! Ah! my sweet lady,
you have been plunged into a Walpurgis vision!”
“ Assuredly your Italian wisdom must revolt against
the gross German superstition P” exclaimed Ida, in a
contemptuous tone. “ At all events, there is not a sufi‘i-
cicncy of German blood in my veins to waft in spirit on
the stream of such idle beliefs. But enough of that.
May I never dream so horribly again. Is the mixture
prepared F”
“ It is here,” answered the old woman, placing a small
crystal phial in Ida’s hand. “ Six drops of that liquid
will produce a lingering decay that must terminate in
death one year after the victim imbibes the dose. See l"
she continued, in a tone of triumph : “ the fire has ren-
dered it white and colourless. It is also tasteless.
Nothing can be more easy than to administer it.”
“ Enough. Here is your 1d,” said the Baroness.
The old woman clutched t e urse with greedy hands ;
and, while nothing else on cart could extract a spark of
fire from her glassy eyes, the presence of gold possessed
the wer of awakening a short and evanescent gleam of
brilliancy in those dull orbs.

Carefully concealing the fatal phial in her bosom—thus
placing nature’s subtle venom against the heart wherein
lurked the most fatal moral poison—Ida took her leave
of. Signora Fontana, and hurried back to her own
dwelling.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE ARTIST.
EAR L“: on the following morning a young artist rose from
his humble couch in a miserable rarrct in Vienna.
Having hastily dressed himsel , he took from a cup-
board a small piece of stale coarse bread, a pitcher of
water, and a few cresses. ‘
Upon this sorry fare he made his breakfast.
When the bread and the crosses had disappeared, he
threw himself back in his chair—the only one there was
in the room—and mused aloud.
“ The bread is gone, and the crosses are gone,” he said.
“ But the latter can be obtained with a little trouble
from the nearest stream outside the walls of this grca
city. The same source will replenish my pitcher: or 1
need not even go so far to fill it! But the bread—the
bread,” he added, bitterly ; “ whence is that to come ? It
does not grow like the herbs and wild-fruits, ready to be
plucked. It must be bou ht with money! Ah! money
“and I have not the smallest copper coin that bears the
imperial initial remaining in m purse! To think that
in this wonderful city, to whic so many persons fiock
from all parts of Germany to push their fortunes—where
wealth seems to be boundless, and luxury has reached
such an extraordinary height—to think that I should
vainly toil and strive to earn an honest crust-I, who
demand no more! And yet the old picture-dealer de-
clares that I have some talent—some little talent; but
then comes the witherin —blighting assurance that the
arts require trons, and that he can give me but a
miserable tr' e for my paintings! Another month—an
entire month must pass, are I can perfect my ‘ Death of
Achilles ;’ and how am I to exist in the interval? My
sister ?--no! my vow prevents me from intruding myself
upon her! Let her retain her riches, earned by her guilt:
I would not, even though I were released from that vow
—-I would not receive assistance at her hands. But I
must have bread—I cannot starve! Alas ! these sad
thoughts unnerve me. Let me contemplate my picture :
it will give me courage! And perhaps," he added, slowly,
as he rose from his seat,——“perhaps if I show it to the
old dealer, he will advance me a few small coins in order
to secure it when completed !”
Animated with this hope—and wretched indeed must
that heart be which hope will not animate !-the young
artist advanced towards his easel ; and, removing the
linen cloth which covered the painting, he surveyed it
with eyes of delight.
For several months had he been eng ed in that task
—-workin all day, and sometimes a considerable portion
of the night—living upon a crust and a few creases or
wild fruits, that he might husband _his slender resources
so as to avoid the necessit of hurrying his work in order
to procure its price—and estowing upon it all his talent,
all his taste, and all his skill.
‘ He smiled as he contemplated it. _
“ Another month will be required to perfect that ic-
ture,” he said; “ and I cannot hold out another wee —-
for I have not a crust and I have not a friend!”
“ Be not too sure of that,“ observed a calm and quiet
voice behind him. - - _
The artist turned round, and beheld a venerable-looking
man, with a long white beard flowing on his breast,
standing at his elbow. _ _
“ You were so profound] wrapped up in admiration of
your picture,” said the 01 man, his benevolent counte-
nance expanding into a good-humoured smile, “ that you
did not hear me knock; and I therefore took the liberty
of walking in."
“ Walking in !” repeated the artist; “ that was impos-
sible—the door was locked !”
“ Not so,” answered the venerable stranger ; and, ad.
vancing towards the door, he threw it open.
“ That is a sufficient proof of my error,“ said the young
artist, closing the door again. “ I must have forgotten
to lock it last night ere I retired to rest. The truth is,
kind sir,” he continued, “ we all have our little feelings
of pride—-” i
“ Pride !” ejaculated the stranger, his benevolent
countenance suddenly assuming an expression of wither-
ing contempt, “ Are you as amed of your poverty ?


56
FA UST.

Can you help it? Are you not struggling energetically
to triumph over it? Oh l this abominable sentiment of
pride, which makes men blush at that very obscurity and
indigence which so often urges them to great achieve-
ments and glorious deeds! Do you think, young man,
that if all were born rich, that there would be any scope
for honourable ambition and emulation? Do not talk to
me of pride! Had you not been poor—had not your room
required even the common necessaries of life, sir, you
would not have received this visit from me.”
“ How know you, sir,” asked the artist, blushing deeply
~ at these reproofs, “ that I am so thoroughly destitute as
you describe me to be I”
“ How do I know it?” repeated the old man, still
. sternly and bitterly : “ can you deny it P”
. And he glanced significantly around the naked walls,—
his eyes resting with a most rovoking scrutiny upon the
miserable bed—the solitary c ir——the ricketty table—the
chi ped ewer—the broken panes—the empty shelves,—
an then fixing their glances altogether for some moments
upon the faded garments of the artist himself.
“ Can you deny it P” again demanded the old man.
“ Heaven knows that I cannot!” exclaimed the young
man, bitterly; and he burst into tears.
“ You need not invoke heaven to bear testimony to your
condition,” said the old man, in a very serious tone.
“How long will it take you to perfect that picture ?”
“ One month,” answered the artist, brushing away his
tears—for this question inspired hope.
“ And of course you intend to dispose of it?” continued
the venerable stranger.
“ Such is my desire—such my earnest prayer," was the
hasty reply.
“ How much would the picture-dealer in the next street
give you for it P” demanded the old man.
“ Rather let me ask how you happen to know that I
have any dealings with that individual?” said the young
artist, surveying his strange visitor with surprise.
“ Suppose that he is in reality a good-hearted mau—
suppose that he knew me to be a patron of the arts—
suppose that he mentioned your name favourably, and
hinted at your poverty,” continued the stranger, whose
countenance had resumed its benevolent expression,—
“ what then ?“
“If I suppose all that,” answered the artist, “it will
accougt for the honour your presence confers upon my
garre .”
“ There! give things their right names 1” exclaimed
the old man. “ You called this a garret—and surely
fnough it is one. But it must not be your abode any
on er.“
T e artist’s pale countenance became radiant with joy,
as these words—uttered emphatically, and full of hope as
they were—met his ears.
“ N o—you must assume a position worthy of your
talents,” continued the old man.
His talents! Then he really did possess talents; for a
patron of the fine arts—an individual who must be a judge
in that sphere—had intimated as much. 80 thought the
young artist, as he glanced towards his picture.
The old gentleman seemed to read what was passing in
his mind. '
o “ Yes— on have talents,” he said; “and that Achilles
1s _a proo of it. In a word, I am come to offer you a
price for your picture. Will two thousand crowns meet
your aspirations P"
_ “ Two thousand crowns!” repeated the artist. “ Oh!
sir—can you, who have penetrated into all the mysteries
and secrets of my poverty,—can you. thus banter me—
trifle with me—-—”
His words were cut short; for the old man threw a
heavy purse of gold upon the table, saying in a calm and
deliberate manner, “ There is half the amount I ofiered :
take it as an earnest.”
The artist fell at the feet of this friend whom Heaven
seemed to have sent him in the hour of his pinching need.
But to the young man’s astonishment, the venerable
stranger burst out into a loud and ironical laugh.
The artist rose abashed.
f‘ Never kneel, young man, to anyone in human shape,”
said his singular and (as he thought) eccentric visitor ;
j‘ for you know not whom you may thus worship. There
is your money : is it a bargain ? Two thousand crowns
for the picture P"
“ Your generosity far exceeds my most sanguine ex-
pectations,” was the reply; “ so far—s0 very far, that I
know not whether I ought—”
“ Whether you ought to take the amount,” added the
old man, impatiently.

to me, and it is much to you. The picture will therefore
become mine, when you have completed it. That affair
is settled. I have now to speak to you on a subject equally
important,—if not more s0,——at least to another. Are you
prepared to testify your good will towards me, in return
for the slight service which I have rendered you P”
“ Can you ask me the question P” exclaimed the artist,
in a tone replete with gratitude. “ You may command
me now—and for ever.“
“ You are most indiscreet in your language, young sir,”
said the old man. “ How can you pledge yourself for ever
to one whose name you do not even know? But let that .
pass. I must have some conversation with on. I will
take your single chair: do you seat yoursel upon your
couch; and we shall discourse more at our case. ’
The artist did as he was desired: his singular visitor
deposited himself in the chair; and then spoke in the fol-
lowing manner.
CHAPTER XXVII.
'rnn ANTIDOTE.
“IN the first place, my dear youn friend,” said the
venerable old man, addressing himse to the artist, “ I
must prove to you that I am fully acquainted with cer-
tain private details connected with your family,-—the
more readily to induce you to place implicit confidence ‘
in me. I have ah'eady shown you that I am no stranger
to all which immediately relates to yourself.”
“ And you have availed yourself of that knowledge to j
effect the most generous purposes,” interrupted the .
young artist.
“ I am glad you think so,” said the old gentleman.
“ But, to be brief, I must tell you that although you pass
under a feigned name in this city, you are known to me.
You are Otto Pianalla.”
“ Some fiend must have told you that !” exclaimed
the young artist, bounding on the bed where he was
seated. '
“ Do not interrupt me, Otto,” continued the old gen-
tleman, with a singular smile, the meaning of which was
unintelli 'ble to the artist. “ You discovered the intrigue
which existed between your sister Ida and the Count of
Auranar—and—A—”
“ And I challenged that false lord to an equal conflict,”
added Pianalla, hastily.
“ Equal, indeed!” repeated the stranger, ironically.
“ He disarmed you at the first blow!"
“And yet I was not a coward,” observed the artist,
bitterly; “ but I was faint—weary—famished——-”
“ I know it all,” interrupted the old man. “ With the
point of his sword at your throat, Faust compelled you
to take a vow that you would never molest hnn nor his
paramour a 'n.“
“ All this 1s as true as if you had been a witnesss of the
whole transaction,” exclaimed the young artist; “ and
yet'the night was dark, and the sky over-clouded, and
nau ht, save the eye of Heaven—” ‘
“ ay, nay,” cried the old man, impatiently, “ it was
precisel on account of the almost utter darkness of the
night, t t neither you nor your foe dreamt of the pre;
sence of a witness concealed amongst the trees. You see
that I know all.” -
“ And what must you think of me when you reflect that
I accepted my life at the hands of the man who has dis-
honoured my sister P” cried Otto, blushing deeply. “ But
let me not lose your good opinion on that account, I im-
plore you! I had com elled the villain to acknowledge
his child: I had forc him to cross swords with me;
and, when I lay powerless at his feet, of what avail was
my poor life to him? Had I not done all that mortal
could do in behalf of the dishonourcd name of his
family P”
“ Your conduct needs no apology, young man,” re-
turned the venerable stranger. “ Mortals cling in-
stinctively to their wretched existence," he added with
some bitterness of manner, “ as the miser hugs his
coffer,—even while that life, like the miser’s gold, is the
source of naught save pain, apprehension, and anxiety.”
“ How is it that one so benevolent in appearance and
in deeds as you, can entertain ideas which reflect so little
honour upon the human race P" asked Otto, who sur-
veyed and listened to his companion with varying senti-
ments of surprise, respect, and vague suspicion.
“ Were I to answer thee, young man,” was the solemn
reply, “ I should tell a tale which it neither suits me to
re ate, nor would become thee to hear. Let us return to
“ Do not hesitate—it is nothing i the main topic of our conversation. You have obeyed


FA UST.
57


the vow which you ledged to Faust ; you have adopted
a feigned name, an you have struggled for your bread.
That conflict with the world is now over; for there lies
the gold that may prove the foundation-stone of thy
fortune. But neither thy ast sufferings nor thine
approaching prosperity shou d make thee forgetful of
the welfare of others.”
“ Nor shall my heart ever be so hardened, sir !”
ejaculated Otto. “You have acted as my friend,—you
are intimately acquainted with all that concerns me.
Show me how I can prove myself worthy of your esteem
-—-deserving of your confidence.”
“ I will put you to that test,“ said the old man. “ The
Lady Theresa incurs at this moment the greatest possible
danger.”
“t'I‘hat amiable lady who is wedded to a man so utterly
unworthy of her!” cried Otto, his countenance glowing
with indignation.
“ You possess a chivalrous spirit,” said the stranger;
“ I could not have addressed myself to one who is better
qualified to undertake the task of saving the deceived and
yet unsuspecting wife of Faust from the terrific peril
which hangs over her head.”
‘V v 3" :ever that peril be,” exclaimed Otto, his enthu-
siasm kindling as the stranger thus appealed to his
generous feelings, “ name it, and I will constitute myself
her champion ;—-unless, indeed,” he added, mournfully,
—“ unless, by so doing, I forfeit the pledge I made to her
unworthy husband."
“You can save her; and yet your interference shall
remain unknown to Faust or his guilty aramour, Ida,"
said the old man. “ In one word, her li e is menaced—
a subtle poison is prepared for her—and this evening will
it be administered 1”
“ Holy Virgin! can such things be ?” ejaculated Otto,
with horror expressed upon his countenance.
“ My good young man, you know but little of this
world if you suppose that a wretch like your sister Ida
will consent to remain the partner of that brutal man to
whom Faust, in order to serve his own purposes, induced
her to link herself.”
“ And can it be my own sister—Ida—she, to whom my
mother, on the bed of death, left a blessing,—can it
be_’8
“ All that I tell you is as true as that yonder is your
picture, and that here is your gold !” exclaimed the old
man. “ Will you follow my counsel, and yet ask me no
questions ?”
“ I see that on are anxious to prevent a crime,”
answere'd Piana a; “ and Heaven knows how readil I
will second you in your generous endeavours. Besi es,
have you not shown me every inducement to put confi-
_dence in you. Speak: I will obey.”
“ Ida possesses a poison against which she has been
taught to believe there exists no antidote,” said the old
man: “ but here—here,” he continued, taking a small
crystal phial, filled with a colourless fluid, from his
doublet,—“ here is an essence which will counteract the
most virulent venom that mortal ingenuity can distil
from the substances of earth.”
“ You would have me present that recious talisman
to the Countess of Aurana P“ dcmande Otto.
“ Silly boy!” ejaculated the old man; “ dost thou think
that she would willingly partake of that essence, unless
she received ample explanation from the lips of him who
proffered it ? And would you advise that her life should
e embittered by the knowledge of her husband’s criminal
intrigue with her who was once her menial F”
“ Does Faust then know of the horrible intentions of
my sister?” asked Pianalla.
“No,” replied the old man. “He still loves Theresa
in his own way—in the way of his own bad heart ;—but
he loves Ida also. This singular state of mind may
account to you for the marriage which he effected between
your sister and the Baron of Czernin. In administering
the poison to Theresa, Ida consults her own ambitious
schemes only—follows the evil intentions of her own
heart alone. But were you to reveal even this much to
Theresa, the ex lanation would be incom lete and un-
satisfactory to t at lady, for she would as , ‘ Why does
Ida wish me ill ?' ”
“I understand you,” observed Otto. “ Theresa must
drink of that elixir without being aware that she partakes
of it. “ But how is this to be effected P”
“ By your aid,” answered the old man. “ This evening
there will be a banquet at Aurana mansion. Ida will no
doubt contrive to seat herself next to the Countess, and
will most robabl seize an opportunity to infuse the
contents of) her p ial into the cup of her unsuspecting

friend. Within four-and-twenty hours from that moment
must the Countess swallow the antidote, or its virtue will
be of no avail. To-morrow Faust has engagements in
Vienna, and will be absent from his mansion during the
day. You must see Theresa upon some excuse,—you must
enjoin her, on certain grounds which you cannot explain,
not to speak to her husband of your visit,—and you will
doubtless find some opportunity of effecting your pur-
pose.“
“ A thousand difficulties present themselves in my ima-
gination, to that project,” said Otto.
“ The resolute mind overcomes all difficulties, young
man,” returned the stranger. “ Trust to my wisdom——
or rather my foresight,—and on will succeed !”
“ Ah! sir,—~shall I not t ereby break my vow to
Faust P” asked Pianalla, hastily.
- “ Your vow was to the effect that you would never
seek to interfere again with the guilty connexion which
subsists between the Count and your sister, and that your
knowledge of it should remain a profound secret in your
own breast. If you beheld your sister Ida thrust the
Lady Theresa into the Danube, would you not plunge
into the wave and rescue her P” demanded the old man.
“ Would your vow appear to bar the course of your own
free will in such a case P”
“ Your reasonin convinces me, sir,” answered Otto.
“Oh! heavens,—t at a brother should thus be called
upon to counteract the crimes of his sister!”
“Such is the world,” said the old man, drily; then
rising from his seat, he added, “ Fail not, I enjoin thee,
to follow my counsel in this instance—and, as you value
my favour, treasure the secret of our conversation in your
own breast. Remember,—a word incautiomsly dropped
may lead to a fearful exposure of your sister’s guilt; and
the result will be the ruin of Theresa’s happiness. Act
with caution—yet resolutely: to-morrow evening thou
wilt see me again !“ .
The old man hurried out of the room.
For some minutes Otto Pianalla remained buried in
deep thought; and then, when he looked up and found
himself alone, he fancied for an instant that he had been
dreaming.
But a single glance towards the table dispelled his
doubts; for there lay the gold—and there also was the
crystal phial.
“ Oh! Ida—Ida, my sister!” ejaculated Otto ; “ and art
thou indeed so lost, so guilty, so depraved, that I—even
I, thy brother—am called upon to save thy intended
victim ? Did not that blessing which was wafted to thee
on the dying breath of thy poor mother, instil purer,
holier thoughts into thy soul? Wretched girl—over what
an abyss of misery dost thou hover ;—and 1—1 am bound
by a vow to thy paramour which restrains the hand that
I would stretch out to save thee! But this old man who
was here ere now, who spoke to me so familiarly on all
these sub'ects, and who acts with so much mystery,—
who can e be? How did he learn the guilty design of
my sister? Perhaps he will inform me when he comes
again. At all events, he means well :—Oh! yes—it is im-
possible that he could deceive me 1”
Then Otto advanced towards the table, and took up the
phial. He drew out the stopper: the liquor was without
odour of any kind. He touched it with his tongue—it
was tasteless.
“ Hapl that old man is some skilful 'compounder of
drugs an distiller of rare juices and essences,” he said to
himself: “accident has made him ac uainted with my
sister’s designs; that same accident w ich gave him an
insight into my own affairs! Thus, while he encouraged
me in my honest exertions, he resolved to put my good
feelings to the test, by employing me as his agent to
counteract the designs of m sister. I understand it
all :—he is one who performs is charitable, his humane,
and his virtuous deeds in private! Yes—he shall be
obeyed! I will see Theresa: I will save her from this
peril which hangs over her !"
_—
CHAPTER XXVIII.
runansx’s soaaows.
ON the following day, at about noon, the Countess of
Aurana was seated alone in her chamber.
She had dismissed her attendant, in order to commune
unrestrained with herself.
For the young lady was not completely happy: there
were various subjects on which her mind was somewhat
ill at ease ;—and yet she frequently reproached herself
for being too ready to conjure up imaginary evils.


58
FA UST.

In the first place Faust was very frequently absent from
her; and she was at a loss to conceive how business of
any kind could demand the attention of one whose affairs
evinced such illimitable prosperity as his. She did not
suspect for one moment that there was a rival who claimed
a portion of his love : her own purity of soul and fidelity
of heart were incapable of even permitting such an idea
to obtain existence, without good cause, in her breast.
At night Faust would frequently start, and even cry
aloud, as if under the oppressive influence of evil dreams
—and, during the da , the eyes of his affectionate wife
would often detect a ark cloud suddenly overshadowing
his brow. She had questioned him on those subjects ;—
she had intimated her fears that some secret sorrow
weighed upon his soul ;-——but he had invariably evaded a
direct reply, or else attempted to reassure her with kind
word, murmured amidst soft kisses.
She had appeared to be satisfied, because she saw that
any importunity on her part, in respect to the evidences
of a disturbed mind which she had recognised in him,
would not tend to console him ;—nevertheless, she could
not help looking upon those frequent absences—those
startings and ejaculations by night—and those dark
moments by day, as bearing close relationship to some
secret source of woe which her husband nourished.
N or was this all which afflicted the pure mind of that
lady. She had noticed,—-and oh! with what intense
sorrow! that Faust never bestowed a caress upon the
infant Adela, unless she presented the child to him, and
with an imploring glance engaged him to notice it! It
had even struck her that Faust paid more attention (as
well indeed he might !) towards the son of the Archduke
and Maria. She endeavoured—oh! how strenuously she
endeavoured to reason with herself a inst these sus-
picions; but whenever she had sue ed in convincin
herself that the coldness of Faust towards Adela, an
his preference in favour of the little Maximilian, were
only the result of fancy on her rt,—whenever she had
resolved to banish such ideas in uture, as un'ust towards
her husband, and destructive of her own appiness,—-
then did appearances once more arise to re-awaken all her
wretched suspicions in her mind.
She knew not whether it were b dint of pondering
upon this source of infelicity,—-~or w ether it were that
her tastes and affections were despotically and yet im-
perceptibly led bv those of her husband,—-but she could
not conceal from herself the fact that the oftener she saw
the infant Maximilian, the more attached she grew to-
wards him. It seemed to her as if she could take him in
her arms, and press him to her bosom with more heart-
felt sincerity—with more enthusiastic ardour—with
more tender warmth, than she experienced when caress-
ing the little Adela. Against this feelin she wrestled—
she struggled—she combatted with all er force :—she
wept—she prayed—she reasoned with herself—she re-
preached herself—she accused herself,—she exerted all
her energy to stifle the reference whose existence she
could not conceal from erself, but which she deemed
most wicked and unnatural.
She would sit for hours together by the bed on which
Adelarsle t, contemplating the child’s cherub counte-
nance, ans summing up all the arguments and combining
all the motives she could devise, to induce herself, to be-
stow all—all her affections on the innocent babe. Or,
again, when Adela was awake, Theresa would take the
infant in her arms, cover it with kisses—play with it—
address it in the most endearing terms—study all its
little wants and mutely expressed whims—fondle it—do
all she could to make herself love it—and yet, back-—
back to her soul would come the terrible conviction that
she would rather Adela had been Maximilian!
To a woman of Theresa's goodness of heart, virtue,
and piety, such a state of mind was fraught with the
most gloomy presages ; and she even looked upon herself,
at times, as one who outraged the finest feelings which
the Deity has implanted in the heart of woman—the
tenderness of maternity !
But how great was her surprise on a certain occasion—
a few days previous to the one on which we find her sit-
ting alone in her chamber, communin with herself,—
how great was her surprise, we say, when, in the reci-
procal outpourings of confidence, the Archduchess
Maria confessed that she also had blamed herself for
harbouring feelings of a parallel nature—that she, in a
word, entertained the strange and mysterious conviction
that she loved Adela better than the little Maximilian !
Then those noble and estimable ladies had mingled
their tears to ether, and had essayed to solace each
others—then they prayed in concert that the feel-

ings, which they deemed so unnatural and unholy,
might be changed into the full effusion of maternal ten-
derness towards the legitimate objects of suchlove. Alas!
little did they sus ect that the outpourings of that afi‘ec-
tion were actual y flowing in the r0 er channels, and
that they were in realit obeying the 'ctates of nature,
while they reproached t emselves for outraging its laws.
Little did they imagine that when Theresa loved Maxi-
milian better than Adela, she was demonstrating a holy
preference towards her own son; little did they deem
that when Maria embraced Adela with a more heart-felt
warmth than Maximilian, she was acting in obedience to
those natural impulses which conducted her towards her
own daughter!
But supposing as they did that each loved the other's
child better than her Own, they forbore from revealin
the real state of their feelings to their husbands :—an
that was the only secret which they cherished, in refer-
ence to those to whom, in all other instances, they looked
for counsel and advice, as well as for tenderness and love.
It must, however, be observed that the Archduke en-
tertained no preference in res ect to the children which
did violence to his feelings. e loved the little Maximi-
lian with the most sincere tenderness. In this "'gnpect,
therefore, Maria was more happy than Theresa ; for
while the former beheld her own unaccountable prefer-
ence unshared by the Archduke, the latter was com-
pelled to admit to herself that her own peculiar feelings
were, so far as she could judge, participated in by her
husband!
. The reader can now understand that melancholy state
of mind to which the Lady Theresa was a prey, when a
servant entered her room to inform her that a person re-
quested an interview with her.
The Countess immediately proceeded to the apartment
where the stranger was waiting; and it was with feelings
of pleasure that she recognised Otto Pianalla. He it
was who had painted the portrait of her husband, which
had been a partial solace to her when Faust was a pri-
soner in the dungeons of Wittenberg, previousl to their
marriage; and this circumstance—together wit the fact
of the near ties of relationship which existed between
Otto and Ida -induced the Countess to greet the young
artist as a friend.
Otto was dressed in good but Slain attire; and
nothing about his appearance afl'orde any indication of
those privations which he had suffered during the past
year.
“ You are welcome, Messer Pianalla,” said Theresa,
pointing to a seat. “But wherefore are you such a
stranger amongst those whom you should believe ever
willing to reckon you amongst the number of their
friends P"
“ Many circumstances have combined to render me the
stranger your ladyshi denominates me,” answered
Otto; “ but chiefly the simplicity of my habits, which do
not fit me for y and courtly company. I may also
observe that I c not a prove of the matrimonial con-
nexion which my sister 8 formed; and I do not even
intend her to know that I am in this neighbourhood.”
“ Indeed!” exclaimed Theresa, with a smile; “ then
gm 1IIQ'to suppose that you enjoin me secrecy on that
eat 8
“ Such is my prayerto your ladyship,” said Otto; “ and
I must even request that my visit may remain unknown
to the Count of Aurana.“
“ Are you afraid that my husband will let slip in Ida’s
presence, the first time he sees her, a word which will
make her aware of your visit to this mansion? Cer-
tainly, I have no anxiety to render Ida unhappy by
allowing her to learn, directly or indirectly, your_ hos-
tility to the union which she has formed; but, to speak
trul , Messer Pianalla, you carry your resentment beyond
the imits of enerosity and propriety.”
“Ah! my ady, there are secrets in all families—and
ours is not an exception to the general rule. Do not
judge harshly of me, ’ continued Pianalla ;—“ I have not
naturally a hard heart ;—-but there are circumstances -
which compel me to keep my visit to this mansion a -
profound secret to all save you. And now your ladyship
may wonder wherefore I have ventured to intrude upon
your presence!" .
“Nay—there is no intrusion,” said Theresa: “I re-
ceived you-as I ever shall receive you, I hope—as a
friend."
“ I shall always study to deserve your ladyship’s good
opinion,” returned Pianalla. “ J ourneying in this neigh-
bourhood, I should have deemed myself wanting in
courtesy and gratitude towards you who were so long a


FA US T.
59

kind mistress to m sister, did I not call to assure myself
of your ladyship’s ealth and happiness.” -
“_And since you have thus rendered Aurana an honour
which you will not pay to the mansion of the Baron Von
Czernin in Vienna, I cannot allow you to proceed on your
journey without offering you such fare as our dwelling
may afford."
With these words Theresa summoned the domestics;
and a collation was immediately served up.
_This hospitality was precise! in accordance with Otto’s
views and hopes; as it affor ed him an opportunity of
administering the elixir to the Countess. .
Availiug himself of a favourable moment, he poured
the contents of the small phial into her cup, which he
has: already nearly filled with Rhenish wine and iced
'wa er.
Then he drank to the health and happiness of herself
and those who were near and dear to her; and she re~
sponded to his good wishes.
_ On the previous evening, at a grand festival, Ida had
indeed administered Signora Font-ana’s poison to the
Countess; but this amiable lady had now imbibed the
antidote!
But whence came that antidote—since the Italian
woman, who was so well skilled in all the venomous
substances of the earth, had declared that no mortal
could counteract that poison which she had compounded
for Ida?
Who was that strange, cynical, and yet seemingly bene-
volent old man that employed the young artist thus to
counteract Ida’s infamous design ?
t The course of our narrative will develops these mys-
cries.
Otto took leave of the Countess, and returned to his
attic—for he had not as yet had leisure to procure a more
suitable abode.
But the old man kept not the appointment which he
made with the young artist.
CHAPTER XXIX.
'rns annex LADY.
EIGHT months had ela sed since the incidents related in
the three or four prece ing chapters ; and time had given
birth to the year 1496.
It was on a beautiful frosty afternoon that the Countess
Ida was walking with her paramour, Faust, in a secluded
part of the ramparts of the imperial city.
Their conversation was carried on in a low, yet solemn
tone ; Faust was the princi al speaker; and his guilty
mistress listened to him wit the most profound atten-
tion.
“ No—not even to you, Ida,” said the Count of Aurana,
“ can I reveal all the horrors which I witnessed on that
terrible occasion. I cannot explain to myself how it was
that I was enabled to brace my nerves with the sufficient
courage to undertake that dreadful venture. My curiosity
was, however, intense, and a su rhuman power seemed
to support me. But, oh! with w at feelings did I pursue
my way amidst the convulsions of nature, followmg the
steps of the fiend, who was leading me to one of the
avenues of his terrible kingdom."
“ And wherefore have you never spoken to me of all
this before P” asked Ida. “ Eight long months have
elapsed since you undertook that fearful expedition ; and
this is the first time you have ever breathed a word con-
cerning it in my hearing? Am I no longer worthy of
your confidence P—I who am so well acquainted with the
mysteries of your fate ?”
“ Many and many a time have I been on the point of
revealing to (you all I saw on that occasion, beloved
Ida,” answere Faust; “but my soul has revolted from
the dread subject,—and I know not even now how I came
to touch upon it ! Perchance it is that you appear more
tender to-day—more endeared to me than ever you were
before; perchance it is that as time passes on so rapidly,
I feel the irresistible necessity of communicating every
secret of my soul to some mortal being; and no one can
be the repository of my feelings save yourself ! But ask
me no more of what I saw in those regions where I am
doomed, in a little space—a few short years, to take up
my abode to all eternity: at least, question me no fur-
ther on this occasion. Another time, Ida,-another time
I will tell you all,—yes, all i”
“ I will not compel you to ponder upon so terrible a
topic,” said Ida.
“ Ponder on it !” ejaculated Faust, almost wildly.
“ Oh! when is it absent from my memory P"
“But wherefore thus despond P” asked Ida. “Have
you not yet many years left to enjoy all the luxuries and
pleasures of earth? Is not every delight which this
world possesses within your reach?”
“ Can the wine-cup taste sweet, Ida, when venom is in
the dregs? Can the rose please with its odour when a
poisonous reptile is concealed within its leaves?” dc-
manded Faust, bitterly.
“ The demon is your slave,” said Ida, resolutely; “ can-
not his power supply you with some talisman against the
ideas and memories which thus haunt you P
“Ah! ’tis a happy thought, Ida!” exclaimed Faust.
“I will think on it. Leave me, Ida,——I would now be
alone with my reflections."
They parted.
Faust continued his moody walk along the ramparts,
while Ida descended the nearest flight of steps which led
into the city.
She then pursued her way rapidly homewards.
At the same moment that she reached the gate of the
Czernin mansion, a female of commanding height, and
closely veiled, accosted her, sayin , “ Tell me, kind lady,
is this the abode of the Baron of (.glzernin P“
These words were uttered in a sweet but melancholy
tone, and in perfectly good German, though with a foreign
accent. The costume of the stranger was also different
from that usually worn by German women, and seemed
rather to belong to some oriental clime.
“This is the mansion of the Baron of Czernin,’ an-
swered Ida. ‘-‘ Do you wish to see any of its inmates F"
“ My business is with the Baron himself, lady,” was the
reply; and as the stranger spoke she partially drew aside
her veil. .
Ida then beheld the lovely but melancholy and care-worn
countenance of a woman whose age was apparently
thirty. Her complexion was that of a brunette; her
eyes were large, dark, and melting; and nothin could
equal the splendour of her luxuriant, jet blac hair.
There was something queenly—something commanding
in that beauty which was thus suddenly revealed to the
Baroness of Czernin. The high forehead, the admirable
Grecian outline of feature, the thin vermilion lips, the
pearly teeth, and the swan-like neck, formed an
assemblage of charms, which for an instant dazzled even
Ida; and it was in a tone expressive of more courtesy
than she usually manifested towards any of her husband’s
visitors, that she requested the beautiful stranger to
enter the mansion. ‘
When they were alone in the principal saloon together,
Ida summoned Gertrude, and inquired if the Baron were
at home.
The reply was in the negative.
The absence of her husband at that moment was exactly
suitable to Ida’s views, for she longed to ascertain what
connexion could possibly exist between the elegant woman
who now sate beside her on the ottoman, and the Baron
of Czernin.
Having made a signal for Gertrude to withdraw, Ida
turned towards her guest, and said, “ You hear thathis
lordship is absent for the present; but he will return
shortl ; and if you will rest ourself in the meantime,
I shallesteem myself honour bly your sboiety."
“With your permission, lady, will await the return
of the Baron of Czernin,“ answered the stranger; then
after a moment’s pause, she said,-—but apparently with
an effort, “ Tell me, lady, are you the Baron’s Wife ?“
“ I am the Baroness of Czernin,” replied Ida. _
The fair stranger surveyed her for some instants With
the deepest interest; and then, as if musing to herself,
she murmured, “ Yes,-you are beautiful—very beautiful;
and you are younger, too, than 1! Oh! I need not be
astonished ;——and yet—”
She checked herself, and hastily dashed away the tears
from her long silken lashes. _
“Does my presence excite unpleasant ideasni your
mind, lady P” asked Ida, who was now burning vvith
curiosity to ascertain the cause of her guest’s emotion.
“ Your presence is a source of grief to me in one sense,”
answered the stranger in a melancholy voice; “ and. yet
the kindness of your tone soothes my wounded spirit.
Pardon me, lady,—pardon me, if I see in you a successful
rival; and yet, Heaven knows, that I am incapable of
harbouring enmit or ill-feeling towards you! But tell
me—has your hus nd ever mentioned to you the name of
Irene, the daughter of the merchant of Damascus r“
“Never,” answered Ida.
“ It is as well that he should have forgotten me
altogether, since another new possesses his love!” said
9

! the stranger, mournfully. “ I am that Irene to whom I


60
FA UST.

ere now alluded; and I knew him who is now your hus-
band, many years ago."
“Methinks that I can read in your words and manner
atale of affections early formed and eventually bli hted,"
said the wily Baroness, in a sympathising tone. “ s it so?
Speak confidentially; I can commiserate—I can console
you,—-but shall not blame you.”
“ Oh! lady, how grateful am I for these generous
assurances on your part !" ejaculated Irene. “ You have
divined rightly! Fifteen years have now elapsed since
my father, who was a Greek merchant, dwelling at
Damascus, rescued a young European, who was travellin
in Syria, from a horde of banditti in the desert. 'I wi
not weary you with the details of that occurrence. Suffice
it to say, that the traveller was grievoust wounded, and
all his attendants were slain in the conflict. My father
ordered his slaves to form a litter to convey him to
Damascus ; and on his arrival at our dwelling, every
attention was administered to him. It was my duty to
watch by his couch, bathe his feverish brow, and p ace
the cooling beverage to his parched lips ; for in the east,
lady, there are few of our sex who are not in some degree
acquainted with the healin qualities of different
medicines. His recover was ong and tedious : months
passed away, and he stil remained weak and feeble from
the wounds which he had received. At length he was
enabled to leave his couch, and walk in the garden be-
longing to our dwelling. He leant upon my arm: he
would have no other support—none other to minister to
him than myself. For a ggar he remained with us. He
told us that he was the ron of Czernin, that he was
travelling for his pleasure, and that he was possessed of
great wealth and large estates in his native land. I have
said enough to show you that we were much together ;
and you can forgive me if I add, that my first and only
love was devoted to him. My father was wealth ; the
riches of Demetrius Notaras were proverbial in t e fair
capital of Syria. There was no apparent obstacle to our
happiness; for—pardon me again, lady,—if I tell you,
that Theodore von Czernin proffered me his hand, as he
declared I already possessed his heart. '
“ Proceed," said Ida, seeing that the beautiful Greek
hesitated. “ You cannot offend me—for neither you nor I
have willingly wronged each other.”
“ N o, lady—for you must have been a child when those
events occurred; and I had numbered fourteen years—.an
age at which the females of that sunny land are ac-
counted almost women. My father," continued Irene,
after a short pause, “ consented to our union. The pre-
arations were made,-the day was fixed. I cannot new
gear to dwell upon the happiness—the ineffablc, celestial
bliss which I enjoyed when walking in our delicious gar-
dens with him I loved, and conversing on our prospects
of bliss, the evening before the morn that, as I fondly
ho ed, was to unite us for ever."
rene again dashed away the tears from her eyes, and
conquering the emotions which these reminiscences con-
jured up, proceeded thus :—
“ We parted soon after sunset. I retired to my own
apartment to complete the fpreparations for my bridal;
and Theodore—pardon me i I call him by that name—-
proceeded, as I believed, to the bazaar, to conclude some
purchases which he had contemplated. But I never saw
im again. He came not back to the house that evening
—nor on the next day—nor on the next! His mysterious
disappearance plunged my father and myself into the
greatest grief. ' e feared that some terrible accident had
overtaken him: for we believed that he was too honour-
able to quit us thus of his own accord. Lady, you can
conceive my anguish; I cannot describe it. We]: after
week—month after month—year after year, passed away
My mother had died in my infancy ; I was an only chil ;
and the death of my father, about ten years ago, left me
with immense wealth, but without a dprotector—almost
without afriend. Often and often di I contem late a
journey tothis far-off city, to seek him whom never
ceased to love-whose image I never ceased to cherish.
But then I thought that if he should return, and not find
me in Damascus, the obstacles that separated as might
be increased ; and I also reasoned within myself, that if
he were indeed alive, and at liberty, he would fly to
me if he still loved me. My onl solace was the con-
templation of a magnificent nee 'lace, which he had
presented to me on the eve of our intended bridal.”
Irene drew from beneath the folds of the dualma, or
oriental pelisse, which she wore, a small box made of
sandal wood. She did not, however, immediately open
it; but holding it, as it were,'mechanically in her hand,
she thus concluded her narrative :— .

“ Year after year passed away, lady—year after year of
sorrow, suspense, and dying hopes! Many a wealthy
youth of my own nation sought my love; but that was
not mine to give. I vowed that my heart should exist as
a shrine sacred only to the memory of him to whom my
first affections and virgin faith were plighted. My bosom
inurned his well~beloved image; and even that fidelity
and that devotion on my art were as a solace to me in
this long, tedious interv . At length I learnt accident-
ally, from a Greek merchant who arrived at Damascus,
that the Baron of Czernin had returned to Vienna—re-
turned to his native city—after an absence of twelve
years. From the same source I gathered that he had
claimed and recovered his sequestered property, and
that he had apparently fixed himself in the German
capital. It was also told me that he was leading a gay
and happy life—as if to indemnify himself for cars of
suffering. Then my heart sank within me; an a voice
seemed to whisper to me that I was beloved no longer !
‘Alas!’ I thought; ‘perha s he believes that I in self
cannot have remained faith ul to my plight, throng out
this weary lapse of time.’ And then I resolved to under-
take a journey to Vienna-to seek him—to tell him that
he knew not _the heart which was devoted to him—and to
restore to him this necklace which I looked upon as the
pledge of his own love. My pride was aroused :—not that
I entertained enmity towards him ;-—oh! no—I would
even now die to serve him! But I felt that_I could not
treasure the gift of one who had either repented of his
vows towards me, or who ‘had been led to believe me
faithless. Placing my roperty under the control of an
upright Armenian mere ant, who had known the family
of N otaras for years, and taking with me sufficient gold
and jewels to defray the expenses of my journey, I set
out, attended by two faithfu slaves. I need not recount
the perils and difficulties of this arduous undertaking.
Six months ago did I leave Damascus ; and a variety of
circumstances have delayed my rogress. At length,
last evening, I arrived in Vienna. on may well conceive
that my first inquiry at the inn where I stopped, was
concernin the Baron of Czernin. Then did I hear of his
marriage or the first time ;—for the merchant who had
made me acclluainted at' Damascus with the particulars
concerning t e re-appearance of the Baron in this city,
had commenced his journey to S ' before your union
took place. Thus all my hopes— or, pardon me, lady, if
encouraged by your sympathy and in obedience to the
dictates of my own feelings, I confess that I had enter-
tained hopes,—as who would not in my situation ?—all
those hopes, I say, were suddenly destroyed! Then I
resolved more serious! than ever to return this necklace
to him who gave it. ut not a word of reproach, lady—-
not a syllable of blame, would have passed my li s, had
I obtained an interview with your husband. o—my
desire, my only remaining ambition was to relieve him of
any compunction which he might feel by assuring him of
my forgiveness—convincing him of my fidelity—and re-
storing the gift which I had once prized so highly! If I
have erred, ady, in thus unbosoming my feelings to you
it has been from no improper motive :—my views are
pure—my desi s are holy! Nor can you reproach your
husband for aving forgotten those vows which he
plighted in the ardour of youth, and perhaps under the
influence of gratitude. rather than love,—-vows which
sober reflection may have tau ht him to regret, and
which circumstances may have 0 liged him to recent! No
—lady——this narrative cannot, must not interrupt the
free course of our felicity :nor will your generous nature
permit you to arbour enmity towards one who can have
HDWII'IO right, and assuredly has no pretensions, to be your
riva .“
For a moment even Ida was affected b the touching
and pathetic language of the Greek lady, w 0 again wiped.
away the crystal tears from her eyes—those eyes which
were dark as the midnight heaven when it appears in the
light of its countless stars.
“ When first I entered your hospitable mansion, lady,"
said Irene, after a long pause, “it was my intention to
deliver this necklace into the hands of the Baron of
Czernin. But your sweet sympathy has elicited my sad
story; and I have no longer any pretence for remaining
here. It will be better that I should not see our lord.
Take this box, lady—it contains the gift of which I have
sploken :—take it—return it to your husband—and tell him
a that you deem it right and fitting for him to know.”
Ida received the box from the hands of the Greek lady,
who rose from her seat, and was about to bid the
Baroness farewell, when the door suddenly opened, and
the lord of the mansion himself entered the apartment.


F A US T.
61


CHAPTER XXX.
THE MEETING.
STRANGE was the contrast that existed between Ida vou
Czernin and Irene Notaras.
Both were eminently beautiful ;—but their minds, how
different were they! The former was possessed of the
most consummate arts of hypocrisy—the latter was
frankness, candour, and perfect guilelessness: the former
concealed a detestable soul beneath an ap earance of re-
serve and sedateness—the latter was en owed with the
most generous feelings, which gave a charm to her in-
genuous manners and discourse: the former possessed
desires of fiery violence beneath that calm exterior which
was so well calculated to deceive—the latter had been
tutored by disagpointment, sorrow, and maidenl pride
to subdue the re ellious passions of youth ;-—the ormer,
in a word, was a very fiend in a lovely guise—the latter
was in mind and appearance as perfect as woman can be.
. Nor shall we blaspheme, or speak irreverently of holy
things, if we declare that a lovely and virtuous woman
is but one remove from the angels who are deemed worthy
to hymn the praises of the Highest in realms invisible to
mortal eyes! ~
So unsuspicious and artless was Irene Notaras, althou h
she had reached a mature age, that she readily gave I a
credit for entertai ' the deepest sympathy in her
behalf; and it was this belief that had induced her so
frankly, and yet so delicately, to unburden her mind to
the wife of the very individual who was the hero of her
history.
But this artlessness of mind on the part of a female
over whose head thirty years had passed—passed, how-
ever, without dimming the lustre of her eyes, or the dark
glory of her raven hair—was to be attributed to the com-
parative seclusion in which the life of Irene had been
passed. Althou h a Greek and a Christian, she had
nevertheless so ar coincided with the customs of that
oriental clime in which her native home was fixed, as to
see but little of male society, and then only (since her
father’s death) at the houses of married female friends.
These explanations we deemed necessary in order to
render our readers more familiar with the character of
Irene Notaras than they would have been merely from a
contemplation of her own history, as related by herself.
We said that Ida vou Czernin had just received the
sandal-wood box from the hands of the Greek lady, and
was about to open it, when the Baron abruptly made his
appearance.
Irene cast one glance towards him, and then fell back
on the ottoman whence she had risen a moment pre-
viously. '
“ ’Tis he! ’tis he!“ she exclaimed, in a piercing tone;
and she covered her face with her hands.
None need marvel at this ebullition of (profound feeling
on the part of the Greek lad . The su den presence of
the individual whose image ad been for fifteen years
treasured in her bosom, aroused all the fervour of that
love which had long appeared to be mellowed down into
a holy reminiscence that could only cease with life itself.
In a moment she seemed transported back to the delicious
garden in her own sunny clime, where his love was first
declared, and where her vows were plighted. It appeared
as if it was only yesterday that she roved, hand in hand,
with him amidst the ambrosial bowers of Damascus,—
the blending spirit of pure affection flashing from their
eyes in warm transfusion,—while their assurances of
never-changin love seemed to find echoes and witnesses
in the songs 0 the nightingale!
But, in a moment, the convictions of reality,—rapid as
the whirlwind which sweeps over the Syrian desert, and
carries the waves of. that ocean of sand to dash them-
selves against the walls of Damascus,—dispelled the
pleasing illusion; and Irene was called back to the re-
membrance that many and many a weary year had passed
since that blissful period, and that she was now in the
presence of him who had forgotten her and espoused
another!
“ Who is this woman P” demanded the Baron, almost
brutally, as the exclamation of the beautiful Greek fell
upon his ears.
“ My God! he does not even remember me!” e'aculated
Irene, bursting into tears: then, hastily rising rom the
ottoman, she dashed away the crystal drops from her
long dark lashes, took the box gently from Ida’s hand,
and, drawin forth a splendid necklace, said, 1n a meek
and subdue tone, “ My lord, I have undertaken a long
and painful journey to see you once again; but all that


' now remains for me to do, is to restore to you this costly
jewel, which you presented to me in times long past and
—and—-by you forgotten."
A dgleam of light aggeared to dawn u on the Baron’s
min as the Greek y thus addressed im ; and, as if
with a painful effort—0r, rather, with great embarrass-
ment 0 manner, he stammered out a few words.
“Yes—I remember now—~you are Irene Notaras, the
merchant’s daughter—and that necklace—yes—I gave it
to you, as you sag—in different times—aud—and—I hope
there is no ill-fee 'ng—”
While the Baron of Czernin, who had certainly been
partaking of a due allowance of some potent beverage,
was thus blundering amidst expressions and apologies of
a somewhat extraordinary, and undoubtedly of a very
unfeeling nature, towards the amiable and confiding
woman who had endured so much on his account, a
singular change took place in that lady’s countenance
an manner.
When first the Baron had exclaimed “Who is this
woman?” the words themselves, rather than the tone,
had aroused those painful emotions in her bosom, which
had found a vent in tears. But when he addressed her
again, his voice, thick and husky with semi-intoxication,
sounded so unmusieall upon Irene’s ears, that she
started: a strange—a Wlld suspicion flashed to her ima-
gination ;—her lar dark eyes were fixed with mingled
terror and astonis ment upon the Baron’s countenance;
-—-he trembled beneath those lances which appeared to
Benetrate into the ve dept s of his sonl;—and as he
eheld those dark eyes ilate with indignation and pride
—as he marked the cloud gather on the lady’s brow—he
hesitated in his speech, and at length stopped short alto-
gether, unable to utter another word.
There was a solemn pause for asfew moments :.—Ida
glanced from the Baron to the Greek lady, and back
again to her husband in dumb astonishment, not un-
mingled with vague apprehension ;—-the Baron himself
appeared to be the prey of ineifable emotions ;—and Irene
seemed totally unable to take her eyes off him.
But this mysterious state of suspense was soon and
suddenly interrupted.
As if inspired by a deep conviction, and with almost an
agonizing wildness of manner, Irene clasped her hands
t0gether, exclaiming, “No—no! I cannot be deceived!
You are not the Theodore to whom I plighted my troth—
you are not the one whose image is so profoundly
impressed upon my heart t”
Then, as if actuated by some sudden impulse, Irene
thrust the necklace into the bosom of her dualma, and
hastened from the room.
The door did not close behind her, for as she left the
apartment Schurmann entered it.
‘ -_
CHAPTER XXXI.
VAIN MENACES.—THE cuss mass.
A FLUSH of deep indignation ap eared on the brow of
Ida von Czernin when the hated Sc urmann thus abruptly
made his appearance.
“ Well, my lord,” he exclaimed, familiarly slapping the
shoulder of the Baron, who, with folded arms was gazing
in mood vacancy upon the floor, “what ails your high
and exce ent nobility to-day? Is the wine-store empty 1’
or have you come to the bottom of the treasury-box P”
“ Ah, Schurmann l“ ejaculated the Baron, impa-
tiently ; “ what brings you hither again?”
“ My affection for your lordship, to be sure,” cried
Schurmann, throwin himself upon the sofa where the
beautiful Greek lady ad so lately been seated. “ Nay,
my beauty,“ he continued, addressing himself to Ida,
“do not spoil that prett countenance by contracting it
with frowns. There is t 0 less need of your anger, too,
because it produces no effect upon me."
“ Insolent menial!” ejaculated Ida, turning aside from
the intruder with supreme contem t.
“ Ah! I am used to your civilities, my lady,” said
Schurmann, coolly. “ Baron, my noble friend, summon
those lazy domestics of yours, and tell them to serve us
up a right noble banquet, for I am both a-hungered and
a-thirst.”
“ My lord,” exclaimed Ida, advancing towards her
husband, “ I have but few words to say—and to those I
request your earnest attention. If this man be allowed
the privilege of introducing himself on your privacy at hiz'~
good pleasure, you may en'oy your friend’s society without
restraint, because I sha l forthwith leave a dwelling
where I am no longer the mistress." _


62
FA US T.

“ Ida—do not perplex me,” returned the Baron, in a
low and imploring tone; “ God knows _I am bewildered
enough already! Leave us, Ida—I Will speak to you
anon—to-morrow—“
“ No—I will not remain in this state of suspense,”
interrupted the Baroness. “ If this man have any claims
upon you, name them, and we will consult upon the best
means to discharge them ; but if he be a mere intruder—
without a right to force himself upon us—-" .
“ Enough of this !“ cried Schurmann, rising from the
sofa, and advancing towards the Baron and Ida. “ Your
ladyship would do well not to provoke revelations
which—“
“ Schurmann !" exclaimed the Baron, grasping him by
the arm with convulsive violence.
“Well—I do not want to speak out," said the man,
sulkily; “but make your wife hold her tongue, or else
treat me with a little more civility. Does she take me
for a dog that she endeavours to trample upon me 3’ Just
as if I hadn’t heard who she was athe Countess of
Aurana's tire-woman transformed into a Baroness! Ha!
ha !” and his coarse laugh echoed through the spacious
apartment.
The Italian blood of the young lady boiled in her
veins; and, giving full vent to the impetuosity of her
passion, she exclaimed, “ Leave this house! Not another
moment shall you breathe the _same atmosphere with my-
self! Depart—or my lacqueys shall thrust you forth!"
“Baron—you hear her !" cried Schurmann, his lips
grillining'wlnte, and foaming with rage. By heavens,
“ Silence, Schurmann, silence !” exclaimed the Baron,
imploringly. “ And you, Ida—leave ns—I command
you! Messer Schurmann is a friend of mine—an old
friend! ; and he must be treated as my guest—an honoured
guest.“
“Yes—an honoured guest,” growled Schurmann, with 1
a triumphant glance at Ida.
"Coward!" ejaculated the Baroness, throwing that
irritating word at her husband; “ yes—coward, I repeat
—thus to permit your wife to be insulted before your
face. But I will be revehged: my threats are not vain!
The lacqueys shall thrust forth that low-born intruder—
or I will seek another home this night.”
“ Ida," said the Baron of Czernin, drawing his wife
aside, and speaking to her in a low but rapid and excited
tone, “listen to me. You have your secrets—and I do
not seek to penetrate them. Permit me to enjoy mine.
Cease these vain and idle menaces ; they are ridiculous—
mad—insane, when levelled against that man. Remem-
ber that if your husband be disgraced—exposed—ruined,
you fall With him; he drags you into the mire at the
same time !”
“But who is this formidable individual, then?” de-
manded Ida, also sinking her voice, and glancing with
mingled apprehension and disgust towards Schurmann,
who had resumed his comfortable position upon the sofa :
“ who is the individual that thus exercises so terrible an
influence over you P” '
“ That on will never know, Ida,” answered the Baron;
“unless, indeed, you gcad him by your mad behaviour,
to revelations which—but I need say no more. Beware
how you insult him again!"
“ I will know the worst at once, my lord,” rejoined the
impetuous woman, “rather than dwell in this state of
suspense!”
“ You provoke me to say rude things,” whispered the
Baron, grinding his teeth with rage ; “ but, as surely as
you are undermining the ground beneath your own feet
and mine by this senseless, rash, intemperate conduct—
so certainly will I wreak a terrible vengeance upon you !
Persist in this insulting course towards my friend,--pro-
voke him to crush me in his rage,—and at the same
moment the officers of justice shall be instructed to de-
mand certain explanations of Ida von Czeruin relative to
the child which—_"
“ Hold! hold! my lord—you indeed know how to touch
a painful chord in my heart 1” she added, bitterly ;-—and
her countenance for a moment assumed so fearful an ex-
pression of rage and vindictiveness, that all its beauty
was temporarily absorbed in the contortion produced by
the workings of her dark Italian passions.
The Baron was, however, glancing uneasily towards
Schurmann, and perceived not that change so menacing,
and et so evanescent!
“ c it as you wish, my lord,“ said Ida, after a short
pause, duri which she so far reserved her composure
. as to be enab ed to express herself with apparent calm-

ness:——“ be it as you wish! I will intrude upon your
secrets no more.”
And with these words she left the room.
That calmMss was indeed apiparent. Where the waters
of the Nile sleep the most placi l beneath the burning heat
of an Egyptian sky,—there, in hose dark depths that the
eye of the wayfarer alongnthe sandy shore cannot fathom,
he concealed the most 'deous monsters, which, at the
moment when the traveller is lulled into a belief of
security by the seeming tranquillity of the broad flood,
sudden y burst forth from its bosom, and seize the un-
suspecting victim in those jaws, from which there is no
escape!
Such was the calmness which characterized the manner
of Ida von Czernin, as she addressed the above assurance
to the Baron.
But, for the present, all that regarded her husband
gave way to a consideration of deeper importance to her-
self. Six months had elapsed since the poison was
administered to the Lady Theresa, and no visible change
had as yet taken place in her. There was a soft and_
gentle smile of melancholy upon her brow; but her ph -
sical health remained unimpaired. Ida had not on y
watched her attentively, in order to ascertain; if she ex-
perienced any internal pang which affection for her
usband prompted her to conceal ; she had watched her,
also, to catch the first development of those-sympme
that were to indicate the subtle workings of the poison.
—a gradual and imperceptibly increasing _fieeay of
strength, a disgust for life, awant of appetite, and an
excruciating thirst; but she had watched in ram!
Could the old oison-vender have deceived her? was
the uestion whic Ida had often ut to herself during
the se of those six months. 8 e had frequently in-
tend to pay another visit to Signora Fontana, in order
to demand an explanation of the failure of the promised
effects of the poison; but strong as was her mind, she
entertained a profound horror of that den, where so
many appalling sights and objects were congregated.
Moreover, she appeased her impatience, 'from time to
time, by reasoning with herself on the probability, that
the pm'son-vender had somewhat miscalculated the
potency of her draught, and that it might still produce
the heinous effect so criminally desired, although not
within the specified period.
But at length this ment lost its weight with Ida ;
and her impatience ha< become intolerable. She there-
fore determined upon another visit to the poison-vendor ;
and while the Baron was deep in an orgie with his friend
Schurmann, Ida wended her way along the narrow streets
towards the old wretch’s sordid abode.
The lower shutters were closed, as usual; the light
streamed feebly from the easements on the firstafloor.
Ida knocked at the door; but her summons remained un-
answered. She waited for nearly ten minutes; and no
one seemed to be moving in the house.
“The old woman is so deeply engaged in her experi~
ments or distillations,” murmured Ida to herself, “ that
she has no cars for aught save the hissing and bubbling
of her decoctions."
As she uttered these words she pushed the door im-
patiently. It yielded to her hand, and burst open. Ida
immediately entered the house, and closed the door care-
full behind her.
T en she ascended to the upper room, which was filled
with a noxious odour. .
The apartment presented the same appearance as when
we first introduced our readers to its mysteries. The
monsters still occupied their glass jars en the long shelf :
the door of the cupboard was open, and revealed the
bottles of fantastic shapes and various colours within; - -
the crucible, alembie, retort, and other chemical instru-
ments were upon the table ;—the hutch was in its place,
but empty ;—-the large box, with the holes in the lid, was
standing near it, as usual; and in the wooden case with
glass doors, were the wax-work representations of the
internal parts of the human frame. A lamp burnt on
the table.
The huge marble mortar, which, with its pedestal, was
about three feet and a half high, was alone, of all the
objects in the room, out of its usual place. It stood in
front of the grate, where a few embers were smoulder-
ing.
But was the old woman in her den? ‘
Yes—seated on a chair near the fire, and with her head
leaning on the edge of the mortar, Signora Fontana ap-
peared to be contemplating the drugs which she was
compounding in the marble vessel.
Ida drew near, but as she approached the mortar, a


FAUST.
63
owerful exhalation from its contents produced a sudden
FGOlng of sickness in the stomach and dizziness in the
head. She hurried to the window, and opened the case-
meut. ' ' -
' The pure air immediately refreshed her, and dispelled
thanoxious vapour from the apartment.
But all this time the old woman did not move.
A fearful suspicion flashed to the mind of the Baroness ;
and her first impulse was to hasten from the room. But,
in the next instant, she felt ashamed of her fears, and
once more approached the motionless form whose head
was supported on the mortar.
When near the base of the pedestal, Ida’s foot crushed
some little substance : she glanced downwards, and
beheld several fragments of the poison-vender’s glass
mask scattered upon the floor.
Ida’s suspicions were strengthened ; and a glance~a
hurried glance—at the old woman’s countenance, con-
firmed them.
While in the act of compounding poisons of a most
insidious maliguity, the mask had fallen from her face,
and the exhalation or im lpable powder of the drugs
had entered her throat an nostr‘ls.
Death must have been instantaneous!
But if the countenance of the hag were horrible in life,
how indescribany hideous and revolting was it now that
the grim monster had placed his finger on all its linea-
ments.
Ida turned away with more of disgust than fear—for
the presence of death had but little terrors for her power-
ful, though deeply guilty, mind.
Not a sentiment of pity did she experience for the old
Italian who had at length met her doom by the very
means which she was devising to hasten the destruction of
others :—-no—Ida had not such a thing as compassion in
her soul.
But she entertained a deep feeling of disappointment
at the sudden removal of the poison-vender from a sphere
in which her damnable skill had been of such fearful use
to those who were criminal enough to avail themselves of
her proficiency in the chemical art.
CHAPTER XXXII.
run JULIAN ALPS.
On, what a paradise were this world, did not the evil pas-
sions of its denizens too oft convert it into the semblance
of another sghere whose name is the representative of all
conceivable orrors. .
When the land is rich and glorious with the golden
harvests, and the husbandman jo‘yfully contemplates the
garnering of the reward of his in ustry, grim war carries
its desolation over the country, and converts the promise
of abundance into a barren waste. When the merchant
is on his way homcward, travel-weary and anxious to
embrace his wife and little ones, from whom he has been
long absent, but for whose benefit he has amassed trea-
sures by means of his honest toil, the dagger of the mid-
night robber is suddenly buried in his breast, and a thou-
sand fond hopes and aspirations, nourished alike by him
and those who await his coming, are cruelly annihilated
in an instant! When some good and virtuous monarch
has devoted his life to the establishment of his people’s
happiness, and his sub'ects are enjoying the full amount
of that grosperit which awise rule has created, the hand
of deat tears t e generous prince from his throne, and
leaves the nation to the tyranny or misrnle of his suc-
COSSOI‘.
How grand are all the principles of human happiness :
how deeply ramified are all the principles of human
misery!
That constant strife for gold—that warring by day and
intrigue by night to obtain the dross whose spells are so
Eotent, whose magic is so prolific—that intense ardour to
e first in the busy race after the world’s idol, no matter
who may be trampled and crushed by the way—that
breathless anxiety to outstrip a neighbour, at any sacri-
fice, and even by means of a crime—that eager thirst to
drink the largest draughts of a river which God intended
to flow for the moderate benefit ,of all—that jostling,
ressing, hurrying, crowding, elbowing, confusion, vio-
enee, strata em, supplanting, intriguing, and waylaying
which constitute the avocations of the world's mob, are
the active elements of a hostility to human peace,
sympathy, and benevolence.
The doctrine of fellowship and good-will flows from
hundreds of thousands of pulpits; millions and millions
of treasure are expended to maintain the ministers of the

“ tidings of great joy ” that were proclaimed to mankind ;
and fit, with all its vaunted civilization, the world is
still rbarous in respect to those amenities and charities
which sweeten existence.
Thus thought Otto Pianalla, as he rode slowly along a
narrow path which wound its way in the midst of a dense
forest in the province of Carniola. He had seen so much
of the vices and crimes of Vienna that he had determined
to indulge his taste for the primitive simplicity of those
districts where the hardy forester and bold mountaineer
remained uncontaminated by the luxury of great
ex 108.
Mounted on a powerful but docile steed, and un-
attended, but well armed, the young artist was enabled
(thanks to the gold which he had received from the
mysterious strangers. year previously to the time of which
we are new writing) to wander amidst scenes congenial
to his disposition.
Having crossed the Lobel mountains, many of the
summits of which are covered with everlasting snow, the
young man pursued his way by easy stages through the
province of Oarniola, towards the Julian Alps.
He was new in the midst of a dense forest, the southern
verge of which he ho ed to gain before sunset.
He had an interv of three hours before him; and he
urged his steed onward at a quicker pace than usual.
Nor had the hospitable peasants, at whose abode he
had 1 the preceding night, misled him in respect to
the irection they had given him for his day’s journey.
For scarcely had he emerged from the forest when the
last rays of the April sun littered over the welcome hills,
and were reflected from c snow-capped heights of the
Julian Alps. .
And now layer after layer of heavy clouds were rolled
over the deep blue sky; but still an occasional chasm in
those dense masses enabled the eye to catch a glimpse of
the white peaks which glistened with their own natural
brightness.
At a short distance from the verge of the forest stood
a srgall cottage, where Otto obtained hospitality for the
ni t.
e awoke at an early hour, just as the morning sun
was struggling into being—its rays breaking slowly
through the clouds, and showering a silver light upon the
ad'acent summits of eternal snow.
aving partaken of an excellent repast, Otto requested
permission to leave his horse in the stable attached to the
cot; and his demand being willingly acceded to, he set
out on a ramble towards the mountains.
An hour's walk brought him to the foot of an acclivity
so steep that it occupied nearly double the time just men-
tioned to climb it. At length he reached a level tract,
with a grassy surface, where numbers of goats were
feeding. Before him was now spread a magnificent and
imposing scene, an immense amphitheatre formed of
mountains, whose snow-covered peaks seemed to support
one vast canopy of azure.
The reflection of the sunlight on the gliflening garb of
everlasting winter was so powerful that it dazzled and
hurt the eyes.
As‘he drew nearer and nearer towards the entrance, as
it were, of that vast amphitheatre, he could perceive the
desolating traces of destruction which, in various places,
had been left by the landslip, the avalanche, or the
torrent.
But how grand was nature in those mighty solitudes,
whose silence was so seldom broken by human voices!
On, on went Pianalla; and soon he entered a rising
path, which ran irregularly between the hills. Now also
did the colossal features of the vast panorama grow out
upon him —mountain and crag springing into existence—-
abysses yawning at his feet -oceasional glimpses of laugh-
ing valleys appearing to him as he stood on some rocky
pinnacle which commanded a view over the lessor
cminences—aud the gigantic ones in the distance gradually
losing their light blue appearance, and standing out in
distinct colours from the purple sky, but each with the
eternal diadem of snow 'upon its spotless brow.
Otto had reached a point where the path suddenly
turned the rugged angle of a rock, and stopped on the
verge of a deep abyss; But on a close inspection of the
localit the artist observed a flight of steps rudely CR”,
or rat ier notched, down a narrow sloping ledge, over-
hanging the chasm. ‘
Convinced that those steps were fashioned by human
hands, and, therefore, for some purpose, Otto determined
go dare the perilous journey which they opened before
1m.
He endeavoured to follow the oblique ledge with his


64
FA US T.

eyes, in order to ascertain where it terminated, or to
what it led; but it was lost beneath an overhanging mass
of rock that jutted out from the wall or side of the
chasm.
Otto’s curiosity was piqued: he was, moreover, of a
brave and enterprising dis osition, and he did not hesitate
to trust himself to that le ge of two feet wide, and which
sloped at an angle of forty-five degrees.
Setting his back against this perpendicular wall, he pro-
ceeded sideways, the yawning abyss before him.
In this manner he advanced cautiously for nearly half
an hour—not daring to plunge his looks into the chasm,
for fear of becoming giddy and losing his balance.
At length he found himself beneath the overhanging
mass of rock before alluded to.
Here the ledge became abruptly much wider, and led
-to a path which some convulsion of nature had formed
between the two masses of a riven rock.
This path continued for upwards of a hundred yards,
when it suddenly stopped at a wooden door, studded with
large nails, and strengthened with iron bars.
Otto, who had hitherto kept his eyes fixed downwards,
in order to pick his way over the broken, rough, and dan-
gerous path, now looked upwards, and beheld the avenue
closed by a lofty and gloomy wall, which stretched from
one side of the riven rock to the other.
What there was beyond that wall he could not perceive,
such was its height, and so peculiar was its position in
respect to the rugged and inaccessible crags which it thus
connected. Nevertheless, Otto could not entertain any
other belief than that it was the outer wall of some strong-
hold, built upon a plan of defence common in those moun-
tainous districts, where the works of nature might be so
successfull combined with artificial means, in order to
render a ortalice or tower totally impregnable to a
besieging force.
While Otto was thus wra t in con'ecture relative to the
precise object of the barrler whic had thus suddenly
stopped his way, a small trap, or guichet, in the huge door
suddenly opened, and a man’s voice exclaimed, “ Stranger,
whoever thou art, have pity upon me! Save me—save me
from this dreadful dungeon, where I have languished for
so long a period.” \
Otto glanced towards the guichct, but the moment his
eyes caught si ht of the countenance which gazed upon
him, he uttere a cry of wild astonishment.
That countenance was well known to him!
But scarcely had the exclamation of surprise escaped
his lips, when the face suddenly disappeared; a rough
voice—not that of him who had addressed these suppliant
words to Pianalla—uttered a terrible curse, and the
gu'ichet was closed violently.
_—
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A seams or mrsrsmous mcmmvrs.
PIANALLA remained rooted in astonishment to the spot,
uncertain how to act, and marvelling at what he had seen.
“ That countenance!” he murmured to himself. “ Yes,
it was the same, though paler and more melancholy.“ And
yet he was at Vienna when I left that city on my present
journey! True ; but I have travelled at my leisure—
slowly, and by eas stages. Nevertheless, did he not im-
plore me to save im from a dungeon in which he had
languished for a long period? Strange—passing strange I
For even if he quitted Vienna on the same day as myself,
even if he hastened with all imaginable speed to this
neighbourhood, and was plunged into a dungeon on the
moment of his arrival, he cannot have been a risoner
here for more than fifteen or twenty days. An yet he
speaks of a long period! Alas! the sudden blow has turned
his brain!”
Scarcely had Pianalla come to this conclusion, when the
huge door grated upon its hinges, and forth rushed half-
a-dozen men, all well-armed. ‘ -
They instantly seized upon the young artist, blindfolded
him, and raising him in their arms, carried him within
the enclosure formed by the wall.
For a considerable time the proceeded on a level
ground ; but their footsteps ec oed as if their way lay
through a tunnel or sounding cavern.
Presently they ascended a spiral staircase, and,
prompted by some sudden impulse, Pianalla counted
seventy-seven steps—for the men had set him on his feet
at the commencement of the flight, and compelled him to
mount without their aid.
At the head of the staircase the party paused, and one
of the men appeared, so far as Pianalla, who was still

blindfolded, could judge, to try a deer. it did not, how-
ever, open, and the man said—
“ We must wait a few minutes.”
Scarcely were these words uttered, when the rich
sounds of an organ, apparently in an adjacent room or
chapel, suddenly rolled through the building, seeming to
fill the lofty arches with its power and grandeur.
The prelude—tasteful and elegant in melody, and chaste
and rich in harmony—closed, and then the organ, pouring
forth a richer and fuller volume, was accompanied by a
choir, singing a sacred hymn.
So magnificent was the music, so impressive the vocal
melody, that while it lasted Pianala forgot the mysterious
perils of his position—remembered not that he was blind-
folded—thought not of the countenance which he had seen
at the guichet. '
But the moment the last solemn swell of the organ
pealed through the building, with that crashing and yet
gloriously harmonic sound which is peculiar to the noble
instrument, Pianalla was awakened to a sense of his
situation by a tap on the shoulder, and a rough voice in
his ear, saying—
“ We must now proceed farther.”
At the same moment the door, before vainly tried, was
unlocked from the other side, and the party, leading
Pianalla, entered a place which he knew to be spacious b _v
the time occupied in traversing it, and which he 'udged to
be a chapel, by the invocations of a blessing w ich each
one of his conductors murmured as they passed a par-
ticular spot—most probably, thought Pianalla, where the
font containing the holy water stood.
This place, whether chapel or not, was passed through,
and the party emerged into the open air. There could
be no doubt that such was the fact, because the chill,
cold Al ine blast, accompanied with a slight but cutting
sleet, b ew full in the face of Otto Pianalla.
The party crossed what appeared to the artist to be a
large court, and then stopped at a gate, which one of the
men endeavoured to o e . -
“ The foul fiend seize the chatelain!” exclaimed this
individual. “ The gate is locked fast 1”
- “ Hasten then for the keys, Karl,” said another, “ and
we will await thy return.”
“ Karl will be ten minutes absent, and this sleet is
gillpl‘ligh to mark one as with the small-pox,” observed a
1r .
“ Let us remove yonder, comrades," said a fourth.
“ The place certainly is not very inviting; but, at all
events, it is protected from this infernal weather.”
“Well, I will rejoin you there,” said Karl, as he de-
parted to fetch the keys.
The party then moved abruptly to the right, ascended
a few steps, on which the snow lay thick, and then halted.
Otto knew that the were beneath a roof, as the sleet
ceased to beat upon im ; but the air was unvaried in its
piercing and bitter chilliness.
“ How many are there now P” said one of the men.
“ Thirty-nine,” was the answer given by a comrade;
“ another was added yesterday afternoon. Karl and I
dug him out, close by the Zinzlin.”
“ Do you really believe, comrades,” asked the first
speaker, in. a low and solemn tone, “that these poor
creatures haunt the glaciers and show themselves to
travellers P”
“There’s no doubt of that, friends,” replied another
of the men. “ They are often seen contemplating the
spots where they were found; and sometimes they ap-
pear suddenly to inexperienced persons who dare the
dangers of the mountains, and warn them of their
peril.”
“ Holy Virgin protect us 1” ejaculated the first speaker.
“ If I was to meet the spirit of one of these poor crea-
tures, I should roll over the first precipice with fright.”
“More fool you," said a gruff voice, which Otto had
not heard before. “And fools you are, too, to talk of
spirits; and spectres, and matters you know nothing
abou .”
“ Fritz is a regular infidel in everything," cried one of
the men.
“ No more an infidel than you, good friend,” said the
same gruff voice; “ but I have lived in these mountains
sixty years, as boy and man, and there is not a cleft, or a
crag, or a glacier, or a precipice, or a ledge, that I am
strange to. I am familiar with them all; and though
I’ve seen plenty of such ob'ects as now surround you, I
never yet met with one of t e spirits or spectres that you
are talking of. But here’s Karl with the keys; let’s go
forward." _
So intensely was Otto Piaualla‘s curiosity provoked by











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the foregoing conversation, that he would have given
worlds to have been able to raise the bandage from his
eyes, and satisfy himself as to the nature of those ob'ects
which surrounded the party, and concerning whic he
already entertained suspicions that made his heart palpi-
tate With horror. But if he attempted to raise his hand
towards his countenance, a rude grasp instantly com-
pelled him to desist.
The party moved on once more, passing through a gate
which groaned upon its hinges, and was closed again
behind them.
Then another court, as Pianalla conceived, s tra-
versed, another door was opened, and they agai utered
some building, as the sleet ceased abruptly, and the air
became in a trifling degree less piercing.
The party now ascended a wide staircase, and stopped
at a door, which one of the men opened. Then Fritz, the
on}:1 with a gruff voice, took Pianalla by the hand, and
sun —-
“ Come with me, young man. You, comrades, can
fibtain some refreshment ; but be ready again in half an
our."
Then Fritz led Pianalla forward ; the door closed
behind them; the sounds of the departing footsteps of
the remainder of the party on the staircase grew fainter
and fainter; a genial warmth rapidly imparted itself to
the youn artist’s frame; the bandage was suddenly
snatched rom his eyes, and he found himself in a well-
furnished apartment, with a blazing fire in the grate, and
an inviting repast spread upon the table.
Near him stood Fritz, an old man with white hair, but
a stern countenance, and dressed in a half mountaineer,
half man-at-arms attire.
But even his rigid features relaxed into a sort of grim
smile, as he marked the astonishment which was expressed
on Pianalla’s countenance.
“ I dare say, young man,” he exclaimed, in his gruff
tone, “ you think you have been brought to this comfort-
able place by some su erhuman agency; but I can assure
you that all is natura enough, if you could but under-
stand it."
“ I am here, in the midst of the Alpine snows,’ said
Pianalla, glancing towards the table ; “ and yet I behold
the 2;)W8I'S of Italy and the fruits of summer upon the
Ga .88
“Ah! it does seem strange,” observed the old moun-
taineer, laconioally. “ But sit down and eat: the morn-
ing’s ramble must have sharpened your appetite !"
With these words, Fritz seated himself at the table, and
commenced a desperate attack upon the viauds—an ex-
ample which Pianalla, who now began to feel assured
that no serious mischief was intended him, very readily
followed.
Glancing round, to take a more accurate survey of the
room, he observed that there were no windows in the
perpendicular walls, but that the apartment was lighted
by means of a large skyli ht, or rather lantern, in the
roof. Thus the artist co d not in anyway ascertain to
what kind of a building the room belonged.
“Young man,” said Fritz, at length, laying down his
knife and fork, “you cannot be a stranger in these moun-
tains P Have on any idea where on are ?”
“ I am a pe eet stranger in the ulian Alps,” returned
Otto. “ I never set foot on their snow- aths until this
morning; and I am in total ignorance o the place where
I now find myself.”
“ Then how came you to venture along that path which
overhangs the abyss, and which has even perils for the
hardy and experienced mountaineer P" demanded Fritz,
eyeing the artist suspiciously.
“ I discovered that path by the merest accident,”
answered Otto, boldly, “ and, being possessed of some
curiosity—”
“ And no little courage,” added Fritz.
“ Well—call it what you will,” said Otto, slightly
blushin at the ingenuous compliment. “In any case, I
resolve to dare that strange path, because I am Journey-
mg for my amusement, and I was anxious to behold all
the wonders of the Julian Alps. If I have done wrong
by intruding in that quarter, I sincerely apologise; and
I must now request you to restore me to freedom, by the
same avenue, or any other that on please.”
f‘ You speak confidently andy frankly, young man,”
said Fritz, “and I believe your assurance that on are a
stranger in these parts. But i’ faith I you won d make a
fine mountaineer. In a few months, with a little practice,
you would hunt the gemsen with the best of us! Let
that i'lea, however, pass. I have one more question to
D
ask. Why did you utter an exclamation when you beheld
that person ere now at the guichet in the great gate?"
“ I recognised the countenance,” answered Otto.
“ You are, then, acquainted with that person P”
“ No. I never exchanged a word with him in my life.
But I have seen him often in Vienna, and thus know him
well by sight.”
The rigid features of old Fritz assumed a yet sterner
expression, as Otto ave this explanation; and for some
minutes he appeared to reflect profoundly.
“No harm shall happen to you, young man,” he at
length said; “ but I cannot sufler you to depart hence,
unless you will swear to observe the most implicit silence
in respect to your recognition of that individual.“
“ How can I ?” ejaculated Pianalla. “ Did he not
appeal to me to obtain his release from the dungeon in
which he languishes P Is he not a fellow-creature, nay-
more—a relative P" _
“A relativel’ ’ ejaculated Fritz. “ What is your name P"
“ Otto Pianalla,” was the reply.
“ Ah,” cried Fritz, “ now I understand you i”
Then the old man rose and paced the room. ,
“ Listen," he at length exclaimed, “ I have a proposal
to make to you ; and, if you assent to it, your word a
sufficient guarantee that you will adhere to its conditions
—for I know you to be a man of honour.“
“ Speak,” said Otto. _
“ You shall be conveyed hence in a short time,”. pro~
ceeded Fritz; “ and you shall promise to return to Vienna
before you institute any further proceedings in conse-
quence of your recognition of the person who spoke to
on from the guichet. Then, if you find him restored to
'berty, and in the full enjo ment of freedom—not here—-
but in the German capita , you will consider yourself
bound by a solemn vow never to allude to his temporary
imprisonment here.” . . _
“ I will promise nothing," said Pianalla, Without a
moment’s hesitation. “ If he obtain his hberty, it is for
him to adopt proceedings to punish those who have un~
justly detained him here—if unjustly detained he be.
When I see him restored to freedom, I have no more
need to trouble myself with him or his concerns. But
until I do see him thus emancipated, I Will not bind _my-
self to remain passive in the matter. At the same time,
as you treat me now, so shall I be induced to shape my
future intentions.”
“ N obly said !" ejaculated Fritz. “ Let uspledge each
other in a bumper of this good wine." _
Fritz poured out the rich red juice into two cups; he
and the artist then drank in ratification of the sort of
compact entered into between them.
But scarcely had Otto replaced the cup upon the table,
when he fell back in his chair, wrapped in a profound
lethargy. _ _
When he awoke the sun was shining gloriously 1n the
heavens ; and the climate in which he found himself was
warm and genial. ,
He was lying in'a meadow, the verdant carpet of which
was span led with myriads of flowers.
By the eight of the sun, it appeared to be mid-day.
Otto rose, and speedily called to mind all the events——
events of so strange and mysterious a nature—which had
so recently occurred to him.
But where was he now ?
There were the Julian Alps in the distance; and yet—
when he studied the ositioii of the sun—those mountains
appeared to be to t e northward, whereas were he still
in Carniola, they should stand in the south.
Moreover, these green meadows, those placid rills,
those cottages shaded by the verdant foliage of beautiful
trees, those gardens in the distance. Oh! all this was
not the cold and comfortless Carniola.
Then, where was he? Had he awoke from a long and
wondrous dream? Or was he the victim of some super-
human ageney ?
It was not a dream—for all the incidents ere now re-
lated were too vividly impressed upon his mind to have
been the mere phantoms of his imagination.
While he was thus lost in conjecture, he behold a
peasant approaching. But as the man drew near, Otto
saw by his complexion and peculiar dress, that he was
not one of the hardy serfs of Oarniola.
“ Where am I, worthy friend P” asked Pianalla, for-
getting, in the bewildered condition of his brain, that the
question was a strange one.
And, indeed, so it appeared to the peasant, who, eyeing
the young man with some surprise, replied in Italian,
“ You are in Farmer Benvenuto’s field; and I am Farmer

Benvenuto, at your service.”


68
FA US 1‘.
“But the country—what territory—what state is
this ?" demanded Otto, also speaking in Italian, with
which language he was familiar.
“ What state? what country ?" repeated the farmer,
stepping back a pace or two, in evident apprehension of
the condition of his interlocutor's brain; “ why—in
Italy, to be sure! Where do you suppose yourself to be?
Poor oung man— oor young man."
An the farmer urried away as rapidly as he could,
leaving Pianalla overwhelmed with the most painful
astonishment.
“.—
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE ITALIAN PEASANT.
'OTTO now sat down in the flowery meadow, and pondered
-upon all that had passed.
He traced every incident minutely up to the instant
when he drank the cup of wine which Fritz had handed
to him ; but he was at a total loss to conjecture how
long a eriod had elapsed since that particular moment.
He did not feel very hungry; and therefore he began to
conclude that his adventures in the Julian Alps must
have occurred on the preceding day.
He examined his ockets; his money and papers were
all safe, he had not con plundered of a single thing.
Having thus composed his mind to a certain degree, he rose
and advanced towards a cottage which he observed in the
distance, and which was nearer the foot of the mountains
than the one towards which the churlish farmer had bent
his way.
Arrived at the door of the hut, he found a pretty
Italian peasant girl seated at an open window, einple ed
with her spinning wheel. His request to be permitte to
rest himself was cheerfully complied with ; the girl in-
vited him into the cottage, and set before him a copious
but homely repast.
While he ate, he gradually led the fair peasant into
conversation, and by means of one or two artful ques-
tions, so as not to astenish her by the strangeness of such
queries as had excited the wonder and suspicions of
Farmer Benvenuto, he ascertained the date of the month.
His original conjecture was right : it was indeed the very
day after that on which occurred the singular incidents
previoust related.
“ How on will it take me to cross the mountains into
Carniola P“ e inquired, after a pause.
“ Three da s, signor,” was the answer. “ It is not that
the distance is very great,” added the peasant girl, “ but I
you must follow so many circuitous turns and windings
that the journey is long and tedious.”
“ Three days !” ejaculated Pianalla; but he checked
himself abruptly, not daring to say that he had certainly
passed from Oarniola into Italy in one day. “ Are you
certain that there is no short cut—no means of per-
forming the journey in less time than you mention 1'”
“ I have lived since my birth in this cottage, signor,"
rejoined the girl, “ and I never heard of any other way
than the one I alluded! to. My father will return home
to his dinner shortly, and he can give you more informa-
tion on the subject than I.”
Scarcely were these words uttered. when a sturdy pea-
sant, of middle age, entered the room.
“ Here is my father, signer,” said the girl. “ He will
be delighted to explain to you all he knows in reference
to the mountains."
“ Yes, that will I right gladly, signor,” exclaimed the
peasant.
Otto then repeated the queries which he had put to the
man’s daughter.
For a moment a species of cloud came over the brow of
the peasant, and fixing his keen dark eyes upon the artist,
he said—
“ Have you a particular motive, signor, for thus ques-
tioning me, or is it simply as a traveller, who is anxious
to abridge his journey as much as possible, that you seek
information ?”.
“ I will be candid with you," answered Piaualla, who
fancied that there was something peculiar in the pea-
sant’s manner. “ The truth is precisely this: Yesterday
morning I was in Carniola. I set out at an early hour to
explore the mountains, and after rambling amongst those
snow-covered heights for about two hours, I came to a
dangerous ath, where human ingenuity had, to some
extent, mitigated the rude difficulties formed by nature.
This path led to a narrow valley or defile, at the extre-
mity of which was a high wall. A door in that wall opened.
and several men, well-armed, came forth. They seized

me, blindfolded me, and conducted me through several
rooms and courtyards, until at length the banda e was re-
moved from my eyes. I then found myself in a T andseme
apartment, and in the company of an old man, whom I
had heard called by the name of Fritz. A conversation
took place between us, the details of which would be
uninteresting to you. I drank a cup of wine, and al-
most immediately afterwards became insensible. “'lien
I awoke, an hour ago, I was in Italy, lying in yonder
meadows.“
Otto ceased, and anxiously awaited the easant’s reply;

but tfi was not immediatel given. he man leant
his h upon his hand, an appeared to reflect pre-
foundly.
“ My narrative strikes you to be too ridiculous to be
true,“ said Piaualla; “and yet I can assure you that I
am as sane at this moment as ever I was in my life,
and that I have not the slightest motive to deceive you."
“I not only believe every word you have uttered,
signor," returned the peasant, at length, as he raised
his head, and looked the young artist fixedly in the face,
" but I know that you have s oken the truth.”
" You know it !" ejaculate Pianalla, greatly surprised
by this assurance.
“Yes, signor, I know it," re cated the man, “for I
myself have travelled precisely t 0 same road as the one
which you have described.“
“ You, father!" cried the girl, with unfeigned astonish-
ment.
“ Yes, Nina, dear,” answered the man ; “ but I never
breathed a word of that mysterious business to living
mortal until new. M secrecy was imposed upon me
by the most terrible t reats of vengeance. I will, how-
eyler,l relate all that occurred on the occasion to which I
a I“ c.”
Nina drew her chair closer to her father, and Otto
Pianalla became all attention and curiosity.
“ It was about six years ago, Nina, you remember,
when I was called into Carniola by the death of your
poor mother," began the easant. “ My wife, signor,"
he continued, addressing himself to Otto, “ had gone to
visit a relation who had settled in the German terri-
tory, and there she was seized with a grievous malady.
I reached our relation’s abode only just in time to close
her eyes. After the funeral, I set out alone on my way
homeward, for I knew that my pretty Nina here would
be alarmed if my absence was rolenged further. It
was a beautiful mornin when I egan my journey; but
my heart was heavy wit the loss I had sustained, and,
thinkiii on this and other matters, I forgot the direc-
tions Iliad received, and missed my way. At length, I
fell into a path which suddenl stepped on. the edge of
a wide, yawning chasm. Wondyering why a road, which
had evidently been cleared by mortal hands, should thus
lead to nethin , as it were, I examined the surrounding
parts well, an at length discovered that very sloping,
narrow ledge which on, signor, have described. I have
been accustomed a 1 my life to ramble amongst the
mountains on the Italian side, and it was not therefore,
very probable that I should be daunted by the perilous
nature of the path thus opened to my view. I proceeded
along, or rather down, the almost precipitate ledge,
passed under a huge overlian _ing crag, and reached the
defile you have mentioned. [I soon came to the wall
from one perpendicular rock to another; and while I
was deliberating what to do—whether to seek admit-
tance or retrace my steps—a small trap in the great
door opened, and a pale but handsome countenance ap_
pearec .”
“ Ah 1” ejaculated Pianalla.
“ At the same moment," continued the peasant, “an
iinploring voice exclaimed, ‘Whoevcr on are, kind
stranger, I beseech you, in the name of eaven, to take
some measures to save me from this dreadful place!
Repair to Laybach, and tell the governor that the Baron
of Clerlllllm, ”
“ The Baron of Czernin!” cried Otto. “And this ad-
venture happened to you six years ago P"
“ Six years ago,“ repeated the peasant, calmly; “I
cannot be mistaken."
“ Proceed,” said Otto ; “ but this most strange—most
wonderful 1"
" Scarcely had the prisoner—for such I, of course, con-
ceived him to beauttered those words,“ continued the
peasant, “ when he was forcibly dragged away from the
trap; the large door opened, and several men, well armed,
as you describe them, signor, rushed out. I was imme-
diately bound, blindfolded, and led into the building--
for a building I am convinced it was, by the echo of the


70
FA US T.

wild luxuriance of the country which now lay extended
beneath his feet; while on the right the hills seemed to
retire in ranges of softening purple until they melted
away in the brighter tints of the horizon.
The scene was, beyond all description, beautiful, beneath
the splendour of an Italian sunshine 1
And now the presence of the orb of day dispelled the
black clouds which had hitherto hung on the highest
peaks of the mountains; and those towering summits
formed a majestic background to the panoramic scene,—
risiiig upon the sky precisely at that distance in which all
hues are lost in those aerial tints that soften the too
rugged character, without injuring the picturesque out-
line of that noble chain.
“It cannot be near the base of the mountains that we
shall find the entrance to any secret avenue, path, or out-
let in connection with the stronghold,” observed Mazzini
to Otto, as they turned to continue their way. “ We must
seek the most wild and desolate, as well as the most dan-
gerous s ots; for those who took such care to render one
means 0 approach to their abode so perilous as both you
and I found that shelving Carniolan path to he, would not
neglect a like precaution on the Italian side.”
“True,” said Otto; “ and there is one fact that may
probably serve as a clue to the object of our search.”
“ Which is that F” demanded the peasant.
“ When you awoke on the morning after your adven-
ture in the Alpine stronghold, you were lyin in a field, a
hundred yards from your cottage,” remarke Otto ; “ and
when I awoke yesterday at noon, I found myself in a
meadow, at about the same distance, and, as we have as-
certained b comparing notes, in the same direction.
Supplosing t at the individuals who conveyed us thither,
on t
path from their own private outlet in the mountains, to
the fields where they deposited us, we should commence
our search amongst the wilds which lie nearest to those
meadows."
“ The same idea has guided me in choosing our path
hitherto,” said Mazzini. “ Let us ascend yonder emi-
nence ; the region immediately beyond will require the
most careful examination.”
They now proceeded between four and five miles higher
up the mountains, and at length entered a narrow gorge,
bounded by overhanging rocks and tremendous pre-
cipices.
The aspect of the scene was now savage, forbidding, and
awe-inspiring.
A cold and cutting wind suddenly blew in the faces of
the travellers as they entered the desolate gorge; and the
rush of a mighty torrent, pouring down its rocky bed far
beneath them, raised ten thousand echoes with its wild
u roar.
pThe further they proceeded, the more severely blew the
wind from the snowy mountains, piercing, like arrows
of ice, into the very marrow of their bones. Thus, in
three short hours, they found themselves, as it were, in
another zone.
The gorge ran level for about a quarter of a mile, and
then assumed a long ascent amongst enormous rocks
shag ed with pine, until it stopped abruptly on the verge
of a%earful recipice, down w ch a tremendous torrent
rushed head ong with deafening din.
Here were some of the grandest and most striking
features of the Alpine scenery. On the opposite side of
the yawning and rug ed gulf huge rocks seemed piled one
above another, stretc ing almost as far as the eye could
reach, until the became commingled with the snowy
mountains, whic towered into the sky like clouds. On
the right and left, rugged and inaccessible crags ap-
parently barred all progress in those directions : and over
the abyss, down which the cascade thundered, the pines
waved and the stunted shrubs hung like a fringe. Here
and there, on some soil less sterile than the rest, grew
quantities of a s ecies of rhododendron, popularly called
the Rose of the Klps.
“ It strikes me that there are some means of reaching
the opposite side of this chasm,” said Mazzini, after he
had attentively examined the locality. “ The bushes and
shrubs have been cleared away in this place,” he added,
pointing to a particular spot, “by some human hand,—
and consequently for some purpose. See I here are the
stumps of their roots peeping above the soil."
Mazzini, with the experience of one to whom the
mountains were familiar, now commenced a careful
examination of the locabity, in which task he was aided
by the artist.
Suddenly an exclamation of joy escaped Mazzini’s lips.
Otto hastened towards him, and observed through a


knot of pine-trees the narrow entrance of a cavern in the
inaccessible wall of crags stretching on the right of the
gorge.
“ Behold a secret path,—-or I am much mistaken,—
—signor,” exclaimed the peasant. “And, mark—the
shrubs have been cut away so as to form a species of
avenue to this very group of pines which protects the
entrance of the cavern. It is now past mid-day; the
clouds are gathering over-head,—and the brightness of
the morning will soon be obscured by the dense mists that
usher in the tourmental. Think you not that we have
done enough for to-day F”
“ What is the tourmental that you appear to dread?"
inquired Otto.
“The snow-storm,’ answered Mazziui. “In a. single
hour after it has commenced, this orge, which has not
now a particle of snow upon its scil, will be many feet
deep with the drifts from yonder mountains.”
“ Let us at all events ascertain whether this cavern be
really the outlet of some path or not," said Otto : “a
very short time will clear up all uncertainty in that
J
- respect.”
Mazzini offered no objection ; but, passing between the
pines, he entered the cave, closely followed by the young
artist.
For nearly a hundred paces the sub-montane excavation
continued narrow and low—not a yard in width, and
scarcely four feet in height; but when that distance was
passed, the cavern increased in dimensions until it ter-
minated on the brink of a recipice, but along which ran
a ledge nearly four feet wi e.
From the mouth of the cavern at the group of pines to
that which opened upon the ledge overhanging the chasm,
ose respective occasions, would choose the shortest ‘ the distance was about two hundred yards ; and that ex-
cavation was evidently the work of Nature.
And in those Alpine re 'ons what terrific implements
does Nature employ to e ect her grand purposes! The
raging torrent, which undermines the granite rocks, and
hollows for itself a tunnel through the hardest crags,——
the earthquake, which splits mountains asunder and
forms valleys in an instant,—the lightning, which levels
the loftiest pines,—and the avalanche, which fills up
chasms once impassable,—thesc are the tools that Nature
wields for her mighty handiwork.
“ Shall we proceed farther now P” demanded Mazzini,
who thought of his daughter as he glanced upward to the
lowering sky :—at the same time his ride prevented him
from betraying the full extent of his anxiety to return
homewards.
“ It is past midday, you said erc now,” observed Otto ;
“ but that is still early. Surely we might explore a little
farther! Remember how much time we shall lose to-
morrow merely in retracing our steps from your cottage
to this spot.”
Mazzini again waived his objections, and entering
boldly upon the ledge, led the way along the brink of the
precipice in whose depths the waters boiled and foamed
with terrific uproar.
They proceeded without interruption for upwards of
half an hour, when the chasm was "assed, and the ledge
joined a path running through a efile or orge which
wound its circuitous way between the mountains that now
towered to a tremendous height above.
But scarcely had the travellers reached this point
when a_peal of thunder burst over them, reverberating
awfully amidst the rocks, and re-echoing in lengthened
bursts, as if a thousand cannon suddenly exploded in
those Alpine solitudes.
The sky grew rapidly dark, as if it were evening; and
the lightning played with strange vividness on the steep
sides of the adjacent mountains, which gleamed white
with the snows of thousands of winters.
Now, too, the cold became so piercing that a few drops of
blood fell from the artist’s nose; and his extremities felt
benumbed. His companion, more accustomed to the
atmosphere of the mountains, did not experience the in-
conveniences of that piercing chill to the same extent.
“ The tourmental l” ejaculated Mazzini. “ We cannot
retrace our steps, or we shall be blown off the ledge into
the chasm ; and we dare not remain still, or we shall be
fi'tii-lien to death. We must push onwards—happen what
W1 ."
And they continued their wa .
The Wind now swept throu the defile with appalling
violence,——assailing the travel ers with a fury that nearly
carried them off their feet, and accompanied with a pierc~
ing, icy chill which almost deprived them of the power of
motion. At the same time the snow fell in immense flakes,
and the blast swept the drifts from the mountains in such


FA US T.
71

sleet-like clouds that they were enveloped as it were by a
dark and impenetrable mist.
Ever and anon the ruthless wind whirled the snow
around the peasant and the artist in circling eddies, and
with a fearful impetuosity.
The mountains on either side were shrouded in the
(lesolating storm ;—the howling of the wind, the sweeping
noise of the falling sleet, the roar of the thunder, and the
din of the neighbouring torrents, formed a chorus of all
thedread voices in which nature speaks in'the Alpine
regions.
Sinking up to their knees at every step—blinded with
the snow—stunned with the din of the clashing elements
anumbed with the bitter, piercing cold—afraid to proceed,
dreading still more'to turn back, and not darin to stand
:till, Mazzini and Otto Pianalla toiled miserably along~
the former thinking of his daughter, the latter regretting
that he had not followed his companion's hint to return
homewards ere the tourmental began.
In this manner an hour and a half passed away.
Suddenly as it came on, so rapidly did the storm begin
to subside ; the snow soon ceased to fall—the wind lulled
—the darkness dispersed—and the thunder ceased to roar.
In twenty minutes more the tempest had yielded to a
delicious calm; but still the clouds hung in magnificent
masses overhead, displayi , as they drew up, the peaked
and snow-clad summits which surrounded the travellers.
“ Shall we return P” said Otto, willing to save his
companiowggefibeing the first to propose a retrograde
movemen . r V
“ It is useless to attempt to retrace our steps at pre-
sent,” answered Mazzini. “ The ledge along which we ere
now assed, is so exposed that the snowdrifts must com-
pletle y bar the way. We have no alternative but to pro-
cee .”
“ What will your charming daughter think of your
absence P" asker Otto.
“ By the Virgin! the poor girl must pass a night of
suspense,“ replied the peasant. “ Fortunately, I im-
plored her not to make herself uneasy if we did 'not happen
to return; and she is well aware of my experience in the
mountains. We need not be uneasy on account of our-
selves,“ he continued; " for here is an Alpine finger-post,
which indicates an asylum close at hand.’
“ Where is your finger~post P" asked Otto, glancing
anxiously around him.
Mazzini pointed to a small niche hollowed in the trunk
of a blasted oak-tree, and in which there was a rudely-
carved figure of the Madonna holding a still more
wretchedly modelled im of the Saviour in her arms.
Then, with one acco , the two travellers prostrated
themselves before the sacred shrine, and prayed silently,
but with fervour, for a happy issue to their present under-
taking.
Having finished their pious duty, they rose and pursued
their way.
The infidel may deride as he will,-—the scofier may ridi-
cule the opinion ;—but it is nevertheless a grand and
solemn truth, that an act of devotion in the hour of danger
inspires the soul with confidence and with courage,-—in-
voking Providence, as it does, to watch over the path of
peril, and raising up a belief that He will indeed vouch-
safe to become a guide in the ways of difficulty ! But how
im ressive, and yet how cheering, is that worship which
cal upon the Deit from the midst of those Alpine wilds
through which He as lately spoken in the voices of the
storm! Then is the religion of the believer influenced by
the power of the majestic spectacle before his eyes; and
as he ponders on the prayer that he has put up, he feels
as if it were alread answered,—-while a chord thrills
within his heart, an a voice sings in his soul, teaching
him that that chord and that voice were never before
wanting, but only asleep! For the wings of religion, like
those of the eagles, have need of solituc e and immensity
for their play i _
“ You say that there is an asylum near ?" exclaimed
Otto, after a long pause, during which they had pro-
eeeded along the defile, each occupied with his own
solemn reflections—the result of their prayers: “but if
it belong to those who have studied to keep this avenue
as a secret way for their own wicked or mysterious pur-
poses, shall we not be running headlong into danger 1*“
“ We must risk it,” answered the easant. “ In the
first place, we are by no means certain t at this is actually
the ath communicating with the stronghold; and, se~
cond y, even if it be, that place must be still very far off.
We cannot pass the night in the mountains: we must
accept the first shelter that presents itself in our way."
“ Let us push on, then,” said Otto.

In a quarter of an hour they reached the end of the
defile, and found themselves at the door of a but which
they did not perceive until they were close up to it, so
deeply buried was it in the snow-drifts.
From that s 0t two paths branched off. The one to
the left was wi e and easy; and a finger-post pointed in
that direction. The one to the right was narrow, broken,
and overhung by frowning crags.
The same idea struck Otto and Mazzini at the same
moment, as aspeared by the significant glances which
they exchange , and which were as much as to sa , “ If
either of those aths leads to the stronghold, it is the one
on the right and, because pains have been taken to
smooth the other, to which moreover a finger-post
formally oints.”
Mazzini knocked at the cottage : no one answered the
summons ; and he accordingly pushed open the door.
The but was divided into two compartments; no living
soul was inside either; but there was a good store of dry
wood piled near the chimney ; and several cooking mate-
rials stood upon a shelf.
“ Luckily I supplied my wallet with provisions,” ob-
served Mazzini.
A fire was speedily kindled: the contents of the wallet
were spread on a rude table that there was in the but;
and, seated on stools near the blazing hearth, the two
travellers made a comfortable meal.
They determined to remain in their present quarters
for the night, and to rise very early in order to prosecute
their exploring expedition.
The sun went down; but the darkness in that re 'on
was not intense; for the stars shone brightl , and t eir
pale lustre was reflected and enhanced by t e gleaming
snow.
The two inmates of the but were about to dispose them-
selves to rest in the most comfortable manner the could
contrive, when they were startled by the sounds 0 voices
outside; and immediatel afterwards loud knocks rc-
sciénded at the door, which they had fastened on their
en rance.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
run corner: m 'rnn ALPS.
Orro PIANALLA and Mazzini hastened to the door; and
the moment it was opened, two men, sustaining between
them a female closely mufiled in shawls of the handsomest
description, entered the hut.
Otto placed a stool close to the fire, and conducted the
lady to it, while Mazzini heaped fresh wood upon the
hearth.
“ Let us now look after the mules,” said one of the
lady’s attendants—both of whom were sturdy moun-
taineers belonging to the Carniolan side of the Julian
Alps. “ There is a shed at a little distance, if I remem-
bgr 1ari ht, but it’s a long while since I was in this part
0 t e ' .“ '
They went out together; and the lady, who was
cheered with the genial warmth of the fire, proceeded to
divest herself of the shawls which were twisted round
her head and neck in such a manner that only a small
part of her countenance had hitherto been been visible.
When these invidious coverings were withdrawn, a
charming face was disclosed :—in a word, description is
unnecessary—for the beautiful traveller was none other
than Irene Notaras.
“Accept my thanks, courteous strangers,” she said,
addressing herself in German to Mazzini and Pianalla,
“ for your attentions towards me. Had it not been,
moreover, for the care which those excellent moun-
taineers took of me, during that terrific storm, I should
have perished in these dismal wilds; for I am a native
of a far-off elime, where atemperature like this is un-
known.” ‘
“ I should imagine, lady,” said Mazzim', who under-
stood German, “that your guides must have lost their
way ; for if you are journeying from Carniola into Italy,
you have deviated considerably from the usual trae .”
“ Yes,—-my own faithful dependents both fell ill and
died in Vienna; and I am now on my way from the un-
genial atmos here of Germany to that of Italy,"
answered the ady, “ whereI hope soon to embark for my
native Syria."
“ You speak the German language well, lady, for one
who is not a daughter of the clime,” observed Otto.
“ I was taught to speak German by one who had plea-
sure in instructing me, and with whom I was a willhizfi
pupil," replied Irene, mournfully. “But, alas! I s


72
FA US T.

never' see him more! A strange and terrible mystery
envelopes all that concerns him !”
The tears started into her eyes as she uttered these
words: and almost at the same moment the two moun-
taineers intered the hut.
“ We have found the shed, and made the mules as com-
fortable as they can be,” said one. “ How feel you now,
lad P”
“yThe warmth of the fire has invigorated me,” answered
Irene. “ Shall we be enabled to proceed towards Italy
at day-break P”
“ The Holy Virgin willing, lady,” was the reply, “ you
shall set foot on the Italian frontier to-morrow evening.
But, as near as I can guess, we have deviated some eight
or ten miles out of the right path.”
“ And when you recover the proper road to-morrow
morning,” said Mazzini, “ will it take you unto sunset to
reach Italy, with your good mules P"
“ I'faith that it will i” exclaimed the mountaineer.
“I can assure you that we set foot in the hills this
morning at sunrise, and long before sunset we reached
this hut,” said Mazzini. “ We were on foot, and ex-
perienced many hindrances in choosing our way."
" There is a rumour amongst some of the oldest moun-
taineers on the Carniolau side," returned the man who
had previously s oken, “that some short cut exists be-
tween the two rontiers, whereby the journey may be
effected in half the time that it occupies by the regular
road ; but I never met anyone who could give positive in-
formation on the point.“
“ Then I firmly believe that myself and companion
have discovered a clue to the short cut you mention,”
said Mazzini ; “ and, if I am not mistaken, we have
already arrived hither by a portion of that way, and shall
continue it to-morrow morning by means of the path
which branches off hence to the right.”
“ I should opine, good friend, ’ observed the menu.
taineer, “that the short path which has brought you
thus far from Italy would suit us in pursuing our journey
to-morrow.”
“ No,” answered Otto. “ Your mules could not tra-
verse that path; and the lady herself would shrink
from the danger of the yawning precipices."
“ In that case, we wlll retrace our ste s to the beaten
road,” said the mountaineer; “ and I t ank you, young
friend, for the information all the same. Maybe, when I
have a leisure day, I may try to discover the short path
you speak of ; as it will perhaps serve me when I have to
guide foot assen ers over the mountains."
“ We wichhecr ully give you all the suggestions within
our knowledge, to enable you to find the short path of
which we are speakin ,” observed Otto; “ but I should
advise you to act wit caution, for I fear this road, so
little known, is fraught with danger."
“ You need not be afraid, oung man, that I shall
trespass on your grounds,” cried the mountaineer, in a
surly tone.
“ B heaven, you wrong me !" ejaculated Otto.
“ Neither I nor my companion earn our livelihood by
conducting travellers amidst the Alps; and therefore no
selfish motive rompted me to 've you the advice which
I proffered. 0; far from wis ing to exclude you from
a knowledge of the secret path which we believe ourselves
to have discovered, we would gladly obtain a reinforce-
ment in our expedition.“
“ Forgive my warmth,” said the mountaineer; “ I mis-
understood you. Now I perceive that you are frank and
honest, as I love men to be with each other. But what,
in the name of the Virgin! can induce you to thrust
yourself into the danger you speak of 'r"
“ A duty—a paramount duty towards a relative, whom
I know to be immured in some strong place amidst the
mountains, and within a few miles of the Carniolan
frontier,” replied Otto.
“ I know of no strong place near here except the
Oapuchins’ Convent,” said the mountaineer; “ and that
certainly was once a castle."
Otto immediately remembered the sounds of the organ,
and the accompanying hymn which he had heard when in
the “ stronghold,” as he always called the building where
he had seen the Baron of Ozernin a prisoner.
“ Is the entrance to that convent difficult of access ?"
he asked, after a moment’s pause.
Mazzini understood the (purport of the question, and on
his part anxiously awaite the re 1y.
“ A winding path, wide enougi for two mules to go
abreast, leads to the gate of the convent from the road
which travellers generally pursue in assmg from Car-
mela into Italy over the J uliau Alps, ’ said the moun-

hospitality; but it gradu ly fell off in that respect; anil
for a long time now, no one ever seeks shelter there,
unless actually compelled. For my rt, I am at a loss
to imagine how the monks obtain the means of
existence ; for they have no lands—no flocks — no
revenues; and since they have ceased to be hospitable,
they obtain no gratuities from strangers.”
“ Do the inmates of that convent bear a good character
in the mountains, in other respects P“ asked Otto, with a
significant and rapid glance towards Mazziui.
“ If you mean whether they leave travellers unmolested
and mind their own business, I can safely answer that
they do,” said the mountaineer; “for all their anxiety
appears to be left entirely to themselves.”
“ My good friend,“ exclaimed Otto, “every word you
have just uttered induces me to believe that the danger of
which I spoke ere now, in re ct to the short path be-
tween Ita y and Carniola, lies in that very convent."
“ Such is now my opinion also,” said Mazzini.
“ How so P” inquired the mountaineer.
“ We will not be churlish in reference to the nature of
our business," continued Otto Pianalla ; “ nor withhold
a confidence which your own frankness deserves at our
hands. Our narratives are, however, too long to relate
at present: it will be sufficient to observe that we have
every reason to believe there is a German nobleman of
rank confined most unjustly in that convent. In a word,
it was but the day before yesterday that I myself beheld
the Baron of Czerniu—“
“ The Baron of Czernin !” ejaculated Irene. “ Speak,
Sir Stranger—did you say the Baron of Czernin P”
“ Yes, lady," replied Otto, surprised at the excitement
with which the beautiful Greek lady addressed him.
“ The Baron of Czernin is a prisoner in that convent !"
“ Are there two noblemen of that name ?” asked Irene,
impatiently.
“ Not that I am aware of,” replied Otto. “ Indeed, I
believe I may confidently assure you that there are not-
But this question, lady, is most strange. Wherefore did
you gut it? Answer me, I implore you ;-—for I also have
won cred within myself whether there could be two
Barons of Czernin—and those either brothers, or bearing
a close resembL'tnce to each other P"
“ I put that question to you, sir," exclaimed Irene,
“ because my first and only love was 'ven to Theodore
vou Czernin, many years ago ; and e strangely dis-
appeared from Damascus almost at the moment when
our hands were to be united. Years passed, and I learnt
that he was at Vienna. I roceeded to that city; and
two months ago I saw the in 'vidual who now bears the
name and enjoys the rank and fortune of the Baron of
Czernin. But, oh! sir—the fond heart of a woman, who
loves as I have loved, and still love, cannot be deceived.
He who is styled the Baron of Czernin, in Vienna, is not
the noble, generous-hearted, handsome Theodore to whom
I plighted my troth! No—years have passed, as I ere
now said; and though time may have dimmed the eyes,
silvered the hair, and traced wrinkles on the brow of that
Theodore whom I loved and love,—thou h his voice may
be changed, his proud form bowed, his 0 eeks furrowed,
and his lofty bearin subdued,—aye—though even his
mind be strained, p0 luted, tarnished with dissipation,
vice, or even crime—Oh! I should yet know him ,—I
should single hing—the adored onc,——out from ten thou-
sand others, were all the rest as like to him at the first
glance as that Baron whom I saw at Vienna l"
“ Merciful heavens, lady l” cried Otto; “ you have
aroused stran e suspicions in my mind 1 The prisoner in
the stronghol of these mountains was seen six years ago
by my companion here,” pointing to Mazzini ; “ and when
he implored me the other morning to aid him in recover-
ing his liberty, he spoke of along captivity! Tell me, lady,
at length, all you knew of your Theodore von Czernin ;
for the one whom you saw at Vienna is my brother-ins
law,—the husband of my sister Ida!”
“ Our meeting thus in the midst of these Al ine wilds,
sir,” said Irene, “ is probably something more t ana mere
accident. You were on your way to rescue one whom you
believed to be your relative; I was on my return to my
native land, crushed with the idea that my own Theodore
was either united to another, or that he was dead, and an
impostor had assumed his place. I confess that thelatter
was my ruling impression. But how was I,—a defence-
less woman and a foreigner, in a great city where I was a
stranger—how was I to institute the necessary inquiries
to elucidate that profound mystery? Now you have in-
spired me with hope—oh! with wild and burning hope
that my Theodore yet lives, and that we are not far apart!
taineer. “ Many years ago the convent was noted for its


PA US T.
w-v
lo

Surely the hand of Providence is visible in those circum-
stances which thus brought on and me to ether in a
lonely hut amidst the etei'na snows of the A ps. But I
will narrate to you at length my sad story; and on will
then judge whether the fond, constant, faithful eart of
woman, be enabled to guide her in discriminating between
him who first captivated that heart, and another who has
obtained, heaven knows by what wondrous means, his
rank and name!”
Irene paused for a few moments.
Her words—fervid and impassioned like the hearts of
the children of that land to wh eh she owed her birth—
had produced a deep impression not only on the young
artist, but also on the Italian peasant and the two Car-
m'olan mountaineers.
And, as she spoke in that glowing language which is so
akin to the poesy of her own clime, her magnificent
countenance was lighted up with a species of holy enthu-
siasm,—her large black eyes were fired with the generous
ardour of her soul,—and joyous hopes were expressed in
her sweet smile.
The red flames of the fire played with a brilliant lustre
upon that charmin countenance,——shadowing forth with
Rembrandt effect t e faultless lines of her Grecian profile,
——filling her swimmin eyes with light,--and illuminating
the glory of her dark lack hair!
Solemn was the attention with which the youn artist,
the Italian peasant, and the hardy mountaineers, istened
to her tale, which she narrated at the same length as when
she told it to Ida ;—and profound was the respect with
which her audience contemplated the necklace that she
exhibited to their view.
“ You can understand," she said, in conclusion, “the
deep interest which I now feel in the elucidation of the
mystery which has inspired this generous oung man and
his companion,” alluding to Pianalla and azzini, “ with
the design of prosecuting their search along the secret
path le ing to the place of the Baron's confinement; for
a voice seems to whisper to me that it is my own Theo-
dore who is the prisoner. Never will I quit these moun-
tains until that mystery be cleared up ; and you, my
friends,” she continued, addressing her Carniolan guides,
“ will join in the rosecution of this enterprise. You will
not repent your dlevotion to this cause; for I am rich,—
and dyour recompense shall be dealt forth with no niggard
han ."
The two mountaineers gladly assented to the proposal
to join Pianalla and Mazzini in the enterprise.
One of the hardy Carniolans then s read the contents
of his saddle-bag upon the table ; and rcne partook of a
slight refreshment. When she had terminated her repast,
the mountaineers sat down with a good ap tite to the
meal, and made light work of the solid viands before
them.
Their su per being at length ended, the whole party
drew roun the fire to deliberate upon the best method of
prosecuting the common object in view.
Otto and Mazzini, each in his turn, related the adven-
tures which had respectively befallen them in the strong-
hold where the Baron of Czernin was confined ; and, when
they compared notes, as to locality, with the mountaineers,
they all came to the unanimous conclusion that the con-
vent must be the place in which that nobleman was
confined.
“ The plan which I should now propose to adopt is
this,” said Otto. “ Mazzini and myself are both known
by the armed men, be they who they may, in the building
where the Baron is detained. We cannot, therefore, risk
certain destruction to our project by boldly proceeding to
the convent by the proper path, and demanding hospi-
tality. You, lady, and your guides can, however, do so
without exciting a suspicion ; and when in the buildinr1r you
may make observations which will enable us to judge
whether it really be the place wherein Mazzini and myself
saw the Baron. While you repair to the convent to-morrow
by the proper path, of which one of these brave moun-
taineers spoke ere now, Mazzini and myself will continue
our examination of the secret way which there can be little
doubt we have discovered. As soon as both parties—you,
lady, with your guides on the one hand, and I with my
companion on the other—are satisfied with the result of
these separate rocecdings, this but shall be the place of
appointment w iere we will all meet again. What steps
we may next take, to crown our labours with the success
to which we aspire, will then depend upon circumstances.”
This plan was approved of by Irene, the Italian, and the
mountaineers.
It was now late ; and, all preliminary arrangements in

respect to the next day's enterprise being duly discussed
and settled, the (party disposed themselves to rest.
Irene wrappe herself closely in her thick Oriental
shawls, and lay down in one department of the but.
A fire was lighted in the other, and thither the four
' men retired.
The night passed without any fresh incident.
At sunrise the travellers were on the alert : the morn-
ing meal was quickly disposed of ; and they then set out,
each party on its respective expedition.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
'rnn convmv'r. '
WE will follow, in the first instance, the progress of the
Lady Irene and her two hardy mountaineer-guides.
Mounted each on a sure-footed mule, they retraced so
much of their path of the preceding day’s journey as led
them back into the road from which they had deviated
durin the darkness of the tourmental.
An our’s travelling brought them to a ledge, not more
than four feet wide, runnin round the top of a gorge or
valley, which was frightfu 1y preci itous to a consider-
able depth, and then, forming a smalfplain, declined very
slightly towards a little lake.
“ It was along this ledge, lady,” said one of the moun-
taineers, looking coolly into the de ths below, “ that we
came last night ere we reached thelliut.“
“ And did you not know that we were in such a fearful
vicinity?” asked Irene, lancing with a shudder at the
precipice, which even in 510 broad daytime seemed ready
to receive the traveller along that giddy ledge.
“ If I had been aware that such was our way, I certainly
should not have chosen it," was the reply. “ But you
may trust these sure-footed animals as well in the dark as
the light. You see, lady, we lost our way so completely
that neither m comrade nor mvself knew where we were.
But, as you 0 served last night, Providence seemed to
have so ordained it, that you might meet with the young
gentleman whose information concerning the convent has
changed all your plans.“
“ hen do you suppose that we shall reach the con-
vent P” inquired Irene.
“ Not much before dusk, lady," was the answer.
They proceeded along the ledge, Irene’s confidence in
the safety of her mule becoming every moment more firm,
as she saw with what assurance, as it were, the sagacious
animal proceeded.
The banks of the lake in the dc tbs below were rich
with verdure ; and on its surface t e picturesque moun-
tains and the towering ma'esty of the snow-crested bills
were reflected as in a bro mirror.
But we will not grow tedious with our feeble attempts
at the description of Alpine scenery : neither will we
detail each petty incident which marked the journey of
Irene and her guides to the gate of the convent.
Suffice it to say that it was an hour after sunset when
they reached a large straggling building, most singularly
placed, as it were in a nest, on one of the lesser eminences
of the Julian Alps.
Let the reader conceive the apex or summit of a moun-
tain completel hollowed out so as to form a species of
crater, at the ottom of which the convent was built.
Thus the structure was surrounded b natural walls
which towered above the artificial ones, t e former com-
pletely rotectin the latter not only from the violence of
storms, ut also from the possibility of an attack by men ;
for the heights above were perfectly inaccessible to a
human foot.
Cradled in a hollow, thus strangely formed by Nature,
the convent was shrouded from all observation, save in
those points where two fissures in the circumjacent heights
afforded a view of its chimneys to those travellers who
passed over neighbouring eminences in particular direc-
tions. One of these fissures communicated with the path
up which Irene and her two companions toiled towards
the gate : the other was on the opposite side of the moun-
tain, and was continued in a gorge or defile towards a
profound precipice.
But even those fissures, and the avenues of communica-
tion to which they thus led, did not render the convent
the less impre nable ; because a cannon planted at the
top of the pat i, and another to command the gorge or
defile, would have swept away any beleaguering forces
that could possibly congre to in either of those points.
Arrived at the gate of t e convent, one of the moun-
taineers ulled a massive iron ring hanging outside, anda
bell clan ed hoarser within.
In a few minutes a red-faced monk, holding a lantern


7-1-
I-‘A US T.

in his hand, opened the gate ; but his manner was by no
means in unison with the jollity of his rubicund visage.
“ What would ye ?” he demanded in a sharp tone.
“ Refuge for the night, holy father,” replied one of the
mountaineers.
“ How many are ye F”
“ Three,—-a lady and two guides.”
“ Well,-walk in, good people. The Gapuchins never
refuse hospitalitylto benighted travellers.”
“A fig for the ospitality that is ofiered so churlishly,”
whispered the mountaineer who had previously spoken.
These words were not, however, overheard by the
Capuchin, who was employed in opening wider the massive
gate, which creaked on its hinges.
“ Here, Roderick l” shouted the monk; and his
summons was answered by a layman, who wore a huge
broadsword by his side. “ Take charge of the guides, and
show them where to put up their mules. Give them good
cheer, too, in the refectory. Lady, follow me : I will
conduct you to our matron, who will treat you worthily.
Irene accompanied the Capuchin across a somewhat
spacious court to a building, which they entered. '
In a small parlour, on the right hand, an elderl woman
was busily employed in knitting the peculiar kin of hose
worn by the mountaineers, not only of that period, but
which have undergone very little variation even down to
the present time. '
“ Dame Mildreda,” said the monk, “here is a lady who
seeks our hospitality. To your care I entrust her. The
Virgin give thee ood dreams, my daughter.”
With this ho y wish,— comprising the first words
savouring of his profession which Irene had as yet heard
fall from the friar’s lips,—the Capuchin departed; and
the matron, taking up a lamp from the table, said,
“ Follow me, lady.”
“ Irene accompanied the matron up a narrow stone
staircase, and was ushered into a handsomely-furnished
room. The wood was already laid in the grate; the
matron set fire to it ; and the cheerful flames speedily
roared up the ample chimney.
Dame Mildreda then left the room, sa ing that she
should return in a few minutes ; and while she was absent,
Irene examined the apartment wherein she found herself.
Suddenly an ejaculation of surprise escaped her lips.
“Was it possible?
Yes—all previous suspicions were confirmed!
There were no windows in the sides of the room ; but there
was a large sky-light on the roof!
She remembered the description of that a artment
given not onl by Mazzini, but a so by Otto Piana a ; and,
elasping her ands enthusiastically together, the beautiful
woman murmured to herself, “ Yes—this is the place in
which my beloved Theodore languishes a prisoner 1”
At that moment the door opened, and Mildreda made
her appearance with a tray containing several dishes, and
a fiagon of wine.”
“ Here is wherewith to refresh yourself, lady,” she
said; “ and there,” she added, pointing to a door on the
opposite side from which she had entered, “ is your bed-
chamber. Good night.”
“ Good night,” answered Irene; “ and many thanks
for your attentions.”
Dame Mildreda then withdrew.
“ Oh i” exclaimed Irene, when she was once more
alone, “if it really be true that I am now within the
same walls as my beloved Theodore, God grant that the
hours of our separation are at length numbered! For
thou, Almighty God, knowest the purity of my heart,
and that I am not selfish! Were he united to another,
whom he really loves, I would pray for them both ;—but,
oh! that man—that impostor whom I saw in Vienna—no
i—nodj—‘lie is not the Theodore whom I knew, and whom I
love .
Irene’s impassioned soliloquy was interrupted by a
sudden and strange rumbling noise on that side of the
chamber where the bed-room door was situate.
She started : her blood ran cold in her veins.
Could treachery be intended?
She was in a place where she believed every atrocity to
be possible ; and she was almost paralyzed with fear.
The noise was repeated: it seemed as if someone were
IDOViIlfl‘ between the wainseot and the wall.
Suddenly a panel in the wood-work which surrounded
the chamber gave way; and two men precipitated them-
selves into the apartment.
“ Holy Virgin protect me i" cried Irene aloud, sinking
upon her knees, and clasping her hands together.
‘_‘ That voice—is it possible '8” ejaculated one of the
beings who had thus strangely introduced themselves.
1
l

The Greek lady started upon her feet ; it was Otto
Pianalla who had spoken!
She turned round: and, to her incffable joy, the young
artist and the peasant Mazzini met her eyes.
___.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
rm: noon IN THE convsnr.
IRENE was scarcely more astonished to behold her two
allies thus suddenly and strangely make their appearance,
than were the to find themselves not only in the presence
of the Greek ady, but also in the room which both of
them recognised so well.
They all three, however, soon recovered from the
effects of this incident—so unexpected on both sides—and
they could not suppress a smile when they remembered
the momentary terror which they had all experienced—-
Irene in perceiving two men thus marvellously introduce
themselves, and her allies in being so abruptly precipitated
into a chamber belonging to the very building for which
they had been searching.
The moment they were all three sufficiently composed
to devote serious attention to their affairs, Irene secured
the chamber door, and Mazzini replaced the movable
panel in its setting.
They then proceeded to explanations.
Irene informed her companions of the particulars of
her day’s journey, and of her admittance into the convent ;
and Otto next related the adventures of himself and Maz-
zini since the morning.
“ Immediately after we parted with you, lady, and
your trusty mountaineers, Mazzini and myself took the
road leading to the ri ht. We found that it lay almost
in a straight and love line between the frowning glaciers
on either side; and thus for nearly two hours we pursued
our way without interruption. At the expiration of that
time, we came to a small chapel, where two paths again
branched off. We were now totally at aloss which to
follow, and at len th it was determined that I should take
one and Mazzini t e other. We agreed to pursue our re-
spective ways each, and return to the chapel as a point
of reunion when our investigation on either side arrived
at a climax.
“ We accordingly parted. I pursued my path for two
hours, when I found that it gradually grew narrower,
and at last entered a dark cavern about six yards in
length. I advanced to the end; the most profound ob—
scurity reigned within. I stretched out my arms to
guide myself,_and my hands came in contact with the
woodwork of a door in a partition. I now felt convinced
that the object of my search was attained; but, being
alone, I dared not carry my investigations further.
Moreover, I considered that Mazzini would be uneasy did
I delay my return to the place of meeting, should he
reach it before me. I accordingly retraced my way, and
arrived at the qgiapel at mid-day. But Mazzini had not
yet returned. was, therefore, compelled to await his
presence. Hour after hour passed, and he did not come.
The sun set behind the western glaciers, and I grew very
uneasy. At length a figure suddenly a preached the
chapel, and in another moment, by the lig t of the lovely
moon I recognised Mazzini. I may as well state for him
that he had wandered amidst wild, devious, and dan-
gerous defiles, without observing anything calculated to
afford him a trace in the object of his search; that he
had at length 10st himself ; and that it was only after the
most arduous toil amidst the mountains that he had been
enabled to retrace his way. He was, however, delighted
to learn that I had been more successful than himself;
and we determined to proceed to the cavern the moment
he had somewhat recovered from the fatigue. Accord-
ingly, having partaan of some refreshment, we pursued
our way; and in less than two hours~for I was now
familiar with the path—we arrived at the mouth of the
cavern. We had no settled plan—we could have none:
our roceedings were to be regulated by circumstances.
And iere I must observe, that although Mazzini had ex-
pressed, when he and I first set out, his determination to
regulate his own conduct by the utmost caution ; yet,
when he found that your interests, lady, were so deeply
concerned, and my wishes so intimately connected with
this investigation, he generously threw aside all reserve,
and bravely declared that he would venture amongst all
perils to assist us l”
A glance of deep gratitude from the dark eyes of the
Greek lady rewarded the Italian peasant for his gallant
behaviour.
“ When we found ourselves in the cavern, lady,” pur-


FA US T.
75


sued Otto, “we sat down for a few moments, and con.
versed in whispers ; we deliberated what course we should
pursue. Presently, we heard voices—female voices—near
us; they seemed to emanate from an inner cavern, or
from some place behind that wooden partition which I
had before discovered. Still, so indistinct and faint were
the sounds, that we could not catch the meaning of the
words."
“Those voices must have been my own and the
matron’s,” observed Irene.
“ Assuredly so, lady,” returned Otto. “Then we re-
solved to approach the partition as noiselessly as possible,
and listen. We fancied that if we could only overhear a
portion of the conversation, it might serve as a guide to
our proceedings. Moreover, a suspicion—faint and dis-
tant, and yet having a certain existence—prompted me
that you, lady, might have been successful in obtaining an
entry into the convent; and that one of those voices was
probably yours. You know how fantastic and vague those
hopes and suspicions are in the moments of danger or
uncertainty; and yet how ready we are to bestow faith
upon the im ulses which they suggest, or the promises
which they old out. Accordingly, I took Mazzini’s
hand, for the purpose of conducting him cautiously
amidst the' profound obscurity of the cavern, and we thus
descended the steps. But scarcely had I reached the
bottom, when my foot slipped, and I was precipitated
violently ainst the panel, drag ing Mazzini with me.
The panelagew open, and light sudzdenly flashed upon our
eyes. Lady, you know the rest.”
“ Most fortunate was that accident which thus united
us in that chamber,” observed Irene. “But what stc s
shall we now take ? I do not imagine that there is t 1e ’
remotest danger of any interruption here during the
night:' we have therefore leisure to deliberate—or even
to act . ”
The Greek lady spoke with considerable emphasis.
Otto could well understand her meaning; for her noble
and afiectionate heart was impatient to convey tidings of
hope to him whom she had never ceased tolove, and
whom she believed to be a prisoner within the walls of
that convent.
How sincere, how beautiful, is a woman’s love! Poets
and novelists have too often de icted it as evanescent and
fickle; but they have not right y comprehended the pas-
sion. They have mistaken the caprices of a coquette for
the attachment of a virtuous and disinterested heart.
No, woman’s love is not a name which may be printed on
the “ moon's pale beam,“ it is permanent and durable—
it is the noblest, the most holy, and the most heaven-like
sentiment which ever animates this mortal clay. Degrade
not the sacred name of love—that flame which burns so
brightly and so purely upon the altar of the heart, like
the acceptable sacrifice of Abel unto his God, degrade it
not by confounding it with the weak, vacillating, and
changeful feeling of the capricious heart.
Let not the hand of Cain disfigure that holy image of
the Deity’s own affection for the human race. For the
love of the pure female heart knows no abatement, and
is willing to make any sacrifices; it encounters all perils
and dares all dangers ; A it smooths the pillow of sickness,
and mitigates the angs of the death-bed. It is an
essence apart from 8.1 sensuality; it perishes only with
life itself. No, it does not even perish then, for, from
the empyrean heights of . another and better world, it
watches over the object of its interest on earth. And,
oh, if the doctrine of the Pythagorean creed be true—if
it be given to the souls of the departed to revisit this
earth in other shapes, and to renew their being in other
mortal forms—~then may we imagine that the pure spirit
which cheered man’s rugged path on earth will come
back on the wing of the bird, and pour into his ears
assurances of unchanged aflection, in the rich melody of
song!
So pure, so holy, so devoted was the love of the charm-
ing Greek lady for him to whom her first and only troth
had been plighted, that, next to her God, his image
formed the object of all her adoration and all her in-
terest——and his welfare, now that she deemed him to be
in captivity, was the end of all her aims.
“ There are two projects which suggest themselves to
my mind," said Otto, after “a long and solemn silence,
during which they all three deliberated in their own
minds upon the various ideas which suggested themselves
for their guidence; “ the first is for myself and Mazzini
to remain in the cavern until midnight, and then steal
into the building and ascertain, if possible, how man
armed defenders it contains, and the situation of its di -
ferent compartments.”

“ No,” said Irene, “ you might be discovered; and
those who are vile enough to retain a German noble in a
long imprisonment would not hesitate to ensure the
safety of their secret by means of a crime of a deeper
dye; because they would recognise you as having been
here before.”
“ My other'project is this,” continued Otto. “ In the
morning, the matron will doubtless come hither to attend
upon you, lady, and bring you refreshments. We may
then seize her, and by dint of menaces of death—menaces
which will, of course, meerely used as a stratagem—
elicit from her the particulars which we require.“
Both Irene and Iazzini coincided in favour of this
latter plan.
The lady then retired to the inner chamber, and threw
herself u on the couch. The fatigues which she had ex-
perience soon plunged her into a profound repose. De-
licious dreams visited. her ; the hand of Sleep opened the
gates of Fancy’s temple, and thence emanated a joyous
throng of hopes which smiled upon the slumbering lady.
Sleep, fair one! Thy conscience is unacquainted with
a single misdeed; thy life has been as pure as thy love is
chaste. Though the daughter of a burning clime, thy
feelings have never outraged thy virgin innocence, and
thy soul is but one remove from that of the angels !
Sleep, beauteous one! Thou has endured much, but
never did repinings at thy fate lessen the merit of that
martyrdom of the heart. Never hast thou forgotten each
night and each morn to pour forth the gratitude of thy
fervent piety to the Disposer of all events; and while
thine afflictions were borne meekly and resignedly, thou
.didst find consolation in thy prayers, which ever ter-
minated with the holy inspiration—“THY WILL BE
norm!"
.—
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE MATRON.
Yrs, calmly and deliciously slept the Lady Irene.
Cradled in her little. chamber on that Alplne height,
like the innocent bird in its nest on the top of a lofty
tree, she dreamt not of peril nor danger, but of hope, and
success, and love.
Mazzini and Otto, wrapped in their cloaks, snatched
repose by turns in front of the cheerful fire—one re-
maining awake to keep watch while the other courted
slumber.
Thus passed the night—in silence and security.
The morning dawned, and the rays of the gorgeous sun
penetrated through the skylight of the room.
Then, also, Irene came forth from her chamber, and
the. three individuals who were thus generously endan-
gering themselves in behalf of the captive prepared for
the execution of the scheme on which they had resolved.
Otto and Mazzini concealed themselves in the inner
chamber, with the understanding that they were only to
appear when Irene should ask “ What hour of the
morning is it new .7”
This precaution was necessary, inasmuch as there were
no means of reconnoitring the large room from the inner
one, which was also lighted by a window on the roof.
As 1t had been anticipated, the matron presently made
her appearance, bearing a well-spread tray in her hands.
“_Good morrow, lady,“ she exclaimed, closing the door
behind her. May I hope that you have recovered from
your fatigues of yesterda "
“ I have slept pleasant y," said Irene, “ thanks to your
hospitality.”
_“ I bring you refreshments, lady,” continued Dame
Mildreda. “ Your servitors have already partakcn of
their morning meal, and ”
“And you wish to know when I shall be prepared to
take my departure 1’“ added Irene. “ Is it usual to hurry
your guests in this establishment ? Methought that the
convents in the Alps were established chiefly for the pur-
pose of granting an asylum to those wayworn travellers
who required such accommodation; but it appears that
I have been mistaken! However, if I have given much
trouble, I am ready to remunerate liberally those whom
I may have inconvenienced.”
“ Lady," answered Mildreda, “your words cut me to
the quick! Think not that I myself am of a niggard
disposition, or that I would sell hospitality for gold.
But I am not my own mistress. I serve others, and am
compelled to act in obedience to their will and good
pleasure. Father Anselm—the superior—is a. man who
will not speak his commands twme. Neither do I retain
my present situation in this lonely place through choice ;


76
FA UST. '

but were I to leave it, I have no home—no hope else-
where.”
“ My good woman, I did not mean to vex dyou,” said
Irene, gradually moving between Mildreda an the door,
in order to cut off her retreat; and for this reason alone
did she prolong the dialogue. “ At the same time you
must admit that you execute the commands of some-
what churlish superiors—especially as I am not one of
that sex whose constitutions are better able to endure
short rest and early journc s. But I will detain you no
longer. What time of the y iso't now Y”
“ Scarcely were these words uttered, when the door of
the inner room flew open, and Otto sprang upon Dame
Mildreda, on whose mouth his hand was instantly
placed, ere she had even time to utter a single ejacula-
tion.
Mazzini appeared immediately behind him, brandishing
a naked dagger.
“ Silence, as you value your life exclaimed Otto,
while Irene fastened the door communicating with the
staircase. “ N o harm shall befall you, if you reply faith-
fully and truly to a few questions which I have to ut to
you, but I declare most positively that you will bitterly
repent any attempt to summon assistance or create an
alarm. Moreover, such a course—even did it succeed in
bringing hither the cut-throat ni rmidons of your
Superior—would be unavailing, for in the cavern with
which that panel communicates—ah, you start! you see
that I am not ignorant of the mysteries of this place!
But, as I was observing, in that cavern are twelve of our
friends, all well armed, and ready to enter this accursed
den at a moment’s warning! Then hopeless indeed
would be the position of ye all! Once more, I enjoin
you, maintain silence, save when addressed by me or my
companions, who are now here, and no injury shall you
sustain.”
Mazzini could not altogether sup ress a smile at the
idea of their twelve coadjutors in t ie cavern; ~but the
matron firmly believed every word that was uttered by
the young artist.
Otto now removed his hand from the mouth of the ter-
rified woman, and conducted her to a _seat. Then, when
she had somewhat recovered from the trepidation into
which this sudden incident had thrown her, he proceeded
to question her in the following manner :—
“ Is there not a prisoner confined within the walls of
this convent 1°"
“ There is, sir ; but pray do not injure me, and I will
tell you all I know!” exclaimed Mildreda, in an iinploring
manner.
“ Speak freely—you shall not be harmed! Mazzini,
put up your dagger; this good woman sees that there is
no utility in deceiving us. You say that there isa prisoner
within these walls. What is his name P”
“ I am not acquainted with it—I never heard it! Nor,
indeed, have I ever seen him. He is confined in the
Covered Court, as it is called, and my avocations do not
lead me thither. But I have heard it whispered that he
is a German nobleman.”
“ Ah I” ejaculated Irene, now painfully agitated with
the most acute suspense. ,
“ And that he is about forty years of age—very hand-
some, but pale i” added Mildreda.
“There can be no doubt that it is he !” cried Irene,
olasping her hands together. “ How long has he been a
prisoner here, good woman ?”
“ Eight ears, or thereabouts,” was the answer. “ He
Was broug t in the night-time, and with great mystery.
But the men will talk sometimes, lady; and the few ar-
ticulars I know about him I have learnt from Karl, ‘on-
rade, and others of our folk.”
“ Eight years!" repeated Irene.
tivity !"
“ And has he never once been free during that in-
terval?” demanded Otto. “ No! Then my fears are
all cbnfirmed; and that man who now bears his name in
Vienna, and who is the husband of my sister, is an
impostor.”
“Vex not yourself with that misfortune, good Otto,”
said lrene, in a. gentle voice. “ Your sister shall be nobly
cared for ”
“ Thanks, lady !“ replied Pianclla. “ Still the dis-
grace. But of that no matter now. We have little time
to waste Then, turning to the matron once more, he
said, “ Have you ever seen anyone who is very much like
the prisoner P“
“ I do not understand you, sir," answered Mildreda,
suryéeying Otto with a surprise which proved her sin-
ceri y. '
'9,
“ Eight years of cap-

“ I mean, is there a person, bearing an extreme resem-
blance to the prisoner, and who sometimes visits the
convent P" continued the artist.
“ Never ; I know no such person.”
“ Are you aware wherefore, or upon what pretence, the
unhappy man is confined here?”
“ Holy Virgin protect us !” cried the matron. “ Surely
the poor gentleman of whom you speak is mad, and is
placed here by his relatives.”
“ Mad I” screamed Irene, wildly.
she clasped her hands together.
“ Fear not, lady,” said Otto, in a profoundly com-
passionate tone ; “ that is naught save a vile subterfuge.
When he spoke to me through the guichet, he was
subdued with sorrow, but his intellects were quite un-
impaired.”
“ And such was the im ression he made upon me when
I saw him six years ago,’ added Mazzini.
“ God at that it may be!" ejaculated Irene, fervently.
“ You ave no proof, of your own knowledge, that the
prisoner is actually as he is represented to be I“ continued
Otto, again addressing himself to the woman.
“ Now, good youth, now I dare say it is all false. But,
alack! who would think that the monks, who pray so
fervently, and perform mass and ves ers so regularly,
could be so wicked l" exclaimed Dame Elildreda.
“ Who is the Superior of the convent F” inquired Otto.
“ Father Anslem, a stern, harsh, reserved man, and
who, they say, is fond of gold."
“ Gold, gold l always gold at the bottom of every
crime I“ murmured Otto to himself.
“ Will you now inform us whether Fritz is privy to all
this villany P" asked Mazziui; “ or does he believe that
the prisoner is mad, as you do P” .
“ Messer Fritz is a close man, sir," answered the woman;
“ and never lets his tongue go too freely.”
“ Now, listen to me attentively,” said Otto. “ Our
object is to release the prisoner of whom we have been
speaking. I before assured you that we have competent
aid close by,” he continued, glancing towards the panel;
“ but were I to admit my f0 lowers, they would sack the
convent, and murder everyone within its walls.”
“ Holy Virgin protect us !" groaned the afirighted
Mildreda, glancing uneasily around.
“ I am, therefore, anxious to avoid so sad a catas-
tro he,” ursued the artist. “ Can you serve us? and
wil you c faithful? If we trust 'ou, beware how you
deceive us : if you aid us, reat shal be your reward."
“ Yes ; your reward s all be beyond all your most
sanguine expectations ” exclaimed Irene. “I am rich,
and I can give you a fortune which will render your old
age happy, and enable you to pass the remainder of your
existence in some elime more congenial than those regions
of everlasting snow."
“ I can, and I will serve you,” said the matron, after a
few moments’ consideration; “ and I will contrive in such
a manner, that you, sir,” she added, lookin at Otto,
“ may accompany me in what I am about to 0. Then,
if you see aught that may lead you to suspect me of
treachery, treat me according to my deserts. But, if I
fulfil my en gements, I shall claim the reward which
that lady o ers me. I am wearied of a residence in this
cheerless place, and my necessities have alone compelled
me to endure it so long."
“ You speak fairly, dame,” said Irene. “ State the
project you have in view.“
“ My own room is on the ground floor of this part of
the building," continued the matron, reassured by the
hopes held out to her. “ You, sir, can accompany me to
my apartment, and, should any person question you, I
can represent you to be a nephew, come to pay me a visit.
It will not be difficult for me to obtain the keys of the
gate opening into the middle court of the convent; and
then it will be easy to communicate with the prisoner,
who is allowed to walk about in a farther court still
during the daytime.”
“ Does that farther court terminate by a high wall,
gliterein there is ahugo door with a small guichct 'I” asked
t o.
“ You must have seen it, sir, to be able to describe the
place so accurately," said Mildreda.
“ Did I not assure you that all the secrets of this
establishment are Well known to us P” asked the young
artist, with a smile. “ But, even supposing that you can
enable me to communicate with the prisoner, what chance
will there be of effecting his escape from the convent,
Without the exercise of force and violence on our part P”
“There are never more than two of the men-at-arms
on duty in the middle court at a time,” said the woman ;
“ Oh ! no—no,” and


PA US 1'.
77

“ and I will undertake to amuse them with a flask of
strong waters in such a manner that they shall be'no
hindrance to the escape of him in whom you are interested.
But, on second thoughts,” she added, “if the scheme
could be delayed until night—when it is dark—there
would be no danger of detection.”
“ I dislike delays,” said Otto, fearful that the woman
might betray him and his companions when her mind
became composed, and the effects of his menaces had
worn off; and yet he dared not attempt the project by
daylight.
“I understand you, sir,” she observed, apparent]
hurt by his observation. “ You will not trust me; audy,
alas! I can say nothing and do nothing to induce you to
place confidence in me. Nevertheless, will you not be
near me ? And cannot you punish the slightest indica-
tion of treachery P"
“ True,” said Otto, musing. “ Still, it is impossible
but you will be called away from your apartment some
time during the day, on your domestic avocations; and
then I cannot accompany you.”
This he said in order to test her sincerity as much as
possible.
“ Be it as you will !" exclaimed the woman. “ Think
you not that the hope of a reward will induce me to serve
you P Or do you imagine that I am anxious to remain
during life in this miserable abode ?"
“ Trust her, my dear friend,“ said Irene, approaching
Otto, and whis ering in his ear.
“Provided place confidence in you," continued the
artist, “ by what excuse can this lad remain here until
evening P For it must be by means 0? the secret passage
that the escape will be effected; and, moreover, I have
my reasons for not being seen by the inmates of this
place."
“ Let her feign indisposition, sir, and leave the rest to
me. I have, however, one favour to ask of you."
“ Speak," said Irene, hastily.
“ When you depart, you must permit me to accompany
you. My share in the escape of the prisoner would be
suspected, and my life would become a sacrifice to the
resentment of the Superior. For they say, sir," she con-
tinued, sinking her voice to a low whisper, and casting a
timid glance around, “ that he is a man of extraordinary
influence and power—that all the south-western art of
Oarnioln. trem les at his name—that he is the c ief of
some terrible association in this district, whose means of
detecting and punishing enemies are hidden but sure;
and that—" '
“ Ah! I remember those terrible menaces which were
addressed to me in this very apartment," interrupted
Mazzini, with a shudder.
“ And I, too, now comprehend in whose power the un-
fortunate captive is retained,” said the artist, in a solemn
tone ; “ but that peril does not daunt me.”
“What is this mystery of which you speak P" asked
Irene, pale and trembling.
“ Lady," answered Otto, in a low and subdued tone,
“ there are in Germany certain associations, of which,
perhaps, you have never heard. Their ower is, how-
ever, formidable—their daring beyond al limit. Yes;
the prisoner is in the custody of one-of the chiefs of the
Secret Tribunal—a captive in a stronghold of the Holy
Veliin I” ,
“ And is escape now impossible for him?" demanded
Irene, leaning against the wall for support.
“ No, lady! The members of that league are only
human beings like ourselves, and, as such, may be baffled
~deceivedl And to bathe and deceive them now shall be
my task. Oh, I comprehend it all—this inhospitality on
the part of the monks—this secret passage—this well
guarded convent! Yes—it is a stronghold of the Vehm!
But we cannot remain in idle parlance here ; some imme-
diate plan must be adopted. You, lady, will leave the
convent at once, with your mountaineers, and retrace
your way to the hut where we rested the night before
last. Mazzini and myself will return to the cha el, and
at sunset we will once more be in the cavern a joining
this room. It will then be your duty,” he added, turning
towards the matron, “to meet us in his chamber. My
friend and I will alone cross the threshold of that secret
door; but, remember, our companions will 'not be far
behind us."
"Be it as you will,” said the woman; “ you will find
me ready and willing to serve you."
“And, in the meantime, receive this as an earnest of
my promises,“ observed Irene, drawing from her finger a
ring of great price, and presenting it to the matron, who
received it with many expressions of gratitude.

“One word more," said Otto. " Should this lady be
hurried into any danger through your means, after we
heave the room by you panel, we shall be near to succour
er. ’
“ You need not menace me, sir; to-morrow you will
applaud me," answered the woman, calmly, but firmly.
Otto and Mazzini then tookleave of the Greek lady,
and passed out of the room by means of the secret way.
For some time they remained in the cavern; but in
half an hour they were aware that Irene had taken her
do arture.
'hey then retraced their steps to the chapel.
CHAPTER XL.
THE msrr AND THE rmsx or sraouo warms.
THE rays of the setting sun fell, with the hues of the
rainbow, upon the laciers of the Julian Alps, the Pro-
tean beams gradua ly assuming a variety of forms and
shades of colour, as it yielded to the increasing obscurity
of the evening.
Strange are the phenomena of the light in those wilds
of eternal snow.
Reflected upon the huge iles of ice, from which the
evening gale had swept their fleecy covering, the rays
seemed to sport and play even in the last moments of
their existence~now breaking forth in streams of reful-
gent lustre, but evanescent as bright—now flashing like
the vivid lightning, then wi‘eathing all the prismatic
colours in one beam of splendour—now variegating the
Alpine heights with illusions of the most luxuriant and
enchanting scenery—now gleaming dimly in short radia-
tions, then seeming to die suddenly and abruptly alto-
gether—now again reviving like a flickering lamp, and
kindling up rows of beams, wherewith to sport upon
those mighty and inaccessible peaks—now emitting
bright coruscations, like the phenomena of hyperhoreau
climes—now changing from liquid white to fiery red,
then oscillating once more with a thousand variations,
until gradually they grew fainter and fainter—expiring,
however, like the chameleon, with myriads of changing
hues—so that at length the pomps of that Alpine sunset
yielded to obscurity and night.
To the eyes of Otto, who surve ed all the wonders, the
glories, and the phenomena of ature, as a worshipper
and an artist, this scene was sublime, solemn, and awe-
inspiring.
For a few moments he remained absorbed in deep
thou ht, marvelling at the power of that Omnipotence
which speaks to man in so many and such impressive
ways.
But Mazzini touched him upon the shoulder; and the
young artist was recalled unto himself.
Then they pushed onwards to the cave.
“ Draw your dagger, and prepare, lest treachery await
us," whispered Otto to his companion.
“ I shall not sell my life cheaply,” answered the Italian,
in a determined tone.
Otto descended the steps, and knocked gently at the
anel.
p It was immediately opened; and the matron, holding
a lamp in her hand, appeared within.
Otto stepped boldly into the room ; and Mazzini imme-
diately followed him. -
The matron received them with a calm and unrufiied
countenance; but the two adventurers could not avoid
casting a hasty glance around.
“Do not mistrust me,“ said the woman. “ Read
this.”
And she resented to Otto a small plate or leaf of ivory
extracted mm the tablets which ladies were in the
frequent habit of carrying about with them in those
times.
The artist hastily glanced over the leaf, and read these
words :~
“I write this outside of the convent, at a turn in the
path where the porter cannot ace 'me, but to which point
the matron has hurried. after me, under the pretence of
bringing me a. shawl that I left behind, yet in reality to
obtain some proof of my safety wherewith to reassure you,
and convince you of hcrfidclity when you return this even-
ing. May God prosper you, ercellentfriends ! “ I '
RENE. ‘
“Now shall I proceed confidently in this work," ex-
claimed Otto. “My good woman, you have behaved
truthfully, and your reward, at the hands of that generous
lady, will be ample."


78
FA UST.
"I can pardon any suspicious which you may have'.
previously entertained,” said the matron. “ Where will ‘
your friend remain while you accompany me 1“
“ In the cavern outside, ’ was the answer.
Mazzini accordingly withdrew once more through the
secret means of egress.
“ There is no danger that I shall encounter any of the
armed ruffians in your room ?” said Otto, interrogatively.
“ None,” answered Mildreda.
“ It is not that I am afraid of them,” continued the
artist; “ but they have seen me before, and might recog-
DEG: me.”
“ Perhaps you are the young gentleman who was
brought blindfolded into this room a few days ago P” said
the matron.
“ I am. But how knew you that incident ?"
“II saw Fritz and his men convey you hither,” was the
re y.
2 One question, good dame,” said Otto. “Have you
seen many persons conducted with their e cs bandaged
to this apartment, in order to be removed rom the con-
vent by the secret path ?"
“ Four or five only, during the ten years that I have
been here; and all those since the confinement of the
prisoner whom we are now to rescue."
The matron then moved towards the door, and Otto
followed her.
In a few minutes they reached in safety her a artment
on the ground floor. There she provided herse with a
flask of stron waters and a meat pie, and assumed the
hood and cloa of a monk.
“ Now follow me,” she said, “ and do not utter a word
on any account. I have my tale ready planned, and
success is certain."
They issued forth, and entered the court ard. This
they crossed without interruption, and reae led a door,
which the matron opened by means of a ke that she had
already obtained on some pretence from the claviger, or
porter, of that part of the building.
They entered the middle court, and were immediately
accosted by two men-at-arms.
“ Who goes ?” cried one. “ Give us your blessing, holy
father.“
“ Nay—it is no holy father, but a wicked, sinful
woman,” answered the matron, in a 'esting tone. “But,
silence, good Karleilence, Conr e 1" she continued,
“ and I will tell you what this disguise means."
“ And who your companion is also, worthy dame,” re-
turned Karl.
But the darkness of the night prevented the soldiers
from distinguishing Otto’s countenance.
“ I will explain myself in a few words," said the
matron. “ This youth is my nephew, who came to see
me ere now. Alas! poor oung man, he was struck dumb
a month was yesterday, or some sin, no doubt ; but he is
unable to explain why this judgment was inflicted.”
“ Lucky he isn't a woman, or the affliction would be a
sore one," said Karl, laughing at his coarse jest.
“Listen, now," continued the matron. “ Methinks
the identical sword that served Peter to lop the soldier's
ear—and which said relics, as ye well know, are preserved
in our most holy chapel—the judgment would be removed
from him. Prythee, then, give me the key of the chapel,
and allow me to conduct my unhappy nephew thither!"
“ Impossible I” said Karl. “ It’s as much as my cars
are worth.” ‘
“ Nay, no one will be the wiser that ought not to be,”
persisted the matron. “ And see, I have brought you a I
nice pasty, and a flask of strong waters, for the night is
cold, and——-”
“ A pasty and a stoup of good liquor are no bad things,
are they, Conrade P” interrupted Karl, softening.
“ Not at all,” replied his comrade.
“ And it is cold, too,” added Karl, who saw very well
that the pasty and stron waters were conditionally only
on his compliance with t ie dame's request.
“ Very cold," said Conrade.
“ And I am a trifle hungry," observed Karl.
“ And I much more than a trifle," exclaimed Conrade.
“ Well, what say you P“ asked Karl, addressing his
fellow soldier.
" I say let’s e’en take the pasty and the drum, and lend
Dame Mildreda the key," was the unequivocal answer
“ Be it so." said Karl ; " and as we have no better
place to regale ourselves, let us retire to the shed close
at hand Come, dame, there is a light there, and 1 will
look for the key amongst the others which I have at my


belt."
Without waiting for a reply, the two soldiers hastened
to' a hut, or she , on an eminence close by, and Otto
instanth recollected, by its situation, that it was the
same w ere Fritz and his party had halted with him,
while Karl repaired to fete i the key of the courtyard
door, on the occasion of his first visit to the cenvent.
“ Do not approach the light, in the name of the Vir-
gin !” said the matron to him, in a hurried whisper.
She then hastened forward, and stood on the threshold
of the building alluded to.
A lamp hung from the roof, and Otto drew near enough
to obtain a glimpse of the contents of that place.'
It was the charnel-honse of the convent!
Around the walls stood a number of shrivelled corpses,
maintained in an upright position by means of cords fas-
tened beneath their arms to the wood-work.
They had not undergone the process of decomposition,
but the skin was yellow and parchment-like, as if it had
been tanned, and was drawn tightly over the prominent
cheek-bones. The countenances were sunken and hollow,
and the li s had shrunk so as to display the glistening
teeth. T e hair had not fallen off, but hung, matted
and dark, upon the shoulders of many; on the heads of
others it was lighter and shorter. Even through the
horrid dis 'se of death, it was eas to recognise the
outlines 0 those countenanees which once been the
2bjects of love or veneration on the part of fond rela-
ives.
These were the remains of travellers lost in the moun-
tains, and discovered by the men-at-arms during their
hunting excursions. The state of the atmosphere at that
height was invariably such—whether in summer or in
winter—as to act as a preservative to those relics of mor-
tality, and embalm them, as it were, without suffering
them to yield the slightest particle of efliuvium.
“ Now, good dame, here is the ke ,” said Karl; “ but
where are the pasty and the flask So! And a right
good pie it is ; enough for me and Conrado, but not i.
whit too much. Wilt then not join us in the first dram,
mother ?”
“ I drink strong waters !“ ejaculated the matron, as if
in horror at the i ea.
“ By my troth, I have seen you do that same evil deed
ere now—if an evil deed it be,’ returned Karl.
“ Yes ; but I am under a penance at present,” said the
matron.
“And your nephew? He shall have a taste, in any
case," cried Karl; “it will do much towards loosening
his tongue; for it ever makes mine wag retty freely.”
“ Nay; leave the your youth alone, ’ exclaimed the
matron, barring the way against Karl, who was about to
hurry forth, flask in hand. “ There is not too much for
yourselves. I wish ye a good appetite.”
“ Thanks, excellent manufacturer of piés and donor of
strong waters,” said Karl.
Then the two men-at-arins seated themselves on a
bench to discuss the articles provided for them.
The matron lost no time in retracing her steps towards
4-‘ -_-_‘
. the spot where Otto Pianalla was standing.
that we're he to touch the holy relics of the Cross, and l
“ Think {lon that I have managed them cleverly P” said
she, in a w i er. “ But tarry not a moment! Follow
me close! I ave‘the key of the chapel, and that is all
we require to ensure success.”
“ And when those men see us return three in number,”
observed Otto, “ will you be prepared with another stra-
tagem to elude their inquiries P”
“ They will need sleep after their potations," answered
the dame, significantly.
The matron then led the way towards a low door in a
building on the farther side of the courtyard.
But scarcely had they reached that point, when a
tall figure emerged from the shadow of the wall, and
exclaimed—
" Who goes there P"
" Father Anselm - the Superior," ejaculated the
matron, losing all her presence of mind at this sudden-
and inauspicious encounter.
>-.-<-
CHAPTER XLI.
TnAr sudden ejaculation of “ Father Anselm—the
Superior !" conveyed, quickly as lightning-flash, to Otto’s
mind a sense of the imminent danger in which he was
plgced; but, for a few moments, he hesitated how to
ac .
“Ha! that should be Dame Mildreila's voice!" cried
the Superior. “ But wherefore this disguise ? who is your
companion? whither are you going P"


FA US T.
79

“ Holy Virgin forgive me, reverend father!" said the
matron, joining her zhands together.
“ What! is it treachery that you meditate P" exclaimed
the Superior. “ Yes—it must be! else why this disguise?
And, you, sir—who—“
Father Anselm had not time to utter another word.
Otto, seeing the desperate position in which he was
placed,——the matron every instant losin more of her
courage, and the Superior already suspecting that some-
thing was wrong,-——Otto, we say, perceiving that a bold
line of conduct could alone release him from his present
dilemma, sprang upon the Superior with the force of a
tiger, and hurled him to the ground.
Then placin a knee u on his chest, and the left hand
upon his inout , he drew is dagger with the right hand,
and holding it above the prostrate-man, said in a low but
determined whisper, “ Stir n0t~speak not—or this
wea on shall immediately drink your heart’s blood. I
am desperate—beware how on provoke me."
Turning his head towar s Dame Mildreda, who had
witnessed this sudden attack and its success with the
most profound astonishment, Otto said, “ Hasten to un-
lock this door—and fear nothing: all will yet be well.“
While the matron was obeying this command, Otto
took the dagger between his teeth, so as to have his right
hand free; and, while he continued to mutter the most
desperate threats inst the Superior, on whose chest
his knees pressed hke an immense weight of iron, he
loosened the cord that the prostrate monk (in accordance
with the custom of the Capuchins) wore round his waist.
Therewith he hastily bound the priest’s arms to his sides,
the dark eyes of the Superior glaring ferociously up at
him as he performed this operation. But, though a fiend-
1 like malignity raged in the breast of the monk, he dared
not attempt to deliver himself nor to summon assistance;
for Otto’s knee retained him as it were in an iron vice;
and the shar dagger which Otto held in his mouth was
so dangerous y ready to the grasp of the right hand.
“ You will not murder me " muttered the Superior in
avery low tone; for the dreadful menaces which Otto
had whis red in a determined voice had alarmed him.
“ Not ' you remain quiet,” answered Pianalla : “ your
life is safe, provided you thwart me not.”
“ What would you do ? what object have you here P"
asked the Superior.
“ Silence!” returned Otto, sternly. “ I dislike violence
—I am not a man of blood; but my position is now such
that, by the Holy Virgin! if you utter another word—-
save in answer to any question that I may put—I will
plunge this dagger into your breast!” _ .
The process of binding the riest’s arms and this rapid
dialogue had occupied much ess time than we have re-
quired to detail them ; and scarcely had Dame Mildreda
opened the door, when Otto was prepared to drag the
Superior, whom he would not allow to rise from his su iue
posture, into the chapel, the entrance of which he
matron carefully fastened, herself retaining the key.
This edifice was dimly lighted by two wax tapers which
were burning before the altar. Otto cast a hasty glance
around; and, to his joy, perceived that the coast was
clear.
To dispose of the Superior was now a work of but little
difficulty. Otto was very far from possessing a cruel dis-
position ;—but he was resolute and determined; and the
difficulties of his present position were such as to warrant
extreme measures. He, therefore, unhesitatingly stripped
off the Superior’s hooded cloak, to serve a particular pur~
pose anon, and then bound and gagged him in such a
manner that locomotion and utterance became impossible.
Dame Mildreda did not hesitate to assist her young com-
panion in this necessary task ; for she knew enough of the
Superior to be well aware that no mercy was to be ex-
pected at his hands, should he be enabled to release him-
self and summon assistance ere they could make good
their retreat from the convent.
“ We shall not be many instants absent,” said Pianalla,
as he tried the strength of the cord and the security of
the knots once more ; “ and if, on our return, I find that
you have attempted to free yourself from these bonds, I
will punish you as reniorselessly as the public executioner
decapitates the condemned criminal.”
Pianal la and the matron then crossed the chapel, and
reached a door which was bolted and chained inside. To
open it, therefore, was the work of a few moments. A
lamp burnt in a niche outside; and this Otto took in his
hand, to light the way. .
Followed by Dame Mildreda, he now descended a spiral
staircase, the steps of which he carefully counted. There
were seventy-seven ; and he now felt perfectly convinced

that he was retracing the very way by which he had been
conducted, a prisoner and With eyes bandaged, on the
first occasion of his entrance into that convent.
At the foot of the staircase he found himself in a road
evidently forming the bottom of a defile in the mountains,
and commencing abruptly at the lower point of a fissure
in the crater or circular range of heights surrounding the
convent, as stated in a receding chapter. Indeed, this
was the second fissure be ore alluded to; and the road on
which it opened was continued to the verge of that yawn-
ing precipice along whose verge ran the sloping ridge, with
its rudely-formed steps, that had originally tempted Otto
on that erilous venture which had led to all the marvel-
lous incidents he had experienced in the Julian Alps.
This road, on which he and Mildreda were now enter-
ing, gradually became wider, until it assumed the appear-
ance of a large court; and, indeed, it was under the de-
nomination of the “third court” that the matron had
spoken of it to the young artist. '
This road and court—in fact, the entire space between
the precipitous walls of the cleft mountain—were covered
in with a. rudely but strongly-constructed roof of fir-wood,
supported by numerous pillars of rough stone, placed,
without order, and only in those points where such props
were required by the heaviness of the weight above.
The enclosure terminated at a high and massive wall,
which stretched across the defile, from one inaccessible
rock to the other, and in the middle of which there was
the ponderous door, with a guichet, which has been so
often mentioned in the receding chapters.
Otto could not help miring the ingenuity with which
human hands had adapted its works, in this strange place,
to the defences already fashioned by nature,——combining
both in such a manner, that this convent was actually an
impre nable fortress, and, as such, well suited to the
wick purposes of those who had converted one com-
partment of it into a prison.
Carefully shading the lamp with his hand, as a strong
current of air swept through the spacious court, Otto pro-
ceeded on his way, followed by Dame Mildreda. 0
At length, nearly at the end of the enclosure, and in the
immediate vicinity of the angle formed by the stone wall
and the solid rock on the right hand, a light, gleaming
throu h a low window, met his eyes.
“ Tlgiat is the prisoner's cell, I believe," whispered the
matron. '
Thither they immediately proceeded.
A natural cave in the rock had been converted into a
human abOde, by the formation of a large door to protect
the opening, and by cutting a square Window through the
solid granite itself. .
A huge bolt was drawn, so as to keep the door closed.
This was immediately pulled back by Otto; and he
entered the cell. It was about twelve feet square, and
was fitted up with some attention to comfort.
The moment the young artist entered, a man—with a
handsome, but pale and profoundly melanchol}: counte-
nance—rose from a seat near a table, on which was spread
an ample but frugal meal.
“ Ah! methinks I have seen your face before !” cried
the prisoner, surveying Otto with the deepest interest and
attention.
“Yes—you spoke to me some days since through the
guichet of the door in the wall,” answered Otto; “ and I
am come to save you.”
“ To save me 1” ejaculated the prisoner, clasping his
hands together. “ Oh ! is this possible P”
“ Speak not-delay not !” returned Otto. “ Every
moment is precious. Put on this monkish garb,” he con~
tinned, presenting the prisoner with the Superior’s cloak ;
“ and conceal your face with the hood. There l—not a
word more I Trust now entirely to me.”
The party then issued hastily from the cell, and pro-
ceeded at a rapid rate towards the foot of the spiral stair-
case. This they ascended with speedy steps, and entered
the chapel.
All was solemnly silent in the sacred edifice.
Otto hurried forward, and to his joy, found the Superior
still 1 ing in the very spot, and in the manner, in which
he ha left him.
“ I regret that I cannot release you now," said Otto ;
“ but my own safety~and that of others~—require that I
should leave you thus bound and impotent in respect to
mischief. Perhaps your misdeeds demand a more signal
punishment : but it is not for me to anticipate the decrees
of justice "
As the light of the lamp fell upon the countenance of
the Superior, who was so gagged as to be unable to utter
a word, and yet breathed With comparative freedom, the


8)
FA UST.

young artist was shocked at the expression of demoniac
rage and malignity which marked the features of the
prostrate man. All the bad passions that were concen-
trated in the human heart might be read in terrible cha-
racters upon that stern, vindictive, and remorseless
countenance.
Otto turned away in horror and disgust, and rejoined
his companions, who had already reached the door.
Placing the lamp upon the paved floor, and drawing his
dagger from its sheath, the artist took the key from the
matron’s hand.
He opened the door, and looked cautiously forth.
All was still.
Lights gleamed from the windows of the building over-
looking the court ; but the yard itself seemed deserted.
Ere they quitted the chapel, Otto's eyes fell upon a
basket which stood in an obscure nook, and which con-
tained carpenter’s tools. Amongst these implements was
a hatchet. Hastily seizing it and presenting it to his
male companion, he said, “ My lord—for I presume you
are really the Baron of Czernin—here is a weapon which
ma be serviceable in case of need.”
The other gras ed it in a manner which seemed to imply
that he would no fail to use it in the moment of peril.
The little party then issued from the chapel, Otto care-
iully closmg the door behind him, and taking away the
.8!
They proceeded with hasty steps towards the gate
opening into the outer court. When they had reached
that pomt, Otto bade his companions wait for a few
moments while he hurried to the dead-house. The light
was still burning in that receptacle for the defunct lost
ones amongst the mountains ; and its leam fell upon the
countenances of the two sleeping sol iers, on whom the
méitron's drugged strong waters had produced the desired
0 ect.
Unwilling to involve Karl in any embarrassment with
his Siiperior,-as it was through his means that the
liberation of the prisoner had been effected, although the
soldier was certainly unaware of the purpose for which he
had lent the key of the chapel,—Otto placed that key
among the folds of the sleeper's garments.
He then returned to his companions.
They passed into the next court, and gained the door of
the building belonging to that compartment of the esta-
blishmeut.
They hurried u the wide staircase, and entered the
room with the sky ight upon the roof.
“ We are safe—we are safe l " ejaculated Pianalla, unable
any longer to contain his joy.
“ The Holy Virgin be thanked !” said the liberated
prisoner, in a tone solemn and low, but expressive of the
most grateful piety.
The artist hastened to draw back the panel, and Mazzini
instantly appeared at the opening.
“‘ We have succeeded," said Otto ; “ the prisoner is with
us.”
“ Then am I well repaid for all the suspense I have
endured for the last half-hour," returned the Italian
peasant. -
Dame Mildreda passed first into the cavern ; the
liberated ca tive went nest; and Otto followed, closing
the panel be iind him.
The little party then pursued its way along the defile.

CHAPTER, XLII.
run 6001) AND run BAD 'rinmcs.
THE individual whom Pianalla had thus succeeded in re-
leasing from imprisonment was a man of apparently forty-
one or forty-two years of age.
He was very handsome, in spite of the pallor and the
melancholy expression of his countenance; for neither
captivity nor sorrow had dimmed the fire of his large and
;loquent eyes, nor streaked with silver his rich brown
air.
His features were regular; his teeth brilliantly white
and even; his forehead high and intelligent ; and his
figure graceful and commanding. His voice was pleasing
and muSical,—though not the less masculine on that
account ; and his manners were those of a polished noble-
man.
Nevertheless, there was a remarkable—nay. a truly
marvellous likeness between this personage and the indil
vidual who bore the name of the Baron of Czernin at
Vienna, and who was the husband of Otto's Sister Ida.
This similitude was, however. merely an exterior one:
the minds of the two were perfectly different As vulgar

degraded, and low in its ideas as was that of Ida's 1111..-
band, so elevated, on the other hand, were the soul and
intellect of the released captive.
When Otto reflected upon the personal appearance of
his sister’s husband, and contrasted it with that of the
individual whom he had ere now aided to escape from a
dungeon, he could come to no other conclusion than
thatlthe former was a mere vulgar imitation of the ori-
gina .
As they roceeded along the pathway, b the light of
the moon, tto allowed Mazzini and Mildr a to advance
somewhat a-head, while he entered into conversation
with him to whom he had such important news to com-
municatc.
“ My lord,” he said, “ I presume there is no error in
the belief which I now entertain—that you are the
rightful Theodore Baron von Czernin 1’”
“ I am indeed that most unfortunate person," replied
the nobleman; “and heaven alone knows how long my
misery would have endured in that aecursed place which
we have ere now left, had not your noble and generous
intervention effected my release. Ali! young man, there
is no proof of my gratitude that I will not show you,
when once I have the means. Tell me your name—that
I may know how to bless you in my prayers.”
“ My name is Otto Pianalla,” was the answer. “ But
I seek not a reward, mylord: I am an artist by profes-
sion; and, fortune having lately smiled upon me, I am
not without hopes of successfully fighting my own battles
with the world. Enough, however, of myself—at least
for the present. I have much—oh! very much—to
communicate to your lordship—good and bad news alike
—but the good, I hope, marvellously preponderating over
the bad."
“ At all events, my dear young friend,” said the Baron,
“let me hear the good first. I have been for years so
accustomed to the rude buffets and persecutions of that
same fortune who has turned favourable towards you,
that any pleasant tidings must be received by me with
the most heartfelt gratitude—even as a man who has
been blind for a protracted period suddenly recovers his
sight by the skill of a cunning chirurgist."
“I will, then, commence with the good tidings,” said
Otto. “ Your lordship doubtless remembers the name of
Irene N otaras P“
“ Irene Notaras !” ejaculated the Baron; “ my angel—-
my star—the beacon of hope, in all my despairing mo-
ments,-—throughout years of affliction! Oh! speak, good
youth—what of Irene N otaras P”
“ She lives, my lord—and loves you as tenderly as when
your vows were first pliglited to each other in the gardens
of her father’s mansion at Damascus.”
“ Great God, I thank thee!" cried the Baron. “ Irene
lives, and loves me still i Is it possible F Am 1 not
dreaming P Shall I not awake to the hideous realities of
my. gloomy cell! No—no ! it is not a dream ! I am
awake—speaking. The lovely moon is above mc—the
mountains, with their eternal crests of snow, are on
either side. Pardon me, young man—pardon the wander.
ings of my brain ; but when a human being has suffered
all that I have undergone, he doubts—he suspects—Am
distrusts the first gleam of hope and happiness. Oh ! tell
me of Irene Notaras! Do you know her? have you seen
her P where is she P”
“ I know her, my lord—I have seen her very recently,“
answered Otto, breaking the happy news with caution
f‘ She was lately in Vienna; thence she came into Car-
niola. In a word, she actually passed one night in the
convent from which you have just escaped; and that, my
lord, was last night!"
“ Last night 1" repeated the Baron; “ then she must
be near! But—uo—a hideous suspicion has suddenly
sprung up in my mind :-.tell me—is she in the power of
those demons P If so, let us i'eturn'—-—,"
And the nobleman grasped the young artist forcibly by
the arm.
“No, my lord—she is safe—she is amidst these very
mountains—she is ncai‘--—in three hours more—-—“
“ In three hours more—" almost gasped the Baron,
so acute was his suspense.
“ You shall see her—you will meet !" added Ottc
Pianalla.
The nobleman staggered, and would have fallen, had
not the artist supported him.
“ Oh, can this be true? Are you indeed a good angel,
sent to reclaim the term of my sufferings, and restore
me to app'iness and to love? Dearest Irene—shall l
behold thee so soon again ? and hast then remained
faithful to me? Hencefortli, let none despise—let non-i

















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FA US T.
83
dare cast a slight upon the noble heart of woman : it is
the purest portion of our mortal clay !”
Otto made no answer ; a shade passed over his counte-
nance as the Baron uttered these enthusiastic words; for
he could not help thinking how great was the contrast
between the soul of his sister Ida and that of the chaste
and loving Greek.
“ I willnot ask you how you came to meet Irene—how
she happened to find her way into these mountains,”
continued the Baron, after a short pause, during which
he recovered some degree (if composure. “ Accident could
not have contrived those circumstances—heaven must
have directed them. But it will be sweet—oh! how
sweet !—to hear all this from'the lips of my own Irene!
You have indeed communicated welcome tidings to my
ears, dear young friend; and so far beyond my most san-_
guine expectations are those good news, that I am now
nerved to listen to aught of evil that it may be your duty
to impart.”
“ The bad tidings, my lord, are in respect to your for-
gniég—those vast estates which were once yours,” said
t .
“ Once mine !” repeated the Baron. “ And how could
they have passed away P I have been sore pressed to
sign documents which would have conveyed them to my
persecutors ; but I withstood their menaccs—their
threats : I refused to purchase my liberty at the expense
of all‘my paternal possessions. I offered half—and my
terms were rejected. I have never offended against my
sovereign; and, therefore, my property cannot have been
confiscated." _
“ Will your lordship be good enough to answer me one
question P” said Otto. “ Does there exist, to your lord-
ship’s knowled e, an individual whose personal appear-
ance is so close y resembling your own, that those who
only judge the outward sha and impression of the coin
—-without waiting to put t e metal itself to the test, to
decide whether it be a base alloy or a genuine gold—may
be readily deceived by this external simmtude i’"
“ There does indeed exist such a person—than whom
the earth contains not a more ungrateful villain,” replied
the Baron, emphatically. “ But what of him ?”
“ My lord, pre are yourself for the evil tidings to
which I have allu ed," said Otto. “ This person has as-
sumed your name—become possessed of your estates-
and has squandered away the vast fortune which he thus
succeeded in wresting from the honourable care of the .
Imperial Chancery.”
“ What! Gre ory Walstein play the noble !” exclaimed
Theodore von ‘zernin, with a scornful laugh. “ That
base hind riot in my ancestral halls ! The estates which
a father’s generosity and an uncle's care rendered exten-
sive and prosperous, be converted into gold to supply the I
extravagances and to pay the ignob e pleasures of a I
wretch like him !”
“ I was afraid, my lord, that you would need all your
philosophy to hear those tidings from my lips,” said
Otto. " But the villain has to some extent injured me—
for, under a false name, he has married my only sister !"
“ Your sister ,is Walstein’s wife!” cried Theodore:
then, after a moment’s pause, he added, “ But were our
relatives the lowest serfs that crawl n on the face 0 the
earth, I would raise them up—I we (1 elevate them—I
WaOkllhli make them my friends—I would love them for your
8 e I,
“ Ah! my lord, the Lady Irene has not misrepresented
the noble qualities of our heart. But on have now
heard both the good an the evil tidin s w ich I had to
communicate. On the one hand, a c arming woman—
bcautiful, amiable, faithful, and rich,—waits anxiously to
clasp you in her arms : on the other, an impostor—a vile,
déztestable impostor—will perhaps dispute your name and
i entit .”
“ The); question between us will not be one of long dura-
tion,” said the Baron, bitterly. “But let us not dwell
upon that at present. All m thoughts are upon Irene.
Fifteen years have elapsed since I saw her last! Hast
ever loved, oung man P No! then on cannot divine
the extent 0 that misery which has 0 araeterised those
fifteen years! What was persecution—what was slavery
—what was captivity—what were all these in comparison
with separation from her I loved? For to love as I have
loved and still love, is to have only one thought—one
idea—one ob'ect of existence—one hope in this world. It
is to be attac ed to life by only one chord--which may be
snapped in a moment! But the link which bound me to
this world was firm and strong—because it was never
pressed upon by the wei ht of suspicion or jealousy. Oh!
I knew Irene well—1 is t convinced that her love was as






permanent as mine—that she could never cease tooherish
my image—that she would not forget me, and give her'
hand to another. This conviction has supported me in
my captivity, and has shed beams of hope upon me
during a period of fifteen long—weary years. Had I en-
tertained the least suspicion of her faith, I should have
gone mad—I should have dashed my head against the
ship in which I plied the car as a slave, or against the
wall of that dungeon from wheh you ere now released
me! But I knew that the heart of Irene was no common
one—that her soul was pure, and chaste, and full of the
holiest inspiration. Thus, even in my captivity, have I
had some cheering moments; and then there was often a
voice which seemed to whisper in my ear, ‘ Irene lives!
Irene lives only for you!’ Else had my hair turned white
—else had my eyes been blinded by my tears! Oh! love
is indeed a solace, my dear young friend : it has supported
me through the agonies, the anguish, and the woes of
fifteen long years !"
Otto was deeply affected by these words which the Baron
uttered with so much sincerity.
And now the nature of the path compelled them to pro-
ceed one in advance of the other :—the conversation was
therefore interrupted.
It was an hour past midnight when the little party
reached the but where Irene and her mountaineers were
to await their arrival.
“ Li hts shine through the crevices—smoke ascends
from t e chimney!" whispered Mazzini.
“ Thank Heaven—the Lady Irene has reached the place
in safety !“ said Otto, peeping through a chink; but he
spoke in a very low tone. “ Shall I enter first, my lord,
and prepare her for your arrival P”
But before the Baron could answer, the voice of Irene
broke with a soft melody upon their ears. In a sweet and
plaintive tone she warbled the following words :-
SYRIA’S DAUGHTER.
Sadly reclining,
Fair Syria’s daughter
In an arbour was mourning her fate ;—
The tear-drops, shining,
Bedewed wit water
Cheeks that were blooming with roses of late.
Swift as a fountain,
Glides from the mountain,
The crystal bright dims each orb of light ;—
Sweetly reposiu ,
Those eye-lids, c osing,
Shall find relief in the slumber-s of night.
Through the grove ringing,
Melody making,
Telling a tale of love to his Rose,—
Shrillily singing,
On the night breaking
The Bulbul’s note soothes the maiden’s repose.ilk
Visions are smiling,
Dreams are beguiling,
Lulling to rest the woes of her breast :—
Gaily appearing,
Happy and cheering,
They chase from her heart the grief that opprest.
Welcome! bright vision,
Fancy’s creation,
Bringing to mind the image she loves ;
Purely elysian,
Sweet inspiration,
Fond as the passion of young turtle doves! 1'
O’er the hills breaking,
Sol is awaking;
' Fly not, blest dream, at that warning beam;
Tarry awhile yet,
Linger—and smile yet ;
Pass not away, like a flswer on the stream!
“That voice—how well I remember each intonation!
that song—how often have I heard her warble it in
Damascus !” murmured the Baron, clasping his hands to-
gether with holy rapture and devotion, as the plaintive
melody was wafted to his ears.
The lady ceased; and now her lover could no longer
restrain hIS impatience.

* The love of the Bulbul, or Nightingale, for Gal, or the
Rose, is proverbial in the East.
thhe attachment of tnrtle~doves is a favourite Oriental
em em. '


8%
FA UST.

Tearing himself away from Otto, who vainly en-
deavoured to hold him back,—for the young artist was
fearful lest the surprise should be too sudden for Irene,
althou h she could not do otherwise than entertain the
most fgarvent hopes that Theodore’s release would be
eifected,—push.ing open the doors with almost frantic
vehemence, the Baron rushed into the hut.
The beautiful Greek sprang forward, and was instantly
clas ed in his arms.
“ rene!“
“ Theodore!”
And they wept with joy,--imprinting a thousand kisses
upon each other’s lips, cheeks, and foreheads,—straining
each other with passionate ardour to their breasts,—
murmuring each other’s names in voices too tremulous
with profound emotions to be able to give utterance to
other words 1
0h! bliss supreme—that reunion of two fond hearts!
Not an eye that contemplated the affecting spectacle was
unmoistened with a tear.
At length the tender pair tore themselves from each
other’s embrace ; but it was only that Irene might express
her heartfelt gratitude to those who had been instru-
mental in rescuing her well-beloved Theodore from his
captivity.
“ To you, enerous youth,“ she said, addressing herself
to Otto, “ I ow not how to speak. This brave Italian
will receive a reward at my hands. Mildreda shall also
be well provided for. But to you, Otto—dear Otto,” she
continued, “ what can I sa ? I offer you the affection of
a sister—and to my The ore you shall be a brother!
You must not leave us—it will be our duty to study your
happiness I" '
And she glanced towards the Baron.
“ Most cordially—most sincerely do I approve of every
word you have uttered, dearest Irene,” returned Theo-
dore. “ Otto, henceforth we are brothers—and Irene will
be our sister!”
he artist ressed the hands that were extended
towards him; ut his heart was too full to allow his
tongue to give utterance to a reply.
The mountaineers now spread the contents of their
wallets upon the table; fresh logs were thrown on the
fire; and the entire party sat down to a cheerful repast.
_—
CHAPTER XLIII.
A scans IN THE czsaum MANSION.
Two months had elapsed since the incidents just related.
Ida was seated in her own chamber, in the Czernin
palace at Vienna, ponderin upon the various schemes
and projects which she nourished in her bosom.
It was evening ; and a lamp stood on the table whereon
her elbow rested—her head supported by her hand in a
musing attitude.
Suddenly the door opened; and her husband entered
the apartment. At the first glance, she observed that he
had not failed, as was his habit, to address himself pretty
deeply to the wine-stoup.
“ Wherefore have you left your drunken orgies with
your friend Schurmann F” demanded Ida, her lip curling
coutemptuously. “ Have you become wearied of his
delectable society at length P Methinks that for the few
months past, during which he has taken up his abode in
thlifs mansion—acting more as its master than your-
se _l,
“ Cease prating, Ida, in this style,” cried her husband,
impatiently. “ Remember our agreement the last time
we had any words on this subject—that you were to act as
you thought proper on your side, and I on mine. Let us
adhere to those conditions; nothing is more fair or
honourable."
“ Then wherefore do you intrude upon my privacy?”
demanded Ida, haughtily.
“ Because I have something to say to you—something
of consequence,“—and he took a seat. “ The truth is,
Schurmann has suddenly conceived a violent affection for
you-—— ’ ' i
“ For meI—that vulgar menial l” ejaculated Ida, the
blood rushing to her cheeks.
“ Yes,—for you. And why not? Schurmann is a man
of great taste; and although he certainly might be a little
more polished,—and a little better looking—-"
“ Cease this idle nonsense ! It cannot be to sing
Messer Schurmann's raises in my ears, or to plead his
suit for him, that you have sought my chamber 1’" r
“ Aye—but it is, though l”, exclaimed her husband.
.“ He is deeply enamonred of you, and insists upon seeing
more of you. 'He requires that you preside at the ban-



queting-table, as a lady ought, in her husband’s own hall;
and I am come to conduct you to your place at the board."
“I would sooner partake of a crust of bread with the
menials in their own apartment, than feast on luxuries at
the same table with that horrible Schurmann,” answered
Ida, in.a resolute tone.
“_This is unreasonable. He is my friend : and what the
devil have I got a wife for, if not to do her duty P"
I“ Ours was not an union based on the usual conven-
tions, my lord," said Ida. “ You required gold—I needed
a home where I should be my own mistress, and at the
same time possess an ostensible protector,“ she added em-
phatically. “ You have been well supplied with the
attractive metal, which you squander to your heart’s
delight, and in the most degrading manner; but you do
not permit me that freedom on which I reckoned. You
brifii into the house a ruflian, who does nothin but
(111 , swear, and quarrel with the domestics all day
long. If I remonstrate, you throw in my teeth a deed to
which you also were privy; you menace—you threaten.
And now you come to annoy me with fresh impertinences
on the part of this Messer Schurmann.“
“ I come to ask you to preside at your own table.
Schurmann desires it."
“ And I refuse to compl .”
“ You will only irritate him ; and—"
“ And he will threaten you, ashe has oft-times done
before. But with glimr lordship's affairs I am to have no
concern,“ added I , sarcasticall . “ Whether you have
committed some crime which p aces you in this man’s
power—or whether he is acquainted with some strange
secret which You would gladly have concealed—” ‘
“ All this reasoning is of no avail,” interrupted her
husband, stam ing his foot violentl on the floOr.
“ Not in the east l“ interrupted gchurmann, bursting
into the r00m. “ Ha! ha! you little thought that I
followed you to this retty nest, where dwells a pretty
bird—though somew at of the most self-willed, I trow.
But I have so often spoken to you on this same subject,
and you have gut me off with so man promises that
your lady woul join us next day—and t e next—and so
on ; and as that day never came, but was always buried
in the future, I thought -I should do well to satisfy myself
on this occasion how you acquitted yourself."
“ And our insolence is now carried to such a pitc ,"
exclaim Ida, “ that even my own chamber is not sacred
in your eyes 1”
“ Pooh! pooh! no such thing as anything sacred in my
eyes I" cried Schurmann. “ Besides—it is just as well to
overhear a secret or two now and then ; and I have not
listened without avail at your door for the last quarter of
an hour.”
“ Villain!” ejaculated Ida, unable to restrain her
wrath.
“ Villain indeed !” repeated Schurmann, coolly. “So
{xours was a singular marriage—was it P Gold for the
aron—the name of a wife for you! And then that deed ,
to which his lordship was also privy! Why—I have learnt
enough to enable me to crush your haughty s but, my
pretty bird, and make you fall at. the feet of t e vulgar ‘
menial Schurmann—Without even exercising any other a
means that are in my power. Baron, leave us—I wish to
say two or three words to her ladyship here.” ' _
“ Quit not this room, my lord l" almost screamed Ida.
“ Compel me not to summon the household to my assist-
ance—which I will do, at any sacrifice, if that monster
dare approach me l”
“ Baron—leave us, 1 say!” thundered Schurmann.
“ I cannot—I will not," returned Ida's husband.
“ Then, by heaven! I'll force you, fool!" said Schur- -
mann, drawing his sword.
“ It may as well come to this now as later," grumbled
the self-styled Baron, also drawing his weapon. “ Hark
ye, Schurmann—I am tired of you: your constant in-
solence—your menaces—your reckless talk before the
servants, keep me in perpetual suspense and misery.
Now let the matter come to an issue. Defend yourself!"
And their swords instantly clashedfi' “' ' ‘
Ida screamed, and was recipitating herself towards
the door, when it was hasti y opened, and Gertrude made
her appearance. ' ' ‘
The two men dropped the points of their swords, and,
almost simultaneously returned the weapons to their
sheaths. ‘ _ ' '
“ My lord," said Gertrude, starting back with surprise,
and scarcely able to give utterance to a‘vvord. ‘
“ Speak, girl," exclaimed Ida: “ what brings you
hither ?’ '
“ A person wishes to see his lordship."
a I


FA US T.
85
“ Did I not give orders that I would not be disturbed
this evening?" demanded the self-styled Baron, angrily.
“ But this person says he knows your lordship will see
him,” add'ed Gertrude; “especially when I mention his
name to your lordship.”
“ And that name ?’
patiently.
“ Fritz,” was the answer.
“ Fritz !’ ’ ejaculated Ida’s husband, turning pale.
“ Yes—I will see him—this moment," he added, moving
towards the door: then, in a lower tone, he murmured,
“ What can have brought Fritz hither ?"
“ And I will accompany you,” exclaimed Schurmann;
“ although for the life of me I can't comprehend what
this means.”
They then left the room together.
In an apartment on the ground-floor, to which he had
been shown, Fritz was acing backwards and forwards in
an a 'tated manner. The door shortly opened, and the
fictitious nobleman, followed by his friend Schurmann,
made his appearance. _ _
“ The game is up—the bird has flown 1” said Fntz, ad-
vancing to meet Ida’s husband. _ .
Ejaculations of terror and surprise from the lips of him
whom Fritz thus addressed, and with whom the old
mountaineer seemed perfectly acquainted, were the only
answers to this astounding communication.
“ Yes,” continued Fritz; “ the real Baron has made his
escape ; and Father Anselm was nearly killed by the young
fellow who managed the whole business, and who, by al
I could learn, must be Otto Pianalla."
“ Otto Pianalla l” exclaimed the false Baron.
“ Yes : he visited the convent, in a certain manner, one
day; and by the description the Superior, whom he
mauled and gagged most unmercifully,—and who, by the
bye, has come to Vienna also,—gave me of the person that
released the Baron, it can be no other than Otto.“
“ I see that all is lost !” cried Schurmann; “ and as I
shall get nothing more here, I may as well shift for myself
elsewhere."
With these words he rushed to the door ; but on flinging
it open, he nearly dashed Ida upon the stone floor of the
hall. '
“ What—listeners ?” cried Schurmann, seizing her by
the arm, and dragging her into the room.
“ Yourself tan ht me that lesson," answered Ida,
forcibly disen ng herself from his grasp. “ I have
overheard all that has been said. What means that phrase
‘ the real Baron ?' what has my brother Otto done ? whom
has he released ? Speak 1” she cried, raising her voice,
and addressing herself to Fritz. '
“ Ah ! ah i” chuckled Schurmann ; “ the game is all
up now—and therefore your ladyship ma as well know
the worst. The truth is that your belov husband—my
particular friend there—is no more a Baron than I am—
.but simple Gregory Walstein, the real lord’s most
respectable companion at the Turkish galleys.”
“ Oh i this is too much !” screamed Ida, sinking upon a
sofa, and covering her face with her hands.
At that instant the door was thrown open, and the
room was filled with the archers of the guard.
“ In the name of his Imperial Majesty, you are _my
prisoner !" said an officer, advancing towards the fictitious
Baron.
Rapid as a spirit, Ida sprang to the door, and_ placing
her back against it, exclaimed, “ Whatever crimes my
husband may have perpetrated, this man," omting to
Schurmann, “is an accomplice. Secure him 9 l”
And, as the guards laid hands upon that individual, Ida
darted on him a malignant glance of triumph. _
" Perhaps you, also, may have some concern in the con-
spiracy which has just been brought to light,” said the
officer, taming towards Fritz. " At all events, you must
come with me, until you give a satisfactory account of
yourself.” _
“ And wh not that woman, too P" cried Schurmann,
indicating I a. “ She was as well aware of her husband’s
conduct as any of us 5 and, for my part, I had no
hand——-"
" I have no instructions to include any female in my
present measures," said the officer. _
“ But she has committed some other crime—I ever-
heard her talking of it with her husband," persisted
Schnrmann.
For a moment Ida trembled.
" What was the nature of that crime P" demanded the
officer.
“ I do not know—but it was something heinous, I feel
convinced."
demanded the false nobleman, im-

“The charge is too vague, and I cannot act upon it,“
returned the ofiicer. “Come, my men—move off with
your prisoners."
Schnrmann was conducted away first ; and as he passed
Ida, she threw upon him another look of spiteful triumph.
She was now revenged for all the insults he had heaped
upon her; and so strangely constituted was her mind,
that this gratification essentially mitigated the sense of
degradation and disgrace which she experienced at the
exposure of her husband's true condition and the idea of
having married an impostor.
Fritz was next led away from the room; and Gregory
Walstein—for we must now give him his real name—
passed out last.
He kept his eyes fixed upon the ground, as he moved
towardsthe door; and Ida, on her part, turned away
from him with ineifable disgust.
As Gregory Walstein issued from that house where he
had 10 ruled as a master, a lady, closely mufiled in a
dark vei ,and on the middle fin er of whose right hand
was a ring of most singular wor manship, passed rapidly
by him, and said in a hurried whisper, “ Fear not ! My
brother Caesar and Father Anselm are both in Vienna l ’
“ Did that lady speak to you P" demanded one of the
guards.
“ No,” answered Walstein, boldly.
But that mysterious whisper had encouraged hope in
the impostor's breast.
CHAPTER XLIV.
run HISTORY or rnnononn vou czsanm.
ON the following morning—namely, the 9th of June, 14-66
—the principal tribunal of Vienna presented a solemn,
and yet, in one res eet, a gay appearance.
Seated on the p atform, beneath a blue velvet canopy
with gold fringes, were the three judges; the President,
Count Koni sen, occupying the central arm-chair. A
few feet in rent of the platform, or dais, an iron bar,
breast high, extended from one side of the court to the
other ; and to this three prisoners were fasted by manacles
on their left hands.
These men were Gregory Walstein, Fritz, and Schurr-
mann.
In a species of large pew, or witness-box, on the right
of the judicial benc , and within the bar, sat Theodore
gogd Czernin, Otto Pianalla, Mazzini, and Dame Mil-
r a.
The body of the court was crowded with s ectators.
The sudden arrest of him who had so long een con-
sidered the rightful Baron of Czernin, and rumours of the
strange imposture which he had practised, had produced
an extraordinary sensation in the capital. The audience
consisted almost entirely of the wealthy and aristocratic
classes, because, the proceedings of the tribunal not being
open to the public, those only could obtain admission who
possessed some interest with the judges.
Ida was not present; but the Count of Aurana occupied
a front seat in the gallery. In another part of the court
was a lady closely veiled, and attended b a handsome
girl, whose dark complexion and large black eyes pro-
claimed her Italian origin. The former was Irene, now
Baroness of Czernin; and the latter was Nina Mazzini.
Lastly—of those to whom it is necessar to direct special
attention—in a corner of the gallery, ar removed from
the place which Faust occupied, was a lad , whose ele nt
figure was not concealed by the thick lack veil w ich
was thrown over her head, and whose folds fell like a
dark mantle around her. Once a delicate white hand, on
the middle finger of which was a ring of singular work-
manship, was thrust forth beneath the veil, in order to
arrange its folds more completel over her countenance;
and this movement happened to observed by Faust.
The extraordinary resemblance existing between the
Baron of Czernin and the prisoner Gregory was the
sub'ect of general observation. The Baron was clad in a
befittin his rank; and, although the spectators
were struck y that marvellous external similitude, yet
none failed to mark the discrepancy of bearing, gentility,
and manner which existed between the true noble and the
impostor. Moreover—while these two individuals were
characterized by hair of precisely the same hue, eyes of
the same colour, and facial lines precisely corresponding
—there was a coarseness in the features, and a vulgarity
in the expression of the impostor’s countenance, which
were strikin ly contrasted by the refinement and stamp
of hi h birt which were depicted on that of Theodore
von zernin. The height of the two forms was exactly


86
FA US T.

the same ; and it was evident that their figures must have
once worn the ap earance of having been cast in the
same mould ; but that of the impostor was now corpulent,
bulky, and unwieldy, while that of the Baron was graceful,
yet commandingl—symmetrical, yet indicative of great
physical strengt . _
In a word, it was easy for the impostor to have enacted
the part of Baron of Czernin while the real owner of that
title was absent; but now that they were placed, as it
were, in juxtaposition, no one could have heSitated how
to answer the question, “ Which is the true Baron of
Czernin P”
And now the proceedings of the court commenced,
The president called upon Theodore von Czernin to
state the particulars of his accusation against the three
prisoners. _
“ My lord,” answered the Baron, rising from his seat,
“ although I am well aware that the time of the tribunal
is most precious—still, as I am here not only to maintain
grave charges against the three prisoners, _but also to de-
monstrate my own rights and titles, which have been
usurped by an impostor, it will be necessary for me to
enter upon a comp ete narrative of my existence smce I
quitted Vienna, in the ear 1479.”
“Speak freely,” sai the judge. “The tribunal will
listen with that attention which is due to so important a
sub'ect.”
The Baron bowed, and commenced his history in the
following manner :—
“ It was in the year 1478 that I attained the age of
twenty-thrce—the period when the vast fortune, which
the generosity of a deceased parent had left me, became
my own. Shortly afterwards, the‘ death of an uncle in-
creased my possessions ; and I found myself wealthy be-
yond all my former expectations, and certainly beyond
my ambition. I had long cherished a desire to travel in
the East, and to contemplate the manners and customs
of that extraordinary nation, which, springing from an
obscure tribe that dwelt upon the slopes of Mount
Olympus, spread its conquests with such rapidity as to
seize upon old Byzantium as its capital, and extended its
possessions .even to the very frontiers of Austria and
Hungary. Yes—I longed to travel in the Ottoman
empire; and so soon as I had laid aside the mourning
which I wore for my deceased uncle, and could put my
alfairs in proper order, I set out, attended by six faithful
dependents. The journey commenced in Januar , 14-79,
and, as I was the master of my time, I proceeded y easy
stages. I shall not, however, take up your lordships’
time by any unnecessary details of the adventures which
I experienced, or the perils through which I passed,
during my wanderings. Be it sufficient to state that,
having visited all the remarkable places in the princi-
palities of Servia, Moldavia, and Wallachia, at the hands
of whose reigninghospodars and waiewodes I experienced
much hospitality, I pushed onward through the vast ter-
ritory of Roumalia, to Constantinople. There I remained
some months, and then crossed the Bosphorus into
Anatolia. I visited Brusa—the burial-place of the early
Ottoman Sultans—traversed Caramania, and entered
Syria. Two years had already assed; and in the be-
ginning of 1481 I found mysel crossing the desert,
attended by my faithful dependents, and escorted by a
hired troop of twenty light infantry soldiers, or Akindji,
furnished me by the Egyptian Governor of Aleppo.*
“ It was in the neighbourhood of Damascus that an in-
'cident occurred, which, in more ways than one, has since
exercised a material influence upon my destinies. We
were within sight of the peerless capital of the province,
when we were suddenly attacked by a horde of banditti,
numbering at least sixty well-armed men. On_our side
we made a desperate defence; but we were overpowered
by numerical force. My six attendants were all slain,
and more than half of the Akindji were stretched lifeless
upon the sand. At that perilous crisis, succour arrived.
A merchant, well-known in the East by the honoured
name of Demetrius Notaras, appeared on the scene of
battle, followed by a large escort. The banditti were
compelled to take to fli rht, ere they had entered on the
work of plunder; and t e merchant had me conve ed to
his own house in the city. I was sorely wounded ; ut an
angel—his daughter—tended me with a sister‘s devotion.
I gradually recovered ; but more rapidly than my advance
towards convalescencc was the progress of that profound
attachment which I conceived for the charming Irene.


* Syria was not at this period under the dominion of
the Ottomans. It belonged to the Mameluke or Egyptian
empire.


My passion was reciprocated; Demetrius Notaras gave
his consent to our union, and no obstacle appeared to
stand in the way of our happiness. I was wealthy; my
possessions in my native land were immense ; and I had
jewels of great value about me. The merchant was also
rich; Irene was an onl daughter, and the heiress of all
her fath cr’s property. hus every circumstance—whether
considered in reference to sentiment, or in a worldly
point of view—was favourable to our hopes.
“ One evening—the very one before the day fixed for
our nuptials—I parted with Irene, for the purpose of
visiting the goldsmiths’ bazaar, and exchanging some of
may heav German jewellery for lighter articles, better
a apted or the female toilette, as I was anxious to make
my intended bride a befitting present on the happy morn-
ing. I reached the bazaar, completed my business, and
hastened to retrace my steps towards the merchant's
dwelling. It was now quite dark; and I was threading
my wa along a loomy, narrow, and lonely street, when
a shaw was sud enly thrown over my head, and drawn
so tightly round my month that utterance was impossible.
Almost at the same instant my arms were bound, and
two men, lifting me between them, hurried me away at a
rapid pace. In this manner we proceeded, for at least
half an hour, while a sense_of increasing strangulation
nearly deprived me of my senses. At length I was de
posited upon the round; the shawl was removed from
my face; and I ound myself without the walls of the
city, in the power of half a dozen well-armed rufiians. I
was placed on horseback; the others had also steeds in
readiness; and the party galloped away from the neigh-
bourhood of Damascus at full s eed. We journeyed thus
for two hours, and then stoppe at acave inavast mound
of sand as hard as a rock. There I discovered the fate
that was in store for me. Bya stran e coincidence the
captain of the very horde of banditti, w iich had formerly
attacked me and killed my attendants, on the occasion
when Demetrius Notaras rescued me from their power,
was in the bazaar at the moment that I made my pur-
chases. He instantly recognised me, and followed me
with one of his band who was with him. As soon as we
reached the cave, my garments were rifled, and the
jewels which I had purchased were taken from me. But
the robbers little susfpected that several costly articles,
which I had brought rom Germany with me, were con~
cealed in a belt that I wore round my waist beneath my
clothes.
“ I implored them to allow me to return to Damascus;
and I promised them a large sum by way of ransom,
which should be paid the moment I could communicate
with the merchant. But they turned a deaf ear to my
prayers ; and on the following morning I was compelled
to accompany them towards the sea-coast. I need not
attempt to depict my grief at this sudden separation from
Irene: everyone who now hears me must comprehend
how profound was my sorrow—how acute the anguish of
my mind. In a few days we reached the sea-side; and
there the banditti sold me as a slave to a Tunisian corsair,
whose vessel was lying in a secluded bay. The ship
sailed almost immediately; but in the evening it fell in
with a galley belonging to the squadron of the Capitan-
Pasha—the High Admiral of the Ottoman fleets. The
pirate vessel was captured ; the corsair chief was hanged;
and all the crew, including myself, were sent on board
the admiral’s ship, where we were chained as slaves to
the benches, and forced to p1 the oars. I solicited an
interview with the Capitan- asha, and represented to
him my name, social position, and misfortunes. But this
was of no avail; for war had just broken out between the
Sublime Porte and the German empire ; and I was there-
fore retained as a prisoner, and treated as a slave. But
through all these vicissxtudes I contrived to keep my re-
maining jewels safely about my person; for the Turks
could not do otherwise than imagine that the Egyptian
banditti had so thoroughly stripped me of every valuable
as to render any further search about my person utterly
useless.
“' My condition was now wretched indeed. Chained to
a bench, whereon I had to toil by day. and which was my
only bed by night—subject to the cruelty of an officer,
who went about amongst the slaves, armed with a whip
possessing seven lashes knotted with small pieces of lead
—exposed to the insults of the rufiians who were in com'
panions in captivity. and who seemed to be the re use of
all nations—fed upon offal of the most disgusting descrip-
tion,and forced to assuage a burning thn‘st with water so
filthy that the stomach loathed it, and tormented b the
constant thought that Irene must either deem me aith-
less to my solemn vows, or consider me to be no longer


FA US T.
87

amongst the living; I often prayed for death to release
me from my misery. ‘
“ I had been a year in this horrible captivity, when an
engagement took place in the waters of Candia between
the Ottoman and the Venetian fleets; for the great Re-
public had espoused the cause of Germany and of
Christendom against the barbarism of the East. The
Christians were, however, vanquished; and nearly all
their ships were captured. Then fresh slaves were poured
into the Ottoman vessels; and two Germans, who had
been taken prisoners on board a Venetian galley, were
sent to be my companions on my bench in the admiral’s
ship. These men were two of the prisoners now at the
bar—Gregory Walstein and Schurmann. The moment
Gregor and myself thus met, we were astonished at the
marvelous resemblance which existed between us; and
perhaps this circumstance—as well as the satisfaction I
experienced in obtaining the society of two comrades of
my own country—induced me in time to 0 en my heart to
both, but especially to Walstein. We ha ample leisure
for conversation; and it was our principal source of
comfort to talk of our native land—that land which we
so fondly hoped some day to behold again. As time were
on, I communicated all my secrets to Walstein. I gave
him an accurate description of my possessions in Germany,
enumerated my farms, named my tenants, and ex lained
to him all the particulars of my past life. I so ac-
quainted him with my love for Irene, and the cruel
manner in which I had been separated from her. In a
word, our 0111 solace was to converse upon our own affairs
together; an we soon became as intimate as two brothers.
Neither of us, however, admitted Schurmann within the
same range of friendship: we treated him as a fellow
Christian in captivity ; but we did not impart to him all
those secrets which we confided to each other.
“Walstein candid] informed me that he was a man
of broken fortunes w en he was taken prisoner. He had
passed some years in Italy, but had ruined himself by
gambling and dissipation. He then accepted employment
as an uncut of the Secret Tribunal of Germany, and was
despatcthed for certain purposes, which he was bound by
oath not to reveal, on board a shi of the Venetian fleet.
He seemed deeply to deplore his ormer evil ways, and
expressed himself with so much contrition, that I pro-
mised—if ever we obtained our pardon—to supply him
with the means of retrievin his character, an earning
an honourable livelihood. nch confidence did I place in
him, that I communicated my secret of the jewels con-
cealed about my person—a fact which we both religiously
kept from Schurmann, whom we mistrusted.
“Year after year passed away—year after year of
miserable captivity, each day witnessing despair taking
deeper hold in our hearts. I will not dwell on all the
miseries which we endured; those present can readily
imagine the atrocious treatment of a Turkish alley. At
length, in the year 1488, deliverance came—sn denly, and
most unexpectedly. We had been tranferred from the
admiral’s ship to a smaller vessel, which was ordered to
cruise off the Morea. One morning we encountered a
Venetian ship in the waters of Ce halonia; and, after
three hours’ hard fighting, the C ristiau vessel com-
pelled the Ottoman galley to strike its flag. An imme-
diate release followed; and we were conveyed on board
the Venetian ship, where I received the utmost atten-
tion from the captain, to whom I mentioned my name
and rank. My influence also procured the same good
treatment for Walstein and .Schurmann. The vessel
sailed for Venice, with its prize; and in due time we
reached the great sea-girt city of the Republic.
“ I now determined to repair to Vienna without delay,
attend to‘ my affairs (which, I feared, might have become
deranged during my absence of nine years), and imme-
diately adopt measures to communicate with Irene. I
realized a small portion of my jewellery at Venice, and
proposed to my two comrades to accompany me.
Schurmann, however, had reasons of his own for re-
maining at Venice; I accordingly gave him a sum of
money to enable him to commence another start in life;
and I alstein readily consented to be my companion.
“But I was not destined to leave Venice without an
adventure, which I must relate with some details. I was
rambling alone in the evening—the one before the day
fixed for the return of myself and Walstein into Germany
~amongst the iprincipal streets of Venice. admiring the
magnificence o the buildings and the splendour of the
shops, when it suddenly struck me that Walstein, whom
I had left at the hotel where we were lodging, to prepare
for the morrow’s journey, had just passed me and entered
a handsome house, the gate of which was standing open.

This incident appeared to me singular, because he had pre-
viously intimated his intention of remaining at the hotel
all the evening; and, as my misfortunes had rendered me
suspicions, I felt annoyed at this duplicity on his part,
supposing that it was really Walstein whom I had seen
enter the mansion. While I was standing at the gate.
meditating upon the occurrence, loud screams, as of a
female in distress, emanated from the house. Without a
moment’s hesitation I rushed into the building, and
hastened up a wide staircase on my right hand. The -
screams continued; I entered a corridor in the direction
from which they seemed to come. The passage was
nearly dark, but I could distinguish several doors, all
closed, on either side. The screams a peared to come :
from a room at the farther end. I burned, and opened a
door at the end of the corridor, holding my drawn sword
in my hand. No one was there; and the screams had
suddenly ceased. But so singular were the contents of
the room in which I found myself, that I could not help
tarrying for a few moments to contemplate the objects
that met my view.
“ The room was spacious and handsome, but contained
little furniture. It was lighted by a lamp suspended
from the ceiling. On the table stood two or three glass
jars, containin a kind of white meal, and labelled
‘ Cantarclla.’ ear them were four or five phials, filled
with a white liquid, like foam, and labelled ‘ Aqua. Canta-
rellaz.’ In one corner of the room a huge hear was sus-
pended b the feet to a hook in the ceiling. The animal
was dea ; and on the floor, immediately under it, was
a silver dish, containing a quantity of the same kind of
foaming li uid, which I had seen in the phials, and which
had been ischarged from the bear’s t roat, drops still
falling from its open month. But this room contained
another object equally remarkable. Fastened by the
legs to four posts, which were erected in the apartment,
a bull lay upon his back. It was dead, an incision, about
two feet in length, had been made in its stomach, whence
the intestines had been taken; the floor in the immediate
vicinity of the animal was marked with the imprints of
human feet, naked—those imprints being stam ed in
blood! These traces were continued to the side 0 a bed
in the neighbouring corner of the apartment; and the
sheets were saturated with gore. '
“ While I was yet lost in astonishment at the contem-
plation of these most extraordinary objects, which, in
some respects, rather reminded me of a butcher’s
slaughter-house than a room in ahandsome palazzo, I
heard footsteps behind me. Turning hastily round, I
beheld a young and beautiful woman; and at the same
instant my eyes caught a glim se of the retreating figure
of a man. But that man ! I sit convinced he was none
other than Walstein. The lady—who was elegantly
dressed, and certainly the loveliest woman, save one, that
I had ever seen in m life—advanced towards me, and
said, ‘ What means this intrusion 7’ I explained to her
the circumstances which had brought me thither. She
cast upon me a lance that seemed meant to read the
secrets of the son ; and then, in an imperious tone, de-
manded in name. ‘ I am the Baron of Czernin,’ was my
answer; ‘ at as I am considered an intruder, signora, I
will immediately retire.’—‘ You will do well, my lord, to
leave this place no wiser than when you entered it !’ she
said, in a deeply impressive tone, casting, at the same
time, a significant glance around the room. ‘ I mean,’
she adde , ‘beware how you ever breathe a word of those
things which you have thus accidentally seen.’ She then
waved her hand in an imperious manner, and I imme-
diately withdrew. I may, however, mention that this
lady wore upon the middle fin er of her right hand a
rin , with an ornament shaped ike a lion’s head, small,
am of exquisite workmanship, with diamonds of im-
mense value for the eyes.
“ The moment I had gained the street, I hurried back
to the hotel, anxious to satisfy myself whether the per-
son whom I had twice taken for Walstein was really he
or not. But on entering our apartment at the hotel, I
found him sitting composed] near the table, on which
stood a halfemptied flask 0 wine. I questioned him,
but he assured me, in the most positive terms, that he
had not quitted the hotel during the evening. I was
staggered; but he spoke with so much assurance, that I
was compelled to believe him. I then related all I had
seen in the stran e mansion. He asked me if I had
thought of inquiring to whom the house belonged. I
confessed that I had not, and he immediately offered to
accompany me into the neighbourhood, to ascertain the
point. I was, however, weary, and my curiosity was ab-
sorbed in the contemplation of my own affairs. I ac-


88
PA US T.


cordingly declined the proposal, and retired to my
chamber. \
“ Early in the morning Walstein and myself embarked
in a gondola, and were ferried over to the continent.
There we were joined by three armed men, whom Wal-
stein had already hired to escort us, the north of Italy
being then, as now, infested with banditti. We pursued
our journey, and in a few days entered the defiles of the
Julian Alps, which we intended to cross into Carniola.
But we had not proceeded far, when the villany of my
companions demonstrated itself. The three armed men
were named Fritz, Karl, and Conrade ; Fritz, the leader
of the others, stands, my lords, before you! We had
reached a but, where I proposed to pass the night; but
no soonerhad sleep overta en me, when I was bound,
plundered of my remainingajewels, and borne away to
that convent where I since nguished eight years.
“ I was imprisoned in a covered court, at one end
of which was a wall, with a huge door, in which
there was a guichet. The guichet was usually kept
locked; but on several occasions the negligence of
my ‘uards left it unfastened. There would I stand
for ours, gazing through that opening upon the
defile, without dreaming of that 11 erty of which it
seemed I was to be de rived for ever! Six years
ago I saw a man in the defi e, and I implored him to save
me. But my guards were within hearing, and sallying
out, they made that person their risouer. He is now
here,” continued the Baron, turning towards Mazzini,
“ and can tell on how he was treated b those who 'cap-
tnred him. ime wore on: and at distant intervals I
saw other travellers,—always singly,—in the defile; but
either my appeals to them were nnavailing, or my guards
were near, and they were made risoners. The treat-
ment they experienced ma be 'u ged from that which
Mazzini and another,” sai the aron, glancing towards
Otto, “met with in the same place. At length this
generous young man,” and the Baron again indicated
Pianalla with a look, “ appeared in the defile,—an event
which led to my deliverance.
‘,‘ But, in the meantime, my existence was miserable
during the long and tedious period of eight years. I
never saw Walstein from the moment he betrayed me
into captivity until this morning - but there was one in
the convent who persecuted me during the first two or
three years of my captivity to assign over to him the
whole'of my possessions. This man was the Superior,—
Father Anselm. I consented to divide my fortune with
him as the price of my freedom; but he refused the
terms. At length, when,—wearied with rotracted con-
finement, and ever anxious to communicate with the
Lady Notaras at Damascus,——I assented to Anselm’s con-
ditions, I learnt that I must remain in custody until the
transfers were fully completed, beyond reservation, by
the Superior's entsinVienna. Iimmediatelysnspected
treachery. He w 0 was vile enough to retain an innocent
man in captivity, would not hesitate, I thought, to keep
me still a prisoner, even after I had surrendered all my
wealth. Moreover, I felt persuaded that the idea of my
freedom on such terms was a mere chimera, as b releas-
ing me, after the total consummation of his wic edness,
the Sn erior would onl be endangering himself, in case
I sho d appeal to the justice of my COHIIiJIY'S tribunals.
I therefore indignantly refused to accede o the condi-
tions proposed; and during the last four or five ears of
my captivity, I heard no more of the terms wit which
the Superior had previously sought to coerce me into the
renunciation of my property.
“ Alas! it appears that more effectual means have been
taken to acquire those vast estates—that princely for-
tune! By means of the secrets and detailed information
he had gleaned from me in the Turkish galley—by the
possession of the jewels of which he plundered me in the
Julian Alps—and by the aid of that striking personal
similarity which exists between us—that detestable im-
postor," added the Baron, ointing towards Gregory
Walstein, who quailed beneat the indi ant glance of
the man whom he had so foully wronge —“ that detest-
able impostor, I say, has obtained possession of my rank
and property. .
“ My lords, I have now concluded this sad narrative.
Whether my captivity originated in that adventure which
befell me at Venice, or whether it was merely the result
of the villany of the impostor now trembling before on,
I cannot determine. The wisdom of this tribunal wi I no
doubt penetrate that mystery.
“ For the loss of my property I am consoled by the
admirable conduct of that amiable and devoted lady who
is now the Baroness of Czernin. Her wealth—which is

far greater than the fortune I have lost—is more than
ample to insure our happiness and prosperity. But
justice—an outraged societiy‘l—and my own dee wrongs,
demand the punishment of ritz and Gregory VEalstein."
“ Your lordship has, then, no charge to prefer against
the prisoner Schurmann P” said the president, when the
sensation produced b this extraordinary narrative had
in some degree subsi ed.
“ None, my lord,“ was the reply.
“ Then Schurmann is free," said the chief 'udge.
“Gregory Walstein and Fritz must be conduct back
to confinement. The proceedings are adjourned until to-
morrow."
CHAPTER XLV.
wno IS sus?
Tun narrative of the Baron of Czernin had produced an
extraordinary sensation in the minds of all who heard it,
as we have said above. The adventure in Venice was of
so profoundly mysterious and dark a nature as to defy
conjecture ; and yet everyone more or less connected it
wit 1 the rigorous captivity which the Baron had endured
in the convent.
The moment the day's proceedings were over, Count
Koni sen, the Chief Judge, repaired straight to the im-
peri alace, and related to the Emperor the particulars
of the aron of Czernin’s history.
Maximilian was generous and liberal. He immediately
confirmed the Baron in his title and dignity, and
ordered a handsome income to be settled upon him from
the Imperial Treasury. His Majesty then despatched a
special courier to the governor of Laybach, in Carniola,
with instructions to adopt immediate measures for the
military occu ation of the Capuchins' Convent in the
Julian Alps. he despatches to that authority contained
a plan of the exact osition of the convent, with its three
avenues of approac , the map havin been carefully pre-
pared for the purpose b Otto Piana a. _
The President of the ribunal then withdrew from the
imperial presence, and proceeded to the mansion in which
the Baron of Czernin and Irene had taken u their abode,
and where Otto Pianalla, Mazzini, an Nina were
honoured nests. They were all delighted at the tokens
of imperia favour manifested towards the Baron, and
were scarcely less gratified with the intelli ence that
measures had been already adopted to crush t e nest of
vipers cradled in the wilds of the Julian Alps.
Having hastily referred to these matters, which it was
necessary to relate for several reasons, we must return to
the moment when the proceediiigs in the tribunal closed
for the day.
The two prisoners were removed—Schurmann was set
at libert -—and the crowds poured from the body of the
court. ' he veiled lady, wit the peculiar ring upon her
finger, did not, however, immediately rise to depart. She
seemed to linger until the pressure of the multitude
should have subsided. Such was, indeed, her intention;
223 so soon as the audience had dispersed, she left the
cry.
Having issued from the court, she struck into one of the
narrowest and least frequented of those streets which
radiated towards the area where the tribunal stood. Her
pace was hurried, and to the acute observer bespoke some
agitation of manner on her part.
All this was not unobserved by Faust, who had been
narrowly watching her from the moment when the Baron
had narrated his Venetian adventure.
It was now nearly dark; and the lady was pursuing
her way, unconscious of having attracted an particular
attention There was, however, light enoug i to enable
Faust to distinguish the delicacy of the feet which tripped
so lightly along, and to mark with admiration the faultless
contours of that form which the dark veil could not con-
ceal. .
Suddenly the lady felt a gentle tap u on the shoulder ;
and at the same instant a voice said in er ear, “ You are
alone, and the streets of Vienna are not well guarded by
night. Permit me to escort you to your destination."
“ I am more afraid of the rudeness of obtrusive cavaliers
and gallants, than of the aggression of robbers.“ _
Such was the reply which the lady gave ; and, although
her manner and tone were alike haughty and imperious,
still they could not impair the soft melody of her voice.
" Nay, lady, reject not in offer, which was meant in all
befitting courtesy,“ said aust. “ You come from the
tribunal, where I also have been a listener to a wondrous
tale, notthe least interesting portion of which," he added,
significantly, “ was the Venetian episode?
\‘
t
_L-.._ r


FA US T.
89

“ Ah! what mean you, sir ?“ exclaimed the lady; then,
instantly composing herself, she said, “ The episode to
which on allude savoured rather of a romance than of
an inci ent of real life.”
“ Yes, lady, were I not aware that it is no romance, I
might partake the scepticism which you, however, only
affect,’ returned Faust
“ Your words are rude, sir,” replied the lady. “ Which
way lies your path? Because mine will be in the opposite
direction.” ..
“ I cannot permit you to traverse these streets alone,"
persisted Faust. “ Moreover, I feel an interest in con-
versin with you. Perhaps you may know me by name.
I am t eCount of Aurana." _
“ Ah!” ejaculated the lady. “ Then ou were interested
to some extent in the roceedings of t is day i’"
“ In what manner, _ady P” demanded Faust.
“ Is not the impostor’s life in danger, and does not his
disgrace in some degree affect our lordship’s aramour,
the beautiful Ida ?” asked the ad , in calm an measured
terms—the German language in er mouth receivin an
inexpressible charm from the soft Italian tones in w ich
it was uttered.
“ You have s oken boldly, lady, thus to allude to the
fame of Ida—w om, perhaps, on do not know,“ said
Faust. “ But I understand it a 1 now," he added, a light
breaking in upon his mind. “ You are acquainted With
Gregory Walstein? Yes—there can be no doubt of that.
And he has revealed to you secrets which he had better
have retained in his own breast.” _
- “ N o matter whence I derived my information,’ said
the lady, with a gentle laugh. “ You acknowledge that
it is correct P"
“ And you on our part, lady," retorted Faust, “ must
admit that the enetian adventure of the Baron of Czernin
might receive full corroboration from our lips. The ring
upon your finger is fashioned with a lion’s he .”
“ Nay—you err, my lord,“ exclaimed the lady, laughing
slightly again. “ See—it has the head of a viper."
As she spoke, she approached a window, whence shone
a flood of light ; and holding up her exquisitely modelled
hand, displayed upon the taper finger a ring of the form
which she described.
“ This is certainly a viper’s head,” observed Faust.
“ But the other may be about your rson."
“ I swear most solemnly that I ve worn no other
ring than this throughout the day—that I have no other
concealed about my person,” returned the lady, emphati-
cally; and she moved on, Faust still walking by her side.
“ It were but little courteous in me to dispute with you
relative to the fashion of a ring," continued the Count of
Aurana. “ Albeit, I could swear aasasositively as yourself
that you wore one with a lion's h , wherein diamonds
of costly price represented eyes, this morning in the
gallery of the judgment-hall.”
“As your lordship says, we need not dispute concerning
a ring, ’ exclaimed the lady. “And now—since you have
persisted in forming my acquaintance—allow me ask what
course your lordship intends to pursue with reference to
Gregory Walstein ‘P’
“ Wherefore do you ask, lady P Are you, then, really
interested in that man P Ida wished me to abandon him
to his fate—since he could only live in disgrace, were he
saved."
“ Your lordship admits, then, that (you possess the
power to save him ?" said the lady, rapi ly.
“ My words scarcely implied suchapower on my part,"
observed Faust, smiling.
“ N ay—you do not deny your abilit to save Walstein,"
continued the lady; then, stopping s ort, she said, in an
earnest manner, “ If you do possess that power, my lord,
use it—exercise it; and you will render me our debtor.”
“ I would do much to serve one so eautiful—so
fascinating as you, lady ; but—"
“ How know you that I am beautiful P" she asked.
" Did not the Baron declare that the lady whom he met
in the mansion at Venice was the most lovely woman he
had ever seen, save one ?——and that one meant the Lady
Irene."
" You persist in identifying me with the heroine of his
Venetian romance," said the lady. " And yet you have
seen that the ring has no lion’s head—but a Yiper's."
“ True—4t is a viper’s now.“
“ And has a viper's fangs, too,” added the lady, empha-
tically. “ But let that pass. Are you disposed to serve
me P—can you save Gregory Walstein P"
“ Is it possible that you, lady, can experience any tender
interest in a man of dissipated habits—vulgar manners—-
coarse mind P" demanded Faust.
D

“ And is it possible that the Count of Aurana should be
so little acquainted with the ways of the world as to
imagine that love can be the only motive which may in-
fluence the proceedings of a woman P” asked the lad , in
an imperious tone. “ Believe me, my lord—I am of i 'h
birth: aye, and my father sits upon a throne, whence ‘he
is enabled to control the destinies not onl of his own
dominions, but of Christendom! Now, my 0rd, you can
understand that if I ask much at your hands, it may be
worth the while of even a powerful noble like you to win
my favour.” -
“ Beautiful —m sterious, unaccountable being 1" ex-
claimed Faust, “ ow can I refuse your wishes? Yes,
lady—I do possess the power of- releasing Gregory Wal-
stein. But I would rather earn a smile rom your lips,
and a glance from your lustrous eyes, than all the rewards
which your rank, or our father’s power, may be enabled
to bestow. Indeed, y,“ continued Faust, proudly, “ I
can safel y declare—without idle boasting—that the wealth
:ftlno sovereign is equal to mine; and as for honours and
1 es——
He checked himself, and la bed—almost scornfully—
certainly with triumph, as he would have added,
‘t‘hTholse are also within my grasp—but I reck not of
cm i,
There was a short pause in the conversation; and
during that interval Faust and the mysterious lady were
occu ied with their own eculiar meditations.
“ on say that on ’ serve me, my lord ?" exclaimed
the latter, sudde y pausing beneath another well-lighted
window in the street which they were threadin side by
side. “_Theu behold my countenance—and t ese lips
shall smile upon on, and these eyes express their grati-
tude, and more avour even will I show you, if you can
release Fritz as well as Walstein.”
Thus saying, she drew aside her veil, and revealed a
countenance of dazzling beauty. The well-formed head
was placed proudly upon a beautiful swan-like neck,
which rose from sloping shoulders and a bust modelled
in the most voluptuous mould. She appeared to be about
twenty-eight years of age; and her eyes beamed with the
passions of mature womanhood.
“ Beautiful creature—whoever thou art—I can refuse
thee nothing!“ exclaimed Faust. “ But, if I release both
Fritz and this detestable impostor, Gregory Walstein—if
I do th bidding—may I not meet thee again, to hear
from t ose sweet lips that you are satisfied with my
endeavours to please thee ?”
“ Yes—we will meet again, answered the lady, re~
plac_ing.the veil, and continuing her way, still accom-
panied by Faust. “ Let Fritz and Gregory Walstein be
reed this night—this night, my lord—for to-morrow they
would be put to the torture, and one or both might con~
fess more than I choose them to reveal,—and to-morrow
evemn , at dusk, I will meet you on the southern ram-
part 0 the city. And now let us separate ; we understand
each other—the conditions are specific."
“ Adieu, fair one," said Faust. “To-morrow evening
we shall meet on the southern rampart.“
He then turned and retraced his steps, while the mys-
terious lady pursued her way.
But, b a strange coincidence, Ida overheard the part-
ing wor of the Count of Aurana. She was on her way
towards the city-gate communicating with the road
leading to his mansion; for she wished to see him in
consequence of the day’s proceedings in the tribunal, an
account of which had duly reached her. The moment
she recognised his voice, and saw that he was with a
female, s e stepped into the deep recess of a doorwa ',
and those words, “ To-morrow evening we shall meet on i r
southern rampart,” fell upon her ears. That was all she
heard of her lover's dialogue with the veiled lady; but it
was sufficient to arouse all the bitter and raneorous
hatred of her envenomed mind. She knew that Faust
was beyond the reach of her vengeance—that, until the
completion of his term of twenty-four years, he bore a
charmed life, inaccessible to either poison or dagger; but
she resolved to wreak her revenge upon the female whom
she immediately conceived to be her rival.
It must be observed that lda merely overheard the
words confirming the appointment between Faust and
the lady, and that she was, therefore, totally unaware of
the contemplated liberation of Gregory Walstein.
It was precisely upon this latter point that Ida had
wished to consult Faust. The ambitious woman had all
along aimed at becoming the Countess of Aurana, because
she had hoped that, when once united to Faust, she
should be enabled to induce him to invest himself with
even higher titles—the glory of which she would share.
,’


90
FA US T.

I
Hence her previous attempt upon the life of Theresa, for
she had determined that, so soon as the Countess was
removed from this mortal sphere, her own husband
should not be lon ere he also ceased to trouble her with
his presence in this world. We have, however, seen how
mysteriously her designs were frustrated by the antidote
administered through Pianalla’s agency to Theresa, anl
by the death of the poison-vender.
Now Ida was balancing between the idea of abandoning
her husband to his fate, and the dread that he might
reveal a circumstance materiall affecting herself. She
wished to be rid of him, and s e yet trembled for her
secret. It was upon this point that she had been anxious
to consult Faust, when she so strangely overheard the
appointment he made with one whom she instantly con-
ceived to be a rival paramour.
She paused—she reflected. Then she suddenly deter-
mined ntpon allowing her husband's affair' to take its
chance, or she felt persuaded that Faust would adopt
some measure to seal the impostor’s tongue in respect to
the revelations which would not only compromise her in
one particular way, but also proclaim the illicit amour
which she had carried on with the Count of Aurana.
“ Yes,” she said, “ Faust, for his own sake, will take
care of that danger. Let me think only of vengeance
against my rival!”
And with these words, she retraced her steps to the
Czernin mansion, which she still occupied, although she
was well aware that she should soon be compelled to sur-
render it to its rightful owner.
_—
CHAPTER XLVI.
'rnn FIVE INCIDENTS.
EARLY on the following morning strange rumoiu‘s were
current in the imperial city of Vienna.
The preceding night had been fertile in incidents of a
character to supply the inhabitants with ample food for
conversation, and to fill the authorities with dismay.
In the first place Fritz and Gre ry Walstein had
escaped from the dungeon in which ey both were con-
fined. Although heavily shackled and chained to the
wall, they had rid themselves of both fetters and
manacles; the door of their dungeon was forced open;
and the iron bars were removed from a window in the
corridor leading to their cell. But how they had
escaped the vigilance of the sentinels in the street be-
neath, the authorities could not conceive. The fact was,
however, too apparent: the prisoners had escaped!
The second incident was the assassination of the impe-
rial courier, who had left Vienna on the preceding even-
ing, charged with despatches for the governor of Lay-
bach. The unfortunate man had been discovered in a
wood, about five miles from the capital, stabbed to the
heart with a dagger, the handle of which was surrounded
with a cord—dread emblem of the vengeance of the
Bloody League! To that cord was fastened a slip of
paper, whereon the following words were written, and to
which the usual symbolic signature of three daggers was
appended :— .
“Let all those who meditate mischief against the
members of the Holy Vehm, take warning from the fate
of this man! The Holy Vehm strikes alike them that
plot evil designs against its authority, and them that
bear the commands of those who so conspire. “ H
_i II
This courier’s money and weapons were all safe about
his person ; but his despatches had disappeared.
The third incident—and the one which seemed to exceed
the two first in actual audacity, although it was outdone
by the second event in respect to criminality—was this :—
‘then the Emperor Maximilian awoke in the morning,
his eyes fell upon a d ger sticking in a table near his
couch. The weapon 8had the cord twined round its
handle; and a slip of parchment, fastened to it, con-
tained the single but expressive word, “ Beware !”
The fourth incident was a rumour that a man, who
had been publicly executed, at least twenty-five years
prevzously, had been seen in Vienna on the precedin even-
ing. This was Ulric Kinis, the sentinel who h. been
bribed by the physician, on the occasion of the birth of
the Archduke Leopold, in the memorable conspiracy
relative to the change of infants in the Chamber of the
Cradle. Two persons, who had been well acquainted With
the Hungarian soldier, declared most solemnly that they
had seen him, habited in the garb of a monk. One stated
that he had met him in the neighbourhood of the tribunal,

shortly after sunset; and the other alleged that he had
seen him leave one of the southern gates of the capital, an
hour later. These two persons were unacquainted with
each other, although t cy had both been on intimate
terms with Ulric Kinis; and, consequently, there could
be no possibility of collusion between them, for any par-
ticular purpose, in spreadiu such a report. They
declared, that though time glad greatly altered the
Hungarian, yet such was the peculiar cast of his features,
and the remarkable ex ression of his countenance, they
had perfectly recollech him.
Still everyone, who was old enough to carry his rc-
miniscences so far backward, was aware that Ulric Kinis,
the physician, and the nurse (the physician’s wife)‘ had
been hanged on the ramparts of the capital, and their
bodies given over to the gaol-surgeon for dissection.
These surgeons were now no more; but the possibility of
Ulric Kinis bein still in the land of the living was
viewed with wonder and suspicion.
These four incidents—the escape of the risoners, the
assassination of the courier, the emblems o the Vehm in
the imperial bed-chamber, and the reappearance of Ulric
Kinis,—wcre, as we have already stated, sub'ects of
serious comment on the part of the worthy inhabitants of
Vienna, and of dismay to the authorities.
But the day was destined to close with another—a fifth
incident, equally calculated to produce a deep impression
throughout the capital.
A quarter of an hour before sunset, the veiled lady
appeared upon the southern rampart of Vienna. -
“ I had some trouble to get quit of my brother Czesar,”
she murmured to herself, as she arranged her veil with
her delicate white hand, on the middle finger of which
was the curious ring—now bearing the lion’s head, as
Faust had first seen it in the court on the previous day.
“ Caesar is so suspicious,” she continued, again conceal-
ing her hand beneath the dense veil: “ but I was deter-
mined to keep my word with the Count of Aurana—he is
so handsome! I have heard much of this nobleman.
But of whom that is eminent for wealth, title, or sin.
gularity of character, do I not know much ? With such
means of procuring information at its command—~with
such connections—with such-riches—with such power, as
my family ossesses,—-what cannot we achieve P How
vain—how utile are the machinations of my enemies!
One by one they fall suddenly into the tomb—and no one,
save ourselves, comprehends the mystery of their death!
Oh ! our name is great—aye, and terrible throughout the
world ! But this Faust—this Count of Aurana! He, too,
must have his secret: else whence his sudden elevation—
his boundless wealth—his vast influence ? Whence that
contempt for honours and titles—as if the world were
within his grasp-as it soon shall be within that of my
father P How astonished will he be when I tell him my
name! Yes—I will reveal myself to him: he has served
me well—and his disposition mates with mine. Caesar
will find him a valuable friend. With such an agent at
the German court, our schemes would prosper grandly
thoughcut this vast empire ;-—for it is not sufficient for
our family to exercise dominion in Italy alone! No—thc
name of———”
The ambitious woman was so lost in her meditations
that a cavalier with waving plume, and muflied in a cloak,
was close to her, ere she was aware even of his approach.
“ Faust,” she murmured, in a low tone.
“ No—not Faust, whom you expect, vile woman !"
ejaculated Ida—for it was she, in male attire ; “ but one
who loves Faust, and who cannot endure a rival !"
Thus saying, Ida precipitated herself upon the veiled
lady, and aimed a desperate blow at her bosom With a
long dagger which she held in her hand.
But the r ght arm of the infuriate woman was em-
barrassed Wit the folds of the cloak; and the lady also
stepped a pace or two back at the moment the dagger was
about to descend,—so that the aim was missed.
Ida instantly recovered herself, and was prepared to
deal a second blow, when the veiled lady, quickly as
thought, touched her ring, the lion's head of which
instantly changed into the shape of a viper's. Then,
catching Ida’s arm with her left hand, and thus warding
off the blow, the lady touched her assailant's cheek With
the point of the viper's head.
All this was the work of a moment; and the lady again
stepped a few paces backward.
Then she stood still—well aware that she was no longer
in danger.
N o—for the effect of the poisoned ring was instan-
taneous: Ida uttered a faint cry, and fell heavily upon
the rampart—a corpse!


PA US T.
91

“I dare not meet the Count of Aurana now!” mur-
mured the lady, turning hastily away.
CHAPTER XLVII.
wao is an?
SCARCELY had the veiled lady retreated twenty yards
from the spot where Ida’s death was effected in so strange
and sudden a manner, when a thought struck her.
“ It will be better that this deed should appear the
work of a robber," she murmured to herself.
Then, without another moment’s hesitation, she re-
traced her steps to the scene of that terrible and myste-
rious assassination. .
N 0 one was near ; and now the silvery light of the
placid moon played upon the countenance of the
murdered woman.
“ I am not frightened at death—I have seen too much
of it," said the veiled lady to herself, with a contemptuous
curl of her lip.
She glanced rapidly around, to assure herself that there
was no dread of interruption: and, steeping down, she
hastily rifled the corpse. Concealed about da's person
was a letter; this the veiled lady took, together with the
purse and rings of the murdered woman.
The dagger which Ida had wielded lay upon the ground
—the moonbeams kissing its bright blade, as an innocent
child might caress a sleeping snake.
The veiled lady seized the dagger, and plunged it into
the breast of the corpse.
At that moment approaching footsteps fell upon the
ears of the veiled lady; and, rapid as thought, she hur-
ried away from the ram art.
In another minute, aust, wrapped in his mantle,
arrived at the spot where the terrible deed had been per-
petrated. .
‘ Seeing a human form lying u on the ground, he stooped
towards it—he gated upon its ace.
“ Ida!” he exclaimed : “ and in male attire! Ida—-
murdered—dead! Who could have done this ? Ah ! her
purse—her rings are gone: her garments have been torn
open and rifled. This is the work of a robber.“
“ Short-sighted mortal!” murmured the portentons
voice of the Demon in his ears; and at the same moment
a shadow was thrown u on the spot, interrupting the
pure flood of the moonlig t.
Faust turned hastil round, and exclaimed, “ What
dost thou here? I di not summon thee."
“ No,“ replied the Demon, folding his arms across his
breast, and gazing with a sort of diabolical satisfaction
upon the corpse of the murdered woman; “ but I knew
that you would be anxious to learn whose hand has
robbed you of your paramour. Short-sighted mortal, I
say again : do you suppose that one who has the will and
the power to perpetrate a deed like this, is not also en-
dowed with the cunning necessary to give a particular
aspect to the crime ? Where—after all-~is the ingenuity
in riding a corpse, in order to create a belief that a
‘ robber‘s hand inflicted the deadly blow?”
“ True 1” exclaimed Faust, struck by this observation.
“ But did you behold the deed P were you nigh—and did
you raise no hand to save this woman, who was to some
extent dear to me i‘”
“I was here—on this very spot, when the blow was
struck,“ answered the Demon. “Invisible to both the
murdered and the assassin, I saw it all. But Ida’s time
had come—and no power which I possess could have
availed her."
" Who was her assassin P Speak l” exclaimed Faust.
“ A woman," was the reply. “ Ida had overheard your
appointment with the lady on whose finger you beheld a
ring of marvellous workmanship; and she came hither to
avenge herself 'upon her rival. Behold that slight scratch
upon the check of the dead: it was the lady’s ring which
did it—a ring than which no viper’s fang contains a more
deadl poison.“
“ Ah I“ cried Faust; “ that ring filled me with strange
suspicions I"
“ Thus it was that your Ida died by the touch of that
ring," continued the Demon, in a calm and measured
tone, as if he were relating some pleasant tale; “and
then the dagger, which was to have wreaked her ven-
geance upon a supposed rival, was plunged into her on
iosom.“
“ 1 must know more of that mysterious lady of the veil
and ring," said Faust, after a. pause. “ I beheld her
countenance for a few moments—and never saw I aught
more lovely in the shape of a human face."

“Not even Theresa's ?" asked the Demon, with a
chuckle.
“ No—not even Theresa’s," replied Faust.
l‘l‘lNor Ida's P" continued the fiend, more sarcastically
St .
“ No-nor Ida’s,“ answered the Count. “ But take me
at once to the abode of this mysterious fair one."
“Wilt then leave the corpse of thy late paramour
thus exposed upon the city ramparts P" demanded the
Demon.
“ For me to proclaim the discovery of this murdered
woman, were to risk suspicions injurious to myself," said
Faust. “ It must remain here—the next passer-by will
raise the alarm ; and the corpse will then be removed with
befitting decenc -. Come—I am burning with curiosity
to know more 0 the lady of the ring. Where does she
reside? who is she ? what is her name? Yesterday she
spoke mysteriously of her rank and family power: her
father, she declared, was seated upon a throne; but, I
apfess, I attached little importance to so strange a
e‘lI
“She did not deceive you, Faust," answered the
Demon. “ Yes—her father is a powerful sovereign—and
she is wedded to the near relative of a reigning Prince.“
“ She is married, you say P" exclaimed Faust, somewhat
disap eluted by this announcement.
“ S e is wedded to her second. husband,” returned the
Demon. “ But what of that? She is the mistress of her
own acts—the universe cannot control her imperious will!
Were l to speak in the language which you mortals so
often use, 1 should say that beneath the form of an angel
lurks the heart of a fiend—aye, of a very fiend!”——and
he chuckled ominously. “ But enough of this discourse
at the present moment. Restrain thy curiosity a little,
Faust; and I will show thee strange things. Give me
thine hand." -
The Count of Aurana did as he was desired; and in
another moment himself and the Demon—now both
invisible to mortal eyes—stood in a large apartment in a
house belon, ing to a respectable but secluded street out-
side the wal of Vienna.
The room was well furnished, and contained, at the
moment when Faust and the Demon thus strangely
entered it, two persons. One was Father Anselm, the
Superior of the Capnohin convent in the Julian Alps;
the other was a man about thirty years of age, tall and .
slender, with black hair, dark eyes. a pale complexion,
and an auburn beard. He was attired in a violet~
coloured doublet, slashed on the shoulders and at the
elbows; and on his 'h d he wore a black velvet cap,
with a long dark plu e which waved over his left
shoulder.
These two persons were seated at a table, on which
were dishes of fruits, flagons of wine, and crystal drink-
ing-cups. At the moment when Faust and the Demon
introduced themselves into the a artmeut, its occupants
—who of course remained per ectly unaware of any
intrusion that was efiected in a manner alike noiseless
and unseen—were continuing their conversatiOn in the
following manner :—
“ You are therefore determined to leave Vienna this
night, father P” said the young man .
“ Yes, my lord," answered the priest. “ The German
capital is no place for me. A rumour, of a nature to fill
me with apprehension, has prevailed throughout the
day; and two persons have declared positively that they
met me. You know to what I allude. Then, again, a
chief of the Secret Tribunal should never linger in the
capital—the place where' the power of the Vehm is most
abhorred, and where its authority has least influence.”
“ And yet you contrived to fill the Emperor himself
with alarm—even in the midst of his own palace, and in
the rivacy of his own chamber," returned the other,
laughing heartily.
“ Fortunately for the interests of the Holy Vehm, my
lord,” replied the riest, “one of the imperial pages is
devoted to us ; an it was his hand that planted the Cord
and Dagger on the Emperor‘s table.“
“ But it was not his hand that stopped the progress of
the courier to the governor of Laybach," said Father
Anselm’s companion, again laughing.
“ N 0, my lord," answered the priest, solemnly; “ that
duty was performed by my own hands. The chiefs of
the Vehm must at times—on important occasions—fulfil
the functions of the subordinates. It was necessary that
we should ascertain the precise nature of the commands
sent by the Emperor to the governor of Laybach_; and
by waylaying the courier myself, I incurred no risk of
losing these important documents of which he was the


92
PA US T.

bearer. ,We have thereby discovered that the overnor
was instructed to inundate the defiles of the J u ian A] s
with his troops ; and the map furnished by Otto Piaual
would have taught him how to lant his forces in such
points that all supplies of provisions would be cut ofl’,
and the convent—impregnable as it is to an entire army
—would be compelled to yield to famine,“
“ And are you determined that your adherents shall
abandon the convent altogether P“
“ No, my lord. But, by the steps which I have taken,
--by killing the courier and paralyzing the energies of
Maximilian at least for a few days, by means of that
warning symbol of the Cord and D ger,—I have gained
time sufficient for Fritz and Walstein to reach the con-
vent, and la in provisions necessary to enable the place
to withstan a siege that may weary out the patience of
the governor of Laybach." -
“ The escape of those two adherents of the Holy Vehm
was truly remarkable," observed the priest’s companion.
“ Even they themselves could only give vague and con-
fused accounts of the whole transaction. There is some-
thing beyond all belief in the idea that my sister should
have been enabled to induce the Count of Aurana to exert
himself in that respect.“
“ I cannot understand how her highness should have
any private motive to induce her to deceive us on this
head," observed the priest. “ Be it, however, sufficient
for us that Walstein and Fritz have escaped, and are now
far on their way towards Carniola- In a couple of hours
I shall be pursuing the same path."
“And to-morrow I shall quit Vienna with my sister,"
said the priest's com anion. “ Fortunate was it for Wal-
stein that private a airs of our own happened to bring
us, under fictitious names, to this city at a moment when
his folly had involved him in such a serious embarrass-
ment. I have, however, often smiled at the impudcnce
of the man in availing himself of his similitudeto the
Baron, to personate him and obtain possession of his
propert ."
“ An I, my lord, have never forgiven him for keeping
all that fortune to himself,“ answered the priest, laconi-
cally. - “ Moreover, that ve imposture has led, by a
chain of circumstances, to t c release of the Baron of
Czernin; and whatever were the motives of our lord-
ship and her highness, your sister, for consigning the
Baron to close and perpetual imprisonment—~"
“ Have I not before informed you,“ interrupted the
priest’s companion, “ that this Baron of Czernin one
evening penetrated into our mansion at Venice—when we
were residing for a few weeks under a strict incognito,
while we plotted certain schemes which eventually raised
my father to his present eminence ;—this Baron, I say,
penetrated into our mansion, and there beheld the in-
terior of a particular chamber with whose secrets you are
not unacquainted. Walstein was in the house at the
time; and he had 'ust been 'ving an account of his
adventures at the urkish ga eys and of his intimacy
with that identical Baron, when my sister suddenly re-
membered that the door of the secret chamber had been
left unlocked. She and Walstein proceeded thither—for
Walstein was anxious to possess a phial of Aqua Cantarella:
—alwaf's a useful dru for those who serve our family.
Scarce y had they reac ed the door when they perceived
a person in the room. Walstein instantly retreated; and
my sister advanced to demand an explanation of the in-
truder. She was immediately struck by his likeness to
Walstein ; and was not, therefore, greatly astonished when
he informed her that he was the very Baron of Czernin of
whom Gregory had been previously speaking. He ve
an explanation for his presence in that room, w ich
might or might not be a correct one. It was certainly
true that my mother had been chastising a female de en-
dent—for you know, holy father, that the Spanish b 00d
of in maternal parent frequently boils to a temperature
whic overpowers her patience; and the Baron alleged
that screams of some woman in distress had led him
into the house. Now. surrounded with spies as we
were at that time—and watched by so many enemies, who
were all jealous and suspicions not only of my father, but
of all our family—it was natural for us to adopt precau-
tionary measures. Thus was it that my sister and myself
instructed Walstein to consign the Baron to your custody
in the convent :—-but we did not desire him to personate
his lordship in Vienna," added the priest's companion,
laughing.
“ Your lordship never before explained to me so fully
the reasons of the Baron‘s captivity," observed the priest.
“ But I can now perfectly understand them. At the time
when the Baron penetrated into the secret chamber of

your mansion at Vienna, the interests of your family
might have been seriously compromised by the revelation
of what he had seen there."
“Assuredly, holy father. And never would he have
quitted that house alive, after having beheld the
mysteries of the secret chamber, had not my sister’s heart
been softened by his handsome appearance. Afterwards,
she would not consent to my pro osal, that Walstein,
Fritz, and Conrade should subject iim to the penalty of
the Cord and Dagger; although, for our safet , she
agreed to the idea of his eternal captivity. us, a
woman’s caprice spared him; and he is now at large to
publish all he knows—as he did yesterday in the tribunal
—of the secret chamber.“
“ The Cord and Dagger can reach him still, my lord,"
said the riest, with a significant glance.
“No— et him live,“ was the answer. “He is totally
unaware of the names of those who occupied the house,
whq'ein he beheld such objects; and, moreover," added
the speaker, proudly, “ our family is now too powerful—-
too highly placed, to care about such revelations. - No—
let him live, I say." .
“ As your lordship chooses," was the meek reply. “ I
have received too many benefits at the hands of your
lclilrdshilp’s family to disobey a command from your lord-
s ip‘s ips."
“ We will find thee a rich prelacy soon, good Anselm,"
returned the other; “for thou hast served us long and
faithfully.
“Ah! my lord,” cried the priest, his countenance
becoming animated with a glow of pleasure; “ how
deeply grateful am I for this kind romise !"
“ We will not forget thee, holy ather. But what can
detain my sister thus? I strictly enjoined her to ob-
serve great caution at Vienna; but her unwearied spirit
of gallantry—her endless amours—reiider her as restless
as avghost, and even tend to compromise our gravest
interests. ’ ’
Father Ansleni was about to reply, when the door
opened, and the veiled lady—the object of Faust's new
passion—entered the room.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
inA's ienna.—mi: FUNERAL.
THE lady threw aside her veil, and fiung herself exhausted
upon a seat, exclaiming, “Wine, brother! I am faint and
wearied. Caesar, I say—give me wine."
“And poison with it,”\ muttered the cavalier. in the
violet-coloured doublet, as he filled a crystal goblet, “if
tlficiutgost not obey my wishes more than thou hast done
0 a ."
“ Nay, sweet brother," returned the lady, receiving the
cup with a smile; "wherefore are you ever menacing me
in this wise ? Know you not—_“ and her countenance
grew suddenly dark and fearftu menacing—“ that if
you Pand I commence a warfare, it will be a terrible
one "
Then she drained the goblet of its contents.
“ But this is foolish, Caesar," she continued, throwing
her exquisitely modelled arm over the back of the chair
in such a manner that the mystic ring, which now here
a lion’s head, was fully e osed to the eyes of Faust :
“ of all our family on and must not—dare not quarrel.
We know each 0t er’s ambitious designs, and we are
mutually too useful to those projects to endanger or
ruin all by idle contentions."
“ And yet you are incessantly compromising the incog-
m'to which we deem it necessary to preserve in this city,
by those affairs of gallantry which take you so often
abroad," exclaimed Caesar. “ While the Arch-Chancellor
is exerting all his influence to induce Maximilian to con-
sent to our father’s proposals in respect to the treaty of
friendship, and while so much depends upon the belief
which the Emperor entertains that the Arch-Chancellor
is advising him through purely disinterested motives, you
are seeking adventures which may lead to a recognition
of our presence in Vienna. Then, if the Emperor once
suspected that I had been on the spot, to prompt the
Arch-Chancellor how to act, he would break off all nego-
tiations at once."
“ Granted—granted, dear Caesar," exclaimed his sister.
“ But these words are unnecessary—inasmuch as to-mor-
row we quit Vienna, the Emperor having promised your
friend the Arch-Chancellor to sign the treaty which may
enable our father to dare all his enemies. You will,
however, permit me to observe that my idle ramblings,
as you seem to consider them, have not been altogether


PA US 1'.
93

useless. Did I not accidentally ass by the Czernin man~
sion at the very moment when EValstein was led forth a
prisoner P and perhaps the ho e which I imparted to _him
in a hasty whisper had the e ect of sealing his lips in
respect to secrets which we should not wish revealed, and
{fine}: he might have offered to betray as the price of his
01 y.”
“All this I admit, sister,” answered Caesar. “You
acted with your usual address and presence of mind.”
“Again, sweet brother,” continued the lady, with a
smile, “ you insisted that I should not be present at the
trial yesterday. Know you not by this time that danger
is a mere unsubstantia phantom in my eyes 2' I is-
obeyed you—I visited the judgment hall—and the result
was my encounter with the Lord of Aurana, whom I in-
duced to exercise his influence in effecting the escape of
Walstein and Fritz." "
“ In that instance you were also fortunate,” said
Crcsar. “ But where your wanderings have led to good
results in a few instances, they have involved you in
peril in a thousand others."
“ Peril I” re eated the lady, with a contemptuous toss
of her beaut' ul head and a curl of her haughty lips;
then, assuming a gracious and winning expression of
countenance once more, she added, “ This evening, too,
I have been abroad, contrary to your desire, Caesar; and
what you may term my obstinacy and imprudence may
lead ézo results useful to our best interests at the imperial
cour . ’
“Prove this much, sister,” exclaimed Caesar, “ and I
will never more gainsay thee in thy whims and wishes—
be they what they may.”
“ Listen, then, attentively," continued the lady. “ In
the first place, I have killed Ida—the wife of Gregory
Walstein.” '
“ Is that your grand result ?" demanded Caesar, con-
temptuously.
“ Be not impatient. Ida was the paramour of the
Count of Aurana.”
“And the Count will leave no means untried to dis-
cover the person who has deprived him of his mistress,"
said Caesar.
“ But the Count is in our power,“ answered the lady,
triumphantly. “ N ay—interrnpt me not again: you shall
know all. On Ida's person I discovered a letter addressed
by her to the Count, and which I have already found an
opportunity to glance over. This letter contains an
astounding secret—a secret of so strange a nature—”
At this juncture, Faust turned hastily towards the
Demon and beckoned him im eriously away..
The Demon shook his hea , in a manner which con-
veyed an intimation that they should stay where they
were.
But Faust, who trembled lest Ida mi ht have alluded
in her letter to the incidents of the hamber of the
Cradle and the change of the children, whispered in a
hurried but stern tone, “ Come with inc—I command
you, by virtue of our bond !“
The Demon dared not disobey the adjuration, but took
Faust by the hand; and in another moment they were
standing in a secluded art of the ram ts—at some
gisgance from the spot w ere Faust had iseovered Ida’s
o .
“yltlethinks your lordship was strangely hurried to
quit such good society P" said the Demon in a seornful
tone.
“ Silence, fiend !" ejaculated Faust. “ As yet I am your
master—and ’tis yours to obey !"
“’Tis mine to obey!” returned the Demon.
you any farther commands for me at present ?"
“ One only. Tell me the name of that woman by whose
hand Ida fell.” ‘
“ It is a name that is known throughout Europe,”
answered the Demon,——“ a name at which thousands of
stout hearts tremble.”
“ And that name 'r” cried Faust im atiently. “ Speak !”
The Demon laid his hand upon t e Couut’s shoulder,
and bending his tall form towards him, breathed a name
in his ear.
“ Ah !” ejaculated Faust, with a shudder—yes, even he
shuddered at the mention of that name : “ and this
woman,” he added, musing, “ declares that I am in her
power !” "
“ Have
a r- a a a“
a: a m s a
‘ .
In the meantime a patrol, on egoing his roundsalong
the fortifications, had discover a dead body lying in
the path. It was immediately conveyed to the_nearest
military station ; and, to the surprise of the soldiers, the

deceased, though dressed in male attire, proved to be a
woman. ' . . 1.
One of the archers of the guard, then present, had
been of the number who had arrested Gregor .Walstein,
Fritz, and Schurmann ; upon which occasion e had seen
Ida. He now contemplated the countenance of the mur—
dered woman with attention; and at length he ex ressed
his conviction that the corpse was that of the y who
had espoused the impostor. »
This rumour was speedily circulated throu h Vienna,
even at that late hour; and it reached t e ears of
Pianalla, who immediately repaired to the guard-house.
The report was too well founded! There—stretched
upon a rude bench, and covered over with a rou h mili-
tar cloak—lay the remains ,of the once beauti ul, but
am itious and criminal Ida.
Otto threw himself upon his sister’s corpse, and wept
bitterly. '
The soldiers withdrew; and he was left alone with all
that was left of her whom he had never ceased to love, in
spite of her guilt.
“Ida—my sister—my dearest sister!" he exclaimed,
pressing his lips to her cold brow, which vibrated not to
the touch; “ and hast thou died thus early—perha s un-
repentant P Was the assassin’s dagger to be thy ate-
and haply thy unishment? Oh! if th crimes were
great and manifo d, the mercy of God is a so illimitable !
And may HE, who has created everything for his own
wise purposes,—whose goodness is a parent throughout
all his works,—- and whose hand ' es those who place
their confidence in him,—may e receive th spirit,
de arted girl, into his everlastin rest! Oh! I ave felt
— ull often felt the keenness of t earrows of adversity:
I have drunk deeply of the cup of affliction. I have
known poverty the most bitter—want the most pinching ~
—and yet, 0 God! my trust was ever in Thee! An
sincerely can I say, that whenever, in the anguish of my
heart, have raised my voice in prayer unto thy throne,
hope has entered into my soul—and a voice has seemed
to whisper i my ears, ‘ Thy supplieation is heard!’
How beautifu , then, is prayer—how lovelyis that worship
which the believer offers up to the Deity !” -
Otto fell upon his knees by the side of his sister’s
corpse, and continued to implore, in the most fervent
manner, the mercy of heaven in behalf of his departed
sister.
He rose—soothed, tranquillized by this act of the most
heartfelt devotion. . . ; -
The door opened ; and the Baron of Czernin entered—
follllowed by his servants, carrying a bier covered with 21.
Pa ,
“ My dear young friend,” said Theodore, pressing
Otto’s hand, “the remains of your sister must be con-
veyed to my dwelling; and thence we will all follow them
to the tomb.“
This delicate attention on the
deeply felt by the young artist. '
And all was done as Theodore had promised. The co se
was borne to the house which he temporarily occupi in
Vienna, and at which,'as we have before said, Otto and
his Italian friends were staying.
The Countess of Aurana and the Archduchess Maria
repaired on the following day to weep over the remains of
her who had once been their companion, and of whose
crimes they were happily ignorant.
0n the third morning after her untimely death, Ida
was consigned to the tomb, over which many tears were
shed and fervent prayers were breathed by those who
attended the mournful obsequies.

part of the Baron was
__
CHAPTER XLIX.
ROME.
THE scene new changes to the Eternal City; and Time
has given birth to the year 1497.
.Rolme is busy and bright with all the gaiety of the Car-
mva .
Within its circuit of thirteen miles—in all its vast
gardens and vine ards,——throughout its narrow streets
lined with magnificent structures,——along the Strada
Felice, and around its .beautiful church of Saint Maria
Magiiorc,——in theStrada di Porta Pia, at one end of
hic stands a splendid gate, and at the other a group of
noble statues,—all round the apal palace on .thc
Quirinal Hill,—in the vicinity of) the Pantheon, that
beautiful monument of Roman taste which survived the
depredations of Goth, Vandal, and Pope,—-up to the very
walls of the Coliseum, that amphitheatre of Vespasian,


94
FA UST.

which is the most stupendous relic of antiquity in the
Eternal City,—in a word, everywhere might be seen
crowds of masques, in all the fantastic and sometimes
tasteful variety of an Italian Carnival.
Rome was at that epoch a grand and a mighty city ;
and its neighbourhood was as delightful and as attractive
as it is now barren and unhealthy.
But at the time of which we are writing, the fearful
contest between the families of Orsino and Colonna had
not desolated the vast Campagna, nor changed its rich
fertility into a miasmatie waste.
Around the Eternal City were beautiful villa es, where
dwelt a gallant people—tillers of a fair land. T e thresh-
ing-floor was covered with the heavy grain; the stately
ox, likea pampered epicure, was dainty amidst the richest
herbage of the earth. -
Throughout the Roman States were spacious towns,
bustling cities, and crowded quays, with all the graceful
decorations of social life: there, too, the civilization of
the age prevailed in all its glitter, its gaiety, its beauty,
and its strength.
Looking beyond those centres of light, the eye beheld
a rural popu ation, happy, industrious, and possessing
hearts overflowing with warm and generous emotions.
There, too, were the fat pastures, the tillaged field, and
the wide landscape teeming with its blessed fruits ;—
there also were the most precious ornaments of the
scene,—-the neat cottage, the thriving village, the manu-
facturingltown.
Such were the Roman States-such, too, was Italy, at
that period!
Alas! where now are the lorious stir of industry, the
ferment of toil, the proud esire of competence, which
swells the veins and muscles of a sound society? Oh!
where they should be are only wretched huts, and squalid
habits, and wasted forms; recklessness and crime ; rags,
and misery, and want.
But it is with the Rome of 1497 that we have now to
do; and, as we have before said, gay was the Eternal
City at that period! _
The arena, called the Square of Saint Peter, was
crowded with masques, all performing a thousand antics,
to amuse a group of noble personages who were stationed
in a balcon of the Vatican. The Cathedral of Saint
Peter, whic now stands upon a portion of that vast
space, was not then in existence. Even the Vatican
itself—that gorgeous palace which has been enriched by
the genius of so many great architects—was at that
period only remarkable as an immense and ancient build-
ing.
Foremost among the spectators in the balcon of the
Vatican was Pope Alexander VI. This Ponti , of in-
famous memory, was originally named Roderi o Lenzioli
Borgia; and by birth he was a Spaniard. hen in the
prime of life, he was implored by a dying friend to ro-
tect the wife and two daughters who were about to ose
their natural defender. Roderigo promised; and his
friend died in peace. Shortly afterwards the widow was
laid by the side of her husband; but with her'last breath
she besought Roderigo to be a father to her unprotected
daughters. He again promised faithfully; but scarcely
was the funeral over, when he consigned one of the
orphans to a convent, and made the other his mistress.
This latter was named Rosa Vanozza, and was reputed
to be the most beautiful woman of the age. Five children
were the issue of this connection.
At the time when we introduce the Pope to our readers,
he was about sixt -seven years of age—a hale, healthy
man, in ;pite of a ong life of debauchery, intrigue, and
crime. ear him in the balcony sate Rosa Vanozza,
whose countenance bore the remains of that transcen-
dant beauty which had once been so famous throughout
Europe. On the other side of the Pope was his son, the
Duke of Valentinois, who scarcely a year previously to
this period had assassinated his eldest brother, the Duke
of Gandia.
But while the Papal family and several cardinals were
cnjo 'ng in the balcony the spectacles of mummery be-
neat , an incident, which we must record, took place in
another part of the city. .
It was in a narrow street, called the Strada della
Lingara, that Faust was standing apart from the crowd,
beneath a deep archway, into which he had retreated‘to
avoid the pressure of the multitude.
It was about an hour after mid-day; and the heat was
intense. But, in spite of the oppressive nature of the
atmosphere, the Carnival sports relaxed not; nor did the
crowd diminish.
Faust had been some minutes beneath the arch when a

female, in fancy costume, and wearing a black silk mask,
suddenl emerged from the multitude and approached
him. or form was of the most exquisite s metry, the
graceful contours and voluptuous pro ortions of which
were set off by the light attire of a s epherdess which
she wore; and from behind the mask a pair of brilliant
eyes shot forth burning, fervent glances.
Laying her delicate hand gently n Faust’s arm, she
said in her musical Italian tones, “ What brings the
Count of Aurana to Rome ?"
Faust started : that voice was well known to him—had
never ceased to vibrate in his ear since he first heard it
in Vienna.
“ Your own matchless beauty, lady, may afford a solu-
tion to that query,“ he replied, seizing her hand and
pressing it with rapture. '
“ Your lordship is pleased to be complimen ," she
exclaimed, lau hi , and withdrawing 'her hand, s owly.
“ I declare t at was never more serious in m life,”
returned Faust. “ Since I saw you in Vienna, vain y have
I endeavoured to conquer the passion with which you
have inspired me. Your image has haunted me night
and day. At length I could endure these tortures of the
heart no longer : I accordingly set out on a journey
hither—with the hope of meeting you again.”
“And when did you arrive in this city ?” asked the
lady, after a short pause.
“This morning,” was the answer; “ and Fortune has
already favoured me, since she has enabled me so soon to
attain the object of my hope.” ‘
“ Then you were not aware that this house is my own
residence 1*” continued the lady. “ No! In that case, I
must act the part of a hostess to convince you that the
Fortune whom you admire has actually conducted you to
in very door.”
ith these words she ulled the wire of a bell: a side-
door was opened by a emale servant; and the lady led
the way into a magnificently furnished apartment on the
ground floor, the windows of which looked not upon the
narrow street, but on a beautiful arden.
The lady threw aside her mas , and-ordered the ser-
vant to bring refreshments. This command was imme-
diately obeyed; cakes, preserves, and wines of the most
exquisite description were introduced on a silver tray;
and the lady made a signal for the domestic to with-
raw.
“ You remember, lady, how we parted in Vienna," said
Faust, when he was once more alone with his beautiful
hostess. “A certain agreement existed between us: it
was my part to effect the release of two persons in whom
an felt somewhat interested ;—_—and my reward was to
a glance of thanks from those bright eyes and a smile
on those sweet lips. But, lady, we met not according to
appointment.”
“ You were too late, my lord,” answered the lady ;
“for I declare most solemnly that I was true to the
place and the hour named."
“And when I reached the appointed spot,” said Faust,
attentively watching his fair companion’s countenance,
“ I found not a beautiful woman, warm with animation
--but a cold and bleeding corpse.”
“ The body of your paramour Ida,” observed the lady,
without changing colour or betraying the least agitation.
“ I also beheld the same lamentable s 1e.“
“ And doubtless our quick eye noticed the mark upon
her face—trifling t 011in it were P“ said Faust.
“ Yes—I noticed even that,” was the unembarrassed
repl .
“¥Va.s the corpse rifled—plundered, at the time you
. beheld it, lady P" asked the Count.
“Even as you describe it," returned the unblushiiig
fair one. “But way do we thus dissemble our real
feelings? why do we thus affect a mutual ignorance?
Away with such child's sport, my lord! Doubtless you
are well aware that Ida fell by my hand? But I sought
not her death—I knew her not; I had no injury to
avenge—no enemy to remove in her! I slew her in self-
defence, my lord,—~as' I have slain others—andas I would
slay you, were you to cross my path."
With these words, she drew from her bosom the ring
bearing the ominous lion-head, and leisurely placed it
upon her finger.
“ That is your weapon," observed Faust, coolly. .
“ Yes, my lord: the one which mystified you somewhat
in Vienna," was the re ly, accompanied by a laugh.
“ This lion's-head isharm ess : see, I will press it against
my cheek. But, now,"——and, touching a secret spring,
the leonine efii suddenly changed into the head of a
viper,—“ now,’ she continued, “the slightest touch were


FA US T. " .
95
l'leath-instantaneous death—as with that Ida whom you
regre ."
“ I regret her not when I behold you," said Faust. “ But
wherefore did you rifle the corpse of her whom you slew
in self-defence ?”
“ Little as I reek for danger, my lord, I never fail to
adopt wise precautions to avert suspicion from myself, in.
those cases where such sus icion would be injurious. In
the one to which we are al uding, those precautions were
followed by results useful to our family; inasmuch as the
mere fact of riding the corpse of Ida, to create an im-
pression that the poniard of some lurking thief had
drunk her heart's blood,—that simple fact placed in my
hands a certain paper which so intimately concerns a
great noble of the German court, that in the hour of need
myself or my family might call upon him to exercise his
influence with the Emperor an the Archduke in our
behalf ;—and he would not dare to refuse our demand of
his services.”
“ That paper must contain some strange secrets,"
observed Faust, casting a penetrating glance upon his fair
companion: then, without waiting for a reply, he added,
“Did you not ere now proclaim a truce to all child’s-
play P I will not affect to be ignorant of your allusions :
no—that paper refers to myself—and it is I who am in
your power. Be it so, lady! But I would rather serve
you for the sake of those bright eyes, than in consequence
of menace and danger.”
“ Think not that your secrets are known to those who
will make an unworth use of them. No, my lord : we
ourselves—my family, mean—have plunged so deeply
into intrigue, machination, plot, and scheme, that we
have long learnt to look upon the craft as a noble one,
and to esteem those daring mortals who venture into
similar paths.
lord, concerning the precise nature of those secrets which
have come to our knowledge in reference to yourself,—
for you, like ourselves, may have many, many secrets,—~I
will at once show you the letter which I found upon the
person of Ida.”
The lady rose, and left the room for a few minutes. On
her return, she presented a paper to Faust. It was
addressed (according to the custom of the age) to “ The
Most High and Noble Lord, the Count of Aurana;” and
its contents were these :—

“ Misfortunes seem to have combined against me ; and
the boundless attachment which I have entertained and
still entertain for you, appears to be the fruitful source
of man miseries. In obedience to your wishes, I
espouset a man who has proved to be a vile and detest-
able impostor; and now—instead of the Baroness of
Czernin—I scarcely know whether I am Ida Pianalla or
Ida Walstein—the wife of one who is branded with
infamy. This man is now at large in the world again.
But how has he escaped ? Somet 'ng tells me that your
power befriended him-that power, the secret of which
fills me with awe as I ponder upon it!
“ Yes—the infamous Gregory Walstein is at large ; and
-—if he entertain enmity against me, or should wish, by
some sudden eaprice, to claim me as the partner of his
fortunes—he can at any moment ruin or subdue me ;—
for—as you well know—he is no stranger to that fearful
crime which weighs upon my soul—the murder of my
child—of your child!
“ Nor is this the sum of my afflictions. But, as if I
were not already degraded and wretched enough, you
must level another—and, oh! a most cruel blow—at my
heart! You no longer love me! Last evening I heard
you make an appointment with a rival. But she dies—-
whoever she may be. Yes—this evening shall be her last
-—-even if I slay her in your presence!
“ You have conducted yourself unworthin towards me
—towards me who have lovcd you so madly, consoled you
so sincerely in your dark hours, aided you so effectually
in the grandest and most perilous of your schemes. Yes
—for, without me, never could you have succeeded in sub-
stituting your own son for the daughter of the Archduke
in the Chamber of the Cradle!
" Reflect. then, upon all my claims on you-on all your
obli tions towards me. I write this, that you may
pon er well upon my condition—that you miy have my
sentiments before you in a shape better cilenlated to
make an im ression than more words from my lips. I
shall leave t is letter in the evening with your faithful
valet: he will give it to none save you. It will reveal to
you by whose hand your new mistress has fallen—for she
shall not live to be my successful rival ;—and this deed
And not to keep you in suspense, my ‘



will convince you that I am as inveterate in hate, as im-
passioned in love.
“ I require what would be much at the hands of a
common mortal—but which is nothing to demand of one
who possesses a power like yours. I seek to be released
from all danger at the hands of Gregory Walstein :—-his
death will effect that! I also seek a brilliant position—
rank, title, wealth, and honour. Grant me all I ask, and
never shall you find me otherwise than your fond and
grateful
“ Ins.”
“ Thus, you perceive, my lord,“ observed the lady,
when Faust had perused this strange composition, “ that
your secret of the Chamber of the Cradle is known to
me.“
“ And to whom besides P” demanded the Count.
“ To my brother Caesar, and to a priest named Anselm,”
was the answer. “ But that secret is safe with us. Your
lordship may retain the letter—and destroy it.”
“ Your friendship will enlist me more sincerely in your
service than your menaces could ever do,“ said Faust,
who was rejoiced to think that the dread source of his
power had not been betrayed by Ida's letter. “ And now
we begin to understand each other, lady; for, be well as-
sured, that I know and comprehend you. as well as you
know and comprehend me. First united to a nobleman
of Spain, you led a joyous and volu tuous life, free to
roam whither you willed—now dwel ing at Pisa—now
pursuing your pleasures and your intrigues at Venice—
then visiting Rome again. But when your father attained
’his sovereign rank, that union which you had formed

was deemed derogatory: it was dissolved—and you
espoused Giovanni, Lord of Pezaro. A second time did
your marriage become obnoxious to the policy of your
familly ; and, fortunately, madam, you possess a sire who
hast e power to bind and loose. Another divorce was
proclaimed; and you lately accompanied Alphonzo of
Arraigon to the altar.”
“ our lordship is recapitulating facts well known to
all Europe,” said the lady, smiling. “ Surely you speak
not thus to convince me how well you are acquainted
with my )rivate affairs ?"
“ Ah! iady," exclaimed Faust, “ were I to enter into
a detail of all the incidents which I have gleaned in con-
nexion with yourself and your family,—your amours—
our gallantries,—~the p01soned banquets which you
now so well how to serve up,—-the profound secrecy
with which your enemies disappear from your path,——the
nature of your cantarella and its antidote—“
“ Enough, enough—my lord !“- exclaimed the lady:
“ we do indeed understand each other! But are you not
afraid—do you not tremble to court the love of a woman
whom you know so well '8"
“ N o; for I also have my antidotes—and, perhaps," he
added, with a proud smile, “you would find in me one
whose life is proof against the rapid venom of that
ring I"
“ You are a being after my own heart !" ejaculated the
lady, extending her hand towards him. “Dauntless-
proud—rieh——-handsome—-and amuaiuted with crime, as
you are—I love you, Count of Au a l"
“ A thousand thanks for that owal, beauteous one !”
cried Faust, pressing the lady char ng hand to his
lips ; “ for I also love—yes, re you, anasza
Boson!“
CHAPTER L.
LUCREZA BORGIL
Yns;—the lad , who were the poisoned ring, the lion-
head of which became so suddenly transformed into that
of a viper at the will of the wearer—was no other than
the famous Lucreza Borgia, daughter of Pope Alexander
VI, by Rosa Vanozza, and sister of Caesar Borgia, Duke
of Valentiuois.
History has never recorded the deeds of three greater
fiends in human shape than Alexander VI., Ciesar and
Lucreza Borgia. This terrible trinity hesitated at no
crime that could advance their worldly interests, or tend
to the aggran'disement of th ' ' fortunes. Their intrigues
had secured the election edit Alexander to the Papal
throne; and never did the Eternal City present so awful
a scene of demoralization and blackest turpitude as when
the Keys of Saint Peter were held by that execrable
Pontifi.
Luereza was the personification of all the external
beauty that ever decorated Woman, and of all the detest-
able vices that ever disgraced the female sex. Her ima-


96
FA UST.

ginatiou was impurity itself ;—her licentiousness knew
no bounds ;—her ambition was unlimited ;—her readiness
to accumulate crime upon crime was such that she almost
seemed to find a pleasure in perpetrating deeds of the
darkest dye. .
The example of such a family as the Borgias was not
calculated to benefit the Roman nation. Female purity
was ridiculed in the reign of Alexander VI.: the Cardi-
nals, the Archbishops, and the Bishops plunged reek-
lessly into the vortex of dissipation, and publicly acknow-
ledged their illegitimate children. Assassinations 1n the
streets of Rome were of such frequent occurrence that
they scarcely elicited a comment. The olice .were in-
efficient, and 0 en to bribery; money pure ased impunity
at the hands of) the judges ; and bravos amassed fortunes
by selling the service of their daggers to the wealthy and
influential. ' ' - - ' ' '
Such was the state of Rome at the period when Faust
renewed with Lucreza Borgia that acquaintance which
had been slightly commenced at Vienna.
It was the evening of that da the incidents of which
were recorded in the preceding 0 pter.
Lucreza Borgia was sitting alone in her bed-chamber,
in the private house into which she had admitted Faust
in the morning. She had a magnificent palace in another
part of Rome; but, as her rincely rank compelled her
to maintain a grand establishment of ladies-of-honour,
lacqueys, valets, and other de endants, she was too much
overlooked in her ducal dwe ing to enable her to prose~
cute her political and amorous intrigues with that caution
which even the most depraved to some extent observe.
She accordingly retained a limited and faithful set of
menials at her private abode ; and it was also here that
she and her brother Caesar met to concert those various
schemes which were necessary to effect the removal of
enemies or to further their ambitious pro'ects.
We dare not do more than allude to t e fearful inti-
macy which existed between Lucreza and Cmsar. Suffice
it to say that in no one point was the sum of their iniquity
incomplete. "~
It was evening; and Lucreza Bor 'a was seated alone
in her bed-chamber, the lion-hea ed ring upon her
fin er. '
'lo fathom the thoughts of such a woman, b the usual
index of the countenance, were impossible; or beneath
acoénparatively guileless aspect, lurked the heart of a
fien .
She was, however, evidently waiting for some one ; for
from time to time she cast a look towards a water-
elcpsydra which stood on the mantel. Then she rose and
advanced towards a secret door, artfully pierced in the
wainseot, and which, when opened, revealed a narrow
staircase. This staircase communicated with a private
entrance into the garden. Having satisfied herself that
the door was unfastened, she returned to her seat.
It was now nine o’clock, and Rome was quiet.
Suddenly a low knock was heard at the door of the
chamber—not the private one just referred to.
Lucreza hastened to withdraw the bolt, thinking that
one of her attendants required admission; but to her
surprise and alarm, two men, with naked daggers in their
hands, and wearing black masks upon their faces, rushed
into the chamber.
“What signifies this intrusion?” demanded Lucreza,
instantly recovering her resence of mind. .
One 0 the masks hastily bolted the door behind him,
and then, advancing towards Lucreza, said in a low and
solemn tone, “ Prepare for death, madam; your hour is
come !"
“G odfredo Mercome !” exclaimed Lucreza.
“ Yes, madam,” cried the foremost intruder, throwing
aside his mask, and revealing the stern but handsome
countenance of a man of about forty. “ I am here to
avenge the death of my uncle the Cardinal of Cosenza !"
“ And I, your Highness," said the other. steppin for-
ward, and also flinging ofl“ his mask, “ am Fre erico
Qascln, the cousin of Cerviglione, whose death I am like-
wise here to avenge."
“ Signors," exclaimed Lucreza, “ your vengeance would
fall upon the innocent in striking me. Godfredo Mor-
come, I had naught to do with the death of your uncle '.
Frederico Baschi, on wrong me by declaring that I 'was
an accomplice in t e murder of your cousin."
“ We know that you are guilty of those crimes," re-
turned Morcome. “ But even were you innocent of any
connivance in them, your crimes are still so great that you
must die! Rome demands the blood of the Borgias ; and
three cardinals—yes, madam, three cardinals—have en-
gaged to grant absolution for ridding the world of two

such monsters as yourself and your brotln-r Czesar. Pre-
pare, then, for death !"—and'he brandished his dagger in
a threatening manner. 7 '
“ Mercy 1" screamed Lucreza. “ Grant me but a few
minutes to prepare myself—for I am not fit to die ! You
say that three cardinals are your instigators in seeking
the deaths of two children of the Pope :—who are they
that we have offended ? Perhaps reparation might be
made—perhaps—”
“ Cardinals Cassa Nova, Copis, and Castelleuse have no
terms to make with you or yours,” interrupted Morcome,
fiercely. “ Now are you ac uainted with the names of
those who will grant absolution to the two men by whose
daggers Rome is to be relieved of Lucreza Borgia and
Caesar Duke of Valentinois. Yes,” he continued, his
eyes flashing fire, “ I will grant you a few minutes ere
t is bright steel drinks thy heart’s blood! But it will
not be to give thee leisure for prayer :—of what avail were
prayers for crimes like thine ? No—on thy knees shalt
then listen to a recapitulation of those terrific deeds
which demand our vengeance. Kneel, Lucreza Borgia—7
kneel, I say !" ' '
And with a rude grasp Morcome compelled the afirightcd
woman to assume a suppliant posture before him.‘ , '
“ Oh! now I begin to taste the sweets of vengeance!”
he exclaimed : “ now is the haughty Lady of Pezaro and
Duchess of S oleto humbled in my presence! Frederico
Baschi, beho (1 this detestable woman kneelin 4 at our
feet: mark her horror-struck conntenance— oat over
her despair! Did she show mercy to thy cousin Cervig-
lione? No ! Did she show mercy to my uncle the
Cardinal of Cosenza ? No! Nor can we show mercy
towards her !" '
“ It were criminal to spare here,” answered Baschi,
fixing an infuriate glance upon the prostrate woman.
“ Moreover, you have mentioned the names of the three
cardinals—and these circumstances alone must outweigh
any other that might appear in hei‘favour.”
“ True," observed Morcome. “ Lucreza,” he continued,
in a tone indicative of dee 1y concentrated emotions,
“listen to the reasons which gave induced my companion
and myself to swear a terrible oath together to rid Rome
of you and your brother Caesar.
“ Nay -you have not sworn to murder me!” cried
Lucreza, with terrified looks, first at one, then at the
other. “ N o—no! you could not slay a dcfenceless
woman!" ' ¢ . r
“ We will crush a serpent, whose venom is rapidly cir-
culating throu ;liout .the arteries of society," answered
Morcome, suddenly. .“ Oh! you may glance around you
—bnt vainly ! for no succour will (Seine! Else, vile woman,
think you that we would stand parleying with you thus?
You are in our power—and we must torture you with
reproaches, ere we put you out of your misery with our
wea ons !" ' '
“ y God! why does he not come P“ murmured Lucreza,
to herself, as she buried her face in her hands—for now this
bold woman trembled, finding herself as it were face to
face with death. '
Then Frederico Baschi approached, and addressed her
in the following manner :— '
“ Three years ago, madam, Rosa Vanozza, your mother,
gave a grand feast at her suburban villa of Saint Pietro
ad Vincula. I need not name the guests : they consisted
of all the members of your family, the principal cardinals
and prelatcs, and the chief nobility of Rome. My cousin
Cerviglione sate next to his friend the Duke of Gandia—
your date brother. You, madam, left the table early;
you retired to this house—the den where you hatch your
infernal conspiracies and settle the details of yourcrimes ‘.
and hence you despatched amasked messenger to your
brother the Duke of Gandia, with a note requiring his
immediate presence here !"
“ Spare me!” cried Lucreza, casting a horrified glance
on Frederico Baschi. - _
“ Spare uou !" he repeated, contemptuously : “ whom
did you ever spare P Listen, madam ! The Duke left the
table in obedience to your summons, and requested my
cousin Cerviglione to accompany him as far as the corner
of this street—for Rome was as dangerous then by night
as it is now. Another guest rose from the table a few
moments afterwards, mounted his horse. and rode rapidly
back to the city by a bye path. At the corner of the
Ghetto he jomed four men—four braves—who were
waiting for him. The Duke of Gandia soon afterwards
passed the spot—alone—for Cerviglione had alread taken
leave of him. Then the desperate work of deat com-
menced; and the Duke of Gandia was foul! murdered——
the horseman calmly looking on 1 When t e dread deed


“mm amvmsona mm. mm aaaooms omo ‘ma 9m mom 'Ioma v alumna”
('SZI '4 90's)





FA UST.
99


was accomplished, the corpse was thrown into the Tiber;
and the horseman came hither to acquaint you that all
was over! That horseman was your brother—Caesar
B01 '0. ;—and thus were you privy to, and he the superin-
ten ent of, the assassination of your eldest brother, the
Duke of Gandia l”
“ It is false 1” cried Lucreza. “ I did not write the
nete: it was not I who sent it !”
“ Die not with an untruth upon your tongue, madam,"
returned Frederico, solemnly. “ A short time afterwards
Cardinal Giovanni—your cousin—and who was devotedly
attached to the Duke of Gandia, set out from Ferrara to
Rome to investigate the murder of that prince and avenge
it. Czesar and yourself met him at Forli, and invited
him to a banquet. Oh! the dread feasts of the Borgias !
You showered all possible courtesies and attentions on
your cousin—while you poisoned his wine-cup! Thus did
{on remove from your path a generous-th man who
ad sworn to avenge his murdered friend. But that was
not all: your fears did not allow you to stop there. My
cousin Cerviglione—a high-born ntleman, a brave war-
rior, and captain of the f’apal b y-gnard—was one night
attacked by a bravo, and assassinated. Lucreza Borgia,
I am here to avenge that death!"
“ N 0— on cannot find it in your heart to kill me 1” she
exclaim . “ Depart—and I will lead you with rank,
Wealth, and honours.”
“ The veriest simpleton in Rome would not put faith in
the promise of a Borgia," was the stern reply.
“ And now, madam," said Godfnedo Morcomc, in
coming forward, “ listen to the details of that death w 'ch
I am here to avenge! My uncle, the Cardinal of Cosenza,
was arrested on an accusation as false as it was vile-an
accusation of forging the Pope’s name to an apostolic
brief. That brief the Pope himself had signed—and you.
know it! It was to grant a dispensation to a nun to con-
tract marriage ; and sixty thousand ducats were the
price your father claimed and received for that favour.
The act was noised abroad; and, to save your father’s
honour-the honour of a Borgia !——a victim was sought.
That victim was my uncle. He was thrown into a -
gcon in the Castle of Saint Angelo. There Caesar Borgia
and yourself—yes, you, anreza—sought him in his cell,
and obtained from him—partly by entreaty, and partly
by menaoes——a written avowal that he had signed the
dispensation. Once provided with that precious docu-
ments, the Borgias knew of but one course to pursue ;—
and that was to rid themselves of the de sitory of so
im ortant a secret. Then, by the cruel or ens of Caesar
and yourself, Lucreza, the Cardinal of Cosenza was con-
signed to the deepest of the doc and the gloomiest of the
gloomy dungeons of Saint Ange o, where he was allowed
two pounds of bread and a small can of water every three
days. You can well divine what must have been the
agony of that long starvation l For one year did he
languish in his dungeon; and then—as the vigour of his
constitution seemed to withstand the textures of want
and despair—you commanded his food to be stopped. A
week afterwards he was found dead in his cell—having
literally awed the flesh off one of his arms; Lucreza
Borgia, it is this fearful crime—this infernal deed on
your part, that I am here to avenge!"
“ And now listen to me, Godfredo Morcome—listen to
me, Frederico Baschi," exclaimed Lucreza, rising from
her knees: and, drawing her fine—her really noble form
up to its full height, she confronted her fees with a pale
countenance, but with a lip that quivered not as she
spoke, nor with an eye that quailed beneath their stern
glances: “ the bitterness of death is already past—and I
am prepared to meet my doom. I have two requests to
make—two favours to implore at your hands, ere my
bosom receives your (1 ers.“
“ Speak, lady,” said orcome ; “ and be brief: our in-
terview has already been too long."
“ Take this key," answered Lucreza, drawing one from
beneath her garments, “and open you cabinet, which
contains a miniature of my murdered brother, the Duke
of Gandia. I would look upon it ere I die; methinks that
if I press it to my lips, the spirit of the original will be
appeased—will pardon me."
“ Your request is reasonable, and shall be granted,”
said Morcome: then, receiving the key from Lucreza’s
hand, he advanced towards the cabinet.
“ And you, Frederico Baschi,” continued Lucreza,
while Mcrcome was endeavouring to turn the key in the
lock, which somewhat resisted his efforts, as if it were
rusty, “ tell me at least that you will forgive inc—when
11. shall be no more—for the death of your cousin Cervig-
lone.”

“Yes, lady—I will forgive you—I will even pray for
you!” answered Baschi. “But you must die 1”
“ Oh! I am grepared to die now that you will forgive
me!” ejaculate Lucreza Borgia; and, seizing Frederico
Baschi's hand, she pressed it as if with grateful
fervour.
Then she started back, and a fearful scene ensued.
At the same moment a loud cry emanated from the
lips of Frederico Baschi; and this was echoed by another
which came from Godfredo Moreome.
The latter staggered a few paces from the door of the
cabinet, and fel heavily upon the floor; and almost at
the same instant Frederico Baschi rolled over the body
of his friend.
Both were dead!
The handle of the key had been pressed by Morcome in
such a manner that a small point on the surface of the
iron had pricked his finger—and the wound was mortal!
The mysterious ring had planted its viper’s fangs in
the hand of Frederico Baschi.
“ So perish my enemies 1’ exclaimed Lucneza Borgia,
approaching the dead comes, and spurniug them with
her foot. ‘And now, my Lord Cardinals Cassa Nova,
Copis, and Adriano Castellense, I have learnt your
secret ; and you must be. the next victims of the
Borgias!"
Searcer were these words uttered, when the private
door above alluded to was opened cautiously, and Faust
entered the room.
The li ht of the perfumed lamp, which hung from the
ceiling ell upon the proud form of Lucreza Borgia, who
was calmly—aye even complacently—surveying the two
lifeless forms at or feet.
“ Lucreza—your Highness-—-“ cried Faust, in asto-
nishment, as this spectacle met his eyes.
“ Be not alarmed, my lord,” exclaimed Lucreza. “ Had
you been true to the very moment of our ap ointment,
your sword might have saved me from some lf~hour’s
useless parley with those traitors-of whcm,.I must can-
didly admit, I was at first afraid.”
CHAPTER LI.
THE POISON'OF THE BORGIAS.
ON the following morning Lucreza repaired to the palace
of her brother Caesar, Duke of Valentinois, and related to
him the articulars of the intrusion of Frederico Baschi
and G-odfredo Morcome in her chamber on the preceding
evening; the secret they had suffered to transpire relative
to the three cardinals ; and the vengeance which she had
so successfully wreaked upon those who had sought her
apartments with such deadly intentions.
“ Without a moment's hesitation, Czesar exclaimed,
“Sister, those three cardinals must die. His Holiness,
our revered father, must be made acquainted with these
particulars; and he will invite them to a banquet which
will be their last.”
“ We must use caution in this important proceeding,
Czesar,“ answered Lucreza. “ Those two men, whom I
killed last evening, spoke to me of certain circumstances,
the details of which were frightfully correct. People
begin to observe to each other that many sudden deaths
have lately taken place at Rome.“
“ This dagger is poisoned, Lucreza l” said Czesar, with
dread significance, as he drew the shining weapon from
his girdle.
“ Are you mad ?” ejaculated his sister. “ Would you
use it against the cardinals? No, Caesar—such aproposal
is unworthy of one possessing your sagacity. Our enemies
must die by poison, and not by a venom so sudden and
virulent as that which lurks in the key, the ring, or your
dagger. No—thc three cardinals must die a lingering
death 0:. so that there may be no suspicion as to the real
cause. ’
“ ’Tis well, Luereza; you possess a greater store of
patience and of prudence than even I," returned the
Duke with a smile. “ Leave me; I will compose a poison
that shall produce the effect you desire. The lessons of
Signora Fontana have not been lost on me. Great was
the pity that the poor creature should have died so
miserably in Vienna! She was a true proficient in her
a1 ."
“ And yet, meseems,” observed Lucrcza, “ that our
liquid cantarclla is far preferable to all the laboured com-
binations, deeoctions, distillations, and mixtures which
Signor-a Fontana devised.”
“ Yes-yes, sister : I grant that we have improved upon
the hints WlllCllWO received from her. Nevertheless, we
were indebted to her for all our early chemical knowledge 5


100
17.»! UST.

and, if the notoriety of the act were not dangerous, I
would yet erect a monument to her memory. And now
one word more, Lucreza :—is the Count of Auraua pliant
and ductile? Will he undertake that the Emperor
Maximilian shall remain neutral in all the grand commo-
tions that are likely to take place P”
“ The Emperor will remain neutral, Caesar,” was the
reply. “ The Count of Aurana is my slave. His influence
at the Court of Vienna is, as you are well» aware, un-
limited ; and his promise may be relied upon. But farther
than inducing the Emperor to observe a strict neutrality
in all that may take place on this side of the Alps, Faust
will not assist you. He declares that he loves pleasure—
and not war.”
“ N o matter exclaimed Caesar. “ If the Emperor
remain neutral, I will yet be King of Italy! And now
leave me, Lucreza: I must procure a slow but certain
poison-a poison that will not produce death for at least
ten days ;—and to-morrow the banquet to the cardinals
shall be given.”
Lucreza Bor ' then left her brother, and returned to
her private dwe ing,where Faust was awaiting the return
of the object of his new passion.
The moment the Duke of Valentinois was alone, he rang
a small silver bell which stood upon the table, and his
faithful attendant Michelotto entered the apartment.
This man was the chief of Caesar's sbirri—the right arm
with which the infamous Borgia executed his dark projects
——the bravo who had struck the Duke of Gandia to the
heart—the miscreant who was the depository of all the
dread secrets of his more dreadful master.
“ Michelotto," said Caesar, “ there is more work for us
yet to do. Three enemies of my family must perish. Go
thou and fetch thy two principal underlings, and join me
in the laboratory.”
The chief of the sbirri bowed and left the room.
In a few minutes Caesar repaired to a large apartment
situated in a remote part of the spacious palace.
Michelotto and two ill-looking men—the most desperate
of the sbirri—were already there
The room was almost denuded of furniture. To the
ceiling several hooks with pulleys and ropes were fastened.
On a table in the middle of the apartment were numerous
empty hials; ufpwards of two dozen flasks, filled with the
choices? wines 0 Italy; a stone jar; a silver salver; and
a pestle and mortar.
On one side of the room was a massive door, secured
with strong bolts, and with a small grating towards the
top. An odour as of some wild beast emanated from this
grating, and impregnated the atmosphere of the apart-
ment; and from time to time a savage growl came from
the other side of the huge door.
“ Those phials are all empty, Michelotto,” observed the
Duke, si nificantly. “ We must replenish them.”
“ Goo< , my lord,“ was the answer ; then, turning
towards the two sbirri, Michelotto said, “ Now Miletto—-
and you, Tomasso, to work! Ye kuowgour duty."
Caesar drew his poisoned dagger, an stood at a short
distance from the massive door above mentioned.
“ Your lordship need be under no a prehension of
danger,” said Michelotto: “ Miletto an Tomasso will
muzzle the monster in a moment.”
One of the two underlings took from the shelf a leathern
muzzle, such as menagerie-keepers, or those who go about
with dancing bears on the continent, are accustomed to
use. He then placed himself close by the door, the bolts
of which his companion proceeded to draw.
The door was thrown open; and an enormous black
belair was discovered upon a heap of straw, inside a spacious
ce .
For a few minutes the formidable animal remained in a
crouching osture in its lair: then it rose—uttered a
rewl—wal ed gently round the cell—aud,after stopping
or an instant at the door, shaking its huge sides, and
moving its head up and down, leisurely advanced into the
apartment.
Then Miletto dexterously slipped the muzzle over its
mouth; and Michelotto at the same instant fastened a
cord to the hind legs of the animal. The other end of
the rope was tied to a staple in the wall; and thus the
bear was completely powerless. It however manifested
no disposition to resistance; but, with that indolent un-
conceru which is peculiar to the species, began to walk
backwards and forwards to the extent allowed by the
rope.
Caesar, satisfied that the animal was well secured, re-
turned his poisoned dagger to its sheath, and opening the
stone jar on the table, took thence a quantity of semi.
metal of a blueish-white colour.
I),
The Duke threw the arsenic—for such it was—into the
mortar, and speedin pounded it with the pestle. He
then mixed it with water in a small vase; and, when
these preparations were complete, the three men held the
bear in such a manner that Caesar was enabled to pour
the poisonous fluid down the animal’s throat by means of
a funnel.
No sooner was this extraordinary process effected,
when the three sbirri hoisted the bear up by its hind feet,
by means of one of the pulleys attached to the ceiling,
while the Duke of Valentinois placed the large silver
plate on the floor immediately beneath its head. Miche-
lotto dexterously removed the muzzle; and the huge
animal began to plunge and howl in strong convulsions.
In a few minutes a copious stream of foaming liquid
was discharged from the beast’s throat; and the deadly
poison was received in the silver dish.
Then a sickly and almost overpowering odour, as of
garlic, pervaded the apartment.
A quarter of an hour elapsed, during which the bear
continued to discharge the foamy fluid ; and at length it
died in strong convulsions.
The liquid was carefully poured from the silver plate
into the vase in which the arsenic and water had been
mixed; and from thence the various phials were filled.
Reader, this is no romance. The scene which has just
been presented to you, is a true and faithful description
of the mode in which the Borgias obtained their liquid
poison, or a nu cantarellw. And now a key is also
afforded to t e solution of a part of those mysteries
which the Baron of Czernin beheld, in the secret chamber
of the Borgias’ dwelling at Venice, more than eight years
previously to the date which we have reached in our nar-
rative. The other strange appearances in that chamber,
—the dead bull, with its stomach ripped o n, the ory
marks of human feet upon the floor, and the lood-stained
bed,—-will also be soon explained ;—and then—as even
now—the reader may exclaim with the poet, “Truth is
strange—stranger than fiction l"
Caesar dismissed Miletto and Tomasso each with a
reward ; and when they had left the room, the Duke and
Michelotto proceeded to complete their preparations.
They drew the corks of three of the wine-flasks, and
poured into each a small quantity of the poison from one
of the phials. The flasks were then stopped with new
corks, which were immediately waxed and sealed with
Czesar’s own signet.
“ Michelotto,” said Caesar, “take those three bottles
and give them to the Pope’s head butler. Tell him that
to-morrow evenin 7 there will be a festival at the Vatican,
and that he must eep these flasks apart from the other
supplies of wine, and serve them only on my orders, and
to none save to those guests whom I may mention to
him. Be discreet—and deliver your message precisely as
you receive it from me.”
“ Yes, my lord," re lied Michelotto. '
The chief of the s irri then left the room; and the
Duke of Valentinois shortly afterwards repaired to the
Vatican, where he obtained a private interview with his
father, Pope Alexander VI. ,
An hour later, invitations for a grand banquet to be
given at the Vatican on the following day were issued to
all the cardinals and the nobility then in Rome; and the
reader may well imagine that Cassa Nova, Melchiore
Copis, and Adriano Castellense were not forgotten.
CHAPTER LII.
arm: BANQUET AT THE VATICAN.
ON the appointed evening, the Papal Palace was a blaze
of light and a scene of splendour.
The principal hall was fitted up vin a manner rather
becoming the royal dwelling of an Oriental potentatc
than the abode of the head of the Catholic world.
The table at the upper end was raised on a dais ; and
in the place of supreme honour was a throne beneath a
magnificent canopy of purple velvet and of gold. Two
other tables, ranged lengthwa s down the hall, were pre-
pared for the nobility and their ladies.
Crystal chandeliers and lustres filled the spacious ban-
queting hall with a flood of light; and perfumed lamps
stood upon the tables.
The walls were decorated with festoons and garlands
of flowers : gorgeous drapery, emblazoned with the Papal
arms and the Keys of Saint Peter, were reflected in vast
mirrors deeply set in gilded frames ; and sideboards
groaned beneath the weight of gold and silver salvers,
cups, and goblets.
.

l At seven o'clock the doors were thrown open, and the


FA UST. 101
’-
uests. preceded by Alexander VL, entered the hall. The
ope gave his hand to his mistress, Rosa. Vanozza, who
was dressed in a sumptuous manner, and on whose brow
was a tiara of diamonds, bestowing upon her that queenly
aspect which she indeed studied to assume.
Next advanced the Duke of Valentiuois, conducting
the lovely Duchess of Sancia, his cousin. Caesar was
attired in a style becoming his rank: and his command-
ing form certainly assorted better with the dress of a
lay-noble than with the robe of a cardinal, which he had
once worn.
The third couple consisted of the Count of Aurana and
Lucreza Borgia. This lady,—who beneath her fair com-
}Sflexion and light hair concealed the dark soul of a
paniard,—was attired in a manner which even excelled
the gorgeousness of her mother’s apparel. Her person
was literally brilliant with diamonds, which reduced a
marvellously dazzling effect in the midst of t e flood of
lustre which filled the hall. Over her well-shaped head
waved three ostrich feathers of snowy whiteness—the
gift of the unfortunate brother of the Sultan Bayezid II.,
the Prince Djem, whom Alexander VI. had already
numbered among his victims. Proud and stately,—yet
enchantineg graceful withal,—was the bearing of the
Duchess Lucreza; and as she smiled at some com li-
ment which her handsome companion breathed in or
car, a stranger would not have believed that so much
guile lurked upon those lips between whose parting roses
shone teeth white as orient pearls.
The Lord-Duke of Pesaro, Lucreza’s husband, came
next, escorting the' lovely daughter of a Roman noble,
but who was the mistress of a bishop,
Then followed a train of cardinals, each accompanied
by some eminent or charming woman :-—and the proces-
sion was concluded by a glittering bevy of proud nobles
and beauteous ladies. The waving plumes and sparkling
diamonds gave an air of splendour to the scene,—amidst
the blaze of light, and in that perfumed atmosphere,—
which no pen can describe.
The Pope took his seat upon the throne,—that throne
from which, as it were, he overlooked with his mental
eyes and overawed by his policy the whole of Christendom.
For that was no vain boast which Lucreza Borgia had ex-
pressed to Faust in the streets of Vienna, when she so
mysteriousl alluded to her father’s sovereign rank :
Alexander I. was not only terrible to Rome, but to
Italy,—not only to Italy, but to the Christian world.
Placed upon the proud seat of the Cresars, the Keeper of
the Keys of Saint Peter had studied full well how to
render his name feared, if not res ected, in every State
where men knelt to the Cross ; an from the banks of the
Tagus to the streams of the Volga all Europe felt the in-
fluence of his policy and his dominant will.
At the upper table were collected the cardinals, the
great dignitaries, and the most eminent ladies who were
present on this memorable occasion. The nobles and fair
ones of lesser grade occupied seats at the two tables which
were arranged lengthways in that lordly hall.
A hundred guests and two hundred domestics to serve
them were now the occupants of the chief banqueting-
room in the Vatican.
The Papal Palace had seen a more numerous, but never
a more imposin assemblage :——and how many who were
there collected ave since had their names perpetuated,
with a tarnished notoriety, in the pages of history! With
infamy has that of Borgia come down to us : with infamy
shall it descend to the latest posterity; and long—long
will the world continue to marvel that such atrocious
deeds could have been actually perpetrated by a Pontifi‘
wearing a mitre-crown, or by a Lucreza of Spoleto and a
Ciesar of Valentinois !
Amongst the cardinals at the upper table, but seated
some distance from each other, were Cassa Nova, Co is,
and Castellense—the three whom the Borgias had mar 'ed
for their victims,—the three for whom as many poisoned
bottles stood apart from the other flasks on a side-board,
-—thc three, in a word, for whom this sumptuous banquet
was given!
And never had the really elegant manners of the old
Pope been more engaging ;—nevcr had Lucreza shone to
greater advanta c, with all her varied powers of fascina-
tion ;e-never h. ( Caesar seemed more gay, more cheerful,
more condescending.
The tables teemed with all the luxuries which the
season could supply, or which human ingenuity could
render tem ting to the appetite. The most delicious
wines of It y, Germany, Spain, France, and the Islands
of the Levant, sparkled upon the board. Then as Beauty
sipped the inspiring nectar, fire shone in large black eyeg


and a rich carnation tinge appeared beneath the soft
darkness of the Italian complexion.
And there,-even there, in the sacred halls of the
Vatican,-—the significant glances of cavaliers were
answered by the languishing and voluptuous looks of
lovely women : confessions of passion were met by tender
avowals of reciprocity ;—appointments were made and
future meetings arranged ;—thero also were engendered
many heart-burnings and many jealousies ;——and even .
beneath the holy robes of the Church burnt the fiercest
passions, and agitated the darkest cravings for revenge!
Three hours had elapsed : it was now ten o’clock.
The conversation at the upper table had turned upon
holy relics, talismans, and philters.
“ For my part,” said Alexander VI., “ I confess it
appears to me consistent with the goodness and wisdom
of Heaven that certain favoured mortals,—mortals espe—
cially favoured, I mean, by the hand of Providence for its
own wise and inscrutable purposes,—should possess talis-
mans as safe-guards against danger; and, therefore, I do
firmly believe in the existence of such talismans, as well
as in the efficacy of holy relics and peculiar influence of
charms and philters." -
“ The opinion of your Holiness is an authority which
none will venture to dispute,” observed Cardinal Carafia,
the Pope’s principal secretary of Briefs, Bulls, and Indul-
gences; “ and, if I mistake not, your Holiness possesses a
talisman which is a safeguard a inst all perils?"
“ N ay—I cannot flatter mysel that it is a charm against
all danger,” responded the Pope; “ but, most assuredly,
it is a safeguard against poison and the da er.”
“ Were it not indiscreet to proffer so be a request,”
said the beautiful Duchess of Sancia, “ I should implore
his Holiness to gratify me with a glimpse of so inestimable
a talisman."
“ My charming niece shall not ask in vain," returned
I Alexander, smiling; and, as he spoke, he thrust his hand
into the bosom of his doublet, beneath his pontifical
robes ;—but the talisman was not there.
His countenance became for a moment overclouded :—
that expression of gloom and suspicion was, however,
only.transitory; for, suddenly recollecting himself, the
Pope turned towards Cardinal Caraffa, exclaiming, “ My
lord, I left the talisman of which we have been s eakin
upon the table in my private apartment where signe<
the various Briefs and Indulgences which you brought
me this morning. It is a medallion with a gold chain,
and contains a consecrated wafer.“
The Cardinal understood the hint, and rose from the
table to fetch the talisman, which had been left in an
apartment where various important papers were lying,
and whither the Pope, therefore, did not choose to de-
spatch one of the menials in attendance.
It happened that Cardinal Carafia was on intimate
terms with Cardinal Copis, one of the intended victims on
this occasion; and as those two high dignitaries had been
sitting next to each other all the evening, Caesar Borgia
had entertained some alarm lest Caraffa should partake .
of any particular flask of wine which might be placed
before his friend Copis.
Now, therefore, was the time to consummate his atro-
cious intentions; for the private apartment of the Pope
was so far removed from the banqueting-hall, and had to
be reached by so many passages and windings in the
palace, that at least ten minutes must elapse ere Caraflz'a
would return.
“ With the permission of his Holiness,” exclaimed
Caesar, “ I would humbly propose that we quaif a goblet
in honour of our noble guest, the Count of Aurana,
whose rank and influence at the court of Maximilian are
well known to us all."
“ Thou hast my free permission,“ answered the Pope,
who fully divined Czesar’s intentions; “ and let it be a
cup of our best wine that we quaflf in honour of our
noble and right welcome guest."
Caesar beckoned the head butler towards him, and
whispered a few words in his ear. These were the in-
struetions to whom to serve the wine in the three flasks
that stood apart from the rest on the sideboard. Almost
at the same moment the Duchess of Sancia desired that
a dish of forced peaches, which was standing on the side-
board, might be placed upon the table.
Now the head butler was bound, according to the
etiquette which controlled the attributes and functions of
his place, to serve the peaches to the Duchess ere be
complied with the commands of the Duke of Valentinois.
But, in order that no time might be lost, he directed the
under-butler to pour out the wine in the manner which
Caesar had directed.


102
FA US T.

The under-butler filled several glasses which he placed
upon a silver salver, and then handed them to the Pope,
to Caesar, to the Count of Aurana, and to the three Car-
dinals, Copis, Castellense, and Cassa Nevis. In the mean-
time, the domestics waited upon the other guests at the
same table.
The crystal goblets were all bright with ruby wine;
and when the Pope bowed to the Count of Aurana,
those cups were drained in honour of the German noble.
Scarcely was the ceremony completed, when Cardinal
Carafl'a returned to the room—his countenance deadly
pale, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, his lips
quivering, and his manner so changed and agitated as to
attract general notice.
He fell upon his seat, breathing with difficulty, and
casting terrified glances around him.
“ My lord—what means this P—are you indisposed P
Perhaps some sudden malady—”
“ No, your Holiness,” replied Caraifa, speaking with
difficult ;“ I am not physicall indisposed ;—-but morally
—()h ! have received a dr ful shock !"
And again the cardinal lanced wildly around.
“ Speak, my lord l” cried the Pope. “ Has anyone
dared to molest you in our dwelling?’
“Your Holiness will pardon me if I implore that no
further questions may be addressed to me on the sub-
ject,” said Caraffa, exerting all his mental energies to
subdue his agitation and at least seem collected; “it
was a vision, your Holiness—and I will think of it no
more 1"
“ A vision !” repeated the Pope, 1a hing. “ My lord,
the serious nature of our conversation ad filled you with
vague fears, and peopled your imagination with strange
phantoms. But your lordship must acquaint us with the
particulars of this vision,”
“ I beseech your Holiness—I implore you, Most
Reverend Father, to excuse me,” exclaimed the cardinal,
earnestly.
“ N ay—I command thee to reveal to us the nature of
avision which has so cruelly unsettled thee,” said the
Pope, in a tone that convinced Caraffa of the inutility of
remonstrance.
Nevertheless, the cardinal still hesitated; but the
Pope gave him an imperious and significant glance, which
warned him that further delay would only provoke his
sovereign displeasure.
“ Your Holiness,” said Carafi'a, “ that vision regarded
yourself !”
“ Myself!” ejaculated the Pope. “ Nevertheless, we
will have thee relate it. Proceed, my lord,”
“ Your Holiness shall be obeyed,“ said the cardinal,
meekly. “ On leaving this hall to repair to the private
chamber of your Holiness, I took a lamp from a niche in
the corridor leading to the interior of the palace, and
continued m way through the various passages which I
was compel ed to .pursue. On reaching the private
chamber of your Holiness, I opened the door ; but a
sudden current of air extinguished the lamp which I held
in my hand. Lights, however, appeared to be burning in
the apartment—_"
“ Lights in my private chamber!" ejaculated the Pope,
his high and 0 en forehead suddenly contracting With
indignation. “ he could have dared to violate the
sanctity of that room P"
“ Your Holiness will soon be satisfied that no human
being was guilty of that audacity,“ returned Carafl’a, in
a solemn and impressive tone.
A dead silence now reigned throughout the hall: there
was something awfully mysterious in the cardinal’s reply
to the Pope’s indignant exclamation.
“ Yes," continued Caraffa, after a short pause; “ I
beheld lights in that room. I threw the door wide open ;
but scarcel had my foot touched the threshold, when I
started bac ', overwhelmed with terror.“
“ Proceed, my lord," said the Pope, seeing that the
narrator hesitated once more: “proceed, my lord; and
keep us no lon er in this suspense which has thrown a
spell upon our estivities.“
“ A terrible spectacle met my eyes," proceeded Oaraffa.
“ In the middle of the chamber there was a bier, With a
corpse stretched upon it; and around it were six wax~
tapers, burning gloomily. But that corpse—oh! I recog-
nised the features but too well, in spite of the livid and
distorted appearance of the countenance!"
“ And that countenance, Camila—those features P"
said the Pope, speaking With constrained composure;
“ whose were they ?”
“ Your own, Most Reverend Father l" was the solemn
answer.

A cry of horror burst from the assembled guests :-—the
check of beauty suddenly lost its carnation tinge; the
fiulshed countenances of nobles and cavalich became ashy
pa e.
“ By heaven l” ejaculated Caesar Borgia, starting .up,
and drawing his sword half-way from its sheath, “ the
wretches who have dared to make the private chamber
of his Holiness a scene of mummery like this, shall dearly
rue their unhallowed sport l"
“ Calm yourself, my lord Duke,” said Cardinal Caralfa;
“ it was no mummery-no preparation by mortal hands
When I had somewhat recovered my presence of mind, I
crossed myself, and the vision vanished, leaving me in
total darkness."
“ And my medallion ?” demanded the Pope, in 2. tom:-
proving that this strange narrative, the revelation of
which he had himself provoked, had not‘ failed to make a
profound and disagreeable impression upon him.
“ I felt for it in the dark, and found it on the table
where your Holiness had left it," answered Caraffa,
taking from his bosom a beautiful medallion set with
precious stones and attached to a chain of massive gold.
“ Give it to me!“ exclaimed the Pope, extending his
hand anxiously to receive the talisman, on whose efiicacy
he placed the most implicit reliance ;—for deeply steeped
in sin as he was, his mind was imbued with al the gross
superstitions of the age; “ give it to me, Caratfa," he
cried : “ so long as that precious medallion is in my pos-
session, I necd not fear my enemies—for it would alike
warn me of the presence of the hostile blade as of the
poisoned cup 1"
And the Pope reached forward to receive the medallion,
which Cardinal Carafi'a handed to him.
But scarcely had Alexander VI. touched the talisman,
when he uttered a cry, and fell back on his throne in
violent convulsions.
Almost at the same moment Caesar Borgia experienced
peculiar sensations in the stomach: and a terrible sus-
picion of the truth flashed to his mind.
“ Mylord,” whispered a voice in his ear, “ I fear that
the three isoned goblets were delivered into the wrong,r
hands. is Holiness is dying—yourself are ghastly pale
-and I feel that I have drunk an unwholesomc beverage.
The three cardinals have escaped !"
Caisar Borgia turned round, and behold Faust leaning;
over him.
“I am at a loss to understand your lordship,” said
Caesar, sternly.
“ Nay-your sister Lucreza has no secrets from me,”
returned Faust. “But I should counsel you to take an
antidote as speedily as possible."
“ And you, Count—what will you do,” demanded the
Dukeiin a hoarse and scarcely audible voice.
“ I !---ohi you need not alarm yourself on my account,”
replied Faust, with a triumphant curl of his lip.
Then, turning away, he joined the crowd of guests who
had gathered round the Pope.
Thus was this grand scene of festivity and rejoicing
turned into one of mourning ;—thus did the designs of the
two principal plotters against the lives of three cardinals
rcdound upon themselves. _

CHAPTER LIII.
THE MYSTERY OF THE SLAUGHTERED‘BULL.—THE DEATH
OF ALEXANDER VI.
REOKLESS of his dying father,—intent only on his own
safety,-Ctesar Borgia rushed recipitately from the
banqueting-hall, and returned to is own palace
There he issued hast orders to his faithful Michelotto,
aud'then hurried to is bed-room, which was on the
groundflooi'.
Having swallowed an antidote, he undressed himself,
and sought his couch, where he lay pondering in no
enviable humour u on the events of the evening.
Half an hour 0 apsed, when a private door in the
wainseot opened. and Michelotto made his appearance.
“ Is everything ready ?" demanded Caesar.
“ Everything, my 10H ," was the reply.
The Duke of Valentinms rose, enveloped himself in a
warm silk dressing-gown, and hastil y passed by means of
the private door into an adioining room.
This inner chamber contained a bed in one corner :-
a large fire blazed in the grate; thick curtains were
drawn over the windows ; _and a 1am was suspended from
the ceiling. Near the bed four upright osts were fixed,
like pillars, between the floor and the cm ing ; and to the
-upper parts of these posts were fastened pulleys with
l


FA UST.
103

strong cords. Several large wooden tubs, or buckets,
stood upon the floor, which was nncarpeteri; and on a
rude table were two or three knives with long sharp
blades, and an‘immensewooden mallet.
The moment Csesar had entered this room, Michelotto
opened a large door on the side opposite to the private
entrance: and four of his sbirri led an enormous bull
into. the apartment, from a species of shed or stable ad-
Joining.
The hull was stunned and felled with a heavy blow from
the wooden mallet, dealt by the powerful hand of
Michelotto: the ‘sbirri then threw the bull over on its
back, and hastily fastened its legs to the four posts above
mentioned.
One of the men next took a large knife from the table, ,
and made an incision about two feet long in the stomach
of the beast, which uttered low means. The intestines
were taken out and caught in the wooden buckets ; and
Caesar, stripping himself naked, entered the stomach of
the bull, and thus rtook of a bath of blood.
Having remain in this position for about ten minutes,
-—while the slaughtered animal was yet warm and palpi-
tating,—Czesar left his horrible bath, and got into the
bed close by, where a profuse perspiration broke out all
over him.
This was the mode in which the Borgias assisted the
operations of the antidotes to those poisons which they
themselves had frequently tested in order to ascertain
their precise influence—a dangerous experiment which
they had not feared at times to make, so confident were
they in the efficacy of the counteracting drugs, when aided
by baths of blood.*
While still in his blood-stained couch, and with the
possibility, if not the probability, of death before his ‘
eyes, the Duke of Valentinois was not unmindful of his
temporal interests :—of his spiritual welfare he was com-
pletely careless.
As soon as the sbirri had removed the bull' and the
wooden vessels, and cleansed the floor of the blood-
stained imprints of their master's naked feet, they were
dismissed.
Caesar then called Michelotto to his bedside, and said,
“ It is almost impossible that my father must survive
this accursed accident. His great a e must succumb
beneath the influence of the poison, in spite of all the
antidotes in the world; and, moreover, he is not in a
situation to take a bath of blood. Such a proceeding
would lead to-the most ruinous suspicions. Hasten then
to the Vatican, with two of the most faithful of thy re-
tainers ; and, if the Pope’s situation be as desperate as I
imagine, seek the High Treasurer, Cardinal Cassa Nova,
and—by fair means or foul—obtain from him the keys of
the private cabinet of his Holiness. Thence thou wilt
brintgeéiither all the money, plate, and jewels there do-
posi .”
It was now past midnight; and Michelotto, attended
by his two most trustworthy sbirri, departed to execute
the Duke's orders.
The bravo-chief and his two myrmidons, enveloped in
cloaks, and with their slouched hats drawn over their
countenances, threaded their way through the streets
leading to the Vatican.
All Home was in commotion. The news that the Pope
had been taken desperately ill, accompanied by vague
rumours of foul play, had spread like wild-fire; and
people were running hither and thither—they scarcely
knew why—in all directions.
The rival factions of Colonna and Orsino had already

* The reader who is not well acquainted with the his-
tory of the Borgias, may probably imagine all that is here
related of them to be mere fiction. It is therefore neces-
sary to state that the account we have given of the mode
in which they obtained their deadly fluid from the
poisonedvomit of bears,--the anecdote of the ring with
the lion’s head that might be chan ed at will into that of
a -viper,—-the bath of bull’s bloo ,—the poisoned lock
of-the decry—the envenomed dagger,-—thc Po ’s medal-
lion talisman,-and even the very names of t e Bor ias’
poisons, are all matters of historical fact. N either iave
we exaggerated the atrocity of the characters of the
Borgias. All the crimes with which Morcome and Baschi
reproached Lucreza Bor in. in the fiftieth chapter, aswell
as the circumstance of glexander and Ciesar being p01-
soned by the wine intended for the three cardinals, are
also strictly 'true. We have, however, anticipated by
about six years the correct date of Alexander’s death
~+an anachronism for which we plead the hcense of
romance.



mustered their numerous retainers ,- and the Eternal City
was a prey to all the evils of agitation—anarchy—robbery
—disturbance——and assassination.
Meantime Michelotto and his two sbirri reached the
Vatican. The Pope was stretched on the bed of death——
but conscious of all that was passing around him.
Lucreza had deserted her father, and retired to her own
private residence, where she awaited the issue of the
events which new menaced her family with downfall and
ruin.
Of all the guests who a few hours previously had been
gathered in the banqueting-hall in the Vatican, none
save three or four cardinals remained to solace the dying
Pontiif. And of those cardinals, two—Cassa Nova and
Copis—were of the number, and for whom the poisoned
wine had been prepared : but of this fact they were then
ignorant.
Michelotto summoned Cassa Nova from the Pope’s
chamber, and led him into a retired apartment where he
had already posted his two sbirri. There, by means of
the most dreadful threats, and by actually holding a
dagger to the cardinal’s breast, Michelotto compelled him
to deliver up the keys of the Pope’s private treasury.
Cassa N ova was_locked- in the room, with the assurance
that if he attempted to raise an alarm or to escape within -
an hour, death should be his portion.
Michelotto and his two sbirri then proceeded to the
treasury-chamber, where they found two chests filled
with gold, plate, and jewels of immense value. These
were conveyed to Caesar’s palace.
Early on the following morning, the Duke of Valenti-
nois sent Michelotto with all his sbirri and guard to
occupy the Vatican. Thus the dying Pope was alarmed,
in his last hours, with the clatter of arms and the dread
preparations for civil strife. But Caesar was determined
to maintain his power by force of arms, and to allow no
Pontifi, save one of his own selection, to ascend the
throne of St. Peter.
Alexander VI. languished for eightdays—sensible all
the while, yet never once expressing a desire to see his
children, nor even breathing their names. He received
the last sacraments of the Church, and at length expired
in fearful agony.
And now Caesar Borgia himself repaired to the Vatican,
where he took n his abode, the Papal palace being in a
complete state 0 siege:
Caesar’s countenance bore strong traces of the-violent
poison which he had imbibed, andof the effects which
had been produced on his frame by the struggle between
the venom and its-antidote. His face was ashy white;
his lips were livid and swollen; and his eyes fearfully
bloodshot. He was, moreover, so weak, that he was
scarcely able to crawl about.
When the death of Alexander was publicly made known,
the President of the Apostolic Chamber, with Caesar’s
consent, assumed the executive functions of the State,
according to custom. The-ceremony of removing the
papal ring from the finger of the deceased, in the resence
of the cardinals, was dis ensed with; because t 0 body
had become so black, swo on, and putrid, and its counte-
nance so hideous, that the Duke of Valentinms did not
dare give confirmation to the rumours afloat by allowme'
the corpse to be seen by anyone save his own ‘faithfui
adherents. _
The preparations for the funeral were burned for a
variety of reasons—but chiefly because the body had
become so offensive that an impure odour pervaded the
whole of the Vatican, and also because the positionbf
the Borgias was so critical, in consequence of the enmity
of the Orsino and Colonna factions, that only the election
of a Pope favourably inclined towards them, could save
them_ from utter ruin—and perhaps from a terrible
death. '
.—
.CHAPTER LIV.
run CHAMBER or burn.
Tun night before the funeral, Caesar, {wrapped in his
dressing-gown, proceeded from his own apartment in the
Vatican to that where the corpse of Alexander lay._
The body was in its coflin, which stood upon a bier, at
the four corners of which burnt long wax tapers. No
mourners were present to watch by the side of the dead;
for the superstition of the times rendered Alexander ter-
rible even in his death, and the atmosphere of the
chamber, in spite of silver lamps burnin with frankin-
cense, was pestilential and nauseous to a _egree. _
It is impossible to account for the impulse which


' lOl
FA US T.

prompted Caesar Borgia to visit the chamber of death at
that midnight hour. Whether it was a transient gleam
of afiection, inspiring a wish to cast a farewell glance
upon the remains of his sire ;—-or whether it were the
effect of some sudden and overwhelming remorse, it is
vain to conjecture. There are, on certain occasions, par-
ticular impulses for which the objects of them cannot
themselves account; and yet Caesar Borgia was scarcely
the man to be urged by any of those tender sympathies
which constitute the pure metal in the dross of our
species.
Be the cause which took him thither at that midnight
hour what it might, there he nevertheless was!
Raising the pall from the coffin, Czcsar looked long
upon the changed, swollen, and discoloured features,—
lately so handsome, even in old age—now so revoltineg
loathsome.
“ And this is all that remains of him who a few days
ago was terrible throughout Christendom,“ said Cscsar,
aloud, as he still gazed on the disgusting ectaclc.
“ Thy death will influence not only Italy, but t e whole
civilized world! And how soon will those who did not
dare to judge thee harshly while living,—-how soon will
they be busy with all thine actions, since thou art no
more! Already art thou owerless: that countenance,
whose frown once overaw a natiou,—that hand which
could sign mandates so deeply affecting the interests of
Europe, will soon be food for worms! And—in a few
years—some wretched sexton or other grovelling menial
of the tomb will weigh in his hand the last ashes which
remain of all that was once Alexander the Sixth 1"
“Peace be to those ashes!” said a low and subdued
voice close by.
Czesar started l—and for a moment he was afraid.
Then a form, envelo d in a mantle, rose from a kneel-
ing posture on the ot er side of the bier; and, beneath
the dark shade of a hood, Cmsar recognised the counte-
nance of his sister Lucreza.
“What I” he exclaimed, in astonishment; “have you
been praying P”
“ I have been praying—and for the first time for many
a long day,” answered Lucreza. “ But do you suppose-—
can you believe that our prayers will avail for him ?”
“ If reptiles could speak, Lucreza,” said her brother,
bitterly, “ dost thou imagine that man would s )are the
viper because the adder implored mercy in its be alf P”
“ Oh! Caesar, blaspheme not! The compassion of God
must not be judged by comparisons in which human
frailty plays a part 1"
“ Make thyself a nun, Lucreza,” said the Duke, con-
temptuously. “ Art thou about to pule and whine when
so much energy is required at our hands P”
“ I know t at our fortunes are desperate,” answered
Lucreza. “ But—in the presence of a spectacle like this
—in the solemn hour of midnight—in the chamber of
death—I ma be pardoned if I yielded to the force of
emotions which I had not experienced until now. I re-
solved to see my father's remains ere they were consigned
to the tomb: I stole from my private abode, and came
hither for that purpose, little dreaming that I should
meet you by the side of our father’s bier. But when I
entered this room and saw it deserted—not a mourner—
not a hireling even to affect lamentation ;—when I found
myself alone with the dead—alone with the remains of
him who was lately so terrible to all save us,—I felt over-
whelmed by sentiments which I cannot define ; and sud-
denly all the crimes—yes, Caesar, all the crimes of my life
seemed to array themselves in terrible sha es to my
mind’s eyes. Then I trembled—I look fearfully
around : the room appeared to be peopled with the
spectres of those whom we have slain—horrible forms
hemmed me in around—ghastly countenances gazed on me
from their winding sheets—livid lips muttered anathemas
against me—skeletou fingers pointed menacineg at me—
and the pall spread over the coffin seemed to be agitated
ominously. Oh! I was afraid, Caesar :—I endeavoured to
escape from the room, and could not! My feet were
riveted to the spot—my le s were as heavy and as motion-
less as if they were of marhle. Then I sank down on my
knees-and prayed; and methought that I was consoled!
My mind grew tranquillized—the spectres disappeared;
and a voice seemed to whisper in my ears, ‘ There is hope
even for Lucreza Borgia !' ”
“ Cease this absurdity, sister!” e'aculated the Duke,
impatiently. “ You will make a chil of even me. Away
with such ideas :—I dare not yield to their influence! No
--we have leisure for nothing like remorse: our path is
beset by enemies—our osition is most critical. Come,
Lucreza—it is not goo for either you or me to remain

here. Our hearts must be steeled against all compunction :
we have been tigers so long, that were we now to become
lambs our fees would tear us to ieces. Come, Lucreza,
I say—come awav from the chem er of death 1 To-mor-
row—after the funeral—I will visit thee at thine own
private abode, and discourse upon our prospects. Fare-
well till then: I will summon Michelotto to conduct thee
in safety home.”
Lucreza suffered herself to be persuaded by her
brother; and she followed him from the apartment
where lay the remains of their father.
But was there not a scintillation of light remaining in
the gloomy caverns of that woman’s mind ? was there
not a single grain of purity at the bottom of the mass of
filth and abominations which filled that woman’s soul?
Yes—for the light of heaven’s own star is reflected, be it
never so faintly, even in the depths of the foul and weed-
choked pool 1
And oh ! had not her brother appeared in the chamber
of death at that moment, the light would have expanded
in her mind—that grain of purity would have purified
other portions of her soul ;-and then, indeed, would
there have been hope for even Lucreza Borgia !”
But Providence had ordained otherwise.
CHAPTER LV.
'rm: RAGE or run ROMAN PEOPLE.
On the ensuing morning the funeral of Pope Alex-
ander VI. took place.
According to the custom of those times, the body was
placed in a coflin which had no lid, but which was Simply
coyered with a sheet of the finest linen and a pall of black
ve vet.
A profusion of spices, powe'rful odours, and aromatic
herbs had been deposited, for an obvious reason, within
the folds of the winding-sheet.
At seven o’clock in the morning the funereal procession
emerged from the Vatican, and took its way towards the
chapel of Saint Peter—(we have before said that the
cathedral was not then in cxistence)-—where the Roman
Pontiifs were interred.
The streets were lined with the troops of the Duke of
Valentinois, under the command of Michelotto ; and
behind those serried ranks of grim and ferocious-looking
sbirri, were gathered the myriads of the Eternal City, all
anxious to witness a ceremony which was invested with a
certain solemnity, in spite of the abhorrence that was
attached to the memory of its object.
The windows and balconies were crowded with faces,—
cavaliers and ladies,-—-old men and young,—-rich and poor,
-—the illustrious and the beautiful,—the glorious and the
charming.
As a matter of necessity rather than respect, the
principal houses were hung with black; the bells of the
numerous towers of Rome tolled solemn knells ; and all
the shops were closed.
The procession was opened by a number of the inferior
clergy, all carrying lighted tapers—for the day was mild,
without a breath of air, though dark and gloomy. Next
came the members of the Sacred College, receded by the
Vice-Chancellor, and attended by youthfu ages carrying
lamps burning with frankincense. Then to lowed a small
detachment of Czcsar’s troops; and after these came the
coflin, supported on the shoulders of six men, the pall
being borne by eight cardinals. Behind the remains of
the Pope were the superior orders of the clergy; and
these were followed by the great dignitaries and lay
nobles of the State. Another detachment of soldiers,
headed by CiBSitl' in person, closed the procession.
Thus soon had the gay carnival been changed into a
scene of solemnity and awe 1 From the People’s Gate to
the Coliseum—from the Baths of Diocletian to the Castle
of Saint Angelo, there was scarcely room to wedge
another human being. The multitudes filled the square
of Saint Peter, the court of Saint Damascus, and all the
adjacent streets, so that not a particle of ground nor
pavement was visible; and as the dense crowds rose
amphitheatrically up all the neighbouring thoroughfares
which commanded a view of the object of universal in-
terest, the very houses themselves seemed walled with
human faces to at least mid-height. And all these myriads
of eyes sent forth glances which radiated to one common
centlrleI—thc funeral of him who had lately overawed a
wor . '
The procession moved on : already had it left the
Vatican a hundred yards behind, when suddenly the
murky atmosphere was illumined with a flash of lightning
—long, bright, forked, and vivid.


FAUST.
105

The hum of tens of thousands of voices was hushed as
instantaneously as if the countless spectators had been
converted into marble, and had thus realized the tales of
Oriental writers. .
At any other time that precursor of a storm would have
excited no more than an ordinary interest; but on this
solemn occasion-when the remains of a sovereign
Pontiff, who had been terrible alike by his crimes and
his policy, were passing to the tomb—the public mind was
prepared to receive any natural incident of the kind as
a. superstitious omen or a manifestation of the divine feel-
ing.
The lightning was followed by a peal of thunder which
seemed to shake Rome to the very centre, and paralyzed
every limb. For a few moments the procession stopped ;
and the coffin-bearers staggered beneath the weight of
their burden. Even the grim and ferocious sbirri
trembled, they knew not why ;—even Caesar Borgia cast
a hurried and anxious glance around ;—cven the bravo
Michelotto was overawed by some unknown and ineffable
spell ;—and the priests crossed themselves with tremulous
hands.
Before the multitude, the soldiers, the coffin-bearers,
and the clergy had recovered from the sudden and awe-
inspiring anic, a second flash of lightning played over
the lowering welkin; the thunder crashed as if myriads
of carriages were rolling on a paved road in the invisible
regions above, and the spire of the church of Santa-
Raparata fell with a horrible din.
This was an omen of dread portent ; for, at the death
of Innocent the Eighth, Alexander's predecessor, it
was alleged that heaven had presaged the coming evils in
the same manner;—lightning had struck the sacred fane
(sz Santa-Reparata, and Roderic Borgia was elected
ope . .
Now—as this same Roderic Borgia was on his wa to
the tomb—heaven seemed to announce fresh calamities
to Rome,—-lightning struck Santa-Reparata a second
time ; and the people were once more overwhelmed with
awe, terror, and vague apprehensions.
And now the storm be an to rage with itiless fury;
and the atmosphere was tilled with that sulp iurous odour
and lurid light which accompany the convulsions of the
elements.
An indescribable alarm—an alarm of a profoundly
solemn and fearfully su erstitious nature—now took pos-
session of the multitu es which thronged the streets ;
and that living ocean began to be agitated—wildly
agitated, like the real sea.
Men exchanged glances which expressed no defined
motive of terror, and which were yet ominously sig-
nificant as to the existence and extent of that terror :—
then they clenched their fists, loosened their daggers in
their sheaths, and seemed suddenly imbued with feelings
of intense ferocity, hatred, and revenge.
Caesar perceived this menacing operation of popular
resentment ;—he felt as if he were standing upon a mine
that was about to burst ;—he knew that some awful peril
was at hand.
“ Keep your ranks firm, as on value your lives,” he
exclaimed to the soldiers who lined the streets.
Nor was Michelotto blind to the popular storm which
appeared ready to burst and keep the elemental tempest
fearful compan . By a rapid signal which he made, the
rear ranks of his sbirri faced to the right-about ; and thus
one line, on either side of the streets, was turned towards
the procession, while the other confronted the people.
But of what avail are a few soldiers, however well
disciplined, when opposed to a populace.influenced by so
terrible an idea of vengeance as that which now inspired
the Roman eople ? Were there not all the atrocities of
the accurs family of Borgia to punish ? were there not
all the mysterious murders, the dark deeds, the instances
of diabolical oppression, and the shame brought by a
detestable family upon a powerful State, to avenge 'r’ The
hour of such vengeance now seemed to be at hand ;—the
remains of the Pope might be insulted in his passage to
the tomb, and there was one of the hated race of Borgia
then present on whom the multitude could wreak their
resentment. Moreover, heaven itself appeared to mark
that day with terrible omens for the future; and these
resages of calamity filled the Romans with an appre-
ension that made them desperate.
And now the multitude began to agitate, as it were,
with the turmoil of tempestuous waves; low murmurs
raised a buzzing din; then those countless voices seemed
to gain courage, and spoke out more loudly and more
boldly,—iucreasing in volume and energy until a hundred
thousand cries proclaimed “ Death to all the Borgias !"

Michelotto ordered his sbirri to stand firm and mam'
tain their ranks unbroken. Absurd command .l as if the
frail bark can stem the fury of the Maelstrom becauSe
the pilot wills it so. The serried force was broken
through in a moment; swords and daggers were in-
stantly bathed in blood ;—the contest was too close, too
quick, for the use of the soldiers' pikes and lances.
The popular indignation directed itself towards two
points,—towards two men, who were the objects of uni-
versal abhorrence and detestation.
These were Caesar Borgia and Michelotto.
Against each of those formidable individuals rushed
dense masses of the infuriat-e multitude ; but the intended
victims fought like lions at bay.
All order was now destroyed: the regularity of the
procession was broken up. The clergy sought refuge in
the sacristy of Saint Peter’s Chapel; the coffin-bearers
hurried towards the portal of the sacred fane ; but they
were paralysed with fear; for around them was a howl-
ing, savage, furious populace, panting for blood. The
bearers trembled—their energies failed them: the coffin
fell upon the steps of the chapel door; and the corpse of
Alexander—swollen, black, and putrid—rolled out upon
the pavement.
0h ! what a cry of horror then burst from all those who
were near enough to behold that horrific spectacle,—a
cry that was taken up and echoed everywhere around,—
reverberating along the streets which radiated to the
square of Saint Peter,——prolonged far and wide until
it resembled the dread expression of a city’s (wing agony !
Then a solemn silence ensued for a few moments ; and
even the fightingnthe struggling—the attacks upon Caesar
and Michelotto—all ceased. But at the expiration of
that brief interval, a general rush took place in the
direction of the corpse of the Pope ; and then the screams
of women and the curses of men bore evidence to the
terrific pressure of the crowd. Hundreds were trampled
under foot;—yet still the masses moved on, amidst
piercing shrieks, wild cries, and horrible anithemas.
And all this time the storm of heaven raged over-
head,——the lightning flashing, and the thunder rolling.
The pressure towards the chapel continued for some
minutes, until those who were far removed from that
spot became aware of the inefiicacy of their endeavours
to reach it; and then, their original sentiments reviving
in full force, the turned to renew their attacks upon
Caesar and Michelotto.
But the temporary cessation of hostilities, caused by
the accident to the Pope’s coflin, had created an interval
long enough to work the safety of the Duke of Valenti-
nois and his faithful sbirro. Not that they had escaped
from the crowd—the were too closely hemmed in to
admit of flight :—nor t lat their soldiers had been enabled
to effect a diversion in their favour, amidst a populace
so rabid—so ferocious—so terrible as that of Rome had
now become.
Concealed behind the black drapery which partially
covered the balcony of one of the houses overlooking the
scene of this extraordinary tumult, Lucreza Borgia was
seated with the Count of Aurana.
When the attack commenced upon her brother, she
ped the arm of Faust, exclaiming in a piercing
tone, “ They will murder him! the wretches will murder
him!"
For that woman, with a soul so dark, loved her
brother Caesar more than she had ever loved any of her
relatives.
“ See—he fights bravely!” returned Faust. “ His men
endeavour to form a circle around him—” .
“Oh! but they are repulsed—they are driven back!"
interrupted Lucreza, following all the movements of the
hostile parties with looks of the most painful anxiety.
“The people are infuriatc—they rush on like r. "ing
lions—they thirst for his blood! Oh! Faust, must he
perish thus before my eyes P”
“Do you believe, Lucreza, that I have power to save
him F” demanded the Count, casting upon her a glance
which seemed to penetrate to the depths of her soul.
“I know not—I am bewildered—I cannot bear the
manifestation of that popular fury," hastily replied
Lucreza, the veins in her forehead swollen almost to
bursting, and her upper lip—usually so proud 1n its ex-
pression—now quivering convulsively.
“ Fear not—I will save him—for your sake,” cried the
Count of Aurana, pressing her hand; and, without wait-
ing for an answer, he hurried precipitater from the
apartment.
Lucreza now watched from the balcony even more
anxiously than before. She had certain vague and wild


106
FA US T.
-but still undefined—ideas concerning Faust; she knew
not his terrible secret—but she could not help looking
upon him as a being around whom hung a mystery that
singularly interested her. She was well aware that he
had risen suddenly from the depths of obscurity to the
heights of grandeur and prosperity in the German em-
pire ;—-she had seen the readiness with which he _had ful-
filled his promise of releasing Walstein and Fritz from
the dungto'is of Vienna. ;—she had, moreover, observed
with profound surprise that even the most secret occur-
rences of her family history were well known to him ;—
and she also knew that he had partaken of some of the
poisoned wine at the banquet, without being affected by
it in the remotest degree. These circumstances all com-
bined to render him an ob'ect of wonder, interest, and
even fear in her eyes; an when he declared that he
would save her brother, she experienced a strange but
inexplicable confidence in this assurance. _ '
Scarcely had Faust left the room when the incident
above related occurred at the chapel door ; and Lucreza
behold the remains of her father—the corpse of the once
terrible Alexander—tossed ignominiously forth, a dis-
gusting object for the public contemplation.
Then all the proud blood of the Borgias rushed to her
countenance :—her cheeks became crimson—-her eyes
flashed fire—her brow contracted with intense, but
inveterate, indignation. _ _
In another moment, however, her attention was in-
tcrested by the sudden cessation of hostilities that fol_
lowed the éoud cry which was taken up through square
and strce , and from house to house, in the manner
already described.
Then she beheld Faust calmly working his way amidst
the dense masses towards the spot where her brother was
seated on his horse, measuring his late assailants with
fierce and bitterly inveterate glances. The Count ap-
peared to move amongst that crowd as if he were a
spirit :'—he was not jostled—he was not hurried backward
and forward with the oscillating sweep of those living
waves ;-—he walked with an air of ease and comfort
amidst the tumultuous ocean of people.
But ere he reached the spot where Caesar stood, the
attack on this individual had recommenced in the manner
before described ; and Michelotto had succeeded in fighting
his way up to the very snlc of his ducal master.
Closely pressed—hemmed in all around—without any
apparent avenue of escape, Caesar fought desperately,
determined to sell his life as dearly as possible,—~a resolu-
tion in which he was seconded by Michelotto. And already
was the sbirro‘s sword dashed from his hands,--already
was Caesar unhorsed,-——and in one single moment more
the lives of both would have becomea sacrifice to that
terrible opular wrath,—whena powerful arm, brandish-
ing a naked brand, suddenly hurled back the foremost
assailants, and created such a diversion in favour of the
Duke and Michelotto that they were enabled to recover
hemselves.
Then, with a few fatal blows of his death-dealing
weapon, Faust cleared a passage for himself and those
whom he had rescued. The Duke’s sbirri, who perceived
this extraordinary and successful feat on the part of a
single individual, rallied, and became the assailants
instead of the assailed ;—a panic fear took possession of
the multitudes; and a general flight on the part of the
populace ensued. Those who were nearest to Faust and
his companions urged forward those who were farther
off ;—the impetus was thus speedily given to the entire
ocean of people ; and that ortentous tide ebbed from the
, great Square far more rapi ly than it had flowed into it—
all the radiating streets forming the canals by which those
living floods rolled away.

CHAPTER LVI.
rm: Damon’s LECTURE.
THE corpse of Alexander VI. lay exposed for some hours
on the steps of Saint Peter’s Chapel.
When the reaction took place on the part of the multi-
tude, and those masses lately so terrible were pouring
away from the heart of the capital into its arteries and
veins, in the manner just described, the rumour was rife
that an overwhelming hostile force had arrived upon the
scene of action. The panic was, therefore, communicated
to the members of the Sacred College, the cardinals, the
superior and inferior orders of the clery, the dignitaries,
the nobles, the coffin-hearers, the pa es, and the menials,
who had ere now composed the gran funeral procession.
All fled — all abandoned the remains of their late


sovereign ;—and the corpse of the Pontiff Alexander was
left iguominiously exposed, in its disgusting deformity
and loathsome decomposition, at the portal of its intended
place of sepulture. .
The Borgias were too much occupied with the neces-
sity of ensuring their own safety (for fear of a counter-
reaction on the part of the Roman populace) to think of
the remains of their father. Lucreza repaired, in the
disguise of a priest, to her private house; and Czcsar
hastened, with a strong escort of his troops, to the
Vatican. .
From time to time, when comparative tranquillity was
restored throughout the city, a few well-disposed persons
approached the remains of the Pope, with the intention
o removing them into the chapel : but the countenance
was so awful to look upon, that they retreated in
afl’right.
It was about the hour of sunset when Faust was pass-
ing in that direction. He stopped close by the corpse;
and, gazing on it, exclaimed aloud, “ And is this all that
is left of the once great and magnificent Pope who made
all Europe tremble P"
“ What think you of that specimen of the remains of a
Sovereign Pontiff P" demanded the deep sonorous voice
of the Demon.
“ Ah! what, then here P” ejaculated Faust.
“Where should the epicure be, save at the inviting
banquet P” said the Demon, with bitter irony. “ \Vherr
should the lover be, if not by the side of his mistress?
where should the carrion-crow be, save on a corse?
Each and all to the feast they most relish, or by the
object which gives them the greatest pleasure. There,"
continued the Demon, indicating the body with his foot.
-“ there arothe remains of a man who might have made
millions happy. His slightest word was a command which
produced a positive and instantaneous effect. He stood
as it were upon the brink of a river flowing with water
that was tasteless ; and did he say, ‘ Pour gall therein,’ or
‘Pour honey therein,’ he was immediately obeyed. He
might have rendered that river pleasing and grateful to
the palate ; and he would not the less have been a mighty
prince and a powerful ruler. But he said, ‘ Pour gall
therein ;’ and a river of bitterness ran through his do-
minions. The people drank of it, and cursed him. It
spread itself out into myriads and myriads of streams,
which irrigated all the lands of Christendom; and the
people in all those lands have drunk of the bitter waters,
and have likewise cursed him." I
“ Your words are as bitter as the waters of which you
figuratively spea ,” said Faust.
“ Are the not true ?" demanded the fiend, with a. low
chucklin a1 h ;— “are they not true? Oh! what
short-sig ted 0015 are mortals! They people my king-
dom as if they had a preference for me over One whose
name I dare not mention! Again I say, what short-
sighted fools are mortals ! Take the history of this Pope.
He ascended the proudest throne in Christendom; and
he saw before him two paths—both departing from the
same place, and, though taking different directions, still
converging to the same point in the end. One was the
right road—the other was the wrong: the point at which
they met was the Temple of Fame, Pros rity, Power,
and Glory. By what strange infatuation id this miser-
able Pope take the wrong road; and, having taken it,
persist in it? The other was as short and as easy ;—oh !
yes, believe me,—as short and as easy! Andnvhy do so
many, many men—whether rulers or mendicants—
whether nobles or obscure individuals,--why do they
choose the wrong path, in-preference to the right P You
mortals have an idea that it is more easy to obtain riches,
and power, and glory by foul means, than by fair :——and
Ye are wrong 1 You mortals conceive “that the evil path
is the shorter, the more convenient, and the more ready;
~and ye are wrong! Yes :-—ye are wrong—ye are-wrong!
I tell you. all this, because on are mine—irredeemably
:nine; and I rejoice in saliermg the light of these truths
to dawn uponyou.”
“_Say rather, fiend that you are,” cried Faust, violently
excited,-“ say rather'that . ou rejoice to torture me
with the conviction that I ave resigned Him whose
name we neither dare to mention, in order to give my
soul to our aecursed dominion.”
.“ Per aps I do rejoice in that too,” said the Demon
With withering irony. “ But listen to me once more. I
know that men talk rigger and often of the numerous
temptations that I sp in their way to ensnare them.
They_err——I have no need to use so much artifice as they
imagine. They become mine of their own accord: they
rankthemselves under my banner; they become volun-


FA US 7'.
107
teers in my service. Were I to proclaim these truths to
them, I should open their eyes, and lose myriads of vic-
tims ;——but to you I may say all this. Know, then, Faust,
that it is as easy—yes, as easy—to follow the course of
virtue as of vice. And why is it as easy? Because it is
more pleasant to pursue a path margmed with flowers,
than one environed with briars. But again I tell you
that man obstinately and doggedly chooses the latter.
It is not that the path of briars is more easy to pursue ;
——no—for that is the more easy which is the more plea-
sant. Ask the thief whether the luxuries purchased by
the stolen coin outvalue the crust which he earned by
his honest toil? Ask the adulterer and the seducer
whether the pleasures of his illicit passion excel the
charms of a ure and holy love? Ask the monarch
whether he sits the more comfortably on a throne en-
crusted with the miseries of his people? Ask the man
who has plundered the widow and the orphan whether
his ill- otten wealth, which has given him a pillow of
down, as brought him lighter slumbers and ha pier
dreams, than in the days of his honest toil when his ead
reposed on a bolster of hay? And then on mortals
have your philoso hers—oh! what fine phi osophers!-—
who preach that virtue is not rewarded in this world, nor
vice generally punished. They only judge of the excep-
tions which they see; but those exceptions prove the
rule in the o posite sense. They conceive, moreover,
that if the wic ed escape the vengeance of the law, they
escape punishment altogether; and they suppose that
because virtue does not become so suddenly wealthy and
pro- one as vice, it has not its adequate recompense.
Miserable fallacy! Absurd sophistry! Has vice no other
punishments than those which outraged laws can inflict?
Has virtue no rewards beyond those which mundane
aggrandisement can 've? Is domestic misery no pun-
ishment P Is domestic peace no reward? Is what you
mortals term an evil conscience no sting? Is what you
denominate a calm conscience no blessing? Oh! Faust,
I could dwell upon this topic for hours—because—“
“ Because, as I am mortal, you re'oice in reproaching
me with my short-sightedness," added the Count, im-
patiently.
“I will not say that on err, Faust,” exclaimed the
Demon, his lip curling With triumph.
“ Miserable wretch that I am l” cried the Count. “ The
longer I live, the more I have reason to repent of the
folly—oh! the detestable folly of the compact which I
have made with thee. I am not happy, though possessed
of all that earth can give me to render my life a scene of
joy; for there are times when I could dash my head
against a. stone—did I not know that by so doing I should
only give myself up the earlier to thee! Yes, fiend—-
thou hast said truly—there is a conscience ! When seated
at the banquet, where the ruby wine crowns the golden
goblet,'or glitters through the diaphanic crystal, I am
not ha py. The laugh is on my tongue, or the smile is
on my i —but I am not happy! When pillowed on the
bosom 0 beauty, and reading soft passion in the loveliest
e yes that ever looked forth from amidst hyperion looks, I
am not happ . No: there is a monitor within which
reminds me 0 all my misdeeds; and a voice—unheard by
all others—ever thunders in my ears, ‘ Thou hast sold
thyself to Satan!‘ "‘
“ And what are your mental sutferin compared with
mine P“ exclaimed the Demon, a dark c oud passing over
his countenance ; “ the ripple of a stream in contrast with
the raging of the boundless ocean! But of that enough.
Thou sayest that thy joys are ever poisoned bg the re-
miniscence of thy compact with me? Wouldstt ou draw
a veil over the past F" l
“ Ah 1 your words remind me of a suggestion that Ida
once breathed in my ear—a suggestion which had not
altogether escaped'my memory, but which involves a
change of being as it were—a change whereon I have not
dare to ponder,“ said Faust, in a musing tone. “ But,
answer me brieflg—dost thou possess the power'to elface
from my mind, uring the remainder of my career, the

* The author hopes that the real object and aim of his
tale are thoroughly understood. This is not—~or at least
is not intended to be—a mere romance without any par-
ticular moral in view; but it is written to show the evil
consequences of vice and the beauty of virtue. Faust is
the type of all evil-doing persons, who morally, thou b
not by-written compact, sell themselves to Satan. As t e
taie: progresses from the point which it has now reached,
the author's aims will become more apparent; and the
reader will perceive the peculiar moral illustrated by the
contrast existing between Faust and Otto Pianalla.

refrmembrance of that compact which seals my doom here-
a ter ‘r"
“ There is an island of the Archipelago, in the Medi-
terranean Sea,” replied the fiend,in a slow and measured
tone, “ where nature has fashioned a cavern so strange and
wonderful that no regal hall built by human hands, and
fitted up with innumerable mirrors to give back the lustre
of myriad lamps, can compete with it in splendour. And
that cavern contains a spring whose pure waters glide
amidst a grove of stalaetites and crystal spars.”
“ And those waters 1*" asked Faust, in a hesitating
manner.
“The Waters of Oblivion!” answered the Demon.
“ Oh! give me to drink of those waters!" ejaculated
Faust, as earnestly as if he were praying to a good genius :
“let me taste of that welcome stream—and then may I
enjo life !"
“ ' ‘o-morrow morning, at sunrise,” answered the
Demon, “ we will seek the cavern of the Waters of
Oblivion l"
With these words the fiend moved slowly away; and
Faust watched his tall form until it was lost in the distance
and the increasing obscurity of the evening.
Then the Count of Aurana gave way to the joy which
'he experienced at this prospect of finding oblivion in
respect to the past.
“ Oblivion !" he exclaimed,—-“ yes, oblivion—deep for~
getfulness of all that now makes my life wretched! If
I cannot recall the past, at least let me forget it! Let
me pursue a career of pleasure and enjoyment—conscious
only of possessing a superhuman power that may procure
me every gratification, without being forced to tremble at
the contemplation of its source! Then—when mine hour
comes —-it will unveil all its terrors suddenly :—one moment
I shall be happy in the midst of all the luxuries of festivity
and love—and the next will hurry me into the depths of
a fearful eternity. But—in that manner -my enjoyments
will not be poisoned until the fatal moment shall arrive;
I shall not mark with horror and despair the lapse of each
successive day! N o-I shall hurry blindly on—confident
only of having every wish and every whim gratified, and
without knowmg wherefore! Oh 1 then indeed the remain-
ing years of my life will pass joyously away! Yes-let
me drink of the Waters of Oblivion :—-I shall know no
rest 'until I slake my thirst in the stream of forgetful-
ness ."
Having thus given vent to the new sentiments which
the Demon’s romise “had awakened within him, Faust
turned away rom the spot where the corpse of the late
Pope yet lay stretched on the steps.
Half an hour afterwards a sexton and his menials re-
paired to the cha el, and thrusting the dead body into its
coffin, conveyed t cremains of Alexander VI. to the vault
prepared for their reception.
.__.
CHAPTER LVII.
Tm: warnas or OBLIVION.
Tun scene changes to the island of Antiparos—a small
but remarkable member of that Archi elago which lies
between the coasts of Greece and Anato in.
Over the beautiful plains and sloping woodlands,
moist with the early dew, Faust and the Demon are
pursuing their way.
It was one of those charming days for which all ani-
mated nature seems to give thanks—the bird chirping
upon the Abough, the insect humming in the air, the fish
disporting in the crystal stream, the flocks browsing in
the pasture-lands, and the reptile basking on the sunny
bank ;—-one of those delicious mornings when the most
misanthropieal heart is allured from its self-erected
charnel-house-~when the invalid is cheered with a
quickening in his languid pulse, a brightening up of the
dull eye, and a artial flushing of his marble check ;—a
morn, in fine, w en the universe seems surchargcd with
the spirit of love, and when even tottering decrepitudc
dreams of life’s cheerful glow, and imagines itself to be
transported back overthe long hill of existence to the
garden on the other side—that garden of youth where
the sun always shone l
Faust and the Demon continued their way, until the
reached a little hill, where a large arch, formed of roug
craggy rocks, and overhung with creeping plants, formed
the opening of a cavern, whose yawning mouth inspired
a gloomy awe.
“ Behold the entrance to the famous Grotto of Anti-
paros l" said the Demon, pausing for a few moments on
the threshold. "‘ Within its wild and wonderful recesses
has Nature been at work for thousands of years. Allthat


108
PA US T.
you will soon see has been fashioned by the slow and
steady filtration of waters through the roof, and by the
substances which the fluid has borne in its progress
amidst permeable rock. But come : I know,“ added
the fiend, with a sardonic chuckle, “ that you are longing
to taste of the Waters of Oblivion.”
The Demon entered the cavern ; and Faust boldly
followed.
Their course lay through a long, lofty, but narrow alley,
into which the daylight penetrated by means of several
apertures in the roof. But when they had proceeded
about thirty yards, black darkness was before them.
Then, by the power of the Demon, a supernatural
lustre suddenly appeared; and the rugged roof and sides
of the cavern glittered as if set with myriads of diamonds.
The sparry concretions, produced by the dripping of
water during a period of almost countless centuries, had
assumed the most strange and wondrous forms. Here
were the semblances of trees and shrubs, produced in
infinite variety,——a petrified grove, combining all existing
colours, and receding in due perspective :—there were
figures bearing likeness some to the human shape, others
to existing animals, and others again to the monsters
which agans have been known to worship. ,
In a ittle while the Demon led Faust to the brink of a
profound preeipice,—an abyss so terrific that a common
mortal would have started back in horror.
But Faust knew none of those fears which were the cha-
racteristics of his fellow-creatures ; and he hesitated not
to plunge into the gulf in imitation of the example of his
1 e.
guFrom the bottom of the abyss another cavern branched
off, like the gallery horizontally excavated from the foot
of a mine-shaft; and overhead was a ridge of rugged
rocks, vast pieces of which juttcd out so far that it was
necessary to creep beneath them.
But, guided by means of the supernatural light, Faust
pursued his way in safety, in the track of the Demon.
Another precipice was soon reached—a precipice more
profound and terrible than the former one.
Into this second abyss the (plunged—and a second
horizontal cavern, rugged an angerons, was entered.
It was now necessary to keep entirely on one side; for
on the other was a series of dark pits and caves, yawning,
like so many monstrous wells, as i in readiness to swallow
up for ever the unwary intruder in those subterranean
laboratories of nature.
Presently the cavern sloped obliquely, growing more
and more precipitate as Faust and the Demon advanced,
until it became perfectly perpendicular, thus forming a
third precipice more dangerous than the two preceding
ones.
The walls of this gulf were solid masses of red marble,
covered with white sprigs and s ars of rock crystal. As
the supernatural light illumine those wondrous depths,
the effect, with the glow of the purple from behind, was
that of one immense sheet of ameth sts.
A slanting vault led Faust and his infernal guide into
a wide passage of rough coarse stone, where the sta-
lactical concretions had assumed the forms of snakes, all
coiled round, and apparently ready to dart from their
resting-places. There also were magnificent pillars of
glittering yellow marble ; and the roo seemed hung with
icicles, transparent as glass, and _yet as solid as flint. The
floor was of marble; and, in different places, incrusta-
tions of white spar had taken the appearances of thrones,
altars, and pedestals bearing crowns—as if Nature, in her
wild and marvellous frolic, had studied to mock the richest
achievements of human art !
From this splendid chamber another low and rugged
cavern led to another precipice, makin the fourth and
last which it was necessary to plunge into to gain the
porticé) of the gorgeous temple which that Grotto con-
taine .
The abyss led to a cavern, the bottom of which was
plain and even; but after proceeding forty or fift yards,
it ve admission into a long alley, the sides an roof of
ghich were of black marble without a single incrusta
on.
Suddenly the supernatural light disappeared, and
Faust found himself in total darkness.
“ Fear nothing,“ said the deep-toned voice of the
Demon: “ you Will better appreciate the marvels you are
about to behold, if on merge from utter obscurity into
the grand hall of sp endonr and magnificence.”
Taking the hand of Faust, the Demon led him onward
for a short distance: then, biddin him step over a large
stone which seemed the threshol of a portico, he con-
.ducted him only a few paces farther.

Relinquishing Fanst’s hand suddenly, the Demon ex-
claimed, “ Behold !”—and at the same instant the super-
natural lustre reappeared, but with increased intenseness
and brilliancy.
Then what a wondrous and magnificent spectacle broke
_upon the view of the astonished Count of Aurana ! '
He was standing in a grotto a hundred and twenty
yards long, a hundred and ten yards wide, and upwards of
sixt yards in height ;—-a grotto far, far below the Surface
of t e earth, and which Nature had hollowed and em-
bellished with her own hands.
And those embellishments—how inefi'ably grand, how
indescribany splendid were they!
Above his head was a mighty vaulted roof, formed of
crystallized white marble, hun as it were with icicles,
many of them ten feet long, an a foot in diameter at the
thickest part. To these seemed suspended myriads of
festoons of leaves, flowers, and creeping plants—all
formed of stalactitcs which reflected the light to such a
degree of brilliancy as to dazzle the eyes. The sides of
this magnificent pavilion appeared to be shaded with
trees of white marble, risin in rows above each other,
and seeming the real shru s of the vegetable kingdom
covered with snow. And, again—from tree to tree, as
from icicle to icicle on the roof —hung beautiful festoons
and garlands in countless quantities; and on the floor the
marble concretions wound in elegant meanders amidst
the dark soil—so that the vast and level bottom of the
grotto appeared to be irrigated with numerous streams.
In the midst of this wonderful temple stood a petri-
faction in the sha e of an altar, about fifteen feet high,
six lon , and two road. Around this natural table rose
upwar s of a dozen spiral stalactites, varying from
twenty to thirty feet in height, and appearing like
candlesticks Other concretions strikingly represented
the customary ornaments of a Roman Catholic altar-
piece.
Nor was this all of the wonderful which Nature had
achieved and combined to perfect the sacred resemblance
of the central petrifaction in that temple. For some
distance all around the altar short or stals of endless
variety of colour were growing out o the floor in an
irregular manner; the general appearance being that of
a magnificent carpet spread about the sacred shrine.
Such were the wonders of the Grotto of Antiparos :-
such are its marvels still.
And no human agency has hollowed one single inch of
those caverns within caverns, and precipices followingr
recipices—nor of the great pavilion to which they all
ead :—nor has any mortal hand ever aided in the crystal-
lization of a single stalaetite. Nature has achieved it
all,—hollowed the caves with such strange re larity, so
that the abysses may be deemed shafts and t e caverns
galleries in a vast mine excavated upon fixed and pre-
arranged principles ;-—and. Nature has also fashioned
those myriads of marble icicles, trees, groves, rivers,
festoons, garlands, thrones, pedestals, crowns, candle
sticks, an altars!
The Count of Aurana was lost in amazement at all he
beheld; for the effect of the whole scene was wonderfully
enhanced by the flood of brilliant lustre with which the
Demon had filled the grotto.
“ What think you of this temple which Nature has
formed without object and without aim i" demanded the
Demon, as he leant against the crystal mass of pctrifac-
tion which we have denominated the altar.
“ I am bewildered with amazement l” exclaimed Faust.
“ Had mortal hands hollowed these caverns, and mortal
iiagenuiti studied how to produce the most startling
e ects, ow miserably would both have failed in com-
parison with this stupendous work which Nature has
achieved without desi —-without principles.”
“Like all short-sig ted mortals, you cannot compre-
hend the tools with which Nature labours,” returned the
Demon. “ In the ocean she raises entire islands by means
of the coral insect ;—liere she has fashioned this wondrous
grotto by the sim le recess of the filtration of water :—
by means of fire s cc anges the species of matter existing
in the entrails of the earth, and converts solids into
fluids ;—in the vast chains of mountains upon the surface
of this globe, she works with the earthquake, the
avalanche, the torrent, and the storm ;-and in the
boundless regions of space she is ever toiling at the pro-
duction of new worlds."
“ And are those other worlds of which we catch
glimpses from this globe of ours,—are they inhabited by
mortal beings like ourselves P" demanded Faust.
:‘ I will tell you more on this subject at a future time,"
said the Demon. “ Yes—on some fitting occasion—I will


FA UST.
109

teach you the secrets of cosmogony which no common
mortal will ever completely solve,—th.ose mysteries con-
cerning the origin of worlds, and globes, and stars, which
have perplexed philosophers in all ages that are past, and
will embarrass them throughout all ages that are to
come. But this is not the season—this is not the place——
this is not the hour. You came hither-for what r“
And as he uttered these words, the Demon fixed his
eyes, with snake-like fascination, upon Faust.
“ For what did I come hither '1’” exclaimed the Count.
“ Oh! most assuredly not to gratif my curiosity with
the view of a grotto, however won erful be its forma~
tion,—-nor to feast m eyes with the natural beauties of a
:avcrn, however bri ' t be those embellishments! No
-—mine was a far more im rtant aim: I am here," he
iddod firmly, “ to seek the aters of Oblivion."
“ They flow near at hand, Faust,“ returned the Demon;
1nd, as he ke, he advanced towards the grove of
stalactites at t e farther end of the grotto.
Faust followed him, and, guided by his motions, atten-
tively examined the rows of petrified trees in that part of
the mighty temple.
“ Behold the waters which you thirst for!” said the
Demon, indicating a particular spot with his hand, while
his countenance assumed an expression so unutterably
sardonic—so inetfably fiend-like, that had Faust beheld it,
uc—even he—would have quailcd and trembled.
But the Count of Aurana was deeply intent on search-
,ng with his eager eyes for the promised spring; and
when he beheld a pure current winding its limpid way in
1. course which it had hollowed for itself on the rugged
surface of a mass of solid marble, his joy knew no
v)ounds.
The stream trickled from amidst the petrifactions in a
:orner of the grotto; and, after meandering through the
;talactite groves the whole length of one side of the im-
nense cavern, it suddenly disappeared beneath a small
)verhanging crag of spars.
“ Behold the waters that you thirst for 1” again e'acu-
.ated the Demon, placing his hand on Faust’s shoul er.
“ Let me drink of them without delay—let me cool my
ips, parched with the fires of worldly passions, at that
lelicious spring !" cried the Count, advancing still nearer
;o the limpid stream.
“One moment!" said the Demon, holding him back.
‘ East then well reflected on the step thou art about to
a e "
“ Reflection!” repeated Faust, scornfully: “ what need
lave I for reflection—what reason for hesitation, when I
:an drink oblivion of the past, and thenceforth enter on
1' career of pleasure unalloyed by vain regrets and useless
‘epinings ?”
“ Fool!“ cried the Demon, in his cold and implacable
nanner; “ there is an immense necessity for reflection!
n drinking the Waters of Oblivion, you not only steep
u forgetfulness all those memories which remind you of
rhat on were, and upbraid you with what you are ;—but
on so lose sight 0 your own identity! You will go
orth from this cavern a being but one remove above t e
rate—unable to read—all your learning lost—all your
ook~lore forgotten-all your experience annihilated !
You will not even remember a language wherewith to ex-
ress your new ideas! You will be like a child just born,
at with a full development of physical powers and the
malty of s eech : your mind will be a parchment cleansed
i all the c racters once traced upon it 1"
“ Are these the effects of the Waters of Oblivion 9“ de-
ianded Faust, shrinking back with profound horror from
he spring that had ere now captivated his vision.
“ How could those effects be otherwise P" said the
lemon, with an insulting laugh. “ Poets may rave of
ac blessin s which would accrue to the human race, were
TlCll a Let can spring accessible to the spirit-broken and
1e life-weary ;——poor miserable mortals may exclaim, in
1e bitterness of their sorrows, ‘ Oh! for oblivion of the
met !’—but they know not what they eulogise, nor what
vIcy ask for.“
“ Have you then become my moral teacher P" demanded
aust, turning abruptly towards the Demon.
“No,” was the calm and deliberate answer; “but I
ike delight in exposing the circumstances of mortal
iort-sightedness. My destiny is to war with the human
ice—to make them wretched as well as criminal—to
Lunt them with their failings as well as to help them in
ie career of their vices. To me it is a source of bound-
ss joy—of indescribable delight, to witness that disap-
)intment and that ill-subdued rage which have suc-
eeded your exuberant hap iness and insane pleasure in
10 presence of this limpid ut fatal spring!”

“ Wherefore hold the cup to my lips, and then dash it
so rudely away P” cried Faust, grinding his teeth with
vexation and wrath.
“ Your question, Faust,” replied the Demon, “involves
the whole myster of my existence! Were I to answer
{Zn truly, I shou d e lain the origin of that hatred—a
tred as unquenchab e as the fires of m kin dom—
which I entertain for mankind. But on this subject my
lips are sealed. Come: hast thou seen enough of the
Grotto of Antiparos P” '
“ Too much—too much,” returned Faust, almost wildly;
“ would that I had never entertained such fond hopes—
to have them so cruelly destroyed! Yes—I have seen
enough of this wondrous cavern. Let us depart l"
“ Whither wilt then proceed?” demanded the fiend.
“ This is a busy day at Rome."
“ True—the election of :1. Pope !” cried the Count.
“ Transport me thither 1"
The Demon seized the hand of Faust, from whose eyes
the splendours of the grotto suddenly disappeared—and
in another moment he was standing, alone, in the streets
of the Eternal City.
__
CHAPTER LVIII.
cassa nonem AND FATHER ANSELM.
THE great square of Saint Peter was once more crowded
with the populace of Rome.
The Sacred Colleges had assembled in solemn conclave
i; the council chamber of the Vatican, to elect a new
ope.
Thirty-six cardinals were there gathered to ether in a
lar c apartment, the door of which had been ricked up,
an the window of the balcony whence the election was
to be proclaimed had been closed b a stout boarding,
perforated with holes to admit the lig t and air. These
precautions were adopted in order to prevent the exercise
of any undue influence through the medium of communi-
cation between the conclave and those without.
The eyes of the vast multitude assembled in the square
were all turned upwards ; and the point of concentration
for those myriads of visual rays was the summit of a
chimney standing immediately over the apartment where
the thirty-six cardinals were gathered.
It was now eleven o’clock in the forenoon; and a sen-
sation of deep curiosity and breathless suspense pervaded
the crowd.
Scarch y had the bell of Saint Peter's Chapel tolled the
hour, when a fleecy vapour—a faint line of smoke such
as may be seen ascending from some r'ural cottage in a
mild summer evening—rose from the chimney of the
Vatican.
Then murmurs of dissatisfaction emanated from the
multitude; and these were followed here and there with
shouts of derisivc laughter; for that smoke was a proof
that the ballot-lists were burnt—that the cardinals had
not decided the election—that Rome was still without a
sovereign, and the Christian world without a Pontiif !
It was therefore evident that the cardinals would pro-
ceed to a new ballot, the result of which would not be
known until five in the afternoon.
But in the meantime the holy fathers must dine; and
the ceremony of conveying the repast to the conclave was
calculated to exercise a greater influence on their proceed-
ings than ma at first appear.
We must, owever, request the reader to accompany
us _a little while to the palace of Caesar Duke of Valenti-
n01s. .
This important personage, in pursuance of a pacific
arrangement with the rival factions of Orsino and
Colonna, had left the Vatican and returned to his own
princely abode, so that his presence in the papal palace
might not overawe the cardinals in the election of a
Pontifi.
Caesar was pacing a handsome saloon with agitated
ste s,kwhen Micheletto entered, shortly after eleven
o’c 0c .
“ What tidings P” demanded the Duke, impatiently.
“ The ballot-lists are burnt,” was the answer.
“ Perdition !" e'aculated Caesar; “ then the conclave is
equally divided : .llulian de la Rovere and Francesco PlC-
colomlni have each the same chance! But m word is
pledged to the latter—and my safety depen s on his
success! One single Vote gained from Roverc’s party will
give the ma'ori to Piccolomini.”
“ Is not ardmal Venturo devoted to Revere P" asked
Michelotto.
“ Assuredly he is,” said the Duke. “ But, ha! I under-
stand you :—the cardinal is accessible to agift—a princely


110
PA US T.
ift. Thank you for the hint, Michelotto; it shall be
orthwith acted upon 2"
The Duke hastened to a bureaupand took thence a
small cofier, the contents of which he displayed to his
faithful sbirro.
“Gold chains of massive weight—~precious stones of
enormous value—and rings of Parisian workmanship,”
exclaimed Michelotto. “That treasure, my lord, will
purchase a dozen cardinals."
“And, in order to be certain of success, it shall be
devoted to the purchase of only one,” said Caesar, smiling
triumphantly. “ Take this cofl’er to Cardinal Venturo’s
mistress, Nisida Marine, and obtain her acknowledgment
of its receipt. She must, moreover, enumerate the con-
tents, and specify the value she sets upon them. You
understand me P“
“ Perfectly, my lord ;"——and Michelotto departed with
the precious casket.
Almost immediately after the sbirro had retired Father
Anselm—the Superior of the Capuchins’ Convent in the
Julian Alps—entered the room.
“ What hath brought thee to Rome, good father P“ in-
quired the Duke, when the usual greetings were briefly
disposed of. “ Methought thou wast busy elsewhere with
matters concerning the Holy Vehm P”
“ I have travelled to Rome, my 101‘( ,” was the rggly,
“because your Highness’s promise is yet unfulfill ,—
because the sec of a prelate is now vacant in your princi-
pality of the Romagna,—and because it is time to reward
iftfxiltllllihful servant, who has long toiled in behalf of your
a y.l)
“ That prelacy is not mine to give, holy father,” re-
turned Caesar.
“ If Alexander VI. be no more, our Highness is still
Prince of the Romagna,“ cxclaimc Anselm, firmly.
“ True !“ observed the Duke, coldly; “ but the prelacy
of which you speak is promised to Cardinal Trespolo, who
will vote for Francesco Piccolomini.“
“ Then are my services to go still unrewarded P” said
Anselm, a dark cloud passingl over his countenance.
“ Think, my lord, how long an faithfully I have served
you—how willingly I have made the Holy Vehm of Ger-
many the instrument of your designs—how steadily I
have enhanced the interests of the Borgiws by means of
the numerous agents at my command."
“I am not unmindful of your great services, holy
father," was the answer: “nor have I been altogether
ungrateful. Thou hast had gold from my purseat times
whenI could ill spare it: and since the dawn of my
pros erity, those subsidies have neither been few nor in-
Significant. If thou hast need of more now, speak
frankly—and my treasury is open to you, as was once my
poor purse."
“My lord, I require not recompense of that kind,”
said the priest, warmly; “ I solicit fl—nay, I demand—the
fulfilment of that promise—-—”
“Promise!” ejaculated the Duke, now seriously irri-
tated by Anselm’s importunity. “ Yes—I did promise
you some such boon as you mention :—-but it was over
the wine cup—and such pledges are of no more value in
the eyes of sensible men than the pledges of another
klind which are also the companions of the sparkling
g ass.“
“ I am at length to- understand, then, that your High-
ness has promised what there was no intention tofulfil ?“
said Father Anselm, biting his lip.
“ Understand what you will," said Caesar, roughly;
“ but importune me not at present. I am tormented with
anxiety relative to the pending election ;--I am slowly
recovering from the elfeets of poison imbibed by a mis-
adventure ;—and at this moment all my best interests—
perhaps my life-are trembling in the balance. Is this,
Eben, a season to torment. me with your importuni-
ies ?”
“ Beware, my lord, how you make an enemy of me !“
cried Anselm, solemnly. “It is precisely because your
interests are thus hovering in the scale of uncer-
triinlty that I demand the fulfilment of your oft-repeated
p e ge."
" Thou speakest well, most disinterested monk l”'eja-
culated Caesar scornfully. “Thou hast not even the
decency to keep the veil over the selfishness of thy
motives. Thou thinkest it as probable that my fall is
near as that my elevation may be secured ; and thus thou
wouldst take advantage of the few moments of power
that may still be mine! ’Tis well—-thou hast thrown
aside the mask—and I defy thee!"
“ Again I say ‘ Bewa'rc,’ my lord !” cried Anselm,
scarcely able to subdue his resentment.

“And of whom should I beware?“ demanded 0:155:12"
proudly : “ of ya a, who are doomed to conceal your
identity beneath the cowl of a monk,—of you—a wretel
that has passed through the hands of the public execu-
tioner,—a resuscitated corpse—_J‘
“ Hold, my lord l” exclaimed Anselm, furiously ; and
at the same moment his hand clutched a dagger beneath
his black cloak: “ hold, my lord! Your Highness touche<
upon dangerous ground ! Declare war between ns—aml
it will be a war to the knife—a war between two men
who know not child's play,—-a war which on my part
would be waged against all your family ;—-and on know
that my means and resources are not contempti 1e.“
“ Listen, Anselm,” said Czesar Borgia; “ menaces will
effect naught with me. The prelacy is offered elsewherr.
and cannot be yours. Neither will I give you place or
%ower in the Romagna, since you dare to thrMn me.
at let us understand each other. Your means to work
mischief are great—so are mine: your resources may be
vast—but mine are more extensive. Do you boast of youi
braves of the Vehm?» Look at my sbirri! Perhaps you
imagine that I tremble lest you should reveal certain
secrets which have been communicated to you relative to
me and mine Pr You dare not breathe a word that will do
me an inju ; for at the first syllable of slander which
passes your i s—that moment do I proclaim to the world
the strange, t e astounding fact that the individual who
passes as Father Anselm—the Sn rior of the Capuchins’
Convent in the Julian Alpsq- c Free Count of the
Vehmgerieht in the southern district of Carniola,—that
this man is~—-"
“ Enough—enough, my
“Our secrets are mutual y
is new war to the knife!”
And with these words the Chief of the Holy Vehm
hurried from the apartment.
Caesar laughed scornfully as he thought of the preten-
iilons of the priest and the manner in which hehad baffled
cm.
In a short time Michelotto returned, triumph expressml
in his dark eyes and on his curling lip.
t_ “ Thou hast succeeded l“ exclaimed the Duke of Valen-
mois. '
“ Yes, my lord," was the reply. “ The beautiful Nisida
Marine has accepted the gift of your Highness, and has
expressed her gratitude in terms suitable to the purpose
of your lordshi .”
“ Prate not thus lengthily, good Michelotto. Give me
the receipt-for such indeed it is. There I ’Tis well—she
estimates the jewels at the worth of five thousand ducals.
Now away to the Vatican, Michelotto; and conclude this
im rtant affair. You are well aware that at three
o'c ock a portion of the brickwork of the closed door of
the Cardinals’ chamber will be removed in order to permit
the service of their Eminenees’ dinners i"
“ If I mistake not, my lord,” observed the sbirro, “ the
meals are conveyed in baskets, each sealed with the
armorial bearings of the cardinal for. whom it is in-
tended P“
“ Ri htly spoken, good Michelotto,” returned the Duke.
“ But fore the baskets leave the kitchen of the Vatican,
they are in ected by the Bishop of Parma ;. and it is also
his duty to impose the seals. The Bishop, as you well
know, is devoted to my interests: hasten then to him—
reet him cordially on my part—and see that N isida
Iarino’s billet be placed in the basket intended for
Cardinal Venturo.’ ‘
“All shall be done as your Highness has directed,"
replied the sbirro, with a low bow; and he immediately
proceeded to execute his master's orders. ,
The Bishop of Parma was well disposed towards Cazsar
Borgia; and the receipt of N isida Marine was unhesitat-
ingly placed beneath the delicate white napkin that
covered the dishes contained in Cardinal Venturo's
basket. '
Thirty-six domestics, in gorgeous liveries, conveyed the
thirty-six baskets from the kitchen of the Vatican to the
door of the Council Chamber, the procession being led by
the Bishop of Parma.
In the ante-room leading to the Council Chamber were
two masons provided with the implements of their craft.
The moment the Bishop of Parma made his appearance at
the head of the cavalcade of domestics, those operatives
instantly began to remove a portion of the brickwork
which walled up the door :——then the door itself was
opened by one of the Sacred Conclave within, and the
baskets were passed through the aperture by the servants
who had charge of them. The moment this ceremony was
completed, the masons restored the brickwork to its
lord!” ejaculated Anselm.
safe :-—in all other respects it


FA US T.
111
former state; and the procession of domestics, the opera-
tives, and the Bishop withdrew.
The day were on ; and towards five o’clock the multi-
cndes had increased to such a degree in the neighbourhood
3f the Vatican, that every other part of Rome was com-
pletely deserted.
The bell of Saint Peter's Chapel tolled five—and the
sound was echoed from every other steeple and tower
within the precincts of the Eternal City.
Once more did the chimney above the Council Chamber
ittract every eye ;~and again was curiosity most acute—
suspense even painful.
The hour was proclaimed—the bells ceased-and a few
ninutes elapsed;
“ There is no smoke l" exclaimed many tongues; “ and
Home has at length a new Pontitf !"
But suddenly every voice was once more hushed ;--a dead
silence prevailed amongst the‘crowd; and all eyes were
tired u n the cldscd window to which the balcony of the
Uounc' Chamber belonged.
Beyeral of the boards were detached from the wood-
work over the easement ; and at length an aperture was
made, large enough to permit a man to advance from the
.nterior of the Council Chamber to the front of the
Jalcony.
This was Cardinal Venturo himself.
The most profound and death-like stillness pervaded the
multitude : it seemed strange that so enormous a mass of
.iving beings could remain so tranquil—so silent—so per-
:'ectly noiseless. .
Then Cardinal Venturo spoke in a loud tone.
“ It is my leasing duty to announce to you tidings of
;reatjoy. T e most Eminent, Holy, and Reverend Si nor
Francesco Piccolomini, Cardinal of Sienna, has een
:hosen Soverei n Pontifl’, and has assumed the denomina-
:ion of Pius II .“
Then burst from the Roman people a shout-a tremen-
ious shout of applause and satisfaction ; and the welcome
;idings were speedily communicated to the Duke of Valen-
:inois in his palace, and to Lucreza Borgia in her private
lwelling.
.—
CHAPTER LIX.
rim comsnum or noun.
Numv Father Anselm left the presence of the Duke of
Falcntinois in the manner described in the preceding
'haptcr, he mufiled himself in his ecclesiastica habit in
luch a way as to conceal his countenance, and hastened
apidly through the streets towards the ruins of the
.‘oliseum.
That grand amphitheatre—a fallen memorial of the
ineient greatness of Rome—is still an object, the im-
nensity of which awes and astounds the traveller who
)eholds it for the first time.
Even the splendour of the Papal Majesty is not calcu-
ased to produce more dazzling, nor, on the other hand,
nore solemn impressions than that stupendous spectacle
vhich to the stranger’s excited. imagination seems to
wim before him as a cloud.
The heathen Romans were accustomed to com e1 the
irimitive votaries of the Gospel to combat wit wild
)easts within those vast precincts; and Catholic devotion
we placed on the ruins of the pile the following inscrip-
ion :—“ DEFILED BY THE Imrum: WORSHIP or Pseaus:
Newman BY 'run BLoon or Mmrrns.”
This truly sublime structure is nearly two thousand
eet in circumference. Four ran es of pillars rise above
me another; but the lowest row as sunk deep into the
oil.
Tradition says that thirty thousand captive Jews raised
;hc mighty pile; nor did the architectural proficiency and
:olossal conceptions of those workmen dishonour their
iredecessors—thc builders of Solomon’s Temple.
Dedicated by the Emperor Vespasian to the popular
liversion, the ColiSeum was used as a circus for the com-
)ats of wild beasts. The interior was capable of accom-
nodatin eighty thousand spectators; and ancient his-
orians eclare that as many as five thousand‘ ferocious
mimals frequently fought at one time within the vast
:nclosnre.
The reign of the Emperor Titus was a glorious one for
he Coliseum. It was he who introduced those formid-
ible conflicts between the savage inhabitants of the

* Die Cassius says nine thousand.


forest that were imported to Rome in such vast numbers
for the purpose. When the battles were over, a sluice
was opened,—the arena became an immense lake,—-Ships
were launched,—and two fleets represented a naval
combat.
But the luxury of ancient Rome was then almost at its
height, and the ladies 'of the Imperial City were as deli-
cate and as susceptible of unpleasant sensations from the
noxious vapours arising from such a mighty assemblage
of eople, as our most fashionable fair ones could pos-
sib y be at the present day. To counteract those un-
pleasant efl‘ects, sweet-scented water and wine mixed
with saffron and spice were showered down from a
grated work above, on the heads of the people. There
were, however, no velvet collars nor beaver hats to spoil
—tn.o Parisian bonnets nor dresses of delicate textures to
5 am.
When the barbarians besieged and stormed the Ini-
perial City, they spared the Coliseum :——the Christian
Pontifis were less considerate. Pope Paul II. appro-
priated a art of the massive masonryto the construction
of the p of Saint Mark: Cardinal Riario devoted
another section of the mi ht edifice to the building of
the Papal Chancery; an aul‘ III. made a farther
inroad on a structure which even Goths and Vandals had
not dared to touch, for the purpose of providing materials
for the Farnese Palace.
Nevertheless, there remains even at the present day,
enough of the Coliseum,—-in spite of those monstrous
dilapidations,-—to inspire the beholder with awe, and fur-
nish him with a good idea of the original. Vast masses
of stone appear to have been placed one upon another,
with the nicest reference to architectural precision—with
the most faultless observance of uniformity—and yet
without the use of either mortar or cement. Thousands
and thousands of years may yet dpass by, and add new
dates to the annals of time; an the remnants of that
structure will continue to exist, if the hands of man con-
sent to spare them !
When Father Anselm entered those colossal ruins,—
imposing as the Pyramids of Egypt, and telling as many
strange tales of ancient magnificence and lost art as the
remains of Tadmor,—-the moon shone upon them; and
its flood of silver light irradiated the blackened stone.
Streaming through arches—between pillars—and amidst
the interstices of half-loosened masses, that pure lustre
showed all the outlines of the colossal ruins which stood
out in such bold relief against the purple sky. Here were
huge overhanging blocks that appeared to be held in the
air by invisible beings,—-their projecting sections of
arches without support,——everywhere an edifice that
seemed to hang together in a manner defying all the
demonstrated rules of gravitation.
Around the interior of that portion of the Coliseum
which still exists, vessels of holy water are suspended;
and in the centre is a huge crucifix, on the transverse
beam of which are written these words :—-“ Whose ap-
proacheth this holy emblem with a contrite heart, to
him shall be given a dispensation from sin during a
hundred days.’
Father Anselm pursued his way amidst the ruins,
guided by the moon ight; and, advancing towards a spot
where a portion of dead wall threw a dark shadow on the
ground, he aroused from their slumbers two men who
were stretched in their cloaks on the hard soil.
“ Who goes P“ cried one, starting up.
“It is I,” answered Anselm. “ Speak not so loudly,
good Fritz; for certain pious monks frequently visit
these ruins by night, to pray for thesouls of those Chris-
tians who were martyrs to heathen persecutions in
ancient times. Rouse your companion Walstein ; I have
business on hand.“ 4 .
“I am here-and awake, holy father,” said the 1m-
postor, who had so ably pla ed the part of the Baron of
Czernin. “ What news wit the Borgia?"
“ Czesar is a traitor to his word, and I will serve him
no more,” replied Anselm, in a savage tone, “ He offered
me gold—but of that I have no need. I demanded the
prelacy—and that he refused me. I must now punish
him as he deserves.”
“ Had you not rather take. the gold, since you cannot
obtain the prelacy, holy father P“ demanded Gregory
Walstein.
“ Seek not to reason with me on this subj eet," exclaimed
Anselm, impatiently. “ It is suflicient for thee that then
receivest from my hands the reward of thy services. I
would sooner wreak my just vengeance on the Borgia
than become the ossessor of all his wealth. Aye—and
not only against 'm shall my wrath be levelled. but


112
FA US T.
against all in whom he feels an interest—against everyone
who is near or dear to him—against his relatives, his
friends, and his servitors,—even against the memory of
his father!”
“ And while we are wasting our time in Rome, the
governor of Laybach may march against the convent,”
said Walstein, doggedly: “ then, if: Karl, Conrade, and
the rest should be caught napping,-—our stronghold falls
into the hands of the enemy.’
“ I have good and sufficient reason for feeling secure
on that 118% ,” observed Anselm. “ The Cord and Dagger
produced so wondrous an effect upon the Emperor, that
not all the interest of the Baron of Czernin could induce
his Majesty to despatch another messenger to the governor
of Laybach in respect to hostile proceedings against the
convent. No," continued Anselm, proudly, “ the terrors
of the Holy Vehm appal even monarchs; and Maximilian
is not a prince who will place his life unnecessarily in
danger. He knows full well that the same hand which
placed a dagger on the table in his private chamber,- may
strike him when he sleeps :——he is not ignorant of the
nature of the ties which bind all the brethren of the
Secret Tribunals so closely together; nor is he unaware
of the fidelity with which every member of our fraternity
executes the commands of his superior—even though
these commands ordain a deed the execution of which is
certain to lead to the death of its perpetrator as well as
of its victim."
“ Then the convent is safe,” said Walstein; “and I
shall now obey your orders all the more readily in conse-
quence of this assurance. As for my worthy companion
Fritz, he hears everything without troubling himself
about a why or a wherefore.”
“ And you would do well to follow my example,” said
Fritz, in a surly tone. “Let those who have got good
heads, dictate : and let those who have only strong arms
and stout hearts, but no brains, obey. Had ou followed
these maxims, you would not have involve yourself in
such peril at Vienna: the Baron would still be a prisoner
in the convent; and no suspicion would ever have
attached itself to the stronghold nor its inhabitants.
Now all the secrets of the private issues and avenues are
known; and it can serve no other purpose than a mere
fortress wherein to shut ourselves up in the time of
danger."
“ You undertake to reproach me for want of brains,
Messer Fritz,” exclaimed Walstein, angrily : “ know you
not that the part I played so well does infinite credit
to my intelligence? I will only appeal to his rever-
eiice—--”
“ Cease this prating, Gregory l” ejaculated Father An-
selm, sternly. “ The mischief of which Fritz complains
is done, and cannot be repaired; nor do I wish that the
past should be perpetually flung in our teeth. If there
be one point in your conduct whic irritated me more
than another, it was the pertinacity wherewith you clung
to your own selfish interests-retaining all the wealth of
the Baron von Czernin for your pleasures and extra-
vagances, and never devoting a single fraction to the
service of the Holy Vehm or the maintenance of the con-
vent. But once more, Gregory,” continued Anselm, “I
declare my will that the past be forgotten; and you, good
Fritz, will be forthwith mindful of the same.”
“ Your reverence can command me in all respects,”
said the old mountaineer.
“ ’Tis well,” observed Anselm. “ Vengeance against the
Borgias, is now my motto. When that ungrateful family
shall be punished according to its deserts, we shall have
no farther business to retain us in Rome. Certain matters
in the German Empire will next claim my attention.
The Holy Vehm has marked Otto Pianalla for its victim:
-—-dearly shall he pay for that daring which led him so
insolently to tear aside the veil which concealed the
secrets of the convent. The Italian, Mazzini, was a mere
instrument in his hands: and the Vehm will not deign to
notice the share he had in that business.” '
“ And Dame Mildreda?” said Fritz, interrogatively.
“ Too contemptible to occupy our attention," returned
Anselm; “whereas Otto Pianalla is energetic, daring,
virtuous, and honourable—therefore eminently dangerous.
He must be cited, judged, and punished according to
the usual forms. So soon as that matter shall have been
duly disposed of, it is my intention to journey towards
the Elbe."
“ Ah!” exclaimed Fritz, starting: “to visit our old
master, Count Manfred of Linsdorf ‘r"
“Thou hast rightly (liVined my object, good Fritz,"
returned Anselm : “ and it Will be necessary for thee to
accompany me. I have recently made a discovery which
_ 9
places that haughty lord in my power: dost understand
me, Fritz P”
“ Can it be possible that your reverence has been
enabled to find a trace of that child—_”
“ Child!” exclaimed Father Anselm: “ do you forget
the lapse of years, Fritz? She is now a young woman—
grown up in beauty, and conducted by the most extra-
ordinary destinies to a position, which—But of that no
matter now: I have much to impart to thee when we
are alone.“
“If I am one too many,” said Walstein, in a surly
tone, “ I will remove to a distance.”
“ Nay—chafe not because I am rudent, Gregory,“
ejaculated Anselm. “ You know fu well that in your
wine-cu s even the secrets of the Vehm are scarcely safe
in your ee ing—But, as I was observing, good Fritz,"
continued t e priest, “ it will behove you to accompany
me on my visit to Linsdorf Castle. The haughty Count
will scarcel recognise his once faithful Hugo beneath
thy grey hairs."
“ Haply not, your reverence," observed Fritz. “ Time
works marvellous changes in our appearance as well as
in our conditions. At the period to which your rever-
ence alludes, you yourself were but a humble dependant
of the Lord of Linsdorf ; and now you are a Free Count
of the Holy Vehm, and as powerful as himself. It seems
but (yesterday that you succeeded me in the duty of
guar ing the poor lady—”
“ Silence, Fritz !" exclaimed Anselm, sternly. “ Those
are secrets—deep secrets—which must not be discussed
now. The time is not yet come—but it is near at hand.
On my return to Germany I shall doubtless receive a
rescript from the Supreme Council of Westphalia ordain-
ing the deposition of the Lord of Linsdorf from his high
post of Free Count in the district of Wittenber . The
numerous errors—the gross faults—the manifol indis-
cretions which have marked his long career of local
power, as a chief of the Holy Vehm, can be no longer
tolerated by that august Council which controls the
League throughout the German Empire. It will be my
duty to depose and perhaps punish that proud Count who
so ill rewarded your services and mine. But of this
enough for the present: Walstein is growing impatient,
because I have alluded to matters with which he is not
conversant." '
“I care little about that, your reverence," said Gre-
gory; “but I am anxious to receive any instructions
that you may have to communicate, instead of loitering
amou st these old ruins which seem every moment ready
to fal and crush us.”
“ Say, rather, that you are desirous of hurrying to the
tavern, and draining a pottle of wine with the idlers of
Rome,“ exclaimed Father Anselm, sternly. “ However,
I will not keep either of you here many minutes longer.
Listen, then, to m instructions. You, Fritz, will re air
to the palace of the Lord Fabio Orsino, and deman an
audience of that noble. The mere mention of my name
—‘ Father Anselm ’—will insure you immediate access to
him. Say to his lordship that the time is near at hand
for the destruction of the Borgias; and that in twenty-
four days from the present time two hundred members
of the Carniolan Vehm will be dispersed throughout this
city, ready to collect together at an hour’s warning, and
take part against the Borgias. And do you, Walstein,”
continued Father Anselm, taking a. scroll from beneath
his ecclesiastical garb,—“ do you repair to the Chapel of
Saint Peter, and affix this parchment to the door. My
vengeance must commence with the desecration of the
name of Alexander Borgia. These missions executed on
both your parts, you will have naught to do save to
divert yourselves as best ye may in this city of luxury
and pleasure, for twenty-three days, during which I shall
be absent. In the evening of the twenty-third day on
will meet me here again : our brethren will have reac ed
the city by that time ; and it will only remain for you to
collect them together in the manner which I shall explain
to you. Then,“ added Anselm, “ we will aid the Orsini
in striking a blow that shall exterminate the Borgias.
And, remember, my friends—Fabio Orsino is no niggard
with his gold !“
Having thus imparted his instructions to Fritz and
Walstein, Father Anselm took his departure from the
ruins of the Coliseum
A few minutes afterwards, Fritz and Walstein sepa-
rated, and repaired each to execute his special mission.
Early on the follovn'ng morning, a crowd was collected
at the door of Saint Peter's Chapel. The object of in-
terest was a parchment afiixed to the entrance of the
, papal burying-place.


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PA US T.
117

The miserable wretch rose slowly from the floor, and
drawing the cowl over his countenance, said, in a hollow
tone, “ Let me go—let me depart. I have no longer any
business here 1”
The Orsini made way for him—drawing themselves far
back on either side, so that not even their rai'ments
might touch those of an individual who had passe through
the hands of the public executioner.
As he passed Walstein, Kinis glanced at him significantly
through the opening in his cowl; but even that vile im-
postor—that degraded being who had himself so narrowly
escaped death by the halter or the wheel—averted his
eyes.
Fritz was less fastidious.
“ For my art,” he said, “ I don't know why aman who
has passed t rough the hands of the executioner should be
treated as if he had the lague; and if all the rest desert
him, I will remain faith ul.“
_With these words, Fritz followed. in the steps of Ulric
Kinis ; and in a few moments those two individuals were
out of sight. A
“ My 0rd, said Faust, addressing himself to Fabio
Orsino, “let this exposure teach you to be more cautious
whom you may in future choose as the instruments of
Your designs. As for the cowardly deed of assassination
which you contemplated—”
“ And by what right do you, a foreigner—a stranger,
presume to dictate to the Orsini P" demanded Fabio, in a
stern and indignant voice.
“ By a right which it will not be worth your while to
dispute," answered Faust, contemptuously, as he stood
before Cmsar Borgia and Michelotto : “ the right of
power ! Know you not that in this castle there are con-
cealed trap-doors covering deep wells, and which may be
made to open by merely touchin a spring? Have you
never heard of the skill with w ich Marco Orsino—an
ancestor of your own, my lord—contrived those terrible
means of annihilating an invading foe P“
“I have heard of such secret trap-doors and profound
pits," answered Orsino, impatiently ; “ but I believe the
tale to be one which has no other foundation than the
brain of some romance-loving historian. Stand back,
lfily llord Count—the last hour of the Borgias is at
ant .”
“ No—it is for you to stand back !“ thundered Faust;
“or a mine shall 0 en beneath you! At this moment,
proud noble, you ans our brave followers are quivering
as it were upon the brink of eternity! For there is a
trap-door beneath your feet: and here," cried the Count,
seizing hold of the iron ring which was fastened to the
wall,—“ here is the key of the secret spring that, at my
will, will cause the floor to give way under you !”
An exclamation of horror burst from the lips of
Orsiuo’s followers ; but Fabio himself seemed yet in-
credulous.
“ Foolish—unbelieving noble !” ejaculated Faust; “ re-
treat while it is yet time. Sec—I will give thee a fair
and befitting opportunity."
_ And, as he spoke, he withdrew his hand from the iron
ring.
At that moment Michelotto rushed to the ring, and
turned it forcibly in its socket, ere Faust could seize
upon his arm. '
The effect was instantaneous and terrible.
A large square in the floor instantly gave way, falling
downwards like a trap-door; and Fabio Orsino, together
with four or five of his supporters, were precipitated into
a black and yawning gulf.
Fearful were the shrieks and yells which they uttered
as they fell headlong into that profound pit.
In a moment there was a great splash of water at the
bottom of the well; and t ose appalling outbursts of
human agony were continued for some minutes. The
miserable wretches were struggling in the depths which
were destined to become their tomb.
By degrees the cries and screams became fainter and
fainter, as one after the other sank to rise no more.
At length all was still.
On one side of the hideous gulf now stood the five or six
remaining sbirri who had followed Fabio Orsino on the
present fatal occasion ; and on the other side were Faust,
Caesar, and Michelotto.
The Orsini warriors were still azing into the abyss,
with unutterable horror depicteg upon their counte-
nances ;—-Faust stood in loomy silence, his looks also
plunged into thd‘ gulf; w ile Caesar and Michelotto _ex-
changed glances expressive of triumph, and beaming
with the ferocity of gratified revenge.
At length Faust spoke.

“ Depart," said he, to the Orsini condotteiri on the op-
EOsite side of the abyss: “ ye have no longer any business
ere."
The men to whom these words were addressed did not
hesitate to obey the order they conveyed.
“ The past cannot be recalled,” exclaimed Faust, turn-
ing towards Caesar and Michelotto ; “ but I could have
wished that this sad catastrophe had not occurred."
“ They sought our lives like cowardly assassins, instead
of in honourable fight,” said Caesar ; “ and Michelotto
acted well. At the same time, noble Count, our heartfelt
thanks are due unto thee, for the part which thou hast
enacted in this day’s peril. But tell me how thou camest
so opportunely to our aid.”
“ Yesterday morning,” replied the Count, “ I conducted
her Highness Lucreza in safety from Rome, and protected
her during a considerable portion of her journey towards
Ferrara. She implored me, when I left her, to assist you
against your enemies. I promised to fulfil her desire to
the utmost of my power ; and I came back to Rome.
For your sister’s safety on need entertain no fear: she
is by this time far beyon the reach of her enemies. Last
evening on my return to the cit , I heard that Father
Anselm had been searching for er, and that he was
resolved to have your life also. His history was known
to me—no matter how. I knew that you had taken
refuge in this fortress, and I resolved to protect on to
the utmost of my ower. When the election of J u ian de
la Revere was dec ared, Fabio Orsino had an immediate
but brief audience of the new Pontifi'. You ma divine
what took place between them, since that interview was
followed by the visit of Fabio, Anselm,——or rather Ulric
Kinis,—and their sbirri, to this chamber. I here them
company, and was in time to save you, and tear the mask
from the visage of the man whose dagger so nearly drank
your life’s blood.”
“ My eternal gratitude is your due,“ said Caesar. "“ But
by what fortunate circumstance had you learnt the exist-
ence of so terrible a means of destruction as that which
yawns at our feet? for that was a secret unknown even
to me."
“ Pardon me if I cannot satisfy your curiosity," replied
Faust. “ My means of information are great: but they
are also mysterious. Let it sulfice that I have saved thy
life. And now, if thou wilt follow my counsel, thou wilt
do well—for Rome abounds in dangers which thou canst
not long avoid.”
“ Speak," said Ciesar: “ you are a friend too staunch,
and an adviser too keen for me to neglect the counsel that;
you may proffer."
“ Disguise yourself in the garb of a monk, and quit
Rome,“ returned Faust. “ Proceed to Ostia, and thence
embark for Spezzio. The way will then be open for you
to reach Ferrara in safety. You may yet consolidate your
power as Prince of the Romagna territory; but you never
again can hold the office of General of the Roman armies,
nor control the election of a Pope. Depart—time is
precious—Julian de la Revere is your enemy—and the
Orsini have a new injury to avenge.“
As he spoke, he pointed towards the yavvning gulf."
“ And you, Count," exclaimed Caisar, significantly,—
“do you propose to join my sister at Ferrara ?"
“ N o," answered Faust, cold] y: “ to speak truth, I am
weary of the cause of the Borgias. I will—because I can——
protect your escape from Rome to Ostia; and there I shall
quit you.”
“ You have soon become fatigued of the blandishments
of Lucreza," observed Caesar, biting his lips to suppress
thi Emotions which Faust's cold indifference had pro-
vo 'e .
“ I care not if I tell you,‘ answered the Count, “ that
your sister Lucreza is so stained with past crimes and so
ready to perpetrate new ones, that l—yes, even I—recoil
in herror from such a. fiend beneath the shape of an
ange ."
“ My lord !—this to me?“ ejaculated Caesar, raising his
sword in a menacing manner.
“ You urged me to reveal the truth—and I have gratified
you,” said Faust, not even appearing to notice the
threatening posture of the Duke: then deliberately ads
vancing towards the ring, he turned it back into its former
position, and the trap-door rose once more level with the
floor of the apartment. “ Come,” he added, turning
towards Borgia; “ if thou wilt follow my counsel, there is
no time to lose.“
Caesar swallowed his spite and suppressed his indigna-
tion for the first time in his life; but he felt overawed—-
and he scarcely knew why-in the presence of an individual
whom he had more than once seen manifest the possession


118
FA UST.

of power, means, and resources of an extraordinary
nature. The im unity with which Faust had drunk the
poisoned wine w ich was handed to him by mistake at
the banquet,-—the facility with which he had cleared a
passage amongst the crowds and even overawed them at
Alexander's funeral,—-the suddenness with which he had
ere now appeared on the scene to avert the knife of Ulric
Kinis from its deadly aim,—thc intimacy which he ex-
hibited, although a comparative stranger in Rome, in
respect to the secrets of the Castle of Saint Angelo,——thc
coolness with which _he contemplated, or rather defied
danger,—\'tnd the confidence with which he spoke of being
enabled to ensure Cresar’s safe retreat from Rome,——all
these circumstances flashed to the memory of the Duke of
Valentinois, and appeared, in their aggregate, to signify
a power which being unaccountable, overawed even the
bold, fearless, and desperate nature of a Borgia.
Caesar accordingly thought fit to follow the advice of
the Count of Aurana. Michelotto was despatched to
fetch the necessary disguises ; and in a short time he re-
turned with three ecclesiastical habits.
Clad in these garments, Faust, Czesar, and Michelotto
issued without molestation from the Castle of Saint
Angelo. Thence they proceeded to the Tiber, where they
entered a boat, which, by the aid of a large sail and the
tide, soon conveyed them to Ostia.
On landing at that seaport, Faust placed a heavy bag of
gold in Caesar’s hands, saying, “ You are now safe from
the pursuit of your enemies. Farewell—it is probable that
we may never see each other again."
“ Farewell, noble Count,” exclaimed the Duke of
Valentinois. “ But one word ere we partz—wherefore
have you manifested so much interest in my cause P"
“ Partially for the sake of your beautiful sister
Lucreza," answered Faust ; “ and partially because I
have a kindred feeling in favour of a bold, ambitious, and
desperate man like you."
And with these words, Faust hurried away.
“ That is a strange and mysterious being," said Caesar,
contemplating the Count’s receding form with admira-
tion. “ He seems to possess some power—some influence
which I cannot com rehend. It is well known that he
raised himself sudden and in a moment from the depths
of obscurity to the pinnacle of wealth, rank, and pro-
sperity; and no one can tell precisely how."
“ Perchance he hath dealings with the Evil One," said
Michelotto.
“ N ay," returned the Duke, laughing: “ if Satan made
compacts with mortals, as romancists state and as nursery
tales recite, he would long ago have sought to enlist the
Bor ias in his service."
“ erhaps he considers the Borgias do his work so well
of their own accord, that there is no need of inducements
on his part,” observed Michelotto, carelessly.
But scarcely were the words uttered, when Caesar and
the sbirro started with some degree of trepidation; for
it seemed to them as if a low, mocking, fiend-like laugh
rang in their ears.
f‘ (It was fancy,” said Cmsar, recovering his presence of
mm .
“ Yes—it was the imagination,” added Michelotto.
“ Still, it is said that many a true word 1s spoken in jest ;
and when I ere now let fall that lightsome observation, I
may have uttered a grand fact."
The Duke made no repl , but hastened towards the
harbour for the purpose 0 hiring a vessel to take him
and his dependant to Spezzio.
CHAPTER LXII.
THE INN AT xnmnsae.
IT was now the month of August, 1497; and the
harvests around the city of Wittenberg filled the
of the tillers of the soil with hope and rejoicing.
We must request the readers to accompany us to the
little village of Kemberg, to which we introduced them at
the opening of our tale.
Mme host of the Black Swan was sitting upon the
bench beneath the anti ue portico of his hostel regaling
himself with a flagon of ome-brcwed beer, the nut-brown
hue of which was as clear as that of the finest juice of the
olden
carts
gra. e.
MPesser Herman had risen to be a man of some authority
in the village. He exercised the functions of local magis-
trate; and this circumstance, added to the existence of a.
vague rumour that he was in some degree connected with
the Secret Tribunal, invested him with an air of import-
ance which, by his manner and speech, he took good care
to maintain.

rIhe evening was gradually becoming more obscure;
and already was the broad disc of the sun concealed
beneath the western hills, when a horseman, coming
from a south-eastern direction, rode up to the Black
Swan.
Mine host did not condescend to move from his seat:
he observed that the traveller was unattended, and that
his garb was plain, thou h neat and of good materials;
but Messer Herman could not think, as a magistrate, of
exhibiting any particular civility towards a rson who
had no lacque , and whose baggage consists of a small
valise strappet to the back part of the saddle.
The landlord aocordingl contented himself with ex-
claimin , “ What, ho! Lu wig, you lazy loon! Here's
a travel er at the door l”-—and he then refreshed himself
with another stoup of the generous home-brewed.
Ludwi made his appearance in the shape of a deformed
ostler, With a shaggy head of hair so entangled and so
filled with bits of straw that at first sight it seemed an
artificial tegument instead of a natural covering.
Dragging himself slowly along, he approached the
horseman, whom he assisted to dismount. ’
“ Can I be accommodated with entertainment and
lodging for the night P" inquired the traveller.
“ Ah! marry, can you—for money,“ answered Ludwig.
“ I require nothing on any other terms,” said the young
man—for such he was. “ But here is worthy Messer
Herman, looking as well as ever ; and surely I cannot be
so altered that he fails to recollect me.”
“ By the best bin in my cellar, this must be excellent
Messer Pianalla!” exclaimed the host, who had at first
prepared himself to reprove the famiharitylof his guest in
venturing a remark upon the magisterial ealth.
“ Yes—it is Otto Pianalla who now addresses on," said
our young friend, laughing. " But you will ob ige me by
ordering your folks to hustle a little in preparing my
supper ; for I am both hungry and thirsty.”
“ Ludwig, tell the cook to brand a chicken and serve it
with a nice rasher," exclaimed Herman, forgetting his
magisterial dignity in the real )leasure which he ex-
perienced in seeing one whom he ad‘ known from child-
hood, and whose amiable qualities had been proverbial
in the whole neighbourhood. " Your supper, good
youth, shall be ready soon ;—-so much for your hunger.
As for your thirst, assuage it now with a stoup of this
home-brewed.“
Pianalla accepted the landlord’s courteous offer, and
seated himself on the bench to chat for half an hour until
his supper was prepared.
“ I shall be compelled to have your meal served in the
public room, Messer Otto," said mine host, after a brief
pause; “for the only parlour of which the Black Swan
can boast is occupied by two strangers—not strangers
either, altogether—but of that no matter."
“Spare your apologies, worthy Herman," said Otto;
“ I am no courtly gallant who seeks luxury. A hard crust
on a plain board is suflicicnt for me.“
“ What news of your sister Ida ?” inquired the host. “ I
heard of her union with a werful noble—“
“ Speak not of her," sai Pianalla, mournfully. “ She
no longer breathes the air of this world."
“ So young—and to be no more 1" exclaimed the land-
lord.
“ She died by violence,” observed the artist,_ hastily.
“ But, pr’ythee, let as change the discourse ” ,-
“We Will so; and you shall tell me what brings you
again into these parts. Methought that you would make
a fortune in Vienna."
“I struggled long with (poverty and neglect,“ replied
Otto ; “ but it was my goo destiny to be instrumental in
rendering a great servme to a nobleman of honourable
mind and generous disposition; and, by his aid, I am
placed in more prosperous circumstances. ‘ As to the
business that brings me into these parts, it is no secret.
The Lady of Aurana has not seen her father, the Baron of
Rosenthal, for four years ; and she has charged me with
letters to his lordship. I gladly undertook the mission,
inasmuch as I felt an anxiety to Visit a nei hbourhood
dear to my childhood ; and, moreover,” adde the young
artist, “I am now possessed of means to enable me to
place a stone u on my mother’s grave."
“ You were a ways a good son,” said Messer Herman ;
“and you do not forget your parent because she is no
more.’
At this moment a buxom lass, the landlord's niece, came
to inform Otto that‘his sup er was ready; and as he rose
to enter the hostel, the girl astin whispered to her uncle,
“Those two persons in the parlour desire your presence
‘ immediately.“


FA US T.
119

While the artist was discussing the viands that he found '
spread upon the table in the public room, the landlord re-
paired to the parlour, which was situate on the first floor,
and the windows of which commanded a front view.
As he placed his left hand upon the latch of the door,
Herman removed his cap with the ri ht; and his magis-
terial dignity sank into something ve closely resembling
servile submissiveness.
On entering the room, he closed the door carefully
behind him, and bowed low to Father Anselm (for so we
had better continue to call him, as he himself still retained
that name), who was seated in company with Fritz at a
table whereon stood a flask of wine and capacions
drinking-cups.
“ Sit down, Herman,” said Father Anselm. “ You ere
now received a new guest. I recognised him from the
window.“
“ Does your reverence know him ?“ exclaimed the
landlord, with some manifestation of alarm,—--for he was
by no means at a loss to perceive that there was no~
thing cordial in Anselm’s manner when speaking of the
new arrival.
“ Yes—I know him well. He is Otto Pianalla; and
his name is on the black page of the registry of the Vehm.
Two months ago at Vienna he received a summons by
means of the Cord and ger," continued Anselm in a
low but stern tone: “ an' he did not obey it. He has
been judged and condemned by default. Chance has
sent him this evening to the place where he must meet
his fate. You will lodge him in the Wainscot Chamber
to-night.”
The countenance of the landlord fell. He dared not
remonstrate'against the command of a Free Count of the
Secret Tribunal: his oath of membership bound him to
sacrifice “ all considerations, of kihdred, relationship,
friendshi , amity, interest, and love, to the service of the
Holy Ve m;“——and he was also well aware that any
attempt on his part to save a young man whom he really
liked would be visited on his own head by the signal ven-
geance of the Bloody League.
He therefore assumed an air of composure as quickly
as he could, and bowed an acquiescence in the commands
of the chief.
“ You may retire," said Father Anselm ; " and see that
on are cautious in your discourse With Otto Pianalla.
{ct not a word fall from you that may induce him to
suspect our presence in your house. In an hour we shall
be prepared for supper, which you will bring to us with
your own hands.”
Herman bowed once more, and left the room with a
heavy heart.
The unhappy man hastened to his own chamber, and
throwing himself upon the bed, reflected on the order
which he had just received.
“ I have known Otto from childhood," he thou ht
within himself; “ and it is cruel that he should find iis
death beneath my roof. I cannot do it—and yet I dare
not save him ! My own life would be the sacrifice! Holy
Virgin protect us both! What can I do P If I warn him
of his peril, and put him on his guard, I shall be sus-
pected all the same. Woe be to the day when I first
joined the Bloody League ! It respects no Christian
duties—has no sympathy with any ties of the heart,
however sacred! Alas! what can I do? To save him
would be toruin myself! He must die, then—he must
(the! and it is my hand that will guide him to destruc-
ion."
An hour passed while the landlord lay reasoning with
himself; and his reflections ended, as the reader may
suppose, in a reluctant determination to do his duty
towards the Holy Vehm !
He descended to the kitchen, and thence cirried up the
supper prepared for Father Anselm and Fritz. Having
pe ormed this duty with an affected composure which
but indifferently concealed the acute anguish of his heart,
he returned to the kitchen, and said to his niece, “ You
will conduct Messer Pianalla to the Wainscot Chamber,
when'it shall suit him to retire. I am about to withdraw
to own room—for I feel somewhat indisposed. Good
mg .2!
And the landlord hastened to his bed~chamber.
The girl had only resided with her uncle for a few
weeks, and was unaware of the dread import of the com-
mand which she had received. She knew that the Wain-
scot Chamber was not often appropriated to the use of the
fists who stopped at the hotel; but the circumstance
not awakened in her mind the remotest suspicion of
the dread influence which governed the destinies of those
few to whom the apartment was ever allotted. She there-
Q

fore looked upon the order which she had received in
the light of a mere domestic arrangement on the part of
her uncle, and did not devote a second thought to the
matter.
It was now ten o’clock; and Pianalla was thinking
of the propriety of retiring for the night, when it struck
him that he would egay a visit to the stable and assure
himself that his ste was well cared for, as be entertained
butt1 a hmitcd notion of the honesty of the hump-backed
os er.
Scarcely had he left the room, when a man, enveloped
in a cloak, and exhibitin a sadly travel-soiled appear-
ance, entered the hostel, t e front door of which was still
standing open.
The landlord's niece instantly made her appearance to
learn his pleasure.
“ My good lass,“ said the traveller, in a hurried tone,
and casting an anxious glance around, “ I have certain
enemies near at hand, and you must conceal me. Here-—
take this piece of gold,—it will buy thee a trinket for thy
Sunday attire ;—aud hasten to conduct me to a chamber.“
“ Enemies, sir I” exclaimed the girl. “ Have you been
attacked on the hi hway P”
“ Yes—yes,” replied the man, more impatiently still.
“ But tarry not to ask me questions :—lead me to a
chamber, and give me a fiagon of wine, for I am cruelly
athirst.“
“ There is not a vacant room in the house, sir,“ said
the girl. “ The only bed-chamber to spare is to be
allotted to a traveller who has stepped round to the
stables : but I can make you a comfortable couchon the
chairs in the public room—-—"
“ No—no,“ interrupted the man; “ I must have a
chamber to myself. Give me the one allotted to the
traveller whom you mentioned ; and doubtless—to oblige
so pretty a girl as yourself—he will consent to any other
arrangement you may propose."
“ But my uncle sir——’
“ No more wor ,” cried the stranger, sternly: -“ show
me to the spare room; and another piece of gold shall be
yours in the morning."
This inducement was sufficient to dispel all farther
hesitation on the part of the landlord's niece : and,
taking a lamp in her hand, she led the way to the
Wainscot Chamber. '
For she reasoned thus within herself :—
“.It cannot matter to my uncle who occupies the
Wainscot Chamber, rovided he be well paid for the ac-
commodation he a ords. This traveller seems liberal
even to profusion ; and two pieces of gold arc to be earned
in a few hours—whereas I should not gain so much in a
ear under other circumstances. As for Messer Pianalla,
e appears so gentle—so kind—and so good a young man,
that e will not object to ‘any arrangement which I may
make for his ' ht's rest. Moreover, I have not told him
as get any particular chamber was intended for him ;—
an thus it will be easy to make all smooth and com-
fortable.”
She accordingly conducted .the new-comer to the
Wainscot Chamber.
“ A flagon of wine and some hot water,” said the man,
as he received the lamp from her hand.
These demands were speedily complied with; and the
guest bolted the door of the apartment immediately after
the 'rl had left it.
_ en she descended once more to the public room, Otto
Pianalla had returned from the stables.
“ It is fortunate that I visited my horse," he observed
to the landlord’s niece; “for that room of yours had
sadly neglected the poor animal. I ave, however, done
the duty which Ludwig, as methinks you call him, should
have performed. And now, maiden, I will thank thee 'to
conduct me to my chamber."
_The girl commenced a variety of excuses for the in-
different accommodation which she was compelled to
offer the guest: but Otto cut her short by observing, “ I
have already assured Messer Herman that I am no courtly
gallant who can only sleep on down. Tell me where I
may lay my head—and that will suffice."
he girl was overjoyed at this complaisance on the
part of Otto Pianalla ; and she hustled actively about to
spread him a comfortable bed in the public room.
The artist was well contented with the arrangement :—
the landlord’s niece retired to her own apartment ;-and
in a few minutes profound silence reigned throughout the
inn.


PA US T.

CHAPTER LXIII.
A NIGHT or STRANGE anvssrumzs.
THE moment the traveller, who had shown so much per-
tinaeity in obtaining a private apartment, was installed
in the Wainscot Chamber of the Black Swan tavern, and
the door had closed behind the landlord’s niece, he threw
aside his cloak, and drankadeep draught from the flagon
of wine which he had ordered.
Then, by means of the hot water, he proceeded to
cleanse his garments, which were stained with blood—
those tale-telling marks being still damp, as if only re-
cently imprinted.
“ It was strange,” muttered the man to himself, as he
was thus employed: “the voice of the traveller seemed
familiar to me ; but the road was so dark with the shade
of the huge overhanging trees, where I attacked him,
that I could not obtain a glimpse of his features. And
how he struggled !—how desperately he fought ! ‘ Vil-
lain, unhand me!’ was all he said; but the tone was not
strange to me. And yet it may be mere fanc on my
part! Curses on these stains: how obstinate t iey are!
Old women’s tales declare that human blood, when spilled
by the mnrderer’s hand, cannot be aced ; and of a
surety the assertion seems verifiednow. Idiot that I_ am
to allow myself thus to be overawed by a superstitious
prejudice. Yes—for one has disappeared: it is the mark
of the water that I now perceive. And there—another
is effaced ! Suspicion will not attach itself to me. Never-
theless I must be off early in the morning, ere the body
be discovered. Unfortunate wretch that I am in all my
undertakings ! Although I want gold badly enough,
Heaven knows l—I required a horse still more; and per-
adventure I should not have attacked the traveller for
his purse, had he been on foot. No-for in the dark it
was im ossible to see whether he were in a condition that
denote the possession of a purse worth takin ! But it
was his horseI coveted—his horse that was t e induce-
ment for me to attack him. Then, just at the very
moment when, by a lucky and desperate blow, I over-
powered him, the horse takes fright and scanipers away
—Heaven can only tell where! Maledictions on such ill-
fortune !“
The man applied himself to the winc-flagon once more,
and, after imbibing a second deep draught, continued the
cleansing of his garments, and also the soliloquy :—
“ And yet I need scarcely complain! If I lost the noble
steed that would have saved me many a weary steep on
foot, alon these vile roads, I gained a well-filled purse
and a good cloak. Would it not excite suspicion here, I
might purchase a horse in this village. Dut no: that
would be imprudent. A man who seeks an inn at a late
hour and insists on having a private room—and who,
perhaps, showed some embarrassment of manner in the
presence of that girl—would come badly off, were he to
sport his gold too freely, just at the time when a murdered
traveller is perhaps found at scarcely two leagues’ distance.
No—I must be up at daybreak, and move on. France is
now the country for me I If I can only contrive to reach
Paris with a well-filled purse, I will play the German
nobleman in a manner so perfect that every heiress Will
be read to throw herself into my arms. I can then also
send 0 some trustworthy persons to Vienna, to bargain
with Faust for the surrender of certain papers which I
have about me! Ah! it was a good thought of mine, to
steal them from Ida’s room one day! Ohl how I long
to see the gay French capital. Germany is dangerous;
its atmosphere is laden with peril for me. Ital I detest.
Plenty to do and little recompense seemed the ate of all
those who served the Orsini. Oh! the Borgias. were the
family to pay liberally. Would that I never oined the
ranks of Cwsar's enemies. And yet the Duke imself is,
by all accounts, a wanderer and an exile : so, perhaps, I
might still have found myself but one remove above a
beggar—as I lately have been. _And now all the stains
have disappeared. Good! I Will snatch a few hours
slee ; and at daybreak—off l” _
The man emptied the wine-flask, and retired to rest,
having previously extinguished the lamp.
In a few moments he was buried in a profound slumber.
An hour passed :——it was now midnig t.
Suddenly one of the panels in arecess at that end of the
room which faced the bed, was cautiously opened; and
Father Anselm, enveloped in his cowl and hood, thrust his
body half through the aperture.
He listened attentively ; and the deep respiration of the
occupant of the chamber met his ears.
“ He sleeps," said Father Anselm, in a low whisper, to
Fritz, who stood close behind him in the corridor which
I led from their room to the secret means of communication
with the Wainscot Chamber.
Fritz held a lamp, which he shaded with his hand.
“ Will you have the light?" he asked, also in a tone
scarcely audible.
“ No,” replied Anselm. “ A man in a narrow bed is a
good mark for even the most clumsy hand that ever '
wielded dagger. Remain thou here: in a minute all will
be over.“
The bloody-minded chief of the Holy Vehm then passed
his body completely through the aperture,—regulating
his movements, however, with the greatest caution, so as
not to disturb the sleeper; and in a few moments he stood
in the Wainscot Chamber—that fatal room where many a
traveller had received the dread summons of the Cord and
Dagger, and where also many a life had been sacrificed to
the sanguinary decrees of the Secret Tribunal !
Drawing his long dagger from its sheath beneath his
gccllesiastical garment, the Free Count approached the
ct .
The moonbeams struggled faintly through the dingy
I casement, and enabled Fritz from the aperture in the
recess to watch the tall dark form that, like the demon of
vengeance, was advancing towards the couch where the
unsuspecting sleeper lay.
But those beams reached not the bed itself; else would
the assassin have erceivcd that the countenance of its
occupant was not t at of Otto Pianalla.
Father Anselm passed his hand gently over the bed-
clothes, to gain an accurate idea of the precise position
of his victim ; then, grasping the dagger firmly in his
right hand, he dealt a fearful blow at the sleeper’s heart.
The couch shock with the sudden spasm that convulsed
the frame of the murdered man ;—and the next moment
all was still—all was over!
But scarcely had Father Anselm regained the corridor
and closed the panel, when a violent knockin at the front
door of the inn raised every echo through t e establish-
ment.
The landlord, who had not closed his e es since he
retired to his chamber,—so profoundly was e afflicted at
i the fate which he supposed to be in reserve for Otto
Pianalla, even if it had not already overtaken him,—
thrust his head from the window, and demanded the
meaning of that midnight summons.
“ 5 master has been waylaid and cruelly treated,"
replie a man on horseback, with the form of a human
being, apparently senseless, lying in front of him across
the animal ; and the individual who spoke was evidently
a foreigner, for his German was marked with a strong
Italian accent.
“ In this case ye shall not tarry long at my gate,” said
Herman ; and in a few moments he slipped on a portion of
his clothing, and descended with a lamp in his hand.
He immediately assisted the horseman to alight; and
the two together conveyed the senseless individual into
the tavern. Ludwig was hastily summoned to take charge
of the new-comer’s steed; and Herman threw open the
door of the public room, saying, “ This way, good friend.
We will examine your master’s ailments ; and, if need be,
the village leech shall be summoned without delay."
They entered the room, bearing between them the sense-
less form which they laced in a large arm-chair. Then
Herman hastened to etch the lamp which he had left in
.the passage. When he reappeared, his eyes fell upon the
couch which had been arranged on the chairs by his
niece; and to his farther surprise, he beheld a person
sitting up in the temporary bed, and surve ing with
{mingled suspicion and alarm the scene that ha disturled
inn.
“ Who are you, worthy friend P” exclaimed the host,
approaching the couch; “ and how came you hither ?"
“You saw me arrive this evening, good Messer Her-
min,” replied Otto Pianalla: “ but it is rather for me to
as _ll
“ Merciful heaven !” ejaculated the landlord, so over-
come by astonishment that he nearly let the lamp fall
from his hands. “ How happens it that you—you—"
“ Pr'ythee cease that useless discourse, and come to the
aid of my master,” exclaimed the newly-arrived traveller.
“He breathes—he opens his eyes—he recovers!" added
the man, in a joyful tone. “ Hasten, good landlord-—
bring wine I”
“ Where am I?” murmured the wounded individual,
from whose forehead the blood was oozing.
“ In safety, my lord," was the answer given by the de-
pendant. “ Now, landlord—why dost thou remain stari
so stupidly upon you guest whom our coming has disturbed
from is sl-umbers? Bring wine, I say.”


FA UST.
121

Herman’s ears had caught the words “ my lord,” in
spite of the wildness of his surprise at finding Otto
Pianalla in that apartment; and in his heart ‘he was re-
joiced to think that his young guest had escaped the
vengeance of Father Anselm. Thus, the hope of having
received into his establishment a good customer, in the
erson of One whose noble rank was revealed to him
y the above-mentioned phrase, and the relief which his
mind experienced in respect to Pianalla, triumphed tem-
porarily over his dread of being deemed a traitor by the
agents of the Vehm, and induced him to hustle about to
procure all that was necessary to restore the wounded
man.
Otto Pianalla, on his side, had in the meantime risen
from his couch; and, hastily throwing on a portion of
his garments, he approached to offer his services in un-
dressing the nobleman and placing him on the couch
which he had just left.
The dependant gladly accepted the aid so generously
volunteered ; and by the time the landlord returned
with wine, vinegar, water, and bandages, the wounded
nobleman was placed in a more comfortable position than
in the arm-chair, and was partially divested of his attire.
“ Where am I, Michelotto P“ he murmured again.
“ Your Highness is in safety," was the answer. “ But
pray compose yourself. A draught of this wine will rivive
your lordship : its flavour is none of the worst.”
“ The best in my cellar is at the disposal of his High-
ness,” said Herman, whose quick ear had not failed to
catch this still loftier title which was addressed to the
wounded man.
Czesar Bor ia —for it was lie—placed his lips to the cup
which Miche otto presented him, and si ped a small por-
tion of its contents. The colour came aintly back to his
1e cheeks, and a scintillation of its wonted fires sparkled
in his eye.
“ Your Highness feels better?” said Michelotto, almost
tenderly—for the attachment of the sbirro to his master
was unbounded.
“ Yes—I am better,” returned Caesar, in a feeble tone.
“ But my head—my head l"
And he fell back on the couch, overpowered by a sudden
access of acute pain.
Otto Pianalla approached with a vessel containing
fresh water, and bathed the temples of the wounded
prince. When the clotted blood was washed away, a
wide and gaping wound was discovered on the forehead.
“ It is severe—but not mortal,” said Michelotto, who
had seen too much of wounds, cuts, and other hurts with
which warfaring persons are familiar, not to have gathered
some experience in such matters.
“ I will bandage it carefully,” observed Otto; and he
proceeded to execute his humane task with as much
rapidity and delicacy as possible.
Seeing that the work of restoration was going on so
well, the landlord lighted another lamp, and slipped from
the room for a few minutes ; for he was profoundly
anxious to solve a mystery which filled him with doubts,
misgivings, and alarms.
Stealing to his niece's chamber, he knocked gently at
the door. The girl, who had been aroused by the new
arrivals at the inn, was up and dressing herself, under the
im ression that her services might be required below.
‘ I was on the point of coming down-stairs, uncle,”
said the maiden, partially opening the door, and thrust-
ing forth her head. “ Do the strangers require supper P”
“ Hush ! ask no questions, but answer mine," returned
the landlord. “Wherefore didst thou make a bed for
Messer Pianalla in the public room ?”
And, as he spoke, Herman cast a scrutinizing glance
upon the girl’s countenance, on which the light of his
law fell.
“ 0 tell you the truth, dear uncle,” was the immediate
reply, “ another traveller came after you had retired to
your chamber—"
“ Another traveller!” repeated the landlord, in alarm,
for a fearful suspicion suddenly entered his mind.
“ Yes,” continued the girl, not noticing the peculiarity
of her relative’s manner; “ and he insisted so earnestly
upon having a private sleeping-apartment-—-”
“ Merciful heavens !" interrupted the host; “ and you
placed him in the Wainscot Chamber 1’”
“ I did, dear uncle; but pray be not offended. I thought
there could be no harm—"
“ Perdition l” cried Herman ; “ why did you not execute
my commands P “ You know not—”
“ Neither need she know anything,” murmured a voice
in the landlord’s ear; and at the same time Herman felt
a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder.

He turned, and beheld Father Anselm.
“ You need not leave your room—you are not wanted
—retire to bed again," stammered the landlord to his
niece ; and he himself hastily closed the door.
He then mechanically followed Father Anselmto the
room occu ied by him and Fritz.
“I over eard all that passed between you and your
niece," said Anselm, “ and can therefore ac nit you of all
blame in this affair. It is, however, clear t at an awful
mistake has been made, and—” ‘
“ Is the deed done?” demanded Herman, in a low and
hoarse tone.
“ A dead. is done,” answered Anselm, “and cannot be
recalled. But the intended victim has escaped.”
“ Just heaven ! an innocent man has been murdered !"
exclaimed the landlord. “ What a lamentable misadven-
ture! Oh ! what a fearful thing !”
“ Hush this meaning for a matter that mnnot be
amended!" cried Anselm, impatiently. “ Do on know
who your new guests are ? I heard the man on orsebaok
speak to you on his arrival; and his voice strangely re-
sembles one that is familiar to me. Nevertheless ”
“ That man is only a servant, or dependant,“ answered
the landlord; “ and his master, who is cruelly wounded
—I know not how—is a lord, a highness—”
“ Ah! then m suspicions are well founded!” ejacu—
lated Anselm. ‘ And yet how strange! What business
can they ave in this neighbourhood?” he added, in a
musing t e.
“ The nobleman called his servitor by the name of
Michelotto," observed the host, recalling this circum-
stance to mind when he perceived that Anselm was in-
terested in the new-comers. ‘
“Then there can be no doubt as to the other one!”
cried the chief of the Vehm. “ Oh! these are joyous
tidings,” he continued, a smile relaxing his harsh and
forbidding countenance. “ Vengeance is now within my
reach—vengeance on him who ex osed me—who heaped
ashes upon my head—who covere me with shame in the
presence of one of the haughtiest nobles of Rome 1"
“Who is this Prince that has so mortally offended
your reverence ?" inquired the landlord.
“ The Duke of Valentinois—Czesar Borgia!” returned
Father Anselm. “But I shall know full well how to
avenge myself upon him 1”
Thus saying, be cast a significant look upon Fritz, who
was standing near, and who listened in mute surprise to
the conversation which revealed to him the awful mis-
take that had been committed in respect to the occupant
of the Wainscot Chamber, and also the presence of Caesar
Bor ia with his favourite sbirro at the inn.
“ es,” observed Fritz : “ the Cord and Dagger are as
terrible to princes as peasants.”
“ Let us now pay a visit to the Wainscot Chamber, and
ascertain if the traveller who ere now met his fate there
by the error of your niece possesses any papers which
may inform us of his name and station,” said Father
Anselm. “But one word, mine host, while the subject
is fresh in my memory; as you value your life, let not
Caesar Borgia nor his dependant suspect that either my-
self or our faithful Fritz are lodgers in the Black Swan."
The landlord signified with a how his obedience to his
command.

CHAPTER LXIV.
ms sncnsrs or THE wamscor CHAMBER.
FATHER ANSELM took the lamp and led the way to the
Wainscot Chamber, Fritz following with his accustomed
rude indifference of manner, and the landlord with a
beating heart and a haggard countenance.
They advanced towards the bed, the sheets of which
were saturated with blood.
But the moment the glare of the lamp fell upon the
pale and distorted countenance of the corpse, an exclama-
tion of surprise burst simultaneously from the lips of
Father Anselm and Fritz.
“ Is it possible? Gregory Walstein !" cried the Free
Count of the Holy Vehm. “ Yes :-—he who deserted mo
in the time of my need-—in the hour of my disgrace—has
received his death from my hand! Good Herman,”
added he, turning towards the landlord, “ there is not so
much to deplore as thou thinkest in this error. That
man was a dangerous member of the League, and it i‘ well that his idle, tattling tongue and drunken fa
fooneries should be thus put an end to for ever. But let
us examine his garments.”
The clothes of the murdered man were s eedily rifled.
First there appeared a handsome and we filled purse,


122
FA US T.
embroidered with armorial bearings, beneath which were
the cyphers, “ C. B.”
“ Ah I" exclaimed Father Anselm, “ the heraldic
blazonry and the initials of Caesar Borgia! Doubtless
we have now a clue to the cause of that pitiable plight in
which the Duke was brought to the inn. This man,
Gregory Walstein, attacked and plundered him.".
“ Behold another proof thereof," said Fritz, who had
been examining the handsome cloak that hung over the
back of a chair. “ This is the violet hue, and liere is the
anions embroidery on the collar that the Duke always
displayed."
“ Here, too, are the traces of newly-washed blood-stains
upon Walstein’s hose and doublet,” added Father Anselm.
“ In all respects, you perceive, Messer Hermann, that this
man deserved his fate. You can learn from Michelotto,
anon, the particulars of the waylaying of Caesar Bor ia;
and we shall doubtless find the details correspon 'ng
with the proofs now established. But here are some
papers :—-it will be as well to examine them also.”
As he thus spoke, Father Anselm drew from the
pocket of the doublet a small portfolio containing a few
documents.
“ They are chiefly letters that have passed between the
Count of Aurana and Ida, the deceased wife of Gregory
Walstein. Ah! then report spoke true! Yes—hero are
the proofs! Ida was the mistress of Faust, and Walstein
received a lordly fortune as an inducement to es ouse her.
But here is a document of greater importance s ll ! And
now," added Father Anselm, triumphantly, as he glanced
his eye over the paper,——“ and now even the proud Count
of Aurana is in my pewer! Yes—he who exposed me in
the presence of the Orsini is at my mercy 1“
Then, in a measured tone, he read the contents of the
document aloud :—
“ I acknowled c myself to be the father of the babe
which Ida Piana la bears in her bosom. I bequeath to
her the sum of one thousand crowns, as a means of sub-
sistence, and to enable her to rear the offspring of my
crime and her weakness in a manner befitting its future
interests. And I charge those who may survive me, and
who succeed to my wealth, to see this bequest of mine
fulfilled. “ Wilhelm Faust, COUNT OF A‘URANA."
“ Every circumstance seems to favour my vengeance
against those enemies who for a period triumphed over
me,” added Father Anselm. “And, oh ! here is. a
letter from that proud Count to his mistress Ida, which
proves—yes, proves beyond all doubt—how the offspring
of their illicit love was disposed of ! . Doubtless, Walstein
must have possessed himself of these documents ere the
explosion of his imposture at Vienna. But of that no
matter—they are mine now—and, ere long, they will
serve my purposes l”
With these words, Father Anselm secured the papers
beneath his clothes.
“ There is nothing more about these garments worthy
of our attention,“ continued he, after a farther search.
“Let all traces of this deed disappear in the usual
manner."
The landlord seemed to obey this command with
alacrity. He threw all the clothes of the deceased u on
the bed, not even excepting Caesar Borgia's cloak; t on
taking a large key from a bunch that hung at his girdle,
he applied it to a. lock fixed in one of the bed-posts.
The key turned with a hoarse, grating neise, and an
unseen bolt shot backwards with a sharp ringing sound.
The entire woodwork, which formed what may be called
the platform of the bed, turned rapidly round on an ans,
while at the same moment, and in obedience to the same
skilfully-contrived machinery, a large trap-door opened
downwards immediately beneath, so that corpse, mattress,
sheets, blankets, and the deceased’s garments were pre-
cipitated into a awning gulf under that fatal couch.
- There was a splas of water; and then was stfil.
The landlord turned the key back again ; the platform
of the bed revolved once more on its axis, and fell into its
proper horizontal position-and the trapdodr closed. ‘
Another key new opened a large closet commumcatmg
with the room ; and thence the landlord, aided by Fritz,
conveyed another mattress and fresh sheets and blankets
to the couch. These were arranged in such a manner as
to convey the appearance of having been slept in. Thus
all traces of the assassination had disappeared; and the
landlord now felt relieved from a most oppressive load—
for he knew that it would be easy to satisfy his niece in
the morning relative to the disappearancle the traveller,
by the simple excuse that he had taken his departure at
a very early 'hour.

We may here observe that the contrivance of the fatal
couch was by no means singular in res ect to the Black
Swan. Germany at that time abounde in taverns whose
landlords were devoted to the service of the Bloody
League, and where particular chambers were provided
with secret avenues of communication, and with beds
fashioned so as to afford a facility of effacing all signs of
the dark vengeance of that tremendous tribunal.
When the work of concealment was thus completed,
Father Anselm and Fritz returned to their chamber.
The landlord repaired to the public room, where he
found the Duke of Valentinois wrapped in a profound
slumber, and Michelotto relating to Otto Pianalla all he
knew of the particulars of the murderous attack upon
his master.
“ My lord was riding some distance in front of me,”
said the sbirro, “ when my horse suddenly cast a shoe,
stumbled, and fell. I instantly dismounted, and en-
couraged the poor animal in the usual manner. Then I
lost some few minutes farther in searching for the shoe,
not knowing whether there might be a smith in this vil-
lage, where we purposed to stop for the night. When I
continued my way again, I came to a point where two
roads branched off; and not perceiving my lord, I was
uncertain which to take, being perfectly ignorant of this
part of the country, and not having overheard the infor-
mation given to my master relative to the proper road,
at the inn where we had halted to dine. I accordingly
took one of the paths at random, and pursued it for
nearli an hour, without overtaking his Highness. At
lengt I perceived a light, and advancin towards it,
reached a cottage. There I inquired whet er I was in
the right road for Kemberg, where I knew we were to
pass the night. I then learnt, to my annoyance, that I
was pursuing the wrong road. I accordingly had no
alternative, save to retrace my way, and take the other
path at the point whence I had diverged. But scarcely
had I proceeded twenty paces along the right road, lead-
ing to Kemberg, when I was alarmed by a low moan. I
reined in my horse and listened. The sound was repeated,
and I hastened to the spot whence it seemed to come.
There, to my dismay, I found his Highness stretched
almost lifeless in the road. His horse and cloak were
gone, and I ere now perceived that his purse had also
disappeared. There can be no doubt that he was attacked
by robbers, who had lef t him in that miserable condition.
Fortunately our valise, containing the larger portion of
my master’s gold for his travelling expenses, and other
valuables, were strap d to my saddle; or the villains
would have obtained t e booty, the loss of which might
have caused much embarrassment to us. I need scarcely
add that, without loss of time, I lifted his Highness upon
my horse, and brought him hither."
The landlord was an attentive listener to this narra-
tive; and, when it was concluded, he muttered to him-
self, “ There can be no doubt the villain that attackedhis
Highness was the same whose corpse is now at the bottom
of the covered well.”
In the meantime, Father Anselm and Fritz were en-
gaged in earnest deliberation, in their own apartment.
“ Caesar Borgia cannot have fled from Italy empt -
handed," said the FreeCount, “ and the most agreeab 0
part of my vengeance will be to compel him to reveal the
place where he has deposited his treasures, or the person
to whom he has entrusted them. 'We must confine him
in Linsdorf Castle, and hold out hopes of liberation on
the payment of a princely ransom."
“ By virtue of the rescript which your reverence pos-
sesses,” said Fritz, “ it will be easy to make Count Man-
fred, of Linsdorf, your instrument in this respect.”
“ Well spoken, good Fritz,” exclaimed Anselm. “ Ere
the first glimmer of the dawn I will set out for Linsdorf
Castle. It will be thy duty to watch Otto Pianalla, who
doubtless will not tarry long at the Black Swan ; and the
Cord and Dagger must rid us of that dangerous enemy."
“ Trust to my good steel," said Fritz. “ Where shall I
rejoin your reverence P”
“ At Linsdorf Castle," was the answer.
In this manner did the two members of the Vehm con-
verse until within an hour of daylight.
Father Anselm then took his departure for Linsdorf
Castle, and Fritz remained behind at the .inn to watch
the motions of Otto Pianalla.
As had been anticipated, the young artist was not dis-
posed to olong his sojourn at the inn; for no sooner
did the rst leam of dawn appear in the cast, when
Ludwig broug t his good steed round to the door, and
Otto took his departure.
Then Fritz, who had watched hismovements from the


124
FA UST.

by a dark veil, but whose elegant form had something so
commanding though exquisitely graceful in its appear-
ance, that Otto doifed his hat as she passed him.
With a courteous bow did she acknowledge this homage
to her sex; and from behind her veil she darted a pene-
trating glance on the handsome countenance of the young
artist.
Then she passed rapidly onward—and Otto involuntarily
followed her with his eyes; for there was something so
divnified and yet so harmonious in her motions—some-
thing so noble and yet so sweetly captivating in her gait,
that he felt himself compelled, as it were by an in-
vincible attraction, to linger with his looks on that
elegant form.
Of her countenance he had not caught the slightest
glimpse—so closely was it veiled; but he felt convinced
that such an ex uisitely modelled fi re, such a well-
turned ankle, an such a diminutive oot, did not belong
to one who had any reason to be ashamed of her face.
The lady ursued her way for a short distance, and
then sudden y turned her head. -
It was impossible that she could have failed to observe
the attention with which the young artist was following
her with his eyes: for there he was—still rivetted to the
spot where she had first met him, and still holding his
hat in his hand. ‘ I
Otto—annoyed, vexed with himself for having been de-
tected in what he deemed to be the unpardonablc rude-
ness into which an unaccountable feeling of curiosity had
betrayed him,—and chagrined, moreover, to think that
he had even manifested an undue degree of interest in the
stranger-lady at all,——-0tto retreated rapidly round the
angle of the watch-tower.
He was well acquainted with the interior of Rosenthal
Castle, which he had frequently visited during the time
that his sister Ida was an attendant on the Lady Theresa ;
and thus he was not only enabled to find his way with
ease to the butte , but was also well received by the
officer who preside over that department of the Baron’s
extensive household.
Having refreshed himself with the good things that
were speedily served up to him, he repaired to the private
apartment of the Baron. ,
“ Be seated, good Otto,” said the nobleman, when
Pianalla made his a pearance. “ I have read the letters
which my daughter as sent by your hands, and I cannot
assert with truth that the contents are inspiring. Theresa
is not happy, Otto,” continued the Baron, after a few
moments’ pause ; “and, although she does not tell me as
much in plain terms, I were blind did I not read the
lamentable fact in almost every sentence of her letters.
Now speak openly, Otto—I implore you to speak freely :—
what reason has my daughter Theresa to be less happy
than she should be—than she ought to be P”
“ My lord,” said Otto, in a serious tone, “ it is not for a
humble individual like myself to judge of the actions of
powerful nobles; but—since your lordship commands me
to speak without reserve—_” '
“ I do not command you, young man,” interrupted the
Baron: “ I implore you as—as a friend.”
This was a great concession for the proud and haughty
lord of Rosenthal to make towards an artist; but the old
nobleman loved his daughter, and his paternal feelings
predominated over his pride. Thus was he pre ared to
see and receive in the light of a friend an indivi ual who
could enter with becoming sympathy into the nature of
those feelings.
“ Yes—Otto, as a friend I implore you to speak without
reserve,” repeated the Baron; “ and that you may satisfy
—or at least, enlighten my mind on certain points, I will
direct your attention to particular passages in my
daughter's letters.”
With these words, the Baron of Rosenthal spread open
the Lady Theresa’s correspondence upon the table; and
Otto pre ared to listen with due attention.
“ In t e first place,” continued the Baron, “ my
daughter seems to reproach herself for a feeling which is
certainly very unaccountable, and which is in many ways
calculated to cause her much mental annoyance. She
opens her heart to me as a child should to an affectionate
father; and I can suppose that tears stood in her eyes
when she penned those lines which acquaint me with the
extraordinary fact that she has conceived a far greater
affection for the infant son of the Archduke than she
entertains for her own daughter.”
“ When I had the honour to visit her ladyship previous
to my departure from Vienna,” said Otto, “ she communi-
cated to me the circumstance to which your lordship
alludes. I do not attempt to conceal from your lordship
.
{

the pain—the anguish with which the Countess made
that revelation, and implored my opinion.‘ But there is
another remarkable fact which must be coupled with the
former. This is the preference which the Archduchess
manifests towards the young Adela over her own son
Maximilian.”
“ Unaccountable !--most unaccountable!” exclaimed
the Baron. “ These two facts def conjecture.”
“ I have pondered much upon t em, and can arrive at
no feasible solution,” observed Otto. “ At the same time
the human heart is so strangely constituted, and is a prey
to so mang invincible caprices—1’
“ But T eresa who is so good, and Maria whom I always
knew so mild and gentle,” interrupted the Baren,—“to
think that hearts so pure and virtuous as theirs should
become the abiding-places of such caprices as these i”
“ The temptations of the Evil One are directed inst
the good at all times, as well as the wicked,” observed
Pianalla.
“ Alas l- Theresa deserves to be happy,” said the Baron;
“ for she possesses an amiable heart. But I need scarcely
inform you, Messer Pianalla, that I never countenanced
her love for Wilhelm Faust. He won her from me by a
kind of stratagem—by a variety of strange circumstances,
in fine, which have often and often, since they occurred,
been the topic of long hours of meditation on my part.
Springing suddenl from obscurity and poverty to rank
and fortune——A ! I must confess that I have been
sorely troubled at the thoughts which have intruded
themselves upon my idle hours. And now,—for here is
another point of sad interest in Theresa's letters,—now
to think that she begins to fear he does not love her as he
used to do—to think, I say, that she should have cause
even to glance for a moment at such an idea,—this, Otto,
is as much as to declare on her part that he is not so kind
to her as he ought to be.” ' -
The Baron spoke with warmth; but tears were in his
eyes—for, though he possessed a hard and even cruel
heart in many respects, he was deeply attached to his
only child.
“ Her ladyship fears lest the Count of Aurana be
devoured with some secret care,” said Otto. “ Her lady-
shi conceives that her husband is not himself happy ;—
an this idea is sufiicient to rend her generous and too
sensitive heart.”
“ What can make him miserable—unless it be a guilty
conscience P” exclaimed the' Baron of Rosenthal. “ He
is in high favour at the Court ; the Archduke is his bosom
friend ;——the wealth of the Count of Aurana is now pro-
verbial throughout German . How, then, can he be un-
happy ? Has he committ a crime P Did he rise to
rank and fortune by dishonourable means P Did he per-
petrate some deed of blackness wherewith to obtain the
means of purchasing that vast estate which gave him his
title and his influence in the empire? There is one point
in Theresa’s letters which is a little remarkable. She
alludes in sorrowful terms to the indifference which her
husband manifests in respect to religious duties.”
“Her ladyship is not singular in that observation,"
said Otto. “ All Vienna has noticed—and every old
woman’s tongue repeats the tale, with such comment as
only an old woman’s tongue could utter-that the Count
of Aurana maintains no chaplain in his household, and
never attends a place of worshig. We be less powerful
than he is, the ecclesiastical aut orities would call him
to an account On that point. But let us not judge harshly
-—too harshly of him, my lord. He ma dislike the cere-
mony of public worship, and yet not the less pray in se-
cret. He ma shrink from confession to a priest, and yet
commune wit his own heart.”
“ Good!” said the Baron: “let us suppose that it is so.
Still, for the mere sake of com lying with the usa ~es of
great nobles, should he keep a c aplain in his house old.
t is not well—it is not wise—it is not prudent, Otto, to
fly in the face of the Church.”
“ The Count may behave unwisely—imprudently, my
lord,” said Otto; “ but let us not hasten to the conclu-
sion that he acts with wicked intentions.”
“Yen are a good youth,” observed the Baron; “ but
the charity of your disposition passes all reasonable
limits. Were it not that I am compelled to remain upon
my estate, to protect it from that ever watchful enemy
of mine, the Lord of Linsdorf—I would repair to Vienna,
and learn from my daughter’s own lips the positive causes
of that unha piness which is doubtless oppressing her.
Her husbam might, nevertheless, permit her to come
and pass a few months under the paternal roof. 1 will
write to him to that effect. How long dost thou count
upon remaining in these parts P"


FA US T.
125
“ But a very few days, my lord,“ answered Pianalla.
“ I have one paramount duty to perform—to place a
stone upon my mother’s grave! It is also my intention
to visit a few of my former companions, and succour
those who are not so prosperous as I could wish them to
be,” added the young artist, in a modest tone. “My
own osition is assured for the future; and I can even
affori to spare somewhat towards relieving the wants of
the industrious and deserving.”
“ And while you remain in this neighbourhood, good
youth,” said the Baron, “let my Castle be your home.
On your return to Vienna, I shall charge you with letters
for the Count of Aurana and my daughter.”
“ It was my original intention to pass a few weeks in
these parts, which are endeared to me by many memories
associated with my childhood,” observed Otto; “ but a
particular circumstance, which occurred this morning—
and which I will presently detail to your lordshi —~must
hurry my return to Vienna. In the meantime, accept
with grateful thanks the generous hospitality of your
lordship’s abode.”
“ In that case—and since you will now become an in-
mate of Rosenthal during your good pleasure, oung
man,” said the Baron, “ I must inform you that have
been induced, by special commands from his Imperial
Majesty Maximilian the First, to accord refuge to a per-
secuted foreign family of high rank. Driven from their
own country, they sought the hospitality of Germany;
but the Em eror deemed it not prudent to receive these
high-born ugitives in his capital. He accordingly
thought fit to assign them a dwelling at a considerable
distance from Vienna; and he was graciously pleased to
honour my poor abode by designating it as the lace
where this exiled Prince and his sister, of whom am
speaking, might find a safe refuge from the pursuit of
their enemies. The Princess has already arrived ; and I
expect his Highness, her brother, in the course of a few
days—or, I may indeed say, every hour. I merely men-
tion this much to you, that you may be prepared to see
illustrious guests at the Castle."
While the Baron was yet speaking, Otto recalled to
mind not only the veiled lady whom he had seen upon
the ramparts, but also the Wounded Prince whom he had
left at the Black Swan.
It will be remembered that the words “ my lord " and
" your Highness” were frequently mentioned in Otto's
presence by the dependant of the wounded Prince; but
the actual name of that illustrious personage had not
escaped Michelotto's lips; and Otto's curiosity was
neither powerful nor impertiuent enough to induce him
to request information on that head. He therefore re-
mained in ignorance of the fact that he had actually been
in the presence of that terrible Cmsar Borgia, who had
filled the world with his bad fame : nevertheless, the
apparent connexion between the Baron’s statement and
that wounded Prince now struck him so forcibl that he
immediately related all that had occurred in re erence to
his Highness’s arrival at the Black Swan.
“ And you are ignorant of the name of that wounded
Prince ?" cried the Baron.
“ Entirely so,“ answered Pianalla.
“ Ah! he would doubtless remain unknown,” mused
the Baron; “ and his dependant must have been betrayed
by habit into the utterance of those cremonious titles of
address which alone met your ears. Yes—it is evidently
so: for the Princess who is now here, also arrived in a
that her name might not trans ire. I must therefore be
secret on that head. But it be ioves me without delay to
repair to Kemberg, and ensure the speedy conveyance of
the wounded Prince to the Castle.”
Thus speaking, the Baron rose hastily from his seat.
“ One word, my lord—if it meet your good pleasure,”
said Otto. “ I have yet somewhat to communicate—in-
asmuch as I must implore the aid of some of your de-
pendants to fetch hither for Christian burial the body of
a wretched man who has died from the consequences of
an attempt upon my life only a few hours ago, and from
whose li s I received a solemn injunction which is the
cause of lasteniug my return to Vienna.”
The Baron surveyed Otto Pianalla with looks of un-
feigned astonishment, as the latter uttered these words;
but the young artist soon made him acquainted with these
particulars, relative to the attack uponi him by Fritz,
which are alreadv known to the reader.
“ The power of the Vehm is terrible," said the Baron,
ina low tone; “but I have defied it as you havedone.
Nevertheless, no time must he lost in bringing hither the
corpse of that miscreant who so justly met his death

while attempting your life. You shall at once proceed
to the spot with two of my trustiest servitors and fetch
the body. We will give it Christian burial; and this
night Father Christopher shall see it decently interred in
the chapel of the Castle. I shall new ride to Kemberg;
do you, good youth, divert yourself as best you can. My
abode is your home.”
Otto ex ressed his gratitude for this kind intimation,
and with rew.
In a quarter of an hour the Baron, attended by six
well-armed retainers, was galloping along the road to.
wards the Black Swan at Kembcrg.
CHAPTER LXVI.
runes ANSELM AND THE couur or LINSDORF.
WE must now return to Father Anselm, who, it will be re-
membered, had set off very early in the morning on a visit
to Linsdorf Castle, while Fritz had remained at the inn
for the purpose of watching the motions of Otto Pianalla.
Little suspecting the fate that was in store for his
staunch and devoted instrument Fritz, Father Anselm
pursued his way through the pine-forest, and shortly
reached Linsdorf Castle.
Many years had elapsed since he had last trod that
path; and his condition was marvellously changed.
“ It seems but the other day that I first entered the
service of Manfred,” said Father Anselm to himself, as
he walked towards the gate of the Castle. “ Then I was
a miserable being—an outcast who had suffered the
ignominy of a public execution, and had come back to
hfe and light again as it were by a miracle! I felt like a
stranger in the wide world : my only hope was in Count
Manfred, under whom I had formerly served in the army.
But I knew him well—I was not mistaken in him. I read
his dark soul. He was not 9. Count then: but he wished
to be! He was not the owner nor the inhabitant of this
lordly dwelling : but he also aspired to be that! I
guessed it all—I divined every thought that occupied his
mind. Oh :how well I remember seeking him in his compara-
tively humble abode some leagues from hence, and offering
him my services. I told him all that concerned myself : he
wanted such an instrument as I was prepared to be ;—he
accepted me as his dependant~he granted me his protec-
tion—he initiated me as a member of the Bloody Lea 1e.
And then, when the time came, how well I did his bid. ing
and made him Count and owner of Linsdorf ! But how
did he reward me? Confident that my life was in his
hands—presuming on the possession of my secret,—-a
secret that ever made me tremble lest it should be re-
vealed,——the Count indulged his naturally tyrannical dis-
position in oppressing me. Ah! it was a fortunate day for
me, when—wuaried with his goading despotism—I in-
duced Hugo to become the companion of my flight from
Linsdorf! The garb of a priest enabled me to seek my
fortunes elsewhere; and in time I became the Superior of
the Convent in the Alps—while Hugo still followed my
steps. And then came my connection with the Borgias—
an intimacy which gave me wealth, and which, had Caesar
been faithful to his word, should have raised me to
eminence. And now—now," thought Anselm, as he
paused at the gate of the Castle,—“ now I return to these
walls, a Chief of the Vehm and the bearer of a rescript
which places the haughty Lord of Linsdorf in my power !"
A smile of triumph played upon the dark and repulsive
, countenance of this bold bad man, as he thus wound up
humble mtnner—with but few attendants—and desired i
those reflections which were so naturally excited by a
revisit to scenes that he had many and grave reasons to
remember full well.
Father Anselm crossed the drawbridge, and reached
the inner gate.
“ Who comes P" cried a sentinel, throwing forward his
halberd.
“ I seek the Lord of Linsdorf,” said Anselm.
“ Pass, holy father,“ exclaimed the sentinel, shoulder-
ing his weapon once more, and standin aside.
Father Anselm pursued his way, wit his cowl drawn
far over his countenance ; for, in case any of the Count’s
retainers had been contem oraneous in that nobleman’s
service with himself, he di not choose to be remembered
by them.
In due time he obtained admission into an apartment
where Count Manfred was sitting alone, occupied with
some papers of consequence.
The Lord of Linsdorf was much changed since Anselm
had last seen him nineteen years previously :—but there
was still the same stern, uncompromising expression of
countenance—the same fire in the piercing eye—the same
malignant expression of the lip—the same compression of


.123
FA UST.
the lowering brows. Though time had mingled with grey
the dark hair of the Count and reduced the bulk of his
muscular form, it had not touched his bad heart nor
brought to his soul compunction for his manifold mis-
deeds.
“ Good morrow, holy father 1” cried the Count, glanc~
ing casually at Anselm, as he entered. “ To what am I
to attribute the honour of this visit? If thou thinkest I
need ghostly comfort, thou art in error—for I have within
my walls a worthy chaplain who will patter a dozen eves
and recite as many credos as ghbly as he will empty a
wine-flask."
“ Cease this ribald nonsense, Count Manfred l" ex-
claimed the visitor; then, flinging back his cowl, he
added, “ Dost thou not remember me P“
“ Whatl—is it possible i’” cried the Count, half rising
from his seat, and bending his brows in a sinister manner
as he looked from beneat them up to Anselm’s counte-
nance. “ Can it be my old servant Ulric'Kinis-or rather
Felix Zetter, as thou didst afterwards call thyself l”
“I am that same individual, my lord," returned the
priest, in a proud tone. “ But to neither name which
thou hast mentioned do I answer now. Hast ever heard
of one Father Anselm P”
“ Ay, marry, have I I" said Manfred of Linsdorf. “ He
is a powerful chief of the Vehm, whereof you are only a
humble dependant. But I was wrong to speak of a great
Free Count to one who is but a servant, and not a master,
of the Tribunal. However, I need not fear that thou, of
all men, will report my want of caution elsewhere.“
“ Ever hasty—ever imprudent l" exclaimed Father
Anselm; “ even forgetful of our fundamental laws l”
“ Ah ! what mean you, insolent ?” cried the Count, again
half starting from his seat, while his eyes flashed fire.
“ Calm yourself, my lord," returned the griest, waving
him back in an authoritative manner. “ our lordship
may speak freelyto me—for I am now one of the Chiefs."
Then Anselm made the sign of the cross, and murmur-
ing “ Blessed be the Holy Vehm l” pointed with his
thumb ra idly towards his chest—a symbolic expression
that he s ould deserve death by the dagger if he roved
unfaithful to the Secret Tribunal for which he so so emnly
invoked heaven’s favour.
This was the sign for a Free Count of ' the terrible
fraternity.
“ Be seated, brother," said the Count of Linsdorf, in a
more respectful tone than he had hitherto assumed;
“ you are indeed one of those mighty Chiefs who overawe
the proudest and wealthiest, and make the guilty tremble.
Then art thou as familiar as myself with the name of
Father Anselm, of whom thou didst ere now speak; and
if—as I suspect—thou comest from that great man who
wields the power of the Vehm in the Carniolan district,
and who has even made its tremendous influence to be felt
in Italy—if thou comest from him, I say, thou art doubly
welcome. In any case might the distinction which
existed in former days between your rank and mine be
forgotten; for, as a Free Count, I am bound to receive
thee as a brother.”
“find to acknowledge me as a superior,” said Anselm,
coo y.
“ How P" cried Manfred, angrily. “ I have yet' to
learn that one who must necessarily be my junior in the
hierarchy by some years can become my superior. But
sayl—(gost thou come to me from Father Anselm of Car-
mo 9. ”
“ I am Father Anselm, Free Count of Carniola,” was
the proud reply, which made Lord Manfred start with
the most unfeigned astonishment. “ Listen to me,
brother,“ continued the priest :—“the Sn reme Council
of Westphalia has long been dissatisfied wit the mode in
which you administer the sway of the Vehmgericht in
this province. Your numerous errors I might enumerate ;
but you are doubtless conscious of them. Ere now, even,
when I had scarcely been five minutes in your presence,
you violated that fundamental law which explicitly de-
clares that ‘ no Chief of the Vehm, whether Free Count or Free
Viscount, Provincial or District Ruler, shall mention the
name of another Chief in the presence of a simple member of
the Vehm in common conversation, but only when convey-
ing instructions, or discoursing on matters actually interest-
ing the Vehm.’ But I care not to dwell on the thousand
well-known breaches of formality of which you- have
been guilty," continued Father Anselm. “ I must, how-
ever, allude to that fearful error whereof you were cul-
pable, when the Archduke Leopold of Austria was in
your power, and when, according to your report to the
Sugreme Council of Westphalia, he refused to join the
Ve m, and to take part in the conspiracy which was at

that_tii_n_e in reparation inst his uncle the Emperor
Maximihan. nstead of con 'ning him in a deep dungeon,
until his stubborn spirit was broken, you adju

dgedhim,
to death—as if his death would have served the Vehm! ,
No :-—it was his life—his life devoted to our
we required; and think you not that the prospect of
sitting upon the throne of the Caesars, in the place of his
purposes— '
uncle whom we should have deposed, would have helped ,
to win him over to our views? But you sentenced him
to die; and then—behold! your retainers permitted him
to escape!”
“ I communicated the entire particulars of that event ‘
to the Council,” said Lord Manfred, in‘a subdued and I
humble tone.
“ And think you the Council put faith in the marvellous
tale you related ?“ cried Anselm, indignantly. “ N o—my
10rd. That a sin is individual, though with all the
accessory terrors o a black cloak," he continued, with
bitter irony, “ should have been able to strike halfa-dozen
stalwart men-at-arms motionless with terror, and thus
release the prisoner, was a tale fit for a nursery, but not
adapted to obtain credence at the hands of the Supreme
Council of the Secret Tribunals of the German Empire.”
“And yet my men-at-arms all swore distinctly and
positively-says, and separately, too—to the same unvary-
ing account of that mysterious transaction," observed the '
Count of Linsdorf.
“ They might well be consistent, even when examined
separately, in a tan which they had plotted before-hand,”
said Anselm, with a sarcastic smile; “ and which, by the
bye, their master might have even rompted himself.”
“ No: by Heaven, I swear—_” gun the Count, fire
flashing from his e es.
“ Silence, my 10 !” cried Anselm, authoritatively. “I
am here to dictate—and not to reason. The deplorable
error of which you were guilty in respect to the Archduke
Leopold, was t 0 main cause that compelled the Vehm to
abandon the con spiracy against Maximilian the First."
“ And yet the Archduke never breathed a word con-
cerning that transaction,” observed the Count : “ else had
Maximilian taken steps against me, in the first instance;
and afterwards —’ ’
“ Once more I say Silence!" exclaimed Anselm. “ You
know not what you urge. Leo old did communicate
everythingto the Emperor; and aximilian adopted pre-
cautions, at was too wise to irritate the Vehm by per-
secuting any of its chiefs—or by even appearing to be
aware of what had taken place in respect to his nephew.
Nay, more—I can inform thee that, as a reward for the
servrce which Leopold rendered his Majesty, in making
those private revelations, the marri e of the young
Archduke with a girl deemed of lowly irth was recog-
nised, and the young bride was received at court after
having lived for some days in obscurit with her husband
at Vienna. And of that same girl I ave somewhat to
tell you, my lord :—but of that to-morrow T For the
prosent all I have to add to my remarks is this—that the
Supreme Council of Westphalia is at length convinced of
the utter incapacity of Lord Manfred of Linsdorf to
execute the high and important oflice of Free Count of
the Holy Vehmgericht, and does depose him to the grade
of simple District Ruler accordingly.”
As he uttered these words in a solemn and im ressivo
manner, Father Anselm reduced the rescript, w ich he
handed to Count Manfred?“
This nobleman read it with ul attention ; and,
swallowing his resentful feelings as best he could, he kissed
the document in a deferential manner, saying, “ Blessings
on the Holy Vehm! The Holy Vehm’s decree be obeyed!
Blessings on the Holy' Vehm l“
While he was fulfi ling this humiliating ceremony, the
eagle eyes of Father Anselm were fixed with savage
triumph upon him.
“ And now,” said Anselm, after a short pause, “ in the
name of the Vehm, I command you to send forthwith a
strong body of your retainers to the Black Swan inn of
the vill e of Kembe ; there they shall seize upon two
strange talians, one o whom is wounded on the forehead.
Having carefully secured them, your men must bring them
hither without delay. And let this be done in the way I
have ordained.”
“ You shall be obeyed,” answered the Count of Linsdorf.
He then left the room to issue the necessary orders for
this expedition.

"The reader must not confound the rank of Count (as a
nobleman of the German Em ire) which Manfred bore,
with that of Free Count of the chm. Over the former the
Secret Tribunal had of course not the slightest control.


128
FA US T.

raised me from the depths of misery to prosperity_and
happiness; and I toiled day after day—aye,_ and With a
joyous heart, too—to perfect the picture which you con-
descended to admire." _
“ And finding that I never came back to claim the
Achilles and pa the remainder of the purchase-money,
you doubtless disposed of your work elsewhere ?"
“ Pardon me, sir, if I say that you wrong me by those
suspicions," exclaimed Otto. “ I would scorn to do_ a
dishonest or an ungrateful action. No—the icture still
remains for you in Vienna: it now hangs in t e_ mansion
of the Baron of Czernin; but that nobleman Will deliver
it u to you upon application to him for that pur ose.
As or the remainder of the purchase-money, I wouh not
consent to receive it on any account. You have more
than amply paid me already. Oh! you know not how
great has been the prosperity that has attended my steps
since the day you first sought me in my miserable garret.
Thesum you then gave me—the confidence With which
you then inspired me,—in aword, your generous conduct
towards the obscure and friendless artist, was the
groundwork of my fortune. So soon as I had completed
your picture, I set out on an excursion through Carniola,
your purse having provided me with the means to gratify
my taste for travel. In the J uliau Alps I experienced a
variety of strange adventures, which resulted in the de-
liverance of the Baron of Czernin from captivity, and
made that nobleman my friend. Thus, you perceive, I
owe you a deep debt of gratitude; for to you may be
attributed that favourable change in m fortunes. How,
then, sir, could I entertain a single sel sh thought in_ re-
f erence to yourself-since I labour under immense obliga-
tions to you, and moreover am beyond the want of gold ?"
“I am pleased to see that you have found me really
useful to you,” said the old man. “ You express towards
me the gratitude of words .-—are you equally ready to de-
monstrate that honourable feeling by deeds ?”
“ Tell me, sir, in which way I can serve you," exclaimed
Otto, eagerlv; “ and—as I feel convinced that one so
generous an humane as yourself could not propose any-
thing to me that I may not safely undertake—_”
“ A truce to compliments, young man,” interru ted the
eccentric stranger, in a severe tone : “ I dislike t em.”
“ Truth is no compliment, when uttered by a grateful
heart,“ said Otto. “ But lest you should think that I am
desirous of escaping, by quibbling qualifications and con-
ditions, from the duty of serving you, I pray you to state
at once in what manner you require my humble aid.”
“ I will tell you in a few words," returned the old
man. “ There is within these walls a Princess in whose
affairs I am deeply interested. Do you know who she is P"
“ I am aware that a lady of that rank is now dwelling
in Rosenthal Castle,” replied Otto ; “ but I am ignorant
of her name.” . '
“ Then seek not to know it,” said the stranger, hastily ;
“ so shall you serve her with a sincerity not chilled by
prejudice. At this very moment the Baron of Rosenthal
is communicating to her tidings of an unpleasant nature.
She will require a friend—a staunch friend. Be you that
friend to her."
“ Name the manner in which I can serve her,” ex-
claimed Otto; “ and you will see whether I shall hesitate
to prove my gratitude to you by my zeal in the cause of
that lady.” _ 7
“She will explain her own affairs to you,’ said the
venerable stranger. “ Particular circumstances, which
I cannot now reveal, involve the present subject of con-
versation in some degree of mystery, and compel me to
warn you how to act in certain respects wzth regard to
that illustrious Princess.”
“ Speak, sir: I am not disposed to obey you only by
halves. In all that is fair and honourable, command
me,” said the artist. _
“In the first place, you must not allude, in the pre-
sence of any one, to our meeting this evening."
“ I have not even the honour of knowing the name of
my benefactor,” said Otto.
“Nor is it necessary that you should know it," re-
turned the old man, sharply. _ ~
“ And yet it were pleasant to remember it in my
prayers,” added the artist. _ ‘
“ Prayers !" repeated the eccentric stranger, With a
tone and manner that seemed singular to his young com-
panion. "But do not interrupt me thus If you Wish
to serve me, serve me in my own way—or I shall not be
served at all by anglit that you may do. I warn you,
then, not to speak of me to a living soul, nor to inform
the Princess that you have been induced to espouse her
cause by the representations of another."
7

“ I will obey you in all respects, sir—as by duty
bound,” said Otto: “ but ardon me if I observe that I
am totally unknown to this Princess—that I may never
have speech of her—and that she cannot be aware of my
readiness to serve her, unless perhaps you yourself—”
“ I wish you to trust to circumstances to render her
communicative, and give you an occasion to offer your
assistance," interrupted the old man. “ This night—two
hours hence, when the Castle is tranquil—the Princess
will walk on this side of the rampart. Take care to be
here :—the rest will follow."
With these words the stranger hurried away in so pre-
cipitate a manner that Otto had no opportunity to make
any remark nor ask any further explanation in respect
to the service so mysteriously demanded of him.
He nevertheless resolved to obey the old man’s instruc-
tions; for he naturallyconsidered him to be a benevolent
and humane, though somewhat eccentric individual, who
chose to do good by stealth.
i t I! i I, i ii
A few minutes after the termination of this interview
between Otto Pianalla and the stranger, Lucreza Borgia
retired from a saloon where she had been for about half
an hour in earnest conversation with the Baron of
Rosenthal. '
On entering her own private :1 artment, she found a
note lying upon the table, and ad ressed to herself.
t The writing was bold and clear, but totally unknown
0 er.
Hastin tearing open the letter, she read as follows :—
“ The position of your brother, and the timid conduct
of the Baron, render it necessar for you to secure the
aid of some firm, brave, and ski n1 individual. Such a
person is now an inmate of Rosenthal Castle. He is not
altogether unknown to you_by name. Two hours hence
be will be alone on the western rampart: hesitate not to
speak to him. In the course of the conversation you can
explain the position of your brother ; and the chivalrous
disposition of Otto Pianalla will immediately prompt him
to offer his services. But beware how you mention the
name of Borgia, for Otto practises virtue! All that he
as yet knows of you is that you are a Princess: he has
moreover seen your brother at Keniberg, and is aware
that he is a Prince. But of your names and titles he is
ignorant. If you wish him to serve you, let him remain
so. One more word of caution :—burn this letter as soon
as read—and hint not to Otto Pianalla that you have re-
ceived any suggestion to confide in him.
“ A FRIEND."
“A friend i" repeated Lucreza: “have the Borgias,
then, afriend ? If so, wherefore should he conceal him-
self? why should he write thus mysteriously—thus
anonymously? But of that no matter! The hint con-
veyed in this letter is a good one. Yes—Otto Pianalla is
brave, determined, and persevering: else never had be
effected the release of Theodore von Czernin from his
prison in the Julian Alps. He ractises virtue, and
would shrink from the name of orgia: that is the
meaning of the writer. But is he proof against the fasci-
nations of beauty P can he withstand the alluremeuts of
woman’s loveliness and woman’s wiles ? That sad reverse
of fortune which has deprived me of power and made me
an exile, has not robbed me of those charms which are
alike my pride and the most effective of all my weapons!
And those charms remain; for Lucreza Borgia still is
beautiful—beautiful as ever I” ,
And as the Princess pronounced these words aloud, she
surveyed herself with pride in a large mirror, which re-
flected her lovely countenance and her admirable sym-
metry of form.
“Yes,” she continued after apause: “ Otto Pianalla
shall become my agent—my instrument to effect the
deliverance of my brother! It was strange—passing
strange, that this young man should have alrrady been in
my thoughts ever since I met him on the ramparts at
noon. When I first beheld him in the court of justice at
Vienna, I was struck with his handsome countenance—
his fine dark eyes—his sweetly expressive mouth—his
graceful figure—and to-day, when I again saw him, me.
thought he had even improved in appearance. And he—
on his part—stood to- gaze after me,—hc who could
obtain no glimpse of my countenance! Ali! if he were
struck by t 10 symmetry of my form, he is already half
my slave It now, then, remains for me to secure his
entire and complete devotion to my cause and to myself!
He practises virtue," she added, With a contemptuous
curl of the lip;—“ practises virtue in a world where


(-971 11 mg) “'mn ammm aso'm va nonm name am Mon l'IIAVC-IH :mvs anv ‘aasvao an”


FA-UST.
181


virtue is so unusual! Then is he.akind of savage whom
Lucreza Bergia must undertake to tame !"
And a triumphant smile revealed the brilliant teeth. of
a mouth that. seemed formed- only to distil. hone _;
whereas how venomous was the poison lurking in tiyao
language which fell, in soft and musical tones, from-that
deceptive tongue!
-—_.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
run TEMPTRESS.
IT was a night of a lovely moon and cloudless stars;—
heaven’s own eternal lamps burning brightly u on the
deep purple arch,——when Lucreza Borgia, with t e dark
veil over her countenance appeared upon the western
rampart of Rosenthal Castle, in pursuance of the advice
contained in the letterof her unknown correspondent.
She walked with a firm step, and with. her head erect,
as if confident of achieving a victory on which she had set ‘
her mind, .and'the anticipation of which was eminently
gratifyingto her pron-l soul.
That was no coy girl—no timid maideunow advancing
towards the spot where Otto Pianalla, faithful to his
promise, was. leaning against the pa ct :—it» was -a
woman of the most enchanting beauty and of the ldackest
}i(»art,—a woman strong in the consciousness of her guile-
ful language and her personal. lovelinessfl—a woman who
was accustomed calmly to thrust aside all obstacles which
appeared in the path thatrit suited her to pursue.
And sodangcrous was that woman,——so fearful was the
influence wielded by Lucreza Borgia ~—th'a.t she could
adapt her language and her looks to :1; occasions z—now
languishingl with the voluptuoustendcrness of love—now
assuming t e dignity of one born to rule and to command ;
—at one time melting into tears to touch the soul—at
another wearing frowns, and clothing herself with the
majesty of anger to overawe the heart ;—-nowpersuasivc
as the voice of poesy—then bitter as the keen eastern blast ;
—at one moment soft, fascinating, and insidious -—-at
another haughty, dominant, and proud 1
Such was the womaniwhose influence was about to be
directed against the heart of Otto Pianalla.
The young artist marked her approach, and was not
surprised to observe the same majesty and yet eminently
graceful female form which had attracted him a few hours
prcvilously on another part'of the ramparts 0f Rosenthal
Cast e.
And now a hundred questions occurred to the young
man’s mind.
Who was this Princess? who also was the stran or that
had been instrumental in procuring the interview is wt was
about to take place? whatservice was to he demanded?
and wherefore wasso much mystery observed P
These and other queries of a similar nature flashed
through the brain of Otto Pianalla as he beheld the lady
drawing nearer and nearer.
And now she was within .a few yards of the spotwhere
he was standing.
B a natural impulse he removed the plumedhat from
his ad, .and deferentially saluted one whomsheknew to
be of exalted rank.
“ ThgL ,silent courtesy merits my, thanks, Messer'
Pianal 7’ said the Princess, stop 'ng near him.
“ Am I then known to your Big ness P” asked Otto.
‘ ‘ Did we not encounter-each other some few hoursa o P”
said Lucreza;.“ and, although it ill becomes‘oue of my-
sex to compliment an individual of yours, I must fain con~
fessdtlhat yours is acountenance which once seen, cannot
1‘03 1
Pian
for your time, I pray thee to becomemy companion uring
a half-hour's walk which I propose to myself."
All this was said with the easy grace of one who was
accustomcdto command, and in such amaimer that even
the compliment itself bore not the slightest tinge of in-
delicatc boldness.
Otto accordineg joined Lucreza Borgia; and they pro~
ceeded slowly along the rampart, the temptrcss still rc-
taimng the dark veil over her countenance.
“ How beautiful is this starlight !” said Lucreza, after
a short pause ;—-“ and in what strong relief do the mighty
towers of Rosenthal stand forth! Your native Germany,
Mcsscr Pianalla, abounds in these grand feudal edifices—
emblems of that chivalry which, alasl is rapidly verging
towards complete extinction l"
“ Does your Highness conceive that the spirit of German
chivalry is less enthusiastic than it was in past times I?”
exclaimed Otto. " Oh! noble lady, wrong not my country
by the suspicion l Wherever there are injuries to avenge
be forgotten. But . resume your. hat,. Messer.
la; and, if you have in view no better cmplo ment

or wroan to redress, there are still-generous hearts and
hold hands ready to. make the cause of the weak, the
defenseless, and the oppressed-their own.“ .
“ Say you so, Messor Pianalla P” asked Lucreza, in; the

. softest and most touching tones of her musical voice.
“ Oh i would that I could feel convinced of the truth of
your observation ! I am well aware thatyour own gene-
rous soul prompted that enthusiastic vindication of your
country’s chivalry; but you will forgive me if I express
a fear that you speak more as you could wish things to
be than as they actually are. I know-that the sons of
Germany are as brave usher daughtersare fair: I know
that for learnin , glory, and‘all the refinements of the
civilization of t e 0, your native clime can. compete
with the other lan of Europe—not even excepting
mighty France, nor powerful but isolated England. But
is not the true spirit of1 chivalry everywhere iring?
Oh i were it still in its full vigour, is it possible t at .my
own brother, who came to seek the hospitality of your
climenshould have been baser carried off and .made a
prisoner by a; proud noble of this district? or is it again
possible that I—his- sister, and also dependant on your
conntr men for protection and a homo—should be doomed-
to dep ore that captivity on his part, without a hope
that some chivalrous hand will rescue him from his law-
less ’oppressor ?’ ' .
“ And is it possible that such should indeed be the POSb
tion of your Hi hncss’s brother and yourself P“ exclaimed
Otto, in an entiusiastic but at the same time indignant
tone.
“ Alas 2 it is too true!” said Lucreza, her voice assumin
a profound melancholy‘cxpression. “ Have you not hear
that the Baron of Rosenthal expecteda Prince to become
his guest P” g
“ I have heard that fact, your Highness; and, moreover,
I am much mistaken if I did not encounter your brother
at the little village at Kemberg." _
“ Whither he was conveyed~wounded by a midnight
robber—by a faithful dependant," said Lucreza. “ And
it was from the same village that the rutiians of the proud
Count of Linsdorf bore him aways—heaven knows for
what pu se !"
“ And t e Count of Linsdorf has perpetrated that out-
rage!” cried Otto. “ I have not seen the Baron since he
set" out for the purpose of bringing your Highness’s
brother hither ; and was therefore unaware of this unto-
ward incident.”
“ Not only is my brother a captive in Linsdorf Castle
"as we have every reason to suppose from the informa-
tion which the Baron gleaned at Kemberg," continued
Lucreza; “ but crc now, in an interview which I had
with the Lord of Rosenthal—I learnt the sad fact that
no immediate measures will be adopted to effect the
Prince’s release." _
“ How, lady!" cried the young artist: “does not his
lordship purpose to march with all his retainers against
the proud Couut'of Linsdorf, and not only rescue the
captive Prince, but also punish him-who has thus dared
to violate the most sacred principles of German hospi-
tality P” _
“ The Lord of Rosenthal has expressed to me his aver-
sion to kindle the torch of feudal war in this district,"
said Lucreza Borgia. “ He has dospatched a courier to
Vienna to communicate to the Emperor all that has
occurred, and demand instructions: he has moreover
sent to Count Manfred to claim my brother at his hands.
But this latter demand. will no doubt be disregarded ; and
how'many weary weeks must elapse ere we can hope for
the arrival of a reply from his Imperial Majesty Mam-
inilian ! In .the meantime, my brother—my muchtlovcd
brother—must remain aprisoner,—und perhaps subjected
to an unworthy and ignominious treatment. Tell me,
then, Mcsscr Pianalla,—is chivalry still extant in Ger-
many, when on that side a great. noble perpetratos an
outrage, and on this side another powerful lord is afraid'
;to avenge it P“
' “As I live,” exclaimed Otto, “ I could not have sup-
posed the Barou of Rosenthal capable of thus meekly
abiding the indignity east upon himself, in the person of
his intended nest, by that bold, bad peer who owns the
broad landso Linsdorf! Oh! were I possessed of means
or influence—~”
‘7‘ You would hasten to the deliverance of my brother?-
you would adopt my canse—foritis mine,—I have made it
so!” exclaimed Lucreza; laying her hand upon Otto’s
arm, and clinging to the young artist as if to a defender—
a protectors—a friend.
“ Yes, lady,” replied Otto ; “ I would dare all to serve
you in this respect. But I am powerless. I-—-"


FA UST.
133


did not dazzle his eyes unpleasantly, nor absorb the deli-
cious fragrance of the air. But it set off the bright hues
of the flowers in a manner to produce the effect of the
most extraordinary mosaic work that could possibly be
conceived. Otto’s feelings were those of ravishment and
ecstatic delight. He seemed to be wandering in some
fairy scene redolent of pleasure and indescribable bliss.
Slowly he walked on, until he reached an arbour, where
a table was spread in the most tasteful manner with all
species of delicious fruits, confectionery, conserves, and
wines. The vases, the salvers, and dishes were all of
glittering crystal ; and the goblets were of gold, set round
with brilliants. The reflection of the light from this
richly-spread table was productive of an effect harmo-
nious and grand. Yieldin to the voluptuous languor
which influenced without epressing him, he sank upon
the soft cushions of an ottoman of rich velvet, and filling
a goblet of the red wine which shone so bright through
the crystal vases that contained it, conveyed the nectar
to his lips. He drank; and at that moment a choir of
melodious voices, belongin to women who were unseen,
but whom imagination pictured of the most ravishing
beauty, warbled the following lines :—
“ Welcome to the realms of fairy and of fay,
Tarry, gentle stranger—oh! tarry until day !
Earth :hall yield its produce, the choicest and the
es -
And Beauty lend her smiles to make thee fully blest.
Here no cares perplex .-
Here no sorrows vex.
Love and Pleasure jointly reign
O’er the happy fairy train.
Theirs is not a despot sway :—
Tarry, stranger, until day!
“ Thou shalt be crown’d with the rose and the vine, l
Thy lips shall be moist with kisses and wine,
0 darling of Love and of Pleasure!
Sweet music shall shed its soft influence o’er thee,
And a troop of fair maidens dance lightly before thee
In ga and voluptuous measure.
T on tarry awhile,
And Beauty shall smile
Upon thee, Love’s favourite guest! ,
On the leaves of the rose
Thy limbs shall repose,
And melody lull thee to rest !”
These strains appeared, in Otto’s vision, to augment
that volu tuous lan nor which had previously overtaken
him; an he seeme to fall back in raptures upon the“
luxurious ottoman.
Then the Demon chanted another incantation :—
“ Now let Lucreza’s im e seem
To seek the sleeper in is dream !
Let her bright eyes break on his trance
With tehder and impassioned glance ;
Her lips breathe love in softest tone;
Her warm hand gently press his own ;
Her moist red mouth proffer the bliss
Of the rolonged ecstatic kiss;
And let her‘s' en hair wave on his cheek :—
May she be strong to tempt, and he to yield be weak
The effects of this incantation were immediately felt
by Otto Pianalla. He fancied—still labourin under the
influence of the vision—that, as he lay upon t e ottoman
in the lamp-lit arbour of flowers, a female form glided
gently towards him ; and he immediately recognised the
Princess. She glanced u on him with eyes full of pas-
sion; her lips murmure the enraptured language of
love ; she took his hand in her own, and gently pressed
it; she approached her face towards his, as if to invite
the kiss which she seemed to crave; and her shining,
silken hair touched his cheek.
But at that moment he seemed endowed with a sudden
and determined courage :—he drew back ere his lips
touched hers; he made the sign of the cross—and the
entire vision instantly disappeared.
It had, however, lasted several hours;—for, starting
up in his bed to assure himself that all he had seen and
experienced was nothing but a dream, the light of the
morning sun streamed through the easement full upon
his countenance.
'il
CHAPTER LXX.
o'r'ro’s snconn mrnavmw wrrn LUCREZA.
“IT is avision,” said Otto; “and yet how strange a
vision! Methinks that a portion of the voluptuous

languor, which I experienced in the dream, yet influences
me: the pressure of that lady’s hand still seems to be felt
b mine ; and scarcely a minute has elapsed since her
silken hair touched in cheek. But it was all a dream—a
baseless dream ; and thank God that it was so. Surely
some evil spirit sought to tempt mc—surely some in-
auspicious enius endeavoured to excite impure thoughts
in my soul y means of that voluptuous scenery, and by
aid of the image of that Princess to whose service I have
pledged myself ! But those baleful influences have little
effect upon a soul whose trust is in God. I will now pray
——pray fervently that any evil impression which that
dream has left on my mind may be removed by His
illimitable goodness.”
Otto Pianalla then sank upon his knees by the side of
the bed, and poured forth his soul to that Deity whose
devoted servitor he was.
At eleven o’clock he repaired to the picture gallery of
the Castle,—-a lon passage hung with the portraits of
many of the Baron s ancestors. There, in massive frames,
were the likenesses of grim warriors and of ladies re-
markable for the singularity of their costumes. Between
the pictures were various specimens of armour suspended
to the walls, — helmets, shields, corselets, cuishes,
gauntlets, lances, swords, and battle-axes. Upon pedes-
tals, at long intervals, stood complete suits of armour,
propped up internally, and arranged in difierent attitudes,
1 with the vizors closed, so that they appeared to be for-
midable warriors armed cap-d-pic, and stationed there to
protect the family portraits of Rosenthal.
By the time that Otto Pianalla entered the gallery the
effects, of his voluptuous dream had altogether subsided.
His imagination was naturally too pure to cherish the
imgressions which the Demon had striven to fix upon it ;
an though in his slumber he was unable to protect him-
self against the influence of the vision, yet when he was
awake and had full command over his thoughts, he
strenuously resisted—nay, indignantl repelled the de'
moralizin ideas and inclinations whic such a dream was
so well c cnlated to inspire.
Strong in his conviction that he should be enabled to
meet the Princess without permitting an impure thought
to enter his mind,—although in the vision their contact
had been so close, and her fascinations had assumed so
witching a power,—Otto maintained a calm and unruflled
countenance as he saw her approach.
Her veil was raised ; and all the sp dour of her
beauty once more dawned upon his sight. ' *-
He saluted her in a respectful manner ; and she
advanced to meet him with a smiling face.
“ You are unctual, Messer Pianalla,” she said, extend-
ing towards im her hand, which he raised to his lips, but
touched it with them as lightly as the wing of the butterfly
sweeps over the rose in the garden :—“ you are punctual;
and that is aproof of your smcerity—of your readiness to
serve me.“
“ Has your Highness devised any plan which my
humble means may carry out, and which ma lead to the
release of the Prince, your brother P” aske Otto ; “ for
I must candidly admit that I am totally at a loss to per-
ceive how my single arm will avail against a fortress well
guarded, or benefit a prisoner who is doubtless constantly
watched.”
“ Force in such a case is out of the question,” returned
Lucreza; “ but cunning and skill may effect much. The
brave man who conceived the means of emancipating the
Baron of Czernin from the convent in the Julian Alps,—a
feat which you performed, and which has reached my
ears,-—will not be at a loss to devise a project that may
enable him‘ to communicate with the Prince, my brother."
“ If by merely establishing a method of correspondence
with his Highness, his release would follow——” began
Otto.
“ It would—it would !” interrupted Lucreza hastily.
“ Were you only able to convey to him this packet,” she
continued, showing him at the same time a small parcel
not more than an inch square, and enveloped in a piece
of parchment carefully secured with a silken cord,—-“ it
would beyond all doubt lead to his liberation."
“ Give me that packet, lady,” said Otto; “ and trust to
me to deliver it into your brother’s hands—or perish in
the attempt.”
Lucreza tendered him the small parcel ; and as he
received it she cast upon him a look of such melting,
languishing tenderness that it recalled to his mind the
blandishments which she had seemed to practise towards
him in his vision.
That very reminiscence made his manner the more cold
and his bow the more formal as he received the packet. ,
_~ ~\_‘._


134.-
-FA UST.


Lucreza bit her lip with momentary vexation. _
“ Pardon me, your'Highness,“ said Otto, mechanically
weighing the parcel in his hand,—“pardon me if I ask
whether you are well assured that so light and apparently
unim ortant a packet as this can be in anyway adapted
to aid) y0ur'brother’s emancipation? I do _not seek to
learn its contents—'1 am im elled by 'no‘ rmpcrtrnent
curiosity ;‘but, as there is a 1i c‘to venture in the enter-
prise, it would be the more satisfactory for me toknow
that your Highness has not miscalculated the probable
effects of the means which you are employing to release
the Prince."
“Oh! those means never fail ,in their object," said
Lucreza, with a smile of strange significancy. “ Forgive
me, Messer Pianalla, if I do not explain myself on that
head more fully," she added, in arapid tone ; “ but when
I assure you that a family secret is involved—a secret of
the deepest import—-"
“ Your Highness need say no more," interrupted Otto,
in a respectful manner. “It is sufficient for me, illus-
trious lady, that you are yourself convinced of the pro-
priety and efficacy of‘the step which you are now adopt-
ing to accomplish a particular end. 'It remains for me to
convey this packet to your brother; and I repeat the
assurance that I will either succeed or become a victim
to the fury of Count-Manfred of Linsdorf.”
“ N Obie-hearted youth l” exclaimed Lucreza; “ you
know. not whom you are serving ;—-but, exiled and power-
less though we now are, the time may come when my
brother and myself shall have the means of substantially
testifying our gratitude."
“ I seek no such reward, lady,” answered Otto; “ for
should I be fortunate enough to accomplish the object
which I have undertaken, .the consciousness of.having
been the means of restoring two fond relatives toeach
other will.prove the sweetest recompense that I could
possibly covet or receive.”
“But wherefore have you so nony undertaken this
cause—m y cause, as I may term it ?" asked Lucreza.
“ You havencver seen my brother—you ‘ know him not—
you can have no friendship for him. ‘You have, however,
seen meayou have conversed with mc—I have called you
my dearest friend—my brother. Oh! do not wound my
pride, Otto,—do not destroy the hap 11v illusion— if an
illusion it be—which I have nursed fori re last fewthours,
——do not say coldly to me that you have embarked in my
service through any other save the most chivalrous
motive! And what is the spirit of chivalry? what is the
duty of a true knight, Otto ? I need not explain all this to
you. Yet may I say that when a generous-hearted youth
devotes himself to the service of a lady of high degree—
when he espouses‘her cause—he 1)18088,lllm801f iu‘her
silken chains—he becomes bound to do her bidding~~
he must render himself deserving of her smiles—nay, he
must even study to win her heart. And if that lady be
one ofan equally noble mind, she will not regard the
social distinctions of rank which may seem to separate
her from her hero; she will reward his services by throw-
in down those barriers—her gratitude for his devotion
will place them upon the level of eguality,—aud that
gratitude must speedily assume the more ardent and im-
passioned phase of love."
“ Your Highness—I can scarcely presume—~ —” began
Otto,painfully embarrassed by the language which was
now addressed to him.
“ Oh! one who is bold and handsome as you, 'Otto,
should dare all—everything,” hrterrupted'Lucreza, mis-
taking the meaning of the phrase which the youner artist
left unfinished. “.‘Listento me—listen attentively for a
few moments; and I will reveal.to you those emotions
which now animate my heart. 'Somc time ago I beheld
you in Vienna—no matter how or where; and I was
struck by your a pearance. Months and ,months have
passed since that y ;—~'I have dwelt in .another land—I
have passed through many exciting scenes,. many troubles
——'I have been thrown from the pinnacle of happiness and
power to the condition of an exile ;——and yet through all
those vicissitudes I‘havc retained your image in my mind
-I have cherished it—loved itl N ay—start not, Otto——
I implore you to hear mate the end. Yes -'-I have never
ceased to think of you ; and you may therefore conceive
the sudden joy which I cxperience<l~~thc emotions of
happiness which I felt—--whcn yesterday I met you upon
"the rampart. “We passed eath other—as you may remem-
ber ; but when I was at some distance I turned, and you
were gazing after me! Oh ! how can ‘I convey to you an
idea of that joy—that delicious ho c which possessed me
when I observed that your eyes ha< followed me P I can
assure you that the proudest princes in Europe have
- I!
knelt at m feet—crowned heads have whispered the language 0 passion in my ears—great warriors have
sought to win a smile from me. But nova—never, Otto, ‘
was my satisfaction so immense—my happiness so great,
as when I yesterday beheld you gazing after me on the
ram art. I repaired iuthe evening to the western side
of t e castle to ponder upon those feelings with which
you have inspired me—and we met again ! You saluted
me, then—and I resolved that we should be better ac-
quainted with-each other. I made a remark—you seemed
to meet -my object half way ; and we fell into conversa-
tion. I explained to you the sources of my sorrows; and
'you'unhcsitatingly volunteered your services in my be-
half. I accepted them as gratefullyas they were proffered
frankly ;-—and in allthat passed between us I saw what
I deemed to be a reflection in 'your.heart of that feeling
which exists in mine. Oh! if I be .wrong, then never ,
will a more delicious dream have been more cruelly dis-
solved by a stern and adverse reality! But no—it.can-
not be—it is not so: you do not hate me, Otto—you will
not think meanly of me because'I have laid bare to you
lthc secrets of my~hearteyori will not refuse me your
friendship, even if you'cannot accord me your love 2”
“ And as she spoke those last words, ‘Luomza—ethan
whom no serpent- was ever more subtle—seized the young
artist by the' hands, gamed upon 'him tenderly for a
moment, and then sank her head upon his breast.
Firmly—but gentl ——rcsolutely—but not rudely, Otto
Pianalla disengaged himself from her half-embrace, and
leading her to a seat, remained standing before her.
“Oh ! lacly,”'he said, “all that youlhave just uttered \
has caused me signal pain. ‘Ikuow not how to answer ‘
you—how to undeceive you."
“ Undeceive mc ! no—~no l“; cried Lucreza, olasping her
hands together, and affecting the most passionate euro
tion.
“ Pray, lmly—Irimplore you—listen to me in my turn,”
continued Otto ; “for I dare not hesitate in the rfnrm-
ance of what now becomes a solemn—~an imperative duty.
‘ I confess that yesterday afternoon .I was indiscreet
enough to gaze after (you on the rampart; but it is no
comp iment to you to eclarethat there is a commanding
grace in your form which is calculated to make the most
indifferent look upon you longer than on ordinary women.
We met again in the evening,.lady: and I must now
again confess that I didsomewhat.on .my own side en-
courage that conversation which sprang up between us.
1But, as the Almighty is my judge! I declare most
solemnly that you have misinterpreted mymetives ;—-and
on this head I cannot-be more explicit. When you ac-
quainted me with thecaptivity of our'brother, I'prof-
fcrcd my services through -no se fish view—with no
ulterior design. There again,_ your Highness has mis-
understood me. Oh ! not for one instant did my thoughts
assume an arrogance thatconklprompt them to raise
themselves to one so high .above me! as you, lady ;—not
for one moment did I. entertainau ides-i thatitm'as in my
power to inspire an interest beyondthatifriendship with
which a Princess might choose .to .honourone who was
ready to risk his life in her muse! No—mever did my
vanity triumph over the proper feelings of my'heart l“
“ .Youmake me wretched,.0tto, with these coldreason-
'ings—these chilling explanations!" exclaimed Lucreza
Borgia. “'I do nothesitate to declarcthat I already love
Athat I feel I can adore you! *Will you spurn that
affection oumy part? will you render me contemptible
in my own eyes P Oh! if .you now replyin that same
freezing manner as ereuow~if you donot tell me that you
will endeavour to love me in return—you will drive me to
despair—do distraction !’ ’
“‘ My God ! what/can I say ? what can I do ?" ejaculated
-Pianalla,-bcwildcred between his own honourableifcelings
and that well-played ebullition of emotions, the sincerity
of which he could not for a moment suspect.
““You ask what you can say—what you can do,“ ex-
claimed Lucreza, seizinghis hands once more,“ when a
woman whose mirror has reflected charms of the posses-
sion of which she cannot declare her ignorance—when
such a woman offers youher heart—~her love! Oh! Otto
—are younot cold and stern when you compel me thus to
fall at your feet i’"
And as she spoke, Lucreza threw herself upon her knees
before the young artist.
But at the same instant, an object—doubtless disturbed
by the suddenuess of this movement,—fell from her bosom,
where it-hadrbeen concealed, upon the floor.
Otto’s eye caught sight of it :-rt was a ring with a
lion ’s head !

Lucreza hastily picked it up ;—bnt Otto uttered an ex~


FAUST.
137

the man had left the room. “ I purposely separated
Michelotto from his master Caesar, because I am well
aware that two such heads put together would not be
long ere they devised some project of escape—well
guarded as they are ; for you yourself have informed me
how even a female once contrived to free herself from
your power, without leaving a trace to_ indicate the mode
by which she left the castle.”
“ Yes—she who is now Countess of Aurana,” remarked
Manfred, with a malignant scowl, as the circumstances
of his bafiied Schemes with regard to her were thus re-
called to his mind.
“ Bribery—heavy bribery could have alone enabled her
thus to escape,” continued Anselm. “ My lord, our re-
tainers are not incorruptible. Remember, also, ow the
young Archduke was permitted to slip from the noose
that “you had prepared for him.”
“ be two cases certainly wear a suspicious aspect,
holy father,” said the Count, struck by the inferences
which Anselm so naturally drew from the mysterious cir-
cumstances attending the escape alike of Theresa and
the Archduke ; “ and they both occurred about the same
time.”
“ Again, then, I say that your lordship's retainers are
not proof against corruption,” proceeded Father Anselm ;
“ and if that be the fact—as I cannot hesitate to believe
—there breathes not a man who will sooner turn their
avarice to his own account than the Duke of Valentinois.”
“ Then what would (you propose ?" demanded the Count,
unable to comprehen the point towards which the priest
was aimmg. _
“ The fi elity of Eastern mutes is roverbial,” replied
Anselm :—-and, oh! how the words t rilled through the
heart of Otto, who could scarcely restrain an indication
of joy as they met his ears; for they not only convinced
him that his disguise had indeed baffled the astute priest,
but proved how essentially fortune was favouring his
projects.
“ True I” ejaculated the Count. “ That youth seems
to be friendless—houseless—lost: I will take him into my
service. By the Virgin! a mute will be a useful
appendage !”
“ o d that mutes were less rare in this country!”
said Anselm : “ such men as you and I,” he added, si i-
ficantly, “ might find them highly serviceable—for t ey
can act, and yet tell no tales. But in reference to this
dumb creature, my proposal is that he be appointed to
watch the Prince ; and I have heard enough of Oriental
mates to be well aware that they have eyes sharp as
needles, and minds cunnin as ser nts. I am much
mistaken, or we shall find t is heat en,—for a heathen
he no doubt is, even if he have any creed at all,-—-most
zealous in our service. Stay—I will endeavour to make
him comprehend our intentions by signs."
Father Anselm now approached so close to Otto Pia-
nalla, that the latter trembled lest he should be detected ;
but he did not betray his emotions,——assuring himself
with the idea that the priest could not be very familiar
with his countenance, as the only time they had been
face to face was on the night when they had encountered
each other at the convent in the Julian Alps.
Nor did Father Anselm recognise him—although he
had in reality seen Otto oftener than the latter suspected;
for the priest had beheld him in Vienna at the time of
Gregory Walstein’s trial,—and again, a few days pre-
viously, at the Black Swan.
But so admirable was Otto's disguise, so natural in ap-
pearance was his artificial complexion, and such a change
did it impart to the expression of his countenance, that
Anselm had not the remotest suspicion with regard to him.
The priest now began to make a variety of signs with a
view to express the readiness of the Count to take him
into his service, if he would behave faithfully. It may
be supposed that Pianalla was not very dull in com-
prehending these intimations; and he could scarcely su -
press a smile when Anselm turned towards Lord Manfre ,
observing, “ He positively seems to be very quick and in-
telligent.”
“ Mutes must necessarily be adepts in understanding
signs," answered the Count; “ since they have no other
language. I think this poor creature Will serve us well,
for he strives to express, by a variety of signals, his
deep gratitude for the kindness shown him.”
“ I will now conduct him to the rooms occupied by the
Duke of Valentinois,” said Anselm; and he beckoned
Otto to follow him.
But first the young artist approached the Count of
Linsdorf, knelt at his feet, and taking one of the noble-
man’s hands, touched it gently with his lips.

Painful as this ceremony was to his feelings, he was
compelled to adopt all possible precautions, and call to
his aid all factitious means to inspire confidence in the
reality of the character which he was playing.
The Count seemed well pleased with this respectful
demonstration of gratitude ; and, unbending from his
natural sternness of demeanour, smiled almost kindly
upon the supposed mute.
Pianalla rose and followed Father Anselm from the
room.
The latter led the way down the wide staircase, and
issued from that building in which the Count’s apart-
ments were situate. He crossed the spacious courtyard,
and opened a low door at the foot of one of the towers 'of
the keep, or donjon. He then ascended a winding stair-
case, still followed by Otto. They at length reached a
landing, where a sentinel was posted. Anselm took a key
from beneath his garments, and with it opened an arched
door which was set in a Gothic recess. He then pro-
ceeded through three rooms, all the doors of which were
carefully locked, but with the keys of which he was re-
vided. Beyond those rooms was a smaller one,fitte up
as an oratory.
But the moment they entered this apartment, Otto
started, as his eyes encountered a picture of a beautiful
woman, whose face instantaneously struck him as being
marvelloust like that of the Archduchess Maria.
Fortunately he was behind Father Anselm, who might
otherwise have perceived the effect produced by the
picture, and thereby have had his suspicions excited.
The priest now touched a s ring in the wainscot, and a
secret door flew open, revea ing a passage some twenty
feet long, and lighted by loopholes. At the end was a
hu e door, quite new,—seeming, as was indeed the case,
as if it had onl been fitted there within a few days.
Ere he with rew the massive bolt which fastened this
door, Anselm took a long, sharp dagger from beneath his
garments.
h_He then opened the door, and beckoned Otto to follow
im.
The young artist 'now found himself in a very small
chamber, the windows of which were not only protected
with massive bars of iron, but also shaded by a large con-
trivance of woodwork, which, projecting outward, allowed
the eye to catch a glimpse of the blue arch above, but
totally impeded the view of any object either on the same
level as the easement or beneath it.
The room was tolerany well furnished ; and at a table,
mournfully supporting his head upon his hands, sate a
gerson whom Otto immediately concluded to be Caesar
orgia.
He seemed to be a little past the age of thirty : his hair
was black—his complexion pale—his beard auburn ;—a_.nd
on his forehead was the mark of the severe wound which
he had received from Gregory Walstein.
The moment Anselm and Otto entered the little room,
which indeed wore the semblance of a prison, the Duke
started from his chair, and, drawing his tall form up to
its full height, surveyed the visitors with mingled defiance
and suspicion.
“ You do well to carr that dagger, detestable son of
the 'bbet !” he cried, arting a furious glance upon
Anse m; “for—by the Virgin !——-I-—I——”
“ Your lordship's taunts and threats are alike useless
now," interrupted the priest, calmly. “ You are in my
power ; and in my power shall you remain until you pur-
chase your freede with a princely ransom."
“ The Lord of Rosenthal will yet deliver me, insolent
menial !" cried the Duke; “in spite of your foul asper~
sions upon the chivalrous honour of that nobleman.”
“ Vainly do you cling to that belief," returned Anselm.
“ The Baron has sent to demand you at the hands of the
Count of Linsdorf ; and the Count has declared in reply
that he is astounded at the requisition, since he knows
nothing of your Highness nor your concerns. But all
discourse on this head is unnecessary. A hundred thou-
sand crowns will purchase your ransom; and he who was
once the master of all Italy, cannot be at a loss for such
a sum."
“ Give freedom to my faithful dependant Michelotto,”
cried the Duke; “ and I will despatch him to Vienna, to
beseech that amount at the hands of the Emperor.”
“ And instead of returning with the crowns, he would
perhaps come back with an army," said the priest, con-
temptuously. “ N o, my lord; I am not to be thus duped.
You have concealed treasures somewhere—you must
have: and your liberty can only be purchased by the
revelation of that secret.”
“ By the Virgin l" exclaimed the Duke, enraged by the


138
l
.FA. UST.
N

priest’s words and manner, "‘ I left Italy with scarcely ‘
sufficient for-the expenses of my journey. How,'then,
'thinkest thou—”
“Enough, my 101 ,” interrupted Anselm: “you-will
shortly 'become more reasonable. In the meantime, I
have brought you a companion—this mute ""_
"‘ A mute ?”'repeated Gzesar, glancing suspiciously at
Otto, who kept his eyes upon the ground, as if unconscious
what was passiivr in his presence. _ _
“Yes, my lord—a mute,” answered Anselm, smiling
vindictively: “ one who has studied, in eastern chines,
"theduties of a spy. 'I leave him with your Highness : he
will doubtless prove an efficient valet, though a sorry
companion.” _
‘With'these words, Father Anselm retreated rapidly
from the chamber; and closed the door upon its two
inmates. Then came the din of the heavy bolt, shooting
into its socket; and this was followed by the retiring
steps of the priest along theva passage.
At length all became silent ; and Otto was alone with
the once formidable Caesar Borgia.


CHAPTER LXXIII.
:o'rro PLANALLA am) oessnn ‘BOiiGIA.
"‘THE miscreant l” ejaculatedthe Duke of ‘Valentinois,
;vhen Anselm-had left the-room : “ Oh! for the means of
vengeance—oh! for the chance of escape! My God—to
be oooped- up in this horrible hole,where one can scarcely
breathe ;—to seebut a few feet of 'the blue sky, and yet
‘to know by its azure hue that the sun is shiningbrightly :
—to languish in this aecursed den, when‘thelwhole world
has scarcely scope enough for the ambition of the
Borgias! 'It is terrible—terrible! Oh! for'the-moans of
escape! And now ~to have this mute given me as acom-
panion—as a spy! 1'I‘hey wish'to drive me mad !"
And Caesar Borgia struck his forehead violently With
his 0 en palm.
“ y lord l" breathed a voice close by him ;-—-he turned
-—it was the supposed mute who had spoken.
The Duke gazed upon him with mingled surprise and
suspicion.
" Fear ‘nothing, my lord," continued the artist,‘in a
low tone : “ I cannot here to injm'elyouéth‘is'disguise' is
assumed for your sake.”
“ Who are you, generous young man ?" said Caesar,
also sinking his voice; “A and what' brings you hither f”
“ My name is Otto Pianalla——”
“‘ Ah! he who delivered the Baron of- Czernin from the
convent in the Julian Alps ?” interrupted 'Oassar, ‘his
countenance again expressing suspicion.
“‘ And as I delivered the Baron of Czernin, so do I
undertake to free your Highness,” sai'd Otto, steadily
returning the glance which the Duke fixed upon him.
“ FatherAnselm has told yon/onlytoo truly—the Baron
of Rosenthal will not draw the hostile brandin your be-
half. Powerful though ‘he be, he dreads‘the secret re-
sources of theG‘ount of Linsdorf,who is a chief of the
'Bloody League."
“ Then is the Lord of Rosenthal a very ‘craven who
dares not execute the commands of his sovereign, Maxi.
milian l" exclaimed Borgia. “iBut, say, young :man—
hast thou lately visited that Baron’s castle?"
“‘ I was‘there as late as yesterday mormng, my lord,”
was thereply : “ and it is in consequence of a promise to
your Highness's sister that I have undertaken to attempt
your deliverance."
“ Ah ! then Lucreza has arrived in safety at Rosenthal
Castle P Was it to her ingenuity that you are indebted
for this admirable disguise which {has enabled you to
penetrate hither ?”
“ ’No, my lord. To speak candidly, I refused to be the
bearer of a small packet which she- was desirousaof eon_
veying to you ; andher Highness does not at this moment
know the stratagem that I have devised in orderto ob-
tain accessto you.”
“ And wherefore did you hesitate to bring me the
packet P” demanded Caesar.
“ Because, my lord,” replied the artist, firmly, “ I was
suspicious of its contents. And now, ere we-discourse
on the Object which brought me hither, let us understand
each other. It is through no admiration cf your High-
ncss’s character that I have undertaken this perilous
venture;—nor have the charms of the Princess allured
me 'to embark on an errand of mere chivalry. No—I
come to you, because I pledged myself by a solemn vow
to her Highness—ere I know her name—to effect the de-
liverance of her brother, or to perish in the attempt.
“Your lordship now understands my motives."
grand aim-an escape,

“ You are at least candid, Messer Pianalla," said the i
Prince, somewhat hanghtiiy: then, the next moment, he
added, with a smile, "“ but on that account the more
trustworthy. 'How hope you to effect the object of your
generous errand P"
“ I have keen files and a good coil of silken rope about
'my- person,’ ’ returned "Pianalla.
“ Those and resolute minds are allthat we-need,” said
theanke of Valentinois, his pale countenance-becoming
animated with a flush of hope.
“ Moreover,” continued Otto, “ as I am not regarded
with any suspicion, nor can be treated as a‘prisoner, I
shall doubtless be enabled to enjoy at deast an hour’s
freedom each day. In that case, it is my 'purpose to
become acquainted with every point of ' the fortress, and
thus ascertain how your freedom may be consummatet .”
“I understand you,” returned'Oaasar; “lion-granting
that I escape from this tower, I should stilllbe a prisoner
within the circuit of these walls."
“ Precisely so, my lord. As I came ere-nowthrough
the court-yard, I saw enough 'to convince me that the
castle! is well guarded.”
“ Oh! that traitor Anselm thinks he hold a rich prize !”
exclaimed CaesarW‘but I declare to “you-mostsolemnly
that I fled' from Italywith onlya-‘sufiiciency of "funds to
support the expenses‘of my journey. Neverthéiess,-the
day will come when'I shall be able torewardyyou.”
‘ ‘\ I seek no reward—and should accept none,’ ’ answered
“You area strange young man,’ said Caesar, survey-
ing him with a feeling nearly akin to admiration; for the
Duke was too worldly-minded a being to 'put implicit
I
faith in the existence of pure disinterestedness. -“ How-
ever—we willltalk no more on that subject new. I would
observedo‘ ou'that a faithful dependant of mine is also
a'prisoner ere; audit would rue me soreto leave him in
Jeopardy” _
“ First escape yourself, my lord—and neither Father
Anselm nor the Count-of Linsdorf Willdeem it worth
their while to‘retain your servitor in captivity."
“Well spoken," said the Prince; “ and even were it
otherwise, I might aid him, myself being free—whereas
at present'both he and 'I are powerless. But one word in
reference to 7the author of my present captivity—the
traitor Anselm : know you who he reallyis' P”
“'I believe himito be a powerful chief of 'the Vehm-—
misealled ‘Holy-——’ ’
“Yes-eke is a chief of the Vehm,” interrupted Ceesar;
“and-he is less or more—as youmay take it. ‘Have you
ever heard of a certain Ulric Kinis P“
“‘-W ho was hanged ‘many years ago at Vienna for
treason?” added Pianalla. “I have heard of ‘him; and,
mored’ver, ‘I remember !that during the period When the
trial of the impostor 'Gregory‘Walstein occupied public
attention in the'capital, there was 'a strange rumour
current that Ulrie‘Kmis had been seen undireeognised in
the city."
“ Andthatrumour'was true,’ returned Borgia; “ for
FatherAnselm-was in‘Vienna at ’tli-at‘time—air'd Father
Anselm is Ulric Kinis 1“
“ My lord l" cried Otto, astounded-by this assertion.
“‘It is strictly'true,” continued the‘Prinee. “ Did~you
D
not hear me ere now stigmatise him as thegibbet’s son?
But ‘that he deemed you -unable to comprehend the
German tongue, he would have shruuk'from your sight.
Yes—he was hanged, but notlunto death; andhe es ed
from the anatomical room on the night following us
execution. The information'may some day serve you.”
" It may," answered Otto; “‘for 'Father Anselm seeks
my -life—and your lordship has placed in my hands a
(vlveapon that may‘haply enable me to combat his infernal
esigns.“
The Duke of Valentinois and Otto 'Pianalla then sat
down to deliberate upon the means of accomplishing the
A variety of projectswerestarted
and discussed; but they were compelled to abandon all
save the one which suggested the execution of their design
by means of the window. There were too many‘doors to
break through to venture upon a flight by means of the
rooms leading from the prison-chamber; it was, there.
fore, resolved that the bars of the easement should be filed
through, and the escape effected in the depth of a night
when utter darkness shonldfavour'the venture.
At'three o’clock II] the afternoon 'two of the Count’s
dependants brought in a tray containing ample provision
for the Prince's dinner.
They remained in the passage while he partook of the
repast, Otto waiting upon him m the capacity ofservitor,
in order to sustaxn‘appearances.
l
1


FA UST.
139
\
When Cmsar han'tcrminatcd his meal,.0tto'tock his
placent'the table, and dined also. Thetwo retainers
thendeparted with the~lray, .c-losing all the doors care-
.fullybuhind'thcm.
Inthe evening, at eight o’clock, snpperwas served in
the same manner ;and one of the men who-brought it.
intimated by signs that Otto was at liberty to leave the
prison-chamber for ashort-time if he felt disposed.
He availed himself of this permission with a ioyful
heart, although he appeared to treat it with indlflerence.


Prince's provisions to the room, now made their appear-
ance, and Father Anselm gave them=the keys to keep
during the day.
It islnct, llOWGVCI',‘Il-60€SSR ‘to dwell upon the routine
of that risomchamber. 'Su no it to say that on the
fourth night after Otto’scntranceinto the castle, the pre-
parations for an escape-were not only complete, butthe
intense darkness and the lowering state of'thc heavens,
menacing a terrific. storm, fully favouring the do ' 1.
And shortly after eleven the tempest burst with
'When-hc was in the opcnair, he walked round the lappalling fury. The rain fell in torrents—thethunder
donjon, examining the tower in which he knew the!
prisomchamber to‘be situate, calculating the height of
that room from the ground, and studying the precise
position of theiwindow with the wooden shade.
He then extended his ramble round the cutie-and
carried his scrnnity to the minutest points i. the fortifi-
cations and defences. He marked the places-where the ;
sentinels were posted, and committedto ‘memory as it !
were a complete map of the entire stronghold.
And all the time heseemed to-be merely wandering
about in a listless manner, so as to avert suspicion from
his real designs.
No oneinterferedwlthéhim :' the rsons whom helmet
surveyed him with curiosity, for t ey had all heard of
the introduction of a “heathen mute” into-the castle ;
—-bnt notasoul'treatcd him with either impertinenoc or
obtrusive attention. Nor was any intimation conveyed
to him that he must return'to the prison-roomat a par- l
ticular hour :-—it-was evident that his assumed character l
.wns:fully1believed toibe'thetrueone, and that not the ‘
least suspicion attached itselfto him.
It was nearly ten o'clock when he entered the donjon
again ; and then the sentinel on the landing at the head
of the staircase conducted himto the Prince’s room.
Shortlya'fbcr ten Father 'Anselm visited the chamber
for a moment, to assure himself that his prisoner was
safe ; and he made a sign of intelligencs to Otto, as much
as to say, “Watch him closely.” The priest then departed,
and carried the-keys with him to his own apartment.
. Otto Pianalla new divested himself of his clothing, pro~
duced the files, and uncoiled the rope from around his
body. The eyes of Cicsnr Borgia. sparkled with delight
as helbeheld these proofs of his companion’s sincerity ;
and thcywere both rejoiced when, upon measurement of
the cord, the artist was enabled-to compute the full ade-
quacy of its length-to all their purposes—there being far
more than suflieient t0=reach the ground from the prison
window.
They thereforenow fellto work with good heartupcn
the iron bars. There was a strong cross~bar,‘hcrizontally
fixed between the sides of the easement, and perforated
with holes through which the perpendicular bars-passed.
It was necessary to remove two of these upright burs—~or
at least portions of two: the Prince and the artist ac-
cordiugly determined to filethcmatthe bottom and also
just above the horizontal bar—s0 that when out through,
the lower halves would maintain-their upright position
until it was requisite to remove them.
The files were good: their sharp teeth ateaway the
irouat a rapid rate. Tho-filings were carefully collected
and disposed of so that no‘indication of the proceedings
might catch the eyes of those who entered the prison-
chambcr in the daytime.
Before they-retired to rest, half of their task in respect
to cutting through the bars was completed.
Otto stretched himself to sleep upon a mat close by the
threshold of the door; and although he was in reality
awake when Father Anselm made his appearance in the
morning, he afiected to be aroused only by the opening
of the huge door.
f "llihen rising from' thelmat, ho saluted the priest respect-
u y.
“ How like you the mute for a companion?” demanded
Anselm, with a malignantsmile, asheaddressed himself
toCaasar.
“ As a spy rather, you would say," replied the Duke,
turning a glance of well-affected hatred upon Otto, in
order to keep up appearances.
“ Oh ! you have already found him watchful !" cried
Anselm, completely deceived by the Prince’s manner.
“ I am lad that he does his duty. Your'Highness per-
ceives t at, true to his Oriental breeding, he sleeps upon
"the threshold-~50 that,evcn did you'foroo the door, you
would have'to pass—over his-bodyin an attempt to leave
your-prison.”
Caesar folded -his arms across his breast, and made no
reply.

The two retainers, whose duty it was to bring the
roared—and the lightning flashed.
“Now for the desperate venture,”-exclaimed Caisar.
have passed through perils far more threatening than
. 8.0!
“ With resolution, courage, and prudencepwe cannot
fail,” answered Otto Pianalla. They then-set to work.
The lower halves of the two-bars were speedily re-
moved; and a portion of the silken cord wasfastened in
the most convenient manner for the descent ;-—the other
piece cf‘the rope Otto wound round his body.
“ I willgofirst," said Cresar.
“ No,”exclaimed Pianalla: “ I am lightemthan you,
and when in the court-yard below will hold the rope
steady for your descent."
Caesar Borgia urged no further 0b§cction; and Otto
commenced his dilficult—dangerousuudcrtaking.
He passed his'body between the bars, and then threw
the cord cautiously over the twoodcnshade which rose
sloping outwards to nearly the height of his shoulders.
Up this inclined plane he had to climb, menaccdwith the
risk of its breaking. ‘But it was strongly constructed,
and remained firm.
He rasped the cord with both hands, threw himself
over t 0 top of the shade, and was now suspended between
earth and heaven—at a distance of nearly-fifty feet-from
the former.
Caesar remained at the window in a. state of deep—acute
—-painful suspense. 'But in a. few moments he found the
cord, which he-kept feeling with his hand,to be loose : he
pulled it gently—and it was pulled back from below.
This was the signal agreed upon :-Ottowas safe in the
court-yard beneath! The Duke of Valentinois then com-
mitted himself to the same aerial path which the artist
had accomplished without accident.
In less thantwominutes the 'Prince stood by-Pianalla's
side, on the pavement at the foot of the tower.
But scarcely had he thus far secured his freedom,
when a vivid flaSh of lightning illuminated the-entire
scene, and showed the adventurers a sentinel advancing
round the angle of the next tower.
The man-atoms discovered them, too,-at the some in-
stant, and rushing towards 'them, raised his battle-axe,
cxclaiming, “ Stand! who are ye ? 'llhe watchword l"
The lightning had yielded to total darkness ere he
could distinguished their countenances.
With that desperate resolution for which he was so dis-
tinguished, Cmsar Borgia sprang upon'thc armed man .
and hurled'him to the ground.
The soldier was sorely hurt by the violence of the fall;
but 'he exclaimed, ' in a loud tone, “ Treachery !-—~a.n
escape !"
In another moment the wholefortress- echoed to those
words, which passed from mouth to mouth around the
court-yard-mlong the walls-#from' tower to tower—from
gate to _
Then ights were seen moving in all directions—the
watchmen carrying'lauterns to aid 'the search of the
sentries ;-and- several of those lights as well as the forms
of many men which theyshadowed forth, and the tramp
of numerous footsteps, mingled with the 'clashing of
weapons and the repetition of the first cry of alarm—all
were now rapidly approaching the spot where 'Czesar
Borgia and Otto were leaning over theiprostrateiform ot
the sentinel.
And all this was the work of a few moments !
“'Come !“ said Otto, in-a low but determined tone to
his com nion, whom he caught hastily by the hand :
“ our on? chance is in flight.” _
Then the artist, closely followed by Caesar Borgia,
turned hastil round the angle of the tower, and plunged
into the tota darkness which prevaileddn that part of
the court-yard of Linsdorf Castle.

CHAPTER LXXIV.
'rnn TABLES TURNED.
O'r'ro PIANALLA and Caesar Borgia rushed on'thrcngh the
darkness, the latter trusting himself entirely to the


14-0
FA US T.
/‘
guidance of the former, who seemed to be well aware of
the ath which he had taken.
T e shouts of sentinels, the clattering of mailed feet,
upon the pavement, the rapid moving to and fro of lights
in the distance—in a word, the eneral alacrity that pre-
vailed in the castle-convinced t 0 two fugitives that they
must make the best use of the advantage which they had
already gained, for it was evident that the soldiers had for
the moment lost their scent.
“ Quick, my lord—quick ! ” said Otto, in a hasty whisper.
“ Our only chance is a descent from the ramparts and to
swim the moat.”
“ Lead on, good youth,” returned Cmsar. “ I will escape
or die ; but never will I return alive to that dungeon.”
“ Heavens! the lights are coming this way,” exclaimed
Otto; “ they are on the ramparts already. N ow, my lord,
for our lives 1”
And still retaining the Prince’s hand—for it was so dark
where they were hastening forward that they dared not
venture even a few yards asunder—Otto deviated from the
straight course towards the ramparts which he had at
first pursued, and keeping to the right, gained the walls
at a spot from which the soldiers carrying the lights were
still far distant.
Rapid in his movements, as if he were acting by enchant-
ment, Otto fastened the remnant of the silken cord to the
carriage of a wall-piece, or falconet,-and boldly set the
example b committing himself to the rope.
In anot er moment Caesar Borgia followed him, and
the two fugitives were now cleaving their way across the
deep moat.
Suddenly they heard the drawbridge, which was not
very far distant, fall with a tremendous crash, as if
lowered by impatient hands, and then a rush of heavy
feet across it made the fugitives aware of another danger
which they incurred.
Nor were their fears vain, for in a few moments lights
moved rapidly along the bank on that side of the moat
which was now their only means of escape.
Fortunately for them, they had swam across the ditch,
and were standing in shallow water close beneath the
outer bank, or counterscarp, when the soldiers thus dis-
persed themselves along its mar ‘n, so that the reflection
of the lights upon the water fe l beyond the deep shade
in which Caesar and Otto were concealed.
“ Our only chance is to advance boldly to the draw-
bridge, and climb the woodwork which supports it on
this side,” whispered Otto; “ and as the entrance of the
castle is well guarded within the gates, it is recisely the
point that I propose to reach which the sol iers will not
think it- necessary to watch."
“ Good l” returned Caesar. “ Let us repair thither.”
They now waded along beneath the almost perpendicu-
lar bank, which rose to a height of five-and-twenty feet
above them; but they were com lled to roceed slowly,
to avoid creating an alarm by sp ashing t e water.
At length they reached the drawbridge.
A glance u wards showed them that Otto's conjecture
was ri ht; t at particular spot was not watched.
On t e (apposite side of the bridge the castle gates were
closed, an as the sentinels who guarded the entrance
were within the gates, there was not a hostile eye to sweep
the drawbridge with its glance.
“ We are saved," whispered Pianalla to his companion.
And they hastily clambered up the woodwork
In a few minutes they stood upon the bridge.
But scarcely had they thus touched the very threshold
of safety when the castle gates were suddenl thrown
open, and a man bearing a torch rushed wildly orth.
The doors closed behind him with a heavy crash.
He was enveloped in a monkish garb, but his cowl was
thrown back, and the light of his torch streamed full upon
his features.
“ FatherAnselm l” said Otto to his companion, in an
almost inaudible whisper. “ Let us stand back ; he is
our prisoner.”
These words were uttered in a determined manner which
well suited the dis osition of the really valiant Caesar
Borgia, who replie with a low and hasty, but joyful,
affirmative.
“ The wretches l” cried Anselm, aloud, as he ap-
proached ; “ but they shall not escape. That pretended
mute was doubtless some creature of the Borgia—_"
He uttered not another word.
From the shade of the stonework which formed the
defence of that end of the bridge Otto Pianalla sprang
upon him, and clutched him by the throat.
“ Not a word, or you are a dead man ;" he said, in a
low but resolute tone.
i
Father Anselm drop (1 the torch, and struggled vio-i
lently ; but so tightly id the artist's hand compress his
throat that he could not {live vent to a cry for assistance
Caesar Borgia placed is foot upon the torch, and
inioned the riest from behind, while Otto thrust a
andkerchief into his month. They then hurried their
prisoner along with them into the forest.
So rapidly did they proceed that they were speedily
beyond the reach of danger. They then halted to secure
their captive more effectually.
“ I shall remove the gag,” said Otto, “ to prevent you
from being suffocated; but if on attempt to clamour for
assistance you must abide t e consequences of your
temerity.”
Thus speaking, he took the handkerchief from the
priest's mouth.
“ Is it indeed you, Otto Pianalla F" demanded Anselm,
in a low tone.
“ It is I—the pretended mute,” returned the artist.
“ I have fought you with your own weapons—cunning and
violence—and I have conquered you. The arms of the
{vitcked are ever turned agam' st themselves sooner or
a er.”
He then untied the cord which the priest wore round
his waist, and, aided by the Prince, securely bound his
hands together.
This was the second time that the Capuchin’s emblem of
huth and poverty was converted by Otto Pianalla into
a bond or that wolf in sheep’s clothing.
When the young artist had encountered Anselm in the
Alpine convent he used that cord to render him power-
less. And now the same means were adopted a second
time for the same end.
“ You are again m conqueror—again am I in your
power, Otto,” growle the priest, unable to repress the
utterance of his diabolical malignity and hatred. “ But
times may change, and you may soon be compelled to sue
for mercy at my hands. '
“ It will be my fault if justice be again cheated of its
due, Ulric Kinis,” returned Pianalla, emphatically.
“ Ah! the Borgia has told you that,” muttered Father
Anselm, guashing his teeth with rage.
“ The Borgia keeps no terms with a wretch like on,”
said Caesar, disdainfully. “ And now be silent, or wil
stun you with this club,” he added, brandishing a hug .
stick which he had just picked up in the forest. “ l‘
would not kill you outright, because the gibbet must not
be deprived of so worthy a candidate for its honours."
Anselm was about to explode with a volume of re-
proaches, taunts, and words of defiance, but Czesar
ped his arm with such savage rage, and shook him so
violently, that he deemed it prudent to hold his eace.
The party now proceeded towards Rosentha Castle
Otto keeping a firm hold of the prisoner on one side an.
Cmsar on the other. ‘
They had already advanced a considerable way into tl-
forest when Anselm suddenl exclaimed— "_
“ Will you hear a proposa which 1 have to make P” "
“ We can enter into no treaty that may have your
liberty for its object,” replied Otto.
“ I can reveal a secret which you may use in a manner
calculated to make your fortune,“ said the prisoner.
“ I will not serve my own interests by any unworthy
compromise,” answered Pianalla, firmly.
“ But you would be rejoiced to render a great—a signal
—sergice to the Archduchess Maria?" continued the
pries .
“ I would go far and do much to please that augus‘
lady, who was once the companion of my sister, and who
is the friend of the Countess of Aurana,” said Otto;
“ but I dare not tamper with the dues of justice."
“ You know not the importance of the secret which I
could reveal,” persisted Anselm. “Now that you have
murdered my faithful Fritz," he added, bitterly, “ two
living souls alone are acquainted with the secret of which
I speak. One dares not breathe it for his own sake, and
the other individual is myself."
“ You err in a twofold manner,_" answered Pianalla,
, by no means irritated at the taunt thrown against him.

But at the same time a light suddenly broke upon his
mind in consequence of the priest's allusion to Fritz.
" In the first place," continued Pianalla, “ I did not
slay him whom you call our faithful dependent—no,l
did not even kill him in se f-defence. He attacked me on
a sudden, like a bravo, and my horse trampled him be-
neath its feet. Secondly, you err in supposing that you
and one other are the sole depositors of that secret of
which you speak, for ere Fritz breathed his last he re-
pcnted, and—_"


FA US T.
141

“ Betrayed me—betrayed the Count_!” cried Anselm,
brown completely off his guard by this unexpected an-
iouncement. _ _
“ You are right,” said Otto, calmly, seeing that his
uspicion was confirmed. “ I am in the possession of
NLPQI'S which I shall deliver in due time into the hands of
.he Archduchess Maria.” . .
Father Anselm heard these words with a cold shudder,
'or he now saw that he was lost.
“ I shall et have the pleasure of hearin that you be-
:ome food or crows," exclaimed Caesar, ma 'gnantlv.
“ My lord,” said Otto, solemnly, “it is unworthy of
r011 to triumph over a fallen man.”
“ But such a manl" cried the Prince.
“ My lord,” a in observed the artist, “ you compel me
.o remind you t at you yourself are not immaculate.”
The Prince was about to give utterance to some pas-
donate and insulting reply; but he remembered that he
was indebted to Otto for his freedom— erhaps for his life.
He accordingly bit his lip, and stifled is resentment.
There was another long interval of silence. ~ '
“ I have yet one more condition to pro se," said An-
;elm, at length. “ Promise me my free om—for I will
oelieve you, Pianalla, if you pledge ourself—and I will
Furnish you with such an account 0 the entire ramifica-
tions of the Bloody League—the names of its chiefs, its
system of administration, the places where its meetings
“‘0 held, the inns throughout Germany where its most
mysterious deeds are executed—all this will I fully and
truthfully explain to you in such a way that you shall be
enabled to give that information to his Imperial Majesty
which will empower him to crush the Holy Vehm in his
Llominions."
“ Diabolical traitor!” cried Caesar Bor ' , furiousl .
“ Yes—yes, you are a traitor," said tto, “ and de-
spise you 5 for even the skulking thief remains true to his
companions in iniquity. No, wretched man, you cannot
effect a compromise With me. Much as I should be rati-
fled to possess the information necessary to enab e my
soverei to annihilate the hideous des tism of the
Vehm, will not—I dare not—purchase t at knowledge
at the price you demand. You are a prisoner, and such
<hall you remain until his Majesty issue the imperial
.ecree that must decide your fate.“
‘ The priest, again baffled, and finding his last hope dis-
appointed, relapsed into a moody and savage silence.
Nor was this silence again interrupted during the march
to Rosenthal Castle. ft was nearly three in the morning
when the party reached that fortress.
On their arrival, Otto directed Father Anselm to be
taken to a place of security, and to be guarded'by two
sentinels. He then conducted Caesarto his own apartment,
where they snatched a few hours of much-needed repose.
Great was the joy of the Baron when upon awaking in
e morning he learnt the return of Otto, whose strange
sappearance for several days had not a little perplexed
m. But that joy was considerably enhanced when he
as informed, not only that the Prince had escaped from
ulllSdOl'f Castle, but that the individual who had caused
his captivity was actually himself a prisoner at Rosenthal.
Otto, having cleansed himself from the chemical dye,
and resumed his natural ap earance, as well as havmg
exchanged his Oriental gar for suitable clothing, ob-
tained an interview with the Baron, and communicated
to him enough to show who Father Anselm really was.
He then intimated his intention of setting out for
Vienna on the following day, and the Baron immediately
‘rofiered him an escort of his own retainers, to rotect
limself, and to take charge of the prisoner, whom e pro-
posed to conduct to the capital.
This offer was gratefully accepted, and the Baron in_
sisted upon Otto’s acceptance of a ring of costly price, as
an acknowledgment of the service performed by the young
man in having effected the liberation of Caesar Borgia.
The artist steadily refused to receive the gift as a reward,
but at length consented to wear it as a token of the Baron’s
friendship. _
Meantime, Caesar had repaired to the apartment of his
sister, and surprised her with his sudden a pearance at
the castle. He communicated to her the who e particulars
of his release, and Lucreza, concealing her spite against
the artist for having refused her love, spoke of him in
terms of the highest praise.
In the course of that day Otto paid another visit to the
cemetery where the remains of his mother were deposited,
and was gratified by finding that the sexton and the
venerable priest had fully accomplished his wishes.
A stone, with a suitable inscription, marked the hal-
lowed spot.

He next proceeded to the dwelling of the old pastor, of
whom he took leave.
He continued his way to Wittenberg, and was cordially
received by his friend, who returned to him the packet in-
tended for the Archduchess, as well as the letters and the
purse of gold.
Having bade farewell to that kind friend, Otto Pianalla
returned to Rosenthal Castle.
_-
CHAPTER LXXV.
THE EXAMINATION.
SIX weeks have elapsed since the incidents related in the
preceding chapter, and the scene again shifts to Vienna.
It was morning, and Father Ansehn awoke to the con-
viction that a hideous dream which had oppressed him in
his slumber had borrowed its horrors from the stern
reality of his position. He was in a dungeon—the strong-
est and best guarded in the criminal prison of Vienna.
Many, many years previously had he been an inmate of
that self-same cell, when doomed to death for his share in
the treason of the Chamber of the Cradle.
He rose from his hard pallet, hastily dressed himself,
and then paced the dungeon with agitated steps, uttering
low growling sounds of rage, and resembling a wild beast
in its narrow cage.
Presently the door opened, and a gaoler made his ap-
pearance with the risoner's breakfast.
“ My friend,” sai Anselm, in a low and hurried whisper,
“ at the Capuchin Convent in the Julian Alps, but in a.
spot which I alone can oint out, there is a hidden
treasure—my own gold. ‘nable me to escape from this
horrible place—accompany me thither—and the half of
that treasure shall be yours.”
The man only shook his head.
“ I will give you all—all," urged the prisoner, in a
hoarse, but persuasive tone.
“ And you think that I am such an idiot as to believe
you ?" said the turnkey,
“ I declare by everything sacred——" began Anselm,
for so we had better continue to call him.
“ Were I to agree to accompany you, you would murder
me by the way,“ interrupted the man, sharply. “A truce
to this nonsense, Ulric Kinis; on have mistaken me
altogether. Despatch your brea fast, and follow me to
the resence of certain high personages, who seek an in-
ternew with you."
“ I require no food for the present," said Anselm.
“ Lead on—I am ready."
“ Nay, I will rather follow you," cried the turnkey. “ I
like not such an one as Ulric Kinis to be behind me "
“ Dog !" exclaimed the prisoner, fixing a savage glance
upon the man.
Then, as if he considered him to be unworthy of further
notice, the priest turned slowly from the dungeon.
“ Straight alon the pass , Ulric," said the gaoler,
following close atiis heels. ‘ You know the way pretty
well, however, for by all accounts this place has been
your habitation before. It was not then my good luck
to be employed in the establishment, or I should have
had the honour of waiting on you, as I do new," con-
tinued the man, in a jeering tone. “ Please to turn to
the right, and straight on again, up the stone steps there,
and now 0 en the door at the to .“
Father nselm did as he was csired, and found himself
in the head gaoler’s rivate apartment, where several
persons were assembled).
These were the Archduke Leopold and the Archduchess
Maria, the Count and Countess of Aurana, the Baron and
Baroness of Czernin, and Otto Pianalla.
The prisoner cast a scowling glance upon the company
in whose presence he thus found himself ; but nothing
could equal the fiend-like malice expressed in the look
that he threw on the young artist.
“ Ulric Kinis," said the Archduke Leopold, “ you will
do well to reply to the questions which I am about to put
to you, for you can scarcely be so hardened in iniquity as
to refuse the only compensation which you can make to
one whom your hand deprived of a father—perhaps also
of a mother."
The Archduchess wiped away her tears as her husband
glanced affectionately towards her.
“ What advanta 0 shall I gain by answering your
questions, my lord g” demanded the prisoner, insolently.
“ You cannot think that I should enter into conditions
with you," returned the Archduke. “ At the same time,
I will undertake to declare that itour present conduct Will
greatly influence the sentence w ich the proper authen-
ties may soon have to pass upon you.”


1L2.
FA US T.

“ Will my life be sparedif I‘confess all?” said Father
Anselm. “ For I see that you possess some little informa-
tiouon apm‘ticular subject, but that you require more."
U If,
already known to us I will intercede with my imperial
uncle on your behalf, and pray a commutation of the
penalty of death to imprisonment for the remainder of
your days. I have now said more than I had at first in-
tended upon this point,” added the Archduke.
“ Question me, my lord, and I will answer truly—on
the condition specified," said the prisoner, hope now re-
turning to his soul.
“ Ulric Kinis,” continued the Archduke, in an impres-
sive manner, “the hand of Providence has by dgrees
elucidated a terrible m stery. Mark how that same all-
wise, all-seeing Power iashstened to the voice of' blood,
which cried up from earth to Heaven. Attend to the few
details, which demonstrates how God himself has placed
his chosen agents in the way to discover crimes-perpe-
trated long ago.
“Insthe
from her father’s roof, and carried to the Castle of Lius.
dorf. There she was imprisoned in certain apartments,
one of which was'an oratory. In: this oratory the
Countess beheld two portraits, which were still there
some few weeks ago. There is every reason to believe
that these are the rtraits of the late Count Sigismund
and the Countess I degarda of Linsdorf. Is the conjec-
ture a true one P"
“ It is, my lord,” was the prisoner’s answer.
“ The Lady Theresa-observed the resemblance which
the portrait of V the Countess lldegarda bore the Arch
duchess Maria, but she attached but little importance to
the matter, concluding that it mere involved a coinci-
deuce common in the world, andbelievingalsothat the
parentage of 'the Archduchess was well known to her.
Accident revealed to the Lady Theresa, during her'cap-
tivity at Linsdorf, the existence of a chamber which had
evidently been used as a place of confinement for some
unfortunate victim. Iii that room the Lady Theresa. dis-
covered a manuscript, which was considerably injured
by time, but the legible rtions of‘- which prove how
deep were the wrongs o the unhappy prisoner who
penned those affecting lines. Did you ever behold'th
handwriting of the late Countess of Linsdorf P” -
“I have seen it, and should doubtless recognise it,”
replied Anselm.
“ Draw near," said the Archduke, producing the manu-
script, “aud cast your eyes over this melancholy docu-
ment."
“That is the writing of the Countess Ildegarda,"
observed the prisoner, without hesitation, and after a
moment’s scrutiny of the manuscript. “ Her ladyship
was highly accomplished, and wrote a beautiful, but
peculiar hand.”
Maria’s tears fell abundantly at this stage of ’ the
examination, but she refused to leave the room where
an inquiry otsuch importance to herself‘was in progress.
“ The Lady Theresa perused this manuscript,” con-
tinued'the Archduke, “ and was led by its contents~to
infer that the Writer was'the Countess Ildegarda. Still,
however, she saw no connexion between the incidents
alluded to in the mournful document and' the parenta e
of the Archduchess Maria, because she believedthe Arc -
duchess to have indeed been born of poor'parents. The
Lady Theresa subsequently showed the manuscript to her
father, who advised her to destroyrit, or' at lemst'mainrtain
strict silence relative to her possession of it, as he was
unwilling to adford‘any new ground of dispute or‘ill-feel-
ing between himself and the Count'ofLinsdorf.
“ Providence sowilled it that the Lady Theresa decided
upon keeping the manuscript, and it has become an
important proof in substantiating the facts which I am
seeking to establish. I now pass-0n to another chain of
incidents, which testify to the wistm of Heavenin allow-
ing a deep mystery to be elucidated by human means.
“ Some weeks Messer Pianalla was in the vicinity
of Linsdorf, when he was attacked by a villain, who
perished in attempting the life of this good young man.
But ere the bravo breathed his last, he enjoined Messer
Pianalla to eonvcy to the Archduchess a small packet
which was sewn between the linings of his doublet; This
packet contained a short note, the contents of which you
shall hear."
The Archduke then read the letter referred to :—
‘_‘ Lady, whenever this paper meets your eyes, the
writer will be no more. He dares not endanger his
safety while living, but when death shall have closed his
your information tends to corroborate certain facts;
year 1493 the Countess of Aurana was snatched:


eyes you may learn a secret that'weighs heavily upon hi ~:
soul. Lady, you are not, as you have hitherto supposed,
the daughter of those poor peasants who were believed
to be the authors of your being.
“Your parentsrwcre Count Sigismund of'L‘insdoi-f and
the Countess Ildegarda. The former died by the hand
of Ulric Kinis, now known in the world-by the name of
Father Anselmr Your unfbrtunote mother was poisoned.
These crimes were perpetrated‘by the command of your
uncle, the present Count Manfred of Linsdorf. To me
was allotted the task of disposing of you when an infant ;
Count Manfred ordered' me tokill you. I could uotfind
it in my 1 e wt to murder an innocent babe, and I accord
ingly entrusted you‘to the care of poor relatives of mine
-that peasant: and his wife who took care of you for a
short time.
“ They died-within a few days-of each other, victims of
a malignant fever, and as I- had {previousl left that part
of the country, I never'learnt‘ until some ew-mouthsago
what had become of on. Then I heard from Father
Anselm, to whom I ad communicated the manner in
which I had disposed“ of you, the facts that you“ were
living, andth become the wife of the Archduke Leopold.
How- IhtherAnselm discovered your identity I know- not.
“ Lady, runongst' many bad deeds which 1" have com-
mitted, this alone preys upon my mind,‘,and haunts me
in my dreams.
“ Perhapsthe atonement which Ii nowendeavour to
make by revealing to you the secret of your 'birth may
induce you to have masses said formy soul—for rest well
assured, lady, that these lines will never meet your' eyes
till I shall be no more.
“ Huco Wmmmn:
“ June 16th, 1407.”
Profound was the grief 'of the Archduchess as her illus-
trious husbaud’read this letter, for although she was ‘
previously acquainted with its contents, it aroused in her
mind all the anguish which had been excited there when
she first perused that dread revelation concerning the
fate of those to whom she was indebted for her being.
She, however, received the sweetest consolation- from
her beloved friend Theresa, and she conquered her emo-
tions to some extent when the reading of the document
was concluded.
“ You have heard the contents-of this letter,” said the ‘
Archduke to Father Anselm ; “ are its statements true 1"” l
“ True in everyparticular," was the reply.
“ Bear witness,” exclaimed thoPi-ince, turnin towards
hisfricnds~“bcar witness tothe confession o the pri-
soner. He acknowledges that the Archduchess Maria is!
the daughter of the Count and Countess of Linsdorf, who
werecruelly murdered by command of their most un-
natural relative.
“Inscrutable are the ways of that Providence which
has thus brought this fblll deed to light. Kinis, this
excellentyoung man," continucd'the Prince, indicating
Pianalla with a gesture, “h'as'also seen. those portraits
which hang in~the oratory of Linsdorf Castle, and'he
also was struck by the resemblance existingbetween the
Archduchess andthe picture of hermother. He has,
moreover, been in that very room where- the poor lady was
imprisoned, aud‘where she doubtless breathed herlast;
“ He can testify to the gloom of that horrible dungeon,
where she was so mercilessly confined. Ulric Kinis, the
annals of crime present to-view no blacker deed than
this, in which you were an agent. It now remains for
you to furnish nie with a complete written confession of
the entire details of those most barbarous murders, and
his Imperial Majesty will thereupon adopt the proper
means to bring Manfred of‘Linsdorfito justice." '
“ I will furnish your Imperial Highness with the con-'
fession required,” said'Auselm, " By to-morrow morunv:
it shall be ready.”’
“I have nowlto question you irpon another'subject."
observed the Archduke. “ You see near me a-nobleman
whom you retained for many years in captivity at the
convent in the Julian Alps. Explain the motive of that
imprisonment.’ ' ’
“The Baronet Czernin penetrated into the mansion
which Cmsar Borgia and hissister~ Lucreza inhabited at
Venice prior to the elevation of their father to the Pope-
dom,” said Anselm, “and there he beheld certain ap-
pearances which, if proclaimed‘to the world, might have
engendered strange-suspicions prejudicial to the interests
of that family, At the period to'which I' allude, the
Borgias had already set on foot those intrigues which
paved the way for the election of Alexander VI, and
they were, moreover, engaged in the manufacture of


FA US T.
1 l3
those poisons which were used to clear their path of
obnoxious individuals or dangerous foes.
“ Thence their temporary seclusion at Venice; thence,
also, their dread of having their secrets known. I was in
their pay, and I hesitated not to become the gaolerof the
Baron of Czernin.”
“ Your statement confirms the opinions already formed
bythe Baron and his friends relative to the primal motive
of his imprisonment,” said the Archduke. “ It is, never-
:heless, satisfactory to obtain additional proofs of the


villany of the Borgias, to whom my imperial uncle has
afforded an asylum in his dominions.”
“ The same messenger, my lord," added the Prince,
turning tOwards the Baron, “ who will convey to the lord
of Resenthal the imperial-commands to make the Count
of Linsdorf his prisoner will be the bearer of a message
directing the expulsion of the Borgias from Germany. I
have already ascertained the pleasure of his Majesty <
in this respect.”
“ I would suggest to your Highness," said Otto Pia-
nalla, “ that the Count of Linsdorf is a desperate man,
and will defend himself against the Baron of Rosenthal
to the last extremity.”
“ There is an easy, short, and'certain method of cap-
turing the Count of Linsdorf,” observed FatherAuselm,
“ and as he has no reason to expect mercy at my hands,
I care not if I be instrumental in insuring his arrest.”
“Proceed,” said the Archduke.
The prisoner made no immediate reply, but seated him-
self at the table, on which there were writing'materials,
and penned the following-note :—
“ HERMAN,»-
“ By the Cord and Dagger you are commanded to en-
tice Manfred, Count of Linsdorf, to the Black Swan,
1nd deliver him into the custody of the bearer of this:
wherein see thatyou fail not.
“ H1“ ANSELM."
“ This, my lord,” said. the prisoner, handing the note
:-0 the Archduke “will prove effectual. The person to
whom it is addressed is the master of the Black Swan
;herein named, and will not dare to disobey my com
mand, for even from the depths of a dungeon the voice of
L chief of the Vehm is all-powerful.”
“ I am acquainted with that same Herman, my lord,”
)bserved Otto, “ but never know until now that he was a
member of-the Secret Tribunal.” /
“ Think you that he would boast of his alliance with
he mysterious fraternity i" demanded Anselm, with a‘
neer. “ I presume that my presence is no longerrc-
luired here,” continued the prisoner; “ and as my narra-
ive will be somewhat lengthy, there need be no unneces-
ary delay ere I commence it."
The Archduke made a sign to the gaoler, who conducted
?ather Anselm back to his dungeon.
On the following day the same persons were . vain
.ssembled in the prison, and Anselm then presented his
narrative of crime.
That terrible document will be found in the ensuing
hapter.
-—
CHAPTER LXXVI.
runes susmm's nlsroar.
‘ TWENTY-SIX. years and a half have now elapsed since I
;as doomed to death by the Supreme Tribunal of Vienna.
need not state the crime nor the particulars of that
icmorable'trial which elucidated the conspiracy of the
Ihamber of'the Cradle. Neither is it necessar to enter
nto any details respecting the public execution which
ook place on the walls of Vienna. Five persons were sus-
ended to the ignominious tree on that morning : namely,
dyself. the physician who conceived the plot, his wife,
is sister, and another female whose part in the con-
Firacy‘wm to convey the sister’s child to the palace at
1e appointed hour. Yes~five of us, amongst whom
rcre three women, passed through the hands of the
nblic executioner on that terrible day. But the ignoble
oose was not fatal to all. No: for some hours after-
:ards I seemed to awake slowl and painfully from a
rofonnd sleep that left behin it the impression of
.avingbeen filled with horrible visions. Light dawned
n my eyes—sensations returned to my organs—and
eascn revisited my brain, all by such gradient advances
-snch almost imperceptible approaches—that it seemed.
s if I were a marble statue into which the ingenuity of
. cunning alchemist was gradually infusing the principles
‘ tion—recalled to memory many persons with whom

f life. But what a onising feelings did I experience in
11 my limbs! An what horrible ideas .grew every
'moment more andmore intelligible in my'mind‘, untilall
the dread scenes of the morning rose before me, like
hideous spectrcs. Iturned my headwithdifliculty :~on
the inclined plane of‘abenchrto my‘right lay a corpse :—-~
I averted 111 looks with alarm and disgust; but as I
glanced to tie left, I beheld another corpse, stretched-
out in a similarmanner- A little reflection showed me
that I also was occu ing the place cf‘a corpse! I tried-
to rise, and at lengt succeeded so far as to sit up. My-
head seemed to turn round~my sight was dim, and the
objects appeared to swim before me. But I could distin-
guish fom- deadbodies in the room, each stretchedon' a
sloping. table! I lay down again, and closed my eyes
against the sad spectacle- It was, however, some time
before I could so far collectmy thoughts as to arrive at
a perfect sense of my condition. From the moment that
I hrstobtained aIglimpse of the light in that chamber—
from the instant when I felt that I was alive—perhaps
an hour elapsed ere I recovered my reasoning faculties
sufficiently to enable me to comprehend that Iwas in the
gacl dissecting-room !'
“ In another hour I was enabled to rise and walk ; and
with returning strength came back my courage also. I
looked around for the means of escape. The windows
were small and strongly barred. The door was weak and-
inditferently secured:-~indeed, it could onl have been
closed at all for the purpose of preventing t e intrusion
of the prison dependants. To force the door was con-
sequently an easy task: 1 accomplished it, and entered an'
adjoining room. There I found'a cloak-probably be-
longing to the surgeon ; and alfurther inspection showed
me a closet in arecess. It was now dusk, and, as 1* was.
well aware that the dissection of criminals in the prisons
usually commenced immediately after sunset, I knew that
there was no time to be lost. I forced open the cupboard,
and found that it contained all the various implements~
used in anatomy. There were also two or three frocks
of coarse stuff, suchas surgeons wear over their clothes
when engaged in dissections. How I shuddered as those
objects metmyeyes! I might have lin cred in a deep
trance, and thus have actually rish by the scalpel
instead of bythe rope! It strnc - me that oneof those
smocks might be useful for disguise : I accordingly took
it with me. Envelnped in the ample cloak, I passed out
ef-the prison with the test case, because the entrance
leading to the surgeon s rooms is not guarded, as it has
no communication with the department where the
prisoners arcconfined'.
" Never did I experience such fervent joy as when I
found myself safe beyond the walls of Vienna. But in' a
short time the pan of hunger oppressed'me ; and I soon
became ready to aint for want of food. I had‘ not a
single coin about me—at least, I believed not. Then I
thought of disposing of the cloak, and wearing the smock
over my own clothes, which consisted of a miserable
ragged suit that had been given to me in prison when~
my military garb was taken from me. I rested-myself
beneath a tree at the entrance of a village about two
leagues from Vienna: and there I remained until the first
streak of morning appeared in the east.- Then I took off
the cloak and put on the smock, preparatory to entering
thevillagc; but how great was my surprise when I dis-
covered arfew crowns in a'pocket belonging to the dis.
secting garment! Hope revived within me; I resolved
upon retaining the cloak at least for the present; and at
the village I procured food.
“ I was completely'at a loss what course to adopt. My
active mind could not bear theideaof obscurity, poverty,
and indolence. I revolved various plans in my ima
a.
been acquainted. At length the name of Manfred, son'
of the old Count of Linsdorf (who was then living) oc-
curred to my mind. Two years before he had served as
a volunteer in the Army of the Danube which was formed
to resist the encroachments of the Ottomans on the Tran-
sylvanian frontier. He enjoyed the rank of an officer;
and I'belonged to his corps. He was of a reserved'and
moody disposition, save when in his cups—and then he
was communicative to a fault. ()n evening I had rendered
him some trifling service, and he invited me to partake
of a flagon of wine. with him. I thanked him for that
condescension on the part of the son of a great noble
towards a poor soldier like myself; and he immediately
exclaimed, ‘ I am almost as humble and poor as you
are! What honour or wealth do you suppose can belong
to the younger son of a feudal'peer, whose vast estates
must all pass to his elder born! Ah ! the misery of being
a younger son—soon to be a dependant on the bounty of
an elder brother!’-—Thcse words made a deep impression
P


144
FA US T.

on me at the time : they seemed to be the index of certain
wishes and aspirations which lurked in Manfred's soul.
Shortly afterwards the Turkish war ended ; the Army of
the Danube was disbanded ; Manfred returned to his
father's domains; and I was draughted into the Imperial
Guards. -
“ 'I had never seen nor heard of Manfred since the time
I have just alluded to ; but novgthat I was in so desperate
a position—an outcast and in constant dan er of detec-
tion~his name recurred to my memory. I fe t convinced
that he was the very man—unless his circumstances had
strangely altered—who required such an agent as I was
prepared to be. I remembered that strange exclamation
above mentioned :—and I deemed it significant—nay, even
prophetic! I weighed the matter well in my mind, and
at length determined to repair to Linsdorf. The journey
was long and tedious : but at length I reached the castle.
The old Count and his elder son Sigismund were residing
there; but I learnt that Manfred was on bad terms with
his relatives, and occupied a small house four or five
leagues distant from the castle. Thither I proceeded.
Manfred was at home, and instantly granted me an inter-
view. Bnt when I stood in his presence, he seemed
alarmed—for he recollected my countenance. ‘ Had not
one Ulric Kinis been recently hanged at Vienna,“ he ex-
claimed, ‘ I should believe that you were he.’—I then
told him all that had occurred; and he heard me with
rofound astonishment.—‘ What do you require of me I”
e said, when I had concluded my history.—-‘ To enter
your service,’ was my reply.—‘ I have no employment to
give you,’ he said, ‘ I am poor, and subsisting on a small
allowance from my father, with whom I am at variance
because of his harshness to me on account of certain
follies which he might well have pardoned.’—‘ It is pre-
cisely because you are poor, that you should aim at
wealth,’ I said: ‘it is because you are a dependant, that
you should strive to become a master; it is because you
have neither title nor land, that you should endeavour to
obtain both. And if you have courage to act, I am ready
to aid you.’—We exchanged significant glances : two such
men as he and I could not do otherwise than come to a
speedy understanding. He took me into his service; and
I assumed the name of Felix Zetter.
“ When I thus became enlisted in the cause of Manfred,
he had ah'ead a dependant attached to his person, and
who was blin ly devoted to his interests. This was Hugo,
who subsequently took the name of Fritz. Hugo was
attached to his young master, but had never dreamt of
helping him to rank and riches by illegitimate means.
It was not, however, difficult to induce Hugo to second
us in the schemes which we soon began seriously to dis-
cuss, for the removal of Sigismund from this earthly
sphere. Manfred hesitated not to entertain the fratri-
cide idea; but he feared to put it into execution during
his father’s life-time. The old Count knew his younger
son’s evil disposition so well, that were Sigismund to die
under suspicious circumstances, the deed would be attri-
buted to the surviving brother who profited by that
death. Time elapsed quickly—and nothing was done.
Manfred was willing enough—but fearful. He vacillated
between his desire for aggrandisement and his alarm of
detection. Thus two years passed. At length, by the
generous intervention of Sigismund, a reconciliation was
effected between the old Count and Manfred; and the
latter returned to take up his abode at the Castle of Lins-
dorf. Hugo and myself accompanied him.
“Although the old Count had consented to receive his
younger son once more into the paternal dwelling, it was
evident that Sigismund was the father’s favourite, and
that Manfred was treated with frequent harshness and
constant coolness. This was scarcely surprising, when it
is remembered that Sigismund was all generosity of dis-
position and nobility of soul, and Manfred dissipated,
deceitful, and designing. Be the causes of that paternal
preference what they might, it is certain that Manfred's
aughty and vindictive spirit was soon driven to despera_
tion ; and he at length determined to take a bold step to
rid himself of all existing obstacles to the attainment of
rank, power, and riches. He resolved upon the deaths of
both his father and brother! A slow poison was pro-
cured, and a portion infused into the drinking-cups of the
old Count and Sigismund at the evening banquet. The
Count disliked the taste of his wine, after he had sipped a
few drops, and observed that it possessed a nauseous
flavour. Sigismund tasted the wine in his cup, and echoed
his father's complaint. Manfred changed colour and
became fearfully embarrassed: then, by way of extricating
himself from the dilemma in which he found himself
placed, he declared in a stammering tone that ‘it was


strange, as his wine was rfectly good.‘ Had he found
fault likewise with the iquor, he would robably have
escaped suspicion; but that absurd remar excited the
attention of his father. The old Count darted on him a
piercing look, exclaiming at the same time, with a shudder,
‘It is impossible! yes—im ossible! And yet——' He
stopped short, and ordere the henchman to lock up the
two ill-flavoured goblets of wine until the morrow. That
night Manfred sought the henchman, and endeavoured
to persuade him to empty the cups and fill them with
fresh wine. The domestic steadily refused; and the
application made to him was duly reported to the Count
in the morning. The incident only tended to confirm the
horrible suspicion which his lordship had entertained. A
skilful alchemist residing at Wittenberg was sent for;
and he subjected the wine contained in the two goblets
to various tests. The result was fatal to the character of
Manfred. The old Count expelled him from the castle,
and declared that he renounced him for ever.
“ Hugo and myself accompanied our fallen master. As
we were leaving the fortress, Sigismund hastily accosted
his brother, and said, ‘ My dear Manfred, I sincerely for-
give you—forgive you from the bottom of my heart! I
will pray to the Holy Virgin to turn your heart! Here
is a purse: it is well filled ; and, if you will from time to
time acquaint me with your place of abode, I will take
care on shall not want !’—He then hastened away ; and
Man red departed from the paternal home, attended by
me and Hugo. His plans were speedily settled. ‘ So long
as my father is alive,’ he said to us, ‘ all hopes of accom-
plishing my designs are vain. But when he shall be no
more, then—— ;' and he smiled darkly-significantly,
however, to us.—‘ It is my intention to join t e imperial
army,’ he continued: ‘ my brother will be thereby
thrown off his guard; he will imagine that I have
repented of my evil intentions towar 5 him, and that I
have resolved to earn an honourable name for myself.
You, my faithful servitors, will remain in this neighbour-
hood, readito forward to me tidings of any event of im-
ortance t at may occur at the castle.’——He departed
or Vienna, and Hugo and myself took up our abode at
Wittenberg.
“ From time to time I obtained an interview with the
Lord Sigismund, whom I assured on each occasion that I
had just arrived from Vienna, where his brother was
employed as a subaltern officer in the Imperial Guards.
Sigismund always gave me a well-filled purse; and thus
Hugo and myself were enabled to live comfortably at
gittenberg. About two years after the departure of
anfred, the Lord Sigismund was united to the Lady
Ilde rda. This event was followed in a year by the
deat of the old Count; and Sigismund became master
of the vast estates of Linsdorf. Hugo repaired to Vienna
with the intelligence; and Manfred returned with him
privately to Wittenberg.
“I must now state that during his residence in the
metropolis Manfred had become a member of the Holy
Vehm; and his first act on arriving at Wittenberg was
to initiate Hugo and myself as brethren inthat fraternity,
of which our master was already a chief. Indeed he had
succeeded in obtaining a rescript from the Supreme
Council of Westphalia, nominating him to the post of
District-Ruler of the province of Wittenberg. Our plans
were speedily settled. Hugo and in self remained in the
town; and Manfred repaired to t e castle, where the
Countess had just become the mother of a female child.
Count Sigismund received his brother with open arms,
and ordered apartments to be assigned to him in the
castle. He moreover settled upon him a handsome
revenue, and exerted himself in every possible manner to
render Manfred's condition happy. A few weeks thus
passed, during which Sigismund seldom left the castle.
But when his beloved wife was restored to health, the
Count resumed his favourite sport—the chase. Manfred
had frequent meetings with Huge and myself, anOgave us
his instructions. Our employment was now to watch for a
favourable opportunity 0 assassinating Count Sigismund.
“ One day, when, in pursuance of information furnished
by Manfred, I was lying in wait amidst some bushes on a
heath, about two leagues from the castle, l beheld a
man approaching, leading his horse, which was lame As
he drew near. I recOgnised Count Sigismund. He had
evidently been separated from his attendants by the 21001-
dent of his steed’s lameness; for he blew his hunting
bugle several times, and ascended an eminence to sweep
the open portion of the country with his looks. But he
could not catch a glimpse of those whom he sought. He
walked slowly on, and at length assed the spot where I
was concealed. I rushed upon im With the fury of a


“ntsnm .10 J.an arm. n .L'lcmx saaAO'l 'msnmox am"
('m 'd 8-15)





FA UST.
14-?

lpt'r, and buried my dagger in his breast. He fell, with
~. low moan ;iuid ere he breathed his last he murmured
.he name of Manfred as he cast a look of horror and
rproach upon me. He knew me—and he expired with
he conviction that I was the agent of his brother in per-
ietrating that fearful deed! I hastily twisted the sym-
JOLlC cord around the handle of the dagger, and left the
i'CflPOH lying by the side of the corpse.
“ The body was discovered by the Count's retainers, on ‘
heir way back from the chase, and was conveyed to the
astle. It would be impossible to describe the grief of
he Countess Ildegarda : I subsequently learnt from those
she were present when she received the dread tidings,
but she became frantic. The terrible ebuIlition of her
we having forced a vent, an equally appalling reaction
00k place, and she fell into a profound apathy—as if her
eason were unhinged She was conducted to her own
hamber; and Dame Winifred, an artful woman, who
iossessed the peculiar faculty of maintaining the utmost
omposure of countenance under all circumstances, was
.ppointed to attend upon her. She had been a servant in
he castle for some years, and was devotedly attached to
he interests of Manfred. A few days after Sigismund's
eatlh, Hugo and myself once more became inmate of the
ast e.
“The Countess Ildegarda was now surrounded by
nemics. Manfred, assuming to himself the right of
uardianship of the infant heiress, behaved as the master
f the establishment. He discharged those dependants
;ho were devoted to the late Count, and supplied their
laces by persons chosen from the local members of the
v'ehin. His course was now easy. The Countess Ilde-
nrda was one night conveyed to the prison chamber;
.nd Hugo was appointed to attend upon her. Her child,
he infant heiress, was taken from her; and Hugo re-
cived orders to destroy the babe. With that command
e did not, however, comply ; but he entrusted the child
0 poor relatives of his own, who resided in the neigh-
ourhood. This fact was not communicated by him to
ie ultil some time after we had both left the service of ‘
lanfred. .
“The Countess being thus immured and the child sup-
osed to have been made away with, Manfred gave out
hat the unhappy lady, reduced to despair by the murder
f her husband, had put an end not only to her own
xistence but also to that of her child. There were two
inerals, followed closely the one upon the other: the
rst was for Sigismund, whose body really reposcd in the
film that was consigned to the famil vault in the chapel
:' Linsdorf ; and the second was for t e Countess and her
mild; but the coffin in this latter contained only stones
id dirt. Thus did Manfred become Count of Linsdorf !
“ The Countess Ildegaida was a beautiful woman; and ‘
Ianfred’s passions were excited by her charms. He was
rer famed as a desperate libertine; and his reckless
)iiduct in prosecuting his amours and intrigues had
sea the principal cause of his misunderstanding with
L- father. Now that Ildegarda was in his power, he
.w no reason why he should hesitate to make her sub-
irvient to his wishes. Several weeks, however, elapsed
'e he could command sufficient courage to enable him to
cc the lady whom he had so cruelly injured. In the
cantimc, Hugo had allowed himself to be persuaded by
er representations that if she were compelled to remain
one with her own thoughts, and with nothing to abstract
2r mind from the contemplation of her miseries, she
iould become raving mad; and he supplied her privately
ith a misml and writing materials. But he implored
er not to allow that indulgence to transpire, should she
a visited by the Count, whose vengeance he feared. He
oreover assured her—as was the fact—that when he
sight the prison-chamber to convey her meals thither,
ie Count, frequently accompanied him as far as the
>or in the wainscot of the orator , in order to overhear
iything she might say to Hugo. he Count had charged
ago not to inform her that her child was no more, but
hold out to her hopes that the infant should be restored
‘ her, if she would compose herself and act in all respects
rreeably to the wishes of Count Manfred. Hugo, it ap-
nrs, was only too glad to receive this permission to im-
irt some consolation to Ildegarda in respect to the babe;
id while Manfred thought he was uttering a falsehood
representing it to be alive, he was really adhering to
ie strict truth. Sometimes, the Count would despatch
e to listen at the wainscot door while Hugo entered the
-ison-ohamber; for Manfred was ever suspicious, even
those who served him best.
“I think that nearly two months must have elapsed
e Count Manfred presented himself to the Lady Ilde-
: much as we were the depositors of his secrets.


garda. I knew not then what transpired at that first
interview; but I well remember that his lordship re-
turned to his own apartments towering with rage, and
vented his spite (as was his wont) upon Hugo, myself,
and Winifred—who were the very three persons that of
all the world he should have studied to conciliate, inas-
A day or
two afterwards the Count visited the Lady Ildegarda in
the prison-chamber again; and when I next saw his
lordship, he said to me in atone of bitter malignity, ‘ She
seems me—she upbraids me—she reviles me! I have
given her three days to decide whether she will listen to
my proposals; and if she refuse at the expiration of that
period, then she shall die !’-—That third day came,
and Hugo happened to be taken with a sudden illness.
I was accordingly appointed to succeed him in attend-
ing upon the imprisoned lady. In the afternoon the
Count visited her for the last time. He was with
her nearly an hour ; and when he rejoined me, who was
waiting for him in one of the neighbouring apm'tments,
his countenance was black with rage. ‘ She must die,
Felix,’ he said in an emphatic manner. In the evening
he gave me a dark powder to mix with the food prepared
for her supper. I conveyed the meal to her. She en-
deavoured to induce me to break the stubborn silence
which I maintained; but vainly! I spread the supper
upon the table, and departed. In the morning when I
returned thither she was no more !——and on the ensuing
night Count Manfred and myself buried the corpse in a
vault beneath the tower in which the prison-chamber is
situated.
“That chamber was then carefully closed; and never
(as I was lately informed by Count Manfred) had it been
used again until Caesar Borgia was consigned to it. Then,
when the Lord of Linsdorf and myself visited it for the
urpose of commanding suitable arrangements to be made
or the reception of a new prisoner, we found the door
fallen from its hinges through old ago. And within that
chamber, too, we saw, on the same occasion, the vestiges
of the last meal that the Countess Ildegarda ever partook
of—and partook of so fatally ! There were the soiled and
tattered remnants of the napkin—the rusted knives and
forks—the dust~blacl<ened plates and dishes—the flagon
and drinking-cup, covered with dense cobwebs l
“ But let me resume the thread of my narrative in due
order of continuity. No sooner did Lord Manfred im he
himself secure in the enjoyment of his rank and wea th,
by the deaths of his brother and Ildegarda, and by the
supposed murder of their infant daughter, than his natu-
ra ly tyrannical disposition manifested itself in a way
that was intolerable to those around him. He became
the Free Count of the Wittenbcrg district ; and thus—by
the union of his lawful power as a peer of the German
empire with his illicit influence as a Chief of the Holy
Vehm—he possessed resources terrible indeed for purposes
of oppression and of mischief. Impatient of his despotism,
and issatisfied with the limited rewards which we re-
ceived for the services rendered him by us, Hugo and
myself left him a short time after the death of the
Countess Ildegarda. Twenty-one years have elapsed
since that period, and many of the world's strange phases
have during that time come within the scope of my ex-
perience. But with any details on those points I need
not occupy your attention. I have only one incident,
which at all regards the resent topic, to relate. It is
the manner in which I discovered the identity of the
Archduchess with the daughter of the murdered Count
and Countess of Linsdorf.
“ At the beginning of the present year I was in Rome.
Accident threw me in the way of a person named Schur-
mann, who, I found, had been intimately acquainted
with the impostor Gregory Walstein, and had passed
some months with him in Vienna. During the conversa—
tion which I had with Schurmann, I learnt much relative
to the Archduchess Maria. This information he had
obtained from Gregory Walstein, who received it from
his wife, Ida. Schurmann told me that the Archduchess
was the daughter of poor parents, whom he named ; that
they had died in her infancy ; and that the mother of the
Lady Theresa had taken charge of the orphan, and
brought her up at Rosenthal Castle. I was struck with
this statement. Fritz, or rather Hugo, long ago made
me acquainted with the manner in which he had disposed
of the heiress of Linsdorf, when an infant; and I now
discovered, from Schurmann's information, that the
alleged parents of the Archduchess were none other than
Hugo’s relations. I moreover knew that those poor
people had no children of their own; and I felt convinced
of the identity which has since been established 1, how-


148
FA US T.

ever, instituted inquiries, and ascertained that the e of
the Archduchess precisely corresponded with that w ich
the daughter of Count Sigismund and Ildegardavmust
have attained were she really alive. But to convince
myself fully on this head,—f0r the discovery was an im-
portant one, and promised a rich harvest,—I came to
Vienna in a deep_ disguise a few months ago, and beheld
the Archduchess issue from the ducal palace, leaning
upon the arm of my lord, her husband. One lance at.
her countenance was sufficient: the Countess ldegarda
lived again in the person of her daughter !”
CHAPTER LXXVII.
FAUST AND FATHER ANSELM.
IT was evening; and Father Anselm was seated in his
dungeon.
An iron lamp, suspended from the ceiling, shed but a
dim light around,—enough, however, to shadow forth the
gloomy features of that cell, and bring into strong relief
the dark form of the prisoner.
His sinister countenance wore a smile of ferocious
triumph; and he muttered to himself, “ I have avenged
myself on Manfred of Linsdorf ; and bitterly will he rue
the day when he treated me with ingratitude and tyranny.
But wherefore does not Faust come? Could the gaoler
have deceived me P has he not delivered my message P”
The prisoner was interrupted by the sounds of foot-
steps a proaching his cell; the door was opened : and the
gaoler aving given admittance to the Count of Aurana,
asked when he should return.
“ Will our interview he a long one P” demanded Faust
of Father Anselm ; “for I am at a loss to conjecture
what affair of importance could have induced you to
send so pressing a message requiring my presence here.”
“ I shall not detain your lordship many minutes,” was
the reply.
The gaoler heard this answer, and withdrew, saying,
“ I shall return shortly."
Anselm waited until the man’s retreating steps were
no longer heard : then approaching close to Faust, he
said, in a low but emphatic tone, “ I require my freedom;
and it is you who must procure it.”
“ What means this insolent assurance P” cried the
Count, stepping back, and eyeing the prisoner with a
mixture of sternness and contempt.
“ ’Tis you who must lower your tone of assurance,
proud no le,” returned Anselm. “ Think you that I have
forgotten the malignity with which you exposed me to
the Orsini in the Castle of Saint Angelo at Rome—when
you advocated the cause of Caesar Borgia, the arch-
poisoner? But although I possess the means of hurling
the thunders of a terrible vengeance at your head, I
choose rather to render those means subservient to my
own interests. In a word, I demand my freedom—and
your all-powerful influence at the court must obtain it.”
“ You will find yourself in error, murderous reptile,
whom I could crush beneath my heel !“
“ And are not you a murderer also, my lord P” retorted
Anselm. “ Did not you permit Ida, your paramour, to
poison the child of which you were the father? It is not
necessary that a man should deal the blow or administer
tlhe venomed cup with his own hand to make him a mur-
( erer !”
“ Fool!” cried Faust, contemptuously: “ what. idle
tale is this with which thou thinkest to intimidate me P”
“It is no idle tale, my lord,” said Anselm, in a tone of
haughty confidence ; “ and thou knowest full well that I
speak truly. I hold the proofs of all I assert : the docu-
ment by which you acknowledge the child to be your own
-—the letters wherein its murder is arranged between Ida
and yourself ,—all are in my possession. Thou canst not
deny the facts which they proclaim; and, powerful
though you be, one word from my lips will consign the
high and wealthy Count of Aurana to a dungeon within
these walls.”
Faust smiled scornfully.
“ You are incredulous, my lord,” continued Father
Anselm, mistaking the meaning of that smile; “ behold
the papers to which I refer! I found them in the pos-
session of Gregory Walstein—the husband of your late
paramour, Ida !” I
And, as he spoke, he drew the documents from beneath
his garments.
“ I perceive that you hold papers which might seriously
compromise me,” said Faust, with an indifference which
somewhat staggered the prisoner; “and I can readily
understand the hopes which you build upon the posses-
sion of them. But I fear not the use which you make of

them. With one lance,“ continued Faust, proudly, “I 1
can shrivel up t ose papers in our hand—so that
scarcely even their very ashes slial remain ;—or I can
snatch them from you with as much ease as a giant would
take an object from the grasp of an infant l”
“ Your lordship must suppose that imprisonment has
turned my brain,thus to endeavour to intimidate me with
such idle vaunts,” exclaimed Anselm, in a menacing tone.
“ It is true that there is much mysterious and marvellous
about you; and especially have I ever since been at a 1055
to divine how you were enabled in the Castle of Saint
Angelo to tell the true tale of my escape from the dissect
ing-room nearly twenty-seven years ago. But I now defy
your wild and silly boast !”
“ Nay—I boast of no power which is not mine I" said
Faust, with the most provoking calmness.
And—strange phenomenon l—while he yet spoke, a lurid
glow suddenly spread over the papers which Anselm held
in his hand ; and in another moment they were entirely ‘
consumed.
“ Holy Virgin! what sorcery is this P” cried Anselm,
profoundly alarmed: then, recollecting himself, he said
in a ferocious tone, “ I have heard of parchments
chemically prepared to pass through certain processes ;
and alchemy can yield effects that may astonish the
vulgar mind. But on me, proud lord, that magic mum-
mery is thrown away; and though you have, by some
strange jugglery, destroyed the written proofs of your
crime, yet will I proclaim it with my voice if you refuse
to procure my freedom. Yes—the Countess of Aurana
shall learn that her husband, whom she loved so ten-l
derly, according to all report, was the seducer of Ida, and
connived at the murder of his own child! Choose, Faust,
between this dread exposure and the little effort that it
will cost you to restore me to liberty l”
“ I defy you—I scorn you, son of the gibbet !" cried
the Count. “ Do your worst!"
“ You will repent your insolence ~in thus daring me,
Faust," said the prisoner. “ The world—ev'er ready to
believe aught that militates against the characters of
great men, who are the world’s oppressors—will believe
my tale. And when, too, it is remembered how myste-
riously Ida met her death, will not the ten es of
scandal associate that deed with your name ? T ey will
say that the Count of Aurana was wearied of his mis-
tress, or afraid of her—and therefore assassinated her I"
“ Wretch !” cried Faust. “ I have the power to stop
those scandal-lovimr tongues as well as I could now hush
thine for ever, did I choose to exercise that power on one
so vile as thou !”
" No! gour chemical jugglery cannot stifle my voice!"
exclaime Anselm, foaming with rage. “ Hither comes
the gaoler—I hear him approaching : one word—will you
procure an order for my release P”
“Never!” returned Faust; and at that moment the
key turned in the door.
“ Then will I have no regard for you!” said Anselm;
“ and the world shall soon know that the Count of
Aurana is a inur ”
He ceased, and sank heavily upon the bench which was
close behind him—paralyzed by the terrible glance that
flashed like lightning from the eyes of Faust.
The door opened.
“ You would do well to procure medical assistance for
this miserable man,” said Faust, calmly; “for methinks
he is stricken as with a fit.” l
“ Indeed, my lord,” cried the gaoler, approaching the
prisoner, whose head had fallen forward upon the tablerl
then, at the expiration of a few moments, the man ex-‘
claimed, “He is dead! Ulric Kinis is no more; the devil‘
has got his due at last 1” l
Faust made no answer, but walked leisurely away from
the dungeon.

.—
CHAPTER LXXVII‘I. ,
OTTO'S RETURN TO LINSDORF CASTLE. ’
WE shall devote this chapter and the one following it tol
the narrative of a variety of circumstances, which, when!
thus disposed of, will enable us to take a leap of sever-all
years in the histo? of the Count of Aurana. l
The im ortant iscovery of the parentage of the Arch-l
duchess aria was a source of min led joy and melan-l
choly to herself, her affectionate Iiusband, and their
friends. While the certainty of her noble birth and high
origin was established on the one hand, the fearful
manner of her parents’ death was elucidated on the other.
Alas ! her generous-hearted father had perished by the
dagger of an assassin! and her mother—after languish


FAUST.
140
ing for weeks through all the phases of the most intense
suffering—had been cut off by the hand of the poisoner !
“ Peace be to their remains l” was the lady’s fervent
prayer.
Of all the individuals interested in this matter the only
one who scarcely devoted a thought to the untimely death
of Count Siglismund and the Countess Ildegarda—so over-
joyed was e at the discovery of the noble parentage of
the Archduchess—was the Emperor Maximilian ; and
from that period his nephew’s lovely wife became a
greater favourite than ever with the various members of
the imperial family.
The sudden death of Father Anselm, or rather of Ulric
Kinis—an occurrence which was attributed to a fit pro-
duced by excitement and the workings of his evil passions
—proved no barrier to the complete establishment of the
claims of the Archduchess upon the fief of Linsdorf ; in-
asmuch as the letter of Fritz, the narrative of Father
Anselm, the manuscript in the handwritin of the
Countess Ildegarda, and a variety of collatera circum-
stances, formed such a mass of evidence in roof of her
noble origin that not even the most astute awyer could
possibly raise a quibble in the case. Moreover, that
evidence soon received the most effectual corroboration—
the result of a strict scrutiny effected at the Castle of
Linsdorf itself. But of this in its place.
The Archduchess Maria was fervent and energetic in her
appeal to her husband in behalf of her uncle, Manfred.
“ He is the murderer of my parents,” she said; “and
it is to no sentiment of mercy on his part that I am in_
debt'ed for my own life. Still he is my relative—my late
father’s brother I"
“ I can appreciate as much as I admire the generous
feelings that prompt this intercession on your part,
dearest Maria,” returned the Archduke Leopold; “ but
the crimes of that man have been so numerous, so flagrant,
so black in dye, that it would be an insult to the laws of
the German Empire—an insult also to the throne of my
imperial uncle, who is himself the fountain of justice—to
allow Manfred of Linsdorf to escape. No, he must be
taken prisoner; but his life shall be spared, to enable him
to pass the remainder of his days in penitence and penance,
to which state of mind the solitude of a dungeon will
assuredly lead him.
The Archduchess urged her prayer no farther; and
Otto Pianalla set out with a small troop of the imperial
guards to effect the arrest of Manfred of Linsdorf.
The party travelled day and night, with the hope of
arriving at Kemberg ere the news sf Father Anselm’s re-
velations and the important discoveries recently made in
respect to Manfred's crimes should have reached that
neighbourhood; for Otto knew enough of Manfred’s
:haracter to be fully convinced that he would shut him-
;elf up in his fortress, and defend it to the very last, were
be forewarned of the explosion that had taken place and of
:he storm that was gathering so quickly over his head.
But there were no newspapers in those times ; printing
was in its infancy; postal means of communication were
wt in existence ; and tidings of events were only circulated
)y the travellers who passed through the various places
11 their way.
The reader need not therefore be surprised when we in-
orm him that Otto Pianalla and his band of twelve
prickers of the imperial guard did actually reach the Black
éwan at Kemberg before the news which so seriously
blfBCtC‘d the usurper of the broad lands of Linsdorf.
Herman, the landlord of that tavern, was greatly
,stonished when he recognised Otta Pianalla in the person
LlldQl‘ whose orders the party of guardsmen were placed ;
,nd his surprise was materially augmented when the
young artist showed him the rescript of Father Anselm.
“ The command shall be obeyed, good Messer Pianalla,”
aid the landlord, respectfully, placing the document to
llS lips ; “ but in the name of the Virgin ! what does all
his mean P”
“ Ask no questions, Herman,” replied Otto; “ but see
hat the task enjoined thee in that paper he spicedin and
aithfull y performed. Rumour will soon enoug enlighten
bee in many strange ways. And forgive me for hinting
hat any cross purpose on your part—any foul play,
[ermau—will be summarily avenged; for those brave
zllows who are now refreshing themselves in the public
30111, after a long and wearysome journey, are under
iy command; and should the rescript I have handed to
tree be insufficient to urge thee to prompt obedience I
any that authority about me which thou wouldst resist
t thy peril."
Thus speaking, Otto displayed to the view of the
stonished Herman an imperial warrant, granting “full

powers to our tried and faithful servant, the excellent
Messer Pianalla, to act as seemeth fit to him in all matters
touching the affairs of Manfred of Linsdorf, whilome
known as Count of that fief ; to make all perquisitions
and effect all arrests that may be necessary for the
furtherance of the aims of justice ; and to obtain the as-
sistance of all local chiefs and district authorities, with
their military contingencies, in case of need."
“ The rescript of Father Anselm,” said Herman, with
a pale countenance—for vague fears now oppressed his
mind, although he knew not precisely of what danger he
was afraid—“is alone sufficient to induce me to act in
the manner required.
He would gladly have asked divers questions, but dared
not—~for Otto’s manner was less friendly than it was on
the last occasion of his visit to the Black Swan.
Indeed, the young man looked upon Herman with sus-
picion and aversion, because he now knew him to be a
member of that tremendous league which had established
a hideous secret despotism throughout Germany.
Herman repaired in person, and without delay, to Lins-
dorf Castle. It ' not necessary to narrate the tale which
he devised to in uce Manfred to repair with him to the
inn; suffice it to say that, after a short absence, he re-
turned to the Black Swan, accompanied by the usurper.
The instant Manfred set foot within the tavern, he was
accosted by Otto Pianalla, who said to him, “ You are my
prisoner! In the name of hisImperial Majesty I arrest
you !”
“ What means this insolence P” cried Manfred, laying
his hand upon his sword.
“ Resistance is vain,” said Otto, calmly, as he threw
open the door of the public room, and pointed to the im-
periacl1 guards, who were gathered there. “ Surrender your
swor .”
“ Of what crime am I accused P” demanded Manfred,
his face becoming livid, as he gave up his weapon.
“ I will explain to you in private the causes of your
arrest," said Otto.
The fallen man mechanically led the way to the parlour
up-stairs, the artist following him closely.
When they were alone together, Pianalla addressed
him in an impressive manner—-
“ Manfred of Linsdorf, you are accused of the murder
of your elder brother and his wife, Ildegarda. Providence
has brought your crimes to light. The Archduchess
Maria is the true Countess of Linsdorf, and you are an
usurper of her rights and estates. Your own agents in
the blackest turpitude have become the instruments of
heaven in unravelling the skein of mystery and atrocity.
Hugo and Ulric Kinis—" -
“ Ulric Kinis—Father Anselm !” cried the prisoner,
trembling from head to foot, and scarcely able to utter a
word, as these terrible revelations met his ears. “ He
disappeared from Linsdorf—on the night when Caesar
Borgia escaped with the mute— and—”
“ That pretended mute was myself,“ cried Otto ; “ and
when Ulric Kinis disappeared in a manner which seems
to have been so mysterious to yourself he was my pri~
soner! Since that eriod he has confessed all—and he is
now_no more! He led suddenly in the criminal prison
of Vienna.”
The usurper made no reply ; the thunder-cloud had
broken over his head with such fearful abruptuess—such
appalling violence—that he was overwhelmed—crushed
—stupefied. The unprincipled, reckless, daring, valiant
Manfred of Linsdorf had suddenly become weak, power-
less, and prostrate as was Sampson when the charm that
gave him strength was removed with his flowing hair.
Otto summoned two of his guards to keep watch over
the fallen man, while he departed to accomplish a solemn
duty which had been enjoined him, ere he quitth Vienna,
by the Archduchess Maria.
The artist, accompanied by half a dozen of the imperial
soldiers, hastened to Linsdorf Castle.
Arrived at the gate of that fortress, he said to the
astonished sentinels, “ Your late master is a prisoner
under the warrant of his Majesty the Emperor, and I
come to take possession of the castle in the name of its
rightful owner, the Archduchess Maria, who is the
daughter and heiress of Count Sigismund and the Countess
Ildegarda.”
Otto then exhibited certain papers which showed his
authority thus to act; and the sentinels offered not the
slightest resistance.
Upon entering the castle, Otto commanded Dame
Winifred to be immediately arrested. When this order
was executed, he repaired to the chapel, accompanied by
his guards and some of the dependants of the fortress, the


150
‘FAUST.

latter of whom were provided with the necessary imple-
ments to execute his present purpose. .
The family vault of the lords of Linsdorf was soon
entered ; and Otto, lighted by the torches which his fol-
lowers bore, searched for the two coilins which had last
been deposited in that sanctuary for the dead.
The vault was spacious; upwards of a hundred and
fifty male and females who had borne the name of Lins-
dorf had found a last home in that sepulchre.
The coflins were placed in large receptacles, or arched
hollows, along the sides of a vaulted stone passage. In
those niches which were nearest to the entrance scarcely
a handful of ashes remained; but as the visitors to the
tomb proceeded farther into its depths, they found coflins
in a better state of preservation. _
Solemn and impressive was that lesson of the pr0gressive
influence of decomposition and decay!
Towards the end of the vault the coflins were almost
perfect—but covered with dust, and producing the sicken-
ing impression upon the mind that they only _needed one
rude touch of a human hand to fall in and display their
rotting contents. ._ '
At length the last two of the occupied niches were
reached.
Over the penultimate were suspended the casque, the
shield, and the sword once worn by him whose remains
were now yielding to the insect and the worm within the
dust-covered cofiin. _
“ These must have been the arms of Count Sigismund of
Linsdorf !” said Otto, in a low and solemn tone.
He then ordered those who accompanied him to break
open the lid of the last coffin of all in that long row of the
decaying ancestry of a noble house. _
“ Behold!” he said, retreating a few steps to enable his
companions to examine it also; “ this eoflin contains
naught but stones and dirt. And yet the words ‘ Lady
Ildcgarda, Countess of Linsdorf, and Her lnjant Daughter,’
are upon the lid! "
He then ordered his followers to remove the coffin from
the vault, empty it of the rubbish it contained, and convey
it to the chapel—adding, “ it will be required presently.”
This important duty being accomplished, the artist re-
paired with his followers to the tower of the donjon, in
which the prison-chamber was situate. I
They entered a vault beneath the tower, and the men,
who were provided with spades and pickaxes, speedin but
carefully dug up the earth. .
The others watched them in profound Silence ; for only
Otto and the guards were acquainted with the motives of
these proceedings. _ _
At length a skull was turned up; and in a short time a
complete set of human bones were gathered from the
depths of the soil.
“ Those are the remains of the late Countess Ildegarda
of Linsdorf,” said Otto. “ This unfortunate but virtuous
lady and her noble husband were bascly murdered by
command of Manfred, who has so long usurped the estates
thus acquired by the blackest crimes."
The retainers of the fallen Count crossed themselves,
and exchanged looks of speechless horror. '
Otto now ordered the bones to be decently wrapped in
a linen shroud and a velvet pall, and placed in the coffin
which had been previously removed from the vault to the
cha cl.
are then despatched a messenger, mounted on a swift
horse, with a note to the Baron of Rosenthal ; he himself,
and the six guardsmen who were with him, taking up
their temporary abode at Linsdorf Castle. _
Late that evening the Baron of Rosenthal, accompanied
by his chaplain, and attended by an escort befitting his
rank, arrived at the fortress which had so long been in
the hands of his mortal enemy.
The Baron was not particularly astonished when he
heard the history of all those strange incidents which
had hurled Manfred from his usurped eminence ; inas-
much as certain rumours, which had long been current
in the district, and the contents of the manuscript which
his daughter Theresa had shown him, had more or less
aroused in his mind suspicions of the real truth con-
nectcd with the foul pla that had led to Manfrcd’s ele-
vation.
from Otto that the same events which led to the exposure
of the usurper’s crimes had also established the true
parent-age of the Archduchess Maria, the once obscure
and friendless orphan whom the late Baroness had re-
ceived through charity into Rosenthal.
‘ At midnight a solemn ceremony took place in the
chapel of Linsdorf Castle—the remains of the Countess
Ildegarda were consigned to the family vault. The
But he was pro oundly surprised when he learnt

Baron of Rosenthal’s chaplain (who had accompanied his
noble master to Linsdorf in compliance with a request to
that effect expressed in Otto’s note to the Baron) per-
formed the funeral serviec in a solemn and impressive
manner. Thus many, many years after it was first mad»,
on the sup ition that it was to contain the mortal re-
mains of t e Countess, that coflin at len receive!
the ashes of the murdered lady. A new an suitable in-
scri tion was placed upon it; and it was then consigned
to t e niche w ich it had already occupied for so long a
period, and where it had only existed as a solemn mockery
until now !
On the following morning Otto prepared for his depar-
ture. He had acquitted himself of certain 60111111158th;
entrusted to him by the Lady Theresa for her father: he
had delivered to the Baron the letters which his daughti-r
had sent, in reply to those of which Otto had been thr-
bearer from the Baron to the Countess on the previou;
occasion of his visit to that neighbourhood. In these
letters Theresa assured her father that she was quite
happy, and that her husband had lately absented him-
selgfrom her much less than he had been previously wont
to o. ' .
Otto had another commission to execute in respect to
the Baron of Rosenthal. This was to deliver into his
hands a dcspatch direct from the Emperor Maximilian.
The Baron perused it, and said, “ You are doubtless ac-
quainted with the contents of this document 3’"
“ It relates to the Duke of Valentinois and his sister.
if I mistake not,” retiu'ned Otto. “ And the mention of
their name reminds me that when the Duke escaped from
this fortress through my agency he left behind him a
dependant ” ~
“ One Michelotto,” interrupted the Baron, “ whom
Manfred set free the very day when you took your depar-
ture from Rosenthal, on the occasion of your last visit
to this district. The document which his Imperial
Majesty has sent me, his faithful servant, command
that the Duke of Valentinois and the Princess Lucreza
be enjoined to quit the German Empire within a reason-
able period. I cannot assert that thesc instructions
grieve me," continued the Baron; “for, sooth tosay, ti“-
Italians are not company to my taste. Ever since the
arrival of the Duke, I have lived in constant alarm lest
it should lease him to subject my life to some chemical
test, and rop a little of his peculiar fluid into my cup or
mingle one of his powders with my favourite dishes. As
for his sister, she turns the heads of my pages ; and
Michelotto does naught save quarrel with Dewitz on
points of military tactics. In aword, cod Otto, I shall be
well pleased when they turn their bac 's u on my abode.”
With these words the Baron wrung t e hand of the
artist, and took his de arture from Linsdorf.
Otto then proceed to make the necessary arrange-
ments to establish the ofiiccr of the imperial guards, who
had accompanied him from Vienna, in the governmen‘.
of the castle, until the flu-ther pleasure of the Archduke
Leopold should be known. This matter being satisfac‘
torily settled, he repaired to the oratory communicating
with the prison-chamber in the donjon, and took charge
of the portraits of Count Sigismund and the Countes.
Ildegarda, for the purpose of conveying them to Vienna.
Having thus accomplished the numerous duties and
commissions entrusted to him, Pianalla returned to the
Black Swan at Kemberg, attended by two of the imperial
guards (the other four remaining behind in charge of the
castle). Dame Winifred also accompanied him as his
prisoner, and maintained a stubborn silence, her passion-
less countenance giving no indication of what was passini:
in her mind. And yet, accused as she was of being an
accomplice in the crimes of her late master, her position
was far from an enviable one.
Scarcely liad'the little party reached the gate of the
Black Swan when one of the guards who had remained
behind to keep watch upon the prisoner Manfred, hastened
to encounter the artist, exclaiming, “ Oh! Messer
Pianalla, he has died in a manner worthy of his life—:1
death of violence !”
“What P—Manfred--—" exclaimed Otto, impatiently,
for al suspicion of the truth instantly flashed across hi:
min . ‘
“Manfred is no more 2” said the soldier. “ He had
small but sharp dagger concealed about his person ; an:
ten minutes have not elapsed since he inflicted a suddel
and mortal blow upon himself 2” ‘
Otto hastened to the room where he had left Manfr
on the preceding day ; and one glance was sufficient f
him to read in the spectacle that met his eyes a sad co

V firmation of the words of the soldier. i


FA US T.
151

The once proud and powerful Count of Linsdorf was no f
more !
_-_
CHAPTER LXXIX.
A mess or FIFTEEN YEARS.
OTTO PIANALLA, the eight guards who returned with
him, and his prisoner Winifred, arrived at Vienna in the
month of November. This it must be remembered oc-
curred in the year 1497.
Having lodged the female accomplice of the late Count’s
crimes in the criminal prison, he proceeded to the palace
of the Archduke, and was received by that prince and the
beautiful Maria with the most cordial welcome.
He narrated the particulars of all that had occurred at
Linsdorf Castle and Kemberg ; and the tears of the Arch-
duchess flowed fast as he described in the most delicate
manner possible, the proceedings in the vault, the ex-
humation of the bones beneath the donjon tower, and the
subsequent funeral. Then he presented to her the por-
traits which he had brought with great care from Lins-
dorf; and the orphan daughter’s grief was diminished by
the consolatory thought of possessing those representa-
tions of her deceased parents.
Though a mere combination of colours upon pieces of
canvas, yet how eloquently did the eyes, the lips, and the
lofty foreheads of those portraits s )eak to her who now
contemplated them with a melane oly pleasure and a
holy resignation !
And when she turned towards Leopold, and beheld his
eyes affectionately fixed upon her, she felt that although
she had never known the tender cares of a father or
mother, yet that the love of a husband was a blessing
which God had vouchsafed her, and which Heaven had
given her as a recompense for the past !
Dame Winifred was brought to trial in due course, upon
a charge of having served as the accomplice of the late
Count Manfred in the captivity and murder of the Lady
Ildegarda. She maintained her usual apathetic de-
meanour in the presence of the judges, and neither acknow-
ledged nor denied her guilt. Nor did her countenance vary
a single shade when she heard herself condemned to im-
prisonment in a convent for the remainder of her days.
We must now rapidly dispose of a few events—whic are
not, however, unimportant—in order to clear the way so
as to enable us to take a leap with respect to time, which
will bring us to the most strange and interesting portion
of our narrative.
In the first place let us say a few words relative to
Otto Pianalla.
The great services which he had performed, and the
active part he had taken in establishing the true parent-
age of the Archduchess Maria—the friendship with which
he was now regarded by the Archduke——the interest
excited in his favour by his amiable qualities, his faultless
character, and hisgenerous nature—and the fame which
he had also acquired by his dauntless conduct in effecting
the rescue of the Baron of Czernin from a captivity until
then hopeless—all these circumstance combined to render
the Emperor most anxious to honour and reward so
deserving a young man.
But Otto firmly, though respectfully, refused alike
title and pension. He declared that no bread was so
sweet as that which was earned by activity and diligence;
and he possessed a far more extensive range of patronage
as an artist than he had ever hoped to acquire, or whose
orders he could ever meet. For all the great nobles of
Vienna and the neighbourhood were anxious to secure
paintings at the hands of one who not only enjoyed the
friendship of the Archduke Leopold and the favour of the
Court, but who was also endowed with talents of the
highest order in his particular department.
Otto did not, however, immediately commence his pro-
fessional avocations in Vienna. No : he first absented
himself for a few months : he once more traversed Car-
niola, and crossed the Julian Alps into Italy. And when
he returned to the German metropolis in the spring of
1498, he came not back alone!
Nina Mazzini, the daughter of the humble Italian
peasant who accompanied him during his memorable ad-
ventures in the Julian Alps, had become his bride.
Then, with his young and lovely wife, he established
himself in Vienna, and soon justified byhis paintings the
high opinion formed of his first productions as an artist.
He grew rich rapidly; and he did not refuse the wealth
that he thus acquired by his own exertions. But wealth
in his hands was a general blessing; for where there was




want in the German capital thither would flow succour
from his purse ! At the palace of the Archduke and the
mansion of the Baron of Czernin both himself and his
wife were ever welcome guests; and though but little
cordiali-ty existed between him and Faust, yet Theresa
experienced the most sincere friendship for the generous
Otto and the pretty Nina.
It was at the beginning of the year 1504 that the Baron
of Rosenthal was gathered to his fathers. He had been
sojourning for upwards of six months at the mansion of
the Count and Countess of Aurana; and he died in the
arms of his daughter, after a short but fatal illness.
Thus the fief 0f Rosenthal passed into the hands of the
Count and Countess of Aurana.
The same year was signalised by an event which we
must place on record here. Caesar Borgia, Duke of Va-
lentinois, after a series of vicissitudes and a variety of
wanderings in different countries, was taken prisoner by
the Spaniards. He was consigned to a fortress in Seville,
where he was severely treated by the governor. Im-
patient of this tyranny the Duke resolved to effect his
escape. One day he requested the attendance of a priest,
being anxious, as he declared, to confess his numerous
crimes. A monk accordingly waited upon him; Cmsar
killed him with a blow of his fist, took the cowl from the
body of the murdered man, put it on himself, drew the
; hood over his face, and csca ed without molestation.
But Caesar did not ensure llS freedom by this atrocious
deed for any length of time. Deprived of the services of
his faithful Michelotto, from whom he had been acci-
dentally separated some time before, he appeared to have
lost half his cunning qualities. He knew not how to
secure by skill the liberty he had acquired by violence.
He was speedily recaptured, and conveyed to the strong
fortalice of Medina-del-Campo.
There he languished for two years, forgotten by all his
former friends. Kings had once sought his friendship:
he was now a neglected captive. 130, not altogether
neglected: he had one faithful adherent left! This was
Michelotto, who discovered the place of his master’s im-
prisonment, and determined to enable him to escape.
Aocordingl ,- one morning in the year 1506, Caesar re-
ceived an intimation of the presence of his faithful sbirro
in the neighbourhood. On breaking the leaf placed upon
his breakfast-table, the Duke found a file and a small
bottle. These two articles were sufficient for Cresar
Borgia. He used the file upon the bars of his window
during the day; and in the evening Don Manuel, the
governor of the fortress, ap cared as usual to sup with
the Prince, to whom he hac conceived an attachment.
The contents of the phial were poured into the governor’s
cup at a moment when his head was turned; and in a few
minutes Don Manuel was no more!
Caesar hastened to form a rope by cutting up his
blankets, sheets, and table linen, and ere midnight he.
joined his faithful dependant outside the walls of Medina-
del~Campo.
Michelotto had horses in readiness; and by their aid
the Duke, accompanied by his dependant, gained the
frontiers of Navarre, and was kindly received by John
D’Albert, the king of that country.
In the year 1507, Prince Alarino, one of the vassals of
the Hing of Navarre, revolted against his sovereign ; and
Borgia took the command of the troops against the in-
surgent force. A conflict ensued at some place, the name
of which 13 not recorded in history, but which is not far
distant from a little village called Viana; and the Duke
of Valentinois was slain. His faithful Michelotto imme-
diately assumed the command of the Navarrese, and well
avenged the death of his beloved master upon the rebels.
Thus perished Caesar Borgia, on the 10th of March,
1507, in an insignificant contest with the insurgent vas-
sals of a petty prince, and on a field whose name is for-
gotten ! Sic transit gloria mimdi!
Lucreza Borgia married the Duke of Ferrara, and took
up her abode in that beautiful city.
We shall meet her again the course of the ensuing por—
tion of our tale.
Our narrative had reached the end of November, 1497,
at the commencement of this chapter. We have briefly
related the leading incidents of some subsequent epochs ;
but from the first mentioned date we are about to take a
long—long leap of fifteen years.
This will bring us nearly to the close of the year 1512.
Nineteen years of the period which had formed so dread
a condition in the compact between the Demon and Faust
had therefore passed away—nineteen years of love, plou-
sure, power, and luxury!
Five years now only remained to him!


FA UST.
1535
same scene! And young—very young though we be still,
-——yet how often have we seen that ove whereon the
de arting beams are playing, drop its leaves, remain
nafied and bare for weeks as it now seems, and then
resume the verdure of s ring again! Human hopes are
shed like those leaves; ut the tree of life never buds
with them more !”
“ You are melancholy this evening, dear Maximilian,”
said the maiden, endeavouring to read with her own
melting blue eyes in the depths of the intelligent hazel
orbs of her lover.
“ No, dearest ; but this is a solemn hour,” returned the
young Prince; “ and when darkness comes gradually on;
it appears to steal with a melancholy—and even a fore-
boding influence over the soul.”
“ Foreboding!” repeated Adela. “Oh! why should you
use that word r‘ If the darkness fall upon the earth and
remain there forafew hours, does it not yield to the dawn
again ? And in like manner, if a cloud envelope the soul,
does not heaven sooner or later send the blessed rays of
its own bright hopes to dis el that temporary gloom '1’”
At this moment the folding-doors were thrown open;
domestics entered with lights; Maximilian and Adela
withdrew from the window, on which the curtains were
immediately drawn by those dependants: and in a few
minutes afterwards the Archduke' Leopold, Faust, the
Archduchess, and Theresa entered the room.
CHAPTER LXXXI.
THE APPEAL ox BEHALF or THE LOVERS.
FIFTEEN years had worked little difference in the appear-
ance of the Count of Aurana.
His face was handsome as when it first made an im-
pression upon the heart of Theresa; not a streak of grey
was ap arent in his chestnut hair; nor was the li ht
dimm in his blue eyes. His form was still sleu er,
graceful, and upright ; but on his brow there was a liue~
almost imperceptible, it is true—nevertheless, there was a
line traced b the finger of care upon that high and in-
telligent fore cad.
He had suffered much—even if he had enjoyed intervals
of voluptuous delight and luxurious pleasure, for we can-
not give the name of “ happiness ” to those sensual grati-
fieations which he sought in order to drown awhile the one
dread conviction that weighed upon him like a curse!
He was still young—in the prime and vigour of life ;
and yet he knew that in afew short years he must die—he
must meet his fate—and what a death—what a fate!
Roman history tells us of an emperor who was accus-
tomed to exclaim “ I have lost a day !” whenever he had
passed from sunrise to sunset without performing a good
action. And Faust also thought that 0 had lost a day,
when he had allowed that interval to elapse without
lasting some new pleasure—without discovering some new
enjoyment.
Oh! how he now grudged every hour of his existence;
how eagerly did he reckon every day—every week—every
month that remained to him in this life! Fain would he
have fled from the harrowing thought of his approaching
doom ; but it pursue'l him—as a remorse haunts the mur-
derer! Never did miser count his gold with more avarice
nor dole it out more niggardly, than Faust now dealt with
his time. Time to him was everything; its lapse was
pregnant with fearful warnings and terrible reflections.
By means of the superhuman powers within his grasp,
he was enabled to enjoy much varied pleasure and de-
bauchery, without palpany neglecting his wife. A word
transported him to the far-off places of the earth, where
he indulged for a few hours, or a few days, in all the
sensual delights of those climes ; and a word brought him
home again—quicker—oh! how much more quickly than
the passage of the eagle through the realms of space.
But though Theresa suspected not the infidelities of
which he was guilty, and never had seen the least cause to
suspect the nature of the voluptuous pursuits in which
he plunged so constantly—still she was far from being
completely happy. She had perceived for years that some
secret weighed upon her husband’s soul: his feverish
dreams b night, and his fits of black moodiuess by day,
r-onvinc her that, in spite of his boundless prosperity,
his immense wealth, and the honours heaped upon him by
the Court, he was not tranquil in his mind.
Moreover, she observed that he never prayed—that he
never attended a place of worship—and that his counte-
nance suddenly assumed an expression of ineffablc agony
whenever he was questioned upon that subject.
With the affection of a wife, she had endeavoured to
learn the cause of those fits of mental oppression which

often seized upon him; with the sincerity of a Christian she
had urged him to pour forth his soul to the Deity :—but he
had met her questions and her prayers with such strange
and unintelligible aversion, that years had now elapsed
since she had ventured to touch upon those subjects.
Still she thought not the less—her meditations were not
the less painful; but, careful to avoid wounding the feel-
ings of her husband and her friends, she retained her
sorrows in her own breast, and endeavoured to conceal
their existence beneath a smiling countenance.
With her the lapse of fifteen years had displayed its
effects far more than on her husband. But then he would
have become gray~bowed—and decrepit, long ere his
prime, with the weight of the curse that lay upon his
soul, had it not been for the superhuman power which he
had purchased so dearly.
Theresa was still beautiful; but her countenance was
pale, and even carcworn ; and her form had wasted,
rather than expanded, with maturity.
The Archduke had grown into what would be called in
these times a very fine man—somewhat stout withal, but
retaining the symmetry of his person and the handsome
east of his countenance.
Maria had expanded from the beautiful girl into the
splendid woman; and time sat lightly upon her.
We must not forget to observe that the two mothers
had never been able to conquer that preference which
each felt for the child (as they supposed) of the other—a
preference that commenced so soon after the births of
Maximilian and Adela! As the children grew up, that
predilection increase", and was a source of great dis-
comfort alike to Theresa and Maria. They often spoke
of it in secret; they mingled their tears together when
they discoursed on feelings to them incomprehensible;
and they reproached themselves for a natural demon~
stration of affection, the true springs of which were un-
sus ectcd by them.
ey had, however, two sources of solace in respect to
this interchange of sentiments; for an interchan e did it
appear to them—inasmuch as Theresa fancied t at she
loved Maria’s son better than her own daughter, and on
her side Maria believed that her heart yearned more
towards Theresa’s daughter than to her own son.
These sources of solace were the representations of the
priests to whom they confessed themselves, and the hope
that the marriage of Maximilian and Adela might as it
were render the predilection above alluded to somewhat
more legitimate in the eyes of the mothers respectively.
The priests—two excellent and well-meaning men——
assured both Theresa and Maria that God had created.
within them, and for his own wise and mysterious pur-
poses, the feelings of preference in respect to the children;
and these representations were sufficient to impart much
consolation to we men deeply imbued with a sense of the
religion in which they had been brought up. ,
Having recorded these few observations, which were
necessary to explain some of the effects of the lapse of
fifteen years that has occurred in our narrative, we will
now proceed with the thread of the history.
The party whom we left in the splendid saloon at Aurana
mansion—namely, the Archduke and Archduchess, Faust
and Theresa, Maximilian and Adela,—-seated themselves
at the table, on which the domestics placed wines, cake,
confectionery, and preserves.
The servants then withdrew; for, on these occasions,
friendly conversation displaced cold ceremony, and those
who formed the little party chose not to be embarrassed
by the presence of dependants.
“ Believe me, Count," said the Archduke, resuming the
thread of a discourse which had been commenced in an-
other apartment ere the arents joined the young lovers,—
“ believe mc, Count, t lat you entertain unnecessary
scruples in delaying the happiness of our children. You
imagine that they are yet too young to be united. Will
you maintain that they do not know their own minds 1’—
that they are incapable of judging of their own hearts P”
Maximilian and Adela exchanged tender, glances as
these words met their ears; but at the same time their
countenanees were suffused with blushes.
“ Behold them I” continued the Archduke, smiling ;
“ did you ever know more fervent attachment? My dear
friend, they seem as if they were made for each other.”
“ They have been constant companions since their
birth,” said the Archduchess, “ and their friendship has
ripened into a more earnest feeling. I beseech you, my
lord, not to place a barrier in the way of their happiness.’ ’
And as she thus spoke, Maria looked tenderly at the
lpgeeirs; but her glance dwelt longer upon the countenance of
.k a.


154
FA US T.

-
“ Wilhelm,” observed Theresa, taking up the argument
in her turn, “ you cannot resist these appeals. His Im-
perial Highness confers an honour upon us by so ear-
nestly pressing the union of his son with our daughter;
and the sincere friendship which has now so long existed
between the two families will be cemented and strength-
ened—if possible-by the ties of relationship thus created.
I beseech you, Wilhelm, not to delay a ceremony that
will render those children happy.”
And Theresa looked fondly at the lovers as she spoke;
but her glance dwell longer upon the countenance of Maori-
milian.
" For my part,” excLaimed the Archduke, “I cannot
perceive how you can possibly refuse our united requests,
my dear Count. At the same time, I respect your
scruples as a father ; but I consider them to be un-
founded. The fortunes of our children are assured ; they
will enter upon their experience of the great world under
circumstances the most favourable ; and the usual argu-
ments that militate against youthful marriages apply not
in this case. If our appeals to you be not sufficient, then
glance at that fond pair—read in their eyes the attach-
ment they bear towards each other—and let them, if it be
necessary, plead their own cause. It was for this purpose
I proposed ere now that we should join them here: it is
with this view that I have discussed the subject thus
frankly in their presence.”
The youthful lovers knelt at the feet of Faust, who had
listened in silence, but not without deep emotion, to the
appeals thus made to him.
He was cruelly embarrassed.
To refuse the request of the Archduke, who sought an
alliance with his family, would be to insult the good
prince ;-—to find substantial excuses for further delay was
impossible.
And there, too, were the lovers now kneeling before
him, and turning their blushing countenances up to him
in‘a manner that none could resist without the imputa-
tion of unnecessary cruelty. Moreover, Faust loved his
son tenderly—that son whom he dared not claim as such !
“ Rise, Adela—rise, Maximilian,” he exclaimed, driven
almost to desperation; “ to-morrow, at mid-day, I will
give you my answer; and this short delay I must crave
from the friendshi of the Archduke.”
With these wor s the Count rose abruptly from his
chair and left the room—unable any longer to subdue
those feelings which agitated him so profoundly.
“ Holy Virgin ! what can thus unsettle my husband?”
cried Theresa. “ I will follow him——hc may be ill!”
And she hurried from the apartment.“
_—
CHAPTER LXXXH.
FAUST AND THERESL
FAUST rushed along the lofty and well-lighted passage
from which the principal saloons 0f the mansion opened;
his brain was whirling ;—the glare of the brilliant lamps
seemed to madden him.
At that moment he felt as if utter darkness and solitude
would be most congenial to his mind; he revolted from
the reflection of his own person in the mirrors which
graced that magnificent corridor. He loathed himself!
Hastin turning from the passage, and unaware that he
was followed, he entered an apartment where there was
no light; and throwing himself on the sofa, exclaimed
aloud, “ Wretch l—wretch that I am! Oh! never did I feel
the horrors of my criminal condition so acutely as now !"
Theresa had followed him; she was about to speak to
him—to implore him to say what secret grief oppressed
him, just at the moment when those words, so strange
and terrible in their emphatic self-accusation, fell upon
her ears.
As if a thunderbolt had suddenly fallen near her, she
sank upon her knees, and, joining her hands together,
pra ed in silence.
T e room was spread with a thick carpet in which the
feet sank deeply; and Theresa’s movements were there-
fore inaudible to her husband, who remained totally un-
conscious of her presence.
His mind, moreover, was in such a state of distraction
and despair—a prey to feelings of so agonizmg a nature
——that even had she sunk heavily upon an uucarpeted
floor, it was not likely he would have noticed the sound.
Theresa did not wish to play the part of an caves-
dropper ; she would have scorned—spurned such an idea,
had she been capable of tranquil reflection—but those
terrific and mysterious words—the more terrific because so
mysterious-that fell upon her ear, stifled all that she was
about to utter—paralysed her --—a1m0st prostrated her.

“ Yes,” continued Faust, still speaking aloud—and it
was evident by his enunciation that he groimd his teeth
with bitter anguish as he spoke—“ I am a wretch~the
veriest wretch that crawls upon the face of the earth!
The meanest beggar, grovelling in his rags and wallowing
in filth, is happier than the Count of Aurana. Happier
-oh! ten thousand-“thousand times happier than I;—
and would that I could exchange conditions with him!
What am I to do? how am I to act? I am distracted!
And not a friend—no, not a friend whom I can consult
—to whom I may impart the dread secret of my fate!
Must my terrible destiny involve in mystery all who con-
nect themselves with me P—must I cause the wretched-
ness of that youthful pair—s0 fond—s0 attached ? And
yet how can I assent to their nuptials—I, who dare not
be present at the ceremony! ()h ! that I could recall
the past~that I could undo all that is done ! Ah !
Theresa—Theresa, thou knowest not how fearful was the
sacrifice that I made to gain thee !”
“ My dear—dearest husband !” murmured a sweet voice
in his ear; and at the same instant warm arms were
thrown round his neck -a face touched his-and hot
tears fell upon his cheeks.
“ Theresa! is this you P” cried Faust, grasping her
arms with convulsive violence, and speaking in a tone
which denoted horror and dismay.
“ Yes, Wilhelm, I have heard all !” murmured Theresa;
“ and now I know that you are unhappy!”
“ All I” exclaimed Faust, disengaging himself from her
embrace, and starting frantically to his feet : “ all !—y0u
have heard all! But what have you heard ?——for I know
not what I said ; I was mad~distracted! Speak, Theresa
Hspcak !" he added, violently ; “ what have you heard 1*”
“That you are unhappy—that your fate is a terrible
one~that you dare not permit the nuptials of those dear
children, because you cannot be present at the ceremony
—and that I know not how fearlul a sacrifice you made
to ain me!"
heresa. uttered these sentences with strange rapidity
and alarming vehemence of manner.
“ And that was all !" cried Faust. “I said no more;
I mentioned no cause of unhappiness—I—"
“ You said no more," returned Theresa, whose threat
was parched, and whose voice sounded thick and even
hoarse, that voice usually so harmonious: “ 'ou said no
more, Wilhelm—but, oh! how terrible were t ose words
to which you gave utterance. Tell me—tcll me, I con-
jure you—as your wife, I implore you—tell me the cans.-
of your unhappiness—reveal to me the secret which
makes your fate terrible!”
And she clung to him —-she wound her arms round him
—as she spoke; her grief was dreadful!”
Faust hesitated: he was touched—deeply touched by
this demonstration of profound attachment on the par.v
of his wife. He had never ceased to love her cutirely;
and he now felt how sweet it would be to receive con-
solation from one who was so sincerely devoted to him.
“No~no-it is impossible!" he exclaimed aloud, in
answer to the evanescent promptings ' of his soul.
“ Theresa—ask me no more—I implore you! I dare not
confide in you i”
“ Refuse me not—keep not secret any longer the SOIll‘Ce
of your unhap iness !" cried Theresa. “ Am I not worthy
of your conth ence? do I not love you? have I not ever
loved you since first we met? Oh ! believe me, Wilhelm,
my heart has undergone no change in respect to you, for
you are as dear to me as ever!"
“ Theresa, you will drive me mad!” ejaculated Faust,
endeavouring to break away from her.
“ No, you shall not leave me thus!” she cried—nay,
almost screamed, as she clung more tightly to him than
before: “ I cannot live in that state of suspense to which ,
you would condemn me by your silence! For years I
have seen that you were unhappy—and I have wept in
secret; I have not obtruded my grief upon you. But
now—now that you have dropped words of such fearful
but mysterious import—now that I have learnt from
your own lips that some spell controls your destiny—oh!
do not leave me in doubt and uncertainty—lest I imagine
things even more horrible than the truth can possibly be."
“All your imaginiugs could not conceive things more
horrible than that truth, Theresa!” said Faust, in a low
and hollow tone, which sounded awfully and ominously
in the utter darkness of that apartment.
“Holy Virgin! what do you mean?” cried Theresa,
with a shudder. “ And why do you start so convulsively
at the ejaculation which terror wrung from me? Oh!
Wilhelm, are sacred names abhorrent to your cars F”
“ N o—no !” exclaimed Faust, With wild impatience;


FA US 1'.
155
“but 'mention them not! Let me begone, Theresa—let
m0 . I,
And again he struggled to escape from her; but she
clung with impassioned tenacity to his neck.
“We must not separate thus—we must not separate
yet,” she said, in a low and more collected tone than
before. “ It would be a horrible cruelty on your part to
leave me in this state of doubt and fearful suspense. It
would drive me mad ! Whatever the truth be, confide in
me—in your wife ! If you be unfortunate, cannot I console
you P And if you be criminal, cannot I pray for you F”
“ ThGI'OSHr-‘ThOl'GSIL —you know not what you say!”
cried Faust. “ Pray for mel—thou wouldst pray for
me! Why—the mere words wouldblister thy tongue!”
And he laughed hysterically.
“ Oh! Wilhelm—now you frighten me more than
ever !" shricked Theresa. “ That laugh—my God !
what meant that fearful laugh ? Say—why did you
laugh as if in mockery at the idea of prayer? You do
not answer me :' there is something more terrible in your
silence than even in your laugh! Why should I not
pray for you? Do not make me think that some dreadful
crime weighs upon your soul! But if you be indeed guilty,
there is hope of mercy for every mortal sinner!”
“Theresa, enough of this !” said Faust, in a rapid,
but determined tone. “ Your kindness has touched me—
deeply touched me; but I dare not reveal my secret to
you! No—do not ask me again: I dare not~—I dare not!”
With these words, he effectually released himself from
her embrace.
She tottered and fell back fainting upon the sofa ; and
Faust hurried from the room.
He hastened into the gardens, and sought the chill air
to cool his heated brain. .
In a few minutes he grew more composed, and began
to consider seriously what course he should pursue.
He loved his own son Maximilian : he was also to some
degree attached to Adela, who had been brought up
from infancy as his daughter. She was ever fond, amiable,
and endearing towards him, whom she believed to be her
father; and lost, depraved as he was, he still possessed a
heart on which such innocent outpourings of love and
gratitude producedadeep impression. Anxious, therefore,
was he to ensure the happiness of those youthful lovers;
for he entertained but little fear of being enabled to save
his son—his only son—from that terrible deem to which
he had consented to yield up his first-born.
In the deep embarrassment in which Faust was placed,
and in which he could obtain no assistance from the
Demon—unless, perhaps, it were at the sacrifice of some
portion of the little time yet remaining to him in this
life—he felt the want of some true and sincere friend to
advise and assist him.
In this strait he suddenly thought of Otto Pianalla.
The artist was honourable and intelligent; and Faust
knew no one more capable of affording him counsel and
aid than that individual, who, by his integrity and in-
dustry, had become wealthy and eminent.
Without farther hesitation or delay did the Count of
Aurana address himself to Otto Pianalla.
The particulars of the interview between those human
types of good and evil will be found in the next chapter.
CHAPTER LXXXIII.
FAUST AND orro PIANALLA.
\VE must now introduce our readers to an apartment in
a moderate-sized house situate in one of the most healthy,
though by no means the most fashionable quarters of
Vienna.
That room was furnished in a plain but comfortable
manner; and the air of cleanliness which manifested
itself as well as the taste with which the few ornaments
were disposed denoted the attention of a careful and
judicious housewife. -
There were several excellent pictures suspended to the
walls. One represented a man of noble appearance and
a beauteous lady in an Oriental costume, the latter fond-
ling a charming infant upon her knees. On the lower
part of the frame was the date of 1498, which showed
when the picture was painted; and that representation
of domestic felicity contained the portraits of the Baron
and Baroness of Czernin and the only but much-loved
pledge of their affection.
A second picture delineated, with admirable fidelity,
the likeness of the Archduke Leopold and the Arch-
duchess Maria; :1. third contained the portrait of Nina,
Otto Pianalla’s wife, with two rosy-checked children
clinging fondly to her knees; and on the canvas of a fourth




"-* m-._ _,

were traced the countenances of Maximilian and Adela.
The second and third pictures bore the dates of 1503;
but the last had been executed at a later period-4n the
year 1511,—and represented the sub'ects of its portraiture
in the youthful glory of their beau y.
Seated at a table in this apartment, and instructing his
two sons—now respectively twelve and thirteen years old
-in the necessary elements of education, was Otto Pia-
nalla. The lapse of time had worked no change in his
outward appearance—unless it were to stamp upon his
countenance an air of settled and calm contentment,
which was the reflection of his mind.
Happy and blest he indeed was ;—happy, because he was
virtuous,—and blest in the prosperity of his career and
the affections of his amiable wife and charming children !
It was upwards of an hour past sunset; and, the lessons
being terminated, the two youths and the happy father
repaired to another room, where Nina had been superin-
tending the arrangements of the supper-table. When
her husband and children entered the apartment where
the evening meal was served, she received them with a
sweet smilemfor the most sincere affection for each other
characterised all the members of that contented and
virtuous family. Then the children hastened to embrace
an elderly man who was already seated at the board, and
called him “grandfather.” Such, too, he really was ;
for this was Mazzini, whom Otto had induced to abandon
his Italian cottage, and take up his abode at the artist's
own house in Vienna, so that he might not be separated
from his daughter—his only child!
The happy family sate down to supper; but the meal
was interrupted by the entrance of a servant to inform
his master that the Count of Aurana requested a private
interview with him. The servant added that the Count
was waiting for Messier Pianalla in the apartment to
which we ere now introduced our readers.
Thither Otto Pianalla accordingly repaired—not a. little
sur rised at a visit from one with whom he had no sym-
pat (y, and whom he must ever look upon as the seducer
and estroyer of his sister. ~
Faust was pacing the room with agitated steps, when
Otto entered it; and the moment the artist made his
appearance, the Count accosted him abruptly, saying,
“ Messer Pianalla, you must marvel to see me here! But
can you forget the past and serve me as a friend—as a
sincere friend, such is you have proved yourself to others
—such as your own good heart ever prompts you to be P"
“ There breathes not a human being whom I would
refuse to succour to the extent of my humble means,”
answered Otto Pianalla. “ Had I a mortal enemy in
the world, and did he cross my threshold to ask my aid
in any way, I should proffer him the hand of friendship;
for such a course I conceive to be a Christian duty.”
“ I did not expect less at your hands,” cried Faust;
“ and yet it must be a cruel embarrassment that could
induce me to address myself to you ; for I am well
aware—”
“ Speak not of the past,” my lord,” interrupted Otto,
emphatically. “ Even were I not disposed to serve you
for your own sake, nevertheless I should gladly aid you
for the sake of your amiable Countess and our daughter,
for whom I entertain the sincerest friends ip.”
“ It' is precisely because on do thus respect them, and
because you are acquaintedy with so much of all that con-
cerns myself and them,” returned Faust, “ that I have
now sought you. I know also, sir, that you are a man of
the strictest honour; and that no syllable of aught which
may now pass between us, will ever be revealed by you to
others.“
“ Proceed, my lord,” said Otto: “ whatever you may
communicate to me shall be deemed sacred.”
“ You are aware,” continued Faust, aftera short pause,
during which he appeared to hesitate whether he should
say more, or not,—“ you are aware that a profound
attachment exists between Maximilian, the Archduke’s
son, and Adela, my daughter.”
Otto pointed to the picture in which the portraits of
the young lovers were painted on the same canvas.
“ Ah! it is indeed life-life !” exclaimed Faust, who had
never seen the picture before, but who now examined it
for a few moments with deep attention and interest.
“ Yes—even as you have depicted them, do they ever look
lovingly on each other ! And it is of them that I must
now speak—it is their happiness which at present occu-
pies my mind.”
“ And to which happiness there can be no possible
barrier, my lord,” said Otto.
“ Yes—there is, there is a barrier—a formidable barrier,
Mcsser Pianalla!" exclaimed Faust; “and it is I who


158
FA UST.
indeed a fearful secret! But how can it be corroborated? ]
how may this avowal be sustained?”
“ Otto,” said Dorenberg, in a faint and dying tone—for
the mental excitement which had sustained him through-
out this strange and moving scene was now fast yielding
to the effects of a dangerous reaction,—“ Doctor Lutzen,
who attended upon the Countess of Aurana, and Dame
Herder, the nurse who was engaged for the offspring of
the Archduchess Maria,——they both live, and can be
made to confess their share in that monstrous deed !”
“ One word more!” ejaculated Otto ; “ who was the in-
stigator—”
“ Faust, Count of Aurana !” murmured the doctor, in a
voice scarcely audible. “ But—till I shall be no more
—-—keep the secret—~invi01able ;-—and——let me—-—die
-—-in peace 1”.
“ Oh! now for a priest—he is expiring!” cried Otto,
almost bewildered at the wondrous revelation which he
had just heard.
He rushed from the room, and despatched two of his
domestics, one for a priest—another for the surgeon.
Then he returned to the bedside of the wounded man ;—
but useless was medical aid now for him—unavailiug was
the coming of the priest!
Doctor Dorenberg was no more!
—_-_-
CHAPTER LXXXV.
THE KALENBERG.
ALMOST at the same hour in the morning at which the
confession and death of the physician took place at the
house of Otto Pianalla, two tall forms stood on the
summit of the Kalenberg,—that hill from which, nearly
two centuries afterwards, the troops of Sobieski, King of
Poland, rushed down upon the army of the Grand Vizier,
Kara Mustapha, and delivered Vienna from the siege of
the Ottomans.
Of those two persons, though both bore the human
shape, yet one s y was human.
“ Repeat thy wishes here,” said the Demon, in his deep
sonorous voice, as he turned his eyes of supernal but
sinister lustre upon Faust. “ It is not for me to search
into thy motives : but I am ready to obey thy commands.”
“ These, then, are my Wishes—these are my commands,’ ’
exclaimed Faust, who was in a state of extraordinary
mental excitement :——“ by means of thine infernal power
thou wilt perform some deed that shall avert the atten-
tion of Vienna from the every-day pursuits of life—that
shall paralyse public affairs and private arrangements—
that shall cause even lovers to forget their hopes of being
immediately united at the altar!”
“ You command me to do a fearful thing, Faust,” said
the Demon. “ Reflect for a moment—I would not have
you reproach me hereafter !”
“ I am dceidcd— delay not, whatever be the conse-
quences !” cried the Count, impatiently.
“ One word ere the order go forth !” observed the Demon.
“ Hast thou forgotten the whirlwind which I raised on the
heights of the Brockcn, and which devastated whole
provinces in Germany P”
“ I have forgotten nothing of all that," answered Faust:
“ and would that I could act now without recurrence to
thy ferocious and infernal powers ! But uestion me no
farther—hesitate no longer! I care not w at convulsion
of nature—what awful visitation thou mayest bring
about: only let not the result of thy command be tem~
porary ;~—-let it endure for weeks—ay, for months and
months—so that it paralyse all the usual proceedings of
society in this part of the world I"
“ Thou shalt be obeyed !” cried the Demon.
Then, turning his face towards the East, be extended his
right arm, and chanted the following incantation :—
“ Come hither, fatal Cloud of Death!
O’cr Europe roll with blasting breath ;
Leave for awhile thy lov’d Japan ;
Sweep o’er the heights of Kimengshan ;
In ,Tartary, thou shalt not stay,
Nor rest o’er Persia in thy way :
Stop not on Ganges’ bank to free
From funeral pyre the dark Suttee ;
Let the Affghan unperill’d roam,
Nor pause to touch the Tartar’s home;
Spare them that dwell upon the Nile ;
Leave harmless each Ionian isle ;—
But all thy power and. fury bring
To Europe, on death-dealing wing:

Cover the land with corpses o’er
From Greece to Scandmavia’s shore.
Let Turkey wail, and Russia groan,
And Italy give back the moan ;
Let Germany thy presence know,
And France take up the tale of woe :—
Let not the lofty Pyrenees
From Spain ward off th’ envenom’d breeze :'
Rest on the Tagus for awhile,—
Then seek the Briton’s sea-girt isle !”
When the Demon began to speak, Faust kept his eyes
steadfastly fixed upon the East, towards which quarter the
fiend addressed his terrible incantation.
In a few minutes a thin vapour appeared to rise in the
oriental horizon; and it gradually—gradually advanced
towards Vienna—becoming every instant more palpable,
and losing that transparency which was merely an appear-
ance given to it by distance.
Onward it came—nearer and nearer,—-cxpanding in
volume—spreading itself out, with strange elasticity, over
meadow, grove, village, town, plain, and hill,——until it
seemed one vast cloud, whose extremities touched the
horizon on either side.
And onward—onward still it came ; and now it ap-
proached the neighbourhood of Vienna—it swept over the
Kalenberg, enveloping Faust and the Demon in a dense
yellow mist.
But that mist !--how feculant was its odour—how
nauseating the taste it created in the mouth—how oppres-
sive its noxious density!
Faust trembled—he dared not ask the meaning of this
strange and awe-inspiring visitation. .
By the time the chant was concluded, the mist had over-
sprcad the city and the country all around; and the air
was as dark as if there was an eclipse of the sun.
The Demon's sonorous voice had ceased—and Faust
beheld with appalling mis‘rivings the first result of the in-
cantation.
In a few moments the mist began to clear away from
the eastern quarter : it was advancing westward—a huge
and almost endless volume of dense and nausea ' fog.
Onward still it went: by degrees it departed from all
the territory which the eye could command east of the
Kalenberg; and fast—fast it now rolled towards the west.
At length it began to diminish in bulk as it proceeded
farther and farther in its course: again did it lose its
appearance of denseness and its deep yellow hue—seeming
more and more transparent as it receded towards the
Atlantic.
From the moment that the incantation commenced until
the mist appeared no larger than the palm of the hand in
the western horizon, scarcely ten minutes had elapsed ; 1
—but those ten minutes appeared an age to the Count of
Aurana.
“ Fiend, what dread visitation is this?” he exclaimed,
unable to endure any longer that torturing state of
suspense. ‘
“ A visitation called forth in obedience to thy wishes,”
answered the Demon, in a malignant tone of triumph ;—
“ a visitation evoked from the east, where it would have
remained but for thy command 1” ‘
“ And this visitation P" cried Faust: “ what is it ?
What meant that horrible mist? what hast thou done to
Vienna P” -
“ I have obeyed thee faithfully, Faust,” replied the
Demon : “ society will now be paralysed indeed ;—-for the !
Plague is in Europe-the Black Death has already coni-
menced its ravages in Vienna !”
“ Fiend—demon! undo thine awful work!” exclaimed
Faust, appalled at the terrible words which fell upon his
ears. ' ‘
“ No—it is too late!”
“ did I not bid thee reflect
hast done it all !” .
And with folded arms , he began to descend the mountain
with slow and measured steps.
“ Ah! wretch—monster that I am i” almost shrieked
Faust, dashing his open palm against his forehead :——then ,
after a few moments’ agonising hesitation, he rushed
frantically down the hill, and entered the plaguestricken
city.
pnswered the Demon, calmlv;
. Blame not inc—it is thou. who
CHAPTER LXXXVL
THE BLACK DEATH.
YES :—fatal indeed was the incantation of the Demon—-
for the Black Death had suddenly manifested its terrible
presence in Vienna !
When Faust re-entered the imperial city, he observed
horror and dismay depicted upon the countenances of the
inhabitants whom he met in the streets.


16!)
FA UST.
extend from the dry grass to the withered tree, and over
the heath, thence to the ripe corn, even unto the mighty
forest,—streamin onward—onward, with a rage and a
velocity which neither Indian nor animal can escape !
And such was the Black Death!
None who were seized with the terrible disease lived
more than three days: some died in as many hours ;—
others fell dead upon the spot, as if struck with a oplexy
‘ or blasted by lightning; and, although they has not a
spot upon their skin a moment previously, yet immediately
attilerwards their body was covered with the black plague-
01 s.
The peo le of that age were inclined to superstitious
belief, an a great majority were plunged in all the
ignorance of bigotry :——they were therefore easily acces-
sible to absurd rumours and fanciful opinions. Moreover,
the presence of such a fearful visitation prostrated all the
mental energies of even those who escaped the contagion ;
and the most absurd, but alarming, reports prevailed.
Amongt other beliefs thus propagated, was one which
obtained such general credence, and was of so ap alling
a nature, that it enhanced to a terrible degree t c wild
alarms naturally produced by the fury of the pestilence.
It was believed, in a word, that the very eyes of the
plague‘stricken were the sources of contagion ; and thus
the appealin glances which relatives turned towards
relatives, an friends towards friends, when seized with
the first dread warning of the malady, were deemed to
be fiery arrows that would carry the venom of the Black
Death to the hearts of all on whom those looks were cast.
But of what avail was flight to the timorous, since
their garments were already saturated with the pestiferous
atmosphere!
~—
CHAPTER LXXXVII.
THE TRUE FRIEND.
SUCH was the Black Death, whose ravages had now com-
menced in Vienna.
And throughout the imperial city there was but one
man who feared not the rage of the pestilence,—who
dreaded not contagion,—-who knew that infection pos~
sessed no terrors for him!
This man was Faust!
He was ursuing his way—as we ere now left him,—
through t ose streets which already indicated but too
significantly that some appalling visitation had announced
its presence in Vienna.
Men of the very lowest order of society,-—starving
wretches, who had but little to make life worth clinging
t0,—prototypes of the poor creatures who constitute in-
voluntarily, and to the shame of the rich, the dark spots
upon the disc of our modern civilization's sun,—oppressed
and hopeless beings, rendered reckless by misery and
despotism,—some of this class of men, we say, had already
hired themselves to the city authorities to remove the
dying from the streets and convey them to a vast building
on the outskirts of the town, and which was used as a
lazaretto. Others of the same social grade were employed
to remove the dead,—for even within an hour from the
going forth of the Demon’s incantation, there were many
dead,——fr0m their houses, and consi ii them to graves
hastily hollowed in the plain beyond t e Kalenberg.
Thus the death-carts were already moving through the
streets as Faust pursued his way.
He scarcely knew why,-but some strange influence
seemed to impel him towards the house of Otto Pianalla.
Indeed, he was so bewildered—so astounded—so horrified
at the terrific commencement of that plague which had
been brought at his command into the city, and the awful
effects of which he could not do otherwise than foresee,
that he staggered like a drunken man.
His mind was filled with horrible thoughts—his imagli-
nati0n was the seat of the most a palling ideas. If e
had appeared to himself wicked an vilc before—he now
seemed loathsome, revolting, detestable, in his own esti-
mation.
For, with all his superhuman power,——with all the
infernal resources that were at his command,—he could
not stifle the still small voice of reproachful conscience.
Thus, in the whirlwind of his chaotic ideas, he forgot
home—family—all that was dear to him ;-—-or he would
hiive flown to remove them far—far from the reach of the
p ague !
Proceeding onward through the doomed city,—with
wild rolling e es, and agitated steps,—Faust gained the
street in which Pianalla dwelt.
Without any precise aim in visiting the artist on this
000asion,—but naturally attracted, in the depths of his

criminality, towards one who by his very nature was best
able to offer him consolation,——Faust entered that house
where only two hours previously Dr. Dorenberg had
breathed his last.
He was conducted by a domestic to the same apartment
where he had seen Otto on the preceding evening ; and in
a few minutes the artist made his appearance.
“YOur coming is strange, my lord," said Otto, in a
solemn and me ancholy tone; “for I was most anxious
to see you.”
“ To see me !” cried Faust ; “ and wherefore P”
“ Because,” answered Otto, drawing close towards the
Count, and fixing upon him a penetrating glance,—
“ because, my lord, a secret of terrible import has ere
now come to my knowledge—_”
“ A secret !” exclaimed Faust, startin convulsively.
“ Yes, a secret that involves the appiness of two
families,” continued Otto Pianalla, almost sternly—so
solemn and impressive was his manner :—-“ a secret which
Dr. Dorenberg revealed to me upon his death-bed.”
“ Ah!” cried Faust, springing from his seat ; “ Doctor
Dorenberg is then no more—and he has betrayed me?
He has unbosomed to you the secret of the Chamber of y
the Cradle? ’Tis done—and cannot be recalled! But
know, Pianalla," added the Count, casting a terrible look
of defiance upon the artist, “ that it is in my power—with
a word-with a glance—to stifle within you that breath
which might waft my secret to the ears of another,—to
blast you with lightning,—to cast you dead at my feet.
Therefore, beware !”
“ Your threats, my lord, are mysterious and terrible,”
interrupted Otto, calmly ; “ but I ut my trust in a
higher power! At the same time, believe me, it was not
my intention to use this secret so as to heap distress and
dishonour u on your head ;—for alas ! if my suspicions be
well-found —-and they have just received an awful cor-
roboration from your lips, by means of those threats
which rove you the possessor of some dread and un-
natura power——” a
“ Yes—I am, indeed, the possessor of a dread—an un- ‘
natural power !” cried Faust, again hurried into the
delirium of the most a onising thou hts, as his ears
caught the sound of a oath-cart rolling heavil along
the street: “ and for that power, Otto Pianal ," he
added, in a tone of ineffable despair, “ I have pledged my ‘
immortal soul !"
“ Unhappy man!” cried Otto, hastening forward, and
taking him by the hand ; “ do not make such a horrible
revelation! Oh! no—no: it cannot be true! and yet— i
and yet—when I remember all that has occurred—your
sudden elevation—your boundless wealth from an un-
known sourcc~the wondrous deeds that you have at
times performed——”
“ Alas! alas! it is but too true!” cried Faust. “And
now, do you not shrink from me ?—do you not recoil from
my very touch P—are you not afraid that my looks will
blast you P”
“ As a man I do not shrink from you—as a Christian I
do not fear you,” returned Otto. “ Oh! Faust, what
have you done? But it is not for me to reproach you.
Heaven knows (you must be wretched enough ! And—ah!
—how you shu der when I pronounce holy names! Yes
-—you have indeed done a fearful thing! But it is not ir-
revocable—the mercy of God is infinite. I will ‘pray for
you—pray with you——”
“ No—no !” cried Faust, wildly. “Were my lips but
to quiver with the breath of aprayer, that moment would
be my last! Satan would come, with all his terrors, to
claim His Own 1“
“ Oh! what can be done P" ejaculated Otto, bewildered
by the fearful convictions that had burst upon his mind
within the last two hours. “ I cannot abandon you thus
hopelessly to your fate :—I cannot desert you—though all
the rest of the world shuns you! No—I must counsel
you—I must solace you! In what aterrible labyrinth of
misery will you plunge those who are dear to you, unless
some means be adopted to avert the threatening storm.
Think, Faust—what can be done? On one hand is the
Archduchess loving her who passes for your daughter:
on the other is our wife—your devoted wife—loving the
youth who is cemed the Archduke's son! Oh! shall
this dread imposture continue? shall the true current of
maternal feelings be impeded by self-reproach and ima-
ginary wrong? Those mothers love each her own child ;
and yet the existing deception compels them to believe
that instinctive affection to be a crime! Say, Faust——
what must be done? I would not betray you, to heap
additional misery upon your head: and yet—and yet——"
"And yet you know not how to disobey the voice of


FA US T.
163
duty !” cried Faust. “ Oh! lost—degraded as I am, Otto, i
-—I still can admire you! And now this generous sym-
pathy which you show towards me,~—towards me who
ave done you so much wrong,—-oh ! how welcome is such
friendshi to a solitary heart like mine! Why, therefore,
should I eep any secrets unknown to you,—any of those
terrific secrets which are so closely interwoven with my
sad destiny P Listen, Otto—and prepare yourself to hear
a tale that will make your blood turn cold within you !”
He aused for a moment, and wiped the perspiration
from is brow.
Otto filled acup with wine and water, and handed it to
the wretched man, who gladly moistened his parched
mouth with the welcome beverage.
“ Listen, I say, Otto,” he continued, now speaking in a
less rapid and excited, but more solemn tone; " listen—
and do not recall your enerous promise to counsel and to
solace me—do not loat ie me, when you hear my terrible
narrative. And that narrative is as brief as it is terrible!
Know then, that my love—my ardent, frenzied love for
Theresa was the source of all my sorrows and all my crimes.
That love induced her proud father to consi me to a
dun eon, whence I was doomed to pass only to ti: scaffold.
Accident placed within my reach a fearful spell : I used
it—I brought the arch-fiend in human shape into my
presence! He freed me; and to him I assigned my im-
mortal soul for twenty-four years' lease of power! Ali !
now you shudder !”
“ For you—and not at you !" returned Otto. " Oh !
believe me—I pity you from my very heart !”
“ One portion of the compact which I signed—signed
heedlcssly and hurriedly,” continued Faust, " declared
that should I perform religious rite or ceremony, save
with the fiend’s consent, the period of my life and power
should that moment cease. Alas ! I sought to wrn
Theresa by means that would make her mine without the
intervention of riestly ceremony ;-but it was all of no
avail ! I could ave forced her to submit to my wishes,
it is true; but I loved her tenderly and sincerely—Mid
wished her tobe mine in heart as well as in person. And
then the fiend,-—ever on the watch to secure fresh victims,
—availed himself of my perplexity, and assented to the
performance of the nuptial ceremony, on the condition—
thc fell, the dire condition—that I should assign to him the
same power over my first-born son as he already possessed
over me !”
“ Merciful heavens !” cried Otto, astounded at what he
heard : “ and is it possible that so terrible a doom hangs
over the head of the sweet—the amiable youth who bears
the name of Maximilian?"
“ Alas! it is but too true,’ returned Faust. “ And it
was to cheat the Demon, whose knowledge of what passes
in the world can be bathed only by my will—I being his
master and he in slave during my lease of power,—it was
to cheat him of his rey that I changed the children within
a few hours after t eir birth!"
“ Oh! then it becomes impossible to reveal the secret
>f the Chamber of the Cradle !” exclaimed Otto. “ Were
;hat dread truth to be made known—were a son given
:0 the arms of his true mother, and a daughter to those
who are in reality her parcnts,—werc Maximilian to be
iroved your progen , and Adela the offspring of the Arch-
luchess,—the resu t would be to consign that amiable
routh to the power of the fiend who has cast his meshes
iround yourself !”
“Thou hast hast reasoned well, good Otto,” said Faust.
‘ And now also canst thou understand wherefore I dare
iot assent to the union of those dear children—an union
nvolving a ceremony at which I could not- attend! But
ill plresent anxieties on that score have passed away; for,
is t on doubtless art well aware, a terrible pestilence has
allen upon Vienna—and all social interests and all hopes
>f_consummating pro-arranged projects are suspended by
his appalling visitation !”
“ Yes—the plague is in Vienna,” said Otto ; “ and its
‘avages will be fearful! But it must pass awa in due
me ;—and then, Faust—during the few years w ich yet
Omain to you on earth—how wilt thou procrastinate the
101011 of t iat loving pair—should heaven, in its mercy,
pare them from the fury of the Black Death?”
“ To one placed in so desperate a position as I, the
pspite of even a few weeks is a source of self-congratula-
ion,” answered Faust. “ Even when the ravages of the
ilflgue shall have passed away, months and months must
lapse ere society can return to that healthy and moral
one of confidence which will permit the revival of pro-
:cts now cruelly interrupted. It will then be time to
o‘nsider——”
No—it may then be too late !” interrupted Otto,
warmly. “ How know you that the arch-deceiver who
has you in his power has not deceived you? How know
you that he has invested you with an authority so full and
so complete that it can even place a barrier in the way of
his knowledge of those circumstances which you wish
concealed 3’”
“Oh! that idea—that dread idea often oppresses mo
—often weighs heavily upon my soul I” cried Faust.
“ And yet-I cannot believe that I am so deluded by the
demon who is to control my future destinies !"
“ Yet let wise precautions be adopted !" ejaculated
Otto Pianalla. “Oh! consider how solemnly important
is a subject which involves the safety of a human soul!
Let that young pair abandon all hopes of being united :---
it will be cruel to separate them— ut far more cruel to
endanger the eternal welfare of your son! Give me your
consent—your authority—and I will entrust him with this
appalling secret :—I will convince him of the necessity of
retiring from the world—of devoting his days to a cloister
—-of taking up the cross, and thus acquiring the only
efficient means of defying the power of the Demon I“
“ Useless and unavailing project !" said Faust, in a
melancholy tone. “ Were Maximilianto don the gown of
a priest—to mortify hunself with severe penance —t0
lacerate his back with innumerable stripes of a knotted
scourge—to wear away the hard stone with frequent
kneeling,—-still all would be ineffectual ! From the very
altar would the fiend tear his prey, when the hour came!
No, Otto ; the cloister may not avail my poor son! Within
the reach of human power there is but one means to
rescue him from the Demon, should the project of the
Chamber of the Cradle fail :—and that one meansuoh!
who will attempt the perils and undertake the difficulties
involved, for the sake of a wretch like me P"
“ That duty shall be mine !" ejaculated Otto, eagerly.
“ Did I not last night assert my readiness to serve thee
in all honourable ways? did I not even declare that the
hour might come when such assistance would avail thee P
This is the time for thee to explain thyself !"
“ Is it possible !" cried Faust, a gleam of joy animating
his countenance. “ Oh ! if I could believe that you would
indeed embark in this cause, 1 should meet my terrific
fate with one pang the less when the knell of my destiny
shall sound !”
“ You ma rely on me, Faust," returned Otto. “ Pro-
ceed—explain thyself!”
“ Know,then,” continued the Count of Aurana, almost
joyfully,“that upon the summit of Mount Ararat rests
the Ark in which the elect were saved from the rage ot
the Great Deluge! Thousands of years have passed since
that time ; but there the Ark still remains,——tliere, where
it first touched the earth again ! Cradled in eternal
snows,—ice-cirt throughout the lapse of ages,-—it bids
defiance to the ravages of centuries. But since the day
when the Patriarch and his family went forth from that
Ark no human eye has ever looked upon it—no human
foot has ever approached the spot where, like the eagle's
nest on the summit of the loftiest tree, it has its place.
Tremendous are the precipices which surround it : vast
chasms, yawnin abysses, and ste paths of slippery ice,
lie between the oot of the mountain and the top, whereon
the Ark rests. But if a human being of stainless life and
unreproachable conscience can surmount the perils of that
dangerous ascent,—if by his courage and his strength he
can climb that tremendous height and ilace his foot upon
the summit of Ararat,—then may he reak off a small
piece—a fragment—of the wood of the sacred boat; and
that fragment worn about the person of one whose
parents have ere his birth consigned him to the even-
tual possession of the Powers of Darkness,—will rove
a talisman enabling him to defy the influence of Bel !"
“ And wherefore will not the same means rescue your-
self ?” demanded Otto, eagerly.
“ No,” returned Faust, in a tone of deep despair; “ the
compact that I have made was the result of my own free
agency, and is beyond such relief ! I must pay the penalty
of my sin—~my follyHniy madness ;—but those means
will assuredly save my boy! 0 Pianalla, hast thou now
the courage to undertake that fearful task ?"
“I have—I will,” answered the generous being thus
appealed to. “ Though a husband and a father-and
though bound to think of my wife and little ones,-—yet to
save a soul is a duty above all other earthly considera-
tions! Yes, Faust—I will dare the perils of that tre-
mendous journey! This very day will I set out with my
family for the East ; them will I leave in some quiet and
safe retreat, afar from the ravages of the plague ;—and
then shall this enterprise engage all my thoughts and all
I my energies !”


166
FA US T.

now consummated; for what will not the thirst of gold
induce avaricious man to venture and to dare P“
“I do not understand your allusion," remarked Otto,
his heart sinking within him, as he became the more sen-
sible of the apparent hopelessness of the task which he
had volunteered to acco lish.
“ I will explain mysel ,” answered Murad. “ The
Koran and tradition alike lead us to believe that the ark
of the Sultan Noah rested upon the loftier one of those
two peaks; and the Greek Patriarch at Constantinople
has offered a princely fortune to him who shall scale that
peak, and secure some sacred relics of the boat which is
cradled amidst the eternal snows of you eminence. Many
and many have been the desperate men who, allured by
the hope of obtaining boundless wealth, have endeavoured
to reach the ark. Some have never returned: others,
who have come back in safety, have given so terrible a
description of the perils of the ascent to even one-third of
the height, that of late years no man has been found mad
enough to undertake an impossible task~ For it is not
only that nature herself defends the paths which lead to
the resting-place of the ark,” added the tatar, sinking
his voice to a low and ominous whisper; “ but the powers
of darkness ali-ke combine to bar the dangerous way.”
“ Once more I must request you to explain ourself
more fully,” said Otto, who, though by no means inclined
to gross superstition, was nevertheless anxious to glean
as much information as possible relative to the perils of
the task which he was determined to attempt.
“ It is well known,” continued Murad, “ that evil
spirits infest the chasms of Mount Ararat. In those un-
fathomable depths agitate monsters of every dreadful
shape~fiends of every appalling form; and, wandering
amidst the eternal snows, may be seen by those who are
daring enough to venture thither, the pale, thin, and
transparent ghosts of , the wretched adventurers that
have met their death in the vain attempt to scale heights
which are inaccessible. But this is not all, Christian.
Hast then never heard of the gholes—those horrible
fiends which seek the burial-grounds at night, and feast
u n the corpses which they exhume ? The dwelling-
p ces of the gholes, Christian, are the yawning chasms,
the deep dark gulfs, and the bottomless pits of Ararat!
Oh ! terrible are the sights which meet the eyes of those
who venture among you mountain regions l I have
heard of men who have come back from the daring at-
tem t to reach the ark—come back, I say, raving mad
at t e horrors they encountered ! I have heard of others
who were struck dumb with affright—and others, again,
who have returned to their homes but to pine away
rapidly, and die without apparent cause! But I have
never heard of one who, havin escaped death in those
fearful chasms, did not regret t at he had ever been led
by love of gold or reckless daring to undertake a hopeless
task. N 0: all who have returned from the desperate
venture have carried with them to the grave some
physical or mental afiiiction which struck them while
wandering amidst the wilds of Mount Ararat.”
“ YOur description is terrible indeed," said Otto.
“ But may not those details be exaggerated P did not the
few who have returned from the attempt to scale the
mountain, colour as highly as possible those dangers
which drove them back, in order to escape the imputa-
tion of lack of courage to prosecute a task presump-
tuoust undertaken?”
“ Oh ! no, Christian,” answered Murad: “ such a sup-
position is altogether unfounded. For were it possible
to scale that height—could dauntless courage, prodigious
strength, and consummate skill, achieve the great act-—
it would have been accomplished long ago ! The
Patriarch’s offer of a princely fortune would alone
tempt daring and desperate men to strain every nerve—
encounter every peril—meet every horrible sight—and
pass through every difficulty, to attain the grand object
—werc such, indeed,possible. But none have succeeded :
all have perished, or have returned baffled, broken-
hearted, or sorely amicted—thc punishment of their pre-_
sumptuous rashness !”
“ Yet one fact is certain,” said Otto ; “ and this is that
Noah and his family came down in safety from the moun-
tain; and we are told of no miracle that was operated by
divine power to facilitate this descent. If there be a
th down the mountain, the same must lead the human
oot to the summit.”
“But you take no account, Christian, of the changes
which the lapse of many, many centuries has effected in
that mountain,” observed Murad. “ The snows accu-
mulate in winter in far greater proportion than they dis.
solve with the summer-heat or the periodical rains: the

avalanches fall, and render unpassable what was a road
before. The earthquake opens new chasms, and closes
old ones: the thunder strikes the crags, and the huge
masses roll down with tremendous din. In in places
the snow itself becomes hard as marble: the rains form
pools in the hollows—the cold freezes the bodies of water
thus collected—and the ice thereof remains ice for ever!
Say, then, Christian—can the features of the Ararat of
today be the same as when the Sultan Noah descended
from you giddy peak 2’“
“ There is reason in what you say,” returned Pianalla,
with difficulty concealing the sadness of his manner; for
be cherished his own secret relative to the true object of
his journey.
He knew well that should he succeed in his task,—that
task which now. appeared almost hopeless l—should he,
in a word, be enabled to return from the summit of
Ararat with so precious a relic as. a piece of the Ark in
his possession, his life would not be safe amongst the
wild and predatory people who inhabited the region in
the neighbourhood o the mountain. He was therefore
anxious to arouse no suspicion of his intent in the mind
of Murad. N ot that he for a moment believed the tatar
to be capable of treachery towards him. Far otherwise;
for during their journey through Asia Minor, the
Mussulman had given many proofs of his fidelity. But,
like all guides, Murad was rrulous; and Otto pru-
dently resolved not to make him the depositor of a secret
which he might reveal in a. moment of excitement, though
not with an evil view.
Another interval of silence now ensued; for Otto was
filled with gloomy reflections, produced by the appalling
dAesci-iption which he had just heard respecting. Mount
rarat.
It was not that he lacked courage; but his thoughts
wandered to his beloved wife and two sons, whom he had
left at Sm rna. To Nina he had frankly avowed the
obj ect of his journey ;. and she was too much devoted to
her husband—entertaining too exalted an admiration of
his chivalrous character and generous disposition—and
was too deeply sensible of the solemn importance of his
self-imposed task, to endeavour to dissuade him from his
purpose. Still their parting had been sorrowful—very
sorrowful!
And now, the nearer he approached to the scene of
peril, the more he pondered upon those who were clear—
so dear to him I
Should he ever see them again ? or was be doomed to
perish in the wilds of Mount Ararat P
He placed his faith in that all-wise, all-seeing Power
which had led him safely through the perils of the Julian
Alps, and which had saved his life from the murderous
assault of Fritz. Yes—~he placed his faithjin Heaven ;—
and, as he fixed his eyes upon the stupendous. mountain
which rose, towering to the sky, at a. distance of about
four miles from the cottage where he and the guide now
alighted, he breathed a silent prayer~—and he felt con-
soled—encouraged !
The cottage was inhabited by Armenian Christians;
and at their hands Otto received a cordial reception.
The best food that their little farm and well-cultivated
garden could supply, was speedily served up ; and a bed
of clean rushes was by no means unwelcome after the
fatigues of the day’s travel. .
Otto slept tranquilly and happily until sunrise. Bright
visions visited him: the face of his far-distant wife
seemed to smile upon him ;—'-it appeared, too, as if the
countenances of his well-beloved sons looked joyousl on
him in his dreams ;-—and then he thought he be eld
Adela and Maximilian approach his couch, kneel, and
pour forth their fervent gratitude for a felicity which
they owed to him!
He awoke at sun-rise, encouraged and confident under
the influence of those visions of favourable augury.
His ablutions were speedily performed: he partook
cheerfully of the copious meal provided by the good pea.
sants; and, having declared his intention to wander
throughout the entire day amidst the wild scenery of
Mount Ararat, he set forth on his perilous undertakin .
The Armenians, judging from the intimation which 0
gave them, that he would not return until night-fall.
provided him with a wallet containing a supply of food ;
and, as he left the door, Murad said, in a jocular manner,
“ If you do not come back by sun-set, I shall think you
have been hardy enough to essay the ascent of the
mountain ! ”
Otto laughed, and hurried away.
The spectacle now before his eyes was grand and
splendid in the extreme.


FA US T.
167

The venerable Ararat was bathed in the mellowed
radiance of the morning sun, and appeared to rise in
solemn majesty from the midst of the vast plain whose
extremes were lost in the distance.
The early vapours threw a species of illuminated haze
upon the scene, rising mid-way up the mountain, but not
reaching its two colossal peaks which stood out, with
light bluish shades, against the warm yellow sky.
Otto advanced rapidly towards the scene of peril and
soon entered the bushy and marshy ground which skirts
the base of Ararat on the western side. Half an hour’s
quick walking brought him to a rugged ravine, which he
passed without materially relaxing his speed; and he
then commenced the ascent of one of the shoulders which
rise gradually from the plain.
Having reached the top of this eminence,-—which,
though tolerany elevated, was a mere dwarf in com-
parison with t is snow-crowned giant that towered
above,-—Otto suddenly found himself upon the brink of a
dark and yawning chasm, whose depths his eye could not
fathom, and at the bottom of which a torrent rolled
alon with thundering din. ~
Ot‘tvo retreated a few steps—almost in afi’right—from
the gulf which appeared thus suddenly to open at his
feet; and falling on his knees, he pra ed aloud and fer-
vently to Heaven—for he knew that t e perils of his en-
terprise had now commenced.
And at that same moment the Demon stood upon the
summit of Mount Ararat; and folding his arms across
his breast, he chanted in his deep sonorous voice the
following incantation :—
“ Collect your rage, ye wild winds bleak
On Ararat’s tremendous peak;
8 lit mi hty crags l—your masses hurl
A own t 1e mount with furious whirl!
Rise, darkling mist, and settle o’er
The depths rofound where torrents roar;
Awake drea echoes as ye flow,
Swift eddies! in th’ abyss below;
Dense clouds! collect, and spread on high
A pall athwart the azure sky ;
Glide avalanches! from your rest
Upon the mountain’s hoary crest ;—
Come from the dark pits where ye dwell,
Imps of all shapes most terrible !
Come, too, ye flitting ghosts that stare
With glassy eyes in death-like glare ;
And ye, grim gholes, whose hunger craves
The rotting tenan ts of the graves
Gather ye all at in. y command,
Amidst the crags a grisly band !"
But nature res ended not to the incantation of the
Demon ; nor did t e spirits of darkness obe his voice.
The sun continued to shine from a clou ess sky: the
tempest burst not from the bands which confined it ;~—
the echoes of the torrents alone broke the solemn silence
that reigned amidst the regions of Ararat.
Then the Demon knew that a higher power protected
Otto Pianalla. ; and, with a terrible cry of rage, the
fiend disappeared from the summit of the mountain.
.—_-_
CHAPTER X0.
run RESULT or one PIANALLA’S ENTERPRISE.
HAVING acquired fresh courage and renewed confidence
by means of his earnest, solemn prayer, Otto Pianalla
rose from his knees, and calmly scrutinized the chasm
which yawncd at his feet.
We before said that his eyes could not fathom its
depths; but the roar of the unseen torrent, eddying along
in those dark profundities, indicated what must be the
fate of one whose foot slipped on the edge of that abyss.
At the point where Otto now stood, the gulf was about
twenty yards in width; and its precipitous sides were
covered with stunted shrubs and brambles—for he had
yet far to climb ere he might enter on the regions of
snow.
With rapid step, but with watchful eyes, did Otto walk
along the edge of the chasm, which gradually grew nar-
rower; but to the disappointment of the artist, instead
of at length becoming of such contracted width as to
allow himto leap across it, it suddenly stopped at a point
where huge masses of rock seemed to have been heaped
upon each other by some giant whose object was to
render the upper part of the mountain inaccessible to
mortal feet.
Those piles of mighty crags,— stupendous accumula-

tions raised by the earthquake and the storm,-formed
an insuperable barrier to Otto's path. He accordingly
retraced his steps along the edge of the chasm—passed
the s t where he had now knelt in rayer—and con-
tinu his way towards the other end 0 the abyss, which
gradually became narrower, as was the case in the oppo-
site direction.
At length the chasm presented an obstacle of only five
or six yards in width; and at this point also huge masses
of rock were so piled as to prevent the artist from pro-
ceeding as it were round the abyss.
There, then, was the fathomless gulf to be crossed!
The perspiration poured down Otto's countenance—for,
though the intense cold of winter reigned on the higher
part of the mountain, yet in the lower regions the heat of
summer prevailed.
The artist wiped the large drops from his brow, and
measured the gulf with his eyes. Then he shook his head
mournfull :—-it were madness to essay the desperate leap.
But, as e narrowly scrutinized the locality, his lance
lingered wistfully upon the huge trunk of a withere tree,
growing out, a few feet below, from the side of the ab ss,
over which it hun in almost a horizontal position,— ike
the bows rit of a rge ship.
From t e end of that tree, whose appearance denoted
the dread effects of the blasting lightning, there was a
distance of a few feet to the opposite side of the gulf.
Nevertheless, the footing on that farther side seemed
dangerous and uncertain ; for the brink of the precipice
was rugged, and strcwed with large stones.
Otto did not hesitate long. Fixmg his wallet in such a
manner over his back that it might not encumber him in
his erilous leap, he lowered himself down upon the trunk
of t 0 tree, and speedin clambered to its extremity.
For a moment his head appeared to turn as he glanced
into the frightful gulf that yawned beneath him, and in
the depths of which the torrents were madly boiling ;-
but without giving himself time to think of the perils that
environed him, he rose up on his feet, and with one
desperate bound cleared the yawning chasm.
He was now safe on the inner side of the gulf, but as
be cast a look upon the opposite scene, the astounding
thought suddenly struck him—how was he to get back 3’
To leap from the tree to the edge of the gulf was
desfierate enough; but to attempt to return by the same
pat —to endeavour to spring from the edge of the gulf to
the tree, the most rabid maniac would not essay the task!
For a few moments Pianalla was cruelly oppressed by
the sense of his terrible predicament; but determined
not to meet despair half way, nor to anticipate in imagi-
nation the perils that he might yet have to encounter,-—
remembering, moreover, that there mi ht be many other
issues from the wilds of Ararat besifes that dangerous
path which had just afforded him an avenue to enter
them,—he turned away from the chasm.
And now he commenced the ascent of another emi-
nence, which formed as it were a mighty outwork of the
huge mountain itself.
Climbing up a precipitous and dangerous path which
overhung a savage-looking ravine,—bruising himself
amongst the huge fragments of rock that encumbered his
path,——thcn forcing a way through patches of thick
underwood and brambles, at the risk of treading upon
some venomous reptile, or encountering a wild beast,—
the artist went on—on—with a settled determination of
countenance and a resolute step.
From time to time a rustling in the underwood or in
the dank grass made his blood run cold within him, as
he thought of the deadly nature of the serpents which
he thus disturbed ; and often on the barren crags did his
eye catch sight of the reen and yellow coils of snakes
basking in the sun, orp aying in and out of their holes.
At length—about an hour before mid-dav—the un-
daunted traveller reached the top of this outwork of
Ararat; and, behold ! another profound, wide, and
fathomless chasm separated him from the acclivity of the
huge mountain itself.
' He sat down to rest, and partook sparingly of the pro-
vender contained in his wallet.
While he was thus engaged, he attentively scanned the
scene on the opposite side of the second gulf which he
had now reached. It seemed as if the mountain were
surrounded by that yawning chasm !—fifty yards from
the point where he stood, did the craggy acclivity appear
to rise from unseen and terrible depths, wherein the
waters rolled and reared with ominous din. For a con-
siderable height the aspect of the mountain was wild,
rugged, and broken into frequent masses of might crags;
—then gradually, as the eye moved upwards, 0 dark


170
FAUST.

that they are on their way to Vienna, and that their name
is Pianalla.” ‘
“ Pianalla !” exclaimed the Duchess of Ferrara, the
colour mounting to her cheeks; then, instantly subduing
her emotions, she said, “ Know you the Christian name
of the father of this family f”
“ While I was eng ed inconducting them to the house
which his Highness as placed at the disposal of the
shipwrecked,” replied the p e, “ I heard the German
gentleman’s wife call him by t name of Otto.”
Lucreza made no re 1y; but, after partaking of some
slight refreshment, le t the room—declining the attend-
ance of all her ladies, save one.
She retired to her own chamber, followed by this one
favourite, who was an elderly woman, and whom Lucreza
had made the confidant of her intrigues, her amours,
and her crimes. To be the confidant of the Duchess of
Ferrara was to become the instrument of that Princess’s
schemes and vices ; but gold, profusely lavished, had
rendered the Signora Guinaldo a willing agent, if not
entirely a faithful one.
The moment Lucreza and this woman were alone toge-
ther, the latter prepared herself to receive some instruc-
tions of a dark or mysterious nature; for she had not
failed to observe the emotions of her mistress at the men-
tion of Otto Pianalla’s name.
Nor was the S' nora mistaken.
“ Good Guinal 0,” said Lucreza, speakin in a thick
and rapid tone; “ the man, whom of all his sex I most
abhor in this world, is within my power. Accident has
thrown him 11 on this island; and I may now avenge ~
myself for all t e insults which he heaped years ago upon
my head! Yes,” she continued, “ Otto Pianalla is in my
power! And, oh! I will now teach him how terrible a
thing it is to scorn—to reject the love of Lucreza Borgia!
Think you, Guinaldo, that the horrors of the Iron Coflin
will humble that proud and haughtgrpractiser of virtue
at my feet? Think you that the end menace of the
disappearing windows and collapsing walls will thaw his
icyheart, and compel him to exclaim, ‘Pardon me,
Lucreza : I will become thy slave !’ ”'
“ He must be more than mortal to withstand those
terrors, great lady, even if he have steeled his heart
against your charms!” answered the d endant.
“ Say you so P” cried Lucreza, wit a triumphant
smile. “ Then we will put the virtuous Otto to the test.
And if the lapse of time have not worked a ater
change in his appearance than it has in mine,” s e con-
tinued, surveying herself proudly in a full-length mirror
that stood near—“ if the beautiful youth have ex andcd
into the fine and handsome man, then were it wort while
thus to humble him ; for, of all beings of the sterner sex
that ever met my eyes, none has made so lasting an im-
pression upon my heart as Otto Pianalla.”
“Then, lady, shall he succumb to thee!” exclaimed
Signora Guinaldo.
“You understand me !" said Lucreza, si nificantly.
“This night must he become the inmate o the Iron
Coffin!” '
“I do understand your Highness,” re lied the de-
pendant, in the same meanin tone. “ Wit out another
moment’s delay will I issue t e necessary instruction to
Schurmann.”
She then left the apartment.
But are she had proceeded to give those secret orders
which should fulfil the terrible intentions of the Duchess
of Ferrara, the Signora Guinaldo obtained a private
interview with the Duke, Lucreza’s husband.
What passed between the dependant and that Prince
will appear hereafter.
We must, however, observe that after the meet'mg the
Si nora Guinaldo executed Lucreza’s instructions.
hat same evening, about ten o’clock, while the
Duchess was seated at the supper-table with her royal
husband'and the chief officers and ladies of her court, her
dependant entered the room, and found an opportunity
to whisper in her ear, “ Otto Pianalla is at this moment
an inmate of the Iron Coffin.”
Lucreza thanked the Signora Guinaldo with a rapid
but significant glance, and continued the conversation
in which she was engaged with her husband and the
company present, as calmly as if nothing unusual had
occurred.
CHAPTER XCII.
'rnn IRON COFFIN.
The information given to the Duchess Lucreza by the
Signor Gninaldo was indeed too true.

!
l
, him.

Otto Pianalla had strolled forth, shortly after sunset,
from the house in which the shipwrecked part had been
lodged by order of the Duke of Ferrara; and e bent his
steps towards the shore to enjoy the refreshing breeze
which the win s of the evening wafted over the deep blue
waters of the driatic.
He was standing in a contemplative mood, upon a low
reef which jutted out into the sea, when the sounds of
footsteps fell upon his ears. He looked back, and beheld
three men advancing towards him.
Not suspecting treachery, he again turned his eyes upon
the broad expanse which lay at his feet, and in whose
btosom was now reflected the gem-like lust-re of athousand
s ars.
But in a few moments he was seized rudely from
behind : he attempted to resist—the effort was vain, for
his arms were pinioned with cords in an instant ;— he
demanded the cause of this outrage—and his question
elicited no answer.
The three men performed their work in dogged silence.
Having securely bound Otto’s arms, they led him away
along the sea-shore for a considerable distance, so as to
avoi the outskirts of the town ; and at length they turned
abruptly into a narrow path which ran through a thick
grove situated upon a somewhat steep acclivit .
Otto endeavoured to learn the motive of his arrest:
gndlhe appealed to the men to satisfy him upon that
031 .
But the uttered not a word in reply!
When t e u permost verge of the grove was gained,
the black an gloomdylstowers of the Castle of Solitude
were seen at a short ' tance, standing out in dark relief
against the star-lit horizon.
Otto sighed as he beheld that sombre fortress of which
he had already heard enough to arouse the worst fears in
his mind ;—and a tear trembled upon his dark lash as he
thought of his wife and children.
Then he reproached himself for giving way to that
temporary depression, instead of putting his faith in the
supreme ower which had so often led him safely
through (angers of a menacing and even an appalling
nature.
In a quarter of an hour the entrance of the castle was
reaclllied; and the gate was opened by a man carrying a
torc . .
The light streamed upon the countenance of Otto’s
guards ; and it struck the artist that the features of
one of those persons were not altogether unknown to
He examined this individual more attentively, and at
length recognised Schurrman, whom he had seen in the
tribunal of justice at Vienna, on the occasion when the
Baron of Czernin’s affairs were brought before the notice
of the court.
“ Schurmann,” said Otto, in a low voice, “ what injury
have I ever done to you P“
The person thus addressed made no reply: indeed, he
gave no indication that the words were heard by him at
all. .
The ominous silence in whichhis rds thus shrouded
themselves was calculated to inspire the prisoner with
the most gloomy forebodings; and he prayed inwardly,
as be accompanied them along a series of stone passages,
lighted onl by the lurid glare of the torch—he prayed,
to reparc imself for death!
t the end of the last passage which they thus tra-
versed Schurmann opened a low door, which was pro-
vided outside with massive bolts, adlocks, and chains.
The cords were now removed rom Otto’s arms; and
he was thrust into the dungeon to which that well-dc-
fended door gave admittance.
A moment afterwards, and the ominous clanking of the
bolts and chains fell upon his ears.
He sate down on the straw which littered the floor of
the dungeon, and, amidst the almost total darkness in
which he was plunged, began to meditate sorrowfully
upon his condition. _
What would his beloved wife and darling children think
of his sudden and unaccountable absence? Oh! the idea
of their terrible suspense was almost insupportable ; and
even the virtuous—the heaven-confiding_0tto was now
reduced to the brink of despair.
And for what fate was he reserved P For death, per-
haps! But by what means was his end to be accom-
plished? Not by sudden violence—not by the bravo’s
knife ;-—or else wherefore should his enemies have con-
veyed him thither? Alas! was famine—was starvation
to be his doom? He feared so!
But who were his enemies? Had he only one, or many?


FA UST.
I71
!


He knew that Lucreza Borgia. was the Duchess of Fer-
rare, and that she was then at the palace of Lissa. with
the royal court ;—-but surely—surely she could not be his
rsecutress? Had he not saved her brother from a dun-
geon-—at the ril of finding one himself? N o—Lucreza
could not be is enemy! And yet—and yet, who would
dare to perpetrate this outrage beneath the very eyes, as
it were, of the Duke and Duchess to whose rule the island,
with its fortress, belonged l
Terrible uncertainty !—-bewi1dering suspense !
As Otto sate, thus ruminating, upon the straw of his
cell, his eyes ually became more accustomed to the
obscurity; an a light dawned upon him by very slow
degrees, and so faintl that when its presence first struck
him he doubted whet er it was not an optical delusion.
But, as he gazed—and gazed with straining eyes, he
became convinced that there were really windows along
the top of that side or wall of the dungeon towards which
his face was turned.
Yes—he could now count those windows, guarded with
their massive iron bars.
There were five ,- and they formed a range, separated
only from each other by very narrow divisions.
The door was in the side facing the windows.
Otto rose from his straw, and endeavoured to raise
himself u to the easements; but they were too high to
reach wit a spring, and there was not a single projection
to break the surface of the wall.
And that wall—and the other walls of the dungeon—
oh! there was no ossibility of mistaking the nature of
the material of which they were made; for as Otto passed
his hand over them, the cold touch of iron sent a chill
to his very heart’s core !
In what kind of a place, then, was he ? He examined
it more closely with his eyes and hands; and he was
speedily struck by the extraordinary shape of that dun-
geon.
Very long and very narrow, it at first a peared to him
a section cut off from a passage by buil' ' two parti-
tion walls across it: but, no-the side w were not
straight!
More closel —more attentively still did he examine the
dungeon ; an at last—with his blood curdling in his
veins—was he forced to stop at the horrible conviction
that the dungeon was built in the shape of a cofiin!
Yes: he was enclosed in an iron coffin—at one end of
which was the door, and at the other the five windows!
“ Oh! my beloved wife—my dearest children, am I
separated from you for ever 1’” exclaimed Otto Pianalla,
falling upon his knees in the midst of that dungeon of a
shape so appallingly foreboding. “ Great Father of
Mercy, wilt thou make her so soon a widow—and them
fatherless so young? But in thee I place my trust : thy
will be done !”
Then from his bosom he drew forth a small box of
mndabl-wood, and piously kissed the relic which it con-
taine .
That relic was the wood of the Ark!
Then he la down, and. endeavoured to court slumber;
for he was earful of trusting himself alone with his
thoughts. Sleep soon fell upon him ; and his dreams
were to some extent cheering. The nature of those
visions was pervaded by the idea of his confinement in
that horrible dungeon; but amidst the gloom of this
strange and mysterious immurement, his imagination
caught glimpses of hope and scintillations of eventual
fdicit .
He v’vas thus hovering, in his slumbers, between the sad
reality of the present and the brighter anticipations of
the future, when the loud crashing sound of a bell awoke
him with a terrific start.
That bell appeared to ring upon the ver roof of the
iron dungeon, the metallic echoes of whic responded
with a din as if the sides—the floor—and the ceiling
vibrated long and perceptibly to the sudden clang.
The bell, however, boat but once ; though the humming
sound continued to ring for more than a minute in the
artist’s car.
It was morning; and the interior of the dungeon was
now plainly visible in respect to all the ominous features
of its shape. The light that prevailed within was of
that dim nature which precedes the sun-rise by nearly
half an hour. Yet the sun has already risen ;——but then
the windows where so small, the horn of which the panes
were made was so dull in hue, and the iron bars were so
thick, that even at mid-day no better light could penetrate
into that living tomb !
When the first bewildering effects of the sudden elang
of the bell had passed away, Otto’s eyes wandered round

and round the dungeon—as if he could scarcely believe that
a portion of what had followed him in his dreams was
really true,—-as if the horrors of his fiosition had 'ust
burst upon him for the first time, in a their apps. 'ng
forms and colours!
But when he had poured forth his matimpra er, he
grew calmer, and then surveyed the dungeon wit more
tranquil attention.
Glancing first towards the door, he beheld some light ob-
ject projectingas it were from the middle : he approached
that point, and, to his surprise and joy, discovered a
small loaf and a pitcher of water standing upon a sort
of shelf attached to the door. On a closer examination,
he observed that there was a small trap, or wicket, in the
door, 0 ning just above the shelf, and by means of which
the foo had been introduced from outside.
“ Heaven be thanked !" cried Otto : “ then I am not
doomed to die of famine I”
Returning, with the leaf and the jug, to his straw in
the middle of the dungeon, the artist sate down, and ate
and drank sparingly—for he knew not how long a period
might elapse ere the provision would be renewed.
But as his eyes wandered round the horrible place
from time to time, he was suddenly startled by a circum-
stance which he had not before noticed during the half
lhgflr that had now elapsed since he was awakened by the
This circumstance was connected with the range of '
windows. He felt convinced that on the preceding night
he had counted five—counted them over and over again,
——remarked them, in a word, most attentively!
And now there were but four!
Was this possible? Could he have been deceived on the
previous night P or was he deluded now P
He advanced nearer to the wall which contained the
windows—nearer to what might be called the head of the
gojj‘in ;—and, surely enough, there were but four win-
ows!
It was clear, then, that he had been deceived in his
computation the night before : at least he then ht so I
The four windows formed a range all across t e top of
the wall; and if there had been originally five, the re-
moval or filling up of one must have caused a blank space
somewhere along that range.
But there was no such space—the range was uniform,
exitzfimrlling from angle to angle along the head of the
co 11
Oh! how shall we attem t to describe the gloom and
weariness—the intervals 0 soul-crushing thoughts, suc-
ceeded by othersof prayer and hope—which characterized
the passage of that long, lon day ? Not a sound from
Without broke upon the a 0.1 silence of the dungeon;
not a human voice, nor a human footstep—not even the
notes of a. bell proclaiming the hour,-—no-nor the chirrup
of a bird on the ledge of the easements, met the ear of
the prisoner !
Night came at last—and he determined to watch at the
door of the dungeon, to appeal to the person who might
bring him food. _
There he took his station, keeping his hand fixed upon
the panel of the iron door, to ascertain the moment when
the Wicket was about to be opened—so fearful was he of
lOSlilg the opportunity of addressing himself to a human
sou .
But hour after hour assed; and no one came :—the
panel moved not—his foor was not renewed. And yet but
a morsel of the loaf and but a drop of the water remained
to him!
W earied with watching-and reduced almost to despair
by the tho . htpf his wife and children—and now assailed
by the horn le idea that his provisions were to be supplied
so scantily and at such distant intervals, that a hnger-
mg death of slow famine must be his fate,-—Otto Pianalla
once more threw himself upon his knees, prayed fervently,
and shortly after sank into a deep slumber.
His dreams were again to some degree of a cheering
nature; and again were they suddenly and cruelly inter-
rupted by the iron elang of the deafening bell.
But this time it beat twice !
Otto started up, and glanced rapidly round the dungeon
—or rather from end to end; for it seemed to have grown
narrower !
Yes—and, as he gazed, it also a
shorter; for the straw in the mi e struck him as being
nearer to the walls every way.
But food—food!—for he was hungry! And, behold—-
upon the little shelf projecting from the door were a loaf
and another pitcher of water. _
“ Again do I thank Heaven that famine is not to be my
cared to have become


172
FA UST.
fate !" exclaimed Otto. “ But for what purpose am I
here P is it to linger in solitude, until the lonely captivity
of long, long years shall hurl my reason from its seat?
Oh ! death were preferable to that! Ah !—what do I see P”
He uttered these last words with a species of agonising
scream—for his eyes had wandered towards the windows,
of which there were but three!
Starting from the straw, he hastened to examine the
wall in which the windows were set. It was now so
narrow that when he stretched out his arms, his hands
touched the angles where the sides of the coffin joined the
head. ~
But still the windows—the three remaining windows
were uniform as a range : there was no blank space in any
part. The sides, then, had grown closer to each other:
yes—yes—he could now doubt the fact no longer!
And not only had the windows diminished in number;
-—they were lower than when he first entered that dread-
ful place! Still, the top of the range touched the ceiling
-—touched the lid of the iron coflin!
Could all this be a delusion? was he, already turning
mad P
N o—no; he was sane—too sane to be deceived any
lon er as to the appearances which now struck terror to
his inmost soul! For on the first ni ht of his captivity,
he was unable to reach the bottom 0 the windows even
with a leap ;—but at present he could touch the massive
iron bars of the easements without so much as standing
upon tip-toe.
And the roof—oh! that had become lower : it had
descended with the windows !
Horrible ideas flashed to his mind :—those walls would
collapse—that roof would descend—and his form was
destined to be crushed to atoms in that iron coflin !—Or
else the walls and the roof would only approach each
other at such a distance, as to form the cell into the
precise size, as it was already in the shape, of a coffin,—
and thus would he be, as it were, buried alive!
Merciful God! was such to be his fate?
Recovering from the first access of des air, Otto
Pianalla knelt down, and prayed fervently— ervently—
more fervently, if possible, than he had ever yet prayed ;
and he rose in a state of mind considerably calmed—but,
alas! calmed only with that resignation which nerves a
good man to meet approaching death.
Wearily, wearin passed the second day; and the third
night arrived.
So overcome with the fatigue of intense meditation was
he, that—abandoning the idea of again watching at the
wicket—he threw himself upon the straw, and slept pro-
foundly.
But, in his slumbers, a strange vision visited him.
He thought that some being, of undefined shape and
mien, a peared to him—there, in that dungeon—and
offered him liberty—long life—pleasure— ower—happi-
ness of all kinds, upon one condition, which t is mysterious,
vague, and dream-like visitant hesitated to name. But
Otto pressed him to declare the terms on which these
boons were offered ; for the artist longed to embrace his
wife and children again. Then it seemed to him as if the
being ,leant over him, and whispered in his ear words of
so terrible—so ap alling a nature,—conditions of so fear-
ful a kind,—that e started up wildly, and commanded
the fiend to begone. Yet the shade appeared to linger;
whereupon Otto instinctively drew forth the holy relic
of the Ark, and by that precious symbol of God’s mercy
adjured the demon to depart.
At that instant the dreadful bell upon the roof sounded,
-—once—twice—-thrice !
Otto’s senses were so bewildered that for some minutes
he knew not where he was—what that deafening clang,
three times sent forth, could mean.
But as his ideas gradually became more clear and col-
lected, all the horrors of his situation and all the details
of his dream recurred to his memory.
Then how great was his astonishment—how profound
his awe, when he found himself actuall holding in his
right hand the little box that containe the relic of the
sacred opher wood!
Had e really been the object of hell’s temptation?
Had it indeed been proposed to him to barter his soul for
liberty, power, and long life P
He entertained a horrible suspicion—almost amounting
to a conviction—that such was the fact; and he thanked
Heaven for having provided him with the means to repel
the advances of the Tempter.
Then he glanced towards the windows, and averted his
eyes with a cold shudder—averted his eyes from the two
remaining windows !

_He rose from the straw—but his head came in contact
With the ceiling, which had now sunk so low, that he
could not stand upright in the dungeon!
There, however, upon the little shelf of the door, were
the loaf and the pitcher of water, which had been supplied
to him while he slept.
“. Two windows remainin !” mused Otto to himself,
while _his heart seemed re y to burst as the images of
his Wife and children flitted before him. “ The bell
struck once when the first disa peared—twice when two
were gone—~and three times when the collapsing walls
covered the third! To-morrow it will strike four—and
the morning after, five ; and then doubtless m doom will
be sealed! By whose command do I thus su er? who is
the enemy that has destined me thus to die? Surely no
human being possesses a heart so fiend-like—unless it be
indeed the Bor ia P Yes—yes; Lucreza, this is your
work :—you see to punish me for the firmness with
which I refused to become the slave of your passions at
Rosenthal Castle long ago ! Oh! I comprehend it all ;—
for thou, Iiucreza, art the only living being capable of
such atrocity as this! But, if it be the will of Heaven
that I die thus, prayers, and not curses, shall mark my
last agonising moments !" i
It was not, however, without feelings of inefl'able
horror that Otto surveyed the limited dimensions of that
dungeon which now seemed more coffin-like than ever.
By whatever strange contrivance it were that those walls
were. thus made to collapse, and that roof to fall lower, it
was imposSible to deny that never had infernal cruelty
designed a more ingenious method of crushing the spirit
by de ces, and the body perhaps in an instant when the
time s ould come.
In the widest part of the iron cofliu Otto could now
easin touch each side with his extended arms; and at the
foot, or lower end, it was so narrow that the door alone
at resent occupied that space.
he fourth night came; and Otto feared to sleep, lest
the temptations of hell should be renewed. But he could
not walk about—for his head touched the ceiling when he 1
He therefore sate upon the straw, and ‘
stood upright.
passed t e weary, tedious hours in rayer. When, accord-
ing to the calculation which he ma e of the lapse of time,
light was approaching, he maintained his eyes steadily
fixed upon the pomt where the two remaining window's
had stood on the previous day. And soon—by degrees a
faint ghmmer was erceptible at the head of the iron :
coffin : then, when t e dim ray had somewhat increased I
in power, the bell suddenly beat—sounding now as if it
were Just over the hapless prisoner’s head, while the iron
walls and roof vibrated terrifically with the rebound.
One—two—three—four ;—and as the . fourth clang fell
on Otto’s_ ear, the side against which he was leaning.
moved n01selessly, but firmly and steadily, inwards. H
uttered a loud cry, and flung up his arms in terror ;—bu
his hands encountered the roof, which had now sunk t
the level of his head, even as he sate upon the straw.
Instinctiver his eyes, a moment averted, were turned
again towards the head of the coffin ; and the dim light
shone upon him through the one remaining window l
“ To-morrow—to-morrow !” he cried, clasping his hani ‘
together ;——“and all will be over! Oh! my dear, dc!
wife—my beloved sons 1“ . »
And he wept bitterly. - .'
Those tears relieved him—as much as a man in is
awful situation could be relieved; and, perceiving t! a
his food had not been forgotten, he crept along the 00‘ i'!3
to the door, now so narrow that a stout person could 1 ~ ‘
have passed through it. 2
The shelf was still precisely in the middle—for
admirably arranged seemed the fearful mechanism wliii ‘
produced those strange collapses of the cotfin’s sides ai
lid, that the precise position of its salient features 1'! _
> mained unchanged in reference to each diminished ShZLP!
Firmly impressed with the idea that this was his las
day, Otto passed it in the way which the reader, who ha
studied his character, may conceive; and when night-
the fifth night—came, he no longer feared to lie down to
rest ; for he felt himself nerved to resist all the tempts-i
tions of hell—were they never so powerful!
CHAPTER XCIII.
THE LAST s'rnoxn or THE BELL.
YES—the fifth night had arrived ; and Otto Pianalla laj
down upon his straw, with the conviction that when th!
bell should ring in the morning as a signal for the tiff!
window-to disappear, the walls and roof would grasp hm


PA US T.
173

LLIFQIP:
“3.2
in their arms of iron, and enclose him in that coffin of
diabolical contrivance.
It was not death that he feared ;—but he sorrowed to
think that his family was destined to remain in a frightful
state of ignorance as to his real fate,—perhaps supported
for ears and years upon the hope that he might return
to t em,—until, the heart becoming sick, the very duties
of life would seem poisoned, and the end of those whom
he loved so devotedly might become painful in the
extreme. '
In the midst of such reflections as these, he was sud-
denly startled by a sound—the first save that of the bell
and of his own cries which had yet met his ear in the
dungeon—emanating from the door.
He listened—listened in the most acute suspense.
Yes; it was indeed a sound as of a trap opening ;—and
immediately afterwards a strong current of air dissipated
the almost stifling heat of the iron cofliu.
“ Otto Pianalla !” said a melodious voice.
Years had passed since the artist had heard those
tones ;-—but he remembered them well—for the voice of
Lucreza Bor 'a was one of silvery softness.
“Am I in eed, then, the victim of your Highness?”
asked Otto. “ Oh! is human nature capable of such
black ingratitude? Hast thou forgotten, false woman,
all I did for thy brother Caesar ?”
“ Lucreza Borgia for ets nothing,” was the calm repl ‘:
“ not even how Otto ianalla scorned her love in t 0
Castle of Rosenthal. Proud and obdurate man! didst
then not then see me at thy feet—and didst thou not
shrink from me as from a vi er P Didst then not even
take upon thyself to reproac me for my crimes? But
enough of that :—I am not come to reproach—I am here
to save thee, if thou wilt."
“ Can you ask me if I wish to escape from this horrible
prison?” exclaimed Otto, joyfully. “Oh! release me,
madam—restore me to my wife and children—let me
embrace them once more—and I will pray for thee—I
will even speak of thee with ratitude !”
“It is not gratitude that seek at the hands of Otto
Pianalla,” answered Lucreza : “ it is love !"
“ Oh! would you impose conditions upon me as the
price of my release ?" cried the artist. “ Then know, bad
woman, that sooner shall these walls crush me to a shape-
less mass,—sooner shall this roof fall down this instant
on the head which it already touches, even as I speak to
thee,—-yes—-sooner will I die the most horrible of deaths
than ield to thy desires !”
“ T ink not, haughty man,” returned Lucreza, “ that
your death there will be immediate ! Oh ! no—that were
a mercy too great for those whom the state-vengeance of
Ferrara or my own private hatred sends to this living
tomb ! No :—shouldst thou scorn me now, as thou didst
sixteen years ago in the Castle of Rosenthal, prepare thy-
self for a fate the horrors of which no tongue can
describe! For when the fifth sound of to-morrow’s bell
falls on thine ears, the walls and the roof will move so
near each other that they will enclose thee in a space
neither a whit larger nor a tittle smaller than thy coflin
would be were it uly prepared to receive thy corpse.
I‘herein wilt thou linger for days and days—a prey to
starvation—feeding on the flesh of thine hands and arms
. —and with all the terrific consciousness which can aggr
.wum-wvglq=‘____
c-v
q.
11
rate the hellish tormeuts of thy doom. Otto Pianall ,
-ave I moved thee now P”
“ No—no—fiend, and not woman, as thou art!” was
he agonising reply. “Avaunt—leave me! I will not yield
0 thee—go !"
“Then perish in thine obstinacy!” replied Lucreza;
and the trap was immediately closed in the door.
But almost at the same moment the trampling of many
feet and the sounds of angry voices fell upon Otto’s ears:
the bolts and bars of the iron coflin were drawn back—
the chains fell with a heavy clank upon the pavement
outside—the door was thrown open—lights appeared in
the passage—and a loud voice exclaimed, in a command-
ing tone, “ Otto Pianalla, come forth ! Thou art free !"
It is beyond the power of langu to describe how
joyoust t is invitation was obeyed— ow the despair of
Otto Pianalla was in a moment changed into the most
fervent heart-thrilling delight!
Passing out from the iron coflin, the artist found him-
self. in t e presence of an elderly man of noble and im-
posingligsgect, and in whom, by the star that he wore
upon reast, he had no difliculty in recognising the
Duke of Ferrara.
The Duchess Lucreza was a prisoner between two of
the ducal guards x—Schurmann was also in custody ;—and
close behind the Duke stood the Signora Guinaldo.

Lucreza’s countenance was ashy pale ; but it was
evident that she endeavoured as much as possible to con-
ceal her emotions beneath an affectation of haughty
indifference.
“ Return at once to our family, excellent man,” cried
the Duke, addressing 'mself to Pianalla ; “ but fear not
that they have been in sorrow at your absence. Searcer
were you the inmate of this castle, when a message from
me relieved them of all anxiety on your account ; and an
innocent falsehood conveyed to them a reasonable excuse
for your separation from them for a few days.”
“ A thousand thanks, my lord, for this kind eonsidera- '
tion on your part !” cried Otto, overjoyed at intelligence
so welcome.
“And pardon me," continued the Duke, taking the
artist’s hand, “if I have allowed you to languish thus
long in such horrible suspense as you must have endured.
But I required confirmation of that profli'gacy which I
had long suspected—a profiigaey on the part of a woman
whom, in spite of the il report of her early life, I raised
to be a partner of m ducal throne. Yes, Lucreza—what
have become of all t e pledges of fidelity which you made
me, when—dazzled b your beauty, overlooking your
former errors, andwi ing to believe your representations
that report had exaggerated your failings into enormous
crimes—I led you to the altar? But know, vile woman,
that you have been betrayed by your own bad agent—
your own confidant; and that those words which you
ere now uttered to this high-minded man, who nobl
refused to purchase life with dishonour, have at lengt
confirmed my long-existing suspicions !"
Lucreza darted a furious glance at the Si nora Guinaldo,
but made no reply to the accusations an reproaches of
her husband.
“ In reference to you, Guinaldo,” continued the Duke,
“ you have my pled e for your safety ;—and you may
depart! And you, vi e tool of an abandoned princess,"
he added, turning towards Schurmann, “ imprisonment
in the Castle of Solitude shall bethy fate! Guards, away
with him 1”
The Si ora Guinaldo had already disappeared ; and the
soldiers astened to conduct Schurmann to one of the
dee st dungeons in the Castle of Solitude.
“ esser Pianalla, I have nau ht more to say to you,”
observed the Duke; “ unless itie that I have laced at
your disposal a vessel to convey yourself and amily to
any port whither it may suit your purposes to repair.
Farewell—and forget what you have seen or endured
within these walls !“
“ Your Highness will pardon me,” said Otto, glancing
towards Lucreza, “if I venture to implore your mercy
in favour of one who—wicked and depraved though she
e— I
“ Messer Pianalla,” interrupted the Duke, sternly,
“ seek not to place thyself between me and the execution
of my sovereign justice. A in I bid thee farewell !"
But Otto still lingered— or, much as he had suffered
at the hands of Lucreza Borgia, he revolted from the idea
of the unishment which he feared was in store for her.
The Du e perceived his hesitation ; and, stamping his
foot with ra e, cried, “ Dost hear ? Begone !”
The uar s seized upon the artist, and conducted him
throng the long passages and windings that led to the
gate of the Castle of Solitude.
A few minutes after he had thus been removed from the
presence of the Duke, the iron cofliu received another
victim!
U_nmoved by her prayers and entreaties—inexorable
against her tears and sugplications—{or the haughty
Lucreza was humbled to t e dust when the fiat of her
husband went forth—the Duke remained u on the spot
while the guards thrust the screaming, wretc ed, despair-
ingfwoman into the horrible prison.
es—and with the true malignity of the dark Italian
ven eance of that e, the Duke quitted not the entrance
of t e iron coffin t roughout the night! And when the
first beam of the sun appeared above the eastern hills
and grove-topped heights of Lissa, the fearful machinery
was set in motion.
Clang—claug went the deafening bell u on the dungeon
roof :—five times it struck—while appallmg shrieks came
from within the livin tomb.
And while the echoes of the fifth stroke were yet rever-
berating through the gloomy passages of the Castle of
Solitude, the mysterious engine of death began its dread-
ful work.
On—on went the closing sides: down—down came the
ponderous roof—the fatal machinery no lon er moving
noiselessly, but collapsing with a hideous eras —yet not


FA US T.
175

splendour, when a traveller stopped at the gate of Otto
Pianalla’s dwelling in Vienna.
His dress denoted negligence; his countenance was
10 as death ;—his eyes rolled in their sockets with a
'nd of insane restlessness and horrified glare ;—and his
tall form was bowed by the weight of aflliction.
Otto Pianalla, who had been awaiting his arrival in a
state of deep suspense, and who had Witnessed from the
window his approach towards the house, hastened to re-
ceive the way-worn traveller u on the threshold.
Not a word was spoken be ween them, as the artist
conducted his visitor to the most retired chamber in the
dwelling ; and there, when the door was closed, the
traveller threw himself upon a sofa, exclaiming, “ I have
kept my word, Otto: I am here on the eve of my last
da !
‘3" And is it indeed true, Faust,” exclaimed Pianalla,
“ that to-morrow—to-morrow—’ ’
“ Satan will claim his own I" added Faust, in,a voice so
mournful—oh! so mournful, that never before nor after-
wards did such tones of despair,——dark, deep, unutterable
despair,——meet the ears of mortal man. “ Yes,” continued
Faust, “ my career is about to terminate—that career
which has been so varied, and which, but for thee, would
have plunged in endless ruin the immortal soul of my
own beloved son !”
“ And that son is now happy in the possession of a
charming wife,” returned Otto; “ as happy as he can be
—-or will ever be—with the knowledge that his father
per etrated a great crime—“
“ es—the crime of the Chamber of the Cradle!” ejacu-
lated Faust, hastily : “ but he knows not the dread secret
of his father’s doom ? eak, Otto—say—hast thou
violated thy pledge to me P t thou imparted to Maxi-
milian—”
“ N 0,” interrupted the artist, emphatically: “ I have
kc t my word; and when thou art no more, one being
will alone remain the depositor of thy appalling secret!"
“ I thank thee, Otto,” returned Faust. “ If there be a
gleam of consolation for a. wretch so lost—so fallen—so
miserable as myself, it exists in the conviction that my
fate will remain unknown to him who must continue to
bear my accursed name. From the moment that I arted
with you a little more than four years ago, I have een a
wanderer upon the face of the carth,———at one time avail-
ing myself of that awful power which I possess, to conj are
up scenes of enchantment and delight wherein to drown,
if possible, the cares that weigh so heavily upon me,—-at
another seeking the solitude o hideous deserts and path-
less forests where no other human foot had ever trod, as
'f I could thus fly from the dreadful phantozns of my own
thoughts. But, alas !——alas ! all my endeavours to obtain
a moment’s peace have been unavailing; and now—now—
I touch at last on the threshold of my doom !”
“ Faust,” exclaimed Otto, ainfully excited, “ thou
canst not thus resign thyse to Satan! Oh ! let me
summon hither a priest—a pious, holy man, who will
pray with thee, and counsel thee ;—-or else hasten then to
take refuge in the sanctuary of the Redeemer—to cling
to the altar—to join with me in hymns of supplication and
contrition——-”
“ Peace, Otto !” cried Faust his countenance con-
vulsed, and his whole frame acthally writhing with the
violence of inward emotions : “ you know not what you
say ! Oh ! not for a single instant can I venture to anti-
cipate my doom. A few hours yet remain to me—and so
greedy am I now of each moment in those hours, that by
no desperate act of mine will I lace my soul in the power
of Satan even a second before t e appomted time. Speak
not of hope—there is none for me! But tell me about
my son. Does he wear the talisman which contains the
sacred relic?”
“ It never leaves him,” answered Otto. “ Fastened to
his neck by a strong riband, it is always near his heart;
and its holy influence has endowed his mind witha placid
resignation that even assuages his grief on account of
thee! But he prays for thy welfare: morning and night
he raises his voice to Heaven to im lore blessings upon
the head of his father, whom he be ieves to have retired
to a cloister.”
“ And let him remain in that belief!" cried Faust, in
an impassioned tone ; “ oh ! let him remain in that
belief, Otto—I implore thee !”
“ N 0t so,” answered Pianalla; “ for it is better that he
should know that you are no more, than exist in uncer-
icainéy as to your real fate. If your doom be indeed at
1am —"
“ It is! it is !” ejaculated Faust, wildly.
“ Then must it be my painful duty to acquaint him with

your decease,” observed Otto; “ and that sad task will I
accomplish in a manner which shall encourage no evil
suspicion in his mind.“
“ And this you promise solemnly to a man whom you
may regard as upon his death-bed 3’“ said Faust, his voice
now becoming hollow and unearthl .
“ I swear to act as I have dec red!" replied Otto,
emphatically.
“’Tis we . And now one more question :—-Does the
Archduke curse my name for the treachery of which I
was guilty? Does the Archduchess speak of me with
loathing and abhorrenoe i’”
“ Oh ! uo—no—far from that I” exclaimed Otto. " The
Archduchess was too much rejoiced that the mystery of
the Chamber of the Cradle should have been cleared up,
to think of uttering reproaches against you! She has
since been able embrace her daughter without the dis-
tressing idea of loving the child of other parents better
than her own offspring. Moreover, she and her noble
husband possess generous and forgiving hearts ; and they
even sought and obtained the mercy of the Emperor in
behalf of the surviving physician who was implicated in
the fraud. The nurse died of the pla e; but Doctor
Lutzen confessed all, and was punish only by banish-
ment from the imperial dominions for ever.”
“ I am satisfied with all you have done,” said Faust.
“ You have been a generous friend to the most wretched
of men ;—but, then, you yourself are all that human
virtue and mortal goodness can possibly be! We must
now separate, Otto; for I would pass the last few hours
of my existence alone. For this night shall I trespass
on your hospitality; and to-morrow—”
The wretched man could say no more: he suddenly
became convulsed with grief—overwhelmed with de-
spair.
Vainly did the artist seek to console him ;--alas! there
was no solace for Satan’s Own!
Faust pointed imperativer and earnestly towards the
door: the artist understood the meaning of the doomed
one, and retired with a heavy heart. -
Throughout that awful night Otto Pianalla never
ceased to pray!
EPILOGUE.
IT was the hour of sunrise.
Two forms stood upon the summit of Mount Vesuvius,
from the depths of whose crater rose a black and dense
smoke. . -
Those beings were the Demon and Faust.
The fiend’s countenance was no longer tinged with an
air of melancholy ; neither was it marked by that
lurking expression of min led contemfiit and irony which
had so often characterised him when e was his victim' ’s
s ve.
His face was now appalling to behold—for every feature
was invested with the terrors of hell. The eyes appeared
to burn, and to shoot forth lightning glances ; the triumph
of infernal despotism sate on his haughty brew ; and his
lips were curled with a mali 'ty which denoted how in-
veterate was his hate towarrglthe seed of woman!
Faust shrank in horror from the dread countenance
which was now turned upon him; and every chord in his
heart vibrated as if those fibres were about to crack and
burst, when the awful voice of the Demon rolled like
thunder upon his ears.
“ The moment is approaching, Faust,” said the Demon,
in that dreadful tempest-tone, “ when I shall bear thee as
a victim to those realms which thou didst once visit as a
spectator. But ere I take thee thither, listen to the last
words that will ever fall on thy mortal ears. Thinkest
thou that I was duped by thine attempt to cheat me of thy
son? thinkest then that I made myself so completely thy
slave as to avert mine eyes, at thy command, from the
deeds which thou soughtest to achieve in secret? Oh!
no—it was then, poor mortal, who was the dupe! Thy
miserable expedient of the Chamber of the Cradle was
known to me from the first; and I laughed at that pre-
sumption which soared to outwit Satan! But there lives
one man whose virtues I ever loathed, whose enterprising
spirit I ever feared ;-and that man is Otto Pianalla.
sought to make him mine—I endeavoured to cast my
chains around him! When he was on. the point of star-
vation, I appeared to him in human form, and gave him
old—requiring at the same time a service at his hands;
or well did I know that his proud spirit would not ac.
cept the purse of charity. I hoped that so sudden a tran-
sition from bitterest poverty to comparative affluence


176
FA UST.
would undermine his integrity, and plunge him into the
paths of pleasure. But it sometimes happens in the world
that the gifts of Satan are used against himself, and that
the temptations of hell on] serve to strengthen the
human mind in virtue. Sue was the case with Otto
Pianalla;—and the old that I gave him was rendered,
b a higher power w ich I dare not name, the element
o¥ his prosperity and happiness. Thus were the weapons
with which I fought, turned, when they fell in virtuous
hands, against myself !”
“ And Otto has succeeded in saving my son from thine
aecursed grasp I” almost shrieked Faust, as he averted
his head in dismay from the terrible countenance of the
Demon.
“ Yes-he has succeeded,” answered the fiend, bitterly;
“ but not without a desperate struggle on my art to re-
tain my hold on the youth whom you—his fat er—made
over to me even ere he was born ! I threw the virtuous
Otto in the way of Lucreza Borgia—but in vain :—I sought
to impede his journey to the summit of Mount Ararat—
but in vain. Vainl also did I cast him into the power
of Lucreza in the is e of Lissa—vainly did I make her my
instrument to plunge him into a dungeon of so terrible a
nature that if he would have ever yielded to my tempta-
tions, it was there—it was then! But vainly, I say, did
I do all this : Otto has escaped me—and never, never
more may my influence be turned against his happiness
or his integrity !”
“ And wherefore tell me all this P” asked Faust, scarcely
knowing what he said, so appalling were the fears which
oppressed him.
“ To show thee, miserable wretch that thou art!” cried
the fiend, in a dreadful tone—“ to show thee that Heaven
never deserts those who implicitly and earnestly put their
faith in its power,-—to show thee that there was even
hope for suchas then, had thine heart been coura eons
enough to trust in HIM whom I dare not name! es—
let me embitter the last few moments of thy miserable
life, by teaching thee that thou hast voluntarily made
thyself mine! For hadst thou listened to the advice of
Otto Pianalla—hadst thou, even yestcr-night, followed
his counsel, and sought the altar,—thinkest thou I should
have dared to drag thee thence? No—no; powerful as I
am, there is ONE before whose shrine even Satan quails
and trembles !“
“ What is it that you tell me ?" exclaimed Faust, in a
tone of the wildest agony: “was there indeed hope for
me P Oh! wretch—wretch that I am I” _
“ Yes—there was hope; for the mercy of HIM is infi-
nite,” returned the Demon, gi'eedily gloating on the
agonies of the miserable mortal whom he had so success-
fully ensnared in his toils. “ But now it is too late; and
hell yawns to receive you. For never will it have yet
opened its hideous jaws to swallow up a more fearful
sinner! To suit thy wayward purposes—to minister to
thy passions, what misery has been accomplished—what
myriads of lives have been sacrificed. When from the
heights of the Brockeii I r.ised, at thy command, the
fearful tempest which desolated the provinces of the Elbe,
thousands and thousands of poor innocent beings were
ruined by that dread visitation. Their crops were de-
stroyed—their flocks and herds swept away—their cot-
tages levelled with the ground. Again it was thy wish to
visit hell at a time when all its fires were raging with the
utmost fury ; and, in obedience to thy wish, the horrors
of my kingdom were so enhanced that the flames poured
forth from the bowels of this very mountain. That erup-
THE
FEMS-2


/0"
1 tion was caused b thee! Again, how many millions
been cut off by t at plague which, in obedience to
will, was evoked from the east, to which its ravage.
would have been confined but for thy command! And,
lastly, art then not the murderer of thine own wife—the
woman who loved thee so tenderly and so well ?"
“ Spare inc—spare me I” cried Faust, clasping his
hands together.
died—ere that fatal day when-—”
“ And she would have died loner years ago,” interrupted
the Demon; “ yes, died by the hand of your paramour,
Ida, had not Otto Pianalla saved her by an antidote ‘
against the poison prepared for her !”
“ What, hast then ever saved a human life!” ex-
claimed Faust: “ Oh! then, thou art not without
mercy!”
“ Never—never, since my Fall, did I know what mercy
was,” answered the Demon, with fearful emphasis.
“ Think not that I saved your wife then through such a
motive! No :-but I foresaw, limited as my powers of
reading the future are, that your career was of such a
nature as to involve the death of her who loved thee
best and most sincerely! For that I saved Theresa,—
saved her only that she might die through thy misdeeds,
and thus complete the black catalogue of thy crimes!”
“ O fiend, ten thousand times aecursed,” shrieked
Faust, wildly; “ too well have all your horrible designs
succeeded!”
“Ah! wretched mortal,” exclaimed the Demon, with
soverei scorn, “ how mean—how miserable—how petty
have al thy machinations proved in comparison wit
mine! And how inconsistent has thy conduct been!
When thou wast snatched from the dungeon of Witten-
berg twenty-four years ago, then wouldst not suffer me
to kill thine enemy the Chief Judge ;—but then didst
order me to appear in a frightful shape before him, and
enjoin him never more to molest thee! Yet didst thou
prove the means of puttin his son to death—his son, who
never injured thee! An afterwards, thou—who didst
scru 1c at the first to slay the unjust magistrate that
we d have sent thee to a scafl’old,—thou was the cause
of bringing whirlwind, volcanic eruption, and plague
upon innocent millions !
inconsistencies ;—and now shall I make thee mine !”
“ Spare me—in mercy spare me awhile !“ cried Faust,
falling upon his knees before the Demon. “Oh! drag
me not away from that world on which the sun now
shines so brightly! If I am thine for all eternity, then
grant me a few more years of life upon this earth! What
is the boon I ask? It is the same as if the whole ocean
did belong to thee, and thou wast to lose a single drop of
those boundless waters ! Oh ! grant me a year—a month
-—a week—another day—another hour !”
“ The measure of thy guilt is full,” exclaimed the fiend;
“ for now thou dost kneel to Satan !"
“ Mercy—oh! mercy!” cried Faust, as the Demon 3'1-
vanced to seize him: “ an hour—a few minutes-and 1
am thine!”
“Thou art mine now!” thundered the fiend, casting
his arms around the shrieking victim.
At the same moment a glow of lurid flame shot 11',
wards from the depths of the crater ;—-the scorching lai
boiled over the sides of the mountain ;—Vesuvius rocke
with the earthquake which shook it to its very base ;—
and the air was rent by the screams of the wretched bein
wliom Satan hurled headlong into the bosom of th
v0 cane.
END.
i935?
A
“ Oh ! that I had perished—or she had |,
i
_- 4. ____
Oh! I am disgusted with thine ‘


I|r.||'


Date Due



MAI-







z ,4 g;
DEC 091998


















Demon-293