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_ PRIVATE LIBRARY 
 | OF 
 
 GEORGE T. FLOM 
 
 Presented by 
 Professor G. T. Flom 
 
The person charging this material is re- 
 sponsible for its return to the library from 
 which it was withdrawn on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books 
 are reasons for disciplinary action and may 
 result in dismissal from the University. 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 MAR 22 1978 
 MAR 1 0 1978 
 
 L161—0-1096 
 
 ? 
 
| LIBRARY | 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLING#S 
 URBANA 
 
 . 
 
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 7, 
 
 CAAA igo 
 
 anion quickly reappeared, dragging a 
 adsman. 
 
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 epared the latter for some fresh subject of 
 
 comp 
 
 A cry from the interior pr 
 Pierre and his 
 to the open air.—The 
 
 horror, when 
 living man 1n 
 
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 MTU hey 
 Sf { } | si aD 
 () R kK Ss , i 
 
 OF 
 
 J. FENIMORE COOPER 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH WOOD-EN GRAVINGS. 
 
 COMPLETE IN TEN VOLUMES. 
 
 VOLUME TEN. 
 
 New York: 
 PETER FENELON COLLIER, PUBLISHER. 
 1892. 
 
— 
 
 < 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 KARLY in October, 1832, a travelling-car- 
 riage stopped on the summit of that long 
 descent where the road pitches from the ele- 
 vated plain of Moudon, in Switzerland, to 
 the level of the lake of Geneva, immediately 
 above the little city of Vévey. The postilion 
 had dismounted to chain a wheel, and the 
 
 halt enabled those he conducted to catch a 
 glimpse of the lovely scenery of that re- 
 markable view. | 
 
 The travellers were an American family, 
 which had long been wandering about Eu- 
 rope, and which was now destined it knew 
 not whither, having just traversed a thousand 
 miles of Germany in its devious course. 
 Four years before, the same family had halted 
 on the same spot, nearly on the same day of 
 the month of October, aud for precisely the 
 same object. It was then journeying to Italy, 
 and as its members hung over the view of the 
 Leman, with its accessories of Chillon, Chate- 
 lard, Blonay, Meillerie, the peaks of Savoy, 
 and the wild ranges of the Alps, they had 
 felt regret that the fairy scene was so soon to 
 pass away. ‘The case was now different, and 
 yielding to the charm of a nature so noble, 
 and yet so soft, within a few hours the car- 
 riage was in remise, a house was taken, the 
 baggage unpacked, and the household gods 
 of the travellers were erected, for the twen- 
 tieth time, in a strange land. 
 
 Our American (for the family had its head) 
 was familiar with the ocean, and the sight of 
 water awoke old and pleasant recollections. 
 He was hardly established in Vévey as a 
 housekeeper, before he sought a boat. Chance 
 
 brought him to a certain Jean Descloux (we 
 give the spelling at hazard), with whom he 
 soon struck up a bargain, and they launched 
 forth in company upon the lake. 
 
 This casual meeting was the commence- 
 ment, of an agreeable and friendly inter- 
 course. Jean Descloux, besides being a very 
 good boatman, was a respectable philosopher 
 in his way; possessing a tolerable stock of 
 general information. His knowledge of 
 America, in particular, might be deemed a 
 little remarkable. He knew it was a conti- 
 nent, which lay west of his own quarter of 
 the world; that it had a place in it called 
 New Vévey; that all the whites who had 
 gone there were not yet black, and that there 
 were plausible hopes it might one day be civ- 
 ilized. Finding Jean so enlightened on a 
 subject under which most of the eastern sa- 
 vants break down, the American thought it 
 well enough to prick him closely on other 
 matters. The worthy boatman turned out 
 to be a man of singularly just discrimina- 
 tion. He was a reasonably good judge of the 
 weather; had divers marvels to relate con- 
 cerning the doings of the lake; thought the 
 city very wrong for not making a port in the 
 great square; always maintained that the 
 wine of Saint Saphorin was very savory 
 drinking for those who could get no better ; 
 laughed at the idea of there being sufficient 
 cordage in the world to reach to the bottom 
 of the Genfer See ; was of the opinion that 
 the trout was a better fish than the féra; 
 spoke with singular moderation of his an- 
 cient masters, the bourgeoisie of Berne, which, 
 however, he always affirmed kept singularly 
 bad roads in Vaud, while those around its 
 own city were the best in Europe, and other- 
 wise showed himself to be a discreet and ob- 
 servant man. In short, honest Jean Des- 
 cloux was a fair sample of that home-bred, 
 upright common sense, which seems to form 
 the instinct of the mass, and which it is 
 greatly the fashion to deride in those circles 
 in which mystification passes for profound 
 
 (3) 
 
es ny WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 thinking, bold assumption for evidence, a 
 simper for wit, particular personal advan- 
 tages for liberty, and in which it is deemed a 
 mortal offence against good manners to hint 
 that Adam and Eve were the common par- 
 ents of mankind. 
 
 “ Monsieur has chosen a good time to visit 
 Vévey,” observed Jean Descloux, one even- 
 ing that they were drifting in front of the 
 town, the whole scenery resembling a fairy 
 picture rather than a portion of this much- 
 abused earth; “it blows sometimes at this 
 end of the lake in a way to frighten the gulls 
 out of it. We shall see no more of the 
 steamboat after the last of the month.” 
 
 The American cast a glance at the moun- 
 tain, drew upon his memory for sundry 
 squalls and gales which he had seen himself, 
 and thought the boatman’s figure of speech 
 less extravagant than it had at first seemed. 
 
 “Tf your lake craft were better constructed, 
 they would make better weather,” he quietly 
 observed. 
 
 Monsieur Descloux had no wish to quarrel 
 with a customer who employed him every 
 evening, and who preferred floating with the 
 current to being rowed with a crooked oar. 
 He manifested his prudence, therefore, by 
 making a reserved reply. 
 
 ‘No doubt, monsieur,” he said, ‘‘ that the 
 people who live on the sea make better ves- 
 sels, and know how to sail them more skil- 
 fully. We had a proof of that here at Vé- 
 vey” (he pronounced the word like v-vais, 
 agreeably to the sounds of the French vow- 
 els), ‘last summer, which you might like to 
 hear. An English gentleman—they say he 
 was a captain in the marine—had a vessel 
 built at Nice, and dragged over the moun- 
 tains to our lake. He took a run across to 
 Meillerie one fine morning, and no duck ever 
 skimmed along lighter or swifter! He was 
 not a man to take advice from a Swiss boat- 
 man, for he had crossed the line and seen 
 waterspouts and whales! Well, he was on 
 his way back in the dark, and it came on to 
 blow here from off the mountains, and he 
 stood on boldly toward our shore, heaving the 
 lead as he drew near the land, as if he had 
 been beating info Spithead in a fog,”—Jean 
 chuckled at the idea of sounding in the Le- 
 man—“ while he flew along like a bold mar- 
 iner, as no doubt he was!” 
 
 ‘Landing, I suppose,” said the American, 
 ‘“among the lumber in the great square ?” 
 
 ‘Monsieur is mistaken. He broke his 
 boat’s nose against that wall; and the next 
 day, a piece of her, big enough to make a 
 thole-pin, was not to be found. He mightas 
 well have sounded the heavens! ” 
 
 “The lake has a bottom, notwithstanding? ” 
 
 ‘*Your pardon, monsieur. The lake has 
 no bottom. The sea may have a bottom, but 
 we have no bottom here.” 
 
 There was little use in disputing the point. 
 
 Monsieur Descloux then spoke of the rey- 
 olutions he had seen. He remembered the 
 time when Vaud was a province of Berne. 
 His observations on this subject were rational, 
 and were well seasoned with common sense. 
 His doctrine was simply this: ‘‘If one man 
 rule, he will rule for his own benefit and that 
 of his parasites; if a minority rule, we have 
 many masters instead of one” (honest Jean 
 had got hold here of a cant saying of the 
 privileged, which he very ingeniously con- 
 verted against themselves), ‘‘all of whom 
 must be fed and served; and if the majority 
 rule, and rule wrongfully, why, the minimum 
 of harm is done.” He admitted that the 
 people might be deceived to their own injury, 
 but then he did not think it was quite as 
 likely to happen, as that they should be op- 
 pressed when they were governed without 
 any agency of their own. On these points 
 the American and the Vaudois were abso- 
 lutely of the same mind. 
 
 From politics the transition to poetry was 
 natural, for a common ingredient in both ~ 
 would seem to be fiction. On the subject of 
 his mountains, Monsieur Descloux was a 
 thorough Swiss. He expatiated on their 
 grandeur, their storms, their height, and 
 their glaciers, with eloquence. The worthy 
 boatman had some such opinions of the su- 
 periority of his own country as all are apt to 
 form who have never seen any other. He 
 dwelt on the glories of an Abbaye des 
 Vignerons, too, with the gusto of a Vévai- 
 san, and seemed to think it would be a high 
 stroke of state policy, to get up a new féle 
 of this kind as speedily as possible. In 
 short, the world and its interests were pretty 
 generally discussed between these two philos- 
 ophers during an intercourse that extended 
 to a month. 
 
THE HEADSMAN. Nitrncted ¢ cee 
 
 Our American was not a man to let in- 
 struction of this nature easily escape him. 
 He lay hours at a time on the seats of Jean 
 Descloux’s boat, looking up at the mountains, 
 or watching some lazy sail on the lake, and 
 
 speculating on the wisdom of which he was 
 
 so accidentally made the repository. His 
 view on one side was limited by the glacier of 
 Mount Vélan, a near neighbor of the cele- 
 brated col of St. Bernard ; and on the other, 
 his eye could range to the smiling fields that 
 surround Geneva. Within this setting is 
 contained one of the most magnificent pict- 
 ures that Nature ever drew, and he bethought 
 him of the human actions, passions, and in- 
 terests, of which it might have been the 
 scene. By a connection that was natural 
 enough to the situation, he imagined a frag- 
 ment of life passed between these grand lim- 
 its, and the manner in which men could listen 
 to the never-wearied promptings of their 
 impulses in the immediate presence of the 
 majesty of the Creator. He bethought him 
 of the analogies that exist between inan- 
 imate nature and our own wayward ine- 
 qualities ; of the fearful admixture of good 
 and evil of which we are composed; of the 
 manner in which the best betray their sub- 
 - mission to the devils, and in which the worst 
 have gleams of that eternal principle of 
 right, by which they have been éndowed by 
 God; of those tempests which sometimes lie 
 dormant in our systems, like the slumbering 
 lake in the calm, but which excited, equal its 
 fury when lashed by the winds; of the 
 strength of prejudices; of the worthlessness 
 and changeable character of the most cher- 
 ished of our opinions, and of that strange, 
 incomprehensible, and yet winning mélange 
 of contradictions, of fallacies, of truths, and 
 of wrongs, which make up the sum of our 
 existence. 
 
 The following pages are the result of this 
 dreaming. The reader is left to his own in- 
 telligence for the moral. 
 
 A respectable English writer observed : 
 All pages of human life are worth reading; 
 the wise mstruct ; the gay divert us; the 
 imprudent teach us what to shun; the ab- 
 surd cure the spleen.” 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ‘Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze 
 Rufiling the Leman lake.” —RocErs, 
 
 THE year was in its fall, according to a po- 
 etical expression of our own, and the morn- 
 ing bright, as the® fairest and swiftest bark 
 that navigated the Leman lay at the quay of 
 the ancient and historical town of Geneva, 
 ready to depart for the country of Vaud. 
 This vessel was called the Winkelried, in 
 commemoration of Arnold of that name, 
 who had so generously sacrified life and hopes 
 to the good of his country, and who desery- 
 edly ranks among the truest of those heroes 
 of whom we have well-authenticated legends. 
 She had been launched at the commence- 
 ment of the summer, and still bore at the 
 fore-top-mast-head a bunch of evergreens, 
 profusely ornamented with knots and stream- 
 ers of ribbon, the offerings of the patron’s 
 female friends, and the fancied gage of, suc- 
 cess. The use of steam, and the presence of 
 unemployed seamen of various nations, in 
 this idle season of the warlike, are slowly 
 leading to innovations and improvements in 
 the navigation of the lakes of Italy and 
 
 Switzerland, it is true; but time, even at this 
 
 hour, has done little toward changing the 
 habits and opinions of those who ply on these 
 inland waters for a subsistence. The Wink- 
 elried had the two low diverging masts ; the 
 attenuated and picturesquely poised latine 
 yards; the light triangular sails; the sweep- 
 ing and projecting gangways; the receding 
 and falling stern; the high and peaked prow, 
 with, in general, the classical and quaint air 
 of those vessels that are seen in the older paint- 
 ings and engravings. A gilded ball glittered 
 on the summit of each mast, for no canvas 
 was set higher than the slender and well- 
 balanced yards, and it was above one of these 
 that the wilted bush, with its gay appendages, 
 trembled and fluttered in a fresh western 
 wind. The hull was worthy of so much 
 goodly apparel, being spacious, commodious, 
 and, according to the wants of the navigation, 
 of approved mould. The freight, which was 
 sufficiently obvious, much the greatest part 
 being piled on the ample deck, consisted of 
 what our own watermen would term an as- 
 sorted cargo. It was, however, chiefly com- 
 posed of those foreign luxuries, as they were 
 
Rae WELLL 
 ; | | i 4 
 
 - then ‘called, though use has now rendered 
 them nearly indispensable to domestic econo- 
 my, which were consumed, in singular mod- 
 eration, by the more affluent of those who 
 dwelt deeper among the mountains, and of 
 the two principal products of the dairy; the 
 latter being destined to a market in the less 
 verdant countries of the south. To these 
 must be added the personal effects of an 
 unusual number of passengers, which were 
 stowed on the top of the heavier part of the 
 cargo, with an order and care that their value 
 would scarcely seem to require. The arrange- 
 ment, however, was necessary to the conven- 
 ience, and even to the security of the bark, 
 having been made. by the patron with a view 
 to posting each individual by his particular 
 wallet, in a manner to prevent confusion in 
 the crowd, and to leave the crew space and 
 opportunity to discharge the necessary duties 
 of the navigation. 
 
 With a vessel stowed, sails ready to drop, 
 the wind fair, and the day drawing on apace, 
 the patron of the Winkelried, who was also 
 her owner, felt a very natural wish to depart. 
 But an unlooked-for obstacle had just pre- 
 sented itself at the water-gate, where the 
 officer charged with the duty of looking into 
 the characters of all who went and came was 
 posted, and around whom some fifty repre- 
 sentatives of half as many nations were now 
 clustered in a clamorous throng, filling the 
 air with a confusion of tongues that had some 
 probable affinity to the noises which deranged 
 the workmen of Babel. It appeared, by 
 parts of sentences and broken remonstrances, 
 equally addressed to the patron, whose name 
 was Baptiste, and to the guardian of the 
 Genevese laws, a rumor was rife among these 
 truculent travellers, that Balthazar, the 
 headsman, or executioner, of the powerful 
 and aristocratical canton of Berne, was about 
 to be smuggled into their company by the 
 cupidity of the former, contrary, not only to 
 what was due to the feelings and rights of 
 men of more creditable callings, but, as it 
 was vehemently and plausibly insisted, to the 
 very safety of those who were about to trust 
 their fortunes to the vicissitudes of the ele- 
 ments. . 
 
 Chance and the ingenuity of Baptiste had 
 collected, on this occasion, as party-colored 
 and heterogeneous an assemblage of human 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 passions, interests, dialects, wishes, and opin- 
 ions, as any admirer of diversity of character 
 could desire. There were several small 
 traders, some returning from adventures in 
 Germany and France, and some bound south- 
 ward, with their scanty stock of wares; a few 
 poor scholars, bent on a literary pilgrimage 
 to Rome; an artist or two, better provided 
 with enthusiasm than with either knowledge 
 or taste, journeying with poetical longings 
 towards skies and tints of Italy; a troupe of 
 street jugglers, who had been turning their 
 Neapolitan buffoonery to account among the 
 duller and less sophisticated inhabitants of 
 Swabia; divers lackeys out of place; some six 
 or eight capitalists who lived on their wits, 
 and a nameless herd of that set which the 
 French call “ bad subjects;” a title that is 
 just now, oddly enough, disputed between 
 the dregs of society and a class that would 
 fain become its exclusive leaders and lords. 
 These, with some slight qualifications that 
 it is not yet necessary to particularize, com- 
 posed that essential requisite of all fair rep- 
 resentation—the majority. ‘Those who re- 
 mained were of a different caste. Near the 
 noisy crowd of tossing heads and brandished 
 arms, in and around the gate, was a party 
 containing the venerable and still fine figure 
 
 of a man in the travelling dress of one of 
 
 superior condition, and who did not need 
 the testimony of the two or three liveried 
 menials that stood near his person, to give 
 an assurance of his belonging to the more 
 fortunate of his fellow creatures, as good and 
 evil are usually estimated in caleulating the 
 chances of life. On his arm leaned a female, 
 so young, and yet so lovely, as to cause regret 
 in all who observed her fading color, the 
 sweet but melancholy smile that occasionally 
 hghted her mild and pleasing features, at 
 some of, the more marked exuberances of 
 folly among the crowd, and a form which, 
 notwithstanding her lessened bloom, was 
 nearly perfect. If these symptoms of deli- 
 cate health did not prevent this fair girl from 
 being amused at the volubility and argu- 
 ments of the different orators, she oftener 
 manifested apprehension at finding herself 
 the companion of creatures so untrained, so 
 violent, so exacting, and so grossly ignorant. 
 A young man, wearing the roquelaure and 
 other similar appendages of a Swiss in for- 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 7 
 
 eign military service, a character to excite 
 neither observation nor comment in that age, 
 stood at her elbow, answering the questions 
 that from time to time were addressed to him 
 by the others, in a manner to show he was an 
 intimate acquaintance, though there were 
 signs about his travelling equipage to prove 
 he was not exactly of their ordinary society. 
 Of all who were not immediately engaged in 
 the boisterous discussion at the gate, this 
 young soldier, who was commonly addressed 
 by those near him as Monsieur Sigismund, 
 was much the most interested in its progress. 
 Though of herculean frame, and evidently 
 of unusual physical force, he was singularly 
 agitated. His cheek, which had not yet lost 
 the freshness due to the mountain air, would, 
 at times, become pale as that of the wilting 
 flower near him; while at others, the blood 
 rushed across his brow in a torrent that 
 seemed to threaten a rupture of the starting 
 vessels in which it so tumultuously flowed. 
 Unless addressed, however, he said nothing; 
 his distress gradually subsiding, until it was 
 merely betrayed by the convulsive writhings 
 of his fingers, which unconsciously grasped 
 the hilt of his sword. 
 
 The uproar had now continued for some 
 time; throats were getting sore, tongues 
 clammy, voices hoarse, and words incoherent, 
 when a sudden check was given to the useless 
 clamor by an incident quite in unison with 
 the disturbance itself. Two enormous dogs 
 were in attendance hard by, apparently await- 
 ing the movements of their respective mas- 
 ters, who were lost to view in the mass of 
 heads and bodies that stopped the passage of 
 the gate. One of these animals was covered 
 with a short, thick coating of hair, whose pre- 
 vailing color was a dingy yellow, but whose 
 throat and legs, with most of the inferior 
 parts of the body, were of a dull white. Na- 
 ture, on the other hand, had given a dusky, 
 brownish, shaggy dress to his rival, though 
 his general hue was relieved by a few shades 
 of amore decided black. As respects weight 
 and force of body, the difference between the 
 brutes was not very obvious, though perhaps 
 it slightly inclined in favor of the former, 
 who in length, if not in strength, of limb, 
 however, had more manifestly the advantage. 
 
 It would much exceed the intelligence we 
 have brought to this task to explain how far 
 
 the instincts of the dogs sympathized in the 
 savage passions of the human beings around 
 them, or whether they were conscious that 
 their masters had espoused opposite sides in 
 the quarrel, and that it became them, as 
 faithful esquires, to tilt together by way of 
 supporting the honor of those they followed ; 
 but, after measuring each other for the usual 
 period with the eye, they came violently to- 
 gether, body to body, in the manner of their 
 species. The collision was fearful, and the 
 struggle, being between two creatures of so 
 great ‘size and strength, of the fiercest kind. 
 The roar resembled that of lions, effectually 
 drowning the clamor of human voices. Every 
 tongue was mute, and each head was turned 
 in the direction of the combatants. The 
 trembling girl recoiled with averted face, 
 while the young man stepped eagerly forward 
 to protect her, for the conflict was near the 
 place they occupied; but powerful and active 
 as was his frame, he hesitated about mingling 
 in an affray so ferocious. At this critical 
 moment, when it seemed that the furious 
 brutes were on the point of tearing each other 
 in pieces, the -crowd was pushed violently 
 open, ‘and two men burst, side by side, out of 
 the mass. One wore the black robes, the 
 conical, Asiatic looking, tufted cap, and the 
 white belt of an Augustine monk, and the 
 other had the attire of a man addicted to the 
 seas, without, however, being so decidedly 
 maritime as to leave his character a matter 
 that was quite beyond dispute. The former 
 was fair, ruddy, with an oval, happy face, of 
 which internal peace and good-will to his fel- 
 lows were the principal characteristics, while 
 the latter had the swarthy hue, bold linea- 
 ments, and glittering eye, of an Italian. 
 
 “Uberto! ” said the monk reproachfully, 
 affecting the sort of offended manner that 
 one would be apt to show toa more intelli- 
 gent creature, willing, but at the same time 
 afraid, to trust his person nearer to the 
 furious conflict, ‘‘ shame on thee, old Uberto! 
 Hast forgotten thy schooling—hast no respect 
 for thine own good name? ” 
 
 On the other hand, the Italian did not stop 
 to expostulate ; but throwing himself with 
 reckless hardihood on the dogs, by dint of 
 kicks and blows, of which much the heaviest 
 portion fell on the follower of Augustine, he 
 succeeded in separating the combatants. 
 
8 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “Ha, Nettuno!” he exclaimed, with the 
 severity of one accustomed to exercise a 
 stern and absolute authority, so soon as this 
 daring exploit was achieved, and he had re- 
 covered a little of the breath lost in the 
 violent exertion—‘‘ what dost mean? Canst 
 find no better amusement than quarrelling 
 with a dog of San Bernardo! Fie upon thee, 
 foolish Nettuno! Iam ashamed of thee, dog: 
 thou, that hast discreetly navigated so many 
 seas, to lose thy temper on a bit of fresh 
 water! ” 
 
 The dog, which was in truth no other than 
 a noble animal of the well-known Newfound- 
 land breed, hung his head, and made signs of 
 contrition, by drawing nearer to his master 
 with a tail that swept the ground, while his 
 late adversary quietly seated himself with a 
 species of monastic dignity, looking from the 
 speaker to his foe, as if endeavoring to com- 
 prehend the rebuke which his powerful and 
 gallant antagonist took so meekly. 
 
 “Father,” said the Italian, “our dogs are 
 both too useful, in their several ways, and 
 both of too good character to be enemies. I 
 know Uberto of old, for the paths of St. 
 Bernard and I are no strangers, and, if report 
 does the animal no more than justice, he hath 
 not been an idle cur among the snows.” 
 
 “He hath been the instrument of saving 
 seven Christians from death,” answered the 
 monk, beginning again to regard his mastiff 
 with friendly looks, for at first there had been 
 keen reproach and severe displeasure in his 
 manner—“ not to speak of the bodies that 
 have been found by his activity, after the vital 
 spark had fled.” 
 
 “As for the latter, father, we can count 
 little more in favor of the dog than a good 
 intention. Valuing services on this scale, I 
 might ere this have been the Holy Father 
 himself, or at least a cardinal; but seven lives 
 saved, for their owners to die quietly in their 
 beds, and with opportunity to make their 
 peace with heaven, is no bad recommendation 
 for adog. Nettuno, here, is every way worthy 
 to be the friend of old Uberto, for thirteen 
 drowning men have I myself seen him draw 
 from the greedy jaws of sharks and other 
 monsters of deep water. What dost thou 
 say, father, shall we make peace between the 
 brutes ?” 
 
 The Augustine expressed his readiness, as 
 
 well as his desire, to aid in an effort so laud- 
 able, and by dint of commands and persua- 
 sion, the dogs, who were predisposed to peace 
 from having had a mutual taste of the bitter- 
 ness of war, and who now felt for each other 
 the respect which courage and force are apt 
 to create, were soon on the usual terms of 
 animals of their kind that have no particular 
 grounds for contention. 
 
 The guardian of the city improved the 
 calm produced by this little incident, to re- 
 gain a portion of his lost authority. Beating 
 back the crowd with his cane, he cleared a 
 space around the gate into which but one of 
 the travellers could enter at a time, while he 
 professed himself not only ready but deter- 
 mined to proceed with his duty, without fur- 
 ther procrastination. Baptiste, the patron, 
 who beheld the precious moments wasting, 
 and who, in the delay, foresaw a loss of wind, 
 which, to one of his pursuits, was loss of 
 money, now earnestly pressed the travellers 
 to comply with the necessary forms, and to 
 take their stations in his bark with all con- 
 venient speed. | 
 
 ‘*Of what matter is it,’ continued the 
 calculating waterman, who was rather con- 
 spicuously known for the love of thrift that 
 is usually attributed to most of the inhabit- 
 ants of that region, “whether there be one 
 headsman or twenty in the bark, so long as 
 the good vessel can float and steer? Our 
 Leman winds are fickle friends, and the wise 
 take them while in the humor. Give me the 
 breeze at west, and I will load the Winkelried 
 to the water’s edge with executioners, or any 
 other pernicious creatures thou wilt, and thou 
 mayest take the lightest bark that ever swam 
 in the dise, and let us see who will first make 
 the haven of Vévey !” 
 
 The loudest, and in a sense that is very 
 important in al] such discussions, the prin- 
 cipal speaker in the dispute was the leader of 
 the Neapolitan troupe, who, in virtue of good 
 lungs, an agility that had no competitor in 
 any present, and a certain mixture of super- 
 stition and bravado, that formed nearly 
 equal ingredients in his character, was a man 
 likely to gain great influence with those who, 
 from their ignorance and habits, had an in- 
 herent love of the marvellous, and a profound 
 respect for all who possessed, in acting, more 
 audacity, and, in believing, more credulity 
 
THE HEADSMAN. ee 
 
 than themselves. The vulgar like an excess, 
 even if it be of folly ; for, in their eyes, the 
 abundance of any particular quality is very 
 apt to be taken as the standard of its excel- 
 lence. 
 
 ‘© This is well for him who receives, but it 
 may be death to him that pays,” cried the 
 son of the south, gaining not a little among 
 his auditors by the distinction, for the argu- 
 ment was sufficiently wily, as between the 
 buyer and the seller. “Thou wilt get thy 
 silver for the risk, and we may get watery 
 graves for our weakness. Naught but mis- 
 haps can come of wicked company, and ac- 
 cursed will they be, in the evil hour, that are 
 found in brotherly communion with one 
 whose trade is hurrying Christians into eter- 
 nity, before the time that has been lent by 
 nature is fairly wp. Santa Madre ! I would 
 not be the fellow-traveller of such a wretch, 
 across this wild and changeable lake, for the 
 honor of leaping and showing my poor powers 
 in the presence of the Holy Father, and the 
 whole of the learned conclave !” 
 
 This solemn declaration, which was made 
 with suitable gesticulation, and an action of 
 the countenance that was well adapted to 
 prove the speaker’s sincerity, produced a cor- 
 responding effect on most of the listeners, 
 who murmured their applause in a manner 
 sufficiently significant to convince the patron 
 he was not about to dispose of the difficulty 
 simply by virtue of fair words. In this di- 
 lemma, he bethought him of a plan of over- 
 coming the scruples of all present, in which 
 he was warmly seconded by the agent of the 
 police, and to which, after the usual number 
 of cavilling objections that were generated by 
 distrust, heated blood, and the obstinacy of 
 disputation, the other parties were finally in- 
 duced to give their consent. It was agreed 
 that the examination should no longer be 
 delayed, but that a species of deputation 
 from the crowd might take their stand within 
 the gate, where all who passed would neces- 
 sarily be subject to their scrutiny, and, in 
 the event of their vigilance detecting the ab- 
 horred and proscribed Balthazar, that the 
 patron should return his money to the heads- 
 man, and preclude him from forming one of 
 a party that was so scrupulous of its associa- 
 tion, and apparently with so little reason. 
 The Neapolitan, whose name was Pippo ; 
 
 one of the indigent scholars, for a century 
 since learning was rather an auxiliary than 
 the foe of superstition ; and a certain Nick- 
 laus Wagner, a fat Bernese, who was the 
 owner of most of the cheeses in the bark, 
 were the chosen of the multitude on this oc- 
 casion. The first owed his election to his 
 vehemence and volubility, qualities that the 
 ignoble vulgar are very apt to mistake for 
 conviction and knowledge ; the second to his 
 silence and a demureness of: air which pass 
 with another class for the stillness of deep 
 water ; and the last to his substance, as a 
 man of known wealth, an advantage which, 
 in spite of all that alarmists predict on one 
 side, and enthusiasts affirm on the other, 
 will always carry greater weight with those 
 who are less fortunate in this respect, than is 
 either reasonable or morally healthful, pro- 
 vided it is not abused by arrogance or the as- 
 sumption of very extravagant and oppressive 
 privileges. Asa matter of course, these de- 
 puted guardians of the common rights were 
 first obliged to submit their own papers to 
 the eye of the Genevese.* 
 
 The Neapolitan, than whom an archer 
 knave, or one that had committed more 
 petty wrongs, did not present himself that 
 day at the water-gate, was regularly fortified 
 by every precaution that the long experience 
 of a vagabond could suggest, and he was per- 
 mitted to pass forthwith. The poor West- 
 phalian student presented an instrument 
 fairly written out in a scholastic Latin, and 
 escaped further trouble by the vanity of the 
 unlettered agent of the police, who hastily 
 affirmed it was a pleasure to encounter docu- 
 ments so perfectly in form. But the Bernese 
 was about to take his station by the side of 
 the other two, appearing to think inquiry in 
 his case unnecessary. While moving through 
 the passage in stately silence, Nicklaus Wag- 
 ner was occupied in securing the strings of a 
 
 * Ags we have so often alluded to this examination, 
 it may be well to explain that the present system of 
 gendarmerie and passports did not then prevail in 
 Europe ; taking their rise nearly a century later than 
 that in which the events of this tale had place. But 
 Geneva was asmall and exposed state, and the regula- 
 tion to which there is reference here, was one of the 
 provisions which were resorted to from time to time 
 in order to protect those liberties and that indepen- 
 dence, of which its citizens were so unceasingly and 
 
 | So wisely jealous. 
 
10 
 
 well-filled purse, which he had just lightened 
 of a small copper coin to reward the varlet 
 of the hostelry in which he had passed the 
 night, and who had been obliged to follow 
 him. to the port to obtain even this scanty 
 boon; and the Genevese was fain to believe 
 that, in the urgency of this important con- 
 cern, he had overlooked those forms which 
 all were just then obliged to respect, on 
 quitting the town. 
 
 «©Thou hast a name and character ?” ob- 
 served the latter, with official brevity. 
 
 ‘¢God help thee, friend! I did not think 
 Geneva had been so particular with a Swiss; 
 —and a Swiss who is so favorably known on 
 the Aar, and indeed over the whole of the 
 great canton! I am Nicklaus Wagner, a 
 name of little account, perhaps, but which is 
 well esteemed among men of substance, and 
 which has a right even to the Birgerschaft 
 —Nicklaus Wagner of Berne—thou wilt 
 scarce need more?” 3 
 
 ‘‘Naught but proof of its truth. Thou 
 wilt remember this is Geneva; the laws of a 
 small and exposed state need be particular in 
 affairs of this nature.” 
 
 «‘T neyer questioned thy state being Gen- 
 eva; I only wonder thou shouldst doubt my 
 being Nicklaus! I can journey the darkest 
 night that ever threw a shadow from the 
 mountains, anywhere between the Jura and 
 the Oberland, and none shall say my word is 
 to be disputed. Look’ee, there is thepatron, 
 Baptiste, who will tell thee, that if he were 
 to land the freight which is shipped in my 
 name, his bark would float greatly the 
 righter.” 
 
 All this time Nicklaus was loath to show 
 his papers, which were quite in rule. He 
 even held them, with a thumb and finger 
 separating the folds, ready to be presented to 
 his questioner. The hesitation came from a 
 feeling of wounded vanity, which would 
 gladly show that one of his local importance 
 and known substance was to be exempt from 
 the exactions required from men of smaller 
 means. The officer, who had great practice 
 in this species of collision with his fellow 
 creatures, understood the character with 
 which he had to deal, and seeing no good 
 reason for refusing to gratify a feeling which 
 was innocent, though sufficiently silly, he 
 yielded to the Bernese pride. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 «Thou canst proceed,” he said, turning 
 the indulgence to account, with a ready 
 knowledge of his duty; “and when thou 
 gettest again among thy burghers, do us of 
 Geneva the grace to say, we treat our allies 
 fairly.” | 
 
 ‘‘T thought thy question hasty!” exclaimed 
 the wealthy peasant, swelling like one who 
 gets justice though tardily. “Now let us to 
 this knotty affair of the headsman.” 
 
 Taking his place with the Neapolitan and 
 the Westphalian, Nicklaus assumed the grave 
 air of a judge, and an austerity of manner 
 which proved that he entered on his duty 
 with a firm resolution to do justice. | 
 
 «Thou art well known here, pilgrim,” ob- 
 served the officer, with some severity of tone, 
 to the next that came to the gate. 
 
 “St. Francis to speed, master, it were else 
 wonderful! I should be so, for the seasons 
 scarce come and go more regularly.” 
 
 «“There must be a sore conscience some- 
 
 -where, that Rome and thou should need each 
 
 other so often?” 
 
 The pilgrim, who was enveloped in a tat- 
 tered coat, sprinkled with cockle-shells, who 
 wore his beard, and was altogether a disgust- 
 ing picture of human depravity, rendered 
 still more revolting by an ill-concealed hy- 
 pocrisy, langhed openly and recklessly at the 
 remark. 
 
 ‘‘Thou art a follower of Calvin, master,” 
 he replied, “or thou would’st not have said 
 this. My own failings give me little troubie. 
 I am engaged by certain parishes of Ger- 
 many to take upon my poor person their 
 physical pains, and it is not easy to name 
 another that hath done as many messages of 
 this kind as myself, with better proofs of 
 fidelity. If thou hast any little offering to 
 make, thou shalt see fair papers to prove 
 what I say ;—papers that would pass at St. 
 Peter’s itself!” 
 
 The officer perceived that he had to do 
 with one of those unequivocal hypocrites—if 
 such a word can properly be applied to him 
 who scarcely thought deception necessary— 
 who then made a traffic of expiations of this 
 nature; a pursuit that was common enough 
 at the close of the seventeenth and in the 
 
 ‘commencement of the eighteenth century, 
 
 and which has not even yet entirely disap- 
 peared from Europe. He threw the pass 
 
a, = 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 11 
 
 with unconcealed aversion toward the profli- 
 gate, who, recovering his document, assumed 
 unasked his station by the side of the three 
 who had been selected to decide on the fitness 
 of those who were to be allowed to embark. 
 
 “(Go to!” cried the officer, as he permitted 
 this ebullition of disgust to escape him ; 
 «thou hast well said that we are followers of 
 Calvin. Geneva has little in common with 
 her of the scarlet mantle, and thou wilt do 
 well to remember this, in thy next pilgrimage, 
 lest the beadle make acquaintance with thy 
 back. Hold! who art thou?” 
 
 « A heretic, hopelessly damned by antici- 
 pation, if that of yonder travelling prayer- 
 monger be the true faith ;’ answered one 
 who was pressing past, with a quiet. assur- 
 ance that had near carried its point without 
 incurring the risks of the usual investigation 
 into his name and character. It was the 
 
 owner of Nettuno, whose aquatic air and 
 
 perfect self-possession now caused the officer 
 to doubt whether he had not stopped a water- 
 man of the lake—a class privileged to come 
 and go at will. 
 
 « Thou knowest our usages,” said the half- 
 satisfied Genevese. 
 
 «‘T were a fool else! Even the ass that 
 often travels the same path comes in time to 
 tell its turnsand windings. Art not satisfied 
 with touching the pride of the worthy Nick- 
 laus Wagner, by putting the well-warmed 
 burgher to his proofs, but thou would’st e’en 
 question me! Come hither, Nettuno; thou 
 shalt answer for both, being a dog of discre- 
 tion. We are no go-betweens of heaven and 
 earth, thou knowest, but creatures that come 
 part of the water and part of the land!” 
 
 The Italian spoke loud and confidently, 
 and in the manner of one who addressed him- 
 self more to the humors of those near than 
 to the understanding of the Genevese. He 
 laughed, and looked about him in a manner 
 to extract an echo from the crowd, though 
 not one among them all could probably have 
 given a sufficient reason why he had so 
 readily taken part with the stranger against 
 the authorities of the town, unless it might 
 have been from the instinct of opposition to 
 the law. ; 
 
 «Thou hast a name !” continued the half- 
 yielding, half-doubting guardian of the port. 
 
 ‘Dost take me to be worse off than the 
 
 bark of Baptiste, there? I have papers, too, 
 if thou wilt that I go to the vessel in order 
 to seek them. ‘This dog is Nettuno, a brute 
 from a far country, where brutes swim like 
 fishes, and my name is Maso, though wicked- 
 minded men call me oftener I] Maledette 
 than by any other title.” 
 
 All in the throng, who understood the 
 signification of what the Italian said, laughed 
 aloud, and apparently with great glee, for, to 
 the grossly vulgar, extreme audacity has an 
 irresistible charm. The officer felt that the 
 merriment was against him, though he scarce 
 knew why; and ignorant of the language in 
 which the other had given his extraordinary 
 appellation, he yielded to the contagion, and 
 
 laughed with the others, like one who under- 
 
 stood the joke to the bottom. The Italian 
 
 profited by this advantage, nodded familiarly 
 
 with a good-natured and knowing smile, and 
 
 proceeded. Whistling the dog to his side, he 
 
 walked leisurely to the bark, into which he 
 was the first that entered, always preserving 
 the deliberation and calm of a man who felt 
 himself privileged, and safe from further 
 molestation. This cool audacity effected its 
 purpose, though one long and closely hunted 
 by the law evaded the authoiities of the 
 town, when this singular being took his seat 
 by the little package which contained his 
 scanty wardrobe. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 «« My nobiel liege ! all my request 
 Ys fora nobile knyghte, — 
 Who, tho’ mayhap he has done wronge, 
 Hee thoughte ytt stylle was righte.” 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 Wuittz this impudent evasion of vigilance 
 was successfully practised by so old an of- 
 fender, the trio of sentinels, with their vol- 
 unteer assistant, the pilgrim, manifested the 
 greatest anxiety to prevent the contamination 
 of admitting the highest executioner of the 
 law to form one of the strangely assorted 
 company. No sooner did the Genevese per- 
 mit a traveller to pass, then they commenced 
 their private and particular examination, 
 which was sufficiently fierce, for more than 
 once had they threatened to turn back ‘the 
 trembling, ignorant-applicant on mere SUs- 
 
12 
 
 picion. The cunning Baptiste lent himself 
 to their feelings with the skill of a dema- 
 gogue, affecting a zeal equal to their own, 
 while, at the same time, he took care most 
 to excite their suspicions where there was 
 the smallest danger of their being rewarded 
 with success. Through this fiery ordeal one 
 passed after another, until most of the name- 
 less vagabonds had been found innocent, and 
 the throng around the gate was so far lessened 
 
 as to allow a freer circulation in the thorough- 
 
 fare. The opening permitted the venerable 
 noble, who has already been presented to the 
 reader, to advance to the gate, accompanied 
 by the female, and closely followed by the 
 menials. ‘The servitor of the police saluted 
 the stranger with deference, for his calm ex- 
 terior and imposing presence were in singular 
 contrast with the noisy declamation and rude 
 deportment of the rabble that had preceded. 
 
 “‘T am Melchior de Willading, of Berne,” 
 said the traveller, quietly offering the proofs 
 of what he said, with the ease of one sure of 
 his impunity; “this is my child—my only 
 child; ” the old man repeated the latter words 
 ~with melancholy emphasis ; ‘‘and these, that 
 wear my livery, are old and faithful followers 
 of my house. We go by the St. Bernard, to 
 change the ruder side of our Alps for that 
 which is more grateful to the weak—to see 
 if there be a sun in Italy that hath warmth 
 enough to revive this drooping flower, and to 
 cause it once more to raise its head joyously, 
 as until lately it did ever in its native halls.” 
 
 The officer smiled and repeated his rever- 
 ences, always declining to receive the offered 
 papers; for the aged father indulged the 
 overflowing of his feelings in a manner that 
 would have awakened even duller sympathies. 
 
 “The lady has youth and a tender parent 
 on her side,” he said ; ‘* these are much when 
 health fails us.” 
 
 “She is indeed too young tosink so early!” 
 returned the father, who had apparently for- 
 gotten his immediate business, and was gaz- 
 ing with a tearful eye at the faded but still 
 eminently attractive features of the young 
 female, who rewarded his solicitude with a 
 look of love; ‘‘but thou hast not seen I am 
 the man I represent myself to be.” 
 
 “It is not necessary, noble Baron; the city 
 knows of your presence, and I have it in es- 
 pecial charge to do all that may be grateful 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 to render the passage through Geneva, of one 
 so honored among our allies, agreeable to his 
 recollections.” 
 
 ‘‘'Thy city’s courtesy is of known repute,” 
 said the Baron de Willading, replacing his 
 papers in their usual envelope, and receiving 
 the grace like one accustomed to honors of 
 this sort:—‘‘art thou a father?” 
 
 ‘*‘ Heaven has not been niggardly of gifts 
 of this nature; my table feeds eleven, besides 
 those who gave them being.” 
 
 ‘* Kleven! The will of God is a fearful 
 mystery! And this thou seest is the full 
 hope of my line ;—the only heir that is left 
 to the name and lands of Willading. Art 
 thou at ease in thy condition ?” | 
 
 “There are those in our town who are less 
 so, with tsp thanks wi the friendliness of 
 the question.” 
 
 A slight color suffused the face of Adel- 
 heid de Willading, for so was the daughter of 
 the Bernese called, and she advanced a step | 
 nearer to the officer. 
 
 ‘* They who have so few at their own board, 
 need think of those who have so many,” she 
 said, dropping a piece of gold into the hand 
 of the Genevese ; then she added, in a voice 
 scarce louder than a whisper—“ If the young 
 and innocent of thy household can offer a 
 prayer in the behalf of a poor girl who has 
 much need of aid, *twill be remembered of 
 God, and it may serve to lighten the grief of 
 one who has the dread of being childless.” 
 
 “God bless thee, lady!” said the officer, 
 little used to deal with such spirits, and 
 touched by the mild resignation and piety of 
 the speaker, whose simple but winning man- 
 ner moved him nearly to tears ; “all of my 
 family, old as well as young, shall bethink 
 them of thee and thine.” 
 
 Adelheid’s cheek resumed its paleness, and 
 she quietly accompanied her father, as he 
 slowly proceeded toward the bark. A scene 
 of this nature did not fail to shake the per- 
 tinacity of those who stood at watch near the 
 gate. Of course they had nothing to say to 
 any of the rank of Melcourse de Willading, 
 who went into the bark without a question. 
 The influence of beauty and station, united 
 to so much simple grace as that shown by the 
 fair actor in the little incident we have just 
 related, was much too strong for the ill- 
 trained feelings of the Neapolitan and his 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 13 
 
 companions. - They not only let all the men- 
 ials pass unquestioned also, but it was some 
 little time before their vigilance resumed its 
 former truculence. The two or three travel- 
 lers that succeeded had the benefit of this 
 fortunate change of disposition. 
 
 The next who came to the gate was the 
 young soldier, whom the Baron de Willading 
 had so often addressed as Monsieur Sigis- 
 mund. His papers were regular, and no 
 obstacle was offered to his departure. It may 
 be doubted how far this young man would 
 have been disposed to submit to these extra- 
 official inquiries of the three deputies of the 
 crowd, had there been a desire to urge them, 
 for he went toward the quay with an eye that 
 expressed any other sensation than that of 
 amity or compliance. Respect, or a more 
 equivocal feeling, proved his protection; for 
 none but the pilgrim, who displayed ultra 
 
 geal in the pursuit of his object, ventured so 
 
 far as to hazard even a smothered remark as 
 he passed. 
 
 «There goes an arm and a sword that 
 might well shorten a Christian’s days,” said 
 the dissolute and shameless dealer in the 
 Church’s abuses, “and yet no one asks his 
 name or calling!” 
 
 «Thou hadst better put the question thy- 
 self,” returned the sneering Pippo, ‘‘ since 
 penitence is thy trade. For myself, I am 
 
 content with whirling round at my own bid-. 
 ding, without taking a hint from that young 
 
 giant’s arm.” 
 
 The poor scholar and the Burgher of Berne 
 appeared to acquiesce in this opinion, and no 
 more was said in the matter. In the mean- 
 while there was another at the gate. The 
 new applicant had little in his exterior to 
 renew the vigilance of the superstitious trio. 
 A quiet, meek-looking man, seemingly of 
 middle condition in life, and of an air alto- 
 gether calm and unpretending, had submitted 
 his passport to the faithful guardian of the 
 city. The latter read the document, cast a 
 quick and inquiring glance at its owner, and 
 returned the paper in a way to show haste, 
 and a desire to be rid of him. 
 
 “Tt is well,” he said; “thou canst go thy 
 way.” 
 
 “How now!” cried the Neapolitan, to 
 whom buffoonery wasa congenial employment, 
 as much by natural disposition as by practice ; 
 
 “how now !—have we Balthazar at last in this 
 bloody-minded and fierce-looking traveller ?” 
 As the speaker had expected, this sally was 
 rewarded by a general laugh, and he was ac- 
 cordingly encouraged to proceed. “Thou 
 knowest our office, friend,” added the unfeel- 
 ing mountebank, “and must show us thy 
 hands. None pass who bear the stain of 
 blood!” 
 
 The traveller appeared staggered, for he 
 was plainly a man of retired and peaceable 
 habits, who had been thrown, by the chances 
 of the road, in contact with one only too 
 practised in this unfeeling species of wit. He 
 showed his open palm, however, with a direct 
 and confiding simplicity that drew a shout of 
 merriment from all the bystanders. i 
 
 «This will not do; soap, and ashes, and the 
 tears of victims, may have washed out the 
 marks of his work from Balthazar himself. 
 The spots we seek are on the soul, man, and 
 we must look into that, ere thou art permitted 
 to make one in this goodly company.” 
 
 ‘Thou didst not question yonder young 
 soldier thus,” returned the stranger, whose 
 eye kindled, as even the meek repel unpro- 
 yoked outrage, though his frame trembled 
 violently at being subject to open insults from 
 men so rude and unprincipled ; “thou didst 
 not dare to question yonder young soldier 
 thus !.” 
 
 “By the prayers of San Gennaro! which 
 are known to stop running and melted lava, 
 I would rather thou shouldst undertake that 
 office than I. Yonder young soldier is an 
 honorable decapitator, and it is a pleasure to 
 be his companion on a journey; for, no doubt, 
 some six or eight of the saints are speaking in 
 his behalf daily. But he we seek is the out- 
 east of all, good or bad, whether in heaven or 
 on earth, or in that other hot abode to which 
 he will surely be sent when his time has 
 come.” 
 
 «And yet he does no more than execute 
 the law!” 
 
 “ What is law to opinion, friend? But go 
 thy way; none suspect thee to be the re- 
 doubtable enemy of our heads. Go thy way, 
 for Heaven’s sake, and mutter thy prayers to 
 be delivered from Balthazar’s axe.” 
 
 The countenance of the stranger worked, 
 as if he would have answered; then suddenly 
 changing his purpose, he passed on, and in- 
 
14 : 
 
 stantly disappeared in the bark. The monk 
 of St. Bernard came next. Both the Augus- 
 tine and his dog were old acquaintances. of 
 the officer, who did not require any evidence 
 of his character or errand from the former. 
 
 “We are the protectors of life and not its 
 foes,” observed the monk, as, leaving the 
 more regular watchman of the place, he 
 drew near to those whose claims to the office 
 would have admitted of dispute; “we live 
 among the snows, that Christians may not 
 die without the Church’s comfort.” 
 
 ‘“‘ Honor, holy Augustine, to thee and thy 
 office!” said the Neapolitan, who, reckless 
 and abandoned as he was, possessed that in- 
 stinct of respect for those who deny their 
 ‘natures for the good of others which is com- 
 mon to all, however tainted by cupidity 
 themselves. ‘“‘Thou and thy dog, old Uberto, 
 can freely pass, with our best good wishes 
 for both.” 
 
 There no longer remained any to examine, 
 and, after a short consultation among the 
 more superstitious of the travellers, they 
 came to the very natural opinion that, in- 
 timidated by their just remonstrances, the 
 offensive headsman had shrunk, unperceived, 
 from the crowd, and that they were at length 
 haply relieved from his presence. The 
 annunciation of the welcome tidings drew 
 much self-felicitation from the different 
 members of the motley company, and all 
 eagerly embarked, for Baptiste now loudly 
 and vehemently declared that a single mo- 
 ment of further delay was entirely out of the 
 question. 
 
 “Of what are you thinking, men!” he ex- 
 claimed with well-acted heat; “are the Le- 
 man winds liveried lackeys, to come and go 
 as may suit your fancies; now to blow west, 
 and now east, as shall be most wanted, to 
 help you on your journeys? ‘Take example 
 of the noble Melchior de Willading, who has 
 long been in his place, and pray the saints, 
 if you will, in your several fashions, that this 
 fair western wind do not quit us in punish- 
 ment of our neglect.” 
 
 ‘* Yonder come others, in haste to be of 
 the party!” interrupted the cunning Italian; 
 *‘loosen thy fasts quickly, Master Baptiste, 
 or, by San Gennaro! we shall still be de- 
 tained!” 
 
 The patron suddenly checked himself, and 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 hurried back to the gate, in order to ascer- 
 tain what he might expect from this un- 
 looked-for turn of fortune. 
 
 Two travellers, in the attire of men famil- 
 
 ‘lar with the road, accompanied by a menial, 
 
 and followed by a porter staggering under 
 the burden of their luggage, were fast ap- 
 proaching the water-gate, as if conscious the 
 least delay might cause their being left. This 
 party was led by one considerably past the 
 meridian of life, and who evidently was en- 
 abled to maintain his post more by the defer- 
 ence of his companions than by his physical 
 force. A cloak was thrown across one arm, 
 while in the hand of the other he carried the 
 rapier, which all of gentle blood then con- 
 sidered a necessary appendage of their rank. - 
 
 “You were near losing the last bark that 
 sails for the Abbaye des Vignerons, signori,” 
 said the Genevese, recognizing the country 
 of the strangers at a glance, “if, as I judge 
 from your direction and haste, these festivi- 
 ties are in your minds.” 
 
 ‘‘Such is our aim,” returned the elder of 
 the travellers, “and, as thou sayest, we are, 
 of a certainty, tardy. A hasty departure 
 and bad roads have been the cause—but as 
 happily we are yet in time to profit by this 
 bark, wilt do us the favor to look into our 
 authority to pass ? ” 
 
 The officer perused the offered document 
 with the customary care, turning it from 
 side to side, as if all were not right, though © 
 in a way to show that he regretted the in- 
 formality. 
 
 “Signore, your pass is quite in rule as 
 touches Savoy and the country of Nice, but 
 it wants the city’s forms.” 
 
 “ By San Francesco! more’s the pity. We 
 are honest gentlemen of Genoa, hurrying to 
 witness the revels at Vévey, of which 1umor 
 gives an enticing report, and our sole desire 
 is to come and go peaceably. As thou seest, 
 we are late; for hearing at the post, on 
 alighting, that a bark was about to spread 
 its sails for the other extremity of the lake, 
 we had no time to consult all the observances 
 that thy city’s rules may deem necessary. So 
 many turn their faces the same way, to wit- 
 ness these ancient games, that we had not 
 thought our quick passage through the town 
 of sufficient importance to give thy author- 
 ities the trouble to look into our proofs.” 
 
¢ 
 
 <3 
 oe 
 PY 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 15 
 
 «Therein, signore, you have judged amiss. 
 It is my sworn duty to stay all who want the 
 republic’s permission to proceed.” 
 
 “That is unfortunate, to say no more. 
 Art thou the patron of the bark, friend ?” 
 
 « And her owner, signore,” answered Bap- 
 tiste, who listened to the discourse with long- 
 ings equal to his doubts. ‘‘I should be a 
 great deal too happy to count spch honorable 
 travellers among my passengers.” 
 
 “Thou wilt then delay thy departure until 
 this gentleman shall see the authorities of 
 the town, and obtain the required permission 
 to quit it? Thy compliance shall not go un- 
 rewarded.” 
 
 As the Genoese concluded, he dropped 
 into a palm that was well practised in bribes, 
 a sequin of the celebrated republic of which 
 he was a citizen. Baptiste had long culti- 
 vated an apitude to suffer himself to be influ- 
 enced by gold, and it was with unfeigned 
 reluctance that he admitted the necessity of 
 refusing, in this instance, to profit by his 
 own good dispositions. Still retaining the 
 money, however, for he did not well know 
 how to overcome his reluctance to part with 
 it, he answered in a manner sufficiently em- 
 barrassed to show the other that he had at 
 least gained a material advantage by his 
 liberality. 
 
 “His Excellency knows not what he asks,” 
 said the patron, fumbling the coin between a 
 finger and thumb; ‘‘our Genevese citizens 
 love to keep house till the sun is up, lest 
 
 they should break their necks by walking 
 
 about the uneven streets in the dark, and it 
 will be two long hours before a single burean 
 will open its windows in the town. Besides, 
 your man of the police is not like us of the 
 lake, happy to get a morsel when the weather 
 and occasion permit; but he is a regular 
 feeder, that must have his grapes and his 
 wine before he will use his wits for the bene- 
 fit of his employers. The Winkelried would 
 weary of doing nothing, with this fresh 
 western breeze humming between her masts, 
 while the poor gentleman was swearing be- 
 fore the town-house gate at the lazimess of 
 the officers. I know the rogues better than 
 your Excellency, and would advise some 
 other expedient.” 
 
 Baptiste looked, with a certain expression, 
 at the guardian of the water-gate, and in a 
 
 manner to make his meaning sufficiently 
 clear to the travellers. The latter studied 
 the countenance of the Genevese a moment, 
 and, better practised than the’ patron, or a 
 more enlightened judge of character, he for- 
 tunately refused to commit himself by offer- 
 ing to purchase the officer’s good-will. If 
 there are too many who love to be tempted 
 to forget their trusts, by a well-managed 
 venality, there are few who find a. greater 
 satisfaction in being thought beyond its in- 
 fluence. T'he watchman of the gate hap- 
 pened to be one of the latter class, and by one 
 of the many unaccountable workings of hu- 
 man feeling, the very vanity which had in- 
 duced him to suffer I] Maledetto to go through 
 unquestioned, rather than expose his own igno- 
 rance, now led him to wish he might make 
 some return for the stranger’s good opinion 
 of his honesty. 
 
 ‘“Will you let me look agaih at the pass, 
 signor ?” said the Genevese, as if he thought 
 a sufficient legal warranty for that which he 
 now strongly desired to do might yet be 
 found in the instrument itself. 
 
 The inquiry was useless, unless it was to 
 show that the elder Genoese was called the 
 Signor Grimaldi, and that his companion 
 went by the name of Marcelli. Shaking his 
 head he returned the paper in the manner of 
 a disappointed man. | 
 
 “Thou canst not have read of what the 
 paper contains,” said Baptiste, peevishly; 
 “your reading and writing are not such easy 
 matters, that a squint of the eye is all-sufii- 
 cient. Look at it again, and thou mayest 
 yet find all in rule. It is unreasonable to 
 suppose signori of their rank would journey 
 like vagabonds, with paper to be suspected.” 
 
 “Nothing is wanting but our city signa- 
 tures, without which my duty will let none 
 go by, that are truly travellers.” 
 
 ‘‘This comes, signor, of the accursed art 
 of writing, which is much pushed and greatly 
 abused of late. J have heard the aged water- 
 man of the Leman praise the good old time, 
 when boxes and bales went and came, and no 
 ink touched paper between him that sent 
 and him that carried; and yet it has now 
 reached the pass that a Christian may not 
 ‘ransport himself on his own legs without 
 calling on the scriveners for permission.” 
 
 ‘‘We lose the moment in words, when if 
 
16 
 
 were far better to be doing,” returned the 
 Signor Grimaldi. ‘‘The pass is luckily in 
 the language of the country, and needs but 
 a glance to get the approval of the authori- 
 ties. Thou wilt do well to say thou canst 
 remain the time necessary to see this little 
 done.” 
 
 ““Were your Excellency to offer me the 
 Doge’s crown as a bribe, this could not be. 
 Our Leman winds will not wait for king or 
 noble, bishop or priest, and duty to those I 
 have in the bark commands me to quit the 
 port as soon as possible.” 
 
 “Thou art truly well charged with living 
 freight already,” said the Genoese, regarding 
 the deeply loaded bark with a half-distrustful 
 eye. ‘‘I hope thou hast not overdone thy 
 vessel’s powers in receiving so many?” 
 
 “I could gladly reduce the number alittle, 
 excellent signor, for all that you see piled 
 among the boxes and tubs are no better than 
 so many knaves, fit only to give trouble and 
 raise questions touching the embarkation of 
 those who are willing to pay better than 
 themselves. The noble Swiss whom you see 
 seated near the stern, with his daughter and 
 people, the worthy Melchior de Willading, 
 gives a more liberal reward for his passage to 
 Vévey than all those nameless rogues to- 
 gether.” 
 
 The Genoese made a hasty movement to- 
 ward the patron, with an earnestness of eye 
 and air that betrayed a sudden and singular 
 interest in what he heard. 
 
 “‘Didst thou say De Willading ?” he ex- 
 claimed, eager as one of much fewer years 
 would have been at the unexpected announce- 
 ment of some pleasurable event. ‘‘ Melchior, 
 too, of that honorable name ?” 
 
 ‘Signor, the same. None other bears 
 the title now, for the old line they say is 
 drawing to an end. I remember this same 
 baron, when he was as ready to launch his 
 boat into a troubled lake as any in Switzer- 
 land ie 
 
 “Fortune hath truly favored me, good 
 Marcelli!” interrupted the other, grasping 
 the hand of his companion with strong feel- 
 ing. ‘‘Go thou to the bark, master patron, 
 and advise thy passenger that—what shall 
 we say to Melchior? Shall we tell him at 
 once who waits him here, or shall we practise 
 a little on his failing memory ? By San 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Francesco ! we will do this, Enrico, that we 
 may try his powers! ’Twill be pleasant to 
 see him wonder and guess—my life on it, 
 however, that he knows me at a glance. I 
 am truly little changed for one who hath 
 seen so much.” 
 
 The Signor Marcelli lowered his eyes re- 
 spectfully at this opinion of his friend, but 
 he did not see fit to discourage a belief which 
 was merely a sudden ebullition, produced by 
 the recollection of younger days. Baptiste 
 was instantly despatched with a request that 
 the Baron would doa stranger of rank the 
 favor to come to the water-gate. 
 
 ‘* Tell him ’tis a traveller disappointed in 
 the wish to be of his company,” repeated the 
 Genoese. ‘‘ That will suffice. I know him 
 courteous, and he is not my Melchior, honest 
 Marcelli, if he delay an instant :—thou seest! 
 he is already quitting the bark, for never did 
 I know him refuse an act of friendliness— 
 dear, dear Melchior—thou art the same at 
 seventy as thou wast at thirty! ” 
 
 Here the agitation of the Genoese got the 
 better of him, and he walked aside under a 
 sense of shame, lest he might betray unmanly 
 weakness. In the meantime the Baron de 
 Willading advanced from the water-side, 
 without suspecting that his presence was re- 
 quired for more than an act of simple courtesy. 
 
 ‘Baptiste tells me that gentlemen of 
 Genoa are here who are desirous of hastening 
 to the games of Vévey,” said the latter, rais- 
 ing his beaver, “‘and that my presence may 
 be of use in obtaining the pleasure of their 
 company.” 
 
 “‘T will not unmask until “we are fairly 
 and decently embarked, Enrico,” whispered 
 Signor Grimaldi ; ‘‘nay—by the mass! not 
 till we are fairly disembarked! The laugh 
 against him will never be forgotten. Sig- 
 nor,” addressing the Bernese with affected 
 composure, endeavoring to assume the man- 
 ner of a stranger, though his voice trembled 
 with eagerness at each syllable, “we are in- 
 deed of Genoa, and most anxious to be of the 
 party in your bark—but—he little suspects 
 who speaks to him, Marcelli !—but, signor, 
 there has been some small oversight touching 
 the city signatures, and we have need of 
 friendly assistance either to pass the gate, or 
 to detain the bark until the forms of the 
 place shall have been respected.” 
 
1  y* - 
 
 ae eee ee 
 
 is ay 
 
 ox. 
 ax. 
 
 a ee 
 a 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 «Signor, the city of Geneva hath need to 
 be watchful, for it is an exposed and weak 
 state, and I have little hope that my influ- 
 ence can cause this trusty watchman to dis- 
 pense with his duty. Touching the bark, a 
 small gratuity will do much with honest 
 Baptiste, should there not be a question of 
 the stability of the breeze, in which case he 
 might be somewhat of a loser.” 
 
 «You say the truth, noble Melchior,” put 
 in the patron, “were the wind ahead, or 
 were it two hours earlier in the morning, the 
 little delay should not cost the strangers a 
 batz—that is to say, nothing unreasonable; 
 but as it is, I have not twenty minutes more 
 to lose, even were all the city magistrates 
 cloaking to be of the party, in their proper 
 and worshipful persons.” 
 
 “T greatly regret, signor, it should be so,” 
 resumed the Baron, turning to the applicant 
 with the consideration of one accustomed to 
 season his refusals by a gracious manner; 
 ‘but these watermen have their secret signs, 
 by which it would seem they know the latest 
 moment they may with prudence delay.” 
 
 “By the mass! Marcelli, I will try him 
 a little—I should have known him in a car- 
 nival dress. Signor Barone, we are but poor 
 Italian gentlemen, it is true,of Genoa. You 
 have heard of our Republic, beyond question 
 —the poor state of Genoa?” 
 
 “ Though of no great pretensions to letters, 
 signor,” answered Melchior, smiling, “I am 
 not quite ignorant that such a state exists. 
 You could not have named a city on the 
 shores of your Mediterranean that would 
 sooner warm my heart than this very town 
 
 of which you speak. Many of my happiest. 
 
 hours were passed within its walls, and 
 often, even at this late day, do I live over 
 again my life to recall the pleasures of that 
 merry period. Were there leisure I could 
 repeat a list of honorable and much esteemed 
 names that are familiar to your ears, in proof 
 of what I say.” 
 
 “Name them, Signor Barone ;—for the 
 love of the saints and the blessed Virgin, 
 name them, I beseech you !” 
 
 A little amazed at the eagerness of the 
 other, Melchior de Willading earnestly re- 
 garded his furrowed face; and, for an in- 
 stant, an expression like incertitude crossed 
 his own features. | 
 
 1% 
 
 “Nothing would be easier, signor, than 
 toname many. The first In my memory, as 
 he has always been the first in my love, is 
 Gaetano Grimaldi, of whom, I doubt not, 
 both of you have often heard ?” 
 
 ‘We have, we have! That is—yes, I 
 think we may say, Marcelli, that we have 
 often heard of him, and not unfavorably. 
 Well, what of this Grimaldi?” 
 
 “Signor, the desire to converse of your 
 noble townsman is natural, but were I to 
 yield to my wishes to speak of Gaetano, I 
 fear the honest Baptiste might have reason 
 to complain.” 
 
 «To the devil with Baptiste and his bark! 
 Melchior,—my good Melchior!—dearest, dear- 
 est Melchior! hast thou indeed forgotten 
 me?” 
 
 Here the Genoese opened wide his arms, 
 and stood ready to receive the embrace of 
 his friend. The Baron de Willading was 
 troubled, but he was still so far from suspect- 
 ing the real fact, that he could not have eas- 
 ily told the reason why. He gazed wistfully 
 at the working features of the fine old man 
 who stood before him, and though memory 
 seemed to flit around the truth, it was in 
 gleams so transient as completely to baffle 
 his wishes. 
 
 ‘‘ Dost thou deny me, De Willading ?—dost 
 thou refuse to own the friend of thy youth— 
 the companion of thy pleasures—the sharer 
 of thy sorrows—thy comrade in the wars— 
 nay, more—thy confidant in a dearer tie hae 
 
 “ None but Gaetano Grimaldi himself can 
 claim these titles!” burst from the lips of 
 the trembling Baron. 
 
 «Am I aught else?—am I not this Gae- 
 tano ?—that Gaetano—thy Gaetano,—old and 
 very dear?” 
 
 ‘<Thou Gaetano !” exclaimed the Bernois, 
 recoiling a step, instead of advancing to meet 
 the eager embrace of the Genoese, whose im- 
 petuous feelings were little cooled by time— 
 ‘thou, the gallant, active, daring, blooming 
 Grimaldi! Signor, you trifle with an old 
 man’s affections.” 
 
 ‘¢ By the holy mass, I do not deceive thee ! 
 Ha, Marcelli, he is slow to believe as ever, 
 but fast and certain as the vow of a church- 
 man when convinced. If we are to distrust 
 each other for a few wrinkles, thou wilt find 
 objections rising against thine own identity 
 
18 
 
 as well as against mine, friend Melchior. I 
 am none other than Gaetano—the Gaetano 
 of thy youth—the friend thou hast. not seen 
 these many long and weary years.” 
 
 Recognition was slow in making its way 
 in the mind of the Bernese. Lineament 
 after lineament, however, became succes- 
 sively known to him, and most of all, the voice 
 served to awaken long dormant recollections. 
 But as heavy natures are said to have the 
 least self-command when fairly excited, so 
 did the Baron betray the most ungovernable 
 emotion of the two, when conviction came at 
 last to confirm the words of his friend. He 
 threw himself on the neck of the Genoese, 
 and the old man wept in a manner that 
 caused him to withdraw aside, in order to 
 conceal the tears which had so suddenly and 
 profusely broken from the fountains that he 
 had long thought nearly dried. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 **Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen 
 That, that this knight and I have seen! ” 
 King Henry IV. 
 
 THE calculating patron of the Winkelried 
 had patiently watched the progress of the 
 foregoing scene with great inward satisfac- 
 tion, but now that the stranger seemed to be 
 assured of support powerful as that of Mel- 
 chior de Willading, he was disposed to turn 
 it toaccount without further delay. Theold 
 men were still standing with their hands 
 grasping each other, after another warm and 
 still closer embrace, and with tears rolling 
 down the furrowed face of each, when Bap- 
 tiste advanced to put in his raven-like remon- 
 strance. 
 
 “Noble gentlemen,” he said, “if the felici- 
 tations of one humble as I can add to the 
 pleasure of this happy meeting, I beg you to 
 accept them; but the wind has no heart for 
 friendships nor any thought for the gains or 
 losses of us watermen. I feel it my duty, as 
 patron of the bark, to recall to your honors 
 that many poor travellers, far from their 
 homes and pining families, are waiting our 
 leisure, not to speak of foot-sore pilgrims and 
 other worthy adventurers, who are impatient 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 in their hearts, though respect for their supe- 
 riors keeps them tongue-tied, while we are 
 losing the best of the breeze.” 
 
 ‘* By San’ Francesco! the varlet is right,” 
 said the Genoese, hurriedly erasing the marks 
 of his recent weakness from his cheeks, 
 ‘““We are forgetful of all these worthy people, 
 while joy at our meeting is so strong, and it 
 is time that we thought of others. Canst 
 thou aid me in dispensing with the city’s 
 signatures ?” 
 
 The Baron de Willading paused ; for well- 
 disposed at first to assist any gentlemen who 
 found themselves in an unpleasant embarass- 
 ment, it will be readily imagined that the 
 case lost none of its interest, when he found 
 that his oldest and most tried friend was the 
 party in want of his influence. Still it was 
 much easier to admit the force of this new 
 and unexpected appeal, than to devise the 
 means of success. ‘The officer was, to use a 
 phrase which most men seem to think sup- 
 ples a substitute for reason and principle, too 
 openly committed to render it probable he 
 would easily yield. It was necessary, how- 
 ever, to make the trial, and the Baron, there- 
 fore, addressed the keeper of the water-gate 
 more urgently than he had yet done in be- 
 half of the strangers. 
 
 ‘‘Tt is beyond my functions; there is not 
 one of our Syndics whom I would more 
 gladly oblige than yourself, noble Baron,” 
 answered the officer; “but the duty of the 
 watchman is to adhere strictly to the com- 
 mands of those who have placed him at his 
 post.” 
 
 “ Gaetano, we are not the men to complain 
 of this! We have stood together too long in 
 the same trench, and have too often slept 
 soundly, in situations where failure in this 
 doctrine might have cost us our lives, to 
 quarrel with the honest Genevese for his 
 watchfulness. ‘To be frank, *twere little use 
 to tamper with the fidelity of a Swiss or with 
 that of his ally.” 4 
 
 “With the Swiss that is well paid to be 
 vigilant!” answered the Genoese, laughing 
 in a way to show that he had only revived 
 one of those standing but biting jests, that 
 they who love each other best are, perhaps, 
 most accustomed to practise. 
 
 The Baron de Willading took the facetious- 
 ness of his friend in good part, returning the 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 mirth of the other in a manner to show that 
 the allusion recalled days when their hours 
 had idly passed in the indulgence of sponta- 
 neous outbreakings of animal spirits. 
 
 “Were this thy Italy, Gaetano, a sequin 
 would not only supply the place of a dozen 
 signatures, but, by the name of thy favorite, 
 San Francesco, it would give the honest gate- 
 keeper that gift of second-sight, on which the 
 Scottish seers are said to pride themselves.” 
 
 << Well, the two sides of the Alps will keep 
 their characters, even though we quarrel 
 about their virtues—but we shall never see 
 again the days that we have known! Neither 
 the games of Vévey, nor the use of old jokes, 
 will make us the youths we have been, dear 
 De Willading!” 
 
 ‘Signor, a million of pardons,” inter- 
 rupted Baptiste, ‘‘ but this western wind is 
 more inconstant even than the spirits of the 
 young.” 
 
 «The rogue is again right, and we forget 
 yonder cargo of honest travellers, who are 
 wishing us both in Abraham’s bosom, for 
 keeping the impatient bark in idleness at the 
 quay. Good Marcelli, hast thou aught to 
 suggest in this strait?” 
 
 «Signor, you forget that we have another 
 document that may be found sufficient ”— 
 the person questioned, who appeared to fill a 
 middle station between that of a servant and 
 that of a companion, rather hinted than ob- 
 served. : 
 
 ««'Thou sayest true—and yet I would gladly 
 avoid producing it—but anything is better 
 than the loss of thy company, Melchior.” 
 
 ‘Name it not! We shall not separate, 
 though the Winkelried rot where she hes. 
 *T were easier to separate our faithful can- 
 tons than two such friends.” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, noble Baron, you forget the wea- 
 ried pilgrims and the many anxious travellers 
 in the bark.” | 
 
 ‘<Tf twenty crowns will purchase thy con- 
 sent, honest Baptiste, we will have no further 
 discussion.” 
 
 «Tt is scarce in human will to withstand 
 you, noble sir! Well, the pilgrims have 
 weary feet, and rest will only fit them the 
 better for the passage of the mountains; and 
 as for the others, why, let them quit the 
 bark, if they dislike the conditions. [I am 
 not a man to force my commerce on any.” 
 
 19 
 
 ‘Nay, nay, I will have none of this. Keep 
 thy gold, Melchior, and let the honest Bap- 
 tiste keep his passengers, to say nothing of 
 
 | his conscience.” 
 
 ‘««T beseech your Excellency,” interrupted 
 Baptiste, “not to distress yourself in tender- 
 ness for me. I am ready to do far more dis- 
 agreeable things to oblige so noble a gen- 
 tleman.” 
 
 ‘J will none of it! Signor officer, wilt 
 thou do me the favor to cast a glance at 
 this?” 
 
 As the Genoese concluded, he placed in 
 the hands of the watchman at the gate, a 
 paper different from that which he had first 
 shown. The officer, perused the new instru- 
 ment with deep attention, and, when half 
 through its contents, his eyes left the page 
 to become riveted in respectful attention on 
 the face of the expectant Italian. He then 
 read the passport to the end. Raising his 
 cap ceremoniously, the keeper of the gate left 
 the passage free, bowing with deep deference 
 to the strangers. 
 
 «Had I sooner known this,” he said, 
 ‘‘there would have been no delay. I hope 
 your Excellency will consider my igno- 
 rance i, 
 
 ‘Name it not, friend. Thou hast done 
 well; in proof of which I beg thy acceptance 
 of a small token of esteem.” 
 
 The Genoese dropped a sequin into the 
 hand of the officer, passing him, at the same 
 time, on his way to the water-side. As the 
 reluctance of the other to receive gold came 
 rather from a love of duty than from any 
 particular aversion to the metal itself, this 
 second offering met with a more favorable 
 reception than the first. The Baron de 
 Willading was not without surprise at the 
 sudden success of his friend, though he was 
 far too prudent and well bred to let his won- 
 der be seen. 
 
 Every obstacle to the departure of the 
 Winkelried was now removed, and Baptiste. 
 and his crew were soon actively engaged in 
 loosening the sails and in casting off the 
 fasts. ‘The movement of the bark was at 
 first slow and heavy, for the wind was inter- 
 cepted by the buildings of the town; but, as 
 she receded from the shore, the canvas began 
 to flap and belly, and ere long it filled out- 
 ward with a report like that of a musket ; 
 
20 
 
 after which the motion of the travellers be- 
 gan to bear some relation to their nearly 
 exhausted patience. 
 
 Soon after the party which had been so 
 long detained at the water-gate were em- 
 barked, Adelheid first learned the reason of 
 the delay. She had long known, from the 
 mouth of her father, the name and early 
 history of the Signor Grimaldi, a Genoese of 
 illustrious family, who had been the sworn 
 friend and comrade of Melchior de Willa- 
 ding, when the latter pursued his career in 
 arms in the wars of Italy. These circum- 
 stances having passed long before her own 
 birth, and even before the marriage of her 
 parents, and she being the youngest and the 
 only survivor of a numerous family of chil- 
 dren, they were, as respected herself, events 
 that already began to assume the hue of his- 
 tory. She received the old man frankly, and 
 even with affection, though in his yielding 
 but still fine form, she had quite as much 
 difficulty as her father in recognizing the 
 young, gay, gallant, brilliant, and handsome 
 Gaetano Grimaldi that her imagination had 
 conceived from the verbal descriptions she 
 had so often heard, and from her fancy was 
 still wont to draw as he was painted in the 
 affectionate descriptions of her father. When 
 he suddenly and affectionately offered a kiss, 
 the color flushed her face, for no man but he 
 to whom she owed her being had ever before 
 taken that liberty; but, after an instant of 
 virgin embarrassment, she laughed, and 
 blushingly presented her cheek to receive 
 the salute. - 
 
 “The last tidings I had of thee, Melchior,” 
 said the Italian, “‘ was the letter sent by the 
 Swiss Embassador, who took our city in his 
 way as he travelled south, and which was 
 written on the occasion of the birth of this 
 very girl.” 
 
 ‘* Not of this, dear friend, but of an elder 
 sister, who is long since a cherub in heaven. 
 Thou seest the ninth precious gift that God 
 bestowed, and thou seest all that is now left 
 of His bounty.” 
 
 The countenance of the Signor Grimald, 
 lost its joyousness, and a deep pause in the 
 discourse succeeded. They lived in an age 
 when communications between friends that 
 were separated by distance, and by the fron- 
 tiers of different States, were rare and uncer- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tain. The fresh and novel affections of mar- 
 riage had first broken an intercourse that was 
 continued, under such disadvantages as 
 marked the period, long after their duties 
 called them different ways, and time, with 
 its changes and the embarrassments of wars, 
 had finally destroyed nearly every link in the 
 chain of their correspondence. Each had, 
 therefore, much of a near and interesting 
 character to communicate to the other, and 
 each dreaded to speak, lest he might cause 
 some wound, that was not perfectly healed, 
 to bleed anew. The volume of matter con- 
 veyed in the few words uttered by the Baron 
 de Willading, showed both in how many ways 
 they might inflict pain without intention, 
 and how necessary it was to be guarded in 
 their discourse during the first days of their 
 renewed intercourse. 
 
 ‘‘This girl at least is a treasure of itself, 
 of which I must envy thee the possession,” 
 the Signor Grimaldi at length rejoined. 
 
 The Swiss made one of those quick move- 
 ments which betray surprise, and it was very 
 apparent, that, just at the moment, he was 
 more affected by some interest of his friend 
 than by the apprehensions which usually be- 
 set him when any very direct allusion was 
 made to his surviving child. 
 
 “‘ Gaetano, thou hast a son ?” 
 
 ‘* He is lost—hopelessly—irretrievably lost 
 —at least, to me!” 
 
 These were brief but painful glimpses into 
 each other’s concerns, and another melan- 
 choly and embarrassed pause followed. As 
 the Baron de Willading witnessed the sorrow 
 that deeply shadowed the face of the Genoese, 
 he almost felt that Providence, in summon- — 
 ing his own boys to early graves, might have 
 spared him the still bitter grief of mourning 
 over the unworthiness of a living son. 
 
 “These are God’s decrees, Melchior,” the 
 Italian continued of his own accord, ‘‘ and 
 we, as soldiers, as men, and more than either, 
 as Christians, should know how to submit. 
 The letter, of which I spoke, contained the 
 last direct tidings that I receiyed of thy wel- 
 fare, though different travellers have men- 
 tioned thee as among the honored and trusted 
 of thy country, without descending to the 
 particulars of thy private life.” 
 
 “The retirement of our mountains, and 
 the little intercourse of strangers with the 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 Swiss, have denied me even this meagre sat- 
 isfaction as respects thee and thy fortunes. 
 Since the especial courier sent according to 
 our ancient agreement, to announce z 
 
 The Baron hesitated, for he felt he was 
 again touching on forbidden ground. 
 
 <¢™Mo announce the birth of my unhappy 
 
 boy,” continued the Signor Grimaldi, firmly. 
 
 <¢ To announce that much wished-for event, 
 I have not had news of thee, except in a way 
 so vague, as to whet the desire to know more 
 rather than to appease the longings of love.” 
 
 «‘These doubts are the penalties that 
 friendship pays to separation. We enlist the 
 affections in youth with the recklessness of 
 hope, and, when called different ways by 
 duties or interest, we first begin to perceive 
 that the world is not the heaven we thought 
 it, but that each enjoyment has its price, as 
 each grief has its solace. Thou hast carried 
 arms since we were soldiers in company ?” 
 
 «‘ As a Swiss only.” 
 
 The answer drew a gleam of habitual 
 humor from the keen eye of the Italian, 
 whose countenance was apt to change as 
 rapidly as his thoughts. 
 
 ‘In what service ?” 
 
 “Nay, a truce to thy old pleasantries, 
 good Grimaldi—and yet I should scarce love 
 thee as I do, wert thou other than thou art! 
 I believe we come at last to prize even the 
 foibles of those we truly esteem!” 
 
 «It must be so, young lady, or boyish 
 follies would long since have weaned thy 
 father from me. I have never spared him 
 on the subject of snows and money, and yet 
 he beareth with me marvellously. Well, 
 strong love endureth much. Hath the 
 Baron often spoken to thee of old Grimaldi 
 —young Grimaldi, I should say and of the 
 many freaks of our thoughtless days ?” 
 
 “So much, signor,” returned Adelheid, 
 who had wept and smiled by turns during 
 the interrupted dialogue of her father and 
 his friend, ‘‘that I can repeat most of your 
 youthful histories. The Castle of Willading 
 is deep among the mountains, and it is rare 
 indeed for the foot of stranger to enter its 
 gates. During the long evenings of our 
 severe winters, I have listened as a daughter 
 would be apt to listen to the recital of most 
 of your common adventures, and in listening, 
 I have not only learned to know, but to 
 
 21 
 
 esteem, one that is justly so dear to my 
 parent.” 
 
 ‘‘T make no doubt now, thou hast the his- 
 tory of the plunge into the canal, by over- 
 stooping to see the Venetian beauty, at thy 
 fingers’ ends?” 
 
 “I do remember some such act of humid 
 gallantry,” returned Adelheid, laughing. 
 
 «Did thy father tell thee, child, of the 
 manner in which he bore me off in a noble 
 rescue from a deadly charge of the Imperial 
 cavalry?” 
 
 “T have heard some slight allusion to such 
 an event, too,” returned Adelheid, evidently 
 trying to recall the history of the affair to 
 her mind, “ but——” 
 
 ‘‘Light does he call it, and of small ac- 
 count? I wish never to see another as 
 heavy! This is the impartiality of thy nar- 
 ratives, good Melchior, in which a life pre- 
 served, wounds received, and a charge to 
 make the German quail, are set down as 
 matters to be touched with a light hand!” 
 
 “Tf I did thee this service, it was more 
 than deserved by the manner in which, 
 before Milan u 
 
 ‘Well, let it all pass together. We are 
 old fools, young lady, and should we get gar- 
 rulous in each other’s praise, thou mightest 
 mistake us for braggarts; a character that, in 
 truth, neither wholly merits. Didst thou 
 ever tell the girl, Melchior, of our mad ex- 
 cursion into the forests of the Apennines, in 
 search of a Spanish lady that had fallen into 
 the hands of banditti; and how we passed 
 weeks on a foolish enterprise of errantry, 
 that had become useless by the timely appli- 
 cation of a few sequins on the part of the 
 husband, even before we started on the 
 chivalrous, not to say silly, excursion ?” 
 
 ‘Say chivalrous, but not silly,” answered 
 Adelheid, with the simplicity of a young and 
 sincere mind. “Of this adventure I have 
 heard, but to me it has never seemed ridicu- 
 lous. A generous motive might well excuse 
 an undertaking of less favorable auspices.” 
 
 «Tis fortunate,” returned the Signor Gri- 
 maldi, thoughtfully, “that if youth and ex- 
 aggerated opinions lead us to commit mad 
 pranks under the name of spirit and gener- 
 osity, there are other youthful and generous 
 minds to reflect our sentiments and to smile 
 upon our folly.” 
 
22 
 
 “This is more like the wary gray-headed 
 expounder of wisdom than like the hot- 
 headed Gaetano Grimaldi of old!” exclaimed 
 the Baron, though he laughed while uttering 
 the words, as if he felt at least a portion of 
 the other’s indifference to those exaggerated 
 feelings that had entered much into the char- 
 acters of both in youth. “The time has 
 been when the words policy and calculation 
 would have cost a companion thy favor!” 
 
 «Tis said that the prodigal of twenty 
 makes the miser of seventy. It is certain 
 that even our southern sun does not warm 
 the blood of three-score as suddenly as it 
 heats that of one. But we will not darken 
 thy daughter’s views of the future by a pict- 
 ure too faithfully drawn, lest she become 
 wise before her time. I have often ques- 
 tioned, Melchior, which is the most precious 
 cift of nature—a warm fancy, or the colder 
 powers of reason. But if I must say which I 
 most love, the point becomes less difficult of 
 decision. I would prefer each in its season, 
 or rather the two united, with a gradual 
 change in their influence. Let the youth 
 commence with the first in the ascendant, 
 and close with the last. He who begins life 
 too cold a reasoner may end it a calculating 
 egotist; and he who is ruled solely by his 
 imagination is in danger of having his mind 
 so ripened as to bring forth the fruits of a 
 visionary. Had it pleased Heaven to have 
 left me the dear son I possessed for so short 
 a period, I would rather have seen him lean- 
 ing to the side of exaggeration in his estimate 
 of men before experience came to chill his 
 hopes, than to see him scan his fellows with 
 a too philosophical eye in boyhood. ’Tis 
 said we are but clay at the best; but the 
 ground, before it has been well tilled, sends 
 forth the plants that are most congenial to 
 its soil, and though it be of no great value, 
 give me the spontaneous and generous growth 
 of the weed, which proves the depth of the 
 loam, rather than a stinted imitation of that 
 which cultivation may, no doubt, render 
 more useful if not more grateful.” 
 
 The allusion to his lost son caused another 
 cloud to pass athwart the brow of the Geno- 
 ese. 
 
 ‘‘Thou seest, Adelheid,” he continued, 
 after a pause—‘‘ for Adelheid will I call thee, 
 _in virtue of a second father’s rights—that we 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 are making our folly respectable, at least to 
 ourselves—Master Patron, thou hast a well- 
 charged bark !” 
 
 ‘Thanks to your two honors,” answered 
 Baptiste, who stood at the helm, near the 
 group of principal passengers. <‘‘ These 
 windfalls come rarely to the poor, and we 
 must make much of such as offer. The 
 games at Vévey have called every craft on the 
 Leman to the upper end of the lake, and a 
 little mother wit led me to trust to the last 
 turn of the wheel, which, as you see, signor, 
 has not come up a blank.” 7 
 
 ‘‘ Have many strangers passed by your city 
 on their way to these sports?” 
 
 ‘‘Many hundreds, noble gentleman; and 
 report speaks of thousands that are collecting 
 at Vévey and in the neighboring villages. 
 The country of Vaud has not had a richer 
 harvest from her games this many a year.” 
 
 “‘Tt is fortunate, Melchior, that the desire 
 to witness these revels should have arisen in 
 us at the same moment. The hope of at last — 
 obtaining certain tidings of thy welfare was 
 the chief inducement that caused me to steal 
 from Genoa, whither | am compelled to re- 
 turn forthwith. There is truly something 
 providential in this meeting !” 
 
 “‘IT so esteem it,” returned the Baron de 
 Willading ; ‘‘though the hope of soon em- 
 bracing thee was strongly alivein me. Thou 
 art mistaken in fancying that curiosity or a 
 wish to mingle with the multitude at Vévey 
 has drawn me from my castle, Italy was in 
 my eye, as it has long been in my heart.” 
 
 “¢ How !—Italy ?” | 
 
 *‘ Nothing less. This fragile plant of the 
 mountains has drooped of late in her native 
 air, and skilful advisers have counselled th~ 
 sunny side of the Alps as a shelter to revive 
 her animation. J have promised Roger de 
 Blonay to pass a night or two within his an- 
 cient walls, and then we are destined to seek 
 the hospitality of the monks of St. Bernard. 
 Like thee, I had hoped this unusual sortie 
 from my hold might lead to intelligence 
 touching the fortunes of one I have never 
 ceased to love.” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi turned a more scru- 
 tinizing look toward the face of their female 
 companion. Her gentle and winning beauty 
 gave him pleasure ; but, with his attention 
 quickened by what had just fallen from her 
 
THE HEADSMAN. | 23 
 
 toward the northeast. Its northern, or the 
 Swiss shore, is chiefly what is called, in the 
 language of the country, a cote, or a declivity 
 that admits of cultivation ; and, with few 
 exceptions, it has been, since the earliest 
 periods of history, planted with the generous 
 vine. Here the Romans had many stations 
 and posts, vestiges of which are still visible. 
 The confusion and the mixture of interests 
 that succeeded the fall of the empire, gave 
 rise in the middle ages to various baronial 
 castles, ecclesiastical towns, and towers of de- 
 fence, which still stand on the margin of this 
 beautiful sheet of water, or ornament the 
 eminences a little inland. At the time of 
 which we write, the whole coast of the Le- 
 man, if so imposing a word may be applied 
 to the shores of so small a body of water, was 
 in the possession of the three several states 
 of Geneva, Savoy, and Berne. The first con- 
 sisted of a mere fragment of territory at the 
 western, or lower horn of the crescent; the 
 second occupied nearly the whole of the 
 southern side of the sheet, or the cavity of 
 the half moon; while the latter was mistress 
 of the whole of the convex border, and of the 
 eastern horn. ‘The shores of Savoy are com- 
 posed, with immaterial exceptions, of ad- 
 vanced spurs of the high Alps, among which 
 towers Mont Blanc, like a sovereign seated 
 in majesty in the midst of a brilliant court, 
 the rocks frequently rising from the water’s 
 edge in perpendicular masses. None of the 
 lakes of this remarkable region possess @ 
 greater variety of scenery than that of Gen- 
 eva, which changes from the smiling aspect 
 of fertility and cultivation, at its lower ex- 
 tremity, to the sublimity of a savage and 
 sublime nature at its upper. Vevey, the 
 haven for which the Winkelried was bound, 
 lies at the distance of three leagues from the 
 head of the lake, or the point where it re- 
 ceives the Rhone; and Geneva, the port 
 from which the reader has just seen her take 
 her departure, is divided by that river as it 
 glances out of the blue basin of the Leman 
 again, to traverse the fertile fields of France, 
 on its hurried course toward the distant 
 Mediterranean. 
 
 It is well known that the currents of air, 
 on all bodies of water that lie amid high and 
 broken mountains, are uncertain both as to 
 their direction and their force. This was 
 
 father, he traced, in silent pain, the signs 
 of that early fading which threatened to in- 
 clude this last hope of his friend in the com- 
 mon fate of the family. Disease had not, 
 however, set its seal on the sweet face of 
 Adelheid in a manner to attract the notice of 
 a common observer. The lessening of the 
 bloom, the mournful character of a dove-like 
 eye, and a look of thoughtfulness on a brow 
 that he had ever known devoid of care and 
 open as day with youthful ingenuousness, 
 were the symptoms that first gave the alarm 
 to her father, whose previous losses, and 
 whose solitariness, as respects the ties of the 
 world, had rendered him keenly alive to im- 
 pressions of such a nature. The reflections 
 excited by this examination brought painful 
 recollections to all, and it was long before the 
 discourse was renewed. 
 
 In the meantime, the Winkelried was not 
 idle. As the vessel receded from the cover 
 of the buildings and the hills, the force of 
 the breeze was felt, and her speed became 
 quickened 1n proportion ; though the water- 
 men of her crew often studied the manner in 
 which she dragged her way through the ele- 
 ment with a shake of the head, that was in- 
 tended to express their consciousness that too 
 much had been required of the craft. The 
 eupidity of Baptiste had indeed charged his 
 good bark to the uttermost. The water was 
 nearly on a line with the low stern, and when 
 the bark had reached a part of the lake 
 where the waves were rolling with some force, 
 it was found that the vast weight was too 
 much to be lifted by the feeble and broken 
 efforts of these miniature seas. ‘he conse- 
 quences were, however, more vexatious than 
 alarming. A few wet feet among the less 
 quiet of the passengers, with an occasional 
 slapping of a sheet of water against the 
 gang ways, and a consequent drift of spray 
 across the pile of human heads in the centre 
 of the bark, were all the immediate personal 
 inconveniences. Still unjustifiable greediness 
 of gain had tempted the patron to commit 
 the unseaman-like fault of overloading his 
 vessel. ‘The decrease of speed was another 
 and a graver consequence of his cupidity, 
 since it might prevent their arrival in port 
 before the breeze had expended itself. 
 
 The lake of Geneva lies nearly in the form 
 of a crescent, stretching from the southwest 
 
24 
 
 the difficulty which had most disturbed Bap- 
 tiste during the delay of the bark, for the 
 experienced waterman well knew it required 
 the first and the freest effort of the wind to 
 “drive the breeze home,” as it is called by 
 seamen, against the opposing currents that 
 frequently descend from the mountains 
 which surrounded his port. In addition to 
 this difficulty, the shape of the lake was an- 
 other reason why the winds rarely blow in 
 the same direction over the whole of its sur- 
 face at the same time. Strong and con- 
 tinued gales commonly force themselves down 
 into the deep basin, and push their way 
 against all resistance, into every crevice of 
 the rocks; but a power less than this, rarely 
 succeeds in favoring the bark with the same 
 breeze from the entrance to the outlet of the 
 Rhone. 
 
 As a consequence of these peculiarities, 
 the passengers of the Winkelried had early 
 evidence that they had trifled too long with 
 the fickle air. The breeze carried them up 
 abreast of Lausanne in good season, but here 
 the influence of the mountains began to im- 
 pair its force,and by the time the sun had a 
 little fallen toward the long, dark, even line 
 of the Jura, the good vessel was driven to 
 the usual expedients of jibbing and hauling- 
 in of sheets. 
 
 Baptiste had only to blame his own cupid- 
 ity for this disappointment; and the con- 
 sciousness that, had he complied with the 
 engagement, made on the previous evening 
 with the mass of the passengers, to depart 
 with the dawn, he should now have been in 
 a situation to profit by any turn of fortune 
 that was likely to arise from the multitude 
 of strangers who were in Vévey, rendered 
 him moody. As is usual with the headstrong 
 and the selfish when they possess the power, 
 others were made to pay for the fault that 
 he alone committed. His men were vexed 
 with contradictory and useless orders ; the 
 inferior passengers were accused of constant 
 neglect of his instructions, a fault which he 
 did not hesitate to affirm had caused the bark 
 to sail less swiftly than usual, and he no 
 longer even answered the occasional questions 
 of those for whom he felt habitual] deference, 
 with his former respect and readiness, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 “Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, 
 And thrice again, to make up nine.”—Macbeth, 
 
 BAFFLING and light airs kept the Winkel- 
 ried a long time nearly stationary, and it 
 was only by paying the greatest attention to 
 trimming the sails and to all the little 
 minutie of the waterman’s art, that the 
 vessel was worked into the eastern horn of 
 the crescent, as the sun touched the hazy 
 line of the Jura. Here the wind failed 
 entirely, the surface of the lake becoming as 
 glassy and smooth as a mirror, and further 
 motion, for the time at least, was quite out 
 of the question. The crew, perceiving the 
 hopelessness of their exertions, and fatigued 
 with the previous toil, threw themselves 
 among the boxes and bales, and endeavored 
 to catch a little sleep, in anticipation of the 
 north breeze, which, at this season of the 
 year, usually blew from the shores of Vaud 
 within an hour or two of the disappearance 
 of the sun. 
 
 The deck of the bark was now left to the 
 undisputed possession of her passengers. 
 The day had latterly been sultry for the 
 season, the even water having cast back the 
 hot rays in fierce reflection, and, as evening 
 drew on, a refreshing coolness came to re- 
 lieve the densely packed and _ scorching 
 travellers. The effect of such a change was 
 like that which would have been observed 
 among a flock of heavily fleeced sheep, 
 which, after gasping for breath beneath 
 trees and hedges during the time of the 
 sun’s power, are seen scattering over their 
 pastures to feed, or to play their antics, as 
 a grateful shade succeeds to cool their pant- 
 ing sides. 
 
 Baptiste, as is but too apt to be the case 
 with men possessed with brief authority, 
 during the day had mercilessly played the 
 tyrant with all the passengers that were be- 
 neath the privileged degrees, more than 
 once threatening to come to extremities with 
 several who had betrayed restlessness under 
 the restraint and suffering of their unac- 
 customed situation. Perhaps there is no 
 man who feels less for the complaints of 
 the novice than your weather-beaten and 
 hardened mariner; for, familiarized to the 
 suffering and confinement of a vessel, and 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 at liberty himself to seek relief in his duties 
 and avocations, he can scarcely enter into 
 the privations and embarrassments of those 
 to whom all is so new and painful. But, in 
 the patron of the Winkelried, there existed 
 a natural indifference to the grievances of 
 others, and a narrow selfishness of disposi- 
 tion, in aid of the opinions which had been 
 formed by a life of hardship and exposure. 
 He considered the vulgar passenger as so 
 much troublesome freight, which, while it 
 brought the advantage of a higher remunera- 
 tion than the same cubic measurement of 
 inanimate matter, had the unpleasant draw- 
 back of volition and motion. With this 
 general tendency to bully and intimidate, 
 the wary patron had, however, made a silent 
 exception in favor of the Italian, who has 
 
 introduced himself to the reader by the ill- 
 
 omened name of I] Maledetto, or the accused. 
 This formidable personage had enjoyed a per- 
 fect immunity from the effects of Baptiste’s 
 tyranny, which he had been able to establish 
 by a very simple and quiet process. Instead 
 of cowering at the fierce glance, of recoiling 
 at the rude remonstrances of the churlish 
 patron, he had chosen his time, when the 
 
 latter was in one of his hottest ebullitions of 
 
 anger, and when maledictions and menaces 
 flowed out of his mouth in torrents, coolly 
 to place himself on the very spot that the 
 other had proscribed, where he maintained 
 his ground with a quietness and composure 
 which it might have been difficult to say 
 was more to be imputed to extreme igno- 
 rance, or to immeasurable contempt. At 
 least, so reasoned the spectators; some think- 
 ing that the stranger meant to bring affairs 
 to a speedy issue by braving the patron’s 
 fury, and others charitably inferring that he 
 knew no better. But thus did not Baptiste 
 reason himself. He saw by the calm eye 
 and resolute demeanor of his passenger that 
 he himself, his pretended professional diffi- 
 culties, his captiousness, and his threats were 
 alike despised ; and he shrank from collision 
 with such a spirit precisely on the principle 
 that the intimidated among the rest of the 
 travellers shrank from a contest with his 
 own. From this moment Il Maledetto, or, 
 as he was called by Baptiste himself, who it 
 would appear had some knowledge of his 
 person, Maso, became as completely the 
 
 20 
 
 master of his own movements, as if he had 
 been one of the more honored in the stern 
 of the bark, or even her patron. He did not 
 abuse his advantage, however, rarely quit- 
 ting the indicated station near his own 
 effects, where he had been mainly content 
 to repose in listless indolence like the others, 
 dozing away the minutes. 
 
 But the scene was now altogether changed. 
 The instant the wrangling, discontented, and 
 unhappy, because disappointed, patron con- 
 fessed his inability to reach his port before 
 the coming of the expected night-breeze, and 
 threw himself on a bale to conceal his dissat- 
 isfaction in sleep, head arose after head from 
 among the pile of freight, and body after 
 body followed the nobler member, until the 
 whole mass was alive with human beings. 
 The invigorating coolness, the tranquil hour, 
 the prospect of a safe if not a speedy arrival, 
 and the relief from excessive weariness, pro- 
 duced a sudden and agreeable reaction in the 
 feelings of all. Even the Baron de Willad- 
 ing and his friends, who had shared in none 
 of the especial privations just named, joined 
 in the general exhibition of satisfaction and 
 good-will, rather aiding by their smiles and 
 affability, than restraining by their presence, 
 the whims and jokes of the different individ- 
 uals among the motley group of their name- 
 less companions. 
 
 The aspect and position of the bark, as well 
 as the prospects of those on board as they 
 were connected with their arrival, now de- 
 serve to be more particularly mentioned. 
 The manner in which the vessel was loaded to 
 the water’s edge has already been more than 
 once alluded to. The whole of the centre of 
 the broad deck, a portion of the Winkelried 
 which, owing to the overhanging gangways, 
 possessed, In common with all the similar 
 craft of the Leman, a greater width than 1s 
 usual in vessels of the same tonnage else- 
 where, was so cumbered with freight as 
 barely to leave a passage to the crew, forward 
 and aft, by stepping among the boxes and. 
 bales that were piled much higher than their 
 own heads. A little vacant space was left 
 near the stern, in which it was possible for 
 the party who occupied that part of the deck 
 to move, though in sufficiently straitened lim- 
 its, while the huge tiller played in its semi- 
 circle behind. At the other extremity, as is 
 
26 
 
 absolutely necessary in all navigation, the | chapter. 
 
 forecastle was reasonably clear, though even 
 this important part of the deck was bristling 
 with the flukes of no less than nine anchors 
 that lay in a row across its breadth, the wild 
 roadsteads of this end of the lake rendering 
 such a provision of ground-tackle absolutely 
 indispensable to the safety of every craft that 
 ventured into its eastern horn. The effect of 
 the whole, seen as it was in a state of abso- 
 lute rest, was to give to the Winkelried the 
 appearance of a small mound in the midst of 
 the water, that was crowded with human 
 beings, and seemingly so incorporated with 
 the element on which it floated as to grow out 
 of its bosom; an image that the fancy was not 
 slow to form, aided as it was by the reflection 
 of the mass that the unruffled lake threw 
 back from its mirror-like face, as perfectly 
 formed, as unwieldy, and nearly as distinct 
 as the original. To this picture of a motion- 
 less rock, or island, the spars, sails, and high, 
 pointed beak, however, formed especial ex- 
 ceptions. The yards hung, as seamen term 
 it, a-cockbill, or in such negligent and pict- 
 uresque positions as an artist would most 
 love to draw, while the drapery of the canvas 
 was suspended in graceful and spotless fes- 
 toons, as it had fallen by chance, or been cast 
 carelessly from the hands of the boatmen. 
 The beak, or prow, rose in its sharp gallant 
 stem, resembling the stately neck of a swan, 
 lightly swerving from its direction, or inclin- 
 ing in a nearly imperceptible sweep, as the 
 hull yielded to the secret influence of the 
 varying currents. 
 
 When the teeming pile of freight, there- 
 fore, began so freely to bring forth, and trav- 
 eller after traveller left his pallet, there was 
 no great space found in which they could 
 stretch their wearied limbs, or seek the change 
 they needed. But suffering is a good pre- 
 parative for pleasure, and there is no sweet- 
 ener of liberty like previous confinement. 
 Baptiste was no sooner heard to snore than 
 the whole hummock of cargo was garnished 
 with upright bodies and stretching arms and 
 legs, as mice are known to steal from their 
 holes during the slumbers of their mortal 
 enemy, the cat. 
 
 The reader has been made sufficiently ac- 
 quainted with the moral composition of the 
 Winkelried’s living freight, in the opening 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 As it had undergone no other al- 
 teration than that produced by lassitude, he 
 is already prepared, therefore, to renew his 
 communications with its different members, 
 all of whom were well disposed to show off in 
 their respective characters, the moment they 
 were favored with an opportunity. The mer- 
 curlal Pippo, as he had been the most diffi- 
 cult to restrain during the day, was the first 
 to steal from his lair, now that the Argus- 
 like eyes of Baptiste permitted the freedom, 
 and the exhilarating coolness of the sunset in- 
 vited action. His success emboldened others, 
 and ere long, the buffoon had an admiring 
 audience around him, that was well disposed 
 to laugh at his witticisms, and to applaud all 
 his practical jokes. Gaining courage as he 
 proceeded, the buffoon gradually went from 
 liberty to liberty, until he was at length tri- 
 umphantly established on what might be 
 termed an advanced spur of the mountain 
 formed by the tubs of Nicklaus Wagner, in 
 the regular exercise of his art; while a crowd 
 of amused and gaping spectators blustered 
 about him, peopling every eminence of the 
 height, and even invading the more privi- 
 leged deck in their eagerness to see and to 
 admire. 
 
 Though frequently reduced by adverse for- 
 tune to the lowest shifts of his calling, such 
 as the horse-play of Policinello, and the imi- 
 tation of uncouth sounds, that resembled 
 nothing either in heaven or earth, Pippo was 
 a clever knave in his way, and was quite 
 equal to a display of the higher branches of 
 his art, whenever chance gave him an audi- 
 ence capable of estimating his qualities. On 
 the present occasion he was obliged to ad- 
 dress himself both to the polished and to 
 the unpolished ; for the proximity of their 
 position, as well as a good-natured readiness 
 to lend themselves to fooleries that were so 
 agreeable to most around them, had brought 
 the more gentle portion of the passengers 
 within the influence of his wit. 
 
 ‘* And now, illustrissimi signori,” contin- 
 ued the wily juggler, after having drawn a 
 burst of applause by one of his happiest hits 
 in a sleight-of-hand exhibition, ‘‘I come to 
 the most imposing and the most mysterious 
 part of my knowledge—that of looking into 
 the future and of foretelling events. If there 
 are any among you who would wish to know 
 
eet Mes 
 oie 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 27 
 
 how Jong they are to eat the bread of toil, 
 let them come to me ; if there isa youth who 
 wishes to learn whether the heart of his mis- 
 tress is made of flesh or of stone— a maiden 
 that would see into a youth’s faith and con- 
 stancy while her long eyelashes cover her 
 sight like a modest silken veil—or a noble, 
 that would fain have an insight into the 
 movements of his rivals at court or council, 
 let them all put their questions to Pippo, 
 who has an answer ready for each, and an 
 answer so real that the most expert among 
 the listeners will be ready to swear that a lie 
 from his mouth is worth more than truth 
 from that of another man.” 
 
 «‘ He that would gain credit for knowledge 
 of the future,” gravely observed the Signor 
 Grimaldi, who had listened to his country- 
 man’s yoluble eulogium on his own merits 
 with a good-natured laugh, ‘“‘had best com- 
 
 -mence by showing his familiarity with the 
 
 past. Who and what is he that speaks to 
 thee, as a specimen of thy skill in sooth- 
 saying ?” , 
 
 ‘Fis eccellenza is more than he seems, 
 less than he deserves to be, and as much as 
 any present. He hath an old and a prized 
 friend at his elbow; hath come because it 
 was his pleasure, to witness the games at 
 Vévey—will depart for the same reason, 
 when they are over, and will seek his home 
 at his leisure—not like a fox stealing into his 
 hole, but as the stately ship sails gallantly, 
 and by the light of the sun, into her haven.” 
 
 «This will never do, Pippo,” returned the 
 good-humored old noble; ‘at need I might 
 equal this myself. ‘Thou shouldst relate that 
 which is less probable, while it is more true.” 
 
 «‘Signor, we prophets like to sleep in 
 whole skins. If it be your eccellenza’s pleas- 
 ure and that of your noble company to listen 
 to the truly wonderful, I will tell some of 
 these honest people matters touching their 
 own interests that they do not know them- 
 selves, and yet it shall be as clear to every- 
 body else as the sun in the heavens at noon- 
 day.” 
 
 «Thou wilt probably tell them their 
 faults ?” 
 
 ‘¢Your eccellenza has a right to my place, 
 for no prophet could have better divined my 
 intention,” answered the laughing knave. 
 « Come nearer, friend,” he added, beckoning 
 
 to the Bernois; “thou art Nicklaus Wagner, 
 a fat peasant of the great canton, and a 
 warm husbandman, that fancies he has a 
 title to the respect of all he meets, because 
 some one among his fathers bought a right 
 in the biirgerschaft. Thou hast a large 
 stake in the Winkelried, and art at this mo- 
 ment thinking what punishment is good 
 enough for an impudent soothsayer who dares 
 dive so unceremoniously into the secrets of 
 so warm a citizen, while all around thee wish 
 thy cheeses had never left the dairy, to the 
 discomfort of our limbs and to the great 
 detriment of the bark’s speed.” 
 
 This sally at the expense of Nicklaus drew 
 a burst of merriment from the listeners ; for 
 the selfish spirit he had manifested through- 
 out the day had won little favor with a ma- 
 jority of his fellow-travellers, who had all the 
 generous propensities that are usually so 
 abundant among those who have little or 
 nothing to bestow, and who were by this time 
 so well disposed to be merry that much less 
 would have served to stimulate their mirth. 
 
 ‘© Wert thou the owner of this good freight, 
 friend, thou might find its presence less un- 
 comfortable than thou now appearest to 
 think,” returned the literal peasant, who had 
 no humor for raillery, and to whom a jest on 
 the subject of property had that sort of irrey- 
 erent character that popular opinion and holy 
 sayings have attached to waste. “The 
 cheeses are well enough where they find 
 themselves; if thou dislikest their company 
 thou hast the alternative of the water.” 
 
 ‘«¢ A truce between us, worshipful burgher! 
 and let our skirmish end in something that 
 may be useful to both. Thou hast that 
 which would be acceptable to me, and I have 
 that which no owner of cheeses would refuse, 
 did he know the means by which it might be 
 come at honestly.” 
 
 Nicklaus growled a few words of distrust 
 and indifference, but it was plain that the 
 ambiguous language of the juggler, as usual, 
 had succeeded in awakening interest. With 
 the affectation of a mind secretly conscious 
 of its own infirmity, he pretended to be indif- 
 ferent to what the other professed a readiness 
 to reveal, while with the rapacity of a grasp- 
 ing spirit he betrayed a longing to know 
 more. 
 
 ‘¢ Birst I will tell thee,” said Pippo, witha 
 
28 
 
 parade of good nature, ‘‘ that thou deservest 
 to remain in ignorance, as a punishment of 
 thy pride and want of faith ; but it is the 
 failing of your prophet to let that be known 
 which he ought to conceal. Thou flatterest 
 thyself this is the fattest cargo of cheeses 
 that will cross the Swiss waters this season, 
 on their way to an Italian market? Shake 
 not thy head. *Tis useless to deny it to a 
 man of my learning !” 
 
 “Nay, I know there are others as heavy, 
 and, it may be, as good ; but this has the ad- 
 vantage of being the first, a circumstance 
 that is certain to command a price.” 
 
 ‘Such is the blindness of one that nature 
 sent on earth to deal in cheeses!” The Herr 
 von Willading and his friends smiled among 
 themselves at the cool impudence of the 
 mountebank—‘‘ Thou fanciest it is so; and 
 at this moment a heavily laden bark is driven 
 before a favorable gale, near the upper end 
 of the lake of the four cantons, while a long 
 line of mules is waiting at Fliiellen to bear 
 its freight by the paths of the St. Gothard to 
 Milano, and other rich markets of the south. 
 In virtue of my secret power, I see that, in 
 despite of all thy cravings, it will arrive be- 
 fore thine.” 
 
 Nicklaus fidgeted, for the graphic particu- 
 larity of Pippo almost led him to believe the 
 augury might be true. 
 
 “‘Had this bark sailed according to our 
 ‘ covenant,” he said, with a simplicity that 
 betrayed his uneasiness, ‘‘ the beasts bespoken 
 by me would now be loading at Villeneuve ; 
 and, if there be justice in Vaud, I shall hold 
 Baptiste responsible for any disadvantage 
 that may come of the neglect.” 
 
 “ Luckily, the generous Baptiste is asleep,” 
 returned Pippo, ‘‘or we might hear objec- 
 tions to this scheme. But, signori, I see you 
 are satisfied with this insight into the char- 
 acter of the warm peasant of Berne, who, to 
 say truth, has not much to conceal from us, 
 and I will turn my searching looks into the 
 soul of this pious pilgrim, the reverend Con- 
 rado, whose unction may well go near to bea 
 leaven sufficient to lighten all in the bark of 
 their burdens of backslidings. Thou carriest 
 the penitence and prayers of many sinners, 
 besides some merchandise of this nature of 
 thine own.” 
 
 ‘‘T am bound to Loretto, with the mental 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 offerings of certain Christians, who are too 
 much occupied with their daily concerns to 
 make the journey in person,” answered the 
 pilgrim, who never absolutely threw aside his 
 professional character, though he cared in 
 general so little about his hypocrisy being 
 known. ‘‘I am poor and humble of appear- 
 ance, but I have seen miracles in my day! ” 
 
 “Jf any trust valuable offerings to thy 
 keeping thou art a living miracle in thine 
 own person! I can foresee that thou wilt 
 bear naught else beside aves.” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, I pretend to deal in little more. 
 The rich and great, they that send vessels of 
 gold and rich dresses to Our Lady, employ 
 their own favorite messengers; I am but the 
 bearer of prayer and the substitute for the 
 penitent. The sufferings that I undergo in 
 the flesh are passed to the credit of my em- 
 ployers, who get the benefit of my aches and 
 pains. I pretend to be no more than their 
 go-between, as yonder mariner has so lately 
 called me.” 
 
 Pippo turned suddenly, following the direc- 
 tion of the other’s eye, and cast a glance at 
 the self-styled I] Maledetto. This individual, 
 of all the common herd, had alone forborne 
 to join the gaping and amused crowd near the 
 juggler. His forbearance or want of curios- 
 ity, had left him in the quiet possession of 
 the little platform that was made by the 
 stowage of the boxes, and he now stood on 
 the summit of the pile, conspicuous by his 
 situation and mien, the latter being remark- 
 able for its unmoved calmness, heightened by 
 the understanding manner that is so peculiar 
 to a seaman when afloat. 
 
 ‘* Wilt thou have the history of thy coming 
 perils, friend mariner?” cried the mercurial 
 mountebank; “a journal of thy future risks 
 and tempests to amuse you in this. calm ? 
 Such a picture of sea-monsters and of coral 
 that grows in the ocean’s caverns, where 
 mariners sleep, that shall give thee the night- 
 mare for months, and cause thee to dream of 
 wrecks and bleached bones for the rest of thy 
 life? Thou hast only to wish it, to have the 
 adventures of thy next voyage laid before 
 thee, like a map.” 
 
 “Thou wouldst gain more credit with me, 
 as one cunning in thy art, by giving the his- 
 tory of the last.” 
 
 “The request is reasonable, and thou shalt 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 have it; for I love the bold adventurer that 
 trusts himself hardily upon the great deep,” 
 answered the unabashed Pippo. ‘ My first 
 Jessons in necromancy were received on the 
 mole of Napoli, amid burly Inglesi, straight- 
 nosed Greeks, swarthy Sicilians, and Maltese 
 with spirits as fine as the gold of their own 
 chains. This was the school in which I 
 learned to know my art, and an apt scholar 
 I proved in all that touches the philosophy 
 and humanity of my craft. Signor, your 
 palm ?” 
 
 Maso spread his sinewy hand in the direc- 
 tion of the juggler, without descending from 
 his elevation, and in a way to show that, 
 while he would not balk the common humor, 
 he was superior to the gaping wonder and 
 childish credulity of most of those who 
 watched the result. Pippo affected to stretch 
 out his neck, in order to study the hard and 
 dark lines, and then he resumed his revela- 
 tions, like one perfectly satisfied with what 
 he had discovered. 
 
 «The hand is masculine, and has been 
 familiar with many friends in time. It hath 
 dealt with steel, and cordage, and saltpetre, 
 and most of all with gold. Signori, the true 
 seat of a man’s digestion lies in the palm of 
 his hand; if that is free to give and to re- 
 ceive, he will never have a costive conscience, 
 for of all damnable inconveniences that afflict 
 mortals, that of a conscience that will neither 
 give up nor take is the heaviest curse. Let 
 a man have as much sagacity as shall make 
 him a cardinal, if it get entangled in the 
 meshes of one of your unyielding consciences, 
 ye shall see him a mendicant brother to his 
 dying day; let him be born a prince, with a 
 close-ribbed opinion of this sort, and he had 
 better have been born a beggar, for his reign 
 will be like a river from which the current 
 sets outward, without any return. No, my 
 friends, a palm like this of Maso’s is a favor- 
 able sign, since it hinges on a pliant will, that 
 will open and shut like a well-formed eye, or 
 the jacket of a shell-fish, as its owner’s pleas- 
 ure. Thou hast drawn near to many ports 
 before this of Vévey, after the sun has fallen 
 low, Signor Maso!” 
 
 “In that I have taken a seaman’s chances, 
 which depend more on the winds than on his 
 qwn wishes.” 
 
 «<Thou esteemest the bottom of the craft 
 
 29 
 
 in which thou art required to set sail as far 
 
 more important than her ancient. Thou hast 
 an eye for a keel, but none for color ; unless, 
 indeed, as it may happen to be convenient to 
 seem that thou art not.” 
 
 ‘«‘ Nay, Master Soothsayer, I suspect thee 
 to be an officer of some of the Holy Brother- 
 hoods, sent in this guise to question us poor 
 travellers to our ruin !” answered Maso. “I 
 am, what thou seest, but a poor mariner that 
 hath no better bark under him than this of 
 Baptiste, and on a sea no larger than a Swiss 
 lake.” 
 
 «“ Shrewdly observed,” said Pippo, winking 
 to those near him, though he so little liked 
 the eye and bearing of the other that he ‘was 
 not sorry to turn to some new subject. “ But 
 what matters it, signori, to be speaking of 
 the qualities of men! We are alike honora- 
 ble, merciful, more disposed to help others 
 than to help ourselves, and so little given to 
 selfishness that nature has been obliged to 
 supply every mother’s son of us with a sort 
 of goad, that shall be constantly pricking us 
 on to look after our own interests. Here are 
 animals whose dispositions are less under- 
 stood, and we will bestow a useful minute in 
 examining their qualities. Reverend Augus- 
 tine, this mastiff of thine is named Uberto?” 
 
 «He is known by that appellation through- 
 out the cantons and their allies. The fame 
 of the dog reaches even to Turin, and to 
 most of the towns in the plain of Lombardy.” 
 
 ‘Now, signori, you perceive that this is 
 but a secondary creature in the scale of ani- 
 mals. Do him good, and he will be grateful; 
 do him harm, and he will forgive. Feed 
 him, and he is satisfied. He will travel the 
 paths of the St. Bernard night and day to do 
 credit to his training, and when the toil is 
 ended, all he asks is just as much meat as 
 will keep the breath within his ribs. Had 
 Heaven given Uberto a conscience and 
 greater wit, the first might have shown him 
 the impiety of working for travellers on holy 
 days and festas, while the latter would be 
 apt to say he was a fool for troubling him- 
 self about the safety of others at all.” 
 
 «And yet his masters, the good Augus- 
 tines themselves, do not hold so selfish a 
 creed!” observed Adelheid. 
 
 «¢ Ah! they have heaven in view! I cry 
 the reverend Augustine’s pardon—but, lady, 
 
30 
 
 the difference is in the length of the calcula- 
 tion. Woe’s me, brethren; I would that my 
 parents had educated me for a bishop, or a 
 viceroy, or some other modest employment, 
 that this learned craft of mine might have 
 fallen into better hands! Ye would lose in 
 instruction, but I should be removed from 
 the giddy heights of ambition, and die at 
 last with some hopes of being a saint. Fair 
 lady, thou travellest on a bootless errand, if 
 I know the reason that tempts thee to cross 
 the Alps at this late season of the year.” 
 
 This sudden address caused both Adelheid 
 and her father to start, for, in despite of 
 pride and the force of reason, it is seldom 
 that we can completely redeem our opinions 
 from the shackles of superstition, and that 
 dread of the unseen futyre which appears to 
 have been entailed upon our nature, as a 
 ceaseless monitor of the eternal state of be- 
 ing to which all are hastening, with steps so 
 noiseless and yet so sure. The countenance 
 of the maiden changed, and she turned a 
 quick, involuntary glance at her anxious 
 parent, as if to note the effect of this rude 
 announcement on him before she answered. 
 
 “IT go in quest of the blessing health,” 
 she said, ‘‘and I should be sorry to think 
 thy prognostic likely to be realized. With 
 youth, a good constitution, and tender 
 friends on my side, there is reason to think 
 thou mayest, in this at least, prove a false 
 prophet.” 
 
 “‘Lady, hast thou hope?” 
 
 Pippo ventured this question as he had ad- 
 ventured his opinion; that is to say, reck- 
 lessly, pretendingly, and with great indiffer- 
 ence to any effect it might have, except as it 
 was likely to establish his reputation with 
 the crowd. Still, it would seem that, by one 
 of those singular coincidences that are hourly 
 occurring in real life, he had unwittingly 
 touched a sensitive chord in the system of 
 his fair fellow-traveller. Her eyes sank to 
 the deck at this abrupt question, the color 
 again stole to her polished temples, and the 
 least practised in the emotions of the sex 
 might have detected painful embarrassment 
 in her mien. She was, however, spared the 
 awkwardness of a reply, by the unexpected 
 and prompt interference of Maso. 
 
 ‘* Hope is the last of our friends to prove 
 recreant,” said this mariner, ‘‘else would the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 cases .of many in company be bad enough, 
 thine own included, Pippo; for, judging by 
 the outward signs, the Swabian campaign has 
 not been rich in spoils.” 
 
 ‘« Providence has ordered the harvest of wit 
 much as it has ordered the harvests of the 
 field,” returned the juggler, who felt the sar- 
 casm of the other’s remark with all the poig- 
 nancy that it could derive from truth; since, 
 to expose his real situation, he was absolutely 
 indebted to an extraordinary access of gen- 
 erosity in Baptiste for his very passage across 
 the Leman. ‘‘ One year, thou shalt find the 
 vineyard dripping liquors precious as dia- 
 monds, while in the next barrenness shall 
 make it its seat. To-day the peasant will 
 complain that poverty prevents him from 
 building the covering necessary to house his 
 crops, while to-morrow he will be heard 
 groaning over empty garners. Abundance 
 and famine travel the earth hard upon each 
 other’s heels, and it is not surprising that he 
 who lives by his wits should sometimes fail of 
 his harvest, as well as he who lives by his 
 hands.” 
 
 ‘‘Tf constant custom can secure success, 
 the pious Conrad should be prosperous,” an- 
 swered Maso, ‘‘ for, of all machinery, that of 
 sin is the least seldom idle. His trade at 
 least can never fail for want of employers.” 
 
 «Thou hast it, Signor Maso; and it is for 
 this especial reason that I wish my parents 
 had educated me for a bishopric. He that 
 is charged with reproving his fellow-crea- 
 tures for their vices need never know an 
 idle hour.” 
 
 “Thou dost not understand what thou 
 sayest,” put in Conrad; “love for the saints 
 has much fallen away since my youth, and 
 
 where there is one Christian ready now to 
 
 bestow his silver, in order to get the blessing 
 of some favorite shrine, there were then ten. 
 I have heard the elders of us pilgrims say 
 that fifty years since *twas a pleasure to bear 
 the sins of a whole parish, for ours is a busi- 
 ness in which the load does not so much de- 
 pend on the amount as the quality; and in 
 their time there were willing offerings, frank 
 confessions, and generous consideration for 
 those who undertook the toil.” 
 
 ‘‘In such a trade, the less thou hast to 
 answer for in behalf of others, the more will 
 pass to thy credit on the score of thine own 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 backslidings,” pithily remarked Nicklaus 
 Wagner, who was a sturdy Protestant, and 
 apt enough at levelling these side-hits at 
 those who professed a faith obnoxious to the 
 attacks of all who dissented from the opin- 
 jons and the spiritual domination of Rome. 
 But Conrad was a rare specimen of what 
 may be effected by training and well-rooted 
 prejudices. In presenting this man to the 
 mind of the reader, we have no intention to 
 impugn the doctrines of the particular church 
 to which he belonged, but simply to show, 
 as the truth will fully warrant, to what a pass 
 of flagrant and impudent pretension the 
 qualities of man, unbridled by the wholesome 
 corrective of a sound and healthful opinion, 
 were capable of conducting abuses on the 
 most solemn and gravest subjects. In that 
 age usages prevailed, and were so familiar to 
 the minds of the actors as to excite neither 
 reflection nor comment, which would now 
 lead to revolutions, and a general rising in 
 defence of principles which are held to be 
 clear as the air we breathe. Though we en- 
 tertain no doubt of the existence of that 
 truth which pervades the universe, and to 
 which all things tend, we think the world, in 
 its practices, its theories, and its conventional 
 _ standards of right and wrong, is in a condi- 
 tion of constant change, which it should be 
 the business of the wise and good to favor, so 
 long as care is had that the advantage is not 
 bought by reaction of evil that shall more 
 than prove its counterpoise. Conrad was one 
 of the lowest class of those fungi that grow out 
 of.the decayed parts of the moral, as their 
 more material types prove the rottenness of 
 the vegetable world; and the probability of 
 the truth of the portraiture is not to be loosely 
 denied, without mature reflection on the 
 ‘similar anomalies that are yet to be found on 
 every side of us, or without studying the 
 history of the abuses which then disgraced 
 Christianity, and which, in truth, became so 
 intolerable in their character, and so hideous 
 in their features, as to be the chief influ- 
 
 - encing cause to bring about their own an- 
 
 nihilation. 
 
 Pippo, who had that useful tact which en- 
 ables a man to measure his own estimation 
 with others, was not slow to perceive that the 
 more enlightened part of his audience began 
 to tire of this pretending buffoonery. Resort- 
 
 31 
 
 ing to a happy subterfuge, by means of one of 
 his sleight-of-hand expedients, he succeeded 
 in transferring the whole of that portion of 
 the spectators who still found amusement in 
 his jugglery to the other end of the vessel, 
 where they established themselves among the 
 anchors, ready as ever to swallow an ailment 
 that seems to find an inextinguishable ap- 
 petite for its reception among the vulgar. 
 Here he continued his exhibition, now moral- 
 izing in the quaint and often in the pithy 
 manner which renders the southern buffoon 
 so much superior to his duller competitor of 
 the north, and uttering a wild jumble of 
 wholesome truths, loose morality, and witty 
 inuendoes, the latter of which never failed to 
 extort roars of laughter from all but those 
 who happened to be their luckless subjects. 
 
 Once or twice Baptiste raised his head, and 
 stared about him with drowsy eyes, but, sat- 
 isfied there was nothing to be done in the way 
 of forcing the vessel ahead, he resumed his nap, 
 without interfering in the pastime of those 
 whom he had hitherto seemed to take pleasure 
 in annoying. Left entirely to themselves, 
 therefore, the crowd on the forecastle repre- 
 sented one of those every-day but profitable 
 pictures of life which abound under our eyes, 
 but which, though they are pregnant with 
 instruction, are treated with the indifference 
 that would seem to be the inevitable conse- 
 quence of familiarity. 
 
 The crowded and overloaded bark might 
 have been compared to the vessel of human 
 life, which floats at all times, subject to the 
 thousand accidents of a delicate and compli- 
 cated machinery, the lake so smooth and 
 alluring in its present tranquillity, but so 
 capable of clashing its iron-bound coasts with 
 fury, to a treacherous world, whose smile is 
 almost always as dangerous as its frown; and, 
 to complete the picture, the idle, laughing, 
 thoughtless, and yet inflammable group that 
 surrounded the buffoon, to the unaccount- 
 able medley of human sympathies, of sudden 
 and fierce passions, of fun and frolic, so in- 
 explicably mingled with the grossest egotism 
 that enters into the heart of man: in a word, 
 to so much that is beautiful and divine, with 
 so much that would seem to be derived di- 
 rectly from the demons, a compound which 
 composes this mysterious and dread state of 
 being, and which we are taught, by reason 
 
3x 
 
 and revelation, is only a preparation for 
 another still more incomprehensible and 
 wonderful. 
 
 LH fag A chin ha 
 *« How like a fawning publican he looks !”—Shylock. 
 
 THE change of the juggler’s scene of ac- 
 tion left the party in the stern of the barge 
 in quiet possession of their portion of the 
 vessel, Baptiste and his boatmen still slept 
 among the boxes; Maso continued to pace 
 his elevated platform above their heads ; and 
 the meek-looking stranger, whose entrance 
 into the barge had drawn so many witticisms 
 from Pippo, sat alittle apart, silent, furtively 
 observant, and retiring, in the identical spot 
 he had occupied throughout the day. With 
 these exceptions, the whole of the rest of 
 the travellers were crowding around the per- 
 person of the mountebank. Perhaps, we have 
 not done well, however, in classing either of 
 the two just named with the more common 
 herd, for there were strong points of difference 
 to distinguish both from most of their com- 
 panions. 
 
 The exterior and the personal appointments 
 of the unknown traveller, who had shrunk 
 so sensitively before the hits of the Neapoli- 
 tan, were greatly superior to those of any 
 other in the bark beneath the degree of the 
 gentle, not even excepting those of the warm 
 peasant Nicklaus Wagner, the owner of so 
 large a portion of the freight. There was a 
 decency of air that commanded more respect 
 than it was then usual to yield to the nameless, 
 a quietness of demeanor that denoted reflec- 
 tion, and the habit of self-study and self-cor- 
 rection, together with a deference to others 
 that was well adapted to gain friends. In 
 the midst of the noisy, clamorous merriment 
 of all around him, his restrained and rebuked 
 manner had won upon the favor of the more 
 privileged who had unavoidably noticed the 
 difference, and had prepared the way to a 
 more frank communication between the party 
 of the noble, and one who, if not their equal in 
 the usual points of worldly distinction, was 
 sreatly superior to those among whom he had 
 been accidentally cast by the chances of his 
 journey. Notso with Maso ; he, apparently, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 had little in common with the unobtruding 
 and silent being that sat so near his path, in 
 the short turns he was making to and fro 
 across the pile of freight. The mariner was 
 much the younger, his years scarcely reach- 
 ing thirty, while the head of the unknown 
 traveller was already beginning to be sprinkled 
 with gray. ‘The walk, attitudes, and gestures 
 of the former, were also those of a man con- 
 fident of himself, a little addicted to be in- 
 different to others, and far more disposed to 
 lead than to follow. These are qualities that 
 it may be thought his present situation was 
 scarcely suited to discover, but they had been 
 made sufficiently apparent by the cool, calcu- 
 lating looks he threw, from time to time, at 
 the manoeuvres commanded by Baptiste, the 
 expressive sneer with which he criticized his 
 decisions, and a few biting remarks which had 
 escaped him in the course of the day, and 
 which had conveyed anything but compli-. 
 ments to the nautical skill of the patron and 
 his fresh-water followers. Still there were 
 signs of better stuff in this suspicious-looking 
 person than are usually seen about men whose 
 attire, pursuits, and situation, are so indica- 
 tive of the world’s pressing hard upon their 
 principles, as happened to be the fact with 
 this poor and unknown seaman. Though ill 
 clad, and wearing about him the general 
 tokens of a vagrant life, and that close con- 
 nection with society that is usually taken as 
 sufficient evidence of one’s demerits, bis 
 countenance occasionally denoted thought, 
 and, during the day, his eye had frequently 
 wandered toward the group of his more in- 
 telligent fellow passengers, as if he found 
 subjects of greater interest in their discourse, 
 than in the rude pleasantries and. practical 
 jokes of those nearer his person. ; 
 The high bred are always courteous, except 
 in cases in which presumption repels civility ; 
 for they who are accustomed to the privileges 
 of station, think far less of their immunities 
 than they, who, by being excluded from the 
 fancied advantages, are apt to exaggerate a 
 superiority that a short experience would show 
 becomes of very questionable value in the 
 possession. Without the equitable provision 
 of Providence, the laws of civilized society 
 would become truly intolerable, for, if peace 
 of mind, pleasure, and what is usually termed 
 happiness, were the exclusive enjoyment of 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 33 
 
 those who are rich and honored, there would, 
 indeed, be so crying an injustice in their 
 present ordinances as could not long with- 
 stand the united assaults of reason and justice. 
 But, happily for the relief of the less gifted 
 and the peace of the world, the fact is very 
 different. Wealth has its peculiar woes ; hon- 
 ors and privileges pall in the use; and, per- 
 haps, as a rule, there is less of that regulated 
 contentment, which forms the nearest ap- 
 proach to the condition of the blessed of 
 which this unquiet state of being is suscep- 
 tible, among those who are usually the most 
 enyied by their fellow creatures, than in any 
 other of the numerous gradations into which 
 the social scale has been divided. He who 
 reads our present legend with the eyes that 
 we could wish, will find in its moral the 
 illustration of this truth ; for, if it is our 
 intention to delineate some of the wrongs 
 that spring from the abuses of the privileged 
 and powerful, we hope equally to show how 
 completely they fall short of their object, by 
 failing to confer that exclusive happiness 
 which is the goal that all struggle to attain. 
 
 Neither the Baron de Willading, nor his 
 noble friend, the Genoese, though educated 
 in the opinions of their caste, and necessarily 
 under the influence of the prejudices of the 
 age, was addicted to the insolence of vulgar 
 pride. Their habits had revolted at the coarse- 
 ness of the majority of the travellers, and 
 they were glad to be rid of them by the ex- 
 pedient of Pippo; but no sooner did the 
 modest, decent air of the stranger who re- 
 mained, make itself apparent, than they felt 
 a desire to compensate him for the privations 
 he had already undergone, bygshowing the 
 civilities that their own rank rendered so easy 
 and usually so grateful. With this view, 
 then, as soon as the noisy ¢rowpe had de- 
 parted, the Signor Grimaldi raised his beaver 
 
 ‘with that discreet and imposing politeness 
 
 which equally attracts and repels, and ad- 
 
 - dressing the solitary stranger, he invited him 
 
 to descend, and stretch his legs on the part 
 of the deck which had hitherto been con- 
 sidered exclusively devoted to the use of his 
 own party. The other started, reddened, and 
 looked like one who doubted whether he had 
 
 heard aright. 
 
 «These noble gentlemen would be glad if 
 you would come down, and take advantage of 
 
 this opportunity to relieve your limbs,” said 
 the young Sigismund, raising his own athletic 
 arm toward the stranger, to offer its assistance 
 in helping him to reach the deck. 
 
 Still the unknown traveller hesitated, in 
 the manner of one who fears he might over- 
 step discretion by obtruding beyond the 
 limits imposed by modesty. He glanced fur-_ 
 tively upward at the place where Maso had 
 posted himself, and muttered something of 
 an intention to profit by its present naked- 
 ness. 
 
 ‘‘Tt has an occupant who does not seem 
 disposed to admit another,” said Sigismund, 
 smiling ; ‘* your mariner hasa self-possession 
 when afloat, that usually gives him the same 
 superiority that the well-armed swasher has 
 among the timid in the street. You would 
 do well, then, to accept the offer of the noble 
 Genoese. ” 
 
 The stranger, who had once or twice been 
 called rather ostentatiously by Baptiste the 
 Herr Miiller, during the day, as if the patron 
 were disposed to let his hearers know that he 
 had those who at least bore creditable names, 
 even among his ordinary passengers, no longer 
 delayed. He came down from his seat, and 
 moved about the deck, in his usual quiet, 
 subdued manner, but in a way to show that 
 he found a very sensible and grateful relief in 
 being permitted to make the change. Sigis- 
 mund was rewarded for this act of good na- 
 ture by a smile from Adelheid, who thought 
 his warm interference in behalf of one, seem- 
 ingly so much his inferior, did no discredit to 
 his rank. It is possible that the youthful 
 soldier had some secret sentiment of the 
 advantage he derived from his kind interest 
 in the stranger, for his brow flushed, and he 
 looked more satisfied with himself, after this 
 little office of humanity had been performed. 
 
 «You are better among us here,” the Baron 
 kindly observed, when the Herr Miller was 
 fairly established in his new situation, “than 
 among the freight of the honest Nicklaus 
 Wagner, who, Heaven help the worthy peas: 
 ant! has loaded us fairly to the water’s edge 
 with the notable industry of his dairy people. 
 I like to witness the prosperity of our burgh- 
 ers, but it would have been better for us trav- 
 ellers, at least, had there been less of the 
 wealth of honest Nicklaus in our company. 
 Are you of Berne, or of Zurich ?” 
 
 BB 
 
34 
 
 ‘¢Of Berne, Herr Baron.” 
 
 “T might have guessed that, by finding 
 you on the Genfer See, instead of on the 
 Wallenstiitter. There are many of the 
 Miillers in the Emmen Thal ?” 
 
 «The Herr is right ; the name is frequent, 
 both in that valley, and in Entlibuch.” 
 
 “It is a frequent appellation among us of 
 the Teutonic stock. I had many Millers in 
 my company, Gaetano, when we lay before 
 Mantua. I remember that two of the brave 
 fellows were buried in the marshes of that 
 low country ; for the fever helped the enemy 
 as much as the sword in the life-wasting 
 campaign of the year we besieged the place.” 
 
 The more observant Italian saw that the 
 stranger was distressed by the personal na- 
 ture of the conversation, and, while he 
 quietly assented to his friend’s remark, he 
 took occasion to give it a new direction. 
 
 ‘‘ You travel, like ourselves, signor, to get 
 a look at these far-famed revels of the Véva- 
 sians ?” 
 
 «That and affairs have brought me into 
 this honorable company,” answered the Herr 
 Miiller, whom no kindness of tone, however, 
 could win from his timid and subdued man- 
 nerof speaking. ‘‘ And thou, father,” turn- 
 ing to the Augustine, “art journeying toward 
 thy mountain residence, after a visit of love 
 to the valleys and their people ?” 
 
 The monk of St. Bernhard assented to the 
 truth of this remark, explaining the manner 
 in which his community were accustomed 
 annually to appeal to the liberality of the 
 generous in Switzerland, in behalf of an in- 
 stitution that was founded in the interest of 
 humanity, without reference to distinction 
 of faith. 
 
 «©°Tis a blessed brotherhood,” answered 
 the Genoese, crossing himself, perhaps as 
 much from habit as from devotion, ‘‘ and the 
 traveller need wish it well. I have never 
 shared your hospitality, but all report speaks 
 fairly of it, and the title of a brother of San 
 Bernardo should prove a passport to the 
 favor of every Christian.” 
 
 «« Signor,” said Maso, stopping suddenly, 
 and taking his part uninvited in the dis- 
 course, and yet in a way to avoid the appear- 
 ance of an impertinent interference, ‘‘ none 
 know this better than I! A wanderer these 
 many years, I have often seen the stony roof 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 of the hospice with as much pleasure as 1 
 have ever beheld the entrance of my haven, 
 when an adverse gale was pressing against 
 my canvas. Honor and arich guéte to the 
 clavier of the convent, therefore, for it is 
 bringing succor to the poor and rest to the 
 weary!” 
 
 As he uttered this opinion, Maso decor- 
 ously raised his cap, and pursued his strait- 
 ened walk with the industry of a caged tiger. 
 It was so unusual for one of his condition to 
 obtrude on the discourse of the fair and 
 noble, that the party exchanged looks of sur- 
 prise; but the Signor Grimaldi, more accus- 
 tomed than most of his friends to the frank 
 deportment and bold speech of mariners, 
 from having dwelt long on the coast of the 
 Mediterranean, felt disposed rather to humor 
 than to repulse this disposition to talk. 
 
 “Thou art a Genoese, by thy dialect,” he 
 said, assuming asa matter of course the right 
 to question one of years so much fewer, and 
 of a condition so much inferior to his own. 
 
 « Signor,” returned Maso, uncovering him- 
 self again, though his manner betrayed pro- 
 found personal respect rather than the defer- 
 ence of the vulgar, ‘‘I was born in the city 
 of palaces, though it was my fortune first to 
 see the light beneath a humble roof. The 
 poorest of us are proud of the splendor of 
 Genova la Superba, even if its glory has come 
 from our own groans.” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi frowned. But 
 ashamed to permit himself to be disturbed 
 by an allusion so vague, and perhaps so un- 
 premeditated, and more especially coming as 
 it did from so insignificant a source, his brow 
 regained its expression of habitual composure. 
 
 An instant of reflection told him it would 
 be in better taste to continue the conversa- 
 tion, than churlishly to cut it short for so 
 light a cause. 
 
 ‘Thou art too young to have had much 
 connection, either in advantage or in suffer- 
 ing,” he rejoined, ‘‘ with the erection of the 
 gorgeous dwellings to which thou alludest.” 
 
 «This is true, signor, except as one is 
 better or worse for those who have gone be- 
 fore him. Iam what I seem, more by the 
 acts of others than by any faults of my own. 
 Ienvy not the rich or great, however ; for 
 one that has seen as much of life as I, knows 
 the difference between the gay colors of the 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 garment, and that of the shrivelled and dis- 
 eased skin it conceals. We make our feluc- 
 cas glittering and fine with paint, when their 
 timbers work the most, and when the treach- 
 _erous planks are ready to let in the sea to 
 drown us.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou hast the philosophy of it, young 
 man, and hast uttered a biting truth, for 
 those who waste their prime in chasing a 
 phantom. Thou hast well bethought thee of 
 these matters, for, if content with thy lot, no 
 palace of our city would make thee happier.” 
 
 << [f, signor, is a meaning word! Content 
 is like the northern star—we seamen steer for 
 it, while none can ever reach it ! ” 
 
 ‘¢Am I then deceived in thee, after all ? 
 Is thy seeming moderation only affected ; 
 and wouldst thou be the patron of the bark 
 in which fortune hath made thee only a pas- 
 senger ?” 
 
 «* And a bad fortune it hath proved,” re- 
 turned Maso, laughing. ‘‘ We appear fated 
 to pass the night in it, for, so far from see- 
 ing any signs of this land-breeze of which 
 Baptiste has so confidently spoken, the air 
 seems to have gone to sleep as well as the 
 crew. Thou art accustomed to this climate, 
 reverend Augustine; is it usual to see so 
 deep a calm on the Leman at this late sea- 
 son 2?” } 
 
 A question like this was well adapted to 
 effect the speaker’s wish to change the dis- 
 course, for it very naturally directed the at- 
 tention of all present from a subject that was 
 rather tolerated from idleness than interest- 
 ing in itself, to the different natural phenom- 
 ena by which they were surrounded. ‘The 
 sunset had now fairly passed, and the travel- 
 lers were at the witching moment that pre- 
 cedes the final disappearance of the day. A 
 calm so deep rested on the limpid lake, that 
 - it was not easy to distinguish the line which 
 separated the two elements, in those places 
 where the blue of the land was confounded 
 with the well-known and peculiar color of the 
 Leman. 
 
 The precise position of the Winkelried was 
 near midway between the shores of Vaud and 
 those of Savoy, though nearer to the first than 
 to the last. Not another sail was visible on 
 the whole of the watery expanse, with the 
 exception of one that hung lazily from its 
 yard, in a small bark that was pulling toward 
 
 35 
 
 St. Gingoulph, bearing Savoyards returning 
 to their homes from the other side of the 
 lake, and which, in that delusive landscape, 
 appeared to the eye to be within a stone’s 
 throw of the base of the mountain, though in 
 truth still a weary row from the land. 
 
 Nature has spread her work on a scale so 
 magnificent in this sublime region that ocular 
 deceptions of this character abound, and it 
 requires time and practice to judge of those 
 measurements which have been rendered fa- 
 miliar in other scenes. In like manner to the 
 bark under the rocks of Savoy, there lay an- 
 other, a heavy-moulded boat, nearly in a line 
 with Villeneuve, which seemed to float in the 
 air instead of its proper element, and whose 
 oars were seen to rise and fall beneath a high 
 mound, that was rendered shapeless by re- 
 fraction. This was a craft bearing hay from 
 the meadows at the mouth of the Rhone to 
 their proprietors in the villages of the Swiss 
 coast. <A few light boats were pulling about 
 in front of the town of Vévey, and a forest of 
 low masts and latine yards, seen in the hun- 
 dred picturesque attitudes peculiar to the rig, 
 crowded the wild anchorage that is termed 
 its port. 
 
 An air-line drawn from St. Saphorin to 
 Meillerie, would have passed between the 
 spars of the Winkelried ; her distance from 
 her haven, consequently, a little exceeded a 
 marine league. This space might readily 
 have been conquered in an hour or two by 
 means of the sweeps, but for the lumbered 
 condition of the decks, which would have 
 rendered their use difficult, and the unusual 
 draught of the bark, which would have 
 caused the exertion to be painful. As it has 
 been seen, Baptiste preferred waiting for the 
 arrival of the night breeze to having recourse 
 to an expedient so toilsome and slow. 
 
 We have already said, that the point just 
 described was at the place where the Leman 
 fairly enters its eastern horn, and where its 
 shores possess their boldest and finest faces. 
 On the side of Savoy, the coast was a sublime 
 wall of rocks, here and there clothed with 
 chestnuts, or indented with ravines and dark 
 glens, and naked and wild along the whole 
 line of their giddy summits. The villages so 
 frequently mentioned, and which have be- 
 come celebrated in these later times by the 
 touch of genius, clung to the uneven declivi- 
 
36 
 
 ties, their lower dwellings laved by the lake, 
 and their upper confounded by the rugged 
 faces of the mountains. Beyond the limits 
 of the Leman, the Alps, shot up in still 
 higher pinnacles, occasionally showing one of 
 those naked excrescences of granite, which 
 rise for a thousand feet above the rest of the 
 range—a trifle in the stupendous scale of the 
 vast piles—and which, in the language of the 
 country, are not inaptly termed Dents, from 
 some fancied and plausible resemblance to 
 human teeth. ‘The verdant meadows of No- 
 ville, Aigle, and Bex, spread for leagues be- 
 tween these snow-capped barriers, so dwin- 
 dled to the eye, however, that the spectator 
 believed that to be a mere bottom, which was, 
 in truth, a broad and fertile plain. Beyond 
 these again, came the celebrated pass of St. 
 Maurice, where the foaming Rhone dashed 
 between two abutments of rock, as if anxious 
 to effect its exit before the superincumbent 
 mountains could come together, and shut it 
 out forever from the inviting basin to which 
 it was hurrying with a never-ceasing din. 
 Behind this gorge, so celebrated as the key 
 of the Valais, and even of the Alps in the 
 time of the conquerors of the world, the 
 background took a character of holy mystery. 
 The shades of evening lay thick in that enor- 
 mous glen, which was sufficiently large to 
 contain a sovereign state, and the dark piles 
 of mountains beyond were seen in a hazy, 
 confused array. The setting was a gray 
 boundary of rocks, on which fleecy clouds 
 rested, as if tired with their long and high 
 flight, and on which the parting day stall 
 lingered soft and lucid. One cone of dazzl- 
 ing white towered over all. It resembled a 
 bright stepping-stone between heaven and 
 earth, the heat of the hot sun falling innocu- 
 ously against its sides, like the cold and pure 
 breast of a virgin repelling those treacherous 
 sentiments which prove the ruin of a shining 
 and glorious innocence. Across the summit 
 of this brilliant and cloudlike peak, which 
 formed the most distant object in the view, 
 ran the imaginary line that divided Italy from 
 the regions of the north. Drawing nearer, 
 and holding its course on the opposite shore, 
 the eye embraced the range of rampart-like 
 rocks that beetle over Villeneuve and Chillon, 
 the latter a snow-white pile that seemed to 
 rest partly on the land and partly on the 
 
 | water. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 On the vast débris of the mountains 
 clustered the hamlets of Clarens, Montreux, 
 Chatelard, and all those other places, since 
 rendered so familiar to the reader of fiction 
 by the vivid pen of Rousseau. Above the | 
 latter village, the whole of the savage and 
 rocky range receded, leaving the lake-shore 
 to vine-clad cétes that stretch away far to the 
 west. 
 
 The scene, at all times alluring and grand, 
 was now beheld under its most favorable 
 auspices. The glare of day had deserted all 
 that belonged to what might be termed the 
 lower world, leaving in its stead the mild 
 hues, the pleasing shadows, and the varying 
 tints of twilight. It is true that a hundred 
 chalets dotted the Alps, or those mountain 
 pasturages which spread themselves a thou- 
 sand fathoms above the Leman, on the founda- 
 tion of rock that lay like a wall behind 
 Montreux, shining still with the brightness 
 of a bland even, but all below was fast 
 catching the more sombre colors of the hour. 
 
 Ags the transition from day to night grew 
 more palpable, the hamlets of Savoy became 
 gray and hazy, the shades thickened around 
 the bases of the mountains in a manner to 
 render their forms indistinct and massive, 
 and the milder glory of the scene was trans- 
 ferred to their summits. Seen by sunlight, 
 these noble heights appeared a long range 
 of naked granite, piled on a foundation of 
 chesnut-covered hills, and buttressed by a 
 few such salient spurs as are perhaps neces- 
 sary to give variety and agreeable shadows 
 to their acclivities. Their outlines were now 
 drawn in those waving lines that the pencil 
 of Raphael would have loved to sketch, dark, 
 distinct, and appearing to be carved by art. 
 The inflected and capricious edges of the 
 rocks stood out in high relief against the 
 background of pearly sky, resembling so 
 much ebony wrought into every fantastic 
 curvature that a wild and vivid fancy could 
 conceive. Of all the wonderful and impos- 
 ing sights of this extraordinary region, there 
 is perhaps none in which there is so ex- 
 quisite an admixture of the noble, the beau- 
 tiful, and bewitching, as in this view of 
 these natural arabesques of Savoy, seen at 
 the solemn hour of twilight. 
 
 The Baron de Willading and his friends 
 stood uncovered, in reverence of the sublime 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 picture, which couid only come from the 
 hands of the Creator, and with unalloyed 
 enjoyment of the bland tranquillity of the 
 hour. Exclamations of pleasure had escaped 
 them, as the exhibition advanced ; for the 
 view, like the shifting of scenes, was in a 
 constant state of transition under the waning 
 and changing light, and each had eagerly 
 pointed out to the others some peculiar 
 charm of the view. The sight was, in sooth, 
 of a nature to preclude selfishness, no one 
 catching a glimpse that he did not wish to 
 be shared by all. Vévey, their journey, the 
 fleeting minutes, and their disappointment, 
 were all forgotten in the delight of witness- 
 ing this evening landscape, and the silence 
 was broken only to express those feelings of 
 delight which had long been uppermost in 
 every bosom. 
 
 «“T doff my beaver to thy Switzerland, 
 friend Melchior,” cried the Signor Grimaldi, 
 after directing the attention of Adelheid to 
 one of the peaks of Savoy, of which he had 
 just remarked that it seemed a spot where 
 an angel might love to light in his visits to 
 the earth; ‘‘if thou hast much of this, we 
 of Italy must look to it, or—by the shades 
 of our fathers! we shall lose our reputation 
 for natural beauty. How is it, young lady ; 
 hast thou many of these sunsets at Willad- 
 ing ? or is this, after all, but an exception 
 to what thou seest in common—as much a 
 matter of astonishment to thyself, as—by 
 ‘San Francesco! good Marcellio, we must 
 even own, it is to thee and to me.” 
 
 Adelheid laughed at the old noble’s good- 
 humored rhapsody, but, much as she loved 
 her native land, she could not pervert the 
 truth by pretending that the sight was one 
 to be often met’ with. 
 
 “Tf we have not this, however, we have 
 our glaciers, our lakes, our cottages, our cha- 
 lets, our Oberland, and such glens as have an 
 eternal twilight of their own.” 
 
 “ Ay, my true-hearted and pretty Swiss, 
 this is well for thee who wilt affirm that a 
 drop of thy snow-water is worth a thousand 
 limpid springs, or thou art not the true child 
 of old Melchior de Willading; but it is lost 
 on the cooler head of one who has seen other 
 lands. Father Xavier, thou art a neutral, 
 for thy dwelling is on the dividing ridge be- 
 tween the two countries, and I appeal to thee 
 
 37 
 
 to know if these Helvetians have much of 
 this quality of evening?” 
 
 The worthy monk met the question in the 
 spirit with which it was asked, for the elas- 
 ticity of the air, and the heavenly tranquillity 
 and bewitching loveliness of the hour, well 
 disposed him to be joyous. 
 
 «To maintain my character as an impar- 
 tial judge,” he answered, ‘I will say that 
 each region has its own advantages. If 
 Switzerland is the most wonderful and im- 
 posing, Italy is the most winning. The latter 
 leaves more durable impressions, and is more 
 fondly cherished. One strikes the senses, 
 but the other slowly winds its way into the 
 affections; and he who has freely vented his 
 admiration in exclamations and epithets in 
 one, will, in the end, want language to ex- 
 press all the secret longings, the fond recol- 
 lections, the deep repinings, that he retains 
 for the other.” 
 
 ‘‘ Fairly reasoned, friend Melchior, and 
 like an able umpire leaving to each his share 
 of consolation and vanity. Herr Muller, 
 dost thou agree in a decision that gives thy 
 much yaunted Switzerland so formidable a 
 rival ?” 
 
 “Signor,” answered the meek traveller, 
 “T gee enough to admire and love in both, as 
 is always the fact with that which God hath 
 formed. This is a glorious world for the 
 happy, and most might be so, could they 
 summon courage to be innocent.” 
 
 «The good Augustine will tell thee that 
 this bears hard on certain points of theology, 
 in which our common nature is treated with 
 but indifferent respect. He that would con- 
 tinue innocent must struggle hard with his 
 propensities.” 
 
 The stranger was thoughtful, and Sigis- 
 mund, whose eye had been earnestly riveted 
 on his face, thought that it denoted more ot 
 peace than usual. 
 
 “ Signor,” rejoined the Herr Miller, when 
 time had been given for reflection, ‘‘I be- 
 lieve it is good for us to know unhappiness. 
 He that is permitted too much of his own 
 will gets to be headstrong, and, like the over- 
 fed bullock, difficult to be managed; where- 
 as, he who lives under the displeasure of his 
 fellow-creatures is driven to look closely into 
 himself, and comes at last to chasten his 
 spirit by detecting its faults.” 
 
38 
 
 «Art thou a follower of Calvin?” de- 
 manded the Augustine suddenly, surprised 
 to hear opinions so healthful in the mouth 
 of a dissenter from the true Church. 
 
 “Father, I belong neither to Rome nor to 
 the religion of Geneva. I am an humble 
 worshipper of God, and a believer in the 
 blessed mediation of his holy Son.” 
 
 ‘“How! Where dost thou find such senti- 
 ments out of the pale of the Church ?” 
 
 “In mine own heart. This is my temple, 
 holy Augustine, and I never enter it without 
 adoration for its Almighty founder. A cloud 
 was over the roof of my father, at my birth, 
 and I have not been permitted to mingle 
 much with men; but the solitude of my life 
 has driven me to study my own nature, which 
 I hope has become none the worse for the 
 examination. I know I am an unworthy 
 and sinful man, and I hope others are as 
 much better than I as their opinions of them- 
 selves would give reason to think.” 
 
 The words of the Herr Miiller, which lost 
 none of their weight by his unaffected and 
 quiet manner, excited curiosity. At first, 
 most of the listeners were disposed to believe 
 him one of those exaggerated spirits who ex- 
 alt themselves by a pretended self-abasement, 
 but his natural, quiet, ayd thoughtful de- 
 portment soon produced a more favorable 
 opinion. ‘There was a habit of reflection, a 
 retreating inward look about his eye, that 
 revealed the character of one long and truly 
 accustomed to look more at himself than at 
 others, and which wrought singularly in his 
 behalf. 
 
 ‘“We may not all have these flattering 
 opinions of ourselves that thy words would 
 seem to imply, Signor Miller,” observed the 
 Genoese, his tone changing to one better 
 suited to soothe the feelings of the person 
 addressed, while a shade insensibly stole over 
 his own venerable features ; “ neither are all 
 at peace that soseem. If it will be any con- 
 solation to thee to know that others are prob- 
 ably no more happy than thyself, I will add 
 that I have known much pain, and that, too, 
 amid circumstances which most would deem 
 fortunate, and which, I fear, a great majority 
 of mankind might be disposed to envy.” 
 
 ‘“T should be base indeed to seek consola- 
 tion in such a source! I do not complain, 
 signor, though my whole life has so passed 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 that I can hardly say that I enjoy it. It is 
 not easy to smile when we know that all 
 frown upon us; else could I be content. As 
 it is, I rather feel than repine.” 
 
 ‘This is a most singular condition of the 
 mind,” whispered Adelheid to young Sigis- 
 mund ; for both had been deeply attentive 
 listeners to the calm but strong language of 
 the Herr Miller. The young man did not 
 answer, and his fair companion saw with sur- 
 prise, that he was pale, and with difficulty 
 noticed her remark with a smile. 
 
 “The frowns of men, my son,” observed 
 the monk, ‘‘are usually reserved for those 
 who offend their ordinances. The latter may 
 not be always just, but there is a common 
 sentiment which refuses to visit innocence, 
 even in the narrow sense in which we under- 
 stand the word, with undeserved dis- 
 pleasure.” 
 
 The Herr Miller looked earnestly at the 
 Augustine, and he seemed about to answer ; 
 but, checking the impulse, he bowed in sub- 
 mission. At the same time, a wild, painful 
 smile gleamed on his face. 
 
 “T agree with thee, good canon,” rejoined 
 the simple-minded Baron; ‘‘ we are much 
 addicted to quarreling with the world, but, 
 after all, when we look closely into the matter, 
 it will commonly be found that the cause of 
 our grievance exists in ourselves.” 
 
 ‘‘Is there no Providence, father?” ex- 
 claimed Adelheid, a little reproachfully for 
 one of her respectful habits and great filial 
 tenderness. “ Can we recall the dead to life, 
 or keep those quick whom God is pleased to 
 destroy ?” , 
 
 “Thou hast me, girl!—there is a truth in 
 this that no bereaved parent can deny! ” 
 
 This remark produced an embarrassed 
 pause during which the Herr Miller gazed 
 furtively about him, looking from the face of 
 one to that of another, as if seeking for some 
 countenance on which he could rely. But he 
 turned away to the view of those hills which 
 had been so curiously wrought by the finger 
 of the Almighty, and seemed to lose himself 
 in their contemplation. 
 
 ‘«'This is some spirit that has been bruised 
 by early indiscretion,” said the Signor Gri- 
 maldi, in a low voice, “and whose repentance 
 is strangely mixed with resignation. I know 
 not whether such a man is most to be envied 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 or pitied. There isa fearful mixture of res- 
 ignation and of suffering in his air.” 
 
 “He has not the mien of a stabber or a 
 knave,” answered the Baron. “If he comes 
 truly of the Millers of the Emmen Thal, or 
 even of those of Entelbuch, I should know 
 something of his history. They are warm 
 burghers, and mostly of fair name. It is 
 true, that in my youth one of the family 
 got out of favor with the councils, on account 
 of some concealment of their lawful claims in 
 the way of revenue, but the man made an 
 atonement that was deemed sufficient in 
 amount, and the matter was forgotten. It is 
 not usual, Herr Miller, to meet citizens in 
 our canton who go for neither Rome nor 
 Calvin.” 
 
 ‘Tt is not usual, mein herr, to meet men 
 placed asIam. Neither Rome nor Calvin is 
 sufficient for me ;—I have need of God!” 
 
 “T fear thou hast taken life?” 
 
 The stranger bowed, and his face grew 
 livid, seemingly with the intensity of his own 
 thoughts. Melchior de Willading so disliked 
 the expression, that he turned away his eyes 
 in uneasiness. The other glanced frequently 
 at the forward part of the bark, and he 
 seemed struggling hard to speak, but, for 
 some strong reason, unable to effect his pur- 
 pose. Uncovering himself, at length, he said 
 steadily, as if superior to shame, while he 
 fully felt the import of his communication, 
 but in a voice that was cautiously sup- 
 pressed— 
 
 “TY am Balthazar, of your canton, Herr 
 Baron, and I pray your powerful succor, 
 should those untamed spirits on the forecastle 
 come to discover the truth. My blood hath 
 been made to curdle to-day whilst listening 
 to their heartless threats and terrible maledic- 
 tions. Without this fear, I should have kept 
 my secret,—for, God knows, Iam not proud 
 of my office!” 
 
 The general and sudden surprise, accom- 
 panied as it was by a common movement of 
 aversion, induced the Signor Grimaldi to 
 demand the reason. 
 
 “Thy name is not in much favor appar- 
 ently, Herr Miiller, or Herr Balthazar, which- 
 ever it is thy pleasure to be called,” observed 
 the Genoese, casting a quick glance around 
 the circle. “There is some mystery in it, 
 that to me needs explanation.” 
 
 39 
 
 “Signor, Iam the headsman of Berne.” 
 
 Though long schooled in the polished 
 habits of his high condition, which taught 
 him ordinarily to repress strong emotions, the 
 Signor Grimaldi could not conceal the start 
 which this unexpected announcement pro- 
 duced, for he had not escaped the usual 
 prejudices of men. 
 
 “Truly, we have been fortunate in our 
 associate, Melchior,” he said dryly, turn- 
 ing without ceremony from the man whose 
 modest, quiet mien had lately interested him 
 so much, but whose manner he now took to 
 be assumed,—few pausing to investigate the 
 motives of those who are condemned of 
 opinion :—‘‘ here has been much excellent 
 and useful morality thrown away upon avery 
 unworthy subject! ” 
 
 The Baron received the intelligence of the 
 real name of their travelling companion with 
 less feeling. He had been greatly puzzled 
 to account for the singular language he had 
 heard, and he found relief in so brief a solu- 
 tion of the difficulty. 
 
 “The pretended name, after all, then, is 
 only a cloak to conceal the truth! I know 
 the Miillers of the Emmen Thal so well, that 
 I had great difficulty in fitting the character 
 which the honest man gave of himself fairly 
 upon any one of them all. But it is now 
 clear enough, and doubtless Balthazar has no 
 great reason to be proud of the turn which 
 Fortune has played his family in making 
 them executioners.” 
 
 “Ts the office hereditary ?”? demanded the 
 Genoese quickly. 
 
 ‘‘It is. Thou knowest that we of Berne 
 have great respect for ancient usages. He 
 that is born to the Biirgerschaft will die in 
 the exercise of his rights, and he that is born 
 out of its venerable pale must be satisfied to 
 live out of it, unless he has gold or favor. 
 Our institutions are a hint from nature, 
 which leaves men as they are created, pre- 
 serving the order and harmony of society by 
 venerable and well-defined laws, as is wise 
 and necessary. In nature, he that is born 
 strong remains strong, and he that has little 
 force must be content with his feeble- 
 ness.” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi looked like one who 
 felt contrition. 
 
 “Art thou, in truth, an hereditary execu- 
 
40 
 
 tioner ?” he asked, addressing Balthazar him- 
 self. 
 
 ‘¢Signor, I am; else would hand of mine 
 have never taken life. ’*Tis a hard duty to 
 perform, even under the obligations and 
 penalties of the law;—otherwise, it were 
 accursed! ”’ 
 
 ‘Thy fathers deemed it a privilege!” 
 
 ‘“We suffer for their error; signor, the 
 sins of the fathers, in our case, have indeed 
 been visited on the children to the latest gen- 
 erations.” 
 
 The countenance of the Genoese grew 
 brighter, and his voice resumed the polished 
 tones in which he usually spoke. 
 
 ‘Here has been some injustice of a cer- 
 tainty,” he said, “or one of thy appearance 
 would not be found in this cruel position. 
 Depend on our authority to protect thee, 
 should the danger thou seemest to appre- 
 hend really occur. Still the laws must be 
 respected, though not always of the rigid im- 
 partiality that we might wish. ‘Thou hast 
 owned the imperfection of human nature, 
 and it is not wonderful that its work should 
 have flaws.” 
 
 “T complain not now of the usage, which 
 to me has become habit, but I dread the un- 
 tamed fury of these ignorant and credulous 
 men, who have taken a wild fancy that my 
 presence might bring a curse upon the bark.” 
 
 There are accidental situations which con- 
 tain more healthful morals than can be drawn 
 from a thousand ingenious and plausible 
 homilies, and in which facts, in their naked 
 simplicity, are far more eloquent than any 
 meaning that can be conveyed by words. 
 Such was the case with this meek and unex- 
 pected appeal of Balthazar. All who heard 
 him saw his situation under very different 
 colors from those in which it would have 
 been regarded had the subject presented 
 itself under ordinary circumstances. A com- 
 mon and painful sentiment attested strongly 
 against the oppression that had given birth 
 to his wrongs, and the good Melchior de 
 Willading himself wondered how a case of 
 this striking injustice could have arisen 
 under the laws of Berne. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ‘“Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks, 
 A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon ; 
 Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 
 Tnestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 
 All scattered in the bottom of the sea.” 
 —Richard ITI. 
 
 Tue flitting twilight was now on the wane, 
 and the shades of evening were gathering fast 
 over the deep basin of the lake. The figure 
 of Maso, as he continued to pace his elevated 
 platform, was drawn dark and distinct against 
 the southern sky, in which some of the last 
 rays of the sun still lingered, but objects on 
 both shores were getting to be confounded ~ 
 with the shapeless masses of the mountains. 
 Here and there a pale star peeped out, though 
 most of the vault that stretched across the 
 confined horizon was shut in by dusky clouds. 
 A streak of dull, unnatural light was seen in 
 the quarter which lay above the meadows of 
 the Rhone, and nearly in a direction with 
 the peak of Mont Blanc, which, though not 
 visible from this portion of the Leman, was 
 known to lie behind the ramparts of Savoy, 
 like a monarch of the hills intrenched in his 
 citadel of rocks and ice. 
 
 The change, the lateness of the hour, and 
 the unpleasant reflections left by the short 
 dialogue with Balthazar, produced a strong 
 and common desire to see the end of a navi- 
 gation that was beginning to be irksome. 
 Those objects which had lately yielded so 
 much and so pure a delight were now getting 
 to be black and menacing, and the very sub- 
 limity of the scale on which Nature had here 
 thrown together her elements was an addi- 
 tional source of uncertainty and alarm. Those 
 fairy-like, softly delineated, natural ara- 
 besques, which had so lately been dwelt upon 
 with rapture, were now converted into dreary 
 crags that seemed to beetle above the helpless 
 bark, giving unpleasant admonitions of the 
 savage and inhospitable properties of their 
 iron-bound bases, which were known to prove 
 destructive to all who were cast against them 
 while the elements were in disorder. 
 
 These changes in the character of the scene, 
 which in some respects began to take the 
 aspect of omens, were uneasily witnessed by 
 
 less laughter, the rude joke, and the noisy 
 
 all in the stern of the bark, though the care- _ 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 cries, which from time to time arose on the 
 forecastle, sufficiently showed that the care- 
 less spirits it held were still indulging in the 
 coarse enjoyments most suited to their habits. 
 One individual, however, was seen stealing 
 from the crowd, and establishing himself on 
 the pile of freight, as if he had a mind more 
 addicted to reflection, and less disposed to 
 -unmeaning revelry, than most of those whom 
 he had just abandoned. This was the West- 
 phalian student, who, wearied with amuse- 
 ments that were below the level of his 
 acquirements, and suddenly struck with the 
 imposing aspect of the lake and the moun- 
 tains, had stolen apart to muse on his distant 
 home and the beings most dear to him, under 
 an excitement that suited those morbid sen- 
 sibilities which he had long encouraged by a 
 very subtle metaphysical system of philoso- 
 phy. Until now, Maso had paced his lofty 
 post with his eye fixed chiefly on the heavens 
 in the direction of Mont Blanc, occasionally 
 turning it, however, over the motionless bulk 
 of the bark, but when the student placed 
 himself across his path, he stopped and 
 smiled at the abstracted air and riveted re- 
 gard with which the youth gazed at a star. 
 
 <¢ Art thou an astronomer, that thou look- 
 est so closely at yonder shining world?” de- 
 manded Il Maledetto, with the superiority 
 that the mariner afloat is wont successfully 
 to assume over the unhappy wight of a lands- 
 man, who is very liable to admit his own im- 
 potency on the novel and dangerous element; 
 —<‘‘the astrologer himself would not study it 
 more deeply.” 
 
 <‘ This is the hour agreed upon between me 
 and one that I love, to bring the unseen prin- 
 ciple of our spirits together, by communing 
 through its medium.” 
 
 ‘‘T have heard of such means of inter- 
 course. Dost see more than others by reason 
 of such an assistant ?” 
 
 ““T see the object which is gazed upon, at 
 this moment, by kind blue eyes that have 
 often looked upon me in affection. When we 
 are in a strange land, and in a fearful situa- 
 tion, such a communion has its pleasures! ” 
 
 Maso laid his hand upon the shoulder of 
 the student, which he pressed with the force 
 of a vise. 
 
 «Thou art right,” he said, moodily; “ make 
 the most of thy friendships, and if there are 
 
 4] 
 
 any that love thee, tighten the knot by all 
 the means thou hast. None know the curse 
 of being deserted in this selfish and cruel 
 battle of interest better than I! Be not 
 ashamed of thy star, but gaze at it till thy 
 eye-strings crack. See the bright eyes of her 
 that loves thee in its twinkling, her con- 
 stancy in its lustre, and her melancholy in 
 its sadness ; lose not the happy moments, for 
 there will soon be a dark curtain to shut out 
 its view.” 
 
 The Westphalian was struck with the 
 singular energy as well as with the poetry of 
 the mariner, and he distrusted the obvious 
 allusion to the clouds, which were in fact fast 
 covering the vault above their heads. 
 
 ‘‘Dost thou like the night?” he demanded, 
 turning from his star, in doubt. 
 
 «Tt might be fairer. This isa wild region, 
 and your cold Swiss lakes sometimes become 
 too hot for the stoutest seaman’s heart. Gaze 
 at thy star, young man, while thou mayest, 
 and bethink thee of the maiden thou lovest, 
 and of all her kindness; we are on a crazy 
 water, and pleasant thoughts should not be 
 lightly thrown away.” 
 
 Maso walked away, leaving the student 
 alarmed, uneasy at he knew not what, and 
 
 yet bent with childish eagerness on regarding 
 
 the little luminary that occasionally was still 
 seen wading among volumes of vapor. At 
 this instant a shout of unmeaning, clamorous 
 merriment arose on the forecastle. 
 
 Il Maledetto did not remain any longer on 
 the pile, but abandoning it to the new oc- 
 cupant, he descended among the silent, 
 thoughtful party who were in possession of 
 the cleared space near the stern. It was now 
 so dark that some little attention was neces- 
 sary to distinguish faces, even at trifling dis- 
 tances. But by means of moving among 
 these privileged persons with great coolness 
 and seeming indifference, he soon succeeded 
 in placing himself near the Genoese and the 
 Augustine. 
 
 « Sionor,” he said in Italian, raising his cap 
 to the former with the same marked respect 
 as before, though it was evidently no easy 
 matter to impress him with the deference 
 that the obscure usually feel for the great— 
 «this is likely to prove an unfortunate end 
 to a voyage that began with so fair appear- 
 ances. I could wish that your eccellenza, 
 
42 
 
 with all this noble and fair company, was 
 safely landed in the town of Vévey.” 
 
 ‘‘ Dost thou mean that we have cause to 
 fear more than delay?” 
 
 «‘Signor, the mariner’s life is one of un- 
 equal chances: now he floats in a lazy calm, 
 and presently he is tossed between heaven 
 and earth, in a way to make the stoutest 
 heart sick. My knowledge of these waters is 
 not great, but there are signs making them- 
 selves seen in the sky, here above the peak 
 that lies in the direction of Mont Blanc, that 
 would trouble me, were this our own blue 
 but treacherous Mediterranean.” 
 
 ‘‘ What thinkest thou of this, father; a 
 long residence in the Alps must have given 
 thee some insight into their storms? ” 
 
 The Augustine had been grave and 
 thoughtful from the moment that he ceased 
 to converse with Balthazar. He, too, had 
 been struck with the omens; and long used 
 to study the changes of the weather, in a 
 region where the elements sometimes work 
 their will on a scale commensurate with the 
 grandeur of the mountains, his thoughts had 
 been anxiously recurring to the comforts and 
 security of some of those hospitable roofs in 
 the city to which they were bound, and which 
 were always ready to receive the clavier of 
 St. Bernard, in return for the services and 
 self-denial of his brotherhood. 
 
 ‘With Maso, I could wish we were safely 
 landed,” answered the good canon; <“ the in- 
 tense heat that a day like this creates in our 
 valleys and on the lakes so weakens the sub- 
 strata, or foundations of air, that the cold 
 masses which collect around the glaciers 
 sometimes descend like avalanches from their 
 heights to fill the vacuum. The shock is 
 fearful, even to those who meet it in the 
 glens and among the rocks, but the plunge 
 of such a column of air upon one of the lakes 
 is certain to be terrible.” 
 
 ‘* And thou thinkest there is danger of one 
 of these phenomena at present?” 
 
 “*T know not: but I would we were housed! 
 That unnatural light above, and this deep 
 tranquillity below, which surpasses -an ordi- 
 nary calm, have already driven me to my 
 aves.” 
 
 ‘‘The reverend Augustine speaks like a 
 bookman, and one who has passed his time 
 up in his mountain-convent in study and re- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 flection,” rejoined Maso; ‘‘ whereas, the rea- 
 sons I have to offer savor more of the sea- 
 man’s practice. A calm like this will be 
 followed sooner or later by a commotion in 
 the atmosphere. I like not the absence of 
 the breeze from the land, on which Baptiste 
 counted so surely, and, taking that symptom 
 with the signs of yonder hot sky, I look soon 
 to see this extraordinary quiet displaced by 
 some violent struggle among the winds. 
 Nettuno, too, my faithful dog, has given 
 notice by the manner in which he snuffs the 
 air, that we are not to pass the night in this 
 motionless condition.” 
 
 ‘*T had hoped ere this to be quietly in our 
 haven. What means yonder bright light ? 
 Is it a star in the heavens, or does it merely 
 lie against the side of a huge mountain ?” 
 
 ‘‘There shines old Roger de Blonay!” 
 cried the Baron, heartily, ‘‘ he knows of our 
 being in the bark, and he has fired his 
 beacon that we may steer by its light.” 
 
 The conjecture seemed probable, for while 
 
 the day remained, the castle of Blonay, 
 
 seated on the bosom of the mountain that 
 shelters Vévey to the northeast, had been 
 plainly visible. It had been much admired, 
 a pleasing object in a view that was so richly 
 studded with hamlets and castles, and Adel- 
 heid had pointed it out to Sigismund as the 
 immediate goal of her journey. The lord of 
 Blonay being apprised of the intended visit, 
 nothing was more probable than that he, an 
 old and tried friend of Melchior de Wil- 
 lading’s, should show this sign of impatience; 
 partly in compliment to those whom he ex- 
 pected, and partly as a signal that might be 
 really useful to those who navigated the 
 Leman in a night that threatened so much 
 murky obscurity. 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi rightly deemed the 
 circumstances grave, and, calling to him his 
 friend and Sigismund, he communicated the 
 apprehensions of the monk and Maso. A 
 braver man than Melchoir de Willading did 
 not dwell in all Switzerland, but he did not 
 hear the gloomy predictions of the Genoese 
 without shaking in every limb. 
 
 ‘‘My poor enfeebled Adelheid !” he said, 
 yielding to a father’s tenderness, ‘‘ what will 
 become of this frail plant if exposed to a 
 tempest in an unsheltered bark ?” 
 
 ‘© She will be with her father and with her 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 father’s friend,” answered the maiden her- 
 self; for the narrow limits to which they 
 were necessarily confined, and the sudden 
 burst of feeling in the parent, which had 
 rendered him incautious in pitching his 
 voice, made her the mistress of the cause of 
 alarm. ‘‘I have heard enough of what the 
 good Father Xavier and this mariner have 
 said, to know that we are in a situation 
 that might be better; but am I not with 
 tried friends ? I know already what the Herr 
 Sigismund can do in behalf of my life, and 
 come what may, we have all a beneficent 
 guardian in One, who will not leave any of 
 us to perish without remembering we are 
 his children.” 
 
 «This girl shames us all,” said the Signor 
 Grimaldi; “‘ but it is often thus with these 
 fragile beings, who rise the firmest and 
 noblest in moments when prouder man be- 
 gins to despair. They put their trust in 
 God, who is a prop to sustain even those 
 who are feebler than our gentle Adelheid. 
 But we will not exaggerate the causes of ap- 
 prehension, which, after all, may pass away 
 like many other threatening dangers, and 
 leave us hours of felicitation and laughter 
 in return for a few minutes of fright.” 
 
 «Say, rather of thanksgiving,” observed 
 the clavier, ‘‘ for the aspect of the heavens is 
 getting to be fearfully solemn. Thou, who art 
 a mariner—hast thou nothing to suggest ?” 
 
 “We have the simple expedient of our 
 sweeps, father; but, after neglecting their 
 use so long, it is now too late to have re- 
 course to them. We could not reach Vévey 
 by such means, with this bark loaded to the 
 water’s edge, before the night would change, 
 and the water once fairly in motion, they 
 could not be used at all. 
 
 ‘‘But we have our sails,” put in the 
 Genoese, “they at least may do us good 
 service when the wind shall come.” 
 
 Maso shook his head, but he made no 
 answer. After a brief pause, in which he 
 seemed to study the heavens still more 
 closely, he went to the spot where the patron 
 yet lay lost in sleep, and shook him rudely. 
 “Ho! Baptiste! awake! there is need here 
 of thy counsel and of thy commands.” 
 
 The drowsy owner of the bark rubbed his 
 eyes, and slowly regained the use of his 
 faculties. 
 
 43 
 
 ‘There is not a breath of wind,” he mut- 
 tered ; “‘ why didst awake me, Maso? One 
 that hath led thy life should know that 
 sleep is sweet to those who toil.”’ 
 
 ‘< Aye, ’tis their advantage over the pam- 
 pered and idle. Look at the heavens, man, 
 and let us know what thou thinkest of 
 their appearance. Is there the stuff in thy 
 Winkelried to ride out the storm like this 
 we may have to encounter ?” 
 
 ‘‘Thou talkest like a foolish quean that 
 has been frightened by the fluttering of her 
 own poultry. ‘The lake was never more 
 calm, or the bark in greater safety.” 
 
 ‘©Dost see yonder bright light ; here, over 
 the tower of thy Vévay church ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Aye, *tisa gallant star! and a fair sign 
 for the mariner.” ; 
 
 ‘« Fool, ’tis a hot flame in Roger de Blonay’s 
 beacon. They begin to see that we are in 
 danger on the shore, and they cast out their 
 signals to give us notice to be active. They 
 think us bestirring ourselves like stout men, 
 and those used to the water, while, in truth, 
 we are as undisturbed as if the bark were a 
 rock that might laugh at the Leman and its 
 waves. The man is benumbed,” continued 
 Maso, turning away toward the anxious lis- 
 teners; “he will not see that which is get- 
 ting to be but too plain to all the others in 
 his vessel.” 
 
 Another idle and general laugh from the 
 forecastle came to contradict this opinion of 
 Maso’s, and to prove how easy it is for the 
 ignorant to exist in security, even on the 
 brink of destruction. This was the moment 
 when nature gave the first of those signals 
 that were intelligent to vulgar capacities. 
 The whole vault of the heavens was now 
 veiled, with the exception of the spot so 
 often named, which lay nearly above the 
 brawling torrents of the Rhone. This fiery | 
 opening resembled a window admitting of 
 fearful glimpses into the dreadful prepara- 
 tions that were making up among the higher 
 peaks of the Alps. A flash of red, quivering 
 light was emitted, and a distant rumbling rush, 
 that was not thunder, but rather resembled 
 the wheelings of a thousand squadrons into 
 line, followed the flash. The forecastle was 
 deserted to a man, and the hillock of freight 
 was again darkly seen peopled with crouch- 
 ing human forms. Just then the bark, 
 
44 
 
 which had so long lain in a state of complete 
 rest, slowly and heavily raised its bows, as 
 if laboring under its great and unusual bur- 
 den, while a sluggish swell passed beneath its 
 entire length, lifting the whole mass, foot 
 by foot, and passing away by the stern, to 
 cast itself on the shores of Vaud. 
 
 <“?Tig madness to waste the precious mo- 
 ments longer!” said Maso, hurriedly, on 
 whom this plain and intelligible hint was not 
 lost. ‘Signor, we must be bold and prompt, 
 or we shall be overtaken by the tempest un- 
 prepared. I speak not for myself, since, by 
 the aid of this faithful dog, and favored by 
 my own arms, I have always the shore for a 
 hope. But there is one in the bark I would 
 wish to save, even at some hazard to myself. 
 Baptiste is unnerved by fear, and we must 
 act for ourselves or perish !” 
 
 ‘What wouldest thou?” demanded the 
 Signor Grimaldi, “he that can proclaim the 
 danger should have some expedient to divert 
 ie ed 
 
 ‘‘ More timely exertion would have given 
 us the resource of ordinary means, but, like 
 those who die in their sins, we have foolishly 
 wasted most precious minutes. We must 
 lighten the bark, though it cost the whole of 
 her freight.” 
 
 A cry from Nicklaus Wagner announced 
 that the spirit of avarice was still active as 
 ever in his bosom! Even Baptiste, who had 
 lost all his dogmatism and his disposition to 
 command, under the imposing omens which 
 had now made themselves apparent even to 
 him, loudly joined in the protest against this 
 waste of property. Itis rare that any sud- 
 den and extreme proposal, like this of Maso’s, 
 meets with a quick echo in the judgments of 
 those to whom the necessity is unexpectedly 
 present. The danger did not seem suffi- 
 ciently imminent to have recourse to an ex- 
 pedient so decided ; and, though startled and 
 aroused, the untamed spirits of those who 
 crowded the menaced pile, were rather in a 
 state of uneasiness, than of that fierce excite- 
 ment to which they were so capable of being 
 wrought, and which was in some degree nec- 
 essary to induce even them, thriftless and 
 destitute as they were, to be the agents of 
 effecting so great a destruction of property. 
 The project of the cool and calculating Maso 
 would therefore have failed entirely, but for 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 | 
 I 
 
 another wheeling of those airy squadrons, | 
 
 and a second wave which lifted the groaning | 
 bark until the loosened yards swung creaking © 
 The canvas flapped, too, © 
 
 above their heads. 
 in the darkness, like some huge bird of prey 
 fluttering its feathers previously to taking 
 wing. 
 
 ‘Holy and just Ruler of the land and the 
 sea!’ exclaimed the Augustine, ‘‘ remember 
 thy repentant children, and have us, at this 
 awful moment, in thy omnipotent protec- 
 tion !” 
 
 ‘¢The winds are come down, and eyen the 
 dumb lake sends us the signal to be ready !” 
 shouted Maso. ‘‘ Overboard with the freight, 
 if ye would live!” 
 
 A sudden heavy plunge into the water 
 proved that the mariner was in earnest. 
 Notwithstanding the imposing and awful 
 signs with which they were surrounded, every 
 individual of the nameless herd bethought 
 him of the pack that contained his own 
 scanty worldly effects, and there was a gen- 
 eral and quick movement, with a view to 
 secure them. As each man succeeded in 
 effecting his own object, he was led away by 
 that community of feeling which rules a 
 multitude. The common rush was believed 
 to be with a view to succor Maso, though 
 each man secretly knew the falsity of the 
 impression as respected his own particular 
 case ; and box after box began to tumble into 
 the water, as new and eager recruits lent 
 themselves to the task. The impulse was 
 quickly imparted from one to another, until 
 even young Sigismund was active in the 
 work. On these slight accidents do the most 
 important results depend, when the hot im- 
 
 pulses that govern the mass obtain the ascend- | 
 
 ant. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that either Baptiste 
 or Nicklaus Wagner witnessed the waste of 
 their joint effects with total indifference. So 
 far from this, each used every exertion in his 
 power to prevent it, not only by his voice, but 
 with his hands. One menaced the law—the 
 other threatened Maso with condign punish- 
 ment for his interference with a patron’s rights 
 and duties; but their remonstrances were 
 uttered to inattentive ears. Maso knew him- 
 self to be irresponsible by situation, for it was 
 not an easy matter to bring him within the 
 grasp of the authorities; and as for the 
 
 | 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 others, most of them were far too insignifi- 
 cant to feel much apprehension for a repara- 
 tion that would be most likely, if it fell at all, 
 to fall on those who were more able to bear 
 it. Sigismund alone exerted himself under 
 a sense of his liabilities; but he worked for 
 one that was far dearer to him than gold, and 
 little did he bethink him of any other conse- 
 quences than those which might befall the 
 precious life of Adelheid de Willading. 
 
 The meagre packages of the common pas- 
 sengers had been thrown in a place of safety, 
 with the sort of unreflecting instinct with 
 which we take care of our limbs when in 
 danger. This timely precaution permitted 
 each to work with a zeal that found no draw- 
 back in personal interest, and the effect was 
 in proportion. A hundred hands were busy, 
 and nearly as many throbbing hearts lent 
 their impulses to the accomplishment of the 
 one important object. 
 
 Baptiste and his people, aided by laborers 
 of the port, had passed an entire day in heap- 
 ing that pile on the deck of the Winkelried, 
 which was now crumbling to pieces with a 
 rapidity that seemed allied to magic. ‘The 
 patron and Nicklaus Wagner bawled them- 
 selves hoarse, with uttering useless threats 
 and deprecations, for by this time the labor- 
 ers in the work of destruction had received 
 some such impetus as the rolling stone ac- 
 quires by the increased momentum of its 
 descent. Packages, boxes, bales, and every- 
 thing that came to hand, were hurled into 
 the water frantically, and without other 
 thought than of the necessity of lightening 
 the groaning bark of its burden. The agita- 
 tion of the lake, too, was regularly increasing, 
 wave following wave, in a manner to cause 
 the vessel to pitch heavily, as it rose upon the 
 coming, or sank with the receding swell, At 
 length, a shout announced that in one por- 
 tion of the pile the deck was attained t 
 
 The work proceeded with greater security 
 to those engaged, for hitherto the motion of 
 the bark, and the unequal footing, frequent- 
 ly rendered their situations, in the darkness 
 and confusion, to the last degree hazardous. 
 Maso now abandoned his own active agency 
 in the toil, for no sooner did he see the oth- 
 ers fairly and zealously enlisted in the under- 
 taking, than he ceased his personal efforts to 
 give those directions which, coming from one 
 
 45 
 
 accustomed to the occupation, were far more 
 valuable than any service that could be de- 
 rived from a single arm. 
 
 «Thou art known to me, Signor Maso,” 
 said Baptiste, hoarse with his impotent efforts 
 to restrain the torrent, “and thou shalt an- 
 swer for this, as well as for other of thy 
 crimes, sO soon as we reach the haven of 
 Vévey !” 
 
 “Potard ! thou wouldst carry thyself and 
 all with thee, by thy narrowness of spirit, to 
 a port from which, when it is once entered, 
 none ever sail again !” 
 
 ‘Tt lieth between ye both,” rejoined Nick- 
 laus Wagner; “thou art not less to blame 
 than these madmen, Baptiste. Hadst thou 
 left the town at the hour named in our con- 
 ditions, this danger could not have overtaken 
 us.” 
 
 «Am I a god to command the winds? I 
 
 would that I had never seen thee or thy 
 cheeses, or that thou wouldst relieve me of 
 thy presence, and go after them into the 
 lake.” ; 
 ‘This comes of sleeping on duty ; nay, f 
 know not but that a proper use of the oars 
 would still bring us in, in safety, and with- 
 out necessary harm to the property of any. 
 Noble Baron de Willading, here may be oc- 
 casion for your testimony, and, as a citizen 
 of Berne, I pray you to heed well the circum- 
 stances.” 
 
 Baptiste was not in a humor to bear these 
 merited reproaches, and he rejoined upon the 
 aggrieved Nicklaus in a manner that would 
 speedily have brought their ill-timed wrangle 
 to an issue, had not Maso passed rudely be- 
 tween them, shoving them asunder with the 
 sinews of a giant. This repulse served to 
 keep the peace for the moment, but the 
 wordy war continued with so much acrimony, 
 and with so many unmeasured terms, that 
 Adelheid and her maids, pale and terror- 
 struck by the surrounding scene as they 
 were, gladly shut their ears, to exclude epi- 
 thets of such bitterness and menace that they 
 curdled the blood. Maso passed on among 
 the workmen, when he had interposed be- 
 tween the disputants. He gave his orders 
 with perfect self-possession, though his un- 
 derstanding eye perceived that, instead of 
 magnifying the danger, he had himself not 
 fully anticipated its extent. The rolling of 
 
46 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the waves was now incessant, and the quick, 
 washing rush of the water, a sound familiar 
 to the seamen, announced that they had be- 
 come so large that their summits broke, send- 
 ing their lighter foam ahead. There were 
 symptoms, too, which proved that their situ- 
 ation was understood by those on the land. 
 Lights were flashing along the strand near 
 Vévey, and it was not difficult to detect, even 
 at the distance at which they lay, the evi- 
 dences of a strong feeling among the people 
 of the town. 
 
 “T doubt not that we have been seen,” said 
 Melchior de Willading, ‘‘and that our friends 
 are busy in devising means to aid us. Roger 
 de Blonay is not a man to see us perish with- 
 out an effort, nor would the worthy bailiff, 
 Peter Hofmeister, be idle, knowing that a 
 brother of the burgerschaft, and an old 
 . School associate, hath need of his assist- 
 ance.” 
 
 ‘“‘None can come to us without running an 
 equal risk with ourselves,” answered the 
 Genoese. ‘‘It were better that we should be 
 left to our own exertions. I like the coolness 
 of this unknown mariner, and I put my faith 
 in God!” 
 
 A new shout proclaimed that the deck had 
 been gained on the other side of the bark. 
 Much the greater part of the deck-load had 
 now irretrievably disappeared, and the move- 
 ments of the relieved vessel were more lively 
 and sane. Maso called to him one or two of 
 the regular crew, and together they rolled up 
 the canvas in a manner peculiar to the latine 
 rig ; for a breath of hot air, the first of any 
 
 sort that had been felt for many hours, passed: 
 
 athwart the bark. This duty was performed, 
 as canvas is known to be furled at need, but 
 it was done securely. Maso then went among 
 the laborers again, encouraging them with his 
 voice, and directing their efforts with his 
 counsel. 
 
 “Thou art not equal to thy task,” he said, 
 addressing one who was vainly endeavoring to 
 roll a bale to the side of the vessel, a little 
 apart from the rest of the busy crowd; “thou 
 wilt do better to assist the others, than to 
 waste thy force here.’ 
 
 “JT feel the strength to remove a moun- 
 tain! Do we not work for our lives?” 
 
 The mariner bent forward, and looked into 
 the other’s face. These frantic and _ill- 
 
 directed efforts came from the Westphalian 
 student. 
 
 ‘Thy star has disappeared,” he rejoined, 
 smiling—for Maso had smiled in scenes far 
 more imposing than even that with which he 
 was now surrounded. 
 
 ‘“She gazes at it still; she thinks of one 
 that loves her, who is journeying far from the 
 fatherland.” ; 
 
 ‘“Hold! Since thou wilt have it so, I will 
 help thee to cast this bale into the water. 
 Place thine arm thus; an ounce of well- 
 directed force is worth a pound that acts 
 against itself.” 
 
 Stooping together, their united strength 
 did that which had baffled the single efforts 
 of the scholar. The package rolled to the 
 gangway, and the German, frenzied with ex- 
 citement, shouted aloud. The bark lurched, 
 and the bale went over the side, as if the life- 
 less mass were suddenly possessed with the 
 desire to perform the evolution which its inert 
 weight had so long resisted. Maso recovered 
 his footing, which had been deranged by the 
 unexpected movement, with a seaman’s dex- 
 terity, but his companion was no longer at his 
 side. Kneeling on the gangway, he perceived 
 the dark bale disappearing in the element, 
 with the feet of the Westphalian dragging 
 after. He bent forward to grasp the rising 
 body, but it never returned to the surface, 
 being entangled in the cords, or, what was 
 equally probable, retained by the frantic grasp 
 of the student, whose mind had yielded to the 
 awful character of the night. 
 
 The life of I1 Maledetto had been one of 
 great vicissitudes and peril. He had often 
 seen men pass suddenly into the other state 
 of existence, and had been calm himself amid 
 the cries, the groans, and what is far more 
 appalling, the execrations of the dying, but 
 never before had he witnessed so brief and 
 silent anend. For more than a minute, he 
 hung suspended over the dark and working 
 water, expecting to see the student return; 
 and, when hope was reluctantly abandoned, 
 he arose to his feet, a startled and admonished 
 man. Still discretion did not desert him. 
 He saw the uselessness, and even the danger, 
 of distracting the attention of the workmen, 
 and the ill-fated scholar was permitted to pass 
 away without a word of regret or a comment 
 on his fate. None knew of his loss but the 
 
THH HEADSMAN. 
 
 wary mariner, nor was his person missed by 
 any one of those who had spent the day in his 
 company. Bnt she to whom he had plighted 
 his faith on the banks of the Elbe long gazed 
 
 at that pale star, and wept in bitterness that 
 her feminine constancy met with no return. 
 Her true affections long outlived their object, 
 
 for his image was deeply enshrined in a 
 
 warm female heart. Days, weeks, months, 
 and years passed for her in the wasting cheer- 
 lessness of hope deferred, but the dark Leman 
 never gave up its secret, and he to whom her 
 lover’s fate alone was known little bethought 
 him of an accident which, if not forgotten, 
 was but one of many similar frightful inci- 
 dents in his eventful career. 
 
 Maso reappeared among the crowd with the 
 forced composure of one who well knew that 
 authority was most efficient when most calm. 
 The command of the vessel was now virtually 
 with him, Baptiste, enervated by the ex- 
 traordinary crisis, and choktng with passion, 
 being utterly incapable of giving a distinct or 
 a useful order. It was fortunate for those in 
 the bark that the substitute was so good, for 
 more fearful signs never impended over the 
 Leman than those which darkened the hour. 
 
 We have necessarily consumed much time 
 in relating these events, the pen not equalling 
 the activity of the thoughts. Twenty min- 
 
 utes, however, had not passed since the tran- 
 
 quillity of the lake was first disturbed, and so 
 great had been the exertions of those in the 
 Winkelried that the time appeared to be 
 shorter. But, though it had been so well 
 employed, neither had the powers of the air 
 been idle. ‘The unnatural opening in the 
 heavens was shut, and at short intervals, 
 those fearful wheelings of the aérial squad- 
 rons were drawing nearer. ‘Thrice had fitful 
 breathings of warm air passed over the bark, 
 and occasionally, as she plunged into a sea 
 that was heavier than common, the faces of 
 those on board were cooled, as it might be 
 with some huge fan. ‘These were no more, 
 however, than sudden changes in the atmos- 
 phere, of which veins were displaced by the 
 distant struggle between the heated air of the 
 lakes and that which had been chilled on the 
 glaciers, or they were the still more simple 
 result of the violent agitation of the vessel. 
 
 The deep darkness which shut in the vault, 
 giving to the embedded Leman the appear- 
 
 4% 
 
 ance of a gloomy, liquid glen, contributed to 
 the awful sublimity of the night. The ram- 
 parts of Savoy were barely distinguishable 
 from the flying clouds, having the appearance 
 of black walls, seemingly within reach of the 
 hand ; while the more varied and softer cétes 
 of Vaud lay an indefinable and sombre mass, 
 less menacing, it is true, but equally confused 
 and unattainable. 
 
 Still the beacon blazed in the grate of old 
 Roger de Blonay, and flaring torches glided 
 along the strand. The shore seemed alive 
 with human beings, able as themselves to 
 appreciate and to feel their situation. 
 
 The deck was now cleared, and the trav- 
 ellers were collected in a group between the 
 masts. Pippo had lost all his pleasantry 
 under the dread signs of the hour, and Con- 
 rad, trembling with superstition and terror, 
 was free from hypocrisy. They, and those 
 with them, discoursed on their chances, on 
 
 the nature of the risks they ran, and on its 
 
 probable causes. 
 
 ‘«‘T see no image of Maria, nor even a piti- 
 ful lamp to any of the blessed, in this ac- 
 cursed bark !” said the juggler, after several 
 had hazarded their quaint and peculiar opin- 
 ions. ‘Let the patron come forth and 
 answer for his negligence.” 
 
 The passengers were about equally divided 
 between those who dissented from, and those 
 who worshipped with Rome. This proposal, 
 therefore, met with a mixed reception. The 
 latter protested against the neglect, while the 
 former, equally under the influence of abject 
 fear, were loud in declaring that the idolatry 
 itself might cost them all their lives. 
 
 ‘‘The curse of Heaven alight on the evil 
 tongue that first uttered the thought !” mut- 
 tered the trembling Pippo between his teeth, 
 too prudent to fly openly in the face of so 
 strong an opposition, and yet too credulous 
 not to feel the omission in every nerve— 
 ‘‘Hast nothing by thee, pious Conrad, that 
 may avail a Christian ?” 
 
 The pilgrim reached forth his hand with a 
 rosary and cross. The sacred emblem passed 
 from mouth to mouth, among the believers, 
 with a zeal little short of that they had man- 
 ifested in unloading the deck. Encouraged 
 by this sacrifice, they called loudly upon 
 Baptiste to present himself. Confronted 
 with these unnurtured spirits, the patron 
 
48 
 
 shook in every limb, for, between anger and 
 abject fear, his self-command had by this 
 time absolutely deserted him. ‘To the re- 
 peated appeals to procure a light, that it 
 might be placed before a picture of the mother 
 of God, which Conrad produced, he objected 
 his Protestant faith, the impossibility of 
 maintaining the flame while the bark pitched 
 so violently, and the divided opinions of the 
 passengers. The Catholics bethought them 
 of the country and influence of Maso, and 
 they loudly called upon him, for the love of 
 God, to come and enforce their requests. 
 But the mariner was occupied on the fore- 
 castle, lowering one anchor after another into 
 the water, passively assisted by the people of 
 the bark, who wondered at a precaution so 
 useless, since no rope would reach the bottom, 
 even while they did not dare deny his orders. 
 Something was now said of the curse that had 
 alighted on the vessel, in consequence of its 
 patron’s intention to embark the headsman. 
 Baptiste trembled to the skin of his crown, 
 and his blood crept with a superstitious awe. 
 
 “‘Dost think there can really be aught in 
 this?” he asked, with parched lips and a 
 faltering tongue. 
 
 All distinction of faith was lost in the gen- 
 eral ridicule. Now the Westphalian was 
 gone, there was not a man among them to 
 doubt that a navigation so accompanied 
 _ would be cursed. Baptiste stammered, mut- 
 tered many incoherent sentences, and finally, 
 in his impotency, he permitted the dangerous 
 secret to escape him. 
 
 The intelligence that Balthazar was among 
 them produced a solemn and deep silence. 
 The fact, however, furnished as conclusive 
 evidence of the cause of their peril to the 
 minds of these untutored beings, as a mathe- 
 matician could have received from the hap- 
 piest of his demonstrations. New light 
 broke in upon them, and the ominous still- 
 ness was followed by a general demand for 
 the patron to point out the man. Obeying 
 this order, partly under the influence of a 
 terror that was allied to his moral weakness, 
 and partly in bodily fear, he shoved the 
 headsman forward, substituting the person 
 of the proscribed man for his own, and, profit- 
 jug by the occasion, he stole out of the crowd. 
 
 When the Herr Miller, or, as he was now 
 known and called, Balthazar, was rudely 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 pushed into the hands.of these ferocious 
 agents of superstition, the apparent magni- — 
 tude of the discovery induced a general and 
 breathless pause. Like the treacherous calm 
 that had so long reigned upon the lake, it 
 was a precursor of a fearful and violent ex- 
 plosion. Little was said, for the occasion 
 was too ominous for a display of vulgar feel- 
 ing, but Conrad, Pippo, and one or two more 
 silently raised the fancied offender in their 
 arms and bore him desperately toward the 
 side of the bark. 
 
 “Call on Maria, for the good of thy soul! ” 
 whispered the Neapolitan, with a strange 
 mixture of Christian zeal, in the midst of all 
 his ferocity. 
 
 The sound of words like these usually con- 
 veys the idea of charity and love; but not- 
 withstanding this gleam of hope, Balthazar 
 still found himself borne toward his fate. 
 
 On quitting the throng that clustered to- 
 gether in a dense body between the masts, 
 Baptiste encountered his old antagonist, 
 Nicklaus Wagner. The fury which had so 
 long been pent in his breast suddenly found 
 vent, and in the madness of the moment he 
 struck him, The stout Bernese grappled his 
 assailant, and the struggle became fierce as 
 that of brutes. Scandalized by such a spec- 
 tacle, offended by the disrespect, and igno- 
 rant of what else was passing near—for the 
 crowd had uttered its resolutions in the sup- 
 pressed voices of men determined—the Baron 
 de Willading and the Signor Grimaldi ad- 
 vanced with dignity and firmness to prevent 
 the shameful strife. At this critical moment 
 the voice of Balthazar was heard above the 
 roar of the coming wind, not calling on 
 Maria, as he had been admonished, but ap- 
 pealing to the two old nobles to save him. 
 Sigismund sprang forward like a lion at the 
 cry, but, too late to reach those who were 
 about to cast the headsman from the gang- 
 way, he was just in time to catch the body by 
 its garments, when actually sailing in the air. 
 By a vast effort of strength its direction was 
 diverted. Instead of alighting in the water, 
 Balthazar encountered the angry combatants, 
 who, driven back on the two nobles, forced 
 the whole four over the side of the bark into 
 the water. 
 
 The struggle between the two bodies of air 
 ceased, that on the surface of the lake yield- 
 
THE HHEADSMAN. 
 
 ing to the avalanche from above, and the 
 tempest came howling upon the bark. 
 
 ed 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ——‘‘and now the glee 
 Of the loud hills shakes with their mountain mirth.” 
 —BYRON. 
 
 Ir is necessary to recapitulate a little, in 
 order to connect events. The signs of the 
 hour had been gradually but progressively 
 increasing. While the lake was unruffled, a 
 stillness so profound prevailed, that sounds 
 from the distant port, such as the heavy fall 
 of an oar, or a laugh from the watermen, had 
 reached the ears of those in the Winkelried, 
 bringing with them the feeling of security, 
 and the strong charm of a calmat even. To 
 
 these succeeded the gathering in the heay- 
 
 ens, and the roaring of the winds, as they 
 came rushing down the sides of the Alps, in 
 their first descent into the basin of the Le- 
 man. As the sight grew useless, except as it 
 might study the dark omens of the impend- 
 ing vault, the sense of hearing became doubly 
 acute, and it had been a powerful agent in 
 heightening the vague but acute apprehen- 
 sions of the travellers. The rushes of the 
 wind, which at first were broken, at intervals 
 resembling the roar of a chimney-top in a 
 gale, had soon reached the fearful grandeur 
 of those aérial wheelings of squadrons to 
 which we have more than once alluded, pass- 
 ing off in dread mutterings, that, in the deep 
 quiet of all other things, bore a close affinity 
 to the rumbling of a surf upon the seashore. 
 The surface of the lake was first broken after 
 one of these symptoms, and it was this infal- 
 lible sign of a gale which had assured Maso 
 there was no time to lose. This movement 
 of the element in a calm is a common phe- 
 nomenon on waters that are much environed 
 with elevated and irregular headlands, and 
 it is a certain proof that wind is on some dis- 
 tant portion of the sheet. It occurs fre- 
 quently on the ocean, too, where the mariner 
 is accustomed to find a heavy sea setting in 
 one direction, the effects of some distant 
 storm, while the breeze around him is blow- 
 ing in its opposite. It had been succeeded 
 by the single rolling swell, like the outer cir- 
 
 49 
 
 cle of waves produced by dropping a stone 
 into the water, and the regular and increas- 
 ing agitation of the lake, until the element 
 broke as in a tempest, and that seemingly of 
 its own volition, since not a breath of air was 
 stirring. This last and formidable symptom 
 of the force of the coming gust, however, had 
 now become so unequivocal that, at the mo- 
 ment when the three travellers and the pa- 
 tron fell from her gangway, the Winkelried, 
 to use a seaman’s phrase, was literally wal- 
 lowing in the troughs of the seas. 
 
 A dull, unnatural light preceded the winds, 
 and notwithstanding the previous darkness, 
 the nature of the accident was fully apparent 
 to all. Even the untamed spirits that had 
 just been bent upon so fierce a sacrifice to 
 their superstitious dread, uttered cries of 
 horror, while the piercing shriek of Adelheid 
 sounded, in that fearful moment, as if beings 
 of superhuman attributes were riding in the 
 gale. The name of Sigismund was heard, 
 too, in one of those wild appeals that the 
 frantic suffer to escape them in their despair. 
 But the interval between the plunge into the 
 water and the swoop of the tempest was so 
 short, that, to the senses of the travellers, 
 the whole seemed the occurrence of the same 
 teeming moment. 
 
 Maso had completed his work on the fore- 
 castle, had seen that other provisions which 
 he had ordered were duly made, and reached 
 the tiller just in time to witness and to un- 
 derstand all that occurred. Adelheid and 
 her female attendants were already lashed to 
 the principal masts, and ropes were given to 
 the others around her, as indispensable pre- 
 cautions; for the deck of the bark, now 
 cleared of every particle of its freight, was as 
 exposed and as defenceless against the power 
 of the wind as a naked heath. Such was 
 the situation of the Winkelried, when the 
 omens of the night changed to their dread 
 reality. 
 
 Instinct, in cases of sudden and unusual 
 danger, must do the office of reason. There 
 was no necessity to warn the unthinking but 
 panic-struck crowd to provide for their own 
 safety, for every man in the centre of the 
 barge threw his body flat on the deck, and 
 grasped the cords that Maso had taken care 
 to provide for that purpose, with the tenacity 
 with which all who possess life cling to the 
 
50 
 
 means of existence. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 The dogs gave beautiful | the awful strife of the elements and the fear- 
 
 proofs of the secret and wonderful means that | ful character of the night, he alone breasted 
 
 uature has imparted, to answer the ends of 
 their creation. Old Uberto crouched, cow- 
 ering, and oppressed with a sense of helpless- 
 ness, at the side of his master, while the 
 Newfoundland follower of the mariner went 
 leaping from gangway to gangway, snuffing 
 the heated air and barking wildly, as if he 
 would challenge the elements to close for the 
 strife. ) 
 
 A vast body of warm air had passed un- 
 heeded athwart the bark, during the minute 
 that preceded the intended sacrifice of Bal- 
 thazar. It was the forerunner of the hurri- 
 cane, which had chased it from the bed 
 where it had been steeping since the warm and 
 happy noon-tide. 'Ten thousand chariots at 
 their speed could not have equalled the rum- 
 bling that succeeded, when the winds came 
 booming over the lake. Asif too eager to per- 
 mit anything within their fangs to escape, they 
 brought with them a wild, dull light, which 
 filled while it clouded the atmosphere, and 
 which, it was scarcely fanciful to imagine, 
 had been hurried down in their vortex from 
 those chill glaciers, where they had so long 
 been condensing their forces for the present 
 descent. ‘lhe waves were not increased, but 
 depressed by the pressure of this atmospheric 
 column, though it took up hogsheads of 
 water from their crests, scattering it in fine 
 penetrating spray, till the entire space be- 
 tween the heavens and the earth seemed sat- 
 urated with its particles. 
 
 The Winkelried received the shock at a 
 moment when the lee-side of her broad deck 
 was wallowing in the trough, and its weather 
 was protruded on the summit of aswell. The 
 wind howled when it struck the pent limits, 
 as if angered at being thwarted, and there was 
 a roar under the wide gangways, resembling 
 that of lions. The reeling vessel was raised 
 in a manner to cause those on board to be- 
 lieve it about to be lifted bodily from the 
 water, but the ceaseless rolling of the element 
 restored the balance. Maso afterward af- 
 firmed that nothing but this accidental posi- 
 tion, which formed a sort of lee, prevented 
 all in the bark from being swept from the 
 deck, before the first gust of the hurricane. 
 
 Sigismtind had heard the heart-rending 
 appeal of Adelheid, and, notwithstanding 
 
 the shock on his feet. Though aided by a 
 rope and bowed like a reed, his herculean 
 frame trembled under the shock, in a way to 
 render even his ability to resist seriously 
 doubtful. But, the first blast expended, he 
 sprang to the gangway, and leaped into the 
 caldron of the lake unhesitatingly, and yet 
 in the possession of all his faculties. He was 
 desperately bent on saving a life so dear to 
 Adelheid, or on dying in the attempt. 
 
 Maso had watched the crisis with a seaman’s 
 eye, a seaman’s resources, and a seaman’s 
 coolness. He had not refused to quit his feet, 
 but kneeling on one knee, he pressed the tiller 
 down, lashed it, and clinging to the massive 
 timber, faced the tempest with the steadiness 
 of a water-god. ‘There was sublimity in the 
 intelligence, deliberation, and calculating 
 skill with which this solitary, unknown, and 
 nearly hopeless mariner obeyed his profes- 
 sional instinct in that fearful concussion of 
 the elements, which, loosened from every re- 
 straint, now appeared abandoned to their own 
 wild and fierce will. He threw aside his cap, 
 pushed forward his thick but streaming locks, © 
 as veils to protect his eyes, and watched the 
 first encounter of the wind, as the wary but 
 sullen lion keeps his gaze on the hostile ele- 
 phant. <A grim smile stole across his feat- 
 ures, when he felt the vessel settle again into 
 its watery bed, after that breathless moment ~ 
 in which there had been reason to fear it 
 might actually be lifted from its proper ele- 
 ment. Then the precaution, which had 
 seemed so useless and incomprehensible to 
 others, came in play. The bark made a fear- 
 ful whirl from the spot where it had so long 
 lain, yielding to the touch of the gust like a © 
 vane turning on its pivot, while the water 
 gurgled several streaks on deck. But the 
 cables were no sooner taut than the numer- 
 ous anchors resisted, and brought the bark 
 head to wind. Maso felt the yielding of the 
 vessel’s stern, as she swung furiously round, 
 and he cheered aloud. ‘The trembling of the 
 timbers, the dashing against the pointed 
 beak, and that high jet of water, which shot 
 up over the bows and fell heavily on the 
 forecastle, washing aft in a flood, were so 
 many evidences that. the cables were true. 
 Advancing from his post, with some such 
 
THE HEHADSMAN. 
 
 dignity as a master of fence displays in the 
 exercise of his art, he shouted for his dog. 
 
 «“ Nettuno !—Nettuno !—where art thou, 
 brave Nettuno ?” 
 
 The faithful animal was whining near him, 
 unheard in that war of the elements. He 
 waited only for this encouragement to act. 
 No sooner was his master’s voice heard, than, 
 barking bravely, he snuffed the gale, dashed 
 to the side of the vessel, and leaped into the 
 boiling lake. 
 
 When Melchior de Willading and his friend 
 returned to the surface, after their plunge, it 
 was like men making their appearance in a 
 world abandoned to the infernal humors of 
 the fiends of darkness. The reader will un- 
 derstand it was at the instant of the swoop 
 of the winds, that has just been detailed, for 
 what we have taken so many pages to de- 
 scribe in words, scarce needed a minute of 
 time in the accomplishment. 
 
 Maso knelt on the verge of the gangway, 
 sustaining himself by passing an arm around 
 a shroud, and, bending forward, he gazed 
 into the caldron of the lake with aching eyes. 
 Once or twice he thought he heard the stifled 
 breathing of one who struggled with the rag- 
 ing water ; but, in that roar of the winds, it 
 was easy to be deceived. He shouted encour 
 agement to his dog, however, and gathering 
 a small rope rapidly, he made a heaving coil 
 of one of its ends. This he cast far from 
 him, with a peculiar swing and dexterity, 
 hauling-in, and repeating the experiments, 
 steadily and with unwearied industry. The 
 rope was necessarily thrown at hazard, for the 
 misty light prevented more than it aided 
 vision ; and the howling of the powers of the 
 air filled his ears with sounds that resembled 
 the laugh of devils. 
 
 In the cultivation of the youthful manly 
 exercises, neither of the old nobles had neg- 
 lected the useful skill of being able to buffet 
 with the waves. But both possessed what 
 was far better, in such a strait, than the 
 knowledge of a swimmer, in that self-com- 
 mand and coolness in emergencies which they 
 are apt to acquire who pass their time in en- 
 countering the hazards and in overcoming the 
 difficulties of war. Each retained a suffi- 
 ciency of recollection, therefore, on coming to 
 the surface, to understand his situation, and 
 not to increase the danger by the ill-directed 
 
 51 
 
 and frantic efforts that usually drown the 
 frightened. The case was sufficiently desper- 
 ate, at the best, without the additional risk 
 of distraction, for the bark had already 
 drifted to some unseen spot, that, as respects 
 them, was quite unattainable. In this un- 
 certainty, it would have been madness to steer 
 amid the waste of waters, as likely to go 
 wrong as right, and they limited their efforts 
 to mutual support and encouragement, plac- 
 ing their trust in God. 
 
 Not so with Sigismund. ‘To him the roar- 
 ing tempest was mute, the boiling and hissing 
 lake had no horrors, and he had plunged into 
 the fathomless Leman as recklessly as he 
 could have leaped to land. ‘The shriek, the 
 “Sigismund! oh, Sigismund!” of Adelheid, 
 was in his ears, and her cry of anguish thrilled 
 on every nerve. ‘The athletic young Swiss 
 was a practised and expert swimmer, or it is 
 improbable that even these strong impulses 
 could have overcome the instinct of self-pres- 
 ervation. Ina tranyuil basin, it would have 
 been no extraordinary or unusual feat for him 
 to conquer the distance between the Winkel- 
 reid and the shores of Vaud ; but, like all the 
 others, on casting himself into the water, he 
 was obliged to shape his course at random, 
 and this, too, amid such a driving spray as 
 rendered even respiration difficult. As has 
 been said, the waves were compressed into 
 their bed rather then augmented by the wind ; 
 but, had it been otherwise, the mere heaving 
 and settling of the element, while it obstructs 
 his speed, offers a support rather than an 
 obstacle to the practised swimmer. 
 
 Notwithstanding all these advantages, the 
 strength of his impulses, and the numberless 
 occasions on which he had breasted the surges 
 of the Mediterranean, Sigismund, on recover- 
 ing from his plunge, felt the fearful chances 
 of the risk he ran, as the stern soldier meets 
 the hazards of battle, in which he knows if ° 
 there is victory, there is also also death. He 
 dashed the troubled water aside, though 
 he swam blindly, and each stroke urged 
 him further from the bark, his only hope 
 of safety. He was between dark, rolling 
 mounds, and, on rising to their summits, 
 a hurricane of mist made him glad to sink 
 again within a similar shelter. The break- 
 ing crests of the waves, which were glanc- 
 ing off in foam, also gave him great annoy- 
 
52 
 
 ance, for such was their force, that, more 
 than once, he was hurled helpless as a log 
 
 before them. Still he swam boldly, and with 
 strength ; nature having gifted him with 
 more than the usual physical energy of man. 
 But, uncertain in his course, unable to see 
 the length of his own body, and pressed hard 
 upon by the wind, even the spirit of Sigis- 
 mund Steinbach could not long withstand so 
 many adverse circumstances. He had already 
 turned, wavering in purpose, thinking to 
 catch a glimpse of the bark in the direction 
 he had come, when a dark mass floated im- 
 mediately before his eyes, and he felt the cold 
 clammy nose of the dog, scenting about his 
 face. The admirable instinct, or we might 
 better say, the excellent training of Nettuno, 
 told him that his services were not needed 
 here, and, barking with wild delight, as if in 
 mockery of the infernal din of the tempest, 
 he sheered aside and swam swiftly on. A 
 thought flashed like lightning on the brain of 
 Sigismund. His best hope was in the inex- 
 plicable faculties of this animal. Throwing 
 forward an arm, he seized the bushy tail of 
 the dog, and suffered himself to be dragged 
 ahead, he knew not whither, though he 
 seconded the movement with his own exer- 
 tions. Another bark proclaimed that the 
 experiment was successful, and voices, rising 
 as it were from the water, close at hand, an- 
 nounced the proximity of human beings. 
 The brunt of the hurricane was past, and the 
 washing of the waves, which had been stilled 
 by the roar and the revelry of the winds, 
 again became audible. 
 
 The strength of the two struggling old 
 men was sinking fast. The Signor Grimaldi 
 had thus far generously sustained his friend, 
 who was less expert than himself in the water, 
 and he continued to cheer him with a hope 
 he did not feel himself, nobly refusing to the 
 ‘ last to separate their fortunes. 
 
 «‘ How dost find thyself, old Melchior,”’ he 
 asked. ‘Cheer thee, friend—I think there 
 is succor at hand.” 
 
 The water gurgled at the mouth of the 
 Baron, who was near the gasp. 
 
 <* Tis late—bless thee, dearest Gaetano— 
 God be with my child—my Adelheid—poor 
 Adelheid! ” 
 
 The utterance of this precious name under 
 a father’s agony of spirit, most probably 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 saved his life. 
 mund, directed by the words, grasped his 
 
 dress, and he felt at once that a new and © 
 
 preserving power had interposed between 
 him and the caverns of the lake. It was 
 
 time, for the water had covered the face of © 
 
 the failing Baron, ere the muscular arm of 
 the youth came to perform his charitable 
 office. 
 
 The sinewy arm of Sigis-— 
 
 = 4 
 ~ eS >» >“ 
 ee 
 
 ‘Yield thee to the dog, signor,” said | 
 
 Sigismund, clearing his mouth of water 
 
 to speak calmly, once assured of his own ~ 
 
 burden; ‘‘trust to his sagacity, and,—God 
 keep us in mind !—all may yet be well!” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi retained sufficient 
 presence of mind to follow this advice, and it 
 was probably quite as fortunate that his 
 friend had so far lost his consciousness as to 
 become an unresisting burden in the hands 
 of Sigismund. 
 
 ‘* Nettuno !—gallant Nettuno!” 
 
 swept © 
 
 past them on the gale for the first time, the 
 partial hushing of the winds permitting the — 
 
 clear call of Maso to reach so far. The sound 
 
 dog had swum steadily away the moment he 
 had the Genoese in his grip, and with a cer- 
 tainty of manner that showed he was at no 
 loss for a direction. 
 
 far. 
 
 the log-like weight of his burden. 
 
 and yet each fainting and useless stroke 
 told him to despair. The dog had already 
 
 the bark. He prayed in agony for a single 
 glimpse of the rocking masts and yards, or 
 to catch one syllable of the cheering voice of 
 Maso. But in both his wishes were vain. In 
 
 place of the former, he had naught but the 
 
 veiled misty light, that had come on with the 
 hurricane; and instead of the latter, his ears 
 were filled with the washing of the waves and 
 the roars of the gusts. The blasts now de- 
 scended to the surface of the lake, and now 
 went whirling and swelling upward, in a way 
 to lead the listener to fancy that the viewless 
 winds might for once be seen. 
 
 disappeared in the darkness, and he was 
 even uncertain again of the true position of 
 
 For a single 
 
 directed the efforts of Sigismund, though the ~ 
 
 But Sigismund had taxed his powers too - 
 He, who could have buffeted an ordi-— 
 nary sea for hours, was now completely ex-— 
 hausted by the unwonted exertions, the 
 deadening influence of the tempest, and— 
 He 
 would not desert the father of Adelheid, — 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 painful instant, in one of those disheartening 
 moments of despair that will come over the 
 stoutest, his hand was about to relinquish its 
 hold on the Baron, and to make the last 
 natural struggle for life ; but that fair mod- 
 est picture of maiden loveliness and truth, 
 which had so long haunted his waking hours 
 and adorned his night-dreams, interposed to 
 prevent the act. After this brief and fleet- 
 ing weakness, the young man seemed en- 
 dowed with new energy. He swam stronger, 
 and with greater apparent advantage than 
 before. 
 
 « Nettuno— gallant Nettuno!”— again 
 drove over him, bringing with it the chilling 
 certainty that, turned from his course by the 
 rolling of the water, he had thrown away 
 these desperate efforts by taking a direction 
 which led him from the bark. While there 
 was the smallest appearance of success, no 
 difficulties, of whatever magnitude, could 
 entirely extinguish hope; but when the dire 
 conviction that he had been actually aiding, 
 instead of diminishing, the danger, pressed 
 upon Sigismund, he abandoned his efforts. 
 The most he endeavored or hoped to achieve, 
 was to keep his own head and that of his 
 companion above the fatal element, while he 
 answered the cry of Maso with a shout of 
 despair. 
 
 ‘«¢ Nettuno !—gallant 
 flew past on the gale. 
 
 This cry might have been an answer, or it 
 might merely be the Italian encouraging his 
 dog to’ bear on the body with which it was 
 already loaded. Sigismund uttered a shout, 
 which he felt must be the last. He strug- 
 gled desperately, but in vain: the world and 
 its allurements were vanishing from his 
 thoughts, when a dark line whirled over 
 him, and fell thrashing upon the very wave 
 which covered his face. The instinctive 
 grasp caught it, and the young soldier felt 
 himself impelled ahead. He had seized the 
 rope which the mariner had not ceased to 
 throw, as the fisherman casts his line, and he 
 was at the side of the bark before his con- 
 fused faculties enabled him to understand 
 the means employed for his rescue. 
 
 Maso took a hasty turn with the rope, and 
 stooping forward, favored by the roll of the 
 vessel, he drew the Baron de Willading upon 
 deck. Watching his time, he repeated the 
 
 Nettuno !”—again 
 
 unchanging perseverance. 
 
 58 
 
 experiment, always with admirable coolness 
 and dexterity, placing Sigismund also in 
 safety. The former was immediately dragged 
 senseless to the centre of the bark, where 
 he received those attentions that had just 
 been eagerly offered to the Signor Grimaldi, 
 and with the same happy results. But 
 Sigismund motioned all away from himself, 
 knowing that their cares were needed else- 
 where. He staggered forward a few paces, 
 and then, yielding to a complete exhaustion 
 of his power, he fell at full length on the 
 wet planks. He long lay panting, speech- 
 
 less, and unable to move, with a sense of 
 
 death on his frame. 
 
 ‘Nettuno! gallant Nettuno !’’—shouted 
 the indefatigable Maso, still at his post on 
 the gangway, whence he cast his rope with 
 The fitful winds, 
 which had already played so many fierce 
 
 antics that eventful night, sensibly lulled, 
 
 and, giving one or two sighs, as if regretting 
 
 that they were about to be curbed again by 
 
 that almighty Master, from whose benevolent 
 hands they had so furtively escaped, as sud- 
 denly ceased blowing. The yards creaked, 
 swinging loosely above the crowded deck, and 
 the dull washing of water filled the ear. To 
 these diminished sounds were to be added 
 the barking of the dog, who was still abroad 
 in the darkness, and a struggling noise like 
 the broken and smothered attempts of human 
 voices. Although the time appeared an age 
 to all who awaited the result, scarcely five 
 minutes had elapsed since the accident oc- 
 curred and the hurricane had reached them. 
 There was still hope, therefore, for those who 
 yet remained in the water. Maso felt the 
 eagerness of one who had already been suc- 
 cessful beyond his hopes, and, in his desire to 
 catch some guiding signal, he leaned for- 
 ward, till the rolling lake washed into his 
 face. 
 
 ‘Ha! gallant—gallant Nettuno hd 
 
 Men certainly spoke, and that near hin. 
 But the sounds resembled words uttered 
 beneath a cover. The wind whistled, too, 
 though but for a moment, and then it seemed 
 to sail upward into the dark vault of the ° 
 heavens. Nettuno barked audibly, and his 
 master answered with another shout, for the 
 sympathy of man in his kind is inextinguish- 
 able. “ 
 
o4 
 
 ‘« My brave, my noble Nettuno!” 
 
 The stillness was now imposing, and Maso 
 heard the dog growl. ‘This ill-omened signal 
 was undeniably followed by smothered voices. 
 The latter became clearer, as if the mocking 
 winds were willing that a sad exhibition of 
 human frailty should be known, or, what is 
 more probable, violent passion had awakened 
 stronger powers of speech. This much the 
 mariner understood, 
 
 “ Loosen thy grasp, accursed Baptiste 
 
 “Wretch, loosen thine own!” 
 
 “Ts God naught with thee ?” 
 
 “Why dost throttle so, infernal Nicklaus ?” 
 
 “Thou wilt die damned!” 
 
 “Thou chokest—villain—pardon .!—par- 
 don!” 
 
 He heard no more. The merciful elements 
 interposed to drown the appalling strife. 
 Once or twice the dog howled, but the tem- 
 pest came across the Leman again in its 
 might, as if the short pause had been made 
 merely to take breath. The winds took a 
 new direction; and the bark, still held by its 
 anchors, swung wide off from its former 
 position, tending in toward the mountains 
 of Savoy. During the first burst of this new 
 blast, even Maso was glad to crouch to the 
 deck, for millions of infinitely fine particles 
 were lifted from the lake, and driven on with 
 the atmosphere with a violence to take away 
 his breath. The danger of being swept be- 
 fore the furious tide of the driving element 
 was also an accident not impossible. When 
 the lull returned, no exertion of his faculties 
 could catch a single sound foreign to the 
 proper character of the scene, such as the 
 splash of the water, and the creaking of the 
 long, swinging yards. 
 
 The mariner now felt a deep concern for 
 his dog. He called to him until he grew 
 hoarse, but fruitlessly. The change of posi- 
 tion, with the constant and varying drift of 
 the vessel, had carried them beyond the 
 reach of the human voice. More time was 
 expended in summoning ‘‘ Nettuno! gallant 
 Nettuno!” than had been consumed in the 
 passage of all the events which it has been 
 necessary to our object to relate so minutely, 
 and always with the same want of success. 
 The mind of Maso was pitched to a degree 
 far above the opinions and habits of those 
 with whom his life brought him ordinarily in 
 
 12? 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 contact, but, as even fine gold will become 
 tarnished by exposure to impure air, he had 
 not entirely escaped the habitual weakness of 
 the Italians of his class) When he found 
 that no cry could recall his faithful com- 
 panion, he threw himself upon the deck in a 
 paroxysm of passion, tore his hair, and wept 
 audibly. 
 
 ‘“ Nettuno! my brave, my faithful Net- 
 tuno!” he said. ‘‘ What are all these to 
 me, without thee! Thou alone lovedst me 
 —thou alone hast passed with me, through 
 fair and foul—through good and evil, with- 
 out change, or wish for another master ! 
 When the pretended friend has been false, 
 thou hast remained faithful! When others 
 were sycophants, thou wert never a flatterer !” 
 
 Struck with this singular exhibition of 
 sorrow, the good Augustine, who until now, 
 like all the others, had been looking to his 
 own safety, or employed -in restoring the 
 exhausted, took advantage of the favorable 
 change in the weather, and advanced with 
 the language of consolation. 
 
 ‘“Thou hast saved all our lives, bold 
 mariner,” he said, ‘‘and there are those in 
 the bark who will know how to reward thy 
 courage and skill. Forget then thy dog, 
 and indulge in a grateful heart to Maria and 
 the saints, that they have been our friends 
 and thine in this exceeding jeopardy.” 
 
 ‘Father, I have eaten with the animal 
 —slept with the animal—fought, swum, and 
 made merry with him, and I could now 
 drown with him! What are thy nobles and 
 their gold to me, without my dog? The 
 gallant brute will die the death of despair, 
 swimming about in search of the bark in the 
 midst of the darkness, until even one of his 
 high breed and courage must suffer his heart 
 to burst.” 
 
 “Christians have been called into the 
 dread presence, unconfessed and unshrived, 
 to-night; and we should bethink us of their 
 souls, rather than indulge in this grief in 
 behalf of one that, however faithful, ends 
 but an unreasoning and irresponsible exist- 
 ence.” 
 
 All this was thrown away upon Maso, 
 who crossed himself habitually at the allu- 
 sion to the drowned, but who did not the 
 less bewail the loss of his dog, whom he 
 seemed to love, like the affection that David 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 bore for Jonathan, with a love surpassing 
 that of awoman. Perceiving that his coun- 
 sel was useless, the good Augustine turned 
 away, to kneel and offer up his own prayers 
 of gratitude, and to bethink him of the 
 dead. 
 
 ‘Nettuno! povera, carissima bestia!” 
 continued Maso, “‘ whither art thou swim- 
 - ming, in this infernal quarrel between the 
 air and water? Would I were with thee, 
 dog! No mortal shall ever share the love 
 I bore thee, povero Nettwno /—I will never 
 take another to my heart, like thee !” 
 
 The outbreaking of Maso’s grief was sud- 
 den, and it was brief in its duration. In 
 this respect it might be likened to the hur- 
 ricane that had just passed. Hxcessive 
 violence, in both cases, appeared to bring 
 its own remedy, for the irregular, fitful 
 gusts from the mountains had already ceased, 
 and were succeeded by a strong but steady 
 gale from the north; and the sorrow of 
 Maso soon ended its characteristic plaints, 
 to take a more continued and even character. 
 
 During the whole of the foregoing scenes, 
 the common passengers had crouched to the 
 deck, partly in stupor, partly in superstitious 
 dread, and much of the time, from a positive 
 inability to move without incurring the risk 
 of being driven from the defenceless vessel 
 into the lake. But, as the wind diminished 
 in force, and the motion of the bark became 
 more regular, they rallied their senses, like 
 men who had been in a trance, and one by 
 one they rose to their feet. About this 
 time Adelheid heard the sound of her father’s 
 voice, blessing her care, and consoling her 
 sorrow. The north wind blew away the 
 canopy of clouds, and the stars shone above 
 the angry Leman, bringing with them some 
 such promise of divine aid as the pillar of 
 fire afforded to the Israelites in their passage 
 of the Red Sea. Such an evidence of re- 
 turning peace brought renewed confidence. 
 All in the bark, passengers as well as crew, 
 took courage at the benignant signs, while 
 
 Adelheid wept, in gratitude and joy, over 
 
 the gray hairs of her father. 
 
 Maso had now obtained complete command 
 of the Winkelried, as much by the necessity 
 of the case, as by the unrivalled skill and 
 courage he had manifested during the fear- 
 ful minutes of their extreme jeopardy. No 
 
 : 55 
 sooner did he succeed in staying his own 
 grief, than he called the people about him, 
 and issued his orders for the new measures 
 that had become necessary. 
 
 All who have ever been subject to their 
 influence know that there is nothing more 
 uncertain than the winds. Their fickleness 
 has passed into a proverb ; but their incon- 
 stancy, as well as their power, from the fan- 
 ning air to the destructive tornado, are to be 
 traced to causes that are sufficiently clear, 
 though hid in their nature from the calcula- 
 tions of our forethought. The tempest of 
 the night was owing to the simple fact that 
 a condensed and chilled column of air from 
 the mountains had pressed upon the heated 
 substratum of the lake, and the latter, after 
 a long resistance, suddenly finding vent for 
 its escape, had been obliged to let in the 
 cataract from above. As in all extraordi- 
 nary efforts, whether physical or moral, reac- 
 tion would seem to be a consequence of 
 excessive action, the currents of air, pushed 
 beyond their proper limits, were now setting 
 back again, like a tide on its reflux. This 
 cause produced the northern gale that suc- 
 ceeded the hurricane. 
 
 The wind that came from off the shores 
 of Vaud was steady and fresh. The barks 
 of the Leman are not constructed for beat- 
 ing to windward, and it might even have 
 been questioned whether the Winkelried 
 would have borne her canvas against so 
 heavy a breeze. Maso, however, appeared 
 to understand himself thoroughly, and as he 
 had acquired the influence which hardihood 
 and skill are sure to obtain over doubt and 
 timidity in situations of hazard, he was 
 obeyed by all on board with submission, if 
 not with zeal. No more was heard of the 
 headsman or of his supposed agency in the 
 storm ; and, as he prudently kept himself in 
 the background, so as not to endanger a 
 revival of the superstition of his enemies, he 
 seemed entirely forgotten. 
 
 The business of getting the anchors occu- 
 pied a considerable time, for Maso refused, 
 now there existed no necessity for the sacri- 
 fice, to permit a yarn to be cut; but, re- 
 leased from this hold on the water, the bark 
 whirled away, and was soon drifting before 
 the wind. The mariner was at the helm, 
 and causing the head-sail to be loosened, he 
 
56 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 steered directly for the rocks of Savoy. This | that they had been snatched from the jaws 
 manceuvre excited disagreeable suspicions in | of death. 
 the minds of several on board, for the law-| Maso shaped his course by the beacon that 
 less character of their pilot had been more | still blazed in the grate of old Roger de 
 than suspected in the course of their short | Blonay. With his eye riveted on the luff of 
 acquaintance, and the coast toward which | his sail, his hip bearing hard against the 
 they were furiously rushing was known to’ tiller, and a heart that relieved itself, from 
 be iron bound, and in such a gale fatal to all | time to time, with bitter sighs, he ruled the 
 who came rudely upon its rocks, Half an| bark like a presiding spirit. 3 
 hour removed their apprehension. When| At length the black mass of the cétes of 
 near enough to the mountains to feel their | Vaud took more distinct and regular forms. 
 deadening influence on the gale, the natural | Here and there, a tower or a tree betrayed its 
 effect of the eddies formed by their resist- | outlines against the sky, and then the objects 
 ance to the currents, he luffed-to and set his | on the margin of the lake began to stand out 
 main-sail. Relieved by this wise precaution, | in gloomy relief from the land. Lights flared 
 the Winkelried now wore her canvas gal-| along the strand, and cries reached them 
 lantly, and she dashed along the shore of from the shore. A dark shapeless pile stood 
 Savoy with a foaming beak, shooting past | directly athwart their watery path, and at the 
 ravine, valley, glen, and hamlet, as if sailing next moment it took the aspect of a ruined 
 in alr. castle-like edifice. The canvas flapped and 
 In less than an hour, St. Gingoulph, or the | was handed, the Winkelried rose and set more 
 village through which the dividing line be-| slowly and with a gentler movement, and 
 tween the territories of Switzerland and | glided into the little, secure, artificial haven 
 those of the King of Sardinia passes, was | of La Tour de Peil. A forest of latine yards 
 abeam, and the excellent calculations of the | and low masts lay before them, but by giving 
 sagacious Maso became still more apparent. | the bark a rank sheer, Maso brought her to 
 He had foreseen another shift of wind, as| her berth, by the side of another lake craft, 
 the consequence of all this poise and counter- | with a gentleness of collision that, as the 
 poise, and he was here met by the true breeze | mariners have it, would not have broken an 
 of the night. The last current came out of | egg. ; 
 the gorge of the Valais, sullen, strong, and| A hundred voices greeted the travellers; 
 hoarse, bringing him, however, fairly to | for their approach had been seen and watched 
 windward of his port. The Winkelried was | with intense anxiety. Fifty eager Vévaisans 
 cast in season, and when the gale struck her | poured upon her deck in a noisy crowd the 
 anew, her canvas drew fairly, and she walked | instant it was possible. Among others, a dark 
 out from beneath the mountains into the | shaggy object bounded foremost. It leaped 
 broad lake, like a swan obeying its m-| wildly forward, aud Maso found himself in 
 stinct. the embraces of Nettuno. A little later, when 
 The passage across the width of the | delight and more tempered feeling permitted 
 Leman, in that horn of the crescent and | eXamination, a lock of human hair was dis- 
 in such a breeze, required rather more than | covered entangled in the teeth of the dog, 
 half an hour. This time was occupied among | and the following week the bodies of Baptiste 
 the common herd in self-felicitations, and m | and the peasant of Berne were found still 
 those vain boastings that distinguish the | clinched in the desperate death-gripe, washed 
 vulgar who have escaped an imminent danger | upon the shores of Vaud. 
 without any particular merit of their own. 
 Among those whose spirits were better trained 
 and more rebuked, there were attentions to 
 the sufferers and deep thanksgiving, with the 
 touching intercourse of the grateful and 
 happy. The late scenes, and the fearful fate 
 of the patron and Nicklaus Wagner, cast a 
 shade upon their joy, but all inwardly felt 
 
 | 
 \ 
 { 
 . 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 «The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve ! 
 Long streams of light over glancing waves 
 expand ; 
 
 Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe: 
 
 Such be our fate when we return to land!” 
 ; —BYRON. 
 
 THE approach of the Winkelried had been 
 seen from Vévey throughout the afternoon 
 and evening. The arrival of the Baron de 
 Willading and his daughter was expected by 
 many in the town, the rank and influence of 
 the former in the great canton rendering him 
 an object of interest to more than those who 
 felt affection for his person and respect for his 
 upright qualities. Roger de Blonay had not 
 been his only youthful friend, for the place 
 contained another, with whom he was inti- 
 mate by habit, if not from a community of 
 those principles which are the best cement 
 of friendships. 
 
 The officer charged with the especial super- 
 vision of the districts or circles, into which 
 Berne had caused its dependent territory of 
 Vand to be divided, was termed a bailli, a title 
 that our word bailiff will scarcely render, ex- 
 cept as it may strictly mean a substitute for 
 the exercise of authority that is the property 
 of another, but which, from the want of a 
 better term, we may be compelled occasionally 
 to use. The bailli, or bailiff, of Vévey was 
 Peter Hofmeister, a member of one of those 
 families of the biirgerschaft, or the munici- 
 pal aristocracy of the canton, which found its 
 institutions venerable, just, and, if one might 
 judge from their language, almost sacred, 
 simply because it had been in possession of 
 certain exclusive privileges under their au- 
 thority, that were not only comfortable in 
 their exercise but fecund in other worldly 
 advantages. This Peter Hofmeister was, in 
 the main, a hearty, well-meaning, and some- 
 what beneyolent person, but, living as he did 
 under the secret consciousness that all was 
 not as it should be, he pushed his opinions 
 on the subject of vested interests, and on the 
 stability of temporal matters, a little into ex- 
 tremes, pretty much on the same principle 
 as that on which the engineer expends the 
 largest portion of his art in fortifying the 
 weakest point of a citadel, taking care that 
 there shall be a constant flight of shot, great 
 and small, across the most accessible of its 
 
 Ag 
 
 approaches. By one of the exclusive ordi- 
 nances of those times, in which men were 
 glad to get relief from the violence and ra- 
 pacity of the Baron and the satellite of the 
 Prince, ordinances that it was the fashion of 
 the day to term liberty, the family of Hof- 
 meister had come into the exercise of a cer- 
 tain charge, or monopoly, that in truth had 
 always constituted its wealth and importance, 
 but of which it was accustomed to speak as 
 forming its principal claim to the gratitude 
 of the public, for duties that had been per- 
 formed not only so well, but for so long a 
 period, by an unbroken succession of patriots 
 descended from the same stock. They who 
 judged of the value attached to the posses- 
 sion of this charge, by the animation with 
 which all attempts to relieve them of the 
 burden were repelled, must have been in 
 error; for, to hear their friends descant on 
 the difficulties of the duties, on the utter im- 
 possibility that they should be properly dis- 
 charged by any family that had not been in 
 their exercise just one hundred and seventy- 
 two years and a half, the precise period of 
 the hard servitude of the Hofmeisters, and 
 the rare merit of their self-devotion to the 
 common good, it would seem that they were 
 so many medern Curtii, anxious to leap into 
 the chasm of uncertain and endless toil, to 
 save the Republic from the ignorance and 
 peculations of certain interested and selfish 
 knaves, who wished to enjoy the same high 
 trusts, for a motive so unworthy as that of 
 their own particular advantage. This sub- 
 ject apart, however, and with a strong reser- 
 yation in favor of the supremacy of Berne, 
 on whom his importance depended, a better 
 or more philanthropic man than Peter Hot- 
 meister would not have been easily found. 
 He was a hearty laugher, a hard drinker, a 
 common and peculiar failing of the age, a 
 great respecter of the law, as was meet in 
 one so situated, and a bachelor of sixty-eight, 
 a time of life that, by referring his education 
 to a period more remote by half a century, 
 than that in which the incidents of our legend 
 took place, was not at all in favor of any very 
 romantic predilection in behalf of the rest of 
 the human race. In short, the Herr Hof- 
 meister was a bailiff, much as Balthazar was a 
 headsman, on account of some peculiar merit 
 or demerit (it might now be difficult to say 
 
58 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 which) of one of his ancestors, by the laws of 
 the canton, and by the opinionsofmen. ‘The 
 only material difference between them was 
 in the fact, that the one greatly enjoyed his 
 station, while the other had but an indifferent 
 relish for his trust. 
 
 When Roger de Blonay, by the aid of a 
 good glass, had assured himself that the bark 
 which lay off St. Saphorin, in the even tide, 
 with yards a-cock-bill, and sails pendent in 
 their picturesque drapery, contained a party 
 of gentle travellers who occupied the stern, 
 and saw by the plumes and robes that a female 
 of condition was among them, he gave an 
 order to prepar? the beacon-fire, and descended 
 to the port, in order to be in readiness to re- 
 ceive his friend. Here he found the bailiff, 
 pacing the public promenade, which is washed 
 by the limpid water of the lake, with the air 
 of a man who had more on his mind than the 
 daily cares of office. Although the Baron de 
 Blonay was a Vaudois, and looked upon all 
 the functionaries of his country’s conquerors 
 with a species of hereditary dislike, he was by 
 nature a man of mild and courteous qualities, 
 and the meeting was, as usual, friendly in the 
 externals, and of seeming cordiality. Great 
 care was had by both to speak in the second 
 person; on the part of the Vaudois, that it 
 might be seen he valued himself as, at least, 
 the equal of the representative of Berne, and, 
 
 on that of the bailiff, in order to show that | 
 
 his office made him as good as the head of the 
 oldest house in all that region. 
 
 “Thou expectest to see friends from Genf 
 in yonder bark ?” said the Herr Hofmeister, 
 abruptly. 
 
 “And thou?” 
 
 *‘ A friend, and one more than a friend,” 
 answered the bailiff evasively. “ My advices 
 tell me that Melchior de Willading will sojourn 
 among us during the festival of the Abbaye, 
 and secret notice has been sent that there will 
 be another here who wishes to see our merry- 
 making, without pretension to the honors that 
 he might fairly claim.” | 
 
 ‘‘It is not rare for nobles of mark, and 
 even princes, to visit us on these occasions, 
 under feigned names and without the éclat of 
 their rank ; for the great, when they descend 
 to follies, seldom like to bring their high con- 
 dition within their influence.” 
 
 “'The wiser they. I have my own troubles 
 
 with these accursed fooleries, for—it may be a 
 weakness, but it is one that is official—I can- 
 not help imagining that a bailiff cuts but a 
 shabby figure before the people in the pres- 
 ence of so many gods and goddesses. ‘T'o own 
 to thee the truth, I rejoice that he who 
 cometh, cometh as he doth. Hast letters of 
 late date from Berne ? ” 
 
 “ None ; though report says there is like to 
 be a change among some of those who fill 
 public trusts.” 
 
 “So much the worse !” growled the bailiff. 
 ‘“Ts it to be expected that men who never did 
 an hour’s duty in a charge can acquit them- 
 selves like those who have, it might be said, 
 sucked in practice with their mother’s milk?” 
 
 *‘ Aye; this is well enough for thee ; but 
 others say that even the Erlachs had a be- 
 ginning.” 
 
 “Himmel! Am I a heathen to deny this? 
 As many beginnings as thou wilt, good Roger, 
 but I like not thy ends. No doubt an Erlach 
 is mortal like all of us, and even a created 
 being ; but a man is not a charge. Let the 
 clay die, if thou wilt, but if thou wouldst 
 have faithful or skilful servants, look to the 
 true successor. But we will have none of 
 this to-day. Hast many guests at Blonay ?” 
 
 “Not one. I look for the company of 
 Melchior de Willading and his daughter— 
 and yet I like not the time! There are evil 
 signs playing about the high peaks and in 
 the neighborhood of the Dents since the sun 
 has set!” 
 
 “Thou art ever in a storm up in thy castle 
 there! The Leman was never more peace- 
 able, and I should take it truly in evil part, 
 were the rebellious lake to get into one of its 
 fits of sudden anger with so precious a freight 
 on its bosom.” 
 
 ‘‘T do not think the Genfer See will regard 
 even a bailiff’s displeasure!” rejoined the 
 Baron de Blonay, laughing. “I repeat it; 
 the signs are suspicious. Let us consult the 
 watermen, for it may be well to send a light- 
 pulling boat to bring the travellers to land.” 
 
 Roger de Blonay and the bailiff walked to- 
 ward the little earthen mole that partially pro- 
 tects the roadstead of Vévey, and which is 
 forever foaming and forever washing away 
 before the storms of winter, in order to con- 
 sult some of those who were believed to be 
 expert in detecting the symptoms that pre- 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 ceded any important changes of the atmos- 
 phere. The opinions were various. Most 
 believed there would be a gust; but, as the 
 Winkelried was known to be a new and well- 
 built bark, and none could tell how much 
 beyond her powers she had been loaded by 
 the cupidity of Baptiste, and as it was gen- 
 erally thought the wind would be as likely 
 to bring her up to her haven as be against 
 her, there appeared no sufficient reason for 
 sending off the boat; especialiy as it was be- 
 lieved the bark would be not only drier but 
 safer than a smaller craft, should they be 
 overtaken by the wind. This indecision, so 
 common in cases of uncertainty, was the 
 means of exposing Adelheid and her father 
 to all those fearful risks they had just run. 
 When the night came on, the people of the 
 town began to understand that the tempest 
 would be grave to those who were obliged to 
 eucounter it, even in the best bark, on the 
 Leman. The darkness added to the danger, 
 for vessels had often run against the land by 
 miscalculating their distances; and the lights 
 were shown along the strand, by order of the 
 bailiff, who manifested an interest so unusual 
 in those on board the Winkelried, as to draw 
 about them more than the sympathy that 
 would ordinarily be felt for travellers in dis- 
 tress. Every exertion that the case admitted 
 was made in their behalf, and the moment 
 the state of the lake allowed, boats were sent 
 off, in every possible direction, to their 
 succor. But the Winkelried was running 
 along the coast of Savoy ere any ventured 
 forth, and the search proved fruitless. When 
 the rumor spread, however, that a sail was to 
 be discerned coming out from ander the 
 wide shadow of the opposite mountains, and 
 that it was steering for La Tour de Peil, a 
 village with a far safer harbor than that of 
 Vévey, and but an arrow’s flight from the 
 latter town, crowds rushed to the spot. The 
 instant it was known that the missing party 
 was in her, the travellers were received with 
 cheers of delight and cries of hearty greeting. 
 The bailiff and Roger de Blonay hastened 
 forward to receive the Baron de Willading 
 and his friends, who were carried in a tu- 
 multuous and joyful manner into the old 
 castle that adorns the port, and from which, 
 in truth, the latter derives its name. ‘The 
 Bernois noble was too much affected with 
 
 59 
 
 the scenes through which he had so lately 
 passed, and with the strong and ungovernable 
 tenderness of Adelheid, who had wept over 
 him as a mother sobs over her recovered 
 child, to exchange greetings with him of 
 Vaud, in the hearty, cordial manner that 
 ordinarily characterized their meetings. Still 
 their peculiar habits shone through the re- 
 straint. 
 
 ‘Thou seest me just rescued from the 
 fishes of thy Leman, dear De Blonay,” he 
 said, squeezing the other’s hand with emo- 
 tion, as, leaning on his shoulder, they went 
 into the chateau. ‘‘ But for yonder brave 
 youth, and as honest a mariner as ever 
 floated on water, fresh or salt, all that is left 
 of old Melchior de Willading would, at this 
 moment, be of less value than the meanest 
 féra in thy lake.” 
 
 ‘God be praised that thou art as we see 
 thee! We feared for thee, and boats are out 
 at this moment in search of thy bark: but it 
 has been wiser ordered. ‘This brave young 
 man, who, I see, is both a Swiss and a soldier, 
 is doubly welcome among us—in the two 
 characters just named, and as one that hath 
 done thee and us so great a service.” 
 
 Sigismund received the compliments which 
 he so well merited with modesty. The bailiff. 
 however, not content with making the usual 
 felicitations, whispered in his ear that a ser- 
 vice like this, rendered to one of its most 
 esteemed nobles, would not be forgotten by 
 the Councils on a proper occasion. 
 
 “Thou art happily arrived, Herr Melchior,” 
 he then added, aloud; ‘‘come as thou wilt, 
 floating or sailing in air. We have thee 
 among us none the worse for the accident, 
 and we thank God, as Roger de Blonay has 
 just so well observed. Our Abbaye is like to 
 be a gallant ceremony, for divers gentlemen 
 of name are in town, and IJ hear of more that 
 are pricking forward among the mountains 
 from countries beyond the Rhine. Hadst 
 thou no other companions in the bark but 
 these I see around us?” 
 
 «<There is another, and I wonder that he 
 is not here! ’Tis anoble Genoese, thatthou ~ 
 hast often heard me name, Sire de Blonay, 
 as one that I love. Gaetano Grimaldi is a 
 name familiar to thee, or the words of friend- 
 ship have been uttered in an idle ear.” 
 
 «‘T have heard so much of the Italian that 
 
 a 
 
60 
 
 I can almost fancy him an old and tried ac- 
 quaintance. When thou first returnedst 
 from the Italian wars, thy tongue was never 
 weary of recounting his praises: it was Gae- 
 tano said this—Gaetano thought thus—Gae- 
 tano did that ! Surely he is not of thy com- 
 pany?” 
 
 “ He, and no other! A lucky meeting on 
 the quay of Genf brought us together again 
 after a separation of full thirty years, and as 
 if Heaven had reserved its trials for the occa- 
 sion, we have been made to go through the 
 late danger in company. I had him in my 
 arms in that fearful moment, Roger, when 
 the sky, and the mountains, and all of earth, 
 even to that dear girl, were fading, as I 
 thought forever, from my sight,—he, that 
 had already been my partner in so many 
 risks, who had bled for me, watched for me, 
 ridden for me, and did all other things that 
 love could prompt for me, was brought by 
 Providence to be my companion in the awful 
 strait through which I have just passed !” 
 
 While the Baron was still speaking, his 
 friend entered with the quiet and dignified 
 mien he always maintained, when it was not 
 his pleasure to throw aside the reserve of high 
 station, or when he yielded to the torrent of 
 feeling that sometimes poured through his 
 southern temperament, in a way to unsettle 
 the deportment of mere convention. He was 
 presented to Roger de Blonay and the bailiff, 
 as the person just alluded to, and as the old- 
 est and most tried of the friends of his intro- 
 ducer. His reception by the former was 
 natural and warm, while the Herr Hofmeis- 
 ter was so particular in his professions of 
 pleasure and respect, as to excite not only 
 notice but surprise. 
 
 “Thanks, thanks, good Peterchen,” said 
 the Baron de Willading, for such was the 
 familiar diminutive by which the bustling 
 bailiff was usually addressed, by those who 
 could take the liberty; ‘‘ thanks, honest Pe- 
 terchen; thy kindness to Gaetano is so much 
 love shown to myself.” 
 
 ‘7 honor thy friends as thyself, Herr von 
 Willading,” returned the bailiff, “for thou 
 hast a claim to the esteem of the biirgerschaft 
 and all its servants; but the homage paid to 
 the Signor Grimaldi is due on his own ac- 
 count. Weare but poor Swiss, that dwell in 
 the midst of wild mountains, little favored 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 by the sun if ye will, and less known to the 
 world; but we have our manners! A man 
 that hath been intrusted with authority as 
 long as I, were unfit for his trust did he not 
 tell, as it might be by instinct, when he has 
 those in his presence that are to be honored. 
 Signor, the loss of Melchior yon Willading 
 before our haven, would have made the lake 
 unpleasant to us all for months, not to say 
 years; but had so great a calamity arrived as 
 that of your death by means of our waters, I 
 could have prayed that the mountains might 
 fall into the basin, and bury the offending 
 Leman under their rocks !” 
 
 Melchior de Willading and old Roger de 
 Blonay laughed heartily at Peterchen’s hy- 
 perbolical compliments; though it was quite 
 plain that the worthy bailiff himself fancied 
 he had said a clever thing. 
 
 “JT thank you, signor, no less than my 
 friend De Willading,” returned the Genoese, 
 a gleam of humor lighting his eye. ‘“‘ This 
 courteous reception quite outdoes us of Italy; 
 for I doubt if there be a man south of the 
 Alps, who would be willing to condemn either 
 of our seas to so overwhelming a punishment 
 for a fault so venial, or at least so natural. I 
 beg, however, that the lake may be pardoned ; 
 since, at the worst, it was but a secondary 
 agent in the affair, and I doubt not it would 
 have treated us as it treats all travellers, had 
 we kept out of itsembraces. ‘The crime must 
 be imputed to the winds, and as they are the 
 offspring of the hills, I fear it will be found 
 that these very mountains, to which you look 
 for retribution, will be convicted at last as 
 the true devisers and abettors of the plot 
 against our lives.” 
 
 The bailiff chuckled and simpered like a 
 man pleased equally with his own wit and 
 with that he had excited in others, and the 
 discourse changed; though throughout the 
 night, as indeed was the fact on all other oc- 
 casions during his visit, the Signor Grimaldi 
 received from him so marked and particular 
 attentions, as to create a strong sentiment in 
 favor of the Italian among those who had 
 been chiefly accustomed to see Peterchen 
 enact the busy, important, dignified, local 
 functionary. 
 
 Attention was now paid to the first wants 
 of the travellers, who had great need of re- 
 freshments after the fatigues and exposure 
 
of the day. To obtain the latter, Roger de 
 Plonay insisted that they should ascend to 
 his castle, in whose grate the welcome beacon 
 still blazed. By means of chars-d-banc, the 
 peculiar vehicle of the country, the short dis- 
 tance was soon overcome, the bailiff, not a 
 little to the surprise of the owner of the 
 house, insisting on seeing the strangers safely 
 housed within its walls. At the gate of 
 Blonay, however, Peterchen took his leave, 
 making a hundred apologies for his absence, 
 on the ground of the extensive duties that 
 had devolved on his shoulders in consequence 
 of the approaching féte. 
 
 «We shall have a mild winter, for I have 
 never known the Herr Hofmeister so court- 
 eous,” observed Roger de Blonay, while 
 showing his guests into the castle. “ Thy 
 Bernese authorities, Melchior, are little apt 
 to be lavish of their compliments to us poor 
 nobles of Vaud.” 
 
 “Sionor, you forget the interest of our 
 friend,” observed the laughiag Genoese. 
 «here are other and better bailiwicks, be- 
 yond a question, in the gift of the Councils, 
 and the Signor de Willading has a loud voice 
 in their disposal. Have I found a solution 
 for this zeal?” 
 
 «“Thou hast not,” returned the Baron, 
 «for Peterchen hath little hope beyond that 
 of dying where he has lived, the deputed 
 ruler of a small district. The worthy man 
 should have more credit for a good heart, his 
 own no doubt being touched at seeing those 
 who are, as it may be, redeemed from the 
 grave. I owe him grace for the kindness, and 
 should a better thing really offer, and could 
 my poor voice be of account, why, I do not 
 say it should be silent; it is serving the pub- 
 lic well to put men of these kind feelings 
 into places of trust.” 
 
 This opinion appeared very natural to the 
 listeners, all of whom, with the exception of 
 the Signor Grimaldi, joined in echoing the 
 sentiment. The latter, more experienced in 
 
 the windings of the human heart, or possess- 
 ing some reasons known only to himself, 
 merely smiled at the remarks that he heard, 
 as if he thoroughly understood the difference 
 between the homage that is paid to station, 
 and that which a generous and noble 
 nature is compelled to yield to its own im- 
 pulses. 
 
 ‘7d 
 \o 
 mney: 
 
 THE HHEADSMAN. 
 
 61 
 
 An hour later, the light repast was ended, 
 and Roger de Blonay informed his guests 
 that they would be well repaid for walking a 
 short distance, by a look at the loveliness of 
 the night. In sooth, the change was already 
 so great that it was not easy for the imagina- 
 tion to convert the soft and smiling scene 
 that lay beneath and above the towers of 
 Blonay, into the dark vault and the angry 
 lake from which they had so lately escaped. 
 
 Every cloud had already sailed far away 
 toward the plains of Germany, and the moon 
 had climbed so high above the ragged Dent 
 de Jaman as to suffer its rays to stream into 
 the basin of the Leman. A thousand pensive 
 stars spangled the vault, images of the benign 
 omnipotence which unceasingly pervades and 
 governs the universe, whatever may be the 
 local derangements or accidental struggles of 
 the inferior agents. ‘The foaming and rush- 
 ing waves had gone down nearly as fast as 
 they had arisen, and in their stead, remained 
 myriads of curling ridges along which the 
 glittering moonbeams danced, rioting with 
 wild impunity on the surface of the placid 
 sheet. Boats were out again, pulling for 
 Savoy or the neighboring villages; and the 
 whole view betokened the renewed confidence 
 of those who trusted habitually to the fickle 
 and blustering elements. 
 
 “There is a strong and fearful resemblance 
 between the human passions and these hot 
 and angry gusts of nature,” observed the Sig- 
 nor Grimaldi, after they had stood silently 
 regarding the scene for several musing min- 
 utes, “alike quick to be aroused and to be 
 appeased; equally ungovernable while in the 
 ascendant, and admitting the influence of a 
 wholesome reaction, that brings a more sober 
 tranquillity when the ‘fit is over. Your 
 northern phlegm may render the analogy less 
 apparent, but it is to be found as well among 
 the cooler temperaments of the Teutonic 
 stock, as among us of warmer blood. Do not 
 this placid hill-side, yon lake, and the starry 
 heavens look as if they regretted their late 
 unseemly violence, and wished to cheat the 
 beholder into forgetfulness of their attack on 
 our safety, as an impetuous but generous 
 nature would repent it of the blow given in 
 anger, or of the cutting speech that had es- 
 caped ina moment of spleen? What hast 
 thou to say to my opinion, Signor Sigismund, 
 
62 
 
 for none know better than thou the quality 
 of the tempest we have encountered ?” 
 
 “Signor,” answered the young soldier, 
 modestly, ‘‘ you forget this brave mariner, 
 without whose coolness and forethought all 
 would have been lost. He has come up to 
 Blonay at our own request, but until now he 
 has been overlooked.” | 
 
 Maso came forward at a signal from Sigis- 
 mund, and stood before the party to whom 
 he had rendered so signal aid, with a com- 
 posure that was not easily disturbed. 
 
 ‘‘T have come up to the castle, signor, at 
 your commands,” he said, addressing the 
 Genoese ; ‘“‘but, having my own affairs on 
 hand, must now beg to know your pleasure ?” 
 
 “‘ We have, in sooth, been negligent of thy 
 merit. On landing, my first thought was of 
 thee, as thou knowest ; but other things had 
 caused me to forget thee. ‘Thou art, like 
 myself, an Italian ?” 
 
 ‘* Signor, I am.” 
 
 ‘‘Of what country ?” 
 
 ‘Of your own, signor; a Genoese, as I 
 have said before.” 
 
 The other remembered the circumstance, 
 though it did not seem to please him. He 
 looked around, as if to detect what others 
 thought, and then continued his questions. 
 
 ‘©A Genoese!” he repeated slowly: ‘if 
 this be so, we should know something of 
 each other. Hast ever heard of me, in thy 
 frequent visits to the port ?” 
 
 Maso smiled ; at first he appeared disposed 
 to be facetious; but a dark cloud passed over 
 his swarthy lineaments, and he lost his pleas- 
 antry, in an air of thoughtfulness that struck 
 his interrogator as singular. 
 
 ‘‘ Signor,” he said, after a pause, ‘‘ most 
 that follow my manner of life know some- 
 thing of your Eccellenza ; if it is only to be 
 questioned of this that I am here, I pray 
 leave to be permitted to go my way.” 
 
 ‘“ No, by San Francesco ! thou quittest us 
 not so unceremoniously. I am wrong to as- 
 sume the manner of a superior with one to 
 whom I owe my life, and am well answered. 
 But there is a heavy account to be settled 
 between us, and I will do something toward 
 wiping out the balance, which is so greatly 
 against me now ; leaving thee to apply for a 
 further statement when we shall both be 
 again in our own Genoa.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 f 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi had reached forth an 
 arm, while speaking, and received a well-filled 
 purse from his countryman and companion, 
 Marcelli. This was soon emptied of its con- 
 tents, a fair show of sequins, all of which 
 were offered to the mariner without reserva- 
 tion. Maso looked coldly at the glittering 
 pile, and by his hesitation, left a doubt 
 whether he did not think the reward insuffi- 
 cient. . 
 
 ‘I can tell thee it is but the present gage 
 of further payment. At Genoa our account 
 shall be fairly settled; but this is all that a 
 traveller can prudently spare. Thou wilt 
 come to me in our own town, and we will 
 look to all thy interests.” 
 
 ‘Signor, you offer that for which men do 
 all acts, whether of good or of evil. They 
 jeopard their souls for this very metal ; 
 mock at God’s laws; overlook the right ; 
 trifle with justice, and become devils incar- 
 nate to possess it; and yet, though nearly 
 penniless, I am so placed as to be compelled 
 to refuse what you offer.” 
 
 “JT tell thee, Maso; that it shall be in- 
 creased hereafter—or—we are not so poor as 
 to go a-begging ! Good Marcelli, empty thy 
 hoards, and I will have recourse to Melchior 
 de Willading’s purse for our wants, until we 
 can get nearer to our own supplies.” 
 
 ‘* And is Melchior de Willading to pass for 
 nothing, in all this ¢” exclaimed the Baron; 
 ‘‘put up thy gold, Gaetano, and leave me to 
 satisfy the honest mariner for the present. 
 At a later day, he can come to thee, in 
 Italy; but here, on my own ground, I claim 
 the right to be his banker.” 
 
 ‘‘Signori,” returned Maso, earnestly, and 
 with more of gentle feeling than he was ac- 
 customed to betray, ‘‘you are both liberal 
 beyond my desires, and but too well disposed 
 for my poor wants. I have come up to the 
 castle at your order, and to do you pleasure, 
 but not in the hope to get money. I am 
 poor; that it would be useless to deny, for 
 appearances are against me”—here he 
 laughed, his auditors thought in a manner 
 that was forced—‘‘ but poverty and meanness 
 are not always inseparable. You have more 
 than suspected to-day that my life is free, 
 and I admit it; but it is a mistake to believe 
 that, because men quit the high-road which 
 some call honesty, in any particular practice, 
 
THE HHEADSMAN. 
 
 they are without human feeling. I have 
 been useful in saving your lives, signori, and 
 there is more pleasure in the reflection, than 
 I should find in having the means to earn 
 twice the gold ye offer. Here is the signor 
 capitano,” he added, taking Sigismund by 
 the arm, and dragging him forward, “ lavish 
 your favors on him, for no practice of mine 
 could have been of use without his bravery. 
 If ye give him all in your treasuries, even to 
 its richest pearl, ye will do no more than 
 reason.” 
 
 As Maso ceased, he cast a glance towards 
 the attentive, breathless Adelheid, that con- 
 tinued to utter his meaning even after the 
 tongue was silent. The bright suffusion that 
 covered the maiden’s face was visible even by 
 * the pale moonlight, and Sigismund shrank 
 back from his rude grasp in the manner in 
 which the guilty retire from notice. 
 
 “These opinions are creditable to thee, 
 Maso,” returned the Genoese, affecting not to 
 understand his more particular meaning, 
 ‘©and they excite a stronger wish to be thy 
 friend. I will say no more on the subject at 
 present, for I see thy humor. Thou wilt let 
 me see thee at Genoa ?” 
 
 The expression of Maso’s countenance was 
 inexplicable, but he retained his usual indif- 
 ference of manner. 
 
 ‘Signor Gaetano,” he said, using a mari- 
 ner’s freedom in the address, ‘‘there are 
 nobles in Genoa that might better knock at 
 the door of your palace than I; and there are 
 those, too, in the city, that would gossip, 
 were it known that you received such guests.” 
 
 «This is tying thyself too closely to an evil 
 and a dangerous trade. I suspect thee to be 
 of the contrabane, but surely it is not a pur- 
 suit so free from danger, of so much repute, 
 or, judging by thy attire, of so much profit 
 even, that thou needest be wedded to it for 
 life. Means can be found to relieve thee from 
 its odium, by giving thee ‘a place in those 
 customs with which thou hast so often tri- 
 fled.” 
 
 Maso laughed outright. 
 
 **So it is, signor, in this moral world of 
 ours ; he who would run a fair course in any 
 particular trust has only to make himself 
 dangerous to be brought up. Your thief- 
 takers are desperate rogues out of business ; 
 your tide-waiter has got his art by cheating 
 
 63 
 
 the revenue; and I have been in lands where 
 it was said that all they who most fleeced the 
 people began their calling as suffering patri- 
 ots. The rule is firmly enough established 
 without the help of my poor name, and by 
 your leave, I will remain as I am; one that 
 hath his pleasure in living amid risks, and 
 who takes his revenge of the authorities by 
 railing at them when defeated, and by laugh- 
 ing at them when in success.”’ 
 
 “Young man, thou hast in thee the mate- 
 rials of a better life !” 
 
 ‘Signor, this may be true,” answered 
 Maso, whose countenance again grew dark ; 
 ‘we boast of being the lords of the creation, 
 but the bark of poor Baptiste was not less 
 master of its movements, in the late gust, 
 than we are masters of our fortunes. Signor 
 Grimaldi, I have in me the materials that 
 make a man; but the laws, and the opinions, 
 and the accursed strife of men have left me 
 what Iam. | For the first fifteen years of my 
 career, the church was to be my stepping- 
 stone to a cardinal’s hat, or a fat priory ; but 
 the briny sea-water washed out the necessary 
 unction.” 
 
 ‘Thou art better born than thou seemest 
 —thou hast friends who should be grieved at 
 this ?” 
 
 The eye of Maso flashed, but he bent it 
 aside, as if bearing down, by the force of an 
 indomitable will, some sudden and fierce im- 
 pulse. 
 
 ‘‘T was born of woman!” he said, with 
 singular emphasis. 
 
 ‘«¢ And thy mother—is she not pained at thy 
 present course—does she know of thy career?” 
 
 The haggard smile to which this question 
 gave birth induced the Genoese to regret that 
 he had put it. Maso evidently struggled to 
 subdue some feeling which harrowed his very 
 soul, and his success was owing to such a com- 
 mand of himself as men rarely obtain. 
 
 ‘«* She is dead,” he answered, huskily ; ‘‘ she 
 is a saint with the angels. Had she lived, I 
 should never have been a mariner, and—and 
 —” laying his hand on his throat, as if to 
 keep down the sense of suffocation, he smiled, 
 and added, laughingly,—‘‘ aye, and the good 
 Winkelried would have been a wreck.” 
 
 ‘Maso, thou must come to me at Genoa. 
 I must see more of thee, and question thee 
 further of thy fortunes. A fair spirit has 
 
64 
 
 been perverted in thy fall, and the friendly 
 aid of one who is not without influence may 
 still restore its tone.” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi spoke warmly, like 
 one who sincerely felt regret, and his voice 
 had all the melancholy and earnestness of 
 such a sentiment. The truculent nature of 
 Maso was touched by the show of interest, 
 and a multitude of fierce passions were at 
 once subdued. He approached the noble 
 Genoese, and respectfully took his hand. 
 
 ‘‘ Pardon the freedom, signor,” he said 
 more mildly, intently regarding the wrinkled 
 and attenuated fingers, with the map-like 
 tracery of veins, that he held in his own 
 brown and hard palm; ‘‘ this is not the first 
 time that our flesh has touched each other, 
 though it is the first time that our hands have 
 joined. Let it now be in amity. A humor 
 has come over me, and I would crave your 
 pardon, venerable noble, for the freedom. 
 Signor, you are aged, and honored, and stand 
 high, doubtless, in Heaven’s favor, as in that 
 of man—grant me, then, your blessing, ere | 
 go my way.” 
 
 As Maso preferred this extraordinary re- 
 quest, he knelt with an air of so much rever- 
 ence and sincerity as to leave little choice as to 
 granting it. The Genoese was surprised, but 
 not disconcerted. With perfect dignity and 
 self-possession, and with a degree of feeling 
 that was not unsuited to the occasion, the 
 fruit of emotions so powerfully awakened, he 
 pronounced the benediction. The mariner 
 arose, kissed the hand which he still held, 
 made a hurried sign of salutation to all, 
 leaped down the declivity on which they 
 stood, and vanished among the shadows of a 
 copse. 
 
 Sigismund, who had witnessed this unusual 
 scene with surprise, watched him to the last, 
 and he saw, by the manner in which he 
 dashed his hand across his eyes, that his fierce 
 nature had been singularly shaken. On re- 
 covering his thoughts, the Signor Grimaldi, 
 too, felt certain there had been no mockery 
 in the conduct of their inexplicable preserver, 
 for a hot tear had fallen on his hand ere it 
 was liberated. He was himself strongly 
 agitated by what had passed, and leaning on 
 his friend, he slowly re-entered the gate of 
 Blonay. 
 
 ‘‘This extraordinary demand of Maso’s has 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 prought up the sad image of my own poor 
 son, dear Melchior,” he said; “would to 
 Heaven that he could have received this bless- 
 ing, and that it might have been of use to 
 him, in the sight of God ! Nay, he may yet 
 hear it—for, canst thou believe it, I have 
 thought that Maso may be one of his lawless 
 associates, and that some wild decire to com- 
 municate this scene has prompted the strange 
 request I granted.” ; 
 
 The discourse continued, but it became 
 secret, and of the most confidential kind. 
 The rest of the party soon sought their beds, 
 though lamps were burning in the chambers 
 of the two old nobles to a late hour of the 
 night. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ‘‘Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the 
 door: What is the matter ?””—Hamlet. 
 
 Tue American autumn, or fall, as we po- 
 etically and affectionately term this generous 
 and mellow season among ourselves, is 
 thought to be unsurpassed, in its warm and 
 genial lustre, its bland and exhilarating airs, 
 and its admirable constancy, by the decline 
 of the year in nearly every other portion of the 
 earth. Whether attachment to our own fair 
 and generous land has led us to over-estimate 
 its advantages or not, and bright and cheer- 
 ful as our autumnal days certainly are, a 
 fairer morning never dawned upon the Alle- 
 ghanies than that which illumed the Alps, 
 on the reappearance of the sun after the gust 
 of the night which has been so lately de- 
 scribed. As the day advanced, the scene 
 grew gradually more lovely, until warm and 
 glowing Italy itself could scarcely present a 
 landscape more winning, or one possessing a 
 fairer admixture of the grand and the soft, 
 than that which greeted the eye of Adelheid 
 de Willading, as, leaning on the arm cf her 
 father, she issued from the gate of Blonay 
 upon its elevated and gravelled terrace. 
 
 It has already been said that this ancient 
 and historical building stood against the 
 bosom of the mountains, at the distance of a 
 short league behind the town of Vévey. All 
 the elevations of this region are so many spurs 
 of the same vast pile, and that on which. 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 Blonay has now been seated from the earliest 
 period of the middle ages belongs to that pe- 
 culiar line of rocky ramparts which separates 
 the Valais from the centre cantons of the 
 confederation of Switzerland, and which is 
 commonly known as the range of the Ober- 
 land Alps, This line of snow-crowned rocks 
 terminates in perpendicular precipices on the 
 very margin of the Leman, and forms, on the 
 side of the lake, a part of that magnificent 
 setting which renders the southeastern horn 
 of its crescent so wonderfully beautiful. The 
 upright natural wall that overhangs Ville- 
 neuve and Chillon stretches along the verge of 
 the water, barely leaving room for a carriage- 
 road, with here and there a cottage at its 
 base, for the distance of two leagues, when it 
 diverges from the course of the lake, and 
 withdrawing inland, it is finally lost among 
 the minor eminences of Fribourg. very 
 one has observed those sloping declivities, 
 composed of the washing of torrents, the 
 débris of precipices, and what may be termed 
 the constant drippings of perpendicular emi- 
 nences, and which lie like broad buttresses at 
 their feet, forming a sort of foundation or 
 basement for the superincumbent mass. 
 Among the Alps, where nature has acted on 
 so sublime a scale, and where all the propor- 
 tions are duly observed, these dédris of the 
 high mountains frequently contain villages 
 and towns, or form vast fields, vineyards, and 
 pasturages, according to their elevation or 
 their exposure toward the sun. It may be 
 questioned, in strict geology, whether the 
 variegated acclivity that surrounds Vévey, 
 rich in villages and vines, hamlets and cas- 
 tles, has been thus formed, or whether the 
 natural convulsions which expelled the upper 
 rocks from the crust of the earth left their 
 bases in the present broken and beautiful 
 forms ; but the fact is not important to the 
 effect, which is that just named, and which 
 _ gives rise to these vast ranges of rock second- 
 ary and fertile bases, that, in* other regions, 
 would be termed mountains of themselves. 
 The castle and family of Blonay, for both 
 still exist, are among the oldest of Vaud. A 
 square, rude tower, based upon a foundation 
 of rock, one of those ragged masses that 
 thrust their naked heads occasionally through 
 the soil of the declivity, was the commence- 
 ment of the hold. Other edifices have been 
 
 65 
 
 reared arouna this nucleus in different ages, 
 until the whole presents one of those peculiar 
 and picturesque piles, that ornament so many 
 both of the savage and of the softer sites of 
 Switzerland. 
 
 The terrace toward which Adelheid and 
 her father advanced was an irregular walk, 
 shaded by venerable trees that had been 
 raised near the principal or the carriage gate 
 of the castle, on a ledge of those rocks that 
 form the foundation of the buildings them- 
 selves. It had its parapet walls, its seats, its 
 artificial soil,and its graveled alleés, as is 
 usual with these antiquated ornaments; but 
 it also had, what is better than these, one of 
 the most sublime and lovely views that ever 
 greeted human eyes. Beneath it lay the un- 
 dulating and teeming declivity, rich in vines, 
 and carpeted with sward, here dotted by 
 hamlets, there park-like and rural with for- 
 est trees, while there was no quarter that did 
 not show the roof of a chateau or the tower 
 of some rural church. There is little of mag- 
 nificence in Swiss architecture, which never 
 much surpasses, and is, perhaps, generally 
 inferior to our own; but the beauty and 
 quaintness of the sites, the great variety of 
 the surfaces, the hill-sides, and the purity of 
 the atmosphere, supply charms that are pe- 
 culiar to this country. Vévey lay at the 
 water-side, many hundred feet lower, and 
 seemingly on a narrow strand, though in 
 truth enjoying ample space; while the houses 
 of St. Saphorin, Corsier, Montreux, and of a 
 dozen more villages, were clustered together, 
 like so many of the compact habitations of 
 wasps stuck against the mountains. But the 
 principal charm was in the Leman. One 
 who had never witnessed the lake in its fury, 
 could not conceive the possibility of danger 
 in the tranquil shining sheet that was now 
 spread like a liquid mirror, for leagues be: 
 neath the eye. Some six or seven barks were 
 in view, their sails drooping in negligent 
 forms, as if disposed expressly to become 
 models for the artist, their yards inclining as 
 chance had cast them, and their hulls looming 
 large, to complete the picture. To these 
 near objects must be added the distant view, 
 which extended to the Jura in one direction, 
 and which in the other was bounded by the 
 frontiers of Italy, whose aérial limits were to 
 be traced in that region which appears to be- 
 CC 
 
66 
 
 long neither to heaven nor to earth, the 
 abode of eternal frosts. ‘The Rhone was 
 shining, in spots, among the meadows of the 
 Valais, for the elevation of the castle ad- 
 mitted of its being seen, and Adelheid en- 
 deavored to trace among the mazes of the 
 mountains the valleys which led to thosesunny 
 countries, toward which they journeyed. 
 
 The sensations of both father and daugh- 
 ter, when they came beneath the leafy can- 
 opy of the terrace, were those of mute de- 
 light. It was evident, by the expression of 
 their countenances, that they were in a favor- 
 able mood to receive pleasurable impressions; 
 for the face of each was full of that quiet 
 happiness which succeeds sudden and lively 
 joy. Adelheid had been weeping; but, judg- 
 ing from the radiance of her eyes, the health- 
 ful and brightening bloom of her cheeks, and 
 the struggling smiles that played about her 
 ripe lips, the tears had been sweet, rather 
 than painful. Though still betraying enough 
 of physical frailty to keep alive the concern 
 of all who loved her, there was a change for 
 the better in her appearance, which was so 
 sensible as to strike the least observant of 
 those who lived in daily communication with 
 the invalid. 
 
 ‘Tf pure and mild air, a sunny sky, and 
 ravishing scenery, be what they see who 
 cross the Alps, my father,” said Adelheid, 
 after they had stood a moment, gazing at 
 the magnificent panorama, ‘‘ why should the 
 Swiss quit his native land? Is there in 
 Italy aught more soft, more winning, or 
 more healthful than this?” 
 
 ‘«This spot has often been called the Italy 
 of our mountains. The fig ripens near 
 yonder village of Montreux, and, open to 
 the morning sun while it is sheltered by the 
 precipices above, the whole of that shore 
 well deserves its happy reputation. Still 
 they whose spirits require diversion, and 
 whose constitutions need support, generally 
 prefer to go into countries where the mind 
 has more occupation, and where a greater 
 variety of employments help the climate and 
 nature to complete the cure.” 
 
 ‘‘But thou forgettest, father, it is agreed 
 between us that I am now to become strong, 
 and active, and laughing, as we used to be 
 at Willading, when I first grew into woman- 
 hood.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘If I could but see those days again, 
 darling, my own closing hours would be 
 calm as those of a saint—though Heaven 
 knows I have little pretension to that blessed 
 character in any other particular.” 
 
 ‘* Dost thou not count a quiet conscience 
 and a sure hope as something, father?” 
 
 ‘Have it as thou wilt, girl, Make a saint 
 of me, or a bishop, or a hermit, if thou wilt; 
 the only reward I ask is, to see thee smiling 
 and happy, as thou never failedst to be 
 during the first eighteen years of thy life. 
 Had I foreseen that thou wert to return 
 from my good sister so little like thyself, I 
 would have forbidden the visit, much as I 
 love her, and all that are hers. But the 
 wisest of us are helpless mortals, and scarce 
 know our wants from hour to hour. Thou 
 saidst, I think, that this brave Sigismund 
 honestly declared his belief that my consent 
 could never be given to one who had so little 
 to boast of, in the way of birth and fortune ? 
 There was, at least, good sense, and modesty, 
 and right feeling, in the doubt, but he should 
 have thought better of my heart.” 
 
 ‘‘He said this,” returned Adelheid, in a 
 timid and slightly trembling voice, though 
 it was quite apparent, by the confiding ex- 
 pression of her eye, that she had no longer 
 any secret from her parent. ‘‘He had too 
 much honor to wish to win the daughter of 
 a noble without the knowledge and appro- 
 bation of her friends.” 
 
 ‘¢That the boy should love thee, Adel- 
 heid, is natural; it is an additional proof of 
 his own merit—but that he should distrust 
 my affection and justice is an offence that 
 I can scarce forgive. What are ancestry and 
 wealth to thy happiness ?” 
 
 ‘‘Thou forget’st, dear sir, he is yet to 
 learn that my happiness, in any measure, 
 depends on his.” . 
 
 Adelheid spoke quickly and with warmth. 
 
 ‘¢ He knew I was a father, and that thou 
 art an only child; one of his good sense 
 and right way of thinking should have better 
 understood the feelings of a man in my 
 situation, than to doubt his natural affec 
 tion.” 
 
 ‘*Ag he has never been the parent of an 
 only daughter, father,” answered the smiling 
 Adelheid, for, in her present mood, smiles: 
 came easily, ‘‘ he may not have felt or antic- — 
 
SER. 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 ipated all that thou imagin’st. He knew 
 the prejudices of the world on the subject of 
 noble blood, and they are few, indeed, that, 
 having much, are disposed to part with it 
 to him who hath little.” 
 
 ‘<The lad reasoned more like an old miser 
 than a young soldier, and I have a great 
 mind to let him feel my displeasure for 
 thinking so meanly of me. Have we not 
 Willading, with all its fair lands, besides 
 our rights in the city, that we need go beg- 
 ging money of others, like needy mendicants! 
 Thou hast been in the conspiracy against 
 my character, girl, or such a fear could not 
 have given either uneasiness for a moment.” 
 
 ‘Tf never thought, father, that thou 
 wouldst reject him on account of poverty, 
 for I knew our own means sufficient for all 
 our wants; but I did believe that he who 
 could not boast the privileges of nobility 
 might fail to gain thy favor.” 
 
 “ Are we not a republic ?—is not the right 
 of the birgerschaft the one essential right in 
 Berne—why should I raise obstacles about 
 that on which the laws are silent? ” 
 
 Adelheid listened, as a female of her years 
 would be apt to listen to words so grateful; 
 with a charmed ear; and yet she shook her 
 head, in a way to express an incredulity that 
 was not altogether free from apprehension. 
 
 “For thy generous forgetfulness of old 
 opinions in behalf of my happiness, dearest 
 father,” she resumed, the tears starting un- 
 bidden to her thoughtful blue eye, “I thank 
 thee fervently. It is true that we are inhabi- 
 tants of a republic, but we are not the less 
 noble.” 
 
 “ Dost thou turn against thyself, and hunt 
 up reasons why I should not do that which 
 thou hast just acknowledged to be so neces- 
 sary to prevent thee from following thy 
 brothers and sisters to their early graves?” 
 
 The blood rushed in a torrent to the face of 
 Adelheid, for though, weeping and in the 
 moment of tender confidence which succeeded 
 her thanksgivings for the Baren’s safety, she 
 had thrown herself on his bosom, and con- 
 fessed that the hopelessness of the sentiments 
 with which she met the declared love of Sig- 
 ismund was the true cause of the apparent 
 malady that had so much alarmed her friends, 
 the words that had flowed spontaneously from 
 her heart, in so tender a scene, had never ap- 
 
 67 
 
 peared to her to convey a meaning so strong, 
 or one so wounding to virgin pride, as that 
 which her father, in the strength of his 
 masculine habits, had now given them. 
 
 “In God’s mercy, father, I shall live, 
 whether united to Sigismund or not, to 
 smooth thine own decline and to bless thy 
 old age. A pious daughter will never be 
 torn so cruelly from one to whom she is the 
 last and only stay. I may mourn this disap- 
 pointment, and foolishly wish, perhaps, it 
 might have been otherwise; but ours is not 
 a house of which the maidens die for their 
 inclinations in favor of any youths, however 
 deserving! ” 
 
 ‘‘Noble or simple,” added the Baron, 
 laughing, for he saw that his daughter spoke 
 in a sudden pique, rather than from her ex- 
 cellent heart. Adelheid, whose good sense 
 and quick recollections instantly showed 
 her the weakness of this little display of 
 female feeling, laughed faintly in her turn, 
 though she repeated his words as if to give 
 still more emphasis to her own. 
 
 “This will not do, my daughter. They 
 who profess the republican doctrine should 
 not be too rigid in their constructions of 
 privileges. If Sigismund be not noble, it 
 will not be difficult to obtain for him that 
 honorable distinction, and in failure of main 
 Ime, he may bear the name and sustain the 
 honors of our family. In any case he will 
 become of the birgerschaft, and that of itself 
 will be all that is required in Berne.” 
 
 ‘‘In Berne, father,” returned Adelheid, 
 who had so far forgotten the recent move- 
 ment of pride as to smile on her fond and in- 
 dulgent parent, though, yielding to the way- 
 wardness of the happy, she continued to trifle 
 with her own feelings—‘‘it is true. The 
 birgerschaft will be sufficient for all the pur- 
 poses of office and political privileges, but 
 will it suffice for the opinions of our equals, 
 for the prejudices of society, or for your own 
 perfect contentment, when the freshness of 
 gratitude shall have passed?” 
 
 **Thou puttest these questions, girl, as if — 
 employed to defeat thine own cause. Dost 
 not truly love the boy, after all?” 
 
 “‘ On this subject, I have spoken sincerely 
 and as became thy child,” frankly returned 
 Adelheid. ‘He saved my life from immi- 
 nent peril, as he has now saved thine, and 
 
68 
 
 although my aunt, fearful of thy displeasure, 
 would not that thou shouldst hear the tale, 
 her prohibition could not prevent gratitude 
 from having its way. 1 have told thee that 
 Sigismund has declared his _ feelings, al- 
 though he nobly abstained from even asking 
 a return, and I should not have been my 
 mother’s child, could I have remained en- 
 tirely indifferent to so much worth united to 
 a service so great. What I have said of our 
 prejudices is, then, rather for your reflection, 
 dearest sir, than for myself. I have thought 
 much of all this, and am ready to make any 
 sacrifice to pride, and to bear all the remarks 
 of the world, in order to discharge a debt to 
 one to whom I owe so much. But, while it 
 is natural, perhaps unavoidable, that I should 
 feel thus, thou art not necessarily to forget 
 the other claims upon thee. It is true that, 
 in one sense, we are all to each other, but 
 there is a tyrant that will scarely let any es- 
 cape from his reign; I mean opinion. Let 
 us not then deceive ourselves—though we of 
 Berne affect the republic, and speak much of 
 liberty, it isa small state, and the influence 
 of those that are larger and more powerful 
 among our neighbors rules in everything that 
 touches opinion. A noble is as much a noble 
 in Berne, in all but what the law bestows, as 
 he ig in the Empire—and thou knowest we 
 come of the German root, which has struck 
 deep into these prejudices.” 
 
 The Baron de Willading had been much 
 accustomed to defer to the superior mind 
 and more cultivated understanding of his 
 daughter, who, in the retirement of her 
 father’s castle, had read and reflected far 
 more than her years would have probably 
 permitted in the busier scenes of the world. 
 He felt the justice of her remark, and they 
 had walked the entire length of the terrace 
 in profound silence, before he could summon 
 the ideas necessary to make a suitable an- 
 swer. 
 
 «‘The truth of what thou sayest is not to 
 be denied,” he at length said, ‘“‘but it may 
 be palliated. I have many friends in the 
 German courts, and favors may be had ; 
 letters of nobility will give the youth the 
 station he wants, after which he can claim 
 thy hand without offence to any opinions, 
 whether of Berne or elsewhere.” 
 
 “JT doubt if Sigismund will willingly be- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 come a party to this expedient. Our own 
 nobility is of ancient origin ; it dates from a 
 period anterior to the existence of Berne as a 
 city, and is much older than our institutions. 
 I remember to have heard him say, that when 
 a people refused to bestow these distinctions 
 themselves, their citizens can never receive 
 them from others without a loss of dignity 
 and character, and one of his moral firmness 
 might hesitate to do what he thinks wrong 
 for a boon so worthless as that we offer.” 
 
 ‘¢By the soul of William Tell! should 
 the unknown peasant dare—— But he isa 
 brave boy, and twice has he done the last 
 service to my race! I love him, Adelheid, 
 little less than thyself; and we will win him 
 over to our purpose gently, and by degrees. 
 A maiden of thy beauty and years, to say 
 nothing of thy other qualities, thy name, the 
 lands of Willading, and the rights of Berne, 
 are matters after all not to be lightly refused 
 by a nameless soldier who hath naught——” 
 
 ‘But his courage, his virtues, his modesty, 
 and his excellent sense, father !” 
 
 “Thou wilt not let me have the naked 
 satisfaction of vaunting my own wares! I 
 see Gaetano Grimaldi making signs at his 
 window, as if he were about to come forth ; 
 go thou to thy chamber, that I may discourse 
 of this troublesome matter with that excel- 
 lent friend ; in good season thou shalt know 
 the result.” 
 
 Adelheid kissed the hand that she held in 
 her own, and left him with a thoughtful air. 
 As she descended from the terrace, it was not 
 with the same elastic step as she had come 
 up half an hour before. 
 
 Early deprived of her mother, this strong- 
 minded but delicate girl had long been ac- 
 customed to make her father a confidant of 
 all her hopes, thoughts, and pictures of the 
 future. Owing to her peculiar circumstances, 
 she would have had less hesitation than is 
 usual to her sex in avowing to her parent any 
 of her attachments ; but a dread that the de- 
 claration might conduce to his unhappiness, 
 without in any manner favoring her own 
 cause, had hitherto kept her silent. Her 
 acquaintance with Sigismund had been long 
 and intimate. Rooted esteem and deep 
 respect lay at the bottom of her sentiments, 
 which were, however, so lively as to have 
 
 chased the rose from her cheek in the en- 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 deayor to forget them, and to have led her 
 sensitive father to apprehend that she was 
 suffering under that premature decay which 
 had already robbed him of his other children. 
 There was in truth no serious ground for this 
 
 apprehension, so natural to one in the place | 
 
 of the Baron de Willading; for, until 
 thought and reflection paled her cheek, a 
 more blooming maiden than Adelheid, or 
 one that united more perfect health with 
 feminine delicacy, did not dwell among her 
 native mountains. She had quietly con- 
 sented to the Italian journey, in the expec- 
 tation that it might serve to divert her mind 
 from brooding over what she had long con- 
 sidered hopeless, and with the natural desire 
 to see lands so celebrated, but not under any 
 mistaken opinions of her own situation. The 
 presence of Sigismund, so far as she was con- 
 cerned, was purely accidental, although she 
 could not prevent the pleasing idea from ob- 
 
 truding—an idea so grateful to her womanly | 
 
 affections and maiden pride—that the young 
 soldier, who was in the service of Austria, 
 and who had become known to her in one of 
 his frequent visits to his native land, had 
 gladly seized this favorable occasion to re- 
 turn to his colors. Circumstances, which 
 it is not necessary to recount, had enabled 
 Adelheid to make the youth acquainted with 
 her father, though the interdictions of her 
 aunt, whose imprudence had led to the acci- 
 dent which nearly proved so fatal, and from 
 whose consequences she had been saved by 
 Sigismund, prevented her from explaining 
 all the causes she had for showing him re- 
 spect and esteem. Perhaps the manner in 
 which this young and imaginative though 
 sensible girl was compelled to smother a por- 
 tion of her feelings gave them intensity, and 
 hastened that transition of sentiment from 
 gratitude to affection, which, in another 
 case, might have only been produced by a 
 more open and prolonged association. As it 
 was, she scarcely knew herself how irretriev- 
 _ ably her happiness was bound up in that of 
 Sigismund, though she had so long cherished 
 his image in most of her day-dreams, and 
 had unconsciously admitted his influence 
 over her mind and hopes, until she learned 
 that they were reciprocated. 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi appeared on one end 
 of the terrace as Adelheid de Willading de- 
 
 a 
 
 69 
 
 scended at the other. The old nobles had 
 separated late on the previous night, after a 
 private and confidential communication that 
 had shaken the soul of the Italian, and drawn 
 strong and sincere manifestations of sympathy 
 from his friend. ‘Though so prone to sudden 
 shades of melancholy, there was a strong 
 touch of the humorous in the native charac- 
 ter of the Genoese, which came so quick upon 
 his more painful recollections, as greatly to 
 relieve their weight, and to render him, in 
 appearance at least, a happy, while the truth 
 would have shown that he was a sorrowing, 
 man. He had been making his orisons with 
 a grateful heart, and he now came forth into 
 the genial mountain air like one who had re- 
 lieved his conscience of a heavy debt. Like 
 most laymen of the Catholic persuasion, he 
 thought himself no longer bound to maintain 
 a grave and mortified exterior, when worship 
 and penitence were duly observed, and he 
 joined his friend with a cheerfulness of air 
 and voice that an ascetic or a puritan might 
 have attributed to levity, after the scenes 
 through which he had so lately passed. 
 
 ‘‘The Virgin and San Francesco keep thee 
 in mind, old friend!” said the Signor Gri- 
 maldi, cordially kissing the two cheeks of the 
 Baron de Willading. ‘‘ We both have reason 
 to remember their care, though, heretic as 
 thou art, I doubt not that thou hast already 
 found some other mediators to thank, that 
 we now stand on this solid terrace of the 
 Signor de Blonay, instead of being worthless 
 clay at the bottom of yonder. treacherous 
 lake.” 
 
 ‘¢T thank God for this, as for all his mer- 
 cies—for thy life, Gaetano, as well as for mine 
 own.” 
 
 “Thou art right, thou art right, good Mel- 
 chior; *twas no affair for any but Him who 
 holds the universe in the hollow of His hand, 
 in good faith, for a minute later would have 
 gathered both with our fathers. Still thou 
 wilt permit me, Catholic as I am, to remem- 
 ber the intercessors on whom I called in the 
 moment of extremity.” 
 
 “This is a subject on which we have never 
 agreed, and on which we probably never 
 shall,” answered the Bernese, with somewhat 
 of the reserve of one conscious of a stronger . 
 dissidence than he wished to express, as they 
 turned and commenced their walk up and 
 
70 
 
 down the terrace, “ though I believe it is the 
 only matter of difference that ever existed 
 between us.” 
 
 ‘‘Tg it not extraordinary,” returned the 
 Genoese, “that men should consort together 
 in good and evil, bleed for each other, love 
 each other, do all acts of kindness to each 
 other, as thou and I have done, Melchior, 
 nay, be in the last extremity, and feel more 
 agony for the friend than for one’s self, and 
 yet entertain such opinions of their respective 
 creeds, as to fancy the unbeliever in the 
 devil’s claws all this time, and to entertain a 
 latent distrust that the very soul which, in 
 all other matters, is deemed so noble and ex- 
 cellent, is to be everlastingly damned for the 
 want of certain opinions and formalities that 
 we ourselves have been taught to think 
 essential ?” 
 
 “To tell the truth,’ returned the Swiss, 
 rubbing his forehead like a man who wished 
 to brighten up his ideas, as one would brighten 
 old silver, by friction ; “ this subject, as thou 
 well knowest, is not my strong side. Luther 
 and Calvin, with other sages, discovered that 
 it was weakness to submit to dogmas, without 
 close examination, merely because they were 
 venerable, and they winnowed the wheat from 
 the chaff. This we call a reform. It is 
 enough for me that men so wise were satisfied 
 with their researches and changes, and I feel 
 little inclination to disturb a decision that 
 has now received the sanction of nearly two 
 centuries of practice. ‘To be plain with thee, 
 I hold it discreet to reverence the opinions of 
 my fathers.” 
 
 “Though it would seem not of thy grand- 
 fathers,” said the Italian, dryly, but in perfect 
 good humor. “By San Francesco! thou 
 wouldst have made a worthy cardinal, had 
 chance brought thee into the world fifty 
 leagues further south, or west, or east. But 
 this is the way with the world, whether it be 
 your Turk, your Hindoo, or your Lutheran, 
 and I fear it is much the same with the chil- 
 dren of St. Peter, too. Each has his argu- 
 ments for faith, or politics, or any interest 
 that may be named, which he uses like a 
 hammer to knock down the bricks of his op- 
 ponent’s reasons, and when he finds himself 
 - in the other’s intrenchments, why, he gathers 
 together the scattered materials in order to 
 build a wall for his own protection. Then 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 what was oppression yesterday is justifiable 
 defence to-day; fanaticism becomes logic ; 
 and credulity and pliant submission get, in 
 two centuries, to be deference to the vener- 
 able opinion of our fathers! But let it go 
 —thou wert speaking of thanking God, and 
 in that, Roman though I am, I fervently and 
 devoutly join with or without saints’ inter- 
 cession.” 
 
 The honest Baron did not like his friend’s 
 allusions, though they were much too sutble 
 for his ready comprehension, for the intellect 
 of the Swiss was a little frosted by constant 
 residence among snows and in full view of 
 glaciers, and it wanted the volatile play of 
 the Genoese’s fancy, which was apt to expand 
 like air rarefied by the warmth of the sun. 
 This difference of temperament, however, so 
 far from lessening their mutual kindness, 
 was, most probably, the real cause of its 
 existence, since it is well known that friend- 
 ship, like love, is more apt to be generated 
 by qualities that vary a little from our own 
 than by a perfect homogeneity of character 
 and disposition, which is more liable to give 
 birth to rivalry and contention, than when 
 each party has some distinct capital of his 
 own on which to adventure, and with which 
 to keep alive the interest of him who, in that 
 particular feature, may be but indifferently 
 provided. All that is required for a perfect 
 community of feeling, is a mutual recogni- 
 tion of, and a common respect for, certain 
 great moral rules, without which there can 
 exist no esteem between the upright. ‘The 
 alliance of knaves depends on motives so 
 hackneyed and obvious that we abstain from 
 any illustration of its principle as a work of 
 supererogation. The Signor Grimaldi and 
 Melchior de Willading were both very up- 
 right and justly-minded men, as men go, in 
 intention at least, and their opposite pecu- 
 liarities and opinions had served, during hot 
 youth, to keep alive the interest of their 
 communications, and were not likely, now 
 that time had mellowed their feelings and 
 brought so many recollections to strengthen 
 the tie, to overturn what they had been 
 originally the principal instruments in cre- 
 ating. 
 
 ‘‘Of thy readiness to thank God, I have 
 never doubted,” answered the Baron, when 
 his friend had ended the remark just re- _ 
 
 + 
 
THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 corded, ‘‘but we know that his favors are 
 commonly shown to us here below by means 
 of human instruments. Ought we not, 
 therefore, to manifest another sort of grati- 
 tude in favor of the individual who was so 
 serviceable in last night’s gust ?” 
 
 ‘Thou meanest my untractable country- 
 man? I have bethought me much since we 
 separated of his singular refusal, and hope 
 still to find the means of conquering his 
 obstinacy.” 
 
 **T hope thou may’st succeed, and thou 
 well know’st that I am always to be counted 
 on as an auxiliary. But he was not in my 
 thoughts at the instant; there is still another 
 who nobly risked more than the mariner in 
 our behalf, since he risked life.” 
 
 ‘‘This is beyond question, and I have 
 already reflected much on the means of 
 doing him good. He isa soldier of fortune, 
 I learn, and if he will take service in Genoa, 
 I will charge myself with the care of his 
 preferment. Trouble not thyself, therefore, 
 concerning the fortunes of young Sigismund; 
 thou knowest my means, and canst not doubt 
 my will.” 
 
 The Baron cleared his throat, for he had 
 a secret reluctance to reveal his own favor- 
 able intentions toward the young man, the 
 last lingering feeling of worldly pride, and 
 the consequence of prejudices which were 
 then universal, and which are even now far 
 from being extinct. A vivid picture of the 
 horrors of the past night luckily flashed 
 across his mind, and the good genius of his 
 young preserver triumphed. 
 
 “Thou knowest the youth is a Swiss,’ he 
 said, ‘‘and, in virtue of the tie of country, I 
 claim at least an equal right to do him good.” 
 
 “We will not quarrel for precedence in this 
 matter, but thou wilt do well to remember 
 that I possess especial means to push his in- 
 terests,—means that thou canst not by pos- 
 sibility use.” 
 
 “That is not proved,” interrupted the 
 Baron de Willading. ‘I have not thy par- 
 ticular station, it is true, Signor Gaetano, 
 nor thy political power, nor thy princely 
 fortune; but, poor as I am in these, there is 
 a boon in my keeping that is worth them all, 
 and which will be more acceptable to the 
 boy, or I much mistake his mettle, than any 
 favors thou hast named or canst name.” 
 
 ral 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi had pursued his walk, 
 with eyes thoughtfully fastened on the 
 ground; but he now raised them, in surprise, 
 to the countenance of his friend, as if to ask 
 an explanation. The Baron was not only 
 committed by what had escaped him, but he 
 was warming with opposition, for the best 
 may frequently do very excellent things, un- 
 der the influence of motives of but a very 
 indifferent aspect. 
 
 “Thou knowest I have a daughter,” re- 
 sumed the Swiss firmly, determined to break 
 the ice at once, and expose a decision which 
 he feared his friend might deem a weakness. 
 
 “Thou hast; and a fairer, or a modester, 
 or a tenderer, and yet, unless my judgment 
 err, afirmer at need, is not to be found among 
 all the excellent of her excellent sex. But 
 thou wouldst scarce think of bestowing Adel- 
 heid in reward for such a service on one so 
 little known, or without her wishes being 
 consulted ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Girls of Adelheid’s birth and breeding 
 are ever ready to do what is meet to maintain 
 the honor of their families. I deem gratitude 
 to be a debt that must not stand long uncan- 
 celled against the name of Willading.” 
 
 The Genoese looked grave, and it was evi- 
 dent he listened to his friend with something 
 like displeasure. 
 
 “We who have so nearly passed through 
 life, good Melchior,” he said, “should know 
 its difficulties and its hazards. The way is 
 weary, and it has need of all the solace that 
 affection and a community of feeling can 
 yield to lighten its cares. I have never liked 
 this heartless manner of trafficking in the 
 tenderest ties, to uphold a failing line or a 
 failing fortune; and better it were that Adel- 
 heid should pass her days unwooed in thy 
 ancient castle, than give her hand under any 
 sudden impulse of sentiment, not less than 
 under a cold calculation of interest. Such a 
 girl, my friend, is not to be bestowed without 
 much care and reflection.” 
 
 ‘‘By the mass! to use one of thine own 
 favorite oaths, I wonder to hear thee talk 
 thus!—thou, whom I knew a hot-blooded 
 Italian, jealous asa ‘Turk, and maintaining at 
 thy rapier’s point that women were like the 
 steel of thy sword, so easily tarnished by rust, 
 or evil breath, or neglect, that no father or 
 brother could be easy on the score of honor, 
 
U2 
 
 until the last of his name was well wedded, 
 and that, too, to such as the wisdom of her 
 advisers should choose! I remember thee 
 once ‘saying thou couldst not sleep soundly 
 till thy sister was a wife or a nun.” 
 
 “This was the language of boyhood and 
 thoughtless youth, and bitterly rebuked have 
 I been for having used it. I wived a beau- 
 teous and noble virgin, De Willading; but I 
 much fear that, while my fair conduct in her 
 behalf won her respect and esteem, I was too 
 late to win her love. It is a fearful thing to 
 enter on the solemn and grave ties of married 
 life, without enlisting in the cause of happi- 
 ness the support of the judgment, the fancy, 
 the tastes, with the feelings that are depend- 
 ent on them, and, more than all, those way- 
 ward inclinations, whose workings too often 
 baffle human foresight. If the hopes of the 
 ardent and generous themselves are deceived 
 in the uncertain lottery of wedlock, the vic- 
 tim will struggle hard to maintain the delu- 
 sion; but when the calculations of others are 
 patent to the evil, a natural inducement, that 
 comes of the devil, I fear, prompts us to aggra- 
 vate, instead of striving to lessen the evil.” 
 
 “Thou dost not speak of wedlock as one 
 who found the condition happy, poor Gaeta- 
 no? % 
 
 ‘<T have told thee what I fear was but too 
 true,” returned the Genoese, with a heavy 
 sigh. ‘‘ My birth, vast means, and I trust a 
 fair name, induced the kinsmen of my wife 
 to urge her to a union, that I have since had 
 reason to fear her feelings did not lead her to 
 form. I had a terrible ally, too, in the 
 acknowledged unworthiness of him who had 
 captivated her young fancy, and whom, as 
 age brought reflection, her reason condemned. 
 I was accepted, therefore, as a cure to a 
 bleeding heart and broken peace, and my 
 office, at the best, was not such as a good man 
 could desire, or a proud man tolerate. The 
 unhappy Angiolina died in giving birth to 
 her first child, the unhappy son of whom 
 I have told thee so much. She found peace 
 at last in the grave! ” 
 
 ‘‘Thou hadst not time to give thy manly 
 tenderness and noble qualities an opportu- 
 nity ; else, my life on it, she would have come 
 to love thee, Gaetano, as all love thee who 
 know thee !” returned the Baron, warmly. 
 
 “Thanks, my kind friend! but beware of 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 making marriage a mere convenience. ‘There 
 may be folly in calling each truant inclina- 
 tion that deep sentiment and secret sympathy 
 which firmly knits heart to heart, and doubt- 
 less a common fortune may bind the worldly- 
 minded, together; but this is not the holy 
 union which keeps noble qualities in a family, 
 and which fortifies against the seductions of 
 a world that is already too strong for honesty. 
 I remember to have heard from one that un- 
 derstood his fellow-creatures well, that mar- 
 riages of mere propriety tend to rob woman 
 of her greatest charm, that of superiority to 
 the vulgar feeling of worldly calculations, and 
 that all communities in which they prevail 
 become, of necessity, selfish beyond the nat- 
 ural limits, and eventually corrupt.” 
 
 «This may be true ;—but Adelheid loves 
 the youth.” 
 
 “ Ha! This changes the complexion of the 
 affair. How dost thou know this?” 
 
 «“ From her own lips. The secret escaped 
 her, under the warmth and sincerity of feel- 
 ing that the late events so naturally excited.” 
 
 «‘And Sigismund!—he has thy approba-- 
 tion ?—for I will not suppose that one like 
 thy daughter yielded her affections unsolic- 
 ited.” 
 
 ‘He has—that is—he has. There is what 
 
 the world will be apt to call an obstacle, but 
 it shall count for nothing with me. The 
 youth is not noble.” 
 “The objection is serious, my honest friend. 
 It is not wise to tax human infirmity too 
 much, where there is sufficient to endure 
 from causes that cannot be removed. Wed- 
 lock is a precarious experiment, and all un- 
 usual motives for disgust should be cautiously 
 avoided. I would he were noble.” 
 
 «The difficulty shall be removed by the 
 Emperor’s favor. Thou hast princes in Italy, 
 too, that might be prevailed on to do us this 
 grace, at need ?” 
 
 ‘‘What is the youth’s origin and history, 
 and by what means has a daughter of thine 
 been placed in a situation to love one that is 
 simply born ?” 
 
 «Sigismund is.a Swiss, and of a family of 
 Bernese burghers, I should think, though, to 
 confess the truth, I know little more than 
 that he has passed several years in foreign 
 service, and that he saved my daughter’s life 
 from one of our mountain accidents, some 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 two years since, as he has now saved thine 
 and mine. My sister, near-whose castle the 
 acquaintance commenced, permitted the in- 
 tercourse, which it would now be too late to 
 think of prohibiting. And, to speak honestly, 
 I begin to rejoice the boy is what he is, in 
 order that our readiness to receive him to our 
 arms may be the more apparent. Ifthe young 
 fellow were the equal of Adelheid in other 
 things, as he is in person and character, he 
 would have too much in his faver. No, by the 
 faith of Calvin!—him whom thou stylest a 
 heretic—I think I rejoice that the boy is not 
 noble! ” 
 
 “Have it as thou wilt,” returned the 
 Genoese, whose countenance continued to 
 express distrust and thought, for his own ex- 
 perience had made him wary on the subject 
 of doubtful or ill-assorted alliances ; ‘‘ let his 
 origin be what it may, he shall not need gold. 
 I charge myself with seeing that the lands of 
 Willading shall be fairly balanced: and here 
 comes our hospitable host to be witness of the 
 pledge.” 
 
 Roger de Blonay advanced upon the terrace 
 to greet his guests,as the Signor Grimaldi 
 concluded. The three old men continued 
 their walk for an hour longer, discussing the 
 fortunes of the young pair, for Melchior de 
 Willading was as little disposed to make a 
 secret of his intentions with one of his friends 
 as with the other. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ® 
 —‘‘ But I have not the time to pause 
 Upon these gewgaws of the heart.” —WERNER. 
 
 THouaH the word castle is of common use 
 in Europe, as applied to ancient baronial 
 edifices, the thing itself is very different in 
 style, extent, and cost, in different countries. 
 Security, united to dignity and the means of 
 accommodating a train of followers suited to 
 the means of the noble, being the common 
 object, the position and defences of the place 
 necessarily varied according to the general 
 aspect of the region in which it stood. ‘Thus 
 ditches and other broad expanses of water 
 were much depended on in all low countries, 
 as in Flanders, Holland, parts of Germany, 
 and much of France; while hills, spucs, 
 
 73 
 
 mountains, and more especially the summits 
 of conical rocks, were sought in Switzerland, 
 Italy, and wherever else these natural means 
 of protection could readily be found. Other 
 circumstances, such as climate, wealth, the 
 habits of a people,and the nature of the 
 feudal rights, also served greatly to modify 
 the appearance and extent of the building. 
 The ancient hold in Switzerland was origi- 
 nally little more than a square solid tower, 
 perched upon arock, with turrets at its angles. 
 Proof against fire from without, it had ladders 
 to mount from floor to floor, and often con- 
 tained its beds in the deep recesses of the 
 windows, or in alcoves wrought in the mas- 
 sive wall. As greater security or greater 
 means enabled, offices and constructions of 
 more importance arose around its base, in- 
 closing a court. These necessarily followed 
 the formation of the rock, until, in time, the 
 confused and inartificial piles, which are now 
 seen mouldering on so many of the minor 
 spurs of the Alps, were created. 
 
 Ag is usual in all ancient holds, the Rit- 
 tersaal—the Salle des Chevaliers—or the 
 knights’ hall of Blonay, as it is differently 
 called in different languages, was both the 
 largest and most laboriously decorated apart- 
 ment of the edifice. It was no longer in the 
 rude jail-like keep that grew, as it were, from 
 the living rock, on which it had been reared 
 with so much skill as to render it difficult to 
 ascertain where nature ceased and art com- 
 menced; but it had been transferred, a cen- 
 tury before the occurrences related in our 
 tale, to a more modern portion of the build- 
 ings that formed the southeastern angle of 
 the whole construction. 
 
 The room was spacious, square, simple, for 
 such is the fashion of the country, and lighted 
 by windows that looked on one side toward 
 Valais, and on the other over the whole of the 
 irregular, but lovely declivity, to the margin 
 of the Leman, and along that beautiful sheet, 
 embracing hamlet, village, city, castle, and 
 purple mountain, until the view was limited 
 by the hazy Jura. The window on the latter 
 side of the knights’ hall had an iron balcony 
 at a giddy height from the ground, and in 
 this airy lookout Adelheid had taken her 
 seat, when, after quitting her father, she 
 mounted to the apartment common to all 
 the guests of the castle. 
 
74. 
 
 We have already alludea generally to the 
 personal appearance and to the moral quali- 
 ties of the Baron de Willading’s daughter, 
 but we now conceive it necessary to make the 
 reader more intimately acquainted with one 
 who is destined to act no mean part in the 
 incidents of our tale. 
 
 It has been said that she was pleasing to 
 the eye, but her beauty was of a kind that 
 depended more on expression, on a union of 
 character with feminine grace, than on the 
 vulgar lines of regularity and symmetry. 
 While she had no feature that was defective, 
 she had none that was absolutely faultless, 
 though all were combined with so much har- 
 -mony, and the soft expression of the mild 
 blue eye accorded so well with the gentle play 
 of asweet mouth, that the soul of their owner 
 seemed ready at all times to appear through 
 these ingenuous tell-tales of her thoughts. 
 Still, maidenly reserve sat in constant watch 
 over all, and it was when the spectator 
 thought himself most in communion with her 
 spirit, that he most felt its pure and correcting 
 influence. Perhaps a cast of high intelligence, 
 of a natural power to discriminate, which 
 much surpassed the limited means accorded 
 to females of that age, contributed their 
 share to hold those near her in respect, and 
 served in some degree as a mild and wise re- 
 pellent, to counteract the attractions of her 
 gentleness and candor. In short, one cast 
 unexpectedly in her society would not have 
 been slow to infer, and he would have decided 
 correctly, that Adelheid de Willading was a 
 girl of warm and tender affections, of a play- 
 ful but regulated fancy, of a firm and lofty 
 sense of all her duties, whether natural. or 
 merely the result of social obligations; of 
 melting pity, and yet of a habit and quality 
 to think and act for herself, in all those eases 
 in which it was fitting for a maiden of her 
 condition and years to assume such self-con- 
 trol. 
 
 It was now more than a year since Adelheid 
 had become fully sensible of the force of her 
 attachment for Sigismund Steinbach, and 
 during all that time she had struggled hard 
 to overcome a feeling which she believed 
 could lead to no happy result. The declara- 
 tion of the young man himself, a declaration 
 that was extorted involuntarily and in a mo- 
 
 | 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 by an admission of its uselessness and folly, 
 and it first opened her eyes to the state of 
 her own feelings. Though she had listened, 
 as all of her sex will listen, even when the 
 passion is hopeless, to such words coming from 
 lips they love, it was with a self-command 
 that enabled her to retain her own secret, and 
 with a settled and pious resolution to do that 
 which she believed to be her duty to herself, 
 to her father, and to Sigismund. From that 
 hour, she ceased to see him, unless under 
 circumstances when it would have drawn sus- 
 picion on her motives to refuse, and while she 
 never appeared to forget her heavy obliga- 
 tions to the youth, she firmly denied herself 
 the pleasure of even mentioning his name 
 when it could be avoided. But of all un- 
 grateful and reluctant tasks, that of ‘striving 
 to forget is the least likely to sueceed. Adel- 
 heid was sustained only by her sense of duty 
 and the desire not to disappoint her father’s 
 wishes, to which habit and custom had given 
 nearly the force of law with maidens of her 
 condition, though her reason and judgment 
 no less than her affections were both strongly 
 enlisted on the other side. Indeed, with the 
 single exception of the general unfitness of a 
 union between two of unequal stations, there 
 was nothing,to discredit her choice, if that 
 may be termed choice which, after all, was 
 more the result of spontaneous feeling and 
 secret sympathy than of any other cause, 
 unless it were a certain equivocal reserve, 
 and a manifest uneasiness, whenever allusion 
 was made to the early history and to the 
 family of the soldier. The sensitiveness on 
 the part of Sigismund had been observed and 
 commented on by others as well as by her- 
 self, and it had been openly ascribed to the 
 mortification of one who had been thrown by 
 chance into an intimate association that was 
 much superior to what he was entitled to 
 maintain by birth; a weakness but too com- 
 mon, and which few have strength of mind 
 to resist, or sufficient pride to overcome. 
 The intuitive watchfulness of affection, how- 
 ever, led Adelheid to a different conclusion; 
 she saw that he never affected to conceal, 
 while with equal good taste he abstained from 
 obtrusive allusions to the humble nature of 
 his origin, but she also perceived that there 
 were points of his previous history on which 
 
 ment of powerful passion, was accompanied i he was acutely sensitive, and which at first 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 she feared must be attributed to the con- 
 sciousness of acts that his clear perception of 
 moral truth condemned, and which he could 
 wish forgotten. For some time Adelheid 
 elung to this discovery as to a healthful and 
 
 proper antidote to her own truant inclina- 
 
 tions, but native rectitude banished a sus- 
 picion which had no sufficient ground, as 
 equally unworthy of them both. The effects 
 of a ceaseless mental struggle, and of the 
 fruitlessness of her efforts to overcome her 
 tenderness in behalf of Sigismund, have been 
 described in the fading of her bloom, in the 
 painful solicitude of a countenance naturally 
 so sweet, and in the unsettled melancholy of 
 her playful and mellow eye. These were the 
 real causes of the journey undertaken by 
 her father, and in truth of most of the other 
 events which we are about to describe. 
 
 ‘The prospect of the future had undergone 
 a sudden change. The color, though more 
 the effect of excitement than of returning 
 health—for the tide of life, when rudely 
 checked, does not resume its currents at the 
 first breath of happiness—again brightened 
 her cheek and imparted brilliancy to her 
 looks, and smiles stole easily to those lips 
 which had long been growing pallid with 
 anxiety. She leaned forward from the bal- 
 cony, and never before had the air of her 
 Native mountains seemed so balmy and heal- 
 ing. At that moment the subject of her 
 thoughts appeared on the verdant declivity, 
 among the luxuriant nut-trees that shade 
 the natural lawn of Blonay. He saluted her 
 respectfully, and pointed to. the glorious 
 panorama of the Leman. ‘The heart of 
 Adelheid beat violently; she struggled for 
 an instant with her fears and her pride, and 
 then, for the first time in her life, she made 
 a signal that she wished him to join her. 
 
 Notwithstanding the important service that 
 the young soldier had rendered to the 
 daughter of the Baron de Willading, and the 
 long intimacy which had been its fruit, so 
 great had been the reserve she had hitherto 
 maintained, by placing a constant restraint 
 on her inclinations, though the simple usages 
 of Switzerland permitted greater familiarity 
 of intercourse than was elsewhere accorded 
 to maidens of rank, that Sigismund at first 
 stood rooted to the ground, for he could. not 
 imagine the waving of the hand was meant 
 
 re) 
 
 for him. Adelheid saw his embarrassment, 
 and the signal was repeated. The young 
 man sprang up the acclivity with the rapidity 
 of the wind, and disappeared behind the 
 walls of the castle. 
 
 The barrier of reserve, so long and so suc- 
 cesstully observed by Adelheid, was now 
 passed, and she felt as if a few short minutes 
 must decide her fate. The necessity of mak- 
 ing a wide circuit in order to enter the court 
 still afforded a little time for reflection, how- 
 ever, and this she endeavored to improve by 
 collecting her thoughts and recovering her 
 self-possession. 
 
 When Sigismund entered the knights’ hall, 
 he found the maiden still seated near the 
 open window of the balcony, pale and serious, 
 but perfectly calm, and with such an expres- 
 sion of radiant happiness in her countenance 
 as he had not seen reigning in those sweet 
 lineaments for many painful months. The 
 first feeling was that of pleasure at perceiv- 
 ing how well she bore the alarms and dangers 
 of the past night. This pleasure he ex- 
 pressed, with the frankness admitted by the 
 habits of the Germans. 
 
 “Thou wilt not suffer, Adelheid, by the 
 exposure on the lake!” he said, studying her 
 face until the tell-tale blood stole to her very 
 temples. | 
 
 ‘* Agitation of the mind is a good antidote 
 to the consequences of bodily exposure. So 
 far from suffering by what has passed, I feel 
 stronger to-day and better able to endure 
 fatigue, than at any time since we came 
 through the gates of Willading. This balmy 
 air, to me, seems Italy, and I see no necessity 
 to journey further in search of what they said 
 was necessary to my health, agreeable objects 
 and a generous sun.” 
 
 «“ You will not cross the St. Bernard!” he 
 exclaimed, in a tone of disappointment. 
 
 Adelheid smiled, and he felt encouraged, 
 though the smile was ambiguous. Notwith- 
 standing the really noble sincerity of the 
 maiden’s disposition, and her earnest desire 
 to set his heart at ease, nature, or habit, or 
 education, for we scarcely know to which the 
 weakness ought to be ascribed, tempted her 
 to avoid a direct explanation. 
 
 “Why need one desire aught that is more 
 lovely than this?” she answered, evasively. 
 “ Here is a warm air, such a scene as Italy can 
 
76 
 
 scarcely surpass, and a friendly roof. The 
 experience of the last twenty-four hours gives 
 little encouragement for attempting the St. 
 Bernard, notwithstanding the fair promises 
 of hospitality and welcome that have been 
 so liberally held out by the good canon.” 
 
 “Thy eye contradicts thy tongue, Adel- 
 heid; for thou art happy and well enough to 
 use pleasantry to-day. For Heaven’s sake, 
 do not neglect to profit by this advantage, 
 however, under a mistaken opinion that 
 Blonay is the well-sheltered Pisa. When the 
 winter shall arrive, thou wilt see that these 
 mountains are still the icy Alps, and the 
 winds will whistle through this crazy castle, 
 as they are wont to sing through the naked 
 corridors of Willading.” 
 
 ‘¢We have time before us, and can think 
 of this. Thou wilt proceed to Milan, no 
 doubt, as soon as the revels of Vévey are 
 ended.” 
 
 “The soldier has little choice but duty. 
 My long and frequent leaves of absence of 
 late,—leaves that have been liberaily granted 
 to me on account of important family con- 
 cerns,—impose an additional obligation to be 
 punctual, that I may not seem forgetful of 
 favors already enjoyed. Although we all 
 owe a heavy debt to nature, our voluntary 
 engagements have ever seemed to me the 
 most serious.” 
 
 Adelheid listened with breathless attention. 
 Never before had he uttered the word family, 
 in reference to himself, in her presence. The 
 allusion appeared to have created unpleasant 
 recollections in the mind of the young man 
 himself, for when he ceased to speak his 
 countenance fell, and he even appeared to be 
 fast forgetting the presence of his fair com- 
 panion. The latter turned sensitively from 
 
 a subject which she saw gave him pain, and 
 
 endeavored to call his thoughts to other 
 things. By an unforeseen fatality, the very 
 expedient adopted hastened the explanation 
 she would now have given so much to post- 
 pone. 
 
 ‘‘My father has often extolled the site of 
 the Baron de Blonay’s castle,” said Adelheid, 
 gazing from the window, though all the fair 
 objects of the view floated unheeded before 
 her eyes; ‘‘ but, until now, I have always sus- 
 pected that friendly feeling had a great in- 
 fluence on his descriptions.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “You did him injustice then,’ answered 
 Sigismund, advancing to the opening: “ of all 
 the ancient holds of Switzerland, Blonay is 
 perhaps entitled to the palm, for possessing 
 the fairest site. Regard yon treacherous lake, 
 Adelheid ! Can we fancy that sleeping mirror 
 the same boiling caldron on which we were so 
 lately tossed, helpless and nearly hopeless?” 
 
 ‘‘ Hopeless, Sigismund, but for thee ! ” 
 
 “Thou forget’st the daring Italian, without 
 whose coolness and skill we must indeed have 
 irredeemably perished.” 
 
 ‘¢ And what would it be to me if the worth- 
 less bark were saved, while my father and his 
 friend were abandoned to the frightful fate 
 that befell the patron and that unhappy 
 peasant of Berne !” : 
 
 The pulses of the young man beat high, 
 for there was a tenderness in the tones of 
 Adelheid to which he was unaccustomed, and 
 which, indeed, he had never before discovered. 
 in her voice. 
 
 “T will go seek this brave mariner,” he 
 said, trembling lest his self-command should 
 be again lost by the seductions of such a 
 communion :—‘‘ It is time he had more sub- 
 stantial proofs of our gratitude.” 
 
 ‘“No, Sigismund,” returned the maiden 
 firmly, and in a way to chain him to the spot, 
 ‘‘thou must not quit me yet. I have much 
 to say—much that touches my future happi- 
 ness, and, I am perhaps weak enough to be- 
 lieve, thine.” 
 
 Sigismund was béwildered, for the manner 
 of his companion, though the color went and 
 came in sudden and bright fiashes across her 
 pure brows, was miraculously calm and full 
 of dignity. He took the seat to which she 
 silently pointed, and sat motionless as if 
 carved in stone, his faculties absorbed in the 
 single sense of hearing. Adelheid saw that 
 the crisis was arrived, and that retreat, with- 
 out an appearance of levity that her charac- 
 ter and pride equally forbade, was impossi- 
 ble. The inbred and perhaps the inherent 
 feelings of her sex would now have caused 
 her again to avoid the explanation, at least 
 as coming from herself, but that she was sus- 
 tained by a high and holy motive. 
 
 ‘Thou must find great delight, Sigis- 
 mund, in reflecting on thine own good acts 
 to others. But for thee Melchior de Willa- 
 ding would have long since been childless ; 
 
‘=a 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. {ms 
 
 and but for thee his daughter would now be 
 an orphan. The knowledge that thou hast 
 had the power and the will to succor thy 
 friends must be worth all other knowledge!” 
 
 ‘¢ As connected with thee, Adelheid, it is,” 
 he answered in a low voice; ‘‘I would not 
 
 exchange the secret happiness of having 
 
 been of this use to thee, and to those thou 
 lovest, for the throne of the powerful prince 
 I serve. 
 
 ishes the weakness. 
 
 cease to feel. 
 
 ‘Why should my smile mean mockery?” 
 « A delheid!—nay—this can never be. 
 
 to a lady of thy name and expectations!” 
 «Sigismund, it can be. ‘Thou hast not 
 
 well calculated either the heart of Adelheid 
 
 de Willading, or the gratitude of her father.” 
 
 The young man gazed earnestly at the face 
 
 of the maiden, which, now that she had dis- 
 burdened her soul of its most secret thought, 
 reddened to the temples, more however with 
 excitement than with shame, for she met his 
 ardent look with the mild confidence of 
 innocence and affection. She believed, and 
 she had every reason so to believe, that her 
 words would give pleasure, and, with the 
 jealous watchfulness of true love, she would 
 not willingly let a single expression of hap- 
 piness escape her. But, instead of the 
 brightening eye and the sudden expression 
 of joy that she*expected, the young man 
 appeared overwhelmed with feelings of a 
 very opposite, and indeed of the most pain- 
 ful, character. His breathing was difficult, 
 his look wandered, and his lips were con- 
 vulsed. He passed his hand across his brow, 
 like a man in intense agony, and a cold: per- 
 spiration broke out, as by a dreadful inward 
 working of the spirit, upon his forehead and 
 temples, in large visible drops. 
 
 «“ A delheid—dearest Adelheid—thou know- 
 
 I have had my secret wrested from 
 me already, and it is vain attempting to 
 deny it, if I would. Thou knowest I love 
 thee; and, in spite of myself, my heart cher- 
 I rather rejoice, than 
 dread, to say, that it will cherish it until it 
 This is more than I ever in- 
 tended to repeat to thy modest ears, which 
 ought not to be wounded by idle declarations 
 like these, but—thou smilest—Adelheid!— 
 can thy gentle spirit mock at a hopeless 
 passion ?” 
 
 One 
 of my birth—my ignoble, nameless origin, 
 cannot even intimate his wishes, with honor, 
 
 est not what thou sayest! One like me can 
 never become thy husband.” 
 
 “Sigismund !—why this distress? Speak 
 to me—ease thy mind by words. I swear to 
 thee that the consent of my father is accom- 
 panied on my part by a willing heart. I 
 love thee, Sigismund—wouldst thou have me 
 —can I say more ?” 
 
 The young man gazed at her incredu- 
 lously, and then, as thought became more 
 clear, as,one regards a much-prized object 
 that is hopelessly lost. He shook his head 
 mournfully, and buried his face in his hands. 
 
 ‘‘Say no more, Adelheid—for my sake— 
 for thine own sake, say no more—in mercy, 
 be silent ! Thou never canst be mine! No, 
 no—honor forbids it; in thee it would be 
 madness, in me dishonor—we can never be 
 united. What fatal weakness has kept me 
 near thee—I have long dreaded this i 
 
 ‘Dreaded !” 
 
 “Nay, do not repeat my words,—for I 
 scarce know what I say. Thou and thy 
 father have yielded, in a moment of vivid 
 gratitude, to a generous, a noble impulse— 
 but it is not for me to profit by the accident 
 that has enabled me to gain this advantage. 
 What would all of thy blood, all of the re- 
 public say, Adelheid, were the noblest born, 
 the best endowed, the fairest, the gentlest, 
 best maiden of the canton, to wed a name- 
 less, houseless, soldier of fortune, who has 
 but his sword and some gifts of nature to 
 recommend him? Thy excellent father will 
 surely think better of this, and we will speak 
 of it no more !” 
 
 «“ Were I to listen to the common feelings 
 of my sex, Sigismund, this reluctance to ac- 
 cept what both my father and myself offer 
 might cause me to feign displeasure. But, 
 between thee and me, there shall be naught 
 but holy truth. My father has well weighed 
 all these objections, and he has generously 
 decided to forget them. As for me, placed 
 in the scale against thy merits, they have 
 never weighed at all. If thou canst not be- 
 come noble in order that we may be equals, I 
 shall find more happiness in descending to 
 thy level, than by living in heartless misery 
 at the vain height where I have been placed 
 by accident.” 
 
 ‘‘ Blessed, ingenuous girl! But what does 
 it all avail? Our marriage is impossible.” 
 
78 
 
 “If thou knowest of any obstacle that 
 would render it improper for a weak, but 
 virtuous girl——” 
 
 “ Hold, Adelheid!—do not finish the sen- 
 tence. I am suttficiently humbled—suffi- 
 ciently debased—without this cruel suspi- 
 clon.” 
 
 “Then why is our union impossible—when 
 my father not only consents, but wishes it 
 may take place P” 
 
 “Give me time for thought—thou shalt 
 know all, Adelheid, sooner or later. Yes, 
 this is, at the least, due to thy noble frank- 
 ness. Thou shouldst in justice have known 
 it long before.” 
 
 Adelheid regarded him in speechless ap- 
 prehension, for the evident and violent phys- 
 ical struggles of the young man too fearfully 
 announced the mental agony he endured. 
 The color had fled from her own face, in 
 which the beauty of expression now reigned 
 undisputed mistress; but it was the expres- 
 sion of the mingled sentiments of wonder, 
 dread, tenderness, and alarm. He saw that 
 his own sufferings were fast communicating 
 themselves to his companion, and, by a 
 powerful effort, he so far mastered his emo- 
 tions as to regain a portion of his self-com- 
 mand. 
 
 “This explanation has been too heedlessly 
 delayed,” he continued; “cost what it may, 
 it shall be no longer postponed. ‘Thou wilt 
 not accuse me of cruelty, or of dishonest si- 
 lence, but remember the failing of human 
 nature, and pity rather than blame a weak- 
 ness which may be the cause of as much fu- 
 ture sorrow to thyself, beloved Adelheid, as 
 it is now of bitter regret to me. I have 
 never concealed from thee that my birth is 
 derived from that class which throughout 
 Kurope is believed to be of inferior rights to 
 thine own; on this head, Iam proud rather 
 than humble, for the invidious distinctions 
 of usage have too often provoked compari- 
 sons, and I have been in situations to know 
 that the mere accidents of descent bestow 
 
 neither personal excellence, superior courage, 
 
 nor higher intellect. Though human inven- 
 tions may serve to depress the less fortunate, 
 God has given fixed limits to the means of 
 men. He that would be greater than his 
 kind, and illustrious by unnatural expedi- 
 ents, must debase others to attain this end. 
 
 WOLKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 By different means than these there .s no 
 nobility, and he'who is unwilling to admit 
 an inferiority which exists only in idea can 
 never be humbled by an artifice so shallow. 
 On the subject of mere birth, as it is ordi- 
 narily estimated, whether it come from pride, 
 or philosophy, or the habit of commanding as 
 a soldier those who might be deemed by su- 
 periors as men, I have never been very sensi- 
 tive. Perhaps the heavier disgiace which 
 crushes me may have caused this want to ap- 
 pear lighter than it otherwise might.” 
 
 ‘* Disgrace!” repeated Adelheid, in a voice 
 that was nearly choked. ‘‘'The word is fear- 
 ful, coming from one of thy regulated mind, 
 and as applied to himself.” 
 
 “J cannot choose another. Disgrace it is 
 by the common consent of men—by long and 
 enduring opinion—it would almost seem by 
 the just judgment of God. Dost thou not 
 believe, Adelheid, that there are certain races 
 which are deemed accursed, to answer some 
 great and unseen end—races on whom the 
 holy blessings of Heaven never descend, as 
 they visit the meek and well-deserving that 
 come of other lines?” 
 
 “How can I believe this gross injustice, on 
 the part of a Power that is wise without 
 bounds, and forgiving to parental love?” 
 
 “Thy answer would be well were this 
 earth the universe, or this state of being the 
 last. But He whose sight extends beyond 
 the grave, who fashions justice, and mercy, 
 and goodness, on a scale commensurate with 
 his own attributes, and not according to our 
 limited means, is not to be estimated by the 
 narrow rules that we apply to men. No, we 
 must not measure the ordinances of God by 
 laws that are plausible in our own eyes. 
 Justice is a relative and not an abstract qual- 
 ity; and, until we understand the relations 
 of the Deity to ourselves as well as we under- 
 stand our own relations to the Deity, we rea- 
 son in the dark.” 
 
 “JI do not like to hear thee speak thus, 
 Sigismund, and, least of all, with a brow so 
 clouded, and in a voice so hollow! ” 
 
 “J will tell my tale more cheerfully, dear- 
 est. J have no right to make thee partner of 
 my misery ; and yet this is the manner I have 
 reasoned, and thought, and pondered—aye, 
 until my brain has grown heated, and the 
 power to reason itself has nearly tottered. 
 
 out 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 Ever since that accursed hour, in which the 
 truth became known to me, and I was made 
 the master of the fatal secret, have I endeav- 
 ored to feel and reason thus.” 
 
 «¢ What truth ?—what secret ? If thou lov- 
 est me, Sigismund, speak calmly and without 
 reserve.” 
 
 The young man gazed at her anxious face 
 in a way to show how deeply he felt the weight 
 of the blow he was about to give. Then, after 
 a pause, he continued. 
 
 “ We have lately passed through a terrible 
 scene together, dearest Adelheid. It was one 
 that may well lessen the distances set between 
 us by human laws and the tyranny of opin- 
 ions. Had it been the will of God that the 
 bark should perish, what a confused crowd of 
 ill-assorted spirits would have passed together 
 into eternity! We had them there of all 
 degrees of vice, as of nearly all degrees of 
 cultivation, from the subtle iniquity of the 
 wily Neapolitan juggler to thine own pure 
 soul. 
 ried the noble of high degree, the reverend 
 priest, the soldier in the pride of his strength, 
 and the mendicant! Death is an uncompro- 
 mising leveller, and the depths of the lake, at 
 least, might have washed out all our infamy, 
 whether it came of real demerits or merely 
 from received usage; even the luckless Bal- 
 thazar, the persecuted and hated headsman, 
 might have found those who would have 
 mourned his loss.” 
 
 «Tf any could have died unwept in meeting 
 such a fate, it must have been one that, in 
 common, awakes so little of human sympathy ; 
 and one, too, who, by dealing himself in the 
 woes of others, has less claim to the compas- 
 sion that we yield to most of our species.” 
 
 ‘Spare me—in mercy, Adelheid, spare me 
 —thou speakest of my father !” 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ‘Fortune had smiled upon Guelberto’s birth, 
 The heir of Valdespesa’s rich domain; 
 An only child, he grew in years and worth, 
 And well repaid a father’s anxious pain.” 
 —SouTHEY. 
 
 As Sigismund uttered this communication, 
 so terrible to the ear of the listener, he arose 
 and fled from the room. ‘The possession of 
 
 There would have died in the Winkel- 
 
 79 
 
 a kingdom would not have tempted him to 
 remain and note its effect. ‘The domestics of 
 Blonay observed his troubled air and rapid 
 strides as he passed them, but too simple to 
 suspect more than the ordinary impetuosity 
 of youth, he succeeded in getting through the 
 inferior gate of the castle and into the fields, 
 without attracting any embarrassing attention 
 to his movements. Here he began to breathe 
 more freely, and the load which had nearly 
 choked his respiration became lightened. 
 For half an hour the young man paced the 
 greensward, scarcely conscious whither he 
 went, until he found that his-steps had again 
 led him beneath the window of the knights’ 
 hall. Glancing an eye upward, he saw Adel- 
 heid still seated at the balcony, and appar- 
 ently yet alone. He thought she had been 
 weeping, and he cursed the weakness which 
 had kept him from effecting the often-re- 
 newed resolution to remove himself and his 
 cruel fortunes forever from before her mind. 
 A second look, however, showed him that he 
 was again beckoned to ascend! The revolu- 
 tions in the purposes of lovers are sudden and 
 easily effected ; and Sigismund, through 
 whose mind a dozen ill-digested plans of 
 placing the sea between himself and her he 
 loved had just been floating, was now hur- 
 riedly retracing his steps to her presence. 
 Adelheid had necessarily been educated 
 under the influence of the prejudices of the 
 age and of the country in which she lived. 
 The existence of the office of headsman in 
 Berne, and the nature of its hereditary 
 duties, were well known to her; and, though 
 superior to the inimical feeling which had so 
 lately been exhibited against the luckless 
 Balthazar, she had certainly never anticipated 
 a shock so cruel as was now produced, by 
 abruptly learning that this despised and per- 
 secuted being was the father of the youth to 
 whom she had yielded her virgin affections. 
 When the words which proclaimed the con- 
 nection had escaped the lips of Sigismund, 
 she listened like one who fancied that her 
 ears deceived her. She had prepared herself 
 to learn that he derived his being from some 
 peasant’or ignoble artisan, and, once or twice, 
 as he drew nearer to the fatal declaration, 
 awkward glimmerings of a suspicion that. 
 some repulsive moral unworthiness was con- 
 nected with his origin troubled her imagina- 
 
80 
 
 tion ; but her apprehensions could not, by 
 possibility, once turn in the direction of the 
 revolting truth. It was some time before she 
 was able to collect her thoughts, or to reflect 
 on the course it most become her to pursue. 
 But, as has been seen, it was not long before 
 she could summon the self-command to re- 
 quest what she now saw was doubly necessary, 
 another meeting with her lover. As both 
 had thought of nothing but his last words 
 during the short separation, there appeared 
 no abruptness in the manner in which he 
 resumed the discourse, on seating himself at 
 her side, exactly as if they had not parted at 
 all. 
 
 “The secret has been torn from me, 
 Adelheid. The headsman of the canton is 
 my father; were the fact publicly known, 
 the heartless and obdurate laws would com- 
 pel me to be his successor. He has no other 
 child, except a gentle girl—one innocent and 
 kind as thou.” 
 
 Adelheid covered her face with both her 
 hands, as if to shut out a view of the horrible 
 truth. Perhaps an instinctive reluctance to 
 permit her companion to discover how great 
 a blow had been given by this avowal of his 
 birth, had also its influence in producing the 
 movement. ‘They who have passed the period 
 of youth, and who can recall those days of in- 
 experience and hope, when the affections are 
 fresh and the heart is untainted with too 
 much communion with the world,—and, es- 
 pecially, they who know of what a delicate 
 compound of the imaginative and the real the 
 master-passion is formed, how sensitively it 
 regards all that can reflect credit on the be- 
 loved object, and with what ingenuity it en- 
 deayors to find plausible excuses for every 
 blot that may happen, either by accident or 
 demerit, to tarnish the lustre of a picture 
 that fancy has so largely aided in drawing, will 
 understand the rude nature of the shock 
 that she had received. But Adelheid de 
 Willading, though a woman in the liveliness 
 and fervor of her imagination, as well as in the 
 proneness to conceive her own ingenuous 
 conceptions to be more founded in reality 
 than a sterner view of things might possibly 
 have warranted, was. a woman, also, in the 
 more generous qualities of the heart, and in 
 those enduring principles, which seem to 
 have predisposed the better part of the sex to 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 make the heaviest sacrifices rather than be 
 false to their affections. While her frame 
 shuddered, therefore, with the violence and 
 abruptness of the emotions she had endured, 
 dawnings of the right gleamed upon her pure 
 mind, and it was not long before she was able 
 to contemplate the truth with the steadiness 
 of principle, though it might, at the same 
 time, have been with much of the lingering 
 weakness of humanity. When she lowered 
 her hands, she looked toward the mute and 
 watchful Sigismund with a smile that caused 
 the deadly paleness of her features to resem- 
 ble a gleam of the sun lighting upon a spot- 
 less peak of her native mountains. 
 
 “It would be vain to endeavor to conceal 
 from thee, Sigismund,” she said, ‘‘that I 
 could wish this were not so. I will confess 
 even more—that when the truth first broke 
 upon me, thy repeated services, and, what is 
 even less pardonable, thy tried worth, were 
 for an instant forgotten in the reluctance I 
 felt to admit that my fate could ever be 
 united with oneso unhappily situated. There 
 are moments when prejudices and habits are 
 stronger than reason; but their triumph is 
 short in well-intentioned minds. The terri- 
 ble injustice of our laws has never struck me 
 with such force before, though last night, 
 while those wretched travellers were so eager 
 for the blood of—of——” | 
 
 ‘«My father, Adelheid.” 
 
 ‘Of the author of thy being, Sigismund,” 
 she continued, with a solemnity that proved 
 to the young man how deeply she reverenced 
 the tie— “ I was compelled to see that society 
 might be cruelly unjust; but now I find its 
 laws and prohibitions visiting one like thee, 
 so far from joining in its oppression, my soul! 
 revolts against the wrong.” 
 
 “ Thanks—thanks—a thousand thanks!” 
 returned the young man, fervently. “I did 
 not expect less than this from thee, Made- 
 moiselle de Willading.” 
 
 “Tfthou didst not expect more—far more, 
 Sigismund,” resumed the maiden, her ashen 
 hue brightened to crimson, ‘‘ thou hast 
 scarcely been less unjust than the world; 
 and I will add, thou hast never understood 
 that Adelheid de Willading, whose name is 
 uttered with so cold a form. We all have 
 moments of weakness; moments when the 
 seductions of life, the worthless ties which 
 
\ : THE HEADSMAN. g1 
 
 what are called the interests of the world, 
 appear of more value than aught else. Iam 
 no visionary, to fancy imaginary and facti- 
 tious obligations superior to those which 
 nature and wisdom have created—for if 
 there be much unjustifiable cruelty in the 
 practices, there is also much that is wise in 
 the ordinances, of society—or to think that 
 a wayward fancy isto be indulged at any and 
 every expense to the feelings and opinions 
 of others: On the contrary, I well know 
 that so long as men exist in the condition in 
 which they are, it is little more than common 
 prudence to respect their habits; and that 
 ill-assorted unions, in general, contain in 
 themselves a dangerous enemy to happiness. 
 Had I always known thy history, dread of 
 the consequences, or those cold forms which 
 protect the fortunate, would probably have 
 interposed to prevent either from learning 
 much of the other’s character. I say not 
 this, Sigismund, as by thy eye I see thou 
 wouldst think, in reproach for any decep- 
 tion, for I well know the accidental nature 
 of our acquaintance, and that the intimacy 
 was forced upon thee by our own impor- 
 tunate gratitude, but simply, and in explana- 
 tion of my own feelings. As itis, we are not 
 to judge of our situation by ordinary rules, 
 and I am not now to decide on your preten- 
 sions to my hand merely as the daughter of 
 the Baron de Willading receiving a proposal 
 from’ one whose birth is not noble, but as 
 Adelheid should weigh the claims of Sigis- 
 mund, subject to some diminution of advan- 
 tages, if thou wilt, that is perhaps greater 
 than she had at first anticipated.” 
 
 ‘«< Dost thou consider the acceptance of my 
 hand possible, after what thou knowest ?” 
 exclaimed the young man, in open wonder. 
 
 “So far from regarding the question in 
 that manner, I ask myself if it will be right 
 —if it be possible, to reject the preserver of 
 my own life, the preserver of my father’s 
 life, Sigismund Steinbach, because he is the 
 son of one that men persecute?” 
 
 « Adelheid !” 
 
 “Do not anticipate my words,” said the 
 maiden calmly, but in a way to check his im- 
 patience by the quiet dignity of her manner. 
 «This is an important, I might say a solemn 
 decision, and it has been presented to me 
 
 | 
 oe wea the thoughtless and selfish in 
 
 suddenly and without preparation. Thou 
 wilt not think the worse of me, for asking 
 time to reflect before I give the pledge that 
 in my eyes will be forever sacred. My father, 
 believing thee to be of obscure origin, and 
 thoroughly conscious of thy worth, dear Sig- 
 ismund, authorized me to speak as I did in 
 the beginning of our interview; but my 
 father may possibly think the conditions of 
 his consent altered by this unhappy exposure 
 of the truth. It is meet that I tell him all, 
 for thou knowest I must abide by his deci- 
 sion. This thine own sense and filial piety 
 will approve.” 
 
 In spite of the strong objectionable facts 
 that he had just revealed, hope had begun to 
 steal upon the wishes of the young man, as 
 he listened to the consoling words of the sin- 
 gle-minded and affectionate Adelheid. It 
 would scarcely have been possible for a youth 
 so endowed by nature, and one so inevitably 
 conscious of his own value, though so modest 
 in its exhibition, not to feel encouraged by 
 her ingenuous and frank admission, as she 
 betrayed his influence over her happiness in 
 the undisguised and simple manner related. 
 But the intention to appeal to her father 
 caused him to view the subject more dispas- 
 sionately, for his strong sense was not slow in 
 pointing out the difference between the two 
 judges, in a case like his. 
 
 ‘Trouble him not, Adelheid; the con- 
 sciousness that his prudence denies what a 
 generous feeling might prompt him to be- 
 stow, may render him unhappy. It is im- 
 possible that Melchior de Willading should 
 consent to give an only child to a son of the 
 headsman of his canton. At some other 
 time when the recollections of the late storm 
 shall be less vivid, thine own reason will ap- 
 prove of his decision.” 
 
 His companion, who was thoughtfully lean- 
 ing her spotless brow on her hand, did not 
 appear to hear his words. She had recovered 
 from the shock given by the sudden announce- 
 ment of his origin, and was now musing 1n- 
 tently, and with cooler discrimination, on the 
 commencement of their acquaintance, its 
 progress and all its little incidents, down to 
 the grave events which had so gradually and 
 firmly cemented the sentiments of esteem 
 and admiration in the stronger and indelible 
 
 tie of affection. 
 
82 
 
 “Tf thou art the son of him thou namest, 
 why art thou known by the name of Stein- 
 bach, when Balthazar bears another?” de- 
 manded Adelheid, anxious to seize even the 
 faintest hold of hope. 
 
 “Tt was my intention to conceal nothing, 
 but to lay before thee the history of my life, 
 with all the reasons that may have influenced 
 my conduct,” returned Sigismund; ‘‘at some 
 other time, when both are in a calmer state 
 of mind, I shall dare to entreat a hearing ie 
 
 “ Delay is unnecessary—it might even be 
 improper. It is my duty to explain every- 
 thing to my father, and he may wish to know 
 why thou hast not always appeared what thou 
 art. Do not fancy, Sigismund, that I dis- 
 trust thy motive, but the wariness of the old 
 and the confidence of the young have so little 
 in common !—I would rather that thou told 
 me now.” 
 
 He yielded to the mild earnestness of 
 her manner, and to the sweet but sad smile 
 with which she seconded the appeal. 
 
 ‘‘If thou wilt hear the melancholy history, 
 Adelheid,” he said, ‘‘ there is no sufficient 
 reason why I should wish to postpone the 
 little it will be necessary to. say. You are 
 probably familiar with the laws of the canton, 
 I mean those cruel ordinances by which a 
 particular family is condemned, for a better 
 word can scarcely be found, to discharge the 
 duties of this revolting office. This duty 
 may have been a privilege in the dark ages, 
 but it is now become a tax that none, who 
 have been educated with better hopes, can 
 endure to pay. My father, trained from in- 
 fancy to expect the employment, and accus- 
 tomed to its discharge in contemplation, suc- 
 ceeded to his parent while yet young, and, 
 though formed by nature a meek and even a 
 compassionate man, he has never shrunk 
 from his bloody tasks, whenever required to 
 fulfil them by the command of his superiors. 
 But, touched by a sentiment of humanity, it 
 was his wish to avert from me what his better 
 reason led him to think the calamity of our 
 race. Iam the eldest born, and, strictly, I 
 was the child most liable to be called to as- 
 sume the office, but, as I have heard, the 
 tender love of my mother induced her to sug- 
 gest a plan by which I, at least, might be 
 rescued from the odium that had so long been 
 attached to our name. I was secretly con- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 veyed from the house while yet an infant ; a 
 feigned death concealed the pious fraud, and 
 thus far, Heaven be praised ! the authorities 
 are ignorant of my birth!” 
 
 ‘And thy mother, Sigismund; I have 
 great respect for that noble mother, who, 
 doubtless, is endowed with more than her 
 sex’s firmness and constancy, since she must 
 have sworn faith and love to thy father, 
 knowing his duties and the hopelessness of 
 their being evaded ?_ I feel a reverence for a 
 woman so superior to the weaknesses, and yet 
 so true to the real and best affections, of her 
 sex 1” 
 
 The young man smiled so painfully as to 
 cause his enthusiastic companion to regret 
 that she had put the question. 
 
 “‘My mother is certainly a woman not only 
 to be loved, but in many particulars deeply to 
 be revered. My poor and noble mother has a 
 thousand excellences, being a most tender 
 parent, with a heart so kind that it would 
 grieve her to see injury done even to the 
 meanest living thing. She was not a woman, 
 surely, intended by God to be the mother of 
 a line of executioners !” 
 
 ‘*Thou seest, Sigismund,” said Adelheid, 
 nearly breathless in the desire to seek an ex- 
 cuse for her own predilections, and to lessen 
 the mental agony he endured—‘‘ thou seest 
 that one gentle and excellent woman, at least, 
 could trust her happiness to thy family. No 
 doubt she was the daughter of some worthy 
 and just-viewing burgher of the canton, that 
 had educated his child to distinguish between 
 misfortune and crime ?” 
 
 ««She was an only child and an heiress, like 
 thyself, Adelheid,” he answered, looking 
 about him as if he sought some object on 
 which he might cast part of the bitterness 
 that loaded his heart. ‘‘ Thou art not less 
 the beloved and cherished of thine own parent 
 than was my excellent mother of hers !” 
 
 ‘‘Sigismund, thy manner is startling! 
 What wouldst thou say ?” 
 
 ‘“‘Neufchatel, and other countries besides 
 Berne, have their privileged! My mother 
 was the only child of the headsman of the 
 first. Thus thou seest, Adelheid, that I 
 boast my quarterings as well as another. God 
 be praised! we are not legally compelled, 
 however, to butcher the condemned of any 
 country but our own!” 
 
G 
 
 \ 
 \ 
 
 The wild bitterness with which this was 
 uttered, and the energy of his language, 
 struck thrilling chords on every nerve of his 
 listener. 
 
 «So many honors should not be unsup- 
 ported,” he resumed. ‘‘ We are rich, : for 
 people of humble wishes, and have ample 
 means of living without the revenues of our 
 charge—I love to put forth our long-acquired 
 honors! The means of a respectable liveli- 
 hood are far from being wanted. I have told 
 you of the kind intentions of my mother to 
 redeem one of her children, at least, from 
 the stigma which weighed upon us all, and 
 the birth of a second son enabled her to effect 
 this charitable purpose, without attracting 
 attention. I was nursed and educated apart, 
 for many years, inignorance of mybirth. At 
 a suitable age, notwithstanding the early 
 death of my brother, I was sent to seek ad- 
 vancement in the service of the house of 
 Austria, under the feigned name I bear. I 
 will not tell thee the anguish I felt, Adelheid, 
 when the truth was at length revealed! Of 
 all the cruelties inflicted by society, there is 
 none so unrighteous in its nature as the 
 stigma it entails in the succession of crime or 
 misfortune; of all its favors, none can find 
 so little justification, in right and reason, as 
 the privileges accorded to the accident of 
 descent.” 
 
 «And yet we are much accustomed to 
 honor those that come of an ancient line, 
 and to see some part of the glory of the an- 
 cestor even in the most remote descendant.” 
 
 ‘The more remote, the greater is the 
 world’s deference. What better proof can 
 we have of the world’s weakness? Thus the 
 immediate child of the hero, he whose blood 
 is certain, who bears the image of the father 
 in his face, who has listened to his counsels, 
 and may be supposed to have derived at least 
 some portion of his greatness from the near- 
 ness of his origin, is less a prince than he 
 who has imbibed the current through a hun- 
 dred vulgar streams, and, were truth but 
 known, may have no natural claim at all 
 upon the much prized blood! This comes 
 of artfully leading the mind to prejudices, 
 and of a vicious longing in man to forget his 
 origin and destiny, by wishing to be more 
 than nature ever intended he should become.” 
 
 ‘‘Surely, Sigismund, there is something 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 83 
 
 justifiable in the sentiment of desiring to be- 
 long to the good and noble! ” 
 
 ‘<If good and noble were the same. Thou 
 hast well designated the feeling; so long as it 
 is truly a sentiment, it is not only excusable 
 but wise ; for who would not wish to come 
 of the brave, and honest, and learned, or by 
 what other greatness they may be known ?— 
 it is wise, since the legacy of his virtues is 
 perhaps the dearest incentive that a good 
 man has for struggling against the currents 
 of baser interest ; but what hope is left to 
 one like me, who finds himself so placed that 
 he can neither inherit nor transmit aught 
 but disgrace! Ido not affect to despise the 
 advantages of birth, simply because I do not 
 possess them ; I only complain that artful 
 combinations have perverted what should be 
 sentiment and taste, into a narrow and vul- 
 yar prejudice, by which the really ignoble 
 enjoy privileges greater than those perhaps 
 who are worthy of the highest honors man 
 can bestow.” 
 
 Adelheid had encouraged the digression, 
 which, with one less gifted with strong good 
 sense than Sigismund, might have only 
 served to wound his pride, but she perceived 
 that he eased his mind by thus drawing on 
 his reason, and by setting up that which 
 should be in opposition to that which 
 was. 
 
 <*¢Thou knowest,” she answered, ‘‘ that 
 neither my father nor I am disposed to lay 
 much stress on the opinions of the world, as 
 it concerns thee.” 
 
 «‘That is, neither will insist on nobility; 
 but will either consent to share the obloquy 
 of a union with an hereditary executioner ?” 
 
 ‘©Thou hast not yet related all it may be 
 necessary to know, that we may decide.” 
 
 ‘‘There is left little to explain. The ex- 
 pedient of my kind parents has thus far suc- 
 ceeded. The two surviving children, my 
 sister and myself, were snatched, for a time 
 at least, from their accursed fortune, while 
 my poor brother, who promised little, was 
 left, by a partiality I will not stop to exam- 
 ine, to pass as the inheritor of our infernal 
 privileges. Nay, pardon, dearest Adelheid, 
 I will be more cool ; but death has saved the 
 youth from the execrable duties, and I am 
 now the only male child of Balthazar—yes,” 
 he added, laughing frightfully, ‘‘I too have 
 
84 
 
 now a narrow monopoly of all the honors of 
 our house !” 
 
 «¢ Thou—thou, Sigismund—with thy hab- 
 its, thy education, thy feelings, thou surely 
 canst not be required to discharge the duties 
 of this horrible office !” . 
 
 ‘<Tt is easy to see that my high privileges 
 do not charm you, Mademoiselle de Willa- 
 ding; nor can I wonder at the taste. My 
 chief surprise should be, that you so long 
 tolerate an executioner in your presence.” 
 
 «Did I not know and understand the bit- 
 terness of feeling natural to one so placed, 
 this language would cruelly hurt me, Sigis- 
 mund; but thou canst not truly mean there 
 is a real danger of thy ever being called to 
 execute this duty ? Should there be the 
 chance of such a calamity, may not the influ- 
 ence of my father avert it ? He is not with- 
 out weight in the councils of the canton.” 
 
 ‘‘At present his friendship need not be 
 taxed, for none but my parents, my sister, 
 and thou, Adelheid, are acquainted with the 
 facts I have just related. My poor sister is 
 an artless, but unhappy girl, for the well- 
 - intentioned design of our mother has greatly 
 disqualified her from bearing the truth as she 
 might have done, had it been kept constantly 
 before her eyes. To the world, a young kins- 
 man of my father appears destined to succeed 
 him, and there the matter must stand until 
 fortune shall decide differently. As respects 
 my poor sister, there is some little hope that 
 the evil may be altogether averted. She is on 
 the point of a marriage here at Vévey, that 
 may be the means of concealing her origin in 
 new ties. As for me, time must decide my 
 fate.” 
 
 ‘‘Why should the truth be ever known!” 
 exclaimed Adelheid, nearly gasping for breath, 
 in her eagerness to propose some expedient 
 that should rescue Sigismund forever from so 
 odious an office. ‘‘ Thou sayest that there are 
 ample means in thy family—relinquish all to 
 this youth, on condition that he assume thy 
 place !” 
 
 ‘‘T would gladly beggar myself to be quit 
 of it - 
 
 ‘‘Nay, thou wilt not be a beggar while 
 there is wealth among the De Willadings. 
 Let the final decision, in respect to other 
 things, be what it may, this we can at least 
 promise !” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘‘My sword will prevent me from being 
 under the necessity of accepting the boon 
 thou wouldst offer. With this good sword I 
 can always command an honorable existence,’ 
 should Providence save me from the disgrace 
 of exchanging it for that of the executioner. 
 But there exists an obstacle of which thou 
 hast not yet heard. My sister, who has cer- 
 tainly no admiration for the honors that have 
 humiliated our race for so many generations 
 —I might say ages—have we not ancient 
 honors, Adelheid, as well as thou?—my sister 
 is contracted to one who bargains for eternal 
 secrecy on this point, as the condition of his 
 accepting the hand and ample dowry of one 
 of the gentlest of human beings! Thou 
 seest that others are not as generous as thy- 
 self, Adelheid! My father, anxious to dis- 
 pose of his child, has consented to the terms, 
 and as the youth who is next in succession to 
 the family honors is little disposed to accept 
 them, and has already some suspicion of the 
 deception, as respects her, I may be com- 
 pelled to appear in order to protect the off- 
 spring of my unoffending sister from the 
 curse.” 
 
 This was assailing Adelheid in a point 
 where she was the weakest. One of her gen- 
 erous temperament and self-denying habits 
 could scarce entertain the wish of exacting 
 that from another which she was not willing 
 to undergo herself, and the hope that had just 
 been reviving in her heart was nearly extin- 
 guished by the discovery. Still she was so 
 much in the habit of feeling under the guid- 
 ance of her excellent sense, and it was so nat- 
 ural to cling to her just wishes, while there 
 was a reasonable chance of their being accom- 
 plished, that she did not despair. 
 
 «‘Thy sister and her future husband know 
 her birth, and understand the chances they 
 run,” 
 
 «She knows all this, and such is her gen- 
 erosity, that she is not disposed to betray me 
 in order to serve herself. But this self-denial 
 forms an additional obligation on my part to 
 declare myself the wretch Lam. I cannot say 
 that my sister is accustomed to regard our 
 long-endured fortunes with all the horror I 
 feel, for she has been longer acquainted with 
 the facts, and the domestic habits of her sex 
 have left her less exposed to the encounter of 
 
 , she world’s hatred, and perhaps she is partly 
 
 \ 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 ignorant of all the odium we sustain. My 
 long absences in foreign services delayed the 
 confidence as respects myself, while the yearn- 
 
 ings of a mother toward an only daughter 
 
 caused her to be received into the family, 
 though still in secret, several years before I 
 was told the truth. She is also much my 
 junior ; and all these causes, with some dif- 
 ference in our education, have less disposed 
 her to misery than I am ; for while my father, 
 with a cruel kindness, had me well and even 
 liberally instructed, Christine was taught as 
 better became the hopes Bnd origin of both. 
 Now tell me, Adelheid, that thou hatest me 
 for my parentage, and despisest me for 
 having so long dared to intrude on thy com- 
 pany, with the full consciousness of what I 
 am forever present to my thoughts !” 
 
 “T like not to hear thee make these bitter 
 allusions to an accident of this nature, Sigis- 
 mund. Were I to tell thee that I do not feel 
 this circumstance with nearly, if not quite, 
 as much poignancy as thyself,” added the in- 
 genuous girl, with a noble frankness, ‘I 
 shonld do injustice to my gratitude and to 
 my esteem for thy character. But there is 
 more elasticity in the heart of woman than in 
 that of thy imperious and proud sex. So far 
 from thinking of thee as thou wouldst fain 
 believe, I see naught but what is natural and 
 justifiable in thy reserve. Remember, thou 
 hast not tempted my ears by professions and 
 prayers, as women are commonly entreated, 
 but that the interest I feel in thee has been 
 modestly and fairly won. I can neither say 
 nor hear more at present, for this unexpected 
 announcement has in some degree unsettled 
 my mind. Leave me to reflect on what I 
 ought to do, and rest assured that thou canst 
 not have a kinder or more partial advocate of 
 what truly belongs to thy honor and happi- 
 ness than my own heart.” 
 
 As the daughter of Melchior de Willading 
 concluded, she extended her hand with af- 
 fection to the young man, who pressed it 
 against his breast with manly tenderness, 
 when he slowly and reluctantly withdrew. 
 
 85 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ‘«To know no more 
 Is woman’s happiest knowledge and her praise.” 
 —MILTON. 
 
 Our heroine was a woman in the best 
 meaning of that endearing, and, we might 
 add, comprehensive word. | Sensitive, re- 
 served, and at times even timid, on points 
 that did not call for the exercise of higher 
 qualities, she was firm in her principles, con- 
 stant as she was fond in her affections, and 
 self-devoted when duty and_ inclination 
 united to induce the concession, to a degree 
 that placed the idea of sacrifice out of the 
 question. On the other hand, the lability 
 to receive lively impressions, a distinctive 
 feature of her sex, and the aptitude to at- 
 tach importance to the usages by which she 
 was surrounded, and which is necessarily 
 greatest in those who lead secluded and in- 
 active lives, rendered it additionally difficult 
 for her mind to escape from the trammels of 
 opinion, and to. think with indifference of 
 circumstances which all near her treated 
 with high respect, or to which they attached 
 a stigma allied to disgust. Had the case 
 been reversed, had Sigismund been noble, 
 and Adelheid a headsman’s child, it is prob- 
 able the young man might have found the 
 means to indulge his passion without making 
 too great a sacrifice of his pride. By trans- 
 
 porting his wife to. his castle, conferring his 
 
 own established name, separating her from 
 
 all that was unpleasant and degrading in the 
 
 connection, and finding occupation for his 
 own mind in the multiplying and engrossing 
 employments of his station, he would have 
 diminished motives for contemplating, and 
 consequently for lamenting, the objection- 
 able features of the alliance he had made. 
 These are the advantages which nature and 
 the laws of society give to man over the 
 weaker but the truer sex: and yet how few 
 would have had sufficient generosity to make 
 even the sacrifice of feeling which such a 
 course required ! On the other hand, Adel- 
 heid would be compelled to part with the 
 ancient and distinguished appellation of her 
 family, to adopt one which was deemed in- 
 famous in the canton, or, if some politic 
 expedient were found to avert this first dis- 
 grace, it would unavoidably be of a nature 
 
86 
 
 to attract, rather than to avert, the attention 
 of all who knew the facts, to the humili- 
 ating character of his origin. She had no 
 habitual relief against the constant action of 
 her thoughts, for the sphere of woman nar- 
 rows the affections in such a way as to ren- 
 der them most dependent on the little acci- 
 dents of domestic life; she could not close 
 her doors against communication with the 
 kinsmen of her husband, should it be his 
 pleasure to command or his feeling to desire 
 it; and it would become obligatory on her to 
 listen to the still but never-ceasing voice of 
 duty, and to forget, at his request, that she 
 had ever been more fortunate, or that she 
 was born for better hopes. 
 
 We do not say that all these calculations 
 crossed the mind of the musing maiden, 
 though she certainly had a general and vague 
 view of the consequences that were likely to 
 be drawn upon herself by a connection with 
 Sigismund. She sat motionless, buried in 
 deep thought, long after his disappearance. 
 The young man had passed by the postern 
 around the base of the castle, and was de- 
 scending the mountain-side across the slop- 
 ing meadows with rapid steps, and probably 
 for the first time since their acquaintance 
 her eye followed his manly figure vacantly 
 and with indifference. 
 
 Her mind was too intently occupied for 
 the usual observation of the senses. The 
 
 whole of that grand and lovely landscape. 
 
 was spread before her without conveying 
 impressions, as we gaze into the void of the 
 firmament with our looks on vacuum. Sig- 
 ismund had disappeared among the walls of 
 the vineyards, when she arose, and drew such 
 a sigh as is apt to escape us after long and 
 painful meditation. But the eyes of the 
 high-minded girl were bright and her cheeks 
 flushed, while the whole of her features wore 
 an expression of loftier beauty than ordina- 
 rily distinguished even her loveliness. Her 
 own resolution was formed. She had de- 
 cided, with the rare and generous self-devo- 
 tion of a female heart that loves, and whieh 
 can love in its freshness and purity but once. 
 At that instant footsteps were heard in the 
 corridor, and the three old nobles whom we 
 so lately left on the castle terrace appeared 
 together in the knights’ hall. 
 
 Melchior de Willading approached his 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 daughter with a joyous face, for he, too, ha 
 lately gained what he conceived to be a 
 glorious conquest over his prejudices, and 
 the victory put him in excellent humor with 
 himself. 
 
 “'The question is forever decided,” he said, 
 kissing the burning forehead of Adelheid 
 with affection, and rubbing his hands in the 
 manner of one who was glad to be free from 
 a perplexing doubt. ‘These good friends 
 agree with me, that in a case like this, it be- 
 comes even our birth to forget the origin of 
 the youth. He wlfo has saved the lives of 
 the two last Willadings at least deserves to 
 have some share in what is left of them. 
 Here is my good Grimaldi, too, ready to 
 beard me if I will not consent to let him 
 enrich the brave fellow—as if we were beg- 
 gars, and had not the means of supporting 
 our kinsman in credit at home. But we will 
 not be indebted even to so tried a friend for 
 a tittle of our happiness. The work shall be 
 all our own, even to the letters of nobility, 
 which I shall command at an early day from 
 Vienna; for it would be cruel to let the noble 
 fellow want so simple an advantage, which 
 will at once raise him to our own level, and 
 make him as good—aye, by the beard of 
 Luther! better than the best man in Berne.” 
 
 ‘“‘IT have never known thee niggardly be- 
 fore, though I have known thee often well 
 intrenched behind Swiss frugality,” said the 
 Signor Grimaldi, laughing. “Thy life, my 
 dear Melchior, may have excellent value in 
 thine own eyes, but I am little disposed to 
 set So mean a price on my own as thou ap- 
 pearest to think it should command. Thou 
 hast decided well, I will say nobly, in the 
 best meaning of the word, in consenting to 
 receive this brave Sigismund as a son; but 
 thou art not to think, young lady, because 
 this body of mine is getting the worse for 
 use, that I hold it altogether worthless, and 
 that it is to be dragged from yonder lake like 
 so much foul linen, and no questions are to 
 be asked touching the manner in which the 
 service has been done. I claim to portion 
 thy husband, that he may at least make an 
 appearance that becomes the son-in-law of 
 Melchior de Willading. Am I of no value, 
 that ye treat me so unceremoniously as to 
 say I shall not pay for my own preservation ?” 
 
 “Have it thine own way, good Gaetano— 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 87 
 
 <* All, father ?” | 
 
 “‘T have said all. I will not take back a 
 letter of the word, though it should rob me- 
 of Willading, my rank in the canton, and 
 an ancient name to boot. Am I not right, 
 Gaetano? I place the happiness of the boy 
 above all other considerations, that of Adel- 
 heid being understood to be so intimately 
 blended with his. I repeat it, therefore, 
 all.” 
 
 ‘Tt would be well to hear what the young 
 lady has to say, before we urge this affair 
 any further,” said the Signor Grimaldi, who, 
 having achieved no conquest over himself, 
 was not quite so exuberant in his exultation 
 as his friend ; observing more calmly, and 
 noting what he saw with the clearness of 
 a cooler-headed and more sagacious man. 
 ‘Tam much in error, or thy daughter has 
 that which is serious to communicate.” 
 
 The paternal affection of Melchior now 
 took the alarm, and he gave an eager atten- 
 tion to his child. - Adelheid returned his 
 evident solicitude by a smile of love, but its 
 painful expression was so unequivocal as to 
 heighten the Baron’s fears. 
 
 « Art not well, love ? It cannot be that 
 we have been deceived—that some peasant’s 
 daughter is thought worthy to supplant thee? 
 Ha!—Signor Grimaldi, this matter begins, 
 in sooth, to seem offensive;—but, old as I 
 am—Well, we shall never know the truth, 
 unless thou speakest frankly—this is a rare 
 business, after all, Gaetano—that a daughter 
 of mine should be repulsed by a hind !” 
 
 Adelheid made an imploring gesture for 
 her father to forbear, while she resumed her 
 seat from further inability to stand. The 
 two anxious old men followed her example, 
 in wondering silence. 
 
 «Thou dost voth the honor and modesty 
 of Sigismund great injustice, father,” resumed 
 the maiden, after a pause, and speaking with 
 a calmness of manner that surprised even 
 herself. ‘If thou and this excellent and 
 tried friend will give me your attention for 
 a few minutes, nothing shall be concealed.” 
 
 Her companions listened in wonder, for 
 they plainly saw that the matter was more 
 grave than either had at first imagined. 
 Adelheid paused again, to summon force for 
 the ungrateful duty, and then she succinctly, 
 but clearly, related the substance of Sigis- 
 
 have it as thou wilt, so thou dost but leave 
 us the youth——” 
 
 <¢ Father 5 
 
 «J will have no maidenly affectation, 
 Adelheid. I expect thee to receive the hus- 
 band we offer with as good a grace as if he 
 wore a crown. It has been agreed upon be- 
 tween us that Sigismund Steinbach is to be 
 my son; and from time immemorial the 
 daughters of our house have submitted, in 
 these affairs, to what has been advised by 
 the wisdom of their seniors, as became their 
 sex and inexperience.” 
 
 The three old men had entered the hall 
 full of good humor, and it would have been 
 sufficiently apparent, by the manner of the 
 Baron de Willading, that he trifled with 
 Adelheid, had it not been well known to the 
 others that her feelings were chiefly consulted 
 in the choice that had just been made. 
 
 But, notwithstanding the high glee in 
 which the father spoke, the pleasure and 
 buoyancy of his manner did not communi- 
 eate itself to the child as quickly as he could 
 wish. ‘There was far more than virgin em- 
 barrassment in the mien of Adelheid. Her 
 color went and came, and her look turned 
 from one to the other painfully, while she 
 struggled to speak. The Signor Grimaldi 
 whispered to his companions, and Roger de 
 Blonay discreetly withdrew, under the pre- 
 tence that his services were needed at Vévey, 
 where active preparations were making for 
 the Abbaye des Vignerons. The Genoese 
 would then have followed his example, but 
 the Baron held his arm, while he turned an 
 inquiring eye toward his daughter, as if com- 
 manding her to deal more frankly with him. 
 
 «Wather,” said Adelheid, in a voice that 
 shook, in spite of the effort to control her 
 feelings, “I have something important to 
 communicate, before this acceptance of Herr 
 Steinbach isa matter irrevocably determined.” 
 
 ‘Sneak freely, my child ; this is a tried 
 friend, and one entitled to know all that 
 concerns us, especially in this affair. ‘Throw- 
 ing aside all pleasantry, I trust, Adelheid, 
 that we are to have no girlish trifling with a 
 youth like Sigismund; to whom we owe so 
 much, even to our lives, and in whose be- 
 half we should be ready to sacrifice every 
 feeling of prejudice, or habits—all that we 
 possess, aye, even to our pride.” 
 
88 
 
 mund’s communication. Both the listeners 
 eagerly caught-each syllable that fell from 
 the quivering lips of the maiden, for she 
 trembled, notwithstanding a struggle to be 
 calm that was almost superhuman, and when 
 
 her voice ceased they gazed at each other 
 like men suddenly astounded by some dire 
 and totally unexpected calamity. The Baron, 
 in truth, could scarcely believe that he had 
 not been deceived by a defective hearing, for 
 age had begun a little to impair that useful 
 
 faculty, while his friend admitted the words 
 
 as one receives impressions of the most re- 
 volting and disheartening nature. 
 
 ‘‘This is a damnable and fearful fact !” 
 muttered the latter, when Adelheid had 
 altogether ceased to speak. 
 
 ** Did she say that Sigismund is the son 
 of Balthazar, the public headsman of the 
 canton?” asked the father of his friend, in 
 the way that one reluctantly assures himself 
 of some half-comprehended and unwelcome 
 truth—‘‘ of Balthazar—of that family ac- 
 cursed !” 
 
 “Such is the parentage it has been the 
 will of God to bestow on the preserver of 
 our lives,” meekly answered Adelheid. 
 
 ‘“‘ Hath the villain dared to steal into my 
 family circle, concealing this disgusting and 
 disgraceful fact? Hath he endeavored to 
 engraft the impurity of his source on the 
 untarnished stock of a noble and ancient 
 family? There is something exceeding mere 
 duplicity in this, Signor Grimaldi. There 
 is a dark and meaning crime.” 
 
 ‘There is that which much exceeds our 
 means of remedying, good Melchior. But 
 let us not rashly blame the boy, whose birth 
 is rather to be imputed to him as a mis- 
 fortune than asa crime. If he were a thou- 
 sand Balthazars, he has saved all our lives !” 
 
 ‘“Thou sayest true—thou sayest no more 
 than the truth. Thou wert always of a more 
 reasonable brain than I, though thy more 
 southern origin would seem to contradict it. 
 Here, then, are all our fine fancies and 
 liberal schemes of generosity blown to the 
 winds !” 
 
 “That is not so evident,” returned the 
 Genoese, who had not failed the while to 
 study the countenance of Adelheid, as if he 
 would fully ascertain her secret wishes. 
 “There has been much discourse, fair Adel- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 heid, between thee and the youth on this 
 matter ?” 
 
 “Signor, there has. I was about to com- 
 municate the intentions of my father; for 
 the circumstances in which we were placed, 
 the weight of our many obligations, the 
 usual distance which rank interposes between 
 the noble and the simply born, perhaps justi- 
 fies this boldness in a maiden,” she added, 
 though the tell-tale blood revealed her shame. 
 “Twas making Sigismund acquainted with my 
 father’s wishes, when he met my confidence 
 by the avowal which I have just related.” 
 
 ‘He deems his birth——” 
 
 “‘ An insuperable barrier to the connection. 
 Sigismund Steinbach, though go little favored 
 in the accident of his origin, is not a beggar 
 to sue for that which his own generous feel- 
 ings would coidemn,” 
 
 *« And thou ?” 
 
 Adelheid lowered her eyes, and seemed to 
 reflect on the nature of her answer. 
 
 ‘*Thou wilt pardon this curiosity, which 
 may wear too much the aspect of unwarrant- 
 able meddling, but my age and ancient 
 friendship, the recent occurrences, and a 
 growing love for all that concerns thee, must 
 plead my excuses. Unless we know thy 
 wishes, daughter, neither Melchior nor I can 
 act as we might wish.” 
 
 Adelheid was long and thoughtfully silent. 
 Though every sentiment of her heart, and 
 all that inclination which is the offspring of 
 the warm and poetical illusions of love, 
 tempted her to declare a readiness to sacri- 
 fice every other consideration to the engross- 
 ing and pure affections of woman, opinion 
 with its iron grip still held her in suspense 
 on the propriety of braving the prejudices of 
 the world. The timidity of that sex which, 
 however ready to make an offering of its 
 most cherished privileges on the shrine of 
 connubial tenderness, shrinks with a keen 
 sensitiveness from the appearance of a for- 
 ward devotion to the other, had its weight 
 also, nor could a child so pious altogether 
 forget the effect her decision might have on 
 the future happiness of her sole surviving 
 parent. 
 
 The Genoese understood the struggle, 
 though he foresaw its termination, and he 
 resumed the discourse himself, partly with 
 the kind wish to give the maiden time to 
 
ha 
 
 THH HEADSMAN. 89 
 
 reflect maturely before she answered, and 
 partly following a very natural train of his 
 own thoughts. 
 
 «‘There is naught sure in this fickle state 
 of being,” he continued, ‘Neither the 
 throne, nor riches, nor health, nor even the 
 sacred affections, are secure against change. 
 Well may we pause then and weigh every 
 chance of happiness, ere we take the last and 
 final step in any great or novel measure. 
 Thou knowest the hopes with which I en- 
 tered life, Melchior, and the chilling disap- 
 pointments with which my career is likely to 
 close. No youth was born to fairer hopes, 
 nor did Italy know one more joyous than 
 myself, the morning I received the hand of 
 Angiolina ; and yet two short years saw all 
 those hopes withered, this joyousness gone, 
 and a cloud thrown across my prospects 
 which has never disappeared. A widowed 
 husband, a childless father, may not prove a 
 bad counsellor, my friend, in a moment when 
 there is so much doubt besetting thee and 
 thine.” 
 
 «‘Thy mind naturally returns to thine own 
 unhappy child, poor Gaetano, when there is 
 so much question of the fortunes of mine.” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi turned his look on 
 his friend, but the gleam of anguish, which 
 was wont to pass athwart his countenance 
 when his mind was drawn powerfully toward 
 that painful subject, betrayed that he was 
 not just then able to reply. 
 
 “We see in all these events,” continued 
 the Genoese, as if too full of his subject to 
 restrain his words, ‘‘the unsearchable designs 
 of Providence. Here is a youth that is all 
 that a father could desire; worthy in every 
 sense to be the depository of a beloved and 
 only daughter’s weal; manly, brave, virtuous, 
 and noble in all but the chances of blood, 
 and yet so accursed by the world’s opinion that 
 we might scarce venture to name him as the 
 associate of an idlé hour, were the fact known 
 that he is the man he has declared himself 
 to be !” 
 
 “You put the matter in strong language, 
 Signor Grimaldi,” said Adelheid, starting. 
 
 “A youth of a form so commanding that 
 a king might exult at the prospect of his 
 crown descending on such a head ; of a per- 
 fection of strength and masculine excellence 
 that will almost justify the dangerous exulta- 
 
 tion of health and vigor ; of a reason that 
 is riper than his years ; of a virtue of proof ; 
 of all the qualities that we respect, and 
 which come of study and not of accident, 
 and yet a youth condemned of men to live 
 under the reproach of their hatred and con- 
 tempt, or to conceal forever the name of the 
 mother that bore him ! Compare this Sigis- 
 mund with others that may be named ; with 
 the high-born and pampered heir of some 
 illustrious house, who riots in men’s respect 
 while he shocks men’s morals; who pre- 
 sumes on privilege to trifle with the sacred 
 and the just; who lives for self, and 
 that in base enjoyments ; who is fitter to be 
 the lunatic’s companion than any other’s, 
 though destined to rule in the council ; who 
 is the type of the wicked, though called to 
 preside over the virtuous; who cannot be 
 esteemed, though entitled to be honored ; 
 and let us ask why this is so, what is the 
 wisdom which hath drawn differences so arbi- 
 trary, and which, while proclaiming the 
 necessity of justice, so openly, so wantonly, 
 and so ingeniously sets its plainest dictates 
 at defiance ?” 
 
 «Sionor, it shduld not be thus—God 
 never intended it should be so!” 
 
 ‘‘While every principle would seem to say 
 that each must stand or fall by his own good 
 or evil deeds, that men are to be honored as 
 they merit, every device of human institu- 
 tions is exerted to achieve the opposite. This 
 is exalted, because his ancestry is noble ; that 
 condemned for no better reason than that he 
 is born vile. Melchior! Melchior! our rea- 
 son is unhinged by subtleties, and our boasted 
 philosophy and right are no more than un- 
 blushing mockeries, at which the very devils 
 laugh !” 
 
 ‘‘ And yet the commandments of God tell 
 us, Gaetano, that the sins of the father shall 
 be visited on the descendants from genera- 
 tion to generation. You of Rome pay not 
 this close attention, perhaps, to sacred writ, 
 but I have heard it said that we have not in 
 Berne a law for which good warranty cannot 
 be found in the holy volume itself !” 
 
 «¢ Aye, there are sophists to prove all that 
 they wish. The crimes and _ follies of the 
 ancestor leave their physical, or even their 
 moral taint, on the child, beyond a question, 
 good Melchior ;—but is not this difficult ? 
 
90 
 
 Are we blasphemously, even impiously, to 
 pretend that God has not sufficiently pro- 
 vided for the punishment of the breaches of 
 his wise ordinances, that we must come for- 
 ward to second them by arbitrary and _heart- 
 less rules of our own ? What crime is im- 
 putable to the family of this youth beyond 
 that of poverty, which probably drove the 
 first of his race to the execution of their re- 
 volting office. There is little in the mien or 
 morals of Sigismund to denote the visitations 
 of Heaven’s wise decrees, but there is every- 
 thing in his present situation to proclaim the 
 injustice of man.” 
 
 «‘And dost thou, Gaetano Grimaldi, the 
 ally of so many ancient and illustrious houses 
 —thou, Gaetano Grimaldi, the honored of 
 Genoa—dost thou counsel me to give my only 
 child, the heiress of my lands and name, to 
 the son of the public executioner, nay, to the 
 very heritor of his disgusting duties ! ” 
 
 “‘ There thou hast me on the hip, Melchior: 
 the question is put strongly, and needs re- 
 flection for an answer. Oh! why is this 
 Balthazar so rich in offspring, and I so poor ? 
 But we will not press the matter; it is an 
 affair of many sides, andgshould be judged by 
 usas men, as wellas nobles. Daughter, thou 
 hast just learned, by the words of thy father, 
 that I am against thee, by position and heri- 
 tage, for, while I condemn the principle of 
 this wrong, I cannot overlook its effects, and 
 never before did a case of as tangled difficulty, 
 one in which right was so palpably opposed 
 by opinion, present itself for my judgment. 
 Leave us, that we may command ourselves ; 
 the required decision exacts much care, and 
 greater mastery of ourselves than I can exer- 
 cise with that sweet pale face of thine appeal- 
 ing so eloquently to my heart in behalf of the 
 noble boy.” 
 
 Adelheid arose, and first offering her mar- 
 ble-like brow to the salutation of both her 
 parents, for the ancient friendship and strong 
 sympathies of the Genoese gave him a claim 
 to this appellation in her affections at least, 
 she silently withdrew. As to the conyersa- 
 tion which ensued between the old nobles, we 
 momentarily drop the curtain, to proceed to 
 other incidents of our narrative. It may, 
 however, be generally observed that the day 
 passed quietly away, without the occurrence 
 of any event which it is necessary to relate, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 all in the chateau, with the exception of the 
 travellers, being principally occupied by the 
 approaching festivities. The Signor Grim- 
 aldi sought an occasion to have a long and a 
 confidential communication with Sigismund, 
 who, on his part, carefully avoided being seen 
 again by her who had so great an influence 
 on his feelings, until both had time to re- 
 cover their self-command. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ‘Hold, hurt him not, for God’s sake ;—he is mad.” 
 — Comedy of Hrrors. 
 
 THE festivals of Bacchus are supposed to 
 have been the models of those long-continued 
 festivities which are still known in Switzer- 
 land by the name of the Abbaye des Vig- 
 nerons, 
 
 This féte was originally of a simple and 
 rustic character being far from possessing 
 the labored ceremonies and classical allegories 
 of a later day, the severity of monkish dis- 
 cipline most probably prohibiting the intro- 
 duction of allusions to the Heathen mythol- 
 ogy, as was afterward practised ; for certain 
 religious communities that were the proprie- 
 tors of large vineyards in that vicinity appear 
 to have been the first known patrons of the 
 custom. So long as a severe simplicity 
 reigned in the festivities, they were annually 
 observed ; but when heavier expenses and 
 greater preparations became necessary, longer 
 intervals succeeded; the Abbaye at first 
 causing its festival to become triennial, and 
 subsequently extending the period of vaca- 
 tion to six years. As greater time was ob- 
 tained for the collection of means and incli- 
 nation the festival gained in éclat, until it 
 came at length to be a species of jubilee, to 
 which the idle, the curious, and the observant 
 of all the adjacent territories were accus- 
 tomed to resort in crowds. The town of 
 Vévey profited by the circumstance, the 
 usual motive of interest being enlisted in 
 behalf of the usage, and, down to the epoch 
 of the great European revolution, there 
 would seem to have been an unbroken succes- 
 sion of the fétes. The occasion to which 
 there has so often been allusion, was one of 
 the regular and long-expected festivals ; and 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 as report had spoken largely of the prepara- 
 tions, the attendance was even more numer- 
 ous than usual. 
 
 Early on the morning of the second day 
 after the arrival of our travellers at the 
 neighboring castle of Blonay, a body of men, 
 dressed in the guise of halberdiers, a species 
 of troops then known in most of the courts 
 of Europe, marched into the great square of 
 Vévey, taking possession of all its centre, and 
 posting its sentries in such a manner as to 
 interdict the usual passages of the place. 
 This was the preliminary step in the coming 
 festivities ; for this was the spot chosen for 
 the scene of most of the ceremonies of the 
 day. The curious were not long behind the 
 guards, and by the time the sun had fairly 
 arisen above the hills of Fribourg, some 
 thousands of spectators were pressing in and 
 about the avenues of the square, and boats 
 from the opposite shores of Savoy were arriv- 
 ing at each instant, crowded to the water’s 
 edge with peasants and their families. 
 
 “Near the upper end of the square, capa- 
 _ cious scaffoldings had been erected to contain 
 those who were privileged by rank, or those 
 who were able to buy honors with the vulgar 
 medium ; while humbler preparations for the 
 less fortunate completed the three sides of a 
 space that was in the form of a parallelo- 
 gram, and which was intended to receive the 
 actors in the coming scene. The side next 
 the water was unoccupied, though a forest of 
 latine spars, and a platform of decks, more 
 than supplied the deficiency of scaffolding 
 and room. Music was heard, from time to 
 time, intermingled or relieved by those wild 
 Alpine cries which characterize the songs of 
 the mountaineers. The authorities of the 
 town were early afoot, and as is costumary 
 with the important agents of small concerns, 
 they were exercising their municipal func- 
 tions with a bustle, which of itself contained 
 reasonable evidence that they were of no 
 great moment, and a gravity of mien with 
 which the chiefs of a state might have be- 
 lieved it possible to dispense. 
 
 The estrade, or stage, erected for the 
 superior class of spectators, was decorated 
 with flags, and a portion near its centre had 
 a fair display of tapestry and silken hang- 
 ings. The chateau-looking edifice near the 
 bottom of the square, and whose windows, 
 
 91 
 
 according to a common Swiss and German 
 usage, showed the intermingled stripes that 
 denoted it to be public property, were also 
 gay in colors, for the ensign of the Republic 
 floated over its pointed roofs, and rich silks 
 waved against the walls. This was the official 
 residence of Peter Hofmeister, the function- 
 ary whom we have already introduced to the 
 reader. 
 
 An hour later, ashot gave the signal for the 
 various ¢rowpes to appear, and soon after, par- 
 ties of the different actors arrived in the 
 square. As the little processions approached 
 to the sound of the trumpet or horn, curiosity 
 became more active, and the populace was 
 permitted to circulate in those portions of the 
 square that were not immediately required for 
 other purposes. About this time, a solitary 
 individual appeared upon the stage. He 
 seemed to enjoy peculiar privileges, not only 
 from his situation, but by the loud salutations 
 and noisy welcomes with which he was greeted 
 from the crowd below. It was the good monk 
 of St. Bernard, who, with a bare head, and a 
 joyous, contented face, answered to the sev- 
 eral calls of the peasants, most of whom had 
 either bestowed hospitality on the worthy 
 Augustine, in his many journeyings among 
 the charitable of the lower world, or had re- 
 ceived it at his hands in the frequent passages 
 of the mountain. These recognitions and 
 greetings spoke well for humanity; for in 
 every instance they wore the air of cordial 
 good-will, and a readiness to do honor to the 
 benevolent character of the religious com- 
 munity that was represented in the person of 
 its clavier or steward. 
 
 <¢ Good luck to thee, Father Xavier, and a 
 rich quéte,” cried a burly peasant; “ thou 
 hast of late unkindly forgotten Benoit Emery 
 and his. When did a clavier of St. Bernard 
 ever knock at my door, and go away with an 
 empty hand? We look for thee, reverend 
 monk, with thy vessel to-morrow; for the 
 summer has been hot, the grapes are rich, 
 and the wine is beginning to run freely in 
 our tubs. Thou shalt dip without any to 
 look at thee, and, take it of which color thou 
 wilt, thou shalt take it with a welcome.” 
 
 ‘¢ Thanks, thanks, generous Benoit; St. 
 Augustine will remember thy favor, and thy 
 fruitful vines will be none the poorer for thy 
 generosity. We ask only that we may give, 
 
92 
 
 and on none do we bestow more willingly 
 than on the honest Vaudois, whom may the 
 saints keep in mind for their kindness and 
 good-will.” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, I will have none of thy saints 5 
 thou knowest we are St. Calvin’s men in 
 Vaud, if there must be any canonized. But 
 what is it to us that thou hearest mass, 
 while we love the simple worship ? Are we 
 not equally men? Does not the frost nip 
 the members of Catholic and Protestant the 
 same ? or does the avalanche respect one 
 more than the other? I never knew thee 
 or any of thy convent question the frozen 
 traveller of his faith, but all are fed, and 
 warmed, and at need administered to from 
 the pharmacy with brotherly care, and as 
 Christians merit. Whatever thou mayest 
 think of the state of our souls, thou on thy 
 mountain there, no one will deny thy tender 
 services to our bodies. Say I well, neighbors, 
 or is this only the foolish gossip of old Benoit, 
 who has crossed the Col so often that he has 
 forgotten that our churches have quarrelled, 
 and that the learned will have us go to 
 Heaven by different roads ?” 
 
 A general movement among the people, 
 and a tossing of hands, appeared in support 
 of the truth and popularity of the honest 
 peasant’s sentiments, for in that age the 
 hospice of St. Bernard, more exclusively a 
 refuge for the real and poor traveller than at 
 present, enjoyed a merited pa in all 
 the country round. 
 
 ‘‘Thou shalt always be welcome on the 
 pass, thou and thy friends, and all others in 
 the shape of men, without other interference 
 in thy opinions than secret prayers,” returned 
 the good-humored and happy-looking clavier, 
 whose round, contented face shone partly in 
 habitual joy, partly in gratification at this 
 public testimonial in favor of the brother- 
 hood, and a little in satisfaction perhaps at 
 the promise of an ample addition to the con- 
 vent’s stores ; for the community of St. Ber- 
 nard, while so much was going out, had a 
 natural and justifiable desire to see some re- 
 return for its incessant and unwearied liber- 
 ality. ‘Thou wilt not deny us the happi- 
 ness of praying for those we love, though it 
 happened to be in a manner different from 
 that in which they ask blessings for them- 
 selves.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘‘ Have it thine own way, good canon; I 
 am none of those who are ready to refuse a 
 favor because it savors of Rome. But what 
 has become of our friend Uberto ? He rarely 
 comes into the valleys, that we are not anx- 
 ious to see his glossy coat.” 
 
 The Augustine gave the customary call, 
 and the mastiff mounted the stage with a 
 grave, deliberate step, as if conscious of the 
 dignity and usefulness of the life he led, and 
 like a dog accustomed to the friendly notice 
 of man. The appearance of this well-known 
 and celebrated brute caused another stir in 
 the throng, many pressing upon the guards 
 to get a nearer view, and a few casting frag- 
 ments of food from their wallets, as tokens of 
 gratitude and regard. In the midst of this 
 little by-play of good feeling, a dark shaggy 
 animal leaped upon the scaffolding, and very 
 coolly commenced, with an activity that de- 
 noted the influence of the keen mountain air 
 on his appetite, picking up the different 
 particles cf meat that had, as yet, escaped 
 the eye of Uberto. The intruder was re- 
 ceived much in the manner that an unpopular 
 or an offending actor is made to undergo the 
 hostilities of pit and galleries, to revenge 
 some slight or neglect for which he has for- 
 gotten or refused to atone. In other words, 
 he was incontinently and mercilessly pelted 
 with such missiles as first presented them- 
 selves. The unknown animal, which the 
 reader however will not be slow in recogniz- 
 ing to be the water-dog of I] Maledetto, re- 
 ceived these unusual visitations with some 
 surprise, and rather awkwardly ; for, in his 
 proper sphere, Nettuno had been quite as 
 much accustomed to meet with demonstra- 
 tions of friendship from the race he so faith- 
 fully served as any of the far-famed and 
 petted mastiffs of the convent. After dodg- 
 ing sundry stones and clubs, as well as a 
 pretty close attention to the principal matter 
 in hand would allow, and with a dexterity 
 that did equal credit to his coolness and 
 muscle, a missile of formidable weight took 
 the unfortunate follower of Maso in the side, 
 and sent him howling from the stage. At the 
 next instant, his master was at the throat of 
 the offender, throttling him till he was black 
 in the face. 
 
 The unlucky stone had come from Conrad. 
 Forgetful of his assumed character, he had 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 joined in the hue and cry against a dog 
 whose character and service should have been 
 sufficiently known to him, at. least, to prove 
 his protection, and had given the cruel- 
 It has been already seen 
 
 est blow of all. 
 that there was little friendship between Maso 
 and the pilgrim, for the former appeared to 
 have an instinctive dislike for the latter’s 
 
 calling, and this little occurrence was not of 
 
 a character likely to restore the peace be- 
 tween them. 
 
 ' «Thou, too!” cried the Italian, whose 
 blood had mounted at the very first attack 
 on his faithful follower, and which fairly 
 boiled when he witnessed the cowardly and 
 wanton conduct of this new assailant—* art 
 not satisfied with feigning prayers and godli- 
 ness with the credulous, but thou must even 
 feign enmity to my dog, because it is the 
 fashion to praise the cur of St. Bernard at 
 the expense of all other brutes! Reptile !— 
 dost not dread the arm of an honest man, 
 when raised against thee in just anger?” 
 
 « Friends — Vévaisans — honorable citi- 
 zens!” gasped the pilgrim, as the gripe of 
 Maso permitted breath. “I am Conrad, a 
 poor, miserable, repentant pilgrim. Will ye 
 see me murdered for a brute?” 
 
 Such a contest could not continue long in 
 such a place. At first the pressure of the 
 curious, and the great density of the crowd, 
 rather favored the attack of the mariner; 
 but in the end they proved his enemies, by 
 preventing the possibility of escaping from 
 those who were specially charged with the 
 care of the public peace. Luckily for Con- 
 rad, for passion had fairly blinded Maso to 
 the consequences of his fury, the halberdiers 
 soon forced their way into the centre of the 
 living mass, and they succeeded in seasonably 
 rescuing him from the deadly gripe of his 
 assailant. Il Maledetto trembled with the 
 reaction of this hot sally, the moment his 
 gripe was forcibly released, and he would 
 have disappeared as soon as possible, had it 
 been the pleasure of those into whose hands 
 he had fallen to permit so politic a step. 
 But now commenced the war of words, and 
 the clamor of voices, which usually succeed, 
 as well as precede, all contests of a popular 
 nature. The officer in charge of this portion 
 of the square questioned; twenty answered 
 in a breath, not only drowning each other’s 
 
 93 
 
 voices, but effectually contradicting all that 
 was said in the way of explanation. One 
 maintained that Conrad had not been con- 
 tent with attacking Maso’s dog, but that he 
 had followed up the blow by offering a per- 
 sonal indignity to the master himself; this 
 was the publican in whose house the mariner 
 had taken up his abode, and in which he had 
 been sufficiently liberal in his expenditure 
 fairly to entitle him to the hospitable sup- 
 port of its landlord. Another professed to 
 his readiness to swear that the dog was the 
 property of the pilgrim, being accustomed 
 to carry his wallet, and that Maso, owing to 
 an ancient grudge against both master and 
 beast, had hurled the stone whieh sent the 
 animal away howling, and had resented a 
 mild remonstrance of its owner in the ex- 
 traordinary manner that all had seen. This 
 witness was the Neapolitan juggler Pippo, 
 who had much attached himself to the per- 
 son of Conrad since the adventure of the 
 bark, and who was both ready and willing to 
 affirm anything in behalf of a friend who 
 had so evident need of his testimony, if it 
 were only on the score of boon-companion- 
 ship. A third declared that the dog be- 
 longed truly to the Italian; that the stone 
 had been really hurled by one who stood near 
 the pilgrim, who had been wrongfully accused 
 of the offence by Maso; that the latter had 
 made his attack under a false impression, and 
 richly merited punishment, for the uncere- 
 monious manner in which he had stopped 
 Conrad’s breath. This witness was perfectly 
 honest, but of a vulgar and credulous mind. 
 He attributed the original offence to one near 
 that happened to have a bad name, and who 
 was very liable to father every sin that, by 
 possibility, could be laid at his door, as well 
 as some that could not. On the other hand, 
 he had also been duped that morning by the 
 pilgrim’s superabundant professions of re- 
 ligious zeal, a circumstance that of itself 
 would have prevented him from detecting 
 Conrad’s arm in the air as it cast the stone, 
 and which served greatly to increase his cer- 
 tainty that the first offence came from the 
 luckless wight just alluded to; since they 
 who discriminate under general convictions 
 and popular prejudices, usually heap all the 
 odium they pertinaciously withhold from the 
 lucky and favored, on those who seem fated 
 
94 
 
 by general consent to be the common target 
 of the world’s darts. 
 
 The officer, by the time he had deliberately 
 heard the three principal witnesses, together 
 with the confounding explanations of those 
 who professed to be only half informed in 
 the matter, was utterly at a loss to decide 
 which had been right and whieh wrong. He 
 came, therefore, to the safe conclusion to 
 send all the parties to the guard-house, in- 
 ‘cluding the witnesses, being quite sure that 
 he had hit on an effectual method of visiting 
 the true criminal with punishment, and of 
 admonishing all those who gave evidence in 
 future to have a care of the manner in which 
 they contradicted each other. Just as this 
 equitable decision was pronounced, the sound 
 of a trumpet proclaimed the approach of a 
 division of the principal mummers, if so ir- 
 reverent a term can be applied to men en- 
 gaged in a festival as justly renowned as that 
 of the vine-dressers. ‘This announcement 
 greatly quickened the steps of justice, for they 
 who were charged with the execution of her 
 decrees felt the necessity of being prompt, 
 under the penalty of losing an interesting por- 
 tion of the spectacle. Actuated by this new 
 impulse, which, if not as respectable, was 
 quite as strong, as the desire to do right, the 
 disturbers of the peace, even to those who 
 had shown a quarrelsome temper by telling 
 stories that gave each other the lie, were hur- 
 ried away in a body, and the public was left 
 in the enjoyment of that tranquillity which, 
 in these perilous times of revolution and 
 changes, is thought to be so necessary to its 
 dignity, so especially favorable to commerce, 
 and so grateful to those whose duty it is to 
 preserve the public peace with as little incon- 
 venience to themselves as possible. 
 
 A blast of the trumpet was the signal for a 
 more general movement, for if announced 
 the commencement of the ceremonies. As it 
 will be presently necessary to speak of the 
 different personages who were represented on 
 this joyous occasion, we shall only say here, 
 that group after group of the actors came into 
 the square, each party marching to the sound 
 of music from its particular point of rendez- 
 vous to the common centre. The stage now 
 began to fill with the privileged, among 
 whom were many of the high aristocracy of 
 the ruling canton, most of its officials, who 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 were too dignified to be more than compla- 
 cent spectators of revels like these, many 
 nobles of mark from France and Italy, a few 
 travellers from KEngland—for in that age 
 England was deemed a distant country and 
 sent forth but a few of her élite to represent 
 her on such occasions—most of those from 
 the adjoining territories who could afford the 
 time and cost, and who by rank or character 
 were entitled to the distinction, and the 
 wives and families of the local officers who 
 happened to be engaged as actors in the rep- 
 resentation. By the time the different parts 
 of the principal procession were assembled in 
 the cquare, all the seats of the estrade were 
 crowded, with the exception of those reserved 
 for the bailiff and his immediate friends. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ‘*So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, 
 A noble show! while Roscius trod the stage.” 
 —COowPER. 
 
 THE day was not yet far advanced, when 
 all the component parts of the grand proces- 
 sion had arrived inthe square. Shortly after, 
 a flourish of clarions gave notice of the ap- 
 proach of the authorities. First came the 
 bailiff, filled with the dignity of station, and 
 watching, with a vigilant, but covert eye, 
 every indication of feeling that might prove 
 of interest to his employers, even while he 
 most affected sympathy with the occasion and 
 self-abandonment to the follies of the hour; 
 for Peter Hofmeister owed his long-estab- 
 lished favor with the birgerschaft more to a 
 never-slumbering regard to its exclusive in- 
 terests and its undivided supremacy, than to 
 any particular skill in the art of rendering 
 men comfortable and happy. Next to the 
 worthy bailiff—for apart from an indomitable 
 resolution to maintain the authority of his 
 masters for good or for evil, the Herr Hof- 
 meister merited the appellation of a worthy 
 man—came Roger de Blonay and his guest 
 the Baron de Willading, marching part passu 
 at the side of the representative of Berne 
 himself. There might have been some ques- 
 tion how far the bailiff was satisfied with this 
 arrangement of the difficult point of eti- 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 quette, for he issued from his own gate with 
 a sort of sidelong movement, that kept him 
 nearly confronted to the Signor Grimaldi, 
 though it left him the means of choosing his 
 path and of observing the aspect of things in 
 the crowd. At any rate, the Genoese, though 
 apparently occupying a secondary station, 
 had no grounds to complain of indifference 
 to his presence. Most of the observances 
 and not a few of the sallies of honest Peter, 
 who had some local reputation as a joker and 
 a bel esprit, as is apt to be the case with your 
 municipal magistrate, more especially when 
 he holds his authority independently of the 
 community with whom he associates, and 
 perhaps as little likely to be the fact when 
 he depends on popular favor for his rank, 
 were addressed to the Signor Grimaldi. 
 - Most of these good things were returned in 
 kind, the Genoese meeting the courtesies like 
 a man accustomed to be the object of peculiar 
 attentions, and possibly like one who rather 
 rioted in the impunity from ceremonies and 
 public observation, that he now happened to 
 enjoy. Adelheid, with a maiden of the house 
 of Blonay, closed the little train. 
 
 As all commendable diligence was used by 
 the officers of the peace to make way for the 
 bailiff, Herr Hofmeister and his companions 
 were soon in their allotted stations, which, it 
 is scarcely necessary to repeat, were the upper 
 places on the estrade. Peter had seated him- 
 self, after returning numerous salutations, 
 for none in a situation to catch his eye neg- 
 lected so fair an opportunity to show their 
 intimacy with the bailiff, when his wander- 
 ing glance fell upon the happy visage of 
 Father Xavier. Rising hastily, the bailiff 
 went through a multitude of the formal cere- 
 monies that distinguished the courtesy of the 
 place and period, such as frequent wavings 
 and liftings of the beaver, profound rever- 
 ences, smiles that seemed to flow from the 
 
 heart, and a variety of other tokens of extra- 
 ordinary love and respect. When all were 
 ended, he resumed his place by the side of 
 Melchior de Willading, with whom he com- 
 menced a confidential dialogue. 
 
 ‘We knownot, noble Freiherr ” (he spoke 
 in the vernacular of their common canton), 
 ‘whether we have most reason to esteem or 
 to disrelish these Augustines. While they 
 do so many Christian acts to the travellers on 
 
 95 
 
 their mountain yonder, they are devils incar- 
 nate in the way of upholding popery and its 
 abominations among the people. Look you, 
 the commonalty—God bless them as they de- 
 serve!—have no great skill at doctrinal dis- 
 cussions, and are much disposed to be led 
 away by appearances. Numberless are the 
 miserable dolts who fancy the godliness which 
 is content to pass its time on the top of a 
 frozen hill, doing good, feeding the hungry, 
 dressing the wounds of the fallen and—but 
 thou knewest the manner in which these say- 
 ings run—the ignorant, as I was about to 
 add, are but too ready to believe that the 
 religion which leads men to do this, must 
 have some savor of Heaven in it after all!” 
 ‘‘ Are they so very wrong, friend Peter, 
 that we were wise to disturb the monks in the 
 enjoyment of a favor that is so fairly earned ?” 
 The bailiff looked askance at his brother 
 
 ‘burgher, for such was the humble appellation 
 
 that aristocracy assumed in Berne, appearing 
 desirous of probing the depth of the other’s 
 political morals before he spoke more freely. 
 
 “Though of a house so honored and 
 trusted, I believe thou art not much accus- 
 tomed of late to mingle with the council?” 
 he evasively observed. 
 
 “Since the heavy losses in my family, of 
 which thou mayst have heard, the care of this 
 sole surviving child nas been my principal so- 
 lace and occupation. I know not whether 
 the frequent and near sight of death among 
 those so tenderly loved may have softened my 
 heart toward the Augustines, but to me theirs 
 seems aself-denying and a right worthy life.” 
 
 ‘«<?Tis doubtless as you say, noble Melchior, 
 and we shall do well to let our love for the 
 holy canons be seen. Ho! Mr. Officer—do 
 us the favor to request the reverend monk of 
 St. Bernard to draw nearer, that tne people 
 may learn the esteem in which their patient 
 charities and never-wearying benevolence are 
 held by the lookers-on. As you will have 
 occasion to pass the night beneath the con- 
 vent’s roof, Herr von Willading, in your 
 journey to Italy, a little honor shown to the 
 honest and painstaking clavier will not be 
 lost on the brotherhood, if these churchmen 
 have even a decent respect for the usages of 
 their fellow-creatures.” 
 
 Father Xavier took the proffered place, 
 which was nearer to the person of the bailiff 
 
96 
 
 than the one he had just quitted, and inso- 
 much the more honorable, with the usual, 
 thanks but with a simplicity which proved that 
 he understood the compliment to be due to the 
 fraternity of which he was a member, and 
 not to himself. This little disposition made, 
 as well as all other preliminary matters prop- 
 erly observed, the bailiff seemed satisfied 
 with himself and his arrangements for the 
 moment. 
 
 The reader must imagine the stir in the 
 throng, the importance of the minor agents 
 appointed to marshal the procession, and the 
 mixture of weariness and curiosity that pos- 
 sessed the spectators, while the several parts 
 of so complicated and numerous a train were 
 getting arranged, each in its prescribed order 
 and station. But, as the ceremonies which 
 followed were of a peculiar character, and 
 have an intimate connection with the events 
 of the tale, we shall describe them with a 
 little detail, although the task we have 
 allotted to ourselves is less that of sketching 
 pictures of local usages, and of setting before 
 the reader’s imagination scenes of real or 
 fancied antiquarian accuracy, than the expo- 
 sition of a principle, and the wholesome 
 moral which we have always flattered our- 
 selves might, in a greater or less degree, 
 follow from our labors. 
 
 A short time previous to the commence- 
 ment of the ceremonies, a guard of honor, 
 composed of shepherds, gardeners, mowers, 
 reapers, vine-dressers, escorted by halber- 
 diers and headed by music, had left the square 
 in quest of the abbé, as the regular and 
 permanent presiding officer of the abbaye, 
 or company, is termed. This escort, all the 
 individuals of which were dressed in char- 
 acter, was not long in making its appearance 
 with the officer in question, a warm, sub- 
 stantial citizen and proprietor of the place, 
 who, otherwise attired in the ordinary cos- 
 tume of his class in that age, had decorated 
 his beaver with a waving plume, and, in ad- 
 dition to a staff or baton, wore a floating 
 scarf pendent from his shoulder. This per- 
 gonage, on whom certain judicial functions 
 had devolved, took a convenient position in 
 the front of the stage, and soon made a sign 
 for the officials to proceed with their duties. 
 
 Twelve vine-dressers led by a chief, each 
 having his person more or iess ornamented 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 with garlands of vine-leaves, and bearing 
 other emblems of his calling, marched in a 
 body chanting a song of the fields. They 
 escorted two of their number who had been 
 pronounced the most skilful and successful 
 in cultivating the vineyards of the adjacent 
 cétes. When they reached the front of the 
 estrade, the abbé pronounced a short dis- 
 course in honor of the cultivators of the earth 
 in general, after which he digressed into 
 especial eulogiums on the successful candi- 
 dates—two pleased, abashed, and unpractised 
 peasants, who received the simple prizes 
 with throbbing hearts. This little ceremony 
 observed, amid the eager and delighted gaze 
 of friends, and the oblique and discontented 
 regards of the few whose feelings were too 
 contracted to open to the joys of others, 
 even on this simple and grateful festival, 
 the trumpets sounded again, and the cry was 
 raised to make room. 
 
 A large group advanced from among the 
 body of the actors to an open space, of suf- 
 ficient size and elevation, immediately in front 
 of the stage. When in full view of the 
 multitude, those who composed it arranged 
 themselves in a prescribed and seemly order. 
 They were the officials of Bacchus. ‘The 
 high priest, robed in a sacrificial dress, with 
 flowing beard, and head crowned with the 
 vine, stood foremost, chanting in honor of 
 the craft of the vine-dresser. His song also 
 contained a few apposite allusions to the 
 smiling, blushing candidates. The whole 
 joined in the chorus, though the leader of 
 the band scarce needed the support of any 
 other lungs than those with which he had 
 been very amply furnished by nature. 
 
 The hymn ended, a general burst of in- 
 strumental music succeeded; and, the fol- 
 lowers of Bacchus regaining their allotted 
 station, the general procession began to 
 move, sweeping round the whole area of the 
 square in a manner to pass in order before 
 the bailiff. 
 
 The first body in the march was composed 
 of the council of- the abbaye, attending by 
 the shepherds and gardeners. One, in an 
 antique costume, and bearing a halberd, acted 
 as marshal. He was succeeded by the two 
 crowned vine-dressers, after whom came the 
 abbé with his counsellors, and large groups 
 of shepherds and shepherdesses, as well as a 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 number of both sexes who toiled in gardens, 
 all attired in costumes suited to the traditions 
 of their respective pursuits. The marshal 
 and the officers of the abbaye moved slowly 
 past, with the gravity and decorum that be- 
 came their stations, occasionally halting to 
 give time for the evolutions of those who 
 followed; but the other actors now began in 
 earnest to play their several parts. A group 
 of young shepherdesses, clad in closely fitting 
 vests of sky-blue, with skirts of white, each 
 holding her crook, came forward, dancing 
 and singing songs that imitated the bleatings 
 of their flocks, and all the other sounds 
 familiar to the elevated pasturages of that 
 region. These were soon joined by an equal 
 number of young shepherds, also singing 
 their pastorals, the whole exhibiting an 
 active and merry group of dancers, accus- 
 tomed to exercise their art on the sward of 
 the Alps; for in this festival, although we 
 have spoken of the performers as actors, it is 
 not in the literal meaning of the term, 
 since, with few exceptions, none appeared to 
 represent any other calling than that which 
 in truth formed his or her daily occupation. 
 We shall not detain the narrative to say 
 more of this party, than that they formed a 
 less striking exception to the conventional 
 picture of the appearance of those engaged 
 in tending flocks than the truth ordinarily 
 betrays; and that their buoyant gayety, 
 blooming faces, and unwearied action formed 
 ‘a good introductory preparation for the 
 saltation that was to follow. 
 
 The male gardeners appeared in their 
 aprons, carrying spades, rakes, and the other 
 implements of their trade; the females sup- 
 porting baskets on their heads filled with rich 
 flowers, vegetables, and fruits. When in 
 front of the bailiff, the young men formed a 
 sort of fasces of their several implements, 
 with a readiness that denoted much study, 
 while the girls arranged their baskets in a 
 circle at its foot. Then, joining hands, the 
 whole whirled around, filling the air with a 
 song peculiar to tneir pursuits. 
 
 During the whole of the preparations of 
 the morning, Adelheid had looked on with a 
 vacant eye, as if her feelings had little connec- 
 tion with that which was passing before her 
 face. It is scarcely necessary to say, that her 
 mind, in spite of herself, wandered to other 
 
 97 
 
 scenes, and that her truant thoughts were 
 busy with interests very different from those 
 which were here presented to the senses. 
 But, by the time the group of gardeners had 
 passed dancing away, her feelings began to 
 enlist with those who were so evidently 
 pleased with themselves and all around them, 
 and her father, for the first time that morn- 
 ing, was rewarded for the deep attention with 
 which he watched the play of her features, 
 by an affectionate and natural smile. 
 
 “This goes off right merrily, Herr Bailiff,” 
 exclaimed the Baron, animated by that en- 
 couraging smile, as the blood is quickened 
 by a genial ray of the sun’s heat when it has 
 been long chilled and deadened by cold— 
 «This goes off with a joyful will, and is 
 likely to end with credit to thy town! I 
 only wonder that you have not more of this, 
 and monthly. When joy can be had so 
 cheap, it is churlish to deny it to a people.” 
 
 ‘We complain not of the levities, noble 
 Freiherr, for your light thinker makes a 
 sober and dutiful subject; but we shall have 
 more of this, and of a far better quality, or 
 our time is wasted. What is thought at 
 Berne, noble Melchior, of the prospects of 
 the Emperor’s obtaining a new concession for 
 the levy of troops in our cantons?” 
 
 “T cry thy mercy, good Peterchen, but by 
 thy leave we will touch on these matters 
 more at our leisure. Boyish though it seem 
 to thy eyes, so long accustomed to look at 
 matters of state, I do confess that these follies 
 begin to have their entertainment, and may 
 well claim an hour of idleness from him that 
 has nothing better in hand.” 
 
 Peter Hofmeister ejaculated a little expres- 
 sively. He then examined the countenance 
 of the Signor Grimaldi, who had given him- 
 self to the merriment with the perfect good- 
 will and self-abandonment of aman of strong 
 intellect, and who felt his powers too sensibly 
 to be jealous of appearances. Shrugging his 
 shoulders, like one that was disappointed, the 
 pragmatical bailiff turned his look toward the 
 revellers, in order to detect, if possible, some 
 breach of the usages of the country, that 
 might require official reproof; for Peter was 
 of that class of governors who have an itch- 
 ing to see their fingers stirring even the air 
 that is breathed by the people, lest they 
 should get it of a quality or in a quantity 
 DD 
 
98 
 
 that might prove dangerous to a monopoly 
 which it is now the fashion to call the con- 
 servative principle. In the meantime the 
 revels proceeded. 
 
 No sooner had the gardeners quitted the 
 arena, than a solemn and imposing train ap- 
 peared to occupy the sward. Four females 
 marched to the front, bearing an antique 
 altar that was decorated with suitable de- 
 vices. They were clad in emblematical 
 dresses, and wore garlands of flowers on their 
 heads. Boys carrying censers preceded an 
 altar that was dedicated to Flora, and her 
 ministering official came after it, mitred and 
 carrying flowers. like all the priestesses 
 that followed, she was laboriously attired in 
 the robes that denoted her sacred duty. ‘The 
 goddess herself was borne by four females on 
 a throne canopied by flowers, and from whose 
 several parts sweeping festoons of every hue 
 and dye descended,to the earth. Haymakers 
 of both sexes, gay and pastoral in their air 
 and attire, succeeded, and a car groaning 
 with the sweet-scented grass of the Alps, ac- 
 companied by females bearing rakes, brought 
 up the rear. 
 
 The altar and the throne being deposited 
 on the sward, the priestess offered sacrifice, 
 hymning the praise of the goddess with 
 mountain lungs. Then followed the dance 
 of the haymakers, as in the preceding ex- 
 hibition, and the train went off as before. 
 
 ‘‘Eixcellent well, and truer than it could 
 be done by your real pagan!” cried the 
 bailiff, who, in spite of his official longings 
 began to watch the mummery with a pleased 
 eye. “This beateth greatly our youthful 
 follies in the Genoese and Lombard cardinals, 
 in which, to say truth, there are sometimes 
 seen rare niceties in the way of representing 
 the old deities.” 
 
 “Ts it the usage, friend Hofmeister,” de- 
 manded the Baron, ‘‘to enjoy these admir- 
 able pleasantries often here in Vaud ?” 
 
 “We partake of them, from time to time, 
 as the abbaye desires, and much as thou 
 seest. The honorable Signor Grimaldi—who 
 will pardon me that he gets no better treat- 
 ment than he receives, and who will not fail 
 to ascribe what, to all who know him, might 
 otherwise pass for inexcusable neglect, to his 
 own desire for pivacy—he will tell us, should 
 he be pleased to honor us with his. real 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 opinion, that the subject is none the worse 
 for occasions to laugh and be gay. Now, 
 there is Geneva, a town given to subtleties as 
 ingenious and complicated as the machinery 
 of their own watches; it can never have a 
 merry-making without a leaven of disputa- 
 tion and reason, two as damnable ingredients 
 in the public humor as schism in religion, or 
 two minds in a ménage. There is not a 
 knave in the city who does not fancy himself 
 a better man than Calvin, and some there 
 are who believe if they are not cardinals, it 
 is merely because the reformed Church does 
 not relish legs cased in red stockings. By the 
 word of a bailiff! I would not be the ruler, 
 look ve, of such a community, for the hope 
 of becoming Avoyer of Berne itself. Here it 
 is different. We play our antics in the shape 
 of gods and goddesses like sober people, and, 
 when all is over, we go to train our vines, or 
 count our herds, like faithful subjects of the 
 great canton. Do I state the matter fairly to 
 our friends, Baron de Blonay?” 
 
 Roger de Blonay bit his lip, for he and his 
 had been of Vaud a thousand years, and he 
 little relished the allusion to the quiet man- 
 ner in which his countrymen submitted to 
 a compelled and foreign dictation. He 
 bowed a cold acquiescence to the bailiff’s 
 statement, however, as if no further answer 
 were needed. 
 
 “We have other ceremonies that invite our 
 attention,” said Melchior de Willading, who | 
 had sufficient acquaintance with his friend’s 
 opinions to understand his silence. 
 
 The next group that approached was com- 
 posed of those who lived by the products of 
 the dairy. ‘T'wo cowherds led their beasts, 
 the monotonous tones of whose heavy bells 
 formed a deep and rural accompaniment to 
 the music that regularly preceded each party, 
 while a train of dairy-girls, and of young 
 mountaineers of the class that tend the herds 
 in the summer pasturages, succeeded, a car 
 loaded with the implements of their calling 
 bringing up the rear. In this little proces- 
 sion, no detail of equipment was wanting. 
 The milking-stool was strapped to the body 
 of the dairyman; one had the peculiary con- 
 structed pail in his hand, while another bore 
 at his back the deep wooden vessel in which 
 milk is carried up and down the precipices to 
 the chalet. When they reached the sodden 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 arena, the men commenced milking the 
 cows, the girls set in motion the different 
 
 processes of the dairy, and the whole united 
 in singing the Ranz des Vaches of the district. 
 
 It is generally and erroneously believed that 
 
 there is a particular air which is known 
 throughout Switzerland by this name, whereas, 
 
 in truth, nearly every canton has its own song 
 of the mountains, each varying from the others 
 in the notes, as well as in the words, and we 
 The 
 Ranz des Vaches of Vaud is in the patois of 
 the country, a dialect that is composed of 
 words of Greek and Latin origin, mingled on 
 
 might almost add in the language. 
 
 a foundation of Celtic. Like our own famil- 
 iar tune, which was first bestowed in derision, 
 and which a glorious history has enabled us 
 to continue in pride, the words are far too 
 numerous to be repeated. We shall, how- 
 ever, give the reader a single verse of a song 
 
 which Swiss feeling has rendered so cele- 
 
 brated, and which is said often to induce the 
 mountaineer in foreign service to desert the 
 mercenary standard and the tame scenes of 
 the towns, to return to the magnificent 
 nature that haunts his waking imagination 
 and embellishes his dreams. It will at once 
 be perceived that the power of this song is 
 chiefly to be found in the recollections to 
 which it gives birth, by recalling the simple 
 charms of rural life, and by reviving the in- 
 delible impressions that are made by nature 
 wherever she has laid her hand on the face 
 of the earth with the same majesty as in 
 Switzerland. 
 Lé zermailli dei Colombette 
 Dé bon matin, sé san léha— 
 REFRAIN. 
 Ha, ah! ha, ah! 
 Liauba! Liauba ! por aria. 
 Venidé toté, 
 Bllantz’ et naire, 
 Rodz et motaile, 
 Dzjouvan’ et etro 
 Dez6 ou tzehano, 
 To vo z’ ario_ 
 Dezo ou triembllo, 
 To ie triudzo, 
 Liauba! Liauba! por aria.* 
 
 * The cowherds of the Alps 
 Arise at an early hour. 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Ha, ah! ha, ah! 
 Liauba ! Liauba ! in order to milk. 
 
 99 
 
 The music of the mountains is peculiar 
 and wild, having most probably received its 
 inspiration from the grandeur of the natural 
 objects. Most the sounds partake of the 
 character of echoes, being high-keyed but 
 false notes; such as the rocks send back to 
 the valleys, when the voice is raised above its 
 natural key in order to reach the caverns and 
 savage recesses of inaccessible precipices. 
 Strains like these readily recall the glens and 
 the magnificence amid which they were first 
 heard, and hence, by an irresistible impulse, 
 the mind is led to indulge in the strongest of 
 all its sympathies, those which are mixed with 
 the unalloyed and unsophisticated delights 
 of buoyant childhood. 
 
 The herdsmen and dairymaids no sooner 
 uttered the first notes of this magic song, 
 than a deep and breathing stillness pervaded 
 the crowd. As the peculiar strains of the 
 chorus rose on the ear murmuring echoes 
 issued from among the spectators, and ere 
 the wild intonations could be repeated which 
 accompanied the words “ Liauba! Liauba! ” 
 a thousand voices were lifted simultaneously, 
 as it were to greet the surrounding moun- 
 tains with the salutations of their children. 
 From that moment the remainder of the 
 Ranz des Vaches was a common burst of en- 
 thusiasm,the offspring of that national fervor 
 which forms so strong a link in the social 
 chain, and which is capable of recalling to 
 the bosom that, in other respects, has been 
 hardened by vice and crime, a feeling of 
 some of the purest sentiments of our nature. 
 
 The last strain died amidst this general 
 exhibition of healthful feeling. The cow- 
 herds and the dairy girls collected their dif- 
 ferent implements, and resumed their march 
 to the melancholy music of the bells, which 
 formed a deep contrast to the wild notes that 
 had just filled the square. 
 
 To these succeeded the followers of Ceres, 
 with the altar, the priestess, and the en- 
 
 Come all of you, 
 
 Black and white, 
 
 Red and mottled, 
 
 Young and old ; 
 
 Beneath this oak 
 
 I am about to milk you, 
 
 Beneath this poplar, 
 
 I am about to press, 
 
 Liauba ! Liauba! in order to milk. 
 
100 
 
 throned goddess, as has been already de- 
 scribed in the approach of Flora. Cornucopiz 
 ornamented the chair of the deity, and the 
 canopy was adorned with the gifts of autumn. 
 The whole was surrounded by a sheaf of 
 wheat. She held the sickle as her sceptre, 
 and a tiara composed of the bearded grain 
 covered her brow. Reapers followed, bear- 
 ing emblems of the season of abundance, and 
 gleaners closed the train, There was the 
 halt, the chant, the chorus, and the song in 
 praise of the beneficent goddess of autumn, 
 as had been done by the votaries of the deity 
 of flowers. A dance of the reapers and 
 gleaners followed, the threshers flourished 
 their flails, and the whole went their way. 
 After these came the grand standard of the 
 abbaye, and the vine-dressers; the real objects 
 of the festival succeeded. The laborers of 
 the spring led the advance, the men carrying 
 their picks and spades, and the women ves- 
 sels to contain the cuttings of the vines. 
 Then came a train bearing baskets loaded 
 with the fruit, in its different degrees of per- 
 fection and of every shade of color. Youths 
 holding staves topped with miniature repre- 
 sentations of the various utensils known in 
 the culture of the grape, such as the laborer 
 with the tub on his back, the butt, and the 
 vessel that first receives the flowing juice, fol- 
 lowed. A great number of men, who 
 brought forward the forge that is used to pre- 
 pare the tools, closed this part of the exhi- 
 bition. The song and the dance again suc- 
 ceeded, when the whole disappeared at a sig- 
 nal given by the approaching music of 
 Bacchus. As we now touch upon the most 
 elaborate part of the representation, we seize 
 the interval that is necessary to bring it for- 
 ward, in order to take breath ourselves. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ‘And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall, 
 That stand’st between her father’s ground and mine, 
 Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, 
 Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine 
 eyne.” 
 — Midsummer Night’s Dream. 
 
 «“’Opps my life, but this goes off with a 
 grace, brother Peter!” exclaimed the Baron 
 de Willading, as he followed the vine-dressers 
 
 able Melchior. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 in their retreat, with an amused eye—“‘ If we 
 have much more like it, I shall forget the 
 dignity of the biirgerschaft, and turn mum- 
 mer with the rest, though my good name for 
 wisdom were the forfeit of the folly.” 
 «That is better said between ourselves 
 than performed before the vulgar eye, honor- 
 It would sound ill, of a 
 truth, were these Vaudois to boast that a 
 
 noble of thy estimation in Berne were thus 
 to forget himself.” 
 
 ‘None of this !—are we not here to be © 
 merry, and to laugh, and to be pleased with 
 
 any folly that offers? A truce, then, to thy 
 official distrusts and superabundant dignity, 
 honest Peterchen,” for such was the good- 
 natured name by which the worthy bailiff 
 was most commonly addressed by his friends ; 
 
 ‘let the tongue freely answer to the heart, 
 
 as if we were boys rioting together, as was 
 
 once the case, long ere thou wert thought of 
 
 for this office, or I knew a sorrowful hour.” 
 
 «The Signor Grimaldi shall judge between 
 us; I maintain that restraint is necessary to 
 those in high trusts.” 
 
 ‘J will decide when the actors have all 
 
 played their parts,” returned the Genoese, 
 
 smiling ; ‘‘at present, here cometh one to 
 whom all old soldiers pay homage. We will 
 not fail of respect in so great a presence, on 
 account of a little difference in taste.” 
 
 Peter Hofmeister was not a small drinker, 
 and as the approach of the god of the cup 
 was announced by a flourish from some twenty 
 instruments made to speak on a key suited 
 to the vault of heaven, he was obliged to re- 
 serve his opinions for another time. After 
 the passage of the musicians and a train of 
 the abbaye’s servants, for especial honors 
 were paid to the ruby deity, there came three 
 officials of the sacrifice, one leading a goat 
 with gilded horns, while the two others bore 
 the knife and the hatchet. To these suc- 
 ceeded the altar adorned with vines, the in- 
 cense bearers, and the high-priest of Bacchus, 
 who led the way for the appearance of the 
 youthful god himself. The deity was seated 
 astride on a cask, his head encircled with a 
 garland of generous grapes, bearing a cup in 
 one hand, and a vine-entwined and fruit-- 
 crowned sceptre in the other. Four Nubians 
 carried him on their shoulders, while others 
 shaded his form with an appropriate canopy; 
 
THE HHEADSMAN. 
 
 _ fauns wearing tiger-skins, and playing their | 
 
 characteristic antics, danced in his train, 
 while twenty laughing and _light-footed 
 Bacchantes flourished their instruments, 
 moving in measure in the rear. 
 
 A general shout in the multitude preceded 
 the appearance of Silenus, who was sustained 
 in his place on an ass by two blackamoors. 
 The half-empty skins at his side, the vacant 
 
 laugh, the foolish eye, the lolling tongue, the 
 
 bloated lip, and the idiotic countenance, gave 
 reason to suspect that there was a better 
 motive for their support than any which be- 
 longed to the truth of the representation. 
 Two youths then advanced bearing on a pole 
 a cluster of grapes that nearly descended to 
 the ground, and which was intended to repre- 
 sent the fruit brought from Canaan by the 
 messengers of Joshua—a symbol much af- 
 fected by the artists and mummers of the 
 other hemisphere, on occasions suited to its 
 display. A huge vehicle, ycleped the ark of 
 Noah, closed the procession. It held a wine- 
 press, having its workmen embowered among 
 the vines, and it contained the family of the 
 second father of the human race. As it 
 rolled past, traces of the rich liquor were left 
 in the tracks of its wheels. 
 
 Then came the sacrifice, the chant, and 
 the dance, as in most of the preceding ex- 
 hibitions, each of which, like this of Bacchus, 
 had contained allusions to the peculiar habits 
 and attributes of the different deities. The 
  bacchanal that closed the scene was performed 
 in character; the trumpets flourished and 
 the procession departed in the order in which 
 it had arrived. 
 
 Peter relented a little from his usual polit- 
 ical reserve, as he witnessed these games in 
 honor of a deity to whom he so habitually 
 did practical homage, for it was seldom that 
 this elaborate functionary, who might be 
 termed quite a doctrinaire in his way, com- 
 posed his senses in sleep without having 
 pretty effectually steeped them in the liquor 
 of the neighboring hills; a habit that was of 
 far more general use among men of his class 
 in that age than in this of ours, which seems 
 so eminently to be the season of sobriety. 
 
 «‘This is not amiss, of a verity,” observed 
 the contented bailiff, as the Fauns and 
 Bacchantes moved off the sward, capering 
 and cutting their classical antics with far 
 
 101 
 
 more agility and zeal than grace. ‘‘ This 
 looks like the inspiration of good wine, 
 Signor Genoese, and were the truth known, 
 it would be found that the rogue who plays 
 the part of the fat person on the ass—how 
 dost call the knave, noble Melchior ?” 
 
 ‘* Body o’ me! if I am wiser than thyself, 
 worthy bailiff; it is clearly a rogue who can 
 never have done his mummery so expertly, 
 without some aid from the flask.” 
 
 «Twill be well to know the fellow’s char- 
 acter, for there may be occasion to commend 
 him to the gentlemen of the abbaye, when 
 all is over. Your skilful ruler has two great 
 instruments that he need use with discretion, 
 Baron de Willading, and these are, fear and 
 flattery; and Berne hath no servant more 
 ready to apply both, or either, as there may 
 be necessity, than one of her poor bailiffs 
 that hath not received all his dues from the 
 general opinion, if truth were spoken. But 
 it is well to be prepared to speak these good 
 people of the abbaye fairly, touching their 
 exploits. Harkee, master halberdier ; thou 
 art of Vévey, I think, and a warm citizen in 
 thy every-day character, or my eyes do us 
 both injustice !” 
 
 ““T am, as you have said, Monsieur le 
 Bailli, a Vévaisan, and one that is well 
 known among our artisans.” 
 
 «‘ True, that was visible, spite of thy hal- 
 berd. Thou art, no doubt, rarely gifted, and 
 taught to the letter in these games. Wilt 
 name the character that has just ridden past 
 on the ass—he that hath so well enacted the 
 drunkard, I mean? His name hath gone 
 out of our minds for the moment, though 
 his acting never can, for a better performance 
 of one overcome by liquor is seldom seen.” 
 
 ‘‘Lord keep you! worshipful bailiff, that 
 is Antoine Giraud, the fat butcher of La 
 Tour de Peil, and a better at the cup there is 
 not in all the country of Vaud! No wonder 
 that he hath done his part so readily; for, 
 while the others have been reading in books, 
 or drilling like so many awkward recruits 
 under the schoolmaster, Antoine hath had 
 little more to perform than to dip into the 
 skin at his elbow. When the officers of the 
 abbaye complain, lest he should disturb the 
 ceremonies, he bids them not to make fools 
 of themselves, for every swallow he gives is 
 just so much done in honor of the represen- 
 
102 
 
 tation ; and he swears, by the creed of Cal- 
 vin! that there shall be more truth in his 
 acting than in that of any other of the whole 
 party.” 
 
 «Odds my life ! the fellow hath humor as 
 well as good acting in him—this Antoine 
 Giraud! Will you look into the written 
 order they have given us, fair Adelheid, that 
 we may make sure this artisan-halberdier 
 hath not deceived us? We in authority 
 must not trust a Vévaisan too lightly.” 
 
 «‘Tt will be vain, I fear, Herr Bailiff, since 
 the characters, and not the names of the 
 actors, appear in the lists. The man in 
 question represents Silenus I should think, 
 judging from his appearance and all the 
 other circumstances.” | 
 
 ‘Well, let it be as thou wilt. Silenus 
 himself could not play his own part better 
 than it hath been done by this Antoine 
 Giraud. The fellow would gain gold like 
 water at the court of the Emperor as a 
 mime, were he only advised to resort thither. 
 [ warrant you, now, he would do Pluto, 
 or Minerva, or any other god, just as well as 
 he hath done this rogue Silenus ! ” 
 
 The honest admiration of Peter, who, 
 sooth to say, had not much of the learning 
 of the age, as the phrase is, raised a smile on 
 the lip of the beauteous daughter of the 
 Baron, and she glanced a look to catch the 
 eye of Sigismund, toward whom all her secret 
 sympathies, whether of sorrow or of joy, so 
 naturally and so strongly tended. But the 
 averted head, the fixed attention, and the 
 nearly immovable and statue-like attitude in 
 which he stood, showed that a more powerful 
 interest drew his gaze to the next group. 
 Though ignorant of the cause of his intense 
 regard, Adelheid instantly forgot the bailiff, 
 his dogmatism, and his want of erudition, in 
 the wish to examine those who approached. 
 
 The more classical portion of the cere- 
 monies was now duly observed. The council 
 of the abbaye intended to close with an ex- 
 hibition that was more intelligible to the 
 mass of the spectators than anything which 
 had preceded it, since it was addressed to 
 the sympathies and habits of every people, 
 and in all conditions of society. This was 
 the spectacle that so engrossingly attracted 
 the attention of Sigismund. It was termed 
 
 the procession of the nuptials, and it was! 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 now slowly advancing to occupy the space 
 left vacant by the retreat of Antoine Giraud 
 and his companions. — | 
 
 There came in front the customary band, 
 playing a lively air which use has long ap- 
 propriated to the festivities of Hymen. The 
 lord of the Manor, or, as he was termed, the 
 Baron, and his lady partner led the train, 
 both apparelled in the rich and quaint attire 
 of the period. Six ancient couples, the rep- 
 resentatives of happy married lives, followed 
 by a long succession of offspring of every 
 age, including equally the infant at the breast 
 and the husband and wife in the flower of 
 their days, walked next to the noble pair. 
 Then appeared the section- of the dwelling, 
 which was made to portray the interior of 
 domestic economy, having its kitchen, its 
 utensils, and most of the useful and neces- 
 sary objects that may be said to compose the 
 material elements of an humble ménage. 
 Within this moiety of a house, one female 
 plied the wheel, and another was occupied in 
 baking. The notary, bearing the register 
 beneath an arm, with hatin hand, and dress- 
 ed in an exaggerated costume of his pro- 
 fession, strutted in the rear of the two in- 
 dustrious housemaids. His appearance was 
 greated with a general laugh, for the spec- 
 tators relished the humor of the caricature 
 with infinite godt. But this sudden and 
 general burst of merriment was as quickly 
 forgotten in the desire to behold the bride 
 and bridegroom, whose station was next to 
 that of the officer of the law. It was under- 
 stood that these parties were not actors, but 
 that the abbaye had sought out a couple, of 
 corresponding rank and means, who had con- 
 sented to join their fortunes in reality on the 
 occasion of this great jubilee, thereby lending 
 to it a greater appearance of that genuine 
 joy and festivity which it was the desire of 
 the heads of the association to represent. 
 Such a search had not been made without 
 exciting deep interest in the simple com- 
 munities which surrounded Vévey. Many 
 requisites had been proclaimed to be neces- 
 sary in the candidates—such as beauty, mod- 
 esty, merit, and the submission of her sex, 
 in the bride; and in her partner those 
 qualities which might fairly entitle him to 
 be the repository of the happiness of a 
 maiden so endowed. 
 
THE HEHADSMAN. 
 
 Many had been the speculations of the 
 Vévaisans touching the individuals who had 
 been selected to perform these grave and 
 important characters, which, for fidelity of 
 representation, were to outdo that of Silenus 
 himself; but so much care had been taken 
 by the agents of the abbaye to conceal the 
 names of those they had selected, that, until 
 this moment, when disguise was no longer 
 possible, the public was completely in the 
 dark on the interesting point. It was so 
 usual to make matches of this kind on oc- 
 easions of public rejoicing, and marriages of 
 convenience, as they are not unaptly termed, 
 enter so completely into the habits of all 
 European communities—perhaps we might 
 say of all old communities—that common 
 opinion would not have been violently out- 
 raged had it been known that the chosen 
 pair saw each other for the second or third 
 time in the procession, and that they had 
 now presented themselves to take the nuptial 
 vow, as it were, at the sound of the trumpet 
 or beat of drum. Still, it was more usual to 
 consult the inclinations of the parties, since 
 it gave greater zest to the ceremony, and 
 these selections of couples on public occasions 
 were generally supposed to have more than 
 the common interest of marriages, since they 
 were believed to be the means of uniting, 
 through the agency of the rich and powerful, 
 those whom poverty or other adverse circum- 
 stances had hitherto kept asunder. Rumor 
 spoke of many an inexorable father who had 
 listened to reason from the mouths of the 
 great, rather than balk the public humor; 
 and thousands of pining hearts, among the 
 obscure and simple, are even now gladdened 
 at the approach of some joyous ceremony, 
 which is expected to throw open the gates of 
 the prison to the debtor and the criminal, or 
 that of Hymen to those who are richer in 
 constancy and affection than in any other 
 stores. 
 
 A general murmur and a common move- 
 ment betrayed the lively interest of the spec- 
 tators,as the principal and real actors in this 
 portion of the ceremonies drew near. Adel- 
 heid felt a warm glow on her cheek, and a 
 gentler flow of kindness at her heart when 
 her eye first caught a view of the bride and 
 bridegroom, whom she was fain to believe a 
 faithful pair that a cruel fortune had hitherto 
 
 103 
 
 kept separate, and who were now willing to 
 brave such strictures as all must encounter 
 who court public attention, in order to re- 
 ceive the reward of their enduring love and 
 self-denial. This sympathy, which was at 
 first rather of an abstract and vague nature 
 finding its support chiefly in her own pecul- 
 iar situation and the qualities of her gentle 
 nature, became intensely heightened, how- 
 ever, when she got a better view of the bride. 
 The modest mien, abashed eye, and difficult 
 breathing of the girl, whose personal charms 
 were of an order much superior to those 
 which usually distinguish rustic beauty in 
 those countries in which females are not ex- 
 empted from the labors of the field, were so 
 natural and winning as to awaken all her in- 
 terest; and, with instinctive quickness, the 
 lady of Willading bent her look on the bride- 
 groom, in order to see if one whose appear- 
 ance was so eloquent in her favor was likely 
 to be happy in her choice. In age, personal 
 appearance, and apparently in condition of 
 life, there was no very great unfitness, though 
 Adelheid fancied that the mien of the maiden 
 announced a better breeding than that of her 
 companion—a difference which she was will- 
 ing to ascribe, however, to a greater aptitude 
 in her own sex to receive the first impress of 
 the moral seal, than that which belongs to 
 man. 
 
 “She is fair,” whispered Adelheid, slightly 
 bending her head toward Sigismund, who 
 stood at her side, “and must deserve her 
 happiness.” 
 
 “She is good, and merits a better fate!” 
 muttered the youth, breathing so hard ag to 
 render his respiration audible. 
 
 The startled Adelheid raised her eyes, and 
 strong but suppressed agitation was quivering 
 in every lineament of her companion’s coun- 
 tenance. ‘The attention of those near was so 
 closely drawn toward the procession, as to 
 allow an instant of unobserved communica 
 tion. 
 
 ‘‘Sigismund, this is thy sister !” 
 
 “God so cursed her,” 
 
 ‘* Why has an occasion, public as this, been 
 chosen to wed a maiden of her modesty and 
 manner?” 
 
 ‘* Can the daughter of Balthazar be squeam- 
 ish? Gold, the interest of the abbaye, and 
 the foolish éclat of this silly scene, have en- 
 
104 
 
 abled my father to dispose of his child to 
 yonder mercenary, who has bargained like a 
 Jew in the affair, and who, among other con- 
 ditions, has required that the true name of 
 his bride shall never be revealed. Are we 
 not honored by a connection which repudi- 
 ates us even before it is formed! ” 
 
 The hollow stifled langh of the young man 
 thrilled on the nerves of his listener, and she 
 ceased the stolen dialogue to return to the 
 subject at a more favorable moment. In the 
 meantime the procession had reached the 
 station in front of the stage, where the mum- 
 mers had already commenced their rites. 
 
 A dozen groomsmen and as many female 
 attendants accompanied the pair who were 
 about to take the nuptial vow. Behind these 
 came the trousseau and the corbeille ; the first 
 being that portion of the dowry of the bride 
 which applies to her personal wants, and the 
 last is an offering of the husband, and is fig- 
 uratively supposed to be the pledge of the 
 strength of his passion. In the present in- 
 stance the trousseau was so ample, and _ be- 
 tokened so much liberality, as well as means, 
 on the part of the friends of a maiden who 
 would consent to become a wife in a ceremony 
 so public, as to create general surprise; while, 
 on the other hand, a solitary chain of gold, 
 of rustic fashion, and far more in consonance 
 with the occasion, was the sole tribute of the 
 swain. This difference between the liberality 
 of the friends of the bride, and that of the 
 individual, who, judging from appearances, 
 had much the most reason to show his satis- 
 faction, did not fail to give rise to many 
 comments. They ended, as most comments 
 do, by deductions drawn against the weaker 
 and least defended of the parties. ‘The gen- 
 eral conclusion was so uncharitable as to in- 
 fer that a girl thus bestowed must be under 
 veculiar disadvantages, else would there have 
 been a greater equality between the gifts ; an 
 inference that was sufficiently true, though 
 sruelly unjust to its modest but unconscious 
 subject. 
 
 While speculations of this nature were rife 
 among the spectators, the actors in the cere- 
 mony began their dances, which were distin- 
 guished by the quaint formality that belonged 
 to the politeness of the age. ‘The songs that 
 succeeded were in honor of Hymen and his 
 votaries, and a few couplets that extolled the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 virtues and beauty of the bride were chanted 
 in chorus. A sweep appeared at the chim- 
 ney-top, raising his cry, in allusion to the 
 business of the ménage, and then all moved 
 away, as had been done by those who had 
 preceded them. A guard of halberdiers 
 closed the procession. 
 
 That part of the mummeries which was to 
 be enacted in front of the estrade was now 
 ended for the moment, and the different 
 groups proceeded to various other stations in 
 the town, where the ceremonies were to be 
 repeated for the benefit of those who, by 
 reason of the throng, had not been able to 
 get a near view of what had passed in the 
 square. Most of the privileged profited by 
 the pause to leave their seats, and to seek 
 such relaxations as the confinement rendered 
 agreeable. Among those who entirely quitted 
 the square were the bailiff and his friends, 
 who strolled toward the promenade on the 
 lake-shore, holding discourse, in which there 
 was blended much facetious merriment con- 
 cerning what they had just seen. 
 
 The bailiff soon drew his companions 
 around him, ina deep discussion of the nature 
 of the games, [during which the Signor Gri- 
 maldi betrayed a malicious pleasure in leading 
 on the dogmatic Peter to expose the confu- 
 sion that existed in his head, touching the 
 characters of sacred and profane history. 
 Even Adelheid was compelled to laugh at the 
 commencement of this ludicrous exhibition, 
 but her thoughts were not long in recurring 
 to a subject in which she felt a nearer and a 
 more tender interest. Sigismund walked 
 thoughtfully at her side, and she profited by 
 the attention of all around them being drawn 
 to the laughable dialogue just mentioned, to 
 
 ‘renew the subject that had been so lightly 
 
 touched on before. 
 
 “T hope thy fair and modest sister will 
 never have reason to repent her choice,” she 
 said, lessening her speed in a manner to 
 widen the distance between herself and those 
 she did not wish to overhear the words, while 
 it brought her nearer to Sigismund; ‘*’tis a 
 frightful violence to all maiden feeling to be 
 thus dragged before the eyes of the curious 
 and vulgar, in a scene trying and solemn as 
 that in which she plights her marriage vows! ” 
 
 “Poor Christine! her fate from infancy has 
 been pitiable. A purer or milder spirit than ~ 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 hers, one that more sensitively shrinks from 
 rude collision, does not exist; and yet, on 
 whichever side she turns her eyes, she meets 
 with appalling prejudices or opinions to drive 
 a gentle nature like hers to madness. It may 
 be a misfortune, Adelheid, to want instruc- 
 tion, and to be fated to pass a life in the 
 depths of ignorance, and in the indulgence 
 of brutal passions, but it is scarcely a blessing 
 to have the mind elevated above the tasks 
 which a cruel and selfish world so frequently 
 imposes. ” 
 
 “Thou wast speaking of thy mild and ex- 
 cellent sister i ; 
 
 ‘Well hast thou described her! Christine 
 is mild, and more than modest—she is meek. 
 But what can meekness itself do to palliate 
 such a calamity? Desirous of averting the 
 stigma of his family from all he could with 
 prudence, my father caused my sister, like 
 myself, to be early taken from the parental 
 home. She was given in charge to strangers, 
 under such circumstances of secrecy, as left 
 her long, perhaps too long, in ignorance of 
 the stock from which she sprang. When 
 maternal pride led my mother to seek her 
 daughter’s society, the mind of Christine was 
 in some measure formed, and she had to en- 
 dure the humiliation of learning that she was 
 one of afamily proscribed. Her gentle spirit, 
 however, soon became reconciled to the truth, 
 at least so far as human observation could 
 penetrate, and, from the moment of the first 
 terrible agony, no one has heard her murmur 
 at the stern decree of Providence. The res- 
 ignation of that mild girl has ever been a 
 reproach to my own rebellious temper, for, 
 Adelheid, I cannot conceal the truth from 
 thee—I have cursed all that I dared include 
 in my wicked imprecations, in very madness 
 at this blight of my hopes! Nay, I have even 
 accused my father of injustice, that he did 
 
 -not train me at the side of the block, that I 
 might take a savage pride in that which is 
 now the bane of my existence. Not so with 
 Christine ; she has always warmly returned 
 the affection of our parents, as a daughter 
 should love the author of her being, while I 
 fear I have been repining when I should have 
 loved. Our origin is a curse entailed by the 
 ruthless laws of the land, and it is not to be 
 attributed to any, at least to none of these 
 later days, as a fault ; and such has ever been 
 
 105 
 
 the language of my poor sister when she has 
 seen a merit in their wishes to benefit us at 
 the expense of their own natural affection. I 
 would I could imitate her reason and resigna- 
 tion !” 
 
 ‘‘The view taken by thy sister is that of a 
 female, Sigismund, whose heart is stronger 
 than her pride; and, what is more, it is 
 just.” 
 
 “Tdeny it not; ‘tis just. But the ill- 
 judged mercy has forever disqualified me to 
 sympathize as I could wish with those to 
 whom I belong. *Tis an error to draw these 
 broad distinctions between our habits and our 
 affections. Creatures stern as soldiers cannot 
 bend their fancies like pliant twigs, or with 
 the facility of female % 
 
 ‘‘ Duty,” said Adelheid, gravely, observing 
 that he hesitated. 
 
 ‘Tf thou wilt, duty. The word has great 
 weight with thy sex, and I do not question 
 that it should have with mine.” 
 
 “Thou canst not be wanting in affection 
 for thy father, Sigismund. ‘The manner in 
 which thou interposedst to save his life, when 
 we were in the fearful jeopardy of the tem- 
 pest, disproves thy words.” 
 
 ‘‘ Heaven forbid that I should be wanting 
 in natural feeling of this sort, and yet, Adel- 
 heid, it is horrible not to be able to respect, 
 to love profoundly, those to whom we owe 
 our existence! Christine in this is far hap- 
 pier than I, an advantage that I doubt not 
 she owes to her simple life, and to the closer 
 intimacies which unite females. I am the 
 son of a headsman; that bitter fact 1s never 
 absent from my thoughts when they turn to 
 home and those scenes in which I could so 
 gladly take pleasure. Balthazar may have 
 meant a kindness when he caused me to be 
 trained in habits so different from his own, 
 but, to complete the good work, the veil 
 should never have been removed.” 
 
 Adelheid was silent. Though she under- 
 stood the feelings which controlled one edu- 
 cated so very differently from those to whom 
 he owed his birth, her habits of thought were 
 opposed to the indulgence of any reflections 
 that could unsettle the reverence of the child 
 for its parents. 
 
 ‘‘One of a heart like thine, Sigismund, 
 cannot hate his mother!” she said, after a 
 pause. 
 
106 
 
 “Tn this thou dost me no more than jus- 
 tice; my words have ill represented my 
 thoughts, if they have left such an impression. 
 In cooler moments, I have never considered 
 my birth as more than a misfortune, and my 
 education I deem a reason for additional re- 
 spect and gratitude to my parents, though it 
 may have disqualified me in some measure to 
 enter deeply into their feelings. Christine 
 herself is not more true, nor of more devoted 
 love, than my poor mother. It is necessary, 
 Adelheid, to see and know that excellent 
 woman in order to understand all the wrongs 
 that the world inflicts by its ruthless usages.” 
 
 ‘“We will now speak only of thy sister. 
 Has she been here bestowed without regard 
 to her own wishes, Sigismund ? ” 
 
 ‘‘T hope not. Christine is meek, but, 
 while neither word nor look betrays the weak- 
 ness, still she feels the load that crushes us 
 both. She has long accustomed herself to 
 look at all her own merits through the medi- 
 um of this debasement, and has set too low a 
 value on her own excellent qualities. Much, 
 very much, depends, in this life, on our own 
 habits of self-estimation, Adelheid ; for he 
 who is prepared to admit unworthiness—I 
 speak not of demerit toward God, but toward 
 men—will soon become accustomed to famil- 
 larity with a standard below his just preten- 
 sions, and willend perhaps in being the thing 
 he dreaded. Such has been the consequence 
 of Christine’s knowledge of her birth, for, to 
 her meek spirit, there is an appearance of 
 generosity, in overlooking this grand defect, 
 and it has too well prepared her mind to en- 
 dow the youth with a hundred more of the 
 qualities that are absolutely necessary to her 
 esteem, but which I fear exist only in her own 
 warm fancy.” 
 
 ‘‘This is touching on the most difficult 
 branch of human knowledge,” returned Adel- 
 heid, smiling sweetly on the agitated brother ; 
 ‘a just appreciation of ourselves. If there 
 is danger of setting too low a value on our 
 merits, there is also some danger of setting 
 too high ; though I perfectly comprehend the 
 difference you would make between vulgar 
 vanity, and that self-respect which is certainly 
 in some degree necessary to success. But 
 one, like her thou hast described, would 
 scarce yield her affections without good rea- 
 son to think them well bestowed.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘* Adelheid, thou, who hast never felt the 
 world’s contempt, canst not understand how 
 winning respect and esteem can be made to 
 those who pine beneath its weight! My sis- 
 ter hath so long accustomed herself to think 
 meanly of her hopes, that the appearance of 
 liberality and justice in this youth would have 
 been sufficient of itself to soften her feelings 
 in his favor. I cannot say I think—for Chris- 
 tine will soon be his wife—but will say, I fear 
 that the simple fact of his choosing one that 
 the world persecutes has given him a value in 
 her eyes he might not otherwise have pos- 
 sessed.” 
 
 ‘Thou dost not appear to approve of thy 
 sister’s choice ?”’ | 
 
 ‘‘T know the details of the disgusting 
 bargain better than poor Christine,” an- 
 swered the young man, speaking between 
 his teeth, like one who repressed bitter emo- 
 tion. ‘‘I was privy to the greedy exactions 
 on the one side, and to the humiliating con- 
 cessions on the other. Even money could 
 not buy this boon for Balthazar’s child, with- 
 out a condition that the ineffaceable stigma 
 of her birth should be forever concealed.” 
 
 Adelheid saw, by the cold perspiration that 
 stood on the brow of Sigismund, how in- 
 tensely he suffered, and she sought an im- 
 mediate occasion to lead his thoughts to a 
 less disturbing subject. With the readiness 
 of her sex, and with the sensitiveness and 
 delicacy of a woman that sincerely loved, 
 she found means to effect the charitable 
 purpose, without again alarming his pride. 
 She succeeded so far in calming his feelings, 
 that when they rejoined their companions, 
 the manner of the young man had entirely 
 regained the quiet and proud composure in 
 which he appeared to take refuge against 
 the consciousness of the blot that darkened 
 his hopes, frequently rendering life itself a 
 burden nearly too heavy to be borne. 
 
 ooo 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ‘«—____Come apace, good Audrey, I will fetch 
 Up your goats, Audrey: and how, Audrey? am 
 I the man yet? Doth my simple features content 
 You?” —As You Like It. 
 
 WHILE the mummeries related were ex- 
 hibiting in the great square, Maso, Pippo, 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 Conrad, and the others concerned in the 
 little disturbance connected with the affair 
 of the dog, were eating their discontent with- 
 in the walls of the guard-house. Vévey had 
 several squares, and the various ceremonies 
 of the gods and demigods were now to be 
 repeated in the smaller areas. On one of 
 the latter stand the town-house and prison. 
 The offenders in question had been sum- 
 marily transferred to the jail, in obedience 
 to the command of the officer charged with 
 the preservation of the peace. By an act of 
 grace, however, that properly belonged to 
 the day as well as to the character of the 
 offence, the prisoners were permitted to 
 occupy a part of the edifice that commanded 
 a view of the square, and consequently were 
 not precluded from all participation in the 
 joyousness of the festivities. This indulgence 
 had been accorded on the condition that the 
 parties should cease their wrangling, and 
 otherwise conduct themselves in a way not 
 to bring scandal on the exhibition in which 
 the pride of every Vévaisan was so deeply 
 enlisted. All the captives, the innocent as 
 well as the guilty, gladly subscribed to the 
 terms; for they found themselves in a tem- 
 porary duress which did not admit of any 
 fair argument of the merits of the case, and 
 there is no leveller so effectual as a common 
 misfortune. 
 
 The anger of Maso, though sudden and 
 violent, the effect of a hot temperament, 
 had quickly subsided in a calm which more 
 probably belonged to his education and opin- 
 ions, in all of which he was much superior 
 to his profligate antagonist. Contempt, 
 therefore, soon took the place of resentment; 
 and though too much accustomed to rude 
 contact with men of the pilgrim’s class to be 
 ashamed of what had occurred, the mariner 
 strove to forget the occurrence. It was one 
 of those moral disturbances to which he was 
 searcely less used, than he was accustomed 
 to encounter physical contests of the ele- 
 ments like that in which he had lately ren- 
 dered so essential service on the Leman. } 
 
 “Give me thy hand, Conrad,” he said, 
 with the frank forgiveness which is apt to 
 distinguish the reconciliation of men who 
 pass their lives among the violent, but some- 
 times ennobling scenes of adventure and law- 
 lessness. ‘‘Thou hast thy humors and 
 
 107 
 
 habits, and I have mine. If thou findest 
 this trafficking in penances and prayers to 
 thy fancy, follow the trade, for Heaven’s 
 sake, and leave me and my dog to live by 
 other means.” 
 
 “Thou oughtst to have bethought thee 
 how much reason we pilgrims have to prize 
 the mastiffs of the mountains,” answered 
 Conrad, “‘and how likely it was to stir my 
 blood to see another cur devouring that 
 which was intended for old Uberto. Thou 
 hast never toiled up the sides of St. Bernard, 
 friend Maso, loaded with the sins of a whole 
 parish, to say nothing of thine own, and 
 therefore canst not know the value of these 
 brutes who so often stand between us pil- 
 erims and a grave of snow.” 
 
 Il Maledetto smiled grimly, and muttered 
 a sentence between his teeth; for, in perfect 
 consonance with the frank lawlessness of his 
 own, life, there was a reckless honesty in his 
 nature, which caused him to despise hypoc- 
 risy as unworthy of the bold attributes of 
 manhood. 
 
 ‘‘Have it as thou wilt, pious Conrad,” he 
 said sneeringly, “so there be peace between 
 us. I am,as thou knowest, an Italian, and 
 though we of the south seek revenge occa- 
 sionally of those who wrong us, it is not often 
 that we do violence after giving a willing 
 palm—tI trust ye of Germany are no less 
 honest ?” 
 
 “ May the Virgin be deaf to every ave I 
 have sworn to repeat, and the good fathers of 
 Loretto refuse absolution, if I think more of 
 it! *I'was but the gripe of a throat, and I 
 am not so tender in that part of the body as 
 to fear it is to be the forerunner of a closer 
 squeeze. Didst ever hear a churchman that 
 suffered in this way?” 
 
 “Men often escape with less than their 
 deserts,’ Maso dryly answered. ‘‘ Well, for- 
 tune, or the saints, or Calvin, or whatever 
 power most suits your tastes, good friends, 
 has at length put a roof over our heads,—an 
 honor that rarely arrives to most of us, if | 
 may judge by appearances and some little 
 knowledge of the different trades we follow. 
 Thou wilt have a fair occasion to suffer 
 Policinello to rest from his uneasy antics, 
 Pippo, while his master breathes the air 
 through a window for the first time in many 
 a day, as I will answer.” 
 
108 
 
 The Neapolitan had no difficulty in laugh- 
 ing at this sally ; for his was a nature that 
 took all things pleasantly, though it took 
 nothing under the corrective of principle or 
 a respect for the rights of others. 
 
 “Were this Napoli, with her gentle sky 
 and hot voleano,” he said, smiling at the al- 
 lusion, ‘‘no one would have less relish for a 
 roof than myself.” 
 
 “Thou wast born beneath the arch of some 
 Duca’s gateway,” returned Maso, with a sort 
 of reckless sarcasm that as often cut his 
 friends as his enemies ; “thou wilt probably 
 die in the hospital of the poor, and wilt surely 
 be shot from the death-cart into one of the 
 daily holes of thy Campo Santo among a 
 goodly company of Christians, in which arms 
 and legs will be thrown at random like jack- 
 straws, and the wisest among ye all will be 
 puzzled to tell his own limbs from those of 
 his neighbors, at the sound of the »last 
 trumpet.” 
 
 ‘‘Am I a dog, to meet this end?” de- 
 manded Pippo, fiercely—“ or that I should 
 not know my own bones from those of some 
 infidel rascal who may happen to be my 
 neighbor ? ” 
 
 “We have had one disturbance about 
 brutes, let us not have another,” sarcastically 
 rejoined Il Maledetto. “ Princes and nobles,” 
 he added, with affected gravity, ‘‘we are 
 here bound by the heels during the good 
 pleasure of those who rule in Vévey; the 
 wisest course will be to pass the time in good 
 humor with each other, and as pleasantly as 
 our condition will allow. The reverend Con- 
 rad shall have all the honors of a cardinal, 
 Pippo shall have the led horse at his funeral, 
 and as for these worthy Vaudois, who, no 
 doubt, are men of substance in their way, 
 they shall be bailiffs sent by Berne to rule 
 between the four walls of our palace! Life 
 is but a graver sort of mummery, gentlemen, 
 and the second of its rarest secrets is to make 
 others fancy us what we wish to appear—the 
 first being, without question, the faculty of 
 deceiving ourselves. Now each one has only 
 to imagine that he is the high personage I 
 have just named, and the most difficult part 
 of the work is achieved to his hands.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou hast forgotten to name thine own 
 quality,” cried Pippo, who was too much used 
 to buffoonery not to relish the whim of Maso, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 and who, with Neapolitan fickleness, forgot 
 his anger the instant he had given it vent. 
 
 “JT will represent the sapient public, and, 
 being well disposed to be duped, the whole 
 job is complete. Practice away, worthies, 
 and ye shall see with what open eyes and 
 wide gullet I am neo ae to admire and swallow 
 all your philosophy.” 
 
 This sally produced a hearty adapt which 
 rarely fails to establish momentary good- 
 fellowship. The Vaudois, who had the thirsty 
 propensities of mountaineers, ordered wine, 
 and, as their guardians looked upon their 
 confinement more as a measure of temporary 
 policy than of serious moment, the command 
 was obeyed. In a short time, this little 
 group of worldlings were making the best of 
 circumstartees, by calling in the aid of physi- 
 cal stimulants to cheer their solitude. As 
 they washed their throats with the liquor, 
 which was both good and cheap, and by con- 
 sequence doubly agreeable, the true charac- 
 ters of the different individuals began to 
 show themselves in stronger colors. 
 
 The peasants of Vaud, of whom there 
 were three, and all of the lowest class, be- 
 came confused and dull in their faculties, 
 though louder and more vehement in speech, 
 each man appearing to: balance the increas- 
 ing infirmities of his reason by stronger 
 physical demonstrations of folly. 
 
 Conrad, the pilgrim, threw aside the mask 
 entirely, if indeed so thin a veil as that he 
 ordinarily wore when not in the presence of 
 his employers deserved such a name, and 
 appeared the miscreant he truly was—a 
 strange admixture of cowardly superstition 
 (for few meddle with superstition without 
 getting more or less entangled in its meshes), 
 of low cunning, and of the most abject and 
 gross sensuality and vice. ‘The invention 
 and wit of Pippo, at all times ready and 
 ingenious, gained increased powers, but the 
 torrent of animal spirits that were let loose 
 by his potations swept before it all reserve, 
 and he scarce opened his mouth but to be- 
 tray the thoughts of a man long practised 
 in frauds and all other evil designs on the 
 rights of his fellow-creatures. On Maso the 
 wine produced an effect that might almost 
 be termed characteristic, and which it is in 
 some sort germane to the moral of the tale 
 to describe. 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 Il Maledetto had indulged freely and 
 with apparent recklessness in the frequent 
 draughts. He was long familiarized to the 
 habits of this wild and uncouth fellowship, 
 and a singular sentiment, that men of his 
 class choose to call honor, and which per- 
 haps deserves the name as much as half of 
 the principles that are described by the same 
 appellation, prevented him from refusing to 
 incur an equal risk in the common assault 
 on their faculties, inducing him to swallow 
 his full share of the intoxicating fluid as the 
 cup passed from one reeking mouth to an- 
 other. He liked the wine, too, and tasted 
 its perfume, and cherished its glowing influ- 
 ence, with the perfect good-will of a man 
 who knew how to profit by the accident 
 which placed such generous liquor at his 
 command. He had also his designs in wish- 
 ing to unmask his companions, and he 
 thought the moment favorable to such an 
 intention. In addition to these motives, 
 Maso had his especial reasons for being un- 
 easy at finding himself in the hands of the 
 authorities, and he was not sorry to bring 
 about a state of things that might lead to 
 his being confounded with the others in a 
 group of vulgar devotees of Bacchus. 
 
 But Maso yielded to the common disposi- 
 tion ina manner peculiar to himself. His 
 eyes became even more lustrous than usual, 
 his face reddened, and his voice even grew 
 thick, while his senses retained their powers. 
 His reason, instead of giving way, like those 
 of the men around him, rather brightened 
 under the excitement, as if it foresaw the 
 danger it incurred, and the greater necessity 
 there existed for vigilance. Though born in 
 a southern clime, he was saturnine and cold 
 when unexcited, and such temperaments 
 rather gain their tone than lose their powers 
 by stimulants under which men of feebler 
 organizations sink. He had passed his life 
 amid wild adventure and in scenes of peril 
 which suited such a disposition, and it most 
 probably required either some strong motive 
 of danger, like that of the tempest on the 
 Leman, or a stimulant of another quality, to 
 draw out the latent properties of his mind, 
 which so well fitted him to lead when others 
 were the most disposed to follow. He was, 
 therefore, without fear for himself while he 
 
 aroused his companions ; and he was free of | 
 
 109 
 his purse, which did not, however, appear to’ 
 be sufficiently stored to answer very heavy 
 demands, by ordering cup after cup to sup- 
 ply the place of those which were so quickly 
 drained to the dregs. In this manner an 
 hour or two passed swiftly, they who were 
 charged with the care of the jolly party in 
 the town-house being much more occupied 
 in noting the festivities without, than those 
 within, the prison. : 
 
 “Thou hast a merry life of it, honest 
 Pippo,” cried Conrad, with swimming eyes, 
 answering a remark of the buffoon. “Thou 
 art but a laugh at the best, and wilt go 
 through the world grinning and making 
 others grin. Thy Policinello is a rare fellow, 
 and I never meet one of thy set that weary 
 legs and sore feet are not forgotten in his 
 fooleries |” 
 
 “Corpo di Bacco !—I wish this were so ; 
 but thou hast much the best of the matter, 
 even in the way of amusement, reverend pil- 
 grim, though to the looker-on it would seem 
 otherwise. The difference between us, pious 
 Conrad, is just this—that thou laughest in 
 thy sleeve without seeming to be merry, 
 whereas I yawn ready to split my jaws while 
 I seem to be dying with fun. Your often- 
 told joke is a bad companion, and gets at 
 last to be as gloomy as a dirge. Wine can 
 be swallowed but once, and laughter will not 
 come forever for the same folly. Cospetto ! 
 I would give the earnings of a year for a set 
 of new jokes, such as might come fresh from 
 the wit of one who never saw a mountebank, 
 and are not worn threadbare with being 
 rubbed against the brains of all the jokers 
 in Europe.” 
 
 ‘‘There was a wise man of old, of whom it 
 is not probable that any of you have ever 
 heard,” observed Maso, “ who has said that 
 there was nothing new under the sun.” 
 
 ‘‘He who said that never tasted of this 
 liquor, which is as raw as if it were still run- 
 ning from the press,” rejoined the pilgrim. 
 «“ Knave, dost think that we are unknowing 
 in these matters, that thou darest bring a pot 
 of such lees to men of our quality? Go to, 
 and see that thou doest us better justice in 
 the next !” 
 
 «The wine is the same as that which first 
 pleased you, but it is the nature of drunken- 
 ness to change the palate; and therein Solo- 
 
110 
 
 mon was right as in all other points,” coolly 
 remarked Il Maledetto. ‘‘ Nay, friend, thou 
 wilt scarce bring thy liquors again to those 
 who do not know how to do them proper 
 honor.” | 
 
 Maso thrust the lad who served them from 
 the room, and he slipped a small coin into 
 his hand, ordering him not to return. In- 
 ebriety had made sufficient ravages for his 
 ends, and he was now desirous of stopping 
 further excesses. 
 
 “‘Here come the mummers—gods and 
 goddesses, shepherds and their lasses, and all 
 the other pleasantries to keep us in humor! 
 To do these Vévaisans justice, they treat us 
 rarely; for ye see they send their players to 
 amuse our retirement !” 
 
 “Wine! liquor! raw or ripe, bring us 
 liquor!” roared Conrad, Pippo, and their 
 pot-companions, who were much too drunk 
 to detect the agency of Maso in defeating 
 their wishes, though they were just drunk 
 enough to fancy that what he said of the 
 attention of the authorities was not only true 
 but merited. 
 
 “How now, Pippo ! art ashamed to be out- 
 done in thine own craft, that thou bellowest 
 for wine at the moment when the actors have 
 come into the square to exhibit their skill ?” 
 cried the mariner. “Truly, we shall have a 
 mean opinion of thy merit, if thou art afraid 
 to meet a few Vaudois peasants in thy trade, 
 —and thou a buffoon of Napoli!” 
 
 Pippo swore with pot-oaths that he defied 
 the cleverest of Switzerland ; for that he had 
 not only acted on every mall and mole of 
 Italy, but that he had exhibited in private 
 before princes and cardinals, and that he 
 had no superior on either side of the Alps. 
 Maso profited by his advantage, and, by ap- 
 plying fresh goads to his vanity, soon suc- 
 ceeded in causing him to forget the wine, 
 and in drawing him, with all the others, to 
 the windows. 
 
 The processions, in making the circuit of 
 the city, had now reached the square of the 
 town-house, where the acting and exhibition 
 were repeated, as has been already related in 
 general terms to the reader. ‘'here were the 
 officers of the abbaye, the vine-dressers, the 
 shepherds and the shepherdesses, Flora, 
 Ceres, Pales, and Bacchus, with all the 
 others, attended by their several trains, and 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE: COOPER. 
 
 borne in state as became their high attri- 
 butes. Silenus rolled from his ass, to the 
 great joy of a thousand shouting black- 
 guards, and to the infinite scandal of the 
 prisoners at the windows, the latter affirm- 
 ing to a man that there was no acting in the 
 case, but that the demigod was shamefully 
 under the influence of too many potations 
 that had been swallowed in his own honor. 
 
 We shall not go over the details of these 
 scenes, which all who have ever witnessed a 
 public celebration will readily imagine, nor 
 is it necessary to record the different sallies 
 of wit that, under the inspiration of the 
 warm wines of Vévey and the excitement of 
 the revels, issued from the group that clus- 
 tered around the windows of the prison. 
 All who have ever listened to low humor, 
 that is rather deadened than quickened by 
 liquor, will understand their character, and 
 they who have not will scarcely be losers by 
 the omission. 
 
 At length the different allegories drawn 
 from the heathen mythology ended, and the 
 procession of the nuptials came into the 
 square. ‘The meek and gentle Christine had 
 appeared nowhere that day without awaken- 
 ing strong sympathy in her youth, beauty, 
 and apparent innocence. Murmurs of ap- 
 probation accompanied her steps, and the 
 maiden, more accustomed to her situation, 
 began to feel, probably for the first time 
 since she had known the secret of her origin, 
 something like that security which is an 
 indispensable accompaniment of happiness. 
 Long used to think of herself as one pro- 
 scribed of opinion, and educated in the re- 
 tirement suited to the views of her parents, 
 the praises that reached her ear could not 
 but be grateful, and they went warm and 
 cheeringly to her heart, in spite of the sense 
 of apprehension and uneasiness that had so 
 long harbored there. ‘Througheut the whole 
 of the day, until now, she had scarce dared 
 to turn her eyes to her future husband,— 
 him who, in her simple and single-minded 
 judgment, had braved prejudice to do justice 
 to her worth; but, as the applause, which 
 had been hitherto suppressed, broke out in 
 loud acclamations in the square of the town- 
 house, the color mantled brightly on her 
 cheek, and she looked with modest pride at 
 her companion, as if she would say in the 
 
\ THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 silent appeal, that his generous choice would 
 not go ‘entirely without its reward. The 
 crowd responded to the sentiment, and never 
 did votaries of Hymen approach the altar 
 seemingly under happier auspices. 
 
 The influence of innocence and beauty is 
 universal. Even the unprincipled and haif- 
 intoxicated prisoners were loud in praise of 
 the gentle Christine. One praised her mod- 
 esty, another extolled her personal appear- 
 ance, and all united with the multitude in 
 shouting to her honor. The blood of the 
 bridegroom began to quicken, and, by the 
 time the train had halted in the open space 
 near the building, immediately beneath the 
 windows occupied by Maso and his fellows, 
 he was looking about him in the exultation 
 of a vulgar mind, which finds its delight in, 
 as it is apt to form its judgments from, the 
 suffrages of others. 
 
 “Here is a grand and beautiful festa !” 
 said the hic-coughing Pippo, “and a most 
 willing bride! San Gennaro bless thee, bella 
 sposina, and the worthy man who is the stem 
 of so fair a rose! Send us wine, generous 
 groom and happy bride, that we may drink 
 to the health of thee and thine! ” 
 
 Christine changed color, and looked fur- 
 tively around, for they who lie under the 
 weight of the world’s displeasure, though 
 innocent, are sensitively jealous of allusions 
 to the sore points in their histories. ‘The 
 feeling communicated itself to her compan- 
 ion, who threw distrustful glances at the 
 crowd, in order to ascertain if the secret of 
 his bride’s birth were not discovered. 
 
 «« A braver festa never honored an Italian 
 corso,” continued the Neapolitan, whose head 
 was running on his own fancies, without 
 troubling itself about the apprehensions and 
 wishes of others. ‘‘A gallant array and a 
 fair bride! Send us wine, felicissimi sposi, 
 that we may drink to your eternal fame and 
 happiness! Happy the father that calls thee 
 daughter, bella sposa, and most honored the 
 mother that bare so excellent a child! Scel- 
 lerati, ye of the crowd, why do ye not bear 
 the worthy parents in your arms, that all may 
 see and do homage to the honorable roots of 
 so rich a branch! Send us wine, buona 
 gente, send us cups of merry wine!” 
 
 The cries and the figurative language of 
 
 111 
 
 tude, who were additionally amused by the 
 mixture of dialects in which he uttered his 
 appeals. The least important trifles, by giv- 
 ing a new direction to popular sympathies, 
 frequently become the parents of grave 
 events. ‘T'he crowd, which followed the train 
 of Hymen, had begun to weary with the 
 repetition of tlie same ceremonies, and it now 
 gladly lent itself to the episode of the felici- 
 tations and entreaties of the half-intoxicated 
 Neapolitan. 
 
 “Come forth, and act the father of the 
 happy bride, thyself, reverend and grave 
 stranger,” cried one in derision, from the 
 throng. ‘So excellent an example will de- 
 scend to thy children’s children, in blessings 
 on thy line.” 
 
 A shout of laughter rewarded this retort. 
 It put the quick-witted Neapolitan on his 
 mettle, to produce a prompt and suitable 
 reply. 
 
 ‘‘ My blessing on the blushing rose!” he 
 answered in an instant. ‘“'There are worse 
 parents than Pippo, for he who lives by mak- 
 ing others laugh deserves well of men, whereas 
 there is your medico, who eats the bread of 
 colics, and rheumatisms, and other foul dis- 
 eases, of which he pretends to be the enemy, 
 though San Gennaro to aid !—who is there 
 so silly, as not to see that the knavish doctor 
 and the knavish distemper play into each 
 other’s hands, as readily as Policinello and 
 the monkey.” 
 
 ‘‘Hast thou another worse than thyself 
 that can be named ?” cried he of the crowd. 
 
 ‘© A score, and thou shalt be of the num- 
 ber. My blessing on the fair bride! thrice 
 happy is she that hath a right to receive the 
 benediction from one of so honest life as the 
 merry Pippo. Speak not I the truth, fig- 
 liola ?” 
 
 Christine perceived that the hand of her 
 companion was coldly releasing her own, and 
 she felt the creeping sensation of the blood, 
 which is the common attendant of extreme 
 and humiliating shame. Still she bore up 
 against the weakness, with that deep reliance 
 on the justice of others which is usually the 
 most strongly seated in those who are the 
 most innocent; and she followed the proces- 
 sion, in its circuit, with a step whose tremb- 
 ling was mistaken for no more than the 
 
 Pippo attracted the attention of the multi- | embarrassment natural to her situation. 
 
112 
 
 At this moment, as the mummers were 
 wheeling past the town-house, and the air 
 was filled with music, while a general move- 
 ment stirred the multitude, a cry of alarm 
 arose in the building. 
 succeeded by such a rush of bodies toward 
 the spot, as indicates, in a throng, a sudden 
 and general interest in some new and ex- 
 traordinary event. 
 
 The crowd was beaten back and dispersed, 
 the procession had disappeared, and there 
 was an unusual appearance of activity and 
 mystery among the officials of the place, be- 
 fore the cause of this disturbance began to 
 be whispered among the few who remained 
 in the square. The rumor ran that one of 
 the prisoners, an athletic Italian mariner, 
 had profited by the attention of all the other 
 guardians of the place being occupied by the 
 ceremonies, to knock down the solitary sen- 
 tinel and to effect his escape, followed by all 
 the drunkards who were able to run. 
 
 The evasion of a few lawless blackguards 
 from their prison was not an event likely long 
 to divert the attention of the curious from the 
 amusements of the day, especially as it was 
 understood that their confinement would 
 have terminated of itself with the setting 
 sun. But when the fact was communicated 
 to Peter Hofmeister, the sturdy bailiff swore 
 fifty harsh oaths at the impudence of the 
 knaves, at the carelessness of their keepers, 
 and in honor of the good cause of justice in 
 general. After which he incontinently com- 
 manded that the runaways should be appre- 
 hended. This material part of the process 
 achieved, he moreover ordered that they 
 should be brought forthwith into his pres- 
 ence, even should he be engaged in the most 
 serious of the ceremonies of the day. The 
 voice of Peter speaking in anger was not 
 likely to be unheard, and the stern mandate 
 had scarcely issued from his lps, when a 
 dozen of the common thief-takers of Vaud 
 set about the affair in good earnest, and with 
 the best possible intentions to effect their 
 object. In the meantime the sports continued, 
 and, as the day drew on, and the hour for the 
 banquet approached, the good people began 
 to collect once more in the great square to 
 witness the closing scenes, and to be present 
 at the nuptial benediction, which was to be 
 pronounced over Jacques Colis and Christine 
 
 It was immediately: 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 by a real servitor of the altar, as the last and 
 
 ‘most important of the ceremonies of that 
 
 eventful day. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 “Ay, marry; now unmuzzle your wisdom.” 
 
 — Rosalind. 
 
 THE hour of noon was past, when the stage 
 was a second time filled with the privileged. 
 The multitude was again disposed around the 
 area of the square, and the bailiff and his 
 friends once more occupied the seats of honor 
 in the centre of the long estrade. Procession 
 after procession now began to reappear, for all 
 had made the circuit of the city, and each had 
 repeated its mummeries so often that the 
 actors grew weary of their sports. Still, as 
 the several groups came again into the high 
 presence of the bailiff and the élite not only 
 of their own country but of so many others, 
 pride overcame fatigue, and the songs and 
 dances were renewed with the necessary ap- 
 pearance of good will and zeal. Peter Hof- 
 meister and divers others of the magnates of © 
 the canton were particularly loud in their 
 plaudits on this repetition of the games, for, 
 by a process that will be easily understood, 
 they, who had been revelling and taking their 
 potations in the marquees and booths while 
 the mummers were absent, were more than 
 qualified to supply the deficiencies of the 
 actors by the warmth and exuberance of their 
 own warmed imaginations. The bailiff, in 
 particular, as became his high office and deter- 
 mined character, was unusually talkative and 
 decided, both as respects the criticisms and 
 encomiums he uttered on the various per- 
 formances, making as light of his own pecul- 
 iar qualifications to deal with the subject as 
 if he were a common hack-reviewer of our 
 ewn times, who is known to keep in view the 
 quantity rather than the quality of his re- 
 marks, and the stipulated price he is to re- 
 ceive per line. Indeed the parallel would 
 hold good in more respects than that of 
 knowledge, for his language was unusually 
 captious and supercilious, his tone anthori- 
 tative, and his motive the desire to exhibit 
 his own endowments rather than the wish he 
 affected to manifest of setting forth the ex- 
 
\ 
 
 \ 
 
 cellences of others. His speeches were more 
 frequently than ever directed to the Signor 
 Grimaldi,\for whom there had suddenly arisen 
 in his mind a still stronger gusto than that 
 he had so liberally manifested, and which had 
 already drawn so much attention to the de- 
 portment of this pleasing but modest stranger. 
 Still, he never failed to compel all, within 
 reach of a reasonable exercise of his voice, to 
 listen to his oracles. 
 
 <‘Those that have passed, Brother Mel- 
 chior,” said the bailiff, addressing the Baron 
 de Willading in the fraternal style of the 
 biirgerschaft, while his eye was directed to 
 the Genoese, in whom in reality he wished to 
 excite admiration for his readiness in Heathen 
 lore, ‘‘ are no more than shepherds and shep- 
 herdesses of our mountains, and none of your 
 gods and demigods, the former of which are 
 to be known in this ceremony from all others 
 by the fact that they are carried on men’s 
 shoulders, and the latter that they ride on 
 asses, or have other conveniences natural to 
 their wants. Ah! here we have the higher 
 orders of the mummers in person—this comely 
 creature is, in reality, Mariette Marron, of 
 this country, as strapping a wench as there is 
 in Vaud, and as impudent—but no matter ! 
 She is now the Priestess of Flora, and I’ll 
 warrant you there is not a horn in all our val- 
 leys that will bring a louder echo out of the 
 rocks than this very priestess will raise with 
 her single throat ! That yonder on the throne 
 is Flora herself, represented by a comely young 
 woman, the daughter of a warm citizen here 
 in Vévey, and one able to give her all the 
 equipments she bears, without taxing the ab- 
 
 baye a doit. I warrant you that every flower 
 about her was culled from their own 
 garden!” . 
 
 «Thou treatest the poetry of the ceremo- 
 nies with so little respect, good Peterchen, that 
 the goddess and. her train dwindle into little 
 more than vine-dressers and milkmaids_be- 
 neath thy tongue.” 
 
 “© Of Heaven’s sake, friend Melchior,” in- 
 terrupted the amused Genoese, ‘‘ do not rob 
 us of the advantage of the worthy bailiff’s 
 graphic remarks. Your Heathen may be well 
 enough in his way, but surely he is none the 
 worse for a few notes and illustrations that 
 would do credit to a Doctor of Padova. I 
 
 \ THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 113 
 
 we strangers may lose none of the niceties of 
 the exhibition.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou seest, Baron,” returned the well- 
 warmed bailiff, with a look of triumph, “‘a 
 little explanation can never injure a good 
 thing, though it were even the law itself! 
 Ah! yon is Ceres and her company, and a 
 goodly train they appear! These are the har- 
 vest-men and harvest-women, who represent 
 the abundance of our country of Vaud, Sig- 
 nor Grimaldi, which, truth to say, is a fat 
 land, and worthy of the allegory. These 
 knaves, with the stools strapped to their 
 nether parts, and carrying tubs, are cow- 
 herds, and all the others are more or less con- 
 cerned with the dairy. Ceres was a personage 
 of importance among the ancients, beyond — 
 dispute, as may be seen by the manner in 
 which she is backed by the landed interest. 
 There is no solid respectability, Herr von 
 Willading, that is not fairly bottomed on broad 
 lands. Ye perceive that the goddess sits on 
 a throne whose ornaments are all taken from 
 the earth ; a sheaf of wheat tops the canopy; 
 rich ears of generous grain are her jewels, and 
 her sceptre is the sickle. 'Theseare but alle- 
 gories, Signor Grimaldi, but they are illusions 
 that give birth to wholesome thoughts in the 
 prudent. There is no science that may not 
 catch a hint from our games; politics, re- 
 ligion, or law—’tis all the same for the well- 
 disposed and cunning.” 
 
 «‘ An ingenious scholar might even find an 
 argument for the biirgerschaft in an allegory 
 that is less clear,” returned the amused Gen- 
 oese. ‘But you have overlooked, signor 
 bailiff, the instrument that Ceres carries in 
 the other hand, and which is full to overflow- 
 ing with the fruits of the earth ;—that which 
 so much resembles a bullock’s horn, I mean.” 
 
 «That is, out of question, some one of the 
 utensils of the ancients ; perhaps a milking- 
 vessel in use among the gods and goddesses, 
 for your deities of old were no bad _ house- 
 wives, and made a merit of their economy ; 
 and Ceres here, as is seen, is not ashamed of 
 a useful occupation. By my faith, but this 
 affair has been gotten up with a very credit- 
 able attention to the moral! But our dairy 
 people are about to give us some of their airs.” 
 
 Peterchen now put a stop to his classic 
 lore, while the followers of Ceres arranged 
 
 entreat you to continue, learned Peter, that | themselves in order and began to sing. The 
 
114 
 
 contagious and wild melody of the Ranz 
 des Vaches rose in the square, and soon drew 
 the absorbed and delighted attention of all 
 within hearing, which, to say the truth, was 
 little less than all who were within the limits 
 of the town, for the crowd chiming in with 
 the more regular artists, a sort of musical en- 
 thusiasm seized upon all present who came of 
 Vaud and her valleys. The dogmatical but 
 well-meaning bailiff, though usually jealous 
 of his Bernese origin, and alive on system to 
 the necessity of preserving the superiority of 
 the great canton by all the common observ- 
 ances of dignity and reserve, yielded to the 
 general movement, and shouted with the rest, 
 under favor of a pair of lungs that nature 
 ‘ had admirably fitted to sustain the chorus of 
 &@ mountain song. This condescension in the 
 deputy of Berne was often spoken of after- 
 ward with admiration, the simple-minded and 
 credulous ascribing the exaltation of Peter- 
 chen to a generous warmth in their happi- 
 ness and interests, while the more wary and 
 observant were apt to impute the musical ex- 
 cess toa previous excess of another character, 
 in which the wines of the neighboring cétes 
 ’ were fairly entitled to come in for a full share 
 of the merit. Those who were nearest the 
 bailiff were secretly much diverted with his 
 awkward attempts at graciousness, which one 
 fair and witty Vaudoise likened to the antics 
 of one of the celebrated animals that are still 
 fostered in the city which ruled so much of 
 Switzerland, and from whom, indeed, the 
 town and canton are both vulgarly supposed 
 to have derived their common name; for, 
 while the authority of Berne weighed so im- 
 periously and heavily on its subsidiary coun- 
 tries, as is usual in such cases, the people of 
 the latter were much addicted to taking an 
 impotent revenge by whispering the pleasant- 
 est sarcasms they could invent against their 
 masters. Notwithstanding this and many 
 more criticisms on his performance, the bailiff 
 enacted his part in the representation to his 
 own entire satisfaction ; and he resumed his 
 seat with a consciousness of having at least 
 merited the applause of the people, for hay- 
 ing entered with so much spirit into their 
 games, and with the hope that this act of 
 grace might be the means of causing them to 
 forget some fifty or a hundred of his other 
 acts, which certainly had not possessed the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 same melodious and companionable feat- 
 ures. 
 
 After this achievement the bailiff was rea- 
 sonably quiet, until Bacchus and his train 
 again entered the square. At the appearance 
 of the laughing urchin who bestrode the 
 cask, he resumed his dissertations with a 
 confidence that all are apt to feel who are 
 about to treat on a subject with which they 
 have had occasion to be familiar. 
 
 ‘‘This is the god of good liquor,” said 
 Peterchen, always speaking to any one who 
 would listen, although, by an instinct of re- 
 spect, he chiefly preferred favoring the Signor 
 Grimaldi with his remarks, ‘‘ as may plainly 
 be seen by his seat; and these are dancing 
 attendants, to show that wine gladdens the 
 heart ;—yonder is the press at work, extract- 
 ing the juices, and that huge cluster is to 
 represent the grapes which the messengers of 
 Joshua brought back from Canaan when sent 
 to spy out the land, a history which I make 
 no doubt you, signor, in Italy, have at your 
 finger’s ends.” 
 
 Gaetano Grimaldi looked embarrassed, for, 
 although well skilled in the lore of the 
 heathen mythology, his learning as a male 
 Papist and a laic was not particularly rich in 
 the story of the Christian faith. At first he 
 supposed that the bailiff had merely blun- 
 dered in his account of the mythology, but, 
 taxing his memory a little, he recovered some 
 faint glimpses of the truth, a redemption of 
 his character as a book-man, for which he 
 was materially indebted to having seen some 
 celebrated pictures on this very subject, a 
 species of instruction in holy writ that is 
 sufficiently common among those who inhabit 
 the Catholic countries of the other hemi- 
 sphere. 
 
 ‘Thou surely hast not overlooked the his- 
 tory of the gigantic cluster of grapes, sig- 
 nor!” exclaimed Peterchen, astonished at 
 the apparent hesitation of the Italian. ‘‘’Tis 
 the most beautiful of all the legends of the 
 holy book. Ha! as I live, there is the ass 
 without his rider ;—what has become of the 
 blackguard Antoine Giraud ? The rogue has 
 alighted to swallow a fresh draught from 
 some booth, after draining his own skin to 
 the bottom. This comes of neglect ; a sober 
 man, or at least one of a harder head, should 
 have been put to the part ;—for, look you, 
 
THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 "tis a character that need stand at least a 
 gallon, since the rehearsals alone are enough 
 to take a common drinker off his centre.” 
 
 The tongue of the bailiff ran on in accom- | 
 
 paniment, during the time that the followers 
 of Bacchus were going through with their 
 songs and pageants, and when they disap- 
 peared, it gained a louder key, like the 
 “‘rolling river that murmuring flows and 
 flows forever,” rising again on the ear, after 
 the din of any adventitious noise has ceased. 
 
 “Now we may expect the pretty bride and 
 
 her maids,” continued Peterchen, winking at 
 
 his companions, as the ancient gallant is wont 
 to make a parade of his admiration of the 
 fair; “the solemn ceremony is to be pro- 
 nounced here, before the authorities, as a 
 suitable termination to this happy day. Ah! 
 my good old friend Melchior, neither of us 
 is the man he was, or these skipping hoydens 
 would not go through their pirouettes with- 
 out some aid from our arms. Now dispose 
 of yourselves, friends; for this is to be no 
 acting, but a downright marriage, and it is 
 meet that we keep a graver air. How! what 
 means the movement among the officers ?” 
 Peterchen had interrupted himself, for just 
 at that moment the thief-takers entered the 
 square in a body, inclosing in their centre 
 a group, who had the mien of captives too 
 evidently to be mistaken for honest men. 
 The bailiff was peculiarly an executive officer; 
 one of that class who believe that the enact- 
 ment of a law is a point of far less interest 
 than its due fulfilment. Indeed, so far did 
 he push his favorite principle, that he did not 
 hesitate sometimes to suppose shades of mean- 
 ing in the different ordinances of the great 
 
 council that existed only in his own brain, but 
 
 which were, to do him justice, sufficiently 
 convenient to himself in carrying out the con- 
 structions which he saw fit to put on his own 
 duties. The appearance of an affair of justice 
 was unfortunate for the progress of the cere- 
 monies, Peterchen having some such relish 
 for the punishment of rogues, and more es- 
 
 pecially for such as seemed to be an eternal 
 
 reproach to the action of the Bernese system 
 by their incorrigible misery and poverty, as 
 an old coachman is proverbially said to main- 
 tain for the crack of the whip. All his judi- 
 cial sympathies were not fully awakened on 
 the present occasion, however, the crimi- 
 
 115 
 
 nals, though far from belonging to the more 
 lucky of their fellow creatures, not being 
 quite miserable enough in appearance to 
 awaken all these powers of magisterial re- 
 proach and severity that lay dormant in the 
 bailif’s moral temperament, ready at any 
 time to vindicate the right of the strong 
 against the innovations of the feeble and un- 
 happy. The reader will at once have antici- 
 pated that the prisoners were Maso and his 
 companions, who had been more successful 
 in escaping from their keepers, than fortu- 
 nate in evading the attempts to secure their 
 persons a second time. 
 
 ‘Who are these that dare affront the rul- 
 ing powers on this day of general good-will 
 and rejoicing ?” sternly demanded the bailiff. 
 when the minions of the law and their cap- 
 tive stood fairly before him. ‘‘Do ye not 
 know, knaves, that this is a solemn, almost a 
 religious ceremony at Vévey—for so it would 
 be considered by the ancients at least—and 
 that a crime is doubly a crime when com- 
 mitted either in an honorable presence, on 
 a solemn and dignified occasion like this, 
 or against the authorities ?—this last being 
 always the gravest and greatest of all?” 
 
 “We are but indifferent scholars, worship- 
 ful baliff, as you may easily perceive by our 
 outward appearance, and are to be judged 
 leniently,” answered Maso. ‘‘Our whole 
 offence was a hot but short quarrel touching 
 a dog, in which hands were made to play the 
 part of reason, and which would have done 
 little harm to any but ourselves, had it been 
 the pleasure of the town authorities to have 
 left us to decide the dispute in our own way. 
 As you well say this is a joyous occasion, and 
 we esteem it hard that we, of all Vévey, should 
 be shut up on account of so light an affair 
 and cut off from the merriment of the rest.” 
 
 “'There is reason in this fellow, after all,” 
 said Peterchen, in a low voice. ‘‘ What is a 
 dog more or less to Berne, and a public re- 
 joicing to produce its end should go deep into 
 the community. Let the men go, of God’s 
 name ! and look to it, that all the dogs be 
 beaten out of the square, that we may have 
 no more folly.” 
 
 ‘* Please you, these are the men that have 
 escaped from the authorities, after knock- 
 
 ing down their keeper,” the officer humbly 
 observed. 
 
116 
 
 ‘How is this! Didst thou not say, fellow, 
 that it was all about a dog?” 
 
 “T spoke of the reason of our being shut 
 up. Itis true that, wearied with breathing 
 pent air, and a little heated with wine, we 
 left the prison without permission ; but we 
 hope this little sally of spirit will be over- 
 looked on account of the extraordinary oc- 
 casion.” 
 
 «‘ Rogue, thy plea augments the offence. 
 A crime committed on an extraordinary oc- 
 casion becomes an extraordinary crime, and 
 requires an extraordinary punishment, which 
 I intend to see inflicted forthwith. You have 
 insulted the authorities, and that is the un- 
 pardonable sin in all communities. Draw 
 nearer, friends, for I love to let my reasons 
 be felt and understood by those who are to 
 be affected by my decisions, and this is a 
 happy moment to give a short lesson to the 
 Vévaisans—let the bride and bridegroom wait 
 —draw nearer all, that ye may better hear 
 _what I have to say.” 
 
 The crowd pressed more closely around the 
 foot of the stage, and Peterchen, assuming a 
 didactic air, resumed his discourse. 
 
 “The object of all authority is to find the 
 means of its own support,’ continued the 
 bailiff; “‘for uniess it can exist, it must fall 
 to the ground; and you are all sufficiently 
 schooled to know that when a thing becomes 
 of indifferent value, it loses most of its con- 
 sideration. Thus government is established 
 in order that it may protect itself; since with- 
 out this power it could not remain a govern- 
 ment, and there is not a man existing who is 
 not ready to admit that even a bad govern- 
 ment is better than none. But ours is par- 
 ticularly a good government, its greatest care 
 on all occasions being to make itself respected, 
 and he who respects himself is certain to have 
 esteem in the eyes of others. Without this 
 security we should become like the unbridled 
 ‘steed, or the victims of anarchy and confu- 
 sion, aye, and damnable heresies in religion. 
 Thus you see, my friends, your choice lies 
 between the government of Berne, or no gov- 
 ernment at all; for when only two things ex- 
 ist, by taking one away the number is reduced 
 half, and as the great canton will keep its 
 own share of the institutions, by taking half 
 away, Vaud is left as naked as my hand. 
 Ask yourselves if you have any government 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 but this? You know you have not. Were 
 you quit of Berne, therefore, you clearly 
 would have none at all. Officer, you have a 
 sword at your side, which is a good type of 
 our authority; draw it and hold it up, that 
 all may see it. You perceive, my friends, 
 that the officer hath a sword; but that he © 
 hath only one sword. Lay it at thy feet, 
 officer. You perceive, friends, that having 
 but one sword, and laying that sword aside, 
 he no longer hath a sword at all! That 
 weapon represents our authority, which laid 
 aside becomes no authority, leaving us with 
 an unarmed hand.” 
 
 This happy comparison drew a murmur of 
 applause, the proposition of Peterchen hay- 
 ing most of the properties of a popular the- 
 ory, being deficient in neither a bold asser- 
 tion, a brief exposition, nor a practical illus- 
 tration. The latter in particular was long 
 afterward spoken of in Vaud, as an exposition 
 little short of the well-known judgment of 
 Solomon, who had resorted to the same keen- 
 edged weapon in order to solve a point almost 
 as knotty as this settled by the bailiff. When 
 the approbation had a little subsided, the 
 warmed Peterchen continued his discourse, 
 which possessed the random and generalized 
 logic of most of the dissertations that are 
 uttered in the interests of things as they are, 
 without paying any particular deference to 
 things as they should be. 
 
 ‘‘What is the use of teaching the mul- 
 titude to read and write?” he asked. 
 “Had not Franz Kauffman known how to 
 write, could he have imitated his master’s 
 hand, and would he have lost his head 
 for mistaking another man’s name for his 
 own? a little reflection shows us he would 
 not. Now, as for the other art, could the 
 people read bad books had they never learned 
 the alphabet ? If there isa man present who 
 can say to the contrary, I absolve him from 
 his respect, and invite him to speak boldly, — 
 for there is no Inquisition in Vaud, but we 
 invite argument. This is a free govern- 
 ment, and a fatherly government, and a— 
 mild government, as ye all know; but 
 this is not a government that likes reading 
 and writing; reading that leads to the perusal 
 of bad books, and writing that causes false 
 signatures. Fellow citizens, for we are all 
 equal with the exception of certain differ- 
 
 ee 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 ences that need not now be named, it is a 
 government for your good, and therefore it 
 is a government that likes itself, and whose 
 first duty it is to protect itself and its officers 
 at all hazards, even though it might by acci- 
 
 dent commit some seeming injustice. Fel- 
 low, canst thou read ?” 
 “TIndifferently, worshipful bailiff,” re- 
 
 turned Maso. ‘‘ There are those who get 
 through a book with less trouble than my- 
 self.” 
 
 “JT warrant you, now, he means a good 
 book, but, as for a bad one, I’ll engage the 
 varlet goes through it like a wild boar! 
 This comes of education among the ignorant! 
 There is no more certain method to corrupt 
 a community, and to rivet it in beastly prac- 
 tices, than to educate the ignorant. The en- 
 lightened can bear knowledge, for rich food 
 dees not harm the stomach that is used to it, 
 but it is hellebore to the ill fed. Education 
 is an arm, for knowledge is power, and the 
 ignorant man is but an infant, and to give 
 him knowledge is like putting a loaded blun- 
 derbuss into the hands of achild. What can 
 an ignorant man do with knowledge? He is 
 as likely to use it wrong end uppermost as in 
 any other manner. Learning is a ticklish 
 thing; it was said by Festus to have mad- 
 dened even the wise and experienced Paul, 
 and what may we not expect it to do with 
 your downright ignoramus? What is thy 
 name, prisoner?” 
 
 “Tommaso Santi; sometimes kuown 
 among my friends as San ‘lommaso; called 
 by my enemies, I] Maledetto, and by my 
 familiars, Maso.” 
 
 “Thou hast a formidable number of 
 aliases, the certain sign of a rogue. ‘Thou 
 hast confessed that thou canst read ra 
 
 ‘“Nay, Signor Bailiff, | would not be taken 
 to have said E 
 
 “ By the faith of Calvin, thou didst con- 
 fess it, before all this goodly company! Wilt 
 thou deny thine own words, knave, in the 
 very face of justice? Thou canst read— 
 thou hast it in thy countenance, and I would 
 go nigh to swear, too, that thou hast some 
 inkling of the quill, were the truth honestly 
 said. Signor Grimaldi, I know not how you 
 find this affair on the other side of the Alps, 
 but with us, our greatest troubles come from 
 these well-taught knaves, who, picking up 
 
 117 
 
 knowledge fraudulently, use it with feloni- 
 ous intent, without thought of the wants and 
 rights of the public.” 
 
 “We have our difficulties, as is the fact 
 wherever man is found with his selfishness 
 and passions, Signor Bailiff; but are we not 
 doing an ungallant act toward yonder fair 
 bride, by giving the precedency to men of 
 this cast? Would it not be better to dismiss 
 the modest Christine, happy in Hymen’s 
 chains, before we enter more deeply into the 
 question of the manacles of these prisoners ? ” 
 
 To the amazement of all who knew the 
 bailiff’s natural obstinacy, which was wont to 
 increase instead of becoming more manage- 
 able in his cups, Peterchen assented to this 
 proposition with a complaisance and apparent 
 good-will, that he rarely manifested toward 
 any opinion of which he did not think him- 
 self legitimately the father; though, like 
 many others who bear that honorable title, 
 he was sometimes made to yield the privi- 
 leges of paternity to other men’s children. 
 He had shown an unusual deference to the 
 Italian, however, throughout the whole of 
 their short intercourse, and on no occasion 
 was it less equivocal, than in the promptness 
 with which he received the present hint. 
 The prisoners and officers were commanded 
 to stand aside, but so near as to remain 
 beneath his eye, while some of the officials of 
 the abbaye were ordered to give notice to the 
 train, which awaited these arrangements in 
 silent wonder, that it might now approach. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ‘‘Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense 
 Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
 Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ; 
 Say, here he gives too little, there too much ; 
 Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, 
 And say, if man’s unhappy, God’s unjust.” —Popk. 
 
 Ir is unnecessary to repeat the list of 
 characters that acted the different parts in 
 the train of the village nuptials. All were 
 there at the close of the ceremonies, as they 
 had appeared earlier in the day, and as the 
 last of the legal forms of the marriage was 
 actually to take place in the presence of the 
 bailiff, preparatory to the more solemn rites 
 of the Church, the throng yielded to its 
 
118 
 
 curiosity, breaking through the line of 
 those who were stationed to restrain its in- 
 roads, and pressing about the foot of the 
 estrade in the stronger interest which reality 
 is known to possess over fiction. During the 
 day a thousand new inquiries had been made 
 concerning the bride, whose beauty and mien 
 were altogether so superior to what might 
 have been expected of one who could consent 
 to act the part she did on so public an occa- 
 sion, and whose modest bearing was in such 
 singular contradiction to her present situa- 
 tion. None knew, however, or, if it were 
 known, no one chose to reveal, her history ; 
 and, as curiosity had been so keenly whetted 
 by mystery, the rush of the multitude was 
 merely a proof of the power which expecta- 
 tion, aided by the thousand surmises of 
 rumor, can gain over the minds of the idle. 
 
 Whatever might have been the character 
 of the conjectures made at the expense of 
 poor Christine—and they were wanting in 
 neither variety nor malice—most were com- 
 pelled to agree in commending the diffidence 
 of her air, and the gentle sweetness of her 
 mild and peculiar beauty. Some, indeed, 
 affected to see artifice in the former, which 
 was pronounced to be far too excellent, or 
 too much overdone, for nature. The usual 
 amount of commonplace remarks was made, 
 too, on the lucky diversity that was to be 
 found in tastes, and on the happy necessity 
 there existed of all being able to find the 
 means to please themselves. But these were 
 no more than the moral blotches that usually 
 disfigure human commendation. ‘The senti- 
 ment and sympathies of the mass were 
 powerfully and irresistibly enlisted in favor 
 of the unknown maiden—feelings that were 
 very unequivocally manifested as she drew 
 near the estrade, walking timidly through a 
 dense lane of bodies, all of which were press- 
 ing eagerly forward to get a better view of 
 her person. 
 
 The bailiff, under ordinary circumstances, 
 would have taken in dudgeon this violation 
 of the rules prescribed for the government of 
 the multitude; for he was perfectly sincere 
 in his opinions, absurd as so many of them 
 were, and, like many other honest men who 
 defeat the effects they would produce by 
 forced constructions of their principles, he 
 was a little apt to run into excesses of discip- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 line. But in the present instance, he was 
 rather pleased than otherwise to see the 
 throng within the reach of his voice. ‘The 
 occasion, was, at best, but semi-official, and 
 he was so far under the influence of the 
 warm liquors of the cétes as to burn with the 
 desire of putting forth still more liberally his 
 flowers of eloquence and his stores of wisdom. 
 He received the inroad, therefore, with an air 
 of perfect good humor, a manifestation of as- 
 sent that encouraged still greater innovations 
 on the limits, until the space occupied by 
 the principal actors in this closing scene was 
 reduced to the smallest possible size that was 
 at all compatible with their movements and 
 comforts. In this situation of things the 
 ceremonies proceeded. 
 
 The gentle flow of hope and happiness 
 which was slowly increasing in the mild 
 bosom of the bride, from the first moment of 
 her appearance in this unusual scene to that 
 in which it was checked by the cries of Pippo, 
 had been gradually lessening under a sense 
 of distrust, and she now entered the square 
 with a secret and mysterious dread at the 
 heart, which her inexperience and great ig- 
 norance of life served fearfully to increase. 
 Her imagination magnified the causes of 
 alarm into some prepared and designed in- 
 sult. Christine, fully aware of the obloquy 
 that pressed upon her race, had only con- 
 sented to adopt this unusual mode of chang- 
 ing her condition, under a sensitive appre- 
 hension that any other would have necessarily 
 led to the exposure of her origin. ‘This fear, 
 though exaggerated, and indeed causeless, 
 was the result of too much brooding of late 
 over her own situation, and of that morbid 
 sensibility in which the most pure and inno- 
 cent are, unhappily, the most likely to in- 
 dulge. The concealment, as has already 
 been explained, was that of her intended 
 husband, who, with the subterfuge of an in- 
 terested spirit, had hoped to mislead the 
 little circle of his own acquaintances and 
 gratify his cupidity at the cheapest possible 
 rate to himself. . But there is a point of self- 
 abasement beyond which the perfect con- 
 sciousness of right rarely permits even the 
 most timid to proceed. As the bride moved 
 up the lane of human bodies, her eye grew 
 less disturbed and her step firmer,—for the 
 pride of rectitude overcame the ordinary 
 
THH HEADSMAN. 
 
 girlish sensibilities of her sex, and made her 
 _ the steadiest at the very instant that the 
 greater portion of females would have been 
 the most likely to betray their weakness. 
 She had just attained this forced but respect- 
 able tranquillity, as the bailiff, signing to the 
 crowd to hush its murmurs and to remain 
 motionless, arose, with a manner that he in- 
 tended to be dignified, and which passed 
 with the multitude for a very successful ex- 
 periment in its way, to open the business in 
 hand by a short address. ‘The reader is not 
 to be surprised at the volubility of honest 
 Peterchen, for it was getting to be late in 
 the day, and his frequent hbations through- 
 out the ceremonies would have wrought him 
 up to even a much higher flight of eloquence, 
 had the occasion and the company at all 
 suited such a display of his powers. 
 
 ‘‘We have had a joyous day, my friends,” 
 he said; ‘‘one whose excellent ceremonies 
 ought to recall to every one of us our depend- 
 ence on Providence, our frail and sinful dis- 
 positions, and particularly our duties to the 
 councils. By the types of plenty and abun- 
 dance, we see the bounty of nature which is 
 a gift from Heaven: by the different little 
 failures that have been, perhaps, unavoidably 
 made in some of the nicer parts of the exhi- 
 bition—and I would here particularly men- 
 tion the besotted drunkenness of Antoine 
 Giraud, the man who has impudently under- 
 taken to play the part of Silenus, as a fit 
 subject of your attention, for it is full of 
 profit to all hard-drinking knaves—we may 
 see our own awful imperfections; while, in 
 the order of the whole, and the perfect obedi- 
 ence of the subordinates, do we find a parallel 
 to the beauty of a vigilant and exact police 
 and a well-regulated community. Thus you 
 see, that though the ceremony hath a Heathen 
 exterior, it hath a Christian moral; God grant 
 that we all forget the former, and remember 
 the latter, as best becomes our several char- 
 acters and our common country. And now, 
 having done with the divinities and their 
 legends—with the exception of that varlet 
 Sitenus, whose misconduct, [ promise you, is 
 not to be so easily overlooked—we will give 
 some attention to mortal affairs. Marriage 
 is honorable before God and man, and al- 
 though I have never had leisure to enter into 
 this holy state myself, owing to a variety of 
 
 119 
 
 reasons, but chiefly from my being wedded, 
 as it were, to the State, to which we all owe 
 quite as much, or even greater duty, than the 
 most faithful wife owes to her husband, I 
 would not have you suppose that I have not 
 a high veneration for matrimony. So far 
 from this, I have looked on no part of this 
 day’s ceremonies with more satisfaction than 
 these of the nuptials, which we are now 
 called upon to complete in a manner suitable 
 to the importance of the occasion. Let the 
 bridegroom and the bride stand forth, that 
 all may the better see the happy pair.” 
 
 At the bidding of the bailiff, Jacques 
 Colis led Christine upon the little stage pre- 
 pared for their reception, where both were 
 more completely in view of the spectators than 
 they had yet been. The movement, and the 
 agitation consequent on so public an expo- 
 sure, deepened the bloom on the soft cheeks 
 of the bride, and another and a still less equiv- 
 ocal murmur of applause arose in the mul- 
 titude. The spectacle of youth, innocence, 
 and feminine loveliness, strongly stirred the 
 sympathies of even the most churlish and 
 rude; and most present began to feel for her 
 fears, and to participate in her hopes. 
 
 *‘This is excellent!” continued the well- 
 pleased Peterchen, who was never half so 
 happy as when he was officially providing for 
 the happiness of others; ‘‘it promises a 
 happy ménage. <A loyal, frugal, industrious, 
 and active groom, with a fair and willing 
 bride, can drive discontent up any man’s 
 chimney. That which is to be done next, 
 being legal and binding, must be done with 
 proper gravity and respect. Let the notary 
 advance—not him who hath so aptly played 
 this character, but the commendable and 
 upright officer who is rightly charged with 
 these respectable functions—and we will 
 listen to the contract. I recommend a de- 
 cent silence, my friends, for the true laws 
 and real matrimony are at the bottom—a 
 grave affair at the best, and one never to be 
 treated with levity ; since a few words pro- 
 nounced now in haste may be repented of for 
 a whole life hereafter.” 
 
 Everything was conducted according to 
 the wishes of the bailiff, and with great 
 decency of form. A true and authorized 
 notary read aloud the marriage-contract, the 
 instrument which contained the civic rela- 
 
120 
 
 tions and rights of the parties, and which 
 only waited for the signatures to be com- 
 plete. This document required, of course, 
 that the real names of the contracting par- 
 ties, their ages, births, parentage, and all 
 those facts which are necessary to establish 
 their identity, and to secure the rights of 
 succession, should be clearly set forth in a 
 way to render the instrument valid at the 
 most remote period, should there ever arrive 
 a necessity to recur to it in the way of testi- 
 mony. ‘The most eager attention pervaded 
 the crowd as they listen to these little par- 
 ticulars, and Adelheid trembled in this deli- 
 cate part of the proceedings, as the suppressed 
 but still audible breathing of Sigismund 
 reached her ear, lest something might occur 
 to give arude shock to his feelings. But it 
 would seem the notary had his cue. The de- 
 tails touching Christine was so artfully ar- 
 ranged, that while they were perfectly binding 
 in law, they were so dexterously concealed from 
 the observation of the unsuspecting, that no 
 attention was drawn to the point most ap- 
 prehended by their exposure. Sigismund 
 breathed freer when the notary drew near the 
 end of his task, and Adelheid heard the heavy 
 breath he drew at the close, with the joy one 
 feels at certainty of having passed an immi- 
 nent danger. Christine herself seemed re- 
 lieved, though her inexperience in a great 
 degree prevented her from foreseeing all that 
 the greater practice of Sigismund had led 
 him to anticipate. 
 
 “‘This it quite in rule, and naught now 
 remains but to receive the signatures of the 
 respective parties and their friends,” resumed 
 the baliff. ‘* A happy ménage is like a well- 
 ordered state, a foretaste of the joys and 
 peace of heaven ; while a discontented house- 
 hold and a turbulent community may be 
 likened at once to the penalties and the pains 
 of hell! Let the friends of the parties step 
 forth in readiness to sign when the principals 
 themselves shall have discharged this duty.” 
 
 A few of the relatives and associates of 
 Jacques Colis moved out of the crowd and 
 placed themselves at the side of the bride- 
 groom, who immediately wrote his own 
 name, like a man impatient to be happy. A 
 pause succeeded, for all were curious to see 
 who claimed affinity to the trembling girl, 
 on this the most solemn and important event 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 of her life. An interval of several minutes 
 elapsed, and no one appeared. ‘The respira- 
 tion of Sigismund became more difficult; he 
 seemed about to choke, and then yielding to 
 a generous impulse, he arose. 
 
 ‘‘For the love of God!—for thine own 
 sake!—for mine! be not too hasty!” whis 
 pered the terrified Adelheid; for she saw the 
 hot glow that almost blazed on his brow. 
 
 “T cannot desert poor Christine to the 
 scorn of the world, in a moment like this! 
 If I die of shame, I must go forward and 
 own myself!” 
 
 The hand of Mademoiselle de Willading 
 was laid upon his arm, and he yielded to this 
 silent but impressive entreaty, for just then 
 he saw that his sister was about to be relieved 
 from her distressing solitude. The throng 
 yielded, and a decent pair, attired in the 
 guise of small but comfortable proprietors, 
 moved doubtingly toward the bride. ‘The 
 eyes of Christine filled with tears, for terror 
 and the apprehension of disgrace yielded 
 suddenly to joy. Those who advanced to 
 support her in that moment of intense trial 
 were her father and mother. ‘The respect- 
 able-looking pair moved slowly to the side of 
 their daughter, and having placed themselves 
 one on each side of her, they first ventured 
 to cast furtive and subdued glances at the 
 multitude. 
 
 <‘It is doubtless painful to the parents to 
 part with so fair and so dutiful a child,” re- 
 sumed the obtuse Peterchen, who rarely saw 
 in any emotion more than its most common- 
 place and vulgar character. “Nature pulls 
 them one way, while the terms of the con- 
 tract and the progress of our ceremonies pull 
 another. I have often weaknesses of this 
 sort myself, the most sensitive hearts being 
 the most liable to these attacks. But my 
 children are the public, and do not admit of 
 too much of what I may call the detail of 
 sentiment, else, by the soul of Calvin! were I 
 but an indifferent bailiff for Berne! ‘Thou 
 art the father of this fair and blushing 
 maiden, and thou her mother?” 
 
 “Weare these,” returned Balthazar, mildly. 
 
 “Thou art not of Vévey, or its neighbor- 
 hood, by thy speech ?”’ 
 
 ‘Of the great canton, mein Herr,” for the 
 answer was in German, these contracted dis- 
 tricts possessing nearly as,-many dialects as 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 there are territorial divisions. “We are 
 strangers in Vaud.” 
 
 “Thou hast not done the worse for marry- 
 ing thy daughter with a Vévaisan, and more 
 especially, under the favor of our renowned 
 and liberal abbaye. I warrant me thy child 
 will be none the poorer for this compliance 
 with the wishes of those who lead our cere- 
 monies!” 
 
 “She will not go portionless to the house 
 of her husband,” returned the father, color- 
 ing with secret pride; for to one to whom the 
 chances of life left so few sources of satis- 
 faction, those that were possessed became 
 doubly dear. 
 
 “This is well! A right worthy couple! 
 And, I doubt not, a meet companion will 
 your offspring prove. Monsieur le Notair, 
 call off the names of these good people aloud, 
 that they may sign, at least, with a decent 
 parade.” 
 
 “Tt is settled otherwise,” hastily answered ’ 
 
 the functionary of the quill, who was neces- 
 sarily in the secret of Christine’s origin, and 
 who had been well bribed to observe dis- 
 cretion. “It would altogether derange the 
 order and regularity of the proceedings.” 
 
 **As thou wilt; for I would have nothing 
 illegal, and least of all, nothing disorderly. 
 But o Heaven’s sake! let us get through 
 with our penmanship, for I hear there are 
 symptoms that the meats are likely to be 
 overbaked. Canst thou write, good man?” 
 
 “‘Tndifferently, mein Herr; but in a way 
 to make what I will binding before the law.” 
 
 “Give the quill to the bride, Mr. Notary, 
 and let us protract the happy event no 
 longer.” | 
 
 The bailiff here bent his head aside and 
 whispered to an attendant to hurry toward 
 the kitchens and to look to the affairs of the 
 banquet. Christine took the pen with a 
 trembling hand and pallid cheek, and was 
 about to apply it to the paper, when a sudden 
 ery from the throng diverted the attention of 
 all present to a new matter of interest. 
 
 “ Who dares thus indecently interrupt this 
 grave scene, and that, too, in so great a 
 presence ?” sternly demanded the bailiff. 
 
 Pippo, who with the other prisoners, had 
 unavoidably been inclosed in the space near 
 the estrade by the pressure of the multitude, 
 staggered more into view, and moving his cap 
 
 -world a century since as exist to-day. 
 
 121 
 
 with a well-managed respect, presented him- 
 self humbly to the sight of Peterchen. ; 
 
 “Tt is I, illustrious and excellent gov- 
 ernor,” returned the wily Neapolitan, who 
 retained just enough of the liquor he had 
 swallowed to render him audacious, without 
 weakening his means of observation. ‘‘It is 
 I, Pippo; an artist of humble pretensions, but 
 I hope, a very honest man, and as I know, a 
 great reverencer of the laws and a true friend 
 to order.” 
 
 ‘Let the good man speak up boldly. A 
 man of these principles has a right to be 
 heard. We live in a time of damnable inno- 
 vations, and of most atrocious attempts to 
 overturn the altar, the State, and the public 
 trusts, and the sentiments of such a man are 
 like dew to the parched grass.” 
 
 The reader is not to imagine, from the lan- 
 guage of the bailiff, that Vaud stood on the 
 eve of any great political commotion, but as 
 the government was in itself an usurpation, 
 and founded on the false principle of exclu- 
 sion, it was quite as usual then, as now, to cry 
 out against the moral throes of violated right, 
 since the same eagerness to possess, the same 
 selfishness in grasping, however unjustly ob- 
 tained, and the same audacity of assertion 
 with a view to mystify, pervaded the Christian 
 The 
 cunning Pippo saw that the bait had taken, © 
 and assuming a still more respectful and loyal 
 mien, he continued :— 
 
 ‘« Although a stranger, illustrious governor, 
 I have had great delight in these joyous and 
 excellent ceremonies. Their fame will be 
 spread far and near, and men will talk of 
 little else for the coming year but of Vévey 
 and its festival. But a great scandal hangs 
 over your honorable heads which it is in my 
 power to turn aside, and San Gennaro forbid 
 that I, a stranger, that hath been well enter- 
 tained in your town, should hesitate about 
 raising his voice on account of any scruples of 
 modesty! No doubt, great governor, your 
 Eccellenza believes that this worthy Vévaisan 
 is about to wive a creditable maiden, whose 
 name could be honorably mentioned with 
 those of the ceremonies and your town, before 
 the proudest company in Europe?” 
 
 «‘ What of this, fellow? The girl is fair, 
 and modest enough, at least to the eye, and if 
 thou knowest aught else, whisper thy secret 
 
122 
 
 to her husband or her friends, but do not come 
 in this rude manner to disturb our harmony 
 with thy raven throat, just as we are ready to 
 sing an epithalamium in honor of the happy 
 pair. Your excessive particularity is the curse 
 of wedlock, my friends, and I have a great 
 mind to send this knave, in spite of all his 
 profession of order, which is like enough to 
 produce disorder, for a month or two into our 
 Véyey dungeon for his pains.” 
 
 Pippo was staggered, for, just drunk 
 enough to be audacious, he had not all his 
 faculties at his perfect command, and his 
 usual acumen was a little at fault. Still, ac- 
 customed to brave public opinion, and to carry 
 himself through the failures of his exhibi- 
 tions of heavier drafts on the patience and 
 credulity of his audience, he determined to 
 persevere as the most likely way of extricat- 
 ing himself from the menaced consequences 
 of his indiscretion. 
 
 «*A thousand pardons, great bailiff,” he 
 answered. ‘‘ Naught but a burning desire to 
 do justice to your high honor, and to the 
 reputation of the abbaye’s festival, could have 
 led me so far, but———” 
 
 “Speak thy mind at once, rogue, and have 
 done with circumlocution.” 
 
 ““T have little to say, signor, except that 
 the father of this illustrious bride, who is 
 ~ about to honor Vévey by making her nuptials 
 an occasion for all in the city to witness and 
 to‘favor, is the common headsman of Berne 
 —a wretch who lately came near to prove the 
 destruction of more Christians than the law 
 has condemned, and who is sufficiently out of 
 favor with Heaven to bring the fate Of ee, 
 morrah upon your town !” 
 
 Pippo tottered to his station among the 
 prisoners, with the manner of one who had 
 delivered himself of an important trust, and 
 was instantly lost to view. So rapid and un- 
 looked-for had been the interruption, and so 
 vehement the utterance of the Italian while 
 delivering his facets, that, though several 
 present saw their tendency when it was too 
 late, none had sufficient presence of mind to 
 prevent the exposure. A murmur arosein the 
 crowd, which stirred like a vast sheet of fluid 
 on which a passing gust had alighted, and 
 then became fixed and calm. Of all present, 
 the bailiff manifested the least surprise 
 or concern, for to him the last minister of the 
 
 ‘impudent manner. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 law was an object, if not precisely of respect, 
 of politic good-will rather than of dishonor. 
 
 ‘‘What of this!” he answered, in the way 
 of one who had expected a far more impor- 
 tant revelation. ‘* What of this, should it be 
 true ? Harkee, friend—art thou, in sooth, 
 the noted Balthazar, he to whose family the 
 canton is indebted for so much fair justice?” 
 
 Balthazar saw that his secret was betrayed, 
 and that it were wiser simply to admit the 
 facts, than to have recourse to subterfuge or 
 denial. Nature, moreover, had made him a 
 man with strong and pure propensities for 
 the truth, and he was never without the in- 
 nate consciousness of the injustice of which 
 he had been made the victim by the unfeel- 
 ing ordinance of society. Raising his head, 
 he looked around him with firmness, for he 
 too, unhappily, had been accustomed to act 
 in the face of multitudes, and he answered 
 the question of the bailiff, in his usual mild 
 tone of voice, but with composure. 
 
 ‘* Herr Bailiff, I am by inheritance the last 
 avenger of the law.” 
 
 “By my office! I like the title; it is a 
 good one! The last avengerof the law! If 
 rogues will offend, or dissatisfied spirits plot, 
 there must be a hand to put the finishing 
 blow to their evil works, and why not thou 
 as well as another! MHarkee, officers, shut 
 me up yonder Italian knave for a week on 
 bread and water, for daring to trifle with the 
 time and good nature of the public in this 
 And this worthy dame 
 is thy wife, honest Balthazar; and that fair 
 maiden thy child? Hast thou more of so 
 goodly a race ?” 
 
 ‘‘God has blessed me in my offspring, 
 mein Herr.” 
 
 «« Aye; God hath blessed thee ! and a great 
 blessing it should be, as I know by bitter ex- 
 perience—that is, being a bachelor, I under- 
 stand the misery of being childless—I would 
 say no more. Sign the contract, honest 
 Balthazar, with thy wife and daughter, that 
 we may have an end of this,” 
 
 The family of the proscribed were about to 
 obey this mandate, when Jacques Colis 
 abruptly threw down the emblems of a bride- 
 groom, tore the contract in fragments, and 
 publicly announced that he had changed his 
 intention, and that he would not wive a 
 headsman’s child. The public mind is 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 asually caught by any loud declaration in 
 favor of the ruling prejudice, and after the 
 
 first brief pause of surprise was past, the de- 
 
 termination of the groom was received with 
 
 a shout of applause that was immediately 
 followed by general, coarse, and deriding 
 laughter. 
 
 The throng pressed upon the 
 keepers of the limits in a still denser mass, 
 opposing an impenetrable wall of human 
 bodies to the passage of any in either direc- 
 tion, and a dead stillness succeeded, as if all 
 present breathlessly awaited the result of the 
 singular scene. 
 
 So unexpected and sudden was the purpose 
 of the groom, that they who were most af- 
 fected by it, did not, at first, fully compre- 
 hend the extent of the disgrace that was so 
 publicly heaped upon them. The innocent 
 and unpractised Christine stood resembling 
 the cold statue of a vestal, with the pen 
 raised ready to affix her as yet untarnished 
 name to the contract, in an attitude of sus- 
 pense, while her wondering look followed the 
 agitation of the multitude, as the startled 
 bird, before it takes wing, regards a move- 
 ment among the leaves of the bush. But 
 there was no escape from the truth. Con- 
 viction of its humiliating nature came too 
 soon, and by the time the calm of intense 
 curiosity had succeeded to the momentary 
 excitement of the spectators, she was stand- 
 ing an exquisite, but painful, picture of 
 wounded feminine feeling and of maiden 
 shame. Her parents, too, were stupified by 
 the suddenness of the unexpected shock, and 
 it was longer before their faculties recovered 
 the tone proper to meet an insult so unpro- 
 voked and gross. 
 
 ‘‘This is unusual,” dryly remarked the 
 bailiff, who was the first to break the long 
 and painful silence. 
 
 *‘It is brutal!” warmly interposed the 
 Signor Grimaldi. ‘‘ Unless there has been 
 deception practised on the bridegroom, it is 
 utterly without excuse.” 
 
 «Your experience, signor, has readily sug- 
 gested the true points in a very knotty case, 
 and I shall proceed without delay to look into 
 its merits.” 
 
 Sigismund resumed his seat, his hand re- 
 leasing the sword-hilt that it had spontane- 
 ously grasped when he heard this declaration 
 of the bailiff’s intentions. 
 
 123 
 
 “For the sake of thy poor sister, forbear! ” 
 whispered the terrified Adelheid. <‘¢ All will 
 yet be well—all must be well—it is impossible 
 that one so sweet and innocent should long 
 remain with her honor unavenged ! ” 
 
 The young man smiled frightfully, at least 
 so it seemed to his companion: but he main- 
 tained the appearance of composure. In the 
 meantime Peterchen, having secretly dis- 
 patched another messenger to the cooks, 
 turned his serious attention to the difficulty 
 that had just arisen. 
 
 “T have long been intrusted by the council 
 with honorable duties,” he said, “ but never, 
 before to-day, have I been required to decide 
 upon a domestic misunderstanding, before 
 the parties were actually wedded. This is a 
 grave interruption of the ceremonies of the 
 abbaye, as well as a slight upon the notary 
 and the spectators, and needs be well looked 
 to. Dost thou really persist in putting this 
 unusual termination to the marriage cere- 
 mony, Herr Bridegroom ?” 
 
 Jacques Colis had lost alittle of the violent 
 impulse which led him to the precipitate and 
 inconsiderate act of destroying an instrument 
 he had legally executed; but this outbreak- 
 ing of feeling was followed by a sullen and 
 fixed resolution to persevere in the refusal at 
 every hazard to himself. 
 
 ““J will not wive the daughter of a man 
 hunted of society, and avoided by all,” he 
 doggedly answered. 
 
 “No doubt the respectability of the parent 
 is the next thing to a good dowry, in the 
 choice of a wife,” returned the bailiff, “‘ but 
 one of thy years has not come hither, without 
 having first inquired into the parentage of 
 her thou wert about to wed ?” 
 
 “Tt was sworn to me that the secret should 
 be kept. The girl is well endowed, and a 
 promise was solemnly made that her parent- 
 age should never be known. The family of 
 Colis is esteemed in Vaud, and I would not 
 have it said that the blood of the headsman 
 of the canton hath mixed in a stream as fair 
 as ours.” 
 
 “And yet thou wert not unwilling, so long 
 as the circumstance was unknown? Thy ob- 
 jection is less to the fact, than to its public 
 exposure.” 
 
 ‘Without the aid of parchments and 
 tongues, Monsieur le Bailli, we should all be 
 
124 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 equal in birth. Ask the noble Baron de Wil- | ment at witnessing this open injury to one 80, 
 lading, who is seated there at your side, why | gentle and deserving as his child. But the | 
 he is better than another. He will tell you | blow had been far heavier on Marguerite, the 
 
 that he is come of an ancient and honorable | faithful and long-continued sharer of his fort- | 
 line; but had he been taken from his castle | unes. The wife of Balthazar was past the | 
 in infancy, and concealed under a feigned | prime of her days, but she still retained the ' 
 name, and kept from men’s knowledge as be- | presence, and some of the personal beauty, | 
 
 ing that he is, who would think of him for 
 the deeds of his ancestors? As the Sire de 
 Willading would, in such a case, have lost in 
 the world’s esteem, so did Christine gain ; 
 but as opinion would return to the Baron, 
 when the truth should be published, so does 
 it desert Balthazar’s daughter, when she is 
 known to be a headsman’s child. I would 
 have married the maiden as she was, but, 
 your pardon, Monsieur le Bailli, if I say, 1 
 will not wive her as she is.” 
 
 A murmur of approbation followed this 
 plausible and ready apology, for, when an- 
 tipathies are active and bitter, men are easily 
 satisfied with a doubtful morality and a weak 
 argument. 
 
 «This honest youth hath some reason in 
 him,” observed the puzzled bailiff, shaking 
 his head. “I would he had been less expert 
 in disputation, or that the secret had been 
 better kept! It is apparent as the sun in the 
 heavens, friend Melchior, that hadst thou 
 not been known as thy father’s child, thou 
 wouldst not have succeeded to thy castle and 
 lands—nay, by St. Luke! not even. to the 
 rights of the biirgerschaft.” 
 
 “‘In Genoa we are used to hear both par- 
 ties,” gravely rejoined the Signor Grimaldi, 
 “that we may first make sure that we touch 
 the true merits of the case. Were another 
 to claim the Signor de Willading’s honors 
 and name, thou wouldst scarce grant his suit, 
 without questioning our friend here, touch- 
 ing his own rights to the same.” 
 
 ‘< Better and better! This is justice, while 
 that which fell from the bridegroom was only 
 argument. - Harkee, Balthazar, and thou 
 good woman, his wife—and thou too, pretty 
 Christine—what have ye all to answer to the 
 reasonable plea of Jacques Colis? ” 
 
 Balthazar, who, by the nature of his office, 
 and by his general masculine duties, had 
 been so much accustomed to meet with harsh 
 instances of the public hatred, soon recoy- 
 ered his usual calm exterior, even though he 
 felt a father’s pang and a father’s just resent- 
 
 which had rendered her, in youth, a woman 
 
 of extraordinary mien and carriage. When, 
 the words which announced the slight to her) 
 daughter first fell on her ears, she paled to 
 the hue of the dead. For several minutes: 
 she stood looking more like one that had 
 
 taken a final departure from the interests and 
 
 emotions of life, than one that, in truth, wais 
 
 a prey to one of the strongest passions the 
 human breast can ever entertain, that of 
 wounded maternal affection. Then the blood 
 stole slowly to her temples, and, by the time 
 the baiiff put his question, her entire face 
 was glowing under a tumult of feeling that 
 threatened to defeat its own wishes, by dee- 
 priving her of the power of speech. 
 
 <¢ Thou canst answer him, Balthazar,” she 
 said huskily, motioning for her husband) to 
 arouse his faculties; ‘‘ thou art used to these 
 multitudes and to their scorn. Thou arta 
 man, and canst do us justice.” 
 
 ‘Herr Bailiff,” said the headsman, who 
 seldom lost the mild deportment that charac- 
 terized his manner, ‘‘there is much truth in 
 what Jacques hath urged, but all present may 
 have seen that the fault did not come of us, 
 but of yonder heartless vagabond. ‘The 
 wretch sought my life on the lake, in our 
 late unfortunate passage hither; and, not 
 content with wishing to rob my children of 
 their father, he comes now to injure me still 
 more cruelly. I was born to the office I hold, 
 as you well know, Herr Hofmeister, or it 
 would never have been sought by me; but 
 what the law wills, men insist upon as right. 
 This girl can never be called upon to strike 
 a head from its shoulders, and, knowing from 
 childhood up the scorn that awaits all who 
 come of my race, I sought the means of re- 
 leasing her, at least, from some part of the 
 curse that hath descended on us.” 
 
 ‘‘T know not if this were legal!” inter- 
 rupted the bailiff, quickly. 
 opinion, Herr von Willading ? Can any in 
 Berne escape their heritable duties, any more 
 than hereditary privileges can be assumed ? 
 
 ‘‘What is your — 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 This is a grave question; innovation leads to 
 innovation, and our venerable laws and our 
 sacred usages must be preserved, if we 
 would avert the curse of change !” 
 
 «Balthazar hath well observed that a fe- 
 male cannot exercise the executioner’s 
 office.” 
 
 “True, but a female may bring forth them 
 that can. This is a cunning question for the 
 doctors-in-law, and it must be examined; of 
 all damnable offences, Heaven keep me from 
 that of a wish for change. If change is ever 
 to follow, why establish ? Change is the un- 
 pardonable sin in politics, Signor Grimaldi; 
 since that which is often changed becomes 
 yalueless in time, even if it be coin.” 
 
 ‘The mother hath something she would 
 utter,” said the Genoese, whose quick, but 
 observant eye had been watching the work- 
 ings of the countenances of the repudiated 
 family, while the bailiff was digressing in his 
 usual prolix manner on things in general, and 
 who detected the throes of feeling which 
 heaved the bosom of the respectable Margue- 
 rite, in a way to announce a speedy birth to 
 her thoughts. 
 
 «« Hast thou aught to urge, good woman 
 demanded Peterchen, who was well enough 
 disposed to hear both sides in all cases of con- 
 troversy, unless they happened to touch the 
 supremacy of the great canton. ‘‘'T’o speak 
 the truth, the reasons of Jacques Colis are 
 plausible and witty, and are likely to weigh 
 heavy against thee.” 
 
 The color slowly disappeared from the 
 brow of the mother, and she turned such a 
 look of fondness and protection on her child, 
 as spoke a complete condensation of all her 
 feeling in the engrossing sentiment of a mo- 
 ther’s love. 
 
 ‘« Have I aught to urge !” slowly repeated 
 Marguerite, looking steadily about her at the 
 curious and unfeeling crowd, which, bent on 
 
 999 
 
 the indulgence of its appetite for novelty, and 
 
 excited by its prejudices, still pressed upon 
 the halberds of the officers—‘‘ Has a mother 
 aught to say in defence of her injured and 
 insulted child! What hast thou not also 
 asked, Herr Hofmeister, if I am human ? 
 We come of proscribed races, I know, Bal- 
 thazar and I, but like thee, proud bailiff, 
 and the privileged at thy side, we come too 
 of God! The judgment and power of men 
 
 az: Lay 
 
 125 
 
 have crushed us from the beginning, and we 
 are used to the world’s scorn and to the 
 world’s injustice ! ” 
 
 «Say not so, good woman, for no more is 
 required than the law sanctions. Thou art 
 now talking against thine own interests, and 
 I interrupt thee in pure mercy. *Iwould be 
 scandalous in me to sit here and listen to one 
 that hath bespattered the law with an evil 
 tongue.” 
 
 ‘“T know naught of the subtleties of thy 
 laws, but well do I know their cruelty and 
 wrongs, as respects me and mine! Allothers 
 come into the world with hope, but we have 
 been crushed from the beginning. That 
 surely cannot be just which destroys hope. 
 Even the sinner need not despair, through 
 the mercy of the Son of God! but we, that 
 have come into the world under thy laws, 
 have little before us in life but shame and 
 the scorn of men!” 
 
 ‘“Nay, thou quite mistakest the matter, 
 dame; these privileges were first bestowed on 
 thy families in reward for good services, I 
 make no doubt, and it was long accounted 
 profitable to be of this office.” 
 
 ‘*T do not say that in a darker age, when 
 oppression stalked over the land, and the best 
 were barbarous as the worst to-day, some of 
 those of whom we are born may not have 
 been fierce and cruel enough to take upon 
 themselves this office with good will ; but I 
 deny that any short of Him who holds the 
 universe in his hand, and who controls an 
 endless future to compensate for the evils of 
 the present time, has the power to say to the 
 son, that he shall be the heritor of the 
 father’s wrongs !” 
 
 ‘‘ How ! dost question the doctrine of de- 
 scents ? We shall next hear thee dispute the 
 
 rights of the birgerschaft !” 
 
 ‘‘T know nothing, Herr Bailiff, of the nice 
 distinctions of your rights in the city, and 
 wish to utter naught for or against. But an 
 entire life of contumely and bitterness is apt 
 to become a life of thoughtfulness and care ; 
 and I see sufficient difference between the 
 preservation of privileges fairly earned, 
 though even these may and do bring with 
 them abuses hard to be borne, and the un- 
 merited oppression of the offspring for the 
 ancestor’s faults. There is little of that jus- 
 tice which savors of Heaven in this, and the 
 
126 
 
 time will come when a fearful return will be 
 made for wrongs so sore!” 
 
 ‘Concern for thy pretty daughter, good 
 Marguerite, causes thee to speak strongly.” 
 
 “Ts not the daughter of a headsman and a 
 headman’s wife their offspring, as much as 
 the fair maiden who sits near thee is the 
 child of the noble at her side ? Am I to love 
 her less, that she is despised by a cruel world? 
 Had I not the same suffering at the birth, 
 the same joy in the infant smile, the same 
 hope in the childish promise, and the same 
 trembling for her fate when I consented to 
 trust her happiness to another, as she that 
 bore that more fortunate but not fairer 
 - maiden hath had in her? Hath God created 
 two natures—two yearnings for the mother— 
 two longings for our children’s weal—those 
 of the rich and honored, and those of the 
 crushed and despised ?” 
 
 “Go to, good Marguerite; thou puttest 
 the matter altogether in a manner that is 
 unusual. Are our reverenced usages nothing 
 —our solemn edicts—our city’s rule—and our 
 resolution to govern, and that fairly and with 
 effect ?”’ 
 
 **T fear that these are stronger than the 
 right, and likely to endure when the tears of 
 the oppressed are exhausted, when they and 
 their fates shall be forgotten !” 
 
 ‘‘Thy child is fair and modest,” observed 
 the Signor Grimaldi, ‘‘and will yet find a 
 youth who will more than atone for this 
 injury. He that has rejected her was not 
 worthy of her faith.” 
 
 Marguerite turned her look, which had been 
 glowing with awakened feeling, on her pale 
 and still motionless daughter. The expres- 
 sion of her eyes softened, and she folded her 
 child to her bosom, as the dove shelters its 
 young. All her aroused feelings appeared to 
 dissolve in the sentiment of love. 
 
 ‘My child is fair, Herr Peter,” she con- 
 tinued, without adverting to the interrup- 
 tion; “‘ but better than fair, she is good! 
 Christine is gentle and dutiful, and not for a 
 world would she bruise the spirit of another 
 as hers has been this day bruised. Humbled 
 as we are, and despised of men, bailiff, we 
 have our thoughts, and our wishes, and our 
 hopes, and memory, and all the other feel- 
 ings of those that are more fortunate ; and 
 when I have rocked my brain to reason on 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the justice of a fate which has condemned all 
 of my race to have little other communion 
 with their kind but that of blood, and when 
 bitterness has swollen at my heart, aye, near 
 to bursting, and I have been ready to curse 
 Providence and die, this mild, affectionate 
 girl hath been near to quench the fire that 
 consumed me, and to tighten the chords of 
 life until the love and innocence have left me 
 willing to live even under a heavier load than 
 this I bear. Thou art of an honored race, 
 bailiff, and canst little understand most of 
 our suffering; but thou art a man, and 
 shouldst know what it is to be wounded 
 through another, and that one who is dearer 
 to thee than thine own flesh.” 
 
 ‘‘Thy words are strong, good Marguerite,” 
 again interrupted the bailiff, who felt an 
 uneasiness of which he would very gladly be 
 rid. ‘*Himmel! Who can like anything 
 better than his own flesh ? Besides, thou 
 shouldst remember that I am a bachelor, and 
 bachelors are apt naturally, to feel more for 
 their own flesh than for that of others. Stand 
 aside and let the procession pass, that we may — 
 go to the banquet, which waits. If Jacques 
 Colis will none of thy girl, I have not the 
 power to make him. Double the dowry, 
 good woman, and thou shalt have a choice 
 of husbands, in spite of the axe and the 
 sword that are in thy escutcheon. Let the 
 halberdiers make way for those honest peo- 
 ple there, who, at least, are functionaries of 
 the law, and are to be protected as well as 
 ourselves.” 
 
 The crowd obeyed, yielding readily to the 
 advance of the officers, and, in a few minutes, 
 the useless attendants of the village nuptials,. 
 and the train of Hymen, slunk away, sensi- 
 ble of the ridicule that, in a double degree, 
 attaches itself to folly, when it fails of affect- 
 ing even its own absurdities. 
 
 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ‘¢The weeping blood in woman’s breast 
 Was never known to thee; 
 Nor the balm that drops on wounds of woe 
 From woman’s pitying e’e.”—BURNs. 
 
 A LARGE portion of the curious followed 
 the disconcerted mummers from the square, 
 while others hastened to break their fasts 
 
—_ ee oe 
 
 THH HEHADSMAN. 
 
 at the several places selected for this im- 
 portant feature in the business of the day. 
 Most of those who had been on the estrade 
 aow left it, and, in a few minutes, the living 
 carpet of heads around the little area in front 
 of the bailiff was reduced to a few hundreds 
 of those whose better feelings were stronger 
 than their self-indulgence. Perhaps this 
 distribution of the multitude is about in the 
 proportion that is nsually found in those 
 cases in which selfishness draws in one direc- 
 tion, while feeling or sympathy with the 
 wronged pulls in another, among all masses 
 of human beings that are congregated as 
 spectators of some general and indifferent 
 exhibition of interests in which they have 
 no near personal concern. 
 
 The bailiff and his immediate friends, the 
 prisoners, and the family of the headsman, 
 with a sufficient number of the guards, were 
 among those who remained. ‘The bustling 
 Peterchen had lost some of his desire to take 
 his place at the banquet, in the difficulties 
 of the question which had arisen, and in the 
 certainty that nothing material, in the way 
 of gastronomy, would be attempted until he 
 appeared. We would do injustice to his 
 heart, did we not add, also, that he had 
 troublesome qualms of conscience, which 
 intuitively admonished him that the world 
 had dealt hardly with the family of Bal- 
 thazar. There remained the party of Maso, 
 too, to dispose of, and his character of an 
 upright as well as of a firm magistrate to 
 maintain. As the crowd diminished, how- 
 ever, he and those near him, descended from 
 their high places, and mixed with the few 
 who occupied the still guarded area in front 
 of the stage. 
 
 Balthazar had not stirred from his riveted 
 posture near the table of the notary, for he 
 shrank from encountering, in the company 
 of his wife and daughter, the insults to 
 which he should be exposed now his char- 
 acter was known, by mingling with the 
 crowd, and he waited for a favorable mo- 
 ment to withdraw unseen. Marguerite still 
 stood folding Christine to her bosom, as if 
 
 _ jealous of further injury to her beloved. 
 
 The recreant bridegroom had taken the 
 earliest opportunity to disappear, and was 
 seen no more in Vévey during the remainder 
 of the revels. 
 
 127 
 
 Peterchen cast a hurried glance at this 
 group, as his foot reached the ground, and 
 then turning toward the thief-takers, he 
 made a sign for them. to advance with their 
 prisoners. 
 
 «Thy evil tongue has balked one of the 
 most engaging rites of the day’s festival, 
 knave,” observed the bailiff, addressing Pippo 
 with a certain magisterial reproof in his 
 voice. ‘‘I should do well to send thee to 
 Berne, to serve a month among those who 
 sweep the city streets, as a punishment for 
 thy raven throat. What, in the name of all 
 thy Roman saints and idols, hadst thou 
 against the happiness of these honest people, 
 that thou must come, in this unseemly man- 
 ner, to destroy it?” 
 
 ‘‘Naught but love of truth, Eccellenza, 
 and a just horror of the man of blood.” 
 
 ‘¢That thou and all-like thee should have 
 a horror of the ministers of the law, I can 
 understand; and it is more than probable 
 that thy dislike will extend to me, for I am 
 about to pronounce a just judgment on thee 
 and thy fellows for disturbing the harmony 
 of the day, and especially for having been 
 guilty of the enormous crime of an outrage 
 on our agents.” 
 
 ‘‘Couldst thou grant me a moment’s 
 leave?’ asked the Genoese in his ear. 
 
 «¢ An hour, noble Gaeteno, if thou wiit.” 
 
 The two then conversed apart for a min- 
 ute or more. During the brief dialogue, 
 the Signor Grimaldi occasionally looked at 
 the quiet and apparently contrite Maso, and 
 stretched his arms toward the Leman, in a 
 way to give the observers an inkling of his 
 subject. The countenance of the Herr Hof- 
 meister changed from official sternness to an 
 expression of decent concern as he listened, 
 and ere long it took a decidedly forgiving 
 laxity of muscle. When the other had done 
 speaking, he bowed a ready assent to what 
 he had just heard, and returned to the 
 prisoners. 
 
 “As I have just observed,” he resumed, 
 ‘it is my duty now to pronounce finally on 
 these men and their conduct. Firstly, they 
 are strangers, and as such are not only 1g- 
 norant of our laws, but entitled to our hospi- 
 tality; next, they have been punished suffi- 
 ciently for the original offence, by being 
 abridged of the day’s sports; and as to the 
 
128 
 
 crime committed against ourselves, in the 
 person of our agents, it is freely forgiven, for 
 forgiveness is a generous quality, and becomes 
 a paternal form ofrule. Depart therefore, of 
 God’s name ! all of ye to a man, and remem- 
 ber henceforth to be discreet. Signor, and 
 you, Herr Baron, shall we to the banquet eas 
 
 The two old friends had already moved on- 
 ward, in close and earnest discourse, and the 
 bailiff was obliged to seek out another com- 
 panion. None offered at the moment, but 
 Sigismund, who had stood, since quitting the 
 stage, in an attitude of complete indecision 
 and helplessness, notwithstanding his great 
 physical energy and his usual moral readiness 
 to act. ‘Taking the arm of the young soldier, 
 with the disregard of ceremony that denotes 
 a sense of condescension, the bailiff drew him 
 away from the spot, heedless himself of the 
 other’s reluctance, and without observing 
 that, in consequence of the general desertion, 
 for few were disposed to indulge their com- 
 passion unless it were in company with the 
 honored and noble, Adelheid was left abso- 
 lutely alone with the family of Balthazar. 
 
 “This office of a headsman, Herr Sigis- 
 mund,” commenced the unobservant Peter- 
 chen, too full of his own opinions, and much 
 too sensible of his right to be delivered of 
 them in the presence of his junior and in- 
 ferior, to note the youth’s trouble, “ is at the 
 best but a disgusting affair; though we, of 
 station and authority, are obliged prudently 
 to appear to deem it otherwise before the 
 people, in our own interest. Thou hast had 
 occasion to remark often, in the discipline of 
 thy military followers, that a false coloring 
 must be put upon things, lest they who are 
 very necessary to the state should not think 
 the state quite so necessary to them. What 
 is thy opinion, Captain Sigismund, as a man 
 who has yet his hopes and his views of the 
 softer sex, of this act of Jacques Colis? Is 
 it conduct to be approved of, or to be con- 
 demned ?” 
 
 “T deem him a heartless, mercenary mis- 
 creant !” 
 
 The suppressed energy with which these 
 unexpected words were uttered caused the 
 bailiff to stop and to look up in his compan- 
 ion’s face, as if to ask its reason. But there 
 all was already calm, for the young man had 
 too long been accustomed to drill its expres- 
 
 ‘sumed Peterchen. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 sion, when the sensitive sore of his origin 
 was probed, as so frequently happened, to 
 permit the momentary weakness long to 
 maintain its ascendency. 
 
 ‘« Aye, this is the opinion of thy years,” re- 
 «Thou art at a time of 
 life when we esteem a pretty face and a mel- 
 low eye of more account even than gold. 
 But we put on our interested spectacles after 
 thirty, and seldom see anything very admi- 
 rable, that is not at the same time very lucra- 
 tive. Here is Melchior de Willading’s daugh- 
 ter, now, a woman to set a city ina blaze, for 
 she hath wit, and lands, and beauty, besides 
 good blood ;—what, for instance, is thy opin- 
 ion of her merit?” 
 
 ‘That she is deserving of all the happiness 
 that every human excellence ought to con- 
 fer |” 
 
 ‘‘Hum—thou art nearer to thirty than I 
 had thought thee, Herr Sigismund! But 
 touching this Balthazar, thou art not to be- 
 lieve, on account of the few words of grace 
 which fell from me, that my aversion for. the 
 wretch is less than thine, or than that of any 
 other honest man; but it would be unseemly 
 and unwise in a bailiff to desert the last min- 
 ister of the law’s decrees in the face of the 
 public. There are feelings and sentiments 
 that are natural to us all, and among them 
 are to be classed respect and honor for the 
 well and nobly born” (the discourse was in 
 German), ‘‘and hatred and contempt for 
 those who are condemned of men. ‘These 
 are feelings which belong to human nature 
 itself, and God. forbid that I, a man already 
 past the age of romance, should really enter- 
 tain any sentiments that are not strictly hu- 
 man.” 
 
 ‘‘Do they not rather belong to abuses—to 
 our prejudices ? ” 
 
 “The difference is not material, in a prac- 
 tical view, young man. That which is fairly 
 bred into the mind, by discipline and habit, 
 gets to be stronger than instinct, or even than 
 one of the senses. Let there be an unseemly 
 sight, or a foul smell near thee, and thou 
 hast only to turn thy eyes, or hold thy nose, 
 to be rid of it; but I could never find the 
 means to lessen a prejudice that was once 
 fairly seated in the mind. Thou mayest 
 look whither thou wilt, and shut out the un- 
 savory odors of the imagination by all the 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 means thou canst invent, but if a man is, in 
 truth, condemned of opinion, he might as 
 well make his appeal to God at once for jus- 
 tice, as to any mercy he is likely to receive 
 from men. This much have I learned in my 
 experience as a public functionary.” 
 
 “T should hope that these are not the legal 
 dogmas of our ancient canton,” returned the 
 youth, conquering his feelings, though it cost 
 him a severe effort. 
 
 **As far from it as Basle is from Coire. 
 We hold no such discreditable doctrines. I 
 challenge the world to show a state that pos- 
 sesses a fairer set of maxims than ourselves, and 
 we even endeavor to make our practice chime 
 in with our opinions, whenever it can be done 
 in safety. No, in these particulars, Berne is 
 a paragon of a community, and as rarely says 
 one thing and does another, as any govern- 
 ment you shall see. What I now tell thee, 
 young man, is said to thee in the familiarity 
 of a féte, as thou know’st, in which there 
 have been some fooleries, to open confidence 
 and to loosen the tongue. We openly and 
 loudly profess great truth and equality be- 
 fore the law, saving the city’s rights, and to 
 take holy, heavenly, upright justice for our 
 guide in all matters of theory. Himmel! If 
 thou wouldst have thy affair decided on prin- 
 ciple, go before the councils, or the magis- 
 tracy of the canton, and thou shalt hear such 
 wisdom, and witness such keen-sighted ness 
 into chicanery, as would have honored Solo- 
 mon himself !” 
 
 “ And notwithstanding this, prejudice is a 
 general master.” 
 
 **How canst thou have it otherwise? Is 
 notamana man? Will he not lean as he 
 has been weighed upon ?—does not the tree 
 grow in the way the twig is bent? No, while 
 I adore justice, Herr Sigismund, as becomes 
 a bailiff, 1 confess to both prejudice and par- 
 tiality, mentally considered. Now, yonder 
 maiden, the pretty Christine, lost some of her 
 grace in my eyes, as no doubt she did in 
 
 _ thine, when the truth came to be known that 
 
 she was Balthazar’s child. The girl is fair 
 and modest and winning in her way; but 
 there is something—I cannot tell thee what 
 —but a certain damnable something—a taint 
 —a color—a hue—a—a—a—that showed her 
 brigin the instant I heard who was her parent 
 —was it not so with thee ?” 
 
 AS) 
 
 ‘* When her origin was proved, but not 
 previously.” 
 
 “ Aye, of a certainty; I mean not other- 
 wise. Buta thing is not seen any the worse 
 because it is seen thoroughly, although it may 
 be seen falsely when there are false covers to 
 conceal its ugliness. Particularity is neces- 
 sary to philosophy. Ignorance is a mask to 
 conceal the little details that are necessary to 
 knowledge. Your Moor might pass for a 
 Christian in a mask, but strip him of his 
 covering and the true shade of the skin is 
 seen. Didst thou not observe, for instance, 
 in all that touches feminine grace and perfec- 
 tion, the manifest difference between the 
 daughter of Melchior de Willading and the 
 daughter of this Balthazar ?” 
 
 ‘<'There was the difference between a maid- 
 en of most honored and happy extraction and 
 a maiden most miserably condemned!” 
 
 “‘Nay, the Demoiselle de Willading is the 
 fairer.” 
 
 “ Nature has certainly been most bountiful 
 to the heiress of Willading, Herr Bailiff, who 
 is scarcely less attractive for her female grace 
 and goodness, than she is fortunate in the 
 accidents of birth and condition.” 
 
 ““T knew thou couldst not, in secret, be of 
 a different mind from the rest of men !” ex- 
 claimed Peterchen in triumph, for he took 
 the warmth of his companion’s manner to be 
 a reluctant and half-concealed assent to his 
 own proposition. Here the discourse ended; 
 for, the earnest conference between Melchior 
 and the Signor Grimaldi having terminated, 
 the bailiff hastened to join his more impor- 
 tant guests, and Sigismund was released from 
 an examination that had harrowed every feel- 
 ing of his soul, while he even despised the 
 besotted loquacity of the man who had been 
 the instrument of his torture. 
 
 The separation of Adelheid from her father 
 was anticipated and previously provided for; 
 since the men were expected to resort to the 
 banquet at this hour. She had continued 
 near Christine and her mother, therefore, 
 without attracting any unusual attention to 
 her movements, even in those who were the 
 objects of her sympathy, a feeling that was so. 
 natural in one of her years and sex. A male 
 attendant, in the livery of her father’s house, 
 remained near her person, a protector who 
 was certain to insure not only her safety in 
 EE . 
 
130 
 
 the thronged streets of the town, but to exact 
 from those whose faculties were beginning to 
 yield to the excesses of the occasion the testi- 
 monials of respect that were due to her sta- 
 tion. It was under these circumstances, then, 
 that the more honored, and, to the eyes of 
 the uninstructed, the happier of these maid- 
 ens, approached the other, when curiosity was 
 so far appeased as to have left the family of 
 Balthazar nearly alone in the centre of the 
 square. 
 
 «Ts there no friendly roof near, to which 
 thou canst withdraw ?” asked the heiress of 
 Willading of the mother of the pallid and 
 scarcely conscious Christine ; ‘‘ thou wouldst 
 do better to seek some shelter and privacy 
 for thy unoffending and much injured child. 
 If any that belong to me can be of service, 
 I pray that thou wilt command as freely as 
 if they were followers of thine own.” 
 
 Marguerite had never before spoken with 
 a female of a rank superior to the ordinary 
 classes. The ample means of both her 
 father’s and her husband’s family, had fur- 
 nished all that was necessary to the improve- 
 ment of the mind of one in her station, and 
 perhaps she had been the gainer, in mere 
 deportment, by having been greatly excluded, 
 by their prejudices, from association with 
 females of her own condition. As is often 
 seen among those who have the thoughts 
 without the conventional usages of a better 
 caste in life, she was slightly tinctured with 
 an exhibition of what might be termed an 
 exaggerated manner, while at the same time 
 _it was perfectly free from vulgarity or coarse- 
 
 ness. The gentle accents of Adelheid fell 
 on her ear soothingly, and she gazed long 
 and earnestly at the beautiful speaker with- 
 out a reply. 
 
 ‘Who and what art thou that canst think 
 a headsman’s child may receive an insult that 
 is unmerited, and who offerest the service of 
 thy menials, as if the very vassal would not 
 refuse his master’s bidding in our behalf ?” 
 
 “‘T am Adelheid de Willading, the daugh- 
 ter of the Baron of that name, and one much 
 disposed to temper this cruel blow to the 
 feelings of poor Christine. Suffer that my 
 people seek the means to convey thy child 
 to some other place !” 
 
 Marguerite folded her daughter still closer 
 to her bosom, passing a hand across her 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 brow, as if to recall some half-obscured 
 idea. 
 
 ‘‘T have heard of thee, lady. ’Tis said 
 that thou art kind to the wronged, and of 
 excellent dispositions toward the unhappy— 
 that thy father’s castle is an honored and 
 hospitable abode, which those who enter 
 rarely love to quit. But hast thou well 
 weighed the consequences of this liberality 
 toward a race that is and has been proscribed 
 of men, from generation to generation— 
 from him who first lent himself to his 
 bloody office with a cruel heart and a greedy 
 desire for gold, to him whose courage is 
 scarcely equal to the disgusting duty ? Hast 
 thou bethought thee of this, or hast thou 
 yielded, heedlessly, to a sudden and youthful 
 impulse ?” 
 
 ‘© Of allthis have I thought,” said Adel- 
 heid, eagerly ; ‘‘ whatever may be the injus- 
 tice of others, thou hast none to fear from 
 me.” 
 
 Marguerite yielded the form of her child 
 to the support of her father’s arm, and drew 
 nearer, with a gaze of earnest and pleased 
 interest, to the blushing but still composed 
 Adelheid. She took the hand of the latter, 
 and, with a look of recognition and intelli- 
 gence, said slowly, as if communing with 
 herself, rather than speaking to another— 
 
 «‘This is getting to be intelligible!” she 
 murmured; ‘‘there is still gratitude and 
 creditable feeling in the world. J can un- 
 derstand why we are not revolting to this 
 fair being, she has a sense of justice that is 
 stronger than her prejudices. We have done 
 her service, and she is not ashamed of the 
 source whence it has come !” 
 
 The heart of Adelheid throbbed quick and 
 violently ; and, for a moment, she doubted 
 her ability to command her feelings. But 
 the pleasing conviction that Sigismund had 
 been honorable and delicate, even to his most 
 sacred and confidential communications with 
 his own mother, came to relieve her, and to 
 make her momentarily happy; since nothing 
 is so painful to the pure mind as to think 
 those they love have acted unworthily ; or 
 nothing so grateful, as the assurance that 
 they merit the esteem we have been indueed 
 liberally and confidingly to bestow. 
 
 ‘«©You do me no more than justice,” re- 
 turned the pleased listener of this flattering 
 
 oe 
 
amuse the multitude. 
 
 THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 and seemingly involuntary opinion—‘“ we are 
 indeed—indeed, we are truly grateful; but 
 had we not reason for the sacred obligations 
 of gratitude, I think we could still be just. 
 Will you not now consent that my people 
 should aid you ?” 
 
 <‘This is not necessary, lady. Send away 
 thy followers, for their presence will draw 
 unpleasant observations on our movements. 
 The town is now occupied with feasts, and, 
 as we have not blindly overlooked the neces- 
 sity of a retreat for the hunted and perse- 
 cuted, we will take the opportunity to 
 withdraw unseen. As for thyself ‘i 
 
 “T would be near this innocent at a mo- 
 ment so trying,” added Adelheid, earnestly, 
 and with that visible sympathy which rarely 
 fails to meet an echo. 
 
 <¢ Heaven bless thee! Heaven bless thee, 
 sweet girl! And Heaven will bless thee, for 
 few wrongs go unrequited in this life, and 
 little good without its reward. Send thy 
 followers away, or if thy habits require their 
 watchfulness, let them be near unseen, 
 whilst thou watchest our movements; and 
 when the eyes of al] are turned on their own 
 pleasures, thou canst follow. Heaven bless 
 thee—aye, and Heaven will!” 
 
 Marguerite then led her daughter toward 
 one of the least frequented streets. She 
 was accompanied by the silent Balthazar, and 
 closely watched by one of the menials of 
 Adelheid. When fairly housed, the domestic 
 returned to show the spot to his mistress, 
 who had appeared to occupy herself with the 
 hundred silly devices that were invented to 
 Dismissing her at- 
 tendants, with an order to remain at hand, 
 however, the heiress of Willading soon found 
 means to enter the humble abode in which 
 the proscribed family had taken refuge, and, 
 as she was expected, she was soon introduced 
 into the chamber where Christine and her 
 mother had taken refuge. 
 
 The sympathy of the young and tender 
 Adelheid was precious to one of the character 
 of Christine. They wept together, for the 
 weakness of her sex prevailed over the pride 
 of the former, when she found herself unre- 
 
 ‘strained by the observation of the world, and 
 
 she gave way to the torrent of feeling that 
 broke through its bounds, in spite of her en- 
 deavors to control it. Marguerite was the 
 
 rer, tek, 
 ay ¥ >> 
 ee 30. eos 
 
 131 
 
 only spectator of this silent but intelligible 
 communion between these two young and 
 pure spirits, and her soul was shaken by the 
 unlooked-for commiseration of one so honored 
 and who was usually esteemed so happy. 
 
 “Thou hast the consciousness of our 
 wrongs,” she said, when the first burst of 
 emotion had alittle subsided. “ ‘Thou canst 
 then believe that a headsman’s child is like 
 the offspring of another, and is not to be 
 hunted of men lke the young of a wolf.” 
 
 “ Mother, this is the Baron de Willading’s. 
 heiress,” said Christine; “would she come 
 here, did she not pity us?” 
 
 “Yes, she can pity us—and yet I find it 
 hard even to be pitied! Sigismund has told 
 us of her goodness, and she may, in truth, 
 feel for the wretched !” 
 
 The allusion to her son caused the temples 
 of Adelheid to burn like fire, while there was 
 a chill, resembling that of death, at her heart. 
 The first arose from the quick and uncon- 
 trollable alarm of female sensitiveness; the 
 last was owing to the shock inseparable from 
 being presented with this vivid, palpable pict- 
 ure of Sigismund’s close affinity with the 
 family of an executioner. She could have 
 better borne it, had Marguerite spoken of her 
 son less familiarly, or with more of that 
 feigned ignorance of each other, which, with- 
 out stopping to scan its fitness, she had been 
 
 ‘led to think existed between the young man 
 
 and his family. 
 
 “ Mother!” exclaimed Christine reproach- 
 fully, and in surprise, as if a great indiscre- 
 tion had been thoughtlessly committed. 
 
 <‘It matters not, child; it matters not. I 
 saw by the kindling eye of Sigismund to-day, 
 that our secret will not much longer be kept. 
 The noble boy must show more energy than 
 those who have gone before him; he must 
 quit forever a country in which he was con- 
 demned, even before he was born.” 
 
 “T shall not deny that your connection 
 with Monsieur Sigismund is known to me,” 
 said Adelheid, summoning all her resolution 
 to make an avowal which put her at once 
 into the confidence of Balthazar’s family. 
 ‘“‘You are acquainted with a heavy debt of 
 gratitude we owe your son, and it will ex- 
 plain the nature of the interest I now feel in 
 your wrongs.” 
 
 The keen eye of Marguerite studied the 
 
132 
 
 crimsoned features of Adelheid till forget- 
 fulness got the better of discretion. The 
 search was anxious, rather than triumphant, 
 the feeling most dreaded by its subject ; and, 
 when her eyes were withdrawn, the mother 
 of the youth became thoughtful and pensive. 
 This expressive communion produced a deep 
 and embarrassing silence, which each would 
 gladly have broken, had they not been irre- 
 sistibly tongue-tied by the rapidity and in- 
 tensity of their thoughts. 
 
 ‘We know that Sigismund hath been of 
 service to thee,” observed Marguerite, who 
 always addressed her young companion with 
 the familiarity that belonged to her greater 
 age, rather than with the respect which 
 Adelheid had been accustomed to receive 
 from those who were of a rank inferior to her 
 own. “The brave boy hath spoken of it, 
 though he hath spoken of it modestly.” 
 
 “He had every right to do himself justice 
 in his communications with those of his own 
 family. Without his aid, my father would 
 have been childless; and without his brave 
 support, the child fatherless. ‘I'wice has he 
 stood between us and death.” 
 
 ‘©T have heard of this,” returned Margue- 
 rite, again fastening her penetrating eye on 
 the tell-tale features of Adelheid, which never 
 failed to brighten and glow, whenever there 
 was allusion to the courage and self-devotion 
 of him she sccretly loved. “ Asto what thou 
 say’st of the intimacy of our poor boy with 
 those of his blood, cruel circumstances stand 
 between us and our wishes. If Sigismund 
 has told thee of whom he comes, he has also 
 most probably told thee of the manner in 
 which he passes, in the world, for that which 
 he is not.” 
 
 ‘“T believe he has not withheld anything 
 that he knew, and which it was proper to 
 communicate to me,” answered Adelheid, 
 dropping her eyes before the attentive, ex- 
 pectant look of Marguerite. “ He has spoken 
 freely, and——” 
 
 «Thou wouldst have said fe 
 
 “Honorably, and as became a soldier,” 
 eontinued Adelheid, firmly. 
 
 “He has done well! This lightens my 
 heart of one burden at least. No; God has 
 destined us to this fate, and it would have 
 grieved me that a son of mine should have 
 failed of principle in an affair, of all others, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 in which it is most wanted. You look 
 amazed, lady !” 
 
 ‘¢ These sentiments, in one so situated, sur- 
 prise as much as they delight me! If any- 
 thing could excuse some looseness in the 
 manner of regarding the usual ties of life, it 
 would surely be to find one’s self so placed, 
 by no misconduct of our own, as to be a butt 
 to the world’s dislike and injustice; and yet, 
 here, where there was reason to expect some 
 resentment against fortune, I meet with sen- 
 timents that would honor a throne! ” 
 
 “Thou thinkest as one more accustomed 
 to consider thy fellow-creatures through the 
 means of what men fancy, than through 
 things as they are. This is the picture of 
 youth, and inexperience, and innocence; but 
 it is not the picture of life. *Tis misfortune, 
 and not prosperity, that hasteneth by proy- 
 ing our insufficiency for true happiness, and 
 by leading the soul to depend on a power 
 greater than any that is to be found on earth. 
 We fall before the temptation of happiness, 
 when we rise in adversity. If thou thinkest, 
 innocent one, that noble and just sentiments 
 belong to the fortunate, thou trustest to a 
 false guide. There are evils which flesh can- 
 not endure, it is true; but, removed from 
 these overwhelming wants, we are strongest 
 in the right when least tempted by vanity 
 and ambition. More starving beggars abstain 
 from stealing the crust they crave, than pam- 
 pered gluttons deny themselves the luxury 
 that kills them. ‘They that live under the rod, 
 see and dread the hand that holds it; they 
 who riot in earth’s glories, come at last to 
 think they deserve the short-lived distinctions 
 they enjoy. When thou goest down into the 
 depths of misery, thou hast naught to fear 
 except the anger of God! It is when raised 
 above others that thou shouldst tremble most 
 for thine own safety.” | 
 
 “This is not the manner in which the 
 world is used to reason.” 
 
 “ Because the world is governed by those 
 whose interest it is to pervert truth to their 
 own objects, and not by those whose duties 
 run hand in hand with the right. But we 
 will say no more of this, lady; there is one 
 that feels too acutely just now to admit truth 
 to be too freely spoken.” 
 
 “Dost feel thyself better, and more able to 
 listen to thy friends, dear Christine? ” asked 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 Adelheid, taking the hand of the repudiated 
 and deserted girl with the tenderness of an 
 affectionate sister. 
 
 Until now the sufferer had only spoken the 
 few words related, in mild reproof of her 
 mother’s indiscretion. ‘That little had been 
 uttered with parched lips anda choked voice, 
 while the hue of her features was deadly pale, 
 and her whole countenance betrayed intense 
 mental anguish. But this display of interest, 
 in one of her own years and sex, of whose ex- 
 cellences she had been accustomed to hear 
 
 _ such fervid descriptions from the warm- 
 
 hearted Sigismund, and of whose sincerity 
 she was assured by the subtle and quick in- 
 stinct that unites the innocent and young, 
 caused a quick and extreme change in her 
 sensibilities. The grief which had been 
 struggling and condensed, now flowed more 
 freely from her eyes, and she threw herself 
 
 sobbing and weeping, ina paroxysm of gentle, 
 
 but overwhelming, feeling, on the bosom of 
 this new-found friend. The experienced 
 Marguerite smiled at this manifestation of 
 kindness on the part of Adelheid, though 
 even this expression of satisfaction was austere 
 and regulated in one who had so long stood 
 at bay with the world. And, after a short 
 pause, she left the room, under the belief that 
 such a communion with a spirit pure and in- 
 experienced as her own, a communion so un- 
 usual to her daughter, would be more likely 
 to produce a happy effect, if left to them- 
 selves, than when restrained by her presence. 
 
 The two girls wept in common for a long 
 time after Marguerite had disappeared. The 
 intercourse, chastened as it was by sorrow, 
 and rendered endearing on the one side by a 
 confiding ingenuousness, and on the other 
 by generous pity, caused both to live in that 
 short period, as it were, months together in 
 a near and dear intimacy. Confidence is not 
 always the growth of time. There are minds 
 that meet each other with a species of affinity 
 that resembles the cohesive property of mat- 
 ter, and with a promptitude and faith that 
 only belongs to the purer essence of which 
 they are composed. But when this attraction 
 of the ethereal part of the being is aided by 
 the feelings that have been warmed by an 
 Interest so tender as that which the hearts of 
 
 both the maidens felt in a common object, 
 
 its power is not only stronger, but quicker, 
 
 133 
 
 in'making itself felt. So much was already 
 known by each of the other’s character, for- 
 tunes, and hopes (always with the exception 
 of Adelheid’s most sacred secret, which Sigis- 
 mund cherished as a deposit by far too sacred 
 to be shared even with his sister), that the 
 meeting under no circumstances could have 
 been that of strangers, and their mutual 
 knowledge came to an assistant to break down 
 the barriers of those forms which were so 
 irksome to their longings for a freer inter- 
 change of feeling and thought. Adelheid 
 possessed too much intellectual tact to have 
 recourse to the every-day language of consola- 
 tion. When she did speak, which, as _ be- 
 came her superior rank and less embarrassed 
 situation, she was the first to do, it was in 
 general but friendly allusions. 
 
 ‘‘Thou wilt go with us to Italy, in the 
 morning,” she said, drying her eyes; “ my 
 father quits Blonay, in company with the 
 Signor Grimaldi, with to-morrow’s sun, and 
 thou wilt be of our company ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Where thou wilt—anywhere with thee— 
 anywhere to hide my shame !” 
 
 The blood mounted to the temples of 
 Adelheid, her air even appeared imposing to 
 the eyes of the artless and unpractised Chris- 
 tine, as she answered— 
 
 ‘‘ Shame is a word that applies to the mean 
 and mercenary, to the vile and unfaithful,” 
 she said, with womanly and virtuous indig- 
 nation; ‘‘ but not to thee, love.” 
 
 “Qh! do not, do not condemn him,” 
 whispered Christine, covering her face with 
 her hands. ‘‘ He hasfound himself unequal 
 to bear the burden of our degradation, and 
 he should be spoken of in pity rather than 
 with hatred.” Adelheid was silent ; but she 
 regarded the poor trembling girl, whose head 
 now nestled in her bosom, with melancholy 
 concern. 
 
 ‘¢Didst thou know him well ?” she asked, 
 in a low tone, following rather the chain of 
 her own thoughts, than reflecting on the na- 
 ture of the question she put. ‘I had hoped 
 that this refusal would bring no other pain 
 than the unavoidable mortification which I 
 fear belongs to the weakness of our sex and 
 our habits.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou knowest not how dear preference 
 is to the despised !—how cherished the 
 thought of being loved becomes to those, 
 
134 
 
 who, out of their own narrow limits of nat- 
 ural friends, have been accustomed to meet 
 only with contempt and aversion! ‘Thou 
 hast always been known, and courted, and 
 happy! Thou canst not know how dear it 
 is to the despised to seem even to be pre- 
 ferred !” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, say not this, I pray thee!” an- 
 swered Adelheid, hurriedly, and with a throb 
 of anguish at her heart ; ‘‘ there is little in 
 this life that speaks fairly for itself. We are 
 not always what we seem ; and if we were, 
 and far more miserable than anything but 
 vice can make us, there is another state of 
 being, in which justice—pure, unalloyed jus- 
 tice—will be done.” 
 
 ‘‘T will yo with thee to Italy,” answered 
 Christine, looking calm and resolved, while 
 a glow of holy hope bloomed on each cheek ; 
 ‘*‘ when all is over, we will go together to a 
 happier world !” 
 
 Adelheid folded the stricken and sensitive 
 plant to her bosom. Again they wept to- 
 gether, but it was with a milder and sweeter 
 sorrow than before. . 
 
 a 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 «‘T’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee 
 berries. ”’— Zempest. 
 
 THE day dawned clear and cloudless on 
 the Leman, the morning that succeeded the 
 Abbaye des Vignerons. Hundreds among 
 the frugal and time-saving Swiss had left the 
 town before the appearance of the light, and 
 many strangers weré crowding into the 
 barks as the sun came bright and cheerfully 
 over the rounded and smiling summits of the 
 neighboring cétes. At this early hour all in 
 and around the rock-seated castle of Blonay 
 were astir and in motion. Menials were 
 running with hurried air, from room to 
 room, from court to terrace, and from lawn 
 to tower. The peasants in the adjoining 
 fields rested on their utensils of husbandry, 
 in gaping, admiring attention to the prepara- 
 tions of their superiors. For though we are 
 not writing of a strictly feudal age, the 
 events it is our business to record took place 
 
 long before the occurrence of those great 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 political events which have since so materially 
 changed the social state of Hurope. Switzer- 
 land was then a sealed country to most of those 
 who dwelt even in the adjoining nations, 
 and the present advanced condition of roads 
 and inns was quite unknown, not only to 
 these mountaineers, but throughout the rest 
 of what was then much more properly called 
 the exclusively civilized portion of the globe, 
 than it is to-day. Even horses were not often 
 used in the passage of the Alps, but recourse 
 was had to the surer-footed mule by the 
 traveller, and, not unfrequently, by the 
 more practised carrier and smuggler of those 
 rude paths. Roads existed, it is true, as in 
 other parts of Europe, in the countries of the 
 plain, if any portion of the great undulating 
 surface of that region deserve the name; but 
 once within the mountains, with the excep- 
 tion of very inartificial wheel-tracks in the 
 straitened and glen-like valleys, the hoof 
 alone was to be trusted or indeed used. 
 
 The long train of travellers, then, that left 
 the gates of Blonay, just as the fog began to 
 stir on the wide alluvial meadows of the 
 Rhone, were all in the saddle. A courier, 
 accompanied by a sumpter-mule, had departed 
 over-night to prepare the way for those who 
 were to follow, and active young mountain- 
 eers had succeeded, from time to time, 
 charged with different orders, issued in be~ 
 half of their comforts. 
 
 As the cavalcade passed beneath the arch 
 of the great gate, the lively, spirit-stirring 
 horn sounded a farewell air, to which custom 
 had attached the signification of good wishes. 
 It took the way toward the level of the 
 Leman by means of a winding and pictu- 
 resque bridle-path that led, among alpine 
 meadows, groves, rocks, and hamlets, fairly 
 to the water-side. Roger de Blonay and his 
 two principal guests rode in front, the former 
 seated on a war-horse that he had ridden 
 years before as a soldier, and the two latter 
 well mounted on, beasts prepared for, and 
 accustomed to, the mountains. Adelheid 
 and Christine came next, riding by them- 
 selves, in the modest reserve of their maiden 
 condition. Their discourse was low, confi- 
 dential, and renewed at intervals. A few 
 menials followed, and then came Sigismund 
 at the side of the Signor Grimaldi’s friend, 
 and one of the family of Blonay, the latter 
 
 — poeta 
 
THE HEADSMAN. ' 
 
 of whom was destined to return with the 
 Baron, after doing honor to their guests by 
 seeing them as far as Villeneuve. The rear 
 was brought up by muleteers, domestics, and 
 those who led the beasts that bore the bag- 
 gage. All of the former who intended to 
 cross the Alps carried the fire-arms of the 
 period at their saddle-bows, and each had his 
 rapier, his couteaw de chasse, or his weapon 
 of more military fashion, so disposed about 
 his person as to denote it was considered an 
 arm for whose use some occasion might 
 possibly occur. 
 
 As the departure from Blonay was un- 
 accompanied by any of those leave-takings 
 which usually impress a touch of melancholy 
 on the traveller, most of the cavalcade, as 
 they issued into the pure and exhilarating air 
 of the morning, were sufficiently disposed to 
 enjoy the loveliness of the landscape, and to 
 indulge in the cheerfulness and delight that 
 a scene so glorious is apt to awaken in all 
 who are alive to the beauties of nature. 
 
 - Adelheid gladly pointed out to her com- 
 panion the various objects of the view, as a 
 means of recalling the thoughts of Christine 
 from her own particular griefs, which were 
 heightened by regret for the loss of her 
 mother, from whom she was now seriously 
 separated for the first time in her life, since 
 their communications, though secret, had 
 been constant during the years she had 
 dwelt under another roof. The latter grate- 
 fully lent herself to the kind intentions of 
 her new friend, and endeavored to be pleased 
 with all she beheld, though it was such pleas- 
 ure as the sad and mourning admit witha 
 jealous reservation of their own secret causes 
 of woe. 
 
 “ Yonder tower, toward which we advance, 
 is Chatelard,” said the heiress of Willading 
 to the daughter of Balthazar, in the pursuit 
 of her kind intention; “a hold nearly as an- 
 cient and honorable as this we have just 
 quitted, though not so’constantly the dwell- 
 ing of the same family; for those of Blonay 
 have been a thousand years dwellers on the 
 same rock, always favorably known for their 
 faith and courage.” 
 
 ‘Surely if there is anything in life that 
 can compensate for its every-day evils,” ob- 
 served Christine, in a manner of mild regret, 
 
 and perhaps with the perversity of grief, “it | 
 
 135 
 
 must be to have come from those who have 
 always been known and honored among the 
 great and happy! Even virtue and goodness, 
 and great deeds, scarce give a respect like 
 that we feel for the Sire de Blonay, whose 
 family has been seated, as thou hast just said, 
 a thousand years on that rock above us!” 
 
 - Adelheid was mute. She appreciated the 
 feeling which had so naturally led her com- 
 panion to a reflection like this, and she felt 
 the difficulty of applying balm to a wound as 
 deep as that which had been inflicted on her 
 companion. 
 
 “ We are not always to suppose those the 
 most happy that the world most honors,” she 
 at length answered ; “the respect to which 
 we are accustomed comes in time to be neces- 
 sary, without being a source of pleasure ; and 
 the hazard of incurring its loss is more than 
 equal to the satisfaction of Its possession.” 
 
 ‘Thou wilt at least admit that to be de- 
 spised and shunned is a curse to which noth- 
 ing can reconcile us.” 
 
 “‘We will speak now of other things, dear. 
 It may be long ere either of us again see this 
 grand display of rock and water, of brown 
 mountain and shining glacier; we will not 
 prove ourselves ungrateful for the happiness 
 we have by repining for that which is im- 
 possible.” 
 
 Christine quietly yielded to the kind inten- 
 tion of her new friend, and they rode on in 
 silence, picking their way along the winding 
 path, until the whole party, after a long but 
 pleasant descent, reached the road, which is 
 nearly washed by the waters of the lake. 
 There has already been allusion, in the earlier 
 pages of our work, to the extraordinary beau- 
 ties of the route near this extremity of the 
 Leman. After climbing to the height of the 
 mild and healthful Montreux, the cavalcade 
 again descended under a canopy of nut-trees, 
 to the gate of Chillon, and sweeping around 
 the margin of the sheet, it reached Villeneuve 
 by the hour that had been named for an early 
 morning repast. Here all dismounted, and 
 refreshed themselves awhile, when Roger de 
 Blonay and his attendants, after many ex- 
 changes of warm and sincere good wishes, 
 took their final leave. 
 
 The sun was scarcely yet visible in the 
 deep glens, when those who were destined 
 for St. Bernard were again in the saddle. 
 
136 
 
 The road now necessarily left the lake, trav- 
 ersing those broad alluvial bottoms which 
 have been deposited during thirty centuries 
 by the washings of the Rhone, aided, if faith 
 is to be given to geological symptoms and 
 to ancient traditions, by certain violent con- 
 vulsions of nature. For several hours our 
 travellers rode amid such a deep fertility, and 
 such a luxuriance of vegetation, that their 
 path bore more analogy to an excursion on 
 the wide plains of Lombardy, than to one 
 amid the usual Swiss scenery; although, 
 unlike the boundless expanse of the Italian 
 garden, the view was limited on each side by 
 perpendicular barriers of rock, that were 
 piled for thousands of feet into the heavens, 
 and which were merely separated from each 
 other by a league or two, a distance that 
 dwindled to miles in its effect on the eye, a 
 consequence of the grandeur of the scale on 
 which nature has reared these vast piles. It 
 was high noon when Melchior de Willading 
 and his venerable friend led the way across 
 the foaming Rhone at the celebrated bridge 
 of St. Maurice. Here the country of the 
 Valais, then, like Geneva, an ally, and not a 
 confederate of the Swiss cantons, was entered, 
 and all objects, both animate and inanimate, 
 began to assume that mixture of the grand, 
 the sterile, the luxuriant, and the revolting, 
 for which this region is so generally known. 
 Adelheid gave an involuntary shudder, her 
 imagination having been prepared by rumor 
 for even more than the truth would have 
 given reason to expect, when the gate of St. 
 Maurice swung back upon its hinges, liter- 
 ally inclosing the party in this wild, deso- 
 late and yet romantic region. As they pro- 
 ceeded along the Rhone, however, she and 
 those of her companions to whom the scene 
 was new were constantly wondering at some 
 uulooked-for discrepancy, that drove them 
 from admiration to disgust—from the excla- 
 mations of delight to the chill of disappoint- 
 ment. The mountains on every side were 
 dreary, and without the rich relief of the 
 pastured eminences, but most of the valley 
 was rich and generous. In one spot a sac 
 d’eau, one of those reservoirs of water which 
 form among the glaciers on the summits of 
 the rocks, had broken, and descending like 
 a water-spout, it had swept before it every 
 vestige of cultivation, covering wide breadths 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 of the meadows with a débris that resembled 
 chaos. A frightful barrenness, and the most 
 smiling fertility, were in absolute contact ; 
 patches of green, that had been accidentally 
 favored by some lucky formation of the 
 ground, sometimes appearing like oases of 
 the desert, in the very centre of a sterility 
 that would put the labor and the art of man 
 at defiance for a century. In the midst of 
 this terrific picture of want sat a crétin, with 
 his semi-human attributes, the lolling tongue, 
 the blunted faculties, and the degraded appe- 
 tites, to complete the desolation. Issuing 
 from this belt of annihilated vegetations the 
 scene became again as pleasant as the fancy 
 could desire, or the eye crave. Fountains 
 leaped from rock to rock in the sun’s rays; 
 the valley was green and gentle; the moun- 
 tains began to show varied and pleasing forms; 
 and happy smiling faces appeared, whose 
 freshness and regularity were perhaps of a 
 cast superior to that of most of the Swiss. 
 In short, the Valais was then, as now, a 
 country of opposite extremes, but in which, 
 perhaps, there is a predominance of the re- 
 pulsive and inhospitable. 
 
 It was fairly nightfall, notwithstanding 
 the trifling distance they had journeyed, 
 when the travellers reached Martigny, where 
 dispositions had previously been made for 
 their reception during the hours of sleep. 
 Here preparations were made to seek their 
 rest at an early hour, in order to be in readi- 
 ness for the fatiguing toil of the following 
 day. 
 
 Martigny is situated at the point where 
 the great valley of the Rhone changes its 
 direction from a north and south to an east 
 and west course, and it is the spot whence 
 three of the celebrated mountain paths di- 
 verge, to make as many passages of the 
 upper Alps. Here are the two routes of the 
 great and little St. Bernard, both of which 
 lead into Italy, and that of the Col-de-Balme, 
 which crosses a spur of the Alps into Savoy 
 toward the celebrated valley of Chamouni. 
 It was the intention of the Baron de Willa- 
 ding and his friend to journey by the former 
 of these roads, as has so often been men- 
 tioned in these pages, their destination being 
 the capital of Piedmont. ‘The passage of 
 the great St. Bernard, though so long known 
 by its ancient and hospitable convent, the 
 
THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 137 
 
 most elevated habitation in Europe, and in | in acts too insignificant for general interest, 
 
 these later times so famous for the passage 
 of a conquering army, is but a secondary 
 Alpine pass, considered in reference to the 
 grandeur of its scenery. The ascent, so in- 
 artificial even to this hour, is long and com- 
 paratively without danger, and in general it 
 is sufficiently direct, there being no very pre- 
 cipitous rise like those of the Gemmi, the 
 Grimsel, and various other passes in Switer- 
 land and Italy, except at the very neck, or 
 col, of the mountain, where the rock is to 
 be literally climbed on the rude and broad 
 steps that so frequently occur among the 
 paths of the Alps and the Apennines, The 
 fatigue of this passage comes, therefore, 
 rather from its length, and the necessity of 
 unremitted diligence, than from any exces- 
 sive labor demanded by the ascent ; and the 
 reputation acquired by the great captain of 
 our age, in leading an army across its sum- 
 mit, has been obtained more by the military 
 combinations of which it formed the princi- 
 pal feature, the boldness of the conception, 
 and the secrecy and promptitude with which 
 so extensive an operation was effected, than 
 by the physical difficulties that were over- 
 come. In the latter particular, the passage 
 of St. Bernard, as this celebrated coup de 
 main is usually called, has frequently been 
 outdone in our own wilds; for armies have 
 often traversed regions of broad streams, 
 broken mountains, and uninterrupted forests, 
 for weeks at a time, in which the mere bodily 
 labor of any given number of days would be 
 found to be greater than that endured on 
 this occasion by the followers of Napoleon. 
 The estimate we attach to every exploit is so 
 dependent on the magnitude of its results, 
 that men rarely come to a perfectly impartial 
 judgment on its merits; the victory or 
 defeat, however simple or bloodless, that 
 shail shake or assure the interésts of civil- 
 ized society, being always esteemed by the 
 world an event of greater importance than 
 the happiest combinations of thought and 
 valor that affect only the welfare of some 
 remote and unknown people. By the just 
 consideration of this truth, we come to 
 understand the value of a nation’s possessing 
 confidence in itself, extensive power, and a 
 unity commensurate to its means; since 
 small and divided States waste their strength 
 
 frittering away their mental riches, no less 
 than their treasure and blood, in supporting 
 interests that fail to enlist the sympathies 
 of any beyond the pale of their own borders. 
 The nation which, by the adverse circum- 
 stances of numerical inferiority, poverty of 
 means, failure of enterprise, or want of opin- 
 ion, cannot sustain its own citizens in the 
 acquisition of a just renown, is deficient in 
 one of the first and most indispensable ele- 
 ments of greatness ; glory, like riches, feed- 
 ing itself, and being most apt to be found 
 where its fruits have already accumulated. 
 We see, in this fact, among other conclu- 
 sions, the importance of an acquisition of 
 such habits of manliness of thought as will 
 enable us to decide on the merits and demer- 
 its of what is done among ourselves, and of 
 shaking off that dependence on others which 
 is too much the custom of some among us to 
 dignify with the pretending title of defer- 
 ence to knowledge and taste, but which, in 
 truth, possesses some such share of true 
 modesty and diffidence as the footman is apt 
 to exhibit when exulting in the renown of 
 his master. 
 
 This little digression has induced us mo- 
 mentarily to overlook the incidents of the 
 tale. Few who possess the means, venture 
 into the stormy regions of the upper Alps, at 
 the late season in which the present party 
 reached the hamlet of Martigny, without 
 seeking the care of one or more suitable 
 guides. The services of these men are useful 
 in a variety of ways, but in none more than 
 in offering the advice which long familiarity 
 with the signs of the heavens, the tempera- 
 ture of the air, and the direction of the winds, 
 enables them to give. ‘The Baron de Willa- 
 ding, and his friend, immediately dispatched 
 a messenger for a mountaineer, of the name 
 of Pierre Dumont, who enjoyed a fair name 
 for fidelity, and who was believed to be better 
 acquainted with all the difficulties of the as- 
 cent and descent, than any other who jour. 
 neyed among the glens of that part of the 
 Alps. At the present day, when hundreds 
 ascend to the convent from curiosity alone, 
 every peasant of sufficient strength and in- 
 telligence becomes a guide, and the little 
 community of the Lower Valais finds the 
 transit of the idle and rich such a fruit- 
 
, 
 
 138 
 
 ful source of revenue, that it has been in- 
 duced to regulate the whole by very useful 
 and just ordinances ; but at the period of the 
 tale, this Pierre was the only individual who, 
 by fortunate concurrences, had obtained a 
 name among affluent foreigners, and who was 
 at all in demand with that class of travellers. 
 He was not long in presenting himself in the 
 public-room of the inn—a hale, florid, mus- 
 cular man of sixty, with every appearance of 
 permanent health and vigor, but with a 
 slight and nearly imperceptible difficulty of 
 breathing. 
 
 «Thou art Pierre Dumont ?” observed the 
 Baron, studying the open physiognomy and 
 well-set frame of the Valaisan, with satisfac- 
 tion. ‘* Thou hast been mentioned by more 
 than one traveller in his book.” 
 
 The stout mountaineer raised himself in 
 pride, and endeavored to, acknowledge the 
 compliment in the manner of his well-meant 
 but rude courtesy; for refinement did not 
 then extend its finesse and its deceit among 
 the glens of Switzerland. 
 
 «« They have done me honor, monsieur,” he 
 said: “‘it has been my good fortune to cross 
 the Col with many brave gentlemen and fair 
 ladies—and in two instances with princes.” 
 (Though a sturdy republican, Pierre was not 
 insensible to worldly rank.) ‘‘'The pious 
 monks know me well; and they who enter 
 the convent are not the worse received for 
 being my companions. I shall be glad to lead 
 so fair a party from our cold valley into the 
 sunny glens of Italy, for, if the truth must 
 be spoken, nature has placed us on the wrong 
 side of the mountain for our comfort, though 
 we have our advantage over those who live 
 even in Turin and Milan, in matters of 
 greater importance.” 
 
 «< What can be the superiority of a Valaisan 
 over the Lombard or the Piedmontese ?” de- 
 manded the Signor Grimaldi quickly, like a 
 man who was curious to hear the reply. “A 
 traveller should seek all kinds of knowledge, 
 and I take this to be a newly discovered 
 fact.” 
 
 ‘<< Liberty, signor! We are our own mas- 
 ters ; we have been so since the day when our 
 fathers sacked the castles of the barons, and 
 compelled their tyrants to become their 
 equals. 
 warm plains of Italy, and return to my cot- 
 
 better. 
 
 I think of this each time I reach the. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tage a more contented man, for the reflec- 
 tion.” | 
 
 ‘«« Spoken like a Swiss, though it is uttered 
 by an ally of the cantons!” cried Melchior 
 de Willading, heartily. “This is the spirit, 
 Gaetano, which sustains our mountaineers, 
 and renders them more happy amid their 
 frosts and rocks, than thy Genoese on his 
 warm and glowing bay.” 
 
 “The word liberty, Melchior, is more used 
 than understood, and as much abused as 
 used,” returned the Signor Grimaldi gravely. 
 «A country on which God hath laid his 
 finger in displeasure, as on this, needs have 
 some such consolation as the phantom with 
 which the honest Pierre appears to be so well 
 satisfied. But, signor guide, have many 
 travellers tried the passage of late, and what 
 dost thou think of our prospects in making 
 the attempt? We hear gloomy tales, some- 
 times, of thy alpine paths in that Italy thou 
 hold’st so cheap.” — 
 
 ‘Your pardon, noble signor, if the frank- 
 ness of 2 mountaineer has carried me too far. 
 I do not undervalue your Piedmont, because 
 I love our Valais more. A country may be 
 excellent, even though another should be 
 As for the travellers, none of note 
 have gone up the Col of late, though there 
 have been the usual number of vagabonds 
 and adventurers. The savor of the convent 
 kitchen will reach the noses of these knaves 
 here in the valley, though we have a long 
 twelve leagues to journey in getting from one 
 to the other.” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi waited until Adel- 
 heid and Christine, who were preparing to 
 retire for the night, were out of hearing, 
 and he resumed his questions. 
 
 «Thou hast not spoken of the weather ?” 
 
 «“ We are in one of the most uncertain and 
 treacherous months of the good season, mes- 
 sieurs. The winter is gathering among the 
 upper Alps, and in a month in which the 
 frosts are flying about like uneasy birds that 
 do not know where to alight, one can hardly 
 say whether he hath need of his cloak or not.” 
 
 “San Francesco! Dost think I am dallying 
 with thee, friend, about a thickness more or 
 less of cloth? I am hinting at avalanches and 
 falling rocks—at whirlwinds and tempests! ” 
 
 Pierre laughed and shook his head, though 
 he answered vaguely as became his business. 
 
THE HEHEADSMAN. 
 
 «These are Italian opinions of our hills, 
 signor,” he said; ‘‘ they savor of the imagina- 
 tion. Our pass is not as often troubled with 
 the avalanche as some that are known, even 
 in the melting snows. Had you looked at 
 the peaks from the lake, you would have 
 seen that, the hoary glaciers excepted, they 
 are still all brown and naked. ‘The snow 
 must fall from the heavens before it can fall 
 in the avalanche, and we are yet, I think, a 
 few days from the true winter.” 
 
 «Thy calculations are made with nicety, 
 friend,’ returned the Genoese, not sorry, 
 however, to hear the guide speak with so 
 much apparent confidence of the weather, 
 ‘and we are obliged to thee in proportion. 
 What of the travellers thou hast named? 
 Are there brigands on our path?” 
 
 “Such rogues have been known to infest 
 the place, but in general, there is too little 
 
 to be gained for the risk. Your rich traveller 
 
 is not an every-day sight among our rocks; 
 
 and you well know, signor, that there may 
 
 be too few, as well as too many, on a path, 
 for your freebooter.” 
 
 The Italian was distrustful by habit on all 
 such subjects, and he threw a quick suspi- 
 cious glance at the guide. But the frank 
 open countenance of Pierre removed all doubt 
 of his honesty, to say nothing of the effect of 
 a well-established reputation. 
 
 ‘But thou hast spoken of certain vaga- 
 bonds who have preceded us?” 
 
 “In that particular, matters might be 
 better,” answered the plain-minded moun- 
 taineer, dropping his head in an attitude of 
 meditation so naturally expressed as to give 
 additional weight to his words. ‘“ Many of 
 bad appearance have certainly gone up to- 
 day; such as a Neapolitan named Pippo, who 
 
 is anything but a saint—a certain pilgrim, 
 
 who will be nearer heaven at the convent 
 than he will be at the death—St. Pierre pray 
 for me if I do the man injustice!—and one 
 or two more of the same brood. There is 
 another that hath gone up also, post haste, 
 and with good reason as they say, for he hath 
 made himself the butt of all the jokers in 
 Vévey on account of some foolery in the 
 games of the abbaye—a certain Jacques 
 Colis.” | 
 
 The name was repeated by several near the 
 speaker. 
 
 139 
 
 “The same, messieurs. It would seem 
 that the Sieur Colis would fain take a maiden 
 to wife in the public sports, and when her 
 birth came to be known, his bride was 
 no other than the child of Balthazar, the 
 common headsman of Berne!” 
 
 A general silence betrayed the embarras’ 
 ment of most of the listeners. 
 
 “And that tale hath already reached this 
 glen,’ said Sigismund, in a tone so deep and 
 firm as to cause Pierre to start, while the two 
 old nobles looked in another direction, feign- 
 ing not to observe what was passing. 
 ~ Rumor hath a nimbler foot than a mule, 
 young officer,” answered the honest guide. 
 “The tale, as you call it, will have travelled 
 across the mountains sooner than they who 
 bore it—though I never knew how such a 
 miracle could pass—but so it is; report goes 
 faster than the tongue that spreads it, and if 
 there be a little untruth to help it along, the 
 wind itself is scarcely swifter. Honest 
 Jacques Colis has bethought him to get the 
 start of his story, but, my life on it, though 
 he is active enough in getting away from his 
 mockers, that he finds it, with all the addi. 
 tions, safely housed in the inn at Turin when 
 he reaches that city himself.” 
 
 “These, then, are all?” interrupted the 
 Signor Grimaldi, who saw, by the heaving 
 bosom of Sigismund, that it was time in 
 mercy to interpose. 
 
 ‘Not so, signor—there is still another, and 
 one I like less than any. A countryman ol 
 your own, who, impudently enough, calls 
 himself I] Maledetto.” 
 
 “ Maso! ” 
 
 «The very same.” 
 
 “ Honest, courageous Maso, and his noble 
 dog ?” 
 
 “Signor, you describe the man so well in 
 some things, that I wonder that you know so 
 little of him in others. Maso hath not his 
 equal on the road for activity and courage, 
 and the beast is second only to our mastiffs 
 of the convent for the same qualities ; but 
 when you speak of the master’s honesty, you’ 
 speak of that for which the world gives him 
 little credit, and do great disparagement to 
 the brute, which is much the best of the two, 
 in this respect.” 
 
 «This may be true enough,” rejoined the 
 Signor Grimaldi, turning anxiously toward 
 
140 ) 
 
 his companions:—‘‘ man is a strange com- 
 pound of good and evil; his acts when left to 
 natural impulses are so different from what 
 they become on calculation that one can 
 scarcely answer for a man of Maso’s tempera- 
 ment. We know him to be a most efficient 
 friend, and such a man would be apt to make 
 avery dangerous enemy! His qualities were 
 not given to him by halves. And yet we 
 have a strong circumstance in our favor; for 
 he who hath once done the least service to a 
 fellow-creature feels a sort of paternity in him 
 he hath saved, and would be little likely to 
 rob himself of the pleasure of knowing that 
 there are some of his kind who owe him a 
 grateful recollection.” 
 
 This remark was answered by Melchior de 
 Willading, in the same spirit, and the guide, 
 perceiving that he was no longer wanted, 
 withdrew. 
 
 Soon after the travellers retired to rest. 
 
 —_——____. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 « As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed, 
 And winter oft, at eve, resumes the breeze, 
 Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets 
 Deform the day delightful ;——”—Tuomson. 
 
 THE horn of Pierre Dumont was blowing 
 beneath the windows of the inn of Martigny, 
 with the peep of dawn. Then followed the 
 appearance of drowsy domestics, the saddling 
 of unwilling mules, and the loading of bag- 
 gage. A few minutes later the little caravan 
 was assembled, for the cavalcade almost de- 
 served this name, and the whole were in mo- 
 tion for the summits of the Alps. 
 
 The travellers now left the valley of the 
 Rhone, to bury themselves amid those piles 
 of misty and confused mountains, which 
 formed the background of the picture they 
 had studied from the castle of Blonay and 
 the sheet of the Leman. They soon plunged 
 into a glen, and following the windings of a 
 brawling torrent, were led gradually, and by 
 many turnings, into a country of bleak up- 
 land pasturage, where the inhabitants gained 
 a scanty livelihood, principally by means of 
 their dairies. 
 
 A few leagues above Martigny, the paths 
 again separated, one inclining to the left 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 toward the elevated valley that has since be. 
 come so celebrated in the legends of this wild 
 region, by the formation of a little lake in its 
 glacier, which, becoming too heavy for its 
 foundation, broke through its barrier of ice, 
 and descended in a mountain of water to the 
 Rhone, a distance of many leagues, sweeping 
 before it every vestige of civilization that 
 crossed its course, and even changing in many 
 places the face of nature itself. Here the 
 glittering peak of Velan became visible, and 
 though so much nearer to the eye than when 
 viewed from Vévey, it was still a distant 
 shining pile, grand in its solitude and mys- 
 tery, on which the sight loved to dwell, as it 
 studies the pure and spotless edges of some 
 sleepy cloud. 
 
 It has already been said, that the ascent 
 of the great St. Bernard, with the exception 
 of occasional hills and hollows, is nowhere 
 very precipitous but at the point at which 
 the last rampart of rock is to be overcome. 
 On the contrary, the path, for leagues at a 
 time, passes along tolerably even valleys, 
 though of necessity the general direction is 
 upward, and for most of the distance through 
 a country that admits of cultivation, though 
 the meagreness of the soil, and the shortness 
 of the seasons, render but an indifferent re- 
 turn to the toil of the husbandman. In this 
 respect it differs from most of the other AlI- 
 pine passes; but if it want the variety, wild- 
 ness, and sublimity of the Spliigen, the St. 
 Gothard, the Gemmi, and the Simplon, it is 
 still an ascent on a magnificent scale, and he 
 who journeys on its path is raised as it were 
 by insensible degrees, to an elevation that 
 gradually changes all his customary associa- 
 tions with the things of the lower world. 
 
 From the moment of quitting the inn to 
 that of the first halt, Melchior de Willading 
 and the Signor Grimaldi rode in company, 
 as on the previous day. These old friends 
 had much to communicate in confidential 
 discourse which the presence of Roger de 
 Blonay, and the importunities of the bailiff, 
 had hitherto prevented them from freely say- 
 ing. Both had thought maturely, too, on 
 the situation of Adelheid, of her hopes, and 
 of her future fortunes, and both had rea- 
 soned much as two old nobles of that day, 
 who were not without strong sympathies for 
 their kind while they were too practised to 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 overlook the world and its ties, would be 
 _ likely to reason on an affair of this delicate 
 - nature. 
 
 «There came a feeling of regret, perhaps 
 I might fairly call it by its proper name, of 
 envy,” observed the Genoese, in pursuance of 
 the subject which engrossed most of their 
 time and thoughts, as they rode slowly along, 
 the bridles dangling from the necks of their 
 mules,—‘‘ there came a feeling of regret, 
 when I first saw the fair creature that calls 
 thee father, Melchior. God has dealt merci- 
 fully by me, in respect to many things that 
 make men happy; but he rendered my mar- 
 riage accursed, not only in its bud, but in its 
 fruit. Thy child is dutiful and loving, all 
 that a father can wish; and yet here is this 
 unusual attachment come to embarrass, if 
 not to defeat, thy fair and just hopes for her 
 welfare! This is no common affair, that a 
 few threats of bolts and a change of scene 
 will cure, but a rooted affection that is but 
 too firmly based on esteem. By San Fran- 
 cesco, but I think, at times, thou wouldst do 
 well to permit the ceremony!” 
 
 ‘‘Should it be our fortune to meet with 
 the absconding Jacques Colis at Turin, he 
 might give us different counsel,” answered 
 the old Baron dryly. 
 
 «That is a dreadful barrier to our wishes! 
 Were the boy anything but a headsman’s 
 child! I donot think thou couldst object, 
 Melchior, had he merely come of a hind, or 
 of some common follower of thy family ?” 
 
 “Tt were far better that he should have 
 come of one like ourselves, Gaetano. I rea- 
 son but little on the dogmas of this or that 
 sect in politics; but I feel and think, in this 
 affair, as the parent of an only child. All 
 those usages and opinions in which we are 
 trained, my friend, are so many ingredients 
 in our happiness, let them be silly or wise, 
 just or oppressive; and though I would fain 
 do that which is right to therest of mankind, 
 I could wish to begin to practise innovation 
 with any other than my own daughter. Let 
 them who like philosophy, and justice, and 
 natural rights so well, commence by setting 
 us the example.” 
 
 “Thou hast hit the stumbling-block that 
 causes a thousand well-digested plans for the 
 improvement of the world to fail, honest 
 Melchior. Could we toil with others’ limbs, 
 
 141 
 
 sacrifice with others’ groans, and pay with 
 others’ means, there would be no end to our 
 industry, our disinterestedness, or our liber- 
 ality—and yet it were a thousand pities that 
 so sweet a girl and so noble a youth should 
 not yoke!” 
 
 «<’T would bea yoke indeed, for a daughter 
 of the house of Willading,” returned the 
 graver father, with emphasis. “I have 
 looked at this matter in every face that be- 
 comes me, Gaetano, and though I would not 
 rudely repulse one that hath saved my life, 
 by driving him from my company, at a mo- 
 ment when even strangers consort for mutual 
 aid and protection, at ‘'urin we must part 
 forever!” 
 
 ‘“‘T know not how to approve, nor yet how 
 to blame thee, poor Melchior! ’*Twas a sad 
 scene, that of the refusal to wed Balthazar’s 
 daughter, in the presence of so many thous 
 sands! ” 
 
 “JT take it as a happy and kind warning of 
 the precipice to which a foolish tenderness 
 was leading us both, my friend.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou may’st have reason; and yet I 
 wish thou wert more in error than ever 
 Christian was! These are rugged moun- 
 tains, Melchior, and fairly passed, it might 
 be so arranged that the boy should forget 
 Switzerland forever. He might become a 
 Genoese, in which event, dost thou not see 
 the means of overcoming some of the present 
 difficulty ?” 
 
 “Ts the heiress of my house a vagrant, 
 Signor Grimaldi, to forget her country and 
 birth ?” 
 
 “‘T am childless, in effect, if not in fact ; 
 and where there are the will and the means, 
 the end should not be wanting. We will 
 speak of this under the warmer sun of Italy, 
 which they say is apt to render hearts 
 tender.” 
 
 ‘‘The hearts of the young and amorous, 
 good Gaetano, but, unless much changed of 
 late, it is as apt to harden those of the old, as 
 any sun I know of,” returned the Baron, 
 shaking his head, though it much exceeded 
 his power to smile at his own pleasantry when 
 speaking on this painful subject. ‘‘Thou 
 knowest that in this matter I act only for the 
 welfare of Adelheid, without thought of my- 
 self; and it would little comport with the 
 honor of a Baron of an ancient house, to be 
 
142 
 
 the grandfather of children who come of a 
 race of executioners.” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi succeeded better than 
 his friend in raising a smile, for, more accus- 
 tomed to dive into the depths of human 
 feeling, he was not slow in detecting the mix- 
 ture of motives that were silently exercising 
 their long-established influence over the heart 
 of his really well-intentioned companion. 
 
 ‘So long as thou speakest of the wisdom 
 of respecting men’s opinions, and the danger 
 of wrecking thy daughter’s happiness by run- 
 ning counter to their current, I agree with 
 thee to the letter ; but, to me, it seems pos- 
 sible so to place the affair, that the world 
 shall imagine all is in rule, and, by conse- 
 quence, all proper. if we can overcome our- 
 selves, Melchior, I apprehend no great diffi- 
 culty in blinding others.” 
 
 The head of the Bernois dropped upon his 
 breast, and he rode a long distance in that 
 attitude, reflecting on the course it most be- 
 came him to pursue, and struggling with the 
 conflicting sentiments which troubled his up- 
 right but prejudiced mind. As his friend un- 
 derstood the nature of this inward strife, he 
 ceased to speak, and a long silence succeeded 
 the discourse. 
 
 It was different with those who followed. 
 Though long accustomed to gaze at their na- 
 tive mountains from a distance, this was the 
 first occasion on which Adelheid and her com- 
 panion had ever actually penetrated into their 
 glens, or journeyed on their broken and 
 changing faces. The path of St. Bernard, 
 therefore, had all the charm of novelty, and 
 their youthful and ardent minds were soon 
 won from meditating on their own causes of 
 unhappiness, to admiration of the sublime 
 works of nature. The cultivated taste of 
 Adelheid, in particular, was quick in detect- 
 ing those beauties of a more subtle kind 
 which the less instructed are apt to overlook, 
 and she found additional pleasure in point- 
 ing them out to the ingenuous and wonder- 
 ing Christine, who received these her first 
 lessons in that grand communion with nature, 
 which is pregnant with so much unalloyed 
 delight, with gratitude and a readiness of 
 comprehension, that amply repaid her in- 
 structress. Sigismund was an attentive and 
 pleased listener to what was passing, though 
 one who had so often passed the mountains, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 and who had seen them familiarly on their 
 warmer and more sunny side, had little 
 to learn, himself, even from so skilful and 
 alluring a teacher. As they ascended, the 
 air became purer and less impregnated with 
 the humidity of its lower currents; chang- 
 ing, by a process as fine as that wrought bya 
 chemical application, the hues and aspect of 
 every object in the view. <A vast hill-side 
 lay basking in the sun, which illuminated on 
 its rounded swells a hundred long stripes of 
 grain in every stage of verdure, resembling 
 so much delicate velvet that was thrown in a 
 variety of accidental faces to the light, while 
 the shadows ran away, to speak technically, 
 from this foyer de lumiére of the picture, in 
 gradations of dusky russet and brown, until 
 the colonne de vigewr was obtained in the 
 deep black cast from the overhanging 
 branches of a wood of larch in the depths of 
 some ravine, into which the sight with diffi- 
 culty penetrated. ‘These were the beauties 
 on which Adelheid most loved to dwell, for 
 they are always the charms that soonest 
 strike the true admirer of nature, when 
 he finds himself raised above the lower and 
 less purified strata of the atmosphere, into 
 the regions of more radiant light and bright- 
 ness. It is thus that the physical, no less 
 than the moral, vision becomes elevated 
 above the impurities that cling to this nether 
 world, attaining a portion of that spotless 
 and sublime perception as we ascend, by 
 which we are early assimilated to the truths 
 of creation ; a poetical type of the greater and 
 purer enjoyment we fecl, as morally receding 
 from earth, we draw nearer to heaven. 
 
 The party rested for several hours, as usual, 
 at the little mountain hamlet of Liddes. At 
 the present time it is not uncommon for the 
 traveller, favored by a wheel-track along this 
 portion of the route, to ascend the mountain 
 and to return to Martigny in the same day. 
 The descent in particular, after reaching the 
 village just named, is soon made; but at the 
 period of our tale, such an exploit, if ever 
 made, was of very rare occurrence. The fa- 
 tigue of being in the saddle so many hours 
 compelled our party to remain at the inn 
 much longer than is now practised, and their 
 utmost hope was to be able to reach the con- 
 vent before the last rays of the sun had 
 ceased to light the glittering peak of Velan. 
 
 { 
 ie 
 4 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 “There occurred here, too, some unexpected 
 detention on the part of Christine, who had 
 retired with Sigismund soon after reaching 
 the inn, and who did not rejoin the party 
 until the impatience of the guide had more 
 than once manifested itself in such complaints 
 as one in his situation is apt to hazard. Adel- 
 heid saw with pain, when her friend did at 
 length rejoin them, that she had been weep- 
 ing bitterly ; but, too delicate to press her 
 for an explanation on a subject in which it 
 was evident the brother and sister did not 
 desire to bestow their confidence, she com- 
 municated her readiness to depart to the do- 
 mestics, without the slightest allusion to the 
 change in Christine’s appearance, or to the 
 unexpected delay of which she had been the 
 cause. | 
 
 Pierre muttered an ave in thankfulness that 
 the long halt was ended. He then crossed 
 himself with one hand, while with the other 
 he flourished his whip, among a crowd of 
 gaping urchins and slavering crétins, to clear 
 the way for those he guided. His followers 
 were, in the main, of a different mood. If 
 the traveller too often reaches the inn hungry 
 and disposed to find fault, he usually quits it 
 good-humored and happy. The restoration, 
 as it is well called in France, effected by 
 means of the larder and the resting of wearied 
 limbs, is usually communicated to the spirits ; 
 and it must be a crusty humor indeed, or 
 singularly bad fare, that prevents a return to 
 a placid state of mind. The party under the 
 direction of Pierre formed no exception to 
 the general rule. The two old nobles had so 
 far forgotten the subject of their morning 
 dialogue, as to be facetious; and, ere long, 
 even their gentle companions were disposed 
 to laugh at some of their sallies, in spite of 
 the load of care that weighed so constantly 
 and so heavily on both. In short, such is the 
 waywardness of our feelings, and so difficult 
 is it to be always sorrowful as well as always 
 happy, that the well-satisfied landlady, who 
 had, in truth, received the full value of a very 
 indifferent fare, was ready to affirm, as she 
 courtesied her thanks on the dirty threshold, 
 that a merrier party had never left her door. 
 
 ‘‘We shall take our revenge out of the 
 casks of the good Augustines to-night for the 
 sour liquor of this inn. Is it not so, honest 
 Pierre ?” demanded the Signor Grimaldi, ad- 
 
 143 
 
 justing himself in the saddle, as they got 
 clear of the stones, sinuosities, projecting 
 roofs, and filth of the village, into the more 
 agreeable windings of the ordinary path again. 
 ‘Our friend, the clavier, is apprised of the 
 visit, and as we have already gone through 
 fair and foul in company, I look to his fel- 
 lowship for some compensation for the frugal 
 meal of which we have just partaken.” 
 
 ‘Father Xavier is a hospitable and happy- 
 minded priest, signor; and that the saints 
 will long leave him keeper of the convent- 
 keys, is the prayer of every muleteer, guide, 
 or pilgrim, who crosses the Col. I wish we 
 were going up the rough steps by which we 
 are to climb the last rock of the mountain, at 
 this very moment, messieurs, and that all the 
 rest of the way were as fairly done as this we 
 have so happily passed.” 
 
 ‘‘ Dost thou anticipate difficulty, friend ?” 
 demanded the Italian, leaning forward on his 
 saddle-bow, for his quick observation had 
 caught the examining glance that the guide 
 threw around the heavens. 
 
 «Difficulty is a meaning not easily ad- 
 mitted by a mountaineer, signor, and I am 
 one of the last to think of it, or feel its 
 dread. Still, we are near the end of the sea- 
 son, and these hills are high and bleak, and 
 those that follow are delicate flowers for a 
 stormy heath. ‘Toil is always sweeter in the 
 remembrance than in the expectation. I 
 mean no more, if I mean that.” 
 
 Pierre stopped his march as he ceased 
 speaking. He stood on a little eminence of 
 the path, whence, by looking back, he com- 
 manded a view of the opening among the 
 mountains which indicates the site of the 
 valley of the Rhone. The look was long and 
 understanding ; but, when it was ended, he 
 turned and resumed his march with the 
 business-like air of one more disposed to act 
 than to speculate on thefuture. But for the 
 few words which had just escaped him, this 
 natural movement would have attracted no 
 attention ; and, as it was, it was observed by 
 none but the Signor Grimaldi, who would 
 himself have attached little importance to 
 the whole, had the guide maintained his usual 
 pace. 
 
 As is common in the Alps, the conductor 
 of the travellers went on foot, leading the 
 whole party at such a gait as he thought 
 
144 
 
 most expedient for man and beast. Hitherto, 
 Pierre had proceeded with sufficient leisure, 
 rendering it necessary for those who followed 
 to observe the same moderation ; but he now 
 walked sensibly faster, and frequently so fast 
 as to make it necessary for the mules to 
 break ‘into easy trots, in order to maintain 
 their proper stations. All this, however, 
 was ascribed by most of the party to the 
 formation of the ground, for, after leaving 
 Iiddes, there is a long reach of what, among 
 the upper valleys of the Alps, may by com- 
 parison be called a level road. This industry, 
 too, was thought to be doubly necessary, in 
 order to repair the time lost at the inn, for 
 the sun was already dipping toward the west- 
 ern boundary of their narrow view of the 
 heavens, and the temperature announced, if 
 not a sudden change in the weather, at least 
 the near approach of the periodical turn of 
 the day. 
 
 ““We travel by a very ancient path,” 
 observed the Signor Grimaldi, when his 
 thoughts had reverted from their reflections 
 on the movements of the guide to the cir- 
 cumstance of their present situation. “A 
 very reverend path, it might be termed, in 
 compliment to the worthy monks who do so 
 much to lessen its dangers, and to its great 
 antiquity. History speaks often of its use by 
 different leaders of armies, for it has long 
 been a thoroughfare for those who journey 
 between the north and the south, whether it 
 be in strife or in amity. In the time of 
 Augustus it was the route commonly used by 
 the Roman legions in their passages to and 
 from Helvetia and Gaul; the followers of 
 Cecina went by these gorges to their attack 
 upon Otho, and the Lombards made the same 
 use of it, five hundred years later. It was 
 often trod by armed bands, in the wars of 
 Charles of Burgundy, those of Milan, and in 
 the conquests of Charlemagne. I remember 
 a tale in which it is said that a horde of in- 
 fidel Corsairs from the Mediterranean pene- 
 trated by this road, and seized upon the 
 bridge at St. Maurice with a view to plunder. 
 As we are not the first, so it is probable we 
 are not to be the last who have trusted them- 
 selves in these regions, bent on our objects, 
 whether of love or of strife.” 
 
 “‘Signor,” observed Pierre, respectfully, 
 when the Genoese ceased speaking, ‘if your 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Kecellenza would make your discourse less 
 learned, and more in those familiar words 
 which can be said under a brisk movement, 
 it might better suit the time and the great 
 necessity there is to be diligent.” 
 
 ‘‘ Dost thou apprehend danger? Are we 
 behind our time ? Speak; for I dislike con- 
 cealment.” 
 
 ‘‘Danger has a strong meaning in the 
 mouth of a mountaineer, signor ; for what is 
 security on this path, might be thought 
 alarming lower down in the valleys; I say it 
 not. But the sun is touching the rocks, as 
 you see, and we are drawing near to places 
 where a misstep of a mule in the dark might 
 cost us dear. I would that all diligently 
 improve the daylignt while they can.” 
 
 The Genoese did not answer, but he urged 
 his mule again to a gait that was more in 
 accordance with the wishes of Pierre. The 
 movement was followed, as a matter of 
 course, by the rest, and the whole party was 
 once more in a gentle trot, which was scarcely 
 sufficient, however, to keep even pace with 
 the long, impatient, and rapid strides of 
 Pierre, who, notwithstanding his years, ap- 
 peared to get over the ground with a facility 
 that cost him no effort. Hitherto the heat 
 had not been small, and, in that pure atmos- 
 phere, all its powers were felt during the time 
 the sun’s rays fell into the valley ; but, the 
 instant they were intercepted by a brown and 
 envious peak of the mountains, their genial 
 influence was succeeded by a chill that suffi- ” 
 ciently proved how necessary was the pres- 
 ence of the luminary to the comfort of those 
 who dwelt at that great elevation. The 
 females sought their mantles the moment 
 the bright light was followed by the usual 
 shadow ; nor was it long before even the 
 more aged of the gentlemen were seen un- 
 strapping their cloaks, and taking the cus- 
 tomary precautions against the effects of the 
 evening air. 
 
 The reader is not to suppose, however, that 
 all these little incidents of the way occurred 
 in a time as brief as that which has been con- 
 sumed in the narration. A long line of path 
 was travelled over, before the Signor Gri- 
 maldi and his friend were cloaked, and divers 
 hamlets and cabins were successively passed. 
 The alteration from the warmth of day to the 
 chill of evening also was accompanied by a 
 
The Travelers followed 
 blindly.—V'he Headsman. 
 
 their leader with more confidence, though 
 
 ome 
 
THH HEHADSMAN. 
 
 corresponding change in the appearance of 
 the objects they passed. St. Pierre, a cluster 
 of stone-roofed cottages, which bore all the 
 characteristics of the inhospitable region for 
 which they had been constructed, was the 
 last village ; though there was a hamlet, at 
 the bridge of Hudri, composed of a few 
 dreary abodes, which, by their aspect, seemed 
 the connecting link between the dwellings of 
 men and the caverns of beasts. Vegetation 
 had long been growing more and more 
 meagre, and it was now fast melting away 
 into still deeper and irretrievable traces of 
 sterility, like the shadows of a picture pass- 
 ing through their several transitions of color 
 to the depth of the background. The larches 
 and cedars diminished gradually in size and 
 numbers, until the straggling and stunted 
 tree became a bush, and the latter finally 
 disappeared in the shape of a tuft of pale 
 green, that adhered to some crevice in the 
 rocks like so much moss. Even the moun- 
 tain grasses, for which Switzerland is so 
 justly celebrated, grew thin and wiry; and 
 by the time the travellers reached the cir- 
 cular basin at the foot of the peak of Velan, 
 which is called La Plaine de Prou, there only 
 remained, in the most genial season of the 
 year, and then in isolated spots between the 
 rocks, a sufficiency of nourishment for the 
 support of a small flock of adventurous, nib- 
 bling, and hungry goats. 3 
 
 The basin just alluded to is in an opening 
 among high pinnacles, and is nearly sur- 
 rounded by naked and rugged rocks. The 
 path led through its centre, always ascend- 
 ing on an inclined plane, and disappeared 
 through a narrow gorge around the brow of 
 a beetling cliff. Pierre pointed out the latter 
 as the pass by far the most dangerous on 
 this side the Col, in the season of the melt- 
 ing snows, avalanches frequently rolling from 
 its crags. There was no cause for appre- 
 hending this well-known Alpine danger, how- 
 ever, in the present moment; for, with the 
 exception of Mont-Velan, all above and 
 around them lay the same dreary dress of 
 sterility. Indeed, it would not be easy for 
 the imagination to conceive a more eloquent 
 picture of desolation than that which met 
 the eyes of the travellers, as, following the 
 course of the run of water that trickled 
 through the middle of the inhospitable valley, 
 
 145 
 
 the certain indication of the general direc- 
 tion of their course, they reached its centre. 
 The time was getting to be that of early 
 twilight, but the sombre color of the rocks, 
 streaked and venerable by the ferruginous 
 hue with which time had coated their sides, 
 and the depth of the basin, gave to their 
 
 situation a melancholy gloom passing the 
 
 duskiness of the hour. On the other hand, 
 the light rested bright and gloriously on the 
 snowy peak of Velan, still many thousand 
 feet above them, though in plain and ap- 
 parently near view; while rich touches of 
 the setting sun were gleaming on several of 
 the brown natural battlements of the Alps, 
 which, worn with eternal exposure to the 
 storms, still lay in sublime confusion at a 
 most painful elevation in their front. The 
 azure vault that canopied all, had that look 
 of distant glory and of grand repose, which 
 so often meets the eyes, and so forcibly 
 strikes the mind, of him who travels in the 
 deep valleys and imbedded lakes of Switzer- 
 land. The glacier of Valsorey descended 
 from the upper region nearly to the edge of 
 the valley, bright and shining, its lower 
 margin streaked and dirty with the dédris of 
 the overhanging rocks, as if doomed to the 
 fate of all that came upon the earth, that of 
 sharing its impurities. 
 
 There no longer existed any human habita- 
 tion between the point which the travellers 
 had now attained and the convent, though 
 more modern speculation, in this age of 
 curiosity and restlessness, has been induced 
 to rear a substitute for an inn in the spot 
 just described, with the hope of gleaning a 
 scanty tribute from those who fail of arriving 
 in season to share the. hospitality of the 
 monks. ‘The chilliness of the air increased 
 faster even than the natural change of the 
 hour would seem to justify, and there were 
 moments when the dull sound of the wind 
 descended to their ears, though not a breath 
 was stirring a withered and nearly solitary 
 blade of grass at their feet. Once or twice, 
 large black clouds drove across the opening 
 above them, resembling heavy-winged vul- 
 tures sailing in the void, preparatory to a 
 swoop upon their prey. 
 
146 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 “Through this gap 
 On and say nothing, lést a word, a breath, 
 Bring down a winter’s snow, enough to whelm 
 The armed files that, night and day, were seen 
 Winding from cliff to cliff in loose array, 
 To conquer at Marengo.” —Italy. 
 
 PrerRE Dumont halted in the middle of 
 the sterile little plain, while he signed for 
 those he conducted to comtinue their assent. 
 As each mule passed, it received a blow ora 
 kick from the impatient guide, who did not 
 seem to think it necessary to be very cere- 
 monious with the poor beasts, and had taken 
 this simple method to give a general and a 
 brisker impulsion to the party. The expedi- 
 ent was so natural, and so much in accord- 
 ance with the practice of the muleteers and 
 others of their class, that it excited no sus- 
 picion in most of the travellers, who pursued 
 their way, either meditating on and enjoying 
 the novel and profound emotions that their 
 present situation so naturally awakened, or 
 discoursing lightly, in the manner of the 
 thoughtless and unconcerned. The Signor 
 Grimaldi alone, whose watchfulness had al- 
 ready been quickened by previous distrust, 
 took heed of the movement. When all had 
 passed, the Genoese turned in his saddle, and 
 cast an appar ently careless look behind. But 
 the glance in truth was anxious and keen. 
 Pierre stood looking steadily at the heavens, 
 one hand holding his hat, and the other ex- 
 tended with an open palm. A glittering par- 
 ticle descended to the latter, when the guide 
 instantly resumed his place in advance. As 
 he passed the Italian, however, meeting an 
 inquiring look, he permitted the other to see 
 a snow-drop so thoroughly congealed, as to 
 have not yet melted with the natural heat of 
 his skin. The eye of Pierre appeared to im- 
 pose discretion on his confidant, and the 
 silent communion escaped the observation of 
 the rest of the travellers. Just at this mo- 
 ment, too, the attention of the others was 
 luckily called to a different object, by a cry 
 from one of the muleteers, of whom there 
 were three as assistants to the guide. He 
 pointed out a party which, like themselves, 
 was holding the direction of the Col. There 
 was a solitary individual mounted on a mule, 
 and a single pedestrian, without any guide, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 or other traveller, in their company. Their 
 movements were swift, and they had not been 
 more than a minute in view, before they dis- 
 appeared behind an angle of the crags which 
 nearly closed the valley on the side of the 
 convent, and which was the precise spot al- 
 ready mentioned as being so dangerous in the 
 season of the melting snows. 
 
 “ Dost thou know the quality and object of 
 
 the travellers before us?” demanded the 
 Baron de Willading, of Pierre. 
 
 The latter mused. It was evident he did 
 not expect to meet with strangers in that 
 particular part of the passage. 
 
 ‘“We can know little of those who come 
 from the convent, though few would be apt 
 to leave so safe a roof at this late hour,” he 
 answered; “but, until I saw yonder travel- 
 lers with my own eyes, I could have sworn 
 there were none on this side of the Col going 
 the same way as ourselves! It is time that 
 all the others were already arrived.” 
 
 «“They are villagers of St. Pierre, going 
 up with supplies,” observed one of the mule- 
 teers. “None bound to Italy have passed 
 Liddes since the party of Pippo, and they by 
 this time should be well housed at the hos- 
 pice. Didst not see a dog among them ?— 
 *twas one of the Augustines’ mastiffs.” 
 
 <?Twas the dog I noted, and it was on ac- 
 count of his appearance that I spoke,” re- 
 turned the Baron. 
 of an old acquaintance, Gaetano, for to me it 
 seemed to resemble our tried friend Nettuno; 
 
 and he at whose heels he kept so close wore — 
 
 much the air of our acquaintance of the 
 Leman, the bold and ready Maso.” 
 
 “Who has gone unrequited for his eminent 
 services!” answered the Genoese, thought- 
 fully. “The extraordinary refusal of that 
 man to receive our money is quite as wonder- 
 ful as any other part of his unusual and in- 
 explicable conduct. I would he had been 
 less obstinate or less proud, for the unrequited 
 obligation rests like a load upon my spirits.” 
 
 “Thou art wrong. I employed our young 
 friend Sigismund secretly on this duty, while 
 we were receiving the greetings of Roger de 
 Blonay and the good bailiff, but thy country- 
 man treated the escape lightly, as the mariner 
 is apt to consider past danger, and he would 
 
 “The animal had the air. 
 
 listen to no offer of protection or gold. I 
 
 was, therefore, more displeased than surprised — 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 by what thou hast well enough termed ob- 
 stinacy.” 
 
 <¢«Tell your employers,’ he said,” added 
 Sigismund, “‘that they may thank the 
 saints, Our Lady, or Brother Luther, as best 
 suits their habits, but that they had better 
 forget that such a man as Maso lives. His 
 acquaintance can bring them neither honor 
 nor advantage. ‘Tell this especially to the 
 Signor Grimaldi, when you are on your jour- 
 ney to Italy, and we have parted forever, as 
 on my suggestion.’ This was said to me in 
 the interview I held with the brave fellow 
 after his liberation from prison.” 
 
 ‘©The answer was remarkable for a man 
 of his condition, and the especial message to 
 myself of singular exception. I observed 
 that his eye was often on me with peculiar 
 meaning, during the passage of the lake, and 
 to this hour I have not been able to explain 
 the motive !” 
 
 ‘Is the signor of Genoa?” asked the 
 guide: “‘or is he, by chance, in any way 
 connected with her authorities ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Of that republic and city, and certainly 
 of some little interest with the authorities,” 
 answered the Italian, a slight smile curling 
 his lip, as he glanced a look at his friend. 
 
 *‘It is not necessary to look further for 
 Maso’s acquaintance with your features,” re- 
 turned Pierre, laughing; ‘‘for of all who 
 live in Italy, there is not a man who has 
 more frequent occasions to know the author- 
 ities ; but we linger in this gossip. Urge 
 the beasts upward, Etienne—presto! presto!” 
 
 The muleteers answered this appeal by one 
 of their long cries, which has a resemblance 
 to the rattling that is the well-known signal 
 of the venomous serpent of this country, 
 when he would admonish the traveller to 
 move quickly, and which certainly produces 
 the same startling effect on the nerves of the 
 mule as the signal of the snake is very apt to 
 excite in man. ‘This interruption caused 
 the dialogue to be dropped, all riding onward, 
 musing in their several fashions on what had 
 just passed. In a few minutes the party 
 turned the crag in question, and, quitting 
 the valley, or sterile basin, in which they had 
 been journeying for the last half hour, they 
 entered by a narrow gorge into a scene that 
 resembled a crude collection of the materials 
 of which the foundations of the world had 
 
 nd 
 
 147 
 
 been originally formed. There was no 
 longer any vegetation at all, orif here and 
 there a blade of grass had put forth under 
 the shelter of some stone, it was so meagre, 
 and of so rare occurrence, as to ke unnoticed 
 in that sublime scene of chaotic confusion. 
 
 Ferruginous, streaked, naked, and cheerless 
 
 rocks arose around them, and even that 
 snowy beacon, the glowing summit of Velan, 
 which had so long lain bright and cheering 
 on their path, was now hid entirely from 
 view. Pierre Dumont soon after pointed out 
 a place on the visible summit of the monu- 
 tain, where a gorge between the neighboring 
 peaks admitted a view of the heavens beyond. 
 This he informed those he guided was the 
 Col, through whose opening the pile of the 
 Alps was to be finally surmounted. The 
 light that still tranquilly reigned in this part 
 of the heavens was in sublime contrast to the 
 gathering gloom of the passes below, and all 
 hailed this first glimpse of the end of their 
 day’s toil as a harbinger of rest, and we 
 might add of security ; for, although none 
 but the Signor Grimaldi had detected the 
 secret uneasiness of Pierre, it was not possi- 
 ble to be, at that late hour, amid so wild and 
 dreary a display of desolation, and, as it were, 
 cut off from communion with their kind, 
 without experiencing an humbling sense of 
 the dependence of man upon the grand and 
 ceaseless Providence of God. 
 
 The mules were again urged to increase 
 their pace, and images of the refreshment 
 and repose that were expected from the con- 
 vent’s hospitality became general and grate- 
 ful among the travellers. The day was fast 
 disappearing from the glens and ravines 
 through which they rode, and all discourse 
 ceased in the desire to get on. The exceed- 
 ing purity of the atmosphere, which, at that 
 great elevation, resembled a medium of 
 thought rather than of matter, rendered ob- 
 jects defined, just, and clear ; and none but 
 the mountaineers and Sigismund, who were 
 used to the deception (for in effect truth ob- 
 tains this character with those who have been 
 accustomed to the false), and who understood 
 the grandeur of the scale on which nature 
 has displayed her power among the Alps, 
 knew how to calculate the distance which 
 still separated them from their goal. More 
 than aleague of painful and stony ascent was 
 
148 
 
 to be surmounted, and yet Adelheid and 
 Christine had both permitted slight exclama- 
 tions of pleasure to escape them, when Pierre 
 pointed to the speck of blue sky between the 
 hoary pinnacles above, and first gave them to 
 understand that it denoted the position of 
 the convent. Here and there, too, small 
 patches of the last year’s snow were discov- 
 ered, lying under the shadows of overhang- 
 ing rocks, and which were likely to resist the 
 powers of the sun till winter came again ; 
 another certain sign that they had reached a 
 height greatly exceeding that of the usual 
 habitations of men. The keenness of the air 
 was another proof of their situation, for all 
 the travellers had heard that the Augustines 
 dwelt among eternal frosts, a report which is 
 nearly literally true. 
 
 At no time during the day had the indus- 
 try of the party been as great as it now be- 
 came. In this respect, the ordinary traveller 
 is apt to resemble him who journeys on the 
 great highway of life, and who finds himself 
 obliged, by a tardy and ill-requited diligence 
 in age, to repair those omissions and negli- 
 gences of youth which would have rendered 
 the end of his toil easy and profitable. Im- 
 proved as their speed had become, it con- 
 tinued to increase rather than to diminish, 
 for Pierre Dumont kept his eye riveted on 
 the heavens, and each moment of time 
 seemed to bring new incentives to exertion. 
 The wearied beasts manifested less zeal than 
 the guide, and they who rode them were 
 beginning to murmur at the unreasonable- 
 ness of the rate at which they were compelled 
 to proceed on the narrow, uneven, stony 
 path, where footing for the animals was not 
 always obtained with the necessary quickness, 
 when a gloom deeper than that cast by the 
 shadows of the rock fell upon their track, 
 and the air filled with snow as suddenly as if 
 all its particles had been formed and con- 
 densed by the application of some prompt 
 chemical process. 
 
 The change was so unexpected, and yet so 
 complete, that the whole party checked their 
 mules, and sat looking up at the millions of 
 flakes that were descending on their heads, 
 with more wonder and admiration than fear. 
 A shout from Pierre first aroused them from 
 this trance, and recalled them to a sense of 
 the real state of things. He was standing 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 on a knoll, already separated from the party 
 by some fifty yards, white with snow, and 
 gesticulating violently for the travellers to 
 come on. 
 
 “For the sake of the blessed Maria! 
 quicken the beasts,” he cried; for Pierre, like 
 most who dwelt in Valais, was a Catholic, 
 and one accustomed to bethink him most of 
 his heavenly mediator when most oppressed 
 with present dangers; “quicken their speed, 
 if you value your lives! This is no moment 
 to gaze at the mountains, which are well 
 enough in their way, and no doubt both the 
 finest and largest known” (no Swiss ever seri- 
 ously vituperates or loses his profound vener- 
 ation for his beloved nature), ‘‘ but which 
 had better be the humblest plain ongearth 
 for our occasions than what they truly are. 
 Quicken the mules, then, for the love of the 
 Blessed Virgin!” : 
 
 “Thou betrayest unnecessary, and, for one 
 that had needs be cool, indiscreet alarm, at 
 the appearance of a little snow, friend Pierre,” 
 observed the Signor Grimaldi, as the mules 
 drew near the guide, and speaking with a lit- 
 tle of the irony of a soldier who had steeled 
 his nerves by familiarity with danger. ‘ Even 
 we Italians, though less used to the frosts 
 than you of the mountains, are not so much 
 disturbed by the change as thou, a trained 
 guide of St. Bernard!” 
 
 “Reproach me as you will, signor,” said 
 Pierre, turning and pursuing his way with 
 increased diligence, though he did not en- 
 tirely succeed in concealing his resentment 
 at an accusation which he knew to be un- 
 merited, ‘‘ but quicken your pace, until you 
 are better acquainted with the country in 
 which you journey—your words pass for 
 empty breath in my ears. This is no trifle 
 of a cloak doubled about the person, or of 
 balls rolled into piles by the sport of children, 
 but an affair of life or death. You are a half 
 league in the air, Signor Genoese, in the 
 region of storms, where the winds work their 
 will, at times, as if infernal devils were riot- 
 ing to cool themselves, and where the stout- 
 est limbs and the firmest hearts are brought 
 but too often to see and confess their feeble- 
 ness !”’ 
 
 The old man had uncovered his blanched 
 locks in respect to the Italian, as he uttered 
 this energetic remonstrance, and when he 
 
 ~ 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 ended, he walked on in professional pride, as 
 if disdaining to protect a brow that had 
 already weathered so many tempests among 
 the mountains. 
 
 “Cover thyself, good Pierre, I pray thee,” 
 urged the Genoese in a tone of repentance. 
 “©T have shown the intemperance of a boy, 
 and intemperance of a quality that little be- 
 comes my years. Thou art the best judge 
 of the circumstances in which we are placed, 
 and thou alone shalt lead us.” 
 
 Pierre accepted the apology with a manly 
 but respectful reverence, continuing always 
 to ascend with unremitted industry. 
 
 Ten gloomy and anxious minutes suc- 
 eeeded. During this time, the falling snows 
 came faster and faster and in finer flakes, 
 while, occasionally, there were fearful intima- 
 tions that the winds were about to rise. At 
 the elevation in which the travellers now 
 found themselves, phenomena, that would or- 
 dinarily be of little account, become the arbit- 
 ers of fate. The escape of the caloric from the 
 human system, at the height of six or seven 
 thousand feet above the sea, and in the lati- 
 tude of forty-six, is, under the most favorable 
 circumstances, frequently of itself the source 
 of inconvenience ; but here were grave addi- 
 tional reasons to heighten the danger. The 
 absence of the sun’s rays alone left a sense of 
 chilling cold, and a few hours of night were 
 certain to bring frost, even at midsummer. 
 Thus it is that storms of trifling import in 
 themselves, gain power over the human frame 
 by its reduced means of resistance, and when 
 to this fact is added the knowledge that the 
 elements are far fiercer in their workings in 
 the upper than in the nether regions of the 
 earth, the motives of Pierre’s concern will be 
 better understood by the reader than they 
 probably were by himself, though the honest 
 guide had a long and severe experience to 
 supply the place of theory. 
 
 Men are rarely loquacious in danger. The 
 timid recoil into themselves, yielding most of 
 their faculties to a tormenting imagination, 
 that augments the causes of alarm and di- 
 minishes the means of security, while the 
 firm of mind rally and condense their powers 
 to the point necessary to exertion. Such 
 were the effects in the present instance on 
 _ those who followed Pierre. A general and 
 deep silence pervaded the party, each one 
 
 149 
 
 seeing their situation in the colors most 
 suited to his particular habits and character. 
 The men, without an exception, were grave 
 and earnest in their efforts to force the mules 
 forward ; Adelheid became pale, but she pre- 
 served her calmness by the sheer force of: 
 character ; Christine was trembling and de- 
 pendent, though cheered by the presence of, 
 and her confidence in Sigismund ; while the 
 attendants of the heiress of Willading cov- 
 ered their heads, and followed their mistress 
 with the blind faith in their superiors that is 
 apt to sustain people of their class in serious 
 emergencies. 
 
 Ten minutes sufficed entirely to change the 
 aspect of the view. The frozen element could 
 not adhere to the iron-like and perpendicular 
 faces of the mountains, but the glens, and 
 ravines, and valleys became as white as the 
 peak of Velan. Still Pierre continued his 
 silent and upward march, in a way to keep 
 alive a species of trembling hope among those 
 who depended so helplessly upon his intelli- 
 gence and faith. They wished to believe that 
 the snow was merely one of those common 
 occurrences that were to be expected on the 
 summits of the Alps at this late season of the 
 year, and which were no more than so many 
 symptoms of the known rigor of the approach- 
 ing winter. The guide himself was evidently 
 disposed to lose no time in explanation, and 
 as the secret excitement stole over all his 
 followers he no longer had cause to complain 
 of the tardiness of their movements. Sigis- 
 mund kept near his sister and Adelheid, 
 having a care that their mules did not lag, 
 while the other males performed the same 
 necessary office for the beasts ridden by the 
 female domestics. In this manner passed 
 the few sombre minutes which immediately 
 preceded the disappearance of day. The 
 heavens were no longer visible. In that di- 
 rection the eye saw only an endless succession 
 of falling flakes, and it was getting to be dif- 
 ficult to distinguish even the ramparts of 
 rock that bounded the irregular ravine in 
 which they rode. They were known to be, 
 however, at no great distance from the path, 
 which indeed occasionally brushed their sides. 
 At other moments they crossed rude, stony, 
 mountain heaths, if such a word can be ap- 
 plied to spots without the symbol or hope of 
 vegetation. The traces of the beasts that 
 
150 
 
 had preceded them became less and less ap- 
 parent, though the trickling stream that 
 came down from the glaciers, and along 
 which they had now journeyed for hours, was 
 occasionally seen, as it was crossed in pursu- 
 ing their winding way. Pierre, though still 
 confident that he held the true direction, 
 alone knew that this guide was not long to 
 be relied on ; for, as they drew nearer to the 
 top of the mountains, the torrent gradually 
 lessened both in its force and in the volume 
 of its water, separating into twenty small rills, 
 which came rippling from the vast bodies of 
 snow that lay among the different peaks 
 above. 
 
 As yet there had been no wind. The 
 guide, as minute after minute passed without 
 bringing any change in this respect, ventured 
 at last to advert to the fact, cheering his 
 companions by giving them reason to hope 
 that they should yet reach the convent with- 
 out any serious calamity. As if in mockery 
 of this opinion, the flakes of snow began to 
 whirl in the air while the words were on his 
 lips, and a blast came through the ravine, 
 that set the protection of cloaks and mantels 
 at defiance. Notwithstanding his resolution 
 and experience, the stout-hearted Pierre suf- 
 fered an exclamation of despair to escape 
 him, and he instantly stopped, in the manner 
 of aman who could no longer conceal the 
 dread that had been collecting in his bosom 
 for the last interminable and weary hour. 
 Sigismund, as well as most of the men of the 
 party, had dismounted a little previously, with 
 a view to excite warmth by exercise. The 
 youth had often traversed the mountains, 
 and the cry no sooner reached his ear, than 
 he was at the side of him who uttered it. 
 
 “ At what distance are we still from the 
 convent ?” he demanded eagerly. 
 
 “There is more than a league of steep and 
 stony path to mount, Monsieur le Capitaine,” 
 returned the disconsolate Pierre, in a tone 
 that perhaps said more than his words. 
 
 ‘This is not a moment for indecision. 
 Remember that thou art not the leader of a 
 party of carriers with their beasts of burden, 
 but that there are those with us who are 
 unused to exposure, and are feeble of body. 
 What is the distance from the last hamlet we 
 passed ?” 
 
 “ Double that to the convent !” 
 
 ~ 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Sigismund turned, and with the eye he 
 made a silent appeal to the two old nobles, 
 as if to ask for advice or orders. 
 
 “Tt might indeed be better to return,” 
 observed the Signor Grimaldi, in the way one 
 utters a half-formed resolution. ‘* This wind 
 is getting to be piercingly cutting, and the 
 night is hard upon us. What thinkest thou, 
 Melchior; for, with Monsieur Sigismund, I 
 am of opinion that there is little time to 
 lose.*’ 
 
 “ Signor, your pardon,” hastily interrupted 
 the guide. “I would not undertake to cross 
 the plain of the Velan, an hour later, for all 
 the treasures of Hinsiedeln and Loretto ! The 
 wind will have an infernal sweep in that 
 basin, which will soon be boiling like a pot, 
 while here we shall get, from time to time, 
 the shelter of the rocks. The slightest mis- 
 hap on the open ground might lead us astray 
 a league or more, and it would need an hour 
 to regain the course. ‘The beasts too mount 
 faster than they descend, and with far more 
 surety in the dark ; and even when at the 
 village there is nothing fit for nobles, while 
 the brave monks have all that a king can 
 need.” 
 
 “Those who escape from these wild rocks 
 need not be critical about their fare, honest — 
 Pierre, when fairly housed. Wilt thou an- 
 swer for our arrival at the convent unharmed, 
 and in reasonable time ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Signor, we are in the hands of God. The 
 pious Augustines, I make no doubt, are pray- 
 ing for all who are on the mountain at this 
 moment; but there is not a minute to lose. 
 I ask no more than that none lose sight of 
 their companions, and that each exert his 
 force to the utmost. Weare not far from 
 the House of Refuge, and should the storm 
 increase to atempest, as, to conceal the dan- 
 ger no longer, well may happen in this late 
 month, we will seek its shelter for a few 
 hours.” 
 
 This intelligence was happily communi- 
 cated, for the certainty that there was a place 
 of safety within an attainable distance, had 
 some such cheering effect on the travellers 
 as is produced on the mariner who finds 
 that the hazards of the gale are lessened by 
 the accidental position of a secure harbor 
 under his lee. Repeating his admonitions 
 for the party to keep as close together as. 
 
el alt 
 nati > 
 er: 
 
 » 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 possible, and advising all who felt the sinister 
 effects of the cold on their limbs to dismount, 
 and to endeavor to restore the circulation by 
 exercise, Pierre resumed his route. 
 
 But even the time consumed in this short 
 conference had sensibly altered the condition 
 of things for the worse. ‘he wind, which 
 had no fixed direction, being a furious cur- 
 rent of the upper air diverted from its true 
 course by encountering the ragged peaks and 
 ravines of the Alps, was now whirling around 
 
 them in eddies, now aiding their ascent by 
 
 seeming-to push against their backs, and then 
 returning in their faces with a violence that 
 actually rendered advance impossible. The 
 temperature fell rapidly several degrees, and 
 the most vigorous of the party began to per- 
 ceive the benumbing influence of the chilling 
 currents, at their lower extremities especially, 
 in a manner to excite serious alarm. very 
 precaution was used to protect the females 
 that tenderness could suggest; but though 
 Adelheid, who alone retained sufficient self- 
 command to give an account of their feelings, 
 diminished the danger of their situation with 
 the wish not to alarm any of their compan- 
 ions uselessly, she could not conceal from 
 herself the horrible truth that the vital heat 
 
 "was escaping from her own body with a rapid- 
 
 ity that rendered it impossible for her much 
 longer to retain the use of her faculties. 
 Conscious of her own mental superiority over 
 that of all her female companions, a superi- 
 ority which in such moments is even of more 
 account than bodily force, after a few min- 
 utes of silent endurance, she checked her 
 mule, and called upon Sigismund to examine 
 the condition of his sister and her maids, 
 neither of whom had now spoken for some 
 time. 
 
 This startling request was made at a mo- 
 ment when the storm appeared to gather 
 new force, and when it had become abso- 
 lutely impossible to distinguish even the 
 whitened earth at twenty paces from the 
 spot where the party stood collected in a 
 shivering group. The young soldier threw 
 open the cloaks and mantles in which Chris- 
 tine was enveloped, and the half uncon- 
 scious girl sank on his shoulder, like a 
 drowsy infant that was willing to seek its 
 slumbers in the arms of one it loved. 
 
 ‘‘Christine !—my sister, my poor, my 
 
 151 
 
 much-abused, angelic sister!’? murmured 
 Sigismund, happily for his secret in a voice 
 that only reached the ears of Adelheid. 
 ‘Awake, Christine! for the love of our 
 excellent and affectionate mother, exert thy- 
 self. Awake, Christine! in the name of 
 God, awake !” 
 
 ‘Awake, dearest Christine!” exclaimed 
 Adelheid, throwing herself from the saddle, 
 and folding the smiling but benumbed girl 
 to her bosom. ‘‘ God protect me from the 
 pang of feeling that thy loss should be owing 
 to my wish to lead thee amid these cruel and 
 inhospitable rocks! Christine, if thou hast 
 love and pity for me, awake !” 
 
 “Took to the maids!” hurriedly said 
 Pierre, who found that he was fast touch- 
 ing on one of those mountain catastrophes, 
 of which, in the course of his life, he had 
 been the witness of a few of fearful conse- 
 quences. ‘* Look to all the females, for he 
 who now sleeps, dies !” 
 
 The muleteers soon stripped the two 
 domestics of their outer coverings, and it 
 was immediately proclaimed that both were 
 in imminent danger, one having already lost 
 all consciousness. A timely application of 
 the flask of Pierre, and the efforts of the 
 muleteers, succeeded in so far restoring life 
 as to remove the grounds of immediate 
 apprehension; though it was apparent to 
 the least instructed of them all, that half an 
 hour more of exposure would probably com- 
 plete the fatal work that had so actively and 
 vigorously commenced. To add to the hor- 
 ror of this conviction, each member of the 
 party, not excepting the muleteers, was pain- 
 fully conscious of the escape of that vital 
 warmth whose total flight was death. 
 
 In this strait all dismounted. They felt 
 that the occasion was one of extreme jeopardy, 
 that nothing could save them but resolution, 
 and that every minute of time was getting to 
 be of the last importance. Hach female, 
 Adelheid included, was placed between two 
 of the other sex, and, supported in this 
 manner, Pierre called loudly and in a manful 
 voice for the whole to proceed. The beasts 
 were driven after them by one of the mule- 
 teers. The progress of travellers, feeble as 
 Adelheid and her companions, on a stony 
 path of very uneven surface, and of a steep 
 ascent, the snow covering the feet, and the 
 
152 
 
 tempest cutting their faces, was necessarily 
 slow, and to the last degree toilsome. Still, 
 the exertions increased the quickness of the 
 blood, and, for a short time, there was an 
 appearance of recalling those who most suf- 
 fered to life. Pierre, who still kept his post 
 with the hardihood of a mountaineer and the 
 fidelity of a Swiss, cheered them on with his 
 voice, continuing to raise the hope that the 
 place of refuge was at hand. 
 
 At this instant, when exertion was most 
 needed, and when, apparently, all were sen- 
 sible of its importance and most disposed to 
 make it, the muleteer charged with the duty 
 of urging on the line of beasts deserted his 
 trust, preferring to take his chance of re- 
 gaining the village by descending the moun- 
 tain, to struggle uselessly, and at a pace so 
 slow, to reach the convent. The man was a 
 stranger in the country, who had been ad- 
 ventitiously employed for this expedition, 
 and was unconnected with Pierre, by any of 
 those ties which are the best pledges of 
 unconquerable faith, when the interests of 
 self press hard upon our weaknesses. The 
 wearied beasts, no longer driven, and indis- 
 posed to toil, first stopped, then turned aside 
 to avoid the cutting air and the ascent, and 
 were soon wandering from the path it was so 
 vitally necessary to keep. 
 
 As soon as Pierre was informed of the 
 circumstances, he eagerly issued an order to 
 collect the stragglers without delay, and at 
 every hazard. Benumbed, bewildered, and 
 unable to see beyond a few yards, this 
 embarrassing duty was not easily performed. 
 One after another of the party joined in the 
 pursuit, for all the effects of the travellers 
 were on the beasts; and after some ten 
 minutes of delay, blended with an excite- 
 ment which helped to quicken the blood and 
 awaken the faculties of even the females, the 
 mules were all happily regained. They were 
 secured to each other head and tail, in the 
 manner so usual in the droves of these 
 animals, and Pierre turned to resume the 
 order of the march. But on seeking the 
 path, it was not to be found! Search was 
 made on every side, and yet none could meet 
 with the smallest of its traces. Broken, 
 rough fragments of rock were all that 
 rewarded the most anxious investigation ; 
 and after a few precious minutes uselegsly 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 wasted, they all assembled around the guide, 
 as if by common consent, to seek his counsel. 
 The truth was no longer to be concealed — 
 the party was lost. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ‘‘ Let no presuming railer tax 
 Creative wisdom, as if aught was formed 
 In vain, or not for admirable ends.” —THomson. 
 
 So long as we possess the power to struggle, 
 hope is the last feeling to desert the human 
 mind. Men are endowed with every gradation 
 of courage, from the calm energy of reflection, 
 which is rendered still more effective by 
 physical firmness, to the headlong precipita- 
 tion of reckless spirit; from the resolution 
 that grows more imposing and more respect- 
 able, as there is greater occasion for its 
 exercise, to the fearful and_ ill-directed 
 energies of despair. But no description with 
 the pen can give the reader a just idea of the 
 chill that comes over the heart when acci- 
 dental causes rob us, suddenly and without 
 notice, of those resources on which we have 
 been habitually accustomed to rely. The 
 mariner, without his course or compass, loses 
 his audacity and coolness, though the mo- 
 mentary danger be the same; the soldier will 
 fly, if you deprive him of his arms; and the 
 hunter of our own forests who has lost his 
 own landmarks, is transformed from the bold 
 and determined foe of its tenants, into an 
 anxious and dependent fugitive, timidly 
 seeking the means of retreat. In short, the 
 customary associations of the mind being 
 rudely and suddenly destroyed, we are made 
 to feel that reason, while it elevates us so far 
 above the brutes to make man their lord and 
 governor, becomes a quality less valuable 
 than instinct, when the connecting link in 
 its train of causes and effects 1s severed. 
 
 It was no more than a natural consequence 
 of his greater experience, that Pierre Dumont 
 understood the horrors of their present situa- 
 tion far better than any with him. It is 
 true, there yet remained enough light to 
 enable him to pick his way over the rocks 
 and stones, but he had sufficient experience 
 to understand that there was less risk in 
 remaining stationary than in moving; for 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 while there was only one direction that led 
 toward the Refuge, all the rest would con- 
 duct them to a greater distance from the 
 
 shelter, which was now the only hope. On 
 the other hand, a very few minutes of the 
 intense cold, and of the searching wind to 
 
 which they were exposed, would most proba- 
 
 bly freeze the currents of life in the feebler 
 of those intrusted to his care. 
 
 “Hast thou aught to advise?” asked 
 Melchior de Willading, folding Adelheid to 
 his bosom beneath his ample cloak, and com- 
 municating, with a father’s love, a small 
 portion of the meagre warmth that still re- 
 mained in his own aged frame to that of his 
 drooping daughter—“ canst thou bethink 
 thee of nothing that may be done in this 
 awful strait?” 
 
 “ If the good monks have been active 
 returned the wavering Pierre. “I fear me 
 that the dogs have not yet been exercised on 
 the paths this season! ” 
 
 *“* Has it then come to this? Are our lives 
 indeed dependent on the uncertain sagacity 
 of brutes ?” 
 
 “Mein Herr, I would bless the Virgin and 
 her holy, Son, if it were so! But I fear this 
 storm has been so sudden and unexpected, 
 that we may not even hope for their succor.” 
 
 Melchior groaned. He folded his child 
 still nearer to his heart, while the athletic 
 Sigismund shielded his drooping sister, as 
 the fowl shelters its young beneath the wing. 
 
 “Delay is death,” rejoined the Signor 
 Grimaldi. “I have heard of muleteers that 
 
 have been driven to kill their beasts, that 
 shelter and warmth might be found in their 
 entrails.” 
 
 ‘* The alternative is horrible !” interrupted 
 Sigismund. ‘Is return impossible? By 
 always descending, we must, in time, reach 
 the village below.” 
 
 ““That time would be fatal,’ answered 
 Pierre. “I know of only one resource that re- 
 mains. If the party will keep together, and 
 answer my shouts, I will make another effort 
 te find the path.” 
 
 This proposal was gladly accepted, for en- 
 ergy and hope go hand in hand, and the guide 
 was about to quit the group, when he felt the 
 strong grasp of Sigismund on his arm. 
 
 39 
 
 “‘T will be thy companion,” said the soldier 
 
 firmly. 
 
 153 
 
 ‘Thou hast not done me justice, young 
 man,” answered Pierre, with severe reproach 
 in his manner. ‘‘ Had I been base enou gh to 
 desert my trust, these limbs and this strength 
 are yet sufficient to carry me safely down the 
 mountain ; but though a guide of the Alps 
 may freeze like another man, the last throb 
 of his heart will be in behalf of those he 
 serves.” 
 
 “A thousand pardons, brave old man—a 
 thousand pardons! still will I be thy com- 
 panion. The search that is conducted by two 
 will be more likely to succeed than that on 
 which thou goest alone.” 
 
 The offended Pierre, who liked the spirit of 
 the youth as much as he disliked his previous 
 suspicions, met the apology frankly. He ex- 
 tended his hand and forgot the feelings that, 
 even amid the tempests of those wild moun- 
 tains, were excited by a distrust of his hon- 
 esty. After this short concession to the ever- 
 burning though smothered volcano of human 
 passion they left the group together, in order 
 to make a last search for their course. 
 
 The snow by this time was many inches 
 deep, and as the road was at best but a faint 
 bridle-path that could scarcely be distin- 
 guished by day-light from the débris which 
 strewed the ravines, the undertaking would 
 have been utterly hopeless, had not Pierre 
 known that there was the chance of still meet- 
 ing with some signs of the many mules that 
 daily went up and down the mountain. The 
 guide called to the muleteers, who answered 
 his cries every minute; for so long as they 
 kept within the sound of each other’s voices, 
 there was no danger of their becoming en- 
 tirely separated. But, amid the hollow roar- 
 ing of the wind, and the incessant pelting of 
 the storm, it was neither safe nor practicable 
 to venture far asunder. Several little stony 
 knolls were ascended and descended, and a 
 rippiing rill was found, but without bringing 
 with it any traces of the path. The heart of 
 Pierre began to chill with the decreasing 
 warmth of his body, and the firm old man, 
 overwhelmed with his responsibility, while his 
 truant thoughts would unbidden recur to 
 those whom he had left in his cottage at the 
 foot of the mountain, gave way at last to his 
 emotions in a paroxysm of grief, wringing 
 his hands, weeping and calling loudly on 
 God for succor. This fearful evidence of 
 
154 
 
 their extremity worked upon the feelings of 
 Sigismund until they were wrought up nearly 
 to frenzy. His great physical force still sus- 
 tained him, and in an excess of energy that 
 was fearfully allied to madness he rushed for- 
 ward into the vortex of snow and hail, as if 
 determined to leave all to the Providence of 
 God, disappearing from the eyes of his com- 
 panion. ‘This incident recalled the guide to 
 his senses. He called earnestly on the 
 thoughtless youth to return, No answer was 
 given, and Pierre hastened back to the mo- 
 tionless and shivering party, in order to unite 
 all their voices in a last effort to be heard. 
 Cry upon cry was raised, but each shout was 
 answered merely by the hoarse rushing of the 
 winds. 
 
 “Sigismund! Sigismund!” called one 
 after another in hurried and alarmed suc- 
 cession. 
 
 «<The noble boy will be irretrievably lost!” 
 exclaimed the Signor Grimaldi in despair, the 
 services already rendered by the youth, to- 
 gether with his manly qualities, having insen- 
 sibly and closely wound themselves around 
 his heart. ‘‘ He will die a miserable death, 
 and without the consolation of meeting his 
 fate in communion with his fellow-sufferers!” 
 
 A shout from Sigismund came whirling 
 past, as if the sound were embodied in the 
 gale. 
 
 ‘‘Blessed Ruler of the Earth, this is alone 
 thy mercy!” exclaimed Melchior de Willad- 
 ing—‘‘he has found the path!” 
 
 «‘And honor to thee, Maria—thou mother 
 of God!” murmured the Italian. 
 
 At that moment a dog came leaping and 
 barking through the snow. It immediately 
 was scenting and whining among the frozen 
 travellers. The exclamations of joy and sur- 
 prise were scarcely uttered before Sigismund, 
 accompanied by another, joined the party. 
 
 ‘‘Honor and thanks to the good Augus- 
 tines!” cried the delighted guide ; ‘‘ this is 
 the third good office of the kind for which I 
 am their debtor !” 
 
 ‘“T would it were true, honest Pierre,” 
 answered the stranger. “But Maso and Net- 
 tuno are poor substitutes in a tempest like 
 this, for the servants and beasts of St. Ber- 
 nard. Iam a wanderer, and lost like your- 
 selves, and my presence brings little other 
 
 relief than that which is known to be the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 fruit of companionship in misery. The 
 saints have brought me a second time into 
 your company when matters were hanging 
 between life and death!” 
 
 Maso made this last remark when, by 
 drawing nearer the group, he had been able 
 to ascertain, by the remains of the light, of 
 whom the party was composed. 
 
 “Tf it is to be as useful now as thou hast 
 already. been,” answered the Genoese, “it 
 will be happier for us all, thyself included. 
 Bethink thee quickly of thy expedients, and 
 I will make thee an equal sharer of all that a 
 generous Providence hath bestowed.” 
 
 Il] Maledetto rarely listened to the voice of 
 the Signor Grimaldi without a manner of 
 interest and curiosity which, as already men- 
 tioned, had more than once struck the latter 
 himself, but which he quite naturally attrib- 
 uted to the circumstance of his person being 
 known to one who had declared himself to be 
 a native of Genoa.. Even at this terrible 
 moment, the same manner was evident, and 
 the noble, thinking it a favorable symptom, 
 renewed the already neglected offer of for- — 
 tune, with a view to quicken the zeal which 
 he reasonably enough supposed would be 
 most likely to be awakened by the hopes of a 
 substantial reward. 
 
 “Were there question here, illustrious sig- 
 nor,” answered Maso, “of steering a barge, of 
 shortening sail, or of handling a craft of any 
 rig or construction, in gale, squall, hurricane, 
 or a calm among breakers, my skill and ex- 
 perience might be turned to good account; 
 but setting aside the difference in our 
 strength and hardihood, even that lily which 
 is in so much danger of being nipped by the 
 frosts is not more helpless than I am myself 
 at this moment. Jam no better than your- 
 selves, signori, and, though a better moun- — 
 taineer, perhaps, I rely on the favor of the | 
 saints to be succored, or my time must finish 
 among the snows instead of in the surf of a — 
 seashore, as, until now, I had always believed — 
 would be my fate.” 
 
 “But the dog—thy admirable dog! Px 
 
 «Ah, Eccellenza, Nettuno is but a useless 
 beast, here! God has given him a thicker 
 mantle and a warmer dress than to us Chris- 
 tians, but even this advantage will soon 
 prove a curse to my poor friend. The long 
 hair he carries will quickly be covered with 
 
 | 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 icicles, and, as the snow deepens, it will 
 retard his movements. ‘The dogs of St. Ber- 
 nard are smoother, have longer limbs and a 
 truer scent, and possess the advantage of 
 being trained to the paths.” 
 
 A tremendous shout of Sigismund’s inter- 
 rupted Maso; the youth, on finding that the 
 accidental meeting with the mariner was not 
 likely to lead to any immediate advantages, 
 having instantly, accompanied by Pierre and 
 one of his assistants, renewed the search. 
 ‘The cry was echoed from the guide and the 
 muleteer, and then all three were seen flying 
 through the snow, preceded by a powerful 
 mastiff, Nettuno, who had been crouching 
 with his bushy tail between his legs, barked, 
 seemed to arouse with new courage, and then 
 leaped with evident joy and good-will upon 
 the back of his old antagonist Uberto. 
 
 The dog of St. Bernard was alone. But 
 his air and all his actions were those of an 
 animal;whose consciousness was wrought up 
 to the highest pitch permitted by the limits 
 nature had set to the intelligence of a brute. 
 He ran from one to another, rubbed his 
 glossy and solid side against the limbs of all, 
 wagged his tail, and betrayed the usual signs 
 that creatures of his species manifest, when 
 their instinct is most alive. Luckily he had 
 a good interpreter of his meaning in the 
 guide, who, knowing the habits, and, if it 
 may be so expressed, the intentions of the 
 mastiff, feeling there was not a moment to 
 lose if they would still preserve the feebler 
 members of their party, begged the others to 
 hasten the necessary dispositions to profit by 
 this happy meeting. The females were sup- 
 ported as before, the mules fastened together, 
 and Pierre, placing himself in front, called 
 cheerfully to the dog, encouraging him to 
 lead the way. 
 
 “Ts it quite prudent to confide so implic- 
 itly to the guidance of this brute?” asked 
 the Signor Grimaldi, a little doubtingly, 
 when he saw the arrangement on which, by 
 the increasing gloom and the growing in- 
 tensity of the cold, it was but too apparent, 
 even to one as little accustomed to the moun- 
 tains as himself, that the lives of the whole 
 party depended. 
 
 “Fear not to trust to old Uberto, signor,” 
 answered Pierre, moving onward as he spoke, 
 for to think of further delay was out of the 
 
 a 
 
 155 
 
 question; “fear nothing for the faith or the 
 knowledge of the dog. ‘These animals are 
 trained by the servants of the convent to 
 know and keep the paths, even when the 
 snows lie on them fathoms deep. God has 
 given them stout hearts, long limbs, and 
 short hair, expressly, as it has often seemed 
 to me, for this end; and nobly do they use 
 the gifts! I am acquainted with all their 
 ways, for we guides commonly learn the 
 ravines of St. Bernard by first serving the 
 claviers of the convent, and many a day have 
 I gone up and down these rocks with a couple 
 of these animals in training for this very 
 purpose. ‘The father and mother of Uberto 
 were my favorite companions, and their son 
 will hardly play an old friend of the family 
 false.” 
 
 The travellers followed their leader with 
 more confidence, though blindly. Uberto ap- 
 peared to perform his duty with the sobriety 
 and steadiness that became his years, and 
 which, indeed, were very necessary for the 
 circumstances in which they were placed. 
 Instead of bounding ahead and becoming lost 
 to view, as most probably would have hap- 
 pened with a younger animal, the noble and 
 half-reasoning brute maintained a pace that 
 was suited to the slow march of those who 
 supported the females, occasionally stopping 
 to look back, as if to make sure that none 
 were left. 
 
 The dogs of St Bernard are, or it might 
 perhaps be better to say were,—for it is 
 affirmed that the ancient race is lost,—chosen 
 for their size, their limbs, and the shortness 
 of their coats, as has just been stated by 
 Pierre ; the former being necessary to con- 
 vey the succor with which they were often 
 charged, as well as to overcome the difficul- 
 ties of the mountains, and the two latter that 
 they might the better wade through, and re- 
 sist the influence of, thesnows. ‘Their train- 
 ing consisted in rendering them familiar 
 with, and attached to, the human race; in 
 teaching them to know and to keep the 
 paths on all occasions, except such as called 
 for a higher exercise of their instinct, and to 
 discover the position of those who had been 
 overwhelmed by the avalanches, and to assist 
 in disinterring their bodies. In all these 
 duties Uberto had been so long exercised, 
 that he was universally known to be the 
 
156 
 
 ~ most sagacious and the most trusty animal on 
 
 the mountain. Pierre followed his steps 
 with so much greater reliance on his intelli- 
 gence, from being perfectly acquainted with 
 the character of the dog. When, therefore, 
 he saw the mastiff turn at right angles to the 
 course he had just been taking, the guide, on 
 reaching the spot, imitated his example, and, 
 first removing the snow to make sure of the 
 fact, the joyfully proclaimed to those who 
 came after him that the lost path was found. 
 This intelligence sounded like a _ reprieve 
 from death, though the mountaineers well 
 knew that more than an hour of painful and 
 increasing toil was still necessary to reach the 
 hospice. The chilled blood of the tender 
 beings who were fast dropping into the terri- 
 ble sleep which is the forerunner of death, 
 was quickened in their veins, however, when 
 they heard the shout of delight that sponta- 
 neously broke from all their male companions, 
 on learning the glad tidings. 
 
 The movement was now faster, though 
 embarrassed and difficult on account of the 
 incessant pelting of the storm and the influ- 
 ence of the biting cold, which were difficult 
 to be withstood by even the strongest of the 
 party. Sigismund groaned inwardly, as he 
 thought of Adelheid and his sister’s being 
 exposed to a tempest which shook the stout- 
 est frame and the most manly heart among 
 them. He encircled the latter with an arm, 
 rather carrying than leading her along, for 
 the young soldier had sufficient knowledge of 
 the localities of the mountain to understand 
 that they were still at a fearful distance from 
 the Col and that the strength of Christine 
 was absolutely unequal to the task of reach- 
 ing it unsupported. 
 
 Occasionally Pierre spoke to the dogs, Net- 
 tuno keeping close to the side of Uberto in 
 order to prevent separation, since the path 
 was no longer discernible without constant 
 examination, the darkness having so far in- 
 creased as to reduce the sight to very narrow 
 limits. Each time the name of the latter 
 was pronounced, the animal would stop, wag 
 his tail or give some other sign of recogni- 
 tion, as if to reassure his followers of his in- 
 telligence and fidelity. After one of these 
 short halts, old Uberto and his companion 
 unexpectedly refused to proceed. The guide, 
 the two old nobles, and at length the whole 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 party, were around them, and no cry or en- 
 couragement of the mountaineers could in- 
 duce the dogs to quit their tracks. 
 
 «¢ Ave we again lost?” asked the Baron de 
 Willading, pressing Adelheid closer to his 
 beating heart, nearly ready to submit to 
 their common fate in despair. ‘Has God — 
 at length forsaken us?—my daughter—my 
 beloved child !” 
 
 This touching appeal was answered by a 
 howl from Uberto, who leaped madly away 
 and disappeared. Nettuno followed, barking 
 wildly and with a deep throat. Pierre did 
 not hesitate about following, and Sigismund, 
 believing that the movement of the guide 
 was to arrest the flight of the dogs, was 
 quickly on his heels. Maso moved with 
 greater deliberation. 
 
 ‘«* Nettuno is not apt to raise that bark with 
 nothing but hail, and snow, and wind in his 
 nostrils,” said the calculating Italian. “We 
 are either near another party of travellers, for 
 such are on the mountains as I know 4 
 
 ‘‘God forbid! Art sure of this?” de- 
 manded the Signor Grimaldi, observing that 
 the other had suddenly checked himself. 
 
 «“ Sure that others were, signor,” returned 
 the mariner deliberately, as if he measured 
 well the meaning of each word. ‘‘ Ah, here 
 comes the trusty beast, and Pierre, and the 
 captain, with their tidings, be they good or 
 be they evil.” 
 
 The two just named rejoined their friends 
 as Maso ceased speaking. They hurriedly 
 informed the shivering travellers that the 
 much-desired Refuge was near, and that noth- 
 ing but the darkness and the driving snow 
 prevented it from being seen. 
 
 ‘‘It was a blessed thought, and one that — 
 came from St. Augustine himself, which led 
 the holy monks to raise this shelter!” ex- 
 claimed the delighted Pierre, no longer con- 
 sidering it necessary to conceal the extent of 
 the danger they had run. “I would not an- 
 swer even for my own power to reach the 
 hospice in a time like this. You are of 
 Mother Church, signor, being of Italy ?” 
 
 “Tam one of her unworthy children,” re- 
 turned the Genoese. 
 
 ‘This unmerited favor must have come 
 from the prayers of St. Augustine, and a vow 
 I made to send a fair offering to our Lady of 
 Kinsiedeln ; for never before have I knowna . 
 
 a 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 dog of St. Bernard lead the traveller to the 
 Refuge! Their business is to find the frozen, 
 and to guide the traveller along the paths to 
 the hospice. Even Uberto had his doubts, as 
 you saw, but the vow prevailed; or, I know 
 not—it might, indeed, have been the prayer.” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi was too eager to get 
 Adelheid under cover, and, in good sooth, to 
 be there himself, to waste the time in discus- 
 sing the knotty point of which of two means, 
 that were equally orthodox, had been the 
 most efficacious in bringing about their res- 
 cue. In common with the others, he followed 
 the pious and confiding Pierre in silence, 
 making the best of his way after the credulous 
 guide. The latter had not yet seen the Ref- 
 uge himself, for so these places are well 
 termed on the Alpine passes, but the forma- 
 tion of the ground had satisfied him of its 
 proximity. Once reassured as to his precise 
 position, all the surrounding localities pre- 
 sented themselves to his mind with the famili- 
 arity the seaman manifests with every cord 
 in the intricate maze of his rigging, and in 
 the darkest night, or, to produce a parallel of 
 more common use, with the readiness which 
 all manifest in the intricacies of their own 
 habitations. The broken chain of association 
 being repaired and joined, everything became 
 clear again to his apprehension, and, in 
 diverging from the path on this occasion, the 
 old man held his way as directly toward the 
 spot he sought, as if he were journeying 
 under a bright sun. There was a rough 
 but short descent, a similar rise, and the 
 long-desired goal was reached. 
 
 We shall not stop to dwell upon the emo- 
 tions with which the travellers first touched 
 this place of comparative security. Humility, 
 and dependence on the providence of God, 
 were the predominant sensations even with 
 the rude muleteers, while the nearly ex- 
 hausted females were just able to express 
 im murmurs their fervent gratitude to the 
 omnipotent power that had permitted its 
 agents so unexpectedly to interpose between 
 them and death. The Refuge was not seen 
 until Pierre laid his hand on the roof, now 
 white with snow, and proclaimed its char- 
 acter with a loud, warm, and devout thanks- 
 giving. 
 
 “ Enter, and thank God!” he said.‘ An- 
 other hopeless half hour would have brought 
 
 157 
 
 down from his pride the stoutest among us 
 —enter, and thank God!” 
 
 As is the fact with all the edifices of that 
 region, the building was entirely of stone, 
 even to the roof, having the form of those 
 vaulted cellars which in this country are used 
 for the preservation of vegetables. It was 
 quite free from humidity, however, the clear- 
 ness of the atmosphere and the entire absence 
 of soil preventing the accumulation of moist- 
 ure, and it offered no more than the naked 
 protection of fits walls to those who sought 
 its cover. But shelter on such a night was 
 everything, and this it effectually afforded. 
 The place had only one outlet, being simply 
 formed of four walls and the roof; but it was 
 sufficicntly large to shelter a party twice as 
 numerous as that which had now reached it. 
 
 The transition from the biting cold and 
 piercing winds of the mountain to the shelter 
 of this inartificial building, was so great as 
 to produce something like a general sensa- 
 tion of warmth. The advantage gained in 
 this change of feeling was judiciously im- 
 proved by the application of friction and of 
 restoratives under the direction of Pierre. 
 Uberto carried a small supply of the latter 
 attached to his collar, and before half an 
 hour had passed, Adelheid and Christine 
 were sleeping sweetly, side by side, muffled 
 in plenty of spare garments, and pillowed on 
 the saddles and housings of the mules. The 
 brutes were brought within the Refuge, and 
 as no party mounted the St. Bernard with- 
 out carrying the provender necessary for its 
 beasts of burden, that sterile region afford- 
 ing none of its own, the very fuel being 
 transported leagues on the backs of mules, 
 the patient and hardy animals, too, found 
 their solace, after the fatigues and exposure 
 of the day. The presence of so many living 
 bodies in lodgings so confined aided in pro- 
 ducing warmth, and, after all had eaten of 
 the scanty fare furnished by the foresight of 
 the guide, drowsiness came over the whole 
 
 party. ' 
 
 ——- 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 ‘* Side by side, 
 Within they lie, a mournful company.”—RogeErs. 
 THE sleep of the weary is sweet. In after- 
 life, Adelheid, when dwelling in a palace, 
 reposing on down, and canopied by the rich 
 
158 
 
 stuffs of a more generous climate, was often 
 heard to say that she had never taken rest 
 grateful as that she found in the Refuge of 
 St. Bernard. So easy, natural, and refresh- 
 ing had been her slumbers, unalloyed even 
 by those dreams of precipices and avalanches 
 which long afterward haunted her slumbers, 
 that she was the first to open her eyes on the 
 following morning, awakening like an infant 
 that had enjoyed a quiet and healthful re- 
 pose. Her movements aroused Christine. 
 They threw aside the cloaks and coats that 
 covered them, and sat gazing about the place 
 in the confusion that the novelty of their 
 situation would be likely to produce. All 
 the rest of the travellers still slumbered ; 
 and, arising without noise, they passed the 
 silent and insensible sleepers, the quiet mules 
 which had stretched themselves near the 
 entrance of the place, and quitted the hut. 
 Without, the scene was wintry ; but, as is 
 usual in the Alps, let what may be the 
 season, its features of grand and imposing 
 sublimity were prominent. The day was 
 among the peaks above them, while the 
 shades of night still lay upon the valleys, 
 forming a landscape like that exquisite and 
 poetical picture of the lower world, which 
 Guido has given in the celebrated al-fresco 
 painting of Aurora. The ravines and glens 
 were covered with snow, but the sides of the 
 rugged rocks were bare in their eternal hue 
 of ferruginous brown. The little knoll on 
 which the Refuge stood was also nearly 
 naked, the wind having driven the light 
 particles of the snow into the ravine of the 
 path. The air of the morning is keen at 
 that great height even in midsummer, and 
 the shivering girls drew their mantles about 
 them, though they breathed the clear, elastic, 
 inspiring element with pleasure. ‘I'he storm 
 was entirely past, and the pure sapphire- 
 colored sky was in lovely contrast with the 
 shadows beneath, raising their thoughts 
 naturally to that heaven which shone in a 
 peace and glory so much in harmony with 
 the ordinary images we shadow forth of the 
 abode of the blessed. Adelheid pressed the 
 hand of Christine, and they knelt together, 
 bowing their heads to a rock. As fervent, 
 pure, and sincere orisons ascended to God, 
 from these pious and innocent spirits, as it 
 belongs to poor mortality to offer. 
 
 that direction. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 This general, and in their peculiar situa- 
 
 tion especial, duty performed, the gentle 
 girls felt more assured. Relieved of a heavy 
 and imperative obligation, they ventured to 
 look about them with greater confidence. 
 
 Another building, similar in form and ma- 
 
 terial to that in which their companions were 
 
 still sleeping, stood on the same swell of 
 rock, and their first inquiries naturally took 
 The entrance, or outlet to 
 this hut, was an orifice that resembled a 
 window rather than a door. They moved 
 cautiously to the spot, looking into the 
 gloomy, cavern-like room, as timidly as the 
 
 hare throws his regards about him before he 
 
 ventures from his cover. Four human forms 
 were reposing deep in the vault, with their 
 
 backs sustained against the walls. ‘They 
 
 slept profoundly, too, for the curious but 
 startled girls gazed at them long, and retired 
 without causing them to awake. 
 
 “ We have not been alone on the mountain 
 in this terrible night,” whispered Adelheid, 
 gently urging the trembling Christine away 
 from the spot; “thou seest that other tray- 
 ellers have been taking their rest near us; 
 most probably after perils and fatigues like 
 our own.” 
 
 Christine drew closer to the side of her 
 more experienced friend, like the young of 
 the dove hovering near the mother-bird when 
 first venturing from the nest, and they re- 
 turned to the refuge they had quitted, for 
 the cold was still so intense as to render its 
 protection grateful. At the door they were 
 met by Pierre, the vigilant old man haying 
 awakened as soon as the light crossed his eyes. 
 
 ‘‘We are not alone here,” said Adelheid, 
 pointing to the other stone-covered roof— 
 “there are travellers sleeping in yonder 
 building, too.” 
 
 ‘«‘ Their sleep will be long, lady,” answered 
 the guide, shaking his head solemnly. “ With — 
 two of them it has already lasted a twelve-— 
 month, and the third has slept where you 
 saw him since the fall of the avalanche in the 
 last two days of April.” | 
 
 Adelheid recoiled a step, for his meanin 
 was too plain to be misunderstood. After 
 looking at her gentle companion, she de- 
 manded if those they had seen were in truth 
 the bodies of travellers who had perished on 
 
 the mountain. 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 ‘«*Of no other, lady,” returned Pierre. 
 «This hut is for the living—that for the 
 dead. So near are the two to each other, 
 when men journey on these wild rocks in 
 winter. I have known him who passed a 
 short and troubled night here, begin a sleep 
 in the other before the turn of the day that 
 is not only deep enough, but which will last 
 forever. One of the three that thou hast 
 seen was a guide like myself; he was buried 
 in the falling snow at the spot where the path 
 leaves the plain of Velan below us. Another 
 is a pilgrim that perished in as clear a night 
 as ever shone on St. Bernard, and merely for 
 having taken a cup too much to cheer his 
 way. ‘The third isa poor vine-dresser that 
 was coming from Piedmont into our Swiss 
 valleys to follow his calling, when death 
 overtook him in an ill-advised slumber, in 
 which he was so unwise as to indulge at 
 nightfall. I found his body myself on that 
 naked rock, the day after we had drunk to- 
 gether in friendship at Aoste, and with my 
 own hands was he placed among the others.” 
 
 ** And such is the burial a Christian gets 
 in this inhospitable country!” 
 
 “What would you, lady?—’tis the chance 
 of the poor and the unknown. ‘Those that 
 have friends are sought and found; but 
 those that die without leaving traces of their 
 origin fare as you see. The spade is useless 
 among these rocks; and then it is better that 
 the body should remain where it may be seen 
 and claimed, than that it should be put out 
 of sight. The good fathers, and all of note, 
 are taken down into the valleys, where there 
 is earth, and are decently buried; while the 
 poor and the stranger are housed in this 
 vault, which 1s a better cover than many of 
 them knew while living. Aye, there are 
 three Christians there, who were all lately 
 walking the earth in the flesh, gay and active 
 as any.” | 
 
 “The bodies are four in number!” 
 
 Pierre looked surprised; he mused a little, 
 and continued his employment. 
 
 “Then another has perished. The time 
 may come when my own blood shall freeze. 
 This is a fate the guide must ever keep in 
 mind, for he is exposed to it at an hour and 
 a season that he knows not!” 
 
 Adelheid pursued the subject no further. 
 She remembered to have heard that the pure 
 
 pie A ‘ 
 Baked i as?) 
 
 159 
 
 atmosphere of the mountain prevented that 
 offensive decay whict is usually associated 
 with the idea of death, and the usage lost 
 some of its horror in the recollection. 
 
 In the meantime the remainder of the 
 party awoke, and were collecting before the 
 Refuge. ‘The mules were led forth and sad- 
 dled, the baggage was loaded, and Pierre 
 was calling upon the travellers to mount, 
 when Uberto and Nettuno came leaping 
 down the path in company, running side by 
 side in excellent fellowship. The movements 
 of the dogs were of a nature to attract the 
 attention of Pierre and the muleteers, who 
 predicted that they should soon see some of 
 the servants of the Hospice. ‘The result 
 showed the familiarity of the guide with his 
 duty, for he had scarce ventured this opin:on, 
 when a party from the gorge on the summit 
 of the mountain was seen wading through 
 the snow, along the path that led toward the 
 Refuge, with Father Xavier at its head. 
 
 The explanations were brief and natural. 
 After conducting the travellers to the shelter, 
 and passing most of the night in their com- 
 pany, at the approach of dawn Uberto had 
 returned to the convent, always attended by 
 his friend Nettuno. Here he communicated 
 to the monks, by signs which they who were 
 accustomed to the habits of the animal were 
 not slow in interpreting, that travellers were 
 on the mountain. The good clavier knew 
 that the party of the Baron de Willading was 
 about to cross the Col, for he had hurried 
 home to be in readiness to receive them; and 
 foreseeing the probability that they had been 
 overtaken by the storm of the previous night, 
 he was foremost in joining the servants 
 who went forth to their succor. The little 
 flask of cordial, too, had been removed from 
 the collar of Uberto, leaving no doubt of its 
 contents having been used; and, as nothing 
 was more probable than that the travellers 
 should seek a cover, their steps were directed 
 toward the Refuge as a matter of course 
 
 The worthy clavier made this explanation 
 with eyes that glistened with moisture, occa- 
 sionally interrupting himself to murmur a 
 prayer of thanksgiving. He passed from one 
 of the party to the other, not even neglecting 
 the muleteers, examining their limbs, and 
 more especially their ears, to see that they 
 had quite escaped the influence of the frost, 
 
160 
 
 and was only happy when assured by his own 
 observation that the terrible danger they had 
 run was not likely to be attended by any in- 
 jurious consequences. 
 
 “We are accustomed to see many accidents 
 of this nature,” he said, smilingly, when the 
 examination was satisfactorily ended, ‘‘and 
 practice has made us quick of sight in these 
 matters. The blessed Maria be praised, and 
 adoration to her holy Son, that you have all 
 got through the night so well! There is a 
 warm breakfast in readiness in the convent 
 kitchen, and, one solemn duty performed, we 
 will go up the rocks to enjoy it. The little 
 building near us is the last earthly abode of 
 those who perish on this side the mountain, 
 and whose remains are unclaimed. None of 
 our canons pass the spot without offermg a 
 prayer in behalf of their souls. Kneel with 
 me, then, you that have so much reason to 
 be grateful to God, and join in the petition.” 
 
 Father Xavier knelt on the rocks, and all 
 the Catholics of the party united with him in 
 the prayer for the dead. The Baron de Wil- 
 lading, his daughter and their attendants 
 stood uncovered the while, for though their 
 Protestant opinions rejected such a media- 
 tion as useless, they deeply felt the solemnity 
 and holy character of the sacrifice. The 
 clavier arose with a countenance that was 
 beaming and bright as the morning sun, 
 which just at that moment appeared above 
 the summits of the Alps, casting its genial 
 and bland warmth on the group, the brown 
 huts, and the mountain-side. 
 
 «Thou art a heretic,” he said affectionately 
 to Adelheid, in whom he felt the interest to 
 which her youth and beauty, and the great 
 danger they had so lately run in company, 
 very naturally gave birth. “Thou art an 
 impenitent heretic, but we will not cast thee 
 off; notwithstanding thy obstinacy and 
 crimes, thou seest that the saints can interest 
 themselves in the behalf of obstinate sinners, 
 or thou and all with thee would have surely 
 been lost.” 
 
 This was said in a way to draw a smile from 
 Adelheid, who received his accusations as so 
 many friendly and playful reproaches. Asa 
 token of peace between them, she offered her 
 hand to the monk, with a request that he 
 would aid her in getting into the saddle. 
 
 ‘Dost thou remark the brutes?” said the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Signor Grimaldi, pointing to the animals, 
 who were gravely seated before the window 
 of the bone-house, with relaxed jaws, keeping 
 their eyes riveted on its entrance or window. 
 “Thy St. Bernard dogs, father, seem trained 
 to serve a Christian in all ways, whether liv- 
 ing or dead.” 
 
 «Their quiet attitude and decent attention 
 might indeed justify such a remark! Didst 
 thou ever note such conduct in Uberto be- 
 fore?” returned the Augustine, addressing 
 the servants of the convent, for the actions of 
 the animals were a study and a subject of 
 great interest to all of St. Bernard. 
 
 «They tell me that another fresh body has 
 been put into the house, since I last came 
 down the mountain,” remarked Pierre, who 
 was quietly disposing of a mule in a manner 
 more favorable for Adelheid to mount: “the 
 mastiff scents the dead. It was this that 
 brought him to the Refuge last night, Heaven 
 be praised for the mercy!” 
 
 This was said with the indifference that 
 habit is apt to create, for the usage of leaving 
 bodies uninterred had no influence on the 
 feelings of the guide, but it did not the less 
 strike those who had descended from the 
 convent. 
 
 “Thou art the last that came down thy- 
 self,” said one of the servants; “nor have any 
 come up, but those who are now safe in the 
 convent, taking their rest after last night’s 
 tempest.” 
 
 ‘‘How canst utter this idle nonsense, 
 Henri, when a fresh body is in the house! 
 This lady counted them but now, and there 
 are four; three was the number that I showed 
 the Piedmontese noble whom I led from 
 Aoste, the day thou meanest.” 
 
 “So soon! so soon! so suddenly—oh! it is 
 he!” 
 
 “ Of whom art thou speaking, dear ?”’ de- 
 manded the wondering, but not the less awe- 
 struck, Adelheid, believing that the weakened 
 nerves of the poor girl were unstrung by the 
 horror of the spectacle—‘‘ it is a traveller like 
 ourselves, that has unhappily perished in the 
 very storm from which, by the kindness of 
 Providence, we have been permitted to escape. 
 Thou shouldst not tremble thus ; for fearful 
 as it is, he is in a condition to which we all 
 must come” 
 
 Adelheid, alarmed at the violence of 
 
THE HEADSMAN,. 
 
 Christine’s feelings, was quite at a loss to 
 account for them, when the relaxed grasp 
 and the dying voice showed that her friend 
 had fainted. Sigismund was one of the first 
 to come to the assistance of his sister, who 
 was soon restored to consciousness by the 
 ordinary applications. In order to effect the 
 eure she was borne to arock at some little 
 distance from the rest of the party, where 
 none of the other sex presumed to come, 
 with the exception of her brother. The 
 latter stayed but a moment, for a stir in the 
 little party at the bone-house induced him to 
 go thither. His return was slow, thoughtful, 
 and sad. 
 
 «The feelings of our poor Christine have 
 been unhinged, and she is too easily excited 
 to undergo the vicissitudes of a journey,” 
 observed Adelheid, after having announced 
 the restoration of the sufferer to her senses, 
 “ have you seen her thus before ?” 
 
 “No angel could be more tranquil and 
 happy than my cruelly treated sister was 
 until this last disgrace. You appear ignorant 
 yourself of the melancholy truth ?” 
 
 Adelheid looked her surprise. 
 
 «The dead man is he who was so lately 
 intended to be the master of my sister’s hap- 
 piness, and the wounds on his body leave 
 little doubt that he has been murdered.” 
 
 The emotion of Christine needed no further 
 explanation. 
 
 ‘‘Murdered!” repeated Adelheid, in a 
 whisper. 
 
 ‘Of that frightful truth there can be no 
 question. Your father and our friends are 
 now employed in making the examinations 
 which may hereafter be useful in discovering 
 the authors of the deed.” 
 
 “Sigismund ?” 
 
 “What wouldst thou, Adelheid ?” 
 
 “Thou hast felt resentment against this 
 unfortunate man?” 
 
 «JT deny it not. 
 otherwise ?” 
 
 “But now—now that God hath so fear- 
 fully visited him ?” 
 
 ‘‘From my soul I forgive him. Had we 
 met in Italy, whither I knew he was going— 
 but this is foolish.” 
 
 « Worse than that, Sigismund.” 
 
 ‘‘From my inmost soul I pardon him. I 
 uever thought him worthy of her whose sim- 
 
 Could a brother feel 
 
 161 
 
 ple affections were won by the first signs of 
 
 his pretended interest ; but I could not wish 
 
 him so cruel and sudden an end. May God 
 have mercy on him, at he is pardoned by me.” 
 
 Adelheid received the silent pressure of the 
 hand which followed with pious satisfaction. 
 They then separated—he to join the group 
 that was collected around the body, and she 
 to take her station again near Christine. The 
 former, however, was met by the Signor 
 Grimaldi, who urged his immediate depart- 
 ure with the females to the convent, promis- 
 ing that the rest of the travellers should 
 follow as soon as the present melancholy 
 duty was ended. As Sigismund had no wish 
 to be a party in what was going on, and there 
 was reason to think his sister would be spared 
 much pain by quitting the spot, he gladly 
 acquiesced in the proposal. Immediate steps 
 were taken for its accomplishment. 
 
 Christine mounted her mule in obedience 
 to her brother’s desire, quietly, and without 
 remonstrance; but her death-like counte- 
 nance and fixed eye betrayed the violence of 
 the shock she had received. During the 
 whole of the ride to the convent she spoke 
 not, and, as those around her felt for and 
 understood her distress, the little cavalcade 
 could not have been more melancholy and 
 silent had it borne with it the body of the 
 slain. In an hour they reached the long- 
 sought-for and so anxiously desired place of 
 rest. 
 
 While this disposition of the feebler portion 
 of the party was making, a different scene 
 had taken place near what have been already 
 so well called the houses of the living and the 
 dead. As there existed no human habitation 
 within several leagues of the abode of the 
 Augustines on either side of the mountain, 
 and as the paths were much frequented in 
 the summer, the monks exercised a species of 
 civil jurisdiction in such cases as required a 
 prompt exercise of justice, or a necessary re- 
 spect for those forms that might be important 
 in its administration hereafter before the 
 more regular authorities. It was no sooner 
 known, therefore, that there was reason te 
 suspect an act of violence had been committed, 
 than the good clavier set seriously about 
 taking the necessary steps to authenticate all 
 those circumstances that could be accurately 
 ascertained. 
 
 FE 
 
162 
 
 The identity of the body as that of Jacques 
 Colis, a small but substantial proprietor of 
 the country of Vaud, was quickly established. 
 To this fact not only several of the travellers 
 could testify, but he was also known to one 
 of the muleteers, of whom he had engaged a 
 beast to be left at Aoste, and, it will also be 
 remembered, he Had been seen by Pierre at 
 Martigny while making his arrangements to 
 pass the mountain. Of the mule there were 
 no other traces than a few natural signs 
 around the building, but which might equally 
 be attributed to the beasts that still awaited 
 the leisure of the travellers. The manner in 
 which the unhappy man had come by his 
 death, admitted of no dispute. There were 
 several wounds in the body, and a knife, of 
 the sort then much used by travellers of an 
 ordinary class, was left sticking in his back 
 in a position to render it impossible to attrib- 
 ute the end of the sufferer to suicide. The 
 clothes, too, exhibited proofs of a struggle; 
 for they were torn and soiled, but nothing 
 had been taken away. A little gold was 
 found in the pockets, and though in no great 
 plenty, still enough to weaken the first im- 
 pression that there had also been a robbery. 
 
 «This is wonderful,” observed the good 
 clavier, as he noted the last circumstance; 
 “the dross which leads so many souls to dam- 
 nation, has been neglected, while Christian 
 blood has been shed! This seems an act of 
 vengeance rather than of cupidity. Let us 
 now examine if any proofs are to be found of 
 the scene of this tragedy.” 
 
 The search was unsuccessful. ‘The whole 
 of the surrounding region being composed of 
 ferruginous rocks and their débris, it would 
 not, indeed, have been an easy matter to 
 trace the march of an army by their footsteps. 
 The stain of blood, however, was nowhere 
 discoverable, except on the spot where the 
 body had been found. The house itself fur- 
 nished no particular evidence of the bloody 
 scene of which it had been a witness. The 
 bones of those who had died long before were 
 lying on the stones, it is true, broken and 
 scattered; but, as the curious were wont to 
 stop, and sometimes to enter among and han- 
 dle these remains of mortality, there was noth- 
 ing new or peculiar in their present condition. 
 
 The interior of the dead-house was obscure, 
 and suited in this particular, at least, to its 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 solemn office. While making the latter part 
 of their examination, the monk and the two 
 nobles, who began to feel a lively interest in 
 the late event, stood before the window, gaz- 
 ing in at the gloomy but instructive scene. 
 One body was so placed as to receive a few of 
 the direct rays of the morning light, and it 
 was consequently much more conspicuous 
 than the rest, though even this was a dark 
 and withered mummy that presented scarcely 
 a vestige of the being it had been. Like all 
 the others whose parts still clung together, it 
 had been placed against the wall, in the atti- 
 tude of one that is seated, with the head fallen 
 forward. The latter circumstance had 
 brought the blackened and shrivelled face 
 into the line of light. It had the ghastly 
 grin of death, the features being distorted by 
 the process of evaporation, and was altogether 
 a revolting but salutary monitor of the com- 
 mon lot. | 
 
 “°Tis the body of the poor vine-dresser,” 
 remarked the monk, more accustomed to the 
 spectacle than his companions, who had 
 shrunk from the sight; “he unwisely slept 
 on yonder naked rock, and it proved to him 
 the sleep of death. There have been many 
 masses for his soul, but what is left of his 
 material remains still lies unreclaimed. But 
 —how is this! Pierre, thou hast lately passed 
 this place; what was the number of the 
 bodies, at thy last visit ?” 
 
 “ Three, reverend clavier; and yet the ladies 
 spoke of four. I looked for the fourth when 
 in the building, but there appeared none fresh, 
 except this of poor Jacques Colis.” 
 
 “Come hither, and say if there do not ap- 
 pear to be two in the far corner—here, where 
 the body of thy old comrade the guide was 
 placed, from respect for his calling; surely, 
 there at least is a change in its position.” 
 
 Pierre approached, and taking off his cap 
 in reverence, he leaned forward in the build. 
 ing, so as to exclude the external light from 
 his eyes. 
 
 *‘Father !” he said, drawing back in sur- 
 prise, ‘‘there is truly another; though I 
 overlooked it when we entered the place.” 
 
 ‘‘This must be examined into! The 
 crime may be greater than we had _ be- 
 lieved ! ” 
 
 The servants of the convent and Pierre, 
 whose long services rendered him a familiar 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 of the brotherhood, now re-entered the 
 building, while those without impatiently 
 awaited the result. A cry from the interior 
 prepared the latter for some fresh subject of 
 horror, when Pierre and his companion 
 quickly reappeared, dragging a living man 
 into the open air. When the light permit- 
 ted, those who knew him recognized the 
 mild demeanor, the subdued look, and the 
 uneasy, distrustful glance of Balthazar. 
 
 The first sensation of the spectators was 
 that of open amazement ; but dark suspicion 
 followed. ‘The Baron, the two Genoese, and 
 the monk, had all been witnesses of the 
 scene in. the great square of Vévey. The 
 person.of the headsman had become so well 
 know to them by the passage on the lake 
 and the event just alluded to, that there was 
 not a moment of doubt touching his identity, 
 and coupled with the circumstances of that 
 morning, there remained little more that the 
 clew was now found to the cause of the murder. 
 
 We shall not stop to relate the particulars 
 of the examination. It was short, reserved, 
 and had the character of an investigation 
 instituted more for the sake of form, than 
 from any incertitude there could exist on the 
 subject of the facts. When the necessary 
 inquiries were ended, the two nobles 
 mounted. Father Xavier led the way, and 
 the whole party proceeded toward the sum- 
 mit of the pass, leading Balthazar a pris- 
 oner, and leaving the body of Jacques Colis 
 to its final rest, in that place where so many 
 human forms had evaporated into the air 
 before him, unless those who had felt an in- 
 terest in him in life should see fit to claim his 
 remains. ‘The ascent between the Refuge 
 and the summit of St. Bernard is much more 
 severe than on any other part of the road. 
 The end of the convent, overhanging the 
 northern brow of the gorge, and looking like 
 amass of that ferruginous and melancholv 
 rock which gave the whole region so wild 
 and so unearthly an aspect, soon became 
 visible, carved and moulded into the shape of 
 a rude human habitation. The last pitch 
 was so steep as to be formed into a sort of 
 stairway, up which the groaning mules toiled 
 with difficulty. This labor overcome, the 
 party stood on the highest point of the pass. 
 Another minute brought them to the door of 
 the convent. 
 
 163 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ‘* ——-Hadst thou not been by, 
 A fellow by the hand of nature marked, 
 Noted, and signed to do a deed of shame, 
 ‘This murder had not come into my mind.” 
 —SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 THE arrival of Sigismund’s party at the 
 hospice preceded that of the other travellers 
 more than an hour. They were received 
 with the hospitality with which all were then 
 welcomed at this celebrated convent; the 
 visits of the curious and the vulgar not hav- 
 ing blunted the benevolence of the monks, 
 who, mostly accustomed to entertain the low- 
 born and ignorant, were always happy to 
 relieve the monotony of their solitude by 
 intercourse with guests of a superior class. 
 The good clavier had prepared the way for 
 their reception ; for even on the wild ridge 
 of St. Bernard, we do not fare the worse for 
 carrying with us a prestige of that rank and 
 consideration that are enjoyed in the world 
 below. Although a mild Christian-like good- 
 will was manifested to all, the heiress of 
 Willading, a name that was generally known 
 and honored between the Alps and the Jura, 
 met with those proofs of empressement and 
 deference which betrayed the secret thought, 
 in despite of conventional forms, and which 
 told her, plainer than the words of welcome, 
 that the retired Augustines were not sorry to 
 see so fair and so noble a specimen of their 
 species within their dreary walls. 
 
 All this, however, was lost on Sigismund. 
 He was too much occupied with the events 
 of the morning to note other things; and, 
 first committing Adelheid and his sister to 
 the care of their woman, he went into the 
 open air in order to await the arrival of the 
 rest. 
 
 As it has been mentioned, the existence of 
 the venerable convent of St. Bernard dates 
 from a very remote period of Christianity. 
 It stands on the very brow of the precipice 
 which forms the last steep ascent in mount- 
 ing to the Col. The building is a high, nar- 
 row, but vast, barrack-looking edifice, built 
 with the ferruginous stone of the region, 
 having its gable placed toward the Valais, 
 and its front stretching in the direction of 
 the gorge in which it stands. Immediately 
 before its principal door, the rock riges in an 
 ill-shapen hillock, across which runs the path 
 
164 
 
 to Italy. This is literally the highest point 
 of the pass, as the building itself is the most 
 elevated habitable abode in Europe. At this 
 spot, the distance from rock to rock, span- 
 ning the gorge, may be a hundred yards, the 
 wild and reddish piles rising on each side for 
 more than a thousand feet. These are 
 merely dwarfs, however, among the sister 
 piles, several of which, in plain view of the 
 convent, reached to the height of eternal 
 snow. This point in the road attained, the 
 path began immediately to descend, and the 
 drippings of 4 snowbank before the convent 
 door, which had resisted the greatest heat of 
 the past summer, ran partly into the valley 
 of the Rhone, and partly into Piedmont ; 
 the waters, after a long and devious course 
 through the plains of France and Italy, 
 meeting again in the common basin of the 
 Mediterranean. The path, on quitting the 
 convent, runs between the base of the rocks 
 on its right and a little limpid lake on its 
 left, the latter occupying nearly the entire 
 cavity of the valley of the gorge. It then 
 disappears between natural palisades of rock, 
 at the other extremity of the Col. This is 
 the point where the superfluous waters of the 
 lake find their outlet, descending swiftly, in 
 a brawling little brook, on the sunny side of 
 the Alps. The frontier of Italy is met on 
 the margin of the lake, a long musket-shot 
 from the abode of the Augustines, and near 
 the site of a temple that the Romans had 
 raised in honor of Jupiter, in his attribute 
 of director of storms. 
 
 Such was the outline of the view which 
 presented itself to Sigismund, when he left 
 the building to while away the time that 
 must necessarily elapse before the arrival of 
 the rest of the party. The hour was still 
 early, though the great altitude of the site of 
 the convent had brought it beneath the influ- 
 ence of the sun’s rays an hour before. He 
 had learned from a servant of the Augus- 
 tines, that a number of ordinary travellers, 
 of whom in the fine season hundreds at a 
 time frequently passed the night in their 
 dormitories, were now breaking their fasts in 
 the refectory of the peasants, and he was 
 willing to avoid the questions that their curi- 
 osity might prompt when they came to hear 
 what had occurred lower down on the moun- 
 tain, One of the brotherhood was caressing 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 four or five enormous mastiffs, that were 
 leaping about and barking with deep throats 
 in front of the convent, while old Uberto 
 moved among them with a gravity and re- 
 spect that better suited his years. Perceiy- 
 ing his guest, the Augustine quitted his 
 dogs, and, lifting his eastern-looking cap, he 
 gave him the salutation of the morning. 
 Sigismund met the frank smile of the canon, 
 who like himself was young, with a fit return. 
 The occasion was such as Sigismund desired, 
 and a friendly discourse succeeded, while 
 they paced along the margin of the lake, 
 holding the path that leads across the Col. 
 
 ‘* You are young in your charitable office, 
 brother,” remarked the soldier, when famil- 
 iarity was a little established. ‘‘ This will 
 be among the first of the winters you will 
 have passed at your benenolent post ? ” 
 
 ‘It will make the eighth, as novice and 
 as canon. We are early trained to this kind 
 
 of life, though no practice will enable any of 
 
 us to withstand the effect which the thin air 
 and intense cold produce on the lungs many 
 winters in succession. We go down to 
 Martigny when there is occasion, and breathe 
 an atmosphere better suited to man. Thou 
 hadst an angry storm below the past 
 night ?” 
 
 “So angry that we thank God it is over, 
 and that we are left to share your hospitality. 
 Were there many on the mountain beside 
 ourselves, or did any come up from Italy?” 
 
 ‘There were none but those who are now 
 in the common refectory, and none came 
 from Aoste. The season for the traveller is 
 over. This is a month in which we see only 
 those who are much pressed, and who have 
 their reasons for trusting the weather. In 
 the summer we sometimes lodge a thousand 
 guests.” 
 
 ‘<'They whom ye receive have reason to be 
 thankful, reverend Augustine ; for, in sooth, 
 this does not seem a region that abounds in 
 its fruits.” : 
 
 Sigismund and the monk looked around at 
 the vast piles of ragged, naked rocks, and 
 they smiled as their eyes met. 
 
 “ Nature literally gives nothing,” answered 
 the Augustine ; “even the fuel that warms 
 us is transported leagues on the backs of 
 mules, and thou wilt readily conceive that of 
 all others this is a necessary we cannot forego. 
 
 { 
 a 
 a 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 Happily, we have some of our ancient, and | ended. 
 
 39 
 
 what were once rich, endowments; and 
 
 The young canon hesitated to proceed. 
 
 «You were about to say, father, that they 
 who have the means to show gratitude are not 
 always unmindful of the wants of those who 
 share the same hospitality without possessing 
 the same ability to manifest their respect for 
 the institution.” 
 
 The Augustine bowed, and he turned the 
 discourse by pointing out the frontiers of 
 Italy, and the site of the ancient temple, both 
 of which they had by this time reached. An 
 animal moved among the rocks, and attracted 
 their attention. 
 
 “Oan it be a chamois?” exclaimed Sigis- 
 mund, whose blood began to quicken with a 
 hunter’s eagerness: “I would I had arms!” 
 
 “Tt is a dog, though not of our mountain 
 breed! The mastiffs of the convent have 
 failed in hospitality, and the poor beast has 
 been driven to take refuge in this retired 
 spot, in waiting for his master, who probably 
 makes one of the party in the refectory. See, 
 they come; their approaching footsteps have 
 brought the cautious animal from his 
 cover.” | 
 
 Sigismund saw, in truth, that a party of 
 three pedestrians was quitting the convent, 
 taking the path for Italy. A sudden and 
 painful suspicion flashed upon his mind. 
 The dog was Nettuno, most probably driven 
 by the mastiffs, as the monk had suggested, 
 to seek a shelter in this retreat; and one of 
 those who approached, by his gait and stature, 
 was no other than his master. 
 
 “Thou knowest, father,” he said, with a 
 clammy tongue, for he was strangely agitated 
 between reluctance to accuse Maso of such 
 a crime, and horror at the fate of Jacques 
 Colis, “‘ that there has been a murder on the 
 mountain ?” 
 
 The monk quietly assented. One who 
 lived on the road, and in that age, was not 
 easily excited by an event of so frequent oc- 
 currence. Sigismund hastily recounted to 
 his companion all the circumstances that 
 were then known to himself, and related the 
 manner in which he had first met the Italian 
 on the lake, and his general impressions con- 
 cerning his character. 7 
 
 “All come and go unquestioned here,” re- 
 turned the Augustine, when the other had 
 
 | 
 
 165 
 
 ‘‘Our convent has been founded on 
 charity, and we pray for the sinner without 
 inquiring into the amount of hiscrime. Still 
 we have authority, and it is especially our 
 duty to keep the road clear that our own pur- 
 poses may not be defeated. I leave thee to do 
 what thou judgest most prudent and proper 
 in a matter so delicate.” 
 
 Sigismund was silent; but as the pedes- 
 trains were drawing near, his resolution was 
 soon and sternly formed. The obligations 
 that he owed to Maso made him more prompt, 
 for it excited a jealous distrust of his own 
 powers to discharge what he conceived to be 
 a duty. Even those late events in which his 
 sister was so wronged had their share, too, on 
 the decision of a mind so resolute to be up- 
 right. Placing himself in the middle of the 
 path, he awaited the arrival of the party, 
 while the monk stood quietly at his side. 
 When the travellers were within speaking dis- 
 tance, the young man first discovered that 
 the companions of Il Maledetto were Pippo 
 and Conrad. ‘Their several rencontres had 
 made him sufficiently acquainted with the 
 persons of the two latter to enable him to 
 recognize them at a glance; and Sigismund 
 began to think the undertaking in which he 
 had embarked more grave than he had at first 
 imagined. Should there be a disposition to 
 resist, he was but one against three. 
 
 ‘*Buon giorno, Signor Capitano,” cried 
 Maso, saluting with his cap, when sufficiently 
 near to those who occupied the path; “we 
 meet often, and in all weathers; by day and by 
 night; on the land and on the water; in the 
 valley and on the mountain; in the city and 
 on this naked rock, as Providence wills. As 
 many chances try men’s characters, we shall 
 come to know each other in time!” 
 
 ‘Thou hast well observed, Maso; though 
 I fear thou art a man oftener met than easily 
 understood,” 
 
 “Signor, I am amphibious, like Nettuno 
 here, being part of the earth and part of the 
 sea. As the learned say, I am not yet classed. 
 We are repaid for an evil night by a fine day; 
 and the descent into Italy will be pleasanter 
 than we found the coming up. Shall I order 
 honest Giacomo of Aoste to prepare the sup- 
 per, and to air the beds for the noble com- 
 pany that is to follow? You will scarce do 
 more than reach his hostelry before the young 
 
166 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 and the beautiful will begin to think of their | I shall not conceal the unhappy suspicions 
 
 pillows.” 
 
 ‘Maso, I had thought thee among our 
 party, when I left the Refuge this morn- 
 ing ?” 
 
 ‘* By San Tommaso ! signor, but I had the 
 same opinion touching yourself ! ” 
 
 “Thou wert early afoot, it would seem, or 
 thou couldst not so much have preceded 
 me?” 
 
 ** Look you, brave Signor Sigismondo, for 
 brave I know you to be, and in the water a 
 swimmer little less determined than gallant 
 Nettuno there—I am a traveller, and have 
 much need of my time, which is the larger 
 portion of my property. We sea-animals are 
 sometimes rich, and sometimes poor, as the 
 wind happens to blow, and of late I have 
 been driven to struggle with foul gales and 
 troubled waves. ‘To such a man, an hour of 
 industry in the morning often gives a heartier 
 meal and sweeter rest at night. I left you 
 all in the Refuge sleeping soundly, even to 
 the mules,”—Maso laughed at his own fan- 
 cies, as he included the brutes in the party, 
 —‘‘and I reached the convent just as the 
 first touch of the sun tipped yonder white 
 peak with its purple light.” 
 
 ‘« As thou left us so early, thou mayest not 
 have heard, then, that the body of a mur- 
 dered man was found in the bone-house—the 
 building near that in which we slept—and 
 that it is the body of one known ?” 
 
 Sigismund spoke firmly and deliberately, 
 as if he would come by degrees to his pur- 
 pose, while at the same time he made the 
 other sensible of his being in earnest. Maso 
 started. He made a movement so unequivo- 
 cally like one which would have manifested 
 an intention to proceed that the young man 
 raised his hand to repulse him. But violence 
 was unnecessary, for the mariner instantly 
 became composed, and seemingly more dis- 
 posed to listen. 
 
 ‘‘Where there has been a crime, Maso, 
 there must have been a criminal !” 
 
 ‘The Bishop of Sion could not have made 
 truth clearer to the sinner than yourself, 
 Signor Sigismondo! Your manner leads me 
 to ask what I have to do with this ?” 
 
 «<There has been a murder, Maso, and the 
 murderer is sought. The dead was found 
 near the spot where thou passed the night ; 
 
 that are so natural.” 
 
 ‘‘Diamine ! where did you pass the night 
 yourself, brave Capitano, if I may be so bold 
 as to question my superior ? Where did the 
 noble Baron de Willading take his rest, and 
 his fair daughter, and one nobler and more 
 illustrious than he, and Pierre the guide, and 
 —aye, and our friends, the mules again ?” 
 
 Maso laughed recklessly once more, as he 
 made this second allusion to the patient 
 brutes. Sigismund disliked his levity, which 
 he thought forced and unnatural. 
 
 ‘‘This reasoning may satisfy thee, unfor- 
 tunate man, but it will not satisfy others. 
 Thou wert alone, but we travelled in com- 
 pany; judging from thy exterior, thou art 
 but little favored by fortune, whereas we are 
 more happy in this particular ; and thou hast 
 been, and art still, in haste to depart, while 
 the ‘discovery of the foul deed is owing to us 
 alone. Thou must return to the convent 
 that this grave matter may, at least, be ex- 
 amined.” 
 
 Il Maledetto seemed troubled. Once or 
 twice he glanced his eyes at the quiet athletic 
 frame of the young man, and then turned 
 them,on the path in reflection. Although 
 Sigismund narrowly watched the workings of 
 his countenance, giving a little of his atten- 
 tion also, from time to time, to the moye- 
 ments of Pippo and the pilgrim, he preserved 
 himself a perfectly calm exterior. Firm in 
 his purpose, accustomed to make extraordi- 
 nary exertions in his manly exercises, and con- 
 scious of his great physical force, he was not a 
 man to be easily daunted. It is true that the 
 companions Maso of conducted themselves in a 
 way to excite no additional apprehensions on 
 their account ; for, on the announcement of 
 the murder, they moved away from his per- 
 son a little, as by a natural horror of the 
 hand that could have done the deed. They 
 now consulted together, and profiting by 
 their situation behind the back of the Ital- 
 ian, they made signs to Sigismund of their 
 readiness to assist should it be necessary. He 
 received the signal with satisfaction ; for, 
 though he knew them to be knaves, he suffi- 
 ciently understood the difference between 
 audacious crime and mere roguery to believe 
 they might, in this instance at least, prove 
 true. 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 <¢ Thou wilt return to the convent, Maso,” 
 resumed the young soldier, who would gladly 
 avoid a struggle with a man who had done 
 him and those he loved so much service, 
 though resolved to discharge what he con- 
 ceived to be an imperious duty; ‘this pil- 
 grim and his friend will be of our party, in 
 order that, when we quit the mountain, all 
 may leave it blameless and unsuspected.” 
 
 «* Signor Sigismondo, the proposal is fair; it 
 has a touch of reason, I allow; but unluckily 
 it does not suit my interests. Jam engaged 
 in a delicate mission, and too much time has 
 been already lost by the way to waste more 
 without good cause. I have great pity for 
 poor Jacques Colis " 
 
 ‘“*Ha! thou knowest the sufferer’s name, 
 then; thy unlucky tongue hath betrayed 
 thee, Maso !”’ 
 
 I] Maledetto was again troubled. His feat- 
 ures betrayed it, for he frowned like a man 
 who had committed a grave fault in a mat- 
 ter touching an important interest. His 
 olive complexion changed, and his interrog- 
 ator thought that his eye quailed before his 
 own fixed look. But the emotion was tran- 
 sient, and shuddering, as if to shake off a 
 weakness, his appearance became once more 
 natural and composed. 
 
 “Thou makest no reply ?” 
 
 “Signor, you have my answer; affairs press, 
 and my visit to the convent of San Bernardo 
 has been made. I am bound to Aoste, and 
 should be happy to do your bidding with the 
 worthy Giacomo. I have but a step to make 
 to find myself in the dominions of the house 
 of Savoy; and with your leave, gallant Capi- 
 tano, I will now take it.” 
 
 Maso moved a little aside with the inten- 
 tion to pass Sigismund, when Pippo and 
 Conrad threw themselves on him from be- 
 hind, pinning his arms to his side by main 
 force. The face of,the Italian grew livid, 
 and he smiled with the contempt and hatred 
 of an inveterately angered man. Assembling 
 all his force, he suddenly exerted it with the 
 energy and courage of a lion, shouting— 
 
 ** Nettuno ! ” 
 
 The struggle was short but fierce. When 
 it terminated, Pippo lay bleeding among the 
 rocks with a broken head, and the pilgrim 
 Was gasping near him under the tremendous 
 
 grip of theanimal. Maso himself stood firm, 
 
 167 
 
 though pale and frowning like one who had 
 collected all his energies, both physical and 
 moral, to meet this emergency. 
 
 ‘Am J a brute to be set upon by the scum 
 of the earth ?” he cried. “If thou wouldst 
 aught with me, Signor Sigismondo, raise 
 thine own arm, but strike not with the hands 
 of these base reptiles. Thou wilt find mea 
 man, in strength and courage, at least not 
 unworthy of thyself.” 
 
 “The attack on thy person, Maso, was not 
 made by my order, nor by my desire, re- 
 turned Sigismund, reddening. “I believe 
 myself sufficient to arrest thee, and if not, 
 here come assistants that thou wilt scarce 
 deem it prudent to resist.” 
 
 The Augustine had stepped on a rock the 
 moment the struggle commenced, whence 
 he made a signal which brought all the mas- 
 tiffs from the convent. These powerful ani- 
 mals now arrived in a group, apprised by 
 their instinct that strife was afoot. Nettuno 
 immediately released the pilgrim and stood 
 at bay, too faithful to desert his master in his 
 need, and yet too conscious of the force op- 
 posed to him to court a contest so unequal. 
 Luckily for the noble dog, the friendship of 
 old Uberto proved his protection. When the 
 younger animals saw their patriarch disposed 
 to amity, they forebore their attack, waiting 
 at least for another signal to be given. In 
 the meanwhile, Maso had time to look about 
 him, and to form his decision less under the 
 influence of surprise and feeling than had 
 been previously the case. 
 
 ‘< Signor,” he answered, “since it is your 
 pleasure, I will return among the Augustines. 
 But I ask, as simple justice, that, if I am to 
 be hunted by dogs as a beast of prey, all who 
 were in the same circumstances as myself 
 may become subject to the same rule. This 
 pilgrim and the Neapolitan came up the 
 mountain yesterday, as well as myself, and I 
 demand their arrest until they too can give 
 an account of themselves. It will not be the 
 first time that we have been inhabitants of 
 the same prison.” 
 
 Conrad crossed himself in submission, 
 neither he nor Pippo raising any objection to 
 the step. On the contrary, each frankly ad- 
 mitted it was no more than equitable on its 
 face. : 
 
 “We are poor travellers on whom many 
 
168 
 
 accidents have already alighted, and we may 
 well be pressed to reach the end of our jour- 
 ney,” said the pilgrim; “but that justice may 
 be done, we shall submit without a murmur. 
 I am loaded with the sins of many besides 
 my own, however, and St. Peter he knows 
 that the tast are not ight. This holy canon 
 will see that masses are said in the convent 
 chapel in behalf of those for whom I travel; 
 this duty done, I am an infant in your 
 hands.” 
 
 The good Augustine professed the perfect 
 readiness of the fraternity to pray for all who 
 were in necessity, with the single proviso that 
 they should be Christians. With this amicable 
 understanding then, the peace was made be- 
 tween them, and the parties immediately took 
 the path that led back to the convent. On 
 reaching the building, Maso, with the two 
 travellers who had been found in his com- 
 pany, were placed in safe keeping in one of 
 the rooms of the solid edifice, until the re- 
 turn of the clavier should enable them to 
 vindicate their innocence. 
 
 Satisfied with himself for the part he had 
 acted in the late affair, Sigismund strolled 
 into the chapel, where at that early hour 
 some of the brotherhood were always occu- 
 pied in saying masses in behalf of the souls 
 of the living or of the dead. He was here 
 when he received a note from the Signor Gri- 
 maldi, apprising him of the arrest of his 
 father, and the dark suspicions that were so 
 naturally connected with the transaction. It 
 is unnecessary to dwell on the nature of the 
 shock he received from this intelligence. 
 After afew moments of bitter anguish, he 
 perceived the urgency of making his sister 
 acquainted with the truth as speedily as pos- 
 sible. The arrival of the party from the 
 refuge was expected every moment, and by 
 delay he increased the risk of Christine’s 
 hearing the appalling fact from some other 
 quarter. He sought an audience, therefore, 
 with Adelheid the instant he had summoned 
 sufficient self-command to undertake the 
 duty. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Willading was struck with 
 the pale brow and agitated air of the young 
 soldier, at the first glance of her eye. 
 
 “Thou hast permitted this unexpected 
 blow to affect thee unusually, Sigismund,” 
 she said, smiling, and offering her hand ; for 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 she felt that the circumstances were those in 
 which cold and heartless forms should give 
 place to feeling and sincerity. ‘‘ Thy sister 
 is tranquil, if not happy.” 
 
 “She does not know the worst—she has 
 yet to learn the most cruel part of the truth, 
 Adelheid ; they have found one concealed 
 among the dead of the bone-house, and are 
 now leading him here as the murderer of 
 poor Jacques Colis!” 
 
 «‘ Another!” said Adelheid, turning pale 
 in alarm. ‘‘ We appear to be surrounded by 
 assassins |” 
 
 ‘« No, it cannot be true! JI know my poor 
 father’s mildness of disposition too well ; his 
 habitual tenderness to all around him ; his 
 horror at the sight of blood, even for his odi- 
 ous task !” 
 
 ‘Sigismund, thy father !” 
 
 The young man groaned. Concealing his 
 face with his hands, he sank into a seat. 
 The fearful truth, with all its causes and con- 
 sequences, began to dawn upon Adelheid. 
 Sinking upon a chair herself, she sat long 
 looking at the convulsed and working frame 
 of Sigismund in silent horror. It appeared 
 to her, that Providence, for some great but 
 secret purpose, was disposed to visit them all 
 with more than a double amount of its anger, 
 and that a family which had been accursed 
 for so many generations, was about to fill the 
 measure of its woes. Still her own true heart 
 did not change. On the contrary, its long- 
 cherished and secret purpose rather grew 
 stronger under this sudden appeal to its gen- 
 erous and noble properties, and never was the 
 resolution to devote herself, her life, and all 
 her envied hopes, to the solace of his unmer- 
 ited wrongs, so strong riveted as at that try- 
 ing moment. 
 
 In a little time Sigismund regained enough 
 self-command to be able to commence the 
 narrative of what had gpassed. They then 
 concerted together the best means to make 
 Christine acquainted with that which it was 
 absolutely necessary she should now know. 
 
 ‘¢ Tell her the simple truth,” added Sigis- 
 mund; “it cannot long be concealed, and it 
 were better that she knew it ; but tell her, 
 also, my firm dependence on our father’s in- 
 nocence. God, for one of those inserutable 
 purposes which set human intelligence at de- 
 fiance, has made him a common executioner, 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 but the curse has not extended to his nature. 
 Trust me, dearest Adelheid, a more gentle, 
 dovye-like nature does not exist in man than 
 that of the poor Balthazar—the despised and 
 persecuted Balthazar. I have heard my mother 
 dwell upon the nights of anguish and suffer- 
 ings that have preceded the day on which the 
 duties of his office were to be discharged ; and 
 often have I heard that admirable woman, 
 whose spirit is far more equal to support our 
 unmerited fortunes, declare she has often 
 prayed that he and all that are hers, might 
 die, so that they died innocently, rather than 
 one of a temper so gentle and harmless should 
 again be brought to endure the agony she had 
 witnessed !” 
 
 ‘Tt is unhappy that he should be here at 
 so lucklessa moment! What unhappy mo- 
 tives can have led thy father to this spot, ata 
 time so extraordinary ? ” 
 
 “Christine will tell thee that she expected 
 to see him at the convent. We are a race 
 proscribed, Mademoiselle de Willading, but 
 we are human.” 
 
 ‘Dearest Sigismund 
 
 “T feel my injustice, and can only pray to 
 be forgiven. But there are moments of feel- 
 ing so intense, that I am ready to believe and 
 treat all of my species as common enemies. 
 Christine is an only daughter, and thou thy- 
 self, beloved Adelheid, kind, dutiful, and 
 good as I know thee to be, art not more dear 
 to the Baron de Willading than my poor sis- 
 ter is among us. Her parents lave yielded 
 her to thy generous kindness, for they believe 
 it for her good; but their hearts have been 
 wrung by the separation. Thou didst not 
 know it, but Christine took her last embrace 
 of her mother here on the mountain, at 
 Liddes, and it was then agreed that her 
 father should watch her in safety over the 
 Col, and bestow the final blessing at Aoste. 
 Mademoiselle de Willading, you move in 
 pride, surrounded by many protectors, who 
 are honored in doing you service; but the 
 abased and the hunted must indulge even 
 their best affections stealthily, and without 
 obtrusion! The love and tenderness of Bal- 
 thazar would pass for mockery with the vul- 
 gar! Such is man in his habits and opinions, 
 when wrong usurps the place of right.” 
 
 Adelheid saw that the moment was not 
 favorable for urging consolation, and she ab- 
 
 39 
 
 169 
 
 stained froma reply. She rejoiced, however, 
 to hear the presence of the headsman so sat- 
 isfactorily accounted for, though she could 
 not quiet herself from apprehension of the 
 universal weakness of human nature, which 
 so suddenly permits the perversion of the 
 best of our passions to the worst, and the 
 dreadful probability that Balthazar, suffering 
 intensely by this compelled separation from 
 his daughter, on accidentally encountering 
 the man who was its cause, might have lis- 
 tened to some violent impulse of resentment 
 and. revenge. She saw also that Sigismund, 
 in despite of his general confidence in the 
 principles of his father, had fearful glimmer- 
 ings of some such event, and that he fearfully 
 anticipated the worst, even while he most 
 professed confidence in the innocence of the 
 accused. ‘The interview was soon ended, and 
 they separated; each endeavoring to invent 
 plausible reasons for what had happened. 
 
 The arrival of the party from the Refuge 
 took place soon afterward. It was followed 
 by the necessary explanations, and a more 
 detailed narrative of all that had passed. A 
 consultation was held between the chiefs of 
 the brotherhood and the two old nobles, and 
 the course it was most expedient to pursue 
 was calmly and prudently discussed. 
 
 The result was not known for some hours 
 later. It was then generally proclaimed in 
 the convent that a grave and legal investiga- 
 tion of all the facts was to take place with 
 the least possible delay. 
 
 The Col of St. Bernard, as has been stated 
 already, lies within the limits of the present 
 canton, but what was then the allied state of 
 the Valais. The crime had consequently 
 been committed within the jurisdiction of 
 that country; but as the Valais was thus 
 leagued with Switzerland, there existed such 
 an intimate understanding between the two, 
 that it was rare any grave proceedings were 
 had against a citizen of either in the dominion 
 of the other, without paying great deference 
 to the feelings and the rights of the country 
 of the accused. Messengers were therefore 
 dispatched to Vévey, to inform the authorities 
 of that place of a transaction which involved 
 the safety of an officer of the great canton 
 (for such was Balthazar), and which had cost 
 a citizen of Vaud his life. On the other 
 hand, a similar communication was sent to 
 
170 
 
 Sion, the two places being about equidistant | last rays of the sun. 
 
 from the convent, with such pressing invita- 
 tions to the authorities to be prompt as were 
 deemed necessary to bring on an immediate 
 investigation. Melchior de Willading, in a 
 letter to his friend the bailiff, set forth the 
 inconvenience of his return with Adelheid 
 at that late season, and the importance of 
 the functionary’s testimony, with such other 
 statements as were likely to effect his wishes; 
 while the superior of the brotherhood charged 
 himself with making representations, with a 
 similar intent, to the heads of his own repub- 
 lic. Justice in that age was not administered 
 as frankly and openly as in this later period, 
 its agents in the old world exercising even 
 now a discretion that we are not accustomed 
 to see confided to them. Her proceedings 
 were enveloped in darkness, the blind deity 
 being far more known in her decrees than in 
 her principles, and mystery was then deemed 
 an important auxiliary of power. 
 
 With this brief explanation we shall shift 
 the time to the third day from that on which 
 the travellers reached the convent, referring 
 the reader to the succeeding chapter for an 
 account of what it brought forth. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ** Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat, 
 All pride and business, bustle and conceit ; 
 With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe, 
 With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go. 
 He bids the gazing throng around him fly, 
 And carries fate and physic in his eye.” —CRABBE. 
 
 THERE is another receptacle for those who 
 die on the Great St. Bernard, hard by the 
 convent itself. At the close of the time 
 mentioned in the last chapter, and near the 
 approach of night, Sigismund was pacing the 
 rocks on which this little chapel stands, 
 buried in reflections to which his own history 
 and the recent events had given birth. The 
 snow that fell during the late storm had en- 
 tirely disappeared, and the frozen element 
 was now visible only on those airy pinnacles 
 that form the higher peaks of the Alps. 
 Twilight had already settled into the lower 
 valleys, but the whole of the superior region 
 was glowing with the fairy-like lustre of the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 The air was chill, for 
 at that hour and season, whatever might be 
 the state of the weather, the evening in- 
 variably brought with it a positive sensation 
 of cold in the gorge of St. Bernard, where 
 frosts prevailed at night, even in midsummer. 
 Still the wind, though strong, was balmy 
 and soft, blowing athwart the heated plains 
 of Lombardy, and reaching the mountains 
 charged with the moisture of the Adriatic 
 and the Mediterranean. As the young man 
 turned in his walk and faced this breeze, it 
 came over his spirit with a feeling of hope 
 and home. ‘The greater part of his life had 
 been passed in the sunny country whence it 
 blew, and there were moments when he was 
 lulled into forgetfulness by the grateful rec- 
 ollections imparted by its fragrance. But 
 when compelled to turn northward again, 
 and his eye fell on the misty, hoary piles 
 that distinguished his native land, rude and 
 ragged faces of rock, frozen glaciers, and 
 deep ravine-like valleys and glens, seemed to 
 him to be types of his own stormy, unprofit- 
 able, and fruitless life, and to foretell a career 
 which, though it might have touches of 
 grandeur, was doomed to be barfen of all 
 that is genial and consolatory. 
 
 All in and about the convent was still. 
 The mountain had an imposing air of deep 
 
 solitude amid the wildest natural magnifi- 
 
 cence. Few travellers had passed since the 
 storm, and, luckily for those who, under 
 the peculiar circumstances in which they 
 were placed, had so much desired privacy, 
 all of these had diligently gone their several 
 ways. None were left, therefore, on the Col, 
 but those who had an interest in the serious 
 investigations which were about to take 
 place. An officer of justice from Sion, wear- 
 ing the livery of Valais, appeared at a win- 
 dow, a sign that the regular authorities of 
 
 the country had taken cognizance of the 
 
 murder; but disappearing, the young man, 
 to all external appearance, was left in the 
 solitary possession of the pass. Even the 
 dogs had been kennelled, and the pious 
 monks were healthfully occupied in the re- 
 ligious offices of the vespers. 
 
 Sigismund turned his eyes upward to the 
 apartment in which Adelheid and his sister 
 
 dwelt, but as the solemn moment in which ~ 
 
 so much was to be decided drew nearer, they 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 also had withdrawn into themselves, ceasing 
 to hold communion, even by means of the 
 eyes, with aught that might divert their holy 
 and pure thoughts from ceaseless and intense 
 devotional reflections. 
 been occasionally favored with an answering 
 and kind look from one or the other of these 
 single-hearted and affectionate girls, both of 
 whom he so warmly loved, though with 
 sentiments so different. It seemed that they 
 too had at last left him to his isolated and 
 hopeless existence. Sensible that this pass- 
 ing thought was weak and unmanly, the 
 young man renewed his walk, and instead of 
 turning as before, he moved slowly on, stop- 
 ping only when he had reached the opening 
 of the little chapel of the dead. 
 
 Unlike the building lower down the path, 
 the bone-house at the convent is divided into 
 two apartments; the exterior, and one that 
 may be called interior, though both are open 
 to the weather. The former contained piles 
 of disjointed human bones, bleached by the 
 storms that beat in at the windows, while 
 the latter is consecrated to the covering of 
 those that still preserve, in their outward ap- 
 pearance at least, some of the more familiar 
 traces of humanity. The first had its usual 
 complement of dissevered and confounded 
 fragments, in which the remains of young 
 and old, of the two sexes, the fierce and the 
 meek, the penitent and the sinner, lay in 
 indiscriminate confusion—an eloquent re- 
 proach to the pride of man; while the walls 
 of the last supported some twenty blackened 
 and shrivelled effigies of the race, to show to 
 what a pass of disgusting and frightful de- 
 formity the human form can be reduced, when 
 deprived of that noble principle which likens 
 it to its Divine Creator. On a table, in the 
 centre of a group of black and grinning com- 
 panions in misfortune, sat all that was left 
 of Jacques Colis, who had been removed 
 from the bone-house below to this at the 
 convent for purposes connected with the 
 coming investigation. The body was acci- 
 dentally placed in such an attitude that the 
 face was brought within the line of the part- 
 ing light, while it had no other covering than 
 the clothes worn by the murdered man in 
 life. Sigismund gazed long at the pallid 
 lineaments. They were still distorted with 
 the agony produced by separating the soul 
 
 Until now he had: 
 
 171 
 
 from the body. All feeling of resentment 
 for his sister’s wrongs was lost in pity for the 
 fate that had so suddenly overtaken one, in 
 whom the passions, the interests, and the 
 complicated machinery of this state of being, 
 were so actively at work. Then came the 
 bitter apprehension that his own father, in a 
 moment of ungovernable anger, excited by 
 the accumulated wrongs that bore so hard on 
 him and his, might really have been the 
 instrument of effecting the fearful and sud- 
 den change. Sickening with the thought, 
 the young man turned and walked away 
 toward the brow of the declivity. Voices, 
 ascending to his ear, recalled him to the 
 actual situation of things. 
 
 A train of mules were climbing the last 
 acclivity where the path takes the broken 
 precipitous appearance of a flight of steps. 
 The light was still sufficient to distinguish 
 the forms and general appearance of the 
 travellers. Sigismund immediately recog- 
 nized them to be the bailiff of Vévey and 
 his attendants, for whose arrival the formal 
 proceedings of the examination had alone 
 been stayed. 
 
 ‘‘A fair evening, Herr Sigismund, and a 
 happy meeting,” cried Peterchen, so soon as 
 his weary mule, which frequently halted 
 under its unwieldy burden, had brought 
 him within hearing. ‘‘ Little did I think to 
 see thee again so quickly, and less still to 
 lay eyes on this holy convent; for though 
 the traveller might have returned in thy per- 
 son, nothing short of a miracle 7 rere 
 the bailiff winked, for he was one of those 
 Protestants whose faith was most manifested 
 in these side-hits at the opinions and _ prac- 
 tices of Rome,—‘‘ Nothing but a miracle, I 
 say, and that too a miracle of some saint 
 whose bones have been drying these ten 
 thousand years, until every morsel of our 
 weak flesh has fairly disappeared, could 
 bring down old St. Bernard’s abode upon the 
 shores of the Leman. I have known many 
 who have left Vaud to cross the Alps come 
 back and winter in Vévey ; but never did I 
 know the stone that was placed upon another, 
 in a workmanlike manner, quit its bed with- 
 out help from the hand of man. They say 
 stones are particularly hard-hearted, and yet 
 your saint and miracle-monger hath a way to 
 move them ?” 
 
172 
 
 Peterchen chuckled at his own pleasantry, 
 as men'in authority are apt to enjoy that 
 which comes exclusively of their own clever- 
 ness, and he winked round among his fol- 
 lowers, as if he would invite them to bear 
 witness to the rap he had given the Papists, 
 even on their own exclusive ground. When 
 the platform of the Col was attained, he 
 checked the mule and continued his ad- 
 dress, for want of wind had nipped his wit, 
 as it might be, in the bud. 
 
 «<A bad business this, Herr Sigismund ; a 
 thoroughly bad affair. It has drawn me far 
 from home, at a ticklish season, and it has 
 unexpectedly stopped the Herr von Willa- 
 ding” (he spoke in German) “in his journey 
 over the mountains, and that, too, at a 
 moment when all had need be diligent 
 among the Alps. How does the keen air 
 of the Col agree with the fair Adelheid ?” 
 
 “God be thanked, Herr Bailiff, in bodily 
 health that excellent young lady was never 
 better.” 
 
 ‘God be thanked, right truly! She is a 
 tender flower, and one that might be sud- 
 denly cut off by the frosts of St. Bernard. 
 And the noble Genoese who travels with so 
 much modest simplicity, in a way to reprove 
 the vain and idle—I hope he.does not miss 
 the sun among our rocks ?” 
 
 ‘He is an Italian, and must think of us 
 according to his habits; though in the way 
 of health he seems at ease.” 
 
 “Well, this is consolatory! Herr Sigis- 
 mund, were the truth known,” rejoined 
 Peterchen, bending as far forward on his 
 mule as a certain protuberance of his body 
 would permit, and then suddenly drawing 
 himself up again in reserve—‘‘ but a State 
 secret is a State secret, and least of all should 
 it escape one who is truly and legitimately 
 a child of the State. My love and friend- 
 ship for Melchior von Willading are great, 
 and of right excellent quality ; but I should 
 not have visited this pass, were it not to do 
 honor to our guest the Genoese. I would 
 not that the noble stranger went down from 
 our hills with an unsavory opinion of our 
 hospitality. Hath the honorable chatelaine 
 from Sion reached the hill ? ” 
 
 ‘‘He has been among us since the turn of 
 the day, mein herr, and is now in conference 
 with those you have just named, on matters 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 connected with the object of your common 
 visit.” 
 
 ‘‘He is an honest magistrate! and like 
 ourselves, Master Sigismund, he comes of the 
 pure German root, which is a foundation to 
 support merit, though it might better be 
 said by another. Had he a comfortable 
 THe. 
 
 ‘*T have heard no complaint of his ascent.” 
 
 ‘?Tis well. When the magistrate goes 
 forth to do justice, he has a right to look for 
 a fair time. All are then comfortable;—the 
 noble Genoese, the honorable Melchior, and 
 the worthy chatelain. And Jacques Colis?” 
 
 “¢You know his unhappy fate, Herr Bail- 
 iff,” returned Sigismund briefly; for he was 
 a little vexed with the other’s phlegm in a 
 matter that so nearly touched his own feel- 
 ings. 
 
 “Tf I did not know it, Herr Steinbach, 
 dost think I should now be here, instead of 
 preparing for a warm bed near the great 
 square of Vévey? Poor Jacques Colis! 
 Well, he did the ceremonies of the abbaye an 
 ill turn in refusing to buckle with the heads- 
 man’s daughter, but I do not know that he 
 at all deserved the fate with which he has 
 met.” 
 
 “God forbid that any who were hurt, and 
 that perhaps not without reason, by his want 
 of faith, should think his weakness merited 
 a punishment so heavy !” 
 
 “Thou speakest like a sensible youth, a 
 very sensible youth—aye, and like a Chris- 
 tian, Herr Sigismund,” answered Peterchen, 
 “and I approve of thy words. To refuse to 
 wive a maiden and to be murdered, are very 
 different offences, and should not be con- 
 founded. Dost think these Augustines keep 
 kirschwasser among theirstores? It is strong 
 work to climb up to their abode, and strong 
 toil needs strong drink. Well, should they 
 not be so provided, we must make the best 
 of their other liquors. Herr Sigismund, do 
 me the favor to lend me thy arm.” 
 
 The bailiff now alighted with stiffened 
 limbs, and, taking the arm of the other, he 
 moved slowly toward the building. 
 
 “Tt is damnable to bear malice, and doubly 
 damnable to bear malice against the dead! 
 Therefore, I beg you to take notice that I 
 have quite forgotten the recent conduct of 
 the deceased in the matter of our public 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 games, as it becomes an impartial and up- 
 right judge todo. Poor Jacques Colis! Ah, 
 death is awful at any time, but it is tenfold 
 terrible to die in this sudden manner, post- 
 haste, as it were, and that, too, on a path 
 where we put one foot before the other with 
 so much bodily pain. This is the ninth visit 
 Ihave made the Augustines, and I cannot 
 flatter the holy monks on the subject of their 
 roads, much as I wish them well. Is the 
 reverend clavier back at his post again ?” 
 
 «He is, and has been active in taking the 
 usual examinations.” 
 
 “ Activity is his strong property, and he 
 needs be that, Herr Steinbach, who passeth 
 the life of a mountaineer. The noble Geno- 
 ese, and my ancient friend Melchior, and his 
 fair daughter the beautiful Adelheid, and 
 the equitable chatelain, thou sayest, are all 
 fairly reposed and comfortable ?” 
 
 «“Fferr Bailiff, they have reason to thank 
 God that the late storm and their mental 
 troubles have done them no harm.” 
 
 « So—I would these Augustines kept kirsch- 
 wasser among their liquors!” 
 
 Peterchen entered the convent, where his 
 presence alone was wanting to proceed to busi- 
 ness. The mules were housed, the guides re- 
 ceived as usual in the building, and then the 
 preparations for the long-delayed examina- 
 tions were seriously commenced. 
 
 It has already been mentioned that the 
 fraternity of St. Bernard was of very ancient 
 origin. It was founded in the year 962 by 
 Bernard de Menthon, an Augustine canon of 
 Aoste in Piedmont, for the double purpose 
 of bodily succor and spiritual consolation. 
 The idea of establishing a religious commun- 
 ity in the midst of savage rocks, and at the 
 highest point trod by the foot of a man, was 
 worthy of Christian self-denial and a benevo- 
 lent philanthropy. The experiment appears 
 to have succeeded in a degree that is com- 
 mensurate with its noble intention; for cen- 
 turies have gone by, civilization has under- 
 gone a thousand changes, empires have been 
 formed and upturned, thrones destroyed, 
 and one half the world has been rescued from 
 barbarism, while this piously founded edifice 
 still remains in its simple and respectable 
 usefulness where it was first erected, the ref- 
 uge of the traveller and a shelter for the 
 “poor. 
 
 173 
 
 The convent buildings are necessarily vast, 
 but, as all its other materials had to be trans- 
 ported to the place it occupies on the back of 
 mules, they are constructed chiefly of the fer- 
 ruginous, hoary-looking stones that were 
 quarried from the native rock. The cells of 
 the monks, the long corridors, refectories for 
 the different classes of travellers, and suited 
 to the numbers of the guests, as well as those 
 for the canons and their servants, and lodg- 
 ing rooms of different degrees of magnitude: 
 and convenience, with a chapel of some an-- 
 tiquity and of proper size, composed then, as: 
 now, the internal arrangements. There is no- 
 luxury, some comfort in behalf of those in: 
 whom indulgence has become a habit, and 
 much of the frugal hospitality that is ad- 
 dressed to the personal wants and the decen- 
 cies of life. Beyond this, the building, the 
 entertainment, and the brotherhood are | 
 marked by a severe monastic self-denial, 
 which appears to have received a character of 
 
 | barren and stern simplicity from the unvary- 
 
 ing nakedness of all that meets the eye in 
 that region of frost and sterility. 
 
 We shall not stop to say much of the little 
 courtesies and the ceremonious asseverations 
 of mutual good-will and respect that passed 
 between the Bailiff of Vévey and the Prior of 
 St. Bernard, on the occasion of their present 
 meeting. Peterchen was known to the 
 brotherhood, and, though a Protestant, and 
 one too that did not forbear to deliver his jest 
 or his witticism against Rome and its flock at 
 will, he was sufficiently well-esteemed. In 
 all the quétes or collections of the convent, 
 the well-meaning Bernois had really shown 
 himself a man of bowels, and one that was 
 disposed to favor humanity, even while it, 
 helped the cause of his arch-enemy, the Pope. 
 The clavier was always well received, not only 
 in his bailiwick but in his chateau, and in 
 spite of numberless little skirmishes on doc- 
 trine and practice, they always met with a@ 
 welcome and generally parted in peace. 
 This feeling of amity and good-will extended 
 to the superior and to all the others of the 
 holy community, for in addition to a certain 
 heartiness of character in the bailiff, there 
 was mutual interest to maintain it. At the 
 period of which we write, the vast possessions 
 with which the monks of St. Bernard had 
 formerly been endowed were already much re- 
 
174 
 
 duced by sequestrations in different countries, 
 that of Savoy in particular, and they were re- 
 duced then, as now, to seek supplies to meet 
 the constant demands of travellers in the lib- 
 erality of the well-disposed and charitable ; 
 and the liberality of Peterchen was thought 
 to be cheaply purchased by his jokes, while, 
 on the other hand, he had so many occasions, 
 either in his own person or those of his 
 friends, to visit the convent, that he always 
 forbore to push contention to a quarrel. 
 
 ‘* Welcome again, Herr Bailiff, and for the 
 ninth time welcome!” continued the prior, 
 as he took the hand of Peterchen, leading the 
 way to his own private parlor; ‘thou art al- 
 ways a welcome guest on the mountain, for 
 we know that we entertain at least a friend.” 
 
 ‘“‘ And a heretic,” added Peterchen, laugh- 
 ing with all his might, though he uttered a 
 
 joke which he now repeated for the ninth 
 time. ‘‘ We have met often, Herr Prior, and 
 
 I hope we shall meet finally, after all our 
 clamberings of mountains, as well as our 
 clambering after worldly benefits, is ended, 
 and that where honest men come together, in 
 spite of Pope or Luther, books, sermons, aves, 
 or devils! This thought cheers me whenever 
 I offer thee my hand,” shaking that of the 
 other with a hearty good-will; ‘for I should 
 not like to think, Father Michael, that, when 
 we set out on the last long journey, we are to 
 travel forever in different ways. ‘Thou may’st 
 tarry awhile, if thou seest fit, in thy purga- 
 tory, which is a lodging of thine own inven- 
 tion, and should therefore suit thee, but I 
 trust to continue on, until fairly housed in 
 heaven, miserable and unhappy sinner that I 
 am !” 
 
 Peterchen spoke in the confident voice of 
 one accustomed to utter his sentiments to in- 
 feriors, who either dared not, or did not deem 
 it wise to dispute his oracles; and he ended 
 with another deep-mouthed laugh, that filled 
 the vaulted apartment of the smiling prior to 
 the ceiling. Father Michael took all in good 
 part, answering, as was his wont, in mildness 
 and good-tempered charity; for he was a 
 priest of much learning, deep reflection, and 
 rebuked opinions. The community over 
 which he presided was so far worldly in its 
 objects as to keep the canons in constant 
 communion with men, and he would not now 
 have met for the first time one of those self- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 satisfied, authoritative, boisterous, 
 meaning beings, of whose class Peterchen 
 formed so conspicuous a member, had this 
 been the first of the bailiff’s visits to the Col. 
 As it was, however, the prior not only under- 
 stood the species, but he well knew the indi- 
 vidual specimen, and he was well enough dis- 
 posed to humor the noisy pleasantry of his 
 companion. Disburdened of his superfluous 
 clothing, delivered of his introductory jokes, 
 and having achieved his salutations to the 
 several canons, with suitable words of recog- 
 nition to the three or four novices who were 
 usually found on the mountain, Peterchen 
 declared his readiness to enter on the duty of 
 what the French call restoration. This want 
 had been foreseen, and the prior led the way 
 to a private refectory, where preparations 
 had been made for a sufficient supper, the 
 bailiff being very generally known to be a 
 huge feeder. 
 
 “Thou wilt not fare as well asin thy warm 
 and cheerful town of Vévey, which outdoes 
 most of Italy in its pleasantness and fruits ; 
 but thou shalt, at least, drink of thine own 
 warm wines,” observed the superior, as they 
 went along the corridor; ‘‘and a right good 
 company awaits thee, to share not only thy 
 repast, but thy good companionship.” 
 
 ‘‘ Hast ever a drop of kirschwasser, Brother 
 Michael, in thy convent ? ” 
 
 ‘“ We have not. only that, but we have the 
 Baron de Willdading, and a noble Genoese 
 who is in his company; they are ready to set 
 to, the moment they can see thy face.” _ 
 
 “A noble Genoese ” 
 
 ‘“‘An Italian gentleman, of a certainty; I 
 think they call him a Genoese.” 
 
 Peterchen stopped, laid a finger on his 
 nose, and looked mysterious; but he forbore 
 to speak, for, by the open, simple counten- 
 ance of the monk, he saw that the other had 
 no suspicion of his meaning. 
 
 **J will hazard my office of bailiff against 
 that of thy worthy clavier, that he is just 
 what he seemeth—that is to say,a Genoese! ” 
 
 ‘The risk will not be great, for so he has 
 already announced himself. We ask no 
 questions here, and be he who or what he 
 may, he is welcome to come, and welcome to 
 depart, in peace.” 
 
 “Aye, this is well enough for an Augustine 
 on the top of the Alps—he hath attendants ?” 
 
 well-. 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 ‘* A menial and-a friend; the latter, how- 
 ever, left the convent for Italy, when the 
 noble Genoese determined to remain until 
 this inquiry was over. There was something 
 
 ‘said of heavy affairs, which required that 
 some explanations of the delay should be sent 
 to others.” 
 
 Peterchen again looked steadily at the 
 prior, smiling, as in pity of his ignorance. 
 
 «Look thou, good prior, much as I love 
 thee and thy convent, and Melchior von Wili- 
 ading and his daughter, I would have spared 
 myself this journey but for that same Genoese. 
 Let there be no questions, however, between 
 us; the proper time to speak will come, and 
 God forbid that I should be precipitate: 
 Thou shalt then see in what manner a bailiff 
 of the great canton can acquit himself! At 
 present we will trust to thy prudence. The 
 friend hath gone to Italy in haste, that the 
 delay may not create surprise. Well, each 
 one to his humor on the highway; it is mine 
 to journey in honor and security, though 
 others may havea different taste. Let there 
 
 be little said, good Michael; not so much as 
 an impudent look of the eye;—and now, 0” 
 Heaven’s sake, thy glass of kirschwasser!” 
 
 They were at the door of the refectory, and 
 the conversation ceased. On entering, Peter- 
 chen found his friend the Baron, the Signor 
 Grimaldi, and the chatelain of Sion, a grave 
 ponderous dignitary of justice of German 
 extraction, like himself and the prior, but 
 whose race, from a long residence on the con- 
 fines of Italy, had imbibed some peculiarities 
 of the southern character. Sigismund and 
 all the rest of the travellers were precluded 
 from joining the repast, to which it was the 
 intention of the prudent canons to give a 
 semi-official character. 
 
 The meeting between Peterchen and those 
 who had so lately quitted Vévey was not dis- 
 tinguished by any extraordinary movements 
 of courtesy ; but that between the bailiff and 
 the chatelain, who represented the authori- 
 ties of friendly and adjoining States, was 
 marked by a profusion of politic and diplo- 
 matic civilities. Various personal and public 
 inquiries,were exchanged, each appearing to 
 strive to outdo the other in manifesting inter- 
 est in the smallest details on those points in 
 which it was proper for a stranger to feel an 
 interest. Though the distance between the 
 
 175 
 
 two capitals was fully fifteen leagues, every 
 foot of the ground was travelled over by one 
 or the other of the parties, either in com- 
 mendation of its beauties, or in questions 
 that touched its interests. 
 
 “We come equally of Teutonic fathers, 
 Herr Chatelain,’ concluded the bailiff, as 
 the whole party placed themselves at table, 
 after the reverences and homages were thor- 
 oughly exhausted, ‘though Providence has 
 cast our fortunes in different countries. I 
 
 | swear to thee, that the sound of thy German 
 
 is music to my ears! Thou hast wonderfully 
 escaped corruptions, though compelled to 
 consort so much with the bastards of Ro- 
 mans, Celts, and Burgundians, of whom thou 
 hast so many in this portion of thy States. 
 It is curious to observe,”—for Peterchen had 
 a little of an antiquarian flavor among other 
 crude elements of his character—“ that when- 
 ever a much-trodden path traverses a coun- 
 try, its people catch the blood as well as the 
 opinions of those who travel it, after the 
 manner that tares are scattered and sown by 
 the passing winds. Here has the St. Bernard 
 been a thoroughfare since the time of the 
 Romans, and thou wilt find as many races 
 among those who dwell on the wayside, as 
 there are villages between the convent and 
 Vévey. It is not so with you of the Upper 
 Valais, Herr Chatelain; there the pure race 
 exists as it came from the other side of the 
 Rhine, and honored and preserved may it 
 continue for another thousand years !” 
 There are few people so debased in their 
 own opinion as not to be proud of their 
 peculiar origin and character. The habit of 
 always viewing ourselves, our motives, and 
 even our conduct, on the favorable side, is 
 the parent of self-esteem; and this weakness 
 carried into communities, commonly gets to 
 be the cause of a somewhat fallacious gauge 
 of merit among the population of entire 
 countries. Thechdtelain, Melchior de Willa- 
 ding, and the prior, all of whom came from 
 the same Teutonic root, received the remark 
 complacently, for each felt it an honor to be 
 descended from such ancestors; while the 
 more polished and artificial Italian succeeded 
 in concealing the smile that on such an occa- 
 sion would be apt to play about the mouth 
 of a man whose parentage ran through a long 
 line of sophisticated and politic nobles, into 
 
176 
 
 the consuls and patricians of Rome, and 
 most probably through these again into the 
 wily and ingenious Greek, a root distin- 
 guished for civilization when these patriarchs 
 of the north lay buried in the depths of bar- 
 barism. | 
 
 This little display of national vanity ended, 
 the discourse took a more general turn. 
 Nothing occurred during the entertainment, 
 however, to denote that any of the company 
 bethought him of the business on which they 
 had met. But, just as twilight failed, and 
 the repast was ended, the prior invited his 
 guests to lend their attention to the matter 
 in hand, recalling them from their friendly 
 attacks, their time-worn jokes, and their at- 
 tenuated logic, in all of which Peterchen, 
 Melchior, and the chatelain had indulged 
 with some freedom, to a question involving 
 the life or death of at least one of their fel- 
 low-creatures. 
 
 The subordinates of the convent were oc- 
 cupied during the supper with the arrange- 
 ments that had been previously commanded, 
 and when Father Michael arose and inti- 
 mated to his companions that their presence 
 was now expected elsewhere, he led them to 
 a place that had been completely prepared 
 for their reception. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 ‘* Was ever tale 
 With such a gallant modesty rehearsed? ”—Homnr. 
 
 PURPOSES of convenience, as well as others 
 that were naturally connected with the re- 
 ligious opinions, not to say the superstitions 
 of most of the prisoners, had induced the 
 monks to select the chapel of the convent for 
 the judgment hall. This consecrated part of 
 the edifice was of sufficient size to contain all 
 who were accustomed to assemble within its 
 walls. It was decorated in the manner that 
 is usual to churches of the Romish persua- 
 sion, having its master altar, and two of 
 smaller size that were dedicated to esteemed 
 saints. A large lamp illuminated the place, 
 though the great altar lay in doubtful light, 
 leaving play for the imagination to people 
 and adorn that part of the chapel. Within 
 the railing of the choir there stood a table; 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 it held some object that was concealed from 
 view by a sweeping pall. Immediately be- 
 neath the lamp was placed another, which 
 served the purposes of the clavier, who acted 
 as a clerk on this occasion. 
 to fill the offices of judges took their stations 
 near. A knot of females were clustered 
 within the shadows of one of the side altars, 
 hovering around each other in the way that 
 their sensitive sex is known to interpose be- 
 tween the exhibition of its peculiar weak- 
 nesses and the rude observations of the 
 world. Stifled sobs and convulsive moye- 
 ments occasionally escaped this little group of 
 acutely feeling and warm-hearted beings, 
 betraying the strength of the emotions they 
 would fain conceal. The canons and novices 
 were ranged on one side, the guides and mu- 
 leteers formed a background to the whole, 
 while the fine form of Sigismund stood stern 
 and motionless as a statue, on the steps of 
 the altar which was opposite to the females. 
 He watched the minutest proceeding of the 
 investigation with a steadiness that was the 
 result of a severe practice in self-command, 
 and a jealous determination to suffer no new 
 wrong to be accumulated on the head of his 
 father. | 
 
 When the little confusion produced by the 
 entrance of the party from the refectory had 
 subsided, the prior made a signal to one of 
 the officers of justice. The man disappeared, 
 and shortly returned with one of the prison- 
 ers, the investigation being intended to em- 
 brace the cases of all who had been detained 
 by the prudence of the monks. Balthazar 
 (for it was he) approached the table in his 
 usual meek manner. His limbs were un- 
 bound, and his exterior calm, though the 
 quick unquiet movements of his eye, and the 
 workings of his pale features, whenever a 
 suppressed sob from among the females 
 reached his ear, betrayed the inward struggle 
 he had to maintain, in order to preserve ap- 
 pearances. When he was confronted with 
 his examiners, Father Michael bowed to the 
 chatelain ; for, though the others were ad- 
 mitted by courtesy to participate in the in- 
 vestigations, the legal right to proceed in an 
 affair of this nature within the limits of the 
 Valais, belonged to this functionary alone. 
 
 “Thou art called Balthazar?” abruptly 
 
 ' commenced the Judge, glancing at his notes. 
 
 They who were. 
 
 beta ae 
 
THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 The answer was a simple inclination of the 
 body. 
 
 _« And thou art the headsman of the canton 
 of Berne?” 
 
 A similar silent reply was given. 
 
 «The office is hereditary in thy family. 
 It has been so for ages? ” 
 
 Balthazar erected his frame, breathing 
 heavily, like one oppressed at the heart, but 
 who would bear down his feelings before he 
 answered. 
 
 “Herr Chatelain,” he said, with energy, 
 ‘“by the judgment of God it has been 
 so.” 
 
 <‘Honest Balthazar, thou throwest too 
 much emphasis into thy words,” interposed 
 the bailiff. ‘‘ All that belongs to authority is 
 honorable, and is not to be treated as an evil. 
 Hereditary claims, when venerable by time 
 and use, have a double estimation with the 
 world, since it brings the merit of the ances- 
 tor to sustain that of the descendant. We 
 have our rights of the biirgershaft, and thou 
 thy rights of execution. ‘I'he time has been 
 when thy fathers were well content with 
 their privilege.” 
 
 Balthazar bowed in submission; but he 
 seemed to think any other reply unnecessary. 
 The fingers of Sigismund writhed on the hilt 
 of his sword, and a groan, which the young 
 man well knew had been wrested from the 
 bosom of his mother, came from the women. 
 
 «¢The remark of the worthy and honorable 
 bailiff is just,’ resumed the Valaisan ; “all 
 that is of the state, is for the good of the 
 state, and all that is for the comfort and 
 security of man is honorable. Be not 
 ashamed, therefore, of thy office, Balthazar, 
 which, being necessary, is not to be idly con- 
 demned; but answer faithfully and with 
 truth to the questions I am about to put. 
 Thou hast a daughter ?” 
 
 “In that much, at least, have I been 
 blessed ! ” 
 
 The energy with which he spoke caused a 
 sudden movement in the judges. They 
 looked at each other in surprise, for it was 
 apparent they did not expect these touches 
 of human feeling in a man who lived, as it 
 were, in constant warfare with his fellow- 
 creatures. | 
 
 “Thou hast reason,” returned the chatel- 
 ain, recovering his gravity; ‘“‘forshe is said 
 
 17? 
 
 to be both dutiful and comely. Thou wert 
 about to marry this daughter ? ” 
 
 Balthazar acknowledged the truth of this 
 by another inclination. 
 
 “¢Didst thou ever know a Vévaisan of the 
 name of Jacques Colis?” 
 “Mein Herr, I did. 
 
 come my son.” 
 
 The chatelain was again surprised; for the 
 steadiness of the reply denoted innocence, 
 and he studied the countenance of the pris- 
 oner intently. He found apparent frankness 
 where he had expected to meet with subter- 
 fuge, and like all who have great acquaint- 
 ance with crime, his distrust increased. The 
 simplicity of one who really had nothing to 
 conceal, unlike that appearance of firmness 
 which is assumed to affect innocence set his 
 shrewdness at fault, though familiar with 
 most of the expedients of the guilty. 
 
 “This Jacques Colis was to have wived thy 
 daughter ?” continued the chatelain, grow- 
 ing more wary as he thought he detected 
 greater evidence of art in the accused. 
 
 “Tt was so understood between us.” 
 
 “Did he love thy child?” 
 
 The muscles of Balthazar’s mouth played 
 convulsively ; the twitchings of the lip seem- 
 ing to threaten a loss of self-command. 
 
 ‘¢ Mein Herr, I believed it.” 
 
 ‘Yet he refused to fulfil the engagement.” 
 
 a Reva REG oe 
 
 Even Marguerite was alarmed at the deep 
 emphasis with which this answer was given, 
 and for the first time in her life, she trembled 
 lest the accumulating load of obloquy had 
 indeed been too strong for her husband’s 
 principles. 
 
 “Thou felt’st anger at his conduct, and in 
 the public manner in which he disgraced 
 thee and thine ?” 
 
 “Herr Chatelain, I am human. When 
 Jacques Colis repudiated my daughter, he 
 bruised a tender plant in the girl, and he 
 caused bitterness in a father’s heart.” 
 
 «Thou hast received instruction superior 
 to thy condition, Balthazar ?” 
 
 ‘© We are a race of executioners, but we 
 are not the unnurtured herd that people 
 fancy. ’Tis the will of Berne that made me 
 what I am, and no desire nor wants of my 
 own.” 
 
 «‘The charge is honorable, as are all that 
 
 He was to have be- 
 
178 
 
 come of the state,” repeated the other, with 
 the formal readiness in which set phrases are 
 uttered ; “the charge is honorable for one of 
 
 thy birth. God assigns to each his station 
 on earth, and he has fixed thy duties. When 
 Jacques Colis refused thy daughter, he left 
 his country to escape thy revenge?” 
 
 “Were Jacques Colis living he would not 
 utter so foul a he!” 
 
 «T knew his honest and upright nature !” 
 exclaimed Marguerite, with energy. “God 
 pardon me that I ever doubted it !” 
 
 The judges turned inquisitive glances 
 toward the indistinct cluster of females, but 
 the examination did not the less proceed. 
 
 «Thou knowest, then, that Jacques Colis 
 is dead ?” 
 
 “ How can I doubt it, mine herr, when I 
 saw his bleeding body?” 
 
 “ Balthazar, thou seemest disposed to aid 
 the examination, though with what views 1s 
 better known to Him who sees the inmost 
 heart, than to me. I will come at once, 
 therefore, to the most essential facts. Thou 
 art a native and a resident of Berne, the 
 headsman of the canton—a creditable office 
 in itself, though the ignorance and preju- 
 dices of man are not apt so to consider it. 
 Thou would’st have married thy daughter 
 with a substantial peasant of Vaud. The 
 intended bridegroom repudiated thy child, 
 in face of the thousands who came to Vévey 
 to witness the festivities of the abbaye ; he 
 departed on a journey to avoid thee, or his 
 own feelings, or rumor, or what thou wilt. 
 He met his death by murder on this moun- 
 tain ; his body was discovered with the knife 
 in the recent wound, and thou, who should’st 
 have been on thy path homeward, wert found 
 passing the night near the murdered man. 
 Thine own reason will show thee the connec- 
 tion which we are led to form between these 
 several events, and thou art now required to 
 explain that which to us seems so suspicious, 
 but which to thyself may be clear. Speak 
 freely, but speak truth, as thou reverest God, 
 and in thine own interest.” 
 
 Balthazar hesitated, and appeared to col- 
 lect his thoughts. His head was lowered in 
 a thoughtful attitude, and then looking his 
 examiner steadily in the face, he replied. 
 His manner was calm, and the tone in which 
 he spoke, if not that of one innocent in fact, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 was that of one who well knew how to as- 
 sume the exterior of that character. 
 
 «Herr Chatelain,” he said, “I have fore- 
 seen the suspicions that would be apt to fas- 
 ten on me in these unhappy circumstances, 
 but, used to trust in Providence, I shall 
 speak the truth without fear. Of the inten- 
 tion of Jacques Colis to depart I knew noth- 
 ing. He went his way privately, and if you 
 will do me the justice to reflect a little, it 
 will be seen that I was the last man to whom 
 he would have been likely to let his inten- 
 tion be known. I came up the St. Bernard, 
 drawn by a chain that your own heart will 
 own is difficult to break if you are a father. 
 My daughter was on the road to Italy with 
 kind and true friends, who were not ashamed 
 to feel for a headsman’s child, and who took 
 her in order to heal the wound that had been 
 so unfeelingly inflicted.” 
 
 «This is true!” exclaimed the Baron de 
 Willading. “Balthazar surely says naught 
 but truth here!” 
 
 «This is known and allowed ; crime is not 
 always the result of cool determination, but 
 it comes of terror, of sudden thought, the 
 angry mood, the dire temptation, and a fair 
 occasion. Though thou left’st Vévey igno- 
 rant of Jacques Colis’ departure, didst thou 
 hear nothing of his movements by the way ?” 
 
 Balthazar changed color. There was evi- 
 
 dently a struggle in his bosom, as if he shrank 
 from making an acknowledgment that might 
 militate against his interests; but, glancing 
 an eye at the guides, he recovered his proper 
 tone of mind, and answered firmly: 
 “JT did. Pierre Dumont had heard the 
 tale of my child’s digrace, and ignorant that 
 I-was the injured parent, he told me of the 
 manner in which the unhappy man had re- 
 treated from the mockery of his companions. 
 I knew, therefore, that we were on the same 
 path.” 
 
 « And yet thou perseveredst ?” 
 
 ‘In what, Herr Chatelain? Was I to 
 desert my daughter, because one who had al- 
 ready proved false to her stood in my 
 way?” 
 
 «Thou hast well answered, Balthazar,” in- 
 terrupted Marguerite. “Thou hast answered 
 as became thee! We are few, and we are all 
 to each other. Thou wert not to forget our 
 child because it pleased others to despise her.” . 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi bent toward the 
 Valaisan, and whispered near his ear. 
 
 “This hath the air of nature,” he observed; 
  *and does it not account for the appearance 
 of the father on the road taken by the mur- 
 dered man?” 
 
 “We do not question the probability or 
 justness of such a motive, signor; but re- 
 venge may have suddenly mounted to the 
 height of ferocity in some wrangle: one accus- 
 tomed to blood yields easily to his passions 
 and his habits.” 
 
 The truth of these suggestions was plausi- 
 ble, and the noble Genoese drew back in cold 
 disappointment. The chatelain consulted 
 with those about him, and then desired the 
 wife to come forth in order to be confronted 
 with her husband. Marguerite obeyed. Her 
 movement was slow, and her whole manner 
 that of one who yielded to a stern necessity. 
 
 “Thou art the headsman’s wife ?” 
 
 « And a headsman’s daughter.” 
 
 -“ Marguerite is a well-disposed and a sensi- 
 ble woman,” put in Peterchen ; “ she under- 
 stands that an office under the state can never 
 bring disgrace in the eyes of reason, and 
 wishes no part of her history or origin to be 
 concealed.” 
 
 The glance that flashed from the eye of 
 
 Balthazar’s wife was withering ; but the dog- 
 matic bailiff was by far too well satisfied with 
 his own wisdom to be conscious of its effects. 
 
 “‘And a headsman’s daughter,” continued 
 the examining judge; “why art thou 
 here?” 
 
 ‘““Because I am a wife and a mother. As 
 the latter I came upon the mountain, and as 
 a wife I have mounted to the convent to be 
 present at this examination. They will have 
 it that there is blood upon the hands of Bal- 
 thazar, and I am here to repel the lie.” 
 
 “And yet thou hast not been slow to con- 
 Tess thy connection with a race of execu- 
 tioners! They who are accustomed to see 
 their fellows die might have less warmth in 
 meeting a plain inquiry of justice! ” 
 
 “Herr Chatelain, thy meaning is under- 
 stood. We have been weighed upon heavily 
 by Providence, but, until now, they whom 
 we have been made to serve have had the 
 policy to treat us with fair words! Thou 
 hast spoken of blood ; that which has been 
 shed by Balthazar, by his, and by mine, lies 
 
 179 
 
 on the consciences of those who commanded 
 it to be spilt. The unwilling instruments of 
 thy justice are innocent before God.” 
 
 “This is strange language for people of thy 
 employment! Dost thou, too, Balthazar, 
 speak and think with thy consort in this 
 matter?” 
 
 “ Nature has given us men sterner feelings, 
 mein herr. I was born to the office I hold, 
 taught to believe it right, if not honorable, 
 and I have struggled hard to do its duties 
 without murmuring. The case is different 
 with poor Marguerite. She is a mother, and 
 lives in her children ; she has seen one that 
 is near her heart publicly scorned, and she 
 feels like a mother.” 
 
 “And thou, who art a father, what has 
 been thy manner of thinking under this in- 
 sult ?” 
 
 Balthazar was meek by nature, and, as he 
 had just said, he had been trained to the 
 exercise of his functions ; but he was capable 
 of profound affections. ‘The question touched 
 him in a sensitive spot, and he writhed under 
 its feelings; but, accustomed to command 
 himself before the public eye, and alive to the 
 pride of manhood, his mighty effort to sup- 
 press the agony that loaded his heart was 
 rewarded with success. 
 
 “Sorrow for my unoffending child; sorrow 
 for him who had forgotten his faith; and 
 sorrow for them who have been at the root 
 of this bitter wrong,” was the answer. 
 
 ‘‘This man has been accustomed to hear 
 forgiveness preached to the criminal, and 
 he turns his schooling to good account,” 
 whispered the wary judge to those near him. 
 “ We must try his guilt by other means. He 
 may be readier in reply than steady in his 
 nerves.” 
 
 Signing to the assistants, the Valaisan now 
 quietly awaited the effect of a new experi- 
 ment. The pall was removed, and the body 
 of Jacques Colis exposed. He was seated as 
 in life, on the table in front of the grand 
 altar. . 
 
 “The innocent have no dread of those 
 whose spirits have deserted the flesh,” con- 
 tinued the chatelain, “but God often sorely 
 pricks the consciences of the guilt, when 
 they are made to see the works of their own 
 cruel hands. Approach, and look upon the 
 dead, Balthazar; thou and thy wife, that we 
 
\ 
 
 180 
 
 may judge of the manner in which ye face 
 the murdered and wronged man.” 
 
 A more fruitless experiment could not well 
 have been attempted with one of the heads- 
 man’s office; for long familiarity with such 
 sights had taken off that edge of horror 
 which the less accustomed would be apt to 
 feel. Whether it were owing to this circum- 
 stance, or to his innocence, Balthazar walked 
 to the side of the body unshaken; and stood 
 long regarding the bloodless features with 
 unmoved tranquillity. His habits were quiet 
 and meek, and little given to display. The 
 
 feelings which crowded his mind, therefore, ( 
 
 did not escape him in words, though a gleam 
 of something like regret crossed his face. 
 Not so with his companion. Marguerite 
 took the hand of the dead man, and hot tears 
 began to follow each other down her cheeks, 
 as she gazed at his shrunken and altered 
 lineaments. 
 
 “Poor Jacques Colis!” she said in a man- 
 ner to be heard by all present; “thou hadst 
 thy faults, like all born of woman; but thou 
 didst not merit this! Little did the mother 
 that bore thee, and who lived in thy infant 
 smile—she who fondled thee on her knee, 
 and cherished thee in her bosom, foresee thy 
 fearful and sudden end! It was happy for 
 her that she never knew the fruit of all her 
 love, and pains, and care, else bitterly would 
 she have mourned over what was then her 
 joy, and in sorrow would she have witnessed 
 thy pleasantest smile. We live in a fearful 
 world, Balthazar; a world in which the 
 wicked triumph! Thy hand, that would not 
 willingly harm the meanest creature which 
 has been fashioned by the will of God, is 
 made to take life, and thy heart—thy ex- 
 cellent heart—is slowly hardening in the exe- 
 cution of this accursed office! The judg- 
 ment-seat hath fallen to the lot of the corrupt 
 and designing; mercy hath become the laugh- 
 ing-stock of the ruthless, and death is in- 
 flicted by the hand of him who would live in 
 peace with his kind. This cometh of thwart- 
 ing God’s intentions with the selfishness and 
 designs of men! We would be wiser than he 
 who made the universe, and we betray the 
 weakness of fools! Go to—go to, ye proud 
 and great of the earth—if we have taken 
 life, it hath been at your bidding; but we 
 
 have naught of this on our consciences. The 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 deed hath been the work of the rapacious 
 and violent—it is no deed of revenge.” 
 
 “In what manner are we to know that 
 what thou sayest is true?” asked the chate- 
 lain, who had advanced near the altar, in 
 order to watch the effects of the trial to 
 which he had put Balthazar and his wife. 
 
 “Tam not surprised at thy question, Herr 
 Chatelain, for nothing comes quicker to the 
 minds of the honored and happy than the 
 thought of resenting an evil turn. It is not 
 so with the despised. Revenge would be an 
 idle remedy for us. Would it raise us in 
 men’s esteem? should we forget our own de- 
 graded position? should we be a whit near- 
 er respect after the deed was done than we 
 were before?” 
 
 ‘«‘This may be true, but the angered do 
 not reason. Thou art not suspected, Mar- 
 guerite, except as having heard the truth 
 from thy husband since the deed has been 
 committed, but thine own discernment will 
 show that naught is more probable than that 
 a hot contention about the past may have 
 led Balthazar, who is accustomed to see 
 blood, into the commission of this act res 
 
 ‘‘ Here is thy boasted justice! Thine own 
 laws are brought in support of thine own 
 oppression. Didst thou know how much 
 pains his father had in teaching Balthazar 
 to strike, how many long and anxious Visits 
 were paid between his parent and mine in 
 order to bring up the youth in the way of 
 his dreadful calling, thou wouldst not think. 
 him so apt! God unfitted him for his office, 
 as he had unfitted many of higher and differ- 
 ent pretensions for duties that have been 
 cast upon them in virtue of their birthrights. 
 Had it been I, chatelain, thy suspicions 
 would have a better show of reason. I am 
 formed with strong and quick feelings, and 
 reason has often proved too weak for passion, 
 though the rebuke that has been daily re- 
 ceived throughout a life hath long since 
 tamed all of pride that ever dwelt in me.” 
 
 “Thou hast a daughter present ?” 
 
 Marguerite pointed to the group which 
 held her child. | 
 
 ‘«‘The trial is severe,” said the Judge, who 
 began to feel compunctions that were rare to 
 one of his habits, “but it is as necessary to 
 your own future peace, asit is to justice itself, 
 that the truth should be known. Iam com-~ 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 pelled to order thy daughter to advance to 
 the body.” ; 
 Marguerite received this unexpected com- 
 mand with cold womanly reserve. ‘Too much 
 wounded to complain, but trembling for the 
 conduct of her child, she went to the cluster 
 of females, pressed Christine to her heart, 
 and led her silently forward. She presented 
 her to the chatelain, with a dignity so calm 
 and quiet, that the latter found it oppressive! 
 ‘This is Balthazar’s child,” she said. 
 Then folding her arms, she retired herself a 
 step, an attentive observer of what passed. 
 The Judge regarded the sweet palid face of 
 the trembling girl with an interest he had 
 seldom felt for any who had come before 
 him in the discharge of his unbending duties. 
 He spoke to her kindly, even encouragingly, 
 placing himself intentionally between her and 
 the dead, momentarily hiding the appalling 
 spectacle from her view, that she might have 
 time to summon her courage. Marguerite 
 blessed him in her heart for this small grace, 
 and was better satisfied. 
 “Thou wert betrothed to Jacques Colis? ” 
 
 demanded the chatelain, using a gentleness 
 
 of voice that was singularly in contrast with 
 his former stern interrogatories. 
 
 The utmost that Christine could reply was 
 to bow her head. 
 
 ‘‘Thy nuptials were to take place at the 
 late meeting of the Abbaye des Vignerons— 
 it is our unpleasant duty to wound where we 
 could wish to heal—but thy betrothed refused 
 to redeem his pledge ?” 
 
 “ The heart is weak, and sometimes shrinks 
 from its own good purposes,” murmured 
 Christine. ‘‘He was but human, and he 
 could not withstand the sneers of all about 
 him.” 
 
 The chatelain was so entranced by her 
 gentle and sweet manner that he leaned for- 
 ward to listen, lest a syllable of what she whis- 
 pered might escape his ears. . 
 
 “Thou acquittest, then, Jacques Colis of 
 any false intention ?” 
 
 “He was less strong than he believed him- 
 self, mein herr; he was not equal to sharing 
 our disgrace, which was put too rudely and 
 too strongly before him.” 
 
 ‘*’ Thou hadst consented freely to the mar- 
 
 riage thyself, and wert well disposed to be- 
 
 come his wife?” 
 
 181 
 
 The imploring look and heaving respiration 
 of Christine were lost on the blunted sensi- 
 bilities of a criminal judge. 
 
 ‘‘Was the youth dear to thee?” he re- 
 peated without perceiving the wound he was 
 inflicting on female reserve. 
 
 Christine shuddered. She was not accus- 
 tomed to have affections which she consid- 
 ered the most sacred of her short and innocent 
 existence so rudely probed; but, believing 
 that the safety of her father depended on her 
 frankness and sincerity, by an effort that was 
 nearly superhuman, she was enabled to reply. 
 The bright glow that suffused her face, how- 
 ever, proclaimed the power of that sentiment 
 which becomes instinctive to her sex, array- 
 ing her features in the lustre of maiden 
 shame. 
 
 “T was little used to hear words of praise, 
 Herr Chatelain,—and they were so soothing 
 to the ears of the despised! I felt as a girl 
 acknowledges the preference of a youth who 
 is not disagreeable to her. I thought he 
 loved me—and—and what would you more, 
 mein herr ?” 
 
 ‘None could hate thee, innocent and 
 abused child?” murmured the Signor Gri- 
 maldi. 
 
 “You forget that I am Balthazar’s daugh- 
 ter, mein herr ; none of our race are viewed 
 with favor.” 
 
 «Thou, at least, must be an exception !” 
 
 “ Leaving this aside,” continued the chate- 
 lain, “I would know if thy parents showed 
 resentment at the misconduct of thy be- 
 throthed ; whether aught was said in thy 
 presence that can throw light on this un- 
 happy affair ?” 
 
 The officer of the Valais turned his head 
 aside; for he met the surprised and displeased 
 glance of the Genoese, whose eyes expressed 
 a gentleman’s opinion at hearing a child thus 
 questioned in a matter that so nearly touched 
 her father’s life. Butthe look and the im- 
 proper character of the examination escaped 
 the notice of Christine. She relied, with filial 
 confidence, on the innocence of the author 
 of her being, and, so far from being shocked, 
 she rejoiced, with the simplicity and confi- 
 dence of the undesigning, at being permitted 
 to say anything that might vindicate him in 
 the eyes of his judges. 
 
 ‘‘Herr Chatelain,” she answered eagerly, 
 
182 
 
 the blood that had mounted to her cheeks 
 from female weakness, deepening to, and 
 warming her very temples with a holier senti- 
 ment: “Herr Chatelain, we wept together 
 when alone; we prayed for our enemies 
 as for ourselves, but naught was said to the 
 prejudice of poor Jacques—no, not a whis- 
 porns’ 
 
 ‘‘Wept and prayed!” repeated the Judge, 
 looking from the child to the father, in the 
 manner of a man that fancied he did not 
 hear aright. 
 
 “T said both, mein herr; if the former was 
 a weakness, the latter was a duty.” 
 
 «This is strange language in the mouth of 
 a headsman’s child!” 
 
 Christine appeared at a loss, for a moment, 
 to comprehend his meaning; but, passing a 
 hand across her fair brow, she continued: 
 
 <‘T think I understand what you would 
 say, mein herr,” she said; “the world be- 
 lieves us to be without feeling and without 
 hope. Weare what we seem in the eyes of 
 others, because the law makes it so, but we 
 are in our hearts like all around us, Herr 
 Chatelain—with this difference, that, feeling 
 our abasement among men, we lean more 
 closely and more affectionately on God. You 
 may condemn us to do your offices and to 
 bear your dislike, but you cannot rob us of 
 our trust in the justice of Heaven. In that, 
 at least, we are the equals of the proudest 
 Baron in the cantons!” 
 
 “<The examination had better rest here,” 
 said the prior, advancing with glistening 
 eyes to interpose between the maiden and 
 her interrogator. ‘‘Thou knowest, Herr 
 Bourrit, that we have other prisoners.” 
 
 The chatelain, who felt his own practised 
 obduracy of feeling strangely giving way be- 
 fore the innocent and guileless faith of 
 Christine, was not unwilling himself to 
 change the direction of the inquiries. The 
 family of Balthazar was directed so retire, 
 and the attendants were commanded to bring 
 forward Pippo and Conrad. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 ‘¢ And when thou thus 
 Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal 
 Of hoodwinked Justice, who shall tell thy audit? 
 —COoTTON. 
 
 THE buffoon and the pilgrim, though of a 
 general appearance likely to excite distrust, 
 presented themselves with the confidence 
 and composure of innocence. Their examin- 
 ation was short, for the account they gave of 
 their movements was clear and connected. 
 Circumstances that were known to the monks 
 too, greatly aided in producing a conviction 
 that they could have had no agency in the 
 murder. They had left the valley below 
 some hours before the arrival of Jacques 
 Colis, and they reached the convent, weary 
 and footsore, as was usual with all who 
 ascended that long and toilsome path, shortly — 
 after the commencement of the storm. 
 Measures had been taken by the local au- 
 thorities during the time lost in waiting the 
 arrival of the bailiff and the chatelain, to 
 ascertain all the minute facts which it was 
 supposed would be useful in ferreting out the 
 truth; and the results of these inquiries had 
 also been favorable to these itinerants, whose 
 habits of vagabondism might otherwise very 
 justly have brought them within the pale of 
 suspicion. 
 
 The flippant Pippo was the principal 
 speaker in the short investigation, and his 
 answers were given with a ready frankness, 
 that, under the circumstances, did him and 
 his companion infinite service. ‘The buffoon, 
 though accustomed to deception and frauds, 
 had sufficient mother wit to comprehend the 
 critical position in which he now was placed, 
 and that it was wiser to be sincere, than to 
 attempt effecting his ends by any of the 
 usual means of prevarication. He answered 
 the judge, therefore, with a simplicity which 
 his ordinary pursuits would not have given 
 reason to expect, and apparently with some 
 touches of feeling that did credit to his heart. 
 
 ‘This frankness is thy friend,” added the 
 chatelain, after he had nearly exhausted his 
 questions, the answers having convinced him 
 that there was no ground of suspicion, be- 
 yond the adventitious circumstance of their 
 having been travellers on the same road as 
 the deceased; ‘‘it has done much towards 
 convincing me of thy innocence, and it is in — 
 
THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 general the best shield for those who have 
 committed no crime. I only marvel that one 
 of thy habits should have had the sense to 
 discover it !” 
 
 «Suffer me to tell you, Signor Castellano, 
 or Podesta, whichever may be your Hccel- 
 lenza’s proper title, that you have not given 
 Pippo credit for the wit he really hath. It 
 is true I live by throwing dust into men’s 
 eyes, and by making others think the wrong 
 is the right ; but Mother Nature has given 
 us all an insight into our own interests, and 
 mine is quite clear enough to let me know 
 when the true is better than the false.” 
 
 «« Happy would it be if all had the same 
 faculty and the same disposition to put it in 
 use.” 
 
 «¢T shall not presume to teach one as wise 
 and as experienced as yourself, Eccellenza, 
 but if an humble man might speak freely in 
 this honorable presence, he would say that it 
 is not common to meet with a fact without 
 finding it a very near neighbor to a lie. They 
 pass for the wisest and the most virtuous who 
 best know how to mix the two so artfully 
 together, that, like the sweets we put upon 
 healing bitters, the palatable may make the 
 useful go down. Such at least is the opinion 
 of a poor street buffoon, who has no better 
 claim to merit than having learned his art 
 on the Mole and in the Toledo of Bellisima 
 Napoli, which, as everybody knows, is a bit 
 of heaven fallen upon earth ! ” 
 
 The fervor with which Pippo uttered the 
 customary eulogium on the site of the ancient 
 Parthenope, was so natural and characteristic 
 as to excite a smile in the Judge, in spite of 
 the solemn duty in which he was engaged, 
 and it was believed to be an additional proof 
 of the speaker’s innocence. The chatelain 
 then slowly recapitulated the history of the 
 buffoon and the pilgrim to his companions, 
 the purport of which was as follows. 
 
 Pippo naively admitted the debauch at 
 Vévey, implicating the festivities of the day, 
 and the known frailty of the flesh, as the two 
 influencing causes. Conrad, however, stood 
 upon the purity of his life, and the sacred 
 character of his calling, justifying the com- 
 pany he kept on the respectable plea of ne- 
 cessity, and on that of the mortifications to 
 which a pilgrimage should, of right, subject 
 him who undertakes it. They had quitted 
 
 183 
 
 Vaud together as early as the evening of the 
 day of the abbaye’s ceremonies, and, from 
 that time to the moment of their arrival at 
 the convent, had made a diligent use of their 
 legs, in order to cross the Col before the 
 snows should set in and render the passage 
 dangerous. They had been seen at Martigny, 
 at Liddes, and St. Pierre, alone, and at proper 
 hours, making the best of their way toward 
 the hospice ; and, though of necessity their 
 progress and actions for several hours after 
 quitting the latter place, were not brought 
 within the observation of any but of that all- 
 seeing eye which commands a view of the 
 recesses of the Alps equally with those of 
 more frequented spots, their arrival at the 
 abode of the monks was sufficiently season- 
 able to give reason to believe that no portion 
 of the intervening time had been wasted by 
 the way. Thus far, their account of them- 
 selves and their movements was distinct, 
 while, on the other hand, there was not a 
 single fact to implicate either, beyond the 
 suspicion that was more or less common to 
 all who happened to be on the mountain at 
 the moment the crime was committed. 
 
 «he innocence of these two men would 
 seem so clear, and their readiness to appear 
 and answer to our questions is so much in 
 their favor,” observed the experienced chate- 
 lain, “that I do not deem it just to detain 
 them longer. The pilgrim, in particular, has 
 a heavy trust; I understand he performs his 
 penance as much for others as for himself, 
 and it is searce decent in us, who are believ- 
 ers and servants of the church, to place ob- 
 stacles in his path. I will suggest the ex- 
 pediency, therefore, of giving him at least 
 permission to depart.” 
 
 << Ag we are near the end of the inquiries,” 
 interrupted the Signor Grimaldi, gravely, ‘I 
 would suggest, with due deference to a better 
 opinion and more experience, the propriety 
 that all should remain, ourselves included, 
 until we have come to a better understanding 
 of the truth.” 
 
 Both Pippo and the pilgrim met this sug- 
 gestion with ready declarations of their will- 
 ingness to continue at the convent until the 
 following morning. This little concession, 
 however, had no great merit, for the lateness 
 of the hour rendered it imprudent to depart 
 immediately ; and the affair was finally set- 
 
184 
 
 tled by ordering them to retire, it being un- 
 derstood that unless previously called for, 
 they might depart with the reappearance of 
 the dawn. Maso was the next and last to 
 be examined. 
 
 Il Maledetto presented himself with perfect 
 steadiness of nerve. He was accompanied by 
 Nettuno, the mastiffs of the convent having 
 been kennelled for the night. It had been 
 the habit of the dogs of late to stray among 
 the rocks by day, and to return to the con- 
 vent in the evening in quest of food, the 
 sterile St. Bernard possessing nothing what- 
 ever for the support of man or beast, except 
 that which came from the liberality of the 
 monks, every animal but the chamois and 
 the limmergeyer refusing to ascend so near 
 the region of eternal snows. In his master, 
 however, Nettuno found a steady friend, 
 never failing to receive all that was necessary 
 to his wants from the portion of Maso him- 
 self ; for the faithful beast was admitted at 
 his periodical visits to the temporary prison 
 in which the latter was confined. 
 
 The chatelain waited a moment for the 
 little stir occasioned by the entrance of the 
 prisoner to subside, when he pursued the 1n- 
 quiry. 
 
 «Thou art a Genoese of the name of Thom- 
 aso Santi ?” he asked, consulting his notes. 
 
 “By this name, signor, am I generally 
 known.” 
 
 <¢Thou art a mariner, and it is said one of 
 courage and skill. Why hast thou given thy- 
 self the ungracious appellation of I] Male- 
 detto ?”’ 
 
 ‘*Men call me thus. It is a misfortune, 
 not a crime, to be accursed.” 
 
 ‘‘ He that is so ready to abuse his own for- 
 tunes, should not be surprised if others are 
 led to think he merits his fate. We have 
 some accounts of thee in Valais; “tis said 
 thou art a freetrader ?” 
 
 «<The fact can little concern Valais or her 
 Government, since all come and go unques- 
 tioned in this free land.” 
 
 ‘Tt is true, we do not imitate our neigh- 
 bors in all their policy; neither do we like to 
 see so often those who set at naught the laws 
 of friendly States. Why art thou journeying 
 on this road ?”’ 
 
 ‘«« Signor, if I am what you say, the reason | 
 
 of my being here is sufficiently plain. It is 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 probably because the Lombard and the Pied- 
 montese are more exacting of the stranger 
 than you of the mountains.” 
 
 ‘‘ Your effects have been examined, and 
 they offer nothing to support the suspicion. 
 
 By all appearances, Maso, thou hast not much. 
 
 of the goods of life to boast of ; but in spite 
 of this, thy reputation clings to thee.” 
 
 ‘«* Aye, signor, this is much after the world’s 
 humor. Let it fancy any quality in a man, 
 and he is sure to get more than his share of 
 the same, whether it be for or against his in- 
 terest. The rich man’s florin is quickly coined 
 into a sequin by vulgar tongues, while the 
 poor man is lucky if he can get the change of 
 a silver mark for an ounce of the better metal. 
 
 Even poor Nettuno finds it difficult to get a 
 
 living here at the convent, because some dif- 
 ference in coat and instinct has given him a 
 
 bad name among the dogs of St. Bernard!” — 
 
 «Thy answer agrees with thy character ; 
 thou art said to have more wit than honesty, 
 Maso, and thou art described as one that can 
 form a desperate resolution, and act up to its 
 decision at need ?” 
 
 ‘‘T am as Heaven willed at the birth, Sig- 
 nor Castellano, and as the chances of a pretty 
 busy life have served to give the work its fin- 
 ish. That I am not wanting in manly quali- 
 ties, on occasion, perhaps these nobie travel- 
 lers will be willing to testify, in consideration 
 of some activity that I may have shown on 
 the Leman, during their late passage of that 
 treacherous water.” 
 
 Though this was said carelessly, the appeal 
 to the recollection and gratitude of those he 
 had served, was too direct to bé overlooked. 
 Melchior de Willading, the pious clavier, and 
 the Signor Grimaldi, all testified in behalf of 
 the prisoner, freely admitting that, without 
 his coolness and skill, the Winkelried and all 
 she held would irretrievably have been lost. 
 Sigismund was not content with so cold a 
 demonstration of his feelings. He owed not 
 only the lives of his father and himself to the 
 courage of Maso, but that of one dearer than 
 all ; one whose preservation, to his youthful 
 imagination, seemed a service that might 
 nearly atone for any crime, and his gratitude 
 was in proportion. 
 
 “J will testify more strongly to thy merit, 
 Maso, in face of this or any tribunal,” he 
 
 said, grasping the hand of the Italian. ‘‘One - 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 who showed so much bravery and so strong 
 love for his fellows, would be little likely to 
 take life clandestinely and like a coward. 
 Thou mayst count on my testimony in this 
 strait—if thou art guilty of this crime, who 
 _can hope to be innocent ?” 
 
 Maso returned the friendly grasp till their 
 fingers seemed to grow into each other. His 
 eye, too, showed he was not without whole- 
 some native sympathies, though education 
 and his habits might have warped them 
 from their true direction. A tear, in spite 
 of his effort to suppress the weakness, started 
 from its fountain, rolling down his sunburnt 
 eheek like a solitary rivulet trickling through 
 a barren and rugged waste. 
 
 «‘This is frank, and as becomes a soldier, 
 signor,” he said, “and I receive it as it 1s 
 given, in kindness and love. But we will 
 not lay more stress upon the affair of the 
 lake than it deserves. This keen-sighted 
 chatelain need not be told that I could not 
 be of use in saving your lives, without saving 
 my own; and, unless I much mistake the 
 meaning of his eye, he is about to say that 
 we are fashioned like this wild country in 
 which chance has brought us together, with 
 our spots of generous fertility mingled with 
 much unfruitful rock, and that he who does 
 a good act to-day may forget himself by do- 
 ing an evil turn to-morrow.” 
 
 «« Thou givest reason to all who hear thee, 
 to mourn that thy career has not been more 
 profitable to thyself and the public,” answered 
 the Judge. ‘‘ One who can reason so well, 
 
 and who hath this clear insight into his own” 
 
 disposition, must err less from ignorance than 
 ~ wantonness ! ” 
 
 «‘There you do me injustice, Signor Cas- 
 tellano, and the laws more credit than they 
 deserve. I shall not deny that justice—or 
 what is called justice—and I have some ac- 
 quaintance. I have been the tenant of many 
 prisons before this which has been furnished 
 by the holy canons, and I have seen every 
 stage of the rogue’s progress, from him who 
 is startled by his first crime, dreaming heavy 
 dreams, and fancying each stone in his cel- 
 lar has an eye to reproach him, to him who 
 no sooner does a wrong than it it forgotten 
 in the wish to find the means of committing 
 another, and I call Heaven as a witness, that 
 more is done to help along the scholar in his 
 
 185 
 
 study of vice, by those who are styled the 
 ministers of justice, than by his own natural 
 frailties, the wants. of his habits, or the 
 strength of his passions. Let the Judge feel 
 a father’s mildness, the law possess that 
 pure justice which is of things that are not 
 perverted, and society become what it claims 
 to be, a community of mutual support, and 
 my life on it, chatelain, thy functions will be 
 lessened of most of their weight and of all 
 their oppression.” 
 
 ‘This language is bold, and without an 
 object. Explain the manner of thy quitting 
 Vévey, Maso, the road thou hast travelled, 
 the hours of thy passages by the different 
 villages and the reason why thou wert dis- 
 covered near the Refuge, alone, and why thou 
 quittedst the companions with whom thou 
 hadst passed the night so early, and so clan- 
 destinely ?” 
 
 The Italian listened attentively to these 
 several interrogatories; when they were all 
 put, he gravely and calmly set about furnish- 
 ing his answers. The history of his depart- 
 ure from Vévey, his appearance at St. Mau- 
 rice, Martigny, Liddes, and St. Pierre, was 
 distinctly given, and it was in perfect accord- 
 ance with the private information that: had 
 been gleaned by the authorities. He had 
 passed the last habitation on the mountain, 
 on foot and alone, about an hour before the 
 solitary horseman, who was now known to be 
 Jacques Colis, was seen to proceed in the 
 same direction, and he admitted that he was 
 overtaken by the latter, just as he reached 
 the upper extremity of the plain beneath 
 Velan, where they were seen in company, 
 though at a considerable distance, and by a 
 doubtful light, by the travellers who were 
 conducted by Pierre. 
 
 Thus far the account given of himself by 
 Maso was in perfect conformity with what 
 was already known to the chatelain; but, 
 after turning the rock already mentioned in 
 a previous chapter, all was buried in mys- 
 tery with the exception of the incidents that 
 have been regularly related in the narrative. 
 The Italian, in his further explanations, 
 added that he soon parted with his compan- 
 ion, who, impatient of delay, and desirous of 
 reaching the convent before night, had urged 
 his beast to greater speed, while he himself 
 had turned a little aside from the path to 
 
\ 
 
 186 
 
 rest himself; and to make a few preparations 
 that he had deemed necessary before going 
 directly to the convent. 
 
 The whole of this short history was de- 
 livered with a composure as great as that 
 which had just been displayed by Pippo and 
 the pilgrim, and it was impossible for any 
 present to detect the slightest improbability 
 or contradiction in the tale. The meeting 
 with the other travellers in the storm Maso 
 ascribed to the fact of their having passed 
 him while he was stationary, and to his 
 greater speed when in motion, two circum- 
 stances that were quite as likely to be true as 
 all the rest of the account. He had left the 
 Refuge at the first glimpse of dawn, because 
 he was behind his time, and it had been his 
 intention to descend to Aoste that night, an 
 exertion that was necessary in order to repair 
 the loss. 
 
 «“This may be true,” resumed the Judge; 
 “but how dost thou account for thy poverty ? 
 In searching thy effects, thou art found to be 
 in a condition little better than that of a 
 mendicant. Even thy purse is empty, though 
 known to be a successful and desperate trifler 
 with the revenue in all those States where 
 the entrance duty is enforced.” 
 
 ‘‘He that plays deepest, signor, is most 
 likely to be stripped of his means. What is 
 there new or unlooked for in the fact that 
 a dealer in the contraband should lose his 
 venture ?” 
 
 “This is more plausible than convincing. 
 Thou art signalled as being accustomed to 
 transport articles of the jewellers from 
 Geneva into the adjoining States, and thou 
 art known to come from the headquarters of 
 these artisans. Thy losses must have been 
 unusual, to have left thee so naked. I much 
 fear that a bootless speculation in thy usual 
 trade has driven thee to repair the loss by the 
 murder of this unhappy man, who left his 
 home well supplied with gold, and, as it 
 would seem, with a valuable store of jewelry 
 too. The particulars are especially men- 
 tioned in this written account of his effects, 
 which the honorable bailiff bringeth from his 
 friends.” 
 
 Maso mused silently and in deep abstrac- 
 tion. He then desired that the chapel might 
 be cleared of all but the travellers of con- 
 dition, the monks, and his judges. ‘The re- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 quest was granted; for it was expected that 
 he was about to make an important confes- 
 sion, as indeed, in a certain degree, proved 
 to be the fact. 
 
 “Should I clear myself of the charge of 
 poverty, Signor Castellano,’ he demanded, 
 when all the inferiors had left the place, 
 ‘‘shall I stand acquitted in your eyes of the 
 charge of murder ?” 
 
 “Surely not; still thou wilt have removed 
 one of the principal grounds of temptation, 
 and in that thou wilt be greatly the gainer, 
 for we know that Jacques Colis hath been 
 both robbed as well as slain.” 
 
 Maso appeared to deliberate again, as a 
 man is apt to pause before he takes a step 
 that may materially affect his interests. But 
 suddenly deciding, like a man of prompt 
 opinions, he called to Nettuno, and, seating 
 himself on the steps of one of the side-altars- 
 he proceeded to make his revelation with 
 great method and coolness. Removing some 
 of the long shaggy hair of the dog, Il Male- 
 detto showed the attentive and curious spec- 
 tators that a belt of leather had been ingeni, © 
 ously placed about the body of the animal, 
 next its skin. It was so concealed as to be 
 quite hid from the view of those who did not 
 make particular search, a process that Net- 
 tuno, judging by the scowling looks he threw 
 at most present, and the manner in whigh he 
 showed his teeth, would not be likely to per- 
 mit to a stranger. The belt was opened, and 
 Maso laid a glittering necklace of precious 
 stones, in which rubies and emeralds vied 
 with other gems of price, with some of a 
 dealer’s coquetry, under the strong light of 
 the lamp. 
 
 ‘‘There you see the fruits of a life of haz- 
 ards and hardships, Signor Chatelaine,” he 
 said; ‘‘if my purse is empty it is because 
 the Jewish Calvinists of Geneva have taken 
 the last liard in payment of the jewels.” 
 
 «This is an ornament of rare beauty and 
 exceeding value, to be seen in the possession 
 of one of thy appearance and habits, Maso !” 
 exclaimed the frugal Valaisan. 
 
 “ Signor, its cost was a hundred doppie of 
 pure gold and full weight, and it is con 
 tracted for with a young noble of Milano, 
 who hopes to win his mistress by the present, 
 for a profit of fifty. Affairs were getting low 
 with me in consequence of sundry seizures . 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 and a total wreck, and I took the adventure 
 with the hope of sudden and great gain. As 
 there is nothing against the laws of Valais in 
 the matter, I trust to stand acquitted, chate- 
 lain, for my frankness. One who was master 
 of this would be little likely to shed blood 
 for the trifle that would be found on the 
 person of Jacques Colis.” 
 
 «Thou hast more,” observed the Judge, 
 signing with his hand as he spoke; “let us 
 see all thou hast.” 
 
 ‘¢ Not a brooch, or so much as a worthless 
 garnet.” : 
 
 ‘«< Nay, I see the belt which contains them 
 among the hairs of the dog.” 
 
 Maso either felt or feigned a well-acted sur- 
 prise. Nettuno had been placed in a con- 
 venient attitude for his master to unloosen 
 the belt, and, as it was the intention of the 
 latter to replace it, the animal still lay quietly 
 in the same position, a circumstance which 
 displaced his shaggy coat, and allowed the 
 chatelaine to detect the object to which he 
 had just alluded. 
 
 “Signor,” said the smuggler, changing 
 color, but endeavoring to speak lightly of a 
 discovery which all the others present evi- 
 dently considered to be grave, ‘‘it would seem 
 that the dog, accustomed to do these little 
 offices in behalf of his master, has been 
 tempted by success to undertake a specula- 
 tion on his own account. By my patron 
 saint and the Virgin! I know nothing of 
 this second adventure.” 
 
 <¢ Trifle not, but undo the belt, lest I have 
 the beast muzzled that it may be performed 
 by others,” sternly commanded the chate- 
 lain. 
 
 The Italian complied, though with an ill 
 grace that was much too apparent for his own 
 interest. Having loosened the fastenings, he 
 reluctantly gave the envelope to the Valaisan. 
 The latter cut the cloth, and laid some ten or 
 fifteen different pieces of jewelry on the ta- 
 ble. The spectators crowded about the spot 
 in curiosity, while the Judge eagerly referred 
 to the written description of the effects of the 
 murdered man, 3 
 
 ‘A ring of brilliants, with an emerald of 
 price, the setting chaste and heavy,” read the 
 Valaisan. 
 
 ‘‘Thank God, it is not here !” exclaimed 
 the Signor Grimaldi. “One could wish to 
 
 187 
 
 find so true a mariner innocent of this bloody 
 deed !” 
 
 The chatelain believed he was on the scent 
 of a secret that had begun to perplex him, 
 and as few are so inherently humane as to 
 prefer the advantage of another to their own 
 success, he heard both the announcement 
 and the declaration of the noble Genoese 
 with a frown. 
 
 “A cross of turquoise of the length of two 
 inches, with pearls of no great value inter- 
 mixed,” continued the Judge. 
 
 Sigismund groaned and turned away from 
 the table. 
 
 ‘‘ Unhappily, here is that which too well 
 answers the description!” slowly and with 
 evident reluctance, escaped from the Signor 
 Grimaldi. 
 
 “ Let it be measured,” demanded the pris- 
 oner. 
 
 The experiment was made, and the agree- 
 ment was found to be perfect. 
 
 “ Bracelets of rubies, the stones set in foil, 
 and six in number,” continued. the methodi- 
 cal chdtelain, whose eye now lighted with the 
 triumph of victory. 
 
 «“These are wanting !” cried Melchior de 
 Willading, who, in common with all whom he 
 had served, took a lively interest in the fate 
 of Maso. ‘‘There are no jewels of this de- 
 scription here !” 
 
 “Come to the next, Herr Chatelain,” put 
 in Peterchen, leaning to the side of the law’s 
 triumph; “let us have the next, o’ God’s 
 name |” 
 
 “A brooch of amethyst, the stone of our 
 own mountains, set in foil, and the size of 
 one-eighth of an inch; form oval.” 
 
 It was lying on the table, beyond all possi- 
 bility of dispute. All the remaining articles, 
 which were chiefly rings of the less prized 
 stones, such as jasper, garnet, topaz, and tur- 
 quoise, were also identified, answering per- 
 fectly to the description furnished by the 
 jeweller, who had sold them to Jacques Colis 
 the night of the féte, when, with Swiss thrift, 
 he had laid in this small stock in trade, with 
 a view to diminish the cost of his intended 
 journey. 
 
 ‘‘Itisa principle of law, unfortunate man,” 
 remarked the chatelain, removing the spec- 
 tacles he had mounted in order to read the 
 list, “that effects wrongly taken from one 
 
188 
 
 robbed criminates him in whose possession 
 they are found, unless he can render a clear 
 account of the transfer. What hast thou to 
 say on this head ?” 
 
 ‘Not a syllable, signor; I must refer you 
 and all others to the dog, who alone can fur- 
 nish the history of these bawbles. It is clear 
 that I am little known in the Valais, for 
 Maso never deals in trifles insignificant as 
 these.” 
 
 «The pretext will not serve thee, Maso; 
 thou triflest in an affair of life and death. 
 Wilt thou confess thy crime, ere we proceed 
 to extremities ? ” 
 
 ‘‘That I have been long at open variance 
 with the law, Signor Castellano, is true, if 
 you will havevit so; but I amas innocent of 
 this man’s death as the noble Baron de Wil- 
 lading here. That the Genoese authorities 
 were looking for me, on account of some se- 
 cret understanding that the republic has with 
 its old enemies, the Savoyards, I frankly al- 
 low, too; but it was a matter of gain, and 
 not of blood. J have taken life in my time, 
 signor, but it has been in fair combat, whether 
 the cause was just or not.” 
 
 “ Enough has been proved against thee al- 
 already to justify the use of the torture in 
 order to have the rest.” 
 
 “Nay, I do not see the necessity of this 
 appeal,” remarked the bailiff. ‘There les 
 the dead, here is his property, and yonder 
 stands the criminal. It is an affair that only 
 wants the forms, methinks, to be committed 
 presently to the axe.” 
 
 «< Of all the foul offences against God and 
 man,” resumed the Valaisan, in the manner 
 of one that is about to sentence, ‘‘ that 
 which hastens a living soul, unshrived, un- 
 confessed, unprepared, and with all its sins 
 upon it, into another state of being, and into 
 the dread presence of his Almighty Judge, 
 is the heaviest, and the last to be overlooked 
 by the law. There is less excuse for thee, 
 Thomaso Santi, for thy education has been 
 far superior to thy fortunes, and thou hast 
 passed a life of vice and violence in opposi- 
 tion to thy reason and what was taught thee 
 in youth. Thou hast, therefore, little ground 
 for hope, since the State I serve loves justice 
 in its purity above all other qualities.” 
 
 ‘‘Nobly spoken, Herr Chatelain,” cried 
 the bailiff, ‘and in a manner to send re- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 pentance like a dagger into the criminal’s 
 soul. What is thought and said in Valais 
 we echo in Vaud, and I would not that any 
 I love stood in thy shoes, Maso, for the 
 honors of the Emperor !” 
 
 ‘¢ Signori, you have both spoken, and it 1s 
 as men whom fortune hath favored since 
 childhood. It is éasy for those who are in 
 prosperity to be upright in all that touches 
 money, though by the light of the blessed 
 Maria’s countenance! I do think there is 
 more coveted by those who have much than 
 by the hardy and industrious poor. Jam no 
 stranger to that which men call justice, and 
 know how to honor and respect its decrees as 
 they deserve. Justice, signori, is the weak 
 man’s scourge and the strong man’s sword ; 
 it is a breast-plate and back-plate to the one 
 and a weapon to be parried by the other. In 
 short, it is a word of fair import on the 
 tongue, but of most unequal application in 
 the deed.” 
 
 «We overlook thy language in considera- 
 tion of the pass to which thy crimes have 
 reduced thee, unhappy man, though it is an 
 
 | aggravation of thy offences, since it proves | 
 
 thou hast sinned equally against thyself and 
 us. This affair need go no further; the 
 headsman and the other travellers may be 
 dismissed ; we commit the Italian to the 
 irons.” | 
 
 Maso heard the order without alarm, though 
 he appeared to be maintaining a violent strug- 
 gle with himself. He paced the chapel rap- 
 idly, and muttered much between his teeth. 
 His words were not intelligible, though they 
 were evidently of strong, if not violent, 
 import. At length he stopped short, in the 
 manner of one who had decided. 
 
 ‘«‘This matter grows serious,” he said; ‘‘it 
 will admit of no further hesitation. Signor 
 Grimaldi, command all to leave the chapel 
 in whose discretion you have not the most 
 perfect confidence.” 
 
 ‘<I see none to be distrusted,” answered 
 the surprised Genoese. 
 
 ‘Then will I speak.” 
 
J THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 «Thy voice to us is wind among still woods.” 
 —SHELLEY. 
 
 NoTWITHSTANDING the gravity of the 
 facts which were accumulating against him, 
 Maso had maintained throughout the fore- 
 going scene much of that steady self-posses- 
 sion and discernment which were the fruits 
 
 of adventure in scenes of danger, long expo- 
 
 sure and multiplied hazards. ‘To these 
 causes of coolness might be added the iron- 
 like nerves inherited from nature. ‘The 
 latter were not easily disturbed, however 
 critical the state to which he was reduced. 
 Still he had changed color, and his manner 
 had that thoughtful and unsettled air which 
 denotes the consciousness of being in cir- 
 cumstances that require uncommon wariness 
 and judgment. But his final opinion ap- 
 peared to be formed when he made the 
 appeal mentioned in the close of the last 
 chapter, and he now only waited for the two 
 or three officials who were present to retire, 
 before he pursued his purpose. When the 
 door was closed, leaving none but his ex- 
 examiners, Sigismund, Balthazar, and the 
 group of females in the side chapel, he 
 turned with singular respect of manner, and 
 addressed himself exclusively to the Signor 
 Grimaldi, as if the judgment which was to 
 decide his fate depended solely on his will. 
 
 «‘ Sionor,” he said, ‘‘ there has been much 
 secret allusion between us, and I suppose 
 that it is unnecessary for me to say that you 
 are known to me.” 
 
 ‘‘T have already recognized thee for a 
 countryman,” coldly returned the Genoese ; 
 ‘<<it is in vain, however, to, imagine the cir- 
 cumstance can avail a murderer. If any 
 consideration could induce me to forget the 
 claims of justice, the recollection of thy 
 good service on the Leman would prove 
 thy best friend. As it is, I fear thou hast 
 naught to expect from me.” 
 
 Maso was silent. He looked the other 
 steadily in the face, as if he would study his 
 
 character, though he guardedly prevented 
 
 his manner from losing its appearance of pro- 
 found respect. 
 
 ‘‘ Signor, the chances of life were greatly 
 with you at the birth. You were born the 
 heir of a powerful house, in which gold is 
 
 189 
 
 more plenty than woes in a poor man’s cabin, 
 and you have not been made to learn by ex- 
 perience how hard it is to keep down the 
 longings for those pleasures which the base 
 metal will purchase, when we see others roll- 
 ing in its luxuries.” 
 
 ‘This plea will not avail thee, unfortunate 
 man; else were there an end of human insti- 
 tutions. The difference of which thou speak- 
 est is a simple consequence of the rights of 
 property ; and even the barbarian admits the 
 sacred duty of respecting that which is an- 
 other’s.” 
 
 «©A word from one like you, illustrious 
 signor, would open for me the road to Pied- 
 mont,” continued Maso, unmoved ;, ‘‘ once 
 across the frontiers, it shall be my care never 
 to molest the rocks of Valais again. I ask 
 only what I have been the means of saving, 
 Eccellenza—life.”’ 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi shook his head, 
 though it was very evident that he declined 
 the required intercession with much reluct- 
 ance. He and old Melchior de Willading 
 exchanged glances; and all who noted this 
 silent intercourse understood it to say, that 
 each considered duty to God a higher obliga- 
 tion than gratitude for a service rendered to 
 themselves. 
 
 « Ask gold, or ti thou wilt else, but do 
 not ask me to aid in defeating justice. 
 Gladly would I have given for the asking, 
 twenty times the value of those miserable 
 bawbles for whose possession, Maso, thou hast 
 rashly taken life; but I cannot become a 
 sharer of thy crime, by refusing atonement 
 for his friends. It is too late; I cannot be- 
 friend thee now, if I would.” 
 
 «Thou hearest the answer of this noble 
 gentleman,” interposed the chatelain; ‘it 
 is wise and seemly, and thou greatly over- 
 ratest his influence or that of any present, if 
 thou fanciest the laws can be set aside at 
 pleasure. Wert thou a noble thyself, or the 
 son of a prince, judgment would have its way 
 in the Valais!” 
 
 Maso smiled wildly; and yet the expres- 
 sion of his glittering eye was so ironical as to 
 cause uneasiness in his judge. The Signor 
 Grimaldi, too, observed the audacious confi- 
 dence of his air with distrust, for his spirit 
 had taken secret alarm on a subject that was 
 rarely long absent from his thoughts, 
 
 * 
 
190 
 
 “If thou meanest more than has been 
 said,” exclaimed the latter, “‘ for the sake of 
 the blessed Maria be explicit !” 
 
 ‘‘ Signor Melchior,” continued Maso, turn- 
 ing to .the Baron, “I did you and your 
 daughter fair service on the lake !” 
 
 «¢That thou didst, Maso, we are both will- 
 ing to admit, and were it in Berne,—but the 
 laws are made equally for all, the great and 
 the humble, they who have friends, and they 
 who have none.” 
 
 ‘‘T have heard of this act on the lake,” 
 put in Peterchen ; “and unless fame leth— 
 which, Heaven knows, fame is apt enough to 
 do, except in giving their just dues to those 
 who are in high trust,—thou didst conduct 
 thyself in that affair, Maso, like a loyal and 
 well-taught mariner; but the honorable 
 chatelain has well remarked, that holy jus- 
 tice must have way before all other things. 
 Justice is represented as blind, in order that 
 it may be seen she is no respecter of persons: 
 and wert thou an Avoyer, the decree must 
 come. Reflect maturely, therefore, on all 
 the facts, and thou wilt come, in time, to 
 see the impossibility of thine own innocence. 
 First, thou left the path, being ahead of 
 Jacques Colis, to enter it at a moment suited 
 to thy purposes: then thou tookest his life 
 for gold a 
 
 “But this is believing that to be true, 
 Signor Bailiff, which is only yet supposed,” 
 interrupted Il Maledetto; “I left the path 
 to give Nettuno his charge apart from curi- 
 ous eyes ; and, as for the gold of which you 
 speak, would the owner of a necklace of that 
 price be apt to barter his soul against a booty 
 like this which comes of Jacques Colis !” 
 
 Maso spoke with a contempt which did 
 not serve his cause; for it left the impres- 
 sion among the auditors, that he weighed the 
 morality and immorality of his acts simply 
 by their result. 
 
 ‘<Tt is time to bring this to an end,” said 
 the Signor Grimaldi, who had been thought- 
 ful and melancholy while the others spoke; 
 “thou hast something to address particu- 
 larly to me, Maso ; but if thy claim is no 
 better than that of our common country, I 
 grieve to say it cannot be admitted.” 
 
 «Signor, the voice of a Doge of Genoa 1s 
 not often raised in vain, when he would use 
 it in behalf of another!” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 At this sudden announcement of the tray- 
 eller’s rank, the monks of the chatelain 
 started in surprise, and a low murmur of 
 wonder was heard in the chapel. 
 of Peterchen, and the composure of the 
 Baron de Willading, however, showed that 
 they at least had learned nothing new. The 
 bailiff whispered the prior significantly, and 
 from that moment his deportment toward 
 the Genoese took still more of the character 
 of formal and official respect. On the other 
 hand, the Signor Grimaldi remained com- 
 posed, like one accustomed to receive defer- 
 ence, though his manner lost the slight de- 
 gree of restraint that had been imposed by 
 the observance of the temporary character he 
 had assumed. 
 
 “The voice of a Doge of Genoa should not 
 be used in intercession, unless in behalf of 
 the innocent,” he replied, keeping his severe 
 eye fastened on the countenance of the ac- 
 cused. 
 
 Again Il Maledetto seemed laboring with 
 some secret that struggled on his tongue. 
 
 “Speak,” continued the Prince of Genoa; 
 for it was, in truth, that high functionary, who 
 had journeyed incognito, in the hope of 
 meeting his ancient friend at the sports of 
 Vévey. “Speak, Maso, if thou hast aught 
 serious to urge in favor of thyself; time 
 presses, and the sight of one to whom I owe 
 so much in this great jeopardy, without the 
 power to aid him, grows painful.” 
 
 «Signor Doge, though deaf to pity, you 
 cannot be deaf to nature.” 
 
 The countenance of the Doge became 
 livid; his lips trembled even to the appear- 
 ance of convulsions. 
 
 ‘Deal no longer in mystery,.man of 
 blood!” he said with energy. ‘‘ What is thy 
 meaning?” 
 
 ““T entreat your Eccellenza to be calm. 
 Necessity forces me to speak ; for, as you see, 
 I stand between this revelation and the block 
 —I am Bartoldo Contini!” 
 
 The groan that escaped the compressed 
 lips of the Doge, the manner in which he 
 sank into a seat, and the hue of death that 
 settled over his aged countenance, until it 
 was more ghastly even than that of the un- 
 happy victim of violence, drew all present, in 
 wonder and alarm, around his chair. Sign- 
 
 The smile > 
 
 ing for those who pressed upon him to give 
 
 rae 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 way, the Prince sat gazing at Maso, with eyes 
 that appeared ready to burst from their 
 sockets. 
 
 “Thou Bartolomeo!” he uttered huskily, 
 as if horror had frozen his voice. 
 
 “T am Bartolo, signor, and no other. He 
 who goes through many scenes hath occasion 
 for many names. Even your Highness trav- 
 els at times under a cloud.” 
 
 The Doge continued to stare on the 
 speaker with the fixedness of regard that one 
 might be supposed to fasten on a creature of 
 unearthly existence. 
 
 ** Melchior,” he said slowly, turning his 
 eyes from one to the other of the forms that 
 filled them, for Sigismund had advanced to 
 the side of Maso, in kind concern for the old 
 man’s condition,—“ Melchior, we are but 
 feeble and miserable creatures in the hand 
 of one who looks upon the proudest and hap- 
 piest of us, as we look upon the worm that 
 crawls the earth! What are hope, and honor, 
 and our fondest love, in the great train of 
 events that time heaves from its womb, 
 bringing forth to our confusion? Are we 
 proud? fortune revenges itself for our want 
 of humility by its scorn. Are we happy ? it 
 is but the calm that precedes the storm. 
 ' Are we great ? it is but to lead us into abuses 
 that will justify our fall. Are we honored? 
 stains tarnish our good names, in spite of all 
 our care!” 
 
 ‘‘He who puts his trust in the Son of 
 Maria need never despair! ” whispered the 
 worthy clavier, touched nearly to tears by 
 the sudden distress of one whom he had 
 learned to respect. ‘‘Let the fortunes of 
 the world pass away, or change as they will, 
 his chastening love outliveth time !” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi, for, though the 
 elected of Genoa, such was in truth the 
 family name of the Doge, turned his vacant 
 gaze for an instant on the Augustine, but it 
 soon reverted to the forms and faces of Maso 
 and Sigismund, who still stood before him, 
 filling his thoughts even more than his sight. 
 
 “Yes, there isa power,” he resumed, “a 
 great and beneficent Being to equalize our 
 fortunes here, and when we pass into another 
 state of being, loaded with the wrongs of this, 
 we shall have justice! Tell me, Melchior, 
 thou who knew my youth, who read my 
 heart when it was open as day, what was 
 
 191 
 
 there in it to deserve this punishment ? 
 Here is Balthazar, come of a race of execu- 
 tioners—a man condemned of opinion—that 
 prejudice besets with a hedge of hatred—that 
 men point at with their fingers, and whom 
 the dogs are ready to bay—this Balthazar is 
 the father of that gallant youth, whose form 
 is so perfect, whose spirit is so noble, and 
 whose life so pure; while I, the last of a 
 line that is lost in the obscurity of time, the 
 wealthiest of my land, and the chosen of my 
 peers, am accursed with an outcast, a com- 
 mon brigand, a murderer, for the sole prop 
 of my decaying house—with this Il Maledetto 
 -—this man accursed—for a son!” 
 
 A movement of astonishment escaped the 
 listeners, even the Baron de Willading not 
 suspecting the real cause of his friend’s dis- 
 tress. Maso alone was unmoved ; for while 
 the aged father betrayed the keenness of his 
 anguish, the son discovered none of that sym- 
 pathy of which even a life like his might be 
 supposed to have left some remains in the 
 heart of a child. He was cold, collected, 
 observant, and master of his smallest action. 
 
 <*T will not believe this,” exclaimed the 
 Doge, whose very soul revolted at this unfeel- 
 ing apathy, even more than at the disgrace 
 of being the father of such a child; ‘‘thou 
 art not he thou pretendest to be: this foul 
 lie is uttered that my natural feelings may in- 
 terpose between thee and the block! Prove 
 thy truth, or I abandon thee to thy fate.” 
 
 ‘«‘ Signor, I would have saved this unhappy 
 exhibition, but you would not. That Iam. 
 Bartolo this signet, your own gift sent to be 
 my protection in a strait like this, will show. 
 It is, moreover, easy for me to prove what I 
 say, by a hundred witnesses who are living in 
 Genoa.” 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi stretched forth a 
 hand that trembled like an aspen to receive 
 the ring, a jewel of little price, but a signet 
 that he had, in truth, sent to be an instru- 
 ment of recognition between him and his 
 child, in the event of any sudden calamity 
 befalling the latter. He groaned as he gazed 
 at its well-remembered emblems, for its iden- 
 tity was only too plain. 
 
 ‘© Maso— Bartolo— Gaetano—for such, mis- 
 erable boy, is thy real appellation—thou canst 
 not know how bitter is the pang that an un- 
 worthy child brings to the parent, else would 
 
192 
 
 thy life have been different. Oh! Gaetano! 
 Gaetano! what a foundation art thou fora 
 father’s hopes! What a subject for a father’s 
 love! I saw thee last a smiling innocent 
 cherub, in thy nurse’s arms, and I find thee 
 with a blighted soul, the pure fountain of 
 thy mind corrupted, a form sealed with the 
 stamp of vice, and with hands dyed in blood; 
 prematurely old in body, and with a spirit 
 that hath already the hellish taint of the 
 damned ! ” 
 
 ‘Signor, you find me as the chances of a 
 wild life have willed. ‘The world and I have 
 been at loggerheads this many a year, and in 
 trifling with its laws, I take my revenge of its 
 abuse—” warmly returned Il Maledetto, for 
 his spirit began to be aroused. ‘‘ Thou 
 bear’st hard upon me, Doge—father—or what 
 thou wilt—and I should be little worthy of 
 my lineage, did I not meet thy charges as 
 they are made. Compare thine own career 
 with mine, and let it be proclaimed by sound 
 of trumpet if thou wilt, which hath most 
 reason to be proud, and which to exult. 
 Thou wert reared in the hopes and honors of 
 our name; thou passed thy youth in the 
 pursuit of arms according to thy fancy, and 
 when tired of change, and willing to narrow 
 thy pleasures, thou looked about thee 
 for a maiden to become the mother of thy suc- 
 cessor; thou turned a wishing eye on one 
 young, fair, and noble, but whose affections, 
 as her faith, were solemnly, irretrievably 
 plighted to another.” 
 
 The Doge shuddered and veiled his eyes ; 
 but he eagerly interrupted Maso. 
 
 ‘Her kinsman was unworthy of her love,” 
 he cried; ‘“‘he was an outcast, and little 
 better than thyself, unhappy boy, except in 
 the chances of condition.” 
 
 “Tt matters not, signor; God had not 
 made you the arbiter of her fate. In tempt- 
 ing her family by your greater riches, you 
 crushed two hearts, and destroyed the hopes 
 of your fellow creatures. In her was sacri- 
 ficed an angel, mild and pure as this fair 
 creature who is now listening so breathlessly 
 to my words ; in him a fierce untamed spirit, 
 that had only the greater need of manage- 
 ment, since it was as likely to go wrong as 
 right. Before your son was born, this un- 
 happy rival, poor in hopes as in wealth, had 
 become desperate ; and the mother of your 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 child sank a victim to her ceaseless regrets, 
 at herown want of faith as much as for his 
 follies.” 
 
 ‘‘Thy mother was deluded, Gaetano ; she 
 never knew the real qualities of her cousin, 
 ora soul like hers would have loathed the 
 wretch.” 
 
 ‘Signor, it matters not,” continued Il 
 Maledetto, with a ruthless perseverance of 
 intention, and a coolness of manner that 
 would seem to merit the description which 
 had just been given his spirit, that of possess- 
 ing a hellish taint. ‘She loved him with a 
 woman’s heart ; and with a woman’s ingenu- 
 ity and confidence, she ascribed his fall to 
 despair for her loss.” 
 
 ‘*Oh, Melchior! Melchior! this is fear- 
 fully true!” groaned the Doge. 
 
 “Tt is so true, signor, that it should be 
 
 written on my mother’s tomb. We are chil- — 
 
 dren of a fiery climate ; the passions burn in 
 our Italy like the hot sun that glows there. 
 When despair drove the disappointed lover to 
 acts that rendered him an outlaw, the pass- 
 
 age to revenge was short. Your child was | 
 
 stolen, hid from your yiew, and cast upon 
 the world under circumstances that left little 
 
 doubt of his living in bitterness, and dying 
 
 under the contempt, if not the curses, of his 
 fellows. All this, Signor Grimaldi, is the 
 fruit of your own errors. Had you respected 
 the affections of an innocent girl, the sad con- 
 sequences to yourself and me might have 
 been avoided.” 
 
 ‘‘TIg this man’s history to be believed, 
 Gaetano?” demanded the Baron, who had 
 more than once betrayed a wish to check the 
 rude tongue of the speaker. 
 
 ‘“T do not—I cannot deny it; I never saw 
 my own conduct in this criminal light before, 
 and yet now it all seems frightfully true.” 
 
 I] Maledetto langhed. Those around him 
 thought his untimely merriment resembled 
 the mockery of a devil. 
 
 ‘*This is the manner in which men con- 
 
 tinue to sin, while they lay claim to the merit — 
 
 of innocence!” he added. “ Let the great of 
 the earth give but half the care to prevent, 
 that they show to punish, offences against 
 
 themselves, and what is now called justice 
 
 will no longer be a stalking-horse to enable a 
 few to live at the cost of the rest. As for me, 
 
 I am proof of what noble blood and illustrious - 
 
THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 ancestry can do for themselves ! Stolen when 
 a child, Nature has had fair play in my tem- 
 
 _ perament, which I own is more disposed to 
 
 i pleasures of marble halls. 
 
 wild adventure and manly risks than to the 
 Noble father of 
 mine, were this spirit dressed up in the guise 
 of a senator, or a Doge, it might fare badly 
 
 with Genoa!” 
 
 ‘‘Unfortunate man,” exclaimed the indig- 
 nant prior, ‘‘is this language for a child to 
 use to his father? Dost thou forget that the 
 blood of Jacques Colis is on thy. soul?” 
 
 ‘Holy Augustine, the candor with which 
 my general frailties are allowed, should gain 
 me credit when I speak of particular accusa- 
 tions. By the hopes and piety of the rever- 
 end canon of Aoste, thy patron saint and 
 founder, I am guiltless of this crime. Ques- 
 tion Nettuno as you will, or turn the affair in 
 every way that usage warrants, and let appear- 
 ances take what shape they may, I swear to 
 you my innocence. If you think that fear of 
 punishment tempts me to utter a lie under 
 these holy appeals (he crossed himself with 
 reverence), ye do injustice both to my cour- 
 age and to my love of the saints. The only 
 son of the reigning Doge of Genoa has little 
 
 to fear from the headsman’s blow !” 
 
 Again Maso laughed. It was the confidence 
 of one who knew the world, and was too auda- 
 cious even to consult appearances unless it 
 suited his humor, breaking out in very wan- 
 tonness. A man who had led his life, was not 
 to learn at this late day, that the want of eyes 
 in Justice oftener means blindness to the 
 faults of the privileged, than the impartiality 
 that is assumed by the pretending emblem. 
 The chatelain, the prior, the bailiff, the cla- 
 vier, and the Baron de Willading, looked at 
 each other like men bewildered. ‘The mental 
 agony of the Doge formed a contrast so fright- 
 ful with the heartless an cruel insensibility 
 of the son, that the sight chilled their blood. 
 
 The sentiment was only the more common, 
 
 escape. 
 
 from the silent but general conviction that 
 the unfeeling criminal must be permitted to 
 There was, indeed, no precedent for 
 leading the child of a prince to the block, 
 unless it was for an offence which touched 
 the preservation of the father’s interests. 
 Much was said in maxims and apothegms of 
 the purity and necessity of rigid impartiality 
 in administering the affairs of life, but neither 
 
 198 
 
 had attained his years and experience without 
 obtaining glimpses of practical things, that 
 taught them to foresee the impunity of Maso. 
 Too much violence would be done to a facti- 
 tious and tottering edifice, were it known that 
 a prince’s son was no better than one of the 
 vilest, and the lingering feelings of paternity 
 were certain at last to cast ashield before the 
 offender. 
 
 The embarrassment and doubt attending 
 such a state of things was happily, but quite 
 unexpectedly, relieved by the interference of 
 Balthazar. The headsman, until this mo- 
 ment, had been a silent and attentive listener 
 to all that passed; but now he pressed him- 
 self into the circle, and looking, in his quiet 
 manner, from one to the other, he spoke with 
 the assurance that the certainty of having 
 important intelligence to impart, is apt to 
 give even to the meekest, in the presence of 
 those whom they habitually respect. 
 
 “This broken tale of Maso,” he said, “ is 
 removing a cloud that has lain for nearly 
 thirty years before my eyes. Is it true, illus- 
 trious Doge, for such it appears is your 
 princely state, that a son of your noble stock 
 was stolen and kept in secret from your love, 
 through the vindictive enmity of a rival?” 
 
 “True!—alas, too true! Would it had 
 pleased the blessed Maria, who so cherished 
 his mother, to call his spirit to Heaven, ere 
 the curse befell him and me.” 
 
 “Your pardon, great Prince, if I press you 
 with questions at a moment so painful. But 
 it isin your owninterest. Suffer that I may 
 ask in what year this calamity befell your 
 family ?”’ 
 
 The Signor Grimaldi signed for his friend 
 to assume the office of answering these extra- 
 ordinary interrogatories, while he buried his 
 own venerable face in his cloak, to conceal 
 his anguish from curious eyes. Melchior 
 Willading regarded the headsman in surprise; 
 for an instant he was disposed to repel ques- 
 tions that seemed importunate; but the ear- 
 nest countenance, and mild, decent demean- 
 or of Balthazar, overcame his repugnance to 
 pursue the subject. 
 
 ‘«« The child was seized in the autumn of the 
 year 1693,” he answered, his previous confer- 
 ences with his friend having put him in pos- 
 session of all the leading facts of the history. 
 
 «¢ And his age ?” 
 
 GG 
 
194 
 
 «“ Was near a twelvemonth.” 
 
 “(Can you inform me what became of the 
 profligate noble who committed this foul rob- 
 bery?” 
 
 “ The fate of the Signor Pantaleone Serrani 
 has never been truly known; though there is 
 a dark rumor that he died in a brawl in our 
 own Switzerland. That he is dead there is 
 no cause to doubt.” 
 
 «And his person, noble Freiherr—a de- 
 scription of his person is now only wanting 
 to throw the light of a noonday sun on what 
 has so long been night!” 
 
 “J knew the unlucky Signor Pantaleone 
 well in early youth. At this time mentioned 
 his years might have been thirty, his form 
 was seemly and of middle height, his features 
 bore the Italian outline, with the dark eye, 
 swarthy skin, and glossy hair of the climate. 
 More than this, with the exception of a finger 
 lost in one of our affairs in Lombardy, | can- 
 not say.” 
 
 “This is enough,” returned the attentive 
 Balthazar. “Dismiss your grief, princely 
 Doge, and prepare your heart for a new- 
 found joy. Instead of being the parent of 
 this reckless freebooter, God at length pities 
 and returns your real son in Sigismund, a 
 child that might gladden the heart of any 
 parent, though he were an emperor!” 
 
 This extraordinary declaration was made to 
 stunned and confounded listeners. A cry of 
 alarm burst from the lips of Marguerite, who 
 approached the group in the centre of the 
 chapel, trembling and anxious, as if the grave 
 were about to rob her of a treasure. 
 
 ‘©What is this I hear!” exclaimed the 
 mother, whose sensitiveness was the first to 
 take alarm. ‘‘ Are my half-formed suspicions, 
 then, too true, Balthazar? Am I, indeed, 
 without a son? I know thou wouldst not 
 trifle with a mother, or mislead this stricken 
 noble ina thing likethis! Speak again, that 
 I may know the truth—Sigismund i 
 
 “Ts not our child,” answered the heads- 
 man, with an impress of truth in his manne~ 
 that went far to bring conviction; ‘four owa 
 boy died in that blessed state of infancy, and, 
 to save thy feelings, this youth was sub- 
 stituted in his place by me without thy 
 knowledge.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 features, in which pain at being so unex- 
 pectedly torn from the bosom of a family he 
 had always deemed his own, was fearfully 
 struggling with a wild and indefinite delight 
 at finding himself suddenly relieved from a 
 load he had long found so grievous to be 
 borne. Interpreting the latter expression | 
 with jealous affection, she bent her face to 
 her bosom, and retreated in silence among 
 her companions to weep. . : 
 
 In the meantime a sudden and tumultuous 
 surprise took possession of the different lis- 
 teners, which was modified and: exhibited ac- 
 cording to their respective characters, as to 
 the amount of interest that each had in the 
 truth or falsehood of what had just been an- 
 nounced. The Doge clung to the hope, im- 
 probable as it seemed, with a tenacity propor- 
 tioned to his recent anguish, while Sigismund 
 stood like one beside himself. His eye wan- — 
 dered from the simple and benevolent, but 
 degraded man, whom he had believed to be 
 his father, to the venerable and imposing- — 
 looking noble who was now so unexpectedly — 
 presented in that sacred character. ‘The sobs — 
 of Marguerite reached his ears, and first re- 
 called him to recollection. They came blended 
 with the fresh grief of Christine, who felt as _ 
 if ruthless death had now robbed her of a 
 brother. ‘There was also the struggling emo- — 
 tion of one whose interest in him had a still 
 tender and engrossing claim. 
 
 ‘This is so wonderful!” said the trem- 
 bling Doge, who dreaded lest the next syl- 
 lable that was uttered might destroy the — 
 blessed illusion, ‘‘so wildly improbable, that, — 
 though my soul yearns to believe it, my 
 reason refuses credence. It is not enough — 
 to utter this sudden intelligence, Balthazar; 
 it must be proved. Furnish but a moiety © 
 of the evidence that is necessary to establish — 
 a legal fact, and I will render thee the richest — 
 of thy class in Christendom! And thou, 
 Sigismund, come close to my heart, noble © 
 boy,” he added, with outstretched arms, — 
 ‘that I may bless thee, while there is hope— 
 that I may feel one beat of a father’s pulse 
 —one instant of a father’s joy !” 
 
 Sigismund knelt at the venerable Prince’s” 
 feet, and receiving his head on his shoulders, — 
 their tears mingled. But even at that pre- 
 
 Marguerite moved nearer to the young man. 
 
 cious moment both felt a sense of insecurity, 
 She gazed wistfully at his flushed, excited 
 
 as if the exquisite pleasure of so pure a_ 
 
 } 
 | 
 
THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 happiness was too intense to last. Maso 
 looked upon this scene with cold displeasure; 
 his averted face denoting a stronger feeling 
 than disappointment, though the power of 
 natural sympathy was so strong as to draw 
 evidences of its force from the eyes of all 
 the others present. 
 
 ** Bless thee, bless thee, my child, my 
 dearly beloved son!” murmured the Doge, 
 lending himself to the improbable tale of 
 Balthazar for a delicious instant, and kissing 
 the cheeks of Sigismund as one would em- 
 brace a smiling infant; ‘‘may the God of 
 heaven and earth, His only Son, and the 
 holy Virgin undefiled, unite to bless thee, 
 here and hereafter, be thou whom thou 
 mayest! I owe thee one precious instant of 
 happiness, such as I have never tasted before. 
 To find a child would not be enough to give 
 it birth ; but to believe thee to be that son 
 touches on the joys of paradise !” 
 
 Sigismund fervently kissed the hand that 
 had rested affectionately on his head during 
 _this diction ; then, feeling the necessity of 
 haying some guarantee for the existence of 
 emotions so sweet, he rose and made a warm 
 and strong appeal to him who had so long 
 passed for his father to be more explicit, 
 and to justify his new-born hopes by some 
 evidence better than his simple asseveration ; 
 for solemnly as the latter had been made, 
 and profound as he knew to be the reverence 
 of truth which the despised headsman not 
 only entertained himself but inculcated on 
 all in whom he had any interest, the revela- 
 tion he had just made seemed too improbable 
 to resist the doubts of one who knew his 
 happiness to be the fruit of the forfeiture of 
 his veracity. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 “ We rest—a dream has power to poison sleep ; 
 We rise—one wandering thought pollutes the day; 
 We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep ; 
 Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away.” 
 —SHELLEY. 
 
 THE tale of Balthazar was simple but 
 eloquent. His union with Marguerite, in 
 spite of the world’s obloquy and injustice, 
 had been blessed by the wise and merciful 
 
 Being who knew how to temper the wind to 
 the shorn lamb. 
 
 195 
 
 ““ We knew we were all to each other,” he 
 continued, after briefly alluding to the early 
 history of their births and love; ‘‘and we 
 felt the necessity of living for ourselves. Ye 
 that are born to honors, who meet with 
 smiles and respectful looks in all ye meet, 
 can know little of the feeling which binds 
 together the unhappy. When God gave us 
 our first-born, as he lay a smiling babe in 
 her lap, looking up into her eye with the 
 innocence that most likens man to angels, 
 Marguerite shed bitter tears at the thought 
 of such a creature’s being condemned by the 
 laws to shed the blood of men. ‘The reflec- 
 tion that he was to live forever an outcast 
 from his kind was bitter to a mother’s heart. 
 We had made many offers to the canton to 
 be released ourselves from this charge; we 
 had prayed them—Herr Melchior, you should 
 know how earnestly we have prayed the 
 council, to be suffered to live like others, 
 and without this accursed doom—but they 
 would not. They said the usage was ancient, 
 that change was dangerous, and that what 
 God willed must come to pass. We could 
 not bear that the burden we found so hard 
 to endure ourselves should go down forever 
 as a curse upon our descendants, Herr Doge,” 
 he continued, raising his meek face in the 
 pride of honesty; ‘‘it is well for those who 
 are the possessors of honors to be proud of 
 their priveleges ; but when the inheritance is 
 one of wrongs and scorn, when the evil eyes 
 of our fellows are upon us, the heart sickens. 
 Such was our feeling when we looked upon 
 our first-born. The wish to save him from 
 his own disgrace was uppermost, and we 
 bethought us of the means.” 
 
 ‘‘Aye!” sternly interrupted Marguerite. 
 “‘T parted with my child, and silenced a 
 mother’s longings, proud nobles, that he 
 might not become a tool of your ruthless 
 policy ; I gave up a mother’s joy in nourish- 
 ing and cherishing her young, that the little 
 innocent might live among his fellows, as 
 God had created him, their equal, and not 
 their victim!” 
 
 Balthazar paused, as was usual with him 
 whenever his energetic wife manifested any 
 of her strong and masculine qualities, and 
 then, when deep silence had followed her re- 
 mark, he proceeded. 
 
 “We wanted not for wealth; all we asked 
 
196 
 
 was to be like others in the world’s respect. 
 With our money it was very easy to find those 
 in another canton, who were willing to take 
 the little Sigismund into their keeping. After 
 which a feigned death and a private burial 
 did the rest. The deceit was easily practised, 
 for as few cared for the griefs as for the hap- 
 piness of the headsman’s family. The child 
 had drawn near the end of its first year, when 
 I was called upon to execute my office on a 
 stranger. The criminal had taken life inva 
 drunken brawl in one of the towns of the 
 canton, and he was said to be a man who had 
 trifled with the precious gifts of birth, it 
 being suspected that he was noble. I went 
 with a heavy heart, for never did I strike a 
 blow without praying God that it might be 
 the last; but it was heavier when I reached 
 the place where the culprit awaited his fate. 
 The tidings of my poor son’s death reached 
 me as I put foot on the threshold of the 
 desolate prison, and I turned aside to weep 
 for my own woes, before I entered to see my 
 victim. The condemned man had great un- 
 willingness to die ; he had sent for me many 
 hours before the fatal moment, to make ac- 
 quaintance, as he said, with the hand that 
 was to dispatch him to the presence of his 
 last and eternal Judge.” 
 
 Balthazar paused; he appeared to meditate 
 on a scene that had probably left indelible 
 impressions on his mind. Shuddering invol- 
 untarily, he raised his eyes from the pave- 
 ment of the chapel, and continued the recital, 
 always in the same subdued and tranquil 
 manner. 
 
 “J have been the unwilling instrument of 
 many a violent death—I have seen the most 
 reckless sinners in the agonies of sudden and 
 compelled repentance, but never have I wit- 
 nessed so wild and fearful a struggle between 
 earth and heaven—the world and the grave 
 —passion and the rebuke of Providence— 
 as attended the last hours of that unhappy 
 man! There were moments in which the 
 mild spirit of Christ won upon his evil mood, 
 *tis true; but the picture was, in general, 
 that of revenge so fierce, that the powers of 
 hell alone could give it birth in a human 
 heart. He had with him an infant of an age 
 just fitted to be taken from the breast. This 
 child appeared to awaken the fiercest con- 
 flicting feelings ; he both yearned over it and 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 detested its sight, though hatred seemed most 
 to prevail.” 
 
 “This was horrible!” murmured the Doge. 
 
 “Tt was the more horrible, Herr Doge, that 
 it should come from one who was justly con- 
 demned to the axe. He rejected the priests ; . 
 he would have naught of any but me. My 
 soul loathed the wretch—yet so few ever 
 showed an interest in us—and it would have 
 been cruel to desert a dying man! At the 
 end, he placed the child in my care, furnish« 
 ing more gold than was sufficient to rear it 
 frugally to the age of manhood, and leaving 
 other valuables which I have kept as proofs 
 that might some day be useful. All I could 
 learn of the infant’s origin was simply this. 
 It came from Italy, and of Italian parents ; 
 its mother died soon after its birth,”—a 
 groan escaped the Doge—*its father still 
 lived, and was the object of the criminal’s 
 implacable hatred, as its mother had been of 
 his ardent love; its birth was noble, and it 
 had been baptized in the bosom of the Church 
 by the name of Gaetano.” 
 
 “Tt must be he !—it is—it must be my be- 
 loved son!” exclaimed the Doge, unable to 
 control himself any longer. He spread wide 
 his arms, and Sigismund threw himself upon 
 his bosom, though there still remained fear-— 
 ful apprehensions that all he heard was a 
 dream. ‘Go on—go on—excellent Baltha- 
 zar,” added the Signor Grimaldi, drying his 
 eyes and struggling to command himself. 
 “JT shall have no peace until all is revealed to 
 the last syllable of thy wonderful, thy glori- 
 ous tale.” 
 
 “There remains but little more to say, 
 Herr Doge. The fatal hour arrived, and the 
 criminal was transported to the place where 
 he was to give up his life. While seated in 
 the chair in which he received the fatal blow, 
 his spirit underwent infernal torments. I 
 have reason to think that there were mo-— 
 ments when he would gladly have made his 
 peace with God. But the demons prevailed; 
 he died in his sins! From the hour when he 
 committed the little Gaetano to my keeping, — 
 I did not cease to entreat to be put in pos- 
 session of the secret of the child’s birth, but 
 the sole answer I received was an order to 
 appropriate the gold to my own uses, and to 
 adopt the boy as my own. The sword was in 
 my hand, and the signal to strike was given,” 
 
 i 
 4 ‘ 
 ? 
 
 ~~ 
 
.4" 
 ‘a 
 
 THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 when, for the last time, I asked the name of 
 the infant’s family and country, as a duty I 
 could not neglect. ‘He is thine—he is 
 thine,’ was the answer. ‘Tell me, Balthazar, 
 is thy office hereditary, as is wont in these 
 regions?’ I was compelled, as ye know, to 
 say it was. ‘Then adopt the urchin; rear 
 him to fatten on the blood of his fellows!’ 
 It was mockery to trifle with such a spirit. 
 When his head fell, it still had on its fierce 
 features traces of the infernal triumph with 
 which his spirit departed!” 
 
 “The monster was a just sacrifice to the 
 laws of the canton!” exclaimed the single- 
 minded bailiff. ‘‘Thou seest, Herr Mel- 
 chior, that we do well in arming the hand of 
 the executioner, in spite of all the sentiment 
 of the weak-minded. Such a wretch was 
 surely unworthy to live.” 
 
 ‘This burst of official felicitation from Pe- 
 terchen, who rarely neglected to draw a con- 
 clusion favorable to the existing order of 
 things, like most of those who reap their ex- 
 clusive advantage, and to the prejudice of 
 innovation, produced little attention; all 
 present were too much absorbed in the facts 
 related by Balthazar, to turn aside to speak, 
 or think, of other matters. 
 
 “What became of the boy?” demanded 
 the worthy clavier, who had taken as deep an 
 interest as the rest, in the progress of the 
 narrative. 
 
 “T could not desert him, father; nor did 
 I wish to. He came into my guardianship 
 at a moment when God, to reprove our re- 
 pinings at a lot that he had chosen to im- 
 pose, had taken our own little Sigismund to 
 heaven. I filled the place of the dead infant 
 with my living charge; I gave to him the 
 hame of my own son, and I can say confi- 
 dently, that I transferred to him the love I 
 had borne my own issue; though time, and 
 use, and a knowledge of the child’s character, 
 were perhaps necessary to complete the last. 
 Marguerite never knew the deception, though 
 a mother’s instinct and tenderness took the 
 alarm and raised suspicions. We have never 
 spoken freely on this together, and like you, 
 she now heareth the truth for the first time.” 
 
 “Twas a fearful mystery between God 
 and my own heart!” murmured the woman; 
 “I forbore to trouble it—Sigismund or Gae- 
 tano, or whatever you will have his name, 
 
 197 
 
 filled my affections, and I strove to be satis- 
 fied. The boy is dear to me, and ever will 
 be, though you seat him on a throne; but 
 Christine—the poor stricken Christine—is 
 truly the child of my bosom !” 
 
 Sigismund went and knelt at the feet of 
 her whom he had ever believed his mother, 
 and earnestly begged her blessing and con- 
 tinued affection. The tears streamed from 
 Marguerite’s eyes, as she willingly bestowed 
 the first, and promised never to withhold the 
 last. 
 
 “Hast thou any of the trinkets or gar- 
 ments that were given thee with the child, or 
 canst render an account of the place where 
 they are still to be found?” demanded the 
 Doge, whose whole mind was too deeply set 
 on appeasing his doubts to listen to aught 
 else. 
 
 “They are all here in the convent. The 
 gold has been fairly committed to Sigismund, 
 to form his equipment as a soldier. ‘The 
 child was kept apart, receiving such educa- 
 tion as a learned priest could give, till of an 
 age to serve, and then I sent him to bear 
 arms in Italy, which I knew to be the coun- 
 try of his birth, though I never knew to what 
 prince his allegiance was due. The time 
 had now come when I thought it due to the 
 youth to let him know the real nature of the 
 tie between us; but I shrank from paining 
 Marguerite and myself, and I even did his 
 heart the credit to believe that he would 
 rather belong to us, humbled and despised 
 though we be, than find himself a nameless 
 outcast, without home, country, or parent- 
 age. It was necessary, however, to speak, 
 and it was my purpose to reveal the truth, 
 here at the convent, in the presence of Chris- 
 tine. For this reason, and to enable Sigis- 
 mund to make inquiries for his family, the 
 effects received from the unhappy criminal 
 with the child were placed among his bag- 
 gage secretly. They are, at this moment, on 
 the mountain.” 
 
 The venerable old Prince trembled violent- 
 ly; for, with the intense feeling of one who 
 dreaded that his dearest hopes might yet be 
 disappointed, he feared, while he most wished, 
 to consult these mute but veracious witnesses. 
 
 ‘* Let them be produced!—let them be in- 
 stantly produced and examined!” he whis- 
 pered eagerly to those around him. Then, 
 
198 
 
 turning slowly to the immovable Maso, he 
 demanded—*“ And thou, man of falsehood 
 and of blood! what dost thou reply to this 
 clear and probable tale ?” 
 
 Il Maledetto smiled, as if superior to a 
 weakness that had blinded the others. The 
 expression of his countenance was filled with 
 that look of calm superiority which certainty 
 gives to the well informed over the doubting 
 and deceived. 
 
 ‘‘T have to reply, signor, and honored 
 father,” he coolly answered, ‘‘ that Balthazar 
 hath right cleverly related a tale that hath 
 been ingenuously devised. That I am Bar- 
 tolo, I repeat to thee, can be proved by a 
 hundred living tongues in Italy. ‘Thou 
 knowest best who Bartolo Contini is, Doge of 
 Genoa.” 
 
 “He speaks the truth,” returned the 
 Prince, dropping his head in disappointment. 
 “Oh! Melchior, I have had but too sure 
 proofs of what he intimates! I have long 
 been certain that this wretch Bartolo is my 
 son, though never before have I been cursed 
 with his presence. Bad as I was taught to 
 think him, my worst fears had not painted 
 him as I now find the truth would warrant.” 
 
 ‘‘ Has there not been some fraud—art thou 
 not the dupe of some conspiracy of which 
 money has been the object ?” 
 
 The Doge shook his head in a way to prove 
 that he could not possibly flatter himself 
 with such a hope.” 
 
 “ Never: my offers of money have always 
 been rejected.” ‘ 
 
 “Why should I take the gold of my 
 father ?” added I] Maledetto ; “my own skill 
 and courage more than suffice for my wants.” 
 
 The nature of the answer, and the com- 
 posed demeanor of Maso, produced an em- 
 barrassing pause. 
 
 “Tet the two stand forth and be con- 
 fronted,” said the puzzled clavier, at length; 
 “nature often reveals the truth when the 
 uttermost powers of man are at fault—if 
 either is the true child of the Prince, we 
 should find some resemblance to the father 
 to support his claim.” 
 
 The test, though of doubtful virtue, was 
 eagerly adopted, for the truth had now be- 
 
 come so involved as to excite a keen interest 
 The desire to explain the 
 mystery was general, and the slightest means 
 
 in all present. 
 
 latter. 
 
 any who wished to find it. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 of attaining such an erid became of a value 
 proportionate to the difficulty of effecting 
 the object. Sigismund and Maso were placed 
 beneath the lamp where its light was strong- 
 est, and every eye turned eagerly to their 
 countenances, in order to discover, or to 
 fancy it discovered, some of those secret signs 
 by which the mysterious affinities of nature 
 
 are to be traced. A more puzzling examina- 
 tion could not well have been essayed. There 
 
 was proof to give the victory to each of the 
 pretenders, if such a term may be used with 
 propriety as it concerns the passive Sigis- 
 mund, and much to defeat the claims of the 
 In the olive-colored tint, the dark, 
 rich, rolling eye, and in stature, the advan- 
 tage was altogether with Maso, whose outline 
 of countenance and penetrating expression 
 had also a resemblance to those of the Doge, 
 so marked as to render it quite apparent to 
 The habits of 
 the mariner had probably diminished the 
 
 likeness, but it was too obviously there to 
 
 escape detection. That hardened and rude 
 appearance, the consequence of exposure, 
 which rendered it difficult to pronounce 
 within ten years of his real age, contributed 
 a little to conceal what may be termed the 
 latent character of his countenance, but the 
 features themselves were undeniably a rude 
 copy of the more polished lineaments of the 
 Prince. 
 
 The case was less clear as respects Sigis- 
 mund. The advantage of ruddy and vigor- 
 ous youth rendered him such a resemblance 
 
 as we find between the aged and those por- 
 traits which have been painted in their 
 younger and happier days. ‘The bold outline 
 was not unlike that of the noble features of 
 the venerable Prince, but neither the eye, 
 the hair, nor the complexiofi, had the hues of 
 Italy. 
 
 “Thou seest,’”’ said Maso, tauntingly, when 
 the disappointed clavier admitted the differ- 
 ences in the latter particulars, “‘ this is an 
 imposition that will not pass. I swear to 
 you, as there is faith in man, and hope for 
 the dying Christian, that so far as any know 
 their parentage, I am the child of Gaetano 
 Grimaldi, the present Doge of Genoa, and of 
 no other man! May the saints desert me !— 
 the blessed Mother. of God be deaf to my 
 
 of the Doge—in the points where it existed— ~ 
 
Be Fa 
 
 ‘a See : 
 Recher 
 aie. 
 
 that he belongs not to me. 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 prayers !—and all men hunt me with their 
 curses, if I say aught in this but holy truth!” 
 
 The fearful energy with which Maso ut- 
 tered this solemn appeal, and a certain sin- 
 cerity that marked his manner, and perhaps 
 we might even say his character, in spite of 
 the dissolute recklessness of his principles, 
 served greatly to weaken the growing opinion 
 in favor of his competitor. 
 
 « And this noble youth?” asked the sorrow- 
 ing Doge—“this generous and elevated boy, 
 whom I have already held next to my heart, 
 with so much of a father’s joy—who and 
 what is he?” 
 
 “ Hecellenza, I wish to say nothing against 
 the Signor Sigismondo. He is a gallant 
 swimmer, and astanch support in time of 
 need. Be he Swiss or Genoese, either coun- 
 try may be proud of him; but self-love teaches 
 us all to take care of our own interests be- 
 fore those of another. It would be far pleas- 
 anter to dwell in the Palazzo Grimaldi, on 
 our warm and sunny gulf, honored and 
 esteemed as the heir of a noble name, than 
 to be cutting heads in Berne; and honest 
 Balthazar does but follow his instinct, in 
 seeking preferment for his son!” 
 
 Each eye now turned on the headsman, 
 who quailed not under the scrutiny, but 
 maintained the firm front of one conscious 
 that he had done no wrong. 
 
 ‘“T have not said that Sigismund is the 
 child of any,” he answered in his meek man- 
 ner, but with a steadiness that won him 
 credit with the listeners. “I have only said 
 No father need 
 wish a worthier son, and Heaven knows that 
 I yield my own claims with a sorrow that it 
 would be grievous to bear, did I not hope a 
 better fortune for him than any which can 
 come from a connection with a race accursed. 
 The likeness which is seen in Maso, and 
 which Sigismund is thought to want, proves 
 little, noble gentlemen and reverend monks; 
 for all who have looked closely into these 
 matters know that resemblances are as often 
 found between the distant branches of the 
 same family, as between those who are more 
 nearly united. Sigismund is not of us, and 
 none can see any trace of either my own or of 
 Marguerite’s family in his person or features.” 
 
 Balthazar paused that there might be an 
 examination of this fact, and, in truth, the 
 
 199 
 
 most ingenious fancy could not have detected 
 the least affinity in looks, between either of 
 those whom he had so long thought his 
 parents and the young soldier. 
 
 ‘“‘Let the Doge of Genoa question his 
 memory, and look further than himself. Can 
 he find no sleeping smile, no color of the 
 hair, nor any other common point of appear- 
 ance, between the youth and some of those 
 whom he once knew and loved ?” 
 
 The anxious Prince turned eagerly toward 
 Sigismund, and a gleam of joy lighted his 
 face again, as he studied the young man’s 
 features. 
 
 ‘By San Francesco! Melchior, the honest 
 Balthazar is right. My grandmother was a 
 Venetian, and she had the fair hair of the 
 boy—the eye, teo, is hers—and—Oh!” bend- 
 ing his head aside and veiling his eyes with 
 his hand, “‘I see the anxious gaze that was 
 so constant in the sainted and injured An- 
 giolina, after my greater wealth and power 
 had tempted her kinsmen to force her to 
 yield to an unwilling hand! Wretch! thou 
 art not Bartolo; thy tale is a wicked decep- 
 tion, invented to shield thee from the pun- 
 ishment due to thy crime!” 
 
 « Admitting that I am not Bartolo, Hccel- 
 lenza, does the Signor Sigismondo claim to 
 be he? Have you not assured yourself that a 
 certain Bartolo Contini, a man whose life is 
 passed in open hostility to the laws, is your 
 child? Did you not employ your confidant 
 and secretary to learn the facts? Did he 
 not hear from the dying lips of a holy priest, 
 who knew all the circumstances, that ‘ Bar- 
 tolo Contini is the son of Gaetano Grimaldi?’ 
 Did not the confederate of your implacable 
 enemy, Cristofero Serrani, swear the same to 
 you? Have you not seen papers that were 
 taken with your child to confirm it all, and 
 did you not send this signet as a gauge that 
 Bartolo should not want your aid, in any 
 strait that might occur in his wild manner of 
 living, when you learned that he resolutely 
 preferred remaining what he was, to be- 
 coming an image of sickly repentance and 
 newly assumed nobility, in your gorgeous 
 palace on the Strada Balbi?” 
 
 The Doge again bowed his head in dismay, 
 for all this he knew to be true beyond a 
 shadow of hope. 
 
 ‘¢ Here is some sad mistake,” he said with 
 
200 
 
 bitter regret. 
 of some other bereaved parent, Balthazar; 
 
 but, though I cannot hope to prove myself 
 the natural father of Sigismund, he shall at 
 
 least find me one in affection and good offices. 
 If his life be not due to me, I owe him mine; 
 the debt shall form a tie between us little 
 short of that to which nature herself could 
 give birth.” 
 
 ‘Herr Doge,” returned the earnest heads- 
 man, ‘let us not be too hasty. If there are 
 strong facts in favor of the claims of Maso, 
 there are many circumstances, also, in favor 
 of those of Sigismund. To me, the history 
 of the last is probably more clear than it can 
 be to any other. The time, the country, the 
 age of the child, the name, and the fearful 
 
 revelations of the criminal, are all strong 
 
 proofs in Sigismund’s behalf. Here are the 
 effects that were given me with the child ; it 
 is possible that they, too, may throw weight 
 into his scale.” 
 
 Balthazar had taken means to procure the 
 package in question from among the luggage 
 of Sigismund, and he now proceeded to ex- 
 pose its contents, while a breathless silence 
 betrayed the interest with which the result 
 was expected. He first laid upon the pave- 
 ment of the chapel a collection of child’s 
 clothing. The articles were rich, and accord- 
 ing to the fashions of the times; but they 
 contained no positive proofs that could go to 
 substantiate the origin of the wearer, except as 
 they raised the probability of his having come 
 of an elevated rank in life. As the different 
 objects were placed upon the stones, Adelheid 
 and Christine kneeled beside them, each too 
 intently absorbed with the progress of the 
 inquiry to bethink herself of those forms 
 which, in common, throw a restraint upon 
 the manners of their sex. The latter ap- 
 peared to forget her own sorrows, for a mo- 
 ment, in a new-born interest in her brother’s 
 fortunes, while the ears of the former drank 
 in each syllable that fell from the lips of the 
 different speakers, with an avidity that her 
 strong sympathy with the youth could alone 
 give. 
 
 ‘‘Here is a case containing trinkets of 
 value,” added Balthazar. ‘‘ The condemned 
 man said they were taken through ignorance, 
 and he was accustomed to suffer the child to 
 amuse himself with them in the prison.” 
 
 <¢Thou hast received the child 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 «These were my first offerings to my wife, 
 in return for the gift she had made me of 
 the precious babe,” said the Doge, in such a 
 smothered voice as we are apt to use when 
 examining objects that recall the presence of 
 the dead—‘* Blessed Angiolina ! these jewels 
 are so many tokens of thy pale but happy 
 countenance; thou felt a mother’s joy at 
 that sacred moment, and could even smile 
 on me!” 
 
 ‘«* And here is a talisman in sapphire, with 
 many Eastern characters; I was told it had 
 been an heirloom in the family of the child, 
 and was put about its neck at the birth, by 
 the hands of its own father.” 
 
 ‘Task no more—I ask no more! God be 
 praised for this, the last and best of all his 
 mercies!” cried the Prince, clasping his 
 hands with devotion. ‘‘ This jewel was worn 
 by myself in infancy, and I placed it around 
 the neck of the babe with my own hands, as 
 thou sayest—I ask no more.” 
 
 <«*And Bartolo Contini!” 
 Maledetto. 
 
 ‘¢Maso !” exclaimed a voice, which until 
 then had been mute in the chapel. It was 
 Adelheid who had spoken. Her hair had 
 fallen in wild profusion over her shoulders, 
 
 muttered Il 
 
 as she still knelt over the articles on the 
 
 pavement, and her hands were clasped en- 
 treatingly, as if she deprecated the rude 
 interruptions which had so often dashed the 
 cup from their lips, as they were about to 
 yield to the delight of believing Sigismund 
 to be the child of the Prince of Genoa. 
 
 ‘¢Thou art another of a fond and weak sex, 
 to swell the list of confiding spirits that have 
 been betrayed by the selfishness and falsehood 
 of men,” answered the mocking mariner. 
 ‘Go to, girl!—make thyself a nun; thy 
 Sigismund is an impostor.” 
 
 Adelheid, by a quick and decided inter- 
 position of her hand, prevented an impetuous 
 movement of the young soldier, who would 
 have struck his audacious rival to his feet. 
 Without changing her kneeling attitude, she 
 then spoke, modestly, but with a firmness 
 which generous sentiments enable women to 
 assume even more readily than the stronger 
 sex, when extraordinary occasions call for the 
 sacrifice of that reserve in which her feeble- 
 ness is ordinarily intrenched. 
 
 ‘*T know not, Maso, in what manner thou 
 
THH HHADSMAN. 
 
 hast learned the tie which connects me with 
 Sigismund,” she said ; ‘‘ but I have no longer 
 any wish to conceal it. Be he the son of Bal- 
 thazar, or be he the son of a Prince, he has 
 received my troth with the consent of my 
 honored father, and our fortunes will shortly 
 be one. There might be forwardness in a 
 maiden thus openly avowing her preference 
 for a youth ; but here, with none to own him, 
 oppressed with his long-endured wrongs, and 
 assailed in his most sacred affections, Sigis- 
 mund has a right to my voice. Let him 
 belong to whom else he may, I speak by my 
 venerable father’s authority, when I say he 
 belongs to us.” 
 
 ** Melchoir, is this true?” cried the Doge. 
 
 “The girl’s words are but an echo of what 
 my heart feels,” answered the Baron, look- 
 ing about him proudly, as if he would brow- 
 beat any who should presume to think that 
 he had consented to corrupt the blood of 
 Willading by the measure. 
 
 **T have watched thine eye, Maso, as one 
 nearly interested in the truth,’ continued 
 Adelheid, “and I now appeal to thee, as thou 
 lovest thine own soul, to disburden thyself! 
 While thou may’st have told some truth, the 
 jealous affection of a woman has revealed to 
 me that thou hast kept back part! Speak, 
 then, and relieve the soul of this venerable 
 Prince from torture.” 
 
 “And deliver my own body to the wheel ! 
 This may be well to the warm imagination of 
 a love-sick girl, but we of the contraband, 
 have too much practice in men uselessly to 
 throw away an advantage.” 
 
 ‘Thou mayest have confidence in our 
 faith. I have seen much of thee within the 
 last few days, Maso, and I wish not to think 
 thee capable of the bloody deed that hath 
 been committed on the mountain, though I 
 fear thy life is only too ungoverned ; still I 
 will not believe that the hero of the Leman 
 can be the assassin of St. Bernard.” 
 
 “When thy young dreams are over, fair 
 one, and thou seest the world under its true 
 colors, thou wilt know that the hearts of men 
 come partly of Heaven and partly of Hell.” 
 
 Masso laughed in his most reckless manner 
 as he delivered this opinion. 
 
 “Tis useless to deny that thou hast sym- 
 pathies,’ continued the maiden steadily ; 
 “thou hast in secret more pleasure in serving 
 
 201 
 
 than in injuring thy race. Thou canst not 
 have been in such straits in company with 
 the Signor Sigismondo, without imbibing 
 some touch of his noble generosity. You 
 have struggled together for our common good, 
 you come of the same God, have the same 
 manly courage, are equally stout of heart, 
 strong of hand, and willing to do for others. 
 Such a heart must have enough of noble and 
 human impulses to cause you to love justice. 
 Speak, then, and I pledge our sacred word 
 that thou shalt fare better for thy candor 
 than by taking refuge in thy present fraud. 
 Bethink thee, Maso, that the happiness of 
 this aged man, of Sigismund himself, if thou 
 wilt, for I blush not to say it—of a weak and 
 affectionate girl, is in thy keeping. Give us 
 truth holy; sacred truth, and we pardon the 
 past.” 
 
 Il Maledetto was moved by the beautiful 
 earnestness of the speaker. Her ingenuous 
 interest in the result, with the solemnity of 
 her appeal, shook his purpose. 
 
 “Thou know’st not what thou say’st, lady; 
 thou ask’st my life,” he answered, after pon- 
 dering in a way to give a new impulse to the 
 dying hopes of the Doge. 
 
 “Though there is no quality more sacred 
 than justice,” interposed the chatelain, who 
 alone could speak with authority in the 
 Valais; ‘‘it is fairly within the province of 
 her servants to permit her to go unexpiated, 
 in order that greater good may come of the 
 sacrifice. If thou wilt prove aught that is of 
 grave importance to the interests of the 
 Prince of Genoa, Valais owes it to the love it 
 bears his republic to requite the service.” 
 
 Maso listened, at first with a cold ear. He 
 felt the distrust of one who had sufficient 
 knowledge of the world to be acquainted with 
 the thousand expedients that were resorted to 
 by men, in order to justify their daily want 
 of faith. He questioned the chatelain closely 
 as to his meaning, nor was it till a late hour, 
 and after long and weary explanations on 
 both sides, that the parties came to an under- 
 standing. 
 
 On the part of those who, on this occasion, 
 were the representatives of that high attri- 
 bute of the Deity which among men is termed 
 justice, it was sufficiently apparent that they 
 understood its exercise with certain reserva- 
 tions that might be made at pleasure in favor 
 
202 
 
 of their own views; and, on the part of Maso, 
 there was no attempt to conceal the suspicions 
 he entertained to the last, that he might bea 
 sufferer by lessening in any degree the 
 strength of the defences by which he was at 
 present shielded, as the son, real or fancied, 
 of a person so powerful as the Prince of 
 Genoa. 
 
 As usually happens when there is a mutual 
 wish to avoid extremities, and when conflict- 
 ing interests are managed with equal address, 
 the negotiation terminated in a compromise. 
 As the result will be shown in the regular 
 course of the narrative, the reader is referred 
 to the closing chapter for the explanation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 ‘Speak, oh, speak ! 
 And take me from the rack.” —YOuUNG. 
 
 Tr will be remembered that three days 
 were passed in the convent in that interval 
 which occurred between the arrival of the 
 travellers and those of the chatelain and the 
 bailiff. The determination of admitting the 
 claims of Sigismund, so frankly announced 
 by Adelheid in the preceding chapter, was 
 taken during this time. Separated from the 
 world, and amid that magnificent solitude 
 where the passions and the vulgar interests 
 of life sank into corresponding insignificance 
 as the majesty of God became hourly more 
 visible, the Baron had been gradually won 
 upon to consent. Love for his child, aided 
 by the fine moral and personal qualities of 
 the young man himself, which here stood out 
 in strong relief, like one of the stern piles of 
 those Alps that now appeared to his eyes so 
 much superior, in their eternal beds, to all 
 the vine-clad hills and teeming valleys of the 
 lower world, had been the immediate and 
 efficient agents in producing this decision. 
 It is not pretended that the Bernese made an 
 easy conquest over his prejudices, which was 
 in truth no other than a conquest over him- 
 self, he being, morally considered, little other 
 than a collection of the narrow opinions and 
 exclusive doctrines which it was then the 
 fashion to believe necessary to high civiliza- 
 tion. On the contrary, the struggle had 
 been severe; nor is it probable that the gen- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 | tle blandishments of Adelheid, the eloquent 
 
 but silent appeals to his reason that were 
 constantly made by Sigismund in his deport- 
 ment, or the arguments of his ‘old comrade, 
 the Signor Grimaldi, who, with a philosophy 
 that is more often made apparent in our 
 friendships than in our practice, dilated 
 copiously on the wisdom of sacrificing a few 
 worthless and antiquated opinions to the 
 happiness of an only child, would have pre- 
 vailed, had the Baron been in a situation less 
 abstracted from the ordinary circumstances 
 of his rank and habits, than that in which he 
 had been so accidentally thrown. The pious 
 clavier, too, who had obtained some claims to 
 the confidence of the guests of the convent 
 by his services, and by the risks he had run 
 in their company, came to swell the number 
 of Sigismund’s friends. Of humble origin 
 himself, and attached to the young man not 
 only by his general merits, but by his con- 
 duct on the lake, he neglected no good occa- 
 sion to work upon Melchior’s mind, after he 
 himself had become acquainted with the 
 nature of the young man’s hopes. As they 
 paced the brown and naked rocks together, 
 in the vicinity of the convent, the Augustine 
 discoursed on the perishable nature of human 
 hopes, and on the frailty of human opinions. 
 He dwelt with pious fervor on the usefulness 
 of recalling tho thoughts from the turmoil of 
 daily and contracted interests, to a wider 
 view of the truths of existence. Pointing to 
 the wild scene around him, he likened the 
 confused masses of the mountains, their 
 sterility, and their ruthless tempests, to the 
 world with its want of happy fruits, its dis- 
 orders, and its violence. Shen directing the 
 attention of his ;ompanion to the azure vault 
 above him, which, seen at that elevation, and 
 in that pure atmosphere, resembled a benign 
 canopy of the softest tints and colors, he 
 made glowing appeals to the eternal and holy 
 tranquillity of the state of being to which 
 they were both fast hastening, and which had 
 its type in the mysterious and imposing calm 
 of that tranquil and illimitable void. He 
 drew his moral in favor of 2 measured enjoy- 
 ment of our advantages here, as well as of 
 rendering love and justice to all who merited 
 our esteem, and to the disadvantage of those 
 iron prejudices which confine the best senti- 
 ments in the fetters of opinions founded in 
 
 7 ee), 
 Sa Ses Date Kang a het 
 
THR HHADSMAN. 
 
 the ordinances and provisions of the violent 
 and selfish. 
 
 It was after one of these interesting dia- 
 logues that Melchior de Willading, his heart 
 softened and his soul touched with the hopes 
 of heaven, listened with a more indulgent 
 ear to the firm declaration of Adelheid, that 
 unless she became the wife of Sigismund, 
 her self-respect, no less than her affections, 
 must compel her to pass her life unmarried. 
 We shall not say that the maiden herself 
 philosophized on premises as sublime as those 
 of the good monk, for with her the warm 
 impulses of the heart lay at the bottom of 
 her resolution; but even she had the respect- 
 able support of reason to sustain her cause. 
 The Baron had that innate desire to perpetu- 
 ate his own existence in that of his descend- 
 ants, which appears to be a property of 
 nature. Alarmed at a declaration which 
 threatened annihilation to his line, while at 
 the same time he was more than usually 
 under the influence of his better feelings, he 
 promised that if the charge of murder could 
 be removed from Balthazar, he would no 
 longer oppose the union. We should be giv- 
 ing the reader an opinion a little too favor- 
 able of Herr von Willading, were we to say 
 that he did not repent having made this prom- 
 ise soon after it was uttered. He was in a 
 state of mind that resembled the vanes of his 
 own towers, which changed their direction 
 with every fresh current of air, but he was by 
 far too honorable to think seriously of violat- 
 ing a faith that he had once fairly plighted. 
 He had moments of unpleasant misgivings as 
 to the wisdom and propriety of his promise, 
 but they were of that species of regret which 
 is known to attend an unavoidable evil. If 
 he had any expectations of being released 
 from his pledge, they were bottomed on cer- 
 tain vague impressions that Balthazar would 
 be found guilty, though the constant and 
 earnest asseverations of Sigismund in favor 
 
 of his father had greatly succeeded in shak- 
 
 ing his faith on this point. Adelheid had 
 stronger hopes than either ; the fears of the 
 young man himself preventing him from 
 fully participating in her confidence, while 
 her father shared her expectations on that 
 tormenting principle which causes us to dread 
 the worst. When, therefore, the jewelry of 
 Jacques Colis was found in the possession of 
 
 203 
 
 Maso, and Balthazar was unanimously ac- 
 quitted, not only from this circumstance, 
 which went so conclusively to criminate an- 
 other, but from the want of any other evi- 
 dence against him than the fact of his being 
 found in the bone-house instead of the Ref- 
 uge, an accident that might well have hap- 
 pened to any other traveller in the storm, the 
 Baron resolutely prepared himself to redeem 
 his pledge. It is scarcely necessary to add 
 how much this honorable sentiment was 
 strengthened by the unexpected declaration 
 of the headsman concerning the birth of Sig- 
 ismund. Notwithstanding. the asseveration 
 of Maso that the whole was an invention con- 
 ceived to favor the son of Balthazar, it was 
 supported by proofs so substantial and pal- 
 pable, to say nothing of the natural and ve- 
 racious manner in which the tale was related, 
 as to create a strong probability in the minds 
 of the witnesses, that it might be true. Al- 
 though it remained to be discovered who were 
 the real parents of Sigismund, few now be- 
 lieved that he owed his existence to the heads- 
 man. 
 
 A short summary of the facts may aid the 
 reader in better understanding the circum- 
 stances on which so much denouement de- 
 pends. 
 
 It has been revealed in the course of the 
 narrative that the Signor Grimaldi had wed- 
 ded a lady younger than himself, whose afiec- 
 tions were already in the possession of one 
 that, in moral qualities, was unworthy of her 
 love, but who in other respects was perhaps 
 better suited to become her husband than the 
 powerful noble to whom her family had given 
 her hand. The birth of their son was soon 
 followed by the death of the mother, and the 
 abduction of the child. Years had passed, 
 when the Signor Grimaldi was first apprised 
 of the existence of the latter. He had re- 
 ceived this important information at a mo- 
 ment when the authorities of Genoa were 
 most active in pursuing those who had long 
 and desperately trifled with the laws, and the 
 avowed motive for the revelation was an ap- 
 peal to his natural affection in behalf of a 
 son who was likely to become a victim of his 
 practices. The recovery of a child under 
 such circumstances was a blow severer than 
 his loss, and it will readily be supposed that 
 the truth of the pretension of Maso, who 
 
204 
 
 then went by the name of Bartolomeo Con- 
 tini, was admitted with the greatest cau- 
 tion. Reference had been made by the friends 
 of the smuggler to a dying monk, whose char- 
 acter was above suspicion, and who corrobo- 
 rated, with his latest breath, the statement of 
 Maso, by affirming before God and the saints 
 that he knew him, so far as men could know 
 a fact like this, to be the son of Signor Gri- 
 maldi. This grave testimony, given under 
 circumstances of such solemnity, and sup- 
 ported by the production of important papers 
 that had been stolen with the child, removed 
 the suspicions of the Doge. He secretly inter- 
 posed his interest to save the criminal, though, 
 after a fruitless attempt to effect a reforma- 
 tion of his habits by means of confidential 
 agents, he had never consented to see him. 
 
 Such then was the nature of the conflicting 
 statements. While hope and the pure de- 
 light of finding himself the father of a son 
 like Sigismund caused the aged Prince to 
 cling to the claims of the young soldier with 
 fond pertinacity, his cooler and more deliber- 
 ate judgment had already been formed in fa- 
 vor of another. In the long private examina- 
 tion which succeeded the scene in the chapel, 
 Maso had gradually drawn more into himself, 
 becoming vague and mysterious, until he suc- 
 ceeded in exciting a most painful state of 
 doubt and expectation in all who witnessed 
 his deportment. Profiting by this advantage, 
 he suddenly changed his tactics. He prom- 
 ised revelations of importance, on the condi- 
 tion that he should first be placed in security 
 within the frontiers of Piedmont. ‘T’he pru- 
 dent chatelain soon saw that the case was get- 
 ting to be one in which Justice was expected 
 to be blind in the more politic signification 
 of the term. He, therefore, drew off his lo- 
 quacious coadjutor, the bailiff, in a way to 
 leave the settlement of the affair to the feel- 
 ings and wishes of the Doge. The latter, by 
 the aid of Melchior and Sigismund, soon ef- 
 fected an understanding, in which the con- 
 ditions of the mariner were admitted ; when 
 the party separated for the night, I] Male- 
 detto, on whom weighed the entire load of 
 Jacques Colis’s murder, was again committed 
 to his temporary prison, while Balthazar, 
 Pippo, and Conrad, were permitted to go at 
 large, as having successfully passed the ordeal 
 of examination. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Day dawned upon the Col long ere the’ 
 
 shades of night had deserted the valley of the 
 Rhone. All in the convent were in motion 
 before the appearance of the sun, it being 
 generally understood that the events which 
 had so much disturbed the order of its peace- 
 ful inmates’ lives, were to be brought finally 
 to a close, and that their duties were about to 
 return into the customary channels. Orisons 
 are constantly ascending to heaven from the 
 pass of St. Bernard, but on the present occa- 
 sion the stir in and about the chapel, the 
 manner in which the good canons hurried to 
 and fro through the long corridors, and the 
 general air of excitement, proclaimed that 
 the offices of the matins possessed more than 
 the usual interest of the regular daily devo- 
 tion. 
 
 The hour was still early when all on the 
 pass assembled in the place of worship. The 
 body of Jacques Colis had been removed to 
 a side chapel, where, covered with a pall, it 
 awaited the mass for the dead. ‘Two large 
 church candles stood lighted on the steps of 
 the great altar, and the spectators, including 
 Pierre and the muleteers, the servants of the 
 convent, and others of every rank and age, 
 were drawn up in double files in its front. 
 Among the silent spectators appeared Bal- 
 thazar and his wife, Maso, in truth a prisoner, 
 but with the air of a liberated man, the pil- 
 grim and Pippo. The good prior was pres- 
 ent in his robes, with all of his community. 
 During the moments of suspense which pre- 
 ceded the rites, he discoursed civilly with the 
 chatelain and bailiff, both of whom returned 
 his courtesies with interest, and in the man- 
 ner in which it becomes the dignified and 
 honored to respect appearances in the pres- 
 ence of their inferiors. Still, the demeanor 
 of most was feverish and excited, asif the 
 occasion were one of compelled gayety, into 
 which unwelcome and extraordinary circum- 
 stances of alloy had thrust themselves un- 
 bidden. 
 
 On the opening of the door a little proces- 
 sion entered, headed by the clavier. Mel- 
 chior de Willading led his daughter, Sigis- 
 mund came next, followed by Marguerite and 
 Christine, and the venerable Doge brought 
 up the rear. Simple as was this wedding 
 train, it was imposing from the dignity of 
 the principal actors, and from the evidences 
 
THE HHEADSMAN. 
 
 of deep feeling with which all in it advanced 
 to the altar. Sigismund was firm and self- 
 possessed. Still his carriage was lofty and 
 proud, as he felt that a cloud still hung over 
 that portion of his history to which the world 
 attached so much importance, and he had 
 
 _ fallen back on his character and principles 
 
 ‘for support. 
 
 Adelheid had lately been so 
 
 much the subject of strong emotions, that 
 
 she presented herself before the priest with 
 less trepidation than was usual for a maiden; 
 but the fixed regard, the colorless cheek, and 
 an air of profound reverence, announced the 
 depth and solemn character of the feelings 
 with which she was prepared to take the vow. 
 
 The marriage rites were celebrated by the 
 good clavier, who, not content with persuad- 
 ing the Baron to make this sacrifice of his 
 prejudices, had asked permission to finish the 
 work he had so happily commenced, by pro- 
 nouncing the nuptial benediction. Melchior 
 de Willading listened to the short ceremony 
 with silent self-approval. He felt disposed 
 at that instant to believe he had: wisely sacri- 
 
 - ficed the interests of the world to the right, 
 
 a sentiment that was a little quickened by the 
 uncertainty which still hung over the origin 
 of his new son, who might yet prove to be 
 all that he could hope, as well as by the mo- 
 mentary satisfaction he found in manifesting 
 his independence by bestowing the hand of 
 his daughter upon one whose merit was so 
 much better ascertained than his birth. In 
 this manner do the best deceive themselves, 
 yielding frequently to motives that would not 
 support investigation when they believe them- 
 selves the strongest in the right. The good- 
 natured clavier had observed the wavering 
 and uncertain character of the Baron’s de- 
 cision, and he had been induced to urge his 
 particular request to be officiating priest by a 
 secret apprehension that, descended again 
 
 into the scenes of the world, the relenting 
 
 father might become, like most other parents 
 of these nether regions, more disposed to con- 
 sult the temporal advancement than the true 
 happiness of his child. 
 
 As one of the parties was a Protestant, no 
 mass was said, an omission, however, that in 
 no degree impaired the legal character of the 
 engagement. Adelheid plighted her unvary- 
 ing love and fidelity with maiden modesty, 
 but with the steadiness of a woman whose 
 
 205 
 
 affections and principles were superior to the 
 little weaknesses which, on such occasions, 
 are most apt to unsettle those who have the 
 least of either of these great distinctive es- 
 sentials of the sex. The vows to cherish and 
 protect were uttered by Sigismund in deep 
 manly sincerity, for, at that moment, he felt 
 as if a life of devotion to her happiness 
 would scarcely requite her single-minded, 
 feminine, and unvarying truth. 
 
 ‘* May God bless thee, dearest,”’ murmured 
 old Melchior, as, bending over his kneeling 
 child, he struggled to keep down a heart 
 which appeared disposed to mount in his 
 throat, in spite of it’s master’s inclinations ; 
 <‘ bless thee—bless thee, love, now and for- 
 ever. Providence has dealt sternly with thy 
 brothers and sisters, but in leaving thee it 
 has still left me rich in offspring. Here is 
 our good friend Gaetano, too—his fortune 
 has been still harder—but we will hope—we 
 will hope. And thou, Sigismund, now that 
 Balthazar hath disowned thee, thou must 
 accept such a father as Heaven sends. All 
 accidents of early life are forgotten, and 
 Willading, like my old heart, hath gotten a 
 new owner and a new lord!” 
 
 The young man exchanged embraces with 
 the Baron, whose character he knew to be 
 kind in the main, and for whom he felt the 
 regard which was natural to his present situ- 
 ation. He then turned, with a hesitating 
 eye, to the Signor Grimaldi. The Doge suc- 
 ceeded his friend in paying the compliments 
 of affection to the bride, and had just re- 
 leased Adelheid with a warm paternal kiss. 
 
 ‘<7 pray Maria and her holy Son in thy 
 behalf!” said the venerable Prince with dig- 
 nity. “Thou enterest on new and serious 
 duties, child, but the spirit and purity of an 
 angel, a meekness that does not depress, and 
 a character whose force rather relieves than 
 injures the softness of thy sex, can temper 
 the ills of this fickle world, and thou may’st 
 justly hope to see a fair portion of that 
 felicity which thy young imagination pict- 
 ures in such golden colors. And thou,” he 
 added, turning to meet the embrace of Sig- 
 ismund, ‘‘ whoever thou art by the first dis- 
 position of Providence, thou art now right- 
 fully dear to me. The husband of Melchior 
 de Willading’s daughter would ever have a 
 claim upon his most ancient and dearest 
 
206 
 
 friend, but we are united by a tie that has 
 the interest of a singular and solemn mys- 
 tery. My reason tells me that I am pun- 
 ished for much early and wanton pride and 
 wilfulness, in being the parent of a child 
 that few men in any condition of life could 
 wish to claim, while my heart would fain 
 flatter me with being the father of a son of 
 whom an emperor might be proud! Thou 
 art, and thou art not, of my blood. With- 
 out these proofs of Maso’s, and the testimony 
 of the dying monk, I should proclaim tliee 
 to be the latter without hesitation ; but be 
 thou what thou may’st by birth, thou art 
 entirely and without alloy of my love. Be 
 tender of this fragile flower that Providence 
 hath put under thy protection, Sigismund ; 
 cherish it as thou valuest thine own soul; 
 this generous and confiding love of a vir- 
 
 tuous woman is always a support, frequently: 
 
 a triumphant stay, to the tottering princi- 
 ples of man. Oh! had it pleased God earlier 
 to have given my Angiolina, how differ- 
 ent might have been our lives! his dark 
 uncertainty would not now hang over the 
 most precious of human affections, and my 
 closing hour would be blessed. Heaven and 
 its saints preserve ye both, my children, and 
 preserve ye long in your present innocence 
 and affection !” 
 
 The venerable Doge ceased. The effort 
 which had enabled him to speak gave way, 
 and he turned aside that he might weep in 
 the decent reserve that became his station 
 and years. 
 
 Until now Marguerite had been silent, 
 watching the countenances, and drinking in 
 with avidity the words of the different 
 speakers. It was now her turn. Sigismund 
 knelt at her feet, pressing her hands to his 
 lips in a manner to show that her high, 
 though stern character, had left deep traces 
 in his recollection. Releasing herself from 
 his convulsed grasp, for just then the young 
 man felt intensely the violence of severing 
 those holy ties which, in his case, had per- 
 haps something of a wild romance from their 
 secret nature, she parted the curls on his 
 ample brow, and stood gazing long at his 
 face, studying each lineament to its minutest 
 shade. 
 
 ““No,” she said, mournfully shaking her 
 head, ‘‘truly thou art not of us, and God 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 hath dealt mercifully in taking away the in- 
 nocent little creature whose place thou hast 
 so long innocently usurped! Thou wert 
 dear to me, Sigismund—very dear—for I 
 thought thee under the curse of my race; do 
 not hate me, if I say my heart is now in the 
 grave of th 
 
 “Mother!” exclaimed the young man, re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 ‘* Well, I am still thy mother,” answered 
 Marguerite, smiling, though painfully, 
 “thou art a noble boy, and no change of 
 fortune can ever alter thy soul. *Tis a cruel 
 parting, Balthazar, and I know not, after all, 
 that thou didst well to deceive me, for I 
 have had as much grief as joy in the youth 
 —grief, bitter grief, that one like him should 
 be condemned to live under the curse of our 
 race—but it is ended now—he is not of us— 
 no, he is no longer of us !” 
 
 This was uttered so plaintively that Sigis- 
 mund bent his face to his hands and sobbed 
 aloud. 
 
 ‘‘Now that the happy and proud weep, 
 *tis time that the wretched dried their tears,” 
 added the wife of Balthazar, looking about 
 her with asad mixture of agony and pride 
 struggling in her countenance; for, in spite 
 of her professions, it was plain that she 
 yielded her claim on the noble youth with 
 deep yearnings and an intense agony of spirit. 
 “We have one consolation, at least, Chris- 
 tine—all that are not of our blood will not 
 despise us now! AmIT right, Sigismund— 
 thou, too, wilt not turn upon us with the 
 world, and hate those whom thou once 
 loved ?” 
 
 ‘Mother, mother, for the sake of the 
 Holy Virgin, do not harrow my soul! ” 
 
 ‘**T will not distrust thee, dear; thou didst 
 not drink at my breast, but thou hast taken 
 in too many lessons of the truth from my 
 
 lips to despise us—and yet thou art not of — 
 
 us, thou mayest possibly prove a prince’s son, 
 and the world so hardens the heart—and 
 they who have been sorely pressed upon be- 
 come suspicious 
 
 ‘*‘For the love of God, cease, mother, or 
 thou wilt break my heart !” 
 
 “Come hither, Christine. Sigismund, 
 this maiden goes with thy wife ; we have the 
 
 greatest confidence in the truth and princi- ~_ 
 ples of her thou hast wedded, for she has — 
 
oe See > ee 
 
 THE HEADSMAN. 
 
 been tried and not found wanting. Be 
 
 tender to the child; she was once thy sister, 
 
 and then thou used to love her.” 
 
 < Mother—thou wilt make me curse the 
 hour I was born! ” 
 
 Marguerite, while she could not overcome 
 
 the cold distrust which habit had interwoven 
 
 with all her opinions, felt that she was cruel, 
 and she said no more. Stooping, she kissed 
 the cold forehead of the young man, gave a 
 warm embrace to her daughter, over whom 
 she prayed fervently for a minute, and then 
 placed the insensible girl into the open arms 
 of Adelheid. The awful workings of nature 
 were subdued by a superhuman will, and she 
 turned slowly toward the silent, respectful 
 crowd, who had scarcely breathed during 
 this exhibition of her noble character. 
 «© Doth any here,” she sternly asked, ‘‘sus- 
 pect the innocence of Balthazar ?” 
 <‘None, good woman, none !” returned 
 the bailiff, wiping his eyes; ‘‘ go in peace to 
 
 thy home, 0’ Heaven’s sake, and God be with 
 
 _ of principle. 
 
 thee |” 
 
 “He stands acquitted before God and 
 man! ” added the more dignified chatelain. 
 
 Marguerite motioned for Balthazar to pre- 
 cede her, and she prepared to quit the 
 chapel. On the threshold she turned and 
 cast a lingering look at Sigismund and Chris- 
 tine. The two latter were weeping in each 
 other’s arms, and the soul of Marguerite 
 yearned to mingle her tears with those she 
 loved so well. But, stern in her resolutions, 
 she stayed the torrent of feeling which would 
 have been so terrible in its violence had it 
 broken loose, and followed her husband, with 
 a dry and glowing eye. They descended the 
 mountain with a vacuum in their hearts 
 which taught even this persecuted pair that 
 there are griefs in nature that surpass all the 
 artificial woes of life. 
 
 The scene just related did not fail to dis- 
 turb the spectators. Maso dashed his hand 
 across his eyes, and seemed touched with a 
 stronger working of sympathy than it ac- 
 corded with his present policy to show, while 
 both Conrad and Pippo did credit to their 
 humanity, by fairly shedding tears. The 
 latter, indeed, showed manifestations of a 
 sensibility that is not altogether mcompati- 
 ble with ordinary recklessness and looseness 
 He even begged leave to kiss 
 
 ‘hundred yards from the convent. 
 
 207 
 
 the hand of the bride, wishing her joy with 
 fervor, as one who had gone through great 
 danger in her company. The whole party 
 then separated with an exchange of cordial 
 good feeling which proves that, however 
 much men may be disposed to jostle and dis- 
 compose their fellows in the great highway 
 of life, nature has infused into their compo- 
 sition some great redeeming qualities to make 
 us regret the abuses by which they have been 
 so much perverted. 
 
 On quitting the chapel, the whole of the 
 travellers made their dispositions to depart. 
 The bailiff and the chdtelain went down 
 toward the Rhone, as well satisfied with 
 themselves as if they had discharged their 
 trust with fidelity by committing Maso to 
 prison, and discoursing as they rode along 
 on the singular chances which had brought a 
 son of the Doge of Genoa before them in a 
 condition so questionable. The good Au- 
 gustines helped the travellers who were des- 
 tined for the other descent into their saddles, 
 and acquitted themselves of the last act of 
 hospitality by following the footsteps of the 
 mules, with wishes for their safe arrival at 
 Aoste. 
 
 The path across the Col has been already 
 described. It winds along the margin of the 
 little lake, passing the site of the ancient 
 temple of Jupiter at the distance of a few 
 Sweeping 
 past the northern extremity of the little 
 basin, where it crosses the frontiers of Pied- 
 mont, it cuts the ragged wall of rock, and, 
 after winding en corniche for a short distance 
 by the edge of a fearful ravine, it plunges at 
 once toward the plains of Italy. 
 
 As there was a desire to have no unneces- 
 sary witnesses of Maso’s promised revelations, 
 Conrad and Pippo had been advised to quit 
 the mountain before the rest of the party, 
 and the muleteers were requested to keep a 
 little in the rear. At the point where the 
 path leaves the lake, the whole dismounted, 
 Pierre going ahead with the beasts, with @ 
 view to make the first precipitous pitch from 
 the Col on foot. Maso now took the lead. 
 When he reached the spot where the con- 
 vent is last in view, he stopped and turned 
 to gaze at the venerable and storm-beaten 
 pile. 
 
 «Thou hesitatest,” observed the Baron de 
 
208 
 
 Willading, who suspected an intention to 
 escape. 
 
 “‘Signor, the look at even a stone is a 
 melancholy office, when it is known to be 
 the last. I have often climbed to the Col, 
 but I shall never dare do it again; for, 
 though the honorable and worthy chatelain, 
 and the most worthy bailiff, are willing to 
 pay their homage to a doge of Genoa in his 
 own person, they may be less tender of his 
 honor when he is absent. Addio, caro, San 
 Bernardo! Like me, thou art solitary and 
 weather-beaten, and, like me, though rude 
 of aspect, thou hast thy uses. We are both 
 beacons—thou to tell the traveller where to 
 seek safety, and I to warn him where danger 
 is to be avoided.” 
 
 There is a dignity in manly suffering, that 
 commands our sympathies. All who heard 
 this apostrophe to the abode of the Augus- 
 tines were struck with its simplicity and its 
 moral. They followed the speaker in silence, 
 however, to the point where the path makes 
 its first sudden descent. The spot was favor- 
 able to the purpose of Il Maledetto. Though 
 still on the level of the lake, the-convent, the 
 Col, and all it contained, with the exception 
 of a short line of its stony path, were shut 
 from their view, by the barrier of intervening 
 rock. The ravine lay beneath, ragged, fer- 
 ruginous, and riven into a hundred faces by 
 the eternal action of the seasons. All above, 
 beneath, and around, was naked, and chaotic 
 as the elements of the globe before they re- 
 ceived the order-giving touch of the Creator. 
 
 ‘* Signor,” said Maso, respectfully raising 
 his cap, and speaking with calmness, “this 
 confusion of nature resembles my own char- 
 acter. Here everything 1s torn, sterile, and 
 wild; but patience, charity, and generous 
 love, hath been able to change even this rocky 
 height into an abode for those who live for 
 the good of others. There is none so worth- 
 less that use may not be made of him. We 
 are types of the earth, our mother; useless 
 and savage, or repaying the labor that we re- 
 ceive, as we are treated like men, or hunted 
 like beasts. Ifthe great, and the powerful, 
 and the honored, would become the friends 
 and monitors of the weak and ignorant, in- 
 stead of remaining so many watch-dogs to 
 snarl at and bite all that they fear may en- 
 croach on their privileges, raising the cry of 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the wolf each time that they hear the wail yy: 
 the timid and bleating lamb, the fairest 
 works of God would not be so often defaced. 
 I have lived, and it is probable that I shall 
 die an outlaw; but the severest pangs I have 
 ever known come from the mockery which 
 
 ~~ a « 
 ‘ 
 " 
 y 
 { 
 
 accuses my nature of abuses that are the © 
 
 fruits of your own injustice. 
 kicking a bit of rock from the path into the 
 ravine beneath, “is as much master of its 
 direction after my foot has set its mass in 
 motion, as the poor untaught being who is 
 thrown upon the world, despised, unaided, 
 suspected, and condemned even before he 
 has sinned, has the command of his own 
 course. My mother was fair and good. She 
 wanted only the power to withstand the arts 
 of one who, honored in the opinions of all 
 around her, undermined her virtue. He was 
 great, noble, and powerful; while she had 
 little beside her beauty and her weakness. 
 Signori,—the odds against her were too much. 
 I was the punishment of her fault. I came 
 into a world, then, in which every man de- 
 spised me before I had done any act to deserve 
 its scorn.” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, this is pushing opinions to ex- 
 tremes!” interrupted the Signor Grimaldi, 
 who listened breathlessly to the syllables as 
 they came from the other’s tongue. 
 
 ‘We began, signori, as we have ended; 
 distrustful, and struggling to see which 
 could do the other the most harm. A rever- 
 end and holy monk, who knew my history, 
 would have filled a soul with heaven that the 
 wrongs of the world had already driven to 
 the verge of hell. The experiment failed. 
 Homily and precept,” Maso smiled bitterly as 
 he continued, ‘‘are but indifferent weapons 
 to fight with against hourly wrongs; instead 
 of becoming a cardinal and the counsellor of 
 the head of the Church, I am the man ye see. 
 Signor Grimaldi, the monk who gave me his 
 care was Father Girolamo. He told the 
 truth to thy secretary, for I am the son of 
 poor Annunziata Altieri, who was once 
 thought worthy to attract thy passing notice. 
 The deception of calling myself another of 
 thy children was practised for my own secur- 
 ity. ‘The means were offered by an acciden- 
 tal confederacy with one of the instruments 
 of thy formidable enemy and cousin, who 
 
 furnished the papers that had been taken 
 
 That stone,” . 
 
THE HHADSMAN. 
 
 with the little Gaetano. The truth of what I 
 say shall be delivered to you at Genoa. As 
 for the Signor Sigismondo, it is time we 
 ceased to be rivals. We are brothers, with 
 this difference in our fortunes, that he comes 
 of wedlock, and I am of an unexpiated, and 
 almost an unrepented, crime !” 
 
 A common cry, in which regret, joy, and 
 surprise were wildly mingled, interrupted the 
 speaker. Adelheid threw herself into her 
 husband’s arms, and the pale and conscience- 
 stricken Doge stood with extended arms, an 
 image of contrition, delight, and shame. 
 
 ‘‘Tet me have air!” exclaimed the Prince ; 
 ‘give me air or I suffocate! Where is the 
 child of Annunziata ?—I will at least atone 
 to him for the wrong done his mother!” 
 
 It was too late. The victim of another’s 
 fault had cast himself over the edge of the 
 precipice with reckless hardihood, and he was 
 already beyond the reach of the voice, in his 
 swift descent, by a shorter but dangerous 
 path, toward Aoste. Nettuno was, at his 
 heels. It was evident that he endeavored to 
 outstrip Pippo and Conrad, who were trudg- 
 
 209 
 
 ing ahead by the more beaten road. Ina few 
 minutes he turned the brow of beetling rock, 
 and was lost to view. | 
 
 This was the last that was known of Il 
 Maledetto. At Genoa, the Doge secretly re- 
 ceived the confirmation of all that he had 
 heard, and Sigismund was legally placed in 
 possession of his birthright. The latter made 
 many generous but useless efforts to discover 
 and to reclaim his brother. With a delicacy 
 that could hardly be expected, the outlaw 
 had withdrawn from a scene which he now 
 felt to be unsuited to his habits, and he never 
 permitted the veil to be withdrawn from the 
 place of his retreat. 
 
 The only consolation that his relatives ever 
 obtained arose from an event which brought 
 Pippo under the condemnation of the law. 
 Before his execution, the buffoon confessed 
 that Jacques Colis fell by the hands of Conrad 
 and himself, and that, ignorant of Maso’s ex- 
 pedient on his own account, they had made 
 use of Nettuno to convey the plundered jew- 
 elry undetected across the frontiers of Pied- 
 mont, 
 
 END OF “‘THE HEADSMAN.” 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 To WittrAm JAY, OF BEDFORD, WEST- 
 CHESTER, ESQUIRE: 
 
 My Dear Jay: An unbroken intimacy of 
 four-and-twenty years may justify the pres- 
 ent use of your name. <A man of readier 
 wit than myself might, on such a subject, 
 find an opportunity of saying something 
 clever, concerning the exalted services of 
 your father. No weak testimony of mine, 
 however, can add to a fame that belongs 
 already to posterity: and one like myself, 
 who has so long known the merits, and has 
 so often experienced the friendship of the 
 son, can find even better reasons for offering 
 these Legends to your notice. 
 
 Very truly and constantly, 
 Yours, 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE manner in which the author became 
 possessed of the private incidents, the char- 
 acters, and the descriptions, contained in 
 these tales, will, most probably, ever remain 
 a secret between himself and his publisher. 
 That the leading events are true, he pre- 
 sumes it is unnecessary to assert ; for should 
 inherent testimony, to prove that important 
 point, be wanting, he is conscious that no 
 anonymous declaration can establish its cred- 
 ibility. 
 
 But while he shrinks from directly yield- 
 ing his authorities, the author has no hesita- 
 tion in furnishing all the negative testimony 
 in his power. 
 
 In the first place, then, he solemnly de- 
 clares, that no unknown man, nor woman, 
 has ever died in his vicinity, of whose effects 
 
 he has become the possesser, by either fair 
 | No dark-looking stranger, — 
 
 means or foul. 
 of a morbid temperament, and of inflexible 
 silence, has ever transmitted to him a single 
 page of illegible manuscript. 
 landlord furnished him with materials to 
 be worked up into a book, in order that 
 the profits might go to discharge the arrear- 
 
 Nor has any 
 
 ages of a certain consumptive lodger, who — 
 
 made his exit so unceremoniously as to leave 
 the last item in his account, his funeral 
 charges. | 
 
 He is indebted to no garrulous tale-teller 
 
 for beguiling the long winter evenings; in 
 
 ghosts he has no faith; he never had a 
 vision in his life; and he sleeps too soundly 
 to dream. 
 
 He is constrained to add, that in no 
 ‘* puff,” “squib,” “notice,” “article,” nor 
 ‘“‘review,” whether in daily, weekly, monthly, 
 or quarterly publication, has he been able to 
 find a single hint that his humble powers 
 could improve. No one regrets this fatality 
 more than himself; for these writers gener- 
 ally bring such a weight of imagination to 
 their several tasks, that, properly improved, 
 might secure the immortality of any book, 
 by rendering it unintelligible. 
 
 He boldly asserts that he has derived no 
 information from any of the learned societies 
 
 —and without fear of contradiction; for — 
 
 why should one so obscure be the exclusive 
 object of their favor. 
 
 Notwithstanding he occasionally is seen 
 in that erudite and abstemious associa- 
 tion, the ‘* Bread-and-Cheese Lunch,” where 
 he is elbowed by lawyers, doctors, jurists, 
 poets, painters, editors, congressmen, and 
 authors of every shade and qualification, 
 whether metaphysical, scientific, or imagina- 
 tive, he avers, that he esteems the lore 
 which is there culled, as far too sacred to be 
 
 (210) 
 
 lee a 
 
, 
 G 
 . 
 ey 
 \ 
 
 ‘i 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 used in any work less dignified than actual 
 
 history. 
 
 - with reverence ; 
 claims 
 
 Of the colleges it is necessary to speak 
 though truth possesses 
 even superior to gratitude. He 
 shall dispose of them by simply saying, 
 that they are entirely innocent of all his 
 blunders; the little they bestowed having 
 long since been forgotten. 
 
 He has stolen no images from the deep, 
 natural poetry of Bryant! no pungency 
 from the wit of Hallock ; no felicity of ex- 
 
 pression from the richness of Percival; no 
 
 satire from the caustic pen of Paulding ; no 
 periods nor humor from Irving; nor any 
 high finish from the attainments exhibited 
 by Verplanck. 
 
 At the “‘soirées” and ‘‘coteries des bas 
 bleus ” he did think he had obtained a prize, 
 in the dandies of literature, who haunt them. 
 But experiment and analysis detected his 
 error; as they proved these worthies unfit 
 for any better purpose than that which there 
 own instinct had already dictated. 
 
 He has made no impious attempt to rob 
 Joe Miller of his jokes ; the sentimentalists 
 
 - of their pathos, nor the newspaper Homers 
 
 of their lofty inspirations. 
 
 His presumption has not even imagined 
 the vivacity of the eastern states; he has 
 not analyzed the homogeneous character of 
 the middle; and he has left the south in 
 undisturbed possession of all their saturnine 
 wit. 
 
 In short—he has pilfered from no black- 
 letter book, nor any six-penny pamphlet ; his 
 grandmother unnaturally refused her assist- 
 ance to his labors; and, to speak affirma- 
 tively, for once, he wishes to live in peace, 
 and hopes to die in the fear of God. 
 
 —_——_—__ 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In this tale there are one or two slight an- 
 achronisms ; which, if unnoticed, might, 
 
 with literal readers, draw some unpleasant 
 
 imputations on its veracity. They relate 
 rather to persons than to things. As they 
 are believed to be quite in character, con- 
 nected with circumstances much more prob- 
 
 able than facts, and to possess all the har- 
 
 ee: 
 
 a 
 
 all 
 
 mony of poetic coloring, the author is utterly 
 unable to discover the reason why they are 
 not true. 
 
 He leaves the knotty point to the instinc- 
 tive sagacity of the critics. 
 
 The matter of this ‘‘ Legend” may be 
 pretty equally divided into that which is pub- 
 licly, and that which is privately certain. 
 For the authorities of the latter, the author 
 refers to the foregoing preface; but he can- 
 not dispose of the sources whence he has de- 
 rived the former, with so little ceremony. 
 
 The good people of Boston are aware of the 
 creditable appearance they make in the early 
 annals of the confederation, and they neglect 
 no commendable means to perpetuate the 
 glories of their ancestors. In consequence, 
 the inquiry after historical facts is answered, 
 there, by an exhibition of local publications, 
 that no other town in the Union can equal. 
 Of these means the author has endeavored to 
 avail himself ; collating with care, and select- 
 ing, as he trusts, with some of that knowl- 
 edge of men and things which is necessary to 
 present a faithful picture. 
 
 Wherever he may have failed, he has done 
 it honestly. 
 
 He will not take leave of the ‘cradle of 
 liberty,” without expressing his thanks for 
 the facilities which have been so freely ac- 
 corded to his undertaking. If he has not 
 been visited by aérial beings, and those fair 
 visions that poets best love to create, he is 
 certain he will not be misconceived when he 
 says, that he has been honored by the notice 
 of some resembling those who first inspired 
 their fancies. 
 
 ——_ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ‘“‘My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
 And, redolent of joy and youth, 
 To breathe a second spring.” —GRAY. 
 
 No American can be ignorant of the prin- 
 cipal events that induced the Parliament of 
 Great Britain, in 1774, to lay those impolitic 
 restrictions on the port of Boston, which so 
 effectually destroyed the trade of the chief 
 town in her western colonies. Norshould it 
 be unknown to any American, how nobly, 
 and with what devotedness to the great prin- 
 ciples of the controversy, the inhabitants of 
 
R12 
 
 the adjacent town of Salem refused to profit 
 by the situation of their neighbors and fel- 
 low-subjects. In consequence of these impol- 
 itic measures of the English government, and 
 of the laudable unanimity among the capital- 
 ists of the times, it became a rare sight to see 
 the canvas of any other vessels than such as 
 wore the pennants of the king, whitening the 
 forsaken waters of Massachusetts Bay. 
 Toward the decline of a day in April, 1775, 
 however, the eyes of hundreds had been fas- 
 tened ona distant sail, which was seen rising 
 from the bosom of the waves, making her 
 way along the forbidden track, and steering 
 directly for the mouth of the proscribed 
 haven. Withthat deep solicitude in passing 
 events which marked the period, a large 
 group of spectators was collected on Beacon 
 Hill, spreading from its conical summit far 
 down the eastern declivity, all gazing intently 
 on the object of their common interest. In 
 so large an assemblage, however, there were 
 those who were excited by very different 
 feelings, and indulging in wishes directly op- 
 posite to each other. While the decent, grave, 
 but wary citizen was endeavoring to conceal 
 the bitterness of the sensations which soured 
 his mind, under the appearance of a cold in- 
 difference, a few gay young men, who min- 
 gled in the throng, bearing about their per- 
 sons the trappings of their martial profession, 
 were loud in their exultations, and hearty in 
 their congratulations on the prospect cf hear- 
 ing from their distant homes and absent 
 friends. But the long, loud rolls of the 
 drums, ascending on the evening air, from 
 the adjacent common, soon called these idle 
 spectators, in a body, from the spot, when 
 the hill was left to the quiet possession of 
 those who claimed the strongest right to its 
 enjoyment. It was not, however, a period 
 for open and unreserved communications. 
 Long before the mists of evening had suc- 
 ceeded the shadows thrown from the setting 
 sun, the hill was entirely deserted ; the re- 
 mainder of the spectators having descended 
 from the eminence, and held their several 
 courses, singly, silent, and thoughtful, to- 
 ward the rows of dusky roofs that covered the 
 lowland, along the eastern side of the penin- 
 sula. Notwithstanding this appearance of 
 apathy, rumor, which, in times of great ex- 
 citement, ever finds means to convey its 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 whisperings, when it dare not bruit its infor- 
 mation aloud, was busy in circulating the 
 unwelcome intelligence that the stranger was 
 the first of a fleet, bringing stores and rein- 
 forcements to an army already too numerous, 
 and too confident of its power, to respect the 
 law. No tumult or noise succeeded this un- 
 pleasant annunciation, but the doors of the 
 houses were sullenly closed, and the windows 
 darkened, asif the people intended to express 
 their dissatisfaction, alone, by these silent 
 testimonials of their disgust. 
 
 In the meantime the ship had gained the 
 rocky entrance to the harbor, where, deserted 
 by the breeze, and met by an adverse tide, 
 she lay inactive, as if conscious of the unwel- 
 come reception she must receive. The fears 
 of the inhabitants of Boston had, however, 
 exaggerated the danger; for the vessel, instead 
 of exhibiting the confused and disorderly 
 throng of licentious soldiery, which would 
 have crowded a transport, was but thinly 
 peopled, and her orderly decks were cleared 
 of every incumbrance that could interfere 
 with the comfort of those she did contain. 
 There was an appearance, in the arrangements 
 of her external accommodations, which would 
 have indicated to an observant eye that she 
 carried those who claimed the rank, or, pos- 
 sessed the means, of making others contribute 
 largely to their comforts. The few seamen 
 who navigated the ship lay extended on dif- 
 ferent portions of the vessel, watching the 
 lazy sails as they flapped against the masts, 
 or indolently bending their looks on the 
 placid waters of the bay; while several meni- 
 als, in livery, crowded around a young man 
 who was putting his eager inquiries to the 
 pilot, that had just boarded the vessel off the 
 Graves. The dress of this youth was studi- 
 ously neat, and from the excessive pains 
 bestowed on its adjustment, it was obviously 
 deemed, by its wearer, to be in the height of 
 the prevailing customs. From the place 
 where this inquisitive party stood, nigh the 
 main-mast, a wide sweep of the quarter-deck 
 was untenanted; but nearer to the spot where 
 the listless seamen hung idly over the tiller 
 of the ship, stood a being of altogether differ- 
 ent mould and fashion. He was a man who 
 would have seemed in the very extremity of 
 age, had not his quick, vigorous steps, and 
 the glowing, rapid glances from his eyes, as 
 
he occasionally paced the deck, appeared to 
 deny the usual indications of many years. 
 His form was bowed, and attenuated nearly 
 to emaciation. His hair, which fluttered a 
 ‘little wildly around his temples, was thin, 
 and silvered to the whiteness of at least eighty 
 winters. Deep furrows, like the lines of 
 great age and long-endured cares united, 
 wrinkled his hollow cheeks, and rendered 
 the bold haughty outline of his prominent 
 - features still more remarkable. He was clad 
 ina simple and somewhat tarnished suit of 
 - modest gray, which bore about it the ill-con- 
 eealed marks of long and neglected use. 
 ~ Whenever he turned his piercing look from 
 the shores, he moved swiftly along the de- 
  serted quarter-deck, and seemed entirely 
 it engrossed with the force of his own thoughts, 
 ; his lips moving rapidly, though no sounds 
 -_-were heard to issue from a mouth that was 
 habitually silent. He was under the influ- 
 ence of one of those sudden impulses, in 
 which the body, apparently, sympathizes so 
 keenly with the restless activity of the mind, 
 when a young man ascended from the cabin 
 and took his stand among the interested and 
 excited gazers at the land, on the upper deck. 
 The age of this gentleman might have been 
 five and twenty. He wore a military cloak, 
 thrown carelessly across his form, which, in 
 addition to such parts of his dress as were 
 visible through its open folds, sufficiently an- 
 nounced that his profession was that of arms, 
 _ There was an air of ease and high fashion 
 gleaming about his person, though his speak- 
 ing countenance, at times, seemed melan- 
 ‘choly, if not sad. On gaining the deck, this 
 young officer, encountering the eyes of the 
 aged and restless being who trod its planks, 
 bowed courteously before he turned away to 
 the view, and in his turn became deeply 
 absorbed in studying its fading beauties. 
 The rounded heights of Dorchester were 
 radiant with the rays of the luminary that 
 had just sunk behind their crest, and streaks 
 of paler light were playing along the waters, 
 -__and gilding the green summits of the islands 
 which clustered across the mouth of the 
 estuary. Far in the distance were to be seen 
 _ the tall spires of the churches, rising out of 
 the deep shadows of the town, with their 
 _ yanes glittering in the sunbeams, while a few 
 rays of strong light were dancing about the 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 213 
 
 black beacon, which reared itself high above 
 the conical peak, that took its name from the 
 circumstance of supporting this instrument 
 of alarms. Several large vessels were anchored 
 among the islands and before the town, their 
 dark hulls, at each moment, becoming less 
 distinct through the haze of evening, while 
 the summits of their long lines of masts were 
 yet glowing with the marks of day. From 
 each of these sullen ships, from the low forti- 
 fication which rose above a small island deep 
 in the bay, and from various elevations in the 
 
 town itself, the broad, silky folds of the flag 
 
 of England were yet waving in the currents 
 of the passing air. The young man was sud- 
 denly aroused from gazing at this scene, by 
 the quick reports of the evening guns, and 
 while his eyes were yet tracing the descent of 
 the proud symbols of the British power from 
 
 their respective places of display, he felt his 
 
 arm convulsively pressed by the hand of his 
 aged fellow-passenger. 
 
 «Will the day ever arrive,” said a low, 
 
 hollow voice at his elbow, ‘‘ when those flags 
 
 shall be lowered, never to rise again in this 
 
 hemisphere ?” 
 
 The young soldier turned his quick eyes to 
 the countenance of the speaker, but bent 
 
 them instantly in embarrassment on the deck, 
 to ayoid the keen, searching glance he en- 
 
 countered in the looks of the other. A long, 
 
 and, on the part of the young man, a painful 
 
 silence succeeded this remark. At length the 
 youth, pointing to the land, said— 
 
 «Tell me, you who are of Boston, and 
 must have known it so long, the names of all 
 these beautiful places I see.” 
 
 «¢ And are you not: of Boston, too ?” asked 
 his old companion. 
 
 ‘Certainly by birth, eae an Englishman 
 by habit and education.” 
 
 . © Accursed be the habits, and neglected the 
 
 education, which would teach a child to for- 
 get its parentage!” muttered the old man, 
 turning suddenly, and walking away so rap- 
 idly as to be soon lost in the forward parts of 
 the ship. 
 
 For several minutes longer the youth stood 
 absorbed in his own musings, when, as if rec- 
 ollecting his previous purposes, he called 
 aloud—‘‘ Meriton !” 
 
 At the sounds of his voice the curious 
 group around the pilot instantly separated, 
 
214 
 
 and the highly ornamented youth, before 
 mentioned, approached the officer, with a 
 manner in which pert familiarity and fearful 
 respect were peculiarly blended. Without 
 regarding the air of the other, however, or 
 indeed without even favoring him with a 
 glance, the young soldier continued— 
 
 «IT desired you to detain the boat which 
 boarded us, in order to convey me to the 
 town, Mr. Meriton ; see if it be in readi- 
 ness.” | 
 
 The valet flew to execute this commission, 
 and in an instant returned with areply in the 
 affirmative. 
 
 « But, sir,” he continued, ‘‘ you will never 
 think of going in that boat, I feel very much 
 assured, sir.” 
 
 ‘¢ Your assurance, Mr. Meriton, is not the 
 least of your recommendations ; why should 
 I not ?” 
 
 “'That disagreeable old stranger has taken 
 possession of it, with his mean, filthy bundle 
 of rags ; and——” 
 
 *« And what ? you must name a greater evil, 
 to detain me here, than mentioning the fact 
 that the only gentleman in the ship is to be 
 my companion.” 
 
 ‘Lord, sir!” said Meriton, glancing his 
 eye upward in amazement ; “‘ but, sir, surely 
 you know best as to gentility of behavior— 
 but as to gentility of dress——” 
 
 ‘‘Knough of this,” interrupted his master, 
 _ @ little angrily ; “‘the company is such as I 
 am content with ; if you find it unequal to 
 your deserts, you have my permission to re- 
 main in the ship until the morning—the pres- 
 ence of a coxcomb is by no means necessary 
 to my comfort for one night.” 
 
 Without regarding the mortification of his 
 disconcerted valet, the young man passed 
 along the deck to the place where the boat 
 was waiting. By the general movement 
 among the indolent menials, and the pro- 
 found respect with which he was attended by 
 the master of the ship to the gangway, it was 
 sufficiently apparent, that, notwithstanding 
 his youth, it was this gentleman whose pres- 
 ence had exacted those arrangements in the 
 ship, which have been mentioned. While all 
 around him, however, were busy in facilitat- 
 ing the entrance of the officer into the boat, 
 the aged stranger occupied its principal seat, 
 with an air of deep abstraction, if not of cool 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 indifference. <A hint from the pliant Meriton, 
 who had ventured to follow his master, that 
 it would be more agreeable if he would relin- 
 quish his place, was disregarded, and the youth 
 took a seat by the side of the old man, with 
 a simplicity of manner that his valet inwardly 
 pronounced abundantly degrading. Asif this © 
 humiliation were not sufficient, the young 
 man, perceiving that a general pause had suc- 
 ceeded his own entrance, turned to his com- 
 panion, and courteously inquired if he were 
 ready to proceed. A silent wave of the hand 
 was the reply, when the boat shot away from 
 the vessel, leaving the ship steering for an 
 anchorage in Nantasket. 
 
 The measured dash of the oars was unin- 
 terrupted by any voice, while, stemming the 
 tide, they pulled laboriously up among the 
 islands; but by the time they had reached 
 the castle, the twilight had melted into the 
 softer beams from a young moon, and the 
 surrounding objects becoming more distinct, 
 the stranger commenced talking with that 
 quick and startling vehemence which seemed 
 his natural manner. He spoke of the locali- — 
 ties, with the vehemence and fondness of an 
 enthusiast, and with the familiarity of one 
 who had long known their beauties. His 
 rapid utterance, however, ceased as they ap- 
 proached the naked wharves, and he sunk 
 back gloomily in the boat, as if unwilling to 
 trust his voice on the subject of his country’s 
 wrongs. Thus left to his own thoughts, the 
 youth gazed, with eager interest, at the long 
 ranges of buildings, which were now clearly 
 visible to the eye, though with softer colors 
 and more gloomy shadows. A few neglected 
 and dismantled ships were lying at different 
 points ; but the hum of business, the forests 
 of masts, and the rattling of wheels, which 
 at that early hour should have distinguished 
 the great mart of the colonies, were wanting. 
 In their places were to be heard, at intervals, 
 the sudden bursts of distant, martial music, 
 the riotous merriment of the soldiery who — 
 frequented the taverns at the water’s edge, 
 or the sullen challenges of the sentries from 
 the vessels of war, as they vexed the progress 
 of the few boats which the inhabitants still 
 used in their ordinary pursuits. 
 
 “Here indeed is a change!” the young 
 officer exclaimed, as they glided swiftly along 
 this desolate scene; “even my recollections 
 
| young aud fading as they are, recall the dif- 
 ference!” 
 
 ' he stranger made no reply, but a smile 
 of singular meaning gleamed across his wan 
 features, imparting, by the moonlight, to 
 their remarkable expression, a character of 
 additional wildness. The officer was again 
 silent, nor did either speak until the boat, 
 having shot by the end of the long wharf, 
 across whose naked boundaries a sentinel was 
 pacing his measured path, inclined more to 
 the shore, and soon reached the place of its 
 destination. 
 
 ‘ Whatever might have been the respective 
 _ feelings of the two passengers, at having thus 
 reached in safety the object of their tiresome 
 and protracted voyage, they were not ex- 
 pressed in language. The old: man bared 
 his silver locks, and, concealing his face with 
 his hat, stood as if in deep mental thanks- 
 giving at the termination of his toil, while 
 his more youthful companion trod the wharf 
 on which they landed with the air of a man 
 whose emotions were too engrossing for the 
 ordinary use of words. 
 
 «Here we must part, sir,” the officer at 
 length said; ‘‘ but I trust the acquaintance, 
 which has been thus accidentally formed be- 
 tween us, is not to be forgotten now there is 
 an end to our common privations.” 
 
 “Tt is not in the power of a man whose 
 days, like mine, are numbered,” returned the 
 stranger, ‘‘to mock the liberality of his God, 
 by any vain promises that must depend on 
 time for their fulfilment. J am one, young 
 gentleman, who has returned from a sad, sad. 
 pilgrimage, in the other hemisphere, to lay 
 
 his bones in this, his native land; but should 
 many hours be granted me, you will hear 
 further of the man whom your courtesy and 
 kindness have so greatly obliged.” 
 
 The officer was sensibly affected by the 
 softened but solemn manner of his compan- 
 ion, and pressed his wasted hand fervently as 
 
 : he answered— 
 
 A «Do; I ask it as a singular favor; I know 
 not why, but you have obtained a command 
 : of my feelings that no other being ever yet 
 possessed—and yet—tis a mystery, ‘tis like a 
 dream! I feel that I not only venerate, but 
 love you !” 
 
 The old man stepped back, and held the 
 youth at the length of his arm a moment, 
 
 - 
 
 i ee ek im yee Sg - 
 Ld = ra ee aie —— ~ a 
 an eo = ele ee ee ee " 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 215 
 
 while he fastened on him a look of glowing 
 interest, and then, raising his hand slowly, 
 he pointed impressively upward, and said— 
 
 ‘Tis from heaven, and for God’s own 
 purposes—smother not the sentiment, boy, 
 but cherish it in your heart’s core!” 
 
 The reply of the youth was interrupted by 
 sudden and violent shrieks, that burst rudely 
 on the stillness of the place, chilling the very 
 blood of those who heard them, with their 
 piteousness. The quick and severe blows 
 of a lash were blended with the exclama- 
 tions of the sufferer, and rude oaths, with 
 hoarse execrations, from various voices, were 
 united in the uproar, which appeared to be 
 at no great distance. By a common im- 
 pulse, the whole party broke away from the 
 spot, and moved rapidly up the wharf in the 
 direction of the sounds. As they approached 
 the buildings, a group was seen collected 
 around the man, who thus broke the charm 
 of evening by his cries, interrupting his wail- 
 ings with their ribaldry, and encouraging his 
 tormentors to proceed. 
 
 ‘Mercy, mercy, for the sake of the blessed 
 God, have mercy, and don’t kill Job!” again 
 shrieked the sufferer; ‘‘Job will run your 
 ands! Job is half-witted ! Mercy on poor 
 Job! Oh! you make his flesh creep !” 
 
 “Vll cut the heart from the mutinous 
 knave,” interrupted a hoarse, angry voice, “ to 
 refuse to drink the health of his majesty!” 
 
 “Job does wish him good health—Job 
 loves the king—only Job don’t love rum.” 
 
 The officer had approached so nigh as to 
 perceive that the whole scene was one of 
 disorder and abuse, and pushing aside the 
 crowd of excited and deriding soldiers, who 
 composed the throng, he broke at once into 
 the centre of the circle. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 They’ll have me whipped for speaking true ; 
 Thoul’t have me whipped for lying ; 
 
 And sometimes I’m whipped for holding my peace. 
 I had rather be any kind of a thing 
 
 Than a fool.”—Lear. 
 
 “Wat means this outcry?” demanded 
 the young man, arresting the arm of an in- 
 furiated soldier, who was inflicting the blows; 
 “by what authority is this man thus abused ?” 
 
216 
 
 ‘* By what authority dare you lay hands on 
 a British grenadier ?” cried the fellow, turn- 
 ing in his fury, and raising his lash against 
 the supposed townsman. But when, as the 
 officer stepped aside to avoid the threatened 
 indignity, the light of the moon fell full 
 upon his glittering dress, through, the open- 
 ing folds of his cloak, the arm of the brutal 
 soldier was held suspended in air, with the 
 surprise of the discovery. 
 
 *«« Answer, I bid you,” continued the young 
 officer, his frame shaking with passion ; 
 ‘why is this man tormented, and of what 
 regiment are ye?” 
 
 ‘‘We belong to the grenadiers of the brave 
 47th, your honor,” returned one of the by- 
 standers, in a humble, depreeating tone, 
 “‘and we was just polishing this ’ere natural, 
 because as he refuses to drink the health of 
 his majesty.” 
 
 ‘“<He’s a scornful sinner, that don’t fear 
 his Maker,” cried the man in duress, eagerly 
 bending his face, down which big tears were 
 rolling, towards his protector. ‘‘ Job loves 
 the king, but Job don’t love rum !” 
 
 The officer turned away from the cruel 
 spectacle, as he bid the men untie the pris- 
 oner. Knives and fingers were instantly put 
 in requisition, and the man was liberated, 
 and suffered to resume his clothes. During 
 this operation, the tumult and bustle, which 
 had so recently distinguished the riotous 
 scene, were succeeded by a stillness that 
 rendered the hard breathing of the sufferer 
 painfully audible. 
 
 ‘* Now sirs, you heroes of the 47th !” said 
 the young man, when the victim of their rage 
 was again clad, ‘‘ know you this button ?” 
 The soldier, to whom this question was more 
 particularly addressed, gazed at the extended 
 arm, and, to his vast discomfiture, he beheld 
 the magical number of his own regiment re- 
 posing on the well-known white facings that 
 decorated the rich scarlet of the vestment. 
 No one presumed to answer this appeal, and 
 after an impressive silence of a few moments, 
 he continued— 
 
 *“Ye are noble supporters of the well- 
 earned frame of ‘ Wolfe’s own!’ fit successors 
 to the gallant men who conquered under the 
 walls of Quebec ! away with ye; to-morrow 
 it shall be looked to.” 
 
 **T hope your honor will remember he re- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 fused his majesty’s health. I’m sure, sir, that 
 if Colonel Nesbitt was here himself——” 
 
 ** Dog ! do you dare to hesitate! go, while 
 you have permission to depart.” 
 
 The disconcerted soldiery, whose turbu- 
 lence had thus vanished, as if by enchant- 
 
 ment, before the frown of their superior, 
 slunk away in a body, a few of the older men 
 whispering to their comrades the name of the 
 officer, who had thus unexpectedly appeared 
 in the midst of them. The angry eye of the 
 young soldier followed their retirig forms, 
 while aman of them was visible ; after which, 
 turning to an elderly citizen, who, supported 
 on a crutch, had been a spectator of the 
 scene, he asked— 
 
 ‘« Know you the cause of the cruel treat- 
 ment this poor man has received ? or what in 
 any manner has led to the violence ? ” 
 
 ‘The boy is weak,” returned the cripple ; 
 ‘‘quite an innocent, who knows but little 
 good, but does no harm. ‘The soldiers have 
 been carousing in yonder dram-shop, and 
 they often get the poor lad in with them, 
 and sport with his infirmity. If these sorts 
 of doings an’t checked, I fear much trouble 
 will grow out of them! Hard laws from 
 t’other side of the water, and tarring and 
 feathering on this, with gentlemen like 
 Colonel Nesbitt at their head, will ie 
 
 “‘Tt is wisest for us, my friend, to pursue 
 this subject no further,” interrupted the offi- 
 cer. ‘‘I belong myself to ‘ Wolfe’s own,’ 
 and will endeavor to see justice done in the 
 matter ; as you will credit when I tell you 
 that I am a Boston boy. But, though a na- 
 tive, a long absence has obliterated the marks 
 of the town from my memory ; and lam ata 
 loss to thread these crooked streets. Know 
 you the dwelling of Mrs. Lechmere ?” 
 
 ‘«“The house is well known to all in Bos- 
 ton,’”’ returned the cripple, in a voice sensibly 
 altered by the information that he was speak- 
 ing to a townsman. ‘‘ Job, here, does but 
 little else than run of errands, and he will 
 show you the way out of gratitude ; won’t 
 you, Job?” 
 
 The idiot,—for the vacant eye and unmean- 
 ing boyish countenance of the young man 
 who had just been liberated but too plainly 
 indicated that he was to be included in that 
 miserable class of human beings,—answered 
 with a caution and reluctance that were a 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 little remarkable, considering the recent cir- 
 
 cumstances. 
 
 ‘©Ma’am lLechmere’s! Oh! yes, 
 
 folded, if—if x 
 
 «<Tf what, you simpleton!” exclaimed the 
 
 _ zealous cripple. 
 «Why, if ’twas daylight.” 
 
 ‘< Blindfolded, and daylight ! do but hear 
 
 the silly child! Come, Job, you must take 
 this gentleman to Tremont Street, without 
 further words. “Tis but just sundown, boy, 
 and you can go there and be home and in your 
 bed before the Old South strikes eight !” 
 
 «Yes; that all depends on which way 
 
 you go,” returned the reluctant changeling. 
 “Now, I know, neighbor Hopper, you 
 
 couldn’t go to Ma’am Lechmere’s in an 
 
 hour, if you went along Lynn Street, and so 
 along Prince Street, and back through Snow 
 Hill; and especially if you should stop any 
 time to look at the graves on Copp’s.” 
 
 ‘‘Pshaw! the fool is in one of his sulks 
 now, with his Copp’s-Hill and the graves !” 
 interrupted the cripple, whose heart had 
 warmed to his youthful townsman, and who 
 would have volunteered to show the way 
 himself, had his infirmities permitted the 
 exertion. “The gentleman must call the 
 _ grenadiers back, to bring the child to reason.” 
 «Tis quite unnecessary to be harsh with 
 the unfortunate lad,” said the young soldier ; 
 «<my recollections will probably aid me as [ 
 advance ; and should they not, I can inquire 
 of any passenger I meet.” 
 
 ‘“Tf Boston was what Boston has been, 
 you might ask such a question of a civil 
 inhabitant, at any corner,” said the cripple ; 
 ‘but it’s rare to see many of our people in 
 the streets at this hour, since the massacre. 
 Besides, it is Saturday night, you know; a 
 fit timé for these rioters to choose for their 
 revelries! For that matter, the soldiers have 
 grown more insolent than ever, since they 
 have met that disappointment about the 
 cannon down at Salem; but I needn’t tell 
 such as you what the soldiers are when they 
 get a little savage.” 
 
 «TI know my comrades but indifferently 
 well, if their conduct to-night be any speci- 
 men of their ordinary demeanor, sir,” re- 
 turned the officer; ‘‘ but follow, Meriton ; 
 I apprehend no great difficulty in our path.” 
 
 Job 
 _ knows the way, and could go there blind- 
 
 217 
 
 The pliant valet lifted the cloak-bag he car- 
 ried, from the ground, and they were about 
 to proceed, when the natural edged him- 
 self in a sidelong, slovenly manner, higher 
 to the gentleman, and looked earnestly up in 
 his face for a moment, where he seemed to 
 be gathering confidence to say—‘‘ Job will 
 show the officer Ma’am Lechmere’s, if the 
 officer won’t let the grannies catch Job afore 
 he gets off the North End ag’in.” 
 
 « Ah!” said the young man, laughing, 
 ‘there is something of the cunning of a fool 
 in that arrangement. Well, I accept the 
 conditions ; but beware how you take me to 
 contemplate the graves by moonlight, or I 
 shall deliver you not only to the grannies, 
 but to the light infantry, artillery, and all.” 
 
 With this good-natured threat, the officer 
 followed his nimble conductor, after taking 
 a friendly leave of the obliging cripple, who 
 continued his admonitions to the natural, 
 not to wander from the direct route, while 
 the sounds of his voice were audible to the 
 retiring party. The progress of his guide 
 was so rapid as to require the young officer 
 to confine his survey of the narrow and 
 crooked streets through which they passed, 
 to extremely hasty and imperfect glances. 
 No very minute observation, however, was 
 necessary to perceive that he was led along 
 one of the most filthy and inferior sections 
 of the town; and where, notwithstanding 
 his efforts, he found it impossible to recall a 
 single feature of his native place to his re- 
 membrance. The complaints of Meriton, 
 who followed close at the heels of his master, 
 were loud and frequent, until the gentleman, 
 a little doubting the sincerity of his intract- 
 able conductor, exclaimed— 
 
 ‘‘Have you nothing better than this to 
 show a townsman, who has been absent 
 seventeen years, on his return? Pray let us 
 go through some better streets than this, if 
 any there are in Boston which can be called 
 better.” 
 
 The lad stopped short, and looked up in 
 the face of the speaker, for an instant, with 
 an air of undisguised amazement, and then, 
 without replying, he changed the direction 
 of his route, and after one or two more de- 
 viations in his path, suddenly turning again, 
 he glided up an alley, so narrow that the 
 passenger might touch the buildings on 
 
218 
 
 either side of him. The officer hesitated an 
 instant to enter this dark and crooked pas- 
 sage, but perceiving that his guide was 
 alread¥ hid by a bend in the houses, he 
 quickened his steps, and immediately re- 
 gained the ground he had lost. They soon 
 emerged from the obscurity of the place, 
 and issued on a street of greater width. 
 
 «‘There!” said Job, triumphantly, when 
 they had effected this gloomy passage, ‘‘ does 
 the king live in so crooked and narrow a 
 street as that ?” 
 
 ‘His majesty must yield the point in your 
 favor,” returned the officer. 
 
 ««Ma’am Lechmere is a grand lady!” con- 
 tinued the lad, seemingly following the cur- 
 rent of his own fanciful conceits, ‘‘and she 
 wouldn’t live in that alley for the world, 
 though it is narrow like the road to heaven, 
 as old Nab says; I suppose they call it after 
 the Methodies for that reason.” 
 
 “T have heard the road you mention 
 termed narrow, certainly, but it is also called 
 strait,” returned the officer, a little amused 
 with the humor of the lad; “but forward, 
 the time is slipping away, and we loiter.” 
 
 Again Job turned, and moving onward, he 
 led the way, with swift steps, along another 
 narrow and crooked path, which, however, 
 better deserved the name of a street, under 
 the projecting stories of the wooden build- 
 ings, which lined its sides. After following 
 the irregular windings of their route for some 
 distance, they entered a triangular area, of a 
 few rods in extent, where Job, disregarding 
 the use of the narrow walk, advanced direct- 
 ly into the centre of the open space. Here 
 he stopped once more, and, turning his va- 
 cant face with an air of much seriousness, 
 toward a building which composed one side 
 of the triangle, he said, with a voice that ex- 
 pressed his own deep admiration— 
 
 ‘«There—that’s the ‘Old North!’ did you 
 ever see such a meetin’us’ afore? does the 
 king worship God in such a temple ?” 
 
 The officer did not chide the idle liberties 
 of the fool, for in the antiquated and quaint 
 architecture of the wooden edifice he recog- 
 nized one of those early efforts of the simple, 
 puritan builders, whose rude tastes have been 
 transmitted to their posterity with so many 
 deviations in the style of the same school, 
 but so little of improvement. Blended with 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 these considerations, were the dawnings of 
 revived recollections; and he smiled, as he 
 recalled the time when he also used to look 
 up at the building with feelings somewhat 
 allied to the profound admiration of the 
 idiot. Job watched his countenance nar- 
 rowly, and easily mistaking its expression, he 
 extended his arm toward one of the narrow- 
 est of the avenues that entered the area, 
 where stood a few houses of more than com- 
 mon pretension. 
 
 “ And there ag’in! ” he continued, “ there’s 
 palaces for you! stingy Tommy lived in the one 
 with the pile-axters, and the flowers hanging 
 to their tops; and see the crowns on them 
 too ! stingy Tommy loved crowns, they say; 
 but Province’us’ wasn’t good enough for him, 
 and he: lived here—now they say he lives in 
 one of the king’s cupboards !” 
 
 “And who was stingy Tommy ? and what 
 right had he to dwell in Province-House, if 
 he would ?” | 
 
 ‘* What right has any governor to live in 
 Province’us’? because it’s the king’s ! though 
 the people paid for it.” 
 
 ‘‘ Pray, sir, excuse me,” said Mefiton, from 
 behind, “but do the Americans usually call 
 all their governors stingy Tommies ?” 
 
 The officer turned his head, at this vapid 
 question, from his valet, and perceived that 
 he had been accompanied thus far by the 
 
 aged stranger, who stood at his elbow, lean- 
 ing on hie adn with close attention 
 the late dwelling of Hutchinson, while the 
 light of the moon fell, unobstructed, on the 
 deep lines of his haggard face. During the 
 first surprise of this discovery, he forgot to 
 reply, and Job took the vindication of his — 
 language into his own hands. 
 
 “'To be sure they do—they call peopie by 
 their right names,” he said. ‘‘ Insygn Peck 
 is called Insygn Peck; and you call Deacon 
 Winslow anything but Deacon Winslow, and 
 see what a look he’ll give you! and I am Job 
 Pray, so called; and why shouldn’t a gover- — 
 nor be called stingy Tommy, if he isa stingy 
 Tommy?” 
 
 ‘* Be careful how you speak lightly of the 
 king’s representative,” said the young officer, 
 raising his light cane with the affectation of 
 correcting the changeling.—“ Forget you 
 that I am a soldier?” 
 
 The idiot shrunk back a little, timidly, 
 
and then leering from under his sunken 
 brow, he answered—— 
 “JT heard you say you were a Boston boy!” 
 _ The gentleman was about to make a play- 
 ful reply, when the aged stranger passed 
 quickly before him, and took his stand at 
 _ the side of the lad, with a manner so remark- 
 able for its earnestness, that it entirely 
 _ changed the current of his thoughts. 
 _ The young man knows the ties of blood 
 and country,” the stranger muttered, “and 
 TI honor him!” 
 It might have been the sudden recollection 
 of the danger of those allusions, which the 
 officer so well understood, and to which his 
 accidental association with the singular being 
 _ who uttered them had begun to familiarize 
 his ear, that induced the youth to resume 
 his walk, silently, and in deep thought, along 
 _ the street. By this movement, he escaped 
 _ observing the cordial grasp of the hand 
 _ which the old stranger bestowed on the idiot, 
 - while he muttered a few more terms of com- 
 - mendation. Job soon took his station in 
 front, and the whole party moved on again, 
 _ though with less rapid strides. As the lad 
 ; advanced deeper into the town, he evidently 
 wavered once or twice in his choice of streets, 
 and the officer began to suspect that the 
 _ changeling contemplated one of his wild cir- 
 cuits, to avoid the direct route toa house that 
 he manifestly approached wi a nt reluct- 
 ance. Once or twice the you looked 
 about him, intending to inquire the direction, 
 _ of the first passenger he might see; but the 
 Oy quiet of deep night already pervaded the 
 a place, and not an individual, but those who 
 1% accompanied him, appeared in the long ranges 
 of streets they had passed. The air of the 
 _ guide was becoming so dogged, and hesitating, 
 that his follower had just determined to make 
 an application at one of the doors, when they 
 emerged from a dark, dirty, and gloomy 
 4 street-on an open space, of much greater ex- 
 _ tent than the one they had so recently left. 
 " - Passing under the walls of a blackened dwell- 
 4 ing, Job led the way to the centre of a swing- 
 ing bridge, which was thrown across an inlet 
 | from the harbor, that extended a short dis- 
 - tance into the area, forming a shallow dock. 
 _ Here he took his stand, and allowed the view 
 of the surrounding objects to work its own 
 effet on those he had conducted thither. 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 ALY 
 
 The square was composed of rows of low, 
 gloomy, and irregular houses, most of which 
 had the appearance of being but little used. 
 Stretching from the end of the basin, and a 
 little on one side, a long, narrow edifice, orna- 
 mented with pilasters, perforated with arched 
 windows, and surmounted by a humble cupola, 
 reared its walls of brick, under the light of 
 the moon. The story which held the rows of 
 silent, glistening windows, was supported on 
 abutments and arches of the same material, 
 through the narrow vistas of which were to be 
 seen the shambles of the common market- 
 place. Heavy cornices of stone were laid 
 above and beneath the pilasters, and some- 
 thing more than the unskilful architecture of 
 the dwelling-houses they had passed, was 
 affected throughout the whole structure. 
 While the officer gazed at this scene, the 
 idiot watched his countenance with a keen- 
 ness exceeding his usual observation, until, 
 impatient at hearing no words of pleasure or 
 of recognition, he exclaimed— 
 
 “Tf you don’t know Funnel Hall, you are 
 no Boston boy !” 
 
 ‘¢But I do know Faneuil Hall, and I am a 
 Boston boy,” returned the amused gentleman ; 
 “the place begins to freshen on my memory, 
 and I now recall the scenes of my childhood.” 
 
 «This, then,” said the aged stranger, ‘‘is 
 the spot where liberty has found so many 
 bold advocates !” 
 
 “Tt would do the king’s heart good to hear 
 the people talk in old Funnel, sometimes,” 
 said Job. <‘I was on the cornishes, and 
 looked into the winders, the last town-meetin- 
 da’, and if there was soldiers on the Common, 
 there was them in the hall that didn’t care 
 for them !” 
 
 ‘ All this is very amusing, no doubt,” said 
 the officer, gravely, ‘‘but it does not advance 
 me a foot on my way to Mrs, Lechmere’s.” 
 
 “Tt is also instructing,” exclaimed the 
 stranger ; ‘“‘go on, child; I love to hear his 
 simple feelings thus expressed ; they indicate 
 the state of the public mind.” 
 
 “Why,” said Job, ‘they were plain spoken, 
 that’s all; and it would be better for the king 
 to come over, and hear them—it would pull 
 down his pride, and make him pity the peo- 
 ple, and then he wouldn’t think of shutting 
 up Boston harbor. Suppose he should stop 
 the water from coming in by the Narrows, 
 
220 
 
 why, we should get it by Broad Sound ! and 
 if it didn’t come by Broad Sound it would by 
 Nantasket ! He needn’t think that the Bos- 
 ton folks are so dumb as to be cheated out of 
 God’s water by acts of Parliament, while old 
 Funnel stands in the Dock Square !” 
 
 “Sirrah !” exclaimed the officer, a little 
 angrily, “we have already loitered until the 
 clocks are striking eight.” 
 
 The idiot lost his animation, and lowered 
 in his looks again, as he answered— 
 
 ‘‘Well, I told neighbor Hopper there was 
 more ways to Ma’am Lechmere’s than straight 
 forward ! but everybody knows Job’s business 
 better than Job himself ! now you make me 
 forget the road ; let us goin and ask old Nab ; 
 she knows the way too well !” 
 
 “Old Nab! you wilful dolt ! who is Nab, 
 and what have I to do with any but yourself ?” 
 
 “Hverybody in Boston knows Abigail 
 Pray.” 
 
 “What of her?” asked the startling voice 
 of the stranger ; “what of Abigail Pray, boy ; 
 is she not honest ?” | 
 
 “Yes, as poverty can make her,” returned 
 the natural, gloomily ; “now the king has 
 said there shall be no goods but tea sent to 
 Boston, and the people won’t have the bohea, 
 it’s easy living rent-free.—Nab keeps her 
 huckster-stuff in the old ware’us’, and a good 
 place it is too—Job and his mother have each 
 a room to sleep in, and they say the king and 
 queen haven’t more!” 
 
 While he was speaking, the eyes of his lis- 
 teners were drawn by his gestures toward the 
 singular edifice to which he alluded. Like 
 most of the others adjacent to the square, it 
 was low, old, dirty, and dark. Its shape was 
 triangular, a street bounding it on each side, 
 and its extremities were flanked by as many 
 low hexagonal towers, which terminated, like 
 the main building itself, in high pointed 
 roois, tiled, and capped with rude ornaments. 
 Long ranges of small windows were to be seen 
 in the dusky walls, through one of which the 
 light of a solitary candle was glimmering, the 
 only indication of the presence of life about 
 the silent and gloomy building. 
 
 ‘Nab knows Ma’am Lechmere better than 
 Job,” continued the idiot, after a moment’s 
 pause, ‘‘and she will know whether Ma’am 
 Lechmere will have Job whipped for bringing 
 company on Saturday night; though they 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 say she’s so full of scoffery as to talk, drink 
 tea, and laugh on that night, just the same 
 as any other time.” 
 
 “YT will pledge myself to her courteous 
 
 treatment,” the officer replied, beginning to 
 
 be weary of the fool’s delay. 
 
 “Let us see this Abigail Pray,” cried the 
 
 aged stranger, suddenly seizing Job by the 
 arm, and leading him, with a sort of irresisti- 
 ble power, toward the walls of the building, 
 through one of the low doors of which they 
 immediately disappeared. 
 
 Thus left on the bridge, with his valet, the 
 young officer hesitated a single instant how 
 to act; but yielding to the secret and power- 
 ful interest, which the stranger had succeeded 
 in throwing around all his movements and 
 opinions, he bade Meriton await his return, 
 and followed his guide and the old man into 
 the cheerless habitation of the former. On 
 passing the outer door, he found himself in 
 a spacious, but rude apartment, which, from 
 its appearance, as well as from the few arti- 
 cles of heavy but valueless merchandise it 
 
 now contained, would seem to have been used 
 
 once as a storehouse. The light drew his 
 steps toward a room in one of the towers, 
 where, as he approached its open door, he 
 
 heard the loud, sharp tones of a woman’s — 
 
 voice, exclaiming— 
 ‘‘ Where have you been, graceless, this Sat- 
 urday night! tagging at the heels of the sol- 
 
 diers, or gazing at the men-of-war, with their | 
 ungodly fashions of music and revelry at such ~ 
 
 a time, I dare to say! and you knew that a 
 ship was in the bay, and that Madam Lech- 
 mere had desired me to send her the first no- 
 tice of its arrival. Here have I been waiting 
 for you to go up to Tremont Street since 
 sundown, with the news, and you are out of 
 call—you, that know so well who it is she 
 expects!” 
 
 “*Don’t be cross to Job, veeished for the 
 grannies have been cutting his back with 
 cords, till the blood runs! Ma’am Lech- 
 mere! I do believe, mother, that Ma’am 
 Lechmere has moved; for I’ve been trying to 
 find her house this hour, because there’s a 
 gentleman who landed from the ship wanted 
 Job to show him the way.” 
 
 ‘‘What means the ignorant boy!” ex- 
 claimed his mother. 
 
 ‘‘He alludes to me,” said the officer, en- — 
 
COs fate te 
 
 laa... 
 ee, " 
 
 ‘ “ae 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 tering the apartment; ‘“‘I am the person, if 
 any, expected by Mrs. Lechmere, and have 
 just landed from the Avon, of Bristol; but 
 your son has led mé a circuitous path in- 
 deed; at one time he spoke of visiting the 
 graves on Copp’s Hill.” 
 
 ‘¢Hxcuse the ignorant and witless child, 
 sir,” exclaimed the matron, eyeing the young 
 man keenly through her spectacles; “he 
 knows the way as well as to his own bed, but 
 he is wilful at times. This will be a joyful 
 night in Tremont Street! So handsome, and 
 
 go stately too! Excuse me, young gentle- 
 
 man,” she added, raising the candle to his 
 features with an evident unconsciousness of 
 the act—‘‘he has the sweet smile of the 
 mother, and the terrible eye of his father! 
 God forgive us all our sins, and make us 
 happier in another world than in this place 
 of evil and wickedness!” As she muttered 
 the latter words, the woman set aside her 
 candle with an air of singular agitation. 
 Each syllable, notwithstanding her secret in- 
 tention, was heard by the officer, across 
 whose countenanse there passed a sudden 
 gloom that doubled its sad expression. He, 
 however, said— 
 
 ‘¢ You know me, and my family, then ?” 
 
 «JT was at your birth, young gentleman, 
 and a joyful birth it was! but Madam Lech- 
 mere waits for the news, and my unfortunate 
 child shall speedily conduct you to her door; 
 she will tell you all that it is proper to know. 
 Job, you Job, where are you getting to, in 
 that corner! take your hat, and show the 
 
 gentleman to Tremont Street directly; you 
 
 know, my son, you love to go to Madam 
 Lechmere’s!”’ 
 
 “ Job would never go, if Job could help it,” 
 muttered the sullen boy; “and if Nab had 
 never gone, *twould have been better for her 
 soul.” 
 
 “Do you dare, disrespectful viper!” ex- 
 claimed the angry quean, seizing, in the vio- 
 ience of her fury, the tongs, and threatening 
 the head of her stubborn child. 
 
 ‘““Woman, peace!” said a voice _ be- 
 hind. , 
 
 The dangerous weapon fell from the nerve- 
 less hand of the vixen, and the hues of her 
 yellow and withered countenance changed to 
 
 the whiteness of death. She stood motionless, 
 
 for near a minute, as if riveted to the spot by 
 
 221 
 
 a superhuman power, before she succeeded in 
 muttering ‘‘ who speaks to me ?” 
 
 “Tt is I,” returned the stranger, advancing 
 from the shadow of the door into the dim 
 light of the candle; “a man who has num- 
 bered ages, and who knows, that as God loves 
 him, so is he bound to love the children of 
 his loins.” 
 
 The rigid limbs of the woman lost their 
 stability, in tremor that shook every fibre in 
 her body ; she sunk in her chair, and her eyes 
 rolled from the face of one visitor to that of 
 the other, while her unsuccessful efforts to 
 utter, denoted that she had temporarily lost 
 the command of speech. Job stole to the 
 side of the stranger, in this short interval, and 
 looking up in his face piteously, he said— 
 
 “Don’t hurt old Nab—read that good say- 
 ing to her out of the Bible, and she’ll never 
 strike Job with the tongs ag’in; will you, 
 mother? See her cup, where she hid it 
 under the towel, when you came in! Ma’am 
 Lechmere gives her the p’ison tea to drink, 
 and then Nab is never so good to Job, as Job, 
 would be to mother, if mother was half-wit- 
 ted, and Job was old Nab.” 
 
 The stranger considered the moving coun- 
 tenance of the boy, while he pleaded thus 
 earnestly in behalf of his mother, with marked 
 attention, and when he had done, he stroked 
 the head of the natural compassionately, and 
 said— 
 
 ‘“Poor, imbecile child! God has denied 
 the most precious of his gifts, and yet his spirit 
 hovers around thee; for thou canst distin- 
 guish between austerity and kindness, and 
 thou hast learnt to know good from evil. 
 Young man, see you no moral in this dispen- 
 sation? nothing which says that Providence 
 bestows no gift in vain; while it points to the 
 difference between the duty that is fostered 
 by indulgence, and that which is extorted by 
 power ?” 
 
 The officer avoided the ardent looks of the 
 stranger, and after an embarrassing pause of 
 a moment, he expressed his readiuess, to the 
 reviving woman, to depart on his way. The 
 matron, whose eye had never ceased to dwell 
 on the features of the old man, since her 
 faculties were restored, arose slowly, and in 
 a feeble voice directed her son to show the 
 road to Tremont Street. She had acquired, 
 by long practice a manner that never failed 
 
Rae 
 
 to control, when necessary, the wayward 
 humors of her child, and on the present oc- 
 casion, the unwonted solemnity imparted to 
 the voice, by deep agitation, aided in effect- 
 ing her object. Job quietly arose, and pre- 
 pared himself to comply. The manners of 
 the whole party wore a restraint, which im- 
 plied thay had touched on feelings that it 
 would be wiser to smother, and the separa- 
 tion would have been silent, though courteous, 
 on the part of the youth, had he not perceived 
 the passage still filled by the motionless form 
 of the stranger. 
 
 ‘© You will precede me, sir,” he.said; ‘‘the 
 hour grows late, and you, too, may need a 
 guide to find your dwelling.” 
 
 “To me, the streets of Boston have long 
 been familiar,” returned the old man. ‘1 
 have noted the increase of the town as a 
 parent notes the increasing stature of his 
 child; nor is my love for it less than paternal. 
 It isenongh that lam within its limits, where 
 liberty is prized as the greatest good ; and it 
 matters not under what roof I lay my head 
 —this will do as well as another.” 
 
 ‘‘This!” echoed the other, glancing his 
 eyes over the miserable furniture, and scan- 
 ning the air of poverty that pervaded the 
 place; “why, this house has even less of 
 comfort than the ship we have left! ” 
 
 ‘It has enough for my wants,” said the 
 stranger, seating himself with composure, and 
 deliberately placing his bundle by his side. 
 “Go you to your palace in Tremont Street : 
 it shall be my care that we meet again.” 
 
 The officer understood the character of his 
 companion too well to hesitate, and bending 
 low, he quitted the apartment, leaving the 
 other leaning his head on his cane, in absent 
 musing, while the amazed matron was gazing 
 at her unexpected guest, with a wonder that 
 was not unmingled with dread. 
 
 een ei 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ‘‘ From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, 
 While China’s earth receives the smoking tide. 
 At once they gratify their scent and taste, 
 And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.” 
 
 —Rape of the Lock. 
 
 THE recollection of the repeated admo- 
 nitions of his mother, served to keep Job to 
 
 ti 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. : 
 
 his purpose. The instant the officer ap- 
 peared, he held his way across the bridge, 
 and after proceeding, for a short distance 
 farther, along the water’s edge, they entered 
 a broad and well-built avenue, which led 
 from the principal wharf into the upper parts 
 of the town. ‘Turning up this street, the lad 
 was making his way, with great earnestness, 
 when sounds of high merriment and convivi- 
 ality, breaking from an opposite building, 
 caught his attention, and induced him to 
 pause. 
 
 “Remember your mother’s injunction,” 
 said the officer ; “what see you in that tay- 
 ern to stare at?” 
 
 “?’Tis the British Coffee-house !” said Job, 
 shaking his head ; ‘‘ yes, anybody might know 
 that by the noise they make in’t on Saturday 
 
 at 
 ¥ 
 3 
 
 + i) 
 
 night! see! it’s filled now with Lord Boot’s © 
 
 officers, flaring afore the windows, just like 
 so many red devils ; but to-morrow, when the 
 Old South bell rings, they’ll forget their Lord 
 and Maker, every sinner among them!” 
 
 ‘‘ Fellow !” exclaimed the officer, “ this is 
 trespassing too far—proceed to Tremont 
 Street, or leave me, that I may, at once, pro- 
 cure another guide.” 
 
 The changeling cast a look aside at the 
 angry eye of the other, and then turned and 
 proceeded, muttering so loud as to be over- 
 heard— 
 
 «Everybody that’s raised in Boston knows 
 how to keep Saturday night ; and if you’re a 
 Boston boy, you should love Boston ways.” 
 
 The officer did not reply, and as they now 
 
 proceeded with great diligence, they soon 
 
 passed through King and Queen Streets, and 
 entered that of Tremont. At a little dis- 
 tance from the turning, Job stopped, and 
 pointing to a building near them, he said— 
 
 “There; that house with the court-yard 
 afore it, and the pile-axters, and the grand- 
 looking door, that’s Ma’am Lechmere’s ; and 
 everybody says she’s a grand lady ; but I say 
 it is a pity she isn’t a better woman.” 
 
 ‘*And who are you, that ventures thus ° 
 
 boldly to speak of a lady so much your su- 
 perior ?” 
 
 “‘T!” said the idiot, looking up simply 
 into the face of his interrogator, “* Iam Job 
 Pray, so-called.” 
 
 “ Well, Job Pray, here is a crown for you. 
 
 The next time you act as guide, keep more . 
 
 RS Se el 
 
 " 
 
 | 
 A 
 4 
 
to your business. I tell you, lad, I offer a 
 crown.” 
 
 _ “Job don’t love crowns—they say the king 
 wears a crown, and it makes him flaunty and 
 proud lke.” 
 
 «The dissatisfaction must have spread it- 
 self wide indeed, if such as he refuse silver, 
 rather than offend their principles !” mut- 
 tered the officer to himself. “ Here then is 
 half a guinea, if you like gold better.” 
 
 The natural continued kicking a stone 
 ' about with his toes, without taking his hands 
 _ from the pockets where he wore them ordi- 
 narily, with a sort of idle air, as he peered 
 from under his slouched hat at this renewed 
 offer, answering— 
 
 * You wouldn’t let the grannies whip Job, 
 and Job won’t take your money.” 
 
 “Well, boy, there is more of gratitude in 
 that than a wiser man would always feel ! 
 Come, Meriton, I shall meet the poor fellow 
 again, and will not forget this. I commis- 
 sion you to see the lad better dressed, in the 
 beginning of the week.” 
 
 “ Lord, sir,” said the valet, ‘“‘if it is your 
 pleasure, most certainly ; but I declare I 
 _ don’t know in what style I should dress such 
 a figure and countenance, to make anything 
 of them!” | 
 
 “Sir, sir,’ cried the lad, running a few 
 steps after the officer, who had already pro- 
 ceeded, “if yon won’t let the grannies beat 
 Job any more, Job will always show you the 
 way through Boston ; and run your a’r’nds 
 too !” 
 
 q “Poor fellow! well, I promise that you 
 _ ghall not be again abused by any of the sol- 
 
 _ diery. Good night, my honest friend—let 
 me see you again.” 
 
 The idiot appeared satisfied with this as- 
 _ surance, for he immediately turned, and glid- 
 _ ing along the street with a sort of shuffling 
 _ gait, he soon disappeared round the first cor- 
 _ ner. In the meantime the young officer ad- 
 - vanced to the entrance which led into the 
 "+ court-yard of Mrs. Lechmere’s dwelling. 
 _ The house was of bricks, and of an exterior 
 _ altogether more pretending than most of 
 _ those in the lower parts of the town. It was 
 _ heavily ornamented, in wood, according to 
 the taste of a somewhat earlier day, and pre- 
 sented a front of seven windows in its two 
 upper stories, those at the extremes being 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 229 
 
 much narrower than the others. The lower 
 floor had the same arrangement, with the 
 exception of the principal door. 
 
 Strong lights were shining in many parts 
 of the house, which gave it, in comparison - 
 with the gloomy and darkened edifices in its 
 vicinity, an air of peculiar gayety and life. 
 The rap of the gentleman was answered in- 
 stantly by an old black, dressed in a be- 
 coming, and what, for the colonies, was a 
 rich livery. The inquiry for Mrs. Lechmere 
 was successful, and the youth was conducted 
 through a hall of some dimensions, into an 
 apartment which opened from one of its 
 sides. This room would be considered, at 
 the present day, as much too small to contain 
 the fashion of a country town; but what im- 
 portance it wanted in size was amply com- 
 pensated for in the richness and labor of its 
 decorations. The walls were divided into 
 compartments, by raised panel-work, beauti- 
 fully painted with imaginary landscapes and 
 ruins. The glittering, varnished surfaces of 
 these pictures were burdened with armorial 
 bearings, which were intended to illustrate 
 the alliances of the family. Beneath the 
 surbase were smaller divisions of panels, 
 painted with various architectural devices; 
 and above it rose, between the compartments, 
 pilasters of wood with gilded capitals. A 
 heavy wooden, and highly ornamented cor- 
 nice, stretched above the whole, furnishing 
 an appropriate outline to the walls. The use 
 of carpets was, at that time, but little known 
 in the colonies, though the wealth and sta- 
 tion of Mrs. Lechmere would probably have 
 introduced the luxury, had not her age, and 
 the nature of the building, tempted her to 
 adhere to ancient custom. ‘The floor, which 
 shone equally with the furniture, was tessel- 
 lated with small alternate squares of red 
 cedar and pine, and in the centre were the 
 “salant Lions” of Lechmere, attempted by 
 the blazonry of the joiner. On either side of 
 the ponderous and labored mantel, were 
 arched compartments, of plainer work,. de- 
 noting use, the sliding panels of one of which, 
 being raised, displayed a buffet, groaning 
 with massive plate. The furniture was old, 
 rich, and heavy, but in perfect preservation. 
 In the midst of this scene of colonial splen- 
 dor, which was rendered as impressive as 
 possible by the presence of numerous waxen 
 
a24 
 
 lights, a lady, far in the decline of life, sat, 
 in formal propriety, on a small settee. The 
 officer had thrown his cloak into the hands of 
 Meriton, in the hall, and as he advanced up 
 the apartment, his form appeared in the gay 
 dress of a soldier, giving to its ease and fine 
 proportions the additional charm of military 
 garnish. The hard, severe eye of the lady, 
 sensibly softened with pleased surprise, as it 
 dwelt on his person for an instant after she 
 arose to receive her guest ; but the momen- 
 tary silence was first broken by the youth, 
 who said— 
 
 “JT have entered unannounced; for my im- 
 patience has exceeded by breeding, madam, 
 while each step I have taken in this house 
 recalls the days of my boyhood, and of my 
 former freedom within its walls.” 
 
 “My cousin Lincoln!” interrupted the 
 lady, who was Mrs. Lechmere; ‘‘that dark 
 eye, that smile, nay, your very step, an- 
 nounces you! I must have forgotten my 
 poor brother, and one also who is still so dear 
 to us, not to have known you a true Lincoln!” 
 
 There was a distance in the manner of both, 
 at meeting, which might easily have been 
 imparted by the precise formula of the pro- 
 vincial school, of which the lady was so dis- 
 tinguished a member, but which was not 
 sufficient to explain the sad expression that 
 suddenly and powerfully blended with the 
 young man’s smile, as she spoke. The change, 
 however, was but momentary, and he an- 
 swered courteously to her assurances of recog- 
 nition— 
 
 ‘‘T have long been taught to expect a sec- 
 ond home in Tremont Street, and I find, by 
 your flattering remembrance of myself and 
 parents, dear madam, that my expectations 
 are justified.” 
 
 The lady was sensibly pleased at this re- 
 mark, and she suffered a smile to unbend her 
 rigid brow, as she answered— 
 
 “ A home, certainly, though it be not such 
 an one as the heir of the wealthy house of 
 Lincoln may have been accustomed to dwell 
 in. It would be strange, indeed, could any, 
 allied to that honorable family, forget to en- 
 tertain its representative with due respect.” 
 
 The youth seemed conscious that quite as 
 much had now been said as the occasion re- 
 quired, and he raised his head from. bowing 
 respectfully on her hand, with the intention 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tion of changing the subject to one less per- 
 sonal, when his eye caught a glimpse of the 
 figure of another, and more youthful female, 
 who had been concealed, hitherto, by the 
 drapery of a window-curtain. Advancing to 
 this young lady, he said, with a quickness 
 that rather betrayed his willingness to sus- 
 pend further compliment— 
 
 ‘‘ And here I see one also, to whom I have 
 the honor of being related; Miss Dynevor ?” 
 
 ‘Though it be not my grand-child,” said 
 Mrs. Lechmere, “‘it is one who claims an 
 equal affinity to you, Major Lincoln; it is 
 Agnes Danforth, the daughter of my late 
 niece.” 
 
 «<*Twas my eyes then, and not my feelings, 
 that were mistaken,” returned the young 
 soldier; ‘‘I hope this lady will admit my 
 claim to call her cousin ?” 
 
 A simple inclination of the body was the 
 only answer he received, though she did not 
 decline the hand which he offered with his 
 salutations. After a few more of the usual 
 expressions of pleasure, and the ordinary in- 
 quiries that succeed such meetings, the party 
 became seated, and a more regular discourse 
 followed. . 
 
 ‘‘T am pleased to find you remember us, 
 then, cousin Lionel,” said Mrs. Lechmere; 
 “we have so little in this remote province 
 that will compare with the mother country, I 
 had feared no vestiges of the place of your 
 birth could remain on your mind.” 
 
 “T find the town greatly altered, it is true, 
 but there are many places in it which I still 
 remember, though certainly their splendor is 
 a little diminished, in my eyes, by absence 
 and a familiarity with other scenes.” 
 
 “ Doubtless, an acquaintance with the Brit- 
 ish court will have no tendency to exalt our 
 humble customs in your imagination; neither 
 do we possess many buildings to attract the 
 notice of a travelled stranger. There is a 
 tradition in our family, that your seat in 
 Devonshire is as large as any dozen edifices 
 
 in Boston, public or private; nay, we are 
 
 proud of saying, that the king himself is 
 lodged as well as the head of the Lincoln 
 family, only when at his castle of Windsor!” 
 
 ‘‘Ravenscliffe is certainly a place of some 
 magnitude,” returned the young man, care- 
 lessly, ‘though you will remember his ma- _ 
 jesty affects but little state at Kew. Ihave, — 
 
= father.” 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 however, gene so little of my time in the 
 country, that I hardly know its conveniences 
 or its extent.” 
 
 The old lady bowed with that sort of com- 
 placency, which the dwellers in the colonies 
 were apt to betray, whenever an allusion was 
 made to the acknowledged importance of 
 their connections in that country, toward 
 which they all looked as to the fountain of 
 honor; and then, as quickly as if the change 
 in her ideas was but a natural transition in 
 the subject, she observed— 
 
 “Surely Cecil cannot know of the arrival 
 of our kinsman! she is not apt to be so 
 remiss in paying attention to our guests!” 
 
 <¢She does me the more honor, that she 
 considers me a relative, and one who requires 
 no formality in his reception.” 
 
 ‘You are but cousins twice removed,” re- 
 turned the old lady, a little gravely; “and 
 there is surely no affinity in that degree 
 which can justify any forgetfulness of the 
 usual courtesies. You see, cousin Lionel, 
 how much we value the consanguinity, when 
 it is a subject of pride to the most remote 
 branches of the family!” 
 
 <T am but little of a genealogist, madam; 
 though, if I retain a true impression of what 
 I have heard, Miss Dynevor is of too good 
 blood, in the direct line, to value the col- 
 lateral drops of an intermarriage.” 
 
 <‘Pardon me, Major Lincoln; her father, 
 Colonel Dynevor, was certainly an English- 
 man of an ancient and honorable name, but 
 no family in the realm need scorn an alliance 
 with our own. I say our own, cousin Lionel, 
 for I would never have you forget that I am 
 a Lincoln, and was the sister of your grand- 
 
 A little surprised at the seeming contra- 
 diction in the language of the good lady, the 
 young man bowed his head to the compli- 
 
 - ment, and cast his eyes at his younger com- 
 
 panion with a sort of longing to change the 
 discourse, by addressing the reserved young 
 
 woman nigh him, that was very excusable in 
 
 one of his sex and years. He had not time, 
 however, to make more than one or two com- 
 monplace remarks, and receive their answers 
 
 } 4 before Mrs. Lechmere said, with some exhi- 
 bition of staid displeasure against her grand- 
 = child—. 
 
 “Go, Agnes, and acquaint your cousin of 
 
 220 
 
 this happy event. She has been sensibly 
 alive to your safety, during the whole time 
 consumed by your voyage. We have had the 
 prayers of the Church, for a ‘person gone to 
 sea,’ read each Sunday, since the receipt of 
 your letters announcing your intention to 
 embark; and I have been exceedingly pleased 
 to observe the deep interest with which Cecil 
 joined in our petitions.” 
 
 Lionel mumbled a few words of thanks, 
 and leaning back in his chair, threw his eyes 
 upward, but wh 2ther in pious gratitude or not, 
 we conceive it is not our province to deter- 
 mine. During the delivery of Mrs. Lech- 
 mere’s last speech, and the expressive panto- 
 mime that succeeded it, Agnes Danforth rose 
 and left the room. The door had been 
 some little time closed before the silence was 
 again broken; during which Mrs. Lechmere 
 evidently essayed in vain, once or twice, to 
 speak. Her color, pale and immovable as 
 usually seemed her withered look, changed 
 in its shades, and her lip trembled involun- 
 tarily. She, however, soon found her utter- 
 ance, though the first tones of her voice 
 were choked and husky. 
 
 “T may have appeared remiss, cousin 
 Lionel,” she said, “but there are subjects 
 that can be discussed with propriety only be- 
 tween the nearest relatives. Sir Lionel—you 
 left him in as good a state of bodily health, I 
 hope, as his mental illness will allow?” 
 
 “«<Tt is so represented to me.” 
 
 «© You have seen him lately ?” 
 
 “Not in fifteen years; my presence was 
 said to increase his disorder, and the physi- 
 cians forbade any more interviews. He con- 
 tinues at the private establishment near town, 
 and, as the lucid intervals are thought to in- 
 crease, both in frequency and duration, I 
 often indulge in the pleasing hope of being 
 restored again to my father. The belief is 
 justified by his Aiea. which, you know, are 
 yet under fifty.” 
 
 A long, and apparently a painful silence, 
 succeeded this interesting communication ; 
 at length the lady said, with a tremor in her 
 voice, for which the young man almost rever- 
 enced her, as it so plainly bespoke her inter- 
 est in her nephew, as well as the goodness of 
 her heart— 
 
 ‘‘T will thank you for a glass of that water 
 in the buffet. Pardon me, cousin Lionel, but 
 HH 
 
226 
 
 this melancholy subject always overcomes me. 
 I will retire a few moments, with your indul- 
 gence, and hasten the appearance of my 
 grandchild. I pine that you may meet.” 
 Her absence, just at that moment, was too 
 agreeable to the feelings of Lionel, for him to 
 gainsay her intention ; though, instead of fol- 
 lowing Agnes Danforth, who had preceded 
 her on the same duty, the tottering steps of 
 Mrs. Lechmere conducted her to a door, 
 which communicated with her own apart- 
 ment. Tor several minutes the young man 
 trampled on the ‘‘saliant lions” of Lechmere, 
 with a rapidity that seemed to emulate their 
 own mimic speed, as he paced to and fro 
 across the narrow apartment, his eye glanc- 
 ing vacantly along the labored wainscots, 
 embracing the argent, azure and purpure 
 fields of the different escutcheons, as heed- 
 lessly as if they were not charged with the 
 distinguishing symbols of so many honorable 
 names. -This mental abstraction was, how- 
 ever, shortly dissipated by the sudden appear- 
 ance of one, who had glided into the room, 
 and advanced to its centre, before he became 
 conscious of her presence. <A light, rounded, 
 and exquisitely proportioned female form, 
 accompanied by a youthful and expressive 
 countenance, with an air in which womanly 
 grace blended so nicely with feminine delicacy 
 as to cause each motion and gesture to com- 
 mand respect, at the same time that it was 
 singularly insinuating, was an object to sus- 
 pend, even at a first glance, provided that 
 glance were by surprise, the steps of a more 
 absent and less courteous youth than the one 
 we have attémpted to describe. Major Lin- 
 coln knew that this young lady could be no 
 other than Cecil Dynevor, the daughter of a 
 British officer, long since deceased, by the 
 only child of Mrs. Lechmere, who was also in 
 her grave; and, consequently, that she was 
 one to whom he was so well known by char- 
 acter, and so nearly allied by blood, as to ren- 
 der it an easy task fora man accustomed to 
 the world, as he had been, to remove any little 
 embarrassments, which might have beset a 
 less practised youth, by acting as his own 
 usher. This he certainly attempted, and at 
 first with a freedom which his affinity, and 
 the circumstances, would seem to allow, 
 though it was chastened by easy politeness, 
 But the restraint visible in the manner of the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 4 ie | 
 . ie Z| % 
 
 i 
 
 ‘ a 
 
 i 
 
 lady was so marked, that, by the time his sal- 
 utations were ended, and he had handed her 
 to a seat, the young man felt as much embar- 
 
 -rassment as if he had found himself alone, 
 
 for the first time, with the woman whom he 
 had been pining, for months, to favor with a 
 very particular communication. Whether it 
 is that nature has provided the other sex with - 
 a tact for these occasions, or that the young 
 lady became sensible that her deportment was 
 not altogether such as was worthy either of 
 herself, or the guest of her grandmother, she 
 was certainly the first to relieve the slight 
 awkwardness that was but too apparent in 
 the commencement of the interview. 
 
 ‘‘My grandmother has long been expect- 
 ing this pleasure, Major Lincoln,” she said, 
 ‘‘and your arrival has been at a most auspi- 
 cious moment. The state of the country 
 grows each day so very alarming, that I have 
 indeed long urged her to visit our relatives in 
 England, until the disputes shall have ter- 
 minated.” | | 
 
 The tones of an extremely soft and melo- 
 
 dious voice, and a pronunciation quite as 
 exact as if the speaker had acquired the 
 sounds in the English court and which was 
 entirely free from the slight vernacular pe- 
 culiarity, which had offended his ear, in the 
 few words that fell from Agnes Danforth, 
 certainly aided a native attraction of manner, 
 which it seemed impossible for the young 
 lady to cast entirely aside. 
 ‘You, who are so much of an. English 
 woman, would find great pleasure in the ex- 
 change,” he answered, ‘‘and if half what I 
 have heard from a fellow-passenger, of the 
 state of the country, be true, I shall be fore- 
 most in seconding your request. Both 
 Ravenscliffe and the house in Soho would be 
 greatly at the service of Mrs. Lechmere.” 
 
 ‘‘It was my wish that she would accept the ~ 
 pressing invitations of my father’s relative, — 
 Lord Cardonnel, who has long urged me to 
 pass a few years in his own family. A sep- 
 aration would be painful to us both, but 
 should my grandmother, in such an event, 
 determine to take her residence in the dwell- 
 ings of her ancestors, I could not be censured 
 for adopting a resolution to abide under the 
 roofs of mine.” 
 
 The piercing eye of Major Lincoln fell full 
 
 upon her own, as she delivered this intention, — 
 
; 
 : 
 | 
 
 and as it dropped on the floor, the slight 
 
 smile that played round his lip, was produced 
 by the passing thought, that the provincial 
 beauty had inherited so much of her grand- 
 mother’s pride of genealogy, as to be willing 
 to impress on his mind, that the niece of a 
 yiscount was superior to the heir of a baro- 
 
 ‘netcy. But the quick, burning flush, that 
 
 instantly passed across the features of Cecil 
 Dynevor, might have taught him, that she 
 was acting under the impulse of much deeper 
 
 feelings than such an unworthy purpose would 
 
 indicate. The effect, however, was such as 
 to make the young man glad to see Mrs. 
 
 _ Lechmere re-enter the room, leaning on the 
 
 arm of her niece. 
 
 “T perceive, my cousin Lionel,” said the 
 lady, as she moved with a feeble step toward 
 the settee, “that you and Cecil have found 
 each other out, without the necessity of any 
 other introduction than the affinity between 
 you. I surely do not mean the affinity of 
 blood altogether, you know, for that cannot 
 be said to amount to anything; but I believe 
 there exist certain features of the mind that 
 are transmitted through families quite as dis- 
 tinctly as any which belong to the counte- 
 nance.” 
 
 “Could I flatter myself with possessing the 
 slightest resemblance to Miss Dynevor, in 
 either of those particulars, [should be doubly 
 proud of the connection,” returned Lionel, 
 while he assisted the good lady to a seat, with 
 a coolness that sufficiently denoted how little 
 he cared about the matter. 
 
 “ But I am not disposed to have my right 
 to claim near kindred with cousin Lionel at 
 all disputed,” cried the young lady, with 
 sudden animation. ‘‘It has pleased our fore- 
 fathers to order such ‘ 
 
 “Nay, nay, my child,” interrupted her 
 grandmother, “you forget that the term of 
 
 cousin can only be used in cases of near con- 
 
 Sanguinity, and where familiar situations will 
 excuse it. But Major Lincoln knows, that 
 
 _ we in the colonies are apt to make the most 
 
 of the language, and count our cousins almost 
 as far as if we were members of the Scottish 
 clans. Speaking of the clans reminds me of 
 the rebellion of 45. It is not thought in 
 ‘England, that our infatuated colonists will 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 R27 
 
 “There are various opinions on that sub- 
 ject,” said Lionel. ‘Most military men 
 scout the idea; though I find, occasionally, 
 an officer, that has served on this continent,. 
 who thinks not only that the appeal will be 
 made, but that the struggle will be bloody.” 
 
 «Why should they not!” said Agnes Dan- 
 forth, abruptly; “they are men, and the 
 English are no more!” 
 
 Lionel turned his looks, in a little surprise, 
 on the speaker, to whose countenance an al- 
 most imperceptible cast in one eye imparted 
 a look of arch good-nature, that her manner 
 would seem to contradict, and smiled as he 
 repeated her words— 
 
 ‘‘Why should they not, indeed! I know 
 no other reasons than that it would be both a 
 mad and an unlawful act. I can assure you 
 that I am not one of those who affect to un- 
 dervalue my own countrymen ; for you will 
 remember that I too am an American.” 
 
 ‘‘T have heard it said that such of our 
 volunteers as wear uniforms at all,” said 
 Agnes, “appear in blue, and not in scarlet.” 
 
 “?Tis his Majesty’s pleasure that his 47th 
 foot should wear this gaudy color,” returned 
 the young man, laughing; “though, for my- 
 self, Iam quite willing to resign it to the use 
 of you ladies, and to adopt another, could it 
 well be.” 
 
 ‘“It might be done, sir.” 
 
 ‘¢In what manner ?”’ 
 
 ‘* By resigning your commission with it.” 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere had evidently permitted 
 her niece to proceed thus far, without inter- 
 ruption, to serve some purpose of her own ; 
 but perceiving that her guest by no means 
 exhibited the air of pique, which the British 
 officers were so often weak enough to betray, 
 when the women took into their hands the 
 defence of their country’s honor, she rang 
 the bell, as she observed— 
 
 ‘* Bold language, Major Lincoln! bold lan- 
 guage for a young lady under twenty. But 
 Miss Danforth is privileged to speak her mind 
 freely, for some of her father’s family are but 
 too deeply implicated in the unlawful pro- 
 ceedings of these evil times. We have kept. 
 Cecil, however, more to her allegiance.” 
 
 «“ And yet even Cecil has been known to 
 refuse the favor of her countenance to the 
 
 ever be so foolhardy as to assume their arms | entertainments given by the British officers! ” 
 
 in earnest.” 
 
 Ded 
 
 said Agnes, a little piquantly. 
 
228 
 
 «« And would you have Cecil Dynevor fre- 
 quent balls and entertainments unaccom- 
 panied by a proper chaperon,” returned Mrs. 
 Lechmere; ‘‘or is it expected that, at 
 seventy, I can venture in public to maintain 
 the credit of ourfamily ? But we keep Major 
 Lincoln from his refreshments with our idle 
 disputes. Cato, we wait your movements.” 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere delivered her concluding 
 intimation to the black in attendance, with 
 an air that partook somewhat of mystery. 
 The old domestic, who, probably from long 
 practice, understood, more by the expression 
 of her eye than by any words she had uttered, 
 the wishes of his mistress, proceeded to close 
 the outer shutters of the windows, and to 
 draw the curtains with the most exact care. 
 When this duty was performed, he raised a 
 small oval table from its regular position 
 among the flowing folds of the drapery that 
 shrouded the deep apertures for light, and 
 placed it in front of Miss Dynevor. A salver 
 of massive silver, containing an equipage of 
 the finest Dresden, followed, and in a few 
 minutes a hissing urn of the same precious 
 metal garnished the polished surface of the 
 mahogany. During these arrangements, 
 Mrs. Lechmere and her guest maintained a 
 general discourse, touching chiefly on the 
 welfare and condition of certain individuals 
 of their alliance,in England. Notwithstand- 
 ing the demand thus made on his attention, 
 Lionel was able to discover a certain appear- 
 ance of mystery and caution in each move- 
 ment of the black, as he proceeded leisurely 
 in his duty. Miss Dynevor permitted the 
 disposition of the tea-table to be made before 
 her, passively, and her cousin, Agnes Dan- 
 forth, threw herself back on one of the 
 settees, with a look that indicated cool dis- 
 pleasure. When the usual compound was 
 made in two little fluted cups, over whose 
 pure white a few red and green sprigs were 
 sparingly scattered, the black presented one 
 containing the grateful beverage to his mis- 
 tress, and the other to the stranger. 
 
 ‘‘ Pardon me, Miss Danforth,” said Lionel, 
 recollecting himself after he had accepted 
 the offering ; ‘‘ I have suffered my sea-breed- 
 ing to obtain the advantage.” 
 
 <¢ Enjoy your error, sir, if you can find 
 any gratification in the indulgence,” returned 
 the young lady. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘‘But I should enjoy it the more, could I 
 see you participating in the luxury.” 
 
 ‘*You have termed the idle indulgence 
 well ; *tis nothing but a luxury, and such a 
 one as can be easily dispensed with ; I thank 
 you, sir, I do not drink tea.” 
 
 ‘Surely no lady can forswear her bohea! 
 be persuaded.” 
 
 ‘‘T know not how the subtle poison may 
 operate on your English ladies, Major Lin- 
 coln, but it is no difficult matter for an 
 American girl to decline the use of a detest- 
 
 able herb, which is one, among many others, ' 
 
 of the causes that are likely to involve her 
 country and kindred in danger and strife.” 
 The young man, who had really intended 
 no more than the common civilities due from 
 his sex to the other, bowed in silence, though, 
 as he turned from her, he could not forbear 
 looking toward the table to see whether the 
 principles of the other young American were 
 quite as rigid. Cecil sat bending over the 
 salver, playing idly with a curiously wrought 
 spoon, made to represent a sprig of the plant 
 whose fragrance had been thus put in requi- 
 
 sition to contribute to his indulgence, while — 
 
 the steam from the china vessel before her 
 was wreathing in a faint mist around her 
 polished brow. 
 
 ‘¢ You at least, Miss Dynevor,” said Lionel, 
 ‘appear to have no dislike to the herb, you 
 breathe its vapor so freely.” 
 
 Cecil cast a glance at him, which changed 
 the demure and somewhat proud composure 
 of her countenance into a look of sudden, 
 joyous humor, that was infinitely more nat- 
 ural, as she answered laughingly— 
 
 ‘<T own a woman’s weakness—I. must be- 
 lieve it was tea that tempted our common 
 mother in Paradise !” 
 
 ‘Tt would show that the cunning of the 
 serpent has been transmitted to a later day, 
 could that be proved,” said Agnes, ‘though 
 the instrument of temptation has lost some 
 of its virtue.” 
 
 “ How know you that ?” said Lionel, anx- 
 ious to pursue the trifling, in order to re- 
 move the evident distance which had existed 
 between them; “had Eve shut her ears as 
 rigidly as you close your mouth against the 
 offering, we might yeh have enjoyed the first 
 gift to our parents.” 
 
 ‘Oh, sir, ’tis no such stranger is me as — 
 
a eee 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 you may imagine from the indifference I 
 
 have assumed on the present occasion ; as 
 Job Pray says, Boston harbor is nothing but 
 a ‘big teapot !’” 
 
 «You know Job Pray, then, Miss Dan- 
 forth !” said Lionel, not a little amused by 
 her spirit. | 
 
 “Certainly; Boston is so small, and Job 
 so useful, that everybody knows the simple- 
 ton.” 
 
 ‘‘He belongs to a distinguished family, 
 then, for I have his own assurance that every- 
 body knows his perturbed mother, Abigail.” 
 
 “You!” exclaimed Cecil, again in that 
 sweet, natural voice that had before startled 
 her auditor; ‘‘ what can you know of poor 
 
 Job, and his almost equally unfortunate’ 
 
 mother ?” 
 
 ‘“ Now, young ladies, I have you in my 
 snares!” cried Lionel; ‘‘ you may possibly 
 resist the steams of tea, but what woman can 
 withstand the impulse of her curiosity ? Not 
 to be too cruel with my fair kinswomen on 
 so short an acquaintance, however, I will go 
 so far as to acknowledge that I have already 
 had an interview with Mrs. Pray.” 
 
 The reply which Agnes was about to deliver 
 was interrupted by a slight crash, and on 
 turning they beheld the fragments of a piece 
 of the splendid set of Dresden, lying at the 
 feet of Mrs. Lechmere. 
 
 “My dear grandmamma is ill!” cried 
 Cecil, springing to the assistance of the old 
 lady. ‘‘ Hasten, Cato—Major Lincoln, you 
 are more active—for heaven’s sake a glass of 
 water—Agnes, your salts.” 
 
 The amiable anxiety of her grandchild was 
 not, however, so necessary as first appear- 
 ances would have indicated, and Mrs. Lech- 
 mere gently put aside the salts, though she 
 did not decline the glass which Lionel of- 
 fered for the second time in so short a period. 
 
 “J fear you will mistake me for a sad in- 
 
 {7 
 
 valid, cousin Lionel,” said the old lady, when 
 
 she had become a little composed ; ‘but I 
 believe it is this very tea, of which so much 
 has been said, and which-I drink to excess, 
 from pure loyalty, that unsettles my nerves—— 
 I must refrain, like the girls, though from a 
 very different motive. We are a people of 
 early hours, Major Lincoln, but you are at 
 home here, and will pursue your pleasure ; I 
 
 s must, however, claim an indulgence for 
 
 229 
 
 threescore-and-ten, and be permitted to wish 
 you a good rest after your voyage. Cato has 
 his orders to contribute all he can to your 
 comfort.” 
 
 Leaning on her two assistants, the old lady 
 withdrew, leaving Lionel to the full posses- 
 sion of the apartment. As the hour was get- — 
 ting late, and from the compliments they had 
 exchanged, he did not expect the return of 
 the younger ladies, he called fora candle, and 
 was shown to his own room. As soon as the 
 few indispensables, which rendered a valet 
 necessary to a gentleman of that period, were 
 observed, he dismissed Meriton, and throw- 
 ing himself in the bed, courted the sweets of 
 the pillow. 
 
 Many incidents, however, had occurred 
 during the day, that induced a train of 
 thoughts, which for a long time prevented 
 his attaining the natural rest he sought. 
 After indulging in long and uneasy reflec- 
 tions on certain events, too closely connected 
 with his personal feelings to be lightly remem- 
 bered, the young man began to muse on his 
 reception, and on the individuals who had 
 been, as it were, for the first time, introduced 
 to him. 
 
 It was quite apparent, that both Mrs. 
 Lechmere and her granddaughter were acting 
 their several parts, though whether in con- 
 cert or not, remained to be discovered. But 
 in Agnes Danforth, with all his subtlety, he 
 could perceive nothing but the plain and di- 
 rect, though a little blunt, peculiarities of her 
 nature and education. Like most very young 
 men, who had just been made acquainted 
 with two youthful females, both of them 
 much superior to the generality of thelr sex 
 in personal charms, he fell asleep musing on 
 their characters. Nor, considering the cir- 
 cumstances, will it be at all surprising, when 
 we add that, before morning, he was dream- 
 ing of the Avon, of Bristol, on board which 
 stout vessel he even thought that he was dis- 
 cussing a chowder on the Banks of New- 
 foundland, which had been unaccountably 
 prepared by the fair hands of Miss Danforth, 
 and which was strangely flavored with tea ; 
 while the Hebe-looking countenance of Cecil 
 Dynevor was laughing at his perplexities 
 with undisguised good-humor, and with all 
 the vivacity of girlish merriment. 
 
230 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 “‘ A good portly man, i’ faith, and acorpulent.” 
 —King Henry IV. 
 
 THE sun was just stirring the heavy bank 
 of fog, which had rested on the waters during 
 the night, as Lionel toiled his way up the 
 side of Beacon-Hill, anxious to catch a 
 glimpse of his native scenery while it was yet 
 glowing with the first touch of day. The isl- 
 ands raised their green heads above the mist, 
 and the wide amphitheatre of hills that en- 
 circled the bay was still visible, though the 
 vapor was creeping in places along the valleys 
 —now concealing the entrance to some beau- 
 tiful glen, and now wreathing itself fantas- 
 tically around a tall spire that told the site of 
 a suburban village. Though the people of 
 the town were awake and up, yet the sacred 
 character of the day, and the state of the 
 times, contributed to suppress those sounds 
 which usually distinguish populous places. 
 The cool nights and warm days of April had 
 generated a fog more than usually dense, 
 which was deserting its watery bed, and steal- 
 ing insidiously along the land, to unite with 
 the vapors of the rivers and brooks, spread- 
 ing a wider curtain before the placid view. 
 As Lionel stood on the brow of the platform 
 that crowned the eminence, the glimpses of 
 houses and hills, of towers and ships, of 
 places known and places forgotten, passed 
 before his vision, through the openings in the 
 mist, like phantoms of the imagination. 
 The whole scene, animated andin motion, as 
 it seemed by its changes, appeared to his ex- 
 cited feelings like a fanciful panorama, ex- 
 hibited for his eye alone, when his enjoyment 
 was interrupted by a voice apparently at no 
 great distance. It was a man singing to a 
 common English air fragments of some 
 ballad, with a peculiarly vile nasal cadency. 
 Through the frequent pauses, he was enabled 
 to comprehend a few words, which, by their 
 recurrence, were evidently intended for a 
 chorus to the rest of the production. The 
 reader will understand the character of the 
 whole from these lines, which ran as follows: 
 
 And they that would be free, 
 Out they go; 
 
 While the slaves, as you may see, 
 
 Stay, to drink their p’ison tea, 
 Down below! 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 el al 
 “i ™ 
 u 
 
 Lionel, after listening to this expressive 
 ditty for a moment, followed the direction of 
 the sounds until he encountered Job Pray, 
 who was seated on one of the flights of steps 
 which aided the ascent to the platform, 
 cracking a few walnuts on the boards, while 
 he employed those intervals, when his mouth 
 could find no better employment, in uttering 
 the above-mentioned strains. 
 
 ‘‘How now, Master Pray; do you come 
 here to sing your orisons to the goddess of 
 liberty on a Sunday morning,” cried Lionel ; 
 ‘Cor are you the town lark, and for want of 
 wings, take to this height to obtain an alti- 
 tude for your melody ?” 
 
 «'There’s no harm in singing psalm tunes 
 or continental songs any day in the week,” 
 said the lad, without raising his eyes from his 
 occupation. ‘Job don’t know what a lark 
 is, but if it belongs to the town, the soldiers 
 are so thick, they can’t keep it on the com- 
 mon.” 
 
 «¢ And what objection can you have to the 
 soldiers possessing a corner of your com- 
 mon ?” 
 
 ‘“They starve the cows, and then they 
 won’t give milk ; grass is sweet to beasts in 
 the spring of the year.” } 
 
 «‘ But, my life for it, the soldiers don’t eat 
 the grass; your brindles and your blacks, 
 your reds and your whites, may have the first 
 offering of the spring as usual.” 
 
 ‘‘ But Boston cows don’t love grass that 
 British soldiers have trampled on,” said the 
 sullen lad. 
 
 ‘‘This is, indeed, carrying notions of lib- 
 erty to refinement ! ” exclaimed Lionel, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 Job shook his head threateningly, as he 
 looked up and said, ‘‘ Don’t you let Ralph 
 hear you say anything ag’in liberty !” 
 
 ‘‘Ralph! who is he, lad? your genius? 
 where do you keep the invisible, that there is 
 danger of his overhearing what I say ?” 
 
 “ He’s up there in the fog,” said Job, point- 
 ing significantly toward the foot of the bea- 
 con, which a dense volume of vapor was en- 
 wrapping, probably attracted by the tall post 
 that supported the grate. 
 
 Lionel gazed at the smoky column for a 
 moment, when the mists began to dissolve, 
 and amid their evolutions he beheld the dim 
 figure of his aged fellow-passenger. Theold 
 
man was still clad in his simple, tarnished 
 vestments of gray, which harmonized so 
 singularly with the mists as to impart a look 
 almost ethereal to his wasted form. As the 
 medium through which he was seen became 
 less cloudy, his features grew visible, and 
 Lionel could distinguish the uneasy, rapid 
 glances of his eyes, which seemed to roam 
 over the distant objects with an earnestness 
 that appeared to mock the misty veil that was 
 floating before so much of the view. While 
 Lionel stood fixed to the spot, gazing at this 
 irregular being with that secret awe which 
 the other had succeeded in inspiring, the old 
 man waved his hand impatiently, as if he 
 would cast aside his shroud. At that instant 
 a bright sunbeam darted into the vapor, il- 
 luminating his person, and melting the mist 
 into thin air. The anxious, haggard, and se- 
 vere expression of his countenance changed 
 at the touch of the ray, and he smiled with a 
 softness and attraction that thrilled the nerves 
 of the other, as he called aloud to the sensi- 
 tive young soldier— 
 
 “Come hither, Lionel Lincoln, to the foot 
 
 ' of this beacon, where you may gather warn- 
 ings, which, if properly heeded, will guide you 
 through many and great dangers unharmed.” 
 
 “Tam glad you have spoken,” said Lionel, 
 advancing to his side; ‘‘ you appeared like a 
 being of another world, wrapped in that 
 mantle of fog, and I felt tempted to kneel, 
 and ask a benediction.” 
 
 “ And am I not a being of another world? 
 most of my interests are already in the grave, 
 and I tarry here only for a space, because 
 there is a great work to be done, which can- 
 not be performed without me. My view of 
 the world of spirits, young man, is much 
 clearer and more distinct than yours of this 
 variable scene at your feet. There is no mist 
 to obstruct the eye, nor any doubts as to the 
 colors it presents.” 
 
 “You are happy, sir, in the extremity of 
 
 _ your age, to be so assured. But I fear your 
 sudden determination last night subjected 
 you to inconvenience in the tenement of this 
 changeling.”’ 
 
 ** The boy is a good boy,” said the old man, 
 stroking the head of the natural compla- 
 
 cently; ‘‘we understand each other, Major 
 Lincoln, and that shortens introductions, and 
 renders communion easy.” 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 231 
 
 “That you feel alike on one subject, I have 
 already discovered; but there I should think 
 the resemblance and the intelligence must 
 end.” 
 
 “The propensities of the mind in its in- 
 fancy and in its maturity, are but a span 
 apart,” said the stranger; “the amount of 
 human knowledge is but to know how much 
 we are under the dominion of our passions; 
 and he who has learned by experience how to 
 smother the volcano, and he who never felt 
 its fires, are surely fit associates.” 
 
 Lionel bowed in silence to an opinion so 
 humbling to the other, and, after a pause of 
 a moment, adverted to their situation. 
 
 “The sun begins to make himself felt, and 
 when he has driven away these ragged rem- 
 nants of the fog, we shall see those places 
 each of us has frequented in his day.” 
 
 ‘‘Shall we find them as we left them, 
 think you? or will you see the stranger in 
 possession of the haunts of your infancy ?” 
 
 ‘Not the stranger, certainly, for we are 
 the subjects of one king; children who own 
 a common parent.” 
 
 “T will not reply that he has proved him- 
 self an unnatural father,” said the old man, 
 calmly; ‘‘the gentleman who now fills the 
 British throne is less to be censured than his 
 advisers, for the oppression of his reign o 
 
 ‘Sir,’ interrupted Lionel, “if such allu- 
 sions are made to the person of my sovereign, 
 we must separate; for it ill becomes a British 
 officer to hear his master mentioned with 
 levity.” 
 
 “ Levity! ” repeated the other slowly. “It 
 is a fault indeed to accompany gray locks 
 and wasted limbs! but your jealous watch- 
 fulness betrays you into error. I have 
 breathed in the atmosphere of kings, young 
 man, and know how to separate the individ- 
 ual and his purpose from the policy of his 
 government. ’Tis the latter that will sever 
 this great empire, and deprive the third 
 George of what has so often and so well been 
 termed ‘the brightest jewel in his crown.’” 
 
 ‘<T must leave you, sir,” said Lionel; ‘‘ the 
 opinions you so freely expressed during our 
 passage, were on principles which I can 
 hardly call opposed to our own constitution, 
 and might be heard, not only without offence, 
 but frequently with admiration; but this 
 language approaches to treason!” 
 
R32 
 
 _ “Go, then,” returned the unmoved stranger ; 
 ‘‘descend to yon degraded common, and bid 
 your mercenaries seize me—’twill be only 
 the blood of an old man, but ’twill help to 
 fatten the land; or send your merciless gren- 
 adiers to torment their victim before the 
 axe shall do its work; a man who has lived 
 so long, can surely spare a little of his time 
 to the tormentors!” 
 
 “T could have thought, sir, that you might 
 spare such a reproach to me,” said Lionel. 
 
 “T do spare it, and I do more; I forget my 
 years, and solicit forgiveness. But had you 
 known slavery, as I have done, in its worst 
 of forms, you. would know how to prize the 
 inestimable blessing of freedom.” 
 
 “Have you ever known slavery, in your 
 travels, more closely than in what you deem 
 the violations of principle ?” 
 
 ‘Have I not?” said the stranger, smiling 
 bitterly; “I have known it as man should 
 never know it; in act and will. I have lived 
 days, months, and even years, to hear others 
 coldly declare my wants; to see others dole 
 out their meagre pittances to my necessities, 
 and to hear others assume the right to ex- 
 press the sufferings, and to control the enjoy- 
 ments, of sensibilities that God had given to 
 me only!” 
 
 “To endure such thraldom, you must 
 have fallen into the power of the infidel bar- 
 barians! ”’ 
 
 _ “Ay! boy, I thank you for the words; they 
 were indeed most worthy of the epithets! 
 infidels that denied the precepts of our bless- 
 ed Redeemer; and barbarians that treated 
 one having a soul, and possessing reason like 
 themselves, as a beast of the field.” 
 
 ‘‘Why didn’t you come to Boston, Ralph, 
 and tell that to the people in Funnel-Hall ?” 
 exclaimed Job; ‘‘ther’d ha’ been a stir 
 about it!” 
 
 ‘‘Child, I did come to Boston, again and 
 again, in thought; and the appeals that I 
 made to my townsmen would have moved 
 the very roof of old Faneuil, could they 
 have been uttered within her walls. But 
 *twas in vain! they had the power, and like 
 demons—or rather like miserable men—they 
 abused it.” 
 
 Licnel, sensibly touched, was about to 
 reply in a suitable manner, when he heard a 
 voice calling his own name aloud, as if the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 speaker were ascending the opposite acclivity 
 of the hill. The instant the sounds reached 
 his ears, the old man rose from his seat, on 
 the foundation of the beacon, and gliding 
 over the brow of the platform, followed by 
 Job, they descended into a volume of mist 
 that was still clinging to the side of the hill, 
 with amazing swiftness. 
 
 ‘Why, Leo! thou lion in name, and deer 
 in activity!” exclaimed the intruder, as he 
 surmounted the steep ascent, ‘‘what can 
 have brought you up into the clouds so early ! 
 whew—a man needs a New-Market training 
 to scale such a precipice. But, Leo, my 
 dear fellow, I rejoice to see you—we knew 
 you were expected in the first ship, and as I 
 was coming from morning parade, I met a 
 couple of grooms in the ‘Lincoln green,’ 
 you know, leading each a blooded charger— 
 faith, one of them would have been quite 
 convenient to climb this accursed hill on— 
 whew and whew-w, again—well, I knew the 
 liveries at a glance; as to the horses, I hope 
 to be better acquainted with them hereafter. 
 ‘Pray, sir,’ said I, to one of the liveried 
 scoundrels, ‘whom do you serve?’ ‘ Major 
 Lincoln, of Ravenscliffe, sir,’ said he, with a 
 look as impudent as if he could have said, like 
 you and I, ‘His sacred majesty, the king.’ 
 That’s the answer of the servants of your 
 ten thousand a year men! Now, if my fool 
 had been asked such a question, his answer 
 would have been, craven dog as he is, 
 ‘Captain Polwarth, of the 47th;’ leaving 
 the inquirer, though it should even be some 
 curious maiden who had taken a fancy to 
 the tout ensemble of my outline, in utter 
 ignorance that there is such a place in the 
 world as Polwarth-Hall!” 
 
 During this voluble speech, which was in- 
 terrupted by sundry efforts to regain the 
 breath lost in the ascent, Lionel shook his 
 friend cordially by the hand, and attempted 
 to express his own pleasure at the meeting. 
 The failure of wind, however, which was a 
 sort of besetting sin with Captain Polwarth, 
 had now compelled him to pause, and gave 
 time to Lionel to reply. 
 
 ‘‘This hill is the last place where I should 
 have expected to meet you,” he said. ‘‘ I took 
 it for granted you would not be stirring until 
 nine or ten at least, when it was my inten- 
 
 tion to inquire you out, and to give you a ~ 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 call befare I paid my respects to the com- 
 mander-in-chief.”’ 
 
 «Ah! you may thank his excellency, the 
 ‘Hon. Thomas Gage, governor and com- 
 mander-in-chief in and over the Province of 
 Massachusetts Bay, and vice-admiral of the 
 same,’ as he styles himself in his proclama- 
 tions, for this especial favor; though, be- 
 tween ourselves, Leo, he is about as much 
 governor over the Province as he is owner of 
 those hunters you have just landed.” 
 
 «But why am I to thank him for this 
 interview ?” 
 
 ‘Why ! look about you, and tell me what 
 you behold—nothing but fog—nay, I see 
 there is a steeple, and yonder is the smoking 
 sea, and here are the chimneys of Hancock’s 
 house beneath us, smoking too, as if their 
 rebellious master were at home, and prepar- 
 ing his feed! but everything in sight is 
 essentially smoky, and there is a natural 
 aversion, in us epicures, to smoke. Nature 
 dictates that a man who has as much to do 
 in a day, in carrying himself about, as your 
 humble servant, should not cut his rest too 
 abruptly in the morning. But the honor- 
 able Thomas, governor and vice-admiral, 
 etc., has ordered us under arms with the 
 sun, officers as well as men!” 
 
 «Surely that is no great hardship to a 
 soldier,” returned Lionel; ‘‘and moreover, 
 it seems to agree with you marvellously ! 
 Now I look again, Polwarth, I am amazed ! 
 Surely you are not in a _light-infantry 
 jacket !” 
 
 ‘«* Certes—what is there in that so wonder- 
 ful ?” returned the other, with great gravity. 
 *<Ton’t I become the dress, or is it the dress 
 which does not adorn me, that you look 
 
 ready to die with mirth? Laugh it out, 
 
 Leo. Iam used to it these three days—but 
 
 what is there, after all, so remarkable in 
 
 Peter Polworth’s commanding a company of 
 light infantry? Am I not just five feet, six 
 and one-eighth of an inch ?—the precise 
 height !” 
 
 “You appear to have been so accurate 
 in your longitudinal admeasurement, that 
 you must carry one of Harrison’s timepieces 
 in your pocket ; did it ever suggest itself to 
 you to use the quadrant also ¢” 
 
 “For my latitude! I understand you, 
 Leo; because f am shaped a little like mother 
 
 233 
 
 earth, does it argue that I cannot command 
 a light-infantry company ?” 
 
 « Ay, even as Joshua commanded the sun. 
 But the stopping of the planet itself, is not a 
 greater miracle in my eyes, than to see you in 
 that attire.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, then, the mystery shall be ex- 
 plained ; but first let us be seated on this 
 beacon,” said Captain Polwarth, establishing 
 himself with great method in the place so 
 lately occupied by the attenuated form of the 
 stranger ; “a true soldier husbands his re- 
 sources for a time of need; that word, hus- 
 bands, brings me at once to the point—lI am 
 in love.” 
 
 «That is surprising !” 
 
 ‘But what is much more so, I would fain 
 be married.” 
 
 “Tt must be a woman of no mean endow- 
 ments that could excite such desires in Cap- 
 tain Polwarth, of the 47th, and of Polwarth- 
 Hall!” 
 
 ‘‘She isa woman of great qualifications, 
 Major Lincoln,” said the lover, with a sudden 
 gravity that indicated his gayety of manner 
 was not entirely natural. “In figure she 
 may be said to be done toa turn. When she 
 is grave, she walks with the stateliness of a 
 show beef ; when she runs, ’tis with the ac- 
 tivity of a turkey; and when at rest, I can 
 only compare her to a dish of venison, savory, 
 delicate, and what one can never get enough 
 of.” 
 
 “You have, to adopt your own metaphors, ° 
 given such a ‘rare’ sketch of her person, I 
 am ‘burning’ to hear something of her 
 mental qualifications.” 
 
 ‘¢ My metaphors are not poetical, perhaps, 
 but they are the first that offer themselves to 
 my mind, and they are natural. Her accom- 
 plishments exceed her native gifts greatly. 
 In the first place, she is witty; in the second, 
 she is as impertinent as the devil; and in the 
 third, as inveterate a little traitor to King 
 George as there is in all Boston.” 
 
 “These are strange recommendations to 
 your favor! ” 
 
 «‘The most infallible of all recommenda- 
 tions. ‘They are piquant, like savory sauces, 
 which excite the appetite, and season the 
 dish. Now her treason (for it amounts to 
 that in fact) is like olives, and gives a gusto 
 to the generous port of my loyalty. Her 
 
234 
 
 impertinence is oil to the cold salad of my 
 modesty, and her acid wit mingles with the 
 sweetness of my temperament, in that sort of 
 pleasant combination, with which sweet and 
 sour blend in sherbet.” 
 
 “Tt would be idle for me to gainsay the 
 charms of such a woman,” returned Lionel, 
 a good deal amused with the droll mixture of 
 seriousness and humor in the other’s manner ; 
 ‘now for her connection with the light-in- 
 fantry—she is not of the light corps of her 
 own sex, Polwarth ?” 
 
 “Pardon me, Major Lincoln; I cannot 
 joke on this subject. Miss Danforth is of 
 one of the best families in Boston.” 
 
 “Danforth ! not Agnes, surely!” 
 
 «<The very same!” exclaimed Polwarth, in 
 surprise; “ what do you know of her ?” 
 
 ‘‘Only that she is a sort of cousin of my 
 own, and that we are inmates of the same 
 house. We bear equal affinity to Mrs. Lech- 
 mere, and the good lady has insisted that I 
 shall make my home in Tremont Street.” 
 
 ‘‘T rejoice to hear it! At all events, our 
 intimacy may now be improved to some better 
 purpose than eating and drinking. But to 
 the point—there were certain damnable in- 
 nuendoes getting into circulation, concerning 
 my proportions, which I considered it prudent 
 to look down at once.” 
 
 “Tn order to do which, you had only to 
 look thinner.” 
 
 «‘ And do I not, in this appropriate dress ? 
 To be perfectly serious with you, Leo,—for 
 to you I can freely unburden myself,—you 
 know what a set we are in the 47th: let 
 them once fasten an opprobrious term, or a 
 nickname, on you, and you take it to the 
 grave, be it ever so burdensome.” 
 
 «‘There is a way, certainly, to check. un- 
 gentleman - like liberties,” said Lionel, 
 gravely. 
 
 “Poh! poh! a man wouldn’t wish to fight 
 about a pound more or a pound less of fat ! 
 still the name is a great deal, and first im- 
 pressions aie everything. Now, whoever 
 thinks of Grand Cairo, as a village; of the 
 Grand Turk and Great Mogul, as little boys; 
 or, who would believe, by hearsay, that Cap- 
 tain Polwarth, of the light infantry, could 
 weigh one hundred and eighty!” 
 
 ‘« Add twenty to it.” 
 
 «‘ Not a pound more, as I ama sinner. I 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 /was weighed in the presence of the whole 
 
 mess no later than last week, since when I 
 have rather lost than gained an ounce, for 
 this early rising is no friend to a thriving 
 condition. “Iwas in my nightgown, you'll 
 remember, Leo, for we, who tally so often, 
 can’t afford to throw in boots, and buckles, 
 and all those sorts of things, like your 
 feather-weights.” 
 
 ‘‘But I marvel how Nesbitt was induced 
 to consent to the appointment,” said Lionel ; 
 “he loves a little display.” 
 
 ‘‘T am your man for that,” interrupted 
 the captain; ‘“‘we are embodied you know, 
 and I make more display, if that be what you 
 require, than any captain in the corps. But 
 I will whisper a secret in your ear. ‘There 
 has been a nasty business here, lately, in 
 which the 47th has gained no new laurels—a 
 matter of tarring and feathering, about an 
 old rusty musket.” 
 
 ‘‘T have heard something of the affair 
 already,” returned Lionel, ‘“‘ and was grieved 
 to find the men justifying some of their own 
 brutal conduct last night, by the example of 
 their commander.” 
 
 ‘«‘ Mum—tis a delicate matter—well, that ~ 
 
 tar has brought the colonel into particularly 
 bad odor in Boston, especially among the 
 women, in whose good graces we are all of us 
 lower than I have ever known scarlet coats 
 to stand before. Why, Leo, the Mohairs are 
 altogether the better men, here! But there 
 is not an officer in the whole army who has 
 made more friends in the place than your 
 humble servant. I have availed myself of 
 my popularity, which just now is no trifling 
 thing, and partly by promises, and partly by 
 secret interest, I have the company; to 
 which, you know, my rank in the regiment 
 gives me an undoubted title.” — 
 
 ‘A perfectly satisfactory explanation ; a 
 most commendable ambition on your part, 
 and a certain symptom that the peace is not 
 to be disturbed ; for Gage would never permit 
 such an arrangement, had he any active 
 operations in his eye.” 
 
 ‘‘Why, there I think you are more than 
 half right ; these Yankees have been talking, 
 and resolving, and approbating their resolves, 
 as they call it, these ten years past ; and what 
 does it all amount to? To be sure, things 
 grow worse and worse every day—but Jona- 
 
 ie 
 a. 
 7 a te alee et 
 
_ ee ae ee 
 
 Saiien tal 
 ae 
 
 a 
 
 __ tier; and I hear more troops are already on 
 
 Fae ee RS a ae 
 
 dent alarm; “if I thought there was the 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 than is an enigma to me. Now you know, 
 when we were in the cavalry together—God 
 forgive me the suicide I committed in ex- 
 changing into the foot, which I never should 
 have done, could I have found in all Eng- 
 land such a thing as an easy goer, or a safe 
 leaper—but then, if the commons took 
 offence at a new tax, or a stagnation in busi- 
 
 ness, why, they got together in mobs, and 
 
 burnt a house or two, frightened a magis- 
 trate, and perhaps hustled a constable ; then 
 in we came at a hand gallop, you know, 
 flourished our swords, and scattered the 
 ragged devils to the four winds; when the 
 
 - courts-did the rest, leaving us a cheap victory 
 at the expense of a little wind, which was 
 
 amply compensated by an increased appetite 
 for dinner. But here it is altogether a dif- 
 ferent sort of thing.” 
 
 «© And what are most alarming symptoms, 
 just now, in the colonies?” asked Major 
 Lincoln, with a sensible interest in the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 «They refuse their natural aliment to up- 
 hold what they call their principles; the 
 women abjure tea, and the men abandon 
 their fisheries! There has been hardly such 
 a thing as even a wild-duck brought into the 
 market this spring, in consequence of the 
 Port-Bill, and yet they grow more stubborn 
 eyery day. If it should come to blows, how- 
 ever, thank God we are strong enough to 
 open a passage for ourselves to any part of 
 the continent where provisions may be plen- 
 
 the way.” 
 _ “Tf it should come to blows, which heaven 
 forbid,” said Major Lincoln, ‘‘ we shall be 
 besieged where we now are.” 
 
 «Besieged !”” exclaimed Polwarth, in evi- 
 
 least prospect of such a calamity, I would 
 sell out to-morrow. It is bad enough now ; 
 our mess-table is never decently covered, but 
 if there should comea siege, *twould be abso- 
 lute starvation.—No, no, Leo, their minute 
 men, and their long-tailed rabble, would 
 hardly think of besieging four thousand Brit- 
 ish soldiers with a fleet to back them. Four 
 thousand ! if the regiments I hear named are 
 actually on the way, there will be eight thou- 
 sand of us—as good men as ever wore——” 
 
 ‘‘Light-infantry jackets,” interrupted 
 
 230 
 
 Lionel. ‘‘ But the regiments are certainly 
 coming ; Clinton, Burgoyne, and Howe, had 
 an audience to take leave on the same day 
 with myself. The service is exceedingly 
 popular with the king, and our reception, of 
 course, was most gracious ; though I thought 
 the eye of royalty looked on me as if it re- 
 membered one or two of my juvenile votes in 
 the house, on the subject of these unhappy 
 dissensions.” 
 
 ‘You voted against the Port-Bill,” said 
 Polwarth, ‘ out of regard to me ?” 
 
 ‘‘No; there I joined the ministry. The 
 conduct of the people of Boston had pro- 
 voked the measure, and there were hardly 
 two minds in Parliament on that question.” 
 
 ‘Ah! Major Lincoln, you are a happy 
 man,” said the captain; “‘a seat in Parlia- 
 ment at five-and-twenty ! I must think that 
 I should prefer just such an occupation to 
 all others—the very name is taking ; a seat ! 
 you have two members for your borough— 
 who fills the second now ?” 
 
 “Say nothing on that subject, I entreat 
 you,” whispered Lionel, pressing the arm of 
 the other, as he rose; “’tis not filled by him 
 who should occupy it, as you know.—Shall 
 we descend to the common? there are many 
 friends that I could wish to see before the 
 bell calls us to church.” 
 
 “Yes; this is a church-going, or, rather, 
 
 meeting-going place; for most of the good 
 people forswear the use of the word church, 
 as we abjure the supremacy of the pope,” re- 
 turned Polwarth, following in his compan- 
 ion’s footsteps ; ‘I never think of attending 
 any of their schism-shops, for I would any 
 day rather stand sentinel over a baggage- 
 wagon than stand up to hear one of their 
 prayers. I can do very well at the King’s 
 Chapel, as they call it; for when I am once 
 comfortably fixed on my knees, | make out 
 as well as my lord archbishop of Canterbury; 
 though it has always been matter of sur- 
 prise to me, how any man can find breath to 
 go through their work of a morning.” 
 They descended the hill, as Lionel replied, 
 and their forms were soon blended with 
 those of twenty others, who wore scarlet 
 coats, on the common. 
 
 2 ee eT 
 
236 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 “For us, and for our tragedy, 
 Here stooping to your clemency, 
 We beg your hearing patiently.’’—Hamlet. 
 
 WE must, now, carry the reader back a 
 century, in order to clear our tale of every 
 appearance of ambiguity. Reginald Lincoln 
 was a cadet of an extremely ancient and 
 - wealthy family, whose possessions were suf- 
 fered to continue as appendages to a baro- 
 netcy, throughout all the changes which 
 marked the eventful period of t!.e common- 
 wealth, and the usurpation of Cromwell. 
 He had himself, however, inherited little 
 more than a morbid sensibility, which, even 
 in that age, appeared to be a sort of heirloom 
 to his family. While still a young man, he 
 had married a woman to whom he was much 
 attached, who died in giving birth to her 
 first child. ‘The grief of the husband took a 
 direction toward religion; but unhappily, in- 
 stead of deriving from his researches that 
 healing consolation with which our faith 
 abounds, his mind became soured by the 
 prevalent, but discordant views of the attri- 
 butes of the Deity; and the result of his 
 conversion was, to leave him an ascetic puri- 
 tan, and an obstinate predestinarian. That 
 such a man, finding but little to connect him 
 with his native country, should revolt at the 
 impure practices of the court of Charles, is 
 not surprising; and, accordingly, though not 
 at all implicated in the guilt of the regicides, 
 he departed for the religious province of 
 Massachusetts-Bay, in the first years of the 
 reign of that merry prince. 
 
 It was not difficult for a man of the rank 
 and reputed sanctity of Reginald Lincoln, to 
 obtain both honorable and lucrative employ- 
 ments in the plantations; and, after the first 
 glow of his awakened ardor in behalf of spirit- 
 ual matters had a little abated, he failed not 
 to improve a due portion of his time bya 
 commendable attention to temporal things. 
 To the day of his death, however, he contin- 
 ued a gloomy, austere, and bigoted religion- 
 ist, seemingly too regardless of the vanities 
 of this world to permit his pure imagination 
 to mingle with its dross, even while he sub- 
 mitted to discharge its visible duties. Not- 
 withstanding this elevation of mind, his son, 
 at the decease of his father, found himself in 
 the possession of many goodly effects; which 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 were, questionless, the accumulations of a 
 neglected use during the days of his subli- 
 mated progenitor. 
 
 Young Lionel so far followed in the steps 
 of his worthy parent, as to continue gather- 
 ing honors and riches into his lap; though, 
 owing to an early disappointment, and the 
 inheritance of the “ heirloom” already men- 
 tioned, it was late in life before he found a 
 partner to share his happiness. Contrary to 
 all the usual calculations that are made on 
 the choice of a man of self-denial, he was then 
 united to a youthful and gay Episcopalian, 
 who had little, beside her exquisite beauty 
 and good blood, to recommend her. By this 
 lady he had four children, three sons and a 
 daughter, when he also was laid in the yault, 
 by the side of his deceased parent. ‘The eld- 
 est of these sons was yet a boy when he was 
 called to the mother-country, to inherit the 
 estates and honors of his family. The sec- 
 ond, named Reginald, who was bred to arms, 
 married, had a son, and lost his life in the 
 wilds where he was required ‘to serve, before 
 he was five-and-twenty. The third was the 
 grandfather of Agnes Danforth; and the 
 daughter was Mrs. Lechmere. 
 
 The family of Lincoln, considering ie 
 shortness of their marriages, had been ex- 
 tremely prolific while in the colonies, accord- 
 ing to that wise allotment of Providence, 
 which ever seems to regulate the functions of 
 our nature by our wants; but the instant it 
 was reconveyed to the populous island of Brit- 
 ain, it entirely lost its reputation for fruit- 
 fulness. ‘Sir Lionel lived to a good age, 
 married, but died childless; notwithstand- 
 ing, when his body lay in state, it was under 
 a splendid roof and in halls so capacious that 
 they would have afforded comfortable shelter 
 to the whole family of Priam. | 
 
 By this fatality, it became necessary to 
 cross the Atlantic once more, to find an heir 
 to the wide domains of Ravenscliffe, and to 
 one of the oldest baronetcies in the kingdom. 
 
 We have planted and reared this genealogi- 
 cal tree to but little purpose, if it be neces- 
 sary to tell the reader that the individual, 
 who had now become the head of his race, 
 was the orphan son of the deceased officer. 
 He was married, and the father of one bloom- 
 ing boy, when this elevation, which was not 
 unlooked for, occurred. Leaving his wifeand 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 child behind him, Sir Lionel immediately 
 proceeded to England, to assert his rights 
 As he was the 
 nephew and acknowledged heir of the late 
 incumbent, he met with no opposition to the 
 Across 
 the character and fortunes of this gentleman, 
 
 and secure his possessions. 
 
 more important parts of his claims. 
 
 however, a dark cloud had early passed, 
 which prevented the common eye from read- 
 
 ing the events of his life, like those of other 
 
 men, in its open and intelligible movements. 
 After his accession to fortune and rank, but 
 
 little was known of him, even by his earliest 
 
 and most intimate associates. It was rumored, 
 it is true, that he had been detained in Eng- 
 land, for two years, by a vexatious contention 
 for a petty appendage to his large estates, a 
 controversy which was, however, known to 
 have been decided in his favor, before he 
 was recalled to Boston by the sudden death 
 of his wife. ‘This calamity befell him during 
 the period when the war of 56 was raging in 
 its greatest violence: a time when the ener- 
 gies of the colonies were directed to the 
 assistance of the mother-country, who, accord- 
 ing to the language of the day, was zealously 
 endeayoring to defeat the ambitious views of 
 the French in this hemisphere ; or, what 
 amounted to the same thing in effect, was 
 struggling to advance her own. 
 
 It was an interesting period, when the mild 
 and peaceful colonists were seen to shake off 
 their habits of forbearance, and to enter into 
 the strife with an alacrity and spirit that soon 
 emulated the utmost daring of their more 
 practised confederates. To the amazement 
 of all who knew his fortunes, Sir Lionel Lin- 
 coln was seen to embark in many of the most 
 desperate adventures that distinguished the 
 war, with a hardihood that rather sought 
 death than courted honor. He had been, 
 like his father, trained to arms, but the regi- 
 ment in which he held the commission of 
 -lieutenant-colonel was serving his master in 
 the most eastern of his dominions, while the 
 uneasy soldier was thus rushing from point 
 to point, hazarding his life, and more than 
 once shedding his blood, in the enterprises 
 that signalized his war in his most western. 
 
 This dangerous career, however, was at 
 length suddenly and mysteriously checked. 
 By the influence of some powerful agency 
 that was never explained, the baron was in- 
 
 237 
 
 duced to take his son, and embark once more 
 for the land of their fathers, from which 
 the former had never been known to return. 
 For many years all those inquiries which the 
 laudable curiosity of the townsmen and towns- 
 women of Mrs. Lechmere prompted them to 
 make, concerning the fate of her nephew (and 
 we leave each of our readers to determine 
 their numbers), were answered by that lady 
 with the most courteous reserve ; and some- 
 times with such exhibitions of emotion, as we 
 have already attempted to describe in her 
 first interview with his son. But constant 
 dropping will wear away a stone. At first 
 there were rumors that the baronet had com- 
 mitted treason, and had been compelled to 
 exchange Ravenscliffe for a less ‘comfortable 
 dwelling in the Tower of London. This 
 report was succeeded by that of an unfor- 
 tunate private marriage with one of the 
 princesses of the house of Brunswick ; but a 
 reference to the calendars of the day showed, 
 that there was no lady of a suitable age dis- 
 engaged ; and this amour, so creditable to 
 the provinces, was necessarily abandoned. 
 Finally, the assertion was made, with much 
 more of the confidence of truth, that the un- 
 happy Sir Lionel was the tenant of a private 
 mad-house. | 
 The instant this rumor was circulated, a 
 film fell from every eye, and none were so 
 blind as not to have seen indications of in- 
 sanity in the baronet long before ; and not a 
 few were enabled to trace his legitimate right 
 to lunacy through the hereditary bias of his 
 race. To account for its sudden exhibition, 
 was amore difficult task and exercised the 
 ingenuity of an exceedingly ingenious people 
 for a long period. 
 The more sentimental part of the com- 
 munity, such as the maidens and bachelors, 
 and those votaries of Hymen who had twice 
 and thrice proved the solacing power of the 
 god, did not fail to ascribe the misfortune 
 of the baronet to the unhappy loss of his 
 wife, a lady to whom he was known to be 
 most passionately attached. A few, the relics 
 of the good old school, under whose in- 
 tellectual sway the incarnate persons of so 
 many godless dealers in necromancy had been 
 made to expiate for their abominations, 
 pointed to the calamity as a merited punish- 
 ment on the backslidings of a family that 
 
238 
 
 had once known the true faith; while the 
 third, and by no means a small class, com- 
 posed of those worthies who braved the ele- 
 ments in King Street, in quest of filthy 
 lucre, did not hesitate to say, that the sud- 
 den acquisition of vast wealth had driven 
 many a better man mad. But the time was 
 approaching, when the apparently irresistible 
 propensity to speculate on the fortunes of a 
 fellow-creature was made to yield to more 
 important considerations. The hour soon 
 arrived when the merchant forgot his mo- 
 mentary interests to look keenly into the 
 distant effects that were to succeed the 
 movements of the day; which taught the 
 fanatic the wholesome lesson, that Providence 
 smiled most beneficently on those who most 
 merited, by their own efforts, its favors ; 
 and which even purged the breast of the 
 sentimentalist of its sickly tenant, to be suc- 
 ceeded by the healthy and ennobling passion 
 of love of country. 
 
 It was about this period that the contest 
 for principle between the Parliament of Great 
 Britain, and the colonies of North America, 
 commenced, that in time led to those impor- 
 tant results which have established a new era 
 in political liberty, as well as a mighty em- 
 pire. <A brief glance at the nature of this 
 controversy may assist in rendering many of 
 the allusions in this legend more intelligible 
 to some of its readers. 
 
 The increasing wealth of the provinces had 
 attracted the notice of the English ministry 
 so early as the year 1763. In that year the 
 first effort to raise a revenue which was to 
 meet the exigencies of the empire, was at- 
 tempted by the passage of a law to impose 
 a duty on certain stamped paper, which was 
 made necessary to give validity to contracts. 
 This method of raising a revenue was not 
 new in itself, nor was the imposition heavy 
 in amount. But the Americans, not less 
 sagacious than wary, perceived at a glance 
 the importance of the principles involved in 
 the admission of a right as belonging to any 
 body to lay taxes, in which they were not 
 represented. The question was not without 
 its difficulties, but the direct and plain ar- 
 gument was clearly on the side of the col- 
 onists. Aware of the force of their reasons, 
 and perhaps a little conscious of the strength 
 
 of their numbers, they approached the sub- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ject with a spirit which betokened this con- 
 sciousness, but with a coolness that denoted 
 the firmness of their purpose. After a strug- 
 gle of nearly two years, during which the law 
 was rendered completely profitless by the 
 unanimity among the people, as well as by a 
 species of good-humored violence that ren- 
 dered it exceedingly inconvenient, and per- 
 haps a little dangerous, to the servants of the 
 crown to exercise their obnoxious functions, 
 the ministry abandoned the measure. Bui, 
 at the same time that the law was repealed, 
 the Parliament maintained its right to bind 
 the colonies. in all cases whatsoever, by re- 
 cording a resolution to that effect in its 
 journals. 
 
 That an empire, whose several parts were 
 separated by oceans, and whose interests 
 were so often conflicting, should become un- 
 wieldy, and fall, in time, by its own weight, 
 was an event that all wise men must have 
 expected to arrive. But, that the Americans 
 did not contemplate such a division at that 
 early day, may be fairly inferred, if there 
 were no other testimony in the matter, by 
 the quiet and submission that pervaded the 
 colonies the instant that the repeal of the 
 stamp act was known. Had any desire for 
 premature independence existed, the Parlia- 
 ment had unwisely furnished abundant fuel 
 to feed the flame, in the very resolution 
 already mentioned. But, satisfied with the 
 solid advantages they had secured, peaceful 
 in their habits, and loyal in their feelings, 
 the colonists laughed at the empty dignity of 
 their self-constituted rulers, while they con- 
 gratulated each other on their own more 
 substantial success. If the besotted servants 
 of the king had learned wisdom by the past, 
 the storm would have blown over, and an- 
 other age would have witnessed the events 
 which we are about to relate. Things were 
 hardly suffered, however, to return to their 
 old channels again, before the ministry at- 
 tempted to revive their claims by new imposi- 
 tions. The design to raise a revenue had 
 been defeated in the case of the stamp act, 
 by the refusal of the colonists to use the 
 paper; but in the present instance, expe- 
 dients were adopted, which, it was thought, 
 would be more effective—as in the case of 
 tea, where the duty was paid by the East- 
 India Company in the first instance, and the 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
  exaction was to be made on the Americans, 
 through their appetites. These new innova- 
 tions on their rights were met by the colo- 
 nists with the same promptitude, but with 
 much more of seriousness than in the former 
 instances. All the provinces south of the 
 Great Lakes, acted in concert on this occa- 
 sion; and preparations were made to render 
 not only their remonstrances and petitions 
 more impressive by a unity of action, but 
 their more serious struggles also, should an 
 appeal to force become necessary. The tea 
 was stored or sent back to England, in most 
 cases, though in the town of Boston a con- 
 currence of circumstances led to the violent 
 measure, on the part of the people, of throw- 
 ing a large quantity of the offensive article 
 into the sea. ‘To punish this act, which took 
 place in the early part of 1774, the port of 
 Boston was closed, and different laws were 
 enacted in Parliament, which were intended 
 to bring the people back to a sense of their 
 dependence on the British power. 
 
 Although the complaints of the colonists 
 were hushed during the short interval that 
 had succeeded the suspension of the efforts 
 of the ministry to tax them, the feelings of 
 alienation which were engendered by the at- 
 tempt, had not time to be lost before the 
 obnoxious subject was revived in its new 
 shape. From 1763 to the period of our tale, 
 all the younger part of the population of the 
 provinces had grown into manhood, but they 
 were no longer imbued with that profound 
 respect for the mother-country which had 
 been transmitted from their ancestors, or 
 with that deep loyalty to the crown that 
 usually characterizes a people who view the 
 pageant of royalty through the medium of 
 distance. Still, those who guided the feel- 
 ings, and controlled the judgments of the 
 Americans, were averse to a dismemberment 
 of the empire, a measure which they contin- 
 ued to believe both impolitic and unnatural. 
 
 In the meantime, though equally reluctant 
 to shed blood, the adverse parties prepared 
 for that final struggle, which seemed to be 
 unavoidably approaching. The situation of 
 the colonies was now so peculiar, that it may 
 be doubted whether history furnishes a pre- 
 cise parallel. Their fealty to the prince was 
 everywhere acknowledged, while the laws 
 which emanated from his counsellors were 
 
 239 
 
 sullenly disregarded and set at naught. Each 
 province possessed its distinct government, 
 and in most of them the political influence 
 of the crown was direct and great; but the 
 time had arrived when it was superseded by 
 a moral feeling that defied the machinations 
 and intrigues of the ministry. Such of the 
 provincial legislatures as possessed a majority 
 of the “ Sons of Liberty,” as they who resist- 
 ed the unconstitutional attempts of the min- 
 istry were termed, elected delegates to meet 
 in a general congress to consult on the ways 
 and means of effecting the common objects. 
 In one or two provinces, where the inequality 
 of representation afforded a different result, 
 the people supplied the deficiencies by acting 
 in their original capacity. This body, meet- 
 ing, unlike conspirators, with the fearless 
 confidence of integrity, and acting under the 
 excitement of a revolution in sentiment, pos- 
 sessed an influence, which at a later day, has 
 been denied to their more legally constituted 
 successors. Their recommendations pos- 
 sessed all the validity of laws, without in- 
 curring their odium. While, as the organ of 
 their fellow-subjects, they still continue to. 
 petition and remonstrate, they did not forget. 
 to oppose, by such means as were then 
 thought expedient, the oppressive measures 
 of the ministry. 
 
 An association was recommended to the 
 people, for those purposes that are amply ex- 
 pressed in the three divisions which were 
 significantly given to the subjects, in calling 
 them by the several names of “ non-importa- 
 tion,” “non-exportation,” and “non-con- 
 sumption” resolutions. These negative ex- 
 pedients were all that was constitutionally in 
 their power, and, throughout the whole con- 
 troversy, there had been a guarded care not 
 to exceed the limits which the laws had 
 affixed to the rights of the subject. Though 
 no overt act of resistance was committed, they 
 did not, however, neglect such means as were 
 attainable to be prepared for the last evil, 
 whenever it should arrive. In this manner a 
 feeling of resentment and disaffection was 
 daily increasing throughout the provinces, 
 while in Massachusetts Bay, the more imme- 
 diate scene of our story, the disorder in the 
 body politic seemed to be inevitably gather- 
 ing to its head. 
 
 The great principles of the controversy 
 
240 
 
 had been blended, in different places, with 
 various causes of local complaint, and in none 
 more than in the town of Boston. The in- 
 habitants of this place had been distinguished 
 for an early, open, and fearless resistance to 
 the ministry. An armed force had long been 
 thought necessary to intimidate this spirit, to 
 effect which the troops were drawn from dif- 
 ferent parts of the provinces, and concen- 
 trated in this devoted town. arly in 1774, 
 a military man was placed in the executive 
 chair of the province, and an attitude of 
 more determination was assumed by the gov- 
 ernment. One of the first acts of this gentle- 
 man, who held the high station of lieutenant 
 general, and who commanded all the forces 
 of the king in America, was to dissolve the 
 colonial assembly. About the same time a 
 new charter was sent from England, and a 
 material change was contemplated in the 
 polity of the colonial government. From 
 this moment the power of the king, though 
 it was not denied, became suspended in the 
 province. A provincial congress was elected, 
 and assembled within seven leagues of the 
 capital, where they continued, from time to 
 time, to adopt such measures as the exigen- 
 cies of the times were thought to render 
 necessary. Men were enrolled, disciplined, 
 and armed, as well as the imperfect means 
 of the colony would allow. These troops, 
 who were no more than the élite of the in- 
 habitants, had little else to recommend them 
 besides their spirit, and their manual dex- 
 terity with fire-arms. From the expected 
 nature of their service, they were not unaptly 
 termed “minute-men.” The munitions of 
 war were seized, and hoarded with a care 
 and diligence that showed the character of 
 the impending conflict. 
 
 On the other hand, General Gage adopted 
 a similar course of preparation and preven- 
 tion, by fortifying himself in the stronghold 
 which he possessed, and by anticipating the 
 intentions of the colonists, in their attempts 
 to form magazines, whenever it was in his 
 power. He had an easy task in the former, 
 both from the natural situation of the place 
 he occupied, and the species of force he 
 commanded. 
 
 Surrounded by broad and chiefly by deep 
 waters, except at one extremely narrow point, 
 and possessing its triple hills, which are not 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 commanded by any adjacent eminences, the 
 peninsula of Boston could, with a competent 
 garrison, easily be made impregnable, espe- 
 cially. when aided by a superior fleet. ‘The 
 works erected by the English general were, 
 however, by no means of magnitude ; for it 
 was well known that the whole park of the 
 colonists could not exceed some half dozen 
 pieces of field artillery, with a small batter- 
 ing train that must be entirely composed of 
 old and cumbrous ship guns. Consequently, 
 when Lionel arrived in Boston, he found a 
 few batteries thrown up on the eminences, 
 some of which were intended as much to 
 control the town as to repel an enemy from 
 without, while lines were drawn across the 
 neck which communicated with the main. 
 The garrison consisted of something less than 
 five thousand men, besides which there was 
 a fluctuating force of seamen and marines, 
 as the vessels of war arrived and departed. 
 All this time, there was no other interrup- 
 tion to the intercourse between the town and 
 the country, than such as unayoidably suc- 
 ceeded the stagnation of trade, and the dis- 
 trust engendered by the aspect of affairs. 
 
 Though numberless families had deserted 
 
 their homes, many known whigs continued 
 to dwell in their habitations, where their 
 ears were deafened by the sounds of the 
 British drums, and where their spirits were 
 but too often galled by the sneers of the 
 officers on the uncouth military preparations 
 of their countrymen. Indeed, an impression 
 had spread further than among the idle and 
 thoughtless youths of the army, that the 
 colonists were but little gifted with martial 
 qualities ; and many of their best friends in 
 Europe were in dread, lest an appeal to force 
 should put the contested points forever at 
 rest, by proving the incompetency of the 
 Americans to maintain them to the last 
 extremity. 
 
 In this manner, both parties stood at bay ; 
 the people living in perfect order and quiet, 
 without the administration of law, sullen, 
 vigilant, and, through their leaders, secretly 
 alert ; and the army, gay, haughty, and care- 
 less of the consequences, though far from 
 being oppressive or insolent, until after the 
 defeat of one or two abortive excursions into 
 the country in quest of arms. Each hour, 
 however, was rapidly adding to the disaf- 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 fection on one side, and to the contempt 
 and resentment on the other, through num- 
 berless public and private causes, that be- 
 long rather to history than to a legend 
 like this. All extraordinary occupations were 
 suspended, and men awaited the course of 
 things in anxious expectation. It was known 
 that the Parliament, instead of retracing 
 their political errors, had imposed new re- 
 straints, and, as has been mentioned, it was 
 also rumored that regiments and fleets were 
 
 on their way to enforce them. 
 
 How long a country could exist in such a 
 primeval condition remained to be seen, 
 though it was difficult to say when or how it 
 was to terminate. The people of the land 
 appeared to slumber ; but, like vigilant and 
 wary soldiers, they might be said to sleep on 
 
 their arms ; while the troops assumed, each 
 
 day, more of that fearful preparation which 
 gives, even to the trained warrior, a more 
 martial aspect—though both parties still 
 continued to manifest a becoming reluctance 
 to shed blood. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 “Would he were fatter:—but I fear him not:— 
 Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort, 
 As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spirit, 
 That could be moved to smile at any thing.” 
 —ZJulius Cesar. 
 
 In the course of the succeeding week, 
 Lionel acquired a knowledge of many minor 
 
 circumstances relating to the condition of the 
 
 colonies, which may be easily imagined as 
 incidental to the times, but which would 
 greatly exceed our limits to relate. He was 
 received by his brethren in arms, with that 
 sort of cordiality that a rich, high-spirited, 
 and free, if not a jovial comrade, was certain 
 of meeting among men who lived chiefly for 
 pleasure and appearance. Certain indications 
 of more than usually important movements 
 were discovered among the troops, the first 
 day of the week, and his own condition in the 
 army was in some measure affected by the 
 changes. Instead of joining his particular 
 regiment, he was ordered to hold himself in 
 readiness to take a command in the light 
 
 corps, which had begun its drill for the ser- 
 __-wice that was peculiar to such troops. 
 
 As it 
 
 241 
 
 was well known that Boston was Major 
 Lionel’s place of nativity, the commander-in- 
 chief, with the indulgence and kindness of 
 his character, granted to him, however, a 
 short respite from duty, in order that he 
 might indulge in the feelings natural to his 
 situation. It was soon generally understood, 
 that Major Lincoln, though intending to 
 serve with the army in America, should the 
 sad alternative of an appeal to arms become 
 necessary, had permission to amuse himself 
 in such a manner as he saw fit, for two months 
 from the date of his arrival. ‘Those who 
 affected to be more wise than common, saw, 
 or thought they saw, in this arrangement, a 
 deep laid plan on the part of Gage, to use the 
 influence and address of the young provincial 
 among his connections and natural friends, 
 to draw them back to those sentiments of 
 loyalty which it was feared sé many among 
 them had forgotten to entertain. But it was 
 the characteristic of the times to attach im- 
 portance to trifling incidents, and to suspect 
 a concealed policy in movements which ema- 
 nated only in inclination. 
 
 There was nothing, however, in the deport- 
 ment, or manner of life adopted by Lionel, 
 to justify any of these conjectures. He con- 
 tinued to dwell in the house of Mrs, Lech- 
 mere, in person, though, unwilling to burden 
 the hospitality of his aunt too heavily, he had 
 taken lodgings in a dwelling at no great dis- 
 tance, where his servants resided, and where 
 it was generally understood, that his visits of 
 ceremony and friendship were to be received. 
 Captain Polwarth did not fail to complain 
 loudly of this arrangement, as paralyzing at 
 once all the advantages he had anticipated 
 from enjoying the entré to the dwelling of 
 his mistress, in the right of his friend. But 
 as the establishment of Lionel was supported 
 with much of that liberality which was be- 
 coming ina youth of his large fortune, the 
 exuberant light-infantry officer found many 
 sources of consolation in the change, which 
 could not have existed, had the staid Mrs, 
 Lechmere presided over the domestic depart- 
 ment. Lionel and Polwarth had been boys 
 together at the same school, members of the 
 same college at Oxford, and subsequently, 
 for many years, comrades in the same corps, 
 Though, perhaps, no two men in their regi- 
 ment were more essentially different in men- 
 
242 
 
 tal as well as physical constitution, yet, by 
 that unaccountable caprice, which causes us 
 to like our opposites, it is certain that no two 
 gentlemen in the service were known to be 
 on better terms, or to, maintain a more close 
 and unreserved intimacy. It is unnecessary 
 to dilate here on this singular friendship; 1t 
 occurs every day, between men still more dis- 
 cordant, the result of accident and habit, and 
 _is often, as in the present instance, cemented 
 by unconquerable good-nature in one of the 
 parties. For this latter qualification Captain 
 Polwarth was eminent, if for no other. It 
 contributed quite as much as his science in the 
 art of living to the thriving condition of the 
 corporeal moiety of the man, and it rendered 
 a communion with the less material part at all 
 times inoffensive, if not agreeable. 
 
 On the present occasion, the captain took 
 charge of the*internal economy of Lionel’s 
 lodgings, with a zeal which he did not even 
 pretend was disinterested. By the rules of 
 the regiment he was compelled to live nomi- 
 nally with the mess, where he found his 
 talents and his wishes fettered by divers in- 
 dispensable regulations, and economical prac- 
 tices, that could not be easily overleaped; 
 but with Lionel, just such an opportunity 
 offered for establishing rules of his own, and 
 disregarding expenditure, as he had been long 
 pining for in secret. Though the poor of the 
 town were, in the absence of employment, 
 necessarily supported by large contributions 
 of money, clothing, and food, which were 
 transmitted to their aid from the furthermost 
 parts of the colonies, the markets were not yet 
 wanting in all the necessaries of life, to those 
 who enjoyed the means of purchasing. With 
 this disposition of things, therefore, he be- 
 came well content, and within the first fort- 
 night after the arrival of Lionel, it became 
 
 known to the mess that Captain Polwarth 
 took his dinners regularly with his old friend, 
 Major Lincoln; though in truth the latter 
 was enjoying, more than half the time, the 
 hospitality of the respective tables of the 
 officers of the staff. 
 
 In the meantime Lionel cultivated his ac- 
 quaintance in Tremont Street, where he still 
 slept, with an interest and assiduity that the 
 awkwardness of his first interview would not 
 have taught us to expect. With Mrs. Lech- 
 
 mere, it is true, he made but little progress 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 in intimacy ; for, equally formal, though po- 
 lite, she was at all times enshrouded in a 
 
 cloud of artificial, but cold management, 
 that gave him little opportunity, had he pos- 
 sessed the desire, to break through the re- 
 serve of her calculating temperament. With 
 his more youthful kinswomen, the case was, 
 however, in a very few days, entirely re- 
 versed. Agnes Danforth, who had nothing 
 to conceal, began insensibly to yield to the 
 manliness and grace of his manner, and be- 
 fore the end of the first week, she main- 
 
 tained the rights of the colonists, laughed at 
 the follies of the officers, and then acknowl- 
 edged her own prejudices, with a familiarity 
 and good-humor that soon made her, in her 
 turn, a favorite with her English cousin, as 
 
 she termed Lionel. But he found the de- 
 
 meanor of Cecil Dynevor much more embar- 
 rassing, if not inexplicable. 
 ‘would be distant, silent, and haughty, and 
 then again, as it were by sudden impulses, 
 
 For days she 
 
 she became easy and natural ; her whole soul 
 
 beaming in her speaking eyes, or her inno- 
 
 cent and merry humor breaking through the 
 
 bounds of her restraint, and rendering not 
 
 only herself, but all around her, happy and 
 delighted. Full many an hour did Lionel 
 
 ponder on this unaccountable difference in 
 
 the manner of this young lady, at different 
 moments. There was a secret excitement in 
 
 the very caprices of her humors, that had a 
 piquant interest in his eyes,-and which, 
 aided by her exquisite form and intelligent 
 
 face, gradually induced him to become a 
 more close observer of their waywardness, 
 and consequently a more assiduous attendant 
 on her movements. In consequence of this 
 assiduity, the manner of Cecil grew, almost 
 imperceptibly, less variable, and more uni- 
 formly fascinating, while Lionel, by some 
 unaccountable oversight, soon forgot to note 
 its changes, or even to miss the excitement. 
 
 In a mixed society, where pleasure, com- 
 pany, and a multitude of objects, conspired 
 to distract the attention, such alterations 
 
 would be the result of an intercourse for 
 
 months, if they ever occurred ; but in a town 
 like Boston, from which most of those with 
 whom Cecil had once mingled were already 
 fled, and where, consequently, those who re- 
 mained behind lived chiefly for themselves 
 and by themselves, they were no more than the 
 
‘stranger. 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 obvious effect of very apparent causes. In 
 this manner something like good-will, if not 
 a deeper interest in each other, was happily 
 effected within that memorable fortnight, 
 _ which was teeming with events vastly more 
 
 important in their results than any that can 
 appertain to the fortunes of a single family. 
 
 The winter of 1774-5 had been as remark- 
 able for its mildness, as the spring was cold 
 and lingering. Like every season in our 
 changeable climate, however, the chilling 
 days of March and April.were intermingled 
 with some, when a genial sun recalled the 
 ideas of summer, which, in their turn, were 
 succeeded by others, when the torrents of 
 cold rain, that drove before the easterly gales, 
 would seem to repel every advance toward 
 a milder temperature. Many of those stormy 
 days occurred in the middle of April, and 
 during their continuance Lionel was neces- 
 sarily compelled to keep himself housed. 
 
 He had retired from the parlor of Mrs. 
 Lechmere, one evening when the rain was 
 beating against the windows of the house, in 
 nearly horizontal lines, to complete some let- 
 ters which, before dining, he had commenced 
 to the agent of his family, in England. On 
 entering his own apartment, he was startled 
 to find the room, which he had left vacant, 
 and which he expected to find in the same 
 state, occupied in a manner that he could 
 not anticipate. The light of a strong wood 
 
 fire was blazing on the hearth, and throwing, 
 
 about, in playful changes, the flickering 
 
 shadows of the furniture, and magnifying 
 
 each object into some strange and fantastical 
 figure. As he stepped within the door, his 
 
 ye fell upon one of these shadows, which 
 _ extended along the wall, and, bending against 
 
 the ceiling, exhibited the gigantic but certain 
 _ outlines of the human form. Recollecting 
 that he had left his letters open, and a little 
 
  distrusting the discretion of Meriton, Lionel 
 _ advanced lightly, for a few feet, so far as to 
 
 be able to look round the drapery of his bed, 
 
 _ and, to his amazement, perceived that the 
 
 _ intruder was not his valet, but the aged 
 The old man sat holding in his 
 _ hand the open letter which Lionel had been 
 _ writing, and continued so deeply absorbed in 
 _ its contents, that the footsteps of the other 
 _ were still disregarded. A large, coarse over- 
 Se dripping with water, concealed most of 
 
 243 
 
 his person, though the white hairs that 
 strayed about his face, and the deep lines of 
 his remarkable countenance, could not be 
 mistaken. 
 
 “T was ignorant of this unexpected visit,” 
 said Lionel, advancing quickly into the centre 
 of the room, “or I should not have been so 
 tardy in returning to my apartment, where, 
 sir, I fear you must have found your time 
 irksome, with nothing but that scrawl to 
 amuse you.” 
 
 The old man dropped the paper from be- 
 fore his features, and betrayed, by the action, 
 the large drops that followed each other down 
 his hollow cheeks, until they fell even to the 
 floor. The haughty and displeased look dis- 
 appeared from the countenance of Lionel at 
 this sight, aad he was on the point of speak- 
 ing in a more conciliating manner, when the 
 stranger, whose eye had not quailed before 
 the angry frown it encountered, anticipated 
 his intention. 
 
 “JT comprehend you, Made Lincoln,” he 
 said, calmly; “‘ but there can exist justifiable 
 reasons for a greater breach of faith than this, 
 of which you accuse me. Accident, and not 
 intention, has put me in possession, here, of 
 your most secret thoughts on a subject that 
 has deep interest for me. You have urged 
 me often, during our voyage, to make you ac- 
 quainted with all that you most desire to 
 know ; to which request, as you may remem- 
 ber, I have ever been silent.” 
 
 “You have said, sir, that you are master 
 of a secret in which my feelings, I will ac- 
 knowledge, are deeply interested, and I have 
 urged you to remove my doubts by declaring ~ 
 the truth; but I do not perceive 4 
 
 “ How a desire to possess my secret gives 
 me aclaim to inquire into yours, you would 
 say,” interrupted the stranger; ‘nor does it. 
 But an interest in your affairs, that you can- 
 not yet understand, and which is vouched 
 for by these scalding tears, the first that have 
 fallen in years from a fountain that I had 
 thought dried, should, and must, satisfy you.” 
 
 ‘Tt does,” said Lionel, deeply affected by 
 the melancholy tones of his voice, “it does, 
 it does, and I will listen to no further expla- 
 nation on the unpleasant subject. You see_ 
 nothing there, I am sure, of which a son can 
 have reason to be ashamed.” 
 
 “IT gee much here, Lionel Lincoln, of which 
 
244 
 
 a father would have reason to be proud,” re- 
 turned the old man. ‘‘ It was the filial love 
 which you have displayed in this paper, which 
 has drawn these drops from my eyes ; for he 
 who has lived as I have done, beyond the age 
 of man, without knowing the love that the 
 
 parent feels for its offspring, or which the. 
 
 child bears to the author of its being, must 
 have outlived his natural sympathies, not to 
 be conscious of his misfortune, when chance 
 makes him sensible of affections like these.” 
 
 ‘“You have never been a father, then?” 
 said Lionel, drawing a chair nigh to his aged 
 companion, and seating himself with an air of 
 powerful interest, that he could not con- 
 trol. 
 
 “ Have I not told you that I am alone?” 
 returned the old man, with a solemn manner. 
 After an impressive pause, he continued, 
 though his tones were husky and low—‘‘I 
 have been both husband and parent, in my 
 day, but ’tis so long since, that no selfish tie 
 remains to bind me to earth. Old age is the 
 neighbor of death, and the chill of the grave 
 is to be found in its warmest breathings.” 
 
 «Say not so,” interrupted Lionel, “for you 
 do injustice to your own warm nature—you 
 forget your zeal in behalf of what you deem 
 these oppressed colonies.” 
 
 «?*Tig no more than the flickering of the 
 dying lamp, which flares and dazzles most 
 when its source of heat is nighest to extinction. 
 But though I may not infuse into your bosom 
 a warmth that I do not possess myself, I can 
 point out the dangers with which life abounds, 
 and serve as a beacon, when no longer useful 
 asa pilot. Itis for such a purpose, Major 
 Lincoln, that I have braved the tempest of 
 to-night.” 
 
 ‘‘Has anything occurred, which, by ren- 
 dering danger pressing, can make such an 
 exposure necessary ? ” 
 
 ‘©TLook at me,” said the old man, earnestly 
 —‘*T have seen most of this flourishing 
 country a wilderness ; my recollection goes 
 back into those periods when the savage, and 
 the beast of the forest, contended with our 
 fathers for much of that soil which now sup- 
 ports its hundreds of thousands in plenty ; 
 and my time is to be numbered, not by years, 
 but by ages. For such a being, think you 
 there can yet be many months, or weeks, or 
 even days, in store ?” 
 
 2 a 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Lionel dropped his eyes, in embarrassment, 
 
 to the floor, as he answered— 
 
 “You cannot have very many years, surely, 
 to hope for; but with the activity and tem- 
 perance you possess, days and months confine 
 you, I trust, in limits much too small.” - 
 
 «What !” exclaimed the other, stretching 
 forth a colorless hand, in which even the 
 prominent veins partook in the appearance 
 
 of a general decay of nature ; ‘‘ with these 
 
 wasted limbs, these gray hairs, and this 
 sunken and sepulchral cheek, would you 
 talk to me of years! to me, who have not the 
 effrontery to petition for even minutes, were 
 they worth the prayer—so long already has 
 been my probation !” 
 
 “ Tt is certainly time to think of the change, 
 when it approaches so very near,” 
 
 ‘* Well, then, Lianel Lincoln, old, feeble, 
 and on the threshold of eternity as I stand, 
 yet am I not nearer to my grave than that 
 country, to which you have pledged your 
 blood, is to a mighty convulsion, which will 
 shake her institutions to their foundations.” 
 
 ‘‘T cannot admit the signs of the times to 
 be quite so portentous as your fears would 
 make them,” said Lionel, smiling a little 
 proudly. “Though the worst that is appre- 
 hended should arrive, England will feel the 
 shock but as the earth bears an eruption of 
 one of its volcanoes! But we talk in idle 
 figures, sir: know you anything to justify 
 the apprehension of immediate danger ?” 
 
 The face of the stranger lighted with a 
 sudden and startling gleam of intelligence, 
 and a sarcastic smile passed across his wan 
 features, as he answered slowly— 
 
 ‘“They only have cause to fear who will be 
 the losers by the change! A youth who casts 
 off the trammels of his guardians is not apt 
 to doubt his ability to govern himself. Eng- 
 land has held these colonies so long in lead- 
 
 ing-strings, that she forgets her offspring is 
 
 able to go alone.” 
 
 ‘«« Now, sir, you exceed even the wild pro- 
 jects of the most daring among those who call 
 themselves the ‘Sons of Liberty ’—as if lib- 
 erty existed in any place more favored or 
 more nurtured than under the blessed consti- 
 tution of England! ‘The utmost required is 
 what they term a redress of grievances, many 
 of which, I must think, exist only in imagi- 
 nation.” 
 
 ee 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 «Was a stone ever known to roll upward ? 
 Let there be but one drop of American blood 
 spilt in anger, and its stain will become 
 indelible.” 
 
 ‘‘Unhappily, the experiment has been 
 already tried ; and yet years have rolled by, 
 
 while England keeps her footing and author- 
 
 ity good.” 
 «‘Her authority !” repeated the old man ; 
 ‘see you not, Major Lincoln, in the forbear- 
 
 ance of this people, when they felt themselves 
 
 ea 
 
 " upper apartments. 
 
 in the wrong, the existence of the very prin- 
 ciples that will render them invincible and 
 unyielding when right? But we waste our 
 time—I came to conduct you to a place where, 
 with your own ears, and with your own eyes, 
 you may hear and see a little of that spirit 
 which pervades the land—You will follow ?” 
 
 “ Not surely in such a tempest !” 
 
 “This tempest is but a trifle to that which 
 is about to break upon you, unless you retrace 
 your steps ; but follow, I repeat ; if a man of 
 my years disregards the night, ought an Eng- 
 lish soldier to hesitate?” | 
 
 The pride of Lionel was touched ; and re- 
 membering an engagement he had previously 
 made with his aged friend to accompany him 
 to a scene like this, he made such changes in 
 
 his dress as would serve to conceal his profes- 
 
 sion, threw on a large cloak to -protect his 
 person, and was about to lead the way him- 
 self, when he was aroused by the voice of the 
 
 other. 
 
 “You mistake the route,” he said ; “this 
 is to be a secret, and I hope a profitable visit 
 —none must know of your presence ; and if 
 
 you area worthy son of your honorable father, 
 I need hardly add that my faith is pledged 
 
 for your discretion.” 
 
 “The pledge will be respected, sir,” said 
 
 Lionel, haughtily ; ‘‘but in order to see what 
 _ you wish, we are not to remain here?” 
 
 ‘< Follow, then, and be silent,” said the old 
 
 man, turning and opening the doors which 
 led into a little apartment lighted by one of 
 - those smaller windows, already mentioned in 
 _ describing the exterior of the building. The 
 passage was dark and narrow ; but, observing 
 _ the warnings of his companion, Lionel suc- 
 ceeded in descending, in safety, a flight of 
 steps which formed a private communication 
 _ between the offices of the dwelling and its | his person. 
 They paused an instant | for with these passing thoughts was blended 
 
 245 
 
 at the bottom of the stairs, where the youth 
 expressed his amazement that a stranger 
 should be so much more familiar with the 
 building than he who had for so many days 
 made it his home. 
 
 ‘‘Have I not often told you,” returned the 
 old man, with a severity in his voice which 
 was even apparent in its suppressed tones, 
 ‘¢that I have known Boston for near a hun. 
 dred years! How many edifices like this 
 does it contain, that I should not have noted 
 its erection! But follow in silence, and be 
 prudent.” 
 
 He now opened a door which conducted 
 them through one end of the building, into 
 the courtyard in which it was situated. As 
 they emerged into the open air, Lionel per- 
 ceived the figure of a man, crouching under 
 the walls, as if seeking a shelter from the 
 driving rain. The moment they appeared, 
 this person arose, and followed as they moved 
 toward the street. 
 
 «¢ Are we not watched ?” said Lionel, stop- 
 ping to face the unknown; “whom have we 
 skulking in our footsteps ?” 
 
 “?Tis the boy,” said the old man,—for 
 whom we must adopt the name of Ralph, 
 which it would appear was the usual term 
 used by Job when addressing his mother’s 
 guest—’tis the boy, and he can do us no 
 harm. God has granted to him a knowledge 
 between’ much of what is good, and that 
 which is evil, though the mind of the child 
 is, at times, sadly weakened by his bodily 
 ailings. His heart, however, is with his coun- 
 try, at a moment when she needs all hearts 
 to maintain her rights.” 
 
 The young British officer bowed his head 
 to meet the tempest, and smiled scornfully 
 within the folds of his cloak, which he drew 
 more closely around his form, as they met 
 the gale in the open streets of the town. 
 They had passed swiftly through many nar- 
 row and crooked ways, before another word 
 was uttered between the adventurers. Lionel 
 mused on the singular and indefinable inter- 
 est that he took in the movements of his 
 companion, which could draw him at a time 
 like this from the shelter of Mrs. Lechmere’s 
 roof, to wander he knew not whither, and on 
 an errand which might even be dangerous to 
 Still he followed, unhesitatingly ; 
 
246 
 
 the recollection of the many recent and in- 
 teresting communications he had held with 
 the old man during their long and close as- 
 sociation in the ship; nor was he wanting in 
 a natural interest for all that involved the 
 safety and happiness of the place of his birth. 
 He kept the form of his aged guide in his 
 eye, as the other moved before him, careless 
 of the tempest which beat on his withered 
 frame, and he heard the heavy footsteps of 
 Job in his rear, who had closed so near his 
 own person as to share, in some measure, in 
 the shelter of his ample cloak. But no other 
 living being seemed to have ventured abroad; 
 and eyen the few sentinels they passed, in- 
 stead of pacing in front of those doors which 
 it was their duty to guard, were concealed 
 behind the angles of walls, or sought shelter 
 under the projections of some favoring roof. 
 At moments the wind rushed into the narrow 
 avenues of the streets, along which it swept, 
 with a noise not unlike the hollow roaring of 
 the sea, and with a violence which was nearly 
 irresistible. At such times Lionel was com- 
 pelled to pause, and even frequently to recede 
 a little from his path, while his guide, sup- 
 ported by his high purpose, and but little 
 obstructed by his garments, seemed, to the 
 bewildered imagination of his follower, to 
 glide through the night with a facility that 
 was supernatural. At length the old man, 
 who had got some distance ahead of his fol- 
 lowers, suddenly paused, and allowed Lionel 
 to approach to his side. The latter observed 
 with surprise, that he had stopped before the 
 root and stump of a tree, which had once 
 grown on the borders of the street, and 
 which appeared to have been recently felled. 
 
 “‘Do you see this remnant of the elm bed 
 said Ralph, when the others had stopped also; 
 “their axes have succeeded in destroying the 
 mother-plant, but her scions are flourishing 
 throughout the continent !” 
 
 “JT do not comprehend you!” returned 
 Lionel ; “I see here nothing but the stump 
 of some tree; surely the ministers of the 
 king are not answerable that it stands no 
 longer?” 
 
 «<The ministers of the king are answerable 
 to their master, that it has ever become what 
 it is—but speak to the boy at your side; he 
 will tell you of its virtues.” 
 
 Lionel turned towards Job, and perceived 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 by the obscure light of the moon, to his sur- 
 prise, that the changeling stood with his head 
 bared to the storm, regarding the root with 
 an extraordinary degree of reverence. 
 
 ‘‘This is alla mystery to me!” he said; 
 ‘what do you know about this stump to 
 stand in awe of, boy?” 
 
 ‘Tis the root of ‘ Liberty-tree,’” said 
 Job, “and ’tis wicked to pass it without 
 making your manners! ” 
 
 ‘¢ And what has this tree done for liberty, 
 that it has merited so much respect? ” 
 
 ‘* What! why, did you ever see a tree afore 
 this that could write and give notices of 
 town-meetin’-da’s, or that could tell the 
 people what the king meant to do with the 
 tea and his stamps?” 
 
 “And could this marvellous tree work 
 such miracles?” 
 
 ‘To be sure it could, and it did too—you 
 let stingy Tommy think to get above the 
 people with any of his cunning over-night, 
 
 and you might come here next morning, and. 
 
 read a warning on the bark of this tree, that 
 would tell all about it, and how to put down 
 his deviltries, written out fair, ina hand as 
 good as Master Lovell himself could put on 
 
 paper, the best day of his grand scholar- 
 
 ship.” 
 
 “ And who put the paper there?” 
 
 ‘Who! ” exclaimed Job, a little positively ; 
 ‘‘why, Liberty came in the night, and pasted 
 it up herself. When Nab couldn’t get a 
 house to live in, Job used to sleep under the 
 tree, sometimes; and many a night has he 
 seen Liberty,- with his own eyes, come and 
 put up the paper.” 
 
 «And was it a woman?” 
 
 ‘“Do you think Liberty was such a fool as 
 to come every time 1n woman’s clothes, to be 
 followed by the rake-helly soldiers about the 
 
 streets?” said Job, with great contempt in — 
 
 his manner. “Sometimes she did, though, 
 and sometimes she didn’t; just as it happened. 
 And Job was in the tree when old Noll had 
 to give up his ungodly stamps; though he 
 didn’t do it till the ‘Sons of Liberty’ had 
 chucked his stamp shop in the dock, and 
 hung him and Lord Boot together, on the 
 branches of the old Elm!” 
 
 “Hung!” said Lionel, unconsciously draw- 
 ing back from the spot. ‘‘ Was it ever a 
 gallows?” 
 
 % 
 4 
 
 4 
 ea") 
 ilo 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 “Yes, for iffigies,” said Job, laughing; “ I 
 
 wish you could have been here to see how the 
 - old boot, with Satan sticking out on’t, whirled 
 about when they swung it off! They give 
 the old boy a big shoe to put his cloven 
 huff in! ” 
 
 Lionel, who was familiar with the peculiar 
 sound that his townsmen gave to the letter 
 u, now comprehended the allusion to the 
 Earl of Bute, and, beginning to understand 
 more clearly the nature of the transactions, 
 and the uses to which that memorable tree 
 had been applied, he expressed his desire to 
 proceed. 
 
 The old man had suffered Job to make his 
 own explanations, though. not without a 
 curious interest in the effect they would pro- 
 duce on Lionel; but the instant the request 
 was made to advance, he turned, and once 
 more led the way. ‘Their course was now 
 directed more toward the wharves; nor was 
 it long before their conductor turned into a 
 narrow court, and entered a house of rather 
 mean appearance, without even observing the 
 formality of announcing his visit by the ordi- 
 nary summons of rapping at its door. A 
 
 long, narrow, and dimly-lighted passage con- 
 ducted them to a spacious apartment far in 
 the court, which appeared to have been fitted 
 as a place for the reception of large assem- 
 blages of people. In this room were collect- 
 ed at least a hundred men, seemingly intent 
 on some object of more than usual interest, 
 by the gravity and seriousness of demeanor 
 apparent in every countenance. 
 
 As it was Sunday, the first impression of 
 Lionel, on entering the room, was that his 
 old friend, who often betrayed a keen sensi- 
 bility on subjects of religion, had brought 
 
 i. him there with a design to listen to some 
 
 favorite exhorter of his own peculiar tenets, 
 - and asa tacit reproach for a neglect of the 
 usual ordinances of that holy day, of which 
 
 the conscience of the young man suddenly 
 
 accused him, on finding himself unexpectedly 
 mingled in such a throng. Butafter he had 
 
 forced his person among a dense body of 
 
 men, who stood at the lower end of the 
 - apartment, and became a silent observer of 
 _ the scene, he was soon made to perceive his 
 error. The weather had induced all present 
 _ to appear in such garments as were best 
 
 adapted to protect them from its fury; and 
 
 247 
 
 their exteriors were rough, and perhaps a 
 little forbidding; but there was a composure 
 and decency in the air-common to the whole 
 assembly, which denoted that they were men 
 who possessed, in a high degree, the com- 
 manding quality of self-respect. A very few 
 minutes sufficed to teach Lionel that he was 
 in the midst of a meeting collected to discuss 
 questions-connected with the political move- 
 ments of the times, though he felt himself a 
 little at a loss to discover the precise results 
 it was intended to produce. ‘To every ques- 
 tion there were one or two speakers, men 
 who expressed their ideas in a familiar man- 
 ner, and with the peculiar tones and pro- 
 nunciation of the province, that left no room 
 to believe them to be orators of a higher 
 character than the mechanics and tradesmen 
 of the town. Most, if not all of them, wore 
 an air of deliberation and coldness that would 
 have rendered their sincerity in the cause 
 they had apparently espoused a little equivo- 
 cal, but for occasional expressions of coarse, 
 and sometimes biting, invective that they ex- 
 pended on the ministers of the crown, and 
 for the perfect and firm unanimity that was 
 manifested, as each expression of the com- 
 mon feeling was taken, after the manner of 
 deliberative bodies. Certain resolutions, in 
 which the most respectful remonstrances were 
 singularly blended with the boldest assertions 
 of constitutional principles, were read and 
 passed without a dissenting voice, though 
 with a calmness that indicated no very strong 
 excitement. Lionel was peculiarly struck 
 with the language of these written opinions, 
 which were expressed with a purity, and some- 
 times with an elegance of style, which plainly 
 showed that the acquaintance of the sober 
 artisan with the instrument through whose 
 periods he was blundering was quite recent, 
 and far from being very intimate. The eyes 
 of the young soldier wandered from face to 
 face, with a strong desire to detect the secret 
 movers of the scene he was witnessing ; nor 
 was he long without selecting one individual 
 as an object peculiarly deserving of his sus- 
 picions. It was a man apparently but just 
 entering into middle age, of an appearance, 
 both in person and in such parts of his dress 
 as escaped from beneath his overcoat, that de- 
 noted him to be of a class altogether superior 
 to the mass of the assembly. A deep but 
 
248 
 
 manly respect was evidently paid to this gen- 
 tleman by those who stood nearest to his per- 
 son ; and once or twice there were close and 
 earnest communications passing between him 
 
 and the more ostensible leaders of the meet- ; 
 
 ing, which roused the suspicions of Lionel in 
 the manner related. Notwithstanding the 
 secret dislike that the English officer suddenly 
 conceived against a man that he fancied was 
 thus abusing his powers, by urging others to 
 acts of insubordination, he could not conceal 
 from himself the favorable impression made 
 by the open, fearless, and engaging counte- 
 nance of the stranger. Lionel was so situated 
 as to be able to keep his person, which was 
 partly concealed by the taller forms that sur- 
 rounded him, in constant view ; nor was it 
 long before his earnest and curious gaze 
 caught the attention of the other. Glances 
 of marked meaning were exchanged between 
 them during the remainder of the evening, 
 until the cnairman announced that the ob- 
 jects of the convocation were accomplished, 
 and dissolved the meeting. 
 
 Lionel raised himself from his reclining at- 
 titude against the wall, and submitted to be 
 carried by the current of human bodies into 
 the dark passage, through which he had en- 
 tered the room. Here he lingered a moment, 
 with a view to recover his lost companion, 
 and with a secret wish to scan more narrowly 
 the proceedings of the man, whose air and 
 manner had so long chained his attention. 
 The crowd had sensibly diminished before he 
 was aware that. few remained beside himself, 
 nor would he then have discovered that he 
 was likely to become an object of suspicion 
 to those few, had not a voice at his elbow re- 
 called his recollection. 
 
 ** Does Major Lincoln meet his countrymen 
 to-night as one who sympathizes with their 
 wrongs, or as the favored and prosperous of- 
 ficer of the crown ?” asked the very man for 
 whose person he had so long been looking in 
 vain. 
 
 ‘‘Is sympathy with the oppressed incom- 
 patible with loyalty to my prince?” de- 
 manded Lionel. 
 
 ‘‘That it is not,” said the stranger, in a 
 friendly accent, ‘‘is apparent from the con- 
 duct of many gallant Englishmen among us, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘« Perhaps, sir, it would be indiscreet just 
 now to disavow that title, let my dispositions 
 be as they may,” returned Lionel, smiling a 
 little haughtily ; ‘‘ this may not be as secure 
 
 a spot in which to avow one’s sentiments, as © 
 
 the town common, or the palace of St. 
 James.” 
 
 ‘‘ Had the king been present to-night, Ma- 
 jor Lincoln, would he have heard a single sen- 
 tence opposed to that constitution, which has 
 declared him a member too sacred to be of- 
 fended ?” 
 
 ‘‘Whatever may have been the legality of 
 your sentiments, sir, they surely have not 
 been expressed in language altogether fit for 
 a royal ear.” 
 
 «“It may not have been adulation, or even 
 flattery, but it is truth—a quality no less sa- 
 cred than the rights of kings.” 
 
 ‘This is neither a place nor an occasion, 
 
 sir,” said the young soldier, quickly, ‘‘ to dis- — 
 
 cuss the rights of our common master; but 
 if, as from your manner and your language I 
 think not improbable, we should meet here- 
 after in a higher sphere, you will not find me 
 at a loss to vindicate his claims.” 
 
 The stranger smiled with meaning, and as 
 he bowed before he feil back and was lost in 
 the darkness of the passage, he replied— 
 
 “ Our fathers have often met in such soci- 
 
 ety, I believe; God forbid that their sons 
 
 should ever encounter in a less friendly man- 
 ner.” 
 Lionel, now finding himself alone, groped 
 his way into the street, where he perceived 
 Ralph and the changeling in waiting for his 
 appearance. Without demanding the cause 
 of the other’s delay, the old man proceeded 
 by the side of his companions, with the same 
 
 indifference to the tempest as before, toward 
 
 the residence of Mrs. Lechmere. 
 “You have now had some evidence of the 
 spirit that pervades this people,” said Ralph, 
 
 after a few moments of silence; “think you 
 
 still there is no danger that the voleano will 
 explode ?”’ 
 
 ‘Surely everything I have heard and seen 
 to-night confirms such an opinion,” re- 
 turned Lionel. “Men on the threshold of 
 rebellion seldom reason so closely, and with 
 such moderation. Why, tke very fuel for the 
 
 who espouse our cause—but we claim Major | combustion, the rabble themselves, discuss 
 
 Lincoln as a countryman.” 
 
 their constitutional principles, and keep 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 under the mantle of law, as though they 
 were a club of learned Templars.” 
 
 “Think you that the fire will burn less 
 steadily, because what you call the fuel has 
 been prepared by the seasoning of time?” 
 returned Ralph. “But this comes from 
 sending a youth into a foreign land for his 
 education! The boy rates his sober and 
 earnest countrymen on a level with the 
 peasants of Europe.” 
 
 So much Lionel was able to comprehend; 
 but notwithstanding the old man muttered 
 vehemently to himself for some time longer, 
 it was in a tone too indistinct for his ear to 
 understand his meaning. When they arrived 
 in a part of the town, with which Lionel was 
 familiar, his aged guide pointed out his way, 
 and took his leave, saying— 
 
 _ “Tsee that nothing but the last and dread- 
 
 ful argument of force, will convince you of 
 the purpose of the Americans to resist their 
 oppressors. God avert the evil hour! but 
 
 __ when it shall come, as come it must, you will 
 
 learn your error, young man, and, I trust, 
 will not disregard the natnral ties of country 
 and kindred.” 
 
 Lionel would have spoken in reply, but the 
 rapid steps of Ralph rendered his wishes 
 vain; for, before he had time for utterance, 
 
 _ his emaciated form was seen gliding, lke an 
 
 immaterial being, through the sheets of 
 driving rain, and was soon lost to the eye, as 
 it vanished in the dim shades of night, fol- 
 lowed by the more substantial frame of the 
 idiot. 
 
 — —————-= 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 «Sergeant, you shall. Thus are poor servitors 
 When others sleep upon their quiet beds, 
 Constrained to watch in darkness, rain and cold.” 
 
 —King Henry VI. 
 
 Two or three days of fine, balmy, spring 
 weather succeeded to the storm, during which 
 Lionel saw no more of his aged fellow-voy- 
 ager. Job, however, attached himself to the 
 British soldier with a confiding helplessness 
 that touched the heart of his young pro- 
 tector, who gathered from the circumstances 
 
 a just opinion of the nature of the abuses 
 that the unfortunate changeling was fre- 
 
 , quently compelled to endure from the brutal 
 
 249 
 
 soldiery. Meriton performed the functions 
 
 |\of master of the wardrobe to the lad, by 
 
 Lionel’s express commands, with evident dis- 
 gust, but with manifest advantage to the 
 external appearance, if with no very sensible 
 evidence of additional comfort to his charge. 
 During this short period, the slight impres- 
 sion made on Lionel by the scene related in 
 the preceding ‘chapter, faded before the 
 cheerful changes of the season, and the in- 
 creasing interest which he felt in the society 
 of his youthful kinswomen. Polwarth re- 
 lieved him from all cares of a domestic 
 nature, and the peculiar shade of sadness, 
 which at times had been so very perceptible 
 in his countenance, was changed to a look of 
 amore brightening and cheerful character. 
 Polwarth and Lionel had found an officer, 
 who had formerly served in the same regi- 
 ment with them in the British Islands, in 
 command of a company of grenadiers, which 
 formed part of the garrison of Boston. This 
 gentleman, an Irishman, of the name of 
 M’Fuse was qualified to do great honor to 
 the» culinary skill of the officer of light 
 infantry, by virtue of a keen natural gusto 
 for whatever possessed the inherent proper- 
 ties of a savory taste, though utterly destitute 
 of any of that remarkable scientific knowl- 
 edge which might be said to distinguish the 
 other in the art. He was, in consequence of 
 this double claim on the notice of Lionel, a 
 frequent guest at the nightly banquets pre- 
 pared by Polwarth. Accordingly, we find 
 him, on the evening of the third day in the 
 week, seated with his two friends, around a 
 board plentifully garnished by the care ot 
 that gentleman, on the preparations for 
 ‘which more than usual skill had’ been ex- 
 erted, if the repeated declarations of the dis- 
 ciple of Heliogabalus, to that effect, were en- 
 titled to any ordinary credit. 
 
 ‘In short, Major Lincoln,” said Polwarth, 
 in continuance of his favorite theme, while 
 seated before the table, ‘“‘a man may live 
 anywhere, provided he possesses food—in 
 England, or out of England, it matters not. 
 Raiment may.be necessary to appearance, 
 but food is the only indispensable that nature 
 has imposed on the animal world, and, in my 
 opinion, there is a sort of obligation on every 
 man to be satisfied, who has wherewithal to 
 appease the cravings of his appetite. —Cap- 
 
250 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tain M’Fuse, I will thank you to cut that | every day in Ireland, out of so simple a thing 
 
 sirloin with the grain.” 
 
 «« What matters it, Polly,” said the captain 
 of grenadiers, with a slight Irish accent, and 
 with the humor of his countrymen strongly 
 depicted in his fine, open, manly features, 
 ‘which way a bit of meat is divided, so there 
 be enough to allay the cravings of the appe- 
 tite, you will remember ?” « 
 
 ‘Tt is a collateral assistance to nature that 
 should never be neglected,” returned Pol- 
 warth, whose gravity and seriousness at his 
 banquets were not easily disturbed; ‘it 
 facilitates mastication and aids digestion, two 
 considerations of great importance to military 
 men, sir, who have frequently such little 
 time for the former, and no rest after their 
 meals to complete the latter.” 
 
 ‘< He reasons like an army contractor, who 
 wishes to make one ration do the work of two, 
 when transportation is high,” said M’Fuse, 
 winking to Lionel. “According to your 
 principles, then, Polly, a potato is your true 
 campaigner, for that is a cr’ature you may 
 cut any way without disturbing the grain, 
 provided the article be a little m’aly.” 
 
 ‘‘ Pardon me, Captain M’Fuse,” said Pol- 
 -warth, ‘“‘ a potato should be broken, and not 
 cut at all—there is no vegetable more used 
 and less understood than the potato.” 
 
 ‘‘ And is it you, Pater Polwarth, of Nes- 
 bitt’s light-infantry,” mterrupted the grena- 
 dier, laying down his knife and fork with an 
 air of infinite humor, “that will tell Dennis 
 M’Fuse how to carve a potato ? I will yield 
 to the right of an Englishman over the chiv- 
 alry of an ox, your sirloins, and your lady- 
 rumps, if you please, but in my own country, 
 one end of every farm is a bog, and the other 
 a potato-field—‘tis an Irishman’s patrimony 
 that you are making so free with, sir!” 
 
 << The possession of a thing, and the knowl- 
 edge how to use it, are two-very different 
 properties——” 
 
 ““Give me the property of possession, 
 then,” again interrupted the ardent grena- 
 dier, ‘‘ especially when a morsel of the green 
 island is in dispute ; and trust an old soldier 
 of the Royal Irish to carve his own enjoy- 
 ments. Now I’ll wager a month’s pay, and 
 that to me is as much as if the major should 
 say, Done fora thousand, that you can’t tell 
 how many dishes can be made, and are made 
 
 as a potato.” 
 
 «You roast and boil, and use them in 
 stuffing tame birds, sometimes, and——” 
 
 «* All old woman’s cookery!” interrupted 
 M’Fuse, with an affectation of great con- 
 tempt in his manner.—‘‘ Now, sir, we have 
 them with butter, and without butter—that 
 counts two; then we have the fruit p/’aled ; 
 and——” 
 
 ‘«‘Tmpaled,” said Lionel, laughing. “I 
 believe this nice controversy must be referred 
 to Job, who is amusing himself in the corner 
 there, I see, with the very subject of the dis- 
 pute transfixed on his fork in the latter con- 
 dition.” 
 
 ‘‘Or suppose, rather,” said M’Fuse, ‘‘as 
 it is a matter to exercise the judgment of 
 Solomon, we make a potato umpire of master 
 Seth Sage, yonder, who should have some of 
 the wisdom of the royal Jew, by the sagacity 
 of his countenance as well as of his name.” 
 
 ‘Don’t you call Seth r’yal,” said Job, sus- 
 pending his occupation on the vegetable. 
 ‘‘The king is r’yal and fla’nty, but neighbor 
 Sage lets Job come in and eat, like a Chris- 
 tian.” 
 
 ‘* That lad there is not altogether without 
 reason, Major Lincoln,” said Polwarth ; ‘on 
 the contrary, he discovers an instinctive 
 knowledge of good from evil, by favoring us 
 with his company at the hour of meals.” 
 
 ‘The poor fellow finds but little at home 
 to tempt him to remain there, I fear,” said 
 Lionel ; “and as he was one of the first ac- 
 quaintances I made on returning to my na- 
 tive land, I have desired Mr. Sage to admit 
 him at all proper hours ; and especially, Pol- 
 warth, at those times when he can have an 
 opportunity of doing homage to your skill.” 
 
 ‘‘Tam glad to see him,” said Polwarth ; 
 ‘¢for I love an uninstructed palate, as much 
 as I admire naiveté in a woman.—Be so good 
 as to favor me with a cut from the breast of | 
 that wild goose, M’Fuse—not quite so far 
 forward, if you please ; your migratory birds 
 are apt to be tough about the wing—but sim- 
 plicity in eating is, after all, the great secret 
 of life ; that and a sufficiency of food.” 
 
 «You may be right this time,” replied 
 the grenadier, laughing; ‘‘for this fellow 
 made one of the flankors of the flock, and did 
 double duty in wheeling, I believe, or I have 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 got him against the grain too! But, Polly, 
 you have not told us how you improve in 
 your light-infantry exercises of late.” 
 
 By this time Polwarth had made such prog- 
 ress in the essential part of his meal as to 
 have recovered in some measure his usual 
 tone of good-nature, and he answered with 
 less gravity— 
 
 «‘Tf Gage does not work a reformation in 
 our habits, he will fag us all to death. I 
 suppose you know, Leo, that all the flank 
 companies are relieved from the guards to 
 learn a new species of exercise. They call it 
 relieving us, but the only relief I find in the 
 matter, is when we lie down to fire—there is 
 a luxurious moment or two then, I must con- 
 fess!” : 
 
 «‘T have known the fact, any time these 
 ten days, by your moanings,” returned 
 Lionel ; “‘but what do you argue from this 
 particular exercise, Captain M’Fuse ? Does 
 Gage contemplate more than the customary 
 drills °* 
 
 «You question me now, sir, on a matter in 
 which I am uninstructed,” said the grena- 
 dier; ‘Iam a soldier, and obey my orders, 
 without pretending to inquire into their 
 objects or merits ; all I know is, that both 
 grenadiers and light-infantry are taken from 
 the guards; and that we travel over a good 
 deal of solid earth each day, in the way of 
 marching and counter-marching, to the man- 
 ifest discomfiture and reduction of Polly, 
 there, who loses flesh as fast as he gains 
 
 = sround.” 
 
 ‘Do you think so, Mac ?” cried the de- 
 lighted captain of light-infantry; “then I 
 have not all the detestable motion in vain. 
 They have given us little Harry Skip as a 
 drill officer, who, I believe, has the most 
 restless foot of any man in his Majesty’s ser- 
 vice. Do you join with me in opinion, mas- 
 
 ter Sage ? you seem to meditate on the sub- 
 ject as if it had some secret charm.” 
 
 The individual to whom Polwarth ad- 
 dressed this question, and who has been al- 
 ready named, wasstanding with a plate in his 
 hand, in an attitude that bespoke close atten- 
 tion, with a sudden and deep interest in the 
 discourse, though his eyes were bent on the 
 floor, and his face was averted as if, while 
 listening earnestly, he had a particular desire 
 to be unnoticed. He was the owner of the 
 
 201 
 
 house in which Lionel had taken his quarters. 
 His family had been some time before re- 
 moved into the country, under the pretence 
 of his inability to maintain them in a place 
 destitute of business and resources, like Bos- 
 ton; but he remained himself, for the dou- 
 ble purpose of protecting his property and 
 serving his guests. This man partook, in no 
 small degree, of the qualities, both of person 
 and mind, which distinguish a large class 
 among his countrymen. In the former, he 
 was rather over than under the middle stat- 
 ure; was thin, angular, and awkward, but 
 possessing an unusual proportion of sinew 
 and bone. His eyes were small, black, and 
 scintillating, and it was not easy to fancy that 
 the intelligence they manifested was unmin- 
 gled with a large proportion of shrewd cun- 
 ning. The rest of his countenance was mea- 
 gre, sallow, and rigidly demure. Thus called 
 upon, on a sudden, by Polwarth for an opin- 
 ion, Seth answered, with the cautious re- 
 serve with which he invariably delivered him- 
 self— 
 
 «The adjutant is an uneasy man; but 
 that, I suppose, is so much the better for a 
 light-infantry officer. Captain Polwarth must 
 find it considerable jading to keep the step, 
 now the general has ordered these new doings 
 with the soldier.” 
 
 «¢ And what may be your opinion of these 
 doings, as you call them, Mr. Sage?” asked 
 M’Fuse ; “‘ you, who are a man of observation, 
 should understand your countrymen ; will 
 they fight ?” 
 
 «A rat will fight if the cats pen him,” 
 said Seth, without raising his eyes from his 
 occupation. 
 
 “But do the Americans conceive them- 
 selves to be penned ?” 
 
 ‘«‘ Why, that is pretty much as people think, 
 captain; the country was in great touse about 
 the stamps and the tea, but I always said such 
 folks as didn’t give their notes-of-hand, and 
 had no great relish for anything more than 
 country food, wouldn’t find themselves 
 cramped by the laws, after all.” 
 
 «Then you see no great oppression in be- 
 ing asked to pay your bit of a tax, master 
 Sage,” cried the grenadier, “to maintain 
 such a worthy fellow as myself in a decent 
 equipage to fight your battles.” 
 
 ‘‘Why, as to that, captain, I suppose we 
 
2O2 
 
 can do pretty much the whole of our own 
 fighting, when occasion calls ; though I don’t 
 think there is much stomach for such doings 
 among the people, without need.” 
 
 “ But what do you think the ‘ Committee 
 of Safety,’ and your ‘Sons of Liberty,’ as they 
 call themselves, really mean, by their parades 
 of ‘minute-men,’ their gathering of provi- 
 sions, carrying off the cannon, and such other 
 formidable and appalling preparations—ha ! 
 honest Seth? do they think to frighten Brit- 
 
 ‘ish soldiers with the roll of a drum, or are 
 they amusing themselves, like boys in the 
 holidays, with playing war ?” 
 
 ‘‘T should conclude,” said Seth, with un- 
 disturbed gravity and caution, ‘‘that the 
 people are pretty much engaged, and in ear- 
 nest.” 
 
 “To do what?” demanded the Irishman; 
 ‘to forge their own chains, that we may 
 fetter them in truth?” 
 
 “Why, seeing that they have burnt the 
 stamps, and thrown the tea into the harbor,” 
 returned Seth, “and, since that, have taken 
 the management into their own hands, I 
 should rather conclude that they have pretty 
 much determined to do what they think best.” 
 
 ‘Lionel and Polwarth laughed aloud, and 
 the former observed— 
 
 ‘You appear not to come to conclusions 
 with our host, Captain M’Fuse, notwith- 
 standing so much is determined. Is it well 
 understood, Mr. Sage, that large reinforce- 
 ments are coming to the colonies, and to 
 Boston in particular?” 
 
 «Why, yes,” returned Seth; ‘‘it seems to 
 be pretty generally contemplated on.” 
 
 ‘¢ And what is the result of these contem- 
 plations ?” , 
 
 Seth paused a moment, as if uncertain 
 whether he was master of the other’s mean- 
 ing, before he replied— 
 
 “ Why, as the country is considerably en- 
 gaged in the business, there are some who 
 
 think, if the ministers don’t open the port, 
 that it will be done without much further 
 words by the people.” 
 
 ‘Do you know,” said Lionel, gravely, 
 “that such an attempt would lead directly to 
 a civil war?” 
 
 ‘‘T suppose it is safe to calculate that such 
 doings would bring on disturbances,” returned 
 his phlegmatic host. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘¢ And you speak of it, sir, as a thing not 
 to be deprecated, or averted by every possi- 
 ble means in the power of the nation!” 
 
 ‘Tf the port is opened, and the right to 
 tax given up,” said Seth, calmly, “‘ I can find 
 a man in Boston, who'll engage to let them 
 draw all the blood that will be spilt, from his 
 own veins, for nothing.” 
 
 « And who may that redoubtable individual 
 be, Master Sage?” cried M’Fuse; “* your 
 own plethoric person?—How now, Doyle, to 
 what am-I indebted for the honor of this 
 visit? ” 
 
 This sudden question was put by the cap- 
 tain of grenadiers to the orderly of his own 
 company, who at that instant filled the door 
 of the apartment with his huge frame, in the 
 attitude of military respect, as if about to ad- 
 dress his officer. 
 
 ‘Orders have come down, sir, to parade 
 the men at half an hour after tattoo, and to 
 
 ‘be in readiness for active service.” 
 
 The three gentlemen rose together from 
 their chairs at this intelligence, while M’Fuse 
 exclaimed—‘‘ A night march! Pooh! Weare 
 to be sent back to garrison-duty, I suppose; 
 the companies in the line grow sleepy, and 
 wish a relief—Gage might have taken a more 
 Suitable time, than to put gentlemen on their 
 march so soon after such a feast as this of 
 yours, Polly.” 
 
 «There is some deeper meaning to so ex- 
 traordinary an order,” interrupted Lionel; 
 “ there goes the tap of the tattoo, this instant! 
 Are no other troops but your company or- 
 dered to parade ?” 
 
 ‘‘™he whole battalion is under the same 
 
 orders, your honor, and so is the battalion of 
 light-infantry; I was commanded to report it 
 so to Captain Polwarth, if I saw him.” 
 
 «This bears some meaning, gentlemen,” 
 said Lionel, ‘‘ and it is necessary to be looked 
 to. If either corps leaves the town to-night, 
 I will march with it as a volunteer; for it is 
 my business, just now, to examine into the 
 state of the country.” 
 
 «That we shall march to-night, is sure, 
 your honor,” added the sergeant, with the 
 confidence of an old soldier; ‘‘ but how far, 
 or on what road, is known only to the officers 
 of the staff; though the men think we are to 
 go out by the colleges.” 
 
 « And what has put so learned an opinion 
 
nf 
 > 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 ROO 
 
 in their silly heads?” demanded his cap-|eat another meal, I am as ignorant as the 
 
 tain. . 
 <¢ One of the men who has been on leave, has 
 just got in, and reports that a squad of gen- 
 
 tlemen from the army dined near them, your }. 
 
 honor, and that as night set in they mounted 
 and began to patrol the roads in that direc- 
 tion. He was met and questioned by four 
 of them as he crossed the flats.” 
 
 «< All this confirms my conjectures,” cried 
 Lionel—‘‘ there is a man who might now 
 prove of important service—Job—where is 
 the simpleton, Meriton ?” 
 
 ‘*He was called out, sir, a minute since, 
 and has left the house.” 
 
 «Then send in Mr. Sage,” continued the 
 young man, musing as he spoke. A moment 
 after it was reported to him that Seth had 
 strangely disappeared also. 
 
 ‘¢ Curiosity has led him to the barracks,” 
 said Lionel, ‘“‘ where duty calls you, gentle- 
 men, I will despatch a little business, and 
 join you there in an hour; you cannot march 
 short of that time.” 
 
 The bustle of a general departure suc- 
 ceeded. Lionel threw his cloak into the 
 arms of Meriton, to whom he delivered his 
 orders, took his arms, and, making his apolo- 
 gies to his guests, he left the house with the 
 
 manner of one who saw a pressing necessity 
 
 to be prompt. M’Fuse proceeded to equip 
 himself with the deliberation of a soldier 
 who was too much practised to be easily dis- 
 concerted. Notwithstanding his great de- 
 liberation, the delay of Polwarth, however, 
 eventually vanquished the patience of the 
 grenadier, who exclaimed, on hearing the 
 
 other repeat, for the fourth time, an order 
 
 concerning the preservation of certain viands, 
 
 _ to which he appeared to cling in spirit, after 
  acarnal separation was directed by fortune. 
 
 «Poh! poh! man,” exclaimed the Irish- 
 
 man, “why will you bother yourself on the 
 eve of a march, with such epicurean propen- 
 
 sities! It’s the soldier who should show 
 
 your hermits and anchorites an example of 
 
 mortification ; besides, Polly, this affectation 
 
 _ of care and provision is the less excusable 
 in yourself,—you, who have been well aware 
 _ that we were to march on a secret expedition 
 this very night on which you seem so much 
 _ troubled.” 
 
 «I !” exclaimed Polwarth; ‘‘as 1 hope to 
 
 meanest corporal in the army of the whole 
 transaction—why do you ‘suspect other- 
 wise ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Trifles tell the old campaigner when and 
 where the blow is to be struck,” returned 
 M’F use, coolly drawing his military overcoat 
 tighter to his large frame ; ‘‘ have I not, with 
 my own eyes, seen you, within the hour, 
 provision a certain captain of light-infantry 
 after a very heavy fashion? Damn it, 
 man, do you think I have served these five- 
 and-twenty years, and do not know that 
 when a garrison begins to fill its granaries, it 
 expects a siege ?”’ 
 
 ‘‘T have paid no more than a suitable 
 compliment to the entertainment of Major 
 Lincoln,” returned Polwarth ; ‘‘ but so far 
 from having had any very extraordinary 
 appetite, I have not found myself in a 
 condition to do all the justice I could 
 wish to several of the dishes.—Mr. Meriton, 
 I will thank you to have the remainder of 
 that bird sent down to the barracks, where 
 my man will receive it; and, as it may 
 be a long march, and a hungry one, add 
 the tongue, and a fowl, and some of the 
 ragout ; we can warm it up at any farm- 
 house—we’ll take the piece of beef, Mac— 
 Leo has a particular taste for a cold cut ; 
 and you might put up the ham, also ; it will 
 keep better than anything else, if we should 
 be out long—and—and—I believe that will 
 do, Meriton.” 
 
 ‘‘T am as much rejoiced to hear it as I 
 should be to hear a proclamation of war read 
 at Charing-Cross,” cried M’Fuse—you should 
 have been a commissary, Polly—nature meant 
 you for an army sutler !” 
 
 «Laugh as you will, Mac,” returned the 
 good-humored Polwarth; ‘I shall hear 
 your thanks when we halt for breakfast ; 
 but I attend you now.” 
 
 As they left the house, he continued, ‘I 
 hope Gage means no more than to push us a 
 little in advance with a view to protect the 
 foragers and the supplies of the army— 
 such a situation would have very pretty 
 advantages ; for a system might be estab- 
 lished that would give the mess of the light 
 corps the choice of the whole market.” 
 
 «’Tis a mighty preparation about some 
 old iron gun, which would cost a man his 
 
R54 
 
 life to put a match to,” returned M’Fuse, 
 cavalierly ; ‘for my part, Captain Polwarth, 
 if we are to fight these colonists at all, I 
 would do the thing like a man, and allow the 
 lads to gather together a suitable arsenal, 
 that when we come to blows, it may be a 
 military affair—as it now stands, I should be 
 ashamed, as I am a soldier and an Irishman, 
 to bid my fellows pull a trigger, or make a 
 charge, on a set of peasants, whose firearms 
 look more like rusty water-pipes than mus- 
 kets, and who have half a dozen cannon 
 with touch-holes that a man may put his 
 head in, with muzzles just large enough to 
 throw marbles.” 
 
 ‘fT don’t know, Mac,” said Polwarth, 
 while they diligently pursued their way 
 toward the quarters of their men; ‘‘even 
 a marble may destroy a man’s appetite for 
 his dinner; and the countrymen possess a 
 great advantage over us in commanding the 
 supplies—the difference in equipments would 
 not more than balance the odds. 
 
 ‘¢T wish to disturb no gentleman’s opinion 
 on matters of military discretion, Captain 
 Polwarth,” said the grenadier, with an air of 
 high martial pride; ‘‘but I take it there 
 exists a material difference between a soldier 
 and a butcher, though killing be a business 
 common to both—lI repeat, sir, I hope that 
 this secret expedition is for a more worthy 
 object than to deprive those poor devils, with 
 whom we are about to fight, of the means of 
 making a good battle; and I add, sir, that 
 such is sound military doctrine, without re- 
 garding who may choose to controvert it.” 
 
 ‘Your sentiments are generous and manly, 
 Mac ; but, after all, there is both a physical 
 and moral obligation on every man to eat ; 
 and if starvation be the consequence of per- 
 mitting your enemies to bear arms, it becomes 
 a solemn duty to deprive them of their weap- 
 ons—no—no—lI will support Gage in such a 
 measure, at present, as highly military.” 
 
 ‘¢ And he is much obliged to you, sir, for 
 - your support,” returned the other—‘‘I ap- 
 prehend, Captain Polwarth, whenever the 
 Lieutenant-General Gage finds it necessary 
 to lean on any one for extraordinary assist- 
 ance, he will remember that there is a regi- 
 ment called the Royal Irish in the country, 
 and that he is not entirely ignorant of the 
 qualities of the people of his own nation.— 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 You have done well, Captain Polwarth, to 
 choose the light-infantry service—they are a 
 set of foragers, and can help themselves, but 
 the grenadiers, thank God, love to encounter 
 men, and not cattle, m the field.” 
 
 How long the good-nature of Polwarth 
 
 would have endured the increasing taunts of 
 
 the Irishman, who was exasperating himself, 
 gradually, by his own arguments, there is no 
 possibility of determining ; for their arrival 
 at the barracks put an end to the contro- 
 ersy and to the feelings it was beginning to 
 
 engender. 
 
 ooo 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ‘« Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl ! 
 To purify the air ; 
 Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, 
 On bracelets of thy hair.” —DAVENANT. 
 
 LIONEL might have blushed to acknowl- 
 edge the secret and inexplicable influence 
 which his unknown and mysterious friend, 
 Ralph, had obtained over his feelings, but 
 which induced him, on leaving his own quar- 
 ters thus hastily, to take his way into the 
 lower parts of the town, in quest of the resi- 
 dence of Abigail Pray. He had not visited 
 the sombre tenement of this woman since the 
 
 night of his arrival, but its proximity to the. 
 
 well-known town-hall, as well as the quaint 
 architecture of the building itself, had fre- 
 quently brought its exterior under his obser- 
 vation, in the course of his rambles through 
 the place of his nativity. A guide being, con- 
 sequently, unnecessary, he took the most di- 
 rect and frequented route to the Dock Square. 
 When Lionel issued into the street, he found 
 a deep darkness already enveloping the pen- 
 insula of Boston, as if nature had lent herself 
 to the secret designs of the British comman- 
 dant. The fine strain of a shrill fife was play- 
 ing among the naked hills of the place, ac- 
 companied by the occasional and measured 
 taps of the sullen drum ;-and, at moments, 
 the full, rich notes of the horns would rise 
 from the common, and, borne on the night- 
 air, sweep along the narrow streets, causing 
 the nerves of the excited young soldier to 
 thrill with a stern pleasure, as he stepped 
 proudly along. The practised ear, however, 
 
 |! detected no other sounds in the music than 
 
 the usual nightly signal of rest ; and when 
 
 oS. baa - Sls Ay 
 
the last melting strains of the horns seemed 
 to be lost in the clouds, a stillness fell upon 
 _ the town, like the deep and sluinvering quiet 
 of midnight. He paused a moment before 
 the gates of Province-House, and, after ex- 
 amining, with an attentive eye, the windows 
 of the building, he spoke to the grenadier, 
 who had stopped in his short walk, to note 
 the curious stranger. 
 
 «You should have company within, senti- 
 nel,” he said, “‘by the brilliant light from 
 those windows.” 
 
 The rattling of Lionel’s side-arms, as he 
 pointed with his hand in the direction of the 
 illuminated apartment, taught the soldier 
 that he was addressed by his superior, and 
 he answered respectfully— 
 
 ‘Tt does not become one such as I to pre- 
 tend to know much of what his betters do, 
 your honor; but I stood before the quarters 
 of General Wolfe the very night we went up 
 to the Plains of Abram; and I think an old 
 soldier can tell when a movement is at hand, 
 without asking his superiors any impertinent 
 questions.” 
 
 4 ‘«“T suppose, from your remark, the general 
 holds a council to-night ?” said Lionel. 
 
 “No one has gone in, sir, since I have been 
 posted,” returned the sentinel, “but the 
 : lieutenant-colonel of the 10th, that great 
 Northumbrian lord, and the old major of 
 _ marines; a great war-dog is that old man, 
 _ your honor, and it is not often he comes to 
 _ Province-House for nothing.” 
 
 «A good-night to you, my old comrade,” 
 said Lionel, walking away; ‘‘’tis probably 
 - gome consultation concerning the new exer- 
  cises that you practise.” 
 
 The grenadier shook his head, as if uncon- 
 cerned, and resumed his march with his cus- 
 _ tomary steadiness. A very few minutes now 
 brought Lionel before the low door of Abigail 
 _ Pray, where he again stopped, struck with 
 the contrast between the gloomy, dark, and 
 unguarded threshold over which he was about 
 to pass, and the gay portal he had just left. 
 _ Urged, however, by his feelings, the young 
 man paused but a moment before he tapped 
 lightly for admission. After repeating his 
 _ gummons, and hearing no reply, he lifted 
 the latch, and entered the building without 
 _ further ceremony. The large and vacant 
 apartment, in which he found himself, was 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 . 208 
 silent and dreary as the still streets he had 
 quitted. Groping his way toward the little 
 room in the tower, where he had met the 
 mother of Job, as before related, Lionel 
 found that apartment also tenantless and 
 dark. He was turning, in disappointment, 
 to quit the place, when a feeble ray fell from 
 the loft of the building, and settled on the 
 foot of a rude ladder which formed the means 
 of communication with its upper apartments. 
 Hesitating a single moment now to decide, he 
 then yielded to his anxiety, and ascended to 
 the floor above, with steps as light as extreme 
 caution could render them. Like the base- 
 ment, the building was subdivided here, into 
 a large, open ware-room, and a small, rudely- 
 finished apartment in each of its towers. 
 Following the rays from a candle, he stood 
 on the threshold of one of these little rooms, 
 in which he found the individual of whom he 
 was in quest. The old man was seated on the 
 only broken chair which the loft contained, 
 and before him, on the simple bundle of 
 straw which would seem, by the garments 
 thrown loosely over the pile, to be intended 
 as his place of rest, lay a large map, spread 
 for inspection, which his glazed and sunken 
 eyes appeared to be intently engaged in 
 marking. Lionel hesitated again, while he 
 regarded the white hairs which fell across the 
 temples of the stranger, as he bowed his head 
 in his employment, imparting a wild and 
 melancholy expression to his remarkable 
 countenance, and seeming to hallow their 
 possessor by the air of great age and attend- 
 ant care that they imparted. 
 
 “T have come to seek you,” the young man 
 at length said, “since you no longer deem me 
 worthy of your care.” 
 
 ‘«“You come too late,’ returned Ralph, 
 without betraying the least emotion at the 
 suddenness of the interruption, or even rais- 
 ing his eyes from the map he studied so in- 
 tently; “too late at least to avert calamity, 
 if not to learn wisdom from its lessons.” 
 
 “ You know, then, of the secret movements 
 of the night?” 
 
 “Old age, like mine, seldom sleeps,” re- 
 turned Ralph, looking for the first time at his 
 visitor ; ‘‘for the eternal night of death 
 promises a speedy repose. I, too, served an 
 apprenticeship in my youth to your trade of 
 blood.” 
 
256 
 
 “Your watchfulness and experience have 
 then detected the signs of preparation in the 
 garrison ? Have they also discovered the ob- 
 jects and probable consequences of the enter- 
 prise?” 
 
 “Both; Gage weakly thinks to crush the 
 germ of liberty, which has already quickened 
 in the land, by lopping its feeble branches, 
 when it is rooted in the hearts of the people. 
 He thinks that bold thoughts can be humbled 
 by the destruction of magazines.” 
 
 “Tt is then only a measure of precaution 
 that he is about to take ?” 
 
 The old man shook hig head mournfully as 
 he answered— 
 
 ‘<Tt will prove a measure of blood.” 
 
 «‘T intend to accompany the detachment 
 into the country,” said Lionel—‘‘it will 
 probably take post at some little distance in 
 the interior, and it will afford me a fitting 
 opportunity to make those inquiries which 
 you know are so near my heart, and in which 
 you have promised to assist—it is to consult 
 on the means, that I have now sought you.” 
 
 The countenance of the stranger seemed 
 to lose its character of melancholy reflection, 
 as Lionel spoke, and his eyes moved, vacant 
 and unmeaning, over the naked rafters above 
 him, passing in their wanderings across the 
 surface of the unheeded map again, until 
 they fell full upon the face of the astonished 
 youth, where they remained settled for more 
 than a minute, fixed in the glazed, riveted 
 look of death. The lips of Lionel had already 
 opened in anxious inquiry, when the expres- 
 sion of life shot again into the features of 
 Ralph, with the suddenness, and with an ap- 
 pearance of the physical reality with which 
 light flashes from the sun when emerging 
 from a cloud. 
 
 “You are ill!” Lionel exclaimed. 
 
 “Teave me,” said the old man, 
 me.” 
 
 ‘Surely not at such a moment, and alone.” 
 
 “Ibid you leave me—we shall meet, as 
 you desire, in the country.” 
 
 “You would then have me accompany the 
 troops and expect your coming?” 
 
 ‘* Both.” 
 
 “Pardon me,” said Lionel, dropping his 
 eyes in embarrassment, and speaking with 
 hesitation, “ but your present abode, and the 
 
 “ leave 
 
 appearance of your attire, is an evidence that | 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE ‘COOPER. 
 
 old age has come upon you when you are not 
 altogether prepared to meet its sufferings.” 
 
 ‘‘You would offer me money ?” 
 
 ‘‘By accepting it, I shall become the 
 obliged party.” 
 
 “When my wants exceed my means, young | 
 man, your offer shall be remembered. Go, — 
 now; there is no time for delay.” | 
 
 “But I would not leave you alone; the 
 woman, the termagant, is better than none!” 
 
 ‘She is absent.” 
 
 ‘“ And the boy—the changeling has the 
 feelings of humanity, and would aid you: in an 
 extremity.” 
 
 “ He is better employed than in propping 
 the steps of a useless old man.—Go, then, I 
 entreat—I command, sir, that you leave me.” 
 
 The firm, if not haughty manner, in which 
 the other repeated his desire, taught Lionel 
 that he had nothing more to expect at pres- 
 ent, and he obeyed reluctantly, by slowly 
 leaving the apartment ; and as soon as he 
 had descended the ladder, he began to retrace 
 his steps toward his own quarters. In cross- 
 ing the light drawbridge thrown over the 
 narrow dock, already mentioned, his contem- 
 plations were first disturbed by the sounds of - 
 voices, at no great distance, apparently con- 
 versing in tones that were not intended _to be 
 heard by every ear. It wasa moment when 
 each unusual incident was likely to induce | 
 inquiry, and Lionel stopped to examine two 
 men, who, at a little distance, held their 
 secret and suppressed communications. He 
 had, however, paused but an instant, when 
 the whisperers separated; one walking lei- 
 surely up the centre of the square, entering 
 under one of the arches of the market-place, 
 and the other coming directly across the 
 bridge on which he himself was standing. 
 
 “What, Job, do I find you here, whisper- 
 ing and plotting in the Dock Square?” ex- 
 claimed Lionel; “what secrets can you have, 
 that require the cover of night?” 
 
 ‘© Job lives there, in the old ware’us’,” said 
 the lad sullenly—‘‘ Nab has plenty of house- 
 room, now the ki won’t let the people bring 
 in their goods.” 
 
 “But whither are you cote into the 
 water ? surely the road to your bed cannot 
 be through the town-dock.” 
 
 ‘‘Nab wants fish to eat, as well as a ruff — 
 to keep off the rain,” said Job, dropping ~ 
 
 2 92 
 
_ the intercourse,” returned Lionel. 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 lightiy from the bridge into a small canoe, 
 which was fastened to one of its posts, “and 
 now the king has closed the harbor, the fish 
 have to come up in the dark ; for come they 
 will; Boston fish an’t to be shut out by acts 
 
 ‘of Parliament !” 
 
 “ Poor lad!” exclaimed Lionel, “return to 
 your home and your bed; here is money to 
 buy food for your mother, if she suffers—you 
 will draw a shot from some of the sentinels 
 by going about the harbor thus at night.” 
 
 “ Job can see a ship farther than a ship can 
 see Job,” returned the other; ‘‘and if they 
 should kill Job, they needn’t think to shoot 
 a Boston boy without some stir.” 
 
 Further dialogue was precluded; the canoe 
 gliding along the outer dock into the harbor, 
 with a stillness and swiftness that showed 
 the idiot was not ignorant of the business 
 which he had undertaken. Lionel resumed 
 his walk, and was passing the head of the 
 square, when he encountered, face to face, 
 under the light of a lamp, the man whose 
 figure he had seen but a minute before to 
 issue from beneath the town-hall. A mutual 
 desire to ascertain the identity of each other 
 drew them together. 
 
 ““We meet again, Major Lincoln!” said 
 the interesting stranger Lionel remembered 
 to have seen at the political meeting. “Our 
 interviews appear ordained to occur in secret 
 places.” 
 
 ‘* And Job Pray would seem to be the pre- 
 
 siding spirit,” returned the young soldier. 
 
 “ You parted from him but now ?” 
 “T trust, sir,” said the stranger gravely, 
 
 “that this is not a land, nor have we fallen 
 
 on times, when and where an honest man 
 dare not say that he has spoken to whom he 
 
 _ pleases.” 
 
 “Certainly, sir, it is not for me to prohibit 
 “You 
 
 _ spoke of our fathers; mine is well known to 
 _ you, it would seem, though to me you are a 
 
 ’ 
 4 
 
 _ Lionel was pursuing, and walked away with 
 
 stranger.” 
 
 ‘And may be so yet a little longer,” said 
 the other, ‘‘though I think the time is at 
 hand when men will be known in their true 
 characters; until then, Major Lincoln, I bid 
 you adieu.” 
 
 Without waiting for any reply, the stranger 
 took a different direction from that which 
 
 25% 
 
 the swiftness of one who was pressed with 
 urgent business. Lionel soon ascended into 
 the upper part of the town, with the inten- 
 tion of going into Tremont ‘Street, to com- 
 municate his design to accompany the expe- 
 dition. It was now apparent to the young 
 man, that a rumor of the contemplated 
 movement of the troops was spreading se- 
 cretly, but swiftly, among the people. He 
 passed several groups of earnest and excited 
 townsmen, conferring together at the corners 
 of the streets, from some of whom he over- 
 heard the startling intelligence that the neck, 
 the only approach to the place by land, was 
 closed by a line of sentinels; and that guard- 
 boats from the vessels of war were encircling 
 the peninsula in a manner to intercept the 
 communication with the adjacent country. 
 Still no indications of a military alarm could 
 be discovered, though, at times, a stifled 
 hum, like the notes of busy preparation, was 
 borne along by the damp breezes of the night, 
 and mingled with those sounds of a spring 
 evening, which increased as he approached 
 the skirts of the dwellings. In Tremont 
 Street Lionel found no appearance of that 
 excitement, which was spreading so rapidly 
 in the old and lower parts of the town. He 
 passed into his own room without meeting 
 any of the family, and having completed his 
 brief arrangements, he was descending to 
 inquire for his kinswomen, when the voice 
 of Mrs. Lechmere, proceeding from a small 
 apartment, appropriated to her own use, ar- 
 rested his steps. Anxious to take leave in 
 person, he approached the half-open door, 
 and would have asked permission to enter, 
 had not his eye rested on the person of 
 Abigail Pray, who was in earnest conference 
 with the mistress of the mansion. 
 
 “A man aged, and poor, say you?” ob- 
 served Mrs. Lechmere, at that instant. 
 
 ‘“ And one that seems to know all,” inter- 
 rupted Abigail, glancing her eyes about with 
 the expression of superstitious terror. 
 
 “ All!” echoed Mrs. Lechmere, her lip 
 trembling more with apprehension than age, 
 “and he arrived with Major Lincoln, say 
 you?” 
 
 “In the same ship; and it seems that 
 heaven has ordained that he shall dwell with 
 me 1p my poverty, as a punishment for my 
 great sins!” 
 
 XY 
 
258 
 
 “ But why do you tolerate his presence, if 
 it be irksome,” said Mrs. Lechmere; “ you 
 are at least the mistress of your own dwelling.” 
 
 “Tt has pleased God that my home shall 
 be the home of any who are so miserable as 
 to need one. He has the same right to live 
 in the warehouse that I have.” 
 
 “You have the rights of a woman, and of 
 first possession,” said Mrs. Lechmere, with 
 that unyiclding severity of manner, that 
 Lionel had often observed before; “1 would 
 turn him into the street, like a dog.” 
 
 “Into the street!” repeated Abigail, again 
 looking about her in secret terror ; ‘“speak 
 lower, Madam Lechmere, for the love of 
 heaven—I dare not even look at him—he re- 
 minds me of all I have ever known, and of 
 all the evil I have ever done, by his scorching 
 eye—and yet I cannot tell why—and then 
 Job worships him asa god, and if I should 
 offend him, he could easily worm from the 
 child all that you and I wish so much ee 
 
 ‘‘How !” exclaimed Mrs. Lechmere, in a 
 voice husky with horror, “have you been so 
 base as to make a confidant of that fool ?” 
 
 ‘That fool is the child of my bosom,” said 
 Abigail, raising her hands, as if imploring 
 pardon for the indiscretion.—“ Ah! Madam 
 Lechmere, you, who are rich, and great, and 
 happy, and have such a sweet and sensible 
 grandchild, cannot know how to love one 
 like Job ; but when the heart is loaded and 
 heavy, it throws its burden on any that will 
 bear it; and Job is my child, though he is 
 but little better than an idiot !” 
 
 It was by no trifling exertion of his breed- 
 ing that Lionel was enabled to profit by the 
 inability of Mrs. Lechmere to reply, and to 
 turn away from the spot, and cease to lis- 
 ten to a conversation that was not intended 
 for his ear. He reached the parlor, and 
 threw himself on one of its settees, before 
 he was conscious that he was no longer alone 
 or unobserved. 
 
 ‘What! Major Lincoln returned from 
 his revels thus early, and armed like a bandit, 
 to his teeth !” exclaimed the playful voice of 
 Cecil Dynevor, who, unheeded, was in posses- 
 sion of the opposite seat, when he entered 
 the room. 
 
 Lionel started, and rubbed his forehead, 
 
 like a man awaking from a dream, as he an- 
 
 swered— 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 «Yes, a bandit, or any other opprobrious 
 name you please ; I deserve them all.” 
 
 “Surely,” said Cecil, turning pale, “none 
 other dare use such language of Major Lin- 
 coln, and he does it unjustly !”’ 
 
 “What foolish nonsense have I uttered, 
 Miss Dynevor ?” cried Lionel, recovering his 
 recollection ; ‘‘I was lost in thought, and 
 heard your language without comprehending 
 its meaning.” 
 
 “Still you are armed; a sword is nota 
 usual instrument at your side, and now you 
 
 bear even pistols ! ” 
 
 “Yes,” returned the young soldier, laying 
 aside his dangerous implements ; “ yes, | am 
 
 about to march as a volunteer, with a party 
 
 that go into the country to-night, and I take 
 these because I would affect something very 
 warlike, though you well know how peace- 
 ably I am disposed.” 
 
 “ March into the country—and in the dead 
 of night!” said Cecil, catching her breath, 
 and turning pale—‘‘and does Lionel Lin- 
 coln volunteer on such a duty?” . 
 
 “T volunteer to perform no other duty 
 
 than to be a witness of whatever may occur— 
 you are not more ignorant yourself of the 
 nature of the expedition than I am at this 
 moment.” 
 
 «Then remain where you are,” said Cecil 
 firmly, ‘‘and enlist not in an enterprise that 
 may be unholy in its purposes and disgrace- 
 ful in its results.” 
 
 “Of the former I am innocent, whatever 
 they may be, nor will they be affected by my 
 presence or absence. There is little danger 
 of disgrace in accompanying the grenadiers 
 and light-infantry of this army, Miss Dyne- 
 vor, though it should be against treble their 
 numbers of chosen troops.” 
 
 «Then it would seem,” said Agnes Dan- 
 forth, speaking as she entered the room, 
 “that our friend Mercury, that feather of a 
 man, Captain Polwarth, is to be one of these 
 night depredators! heaven shield the hen- 
 roosts !” 
 
 “You have then heard the intelligence, 
 Agnes ?” | 
 
 “T have heard that men are arming, and 
 that boats are rowing round the town in all 
 directions, and that it is forbidden to enter 
 or quit Boston, as we were wont to do, Cecil, 
 
 at such hours and in such fashion as suited - 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 us plain Americans,” said Agnes, endeavoring 
 to conceal her deep vexation in affected 
 irony—‘‘ God only can tell in what all these 
 oppressive measures will end.” 
 
 “Jf you go only as a curious spectator of 
 the depredations of the troops,” continued 
 Cecil, ‘‘are you not wrong to lend them even 
 the sanction of your name? ” 
 
 “YT have yet to learn that there will be 
 depredations.” 
 
 “You forget, Cecil,” interrupted Agnes 
 Danforth, scornfully, “that Major Lincoln 
 did not arrive until after the renowned march 
 from Roxbury to Dorchester! Then the 
 troops gathered their laurels under the face 
 of the sun ; but it is easy to conceive how 
 much more glorious their achievements will 
 become when darkness shall conceal their 
 blushes !” 
 
 The blood rushed across the fine features 
 of Lionel, but he laughed as he arose to de- 
 part, saying— 
 ~ “You compel me to beat the retreat, my 
 spirited coz. If I have my usual fortune in 
 this forage, your larder, however, shall be the 
 better for it. I kiss my hand to you, for it 
 would be necessary te lay aside.the scarlet, to 
 dare to approach with a more peaceable of- 
 fering. But here I may make an approach 
 to something like amity.” 
 
 He took the hand of Cecil, who frankly 
 met his offer, and insensibly suffered herself 
 
 to be led to the door of the building while 
 
 he continued speaking. 
 
 “T would, Lincoln, that you were not to 
 go,” she said, when they stopped on the 
 threshold—“ it is not required of you as a 
 soldier ; and as a man your own feelings 
 should teach you to be tender of your coun- 
 trymen.” 
 
 “Jt is as a man that I go, Cecil,” he an- 
 swered ; ‘“‘I have motives that you cannot 
 suspect.” 
 
 “And is your absence to be long ?” 
 
 “If not for days, my object will be unac- 
 complished; ” but he added, pressing her hand 
 gently, ‘“‘you cannot doubt my willingness to 
 return when occasion may offer.” 
 
 “Go, then,” said Cecil, hastily, and per- 
 haps unconsciously extricating herself—‘“ go, 
 if you have secret reasons for your conduct ; 
 but remember that the acts of every officer 
 of your rank are keenly noted.” 
 
 209 
 
 ‘*Do you then distrust me, Cecil ?” 
 
 ““No—no—I distrust no one, Major Lin- 
 coln— go—go—and—and—we shall see you, 
 Lionel, the instant you return.” 
 
 He had not time to reply, for she glided 
 into the building so rapidly as to give the 
 young man an opportunity only to observe, 
 that, instead of rejoining her cousin, her 
 light form passed up the great stairs with the 
 swiftness and grace of a fairy. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 *‘ Hang out our banners on the outward walls ; 
 The cry is still, They come !’’—Macbeth. 
 
 LIONEL had walked from the dwelling of 
 Mrs. Lechmere to the foot of Beacon-Hill, 
 and had even toiled up some part of the steep 
 ascent, before he recollected why he was thus 
 wandering by himself at that unusual hour. 
 Hearing, however, no sounds that denoted an 
 immediate movement of the troops, he then 
 yielded, unconsciously, to the nature of his 
 sensations, which just at that moment ren- 
 dered his feelings jealous of communication 
 with others, and continued to ascend until he 
 gained the summit of the eminence. From 
 this elevated stand he paused to contemplate 
 the scene which lay in the obscurity of the 
 nig.it at his feet, while his thoughts returned 
 from the flattering anticipations in which he 
 had been indulging, to consider the more 
 pressing business of the hour. There arose 
 from the town itself a distant buzzing, like 
 the hum of suppressed agitation, and lights 
 were seen to glide along the streets, or flit 
 across the windows, in a manner which de- 
 noted that a knowledge of the expedition had 
 become general within its dwellings. Lionel 
 turned his head toward the common, and lis- 
 tened long and anxiously, but in vain, to de- 
 tect a single sound that could betray any un- 
 usual stir among the soldiery. Toward the 
 interior, the darkness of night had fallen 
 heavily, dimming the amphitheatre of hills 
 that encircled the place, and enshrouding the 
 vales and lowlands between them and the 
 water with an impenetrable veil of gloom. 
 There were moments, indeed, when he im- 
 agined he overheard some indications among 
 the people of the opposite shore, that they 
 
260 
 
 were apprised of the impending descent ; but 
 on listening more attentively, the utmost of 
 which his ear could assure him was the faint 
 lowing of cattle from the meadows, or the 
 plash of oars from a line of boats, which, by 
 stretching far along the shores, told both the 
 _nature and the extent of the watchfulness 
 that was deemed necessary for the occasion. 
 
 While Lionel stood thus, on the margin of 
 the little platform of earth, that had been 
 formed by levelling the apex of the natural 
 cone, musing on the probable results of the 
 measure his superiors had been resolving to 
 undertake, a dim light shed itself along the 
 grass, and glancing upward, danced upon the 
 beacon with strong and playful rays. 
 
 ‘«* Scoundrel ! ” exclaimed a man, springing 
 from his place of concealment at the foot of 
 the post, and encountering him face to face, 
 ‘<‘do you dare to fire the beacon ?” 
 
 ‘©T would answer, by asking how you dare 
 to apply so rude an epithet to me, did I not 
 see the cause of your error,” said Lionel. 
 ‘‘The light is from yonder moon, which is 
 just emerging from the ocean.” 
 
 «* Ah! I see myerror,” returned his rough 
 assailant.—‘‘ By heavens, I would have sworn 
 at first, ’twas the beacon.” 
 
 «You must then believe in the traditional 
 witchcraft of thiscountry ; for nothing short 
 of necromancy could have enabled me to light 
 those combustibles at this distance.” 
 
 ‘I don’t know; ’tis a strange people we 
 have got amongst—they stole the cannon 
 from the gun-house here, a short time since, 
 when I would have said the thing was impos- 
 sible. It was before your arrival, sir; for I 
 now believe I address myself to Major Lin- 
 coln, of the 47th.” 
 
 «¢ You are nearer the truth, this time, than 
 in your first conjecture as to my character,” 
 said Lionel ; ‘‘ but have I met one of the gen- 
 tlemen of our mess ?” 
 
 The stranger now explained that he was a 
 subaltern in a different regiment, but that he 
 well knew the person of the other. He added 
 that he had been ordered to watch on the hill 
 to prevent any of the inhabitants lighting the 
 beacon, or making any other signal which 
 might convey into the country a knowledge 
 of the contemplated inroad. 
 
 ‘‘'This matter wears a more serious aspect 
 than I had supposed,” returned Lionel, when 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the young man had ended his apologies and 
 explanation ; ‘‘ the commander-in-chief must 
 intend more than we are aware of, by employ- 
 ing officers in this manner, to do the duties 
 of privates.” 
 
 ‘‘We poor subs know but little, and care 
 less what he means,” cried the ensign ; 
 ‘though I will acknowledge, that I can 
 see no sufficient reason why British troops 
 should put on coats of darkness to march 
 against a parcel of guessing, canting country- 
 men, who would run at the sight of their 
 nniforms under a bright sun. Had I my 
 will, the tar above us, there, should blaze a 
 mile high, to bring down the heroes from 
 the Connecticut river; the dogs would cow 
 before two full companies of the grenadiers 
 —ha! listen, sir; there they go, now, the 
 pride of our army! I know them by their 
 heavy tread.” 
 
 Lionel did listen attentively, and plainly 
 distinguished the measured step of a body 
 of disciplined men, moving rapidly across 
 the common, as if marching toward the 
 water-side. Hastily bidding his companion 
 good-night, he threw himself over the brow 
 of the hill, and taking the direction of the 
 sounds, he arrived at the shore at the same 
 instant with the troops. ‘T’'wo dark masses 
 of human bodies were halted in order, and 
 as Lionel skirted the columns, his experi- 
 enced eye judged that the force collected 
 before him could be but little short of a 
 thousand men. A group of officers was 
 clustered on the beach, and he approached 
 it, rightly supposing that it was gathered 
 about the leader of the party. This officer 
 proved to be the lieutenant-colonel of the 
 10th, who was in close conversation with 
 the old major of marines, alluded to by 
 the sentinel who stood before the gates of 
 Province-House. ‘To the former of these the 
 young soldier addressed himself, demanding 
 leave to accompany the detachment as a 
 volunteer. After a few words of explanation, 
 his request was granted, though each for- 
 bore to touch in the slightest manner on the 
 secret objects of the expedition. 
 
 Lionel now found his groom, who had 
 followed the troops with his master’s horses, 
 and, after giving his orders to the man, he 
 proceeded in quest of his friend Polwarth, 
 whom he soon discovered, posted in all the © 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 stiffness of military exactness, at the head of 
 the leading platoon of the column of light- 
 infantry. As it was apparent, both from 
 the position they occupied, as well as by the 
 boats that had been collected at the point, 
 that the detachment was not to leave the 
 peninsula by its ordinary channel of com- 
 munication with the country, there remained 
 no alternative but to await patiently the order 
 to embark. ‘The delay was but short, and, 
 as the most perfect order was observed, the 
 
 troops were soon seated, and the boats pulled 
 _ heavily from the land, just as the rays of the 
 moon, which had been some time playing 
 among the hills, and gilding the spires of 
 the town, diffused themselves softly over the 
 bay, and lighted the busy scene, with an 
 effect not unlike the sudden rising of the 
 curtain at the opening of some interesting 
 drama. Polwarth had established himself by 
 the side of Lionel, much to the ease of his 
 limbs, and as they moved slowly into the 
 light, all those misgivings which had so 
 naturally accompanied his musings on the 
 difficulties of a partisan irruption, vanished 
 before the loveliness of the time, and possibly 
 before the quietude of the action. 
 
 ‘“There are moments when I could fancy 
 the life of a sailor,” he said, leaning in- 
 dolently back, and playing with one hand in 
 the water. ‘‘ This pulling about in boats is 
 easy work, and must be capital assistance 
 for a heavy digestion, inasmuch as it fur- 
 nishes air with as little violent exercise as 
 may be. Your marine should lead a merry 
 life of it!” : 
 
 ‘*«'They are said to murmur at the clashing 
 of their duties with those of the sea-officers,” 
 said Lionel; ‘‘and I have often heard them 
 complain of a want of room to make use of 
 their legs.” 
 
 *‘Humph!” ejaculated Polwarth; “the 
 Jeg is a part of a man for which I see less 
 actual necessity than for any other portion 
 of hisframe. I often think there has been 
 a sad mistake in the formation of the animal; 
 as, for instance, one can be a very good 
 _ waterman, as you see, without legs—a good 
 
 fiddler, a first-rate tailor, a lawyer, a doctor, 
 a parson, a very tolerable cook, and in short, 
 anything but a dancing-master. I see no 
 use in a leg unless it be to have the gout— 
 at any rate, a leg of twelve inches is as good 
 
 7 EAA 
 
 Pay" RS 
 
 ’ ray , 
 a 
 
 261 
 
 as one a mile long, and the saving might 
 be appropriated to the nobler parts of the 
 animal; such as the brain and the stomach.” 
 
 ‘‘ You forget the officer of light-infantry,” 
 said Lionel, laughing. 
 
 “You might give him a couple of inches 
 more ; though, as everything in this wicked 
 world is excellent only by comparison, it 
 would amount to the same thing, and on my 
 system a man would be just as fit for the 
 light-infantry without, as with legs; and he 
 would get rid of a good deal of troublesome 
 manceuvring, especially of this new exercise. 
 It would then become. a delightful service, 
 Leo ; for it may be said to monopolize all 
 the poetry of military life, as you may see. 
 Neither the imagination nor the body can 
 require more than we enjoy at this moment, 
 and of what use, I would ask, are our legs ? 
 if anything, they are incumbrances in this 
 boat. Here we have a soft moon, and softer 
 seats—smooth water, and a stimulating air 
 —on one side a fine country, which, though 
 but faintly seen, is known to be fertile and 
 rich to abundance; and on the other a 
 picturesque town, stored with the condiments 
 of every climate—even those rascally privates 
 look mellowed by the moon-beams, with their 
 scarlet coats and glittering arms! Did you 
 meet Miss Danforth in your visit to Tremont 
 Street, Major Lincoln ?” 
 
 “That pleasure was not denied me.” 
 
 “ Knew she of these martial proceedings ?” 
 
 “There was something exceedingly bellig- 
 erent in her humor.” 
 
 ‘“Spoke she of the light-infantry, or of 
 any who serve in the light corps ?” 
 
 ‘“Your name was certainly mentioned,” 
 returned Lionel, a little dryly—‘‘ she inti- 
 mated that the hen-roosts were in danger.” 
 
 “Ah! she is a girl of a million! her very 
 acids are sweet! the spices were not forgotten 
 when the dough of her composition was 
 mixed; would that she were here—five min- 
 utes of moonshine to a man in love is worth 
 a whole summer of a broiling sun—’twould 
 be a masterstroke to entice her into one of 
 our picturesque marches; your partisan is 
 the man to take everything by surprise— 
 women and fortifications! Where now are 
 your companies of the lines; your artillery 
 and dragoons; your engineers and staff ! 
 night-capped and snoring to a man, while we 
 
262 
 
 enjoy here the very desert of existence—I 
 wish I could hear a nightingale!” 
 
 “ You have a solitary whip-poor-will whis- 
 tling his notes, as if in lamentation at our 
 approach.” 
 
 “Too dolorous, and by far too monotonous; 
 ’tis like eating pig for a month. But why 
 are our fifes asleep ?” 
 
 ‘‘The precautions of a whole day should 
 hardly be defeated by the tell-tale notes of 
 our music,” said Lionel; ‘‘ your spirits get 
 the better of your discretion. I should think 
 the prospect of a fatiguing march would 
 have lowered your vein.” 
 
 ‘<A fico for fatigue !” exclaimed Polwarth 
 —‘we only go out to take a position at the 
 colleges to cover our supplies—we are for 
 school, Leo—only fancy the knapsacks of the 
 men to be satchels,—humor my folly,—and 
 you may believe yourself once more a 
 boy.” 
 
 The spirits of Polwarth had indeed under- 
 gone a sudden change, when he found the 
 sad anticipations which crossed his mind on 
 first hearing of a night inroad, so agreeably 
 disappointed by the comfortable situation he 
 occupied ; and he continued conversing in 
 the manner described, until the boats reached 
 an unfrequented point that projected a little 
 way into that part of the bay, which washed 
 the western side of the peninsula of Boston. 
 Here the troops landed, and were again 
 formed with all possible despatch. The 
 company of Polwarth was posted, as before, 
 at the head of the column of light-infantry; 
 and an officer of the staff riding a short dis- 
 tance in front, it was directed to follow his 
 movements. Lionel ordered his groom to 
 take the route of the troops with the horses, 
 and placing himself once more by the side of 
 the captain, they proceeded at the appointed 
 signal. 
 
 ‘‘Now for the shades of old Harvard!” 
 said Polwarth, pointing toward the humble 
 buildings. of the university; ‘you shall feast 
 this night on reason, while I will make a 
 more sub—ha! what can that blind quarter- 
 master mean by taking this direction! Does 
 he not see that the meadows are half covered 
 with water!” 
 
 “Move on, move on with the light-infan- 
 try,” cried the stern voice of the old major of 
 marines, who rode but a short distance in 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 their rear, “Do you falter at the sight of 
 water!” 
 
 ‘¢We are not wharf-rats,” said Polwarth. 
 
 Lionel seized him by the arm, and before 
 the disconcerted captain had time to recollect 
 himself, he was borne through a wide pool 
 of stagnant water, mid-leg deep. 
 
 “Do not let your romance cost your com- 
 mission,” said the major, as Polwarth floun- 
 dered out of his difficulties; ‘‘ here is an in- 
 cident at once for your private narrative of 
 the campaign.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ah! Leo,” said the captain, with a sort 
 of comical sorrow, ‘‘I fear we are not to 
 court the muses by this hallowed moon to- 
 night!” 
 
 “You can assure yourself of that, by ob- 
 serving that we leave the academical roofs 
 on our left—our leaders take the highway.” 
 
 They had by this time extricated them- 
 selves from the meadows, and were moving 
 on a road which led into the interior. 
 
 “You had better order up your groom, and 
 mount, Major Lincoln,” said Polwarth, sul- 
 lenly; “a man need husband his strength, I 
 see.” 
 
 ‘?’T would be folly now; I am wet, and 
 must walk for safety.” 
 
 With the departure of Polwarth’s spirits 
 the conversation began to flag, and the gen- 
 tlemen continued their march with only such 
 occasional communications as arose from the 
 passing incidents of their situation. It very 
 soon became apparent, both by the direction 
 given to the columns, as well as by the hur- 
 ried steps of their guide, that the march was 
 to be forced, as well as of some length. But 
 as the air was getting cool, even Polwarth 
 was not reluctant to warm his chilled blood 
 by more than ordinary exertion. ‘The col- 
 umns opened for the sake of ease, and each 
 man was permitted to consult his own con- 
 venience, provided he preserved his appointed 
 situation, and kept even pace with his com- 
 rades. In this manner the detachment ad- 
 vanced swiftly, a general silence pervading 
 the whole, as the spirits of the men settled 
 into that deep sobriety which denotes much 
 earnestness of purpose. At first, the whole 
 country appeared buried in a general sleep; 
 but as they. proceeded, the barking of the 
 dogs, and the tread of the soldiery, drew the 
 inhabitants of the farm-houses to their win- 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 dows, who gazed in mute wonder at the pass- 
 ing spectacle, across which the mellow light 
 of the moon cast a glow of brilliancy. Lionel 
 had turned his head from studying the sur- 
 prise depicted in the faces of the members of 
 one of these disturbed families, when the deep 
 tones of a distant church-bell came sweeping 
 down the valley in which they marched, ring- 
 ing peal on peal, in the quick, spirit-stirring 
 sounds of an alarm. The men raised their 
 heads in wonderful attention, as they ad- 
 vanced; but it was not long before the reports 
 of fire-arms were heard echoing among the 
 hills, and bell began to answer bell in every 
 direction, until the sounds blended with the 
 murmurs of the night air, or were lost in dis- 
 tance. The whole country was now filled 
 with every organ of sound that the means of 
 the people furnished, or their ingenuity could 
 devise, to call the population to arms. [Fires 
 blazed along the heights, the bellowing of the 
 conchs and horns mingled with the rattling 
 of the muskets and the varied tones of the 
 bells, while the swift clattering of horses’ 
 hoofs began to be heard, as if their riders 
 were dashing furiously along the flanks of the 
 party. 
 
 “Push on, gentlemen, push on,” shouted 
 the old veteran of marines, amid the dim. 
 “The Yankees have awoke, and are stirring 
 -—we have yet a long road to journey—push 
 on, light-infantry, the grenadiers are on your 
 heels! ” 
 
 The advance quickened their steps, and the 
 whole body pushed for their unknown object 
 with as much rapidity as the steadiness of 
 military array would admit. In this manner 
 the detachment continued to proceed for 
 some hours, without halting, and Lionel im- 
 agined that they had advanced several leagues 
 into the country. The sounds of the alarm 
 had now passed away, having swept far inland, 
 until the faintest evidence of its existence 
 was lost to the ear, though the noise of horse- 
 men, riding furiously along the by-ways, yet 
 denoted that men were still hurrying past 
 them, to the scene of the expected strife. 
 As the deceitful light of the moon was blend- 
 ing with the truer colors of the day, the wel- 
 come sound of “ Halt!” was passed from the 
 rear up to the head of the column of light- 
 infantry. 
 
 “Halt!” repeated Polwarth, with instinct- 
 
 263 
 
 ive readiness, and with a voice that sent the 
 order through the whole length of the ex- 
 tended line; “halt, and let the rear close. 
 If my judgment in walking be worth so much 
 as an anchovy, they are some miles behind us 
 by this time! A man needs to have crossed 
 his race with the blood of Flying Childers for 
 this sort of work! The next command should 
 be to break our fasts—Tom, you brought 
 the trifles I sent you from Major Lincoln’s 
 quarters ?” 
 
 ‘Yes, sir,” returned his man; “they are 
 on the major’s horses, in the rear, as——” 
 
 “The major’s horses in the rear, you ass, 
 when food is in such request in the front! I 
 wonder, Leo, if a mouthful couldn’t be picked 
 up in yon farm-house ?” 
 
 “ Pick yourself off that stone, and make the 
 men dress; here is Pitcairn closing to the 
 front with the whole battalion.” 
 
 Lionel had hardly spoken before an order 
 was passed to the light-infantry to look to 
 their arms, and for the grenadiers to prime 
 and load. ‘The presence of the veteran who 
 rode in front of the column, and the hurry of 
 the moment, suppressed the complaints of 
 Polwarth, who was in truth an excellent 
 officer, as it respected what he himself termed 
 ‘the “ quiescent details of service.” Three or 
 four companies of the light-corps were de- 
 tached from the main body, and formed in 
 the open marching order of their exercise, 
 when the old marine, placing himself at their 
 head, gave forth the order to advance again 
 at a quick step. The road now led into a 
 vale, and at some distance a small hamlet of 
 houses was dimly seen through the morning 
 haze, clustered around one of the humble, 
 but decent temples, so common in Massachu- 
 setts. The halt, and the brief preparations 
 that succeeded, had excited a powerful in- 
 terest in the whole of the detachment, who 
 pushed earnestly forward, keeping on the 
 heels of the charger of their veteran leader, 
 as he passed over the ground at a small trot. 
 The air partook of the scent of morning, and 
 the eye was enabled to dwell distinctly on 
 surrounding objects, quickening, aided by the 
 excitement of the action, the blood of the 
 men who had been toiling throughout the 
 night in uncertain obscurity along an un- 
 known, and, apparently, interminable road. 
 Their object now seemed before them and 
 
264 
 
 attainable, and they pressed, forward to 
 achieve it in animated but silent earnestness. 
 The plain architecture of the church and of 
 its humble companions had just become dis- 
 tinct, when three or four armed horsemen 
 were seen attempting to anticipate their 
 arrival, by crossing the head of the column 
 from a by-path. 
 
 “¢Come in,” cried an officer of the staff in 
 front, “come in, or quit the place.” 
 
 The men turned and rode briskly off, one 
 of their party flashing his piece in a vain 
 attempt to give the alarm. A low mandate 
 was now passed through the ranks to push 
 on, and in a few moments they entered on a 
 full view of the hamlet, the church, and the 
 little green on which it stood. The forms of 
 men were seen moving swiftly across the lat- 
 ter, as a roll of a drum broke from the spot ; 
 and there were glimpses of a small body of 
 countrymen, drawn up in the affectation of 
 military parade. 
 
 ‘Push on, light-infantry!” cried their 
 
 leader, spurring his horse, and advancing 
 with the staff at so brisk a trot, as to disap- 
 pear round an angle of the church. 
 
 Lionel pressed forward with a _ beating 
 heart, for a crowd of horrors rushed across 
 his imagination at the moment, when the 
 stern voice of the major of marines was again 
 heard shouting— 
 
 ‘‘Disperse, ye rebels, disperse !—throw 
 down your arms and disperse !” 
 
 These memorable words were instantly fol- 
 lowed by the reports of pistols, and the fatal 
 mandate of ‘‘Fire!” when a loud shout 
 arose from the whole body of the soldiery, 
 who rushed upon the open green, and threw 
 in a close discharge on all before them. 
 
 <*Great God!” exclaimed Lionel, “‘ what 
 is it ye do ? ye fire at unoffending men ! is 
 there no law but force ? beat up their pieces, 
 Polwarth—stop their fire.” 
 
 ‘¢ Halt!” cried Polwarth, brandishing his 
 sword fiercely among his men, ‘‘come to an 
 order, or I’ll fell ye to the earth.” 
 
 But the excitement which had been gath- 
 ering to a head for so many hours, and the 
 animosity which had so long been growing 
 between the troops and the people, were not 
 to be repressed at a word. It was only when 
 Pitcairn himself rode in among the soldiers, 
 and, aided by his officers, beat down their 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 arms, that the uproar was gradually quelled, 
 and something like order was again restored. 
 Before this was effected, however, a few 
 scattering shot were thrown back from their 
 flying adversaries, though without material 
 injury to the British. 
 
 When the firing had ceased, officers and 
 men stood gazing at each other for a few 
 moments, as if even they could forsee some 
 of the mighty events which were to follow 
 the deeds of that hour. The smoke slowly 
 arose, like a lifted veil, from the green, and, 
 mingling with the fogs of morning, drove 
 heavily across the country, as if to commun- 
 icate the fatal intelligence that the final 
 appeal to arms had been made. LEvery eye 
 was bent inquiringly on the fatal green, and 
 Lionel beheld, with a feeling allied to an- 
 guish, a few men at a distance, writhing and 
 struggling in their wounds, while some five 
 or six bodies lay stretched upon the grass in 
 the appalling quiet of death.. Sickening at 
 the sight, he turned, and walked away by 
 himself, while the remainder of the troops, 
 alarmed by the reports of the arms, were 
 eagerly pressing up from the rear to join 
 their comrades. Unwittingly he approached 
 ethe church, nor did he awake from the deep 
 abstraction into which he had fallen, until » 
 he was aroused by the extraordinary spectacle 
 of Job Pray, issuing from the edifice with an 
 air in which menace was singularly blended 
 with resentment and fear. The changeling 
 pointed earnestly to the body of a man, who, 
 having been wounded, had crept for refuge 
 near to the door of the temple, in which he 
 had so often worshipped that Being to whom 
 he had been thus hurriedly sent to render 
 his last and great account, and said solemnly— 
 
 «‘ You have killed one of God’s creatures ; 
 and he’ll remember it !” 
 
 <¢T would it were one only,” said Lionel ; 
 ‘but they are many, and none can tell where 
 the carnage is to cease.” 
 
 “Do you think,” said Job, looking fur- 
 tively around to assure himself that no other 
 overhead him, “that the King can kill men 
 in the Bay colony as he can in London ? 
 They’ll take this up in old Funnel and ’twill 
 ring again, from the North End to the 
 Neck.” 
 
 ‘‘ What can they do, boy, after all,” said 
 Lionel, forgetting at the moment that he 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 whom he addressed had been denied the rea- 
 son of his kind—‘“‘ the power of Britain is too 
 mighty for these scattered and unprepared 
 colonies to cope with, and prudence would 
 tell the people to desist from resistance while 
 yet they may.” 
 
 “Does the king believe there is more pru- 
 dence in London than there is in Boston ?” 
 returned the simpleton ; ‘‘ he needn’t think, 
 because the people were quiet at the massa- 
 cre, there’ll be no stir about this—you have 
 have killed one of God’s creatures,” added 
 the lad, ‘‘and he’ll remember it ! ” 
 
 «How came you here, sirrah ? ” demanded 
 Lionel, suddenly recollecting himself; ‘‘ did 
 you not tell me that you were going out to 
 fish for your mother ?” 
 
 «¢ And if I did,” returned the other, sul- 
 lenly, ‘‘an’t there fish in the ponds as well as 
 in the bay, and can’t Nab have a fresh taste ? 
 —Job don’t know there is any act of Parlia- 
 ment ag’n taking brook trout.” 
 
 «Fellow, you are attempting to deceive 
 me! Some one is practising on ‘your ignor- 
 ance, and, knowing you to be a fool, is em- 
 ploying you on errands that may one day cost 
 your life.” 
 
 «The king can’t send Job on-a’r’ands,” 
 said the lad, proudly ; “for there is no law 
 for it, and Job won’t go.” 
 
 «Your knowledge will undo you, simple- 
 ton—who should teach you these niceties of 
 the law ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Why, do you think the Boston people so 
 
 dumb as not to know the law ?” asked Job, | 
 
 with unfeigned astonishment—‘“‘and Ralph, 
 too—he knows as much law as the king—he 
 told me it was ag’in all law to shoot at the 
 minutemen unless they fired first, because the 
 colony has a right to train whenever it 
 pleases.” 
 
 “Ralph!” said Lionel, eagerly—‘ can 
 Ralph be with you, then ! ’tis impossible; I 
 left him ill, and at home—neither would he 
 mingle in such a business as this, at his 
 years.” 
 
 “I expect Ralph has seen bigger armies 
 than the light-infantry, and grannies, and all 
 the soldiers left in town put together,” said 
 Job, evasively. 
 
 Lionel was far too generous to practise on 
 on the simplicity of his companion, with a 
 view to extract any secret which might en- 
 
 265 
 
 danger his liberty, but he felt a deep concern 
 in the welfare of a young man who had been 
 thrown in his way in the manner already re- 
 lated. He therefore pursued the subject, 
 with the double design to advise Job against 
 any dangerous connections, and to relieve his 
 own anxiety on the subject of the aged 
 stranger. But to all his interrogatories the 
 lad answered guardedly, and with a discre- 
 tion which denoted that he possessed no 
 small share of cunning, though a higher or- 
 der of intellect had been denied him. 
 
 “‘T repeat to you,” said Lionel, losing his 
 patience, ‘‘that it is important for me to 
 meet the man you call Ralph in the country, 
 and I wish to know if he is to be seen near 
 here.” 
 
 ‘* Ralph scorns a lie,” returned Job—*‘ go 
 where he promised to meet you, and see if he 
 don’t come.” 
 
 “ But no place was named—and this un- 
 happy event may embarrass him, or frighten 
 him——” 
 
 ‘‘Frighten him!” repeated Job, shaking 
 his head with solemn earnestness ; “‘ you can’t 
 frighten Ralph !” 
 
 ‘‘His daring may prove his misfortune. 
 Boy, I ask you for the last time whether the 
 old man if 
 
 Perceiving Job to shrink back timidly, and 
 lower in his looks, Lionel paused, and cast- 
 ing a glance behind him, beheld the captain 
 of grenadiers standing with folded arms, 
 silently contemplating the body of the Amer- 
 ican. 
 
 «¢ Will you have the goodness to explain to 
 me, Major Lincoln,” said the captain, when 
 he perceived himself observed, ‘‘ why this 
 man lies here dead ?” 
 
 “You see the wound in his breast ?” 
 
 «It is a palpable and baistly truth, that he 
 has been shot—but why, or with what de- 
 sign ?” 
 
 «©T must leave that question to be answered 
 by our superiors, Captain M’Fuse,” returned 
 Lionel. “It is, however, rumored that the 
 expedition is out to seize certain magazines 
 of provisions and arms, which the colonists 
 have been collecting, it is feared, with hostile 
 intentions.” 
 
 «‘T had my own sagacious thoughts that we 
 were bent on some such glorious errand !” 
 said M’Fuse, with strong contempt expressed 
 
 3 
 
266 
 
 in his hard features. ‘“‘ Tell me, Major Lin- 
 coln—you are certainly but a young soldier, 
 though, being of the staff, you should know 
 —~—does Gage think we can have a war with 
 the arms and ammunition all on one side ? 
 We have had a long p’ace, Major Lincoln, 
 and now, when there is a small prospect of 
 some of the peculiarities of our profession 
 arising, we are commanded to do the very 
 thing which is most likely to def’ate the ob- 
 ject of war.” 
 
 “T do not know that I rightly understand 
 you, sir,” said Lionel; “there can be but 
 little glory gained by such troops as we pos- 
 sess, in a contest with the unarmed and un- 
 disciplined inhabitants of any country.” 
 
 «Exactly my maining, sir; it is quite 
 obvious that we understand each other thor- 
 oughly, without’ a world of circumlocution. 
 The lads are doing very well at present, and 
 if left to themselves a few months longer, it 
 may become a creditable affair. You know, 
 as well as I do, Major Lincoln, that time is 
 necessary to make a soldier, and if they are 
 hurried into the business, you might as well 
 be chasing a mob up Ludgate Hill, for the 
 honor you will gain. A discrate officer would 
 nurse this little matter, instead of resorting 
 to such precipitation. To my id’a’a’s, sir, 
 the man before us has been butchered, and 
 not slain in honorable battle!” 
 
 ‘‘ There is much reason to fear that others 
 may use the same term in speaking of the 
 affair,” returned Lionel; ‘‘ God knows how 
 much cause we may have to lament the death 
 of the poor man!” 
 
 ‘On that topic, the man may be said to 
 have gone through a business that was to be 
 done, and is not to be done over again,” said 
 the captain, very coolly, ‘‘and therefore his 
 death can be no very great calamity to him- 
 self, whatever it may be to us. If these 
 minute-men—and, as they stand but a min- 
 ute, they ’arn their name like worthy fellows 
 —if these minute-men, sir, stood in your way, 
 you should have whipped them from the 
 green with your ramrods.” 
 
 “ Here is one who may tell you that they are 
 not to be treated like children either,” said 
 Lionel, turning to the place which had been 
 so recently occupied by Job Pray, but which, 
 to his surprise, he now found vacant. While 
 he was yet looking around him, wondering 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 whither the lad could so suddenly have with- 
 drawn, the drums beat the signal to form, 
 and a general bustle among the soldiery 
 showed them to be on the eve of further 
 movements. ‘The two gentlemen instantly 
 rejoined their companions, walking thought- 
 fully towards the troops, though influenced 
 by such totally different views of the recent 
 transactions. 
 
 During the short halt of the advance, the 
 whole detachment was again united, and a 
 hasty meal had been taken. The astonish- 
 ment which succeeded the rencontre, had 
 given place, among the officers, to a military 
 pride, capable of sustaining them in much 
 more arduous circumstances. Even the ar- 
 dent looks of professional excitement were to 
 be seen in most of their countenances, as 
 with glittering arms, waving banners, and 
 timing their march to the enlivening music 
 of their band, they wheeled frem the fatal 
 spot, and advanced again, with proud and 
 measured steps, along the highway. If such 
 was the result of the first encounter on the 
 lofty and tempered spirits of the gentlemen 
 of the detachmentg its effect on the common 
 hirelings in the ranks was still more palpable 
 and revolting. Their coarse jests, and taunt- 
 ing looks, as they moved by the despised vic- 
 tims of their disciplined skill, together with 
 the fierce and boastful expression of brutal 
 triumph, which so many among them be- 
 trayed, exhibited the infallible evidence, that, 
 having tasted of blood, they were now ready, 
 like tigers, to feed on it tillthey were glutted. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ‘« There was mounting ’mong Greemes of the Nether- 
 by clan; 
 Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 
 they ran; 
 There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lea.’ 
 —Marmion. 
 
 THE pomp of military parade, with which 
 the troops marched from the village of Lex- 
 ington, as the little hamlet was called, where 
 the foregoing events occurred, soon settled 
 again into the sober and business-like air of 
 men earnestly bent on the achievement of 
 their object. It was no longer a secret that 
 they were to proceed two leagues further into 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 the interior, to destroy the stores already 
 mentioned, and which were now known to be 
 collected at Concord, the town where the 
 Congress of Provincial Delegates, who were 
 substituted by the colonists for the ancient 
 legislatures of the province, held their meet- 
 ings. As the march could not now be con- 
 cealed, it became necessary to resort to ex- 
 pedition, in order to insure its successful ter- 
 mination. The veteran officer of marines, so 
 often mentioned, resumed his post in front, 
 and at the head of the same companies of the 
 light corps, which he had before led, pushed 
 in advance of the heavier column of the 
 grenadiers. Polwarth, by this arrangement, 
 perceived himself again included among those 
 on whose swiftness of foot so much depended. 
 When Lionel rejoined his friend, he found 
 him at the head of his men, marching with 
 $0 grave an air as at once induced the major 
 to give him credit for regrets much more 
 commendable than such as were connected 
 with his physical distress. The files were 
 once more opened for room, as well as for 
 ‘air, which was becoming necessary, as a hot 
 sun began to dissipate the mists of the morn- 
 ing, and shed that enervating influence on 
 the men, so peculiar to the first warmth of 
 an American spring. 
 
 ‘«“This has been a hasty business alto- 
 gether, Major Lincoln,” said Polwarth, as 
 Lionel took his wonted station at the side of 
 the other, and dropped mechanically into the 
 regular step of the party—‘‘I know not that 
 it is quite as lawful to knock a man in the 
 head as a bullock.” 
 
 “ You then agree with me in thinking our 
 attack hasty, if not cruel ?” 
 
 «Hasty ! most unequivocally. Haste may 
 be called the distinctive property of the ex- 
 pedition ; and whatever destroys the appe- 
 tite of an honest man, may be set down as 
 cruel. I have not been able to swallow a 
 mouthful of breakfast, Leo. A man must 
 have the cravings of a hyena, and the stom- 
 ach of an ostrich, to eat and digest with such 
 work as this of ours before his eyes.” 7 
 
 «<And yet the men regard their acts with 
 triumph !” 
 
 *“The dogs are drilled into it. But you 
 saw how sober the Provincials looked in the 
 matter; we must endeavor to soothe their 
 feelings in the best manner we can.” 
 
 267 
 
 ‘«¢ Will they not despise our consolation and 
 apologies, and look rather to themselves for 
 redress and vengeance ? ” 
 
 Polwarth smiled contemptuously, and there 
 was an air of pride about him that gave an 
 
 | appearance of elasticity even to his heavy 
 
 tread, as he answered— 
 
 ‘«The thing isa bad thing, Major Lincoln, 
 and, if you will, a wicked thing—but take 
 the assurance of a man who knows the coun- 
 try well, there will be no attempts at ven- 
 geance ; and as for redress, in a military way, 
 the thing is impossible. 
 
 “‘T have dwelt two years, Major Lincoln, 
 in the very heart of the country,” said Pol- 
 warth, without turning his eyes from the 
 steady gaze he maintained on the long road 
 which lay before him, ‘‘even three hundred 
 miles beyond the inhabited districts; and I 
 should know the character of the nation, as 
 well as its resources. In respect to the latter, 
 there is no esculent thing within its borders, 
 from a humming-bird to a buffalo, or from 
 an artichoke to a watermelon, that I have 
 not, on some occasion or other, had tossed 
 up, in a certain way—therefore, I can speak 
 with confidence, and do not hesitate to say, 
 that the colonists will never fight; nor if 
 they had the disposition, do they possess the 
 means to maintain a war.” 
 
 ‘«¢ Perhaps, sir,” returned Lionel sharply, 
 ‘“vyou have consulted the animals of the 
 country too closely to be acquainted with its 
 spirits 2?” 
 
 ‘©The relation between them is intimate— 
 tell me what food a man diets on, and I will 
 furnish you with his character. ’Tis morally 
 impossible that a people who eat their pud- 
 ding before the meats, after the fashion of 
 these colonists, can ever make good soldiers, 
 because the appetite is appeased before the 
 introduction of the succulent nutriment of 
 the flesh, into * 
 
 «‘ Knough ! spare me the remainder,” in- 
 terrupted Lionel—‘‘ too much has been said 
 already to prove the inferiority of the Ameri- 
 can to the European animal, and your rea- 
 soning is conclusive.” 
 
 ‘Parliament must do something for the 
 families of the sufferers.” 
 
 ‘¢ Parliament !”’ echoed Lionel, with bitter 
 emphasis; ‘‘ yes, we shall be called on to 
 pass resolutions to commend the decision of 
 
268 
 
 the general, and the courage of the troops; 
 and then, after we have added every possible 
 insult to the injury, under the conviction 
 our imaginary supremacy, we may hear of 
 some paltry sum to the widows and orphans 
 cited as an evidence of the unbounded gen- 
 erosity of the nation!” 
 
 ‘‘The feeding of six or seven broods of 
 young Yankees is no such trifle, Major Lin- 
 coln,” returned Polwarth; ‘‘and there I 
 trust the unhappy affair will end. We are 
 now marching on Concord, a place with a 
 most auspicious name, where we shall find 
 repose under its shadow, as well as the food 
 of this home-made parliament, which they 
 have gotten together. These considerations 
 alone support me under the fatigue of this 
 direful trot with which old Pitcairn goes over 
 the ground—does the man think he is hunt- 
 ing with a pack of beagles at his heels ?” 
 
 The opinion expressed by his companion, 
 concerning the martial propensities of the 
 Americans, was one too common among the 
 troops to excite any surprise in Lionel ; but, 
 disgusted with the illiberality of the senti- 
 ment, and secretly offended at the supercil- 
 ious manner with which the other expressed 
 these injurious opinions of his countrymen, 
 he continued his route in silence, while .Pol- 
 warth speedily lost his loquacious propensity 
 in a sense of the fatigue that assailed every 
 muscle and joint in his body.. 
 
 That severe training of the corps, concern- 
 ing which the captain vented such frequent 
 complaints, now stood the advance in 
 good service. It was apparent that the 
 whole country was in a state of high alarm, 
 and small bodies of armed men were occa- 
 sionally seen on the heights that flanked 
 their route, though no attempts were made 
 to revenge the deaths of those who fell at 
 Lexington. The march of the troops was 
 accelerated rather with a belief that the 
 colonists might remove, or otherwise secret 
 the stores, than from any apprehension that 
 they would dare to oppose the progress of 
 the chosen troops of the army. The slight 
 resistance of the Americans in the rencontre 
 of that morning, was already a jest among 
 the soldiers, who sneeringly remarked that 
 the term of ‘‘ minute-men” was deservedly 
 applied to warriors who had proved them- 
 selves so dexterous at flight. In short, every 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 opprobrious and disrespectful epithet, that 
 contempt and ignorance could invent, were 
 freely lavished on the forbearing mildness of 
 the suffering colonists. In this temper the 
 troops reached a point whence the modest 
 spire and roofs of Concord became visible. 
 A small body of the colonists retired through 
 the place as the English advanced, and the 
 detachment entered the town without the 
 least resistance, and with the appearance of 
 conquerors. Lionel was not long in discov- 
 ering from such of the inhabitants as re- 
 mained, that, notwithstanding their approach 
 had been known for some time, the events 
 of that morning were yet a secret from the 
 people of thevillage. Detachments from the 
 light corps were immediately sent in various 
 directions ; some to search for the ammuni- 
 tion and provisions, and some to guard the 
 approaches to the place. One, in particular, 
 followed the retreating footsteps of the 
 Americans, and took post at a bridge, at 
 some little distance, which cut off the com- 
 munication with the country to the north- 
 ward. 
 
 In the meantime, the work of destruction 
 was commenced in the town chiefly under the 
 superintendence of the veteran officer of the 
 marines. The few male inhabitants who 
 remained in their dwellings, were of neces- 
 sity peaceable, though Lionel could read, in 
 their flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes, the 
 secret indignation of men, who, accustomed 
 to the protection of the law, now found 
 themselves subjected to the iusults and wan- 
 ton abuses of a military inroad. Every door 
 was flung open, and no place was held sacred 
 from the rude scrutiny of the licentious sol- 
 diery. ‘Taunts and execrations soon mingled 
 with the seeming moderation with which the 
 search had commenced, and loud exultation 
 was betrayed, even among the officers, as 
 the scanty provisions’ of the colonists were 
 gradually brought to light. It was not a 
 moment to respect private rights, and the 
 freedom and ribaldry of the men were on the 
 point of becoming something more serious, 
 when the report of fire-arms was heard sud- 
 denly to issue from the post held by the 
 light-infantry, at the bridge. A few scatter- 
 ing shot were succeeded by a volley, which 
 was answered by another, with the quickness 
 of lightning, and then the air became filled 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 with the incessant rattling of a sharp con- 
 flict. Every arm was suspended, and each 
 tongue became mute with astonishment, and 
 the men abandoned their occupations as 
 these unexpected sounds of war broke on 
 their ears. The chiefs of the party were seen 
 in consultation, and horsemen rode furiously 
 into the place, to communicate the nature of 
 this new conflict. The rank of Major Lin- 
 coln soon obtained for him a knowledge that 
 
 it was thought impolitic to communicate to 
 
 the whole detachment. Notwithstanding it 
 was apparent that they who brought the 
 intelligence were anxious to give it the most 
 favorable aspect, he soon discovered that the 
 same body of Americans, which had retired 
 at their approach, having attempted to re- 
 turn to their homes in the town, had been 
 fired on at the bridge, and in the skirmish 
 
 which succeeded, the troops had been com- 
 
 pelled to give way with loss. The effect of 
 this prompt and spirited conduct on the part 
 of the provincials produced a sudden altera- 
 tion, not only in the aspect, but also in the 
 proceedings of the troops. The detachments 
 were recalled, and the drums beat to arms, 
 and, for the first time, both officers and men 
 seemed to recollect that they had six leagues 
 to march through a country that hardly 
 contained a friend. Still few or no enemies 
 were visible, with the exception of those men 
 of Concord, who had already drawn blood 
 freely from the invaders of their domestic 
 sanctuaries. The dead, and all the common 
 wounded, were left were they had fallen, and 
 it was thought an unfavorable omen among 
 the observant of the detachment, that a 
 wounded young subaltern, of rank and 
 fortune, was also abandoned to the mercy 
 of the exasperated Americans. The pri- 
 yates caught the infection from their offi- 
 cers, and Lionel saw, that in place of the 
 high and insulting confidence, with which 
 the troops had wheeled into the streets of 
 Concord, that they left them, when the order 
 was given to march, with faces bent anx- 
 iously on the surrounding heights, and with 
 looks that bespoke a consciousness of the 
 dangers that were likely to beset the long 
 road which lay before them. 
 
 Their apprehensions were not groundless. 
 The troops had hardly commenced their 
 march before a volley was fired upon them 
 
 269 
 
 from the protection of a barn, and as they 
 advanced, volley succeeded volley, and mus- 
 ket answered musket from behind every cover 
 that offered to their assailants. At first these 
 desultory and feeble attacks were but little 
 regarded ; a brisk charge, and a smart fire of 
 a few moments never failed to disperse their 
 enemies, when the troops again proceeded for 
 a short distance unmolested. But the alarm 
 of the preceding night had gathered the peo- 
 ple over an immense extent of country 5 and, , 
 having waited for information, those nearest 
 to the scene of action were already pressing 
 forward to the assistance of their friends. 
 There was but little order, and no concert 
 among the Americans ; but each party, as it 
 arrived, pushed into the fray, hanging on the 
 skirts of their enemies, or making spirited, 
 though ineffectual efforts to stop their pro- 
 gress. While the men from the towns be- 
 hind them pressed upon their rear, the pop- 
 ulation in their front accumulated in bodies, 
 like a rolling ball of snow, and before half 
 the distance between Concord and Lexington 
 was accomplished, Lionel perceived that the 
 safety of their boasted power was in extreme 
 jeopardy. During the first hour of these at- 
 tacks, while they were yet distant, desultory 
 and feeble, the young soldier had marched by 
 the side of M‘Fuse, who shook his head dis- 
 dainfully whenever a shot whistled near him, 
 and did not fail to comment freely on the 
 folly of commencing a war thus prematurely, 
 which, if properly nursed, might, to use his 
 own words, “be in time brought to something 
 pretty and interesting.” 
 
 «¢ You perceive, Major Lincoln,” he added, 
 ‘‘that these provincials have got the first 
 elements of the art, for the rascals fire with 
 exceeding accuracy, when the distance is con- 
 sidered ; and six months or a year of close 
 drilling would make them good for something 
 in a regular charge. They have got a smart 
 crack to their p’aces, and a pretty whiz to 
 their lead already; if they could but learn to 
 deliver their fire in platoons, the lads might 
 make some impression on the light-infantry 
 even now; and in a year or two, sir, they 
 would not be unworthy of the favors of the 
 grenadiers.” 
 
 Lionel listened to this, and much other 
 similar discourse, with a vacant ear ; but as 
 
 the combat thickened, the blood of the young 
 
270 
 
 man began to course more swiftly through his 
 veins ; and at length, excited by the noise 
 and the danger which was pressing more 
 closely around them, he mounted, and, riding 
 to the commander of the detachment, ten- 
 dered his assistance as a volunteer aid, having 
 lost every other sensation in youthful blood, 
 and the pride of arms. He was immediately 
 charged with orders for the advance, and 
 driving his spurs*into his steed, he dashed 
 through the scattered line of fighting and 
 jaded troops, and galloped to its head. Here 
 he found several companies, diligently em- 
 ployed in clearing the way for their comrades, 
 as new foes appeared at every few rods that 
 they advanced. Even as Lionel approached, 
 a heavy sheet of fire flashed from a close barn- 
 yard, full in the faces of the leading files, 
 sending the swift engines of death into the 
 very centre of the party. 
 
 «‘ Wheel a company of the light-infantry, 
 Captain Polwarth,” cried the old major of 
 marines, who battled stoutly in the van, ‘‘and 
 drive the skulking scoundrels from their am- 
 bush.” 
 
 ‘Oh! by the sweets of ease, and the hopes 
 of a halt ! but here is another tribe of these 
 white savages !” responded the unfortunate 
 captain—‘‘ Look out, my brave men! blaze 
 away over the walls on your left—give no 
 quarter to the annoying rascals—get the first 
 shot—give them a foot of your steel.” 
 
 While venting such terrible denunciations 
 and commands, which were drawn from the 
 peaceable captain by the force of circum- 
 stances, Lionel beheld his friend disappear 
 amid the buildings of the farm-yard in a 
 cloud of smoke, followed by his troops. In 
 a few minutes afterwards, as the line toiled 
 its way up the hill on which this scene oc- 
 curred, Polwarth reappeared, issuing from 
 the fray with his face blackened and grimed 
 with powder, while a sheet of flame arose 
 from the spot, which soon laid the devoted 
 buildings of the unfortunate husbandman in 
 ruins. 
 
 “‘Ha! Major Lincoln,” he cried, as he 
 approached the other, ‘‘do you call these 
 light-infantry movements! to me they are 
 the torments of the damned !—Go, you who 
 have influence, and, what is better, a horse, 
 go to Smith, and tell him if he will calla 
 halt, I will engage, with my single company, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 to seat ourselves in any field he may select, 
 and keep these blood-suckers at bay for an 
 hour, while the detachment can rest and sat- 
 isfy their hunger—trusting that he will then 
 allow time for his defenders to perform the 
 same necessary operations. <A night-march, 
 no breakfast—a burning sun—mile after mile 
 —no halt, and nothing but fire—fire—tis 
 opposed to every principle in physics, and 
 even to the anatomy of man, to think he can 
 endure it!” 
 
 Lionel endeayored to encourage his friend 
 to new exertions, and, turning away from 
 their leader, spoke cheeringly, and with a 
 martial tone, to his troops. The men cheered 
 as they passed, and dashed forward to new 
 encounters : the Americans yielding sullenly, 
 but necessarily, to the constant charges of the 
 bayonet, to which the regulars resorted to 
 dislodge them. As the advance moved on 
 again, Lionel turned to contemplate the scene 
 in the rear. They had now been marching 
 and fighting for two hours, with little or no 
 cessation ; and it was but too evident that the 
 force of the assailants was increasing, both in 
 numbers and in daring, at each step they 
 took. On either side of the highway, along 
 the skirts of every wood or orchard, in the 
 open fields, and from every house, barn, or 
 cover in sight, the flash of fire-arms was to be 
 seen, while the shouts of the English grew, 
 at each instant, feebler and less inspiriting. 
 Heavy clouds of smoke rose above the valley, 
 into which he looked, and mingled with the 
 dust of the march, drawing an impenetrable 
 veil before the view; but as the wind, at 
 moments, shoved it aside, he caught glimpses 
 of the worried and faltering platoons of the 
 party, sometimes breasting and repulsing an 
 attack with spirit, and at others shrinking 
 from the contest, with an ill-concealed desire 
 to urge their retreat to the verge of an abso- 
 lute flight. Young as he was, Major Lincoln 
 knew enough of his profession to understand 
 that nothing but the want of concert, and of 
 a unity of command among the Americans, 
 saved the detachment from total destruction. 
 The attacks were growing extremely spirit- 
 ed, and not unfrequently close and bloody, 
 though the discipline of the troops enabled 
 them still to bear up against this desultory 
 and divided warfare, when Lionel heard, with 
 a pleasure he could not conceal, the loud 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 shouts that arose from the van, as the cheer- 
 ing intelligence was proclaimed through the 
 ranks, that the cloud of dust in their front 
 was raised by a chosen brigade of their com- 
 rades, which had come most timely to their 
 succor, with the heir of Northumberland at 
 its head. The Americans gave way as the two 
 detachments joined, and the artillery of the 
 succors opened upon their flying parties, giv- 
 ing a few minutes of stolen rest to those who 
 needed it so much. Polwarth threw himself 
 flat on the earth, as Lionel dismounted at his 
 side, and his example was followed by the 
 whole party, who lay panting, under the heat 
 and fatigue, like worried deer, that had suc- 
 ceeded in throwing the hounds from their 
 scent. 
 
 «Aslam a gentleman of simple habits, 
 and a man innocent of all this bloodshed, 
 Major Lincoln,” said the captain, “‘T pro- 
 nounce this march to be a most unjust draft 
 on the resources of human nature. I have 
 journeyed at least five leagues between this 
 spot and that place of discord that they 
 falsely call Concord, within two hours, amidst 
 dust, smoke, groans, and other infernal cries, 
 that would cause the best trained racer in 
 England to bolt ; and breathing an air, all 
 the time, that would boil an egg in twognin- 
 utes and a quarter, if fairly exposed to it.” 
 
 «You overrate the distance—’tis but two 
 leagues by the stones i 
 
 “Stones!” interrupted Polwarth—‘‘I 
 scorn their lies—I have a leg here that is a 
 better index for miles, feet, or even inches, 
 than was ever chiselled in stone.” 
 
 ‘<We must not contest this idle point,” re- 
 turned Lionel, ‘for I see the troops are about 
 to dine ; and we have need of every moment 
 to reach Boston before the night closes around 
 us.” 
 
 ‘Bat! Boston! night!” slowly repeated 
 Polwarth, raising himself on one arm, and 
 staring wildly about him. ‘Surely no man 
 among us is so mad as to talk of moving from 
 this spot short of a week—it would take half 
 that time to receive the internal refreshment 
 necessary to our systems, and the remainder 
 to restore us healthy appetites.” 
 
 ‘‘Such, however, are the orders of the 
 Earl Percy, from whom I learn that the whole 
 country is rising in our front.” 
 
 “ Ay, but they are fellows who slept peace- 
 
 271 
 
 fully in their beds the past night; and I dare 
 say that every dog among them ate his halt- 
 pound of pork, together with additions suit- 
 able for a breakfast, before he crossed his 
 threshold this morning. But with us the 
 case is different. It is incumbent on two 
 thousand British troops to move with delib- 
 eration, if it should be only for the credit of 
 his majesty’s arms. No, no—the gallant 
 Percy too highly respects his princely lineage 
 and name, to assume the appearance of flight 
 before a mob of base-born hinds !” 
 
 The intelligence of Lionel was nevertheless 
 true; for, after a short halt, allowing barely 
 time enough to the troops to eat a hasty 
 meal, the drums again beat the signal to 
 march, and Polwarth, as well as many hun- 
 dred others, was reluctantly compelled to 
 resume his feet, under the penalty of being 
 abandoned to the fury of the exasperated 
 Americans. While the troops were in a state 
 of rest, the field-pieces of the reinforcement 
 kept their foes at a distance ; but the instant 
 the guns were limbered, and the files had 
 once more opened for room, the attacks were 
 renewed from every quarter, with redoubled 
 fury. The excesses of the troops, who had 
 begun to vent their anger by plundering and 
 firing the dwellings that they passed, added 
 to the bitterness of the attacks; and the 
 march had not been renewed many minutes, 
 before a fiercer conflict raged along its skirts 
 than had been before witnessed on that day. 
 
 “Would to God that the great Northum- 
 brian would form us in order of battle, and 
 make a fair field with the Yankees,” groaned 
 Polwarth, as he toiled his way once more 
 with the advance—‘‘ half an hour would set- 
 tle the matter, and a man would then pos- 
 sess the gratification of seeing himself a vic- 
 tor, or at least of knowing that he was 
 comfortably and quietly dead.” 
 
 “ Few of us would ever arrive in the morn- 
 ing, if we left the Americans a night to 
 gather in; and a half of an hour would lose 
 us the advantages of the whole march,” re- 
 turned Lionel. ‘Cheer up, my old comrade, 
 and you will establish your reputation for 
 activity forever—here comes a party of the 
 provincials over the crest of the hill to keep 
 you in employment.” 
 
 Polwarth cast a look of despair at Lionel, 
 as he muttered in reply— 
 
2t2 
 
 “Employment! God knows that there 
 has not been a single muscle, sinew, or joint, 
 in my body ina state of wholesome rest for 
 four-and-twenty hours!” ‘Then turning to 
 his men, he cried, with tones so cheerful and 
 animated, that they seemed to proceed from 
 a final and closing exertion, as he led them 
 gallantly into the approaching fray—‘‘ Scat- 
 ter the dogs, my brave friends—away with 
 them like gnats, like mosquitoes, like leeches, 
 as they are—give it them—lead and steel by 
 handfuls “4 
 
 “*On—push on with the advance!” shouted 
 the old major of marines, who observed the 
 leading platoons to stagger. 
 
 The voice of Polwarth was once more 
 heard in the din, and their irregular assail- 
 ants sullenly yielded before the charge. 
 
 “OQn—on with the advance!” cried fifty 
 voices out of a cloud of smoke and dust that 
 was moving up the hill, on whose side this 
 encounter occurred. 
 
 In this manner the war continued to roll 
 slowly onward, following the weary and 
 heavy footsteps of the soldiery, who had now 
 toiled for many miles, surrounded by the din 
 of battle, and leaving in their path the bloody 
 impressions of their footsteps. Lionel was 
 enabled to trace their route, far towards the 
 north, by the bright red spots, which lay 
 scattered in alarming numbers along the 
 highway, and in the fields, through which 
 the troops occasionally moved. He even 
 found time, in the intervals of rest, to note 
 the difference in the characters of the com- 
 batants. Whenever the ground or the cir- 
 cumstances admitted of a regular attack, the 
 dying confidence of the troops would seem 
 restored; and they moved up to the charge 
 with the bold carriage which high discipline 
 inspires, rending the air with shouts, while 
 their enemies melted before their power in 
 sullen silence, never ceasing to use their 
 weapons, however, with an expertness that 
 rendered them doubly dangerous. ‘The di- 
 rection of the columns frequently brought the 
 troops over ground that had been sharply 
 contested in front, and the victims of these 
 short struggles.came under the eyes of the 
 detachment. It was necessary to turn a deaf 
 ear to the cries and prayers of many wounded 
 soldiers, who, with horror and abject fear 
 written on every feature of their counte- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 nances, were the helpless witnesses of the re- | 
 treating files of their comrades. On the other 
 hand, the American lay in his blood, regard- 
 ing the passing detachment with a stern and 
 indignant eye, that appeared to look far be- 
 yond his individual suffering. Over one 
 body, Lionel pulled the reins of his horse, 
 and he paused a moment to consider the | 
 spectacle. It was the lifeless form of a man, | 
 whose white Jocks, hollow cheeks, and ema-| 
 ciated frame, denoted that the bullet which 
 
 had stricken him to the earth had anticipated - 
 the irresistible decrees of time but a very few 
 days. He had fallen on his back, and his 
 glazed eye expressed, even in death, the hon- 
 
 est resentment he had felt while living: and 
 
 his palsied hand continued to grasp the fire- 
 
 lock, old and time-worn, like its owner, with 
 
 which he had taken the field in behalf of his 
 
 country. | 
 
 ‘Where can a contest end which calls 
 such champions to its aid!” exclaimed Lio- 
 nel, observing that the shadow of another 
 spectator fell across the wan features of the 
 dead—‘‘ who can tell where this torrent of 
 blood can be stayed, or how many are to be 
 its victims !” 
 
 Receiving no answer, he raised his eyes, 
 ang discovered that he had unwittingly put 
 this searching question to the very man whose 
 rashness had precipitated the war. It was the 
 major of marines, who sat looking at the sight, 
 for a minute, with an eye as vacant as the 
 one that seemed to throw back his wild gaze, 
 and then, rousing from his trance, he buried ~ 
 his rowels in the flanks of his horse, and dis- 
 appeared in the smoke that enveloped a body 
 of the grenadiers, waving his sword on high, 
 and shouting— 
 
 “On—push on with the advance !” 
 
 Major Lincoln slowly followed, musing on 
 the scene he had witnessed, when, to his sur- 
 prise, he encountered Polwarth, seated on a 
 rock by the roadside, looking with a listless 
 and dull eye at the retreating columns. 
 Checking his charger, he inquired of his 
 friend if he were hurt. 
 
 “Only melted,” returned the captain ; “I 
 have outdone the speed of man this day, — 
 Major Lincoln, and can do no more. If you 
 see any of my friends in dear England, 
 tell them that I met my fate ag a soldier — 
 should, stationary; though I am actually . 
 
 Tae be 
 
 * Sct 
 
 4 i Vo! we 
 a) eT 
 
 IP aie Ts 
 
Za, 
 
 Lionel thought himself a prisoner, as a man, armed with a long rifle, 
 glided from the wood and laid his hand on the rein of his bridle. 
 —Lionel Lincoln. 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 melting away in rivulets, like the snows of 
 April.” 
 
 «“ Good God! you will not remain here to 
 be slain by the provincials, by whom you see 
 we are completely enveloped?” 
 
 «“T am preparing a speech for the first 
 Yankee who may approach. If he bea true 
 man, he will melt into tears at my sufferings 
 this day—-if a savage, my heirs will be spared 
 the charges of my funeral.” 
 
 Lionel would have continued his remon- 
 strances, but a fierce encounter between a 
 flanking party of the troops and a body of 
 Americans, drove the former close upon him ; 
 and, leaping the wall, he rallied his comrades, 
 and turned the tide of battle in their favor. 
 He was drawn far from the spot by the vicis- 
 situdes of the combat, and there was a mo- 
 ment, while passing from one body of the 
 troops to another, that he found himself 
 unexpectedly alone, in a most dangerous 
 vicinity to a small wood. The hurried call 
 of ‘‘ Pick off that officer !” first aroused him 
 to his extreme danger, and he had mechani- 
 cally bowed himself on the neck of his 
 charger, in expectation of the fatal messen- 
 gers, when a voice was heard among the 
 Americans, crying, in tones that caused 
 every nerve in his body to thrill— 
 
 “Spare him ! for the love of that God you 
 worship, spare him !” 
 
 The overwhelming sensations of the mo- 
 
 ment prevented flight, and the young man 
 
 beheld Ralph, running with frantic gestures, 
 . along the skirts of the cover, beating up the 
 fire-arms of twenty Americans, and repeating 
 his cries in a voice that did not seem to belong 
 
 to a human being—then, in the confusion: 
 
 which whirled through his brain, Lionel 
 thought himself a prisoner, as a man, armed 
 with a long rifle, glided from the wood, and 
 laid his hand on the rein of his bridle, saying 
 earnestly — 
 
 «Tis a bloody day, and God will remember 
 it; but if Major Lincoln will ride straight 
 down the hill, the people won’t fire for fear 
 of hitting Job—and when Job fires, he’ll 
 
 shoot that granny who’s getting over the. 
 
 wall, and there’ll never be a stir about it in 
 Funnel-Hall.” 
 
 Lionel wheeled away quicker than thought, 
 and as his charger took long and desperate 
 leaps down the slight declivity, he heard the 
 
 203 
 
 shouts of the Americans behind him, the 
 crack of Job’s rifle, and the whizzing of the 
 bullet which the changeling sent, as he had 
 promised, in a direction to do him no harm. 
 On gaining a place of comparative safety, he 
 found Pitcairn in the act of abandoning his 
 bleeding horse, the close and bitter attacks of 
 the provincials rendering it no longer safe for 
 an officer to be seen riding on the flanks of 
 the detachment. Lionel, though he valued 
 his steed highly, had also received so many 
 intimations of the dangerous notice he had 
 attracted, that he was soon obliged to follow 
 this example ; and he saw, with deep regret, 
 the noble animal scouring across the fields 
 with a loose rein, snorting and snuffing the 
 tainted air. He now joined a party of the 
 combatants on foot, and continued to animate 
 them to new exertions during the remainder 
 of the tedious way. 
 
 From the moment the spires of Boston 
 met the view of the troops, the struggle be- 
 came intensely interesting. New vigor was 
 imparted to their weary frames by the cheer- 
 ing sight, and, assuming once more the air of 
 high martial training, they bore up against 
 the assaults of their enemies with renewed 
 spirit. On the other hand, the Americans 
 seemed aware that the moments of vengeance 
 were passing swiftly away, and boys, and 
 eray-headed men, the wounded and the 
 active, crowded around their invaders, as if 
 eager to obtain a parting blow. Even the 
 peaceful ministers of God were known to 
 take the field on that memorable occasion, 
 and, mingling with their parishioners, to 
 brave every danger in a cause which they be- 
 lieved in consonance with their holy calling. 
 The sun was sinking over the land, and the 
 situation of the detachment had become 
 nearly desperate, when Percy abandoned the 
 idea of reaching the Neck, across which he 
 had proudly marched that morning from 
 Boston, and strained every nerve to get the’ 
 remainder of his command within the penin- 
 sula of Charlestown. The crests and the 
 sides of the heights were alive with men, and 
 as the shades of evening closed about the 
 combatants, the bosoms of the Americans 
 beat high with hope, while they witnessed the 
 faltering steps and slackened fire of the 
 troops. But high discipline finally so far 
 prevailed as to snatch the English from the 
 
2714 
 
 very grasp of destruction, and enabled them 
 to gain the narrow entrance to the desired 
 shelter, just as night had come {apparently 
 to seal their doom. 
 
 Lionel stood leaning against a fence, as 
 this fine body of men, which a few hours be- 
 fore had thought themselves equal to a march 
 through the colonies, defiled slowly and 
 heavily by him, dragging their weary and 
 exhausted lintbs up the toilsome ascent of 
 Bunker-Hill. The haughty eyes of most of 
 the officers were bent to the earth in shame ; 
 and the common herd, even in that place of 
 sccurity, cast many an anxious glance behind 
 them, to assure themselves that the despised 
 inhabitants of the province were no longer 
 pressing on their footsteps. Platoon after 
 platoon passed, each man compelled to de- 
 pend on his own wearied limbs for support, 
 until Lionel at last saw a solitary horseman 
 slowly ascending among the crowd. To his 
 utter amazement and great joy, as this officer 
 approached, he beheld Polwarth, mounted 
 on his own steed, riding toward him, with a 
 face of the utmost complacency and compos- 
 ure. The dress of the captain was torn in 
 many places, and the housings of the saddle 
 were cut into ribbons, while here and there a 
 spot of clotted blood, on the sides of the 
 beast, served to announce the particular 
 notice the rider had received from the Ameri-* 
 cans. The truth was soon extorted from the 
 honest soldier. ‘The love of life had returned 
 with the sight of the abandoned charger. 
 He acknowledged it had cost him his watch 
 to have the beast caught; but, once estab- 
 lished in the saddle, no danger, nor any re- 
 monstrances, could induce him to relinquish 
 a seat which he found so consoling after all 
 the fatigue and motion of that evil day, in 
 which he had been compelled to share in the 
 calamities of those who fought on the side of 
 the crown, in the memorable battle of Lex- 
 ington. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ‘« Fluel.—Is it not lawful, an’ please your majesty, 
 To tell how many is killed ?”—King Henry V. 
 
 WHILE a strong party of the royal troops 
 took post on the height which commanded 
 the approach to their position, the remainder- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 penetrated deeper into the peninsula, or were 
 transported by the boats of the fleet to the 
 town of Boston. Lionel and Polwarth passed 
 the strait with the first division of the 
 wounded, the former haying no duty to de- 
 tain him any longer with the detachment, 
 and the latter stoutly maintaining that his 
 corporeal sufferings gave him an undoubted 
 claim to include his case among the casual- 
 ties of the day. Perhaps no officer in the 
 army of the king felt less chagrin at the re- 
 sult of this inroad than Major Lincoln ; for, 
 notwithstanding his attachment to his prince, 
 and adopted country, he was keenly sensitive 
 on the subject of the reputation of his real 
 countrymen ; a sentiment that is honorable 
 to our nature, and which never deserts any 
 that do not become disloyal to its purest and 
 noblest impulses. Even while he regretted 
 the price at which his comrades had been 
 taught to appreciate the characters of those 
 whose long and mild forbearance had been 
 misconstrued into pusillanimity, he rejoiced 
 that the eyes of the more aged would now be 
 opened to the truth, and that the mouths of 
 the young and thoughtless were to be for ever 
 closed in shame. Although the actual losses 
 of the two detachments were probably con- 
 cealed from motives of policy, it was early 
 acknowledged to amount to about one-sixth 
 of the whole number employed. 
 
 On the wharf Lionel and Polwarth sepa- 
 rated; the latter agreeing to repair speedily 
 to the private quarters of his friend, where 
 he promised himself a solace for the com- 
 pulsory abstinence and privations of his long 
 march, and the former taking his way toward — 
 Tremont Street, with a view to allay the un- 
 easiness which the secret and flattering whis- 
 perings of hope taught him to believe his fair 
 young kinswomen would feel in his behalf. 
 At every corner he encountered groups of 
 earnest townsmen, listening with greedy ears 
 to the particulars of the contest, a few walk- 
 ing away dejected at the spirit exhibited by 
 that country they had vilified to its oppress- 
 ors; but most of them regarding the passing 
 form of one whose disordered dress announced — 
 his participation in the affair, with glances of 
 stern satisfaction. As Lionel tapped at the 
 door of Mrs. Lechmere, he forgot his fatigue; 
 and when it opened, and he beheld Cecil 
 standing in the hall, with every lineament of 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 her fine countenance expressing the power of 
 her emotions, he no longer remembered those 
 trying dangers he had so lately escaped. 
 
 “ Lionel! ” exclaimed the young lady, clasp- 
 ing her hands with joy—‘ himself, and un- 
 hurt!” The blood rushed from her heart 
 across her face to her forehead, and burying 
 her shame in her hands, she burst into a 
 flood of tears, and fled his presence. | 
 
 Agnes Danforth received him with undis- 
 guised pleasure, nor would she indulge ina 
 single question to appease her burning curi- 
 osity, until thoroughly assured of his perfect 
 safety. ‘Then, indeed, she remarked, with a 
 smile of triumph seated on her arch feat- 
 ures— 
 
 “Your march has been well attended, 
 Major Lincoln; from the upper windows I 
 have seen some of the honors which the good 
 people of Massachusetts have paid to their 
 visitors.” 
 
 “Qn my soul, if it were not for the dread- 
 ful consequences which must follow, I rejoice, 
 as well as yourself, in the events of the day,” 
 said Lincoln; “for a people are never certain 
 of their rights until they are respected.” 
 
 “Yell me, then, all, cousin Lincoln, that I 
 may know how to boast of my parentage.” 
 
 The young man gave her a short, but dis- 
 tinct and impartial, account of all that had 
 occurred, to which his fair listener attended 
 with undisguised interest. 
 
 “‘ Now, then,” she exclaimed, as he ended, 
 “there is an end forever of those biting 
 taunts that have so long insulted our ears! 
 But you know,” she added, with a slight 
 blush, and a smile most comically arch, “I 
 had a double stake in the fortunes of the 
 day—my country and my true love!” 
 
 “Oh! be at ease; your worshipper has 
 returned, whole in body, and suffering in 
 mind only through your cruelty—he per- 
 formed the route with wonderful address, 
 and really showed himself a soldier in dan- 
 ger.” 
 
 “Nay, Major Lincoln,” returned Agnes, 
 still blushing, though she laughed; “you do 
 not mean to insinuate that Peter Polwarth 
 has walked forty miles between the rising 
 and setting of the sun?” 
 
 “Between two sunsets he has done the 
 deed, if you except a trifling promenade a 
 cheval, on my own steed, whom Jonathan 
 
 : 
 “" 
 =o 
 
 275 
 
 compelled me to abandon, and of whom he 
 took, and maintained the possession, too, in 
 spite of dangers of every kind.” 
 
 “* Really,” exclaimed the wilful girl, clasp- 
 ing her hands in affected astonishment, 
 though Lionel thought he could read inward 
 satisfaction at his intelligence—* the prodi- 
 gies of the man exceed belief! one wants the 
 faith of father Abraham to credit such mar- 
 vels! though, after the repulse of two thou- 
 sand British soldiers by a body of husband- 
 men, | am prepared for an exceeding use of 
 my credulity.” 
 
 “The moment is then auspicious for my 
 friend,” whispered Lionel, rising to follow 
 the flitting form of Cecil Dynevor, which 
 he saw gliding into the opposite room, as 
 Polwarth himself entered the apartment. 
 “Credulity is said to be the great weakness 
 of your sex, and I must leave you a moment 
 exposed to the failing, and that too, in the 
 dangerous company of the subject of our dis- 
 course.” 
 
 “Now would you give half your hopes of 
 promotion, and all your hopes of a war, Cap- 
 tain Polwarth, to know in what manner your 
 character has been treated in your absence !” 
 cried Agnes, blushing slightly. “I shall 
 not, however, satisfy the cravings of your 
 curiosity, but let it serve as a stimulant to 
 better deeds than have employed you since 
 we met last.”’ 
 
 “T trust Lincoln has done justice to my 
 service,” returned the good-humored captain, 
 “and that he has not neglected to mention 
 the manner in which I rescued his steed 
 from the rebels.” 
 
 “The what, sir?” interrupted Agnes, with 
 a frown—‘ How did you style the good people 
 of Massachusetts Bay ?” 
 
 “JT should have said the excited dwellers 
 in the land, I believe. Ah! Miss Agnes, I 
 have suffered this day as man never suffered 
 before ; and all on your behalf——” 
 
 “On my behalf! Your words require ex- 
 planation, Captain Polwarth.” 
 
 ‘<*Tis impossible,” returned the captain— 
 “there are feelings and actions connected 
 with the heart that will admit of no explana- 
 tion. All I know is, that I have suffered un- 
 utterably on your account to-day; and what 
 is unutterable, is in a great degree inexpli- 
 cable.” 
 
276 
 
 ‘“*T snall set this aown for what I under- 
 stand occurs regularly in a certain description 
 of téte-a-tétes—the expression of an unutter- 
 able thing! Surely, Major Lincoln had some 
 reason to believe he left me at the mercy of 
 my credulity! ” 
 
 “You slander your own character, fair 
 Agnes,” said Polwarth, endeavoring to look 
 piteously ; “you are neither merciful nor 
 credulous, or you would long since have be- 
 lieved my tale, and taken pity on my misery.” 
 
 “Ts not sympathy a sort—a kind—in short, 
 is not sympathy a dreadful symptom in a 
 certain disease?” asked Agnes, resting her 
 eyes on the floor, and affecting a girlish em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 ‘‘ Who can gainsay it !” cried the captain ; 
 “*tis the infallible way for a young lady to 
 discover the bent of her inclinations. Thou- 
 sands have lived in ignorance of their own 
 affections until their sympathies have been 
 awakened. But what means the question, 
 my fair tormentor? May I dare to flatter 
 myself that you at length feel for my pains!” 
 
 “‘T am sadly afraid ’tis but too true, Pol- 
 warth,” returned Agnes, shaking her head, 
 and continuing to look exceedingly grave. 
 
 Polwarth moved, with something like ani- 
 mation again, nigher to the amused girl; and 
 attempted to take her hand, as he said— 
 
 “You restore me to life with your sweet ac- 
 knowledgments—I have lived for six months 
 like a dog under your frowns, but one kind 
 word acts like a healing balm and restores 
 me to myself again!” 
 
 “Then my sympathy is evaporated!’’ re- 
 turned Agnes, “Throughout this long and 
 anxious day have I fancied myself older than 
 my good, staid, great-aunt; and whenever 
 certain thoughts have crossed my mind, I 
 have even imagined a thousand of the ailings 
 of age had encircled me—rheumatisms, gouts, 
 asthmas, and numberless other aches and 
 pains, exceedingly unbecoming to a young 
 lady of nineteen. But you have enlightened 
 me, and given vast relief to my apprehen- 
 sions, by explaining it to be no more than 
 sympathy. You see, Polwarth, what a wife 
 you will obtain, should I ever, in a weak mo- 
 ment, accept you; for I have already sus- 
 tained one half your burthens!” 
 
 ‘‘A man is not made to be in constant 
 motion, like the pendulum of that clock, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Miss Danforth, and yet feel no fatigue,” said 
 Polwarth, more vexed than he would permit 
 himself to betray; “yet I flatter myself there 
 is no officer in the light infantry—you under- 
 stand me to say the light infantry—who has 
 passed over more ground, within four-and- 
 twenty hours, than the man who hastens, 
 notwithstanding his exploits, to throw him- 
 self at your feet, even before he thinks of his 
 ordinary rest.” 
 
 ‘* Captain Polwarth,” said Agnes, ‘‘ rising, 
 “for the compliment, if compliment it be, I 
 thank you; but,” she added, losing her af- 
 feced gravity in a strong natural feeling that 
 shone in her dark eye, and illuminated the 
 whole of her fine countenance, as she laid her 
 hand impressively on her heart—‘‘ the man 
 who will supplant the feelings that nature 
 has impressed here must not come to my 
 feet, as you call it, from a field of battle, 
 where he has been contending with my kins- 
 men, and helping to enslave my country. You 
 will excuse me, sir, but as Major Lincoln is 
 at home here, permit me, for a few minutes, 
 to leave you to his hospitality.” 
 
 She withdrew as Lionel re-entered, passing 
 him on the threshold. 
 
 “T would rather be a leader in a stage- 
 coach, or a running footman, than in love! ” 
 cried Polwarth——“‘’tis a dog’s life, Leo, and 
 this girl treats me like a cart-horse! But 
 what an eye she has! I could have lighted 
 my segar by it—my heart is a heap of cinders. 
 Why, Leo, what aileth thee ? throughout the 
 whole of this damnable day, I have not before 
 seen thee bear such a troubled look!” 
 
 ‘* Let us withdraw to my private quarters,’’ 
 muttered the young man, whose aspect and 
 air expressed the marks of extreme disturb- 
 ance—‘‘’tis time to repair the disasters of 
 our march.” 
 
 ‘* All that has been already looked to,” 
 said Polwarth, rising and limping, with sun- 
 dry grimaces, in the best manner he was able, 
 in a vain effort to equal the rapid strides of 
 his companion. “ My first business on leay- 
 ing you was to borrow a conveyance of a 
 friend, in which I rode to your place ; and 
 my next was to write to little Jimmy Craig, 
 to offer an exchange of my company for his— 
 for from this hour henceforth I denounce all 
 light-infantry movements, and shall take the 
 first opportunity to get back again into the 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 dragoons ; as soon as I have effected which, 
 Major Lincoln, I propose to treat with you 
 for the purchase of that horse. After that 
 duty was performed—for, if self-preserva- 
 tion be commendable, it became a duty—I 
 made out a bill of fare for Meriton, in order 
 that nothing might be forgotten ; after 
 which, like yourself, Lionel, I hastened to 
 the feet of my mistress—ah ! Major Lincoln, 
 you are a happy man ; for you there is no re- 
 ception but smiles—and charms so a 
 
 “Talk not to me, sir, of smiles,” inter- 
 rupted Lionel, impatiently, “nor of the 
 charms of woman. They are all alike, ca- 
 pricious and unaccountable.” 
 
 “Bless me!” exclaimed Polwarth, staring 
 about him in wonder; “there is then favor 
 for none, in this place, who battle for the 
 king! There is a strange connection be- 
 tween Cupid and Mars, love and war; for 
 here did I, after fighting all day like a Sara- 
 cen, a Turk, Genghis Khan, or, in short, any- 
 thing but a good Christian, come with full 
 intent to make a serious offer of my hand, 
 commission, and of Polwarth Hall, to that 
 treasonable vixen, when she repulses me with 
 a frown and a sarcasm as biting as the salu- 
 tation of a hungry man. But what an eye 
 the girl has, and what a bloom, when she is 
 a little more seasoned than common! Then 
 you, too, Lionel, have been treated like a 
 dog!” 
 
 *< Like a fool, as I am,” said Lionel, pacing 
 haughtily over the ground at a rate that soon 
 threw his companion too far in the rear to 
 admit of further discourse until they reached 
 the place of their destination. Here, to the 
 no small surprise of both gentlemen, they 
 found a company collected that neither was 
 . prepared to meet. Ataside-table sat M’Fuse, 
 discussing, with singular relish, some of the 
 cold viands of the previous night’s repast, 
 and washing down his morsels with deep po- 
 tations of the best wine of his host. In one 
 corner of the room Seth Sage was posted, 
 with the appearance of a man in duress, his 
 
 2 
 
 hands being tied before him, from which de- 
 
 pended a long cord, that might, on emer- 
 gency, be made to serve the purpose of a 
 halter. Opposite to the prisoner, for such in 
 truth he was, stood Job, imitating the exam- 
 ple of the captain of grenadiers, who now 
 and then tossed some fragment of his meal 
 
 277 
 
 into the hat of the simpleton. Meriton and 
 several of the menials of the establishment 
 were in waiting. 
 
 “What have we here?” cried Lionel, re- 
 garding the scene with a curiouseye. ‘Of 
 what offence has Mr. Sage been guilty, that 
 he bears those bonds?” 
 
 ‘Of the small crimes of tr’ason and hom- 
 icide,” returned M’Fuse, ‘‘if shooting at a 
 man, with a hearty mind to kill him, can 
 make a murder.” 
 
 “It can’t,” said Seth, raising his eyes from 
 the floor, where he had hitherto kept them 
 in demure silence; “a man must kill with 
 wicked intent to commit murder pf 
 
 ‘‘Hear to the blackguard, detailing the 
 law as if he were my lord chief justice of the 
 King’s Bench!” interrupted the grenadier ; 
 “and what was your own wicked intention, ye 
 skulking vagabond, but to kill me? I’ll 
 have you tried and hung for the same act.” 
 
 ‘« It’s ag’in reason to believe that any jury 
 will convict one man for the. murder of an- 
 other that an’t dead,” said Seth—*“ there’s no 
 jury to be found in the Bay colony, to do 
 ib 
 
 ‘‘Bay colony, ye murdering thief and 
 rebel!” cried the captain; “Tl have ye 
 transported to Engiand ; ye shall be both 
 transported and hung. By the Lord, Ill 
 carry ye back to Ireland with me, and Pll 
 hang ye up in the Green Island itself, and 
 bury ye,in the heart of winter, in a bog——” 
 
 ‘<But what is the offence,” demanded Lio- 
 nel, ‘‘ that calls forth these severe threats ? ” 
 
 “The scoundrel has been out am 
 
 (a9 Out ! 39 
 
 “Ay, out! Damn it, sir, has not the 
 whole country been like so many bees in 
 search of a hive? Is your memory so short 
 that ye forget already, Major Lincoln, the 
 tramp the blackguards have given you over 
 hill and dale, through thick and thin?” 
 
 <* And was Mr. Sage, then, found among 
 our enemies to-day? ” 
 
 ‘‘Didn’t I see him pull trigger on my own 
 stature three times within as many min- 
 utes?” returned the angry captain; “and 
 didn’t he break the handle of my sword ? and 
 have not I a bit of lead he calls a buck-shot 
 in my shoulder as a present from the thief?” 
 
 “Tt’s ag’in all law to call a man a thief,” 
 said Job, ‘‘ unless you can prove it upon him; 
 
278 
 
 but it an’t ag’in law to go in and out of Bos- 
 ton as often as you choose.” 
 
 So you hear the rascals? They know 
 every angle of the law as well or better than 
 I do myself, who am the son of a Cork coun- 
 sellor. I dare to say you were among them 
 too, and that ye deserve the gallows as 
 well as your commendable companion 
 there.” 
 
 “ How is this?” said Lionel, turning quickly 
 away from Job, with a view to prevent a re- 
 ply that might endanger the safety of the 
 changeling; “did you not only mingle in 
 this rebellion, Mr. Sage, but also attempt the 
 life of a gentleman who may be said, almost, 
 to be an inmate of your own house ? ” 
 
 ‘“*T conclude,” returned Seth, “it’s best 
 not to talk too much, seeing that no one can 
 foretell what may happen.” 
 
 ‘‘ Hear to the cunning reprobate! He has 
 not the grace to acknowledge his own sins, 
 like an honest man,” interrupted M’F use; 
 “but I can save him that small trouble—I 
 got tired, you must know, Major Lincoln, of 
 being shot at lke noxious vermin, from 
 morning till night, without making some re- 
 turn to the compliments of those gentlemen 
 who are out on the hills; and I took advan- 
 tage of a turn, ye see, to double on a party 
 of the uncivilized demons. ‘This lad, here, 
 got three good pulls at me before we closed 
 and made an end of them with the steel, all 
 but this fellow, who, having a becoming look 
 for a gallows, I brought him in, as you see, 
 for an exchange, intending to hang him the 
 first favorable opportunity.” 
 
 “Tf this be true, we must give him into 
 the hands of the proper authorities,” said 
 Lionel, smiling at the confused account of 
 the angry captain—‘‘ for it remains to be seen 
 yet what course will be adopted with the 
 prisoners in this singular contest.” 
 
 **T should think nothing of the matter,” 
 returned M’F use, ‘‘if the reprobate had not 
 tr’ated me like a beast of the field, with his 
 buck-shot, and taking his aim each time, as 
 though I had been a mad dog. Ye villain, 
 do you call yourself aman, and aim at a fel- 
 low-creature as you would at a brute?” 
 
 “Why,” said Seth, sullenly, ‘‘when a man 
 has pretty much made up his mind to fight, 
 I conclude it’s best to take aim, in order to 
 save ammunition and time.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘* You acknowledge the charge, then ?” de- 
 manded Lionel. 
 
 ‘* As the major isa moderate man, and will 
 hear to reason, I will talk the matter over with 
 him rationally,” said Seth, disposing himself 
 to speak more to the purpose. “ You see, I 
 had a araalh call to Concaag early this morn- 
 ing 
 
 “Concord! ”exclaimed Lionel. 
 
 ““ Yes, Concurd,” returned Seth, laying 
 great stress on the first syllable, and speaking 
 with an air of extreme innocence—‘“‘it lies 
 here-away, say twenty or one-and-twenty 
 miles——” 
 
 ‘* Damn your Concords and your miles too,” 
 cried Polwarth; ‘‘is there a man in the army 
 who can forget the deceitful place? Goon 
 with your defence, without talking to us of 
 the distance, who have measured the road by 
 inches.” 
 
 “The captain is hasty and rash!” said the 
 deliberate prisoner—“ but being there, I went 
 out of the town with some company that I 
 happened in with; and after a time we con- 
 cluded to return—and so, as we came to a 
 bridge about a mile beyond the place, we re- 
 ceived considerable rough treatment from 
 some of the king’s troops, who were standing 
 there 
 
 “ What did they?” 
 
 “They fired at us, and killed two of our 
 company, besides other threatening doings. 
 There were some among us that took the 
 matter up in considerable earnest, and there 
 was a Sharp toss about it for a few minutes ; 
 though finally the law prevailed.” 
 
 “The law!” 
 
 “Certain—’tis ag’in all law, I believe the 
 major will own, to shoot peaceable men on 
 the public highway! ” 
 
 ‘< Proceed with your tale in yourown way.” 
 
 ‘That is pretty much the whole of it,” 
 said Seth, warily. “'The people rather took 
 that, and some other things that happened 
 at Lexington, to heart, and I alt hose the 
 major knows the rest.” 
 
 “ But what has all this to do with your at- 
 tempt to murder me, you hypocrite?” de- 
 manded M’Fuse—‘*‘ confess the whole, ye 
 thief, that I may hang you with an aisy con- 
 
 science.” 
 « Hnough,” said Lionel; ‘‘ the man has ae- 
 
 knowledged sufficient already to justify us in 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 transferring him to the custody of others—let 
 him be taken to the main guard, and deliv- 
 ered as a prisoner of this day.” 
 
 “TJ hope the major will look to the things,” 
 said Seth, who instantly prepared to depart, 
 but stopped on the threshold to speak—*I 
 shall hold him accountable for all.” 
 
 “Your property shall be protected, and I 
 hope your life may not be in jeopardy,” re- 
 turned Lionel, waving his hand for those 
 who guarded him to proceed. Seth turned, 
 and left his own dwelling with the same quiet 
 air which had distinguished him throughout 
 the day; though there were occasional flashes 
 
 *from his quick, dark eyes, that looked like 
 the glimmerings of a fading fire. Notwith- 
 standing the threatening denunciation he 
 had encountered, he left the house with a 
 perfect conviction, that if his case were to be 
 tried by those principles of justice which 
 every man in the colony so well understood, 
 it would be found that both he and his 
 fellows had kept thoroughly on the windy 
 side of the law. 
 
 During this singular and characteristic 
 discourse, Polwarth, with the solitary ex- 
 ception we have recorded, had employed his 
 time in forwarding the preparations for the 
 banquet. 
 
 As Seth and his train disappeared, Lionel 
 cast a furtive look at Job, who was a quiet, 
 and apparently an undisturbed, spectator of 
 the scene, and then turned his attention sud- 
 denly to his guests, as if fearful the folly of 
 the changeling might betray his agency also 
 in the deeds of the day. The simplicity of 
 the lad, however, defeated the kind inten- 
 tions of the major, for he immediately ob- 
 served, without the least indication of 
 fear— 
 
 * <The king can’t hang Seth Sage for firing 
 back, when the rake-helly soldiers began first.” 
 
 ‘‘ Perhaps you were out too, master Solo- 
 mon,” cried M’Fuse, “amusing yourself 
 at Concord, with a small party of select 
 friends?” 
 
 “Job didn’t go any further than Lexing- 
 ton,” returned the lad, ‘‘and he hasn’t got 
 any friend, except old Nab.” 
 
 «‘The devil has possessed the minds of the 
 people! ” continued the grenadier—* lawyers 
 and doctors—praists and sinners—old and 
 young—big and little, beset us in our march, 
 
 279 
 
 and here is a fool to be added to the number! 
 I dare say that fellow, now, has attempted 
 murder in his day too.” 
 
 “ Job scorns such wickedness,” returned 
 the unmoved simpleton; “he only shot one 
 granny, and hit an officer in the arm.” 
 
 ‘‘D’ye hear that, Major Lincoln?” cried 
 M’Fuse, jumping from the seat which, not- 
 withstanding the bitterness of his language, 
 he had hitherto perseveringly. maintained ; 
 ‘«‘d’ye hear that shell of a man, that effigy, 
 boasting of having killed a grenadier ?” 
 
 ‘¢ Hold !”’—interrupted Lionel, arresting 
 his excited companion by the arm—“ remem- 
 ber we are soldiers, and that the boy is not a 
 responsible being. No tribunal would ever 
 sentence such an unfortunate creature to a 
 gibbet; and in general he is as harmless as a 
 babe ‘. 
 
 «The devil burn such babes—a pretty 
 fellow is he to kill a man of six feet! and 
 with a ducking gun, I’ll engage. Ill not 
 hang the rascal, Major Lincoln, since it is 
 your particular wish—I’ll only have him 
 buried alive.” 
 
 Job continued perfectly unmoved in his 
 chair; and the captain, ashamed of his resent- 
 ment against such unconscious imbecility, 
 was soon persuaded to abandon his intentions 
 of revenge, though he continued muttering 
 his threats against the provincials, and his 
 denunciations against such “an unmanly 
 spacies of warfare,” until the much-needed 
 repast was ended. 
 
 Polwarth, having restored the equilibrium 
 of his system by a hearty meal, hobbled to 
 his bed, and M’Fuse, without any ceremony, 
 took possession of another of the apartments 
 in the tenement of Mr. Sage. The servants 
 withdrew to their own entertainment; and 
 Lionel, who had been sitting for the last 
 half-hour in melancholy silence, now unex- 
 pectedly found himself alone with the change- 
 ling. Job had waited for this moment with 
 exceeding patience, but when the door closed 
 on Meriton, who was the last to retire, he 
 made a movement that indicated some com- 
 munication of more than usual importance, 
 and succeeded in attracting the attention of 
 his companion. ? 
 
 ‘‘Foolish boy!” exclaimed Lionel, as he 
 met the unmeaning eye of the other, “did 
 I not warn you that wicked men might en- 
 
280 
 
 danger your life? How was it that I saw you 
 in arms to-day against the troops? ” 
 
 “‘ How came the troops in arms ag’in Job ?” 
 returned the 
 think to wheel about the Bay province, 
 clashing their godless drums and trumpets, 
 burning housen, and shooting people, and 
 find no stir about it!” 
 
 “Do you know that your life has been 
 twice forfeited within twelve hours, by your 
 own confession ; once for murder, and again 
 for treason against your king? You have 
 acknowledged killing a man !” 
 
 “Yes,” said the lad, with undisturbed 
 simplicity, ‘‘Job shot the granny; but he 
 didn’t let the people kill Major Lincoln.” 
 
 ‘“'True, true,” said Lionel, hastily—<* I 
 owe my life to you, and that debt shall be 
 cancelled at every hazard. But why have 
 you put yourself into the hands of your 
 enemies so thoughtlessly? what brings you 
 here to-night?” 
 
 ‘‘Ralph told me to come; and if Ralph 
 told Job to go into the king’s parlor, he 
 would go.” 
 
 “Ralph!” exclaimed Lionel, stopping in 
 his hurried walk across the room, “and 
 where is he?” 
 
 “In the old ware’us’; and he has sent me 
 to tell you to come to him; and what Ralph 
 says must be done.” 
 
 ‘‘ He here too ! is the man crazed ?—would 
 
 not his fears teach him——” 
 ‘‘ Fears!” interrupted Job, with singular 
 _ disdain—‘‘ you can’t frighten Ralph! The 
 grannies couldn’t frighten him, nor the light- 
 infantry couldn’t hit him, though he eat 
 nothing but their smoke the whole day— 
 Ralph’s a proper warrior! ” 
 
 ‘“‘And he waits me, you say, in the tene- 
 ment of your mother ?” 
 
 “Job don’t know what tenement means, 
 but he’s in the old ware’us’.” 
 
 ‘“Come, then,” said Lionel, taking his hat, 
 “let us goto him—I must save him from 
 the effects of his own rashness, though it 
 cost my commission! ” 
 
 He left the room while speaking, and the 
 simpleton followed close at his heels, well 
 content with having executed his mission 
 without encountering any greater difficulties. 
 
 changeling—“ they needn’t 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ‘‘ This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna; 
 Gonzago is the duke’s name; his wife, Baptista : 
 You shall see, anon; ’tis a knavish piece of work.” 
 
 — Hamlet. 
 
 THE agitation and deep excitement pro- — 
 
 duced by the events of the day had not yet 
 subsided in the town, when Lionel found 
 himself again in its narrow streets. Men 
 passed swiftly by him, as if bent on some 
 unusual and earnest business; and more than 
 once the young soldier detected the tri- 
 umphant smiles of the women, as they looked 
 curiously out on the scene, from their half- 
 open windows, and their eyes detected the 
 professional trappings of his dress. Strong 
 bodies of the troops were marching in differ- 
 ent directions, and in a manner which de- 
 noted that the guards were strengthening, 
 while the few solitary officers he met watched 
 his approaching figure with cautious jealousy, 
 as if they apprehended a dangerous enemy 
 in every form they encountered. | 
 
 The gates of Province-House were open, 
 and, as usual, guarded by armed men. As 
 Lionel passed leisurely along, he perceived 
 that the grenadier to whom he had spoken 
 on the preceding evening again held his watch 
 before the portal of the governor. 
 
 “Your experience did not deceive you, my 
 old comrade,” said Lionel, lingering a mo- 
 ment to address him—‘“we have had a warm 
 day.” 
 
 “So it is reported in the barracks, your 
 honor,” returned the soldier—‘ our company 
 was not ordered out, and we are to stand 
 double duty. I hope to God the next time 
 there is anything to do, the grenadiers of the 
 th may not be left behind—it would 
 have been for the credit of the army had HoDy 
 been in the field to-day.” 
 
 ““Why do you think so, my veteran? The © | 
 
 men who were out are thought to have be- 
 haved well; but it was impossible to make 
 head against a multitude in arms.” 
 
 ‘‘It is not my place, your honor, to say, 
 this man did well, and that man behaved 
 amiss,” returned the proud old soldier; “ but 
 when I hear of two thousand British troops 
 turning their backs, or quickening their 
 
 march, before all the rabble this country can. 
 
 muster, I want the flank companies of the 
 
 th to be at hand, if it should be only 
 
bite 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 that I may say I have witnessed the dis- 
 
 - graceful sight with my own eyes.” 
 
 «There is no disgrace where there is no 
 misconduct,” said Lionel. 
 
 «There must have been misconduct some- 
 where, your honor, or such a thing could not 
 have happened—consider, your honor, the 
 very flower of the army! Something must 
 have been wrong; and although I could see 
 the latter part of the business from the hills, 
 I can hardly believe it to be true.” As he 
 concluded, he shook his head, and contin- 
 ued his steady pace along his allotted ground, 
 as if unwilling to pursue the humiliating 
 subject any further. Lionel passed slowly 
 on, musing on that deep-rooted prejudice, 
 which had even taught this humble menial 
 of the crown to regard with contempt a 
 whole nation, because they were believed to 
 be dependents. 
 
 The Dock Square was stiller than usual, 
 and the sounds of revelry, which it was usual 
 to hear at that hour from the adjacent drink- 
 ing-houses, were no longer audible. The 
 moon had not yet risen, and Lionel passed 
 the dark arches of the market with a quick 
 
 step, as he now remembered that one in 
 
 whom he felt so deep an interest awaited his 
 appearance. Job, who had followed in silence, 
 glided by him on the drawbridge, and stood 
 holding the door of the old building in his 
 hand, when he reached its threshold. Lionel 
 found the large space in the centre of the 
 warehouse, as usual, dark and empty, though 
 the dim light of a candle glimmered through 
 the fissures in a partition, which separated 
 an apartment, in one of the little towers, that 
 was occupied by Abigail Pray, from the ruder 
 parts of the edifice. Low voices were also 
 heard issuing from this room, and Major 
 Lincoln, supposing he should find the old 
 man and the mother of Job in conference 
 together, turned to request the lad would 
 precede him, and announce his name. But 
 the changeling had also detected the whis- 
 pering sounds, and it would seem with a more 
 cunning ear, for he turned and darted through 
 the door of the building with a velocity that 
 did not abate until Lionel, who watched his 
 movements with amazement, saw his shuffling 
 
 _ figure disappear among the shambles of the 
 
 market-place. Thus deserted by his guide, 
 Lionel groped his way toward the place where 
 
 281 
 
 he believed he should find the door which led 
 into the tower. ‘The light deceived him; for, 
 as he approached it, his eye glanced through 
 one of the crevices of the wall, and he again 
 became an unintentional witness of another 
 of those interviews, which evinced the singu- 
 lar and mysterious affinity between the fort- 
 unes of the affluent and respected Mrs. 
 Lechmere and the miserable tenant of the 
 warehouse. Until that moment, the hurry 
 of events, and the crowd of reflections, which 
 had rushed over the mind of the young man, 
 throughout the busy time of the last twenty- 
 four hours, had prevented his recalling the 
 hidden meaning of the singular discourse of 
 which he had already been an auditor. But 
 now, when he found his aunt led into these 
 haunts of beggary, by a feeling he was not 
 weak enough to attribute to her charity, he 
 stood rooted to the spot by a curiosity, which, 
 at the same time that he found it irresistible, 
 he was willing to excuse, under a strong im- 
 pression that these private communications 
 were in some way connected with himself. 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere had evidently muffled her 
 person in a manner that was intended to con- 
 ceal this mysterious visit from any casual 
 observer of her movements; but the hoops of 
 her large calash were now so far raised as to 
 admit a distinct view of her withered features, 
 and of the hard eye which shot forth its self- 
 ish, worldly glances, from amid the surround- 
 ing decay of nature. She was seated, both 
 in indulgence to her infirmities, and from 
 that assumption of superiority she never 
 neglected in the presence of her inferiors, 
 while her companion stood before her, in an 
 attitude that partook more of restraint than 
 of respect. 
 
 ‘¢Your weakness, foolish woman,” said 
 Mrs. Lechmere, in those stern, repulsive tones 
 she so well knew how to use, when she wished 
 to intimidate, “will yet prove your ruin. 
 You owe it to respect for yourself, to your 
 character, and even to your safety, that you 
 should exhibit more firmness, and show your- 
 self above this weak and idle supersti- 
 tion.” 
 
 “My ruin! and my character!” returned 
 Abigail, looking about her with a haggard eye 
 and a trembling lip; ‘“‘ what is ruin, Madam 
 Lechmere, if this poverty be not called so? 
 or what loss of character can bring upon me 
 
282 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 more biting scorn than I am now ordained to | ‘‘ why should you speak thus freely of death, 
 
 suffer for my sins?” 
 
 “ Perhaps,” said Mrs. Lechmere, endeavor- 
 ing to affect a kinder tone, though dislike 
 was still too evident in her manner, ‘‘in the 
 hurry of my grandnephew’s reception, I have 
 forgotten my usual liberality.” 
 
 The woman took the piece of silver which 
 Mrs. Lechmere slowly placed in her hand, 
 and held it in her open palm for several 
 moments, regarding it with a vacant look, 
 which the other mistook for dissatisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 “The troubles, and the decreasing value of 
 property, have sensibly affected my income,” 
 continued the richly clad and luxurious Mrs. 
 Lechmere; ‘‘but if that should be too little 
 for your immediate wants, I will add to it 
 another crown.” 
 
 ‘Twill do—’twill do,” said Abigail, 
 clenching her hand over the money, with a 
 grasp that was convulsive—“ yes, yes, “twill 
 do. Oh! Madam Lechmere, humbling and 
 sinful as that wicked passion is, would to 
 God that no motive worse than avarice had 
 proved my ruin!” 
 
 Lionel thought his aunt cast an uneasy and 
 embarrassed glance at her companion, which 
 he construed into an expression that betrayed 
 there were secrets even between these strange 
 confidants ; but the momentary surprise ex- 
 hibited in her features soon gave place to her 
 habitual look of guarded and severe formality ; 
 and she replied, with an air of coldness, as if 
 she would repulse any approach to an ac- 
 knowledgment of their common transgres- 
 sion— : 
 
 ‘<The woman talks like one who is beside 
 herself! Of what crime has she been guilty, 
 but such as those to which our nature is 
 liable !” 
 
 ‘«'True, true,” said Abigail Pray, witha half- 
 stifled, hysterical laungh—‘‘’tis our guilty, 
 guilty nature, as you say. But I grow nerv- 
 ous, I believe, as I grow old and feeble, 
 Madam Lechmere ; and I often forget myself. 
 The sight of the grave, so very near, is apt to 
 bring thoughts of repentance to such as are 
 more hardened even than I,” 
 
 “Foolish girl!” said Mrs. Lechmere, en- 
 deavoring to screen her pallid features, by 
 drawing down her calash, with a hand that 
 trembled more with terror than with age ; 
 
 who are but a child ?” 
 
 Lionel heard the faltering, husky tones of 
 his aunt, as they appeared to die in her throat, 
 but nothing more was distinctly audible, un- 
 til, after a long pause, she raised her face, 
 and looked about her again with her severe, 
 unbending eye, and continued— 
 
 ‘‘Knough of this folly, Abigail Pray—I 
 have come to learn more of your strange in- 
 mate——” 
 
 ‘“Oh! ’tis not enough, Madam Lechmere,” 
 interrupted the conscience-stricken woman ; 
 ‘“‘ we have so little time left us for penitence 
 and prayer, that there never can be enough, 
 I fear, to answer our mighty transgressions. 
 Let us speak of the grave, Madam Lechmere, 
 while we can yet do it on this side of eter- 
 nity.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ay ! speak of the grave, while out of its 
 damp cloisters; *tis the home of the aged,” 
 said a third voice, whose hollow tones might 
 well have issued from some tomb, “‘ and I am 
 here to join in the wholesome theme.” 
 
 ‘‘Who—who—in the name of God, who 
 art thou?” exclaimed Mrs. Lechmere, for- 
 getting her infirmities, and her secret com-. 
 punctions, in new emotions, and rising invol- 
 untarily from her seat; “tell me, I conjure 
 thee, who art thou ?” 
 
 ““One, aged like thyself, Priscilla Lechmere, 
 and standing on the threshold of that final 
 home of which you would discourse. Speak on, 
 then, ye widowed women ; for if ever ye have 
 done aught that calls for forgiveness, ’tis in 
 the grave ye shall find the heavenly gift of 
 mercy offered to your unworthiness.” 
 
 By changing the position of his body a 
 little, Lionel was now enabled to command 
 a view of the whole apartment. In the door- 
 way stood Ralph, immovable in his attitude, 
 with one hand raised high toward heaven, and 
 the other pointing impressively downward, as" 
 if about to lay bare the secrets of that tomb, 
 of which his wasted limbs, and faded linea- 
 ments, marked him as a fit tenant, while his 
 searching eyeballs glared about him, from the 
 face of one to the other, with that look of 
 quickness and penetration, that Abigail Pray 
 had so well described as “scorching.” Within 
 a few feet of the old man, Mrs. Lechmere re- 
 mained standing, rigid and motionless as 
 marble, her calash fallen back, and her death- | 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 like features exposed, with horror and aston- 
 ishment rooted in every muscle, as, with open 
 mouth, and eyes riveted on the intruder, she 
 gazed as steadily as if placed in that posture 
 by the chisel of the statuary. Abigail shaded 
 her eyes with her hand, and buried her face 
 in the folds of her garments, while strong 
 convulsive shudderings ran through her 
 frame, and betrayed the extent of the emo- 
 tions she endeavored to conceal. Amazed at 
 what he had witnessed, and concerned for the 
 apparent insensibility of his aunt, whose great 
 age rendered such scenes dangerous, Lionel 
 was about to rush into the apartment, when 
 Mrs. Lechmere so far recovered her faculties 
 
 as to speak, and the young man lost every 
 
 consideration in a burning curiosity, which 
 was powerfully justified by his situation. 
 
 «‘ Who is it that calls me by the name of 
 Priscilla ?” said Mrs. Lechmere; ‘‘ none now 
 live who can claim to be so familiar.” 
 
 “ Priscilla, Priscilla,” repeated the old man, 
 looking about him, as if he would require the 
 presence of another; “‘it is a soft and pleas- 
 ant sound to my ears, and there is one that 
 owns it besides thee, as thou knowest.” 
 
 «She is dead ; years have gone by since I 
 saw her in her coffin ; and I would forget her, 
 and all like her, who have proved unworthy 
 of my blood.” — 
 
 <¢ She is not dead ! ”—shouted the old man, 
 in a voice that rung through the naked raf- 
 ters of the edifice like the unearthly tones of 
 some spirit of the air; ‘‘she lives !—she 
 lives !—ay! she yet lives ! ” 
 
 «<Tjives!” repeated Mrs. Lechmere, recoil- 
 ing a step before the forward movement of 
 the other; ‘‘ why am I so weak as to listen ! 
 *tis impossible.” 
 
 «¢ Lives!” exclaimed Abigail Pray, clasp- 
 ing her hands with agony. ‘‘Oh! would to 
 God she did live! but did. I not see hera 
 bloated, disfigured corpse? did I not with 
 these very hands place the grave-clothes 
 about her once lovely frame? Oh! no—she 
 is dead—dead—and I am a 4 
 
 << Tis some madman that asserts these idle 
 tales,” exclaimed Mrs. Lechmere, with a 
 quickness that interrupted the criminal epi- 
 thet the other was about to apply to herself. 
 ‘The unfortunate girl is long since dead, as 
 we know; why should we reason with a 
 maniac ?” 
 
 é 
 
 283 
 
 ‘* Maniac !” repeated Ralph, with an ex- 
 pression of the most taunting irony; ‘‘ no— 
 no—no—such a one there is, as you and I 
 well know, but ’tis not I who am mad—thou 
 art rather crazed thyself, woman ; thou hast 
 made one maniac already, wouldst thou make 
 another? ” 7 
 
 ‘‘T!” said Mrs. Lechmere, without quail- 
 ing before the ardent look she encountered— 
 ‘¢that God who bestows reason, recalls his 
 gift at will; *tis not I who exereise such 
 power.” 
 
 ‘* How sayest thou, Priscilla Lechmere ?” 
 cried Ralph, stepping with an inaudible 
 tread so nigh as to grasp, unperceived, her 
 motionless arm with his own wasted fingers ; 
 ‘¢ yes—I will call thee Priscilla, little as thou 
 deservest such a holy name—dost thou deny 
 the power to craze—where, then, is the head 
 of thy boasted race ? the proud baronet of 
 Devonshire, the wealthy, and respected, and 
 once happy companion of princes—thy 
 nephew, Lionel Lincoln ? Is he in the halls 
 of his fathers ?—leading the armies of his 
 king ?—ruling and protecting his household? 
 —or ishe the tenant of a gloomy cell ?—thou 
 knowest he is—thou knowest he is—and, 
 woman, thy vile machinations have placed 
 him there !” 
 
 ‘© Who is it that dare thus speak to me ?” 
 demanded Mrs. Lechmere, rallying her facul- 
 ties with a mighty effort, to look down this 
 charge—‘‘if my unhappy nephew is indeed 
 known to thee, thy own knowledge will re- 
 fute this base accusation ie 
 
 “Known to me! I would ask what is hid 
 from me ? I have looked at thee, and ob- 
 served thy conduct, woman, for the life of 
 man ; and nothing that thou hast done is hid 
 from me—I tell thee, I know all. Of this 
 sinful woman here, also, I know all—have | 
 not told thee, Abigail Pray, of thy most 
 secret transgressions ?” 
 
 «Oh ! yes—yes; he is indeed acquainted 
 with what I had thought was now concealed 
 from every eye but that of God!” cried 
 Abigail, with superstitious terror. 
 
 “ Nor of thee am I ignorant, thou miser- 
 able widow of John Lechmere ; and of Pris- 
 cilla, too, do I not know all ?—” 
 
 « All!” again exclaimed Abigail—_ 
 
 “All!” repeated Mrs. Lechmere, in a 
 voice barely audible; when she sunk back in 
 
284 
 
 her chair, ina state of total insensibility. 
 The breathless interest he felt in all that had 
 yassed, could detain Lionel no longer from 
 rushing to the assistance of his aunt. Abi- 
 gail Pray, who, it would seem, ha@ been in 
 some measure accustomed to such scenes with 
 her lodger, retained, however, sufficient self- 
 command to anticipate his motions; and, 
 when he had gained the door, he found her 
 already supporting, and making the usual 
 applications to Mrs. Lechmere. It became 
 necessary to divest the sufferer of part of her 
 attire, and Abigail, assuring Lionel of her 
 perfect competency to act by herself, re- 
 quested bim to withdraw, not only on that 
 
 account, but because she felt assured that 
 
 nothing could prove more dangerous to her 
 reviving patient, than his unexpected pres- 
 ence. After lingering a moment, until he 
 witnessed the signs of returning life, Lionel 
 complied with the earnest entreaties of the 
 woman ; and, leaving the room, he groped 
 his way to the foot of the ladder, with a de- 
 termination to ascend to the apartment of 
 Ralph, in order to demand at once an expla- 
 nation of what he had just seen and heard. 
 He found the old man seated in his little 
 tower, his hand shading his eyes from the 
 feeble light of the miserable candle, and his 
 head drooping upon his besom, like one in 
 pensive musing. Lionel approached him, 
 without appearing to attract his attention, 
 and was compelled to speak, in order to an- 
 nounce his presence. 
 
 ‘*T have received your summons, by Job,” 
 he said, ‘‘ and have obeyed it.” 
 
 «°Tis well,” returned Ralph. 
 
 ‘* Perhaps I should add, that I have been 
 an astonished witness of your interview with 
 Mrs. Lechmere, and have heard the bold and 
 unaccountable language you have seen proper 
 to use to that lady.” 
 
 The old man now raised his head, and 
 Lionel saw the bright rays from his eyes 
 quicken, as he answered— 
 
 ‘** You then heard the truth, and witnessed 
 its effects on a guilty conscience.” 
 
 ‘“‘T also heard what you call the truth, in | 
 
 connection, as you know, with the names 
 most dear to me.” 
 
 ‘* Art certain of it, boy ?” returned Ralph, 
 looking the other steadily in the face; ‘has 
 no other become dearer to you, of late, than 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the authors of your being ?—speak, and re- 
 member that you answer one of no common 
 knowledge.” 
 
 ‘‘ What mean you, sir? is it in nature to 
 love any as we do a parent ?” 
 
 ‘‘Away with this childish simplicity,” 
 continued the other, sternly; ‘‘ the grand- 
 child of that wretched woman below—do 
 you not love her, and can I put trust in 
 thee ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ What trust is there incompatible with 
 affection for a being so pure as Cecil 
 Dynevor ?” 
 
 ‘* Ay,” murmured the old man in an under- 
 tone, ‘‘her mother was pure, and why may 
 not the child be worthy of its parentage ?” 
 He paused, and a long, and, on the part of 
 Lionel, a painful and embarrassing silence 
 succeeded, which was at length broken by 
 Ralph, who said, abruptly—‘‘ you were in 
 the field to-day, Major Lincoln.” 
 
 “‘Of that you must be certain, as I owe 
 my life to your kind interposition. But why 
 have you braved the danger of an arrest, by 
 trusting your person in the power of the 
 troops? Your presence and activity among 
 the Americans must be known to many in 
 the army besides myself.” 
 
 ‘‘ And would they think of searching for 
 their enemies within the streets of Boston, 
 when the hills without are filling with armed 
 men ? My residence in this building is known 
 only to the woman below, who dare not be- 
 tray me, her worthy son, and to you. My 
 movements are secret and sudden, when men 
 least expect them. Danger cannot touch 
 such as I.” 
 
 ‘‘ But,” said Lionel, hesitating with em- 
 barrassment, ‘‘ought I to conceal the pres- 
 ence of one whom I know to be inimical to 
 
 my king ?” | 
 ‘Lionel Lincoln, you  overrate your 
 courage,” interrupted Ralph, smiling in 
 
 scorn—‘‘ you dare not shed the blood of 
 him who has spared your own ;—but enough 
 of this—-we understand each other, and one 
 old as I should be a stranger to fear.” 
 
 ‘No, no,” said a low, solemn voice, from 
 
 a dark corner of the apartment, where Job 
 had stolen unseen, and was now nestled in 
 security—-** you can’t frighten Ralph !” 
 “The boy is a worthy boy, and he knows 
 good from evil; what more is necessary to 
 
 “4 
 
Titans 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 man in this wicked world ?” muttered Ralph, 
 in those quick and indistinct tones that 
 characterized his manner. 
 
 ‘¢ Whence came you, fellow, and why did 
 you abandon me so abruptly?” demanded 
 
 Lionel. 
 
 <‘ Job has just been into the market, to 
 see if he couldn’t find something that might 
 be good for Nab,” returned the lad. 
 
 <«<Think not to impose on me with this 
 nonsense! Is food to be purchased at any 
 hour of the night, though you had the 
 means ?” 
 
 “« Now that is convincing the king’s officers 
 don’t know everything,” said the simpleton, 
 laughing within himself—‘“‘here’s as good a 
 pound bill, old tenor, as was ever granted by 
 the Bay colony ; and meat’s no such rarity, 
 that a man who has a pound bill, old tenor, 
 in his pocket, can’t go under old Funnel 
 when he pleases, for all their acts of Parlia- 
 ment.” 
 
 _*©You have [plundered the dead!” cried 
 Lionel, observing that Job exhibited in his 
 hand several pieces of silver, besides the note 
 he had mentioned. 
 
 ““Don’t call Job a thief!” said the lad, 
 with a threatening air; ‘‘ there’s law in the 
 Bay yet, though the people don’t use it; and 
 right will be done to all, when the time 
 comes. Job shot a granny, but he’s no 
 thief.” 
 
 ‘“You were then paid for your secret 
 errand, last night, foolish boy; and have 
 been tempted to run into danger by money. 
 Let it be the last time—in future, when you 
 want, come to me for assistance.” 
 
 ‘« Job won’t go of a’r’nds for the king, if 
 he’d give him his golden crown, with all its 
 di’monds and flauntiness, unless Job pleases, 
 for there’s no law for it.” 
 
 Lionel, with a view to appease the irritated 
 lad, now made a few kind and conciliating 
 
 remarks, but the changeling did not deign 
 
 to reply, falling back in his corner in a 
 sullen manner, as if he would repair the 
 fatigue of the day by a few moments of 
 sleep. 
 into a profound reverie, when the young 
 soldier remembered that the hour was late, 
 and he had yet obtained no explanation of 
 the mysterious charges. He therefore al- 
 luded to the subject in a manner which he 
 
 In the meantime, Ralph had sunk’ 
 
 285 
 
 thought best adapted to obtain the desired 
 intelligence. The instant Lionel mentioned 
 the agitation of his aunt, his companion 
 raised his head again, and a smile like that 
 of fierce exultation lighted the wan face of 
 the old man, who answered, pointing with 
 an emphatic gesture to his own bosom— 
 
 “**T'was here, boy, *twas here—nothing 
 short of the power of conscience, and a 
 knowledge like that of mine, could strike that 
 woman speechless in the presence of anything 
 human.” 
 
 “But what is this extraordinary knowl- 
 edge? Iam in some degree the natural pro- 
 tector of Mrs. Lechmere; and, independent 
 of my individual interest in your secret, have 
 a right, in her behalf, to require an explana- 
 tion of such serious allegations.” 
 
 “In her behalf !” repeated Ralph. “ Wait, 
 impetuous young man, until she bids you 
 push the inquiry—it shall then be answered, 
 in a voice of thunder.” 
 
 “Tf not in justice to my aged aunt, at least 
 remember your repeated promises to unfold 
 that sad tale of my own domestic sorrows, of 
 which you claim to be the master.” 
 
 “Ay, of that, and much more, am I in 
 possession,” returned the old man, smiling, as 
 if conscious of his knowledge and power; “if 
 you doubt it, descend and ask the miserable 
 tenant of this warehouse—or the guilty widow 
 of John Lechmere.” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, I doubt nothing but my own pa- 
 tience; the moments fly swiftly, and I have 
 yet to learn all I wish to know.” 
 
 ‘‘This is neither the time, nor is it the 
 place, where you are to hear the tale,” re- 
 turned Ralph; “I have already said that we 
 shall meet beyond the colleges for that pur- 
 pose.” 
 
 ‘But after the events of this day, who can 
 tell when it will be in the power of an officer 
 of the crown to visit the colleges in safety ?” 
 
 “What!” cried the old man, laughing 
 aloud, in the bitterness of his scorn, ‘‘ has the 
 boy found the strength and the will of the 
 despised colonists so soon? But I pledge to 
 thee my word, that thou shalt yet see the 
 place, and in safety. —Yes, yes, Priscilla Lech- 
 mere, thy hour is at hand, and thy doom is 
 sealed forever !” 
 
 Lionel again mentioned his aunt, and al- 
 luded to the necessity of his soon rejoining — 
 
286 
 
 her, as he already heard footsteps below, 
 which indicated that preparations were mak- 
 ing for her departure. But his petitions and 
 remonstrances were now totally unheeded ; 
 his aged companion was pacing swiftly up 
 and down his small apartment, muttering in- 
 coherent sentences, in which the name of 
 Priscilla was alone audible, and his counte- 
 nance betraying the inward workings of ab- 
 sorbing and fierce passions. In a few mo- 
 ments more, the shrill voice of Abigail was 
 heard calling upon her son, ina manner which 
 plainly denoted her knowledge that the 
 changeling was concealed somewhere about 
 the building. Job heard her calls repeated, 
 until the tones of her voice became angry 
 and threatening, when he stole slowly from 
 his corner, and moved toward the ladder, with 
 asunken brow and lingering steps. Lionel 
 now knew not how toact. His aunt was still 
 ignorant of his presence, and he thought if 
 Abigail Pray had wished him to appear, he 
 would in some manner be soon included in 
 the summons. He had also his own secret 
 reasons for wishing his visits to Ralph un- 
 known. Accordingly, he determined to 
 watch the movements below, under the favor 
 of the darkness, and to be governed entirely 
 by circumstances. He took no leave of his 
 companion on departing, for long use had so 
 far accustomed him to the eccentric manner 
 of the old man, that he well knew any at- 
 tempt to divert his attention from his burn- 
 ing thoughts would be futile at a moment of 
 such intense excitement. 
 
 From the head of the ladder, where Lionel 
 took his stand, he saw Mrs. Lechmere, pre- 
 ceded by Job with a lantern, walking, with a 
 firmer step than he could have hoped for, 
 toward the door, and he overheard Abigail 
 cautioning her wilful son to light her visitor 
 to a neighboring corner, where it appeared a 
 conveyance was in waiting. On the thresh- 
 old, his aunt turned, and, the light from the 
 candle of Abigail falling on her features, 
 Lionel caught a full view of her cold, hard 
 eye, which had regained all its worldly ex- 
 
 pression, though softened a little by a deeper 
 
 shade of thought than usual. 
 
 ‘* Let the scene of to-night be forgotten, 
 my good Abigail,” she said. ‘* Your lodger 
 is a nameless being, who has gleaned some 
 idle tale, and wishes to practise on our cre- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 dulity to enrich himself. I will consider more 
 of it; but on no account do you hold any 
 further communion with him—I must remove 
 you, my trusty woman; this habitation is un- 
 worthy of you, and of your dutiful son, too 
 —I must see you better lodged, my good 
 Abigail, indeed I must.” 
 
 Lionel could distinguish thes light shud- 
 der that passed through the frame of her 
 companion, as she alluded to the doubtful 
 character of Ralph; but, without answering, 
 Abigail held the door open for the departure 
 of her guest. The instant Mrs. Lechmere 
 disappeared, Lionel glided down the ladder, 
 and stood before the astonished woman. 
 
 ‘When I tell you I have heard all that 
 passed to-night,” he abruptly said, ‘‘ you will 
 see the folly of any further attempt at con- 
 cealment—I now demand so much of your 
 secret as affects the happiness of me or mine.” 
 
 ‘* No—no—not of me, Major Lincoln,” 
 said the terrified female—‘‘not of me, for 
 the love of God, not of me—I have sworn to 
 keep it, and one oath ” Her emotions 
 choked her, and her voice became indistinct. 
 
 Lionel regretted his vehemence, and, 
 ashamed to extort a confession from a 
 woman, he attempted to pacify her feelings, 
 promising to require no further communica- 
 tion at that time. 
 
 ‘‘Go—go”—she said, motioning him to 
 depart, ‘“‘and I shall be well again—leave me, 
 and then I shall be alone with that terrible 
 old man, and my God !” 
 
 Perceiving her earnestness, he reluctantly 
 complied, and, meeting Job on the threshold, 
 he ceased to feel any further uneasiness for 
 her safety. 
 
 During his rapid walk to Tremont Street, 
 Major Lincoln thought intently on all he had 
 heard and witnessed. He remembered the 
 communications by which Ralph had attained 
 such a powerful interest in his feelings, and 
 
 he fancied he could discover a pledge of the | 
 
 truth of the old man’s knowledge in the guilt 
 betrayed by the manner of his aunt. From 
 Mrs. Lechmere his thoughts recurred to her 
 lovely grandchild, and for a moment he was 
 perplexed, by endeavoring to explain her con- 
 tradictory deportment toward himself ;—at 
 one time she was warm, frank, and even 
 affectionate ; and at another, as in the short 
 and private interview of that very evening, 
 
a 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 cold, constrained, and repulsive. Then, 
 again, he recollected the object which had 
 chiefly induced him to follow his regiment to 
 his native country ; and the recollection was 
 attended by that shade of dejection which 
 such reflections never failed to cast across his 
 intelligent features. On reaching the house, 
 he ascertained the same return of Mrs. Lech- 
 mere, who had already retired to her room, 
 attended by her lovely relatives. Lionel im- 
 mediately followed their example ; and as the 
 excitement of that memorable and busy day 
 subsided, it was succeeded by a deep sleep, 
 and fell on his senses like the forgetfulness of 
 the dead. 
 
 ee 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 «Now let it work: Mischief, thou art afoot : 
 Take thou what course thou wilt !” 
 —SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THE alarm of the inroad passed swiftly by 
 the low shores of the Atlantic, and was heard 
 echoing among the rugged mountains west of 
 the rivers, as if borne along on a whirlwind. 
 The male population, between the rolling 
 waters of Massachusetts Bay and the limpid 
 stream of the Connecticut, rose as one man ; 
 and as the cry of blood was sounded far in- 
 land, the hills and valleys, the highways and 
 footpaths, were seen covered with bands of 
 armed husbandmen, pressing eagerly toward 
 the scene of the war. Within eight-and-forty 
 hours after the fatal meeting at Lexington, 
 it was calculated that more than a hundred 
 thousand men were in arms; and near one- 
 fourth of that number was gathered before 
 the peninsulas of Boston and Charlestown. 
 They who were precluded by distance, and a 
 want of military provisions to support such 
 a concourse, from participating in the more 
 immediate contest, lay by in expectation of 
 the arrival of that moment when their zeal 
 might also be put to severer trials. In short, 
 
 the sullen quietude, in which the colonies 
 
 had been slumbering for a year, was suddenly 
 and rudely broken by the events of that day ; 
 and the patriotic among the people rose with 
 such a cry of indignation on their lips, that 
 the disaffected, who were no insignificant 
 class in the more southern provinces, were 
 
 - eompelled to silence, until the first burst of 
 
 - 
 Po 
 
 287 
 
 revolutionary excitement had an opportunity 
 to subside, under the never-failing influence 
 of time and suffering. 
 
 Gage, secure in his positions, and supported 
 by a constantly increasing power, as well as 
 the presence of a formidable fleet, looked on 
 the gathering storm with a steady eye, and 
 with that calmness which distinguished the 
 mild benevolence of his private character. 
 Though the attitude and the intentions of 
 the Americans could no longer be mistaken, 
 he listened with reluctant ears to the revenge- 
 ful advice of his counsellors, and rather 
 strove to appease the tumult, than to at- 
 tempt crushing it by a force which, though 
 a month before it had been thought equal to 
 the united power of the peaceful colonists, 
 he now prudently deemed no more than com- 
 petent to protect itself within its watery 
 boundaries. Proclamations were, however, 
 fulminated against the rebels; and such 
 other measures as were thought indispensa- 
 ble to assert the dignity and authority of the 
 crown, were promptly adopted. Of course, 
 these harmless denunciations were disre- 
 garded, and all his exhortations to return to 
 an allegiance, which the people still denied 
 had ever been impaired, were lost amid the 
 din of arms, and the popular cries of the 
 time. These appeals of the British general, 
 as well as sundry others, made by the royal 
 governors, who yet held their rule through- 
 out all the provinces, except the one in which 
 the scene of our tale is laid, were answered 
 by the people in humble but manly petitions 
 to the throne for justice; and in loud remon- 
 strances to the Parliament, requiring to be 
 restored to the possession of those rights and 
 immunities, which should be secured to all 
 who enjoyed the protection of their common 
 constitution. Still the power and preroga- 
 tives of the prince were deeply respected, and. 
 were alluded to in all public documents, with 
 the veneration which was thought due to the 
 sacredness of his character and station. But 
 that biting, though grave sarcasm, which the 
 colonists knew so well how to use, was freely 
 expended on his ministers, who were accused 
 of devising the measures so destructive to the 
 peace of the empire. In this manner passed 
 some weeks after the series of skirmishes 
 which were called the battle of Lexington, 
 from the circumstance of commencing at the 
 
288 
 
 hamlet of that name, both parties continuing 
 to prepare for a mightier exhibition of their 
 power and daring. 
 
 Lionel had by no means been an uncon- 
 cerned spectator of these preparations. The 
 morning after the return of the detachment, he 
 applied for a command equal to his just ex- 
 pectations. But while he was complimented 
 on the spirit and loyalty he had manifested 
 on the late occasion, it was intimated to the 
 young man that he might be of more service 
 to the cause of his prince by devoting his 
 time to the cultivation of his interest among 
 those powerful colonists with whom his family ; 
 was allied by blood, or connected by long and 
 close intimacies. It was even submitted to 
 his jown judgment whether it would not be 
 well, at some auspicious moment, to trust his 
 person without the defences of the army, in 
 the prosecution of this commendable design. 
 There was so much that was flattering to the 
 self-love, and soothing to the pride of the 
 young soldier, artfully mingled with these 
 ambiguous proposals, that he became content 
 to await the course of events, having, how- 
 ever, secured a promise of obtaining a suitable 
 military command in the case of further hos- 
 tilities. That such an event was at hand, 
 could not well be concealed from one much 
 less observing than Major Lincoln. 
 
 Gage had already abandoned his temporary 
 position in Charlestown, for the sake of pro- 
 curing additional security by concentrating 
 his force. From the hills of the peninsula 
 of Boston, it was apparent that the colonists 
 were fast assuming the front of men who 
 were resolved to beleaguer the army of the 
 king. Many of the opposite heights were 
 already crowned with hastily-formed works 
 of earth, and a formidable body of these un- 
 practised warriors had set themselves boldly 
 down before the entrance to the isthmus, 
 entting off all communication with the ad- 
 jacent country, and occupying the little vil- 
 lage of Roxbury, directly before the muzzles 
 of the British guns, with a hardiness that 
 would not have disgraced men much longer 
 tried in the field, and more inured to its 
 dangers. 
 
 The surprise created in the army by these 
 appearances of skill and spirit among the 
 hitherto despised Americans, in some measure 
 ceased when the rumor spread itself in their | 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 camp that-many gentlemen of the provinces, 
 who had served with credit in the forces of 
 the crown, at former periods, were mingled 
 with the people in stations of responsibility 
 and command. Among others Lionel heard 
 the names of Ward and Thomas; men of 
 liberal attainments, and of some experience 
 in arms. Both were regularly commissioned 
 by the congress of the colony as leaders of 
 their forces; and under their orders were 
 numerous regiments duly organized, possess- 
 ing all the necessary qualifications of soldiers, 
 excepting the two indispensable requisites of 
 discipline and arms. Lionel heard the name 
 of Warren mentioned oftener than any other 
 in the circles of Province-House, and with 
 the sort of bitterness which, even while it 
 bespoke their animosity, betrayed the respect. 
 of his enemies. This gentleman, who until 
 the last moment had braved the presence of | 
 the royal troops, and fearlessly advocated his 
 principles, while encircled with their bayo- 
 nets, was now known to have suddenly dis- 
 appeared from among them, abandoning 
 home, property, and a lucrative profession; 
 and by sharing in the closing scenes of the 
 day of Lexington, to have fairly cast his for- 
 tunes on the struggle. But the name which 
 in secret possessed the greatest charm for the 
 ear of the young British soldier, was that of 
 Putnam, a yeoman of the neighboring colony 
 of Connecticut, who, as the uproar of the 
 alarm whirled by him, literally deserted his 
 plough, and mounting a beast from its team, 
 made an early halt, after a forced march of a 
 hundred miles, in the foremost ranks of his 
 countrymen. While the name of this sturdy 
 American was passing in whispers among the 
 veterans who crowded the levees of Gage, a 
 flood of melancholy and tender recollections 
 flashed through the brain of the young man. 
 He remembered the frequent and interesting 
 communications which, in his boyhood, he 
 had held with his own father, before the 
 dark shade had passed across the reason of 
 Sir Lionel, and, in every tale of murderous 
 combats with the savage tenants of the wilds, 
 in each scene of danger and of daring that 
 had distinguished the romantic warfare of 
 the wilderness, and even in strange and fear- 
 ful encounters with the beasts of the forest, 
 the name of this man was blended with a 
 species of chivalrous fame that is seldom ob- 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 tained in an enlightened age, and never un- 
 deservedly. The great wealth of the family 
 of Lincoln, and the high expectations of its 
 heir, had obtained for the latter a military 
 rank which at that period was rarely enjoyed 
 by any but such as had bought the distinction 
 by long and arduous services. Consequently, 
 many of his equals had shared in those trials 
 of his father, in which the “ Lion Heart” of 
 America had been so conspicuous for his 
 deeds. By these grave veterans, who should 
 know him best, the name of Putnam was 
 always mentioned with strong and romantic 
 affection; and when the notable scheme of 
 detaching him, by the promise of office and 
 wealth, from the cause of the colonists was 
 proposed by the cringing counsellors who 
 surrounded the commander-in-chief, it was 
 listened to with a contemptuous incredulity 
 by the former associates of the old partisan, 
 that the result of the plan fully justified. 
 Similar inducements were offered to others 
 among the Americans, whose talents were 
 thought worthy of purchase ; but so deep 
 root had the principles of the day taken, that 
 not a man was found to listen to the propo- 
 sition. 
 
 While these subtle experiments were 
 adopted in the room of more energetic meas- 
 ures, troops continued to arrive from Eng- 
 land, and, before the end of May, many 
 leaders of renown appeared in the councils 
 of Gage, who now possessed a disposable 
 force of not less than eight thousand bay- 
 onets. With the appearance of these rein- 
 forcements, the fallen pride of the army 
 began to revive, and the spirits of the 
 haughty young men, who had so recently left 
 the gay parades of their boasted island, were 
 chafed by the reflection that such an army 
 should be cooped within the narrow limits of 
 the peninsula by a band of half-armed hus- 
 bandmen, destitute alike of the knowledge 
 of war, and of most of its munitions. This 
 feeling was increased by the taunts of the 
 Americans themselves, who now turned the 
 tables on their adversaries, applying, among 
 other sneers, the term of “ elbow-room” 
 freely to Burgoyne, one of those chieftains 
 of the royal army, who had boasted unwit- 
 tingly of the intention of himself and his 
 compeers to widen the limits of the army 
 
  immediately.on their arrival at the scene of 
 
 289 
 
 the contest. The aspect of things within the 
 British camp began to indicate, however, that 
 their leaders were serious in the intention to 
 extend their possessions, and all eyes were 
 again turned to the heights of Charlestown, 
 the spot most likely to be first occupied. 
 
 No military positions could be more hap- 
 pily situated, as respects locality, to support 
 each other, and to extend and weaken the 
 lines of their enemies, than the two opposite 
 peninsulas so often mentioned. ‘The dis- 
 tance between them was but six hundred 
 yards, and the deep and navigable waters, by 
 which they were nearly surrounded, rendered 
 it easy for the royal general to command, at 
 any time, the assistance of the heaviest ves- 
 sels of the fleet, in defending either place. 
 With these advantages before them, the army 
 gladly heard those orders issued, which, it 
 was well understood, indicated an approach- 
 ing movement to the opposite shores. 
 
 It was now eight weeks since the com- 
 mencement of hostilities, and the war had 
 been confined to the preparations detailed, 
 with the exception of one or two sharp skir- 
 mishes on the islands of the harbor, between 
 the foragers of the army, and small parties 
 of the Americans, in which the latter well 
 maintained their newly acquired reputation 
 
 for spirit. 
 
 With the arrival of the regiments from 
 England gayety had once more visited the 
 town, though such of the inhabitants as were 
 compelled to remain against their inclina- 
 tions continued to maintain that cold re- 
 serve, in their deportment, which effectually 
 repelled all the efforts of the officers to in- 
 
 clude them in the wanton festivities of the 
 time. There were a few, however, among 
 the colonists, who had been bribed, by offices 
 and emoluments, to desert the good cause of 
 the land; and as some of these had already 
 been rewarded by offices which gave them 
 access to the ear of the royal governor, he 
 was thought to be unduly and unhappily in. 
 fluenced by the pernicious counsels with 
 which they poisoned his mind, and prepared 
 him for acts of injustice and harshness, that 
 both his unbiassed feelings and ordinary 
 opinions would have condemned. A few 
 days succeeding the affair of Lexington, a 
 meeting of the inhabitants had been con- 
 vened, and a solemn compact was made 
 
 Slay 
 
290 
 
 between them and the governor, that such as 
 chose to deliver up their arms might leave 
 the place, while the remainder were promised 
 a suitable protection in their own dwellings. 
 The arms were delivered, but that part of 
 the conditions which related to the removal 
 of the inhabitants was violated under shght 
 and insufficient pretexts. This, and various 
 other causes incidental to military rule, im- 
 bittered the feelings of the people, and fur- 
 nished new causes of complaint; while, on 
 the other hand, hatred was rapidly usurping 
 the place of contempt, in the breasts of those 
 who had been compelled to change their 
 sentiments with respect to a people that 
 they could never love. In this manner, 
 resentment and distrust existed, with all the 
 violence of personality, within the place 
 itself, affording an additional reason to the 
 troops for wishing to extend their limits. 
 Notwithstanding these inauspicious omens 
 of the character of the contest, the native 
 kindness of Gage, and perhaps a desire to 
 rescue a few of his own men from the hands 
 of the colonists, induced him to consent to 
 an exchange of the prisoners made in the 
 Inroad; thus establishing, in the outset, a 
 precedent to distinguish the controversy 
 from an ordinary rebellion against the loyal 
 authority of the sovereign. A meeting was 
 held, for this purpose, in the village of 
 Charlestown, at that time unoccupied by 
 either army. At the head of the American 
 deputation appeared Warren, and the old 
 partisan of the wilderness already men- 
 tioned, who, by a happy, though not uncom- 
 mon constitution of temperament, was as 
 forward in deeds of charity as in those of 
 daring. At this interview, several of the 
 veterans of the royal army were present, 
 having passed the strait to hold a last 
 friendly converse with their ancient comrade, 
 who received them with the franknegs of a 
 soldier, while he rejected their subtle en- 
 deavors to entice him from the banner 
 under which he had enlisted, with a sturdi- 
 ness as unpretending as it was inflexible. 
 While these events were occurring at the 
 great scene of the contest, the hum of 
 preparation was to be heard throughout the 
 whole of the wide extent of the colonies, In 
 various places slight acts of hostility were 
 committed, the Americans no longer waiting 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 for the British to be the aggressors, and 
 everywhere such military stores as could be 
 reached were seized, peaceably or by violence, 
 as the case required. The concentration of 
 most of the troops in Boston had, however, 
 left the other colonies comparatively but little 
 to achieve, though, while they still rested, 
 nominally, under the dominion of the crown, 
 they neglected no means within their power 
 to assert their rights in the last extremity. 
 
 At Philadelphia “the Congress of the 
 Delegates from the United Colonies,” the 
 body that controlled the great movements of 
 a people who now first began to act as a dis- 
 tinct nation, issued their manifestoes, sup- 
 porting, in a masterly manner, their princi- 
 ples, and proceeded to organize an army that 
 should be as competent to maintain them as 
 circumstances would allow. Gentlemen who 
 had been trained to arms in the service of 
 the king, were invited to resort to their ban- 
 ners, and the remainder of the vacancies 
 were filled by the names of the youthful, the 
 bold and adventurous, who were willing to 
 risk their lives in a cause where even success 
 promised so little personal advantage. At 
 the head of this list of untrained warriors, 
 the congress placed one of their own body, a 
 man already distinguished for his services in 
 the field, and who has since bequeathed to 
 his country the glory of an untarnished 
 name, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ‘Thou shalt meet me at Philippi.”—Julius Owsar. 
 
 DvRING this period of feverish excitement, 
 while the appearance and privations of war 
 existed with so little of its danger or its 
 action, Lionel had not altogether forgotten 
 his personal feelings, in the powerful interest 
 created by the state of public affairs. Early 
 on the morning succeeding the night of the 
 scene between Mrs. Lechmere and the in- 
 mates of the warehouse, he had repaired 
 again to the spot, to relieve the intense 
 anxiety of his mind, by seeking a complete 
 explanation of all those mysteries, which had 
 been the principal ligament that bound him 
 toa man little known, except for his singu- 
 larities. 
 
 The effects of the preceding. day’s battle 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 were already visible in the market-place, 
 where, as Lionel passed, he saw few or none 
 of the countrymen, who usually crowded the 
 square at that hour. In fact, the windows 
 of the shops were opened with caution, and 
 _men looked out upon the face of the sun, 
 as if doubting of its appearance and warmth, 
 as in seasons of ordinary quiet; jealousy and 
 distrust having completely usurped the place 
 of security within the streets of the town. 
 Notwithstanding the hour, few were in their 
 beds, and those who appeared betrayed by 
 their looks that they had passed the night 
 in watchfulness. Among this number was 
 Abigail Pray, who received her guest in her 
 little tower, surrounded by everything as he 
 had seen it on the past evening, nothing 
 altered, except her own dark eye, which at 
 times looked like a gem of price set in her 
 squalid features, but which now appeared 
 haggard and sunken, participating, more 
 markedly than common, in the general air 
 of misery that pervaded the woman. 
 
 **T have intruded at a somewhat unusual 
 hour, Mrs. Pray,” said Lionel, as he entered; 
 “but business of the last moment requires 
 that I should see your lodger—I suppose he 
 is above; it will be well to announce my 
 visit.” 
 
 Abigail shook her head with an air of sol- 
 emn meaning, as she answered in a subdued 
 voice, “ He is gone! ” 
 
 “Gone!” exclaimed Lionel — ‘ whither, 
 and when?” 
 
 “<The people seem visited by the wrath of 
 God, sir;” returned the woman—“ old and 
 young, the sick and well, are crazy about the 
 shedding of blood; and it’s beyond the might 
 of man to say where the torrent will be 
 stayed !” 
 
 “But what has this to do with Ralph? 
 where is he? Woman, you are not playing 
 me false?” 
 
 “1! heaven forbid that I should ever be 
 false again! and to you least of all God’s 
 creatures! No, no, Major Lincoln; the 
 wonderful man, who seems to have lived 
 so long that he can even read our secret 
 thoughts, as I had supposed man could never 
 read them, has left me, and I know not 
 whether he will ever return.” 
 
 “Ever! you have not driven him by vio- 
 
 _ lence from under your miserable roof ?” 
 
 291 
 
 “My roof is like that of the fowls of the 
 air—’tis the roof of any who are so unfortu- 
 nate as to need it.—There is nospot on earth, 
 Major Lincoln, that I can call mine—but one 
 
 : day there will be one—yes, yes, there will be 
 
 a narrow house provided for us all; and God 
 grant that mine may be as quiet as the coffin 
 is said to be! ‘I lie not, Major Lincoln—no, 
 this time I am innocent of deceit—Ralph 
 and Job have gone together, but whither, I 
 know not, unless it be to join the people 
 without the town—they left me as the moon 
 rose, and he gave me a parting and a warn- 
 ing voice, that will ring in my ears until 
 they are deafened by the damps of the 
 grave !” 
 
 “Gone to join the Americans, and with 
 Job!” returned Lionel, musing, and without 
 attending to the closing words of Abigail.— 
 “ Your boy will purchase peril with this mad- 
 ness, Mrs. Pray, and should be looked to.” 
 
 ‘* Job is not one of God’s accountables, 
 nor is he to be treated like other children,” 
 returned the woman. ‘‘Ah! Major Lincoln, 
 a healthier, and a stouter, and a finer boy 
 was not to be seen in the Bay province, till 
 the child had reached his fifth year! then, 
 then it was that the judgment of heaven fell 
 on mother and son—sickness made him what 
 you see, a being with the form, but without 
 the reason of man, and I have grown the 
 wretch I am. But it has all been foretold, 
 and warnings enough have I had of it all! 
 for is it not said, that He ‘ will visit the sins 
 of the fathers upon the children until the 
 third and fourth generation?’ Thank God, 
 my sorrows and sins will end with Job, for 
 there never can be a third to suffer!” 
 
 “Tf,” said Lionel, ‘‘ there be any sin which 
 lies heavy at your heart, every consideration, 
 whether of justice or repentance, should in- 
 duce you to confess your errors to those 
 whose happiness may be affected by the 
 knowledge, if any such there be.” 
 
 The anxious eye of the woman raised itself 
 to meet the look of the young man; but, 
 quailing before the piercing gaze it encoun- 
 tered, she quickly turned it upon the litter 
 and confusion of her disordered apartment. 
 Lionel waited some time for a reply, but 
 finding that she remained obstinately silent, 
 he continued— 
 
 ‘From what has already passed, you must 
 
292 
 
 be conscious that I have good reason to 
 believe that my feelings are deeply concerned 
 in your secret; make, then, your confession 
 of the guilt which seems to bear you down 
 so heavily; and in return for the confidence, 
 I promise you my forgiveness and protection.” 
 
 As Lionel pressed thus directly the point 
 so near his heart, the woman shrunk away 
 from her situation near him, and her counte- 
 nance lost, as he proceeded, its remarkable 
 expression of compunction, in a forced look 
 of deep surprise, that showed she was no 
 novice in dissimulation, whatever might be 
 the occasional warnings of her conscience. 
 
 ‘“Guilt !” she repeated, in a slow and trem- 
 ulous voice ; ‘‘ we are all guilty, and would 
 be lost creatures, but for the blood of the 
 Mediator.” 
 
 “ Most true ; but you have spoken of crimes 
 that infringe the laws of man, as well as those 
 of God.” 
 
 *‘T! Major Lincoln—I a disorderly law- 
 breaker?” exclaimed Abigail, affecting to 
 busy herself in arranging her apartment— 
 ‘‘it is not such as I, that have leisure or 
 courage to break the laws! Major Lincoln is 
 trying a poor lone woman, to make his jokes 
 with the gentlemen of his mess this evening 
 —’tis certain we all of us have our burdens of 
 guilt to answer for—surely Major Lincoln 
 couldn’t have heard minister Hunt preach his 
 sermon, the last Sabbath, on the sins of the 
 town !” 
 
 Lionel colored highly at the artful impu- 
 tation of the woman, that he was practising 
 on her sex and unprotected situation ; and, 
 greatly provoked, in secret, at her duplicity, 
 he became more guarded in his language, en- 
 deavoring to lead her on, by kindness and 
 soothing, to the desired communications. 
 But all his ingenuity was met by more than 
 equal abilities on the part of Abigail, from 
 whom he only obtained expressions of sur- 
 prise, that he could haye mistaken her lan- 
 guage for more than the usual acknowledg- 
 ment of errors that are admitted to be com- 
 mon to our lost nature. In this particular, 
 the woman was in no respect singular; the 
 greater number of those, who are loudest in 
 their confessions of and denunciations on the 
 abandoned nature of our hearts, commonly 
 resenting, in the deepest manner, the impu- 
 tation of individual offences. The more 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 earnest and pressing his inquiries became, the 
 more wary she grew, until, disgusted with her 
 pertinacity, and secretly suspecting her of 
 foul play with her lodger, he left the house 
 in anger, determining to keep a close eye on 
 her movements, and, at a suitable moment, to 
 strike such a blow as should bring her not 
 only to confession, but to shame. 
 
 Under the influence of this momentary re- 
 sentment, and unable to avoid harboring the 
 most unpleasant suspicions of his aunt, the 
 young man determined that very morning to 
 withdraw himself entirely, as a guest, from 
 her dwelling. Mrs. Lechmere, who, if she 
 knew at all that Lionel had been a witness of 
 her intercourse with Ralph, must have re- 
 ceived the intelligence from Abigail, received 
 him, at breakfast, with a manner that be- 
 trayed no such consciousness. She listened 
 to his excuses for removing, with evident con- 
 cern ; and more than once, as Lionel spoke of 
 the probable nature of his future life, now 
 that hostilities had commenced—the addi- 
 tional trouble his presence would occasion to 
 one of her habits and years—of his great 
 concern in her behalf—and, in short, of all 
 that he could devise in the way of apology for 
 the step, he saw her eyes turned anxiously on 
 Cecil with an expression which, at another 
 time, might have led him to distrust the mo- 
 tives of her hospitality. The young lady, 
 herself, however, evidently heard the pro- 
 posal with great satisfaction, and, when her 
 grandmother appealed to her opinion, whether 
 he had urged a single good reason for the 
 measure, she answered with a vivacity that 
 had been a stranger to her manner of 
 late— 
 
 «‘ Certainly, my dear grandmamma—the 
 best of all reasons—his inclinations. Major 
 Lincoln tires of us, and of our humdrum 
 habits, and—and in my eyes, true politeness 
 requires, that we should suffer him to leave 
 us for his barracks, without a word of re- 
 monstrance.” 
 
 ‘‘My motive must be greatly mistaken, if 
 a desire to leave you A 
 
 ‘‘Oh ! sir, the explanation is not required. 
 You have urged so many reasons, cousin 
 Lionel, that the true and moving motive is 
 yet kept behind the curtain. It must and 
 can be no other than ennui.” | 
 
 ‘«Then I. will remain,” said Lionel ; ‘‘ for 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 anything is better than to be suspected of in- 
 sensibility.” 
 
 Cecil looked both gratified and disap- 
 pointed—she played with her spoon a mo- 
 ment in embarrassment, bit her beautiful lip 
 with vexation, and then said, in a more 
 friendly tone— 
 
 «J must then exonerate you from the im- 
 putation. Go to your own quarters, if it be 
 agreeable, and we will believe your incompre- 
 hensible reasons for the change—besides, as a 
 kinsman, we shall see you every day, you 
 know.” 
 
 Lionel had now no longer any excuse for 
 not abiding by his avowed determination ; 
 and, notwithstanding Mrs. Lechmere parted 
 from her interesting nephew with an exhibi- 
 tion of reluctance that was in singular 
 contrast with her usually cold and formal 
 manner, the desired removal was made in the 
 course of that very morning. 
 
 When this change was accomplished, week 
 after week slipped by, in the manner related 
 in the preceding chapter, during which the 
 reinforcements continued to arrive, and gen- 
 eral after general appeared in the place to 
 support the unenterprising Gage in the con- 
 duct of the war. The timid amongst the 
 colonists were appalled as they heard the long 
 list of proud and boasted names recounted. 
 There was Howe, a man sprung from a noble 
 race, long known for their deeds in arms, and 
 whose chief had already shed his blood on the 
 soil of America—Clinton, another cadet of an 
 illustrious house, better known for his per- 
 sonal intrepidity and domestic kindness, than 
 for the rough qualities of the warrior—and 
 the elegant and accomplished Burgoyne, who 
 had already purchased a name in the fields of 
 Portugal and Germany, which he was des- 
 tined soon to lose in the wilds of America. 
 In addition to these might be mentioned 
 Pigot, Grant, Robertson, and the heir of Nor- 
 thumberland, each of whom led a brigade in 
 the cause of his prince; besides a host of 
 men of lesser note, who had passed their 
 youth in arms, and were now about to bring 
 their experience to the field, in opposition to 
 the untrained husbandmen of the plains of 
 New England. As if this list were not suffi- 
 cient to overwhelm their inexperienced adver- 
 saries, the pride of arms had gathered many 
 of the young among the noble and chivalric 
 
 293 
 
 in the British empire, to the point on which 
 all eyes were turned ; amongst whom the one 
 who afterward added the fairest wreath to 
 the laurels of his ancestors was the joint 
 heir of Hastings and Moira, the gallant, but, 
 as yet, untried boy of Rawdon. Amongst 
 such companions, many of whom had been 
 his associates in England, the hours of Lionel 
 passed swiftly by, leaving him but little lei- 
 sure to meditate on those causes which had 
 brought him also to the scene of contention. 
 
 One warm evening, toward the middle of 
 June, Lionel became a witness of the follow- 
 ing scene, through the open doors which 
 communicated between his private apartment 
 and the room which Polwarth had dedicated 
 to what he called ‘‘the knowing mess.” 
 M’Fuse was seated at a table, with a ludi- 
 crous air of magisterial authority, while Pol- 
 warth held a station at his side, which ap- 
 peared to partake of the double duties of a 
 judge and a scribe. Before this formidable 
 tribunal Seth Sage was arraigned, as it would 
 seem, to answer for certain offences alleged to 
 have been committed in the field of battle. 
 Ignorant that his landlord had not received 
 the benefit of the late exchange, and curious 
 to know what all the suppressed roguery he 
 could detect in the demure countenances of 
 his friends might signify, Lionel dropped his 
 pen, and listened to the succeeding dialogue. 
 
 ‘«« Now answer to your offences, thou silly 
 fellow, with a wise name,” M‘Fuse com- 
 menced, in a voice that did not fail, by its 
 harsh cadences, to create some of that awe, 
 which, by the expression of the speaker’s eye, 
 it would seem he labored to produce—“‘ speak 
 out with the freedom of a man, and the com- 
 punctions of a Christian, if you have them. 
 Why should I not send you at once to Ire- 
 land, that ye may get your deserts on three 
 pieces of timber, the one being laid cross-wise 
 for the sake of convenience ? If you have 
 a contrary reason, bestow it without delay, 
 for the love you bear your own angular 
 daiformities.” 
 
 The wags did not altogether fail in their 
 object, Seth betraying a good deal more un- 
 easiness than it was usual for the man to ex- 
 hibit even in situations of uncommon peril. 
 After clearing his throat, and looking about 
 him, to gather from the eyes of the specta- 
 tors which way their sympathies inclined, he 
 
294 
 
 answered with a very commendable forti- 
 tude— 
 
 “ Because it’s ag’in all law.” 
 
 ‘‘ Have done with your interminable per- 
 plexities of the law,” cried M‘Fuse, “‘and do 
 not bother honest gentlemen with its knay- 
 ery, as if they were no more than so many 
 proctors in big wigs! ’tis the gospel you 
 should be thinking of, you godless reprobate, 
 on account of that final end you will yet 
 make, one day, in a most indecent hurry.” 
 
 “To your purpose, Mac,” interrupted 
 Polwarth, who perceived that the erratic 
 feelings of his friend were beginning already 
 to lead him from the desired point ; “or I 
 will propound the matter myself, in a style 
 that would do credit to a mandamus coun- 
 sellor.” 
 
 ‘The mandamuses are all ag’in the char- 
 ter, and the law too,” continued Seth, whose 
 courage increased as the dialogue bore more 
 directly upon his political principles—‘‘ and 
 to my mind it’s quite convincing, that if min- 
 isters calculate largely on upholding them, 
 there will be great disturbances, if not a prop- 
 er fight in the land; for the whole country 
 is in a blaze!” 
 
 ‘* Disturbances, thou immovable iniquity! 
 thou quiet assassin!’ roared M’Fuse; “do 
 ye not call a light of a day a disturbance ?— 
 or do ye tarm skulking behind fences, and 
 laying the muzzle of a musket on the head 
 of Job Pray, and the breech on a mullein- 
 stalk, while ye draw upon a fellow-creature, 
 a commendable method of fighting? Now 
 answer me to the truth, and disdain all lying, 
 as ye would ‘ating anything but cod on a 
 Saturday, who were the two men that fired 
 into my very countenance, from the unfortu- 
 nate situation among the mulleins that I have 
 detailed to you?” 
 
 “Pardon me, Captain M’Fuse,” said Pol- 
 warth, “if I say that your zeal and indigna- 
 tion run ahead of your discretion. If we 
 alarm the prisoner m this manner, we may 
 defeat the ends of justice. Besides, sir, there 
 is a reflection contained in your language, to 
 which I must dissent. A real dwinbd is not to 
 be despised, especially when served up in 
 wrapper, and between two coarser fish, to 
 preserve the steam—I have had my private 
 meditations on the subject of getting up a 
 Saturday’s club, in order to enjoy the bounty 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 of the Bay, and for improving the cookery of 
 the cod!” * 
 
 ‘‘And let me tell you, Captain Polwarth,” 
 returned the grenadier, cocking his eye 
 fiercely at the other, ‘that your epicurean 
 propensities lead you to the verge of canni- 
 balism ; for sure it may be called that, when 
 you speak of ’ating, while the life of a fellow- 
 crature is under a discussion for its termina- 
 tion——” 
 
 ““T conclude,” interrupted Seth, who was 
 greatly averse to all quarrelling, and who 
 thought he saw the symptoms of a breach be- 
 tween his judges, ‘‘the captain wishes to 
 know who the two men were that fired on 
 him a short time before he got the hit in the 
 shoulder ?” | 
 
 “A short time, ye marvellous hypocrite !— 
 ‘twas as quick as pop and slap could make 
 it.”” 
 
 ‘Perhaps there might be some mistake, 
 for a great many of the troops were much 
 disguised ee 
 
 ‘Do ye insinuate that I got drunk before 
 the enemies of my king ?” roared the grena- 
 dier.—“ Hark ye, Master Sage; I ask youina 
 genteel way, who the two men were that fired 
 on me, in the manner detailed; and remem- 
 ber that a man may tire of putting questions 
 which are never answered.” 
 
 “Why,” returned Seth, who, however ex- 
 pert at prevarication, eschewed, with relig- 
 ious horror, a direct lie—«I pretty much 
 conclude that they—the captain is sure the 
 place he means was just beyond Menotomy?” 
 
 ‘* As sure as men can be,” said Polwarth, 
 “who possess the use of their eyes.” 
 
 “Then Captain Polwarth can give testi- 
 mony to the fact ?” 
 
 “I believe Major Lincoln’s horse carries a 
 small bit of your lead to this moment, Mas- ” 
 ter Sage.” 
 
 Seth yielded to this accumulation of eyi- 
 
 a ee ee eB 
 
 * Nore.—It may be a fit matter of inquiry for the 
 antiquarian, to learn whether the captain ever put 
 his project in execution ; and, if so, whether he has 
 not the merit of founding that famous association, 
 which, to this hour, maintains the Catholic custom 
 of the east, by feasting on the last day of the week 
 on the staple of New England ; and which is said to 
 assemble regularly, with much good-fellowship, 
 around more good wine than is ever encountered at 
 any other board in the known world. 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 dence against him; and knowing, moreover, 
 that the grenadier had literally made him a 
 prisoner in the act of renewing his fire, he 
 sagaciously determined to make a merit of 
 necessity, and candidly to acknowledge his 
 agency in inflicting the wounds. The ut- 
 most, however, that his cautious habits would 
 permit him to say, was— 
 
 «Seeing there can’t well be any mistake, I 
 seem to think the two men were chiefly Job 
 and I.” 
 
 “Chaifly, you lath of uncertainty !” ex- 
 claimed M’Fuse; “if there was any chaif in 
 that cowardly assassination of wounding a 
 Christian, and of also hurting a horse— 
 which, though nothing but a dumb baste, 
 has better blood than runs in your own beg- 
 garly veins—’twas your own ugly proportions. 
 But I rejoice that you have come to the con- 
 fessional! I can now see you hung with fe- 
 licity—if you have anything to say, urge it 
 at once, why I should not embark you for 
 Ireland by the first vessel, in a letter to my 
 lord-lieutenant, with a request that he'll give 
 you an early procession, and a dacent fu- 
 neral.” 
 
 Seth belonged to a class of his countrymen, 
 amongst whom, while there was a superabun- 
 dance of ingenuity, there was literally no 
 joke. Deceived by the appearance of anger, 
 which had in reality blended with the as- 
 sumed manner of the grenadier, as he dwelt 
 upon the irritating subject of his own inju- 
 ries, the belief of the prisoner in the sacred 
 protection of the laws became much shaken, 
 and he began to reflect very seriously on the 
 insecurity of the times, as well as on the des- 
 potic nature of the military power. The lit- 
 tle humor he had inherited from his puritan 
 ancestors was, though exceedingly quaint, 
 altogether after a different fashion from the 
 off-hand, blundering wit of the Irishman; 
 and that manner which he did not possess, 
 he could not entirely comprehend, so that, 
 as far as a very visible alarm furthered the 
 views of the two conspirators, they were quite 
 successful, Polwarth now took pity on his 
 evident embarrassment, and observed, with a 
 careless manner— 
 
 ‘* Perhaps I can make a proposal, by which 
 Mr. Sage may redeem his neck from the halter, 
 
 and at the same time essentially serve an old 
 friend.” 
 
 - 
 
 \ 
 \ 
 
 295 
 
 “Hear ye that, thou confounder of men 
 and bastes !” cried M’Fuse—‘‘ down on your 
 knees, and thank Mr. Paiter Polwarth for 
 the charity of his insinuation.” 
 
 Seth was not displeased to hear such ami- 
 cable intentions announced; but, habitually 
 cautious in all bargaining, he suppressed the 
 exhibition of his satisfaction, and said, with 
 an air of deliberation that would have done 
 credit to the keenest trader in King Street— 
 that “he should like to hear the terms of the 
 agreement, before he gave his conclusion.” 
 
 ‘“‘They are simply these,” returned Pol- 
 warth—‘‘ you shall receive your passports 
 and freedom to-night, on condition that you 
 sion this bond, whereby you will become 
 obliged to supply our mess, as usual, during 
 the time the place is invested, with certain 
 articles of food and nourishment, as herein 
 set forth, and according to the prices men- 
 tioned, which the veriest Jew in Duke’s 
 Place would pronounce to be liberal. Here; 
 take the instrument, and ‘read, and mark,’ 
 in order that we may ‘inwardly digest.’ ” 
 
 Seth took the paper and gave it that man- 
 ner of investigation that he was wont to 
 bestow on everything which affected his pe- 
 cuniary interests. He objected to the price 
 of every article, all of which were altered in 
 compliance with his obstinate resistance ; and 
 he moreover insisted, that a clause should be 
 inserted to exonerate him from the penalty, 
 provided the intercourse should be prohibited 
 by the authorities of the colony; after which 
 he continued— 
 
 “Tf the captain will agree to take charge 
 of the things, and become hable, I will con- 
 clude to make the trade.” 
 
 ‘Here is a fellow who wants boot in a 
 bargain for his life!” cried the grenadier ; 
 “but we will humor his covetous inclina- 
 tions, Polly, and take charge of the chattels. 
 Captain Polwarth and myself pledge our 
 words to their safe-keeping. Let me run my 
 eyes over the articles,” continued the grena- 
 dier, looking very gravely at the several cove- 
 nants of the bond—“ faith, Paiter, you have 
 bargained for a goodly larder! Baif, mutton, 
 pigs, turnips, potatoes, melons, and other 
 fruits—there’s a blunder, now, that would 
 keep an English mess on a grin for a month, 
 if an Irishman had made it! as if a melon was 
 a fruit, and a potato was not! The devil a 
 
296 
 
 word do I see that you have said about a 
 mouthful, except aitables, either! Here, fel- 
 low, clap your learning to it, and I’ll war- 
 rant you we yet get a meal out of it, in some 
 manner or other.” 
 
 ‘Wouldn’t it be as well to put the last 
 agreement in the writings too,” said Seth, 
 “in case of accidents ?” 
 
 “ Hear how a knave halters himself!” cried 
 M’Fuse ; “he has the individual honor of 
 two captains of foot, and is willing to ex- 
 change it for their joint bond! The request 
 is too raisonable to be denied, Polly, and we 
 should be guilty of pecuniary suicide to reject 
 it ; so place a small article at the bottom, ex- 
 planatory of the mistake the gentleman has 
 fallen into.” 
 
 Polwarth did not hesitate to comply, and in 
 a very few minutes everything was arranged 
 to the perfect satisfaction of the parties ; the 
 two soldiers felicitating themselves on the 
 success of a scheme which seemed to avert 
 the principal evils of the leaguer from their 
 own mess; and Seth finding no difficulty in 
 complying with an agreement which was 
 likely to prove so profitable, however much 
 he doubted its validity ina court of justice. 
 The prisoner was now declared at liberty, 
 and was advised to make his way out of the 
 place with as little noise as possible, and 
 under favor of the pass he held. Seth gave 
 the bond a last and most attentive perusal, 
 and then departed, well contented to abide 
 by its conditions, and not a little pleased to 
 escape from the grenadier, the expression of 
 whose half-comic, half-serious eye occasioned 
 him more perplexity than any other subject 
 which had ever before occupied his astute- 
 ness. After the disappearance of the pris- 
 oner, the two worthies repaired to their 
 nightly banquet, laughing heartily at the suc- 
 cess of their notable invention. 
 
 Lionel suffered Seth to pass from the room, 
 without speaking; but, as the man left his 
 own abode with a lingering and doubtful 
 step, the young soldier followed him into the 
 street, without communicating to any one 
 that he had witnessed what had passed, with 
 the laudable intention of adding his own per- 
 sonal pledge for the security of the house- 
 hold goods in question. He, however, found 
 it no easy achievement to equal the speed of 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 confinement, and who now appeared inclined 
 to indulge his limbs freely in the pleasure of 
 an unlimited exercise. ‘The velocity of Seth 
 continued unabated, until he had conducted 
 Lionel far into the lower parts of the town, 
 where the latter perceived him to encounter 
 a man, with whom he turned suddenly under 
 an arch which led into a dark and narrow 
 court. Lionel instantly increased his speed, 
 and as he entered beneath the passage, he 
 caught a glimpse of the lank figure of the ob- 
 ject of his pursuit, gliding through the oppo- 
 site entrance to the court, and, at the same 
 moment, he encountered the man who had 
 apparently induced the deviation in his route. 
 As Lionel stepped a little on one side, the 
 light of a lamp fell full on the form of the 
 other, and he recognized the person of the 
 active leader of the caucus (as the political 
 meeting he had attended was called), though 
 so disguised and muffled, that, but for the 
 accidental opening of the folds of his cloak, 
 the unknown might have passed his nearest 
 friend without discovery. 
 
 ‘““We meet again!” exclaimed Lionel, in 
 the quickness of surprise ; ‘‘ though it would 
 seem that the sun is never to shine on our 
 interviews.” 
 
 The stranger started, and betrayed an evi- 
 dent wish to continue his walk, as though 
 the other had mistaken his person; then, as 
 if suddenly recollecting himself, he turned 
 and approached Lionel, with easy dignity, 
 and answered— 
 
 ‘‘The third time is said to contain the 
 charm! I am happy to find that I meet 
 Major Lincoln unharmed, after the dangers 
 he has so lately encountered.” 
 
 ““The dangers have probably been exag- 
 gerated by those who wish ill to the cause of 
 our master,” returned Lionel, coldly. 
 
 There was a calm but proud smile on the 
 face of the stranger, as he replied— 
 
 ‘‘T shall not dispute the information of 
 one who bore so conspicuous a part in the 
 deeds of that day—still you will remember, 
 though the march to Lexington was, like our 
 own accidental rencontres, in the dark, that 
 a bright sun shone upon the retreat, and 
 nothing has been hid.” 
 
 ‘‘Nothing need be concealed,” replied 
 Lionel, nettled by the proud composure of 
 
 a man who had just escaped from a long |the other—‘‘ unless, indeed, the man I ad- 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 « 
 
 “dress is afraid to walk the streets of Boston 
 in open day.” 
 
 ‘<The man you address, Major Lincoln,” 
 said the stranger, advancing in his warmth a 
 step nearer to Lionel, ‘‘has dared to walk 
 the streets of Boston both by day and by 
 night, when the bullies of him you call your 
 master have strutted their hour in the 
 security of peace; and, now a nation is up 
 to humble their pretensions, shall he shrink 
 from treading his native soil when he will ?” 
 
 “This is bold language from an enemy 
 within a British camp! Ask yourself what 
 course my duty requires of me.” 
 
 “That is a question which lies between 
 Major Lincoln and his conscience,” returned 
 the stranger—‘‘ though,” he added, after a 
 momentary pause, and in a milder tone, as if 
 he recollected the danger of his situation— 
 ‘‘the gentlemen of his name and lineage 
 were not apt to be informers, when they 
 dwelt in the land of their birth.” 
 
 Neither is their descendant. But let 
 this be the last of our interviews, until we 
 can meet as friends, or, as enemies should, 
 where we may discuss these topics at the 
 points of our weapons.” , 
 
 “Amen,” said the stranger, seizing the 
 hand of the young man, and pressing it with 
 the warmth of a generous emulation—“‘ that 
 hour may not be far distant, and may God 
 smile only on the just cause.” 
 
 Without uttering more, he drew the folds 
 of his dress more closely around his form, 
 and walked so swiftly away that Lionel, had 
 he possessed the inclination, could not have 
 found an opportunity to arrest his progress. 
 As all expectation of overtaking Seth was 
 now lost, the young soldier returned slowly 
 and thoughtfully towards his quarters. 
 
 The two or three succeeding days were dis- 
 tinguished by an appearance of more than 
 usual preparation among the troops, and it 
 became known that officers of rank had 
 closely reconnoitred the grounds of the 
 opposite peninsula. Lionel patiently awaited 
 the progress of events; but as the proba- 
 bility of active service increased, his wishes 
 to make another effort to probe the secret of 
 the tenant of the warehouse revived, and he 
 took his way towards the Dock Square, with 
 that object, on the night of the fourth day 
 from the preceding interview with the 
 
 29% 
 
 stranger. It was long after the tattoo had 
 laid the town in that deep quiet, which fol- 
 lows the bustle of a garrison; and, as he 
 passed along, he saw none but the sentinels 
 pacing their short limits, or an occasional 
 officer, returning at that late hour from his 
 revels or his duty. The windows of the 
 warehouse were dark, and its inhabitants, if 
 any it had, were wrapped in deep sleep. 
 Restless and excited, Lionel pursued his 
 walk through the narrow and gloomy 
 streets of the North-End, until he unex- 
 pectedly found himself issuing upon the 
 open space that is tenanted by the dead, on 
 Copp’s-Hill. On this eminence the English 
 general had caused a battery of heavy can- 
 non to be raised, and Lionel, unwilling to 
 encounter the challenge of the sentinels, in- 
 clining a little to one side, proceeded to the 
 brow of the hill, and, seating himself on a 
 stone, began to muse deeply on his own 
 fortunes, and the situation of the coun- 
 try. 
 
 The night was obscure, but the thin vapors 
 which appeared to overhang the place opened 
 at times, when a faint starlight fell from the 
 heavens, and rendered the black hulls of the 
 vessels of war, that lay moored before the 
 town, and the faint outlines of the opposite 
 shores, dimly visible. The stillness of mid- 
 night rested on the scene, and when the loud 
 calls of ‘‘all’s well” ascended from the ships 
 and batteries, the momentary cry was suc- 
 ceeded by a quiet as deep as if the universe 
 slumbered under this assurance of safety. At 
 such an instant, when even the light breath- 
 ings of the night-air were audible, the sound 
 of rippling waters, like that occasioned by 
 raising a paddle with extreme caution, was 
 borne to the ear of the young soldier. He 
 listened intently, and then, bending his eyes 
 in the direction of the faint sounds, he saw a 
 small canoe gliding along the surface of the 
 water, and soon shoot upon the gravelly shore, 
 at the foot of the hill, with a motion so easy 
 and uniform as scarcely to curl a wave on the 
 land. Curious to know who could be moving 
 about the harbor at this hour, in such a secret 
 manner, Lionel was in the act of rising to 
 descend, when he saw the dim figure of a man 
 land from the boat, and climb the hill, di- 
 rectly in a line with his own position. Sup- 
 pressing even the sounds of his breath, and 
 
298 
 
 drawing his body back within the deep shadow 
 cast from a point of the hill, a little above 
 him, Lionel waited until the figure had ap- 
 proached within ten feet of him, when it 
 stopped, and appeared, like himself, to be 
 endeavoring to suppress all other sounds and 
 feelings in the absorbing act of deep attention. 
 The young soldier loosened his sword in its 
 sheath, before he said— 
 
 ‘We have chosen a private spot, and a 
 secret hour, sir, for our meditations ! ” 
 
 Had the figure possessed the impalpable 
 nature of an immaterial being, it could not 
 have received this remark, so startling from 
 its suddenness, with greater apathy than did 
 the man to whom it was addressed. He 
 turned slowly toward the speaker, and seemed 
 to look at him earnestly, before he answered, 
 in a low, menacing voice— 
 
 ‘“« There’s a granny on the hill, with a gun 
 and baggonet, walking among the cannon, 
 and if he hears people talking down here, 
 he’ll make them prisoners, though one of 
 them should be Major Lincoln.” 
 
 “Ha! Job,” said Lionel—“ and is it you I 
 meet prowling about like a thief at night ?— 
 on what errand of mischief have you been 
 sent this time ? ” 
 
 “If Job’s a thief for coming to see the 
 graves on Copp’s,” returned the lad sullenly, 
 ‘*there’s two of them.” 
 
 ‘‘Well answered, boy !” said Lionel, with 
 asmile ; “ but I repeat, on what errand have 
 you returned to the town at this unseasonable 
 and suspicious hour?” 
 
 “Job loves to come up among the graves, 
 before the cocks crow ; they say the dead walk 
 when living men sleep.” 
 
 “ And would you hold communion with 
 the dead, then?” 
 
 “?Tis sinful to ask them many questions, 
 and such as you do put should be made in the 
 Holy Name,” returned the lad, in a tone so 
 solemn, that, connected with the place and 
 the scene, it caused the blood of Lionel to 
 thrill—‘‘ but Job loves to be near them, to 
 use him to the damps, ag’in the time he shall 
 be called to walk himself in a sheet at mid- 
 night.” 
 
 ‘Hush !” said Lionel—“what noise is 
 that ?” 
 
 Job stood a moment, listening as intently 
 as his companion, before he answered— 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘‘ There’s no noise but the moaning of thé 
 wind in the bay, or the sea tumbling on the 
 beaches of the islands.” 
 
 *©?*Tis neither,” said Lionel ; ‘‘ I heard the 
 low hum of a hundred voices, or my ears 
 have played me falsely.” 
 
 ‘‘ Maybe the spirits speak to each other,” — 
 
 said the lad—“ they say their voices are like 
 the rushing winds.” 
 
 Lionel passed his hand across his brow, and 
 endeavored to recover the tone of his mind, 
 which had been strangely disordered by the 
 solemn manner of his companion, and walked 
 slowly from the spot, closely attended by the 
 silent changeling. He did not stop until he 
 had reached the inner angle of the wall that 
 enclosed the field of the dead, when he paused, 
 and, leaning on the fence, again listened 
 intently. 
 
 “ Boy, I know not how your silly conver- 
 sation may have warped my brain,” he said, 
 “but there are surely strange and unearthly 
 sounds lingering about this place, to-night ! 
 By heavens ! there is another rush of voices, 
 as if the air above the water were filled with 
 living beings ; and then, again, I think I hear 
 a noise as if heavy weights were falling to the 
 earth !” 
 
 “Ay,” said Job, “’tis the clods on the 
 coffins, the dead are going into their graves 
 ag’in, and ’tis time that we should leave them 
 their own grounds.” 
 
 Lionel hesitated no longer, but he rather 
 ran than walked from the spot, with a secret 
 horror that, at another moment, he would 
 have blushed to acknowledge ; nor did he 
 perceive that he was still attended by Job, 
 until he had descended some distance down 
 Lynn Street. Here he was addressed by his 
 companion, in his usually quiet and unmean- 
 
 ing tones— 
 ‘‘There’s the house that the governor 
 built, who went down into the sea for 
 
 money! ” he said—‘‘ he was a poor boy once, 
 like Job, and now they say his grandson is a 
 great lord, and the king knighted the 
 grand’ther too. It’s pretty much the same 
 thing whethera man gets his money out of 
 the sea or out of the earth; the king will 
 make him a lord for it.” 
 
 ‘“You hold the favors of royalty cheap, 
 fellow,” returned Lionel, glancing his eye 
 carelessly at the ‘‘ Phipps’ House,” as he 
 
 —~ 2a ie 
 
 \ 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 passed—‘‘ you forget that I am to be some 
 day one of your despised knights !” 
 
 «<1 know it,” said Job; ‘‘and you come 
 from America too—it seems to me that all 
 the poor boys go from America to the king 
 to be great lords, and all the sons of the great 
 lords come to America to be made poor boys 
 —Nab says Job is the son ofa great lord 
 too!” | 
 
 «“Then Nab is as great afool as her child,” 
 said Lionel; ‘‘but, boy, I would see your 
 mother in the morning, and I expect you to 
 let me know at what hour I may visit her.” 
 
 Job did not answer, and Lionel, on turn- 
 ing his head, perceived that he was suddenly 
 deserted by the changeling, who was already 
 gliding back towards his favorite haunt 
 among the graves. Vexed at the wild hu- 
 mors of the lad, Lionel hastened to his 
 quarters, and threw himself in his bed, 
 though he heard the loud cries of ‘<all’s 
 well,” again and again, before the strange 
 fantasies, which continued to cross his mind, 
 would permit him to obtain the rest he 
 sought. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 “We are finer gentlemen, no doubt, than the 
 plain farmers we are about to encounter. Our hats 
 carry a smarter cock, our swords hang more grace- 
 fully by our sides, and we make an easier figure in a 
 ball-room; but let it be remembered, that the most fin- 
 ished macaroni amongst us would pass for an arrant 
 clown at Pekin.” —Letter from a Veteran Officer, etc. 
 
 WHEN the heavy sleep of morning fell 
 upon his senses, visions of the past and 
 future mingled with wild confusion in the 
 dreams of the youthful soldier. The form of 
 his father stood before him, as he had known 
 it in his childhood, fair in the proportions and 
 vigor of manhood, regarding him with those 
 eyes of benignant, but melancholy affection, 
 which characterized their expression after he 
 had become the sole joy of his widowed 
 parent. While.his heart was warming at the 
 sight, the figure melted away, and was suc- 
 ceeded by fantastic phantoms, which ap- 
 peared to dance among the graves on Copp’s, 
 led along in those gambols, which partook 
 of the ghastly horrors of the dead, by Job 
 Pray, who glided among the tombs like a 
 “being of another world. Sudden and loud 
 
 299 
 
 thunder then burst upon them, and the 
 shadows fled into their secret places, from 
 whence he could see, ever and anon, some 
 glassy eyes and spectral faces, peering out 
 upon him, as if conscious of the power they 
 possessed to chill the blood of the living. 
 His visions now became painfully distinct, 
 and his sleep was oppressed with their vivid- 
 ness, when his senses burst their unnatural 
 bonds, and he awoke. The air of morning 
 was breathing through his open curtains, and 
 the light of day had already shed itself upon 
 the dusky roofs of the town. Lionel arose 
 from his bed, and paced kis chamber several 
 times, in a vain effort to shake off the images 
 that had haunted his slumbers, when the 
 sounds which broke upon the stillness of the 
 
 air became too plain to be longer mistaken 
 
 by a practised ear. 
 
 “‘Ha!” he muttered to himself, “<I have 
 been dreaming but by halves—these are the 
 sounds of no fancied tempest, but cannon, 
 speaking most plainly to the soldier !” 
 
 He opened his win“ow, and looked out 
 upon the surrounding scene. The roar of 
 artillery was now quick and heavy, and 
 Lionel bent his eyes about him to discover 
 the cause of thisunusual occurrence. It had 
 been the policy of Gage to await the arrival 
 of his reinforcements, before he struck a 
 blow, which was intended to be decisive; and 
 the Americans were well’ knowh to be too 
 scantily supplied with the munitions of war, 
 to waste a single charge of powder in any of 
 the vain attacks of modern sieges. A knowl- 
 edge of these facts gave an additional inter- 
 est to the curiosity with which Major Lincoln 
 
 endeavored to penetrate the mystery of so 
 
 singular a disturbance. Window after win- 
 dow in the adjacent buildings soon exhibited, 
 like his own, its wondering and alarmed 
 spectator. Here and there a half-dressed 
 soldier, or a busy townsman, was seen hurry- 
 ing along the silent streets, with steps that 
 denoted the eagerness of his curiosity. 
 Women began to rush wildly from their 
 dwellings, and then, as the sounds broke on 
 their ears with tenfold heaviness in the open 
 air, they shrunk back into-their habitations 
 in pallid dismay. Lionel called to three or 
 four of the men, as they hurried by; but, 
 turning their eyes wildly towards his window, 
 they passed on without answering, as if the 
 
300 
 
 emergency were too pressing to admit of 
 speech. Finding his repeated inquiries fruit- 
 less, he hastily dressed himself, and de- 
 scended to the street. As he left his own 
 door, a half-clad artillerist hurried past him, 
 adjusting his garments with one hand, and 
 bearing in the other some of the lesser imple- 
 ments of the particular corps in which he 
 served. 
 
 ‘‘What means the firing, sergeant,” de- 
 manded Lionel, ‘‘and whither do you hasten 
 with those fuses ?”’ 
 
 «‘The rebels, your honor, the rebels !” re- 
 turned the soldier, looking back to speak, 
 without ceasing his speed; ‘“‘and I go to my 
 guns !” 
 
 “The rebels!” repeated Lionel—‘‘ what 
 can we have to fear from a mob of country- 
 men, in such a position—that fellow has slept 
 from his post, and apprehensions for himself 
 mingle with this zeal for his king !” 
 
 The towns-people now began to pour from 
 their dwellings in scores ; and Lionel imitated 
 their example, and took his course towards 
 the adjacent height of Beacon-Hill. He 
 toiled his way up the steep ascent, in com- 
 pany with twenty more, without exchanging 
 a syllable with men who appeared as much 
 astonished as himself at this early interrup- 
 tion of their slumbers, and in a few minutes 
 he stood on the little grassy platform, sur- 
 rounded by a hyndred interested gazers. The 
 sun had just lifted the thin veil of mist from 
 the bosom of the waters, and the eye was per- 
 mitted to range over a wide field beneath the 
 light vapor. Several vessels were moored in 
 the channels of the Charles and Mystic, to 
 cover the northern approaches of the place ; 
 and as he beheld the column of white smoke 
 that was wreathing about the masts of a frig- 
 ate among them, Lionel was no longer at a 
 loss to comprehend whence the firing pro- 
 ceeded. While he was yet gazing, uncertain 
 of the reasons which demanded this show of 
 war, immense fields of smoke burst from the 
 side of a ship of the line, who also opened her 
 deep-mouthed cannon, and presently her ex- 
 ample was followed by several floating batter- 
 ies, and lighter vessels, until the wide amphi- 
 theatre of hills that encircled Boston was 
 filled with the echoes of a hundred pieces of 
 artillery. 
 
 “‘ What can it mean, sir?” exclaimed a 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 young officer of his own regiment, addressing 
 Major Lincoln—‘‘ the sailors are in downright 
 
 earnest, and they scale their guns with shot, — 
 
 I know, by the rattling of the reports !” 
 
 “IT can boast of a vision no better than your 
 own,” returned Lionel ; ‘‘for no enemy can 
 I see. As the guns seem pointed at the op- 
 posite peninsula, it is probable a party of the 
 Americans are attempting to destroy the grass 
 which lies newly mown in the meadows.” 
 
 The young officer was in the act of assent- 
 ing to this conjecture, when a voice was heard 
 above their heads, shouting—— 
 
 ‘‘There goes a gun from Copp’s! They 
 needn’t think to frighten the people with their 
 rake-helly noises ; Jet them blaze away till the 
 dead get out of their graves—the Bay-men 
 will keep the hill!” 
 
 Every eye was immediately turned upward, 
 and the wondering and amused spectators dis- 
 covered Job Pray, seated in the grate of the 
 beacon, his countenance, usually so vacant, 
 gleaming with exultation, while he continued 
 waving his hat high in air, as gun after gun 
 was added to the uproar of the cannonade. 
 
 ‘* How now, fellow!” exclaimed Lionel : 
 ‘‘ what see you ? and where are the Bay-men 
 of whom you speak ?” 
 
 «Where ?” returned the simpleton, clap- 
 ping his hands with childish delight—* why, 
 where they came at dark midnight, and where 
 theyll stand at open noonday! The Bay-men 
 can look into the windows of old Funnel at 
 last, and now let the reg’lars come on, and 
 they'll teach the godless murderers the law! ” 
 
 Lionel, a little irritated with the bold lan- 
 guage of Job, called to him in an angry 
 voice— 
 
 ‘<Come down from that perch, fellow, and 
 explain yourself, or this grenadier shall lift 
 you from your seat, and transfer you to the 
 post for a little of that wholesome correction 
 which you need.” 
 
 ‘“You promised that the grannies should 
 never flog Job ag’in,” said the changeling, 
 crouching down in the grate, whence he 
 looked out at his threatened chastiser with a 
 lowering and sullen eye—“ and Job agreed 
 to run your a’r’nds, and not take any of the 
 king’s crowns in pay.” 
 
 ‘<Come down, then, this instant, and 1 
 will remember the compact.” 
 
 Comforted by this assurance, which was 
 
- 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 made in a more friendly tone, Job threw 
 himself carelessly from his iron seat, and 
 clinging to the post, he slid swiftly to the 
 earth, where Major Lincoln immediately ar- 
 rested him by the arm, and demanded— 
 
 “ Where are those Bay-men, I once more 
 ask ?” 
 
 “There!” repeated Job, pointing over the 
 low roofs of the town, in the direction of the 
 opposite peninsula. ‘‘' They dug their cellar 
 on Breed’s, and now they are fixing the 
 underpinnin’, and next you'll see what a rais- 
 ing they’ll invite the people to!” 
 
 The instant the spot was named, all those 
 eyes which had hitherto gazed at the vessels 
 themselves, instead of searching for the ob- 
 ject of their hostility, were turned on the 
 green eminence which rose a little to the 
 right of the village of Charlestown, and 
 every doubt was at once removed by the dis- 
 covery. The high, conical summit of Bunker 
 Hill lay naked and unoccupied, as on the 
 preceding day ; but on the extremity of a 
 more humble ridge, which extended within a 
 short distance of the water, a low bank of 
 earth had been thrown up, for purposes 
 which no military eye could mistake. This 
 redoubt, small and inartificial as it was, com- 
 manded by its position the whole of the inner 
 harbor of Boston, and even endangered, in 
 some measure, the occupants of the town it- 
 self. It was the sudden appearance of this 
 magical mound, ‘as the mists of the morning 
 had dispersed, which roused the slumbering 
 seamen ; and it had already become the tar- 
 get of all the guns of the shipping in the 
 bay. Amazement at the temerity of their 
 countrymen held the townsmen silent, while 
 Major Lincoln, and the few officers who stood 
 nigh him, saw, at a glance, that this step on 
 the part of their adversaries would bring the 
 affairs of the leaguer to an instant crisis. In 
 vain they turned their wondering looks on 
 the neighboring eminence, and around the 
 different points of the peninsula, in quest of 
 those places of support with which soldiers 
 generally entrench their defences. The hus- 
 bandmen opposed to them had seized upon 
 the point best calculated to annoy their foes, 
 without regard to the consequences ; and in 
 a few short hours, favored by the mantle of 
 night, had thrown up their work with a dex- 
 terity that was only exceeded by their bold- 
 
 301 
 
 ness. The truth flashed across the brain of 
 Major Lincoln with his first glance, and he 
 felt his cheeks glow as he remembered the 
 low and indistinct murmurs, which the night- 
 
 | air had wafted to his ears, and those inexplic- 
 
 able fancies, which had even continued to 
 haunt him till dispersed by truth and the 
 light of day. Motioning to Job to follow, he 
 left the hill with a hurried step, and when 
 they gained the Common, he turned, and 
 said, sternly, to his companion— | 
 
 ‘‘ Fellow, you have been privy to this mid- 
 night work !” 
 
 “ Job has enough to do in the day, with- 
 out laboring in the night, when none but the 
 dead are out of their places of rest,” re- 
 turned the lad, with a look of mental imbe- 
 cility, which immediately disarmed the re- 
 sentment of the other. 
 
 Lionel smiled as he again remembered his 
 own weakness, and repeated to himself— 
 
 «The dead! ay, these are the works of 
 the living ; and bold men are they who have 
 dared to do the deed. But tell me, Job— 
 for tis in vain to attempt deceiving me any 
 longer—what number of Americans did you 
 leave on the hill, when you crossed the 
 Charles to visit the graves on Copp’s, the 
 past night ?” 
 
 “ Both hills were crowded,” returned the 
 other—‘ Breed’s with the people, and Copp’s 
 with the ghosts—Job believes the dead rose 
 to see their children digging so nigh 
 them !” 
 
 ‘«*Tig probable,” said Lionel, who believed 
 it wisest to humor the wild conceits of the 
 lad, in order to disarm his cunning ; “ but, 
 though the dead are invisible, the living may 
 be counted.” 
 
 “ Job did count five hundred men, march- 
 ing over the nose of Bunker, by starlight, 
 with their picks and spades; and then he 
 stopped, for he forgot whether seven or eight 
 hundred came next.” 
 
 ‘¢ And after you had ceased to count, did 
 many others pass ?” 
 
 «The Bay colony isn’t so poorly off for 
 men, that it can’t muster a thousand at a 
 raising.” 
 
 ‘But you had a master-workman on the 
 occasion; was it the wolf-hunter of Connecti- 
 cut?” 
 
 ‘There is no occasion to go from the 
 
302 
 
 province to find a workman to lay out a cel- 
 lar! Dickey Gridley is a Boston boy!” 
 
 “Ah! he is the chief! we can have nothing 
 to fear then, since the Connecticut woodsman 
 is not at their head! ” 
 
 “Do you think old Prescott, of Pepperel, 
 will quit the hill while he has a kernel of 
 powder to burn ?—no, no, Major Lincoln, 
 Ralph himself an’t a stouter warrior; and 
 you can’t frighten Ralph!” 
 
 “But if they fire their cannon often, their 
 small stock of ammunition will be soon con- 
 sumed, and then they must unavoidably 
 rant 
 
 Job laughed tauntingly, and with an ap- 
 pearance of high scorn, before he answered— 
 
 “* Yes, if the Bay-men were as dumb as the 
 king’s troops, and used such big guns! but 
 the cannon of the colony want but little brim- 
 stone, and there’s but few of them. Let the 
 rake-hellies go up to Breed’s; the people will 
 teach them the law! ” 
 
 Lionel had now obtained all he expected 
 to learn from the simpleton, concerning the 
 force and condition of the Americans ; and 
 as the moments were too precious to be 
 wasted in vain discourse, he bid the lad re- 
 pair to his quarters that night, and left him. 
 On entering his own lodgings, Major Lincoln 
 shut himself up in his private apartment, 
 and passed several hours in writing, and ex- 
 amining important papers. One letter, in 
 particular, was written, read, torn, and re- 
 written, five or six times, until at length he 
 placed his seal, and directed the important 
 paper with a sort of carelessness that denoted 
 his patience was exhausted by repeated trials. 
 These documents were entrusted to Meriton, 
 with orders to deliver them to their several 
 addresses, unless countermanded before the 
 following day; and the young man hastily 
 swallowed a late and light breakfast. While 
 shut up in his closet, Lionel had several times 
 thrown aside his pen to listen, as the hum of 
 the place penetrated to his retirement, and 
 announced the excitement and bustle which 
 pervaded the streets of the town. Having at 
 length completed the task he had assigned 
 himself, he caught up his hat, and took his 
 way, with hasty steps, into the centre of the 
 place. 7 
 Cannon were rattling over the rough pave- 
 ments, followed by ammunition-wagons, and 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 officers and men of the artillery were seen in 
 swift pursuit of their pieces. Aides-de-camp 
 were riding furiously through the streets, 
 charged with important messages; and here 
 and there an officer might be seen issuing 
 from his quarters, with a countenance in 
 which manly pride struggled powerfully with 
 inward dejection, as he caught the last glance 
 of anguish, which followed his retiring form, 
 from eyes that had been used to meet his own 
 with looks of confidence and love. ‘There 
 was, however, but little time to dwell on these 
 flitting glimpses of domestic woe, amid the 
 general bustle and glitter of the scene. Now 
 and then the strains of martial music broke up 
 through the windings of the crooked avenues, 
 and detachments of the troops wheeled by, 
 on their way to the appointed place of em- 
 barkation, While Lionel stood a moment at 
 the corner of the street, admiring the firm 
 movement of a body of grenadiers, his eye 
 fell on the powerful frame and rigid features 
 of M’Fuse, marching at the head of his com- 
 pany with that gravity which regarded the 
 accuracy of the step amongst the important 
 incidents of life. At a short distance from 
 him was Job Pray, timing his paces to the 
 tread of the soldiers, and regarding the gal- 
 lant show with stupid admiration, while his 
 
 ear unconsciously drank the inspiriting music | 
 
 of their band. As this fine body of men 
 passed on, it was immediately succeeded by a 
 battalion, in which Lionel instantly recog- 
 nized the facings of his own regiment. The 
 warm-hearted Polwarth led its forward files, 
 and, waving his hand, he cried— 
 
 “God bless you, Leo, God bless you—we 
 shall make a fair stand-up fight of this ; there 
 is an end of all stag-hunting.” 
 
 The notes of the horns rose above his voice, 
 and Lionel could do no more than return 
 his cordial salute; when, recalled to his pur- 
 pose by the sight of his comrades, he turned 
 and pursued his way to the quarters of the 
 commander-in-chief, 
 
 The gate of Province-House was thronged 
 with military men; some waiting for admit- 
 tance, and others entering and departing with 
 the air of those, who were charged with the 
 execution of matters of the deepest moment. 
 The name of Major Lincoln was hardly an- 
 
 nounced before an aid appeared to conduct 
 
 him into the presence of the governor, with a 
 
 i. 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 - politeness and haste that several gentlemen, 
 who had been in waiting for hours, deemed 
 in a trifling degree unjust. 5 
 
 Lionel, however, having little to do with 
 murmurs which he did not hear, followed 
 his conductor, and was immediately ushered 
 into the apartment, where a council of war 
 had jusb closed its deliberations. On the 
 threshold of its door he was compelled to 
 give way to an officer, who was departing in 
 haste, and whose powerful frame seemed 
 bent a little in the intensity of thought, as 
 his dark, military countenance lighted for 
 
 an instant with the salutation he returned to | 
 
 the low bow of the young soldier. Around 
 this chief a group of younger men im- 
 mediately clustered, and as they departed in 
 company, Lionel was enabled to gather, from 
 their conversation, that they took their way 
 for the field of battle. The room was filled 
 with officers of high rank; though here and 
 there was to be seen a man in civil attire, 
 whose disappointment and bitter looks an- 
 nounced him to be one of those mandamus 
 counsellors, whose evil advice had hastened 
 the mischief their wisdom could never re- 
 pair. From out a small circle of these morti- 
 fied civilians, the unpretending person of 
 Gage advanced to meet Lionel, forming a 
 marked contrast, by the simplicity of his 
 dress, to the military splendor that was 
 glittering around him. | 
 
 *‘In what can I oblige Major Lincoln ?” 
 he said, taking the young man by the hand 
 cordially, as if glad to be rid of the trouble- 
 some counsellors he had so unceremoniously 
 quitted. 
 
 “««Wolfe’s own’ has just passed me on its 
 way to the boats, and I have ventured to 
 intrude on your excellency to inquire if it 
 were not time its major had resumed his 
 duty.” 
 
 A shade of thought was seated for a mo- 
 ment on the placid features of the general, 
 and he then answered with a friendly smile— 
 
 “<*Twill be no more than an affair of out- 
 posts, and must be quickly ended. But 
 _ Should I grant the request of every brave 
 young man whose spirit is up to-day, it 
 might cost his majesty’s service the life of 
 some officer that would make the purchase 
 of the pile of earth too dear.” 
 
 “ But may I not be permitted to say, that 
 
 303 
 
 the family of Lincoln is of the province, and 
 its example should not be lost on such an 
 occasion ?” 
 
 ‘‘The loyalty of the colonies is too well 
 represented here to need the sacrifice,” said 
 Gage, glancing his eyes carelessly at the ex- 
 pecting group behind him.—‘‘ My council 
 have decided on the officers to be employed, 
 and I regret that Major Lincoln’s name was 
 omitted, since I know it will give him pain 5 
 but valuable lives are not to be lightly and 
 unnecessarily exposed.” 
 
 Lionel bowed in submission; and, after 
 communicating the little he had gathered 
 from Job Pray, he turned away, and found 
 himself near another officer of high rank, 
 who smiled as he observed his disappointed 
 countenance, and, taking him by the arm, 
 led him from the room, with a freedom 
 suited to his fine figure and easy air. 
 
 «Then, like myself, Lincoln, you are not 
 to battle for the king to-day,” he said, on 
 gaining the ante-chamber. ‘‘ Howe has the 
 luck of the occasion, if there can be luck in 
 so vulgar an affair. But allons ; accompany 
 me to Copp’s as a spectator, since they deny 
 us parts in the drama; and perhaps we may 
 pick up materials for a pasquinade, though 
 not for an epic.” 
 
 ‘‘Pardon me, General Burgoyne,” said 
 Lionel, “‘if I view the matter with more 
 serious eyes than yourself.” 
 
 ‘‘Ah! I had forgot that you were a fol- 
 lower of Percy in the hunt of Lexington!” 
 interrupted the other; ‘‘we will call it a 
 tragedy, then, if it better suits your humor. 
 For myself, Lincoln, I weary of these crooked 
 streets and gloomy houses, and, having some 
 taste for the poetry of nature, would have 
 long since looked out upon the deserted fields 
 of these husbandmen, had the authority, as 
 well as the inclination, rested with me. But 
 Clinton is joining us; he, too, is for Copp’s, 
 where we can all take a lesson in arms, by 
 studying the manner in which Howe wields 
 his battalions.” 
 
 A soldier of middle age now joined them, 
 whose stout frame, while it wanted the grace 
 and ease of the gentleman who still held 
 Lionel by the arm, bore a martial character 
 to which the look of the quiet and domestic 
 Gage was a stranger; and, followed by their 
 
 | several attendants, the whole party immedi- 
 
304 
 
 ately left the Government-house to take their 
 destined position on the eminence so often 
 mentioned. 
 
 As they entered the street, Burgoyne re- 
 linquished the arm of his companion, and 
 moved with becoming dignity by the side of 
 his brother general. Lionel gladly availed 
 himself of this alteration, to withdraw a little 
 from the group, whose steps he followed at 
 such a distance as permitted him to observe 
 those exhibitions of feeling, on the part of 
 the inhabitants, which the pride of the others 
 induced them to overlook. Pallid and anx- 
 ious female faces were gleaming out upon 
 them from every window, while the roofs of 
 the houses, and the steeples of the churches, 
 were beginning to throng with more daring 
 and equally interested spectators. The drums 
 no longer rolled along the narrow streets, 
 though occasionally the shrill strain of a fife 
 was heard from the water, announcing the 
 movements of the troops to the opposite 
 peninsula. Overall was heard the incessant 
 roaring of the artillery, which, untired, had 
 not ceased to rumble in the air since the ap- 
 pearance of light, until the ear, accustomed 
 to its presence, had learnt to distinguish the 
 lesser sounds we have recorded. 
 
 As the party descended into the lower pas- 
 sages of the town, it appeared deserted by 
 everything having life; the open windows 
 and neglected doors betraying the urgency of 
 the feelings which had called the population 
 to situations more favorable for observing the 
 approaching contest. This appearance of 
 intense curiosity excited the sympathies of 
 even the old and practised soldiers; and, 
 quickening their paces, the whole soon rose 
 from among the gloomy edifices to the open 
 and unobstructed view from the hill. 
 
 The whole scene now lay before them. 
 Nearly in their front was the village of 
 Charlestown, with its deserted streets and 
 silent roofs, looking like a place of the dead; 
 or, if the signs of life were visible within its 
 open avenues, *twas merely some figure mov- 
 ing swiftly in the solitude, like one who 
 hastened to quit the devoted spot. On the 
 opposite point of the southeastern face of the 
 peninsula, and at the distance of a thousand 
 yards, the ground was already covered by 
 masses Of human beings, in scarlet, with 
 their arms glittering in a noonday sun. Be- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tween the two, though in the more immediate _ 
 
 vicinity of the silent town, the rounded ridge, 
 already described, rose abruptly from a flat 
 that was bounded by the water, until, having 
 attained an elevation of some fifty or sixty feet, 
 it swelled gradually to the little crest, where 
 was planted the humble object that had oc- 
 casioned all this commotion. ‘The meadows, 
 on the right, were still peaceful and smiling, 
 as in the most quiet days of the province, 
 though the excited fancy of Lionel imagined 
 that a sullen stillness lingered about the 
 neglected kilns in their front, and over the 
 whole landscape, that was in gloomy conso- 
 nance with the approaching scene. Far on 
 the left, across the waters of the Charles, the 
 American camp had poured forth its thou- 
 sands to the hills; and the whole population 
 of the country, for many miles inland, had 
 gathered to a point to witness a struggle 
 charged with the fate of their nation. Beacon- 
 Hill rose from out the appalling silence of 
 the town of Boston, like a pyramid of living 
 faces, with every eye fixed on the fatal point; 
 and men hung along the yards of the ship- 
 ping, or were suspended on cornices, cupolas, 
 and steeples, in thoughtless security, while 
 every other sense was lost in the absorbing 
 interest of the sight. The vessels of war had 
 hauled deep into the rivers, or, more proper- 
 ly, those narrow arms of the sea which 
 formed the peninsula, and sent their iron 
 missiles, with unwearied industry, across the 
 low passage, which alone opened the means 
 of communication between the self-devoted 
 yeomen on the hill, and their distant coun- 
 trymen. While battalion landed after bat- 
 talion on the point, cannon-balls from the 
 battery of Copp’s, and the vessels of war, 
 were glancing up the natural glacis that sur- 
 rounded the redoubt, burying themselves in 
 its earthen parapet, or plunging with violence 
 into the deserted sides of the loftier height 
 which lay a few hundred yards in its rear; 
 and the black and smoking bombs appeared 
 to hover above the spot, as if pausing to se- 
 
 a] 
 y 
 
 lect the places in which to plant their deadly — 
 
 combustibles. £ 
 
 Notwithstanding these appalling prepara- 
 tions, and ceaseless annoyances, throughout 
 that long and anxious morning, the stout 
 husbandmen on the hill had never ceased 
 their steady efforts to maintain, to the utter- 
 
ee Ee 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 most extremity, the post they had so daringly 
 assumed. In vain the English exhausted 
 every means to disturb their stubborn foes ; 
 the pick, the shovel, and the spade continued 
 to perform their offices; and mound rose 
 after mound, amidst the din and danger of 
 the cannonade, steadily, and as well as if the 
 fanciful conceits of Job Pray embraced their 
 real objects, and the laborers were employed 
 in the peaceful pursuits of their ordinary 
 lives. This firmness, however, was not like 
 the proud front which high training can 
 impart to the most common mind ; for, ig- 
 norant of the glare of military show; in the 
 simple and rude vestments of their calling; 
 armed with such weapons as they had seized 
 from the hooks above their own mantels; and 
 without even a banner to wave its cheering 
 folds above their heads, they stood, sustained 
 only by the righteousness of their cause, and 
 those deep moral principles which they had 
 received from their fathers, and which they 
 intended this day should show were to be 
 transmitted untarnished to their children. 
 It was afterward known, that they endured 
 their labors and their dangers even in want 
 of that sustenance which is so essential to 
 support animal spirits in moments of calm- 
 ness and ease; while their enemies, on the 
 point, awaiting the arrival of their latest 
 bands, were securely devouring a meal, which 
 to hundreds amongst them proved to be their 
 last. The fatal instant now seemed approach- 
 ing. A general movement was seen among 
 the battalions of the British, who began to 
 spread along the shore, under cover of the 
 brow of the hill—the lingering boats having 
 arrived with the rear of their detachments— 
 and officers hurried from regiment to regi- 
 ment with the final mandates of their chief. 
 At this moment a body of Americans ap- 
 peared on the crown of Bunker Hill, and de- 
 scending swiftly by the road, disappeared in 
 the meadows to the left of their own redoubt. 
 This band was followed by others, who, like 
 themselves, had broken through the dangers 
 of the narrow pass, by braving the fire of the 
 
 shipping, and who also hurried to join their 
 
 comrades on the low land. The British gen- 
 eral determined at once to anticipate the 
 arrival of further reinforcements, and gave 
 
 forth the long-expected order to prepare for 
 the attack. 
 
 305 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ‘‘Th’ imperious Briton, on the well-fought ground, 
 
 No cause for joy or wanton triumph found; 
 
 But saw, with grief, their dreams of conquest vain, 
 
 Felt the deep wounds, and mourn’d their vet’rans 
 
 slain.” —HUMPHREYS. 
 
 THE Americans had made a show, in the 
 course of that fearful morning, of returning 
 the fire of their enemies, by throwing a few 
 shot from their light field-pieces, as af in 
 mockery of the tremendous cannonade which 
 they sustained. But as the moment of sever- 
 est trial approached, the same awful stillness, 
 which had settled upon the deserted streets 
 of Charlestown, hovered around the redoubt. 
 On the meadows, to its left, the recently ar- 
 rived bands hastily threw the rails of two 
 fences into one, and, covering the whole with 
 the mown grass that surrounded them, they 
 posted themselves along the frail defence, 
 which answered no better purpose than to 
 
 | conceal their weakness from their adversaries. 
 
 Behind this characteristic rampart, several 
 bodies of husbandmen, from the neighboring 
 provinces of New Hampshire and Connecti- 
 cut, lay on their arms, i: sullen expectation. 
 Their line extended from the shore to the 
 base of the ridge, where it terminated several 
 hundred feet behind the works; leaving a 
 wide opening in adiagonal direction, between 
 the fence and an earthen breastwork, which 
 ran a short distance down the declivity of 
 the hill, from the northeastern angle of the 
 redoubt. A few hundred yards in the rear 
 of this rude disposition, the naked crest of 
 Bunker Hill rose unoccupied and unde- 
 fended; and the streams of the Charles and 
 Mystic, sweeping around its base, approached 
 so near each other as to blend the sounds of 
 their rippling. It was across this low and 
 narrow isthmus, that the royal frigates 
 poured a stream of fire, that never ceased, 
 while around it hovered the numerous parties 
 of the undisciplined Americans, hesitating 
 to attempt the dangerous passage. 
 
 In this manner Gage had, in a great de- 
 gree, surrounded the devoted peninsula with 
 his power; and the bold men, who had so 
 daringly planted themselves under the muz- 
 zles of his cannon, were left, as already stated, 
 unsupported, without nourishment, and with 
 weapons from their own gun-hooks, singly 
 to maintain the honor of their nation. In- 
 
306 
 
 cluding men of all ages ‘and conditions, there 
 might have been two thousand of them; but, 
 as the day advanced, small bodies of er 
 countrymen, taking counsel of their feelings, 
 and animated by the example of the old 
 partisan of the woods, who crossed and re- 
 crossed the neck, loudly scoffing at the dan- 
 ger, broke through the fire of the shipping 
 in time to join in the closing and bloody 
 business of the hour. 
 
 On the other hand, Howe led more than 
 an equal number of the chosen troops of his 
 prince; and as boats continued to ply between 
 the two peninsulas throughout the afternoon, 
 the relative disparity continued undimin- 
 ished to the end of the struggle. It was at 
 this point in our nrrative that, deeming 
 himself sufficiently strong to force the de- 
 fences of his despised foes, the arrangements 
 immediately preparatory to such an under- 
 taking were made in full view of the excited 
 spectators. Notwithstanding the security 
 with which the English general marshalled 
 his warriors, he felt that the approaching 
 contest would be a battle of no common inci- 
 dents. The eyes of tens of thousands were 
 fastened on his movements, and the occasion 
 demanded the richest display of the pa- 
 geantry of war. 
 
 The troops formed with beautiful accuracy, 
 and the columns moved steadily along the 
 shore, and took their assigned stations under 
 cover of the brow of the eminence. ‘Their 
 force was In some measure divided; one 
 moiety attempting the toilsome ascent of the 
 hill, and the other moving along the beach, 
 or in the orchards of the more level ground, 
 toward the husbandmen on the meadows. 
 The latter soon disappeared behind some 
 fruit-trees and the brickkilns just mentioned. 
 The advance of the royal columns up the 
 ascent was slow and measured, giving time 
 to their field-guns to add their efforts to the 
 uproar of the cannonade, which broke out 
 with new fury as the battalions prepared to 
 march. When each column arrived at the 
 allotted point, it spread the gallant array of 
 its glittering warriors under a_ bright 
 sun. 
 
 “Tt is a glorious spectacle,” murmured the 
 graceful chieftain by the side of Lionel, 
 keenly alive to all the poetry of his alluring 
 profession; “how exceeding soldier-like! 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 and with what accuracy his ‘ first-arm ascends y 
 the hill, toward his enemy!” f 
 The intensity of his feelings prevented 
 Major Lincoln from replying, and the other 
 soon forgot that he had spoken, in the oyer- 
 whelming anxiety of the moment. The ad- 
 vance of the British line, so beautiful and 
 slow, resembled rather the ordered steadiness 
 of a drill, than an approach to a deadly 
 struggle. ‘Their standards fluttered proudly 
 above them; and there were moments when 
 the wild music of their bands was heard rising 
 on the air, and tempering the ruder sounds 
 of the artillery. The young and thoughtless 
 in their ranks turned their faces backward, 
 and smiled exultingly, as they beheld steeples, 
 roofs, masts, and heights, teeming with their 
 thousands of eyes, bent on the show of their 
 bright array. As the British lines moved in 
 open view of the little redoubt, and began 
 slowly to gather around its different faces, 
 gun after gun became silent, and the curious 
 artillerist, or tired seaman, lay extended on 
 his heated piece, gazing in mute wonder at 
 the spectacle. There was just then a minute 
 when the roar of the cannonade seemed pass- 
 ing away like the rumbling of distant thunder. 
 
 “They will not fight, Lincoln,” said the 
 animated leader at the side of Lionel—“ the 
 military front of Howe has chilled the hearts 
 of the knaves, and our victory will be blood- 
 less!” 
 
 ‘¢ We shall see, sir—we shall see! ” 
 
 These words were barely uttered, when 
 platoon after platoon, among the British, 
 delivered its fire, the blaze of musketry flash- 
 ing swiftly around the brow of the hill, and 
 was immediately followed by heavy volleys 
 that ascended from the orchard. Still no 
 answering sound was heard from the Ameri- 
 cans, and the royal troops were soon lost to 
 the eye, as they slowly marched into the 
 white cloud which their own fire had alone 
 created. 
 
 “'They are cowed, by heavens—the dogs 
 are cowed!” once more cried the gay com- 
 panion of Lionel, “and Howe is within two 
 hundred feet of them, unharmed!” 
 
 At that instant a sheet of flame glanced 
 through the smoke, like lightning playing in 
 a cloud, while at one report a thousand mus- 
 kets were added to the uproar. It was not 
 altogether fancy which led Lionel to imagine 
 
t hat he saw the smoky canopy of the hill to 
 wave, as if the trained warriors it enveloped 
 faltered before this close and appalling dis- 
 charge; but, in another instant, the stimulat- 
 ‘ing war-cry, and the loud shouts of the com- 
 batants were borne across the strait to his 
 ears, even amid the horrid din of the combat. 
 Ten breathless minutes flew by like a moment 
 ‘of time, and the bewildered spectators on 
 _ Copp’s were still gazing intently on the scene, 
 _ when a voice was raised among them, shout- 
 ing— 
 “Hurrah! let the rake-hellies go up to 
 Breed’s; the people will teach ’em the law!” 
 _ “Throw the rebel scoundrel from the hill! 
 Blow him from the muzzle of a gun!” cried 
 twenty soldiers in a breath. 
 “Hold!” exclaimed Lionel—‘‘’tis a sim- 
 pleton, an idiot, a fool! ” 
 _ But the angry and savage murmurs as 
 | “quickly subsided, and were lost in other feel- 
 ings, as the bright red lines of the royal 
 troops were scen issuing from the smoke, 
 Waving and recoiling before the still vivid 
 fire of their enemies. 
 _ “Ha!” said Burgoyne—“’tis some feint 
 to draw the rebels from their hold! ” 
 Tiga palpable and disgraceful retreat! ” 
 ‘muttered the stern warrior nigh him, whose 
 ‘truer eye detected at a glance the discomfiture 
 of the assailants.—‘‘ Tis another base retreat 
 before the rebels! ” 
 “Hurrah!” shouted the reckless change- 
 Bis again; “there come the reg’lars out of 
 _ the orchard too!—see the grannies skulking 
 fa behind the kilns! Let them goon to Breed’s; 
 _ the people will teach ’em the law!” 
 No ery of vengeance preceded the act this 
 ae time, but fifty of the soldiery rushed, as by 
 a ‘a common impulse, on their prey. Lionel 
 had not time to utter a word of remonstrance, 
 before Job appeared in the air, borne on the 
 A uplifted arms of a dozen men, and at the 
 _ hext instant he was seen rolling down the 
 _ Steep declivity, with a velocity that carried 
 him to the water’s edge. Springing to his 
 : feet, the undaunted changeling once more 
 Braved his hat in triumph, and shouted forth 
 again his offensive challenge. Then turning, 
 he Jaunched his canoe from its hiding place 
 Boone the adjacent lumber, amid a shower 
 _ of stones, and glided across the strait ; his lit- 
 i ug bark escaping unnoticed in the Sila of | 
 
 i ww, 
 i 
 . 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 307 
 
 boats that were rowing in all directions. But 
 his progress was watched by the uneasy eye 
 of Lionel, who saw him land and disappear, 
 with hasty steps, in the silent streets of the 
 town. 
 
 While this trifling by-play was enacting, 
 the great drama of the day was not at a 
 stand. The smoky veil, which clung around 
 the brow of the eminence, was lifted by the 
 air, and sailed heavily away to the southwest, 
 leaving the scene of the bloody struggle again 
 open to the view. Lionel witnessed the grave 
 and meaning glances which the two lieuten- 
 ants of the king exchanged as they simulta- 
 neously turned their glasses from the fatal 
 spot, and, taking the one proffered by Bur- 
 goyne, he read their explanation in the num- 
 bers of the dead that lay profusely scattered 
 in front of the redoubt. At this instant, an 
 officer from the field held an earnest commu- 
 nication with the two leaders ; when, having 
 delivered his orders, he hastened back to his 
 boat, like one who felt himself employed in 
 matters of life and death. 
 
 ‘<Tt shall be done, sir,” repeated Clinton, 
 as the other departed, his honest brow sternly 
 knit under high martial excitement.—‘‘ The 
 artillery have their orders, and the work will 
 be accomplished without delay.” 
 
 *‘This, Major Lincoln!” cried his more 
 sophisticated companion, ‘ this is one of the 
 trying duties of the soldier! To fight, to 
 bleed, or even to die, for his prince, is his 
 happy privilege; but it is sometimes his un- 
 fortunate lot to become the instrument of 
 vengeance.” 
 
 Lionel waited but a moment for an expla- 
 nation—the flaming balls were soon seen tak- 
 ing their wide circuit in the air, and carry- 
 ing their desolation among the close and in- 
 flaramable roofs of the opposite town. Ina 
 very few minutes, a dense, black smoke arose 
 from the deserted buildings, and forked 
 flames played actively along the heated shin- 
 gles, as though rioting in their unmolested 
 possession of the place. He regarded the 
 gathering destruction in painful silence ; and, 
 on bending his looks toward his companions, 
 he fancied, notwithstanding the language of 
 the other, that he read the deepest regret in 
 the averted eye of him who had so unhesitat- 
 ingly uttered the fatal mandate to destroy. 
 
 In scenes like these we are attempting to de- 
 
308 
 
 scribe, hours appear to be minutes, and time 
 flies as imperceptibly as life slides from be- 
 neath the feet of age. The disordered ranks 
 of the British had been arrested at the base 
 of the hill, and were again forming under the 
 eyes of their leaders,» with admirable disci- 
 pline, and extraordinary care. Fresh battal- 
 ions, from Boston, marched with high mili- 
 tary pride into the line, and everything 
 betokened that a second assault was at hand. 
 When the moment of stupid amazement, 
 which succeeded the retreat of the royal 
 troops, had passed, the troops and batteries 
 poured out their wrath with tenfold fury on 
 their enemies. Shot were incessantly glanc- 
 ing up the gentle acclivity, madly ploughing 
 across its grassy surface, while black and 
 threatening shells appeared to hover above 
 the work, like the monsters of the air, about 
 to stoop upon their prey. 
 
 Still all lay quiet and immovable within 
 the low mounds of earth, as if none there had 
 a stake in the issue of the bloody day. For 
 a few moments only the tall figure of an aged 
 man was seen slowly moving along the sum- 
 mit of the rampart, calmly regarding the dis- 
 positions of the English general in the more 
 distant part of his line, and after exchanging 
 afew words with a gentleman, who joined 
 him in his dangerous lookout, they disap- 
 peared together behind the grassy banks. 
 Lionel soon detected the name of Prescott, of 
 Pepperell, passing through the crowd in low 
 murmurs, and his glass did not deceive him 
 when he thought, in the smaller of the two, 
 he had himself descried the graceful person 
 of the unknown leader of the ‘‘ caucus.” 
 
 All eyes were now watching the advance of 
 the battalions, which once more drew nigh 
 the point of contest. The heads of the col- 
 umns were already in view of their enemies 
 when a man was seen swiftly ascending the 
 hill from the burning town: he paused amid 
 the peril, on the natural glacis, and swung 
 his hat triumphantly, and Lionel even fancied 
 he heard the exulting cry, as he recognized 
 the ungainly form of the simpleton, before it 
 plunged into the work. 
 
 _ The right of the British once more disap- 
 peared in the orchard, and the columns in 
 front of the redoubt again opened with all 
 the imposing exactness of their high dis- 
 cipline. Their arms were already glittering 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 in a line with the green faces of the mound, | 
 and Lionel heard the experienced warrior at 
 at his side murmuring to himself— | 
 
 ‘‘Let him hold his fire, and he will go in 
 at the point of the bayonet ! ” | 
 
 But the trial was too great for even the — 
 practised courage of the royal troops. Volley 
 succeeded volley, and in a few moments they 
 had again curtained their ranks behind the 
 misty screen produced by their own fire. 
 Then came the terrible flash from the re- 
 doubt, and the eddying volumes from the 
 adverse hosts rolled into one cloud envelop- 
 ing the combatants in its folds, as if to con- 
 ceal their bloody work from the spectators. 
 Twenty times, in the short space of as many 
 minutes, Major Lincoln fancied he heard the 
 incessant roll of American musketry die away 
 before the heavy and regular volleys of the 
 troops; and then he thought the sounds of 
 the latter grew more faint, and were given at 
 longer intervals. . 
 
 The result, however, was soon known. The 
 heavy bank of smoke, which now even clung 
 along the ground, was broken in fifty places ;* — 
 and the disordered masses of the British were: 
 seen driven before their deliberate foes, in 
 wild confusion. The flashing swords of the © 
 officers in vain attempted to arrest the tor- 
 rent, nor did the flight cease, with many of 
 the regiments, until they had even reached 
 their boats. At this moment a hum was. 
 heard in Boston, like the sudden rush of 
 wind, and men gazed in each other’s faces: 
 with undisguised amazement. Here and 
 there a low sound of exultation escaped some: 
 unguarded lip, and many an eye gleamed with. 
 a triumph that could no longer be suppressed. 
 Until this moment the feelings of Lionel had 
 vacillated between the pride of country and 
 his military spirit ; but, losing all other feel-. 
 ings in the latter sensation, he now jooked 
 fiercely about him as if he would seek the 
 man who dare exult in the repulse of his. 
 comrades. The poetic chieftain was still at 
 his side, biting his nether lip in vexation; _ 
 but his more tried companion had suddenly 
 disappeared. Another quick glance fell upon. 
 his missing form in the act of entering a boat 
 at the foot of the hill. Quicker than thought, 
 Lionel was on the shore, crying, as he flew to: 
 the water’s edge— 
 
 ‘‘Hold! for God’s sake, hold! remember . 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 the 47th is in the field, and that I am its 
 major !” 
 
 ‘‘Receive him,” said Clinton, with that 
 grim satisfaction with which men acknowl- 
 edge a valued friend in moments of great 
 trial ; ‘‘and then row for your lives, or, what 
 is of more value, for the honor of the British 
 name.” 
 
 The brain of Lionel whirled as the boat 
 shot along its watery bed, but before it had 
 gained the middle of the stream he had time 
 to consider the whole of the appalling scene. 
 The fire had spread from house to house, and 
 the whole village of Charlestown, with its 
 four hundred buildings, was just bursting 
 into flames. The air seemed filled with 
 whistling: balls, as they hurtled above his 
 head, and the black sides of the vessels of 
 war were vomiting their sheets of flame with 
 unwearied industry. Amid this tumult, the 
 English general and his companions sprung 
 to land. ‘The former rushed into the disor- 
 dered ranks, and by his presence and voice 
 recalled the men of one regiment to their 
 duty. But long and loud appeals to their 
 spirit and their ancient fame were necessary 
 to restore a moiety of their former confidence 
 to men who had been thus rudely repulsed, 
 and who now looked along their thinned and 
 exhausted ranks, missing, in many instances, 
 more than half the well-known countenances 
 of their fellows. In the midst of the falter- 
 
 ing troops stood their stern and unbending 
 
 a : 
 
 chief; but of all those gay and gallant 
 youths, who followed in his train as he had 
 departed from Province-House that morning, 
 not one remained, but in his blood. He alone 
 seemed undisturbed in that disordered crowd ; 
 and his mandates went forth as usual, calm 
 and determined. At length the panic, in 
 some degree, subsided, and order was once 
 more restored as the high-spirited and morti- 
 fied gentlemen of the detachment regained 
 their lost authority. 
 
 The leaders consulted together, apart, and 
 the dispositions were immediately renewed 
 for the assault. Military show was no longer 
 affected, but the soldiers laid down all the 
 useless implements of their trade, and many 
 even cast aside their outer garments, under 
 the warmth of a broiling sun, added to the 
 heat of the conflagration, which began to 
 diffuse itself along the extremity of the pen- 
 
 309 
 
 insula. Fresh companies were placed in the 
 columns, and most of the troops were with- 
 drawn from the meadows, leaving merely a 
 few skirmishers to amuse the Americans who 
 lay behind the fence. When each disposition 
 was completed, the final signal was given to 
 advance. | 
 
 Lionel had taken post in his regiment, but 
 marching on the skirt of the column, he 
 commanded a view of most of the scene of 
 battle. In his front moved a battalion, re- 
 duced to a handful of men in the previous 
 assaults. Behind these came a party of the 
 marine guards, from the shipping, led by 
 their own veteran major; and next followed 
 the dejected Nesbitt and his corps, amongst 
 whom Lionel looked in vain for the features 
 of the good-natured Polwarth. Similar col- 
 umns marched on their right and left, en- 
 circling three sides of the redoubt by their 
 battalions. 
 
 A few minutes brought him in full view 
 of that humble and unfinished mound of 
 earth, for the possession of which so much 
 blood had that day been spilt in vain. It 
 lay, as before, still as if none breathed within 
 its bosom, though a terrific row of dark 
 tubes were arrayed along its top, following 
 the movements of the approaching columns, 
 as the eyes of the imaginary charmers of our 
 own wilderness are said to watch their vic- 
 tims. As the uproar of the artillery again 
 grew fainter, the crash of falling streets, and 
 the appalling sounds of the conflagration, on 
 their left, became more audible. Immense 
 volumes of black smoke issued from the 
 smouldering ruins, and, bellying outward, 
 fold beyond fold, it overhung the work in a 
 hideous cloud, casting its gloomy shadow 
 across the place of blood. 
 
 A strong column was now seen ascending, 
 as if from out the burning town, and the ad- 
 vance of the whole became quick and spirited. 
 A low call ran through the platoons to note 
 the naked weapons of their adversaries, and 
 it was followed by the ery of “'To the bay- 
 onet! to the bayonet! ” 
 
 ‘‘Hurrah! for the Royal Irish!” shouted 
 M’Fuse, at the head of the dark column from 
 the conflagration. 
 
 “Hurrah!” echoed a well-known voice 
 from the silent mound. “ Let them come on 
 to Breed’s; the people will teach ’em the law!” 
 
310 
 
 Men think at such moments with the ra- 
 pidity of lightning, and Lionel had even 
 fancied his comrades in possession of the 
 work, when the terrible stream of fire flashed 
 in the faces of the men in front. 
 
 “Push on with the th,” cried the vet- 
 eran major of marines—“ push on, or the 
 18th will get the honor of the day!” 
 
 ‘We cannot,” murmured the soldiers of 
 the ——th ; “ their fire is too heavy !” 
 
 “Then break, and let the marines pass 
 through you!” 
 
 The feeble battalion melted away, and the 
 warriors of the deep, trained to conflicts of 
 hand to hand, sprang forward, with a loud 
 shout, in their places. The Americans, ex- 
 hausted of their ammunition, now sunk sul- 
 lenly back, a few hurling stones at their foes, 
 in desperate indignation. 'Thecannon of the 
 British had been brought to enfilade their 
 short breastwork, which was no longer ten- 
 able; and as the columns approached closer 
 to the low rampart, it became a mutual pro- 
 tection to the adverse parties. 
 
 “Hurrah! for the Royal Irish!” again 
 shouted M’Fuse, rushing up the trifling 
 ascent, which was but of little more than his 
 own height. | 
 
 ‘Hurrah !” repeated Pitcairn, waving his 
 sword on another angle of the work—‘‘ the 
 day’s our own !” 
 
 One more sheet of flame issued out of the 
 hosom of the work, and all those brave men, 
 who had emulated the examples of their 
 officers, were swept away, as though a whirl- 
 wind had passed along. The grenadier gave 
 his war-cry once more, before he pitched 
 headlong among his enemies; while Pitcairn 
 fell back into the arms of his own child. 
 The cry of ‘‘ Forward, 47th,” rung through 
 their ranks, and in their turn this veteran 
 battalion gallantly mounted the ramparts. 
 In the shallow ditch Lionel passed the expir- 
 ing marine, and caught the dying and de- 
 spairing look from his eyes,.and in another 
 instant he found himself in the presence of 
 his foes. As company followed company 
 into the defenceless redoubt, the Americans 
 sullenly retired by its rear, keeping the bay- 
 onets of the soldiers at bay with clubbed 
 muskets and sinewy arms. When the whole 
 issued upon the open ground, the husband- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 battalions, which were now gathering around 
 them on three sides. A scene of wild and 
 savage confusion then succeeded to the order 
 of the fight, and many fatal blows were given 
 and taken, the mélée rendering the use of 
 fire-arms nearly impossible for several 
 minutes, 
 
 Lionel continued in advance, pressing on 
 the footsteps of the retiring foe, stepping 
 over many a lifeless body in his difficult 
 progress. Notwithstanding the hurry, and 
 vast disorder of the fray, his eye fell on the 
 form of the graceful stranger, stretched life- 
 less on the parched grass, which had greedily 
 drank his blood. Amid the ferocious cries, 
 and fiercer passions of the moment, the young 
 man paused, and glanced his eyes around 
 him, with an expression that said he thought 
 the work of death should cease. At this in- 
 stant the trappings of his attire caught the 
 glaring eyeballs of a dying yeoman, who ex- 
 erted his wasting strength to sacrifice one 
 more worthy victim to the manes of his 
 countrymen. The whole of the tumultuous 
 scene vanished from the senses of Lionel at 
 the flash of the musket of this man, and he 
 sunk beneath the feet of the combatants, in- 
 sensible of further triumph, and of every 
 danger. 
 
 The fall of a single officer, in such a con- 
 test, was a circumstance not to be regarded; 
 and regiments passed over him, without a 
 single man stooping to inquire into his fate. 
 When the Americans had disengaged them- 
 selves from the troops, they descended into 
 the little hollow between the two hills, 
 swiftly, and like a disordered crowd, bearing 
 off most of their wounded, and leaving but 
 few prisoners in the hands of theirfoes. The 
 formation of the ground favored their re- 
 treat, as hundreds of bullets whistled harm- 
 lessly above their heads; and by the time 
 they gained the acclivity of Bunker, distance 
 was added to their security. Finding the 
 field lost, the men at the fence broke away in 
 a body from their position, and abandoned 
 the meadows; the whole moving in confused 
 masses behind the crest of the adjacent — 
 height. The shouting soldiery followed in 
 their footsteps, pouring in fruitless and dis- 
 tant volleys; but on the summit of Bunker 
 their tired platoons were halted, and they be- 
 
 men received a close and fatal fire from the | held the throng move fearlessly through the 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 tremendous fire that enfiladed the low pass, 
 as little injured as though most of them bore 
 charmed lives. 
 
 The day was now drawing toaclose. With 
 the disappearance of their enemies, the ships 
 and batteries ceased their cannonade; and 
 presently not a musket was heard in that 
 place, where so fierce a contest had so long 
 raged. The troops commenced fortifying the 
 outward eminence, on which they rested, in 
 order to maintain their barren conquest; and 
 nothing further remained for the achieve- 
 ment of the royal lieutenants, but to go and 
 mourn over their victory. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ‘¢She speaks, yet she says nothing ; what of that? 
 Her eye discourses—I will answer it.—Romeo.”’ 
 
 ALTHOUGH the battle of Bunker Hill was 
 fought while the grass yet lay on the mead- 
 ows, the heats of summer had been followed 
 by the nipping frosts of November; the leaf 
 had fallen in its hour, and the tempests and 
 biting colds of February had succeeded, be- 
 
 _ fore Major Lincoln left that couch where he 
 
 had been laid, when carried, in total helpless- 
 ness, from the fatal heights of the peninsula. 
 Throughout the whole of that long period, 
 the hidden bullet had defied the utmost skill 
 of the British surgeons; nor could all their 
 science and experience embolden them to 
 risk cutting certain arteries and tendons in 
 the body of the heir of Lincoln, which were 
 thought to obstruct the passage to that ob- 
 stinate lead, which, all agreed, alone impeded 
 the recovery of the unfortunate sufferer. 
 This indecision was one of the penalties that 
 poor Lionel paid for his greatness; for had 
 it been Meriton who lingered, instead of his 
 master, it is quite probable the case would 
 have been determined at a much earlier hour. 
 At length, a young and enterprising leech, 
 with the world before him, arrived from Eu- 
 rope, who, possessing greater skill or more 
 effrontery (the effects are sometimes the 
 same) than his fellows, did not hesitate to 
 decide at once on the expediency of an oper- 
 ation. ‘The medical staff of the army sneered 
 at this bold innovator, and at first were con- 
 — tent with such silent testimonials of their 
 
 i 
 
 31] 
 
 contempt. But when the friends of the pa- 
 tient, listening, as usual, to the whisperings 
 of hope, consented that the confident man of 
 probes should use his instruments, the voices 
 of his contemporaries became not only loud, 
 but clamorous. There was a day or two 
 when even the watch-worn and jaded subal- 
 terns of the army forgot the dangers and 
 hardships of the siege, to attend with demure 
 and instructed countenances to the unintelli- 
 gible jargon of the ‘‘ Medici” of their camp; 
 and men grew pale, as they listened, who had 
 never been known to exhibit any symptoms 
 of the disgraceful passion before their more 
 acknowledged enemies. But when it became 
 known that the ball was safely extracted, and 
 the patient was pronounced convalescent, a 
 calm succeeded, that was much more porten- 
 tous to the human race than the preceding 
 tempest; and in ashort time the daring prac- 
 titioner was universally acknowledged to be 
 the fonnder of a new theory. The degrees 
 of M.D. were showered upon his honored 
 head from half the learned bodies in Christ- 
 endom, while many of his enthusiastic ad- 
 mirers and imitators became justly entitled 
 to the use of the same magical symbols, as 
 annexments to their patronymics, with the 
 addition of the first letter in the alphabet. 
 The ancient reasoning was altered to suit the 
 modern facts, and before the war was ended, 
 some thousands of the servants of the crown, 
 and not a few of the patriotic colonists, were 
 thought to have died, scientifically, under 
 the favor of this important discovery. 
 
 We might devote a chapter to the minute 
 promulgation of such an event, had not more 
 recent philosophers long since upset the 
 practice, (in which case the theory seems to 
 fall, as a matter of course,) by a renewal of 
 those bold adventures, which teach us, occa- 
 sionally, something new in the anatomy of 
 man ; as in the science of geography, sealers. 
 of New England have been able to discover 
 Terra Australis, where Cook saw nothing but 
 water; or Parry finds veins and arteries in that 
 part of the American continent, which had 
 so long been thought to consist of worthless 
 cartilage. 
 
 Whatever may have been the effect of the 
 operation on the surgical science, it was heath- 
 ful, in the first degree, to its subject. For 
 seven weary months Lionel lay in a state in 
 
312 
 
 which he might be said to exist, instead of 
 live, but little conscious of surrounding 
 occurrences; and, happily for himself, 
 nearly insensible to pain and anxiety. At 
 moments the flame of life would apparently 
 glimmer like the dying lamp, and then both 
 the fears and hopes of his attendants were 
 disappointed, as the patient dropped again 
 into that state of apathy in which so much 
 of his time was wasted. From an erroneous 
 opinion of his master’s sufferings, Meriton 
 had been induced to make a free use of sopo- 
 rifics, and no small portion of Lionel’s in- 
 sensibility was produced by an excessive use 
 of that laudanum, for which he was indebted 
 to the mistaken humanity of his valet. At 
 the moment of the operation, the advent- 
 urous surgeon had availed himself of the 
 same stupefying drug, and many days of 
 dull, heavy, and alarming apathy succeeded, 
 before his system, finding itself relieved from 
 its unnatural inmate, resumed its healthy 
 functions, and began to renew its powers. 
 By a singular good fortune his leech Was too 
 much occupied by his own novel honors, to 
 follow up his success, secundum artem, as a 
 great general pushes a victory to the utmost; 
 and that matchless doctor, Nature, was per- 
 mitted to complete the cure. 
 
 When the effects of the anodynes had 
 subsided, the patient found himself entirely 
 free from uneasiness, and dropped into a 
 sweet and refreshing sleep, that lasted for 
 many hours without interruption. He awoke 
 a new man; with his body renovated, his 
 head clear, and his recollections, though a 
 little confused and wandering, certainly bet- 
 ter than they had been since the moment 
 when he fell in the mélée on Breed’s. This 
 restoration to all the nobler properties of 
 life occurred about the tenth hour of the 
 day; and as Lionel opened his eyes, with 
 understanding in their expression, they fell 
 upon the cheerfulness which a bright sun, 
 assisted by the dazzling light of the masses 
 of snow without, had lent to every object in 
 his apartment. The curtains of the win- 
 dows had been opened, and every article of 
 the furniture was arranged with a neatness 
 that manifested the studied care which pre- 
 sided over his illness. In one corner, it is 
 true, Meriton had established himself in an 
 easy-chair, with an arrangement of attitude 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 which spoke more in favor of his considera- 
 tion for the valet than the master, while he 
 was comforting his faculties for a night of 
 watchfulness, by the sweet, because stolen, 
 slumbers of the morning. 
 
 A flood of recollections broke into the 
 mind of Lionel together, and it was some little 
 time before he could so far separate the true 
 from the imaginary as to attain a tolerably 
 clear comprehension of what had occurred in 
 the little age he had been dozing. Raising him- 
 self on one elbow, without difficulty, he passed 
 his hand once or twice slowly over his face, 
 and then trusted his voice in a summons to 
 his man. Meriton started at the well-known 
 sounds, and after diligently rubbing his eyes, 
 like one who awakes by surprise, he arose 
 and gave the customary reply. 
 
 ‘‘ How now, Meriton !” exclaimed Major 
 Lincoln ; ‘‘ you sleep as sound as a recruit on 
 post, and I suppose you have been stationed 
 like one, with twice-told orders to be vigi- 
 lant.” 
 
 The valet stood with open mouth, as if 
 ready to devour his master’s words with more 
 senses than one, and then, as Lionel con- 
 cluded, passed his hands in quick succession 
 over his eyes as before, with a very diffcrent 
 object, ere he answered— 
 
 “Thank God, sir, thank God! you look 
 like yourself once more, and we shall live 
 again as we used to. Yes, yes, sir—you’ll do 
 now—you'll do this time. That’s a miracle 
 of a man, is the great Lonnon surgeon ! and 
 now we shall go back to Soho, and live like 
 civilizers. Thank God, sir, thank God! you 
 smile again, and I hope if anything should 
 go wrong you'll soon be able to give me one of 
 those awful looks that I am so used to, and 
 which makes my heart jump into my mouth, 
 when I know I’ve been forgetful!” 
 
 The poor fellow, in whom long service had 
 created a deep attachment to his master, 
 which had been greatly increased by the 
 solicitude of a nurse, was compelled to cease 
 his unconnected expressions of joy, while he 
 actually wept. Lionel was too much affected 
 by this evidence of feeling to continue the 
 dialogue, for several minutes; during which 
 time he employed himself in putting on part 
 of his attire, assisted by the gulping valet, 
 when, drawing his robe-de-chambre around 
 his person, he leaned on the shoulder of his 
 
- sweeten it. 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 man, and took the seat which the other had 
 
 f 
 
 so recently quitted. 
 
 “Well, well, Meriton, that will do,” said 
 Lionel, giving a deep hem, as though his 
 breathing was obstructed; “that will do, silly 
 fellow; I trust I shall live to give you many 
 a frown, and some few guineas, yet.—l have 
 been shot, I know ‘4 
 
 “Shot, sir!” interrupted the valet—“ you 
 have been downright and unlawfully mur- 
 dered! you were first shot, and then bag- 
 goneted, and after that a troop of horse rode 
 over you. I had it from one of the Royal 
 Irish, who lay by your side the whole time, 
 and who now lives to tell of it—a good 
 honest fellow is Terence, and if such a thing 
 was possible that your honor was poor enough 
 to need a pension, he would cheerfully swear 
 to your hurts at the King’s Bench, or War- 
 office; Bridewell, or St. James’, it’s all one to 
 the like of him.” 
 
 “T dare say, I dare say,” said Lionel, smil- 
 ing, though he mechanically passed his hand 
 
 ~ over his body, as his valet spoke of the bay- 
 
 onet—“ but the poor fellow must have trans- 
 ferred some of his own wounds to my person 
 
 _ —I own the bullet, but object to the cavalry 
 
 and the steel.” 
 
 “No, sir, Jown the bullet, and it shall be 
 buried with me in my dressing-box, at the 
 head of my grave,” said Meriton, exhibiting 
 the flattened bit of lead exultingly, in the 
 palm of his hand—‘ it has been in my pocket 
 these thirteen days, after tormenting your 
 honor for six long months, hid in the what 
 d’ye call ’em muscles, away behind the thin- 
 
  gumy artery. But snug as it was, we got it 
 
 out! He isa miracle, is the great Lonnon 
 surgeon!” 
 
 Lionel reached over to his purse, which 
 Meriton had placed regularly on the table, 
 each morning, in order to remove it again at 
 night, and, dropping several guineas in the 
 hand of his valet, said— 
 
 “So much lead must need some gold to 
 Put up the unseemly thing, and 
 never let me see it again!” 
 
 Meriton coolly took the opposing metals, 
 and after glancing his eyes at the guineas, 
 with a readiness that embraced their amount 
 in a single look, he dropped them carelessly 
 into one pocket, while he restored the lead to 
 the other with an exceeding attention to its 
 
 313 
 
 preservation. He then turned his hand to 
 the customary duties of his station. 
 
 “T remember well to have been in a fight 
 on the heights of Charlestown, even to the . 
 instant when I got my hurt,” continued his 
 master—“and I even recollect many things 
 that have occurred since; a period which 
 appears like a whole life to me. But after 
 all, Meriton, I believe my ideas have not been 
 remarkable for their clearness.” 
 
 “Tord, sir, you have talked to me, and 
 scolded me, and praised me, a hundred and a 
 hundred times over again; but you have 
 never scolded as sharp like as you can, nor 
 have you ever spoken and looked as bright as 
 you do this morning!” 
 
 “T am in the house of Mrs. Lechmere,” 
 again continued Lionel, examining the room 
 —“T know this apartment and those private 
 doors too well to be mistaken.” 
 
 “To be sure you are, sir; Madam Lech- 
 mere had you brought here from the field to 
 her own house, and one of the best it is in 
 Boston, too: and I expect that madam would 
 somehow lose her title to it, if anything 
 serious should happen to us!” 
 
 “Such as a bayonet, or a troop of horse! 
 but why do you fancy any such thing ?” 
 
 “ Because, sir, when madam comes here of 
 an afternoon, which she did daily, before she 
 sickened, I heard her very often say to her- 
 self, if you should be so unfortunate as to 
 die, there would be an end to all her hopes 
 of her house.” 
 
 “Then it is Mrs. Lechmere who visits me 
 daily,” said Lionel, thoughtfully; “I have 
 recollections of a female form hovering 
 around my bed, though I had supposed it 
 more youthful and active than that of my 
 aunt.” 
 
 ‘‘ And you are quite right, sir—you have 
 had such a nurse the whole time as is seldom 
 to be met with. For making a posset or a 
 eruel, I’ll match her with the oldest woman 
 in the wards of Guy’s; and, to my taste, the 
 best barkeeper at the Lonnon is a fool to her 
 at a negus.”’ 
 
 ‘¢ These are high accomplishments, indeed ! 
 and who may be their mistress ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Miss Agnus, sir; a rare good nurse is 
 Miss Agnus Danforth! though in point of re- 
 gard to the troops, I shouldn’t presume to 
 call her at all distinguishable.” 
 
314 
 
 ‘‘ Miss Danforth,” repeated Lionel, drop- 
 ping his expecting eyes, in disappointment, 
 
 from the face of Meriton to the floor—‘‘ I. 
 
 hope she has not sustained all this trouble on 
 my account alone. There are women enough 
 in the establishment—one would think such 
 offices might be borne by the domestics-—in 
 short, Meriton, was she without an assistant 
 in all these little kindnesses ?” 
 
 “ T helped her, you know, sir, all I could ; 
 though my neguses never touch the right 
 spot, like Miss Agnus’s.” 
 
 «¢ One would think, by your account, that 
 I have done little else than guzzle port wine 
 for six months,” said Lionel, pettishly. 
 
 ‘< Lord, sir, you wouldn’t drink a thimble- 
 ful from a glass, often ; which I always took 
 for a bad symptom ; for I’m certain ’twas no 
 fault of the liquor, if it wasn’t drunk.” 
 
 «Well, enough of your favorite beverage ! 
 I sicken at the name already—but, Meriton, 
 have not others of my friends called to in- 
 quire after my fate ?” 
 
 ‘‘Oertainly, sir—the commander-in-chief 
 sends an aid or a servant every day; and 
 Lord Percy left his card more than a 
 
 ‘‘Poh! these are calls of courtesy ; but I 
 have relatives in Boston——-Miss Dynevor, has 
 she left the town ?” 
 
 ‘‘ No, sir,” said the valet, very coolly re- 
 suming the duty of arranging the vials on 
 the night-table ; ‘‘ she is not much of a moy- 
 ing body, is that Miss Cecil.” 
 
 “She is not ill, I trust ?” demanded Li- 
 onel. 
 
 «‘Lord, it goes through me, part joy and 
 part fear, to hear you speak again so quick 
 and brisk, sir! No, she isn’t downright ail- 
 ing, but she hasn’t the life and knowledge of 
 things, as her cousin, Miss Agnus.” 
 
 «* Why do you think so, fellow ?” 
 
 « Because, sir, she is mopy, and don’t turn 
 her hand to any of the light lady’s work in 
 the family. I have seen her sit in that very 
 chair, where you are now, sir, for hours to- 
 gether, without moving; unless it was some 
 nervous start when you groaned, or. breathed 
 a little upward through your honor’s nose— 
 I have taken it into my consideration, sir, 
 that she poetizes ; at all events, she likes what 
 I calls quietude !” 
 
 ‘<TIndeed !” said Lionel, pursuing the con- 
 
 versation with an interest that would have 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 struck a more observant man as remarkable-- 
 ‘‘what reason have you for suspecting Miss 
 Dynevor of manufacturing rhymes ? ” 
 
 ‘< Because, sir, she has often a bit of paper 
 in her hand, and I have seen her read the 
 same thing over and over again, till I’m sure 
 she must know it by heart ; which your poet- 
 izers always do with what they writes.” 
 
 ‘Perhaps it was a letter ?” cried Lionel, 
 with a quickness that caused Meriton to drop 
 a vial he was dusting, at the expense of its 
 contents. 
 
 ‘«« Bless me, master Lionel, how strong and 
 like old times you speak !” 
 
 “‘T believe I am amazed to find you know 
 so much of the divine art, Meriton.”’ 
 
 ‘Practice makes perfect, you know, sir,” 
 said the simpering valet-—‘‘ I can’t say I ever 
 did much in that way, though I wrote some 
 verses on a pet pig, as died down at Ravens- 
 cliffe, the last time we was there; and I got 
 considerable eclaw for a few lines on a vase 
 which Lady Bab’s woman broke one day, in 
 a scuffle when the foolish creature said as I 
 wanted to kiss her; though all that knows 
 me, knows that I needn’t break vases to get 
 kisses from the like of her !” 
 
 ‘‘Very well,” said Lionel; ‘‘some day, 
 when I am stronger, I may like to be indulged 
 with a perusal—go now, Meriton, to the lar- 
 der, and look about you ; I feel the symptoms 
 of returning health grow strong upon me.” 
 
 The gratified valet instantly departed, leay- 
 ing his master to the musings of his own busy 
 fancy. 
 
 Several minutes passed away before the 
 young man raised his head from the hand that 
 supported it, and then it was only done when 
 he thought he heard a light footstep near him. 
 His ear had not deceived him, for Cecil Dyne- 
 vor herself stood within a few feet of the 
 chair, which concealed, in a great measure, 
 his person from her view. It was apparent, 
 by her attitude and her tread, that she ex- 
 pected to find the sick where she had seen 
 him last, and where, for so many dreary 
 months, his listless form had been stretched 
 in apathy. Lionel followed her graceful 
 movements with his eyes, and as the airy 
 band of her morning cap waved aside at her 
 own breathing, he discovered the unnatural 
 paleness that was seated on her speaking fea- 
 tures. 
 
 But when she drew the folds of the © 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 bed-curtains, and missed the invalid, thought 
 is not quicker than the motion with which 
 she turned her light person towards the chair. 
 Here she encountered the eyes of the young 
 man, beaming on her with delight, and ex- 
 pressing all that animation and intelligence, 
 to which they had so long been strangers. 
 Yielding to the surprise and the gush of her 
 feelings, Cecil flew to his feet, and clasping 
 one of his extended hands in both her own, 
 she cried— 
 
 “ Lionel, dear Lionel, you are better! God 
 be praised, you look well again ! ” 
 
 Lionel gently extricated his hand from the 
 warm and unguarded pressure of her soft 
 fingers, and drew forth a paper which she 
 had unconsciously committed to his keeping. 
 
 “« This, dearest Cecil,” he whispered to the 
 blushing maiden, “‘this is my own letter, 
 written when I knew my life to be at immi- 
 nent hazard, and speaking the _ purest 
 thoughts of my heart—tell me, then, it has 
 not been thus kept for nothing ?” 
 
 Cecil dropped her face between her hands 
 for a moment, in burning shame, and then, as 
 all the emotions of the moment crowded 
 around her heart, she yielded to them as a 
 woman, and burst intoa paroxysm of tears. It 
 is needless to dwell on those consoling and se- 
 educing speeches of the young man, which 
 soon succeeded in luring his companion not 
 only from her sobs, but even from her confus- 
 ion, and permitted her to raise her beautiful 
 countenance to his ardent gaze, bright and 
 confiding as his fondest wishes could have 
 made it. 
 
 The letter of Lionel was too direct, not to 
 save her pride, and it had been too often pe- 
 rused for a single sentence to be soon forgot- 
 ten. Besides, Cecil had watched over his 
 couch too fondly and too long, to indulge in 
 any of those little coquetries which are some- 
 times met with in similar scenes. She said 
 all that an affectionate, generous, and mod- 
 est female would say on such an occasion ; 
 and it is certain, that, well as Lionel looked 
 on waking, the little she uttered had the ef- 
 fect to improve his appearance tenfold. 
 
 ** And you received my letter on the morn- 
 ing after the battle?” said Lionel, leaning 
 fondly over her, as she still, unconsciously, 
 kneeled by his side. 
 
 ‘“ Yes—yes—it was your order that it 
 
 315 
 
 should be sent to me only in case of your 
 death ; but for more than a month you were 
 numbered as among the dead by us all.— 
 Oh ! what a month was that !” 
 
 ‘Tis past, my sweet friend, and, God be 
 praised, I may now look forward to health 
 and happiness.” 
 
 “God be praised, indeed,” murmured 
 Cecil, the tears again rushing to her eyes— 
 “‘T would not live that month over again, 
 Lionel, for all that this world can offer !” 
 
 “‘ Dearest Cecil,” he replied, “I can only 
 repay this kindness and suffering on my ac- 
 count, by shielding you from the rude con- 
 tact of the world, even as your father would 
 protect you, were he again in being.” 
 
 She looked up in his face with all the soul 
 of a woman’s confidence beaming in her eyes, 
 as she answered— 
 
 “You will, Lincoln, I know you will—you 
 have sworn it, and I should be a wretch to 
 doubt you.” 
 
 He drew her unresisting form into his 
 arms, and folded her to hig bosom. In an- 
 other moment a noise, like one ascending the 
 stairs, was heard through the open door of 
 the room, when all the feelings of her sex 
 rushed to the breast of Cecil. She sprung on 
 her feet, and, hardly allowing time to the 
 delighted Lionel to note the burning tints 
 that suffused her whole face, she darted from 
 the room with the rapidity and lightness of 
 an antelope. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 ‘* Dead, for a ducat, dead.”’— Hamlet. 
 
 WHILE Lionel was in the confusion of feel- 
 ing produced by the foregoing scene, the in- 
 truder, after a prelude of singularly heavy 
 and loud steps, on the floor, as if some one 
 approached on crutches, entered by a door 
 
 opposite to the one through which Cecil had 
 
 so suddenly vanished. At the next moment 
 the convalescent was saluted by the full, 
 cheerful voice of his visitor— 
 
 ‘*God bless you, Leo, and bless the whole 
 of us, for we need it,” cried Polwarth, ea- 
 gerly advancing to grasp the extended hand 
 of his friend. “Meriton has told me that 
 you have got the true mark of health—a 
 good appetite—at last. I should have 
 
316 
 
 broken my neck in hurrying up to wish you 
 joy on the moment, but 1 just stepped into 
 the kitchen, without Mrs. Lechmere’s leave, 
 to show her cook how to broil the steak they 
 are warming through for you—a capital 
 thing after a long nap, and full of nutri- 
 ment—God bless you, my dear Leo ; the look 
 of your bright eye is as stimulating to my 
 spirits as a West-India pepper is to the stom- 
 ach.?’ ? 
 
 Polwarth ceased shaking the hands of his 
 reanimated friend, as with a husky voice he 
 concluded, and turning aside under the pre- 
 tence of reaching a chair, he dashed his hand 
 before his eyes, gave a loud hem, and took 
 his seat in silence. During the performance 
 
 of this evolution, Lionel had leisure to ob- 
 
 serve the altered person of the captain. His 
 
 form, though still rotund, and even corpu- 
 
 lent, was much reduced in dimensions, 
 while, in the place of one of those lower 
 members, with which nature furnishes the 
 human race, he had been compelled to sub- 
 stitute a leg of wood, somewhat inartificially 
 made, and roughly shod with iron. This last 
 sad alteration, in particular, attracted the 
 look of Major Lincoln, who continued to gaze 
 at it with glistening eyes, for some time after 
 
 the other had established himself, to his en- 
 
 tire satisfaction, in one of the cushioned 
 seats of the apartment. 
 
 “T see my frame-work has caught your 
 eye, Leo,” said Polwarth, raising the wooden 
 substitute with an air of affected indifference, 
 and tapping it lightly with his cane. ‘ "Tis 
 not as gracefully cut, perhaps, as if it had 
 been turned from the hand of master Phi- 
 dias; but in a place like Boston, it is an in- 
 valuable member, inasmuch as it knows 
 neither hunger nor cold!” 
 
 “The Americans, then, press the town,” 
 said Lionel, glad to turn the subject ‘and 
 maintain the siege with vigor?” 
 
 «They have kept us in horrible bodily 
 terror, ever since the shallow waters toward 
 the main-land have been frozen, and opened 
 a path directly into the heart of the place. 
 Their Virginian generalissimo, Washington, 
 appeared a short time after the affair over on 
 the other peninsular (a cursed business that, 
 Leo!), and with him came all the trimmings 
 of alarge army. Since that time they have 
 worn a more military front, though little else 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 has been done, excepting an occasional skir- 
 mish, but cooping us up, like so many uneasy 
 pigeons, in our cage.” 
 
 ‘‘And Gage chafes not at the confine- 
 ment?” 
 
 ‘«‘Gage!—we sent him off like the soups, 
 months ago. No, no—the moment the min- 
 istry discovered that we had come to our 
 forks, in good earnest, they chose black Billy 
 to preside: and now we stand at bay with the 
 rebels, who have already learnt that our 
 leader is not’a child at the grand entertain- 
 ment of war.” 
 
 «¢ Yes, seconded by such men as Clinton 
 and Burgoyne, and supported by the flower 
 of our troops, the position can be easily 
 maintained.” 
 
 “No position can be easily maintained, 
 Major Lincoln,” said Polwarth, promptly, 
 ‘<in the face of starvation, both internal and 
 external.” 
 
 ‘«« And is the case so desperate ? ” 
 
 “Of that you shall judge yourself, my 
 friend. When Parliament shut the port of 
 Boston, the colonies were filled with grum- 
 blers; and now we have opened it, and 
 would be glad to see their supplies, the devil 
 a craft enters the harbor willingly.—Ah! 
 Meriton, you have the steak, I see; put it 
 here, where your master can have it at his 
 elbow, and bring another plate—I break- 
 fasted but indifferently well this morning.— 
 So we are thrown completely on our own re- 
 sources. But the rebels do not let us enjoy 
 even them in peace.—This thing is done to a 
 turn—how charmingly the blood follows the ~ 
 knife!—They have gone so far as to equip 
 privateers, who cut off our necessaries, and 
 he isa lucky man who can get a meal like 
 the one before us.” 
 
 “JT had not thought the power of the 
 Americans could have forced matters to such 
 a pass.” 
 
 “ What I have mentioned, though of vital 
 importance, is not half. If a man is happy 
 enough to obtain the materials for a good 
 dish—you should have rubbed an onion over 
 these plates, Mr. Meriton—he don’t know 
 where he is to find fuel to cook it withal.” 
 
 « Looking at the comforts with which I am 
 surrounded, my good friend, I cannot but 
 fancy your imagination heightens the dis- 
 tress.” | 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 “Fancy no such silly thing; for when you 
 get abroad, you will find it but too exact. In 
 the article of food, if we are not reduced, like 
 the men of Jerusalem, to eating one another, 
 we are, half the time, rather worse off, being 
 entirely destitute of wholesome nutriment. 
 Let but an unlucky log float by the town, 
 among the ice, and go forth and witness 
 the struggling and skirmishing between the 
 Yankees and our frozen fingers for its pos- 
 session, and you will become a _ believer! 
 ’*T will be lucky if the water-soaked relic of 
 some wharf should escape without a cannon- 
 ade! I don’t tell you these things as a 
 grumbler, Leo; for, thank God, I have only 
 half as many toes as other men, to keep 
 warmth in; and as for eating, a little will 
 suffice for me, now my corporeal establish- 
 ment is so sadly reduced.” 
 
 Lionel paused in melancholy, as his friend 
 attempted to jest at his misfortune, and then, 
 by a very natural transition, for a young man 
 in his situation, he proudly exclaimed— 
 
 <¢ But we gained the day, Polwarth! and 
 drove the rebels from their entrenchments, 
 like chaff before a whirlwind !” 
 
 ‘‘Humph !” ejaculated the captain, laying 
 
 - his wooden leg carefully over its more valu- 
 
 my. 
 
 able fellow, and regarding it ruefully, while 
 he spoke—‘‘ had we made a suitable use of 
 the bounties of nature, and turned their posi- 
 tion, instead of running into the jaws of the 
 beast, many might have left the field better 
 supplied with appurtenances than are some 
 among us at present. But dark William 
 loves a brush, they say, and he enjoyed it, on 
 that occasion, to his heart’s content.” 
 
 ‘He must be grateful to Clinton for his 
 timely presence !” 
 
 ““TDoes the devil delight in martyrdom? The 
 presence of a thousand rebels would have 
 been more welcome, even at that moment ; 
 nor has he smiled once on his good-natured 
 assistant, since he thrust himself, in that un- 
 welcome manner, between him and his ene- 
 We had enough to think of, with our 
 dead and wounded, and in maintaining our 
 conquest, or something more than black looks 
 
 and unkind eyes would have followed the 
 
 deed.” 
 
 ‘““] fear to inquire into the fortunes of the 
 field, so many names of worth must be num- 
 bered in the loss.” 
 
 317 
 
 ‘* Twelve or fifteen hundred men are not to 
 be knocked on the head out of suchan army, 
 and all the clever fellows escape. Gage, I 
 know, calls the loss something like eleven 
 hundred ; but, after vaporing so much about 
 the Yankees, their prowess is not to be ac- 
 knowledged in its bloom at once. A man 
 seldom goes on one leg but he halts a little 
 at first, as I can say from experience—put 
 down thirteen, Leo, as a medium, and you'll 
 not miscalculate largely—yes, indeed, there 
 were some brave young men amongst them ! 
 those rascally light-footed gentry, that I gave 
 up so opportunely, were finely peppered— 
 and there were the Fusileers had hardly men 
 enough left to saddle their goat !” * 
 
 ‘*And the marines! they must have suf- 
 fered heavily ; I saw Pitcairn fall before me,” 
 said Lionel, speaking with hesitation—‘“ I 
 greatly fear our old comrade, the grenadier, 
 did not escape with better fortune.” 
 
 ““Mac!” exclaimed Polwarth, casting a 
 furtive glance at his companion.—“ Ay, Mac 
 was not as lucky in that business as he was 
 in Germany—he-em—Mac—had an obstinate 
 way with him, Leo, a damn’d obstinate fel- 
 low in all military matters ; but as generous 
 a heart, and as free in sharing a mess-bill as 
 any man in his majesty’s service! I crossed 
 the river in the same boat with him, and he 
 entertained us with his queer thoughts on 
 the art of war. According to Mac’s notions 
 of things, the grenadiers were to do all the 
 fighting—a damn’d odd way with him had 
 Mac !” 
 
 ‘‘There are few of us without peculiari- 
 ties, and I could wish that none of them were 
 more offensive than the trifling prejudices of 
 poor Dennis M’Fuse.” 
 
 ““Yes, yes,” added Polwarth, hemming 
 violently, as if determined to clear his throat 
 at every hazard; “he was a little opinion- 
 ated in trifles, such as a knowledge of war, 
 and matters of discipline ; but in all import- 
 ant things as tractable as a child. He loved 
 his joke, but it was impossible to have a less 
 difficult or a more unpretending palate in 
 
 * This regiment, in consequence of some tradition, 
 kept a goat, with gilded horns, as a memorial. 
 Once a year it celebrated a festival, in which the 
 bearded quadruped acted a conspicuous part. In the 
 battle of Bunker Hill, the corps was distinguished 
 alike for its courage and its losses. 
 
318 
 
 one’s mess! The greatest evil I can wish 
 him is breath in his body, to live and enjoy, 
 in these hard times, when things become ex- 
 cellent by comparison, the sagacious provision 
 which his own ingenuity contrived to secure 
 out of the cupidity of our ancient landlord, 
 Mister Seth Sage.” 
 
 ‘‘Then that notable scheme did not en- 
 tirely fall to the ground,” said Lionel, with a 
 feverish desire to change the subject once 
 more. “I had thought the Americans were 
 too vigilant to admit the intercourse.” 
 
 *‘Seth has been too sagacious to permit 
 them to obstruct it. The prices acted like a 
 soporific on his conscience, and by using your 
 name, I believe, he has found some friend of 
 sufficient importance amongst the rebels to 
 protect him in his trade. His supplies make 
 their appearance twice a week as regularly as 
 the meats follow the soups in a well ordered 
 banquet.” 
 
 “You then can communicate with the 
 country, and the country with the town! 
 Although Washington may wink at the pro- 
 ceeding, I should fear the scowl of Howe.” 
 
 ‘“Why, in order to prevent suspicions of 
 unfair practices, and at the same time to 
 serve the cause of humanity, so the explana- 
 tion reads, you know, our sapient host has 
 seen fit to employ a fool as his agent in the 
 intercourse—a fellow, as you may remem- 
 ber, of some notoriety ; a certain simpleton, 
 who calls himself Job Pray.” 
 
 Lionel continued silent for many moments, 
 during which time his recollections began to 
 revive, and his thoughts glanced over the 
 scenes that occurred in the first: months of his 
 residence in Boston. It is quite possible that 
 a painful, though still general and indefinite 
 feeling mingled with his musings; for he 
 evidently strove to expel some such unwel- 
 come intruder, as he resumed the discourse 
 with a strong appearance of forced gayety. 
 
 ‘‘ Ay, ay, I well remember poor Job—a 
 fellow once seen and known, not easily to be 
 forgotten. He used, of old, to attach him- 
 self greatly to my person, but I suppose, 
 like the rest of the world, I am neglected 
 when in retirement.” 
 
 ‘You do the lad injustice ; he not only 
 makes frequent inquiries, after his slovenly 
 manner I acknowledge, concerning your 
 condition, but sometimes he seems better 
 
 & 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPEL. 
 
 informed in the matter than myself, and can 
 requite my frequent answers to his questions, 
 by imparting, instead of receiving, intelli- 
 gence of your improvement ; more especially 
 since the ball has been extracted.” 
 
 ‘‘That should be very singular, too,” said 
 Lionel, with a still more thoughtful brow. 
 
 ‘¢ Not so very remarkable, Leo, as one would 
 at first imagine,” interrupted his companion 
 —‘‘the lad is not wanting in sagacity, as he 
 manifested by his choice of dishes at our old 
 mess-table.—Ah ! Leo, Leo, we may see 
 many a discriminating palate, but where 
 shall we go to find another such a friend ?— 
 one who could eat and joke—drink and 
 quarrel with a man, in a breath, like poor 
 Dennis, who is gone from among us for- 
 ever !—There was a piquancy about poor 
 Mac, that acted on the dulness of life like 
 condiments on the natural appetite !” ' 
 
 Meriton, who was diligently brushing his 
 master’s coat, an office that he performed 
 daily, though the garment had not been worn 
 in so long a period, stole a glance at the 
 averted eye of the major, and understanding © 
 its expression to indicate a determined silence, 
 he ventured to maintain the discourse in his 
 own unworthy person. 
 
 ‘Yes, sir, a nice gentleman was Captain 
 M’Fuse, and one as fought as stoutly for the 
 king as any gentleman in the army, all 
 agrees.—It was a thousand pities such a fine 
 figure of a man hadn’t a better idea of 
 dress; it isn’t all, sir, as is gifted in that 
 way! But everybody says he’s a detri- 
 mental loss, though there’s some officers in 
 town, who consider so little how to wear 
 their ornaments, that if they were to be 
 shot, I am sure no one would miss them.” 
 
 ‘“‘“Ah! Meriton,” cried the full-hearted 
 Polwarth, ‘‘ I see you are a youth of more ob- 
 servation than I had suspected ! Mac had all 
 the seeds of a man in him, though some of 
 them might not have come to maturity. 
 There was a flavor in his humor, that served 
 as a relish to every conversation in which he 
 mingled. Did you serve the poor fellow up- 
 in handsome style, Meriton, for his last 
 worldly exhibition ?” } 
 
 ‘‘Yes, indeed, sir, we gave him as orna- 
 mental a funeral as can be seen out of Lon- 
 non. Besides the Royal Irish, all the 
 grenadiers was out; that is, all as wasn’t 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 hurt, which was near half of them. As I 
 knowed the regard Master Lionel had for the 
 captain, I dressed him with my own hands 
 —I trimmed his whiskers, sir, and altered 
 his hair more in front, and seeing that his 
 honor was getting a little gray, I threw on a 
 sprinkling of powder, and as handsome a 
 corpse was Captain M’Fuse as any gentleman 
 in the army, let the other be who he may !” 
 
 The eyes of Polwarth twinkled, and he 
 blew his nose with a noise not unlike the 
 sound of a clarion, ere he rejoined— 
 
 “Yes, yes, time and hardships had given 
 a touch of frost to the head of the poor fel- 
 low ; but it is a consolation to know that he 
 died like a soldier, and not by the hands of 
 that vulgar butcher, Nature ; and that, being 
 - dead, he was removed according to his de- 
 serts | ” 
 
 “Indeed, sir,” said Meriton, with a so- 
 lemnity worthy of the occasion, “‘we gave 
 him a great procession—a great deal can be 
 made out of his majesty’s uniform, on such 
 festivities, and it had a wonderful look about 
 it !—Did you speak, sir ?” 
 
 “Yes,” added Lionel, impatiently ; ‘re- 
 move the cloth and go inquire if there be 
 letters for me.” 
 
 The valet submissively obeyed, and after a 
 short pause the dialogue was resumed by the 
 gentlemen on subjects of a less painful 
 nature. 
 
 As Polwarth was exceedingly communica- 
 tive, Lionel soon obtained a very general, 
 and, to do the captain suitable justice, an ex- 
 tremely impartial account of the situation of 
 the hostile forces, as well as of all the leading 
 events that had transpired since the day of 
 Breed’s. Once or twice the invalid ventured 
 an allusion to the spirit of the rebels; and to 
 the unexpected energy they had discovered; 
 but Polwarth heard them all in silence, an- 
 Swering only by a melancholy smile, and, in 
 the last instance, by a significant gesture 
 toward his unnatural supporter. Of course, 
 after this touching acknowledgment of his 
 former error, his friend waived the subject 
 for others less personal. 
 
 He learned that the royal general main- 
 tained his hardly-earned conquest on the op- 
 posite peninsula, where he was as effectually 
 beleaguered, however, as in the town of Bos- 
 ton itself. In the meantime, while the war 
 
 P| 
 >. 
 
 319 
 
 was conducted in earnest at the point where 
 it commenced, hostilities had broken out in 
 every one of those colonies, south of the St. 
 Lawrence and the Great Lakes, where the 
 presence of the royal troops invited an appeal 
 to force. At first, while the colonists acted 
 under the impulses of the high enthusiasm 
 of a sudden rising, they had been everywhere 
 successful. A general army had been organ- 
 ized, as already related, and divisions were 
 employed at different points to effect those 
 conquests, which, in that early state of the 
 struggle, were thought to be important to the 
 main result. But the effects of their imper- 
 fect means and divided power were already 
 becoming visible. After a series of minor 
 victories, Montgomery had fallen in a most 
 desperate but unsuccessful attempt to carry 
 the impregnable fortress of Quebec; and 
 ceasing to be the assailants, the Americans 
 were gradually compelled to collect their re- 
 sources to meet that mighty effort of the 
 crown, which was known to be not far dis- 
 tant. As thousands of their fellow-subjects 
 in the mother country manifested a strong 
 repugnance to the war, the ministry so far 
 submitted to the influence of that free spirit, 
 which first took deep root in Britain, as to 
 turn their eyes to those states of Europe, who 
 made a trade in human life, in quest of mer- 
 cenaries to quell the temper of the colonists. 
 In consequence, the fears of the timid among 
 the Americans were excited by rumors of the 
 vast hordes of Russians and Germans, who 
 were to be poured into their country, with 
 the fell intent to make them slaves. Perhaps 
 no step of their enemies had a greater ten- 
 dency to render them odious in the eyes of 
 the Americans, than this measure of intro- 
 ducing foreigners to decide a quarrel purely 
 domestic. So long as none but men who had 
 been educated in those acknowledged prin- 
 ciples of justice and law, known to both peo- 
 ple, were admitted to the contest, there were 
 visible points, common to each, which might 
 render the struggle less fierce, and in time 
 lead to a permanent reconciliation. But they 
 reasoned not inaptly, when they asserted, 
 that in a contest rendered triumphant by 
 slaves, nothing but abject submission could 
 ensue to the conquered. It was like throw- 
 ing away the scabbard, and, by abandoning 
 reason, submitting the result to the sword 
 
320 
 
 alone. In addition to the estrangement 
 these measures were gradually increasing be- 
 tween the people of the mother-country and 
 the colonies, must be added the change it 
 produced among the latter in their habits of 
 regarding the person of their prince. 
 
 During the whole of the angry discussion, 
 and the recriminations, which preceded the 
 drawing of blood, the colonists had admitted, 
 to the fullest extent, not only in their lan- 
 guage, but in their feelings, that fiction of 
 the British law, which says ‘‘ the king can do 
 no wrong.” Throughout the wide extent of 
 an empire, on which the sun was never known 
 to set, the English monarch could boast of 
 no subjects more devoted to his family and 
 person than the men who now stood in arms 
 against what they honestly believed to be the 
 unconstitutional encroachments of his power. 
 Hitherto the whole weight of their resent- 
 ment had justly fallen on the advisers of the 
 prince, who himself was thought to be igno- 
 rant, as he was probably innocent, of the 
 abuses so generally practised in his name. 
 But as the contest thickened, the natural 
 feelings of the man were thought to savor of 
 the political acts he was required to sanction 
 with his name. It was soon whispered, 
 among those who had the best means of in- 
 telligence, that the feelings of the sovereign 
 were deeply interested in the maintenance of 
 wiat he deemed his prerogative, and the 
 ascendency of that body of the representa- 
 tives of his empire, which he met in person 
 and influenced by his presence. Ere long 
 this opinion was rumored abroad, and as the 
 minds of men began to loosen from their an- 
 cient attachments and prejudices, they con- 
 founded, by a very natural feeling, the head 
 with the members; forgetting that ‘‘ Liberty 
 and Equality” formed no part of the trade 
 of princes. The name of the monarch was 
 daily falling into disrepute ; and as the col- 
 onial writers ventured to allude more freely 
 to his person and power, the glimmerings of 
 that light were seen, which was a precursor 
 of the rise of ‘‘ the stars of the west” among 
 the national symbols of the earth. Until 
 then, few had thought, and none had vent- 
 ured to speak openly, of independence, 
 though events had been silently preparing 
 the colonists for such a final measure. 
 
 Allegiance to the prince was the last and 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 only tie to be severed; for the colonies al- 
 ready governed themselves in all matters, 
 whether of internal or foreign policy, as ef- 
 fectually as any people could, whose right to 
 do so was not generally acknowledged. But 
 as the honest nature of George III. admitted 
 of no disguise, mutual disgust and alienation 
 were the natural consequences of the reaction 
 of sentiment between the prince and his 
 western people.* 
 
 All this, and much more of minute detail, 
 was hastily commented on by Polwarth, who 
 possessed, in the midst of his epicurean pro- 
 pensities, sterling good sense, and great in- 
 tegrity of intention. Lionel! was chiefly a 
 listener, nor did he cease the greedy and in- 
 teresting employment until warned by his 
 weakness, and the stroke of a neighboring 
 clock, that he was trespassing too far on pru- 
 dence. His friend then assisted the ex- 
 hausted invalid to his bed, and after giving 
 him a world of good advice, together with a 
 warm pressure of the hand, he stumped his 
 way out of the room, with a noise that 
 brought, at every tread, an echo from the 
 heart of Major Lincoln. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. . 
 
 ‘< God never meant that man should scale the 
 heavens 
 By strides of human wisdom.”—CowPEr. 
 
 A veERY few days of gentle exercise in the 
 bracing air of the season, were sufficient to 
 restore the strength of the invalid, whose — 
 wounds had healed while he lay slumbering 
 under the influence of the anodynes pre- 
 scribed by his leech. Polwarth, in consider- 
 ation of the delapidated state of his own 
 limbs, together with the debility of Lionel, 
 had so far braved the ridicule of the army, 
 as to set up one of those comfortable and 
 easy conveyances, which, in the good old 
 times of colonial humility, were known by 
 the quaint and unpretending title of tom- 
 
 * NorE.—The prejudices of the King of England 
 were unavoidable in his insulated situation, but his 
 virtues and integrity were exclusively the property 
 of the man. His speech to our first minister after 
 the peace cannot be too often recorded: ‘I was the 
 last man in my kingdom to acknowledge your inde- 
 pendence, and I shall be the last to violate it.” 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 _ pungs. ‘To equip this establishment, he had 
 
 _ been compelled to impress one of the fine 
 hunters of his friend. The animal had been 
 taught, by virtue of much training from his 
 groom, aided a little, perhaps, by the low 
 state of the garners of the place, to amble 
 through the snow as quietly as if he were 
 conscious of the altered condition of his mas- 
 ter’s health. In this safe vehicle the two 
 gentlemen might be seen daily, gliding along 
 the upper streets of the town, and moving 
 through the winding paths of the common, 
 receiving the congratulations of their friends; 
 or, in their turn, visiting others, who, like 
 themselves, had been wounded in the mur- 
 derous battle of the preceding summer, but 
 who, less fortunate than they, were still com- 
 pelled to submit to the lingering confinement 
 of their quarters. 
 
 It was not difficult to persuade Cecil and 
 Agnes to join in many of their short excur- 
 sions, though no temptation could induce the 
 latter to still the frown that habitually set- 
 tled on her beautiful brow, whenever chance 
 or intention brought them in contact with 
 any of the gentlemen of the army. Miss 
 Dynevor was, however, much more conciliat- 
 ing in her deportment, and even, at times, 
 so gracious as to incur the private reproaches 
 of her friend. 
 
 “Surely, Cecil, you forget how much our 
 poor countrymen are suffering in their miser- 
 able lodgings without the town, or you would 
 be less prodigal of your condescension to 
 these butterflies of the army,” cried Agnes, 
 pettishly, while they were uncloaking after 
 one of these rides, during which the latter 
 thought her cousin had lost sight of that tacit 
 compact, by which most of the women of the 
 colonies deemed themselves bound to exhibit 
 their feminine resentments to their invaders. 
 “Were a chief from our own army presented 
 to you, he could not have been received ina 
 Sweeter manner than you bestowed your smile 
 to-day on that Sir Digby Dent! ” 
 
 “T can say nothing in favor of its sweet- 
 hess, my acid cousin, but that Sir Digby Dent 
 is a gentleman a 
 
 “A gentleman! yes—so is every English- 
 man who wears a scarlet coat, and knows 
 how to play off his airs in the colonies! ” 
 
 ““ And as I hope I have some claims to be 
 called a lady,” continued Cecil, quietly, “I 
 
 321 
 
 do not know why, in the little intercourse 
 we have, I should be rude to him.” 
 
 “ Cecil Dynevor !” exclaimed Agnes, with 
 a sparkling eye, and with a woman’s intuitive 
 perception of the other’s motives, “all Eng- 
 lishmen are not Lionel Lincolns.” 
 
 “Nor is Major Lincoln an Englishman,” 
 returned Cecil, laughing, while she blushed ; 
 “though I have reason to think that Captain 
 Polwarth may be.” 
 
 «Silly, child, silly ; the poor man has paid 
 the penalty of his offence, and is to be regarded 
 with pity.” 
 
 ‘‘Have a care, my coz.—Pity is one of a 
 large connection of gentle feelings; when 
 you once admit the first-born, you may leave 
 open your doors to the whole family.” 
 
 “ Now that is exactly the point in question, 
 Cecil--because you esteem Major Lincoln, 
 you are willing to admire Howe and all his 
 myrmidons ; but I can pity, and still be 
 firm.” 
 
 « Te bon temps viendra !” 
 
 “Never,” interrupted Agnes, with a 
 warmth that prevented her perceiving how 
 much she admitted-—“ never, at least under 
 the guise of a scarlet coat.” 
 
 Cecil smiled, but having completed her 
 toilet, she withdrew without making any 
 reply. 
 
 Such little discussions, enlivened more or 
 less by the peculiar spirit of Agnes, were of 
 frequent occurrence, though the eye of her 
 cousin became daily more thoughtful, and 
 the indifference with which she listened was 
 more apparent in each succeeding dialogue. 
 
 In the meantime, the affairs of the siege, 
 though conducted with extreme caution, 
 amounted only to a vigilant blockade. 
 
 The Americans lay by thousands in the 
 surrounding villages, or were hutted in strong 
 bands nigh the batteries which commanded 
 the approaches to the place. Notwithstand- 
 ing their means had been greatly increased 
 by the capture of several vessels, loaded with 
 warlike stores, as well as by the reduction of 
 two important fortresses toward the Canadian 
 frontiers, they were still too scanty to admit 
 of that wasteful expenditure which is the 
 usual accompaniment of war. In addition 
 to their necessities, as a reason for forbear- 
 ance, might also be mentioned the feelings 
 of the colonists, who were anxious, in mercy 
 KK 
 
B22 
 
 to themselves, to regain their town as little 
 injured as possible. On the other hand, the 
 impression made by the battle of Bunker 
 Hill was still so vivid as tocurb the enter- 
 prise of the royal commanders, and Washing- 
 ton had been permitted to hold their power- 
 ful forces in check, by an untrained and 
 half-armed multitude, that was, at times, 
 absolutely destitute of the means of maintain- 
 ing even a momentary contest. 
 
 As, however, a show of hostilities was main- 
 tained, the reports of cannon were frequently 
 heard, and there were days when skirmishes 
 between the advance parties of the two hosts 
 brought on more heavy firings, which contin- 
 ued for longer periods. The. ears of the 
 ladies had long been accustomed to these rude 
 sounds, and as the trifling loss which followed 
 was altogether confined to the outworks, they 
 were listened to with but little or no terror. 
 
 In this manner a fortnight flew swiftly 
 away, without an incident toberelated. One 
 fine morning, at the end of that period, Pol- 
 warth drove into the little court-yard of Mrs. 
 Lechmere’s residence, with all those knowing 
 flourishes he could command, and which, in 
 the year 1775, were thought to indicate the 
 greatest familiarity with the properties of a 
 tom-pung. In another minute his wooden 
 member was heard in the passage, timing his 
 steps, as he approached the room where the 
 rest of the party were waiting his appearance. 
 The two cousins stood wrapped in furs, with 
 their smiling faces blooming beneath double 
 rows of lace to soften the pictures, while 
 Major Lincoln was in the act of taking his 
 cloak from Meriton, as the door opened for 
 the admission of the captain. 
 
 “What, already dished !” exclaimed the 
 good-natured Polwarth, glancing his eyes 
 from one to the other—‘‘so much the bet- 
 ter; punctuality is the true leaven of life—a 
 good watch is as necessary to the guest as 
 the host, and to the host as his cook. Miss 
 Agnes, you are amazingly murderous to-day! 
 If Howe expects his subalterns to do their 
 duty, he should not suffer you to go at large 
 in his camp.” 
 
 The fine eye of Miss Danforth sparkled as 
 he proceeded, but happening to fall on his 
 mutilated person, its expression softened, and 
 she was content with answering with a 
 smile— 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “Let your general look to himself; I sel- 
 dom go abroad but to espy his weakness! ” 
 
 The captain gave an expressive shrug of 
 his shoulder, and turning aside to his friend, 
 said in an undertone— 
 
 ‘“You see how it is, Major Lincoln; ever 
 since I have been compelled to serve myself 
 up, like a turkey from yesterday’s dinner, 
 with a single leg, I have not been able to get 
 a sharp reply from the young woman—she 
 has grown an even-tempercd, tasteless mor- 
 sel! and I am like a two-prong fork; only fit 
 for carving! well, I care not how soon they 
 cut me up entirely, since she has lost her 
 piquancy—but shall we to the church ?” 
 
 Lionel looked a little embarrassed, and 
 fingered a paper he held in his hand, fora 
 moment, before he handed it to the other for 
 his perusal. | 
 
 ‘‘What have we here?” continued Pol- 
 warth—‘T wo officers, wounded in the late 
 battle, desire to return thanks for their re- 
 covery “—hum — hum—hum — two ?—your- 
 self, and who is the other ? ” 
 
 ‘‘T had hoped it would be my old com- 
 panion and school-fellow ?” 
 
 ‘‘Ha! what, me!” exclaimed the captain, 
 unconsciously elevating his wooden leg, and 
 examining it with a rueful eye—‘‘umph! 
 Leo, do you think a man has a particular 
 reason to be grateful for the loss of a leg ? ” 
 
 ‘‘It might have been worse i 
 
 ‘<J don’t know,” interrupted Polwarth, a 
 little obstinately—‘‘there would have been — 
 more symmetry in it, if it had been both.” 
 
 *“You forget your mother,” continued 
 Lionel, as though the other had not spoken ; 
 ‘*T am very sure it will give her heart-felt 
 pleasure.” 
 
 Polwarth gave a loud hem, rubbed his 
 hand over his face once or twice, gaye an- 
 other furtive glance at his solitary limb, and 
 then answered with a little tremor in his 
 voice— 
 
 ““ Yes, yes—I believe you are quite right— 
 a mother, can love her child, though he 
 should be chopped into mince-meat! The 
 sex get that generous feeling after they are 
 turned of forty—it’s your young woman that 
 is particular about proportions and corre- 
 spondents.” 
 
 ““You consent, then, that Meriton shall 
 hand in the request, as it reads ?” 
 
j 
 ; 
 n 
 a 
 
 ‘ 
 ‘3 
 t 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 Polwarth hesitated a single instant longer, 
 and then, as he remembered his distant 
 mother, (for Lionel had touched the right 
 
 _ chord,) his heart melted within him. 
 
 ** Certainly, certainly—it might have been 
 worse as it was with poor Dennis—ay, let it 
 pass for two; it shall go hard, but I find a 
 knee to bend on the occasion. Perhaps, Leo, 
 when a certain young lady sees I have a ‘Te 
 Deum’ for my adventure she may cease to 
 think me such an object of pity as at present.” 
 
 Lionel bowed in silence, and the captain, 
 turning to Agnes, conducted her to the sleigh 
 with a particularly lofty air, that he intended 
 should indicate his perfect superiority to the 
 casualties of war. Cecil took the arm of 
 Major Lincoln, and the whole party were 
 soon seated in the vehicle that was in wait- 
 ing. 
 
 Until this day, which was the second 
 Sunday since his reappearance, and the first 
 on which the weather permitted him to go 
 abroad, Lionel had no opportunity to observe 
 the altered population of the town. The 
 inhabitants had gradually left the place, some 
 
 clandestinely, and others under favor. of 
 
 passes from the royal general, until those 
 who remained were actually outnumbered by 
 the army and its dependents. As the party 
 approached the ‘‘ King’s Chapel,” the street 
 was crowded by military men, collected in 
 groups, who indulged in thoughtless merri- 
 ment, reckless of the wounds their light con- 
 versation inflicted on the few townsmen, who 
 might be seen moving towards the church, 
 with deportments suited to the solemnity of 
 their purpose, and countenances severely 
 chastened by a remembrance of the day, and 
 its serious duties. Indeed, so completely 
 had Boston lost that distinctive appearance of 
 sobriety, which had ever been the care and 
 pride of its people, in the levity of a garrison, 
 that even the immediate precincts of the 
 temple were not protected from the passing 
 jest or rude mirth of the gay and unreflect- 
 ing, at an hour when a quiet was wont to 
 settle on the whole province, as deep as if 
 Nature had ceased her ordinary functions to 
 unite in the worship of man. Lionel ob- 
 served the change with mortification, nor did 
 it escape his uneasy glances, that his two 
 female companions concealed their faces in 
 their muffs, as if to exclude a view that 
 
 323 
 
 brought still more painful recollections to 
 minds early trained in the reflecting habits 
 of the country. 
 
 When the sleigh drew up before the edifice, 
 a dozen hands were extended to assist the 
 ladies in their short but difficult passage into 
 the heavy portico. Agnes coldly bowed her 
 acknowledgments, observing, with an ex- 
 tremely equivocal smile, to one of the most 
 assiduous of the young men— 
 
 ‘“ We, who are accustomed to the climate, 
 find no difficulty in walking on ice, though 
 to you foreigners it may seem so hazardous.” 
 She then bowed, and walked gravely into the 
 bosom of the church, without deigning to 
 bestow another glance to her right hand or 
 her left. 
 
 The manner of Cecil, though more chas- 
 tened and feminine, and consequently more 
 impressive, was equally reserved. Like her 
 cousin, she proceeded directly to her pew, re- 
 pulsing the attempts of those who wished to 
 detain her a moment in idle discourse, by a 
 lady-like propriety that checked the advance 
 of all who approached her. In consequence 
 of the rapid movement of their companions, 
 Lionel and Polwarth were left among the 
 crowd of officers who thronged the entrance 
 of the church. The former moved up with- 
 in the colonnade, and passed from group to 
 group, answering and making the customary 
 inquiries of men engaged in the business of 
 war. Here, three or four veterans were 
 clustered about one of those heavy columns, 
 that were arranged in formidable show on 
 three faces of the building, discussing, with 
 becoming gravity, the political signs of the 
 times, or the military condition of their re- 
 spective corps. There, three or four un- 
 fledged boys, tricked in all the vain emblems 
 of their profession, impeded the entrance of 
 the few women who appeared under the pre- 
 tence of admiration for the sex, while they 
 secretly dwelt on the glitter of their own or- 
 naments. Scattered along the whole extent 
 of the entrance were other little knots; some 
 listening to the idle tale of a professed jester, 
 some abusing the land in which it was their 
 fate to serve, and others recounting the mar- 
 vels they had witnessed in distant climes, 
 and in scenes of peril which beggared their 
 utmost powers of description. 
 
 Among such a collection it was not diffi- 
 
324 
 
 cult, however, to find a few whose views were 
 more elevated, and whose deportment might 
 be termed less offensive, either to breeding or 
 principles. With one of the gentleman of 
 the latter class Lionel was held for some time 
 in discourse, in a distant part of the portico. 
 At length the sounds of the organ were heard 
 issuing from the church, and the gay parties 
 began to separate, like men suddenly re- 
 minded why they were collected in that un- 
 usual place. The companion of Major Lin- 
 coln had left him, and he was himself fellow- 
 ing along the colonnade, which was now but 
 thinly peopled, when his ear was saluted by 
 a low voice, singing in a sort of nasal chant 
 at his very elbow— 
 
 “ Woe unto you, Pharisees! for ye love the 
 uppermost seats in the synagogues, and greet- 
 ings in the market!” 
 
 Though Lionel had not heard the voice 
 since the echoing cry had issued out of the 
 fatal redoubt, he knew its first tones on the 
 instant. Turning at this singular denuncia- 
 tion, he beheld Job Pray, erect and immovable 
 as a statue, in one of the niches, in front of 
 the building, whence he gave forth his warn- 
 ing voice, like some oracle speaking to its 
 devotees. 
 
 ‘* Fellow! will no peril teach you wisdom ? ” 
 demanded Lionel—“ how dare you brave our 
 resentment so wantonly ? ” 
 
 But his questions were unheeded. The 
 young man, whose features looked pale and 
 emaciated, as if he had endured recent bodily 
 disease, whose eye was glazed and vacant, and 
 whose whole appearance was more squalid and 
 miserable than usual, appeared perfectly in- 
 different to all around him. Without even 
 altering the riveted gaze of his unmeaning 
 eye, he continued— 
 
 “Woe unto you! for ye neither go in your- 
 selves; neither suffer ye them that are enter- 
 ing to go in!” 
 
 “« Art deaf? fool!” demanded Lionel. 
 
 In an instant the eye of the other was 
 turned on his interrogator, and Major Lincoln 
 felt a thrill pass through him when he met 
 the wild gleam of intelligence that lighted 
 the countenance of the changeling, as 
 he continued, in the same ominous 
 tones— 
 
 ‘Whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, 
 shall be in danger of the council; but whoso- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ever shall say, Thou fool, is in danger of hell- 
 fire.” 
 
 For amoment Lionel stood as if spellbound, 
 by the manner of Job, while he uttered this 
 dreadful anathema. But the instant the 
 secret influence ceased, he tapped the lad 
 lightly with his cane, and bid him descend 
 from the niche. 
 
 “ Job’s a prophet,” returned the other, dis- 
 honoring his. declaration at the same time, by 
 losing the singular air of momentary intelli- 
 gence, in his usual appearance of mental 
 imbecility—‘ it’s wicked to strike a prophet. 
 The Jews stoned the prophets, and beat them 
 too.” 
 
 “Do then as I bid you—would you stay 
 here to be beaten by the soldiers ? Go now, 
 away; after service come to me, and I will 
 furnish you with a better coat than the gar- 
 ment you wear.” 
 
 “Did you never read the good book,” said 
 Job, “where it tells how you mus’n’t take 
 heed for food nor raiment? Nab says when 
 Job dies he’ll go to heaven, for he gets noth- 
 ing to wear, and but little to eat. Kings 
 wear their dimond crowns and golden flaunti- _ 
 ness; and kings always go to the dark place.” 
 
 The lad suddenly ceased, and crouching 
 into the very bottom of his niche, he began 
 to play with his fingers, like an infant amused 
 with the power of exercising its own mem- 
 bers. At the same moment Lionel turned 
 from him, attracted by the rattling of side- 
 arms, and the tread of many feet behind him. 
 A large party of officers, belonging to the 
 staff of the army, had paused to listen to 
 what was passing. Amongst them Lionel 
 recognized, at the first glance, two of the 
 chieftains, who, a little in advance of their 
 attendants, were keenly eying the singular 
 being that was squatted in the niche. Not- 
 withstanding his surprise, Major Lincoln de- 
 tected the scowl that impended over the dark 
 brow of the commander-in-chief, while he 
 bowed low, in deference to his rank. 
 
 “Who is this fellow, that dare condemn 
 the mighty of the earth to such sweeping 
 perdition ?” demanded Howe—“ his own soy- 
 ereign amongst the number !” 
 
 “°Tis an unfortunate being, renin in 
 intellect, with whom accident has made me 
 acquainted,” returned Major Lincoln; “ who 
 hardly knows what he utters, and least of © 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 all in whose presence he has been speak- 
 ing.” 
 
 “Tt is to such idle opinions, which are 
 conceived by the designing, and circulated 
 by the ignorant, that we may ascribe the 
 wavering allegiance of the colonies,” said the 
 British general. “I hope you can answer 
 for the loyalty of your singular acquaintance, 
 Major Lincoln ?” 
 
 Lionel was about to reply, with some little 
 spirit, when the companion of the frowning 
 chief suddenly exclaimed— 
 
 “By the feats of the feathered Hermes, 
 but this is the identical Merry Andrew who 
 took the flying leap from Copp’s, of which 
 I have already spoken to you.—Am I in 
 error, Lincoln? Is not this the shouting 
 philosopher, whose feelings were so elevated 
 
 on the day of Breed’s, that he could not re- 
 frain from flying, but who, less fortunate 
 than Icarus, made his descent on terra 
 firma?” | 
 
 _T believe your memory is faithful, sir,” 
 said Lionel, answering the smile of the other 
 —the lad is often brought to trouble by his 
 simplicity.” 
 
 Burgoyne gave a gentle impulse to the arm 
 he held, as if he thought the wretched being 
 before them unworthy of further considera- 
 tion; though secretly with a view to prevent 
 an impolitic exhibition of the well-known 
 propensity of his senior to push his notions 
 of military ascendancy to the extreme. Per- 
 ceiving by the still darkening look of the 
 other, that he hesitated, his ready lieuten- 
 ant observed — 
 
 “ Poor fellow! his treason was doubly pun- 
 ished, by a flight of some fifty feet down the 
 declivity of Copp’s, and the mortification of 
 witnessing the glorious triumph of his maj- 
 esty’s troops.—To such a wretch we may well 
 afford forgiveness.” 
 
 Howe insensibly yielded to the continued 
 pressure of the other, and his hard features 
 even relaxed into a scowling smile, as he 
 said, while turning away— 
 
 “Look to your acquaintance, Major Lin- 
 coln, or, bad as his present condition seems, 
 he may make it worse. Such language 
 cannot be tolerated in a place besieged. 
 That is the word, I believe—the rebels 
 
 call their mob a besieging army, do they 
 not?” 
 
 320 
 
 “ They do gather round our winter-quarters, 
 and claim some such distinction ie 
 
 “Tt must be acknowledged they did well 
 on Breed’s too! The shabby rascals fought 
 like true men.” 
 
 “ Desperately, and with some discretion,” 
 answered Burgoyne; ‘‘but it was their for- 
 tune to meet those who fought better, and 
 with greater skill—shall we enter?” 
 
 The frown was now entirely chased from 
 the brow of the chief, who said compla- 
 cently— 
 
 “Come, gentlemen, we are tardy; unless 
 more industrious, we shall not be in season 
 to pray for the king, much less ourselves.” 
 
 The whole party advanced a step, when a 
 bustle in the rear announced the approach 
 of another officer of high rank, and the second 
 in command entered into the colonnade, 
 followed also by the gentlemen of his family. 
 The instant he appeared, the self-contented 
 look vanished from the features of Howe, 
 who returned his salute with cold civility, 
 and immediately entered the church. The 
 quick-witted Burgoyne again interposed, and 
 as he made way in his turn, he found means 
 to whisper into the ear of Clinton some well- 
 imagined allusion to the events of that very 
 field which had given birth to the heart- 
 burnings between his brother generals, and 
 had caused the feelings of Howe to be 
 estranged from the man to whose assistance 
 he owed so much. Clinton yielded to the 
 subtle influence of the flattery, and followed 
 his commander into the house of God, with 
 a bland contentment that he probably mis- 
 took for a feeling much better suited for the 
 place and the occasion. As the whole group 
 of spectators, consisting of aids, secretaries, 
 and idlers, without, immediately imitated 
 the example of the generals, Lionel found 
 himself alone with the changeling. 
 
 From the moment that Job discovered the 
 vicinity of the English leader, to that of 
 his disappearance, the lad remained literally 
 immovable. His eye was fastened on va- 
 cancy, his jaw had fallen in a manner to give 
 a look of utter mental alienation to his coun- 
 tenance ; and, in short, he exhibited the de- 
 graded lineaments and figure of a man, 
 without his animation or intelligence. But 
 as the last footsteps of the retiring party 
 became inaudible, the fear, which had put 
 
326 
 
 to flight the feeble intellects of the simple- 
 ton, slowly left him, and raising his face, he 
 said, in a low, growling voice— 
 
 “Let him go out to Prospect; the people 
 will teach him the law!” 
 
 ‘+ Perverse and obstinate simpleton! ” cried 
 Lionel, dragging him, without further cere- 
 mony, from the niche—‘‘ will you persevere 
 in that foolish cry until you are whipped 
 from regiment to regiment for your pains?” 
 
 “ You promised Job the grannies shouldn’t 
 beat him any more, and Job promised to run 
 your ar’n’ds.” 
 
 « Ay! but unless you learn to keep silence, 
 boy, I shall forget my promise, and give you 
 up to the anger of all the grannies in town.” 
 
 <‘Well,” said Job, brightening in his look, 
 like a fool in his exultation, “they are half 
 of them dead, at any rate; Job heard the 
 biggest man among ’em roar like a ravenous 
 lion, ‘hurrah for the Royal Irish,’ but he 
 never spoke ag’in; though there wasn’t any 
 better rest for Job’s gun than a dead man’s 
 shoulder!” 
 
 “Wretch!” cried Lionel, recoiling from 
 him in horror, ‘‘are your hands then stained 
 with the blood of M’Fuse ?” 
 
 “ Job didn’t touch him with his hands,” 
 returned the undisturbed simpleton—“ for 
 he died like a dog, where he fell!” 
 
 Lionel stood a moment in utter confusion 
 of thought; but hearing the infallible evi- 
 dence of the near approach of Polwarth in 
 his tread, he said, in a hurried manner, and 
 in a voice half choked by his emotions— 
 
 ‘‘Go, fellow, go to Mrs. Lechmere’s, as I 
 bid you—tell—tell Meriton to look to my 
 fire.”? 
 
 The lad made a motion towards obeying, 
 but checking himself, he looked up into the 
 face of the other with a piteous and suffering 
 look, and said— 
 
 ‘See, Job’s numb with cold! Nab and 
 Job can’t get wood now; the king keeps men 
 to fight for it—let Job warm his flesh a little; 
 his body is cold as the dead!” 
 
 Touched to the heart by the request, and 
 the helpless aspect of the lad, Lionel made a 
 silent signal of assent, and turned quickly to 
 meet his friend. It was not necessary for 
 Polwarth to speak, in order to apprise Major 
 Lincoln that he had overheard part of the 
 dialogue between him and Job. His coun- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tenance and attitude sufficiently betrayed his 
 knowledge, as well as the effect it had pro- 
 duced on his feelings. He kept his eyes on 
 the form of the simpleton, as the lad shuffled 
 his way along the icy street, with an expres- 
 sion that could not easily be mistaken. | 
 
 “DidI not hear the name of poor Den- 
 nis?” at length he asked. 
 
 “’Twas some of the idle boastings of the 
 fool. But why are you not in the pew ?” 
 
 ‘‘The fellow is a protégé of yours, Major 
 Lincoln; but you may carry forbearance too 
 far,’ returned Polwarth, gravely.—‘‘ I come 
 for you, at the request of a pair of beautiful 
 eyes, that have inquired of each one that has 
 entered the church, this half hour, where and 
 why Major Lincoln has tarried.” 
 
 Lionel bowed his thanks, and affected to 
 laugh at the humor of his friend, while they 
 proceeded together to the pew of Mrs. Lech- 
 mere without further delay. 
 
 The painful reflections excited by this in- 
 terview with Job gradually vanished from 
 the mind of Lionel, as he yielded to the in- 
 fluence of the solemn service of the church. 
 He heard the difficult and suppressed breath- 
 ing of the fair being who kneeled by his side, 
 while the minister read those thanksgivings 
 which personally concerned himself, and no 
 little of earthly gratitude mingled with the 
 loftier aspirations of the youth, as he listened. 
 He caught the timid glance of the soft eye 
 from behind the folds of Cecil’s veil, as they 
 rose, and he took his seat as happy as an ar- 
 dent young man might well be fancied, 
 under the consciousness of possessing the 
 best affections of a female so youthful, so 
 lovely, and so pure. 
 
 Perhaps the service was not altogether so 
 consoling to the feelings of Polwarth. As 
 he recovered his solitary foot again, with 
 some little difficulty, he cast a very equivocal 
 glance at his dismembered person, hemmed 
 aloud, and finished with a rattling of his 
 wooden leg about the pew, that attracted the 
 eyes of the whole congregation, as ‘if he in- 
 tended the ears of all present should bear 
 testimony in whose behalf their owners had 
 uttered their extraordinary thanksgivings. - 
 
 The officiating minister was far too dis- 
 creet to vex the attention of his superiors 
 with any prolix and unwelcome exhibitions 
 
 of the Christian’s duty. The impressive de- _ 
 
the eyes of her lover. 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 livery of his text required one minute. Four 
 
 were consumed in the exordium. The argu- 
 ment was ingeniously condensed into ten 
 more; and the peroration of his essay was hap- 
 pily concluded in four minutes and a half; 
 leaving him the satisfaction of knowing, as 
 he was assured by fifty watches, and twice 
 that number of contented faces, that he had 
 accomplished his task by half a minute with- 
 in the orthodox period. 
 
 For this exactitude he doubtless had his 
 reward. Among other testimonials in his 
 favor, when Polwarth shook his hand to 
 thank him for his kind offices in his own be- 
 half, he found room for a high compliment 
 to the discourse, concluding by assuring the 
 flattered divine, ‘‘that, in addition to its 
 other great merits, it was done in beautiful 
 time |!” 
 
 ee ee 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 *‘ Away ; let naught to love displeasing, 
 My Winifreda, move your care ; 
 Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 
 Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.” 
 —Anonymous. 
 Ir was perhaps fortunate for the tranquil- 
 lity of all concerned, that, during this period 
 of their opening confidence, the person of 
 Mrs. Lechmere came not between the bright 
 image of purity and happiness that Cecil 
 presented in each lineament and action, and 
 The singular, and 
 somewhat contradictory interests that lady 
 had so often betrayed in the movements of 
 her young kinsman, were no longer visible to 
 awaken his slumbering suspicions. Even 
 those inexplicable scenes, in which his aunt 
 had so strangely been an actor, were forgot- 
 ten in the engrossing feelings of the hour; 
 or, if remembered at all, were only suffered 
 to dim the pleasing pictures of his imagina- 
 tion, as an airy cloud throwsits passing shad- 
 Ows across some cheerful and lovely land- 
 scape. In addition to those very natural 
 auxiliaries, love and hope, the cause of Mrs. 
 Lechmere had found a very powerful assist- 
 ant, in the bosom of Lionel, through an acci- 
 dent which had confined her, for a long 
 aie not only to her apartment, but to her 
 ed. 
 
 On that day, when the critical operation 
 
 327 
 
 was performed on the person of Major Lin- 
 coln, his aunt was known to have awaited 
 the result in intense anxiety. As soon as the 
 favorable termination was reported to her, 
 she hastened toward his room with an un- 
 guarded eagerness, which, added to the gen- 
 eral infirmities of her years, had nearly cost 
 the price of her life. Her foot became en- 
 tangled in her train, in ascending the stairs, 
 but disregarding the warning cry of Agnes 
 Danforth, with that sort of reckless vehe- 
 mence that sometimes broke through the 
 formal decorum of her manners, she sus- 
 tained, in consequence, a fall that might well 
 have proved fatal to a much younger woman. 
 The injury she received was severe and in- 
 ternal; and the inflammation, though not 
 high, was sufficiently protracted to arouse 
 the apprehensions of her attendants. The 
 symptoms were, however, now abating, and 
 her recovery no longer a matter of question. 
 
 As Lionel heard this from the lips of Cecil, 
 the reader will not imagine the effect pro- 
 duced by the interest his aunt took in his 
 welfare was at all lessened by the source 
 whence he derived his knowledge. Notwith- 
 standing Cecil dwelt on such a particular 
 evidence of Mrs. Lechmere’s attachment to 
 her nephew with much earnestness, it had 
 not escaped Major Lincoln, that her name 
 was but seldom introduced in their frequent 
 conversations, and never, on the part of his 
 companion, without a guarded delicacy that 
 appeared sensitive in the extreme. As their 
 confidence, however, increased with their 
 hourly communications, he began gently to 
 lift the veil which female reserve had drawn 
 before her inmost feelings, and to read a 
 heart whose purity and truth would have re- 
 paid a more difficult investigation. 
 
 When the party returned from the church, 
 Cecil and Agnes immediately hastened to 
 the apartment of the invalid, leaving Lionel 
 in possession of the little wainscoted parlor 
 by himself; Polwarth having proceeded to 
 his own quarters, with the assistance of the 
 hunter. The young man passed a few min- 
 utes in pacing the room, musing deeply on 
 the scene he had witnessed before the church; 
 now and then casting a vacant look on the 
 fanciful ornaments of the walls, among which 
 the armorial bearings of his own name were 
 so frequent, and in such honorable situations. 
 
328 
 
 At length he heard that light footstep ap- 
 proach, whose sound had now become too 
 well known to be mistaken, and in another 
 instant he was joined by Miss Dynevor. 
 
 ‘Mrs. Lechmere !” he said, leading her to 
 a settee, and placing himself by her side ; 
 “you found her better, I trust ?” 
 
 “So well, that she intends adventuring, 
 this morning, an interview with your own 
 formidable self. Indeed, Lionel, you have 
 every reason to be grateful for the deep in- 
 terest my grandmother takes in your welfare ! 
 Ill as she has been, her inquiries in your be- 
 half were ceaseless ; and I have known her 
 refuse to answer any questions about her own 
 critical condition until her physician had re- 
 lieved her anxiety concerning yours.”’ 
 
 As Cecil spoke, the tears rushed into her 
 eyes, and her bloom deepened with the 
 strength of her feelings. 
 
 ‘It is to you, then, that much of my 
 gratitude is due,” returned Lionel; ‘‘ for, by 
 permitting me to blend my lot with yours, I 
 find new value in her eyes. Have you ac- 
 quainted Mrs. Lechmere with the full extent 
 of my presumption ? She knows of our en- 
 gagement ?” , 
 
 “Could I do otherwise ? while your life 
 was in peril, I confined the knowledge of my 
 interest in your situation to my own breast ; 
 but when we were flattered with the hopes of 
 a recovery, I placed your letter in the hands 
 of my natural adviser, and have the consola- 
 tion of knowing, that she approves of my— 
 what shall I call it, Lionel ?—would not folly 
 be the better word ?” 
 
 «Call it what you will, so you do not dis- 
 avow it. I have hitherto forborne inquiring 
 into the views of Mrs. Lechmere, in tender- 
 ness to her situation; but I may flatter my- 
 self, Cecil, that she will not reject me ?” 
 
 For a single instant the blood rushed 
 tumultuously over the fine countenance of 
 Miss Dynevor, suffusing even her temples and 
 forehead with its healthful bloom ; but, as 
 she cast a reproachful glance at her lover, it 
 deserted even her cheeks, while she answered 
 calmly, though with a slight exhibition of 
 displeasure in her air— 
 
 ‘‘It may have been the misfortune of my 
 grandmother to view the head of her own 
 family with too partial eyes ; but, if it be so, 
 her reward should not be distrust. The 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 weakness is, I dare say, very natural, though 
 not less a weakness.” 
 
 For the first time Lionel fully compre- 
 hended the cause of that variable manner 
 with which Cecil had received his attentions, 
 until interest in his person had stilled her 
 sensitive feelings. Without, however, be- 
 traying the least consciousness of his intelli- 
 gence, he answered— 
 
 ‘< Gratitude does not deserve so forbidding 
 a name as distrust; nor will vanity permit 
 me to call partiality in my favor a weakness.” 
 
 ‘©The word is a good aud a safe term, as 
 applied to poor human nature,” said Cecil, 
 smiling once more with all her native sweet- 
 ness, ‘‘and you may possibly overlook it, 
 when you recollect that our foibles are some- 
 times hereditary.” 
 
 ‘©T pardon your unkind suspicion for that 
 gentle acknowledgment. But I may now, 
 without hesitation, apply to your grand- 
 mother for her consent to our immediate 
 union ?” : 
 
 «You would not have your epithalamium 
 sung, when, at the next moment, you may 
 be required to listen to the dirge of some 
 friend !” 
 
 ‘‘The very reason you urge against our 
 marriage, induces me to press it, Cecil. As 
 the season advances, this play of war must 
 end. Howe will either break out of his 
 bounds, and drive the Americans from the 
 hills, or seek some other point for more act- 
 ive warfare. In either case you would be 
 left in a distracted and divided country, at 
 an age too tender for your own safety, rather 
 the guardian than the ward of your helpless 
 parent. Surely, Cecil, you would not hesi- 
 tate to accept of my protection at such a 
 crisis, I had almost dared to say, in tender- 
 ness to yourself, as well as to my feelings !” 
 
 ‘«« Say on,” she answered ; ‘‘I admire your 
 ingenuity, if not your argument. In the first 
 place, however, I do not believe your general 
 can drive the Americans from their posts so 
 easily ; for, by a very simple process in fig- 
 ures, that even I understand, you may find, 
 if one hill costs so many hundred men, that 
 the purchase of the whole would be too dear 
 —nay, Lionel, do not look so grave, I implore 
 you! Surely, surely, you do not think I 
 would speak idly of a battle that had nearly 
 cost your life, and—and—my happiness.” 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 ‘‘ Say on,” said Lionel, instantly dismissing 
 the momentary cloud from his brow, and 
 smiling fondly in her anxious face ; ‘‘I ad- 
 mire your casuistry, and worship your feel- 
 ing; but can, also, deny your argument.” 
 
 Reassured by his voice and manner, after 
 a moment of extreme agitation, she con- 
 tinued, in the same playful tones as before— 
 
 «‘ But we will suppose all the hills won, 
 and the American chief, Washington, who, 
 though nothing but a rebel, is a very respect- 
 able one, driven into the country with his 
 army at his heels; I trust it is to be done with- 
 out the assistance of the women! Or, should 
 Howe remove his force, as you intimate, will 
 he not leave the town behind him? In either 
 ease, I should remain quietly where I am ; 
 safe in a British garrison, or safer among my 
 countrymen.” 
 
 “ Cecil, you are alike ignorant of the dan- 
 gers and of the rude lawlessness of war! 
 Though Howe should abandon the place, 
 *twould be only for a time; believe me, the 
 ministry will never yield the possession of a 
 town like this, which has so long dared their 
 power, to men in arms against their lawful 
 prince.” 
 
 «You have strangely forgotten the last six 
 months, Lionel, or you would not accuse me 
 of ignorance of the misery that war can in- 
 flict.” 
 
 ‘«¢ A thousand thanks for the kind admis- 
 sion, dearest Cecil, as well as for the hint,” 
 said the young man, shifting the ground of 
 his argument with the consistency, as well 
 as the readiness, of alover; “ you have owned 
 your sentiments to me, and would not refuse 
 to avow them again?” 
 
 “ Not one whose self-esteem will induce 
 him to forget the weakness; but, perhaps, I 
 might hesitate to do such a silly thing before 
 the world.” 
 
 «<7 will then put it to your heart,” he con- 
 tinued, without regarding the smiling co- 
 quetry she had affected. ‘‘ Believing the 
 best, you will admit that another battle would 
 be no strange occurrence ?” | 
 
 She raised her anxious looks to his face, 
 but remained silent. 
 
 ‘* We both know, at least I know, from sad 
 experience, that I am far from being invul- 
 _ nerable. Now answer me, Cecil,—not as a 
 female, struggling to support the false pride 
 
 329 
 
 of her sex, but as a woman, generous and full 
 of heart, like yourself,—were the events of 
 the last six months to recur, whether would 
 you live them over affianced in secret, or as 
 an acknowledged wife, who might not blush 
 to show her tenderness to the world ? ” 
 
 It was not until the large drops, that glis- 
 tened at his words upon the dark lashes of 
 Miss Dynevor, were shaken from the tremu- 
 lous fringes that concealed her eyes, that she 
 looked up, blushing, into his face, and said— 
 
 ‘‘Do you not then think that I endured 
 enough, as one who felt herself betrothed; 
 but that closer ties were necessary to fill the 
 measure of my suffering ?” 
 
 ‘¢T cannot even thank you as I would for 
 those flattering tears, until my question is 
 plainly answered.” 
 
 ‘Tg this altogether generous, Lincoln?” 
 
 ‘‘ Perhaps not in appearance, but sincerely 
 so in truth. By heaven, Cecil, I would shel- 
 ter and protect you from a rude contact with 
 the world, even as I seek my own happiness! ” 
 
 Miss Dynevor was not only confused, but 
 distressed; she however said, in a low voice— 
 
 “You forget, Major Lincoln, that I have 
 one to consult, without whose approbation I 
 can promise nothing.” 
 
 ‘Will you, then, refer the question to her 
 wisdom ? Should Mrs. Lechmere approve of 
 our immediate union, may I say to her, that 
 you authorize me to ask it?” 
 
 Cecil said nothing; but smiling through 
 her tears, she permitted Lionel to take her 
 hand in a manner that a much less sanguine 
 man would have found no difficulty in con- 
 strning into an assent. 
 
 ‘<Come then,” he cried, “let us hasten to 
 the apartment of Mrs. Lechmere; did you not 
 say she expected me?” She suffered him to 
 draw her arm through his own, and lead her 
 from the‘room. Notwithstanding the buoy- 
 ant hopes with which Lionel conducted his 
 companion through the passages of the 
 house, he did not approach the chamber of 
 Mrs. Lechmere without some inward repug- 
 nance. It was not possible to forget entirely 
 all that had so recently passed, or to still, 
 effectually, those dark suspicions which had 
 been once awakened within his bosom. His: 
 purpose, however, bore him onward, and a 
 glance at the trembling being, who now 
 absolutely leaned on him for support, drove 
 
330 
 
 every consideration, in which she did not 
 form a most prominent part, from his 
 mind. 
 
 The enfeebled appearance of the invalid, 
 with a sudden recollection that she had sus- 
 tained so much, in consequence of her 
 anxiety in his own behalf, so far aided the 
 cause of his aunt, that the young man not 
 only met her with cordiality, but with a feel- 
 ing akin to gratitude. 
 
 The indisposition of Mrs. Lechmere had 
 now continued for several weeks, and her 
 features, aged and sunken as they were by the 
 general decay of nature, afforded strong ad- 
 ditional testimony of the severity of her re- 
 cent illness. Her face, besides being paler 
 and more emaciated than usual, had caught 
 that anxious expression, which great and 
 protracted bodily ailing isapt to leave on the 
 human countenance. Her brow was, how- 
 ever smooth and satisfied unless at moments, 
 when a slight and involuntary play of the 
 muscles betrayed that fleeting pains contin- 
 ued, at short intervals, to remind her of her 
 illness. She received her visitors with a 
 smile that was softer and more conciliating 
 than usual, and which the pallid and care- 
 worn appearance of her features rendered 
 deeply impressive. 
 
 “‘TIt is kind, cousin Lionel,” she said, ex- 
 tending her withered hand to her young 
 kinsman, “in the sick to come thus to visit 
 the well. For after so long apprehending 
 the worst on your account, I cannot consent 
 that my trifling injury should be mentioned 
 before your more serious wounds.” 
 
 ‘Would, madam, that you had as happily 
 recovered from their effects as myself,” re- 
 turned Lionel, taking her hand, and press- 
 ing it with great sincerity. “I shall never 
 forget that you owe your illness to anxiety 
 for me.” 
 
 ‘‘Let it pass, sir; it is natural that we 
 should feel stronger in behalf of those we 
 love. I have lived to see you well again, and, 
 God willing, I shall live to see this wicked 
 rebellion crushed.” She paused ; and smil- 
 ing, for a moment, on the young pair who 
 had approached her couch, she continued, 
 “Cecil has told me all, Major Lincoln.” 
 
 “No, not all, dear madam,” interrupted 
 Lionel ; “I have something yet to add ; and 
 in the commencement, I will own that I de- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 pend altogether on your pity and judgment 
 to support my pretensions.” 
 
 “ Pretensions is an injudicious word, cousin 
 Lionel ; where there is an equality of birth, 
 education, and virtues, and, I may say, con- 
 sidering the difference in the sexes, of fort- 
 une too, it may amount to claims; but pre- 
 tensions is an expression too ambiguous. 
 Cecil, my child, go to my library; in the small, 
 secret drawer of my escritoire, you will find 
 a paper bearing your name; read it, my love, 
 and then bring it hither.” 
 
 She motioned to Lionel to be seated, and 
 when the door had closed on the retiring 
 form of Cecil, she resumed the conversation. 
 
 “ As we are about to speak of business, the 
 confused girl may as well be relieved, Major 
 Lincoln. What is this particular favor that 
 I shall be required to yield?” 
 
 ‘‘ Like any other sturdy mendicant, who 
 may have already partaken largely of your 
 bounty, I come to beg the immediate gift of 
 the last and greatest boon you can bestow.” 
 
 ‘*My grandchild. ‘There is no necessity 
 for useless reserves between us, cousin Lion- 
 el, for you will remember, that I too am a 
 Lincoln. Let us then speak freely, like two 
 friends, who have met to determine on a mat- 
 ter equally near to the heart of each.” 
 
 “Such is my earnest wish, madam—I have 
 been urging on Miss Dynevor the peril of the 
 times, and the critical situation of the coun- 
 try, in both of which I have found the 
 strongest reasons iy our immediate union.” 
 
 «« And Cecil 
 
 ‘¢ Has been like herself ; kind, but dutiful. 
 She refers me entirely 6 your decision, by 
 which alone she consents to be guided.” 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere made no immediate reply,. 
 but her features powerfully betrayed the in- 
 ward workings of her mind. It certainly 
 was not displeasure that caused her to hesi- 
 tate, her hollow eye lighting with a gleam of 
 satisfaction that could not be mistaken ; nei- 
 ther was it uncertainty, for her whole 
 countenance seemed to express rather the 
 uncontrollable agitation, which might accom- 
 pany the sudden accomplishment of long- 
 desired ends, than any doubt as to their pru- 
 dence. Gradually her agitation subsided ; 
 and as her feelings became more natural,. 
 her hard eyes filled with tears, and when she 
 spoke, there was a softness mingled with the 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. — 331 
 
 tremor of her voice, that Lionel had never 
 before witnessed. 
 
 ‘She is a good and a dutiful child, my 
 own, my obedient Cecil! She will bring you 
 no wealth, Major Lincoln, that will be es- 
 teemed among your hoards, nor any proud 
 titles to add to the lustre of your honorable 
 name ; but she will bring you what is good, 
 if not better—nay, I am sure it must be bet- 
 ter—a pure and virtuous heart, that knows 
 no guile !” 
 
 « A thousand and a thousand times more 
 estimable in my eyes, my worthy aunt!” 
 cried Lionel, melting before the touch of na- 
 ture, which had so effectually softened the 
 harsh feelings of Mrs. Lechmere, ‘‘let her 
 come to my arms penniless, and without a 
 name ; she will be no less my wife, no less her 
 own invaluable self.” 
 
 “TI spoke only by comparison, Major Lin- 
 -coln, the child of Colonel Dynevor, and the 
 granddaughter of the Lord Viscount Cardon- 
 nell, can have no cause to blush for her line- 
 
 age ; neither will the descendant of John 
 Lechmere be a dowerless bride! When 
 Cecil shall become Lady Lincoln, she need 
 never wish to conceal the escutcheon of her 
 own ancestors under the bloody hand of her 
 husband’s.” 
 
 “May heaven long avert the hour when 
 either of us may be required to use the sym- 
 bol!” exclaimed Lionel. 
 
 “Did I not understand aright! was not 
 your request for an instant marriage ?” 
 
 “Never less in error, my dear madam; but 
 you surely do not forget that one lives so 
 mutually dear to us, who has every reason to 
 hope for many years of life; and I trust, too, 
 of happiness and reason!” 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere looked wildly at her 
 nephew, and then passed her hand slowly 
 before her eyes, from whence she did not 
 withdraw them until an universal shudder 
 had shaken the whole of her enfeebled 
 frame. 
 
 “You are night, my young cousin,” she 
 said, smiling faintly—“I believe my bodily 
 weakness has impaired my memory.—I was 
 indeed dreaming of days long since past! 
 You stood before me in the image of your 
 desolate father, while Cecil bore that of her 
 mother; my own long-lost, but wilful Agnes! 
 Oh! she was my child! my child! and God 
 
 has forgotten her faults in mercy to a 
 mother’s prayers!” 
 
 Lionel recoiled a step before the wild 
 energy of the invalid’s manner, in speechless 
 amazement. A flush had passed into her 
 pallid cheeks, and as she concluded, she 
 clasped her hands before her, and sunk on 
 the pillows which supported her back. Large 
 insulated tears fell from her eyes, and, 
 slowly moving over her wasted cheeks, 
 dropped singly upon the counterpane. Lio- 
 nel laid his hand upon the night-bell, but an 
 expressive gesture from his aunt prevented 
 his ringing. 
 
 “T am well again,” she said—*<hand me 
 the restorative by your side.” 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere drank freely from the 
 glass, and in another minute her agitation 
 subsided, her features settling into their 
 rigid composure and her eye resuming its 
 hard expression, as though nothing had 
 occurred to disturb her usual cold and 
 worldly look. 
 
 «“ You see how much better youth can en- 
 dure the ravages of disease than age, by my 
 present weakness, Major Lincoln,” she con- 
 tinued; “let us return to other and more 
 agreeable subjects—you have not only my 
 consent, but my wish, that you should wed 
 my grandchild. It is a happiness that I have 
 rather hoped for, than dared to expect, and I 
 will freely add, *tis a consummation of my 
 wishes that will render the evening of my 
 days not only happy, but blessed!” 
 
 “Then, dearest madam, why should it be 
 delayed ?—no one can say what a day may 
 bring forth, at such a time as this, and the 
 moment of bustle and action is not the hour 
 to register the marriage vows.” 
 
 After musing a moment, Mrs. Lechmere 
 replied— 
 
 “ We have a good and holy custom in this 
 religious province, of choosing the day which 
 the Lord has set apart for his own exclusive 
 worship, as that on which to enter into the 
 honorable state of matrimony. Choose, then, 
 between this or the next Sabbath for your 
 nuptials.” 
 
 Whatever might be the ardor of the young 
 man, he was a little surprised at the short- 
 ness of the former period; but the pride of 
 his sex would not admit of any hesita- 
 tion. 
 
332 
 
 ** Let it be this day, if Miss Dynevor can 
 be brought freely to consent.” 
 
 “ Here then she comes, to tell you that, at 
 my request, she does. Cecil, my own sweet 
 child, I have promised Major Lincoln that 
 you will become his wife this day.” 
 
 Miss Dynevor, who had advanced into the 
 centre of the room, before she heard the pur- 
 port of this speech, stopped short, and stood 
 like a beautiful statue, expressing astonish- 
 ment and dismay. Her color went and came 
 with alarming quickness, and the paper fell 
 from her trembling hands to her feet, which 
 appeared riveted to the floor. 
 
 “To-day !” she repeated, in a voice barely 
 audible—‘‘did you say to-day, my grand- 
 mother ?” 
 
 «ven to-day, my child.” 
 
 «Why this reluctance, this alarm, Cecil?” 
 said Lionel, approaching, and leading her 
 gently to a seat. “You know the peril of 
 the times—you have condescended to own 
 your sentiments—consider; the winter is 
 breaking, and the first thaw can lead to 
 events which may entirely alter our situ- 
 ation.” 
 
 “All these may have weight in your eyes, 
 
 Major Lincoln,” interrupted Mrs. Lechmere, 
 in a voice whose marked solemnity drew the 
 attention of her hearers; “but I have other 
 and deeper motives. Have I not already 
 proved the dangers and the evils of delay? 
 Ye are young, and ye are virtuous; why 
 should ye not be happy? Cecil, if you love 
 and revere me, as I think you do, you will 
 become his wife this day.” 
 
 “ Let me have time to think, dearest grand- 
 mother. The tie is so new and ‘so solemn! 
 Major Lincoln,—dear Lionel—you are not 
 wont to be ungenerous; I throw myself on 
 your kindness !” 
 
 Lionel did not speak, and Mrs. Lechmere 
 calmly answered—— 
 
 *°Tis not at his, but my request, that you 
 will comply.” 
 
 Miss Dynevor rose from her seat by the 
 side of Lionel, with an air of offended deli- 
 cacy, and said, with a mournful smile, to her 
 lover— 
 
 ‘‘Tllness has rendered my grandmother 
 timid and weak—will you excuse my desire 
 to be alone with her ? ” 
 
 ‘JT leave you, Cecil,” he said, ‘ but if you 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ascribe my silence to any other motive than 
 tenderness to your feelings, you are unjust 
 both to yourself and me.” 
 
 She expressed her gratitude only in her 
 looks, and he immediately withdrew, to await 
 the result of their conversation in his own 
 apartment. The half hour that Lionel passed 
 in his chamber seemed half a year: but 
 at the expiration of that short period of 
 time, Meriton came to announce that Mrs. 
 Lechmere desired his presence again in her 
 room. 
 
 The first glance of her eye assured Major 
 Lincoln that his cause had triumphed. His 
 aunt had sunk back on her pillows, with her 
 countenance set in a calculating and rigid 
 expression, which indicated a satisfaction so 
 selfish that it almost induced the young man 
 to regret she had not failed. But when his 
 eyes met the tearful and timid glances of the 
 blushing Cecil, he felt that, provided she 
 could be his without violence to her feelings, 
 he cared but little at whose instigation she 
 had consented. 
 
 ‘‘If [am to read my fate by your good- 
 ness, | know I may hope,” he said, advanc- 
 ing to her side—“ if in my own deserts, I am 
 left to despair.” 
 
 «« Perhaps twas foolish, Lincoln,” she said, 
 smiling through her tears, and frankly plac- 
 ing her hand in his, “ to hesitate about a few 
 days, when I fee] ready to devote my life to 
 your happiness. It is the wish of my grand- 
 mother that I place myself under your pro- 
 tection.” 
 
 ‘‘ Then this evening unites us forever ? ” 
 
 ‘¢ There is no obligation on your gallantry, 
 that it should positively take place this very 
 evening, if any or the least difficulties pre- 
 vent.” 
 
 ‘‘But none do, nor can,” interrupted 
 Lionel. ‘‘ Happily the marriage forms of the 
 colony are simple, and we enjoy the consent 
 of all who have any right to interfere.” 
 
 ‘* Go, then, my children, and complete your 
 brief arrangements,” said Mrs. Lechmere ; 
 ‘<’tis a solemn knot that ye tie! it must, it 
 will be happy !” 
 
 Lionel pressed the hand of his intended 
 bride, and withdrew ; and Cecil, throwing 
 herself into the arms of her grandmother, 
 gave vent to her feelings in a burst of tears. 
 Mrs. Lechmere did not repulse her child ; on 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 the contrary, she pressed her once or twice to 
 her heart; but still an observant spectator 
 might have seen that her looks betrayed more 
 of worldly pride than of those natural emo- 
 tions which such a scene ought to have ex- 
 cited. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 <¢ Come, friar Francis, be brief; only to the plain 
 form of marriage.” —Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Magsor Lincoun had justly said, the laws 
 regulating marriages in Massachusetts, which 
 were adapted to the infant state of the 
 country, threw but few impediments in the 
 way of the indissoluble connection. Cecil 
 had, however, been educated in the bosom of 
 the English Church, and she clung to its 
 forms and ceremonies with an affection that 
 may easily be accounted for in their solemn- 
 ity and beauty. Notwithstanding the colo- 
 nists often chose the weekly festival for their 
 bridals, the rage of reform had excluded the 
 altar from most of their temples, and it was 
 not usual with them to celebrate their nup- 
 tials in the places of public worship. But 
 there appeared so much of unreasonable 
 haste, and so little of due preparation, in her 
 own case, that Miss Dynevor, anxious to give 
 all solemnity to an act to whose importance 
 she was sensibly alive, expressed her desire to 
 pronounce her vows at that altar where she 
 had so long been used to worship, and under 
 that ‘roof where she had already, since the 
 rising of the sun, poured out the thanksgiv- 
 ings of her pure spirit in behalf of the man 
 who was so soon to become her husband. 
 
 As Mrs. Lechmere had declared that the 
 agitation of the day, and her feeble condition, 
 
 333 
 
 Miss Dynevor made no other confidant than 
 her cousin. Her feelings being altogether 
 elevated above the ordinarily idle consider- 
 ations which are induced by time and prepa- 
 rations on such an occasion, her brief ar- 
 rangements were soon ended, and she await 
 ed the appointed moment without alarm, if not 
 without emotion. | 
 
 Lionel had much more to perform. He 
 knew that the least ‘intimation of such a 
 scene would collect a curious and a disagree- 
 able crowd around and in the church, and he 
 therefore determined that his plans should 
 be arranged in silence, and managed secretly. 
 In order to prevent a surprise, Meriton was 
 sent to the clergyman, requesting him to ap- 
 point an hour in the evening when he could 
 give an interview to Major Lincoln. He was 
 answered, that at any moment after nine 
 
 o’clock Dr. Liturgy would be released from 
 the duties of the day, and in readiness to 
 
 receive him. ‘There was no alternative ; and 
 ten was the time mentioned to Cecil when 
 she was requested to meet him before the 
 altar. Major Lincoln distrusted a little the 
 discretion of Polwarth, and he contented 
 himself with merely telling his friend that he 
 was to be married that evening, and that he 
 must be careful to repair to Tremont Street 
 in order to give away the bride ; appointing 
 an hour sufficiently early for all the subse-. 
 quent movements. His groom and his valet 
 had their respective and separate orders, and, 
 long before the important moment, he had 
 everything arranged, as he believed, beyond 
 the possibility of a disappointment. 
 
 Perhaps there was something a_ little 
 romantic, if not diseased, in the mind of 
 Seek that caused him to derive a secret 
 pleasure from the hidden movements he con- 
 
 must unavoidably prevent her witnessing the ltemplated. He was certainly not entirely 
 
 ceremony, there existed no sufficient reason 
 for not indulging the request of her grand- 
 child, notwithstanding it was not in strict 
 accordance with the customs of the place. 
 But being married at the altar, and being 
 married in public, were not similar duties ; 
 and in order to effect the one, and avoid the 
 other, it was necessary to postpone the cere- 
 mony until a late hour, and to clothe the 
 whole in a cloak of mystery, that the other- 
 wise unembarrassed state of the parties would 
 not have required. 
 
 free from atouch of that melancholy and 
 morbid humor, which has been mentioned as 
 the characteristic of his race, nor did he al- 
 ways feel the less happy because he was a 
 little miserable. However, either by his ac- 
 tivity of intellect, or that excellent training 
 in life he had undergone, by being required 
 to act early for himself, he had so far suc- 
 ceeded in quelling the evil spirit within him, 
 as to render its influence quite imperceptible 
 to others, and nearly so to himself. It had, 
 in fine, left him what we have endeavored to 
 
334 
 
 represent him in these pages, not a man 
 without faults, but certainly one of many 
 high and generous virtues. 
 
 As the day drew to a close, the small family 
 party in Tremont Street collected in their 
 usual manner to partake of the evening re- 
 past, which was common throughout the 
 colonies at that period. Cecil was pale, and 
 at times a slight tremor was perceptible in the 
 little hand which did the offices of the table ; 
 but there was a forced calmness seated in her 
 humid eyes, that betokened the resolution she 
 had summoned to her assistance, in order to 
 comply with the wishes of her grandmother. 
 Agnes Danforth was silent and observant, 
 though an occasional Jook, of more than us- 
 ual meaning, betrayed what she thought of 
 the mystery and suddenness of the approach- 
 ing nuptials. It would seem, however, that 
 the importance of the step she was about to 
 take had served to raise the bride above the 
 little affectations of her sex ; for she spoke of 
 the preparations like one who owned her in- 
 terest in their completion, and who even 
 dreaded that something might yet occur to 
 mar them. 
 
 “Tf I were superstitious, and had faith in 
 omens, Lincoln,” she said, “‘ the hour and the 
 weather might well intimidate me from tak- 
 ing this step. See, the wind already blows 
 across the endless wastes of the ocean, and 
 the snow is driving through the streets in 
 whirlwinds! ” 
 
 “It is not yet too late to countermand my 
 orders, Cecil,” he said, regarding her anxious- 
 ly ; ‘I have made all my movements so like 
 a great commander, that it is as easy to 
 retrograde as to advance.” 
 
 “Would you then retreat before one so 
 little formidable as 1?” she returned, smiling. 
 
 “You surely understand me as wishing 
 only to change the place of our marriage. I 
 dread exposing you and our kind cousin to 
 the tempest, which, as you say, after sweeping 
 over the ocean so long, appears rejoiced to 
 find land on which to expend its fury.” 
 
 ‘“‘T have not misconstrued your meaning, 
 Lionel, nor must you be mistaken in mine. 
 I will become your wife to-night, and cheer- 
 fully too; for what reason can I have to 
 doubt you now, more than formerly? But 
 my vows must be offered at the altar.” 
 
 Agnes, perceiving that her cousin spoke 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 with a suppressed emotion that made utter- 
 ance difficult, gayly interrupted her— 
 
 “And as for the snow, you know little 
 of Boston girls, if you think an icicle has any 
 terrors for them. I vow, Cecil, I do think 
 you and I have been guilty, when children, of 
 coasting in a hand-sled, down the side of 
 Beacon, in a worse flurry than this.” 
 
 “We were guilty of many mad and silly 
 things at ten, that might not grace twenty, 
 Agnes.” . 
 
 “ord, how like a matron she speaks al- 
 ready !” interrupted the other, throwing up 
 her eyes and clasping her hands in affected 
 admiration; ‘“‘nothing short of the church 
 will satisfy so discreet a dame, Major Lincoln! 
 so dismiss your cares on her account, and 
 begin to enumerate the cloaks and overcoats 
 necessary to your own preservation.” 
 
 Lionel made a lively reply, when a dialogue 
 of some spirit ensued between him and 
 Agnes, to which even Cecil listened with a 
 beguiled ear. When the evening had ad- 
 vanced, Polwarth made his appearance, suit- 
 ably attired, and with a face that was suffi- 
 ciently knowing and important for the occa- 
 sion. The presence of the captain reminded 
 Lionel of the lateness of the hour, and, with- 
 out delay, he hastened to communicate his 
 plans to his friend. 
 
 At a few minutes before ten, Polwarth was 
 to accompany the ladies in a covered sleigh 
 to the chapel, which was not a stone’s throw 
 from their residence, where the bridegroom — 
 was to be in readiness to receive them, with 
 the divine. Referring the captain to Meri- 
 ton for further instructions, and without 
 waiting to hear the other express his amaze- 
 ment at the singularity of the plan, Major 
 Lincoln said a few words of tender encour- 
 agement to Cecil, looked at his watch, and 
 throwing his cloak around him, took his hat, 
 and departed. 
 
 We shall leave Polwarth endeavoring to 
 extract the meaning of all these mysterious 
 movements from the wilful and amused 
 Agnes, (Cecil having retired also,) and ac- 
 company the bridegroom in his progress 
 towards the residence of the divine. 
 
 Major Lincoln found the streets entirely 
 deserted. The night was not dark, fora full 
 moon was wading among the volumes of 
 clouds, which drove before the tempest in 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 dark and threatening masses, that contrasted 
 singularly and wildly to the light covering of 
 the hills and buildings of the town. Occa- 
 sionally the gusts of the wind would lift ed- 
 dying wreaths of fine snow from some roof, 
 and whole squares were wrapped in mist as 
 the frozen vapor whistled by. At times, the 
 gale howled among the chimneys and turrets, 
 in a steady, sullen roaring ; and there were 
 again moments when the element appeared 
 hushed, as if its fury were expended, and 
 winter, having worked its might, was yield- 
 ing to the steady, but insensible advances of 
 spring. There was something in the season 
 and the hour peculiarly in consonance with 
 the excited temperament of the young bride- 
 groom, yen the solitude of the streets, and 
 the hollow rushing of the winds, the fleeting 
 and dim light of the moon, which afforded. 
 passing glimpses of surrounding objects, and 
 then was hid behind a dark veil of shifting 
 vapor, contributed to his pleasure. He made 
 his way through the snow, with that species 
 of stern joy, to which all are indebted, at 
 times, for moments of wild and pleasing self- 
 abandonment. His thoughts vacillated be- 
 
 _ tween the purpose of the hour, and the un- 
 
 looked-for coincidence of circumstances that 
 had clothed it in a dress of such romantic 
 mystery. Once or twice a painful and dark 
 thought, connected with the secret of Mrs. 
 Lechmere’s life, found its way among his 
 more pleasing visions, but it was quickly 
 chased from his mind by the image of her 
 who awaited his movements in such confiding 
 faith, and with such secure and dependent 
 affection. 
 
 As the residence of Dr. Liturgy was on the 
 North-End, which was then one of the fash- 
 ionable quarters of the town, the distance re- 
 quired that Lionel should be diligent, in or- 
 der to be punctual to his appointment. 
 Young, active, and full of hope, he passed 
 along the unequal pavements with great rapid- 
 ity, and had the satisfactien of perceiving by 
 his watch, when admitted to the presence of 
 the clergyman, that his speed had even out- 
 stripped the proverbial fleetness of time itself. 
 
 The reverend gentleman was in his study, 
 consoling himself for the arduous duties of 
 the day, with the comforts of a large easy- 
 chair, a warm fire, and a pitcher filled with 
 a mixture of cider and ginger, together with 
 
 335 
 
 other articles that would have done credit to 
 the knowledge of Polwarth in spices. His 
 full and decorous wig was replaced by a vel- 
 vet cap, his shoes were unbuckled, and his 
 heels released from confinement. In short, 
 all his arrangements were those of a man who 
 having endured a day of labor, was resolved 
 to prove the enjoyments of an evening of 
 rest. His pipe, though filled, and on the 
 little table by his side, was not lighted, in 
 compliment to the guest he expected at that 
 hour. As he was slightly acquainted with 
 Major Lincoln, no introduction was neces- 
 sary, and the two gentlemen were soon seated, 
 the one endeavoring to overcome the embar- 
 rassment he felt on revealing his singular 
 errand, and the other waiting, in no little 
 curiosity, to learn the reason why a member 
 of Parliament, and the heir of ten thousand 
 a year, should come abroad on such an un- 
 propitious night. | 
 
 At length Lionel succeeded in making the 
 astonished priest understand his wishes, and 
 paused to hear the expected approbation of 
 his proposal. 
 
 Dr. Liturgy had listened with the most: 
 profound attention, as if to catch some clew 
 to explain the mystery of the extraordinary 
 proceeding, and when the young man con~ 
 cluded, he unconsciously lighted his pipe, and. 
 began to throw out large clouds of smoke,. 
 like a man who felt there was a design to 
 abridge his pleasures, and who was conse~ 
 quently determined to make the most of his 
 time. 
 
 ‘¢ Married ! To be married in church ! and 
 after the night lecture!” he muttered in @ 
 low voice between his long-drawn pufis— 
 “tig my duty—certainly—Major Lincoln— 
 to marry my parishioners ‘ 
 
 ‘In the present instance, as I know my 
 
 ‘yequest to be irregular, sir,” interrupted the 
 
 impatient Lionel, <‘ I will make it your in- 
 terest also.” While speaking, he took a well- 
 filled purse from his pocket, and, with an air 
 of much delicacy, laid a small pile of gold by 
 the side of the silver spectacle-case of the 
 divine, as if to show him the difference in 
 the value of the two metals. 
 
 Dr. Liturgy bowed his acknowledgments, 
 and insensibly changed the stream of smoke 
 
 to the opposite corner of his mouth, so as to 
 leave the view of the glittering boon unob- 
 
336 
 
 structed. At the same time he raised the 
 heel of one shoe, and threw an anxious glance 
 at the curtained window, to inquire into the 
 state of the weather. 
 
 *‘ Could not the ceremony be performed at 
 the house of Mrs. Lechmere ?” he asked ; 
 ‘¢ Miss Dynevor is a tender child, and I fear 
 the cold air of the chapel might do her no 
 service |” 
 
 ‘<Tt is her wish to go to the altar, and you 
 are sensible it is not my part to question her 
 decision in such a matter.” 
 
 *«*Tis a pious inclination; though I trust 
 she knows the distinction between the spirit- 
 ual and the temporal church. The laws of 
 the colonies are too loose on the subject of 
 marriages, Major Lincoln; culpably and 
 dangerously loose ! ” 
 
 ‘But as it is not in our power to alter, 
 my good sir, will you permit me to profit by 
 them, imperfect as they are ?” 
 
 ‘‘Undeniably—it is part of my office to 
 christen, to marry, and to bury; a duty 
 which, I often say, covers the beginning, the 
 middle, and the end of existence.—But per- 
 mit me to help you to a little of my bever- 
 age, Major Lincoln—we call it ‘Samson,’ in 
 Boston ; you will find the ‘ Danite’ a warm 
 companion for a February night in this cli- 
 mate.” 
 
 “The mixture is not aptly named, sir,” 
 said Lionel, after wetting his lips, ‘‘if 
 strength be the quality most considered !” 
 
 “*Ah! you have him from the lap of a 
 Delilah, but it is unbecoming in one of my 
 cloth to meddle with aught of the harlot.” 
 
 He laughed at his own wit, and made a 
 more spirituous than spiritual addition to his 
 own glass, while he continued— 
 
 ‘“ We divide it into ‘Samson with his hair 
 off,’ and ‘Samson with his hair on ;’ and I 
 believe myself the most orthodox in prefer: 
 ring the man of strength, in his native come- 
 liness. I pledge you, Major Lincoln; may 
 the middle of your days be as happy as the 
 charming young lady you are about to es- 
 pouse may well render them ; and your end, 
 sir, that of a good churchman, and a faithful 
 subject.” 
 
 Lionel, who considered this compliment as 
 an indication of his success, now rose, and 
 said afew words on the subject of their 
 meeting in the chapel. ‘The divine, who 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 manifestly possessed no great relish for the 
 duty, made sundry slight objections to the 
 whole proceeding, which were, however, soon 
 overcome by the arguments of the bride- 
 groom. At length, every difficulty was hap- 
 pily adjusted, save one, and that the epi- 
 curean doctor stoutly declared to be a seri- 
 ous objection to acting in the matter. The 
 church fires were suffered to go down, and 
 his sexton had been taken from the chapel, 
 that very evening, with every symptom on 
 him of the terrible pestilence which then 
 raged in the place, adding, by its danger, to 
 the horrors and privations of the siege. 
 
 “A clear case of the small-pox, I do assure 
 you, Major Lincoln,” he continued, ‘‘ and 
 contracted, without doubt, from some emis- 
 saries sent into the town for that purpose, 
 by the wicked devices of the rebels.” 
 
 ‘I have heard that each party accuses the 
 other of resorting to these unjustifiable means 
 of annoyance,” returned Lionel; ‘‘ but, as I 
 know our own leader to be above such base- 
 ness, I will not suspect any other man of it 
 without proof.” 
 
 “Too charitable by half, sir—much too 
 charitable! But let the disease come whence 
 it will, I fear my sexton will prove its vic- 
 tim.” 
 
 “T will take the charge on myself of hay- 
 ing the fires renewed,” said Lionel; “the 
 embers must yet be in the stoves, and we 
 have still an hour of time before us.” 
 
 As the clergyman was much too conscien- 
 tious to retain possession of the gold without 
 fully entitling himself to the ownership, he 
 had long before determined to comply, not- 
 withstanding the secret yearnings of his 
 flesh. ‘Their plans were now soon arranged, 
 and Lionel, after receiving the key of the 
 chapel, took his leave for a time. 
 
 When Major Lincoln found himself in the 
 street again, he walked for some distance in 
 the direction of the chapel, anxiously looking 
 along the deserted way, in order to discover 
 an unemployed soldier who might serve to 
 perform the menial offices of the absent sex- 
 ton. He proceeded for some distance with- 
 out success ; for everything human seemed 
 housed, even the number of lights in the 
 windows beginning to decrease in a manner 
 which denoted that the usual hour of rest 
 had arrived. He had paused in the entrance 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 of the Dock Square, uncertain where to ap- 
 ply for an assistant, when he caught a glimpse 
 of the figure of a man, crouching under the 
 walls of the old turreted warehouse, so often 
 mentioned. Without hesitating an instant, 
 he approached the spot, from which the fig- 
 ure neither moved, nor did it indeed betray 
 any other evidence of a consciousness of his 
 proximity. Notwithstanding the dimness of 
 the moon, there was light enough to detect 
 the extreme misery of the object before him. 
 His tattered and thin attire sufficiently be- 
 spoke the motive of the stranger for seeking 
 a shelter from the cutting winds behind an 
 angle of the wall, while his physical wants 
 were betrayed by the eager manner in which 
 he gnawed ata bone that might well have 
 been rejected from the mess of the meanest 
 private, notwithstanding the extreme scarcity 
 that prevailed in the garrison. Lionel forgot 
 for a moment his present object, at this ex- 
 hibition of human suffering, and with a kind 
 voice he addressed the wretched being. 
 
 “ You have a cold spot to eat your supper 
 in, my friend,” he said; ‘‘and it would seem, 
 too, but a scanty meal.” 
 
 Without ceasing to masticate his miserable 
 nutriment, or even raising his eyes, the other 
 said, in a growling voice— 
 
 “The king could shut up the harbor, and 
 keep out the ships; but he hasn’t the might 
 to drive cold weather from Boston, in the 
 month of March!” | 
 
 ‘As I live, Job Pray! Come with me, 
 boy, and I will give you a better meal, and a 
 warmer place to enjoy it-in—but first tell 
 me; can you procure a lantern and a light 
 from your mother ?” 
 
 “You can’t go in the ware’us’ to-night,” 
 returned the lad positively. 
 
 ‘‘Is there no place at hand, then, where 
 such things might be purchased ?” 
 
 “They keep them there,” said Job, point- 
 ing sullenly to a low building on the opposite 
 side of the square, through one of the win- 
 dows of which a faint light was glimmering. 
 
 “'Then take this money, and go buy them 
 for me, without delay.” 
 
 Job hesitated with ill-concealed reluctance. 
 
 ** Go, fellow, I have instant need of them, 
 and you can keep the change for your re- 
 ward.” 
 
 The young man no longer betrayed any in- 
 
 337 
 
 disposition to go, but answered with great 
 promptitude, for one of his imbecile mind— 
 
 “ Job will go, if you will let him buy Nab 
 some meat with the change?” 
 
 “Certainly, buy what you will with it; 
 and furthermore, I promise you, that neither 
 your mother nor yourself shall want again 
 for food or clothing.” 
 
 “Job’s a-hungry,” said the simpleton; 
 “but they say hunger don’t come as craving 
 upon a young stomach as upon an old one. 
 Do you think the king knows what it is to be 
 a-cold and hungry ?” ; 
 
 “JT know not, boy—but I know full well 
 that if one suffering like you were before 
 him, his heart would yearn to relieve him. 
 Go, go, and buy yourself food too, if they 
 have it.” 
 
 In a very few minutes Lionel saw the sim- 
 pleton issuing from the house to which he 
 had run at his bidding, with the desired lan- 
 tern. 
 
 “Did you get any food?” said Lionel, mo- 
 tioning to Job to precede him with the light 
 —‘‘] trust you did not entirely forget your- 
 self in your haste to serve me.” 
 
 ‘« Job hopes he didn’t catch the pestilence,” 
 returned the lad, eating at the same time 
 voraciously of a small roll of bread. 
 
 “Catch what? what is it you hope you did 
 not catch? 
 
 “The pestilence-—they are full of the foul 
 disorder in that house.” 
 
 ‘“Do you mean the small-pox, boy?” 
 
 “Yes; some call it small-pox, and some 
 call it the foul disorder, and some other the 
 pestilence. The king can keep out the trade, 
 but he can’t keep out the cold and the pesti- 
 lence from Boston—but when the people get 
 the town back, they'll know what to do with 
 it—they’ll send it all to the pest-houses!” 
 
 “‘T hope I have not exposed you unwit- 
 tingly to danger, Job—it would have been 
 better had I gone myself; for I was inocu- 
 lated for the terrible disease in my infancy.’ 
 
 Job, who, in expressing his sense of the 
 danger, had exhausted the stores of his feeble 
 mind on the subject, made no reply, but 
 continued walking through the square, until 
 they reached its termination, when he turned, 
 and inquired which way he was to go. 
 
 “To the church,” said Lionel, “and 
 swiftly, lad.” 
 
338 
 
 As they entered Cornhill, they encoun- 
 tered the fury of the wind, when Major 
 Lincoln, bowing his head, and gathering his 
 cloak about him, followed the ight which flit- 
 ted along the pavement in his front. Shut out 
 in a manner from the world by this covering, 
 his thoughts returned to their former channel, 
 and in a few moments he forgot where he 
 was, or whom he was following. He was soon 
 awakened from his abstraction by perceiving 
 that it was necessary for him to ascend a few 
 steps, when, supposing he had reached the 
 place of destination, he raised his head, and 
 unthinkingly followed his conductor into the 
 tower of a large edifice. Immediately per- 
 ceiving his mistake, by the difference of the 
 architecture from that of the King’s Chapel, 
 he reproved the lad for his folly, and de- 
 manded why he had brought him thither. 
 
 “This is what you call a church,” said 
 Job, “though I call it a meetin’us’.—It’s no 
 wonder you don’t know it—for what the 
 people built for a temple, the king has 
 turned into a stable! ” 
 
 “A stable!” exclaimed Lionel.—Perceiy- 
 a strong smell of horses in the place, he ad- 
 vanced and threw open the inner door, when, 
 to his amazement, he perceived that he 
 stood in an area fitted for the exercises of the 
 cavalry. ‘There was no mistaking the place, 
 nor its uses. The naked galleries, and many 
 of the original ornaments, were standing; 
 but the accommodations below weie de- 
 stroyed, and in their places the floor had 
 been covered with earth, for horses and their 
 riders to practise in the cayesson. The 
 abominations of the place even now offended 
 his senses, as he stood on that spot where he 
 remembered so often to have seen the grave 
 and pious colonists assemble in crowds to wor- 
 ship. Seizing the lantern from Job, he hur- 
 ried out of the building, with a disgust that 
 even the unobservant simpleton had no diffi- 
 culty in discovering. On reaching the street, 
 his eyes fell upon the lights, and on the si- 
 lent dignity of the Province House, and he 
 was compelled to recollect, that this wanton 
 violation of the feelings of the colonists had 
 been practised directly under the windows of 
 the royal sovernor. 
 
 “Fools, fools!” he muttered, bitterly; 
 “when ye should have struck like nien, ye 
 have trifled as children: and ye have forgot- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ten your manhood, and even your God, to in- 
 dulge your besotted spleen! ” 
 
 “And now these very horses are starving 
 for want of hay, as a judgment upon them!” 
 said Job, who shuffled his way industriously 
 at the other’s side. —‘‘ They had better have 
 gone to meetin’ themselves, and heard the 
 expounding, than to set dumb beasts a riot- 
 ing ina place that the Lord used to visit so 
 often!” 
 
 «Tell me, boy, of what other act of folly 
 and madness has the army been guilty ?” 
 
 ‘‘What! hav’n’t you heard of the Old 
 North? They’ve made oven-wood of the 
 grandest temple in the Bay! If they dared, 
 they'd lay their ungodly hands on old Funnel 
 itself !” 
 
 Lionel made no reply. He had heard that 
 the distresses of the garrison, heightened as 
 they were by the ceaseless activity of the 
 Americans, had compelled them to convert 
 many houses, as well as the church in ques- 
 tion, into fuel. But he saw in the act noth- 
 ing more than the usual recourse of a com- 
 mon military exigency. It was free from 
 that reckless contempt of a people’s feelings, 
 which was exhibited in the prostitution of the 
 ancient walls of the sister edifice, which was 
 known throughout New England with a 
 species of veneration, as the ‘‘ Old South.” 
 He continued his way gloomily along the 
 silent streets, until he reached the more fa- 
 vored temple, in which the ritual of the Eng- 
 lish Church was observed, and whose roof 
 was rendered doubly sacred in the eyes of 
 the garrison, by the accidental circumstance 
 of bearing the title of their earthly monarch. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ‘**'Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo ; down !* 
 —Macbeth. 
 
 Masor Lincoun found the King’s Chapel 
 differing in every particular from the vener- 
 able, but prostituted building he had just 
 quitted. As he entered, the light of his 
 lantern played over the rich scarlet covering 
 of many a pew, and glanced upon the glit- 
 tering ornaments of the polished organ, which 
 
 “or 
 
 now slumbered in as chilled a silence as the 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 dead, which lay in such multitudes within 
 and without the massive walls. The labored 
 columns, with their slender shafts and fretted 
 capitals, threw shapeless shadows across the 
 dim background, peopling the galleries and 
 ceiling with imaginary phantoms of thin air. 
 As this slight delusion passed away, he be- 
 eame sensible of the change in the tempera- 
 ture. The warmth was not yet dissipated 
 which had been maintained during the dif- 
 ferent services of the day; for, notwithstand- 
 ing the wants of the town and garrison, the 
 favored temple, where the representative of 
 the sovereign was wont to worship, knew not 
 the ordinary privations of the place. Job 
 was directed to supply the dying embers of 
 the stoves with fresh fuel, and as the simple- 
 ton well knew where to find the stores of the 
 church, his office was performed with an 
 alacrity that was not a little increased by his 
 own sufferings. 
 
 When the bustle of preparation had sub- 
 sided, Lionel drew a chair from the chancel, 
 while Job crouched by the side of the quiver- 
 ing iron he had heated, in that attitude he 
 was wont to assume, and which so touch- 
 ingly expressed the secret consciousness he 
 
 - felt of his own inferiority. As the grateful 
 
 warmth diffused itself over the half-naked 
 frame of the simpleton, his head sunk upon 
 his bosom, and he was fast falling into a 
 slumber, like a worried hound that had at 
 length found easeand shelter. A more active 
 mind would have wished to learn the reasons 
 that could induce his companion to seek 
 such an asylum at that unseasonable hour. 
 But Job was a stranger to curiosity; nor did 
 the occasional glimmerings of his mind often 
 extend beyond those holy precepts which 
 
 had been taught him with such care, before. 
 
 disease had sapped his faculties, or those 
 popular principles of the time, that formed 
 so essential a portion of the thoughts of 
 every New England man. 
 
 Not so with Major Lincoln. His watch 
 
 “told him that many weary minutes must 
 
 elapse before he could expect to receive his 
 bride; and he disposed himself to wait, with 
 as much patience as comported with five-and- 
 twenty and the circumstances. In a short 
 time the stillness of the chapel was restored, 
 interrupted only by the passing gusts of the 
 wind without, and the dull roaring of the 
 
 1 Oa 
 
 339 
 
 furnace, by whose side Job slumbered in a 
 state of happy oblivion. 
 
 Lionel endeavored to still his truant 
 thoughts, and bring them in training for the 
 solemn ceremony in which he was soon to be 
 an actor. Finding the task too difficult, he 
 arose, and approaching a window, looked out 
 upon the solitude, and the whirlwinds of 
 snow that drifted through the streets, eagerly 
 listening for those sounds of approach which 
 his reason told him he ought not yet to 
 expect. Again he seated himself, and turned 
 his eyes inquiringly about him, with a sort 
 of inward apprehension that some one lay 
 concealed in the surrounding gloom, with a 
 secret design to mar his approaching happi- 
 ness. There was so much of wild and feverish 
 romance in the incidents of the day, that he 
 found it difficult, at moments, to credit their 
 reality, and had recourse to hasty glances at 
 the altar, his attire, and even his insensible 
 companion, to remove the delusion from his 
 mind. Again he looked upward at the un- 
 steady and huge shadows which wavered along 
 the ceiling of the walls, and his former ap- 
 prehensions of some hidden evil were revived 
 with a vividness that amounted nearly toa 
 presentiment. So uneasy did he become at 
 length, under this impression, that he walked 
 along the distant aisles, scrupulously looking 
 into the dark pews, and throwing a scrutin- 
 izing glance behind each column, and was 
 rewarded for his trouble by hearing the 
 hollow echo of his own footsteps. 
 
 Returning from this round, he appro- 
 ached the stove, and yielded to a strong 
 desire of listening to the voice of even Job, 
 in a moment of such morbid excitement. 
 Touching the simpleton lightly with his foot, 
 the other awoke with that readiness which 
 denoted the sudden and disturbed nature of 
 his ordinary rest. 
 
 «You are unusually dull to-night, Job,” 
 said Lionel, endeavoring to hush his uneasi- 
 ness in affected pleasantry, “or you would 
 inquire the reason why I pay my visit to the 
 church at this extraordinary hour.” 
 
 “ Boston folks love their meetin’us’s,” re- 
 turned the obtuse simpleton. 
 
 «* Ay! but they love their beds, too, fellow; 
 and one half of them are now enjoying what 
 you seem to covet so much.” 
 
 “ Job loves to eat, and to be warm!” 
 
340 
 
 «And to sleep too, if one may judge by 
 your drowsiness.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, sleep is sweet; Job don’t feel a-hun- 
 gered when he’s sleeping.” 
 
 Lionel remained silent, for several mo- 
 ments, under a keen perceptions of the suf- 
 fering exhibited in the touching helplessness, 
 which marked the manner of the other, be- 
 fore he continued— 
 
 ‘‘But I expect to be joined soon by the 
 clergyman, and some ladies, and Captain Pol- 
 warth.” 
 
 “Job likes Captain Polwarth—he keeps 
 a grand sight of provisions! ” 
 
 «Enough of this! can you think of noth- 
 ing but your stomach, boy ?”’ 
 
 ‘©God made hunger,” said Job gloomily, 
 ‘and he made food too; but the king keeps 
 it all for his rake-hellies!” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, listen, and be attentive to what I 
 tell you.x—One of the ladies who will come 
 here is Miss Dynevor; you know Miss Dyn- 
 evor, Job? the beautiful Miss Dynevor!” 
 
 The charms of Cecil had not, however, 
 made their wonted impression on the dull eye 
 of the idiot, who still regarded the speaker 
 with his customary air of apathy. 
 
 ‘Surely, Job, you know Miss Dynevor!” 
 repeated Lionel, with an irritability that, at 
 any other time, he would have been the first 
 to smile at—‘‘ she has often given you money 
 and clothes.” 
 
 «Yes; Ma’am Lechmere is her grandam!” 
 
 This was certainly one of the least recom- 
 mendations his mistress possessed, in the eyes 
 of Lionel, who paused a moment, with inward 
 vexation, before he added— 
 
 “Let who will be her relatives, she is this 
 night to become my wife. You will remain 
 and witness the ceremony, and then you will 
 extinguish the lights, and return the key of 
 the church to Dr, Liturgy. In the morning 
 come to me for your reward.” 
 
 The changeling arose, with an air of sing- 
 ular importance, and answered— 
 
 “To be sure. Major Lincoln is to be 
 married, and he asks Job to the wedding! 
 Now Nab may preach her sarmons about 
 pride and flaunty feelings as much asshe will; 
 but blood is blood, and flesh is flesh, for all 
 her sayings!” 
 
 Struck by the expression of wild meaning 
 that gleamed in the eyes of the simpleton, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Major Lincoln demanded an explanation of 
 his ambiguous language. But ere Job had 
 leisure to reply, though his vacant look again 
 denoted that his thoughts were already con- 
 tracting themselves within their usually nar- 
 row limits, a sudden noise drew the attention 
 of both to the entrance of the chapel. The 
 door opened the next instant, and the figure 
 of the divine, powdered with drifted snow, 
 and encased in various defences against the 
 cold, was seen, moving with a becoming gravi- 
 ty, through the principal aisle. Lionel hast- 
 ened to receive him, and to conduct him to 
 the seat he had just occupied himself. 
 
 When Dr. Liturgy had uncloaked, and ap- 
 peared in his robes of office, the benevolence 
 of his smile, and the whole expression of his 
 countenance, denoted that he was satisfied 
 with the condition in which he found ane 
 preparations. 
 
 ‘‘There is no reason why a church should 
 not be as comfortable as a man’s library, 
 Major Lincoln,” he said, hitching his seat a 
 little nearer to the stove. ‘It is a puritani- 
 cal and a dissenting idea, that religion has 
 anything forbidding or gloomy in its nature; I 
 and wherefore should we assemble amid pains 
 and inconvenience to discharge its sacred 
 offices.” . 
 
 ‘* Quite true, sir,’ returned Lionel, looking 
 anxiously through one of the windows—“ I 
 have not yet heard the hour of ten strike, 
 though my watch tells me it is time! ” 
 
 ‘‘The weather readers the public clocks 
 very irregular. There are so many unavoid- 
 able evils to which flesh is heir, that we should 
 endeavor to be happy on all occasions—in- 
 deed it is a duty 
 
 “ Tt’s not in the natur of sin to make fallen 
 man happy,” said a low, growling voice from 
 behind the stove. 
 
 “Ta! what! did you speak, Major Lincoln 
 —a very singular sentiment for a bride- 
 groom!” muttered the divine. 
 
 Tis that weak young man, whom I have 
 brought hither to assist me with the fires, re- 
 peating some a the lore of his mother 5 3 
 nothing else, sir.’ 
 
 By this time Dr. Liturgy had caught a 
 glimpse of the crouching Job, and compre- 
 hending the interruption, he fell back in 
 his chair, smiling superciliously, as he con- 
 tinued— 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 «<T know the lad, sir ; I should know him. 
 He is learned in the texts, and somewhat 
 given to disputation in matters of religion. 
 "Tis a pity the little intellect he has had not 
 been better managed in his infancy; but 
 they have helped to crush his feeble mind 
 with their subtleties. We—I mean we of 
 the established church—often style him the 
 Boston Calvin—ha, ha, ha!—Old Cotton 
 was not his equal in subtilty !—But speaking 
 of the establishment, do you not fancy that 
 one of the consequences of this rebellion 
 will be to extend its benefits to the colonies, 
 and that we may look forward to the period 
 when the true Church shall possess its in- 
 heritance in these religious provinces ?” 
 
 <©Oh, most certainly !” said Lionel, again 
 walking anxiously to the window; “would 
 to God they had come !” 
 
 The divine, with whom weddings were 
 matters of too frequent occurrence to awaken 
 his sympathies, understood the impatient 
 bridegroom literally, and replied, accord- 
 ingly— 
 
 “‘T am glad to hear you say it, Major Lin- 
 coln, and I hope, when the act of amnesty 
 shall be passed, to find your vote on the side 
 of such a condition.” 
 
 At this instant Lionel caught a glimpse of 
 the well-known sleigh, moving slowly along 
 the deserted street, and, uttering a cry of 
 pleasure, he rushed to the door to receive 
 his bride. Dr. Liturgy finished his sentence 
 to himself, and, rising from his comfortable 
 position, he took the light, and entered the 
 chancel. The disposition of the candles 
 having been previously made, when they 
 were lighted, his book opened his robes 
 adjusted, and his features settled into a suit- 
 able degree of solemnity, he stood, waiting 
 with becoming dignity the approach of those 
 over whom he was to pronounce the nuptial 
 benediction. Job placed himself within the 
 shadows of the building, and stood regard- 
 ing the attitude and imposing aspect of the 
 priest, with a species of childish awe. 
 
 Then came a group, emerging from the 
 obscurity of the distant part of the church, 
 and moving slowly towards the altar. Cecil 
 was in front, leaning on that arm which 
 Lionel had given her, as much for support, 
 as through courtesy. She had removed her 
 outer and warmer garments in the vestibule 
 
 341 
 
 of the sacred edifice, and now appeared, 
 attired in a manner as well suited to the 
 suddenness and privacy, as to the import- 
 ance, of the ceremony. A mantle of satin, 
 trimmed with delicate furs, fell carelessly 
 from her shoulders, partly concealing by its 
 folds the exquisite proportions of her slender 
 form. Beneath was a vestment of the same 
 rich material, cut, after the fashions of that 
 period, in a manner to give the exact out- 
 lines of the bust. Across the stomacher 
 were deep rows of fine lace, and wide bor- 
 ders of the same valuable texture followed 
 the retiring edges of her robe, leaving the 
 costly dress within partly exposed to the eye. 
 But the beauty and simplicity of her attire 
 (it was simple for that day) was lost, or, 
 rather, it served to adorn, unnoticed, the 
 melancholy beauty of her countenance. 
 
 As they approached the expecting priest, 
 Cecil threw, by a gentle movement, her 
 mantle on the rails of the chancel, and 
 accompanied Lionel, with a firmer tread 
 than before, to the foot of the altar. Her 
 cheeks were pale; but it was rather with a 
 compelled resolution than dread, while her 
 eyes were full of tenderness and thought. 
 Of the two devotees of Hymen, she exhibited, 
 if not the most composure, certainly the most 
 singleness of purpose, and intentness on the 
 duty before them; for while the looks of 
 Lionel were stealing uneasily about the 
 building, as if he expected some hidden 
 object to start up out of the darkness, hers 
 was riveted on the priest in sweet and earnest 
 attention. 
 
 They paused in their allotted places ; and 
 after a moment was allowed for Agnes and 
 Polwarth, who alone followed, to enter the 
 chancel, the low but deep tones of the min- 
 ister were heard in the solemn stillness of 
 the place. 
 
 Dr. Liturgy had borrowed a suitable de- 
 gree of inspiration from the dreariness of 
 the hour, and the solitude of the building 
 where he was required to discharge his sacred 
 functions. As he delivered the opening ex- 
 hortation of the service, he made long and 
 frequent pauses between the members of the 
 sentences, giving to each injunction a dis- 
 tinct and impressive emphasis. But when 
 he came to those closing words— 
 
 ‘Tf any man can show just cause why they 
 
342 
 
 may not be lawfully joined together, let him 
 now speak, or else, hereafter, forever hold his 
 . peace.” 
 
 He lifted his voice, and raised his eyes to 
 the more distant parts of the chapel, as 
 though he addressed a multitude in the 
 gloom. ‘The faces of all present involun- 
 tarily followed the direction of his gaze, and 
 a moment of deep expectation, which can 
 only be explained by the singularly wild 
 character of the scene, succeeded the rever- 
 berations of his tones. At that moment, 
 when each had taken breath, and all were 
 again turning to the altar, a huge shadow 
 rose upon the gallery, and extended itself 
 along the ceiling, until its gigantic propor- 
 tions were seen hovering, like an evil spectre, 
 nearly above them. 
 
 The clergyman suspended the half-uttered 
 sentence. Cecil grasped the arm of Lionel 
 convulsively, while a shudder passed through 
 her frame that seemed about to shake it to 
 dissolution. 
 
 The shadowy image then slowly withdrew, 
 not without, however, throwing out a fantas- 
 tic gesture, with an arm which stretched it- 
 self across the vaulted roof, and down the 
 walls, as if about to clutch its victims be- 
 neath. 
 
 ‘« If any man can show just cause why they 
 may not be lawfully joined together, let him 
 now speak, or else, hereafter, forever hold his 
 peace,” repeated the priest aloud, as if he 
 would summon the universe at the challenge. 
 
 Again the shadow rose, presenting this 
 time the strong and huge lineaments of a 
 human face, which it was not difficult, at 
 such a moment, to fancy possessed even ex- 
 pression and life. Its strongly-marked feat- 
 ures seemed to work with powerful emotion, 
 and the lips moved as if the airy being was 
 speaking to unearthly ears. Next came two 
 arms, raised above the gazing group, with 
 clasped hands, as in the act of benediction, 
 after which the whole vanished, leaving the 
 ceiling in its own dull white, and the build- 
 ing still as the graves which surrounded it. 
 
 Once more the excited minister uttered the 
 summons; and again every eye was drawn, 
 by a secret impulse, to a spot which seemed 
 to possess the form, without the substance, 
 of a human being. But the shadow was seen 
 no more. After waiting several moments in 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 vain, Dr. Liturgy proceeded, with a voice in 
 which a growing tremor was very percepti- 
 ble ; but no further interruption was experi- 
 enced to the end of the service. | 
 
 Cecil pronounced her vows, and plighted 
 her troth, in tones of holy emotion ; while 
 Lionel, who was prepared for some strange 
 calamity, went through the service to the 
 end, with a forced calmness. They were 
 married ; and when the blessing was uttered, 
 not a sound nora whisper was heard in the 
 party. Silently they all turned away from 
 the spot, and prepared to leave the place. 
 Cecil stood passively, and permitted Lionel 
 to wrap her form in the folds of her mantle 
 with tender care ; and when she would have 
 smiled her thanks for the attention, she 
 merely raised her anxious eyes to the ceiling, 
 with an expression that could not be mis- 
 taken. Even Polwarth was mute; and 
 Agnes forgot to offer those congratulations 
 and good wishes, with which her heart had 
 so recently been swelling. | 
 
 The clergyman muttered a few words of 
 caution to Job concerning the candles and ~ 
 the fire, and hurried after the retiring party 
 with a quickness of step that he was willing 
 to ascribe to the lateness of the hour, and 
 with a total disregard to the safety of the 
 edifice ; leaving the chapel to the possession 
 of the ill-gifted, but undisturbed son of Abi- 
 gail Pray. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ‘‘ Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all ; 
 
 Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close ; 
 
 And let us all to meditation.” —King Henry VI. 
 
 THE bridal party entered their little vehicle: 
 silent and thoughtful; the voice of Polwarth 
 being alone audible, as he gave a few low and 
 hurried orders to the groom who was in wait- 
 ing. Dr. Liturgy approached for a moment, 
 and made his compliments, when the sleigh 
 darted away from the door of the building, 
 as swiftly as if the horse that drew it partook 
 of the secret uneasiness of those it held. The 
 movements of the divine, though less rapid, 
 were equally diligent, and in less than a min- 
 ute the winds whistled, and clouds of snow 
 were driven through a street, which every- 
 thing possessing life appeared once more to 
 have abandoned. 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 The instant Polwarth had discharged his 
 Lechmere, he 
 
 load at the door of Mrs. 
 muttered something of “‘ happiness and to- 
 morrow,” which his friend did not under- 
 stand, and dashed through the gate of the 
 court-yard, at the same mad rate that he had 
 driven from the church. On entering the 
 house, Agnes repaired to the room of her 
 aunt, to report that the marriage knot was 
 tied, while Lionel led his silent bride into 
 the empty parlor. 
 
 Cecil stood, fixed and motionless as a 
 statue, while her husband removed her cloak 
 and mantle ; her cheeks pale, her eyes riveted 
 on the floor, and her whole attitude and 
 manner exhibiting the intensity of thought, 
 which had been created by the scene in which 
 she had just been an actor. When he had 
 relieved her light form from the load of gar- 
 ments in which it had been enveloped by his 
 care, he impelled her gently to a seat by his 
 side, on the settee, and, for the first time 
 since she had uttered the final vow at the 
 altar, she spoke— 
 
 “Was it a fearful omen?” she whispered, 
 ‘as he folded her to his heart, “or was it no 
 more than a horrid fancy ?” 
 
 “?Twas nothing, love—’twas a 
 that of Job Pray, who was with me to light 
 the fires.” 
 
 “No—no—no,” said Cecil, speaking with 
 the rapidity of high excitement, and in tones 
 that gathered strength as she proceeded— 
 «“'Those were never the unmeaning features 
 of the miserable simpleton! Know you, 
 Lincoln, that in the haughty, the terrific out- 
 lines of those dreadful lineaments on the 
 wall, I fancied a resemblance to the profile of 
 our great uncle, your father’s predecessor in 
 the title—Dark Sir Lionel, as he was called.” 
 
 “Tt was easy to fancy anything, at such a 
 time, and under such circumstances. Do not 
 cloud the happiness of our bridal by these 
 gloomy fancies.”’ 
 
 «Am I gloomy or superstitious by habit, 
 Lionel ?” she asked, with a deprecating ten- 
 derness in her voice, that touched his inmost 
 heart—“ But it came at such a moment,-and 
 in such a shape, that I should be more than 
 woman not to tremble at its terrible import!” 
 
 “ What is it you dread, Cecil? Are we not 
 married; lawfully, solemnly united ?”—The 
 bride shuddered; but perceiving her unwill- 
 
 shadow— . 
 
 343 
 
 ing, or unable to answer, he continued— 
 “beyond the power of man to sever; and 
 with the consent, nay, by the earnest wish, 
 the command, of the only being who can 
 have a right to express a wish, or have an 
 opinion on the subject?” 
 
 “T believe—that is, I think, it is all as you 
 say, Lionel, returned Cecil, still looking about 
 her with a vacant and distressed air, that 
 curdled his blood; “ yes—yes, we are cer- 
 tainly married; and oh! how ardently do I 
 implore Him who sees and governs all things, 
 that our union may be blessed! but v 
 
 «“ But what, Cecil? will you let a thing of 
 naught—a shadow—affect you in this man- 
 ner?” 
 
 “?T was a shadow, as you say, Lincoln; but 
 where was the substance ?” 
 
 “Cecil, my sensible, my good, my pious, 
 Cecil, why do your faculties slumber in this 
 unaccountable apathy? Ask your own ex- 
 cellent reason; can there be a shade where 
 nothing obstructs the light?” 
 
 “TI know not. I cannot reason—I have 
 not reason. All things are possible to Him, 
 whose will is law, and whose slightest wish 
 shakes the universe. There was a shadow— 
 a dark, a speaking, and a terrible shadow; 
 but who can say, where was the reality?” 
 
 “T had almost answered, with the phan- 
 tom, only in your own sensitive imagination, 
 love. But arouse your slumbering powers, 
 Cecil, and reflect how possible it was for 
 some curious idler of the garrison to have 
 watched my movements, and to have secreted 
 himself in the chapel; perhaps from wanton 
 mischief—perhaps without motive of any 
 kind.” 
 
 “Te then chose an awful moment in which 
 to act his gambols!” 
 
 “It may have been one whose knowledge 
 was just equal to giving a theatrical effect to 
 his silly deception. But are we to be cheated 
 of our happiness by such weak devices; or to 
 be miserable because Boston contains a 
 fool?” 
 
 gal may be weak, and silly, and even im- 
 pious in this terror, Lincoln,” she said, 
 turning her softened looks upon his anxious 
 face, and attempting to smile; “but it is 
 assailing a woman in a point where she is 
 most sensitive.—You know that I have no 
 reserve with you, now. Marriage with us is 
 
344 
 
 the tie that ‘that binds all charities in one,’ 
 and at the moment when the heart is full of 
 its own security, is it not dreadful to have 
 such mysterious presages, be they true, or be 
 they false, answering to the awful appeal of 
 the church!” 
 
 “Nor is the tie less binding, less important, 
 or less dear, my own Cecil, to us. Believe me, 
 whatever the pride of manhood may say of 
 high destinies, and glorious deeds, the same 
 affections are deeply seated in our nature, and 
 must be soothed by those we love, and not by 
 those who contribute to our vanity. Why 
 then permit this chill to blight your best 
 affections in their budding ?” 
 
 There was so much that was soothing to 
 the anxiety of a bride, in his sentiments, and 
 so much of tender interest in his manner, 
 that he at length succeeded, in a great de- 
 gree, in luring Cecil from her feverish appre- 
 hensions. As he spoke, a mantling bloom 
 diffused itself over her cold and_ pallid 
 cheeks, and when he had done, her eyes 
 lighted with the glow of a woman’s confi- 
 dence, and were turned on his own in bright 
 but blushing pleasure. She repeated his 
 word ‘‘ chill,” with an emphasis and a smile 
 
 that could not be misconstrued, and in a few. 
 
 minutes he entirely succeeded in quelling 
 
 the uneasy presentiments that had gained a | 
 
 momentary ascendency over her clear and ex- 
 cellent faculties. 
 
 But notwithstanding Major Lincoln rea- 
 soned so well, and with so much success, 
 
 against the infirmity of his bride, he was by 
 
 no means equal to maintain as just an argu- 
 ment with himself. The morbid sensibility 
 of his mind had been awakened in a most 
 alarming manner by the occurrences of the 
 evening, though his warm interest in the 
 happiness of Cecil had enabled him to 
 smother them, so long as he witnessed the 
 extent and nature of her apprehensions. 
 But, exactly in the proportion, as he per- 
 suaded her into forgetfulness of the past, his 
 recollections became more vivid and keen; 
 and notwithstanding his art, he might not 
 have been able to conceal the workings of 
 his troubled thoughts from his companion, 
 had not Agnes appeared, and announced the 
 desire of Mrs, Lechmere to receive the bride 
 and bridegroom in her sick chamber. 
 “Come, Lincoln,” said his lovely compan- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ion, rising at the summons, “ we have been 
 selfish in forgetting how strongly my grand- 
 mother: sympathizes in our good or evil for- 
 tunes. We should have discharged this duty 
 without waiting to be reminded of it.” 
 
 Without making any other reply than a 
 fond pressure of the hand he held, Lionel 
 drew her arm through his own, and followed 
 Agnes into the little hall which conducted to 
 the upper part of the dwelling. 
 
 **You know the way, Major Lincoln,” said 
 Miss Danforth ; ‘‘and should you not, my 
 lady bride can show you. I must go and 
 cast a worldly eye on the little banquet I 
 have ordered, but which I fear will be labor 
 thrown away, since Captain Polwarth has dis- 
 dained to exhibit his prowess at the board. 
 Truly, Major Lincoln, I marvel that a 
 man of so much substance as your friend, 
 should be frightened from his stomach by a 
 shadow ! ” 
 
 Cecil even laughed, and in those sweet 
 feminine tones that are infectious, at the 
 humor of her cousin ; but the dark and anx- 
 ious expression that gathered round the brow 
 of her husband as suddenly checked her 
 mirth. 
 
 ‘Let us ascend, Lincoln,” she said, in- 
 stantly, ‘‘ and leave mad Agnes to her house- 
 hold cares, and her folly.” 
 
 “Ay, go,” cried the other, turning away 
 toward the supper-room—* eating and drink- 
 ing is not ethereal enough for your elevated 
 happiness ; would I had a repast worthy of 
 such sentimental enjoyment! Let me see— 
 dew drops and lovers’ tears, in equal quanti- 
 ties, sweetened by Cupid’s smiles, with a dish 
 of sighs, drawn by moonlight, for piquancy, 
 as Polwarth would say, would flavor a bowl to 
 their tastes. The dew drops might be diffi- 
 cult to procure, at this inclement season, and 
 in such a night ; but if sighs and tears would 
 serve alone, poor Boston is just now rich 
 enough in materials ! ” 
 
 Lionel, and his half-blushing, half-smiling 
 companion, heard the dying sounds of her 
 voice, as she entered the distant apartment, 
 expressing, by its tones, the mingled pleas- 
 antry and spleen of its mistress, and in the 
 next instant they forgot both Agnes and her 
 humor, as they found themselves in the pres- 
 ence of Mrs. Lechmere. 
 
 The first glance of his eye at their expect- 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 ing relative, brought a painful throb to the 
 heart of Major Lincoln. Mrs. Lechmere had 
 caused herself to be raised in her bed, in 
 which she was seated nearly upright, sup- 
 ported by pillows. Her wrinkled and ema- 
 ciated cheeks were flushed with an unnatural 
 color, that contrasted too violently with the 
 marks which age and strong passions had im- 
 pressed, with their indelible fingers, on the 
 surrounding wreck of those haughty feat- 
 ures, which had once been distinguished for 
 great, if not attractive beauty. Her hard 
 eyes had lost their ordinary expression of 
 worldly care, in a brightness which caused 
 them rather to glare than beam, with flashes 
 of unbridled satisfaction that could no longer 
 be repressed. In short, her whole appear- 
 ance brought a startling conviction to the 
 mind of the young man, that whatever might 
 have been the ardor of his own feelings in 
 espousing her grandchild, he had at length 
 realized the fondest desires of a being so 
 worldly, so designing, and, as he was now 
 made keenly to remember, of one also, who, 
 he had much reason to apprehend, was so 
 guilty. The invalid did not seem to think a 
 concealment of her exultation any longer 
 necessary ; for, stretching out her arms, she 
 called to her child, in a voice raised above its 
 natural tones, and which was dissonant and 
 harsh from a sort of unholy triumph— 
 
 “Come to my arms, my pride, my hope, 
 my dutiful, my deserving daughter! Come 
 and receive a parent’s blessing ; that blessing 
 which you so much deserve !” 
 
 Eyen Cecil, warm and consoling as was the 
 language of her grandmother, hesitated an 
 instant at the unnatural voice in which the 
 summons was uttered, and advanced to meet 
 her embrace with a manner less warm than 
 was usual to her own ardent and unsuspect- 
 ing nature. This secret restraint existed, 
 however, but for a moment; for when she 
 felt the encircling arms of Mrs. Lechmere 
 pressing her warmly to her aged bosom, she 
 looked up into the face of her grandmother, 
 as if to thank her for so much affection, by 
 her own guileless smiles and tears. 
 
 “Here, then, Major Lincoln, you possess 
 my greatest, I had almost said my only 
 treasure!” added Mrs. Lechmere—“she is a 
 good, a gentle, and dutiful child; and heaven 
 - will bless her for it, as I do,” Leaning for- 
 
 345 
 
 ward, she continued in a less excited voice— 
 “Kiss me, my Cecil, my bride, my Lady 
 Lincoln! for by that loved title I may now 
 call you, as yours in the course of nature, it 
 soon will be.” 
 
 Cecil, greatly shocked ‘at the unguarded 
 exultation of her grandmother, gently with- 
 drew herself from her arms, and with eyes 
 bent to the fioor in shame, and burning 
 cheeks, she willingly moved aside to allow 
 Lionel to approach, and receive his share of 
 the congratulations. He stooped to bestow 
 the cold and reluctant kiss, which the offered 
 cheek of Mrs. Lechmere invited, and muttered 
 a few incoherent words concerning his 
 present happiness, and the obligation she had 
 conferred. Notwithstanding the high and 
 disgusting triumph which had broken through 
 the usually cold and cautious manner of the 
 invalid, a powerful and unbidden touch of 
 nature mingled in her address to the bride- 
 groom. The fiery and unnatural glow of her 
 eyes even softened with a tear, as she spoke— 
 
 ‘‘ Lionel, my nephew, my son,” she said— 
 ‘“<T have endeavored to receive you in a man- 
 ner worthy of the head of an ancient and 
 honorable name; but were you a sovereign 
 prince, I have now done my last and best in 
 your favor. Cherish her—love her—be more 
 than husband—be all of kin to the precious 
 child, for she merits all! Now is my latest 
 wish fulfilled!—Now may I prepare myself 
 for the last great change, in the quiet of a 
 long and tranquil evening to the weary and 
 troublesome day of life!” 
 
 «¢ Woman!” said a tremulous voice in the 
 background—“ thou deceivest thyself!” 
 
 “Who,” exclaimed Mrs. Lechmere, raising 
 her body witha convulsive start, as if about 
 to leap from the bed—“ who is it speaks?” 
 
 «Tis I,” returned the well-remembered 
 tones of Ralph, as he advanced from the door 
 to the foot of her couch—* ’tis I, Priscilla 
 Lechmere; one who knows thy merits and 
 thy doom!” 
 
 The appalled woman fell back on her 
 pillows, gasping for breath, the flush of her 
 cheeks giving place to their former signs of 
 age and disease, and her eye loosing its high 
 exultation in the glazed look of sudden terror. 
 It would seem, however, that a single mo- 
 ment of reflection was sufficient to restore her 
 spirit, and with it all her deep resentments. 
 
346 
 
 She motioned the intruder away, by a violent 
 gesture of the hand, and after an effort to 
 command her utterance, she said, in a voice 
 rendered doubly strong by overwhelming 
 passion— 
 
 “ Why am I braved, at such a moment, in 
 the privacy of my sick chamber? Have that 
 madman, or impostor, whichever he may be, 
 removed from my presence!” 
 
 She uttered her request to deadened ears. 
 Lionel neither moved nor answered. His 
 whole attention was given to Ralph, across 
 whose hollow features a smile of calm in- 
 difference passed, which denoted how little he 
 regarded the threatened violence. Even 
 Cecil, who clung tothe arm of Lionel, with 
 all a woman’s dependence on him she loved, 
 was unnoticed by the latter, in the absorbing 
 interest he took in the sudden re-appearance 
 of one whose singular and mysterious charac- 
 ter had long since raised such hopes and fears 
 in his own bosom. 
 
 “ Your doors will shortly be opened to all 
 who may choose to visit here,” the old man 
 coldly answered ; ‘‘ why should I be driven 
 from a building where heartless crowds shall 
 so soon enter and depart at will! Am I not 
 old enough ; or do I not bear enough of the 
 aspect of the grave, to become your com- 
 panion? Priscilla Lechmere, you have lived 
 till the bloom of your cheeks has given place 
 to the color of the dead ; your dimples have 
 hecome furrowed and wrinkled lines ; and the 
 beams of your once bright eye have altered to 
 the dull look of care—but you have not yet 
 lived for repentance.” 
 
 “ What manner of language is this,” cried 
 his wondering listener, inwardly shrinking be- 
 fore hissteady, but glowing look. “ Why am 
 I singled from the world for this persecution ? 
 —are my sins past bearing ; or am I alone 
 to be reminded that sooner or later age and 
 death will come ?—I have long known the in- 
 firmities of life, and may truly say that I am 
 prepared for their final consequences.” 
 
 “?Tis well,” returned the unmoved and 
 apparently immovable intruder—“ take, then, 
 and read the solemn decree of thy God; and 
 may He grant thee firmness to justify so much 
 confidence.” 
 
 As he spoke, he extended, in his withered 
 hand, an open letter toward Mrs. Lechmere, 
 which the quick glance of Lionel told him 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 bore his own name in the superscription. 
 Notwithstanding the gross invasion of his 
 rights, the young man was passive under the 
 detection of this second and gross interference 
 of the other in his most secret matters, watch- 
 ing with eager interest the effect the strange 
 communication would produce on his aunt. 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere took the letter from the 
 stranger with a sort of charmed submission, 
 which denoted how completely his solemn 
 manger had bent her to his will. The in- 
 stant her look fell on the contents, it became 
 fixed and wild. The note was, however, 
 short, and the scrutiny was soon ended. 
 Still she grasped it with an extended arm, 
 though the vacant expression of her counte- 
 nance betrayed that it was held before an 
 insensible eye. A moment of silent and 
 breathless wonder followed. It was succeeded 
 by a shudder which passed through the whole 
 frame of the invalid, her limbs shaking: 
 violently, until the rattling of the folds of 
 paper was audible in the most distant corner 
 of the apartment. 
 
 “‘This. bears my name,” cried Lionel, 
 shocked at her emotions, and taking the 
 paper from her unresisting hand, “and 
 should first have met my eye.” 
 
 ‘* Aloud—aloud, dear Lionel,” said a faint 
 but earnest whisper at his elbow; “aloud, — 
 I implore you, aloud !” 
 
 It was not, perhaps, so much in compli- 
 ance with this affecting appeal, in which the 
 whole soul of Cecil seemed wrapped, as by 
 yielding to the overwhelming flow of that 
 excitement to which he had been aroused, 
 that Major Lincoln was led to conform to 
 her request. In a voice rendered desperately — 
 caim by his emotions, he uttered the fatal 
 contents of the note, in tones so distinct, 
 that they sounded to his wife, in the stillness 
 of the place, like the prophetic warnings of 
 one from the dead. 
 
 ‘*'The state of the town has prevented that 
 close attention to the case of Mrs. Lechmere, — 
 which her injuries rendered necessary. An 
 inward mortification has taken place, and 
 her present ease is only the forerunner of 
 her death. I feel it my duty to say, that 
 though she may live many hours, it is not 
 improbable that she will die to-night.” 
 
 To this short, but terrible annunciation, 
 was placed the well-known signature of the - 
 
stood or perverted. 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 attending physician. Here was a sudden 
 change, indeed! All had thought that the 
 disease had given way, when it seemed it 
 had been preying insidiously on the vitals of 
 the sick. Dropping the note, Lionel ex- 
 claimed aloud, in the suddenness of his sur- 
 prise— 
 
 “Die to-night ! 
 summons, indeed! ” 
 
 The miserable woman, after the first nerve- 
 less moment of her dismay, turned her looks 
 anxiously from face to face, and listened in- 
 tently to the words of the note, as they fell 
 from the lips of Lionel, like one eager to 
 detect the glimmerings of hope in the 
 alarmed expression of their countenances. 
 But the language of her physician was too 
 plain, direct, and positive, to be misunder- 
 Its very coldness gave it 
 a terrific character of truth. 
  ©T)o you then credit it ?” she asked in a 
 voice whose husky tones betrayed but too 
 plainly her abject unwillingness to be as- 
 sured. ‘‘ You! Lionel Lincoln, whom I had 
 thought my friend.” 
 
 Lionel turned away silently from the sad 
 spectacle of her misery ; but Cecil dropped 
 on her knees at the bed-side, and clasping 
 her hands, she elevated them, looking like a 
 beautiful picture of pious hope, as she mur- 
 mured— 
 
 ‘‘He is no friend, dearest grandmother, 
 who would lay flattery to a parting soul! 
 But there is a better and a safer dependence 
 than all this world can offer!” 
 
 << And you, too!” cried the devoted woman, 
 rousing herself with a strength and energy 
 that would seem to put the professional 
 knowledge of her medical attendant at de- 
 fiance—‘‘do you also abandon me? you, 
 whom I have watched in infancy, nursed in 
 suffering, fondled in happiness, ay! and 
 
 This is an unexpected 
 
 ‘reared in virtue—yes, that I can say boldly 
 
 in the face of the universe !—you, whom I 
 have brought to this honorable marriage ; 
 would you repay me for all, by black ingrati- 
 tude ?” 
 
 “* My grandmother ! my grandmother ! talk 
 not thus cruelly to your child! But lean on 
 the Rock of Ages for support, even as I 
 have leaned on thee !” 
 
 « Away—away—weak, foolish child! Ex- 
 cess of happiness has maddened thee! Come 
 
 347 
 
 hither, my son; let us speak of Ravenscliffe, 
 the proud seat of our ancestors; and of those 
 days we are yet to pass under its hospitable 
 roofs. The silly girl thou hast wived would 
 wish to frighten me! ” 
 
 Lionel shuddered with inward horror while 
 he listened to the forced and broken intona- 
 tions of her voice, as she thus uttered the 
 lingering wishes of her nature. He turned 
 again from the view, and, for a moment, 
 buried his face in his hands, as if to exclude 
 the world and its wickedness, together, from 
 his sight. 
 
 ‘“My grandmother, look not so wildly at 
 us!” continued the gasping Cecil—*‘ you may 
 have yet hours, nay, days, before you.” She 
 paused an instant to follow the unsettled and 
 hopeless gaze of an eye that gleamed despair- 
 ingly on the objects of the room, and then, 
 with a meek dependence on her own purity, 
 dropping her face between her hands, she 
 cried aloud in her agony— 
 
 ‘My mother’s mother! would that I could 
 die for thee!” 
 
 “Die!” echoed the same dissonant voice 
 as before, from a throat that already began 
 to rattle with the hastened approaches of 
 death—‘‘ who would die amid the festivities 
 of a bridal! Away—leave me. To thy 
 closet, and thy knees, if thou wilt—but 
 leave me.” 
 
 She watched with bitter resentment, the 
 retiring form of Cecil, who obeyed with the 
 charitable and pious intention of complying 
 literally with her grandmother’s order, before 
 she added— 
 
 ‘The girl is not equal to the task I had 
 set her! All of my race have been weak, but 
 I—my daughter—my husband’s niece € 
 “What of that niece?” said the startling 
 voice of Ralph, interrupting the diseased 
 wanderings of her mind—*‘ that wife of thy 
 nephew—the mother of this youth? Speak, 
 woman, while time and reason are granted 
 thee.” 
 
 Lionel now advanced to her bed-side, under 
 an impulse that he could no longer subdue, 
 and addressed her solemnly— 
 
 “Tf thou knowest aught of the dreadful 
 calamity that has befallen my family,” he 
 said, “or in any manner hast been accessory 
 to its cause, disburden thy soul, and die in 
 peace. Sister of my grandfather, nay, more, 
 
348 
 
 mother of my wife! I conjure thee, speak 
 —what of my injured mother ?” 
 
 ‘< Sister of thy grandfather—mother of thy 
 wife,” repeated Mrs. Lechmere, slowly, and 
 in a manner that sufficiently indicated the 
 unsettled state of her thoughts—“ Yes, both 
 are true!” . 
 
 ‘«Speak to me then, of my mother, if you 
 acknowledge the ties of blood—tell me of her 
 dark fate!” 
 
 ‘‘She is in her grave—dead—rotten—yes 
 —yes—her boasted beauty has been fed upon 
 by beastly worms! What more would ye 
 have, mad boy? Would’st wish to see her 
 bones in their winding-sheet ?” 
 
 “The truth!” cried Ralph; ‘‘declare the 
 truth, and thy own wicked agency in the 
 deed!” 
 
 “Who speaks?” repeated Mrs. Lechmere, 
 dropping her voice from its notes of high 
 excitement again, to the tremulous cadency 
 of debility and age, and looking about her at 
 the same time, as if a sudden remembrance 
 had crossed her brain; ‘‘surely I heard 
 sounds I should know!” 
 
 “Here; look on me—fix thy wandering 
 eye, if it yet has power to see, on me,” cried 
 Ralph, aloud, as though he would command 
 her attention at every hazard—“’tis I that 
 speak to thee, Priscilla Lechmere.” 
 
 “ What wouldst thou have? My daughter ? 
 She is in her grave! Her child? She is 
 wedded to another.—Thou art too late! 
 Thou art too late! Would to God thou 
 hadst asked her of me in season r¢ 
 
 «The truth—the truth—the truth!” con- 
 tinued the old man, in a voice that rung 
 through the apartment in wild and startling 
 echoes—“ the holy and undefiled truth! Give 
 us that, and naught else.” 
 
 This singular and solemn appeal awakened 
 the latest energies of the despairing woman, 
 whose inmost soul appeared to recoil before 
 his cries. She made an effort to raise herself 
 once more, and exclaimed— 
 
 “Who says that I am dying? Iam but 
 seventy! and ’tis only yesterday I was a child 
 —a pure, an uncontaminated child! He 
 lies—he lies! I have no mortification—I am 
 strong, and have years to live and repent 
 m.” 
 
 In the pauses of her utterance, the voice of 
 the old man was still heard shouting— 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “The truth—the truth—the holy, unde- 
 filed truth!” 
 
 ‘‘Let me rise and look upon the sun,” 
 continued the dying woman. ‘“ Where are 
 ye all? Cecil, Lionel—my children, do ye 
 desert me now? Why do ye darken the 
 room? Give me light—more light !—more 
 light! for the sake of all in heaven and earth, 
 abandon me not to this black and terrific 
 darkness!” 
 
 Her aspect had become so hideously de- 
 spairing, that the voice of even Ralph was 
 stilled and she continued uninterruptedly to 
 shriek out the ravings of her soul. 
 
 ‘““Why talk to such as I of death 1_My 
 time has been too short !—give me days—. 
 give me hours—give me moments! Cecil, 
 Agnes—Abigail; where are ye ?—help me, or 
 I fall!” 
 
 She raised herself, by a desperate effort, 
 from the pillows, and clutched wildly at the 
 empty air. Meeting the extended hand of 
 Lionel, she caught it with a dying grasp, 
 gave a ghastly smile, under the false security 
 it imparted, and falling backward again, her 
 mortal part settled, with a universal shudder, 
 into a state of eternal rest. 
 
 As the horrid exclamations of the deceased 
 ended, so deep a stillness succeeded in the 
 apartment, that the passing gusts of the gale 
 were heard sighing among the roofs of the 
 town, and might easily be mistaken, at such 
 a moment, for the moanings of unembodied 
 spirits over so accursed an end. 
 
 ene 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ‘<T wonder, sir, since wives are monstrous to you, 
 And that you fly them, as you swear them lord- 
 ship, 
 Yet you desire to marry.” 
 —All’s Well That Hinds Well. 
 
 Crciz had left the room of her grand- 
 mother, with the consciousness of sustaining 
 a load of anguish, to which her young exper- 
 ience had hitherto left her a stranger. On 
 her knees, and in the privacy of her closet, 
 she poured out the aspirations of her pure 
 spirit, in fervent petitions to that power, 
 which she, who most needed its support, had 
 so long braved by the mockery of respect, and 
 the seemliness of devotion. With her soul 
 
a 
 
 Al 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 elevated by its recent communion with her 
 God, and her feelings soothed even to calm- 
 ness by the sacred glow that was shed around 
 them, the youthful bride at length prepared 
 to resume her post at the bedside of her aged 
 relative. 
 
 In passing from her own room to that of 
 Mrs. Lechmere, she heard the busy voice of 
 Agnes below, together with the sounds of the 
 preparations that were making to grace her 
 own hasty bridal, and for a moment she 
 paused to assnre herself that all which had so 
 recently passed was more than the workings 
 of a disturbed fancy. She gazed at the un- 
 usual, though modest ornaments of her at- 
 tire ; shuddered as she remembered the aw- 
 ful omen of the shadow; and then came to 
 the dreadful reality with an overwhelming 
 conviction of its truth. After laying her 
 hand on the door, she paused, with secret 
 
 terror, to catch the sounds that might issue 
 
 from the chamber of the sick. After listening 
 
 a moment, the bustle below was hushed, and 
 
 she, too, heard the whistling of the wind, as 
 its echoes died away among the chimneys and 
 angles of the building. Encouraged by the 
 
 > death-like stillness of those within her grand- 
 
 mpther’s room, Cecil now opened the door, 
 under the pleasing impression that she should 
 find the resignation of a Christian, where she 
 had so lately witnessed the incipient ravings 
 of despair. Her entrance was timid ; for she 
 dreaded to meet the hollow, but glaring eye 
 of the nameless being who had borne the 
 message of the physician, and of whose mien 
 and language she retained a confused but 
 fearful recollection. Her hesitation and her 
 fears were, however, alike vain ; for the room 
 was silent and tenantless. Casting one won- 
 dering look around, in quest of the form 
 most dear to her, Cecil advanced with a light 
 step to the bed, and raising the coverlet, dis- 
 covered the fatal truth at a glance. 
 
 The lineaments of Mrs. Lechmere had 
 already stiffened, and assumed that cadaver- 
 
 _ ous and ghastly expression, which marks the 
 
 touch of death. The parting soul had left 
 the impression of its agony on her features, 
 exhibiting the wreck of those passions which 
 caused her, even in death, to look backward 
 on that world she was leaving forever, instead 
 of forward to the unknown existence, toward 
 which she was hurried. Perhaps thesudden- 
 
 349 
 
 ness and the very weight of the shock, sus- 
 tained the cheerless bride in that moment of 
 trial. She neither spoke nor moved for more 
 than a minute ; but remained with her eyes 
 riveted on the desolation of that countenance 
 she had revered from her infancy, with a 
 species of holy awe that was not entirely free 
 from horror. Then came the recollection of 
 the portentous omens of her wedding, and 
 with it a dread that the heaviest of her mis- 
 fortunes were yet in reserve. She dropped 
 the covering on the pallid features of the 
 dead, and quitted the apartment with a hur- 
 ried step. The room of Lionel was on the 
 same floor with that which she had just left, 
 and before she had time for reflection, her 
 hand was on its lock. Her brain was bewild- 
 ered with the rush of circumstances. Fora 
 single instant she paused with maiden bash- 
 fulness, even recoiling in sensitive shame 
 from the act she was about to commit, when 
 all her fears, mingled with glimmerings of 
 the truth, flashed again across her mind, and 
 she burst into the room, uttering the name 
 of him she sought, aloud. 
 
 The brands of a fallen fire had been care- 
 fully raked together, and were burning with 
 a feeble and wavering flame. ‘The room 
 seemed filled with a cold air, which, as she 
 encountered it, chilled the delicate person of 
 of Cecil; and flickering shadows were play- 
 ing on the walls, with the uncertain move- 
 ments imparted by the unsteady light. But, 
 like the apartment of the dead, the room was 
 still empty. Perceiving that the door of the 
 little dressing-room was open, she rushed to 
 its threshold, and the mystery of the cold air, 
 and the wavering fire, was explained, when 
 she felt the gusts of wind rush by her from 
 the open door at the foot of the narrow stairs. 
 If Cecil had ever been required to explain the 
 feelings which induced her to descend, or the 
 manner in which it was effected, she would 
 have been unable to comply; for, quick as 
 thought, she stood on the threshold of the 
 outer door, nearly unconscious of her situa- 
 tion. 
 
 The moon was still wading among the driv- 
 ing clouds, shedding just light enough to 
 make the spectator sensible of the stillness of 
 the camp and town. The easterly wind yet 
 howled along the streets, occasionally lifting 
 whirlwinds of snow, and wrapping whole 
 
350 
 
 squares initsdim wreaths. But neither man 
 nor beast was visible amid the dreariness. 
 
 The bewildered bride shrunk from the 
 dismal view, with a keen perception of its 
 wild consonance with the death of her grand- 
 mother. In another moment she was again 
 in the room above, each part of which was 
 examined with maddening anxiety for the 
 person of her husband. But her powers, 
 excited and unnatural as they had become, 
 could support her nolonger. She was forced 
 to yield to the impression that Lionel had 
 deserted her in the most trying moment, and 
 it was not strange that she coupled the sinis- 
 ter omens of the night with his mysterious 
 absence. ‘The heart-stricken girl clasped her 
 hands in anguish, and shrieking the name of 
 her cousin, sunk on the floor in total insensi- 
 bility. 
 
 Agnes was busily and happily employed 
 with her domestics, in preparing such a dis- 
 play of the wealth of the Lechmeres as should 
 not disgrace her cousin in the eyes of her 
 more wealthy lord and master. ‘The piercing 
 crv, however, notwithstanding the bustle of 
 hurrying servants, and the clatter of knives 
 and plates, penetrated to the supper-room, 
 stillmg each movement and blanching every 
 cheek. 
 
 “?Tis my name!” said Agnes; ‘‘ who is it 
 calls? ” 
 
 “Tf it was possible,” returned Meriton. 
 with a suitable emphasis, “that Master Lio- 
 nel’s bride could scream so, I should say it 
 was my lady’s voice! ” 
 
 “Tis Cecil—’tis Cecil!” cried Agnes, dart- 
 ing from the room; “QO, I feared these hasty 
 nuptials!” 
 
 There was a general rush of the menials 
 into the chambers, when the fatal truth be- 
 came immediately known to the whole family. 
 The lifeless clay of Mrs. Lechmere was discov- 
 ered in its ghastly deformity, and, to all but’ 
 Agnes, it afforded a sufficient solution of the 
 situation of the bride. 
 
 More than an hour passed before the ut- 
 most care of her attendants succeeded in re- 
 storing Cecil to a state in which questions 
 might avail anything. Then her cousin took 
 advantage of the temporary absence of her 
 women, to mention the name of her husband. 
 Cecil heard her with sudden joy; but looking 
 about the room wildly, as if seeking him with 
 
 curred. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 her eyes, she pressed her hands upon her 
 heart, and fell backward in that state of in- 
 sensibility, from which she had just been 
 roused. No part of this expressive evidence 
 of her grief was lost ou the other, who left 
 the room the instant her care had succeeded 
 in bringing the sufferer once more to her 
 recollection. | | 
 
 Agnes Danforth had never regarded he 
 aunt with that confiding veneration and love 
 which purified the affections of the grand- 
 daughter of the deceased. She had always 
 possessed her more immediate relatives, from 
 whom she derived her feelings and opinions, 
 nor was she wanting in sufficient discern- 
 ment to distinguish the cold and selfish traits 
 that had so particularly marked the character 
 of Mrs. Lechmere. She had, therefore, con- 
 sented to mortify her own spirit, and submit 
 to the privations and dangers of the siege, » 
 entirely from a disinterested attachment to 
 her cousin, who, without her presence, would 
 have found her solitude and situation irk- 
 some, 
 
 In consequence of this disposition of her 
 mind, Agnes was more shocked than dis- 
 tressed by the unexpected death that had oc- 
 Perhaps, if her anxiety had been 
 less roused in behalf of Cecil, she might have 
 retired to weep over the departure of one she 
 had known so long, and of one, also, that, in 
 the sincerity of her heart, she believed so 
 little prepared for the mighty change. As it 
 was, however, she took her way calmly to the 
 parlor, where she summoned Meriton to her 
 presence. 
 
 When the valet made his entrance, she as- 
 sumed the appearance of a composure that 
 was far from her feelings, and desired him to 
 seek his master, with a request that he would 
 give Miss Danforth a short interview, with- 
 out delay. During the time Meriton was 
 absent on this errand, Agnes endeavored to 
 collect her thoughts for any emergency. 
 
 Minute passed after minute, however, and 
 the valet did not return. She arose, and 
 stepping lightly to the door, listened, and 
 thought she heard his footsteps moving about 
 
 in the more distant parts of the building, _ 
 
 with a quickness that proved he conducted 
 the search in good faith. At length she 
 heard them nigher, and it was-soon certain 
 he was on his return. Agnes seated herself, 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 as before, and with an air that seemed as if 
 she expected to receive the master instead 
 of the man. Meriton, however, returned 
 alone. 
 
 «‘ Major Lincoln,” she said, “‘ you desired 
 him to meet me here ?” 
 
 The whole countenance of Meriton ex- 
 pressed his amazement, as he answered— 
 
 «‘Lord! Miss Agnes, Master Lionel has 
 gone out! gone out on sucha night! and 
 what is more remarkable, he has gone out 
 without his mourning ; though the dead of 
 his own blood and connections lies unburied 
 in the house !” 
 
 Agnes preserved her composure, and gladly 
 led the valet on in the path his thoughts had 
 taken, in order to come at the truth, without 
 betraying her own apprehensions. 
 
 “How know you, Mr. Meriton, that your 
 master has been so far forgetful of appear- 
 ances ?” 
 
 «‘ Ag certain, ma’am, as I know that he 
 wore his parade uniform this evening when 
 he left the house the first time ; though little 
 
 did I dream his honor was going to get mar- 
 
 ried! If he hasn’t gone out in the same 
 dress, where is it ?—Besides, ma’am, his last 
 mourning is under lock, and here is the key 
 in my pocket.” 
 
 «Tis singular he should choose such an 
 hour, as well as the time of his marriage, to 
 absent himself !” 
 
 Meriton had long learned to identify all 
 his interest with those of his master, and he 
 colored highly under the oblique imputation 
 that he thought was no less cast on Lionel’s 
 gallantry than on his sense of propriety in 
 general. 
 
 «Why, Miss Agnes, you will please re- 
 member, ma’am,” he answered, ‘‘as this 
 wedding hasn’t been at all like an English 
 wedding—nor can I say that it is altogether 
 usual to die in England as suddenly as Ma’am 
 Lechmere has been pleased 
 
 “Perhaps,” interrupted Agnes, ‘‘ some 
 accident may have happened to him.. Surely 
 no man of common humanity would willingly 
 be away at such a moment !” 
 
 The feelings of Meriton now took another 
 direction, and he unhesitatingly adopted the 
 worst apprehensions of the young lady. 
 
 Agnes leaned her forehead on her hand, 
 for a minute, in deep reflection, before she 
 
 Loe 
 Nes Pi 
 a . 
 
 351 
 
 spoke again; then, raising her eyes to the 
 valet, she site 
 
 ‘‘Mr. Meriton, know you where Captain 
 Polwarth sleeps ? ” 
 
 “Certainly, ma’am !—He’s a gentleman as 
 always sleeps in his own bed, unless the 
 king’s service calls him elsewhere. A con- 
 siderate gentleman is Captain Polwarth, 
 ma’am, in respect of himself!” 
 
 Miss Danforth bit her lip, and her playful 
 eye lighted for an instant, with a ray that 
 banished its look of sadness ; but in another 
 moment her features became demure, if not 
 melancholy, and she continued— 
 
 ‘©T believe, then—’tis awkward and dis- 
 tressing, too, but nothing better can be done.” 
 
 “Did you please to give me any orders, 
 Miss Agnes ?” 
 
 «‘Yes, Meriton ; you will go to the lodg- 
 ings of Captain Polwarth, and tell him Mrs. 
 Lincoln desires his immediate presence here, 
 in Tremont Street.” 
 
 “ My lady !” repeated the amazed valet— 
 ‘‘why, Miss Agnes, the women says as my 
 lady is unconscionable, and does not know 
 what is doing, or who speaks to her! A 
 mournful wedding, ma’am, for the heir of 
 our house !” 
 
 ««Then tell him,” said Agnes, as she arose 
 to leave the room, ‘“‘that Miss Danforth 
 would be glad to see him.” 
 
 Meriton waited no longer than was neces- 
 sary to mutter his approbation of this altera- 
 tion in the message, when he left the house, 
 with a pace that was a good deal quickened 
 by his growing fears on the subject of his 
 master’s safety. Notwithstanding his appre- 
 hensions, the valet was by no means insensi- 
 ble to the severity of the climate he was in, 
 nor to the peculiar qualities of that night, in 
 which he was so unexpectedly thrust abroad 
 to encounter its fury. He soon succeeded, 
 however, in making his way to the quarters 
 of Polwarth, in the midst of the driving 
 snow, and in defiance of the cold that chilled 
 his very bones. Happily for the patience of 
 the worthy valet, Shearflint, the semi-mili- 
 tary attendant of the captain, was yet up, 
 having just discharged his nightly duties 
 about the person of his master, who had not 
 deemed it prudent to seek his pillow without 
 proving the consolations of the trencher. 
 The door was opened at the first tap of Meri- 
 
352 
 
 ton, and when the other had expressed his 
 surprise, by the usual exclamations, the two 
 attendants adjourned to the sitting-room, 
 where the embers of a good wood fire were 
 yet shedding a grateful heat in the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 ‘*What a shocking country is this Amer- 
 ica for cold, Mr. Shearflint! ” said Meriton, 
 kicking the brands together with his boot, 
 and rubbing his hands over the coals—‘‘ I 
 doesn’t think as our English cold is at all 
 like it. It’s a stronger and a better cold is 
 ours, but it doesn’t cut one like dull razors, 
 as this here of America.” 
 
 Shearflint, who fancied himself particularly 
 liberal, and ever made it a point to show his 
 magnanimity to his enemies, never speaking 
 of the colonists without a sort of protecting 
 air, that he intended should reflect largely on 
 his own candor, briskly replied— 
 
 “This is a new country, Mr. Meriton, and 
 one shouldn’t be over-nice. When one goes 
 abroad, one must learn to put up with diff- 
 culties; especially in the colonies, where it 
 can’t be expected all things should be as com- 
 fortable as we has ’em at ’ome.” 
 
 ‘© Well, now, I call myself a little particu- 
 lar in respect of weather,” returned Meriton, 
 “as and going. But give me England for 
 climate, if for nothing else. The water 
 comes down in that blessed country in good, 
 honest drops, and not in little frozen bits, 
 which prick one’s face like so many fine nee- 
 dles!” 
 
 ‘¢You do look, Mr. Meriton, a little as if 
 you had been shaking your master’s powder- 
 puff about your own ears. But I was just 
 finishing the heel-tap of the captain’s hot 
 toddy; perhaps if you was to taste it, ’twould 
 help to thaw out the idears.” 
 
 ‘God bless me! Shearflint,” said Meriton, 
 relinquishing his grasp of the tankard, to take 
 breath after a most vigorous draught—“ do 
 you always stuff his night-cap so thick ?” 
 
 ‘* No—no—the captain can tell a mixture 
 by his nose, and it doesn’t do to make par- 
 tial alterations in his glass,” returned Shear- 
 flint, giving the tankard a circular motion 
 to stir its contents, while he spoke, and swal- 
 lowing the trifle that remained, apparently 
 ata gulp; “then as I thinks it a pity that 
 anything should be wasted in these distress- 
 ing time, I generally drinks what’s left, 
 
 | 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 after adding sum/’at to the water, just to mel- 
 low it down. But what brings you abroad 
 such a foul night, Mr. Meriton ?” 
 
 “Sure enough, my idears wanted thawing, 
 as you instigated, Shearflint! Here have I 
 been sent on a message of life and death, and 
 I was forgetting my errand like a raw boy 
 just hired from the country!” 
 
 ‘‘Something is stirring, then!” said the 
 other, offering a chair, which his companion 
 received without any words, while Polwarth’s 
 man took another, with equal composure. — 
 “JT thought as much, from the captain’s hun- 
 gry appearance, when he came home to- 
 night, after dressing himself with so much 
 care, to take his supper in Tremont Street.” 
 
 ‘Something has been stirring indeed! 
 For one thing, it is certain, Master Lionel 
 was married to-night, in the King’s Chapel!” 
 
 “ Married!” echoed the other—“ well, 
 thank heaven, no such unavoidables has be- 
 fallen us, though we have been amputrated. 
 I couldn’t live with a married gentleman, 
 nohow, Mr. Meriton. A master in breeches 
 is enough for me, without one in petticoats 
 to set him on!” | 
 
 “That depends altogether on people’s 
 conditions, Shearflint,” returned Meriton, 
 with a sort of condescending air of condo- 
 lence, as though he pitied the other’s poy- 
 erty.—‘‘It would be great folly for a captain 
 of foot, that is nothing dwt a captain of foot, 
 to unite in Hymen. But, as we say at Rav- 
 enscliffe and Soho, Cupid will listen to the 
 slyths of the heir of a Devonshire baronet, 
 with fifteen thousand a year.” 
 
 “‘T never heard any one say it was more 
 than ten,” interrupted the other, with a 
 strong taint of ill-humor in his manner. 
 
 “Not more than ten! I can count ten 
 myself, and I am sure there must be some 
 that I doesn’t know of.” 
 
 ‘‘Well, if it be twenty,” cried Shearflint, 
 rising and kicking the brands among the 
 ashes, in a manner to destroy all the cheer- 
 fulness of the little fire that remained, “ it 
 won’t help you to do your errand. You 
 should remember that us servants of poor 
 captains have nobody to help us with our 
 work, and want our natural rest. What’s 
 your pleasure, Mr. Meriton ! ” 
 
 «To see your master, Mister Shearflint.” 
 
 “'That’s impossibility! he’s under five 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 blankets, and I wouldn’t lift the thinnest of 
 them for a month’s wages.” 
 
 “Then I shall do it for you, because speak 
 to him I must. Is he in this room?” 
 
 “Ay, you'll find him somewhere there, 
 among the bed-clothes,” returned Shearflint, 
 throwing open the door of an adjoining 
 apartment, secretly hoping Meriton would 
 get his head broken for his trouble, as he re- 
 
 __ moyed himself out of harm’s way, by return- 
 
 ing to the fire-place. 
 
 Meriton was compelled to give the captain 
 several rough shakes before he succeeded in 
 rousing him, in the least, from his deep 
 slumbers, Then, indeed, he overheard the 
 sleeper muttering— 
 
 “A damn’d foolish business, that—had 
 we made proper use of limbs, we might have 
 kept them. You take this man to be your 
 husband—better or worse—richer or poorer 
 —ha ! who are you rolling, dog ? have you no 
 regard to digestion, to shake a man in this 
 manner, just after eating !” 
 
  “Tt’s I, sir—Meriton.” 
 
 “And what the devil do you mean by this 
 liberty, Mr. I, or Meriton, or whatever you 
 call yourself ? ” 
 
 ‘Tam sent for you in a great hurry, sir 
 —awful things have happened to-night up 
 in ‘Tremont * 
 
 ‘* Happened !” repeated Polwarth, who by 
 this time was thoroughly awake—‘“‘I know, 
 fellow, that your master is married—I gave 
 the bride away myself. I suppose nothing 
 else, that is particularly extraordinary, has 
 happened.” 
 
 *“Oh ! Lord, yes, sir—my lady is in fainting 
 fits, and Master Lionel has gone, God knows 
 whither, and Madam Lechmere is dead ! ” 
 
 Meriton had not concluded, before Pol- 
 warth sprang from his bed in the best man- 
 ner he was able, and began to dress himself, 
 by a sort of instinct, though without any 
 definite object. By the unfortunate arrange- 
 ment of Meriton’s intelligence, he supposed 
 the death of Mrs. Lechmere to be in conse- 
 quence of some strange and mysterious sepa- 
 ration of the bride from her husband, and 
 his busy thoughts did not fail to recall the 
 singular interruption of the nuptials, so often 
 mentioned. 
 
 «* And Miss Danforth !” he asked—“ how 
 does she bear it ?” 
 
 353 
 
 “‘ Like a woman, as she is, and a true lady. 
 It is no small thing as puts Miss Agnes be- 
 side herself, sir ! ” 
 
 “No, that it is not ! she is much more apt 
 to drive others mad.” 
 
 “T'was she, sir, as sent me to desire you 
 to come up to Tremont Street, without any 
 delay.” 
 
 “The devil it was! Hand me that boot, 
 my good fellow. One boot, thank God, is 
 sooner put on than two! The vest and stock 
 next. You, Shearflint ! where have you got 
 to, sirrah ! Bring me my leg, this instant.” 
 
 As soon as his own man heard this order, 
 he made his appearance ; and as he was much 
 more conversant with the mystery of his 
 master’s toilet than Meriton, the captain was 
 soon equipped for his sudden expedition. 
 
 During the time he was dressing, he con- 
 tinued to put hasty questions to Meriton, 
 concerning the cause of the disturbance in 
 Tremont Street, the answers to which only 
 served to throw him more upon the ocean of 
 uncertainty than ever. The instant he was 
 clad, he wrapped himself in his cloak, and, 
 taking the arm of the valet, he essayed to 
 find his way through the tempest to the spot 
 where he was told Agnes Danforth awaited 
 his appearance, with a chivalry that, in an- 
 other age, and under different circumstances, 
 would have made him a hero. 
 
 CHAPTER XXyV. 
 
 ‘Proud lineage ! now how little thou appeavest !” 
 —BLAIR. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING the unusual alacrity 
 with which Polwarth obeyed the unexpected 
 summons of the capricious being whose favor 
 he had so long courted, with so little appar- 
 ent success, he lingered in his steps as he 
 approached near enough to the house in Tre- 
 mont Street, to witness the glancing lights 
 which flitted before the windows. On the 
 threshold he stopped, and listened to the 
 opening and shutting of doors, and all those 
 marked, and yet stifled sounds, which are » 
 wont to succeed a visit of the grim monarch 
 to the dwellings of the sick. His rap was 
 unanswered, and he was compelled to order 
 Meriton to show him into the little parlor 
 where he had so often been a guest, under 
 LL 
 
354 
 
 more propitious circumstances. Here he 
 found Agnes, awaiting his appearance with a 
 gravity, if not sadness of demeanor, that in- 
 stantly put to flight certain complimentary 
 effusions, with which the captain had deter- 
 mined to open the interview, in order to fol- 
 low up, in the true temper of a soldier, the 
 small advantage he conceived he had obtained 
 in the good opinion of his mistress. Alter- 
 ing the exulting expression of his features 
 with his first glance at the countenance of 
 Miss Danforth, Polwarth paid his compli- 
 ments in a manner better suited to the state 
 of the family, and desired to know, if in any 
 manner he could contribute to their comfort 
 or relief. 
 
 “ Death has been among us, Captain Pol- 
 warth,” said Agnes, “and his visit has, in- 
 deed, been sudden and unexpected. ‘T’o add 
 to our embarrassment, apes Lincoln is miss- 
 ing!” 
 
 As she concluded, Agnes fastened her eyes 
 on the face of the other, as though she would 
 require an explanation of the unaccountable 
 absence of the bridegroom. 
 
 “Lionel Lincoln is not a man to fly be- 
 cause death approaches,” returned the captain, 
 musing; ‘‘and less should I suspect him of 
 deserting, in her distress, one like the lovely 
 creature he has married. Perhaps he has 
 gone in quest of medical aid?” 
 
 “Jt cannot be. I have gathered from the 
 broken sentences of Cecil, that he, and some 
 third person to me unknown, were last with 
 my aunt, and must have been present at her 
 death; for the face was covered. I found 
 the bride in the room which Lionel has 
 lately occupied—the doors open, and with 
 indications that he and his unknown com- 
 panion had left the house by the private 
 stairs, which communicate with the western 
 door. As my cousin speaks but little, all 
 other clew to the movements of her husband 
 is lost, unless this ornament, which I found 
 glittering among the embers of the fire, may 
 serve for such a purpose. It is, I believe, 
 a soldier’s gorget.” | 
 
 *“It is, indeed; and it would seem the 
 wearer has been in some jeopardy, by this 
 bullet-hole through its centre. By heavens! 
 —'tis that of M’Fuse!—Here is the 18th en- 
 graved; and I know these little marks which 
 the poor fellow was accustomed to make on 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 it at every battle ; for he never failed to wear 
 the bawble. The last was the saddest record 
 of them all?” 
 
 “‘In what manner, then, could it be con- 
 veyed into the apartment of Major Lincoln ? 
 Is it possible that ; 
 
 ‘“©In what manner, truly!” interrupted 
 Polwarth, rising in his agitation, and begin- 
 ning to pace the room, in the best manner 
 his multilated condition would allow—‘‘ Poor 
 Dennis! that I should find such a relic of 
 thy end at last! You did not know Dennis, 
 I believe. He was a man, fair Agnes, every 
 way adapted by nature for a soldier. His 
 was the form of Hercules! the heart of a lion, 
 and the digestion of an ostrich! But he 
 could not master this cruel lead ! He is dead, 
 poor fellow, he is dead !” 
 
 “Still you find no clew in ait gorget by 
 which to trace the living? ” demanded Agnes. 
 
 “Ha!” exclaimed Polwarth, starting—“I 
 think I begin to see into the mystery! ‘The 
 fellow who could slay the man with whom 
 he had eaten and drunk, might easily rob . 
 the dead! You found the gorget near the 
 fire of Major Lincoln’s room, say you, fair 
 Agnes?” 
 
 ‘‘In the embers, as if cast there for con- 
 cealment, or dropped in some sudden strait.” 
 
 ‘ T have it—I have it !” returned Polwarth, 
 striking his hands together, and speaking 
 through his teeth—’twas that dog who 
 murdered him, and justice shall now take its 
 swing—fool or no fool, he shall be hung 
 up like jerked beef, to dry in the winds of 
 heaven !” 
 
 “Of whom speak you, Polwarth, with 
 that threatening air?” inquired Agnes, in a 
 soothing voice, of which, like the rest of her 
 sex, She well knew not only the power, but 
 when to exercise it. 
 
 ‘‘Of a canting, hypocritical miscreant, 
 who is called Job Pray—a fellow with no 
 more conscience than brains, nor any more 
 brains than honesty. An ungainly villain, 
 who will eat of your table to-day, and put 
 the same knife that administered to his 
 hunger to your throat to-morrow! It was 
 such a dog that butchered the glory of Hrin!” 
 
 ““Tt must have been in open battle, then,” 
 said Agnes, ‘‘ for though wanting in reason, 
 Job has been reared in the knowledge of 
 good and eyil. 
 
 12? 
 
 The child must be strongly — 
 
| stamped with the wrath of God, indeed, for 
 RY! whom some effort is not made by a Boston 
 | mother, to recover his part in the great 
 4 atonement! ” 
 
 ‘He, then, is an exception; for surely no 
 Christian will join you in the great natural 
 . pursuit of eating at one moment, and turn 
 
 his fangs on a comrade at the next.” 
 
 “But what has all this to do with the 
 absent bridegroom ?” 
 
 “Tt proves that Job Pray has been in his 
 room since the fire was replenished, or some 
 other than you would have found the gorget.” 
 
 “It proves a singular association, truly, 
 between Major Lincoln and the simpleton,” 
 
 said Agnes, musing ; ‘‘ but still it throws no 
 re light on his disappearance. “T'was an old 
 i man that my cousin mentioned in her un- 
 f connected sentences! ” 
 
 “My life on it, fair Agnes, that if Major 
 
 Lincoln has left the house mysteriously to- 
 night, itis under the guidance of that wretch ! 
 
 —I have known them together in council 
 _ more than once, before this.” 
 
 “Then, if he be weak enough to forsake 
 such a woman as my cousin, at the instigation 
 of a fool, he is unworthy of another thought!” 
 
 Agnes colored as she spoke, and turned the 
 conversation with a manner that denoted how 
 deeply she resented the slight to Cecil. 
 
 The peculiar situation of the town, and the 
 absence of all her own male relatives, soon 
 induced Miss Danforth to listen to the reiter- 
 ated offers of service from the captain, and 
 finally toaccept them. Their conference was 
 long and confidential; nor did Polwarth re- 
 tire until his footsteps were assisted by the 
 
 dull light of the approaching day. When he 
 left the house to return to hisown quarters, 
 no tidings had been heard of Lionel, whose 
 intentional absence was now so certain that 
 the captain proceeded to give his orders for 
 the funeral of the deceased, without any fur- 
 ther delay. He had canvassed with Agnes 
 the propriety of every arrangement so fully, 
 that he was at no loss how to conduct himself, 
 It had been determined between them that 
 the state of the siege, as well as certain indica- 
 _ tions of movements which were already mak- 
 ing in the garrison, rendered it inexpedient 
 to delay the obsequies a moment longer than 
 was required by the unavoidable preparations. 
 
 Se eRe. Ca a re 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 355 
 
 church-yard of the ‘King’s Chapel,’ was 
 directed to be opened, and the vain trappings, 
 in which the dead are usually enshrouded, 
 were provided. The same clergyman, who 
 had so lately pronounced the nuptial bene- 
 diction over the child, was now required to 
 perform the last melancholy offices of the 
 Church over the parent, and the invitations 
 to the few friends of the family who remained 
 in the place were duly issued in suitable form. 
 
 By the time the sun had fallen near the 
 amphitheatre of hills, along whose crests were 
 here and there to be seen the works of the 
 indefatigable men who held the place in lea- 
 guer, the brief preparations for the inter- 
 ment of the deceased were completed. The 
 prophetical words of Ralph were now fulfilled, 
 and, according to the custom of the province, 
 the doors of one of its proudest dwellings 
 were thrown open for all those who chose to 
 enter and depart at will. The funeral train, 
 though respectable, was far from extending 
 to that display of solemn countenances which 
 Boston, in its peace and pride, would not 
 have failed to exhibit on any similar occasion. 
 A few of the oldest and most respected of the 
 inhabitants, who were distantly connected by 
 blood or alliances with the deceased, attended ; 
 but there had been nothing in the cold and 
 selfish character of Mrs. Lechmere to gather 
 the poor and dependent in sorrowing groups 
 around her funeral rites. The passage of the 
 body, from its late dwelling to the tomb, was 
 quiet, decent, and impressive, but entirely 
 without any demonstrations of grief. Cecil 
 had buried herself and her sorrows, together, 
 in the privacy of her own room, and none of 
 the more distant relatives who had collected, 
 male or female, appeared to find it at all diffi- 
 cult to restrain their feelings within the 
 bounds of the most rigid decorum. 
 
 Dr. Liturgy received the body, as usual, on 
 the threshold of the sacred edifice, and the 
 same solemn and affecting language was 
 uttered over the dead, as if she had departed 
 soothed by the most cheerful visions of an 
 assured faith. As the service proceeded, the 
 citizens clustered about the coffin, in deep 
 attention, in admiration of the unwonted 
 tremor and solemnity that had crept into the 
 voice of the priest. 
 
 Among this lttle collection of inhabitants 
 
 Accordingly, the Lechmere vault, in the | of the colony, were interspersed a few men in 
 
306 
 
 the military dress, who, having known the 
 family of the deceased in more settled times, 
 had not forgotten to pay the last tribute to 
 the memory of one of its dead. 
 
 When the short service was ended, the body 
 was raised on the shoulders of the attendants, 
 and borne into the yard to its place of final 
 rest. At such a funeral, where few mourned, 
 and none wept, no unnecessary delay would 
 be made in disposing of the melancholy relics 
 of mortality. In a very few moments, the 
 narrow tenement, which contained the fester- 
 ing remains of one who had so lately harbored 
 such floods of human passion, was lowered 
 from the light of day, and the body was left to 
 moulder by the side of those which had gone 
 before tothe darknessofthe tomb. Perhaps, 
 of all who witnessed the descent of the coffin, 
 Polwarth alone, through that chain of sym- 
 pathies which bound him to the caprice of 
 Agnes, felt any emotion at all in consonance 
 with the solemn scene. ‘The obsequies of the 
 dead were, like the living character of the 
 woman, cold, formal, and artificial. The 
 sexton and his assistants had hardly com- 
 menced replacing the stone which covered 
 the entrance of the vault, when a knot of 
 elderly men set the example of desertion, by 
 moving away in a body from the spot. As 
 they picked their footsteps among the graves, 
 and over the frozen ground of the church- 
 yard, they discoursed idly together, of the 
 fortunes and age of the woman of whom they 
 had now taken their leave forever. ‘The curse 
 of selfishness appeared even to have fallen on 
 the warning, which so sudden an end should 
 have given to those who forgot they tottered 
 on the brink of the grave. They spoke of 
 the deceased as of one who had failed to 
 awaken the charities of our nature, and 
 though several ventured their conjectures as 
 to the manner in which she had disposed of 
 her worldly possessions, not one remembered 
 to lament that she had continued no longer 
 to enjoy them! From this theme they soon 
 wandered to themselves, and the whole party 
 quitted the church-yard, joking each other on 
 the inroads of time, each man attempting to 
 ape the elastic tread of youth, in order not 
 only to conceal from his companions the 
 ravages of age, but with a vain desire to ex- 
 tend the artifice so far, if possible, as to de- 
 ceive himself. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 When the seniors of the party withdrew, 
 the remainder of the spectators did not hesi- 
 tate to follow; and in a few minutes Pol- 
 warth found himself standing before the 
 vault, with only two others of all those who 
 had attended the body. The captain, who 
 had been at no little expense of time and 
 trouble to maintain the decencies which 
 became a near friend of the family of the 
 deceased, stood a minute longer, to permit 
 these lingering followers to retire also, before 
 he turned his own back on the place of the 
 dead. But perceiving they both maintained 
 their posts, in silent attention, he raised his 
 eyes, more curiously, to examine who these 
 loiterers might be. 
 
 The one nearest to himself was a man 
 whose dress and air bespoke him to be of no 
 very exalted rank in life, while the other was 
 a woman of even an inferior condition, if an 
 opinion might be formed from the squalid 
 misery that was exhibited in her attire. A 
 little fatigued with the arduous labors of the 
 day, and of the duties cf the unusual office 
 he had assumed, the worthy captain touched 
 his hat with studied decorum, and said— 
 
 ‘‘T thank you, good people, for this mark 
 of respect to the memory of my deceased 
 friend ; but as we have performed all that 
 can now be done in her behalf, we will 
 retire.” 
 
 Apparently encouraged by the easy and 
 courteous manner of Polwarth, the man ap- 
 proached still nigher, and, after bowing with 
 much respect, ventured to say— 
 
 «They tell me ’tis the funeral of Madam 
 Lechmere that I have witnessed ?” 
 
 «They tell you true, sir,” returned the 
 captain, beginning slowly to pick his way 
 toward the gate; ‘‘of Mrs. Priscilla, the 
 relict of Mr. John Lechmere—a lady of a 
 creditable descent, and I think it will not be 
 denied that she has had honorable inter- 
 ment.” 
 
 ‘Tf it be the lady I suppose,” continued 
 the stranger, ‘‘she is of an honorable descent 
 indeed. Her maiden name was Lincoln, and 
 she is aunt to the great Devonshire baronet 
 of that family.” 
 
 ‘How? know you the Lincolns ?” ex- 
 claimed Polwarth, stopping short, and turn- 
 ing to examine the other with a stricter eye. 
 Perceiving, however, that the stranger was a 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 man of harsh and peculiarly forbidding feat- 
 ures, in the vulgar dress already mentioned, 
 he muttered—‘“‘ you may have heard of them, 
 friend, but I should doubt whether your 
 intimacy could amount to such wholesome 
 familiarities as eating and drinking.” 
 
 «Stronger intimacies than that, sir, are 
 sometimes brought about between men who 
 were born to very different fortunes,” re- 
 turned the stranger, with a peculiarly sar- 
 eastic and ambiguous smile, which meant 
 more than met the eye—‘“‘ but all who know 
 the Lincolns, sir, will allow their claims to 
 distinction. If this lady was one of them, 
 she had reason to be proud of her blood.” 
 
 «« Ay, you are not tainted, I see, with these 
 revolutionary notions, my friend,” returned 
 Polwarth ; ‘“‘she was also connected with a 
 very good sort of a family in this colony, 
 called the Danforths—you know the Dan- 
 forths ?” 
 
 Not at all, sir, J-——” 
 
 ‘*Not know the Danforths!” exclaimed 
 Polwarth, once more stopping to bestow a 
 freer scrutiny on his companion. After a 
 short pause, however, he nodded his head, in 
 approbation of his own conclusions, and 
 added—‘‘ No, no—I am wrong—lI see you 
 could not have known much of the Dan- 
 forths !” 
 
 The stranger appeared quite willing to 
 overlook the cavalier treatment he received, 
 for he continued to attend the difficult foot- 
 steps of the maimed soldier, with the same 
 _ respectful deference as before. 
 
 <‘T have no knowledge of the Danforths, 
 it is true,” he answered; ‘“‘but I may boast 
 of some intimacy with the family of Lincoln.” 
 
 “ Would to God, then,” cried Polwarth, in 
 a sort of soliloquy, which escaped him in the 
 fulness of his heart, “ you could tell us what 
 has become of its heir!” 
 
 The stranger stopped short in his turn, and 
 exclaimed— 
 
 “Ts he not serving with the army of the 
 king, againt this rebellion—Is he not here ? ” 
 
 “He is here, or he is there, or he is any- 
 where; I tell you he is lost.” 
 
 “He is lost !” echoed the other. 
 
 ** Lost!” repeated an humble female voice, 
 at the very elbow of the captain. 
 
 This singular repetition of his own lan- 
 
 357 
 
 into which he had suffered himself to fall. 
 In his course from the vault to the church- 
 yard gate, he had unconsciously approached 
 the woman before mentioned, and when he 
 turned at the sound of her voice, his eyes fell 
 upon her anxious countenance. The very 
 first glance was enough to tell the observant 
 captain that, in the midst of her poverty and 
 rags, he saw the broken remains of great 
 female beauty. Her dark and intelligent 
 eyes, set as they were in a sallow and sunken 
 countenance, still retained much of the 
 brightness, if not of the softness and peace 
 of youth. ‘The contour of her face was also 
 striking, though she might be said to resem- 
 ble one whose loveliness had long since de- 
 parted with her innocence. But the gallan- 
 try of Polwarth was proof even against the 
 unequivocal signs of misery, if not of guilt, 
 which were so easily to be traced in her ap- 
 pearance; and he too much respected even 
 the remains of female charms which were yet 
 visible amid such a mass of unseemliness, to 
 regard them with an unfriendly eye. Appar- 
 ently encouraged by the kind look of the 
 captain, the woman ventured to add— 
 
 “Did I hear aright, sir?—said you that 
 Major Lincoln was lost ?” 
 
 “JT am afraid, good woman,’—returned 
 the captain, leaning on the iron-shod stick 
 with which he was wont to protect his foot- 
 steps along the icy streets of Boston—“ that 
 this siege has, in your case, proved unusually 
 severe. If Iam not mistaken in a matter in 
 which I profess to know much, nature is not 
 supported as nature should be. You would 
 ask for food, and God forbid that I should 
 deny a fellow-creature a morsel of that which 
 constitutes both the seed and the fruits of 
 life. Here is money.” 
 
 The muscles of the attenuated countenance 
 of the woman worked with a sudden convul- 
 sive motion, and, for a moment, she glanced 
 her eyes wistfully toward his silver, but a 
 slight flush passing quickly over her pallid 
 features, she answered— 
 
 ‘Whatever may be my wants and my suf- 
 fering, I thank my God that he has not lev- 
 elled me with the beggar of the streets. Be- 
 fore that evil day shall come, may I finda 
 place among these frozen hillocks where we 
 stand. But I beg pardon, sir; I thought I 
 
 guage aroused Polwarth from the abstraction | heard you speak of Major Lincoln.” 
 
358 
 
 «*T did—and what of him? I said he was 
 lost ; and it is true, if that be lost which can- 
 not be found.” 
 
 « And did Madam Lechmere take her leave 
 before he was missing?” asked the woman 
 advancing a step nearer to Polwarth, in her 
 intense anxiety to be answered. 
 
 “Do you think, good woman, that a gen- 
 tleman of Major Lincoln’s notion of things, 
 would disappear after the decease of his rela- 
 tive, and leave a comparative stranger to fill 
 the office of principal mourner.” 
 
 ‘The Lord forgive us all our sins and 
 wickedness!” muttered the woman, drawing 
 the shreds of her tattered cloak about her 
 shivering form, and hastening silently away 
 into the depths of the grave-yard. Polwarth 
 regarded her unceremonious departure for a 
 moment, in surprise, and then, turning to 
 to his remaining companion, he remarked— 
 
 ‘«¢That woman is unsettled in her reason, 
 for the want of wholesome nutriment. It is 
 just as impossible to retain the powers of 
 the mind, and neglect the stomach, as it is 
 to expect a truant boy will make a learned 
 man.” By this time the worthy captain had 
 forgotten whom it was he addressed, and he 
 continued, in his usual philosophic strain, 
 ‘¢ Children are sent to school to learn all use- 
 ful inventions but that of eating ; for to eat 
 —that is, to eat with judgment—is as much 
 of an invention as any other discovery. 
 Every mouthful a man swallows has to un- 
 dergo four important operations, each of 
 which may be called a crisis in the human 
 constitution.” 
 
 ‘‘Suffer me to help you over this grave,” 
 said the other, officiously offering his assist- 
 ance. 
 
 “T thank you, sir, I thank you—’tis a sad 
 commentary on my words!” returned the 
 captain with amelancholy smile. ‘‘ The time 
 has been when I served in the light corps, 
 but your men in unequal quantities are good 
 for little else but garrisons!—As I was saying, 
 there is first, the selection ; second, mastica- 
 tion ; third, deglutition ; and lastly, the di- 
 gestion.” 
 
 *‘Quite true, sir,’ said the stranger, a 
 little abruptly ; “thin diet and light meals 
 are best for the brain.” 
 
 ‘Thin diet and light meals, sir, are good 
 for nothing but to rear dwarfs and idiots!” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 returned the captain with some heat. ‘1 
 repeat to you, sir 3 
 
 He was interrupted by the stranger, who 
 suddenly smothered a dissertation on the 
 connection between the material and imma- 
 terial, by asking— 
 
 ‘Tf the heir of such a family be lost, is 
 there none to see that he is found again ?” 
 
 Polwarth, finding himself thus checked in 
 the very opening of his theme, stopped again, 
 and stared the other full in the face fora 
 moment, without making any reply. His 
 kind feeling, however, got the better of his 
 displeasure, and yielding to the interest he 
 felt in the fate of Lionel, he answered— 
 
 <‘T would go all lengths, and incur every 
 hazard to do him service !” 
 
 «Then, sir, accident has brought those 
 together who are willing to engage in the 
 same undertaking! I, too, will do my ut- 
 most to discover him. I have heard he has 
 friends in this province. Has he no connec- 
 tion to whom we may apply for intelli- 
 gence ?” | 
 
 «©None nearer than a wife.” 
 
 ‘<A wife!” repeated the other in surprise 
 
 —‘‘is he then married ?” 
 
 A long pause ensued, during which the 
 stranger mused deeply, and Polwarth be- 
 
 stowed a still more searching scrutiny than — 
 
 i 
 —— 
 
 ever on hiscompanion. It would appear that — 
 
 the result was not satisfactory to the captain; 
 for, shaking his head, in no very equivocal 
 manner, he resumed the task of picking his. 
 way among the graves, toward the gate, with 
 renewed diligence. 
 seating himself in the pung, when the ~ 
 
 stranger again stood at his elbow, and said— 
 
 ‘‘Tf I knew to find his wife, I would offer ‘ 
 my services to the lady.” 
 
 Polwarth pointed to the building of which 
 Cecil was now the mistress, and answered — 
 
 somewhat superciliously as he drove away— ; 
 ‘‘She is there, my good friend, but your 
 application will be useless !” 
 
 The stranger received the direction in an t 
 understanding manner, and smiled with sat-— 
 isfied confidence, while he took the opposite ( 
 route from that by which the busy equipage 
 of the captain had already disappeared. 
 
 He was in the act of © 
 
Rill and knock down! 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 “« Up Fish Street ! down Saint Magnus’ corner ! 
 Throw them into the 
 Thames— . 
 What noise is this I hear ? Dare any be so bold to 
 sound 
 Retreat or parley, when I command them kill ?” 
 —King Henry IV. 
 
 Ir was rarely, indeed, that the equal- 
 minded Polwarth undertook an adventure 
 with so fell an intent as was the disposition 
 with which he directed the head of the 
 hunter to be turned toward the Dock square. 
 He had long krown the residence of Job 
 Pray, and often, in passing from his lodg- 
 ings, near the common, into the more 
 fashionable quarter of the town, the gcod- 
 natured epicure had turned his head to 
 bestow a nod and a smile on the unsophisti- 
 cated admirer of his skill in the culinary art. 
 But now, as the pung whirled out of Corn- 
 hill into the well-known area, his eye fell on 
 the low and gloomy walls of the warehouse, 
 with a far less amicable design. 
 
 From the time he was apprised of the 
 disappearance of his friend, the captain had 
 
 been industriously ruminating on the sub- 
 
 ject, in a vain wish to discover any probable 
 reason that might induce a bridegroom to 
 adopt so hasty, and, apparently, so unjustifi- 
 able a step, as the desertion of his bride, and 
 that, too, under circumstances of such pecul- 
 iar distress. But the more he reasoned, the 
 more he found himself involved in the laby- 
 rinth of perplexity, until he was glad to 
 seize on the slighest clew which offered, to 
 lead him from his obscurity. In has already 
 been seen in what manner he received the 
 intelligence conveyed through the gorget of 
 M’Fuse, and it now remains for us to show 
 with what commendable ingenuity he im- 
 proved the hint. 
 
 It had always been a matter of surprise to 
 Polwarth, that a man like Lionel should 
 tolerate so much of the society of the sim- 
 pleton, nor had it escaped his observation, 
 that the communications between the two 
 were a little concealed under a shade of mys- 
 tery. He had overheard the foolish boast of 
 of the lad, the preceding day, relative to the 
 death of M’Fuse; and the battered orna- 
 ment, in conjunction with the place where it 
 was found, which accorded so well with his 
 
 359 
 
 grovelling habits, had tended to confirm 
 its truth. The love of Polwarth for the 
 grenadier was second only to his attachment 
 for his earlier friend. The one had avowedly 
 fallen, and he soon began to suspect that the 
 other had been strangely inveigled from his 
 duty by the agency of this ill-gifted change- 
 ling. To conceive an opinion, and to be 
 confirmed in its justice, were results gener- 
 ally produced by the same operation of the 
 mind, with this disciple of animal philosophy. 
 While he stood near the tomb of the Lech- 
 meres, in the important character of chief 
 mourner, he had diligently revolved in his 
 mind the brief arguments which he found ne- 
 cessary to thisconclusion. The arrangement 
 of his ideas might boast of the terseness of 
 a syllogism. His proposition and inference 
 were something as follows :—Job murdered 
 M’Fuse ;—some great evil has occurred to 
 Lionel ;—and therefore Job has been its 
 author. 
 
 It is true, there was a good deal of inter- 
 mediate argument to support this deduction, 
 at which the captain cast an extremely 
 cursory glance, but which the reader may 
 easily conceive, if at all gifted in the way of 
 imagination. It would require no undue 
 belief of the connection between very natural 
 effects and their causes, to show that Pol- 
 warth was not entirely unreasonable in sus- 
 pecting the agency of the simpleton, nor in 
 harboring the deep and bitter resentment 
 that so much mischief, even though it were 
 sustained from the hands of a fool, was likely 
 to awaken. Be that as it may, by the time 
 the pung had reached the point already 
 mentioned, its rapid motion, which acceler- 
 ated the ordinary quiet circulation of his 
 blood, together with the scene through which 
 he had just passed, and the recollections 
 which had been crowding on his mind, con- 
 spired to wind up his resolution to a very 
 obstinate pitch of determination. Of all his 
 schemes, embracing, as they did, compulsion, 
 confession, and punishment, Job Pray was, 
 of course, destined to be both the subject 
 and the victim. 
 
 The shadows of evening were already 
 thrown upon the town, and the cold had 
 long before driven the few dealers in 
 meats and vegetables, who continued to find 
 daily employment around the ill-furnished 
 
360 
 
 shambles, to their several homes. 
 stead there was only to be seen a meagre 
 
 and impoverished follower of the camp, steal- 
 
 ing along the shadows of the building, with 
 her half-famished child, as they searched 
 among the offals of the market for some 
 neglected morsel, to eke out the scanty meal 
 of the night. But while the common mart 
 presented this appearance of dulness and 
 want, the lower part of the square exhibited 
 a very different aspsct. 
 
 The warehouse was surrounded by a body 
 of men in uniform, whose disorderly and 
 rapid movements proclaimed at once, to the 
 experienced eye of the captain, that they 
 were engaged in a scene of lawless violence. 
 Some were rushing furiously into the build- 
 ing, armed with such weapons as the streets 
 first offered to their hands, while others re- 
 turned, filling the air with their threats and 
 outcries. A constant current of eager sol- 
 diers was setting out of the dark passages 
 in the neighborhood toward the place, and 
 every window of the building was crowded 
 with excited witnesses, who clung to the 
 walls, apparently animating those within by 
 their cheers and applause. 
 
 When Polwarth bade Shearflint pull the 
 reins, he caught the quick, half-formed sen- 
 tences that burst from the rioters, and even 
 before he was able, in the duskiness of the 
 evening, to discover the facings of their 
 uniform, his ear detected the well-known 
 dialect of the Royal Irish. The whole truth 
 now broke upon him at once, and throwing 
 his obese person from the sleigh, in the best 
 manner he was able, he hobbled into the 
 throng, with a singular compound of feeling, 
 which owed its birth to the opposing im- 
 pulses of a thirst for vengeance, and the 
 lingering influence of his natural kindness. 
 Better men than the captain have, however, 
 lost sight of their humanity, under those 
 fierce sympathies that are awakened in mo- 
 ments of tumult and violence. By the time 
 he had forced his person into the large, dark 
 apartment that formed the main building, 
 he had, in a great degree, suffered himself to 
 be worked into a sternness of purpose, which 
 comported very ill with his intelligence and 
 rank, He even listened, with unaccountable 
 
 pleasure, to the threats and denunciations 
 
 which filled the building ; until he foresaw, 
 
 In their 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 from their savage nature, there was great 
 danger that one half of his object, the dis- 
 covery of Lionel, was likely to be frustrated 
 by their fulfilment. Animated anew by this 
 impression, he threw the rioters from him 
 with prodigious energy, and succeeded in 
 gaining a position where he might become a 
 more efficient actor in the fray. 
 
 There was still light enough to discover 
 Job Pray placed in the centre of the ware- 
 house, on his miserable bed, in an attitude 
 between lying and sitting. While his bodily 
 condition seemed to require the former posi- 
 tion, his fears had induced him to attempt 
 the latter. The large, red blotches which 
 covered his unmeaning countenance, and his 
 flushed eye-balls, too plainly announced that 
 the unfortunate young man, in addition to 
 having become the object of the wrath of a 
 lawless mob, was a prey to the ravages of that 
 foul disorder which had long before lighted 
 on the town. Around this squalid subject 
 of poverty and disease, a few of the hardiest 
 of the rioters, chiefly the surviving grena- 
 diers of the 18th, had gathered; while the 
 less excited, or more timid among them, 
 practised their means of annoyance at a 
 greater distance from the malign atmosphere 
 of the distemper. The bruised and bloody 
 person of the simpleton manifested how much 
 he had already suffered from the hands of 
 his tormentors, who happily possessed no 
 very fatal weapons, or the scene would have 
 been much earlier terminated. Notwith- 
 standing his great bodily debility, and the 
 pressing dangers that beset him on every 
 side, Job continued to face his assailants, 
 with a sort of stupid endurance of the pains 
 they inflicted. 
 
 At the sight of this revolting spectacle, the 
 heart of Polwarth began greatly to relent, 
 and he endeavored to make himself heard, in 
 the clamor of fifty voices. But his presence 
 was unheeded, for his remonstrances were 
 uttered to ignorant men, wildly bent on 
 vengeance. 
 
 “ Pul the baist from his rags!” cried one; 
 “tig no a human man, but a deyil’s imp, in 
 the shape of a fellow cratur!” 
 
 “ For such as him to murder the flower of 
 the British army!” said another—“ his small. 
 pox is nothing but afoul invintion of the ould 
 one, to save him from his daisarrevings! ” 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 “ Would any but a divil invent such a dis- 
 order at all?” interrupted a third, who, even 
 in his anger, could not forget his humor. 
 “Have a care, b’ys, he may give it to the 
 whole family the naat’ral way, to save the 
 charges of the inoculation!” 
 
 ‘‘Have done wid ye’r foolery, Terence,” 
 returned the first; ‘‘ would ye trifle about 
 death, and his unrevenged? Put a coal into 
 his filth, b’ys, and burren 7¢ and him in the 
 same bonfire !” 
 
 «A coal! a coal! a brand for the divil’s 
 burning!” echoed twenty soldiers, eagerly 
 listening, in the madness of their fury, to 
 the barbarous advice. 
 
 Polwarth again exerted himself, though 
 unsuccessfully, to be heard; nor was it until 
 a dozen yoices proclaimed, in disappoint- 
 
 ment, that the house contained neither fire 
 
 nor fuel, that the sudden commotion in the 
 
 least subsided. 
 
 “Out of the way! out of the way wid ye!” 
 
 ‘yoared one of gigantic mould, whose heavy 
 
 nature had, like an overcharged volcano, 
 been slowly wrought up to the eve of a fear- 
 ful eruption—‘‘ Here is fire to destroy a 
 salamander! Be he divil or be he saint, he 
 has great need of his prayers!” 
 
 As he spoke, the fellow levelled a musket, 
 and another instant would have decided the 
 fate of Job, who cowered before the danger 
 with instinctive dread, had not Polwarth beat 
 up the piece with his cane, and interposed 
 his body between them. 
 
 “ Hold your fire, brave grenadier,” he said, 
 warily adopting a middle course between the 
 language of authority and that of counsel. 
 
 “This is hasty and unsoldier-like. I 
 knew, and loved your late commander well; 
 let us obtain the confessions of the lad before 
 we proceed to punishment—there may be 
 others more guilty than he.” 
 
 The men regarded the unexpected in- 
 truder with such furious aspect as augured 
 ill of their deference for his advice and sta- 
 tion. “ Blood for blood!” passed from mouth 
 to mouth, in low, sullen mutterings; and the 
 short pause which had succeeded his appear- 
 ance was already broken by still less equivocal 
 marks of hostility, when, happily for Pol- 
 warth, he was recognized, through the twi- 
 light, by a veteran of the grenadiers, as one of 
 the former intimates of M’Fuse. The in- 
 
 361 
 
 | stant the soldier communicated this discovery 
 to his fellows, the growing uproar again sub- 
 sided, and the captain was relieved from no 
 small bodily terror, by hearing his own name 
 passing among them, coupled with such 
 amicable additions as, “is ould fri’nd!”— 
 ‘an offisher of the light troops! ”—-‘‘ he that 
 the ribbils massacred of a leg!” etc. As 
 soon as this explanation was generally under- 
 stood, his ears were greeted. with a burst from 
 every mouth, of— 
 
 «Hurrah! for Captain Pollywarreth! Hs 
 fri’nd! the brave Captain Pollywarreth!” 
 
 Pleased with his success, and secretly 
 gratified by the commendations that were 
 now freely lavished on himself, with charac- 
 teristic liberality, the mediator improved the 
 slight advantage he had obtained, by again 
 addressing them. 
 
 ‘‘T thank you for your good opinion, my 
 friends,” he added, “and must acknowledge 
 it is entirely mutual. I love the Royal Irish, 
 on account of one that I well knew, and 
 greatly esteemed, and who, I fear, was mur- 
 
 dered in defiance of all the rules of war.” 
 
 “Hear ye that, Dennis murdered !” 
 
 ‘‘Blood for blood!” muttered three or 
 four surly voices at once. 
 
 “Tet us be deliberate, that we may be 
 just, and just, that our vengeance may be 
 lawful,” Polwarth quickly answered, fearful 
 that if the torrent once more broke loose, it 
 would exceed his powers to stay it. ‘‘A 
 true soldier always awaits his orders; and 
 what regiment in the army can boast of its 
 discipline, if it be not the 18th? Form your- 
 selves in a circle around your prisoner, and 
 listen, while I extract the truth from him. 
 After that, should he prove guilty, I will 
 consign him to your tenderest mercy.” 
 
 The rioters, who only saw, in the delay, a 
 more methodical execution of their own vio- 
 lent purpose, received the proposition with 
 another shout, and the name of Polwarth, 
 pronounced in all the varieties of their bar- 
 barous idioms, rung loudly through the naked 
 rafters of the building, while they disposed 
 themselves to comply. 
 
 The captain, with a wish to gain time to 
 command his thoughts, required that a light 
 should be struck, in order, as he said, to study 
 the workings of the countenance of the ac- 
 cused. As the night had now gathered about 
 
362 
 
 them in good earnest, the demand was too 
 reasonable for objection, and with the same 
 headlong eagerness that they had manifested 
 a few minutes before, to shed the blood of 
 Job, they turned their attention, with 
 thoughtless versatility, to effect this, harm- 
 less object. A brand had been brought, for 
 a very different end, when the plan of burn- 
 ing was proposed, and it had been cast aside 
 again with the change of purpose. A few of 
 its sparks were now collected, and some bun- 
 dles of oakum, which lay in a corner of the 
 warehouse, were fired, and carefully fed in 
 such a manner as to shed a strong light 
 through every cranny of the gloomy edifice. 
 
 By the aid of this fitful glare, the captain 
 succeeded once more in marshalling the riot- 
 ers in such a manner that no covert injury 
 could be offered to Job. The whole affair 
 now assumed, in some measure, the character 
 of a regular investigation. ‘The curiosity of 
 the men without overcame their fears of in- 
 fection, and they crowded into the place, in 
 earnest attention, until, in a very few mo- 
 ments, no other sound was audible but the 
 difficult and oppressed respiration of their 
 victim. When all the other noises had ceased, 
 and Polwarth perceived by the eager and 
 savage countenances, athwart which the 
 bright glare of the burning hemp was gleam- 
 ing, that delay might yet be dangerous, he 
 proceeded at once in his inquiries. 
 
 “You may see, Job Pray, by the manner 
 in which you are surrounded,” he said, “ that 
 judgment has at length overtaken you, and 
 that your only hope for mercy lies in your 
 truth. Answer, then, to such questions as I 
 shall put, and keep the fear of God before 
 your eyes.” 
 
 The captain paused to allow this exhorta- 
 tion to produce its desired effect. But Job, 
 perceiving that his late tormentors were quiet, 
 and to all appearance bent on no immediate 
 mischief, sunk his head languidly upon his 
 blankets, where he lay in silence, watching, 
 with rolling and anxious eyes, the smallest 
 movements of his enemies. Polwarth soon 
 yielded to the impatience of his listeners, 
 and continued— 
 
 « You are acquainted with Major Lincoln ?”’ 
 
 ‘Major Lincoln !” grumbled three or four 
 of the grenadiers—“ is it of ham that we want 
 to hear ?” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘“One moment, my worthy 18ths ; I shall 
 come at the whole truth the sooner, by taking 
 this indirect course.” 
 
 “Hurrah for Captain Pollywarreth !” 
 shouted the rioters—‘him that the ribbils 
 massacred of a leg !” 
 
 «Thank you—thank you, my considerate 
 friends—answer, fellow, without prevarica- 
 tion; you dare not deny to me your knowl- 
 edge of Major Lincoln ?” 
 
 After a momentary pause, a low voice was 
 heard muttering among the blankets— 
 
 “ Job knows all the Boston people; and 
 Major Lincoln is a Boston boy.” 
 
 ‘* But with Major Lincoln you had a more 
 particular acquaintance.—Restrain your im- 
 patience, men; these questions lead directly 
 to the facts you wish to know.” ‘The rioters, 
 who were profoundly ignorant of what sort of 
 facts they were to be made acquainted with 
 by this examination, looked at each other in 
 uneasy doubt, but soon settled down again 
 into their former deep silence.—* You know 
 him better than any other gentleman of the 
 army?” 
 
 “He promised Job to keep off the gran- 
 nies, and Job agreed to run his ar’n’ds.” 
 
 “Such an arrangement betrays a greater 
 intimacy than is usual between a wise man 
 andafool! If you are then so close in league 
 with him, I demand what has become of 
 your associate ?” 
 
 The young man made no reply. 
 
 “You are thought to know the reasons why 
 he has left his friends,” returned Polwarth, 
 “and I now demand that you declare them.” 
 
 “Declare!” repeated the simpleton, in his 
 most unmeaning and helpless manner—“ Job 
 was never good at his schooling.” 
 
 “Nay, then, if you are obstinate, and will 
 not answer, I must withdraw, and permit 
 these brave grenadiers to work their will on 
 you.” 
 
 This threat served to induce Job to raise 
 his head, and assume that attitude and look 
 of instinctive watchfulness that he had so 
 recently abandoned. A slight movement of 
 the crowd followed, and the terrible words of 
 ‘Blood for blood!” again passed among them 
 in sullen murmurs. The helpless youth, 
 whom we have been obliged to call an idiot, 
 for want of a better term, and because his 
 mental imbecility removed him without the 
 
 ee eae 
 
9 
 
 fea faye eae tev 
 4 + — * 
 
 { 
 
 (oc tee oe ba ns ae 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 pale of legal responsibility, now stared wildly 
 about him, with an increasing expression of 
 reason, that might be ascribed to the force of 
 that inward fire which preyed upon his 
 vitals, and which seemed to purify the spirit 
 in proportion as it consumed the material 
 dross of his existence. 
 
 «Tt’s ag’in the laws of the Bay, to beat and 
 torment a fellow-creature,” he said, with a 
 solemn earnestness in his voice, that would 
 have melted hearts of ordinary softness ; 
 ‘¢and what is more it’s ag’in His holy book! 
 If you hadn’t made oven-wood of the Old 
 North, and a horse-stable of the Old South, 
 you might have gone to hear such expound- 
 ing as would have made the hair rise on your 
 wicked heads !” 
 
 The cries of ‘“‘ Have done wid his foolery!” 
 —“The imp is playing his games on us!”— 
 
 © Ag if his wooden mockery was a church at 
 
 all fit for a ra’al Christian! ”’—were heard on 
 
 every side, and they were succeeded by the 
 
 often repeated and appalling threat of 
 “Blood for blood!” 
 
 “Fall back, men, fall back!” cried Pol- 
 warth, flourishing his walking-stick in such 
 a manner as effectually to enforce his orders; 
 ‘<< wait for his confession before you judge.— 
 Fellow, this is the last and trying appeal to 
 your truth—your life most probably depends 
 on the answer. You are known to have been 
 in arms against the crown.—Nay, I myself 
 saw you in the field on that day when the 
 troops a-a-a——countermarched from Lexing- 
 ton; since when you are known to have 
 joined the rebels while the army went out to 
 storm the intrenchment on the heights of 
 Charlestown.” At this point in the recapitu- 
 lation of the offences of Job, the captain was 
 suddenly appalled by a glimpse at the dark 
 and threatening looks that encircled him, 
 and he concluded with a laudable readiness 
 —*‘on that glorious day when his majesty’s 
 troops scattered your provincial rabble like 
 so many sheep driven from their pastures by 
 dogs!” 
 
 The humane ingenuity of Polwarth was 
 rewarded by a burst of loud and savage 
 laughter. Encouraged by this evidence of 
 his power over his auditors, the worthy cap- 
 tain proceeded with an increased confidence 
 in his own eloquence. 
 
 “On that glorious day,” he continued, 
 
 363 
 
 gradually warming with his subject, “‘many 
 a gallant gentleman, and hundreds of fearless 
 privates, met their fate. Some fell in open 
 and manly fight, and according to the chances 
 of regular warfare. Some—he-e-m—some 
 have been mutilated; and will carry the 
 marks of their glory with them to the grave.” 
 His voice grew a little thick and husky as he 
 proceeded; but, shaking off his weakness, he 
 ended with an energy that he intended should 
 curdle the heart of the prisoner,—“ while, 
 fellow, some have been murdered!” 
 
 ‘Blood for blood!” was heard again pass- 
 ing its fearful round. Without attempting 
 any longer to repress the rising spirit of the 
 rioters, Polwarth continued his interroga- 
 tories, entirely led away by the strength of 
 his own feelings on this sensitive subject. 
 
 “Remember you such a man as Dennis 
 M’Fuse?” he demanded in a voice of thun- 
 der; “he that was treacherously slain in 
 your inmost trenches, after the day was won! 
 Answer me, knave, were you not among the 
 rabble, and did not your,own vile hand the 
 bloody deed?” 
 
 A few words were heard from Job, in a 
 low, muttering tone, of which only “the 
 rake-hellies,” and “the people will teach ’em 
 the law!” were sufficiently distinct to be 
 understood. 
 
 ‘‘Murder him! part him sowl from body!” 
 exclaimed the fiercest of the grenadiers. 
 
 ‘‘ Hold!” cried Polwarth ; ‘‘ but one mo- 
 ment more—I would relieve my mind from 
 the debt I owe his memory. Speak, fellow ; 
 what know you of the death of the com- 
 mander of these brave grenadiers ? ” 
 
 Job, who had listened to his words atten- 
 tively, though his uneasy eyes still continued 
 to watch the slightest movements of his foes, 
 now turned to the speaker with a look of 
 foolish triumph, and answered— 
 
 «¢ The 18th came up the hill, shouting like 
 roaring lions! but the Royal Irish had a death- 
 howl, that evening, over their tallest man!” 
 
 Polwarth trembled with the violence of the 
 passions that beset him; but, while with one 
 hand he motioned to the men to keep back, 
 with the other he produced the battered gor- 
 get from his pocket, and held it before the 
 eyes of the simpleton. 
 
 «Know you this?” he demanded; “who 
 sent the bullet through this fatal hole?” 
 
364 
 
 Job took the ornament, and for a moment 
 regarded it with an unconscious look. But 
 his countenance gradually lighting with a ray 
 of unusual meaning, he laughed in scornful 
 exultation, as he answered— 
 
 ‘Though Job is a fool, he can shoot!” 
 
 Polwarth started back aghast, while the 
 fierce resentments of his ruder listeners broke 
 through all restraint. They raised a loud 
 and savage shout, as one man, filling the 
 building with hoarse execrations and cries for 
 vengeance. ‘l'wenty expedients to destroy 
 their captive were named in a breath, and 
 with all the characteristic vehemence of 
 their nation. Most of them would have been 
 irregularly adopted, had not the man who 
 attended the burning hemp caught up a bun- 
 dle of the flaming combustible, and shouted 
 aloud— 
 
 “‘Smodder him in the fiery flames!—he’s 
 an imp of darkness; burren him, in his rags, 
 from before the face of man! ” 
 
 The barbarous proposition was received 
 with a sort of frenzied joy, and in another 
 moment a dozen handfuls of the oakum were 
 impending above the devoted head of the help- 
 lesslad. Job made a feeble attempt to avert 
 the dreadful fate that threatened him, but he 
 could offer no other resistance than his own 
 weakened arm, and the abject moanings of 
 his impotent mind. He was enveloped in a 
 cloud of black smoke, through which the 
 forked flames had already begun to play, 
 when a woman burst into the throng, casting 
 the fiery combustibles from her, on either 
 side, as she advanced, with a strength that 
 seemed supernatural. When she had reached 
 the bed, she tore aside the smoking pile with 
 hands that disregarded the heat, and placed 
 herself before the victim, like a fierce lioness, 
 at bay, in defence of her whelps. In this at- 
 titude she stood an instant, regarding the 
 rioters with a breast that heaved with pas- 
 sions too strong for utterance, when she 
 found her tongue, and vented her emotions 
 with all the fearlessness of a woman’s indig- 
 nation. 
 
 “Ye monsters in the shape of men, what 
 ist ye do?” she exclaimed, in a voice that 
 rose above the tumult, and had the effect to 
 hush every mouth. “Have ye bodies with- 
 out hearts? the forms without the bowels of 
 the creatures of God? Who made you judges 
 
 ; sorrow! 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 and punishers of sins? Js there a father 
 among you, let him come and view the an- 
 guish of a dying child! Is there a son, let 
 him draw near, and look upon a mother’s 
 Oh! ye savages, worse than the 
 beasts of the howling wilderness, who have 
 mercy on their kinds, what is’t ye do—what 
 is't yedo?” 
 
 The air of maternal intrepidity with which 
 this burst from the heart was uttered, could 
 not fail to awe the worst passions of the riot- 
 ers, who gazed on each other in stupid won- 
 der, as if uncertain how to act. The hushed 
 and momentary stillness was, however, soon 
 broken once more by the low, murmuring 
 threat of “ Blood for blood!” 
 
 “ Cowards! dastards! soldiers in name, and 
 demons in your deeds!” continued the un- 
 daunted Abigail—“ come ye here to taste of 
 human blood? Go—away with you to the 
 hills! and face the men of the Bay, who 
 stand ready to meet you with arms in their 
 hands, and come not hither to bruise the 
 broken reed! Poor, suffering, and stricken 
 as he is, by a hand far mightier than yours, 
 my child will meet you there, to your shame, 
 in the cause of his country and the law! ” 
 
 This taunt was too bitter for the unnur- 
 tured tempers to which she appealed, and the 
 dying spark of their resentment was at once 
 kindled into a blaze by the galling gibe. 
 
 The rioters were again in motion, and the 
 cry of ‘“‘ Burn the hag and the imp togeth- 
 er!” was fiercely raised, when a man of a 
 stout, muscular frame forced his way 
 into the centre of the crowd, making room 
 for the passage of a female, whose gait and 
 attire, though her person was concealed by 
 her mantle, announced her to be of a rank 
 altogether superior to the usual guests of the 
 warehouse. The unexpected appearance, 
 and lofty, though gentle bearing of this un- 
 looked-for visitor, served to quell the rising 
 uproar, which was immediately succeeded by 
 so deep a silence, that a whisper could have 
 been heard in that throng, which so lately 
 resotnded with violent tumult and barbarous 
 execrations. 
 
fee ee 
 
 — 
 = 
 | 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 365 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 “« Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable ; if it beso, 
 I shall do that that is reason.” —Slender. 
 
 DurinG the close of the foregoing scene, 
 Polwarth was in a bewildered state, that 
 rendered him utterly incapable of exertion, 
 either to prevent or to assist the evil inten- 
 tions of the soldiery. His discretion and all 
 his better feelings were certainly on the side 
 of humanity, but the idle vaunt of the sim- 
 pleton had stirred anew the natural thirst for 
 vengeance. He recognized at the first glance, 
 in the wan, but speaking lineaments of the 
 mother of Job, those faded remnants of 
 beauty that he had traced, so lately, in the 
 squalid female attendant who was seen hn- 
 gering near the grave of Mrs. Lechmere. As 
 she rushed before the men, with all the fear- 
 lessness of a mother who stood in defence of 
 her child, the brightness of her dark eyes, 
 aided as they were by the strong glare from 
 the scattered balls of fire, and the intense 
 expression of maternal horror that shone in 
 every feature of her countenance, had im- 
 parted to her appearance a dignity and inter- 
 est that greatly served to quell the unusual 
 and dangerous passions that beset him. He 
 was on the point of aiding her appeal by his 
 authority and advice, when the second inter- 
 ruption to the brutal purpose of the men oc- 
 curred, as just related. The effect of this 
 strange appearance, in such a place, and at 
 such a time, was not less instant on the cap- 
 tain than on the vulgar throng who sur- 
 rounded him. He remained a silent and an 
 attentive spectator. 
 
 The first sensation of the lady in finding 
 herself in the centre of such a confused and 
 unexpected throng, was unequivocally that of 
 an alarmed and shrinking delicacy ; but, for- 
 getting her womanish apprehensions in the 
 next moment, she collected the powers of her 
 mind, like one sustained by high and laudable 
 intentions, and, dropping the silken folds of 
 her calash, exhibited the pale, but lovely 
 countenance of Cecil to the view of the won- 
 dering bystanders. After a moment of pro- 
 found silence, she spoke— 
 
 «©T know not why I find this fierce collec- 
 tion of faces around the sick-bed of that un- 
 fortunate young man,” she said ; “‘ but if it 
 be with evil purpose, I charge you to relent, 
 
 as you love the honor of your gallant profes- 
 
 sion, or fear the power of your leaders. 1 
 boast myself a soldier’s wife, and promise 
 you, in the name of one who has the ear of 
 Howe, pardon for what is past, or punishment 
 for your violence, as you conduct yourselves. ” 
 
 The rude listeners stared at each other in 
 irresolute hesitation, seeming already to wa- 
 ver in their purpose, when the old grena- 
 dier, whose fierc€ness had so nearly cost Job 
 his life, gruffly replied— 
 
 ‘If you’re an officer’s lady, madam, you'll 
 be knowing how to feel for the fri’nds of him 
 that’s dead and gone. I put it to the face of 
 your ladyship’s reason, if it’s not too much 
 for men to bear,—and they such men as the 
 18ths,—to hear a fool boasting on the high- 
 ways and through the streets of the town, 
 that he has been the death of the like of 
 Captain M’Fuse, of the grenadiers of that 
 same radg’ment !” 
 
 ‘<T believe I understand you, friend,” re- 
 turned Cecil, “for I have heard it whispered 
 that the young man was believed to aid the 
 Americans on the bloody day to which you 
 allude—but if it is not lawful to kill in bat- 
 
 tle, what are you, whose whole trade is 
 
 97 
 
 war 
 She was interrupted by half a dozen eager, 
 
 though respectful voices, muttering, in the 
 
 incoherent and vehement manner of their 
 country, ‘It’s all a difference, my lady 1? 
 ‘Pair fighting isn’t foul fighting, and foul 
 fighting is murder !”—with many other sim- 
 ilar half-formed and equally intelligible re- 
 monstrances. When this burst was ended, 
 the same grenadier, who had before spoken, 
 took on himself the office of explaining. 
 
 ‘If your ladyship spoke never a word 
 again, ye’ve said the truth this time,” he 
 answered, ‘though it isn’t exactly the truth 
 at all. When a man is kill’t in the fair war, 
 it’s a godsend; and no true Irishman will 
 gainsay the same; but skulking behind a 
 dead body, and taking aim into the fatures 
 of a fellow-cr’ature, is what we complain of 
 against the bloody-minded rascal. Besides, 
 wasn’t the day won? and even his death 
 
 couldn’t give them the victory !” 
 
 “T know not all these nice distinctions in 
 
 your dreadful calling, friend,” Cecil replied, 
 
 ‘‘but I have heard that many fell after the 
 
 troops mounted the works.” 
 
366 
 
 “That did they; sure your ladyship is 
 knowing all about it ! and it’s the more need 
 that some should be punished for the mur- 
 ders! It’s hard to tell when we’ve got the 
 day with men who make a fight of it after 
 they are fairly baitin !” 
 
 “'hat others suffered under similar cir- 
 cumstances,” continued Cecil, with a quiver- 
 ing lip, and a tremulous motion of her eye- 
 lids, ‘I well know; but had never supposed 
 it more than the usual fortune of every war. 
 But even if this youth has erred—look at 
 him !—is he an object for the resentment of 
 men who pride themselves on meeting their 
 enemies on equal terms? He has long been 
 visited by a blow from a hand far mightier 
 than yours, and even now is laboring, in ad- 
 dition to all other misfortunes, under that 
 dangerous distemper whose violence seldom 
 spares those it seizes. Nay, you, in the 
 blindness of your anger, expose yourselves to 
 its attacks; and when you think only of re- 
 venge, may become its victims ! ” 
 
 The crowd insensibly fell back as she 
 spoke, and a large circle was left around the 
 bed of Job, while many in the rear stole 
 silently from the building, with a haste that 
 betrayed how completely apprehension had 
 got the better of their more evil passions. 
 Cecil paused but an instant, and pursued her 
 
 -advantage. 
 
 “Go,” she said; “leave this dangerous vi- 
 cinity. I have business with this young man, 
 ‘touching the interests, if not the life, of one 
 ‘dear, deservedly dear, to the whole army, and 
 ‘would be left alone with him and his mother. 
 Here is money—retire to your own quarters, 
 and endeavor to avert the danger you haye so 
 wantonly braved, by care and regimen. Go; 
 all shall be forgotten and pardoned.” 
 
 The reluctant grenadier took her gold, and, 
 perceiving that he was- already deserted by 
 most of his companions, he made an awkward 
 obeisance to the fair being before him, and 
 withdrew, not without, however, casting 
 many a savage and sullen glance at the 
 miserable wretch who had been thus singu- 
 larly rescued from his vengeance. Not a sol- 
 dier now remained in the building; and the 
 noisy and rapid utterance of the retiring 
 party, as each vehemently recounted his 
 deeds, soon became inaudible in the dis- 
 tance. | 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Cecil then turned to those who remained, 
 and cast a rapid glance at each individual of 
 the party. The instant she encountered the 
 
 wondering look of Polwarth, the blood man- 
 
 tled her pale features once more, and her 
 eyes fell, for an instant, in embarrassment, 
 to the floor. 
 
 “T trust we have been drawn here for a 
 similar purpose, Captain Polwarth,” she said, 
 when the slight confusion had passed away— 
 ‘‘the welfare of a common friend ? ” 
 
 *“You have not done me injustice,” he re- 
 plied. ‘‘When the sad office, which your 
 fair cousin charged me with, was ended, I 
 hastened hither to follow a clew which, I 
 have reason to believe, will conduct us 
 toe? t 
 
 ‘“What me most desire to find,” said Ce- 
 cil, involuntarily glancing her anxious eyes 
 towards the other spectators. “ But our first 
 duty is humanity. Oannot this miserable 
 young man be conveyed to his own apart- 
 ment, and have his hurts examined ? ” 
 
 “It may be done now, or after our exam- 
 ination,” returned the captain, with a cool 
 indifference that caused Cecil to look up at 
 him in surprise. Perceiving the unfavorable 
 
 impression his apathy had produced, Pol- ° 
 
 warth turned carelessly to a couple of men 
 who were still curious lookers-on, at the 
 outer door of the building, and called to 
 them—* Here, Shearflint, Meriton, remove 
 the fellow into yonder room.” 
 
 The servants in waiting, who had been 
 hitherto wondering witnesses of all that 
 passed, received this mandate with strong 
 disgust. Meriton was loud in his murmurs, 
 and approached the verge of disobedience, 
 before he consented to touch such an object 
 of squalid misery. As Cecil, however, en- 
 forced the order by her wishes, the disagree- 
 able duty was performed, and Job replaced 
 on his pallet in the tower, from which he 
 had been rudely dragged an hour before by 
 the soldiers. 
 
 At the moment when all danger of further — 
 
 violence disappeared, Abigail had sunk on 
 some of the lumber of the apartment, where 
 she remained during the removal of her 
 child, in a sort of stupid apathy. When, 
 however, she perceived that they were now 
 surrounded by those who were bent on deeds 
 of mercy rather than of anger, she slowly 
 
[ee 
 an ale ae et re ee ee 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 367 
 
 followed into the little room, and became an 
 anxious observer of the succeeding events. 
 Polwarth seemed satisfied with what had 
 been done for Job, and now stood aloof, in 
 sullen attendance on the pleasure of Cecil. 
 The latter, who had directed every move- 
 ment with female tenderness and care, bade 
 the servants retire into the outer room, and 
 wait her orders. When Abigail, therefore, 
 took her place, in silence, near the bed of 
 her child, there remained present, besides 
 herself and the sick, only Cecil, the captain, 
 and the unknown man, who had apparently 
 led the former to the warehouse. In addi- 
 tion to the expiring flames of the oakum, the 
 feeble light of a candle was shed through 
 the room, merely rendering the gloomy mis- 
 ery of its tenants more striking. 
 Notwithstanding the high but calm resolu- 
 tion which Cecil had displayed in the fore- 
 going scene with the rioters, and which still 
 
 manifested itself in the earnest brightness of 
 her intelligent eye, she appeared willing to 
 
 profit by the duskiness of the apartment, to 
 conceal her expressive features from the gaze 
 of even the forlorn female. She placed her- 
 self in one of the shadows of the room, and 
 
 "partly raised the calash, by a graceful move- 
 ment of one of her hands, while she addressed 
 
 the simpleton. 
 
 «Though I have not come hither with any 
 intent to punish, nor in any manner to in- 
 timidate you with threats, Job Pray,” she 
 said, with an earnestness that rendered the 
 soft tones of her voice doubly impressive— 
 ‘yet have I come to question you on matters 
 that it would be wrong, as well as cruel in 
 you, to misrepresent, or in any manner to 
 conceal “ 
 
 “You have little cause to fear that any- 
 thing but the truth will be uttered by my 
 child,” interrupted Abigail. ‘The same 
 power that destroyed his reason has dealt 
 tenderly with his heart—the boy knows no 
 guile—would to God the same could be said 
 of the sinful woman who bore him !” 
 
 “‘T hope the character you give your son 
 will be supported by his conduct,” replied 
 Cecil ; “‘ with this assurance of his integrity, 
 I will directly question him. But that you 
 may see I take no idle liberty with the young 
 man, let me explain my motives!” She 
 hesitated a moment, and averted her face 
 
 unconsciously, as she continued—‘‘ I should 
 think, Abigail Pray, that my person must be 
 known to you ?” 
 
 ‘Tt igs—it is,” returned the impatient 
 woman, who appeared to feel the feminine 
 and polished elegance of the other a reproach 
 to her own misery—‘‘ you are the happy and 
 wealthy heiress of her whom | have seen this 
 day laid in her vault. The grave will open 
 for all alike! the rich and the poor, the 
 happy as well as the wretched ! Yes—yes, I 
 know you !—you are the bride of a rich man’s 
 son !” 
 
 Cecil shook back the dark tresses that had 
 fallen about her countenance, and raised her 
 face, tinged with its richest bloom, as she 
 answered, with an air of matronly dignity— 
 
 ‘If you then know of my marriage, you 
 will at once perceive that I have the interest 
 of a wife in Major Lincoln—I would wish to 
 learn his movements of your son.” 
 
 «Of my boy! of Job! from the poor de- 
 spised child of poverty and disease, would 
 you learn tidings of your husband ?—no—no, 
 young lady, you mock us ;—he is not worthy 
 to be in the secrets of one so great and 
 happy !” 
 
 <‘ Yet am I deceived ‘if he is not! Has. 
 there not been one called Ralph, a frequent 
 inmate of your dwelling during the past year ? 
 and has he not been concealed here within a 
 very few hours ?” 
 
 Abigail started at this question, thou gh she 
 did not hesitate to answer without prevarica- 
 tion— 
 
 ‘<It is true. -If I am to be punished for 
 
 harboring a being that comes I know whence, 
 and goes I know whither, who can read the 
 heart, and knows what man, by his own 
 limited powers, could never know, I must 
 submit. He was here yesterday; he may be 
 here again to-night; for he comes and goes at 
 will. Your generals and army may interfere, 
 but such as I dare not forbid it !” 
 «Who accompanied him when he departed 
 last 2” asked Cecil, in a voice so low, that, 
 but for the profound stillness of the place, 
 it would have been inaudible. 
 
 «‘My child—my weak, unmeaning, miser- 
 able child!” said Abigail, with a reckless 
 promptitude that seemed to court any ter- 
 mination to her misery, however sudden or 
 adverse. ‘If it be treasonable to follow in 
 
368 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the footsteps of that nameless man, Job has 
 much to answer for !” 
 
 ‘“ You mistake my purpose—good, rather 
 than evil, will attend your answers, should 
 they be found true.” 
 
 ‘‘True!” repeated the woman, ceasing 
 the rocking motion of her body, and looking 
 proudly up into the anxious face of Cecil— 
 “but you are great and powerful, and are 
 privileged to open the wounds of the un- 
 happy!” 
 
 ‘‘ Tf I have said anything to hurt the feel- 
 ings of a child, I shall deeply regret the 
 words,” said Cecil, with gentle fervor—“ I 
 would rather be your friend than your 
 oppressor, as you will learn when occasion 
 offers.” 
 
 ** No—no—youw can never be a friend to 
 me!” exclaimed the woman, shuddering ; 
 ‘‘the wife of Major Lincoln ought never to 
 Serve the interests of Abigail Pray !” 
 
 The simpleton, who had apparently lain in 
 dull indifference to what was passing, raised 
 himself now from among his rags, and said, 
 with foolish pride— 
 
 “Major Lincoln’s lady has come to see Job, 
 because Job is a gentleman’s son! ” 
 
 “You are the child of sin and misery!” 
 groaned Abigail, burying her head in her 
 cloak—‘* would that you had never seen the 
 hight of day!” 
 
 “ Tell me, then, Job, whether Major Lin- 
 coln himself has paid you this compliment, 
 as well as I,” said Cecil, without regarding 
 the conduct of the mother—“ when did you 
 see him last?” 
 
 “Perhaps I can put these questions in a 
 more intelligible manner,” said the stranger, 
 with a meaning glance of his eye towards 
 Cecil, that she appeared instantly to compre- 
 hend. He turned then to Job, whose coun- 
 tenance he studied closely, for several mo- 
 ments, before he continued—‘*‘ Boston must 
 be a fine place for parades and shows, young 
 man; do you ever go to see the soldiers exer- 
 cise?” 
 
 ‘« Job always keeps time in the marchings,” 
 returned the simpleton; ‘‘’tis a grand sight 
 to see the grannies treading it off to the aw- 
 ful sound of drums and trumpets! ” 
 
 “ And Ralph,” said the other, soothingly 
 —‘‘does he march in their company too ?” 
 
 ** Ralph! he’s a great warrior! he teaches 
 
 the people their trainings, out on the hills— 
 
 Job sees him there every time he goes for the - 
 
 major’s provisions.” 
 
 “'This requires some explanation,” said the 
 stranger. 
 
 “Tis easily obtained,” returned the ob- 
 servant Polwarth. “The young man has 
 
 been the bearer of certain articles, periodi- 
 
 cally, from the country into the town, during 
 the last six months, under the favor of a 
 flag.” 
 
 ‘The man mused a moment before he pur- 
 sued the subject. 
 
 “When were you last among the rebels, 
 Job?” he at length asked. 
 
 “You had best not call the people rebels,” 
 muttered the young man, sullenly, “ for they 
 won’t put up with bitter names! ” 
 
 “I was wrong, indeed,” said the stranger. 
 “ But when went you last for provisions ? ” 
 
 ‘Job got in last Sabba’-day morning; and 
 that’s only yesterday! ” 
 
 ‘How happened it, fellow, that you did 
 not bring the articles to me?” demanded 
 Polwarth, with a good deal of impatient heat. 
 
 “ He has unquestionably a sufficient reason 
 for the apparent neglect,” said the cautious 
 and soothing stranger. ‘‘ You brought them 
 here, I suppose, for some good reason ?” 
 
 “Ay! to feed his own gluttony! ” mut- 
 tered the irritated captain. 
 
 The mother of the young man clasped her 
 hands together convulsively, and made an 
 effort to rise and speak; but she sunk again 
 into her humble posture, as if choked by 
 emotions that were too strong for utterance. 
 
 This short, but impressive pantomime was 
 unnoticed by the stranger, who continued his 
 Inquiries in the sume cool and easy manner 
 as before. 
 
 ‘* Are they yet here ?” he asked. 
 
 “Certain,” said the unsuspecting simple- 
 ton; “Job has hid them till Major Lincoln 
 comes back. Both Ralph and Major Lincoln 
 forgot to tell Job what to do with the provi- 
 sions.” 
 
 ‘“‘In that case I am surprised you did not 
 pursue them with your load.” 
 
 ‘« Hverybody thinks Job’s a fool,” muttered 
 the young man ; ‘‘ but he knows too much to 
 be lugging provisions out ag’in among the 
 people. Why!” he continued, raising him- 
 self, and speaking, with a bright glare danc- 
 
an 
 
 effect to hush every mouth. 
 —Lionel Lincoln. 
 
 what is’t ye do!” she exclaimed 
 
 ? 
 
 shape of men 
 
 ‘Ye monsters in the 
 a voice that rose above the tumult and had the 
 
at 
 oF 
 
 bring my rebellious 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 ing across his eyes, that betrayed how much 
 he prized the envied advantage—‘‘ the Bay- 
 men came down with cart-loads of things to 
 eat while the town is filled with hunger !” 
 
 «True. I had forgotten they were gone 
 out among the Americans—of course they 
 went under the flag that you bore in !” 
 
 - Job didn’t bring any flag—insygns carry 
 the flags! He brought a turkey, a grand 
 ham, and a little sa’ce—there wasn’t any flag 
 among them.” 
 
 At the sound of these eatables, the captain 
 pricked up his ears, and he probably would 
 have again violated the rigid rules of deco- 
 rum had not the stranger continued his ques- 
 tions. 
 
 “T see the truth of all you say, my sensi- 
 ble fellow,” he observed. ‘‘It was easy for 
 
 Ralph and Major Lincoln to go out by means 
 
 of the same privilege that you used to enter ?” 
 
 <*To be sure,” muttered Job, who, tired 
 of the questions, had already dropped his 
 head again among his blankets—‘‘ Ralph 
 knows the way—he’s Boston born!” 
 
 The stranger turned to the attentive bride, 
 and bowed, as if he were satisfied with the 
 result of his examination. Cecil understood 
 the expression of his countenance, and made 
 a movement towards the place where Abigail 
 Pray was seated on a chest, betraying, by the 
 renewed rocking of her body, and the low 
 
 groans that from time to time escaped her, 
 
 the agony of mind she endured. 
 
 ‘‘My first care,” she said, speaking to the 
 mother of Job, ‘‘shall be to provide for your 
 wants ; after which I may profit by what we 
 
 have now gathered from your son.” 
 
 “Gare not for me and mine!” returned 
 Abigail, in a tone of bitter resignation. 
 <“The last blow is struck, and it behooves 
 
 ‘such as we to bow our heads to it in submis- 
 
 sion. Riches and plenty could not save your 
 
 grandmother from the tomb, and perhaps 
 
 Death may take pity, ere long, on me. 
 What do I say, sinner that Iam? can I never 
 heart to wait his 
 time ?” 
 
 Shocked at the miserable despair that the 
 
 other exhibited, and suddenly recollecting 
 
 the similar evidences of a guilty life that the 
 
 end of Mrs. Lechmere had revealed, Cecil 
 
 continued silent, in sensitive distress. After 
 
 a moment, to collect her thoughts, she said, 
 
 369 
 
 with the meekness of a Christian, united to 
 the soothing gentleness of her sex— 
 
 ‘‘We are surely permitted to administer to 
 our earthly wants, whatever may have been 
 our transgressions. Ata proper time I will 
 not be denied in my wish to serve you. Let 
 us now go,” she added, addressing her un- 
 known companion. Then, observing Pol- 
 warth making an indication to advance to 
 her assistance, she gently motioned him back, 
 and anticipated his offer, by saying, ‘‘I 
 thank you, sir—but I have Meriton, and this 
 worthy man, besides my own maid without 
 —TI will not further interfere with your par- 
 ticular objects.” 
 
 As she spoke, she bestowed a melancholy, 
 though sweet smile on the captain, and left 
 the tower and the building, before he could 
 presume to dispute her pleasure. Notwith- 
 standing Cecil and her companion had ob- 
 tained from Job all that he could expect, or 
 in fact had desired to know, Polwarth lin- 
 gered in the room, making those preparations 
 that should indicate an intention to depart. 
 He found, at length, that his presence was 
 entirely disregarded by both mother and 
 child. The one was still sitting, with her 
 head bowed to her bosom, abandoned to her 
 own sorrows, while the other had sunk into 
 his customary dull lethargy, giving no other 
 signs of life than by his labored and audible 
 breathing. The captain, for a moment, 
 looked upon the misery of the apartment, 
 which wore a still more dreary aspect under 
 the dull light of the paltry candle, as well as 
 at the disease and suffering which were too 
 plainly exhibited in the persons of its abject 
 tenants; but the glance at neither served to 
 turn him from his purpose. Temptation had 
 beset the humble follower of Epicurus, in a 
 form that never failed to subdue his most 
 philosophic resolutions ; and, in this instance, 
 it prevailed once more over his humanity. 
 Approaching the pallet of the simpleton, he 
 spoke to him in a sharp voice, saying— 
 
 ‘«*You must reveal to me what you have 
 done with the provisions with which Mr. 
 Seth Sage has intrusted you, young man—I 
 cannot overlook so gross a violation of duty, 
 in a matter of such singular importance. 
 Unless you wish to have the grannies of the 
 18th back upon you, speak at once, and 
 speak truly.” 
 
370 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Job continued obstinately silent, but Abi-! from the hands of one who, in better jus- 
 gail raised her head, and answered for her | tice, should have sent me poison !” 
 
 child— 
 
 ‘‘He has never failed to carry the things 
 to the quarters of the major, whenever he 
 got back. No, no—if my boy was so grace- 
 less as to steal, it would not be him that he 
 would rob !” 
 
 ‘“I hope so—I hope so, good woman; but 
 this is a sort of temptation to which men 
 yield easily in times of scarcity,” returned 
 the impatient captain, who probably felt 
 some inward tokens of his own frailty in such 
 matters.—‘‘If they had been delivered, 
 would not I have been consulted concerning 
 their disposition ? The young man acknowl- 
 edges that he quitted the American camp 
 yesterday at an early hour.” 
 
 “No, no,” said Job; “‘ Ralph made him 
 come away on Saturda’-night. He left the 
 people without his dinner !” 
 
 ‘* And repaid his loss by eating the stores ! 
 Is this your honesty, fellow ?” 
 
 ‘‘Ralph was in such a hurry that he 
 wouldn’t stop to eat. Ralph’s a proper war- 
 rior, but he doesn’t seem to know how sweet 
 it is to eat !” 
 
 ‘*Glutton ! gormandizer! thou ostrich of 
 a man!” exclaimed the angry Polwarth— 
 ‘is it not enough that you have robbed me 
 of my own, but you must make me more con- 
 scious of my loss by thy silly prating ?” 
 
 ““If you really suspect my child of doing 
 wrong to his employers,” said Abigail, “you 
 know neither his temper nor his breeding. 
 I will answer for him, and with bitterness of 
 heart do I say it, that nothing in the shape 
 of food has entered his mouth for many long 
 and weary hours. Hear you not his piteous 
 longings for nourishment? God, who 
 knows all hearts, will hear and believe his 
 ery |” 
 
 “What say you, woman ? ” cried Polwarth, 
 aghast with horror, ‘‘ not eaten, did you say ? 
 —Why hast thou not, unnatural mother, 
 provided for his wants ?—why has he not 
 shared in your meals ?” 
 
 Abigail looked up into his face with eyes 
 that gleamed with hopeless want, as she an- 
 swered— 
 
 ‘Would I willingly see the child of my 
 body perish of hunger? The last crumb he 
 had was all that was left me, and that came 
 
 ‘‘Nab don’t know of the bone that Job 
 found before the barracks,” said the young 
 man, feebly ; ‘“‘I wonder if the king knows 
 how sweet bones are ?” 
 
 ‘‘And the provisions, the stores!” cried 
 Polwarth, nearly choking—“foolish boy, 
 what hast thou done with the provisions ?” 
 
 ‘‘Job knew the grannies couldn’t find 
 them under that oakum,” said the simpleton, 
 raising himself to point out their place of 
 concealment, with silly exultation—‘‘ when 
 Major Lincoln comes back, maybe he’ll give 
 Nab and Job the bones to pick !” 
 
 Polwarth was no sooner made acquainted 
 with the situation of the precious stores, than 
 he tore them from their concealment with 
 the violence of a maniac. As he separated 
 the articles with an unsteady hand, he rather 
 panted than breathed ; and during the short 
 operation, every feature in his honest face 
 was working with extraordinary emotion. 
 Now and then he muttered in an undertone 
 —‘*No food !”’—** Suffering of inanition ! ” 
 or some such expressive exclamation, that 
 sufficiently explained the current of his 
 thoughts. When all was fairly exposed, he 
 shouted, in a tremendous voice— 
 
 ‘‘Shearflint ! thou rascal! Shearflint— 
 where have you hidden yourself ?” 
 
 The reluctant menial knew how dangerous 
 it was to hesitate answering a summons ut- 
 tered in such a voice, and while his master 
 was yet repeating his cries, he appeared at 
 the door of the little apartment, with a face 
 expressive of the deepest attention. 
 
 ‘** Light up the fire, thou prince of idlers! ”” 
 Polwarth continued in the same high strain ; 
 ‘here is food, and there is hunger! God be 
 praised that I am the man who is permitted 
 to bring the two acquainted! Here, throw 
 
 on oakum—light up, light up!” 
 
 As these rapid orders were accompanied by 
 a corresponding earnestness of action, the 
 servant, who knew his master’s humor, sat 
 himself most diligently at work to comply. 
 A pile of the tarred combustible was placed 
 on the dreary and empty hearth, and by a 
 touch of the candle, it was lighted into a 
 blaze. As the roar of the chimney and the 
 bright glare were heard and seen, the mother 
 and child both turned their longing eyes ~ 
 
_ toward the busy actors in the scene. 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 Pol- 
 
 ‘ warth threw aside his cane, and commenced 
 slicing the ham with a dexterity that denoted 
 
 _ great practice, as well as an eagerness that 
 
 _ renewed the credit of his disgraced humility. 
 
 «Bring wood—hand down that apology 
 
 _ for a gridiron—make coals, make coals at 
 - once, rascal,” he said, at short intervals— 
 _ “God forgive me, that I should ever have 
 ; meditated evil to one suffering under the 
 
 heaviest of curses !--D’ye hear, thou Shear- 
 flint ? bring more v Gaye I shall be ready for 
 
 the fire in a minute.’ 
 
 — domestic ; 
 
 ” said the worried 
 
 <©T have brought the smallest chip 
 
 «Tis impossible, sir, 
 
 _ there is to be found—wood is too precious in 
 _ Boston to be lying in the streets.” 
 
 _ Where do you keep your fuel, woman ?” 
 demanded the captain, unconscious that he 
 
 q addressed her in the same rough strain that 
 _ he used to his menial—‘‘I am ready to put 
 _ down.” 
 
 «You see it all! you see it all !”’ said Ab- 
 
 _ igail, in the submissive tones of a stricken 
 
 _ conscience; “the judgment of God has not 
 fallen on me singly .” 
 
 cia 
 
 “No wood! no provisions!” exclaimed 
 
 - Polwarth, speaking with difficulty—then, 
 _ dashing his hand across his eyes, he contin- 
 ued to his man, in a voice whose hoarseness 
 he intended should conceal his emotion— 
 _ “thou villain, Shearflint, come hither—un- 
 
 Bae uinbrances, after all! 
 
 _ strap my leg.” 
 The servant looked at him in wonder,— 
 
 | - but an impatient gesture hastened his com- 
 
 _ pliance. 
 
 “Split it into ten thousand fragments ; ’tis 
 _ seasoned and ready for the fire. The best of 
 them, they of flesh I mean, are but useless 
 
 A cook wants 
 
 : hands, eyes, nose, and palate, but I see no 
 
 ee for a leg! 
 
 {» 
 
 While he was speaking, the philosophic cap- 
 
 - tain seated himself on the hearth with great 
 
 indifference, and, by the aid of Shearflint, 
 
 _ the culinary process was soon in a state of 
 
 _ forwardness. 
 
 «There are people,” resumed the diligent 
 -Polwarth, who did not neglect his avocation 
 while speaking, “that eat but twice a day; 
 and some who eat but once; though I never 
 _ knew any man thrive who did not supply na- 
 ture in four substantial and regular meals. 
 
 ie). , 
 Bes 
 
 (a ‘ 
 cee ee i 
 » :? 
 
 3¢1 
 
 These sieges are damnable visitations on hu. 
 manity, and there should be plans invented to 
 conduct a war without them. The moment 
 you begin to starve a soldier, he grows tame 
 and melancholy: feed him, and defy the devil! 
 How is it, my worthy fellow ? do you like your 
 ham running or dry ?” 
 
 The savory smell of the meat had caused 
 the suffering invalid to raise his feverish body, 
 and he sat watching, with greedy looks, every 
 movement of his unexpected benefactor. His 
 parched lips were already working with impa- 
 tience, and every glance of his glassy eye be- 
 trayed the absolute dominion of physical want 
 over his feeble mind. ‘To this question he 
 made the simple and touching reply of— 
 
 “ Job isn’t particular in his eating.” 
 
 ‘Neither am I,” returned the methodical 
 gourmand, returning a piece of the meat to 
 the fire, that Job had already devoured in 
 imagination—“one would like to get it up 
 well, notwithstanding the hurry. A single 
 turn more, and it will be fit for the mouth of 
 a prince. Bring hither that trencher, Shear- 
 flint—it is idle to be particular about crock- 
 ery in so pressing a case. Greasy scoundrel, 
 would you dish a ham in its gravy? Whata 
 nosegay it is after all! Come hither; help 
 me to the bed.” | 
 
 ‘«‘ May the Lord, who sees and notes each 
 kind thought of his creatures, bless and re- 
 ward you for this care of my forlorn boy!” 
 exclaimed Abigail, in the fulness of her 
 heart; ‘‘but will it be prudent to give such 
 strong nourishment toone ina burning fever?” 
 
 “What else would you give, woman? I 
 doubt not he owes his disease to his wants. 
 An empty stomach is like an empty pocket, a 
 place for the devil to play his gambols in. 
 ’Tis your small doctor who prates of a meagre 
 regimen. Hunger isa distemper of itself, and 
 no reasonable man who is above listening to 
 quackery will believe it can be a remedy. 
 Food is the prop of life—and eating, like a 
 erutch to a maimed man.—Shearflint, ex- 
 amine the ashes for the irons of my supporter, 
 and then dish a bit of the meat for the poor 
 woman.—Eat away, my charming boy, eat 
 away!” he continued, rubbing his hands in 
 honest delight, to see the avidity with which 
 the famishing Job received his boon. “ The 
 second pleasure in life is to see a hungry man 
 enjoy his meal ; the first being more deeply 
 
302 
 
 seated in human nature. This ham has the 
 true Virginia flavor! Have you such a thing 
 as a spare trencher, Shearflint ? It is sonear 
 the usual hour, I may as well sup. It is rare, 
 indeed, that a man enjoys two such luxuries 
 at once!” 
 
 The tongue of Polwarth ceased the instant 
 Shearflint administered to his wants; the ware- 
 house into which he had so lately entered, 
 with such fell intent, exhibiting the strange 
 spectacle of the captain, sharing, with social 
 communion, in the humble repasts of its 
 hunted and miserable tenants. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 «Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile ; 
 We have some secrets to confer about.” 
 —Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 Durine the preceding exhibition of riot 
 and degradation, in the Dock Square, a very 
 different state of things existed beneath the 
 roof of a proud edifice that stood in an adjacent 
 street. As was usual at that hour of the night, 
 the windows of Province-House were brilliant 
 with lights as if in mockery of the naked 
 dreariness of the neighboring church; and 
 every approach to that privileged residence of 
 the representative of royalty was closely 
 guarded by the vigilance of armed men. In- 
 to this favored dwelling it now becomes neces- 
 sary to remove the scene, in order to pursue 
 the thread of our unpretending narrative. 
 
 Domestics, in rich military liveries, might 
 be seen gliding from room to room, in the 
 hurry of a banquet—some bearing vessels of 
 the most generous wines into the apartment 
 where Howe entertained the leaders of the 
 royal army, and others returning with the 
 remnants of a feast which, though sumptu- 
 ously served, having felt the scarcity of the 
 times, had offered more to the eyes than to 
 the appetites of the guests. Idlers, in the 
 loose undress of their martial profession, 
 loitered through the halls; and many a wist- 
 ful glance, or lingering look, followed the 
 odorous scents,as humbler menials received 
 the viands to transport them into the more 
 secret recesses of the building. Notwithstand- 
 ing the life and activity which prevailed, every 
 movement was conducted in silence and regu- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 larity, the whole of the lively scene affording 
 a happy illustration of the virtues and har 
 mony of order. 
 
 Within the walls of that apartment, to 
 which every eye seemed directed as to a 
 common centre, in anticipation of the slight- 
 est wish of those who reyelled there, all 
 was bright and cheerful. The hearth knew 
 no want of fuel; the coarser workmanship 
 of the floor was hid beneath rich and ample 
 carpets, while the windows were nearly lost 
 within the sweeping folds of curtains of 
 figured damask. Everything wore an air 
 of exquisite comfort, blended with a species 
 of careless elegance. Even the most minute 
 article of the furniture had been transported 
 from that distant country which was then 
 thought to monopolize all the cunning arts 
 of handicraft, to administer to the pleasures 
 of those who, however careless of themselves 
 in moments of trial, courted the most luxu- 
 rious indulgences in their hours of ease. 
 
 Along the centre of this gay apartment 
 was spread the hospitable board of the enter- 
 tainer. It was surrounded by men in the 
 trappings of high military rank, though here 
 and there might be seen a guest whose 
 plainer attire and dejected countenance be- 
 trayed the presence of one or two of those: 
 misjudging colonists, whose confidence in 
 the resistless power of the crown began 
 already to waver. ‘The lieutenant of the 
 king held his wonted place at the banquet, 
 his dark visage expressing all the heartiness 
 of a soldier’s welcome, while he pointed out. 
 this or that favorite amongst an abundant. 
 collection of wines, that included the choicest 
 liquors of Europe. 
 
 << Hor those who share the mess of a British — 
 
 general, you have encountered rude fare to- 
 day, gentlemen,” he cried ; 
 all, ’tis such as a British soldier knows how 
 to fatten on, in the service of his master. 
 
 ‘though, after — 
 
 a 
 
 Fill, gentlemen ; fill in loyal bumpers ; for 
 
 we have neglected our allegiance.” 
 
 Each glass now stood sparkling and over-- — 
 charged with wine, when, after a short and ~ 
 solemn pause, the host pronounGag aloud — 
 
 the magical words—‘‘ The King.”—Every 
 voice echoed the name, after which there 
 literally succeeded a breathless pause ; when 
 
 Dee 
 
 an old man, in the uniform of an officer of . 
 the fleet, first proving his loyalty by flourish-- 
 
4 
 we 
 Sek se 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 ing on high his inverted glass, added, with 
 hearty will— 
 
 *¢ God bless him !” 
 
 «God bless him!” repeated the graceful 
 leader, who has already been more than once 
 named in these pages; ‘“‘and grant him a 
 long and glorious reign! and, should there 
 be no treason in the wish, in death, a grave 
 like yourself, worthy admiral—‘ Sepulcrum 
 sine sordibus extrue.’” 
 
 ‘Like me!” echoed the blunt seaman, 
 whose learning was somewhat impaired by 
 hard and. long service—‘‘I am, it is true, 
 none of your cabin-window gentry; but his 
 majesty might stoop lower than by favoring 
 a faithful servant, like me, with his gracious 
 presence.” 
 
 ‘¢Your pardon, sir; I should have in- 
 cluded, ‘ permissum arbitrio,’” 
 
 The equivoque had barely excited a smile, 
 when the sedate countenance of the com- 
 
 ‘mander-in-chief indicated that the subject 
 
 was too serious for a jest. Nor did the 
 naval chieftain appear to relish the unknown 
 tongue; for, quite as much, if not a little 
 more, offended with the liberty taken with 
 his own name, than with the privileged 
 person of the sovereign, he somewhat smartly 
 retorted— 
 
 «« Permitted or not permitted, I command 
 the fleet of his majesty in these waters, and 
 it shali be noted as a cheerful day in our 
 log-books, when you gentlemen of the army 
 dismiss us to our duty again, on the high- 
 seas. . A sailor will grow as tired of doing 
 nothing, as ever a soldier did of work, and 
 I like ‘elbow-room,’ even in my coffin—ha, 
 ha, ha—what d’ye think of that, master 
 wit ?—ha, ha, ha,—what d’ye say to that ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Quite fair, well deserved, and cuttingly 
 severe, admiral,” returned the undisturbed 
 soldier, smiling with perfect self-possession, 
 as he sipped his wine. ‘‘ But as you find 
 confinement and leisure so irksome, I will 
 presume to advise your seizing some of these 
 impudent Yankees, who look into the port 
 so often, not only robbing us of our stores, 
 but offending so many loyal eyes with their 
 traitorous presence.” 
 
 ““T command a parley to be beaten,” in- 
 
 terrupted the commander-in-chief, ‘‘and a 
 
 truce to further hostilities. When all have 
 
 573 
 
 even wit must respect their conduct. Let 
 me advise you to sound the contents of that 
 dusky-looking bottle, Mr. Graves; I think 
 you will approve the situation as an an- 
 chorage for the night.” 
 
 The honest old seaman instantly drowned 
 his displeasure in a glass of the generous 
 liquor, and, smacking his lips after the po- 
 tations, for he repeated the first on the mo- 
 ment, he exclaimed— 
 
 «*Ah! you are too stationary, by half, to 
 stir up the soul of your liquors. Wine should 
 never slumber on its lees until it has been 
 well rolled in the trough of a sea for a few 
 months; then, indeed, you may set it asleep, 
 and yourself by the side of it, if you likea 
 cat’s nap.” 
 
 “ As orthodox a direction for the ripening 
 of wine as was ever given by a bishop to his 
 butler!” exclaimed his adversary. Another 
 significant glance from his dark-looking su- 
 perior again checked his wilful playfulness, 
 when Howe profited by the silence, to say 
 with the frank air of a liberai host— 
 
 “Ags motion is, just now, denied us, the 
 only means I can devise, to prevent my wine 
 from slumbering on its lees, is to drink it.” 
 
 ‘‘ Besides which, we are threatened with a 
 visit from Mr. Washington, and his thirsty 
 followers, who may save us all trouble in the 
 matter, unless we prove industrious. In such 
 a dilemma, Mr. Graves will not hesitate to 
 pledge me in a glass, though it should be only 
 to disappoint the rebels!” added Burgoyne, 
 making a graceful inclination to the half- 
 offended seaman. 
 
 << Ay, ay, I would do much more disagree- 
 able things to cheat the rascals of their plun- 
 der,” returned the mollified admiral, good- 
 naturedly nodding his head before he swal- 
 lowed his bumper.—‘ If there be any real 
 danger of the loss of such liquid amber as 
 this, *twould be as well to send it along-side 
 my ship, and I will hoist it in, and find it a 
 berth, though it shares my own cot. I be- 
 lieve I command a fortress which neither 
 Yankee, Frenchman, nor Don, would like to 
 besiege, unless at a respectful distance.” 
 
 The officers around him looked exceedingly 
 grave, exchanging glances of great meaning, 
 though all continued silent, as if the common 
 subject of their meditations was too delicate 
 
 done their duty, and have done it so well, | to be loudly uttered in such a presence. At 
 
374 
 
 length the second in command, who still felt | 
 
 the coldness of his superior, and who had, 
 hitherto, said nothing during the idle dia- 
 logue, ventured a remark, with the gravity 
 and distance of a man who was not certain 
 of his welcome. é 
 
 “ Our enemies grow bold as the season ad- 
 vances,” he said, “and itis past a doubt that 
 they will find us employment in the coming 
 summer. It cannot be denied but they con- 
 duct themselves with great steadiness in all 
 their batteries, especially in this last, at the 
 water-side; nor am I without apprehension 
 that they will yet get upon the islands, and 
 render the situation of the shipping hazard- 
 ous.” 
 
 “Get upon the islands! drive the fleet 
 from their anchors!” exclaimed the veteran 
 sailor, in undisguised amazement. ‘I shall 
 account it a happy day for England, when 
 Washington and his rabble trust themselves 
 within reach of our shot!” 
 
 “God grant us a chance at the rascals with 
 the bayonet in the open field,’ cried Howe, 
 ‘‘and an end of these winter quarters! I 
 say winter quarters, for I trust no gentleman 
 can consider this army as besieged by a mob 
 of armed peasants! We hold the town, and 
 they the country; but when the proper time 
 shall come—well, sir, your pleasure,” he con- 
 tinued, interrupting himself to speak to an 
 upper servant at his elbow. 
 
 The man, who had stood for more than a 
 minute, in an attitude of respectful attention, 
 anxious to catch the eye of his master, mut- 
 tered his message in a low and hurried voice, 
 as if unwilling to be heard by others, and at 
 the same time conscious of the impropriety 
 of whispering. Most of those around him 
 turned their heads in polite indifference; but 
 the old sailor, who sat too near to be totally 
 deaf, had caught the words, “a lady,” which 
 was quite enough to provoke all: his merri- 
 ment, after such a free indulgence of the 
 bottle. Striking his hand smartly on the ta- 
 ble, he exclaimed, with a freedom that no 
 other present could have presumed to use — 
 
 “A sail! a sail! by George, a sail! under 
 what colors, friend? king’s or rebel’s? Here 
 has been a blunder, with a vengeance! 'The 
 cook has certainly been too late, or the lady 
 is too early! ha, ha, ha—Oh! you are wicked, 
 free livers in the army!” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 The tough old tar enjoyed his joke exceed- 
 ingly, chuckling with inward delight at his 
 discovery. He was, however, alone in his 
 merriment, none of the soldiers venturing to 
 understand his allusions, any further than by 
 exchanging a few stolen looks of unusual 
 archness. Howe bit his lips, with obvious 
 vexation, and sternly ordered the man to re- 
 peat his errand in a voice that was more 
 audible. 
 
 “A lady,” said the trembling menial, 
 “ wishes to see your excellency, and she waits 
 your pleasure, sir, in the library.” 
 
 “ Among his books, too!” shouted the 
 admiral“ that would have better become 
 you, my joking friend! I say, young man, 
 is the girl young and handsome ?” 
 
 ‘< By the lightness of her step, sir, 1 should 
 think her young; but her face was concealed 
 under a hood.” ; 
 
 «Ay! ay! the jade comes hooded into the 
 house of the king! Damn me, Howe, but 
 modesty is getting to be a rare virtue amongst 
 you gentlemen on shore !” 
 
 “?Tis a plain case against you, sir, for 
 even the servant, as you find, has detected 
 that she is light of carriage,” said the smiling 
 Burgoyne, making half a motion toward ris- 
 ing. “It is probably some applicant for 
 relief, or for permission to depart the place. 
 Suffer me to see her, and spare yourself the 
 pain of a refusal.” 
 
 “Not at all,” said Howe, gaining his feet 
 with an alacrity. thet anticipated the more 
 deliberate movement of the other—* I should 
 be unworthy of the trust I hold, could I not 
 lend an occasional ear to a petityon. Gentle- 
 men, as there is a lady in the case, I presume 
 to trespass on your indulgence. Admiral, I 
 commend you to my butler, who is a worthy 
 fellow, and can give you all the cruises of the 
 bottle before you, since it left the island of 
 Madeira.” 
 
 He inclined his head to his guests, and 
 passed from the room with a hurried step, 
 that did not altogether consult appearances. 
 
 As he proceeded through the hall, his ears — ‘ 
 
 were saluted by another burst from the hearty 
 old seaman, who, however, enjoyed his humor 
 alone, the rest of the party immediatedly 
 turning to other subjects, with well-bred 
 dulness. 
 
 cata 
 
 On entering the room already - 
 mentioned, Howe found himself in the pre- — 
 
 ween. 
 
 ¥ 
 
 { 
 ‘ 
 7 
 , 
 
 “ 4 
 ey 
 
2 
 
 of the rebels ?” 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 sence of the female, who, notwithstanding 
 
 their apparent indifference, was at that very 
 moment occupying the thought, and exercis- 
 ing the ingenuity of every man he had left 
 behind him. Advancing at once to the centre 
 of the apartment, with the ease and freedom 
 of a soldier who felt himself without a supe- 
 rior, he asked, with a politeness somewhat 
 equivocal— 
 
 «Why am I favored with this visit ? and 
 why has a lady, whose appearance shows she 
 might command friends at any time, assumed 
 this personal trouble?” 
 
 ‘Because I am a supplicant for a favor 
 that might be denied to one who petitioned 
 coldly,” returned a soft, tremulous voice, 
 deep within the covering of a silken calash. 
 «Ags time is wanting to observe the usual 
 
 forms of applications, I have presumed to 
 
 come in person, to prevent delay.” 
 
 “And surely, one like you can have little 
 reason to dread a repulse,” said Howe, with 
 an attempt at gallantry, that would have bet- 
 ter become the man who had offered to be 
 his substitute. While speaking, he advanced 
 a step nigher to the lady, and, pointing to her 
 
 hood, he continued—‘*‘ Would it not be wise to 
 
 aid your request with a view of a countenance 
 that I am certain can speak better than any 
 words ?—-whom have I the honor to receive, 
 and what may be the nature of her business?” 
 
 « A wife, who seeks her husband,” returned 
 the female, dropping the folds of her calash, 
 
 ~ and exposing to his steady eyes the command- 
 
 ing loveliness of the chaste countenance of 
 Cecil. The sudden annunciation of her char- 
 acter was forced from the lips of the un- 
 claimed bride, by the freedom of a gaze to 
 which she was unused; but the instant she 
 had spoken, her eyes fell on the floor in em- 
 harrassment, and she stood deeply blushing 
 at the strength of her own language, though 
 preserving all the apparent composure and 
 dignity of female pride. The English gen- 
 eral regarded her beauty for a moment, with 
 
 a pleased, though doubting eye, before he 
 
 continued— 
 
 “Ts he whom you seek within or without 
 the town. ” 
 
 “1 much fear without!” 
 
 «< And you would follow him into the camp 
 This is a case that may re- 
 quire some deliberation. 1 feel assured I 
 
 > é 
 
 Bye) 
 
 entertain a lady of great beauty; might I, in 
 addition, know how to address her ?” 
 
 «<For my name I have no reason to blush,” 
 said Cecil, proudly—*’tis noble in the land of 
 our common ancestors, and may have reached 
 the ears of Mr. Howe—I am the child of the 
 late Colonel Dyneyor !” 
 
 «The niece of Lord Cardonnel!” exclaimed 
 her auditor, in amazement, instantly losing 
 the equivocal freedom of his manner in an air 
 of deep respect—‘‘I have long known that 
 Boston contained such a lady; nor do I for- 
 get that she is accused of concealing herself 
 from the attentions of the army, like one of 
 the most obdurate of our foes—attentions 
 which every man in the garrison would be 
 happy to show her, from myself down to 
 the lowest ensign.—Do me the honor to be 
 seated ! ” 
 
 Cecil bowed her acknowledgments, but con- 
 tinued standing— 
 
 «‘T have neither time nor spirits to defend 
 myself from such an imputation,” she an- 
 swered—“ though, should my own name 
 prove no passport to your favor, I must claim 
 it in behalf of him I seek.” 
 
 «Should he be the veriest rebel in the 
 train of Washington, he has great reason to 
 be proud of his fortune !” 
 
 “ So far from ranking among the enemies 
 of the king, he has already been lavish of 
 his blood-in behalf of the crown,” returned 
 Cecil, unconsciously raising the calash again, 
 with maiden bashfulness, as she felt the mo- 
 ment was approching when she must declare 
 the name of the man, whose influence over 
 her feelings she had already avowed. 
 
 «< And he is called—? ” 
 
 The answer was given to this direct ques- 
 tion in a low but distinct voice. Howe 
 started when he heard the well-known name 
 of an officer of so much consideration, though 
 a meaning smile lighted his dark features, 
 as he repeated her words in surprise— 
 
 “ Major Lincoln ! his refusal to return to 
 Europe, in search of health, is then satisfac- 
 torily explained. Without the town did you 
 say ? there must be some error.” 
 
 “T fear it is too true! ” 
 
 The harsh features of the leader contracted 
 again into their sternest look, and it was 
 apparent how much he was disturbed by the 
 intelligence. 
 
376 
 
 “This is presuming too far on his privi- 
 lege,” he muttered in an undertone.—‘‘ Left 
 the place say you, without my knowledge 
 and approbation, young lady ?” 
 
 “But on no unworthy errand!” cried the 
 almost breathless Cecil, instantly losing sight 
 of herself in her anxiety for Lionel—“ pri- 
 vate sorrows have driven him to an act, that, 
 at another time, he would be the first to con- 
 demn, as a soldier.” 
 
 Howe maintained a cool, but threatening 
 silence, that was far more appaling than any 
 words can be. ‘The alarmed wife gazed at 
 his lowering face for a minute, as if to pene- 
 trate his secret thoughts; then yielding, with 
 the sensitiveness of a woman, to her worst 
 apprehensions, she cried— 
 
 ‘©Oh! you would not avail yourself of this 
 confession to do him harm! Has he not 
 bled for you? lingered for months on the 
 verge of the grave, in defence of your cause? 
 and will you now doubt him? Nay, sir, 
 though chance and years may have subjected 
 him, for a time, to your control, he is every 
 way your equal, and will confront each 
 charge before his royal master, let who may 
 bring them against his spotless name? ” 
 
 «?Twill be necessary,” the other coldly re- 
 plied. 
 
 “ Nay, hearken not to my weak, unmeaning 
 words,” continued Cecil, wringing her hands 
 in doubting distress; “‘I know not what I 
 say. He has your permission to hold inter- 
 course with the country weekly ?” 
 
 “For the purpose of obtaining the sup- 
 plies necessary to his past condition.” 
 
 “And may he not have gone on such an 
 errand, and under favor of the flag you your- 
 self have cheerfully accorded ?” 
 
 “In such a case would I not have been 
 spared the pain of this interview ?”’ 
 
 Cecil paused a moment, and seemed col- 
 lecting her scattered faculties, and preparing 
 her mind for some serious purpose. After a 
 little time, she attempted a painful smile, 
 saying, more calmly— 
 
 “JT had presumed too far on military in- 
 dulgence, and was even weak enough to be- 
 lieve the request would be granted to my 
 name and situation.” 
 
 “No name, no situation, no circumstances, 
 ean ever render if 
 
 “Speak not the cruel words, lest they once 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 more drive me from my recollection,” inter- 
 rupted Cecil. ‘‘ First hear me, sir—listen 
 to a wife and a daughter, and you will recall 
 the cruel sentence.” 
 
 Without waiting for a reply, she advanced 
 with a firm and proud step to the door of 
 the room, passing her astonished companion 
 with an eye and a face beaming with the ful- 
 ness of her object. In the outer passage she 
 beckoned from among the loiterers in the 
 hall, to the stranger who had accompanied 
 her in the visit to the warehouse, and when 
 he had approached, and entered the room, 
 the door once more closed, leaving the spec- 
 tators without wondering whence such a 
 vision of purity could have made its way 
 within the sullied walls of Province-House. 
 
 Many long and impatient minutes were 
 passed by the guests in the banqueting-room, 
 during the continuance of this mysterious 
 interview. The jests of the admiral began 
 to flag, just as his companions were inclined 
 to think they were most merited, and the 
 conversation assumed that broken and dis- 
 jointed character which betrays the wander- 
 ing of the speaker’s thoughts. 
 
 At length a bell rang, and orders came 
 from the commander-in-chief, to clear the hall 
 of its curious idlers. When none were left 
 but the regular domestics of the family, 
 Howe appeared, supporting Cecil, closely 
 hooded, to the conveyance that awaited her 
 presence at the gate. The air of their mas- 
 ter communicated a deep respect to the man- 
 ners of the observant menials, who crowded 
 about their persons, to aid the departure, 
 with officious zeal. The amazed sentinels 
 dropped their arms, with the usual regular- 
 ity, to their chieftain, as he passed to the 
 outer portal in honor of his unknown com- 
 panion, and eyes met the expressive glances 
 of eyes, as all who witnessed the termination 
 of this visit sought, in the countenances of 
 those around them, some solution of its 
 object. 
 
 When Howe resumed his seat at the table, 
 another attempt was made by the admiral to 
 renew the subject; but it was received with 
 an air so cold, and a look so pointedly severe, 
 that even the careless son of the ocean forgot 
 his humor under the impression of so dark a 
 frown. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 ‘¢Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
 Announced their march.’”’—Scorr. 
 
 Crctt suffered the night to advance a lit- 
 tle, before she left Tremont Street, to profit 
 by the permission to leave the place, her 
 communication had obtained from the Eng- 
 lish general. It was, however, far from late 
 when she took leave of Agnes, and com- 
 menced her expedition, still attended by 
 Meriton and the unknown man, with whom 
 she has already, more than once, made her 
 appearance in our pages. At the lower part 
 of the town she left her vehicle, and pursu- 
 ing the route of several devious and retired 
 streets, soon reached the margin of the 
 water. ‘The wharves where deserted and 
 still. Indicating the course by her own light 
 and hurried footsteps, to her companions, 
 the youthful bride moved unhesitatingly 
 along the rough planks, until her progress 
 
 was checked by a large basin, between two of 
 the ordinary wooden piers which line the 
 shores of the place. Here she paused for a 
 ment, in doubt, as if fearful there had been 
 some mistake, when the figure of a boy was 
 seen advancing out of the shadows of a 
 neighboring store-house. 
 
 “J fear you have lost your way,” he said, 
 when within a few feet of her, where he 
 stood, apparently examining the party with 
 rigid scrutiny. ‘‘ May “I venture to ask 
 whom or what you seek ?” 
 
 «<Qne who is sent hither on private duty, 
 by orders from the commander-in-chief.” 
 
 “TJ see but two,” returned the lad, hesita- 
 ~ ting—‘‘ whare is the third?” 
 
 “He lingers in the distance,” said Cecil, 
 pointing to Meriton, whose footsteps were 
 much more guarded than those of his mis- 
 tress. <‘‘ Three is our number, and we are 
 all present.” 
 
 “1 beg a thousand pardons,” returned the 
 youth, dropping the folds of a sailor’s over- 
 coat, under which he had concealed the dis- 
 tinguishing marks of a naval dress, and rais- 
 ing his hat at the same moment, with great 
 respect; “my orders were to use the utmost 
 precaution, ma’am, for, as you hear, the 
 rebels sleep but little to-night Lz 
 
 «is a dreadful scene I leave, truly, sir,” 
 returned Cecil, “and the sooner it will suit 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 377 
 
 your convenience to transport us from it, the 
 greater will be the obligation you are about 
 to confer.” 
 
 The youth once more bowed, in submission 
 to her wishes, and requested the whole party 
 to follow whither he should lead. A very 
 few moments brought them to a pair of 
 waterstairs, where, under cover of the duski- 
 ness thrown upon the basin from the wharf, 
 a boat lay concealed, in perfect readiness to 
 receive them. 
 
 “Be stirring, boys !” cried the youth, ina 
 tone of authority; ‘ship your oars as silently 
 as if stealing away from an enemy. Have 
 the goodness, ma’am, to enter, and you shall 
 have a quick and safe landing on the other 
 shore, whatever may be the reception of the 
 rebels.” 
 
 Cecil and her two attendants complied 
 without delay, when the boat glided into the 
 stream with a velocity that promised a 
 speedy verification of the words of the mid- 
 shipman. The most profound stillness 
 reigned among these nocturnal adventurers, 
 and by the time they had rowed a short dis- 
 tance, the bride began to lose an immediate 
 consciousness of her situation in contempla- 
 tion of the scene. 
 
 The evening was already milder, and by 
 one of those sudden changes, peculiar to the 
 climate, it was rapidly becoming even bland 
 and pleasant. The light of a clear moon 
 fell upon the town and harbor, rendering the 
 objects of both visible, in mellowed softness. 
 The huge black hulls of the vessels of war 
 rested sullenly on the waters, like slumber- 
 ing leviathans, without even a sail or a pass- 
 ing boat, except their own, to enliven the 
 view in the direction of the port. On the 
 other hand, the hills of the town rose, in 
 beautiful relief, against the clear sky, with 
 here and there a roof or a steeple reflecting 
 the pale light of the moon. The bosom of 
 the place was as quiet as if its inhabitants were 
 buried in midnight sleep; but behind the hills, 
 ina circuit extending from the works on the 
 heights of Charlestown, to the neck, which 
 lay in open view of the boat, there existed all 
 the evidences of furious warfare. During the 
 few preceding nights, the Americans had been 
 more than commonly ‘diligent in the use of 
 their annoyances, but now they appeared to 
 expend their utmost energies upon their 
 
378 
 
 enemies. Still they spared the town, direct- 
 ing the weight of their fire at the different 
 batteries which protected the approaches to 
 the place, as already described, along the 
 western borders of the peninsula. 
 
 The ears of Cecil had long been accustomed 
 to the uproar of arms, but this was the first 
 occasion in which she was ever a witness of 
 the mingled beauties and terrors of a can- 
 nonadeat night. Suffering the calash to fall, 
 she shook back the dark tresses from her face, 
 and, leaning over the sides of the little vessel, 
 listened to the bursts of the artillery, and 
 gazed on the sudden flashes of vivid light that 
 mocked the dimmer illumination of the 
 planet, with an absorbed attention that mo- 
 mentarily lured her into forgetfulness. ‘The 
 men pulled their light boat with muffled oars, 
 and so still was its progress, that there were 
 instants when even the shot might be heard 
 rattling among the ruins they had made. 
 
 “Jt’s amazement to me, madam,” said 
 Meriton, ‘‘ that so many British generals and 
 brave gentlemen as there is in Boston, should 
 stay in such a little spot to be shot at by a 
 parcel of countrymen, when there is Lonnon, 
 as still and as safe, at this blessed moment, 
 as a parish church-yard at midnight ! ” 
 
 Cecil raised her eyes at this interruption, 
 and perceived the youth gazing at her counte- 
 nance in undisguised admiration of its beauty. 
 Blushing, and once more concealing her feat- 
 ures beneath her calash, she turned away from 
 the view of the conflict, in silence. 
 
 ‘The rebels are free with their gunpowder 
 to-night!” said the midshipman.-—“‘ Some of 
 their cruisers have picked up another of our 
 store-ships, I fancy, or Mr. Washington would 
 not make such a noisy time of it, when all 
 honest people should be thinking of their sleep. 
 Don’t you believe, ma’am, if the admiral 
 would warp three or four of our heaviest ships 
 up into the channel, back of the town, it would 
 be a short method of lowering the conceit of 
 these Yankees? ” 
 
 ‘* Really, sir, Iam so little acquainted with 
 military matters,” returned Cecil, suffering 
 her anxious features to relax into a smile, 
 “‘that my opinion, should I venture to give 
 one, would be utterly worthless.” 
 
 ““Why, young gentleman,” said Meriton, 
 “ the rebels drove a galley out of the river, a 
 night or two ago, as I can testify myself, hay- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ing stood behind a large brick store, where I 
 saw the whole affair, most beautifully con- 
 ducted [~ 
 
 ‘* A very fit place for one like you, no doubt, 
 sir,” returned the midshipman, without at- 
 tempting to conceal his disgust at so imperti- 
 nent an interruption—‘‘do you know what a 
 galley is, ma’am? nothing but a small vessel 
 cut down, with a few heavy guns, I do assure 
 you. It would bea very different affair with 
 a frigate or a two-decker! Do but observe 
 what a charming thing our ship is, ma’am— 
 I am sure so beautiful a lady must know how 
 to admire a handsome ship !—she lies here- 
 away, nearly in a range with the second 
 island.” 
 
 To please the earnest youth Cecil bent her 
 head toward the quarter he wished, and mur- 
 mured a few words in approbation of his taste. 
 But the impatient boy had narrowly watched 
 the direction of her eyes, and she was inter- 
 rupted by his exclaiming, in manifest disap- 
 pointment— ; 
 
 ‘* What! that shapeless hulk, just above the 
 castle! she is an old Dutch prize, en flute, 
 ay, older than my grandmother, good old soul; 
 and it wouldn’t matter the value of a piece of 
 junk, into which end you stepped her bow- 
 sprit! One of my school-fellows, Jack Wil- 
 loughby, is a reefer on board her; and he says 
 that they can just get six knots out of her, 
 on her course in smooth water with a fresh 
 breeze, allowing seven knots for leeway! Jack 
 means to get rid of her the moment he can 
 catch the admiral running large; for the 
 Graveses live near the Willoughbys in town, 
 and he knows all the soundings about the old 
 man’s humor. No, no, ma’am ; Jack would 
 give every shot in his lockers to swing a ham- 
 mock between two of the beams of our ship. 
 Do excuse me, one moment;”—presuming to 
 take one of the hands of Cecil, though with 
 sufficient delicacy, as he pointed out his 
 favorite vessel—‘ There, ma’am, now you 
 have her! she that’s so taut-rigged, with a 
 flying-jib-boom, and all her top-gallant-yards 
 stopped to her lower rigging—we send them 
 down every night at gun-fire, and cross them 
 again next morning as regularly as the bell 
 strike seight,—Isn’t she asweet thing, ma’am? 
 for I see she has caught your eye at last, and 
 I am sure you can’t wish to look at any other 
 ship in port.” 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 Cecil could not refuse her commendations 
 to this eloquent appeal, though at the next 
 moment she would have been utterly at a 
 loss to distinguish the much-admired frigate 
 from the despised store-ship. 
 
 «« Ay, ay, madam, I knew you would like 
 her when you once got a fair glimpse at her 
 proportions,” continued the delighted boy; 
 “though she is not half so beautiful on her 
 broadside, as when you can catch her lasking, 
 especially on her larboard bow.—Pull, long 
 and strong, men, and with a light touch of 
 the water—these Yankees have ears as long 
 as borricoes, and we are getting in with the 
 land. This set-down at Dorchester’s neck 
 will give you a long walk, ma’am, to Cam- 
 bridge, but there was no possibility of touch- 
 ing the rebels anywhere else to-night, or, as 
 you see, we should have gone right into the 
 
 - face of their cannon.” 
 
 “Ts it not a little remarkable,” said Cecil, 
 willing to pay the solicitude of the boy to 
 amuse her, by some reply, “that the colonists, 
 while they invest the town so closely on the 
 north and west, should utterly neglect to 
 assail it on the south? for I believe they 
 have never occupied the hills in Dorchester 
 at all; and yet it is,one of the points nearest 
 to Boston.” 
 
 «It is no mystery at all!” returne] the 
 boy, shaking his head with ali the sagacity of 
 a veteran—‘“‘it would bring another Bunker 
 Hill about their ears; for you see it is the 
 same thing at this end of the place that 
 Charlestown neck is at the other!—a light 
 touch, men, a light touch!” he continued, 
 dropping his voice, as they approached the 
 shore ;—“ besides, ma’am, a fort on that hill 
 could throw its shot directly on our decks, a 
 thing the old man would never submit to; 
 and that would either bring on a regular 
 hammering match, or a general clearing out 
 of the fleet; and then what would become of 
 the army ?—No, no—the Yankees wouldn’t 
 
 risk driving the codfish out of their bay, to 
 
 _ try such an experiment!—Lay on your oars, 
 boys, while I take a squint along this shore, 
 to see if there are any Jonathans cooling 
 themselves near the beach, by moonlight.” 
 The obedient seamen rested from their 
 labors, while their youthful officer stood up 
 in the boat, and directed a small night-glass 
 over the intended place of landing. The 
 
 379 
 
 examination proved entirely satisfactory, and 
 in alow, cautious voice, he ordered the men 
 to pull into a place where the shadow of the 
 hills might render the landing still less likely 
 to be observed. 
 
 From this moment the most profound 
 silence was observed, the boat advancing 
 swiftly, though under perfect command, to 
 the desired spot, where it was soon heard 
 grazing upon the bottom, as it gradually lost 
 its motion, and finally became stationary. 
 Cecil was instantly assisted to the land, 
 whither she was followed by the midshipman, 
 who jumped upon the shore with great indif- 
 ference, and approached the passenger, from 
 whom he was now about to part. 
 
 “T only hope that those you next fall in 
 with may know how to treat you as well as 
 those you leave,” said the boy, approaching, 
 and offering his hand, with the frankness of 
 an older seaman, to Cecil—“ God bless you, 
 my dear ma’am; I have two little sisters at 
 home, nearly as handsome as yourself; and I 
 never see a woman in want of assistance, but 
 I think of the poor girls [ve left in old 
 England—God bless you, once more—I hope 
 when we meet again, you will take a nearer 
 view of the bi 
 
 “You are not likely to part so soon as you 
 imagine,” exclaimed a man, springing on his 
 feet, from his place of concealment behind a 
 rock, and advancing rapidly on the party— 
 “offer the least resistance, and you are all 
 dead.” 
 
 «Shove off, men, shove off, and don’t 
 mind me!” cried the youth, with admirable 
 presence of mind—“ For God’s sake, save the 
 boat, if you die for it!” 
 
 The seamen obeyed with practised alacrity, 
 when the boy darted after them with the 
 lightness of his years, and, making a desper- 
 ate leap, caught the gunwale of the barge, 
 into which he was instantly drawn by the 
 sailors. A dozen armed men had by this 
 time reached the edge of the water, and as 
 many muskets were pointed at the retreating 
 party, when he who had first spoken, cried— 
 
 “Not a trigger!—the boy has escaped us, 
 and he deserves his fortune!—Let us secure 
 those who remain, but if a single gun be 
 fired, it will only draw the attention of the 
 fleet and castle.” 
 
 His companions, who had acted with the 
 
380 
 
 hesitation of men that were not assured 
 the course they took were correct, willingly 
 drepped the muzzles of their pieces, and in 
 another instant the boat was ploughing its 
 way toward the much-admired frigate, at a 
 distance which would probably have rendered 
 their fire quite harmless, Cecil had hardly 
 breathed during the short period of uncer- 
 tainty; but when the sudden danger was 
 passed, she prepared herself to receive their 
 captors with the perfect confidence which 
 an American woman seldom fails to feel in 
 the mildness and reason of her countrymen. 
 The whole party, who now approached her, 
 were dressed in the ordinary habiliments of 
 husbandmen, mingled, in a slight degree, with 
 the more martial accoutrements of soldiers. 
 They were armed with muskets only, which 
 they wielded like men acquainted with all the 
 uses of the weapon, at the same time that 
 they were unaccustomed to the mere manual 
 of the troops. 
 
 Every fibre of the body of Meriton, how- 
 ever, shook with fear, as he found this unex- 
 pected guard encircling their little party, nor 
 did the unknown man who had accompanied 
 them appear entirely free from apprehension. 
 The bride still maintained her self-possession, 
 supported either by her purpose, or her 
 greater familiarity with the character of the 
 people into whose hands she had fallen. 
 
 When the whole party were posted within 
 afew feet of them, they dropped the butts 
 of their muskets on the ground, and stood 
 patient listeners to the ensuing examination. 
 The leader of the party, who was only distin- 
 guished from his companions by a green 
 cockade in his hat, which Cecil had heard 
 was the symbol of a subaltern officer among 
 the American troops, addressed her in a calm, 
 but steady tone— 
 
 ‘‘Tt is unpleasant to question a woman,” 
 he said, ‘‘ and especially one of your appear- 
 ance; but duty requires it of me. What 
 brings you to this unfrequented point, in the 
 boat of a king’s ship, and at this unusual hour 
 of the night ?” 
 
 “TI come with no intent to conceal my visit 
 from any eyes,” returned Cecil; “for my 
 first wish is to be conducted to some officer 
 of rank, to whom I will explain my object. 
 There are many that I should know, who will 
 not hesitate to believe my words.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “We none of us profess to doubt your 
 truth; we only act with caution, because it 
 is required by circumstances.—Cannot the 
 explanation be made to me ?—for I dislike 
 the duty that causes trouble to a female.” 
 
 «’Tisimpossible!” said Cecil, involuntarily 
 shrinking within the folds of her mantle. 
 
 «You came at a most unfortunate mo- 
 ment,” said the other, musing; ‘‘and I fear 
 you will pass an uneasy night, in consequence. 
 By your tongue, I think you are an Ameri- 
 can?” 
 
 ‘*T was born among those roofs, which you 
 may see on the opposite peninsula.” 
 
 ‘Then we are of the same town,” returned 
 the officer, stepping back in a vain attempt 
 to get a glimpse of those features which were 
 concealed beneath the hood. He made no 
 attempt, however, to remove the silk; nor 
 did he in the slightest manner convey any 
 wish of a nature that might be supposed to 
 wound the delicacy of her sex; but finding 
 himself unsuccessful, he turned away, as he 
 added—* and I grow tired of remaining where 
 I can see the smoke of my own chimneys, at 
 the same time I know that strangers are 
 seated around the hearths below!” 
 
 “None wish more feryently than I, that 
 the moment had arrived when each might 
 enjoy his own, in peace and quietness.” 
 
 «* Let the Parliament repeal their laws, and 
 the king recall his troops,” said one of the 
 men, “and there will be an end of the strug- 
 gle at once. We don’t fight because we love 
 to shed blood!” 
 
 “ He would do both, friend, if the counsel 
 of one so insignificant as I could find weight 
 in his royal mind.” 
 
 “T believe there is not much difference be- 
 tween a royal mind and that of any other 
 man, when the devil get hold of it!” bluntly 
 exclaimed another of the party. “I’ve a 
 notion the imp is as mischievous with a king 
 as with a cobbler!” 
 
 «“ Whatever I may think of the conduct of 
 his ministers,” said Cecil, coldly, ‘‘’tis un- 
 pleasant to me to discuss the personal quali- 
 ties of my sovereign.” 
 
 ‘©Why, I meant no offence; though when 
 the truth is uppermost in a man’s thoughts, 
 he is apt to let it out,” returned the soldier. 
 After this uncouth apology, he continued 
 silent, turning away like one who felt dis- 
 
 e 
 
satisfied with himself for what he had 
 done. 
 In the meantime the leader had been con- 
 sulting with one or two of his men aside. 
 He now advanced again, and delivered the 
 result of their united widsom. 
 Under all circumstances, [ have con- 
 cluded,” he said, speaking in the first person, 
 in deference to his rank, though in fact he 
 had consented to change his own opinion at 
 _ the instigation of his advisers, ** to refer you 
 for information to the nearest general officer, 
 under the care of these two men, who will 
 _ show you the way. They both know the 
 country, and there is not the least danger of 
 - their mistaking the road.” 
 
 Cecil bowed in entire submission to this 
 _ characteristic intimation of his pleasure, and 
 _ declared her anxiety to proceed. The officer 
 held another short consultation with the two 
 guides, which soon terminated by his issuing 
 - orders to the rest of the detachment to pre- 
 _ pare to depart. Before they separated, one 
 of the guides, or, more properly, guards, ap- 
 _ proached Meriton, and said, with a delibera- 
 tion that might easily be mistaken for 
 — doubt— 
 
 _. « Ag we shall be only two to two, friend, 
 - will it not be as well to see what you have got 
 _ secreted about your person, as it may prevent 
 any hard words or difficulties hereafter? You 
 _ will see the reason of the thing, I trust, and 
 make no objection.” 
 
 Not at all, sir, not at all!” returned the 
 trembling valet, producing his purse, without 
 a moment’s hesitation ; “‘it is not heavy, but 
 _ what there is in it is of the best English 
 _ gold; which I expect is much regarded 
 among you who see nothing but rebel 
 "+ paper!” 
 
 ‘Much as we set store by it, we do not 
 choose to rob for it,” returned the soldier, 
 with cool contempt. ‘<I wish to look for 
 weapons, and not for money.” 
 
 «But, sir, as I unluckily have no weapons, 
 had you not better take my money? there 
 are ten good guineas, I do assure you; and 
 not a light one among them all, *pon honor ! 
 besides several pieces of silver.” 
 
 ‘‘Come, Allen,” said the other soldier, 
 laughing, “it’s no great matter whether that 
 gentleman has arms or not, I believe. His 
 comrade, here, who seems to know rather 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 better what he is about, has none, at any 
 rate ; and for one of two men, I am willing 
 to trust the other.” | 
 
 ‘<T do assure you,” said Cecil, ‘‘that our 
 intentions are peaceable, and that your charge 
 will prove in no manner difficult.” 
 
 The men listened to the earnest tones of 
 her sweet voice with much deference, and in 
 a few moments the two parties separated, to 
 proceed on their several ways. While the 
 main body of the soldiers ascended the hill, 
 the guides of Cecil took a direction which led 
 them around its base. Their route lay to- 
 ward the low neck, which connected the 
 heights with the adjacent country, and their 
 progress was both diligent and rapid. Cecil 
 was often consulted as to her ability to endure 
 the fatigue, and repeated offers were made 
 to accommodate their speed to her wishes. 
 In every other respect she was totally disre- 
 garded by the guides, who, however, paid 
 much closer attention to her companions, 
 each soldier attaching himself to one of her 
 followers, whom he constantly regarded with 
 a watchful and wary eye. 
 
 ‘«*You seem cold, friend,” said Allen to 
 Meriton, “though I should call the night 
 quite pleasant for the first week in March i 
 
 “Indeed I’m starved to the bones !” re- 
 turned the valet, with a shivering that would 
 seem to verify his assertion.—‘‘It’s a very 
 chilly climate is this of America, especially 
 of nights! I never really felt such a remark- 
 able dampness about the throat before, within 
 memory, I do assure you.” 
 
 ‘Here is another handkerchief,” said the 
 soldier, throwing him a common kerchief 
 from his pocket—*‘ wrap it round your neck, 
 for it gives me an ague to hear your teeth 
 knocking one another about so.” 
 
 ‘I thank you, sir, a thousand times,” said 
 Meriton, producing his purse, again, with an 
 instinctive readiness — ‘‘ what may be the 
 price ?” 
 
 The man pricked up his ears, and drop- 
 ping his musket from the guarded position in 
 which he had hitherto carried it, he drew 
 closer to the side of his prisoner, in a very 
 companionable way, as he replied— 
 
 ‘<T did not calculate on selling the article; 
 but if you have need of it, I wouldn’t wish to 
 be hard.” 
 
 “Shall I give you one guinea, or two, Mr. 
 
 PY | es fl Benn (| rity 
 
tnak vt 
 1) 3883 11 CSV thi 
 
 Rebel ?” asked Meriton, whose faculties were 
 utterly confounded by his terror. 
 
 ‘My name is Allen, friend, and we like 
 civil language in the Bay,” said the soldier. 
 *‘'T'wo guineas for a pocket-handkerchief ! 
 I couldn’t think of imposing on any man so 
 much !” 
 
 ‘‘ What shall it be then, half a guinea, or 
 four half-crown pieces ?” 
 
 ‘I didn’t at all calculate to part with the 
 handkerchief when I left home—it’s quite 
 new, as you can see by holding it up, in this 
 manner, to the moon—besides, you know, 
 now there is no trade, these things come very 
 high.—Well, if you are disposed to buy, I 
 don’t wish to crowd ; you may take it, finally, 
 for the two crowns.” 
 
 Meriton dropped the money into his hands, 
 without hesitation, and the soldier pocketed 
 the price, perfectly satisfied with his bargain 
 and himself, since he had sold his goods at a 
 clear profit of about three hundred per cent. 
 He soon took occasion to whisper to his com- 
 rade, that in his opinion ‘‘he had made a 
 good trade;” and laying their heads to- 
 gether, they determined that the bargain was 
 by no means a bad windfall. On the other 
 hand, Meriton, who knew the difference in 
 value between cotton and silk quite as well 
 as his American protectors, was equally well 
 satisfied with the arrangement; though his 
 contentment was derived from a very different 
 manner of reasoning. From early habit, he 
 had long been taught to believe, that every 
 civility, like patriotism in the opinion of Sir 
 Robert Walpole, had its price; and his fears 
 had rendered him somewhat careless about 
 the amount of the purchase-money. He now 
 considered himself as having a clear claim 
 on the protection of his guard, and his appre- 
 hensions gradually subsided into security 
 unaer the soothing impression. 
 
 By the time this satisfactory bargain was 
 concluded, and each party was lawfully put 
 in possession of his own, they had reached 
 the low land already mentioned as the “ neck.” 
 Suddenly the guards stopped, and bending 
 forward, in the attitude of deep attention, 
 they seemed to listen, intently, to some faint 
 and distant sounds, that were, for moments, 
 audible in the intervals of the cannonade. 
 
 “'They are coming,” said one to the other; 
 “shall we go on, or wait until they’ve passed ? ” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 The question was answered in a whisper, 
 and, after a short consultation, they deter- — 
 mined to proceed. 4 
 
 The attention of Cecil had been attracted — 
 by this conference, and the few words which — 
 had escaped her guides; and, for the first _ 
 time, she harbored some little dread as to 
 her final destination. Full of the importance q 
 of her errand, the bride now devoted every — 
 faculty to detect the least circumstance that 
 might have a tendency to defeat it. She 
 trod so lightly on the faded herbage as to | 
 render her own footsteps inaudible, and more © 
 than once she was about to request the others 7 
 to imitate her example, that no danger might 
 approach them unexpectedly. Atlength her 
 doubts were relieved, though her wonder was — 
 increased, by distinctly hearing the lumbering ~ : 
 sounds of wheels on the frozen earth, as iff 
 innumerable groaning vehicles were advane- 
 ing with slow and measured progress. In 
 another instant her eyes assisted the organs — 
 of hearing, and by the aid of the moon her 
 doubts, if not her apprehensions, were en- 
 tirely removed. | 
 
 Her guards now determined on a change ~ 
 of purpose, and withdrew with their prisoners — 
 within the shadow of an apple-tree that stood — 
 on the low land, but a few paces from the 
 line of the route evidently taken by the ap- 
 proaching vehicles. In this position they re- 
 mained for several minutes, attentive obsery- 4 
 ers of what was passing around them. I 
 
 ‘*Our men have woke up the British bya 
 their fire,” said one of the guards; “and all 
 their eyes are turned to the batteries! ” i 
 
 “Yes, it’s very well as it is,’ returned his _ 
 comrade; ‘“‘but if the old brass congress _ 
 mortar hadn’t gin way yesterday, there would — 
 be a different sort of roaring. Did you ever § 
 see the old congress?” 
 
 “T can’t say I ever saw the cannon itself, 
 but I have seen the bombs fifty times; and 
 pokerish-looking things they be, espacial 
 in a dark night—but hush, here they come.” 
 
 A large body of men now approached, and 
 moved swiftly past them, in deepest silence, 
 defiling at the foot of the hills, and marching 
 toward the shores of the bg c e 
 
 a ee 
 
 —— 
 
 much in the fashion of those wwii had a 
 ceived Cecil. One or two who were mounted, 
 and in more martial trappings, announced — 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 the presence of some officers of higher rank. 
 
 _ At the very heels of this detachment of 
 
 soldiers, came a great number of carts, which 
 took the route that led directly up to the 
 neighboring heights. After these came an- 
 other and more numerous body of troops, 
 
 _ who followed the teams, the whole moving 
 
 in the profoundest stillness, and with the 
 diligence of men who were engaged in the 
 most important undertaking. In the rear of 
 the whole, another collection of carts appeared, 
 groaning under the weight of large bundles 
 of hay, and other military preparations of 
 defence. Before this latter division left the 
 
 low land, immense numbers of the closely- 
 
 packed bundles were tumbled to the ground, 
 
 - and arranged, with a quickness almost magi- 
 eal, in such a manner as to form a light 
 
 breastwork across the low ground, which 
 
 would otherwise have been completely ex- 
 posed to be swept by the shot of the royal 
 
 batteries; a situation of things that was be- 
 
 lieved to have led to the catastrophe of Breed’s, 
 the preceding summer. 
 
 Among the last of those who crossed the 
 
 neck, was an officer on horseback, whose eye 
 - was attracted by the group who stood as idle 
 spectators under the tree. 
 latter object to those around him, he rode 
 _nigher to the party, and learned forward in 
 _ his saddle to examine their persons— 
 
 Pointing out the 
 
 ‘““ How’s this?” he exclaimed—* a woman 
 
 - and two men under the charge of sentinels ! 
 _ Have we then more spies among us ?—cut 
 _ away the tree, men ; we have need of it, 
 
 incredible. 
 
 and let in the light of the moon upon 
 
 them!” 
 The order was hardly given before it was 
 
 executed, and the tree fell with a despatch 
 
 that, to any but an American, would appear 
 Cecil stepped aside from the im- 
 
 _ pending branches, and by moving into the 
 
 light, betrayed the appearance of a gentle- 
 woman by her mien and apparel. 
 *« Here must be some mistake !” continued 
 
 the officer—‘ why is the lady thus guarded ?” 
 
 pte, 
 
 One of the soldiers, in a few words, ex- 
 plained the nature of her arrest, and in re- 
 turn received directions, anew, how to pro- 
 ceed. The mounted officer now put spurs 
 
 - into his horse, and galloped away, in eager 
 pursuit of more pressing duties, though he 
 Still looked behind him, so long as the decep- 
 
 tive light enabled him to distinguish either 
 form or features. 
 
 “Tig advisable to go on the heights,” 
 said the soldier, “where we may find the 
 commanning general.” 
 
 “ Anywhere,” returned Cecil, confused 
 with the activity and bustle that had passed 
 before her eyes, “ or anything, to be relieved 
 from this distressing delay.” 
 
 In a very few moments they reached the 
 summit of the nearest of the two hills, where 
 they paused just without the busy circle of 
 men who labored there, while one of the sol- 
 diers went in quest of the officer in command. 
 From the point where she now stood, Cecil 
 had an open view of the port, the town, and 
 most of the adjacent country. The vessels 
 still reposed heavily on the waters. and she 
 fancied that the youthful midshipman was 
 already nestling safe in his own hammock, on 
 board the frigate, whose tall and tapering 
 spars rose against the sky in such beautiful 
 and symmetrical lines. No evidences of alarm 
 were manifested in the town ; but, on the 
 contrary, the lights were gradually disappear- 
 ing, notwithstanding the heavy cannonade 
 which still roared along the western side of 
 the peninsula ; and it was probable that 
 Howe, and his unmoved companions, yet 
 continued their revels, with the same security 
 in which they had been left two short hours 
 before. While, with the exception of the 
 batteries, everything in the distance was still, 
 and apparently slumbering, the near view 
 was one of life and activity. Mounds of 
 earth were already rising on the crest of the 
 hill ; laborers were filling barrels with earth 
 and sand ; fascines were tumbling about from 
 place to place, as they were wanted ; and yet 
 the stillness was only interrupted by the un- | 
 remitting strokes of the pick, the low and 
 earnest hum of voices, or the crashing of 
 branches, as the pride of the neighboring or- 
 chards came crushing to the earth. ‘The nov- 
 elty of the scene beguiled Cecil of her anx- 
 iety, and many minutes passed unheeded by. 
 Fifty times parties, or individuals amongst 
 the laborers, approaching near her person, 
 paused to gaze a moment at the sparkling 
 and sweet features that the placid light of 
 the moon rendered even more than usually 
 soft, and then pushed on in silence, endeav- 
 oring to repair, by renewed diligence, the 
 
 RIVER SITY OE (CLIO 
 88 | 
 
ga VCH SN II 
 
 transient forgetfulness of their urgent duties. 
 At length the men returned, and announced 
 the approach of the general who commanded 
 on the hill. The latter was a soldier of mid- 
 dle age, of calm and collected deportment, 
 roughly attired for the occasion, and bearing 
 no other symbod of his rank than the dis- 
 tinctive crimson cockade, in one of the large 
 military hats of the period. 
 
 ‘You find us in the midst of our labors,” 
 he pleasantly observed, as he approached ; 
 “and will overlook the delay I have given 
 you. It is reported you left the town this 
 evening?” 
 
 “ Within the hour.” 
 
 ‘* And Howe—dreams he of the manner in 
 which we are likely to amuse him in the 
 morning ? ” 
 
 “Tt would be affectation in one like me,” 
 said Cecil, modestly, “to decline answering 
 questions coneerning the views of the royal 
 general ; but still you will pardon me if I 
 say, that in my present situation, I could 
 wish to be spared the pain of even confessing 
 my ignorance.” 
 
 ‘‘T acknowledge my error,” the officer un- 
 hesitatingly answered. After a short pause, 
 in which he seemed to mnse, he continued— 
 “this is no ordinary night, young lady, and 
 it becomes my duty to refer you to the gen- 
 eral commanding this wing of thearmy. He 
 possibly may think it necessary to communi- 
 cate your detention to the commander-in- 
 chief.” 
 
 “‘Tt is he I seek, sir, and would most wish 
 to meet.” 
 
 He bowed, and, giving his orders to a 
 subaltern in a low voice, walked away, and 
 was soon lost in the busy crowd that came and 
 went in constant employment, around the 
 summit of the hill. Cecil lingered a single 
 moment after her new conductor had de- 
 clared his readiness to proceed, to cast an- 
 other glance at the calm spendor of the sea 
 and bay; the distant and smoky roofs of 
 the town; the dim objects that moved about 
 the adjacent eminence, equally and similarly 
 employed with those around her; and then 
 raising her calash, and tightening the folds of 
 her mantle, she descended the hill with the 
 light and elastic steps of youth. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 «The rebel vales, the rebel dales, 
 With rebel trees surrounded, 
 The distant woods, the hills and floods, 
 With rebel echoes sounded.” 
 —The Battle of the Kegs. 
 
 THE enormous white cockade that covered 
 nearly one side of the little hat of her pres- 
 ent conductor, was the only symbol that told 
 Cecil she was now committed to the care of 
 one who held the rank of captain, among 
 those who battled for the rights of the col- 
 onies. No other part of his attire was mili- 
 tary, though a cut-and-thrust was buckled to 
 his form, which, from its silver guard, and 
 formidable dimensions, had probably been 
 borne by some of his ancestors, in the former 
 wars of the colonies. ‘The disposition of its 
 present wearer was, however, far from that 
 belligerent nature that his weapon might 
 be thought to indicate, for he tendered the 
 nicest care and assiduity tothe movements of 
 his prisoner. 
 
 At the foot of the hill, a wagon, return- 
 ing from the field, was put in requisition by 
 
 this semi-military gallant; and, after a little 
 
 suitable preparation, Cecil found herself 
 seated on a rude bench by his side, in the 
 vehicle; while her own attendants, and the 
 two private men, occupied its bottom in still 
 more social affinity. At first their progress 
 was slow and difficult, return carts, literally 
 by hundreds, impeding the way; but when 
 they had once passed the heavy-footed beasts 
 
 who drew them, they proceeded in the direc- — 
 
 tion of Roxbury, with greater rapidity. Dur- 
 ing the first mile, while they were extricating 
 themselves from the apparently interminable 
 line of carts, the officer directed his whole 
 attention to this important and difficult ma- 
 neeuvre; but when their uneasy vessel might 
 
 be said to be fairly sailing before the wind, he 
 
 did not choose to neglect those services, which, 
 
 from time immemorial, beautiful women in: 
 distress have had a right to claim of men in ~ 
 
 his profession. 
 
 ‘‘ Now do not spare the whip,” he said to 
 
 the driver, at the moment of their deliver-— 
 
 ance; ‘‘ but push on, forthe credit of horse- 
 flesh, and to the disgrace of all horned cattle. 
 This near beast of yours should be a tory, by 
 
 his gait and his reluctance to pull in the 
 traces for the common good—treat him as_ 
 
 te 
 
ee ee si eee 
 
 had so recently quitted. 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 such, friend, and in turn you shall receive the 
 treatment of a sound whig, when we make a 
 halt. You have spent the winter in Boston, 
 madam ?” 
 
 Cecil bent her head in silent assent. 
 
 “The royal army will, doubtless, make a 
 better figure in the eyes of a lady, than the 
 troops of the colonies; though there are some 
 among us who are thought not only wholly 
 wanting in military knowledge, and the cer- 
 tain air of a soldier,” he continued; extri- 
 cating the silver-headed legacy of his grand- 
 father from its concealment under a fold of 
 his companion’s mantle—“ you have balls 
 and entertainments without number, I fancy’ 
 ma’am, from the gentlemen in the king’s 
 service.” 
 
 “JT believe that few hearts are to be found 
 amongst the females in Boston so light as to 
 mingle in their amusements !” 
 
 ‘God bless them for it!” exclaimed her 
 escort; ‘‘I am sure every shot we throw into 
 town is like drawing blood from our own 
 veins. I suppose the king’s officers don’t 
 hold the colonists so cheap, since the small 
 affair on Charlestown Neck, as they did 
 formerly?” 
 
 **None who had any interest at stake in 
 the events of that fatal day will easily forget 
 the impression it has made!” 
 
 The young American was too much struck 
 by the melancholy pathos in the voice of 
 Cecil, not to fancy he had, in his own honest 
 triumph, unwittingly probed a wound which 
 time had not yet healed. They rode many 
 minutes, after this unsuccessful effort on his 
 part to converse, in profound silence; nor did 
 he again speak until the trampling of horses’ 
 hoofs was borne along by the evening air, 
 unaccompanied by the lumbering sounds of 
 wheels. At the next turn of the road they 
 met a small cavalcade of officers, riding at a 
 rapid rate in the direction of the place they 
 The leader of this 
 party drew up when he saw the wagon, 
 which was also stopped in deference to his 
 
 obvious wish to speak with them. 
 
 There was something in the haughty, and 
 yet easy air of the gentleman who addressed 
 her companion, that induced Cecil to attend 
 to his remarks with more than the interest 
 that is usually excited by the commonplace 
 dialogues of the road. His dress was neither 
 
 civil, nor wholly military, though his bearing 
 had much of a soldier’s manner. As he 
 drew up, three or four dogs fawned upon 
 him, or passed with indulged impunity be- 
 tween the legs of his high-blooded charger, 
 apparently indifferent to the impatient re- 
 pulses that were freely bestowed on their 
 troublesome familiarities. 
 
 “ High discipline, by exclaimed this 
 singular specimen of the colonial chieftains. 
 ‘‘T dare presume, gentlemen, you are from 
 the heights of Dorchester; and having walked 
 the whole distance thither from camp, are 
 disposed to try the virtues of a four-wheeled 
 conveyance over the same ground, in a re- 
 treat |” 
 
 The young man rose in his place, and 
 lifted his hat, with marked respect, as he 
 answered-— 
 
 “ We are returning from the hills, sir, it is 
 true; but we must see our enemy before we 
 retreat! ” 
 
 ‘© A white cockade! As you hold such 
 rank, sir, I presume you have authority for 
 your movements ? Down, Juno—down, slut.” 
 
 “This lady was landed an hour since on 
 the Point, from the town, by a boat from a 
 king’s ship, sir; and I am ordered to see her 
 in safety to the general of the right wing.” 
 
 “A lady!” repeated the other, with singu- 
 lar emphasis, slowly passing his hand over 
 his remarkably aquiline and prominent feat- 
 ures, ‘‘if there be a lady in the case, ease 
 must be indulged. Will you down, Juno !” 
 Turning his head a little aside, to his nearest 
 aid, he added, in a voice that was suppressed 
 only by the action—“ Some trull of Howe’s 
 sent out as the newest specimen of loyal 
 modesty! In such a case, sir, you are quite 
 right to use horses. I only marvel that you 
 did not take six instead of two. But how 
 come we on in the trenches? Down, you 
 hussy, down! ‘Thou shouldst go to court. 
 Juno, and fawn upon his majesty’s ministers, 
 where thy sycophancy might purchase thee a 
 riband! How come we on in the trenches ?” 
 
 “ We have broken ground, sir, and as the 
 eyes of the royal troops are drawn upon the 
 batteries, we shall make a work of it before 
 the day shows them our occupation.” 
 
 “ Ah! we are certainly good at digging, if 
 at no other part of our exercises! Miss 
 Juno, thou puttest thy precious life in jeop- 
 MM 
 
 y9 
 
BRGY 
 
 ardy!—you will? then take thy fate!” As 
 he spoke, the impatient chief drew a pistol 
 from his holster, and snapped it twice at the 
 head of the dog that still fawned upon him 
 in unwitting fondness. Angry with himself, 
 his weapon, and the animal at the same mo- 
 ment, he turned to his attendants, and added, 
 with bitter deliberation—‘‘ Gentlemen, if one 
 of you will exterminate that quadruped, I 
 promise him an honorable place in my first 
 despatches to Congress, for the service !” 
 
 A groom in attendance whistled to the 
 spaniel, and probably saved the life of the 
 disgraced favorite. 
 
 The officer now addressed himself to the 
 party he had detained, with a collected and 
 dignified air, that showed he had recovered 
 his self-possession, by saying— 
 
 “Y beg pardon, sir, for this trouble—let 
 me not prevent you from proceeding ; there 
 may be serious work on the heights before 
 morning, and you will doubtless wish to be 
 there.” He bowed with perfect éase and 
 politeness, and the two parties were slowly 
 passing each other, when, as if repenting of 
 his condescension, he turned himself in his 
 saddle, adding, with those sarcastic tones so 
 peculiarly his own—“ Captain, I beseech thee 
 have an especial care of the lady /” 
 
 With these words in his mouth, he clapped 
 spurs to his horse, and galloped onward, fol- 
 lowed by all his train, at the same impetuous 
 rate. 
 
 Cecil had heard each syllable that fell from 
 the lips of both in this short dialogue, and she 
 felt a chill of disappointment gathering about 
 her heart, as it proceeded. When they had 
 parted, drawing a long, tremulous breath. 
 she asked, in tones that betrayed all her 
 feelings— 
 
 ‘«« And is this Washington?” 
 
 “ That!” exclaimed her companion—“ No, 
 
 no, madam, he is a very different sort of 
 
 man! That is the great English officer, 
 whom Congress has made a general in our 
 army. He is thought to be as great in the 
 field as he is uncouth in the drawing-room— 
 yes, I will acknowledge that much in his 
 favor, though I never know how to under- 
 stand him; he is proud—so supercilious— 
 and yet, he is a great friend of liberty!” 
 Cecil permitted the officer to reconcile the 
 seeming contradictions in the character of 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 his superior, in his own way, feeling per- 
 fectly relieved, when she understood it was 
 not the man who could have any influence on 
 her own destiny. The driver now appeared 
 anxious to recover the lost time, and he 
 urged his horses over the ground with in- 
 creased rapidity. ‘The remainder of their 
 short drive to the vicinity of Roxbury, passed 
 in silence. As the cannonading was still 
 maintained with equal warmth by both 
 parties, it was hazarding too much to place 
 themselves in the line of the enemy’s fire. 
 The young man, therefore, after finding a 
 secure spot among the uneven ground of the 
 vicinity, where he might leave his charge in 
 safety, proceeded by himself to the point 
 where he had reason to believe he should find 
 the officer he was ordered to seek. During 
 his short absence, Cecil remained in the 
 wagon, an appalled listener, and a partial 
 spectator of the neighboring contest. 
 
 The Americans had burst their only mor- 
 tar of size, the preceding night; but they 
 applied their cannou with unwearied dili- 
 gence, not only in the face of the British en- 
 trenchments, but on the low land, across the 
 estuary of the Charles; and still farther to 
 the north, in front of the position which their 
 enemies held on the well-known heights of 
 Charlestown. In retaliation for this attack, 
 the batteries along the western side of the 
 town were in a constant blaze of fire, while 
 those of the eastern continued to slumber, in 
 total unconsciousness of the coming danger. 
 
 When the officer returned, he reported that 
 his search had been successful, and that he 
 had been commanded to conduct his charge 
 into the presence of the American com- 
 mander-in-chief. This new arrangement im- 
 posed the necessity of driving a few miles 
 farther; and as the youth began to regard 
 his new duty with some impatience, he was 
 in no humor for delay. The route was cir- 
 cuitous and safe; the roads good; and the 
 driver diligent. In consequence, within the 
 hour they passed the river, and Cecil found 
 herself, after so long an absence, once more 
 approaching the ancient provincial seat of 
 learning. 
 
 The little village, though in the hands of 
 friends, exhibited the infallible evidences of 
 the presence of an irregular army. ‘he 
 buildings of the University were filled with 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 troops, and the doors of the different inns 
 were thronged with noisy soldiers, who were 
 assembled for the inseparable purposes of 
 revelry and folly. ‘The officer drove to one 
 of the most private of these haunts of the 
 unthinking and idle, and declared his inten- 
 tions to deposit his charge under its roof, 
 until he could learn the pleasure of the 
 American leader, Cecil heard his arrange- 
 ments with little satisfaction; but, yielding 
 to the necessity of the case, when the vehicle 
 had stopped, she alighted, without remon- 
 strance. With her two attendants in her 
 train, and preceded by the officer, she passed 
 through the noisy crowd, uot only without 
 insult, but without molestation. The differ- 
 ent declaimers in the throng, and there were 
 many, even lowered their clamorous voices as 
 she approached, the men giving way, in 
 deference for her sex; and she entered the 
 building without hearing but one remark 
 applied to herself, though a low and curious 
 buzz of voices followed her footsteps to its 
 very threshold. ‘That solitary remark was a 
 sudden exclamation, in admiration of the 
 grace of her movements; and, singular as it 
 may seem, her companion thought it neces- 
 sary to apologize for its rudeness, by whisper- 
 ing that it proceeded from the lips of “one 
 of the southern riflemen; a corps as dis- 
 tinguished for its skill and bravery, as for its 
 want of breeding!” 
 
 The inside of this inn presented a very dif- 
 ferent aspect from its exterior. The decent 
 tradesman who kept it had so far yielded to 
 the emergency of the times, and perhaps, 
 also, to a certain propensity towards gain, as 
 temporarily to adopt the profession he fol- 
 lowed; but by a sort of implied compact with 
 the crowd without, while he administered to 
 their appetite for liquor, he preserved most 
 of the privacy of his domestic arrangements. 
 He had, however, been compelled to relin- 
 quish oneapartment entirely to the service of 
 the public, into which Cecil and her com- 
 panions were shown, as a matter of course, 
 without the smallest apology for its condition. 
 
 There might have been a dozen people in 
 the common room; some of whom were 
 quietly seated before its large fire, among 
 whom were one or two females ; some walk- 
 ing, and others distributed on chairs, as ac- 
 eident or inclination had placed them. A 
 
 387 
 
 slight movement was made at the entrance of 
 Cecil, but it soon subsided ; though her rich 
 mantle of fine cloth, and silken calash, did 
 not fail to draw the eyes of the women 
 upon her, with a ruder gaze than she had yet 
 encountered from the other sex during the 
 hazardous adventures of the night. She 
 took an offered seat near the bright and 
 cheerful blaze on the hearth, which imparted 
 all the light the room contained, and dis- 
 posed herself to wait in patience the return 
 of her conductor, who immediately took his 
 departure for the neighboring quarters of the 
 American chief. 
 
 «Tis an awful time for women bodies to 
 journey in!” said a middle-aged woman near 
 her, who was busily engaged in knitting, 
 though she also bore the marks of a traveller 
 in her dress—‘I’m sure if I had thought 
 there’d ha’ been such contentions, I would 
 never have crossed the Connecticut ; though 
 I have an only child in camp!” 
 
 “lo a mother, the distress must be great, 
 indeed,” said Cecil, ‘‘“when she hears the 
 report of a contest in which she knows her 
 children are engaged.” 
 
 “Yes, Royal is engaged as a six-months’- 
 man, and he is partly agreed to stay till the 
 king’s troops conclude to give up the town.” 
 
 ““It seems to me,” said a grave-looking 
 yeoman, who occupied the opposite corner of 
 the fireplace, ‘‘ your child has an unfitting 
 name for one who fights against the crown!” 
 
 ‘* Ah, he was so called before the king wor 
 his Scottish Boot! and what has once been 
 solemnly named, in holy baptism, is not to be 
 changed with the shift of the times! They 
 were twins, and I called one Prince and thie 
 other Royal; for they were born the day 
 his present majesty came to man’s estate. 
 That, you know, was before his heart had 
 changed, and when the people of the Bay 
 loved him little less than they did their own 
 flesh and blood.” 
 
 “*Why, Goody,” said the yoeman, smiling 
 good-humoredly, and rising to offer her a 
 pinch of his real Scotch, in token of amity, 
 while he made so free with her domestic 
 matters—‘“‘ you had then an heir to the 
 throne in your own family! The Prince 
 Royal, they say, comes next to the king; 
 and by your own tell, one of them, at least, 
 is a worthy fellow, who is not likely to sell 
 
388 
 
 his heritage for a mess of pottage! It I un- 
 derstand you, Royal is here in service ?”’ 
 
 “Fe’s at this blessed moment in one of 
 the battering-rams in front of Boston Neck,” 
 returned the woman; “and the Lord, he 
 knows, ’tis an awful calling, to be beating 
 down the houses of people of the same relig- 
 ion and blood with ourselves! but so it must 
 be, to prevail over the wicked designs of such 
 as would live in pomp and idleness, by the 
 sweat and labor of their fellow-creatures.” 
 
 The honest yeoman, who was somewhat 
 more familiar with the terms of modern war- 
 fare than the woman, smiled at her mistake, 
 while he pursued the conversation with a 
 peculiar gravity, which rendered his humor 
 doubly droll. 
 
 "Tis to be hoped the boy will not weary at 
 the weapon before the morning cometh. But 
 why does Prince linger behind at such a 
 moment? Tarries he with his father, on 
 the homestead, in safety, being the younger 
 born ?” 
 
 ‘‘No, no,” said the woman, shaking her 
 head, in sorrow, “he dwells, I trust, with our 
 common Father, in heaven! Neither are 
 you right in calling him the home-child. He 
 was my first-born, and a comely youth he 
 grew to be! When the cry that the reg’lars 
 were out at Lexington, to kill and destroy, 
 passed through the country, he shouldered 
 his musket and came down with the people, 
 to know the reason the land was stained with 
 American blood. He was young, and full of 
 ambition to be foremost among them who 
 were willing to fight for their birthrights ; 
 and the last I heard of him was in the midst 
 of the king’s troops on Breed’s. No, no ; his 
 body never came off the hill! The neighbors 
 sent me up the clothes he left in camp, and. 
 tis one of his socks that I’m now footing for 
 his twin-brother.”’ 
 
 The woman delivered this simple explana- 
 tion with perfect calmness ; though, as she 
 advanced in the subject, large tears started 
 from her eyes, and, following each other down 
 her cheeks, fell unheeded upon the humble 
 garment of her dead son. 
 
 ‘« This is the way our bravest striplings are 
 cut off, fighting with the scum of Europe ni 
 exclaimed the yeoman, with a warmth that 
 showed how powerfully his feelings were 
 touched—‘‘I hope the boy who lives may 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 find occasion to revenge his  brother’s 
 death.” 
 
 “ God forbid! God forbid! ” exclaimed the 
 weeping mother—“ revenge is an evil pas- 
 siou; and least of all would I wish a child of 
 mine to go into the field of blood with so foul 
 a breast. God has given us this land to dwell 
 in, and to rear up temples and worshippers of 
 his holy name; and in giving it, he bestowed 
 the right to defend it against all earthly op- 
 pression. If ’twas right for Prince to come, 
 *twas right for Royal to follow!” 
 
 “<I believe I am reproved in justice,” re- 
 turned the man, looking around at the spec- 
 tators with an eye that no longer teemed 
 with a hidden meaning—‘‘ God bless you, 
 my good woman, and deliver you, with your 
 remaining boy, and all of us, from the 
 scourge which has been inflicted on the coun- 
 try for our sins. I go west, into the moun- 
 tains, with the sun; and if I can carry any 
 word of comfort from you to the good man 
 at home, it will not be a hill or two that 
 shal] hinder it.” 
 
 «<The same thanks to you for the offer, as 
 if you did it, friend ; my man would be right 
 glad to see you at his settlement; but I 
 sicken already with the noises and awful 
 sights of warfare, and shall not tarry long 
 after my son comes forth from the battle. I 
 shall go down to Craigie’s house in the morn- 
 ing, and look upon the blessed man whom 
 the people have chosen from among them- 
 selves as a leader, and hurry back again ; for 
 I plainly see that this is not an abiding-place 
 for such as I!” 
 
 ‘You will then have to follow him into 
 the line of danger; for I saw him, within 
 the hour, riding, with all his followers, 
 toward the water-side ; and I doubt not that 
 this unusual waste of ammunition is intended 
 for more than we of little wit can guess.” 
 
 «Qf whom speak you ?” Cecil involun- 
 tarily asked. 
 
 ‘©Of whom should he speak, but of Wash- 
 ington ?” returned a deep, low voice at her 
 elbow, whose remarkable sounds instantly 
 recalled the tones of the aged messenger of 
 Death, who had appeared at the bed-side of 
 her grandmother. Cecil started from her 
 chair, and recoiled several paces from the 
 person of Ralph, who stood regarding her 
 with a steady and searching look, heedless of 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 the observation they attracted, as well as of 
 the number and quality of the spectators. 
 
 ‘« We are not strangers, young lady,” con- 
 tinued the old man.; “and if you will excuse 
 me, if I add, that the face of an acquaint- 
 ance must be grateful to one of your gentle 
 sex, in a place so unsettled and disorderly as 
 this.” 
 
 «An acquaiutance !” repeated the unpro- 
 tected bride. 
 
 «‘T said an acquaintance ; we know each 
 other, surely,” returned Ralph, with marked 
 emphasis; ‘you will believe me when I 
 add, that I have seen the two men in the 
 -guard-room, which is at hand.” 
 
 Cecil cast a furtive glance behind her, and, 
 with some alarm, perceived that she was sep- 
 arated from Meriton and the stranger. Be- 
 fore time was allowed for recollection, the 
 old man approached her with a courtly 
 breeding, that was rendered more striking by 
 the coarseness as well as negligence of his 
 attire. 
 
 «This is not a place for the niece of an 
 English peer,” he said ; ‘“‘ but I have long 
 been at home in this warlike village, and 
 will conduct you to another residence, more 
 suited to your sex and condition.” 
 
 For an instant Cccil hesitated ; but observ- 
 ing the wondering faces about her, and the 
 intense curiosity with which all in the room 
 suspended their several pursuits, to listen to 
 each syllable, she timidly accepted his offered 
 hand, suffering him to lead her, not only 
 from the room, but the house, in profound 
 silence. The door through which they left 
 the building was opposite to that by which 
 she had entered ; and when they found them- 
 selves in the open air, it was ina different 
 street, and a short distance removed from 
 the crowd of revellers already mentioned. 
 
 <7 have left two attendants behind me,” 
 she said, “‘ without whom ’tis impossible to 
 proceed.” 
 
 “«« As they are watched by armed men, you 
 have no choice but to share their confine- 
 ment, or to submit to the temporary separa- 
 tion,” returned the other, calmly. ‘‘ Should 
 his keepers diseover the character of him who 
 led you hither, his fate would be certain !” 
 
 _ “His character!” repeated Cecil, again 
 shrinking from the touch of the old man. 
 
 “Surely my words are plain! I said his 
 
 389 
 
 character. Is he not the deadly, obstinate 
 enemy of liberty? And think you these 
 countrymen of ours so dull as to suffer one 
 like him to go at large in their very camp ? 
 —No, no,” he muttered with a low, but ex- 
 ulting laugh ; “like a fool has he tempted 
 his fate, and like a dog shall he meet it! 
 Let us proceed ; the house is but a step from 
 this, and you may summon him to your pres- 
 ence if you will.” 
 
 Cecil was rather impelled by her compan- 
 ion, than induced to proceed, when, as he 
 had said, they soon stopped before the door 
 of an humble and retired building. . An 
 armed man paced along its front, while the 
 lengthened shadow of another sentinel in the 
 rear was every half-minute thrown far into 
 the street, in conformation of the watchful- 
 ness that was kept over those who dwelt 
 within. 
 
 ‘* Proceed,” said Ralph, throwing open the 
 outer door, without hesitation. Cecil com- 
 plied, but started at encountering another 
 man, trailing a musket, as he paced to and 
 fro in the narrow passage that received her. 
 Between this sentinel and Ralph, there 
 seemed to exist a good understanding, for the 
 latter addressed him with perfect freedom— 
 
 ‘‘Has no order been yet received from 
 Washington ?” he asked. 
 
 ‘“None; and I rather conclude, by the 
 delay, that nothing very favorable is to be 
 expected.” 
 
 The old man muttered to himself, but 
 passed on, and, throwing open another door, 
 said— 
 
 «« Enter.” 
 
 Again Cecil complied, the door closing on 
 her at the instant ; but before she had time 
 to express either her wonder or her alarm, 
 she was folded in the arms of her husband. 
 
 CN ae 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 ‘«Ts she a Capulet? 
 O dear account ! my life is my foe’s debt.” —Romeo. 
 
 ‘An! Lincoln! Lincoln!” cried the 
 weeping bride, gently extricating herself 
 from the long embrace of Lionel, ‘‘ at what 
 a moment did you desert me!” 
 
 «¢ And how have I been Netusbédila love! a 
 night of frenzy, and a morrow of useless 
 
390 
 
 regrets! How early have I been made to 
 feel the strength of those ties which unite 
 us ;—unless, indeed, my own folly may have 
 already severed them forever Le 
 
 «Trnant! I know you! and shall here- 
 after weave a web, with woman’s art, to keep 
 you in my toils! If you love me, Lionel, 
 as I would fain believe, let all the past be 
 forgotten. I ask—I wish, no explanation. 
 You have been deceived, and that repentant 
 eye assures me of your returning reason. 
 Let us now speak only of yourself. Why do 
 I find you thus guarded, more like a criminal 
 than an officer of the crown ?” 
 
 «“They have, indeed, bestowed especial 
 watchfulness on my safety !” 
 
 «‘ How came you in their power? and why 
 do they abuse their advantage ° e 
 
 «Tis easily explained. Presuming on the 
 tempestuousness of the night—what a bridal 
 was ours, Cecil !” 
 
 «Twas terrible!” she answered, shudder- 
 ing; then, with a bright and instant smile, 
 as if sedulous to chase every appearance of 
 distrust or care from her countenance, she 
 continued—‘ but I have no longer faith in 
 omens, Lincoln! or, if one has been given, 
 ‘s not the awful fulfilment already come? I 
 know not how you value the benediction of 
 a parting soul, Lionel, but to me there is 
 holy consolation in knowing that my dying 
 parent left her blessing on our sudden 
 union !” 
 
 Disregarding the hand, which, with gentle 
 earnestness, she had laid upon his shoulder, 
 he walked gloomily away, into a distant 
 eorner of the apartment. 
 
 « Qecil, I do love you, as you would fain 
 believe,” he said, “and I listen readily to 
 your wish to bury the past in oblivion. — 
 But I leave my tale unfinished. You know 
 the night was such that none would choose, 
 uselessly, to brave its fury—I attempted 
 to profit by the storm, and availing myself 
 of a flag, which is regularly granted to the 
 simpleton, Job Pray, I left the town. Im- 
 patient—do I say impatient ?—borne along 
 rather by a tempest of passions that mocked 
 the feebler elements, we ventured too much 
 ——Cecil, I was not alone !” 
 
 «‘T know it—I know it,” she said, hur- 
 riedly, though speaking barely above her 
 breath—‘‘ you ventured too much—” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘«¢ And encountere’ a piquet that would not 
 mistake a royal officer for an impoverished, 
 though privileged idiot. In our anxiety we 
 overlooked—believe me, dearest Cecil, that 
 if you knew all—the scene I had witnessed 
 _the motives which urged—they at least 
 would justify this strange and seeming de- 
 sertion.” 
 
 ‘‘ Did I doubt it, would I forget my condi- 
 tion, my recent loss, and my sex, to follow 
 in the footsteps of one unworthy of my soli- 
 citude! ” returned the bride, coloring as much 
 with innate modesty, as with the power of 
 her emotions. “Think not I come with 
 girlish weakness, to reproach you with any 
 fancied wrongs! I am your wife, Major Lin- 
 coln; and as such would I serve you, at a 
 moment when I know all the tenderness of 
 the tie will most be needed. At the altar, 
 and in the presence of my God, have I 
 acknowledged the sacred duty; and shall I 
 hesitate to discharge it because the eyes of 
 man are on me!” 
 
 «J shall go mad !—I shall go mad !” cried 
 Lionel, in ungovernable mental anguish, as — 
 he paced the floor, in violent disorder.-— 
 ‘There are moments when I think that the 
 curse, which destroyed the father, has already 
 lighted on the son !” 
 
 ‘‘ Lionel!” said the soft, soothing voice 
 of his companion at his elbow, ‘‘is this to 
 render me more happy ?—the welcome you 
 bestow on the confiding girl, who has com- 
 mitted her happiness to your keeping ? I 
 see you relent, and you will be more just to 
 us both; more dutiful to your God! Now 
 let us speak of your confinement. Surely, 
 you are not suspected of any criminal designs 
 in this rash visit to the camp of the Ameri- 
 cans! [were easy to convince their leaders 
 that you are innocent of so base a purpose hy 
 
 ‘Tis difficult to evade the vigilance of 
 those who struggle for liberty!” returned 
 the low, calm voice of Ralph, who stood 
 before them, unexpectedly. ‘‘ Major Lincoln 
 has too long listened to the councils of ty- 
 rants and slaves, and forgotten the land of 
 his birth. If he would be safe, let him retract 
 the error, while yet he may, with honor.” 
 
 « Honor!” repeated Lionel, with uncon- 
 cealed disdain—again pacing the room with 
 swift and uneasy steps, without deigning any 
 other notice of the unwelcome intruder. | 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 Cecil bowed her head, and, sinking in a chair, 
 concealed her face in her small muff, as if to 
 exclude some horrid and fearful sight from 
 her view. 
 
 The momentary silence was broken by the 
 sound of footsteps and of voices in the pas- 
 sage, and at the next instant, the door of the 
 room opening, Meriton was seen on its thres- 
 hold. His appearance roused Cecil, who, 
 springing on her feet, beckoned him away, 
 with a sort of frenzied earnestness, exclaim- 
 ing— 
 
 ‘“Not here! not here!—for the love of 
 heaven, not here!” 
 
 The valet hesitated, but, catching a 
 glimpse of his master, his attachment got the 
 ascendancy of his respect— 
 
 “God be praised for this blessed sight, 
 Master Lionel !” he cried—‘‘’tis the happi- 
 est hour I have seen since I lost the look at 
 the shores of old England! 
 Ravenscliffe, or in Soho, I should be the 
 most contented fool in the three kingdoms! 
 Ah, Master Lionel, let us get out of this 
 province, into the country, where there are No 
 rebels; or anything worse than Kings, Lords, 
 and Commons! ” 
 
 “Fnough now; for this time, worthy Meri- 
 ton, enough!” interrupted Cecil, breathing 
 with difficulty, in her eagerness to be heard. 
 —* Go—return to the inn—the colleges 
 anywhere—do but go!” 
 
 «*Ton’t send a loyal subject, ma’am, again 
 among the rebels, I desire to entreat of you. 
 Such awful blasphemies, sir, as I heard while 
 I was there! They spoke of his sacred ma- 
 jesty just as freely, sir, as if he had been a 
 gentleman like yourself. Joyful was the 
 news of my release!” 
 
 “And had it been a guard-room on the 
 Opposite shore,” said Ralph, “the liberties 
 they used with your earthly monarch would 
 have been as freely taken with the King of 
 kings!” 
 
 ‘‘You shall remain, then,” said Cecil, prob- 
 ably mistaken the look of high disdain which 
 Meriton bestowed on his aged fellow-voyager, 
 for one of a very different meaning—*“ but 
 not here. You have other apartments, Major 
 Lincoln; let my attendants be received there 
 —you surely would not admit the menials to 
 our interview!” 
 
 ‘* Why this sudden terror, love? Here, if 
 
 If ’twas only at. 
 
 391 
 
 not happy, you at least are safe. Go, Meriton, 
 into the adjoining room; if wanted, there is 
 admission through this door of communica- 
 tion.” 
 
 The valet murmured some _half-uttered 
 sentences, of which only the emphatic word 
 “oenteel” was audible; while the direction 
 of his discontented eye sufficiently betrayed 
 that Ralph was the subject of his meditations. 
 The old man followed his footsteps, and the 
 door of the passage soon closed on both, leav- 
 ing Cecil standing, like a beautiful statue, in 
 an attitude of absorbed thought. When the 
 noise of her attendants, as they quietly en- 
 tered the adjoining room, was heard, she 
 breathed again, with a tremulous sigh, that 
 seemed to raise a weight of apprehension from 
 her heart. 
 
 “Fear not for me, Cecil, and least of all 
 for yourself,” said Lionel, drawing her to his 
 bosom with fond solicitude—‘‘ my headlong 
 rashness, or rather that fatal bane to the 
 happiness of my house, the distempered feel- 
 ing which you must have often seen and de- 
 plored, has indeed led me into a seeming 
 danger. But I havea reason for my conduct, 
 which, avowed, shall lull the suspicions of 
 even our enemies to sleep.” 
 
 ‘‘T have no suspicions—no knowledge 
 of any imperfections—no regrets, Lionel ;— 
 nothing but the most ardent wishes for your 
 peace of mind; and, if I might explain!—yes, 
 now is a time—Lionel, kind, but truant Lio- 
 nel e 
 
 Her words were interrupted by Ralph, who 
 appeared again in the room, with that noise- 
 less step, which, in conjunction with his 
 great age and attenuated frame, sometimes 
 gave to his movements and aspects the char- 
 acter of a being superior to the attributes of 
 humanity. On his arm he bore an overcoat 
 and a hat, both of which Cecil recognized, at 
 a glance, as the property of the unknown 
 man who had attended her person throughout 
 all the vicissitudes of that eventful night. 
 
 «‘See!” said Ralph, exhibiting his spoils 
 with a ghastly, yet meaning smile, ‘‘ to see 
 in how many forms Liberty appears to aid 
 her votaries! Here is the guise in which she 
 will now be courted! Wear them, young 
 man, and be free !” 
 
 ‘* Believe him not—listen not,” whispered 
 Cecil, while she shrunk from his approach in 
 
392 
 
 undisguised terror—‘‘ nay, do listen, but act 
 
 with caution ! ” 
 
 «Dost thou delay to receive the blessed 
 
 boom of freedom, when offered ?” demanded 
 
 Ralph ; ‘‘ wouldst thou remain, and brave 
 the angry justice of the American chief, and 
 make thy wife, of a day, a widow for an 
 
 age?” 
 
 ‘‘In what manner am I to profit by this 
 dress ?” said Lionel.—‘‘To submit to the 
 degradation of a disguise, success should be 
 certain.” 
 
 «Turn thy haughty eyes, young man, on 
 the picture of innocence and terror at thy 
 side. For the sake of her whose fate is 
 wrapped in thine, if not for your own, con- 
 sult thy safety, and fly—another minute may 
 be too late.” 
 
 ‘‘Oh! hesitate not a moment longer, Lin- 
 coln,” cried Cecil, with a change of purpose 
 as sudden as the impulse was powerful—“‘ fly, 
 —leave me; my sex and station will be 4 
 
 ‘«‘ Never,” said Lionel, casting the garment 
 from him, in cool disdain.—‘‘ Once, when 
 Death was busy, did I abandon thee ; but, 
 ere I do it again, his blow must fall on me!” 
 
 «J will follow—I will rejoin you.” 
 
 «You shall not part,” said Ralph, once 
 more raising the rejected coat, and lending 
 his aid to envelop the form of Lionel, who 
 stood passive under the united efforts of his 
 bride and her aged assistant. ‘‘ Remain 
 here,” the latter added, when their brief task 
 was ended, ‘‘and await the summons to free- 
 dom. And thou, sweet flower of innocence 
 and love, follow, and share in the honor of 
 liberating him who has enslaved thee !” 
 
 Cecil blushed with virgin shame, at the 
 strength of his expressions, but bowed her 
 head in silent acquiescence to his will. Pro- 
 ceeding to the door, he beckoned her to ap- 
 proach, indicating, by an expressive gesture 
 to Lionel, that he was to remain stationary. 
 When Cecil had complied, and they were in 
 the narrow passage of the building, Ralph, 
 instead of betraying any apprehension of the 
 sentinel who paced its length, fearlessly ap- 
 proached, and addressed him with the confi- 
 dence of a known friend— 
 
 «‘ See!” he said, removing the calash from 
 before the pale features of his companion, 
 
 <¢ how terror for the fate of her husband has 
 caused the good child to weep! She quits 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE. COOPER. 
 
 him now, friend, with one of her attendants, 
 while the other tarries to administer to his 
 master’s wants. Look at her; is’t not asweet, 
 though morning partner, to smooth the path 
 of a soldier’s life !” 
 
 The man seemed awkwardly sensible of the 
 unusual charms that Ralph so unceremon~ 
 iously exhibited to his view; and while he 
 stood in admiring embarrassment, ashamed 
 to gaze, and yet unwilling to retire, Cecil 
 traced the light footsteps of the old man, 
 entering the room occupied by Meriton and 
 the stranger. She was still in the act of veil- 
 ing her features from the eyes of the sentinel, 
 when Ralph reappeared, attended by a figure 
 muffied in the well-known overcoat. Not- 
 withstanding the flopped hat, and studied 
 concealment of his gait, the keen eyes of the 
 wife penetrated the disguise of her husband ; 
 and recollecting, at the same instant the door 
 of communication between the two apart- 
 ments, the whole artifice was at once revealed. 
 With trembling eagerness she glided past the 
 sentinel, and pressed to the side of Lionel, 
 with a dependence that might have betrayed 
 the deception to one more accustomed to the 
 forms of life than was the honest countryman 
 who had so recently thrown aside the flail to 
 carry a musket. 
 
 Ralph allowed the sentinel no time to de- 
 liberate ; but waving his hand in token of 
 adieu, he led the way into the street, with his 
 accustomed activity. Here they found them- 
 selves in the presence of the other soldier, 
 who moved to and fro, along the allotted 
 ground in front of the building, rendering 
 the watchfulness, by which they were envir- 
 oned, doubly embarrassing. Following the 
 example of their aged conductor, Lionel and 
 his trembling companion walked with appar- 
 ent indifference towards this man, who, as it 
 proved, was better deserving of his trust than 
 his fellow within doors. Dropping his mus- 
 ket across their path, in a manner which an- 
 nounced an intention to inquire into their 
 movements, before he suffered them to pro- 
 ceed, he roughly demanded— 
 
 “How’s this, old gentleman? you come 
 out of the prisoner’s rooms by squads! one, 
 two, three; our English gallant might be 
 among you, and there would still be two left! 
 Come, come, old father, render some account 
 of yourself, and of your command. For, to - 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 be plain with you, there are those who think 
 you are no better than a spy of Howe’s, not- 
 withstanding you are left to run up and 
 down the camp, as you please. In plain 
 Yankee dialect, and that’s intelligible En- 
 glish, you have been caught in bad company 
 of late, and there has been hard talk about 
 
 shutting you up, as well as your comrade!” 
 
 “ Hear ye that?” said Ralph, calmly smil- 
 ing, and addressing himself to his compan- 
 ions, instead of the man whose interroga- 
 tories he was expected to answer—“ think 
 you the hirelings of the crown are thus alert p 
 Would not the slaves be sleeping the moment 
 the eyes of their tyrants are turned on their 
 own lawless pleasures ? Thus it is with Lib- 
 erty! The sacred spirit hallows its meanest 
 votaries, and elevates the private to all the 
 virtues of the proudest captain!” 
 
 “Come, come,” returned the flattered sen- 
 tinel, throwing his musket back to his shoul- 
 der again, “I believe a man gains nothing by 
 battling you with words! I should have 
 spent a year or two inside yonder colleges to 
 dive at all your meaning. Though I can 
 guess you are more than half right in one 
 thing; for if a poor fellow, who loves his 
 ~ country, and the good cause, finds it so hard 
 to keep his eyes open on post, what must it 
 be to a half-starved devil on sixpence a day! 
 Go along, go along, old father; there is one 
 less of you than went in, and if there was 
 anything wrong, the man in the house should 
 know it!” 
 
 As he concluded, the sentinel continued 
 his walk, humming a verse of Yankee-doodle, 
 in excellent favor with himself and all man- 
 kind, with the sweeping exception of his 
 country’s enemies. To say that this was not 
 the first instance of well-meaning integrity 
 being cajoled by the jargon of. liberty, might 
 be an assertion too hazardous; but that it 
 has not been the last, we conscientiously 
 believe, though no immediate example may 
 ‘present itself to quote in support of such 
 heretical credulity. 
 
 Ralph appeared, however, perfectly inno- 
 cent of intending to utter more than the 
 spirit of the times justified ; for, when left 
 to his own pleasure, he pursued his way, mut- 
 tering rapidly to himself, and with an earn- 
 estness that attested his sincerity. When 
 they had turned a corner, et a little distance 
 
 393 
 
 from any pressing danger, he relaxed in his 
 movements, and, suffering his eager com- 
 panions to approach, he stole to the side of 
 Lionel, and, clenching his hand fiercely, he 
 whispered, in a voice half choked by inward 
 exultation— 
 
 ‘‘T have him now; he is no longer danger- 
 ous! Ay—ay—I have him closely watched 
 by the vigilance of three incorruptible pa- 
 triots! ” 
 
 “ Of whom speak you?” demanded Lionel 
 —‘‘ what is his offence, and where is your 
 captive ?” 
 
 «A dog! aman in form, but a tiger in 
 heart! Ay! but I have him!” the old man 
 continued, with a hollow laugh, that seemed 
 to heave up from his inmost soul—“a dog ; 
 a veritable dog! I have him, and God grant 
 that he may drink of the cup of slavery to 
 its dregs! ” | 
 
 ‘<Qld man,” said Lionel, firmly, ‘that I 
 have followed you thus far on no unworthy 
 errand, you best may testify—I have forgot- 
 ten the oath which, at the altar, I had sworn 
 to, to cherish this sweet and spotless being at 
 my side, at your instigation, aided by the 
 maddening circumstances of a moment; but 
 the delusion has already passed away! Here 
 we part forever, unless your solemn and 
 often-repeated promises are, on the instant, 
 redeemed.” 
 
 The high exultation, which had so lately 
 rendered the emaciated countenance of Ralph 
 hideously ghastly, disappeared like a passing 
 shadow; and he listened to the words of 
 Lionel with calm and settled attention. But 
 when he would have answered, he was in- 
 terrupted by Cecil, who uttered, in a voice 
 nearly suppressed by her fears— 
 
 “Oh! delay nota moment! Let us pro- 
 ceed anywhere, or anyhow! even now the 
 pursuers may be on our track. J am strong, 
 dearest Lionel, and will follow to the ends of 
 the earth, so you but lead!” 
 
 “ T,jonel Lincoln, I have not deceived thee 
 said the old man, solemnly. ‘ Providence 
 has already led us on our way, and a few min- 
 utes will bring us to our goal—suffer, then, 
 that gentler trembler to return into the 
 village, and follow!” 
 
 ‘Not an inch!” returned Lionel, pressing 
 Cecil still closer to his side—‘‘ here we part, 
 or your promises are fulfilled.” 
 
 1? 
 
394 
 
 “Nay, go with him—go,” again whispered 
 the being who clung to him in trembling de- 
 pendence. ‘This very controversy may 
 prove your ruin—did I not say I would 
 accompany you, Lincoln?” 
 
 «Lead on, then,” said her husband, mo- 
 tioning Ralph to proceed—‘‘ once again will 
 I confide in you; but use the trust with dis- 
 cretion, for my guardian spirit is at hand ; 
 and remember, too, thou no longer leadest a 
 lunatic !” 
 
 The moon fell upon the wan features of 
 the old man, and exhibited their contented 
 smile, as he silently turned away, and re- 
 sumed his progress with his wonted rapid and 
 noiseless tread. Their route still lay towards 
 the skirts of the village. While the build- 
 ings of the University were yet in the near 
 view, and the loud laugh of the idlers about 
 the inn, with the frequent challenges of the 
 sentinels, were still distinctly audible, their 
 conductor bent his way beneath the walls 
 of a church, that rose in solemn solitude in 
 the deceptive light of the evening. Pointing 
 upward at its somewhat unusual, because 
 regular architecture, Ralph muttered, as he 
 passed— 
 
 ‘Here, at least, God possesses his own, 
 without insult !” 
 
 Lionel and Cecil slightly glanced their eyes 
 at the silent walls, and followed into a small 
 enclosure, through a gap in its humble and 
 dilapidated fence. Here the former again 
 paused and spoke— 
 
 «TY will go no further,” he said, uncon- 
 sciously strengthening the declaration by 
 placing his foot firmly on the frozen earth, 
 in an attitude of resistance—‘‘’tis time to 
 cease thinking of self, and to listen to the 
 weakness of her whom I support !” 
 
 ‘¢ Think not of me, dearest Lincolna_—’ 
 
 Cecil was interrupted by the voice of the 
 old man, who, raising his hat, and baring his 
 gray locks to the mild rays of the planet, 
 answered witn tremulous emotion— 
 
 ‘Thy task is already ended! Thou hast 
 reached the spot, where moulder the bones of 
 one who long supported thee. Unthinking 
 boy, that sacrilegious foot treads on thy 
 mother’s grave ! ” 
 
 3 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ‘Oh, age has weary days, 
 And nights o’ sleepless pain ! 
 Thou golden time o’ youthful prime, 
 Why com’st thou not again?” —BURNS. 
 
 Tre stillness that succeeded this unex- 
 pected annunciation was like the cold silence 
 of those who slumbered on every side of — 
 them. Lionel recoiled a pace, in horror ; 
 then, imitating the action of the old man, he 
 uncovered his head, in pious reverence of the 
 
 parent, whose form floated dimly in his im- 
 
 agination, like the earliest recollections of 
 infancy, or the imperfect fancies of some 
 dream. When time was given for these sud- 
 den emotions to subside, he turned to Ralph, 
 and said— 
 
 «And was it here that you would bring 
 me, to listen to the sorrows of my family ?” 
 
 An expression of piteous anguish crossed 
 the features of the other, as he answered, in 
 a voice which was subdued to softness— 
 
 ‘«‘ Bven here—here in the presence of thy 
 mother’s grave, shalt thou hear the tale!” 
 
 <¢ Then let it be here!” said Lionel, whose 
 eye was already kindling with a wild and dis- 
 ordered meaning, that curdled the blood of ~ 
 the anxious Cecil, who watched its expression 
 with a woman’s solicitude.—‘‘ Here, on this 
 hallowed spot, will I listen, and swear the 
 vengeance that is due, if all thy previous 
 intimations should be just i 
 
 ‘No, no, no—listen not—tarry not 
 said Cecil, clinging to his side in undisguised 
 alarm—‘‘ Lincoln, you are not equal to the 
 scene !” 
 
 ‘““T am equal to anything, in such a cause.” 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, Lionel, you overrate your powers } 
 —Think only of your safety, now; at an- 
 
 ! 9 
 
 other and happier moment, you shall know 
 
 all--yes —- I — Cecil — thy bride, thy wife, 
 promise that all shall be revealed —” 
 
 «Thou !” 
 
 «It is the descendant of the widow of John 
 Lechmere who speaks, and thy ears will not 
 refuse the sounds,” said Ralph, with a smile 
 that acted like a taunt on the awakened im- 
 pulses of the young man.—‘‘ Go—thou art 
 fitter for a bridal than a church-yard 1” 
 
 ‘‘T have told you that I am equal to any- 
 thing,” sternly answered Lionel; “ here will 
 I sit, on this humble tablet, to hear all that 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 you can utter, though the rebel legions en- 
 circle me to my death !” 
 
 “What ! dar’st brave the averted eye of 
 one so dear to thy heart ?” 
 
 « Aj], or anything,” exclaimed the excited 
 youth, ‘‘ with so pious an object.” 
 
 «“Bravely answered! and thy reward is 
 nigh—nay, look not on the siren, or thou 
 wilt relent.” 
 
 “My wife!” said Lionel, extending his 
 hand, kindly, towards the shrinking form of 
 Cecil. 
 
 “Thy mother !” interrupted Ralph, point- 
 ing with his emaciated hand to the cold resi- 
 dence of the dead. 
 
 Lionel sunk on the dilapidated gravestone 
 to which he had just alluded, and gathering 
 his coat about him, he rested an arm upon 
 his knee, while its hand supported his quiver- 
 ing chin, as if he were desperately bent on 
 his gloomy purpose. The old man smiled 
 with his usual ghastly expression, as he wit- 
 nessed this proof of his success, and he took 
 a similar seat on the opposite side of the 
 grave, which seemed the focus of their com- 
 mon interest. Here he dropped his face be- 
 
 ¢ween his hands, and appeared to muse, like 
 
 one who was collecting his thoughts for the 
 coming emergency. During this short and 
 impressive pause, Lionel felt the trembling 
 form of Cecil drawing to his side; and before 
 his aged companion spoke, her unveiled and 
 pallid countenance was once more watching 
 the changes of his own features, in submis- 
 sive, but anxious attention. 
 
 «‘Thou knowest already, Lionel Lincoln,” 
 commenced Ralph, slowly raising his body to 
 an upright attitude, “how, in past ages, thy 
 family sought three colonies, to find religious 
 quiet, and the peace of the just. And thou 
 also knowest,—for often did we beguile the 
 long watches of the night im discoursing of 
 these things, while the never-tiring ocean 
 was rolling its waters unheeded around,— 
 how Death came into its elder branch, which 
 still dwelt amid the luxury and corruption 
 of the English court, and left thy father the 
 heir of all its riches and honors.” 
 
 “How much of this is unknown to the 
 meanest gossip in the province of Massa- 
 chusetts Bay?” interrupted the impatient 
 Lionel. 
 
 «But they do not know, that, for years be- 
 
 395 
 
 fore this accumulation of fortune actually 
 occured, it was deemed to be inevitable by 
 the decrees of Providence; they do not 
 know how much more value the orphan son 
 of the unprovided soldier found in the eyes 
 of those even of his own blood, by the 
 expectation; nor do they know how the 
 worldly-minded Priscilla Lechmere, thy 
 father’s aunt, would have compassed heaven 
 and earth, to have seen that wealth, and 
 those honors, to which it was her greatest 
 boast to claim alliance, descend in the line of 
 her own body. 
 
 “But *twas impossible! She was of the 
 female branch; neither had she a son !” 
 
 ‘‘ Nothing seems impossible to those on 
 whose peace of mind the worm of ambition 
 feeds—thou knowest well she left a grand- 
 child; had not that child a mother ?” 
 
 Lionel felt a painful conviction of the 
 connection, as the trembling object of these 
 remarks sunk her head in shame and sorrow — 
 on his bosom, keenly alive to the justice of 
 the character drawn of her deceased rela- 
 tive, by the mysterious being who had just 
 spoken. 
 
 “God forbid, that I, a Christian, and a 
 gentleman,” continued the old man, a little 
 proudly, “should utter a syllable to taint the 
 spotless name of one so free from blemish 
 as she of whom I speak. The sweet child 
 who clings to thee, in dread, Lionel, was not 
 more pure and inoocent than she who bore 
 her. And long before ambition had wove its 
 toils for the miserable Priscilla, the heart of 
 her daughter was the property of the gallant 
 and honorable Englishman, to whom in later 
 years she was wedded.” 
 
 As Cecil heard this soothing commend- 
 ation of her more immediate parents, she 
 again raised her face into the light of the 
 moon, and remained, where she was already 
 kneeling, at the side of Lionel, no longer an 
 uneasy, but a deepiy interested listener to 
 what followed. | 
 
 « As the wishes of my unhappy aunt were 
 not realized,” said Major Lincoln, ‘‘ in what 
 manner could they affect the fortunes of my 
 father ?” 
 
 «Thou shalt hear. In the same dwelling 
 lived another, even fairer, and, to the eye, 
 as pure as the daughter of Priscilla. She 
 was the relative, the god-child, and the ward 
 
396 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 of that miserable woman. The beauty, and | read in her exulting eye the treason of her 
 seeming virtues of this apparent angel in | mind, and, like thee, he dared to call heaven 
 human form, caught the young eye of thy | to witness, that thy mother was defamed. 
 father, and, in defiance of arts and schemes, | But there was one known to him, under cir- 
 before the long-expected title and fortune | cumstances that forbade the thoughts of 
 came, they were wedded, and thou wert deceit, who swore—ay, took the blessed name 
 born, Lionel, to render the boon of Fate | of Him who reads all hearts, for warranty of 
 doubly welcome.” her truth !—and she confirmed it.” 
 
 « And then i “The infamous seducer!” said Lionel, 
 
 «And then thy father hastened to the | hoarsely, his body turning unconsciously 
 land of his ancestors to claim his own, and.| away from Cecil—‘‘ does he yet live? Give 
 to prepare the way for the reception of your- him to my vengeance, old man, and I will 
 self, and his beloved Priscilla—for then | yet bless you for your accursed history !” 
 there were two Priscillas; and now both| “Lionel, Lionel,” said the soothing voice 
 sleep with the dead! All having life and | of his bride, “do you credit him ?” 
 nature can claim the quiet of the grave, but “ Credit him !” said Ralph, with a horrid 
 I,” continued the old man, glancing his ; inward laugh, “as if he would deride the 
 hollow eye upward, with a look of hopeless | idea of incredulity ; “all this must he be- 
 misery —‘ I, who have seen ages pass since | lieve, and more! Once again, weak girl, did 
 the blood of youth has been chilled, and! thy grandmother throw out her lures for the 
 generation after generation swept away, must wealthy baronet, and when he would not be- 
 still linger in the haunts of men! but ’tis to | come her son, then did she league with the 
 aid in the great work which commences here, | spirits of hell to compass his ruin. Revenge 
 but which shall not end until a continent be | took place of ambition, and thy husband’s 
 regenerate.” father was the victim ! ” 
 
 Lionel suffered a minute to pass without a| “Say on!” cried Lionel, nearly ceasing to 
 question, in deference to this burst of feel- breathe in the intensity of his interest. 
 
 ing ; but soon, making an impatient move- ‘«‘The blow had cut him to the heart ; 
 ment, it drew the eyes of Ralph once more | and for a time, his reason was crushed be- 
 upon him, and the old man continued— neath its weight. Yet *twas but for an hour, 
 
 “Month after month, for two long and | compared to the eternity a man is doomed to 
 tedious years, did thy father linger in Eng- live! They profited by the temporary de- 
 land, struggling for his own. At length he rangement, and when his wandering facul- 
 prevailed. He then hastened thither ; but | ties were lulled to quiet, he found himself the 
 there was no wife—no fond and loving Pris- | tenant of a mad-house, where for twenty long 
 cilla, like that tender flower that reposes in | years, was he herded with the defaced im- 
 thy bosom, to welcome his return.” ages of his Maker, by the arts of the base 
 
 “JT know it,” said Lionel, nearly choked | widow of John Lechmere.” 
 by his pious recollections— she was dead.” |  “ Can this be true! Can this be true !” 
 
 ‘She was more,” returned Ralph, in a| cried Lionel, clasping his hands wildly, and 
 voice so deep, that it sounded like one speak- springing to his feet, with a violence that 
 ing from the grave—“ she was dishonored |” | cast the tender form that still clung to him, 
 
 «<?Tis false !” - |aside, like a worthless toy—‘“ Can this be 
 
 «Tis true; true as that holy gospel which | proved? How knowest thou these facts ? ” 
 comes to men through the inspired ministers The calm, but melancholy smile that was 
 of God!” wont to light the wan features of the old 
 
 «Tis false,” repeated Lionel fiercely— | man, when he alluded to his own existence, 
 blacker than the darkest thoughts of the | was once more visible, as he answered— 
 foul spirit of evil !” ‘‘There is but little hid from the knowl- 
 
 “T say, rash boy, ’?tis true! She died in| edge acquired by length of days ; besides, 
 giving birth to the fruits of her infamy. | have I not secret means of intelligence that 
 When Priscilla Lechmere met thy heart-| are unknown to thee? Remember what, in 
 stricken parent with the damning tale, he | our frequent interviews, I have revealed; re- 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 call the death-bed scene of Priscilla Lech- 
 more, and ask thyself if there be not truth in 
 thy aged friend?” 
 
 ‘< Give me all! hold not back a tittle of 
 thy accursed tale—give me all—or take back 
 each syllable thou hast uttered.” 
 
 «© hou shalt have all thou askest, Lionel 
 Lincoln, and more,” returned Ralph—throw- 
 ing into his manner and voice its utmost 
 powers of solemnity and persuasion—“ pro- 
 vided thou wilt swear eternal hatred to that 
 country and those laws, by which an inno- 
 cent and unoffending man can be levelled 
 with the beasts of the field, and be made to 
 rave even at his Maker, in the bitterness of 
 his sufferings.’ ’ 
 
 ‘More than that—ten thousand times 
 more than that, will I swear—I will league 
 with this rebellion rn 
 
 “Tionel, Lionel—what is’t you do?” in- 
 terrupted the heart-stricken Cecil. 
 
 But her voice was stilled by loud and busy 
 cries, which broke out of the village, above 
 the hum of revelry, and were instantly suc- 
 ceeded by the trampling of footsteps, as men 
 rushed over the frozen ground, apparently 
 by hundreds, and with headlong rapidity. 
 Ralph, who was not less qnick to hear these 
 sounds than the timid bride, glided from the 
 grave, and approached the high-way, whither 
 he was slowly followed by his companions ; 
 Lionel, utterly indifferent whither he pro- 
 ceeded, and Cecil trembling in every limb 
 with terror for the safety of him who so lit- 
 tle regarded his own danger. 
 
 «‘They are abroad, and think to find an 
 enemy,” said the old man, raising his hand 
 with a gesture to command attention ; “but 
 he has sworn to join their standards, and 
 gladly will they receive any of his name and 
 family !” 
 
 “No, no—he has pledged himself to no 
 dishonor,” cried Cecil.—“ Fly, Lincoln, while 
 you are free, and leave me to meet the pur- 
 suers—they will respect my weakness.” 
 
 Fortunately, the allusion to herself awak- 
 ened Lionel from the dull forgetfulness into 
 which his faculties had fallen. Encircling 
 her slight figure with his arm, he turned 
 swiftly from the spot, saying, as he urged her 
 forward— 
 
 ‘«¢OQld man, when this precious charge is in 
 safety, thy truth or falsehood shall be proved.” 
 
 ——_ —————————————_— 
 
 307 
 
 But Ralph, whose unencumbered person 
 and iron frame, which seemed to mock the 
 ravages of time, gave a vast superiority over 
 the impeded progress of the other, moved 
 swiftly ahead, waving his hand on high, as if 
 to indicate his intention to join in the flight, 
 while he led the way into the fields adjacent 
 to the church-yard they had quitted. 
 
 The noise of the pursuers soon became 
 more distinct, and, in the intervals of the 
 distant cannonade, the cries and directions 
 of those who conducted the chase were dis- 
 tinctly audible. Notwithstanding the vig- 
 orous arm of her supporter, Cecil was soon 
 sensible that her delicate frame was unequal 
 to continue the exertions necessary to ensure 
 their safety. They had entered another road, 
 which lay at no great distance from the first, 
 when she paused, and reluctantly declared 
 her inability to proceed. 
 
 “Then, here will we await our captors,” 
 said Lionel, with forced composure—‘ let 
 the rebels beware how they abuse their slight 
 advantage !” 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered, when a 
 cart, drawn by a double-team, turned an 
 angle in the highway, near them, and its 
 driver appeared within a few feet of the spot 
 where they stood. He was a man far ad- 
 vanced in years, but still wielded his long 
 goad with a dexterity, which had been im- 
 parted by the practice of more than half a 
 century. The sight of this man, alone, and 
 removed from immediate aid, suggested a 
 desperate thought of self-preservation to 
 Lionel. Quitting the side of his exhausted 
 companion, he advanced upon him with an 
 air so fierce, that it might have created alarm 
 in one who had the smallest reason to appre- 
 hend any danger. 
 
 “Whither go you with that cart?” sternly 
 demanded the young man, on the instant. 
 
 «<To the Point,” was the ready answer. 
 
 | «Yes, yes—old and young—big and little— 
 
 men and cre’turs—four-wheels and two- 
 wheels—everything goes to the Point to- 
 night, as you can guess, frind! Why,” he 
 continued, dropping one end of his goad on 
 the ground, and supporting himself by grasp- 
 ing it with both his hands—“I was eighty- 
 three the fourteenth of the last March, and 
 I hope, God willing, that when the next 
 birthday comes, there won’t be a red-coat left 
 
398 
 
 in the town of Boston. To my notion, frrnd, 
 they have held the place long enough, and 
 it’s time to quit. My boys are in the camp, 
 soldiering a turn—the old woman has been 
 as busy as a bee, sin’ sun-down, helping me 
 to load up what you see, and I am carrying 
 it over to Dorchester, and not a farthing 
 shall it ever cost the congress !” 
 
 « And you are going to Dorchester Neck 
 with your bundles of hay !” said Lionel, eye- 
 ing both him and his passing team, in hesi- 
 tation whether to attempt violence on one so 
 infirm and helpless. 
 
 «Anan! you must speak up, soldier-fash- 
 ion, as you did at first, for I am a little 
 deaf,” returned the carter. ‘‘ Yes, yes, they 
 spared me in the press, for they said I had 
 done enough; but I say a man has never done 
 enough for his own country, when anything 
 is left to be done. I’m told they are carry- 
 ing over fashines, as they call ’em, and 
 pressed-hay, for their forts.—As hay is more 
 in my fashion than any other fashion, I’ve 
 bundled up a stout pile on’t here; and if that 
 won’t do, why, let Washington come ; he is 
 welcome to the barn, stacks and all! ” 
 
 «While you are so liberal to the congress, 
 can you help a female in distress, who would 
 wish to go in the direction of your route, but 
 is too feeble to walk ?” 
 
 ‘* With all my heart,” said the other, turn- 
 ing round in quest of her whom he was de- 
 sired to assist—‘‘ I hope she is handy; for the 
 night wears on, and I shouldn’t like to have 
 the English send a bullet at our people on 
 Dorchester hills, before my hay gets there to 
 help stop it.” 
 
 ‘She shall not detain you an instant,” said 
 Lionel, springing to the place where Cecil 
 stood, partly concealed by the fence, and sup- 
 porting her to the side of the rude vehicle— 
 you shall be amply rewarded for this service.” 
 
 ‘‘Rewarded! Perhaps she is the wife or 
 daughter of asoldier, in which case she should 
 be drawn in her coach-and-four, instead of a 
 cart and double team.” 
 
 “Yes, yes—you are right, she is both—the 
 wife of one, and the daughter of another sol- 
 dier.” 
 
 «Ay! God bless her! I warrant me old Put 
 was more than half right, when he said the 
 women would stop the two ridgements, that 
 the proud parliamenter boasted could march 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 through the colonies, from Hampshire to _ 
 Georgi’. Well, fri’nds, are ye situated ?” 
 ‘« Perfectly,” said Lionel, who had been pre- 
 
 paring seats for himself and Cecil among the 
 
 bundles of hay, and assisting his companion 
 into her place during the dialogue—‘‘ we will 
 detain you no longer.” 
 
 The carter, who was no less than the owner 
 of a hundred acres of good land in the vi- 
 cinity, signified his readiness ; and sweeping 
 
 through the air with his goad, he brought his 
 
 cattle to the proper direction, and slowly 
 movedon. During this hurried scene, Ralph 
 had continued hid by the shadows of the fence. 
 When the cart proceeded, he waved his hand, 
 and gliding across the road, was soon lost to 
 the eye in the misty distance, with which his 
 gray apparel blended, like a spectre vanishing 
 in alr. 
 
 In the meantime the pursuers had not been 
 idle. Voices were heard in different direc- 
 tions and dim forms were to be seen rushing 
 through the fields, by the aid of the deceptive 
 light of the moon. ‘To add to the embarrass- 
 ment of their situation, Lionel found,when too 
 late, that the route to Dorchester lay directly 
 through the village of Cambridge. When he 
 perceived they were approaching the streets, 
 he would have left the cart, had not the ex- 
 periment been too dangerous, in the midst of 
 the disturbed soldiery, who now flew by on 
 every side of them. In such a strait, his 
 safest course was to continue motionless and 
 silent, secreting his own form and that of 
 Cecil, as much as possible, among the bundles 
 of hay. Contrary to all the just expectations, 
 which the impatient patriotism of of the old 
 yeoman had excited, instead of driving stead- 
 ily through the place, he turned his cattle a 
 little from the direct route, and stopped in 
 front of the very inn, where Cecil had so 
 lately been conducted by her guide from the 
 Point. 
 
 Here the same noisy and thoughtless revelry 
 existed as before. ‘The arrival of such an 
 equipage at once drew a crowd to the spot, 
 and the uneasy pair on the top of the load be- 
 came unwilling listeners to the conversation. 
 
 ‘‘ What, old one, hard at it for Congress! ” 
 cried a man, approaching with a mug in his 
 hand; “come, wet your throat, my venerable 
 father of Liberty, for you are too old to be a 
 son!” 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 <° Yes, yes,” answered the exulting farmer, 
 “‘Tam father and son, too! I have four 
 boys in camp, and seven grand’uns, in the 
 bargain; and that would be eleven good trig- 
 gers in one family, if five good muskets had so 
 many locks—but the youngest men have got 
 a ducking-gun, and a double-barrel atween 
 them, howsomever; and Aaron, the boy, car- 
 ries as good a horse-pistol, I calculate, as any 
 there is going in the Bay! But what an un- 
 easy time you have on’t to-night! There’s 
 more powder wasted mocking thunder than 
 would fight old Bunker over again, at ‘white 
 o’ the eye’ distance!” 
 
 “?Tis the way of war, old man; and we 
 want to keep the reg’lars from looking at 
 Dorchester.” 
 
 ‘‘Tf they did, they couldn’t see far to-night. 
 But, now, do tell me; I am an old man, and 
 have a grain of cur’osity in the flesh; my 
 woman says that Howe casts out his carcasses 
 at you; which I hold to be an irreligious de- 
 ception.” 
 
 “ As true as the gospel.” 
 
 “ Well, there is no calculating on the waste- 
 fulness of an ungodly spirit! ” said the worthy 
 yeoman, shaking his head—“ I could believe 
 any wickedness of him butthat! As cre’turs 
 must be getting scarce in the town, I conclude 
 he makes use of his own slain!” 
 
 “ Certain,” answered the soldier, winking 
 at his companions—“ Breed’s Hill has kept 
 him in ammunition all winter.” 
 
 “?Tis awful, awful! to see a fellow-cre’tur 
 flying through the air, after the spirit has de- 
 parted to judgment! War is adreadful call- 
 ing; but, then, what isa man without liberty!” 
 
 ‘Hark ye, old gentleman, talking of fly- 
 ing, have you seen anything of two men and 
 a woman, flying up the road as you came 
 mi?” 
 
 ‘«“Anan! I’m a little hard o’ hearing— 
 women, too! do they shoot their Jezebels 
 into our camp? ‘There is no wickedness the 
 king’s ministers won’t attempt to circumvent 
 our weak naturs !” 
 
 ‘Did you see two men and a woman, run- 
 ning away as you came down the road ?” 
 bawled the fellow in his ear. 
 
 «Two! did you say two ?” asked the yeo- 
 man, turning his head a little on one side, in 
 an attitude of sagacious musing. 
 
 ‘¢ Yes, two men.” 
 
 —————  ———————————— —  —  —————————— nh— i  -_—-. ————— eae 
 Soe ee 
 
 399 
 
 ‘“No, I didn’t see two. 
 town, did you say ?” 
 
 ‘Ay, running, as if the devil was after 
 them.” 
 
 ‘‘No; I didn’t see two ; nor anybody run- 
 ning away—it’s a sartain sign of guilt to run 
 away—is there any reward offered ?” said the 
 old man, suddenly interrupting himself, and 
 again communing with his own thoughts. 
 
 ‘© Not yet—they’ve just escaped.” 
 
 «<The surest way to catch a thief is to offer 
 a smart reward—no—lI didn’t see two men— 
 you are sartain there was two ?” 
 
 ‘“* Push on with that cart ! drive on, drive 
 on,” cried a mounted officer of the quarter- 
 master’s department, who came scouring 
 through the street, at that moment, awaken- 
 ing all the slumbering ideas of haste, which 
 the old farmer had suffered to lie dormant so 
 long. Once more flourishing his goad, he 
 put his team in motion, wishing the revel- 
 lers good-night as he proceeded. It was, 
 however, long after he left the village, and 
 crossed the Charles, before he coased to make 
 frequent and sudden halts in the highway, as 
 if doubtful whether to continue his route, or 
 to return. At length he stopped the cart, 
 and clambering up on the hay, he took a 
 seat, where with one eye he could regulate his 
 cattle, and with the other examine his com- 
 panions. This investigation continued an- 
 other hour, neither party uttering a syllable, 
 when the teamster appeared satisfied that his 
 suspicions were unjust, and abandoned them. 
 Perhaps the difficulties of the road assisted 
 in dissipating his doubts ; for, as they pro- 
 ceeded, return carts were met, at every few 
 rods, rendering his undivided attention to his 
 own team indispensable. 
 
 Lionel, whose gloomy thoughts had been 
 chased from his mind by the constant excite- 
 ment of the foregoing scenes, now telt re- 
 lieved from any immediate apprehensions. 
 He whispered his soothing hopes of a final 
 escape to Cecil, and folding her in his coat, 
 to shield her from the night-air, he was 
 pleased to find, ere long, by her gentle 
 breathing, that, overcome by fatigue, she was 
 slumbering in forgetfulness on his bosom. 
 
 Midnight had long passed when they came 
 in sight of the eminences beyond Dorchester 
 Neck. Cecil had awoke, and Lionel was al- 
 ready devising some plausible excuse for 
 
 Running out of 
 
400 
 
 quitting the cart, without reviving the sus- 
 picions of the teamster. At length a favor- 
 able spot occurred, where they were alone, 
 and the formation of the ground was adapted 
 to such a purpose. Lionel was on the point 
 of speaking, when the cattle stopped, and 
 Ralph suddenly appeared in the highway, at 
 their heads. 
 
 ‘<¢ Make room, fri’nd, for the oxen,” said the 
 farmer—‘‘ dumb beasts won’t pass in the face 
 of man.” 
 
 «« Alight,” said Ralph, seconding his words 
 with a wide sweep of his arm toward the 
 fields. 
 
 Lionel quickly obeyed, and by the time 
 the driver had descended also, the whole 
 party stood together in the road. 
 
 “You have conferred a greater obligation 
 than you are aware of,” said Lionel to the 
 driver. ‘‘ Here are five guineas.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ror what ? for riding on a load of hay a 
 few miles ?—no, no—kindness is no such 
 boughten article in the Bay, that a man need 
 pay for it! But, frind, money seems plenty 
 with you, for these difficult days !” 
 
 ‘¢Then thanks, a thousand times—I can 
 stay to offer you no more.” 
 
 He was yet speaking, when, obedient to an 
 impatient gesture from Ralph, he lifted Cecil 
 over the fence, and in a moment they disap- 
 peared from the eyes of the astonished 
 farmer. 
 
 ‘¢ Halloo, fri’nd !” cried the worthy advo- 
 cate for his country, running after them as 
 fast as old age would allow—‘‘ were there 
 three of you, when I took ye up ?” 
 
 The fugitives heard the call of the simple 
 and garrulous old man, but, as will easily be 
 imagined, did not deem it prudent to stop 
 and discuss the point in question between 
 them. Before they had gone far, the furious 
 ery of ‘‘ Take care of that team !” with the 
 rattling of wheels, announced that their pur- 
 suer was recalled to his duty, by an arrival 
 of empty wagons; and, before the distance 
 rendered sounds unintelligible, they heard 
 the noisy explanation, which their late com- 
 panion was giving to the others, of the whole 
 transaction. They were not, however, pur- 
 sued ; the teamsters having more pressing 
 objects in view than the detection of thieves, 
 or even of pocketing a reward. 
 
 Ralph led his companions, after a brief ex- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 planation, by a long and circuitous path, te 
 the shores of the bay. Here they found, hid 
 in the rushes of a shallow inlet, a small boat, 
 that Lionel recognized as the little vessel in 
 which Job Pray was wont to pursue his usual 
 avocation of a fisherman. Entering it with- 
 out delay, he seized the oars, and, aided by a 
 flowing tide, he industriously urged it toward 
 the distant spires of Boston. | 
 The parting shades of the night were yet 
 struggling with the advance of day, when a 
 powerful flash of light illuminated the hazy 
 horizon, and the roar of cannon, which had 
 ceased toward morning, was again heard. 
 But this time the sounds came from the water, 
 and a cloud rose above the smoking harbor, 
 announcing that the ships were again enlisted 
 in the contest. This sudden cannonade in- 
 duced Lionel to steer his boat between the 
 islands; for the castle and southern batteries 
 of the town were all soon united in pouring 
 out their vengeance on the laborers, who still 
 occupied the heights of Dorchester. As the 
 little vessel glided by a tall frigate, Cecil saw 
 the boy, who had been her first escort in the 
 wanderings of the preceding night, standing 
 on its taffrail, rubbing his eyes with wonder, 
 and staring at those hills, whose possession he 
 had prophesied would lead to such bloody 
 results. In short, while he labored at the 
 oars, Lionel witnessed the opening scene of 
 Breed’s acted anew, as battery after battery, 
 and ship after ship, brought their guns to 
 bear on the hardy countrymen, who had once 
 more hastened a crisis by their daring enter- 
 prise. Their boat passed unheeded, in the 
 excitement and bustle of the moment, and 
 the mists of the morning had not yet dissi- 
 pated, when it shot by the wharves of Boston, 
 and, turning into the narrow entrance of the 
 town-dock, it touched the land, near the 
 warehouse, where it had so often been moored, 
 in more peaceable times, by its simple master. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ‘«* Now cracks a noble heart;—good-night, 
 Sweet prince.’””—SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 LIONEL assisted Cecil to ascend the difficult 
 water-stairs, and, still attended by their aged 
 companion, they soon stood on the draw- 
 
i 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 bridge that connected the piers which formed 
 the mouth of the narrow basin. 
 
 ‘«< Here we again part,” he said, addressing 
 himself to Ralph; ‘at another opportunity 
 let us resume your melancholy tale.” 
 
 “<‘None so fitting as the present: the time, 
 the place, and the state of the town, are all 
 favorable.” 
 
 Lionel cast his eyes around on the dull 
 misery which pervaded the neglected area. A 
 few half-dressed soldiers and alarmed towns- 
 men were seen, by the gray light of the morn- 
 ing, rushing across the square towards the 
 point whence the sounds of cannon proceeded. 
 In the hurry of the moment, their own ar- 
 rival was not noted. 
 
 “The place—-the time?” he slowly re- 
 peated. 
 
 “Ay, both. At what moment can the 
 friend of liberty pass more unheeded amongst 
 these miscreant hirelings than now, when fear 
 
 has broken their slumbers? Yon is the place,” | 
 
 he said, pointing to the warehouse, “ where 
 all that I have uttered will find its confirma- 
 tion.” 
 
 Major Lincoln communed momentarily 
 with his thoughts. It is probable, that, in 
 the rapid glances of his mind, he traced the 
 mysterious connection between the abject 
 tenant of the adjacent building, and the de- 
 ceased grandmother of his bride, whose active 
 
 agency in producing the calamities of his | 
 
 family had now been openly acknowledged. 
 It was soon apparent, that he wavered in his 
 purpose; nor was he Slow to declare it. 
 
 “J will attend you,” he said; “ for who can 
 say what the hardihood of the rebels may next 
 attempt? and future occasions may be wanting. 
 I will first see this gentle charge of mine——” 
 
 “ Lincoln, I cannot—must not leave you,” 
 interrupted Cecil, with earnest fervor—“ go, 
 listen, and learn all; surely there can be noth- 
 ing that a wife may not know!” 
 
 Without waiting for further objection, 
 Ralph made a hurried gesture of compliance, 
 and, turning, he led the way, with his usual 
 swift footsteps, into the low and dark tene- 
 ment of Abigail Pray. The commotion of 
 the town had not yet reached the despised 
 and neglected building, which was even more 
 than ordinarily gloomy and still. As they 
 picked their way, however, among the scat- 
 tered hemp, across the scene of the preced- 
 
 401 
 
 ing night’s riot, afew stifled groans proceeded 
 from one of the towers, and directed them 
 where to seek its abused and suffering inmates. 
 On opening the door of this little apartment, 
 not only Lionel and Cecil paused, but even 
 the immovable old man appeared to hesitate, 
 in wonder. 
 
 The heart-stricken mother of the simpleton 
 was seated on her humble stool, busied in re- 
 pairing some mean and worthless garments 
 which had, seemingly, been exposed to the 
 wasteful carelessness of her reckless child. 
 But while her fingers performed their func- 
 tions with mechanical skill, her contracted 
 brow, working muscles, and hard, dry eyes, 
 betrayed the force of the mental suffering 
 that she struggled to conceal. Job still lay 
 stretched on his abject pallet, though his 
 breathing was louder and more labored than 
 when we last left him, while his sunken 
 features indicated the slow, but encroaching 
 advances of the disease. Polwarth was seated 
 at his side, holding a pulse, with an air of 
 medical deliberation ; and attempting, every 
 few moments, to confirm his hopes or fears, 
 as each preponderated in turn, by examining 
 the glazed eyes of the subject of his care. 
 
 Upon a party thus occupied, and with feel- 
 ings so much engrossed, even the sudden 
 entrance of the intruders was not likely to 
 make any very sensible impression. The 
 languid and unmeaning look of Job wandered 
 momentarily towards the door, and then be- 
 came again fixed on vacancy. A gleam of 
 joy shot into the honest visage of the captain, 
 when he first beheld Lionel, accompanied by 
 Cecil, but it was instantly chased away by the 
 settled meaning of care, which had gotten 
 the mastery of his usually contented expres- 
 sion. The greatest alteration was produced 
 in the aspect of the woman, who bowed her 
 head to her bosom, with a universal shudder 
 of her frame, as Ralph stood unexpectedly 
 before her. But from her, also, the sudden 
 emotion passed speedily away, her hands re- 
 suming their humble occupation, with the 
 same mechanical and involuntary movements, 
 as before. 
 
 ‘Explain this scene of silent sorrow!” 
 said Lionel to his friend—*‘ how came you in 
 this haunt of wretchedness? and who has 
 harmed the lad ?” 
 
 “Your question conveys its own answer, 
 
402 
 
 bd 
 
 Major Lincoln,” returned Polwarth, with a 
 manner so deliberate, that he refused to raise 
 his steady look from the face of the sufferer 
 —“T am here, because they are wretched!” 
 
 “The motive is commendable! but what 
 aileth the youth?” 
 
 “The functions of nature seem suspended 
 bysome remarkable calamity! I found him 
 suffering from inanition, and notwithstanding 
 I applied as hearty and nutritious a meal as 
 the strongest man in the garrison could re- 
 quire, the symptoms, as you see, are strangely 
 threatening! ” 
 
 “ He has taken the contagion of the town, 
 and you have fed him, when his fever was at 
 the highest!” 
 
 ‘Tg small-pox to be considered more than 
 a symptom, when aman has the damnable 
 disease of starvation? go to—go to, Leo; you 
 read the Latin poets so much at the schools, 
 that no leisure is left to bestow on the philo- 
 sophy of nature. There is aninward monitor, 
 that teaches every child the remedy for 
 hunger.” 
 
 Lionel felt no disposition to contend with 
 his friend on a point where the other’s opin- 
 ions were so dogmatical, but, turning to the 
 woman, he said— 
 
 ‘‘The experience of a professional nurse 
 should have taught you, at least, more care.” 
 
 ‘Can experience steel a mother to the 
 yearnings of her offspring for food?” re- 
 turned the forlorn Abigail—‘‘no, no—the 
 ear cannot be deaf to such a moaning, and 
 wisdom is as folly when the heart bleeds.” 
 
 “ Lincoln, you chide unkindly,”’ said Cecil 
 —“let us rather attempt to avert the danger, 
 than quarrel with its cause.” 
 
 ‘Tt is too late—it is too late,” returned the 
 disconsolate mother; ‘‘ his hours are already 
 numbered, and death ison him. I can now 
 only pray that God will lighten his curse and 
 suffer the parting spirit to know his Almighty 
 power.” 
 
 “ Throw aside these worthless rags,” said 
 Cecil, gently attempting to take the clothes, 
 “nor fatigue yourself longer, at such asacred 
 moment, with unnecessary,labor.” 
 
 “Young lady, you little know a mother’s 
 longings ; may you never know her sorrows! 
 I have been doing for the child these seven- 
 and-twenty years; rob me not of the pleasure, 
 now that so little remains to be done.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. . 
 
 “Ts he then so old?” exclaimed Lionel, in 
 surprise. 
 
 ‘< Old as he is, ’tis young for a child to die! 
 He wants the look of reason; heaven in its 
 mercy grant that he may be found to haye a 
 face of innocence! ” | 
 
 Hitherto Ralph had remained where he 
 first stood, as if riveted to the floor, with his 
 eyes fastened on the countenance of the sutf- 
 ferer. He now turned to Lionel, and, in a 
 voice rendered even plaintive by his deep 
 emotion, he asked the simple question— 
 
 “ Will he die?” 
 
 ‘‘T fear it—that look is not easily to be 
 mistaken.” 
 
 With a step so light that it was inaudible, 
 the old man moved to the bed, and seated 
 himself on the side opposite to Polwarth. 
 Without regarding the wondering look of the 
 captain, he waved his hand on high, as if to 
 exhort to silence, and then, gazing on the 
 features of the sick, with. melancholy inter- 
 est, he said— 
 
 ‘‘ Here, then, is death again! None are 
 so young as to be unheeded; ’tis only the old 
 that cannot die. Tell me, Job, what seest 
 thou in the visions of thy mind—the unknown 
 places of the damned, or the brightness of 
 such as stand in the presence of their God? ” 
 
 At the well-known sound cf his voice, the 
 glazed eye of the simpleton lighted with a 
 ray of reason, and was turned toward the 
 speaker, once more, teeming with a look of 
 meek assurance. The rattling in his throat, 
 for a@ moment, increaséd, and then ceased 
 entirely; when a voice so deep, that it ap- 
 peared to issue from the depths of his chest, 
 
 | was heard saying—— 
 
 «The Lord won’t harm him who never 
 harm’d the creatures of the Lord!” 
 
 “Emperors and kings, yea, the great of 
 the earth, might envy thee thy lot, thou un- 
 known child of wretchedness!” returned 
 Ralph. “Not yet thirty years of probation, 
 and already thou throwest aside the clay! 
 Like thee did I grow to manhood, and learn 
 how hard it is to live; but like thee I cannot 
 die! Tell me, boy, dost thou enjoy the free- 
 dom of the spirit, or hast thou still pain and 
 pleasure in the flesh? Dost see beyond the 
 tomb, and trace thy route through the path- 
 less air, or is all yet hid in the darkness of 
 the grave?” | 
 
brother! 
 
 LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 “ Job is going where the Lord has hid his 
 reason,” answered the same hollow voice as 
 before; “his prayers won’t be foolish any 
 longer.” 4 
 
 “Pray, then,\for one aged and forlorn; 
 who has borne the burden of life till Death 
 has forgotten him, and who wearies of the 
 things of earth, where all is treachery and 
 sin. But stay; depart not till thy spirit can 
 bear the signs of repentance from yon sinful 
 woman into the regions of day.” 
 
 Abigail groaned aloud ; her hands again 
 refused their occupation, and her head once 
 more sunk on her bosom in abject misery. 
 From this posture of self-abasément and 
 grief, the woman raised herself to her feet, 
 and, putting aside the careless tresses of 
 dark hair, which, though here and there 
 streaked with gray, retained much of their 
 youthful gloss, she looked about her with a 
 face so haggard, and eyes so full of meaning, 
 that common attention was instantly at- 
 tracted to her movements. 
 
 “The time has come, and neither fear nor 
 shame shall longer tie my tongue,” she said. 
 “The hand of Providence is too manifest in 
 this assemblage around the death-bed of that 
 boy, to be unheeded. Major Lincoln, in that 
 stricken and helpless child, you see one who 
 shares your blood, though he has ever been a 
 stranger to your happiness. Job is your 
 } 599 
 
 “ Grief has maddened her! ” exclaimed the 
 anxious Cecil—“she knows not what she 
 utters.” 
 
 «°Tis true!” said the calm tones of Ralph. 
 
 « Listen,” continued Abigail; ‘‘a terrible 
 witness, sent hither by heaven, speaks to 
 attest I tell no lie. The secret of my trans- 
 gression is known to him, when I had thought 
 it buried in the affection of one only who 
 owed me everything.” 
 
 ‘«“Woman!” said Lionel, “in attempting 
 to deceive me, you deceive yourself. Though 
 a voice from heaven should declare the truth 
 
 of thy damnable tale, still would I deny that 
 
 foul object being the child of my beauteous 
 mother.” 
 
 «Foul and wretched as you see him, he is 
 the offspring of one not less fair, though far 
 less fortunate, than thy own boasted parent, 
 proud child of prosperity! Call on heaven 
 as thou wilt, with that blasphemous tongue, 
 
 403 
 
 he is no less thy brother, and the elder 
 born.” 
 
 <<°Tis true—'tis true—’tis most solemnly a 
 truth!” repeated the unmoved and aged 
 stranger. 
 
 “Tt cannot be!” cried Cecil—‘‘ Lincoln, 
 credit them not; they contradict themselves.” 
 
 ‘©Out of thy own mouth will I find rea- 
 sons to convince you,” said Abigail. “ Hast 
 thou not owned the influence of the son at 
 the altar? Why should one, vain, ignorant, 
 and young as I was, be insensible to the 
 seductions of the father?” 
 
 «“The child is, then, thine!” exclaimed 
 Lionel, once more breathing with freedom— 
 “proceed with thy tale; you confine it to 
 friends !” 
 
 «“ Yes—yes,” cried Abigail, clasping her 
 hands, and speaking with bitter emphasis ; 
 “you have all the consolation of proving the 
 difference between the guilt of woman and 
 that of man! Major Lincoln, accursed and 
 polluted as you see me, thy own mother was 
 not more innocent nor fair, when my youth-. 
 ful beauty caught thy father’s eye. He was 
 great and powerful, and I unknown and frail 
 —yon miserable proof of our transgression 
 did not appear, until he had met your hap- 
 pier mother ! ” 
 
 «‘ Can this be so?” 
 
 «The holy Gospels are not more true!” 
 murmured Ralph. 
 
 «© And my father ! did he—could he desert 
 thee in thy need ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Shame came when virtue and pride had 
 been long forgotten. I was a dependent of 
 his own proud race, and opportunities were 
 not wanting to mark his wandering looks and 
 growing love for the chaste Priscilla. He 
 never knew my state. While I was stricken 
 to the earth by the fruits of guilt, he proved 
 how easy it is for us to forget, in the days 
 of prosperity, the companions of our shame. 
 At length you were born ; and, unknown to 
 him, I received his new-born heir from the 
 hands of his jealous aunt. What accursed 
 thoughts beset me at that bitter moment ! 
 But, praised be God in heaven, they passed 
 away, and I was spared the sin of murder!” 
 
 ‘*Murder !” 
 
 <‘Even of murder. You know not the 
 desperate thoughts the wretched harbor for 
 relief! But opportunity was not long want- 
 
404 
 
 ing, and I enjoyed the momentary, hellish 
 pleasure of revenge. Your father went in 
 quest of his rights, and disease attacked his 
 beloved wife. Yes, foul and unseemly as is 
 my wretched child, the beauty of thy mother 
 was changed to a look still more hideous ! 
 Such as Job now seems, was the injured 
 woman on her death-bed. ‘I feel all thy 
 justice, Lord of power, and bow before thy 
 will !?” 
 
 ‘‘ Injured woman !” repeated Lionel, ‘‘say 
 on, and I will bless thee !” 
 
 Abigail gave a groan, so deep and _ hollow, 
 that, for a moment, the listeners believed it 
 was the parting struggle of the spirit of her 
 son, and she sunk, helplessly, into her seat, 
 again concealing her features in her dress. 
 
 ‘Injured woman !” slowly repeated Ralph, 
 with the most taunting contempt in his ac- 
 cents—‘‘ what punishment does not a wanton 
 merit ?” 
 
 ‘«« Ay, injured ?” cried the awakened son 
 —‘‘ my life on it, thy tale, at least, is false.” 
 
 The old man was silent, but his lips moved 
 rapidly, as if he muttered an incredulous re- 
 ply to himself, while a scornful smile cast its 
 bright and peculiar meaning across the wasted 
 lineaments of his face. 
 
 ‘‘T know not what you may have heard 
 from others,” continued Abigail, speaking so 
 low that her words were nearly lost in the 
 difficult and measured breathing of Job— 
 ‘but I call heaven to witness, that you, now, 
 shall hear no lie. The laws of the province 
 commanded that the victims of the foul dis- 
 temper should be kept apart, and your 
 mother was placed at the mercy of myself 
 and one other, who loved her still less than 
 A be 
 ‘Just Providence! you did no violence ?” 
 
 «The disease spared us such a crime. She 
 died in her new deformity, while I remained 
 a looker-on, if not in the beauty of my inno- 
 cence, still free from the withering touch of 
 scorn and want. Yes, I found a sinful but 
 flattering consolation in that thought! Vain, 
 weak, and foolish as I had been, never did I 
 regard my own fresh beauty with half the 
 inward pleasure that I looked upon the foul- 
 ness of my rival. Your aunt, too—she was 
 not without the instigations of the worker of 
 mischief.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the impatient Lionel—“ of my aunt I already 
 know the whole.” 
 
 ‘“Unmoved and calculating as she was, 
 how little did she understand good from evil ! 
 
 She even thought to crack the heart-strings, 
 and render whole, by her weak inventions, — 
 
 that which the power of God could only 
 create. 
 had hardly departed, before a vile plot was 
 hatched to destroy the purity of her fame. 
 Blinded fools that we were. She thought 
 to lead by her soothing arts, aided by his 
 wounded affections, the husband to the feet 
 of her own daughter, the innocent mother of 
 her who stands beside thee ; and I was so 
 vain as to hope, that, in time, justice and 
 my boy might plead with the father and 
 seducer, and raise me to the envied station 
 of her whom I hated.” 
 
 The gentle spirit of thy mother © 
 
 «“And this foul calumny you repeated, — 
 
 with all its basest coloring, to my abused 
 father ?” 
 
 ‘¢ We did—we did; yes, God, he knows 
 we did ! and when he hesitated to believe, I 
 took the holy Evangelists as witnesses of my 
 truth ! ” 
 
 «© And he,” said Lionel, nearly choked by ~ 
 
 his emotions—*“ he believed it !” 
 
 ‘‘ When he heard the solemn oath of one, 
 whose whole guilt, he thought, lay in her 
 weakness to himself, he did. As we listened 
 to his terrible denunciations, and saw the 
 frown which darkened his manly beauty, we 
 both thought we had succeeded. But how 
 little did we know the difference between 
 rooted passion and passing inclination! ‘The 
 
 heart we thought to alienate from its dead — 
 
 partner, we destroyed; and the reason we 
 conspired to deceive, was maddened !” 
 
 When her voice ceased, so profound a — 
 silence reigned in the place, that the roar of — 
 
 the distant cannonade sounded close at hand, 
 and even the low murmurs of the excited 
 
 town swept by, like the whisperings of the — 
 
 wind. Job suddenly ceased to breathe, as 
 though his spirit had only lingered to hear 
 the confession of his mother, and Polwarth 
 dropped the arm of the dead simpleton, un- 
 conscious of the interest he had so lately 
 taken in his fate. In the midst of this death- 
 like stillness, the old man stole from the side 
 of the body, and stood before the self-con- 
 
 “Speak only of my mother,” interrupted | demned Abigail, whose form was writhing - 
 
 — 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 under her mental anguish. Crouching more 
 
 like a tiger than a man, he sprang upon her, 
 with a cry so sudden, so wild, and so horrid, 
 
 that it caused all within its hearing to 
 
 shudder with instant dread. 
 
 ‘‘ Beldame !” he shouted, “‘I have thee 
 
 now! Bring hither the book! the blessed, 
 holy Word of God ! 
 swear ! 
 impious oaths 
 
 ‘<Monster! release the woman!” cried 
 
 39 
 
 Lionel, advancing to the assistance of the 
 
 struggling penitent; “thou, too, hoary- 
 headed wretch, hast deceived me!”’ 
 
 ‘‘Lincoln! Lincoln!” shrieked Cecil, 
 ‘stay that unnatural hand ! you raise it on 
 thy father !” 
 
 Lionel staggered back to the wall, where 
 he stood motionless, and gasping for breath. 
 Left to work his own frantic will, the maniac 
 would speedily have terminated the sorrows 
 of the wretched woman, had not the door 
 been burst open with acrash, and the stranger, 
 who was left, by the cunning of the madman, 
 in the custody of the Americans, rushed to 
 the rescue. 
 
 «<1 know your yell, my gentle baronet !” 
 cried the aroused keeper, for such in truth 
 he was, “‘and I have a mark for your malice, 
 which would have gladly had me hung! But 
 I have not followed you from kingdom to 
 kingdom—from Europe to America, to be 
 cheated by a lunatic !” 
 
 It was apparent, by the lowering look of 
 the fellow, how deeply he resented the 
 danger he had just escaped, as he sprang for- 
 ward to seize his prisoner. Ralph abandoned 
 his hold the instant this hated object ap- 
 peared, and he darted upon the breast of the 
 other with the undaunted fury that a lion, 
 at bay, would turn upon its foe. The strug- 
 gle was fierce and obstinate. Hoarse oaths 
 and the most savage execrations burst from 
 the incensed keeper, and were blended with 
 the wildest ravings of madness from Ralph. 
 The excited powers of the maniac at length 
 prevailed, and his antagonist fell under their 
 irresistible impulse. Quicker than thought, 
 Ralph was seen hovering on the chest of his 
 
 victim, while he grasped his throat with 
 
 fingers of iron. 
 «Vengeance is holy !” cried the maniac, 
 
 bursting into a shout of horrid laughter at 
 
 Let her swear, let her 
 Let her damn her perjured soul in 
 
 405 
 
 his triumph, and shaking his gray locks till 
 they flowed in wild confusion around his 
 glowing eye-balls; ‘‘ Urim and thummin 
 are the words of glory! Liberty is the shout! 
 Die, damned dog! die like the fiends in dark- 
 ness, and leave freedom to the air!” 
 
 By a mighty effort the gasping man re- 
 leased his throat a little from the gripe that 
 nearly throttled him, and cried, with diffi- 
 culty— 
 
 ‘For the love of heavenly justice, come to 
 my aid !—will you see a man thus mur- 
 dered ?” | 
 
 But headdressed himself to the sympathies 
 of the listeners in vain. The females had 
 hid their faces in natural horror; the 
 maimed Polwarth was yet without his arti- 
 ficial limb ; and Lionel still looked upon the 
 savage fray with a vacant eye. At this mo- 
 ment of despair, the hand of the keeper was 
 seen plunging with violence into the side of 
 Ralph, who sprang upon his feet at the third 
 blow, laughing immoderately, but with 
 sounds so wild and deep that they seemed to 
 shake his inmost soul. His antagonist 
 profited by the occasion, and darted from the 
 room with the headlong precipitation of 
 guilt. 
 
 The countenance of the maniac, as he now 
 stood, struggling between life and death, 
 changed with each fleeting impulse. The 
 blood flowed freely from the wounds in his 
 side, and, as the fatal tide ebbed away, a 
 ray of passing reason lighted his pallid and 
 ghastly features. His inward laugh entirely 
 ceased. The glaring eyeballs became sta- 
 tionary; and his look, gradually softening, 
 settled on the appalled pair, who took the 
 deepest interest in his welfare. A calm and 
 decent expression possessed those lineaments, 
 which had just exhibited the deepest marks 
 of the wrath of God. His lips moved in a 
 vain effort to speak; and, stretching forth 
 his arms in the attitude of benediction, like 
 the mysterious shadow of the chapel, he fell 
 backward on the body of the lifeless and 
 long-neglected Job, himself perfectly dead. 
 
406 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 “‘T saw an aged man upon his bier, 
 His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 
 A record of the cares of many a year ; 
 _ Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 
 And there was sadness round, and faces bow’d, 
 And woman’s tears fell fast, and children wail’d 
 aloud.” —BRYANT. 
 
 As the day advanced, the garrison of Boston 
 was put in motion. The same bustle, the 
 same activity, the same gallant bearing in 
 some, and dread reluctance in others, were 
 exhibited as on the morning of the fight of 
 the preceding summer. ‘The haughty temper 
 of the royal commander could ill brook the 
 bold enterprise of the colonists; and, at an 
 early hour, orders were issued to prepare to 
 dislodge them. Every gun that could be 
 brought to bear upon the hills was employed 
 to molest the Americans, who calmly con- 
 tinued their labors, while balls were whistling 
 around them on every side. ‘Towards eve- 
 ning a large force was embarked and con- 
 veyed to the castle. Washington appeared 
 on the heights in person, and every military 
 evidence of the intention of a resolute attack 
 on one part and of a stout resistance on the 
 other, became apparent. 
 
 But the fatal experience of Breed’s had 
 taught a lesson that was still remembered. 
 The same leaders were to be the principal 
 actors in the coming scene, and it was neces- 
 sary to use the remnants of many of the very 
 regiments which had bled so freely on the 
 former occasion. ‘The half-trained husband- 
 men of the colonies were no longer despised ; 
 and the bold operations of the past winter 
 had taught the English generals that, as 
 subordination increased among their foes, 
 their movements were conducted with a more 
 vigorous direction of their numbers. The 
 day was accordingly wasted in preparations. 
 Thousands of men slept on their arms that 
 night im either army, in the expectation of 
 rising, on the following morning, to be led to 
 the field of slaughter. 
 
 It is not improbable, from the tardiness of 
 their movements, that a large majority of the 
 royal forces did not regret the providential 
 interposition, which certainly saved them 
 torrents of blood, and not improbably the 
 ignominy of a defeat. One of the sudden 
 tempests of the climate arose in the darkness, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 driving before it men and beasts, to seek 
 protection, in their imbecility, from the more 
 powerful warring of the elements. The 
 golden moments were lost; and, after en- 
 during so many privations, and expending 
 so many lives in vain, Howe sullenly com- 
 menced his arrangements to abandon a town, 
 on which the English ministry had for years 
 lavished their indignation, with all the aeri- 
 mony, and, as it now seemed, with the im- 
 potency of a blind revenge. 
 
 To carry into effect this sudden and neces- 
 sary determination, was not the work of an 
 hour. As it was the desire of the Americans, 
 however, to receive their town back again as 
 little injured as possible, they forbore to 
 push the advantage they possessed, by oc- 
 cupying those heights, which, in a great 
 measure, commanded the anchorage, as well as 
 a new and vulnerable face of the defences of 
 the king’s army. While the semblance of 
 hostilities was maintained by an irregular 
 and impotent cannonade, conducted with so 
 little spirit as to wear the appearance of being 
 intended only to amuse, one side was dili- 
 gently occupied in preparing to depart, and 
 the other was passively awaiting the moment 
 when they might peaceably repossess their 
 own. It is unnecessary to remind the reader 
 that the entire command of the sea, by the 
 British, would have rendered any serious 
 attempt to arrest their movements perfectly 
 futile. 
 
 In this manner a week was passed, after 
 the tempest had abated —the place exhibiting, 
 throughout this period, all the hurry and 
 bustle, the joy and distress, that such an un- 
 looked-for event was likely to create. 
 
 Toward the close of one of those busy and 
 stirring days, a short funeral train was seen 
 issuing from a building, which had long been 
 known as the residence of one of the proudest 
 families in the province. Above the outer 
 door of the mansion was suspended a gloomy 
 hatchment, charged with the *‘ courant” deer 
 of Lincoln, encircled by the usual mementos 
 of mortality, and bearing the rare symbol of 
 the “ bloody-hand.”—This emblem of heral- 
 dic grief, which was never adopted in the 
 provinces, except at the death of one of high 
 importance, a custom that has long since 
 disappeared with the usages of the monarchy, 
 had caught the eyes of a few idle boys, who 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 alone were sufficiently unoccupied, at that 
 pressing moment, to note its exhibition. 
 With the addition of these truant urchins 
 the melancholy procession took its way to- 
 wards the neighboring church-yard of the 
 King’s Chapel. 
 
 The large bier was covered by a pall soam- 
 ple that it swept the stones of the threshold 
 while entering into the body of the church. 
 Here it was met by the divine we have had 
 occasion to mention more than once, who 
 gazed with a look of strange interest, at the 
 solitary and youthful mourner, that closely 
 followed in his dark weeds. The ceremony, 
 however, proceeded with the usual solemnity, 
 and the attendants slowly moved deeper into 
 the sacred edifice. Next to the young man 
 came the well-known persons of the British 
 commander-in-chief, and of his quickwitted 
 and favorite lieutenant. Between them 
 walked an officer of inferior rank, who, not- 
 withstanding his maimed condition, had been 
 able, by the deliberation of the march, to be- 
 guile the ears of his companions, to the very 
 moment of meeting the clergyman, with some 
 tale of no little interest, and great apparent 
 mystery. The remainder of the train, which 
 consisted only of the family of the two gen- 
 erals, and a few menials, came last, if we ex- 
 cept the idlers, who stole curiously in their 
 footsteps. 
 
 When the service was ended, the same 
 private communication was resumed between 
 the two chieftains and their companion, and 
 continued until they arrived at the open 
 vault, in a distant corner of the enclosure. 
 Here the low conversation ended ; and the 
 eye of Howe, which had hitherto been riveted 
 in deep attention on the speaker, began to 
 wander in the direction of the dangerous 
 hillsoccupied by his enemies. The interrup- 
 tion seemed to have broken the charm of the | 
 secret conversation ; and the anxious counte- 
 nances of both the leaders betrayed how soon 
 their thoughts had wandered from a tale of 
 great private distress to their own heavier 
 cares and duties. 
 
 The bier was placed before the opening, 
 and the assistants of the sexton advanced to 
 perform their office. When the pall was re- 
 moved, to the evident amusement of most 
 of the spectators, two coffins were exposed 
 to view. One was clothed in black velvet, 
 
 407 
 
 studded with silver nails, and ornamented 
 after the richest fashions of human pride, 
 while the other lay in the simple nakedness 
 of the clouded wood. On the breast of the 
 first rose a heavy silver plate, bearing a long 
 inscription, and decorated with the usual de- 
 vices of heraldry ; and on the latter were 
 simply carved on the lid the two initial letters 
 he 
 
 The impatient looks of the English gen- 
 erals intimated to Dr. Liturgy the value of 
 every moment, and in less time than we con- 
 sume in relating it the bodies of the high- 
 descended man of wealth, and of his nameless 
 companion, were lowered into the vault, and 
 left to decay, in silent contact, with that of 
 the woman who, in life, had been so severe 
 a scourge to both. After a hesitation of a 
 single moment, in deference to the young 
 mourner, the gentleman present, perceiving 
 that he manifested a wish to remain, quitted 
 the church-yard in a body, with the exception 
 of the maimed officer, already mentioned, 
 whom the reader has at once recogized to be 
 Polwarth. When the men had replaced the 
 stone above the mouth of the vault, securing 
 it by a stout bar of iron anda heavy lock, 
 they delivered the key to the principal actor 
 in the scene. He received it in silence, and, 
 dropping gold into their hands, motioned to 
 them to depart. 
 
 In another instant, a careless observer 
 would have thought, that Lionel and his 
 friend were the only living possessors of the 
 church-yard. But under the adjoining wall, 
 partly hid from observation by the numerous 
 headstones, was the form of a woman, bowed 
 to the earth, while her figure was concealed 
 by the cloak she had gathered shapelessly 
 about her. As soon as the gentlemen per- 
 ceived they were alone, they slowly advanced 
 to the side of this desolate being. 
 
 Their approaching footsteps were not un- 
 heeded, though, instead of facing those who 
 so evidently wished to address her, she turned 
 to the wall, and began to trace, with uncon- 
 scious fingers, the letters of a tablet in slate: 
 which was let into the brickwork, to mark 
 the position of the tomb of the Lechmeres. 
 
 ‘‘We can do no more,” said the young 
 mourner-—“all. now rest with a mightier 
 hand than any of earth.” 
 
 The squalid limb that was thrust from 
 
408 
 
 beneath the red garment trembled, but it still 
 continued its unmeaning employment. 
 
 ‘‘Sir Lionel Lincoln speaks to you” said 
 Polwarth, on whose arm the youthful baronet 
 leaned. 
 
 “Who?” shrieked Abigail Pray, casting 
 aside her covering, and baring those sunken 
 features, on which misery had made terrible 
 additional inroads, within a few days—‘‘I 
 had forgotten—I had forgotten! the son 
 succeeds the father; but the mother must 
 follow her child to the grave!” 
 
 ** He is honorably interred with those of 
 his blood, and by the side of one who loved 
 his simple integrity !” 
 
 ‘“ Yes, he is better lodged in death than he 
 was in life! Thank God! he can never 
 know cold nor hunger more!” 
 
 F) 
 
 “You will find that I have made a pro- | 
 
 vision for your future comfort; and I trust 
 that the close of your life will be happier than 
 its prime.” 
 
 ‘““J am alone,” said the woman, hoarsely. 
 “The old will avoid me, and the young will 
 look upon mein scorn! Perjury and revenge 
 lie heavy on my soul!” 
 
 ‘The young baronet was silent, but Polwarth 
 assumed the right to reply— 
 
 “‘T will not pretend to assert,” said the 
 worthy captain, “that these are not both 
 wicked companions; but I have no doubt 
 you will find, somewhere in the Bible, a suit- 
 able consolation for each particular offence. 
 Let me recommend to you a hearty diet, and 
 I’}l answer for an easy conscience. I never 
 knew the prescription fail. Look about you 
 in the world—does your well-fed villain feel 
 remorse! No; it’s only when his stomach is 
 
 empty that he begins to think of his errors!. 
 
 I would also suggest the expediency of com- 
 mencing soon, with something substantial, 
 as you show altogether too much bone, at 
 present, for a thriving condition. I would 
 not wish to say anything distressing, but we 
 both of us may remember a case where the 
 nourishment came too late.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, it came too late!”? murmured 
 the conscience-stricken woman—“ all comes 
 too late! even the penitence, I fear! ” 
 
 “Say not so,” observed Lionel ; ‘you do 
 outrage to the promises of One who never 
 spoke false.” 
 
 Abigail stole a fearful glance at him, which 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 expressed all the secret terror of her soul, as 
 she half whispered— 
 
 “Who witnessed the end of Madam Lech- 
 mere! did her spirit pass in peace ? ” 
 
 Sir Lionel again remained profoundly si- 
 lent. 
 
 ‘“T thought it,” she continued—‘*’tis not 
 asin to be forgotten on a death-bed! To 
 plot evil, and call on God aloud to look upon 
 it! Ay! and to madden a brain, and strip a 
 soul like his to nakedness! Go,” she added, 
 beckoning them away with earnestness—“ ye 
 are young and happy; why should ye linger 
 near the grave! Leave me, that I may pray 
 among the tombs! If anything can smooth 
 the bitter moment, it is prayer.” 
 
 Lionel dropped the key he held in his hand 
 at her feet, and said, before he left her— 
 
 “Yon. vault is closed forever, unless, at 
 your request, it should be opened, at some 
 future time, to place you by the side of your 
 son. The children of those who built it are 
 already gathered there, with the exception of 
 two, who go to the other hemisphere to leave 
 their bones. Take it, and may Heaven for- 
 give you, as I do.” 
 
 He let fall a heavy purse by the side of the 
 key, and, without uttering more, he again 
 took the arm of Polwarth, and together they 
 left the place. 
 
 As they turned through the gateway, into 
 the street, each stole a glance at the distant 
 woman. She had risen to her knees; her 
 hands had grasped a headstone, and her face 
 was bowed nearly to the earth, while, by the 
 writhing of her form, and the humility of her 
 attitude, it was apparent that her spirit strug- 
 gled powerfully with the Lord for mercy. 
 
 Three days afterwards the Americans en- 
 tered, triumphantly, on the retiring footsteps 
 of the royal army. ‘The first among them, 
 who hastened to visit the graves of their 
 fathers, found the body of a woman, who 
 had seemingly died under the severity of the 
 season. She had unlocked the vault, in a 
 vain effort to reach her child, and there her 
 strength had failed her. Her limbs were de- 
 cently stretched on the faded grass, while ~ 
 her features were composed, exhibiting in 
 death the bland traces of that remarkable 
 beauty which had distinguished and betrayed 
 her youth. The gold still lay neglected 
 where it had fallen. 
 
LIONEL LINCOLN. 
 
 The amazed townsmen avoided this spec- 
 
 tacle with horror, rushing into other places 
 to gaze at the changes and the destruction of 
 But a follower of 
 
 their beloved birthplace. 
 the royal army, who had lingered to plunder, 
 and who had witnessed the interview between 
 the officers and Abigail, shortly succeeded 
 them. He lifted the flag, and lowering the 
 body, closed the vault; then hurling away 
 the key, he seized the money and departed. 
 
 The slate has long since mouldered from 
 the wall; the sod has covered the stone, and 
 few are left who can designate the spot where 
 the proud families of Lechmere and Lincoln 
 were wont to inter their dead. 
 
 Sir Lionel and Polwarth proceeded, in the 
 deepest silence, to the Long-wharf, where a 
 boat received them. They were rowed to 
 the much-admired frigate, that was standing 
 off-and-on, under easy sail, waiting their 
 arrival On her decks they met Agnes 
 Danforth, with her eyes softened by tears, 
 though a rich flush mantled on her cheeks, 
 at witnessing the compelled departure of 
 those invaders she had never loved. 
 
 ‘‘T have only remained to give you a 
 parting kiss, cousin Lionel,” said the frank 
 girl, affectionately saluting him, ‘‘and now 
 shall take my leave, without repeating those 
 wishes that you know are so often conveyed 
 in my prayers.” 
 
 «© You will then leave us ?” said the young 
 baronet, smiling for the first time in many 
 aday. ‘ You know that this cruelty 3 
 
 He was interrupted by a loud hem from 
 Polwarth, who advanced, and, taking the 
 hand of the lady, repeated his wish to retain 
 it forever, for at least the fiftieth time. She 
 heard him, in silence, and with much ap- 
 parent respect, though an arch smile stole 
 upon her gravity, before he had ended. She 
 then thanked him with suitable grace, and 
 gave a final and decided refusal. The cap- 
 tain sustained the repulse like one who had 
 seen much similar service, and politely lent 
 his assistance to help the obdurate girl into 
 her boat. Here she was received by a young 
 man, who was apparelled like an American 
 officer. Sir Lionel thought the bloom on 
 her cheek deepened, as her companion as- 
 siduously drew a cloak around her form to 
 protect her from the chill of the water. In- 
 
 stead of returning to the town, the boat, | 
 
 409 
 
 which bore a flag, pulled directly for the 
 shore occupied by the Americans. ‘The 
 following week, Agnes was united to this 
 gentleman, in the bosom of her own family. 
 They soon after took quiet possession of the 
 house in Tremont Street, and of all the large 
 real estate left by Mrs. Lechmere, which had 
 been previously bestowed on her, by Cecil, 
 as a dowry. 
 
 As soon as his passengers appeared, the 
 captain of the frigate communicated with 
 his admiral, by signal, and received, in re- 
 turn, the expected order to proceed in the 
 execution of his trust. In a few minutes 
 the swift vessel was gliding by the heights 
 of Dorchester, training her guns on the 
 adverse hills, and hurriedly spreading her 
 canvas as she passed. The Americans, how- 
 ever, looked on in sullen silence, and she was 
 suffered to gain the open ocean, unmolested, 
 when she made the best of her way to Eng- 
 land, with the important intelligence of the 
 intended evacuation. 
 
 She was speedily followed by the fleet, 
 since which period, the long-oppressed and 
 devoted town of Boston has never been 
 visited by an armed enemy. 
 
 During their passage to England, sufficient 
 time was allowed Lionel and his gentle com- 
 panion to reflect on all that had occurred. 
 Together, and in the fullest confidence, they 
 traced the wanderings of intellect which had 
 so closely and mysteriously connected the 
 deranged father with his impotent child ; 
 and, as they reasoned, by descending to the 
 secret springs of his disordered impulses, 
 they were easily enabled to divest the in- 
 cidents we have endeavored to relate of all 
 their obscurity and doubt. 
 
 The keeper, who had been sent in quest 
 of the fugitive madman, never returned to 
 his native land. No offers of forgiveness 
 could induce the unwilling agent in the 
 death of the baronet to trust his person, 
 again, within the influence of the British 
 laws. Perhaps he was conscious of a motive 
 that none but an inward monitor might de- 
 tect. Lionel, tired at length with impor- 
 tuning without success, commissioned the 
 husband of Agnes to place him in a situation, 
 where, by industry, his future comfort was 
 amply secured. 
 
 Polwarth died quite lately. Notwithstand- 
 
410 
 
 ing his maimed limb, he contrived, by the 
 assistance of his friend, to ascend the ladder 
 of promotion, by regular gradations, nearly 
 to its summit. At the close of his long life, 
 he wrote Gen., Bart., and M. P. after his 
 name. When England was threatened with 
 the French invasion, the garrison he com- 
 manded was distinguished for being better 
 provisioned than any other in the realm, 
 and no doubt it would have made a resist- 
 ance equal to its resources. In Parliament, 
 where he sat for one of the Lincoln boroughs, 
 he was chiefly distinguished for the patience 
 with which he lstened to the debates, and 
 for the remarkable cordiality of the ‘‘ay” 
 that he pronounced on every vote for sup- 
 plies. To the day of his death, he was a 
 strenuous advocate for the virtues of a rich 
 diet, in all cases of physical suffering, “es- 
 pecially,” as he would add, with an obsti- 
 nacy that fed itself, ‘‘in instances of de- 
 bility from febrile symptoms.” 
 
 Within a year of their arrival, the uncle of 
 Cecil died, having shortly before followed an 
 only son to the grave. By this unlooked-for 
 event, Lady Lincoln became the possessor of 
 his large estates, as well as of an ancient 
 barony, that descended to the heirs general. 
 From this time until the eruption of the 
 French Revolution, Sir Lionel Lincoln, and 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Lady Cardonnell, as Cecil was now styled, 
 lived together in sweetest concord ; the gentle 
 influence of her affection moulding and bend- 
 ing the feverish temperament of her husband, 
 at will. The heirloom of the family, that 
 distempered feeling so often mentioned, was 
 forgotten, in the even tenor of their happi- 
 ness. When the heaviest pressure on the 
 British Constitution was apprehended, and i* 
 became the policy of the minister to enlist 
 the wealth and talent of his nation in its sup- 
 port, by propping the existing administration, 
 the rich baronet received a peerage in his own 
 person. Before the end of the century, he 
 was further advanced to a dormant earldom, 
 that had, in former ages, been one of the 
 honors of an elder branch of his family. 
 
 Of all the principal actors in the foregoing 
 tale, not one is now living. Even tbe roses 
 of Cecil and Agnes have long since ceased to 
 bloom, and Death has gathered them in peace 
 and innocence, with all that had gone before. 
 The historical facts of our legend are begin- 
 ning to be obscured by time ; and it is more 
 than probable, that the prosperous and afflu- 
 ent English peer, who now enjoys the honors 
 of the house of Lincoln, never knew the se- 
 cret history of his family while it sojourned 
 in a remote province of the British em- 
 pire. 
 
 END OF ‘‘ LIONEL LINCOLN.” 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Ir is to be regretted the world does not 
 discriminate more justly in its use of politi- 
 eal terms. Governments are usually called 
 either monarchies or republics. ‘The former 
 class embraces equally those institutions in 
 which the sovereign is worshipped as a god, 
 and those in which he performs the humble 
 office of a manikin. In the latter we find 
 aristocracies and democracies blended in the 
 same generic appellation. The consequence 
 of a generalization so wide is an utter con- 
 fusion on the subject of the polity of states. 
 
 The author has endeavored to give his 
 countrymen, in this book, a picture of the 
 social system of one of the soi-disant repub- 
 lics of the other hemisphere. There has 
 been no attempt to portray historical charac- 
 ters, only too fictitious in their graver dress, 
 but simply to set forth the familiar opera- 
 tions of Venetian policy. For the justifica- 
 tion of his likeness, after allowing for the de- 
 fects of execution, he refers to the well-known 
 work of M. Daru. 
 
 A history of the progress of political lib- 
 erty, written purely in the interests of hu- 
 manity, is still a desideratum in literature. 
 In nations which have made a false com- 
 -mencement, it would be found that the citi- 
 zen, or rather the subject, has extorted im- 
 munity after immunity, as his growing intel- 
 ligence and importance have both instructed 
 and required him to defend those particular 
 rights which were necessary to his well-being. 
 A certain accumulation of these immunities 
 constitutes, with a solitary and recent excep- 
 tion in Switzerland, the essence of European 
 liberty, even at this hour. It 1s scarcely 
 necessary to tell the reader that this freedom, 
 be it more or less, depends on a principle en- 
 tirely different from our own. Here the im- 
 
 munities do not proceed from, but they are 
 granted to, the government, being, in other 
 words, concessions of natural rights made by 
 the people to the state, for the benefits of social 
 protection. So long as this vital difference 
 exists between ourselves and other nations, it 
 will be vain to think of finding analogies in 
 their institutions. It is true that, in an age 
 like this, public opinion is itself a charter, 
 and that the most despotic government which 
 exists within the pale of Christendom, must, 
 in some degree, respect its influence. The 
 mildest and justest governments in Europe 
 are, at this moment, theoretically despotisms. 
 The characters of both prince and people 
 enter largely into the consideration of so 
 extraordinary results, and it should never 
 be forgotten that, though the character of 
 the latter be sufficiently secure, that of the 
 former is liable to change. But, admitting | 
 every benefit which can possibly flow from a 
 just administration, with wise and humane 
 princes, a government which is not properly 
 based on the people, possesses an unavoidable 
 and oppressive evil of the first magnitude, in 
 the necessity of supporting itself by physical 
 force, and onorous impositions, against the 
 natural action of the majority. ol 
 Were we to characterize a republic, we 
 should say it was a state in which power, 
 both theoretically and practically, is derived 
 from the nation, with a constant responsi- 
 bility of the agents of the public to the 
 people ; a responsibility that is neither to be 
 evaded nor denied. ‘That such a system is 
 better on a large than on a small scale, though 
 contrary to brilliant theories which have been 
 written to uphold different institutions, must. 
 be evident op. the smallest reflection, since 
 the danger of all popular governments is from 
 popular mistakes, and a people of diversified 
 interests and extended territorial possessions, 
 (411) 
 
412 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 'are much less hkely to be the subjects of | separates western from eastern Europe, and 
 
 sinister passions than the inhabitants of a 
 single town or county. If to this definition 
 we should add, as an infallible test of the 
 genus, that a true republic is a government 
 of which all others are jealous and vitupera- 
 tive, on the instinct of self-preservation, we 
 believe there would be no mistaking the class. 
 How far Venice would have been obnoxious 
 to this proof, the reader is left to judge for 
 himself. 
 
 CHAT TI i 
 
 I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
 
 A palace and a prison on each hand. 
 
 I saw from out the wave-her structures rise, 
 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand : 
 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 
 Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
 
 O’er the far times when many a subject land 
 
 Look’d to the winged lion’s marble piles, 
 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
 isles. BYRON. 
 
 THE sun had disappeared behind the sum- 
 mits of the Tyrolean Alps, and the moon 
 was already risen above the low barrier of 
 the Lido. Hundreds of pedestrians were 
 pouring out of the narrow streets of Venice 
 into the square of Saint Mark, like water 
 gushing through some strait aqueduct, into 
 a broad and bubbling basin. Gallant cayva- 
 lierl and grave cittadini; soldiers of Dal- 
 matia, and seamen of the galleys; dames of 
 the city, and females of hghter manners ; 
 jewelers of the Rialto, and traders from the 
 Levant; Jew, Turk, and Christian; traveller, 
 adventurer, podesta, valet, avvocato and 
 gondolhier, held their way alike to the com- 
 mon centre of amusement. The hurried air 
 and careless eye; the measured step and 
 jealous glance ; the jest and laugh ; the song 
 of the cantatrice, and the melody of the flute; 
 the grimace of the buffoon, and the tragic 
 frown of the improvisatore ; the pyramid of 
 the grotesque, the compelled and melancholy 
 smile of the harpist, cries of water-sellers, 
 cowls of monks, plumage of warriors, hum 
 of voices, and the universal movement and 
 bustle, added to the more permanent objects 
 of the place, rendered the scene the most re- 
 markable of Christendom. 
 
 On the very confines of that line which 
 
 in constant communication with the latter, 
 Venice possessed a greater admixture of char- 
 acter and costume than any other of the nu- 
 merous ports of that region. <A portion of 
 this peculiarity is still to be observed, under 
 the fallen fortunes of the place ; but at the 
 period of our tale, the city of the isles, 
 though no longer mistress of the Mediterre- 
 nean, nor even of the Adriatic, was still rich 
 and powerful. Her influence was felt in the 
 councils of the civilized world, and her com- 
 merce, though waning, was yet sufficient to 
 uphold the vast possessions of those families 
 whose ancestors had become rich in the day 
 of her prosperity. Men lived among her 
 islands in that state of incipient lethargy 
 which marks the progress of a downward 
 course, whether the decline be of a moral or 
 of a physical decay. 
 
 At the hour we have named, the vast par- 
 allelogram of the piazza was filling fast, the 
 cafés and casinos within the porticos, which 
 surround three of its sides, being already 
 thronged with company. While all beneath 
 the arches was gay and brilliant with the flare 
 of torch and lamp, the noble range of edifices 
 called the Procuratories, the massive pile of 
 the Ducal Palace, the most ancient Christian 
 church, the granite columns of the piazzetta, 
 the triumphal masts of the great square, and 
 the giddy tower of the campanile were slum- 
 bering in the more mellow glow of the moon. 
 
 Facing the wide area of the great square 
 stood the quaint and venerable cathedral of 
 San Marco. A temple of trophies, and one 
 equally proclaiming the prowess and the piety 
 of its founders, this remarkable structure pre- 
 sided over the other fixtures of the place, like 
 a monument of the republic’s antiquity and 
 greatness. Its Saracenic architecture, ths 
 rows of precious but useless little columns — 
 that load its front, the low Asiatic domes 
 which rest upon its walls in the repose of a 
 thousand years, the rude and gaudy mosaics, 
 and above all the captured horses of Corinth 
 which start from out the sombre mass in the 
 glory of Grecian art, received from the sol- 
 emn and appropriate light, a character of 
 melancholy and mystery, that well comported 
 with the thick recollections which crowd the 
 mind as the eye gazes at this rare relic of the 
 past. 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 As fit companions to this edifice, the other 
 peculiar ornaments of the place stood at 
 hand. ‘The-base of the campanile lay in 
 shadow, but a hundred feet of its gray sum- 
 mit received the full rays of the moon along 
 its eastern face. ‘he masts destined to bear 
 the conquered ensigns of Candia, Constanti- 
 nople, and the Morea, cut the air by its side, 
 in dark and fairy lines, while at the extremity 
 of the smaller square, and dear the margin 
 of the sea, the forms of the winged lion and 
 the patron saint of the city, each on his col- 
 umn of African granite, were distinctly traced 
 against the background of the azure sky. 
 
 It was near the base of the former of these 
 massive blocks of stone, that one stood who 
 seemed to gaze at the animated and striking 
 scene with the listlessness and indifference of 
 satiety. A multitude, some in masks and 
 others careless of being known, had poured 
 along the quay into the piazzetta, on their 
 way to the principal square, while this indi- 
 vidual had scarce turned a glance aside, or 
 changed a limb in weariness. His attitude 
 was that of patient, practised, and obedient 
 waiting on another’s pleasure. With folded 
 arms, a body poised on one leg, and a vacant 
 though good-humored eye, he appeared to 
 attend some beck of authority ere he quitted 
 the spot. A silken jacket, in whose tissue 
 flowers of the gayest colors were interwoven, 
 the falling collar of scarlet, the bright velvet 
 cap with armorial bearings embroidered on its 
 front, proclaimed him to be a gondolier in 
 private service. 
 
 Wearied at length with the antics of a dis- 
 
 tant group of tumblers, whose pile of human: 
 
 bodies had for a time arrested his look, this 
 individnal turned away, and faced the light 
 air from the water. Recognition and pleas- 
 ure shot into his countenance, and in a 
 moment his arms were interlocked with 
 those of a swarthy mariner, who wore the 
 loose attire and Phrygian cap of men of his 
 calling. The gondolier was the first to speak, 
 the words flowing from him in the soft 
 accents of his native islands. 
 
 “Tg it thou, Stefano! They said thou 
 hadst fallen into the gripe of the devils of 
 Barbary, and that thou wast planting flowers 
 for an infidel with thy hands, and watering 
 them with thy tears!” 
 
 The answer was in the harsher dialect of 
 
 | lion than of the favor of thy saint. 
 
 413 
 
 Calabria, and it was given with the rough 
 familiarity of a seaman. 
 
 “La Bella Sorrentina is no housekeeper of 
 a curato! She is not a damsel to take a 
 siesta with a Tunisian rover prowling about 
 in her neighborhood. Hadst ever been be- 
 yond the Lido, thou wouldst have known the 
 difference between chasing the felucca and 
 catching her.” 
 
 -« Kneel down, and thank San Teodoro for 
 his care. There was much praying on thy 
 decks that hour, caro Stefano, though none is 
 bolder among the mountains of Calabria 
 when thy felucca is once safely drawn upon 
 the beach!” 
 
 The mariner cast a half-comic, half-serious 
 glance upward at the image of the patron 
 saint, ere he replied. 
 
 “There was more need of the wings of thy 
 I never 
 come further north for aid than San Gen- 
 naro, even when it blows a hurricane.” 
 
 ‘¢So much the worse for thee, caro, since 
 the good bishop is better at stopping the lava 
 than at quieting the winds. But there was 
 danger, then, of losing the felucca and her 
 brave people among the Turks? ” 
 
 ‘There was, in truth, a Tunis-man prowl- 
 ing about, between Stromboli and Sicily ; 
 put, Ali di San Michele! he might better 
 have chased the cloud above the volcano, 
 than run after the felucca in a sirocco!” 
 
 ‘¢Thou wast chicken-hearted, Stefano?” 
 
 ‘‘J!T was more like thy lion, here, with 
 some small additions of chains and muzzles.”’ 
 
 « As was seen by thy felucca’s speed?” 
 
 “Qospetto! I wished myself a knight of 
 San Giovanni a thousand times during the 
 chase, and La Bella Sorrentina a brave 
 Maltese galley, if it were only for the cause 
 of Christian honor! The miscreant hung 
 upon my quarter for the better part of three 
 glasses; so near, that I could tell which of the 
 knaves wore dirty cloth in his turban, and 
 which clean. It was a sore sight to a Chris- 
 tian, Stefano, to see the right thus borne 
 upon by an infidel.” 
 
 «And thy feet warmed with the thought 
 of the bastinado, caro mio?” 
 
 “JT have run too often. barefoot over our 
 Calabrian mountains, to tingle at the sole 
 with every fancy of that sort.” 
 
 «“Hyvery man has his weak spot, and I 
 
414 WORKS 
 know thine to be dread of a Turk’s arm. 
 Thy native hills have their soft as well as 
 their hard ground, but it is said the Tunisian 
 chooses a board knotty as his own heart 
 when he amuses himself with the wailings of 
 a Christian.” 
 
 “Well, the happiest of us all must take 
 such as fortune brings. If my soles are to be 
 shod with blows, the honest priest of Sant’ 
 Agata will be cheated of a penitent. I have 
 bargained with the good curato, that all such 
 accidental calamities shall go in the general 
 account of penance. But how fares the 
 world of Venice?—and what dost thou 
 among the canals at this season, to keep the 
 flowers of thy jacket from wilting?” 
 
 “To-day as yesterday, and to-morrow will 
 be as to-day. I row the gondola from the 
 Rialto to the Giudecca; from San Giorgio to 
 San Marco; from San Marco to the Lido, and 
 from the Lido home. There are no Tunis- 
 men, by the way, to chill the heart or warm 
 the feet.” 
 
 “Enough of friendship. And is there 
 nothing stirring in the republic P—no young 
 noble drowned, nor any Jew hanged ?” 
 
 “Nothing of that much interest—except 
 the calamity which befell Pietro. ‘Thou re- 
 memberest Pietrello? he who crossed into 
 Dalmatia with thee once, as a supernume- 
 rary, the time he was suspected of having 
 aided the young Frenchman in running away 
 with a senator’s daughter ?” 
 
 ‘Do I remember the last famine? The 
 rogue did nothing but eat maccaroni, and 
 swallow the lachryme Christi, which the 
 Dalmatian count had on freight.” 
 
 “Poverino! His gondola has been run 
 down by an Ancona-man, who passed over 
 the boat, as if it were a senator stepping on 
 a fly.” 
 
 ‘*So much for little fish coming into deep 
 water.” 
 
 ‘«The honest fellow was crossing the Giu- 
 decca, with a stranger who had occasion to say 
 his prayers at the Redentore, when the brig 
 hit him in the canopy, and broke up the 
 gondola as if it had been a bubble left by the 
 Bucentaur.” 
 
 ‘‘'The padrone should have been too gen- 
 erous to complain of Pietro’s clumsiness, 
 since it met with its own punishment.” 
 
 “ Madre di Dio! He went to sea that 
 
 OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 hour, or he might be feeding the fishes of the 
 Lagunes! Thereis not a gondolier in Venice 
 who did not feel the wrong at his heart; and 
 we know how to obtain justice for an insult, 
 as well as our masters.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, a gondola is mortal, as well as a 
 felucca, and both have their time; better die 
 by the prow of a brig than fall es the gripe 
 of a Turk.—How is thy young master, Gino ? 
 and-is he likely to obtain his claims of the 
 senate?” 
 
 “ He cools himself in the Giudecca in the 
 morning; and if thou wouldst know what he 
 does at evening, thou hast only to look among 
 the nobles in the Broglio.” 
 
 As the gondolier spoke, he glanced an eye 
 aside, at a group of patrician rank, who 
 paced the gloomy arcades which supported 
 the superior walls of the doge’s palace, a spot 
 sacred, at times, to the uses ef the privileged. 
 
 ‘Tam no stranger to the habit thy Vene- 
 tian nobles have of coming to that low colon- 
 nade at this hour, but I never before heard of 
 their preferring the waters of the Gindecca 
 for their baths.” 
 
 “ Were even the doge to throw himself out 
 of a gondola, he must sink or swim like a 
 meaner Christian.” 
 
 «Acqua dell’ Adriatico! Was the young 
 duca going to the Redentore, too, to say his 
 prayers 2?” 
 
 ‘‘He was coming back after having—but 
 what matters it in what canal a young noble 
 sighs away the night! We happened to be 
 near when the Ancona-man performed his 
 feat; while Giorgio and I were boiling with 
 rage at the awkwardness of the stranger, my 
 master, who never had much taste or knowl- 
 edge in gondolas, went into the water to 
 save the young lady from sharing the fate of 
 her uncle.” 
 
 “ Diavolo! This is the first syllable thou 
 hast uttered concerning any young lady, or 
 of the death of her uncle.” 
 
 “Thou wert thinking of the 'Tunis-man, 
 and hast forgotten. I must have told thee 
 how near the beautiful signora was to sharing 
 the fate of the gondola, and how the loss of 
 the Roman marchese weighs, in addition, on 
 the soul of the padrone.” 
 
 “Santo padro! That a Christian should 
 die the death of a hunted dog by the care- 
 lessness of a gondolier!” 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 “Tt may have been lucky for the Ancona- 
 
 man that it so fell out, for they say the Ro- 
 
 man was one of influence enough to make a 
 senator cross the Bridge of Sighs, at need.” 
 
 <‘-The devil take all careless watermen, 
 say I!—And what became of the awkward 
 rogue?” 
 
 “JT tell thee he went outside the Lido, that 
 very hour, or 2 
 
 «* Pietrello ?” 
 
 «<He was brought up by the oar of Gior- 
 gio, for both of us were active in saving the 
 cushions and other valuables.” 
 
 “Oould’st thou do nothing for the poor 
 Roman? Ill luck may follow that brig on 
 account of his death!” 
 
 ‘<T}l luck follow her, say I, till she lays her 
 bones on some rock that is harder than the 
 heart of her padrone. As for the stranger, 
 we could do no more than to offer up a pray- 
 er to San Teodoro, since he never rose after 
 the blow. But what has brought thee to 
 Venice, caro mio? for thy ill-fortune with 
 the oranges, in the last voyage, caused thee 
 to denounce the place.” 
 
 The Calabrian laid a finger on one cheek, 
 and drew the skin down in a manner to give 
 a droll expression to his dark, comic eye, 
 while the whole of his really fine Grecian face 
 was charged with an expression of coarse 
 humor. 
 
 «Look you, Gino—thy master sometimes 
 ealls for his gondola between sunset and 
 morning ?” 
 
 «© An owl is not more wakeful than he has 
 been of late. This head of mine has not 
 been on a pillow before the sun has come 
 above the Lido, since the snows melted from 
 Monselice.”’ 
 
 «“ And when the sun of thy master’s coun- 
 tenance sets in his own palazzo, thou hasten- 
 est off to the bridge of the Rialto, among the 
 jewelers and butchers, to proclaim the man- 
 ner in which he passed the night?” 
 
 “Diamine! *I'would be the last night I 
 served the Duca di Sant’ Agata were my 
 tongue so limber! The gondolier and the 
 confessor are the two privy councillors of a 
 noble, Master Stefano, with this small differ- 
 ence—that the east only knows what the sin- 
 ner wishes to reveal, while the first some- 
 _ times knows more. I can find a safer, if not 
 a more honest employment, than to be run- 
 
 415 
 
 ning about with my master’s secrets in the 
 air.” 
 
 ‘«¢And Iam wiser than to let every Jew 
 broker in San Marco, here, have a peep into 
 my charter-party.” 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, old acquaintance, there is some dif- 
 ference between our occupations, after all. 
 A padrone of a felucca cannot in justice be 
 compared to the most confidential gondolier 
 of a Neapolitan duke, who has an unsettled 
 right to be admitted to the council of three 
 hundred.” 
 
 « Just the difference between smooth water 
 and rough—you ruffle the surface of a canal 
 with a lazy oar, while I run the channel of 
 Piombino in a mistral, shoot the Faro of Mes- 
 sina in a white squall, double Santa Maria 
 de Leuca in a breathing Levanter, and come 
 skimming up the Adriatic, before a sirrocco 
 that is hot enough to cook my maccaroni, 
 and which sets the whole sea boiling worse ' 
 than the caldrons of Scylla.” 
 
 “Hist !” eagerly interrupted the gondo- 
 lier, who had indulged, with Italian humor, 
 in the controversy for pre-eminence, though 
 without any real feelings, “‘ here comes one 
 who may think, else, we shall have need of 
 his hand to settle the dispute—Kccolo ! ” 
 
 The Calabrian recoiled a pace, in silence, 
 and stood regarding the individual who had 
 caused this hurried remark, with a gloomy 
 but steady air. The stranger moved slowly 
 past. His years were under thirty, though 
 the calm gravity of his countenance imparted 
 to it a character of more mature age. The 
 cheeks were bloodless, but they betrayed 
 rather the pallid hue of mental than of bod- 
 ily disease. The perfect condition of the 
 physical man was sufficiently exhibited in 
 the muscular fulness of a body which, though 
 light and active, gave every indication of 
 strength. His step was firm, assured, and 
 even; his carriage erect and easy, and his 
 whole mien was strongly characterized by a 
 self-possession that could scarcely escape ob- 
 servation. And yet his attire was that of an 
 inferior class. A doublet of common velvet, 
 a dark Montero cap, such as was then much 
 used in the southern countries of Europe, 
 with other vestments of a similar fashion, 
 composed his dress. The face was melan- 
 choly rather than sombre, and its perfect 
 repose accorded well with the striking calm- 
 
416 
 
 ness of the body. The lineaments of the 
 former, however, were bold and even noble, 
 exhibiting that strong and manly outline 
 which is so characteristic of the finer class 
 of the Italian countenance. Out of this 
 striking array of features gleamed an eye, 
 that was full of brilliancy, meaning, and pas- 
 sion. 
 
 As the stranger passed, his glittering or- 
 gans rolled over the persons of the gondolier 
 and his companion, but the look, though 
 searching, was entirely without interest. 
 "T'was the wandering but wary glance, which 
 men who have much reason to distrust, hab- 
 itually cast on a multitude. It turned, with 
 the same jealous keenness, on the face of the 
 next it encountered, and by the time the 
 steady and well-balanced form was lost in the 
 crowd, that quick and glowing eye had 
 gleamed, in the same rapid and uneasy man- 
 ‘ner, on twenty others. 
 
 Neither the gondolier nor the mariner of 
 Calabria spoke, until their riveted gazes after 
 the retiring figure became useless. Then 
 the former simply ejaculated with a strong 
 respiration : 
 
 “¢ Jacopo!” 
 
 His companion raised three of his fingers, 
 with an occult meaning, toward the palace 
 of the doges. 
 
 “Do they let him take the air, even in 
 San Marco?” he asked, in unfeigned sur- 
 prise. 
 
 ‘<Tt is not easy, caro amico, to make water 
 run up stream, or to stop the downward 
 current. It is said that most of the senators 
 would sooner lose their hopes of the horned 
 bonnet, than lose him. Jacopo! He knows 
 more family secrets than the good Priore of 
 San Marco himself, and he, poor man, is half 
 his time in the confessional.” 
 
 ‘« Ay, they are afraid to put him in an 
 iron jacket, lest awkward secrets should be 
 squeezed out.” 
 
 “Corpo di Bacco! there would be little 
 peace in Venice, if the Council of Three 
 should take it into their heads to loosen the 
 tongue of yonder man in that rude manner.” 
 
 ** But they say, Gino, that thy Council of 
 Three has a fashion of feeding the fishes of 
 the Lagunes, which might throw the suspicion 
 of his death on some unhappy Anconaman, 
 were the body ever to come up again.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “Well, no need of bawling it aloud, as if 
 thou wert hailing a Sicilian through thy 
 trumpet, though the fact should be so. To 
 say the truth, there are few men in business 
 who are thought to have more custom than 
 he who has just gone up the piazzetta.” 
 
 “Two sequins!” rejoined the Calabrian, 
 enforcing his meaning by a significant grim- 
 ace. 
 
 ‘*Santa Madonna! ‘Thou forgettest, Ste- 
 fano, that not even the confessor has any 
 trouble with a job in which he has been em- 
 ployed. Not a caratano less than a hundred 
 will buy a stroke of his art. Your blows, for 
 two sequins, leave a man leisure to tell tales, 
 or even to say his prayers half the time.” 
 
 ‘* Jacopo!” ejaculated the other, with an 
 emphasis which seemed to be a sort of sum- 
 ming up of all his aversion and horror. 
 
 The gondolier shrugged his shoulders, 
 with quite as much meaning as a man born 
 on the shores of the Baltic could have con- 
 veyed by words; but he, too, appeared to 
 think the matter exhausted. 
 
 ‘* Stefano Milano,” he added, after a mo- 
 ment of pause, “there are things in Venice 
 which he, who would eat his maccaroni in 
 peace, would do well to forget. Let thy 
 errand in port be what it may, thou art in 
 good season to witness the regatta which will 
 be given by the state itself to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Hast thou an oar for that race?” 
 
 “Giorgo’s, or mine, under the patronage of 
 San Teodoro. The prize will be a silver gon- 
 dola to him who is lucky or skilful enough 
 to win; and then we shall have tae nuptials 
 with the Adriatic.” 
 
 “'T'hy nobles had best woo the bride well, 
 for there are heretics who lay claim to her 
 good-will. I met a rover of strange rig and 
 miraculous fleetness, in rounding the head- 
 lands of Otranto, who seemed to have half a 
 mind to follow the felucca in her path toward 
 the Lagunes.” 
 
 “ Did the sight warm thee at the — of 
 thy feet, Gino dear?” 
 
 “There was not a turbaned head on his 
 deck, but every sea-cap set upon a well- 
 covered poll and a shorn chin. Thy Bucen- 
 taur is no longer the bravest craft that floats 
 between Dalmatia and the islands, though 
 her gilding may glitter brightest. There are 
 men beyond the pillars of Hercules who are | 
 
not satisfied with doing all that can be done 
 on their own coasts, but who are pretending 
 todo much of that which can be done on 
 e ours.” 
 
 “The republic is a little aged, caro, and 
 years need rest. The joints of the Bucen- 
  taur are wrecked by time and many voyages 
 to the Lido. I have heard my master say 
 _ that they leap of the winged lion is not as 
 far as it was, even in his young days.” 
 
 “Don Camillo has the reputation of talk- 
 ing boldly of the foundation of this city of 
 piles, when he has the roof of old Sant’ Agata 
 safely over his head. Were he to speak more 
 reverently of the horned bonnet, and of the 
 Council of Three, his pretensions to succeed 
 to the rights of his forefathers might seem 
 juster in the eyes of his judges. But dis- 
 tance is a great mellower of colors, and 
 softener of fears. My own opinion of the 
 speed of the felucca, and of the merits of a 
 Turk, undergo changes of this sort between 
 port and the open sea; and I have known 
 thee, good Gino, forget San Teodoro, and 
 bawl as lustily to San Gennaro, when at 
 Naples, as if thou really fancied thyself in 
 danger from the mountain.” 
 
 “ One must speak to those at hand, in order 
 to be quickest heard,” rejoined the gondolier, 
 casting a glance that was partly humorous, 
 and not without superstition, upward at the 
 image which crowned the granite column 
 against whose pedestal he still leaned. ‘‘A 
 truth which warns us to be prudent, for 
 yonder Jew casts a look this way, as if he felt 
 a conscientious scruple in letting any ir- 
 reverend remark of ours go without reporting. 
 The bearded old rogue is said to have other 
 dealings with the Three Hundred besides 
 asking for the moneys he has lent to their 
 ta sons. And so, Stefano, thou thinkest the 
 republic will never plant another mast of 
 _ triumph in San Marco, or bring more tro- 
 _ phies to the venerable church ?” 
 
 My “ Napoli herself, with her constant change 
 
 i of masters, is as likely to do a great act on 
 _ the sea as thy winged beast just now! Thou 
 art well enough to row a gondola in the 
 _ canals, Gino, or to follow thy master to his 
 Calabrian castle; but if thou wouldst know 
 _ what passes in the wide world, thou must be 
 content to listen to mariners of the long 
 _ course. The day of San Marco has gone by, 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 Al? 
 
 and that of the heretics more north has 
 ee ee 
 
 «Thou hast been much of late among the\ 
 lying Genoese, Stefano, that thou comest 
 hither with these idle tales of what an 
 heretic can do. Genova la Superba! What 
 has a city of walls to compare with one of 
 canals and islands, like this ?—and what has 
 that Appenine republic performed, to be put 
 in comparison with the great deeds of the 
 Queen of the Adriatic? Thou forgottest 
 that Venezia has been a 
 
 ‘*Zitto, zitto ! that has been, caro mio, is 
 a great word with all Italy. Thou art as 
 proud of the past as a Roman of the Traste- 
 were. 
 
 «And the Roman of the Trastevere is 
 right. Is it nothing, Stefano Milano, to be 
 descended from a great and_ victorious 
 people?” 
 
 ‘It is better, Gino Monaldi, to be one of — 
 a people which is great and victorious just 
 now. The enjoyment of the past is like the 
 pleasure of the fool who dreams of the wine. 
 he drank yesterday.” = 
 
 “This is well for a Neapolitan, whose 
 country never was a nation,’ returned the 
 gondolier, angrily. “I have heard Don 
 Camillo, who is one educated as well as born 
 in the land, often say that half of the people 
 of Europe have ridden the horse of Sicily, 
 and used the legs of thy Napoli, except those 
 who had the best right to the services of 
 both.” 
 
 «Even so; and yet the figs are as sweet as 
 ever and the beccafichi as tender! ‘The 
 ashes of the volcano cover all !” 
 
 ‘‘Gino,” said a voice of authority, near the 
 gondolier. 
 
 « Signor.” 
 
 He who interrupted the dialogue pointed 
 to the boat, without saying more. 
 
 “A rivederti,” hastily muttered the gon 
 dolier. His friend squeezed his hand in per 
 fect amity—for, in truth, they were country- 
 men by birth, though chance had trained 
 the former on the canals—and, at the next 
 instant, Gino was arranging the cushions 
 for his master, having first aroused his sub- 
 ordinate brother of the oar from a profound 
 sleep. 
 
 NN 
 
418 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Hast ever swam in a gondola at Venice ?— 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 When Don Camillo Monforte entered the 
 gondola he did not take his seat in the 
 pavilion. With an arm leaning on the top 
 of the canopy, and his cloak thrown loosely 
 over one shoulder, the young noble stood, 
 in a musing attitude, until his dexterous 
 servitors had extricated the boat from the 
 little fleet which crowded the quay, and had 
 urged it into open water. This duty per- 
 formed, Gino touched his scarlet cap, and 
 looked at his master, as if to inquire the 
 direction in which they were to proceed. He 
 was answered by a silent gesture that indi- 
 cated the route of the great canal. 
 
 <¢Thou hast an ambition, Gino, to show 
 thy skill in- the regatta?” Don Camillo 
 observed, when they had made a little pro- 
 gress—“ The motive merits success. Thou 
 wast speaking to a stranger, when I sum- 
 moned thee to the gondola !” 
 
 ‘«<T was asking the news of our Calabrian 
 hills from one who has come into port with 
 his felucca, though the man took the name 
 of San Gennaro to witness that nis former 
 luckless voyage should be the last.” 
 
 “ How does he call his felucca, and what 
 is the name of the padrone ?” 
 
 “Tia Bella Sorrentina, commanded by a 
 certain Stefano Milano, son of an ancient ser- 
 vant of Sant’ Agata. The bark is none of 
 the worst for speed, and it has some reputa- 
 tion for beauty. It ought to be of happy 
 fortune, too, for the good curato recom- 
 mended it, with many a devout prayer to the 
 Virgin and to San Francesco.” 
 
 The noble appeared to lend more attention 
 to the discourse, which, until now, on his 
 _ part, had been commenced in the listless 
 manner with which a superior encourages an 
 indulged dependent. 
 
 ‘‘La Bella Sorrentina! 
 to know the bark ?” 
 
 “Nothing more true, Signor. Her pa- 
 drone has relations at Sant’ Agata, as I have 
 told your eccellenza, and his vessel has lain 
 on the bench, near the castle, many a bleak 
 winter.” 
 
 “What brings him to Venice?” 
 
 “That is what I would give my newest 
 
 Have I not reason 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 jacket of your eccellenza’s colors to know, 
 Signor. I have as little wish to inquire into 
 other people’s affairs as any one, and I very 
 well know that discretion is the chief virtue 
 of a gondolier. I ventured, however, a dead- 
 ly hint concerning his errand, such as ancient 
 neighborhood would warrant, but he was 
 as cautious with his answers as if he were 
 weighted with the confessions of fifty Chris- 
 tians. Now,if your eccellenza should see fit to 
 give me authority to question him, in your 
 name, the deuce is in’t if between respect for 
 his lord, and good management, we could not 
 draw something more than a false bill of lading 
 from him.” 3 
 
 «“ Thou wilt take thy choice of my gondolas 
 for the regatta, Gino,” observed the Duke of 
 Sant’ Agata, entering the pavilion, and throw- 
 ing himself on the glossy black leather cush- 
 ions, without adverting to the suggestion of 
 his servant. 
 
 The gondola continued its noiseless course, 
 with the sprite-like movement peculiar to that 
 description of boat. Gino, who, as superior 
 over his fellow, stood perched on the little 
 arched deck in the stern, pushed his oar with 
 accustomed readiness and skill, now causing 
 the light vessel to sheer to the right, and now 
 to the left, as it glided among the multitude 
 of crafts, of all sizes and uses, which it met 
 in its passage. Palace after palace had been 
 passed, and more than one of the principal 
 canals, which diverged toward the different 
 spectacles, or the other places of resort fre- 
 quented by his master, were left behind, with- 
 out Don Camillo giving any new direction. 
 At length the boat arrived opposite to a build- 
 ing, which seemed to excite more than com- 
 monexpectation. Giorgio worked his oar with 
 a single hand, looking over his shoulder at 
 Gino, and Gino permited his blade fairly to 
 trail on the water. Both seemed to await” 
 new orders, manifesting something like that. 
 species of instinctive sympathy with him they 
 served, which a long practised horse is apt 
 to show when he draws near a gate, that is 
 seldom passed unvisited by his driver. =a 
 
 The edifice which caused this hesitation in 
 the two gondoliers, was one of those residen- 
 ces of Venice which are quite as remarkable 
 for their external riches and ornaments, as 
 for their singular situation amid the waters. 
 A massive rustic basement of marble was seat- . 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 ed as solidly in the elements, as if it grew 
 from a living rock, while story was seemingly 
 raised on story, in the wanton observance of 
 the most capricious rules of meretricious archi- 
 tecture, until the pile reached an attitude 
 that is little known, except in the dwellings 
 
 ‘of princes. Colonnades, medallions, and mas- 
 
 sive cornices, overhung the canal, asif the art 
 of man had taken pride in loading the super- 
 
 structure ina manner to mock the unstable 
 element which concealed its base. 
 
 A flight 
 of steps, on which each gentle undulation pro- 
 duced by the passage of the barge washed a 
 wave, conducted to a vast vestibule, that an- 
 swered many of the purposes ofa court. Two 
 or three gondolas were moored near, but the 
 absence of their people showed they were for 
 the use of those who dwelt within. The boats 
 were protected from rough collision with the 
 passing craft, by piles driven obliquely into 
 the bottom. Similar spars, with painted and 
 ornamented heads, that sometimes bore the 
 colors and arms of the proprietor, formed a 
 
 sort of little haven for the gondolas of the 
 
 household, before the door of every dwelling 
 of mark. 
 
 ‘“Where is it the pleasure of your eccel- 
 lenza to be rowed ?” asked Gino, when he 
 found his sympathetic delay had produced no 
 order. 
 
 «To the Palazzo.” 
 
 Giorgio threw a glance of surprise back at 
 his comrade, but the obedient gondola shot 
 by the gloomy, though rich abode, as if the 
 little bark had suddenly obeyed an inward 
 impulse. Inamoment more, it whirled aside, 
 and the hollow sound, caused by the plash of 
 water between high walls, announced its en- 
 trance into a narrower canal. With short- 
 ened oars, the men still urged the boat ahead, 
 now turning short into some new channel, 
 now glancing beneath alow bridge, and now 
 uttering, in the sweet shrill tones of the coun- 
 try and their craft, the well-known warning 
 to those who were darting in an opposite di- 
 rection. A backstroke of Gino’s oar, how- 
 ever, soon brought the side of the arrested 
 boat to a flight of steps. 
 
 ‘Thou wilt follow me,” said Don Camillo, 
 as he placed his foot, with the customary 
 caution, on the moist stone, and laid a hand 
 on the shoulder of Gino; ‘‘I have need of 
 thee.” 
 
 419 
 
 Neither the vestibule, nor the entrance; 
 nor the other visible accessories of the dwell- 
 ing, were so indicative of luxury and wealth 
 as that of the palace on the great canal. 
 Still, they were all such as denoted the resi- 
 dence of a noble of consideration. 
 
 “Thou wilt do wisely, Gino, to trust thy 
 fortunes to the new gondola,” said the mas- 
 ter, as he mounted the heavy stone stairs to 
 an upper floor, pointing as he spoke to anew 
 and beautiful boat, which lay in a corner of 
 the large vestibule, as carriages are seen 
 standing in the courts of houses built on 
 more solid ground. ‘‘He who would find 
 favor with Jupiter must put his own shoulder 
 to the wheel, thou knowest, my friend.” 
 
 The eye of Gino brightened, and he was 
 voluble in his expression of thanks. They 
 had ascended to the first floor, and were al- 
 ready deep in a suit of gloomy apartments, 
 before the gratitude and professional pride of 
 the gondolier were exhausted. 
 
 «« Aided by a powerful arm and a fleet gon- 
 dola thy chance will be as good as another's, 
 Gino,” said Don Camillo, closing the door of 
 his cabinet on the servant; ‘‘at present, 
 thou mayest give some proof of zeal in my 
 service, in another manner. Is the face of a 
 man called Jacopo Frontoni known to 
 thee ?” « 
 
 ‘* Kecellenza!” exclaimed the gondolier, 
 gasping for breath. 
 
 ‘Task thee if thou knowest the counte- 
 
 nance of one named Frontoni ?” 
 
 ‘* His countenance, Signor !” 
 
 ‘¢ By what else would’st thou distinguish a 
 man ?” 
 
 «¢ A man, Signor Don Camillo!” _ 
 
 «¢ Art thou mocking thy master, Gino? I 
 have asked thee if thou art acquainted with 
 the person of a certain Jacopo Frontoni; a 
 dweller in Venice ?” 
 
 ‘«* Kecellenza, yes.” : 
 
 ‘‘He I mean has been long remarked by 
 the misfortunes of his family, the father be- 
 ing now in exile on the Dalmatian coast, or 
 elsewhere.” 
 
 “* Hecellenza, yes.” 
 
 ‘‘ There are many of the name of Frontoni, 
 and it is important that thou should’st not 
 mistake the man. Jacopo, of that family, is 
 a youth of some five-and-twenty, of an active 
 frame and melancholy visage, and of less 
 
420 
 
 vivacity of temperament, than is wont, at his 
 years.” 
 
 « Kecellenza, yes.” 
 
 “One who resorts but little with his fel- 
 lows, and who is rather noted for the silence 
 and industry with which he attends to his 
 concerns, than for any of the usual pleasant- 
 ries and trifling of men of hiscast. A certain 
 Jacopo Frontoni, that hath his abode some- 
 where near the arsenal ?” 
 
 “ Cospetto ! Signor Duca, the man is as 
 well known to us gondoliers as the bridge of 
 the Rialto! Your eccellenza has no need to 
 trouble yourself to describe him,” 
 
 Don Camillo Monforte was searching 
 among the papers of a secretary. He raised 
 his eyes in some little amazement, at the 
 sally of his dependent, and then he quietly 
 resumed his occupation. 
 
 “Tf thou knowest the man, it 1s enough.” 
 
 ‘« Kecellenza, yes. And what is your pleas- 
 ure with this accursed Jacopo !” 
 
 The Duke of Sant’ Agata seemed to recol- 
 lect himself. He replaced the papers which 
 had been deranged, and he closed the secre- 
 tary. 
 
 ‘‘Gino,” he said, in a tone of confidence 
 and amity, ‘‘thou wert born on my estates, 
 though so long trained here to the oar in 
 Venice, and thou hast passed thy life in my 
 service.” 
 
 ‘<¢ Hccellenza, yes.” 
 
 ‘‘It is my desire that thou should’st 
 end thy days where they began. If have had 
 much confidence in thy discretion, hitherto, 
 and I have satisfaction in saying it has 
 never failed thee, notwithstanding thou hast 
 necessarily been a witness of some exploits of 
 youth, which might have drawn embarrass- 
 ment on thy master, were thy tongue less 
 disposed to silence.” 
 
 ‘<‘Kccellenza, yes.” 
 
 Don Camillo smiled ; but the gleam of 
 humor gave way to a look of grave and anxi- 
 ous thought. 
 
 “As thou knowest the person of him I 
 have named, our affair is simple. Take this 
 packet,” he continued,” placing a sealed 
 letter of more than usual size into the hand 
 ef the gondolier, and drawing from his fin- 
 ger a signet ring, ‘“‘with this token of thy 
 authority. Within that arch of the doge’s 
 palace, which leads to the canal of San Mar- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 co, beneath the Bridge of Sighs, thou wilt 
 find Jacopo. Give him the packet; and 
 should he demand it, withhold not the ring. 
 
 Wait his bidding, and return with the an- 
 
 swer.” 
 
 Gino received this commission with pro- 
 found respect, but with an awe he could not 
 conceal. Habitual deference to his master 
 appeared to struggle with deep distaste for 
 the office he was required to perform; and 
 there was even some manifestation of a more 
 principled reluctance, in his hesitating yet 
 humble manner. If Don Camillo noted the 
 air and countenance of his menial at all, he 
 effectually concealed it. 
 
 «At the arched passage of the palace, be- 
 neath the Bridge of Sighs,” he coolly added ; 
 “and let thy arrival there be timed, as near 
 as may be, to the first hour of the night.” 
 
 “TI would, Signore, that you had been 
 pleased to command Giorgio and me to row 
 you to Padua!” 
 
 “The way is long. Why this sudden wish 
 to weary thyself?” 
 
 ‘Because there is no doge’s palace, nor 
 any Bridge of Sighs, nor any dog of Jacopo 
 Frontoni, among the meadows.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou hast little relish for this duty; but 
 thou must know that what the master com- 
 mands, it is the duty of a faithful follower 
 to perform. Thou wert born my vassal, Gino 
 Monaldi, and though trained from boyhood 
 in this occupation of a gondolier, thou art 
 properly a being of my fiefs, in Napoli.” 
 
 «St. Gennaro make me grateful for the 
 honor, Signor! But there is not a water- 
 seller in the streets of Venice, nor a mariner 
 
 on her canals, who does not wish this Jacopo 
 
 anywhere but in the bosom of Abraham. 
 He is the terror of every youug lover, and of 
 all the urgent creditors on the islands.” 
 
 «Thou seest, silly babbler, there is one of 
 the former, at least, who does not hold him 
 in dread. Thou wilt seek him beneath the 
 Bridge of Sighs, and, showing the signet, 
 deliver the package according to my instruc- 
 tions.” 
 
 “It is certain loss of character to be seen 
 speaking with the miscreant! So late as 
 yesterday, I heard Annina, the pretty daugh- 
 ter of the old wine-seller on the Lido, de- 
 clare, that to be seen once in company with 
 
 Jacopo Frontoni was as bad as to be caught - 
 
 ee 
 
THH BRAVO. 
 
 twice bringing old rope from the arsenal, as 
 befell Roderigo, her mother’s cousin.” 
 
 “Thy distinctions savor of the morals of 
 the Lido. Remember to exhibit the ring, 
 lest he distrust thy errand.” 
 
 “Could not your eccellenza set me about 
 clipping the wings of the lion, or painting a 
 better picture than Tiziano di Vecelli? I 
 have a mortal dislike even to pass the mere 
 compliments of the day with one of your 
 cutthroats. Were any of our gondoliers to 
 see me in discourse with the man, it might 
 exceed your eccellenza’s influence to get me 
 a place in the regatta. 
 
 “Tf he detain thee, Gino, thou wilt wait 
 his pleasure ; and if he dismiss thee at once, 
 return hither with all expedition, that I may 
 know the result.” 
 
 “‘T very well know, Signor Don Camillo, 
 that the honor of a noble is more tender of 
 reproach than that of his followers, and that 
 the stain upon the silken robe of a senator is 
 seen farther than the spot upon a velvet 
 jacket. If any one unworthy of your eccel- 
 lenza’s notice has dared to offend, here are 
 Giorgio and I, ready, at any time, to show 
 how deeply we can feel an indignity which 
 
 touches our master’s credit; but a hireling of 
 
 two, or ten, even of a hundred 
 sequins ! ” 
 
 “‘t thank thee for the hint, Gino. Go 
 thou and sleep in thy gondola, and bid 
 Giorgio come into my cabinet.” 
 
 «Signor !” 
 
 ‘* Art thou resolute to do none of my bid- 
 dings?” 
 
 -**Ts it your eccellenza’s pleasure that I go 
 to the Bridge of Sighs by the footways of 
 the streets, or by the canals?” 
 
 “There may be need of a gondola—thou 
 wilt go with the oar.” 
 
 “A tumbler shall not have time to turn 
 round before the answer of Jacopo shall be 
 here.” 
 
 With this sudden change of purpose, the 
 gondolier quitted the room; for the reluc- 
 tance of Gino disappeared the moment he 
 found the confidential duty assigned him by 
 his master was likely to be performed by an- 
 other. Descending rapidly, by secret stairs, 
 instead of entering the vestibule, where half- 
 a-dozen menials of different employments 
 
 were in waiting, he passed by one of the nar- 
 
 or 
 
 421 
 
 row corridors of the palace into an inner 
 court, and thence by a low and unimportant 
 gate into an obscure alley, which communi- 
 cated with the nearest street. 
 
 Though the age is one of so great activity 
 and intelligence, and the Atlantic is no 
 longer a barrier even to the ordinary amuse- 
 ments of life, a great majority of Americans 
 have never had an opportunity of personally 
 examining the remarkable features of a 
 region, of which the town that Gino now 
 threaded with so much diligence, is not the 
 least worthy of observation. Those who haye 
 been so fortunate as to have visited Italy, 
 therefore, will excuse us if we make a brief, 
 but what we believe useful, digression, for 
 the benefit of those who have not had that 
 advantage. 
 
 The city of Venice stands on a cluster of 
 low, sandy islands. It is probable that the 
 country which lies nearest to the gulf, if not 
 the whole of the immense plain of Lombardy 
 itself, is of alluvial formation. Whatever 
 may have been the origin of that wide and 
 fertile kingdom, the causes which have given 
 to the Lagunes their existence, and to Venice 
 its unique and picturesque foundation, are 
 too apparent to be mistaken. Several tor- 
 rents, which flow from the valleys of the 
 Alps, pour their tribute into the Adriatic at 
 this point. Their waters come charged with 
 the débris of the mountains, pulverized 
 nearly to their original elements. Released 
 from the violence of the stream, these parti- 
 cles have necessarily been deposited in the 
 gulf, at the spot where they have first become 
 subjected to the power of the sea. Under the 
 influence of counteracting currents, eddies, 
 and waves, the sands have been thrown into 
 submarine piles, until some of the banks 
 have arisen above the surface, forming isl- 
 ands, whose elevation has been gradually 
 augmented by the decay of vegetation. A 
 glance at the map will show that, while the 
 Gulf of Venice is not literally, it is, practi- 
 cally, considered with reference to the effect 
 produced by the southeast wind called the 
 sirocco, at the head of the Adriatic. This 
 accidental circumstance is probably the rea- 
 son why the Lagunes have a more deter- 
 mined character at the mouths of the minor 
 streams that empty themselves here, than at 
 the mouths of most of the other rivers, which 
 
-_ 
 
 ‘shot of the natural barrier. 
 
 422 
 
 equally flow from the Alps or the Apennines, 
 into the same shallow sea. 
 
 The natural consequence of a current of a 
 river meeting the waters of any broad basin, 
 and where there is no base of rock, is the for- 
 mation, at or near the spot where the oppos- 
 ing actions are neutralized, of a bank, which 
 is technically called a bar. The coast of the 
 Union furnishes constant evidence of the 
 truth of this theory, every river having its 
 
 bar, with channels that are often shifted, or 
 
 cleared, by the freshets, the gales, or the 
 tides. The constant and powerful operation 
 of the southeastern winds on one side, with 
 the periodical increase of the Alpine streams 
 on the other, have converted this bar at the 
 entrance of the Venetian Lagunes, into a 
 succession of long, low, sandy islands, which 
 extend in a direct line, nearly across the 
 mouth of the gulf. The waters of the rivers 
 have necessarily cut a few channels for their 
 passage, or, what is now a lagune, would long 
 since have become a lake. Another thousand 
 years may so far change the character of this 
 extraordinary estuary, as to convert the 
 channels of the bay into rivers, and the 
 muddy banks into marshes and meadows, 
 resembling those that are now seen for so 
 many leagues inland. 
 
 The low margin of sand that, in truth, 
 gives all its maritime security to the port of 
 Venice and the Lagunes, is called the Lido 
 di Palestrino. Ithas been artificially con- 
 nected and secured, in many places, and the 
 wall of the Lido (literally the beach), though 
 incomplete, like most of the great and 
 vaunted works of the other hemisphere, and 
 more particularly of Italy, ranks with the 
 mole of Ancona, and the sea-wall of Cher- 
 bourg. The hundred little islands which 
 now contain the ruins of what, during the 
 Middle Ages, was the mart of the Mediter- 
 ranean, are grouped together within cannon- 
 Art has united 
 with nature to turn the whole to good ac- 
 
 count; and, apart from the influence of 
 
 moral causes, the rivalry of a neighboring 
 town, which has been fostered by political 
 care, and the gradual filling up of the waters 
 by the constant deposit of the streams, it 
 
 would be difficult to imagine a more commo- 
 
 dious, or a safer haven when entered, than 
 
 _ that which Venice affords, even to this hour. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Ag all the deeper channels of the Lagunes 
 have been preserved, the city is intersected, 
 in every direction, by passages, which, from 
 their appearance, are called canals, but 
 which, in truth, are no more than so many 
 small natural branches of the sea. On the 
 margin of these passages, the walls of the 
 dwellings arise literally from out of the 
 water, since economy of room has caused their 
 owners to extend their possessions to the very 
 verge of the channel in the manner that 
 quays and wharves are pushed into the 
 streams in our own country. In many in-| 
 stances the islands themselves were no more 
 than banks, which were periodically bare, 
 and on all, the use of piles has been necessary 
 to support the superincumbent loads of pal- 
 aces, churches, and public monuments, under 
 which, in the course of ages, the humble 
 spits of sand have been made to groan. i 
 
 The great frequency of the canals, and 
 perhaps some attention to economy of labor, 
 has given to by far the greater part of the 
 buildings the facility of an approach by 
 water. But, while nearly every dwelling has 
 one of its fronts on a canal, there are always 
 communications by the rear with the interior 
 passages of the town. It is a fault in most 
 descriptions, that while the stranger hears so 
 much of the canals of Venice, but little is 
 said of her streets; still, narrow, paved, com- 
 modious, and noiseless passages, of this 
 description, intersect all the islands, which 
 communicate with each other by means of a 
 countless number of bridges. Though the 
 hoof of a horse, or the rumbling of a wheel, 
 is never heard in these strait avenues, they 
 are of great resort for all the purposes of 
 ordinary intercourse. 
 
 Gino issued into one of these thorough- 
 fares, when he quitted the private passage 
 which communicated with the palace of his 
 master. He threaded the throng by which 
 it was crowded with a dexterity that resem- 
 bled the windings of an eel among the weeds 
 of the Lagunes. To the numerous greetings 
 of his fellows, he replied only by nods; nor 
 did he once arrest his footsteps, until they 
 had led him through the door of a low and 
 dark dwelling, that stood in a quarter of the 
 place which was inhabited by people of an 
 inferior condition. Groping his way among 
 casts, cordage, and rubbish of all descrip-. 
 
THH BRAVO. 
 
 tions, the gondolier succeeded in finding an 
 inner and retired door, that opened into a 
 small room, whose only light came from a 
 species of well, that laseshided between the 
 walls of the adjacent houses and that in 
 which he was. 
 
 ‘Blessed St. Anne! Is it thou, Gino 
 Monaldi!” exclaimed a smart Venetian 
 grisette, whose tones and manner betrayed as 
 much of coquetry as of surprise. ‘‘ On foot, 
 and by the secret door; is this an hour to 
 come on any of thy er rane roy 
 
 ‘‘Truly, Annina, it is not the season for 
 affairs with thy father, and it is something 
 early foravisit tothee. But there is less time 
 for words than for action just now. For the 
 sake of San Teodora, and that of a constant 
 and silly young man, who, if not thy slave, 
 is at least thy dog, bring forth the jacket I 
 wore when we went together to see the 
 merry-making at Fusina.” 
 
 **I know nothing of thy errand, Gino, nor 
 of thy reason for wishing to change thy mas- 
 ter’s livery for the dress of a common boat- 
 man. ‘Thou art far more comely with those 
 silken flowers than in this faded velveteen ; 
 and if I have ever said aught in commenda- 
 tion of its appearance,it was because we were 
 bent on merry-making; and being one of the 
 party, it would have been churlish to have 
 withheld a word of praise to a companion, 
 who, as thou knowest, does not dislike a civil 
 speech in his own praise.” 
 
 *« Zitto, zitto! here is no merry-making and 
 eompanions, but a matter of gravity, and one 
 that must be performed off-hand. The 
 jacket, if thou lovest me!” 
 
 Annina, who had not neglected essentials 
 while she moralized on motives, threw the 
 garment on a stool that stood within reach 
 of the gondolier’s hand, as he made this 
 strong appeal, in a way to show that she was 
 not to be surprised out of a confession of 
 this sort, even in the most unguarded mo- 
 ment, 
 
 “If I love thee, truly! Thou hast the 
 jacket, Gino, and thou mayest search in its 
 pockets for an answer to thy letters, for 
 which I do not thank thee for having got the 
 duca’s secretary to indite. A maiden should 
 be discreet in affairs of this sort, for one 
 never knows but he may make a confidant of 
 a@ rival.” 
 
 423 
 
 “ EKvery word of it is as true as if the devil 
 himself had done the office for me, girl,” 
 muttered Gino, uncasing himself from his 
 flowery vestment, and as rapidly assuming 
 the plainer garment he had sought. ‘The 
 cap, Annina, and the mask ?” 
 
 “One who wears so false a face, in com- 
 mon, has little need of a bit of silk to conceal 
 his countenance,’ she answered, throwing 
 him, notwithstanding, both the articles he 
 required. 
 
 “This is well—Father Battista himself, 
 who boasts he can tell a sinner from a peni- 
 tent merely by the savor of his presence, 
 would never suspect a servitor of Don Ca- 
 millo Monforte in this dress! Cospetto! but 
 I have half a mind to visit that knave of a 
 Jew, who has got thy golden chain in pledge, 
 and give him a hint of what may be the con- 
 sequences, should he insist on demanding 
 double the rate of interest we agreed on.” 
 
 “?Twould be Christian justice! but what 
 would become of thy matter of gravity the 
 while, Gino, and of thy haste to enter on its 
 performance ?” 
 
 ‘“Thou sayest truly, girl. Duty, above all 
 other things; though to frighten a grasping 
 Hebrew may be as much of a duty as other 
 matters. Are all thy father’s gondolas in the 
 water ?” 
 
 ‘How else could he be gone to the Lido, 
 and my brother Luigi to Fusina, and the 
 two serving-men on the usual business to the 
 islands, or how else should I be alone ?” 
 
 “ Diavolo! is there no boat in the canal?” 
 
 “Thou art in unwonted haste, Gino, now 
 thou hast a mask and a jacket of velvet! I 
 know not that I should suffer one to enter 
 my father’s house, when I am in it alone, 
 and take such disguises to go abroad, at this 
 hour. Thou wilt tell me thy errand, that I 
 may judge of the propriety of what I do.” 
 
 “ Better ask the Three Hundred to open 
 the leaves of their book of doom! Give me 
 the key of the outer door, girl, that I may go 
 my way.” 
 
 ‘Not till I know whether this business is 
 likely to draw down upon my father the dis- 
 pleasure of the senate. Thou knowest, Gino, 
 that I am 
 
 ‘‘Diamine! There goes the clock of San 
 Marco, and I tarry past my hour. If I am 
 too late, the fault will rest with thee!” 
 
424 
 
 «Twill not be the first of thy oversights, 
 which it has been my business to excuse. 
 Here thou art, and here shalt thou remain, 
 until I know the errand which calls for a 
 mask and jacket, and all about this matter of 
 gravity.” : 
 
 ‘‘This is talking like a jealous wife, in- 
 stead of a reasonable girl, Annina. I have 
 told thee that I am on business of the last 
 importance, and that delay may bring heavy 
 calamities.” 
 
 “ On whom ?—What is thy business? Why 
 art thou, whom in general it is necessary to 
 warn from this house by words many times 
 repeated, now, in such a haste to leave it?” 
 
 ‘Have I not told thee, girl, ’tis an errand 
 of great concern to six noble families, and if 
 I fail to be in season, there may be strife— 
 ay, between the Florentine and the republic!” 
 
 ‘¢Thou hast said nothing of the sort, nor 
 do I put faith in thy being an ambassador 
 of San Marco. Speak truth for once, Gino 
 Monaldi, or lay aside the mask and jacket, 
 and take up thy flowers of Sant’ Agata.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, then, as we are friends, and I have 
 faith in thy discretion, Annina, thou shalt 
 know the truth to the extremity, for I find 
 the bell has only tolled the quarters, which 
 leaves me yet a moment for confidence.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou lookest at the wall, Gino, and art 
 consulting thy wits for some plausible lie!” 
 
 “T look at the wall because conscience tells 
 me that too much weakness for thee is about 
 to draw me astray from duty. What thou 
 takest for deceit is only shame and modesty.” 
 
 ‘Of that we shall judge, when the tale is 
 told.” 
 
 “Then listen. Thou hast heard of the 
 affair between my master and the niece of 
 the Roman Marchese, who was drowned in the 
 Giudecca, by the carelessness of an Ancona- 
 man, who passed over the gondola of Pietro 
 as if his felucca had been a galley of state ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Who has been upon the Lido, the month 
 past, without hearing the tale repeated, with 
 every variation of a gondolier’s anger ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, the matter is likely to come to a 
 conclusion this night; my master is about to 
 do, as I fear, a very foolish thing!” 
 
 ‘‘ He will be married ?” 
 
 “Or worse;—I am sent, in all haste and 
 secrecy in search of a priest.” 
 
 Annina manifested strong interest in the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 fiction of the gondolier. Either from a dis- 
 trustful temperament, long habit, or great 
 familiarity with the character of her com- 
 panion, however, she did not listen to his ex- 
 planation without betraying some doubts of 
 its truth. 
 
 ‘«‘ This will be a sudden bridal feast !” she 
 said, after a moment of pause—‘‘’Tis well 
 that few are invited, or its savor might be 
 spoiled by the Three Hundred! To what 
 convent art thou sent?” 
 
 ‘My errand is not particular. The first 
 that may be found, provided he be a Fran- 
 ciscan, and a priest likely to have bowels for 
 lovers in haste.” 
 
 ‘Don Camillo Monforte, the heir of an 
 ancient and great line, does not wive with so 
 little caution. Thy false tongue has been. 
 trying to deceive me, Gino; but long use 
 should have taught thee the folly of the 
 effort. Unless thou sayest truth, not only 
 shalt thou not go to thy errand, but here art 
 thou a prisoner at my pleasure.” 
 
 ‘‘T may have told thee what I expect will 
 shortly happen, rather than what has hap- | 
 pened. But Don Camillo keeps me so much 
 upon the water of late, that I do little beside 
 dream, when not at the oar.” 
 
 ‘Tt is vain to attempt deceiving me, Gino, 
 for thine eye speaketh truth, let thy tongue 
 and brains wander where they will. Drink 
 of this cup, and disburthen thy conscience, 
 like a man.” 
 
 “T would that thy father would make the 
 acquaintance of Stefano Milano !” resumed 
 the gondolier, taking a long breath, after a 
 still longer draught. ‘‘’Tis a padrone of 
 Calabria, who oftentimes brings into the port 
 excellent liquors of his country, and who 
 would pass a cask of the red lachryme 
 Christi through the Broglio itself, and not a 
 noble of them all should see it. The man is 
 here at present, and, if thou wilt, he shall 
 not be long without coming into terms with 
 thee for a few skins.” 
 
 ‘‘T doubt if he have better liquors than 
 this which hath ripened upon the sands of 
 the Lido. Take another draught, for the 
 second taste is thought to be better than the 
 first.” 
 
 ‘‘Tf the wine improve in this manner, 
 thy father should be heavy-hearted at the 
 sight of the lees! *Twould be no more 
 
 et 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 than charity to bring him and Stefano 
 acquainted.” 
 
 «Why not do it, immediately? His 
 felucca is in. the port, thou sayest, and thou 
 canst lead him hither by the secret door and 
 the lanes.” 
 
 «Thou forgettess my errand. Don 
 Camillo is not used to be served the second. 
 Cospetto ! ’I'were a pity that any other got 
 the liquor which I am certain the Calabrian 
 has in secret.” 
 
 «‘This errand can be no matter of a mo- 
 ment, like that of being sure of wine of the 
 quality thou namest ; or, if it be, thou canst 
 first dispatch thy master’s business, and then 
 to the port, in quest of Stefano. That the 
 purchase may not fail, I will take a mask 
 ‘and be thy companion, to see thee Calabrian. 
 Thou knowest my father hath much confi- 
 dence in my judgment in matters like this.” 
 
 While Gino stood half stupified, and half 
 delighted at this proposition, the ready and 
 wily Annina made some slight change in her 
 outer garments, placed a silken mask before 
 her face, applied a key to the door, and 
 beckoned to the gondolier to follow. 
 
 The canal, with which the dwelling of 
 the wine-dealer communicated, was narrow, 
 _ gloomy, and little frequented. A gondola 
 of the plainest description was fastened near, 
 and the girl entered it, without appearing to 
 think any further arrangement necessary. 
 The servant of Don Camillo hesitated a single 
 instant, but having seen that his half-medi- 
 tated project of escaping by the use of an- 
 other boat, could not be accomplished for 
 want of means, he took his wonted place in 
 the stern, and began to ply the oar with me- 
 chanical readiness. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 What well-appointed leader fronts us here ? 
 —King Henry VI. 
 
 THE presence of Annina was a grave em- 
 harrassment to Gino. He had his secret 
 wishes and limited ambition, like other men, 
 and among the strongest of the former was 
 the desire to stand well in the favor of the 
 f wine-seller’s daughter. But the artful girl, 
 in catering to his palate with a liquor that 
 was scarcely less celebrated among people of 
 
 42D 
 
 his class for its strength than its flavor, had 
 caused a momentary confusion in the brain 
 of Gino, that required time to disperse, The 
 boat was in the grand canal, and far on its 
 way to the place of its destination, before 
 this happy purification of the intellects of the 
 gondolier had been sufficiently effected. By 
 that time, however, the exercise of rowing, 
 the fresh air of the evening, and the sight 
 of so many accustomed objects, restored his 
 faculties to the necessary degree of coolness 
 and forethought. As the boat approached 
 the end of the canal, he began to cast his 
 eyes about him in quest of the well-known 
 felucca of the Calabrian. 
 
 Though the glory of Venice had departed, 
 the trade of the city was not then at its pres- 
 ent low ebb. The port was still crowded 
 with vessels from many distant havens, and 
 the flags of most of the maritime states of 
 Europe were seen, at intervals, within the 
 barrier of the Lido. The moon was now 
 sufficiently high to cast its soft light on the 
 whole of the glittering basin, and a forest, 
 composed of lateen yards, of the slender 
 masts of polaccas, and of the more massive, 
 and heavy hamper of regularly rigged ships, 
 was to be seen rising above the tranquil ele- 
 ment. 
 
 ‘*Thou art no judge of a vessel’s beauty, 
 Annina,” said the gondolier, who was deeply 
 housed in the pavilion of the boat, “else 
 should I tell thee to look at this stranger from 
 Candia. ‘Tis said that a fairer model has 
 never entered within the Lido than that same 
 Greek!” 
 
 ‘‘Our errand is not with the Candian 
 trader, Gino; therefore, ply thy oar, for time 
 presses.” 
 
 ««There’s plenty of rough Greek wine in 
 his hold ; but, as thou sayest, we have naught 
 with him. Yon tall ship, which is moored 
 without the smaller craft of our seas, is the 
 vessel of a Lutheran, from the islands of 
 Inghilterra, “T'was a sad day for the repub- 
 lic, girl, when it first permitted the stranger 
 to come into the waters of the Adriatic!” 
 
 “Ts it certain, Gino, that the arm of St. 
 Mark was strong enough to keep him out?” 
 
 ‘‘Body of Diana! I would rather thou 
 didst not ask that question in a place where 
 so many gondolas are in motion! Here are 
 Ragusan, Maltese, Sicilians, and Tuscans, 
 
426. - 
 
 without number ; and a little fleet of French 
 lie near each other, there, at the entrance of 
 the Giudecca. They are a people who get 
 together afloat, or ashore, for the benefit of 
 the tongue. Here we are at the end of our 
 journey.” 
 
 The oar of Gino gave a backward sweep, 
 and the gondola was at rest, by the side of a 
 felucca. 
 
 “A happy night to the Bella Sorrentina 
 and her worthy padrone!” was the greeting 
 of the gondolier, as he put his foot on the 
 ~ deck of the vessel. ‘‘Is the honest Stefano 
 
 Milano on board the swift felucca? ” 
 
 The Calabrian was not slow to answer ; and 
 in a few moments the padrone and his two 
 visitors were in close and secret conference. 
 
 ‘‘T have brought one, here, who will be 
 likely to put good Venetian sequins in thy 
 pocket, caro,” observed the gondolier, when 
 the preliminaries of discourse had been prop- 
 erly observed. ‘‘She is the daughter of a 
 most conscientious wine-dealer who is quite 
 as ready at transplanting your Sicilian grapes 
 into the islands, as he is willing and able to 
 
 ,pay for them. ? 
 
 «* And one, no doubt, as handsome as she 
 is ready,” said the mariner, with blunt gal- 
 lantry, “‘were the black cloud but fairly 
 driven from before her face.” 
 
 «* A mask is of little consequence in a bar- 
 gain, provided the money be forthcoming. 
 We are always in the Carnival at Venice; 
 and he who would buy, or he who would sell, 
 has the same right to hide his face as to hide 
 his thoughts. What hast thou in the way of 
 forbidden liquors, Stefano, that my compan- 
 ion may not lose the night in idle words?” 
 
 ‘Per Diana! Master Gino, thou puttest 
 thy questions with little ceremony. The 
 hold of the felucca is empty, as thou mayest 
 see by stepping to the hatches; and, as for 
 any liquor, we are perishing for a drop to 
 warm the blood.” 
 
 «And so far from coming to seek it here,” 
 said Annina, ‘‘ we should have done better to 
 have gone into the cathedral, and said an ave 
 for thy safe voyage home. And now that 
 our wit is spent, we will quit thee, friend 
 Stefano, for some other less skilful answer.” 
 
 ‘“Cospetto! thou knowest not what thou 
 sayest,” whispered Gino, when he found that 
 the wary Annina was not disposed to remain. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘¢The man never enters the meanest creek 
 in Italy, without having something useful 
 secreted in the felucca, on his own account. 
 One purchase of him would settle the ques- 
 tion between the quality of thy father’s wines 
 and those of Battista. There is not a gondo- 
 lier in Venice but will resort to thy shop, if 
 the intercourse with this fellow can be fairly 
 settled.” 
 
 Annina hesitated ; long-practised in the 
 small, but secret, and exceedingly hazardous 
 commerce, which her father, notwithstanding 
 the vigilance and severity of the Venetian 
 police, had thus far successfully driven, she 
 neither liked to risk-an exposure of her views 
 to an utter stranger, nor to abandon a bar- 
 gain that promised to be lucrative. . That 
 Gino trifled with her, as to his true errand, 
 needed no confirmation, since a servant of 
 the Duke of Sant’ Agata was not likely to 
 need a disguise to search a priest ; but she 
 knew his zeal for her personal welfare too 
 well to distrust his faith in a matter that 
 concerned her own safety. 
 
 <‘Tf thou distrust that any here are the 
 spies of the authorities,” she observed to the 
 padrone, with a manner that readily betrayed 
 her wishes, ‘‘it will be in Gino’s power to 
 undeceive thee. Thou wilt testify, Gino, 
 that I am not to be suspected of treachery in 
 an affair like this.” 
 
 «Leave me to put a word into the private 
 ear of the Calabrian,” said the gondolier, sig- 
 nificantly.—‘‘ Stefano Milano, if thou love 
 me,” he continued, when they were a little 
 apart, ‘“keep the girl in parley, and treat 
 with her fairly for thy adventure.” 
 
 «Shall I tell the vintage of Don Camillo, 
 or that of the Viceroy of Sicily, caro? There 
 is as much wine of each on board the Bella 
 Sorrentina, as would float the fleet of the © 
 republic.” . 
 
 «Tf, in truth, thou art dry, then feign 
 that thou hast it, and differ in thy prices. 
 Entertain her, but a minute, with fair words, 
 while I can get, unseen, into my gondola; 
 and then, for the sake of an old and tried 
 friend, put her tenderly on the quay, in the 
 best manner thou art able.” 
 
 “JT begin to see into the nature of the 
 trade,” returned the pliant padrone, placing 
 a finger on the side of his nose. “I will dis- 
 course the woman by the hour, about the _ 
 
 A 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 flavor of the liquor, or if thou wilt, of her 
 own beauty; but to squeeze a drop of any- 
 thing better than the water of the Lagunes 
 out of the ribs of the felucca, would be a 
 miracle worthy of San Teodoro.” 
 
 “There is but little need to touch on aught 
 but the quality of thy wine. The girl is not 
 like most of her sex, and she takes sudden 
 offence when there is question of her ap- 
 pearance. Indeed, the mask she wears is as 
 much to hide a face that has little to tempt 
 the eye, as from any wish at concealment.” 
 
 “Since Gino has entered frankly into the 
 matter,” resumed the quick-witted Calabrian, 
 cheerfully, and with an air of sudden confi- 
 dence, to the expectant Annina, “I begin to 
 see more probability of our understanding 
 each other’s meaning. Deign, bella donna, 
 to go into my poor cabin, where we will 
 speak more at our ease, and something more 
 to our mutual profit and mutual security.” 
 
 Annina was not without secret doubts, but 
 she suffered the padrone to lead her to the 
 stairs of the cabin, as if she were disposed to 
 descend. Her back was no sooner turned, 
 than Gino slid into the gondola, which one 
 shove of his vigorous arm sent far beyond 
 the leap of man. The action was sudden, 
 rapid, and noiseless; but the jealous eye of 
 Annina detected the escape of the gondolier, 
 though not in time to prevent it. Without 
 betraying uneasiness, she submitted to be led 
 below, as if the whole were done by previous 
 concert. _ 
 
 “Gino has said that you have a boat which 
 will do the friendly office to’ put me on the 
 quay, when our conference is over,” she re- 
 marked, with a presence of mind that luckily 
 met the expedient of her late companion. 
 
 ‘‘The felucca itself should do that much, 
 were there want of other means,” gallantly 
 returned the mariner when they disappeared 
 in the cabin. 
 
 Free to discharge his duty, Gino now plied 
 his task with redoubled zeal. The light boat 
 glided among the vessels, inclining, by the 
 skilful management of his single oar, in a 
 manner to avoid all collision, until it entered 
 the narrow canal which separates the palace 
 of the Doge from the more beautiful and 
 classic structure that contains the prisons of 
 the republic. The bridge, which continues 
 the communication of the quays, was first 
 
 427 
 
 passed, and then he was stealing beneath that 
 far-famed arch which supports a covered 
 gallery leading from the upper story of the 
 palace into that of the prisons, and which, 
 from its being appropriated to the passage 
 of the accused from their cells to the pres- 
 ence of their judges, has been so poetically, 
 and, it may be added, so pathetically called 
 the Bridge of Sighs. 
 
 The oar of Gino now relaxed its efforts, 
 and the gondola approached a flight of steps, 
 over which, as usual, the water cast its little 
 waves. Stepping on the lowest flag, he thrust 
 a small iron spike, to which a cord was at- 
 tached, into a crevice between two of the 
 stones, and left his boat to the security of 
 this characteristic fastening. When this little 
 precaution was observed, the gondolier passed 
 up lightly beneath the massive arch of the 
 water-gate of the palace, and entered its 
 large but gloomy court. 
 
 At that hour, and with the temptation of 
 the gay scene which offered in the adjoining 
 square, the place was nearly deserted. A 
 single female water-carrier was at the well, 
 waiting for the element to filter into its basin, 
 in order to fill her buckets, while her ears 
 listened in dull attention to the hum of the 
 moving crowd without. A halberdier paced 
 the open gallery at the head of the Giant’s 
 Stairs, and, here and there, the footfall of 
 other sentinels might be heard among the 
 hollow and ponderous arches of the long 
 corridors. No light was shed from the win- 
 dows; but the entire building presented a fit 
 emblem of that mysterious power which was 
 known to preside over the fortunes of Venice 
 and her citizens. Ere Gino trusted himself 
 without the shadow of the passage by which 
 he had entered, two or three curious faces 
 had appeared at the opposite entrance of the 
 court, where they paused a moment to gaze 
 at the melancholy and imposing air of the 
 dreaded palace, before they vanished in the 
 throng which trifled in the immediate prox- 
 imity of that secret and ruthless tribunal, as 
 man riots in security even on the verge of an 
 endless and unforeseen future. 
 
 Disappointed in his expectation of meeting 
 him he sought, on the instant, the gondolier 
 advanced, and taking courage by the possi- 
 bility of his escaping altogether from the 
 interview, he ventured to furnish audible 
 
428 
 
 evidence of his presence by aloud hem. At 
 that instant a figure glided into the court 
 from the side of the quay, and walked swiftly 
 toward its centre. The heart of Gino beat 
 violently, but he mustered resolution to meet 
 the stranger. As they drew near each other, 
 it became evident, by the light of the moon, 
 which penetrated even to that gloomy spot, 
 that the latter was also masked. 
 
 **San Teodoro and San Marco have you in 
 mind!” commenced the gondolier. “If I 
 mistake not, you are the man I am sent to 
 meet.” | 
 
 The stranger started, and first manifesting 
 an intention to pass on quickly, he suddenly 
 arrested the movement to reply. 
 
 ‘¢This may be so, or not. Unmask, that 
 I may judge by thy countenance if what thou 
 sayest be true.” 
 
 “By your good leave, most worthy and 
 honorable signor, and if it be equally agree- 
 able to you and my master, I would choose 
 to keep off the evening air by this bit of 
 pasteboard and silk.” 
 
 “Here are none to betray thee, wert thou 
 naked as at thy birth. Unless certain of thy 
 character, in what manner may I confide in 
 thy honesty ?” 
 
 “JT have no distrust of the virtues of an 
 undisguised face, signor, and therefore do I 
 invite you, yourself, to exhibit what nature 
 has done for you in the way of features, that 
 I, who am to make the confidence, be sure it 
 be to the right person.” 
 
 “This is well, and gives assurance of thy 
 prudence. I may not unmask, however ; 
 and as there seemeth little probability of 
 our coming to an understanding, I will 
 go my way. A most happy night to 
 thee.” 
 
 *“Cospetto!—signor, you are far too quick 
 in your ideas and movements for one little 
 used to negotiations of this sort. Here is a 
 ring whose signet may help us to understand 
 each other.” 
 
 The stranger took the jewel, and holding 
 the stone in a manner to receive the light of 
 the moon, he started in a manner to betray 
 both surprise and pleasure. 
 
 “This is the falcon crest of the Neapoli- 
 tan—he that is the lord of Sant’ Agata! ” 
 
 «And of many other fiefs, good signor, 
 to say nothing of the honors he claims in 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Venice. Am I right in supposing my errand 
 with you?” 
 
 “Thou hast found one whose present busi- 
 ness has no other object than Don Camillo 
 Monforte. But thy errand was not solely to 
 exhibit the signet?” 
 
 “So little so, that I have a packet here 
 which waits only for a certainty of the person 
 with whom I speak, to be placed into his 
 hands.” 
 
 The stranger mused a moment; then 
 glancing a look about him, he answered hur- 
 riedly— 
 
 ‘This is no place to unmask, friend, even 
 though we only wear our disguises in pleas- 
 antry. Tarry here, and at my return I will 
 conduct thee to a more fitting spot.” 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered when 
 Gino found himself standing in the middle 
 of the court alone. The masked stranger 
 had passed swiftly on, and was at the bottom 
 of the Giant’s Stairs, ere the gondolier had 
 time for reflection. He ascended with a 
 light and rapid step, and without regarding 
 the halberdier, he approached the first of 
 three or four orifices which opened into the 
 wall of the palace, and which, from the heads 
 of the animal being carved in relief around 
 them, had become famous as the receptacles 
 of secret accusations, under the name of the 
 Lion’s Mouths. Something he dropped into 
 the grinning aperture of the marble, though 
 what, the distance and the obscurity of the 
 gallery prevented Gino from perceiving ; and 
 then his form was seen gliding like a phantom 
 down the flight of massive steps. 
 
 Gino had retired toward the arch of the 
 water-gate, in expectation that the stranger 
 would rejoin him within its shadows ; but, 
 to his great alarm, he saw the form darting 
 through the outer portal of the palace into 
 the square of St. Mark. It was not a mo- 
 ment ere Gino, breathless with haste, was in 
 chase. Onreaching the bright and gay scene 
 of the piazza, which contrasted with the 
 gloomy court he had just quitted, like morn- 
 ing with night, he saw the utter fruitless- 
 ness of further pursuit. Frightened at the 
 loss of his master’s signet, however, the in- 
 discreet but well-intentioned gondolier rushed 
 into the crowd, and tried in vain to select 
 the delinquent from among a thousand 
 masks, 
 
0 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 “arkee, Signor,” uttered the half-dis- 
 tracted gondolier to one, who, having first 
 examined his person with distrust, evidently 
 betrayed a wish to avoid him; “if thou hast 
 sufficiently pleased thy finger with my mas- 
 ter’s signet, the occasion offers to return it.” 
 
 “T know thee not,” returned a voice, in 
 which Gino’s ear could detect no familiar 
 sound.” 
 
 “Tt may not be well to trifle with the dis- 
 pleasure of a noble as powerful as him you 
 know;” he whispered at the elbow of an- 
 other, who had come under his suspicions. 
 «The signet if thou pleasest, and the affair 
 need go no further.” 
 
 “ He who would meddle in it, with or with- 
 out that gage, would do well to pause.” 
 
 The gondolier again turned away disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 “ The ring is not suited to thy masquerade, 
 
 friend of mine,” he essayed with a third ; 
 
 “and it would be wise not to trouble the 
 podesta about such a trifle.” 
 
 ‘Then name it not lest he hear thee.” 
 The answer proved, like all the others, un- 
 satisfactory and bootless. 
 
 Gino now ceased to question any; but he 
 threaded the throng with an active and eager 
 eye. Fifty times was he tempted to speak, 
 
 but as often did some difference in stature or 
 
 dress, some laugh, or trifle uttered in levity, 
 warn him of his mistake. He penetrated to 
 the very head of the piazza, and, returning by 
 the opposite side, he found his way through 
 the throng of the porticos, looking into every 
 coffee-house, and examining each figure that 
 floated by, until he again issued into the 
 piazzetta, without success. <A slight jerk at 
 the elbow of his jacket arrested his steps, and 
 he turned to look at the person who had de- 
 tained him. A female attired like a conta- 
 dina addressed him in the feigned voice 
 common to all. 
 
 «Whither so fast, and what hast thou lost 
 in this merry crowd? If a heart ’twill be wise 
 to use diligence, for many here may be will- 
 
 ing to wear the jewel!” 
 
 *‘Corpo di Bacco!” exclaimed the disap- 
 pointed gondolier; ‘‘any who find such a 
 bawble of mine under foot, are welcome to 
 their luck! Hast thou seen a domino of a 
 size like that of any other man, with a gait 
 that might pass for the step of a senator, 
 
 429 
 
 a padre, or a Jew, and a mask that looks as 
 much like a thousand of these in the square 
 as one side of the campanile is like the 
 other?” 
 
 “Thy picture is so well drawn, that one 
 cannot fail to know the original. He stands 
 beside thee.” 
 
 Gino wheeled suddenly, and saw that a 
 grinning harlequin was playing his antics in 
 the place where he had expected to find the 
 stranger. 3 
 
 ‘** And thy eyes, bella contadina, are as dull 
 as a mole’s.” 
 
 He ceased speaking, for deceived in his 
 person, she who had saluted him was no 
 longer visible. In this manner did the disap- 
 pointed gondolier thread his way toward the 
 water, now answering to the boisterous salute 
 of some clown, and now repelling the ad- 
 vances of females less disguised than the pre- 
 tended contadina, until he gained a space 
 
 'near the quays, where there was more room 
 
 for observation. Here he paused, undeter- 
 mined whether to return and confess his in- 
 discretion to his master, or whether he should 
 make still another effort to regain the ring 
 which had been so sillily lost. The vacant 
 space between the two granite columns was 
 left to the quiet possession of himself and 
 one other, who stood near the base of that 
 which sustained the Lion of St. Mark, as 
 motionless as if he too were merely a form of 
 stone. Two or three stragglers, either led 
 by idle curiosity, or expecting to meet one 
 appointed to await their coming, drew near 
 this immovable man, but all glided away, as 
 if there were repulsion in his marble-like 
 countenance. Gino had wituessed several 
 instances of this evident dislike to remain 
 near the unknown figure, ere he felt in- 
 duced to cross the space between them in 
 order to inquire into its cause. A slow moye- 
 ment, at the sound of his footsteps, brought 
 the rays of the moon full upon the calm 
 countenance and searching eye of the very 
 man he sought. 
 
 The first impulse of the gondolier, like that 
 of all the others he had seen approach the 
 the spot, was to retreat; but the recollection 
 of his errand and his loss came in season to 
 prevent such an exhibition of his disgust and 
 alarm, Still he did not speak ; but he met 
 the riveted gaze of the Bravo with a look 
 
430 
 
 that denoted, equally, confusion of intellect 
 and a half-settled purpose. 
 
 *“Would’st thou aught with me?” de- 
 manded Jacopo, when the gaze of each had 
 continued beyond the term of accidental 
 glances. 
 
 “My master’s signet ?” 
 
 «‘T know thee not.” 
 
 ‘That image of San Teodoro could testify 
 that this is holy truth, if it would but speak! 
 I have not the honor of your friendship, Sig- 
 nor Jacopo; but one may have affairs even 
 with a stranger. If you met a peaceable 
 and innocent gondolier, in the court of the 
 palace, since the clock of the piazza told the 
 last quarter, and got from him a ring, which 
 can be of but little use to any but its rightful 
 owner, one so generous will not hesitate to 
 return it.” 
 
 “ Dost thou take me for a jeweller of the 
 Rialto that thou speakest to me of rings ?” 
 
 “T take you for one well known and much 
 valued by many of name and quality, here in 
 Venice, as witness my errand from my own 
 master.” 
 
 “Remove thy mask. Men of fair dealing 
 need nor hide the features which chee au has 
 given them.” 
 
 “You speak nothing but truths, Signor 
 Frontoni, which is little remarkable, consid- 
 ering thy opportunities of looking into the 
 motives of men. ‘There is little in my face 
 to pay you for the trouble of casting a glance 
 atit. Iwould as lief do as others in this gay 
 season, if it be equally agreeable to you.” 
 
 “Do as thou wilt; but I pray thee to give 
 me the same permission.” 
 
 *<'There are few so bold as to dispute thy 
 pleasure, Signor.” 
 
 ‘Tt 1s, to be alone.” 
 
 ‘‘Cospetto! There isnot a man in Venice 
 who would more gladly consult it, if my 
 master’s errand were fairly done!” muttered 
 Gino, between his teeth.—“I have, here, a 
 packet which it is my duty to put into your 
 hands, Signor, and into those of no other.” 
 
 ‘*T know thee not—thou hast a name ? ” 
 
 ‘“ Not in the sense in which you speak, 
 Signor. As to that sort of bid eebarada Tam 
 as nameless as a foundling.” 
 
 “Tf thy master is of no more note than thy- 
 self, the packet may be returned.” 
 
 ‘There are few within the dominions of 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 St. Mark of better lineage, or of fairer hopes, 
 than the Duke of Sunt’ Agata.” 
 
 The cold expression of the Brayvo’s coun- 
 tenance changed. 
 
 “Tf thou comest from Don Camillo Mon-: 
 
 forte, why dost thou hesitate to proclaim it? 
 —Where are his requests ?” 
 
 “T know not whether it is his pleasure, or 
 that of another, which this paper contains, 
 but such as it is, Signor Jacopo, my duty 
 commands me to deliver it to thee.” 
 
 The packet was received calmly, though 
 the organ which glanced at ils seal and its 
 superscription, gleamed with an expression 
 which the credulous gondolier fancied to re- 
 semble that of the tiger at the sight of blood. 
 
 “Thou said’st something ofa ring. Dost 
 thou bear thy master’s signet? I am much 
 accustomed to see pledges ere I give faith.” 
 
 “ Blessed San Teodoro grant that I did! 
 Were it as heavy as a skin of wine I would 
 willingly bear the load; but one that I mis- 
 took for you, Master Jacopo, has it on his 
 own light finger, I fear.” 
 
 “'This is an affair that thou wilt settle with 
 thy master,” returned the Bravo, coldly, again 
 examining the impression of the seal. 
 
 “Tf you are acquainted with the writing of 
 my master,” hurriedly remarked Gino, who 
 
 trembled for the fate of the packet, “you. 
 
 will see his skill in the turn of those letters. 
 There are few nobles in Venice, or indeed in 
 the Sicilies, who have a more scholarly hand 
 with a quill than Don Camillo Monforte ; I 
 could not do the thing half so well myself.” 
 
 “T am no clerk,” observed the Bravo, with- 
 out betraying shame at the confession. “The 
 art of deciphering a scroll, like this, was 
 never taught me. If thou art so expert in 
 the skill of a penman, tell the name the 
 packet bears.” 
 
 “<<’T'would little become me to breathe a 
 
 syllable concerning any of my master’s se- 
 crets,” returned the gondolier, drawing him- 
 self up in sudden reserve. “It is enough 
 that he bid me deliver the letter; after which 
 I should think it presumption even to whis- 
 per more.” 
 
 The dark eye of the Bravo was seen rolling 
 
 over the person of his companion, by the 
 
 light of the moon, in a manner that caused 
 the blood of the latter to steal towards his 
 heart. 
 
 ee ~ 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 “JT bid thee read to me aloud the name the 
 paper bears,” said Jacopo, sternly. “ Here 
 is none but the lion and the saint above onr 
 heads to listen.” 
 
 « Just San Marco! who can tell what ear 
 is open or what ear is shut in Venice? If 
 you please, Signor Frontoni, we will post- 
 pone the examination to a more suitable 
 occasion.” 
 
 «‘ Friend, I do not play the fool! The 
 name, or show me some gage that thou art 
 sent by him thou hast named, else take 
 back the packet; “tis no affair for my 
 hand.” 
 
 ‘Reflect a single moment on the conse- 
 quences, Signor Jacopo, before you come to 
 a determination so hasty.” 
 
 ‘<< T know no consequences which can befall 
 a man who refuses to receive a message like 
 this.” 
 
 «Per Diana! Signor, the Duca will not 
 be likely to leave me an ear to hear the good 
 advice of Father Battista.” 
 
 «<'Then will the Duca save the public exe- 
 cutioner some trouble.” 
 
 As he spoke, the Bravo cast the packet at 
 the feet of the gondolier, and began to walk 
 calmly up the piazzetta. Gino seized the 
 letter, and, with his brain in a whirl, with 
 _ the effort to recall some one of his master’s 
 acquaintances to whom he would be likely to 
 address an epistle on such an occasion, he 
 followed. 
 
 _“I wonder, Signor Jacopo, that a man of 
 your sagacity has not remembered that a 
 packet to be delivered to himself should bear 
 his own name.” 
 
 The Bravo took the paper, and held the 
 superscription again to the light. 
 
 “That is not so. Though unlearned, ne- 
 cessity has taught me to know when I am 
 meant.” 
 
 ‘‘Diamine! That is just my own case, 
 signor. Were the letter for me, now, the 
 old should not know its young, quicker than 
 I would come at the truth.” 
 
 ‘“Then thou canst not read ?” 
 
 «TJ never pretended to the art. The little 
 said was merely about writing. Learning, as 
 you well understand, Master Jacopo, is di- 
 vided into reading, writing, and figures ; and 
 a man may well understand one, without 
 knowing a word of the others. It is not 
 
 431 
 
 absolutely necessary to be a bishop to have a 
 shaved head, or a Jew to wear a beard.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou would’st have done better to have 
 said this at once; go, I will think of the mat- 
 ter.” 
 
 Gino gladly turned away, but he had not 
 left the other many paces, before he saw a 
 female form gliding behind the pedestal of 
 one of the granite columns. Moving swiftly 
 in a direction to uncover this seeming spy, he 
 saw at once that Annina had been a witness 
 of his interview with the Brayo. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Twill make me think 
 The world is full of rubs, and that my fortune 
 Runs ’gainst the bias.—Richard IT. 
 
 TuHouGH Venice at that hour was so gay in’ 
 her squares, the rest of the town was silent 
 as the grave. A city in which the hoof of 
 horse or the rolling of wheels is never heard, 
 necessarily possesses a character of its own ; 
 but the peculiar form of the government, and 
 the long training of the people in habits of 
 caution, weighed on the spirits of the gay. 
 There were times and places, it is true, when 
 the buoyancy of youthful blood, and the lev- 
 ity of the thoughtless, found occasion for 
 their display ; nor were they rare; but when 
 men found themselves removed from the 
 temptation, and perhaps from the support of 
 society, they appeared to imbibe the charac- 
 ter of their sombre city. 
 
 Such was the state of most of the town, 
 while the scene described in the previous 
 chapter was exhibited in the lively piazza of 
 San Marco. The moon had risen so high 
 that its light fell between the range of walls, 
 here and there touching the surface of the 
 water, to which it imparted a quivering 
 brightness, while the domes and towers rested 
 beneath its light in a solemn but grand re- 
 pose. Occasionally the front of a palace re- 
 ceived the rays on its heavy cornices and la- 
 bored columns, the gloomy stillness of the in- 
 terior of the edifice furnishing, in every such 
 instance, a striking contrast to the richness 
 and architectural beauty without. Our nar- 
 rative now leads us to one of these patrician 
 abodes of the first class. | 
 
 A heavy magnificence pervaded the style 
 
432 
 
 of the dwelling. The vestibule was vast, 
 vaulted, and massive; the stairs, rich in 
 marbles, heavy and grand. The apartments 
 were imposing in their gildings and sculpture, 
 
 while the walls sustained countless works on ! 
 
 which the highest geniuses of Italy had lay- 
 ishly diffused their power. Among these 
 relics of an age more happy in this respect 
 than that of which we write, the connoisseur 
 would readily have known the pencils of Ti- 
 tian, Paul Veronese, and ‘Tintoretto—the 
 three great names in which the subjects of 
 St. Mark so justly prided themselves. Among 
 these works of the higher masters were min- 
 gled others by the pencils of Bellino, and 
 Montegna, and Palma _ Vecchio — artists 
 who were secondary only to the more re- 
 nowned colorists of the Venetian school. Vast 
 sheets of mirrors lined the walls, wherever 
 the still more precious paintings had no 
 
 place ; while the ordinary hangings of velvet. 
 
 and silk became objects of secondary admira- 
 tion, in a scene of nearly royal magnificence. 
 The cool aud beautiful floors, made of a com- 
 position in which all the prized marbles of 
 Italy and of the Hast, polished to the last de- 
 gree of art, were curiously embedded, formed 
 a suitable finish to a style so gorgeous, and in 
 which luxury and taste were blended in equal 
 profusion. 
 
 The building, which, on two of its sides, 
 literally rose from out the water, was, as 
 usual, erected around a dark court. Follow- 
 ing its different faces, the eye might pene- 
 trate, by many a door, open at that hour 
 for the passage of the air from off the sea, 
 through long suites of rooms, furnished and 
 fitted in the manner described, all lighted 
 by shaded lamps that spread a soft and 
 gentle glow around. Passing, without notice, 
 ranges of reception and sleeping rooms—the 
 latter of a magnificence to mock the ordinary 
 wants of the body—we shall at once intro- 
 duce the reader into the part of the palace 
 where the business of the tale conducts us. 
 
 At the angle of the dwelling, on the side 
 of the smaller of the two canals, and most 
 remote from the principal water-avenue of 
 the city on which the edifice fronted, there 
 was a suite of apartments, which, while it 
 exhibited the same style of luxury and mag- 
 ‘nificence as those first mentioned in _ its 
 
 general character, discovered greater atten- | 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tion in its details to the wants of ordinary 
 life. The hangings were of the richest vel- 
 vets or of glossy silks, the mirrors were large 
 and of exquisite truth, the floors of the same 
 gay and pleasing colors, and the walls were 
 adorned with their appropriate works of art. 
 But the whole was softened down to a picture 
 of domestic comfort. The tapestries and 
 curtains hung in careless folds, the beds 
 admitted of sleep, and the pictures were 
 delicate copies by the pencil of some youth- 
 ful amateur, whose leisure had been exercised 
 in this gentle and feminine employment. 
 
 The fair being herself, whose early in- 
 struction had given birth to so many skilful 
 imitations of the divine expression of Raphael, 
 or of the vivid tints of Titian, was at that 
 hour in her privacy, discoursing with her 
 ghostly adviser, and one of her own sex, 
 who had long discharged the joint trusts of 
 instructor and parent. The years of the 
 lady of the palace were so tender that, in a 
 more northern region, she would scarcely 
 have been deemed past the period of child- 
 hood, though, in her native land, the justness 
 and maturity of her form, and the expression 
 of a dark, eloquent eye, indicated both the 
 growth and the intelligence of womanhood. 
 
 ‘‘ For this good counsel, I thank you, my 
 father, and my excellent Donna Florinda will 
 thank you still more, for your opinions are 
 so like her own, that I sometimes admire at 
 the secret means by which experience enables 
 the wise and the good to think so much alike, 
 on a matter of so little personal interest.” 
 
 Aslight but furtive smile struggled around 
 the mortified mouth of the Carmelite, as he 
 listened to the naive observation of his in- 
 genuous pupil. 
 
 ‘Thou wilt learn, my child,” he answered, 
 “‘as time heaps wisdom on thy head, that it 
 is in concerns which touch our passions and 
 interests least, we are most apt to decide 
 with discretion and impartiality. Though 
 Donna Florinda is not yet past the age when 
 the heart is finally subdued, and there is 
 still so much to bind her to the world, she 
 will assure thee of this truth, or I greatly 
 mistake the excellence of that mind, which 
 hath, hitherto, led her so far blameless, in 
 this erring pilgrimage to which we are all 
 doomed.” . 
 
 Though the cowl was over the head of the 
 
THH BRAVO. 
 
 speaker, who was evidently preparing to de- 
 part, and his deeply-seated eye never varied 
 from its friendly look at the faireface of her 
 he instructed, the blood stole into the pale 
 cheeks of the maternal companion, and her 
 whole countenance betrayed some such re- 
 flection of feeling at his praise, as a wintry 
 sky exhibits at a sudden gleam from the set- 
 ting sun. 
 
 “<T trust that Violetta does not now hear 
 this for the first time,” observed Donna 
 Florinda, in a voice so meek and tremulous 
 as to be observed. 
 
 ‘‘ Little that can be profitably told one of 
 my inexperience has been left untaught,” 
 quickly answered the pupil, unconscious her- 
 self that she reached her hand toward that 
 of her constant monitor, though too intent 
 
 ‘on her object to change her look from the 
 
 features of the Carmelite. ‘“‘ But why this 
 desire in the senate, to dispose of a girl who 
 would be satisfied to live forever, as she is 
 now, happy in her youth, and contented with 
 the privacy which becomes her sex ?” 
 
 “The relentless years will not stay their 
 advance, that even one innocent as thou may 
 never know the unhappiness and trials of a 
 more mature age. This life is one of im- 
 perious, and, oftentimes, of tyrannical duties. 
 Thou art not ignorant of the policy that 
 rules a state, which-hath made its name so 
 illustrious by high deeds in arms, its riches, 
 and its widely spread influence. There is a 
 law in Venice, which commandeth that none 
 claiming an interest in its affairs shall so 
 
 _ bind himself to the stranger as to endanger 
 
 the devotion all owe to the republic. Thus 
 may not the patrician of St. Mark be a lord 
 in other lands, nor may the heiress of a 
 name, great and valued as thine, be given in 
 marriage, to any of note, in a. foreign state, 
 without counsel and consent from those who 
 
 are appointed to watch over the interests of. 
 
 all.” 
 
 ‘‘Had Providence cast my lot in an hum- 
 bler class, this would not have been. Me- 
 thinks it il comports with the happiness of 
 woman to be the especial care of the Council 
 of Ten!” 
 
 ‘‘There is indiscretion, and I lament to 
 say, impiety in thy words. Our duty bids 
 us submit to earthly laws, and more than 
 duty, reverence teaches us not to repine at 
 
 433 
 
 the will of Providence. But I do not see the 
 weight of this grievance, against which thou 
 murmurest, daughter. Thou art youthful, 
 wealthy beyond the indulgence of all health- 
 ful desires, of a lineage to excite an unwhole- 
 some worldly pride, and fair enough to 
 render thee the most dangerous of thine own 
 enemies—and thou repinest at a lot, to 
 which all of thy sex and station are, of 
 necessity, subject !” 
 
 ‘«‘ For the offence against Providence I am 
 already a penitent,” returned the Donna 
 Violetta. ‘‘ But surely it would be less em- 
 barrassing to a girl of sixteen, were the 
 fathers of the state so much occupied with 
 more weighty affairs as to forget her birth 
 and years, and haply her wealth ?” 
 
 ‘«“There would be little merit in being 
 content with a world fashioned after our 
 own caprices, though it may be questioned if 
 we should be happier, by having all things 
 as we desire, than by being compelled to 
 submit to them as they are. ‘The interest 
 taken by the republic in thy particular 
 welfare, daughter, is the price thou payest 
 for the ease and magnificence with which 
 thou art encircled. One more obscure, and 
 less endowed by fortune, might have greater 
 freedom of will, but it would be accompanied 
 by none of the pomp which adorns the dwell- 
 ing of thy fathers.” 
 
 ‘*T would there were less of luxury and 
 more of liberty within its walls.” in 
 
 ‘«‘Time will enable thee to see differently. | 
 At thy age all is viewed in colors of gold, 
 or life is rendered bootless, because we are 
 thwarted in our ill-digested wishes. I deny 
 not, however, that thy fortune is tempered 
 by some peculiar passages. Venice is ruled 
 by a policy that is often calculating, and 
 haply some deem it remorseless.” Though the 
 voice of the Carmelite had fallen, he paused, 
 and glanced an uneasy look from beneath his 
 cowl, ere he continued. ‘The caution of 
 the senate teaches it to preclude, as far as in 
 it lies, the union of interests that may not 
 only oppose each other, but which may 
 endanger those of the state. Thus, as I 
 have said, none of senatorial rank may hold 
 lands without the limits of the republic, nor 
 may any of account connect themselves, by 
 the ties of marriage, with strangers of dan- 
 gerous influence, without the consent and 
 
434 
 
 supervision of the republic. The latter is 
 thy situation, for of the several foreign lords 
 who seek thy hand, the council see none to 
 whom the favor may be extended, without 
 the apprehension of creating an influence 
 here, in the centre of the canals, which 
 ought not to be given to astranger. Don 
 Camillo Monforte, the cavalier to whom thou 
 art indebted for thy life, and of whom thou 
 hast so lately spoken with gratitude, has far 
 more cause to complain of these hard decrees 
 than thou mayest have, in any reason.” 
 
 “’*T'would make my griefs still heavier, 
 
 did I know that one who has shown so much 
 courage in my behalf, has equal reason to 
 feel their justice,” returned Violetta, quickly. 
 ‘“‘What is the affair that, so fortunately for 
 me, hath brought the lord of Sant’? Agata 
 to Venice, if a grateful girl may, without 
 indiscretion, inquire ?” 
 ‘‘Thy interest in his behalf is both natural 
 and commendable,” answered the Carmelite, 
 with a simplicity which did more credit to 
 his cowl than to his observation. ‘‘ He is 
 young, and, doubtless, he is tempted by the 
 gifts of fortune, and the passions of his years, 
 to divers acts of weakness. Remember him, 
 daughter, in thy prayers, that part of the 
 debt of gratitude may be repaid. His 
 worldly interest here is cne of general noto- 
 riety, and I can ascribe thy ignorance of it 
 only to a retired manner of life.” 
 
 “ My charge hath other matters to occupy 
 her thoughts than the concerns of a young 
 stranger who cometh to Venice for affairs,” 
 mildly observed Donna Florinda. 
 
 “But if | am to remember him in my 
 prayers, Father, it might enlighten my peti- 
 tion to know in what the young noble is 
 most wanting.” 
 
 “JT would have thee remember his spiritual 
 necessities only. He wanteth, of a truth, 
 little in temporalities that the world can 
 offer, though the desires of lfe often lead 
 him who hath most in quest of more. It 
 would seem that an ancestor of Don Camillo 
 was anciently a senator of Venice, when the 
 death of a relation brought many Calabrian 
 signiories into his possession. The younger 
 of his sons, by an especial decree, which fa- 
 vored a family that had well served the state, 
 took these estates while the elder transmitted 
 the senatorial rank and the Venetian for- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tunes to his posterity. Time hath extinguished 
 the elder branch; and Don Camiiuo hath 
 for years besieged the council to be restored 
 to those rights which his 
 renounced.” 
 
 ‘* Can they refuse him ?” 
 
 ‘‘ His demand involves a departure from 
 established laws. Were he to renounce the 
 Calabrian lordships, the Neapolitan might 
 lose more than he would gain ; and to keep 
 both is to infringe a law that is rarely suf- 
 fered to be dormant. I know little, daugh- 
 ter, of the interests of life; but there are 
 enemies of the republic who say that its 
 servitude is not easy, and that it seldom 
 bestows favors of this sort without seeking an 
 ample equivalent.” 
 
 ‘Is this as it should be? If Don Camillo 
 Monforte has claims in Venice, whether it be 
 to palaces on the canals, or to lands on the 
 main; to honors in the state, or voice in the 
 senate; justice should be rendered without 
 delay, lest it be said the republic vaunts more 
 of the sacred quality than it practises. 
 
 “Thou speakest as guileless nature 
 prompts. It is the frailty of man, my 
 daughter, to separate his public acts from 
 the fearful responsibility of his private 
 deeds; as if God, in endowing his being with 
 reason and the glorious hopes of Christianity, 
 had also endowed him with two souls, of 
 which only one was to be cared for.” 
 
 “¢ Are there not those, Father, who believe 
 that, while the evil we commit as individuals 
 ig visited on our own persons, that which is 
 done by states, falls.on the nation ?” 
 
 ‘‘The pride of human reason has invented 
 divers subtleties to satisfy its own longings, 
 but it can never feed itself on a delusion 
 more fatal than this! The crime which in- 
 volves others in its guilt, or consequences, is 
 doubly a crime, and though it be a property 
 of sin to entail its own punishment, even in 
 our present life, he trusts to a vain hope who 
 
 thinks the magnitude of the offence will ever 
 
 be its apology. ‘The chief security of our 
 nature is to remove it beyond temptation, 
 and he is safest from the allurements of the 
 world who is farthest removed from its vices. 
 Though I would wish justice done to the 
 noble Neopolitan, it may be for his everlast- 
 ing peace, that the additional wealth he seeks 
 should be withheld.” 
 
 predecessor - 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 435 
 
 «“T am unwilling to believe, Father, that a | need of every friend in whom she can con- 
 
 cavalier, who has shown himself so ready to 
 assist the distressed, will easily abuse the 
 gifts of fortune.” 
 
 The Carmelite fastened an uneasy look on 
 the bright features of the young Venetian. 
 Parental solicitude and prophetic foresight 
 were in his glance, but the expression was 
 relieved by the charity of a chastened 
 spirit. 
 
 “Gratitude to the preserver of thy life 
 becomes thy station and sex; it is a duty. 
 Cherish the feeling, for it is akin to the holy 
 obligation of man to his Creator.” 
 
 ‘Ts it enough to feel grateful?” demanded 
 Violetta. “One of my name and alliances 
 mightdomore. We can move the patricians 
 of my family in behalf of the stranger, that 
 his protracted suit may come to a more speedy 
 end.” 
 
 ‘“Daughter, beware; the intercession of 
 one in whom St. Mark feels so lively an in- 
 terest, may raise up enemies to Don Camillo 
 instead of friends.” 
 
 Donna Violetta was silent, while the monk 
 and Donna Florinda both regarded her with 
 affectionate concern. The former then ad- 
 justed his cowl, and prepared to depart. 
 The noble maiden approached the Carmelite, 
 and looking into his face with ingenuous 
 confidence, and habitual reverence, she be- 
 sought his blessing. When the solemn and 
 customary office was performed, the monk 
 turned towards the companion of his spiri- 
 tual charge. Donna Florinda permitted the 
 silk, on which her needle had been busy, to 
 fall into her lap, and she sat in meek silence, 
 while the Carmelite raised his open palms 
 toward her bended head. His lips moved, 
 but the words of benediction were inaudible. 
 Had the ardent being, instrusted to their joint 
 care, being less occupied with her own feel- 
 ings, or more practised in the interests of 
 that world into which she was about to enter, 
 it is probable she would have detected some 
 evidence of that deep, but smothered sym- 
 pathy, which so often betrayed itself in the 
 silent intelligence of her ghostly father and 
 her female mentor. 
 
 “Thou wilt not forget us, Father?” said 
 Violetta, with winning earnestness. “ An 
 orphan girl, in whose fate the sages of the 
 republic so seriously busy themselves, has 
 
 fide.” 
 
 “ Blessed be thy intercessor,” said the 
 monk, ‘‘and the peace of the innocent be 
 with thee.” 
 
 Once more he waved his hand, and, turn- 
 ing, he slowly quitted the room. The eye of 
 Donna Florinda followed the white robes of 
 the Carmelite while they where visible; and 
 when it fell again upon the silk, it was for a 
 moment closed, as if looking at the move- 
 ments of the, rebuked spirit within. The 
 young mistress of the palace summoned a 
 menial, and bade him do honor to her con- 
 fessor, by seeing him to his gondola. She 
 then moved to the open balcony. A long 
 pause succeeded; it was: such a silence— 
 breathing, thoughtful, and luxurious—with 
 the repose of Italy, as suited the city and the 
 hour. Suddenly, Violetta receded from the 
 open window, and withdrew a step, in alarm. 
 
 ‘Ts there a boat beneath? ” demanded her 
 companion, whose glance was unavoidably 
 attracted to the movement. 
 
 «The water was never more quiet. But 
 thou hearest those strains of the hautboys ?” 
 
 « Are they so rare on the canals that they 
 drive thee from the balcony?” 
 
 «There are cavaliers beneath the windows 
 of the Mentoni palace; doubtless they com- 
 pliment our friend, Olivia.” ~ 
 
 ‘* Even that gallantry is common. ‘Thou 
 
 -knowest that Olivia is shortly to be nnited to 
 
 her kinsman, and he takes the usual means 
 to show his admiration.” 
 
 ‘Dost thou not find this public announce- 
 ment of a passion painful? Were I to be 
 wooed I could wish it might only be to my 
 own ear!” 
 
 ‘That is an unhappy sentiment for one 
 whose hand is in the gift of the senate! I 
 fear that a maiden of thy rank must be con- 
 tent to hear her beauty extolled and her 
 merits sung, if not exaggerated, even by 
 hirelings beneath a balcony.” 
 
 ‘*T would that they were done!” exclaimed 
 Violetta, stopping her ears. ‘“ None know 
 the excellence of our friend better than I; 
 but this open exposure of thoughts, that 
 ought to be so private must wound her.” 
 
 «Thou mayest go again into the balcony; 
 the music ceases.” 
 
 ‘‘There are gondoliers singing near the 
 
436 
 
 Rialto: these are sounds I love! Sweet in 
 
 themselves, they do no violence to our sacred |: 
 
 feelings. Art thou for the water to-night, 
 my Florinda?” 
 
 “ Whither would’st thou ?” 
 
 ‘*T know not—but the evening is brilliant, 
 and I pine to mingle with the splendor and 
 pleasure without.” 
 
 ‘‘ While thousands on the canals pine to 
 mingle with the splendor and pleasure with- 
 in!—Thus is it ever with life: that which is 
 possessed is little valued, and that which we 
 have not is without price.” 
 
 “T owe my duty to my guardian,” said 
 Violetta, ‘‘ we will row to his palace.” 
 
 Though Donna Florinda had uttered so 
 grave a moral, she spoke without severity. 
 Casting aside her work, she prepared to 
 gratify the desire of her charge. It was the 
 usual hour for the high in rank and the 
 secluded to go abroad; and neither Venice, 
 with its gay throngs, nor Italy, with its soft 
 climate, ever offered greater temptation to 
 seek the open air. 
 
 The groom of the chambers was called, 
 the gondoliers were summoned, and the 
 ladies, cloaking and taking their masks, were 
 quickly in the boat. 
 
 RD 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 If your master 
 Would have a qneen his beggar, you must tell him 
 That majesty, to keep decorum, must 
 No less beg than a kingdom.—Antony and Cleopatra. 
 
 THE silent movement of the hearse-like 
 gondola soon brought the fair Venetian and 
 her female Mentor to the water-gate of the 
 noble, who had been intrusted, by the senate, 
 with the especial guardianship of the person 
 of the heiress. It was a residence of more 
 than common gloom, possessing all the sol- 
 emn but stately magnificence which then 
 characterized the private dwellings of the 
 patricians in that city of riches and pride. 
 Its magnitude and architecture, though 
 rather less imposing than those which dis- 
 tinguished the palace of the Donna Violetta, 
 placed it among the private edifices of the 
 first order, and all its external decorations 
 showed it to be the habitation of one of high 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 importance. Within, the noiseless steps and 
 the air of silent mistrust among the domestics, 
 added to the gloomy grandeur of the apart- 
 ments, rendered the abode no bad type of the. 
 republic itself. 
 
 As neither of his present visitors was a 
 stranger beneath the roof of the Signor 
 Gradenigo—for so the proprietor of the pal- 
 ace was called—they ascended its massive 
 stairs, without pausing to consider any of 
 those novelties of construction that would at- 
 
 ‘tract the eye of one unaccustomed to such a 
 
 dwelling. The rank and the known conse- 
 quence of the Donna Violetta assured her of 
 a ready reception; and while she was ushered 
 to the suite of rooms above, by a crowd of 
 bowing menials, one had gone, with becoming 
 speed, to announce her approach to his mas- 
 ter. When in the ante-chamber, however, 
 the ward stopped, declining to proceed any 
 further, in deference to the convenience and 
 privacy of her guardian. ‘The delay was 
 short; for no sooner was the old senator ap- 
 prised of her presence, than he hastened from 
 his closet to do her honor, with a zeal that 
 did credit to his fitness for the trust he filled. 
 The countenance of the old patrician—a face 
 in which thought and care had drawn as 
 many lines as time—lighted with unequivocal 
 satisfaction as he pressed forward to receive 
 his beautiful ward. ‘To her half-uttered 
 apologies for the intrusion, he would not lis- 
 ten; but as he led her within, he gallantly 
 professed his pleasure at being honored with 
 her visits even at moments that, to her scru- 
 pulous delicacy, might appear the most ill- 
 timed. 
 
 ‘*Thou canst never come amiss, child as 
 thou art of my ancient friend, and the espe- 
 cial care of the state!” he added. “The 
 gates of the Gradenigo palace would open of 
 themselves, at the latest period of the night, 
 to receive such a guest. Besides, the hour 
 is most suited to the convenience of one of 
 thy quality who would breathe the fresh even- 
 ing air on the canals. Were I to limit thee 
 to hours and minutes, some truant wish of 
 the moment—some innocent caprice of thy 
 sex and years, might go ungratified.—Ah! 
 Donna Florinda, we may well pray thatall our 
 affection—not to call it weakness—for this 
 persuasive gir], shall not in the end lead to 
 her own disadvantage!” 
 
THE BRAVO, 
 
 ‘* For the indulgence of both, I am grate- 
 ful,’ returned Violetta; ‘“‘I only fear to 
 urge my little requests at moments when your 
 precious time is more worthily occupied in 
 behalf of the state.” 
 
 “Thou oyerratest my consequence. I 
 sometimes visit the Council of Three Hun- 
 dred; but my years and infirmities preclude 
 me now from serving the republic as 1 could 
 wish.—Praise be to St. Mark, our patron! its 
 affairs are not unprosperous for our declining 
 fortunes. We have dealt bravely with thé 
 infidel of late; the treaty with the Emperor 
 is not toour wrong; and the anger of the 
 Church, for the late seeming breach of confi- 
 dence on our part, has been diverted. We 
 owe some thing in the latter affair to a young 
 Neapolitan, who sojourns here at Venice, and 
 who is not without interest at the Holy See, 
 by reason of his uncle, the Cardinal Secretary- 
 Much good is done by the influence of friends, 
 properly employed. 7’Tis the secret of our 
 success in the actual condition of Venice; 
 for that which power cannot achieve must be 
 trusted to favor and a wise moderation.” 
 
 “Your declarations encourage me to. be- 
 come, once more, a suitor; for I will confess 
 that, in addition to the desire of doing you 
 honor, I have come, equally with the wish 
 to urge your great influence in behalf of an 
 earnest suit, I have.” 
 
 “What now! Our young charge, Donna 
 Florinda, has inherited, with the fortunes of 
 her family, its ancient habits of patronage 
 and protection! But we will not discourage 
 the feeling, for it has a worthy origin, and 
 used with discretion, it fortifies the noble 
 and powerful in their stations.” 
 
 «© And may we not say,’ mildly observed 
 Douna Florinda, “ that when the affluent and 
 happy employ themselves with the cares of 
 the less fortunate, they not only discharge a 
 duty, but they cultivate a wholesome and 
 useful state of mind?” 2 
 
 ‘“Doubt it not. Nothing can be more use- 
 ful than to give to each class in society a 
 proper sense of its obligations, and a just sen- 
 timent of its duties. ‘These are opinions I 
 greatly approve, and which I desire my ward 
 may thoroughly understand.” 
 
 “She is happy in possessing instructors so 
 able and so willing to teach all she should 
 know,” rejoined Violetta. ‘‘ With this ad- 
 
 437 
 
 mission, may I ask the Signor Gradenigo to 
 give ear to my petition ?” 
 
 ‘Thy little requests are ever welcome. I 
 would merely observe, th&t generous and ar- 
 dent temperaments sometimes regard a dis- 
 tant object so steadily as to overlook others 
 that are not only nearer, and perhaps of still 
 more urgent importance, but more attain- 
 able. In doing a benefit to one, we should 
 be wary not to do injuryto many. The rela- 
 tive of some one of thy household may have 
 thoughtlessly enlisted for the wars ?” 
 
 ‘ Should*it be so, I trust the recruit will 
 have the manhood not to quit his colors.” 
 
 “Thy nurse, who is one little likely to 
 forget the service she did thy infancy, urges 
 the claim of some kinsman, to an employ- 
 ment in the customs?” 
 
 “T believe all of that family are long 
 since placed,” said Violetta, laughing, “ un- 
 less we might establish the good mother her- 
 self in some station of honor. I have naught 
 to ask in their behalf.” 
 
 «“ She who hath referred thee, to this good- 
 ly and healthful beauty, would prefer a well 
 supported suit, but still is she better, as she 
 is, indolent, and I fear, pampered by thy 
 liberality. Thy private purse is drained by 
 demands on thy charity; or, perhaps, the 
 waywardness of a female taste hath cost 
 thee dear, of late !” 
 
 “Neither.—I have little need of gold, for 
 one of my years cannot properly maintain 
 the magnificence of her condition. I come, 
 guardian, with a far graver solicitation than 
 any of these.” 
 
 ‘«‘T hope none, in thy favor, have been in- 
 discreet of speech!” exclaimed the Signor 
 Gradenigo, casting a hasty and suspicious 
 look at his ward. 
 
 “Tf any have been so thoughtless, let them 
 abide the punishment of their fault.” 
 
 «“T commend |thy justice. In this age of 
 novel opinions, innovations of all descrip- 
 tions cannot be too severely checked. Were 
 the senate to shut its ears to all the wild 
 theories that are uttered by the unthinking 
 and vain, their language would soon penetrate 
 to the ill-regulated minds of the ignorant and 
 idle. Ask me, if thou wilt, for purses in 
 scores, but do not move me to forgetful- 
 ness of the guilt of the disturber of the pub- 
 lic peace !” 
 
438 
 
 ‘‘Not a sequin.—My errand is of nobler 
 quality.” 
 
 “ Speak without riddle, that I may know 
 its object.” ’ 
 
 Now that nothing stood between her wish 
 ' to speak, and her own manner of making 
 known the request, Donna Violetta appeared 
 to shrink from expressing it. Her color 
 went and came, and she sought support from 
 the eye of her attentive and wandering com- 
 panion. As the latter was ignorant of her 
 intention, however, she could do no more 
 than encourage the supplicant, by such an 
 expression of sympathy as woman rarely re- 
 fuses to her sex, in any trial that involves 
 their peculiar and distinctive feelings. Vio- 
 letta struggled with her diffidence, and 
 then laughing at her own want of self-pos- 
 session, she continued— 
 
 ‘“ You know, Signor Gradenigo,” she said 
 with a loftiness that was not less puzzling, 
 though far more intelligible, than the agita- 
 tion which, a moment before, had embar- 
 rassed her manner, “ that I am the last of a 
 line, eminent for centuries, in the state of 
 Venice.” 
 
 ‘«« So sayeth our history.” 
 
 “That I bear a name long known, and 
 which it becomes me to shield from all im- 
 putation of discredit, in my own person.” 
 
 “This is so true, that it scarcely needed 
 so clear an exposure,” drily returned the sen- 
 ator. 
 
 «“ And that, though thus gifted by the ac- 
 cidents of fortune and birth, I have re- 
 ceived a boon that still remains unrequited, 
 in a manner to do no honor to the house of 
 Thiepolo.” 
 
 “This becometh serious ! Donna Florinda, 
 our ward is more earnest than intelligible, 
 and I must ask an explanation at your hands. 
 It becometh her not to receive boons of this 
 nature from any.” 
 
 ‘‘Though unprepared for this request,” 
 mildly replied the companion, ‘‘I think she 
 speaks of the boon of life.” 
 
 The Signor Gradenigo’s countenance as- 
 sumed a dark expression. 
 
 ‘‘T understand you,” he said coldly. ‘‘It 
 is true that the Neapolitan was ready to res- 
 cue thee, when the calamity befell thy uncle 
 of Florence, but Don Camillo Monforte is not 
 a common diver of the Lido, to be rewarded 
 
 3 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 like him who finds a bawble dropped from a 
 gondola. Thou hast thanked the cavalier ; I 
 trust that a noble maiden can do no more in 
 a case like this.” 
 
 “That I have thanked him, and thanked 
 him from my soul, is true!” fervently ex- 
 claimed Violetta. “ When | forget the ser- 
 vice, Maria Santissima, and the good saints, 
 forget me! ” 
 
 “T doubt, Signora Florinda, that your 
 charge hath spent. more hours among the light 
 ‘works of her late father’s library, and less 
 time with her missal, than becomes her birth?” 
 
 The eye of Violetta kindled, and she folded 
 an arm around the form of her shrinking 
 
 ait 
 Sey ae 
 
 companion, who drew down her veil at this 
 
 reproof, though she forbore to answer. 
 
 ‘« Signor Gradenigo,” said the young heir- 
 ess, ‘‘I may have done discredit to my in- 
 structors, but if the pupil has been idle, the 
 fault should not be visited on the innocent. 
 It is some evidence that the commands of 
 holy church have not been neglected, that I 
 now come to entreat favor in behalf of one, 
 to whom I owe my life. Don Camilla Mon- 
 forte has long pursued, without success, a 
 claim so just, that were there no other motive 
 
 to concede it, the character of Venice should - 
 
 teach the senators the danger of delay.” 
 
 “My ward has spent her leisure with the 
 doctors of Padua! The republic hath its 
 laws, and none who have right on their side 
 appealed to them in vain. Thy gratitude is 
 not to be censured; it is rather worthy of thy 
 origin and hopes; still, Donna Violetta, we 
 should remember how difficult it is to winnow 
 the truth from the chaff of imposition and 
 legal subtlety, and, most of all, should a judge 
 be certain, before he give his decree, that, in 
 confirming the claims of one applicant, he 
 does not defeat those of another.” 
 
 «© They tamper with his rights! Being born 
 in a foreign realm, he is required to renounce 
 more in tle land of the stranger than he will 
 gain within the limits of the republic. He 
 wastes life and youth in pursuing a phantom! 
 You are of wéight in the senate, my guardian, 
 and were you to lend him the support of 
 your powerful voice and great instruction, a 
 wronged noble would have justice,and Venice, 
 though she might lose a trifle from her stores, 
 would better deserve the character of which 
 she is so jealous.” 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 «Thou art a persuasive advocate, and I 
 will think of what thou urgest,” said the 
 Signor Gradenigo, changing the frown, which 
 had been gathering about his brow, to a look 
 of indulgence, with a facility that betrayed 
 much practice in adapting the expression of 
 his features to his policy. ‘I ought only to 
 hearken to the Neapolitan, in my public 
 character of a judge; but his service to thee 
 and my weakness in thy behalf, extorts that 
 thou would’st have.” 
 
 Donna Violetta received the promise with 
 a bright and guileless smile. She kissed the 
 hand he extended, as a pledge of his faith, 
 with a fervor that gave her attentive guardian 
 serious uneasiness. 
 
 «Thou art too winning, even to be re- 
 sisted by one wearied with rebutting plausible 
 pretensions,” he added. ‘The young and 
 the generous, Donna Florinda, believe all to 
 be as their own wishes and simplicity would 
 have them. As for this right of Don Camillo 
 —but no matter—thou wilt have it so, and it 
 shall be examined with that blindness which 
 is said to be the failing of justice.” 
 
 ‘«<T have understood the metaphor to mean 
 blind to favor, but not insensible to the right.” 
 
 ‘<1 fear that is a sense which might defeat 
 our hopes—but we will look into it. Myson 
 has been mindful of his duty and respect of 
 late, Donna Violetta, as I would have him? 
 The boy wants little urging, I know, to lead 
 him to do honor to my ward, and the fairest of 
 Venice. Thou wilt receive him with friend- 
 ship, for the love thou bearest his father?” 
 
 Donna Violetta courtesied, but it was with 
 womanly reserve. 
 
 «<The door of my palace is never shut on 
 the Signor Giacomo on all proper occasions,” 
 she said, coldly. ‘Signor, the son of my 
 guardian could hardly be other than an hon- 
 ored Visitor.” ! 
 
 <“‘T would have the boy attentive—and 
 even more, I would have him prove some 
 little of that great esteem, but we live in 
 a jealous city, Donna Florinda, and one in 
 which prudence is a virtue of the highest 
 price. If the youth is less urgent than I 
 could wish, believe me, it is from the appre- 
 hension of giving premature alarm to those 
 who interest themselves in the fortunes of 
 our charge.” 
 
 Both the ladies bowed, and by the manner 
 
 439 
 
 in which they drew their cloaks about them, 
 they made evident their wish to retire. 
 Donna Violetta craved a blessing, and after 
 the usual compliments, and a short dialogue 
 of courtesy, she and her companion withdrew 
 to their boat. 
 
 The Signor Gradenigo paced the room, in 
 which he had received his ward, for several 
 minutes in silence. Not asound of any sort 
 was audible throughout the whole of the vast 
 abode, the stillness and cautious tread of 
 those within, answering to the quiet town 
 without ; but a young man, in whose counte- 
 nance and air were to be seen most of the 
 usual signs of a well-bred profligacy, saunter- 
 ing along the suite of chambers, at length 
 caught the eye of the senator, who beckoned 
 him to approach. 
 
 «Thou art unhappy, as of wont, Gia- 
 como,” he said, in a tone between paternal 
 indulgence and reproach. ‘‘'The Donna Vio- 
 letta has, but a minute since, departed, and 
 thou wert absent. Some unworthy intrigue 
 with the daughter of a jeweller, or some more 
 injurious bargain of thy hopes, with the 
 father, hath occupied the time that might 
 have been devoted more honorably, and to 
 far better profit.” 
 
 ‘You do me little justice,” returned the 
 youth. ‘Neither Jews, nor Jewess, hath 
 this day greeted my eye.” 
 
 ‘©The calendar should mark the time for 
 its singularity ! I would know, Giacomo, if 
 thou turnest to a right advantage the occa- 
 sion of my guardianship, and if thou think- 
 est, with sufficient gravity, of the importance 
 of what I urge ?” 
 
 ‘Doubt it not, father. He who hath so 
 much suffered for the want of that which the 
 Donna Violetta possesses in so great profu- 
 sion, needeth little prompting on such a sub- 
 ject. By refusing to supply my wants, you 
 have made certain of my consent. ‘There is 
 not 4 fool in Venice who sighs more loudly 
 beneath his mistress’s window, than I utter 
 my pathetic wishes to the lady—when there 
 is opportunity, and I am in the humor.” 
 
 «‘Thou knowest the danger of alarming 
 the senate ?” 4 
 
 ‘‘Fear me not. My progress is by secret 
 and gradual means. Neither my counte- 
 nance nor my mind is unused to a mask— 
 thanks to necessity! My spirits have been 
 
440 
 
 too buoyant not to have made me acquainted 
 with duplicity !” 
 
 ‘‘Thou speakest, ungrateful boy, as if I 
 denied thy youth the usual indulgences of thy 
 years and rank. It is thy excesses, and not 
 thy spirits, I would check. But I would not 
 now harden thee with reproof. Giacomo, 
 thou hast a rival in the stranger. His act 
 in the Giudecca has won upon the fancy of 
 the girl, and like all of generous and ardent 
 natures, ignorant as she is of his merits, she 
 supplies his character with all necessary 
 qualities by her own ingenuity.” 
 
 ‘“T would she did the same by me!” 
 
 ‘‘ With thee, sirrah, my ward might be re- 
 quired to forget, rather than invent. Hast 
 thou bethought thee of turning the eyes of 
 the council on the danger which besets their 
 heiress ?” 
 
 sdthave:y 
 
 «¢ And the means?” 
 
 ‘‘The plainest and the most certain—the 
 Lion’s mouth.” 
 
 ‘* Ha !_that, indeed, is a bold adventure.” 
 
 ‘* And, like all bold adventures, it is the 
 
 more likely to succeed. For once Fortune 
 hath not been a niggard with me.-—I have 
 given them the Neapolitan’s signet by way of 
 proof.” 
 ' «Giacomo ! dost thou know the hazard of 
 thy temerity ? I hope there is no clew left 
 in the handwriting, or by any other means 
 taken to obtain the ring ?” 
 
 ‘‘Father, though I may have overlooked 
 thy instruction in less weighty maiters, not 
 an admonition which touches the policy of 
 Venice hath been forgotten. The Neapolitan 
 stands accused, and if thy Council is faithful, 
 he will be a suspected, if not a banished, 
 man.” 
 
 ‘That the Council of Three will perform 
 its trust is beyond dispute. I would I were 
 as certain that thy indiscreet zeal may not 
 lead to some unpleasant exposure !” 
 
 The shameless son stared at the father a 
 moment in doubt, and then he passed into 
 the more private parts of the palace, like one 
 too much accustomed to double-dealing to 
 lend it a second or a serious thought. The 
 senator remained. His silent walk was now 
 manifestly disturbed by great uneasiness ; 
 and he frequently passed a hand across his 
 brow, as if he mused in pain. 
 
 While thus ! satisfies my wishes. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 occupied, a figure stole through the long 
 suite of ante-chambers, and stopped near the 
 door of the room he occupied. ‘The intruder 
 was aged ; his face was tawny by exposure, 
 and his hair thinned and whitened by time. 
 His dress was that of a fisherman, being both 
 scanty and of the meanest materials. Still 
 there was a naturally noble and frank intelli- 
 gence in his bold eye and prominent features, 
 while the bare arms and naked legs exhibited 
 a muscle and proportion which proved that 
 nature was rather at a stand than in the de- 
 cline. He had been many moments dangling 
 his cap, in habitual but unembarrassed re- 
 spect, before his presence was observed. 
 
 “Ha! thou here, Antonio!” exclaimed 
 the senator, when their eyes met. ‘‘ Why 
 this visit ?” ‘ 
 
 ‘Signor, my heart is heavy.” 
 
 “ Hath the calendar no saint—the fisher- 
 man no patron ? I suppose the sirocco hath 
 been tossing the waters of the bay, and thy 
 nets are empty.—Hold ! thou art my foster- 
 brother, and thou must not want.” 
 
 The fisherman drew back with dignity, 
 refusing the gift simply, but decidedly, by 
 the act. 
 
 ‘‘Signor, we have lived from childhood 
 to old age since we drew our milk from the 
 same breast; in all that time have you ever 
 known me a beggar ?” 
 
 <¢Thou art not wont to ask these boons, 
 Antonio, it is true; but age conquers our 
 pride with our strength. If it be not sequins 
 that thou seekest, what would’st thou ? ” 
 
 «‘There are other wants than those of the 
 body, Signor, and other sufferings besides 
 hunger.” 
 
 The countenance of the senator lowered. 
 He cast a sharp glance at his foster-brother, 
 and ere he answered he closed the door which 
 communicated with the outer chamber/ 
 
 ‘“Thy words forebode disaffection, as of 
 wont. Thou art accustomed to comment 
 on measures and interests that are beyond 
 thy limited reason, and thou knowest that 
 thy opinions have already drawn displeasure 
 on thee. The ignorant and the low are, to 
 the state, as children, whose duty it is to 
 obey and not to cavil:—Thy errand ?” ; 
 
 ‘‘T am not the man you think me, Signor. 
 I am used to poverty and want, and little 
 The senate is my mas- 
 
 ® 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 ter, and as such I honor it; but a fisherman 
 hath his feelings as well as the Doge !”. 
 
 «‘ Aoain!—These feelings of thine, An- 
 -tonio, are most exacting. Thou namest them 
 on all occasions, as if they were the engross- 
 ing concerns of life.” 
 
 ‘Signor, are they not tome? Though I 
 think mostly of my own concerns, still I can 
 have a thought for the distress of those I 
 honor. When the beautiful and youthful 
 lady, your eccellenza’s daughter, was called 
 away to the company of the saints, I felt the 
 blow as if it had been the death of my own 
 child ; and it has pleased God, as you very 
 well know, Signor, not to leave me unac- 
 quainted with the anguish of such a 
 loss.” 
 
 ‘«<Thou art a good fellow, Antonio,” re- 
 turned the senator, covertly removing the 
 moisture from his eyes; ‘‘an honest and a 
 proud man, for thy condition !” 
 
 ‘© She, from whom we both drew our first 
 nourishment, Signor, often told me that, 
 next to my own kin, it was my duty to love 
 the noble race she had helped to support. I 
 make no merit of natural feeling, which is 
 a gift from Heaven, and the greater is the 
 reason that the state should not deal lightly 
 with such affections.” | 
 
 ‘‘Once more the state !—Name thy er- 
 rand.” 
 
 ‘Your eccellenza knows the history of my 
 humble life. I need not tell you, Signor, of 
 the sons which God, by the intercession of 
 the Virgin and blessed St. Anthony, was 
 pleased to bestow on me, or of che manner in 
 which he hath seen proper to te’xe them, one 
 by one, away.” 
 
 «<Thou hast known sorrow, poor Antonio ! 
 I well remember thou hast suffered too.” 
 
 ‘Signor, I have. The deaths of five 
 manly and honest sons is a blow to bring a 
 groan from arock. But I have known how 
 to bless God and be thankful !” 
 
 ‘‘Worthy fisherman, the Doge himself 
 might envy this resignation. It is often 
 easier to endure the loss than the life of a 
 child, Antonio !” 
 
 “Signor, no boy of mine ever caused me 
 grief, but the hour in which he died. And 
 even then,” the old man turned aside, to 
 conceal the working of his features—‘‘ I 
 struggled to remember, from how much pain, 
 
 44] 
 
 and toil, and suffering, they were removed to 
 enjoy a more blessed state.” 
 
 The lip of the Signor Gradenigo quivered, 
 and he moved to and fro with a quicker step. 
 
 ‘‘T think, Antonio,” he said, ‘‘I think, 
 honest Antonio, I had masses said for the 
 souls of them all ?” 
 
 “Signor, you had; St. Anthony remember 
 the kindness in your own extremity! I was 
 wrong in saying that the youths never gave 
 me sorrow but in dying, for there is a pain 
 the rich cannot know, in being too poor to 
 buy a prayer for a dead child!” 
 
 “Wilt thou have more masses? Son of 
 thine shall never want a voice with the saints, 
 for the ease of his soul!” 
 
 ‘¢T thank you, eccellenza, but I have faith 
 in what has been done, and, more than all, in 
 the mercy of God. “My errand now is in 
 behalf of the living.” 
 
 The sympathy of the senator was suddenly 
 checked, and he already listened with a 
 doubting and suspicious air. 
 
 ‘Thy errand ?” he simply repeated. 
 
 ‘Ig to beg your interest, Signor, to obtain 
 the release of my grandson from the galleys. 
 They have seized the lad in his fourteenth 
 year, and condemned him to the wars with 
 the Infidels, without thought of his tender 
 years, without thought of evil example, with+ 
 out thought of my age and loneliness, and 
 without justice; for his father died in the 
 last battle given to the Turk.” 
 
 As he ceased, the fisherman riveted his 
 look on the marble countenance of his 
 auditor, wistfully endeavoring to trace the 
 effect of his words. But all there was cold, 
 unanswering and void of human sympathy. 
 The soulless, practised, and specious reason- 
 ing of the state, had long since deadened all 
 feeling in the senator, on any subject that 
 touched an interest so vital as the maritime 
 power of the republic. He saw the hazard of 
 innovation in the slightest approach to inter- 
 ests so delicate, and his mind was drilled by 
 policy into an apathy that no charity could 
 disturb, when there was question of the right 
 of St. Mark to the services of his people. 
 
 “JT would thou hadst come to beg masses, 
 or gold, or aught but this, Antonio!” he 
 answered, after a moment of delay. “Thou 
 hast had the company of the boy, if 1 remem 
 ber, from his birth, already?” 
 
442 
 
 “Signor, I have had that satisfaction, for 
 he was an orphan born; and I would wish to 
 have it until the child is fit to go into the 
 world, armed with an honesty and faith that 
 shall keep him from harm. Were my own 
 brave son here, he would ask no other fortune 
 for the lad than such counsel and aid as a 
 poor man has a right to bestow on his own 
 flesh and blood.” 
 
 “He fareth no worse than others; and 
 thou knowest that the republic hath need of 
 every arm.” 
 
 “Kecellenza, I saw the Signor Giacomo 
 land from his gondola, as I entered the 
 palace.” 
 
 “Out upon thee, fellow! dost thou make 
 no distinction between the son of a fisherman, 
 one trained to the oar and toil, and the heir 
 of an ancient house? Go to, presuming man, 
 and remember thy condition, and the differ- 
 ence that God hath made between our chil- 
 dren.” 
 
 “ Mine never gave me sorrow, but the hour 
 
 in which they died,” said the fisherman, 
 
 uttering a severe but mild reproof. 
 
 The Signor Gradenigo felt the sting of this 
 retort, which in no degree aided the cause of 
 his indiscreet foster-brother. After pacing 
 the room in agitation for some time, he so 
 far conquered his resentment, as to answer 
 more mildly, as became his rank. 
 
 “ Antonio,” he said, “thy disposition and 
 boldness are not strangers to me—if thou 
 _ would’st have masses for the dead, or gold for 
 the living, they are thine; but in asking for 
 my interest with the general of the galleys, 
 thou askest that which, at a moment so 
 critical, could not be yielded to the son of the 
 Doge, were the Doge——” 
 
 “A fisherman,” continued Antonio, ob- 
 serving that he hesitated—*“ Signor, adieu; I 
 would not part in anger with my foster- 
 brother, and I pray the saints to bless you 
 and your house. May you never know the 
 grief of losing a child by a fate far worse 
 than death—that of destruction by vice.” 
 
 As Antonio ceased, he made his reverence 
 and departed by the way he had entered. 
 He retired unnoticed, for the senator averted 
 his eyes, with a secret consciousness of the 
 force of what the other, in his simplicity, had 
 uttered; and it was some time before the 
 latter knew he was alone. Another step, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 however, soon diverted his attention. 
 door reopened, and a menial appeared. He 
 
 announced that one without sought a private 
 
 audience. 
 
 “Tet him enter,” answered the ready sen- 
 ator, smoothing his features to the customary 
 cautious and distrustful expression. 
 
 The servant withdrew, when one masked, 
 and wearing a cloak, quickly entered the 
 room. When the latter instrument of dis- 
 guise was thrown upon an arm, and the visor 
 was removed, the form and face of the 
 dreaded Jacopo became visible. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Cesar himself has work, and our oppression 
 Exceeds what we expected.—SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 “Dipst thou note him that left me?” 
 eagerly demanded the Signor Gradenigo. 
 
 ‘sTdidit? | 
 
 ‘‘ Knough so to recognize form and counte- 
 nance ?” 
 
 “Twas a fisherman of the Lagunes, named 
 Antonio.” 
 
 The senator dropped the extended limb, 
 and regarded the Bravo, with a look in 
 which surprise and admiration were equally 
 blended. He resumed his course up and 
 
 down the room, while his companion stood 
 
 waiting his pleasure, in an attitude so calm 
 as to be dignified. A few minutes were 
 wasted in this abstraction. 9 
 
 «Thou art quick of sight, Jacopo !” con- 
 tinued the patrician, breaking the pause— 
 “ Hast thou had dealings with the man ?” 
 
 <¢ Never |” 
 
 “Thou art certain it is 
 
 “ Your eccellenza’s foster-brother.” 
 
 “JT did not inquire into thy knowledge of 
 his infancy and origin, but of his present 
 state,’ returned the Signor Gradenigo, 
 turning away to conceal his countenance 
 from the glowing eye of Jacopo—*“ Has he 
 been named to thee by any in authority ?” 
 
 ‘‘He has not—my mission does not lie 
 with fishermen.” 
 
 ‘‘Duty may lead us into still humbler 
 society, young man. ‘They who are charged 
 with the grievous burden of the state must 
 
 33 
 
 The = 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 not consider the quality of the load they | 
 
 carry. 
 come to thy knowledge?” 
 
 ‘‘T have known him as one esteemed by 
 his fellows—a man skilful in his craft, and 
 long pepsinince in the mystery of the La- 
 gunes.” 
 
 “He is a defaulter of She revenue, thou 
 would’st be understood to say ?” 
 
 ‘T would not. He toils too late and early 
 to have other means of support than labor.” 
 
 “Thou knowest, Jacopo, the severity of 
 our laws in matters that concern the public 
 moneys ?” 
 
 «I know that the judgment of St. Mark, 
 Signor, is never light when its own interest 
 is touched.” 
 
 “Thou art not required to utter opinions 
 beyond the present question. This man hath 
 a habit of courting the good-will of his asso- 
 ciates, and of making his voice heard con- 
 cerning affairs of which none but his superi- 
 ors may discreetly judge.” 
 
 ‘‘ Signor, he is old, and the tongue grows 
 loose with years.” 
 
 «This is not the character of Antonio. 
 Nature hath not treated him unkindly ; had 
 his birth and education been equal to his 
 mind, the senate might have been glad to 
 jisten—as it is, I fear he speaks in a sense to 
 endanger his own interests.” 
 
 ‘Surely, if he speaks to offend the ear of 
 St. Mark.” 
 
 There was a quick suspicious glance from 
 the senator to the Bravo, as if to read the 
 true meaning of the latter’s words. Find- 
 ing, however, the same expression of self- 
 possession in the quiet features he scruti- 
 nized, the latter continued as if distrust had 
 not been awakened. 
 
 “Tf, as thou sayest, he so speaks as to in- 
 jure the republic, his years have not brought 
 discretion. I love the man, Jacopo, for it is 
 usual to regard, with some partiality, those 
 who have drawn nourishment from the same 
 breast with ourselves.” 
 
 “Signor, it is.” 
 
 “ And feeling this weakness in his favor, I 
 would have him admonished to be prudent. 
 Thou art acquainted, doubtless, with his 
 opinions concerning the recent necessity of 
 the state, to command the services of all the 
 youths on the Lagunes in her fleets ?” 
 
 443 
 
 ‘IT know that the press has taken from 
 
 In what manner hath this Antonio | him the boy who toiled in his company.” 
 
 “To toil honorably, and perhaps gainfully; 
 in behalf of the republic !” 
 
 “ Signor, perhaps !” 
 
 “Thou art brief in thy speech to-night, 
 Jacopo !—But if thou knowest the fisher- 
 man, give him counsel of discretion. St. 
 Mark will not tolerate such free opinions of 
 his wisdom. This is the third occasion in 
 which there has been need to repress that 
 fisherman’s speech ; for the paternal care of 
 the senate cannot see discontent planted in 
 the bosom of a class it is their duty and 
 pleasure to render happy. Seek opportuni- 
 ties to let him hear this wholesome truth, 
 for in good sooth I would not willingly see a 
 misfortune light upon the head of a son of 
 my ancient nurse, and that, too, in the de- 
 cline of his days.” 
 
 The Bravo bent his body in acquiescence, 
 while the Signor Gradenigo paced the room, 
 in a manner to show that he really felt con- 
 cern. 
 
 ‘‘Thou hast had advice of the judgment, 
 in the matter of the Genoese?” resumed 
 the latter, when another pause had given 
 time to change the current of his thoughts. 
 ‘‘The sentence of the tribunals has been 
 prompt, and, though there is much assump- 
 tion of a dislike between the two republics, 
 the world can now see how sternly justice is 
 consulted on our isles. I hear the Genoese 
 will have ample amends, and that certain of 
 our own citizens will be mulcted of much 
 money.” 
 
 “‘T have heard the same since the sun set, 
 in the Piazzetta, Signor!” 
 
 «“ And do men converse of our impartiality, 
 and more than all of our promptitude? Be- 
 think thee, Jacopo, *tis but a se’nnight 
 since the claim was preferred to the senate’s 
 equity!” 
 
 ‘‘None dispute the DECIR with 
 which the republic visits offences.” 
 
 “Nor the justice, I trust also, good Ja- 
 copo. There is a beauty and a harmony in, 
 the manner in which the social machine rolls 
 on its course, under such a system, that should 
 secure men’s applause! Justice administers 
 to the wants of society, and checks the pas- 
 sions with a force as silent and dignified, as 
 if her decrees came from a higher volition. 
 
‘I often compare the quiet march of the state, | 
 contrasted with the troubled movements of 
 
 mettre 
 
 444 
 
 some other of our Italian sisters, to the dif- 
 ference ‘between the clatter of a clamorous 
 town, and the stillness of our own noiseless 
 canals. Then the uprightness of the late 
 decree is in the mouths of the masquers to- 
 night 2” 
 
 “Signore, the Venetians are bold when 
 there is an opportunity to praise their mas- 
 ters.” 
 
 “Dost thou think thus, Jacopo! To me 
 they have ever seemed more prone to vent 
 their seditious discontent. But ’tis the nat- 
 ure of man to be niggardly of praise and 
 lavish of censure. This decree of the tribu- 
 nal must not be suffered to die, with the 
 mere justice of the case. Our friends should 
 dwell on it, openly, in the cafés, and at the 
 Lido. They will have no cause to fear, should 
 they give their tongues a little latitude. A 
 just government hath no jealousy of com- 
 ment.” 
 
 “True, Signor.” 
 
 “TJ look to thee and thy fellows to see that 
 the affair be not too quickly forgotten. The 
 contemplation of acts, such as this, will 
 quicken the dormant seeds of virtue in the 
 public mind. He who has examples of 
 equity incessantly before his eyes, will come 
 at last to love the quality. The Genoese, I 
 trust, will depart satisfied ? ” 
 
 ‘Doubt it not, Signor; he has all that 
 can content a sufferer; his own with usury, 
 and revenge of him who did the wrong.” 
 
 “Such is the decree—ample restoration 
 and the chastening hand of punishment. 
 Few states would thus render a judgment 
 against itself, Jacopo!” 
 
 “‘Is the state answerable for the deed of 
 the merchant, Signore? ” 
 
 “Through its citizen. He who inflicts 
 punishment on his own members, is a suf- 
 ferer, surely. No one can part with his own 
 flesh without pain; is not this true, fellow ?” 
 
 “‘There are nerves that are delicate to 
 the touch, Signor, and an eye ora tooth is 
 precious; but the paring of a nail, or the fall 
 of the beard, is little heeded.” 
 
 ‘‘One who did not know thee, Jacopo, 
 would imagine thee in the interest of the em- 
 peror! The sparrow does not fall in Venice, 
 without the loss touching the parental feel- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ings of the senate. Well, is there further 
 rumor among the Jews, of a decrease of gold? 
 Sequins are not so abundant as of wont, and 
 the chicanery of that race lends itself to the 
 scarcity, in the hope of larger profits.” 
 
 “T have seen faces on the Rialto, of late, 
 Signor, that look empty purses. The Chris- 
 tlan seems anxious, and in want, while the 
 unbelievers wear their gaberdines with a 
 looser air than is usual.” 
 
 ‘‘This hath been expected. Doth report 
 openly name any of the Israelites who are in 
 the custom of lending, on usury, to the 
 young nobles?” 
 
 ‘* All, who have to lend, may be accounted 
 of the class; the whole synagogue, rabbis and 
 all, are of a mind, when there is question of 
 a Christian’s purse.” 
 
 “ ‘Thou likest not the Hebrew, Jacopo; but 
 he is of good service in the republic’s straits. 
 We count all friends, who are ready with 
 their gold at need. Still the young hopes of 
 Venice must not be left to waste their sub- 
 stance in unwary bargains with the gainful 
 race, and should’st thou hear of any of mark, 
 who are thought to be too deeply in their 
 clutches, thou wilt do wisely to let the same 
 be known, with little delay, tothe guardians 
 of the public weal. We must deal tenderly 
 with those who prop to state, but we must 
 also deal discreetly with those who will 
 shortly compose it. Hast thou aught to say 
 in the matter ?” 
 
 “T have heard men speak of Signor 
 Giacomo as paying dearest for their favors.” 
 
 ‘Gesu Maria! my son and heir! Dost 
 thou not deceive me, man, to gratify thine 
 own displeasure against the Hebrews ?” 
 
 *‘T have no other malice against the race, 
 signor, than the wholesome disrelish of a 
 Christian. ‘Thus much I hope may be per- 
 mitted to a believer, but beyond that, in 
 reason, I carry hatred to no man. It is well 
 known that your heir is disposing freely of 
 his hopes, and at prices that lower expecta- 
 tions might command.” 
 
 ‘‘This is a weighty concern! The boy 
 must be speedily admonished of the conse- 
 quences, and care must be had for his future 
 discretion. The Hebrew shall be punished, 
 and as a solemn warning to the whole tribe, 
 the debt confiscated to the benefit of the 
 borrower. With such an example before 
 
sa 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 their eyes, the knaves will be less ready with 
 their sequins. Holy St. Theodore! ’twere 
 self-destruction to suffer one of such promise 
 to be lost for the want of prudent forethought. 
 I wili charge myself with the matter as an 
 especial duty, and the senate shall have no 
 cause to say that its interests have been neg- 
 Jected. Hast thou had applications of late, in 
 thy character of avenger of private wrongs ?” 
 
 *“None of note—there is one that seeks 
 me earnestly, though I am not yet wholly 
 the master of his wishes.” 
 
 «Thy office is of much delicacy and trust, 
 and as thou art well assured, the reward is 
 weighty and sure.” ‘The eyes of the Bravo 
 kindled with an expression which caused his 
 companion topause. But observing that the 
 repose, for which the features of Jacopo were 
 so remarkable, again presided over his pallid 
 face, he continued, as if there had been no 
 interruption: ‘‘I repeat, the bounty and 
 clemency of the state will not be forgotten. 
 If its justice is stern and infallible, its for- 
 giveness is cordial, and its favorsample. Of 
 these facts [have taken much pains to assure 
 thee, Jacopo.—Blessed St. Mark! that one 
 of the scions of thy great stock should waste 
 his substance for the benefit of a race of un- 
 believers! But thou hast not named him 
 who seeks thee, with this earnestness ?” 
 
 «< As I have yet to learn his errand, before 
 I go further, signor, it may be well to know 
 more of his wishes.” 
 
 «This reserve is uncalled for. Thou art 
 not to distrust the prudence of the republic’s 
 ministers, and I should be sorry were the 
 Inguisitors to get an unfavorable opinion 
 of thy zeal. The individual must be de- 
 nounced.” 
 
 “‘T denounce him not. The most that I 
 can say is, that he hath a desire to deal pri- 
 vately with one, with whom it is almost 
 criminal to deal-at all.” 
 
 “‘The prevention of crime is better than 
 its punishment, and such is the true object 
 of all government. Thou wilt not withhold 
 the name of thy correspondent ?” 
 
 “Tt isa noble Neapolitan, who hath long 
 sojourned in Venice, on matters touching a 
 great succession, and some right, even, to 
 the senate’s dignity.” 
 
 ‘*Ha! Don Camillo Monforte ! 
 right, sirrah ?” 
 
 Am I 
 
 445 
 «« Signor, the same !” 
 
 The pause which followed was only broken 
 by the clock of the great square striking 
 eleven, or the fourth hour of the night, as it 
 is termed, by the usage of Italy. The sen- 
 ator started, consulted a time-piece in his 
 own apartment, and again addressed his com- 
 panion. . 
 
 ‘‘This is well,” he said; ‘‘thy faith and 
 punctuality shall be remembered. Look to 
 the fisherman, Antonio ; the murmurs of the 
 old man must not be permitted to awaken 
 discontent, for a cause so trifling as this 
 transfer of his descendant from a gondola to 
 a galley ; and most of all, keep thy ears at- 
 tentive to any rumors on the Rialto. The 
 glory and credit of a patrician name must 
 not be weakened by the errors of boyhood. 
 As to this stranger—quickly, thy mask and 
 cloak—depart as if thou wert merely a friend 
 bent on some of the idle pleasantries of the 
 hour.” 
 
 The Bravo resumed his disguise with the 
 readiness of one long practised in its use, but 
 with a composure that was not so easily dis- 
 concerted as that of the more sensitive sen- 
 ator. The latter did not speak again, though 
 he hurried Jacopo from his presence, by an 
 impatient movement of the hand. 
 
 When the door was closed and the Signor 
 Gradenigo was again alone, he once more con- 
 sulted the time-piece, passed his hand slowly 
 and thoughtfully across his brow, and re- 
 sumed his walk. For nearly an hour this 
 exercise, or nervous sympathy of the body 
 with a mind that was possibly overworked, 
 continued without any interruption from 
 without. Then came a gentle tap at the 
 door, and at the usual bidding, one entered, 
 closely masked, like him who had departed, 
 as was so much the usage of that city, in the 
 age of which we write. A glance at the fig- 
 ure of his guest seemed to apprise the senator 
 of his character, for the reception, while it 
 was distinguished by the quaint courtesy of 
 the age, was that of one expected. 
 
 “JT am honored in the visit of Don Camillo 
 Monforte,” said the host, while the individ- 
 ual named laid aside his cloak and silken 
 visor; “ though the lateness of the hour had 
 given me reason to apprehend that some cas- 
 ualty had interfered between me and the 
 pleasure.” 
 
446 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘‘A thousand excuses, noble senator, but | quicken the exertions of so benevolent and 
 
 the coolness of the canals, and the gaiety of 
 the square, together with some apprehension 
 of intruding prematurely on time so precious, 
 has, I fear, kept me out of season. But I 
 trust to the known goodness of the Signor 
 Gradenigo for my apology.” 
 
 “The punctuality of the great lords of 
 Lower Italy is not their greatest merit,” the 
 Signor Gradenigo drily answered. ‘‘'The 
 young esteem life so endless, that they take 
 little heed of the minutes that escape them; 
 while we, whom age begins to menace, think 
 chiefly of repairing the omissions of youth. 
 In this manner, Signor Duca, does man sin 
 and repent daily, until the opportunities of 
 doing either are imperceptibly lost. But we 
 will not be more prodigal of the moments 
 than there is need—are we to hope for bet- 
 ter views in the Spaniard ? ” 
 
 ‘“T have neglected little that can move the 
 mind of a reasonable man, and I have, in 
 particular, laid before him the advantage of 
 ' conciliating the senate’s esteem.” 
 
 ‘‘Therein have you done wisely, signor, 
 both as respects his interests and your own. 
 The senate is a liberal paymaster to him who 
 serves it well, and a fearful enemy to those 
 who do harm to the state. I hope the mat- 
 ter of the succession draws near a conclu- 
 sion ?” 
 
 “T wish it were possible to say it did. I 
 urge the tribunal in all proper assiduity, 
 omitting no duty of personal respect, nor of 
 private solicitation. Padua has not a doctor 
 
 more learned than he who presents my right’ 
 
 to their wisdom, and yet the affair lingers 
 like life in the hectic. If I have not shown 
 myself a worthy son of St. Mark, in this af- 
 fair with the Spaniard, it is more from the 
 want of a habit of managing political inter- 
 ests, than from any want of zeal.’ 
 
 “<The scales of justice must be nicely bal- 
 anced to hang so long, without determining 
 to one side or the other! You will have 
 need of further assiduity, Don Camillo, and 
 of great discretion in disposing the minds of 
 the patricians in your favor. It will be well 
 to make your attachment to the state be ob- 
 served, by further service near the ambassa- 
 dor. You are known to have his esteem, and 
 counsel coming from such a quarter will en- 
 ter deeply into his mind. It should also 
 
 generous a young spirit, to know that in 
 serving his country, he also aids the cause of 
 humanity.” 
 
 Don Camillo did not appear to be strongly 
 impressed with the justice of the latter re- 
 mark. He bowed, however, in courtesy to 
 his companion’s opinion. | 
 
 ‘‘It is pleasant, signor, to be thus per- 
 suaded,” he answered; ‘‘my kinsman of 
 Castile is a man to hear reason, let it come 
 from what quarterit may. ‘Though he meets 
 my arguments with some allusions to the 
 declining power of the republic, I do not see 
 less of deep respect for the influence of a 
 state that hath long made itself remarkable 
 by its energy and will.” 
 
 «Venice is no longer what the city of the 
 Isles hath been, Signor Duca; still is she not 
 powerless. ‘The wings of our lion are a little 
 clipped, but his leap is still far, and his teeth 
 dangerous. If the new-made prince would 
 have his ducal coronet sit easily on his brow, 
 he would do well to secure the esteem of his 
 nearest neighbors.” 
 
 “ This is obviously true, and little that my 
 influence can do toward effecting the object, 
 shall be wanting. And now, may I entreat 
 of your friendship, advice as to the manner 
 of further urging my own long-neglected 
 claims?” 
 
 ‘¢ You will do well, Don Camillo, to remind 
 the senators of your presence, by frequent 
 observance of the courtesies due to their 
 rank and yours.” 
 
 “This do I never neglect, as seemly both 
 in my station and my object.” 
 
 “The judges should not be forgotten, 
 young man, for it is wise to remember that 
 justice hath ever an ear for solicitation.” 
 
 ‘* None can be more assiduous in the duty, 
 nor is it common to see a suppliant so mind- 
 ful of those whom he troubleth, by more sub- 
 stantial proofs of respect.” 
 
 ** But chiefly should you be particular to 
 earn the senate’s esteem. No act of service 
 to the state is overlooked by that body, and 
 the smallest good deed finds its way into the 
 recesses of the two councils.” 
 
 ‘“¢ Would I could have communication with — 
 
 those reverend fathers ! 
 
 of my claim would speedily work out its own 
 right.” 
 
 I think the justice — 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 ** That were impossible! ” gravely returned 
 the senator. ‘* Those august bodies are se- 
 cret, that their majesty may not be tarnished 
 by communication with vulgar interests. 
 They rule like the unseen influence of mind 
 over matter, and form as it were the soul of the 
 
 ' state whose seat, like that of reason, remains 
 _ a problem exceeding human penetration.” 
 
 “J express the desire, rather as a wish than 
 with any hope of its being granted,” returned 
 the Duke of St. Agata, resuming his cloak 
 and mask, neither of which had been entirely 
 laid aside. ‘‘ Adieu, noble Signor; I shall 
 not cease to move the Castilian with frequent 
 advice, and, in return, I commit my affair to 
 the justice of the patricians, and your own 
 good friendship.” 
 
 Signor Gradenigo bowed his guest through 
 all the rooms of the long suit, but the last, 
 where he committed him to the care of the 
 groom of his chambers. 
 
 ‘‘The youth must be stirred to greater in- 
 dustry in this matter, by clogging the wheels 
 of the law. He that would ask favors of St. 
 Mark must first-earn them, by showing zeal- 
 ous dispositions in his behalf.” 
 
 Such were the reflections of the Signor 
 Gradenigo, as he slowly returned toward his 
 closet, after a ceremonious leave-taking with 
 his guest in the outer apartment. Closing 
 the door, he commenced pacing the small 
 apartment with the step and eye of a man 
 who again mused with some anxiety. After 
 a minute of profound stillness, a door, con- 
 cealed by the hangizrgs of the room, was cau- 
 tiously opened, and the face of still another 
 visitor appeared. 
 
 «Enter !” said the senator, betraying no 
 surprise at the apparition ; ‘‘ the hour is past, 
 and I wait for thee.” 
 
 The flowing dress, the gray and yenerable 
 beard, the noble outline of features, the 
 guick, greedy, and suspicious eye, with an 
 expression of countenance that was, pérhaps, 
 equally marked by worldly sagacity, and 
 feelings often rudely rebuked, proclaimed a 
 
 _ Hebrew of the Rialto. 
 
 “Enter, Hosea, and unburden thyself,” 
 continued the senator, like one prepared for 
 some habitual communication. ‘‘Is there 
 aught new that touches the public weal ?” 
 
 «< Blessed is the people over whom there is 
 so fatherly a care! Can there be good or 
 
 a ; 
 woe 
 
 447 
 
 evil to the citizen of the republic, noble Sig- 
 nor, without the bowels of the senate mov- 
 ing, as the parent yearneth over its young ? 
 Happy is the country in which men of rey- 
 erend years and whitened heads watch, until 
 night draws toward the day, and weariness is 
 forgotten in the desire to do good, and to 
 honor the state !” 
 
 ‘‘Thy mind partaketh of the eastern imag- 
 ery of the country of thy fathers, good Hosea, 
 and thou art apt to forget that thou art not 
 yet watching on the steps of the temple. 
 What of interest hath the day brought 
 forth ?” | 
 
 ‘Say rather of the night, Signor, for little 
 worthy of your ear hath happened, save a 
 matter of some trifling import, which hath 
 grown out of the movements of the evening.” 
 
 ‘‘Have there been stilettoes busy on the 
 bridge ?—ha !—or do the people joy less than 
 common in their levities ?” 
 
 *“None have died wrongfully, and the 
 square is gay as the fragrant vineyards of 
 Engedi. Holy Abraham! what a place is 
 Venice for its pleasures, and how the hearts 
 of old and young revel in their merriment ! 
 It is almost sufficient to fix the font in the 
 synagogue, to witness so joyous a dispensa- 
 tion in behalf of the people of these islands ! 
 I had not hoped for the honor of an interview 
 to-night, Signor, and I had prayed, before 
 laying my head upon the pillow, when one 
 charged by the council brought to mea jewel, 
 with an order to decipher the arms and other 
 symbols of its owner. *Tis a ring, with the 
 usual marks, which accompany private con- 
 fidences.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou hast the signet ?” said the noble, 
 stretching out an arm. 
 
 ‘‘Tt is here, and a goodly stone it is; a 
 turquoise of price.” 
 
 ‘* Whence came it—and why is it sent to 
 thee ?” . 
 
 ‘Tt came, signor, as I gather more through 
 hints and intimations of the messenger than 
 by his words, from a place resembling that 
 which the righteous Daniel escaped, in virtue 
 of his godliness and birth.” 
 
 ‘Thou meanest the Lion’s Mouth ?” 
 
 “So say our ancient books, signor, in ref- 
 erence to the prophet, and so would the 
 council’s agent seem to intimate, in reference 
 to the ring.” 
 
448 
 
 “Here is naught but a crest with the | 
 
 equestrian helmet—-comes it of any in Venice?” 
 
 “The upright Solomon guide the judgment 
 of his servant in a matter of this delicacy! 
 The jewel is of rare beauty, such as few pos- 
 sess but those who have gold in store for other 
 purposes. Do but regard the soft lustre in 
 this light, noble signor, and remark the 
 pleasing colors that rise by the change of 
 view !” 
 
 ‘«¢ Ay—’tis well—but who claimeth the bear- 
 ings?” 
 
 ‘Tt is wonderful to contemplate how great 
 a value may lie concealed in so small a com- 
 pass! I have known sequins of full weight 
 and heavy amount given for bawbles less pre- 
 cious.” 
 
 ‘¢ Wilt thou never forget thy stall and the 
 wayfarers of the Rialto? I bid thee name 
 him who beareth these symbols as marks of 
 his family and rank.” 
 
 “ Noblesignor, lobey. The crest is of the 
 family of Monforte, the last senator of which 
 died some fifteen years since.” 
 
 <¢ And his jewels?” 
 
 ‘¢They have passed, with other movables 
 of which the state taketh no account, into the 
 keeping of his kinsman and successor—if it 
 be the senate’s pleasure that there shall be a 
 successor to that ancient name—Don Camillo 
 of Sant’ Agata. The wealthy Neapolitan who 
 now urges his rights here im Venice, is the 
 present owner of this precious stone.” 
 
 “ Give me the ring; this must be looked to 
 —hast thou more to say?” 
 
 “Nothing, signor—unless to petition, if 
 there is to be any condemnation and sale of 
 the jewel, that it may first be offered to an 
 ancient servitor of the republic, who hath 
 much reason to regret that his age hath been 
 less prosperous than his youth.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou shalt not be forgotten. I hear it 
 said, Hosea, that divers of our young nobles 
 frequent thy Hebrew shops with intent to 
 borrow gold, which, lavished in present pro- 
 digality, is to be bitterly repaid ata later day 
 by self-denial, and such embarrassments as 
 suit not the heirs of noblenames. Take heed 
 of this matter—for if the displeasure of the 
 council should alight on any of thy race, there 
 would be long and serious accounts to settle! 
 Hast thou had employment of late with other 
 signets, besides this of the Neapolitan ?” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘Unless in the vulgar way of our daily oc- 
 cupation, none of note, illustrious signor.” 
 
 ‘‘ Regard this,” continued the Signor Gra- 
 denigo, first searching in a secret drawer, 
 whence he drew a small bit of paper, to which 
 a morsel of wax adhered; “canst thou ferm 
 any conjecture, by the impression, concerning 
 him who used that seal ? ” 
 
 The jeweler took the paper and held it 
 toward the light, while his glittering eyes in- 
 tently examined the conceit. 
 
 ‘This would surpass the wisdom of the son 
 of David!” he said, after a long and seem- 
 ingly a fruitless examination ; ‘‘ here is naught 
 but some fanciful device of gallantry, such as 
 the light-hearted cavaliers of the city are fond 
 of using, when they tempt the weaker sex with 
 fair words and seductive vanities.” 
 
 «Tt is a heart pierced with the dart of love, 
 and a motto of ‘pensa al cuore trafitto a’ 
 amore,’ ” 
 
 “ Naught else, as my eyesdo their duty. I 
 should think there was but very little meant 
 by those words, signor!” 
 
 ‘“That as may be. Thou hast never sold 
 a jewel with that conceit! ” 
 
 ‘Just Samuel! We dispose of them daily, 
 to Christians of both sexes and all ages. I 
 know no device of greater frequency, whereby 
 I conceive there is much commerce in this 
 light fidelity.” 
 
 “ He who used it did well in concealing his — 
 thoughts beneath so general a dress! There 
 will be areward of a hundred sequins to him 
 who traces the owner.” 
 
 Hosea was about to return the seal as be- 
 yond his knowledge, when this remark fell 
 casually from the lips of the Signor Gradenigo. 
 In a moment his eyes were fortified with a 
 glass of microscopic power, and the paper was 
 again before the lamp. 
 
 *‘ T disposed of a cornelian of no great price, 
 which bore this conceit, to the wife of the 
 emperor’s ambassador, but conceiving there 
 was no more in the purchase than some way- 
 wardness of fancy, I took no precaution to 
 note the stone. A gentleman in the family 
 of the Legate of Ravenna, also, trafficked with 
 me for an amethyst of the same design, but 
 with him, neither, did I hold it important to 
 be particular. Ha! here is my private mark 
 that in truth seemeth to be of my own 
 hand! ” 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 *‘Dost thou find a clue? What is the 
 sign of which thou speakest ? ” 
 
 “ Naught, noble senator, but a slur in a 
 letter, which would not be apt to catch the 
 eye of an over-credulous maiden.” 
 
 * And thou parted with the seal to——?” 
 
 Hosea hesitated, for he foresaw some dan- 
 ger of losing his reward, by a too hasty 
 communication of the truth. 
 
 “ Tf it be important that the fact be known, 
 Signor,” he said, “<I will consult my books. 
 In a matter of this gravity, the senate should 
 not be misled.” 
 
 “Thou sayest well. The affair is grave, 
 and the reward a sufficient pledge that we so 
 esteem it.” 
 
 ‘‘Something was said, illustrious Signor, 
 of a hundred sequins; but my mind taketh 
 little heed of such particulars, when the 
 good of Venice is in question.” 
 
 ‘* A hundred is the sum I promised.” 
 
 “T parted with a signet-ring, bearing some 
 such design, to a female in the service of the 
 nuncio’s first gentleman. But this seal can- 
 not come of that, since a woman of her sta- 
 tion if 
 
 « Art sure?” eagerly interrupted the Sig- 
 nor Gradenigo. 
 
 Hosea looked earnestly at his companion ; 
 and reading in his eye and countenence that 
 that the clew was agreeable, he answered 
 promptly,— 
 
 ** As that I live under the law of Moses ! 
 The bawble had been long on hand without 
 an offer, and I abandoned it to the uses of 
 my money.” 
 
 “The sequins are thine, excellent Jew! 
 ‘this clears the mystery of every doubt. Go; 
 thou shalt have thy reward; and if thou hast 
 any particulars in thy secret register, let me 
 be quickly possessed of them. Go to, good 
 Hosea, and be punctual as of wont. I tire 
 of these constant exercises of the spirit!” 
 
 The Hebrew, exulting in his success, now 
 took his leave, with a manner in which habit- 
 ual cupidity and subdued policy completely 
 mastered every other feeling. He disap- 
 peared by the passage through which he had 
 entered. 
 
 _ It seemed, by the manner of the Signor 
 Gradenigo, that the receptions for that even- 
 Ing had now ended. He carefully examined 
 the locks of several secret drawers in his 
 
 a. 
 
 449 
 
 cabinet, extinguished the lights, closed and 
 secured the doors, and quitted the place. 
 For some time longer, however, he paced one 
 of the principal rooms of the outer suit, 
 until the usual hour having arrived, he 
 sought his rest, and the palace was closed for 
 the night. 
 
 The reader will have gained some insight ' 
 into the character of the individual who was 
 the chief actor in the foregoing scenes. The 
 Signor Gradenigo was born with all the sym- 
 pathies and natural kindliness of other men; 
 but accident, and an education which had 
 received a strong bias from the institutions 
 of the self-styled republic, had made him the 
 creature of a conventional policy. To him 
 Venice seemed a free state, because he par- 
 took so largely of the benefits of her social 
 system; and, though shrewd and practised in 
 most of the affairs of the world, his faculties 
 on the subject of the political ethics of his 
 country were possessed of a rare and accom- 
 modating dulness. A senator, he stood in 
 relation to the state as a director of a moneyed 
 institution is proverbially placed in respect 
 to his corporation; an agent of his collective 
 measures, removed from the responsibilities 
 of the man. He could reason warmly, if not 
 acutely, concerning the principles of govern- 
 ment, and it would be difficult, even in this 
 money-getting age, to find a more zealous 
 convert to the opinion that property was not 
 a subordinate, but the absorbing interest of 
 civilized life. He would talk ably of charac- 
 ter, and honor, and virtue, and religion, and 
 the rights of persons; but when called upon 
 to act in their behalf, there was in his mind 
 a tendency to blend them ail with worldly 
 policy, that proved as unerring as the gravita- 
 tion of matter to the earth’s centre. Asa 
 Venetian, he was equally opposed to the 
 domination of one, or of the whole; being, as 
 respects the first, a furious republican, and 
 in reference to the last, leaning to that sin- 
 gular sophism which calls the dominion of 
 the majority the rule of many tyrants! In 
 short, he was an aristocrat; and no man had 
 more industriously or more successfully per- 
 suaded himself into the belief of all the 
 dogmas that were favorable to his caste. He 
 was a a powerful advocate of vested rights, 
 for their possession was advantageous to 
 himself; he was sensitively alive to innova- 
 OO 
 
450 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tions on usagses and to vicissitudes in the their familiar and vulgar aspects, he would 
 
 histories of families, for calculation had 
 substituted taste for principles; nor was 
 he backward, on occasion, in defending his 
 opinions, by analogies drawn from the 
 decrees of Providence. With a philoso- 
 phy that seemed to satisfy himself, he 
 contended that, as God had established 
 orders throughout his own creation, in a de- 
 scending chain from angels to men, it was 
 safe to follow an example which emanated 
 from a wisdom that was infinite. Nothing 
 could be more sound than the basis of his 
 theory, though its application had the capital 
 error of believing there was any imitation of 
 ynature in an endeavor to supplant it. 
 
 el 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The moon went down; and nothing now was seen 
 Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone 
 Faintly.— ROGERS. 
 
 Just as the secret audiences of the Palazzo 
 Gradenigo were ended, the great square of 
 St. Mark began to lose a portion of its 
 gayety. The cafés were now occupied by 
 parties who had the means, and were in the 
 humor, to put their indulgencies to more 
 substantial proof than the passing gibe or 
 idle langh; while those who were reluctantly 
 compelled to turn their thoughts from the 
 levities of the moment to the cares of the 
 morrow, were departing in crowds to hnmble 
 roofs and hard pillows. ‘There remained one 
 of the latter class, however, who continued 
 to occupy a spot near the junction of the two 
 squares, as motionless as if his naked feet 
 grew to the stone on ala he stood. It was 
 Antonio, 
 
 - The position of the fisherman brought the 
 whole of his muscular form and bronzed 
 features beneath the rays of the moon. The 
 dark, anxious, and stern eyes were fixed up- 
 on the mild orb, as if their owner sought to 
 penetrate into another world, in quest of that 
 peace which he had never known in this. 
 There was suffering in the expression of the 
 weather-worn face; but it was the suffering 
 of one whose native sensibilities had been a 
 little deadened by too much familiarity with 
 the lot of the feeble. To one, who con- 
 sidered life and humanity in any other than 
 
 have presented a touching picture of a noble 
 nature, enduring with pride, blunted by 
 
 habit; while to him, who regards the acci-| 
 
 dental dispositions of society as paramount. 
 laws, he might have presented the image of | 
 
 dogged furbuledos and discontent, health- 
 fully repressed by the. hand of power. A} 
 heavy sigh struggled from the chest of the 
 old man, and, stroking down the few hairs 
 which time had left him, he lifted his cap 
 from the pavement, and prepared to move. 
 
 «Thou art late from thy bed, Antonio,” 
 said a voice at his elbow. ‘‘ The triglie must 
 be of good price, or of great plenty, that one 
 of thy trade can spare time to air himself 
 in the Piazza at this hour. ‘Thou hearest, 
 the clock is telling the fifth hour of the 
 night.” 
 
 The fisherman bent his head aside, and 
 regarded the figure of his masked companion, 
 for a moment, with indifference, betraying 
 neither curiosity nor feeling at his address. 
 
 ‘¢Since thou knowest me,” he answered, 
 “it is probable thou knowest that in quitting 
 this place, I shall go to an empty dwelling. 
 Since thou knowest me so well, thou should’st 
 also know my wrongs.” 
 
 ‘*Who hath injured thee, worthy fisher- 
 man, that thou speaketh so boldly beneath 
 the very windows of the Doge?” 
 
 «‘The state.” 
 
 “This is hardly language for the ear of St. 
 Mark! Were it too loudly spoken, yonder 
 
 lion might growl.—Of what dost thou accuse 
 
 the republic ? 
 
 ‘Lead me to them that sent thee, and I 
 will spare the trouble of a go-between. Iam 
 ready to tell my wrongs to the Doge on his 
 throne; for what can one, poor and old as I, 
 dread from their anger ?” 
 
 «Thou believest me sent to betray thee?” 
 
 «Thou knowest thine own errand.” 
 
 The other removed his mask, and turned 
 his face towards the moon. 
 
 «“ Jacopo! ” exclaimed the fisherman, gaz 
 ing at the expressive Italian features; ‘‘ one 
 of thy character can have no errand with 
 me.” 
 
 A flush, that was visible even in that light, 
 passed athwart the countenance of the Bravo; 
 but he stilled every other exhibition of feel- 
 
 j 
 
 ing. / 
 
 : 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 “Thou art wrong. My errand is with 
 thee.” 
 
 ** Does the senate think a fisherman of the 
 Lagunes of sufficient importance to be struck 
 by a stiletto? Do thy work, then!” he 
 added, glancing at his brown and_ naked 
 bosom; ‘‘ there is nothing to prevent thee! ” 
 
 ‘Antonio, thou dost me wrong. The 
 senate has no such purpose. But I have 
 heard that thou hast reason for discontent, 
 and that thou speakest openly, on the Lido 
 and among the islands, of affairs that the 
 patricians like not to be stirred among men 
 of your class. I come, as a friend, to warn 
 thee of the consequences of such indiscretion, 
 
 rather than as one to harm thee.” 
 ‘Thou art sent to say this?” 
 
 “Old man, age should teach thy tongue 
 moderation. What will avail vain complaints 
 against the republic, or what canst thou hope 
 for, as their fruits, but evil to thyself, and 
 evil to the child that thou lovest ?” 
 
 “J know not—but when the heart is sore, 
 the tongue will speak. They have taken 
 away my boy,and they have left little behind 
 that I value. The life they threaten is too 
 short to be cared for.” 
 
 “*Thou should’st temper thy regrets with 
 wisdom. ‘The Signor Gradenigo has long 
 been friendly to thee, and I have heard that 
 thy mother nursed him. Try his ears with 
 prayers, but cease to anger the republic with 
 complaints.” 
 
 Autonio looked wistfully at his companion, 
 but when he had ceased, he shook his head 
 mournfully, as if to express the hopelessness 
 of relief from that quarter. 
 
 “I have told him all that a man, born and 
 
 nursed on the Lagunes, can find words to 
 say. He is asenator, Jacopo; and he thinks 
 not of suffering he does not feel.” 
 “Art thou not wrong, old man, to accuse 
 him who hath been born in affluence, of hard- 
 ness of heart, merely that he doth not feel 
 the misery thou would’st avoid, too, were it 
 in thy power? Thou hast thy gondola and 
 nets, with health and the cunning of thy art, 
 and in that art thou happier than he who 
 hath neither—would’st thou forget thy skill, 
 and share thy little stock with the beggar of 
 San Marco, that your fortunes might be 
 equal ?” 
 
 “'There may be truth in what thou sayest 
 
 451 
 
 of our labor and our means, but when it 
 comes to our young, nature is the same in 
 both. I see no reason why the son of the pa- 
 trician should go free, and the child of the 
 fisherman be sold to blood. Have not the 
 senators enough of happiness, in their riches 
 and greatness, that they rob me of my son?” 
 
 “Thou knowest, Antonio, the state must 
 be served, and were its officers to go into the 
 palaces in quest of hardy mariners for the 
 fleet, would they, think you, find them that 
 would honor the winged lion, in the hour of 
 his need? Thy old arm is muscular, and 
 thy leg steady on the water, and they seek 
 those who, like thee, have been trained to the 
 seas.” 
 
 “Thou should’st have said, also, and thy 
 old breast is scarred. Before thy birth, 
 Jacopo, I went against the Infidel, and my 
 blood was shed, like water, for the state. 
 But they have forgotten it, while there are 
 rich marbles raised in the churches, which 
 speak of what the nobles did, who came un- 
 harmed from the same wars.” 
 
 “T have heard my father say as much,” 
 returned the Bravo, gloomily, and. speaking 
 an altered voice. ‘‘He, too, bled in that 
 war ; but that is forgotten.” 
 
 The fisherman glanced a look around, and 
 perceiving that several groups were convers- 
 ing near, in the square, he signed to his com- 
 panion to follow him and walked toward the 
 quays. 
 
 ‘“Thy father,” he said, as they moved 
 slowly on together, “was my comrade and my 
 friend. I am old, Jacopo, and poor; my 
 days are passed in toil on the Lagunes, and 
 my nights in gaining strength to meet the 
 labor of the morrow; but it hath grieved me 
 to hear that the son of one I much loved, and 
 with whom I have so often shared good and 
 evil, fair and foul, hath taken to a life like, 
 that which men say is thine. The gold that 
 is the price of blood was never yet blessed to 
 him that gave, or him that received.” 
 
 The Brayo listened in silence, though his 
 companion, who at another moment, and 
 under other emotions, would have avoided 
 him as one shrinks from contagion, saw, on 
 looking mournfully np into his face, that the 
 muscles were slightly agitated, and that a 
 paleness crossed his cheeks, which the light 
 of the moon rendered ghastly. 
 
452 
 
 «Thou hast suffered poverty to tempt thee 
 into grievous sin, Jacopo; but it is never too 
 late to call on the saints for aid, and to lay 
 aside the stiletto. It is not profitable for a 
 man to be known in Venice as thy fellow, but 
 the friend of thy father will not abandon one 
 who shows a penitent spirit. Lay aside thy 
 stiletto, and come with me to the Lagunes. 
 Thou wilt find labor less burdensome than 
 guilt, and though thou never canst be to me 
 like the boy they have taken, for he was in- 
 nocent asthe lamb! thou wilt still be the son 
 of an ancient comrade, and a stricken spirit. 
 Come with me then to the Lagunes, for pov- 
 erty and misery like mine, cannot meet with 
 more contempt, even for being thy com- 
 panion.” 
 
 ‘‘What is it men say, that thou treatest 
 me thus?” demanded Jacopo, in a low, 
 struggling voice. 
 
 «‘T would they said untruth! But few die 
 by violence, in Venice, that thy name is not 
 uttered.” 
 
 « And would they suffer one thus marked, 
 to go openly on the canals, or to be at large 
 in the great square of San Marco?” 
 
 « We never know the reasons of the senate. 
 Some say thy time is not yet come, while 
 others think thou art too powerful for judg- 
 ment.” 
 
 «Thou dost equal credit to the justice and 
 the activity of the inquisition. But should 
 I go with thee to-night, wilt thou be more 
 discreet in speech among thy fellows of the 
 Lido and the islands?” 
 
 ‘‘ When the heart hath its load, the tongue 
 will strive to lighten it! I would do any- 
 thing to turn the child of my friend from 
 his evil ways, but forget my own. ‘Thou art 
 used to deal with the patricians, Jacopo ; 
 would there be possibility for one, clad in 
 this dress, and with a face blackened by the 
 sun, to come to speak with the Doge ?” 
 ~ «There is no lack of seeming justice in 
 
 Venice, Antonio; the want is in the sub- 
 stance. I tigen not thou would’st be 
 heard.” 
 
 “‘Then will I mal pine upon the stones 
 of the square, until he comes forth for the 
 pomp of to-morrow, and try to move his 
 heart to justice. He is old, like myself, and 
 he hath bled too for the state, and what is 
 more he is a father.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “ So is the Signor Gradenigo.” 
 “Thou doubtest his pity—ha ?” 
 “Thou canst but try. The Doge of Venice 
 
 ‘will hearken to a petition from the meanest 
 citizen. 
 
 I think,” added Jacopo, speaking 
 so low as to be ey audible, ‘he would 
 
 listen even to me.’ 
 
 “Though I am not able to put my prayer 
 in such speech as becometh the ear of a great 
 prince, he shall hear the truth from a 
 wronged man. They call him the chosen of 
 the state, and such a one should gladly listen 
 to justice. This is a hard bed, Jacopo,” 
 continued the fisherman, seating himself at 
 
 the foot of the column of St. Theodore “ but 
 
 I have slept on colder and as hard, when 
 there was less reason to do it—a happy 
 night.” 
 
 The Bravo lingered a minute near the old 
 man, who folded his arms on his naked 
 breast, which was fanned by the sea-breeze, 
 and disposed of his person to take his rest in — 
 the square, a practice not unusual among men 
 of his class; but when he found that Anto- 
 nio was inclined to be alone, he moved on, 
 leaving the fisherman to himself. 
 
 The night was now getting to be advanced, 
 and few of the revellers remained in the areas 
 of the two squares. Jacopo cast a glance 
 around, and noting the hour and the situation 
 of the place, he proceeded to the edge of the 
 quay. The public gondoliers had left their 
 boats moored, as usual, at this spot, and a 
 profound stillness reigned over the the whole 
 bay. The water was scarce darkened by the 
 air, which rather breathed upon than ruffled 
 its surface, and no sound of oar was audible 
 amid the forest of picturesque and classical 
 spars, which crowded the view between the 
 Piazzetta and the Giudecca. The Bravo hesi-— 
 tated, cast another wary glance around him, 
 settled his mask, undid the slight fastenings — 
 of a boat, and presently he was gliding away 
 into the centre of the basin. ° ; 
 ‘‘Who cometh?” demanded one, who 
 seemingly stood at watch, in a felucca, an- 
 chored a little apart from all others. 
 
 «One expected,” was the answer. 
 
 ‘* Roderigo ?” 
 
 «<The same.” | 
 «Thou art late,” said the mariner of Cala~ 
 bria, as Jacopo stepped upon the low deck of 
 the Bella Sorrentina. “ My people have longs 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 been below, and I have dreamt thrice of 
 shipwreck, and twice of a heavy sirocco, since 
 thou hast been expected.” 
 
 ‘Thou hast had more time to wrong the 
 customs. Is the felucca ready for her 
 work ?” 
 
 « As for the customs, there is little chance 
 of gain in this greedy city. The senators 
 secure all profits to themselves and their 
 friends, while we of the barks are tied down 
 to low freights and hard bargains. I have 
 sent a dozen casks of lachryme Christi up 
 the canal since the maskers came abroad, and 
 beyond that I have not occasion. There is 
 enough left for thy comfort, at need. Wilt 
 drink ?” 
 
 ‘‘T am sworn to sobriety. Is thy vessel 
 ready, as wont, for the errand !” 
 
 “Ts the senate as ready with its money? 
 This is the fourth of my voyages in their ser- 
 vice ; and they have only to look into their 
 own secrets to know the manner in which 
 the work hath been done.” 
 
 «They are content, and thou hast been 
 well rewarded.” 
 
 ‘Say it not. I have gained more gold by 
 one lucky shipment of fruits from the isles, 
 than by all their night-work. Would those 
 who employ me give a little especial traffic 
 on the entrance of the felucca, there might 
 be advantage in the trade.” 
 
 “There is nothing which St. Mark visits 
 with a heavier punishment than frauds on 
 his receipts. Have a care with thy wines, or 
 thou wilt lose not only thy bark and thy voy- 
 age, but thy liberty!” 
 
 *«This is just the ground of my complaint, 
 Signor Roderigo. Rogue and no rogue, is the 
 republic’s motto. Here, they are as close in 
 
 justice as a father amid his children; and. 
 
 there, it is better that what is done should 
 be done at midnight. I like not the con- 
 tradiction, for just as my hopes are a little 
 raised, by what I have witnessed, perhaps a 
 little too near, they are all blown to the 
 winds, by such a frown as San Gennaro him- 
 self might cast upon a sinner.” 
 
 “Remember thou art not in thy wide 
 Mediterranean, but on a canal of Venice. 
 This language might be unsafe, were it heard 
 by less friendly ears.” 
 
 “JT thank thee for thy care, though the 
 sight of yonder old palace is as good a hint 
 
 453 
 
 to the loose tongue, as the sight of a gibbet, 
 on the sea-shore, to a pirate. I met an ancient 
 fellow in. the Piazzetta, about the time the 
 maskers came in, and we had some words on 
 this matter. By his tally, every second man 
 in Venice is well paid for reporting what the 
 others say and do. *Tis a pity, with all their 
 seeming love of justice, good Roderigo, that 
 the senate should let divers knaves go at 
 large ; men whose very faces cause the stones 
 to redden with anger and shame!” 
 
 “T did not know that any such were openly 
 seen in Venice; what is secretly done may 
 be favored for a time, through difficulty of 
 proof, but a 
 
 ‘‘Cospetto! They tell me the councils 
 have a short manner of making a sinner give 
 up his misdeeds. Now, here is the mis- 
 creant Jacopo. What aileth thee, man? The 
 anchor, on which thou leanest, is not heated.” 
 
 “Nor is it of feathers ; one’s bones may 
 ache from its touch without offence, I hope.” 
 
 **The iron is of Elba—and was forged in 
 a volcano. ‘This Jacopo is one that should 
 not go at large in an honest city, and yet he is 
 seen pacing the square with as much ease as 
 a noble in the Broglio !” 
 
 *T know him not.” 
 
 “Not to know the boldest hand and surest 
 stiletto in Venice, honest Roderigo, is to thy 
 praise. But he is well marked among us of 
 the port, and we never see the man but we 
 begin to think of our sins, and of penances 
 forgotten. JI marvel much that the inquisi- 
 tors do not give him to the devil, on some 
 public ceremony, for the benefit of small 
 offenders! ” 
 
 “Are his deeds so notorious, that they 
 might pronounce on his fate without proof ?” 
 
 “Go, ask that question in the streets! 
 Not a Christian loses his ife in Venice with- 
 out warning, and the number is not few, to 
 say nothing of those who die with state fevers, 
 but men see the work of his sure hand in the 
 blow. Signor Roderigo, your canals are con- 
 venient graves for sudden deaths !” 
 
 ‘¢ Methinks there is contradiction in this. 
 Thou speakest of proofs of the hand that gave 
 it, in the manner of the blow, and then thou 
 callest in the aid of the canals to cover the 
 whole deed. ‘Truly, there is some wrong done 
 this Jacopo, who is, haply, a man slandered.” 
 
 “T have heard of slandering a priest, for 
 
454 
 
 they are Christians, bound to keep good names 
 for the Church’s honor, but to utter an injury 
 against a bravo, would a little exceed the 
 tongue of an avvocato. What mattereth it 
 whether the hand be a shade deeper in color 
 or not, when blood is on it ?” 
 
 ‘“Thou sayest truly,’ answered the pre- 
 tended Roderigo, drawing a heavy breath. 
 “Tt mattereth little, indeed, to him con- 
 demned, whether the sentence cometh of one 
 or of many crimes.” 
 
 “Dost know, friend Roderigo, that this 
 very argument hath made me less scrupulous 
 concerning the freight I am called on to 
 carry in this secret trade of ours. ‘Thou art 
 fairly in the senate’s business, worthy Stefano, 
 I say to myself, and therefore the less reason 
 that thou should’st be particular in the qual- 
 ity of the merchandise. That Jacopo hath an 
 eye and a scowl that would betray him, were 
 he chosen to the chair of St. Peter! But 
 doff thy mask, Signor Roderigo, that the sea- 
 air may cool thy cheek ; ’tis time there should 
 no longer be this suspicion between old and 
 tried friends.” 
 
 ‘‘My duty to those that send me forbid 
 the liberty, else would I gladly stand face to 
 face with thee, Master Stefano.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, notwithstanding thy caution, cun- 
 ning Signor, I would hazard ten of the se- 
 quins thou art to pay to me, that I will go, 
 on the morrow, into the crowd of San Marco, 
 and challenge thee openly, by name, among 
 a thousand. Thou mayest as well unmask, 
 for I tell thee thou art as well known to me 
 as the latine yards of my felucca.” 
 
 “The less need to uncover. ‘There are cer- 
 tain signs, no doubt, by which men who meet 
 so often should be known to each other.” 
 
 *« Thou hast a goodly countenance, Signor, 
 and the less need to hide it. I have noted 
 thee among the revellers, when thou hast 
 thought thyself unseen, and I will say of thee 
 this much, without wish to gain aught in 
 our bargain, one of appearance fair as thine, 
 Signor Roderigo, had better be seen openly 
 than go thus for ever behind a cloud.” 
 
 «‘ My answer hath been made. What the 
 state wills cannot be overlooked; but since I 
 see thou knowest me, take heed not to betray 
 thy knowledge.” 
 
 ‘*Thou would’st not be more safe with thy 
 confessor. Diamine! I am not a man to gad 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 about among the water-sellers, with a secret 
 at the top of my voice; but thou didst leer 
 aside when I winked at thee dancing among 
 the maskers on the quay. Is it not so, 
 Roderigo? ” 
 
 ‘*'There is more cleverness in thee, Master 
 Stefano, than I had thought—though thy 
 readiness with the felucca is no secret.” 
 
 “There are two things, Signor Roderigo, 
 on which I value myself, but always, I hope, 
 with Christian moderation. As a mariner of 
 the coast, in mistral or sirocco, levanter or 
 zephyr, few can claim more practice; and for 
 knowing an acquaintance in a carnival, I be- 
 lieve the father of evil himself could not be so 
 disguised that eye of mine should not see his 
 foot! For anticipating a gale, or looking 
 behind a mask, Signor Roderigo, I know not 
 my own equal among men of small learning.” 
 
 ‘« These faculties are great gifts in one who 
 liveth by the sea and a critical trade.” 
 
 ‘* Here came one Gino, a gondolier of Don 
 Camillo Monforte, and an ancient fellow of 
 mine, aboard the felucca attended by a woman 
 in mask. He threw off the girl dexterously 
 enough, and, as he thought, among strangers; 
 but I knew her at a glance for the daugh- 
 ter of a wine-seller, who had already tasted 
 lachrymee Christi of mine. The woman was 
 angered at the trick; but making the best of 
 
 luck, we drove a bargain for the few casks 
 
 which lay beneath the ballast, while Gino did 
 his master’s business in San Marco.” 
 
 “ And what that business was thou didst 
 not learn, good Stefano? ” 
 
 ‘*How should I, Master Roderigo, when 
 the gondolier scarce left time for greeting ; 
 but Annina a 
 
 « Annina! ” 
 
 ““The same. Thou knowest Annina, old 
 Tommaso’s daughter; for she danced in the 
 very set in which I detected thy countenance! 
 I would not speak thus of the girl, but that 
 I know thou art not backward to receive 
 liqgours that do not visit the custom-house 
 thyself.” 
 
 ‘For that, fear nothing. I have sworn to 
 thee that no secret of this nature shall pass 
 my lips. But this Annina is a girl of quick 
 wit and much boldness.” 
 
 ‘* Between ourselves, Signor Roderigo, it is 
 not easy to tell who is in the senate’s pay 
 here in Venice, or who is not. 
 
 I have some- _ 
 
 Aare, 
 
 ae say a ae - 
 I LO LL EE 
 
be its merit? 
 
 THE BRAVO. £55 
 
 times fancied, by thy manner of starting, and 
 the tones of thy voice, that thou wert thy- 
 self no less than the lieutenant-general of 
 the galleys, a little disguised.” 
 
 <¢ And this with thy knowledge of men!” 
 
 << Tf faith were always equal, where would 
 Thou hast never been hotly 
 chased by an infidel, Master Roderigo, or thou 
 would’st know how the mind of man can 
 change from hope to fear, from the big voice 
 to the humble prayer! I remember once, in 
 the confusion and hurry of baffling winds and 
 whistling shot, having always turbans before 
 the eye, and the bastinado in mind, to have 
 beseeched St. Stefano in some such voice as 
 one would use to a dog, and to have bullied 
 the men with the whine of a young kitten. 
 Corpo di Bacco! One hath need of expe- 
 rience in these affairs, Signor Roderigo, to 
 know even his own merits.” 
 
 “‘T believe thee. But who is this Gino, of 
 
 whom thou hast spoken, and what has his | 
 
 occupation, as a gondolier, to do with one 
 known in thy youth in Calabria?” 
 
 “Therein lie matters exceeding my knowl- 
 edge. His master, and I may say, my master, 
 for I was born on his estates, is the young 
 Duca di Sant’ Agata—the same that pushes 
 his fortunes with the senate, in a claim to 
 the riches and honors of the last Monforte 
 that sat in thy councils. The debate hath 
 so long endured that the lad hath made 
 
 himself a gondolier, by sheer shoving an oar 
 
 between his master’s palace and those of the 
 nobles he moves with interest—at least, such 
 is Gino’s own history of his education.” 
 
 “J know the man. He wears the colors 
 of him he serves. Is he of quick wit?” 
 
 “Signor Roderigo, all who come of Calabria 
 cannot boast that advantage. We are no 
 more than our neighbors—and there are ex- 
 ceptions in all communities, as in all families. 
 Gino is ready enough with his oar, and as 
 good a youth, in his way, as need be. But 
 as to looking into things beyond their surface, 
 why, we should not expect the delicacy of a 
 becca fica in a goose. Nature makes men, 
 though kings make nobles.—Gino is a gon- 
 dolier.” 
 
 ** And of good skill?” 
 
 “T say nothing of his erm, or his leg, both 
 of which are well enough in their places; but 
 when it comes to knowing men and things— 
 
 poor Gino is but a gondolier! The lad hath 
 a most excellent heart, and is never backward 
 to serve a friend. I love him, but thou 
 would’st not have me say more than the 
 truth will warrant.” 
 
 ‘* Well, keep thy felucca in readiness, for 
 we know not the moment it may be needed.” 
 
 ‘Thou hast only to bring thy freight, 
 Signor, to have the bargain fulfilled.” 
 
 “Adieu: I would recommend to thee to 
 keep apart from all other trades, and to see 
 that the revelries of to-morrow do not de- 
 bauch thy people.” 
 
 ‘“God speed thee, Signor Roderigo.— 
 Naught shall be wanting.” 
 
 The Bravo stepped into his gondola, which 
 glided from the felucca’s side with a facility 
 which showed, that an arm, skilled in its 
 use, held the oar. He waved his hand, in 
 adieu to Stefano, and then the boat disap- 
 peared among the hulls that crowded the port. 
 
 For a few minutes the padrone of the Bella 
 Sorrentina continued to pace her decks, 
 snuffing the fresh breeze that came in over 
 the Lido, and then he sought his rest. By 
 this time, the dark, silent gondolas, which 
 had been floating, by hundreds, through the 
 basin, were all gone. The sound of music 
 was heard no longer on the canals, and 
 Venice, at all times noiseless and peculiar, 
 seemed to sleep the sleep of the dead. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The fisher came 
 From his green islet, bringing o’er the waves 
 His wife and little one; the husbandman 
 Froin the firm land, with many a friar and nun 
 And village maiden, her first flight from home, 
 Crowding the common ferry.—RoGERs. 
 
 A BRIGHTER day than that which suc- 
 ceeded the night last mentioned never dawned 
 upon the massive domes, the gorgeous palaces 
 and the glittering canals of Venice. The 
 sun had not been long above the level of the 
 Lido, before the strains of horns and trum- 
 pets arose from the square of St. Mark. 
 They were answered, in full echoes, from the 
 distant arsenal. A thousand gondolas glided 
 from the canals, stealing in every direction 
 across the port, the Giudecca, and the various 
 outer channels of the place, while the well- 
 
456 
 
 known routes, from Fusina and the neigh- 
 boring isles, were dotted with endless lines of 
 boats, urging their way toward the capital. 
 ™ The citizens began to assemble early, in 
 
 their holiday attire, while thousands of con- 
 tadini landed at the different bridges, clad in 
 the gay costumes of the main. Before the 
 day had far advanced, all the avenues of the 
 great square were again thronged, and by the 
 time the bells of the venerable cathedral had 
 finished a peal of high rejoicing, St. Mark’s 
 again teemed with its gay multitude. Few 
 appeared in masks, but pleasure seemed to 
 lighten every eye, while the frank and un- 
 concealed countenance willingly courted the 
 observation and sympathy of its neighbors. 
 In short, Venice and her people were seen 
 in all the gayety and carelessness of a favorite 
 Itahan festa. The banners of the conquered 
 nations flapped heavily on the triumphal 
 masts, each church-tower hung out its image 
 of the winged lion, and every palace was rich 
 in its hangings of tapestry and silk floating 
 from balcony and window. 
 
 In the midst of this exhilarating and 
 bright spectacle was heard the din of a 
 hundred thousand voices. Above the con- 
 stant hum, there arose, from time to time, 
 the blasts of trumpets and the symphonies 
 of rich music. Here, the improvisatore, se- 
 cretly employed by a politic and mysterious 
 government, recounted, with a rapid utter- 
 ance, and in language suited to the popular 
 ear, at the foot of the spars which upheld 
 the conquered banners of Candia, Crete, and 
 the Morea, the ancient triumphs of the 
 republic; while, there, a ballad-singer chant- 
 ed, to the greedy crowd, the glory and justice 
 of San Marco. Shouts of approbation suc- 
 ceeded each happy allusion to the national 
 renown, and bravos, loud and oft repeated, 
 were the reward of the agents of the police, 
 whenever they most administered to the self- 
 delusion and vanity of their audience. 
 
 In the meantime, gondolas rich in carvings 
 and gildings, and containing females re- 
 nowned for grace and beauty, began to cluster, 
 in hundreds, around the port. <A general 
 movement had already taken place among 
 the shipping, and a wide and clear channel 
 was opened from the quay, at the foot of the 
 Piazzetta, to the distant bank, which shut 
 out the waves of the Adriatic. Near this 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 watery path, boats of all sizes and descrip- 
 tions, filled with the ‘curious and observant, 
 were fast collecting. 
 
 The crowd thickened as the day drew in, 
 all the vast plains of the Padovano appearing 
 to have given up their people to swell the 
 numbers of those that rejoiced. A few timid 
 and irresolute maskers now began to appear 
 in the throng, stealing a momentary pleasure 
 under the favor of that privileged disguise,from 
 out of the seclusion and monotony of their 
 cloisters. Next came the rich marine equi- 
 pages of the accredited agents of foreign 
 states, and then, amid the sound of clarions 
 and the cries of the populace, the Bucentaur 
 rowed out of the channel of the arsenal, and 
 came sweeping to her station, at the quay of 
 St. Mark. 
 
 These preliminaries, which occupied some 
 hours, being observed, the javelin-men, and 
 others employed about the person of the 
 head of the republic, were seen opening an 
 avenue through the throng. After which, 
 the rich strains of a hundred instruments 
 proclaimed the approach of the Doge. 
 
 We shall not detain the narrative, to 
 describe the pomp in which a luxurious and 
 affluent aristocracy, that in general held 
 itself aloof from familiar intercourse with 
 those it ruled, displayed its magnificence to 
 the eyes of the multitude, on an occasion of 
 popular rejoicing. Long lines of senators, 
 
 dressed in their robes of office, and attended © 
 
 by crowds of liveried followers, came from 
 under the galleries of the palace, and de- 
 scended by the Giant’s Stairway into the 
 sombre court. Thence, the whole issued 
 into the Piazzetta, in order, and proceeded 
 to their several stations, on the canopied 
 deck of the well-known bark. Each patri- 
 cian had his allotted place, and before the 
 rear of the cortege had yet quitted the quay, 
 there was a long and imposing row of grave 
 legislators seated in the established order of 
 their precedency. The ambassadors, the 
 high dignitaries of the state, and the aged 
 man, who had been chosen to bear the empty 
 honors of sovereignty, still remained on the 
 land, waiting, with the quiet of trained 
 docility, the moment to embark. At this 
 moment, a man of an embrowned visage, legs 
 bare to the knee, and breast open to the 
 
 breeze, rushed through the guards, and . 
 
THH BRAVO. 
 
 knelt on the stones of the quay, at his 
 feet. 
 
 ** Justice !—great prince !” cried the bold 
 stranger ; “‘ justice and mercy! Listen to one, 
 who has bled for St. Mark, and who hath his 
 scars for his witnesses.” 
 
 “‘ Justice and mercy are not always com- 
 panions,” calmly observed he, who wore the 
 horned bonnet, motioning to his official 
 attendants to let the intruder stay. 
 
 “ Mighty prince, I come for the last.” 
 
 ‘© Who and what art thou ?” 
 
 *‘ A fisherman of the Lagunes. One named 
 Antonio, who seeketh the liberty of the prop 
 of his years—-a glorious boy, that force and 
 the policy of the state have torn from me.” 
 
 ‘This should not be! Violence is not the 
 attribute of justice—but the youth hath 
 offended the laws, and he suffereth for his 
 crimes ?” 
 
 ‘‘He is guilty, Excellent and most Serene 
 Highness, of youth, and health, and strength, 
 with some skill in the craft of the mariner. 
 They have taken him, without warning or 
 consent, for the service of the galleys, and 
 have left me in my age, alone.” 
 
 The expression of pity, which had taken 
 possession of the venerable features of the 
 prince, changed instantly to a look of un- 
 easiness and distrust. ‘The eye, which just 
 before had melted with compassion, became 
 cold and set in its meaning, and signing to 
 his guards, he bowed with dignity to the 
 attentive and curious auditors, among the 
 foreign agents, to proceed. 
 
 ‘*Bear him away,” said an officer, who 
 took his master’s meaning from the glance ; 
 *‘the ceremonies may not be retarded for a 
 prayer so idle.” 
 
 Antonio offered no resistance, but yielding 
 to the pressure of those around him, he sunk 
 back meekly among the crowd, disappoint- 
 ment and sorrow giving place, for an in- 
 stant, to an awe and an admiration of the 
 gorgeous spectacle, that were perhaps in 
 some degree inseparable from his condition 
 and habits. 
 interruption produced by this short scene 
 was forgotten in the higher interest of the 
 occasion. 
 
 When the ducal party had taken their 
 places, and an admiral of reputation was in 
 possession of the helm, the vast and gor- 
 
 In a few moments the slight 
 
 457 
 
 geous bark, with its gilded galleries thronged 
 with attendants, swept away from the quay, 
 with a grand and stately movement. Its de- 
 parture was the signal for a new burst of 
 trumpets and clarions, and for fresh accla- 
 mations from the people. The latter rushed 
 to the edge of the water, and by the time the 
 Bucentaur -had reached the middle of the 
 port, the stream was black with the gondolas 
 that followed in her train. In this manner 
 did the gay and shouting cortege sweep on, 
 some darting ahead of the principal bark, 
 and some clinging, like smaller fish swim- 
 ming around the leviathan, as near to her 
 sides, as the fall of the ponderous oars 
 would allow. As each effort of the crew sent 
 the galley farther from the land, the living 
 train seemed to extend itself, by some secret 
 principle of expansion ; nor was the chain 
 of its apparent connection entirely broken, 
 until the Bucentaur had passed the island, 
 long famous for its convent of religious Ar- 
 menians. Here the movement became slow- 
 er, in order to permit the thousand gondolas 
 to approach, and then the whole moved for- 
 ward, in nearly one solid phalanx, to the 
 landing of the Lido. 
 
 The marriage of the Adriatic, as the cer- 
 emony was quaintly termed, has been too 
 often described to need a repetition here. 
 Our business is rather with incidents of a 
 private and personal nature than with de- 
 scriptions of public events, and we shall pass 
 over all that has no’immediate connection 
 with the interest of the tale. 
 
 When the Bucentaur became stationary, 
 a space around her stern was cleared, and 
 the Doge appeared in a rich gallery, so con- 
 structed as to exhibit the action to all in 
 sight. He held a ring, glittering with pre- 
 cious stones, on high, and, pronouncing the 
 words of betrothal, he dropped it upon the 
 bosom of his fancied spouse. Shouts arose, 
 trumpets blew their blasts, and each lady 
 waved her handkerchief in felicitation of 
 the happy union. In the midst of the fra- 
 cas—which was greatly heightened by the 
 roar of cannon on board the cruisers in the 
 channel, and from the guns in the arsenal 
 —a boat glided into the open*space beneath 
 the gallery of the Bucentaur. The move- 
 ment of the arm which directed the light 
 gondola was dexterous and still strong, 
 
458 
 
 though the hairs of him who held the oar 
 were thin and white. A suppliant eye was 
 cast up at the happy faces that adorned the 
 state of the prince, and then the look was 
 changed intently to the water. A small 
 fisherman’s buoy fell from the boat, which 
 glided away so soon, that, amid the anima- 
 tion and uproar of that moment, the action 
 was scarce heeded by the excited throng. 
 The aquatic procession now returned to- 
 wards the city, the multitude rending the 
 air with shouts at the happy termination of 
 a ceremony to which time and the sanction 
 of the sovereign pontiff had given a species 
 of sanctity that was somewhat increased by 
 superstition. It is true that a few among 
 the Venetians themselves regarded these fa- 
 mous nuptials of the Adriatic with indiffer- 
 ence ; and that several of the ministers of 
 the northern and more maritime states, 
 who were witnesses on the occasion, had 
 scarcely concealed, as they cast glances of 
 intelligence and pride among themselves, 
 their smiles. Still, such was the influence of 
 habit, for so much does even arrogant as- 
 sumption, when long and perseveringly main- 
 tained, count among men, that neither the 
 increasing feebleness of the republic, nor 
 the known superiority of other powers on 
 the very element which this pageant was in- 
 tended to represent as the peculiar property 
 of St. Mark, could yet cover the lofty pre- 
 tension with the ridicule it merited. Time 
 has since taught the world that Venice con- 
 tinued this idle deception for ages after 
 both reason and modesty should have dic- 
 tated its discontinuance ; but, at the period 
 of which we write, that ambitious, crapu- 
 lous, and factitious state was rather. begin- 
 ning to feel the symptomatic evidence of its 
 fading circumstances, than to be fully con- 
 scious of the swift progress of a downward 
 course. In this manner do communities, like 
 individuals, draw near their dissolution, inat- 
 tentive to the symptoms of decay, until they 
 are overtaken with that fate which finally 
 overwhelms empires and their power in the 
 common lot of man. ; 
 The Bucentaur did not return directly to 
 the quay, to disburden itself of its grave 
 and dignified load. The gandy galley an- 
 chored in the centre of the port, and opposite 
 to the wide mouth of the great canal. Officers 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 had been busy, throughout the morning, in 
 causing all the shipping and heavy boats, of 
 which hundreds lay in that principal artery 
 of the city, to remove from the centre of the 
 passage, and heralds now summoned the 
 citizens to witness the regatta, with which 
 the public ceremonies of the day were to ter- 
 minate. 
 
 Venice, from her peculiar formation and 
 the vast number of her watermen, had long 
 been celebrated for this species of amusement. 
 Families were known and celebrated in her 
 traditions for dexterous skill with the oar, as 
 they were known in Rome for feats of a far 
 less useful and of a more barbarous nature. 
 It was usual to select from these races of 
 watermen the most vigorous and skilful; and 
 after invoking the aid of patron saints, and 
 arousing their pride and recollections by 
 songs that recounted the feats of thein an- 
 cestors, to start them for the goal, with every 
 incitement that pride and the love of victory. 
 could awaken. 
 
 Most of these ancient usages were still ob- 
 served. As soon as the Bucentaur was in its 
 station, some thirty or forty gondoliers were 
 brought forth, clad in their gayest habili- 
 ments, and surrounded and supported by 
 crowds of anxious friends and relatives. The 
 intended competitors were expected to sus- 
 tain the long-established reputations of their 
 several names, and they were admonished of 
 the disgrace of defeat. ‘They were cheered 
 by the men, and stimulated by the smiles and 
 tears of the other sex. The rewards were re- 
 called to their minds; they were fortified by 
 prayers to the saints; and then they were 
 dismissed, amid the cries and the wishes of 
 the multitude, to seek their allotted places 
 beneath the stern of the galley of state. 
 
 It has already been mentioned in these 
 pages, that the city of Venice is divided into 
 two nearly equal parts by a channel much 
 broader than that of the ordinary passages of 
 the town. This dividing artery, from its 
 superior size and depth, and its greater im- 
 portance, is called the grand canal. 
 course is not unlike that of an undulating 
 
 line which greatly increases its length. As — 
 it is much used by the larger boats of the bay — 
 
 being, in fact, a sort of secondary port; and 
 
 its width is so considerable, it has throughout — 
 the whole distance but one bridge, the cele- ; 
 
 lts q 
 
* 2 
 Vtg 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 brated Rialto. The regatta was to be held 
 on this canal, which offered the requisites 
 of length and space, and which, as it was 
 lined with most of the palaces of the prin- 
 cipal senators, afforded. all the facilities 
 necessary for viewing the struggle. 
 
 In passing from one end of this long 
 course to the other, the men destined for the 
 race was not permitted to make any exertion. 
 There eyes roamed over the gorgeous hang- 
 ings, which, as is still wont throughout Italy 
 on all days of festa, floated from every win- 
 dow, and on groups of females in rich attire, 
 brilliant with the peculiar charms of the 
 famed Venetian beauty, that clustered in the 
 balconies. ‘Those who were domestics rose 
 and answered to the encouraging signals 
 thrown from above, as they passed the 
 palaces of their masters; while those who 
 were watermen of the public, endeavored to 
 gather hope among the sympathizing faces 
 of the multitude. 
 
 At length every formality had been duly 
 observed, and the competitors assumed their 
 places. The gondolas were much larger than 
 those commonly used, and each was manned 
 by three watermen, in the centre, directed 
 by a fourth, who, standing on the little deck 
 in the stern, steered, while he aided to impel 
 the boat. There were light low staffs in the 
 bows, with flags, that bore the distinguishing 
 colors of several noble families of the repub- 
 lic, or which had such other simple devices as 
 had been suggested by the fancies of those to 
 whom they belonged. A few flourishes of 
 the oars, resembling the preparatory move- 
 ments which the master of fence makes ere 
 he begins to push and parry, were given; a 
 whirling of the boats, like the prancing of 
 curbed racers, succeeded; and then at the 
 report of of a gun, the whole darted away as 
 if the gondolas were impelled by violition. 
 The start was followed by a shout, which 
 passed swiftly along the canal, and an eager 
 agitation of heads that went from balcony 
 to balcony, till the sympathic movement was 
 communicated to the grave load under which 
 the Bucentaur labored. 
 
 For a few minutes the difference in force 
 and skill was not very obvious. Each gon- 
 dola glided along the element apparently 
 with that ease with which a light-winged 
 swallow skims the lake, and with no visible 
 
 459 
 
 advantage to any one of the ten. Then, as 
 more art in him who steered, or greater 
 powers of endurance in those who rowed, or 
 some of the latent properties of the boat 
 itself, came into service, the cluster of little 
 barks, which had come off like a closely- 
 united flock of birds taking flight together 
 in alarm, began to open, till they formed a 
 long and vacillating line, in the centre of the 
 passage. The whole train shot beneath the 
 bridge, so near each other as to render it still 
 doubtful which was to conquer, and the 
 exciting strife came more in view of the 
 principal personages of the city. 
 
 But here those radical qualities, which 
 insure success in efforts of this nature, man- 
 ifested themselves. The weaker began to 
 yield, the train to lengthen, and hopes and 
 fears to increase, until those in the front 
 presented the exhilarating spectacle of suc- 
 cess, while those behind offered the still more 
 noble sight of men struggling without hope. 
 Gradually the distances between the boats 
 increased, while that between them and the 
 goal grew rapidly less, until three of those in 
 advance came in, like glancing arrows, be- 
 neath the stern of the Bucentaur, with scarce 
 a length between them. The prize was won, 
 the conquerers were rewarded, and the artil- 
 lery gave forth the usual signals of rejoicing. 
 Music answered to the roar of cannon and 
 the peals of bells, while sympathy with suc- 
 cess, that predominant and so often danger- 
 ous principle of our nature, drew shouts even 
 from the disappointed. 
 
 The clamor ceased, and a herald proclaimed 
 aloud the commencement of a new and differ- 
 ent struggle. The last, and what might be 
 termed the national race, had been limited, 
 by an ancient usage, to the known and recog- 
 nized gondoliers of Venice. ‘The prize had 
 been awarded by the state, and the whole 
 affair had somewhat of an official and politi- 
 cal character. It was now announced, how- 
 ever, that a race was to be run, in which the 
 reward was open to all competitors, without 
 question as to their origin, or as to their 
 ordinary occupations. An oar’ of gold, to 
 which was attached a chain of the same 
 precious metal, was exhibited as the boon of 
 the Doge to him who showed most dexterity 
 and strength in this new struggle; while a 
 similar ornament of silver was to be the por- 
 
460 
 
 tion of him who showed the second-best dex- 
 terity and bottom. A mimic boat, of less 
 precious metal, was the third prize. The 
 -gondolas were to be the usual light vehicles 
 of the canals, and as the object was to display 
 the peculiar skill of that city of islands, but 
 one oarsman was allowed to each, on whom 
 would necessarily fall the whole duty of 
 guiding while he impelled his little bark. 
 Any of those who had been engaged in the 
 previous trial were admitted to this; and all 
 desirous of taking part in the new struggle 
 were commanded to come beneath the stern 
 of the Bucentaur, within a prescribed num- 
 ber of minutes, that note might be had of 
 their wishes. As notice of this arrangement 
 had been previously given, the interval be- 
 tween the two races was not long. 
 
 The first who came out of the crowd of 
 boats, which environed the vacant place that 
 had been left for the competitors, was a gon- 
 dolier of the public landing, well known for 
 his skill with the oar, and his song on the 
 canal. 
 
 “‘ How art thou called, and in whose name 
 dost thou put thy chance ?” demanded the 
 herald of this aquatic course. 
 
 “All know me for Bartolomeo, one who 
 lives between the Piazzetta and the Lido, 
 and, like a loyal Venetian, I trust in San 
 Teodoro,” 
 
 ‘*'Thou art well protected ; take thy place, 
 and await thy fortune.” 
 
 The conscious waterman swept the water 
 with a back stroke of his blade, and the light 
 gondola whirled away into the centre of the 
 vacant spot, like a swan giving a sudden 
 glance aside. 
 
 “And who art thou?” demanded the 
 official of the next that came. 
 
 *« Enrico, a gondolier of Fusina. I come 
 to try my oar with the braggarts of the 
 canals.” 
 
 ‘In whom is thy trust ?” 
 
 “* Sant’? Antonio di Padua.” 
 
 “<'Thou wilt need his aid, though we com- 
 mend thy spirit. Enter, and take place.”— 
 ‘And who-art thou ?” he continued, to 
 another, when the second had imitated the 
 easy skill of the first. 
 
 ‘“T am called Gino of Calabria, a gondolier 
 in private service.” 
 
 ‘‘ What noble retaineth thee ?” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “The illustrious and most excellent Don 
 Camillo Monforte, duca and lord of Sant’ 
 Agata in Napoli, and of right a senator in 
 Venice.” 
 
 ‘“*Thou should’st have come of Padua, 
 friend, by thy knowledge of the laws! Dost 
 thou trust in him thou servest for the vic- 
 tory ?” 
 
 There was a movement among the senators 
 at the answer of Gino; and the half-terrified 
 varlet thought he perceived frowns gathering 
 on more than one brow. He looked around 
 in quest of him whose greatness he had 
 vaunted, as if he sought succor. 
 
 «* Wilt thou name thy support in this great 
 trial of force ?” resumed the herald. 
 
 ‘‘My master,” uttered the terrified Gino, 
 ‘St. Januarius, and St. Mark.” 
 
 ‘*Thou art well defended. Should the 
 two latter fail thee, thou mayest surely count 
 on the first !” 
 
 ‘‘Signor Monforte has an illustrious name, 
 and he is welcome to our Venetian sports,” 
 observed the Doge, slightly bending his head 
 towards the young Calabrian noble, who 
 stood at no great distance, in a gondola of 
 state, regarding the scene with a deeply-in- 
 terested countenance. This cautious inter- 
 ruption of the pleasantries of the official was 
 acknowledged by a low reverence, and the 
 matter proceeded. 
 
 ‘Take thy station, Gino of Calabria, and 
 a happy fortune be thine,” said the latter ; 
 then turning to another, he asked in surprise 
 —‘‘ Why art thou here ?” | 
 
 ‘“T come to try my gondola’s swiftness.” 
 
 ‘«'Thou art old, and unequal to this strug- 
 gle; husband thy strength for daily toil. An 
 ill-advised ambition hath put thee on this 
 useless trial.” 
 
 The new aspirant had forced a common 
 fisherman’s gondola, of no bad shape, and of 
 sufficient. lightness, but which bore about it 
 all the vulgar signs of its daily uses, beneath 
 the gallery of the Bucentaur. He received 
 the reproof meekly, and was about to turn 
 his boat aside, though with a sorrowing and 
 mortified eye, when a sign from the Doge 
 arrested his arm. 
 
 ‘‘Question him, as of wont,” said the — 
 prince. 
 
 ‘‘How art thou named?” continued the 
 reluctant official, who, like all of subordinate — 
 
aes 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 condition, had far more jealousy of the dig- 
 nity of the sports he directed, than his 
 superior. 
 
 ‘*T. am known as Antonio, a fisherman of 
 the Lagunes.” 
 
 «Thou art old !” 
 
 «Signor, none know it better than I. It 
 is sixty summers since I first threw net, or 
 line, into the water.” 
 
 “Nor art thou clad as befitteth one who 
 cometh before the state of Venice, in a re- 
 gatta.”’ 
 
 «<T am here in the best that I have. Let 
 them who would do the nobles greater honor, 
 come in better.” 
 
 «Thy limbs are uncovered—thy bosom 
 bare—thy sinews feeble—go to ; thou art ill 
 advised to interrupt the pleasures of the no- 
 bles, by this levity.” 
 
 Again Antonio would have shrunk from 
 the ten thousand eyes that shone upon him, 
 when the calm voice of the Doge once more 
 came to his aid. 
 
 ‘The struggle is open to all,” said the sov- 
 ereign ; ‘still I would advise the poor and 
 aged man to take counsel; give him silver, 
 for want urges him to this hopeless trial.” 
 
 <©Thou hearest; alms are offered thee; 
 but give place to those who are stronger, and 
 more seemly for the sport.” 
 
 ««T will obey, as is the duty of one born 
 and accustomed to poverty. They said the 
 race was open to all, and I crave the pardon 
 of the nobles, since I meant to do them no 
 dishonor.”’ 
 
 «< Justice in the palace, and justice on the 
 canals,” hastily observed the prince. ‘‘ If he 
 will continue, it is his right. It is the pride 
 of St. Mark that his balances are held with 
 an even hand.”’ 
 
 A murmur of applause succeeded the spe- 
 cious sentiment, for the powerful rarely affect 
 the noble attribute of justice, however limited 
 may be its exercise, without their words find- 
 ing an echo in the tongues of the selfish. 
 
 <«Thou hearest—His Highness, who is the 
 voice of a mighty state, says thou mayest re- 
 main ;—though thou art still advised to with- 
 draw.” 
 
 ‘JT will then see what virtue is left in this 
 naked arm,” returned Antonio, casting a 
 mournful glance, and one that was not en- 
 tirely free from the latent vanity of man, at 
 
 461 
 
 his meagre and threadbare attire. ‘‘ The 
 limb hath its scars, but the infidels may have 
 spared enough, for the little I ask.” 
 
 ‘In whom is thy faith ?” 
 
 ‘Blessed St. Anthony, of the Miraculous 
 Draught.” 
 
 «Take thy place.—Ha! here cometh one 
 unwilling to be known! How now! who 
 appears with so false a face ?” 
 
 <¢ Call me Mask.” 
 
 «So neat and just a leg and arm need not 
 have hid their fellow, the countenance. Is 
 it your Highness’s pleasure that one dis- 
 guised should be entered for the sports ?” 
 
 ‘Doubt it not. A mask is sacred in 
 Venice. It is the glory of our excellent 
 and wise laws, that he who seeketh to dwell 
 within the privacy of his own thoughts, and 
 to keep aloof from curiosity by shadowing 
 his features, rangeth our streets and canals 
 as if he dwelt in the security of his own 
 abode. Such are the high privileges of lib- 
 erty, and such it is to be a citizen of a gener- 
 ous, a magnanimous, and a free state !” 
 
 A thousand bowed in. approbation of the 
 sentiment, and a rumor passed, from mouth 
 to mouth, that a young noble was about to 
 try his strength, in the regatta, in compli- 
 ment to some wayward beauty. 
 
 ‘¢ Such is justice !”’ exclaimed the herald, 
 in a loud voice, admiration apparently over- 
 coming respect, in the ardor of the moment. 
 ‘Happy is he that is born in Venice, and 
 envied are the people in whose councils wis- 
 dom and mercy preside, like lovely and be- 
 nignant sisters! On-whom dost thou rely? ” 
 
 ‘Mine own arm.” 
 
 ‘‘Ha! This is impious! None so pre- 
 suming may enter into these privileged 
 sports.” 
 
 The hurried exclamation of the herald was 
 accompanied by a general stir, such as de- 
 notes sudden and strong emotion in a multi- 
 tude. 
 
 ‘©The children of the republic are pro- 
 tected by an even hand,” observed the vener- 
 able prince. ‘‘It formeth our just pride, 
 and blessed St. Mark forbid that aught 
 resembling vain-glory should be uttered ! but 
 it is truly our boast that we know no differ- 
 ence between our subjects of the islands, or 
 those of the Dalmatian coast; between 
 Padua, or Candia; Corfu, or St. Giorgio. 
 
462 
 
 Still it is not permitted for any to refuse the 
 intervention of the saints.” 
 
 ‘‘Name thy patron, or quit the place,’ 
 continued the observant herald, anew. * 
 
 The stranger paused, as if he looked into 
 his mind, and then he answered— 
 
 ‘*San Giovanni of the Wilderness.” 
 
 ‘Thou namest one of blessed memory !” 
 
 ‘‘J name him who may have pity on me, 
 in this living desert.” 
 
 ‘« The tem per of thy soul is best known to 
 thyself, but this reverend rank of patricians, 
 yonder brilliant show of beauty, and that 
 goodly multitude, may claim another name. 
 —Take thy place.” 
 
 While the herald proceeded to take the 
 names of three or four more applicants, all 
 gondoliers in private service, a murmur ran 
 through the spectators, which proved how 
 much their interest and curiosity had been 
 awakened, by the replies and appearance of 
 the two last competitors. In the meantime, 
 the young nobles who entertained those who 
 came last began to move among the throng 
 of boats, with the intention of making such 
 manifestations of their gallant desires, and 
 personal devotion, as suited the customs and 
 opinions of the age. The list was now pro- 
 claimed to be full, and the gondolas were 
 towed off, as before, toward the starting- 
 point, leaving the place, beneath the stern of 
 the Bucentaur, vacant. The scene that fol- 
 lowed, consequently passed directly before 
 the eyes of those grave men, who charged 
 themselves with most of the private interests, 
 as well as with the public concerns of Venice. 
 
 There were many unmasked and high-born 
 — dames, whirling about in their boats, at- 
 tended by cavaliers in rich attire, and, here 
 and there, appeared a pair of dark lustrous 
 eyes, peeping through the silk of a visor, that 
 concealed some countenance too youthful for 
 exposure, In so gay a scene. One gondola, 
 in particular, was remarked for the singular 
 grace and beauty of the form it held, quali- 
 ties which made themselves apparent, even 
 through the half-disguise of the simple habil- 
 iments she wore. The boat, the servants, 
 and the ladies, for there were two, were alike 
 distinguished for that air of severe but fin- 
 ished simplicity, which oftener denotes the 
 presence of high quality and true taste, than 
 | @ more lavish expenditure of vulgar orna- 
 
 3 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ment. <A Carmelite, whose features were con- 
 cealed by his cowl, testified that their condi- 
 tion was high, and lent a dignity to their 
 presence by his reverend and grave protection. 
 A hundred gondolas approached this party, 
 and after as many fruitless efforts to pene- 
 trate the disguises, glided away, while 
 whispers and interrogatories passed from one 
 to the other, to learn the name and station 
 of the youthful beauty. At length, a gay 
 bark, with water-men in gorgeous liveries, 
 and in whose equipment there was a studied 
 display of magnificence, came into the little 
 circle that curiosity had drawn together. 
 The single cavalier, who occupied the seat, 
 arose, for few gondolas appeared that day 
 with their gloomy-looking and mysterious 
 pavilions, and saluted the masked females, 
 with the ease of one accustomed to all pres- 
 ences, but with the reserve of deep respect. 
 
 “JT have a favorite follower in this race,” 
 he said gallantly, “and one in whose skill 
 and force I put great trust. Until now, I 
 have uselessly sought a lady of a beauty and 
 merit so rare, as to warrant that I should 
 place his fortune on her smiles. But I seek 
 no farther.” 
 
 “You are gifted with a keen sight, signor, 
 that you discover all you seek beneath these 
 masks,” returned one of the two females, 
 while their companion, the Carmelite, bowed 
 graciously to the compliment, which seemed 
 little more than was warranted by the usage 
 of such scenes. 
 
 ‘“‘There are other means of recognition 
 than the eyes, and other sources of admi- 
 ration than the senses, lady. Conceal your- 
 selves as you will, here do I know that I am 
 near the fairest face, the warmest heart, and 
 the purest mind of Venice!” 
 
 “This is bold augury, signor,” returned 
 she, who was evidently the oldest of the two, 
 glancing a look at her companion, as if to 
 note the effect of this gallant speech. 
 ‘“‘ Venice has a name for the beauty of its 
 dames, and the sun of Italy warms many a 
 generous heart.” , 
 
 “Better that such noble gifts should be 
 
 directed to the worship of the Creator than 
 
 of the creature,” murmured the monk. 
 ‘‘Some there are, holy father, who have 
 admiration for both. Such I would fain 
 
 lt i ee ee eee ee 
 
 hope is the happy lot of her who is favored — : 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 with the spiritual counsel of one so virtuous 
 and wise as yourself. Here I place my for- 
 tune, let what may follow; and here would I 
 gladly place a heavier stake, were it per- 
 mitted.” 
 
 As the cavalier spoke, he tendered to the 
 silent fair a bouquet of the sweetest and 
 most fragrant flowers; and among them were 
 those to which poets and custom have 
 ascribed the emblematic qualities of con- 
 stancy and love. She, to whom this offering 
 of gallantry was made, hesitated to accept it. 
 It much exceeded the reserve imposed on 
 one of her station and years, to allow of such 
 homage from the other sex, though the occa- 
 sion was generally deemed one that admitted 
 of more than usual gallantry; and she evi- 
 dently shrunk, with the sensitiveness of one 
 whose feelings were unpractised, from an 
 homage so public. 
 
 ‘‘Receive the flowers, my love,” mildly 
 whispered her companion; “ the cavalier who 
 offers them simply intends to show the 
 quality of his breeding.” 
 
 “That will be seen in the end,” hastily 
 returned Don Camillo—for it was he. ‘‘Sig- 
 nora, adieu; we have met on this water when 
 there was less restraint between us.” 
 
 He bowed, and signing to his gondolier, 
 was quickly lost in the crowd of boats. re 
 the barks, however, were separated, the 
 mask of the silent fair was slightly moved, as 
 if she sought relief from the air; and the 
 Neapolitan was rewarded for his gallantry by 
 a momentary glance at the glowing counte- 
 nance of Violetta. 
 
 “Thy guardian hath a displeased eye,” 
 hurriedly observed Donna Florinda. “I 
 wonder that we should be known!” 
 
 “T should more wonder that we were not. 
 I could recall the noble Neapolitan cavalier 
 amid a million! Thou dost not remember 
 all that I owe to him!” 
 
 Donna Florinda did not answer; but in 
 secret she offered up a fervent prayer that 
 the obligation might be blessed to the future 
 happiness of her who had received it. ‘There 
 was a furtive and uneasy glance between her 
 and the Carmelite; but, as neither spoke, a 
 long and thoughtful silence succeeded the 
 rencontre. 
 
 From this musing, the party, in common 
 with all the gay and laughing multitude by 
 
 463 
 
 which they were surrounded, were reminded 
 of the business on which they were assembled 
 by the signal-gun, the agitation on the great 
 canal nearest the scene of strife, and a clear 
 blast 6f the trumpets. But in order that the 
 narrative may proceed regularly, it is fit that 
 we should return, a little, in the order of 
 time. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair, 
 Anticipating time with startling courage. 
 —SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Ir has been seen that the gondolas, which 
 were to contend in the race, had been towed 
 toward the place of starting, in order that 
 the men might enter on the struggle with 
 undiminished vigor. In this precaution, even 
 the humble and half-clad fisherman had not 
 been neglected, but his boat, like the others, 
 was attached to the larger barges to which 
 this duty had been assigned. Still, as he 
 passed along the canal, before the crowded 
 balconies and groaning vessels which lined 
 its sides, there arose that scornful and derid- 
 ing langh, which seems ever to grow more 
 strong and bold as misfortune weighs most 
 heavily on its subject. | 
 
 The old man was not unconscious of the 
 remarks of which he was the subject; and, 
 as it is rare indeed that our sensibilities do 
 not survive our better fortunes, even he was 
 so far conscious of a fall as not to be callous 
 to contempt thus openly expressed. He 
 looked wistfully on every side of him, and 
 seemed to search, in every eye he encoun- 
 tered, some portion of the sympathy which 
 his meek and humble feelings still craved. 
 But even the men of his caste and profession 
 threw gibes upon his ear; and, though of all 
 the competitors perhaps the one whose mo- 
 tive most hallowed his ambition, he was held 
 to be the only proper subject of mirth, For 
 the solution of this revolting trait of human 
 character, we are not to iook to Venice and 
 her institutions, since it is known that none 
 are so arrogant, on occasions, as the ridden, 
 and that the abject and insolent spirits are 
 usually tenants of the same bosom. 
 
 The movement of the boats brought those 
 
464 
 
 of the masked waterman and the subject of 
 these taunts side by side. 
 
 “Thou art not the favorite in this strife,” 
 observed the former, when a fresh burst of 
 gibes were showered on the head of his unre- 
 sisting associate. “Thou hast not been 
 sufficiently heedful of thy attire; for this is 
 a town of luxury, and he who would meet 
 applause must appear on the canals in the 
 guise of one less borne upon by fortune.” 
 
 “JT know them! I know them!” returned 
 the fisherman; ‘‘they are led away by their 
 pride, and they think ill of one who cannot 
 share in their vanities. But, friend un- 
 known, I have brought with mea face which, 
 old though it be, and wrinkled, and worn by 
 the weather like the stones of the sea-shore, 
 is uncovered to the eye, and without shame.” 
 
 ‘‘There may be reasons which thou know- 
 est not, why I wear a mask. But if my face 
 be hid, the limbs are bare, and thou seest 
 there is no lack of sinews to make good that 
 which I have undertaken. Thou should’st 
 have thought better of the matter, ere thou 
 puttest thyself in the way of so much morti- 
 fication. Defeat will not cause the people to 
 treat thee more tenderly.” 
 
 ‘‘ Tf my sinews are old and stiffened, Sig- 
 nor Mask, they are long used to toil. As to 
 shame, if it isa shame to be below the rest 
 of mankind in fortune, it will not now come 
 for the first time. A heavy sorrow hath 
 befallen me, and this race may lighten the 
 burden of grief. I shall not pretend that I 
 hear this laughter and all these scornful 
 speeches as one listens to the evening breeze 
 on the Lagunes—for a man is still a man, 
 though he lives with the humblest, and eats 
 of the coarsest. But let it pass; Sant’ An- 
 tonio will give me heart to bear it.” 
 
 “'Thou hast a stout mind, fisherman; and 
 I would gladly pray my patron to grant thee 
 a stronger arm, but that I have much need 
 of this victory myself. Wilt thou be content 
 with the second prize, if, by any manner of 
 skill, I might aid thee in thy efforts ?—for, 
 I suppose, the metal of the third is as little 
 to thy taste as it is to my own.” 
 
 “ Nay, I count not on gold, or silver.” 
 
 “Can the honor of such a struggle awaken 
 the pride of one like thee ? ” 
 
 The old man looked earnestly at his com- 
 panion; but he shook his head, without an- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 swer. Fresh merriment, at his expense, 
 caused him to bend his face toward the 
 scoffers; and he perceived they were, just 
 
 then, passing a numerous group of his fel- _ 
 
 lows of the Lagunes, who seemed to feel that 
 
 his unjustifiable ambition reflected, in some — 
 
 degree, on the honor of their whole body. 
 
 “How now, old Antonio!” shouted the | 
 
 boldest of the band—* is it not enough that 
 
 | 
 
 thou hast won the honors of the net, but | 
 
 thou would’st have a golden oa, at thy 
 neck ?” 
 
 ‘“ We shall yet see him of the senate! ” 
 cried a second. ; 
 
 ‘* He standeth in need of the horned bon- 
 net for his naked head,” continued a third. 
 ‘We shall see the brave Admiral Antonio, 
 sailing in the Bucentaur, with the nobles of 
 the land! ” . 
 
 Their sallies were succeeded by coarse 
 laughter. Even the fair, in the balconies 
 were not uninfluenced by these constant 
 gibes, and the apparent discrepancy between 
 the condition and the means of so unusual a 
 pretender to the honors of the regatta. The 
 purpose of the old man wavered; but he 
 seemed goaded by some inward incentive that 
 still enabled him to maintain his ground. 
 
 His companion closely watched the varying - ‘ 
 
 expression of a countenance that was far too 
 little trained in deception to conceal the feel- 
 ings within; and, as they approached the 
 place of starting, he again spoke. 
 
 “Thou mayest yet withdraw,” he said— 
 “why should one of thy years make the lit- 
 tle time he has to stay bitter, by bearing the 
 ridicule of his associates for the rest of his 
 life ?” ; 
 
 “‘St. Anthony did a greater wonder when 
 he caused the fishes to come upon the waters 
 to hear his preaching, and I will not show a 
 a cowardly heart at a moment when there is 
 most need of resolution.” 
 
 I'he masked waterman crossed himself de- _ 
 voutly; and, relinquishing all further design — 
 to persuade the other to abandon the fruit- _ 
 less contest, he gave all his thoughts to his — 
 
 own interest in the coming struggle. 
 
 The narrowness of most of the canals of j 
 
 Venice, with the innumerable angles and the _ 
 
 constant passing, have given rise to a fashion 
 
 of construction and of rowing that are so 
 
 * 
 
 peculiar to that city and its immediate de- 
 
| 
 | 
 | 
 
 THH BRAVO, 
 
 pendencies as to require some explanation. 
 The reader has doubtless already understood 
 that a gondola is a long, narrow, and light 
 boat, adapted to the uses of the place, and 
 distinct from the wherries of all other towns. 
 
 _ The distance between the dwellings, on most 
 
 of the canals, is so small that the width of 
 the latter does not admit of the use of oars 
 on both sides at the same time. The neces- 
 sity of constantly turning aside to give room 
 for others, and the frequency of the bridges 
 and the corners, have suggested the expedi- 
 ency of placing the face of the waterman in 
 the direction in which the boat is steering, 
 and, of course, of keeping him on his feet. 
 As every gondola, when fully equipped, has 
 its pavilion in the centre, the height of the 
 latter renders it necessary to place him who 
 steers on such an elevation as will enable him 
 to overlook it. From these several causes, a 
 
 ome-oared boat, in Venice, is propelled by a 
 
 gondolier who stands on a little angular deck 
 in its stern, formed like the low roof of a 
 house; and the stroke of the oar is given by 
 a push, instead of a pull, as is common else- 
 where. This habit of rowing erect, however, 
 which is usually done by a forward, instead 
 of a backward, movement of the body, is not 
 unfrequent in all the ports of the Mediter- 
 ranean, though in no other is there a boat 
 which resembles the gondola in all its prop- 
 erties or uses. The upright position of the 
 gondolier requires that the pivot on which 
 the oar rests should have a corresponding 
 elevation; and there is, consequently, a spe- 
 cies of bumkin, raised from the side of the 
 boat, to the desired height, and which, being 
 formed of a crooked and very irregular knee 
 of wood, has two or three rowlocks, one above 
 the other, to suit the stature of different in- 
 dividuals, or to give a broader or a narrower 
 sweep of the blade as the movement shall 
 require. As there is frequent occasion to 
 cast the oar from one of these rowlocks to 
 the other, and not unfrequently to change its 
 side, it rests in a very open bed; and the in- 
 strument is kept in its place by great dexter- 
 ity alone, and by a perfect knowledge of the 
 means of accommodating the force and the 
 rapidity of the effort to the forward move- 
 ment of the boat and the resistance of the 
 water. All these difficulties united render 
 skill in a gondolier one of the most delicate 
 
 465 
 
 branches of a waterman’s art, as it is clear 
 that muscular strength alone, though of 
 great aid, can avail but little in such a prac- 
 tice. 
 
 The great canal of Venice, following its 
 windings, being more than a league in 
 length, the distance in the present race was 
 reduced nearly half, by causing the boats to 
 start from the Rialto. At this point, then, 
 the gondolas were all assembled, attended by 
 those who were to place them. As the whole 
 of the population, which, before, had been 
 extended along the entire course of the 
 water, was now crowded between the bridge 
 and the Bucentaur, the long and graceful 
 avenue resembled a vista of human heads. 
 It was an imposing sight to look along that 
 bright and living lane, and the heart of each 
 competitor beat high, as hope, or pride, or 
 apprehension, became the feeling of the mo- 
 ment. 
 
 ‘*Gino of Calabria,” cried the marshal who 
 placed the gondolas, “thy station is on the 
 right. Take it, and St. Januarius speed 
 thee !” 
 
 The servitor of Don Camillo assumed his 
 oar, and the boat glided gracefully into its 
 berth. 
 
 ‘*Thou comest next, Enrico of Fusina. 
 Call stoutly on thy Paduan patron, and hus- 
 band thy strength; for none of the main 
 have ever yet borne away a prize in Venice.” 
 
 He then summoned, in succession, those 
 whose names have not been mentioned, and 
 placed them, side by side, in the centre of 
 the canal. 
 
 “ere is place for thee, Signor,” contin- 
 ued the officer, inclining his head to the un- 
 known gondolier; for he had imbibed the 
 general impression that the face of some 
 young patrician was concealed beneath the 
 mask, to humor the fancy of same capricious 
 fair.—“ Chance hath given thee the extreme 
 left.” 
 
 ‘Thou hast forgotten to call the fisher- 
 man,” observed the masker, as he drove his 
 own gondola into its station. 
 
 * Does the hoary fool persist in exposing 
 his vanity and his rags to the best of Venice?” 
 
 *‘T can take place in the rear,” meekly 
 observed Antonio. ‘“'There may be those in 
 the line it doth not become one lke me to 
 crowd ; and a few strokes of the oar, more or 
 
466 
 
 less, can differ but little, in so long a 
 strife.” 
 
 “Thou hadst better push modesty to dis- 
 cretion, and remain.” 
 
 ‘If it be your pleasure, Signor, I would 
 rather see what St. Anthony may do for an 
 old fisherman, who has prayed for him, night 
 and morning, these sixty years ?” 
 
 ‘It is thy right; and, as thou seemest 
 content with it, keep the place thou hast in 
 the rear. It is only occupying it a little 
 earlier than thou would’st otherwise. Now, 
 recall the rules of the games, hardy gondo- 
 liers, and make thy last appeal to thy pa- 
 trons. There is to be no crossing, or other 
 foul expedients; naught except ready oars 
 and nimble wrists. He who varies, need- 
 lessly, from his line until he leadeth, shall be 
 recalled by name; and whoever is guilty of 
 any act to spoil the sports, or otherwise to 
 offend the patricians, shall be both checked 
 and punished. Be ready for the signal.” 
 
 The assistant, who was in a strongly manned 
 boat, fell back a little, while runners, sim1- 
 larly equipped, went ahead to order the cu- 
 rious from the water. These preparations 
 were scarcely made, when a signal floated on 
 the nearest dome. It was repeated on the 
 campanile, and a gun was fired at the arsenal. 
 A deep but suppressed murmur arose in the 
 throng, which was as quickly succeeded by 
 suspense, 
 
 Each gondolier had suffered the bows of 
 his boat to incline slightly toward the left 
 shore of the canal, as the jockey is seen, at 
 the starting-post, to turn his courser aside, 
 in order to repress its ardor, or divert its at- 
 tention. But the first long and broad sweep 
 of the oar brought them all in a hne again, 
 and away they glided in a body. 
 
 For the first few minutes there was no dif- 
 ference in speed, nor any sign by which the 
 instructed might detect the probable evidence 
 of defeat or success. The whole ten, which 
 formed the front line, skimmed the water 
 with an equal velocity, beak to beak, as if 
 some secret attraction held each in its place, 
 while the humble, though equally light bark 
 of the fisherman steadily kept its position in 
 the rear. 
 
 The boats were soon held in command. 
 The oars got their justest poise and widest 
 sweep, and the wrists of the men accustomed 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 to their play. ‘The line began to waver. It 
 undulated, the glittering prow of one pro- 
 truding beyond the others; and then it 
 changed its forms. Enrico of Fusina shot 
 ahead, and, privileged by success he insen- 
 sibly sheered more into the centre of the 
 canal, avoiding, by the change, the eddies, 
 and the other obstructions of the shore. 
 This manoeuvre which, in the language of 
 the course, would have been called ‘‘ taking 
 the track,” had the additional advantage 
 of throwing upon those who followed 
 some trifling impediment from the _ back- 
 water. The sturdy and practised Bartolo- 
 meo of the Lido, as his companions usually 
 called him, came next, occupying the space 
 on his leader’s quarter, where he suffered 
 least from the reaction caused by the stroke 
 of his oar. 
 also, soon shot out of the crowd, and was seen 
 plying his arms vigorously still farther to the 
 right, and a little in the rear of Bartolomeo. 
 Then came, in the centre of the canal, and 
 near as might be in the rear of the trium- 
 phant waterman of the main, a dense body, 
 with little order and varying positions, com- 
 pelling each other to give way, and otherwise 
 increasing the difficulties of their struggle. 
 More to the left, and so near to the palaces 
 as barely to allow room for the sweep of his 
 oar, was the masked competitor, whose prog- 
 ress seemed retarded by some unseen cause, 
 for he gradually fell behind all the others, 
 until several boats’ lengths of open water lay 
 between him and even the group of his 
 nameless opponents. 
 steadily, and with sufficient skill. As the in- 
 terest of mystery has had been excited in hig 
 favor, a rumor passed up the canal, that thb 
 young cavalier had been little favored by 
 fortune in the choice of a boat. Others, who 
 reflected more deeply on causes, whispered of 
 the folly of one of his habits, taking the risk 
 of mortification by a competition with men 
 whose daily labor had hardened their sinews, 
 
 and whose practice enabled them to judge — 
 
 closely of every chance of the race. But 
 
 when the eyes of the multitude turned from ~ 
 the cluster of passing boats to the solitary | 
 barge of the fisherman, who came singly on — 
 in the rear, admiration was again turned to — 
 
 derision. 
 
 Antonio had cast aside the cap he wore of 
 
 The gondolier of Don Camillo, 
 
 Still he plied his arms | 
 
 i 
 : 
 4 
 any 
 | : 
 
THH BRAVO. 
 
 wont, and the few straggling hairs that were 
 left streamed about his hollow temples, leav- 
 ing the whole of his swarthy features ex- 
 posed to view. More than once, as the gon- 
 dola came on, his eyes turned aside reproach- 
 fully, as if he keenly felt the stings of so 
 many unlicensed tongues applied to feelings 
 which, though blunted by his habits and 
 condition, were far from being extinguished. 
 Laugh rose above laugh, however, and taunt 
 succeeded taunt more bitterly, as the boats 
 came among the gorgeous palaces, which 
 lined the canal nearer to the goal. It was 
 not that the owners of these lordly piles in- 
 dulged in the unfeeling triumph, but their 
 dependants, constantly subject themselves to 
 the degrading influence of a superior presence, 
 let loose the long-pent torrents of their arro- 
 gance on the head of the first unresisting 
 subject which offered. 
 
 _ Antonio bore all these gibes manfully, if 
 “not in tranquillity, and always without re- 
 tort, until he again approached the spot oc- 
 cupied by his companions of the Lagunes. 
 Here his eye sunk under the reproaches, and 
 his oar faltered. The taunts and denuncia- 
 tians increased as he lost ground, and there 
 was a moment when the rebuked and hum- 
 bled spirit of the old man seemed about to 
 relinquish the contest. But dashing a hand 
 across his brow, as if to clear the sight which 
 had become dimmed and confused, he con- 
 tinued to ply the oar, and, happily, he was 
 soon past the point most trying to his resolu- 
 tion. From this moment the cries against 
 the fisherman diminished, and as the Bucen- 
 taur, though, still distant, was now in sight, 
 interest in the issue of the race absorbed all 
 other feelings. 
 
 Enrico still kept the lead ; but the judges 
 of the gondolier’s skill began to detect signs 
 of exhaustion in his faltering stroke. The 
 waterman. of the Lido pressed him hard, and 
 the Calabrian was drawing more into a line 
 with them both. At this moment, too, the 
 masked competitor exhibited a force and 
 skill that none had expected to see in one of 
 his supposed rank. His body was thrown 
 more upon the effort of the oar, and as his 
 leg was stretched behind to aid the stroke, it 
 discovered a volume of muscle, and an excel- 
 lence of proportion, that excited murmurs 
 of applause. The consequence was soon ap- 
 
 467 
 
 parent. His gondola glided past the crowd, in 
 the centre of the canal, and by a change that 
 was nearly insensible, he became the fourth 
 in the race. The shouts which rewarded his 
 success had scarcely parted from the multi- 
 tude, ere their admiration was called to a 
 new and an entirely unexpected aspect in the 
 struggle. 
 
 Left to his own exertions, and less annoyed 
 by that derision and contempt which often 
 defeat even more generous exertions, Antonio 
 had drawn nearer to the crowd of nameless 
 competitors. Though undistinguished in 
 this narrative, there were seen, in that group 
 of gondoliers, faces well known on the canals 
 of Venice, as belonging to watermen, in 
 whose dexterity and force the city took pride. 
 Hither favored by his isolated position, or 
 availing himself of the embarrassment these 
 men gave to each other, the despised fisher- 
 man was seen a little on their left, coming up 
 abreast, with a stroke and velocity that pro- 
 mised further success. The expectation was 
 quickly realized. He passed them all, amid 
 a dead and wondering silence, and took his 
 station, as fifth in the struggle. 
 
 From this moment all interest in those 
 who formed the vulgar mass was lost. Every 
 eye was turned towards the front, where the 
 strife increased at each stroke of the oar, and 
 where the issue began to assume a new and 
 doubtful character. The exertions of the 
 waterman of Fusina were seemingly re- 
 doubled, though his boat went no faster. The 
 gondola of Bartolomeo shot past him ; it was 
 followed by those of Gino and the masked 
 gondolier, while not a cry betrayed the 
 breathless interest of the multitude. But 
 when the boat of Antonio also swept ahead, 
 there arose such a hum of voices as escapes a 
 throng when a sudden and violent change of 
 feeling is produced in their wayward senti- 
 ments. Enrico was frantic with the disgrace. 
 He urged every power of his frame to avert 
 the dishonor with the desperate energy of an 
 Italian, and then he cast himself into the 
 bottom of the gondola, tearing his hair and 
 weeping, in agony. His example was fol- 
 lowed by those in the rear, though with more 
 governed feelings, for they shot aside among 
 the boats which lined the canal and were lost 
 to view. 
 
 From this open and unexpected abandon- 
 
468 
 
 ment of the struggle the spectators got the 
 surest evidence of its desperate character. 
 But as a man has little sympathy for the un- 
 fortunate, when his feelings are excited by 
 competition, the defeated were quickly for- 
 gotten. ‘The name of Bartolomeo was borne 
 high upon the winds by a thousand voices, 
 and his followers of the Piazzetta and the 
 Lido called upon him aloud to die for the 
 honor of their craft. Well did the sturdy 
 gondolier answer to their wishes, for palace 
 after palace was left behind, and no further 
 change was made in the relative positions of 
 the boats. But, like his predecessor, the 
 leader redoubled his efforts with a diminished 
 effect, and Venice had the mortification of 
 seeing a stranger leading one of the most 
 briluant of her regattas. Bartolomeo no 
 sooner lost place, than Gino, the masker, and 
 the despised Antonio, in turn, shot by, leay- 
 ing him who had so lately been first in the 
 race, the last. He did not, however, relin- 
 quish the strife,but continued to struggle with 
 the energy of one who merited a better for- 
 tune. 
 
 When this unexpected and entirely new 
 character was given to the contest, there still 
 remained a broad sheet of water between the 
 advancing gondolas and the goal. Gino led, 
 and with many favorable symptoms of his be- 
 ing able to maintain his advantage. He was 
 encouraged by the shouts of the multitude, 
 who now forgot his Calabrian origin, in his 
 success, while many of the serving-men of his 
 master cheered him on by name. All would 
 not do. The masked waterman, for the first 
 time, threw the grandeur of hisskill and force 
 into the oar. The ashen! instrument bent to 
 the power of an arm whose strength appeared 
 
 to increase at will, and the movements of his | 
 
 body became rapid as the leaps of the grey- 
 hound. The pliant gondola obeyed, and amid 
 a shout which passed from the Piazzetta to 
 the Rialto, it glided ahead. 
 
 If success gives force and increases the phy- 
 sical and moral energies, there is a fearful and 
 certain reaction in defeat. The follower of 
 Don Camillo who was no exception to the gene- 
 ral law, and when the masked competitor 
 passed him, the boat of Antonio followed as 
 if it were impelled by the same strokes. The 
 distance between the two leading gondolas 
 eyen now seemed to lessen, and there was a 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 moment of breathless interest, when all there 
 expected to see the fisherman, in despite of 
 his years and boat, shooting past his 
 rival. 
 
 But expectation was deceived. He of the 
 mask, notwithstanding his previous efforts, 
 seemed to sport with the toil, so ready was 
 the sweep of his oar, so sure its stroke, and so 
 vigorous the arm by which it was impelled. 
 Nor was Antonio an antagonist to despise. If 
 there was less of the grace of a practised gon- 
 dolier of the canals in his attitudes than in 
 those of his companion, there was no relaxa- 
 tion in the force of his sinews. They sus- 
 tained him to the last with that enduring 
 power which had been begotten by threescore 
 years of unremitting labor, and while his still 
 athletic form was exerted to the utmost there 
 appeared no failing of its energies. 
 
 A few moments sent the leading gondolas 
 several lengths ahead of their nearest follow- 
 ers. 
 hung upon the quarter of the more showy 
 bark of his antagonist, but it could do no 
 more. ‘lhe port was open before them and 
 they glanced by church, palace, barge, mystic, 
 and felucca, without the slightest inequality 
 in their relative speed. ‘The masked water- 
 man glanced a look behind, as if to calculate 
 his advantage, and then bending again to his 
 plant oar, he spoke, loud enough, to be heard 
 
 only by him who pressed so hard upon his” 
 
 track. 
 
 “Thou hast deceived me, fisherman! ” he 
 said; “there is more of manhood in thee yet 
 than I had thought.” 
 
 “Tf there is manhood in my arms, there is" 
 
 childishness and sorrow at the heart,” was 
 the reply. 
 
 ‘* Dost thou so prize a golden bawble? Thou 
 art second; be content with thy lot.” 
 
 ‘‘Tt will not do; I must be foremost, or I 
 have wearied my old limbs in vain! ” 
 
 This brief dialogue was uttered with an 
 ease that showed how far use had accustomed 
 both to powerful bodily efforts, and with a 
 firmness of tones that few could have equalled, 
 ina moment of so great a physicial effort. 
 The masker was silent, but his purpose seemed 
 
 ‘to waver. ‘I'wenty strokes of his powerful oar- _ 
 blade, and the goal was attained; but his — 
 
 sinews were not so much extended, and that 
 
 limb, which had shown so fine a development. — 
 
 The dark beak of the fisherman’s boat 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 of muscle, was less swollen and rigid. The 
 gondola of old Antonio glided abeam. 
 
 “ Push thy soul into the blade,” muttered 
 he of the mask, “ or thou wilt yet be beaten!” 
 
 The fisherman threw every effort of his 
 body on the coming effort, and he gained a 
 fathom. Another stroke caused the boat to 
 quiver to its centre, and the water curled from 
 its bows, like the ripple of a rapid. Then 
 the gondola darted between the two goal- 
 barges, and the little flags that marked the 
 point of victory fell into the water. The 
 action was scarce noted, ere the glittering 
 beak of the masker shot past the eyes of the 
 judges, who doubted for an instant on whom 
 success had fallen. Gino was not long behind, 
 and after him came Bartolomeo, fourth and 
 last, in the best-contested race which had 
 ever been seen on the waters of Venice. 
 
 When the flags fell, men held their breaths 
 in suspense. Few knew the victor, so close 
 had been the struggle. But a flourish of the 
 trumpets soon commanded attention, and 
 then a herald proclaimed, that—. 
 
 “ Antonio, a fisherman of the Lagunes, 
 favored by his holy patron of the Miraculous 
 Draught, had borne away the prize of gold— 
 while a waterman, who wore his face con- 
 cealed, but who hath trusted to the care of 
 the blessed San Giovanni of the Wilderness, 
 is worthy of the silver prize, and that the 
 third had fallen to the fortunes of Gino of 
 Calabria, a servitor of the illustrious Don 
 Camillo Monforte, Duca di Sant’? Agata, and 
 lord of many Neapolitan seigniories.” 
 
 When this formal announcement was made, 
 there succeeded a silence like that of the tomb. 
 Then there arose a general shout among the 
 living mass, which bore on high the name of 
 Antonio, as if they celebrated the success of 
 some conqueror. All feeling of contempt 
 was lost in the influence of his triumph. 
 The fishermen of the Lagunes, who so lately 
 had loaded their aged companion with con- 
 tumely, shouted for his glory, with a zeal 
 that manifested the violence of the transition 
 from mortification to pride, and, as has ever 
 been and ever will be the meed of success, he 
 who was thought least likely to obtain it was 
 most greeted with praise and adulation, when 
 it was found that the end had disappointed 
 expectation. ‘Ten thousand voices were 
 lifted, in proclaiming his skill and victory, 
 
 469 
 
 and young and old, the fair, the gay, the 
 noble, the winner of sequins and he who 
 lost, struggled alike to catch a glimpse of the 
 humble old man, who had so unexpectedly 
 wrought this change of sentiment in the 
 feelings of a multitude. 
 
 Antonio bore his triumph meekly, When 
 his gondola had reached the goal, he checked 
 its course, and, without discovering any of 
 the usual signs of exhaustion, he remained 
 standing, though the deep heaving of his 
 broad and tawny chest proved that his powers 
 had been taxed to their utmost. He smiled 
 as the shouts arose on his ear, for praise is 
 grateful, even to the meek; still he seemed 
 oppressed with an emotion of a character 
 deeper than pride. Age had somewhat dim- 
 med his eye, but it was now full of hope. 
 His features worked, and a single burning 
 drop fell on each rugged cheek, The fisher- 
 man then breathed more freely. 
 
 Like his successful antagonist, the water- 
 man of the mask betrayed none of the 
 debility which usually succeeds great bodily 
 exertion. His knees were motionless, his 
 hands still grasped the oar firmly, and he too 
 kept his feet with a steadiness that showed 
 the physical perfection of hisframe. On the 
 other hand, both Gino and Bartolomeo sunk 
 in their respective boats, as they gained the 
 goal, in succession; and so exhausted was 
 each of these renowned gondoliers, that 
 several moments elapsed before either had 
 breath for speech. It was during this mo- 
 mentary pause that the multitude proclaimed 
 its sympathy with the victor, by their longest 
 and loudest shouts. The noise had scarcely 
 died away, however, before a herald sum- 
 moned Antonio of the Lagunes, the masked 
 waterman of the blessed St. John of the 
 Wilderness, and Gino the Calabrian, to the 
 presence of the Doge, whose princely hand 
 was to bestow the promised prizes of the 
 regatta, | 
 
 ——enal 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 We shall not spend a large expense of time, 
 Before we reckon with your several loves, 
 And make us even with you. —Macbeth. 
 
 WHEN the three gondolas reached the side 
 of the Bucentaur, the fisherman hung back, 
 
470 
 
 as if he distrusted his right to intrude him- 
 self into the presence of the senate. He 
 was, however, commanded to ascend, and 
 signs were made for his two companions to 
 follow. 
 
 The nobles, clad in their attire of office, 
 formed a long and imposing lane from the 
 gangway to the stern, where the titular 
 sovereign of that still more titular republic 
 was placed, in the centre of the high officers of 
 the state, gorgeous and grave in borrowed 
 guise and natural qualities. 
 
 *‘ Approach,” said the prince, mildly, 
 observing that the old and half-naked man 
 that led the victors hesitated to advance. 
 “Thou art the conqueror, fisherman, and to 
 thy hands must I consign the prize.” 
 
 Antonio bent his knee to the deck, and 
 bowed his head lowly ere he obeyed. Then 
 taking courage, he drew nearer to the person 
 of the Doge, where he stood with a bewildered 
 eye and rebuked mien, waiting the further 
 pleasure of his superiors. The aged prince 
 paused for stillness to succeed the slight 
 movements created by curiosity. When he 
 spoke, it was amid a perfect calm. 
 
 ‘It is the boast of our glorious republic,” 
 he said, “that the rights of none are disre- 
 garded; that the lowly receive their merited 
 rewards as surely as the great; that St. Mark 
 holds the balance with an even hand, and 
 that this obscure fisherman, having deserved 
 the honors of this regatta, will receive them 
 with the same readiness on the part of him 
 who bestows, as if he were the most favored 
 fcllower of our own house. Nobles and 
 burghers of Venice, learn to prize your ex- 
 cellent and equable laws on this occasion, for 
 it is most in acts of familiar and common 
 usage that the parental character of govern- 
 ment is seen, since in matters of higher 
 moment, the eyes of a world impel a compli- 
 ance with its own opinions.” 
 
 The Doge delivered these preliminary re- 
 marks in a firm tone, like one confident of 
 his auditors’ applause. He was not deceived. 
 No sooner had he done, than a murmur of 
 approbation passed through the assembly, and 
 extended itself to thousands who were beyond 
 the sound of his voice, and to more who were 
 beyond the reach of his meaning. The sen- 
 ators bent their heads in acknowledgment of 
 the justice of what their chief had uttered, 
 
 a 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 and the latter, having waited to gather these 
 signs of an approving royalty, proceeded. 
 
 ‘‘Tt is my duty, Antonio, and, being a 
 duty, it hath become a pleasure, to place 
 around thy neck this golden chain. ‘The oar 
 which it bears is an emblem of thy skill; and 
 among thy associates it will be a mark of the 
 republic’s favor and impartiality, and of thy 
 merit. ‘Take it, then, vigorous old man, for 
 though age hath thinned thy temples and 
 furrowed thy cheek, it hath scarce affected 
 thy wonderful sinews and hardy courage!” 
 
 “ Highness!” observed Antonio, recoiling 
 a pace, when he found that he was expected 
 to stoop, in order that the bawble might be 
 bestowed, “I am not fit to bear about me such 
 a sign of greatness and good fortune. ‘The 
 glitter of the gold would mock my poverty, 
 and a jewel, which comes from so princely a 
 hand, would be ill-placed on anaked bosom.” 
 
 This unexpected refusal caused a general 
 surprise and a momentary pause. 
 
 ‘Thou hast not entered on the struggle, 
 fisherman, without a view to its prize? But 
 thou sayest truly, the golden ornament 
 would, indeed, but ill befit thy condition and 
 daily wants. Wear it for the moment, since 
 it is meet that all should know the justice 
 and impartiality of our decisions, and bring 
 it to my treasurer when the sports are done; 
 he will make such an exchange as better suits 
 thy wishes. ‘There is precedent for this 
 practice, and it shall be followed.” 
 
 ‘‘Tllustrious highness! I did not trust 
 my old limbs in so hard a strife without 
 hopes of a reward. But it was not gold, nor 
 any vanity to be seen among my equals with 
 that glittering jewel, that led me to meet the 
 scorn of the gondoliers, and the displeasure 
 of the great.” 1G 
 
 “Thou art deceived, honest fisherman, if 
 thou supposest that we regard thy just am- 
 bition with displeasure. We love to see a 
 generous emulation among our people, and 
 take all proper means to encourage those as- 
 piring spirits who bring honor to a state, and 
 fortune to our shores.” 
 
 “T pretend not to place my poor thoughts 
 against those of my prince,” answered the 
 fisherman; ‘‘my fears and shame have led 
 me to believe that it would give more pleas- 
 ure to the noble and gay had a younger and 
 happier borne away this honor.” 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 «Thou must not think this. Bend, then, 
 thy knee, that I may bestow the prize. 
 When the sun sets, thou wilt find those in 
 my palace who will relieve thee of the orna- 
 ment at a just remuneration.” 
 
 “Highness! ” said Antonio, looking earn- 
 estly at the Doge, who again arrested his 
 movement, in surprise, “I am old, and little 
 wont to be spoilt by fortune. For my wants, 
 the Lagunes, with the favor of the holy St. 
 Anthony, are sufficient; but it is in thy 
 power to make the last days of an old man 
 happy and to have thy name remembered in 
 many an honest and well-meant prayer. 
 Grant me back my child, forget the boldness 
 of a heart-broken father!” 
 
 “Ig not this he who urged us with im- 
 portunity concerning a youth that is gone 
 into the service of the state ?” exclaimed the 
 prince, across whose countenance passed that 
 expression of habitual reserve which so often 
 concealed the feelings of the man. 
 
 “The same,” returned a cold voice, which 
 the ear of Antonio well knew came from the 
 Signor Gradenigo. 
 
 ‘*Pity for thy ignorance, fisherman, re- 
 presses our anger. Receive thy chain, and 
 depart.” 
 
 Antonio’s eye did not waver. He kneeled 
 with an air of profound respect, and folding 
 his hands on his bosom, he said— 
 
 ‘¢ Misery has made me bold, dread Prince ! 
 What I say comes from a heavy heart, rather 
 than from a licentious tongue, and I pray 
 your royal ear to listen with indulgence !” 
 
 «* Speak briefly, for the sports are delayed.” 
 
 «‘Mighty Doge! riches and poverty have 
 caused a difference in our fortunes, which 
 knowledge and ignorance have made wider. 
 I am rude in my discourse, and little suited 
 to this illustrious company. But, signor, 
 God hath given to the fisherman the same 
 feelings, and the same love for his offspring, 
 as he has given toa prince. Did I place de- 
 pendence only on the aid of my poor learn- 
 ing, I should now be dumb, but there is a 
 strength within that gives me courage to 
 speak to the first and noblest in Venice in 
 behalf of my child.” 
 
 ‘“¢Thou canst not impeach the senate’s 
 justice, old man, nor utter aught, in truth, 
 against the known impartiality of the laws !” 
 
 ‘‘Sovrano Mio! deign to listen, and you 
 
 471 
 
 shall hear. I am what your eyes behold—a 
 man, poor, laborious, and drawing near to 
 the hour when he shall be called to the side 
 of the blessed St. Anthony of Rimini, and 
 stand in a presence even greater than this. 
 I am not vain enough to think that my hum- 
 ble name is to be found among those of the 
 patricians who have served the republic in 
 her wars—that is an honor which none but 
 the great, and the noble, and the happy, can 
 claim; but if the little I have done for my 
 country is not in the Golden Book, it is 
 written here,” as Antonio spoke, he pointed 
 to the scars on his half-naked form; ‘‘ these 
 are signs of the enmity of the Turk, and I 
 now offer them as so many petitions to the 
 bounty of the senate.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou speakest vaguely. What is thy 
 will ?” . 
 ‘Justice, mighty Prince. They have 
 
 forced the only vigorous branch from the 
 dying trunk—they have lopped the withering 
 stem of its most promising shoot—they have 
 exposed the sole companion of my labors and 
 pleasures, the child to whom I have looked 
 to close my eyes, when it shall please God to 
 call me away, untaught, and young in lessons 
 of honesty and virtue, a boy in principle as 
 in years, to all the temptation, and sin, and 
 dangerous companionship of the galleys !” 
 
 ‘Ts this all? I had thought thy gondola 
 in the decay, or thy right to use the Lagunes 
 in question !” 
 
 ‘<I this all ?” repeated Antonio, looking 
 around him in bitter melancholy. ‘‘ Doge of 
 Venice, it is more than one, old, heart- 
 stricken, and bereaved, can bear !” 
 
 “Go to; take thy golden chain and oar, 
 and depart among thy fellows in triumph. 
 Gladden thy heart at a victory on which 
 thou could’st not, in reason, have counted, 
 and leave the interests of the state to those 
 that are wiser than thee, and more fitted to 
 sustain its cares.” 
 
 The fisherman arose with an air of rebuked 
 submission, the result of a long life passed in 
 the habit of political deference ; but he did 
 not approach to receive the proffered reward. 
 
 ‘‘ Bend thy head, fisherman, that his high- 
 ness may bestow the prize,” commanded an 
 officer. 
 
 ‘‘T ask not for gold, nor any oar, but that 
 which carries me to the Lagunes in the 
 
472 
 
 morning, and brings me back into the canals 
 Give me my child, or give me 
 
 at night. 
 nothing.” 
 
 ‘Away with him!” muttered a dozen 
 ‘‘he utters sedition! let him quit 
 
 voices ; 
 the galley.” 
 Antonio was hurried from the presence, 
 
 and forced into his gondola with very un- 
 This unwonted 
 interruption of the ceremonies clouded many 
 a brow, for the sensibilities of a Venetian 
 noble were quick, indeed, to reprehend the 
 immorality of political discontent, though 
 the conventional dignity of the class sup- 
 pressed all other ill-timed exhibition of dis- 
 
 equivocal signs of disgrace. 
 
 satisfaction. 
 “Let the next competitor draw near,” 
 
 easy. 
 
 The unknown waterman to whose secret 
 
 favor Antonio owed his success, approached, 
 still concealed by the licensed mask. 
 
 “Thou art the gainer of the second prize,” 
 
 said the prince, “and were rigid justice done, 
 thou should’st receive the first also, since our 
 favor is not to be rejected with impunity.— 
 Kneel, that I may bestow the favor.” 
 
 “ Highness, pardon!” observed the marker, 
 bowing with great respect, but withdrawing 
 a single step from the offered reward; “if it 
 be your gracious will to grant a boon, for the 
 success of the regatta, I, too, have to pray 
 that it may be given in another form.” 
 
 “This is unusual! It is not wont that 
 prizes, offered by the hand of a Venetian 
 Doge, should go a-begging.” 
 
 “T would not seem to press more than is 
 respectful in this great presence. I ask 
 but little, and, in the end, it may cost 
 the republic less, than that which is now 
 offered.” 
 
 “ Name it.” 
 
 “JT, too, and on my ‘knee; in dutiful 
 homage to the chief of the state, beg that 
 the prayer of the old fisherman he heard, and 
 that the father and son maybe restored to 
 each other, for the service will corrupt the 
 tender years of the boy, and make the age of 
 his parent miserable.” 
 
 “This touches on importunity! Who art 
 thou, that comest in this hidden manner, to 
 support a petition once refused. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 con- 
 tinued the sovereign, with a composure that 
 constant practice in dissimulation rendered 
 
 to the beck of a superior. 
 
 ‘* Highness, the second victor in the ducal 
 regatta.” 
 
 “ Dost trifle in thy answers? The protec- 
 tion of a mask, in all that does not tend to 
 unsettle the peace of the city, is sacred. 
 But here seemeth matter to be looked into. 
 —Remove thy disguise, that we see thee, eye 
 to eye.” 
 
 “T have heard that he who kept civil speech, 
 and in naught offended against the laws, 
 might be seen at will, disguised in Venice, 
 without question of his affairs, or name.” 
 
 “‘ Most true, in all that does not offend St. 
 Mark. But here is a concert worthy of in- 
 quiry; I command thee, unmask.” 
 
 The waterman, reading in every face around 
 him the necessity of obedience, slowly with- 
 drew the means of concealment, and dis- 
 covered thy pallid countenance and glittering 
 eyes of Jacopo. An involuntary movement 
 of all near left this dreadful person standing, 
 singly, confronted with the prince of Venice, 
 in a circle of wondering and curious listeners. 
 
 “I know thee not!” exclaimed the Doge, 
 with an open amazement that proved his sin- 
 cerity, after regarding the other earnestly for 
 a moment. **‘I'hy reasons for the disguise 
 should be better than thy reason for refusing 
 the prize.” 
 
 The Signor Gradenigo drew near to the 
 sovereign, and whispered in his ear. When 
 he had done, the latter cast one look, in which 
 curiosity and aversion were in singular union 
 at the marked countenance of the Bravo, and 
 then he silently motioned to him to depart. 
 The throng drew about the royal person, with _ 
 instinctive readiness, closing the space in his 
 front. 
 
 “We shall look into this at our leisure,” 
 said the Doge. “ Let the festivities proceed.” 
 
 Jacopo bowed low, and withdrew. As he: e 
 moved along the deck of the Bucentaur, the| r 
 senators made way, as if pestilence was in his, 
 path, though it was quite apparent, by the 
 expression of their faces, that it was in 4 
 obedience to a feeling of a mixed character. — 
 The avoided, but still tolerated Bravo de- 
 scended to his gondola, and the usual signals 
 were given to the multitude beneath, who be- fi 
 lieved the customary ceremonies were ended. 4 
 
 “Let the gondolier of Don Camillo Mon- — 
 forte stand forth,” cried a herald, ohediaaaa 
 
 -. = a i teal = ont a 
 a a Sa A ey ee 
 
 ll TS et 
 
 i 
 
 een, a ee ee ee 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 “ Highness, here,” answered Gino, troub- 
 led and hurried. : 
 
 “Thou art of Calabria ? ” 
 
 “ Highness, yes.” 
 
 <‘But of long practice on our Venetian 
 eanals, or thy gondola could never have out- 
 stripped those of the readiest oarsman.— 
 Thou servest a noble master ?” 
 
 “ Highness, yes.” 
 
 ‘© And it would seem that the Duca di 
 Sant’ Agata is happy in the possession of an 
 honest and faithful follower?” 
 
 “ Highness, too happy.” 
 
 “ Kneel, and receive the reward of thy re- 
 solution and skill.” 
 
 Gino, unlike those who had preceded him, 
 bent a willing knee to the deck, and took the 
 prize with a low and humble inclination of 
 the body. At this moment the attention of 
 the spectators was drawn from the short and 
 simple ceremony by a loud shout, which arose 
 from the water, at no great distance from the 
 privileged bark of the senate. A common 
 movement drew all to the side of the galley, 
 and the successful gondolier was quickly for- 
 gotten. 
 
 A hundred boats were moving, in a body 
 towards the Lido, while the space they 
 covered on the water presented one compact 
 mass of the red caps of fishermen. In the 
 midst of this marine picture was seen the 
 bare head of Antonio, borne along in the 
 floating multitude, without any effort of his 
 own. ‘The general impulsion was received 
 from the vigorous arms of some thirty or 
 forty of their number, who towed those in 
 the rear by applying their force to three or 
 four large gondolas in advance, 
 
 There was no mistaking the object of this 
 singular and characteristic procession. The 
 tenants of the Lagunes, with the fickleness 
 with which extreme ignorance acts on human 
 passions, had suddenly experienced a violent 
 revolution in their feelings toward their an- 
 cient comrade. He who, an hour before, had 
 been derided as a vain and ridiculous pre- 
 tender, and on whose head bitter impreca- 
 tions had been so lavishly poured, was now 
 lauded with cries of triumph. 
 
 The gondoliers of the canals were laughed 
 to scorn, and the ears of even the haughty 
 nobles were not respected, as the exulting 
 
 ‘band taunted their pampered menials, 
 
 43 
 
 In short, by a process which is common 
 enough with man in all the divisions and sub- 
 divisions of society, the merit of one was at 
 once intimately and inseparably connected 
 with the glory and exultation of all. 
 
 Had the triumph of the fisherman confined 
 itself to this natural and commonplace exhi- 
 bition, it would not have given grave. offence — 
 to the vigilant and jealous power that watched 
 over the peace of Venice. But, amid the 
 shouts of approbation were mingled cries of 
 censure. Words of grave import were even 
 heard, denouncing those who refused to re- 
 store to Antonio his child ; and it was whis- 
 pered on the deck of the Bucentaur that, filled 
 with the imaginary importance of their pass- 
 ing victory, the hardy band of rioters had 
 dared to menace a forcible appeal to obtain 
 what they audaciously termed the justice of 
 the case. 
 
 This ebullition of popular feeling was wit- 
 nessed by the assembled senate in ominous 
 and brooding silence. One unaccustomed to 
 reflection on such a subject, or unpractised in 
 the world, might have fancied alarm and un- 
 easiness were painted on the grave counte- 
 nances of the patricians, and that the signs 
 of the times were little favorable to the con- 
 tinuance of an ascendancy that was depen- 
 dent more on the force of convention, that on 
 the possession of any physical superiority. | 
 But, on the other hand, one who was capable 
 of judging between the power of political as- 
 cendancy strengthened by its combinations 
 and order, and the mere ebullitions of pas- 
 sion, however loud and clamorous, might 
 readily have seen that the latter was not yet 
 displayed in sufficient energy to break down 
 the barriers which the first had erected. 
 
 The fishermen were permitted to go their 
 way unmolested, though here and there a 
 gondola was seen stealing towards the Lido, 
 bearing certain of those secret agents of the 
 police whose duty it was to forewarn the ex- 
 isting powers of the presence of danger. 
 Among the latter was the boat of the wine- 
 seller, which departed from the Piazzetta, 
 containing a stock of his merchandise, with\ 
 Annina, under the pretence of making his 
 profit out of the present turbulent temper of 
 their ordinary customers. In the meantime, 
 the sports proceeded, and the momentary 
 interruption was forgotten; or, if remembered, 
 
ond 
 
 474 
 
 it was ina manner suited to the secret and 
 fearful power which directed the destinies of 
 that remarkable republic. 
 
 There was another regatta, in which men 
 of inferior powers contended ; but we deem 
 it unworthy to detain the narrative by a de- 
 scription. 
 
 Though the grave tenants of the Bucentaur 
 seemed to take an interest in what was pass- 
 ing immediately before their eyes, they had 
 ears for every shout that was borne on the 
 evening breeze from the distant Lido; and 
 more than once the Doge himself was seen to 
 bend his looks in that direction, in a manner 
 which betrayed the concern that was upper- 
 most in his mind. 
 
 Still the day passed on asusual. Thecon- 
 querors triumphed, the crowd applauded, and 
 the collected senate appeared to sympathize 
 with the pleasures of a people, over whom 
 they ruled with a certainty of power that re- 
 sembled the fearful and mysterious march of 
 destiny. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? 
 —SHAKESPEARE. 
 THE evening of such a day, in a city with 
 the habits of Venice, was not likely to bespent 
 in the dulness of retirement. The great 
 square of St. Mark was again filled with its 
 
 and motley crowd, and the scenes already de- 
 
 ‘scribed in the opening chapters of this work, 
 
 were resuméd, if possible, with more apparent 
 devotion to the levities of the hour, than on 
 the occasion mentioned. The tumblers and 
 jugglers renewed thetr antics, the cries of the 
 fruitsellers and other venders of light luxuries 
 were again mingled wieh the tones of the flute 
 and the notes of the guitar and harp, while 
 the idle and the busy, the thoughtless and 
 the designing, the conspirator and the agent 
 of the police, once more met in privileged 
 security. 
 
 The night had advanced beyond its turn, 
 when a gondola came sweeping through the 
 shipping of the port, with that easy and swan- 
 like motion, which is peculiar to its slow 
 movement, and touched the quay with its 
 beak, at the point where the ‘canal of St. 
 Mark forms its junction with the bay. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMOREH COOPER. 
 
 “«“Thou art welcome, Antonio,” said one, 
 
 who approached the solitary individual that 
 had directed the gondola, when the latter 
 had thrust the iron spike of his painter be- 
 tween the crevices of the stones, as gondoliers 
 are accustomed to secure their barges : “thou 
 art welcome, Antonio, though late.” 
 
 ‘J begin to know the sounds of that voice 
 though they come from a masked face,” said 
 the fisherman. ‘‘ Friend, 1 owe my success 
 to-day to thy kindness, and though it has 
 not had the end for which I had both hoped 
 and prayed, I ought not to thank thee less. 
 Thou hast thyself been borne hard upon by 
 the world, or thou would’st not have be- 
 thought thee of a despised old man, when 
 the shouts of triumph were ringing in thy 
 ear, and when thy own young blood was 
 stirred with the feelings of pride and victory.” 
 
 “ Nature gives thee strong language, fisher- 
 man. I have not passed the hours, truly, in 
 the games and levities of my years. Life has 
 been no festa to me—but no matter. The 
 senate was not pleased to hear of lessening 
 the number of the galley’s crew, and thou 
 wilt bethink thee of some other reward. I 
 have, here, the chain and golden oar in the 
 hope that it will still be welcome.” 
 
 Antonio looked amazed, but, yielding to a 
 natural curiosity, he gazed a moment with a 
 longing at the prize. Then, recoiling with 
 a shudder, he uttered moodily, and with the 
 tones of one whose determination was made: 
 “J should think the bawble coined of my 
 grandchild’s blood. Keep it; they have 
 trusted it to thee, for it is thine of right,and _ 
 now that they refuse to hear my prayer, it — 
 will be useless to all but to him who fairly 
 earned it.” | 
 
 ‘Thou makest no allowance, fisherman, | 
 for difference of years and for sinews that are 
 in their vigor. Methinks that in adjudging { 
 such a prize, thought should be had to these | 
 matters, and then would’st thou be found | 
 outstripping us all. Holy St. Theodore! I) 
 passed my childhood with the oar in hand, | 
 and never before have I met one in Venice | 
 who has driven my gondola so hard! Thou | 
 touchest the water with the delicacy of a lady 
 fingering her harp, and yet with the force of | 
 the wave rolling on the Lido!” ; 
 
 ‘*T have seen the hour, Jacopo, when even | 
 thy young arm would have tired in such a-\ 
 
 ‘4 kai” <a IE 
 
 : 
 ; 
 - 
 
THH BRAVO. 
 
 strife between us. That was before the birth 
 /of my eldest son, who died in battle with the 
 Ottoman, when the dear boy he left me was 
 | but an infant in arms. Thou never sawest 
 | the comely lad, good Jacopo ?” 
 
 “‘T was not so happy, old man; but if he 
 resembled thee, well mayst thou mourn his 
 loss. Body of Diana! I have little cause 
 to boast of the small advantage youth and 
 strength gave me.” 
 
 “There was a force within that bore me 
 and the boat on—but of what use hath it 
 been? ‘Thy kindness, and the pain given to 
 an old frame that hath been long racked by. 
 hardship and poverty, are both thrown away 
 on the rocky hearts of the nobles.” 
 
 “We know not yet, Antonio. The good 
 saints will hear our prayers, when we least 
 think they are listening. Come with me, for 
 I am sent to seek thee.” 
 
 The fisherman regarded his new acquaint- 
 ance with surprise, and then turning to 
 bestow an instant of habitual care on his 
 boat, he cheerfully professed himself ready 
 to proceed. The place where they stood was 
 a little apart from the thoroughfare of the 
 quays, and though there was a brilliant moon, 
 the circumstance of two men, in their garbs, 
 being there, was not likely to attract observa- 
 tion ; but Jacopo did not appear to be satis- 
 fied with this security from remark. He 
 waited until Antonio had left the gondola, 
 and, then, unfolding a cloak, which had lain 
 on his arm, he threw it, without asking per- 
 mission over the shoulders of the other. A 
 cap, like that he wore himself, was next pro- 
 duced, and being placed on the gray hairs of 
 the fisherman, effectually completed his meta- 
 morphosis. 
 
 “There is no need of a mask,” he said, ex- 
 amining his companion attentively, when his 
 garb was accomplished. “ None would know 
 thee, Antonio, in this garb.” 
 
 «¢ And is there need of what thou hast 
 done, Jacopo ? I owe thee thanks for a well- 
 meant, and, but for the hardness of heart of 
 the rich and powerful, for what would have 
 proved a great, kindness. Still I must tell 
 thee that a mask was never yet put before my 
 face ; for what reason can there be, why one 
 who rises with the sun to go to his toil, and 
 who trusteth to the favor of the blessed St. 
 Anthony for the little he hath, should go 
 
 ANS 
 
 abroad like a gallant ready to steal the good 
 name of a virgin, or a robber at night ?” 
 
 “'Thou knowest our Venetian custom, and 
 it may be well to use some caution, in the 
 business we are on.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou forgettest that thy intention is yet 
 asecret to me. I say it again, and I say it 
 with truth and gratitude, that I owe thee 
 many thanks, though the end is defeated, 
 and the boy is still a prisoner in the floating- 
 school of wickedness—but thou hast a name, 
 Jacopo, that I could wish did not belong to 
 thee. I find it hard to believe all that they 
 have this day said, on the Lido, of one who 
 has so much feeling for the weak and 
 wronged.” 
 
 The Bravo ceased to adjust the disguise of 
 his companion, and the profound stillness 
 which succeeded his remark proved so pain- 
 ful to Antonio, that he felt like one reprieved 
 from suffocation, when he heard the deep 
 respiration that announced the relief of his 
 companion. 
 
 ‘*T would not willingly say 
 
 “No matter,” interrupted Jacopo, in a 
 hollow voice. ‘‘ No matter, fisherman; we 
 will speak of these things on some other oc- 
 casion. At present, follow, and be silent.” 
 
 As he ceased, the self-appointed guide of 
 Antonio beckoned for the latter to come on, 
 when he led the way from the water-side. 
 The fisherman obeyed, for little did it matter 
 to one poor and heart-stricken as he, whither 
 he was conducted. Jacopo took the first 
 entrance into the court of the Doge’s palace. 
 His footstep was leisurely, and to the passing 
 multitude they appeared like any others of 
 the thousands who were abroad to breathe 
 the soft air of the night or to enter into the 
 pleasures of the piazza. 
 
 When within the dimmer and broken light 
 of the court, Jacopo paused, evidently to 
 scan the persons of those it contained. It is 
 to be presumed he saw no reason to delay, 
 for with a secret sign to his companion to 
 follow, he crossed the area, and mounted the. 
 well-known steps, down which the head of 
 the Faliero had rolled, and which, from the 
 statues on the summit, are called the Giant’s 
 Stairs. The celebrated mouths of the lions 
 were passed, and they were walking swiftly 
 along the open gallery, when they encoun- 
 tered a halberdier of -the ducal guard. 
 
 3) 
 
476 
 
 «Who comes ?”? demanded the mercenary, 
 throwing forward his long and dangerous 
 weapon. 
 
 ‘Friends to the state and to St. Mark.” 
 
 «None pass, at this hour, without the 
 word.” 
 
 Jacopo motioned to Antonio to stand fast, 
 while he drew nearer to the halberdier and 
 whispered. The weapon was instantly 
 thrown up, and the sentinel again paced the 
 long gallery, with practised indifference. 
 The way was no sooner cleared than they 
 proceeded. Antonio, not a little amazed at 
 what he had already seen, eagerly followed 
 his guide, for his heart began to beat high 
 with an exciting, but undefined hope. He 
 was not so ignorant of human affairs as to 
 require to be told, that those who ruled 
 would some time concede that in secret, 
 which policy forbade them to yield openly. 
 Full, therefore, of the expectation of being 
 ushered into the presence of the Doge him- 
 self, and of having his child restored to his 
 arms, the old man stepped lightly along the 
 gloomy gallery, and darting through an en- 
 trance, at the heels of Jacopo, he found him- 
 self at the foot of another flight of massive 
 steps. ‘The route now became confused to 
 the fisherman, for, quitting the more public 
 vomitories of the palace, his companion held 
 his way by asecret door, through many dimly 
 lighted and obscure passages. They ascended 
 
 and descended frequently, as often quitting ' 
 
 or entering rooms of but ordinary dimensions 
 and decorations, until the head of Antonio 
 was completely turned, and he no longer 
 knew the general direction of their course. 
 At length they stopped, in an apartment of in- 
 ferior ornaments, and of a dusky color, which 
 the feeble light rendered still more gloomy. 
 
 ‘Thou art well acquainted with the dwell- 
 ing of our prince,” said the fisherman, when 
 his companion enabled him to speak, by 
 checking his swift movements. ‘‘ The oldest 
 gondolier of Venice is not more ready on the 
 canals, than thou appearest to be among 
 these galleries and corridors.” 
 
 ‘Tis my business to bring thee hither, 
 and what I am to do, I endeavor to do well. 
 Antonio, thou art a man that feareth not to 
 stand in the presence of the great, as this 
 day hath shown. Summon thy courage, for 
 a moment of trial is before thee.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “T have spoken boldly to the Doge. Ex- 
 cept the Holy Father, himself, what power 
 is there on earth beside to fear ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Thou mayest have spoken, fisherman, 
 too boldly. ‘Temper thy language, for the 
 great love not words of disrespect.” 
 
 ‘Tg truth unpleasant to them?” 
 
 ‘That is as may be. They love to hear 
 their own acts praised, when their acts have 
 merited praise, but they do not like to hear 
 them condemned, even though they know 
 what is said to be just.” 
 
 “‘T fear me,” said the old man, looking 
 with simplicity at the other, “ there is little 
 difference between the powerful and the 
 weak, when the garments are stripped from 
 both, and the man stands naked to the eye.” 
 
 «That truth may not be spoken here.” 
 
 “How! Do they deny that they are 
 Christians, and mortals, and sinners ?” 
 
 «They make a merit of the first, Antonio; 
 they forget the second, and they never like 
 to be called the last, by any but themselves.” 
 
 “T doubt, Jacobo, after all, if I get from 
 them the freedom of the boy.” F 
 
 ‘‘Speak them fair, and say naught to 
 wound their self-esteem, or to menace their 
 authority—they will pardon much, if the 
 last, in particular, be respected.” 
 
 “ But it is that authority which has taken 
 away my child! Can I speak in favor of the 
 power which I know to be unjust ? ” 
 
 “Thou must feign it, or thy suit will fail.” 
 
 ‘“‘T will go back to the Lagunes, good Ja- — 
 cobo, for this tongue of mine hath ever moved — 
 at the bidding of the heart. I fear lam too — 
 old to say that a son may righteously be torn ~ 
 from the father by violence. Tell them, — 
 thou, from me, that I came thus far, in order © 
 to do them respect, but, that seeing the © 
 hopelessness of beseeching further, I have — 
 gone to my nets, and to my prayers to blessed 
 St. Anthony.” ? 
 
 As he ceased speaking, Antonio wrung the ~ 
 hand of his motionless companion, and turned ~ 
 away, as if to retire. Two halberds fell to 
 the level of his breast, ere his foot had quitted 
 the marble floor, and he now saw, for the first 
 time, that armed men crossed his passage, 
 and that, in truth, he was a prisoner. Na- — 
 ture had endowed the fisherman with a quick 
 and just perception, and long habit had 
 given great steadiness to his nerves. When 
 
HE BiyA VO. 
 
 he perceived his real situation, instead of 
 entering into useless remonstrance, or in any 
 manner betraying alarm, he again turned to 
 Jacobo with an air of patience and resigna- 
 tion. | 
 
 “Tt must be. that the illustrious Signori 
 wish to do me justice,” he said, smoothing 
 the remnant of his hair, as men of his class 
 prepare themselves for the presence of their 
 superiors, ‘“‘and it would not be decent, in 
 an humble fisherman, to refuse them .the 
 opportunity. It would be better, however, 
 if there were less force used here in Venice, 
 in a matter of simple right and wrong. But 
 the great love to show their power, and the 
 weak must submit.” 
 
 “We shall see!” answered Jacobo, who 
 had manifested no emotion during the abor- 
 tive attempt of the other to retire. 
 
 A profound silence succeeded. The hal- 
 berdiers maintained their rigid attitudes, 
 within the shadow of the wall, looking like 
 two insensible statues, in the attire and armor 
 of the age, while Jagobo‘and his companion 
 occupied the centre of the room, with scarcely 
 more of the appearance of consciousness and 
 animation. It may be well to explain here 
 to the reader some of the peculiar machinery 
 of the state, in the country of which we 
 write, and which is connected with the scene 
 that is about to follow: for the name of a re- 
 public, a word which, if it mean anything, 
 strictly implies the representation and su- 
 premacy of the general interests, but which 
 has so frequently been prostituted to the 
 protection and monopolies of privileged 
 classes, may have induced him to believe that 
 there was, at least, a resemblance between 
 the outlines of that government, and the 
 more just, because more popular, institutions 
 of his own country. 
 
 In an age when rulers were profane enough 
 to assert, and the ruled weak enough to al- 
 low, that the right of a man to govern his 
 ‘fellows was a direct gift from God, a depart- 
 ure from the bold and selfish principle, 
 though it were only in profession, was thought 
 sufficient to give a character of freedom and 
 common sense to the polity of anation. This 
 belief is not without some justification, since 
 it establishes, in theory at least, the founda- 
 tions of government on a base sufficiently 
 different from that which supposes all power 
 
 47% 
 
 to be the property of one, and that one to be 
 the representative of the faultless and omnip- 
 otent Ruler of the Universe. With the first 
 of these principles we have nothing to do, 
 except it be to add that there are proposi- 
 tions so inherently false that they only re- 
 quire to be fairly statcd to produce their own 
 refutation; but our subject necessarily draws 
 us into a short digression on the errors of 
 the second, as they existed in Venice. 
 
 It is probable that when the patricians of 
 St. Mark created a community of political 
 rights in their own body, they believed their 
 state had done all that was necessary to 
 merit the high and generous title it assumed, 
 They had innovated on a generally received 
 principle, and they cannot claim the distinc- 
 tion of being either the first, or the last, 
 who have imagined that to take the incip- 
 lent steps in political improvement, is at 
 once to reach the goal of perfection. Ven- 
 ice had no doctrine of divine right, and as 
 her prince was little more than a pageant, 
 she boldly iaid claim to be called a repnblic. 
 She believed that a representation of the 
 most prominent and brilliant interests in 
 society was the paramount object of govern- 
 ment, and, faithful to the seductive but 
 dangerous error, she mistook to the last col- 
 lective power for socia! happiness. 
 
 It may be taken asa governing principle, 
 in all civil relations, that the strong will grow 
 stronger, and the feeble more weak, until the 
 first become unfit to rule, or the last unable 
 to endure. In this important truth is con- 
 tained the secret of the downfall of all those 
 states which have crumbled beneath. the 
 weight of their own abuses. It teaches the 
 necessity of widening the foundations of so- 
 ciety, until the base shall have a breadth 
 capable of securing the just representation | 
 of every interest, without which thé social | 
 machine is liable to interruption from its © 
 own movement, and eventually to destruc- 
 tion from its own excesses. 
 
 Venice, though ambitious and tenacious 
 of the name of a republic, was, in truth, a 
 narrow, a vulgar, and an exceedingly heart- 
 less oligarchy. ‘To the former title she had 
 no other claim than her denial of the naked 
 principle already mentioned, while her prac- 
 tice is liable to the reproach of the two lat- 
 ter, in the unmanly and narrow character of 
 
478 
 
 its exclusion, in every act of her foreign pol- 
 icy, and in every measure of her internal 
 police. An aristocracy must ever want the 
 high personal feeling which often tempers 
 despotism by the qualities of the chief, or 
 the generous and human impulses of a pop- 
 ular rule. It has the merit of substituting 
 things for_men, it is true, but unhappily it 
 substitutes-the.-things-of-a-few men. for 
 those of.the-whole. It partakes, and it al- 
 ways has partaken, though necessarily tem- 
 pered by circumstances and the opinions of 
 different ages, of the selfishness of all cor- 
 porations, in which the responsibility of the 
 individual, while his acts are professedly sub- 
 mitted to the temporizing expedients of a 
 collective interest, is lost in the subdivision 
 of numbers. At the period of which we 
 write, Italy had several of these self-styled 
 commonwealths, in not one of which, however, 
 was there ever a fair and just confiding of 
 power to the body of the people, though per- 
 haps there is not one that has not been cited, 
 sooner or later, in proof of the inability of 
 ‘man to govern himself! In order to demon- 
 /strate the fallacy of a reasoning, which is so 
 fond of predicting the downfall of our own 
 liberal system, supported by examples drawn 
 from trans-atlantic states of the middle ages, 
 it is necessary only to recount here, a little 
 in detail, the forms in which power was ob- 
 tained and exercised, in the most important 
 of them all. 
 
 Distinctions in rank, as separated entire- 
 ly from the will of the nation, formed the 
 basis of Venetian polity. Authority, though 
 divided, was not less a birthright, than in 
 those governments in which it was openly 
 avowed to be a dispensation of Providence. 
 The patrician order had its high and exclu- 
 sive privileges, which were guarded and 
 maintained with a most selfish and engros- 
 sing spirit. He who was not born to govern, 
 had little hope of ever entering into the pos- 
 session of his natural rights ; while he who 
 was, by the intervention of chance, might 
 wield a power of the most fearful and de- 
 spotic character. At a certain age, all of 
 senatorial rank (for, by a specious fallacy, 
 nobility did not take its usual appellations) 
 were admitted into the councils of the na- 
 tion. The names of the leading families 
 were inscribed in a register, which was well 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 entitled the “ Golden Book,” and he who en- 
 joyed the envied distinction of having an 
 ancestor thus enrolled, could, with a few 
 exceptions (such as that named in the case 
 of Don Camillo), present himself in the sen- 
 ate, and lay claim to the honors of the 
 ‘* Horned Bonnet.” Neither our limits, nor 
 our object will permit a digression of suffi- 
 cient length to point out the whole of the 
 leading features of a system so vicious, and 
 which was, perhaps, only rendered tolerable 
 to those it governed, by the extraneous con- 
 tributions of captured and subsidiary prov- 
 inces, on which, in truth, as in all cases of 
 metropolitan rule, the oppression weighed 
 most grievously. The reader will at once 
 see, that the very reason why the despotism 
 of the self-styled republic was tolerable to its 
 own citizens, was but another cause of its 
 eventual destruction. 
 
 As the senate became too numerous to con- 
 duct, with sufficient secrecy and dispatch, 
 the affairs of a state that pursued a policy 
 alike tortuous and complicated, the most 
 general of its important interests were in- 
 trusted to acouncil composed of three hun- 
 dred of its members. In order to avoid the 
 publicity and delay of a body large even as 
 this, a second selection was made, which was 
 known as the Council of Ten, and to which 
 much of the executive power, that aristocrati- 
 cal jealousy withheld from the titular chief of 
 the state, was confided. To this point the 
 political economy of the Venetian republic, 
 however faulty, had at least some merit for 
 simplicity and frankness. The ostensible 
 agents of the administration were known, and 
 ghough all real responsibility to the nation 
 was lost, in the superior influence and narrow 
 policy of the ’patricians, the rulers could not 
 entirely escape from the odium that public 
 opinion might attach to their unjust and 
 illegal proceedings. But a state, whose pros- 
 perity was chiefly founded on the contribution 
 and support of dependents, and whose exist- 
 ence was equally menaced by its own false 
 
 principles, and by the growth of other and — ; 
 
 neighboring powers, had need of a still more 
 efficient body, in the absence of that execu- 
 tive which its own republican pretensions de- 
 nied to Venice. A political inquisition, which 
 
 came in time to be one of the most fearful — 
 
 engines of police ever known, was the conse- 
 
. 
 { 
 : 
 | 
 . 
 i 
 . 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 quence. An authority, as irresponsible as it 
 was absolute, was periodically confined to an- 
 other and still smaller body, which met and 
 exercised its despotic and secret functions 
 under the name of the Council of Three. The 
 choice of these temporary rulers was decided 
 by lot, and ina manner that prevented the 
 result from being known to any but to their 
 
 / own number, and toa few of the most confi- 
 _ dential of the more permanent officers of the 
 
 government. 
 
 Thus there existed, atall times, 
 in the heart of Venice, a mysterious and des- 
 potic power, that was wielded by men who 
 moved in society unknown, and apparently 
 surrounded by all the ordinary charities of 
 life; but which, in truth, was influenced by 
 a set of political maxims, that were perhaps 
 as ruthless, as tyraunic, and as selfish as ever 
 were invented by the evil ingenuity of man. 
 
 _ It was, in short, a power that could only be 
 entrusted, without abuse, to infallible virtue 
 
 and infinite intelligence, using the terms in a 
 
 sense limited by human means; and yet it was 
 here confided to men, whose title was founded 
 on the double accident, of birth—and the 
 colors of balls, and by whom it was wielded, 
 | without even the check of publicity. 
 
 : 
 
 FI 
 
 e 
 § 
 rf 
 
 i 
 
 - 
 
 The Council of Three met in secret, ordin- 
 arily issued its decrees without communicat- 
 ing with any other body, and had them en- 
 forced with a fearfulness of mystery, and a 
 suddenness of execution, that resembled the 
 blows of fate. The Doge himself was not 
 superior to its authority, nor protected from 
 its decisions, while it has been known that 
 one of the privileged Three has been de- 
 nounced by his companions. There is still in 
 existence a long list of the state maxims which*® 
 this secret tribunal recognized as its rule of 
 conduct, and it is not saying too much to 
 affirm that they set at defiance ‘every other 
 consideration but expediency,—all the rec- 
 ognized laws of God, and every principle of 
 justice, which is esteemed among men. The 
 advances of the human intellect, supported 
 by the means of publicity, may temper the 
 exercise of a similar irresponsible power, in 
 
 _ our own age, but in no country has this sub- 
 
 _ stitution of a soulless corporation for an elect- 
 
 { 
 é 
 
 ive representation, been made, in which a 
 sytem of rule has not been established, that 
 sets at naught the laws of natural justice and 
 the rights of the citizen. Any pretension to 
 
 479 
 
 the contrary, by placing profession in opposi- 
 tion to practice, is only adding hypocrisy to 
 usurpation. 
 
 It appears to be an unavoidable general 
 consequence that abuses should follow, when 
 power is exercised by a permanent and irre- 
 sponsible body, from whom there is no appeal. 
 When this power is secretly exercised, the 
 abuses become still more grave. It is also 
 worthy of remark, that in the nations which 
 submit, or have submitted to these undue 
 and dangerous influences, the pretensions to 
 justice and generosity are of the most exag: 
 gerated character; for while the fearless demo- 
 crat vents his personal complaints aloud, and 
 the voice of the subject of professed des- 
 potism is smothered entirely, necessity itself 
 dictates to the oligarchist the policy of seem- 
 liness as one of the conditions of his own 
 safety. ‘Thus Venice prided herself on the 
 justice of St. Mark, and few states maintained 
 a greater show, or put forth a more lofty claim 
 to the possession of the sacred quality, than 
 that whose real maxims of government were 
 veiled in a mystery that even the loose moral- 
 ity of the age exacted. 
 
 ee 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A power that if but named 
 In casual converse, be it where it might, 
 The speaker lower’d, at once, his voice, his eyes, 
 And pointed upward as at God in Heaven.—RoGERS. 
 
 THE reader has probably anticipated that 
 Antonio was now standing in an antechamber 
 of the secret and stern tribunal, described 
 in the preceding chapter. In common with 
 all of his class, the fisherman had a vague 
 idea of the existence and of the attributes of 
 the council before which he was to appear; 
 but his simple apprehension was far from 
 comprehending the extent, or the nature, of 
 functions that equally took cognizance of the 
 most important interests of the republic, and 
 of the more trifling concerns of a patrician 
 family. While conjectures on the probable 
 result of the expected interview were passing 
 through his mind, an inner door opened and 
 an attendant signed for Jacopo to advance. 
 
 The deep and imposing silence which in- 
 stantly succeeded the entrance of the sum- 
 
480 
 
 moned into the presence of the Council of | 
 
 Three, gave time for a slight examination of 
 the apartment and of those it contained. 
 The room was not large for that country and 
 climate, but rather of a size suited to the 
 closeness of the councils that had place 
 within its walls. The floor was tessellated 
 with alternate pieces of black and white mar- 
 ble; the walls were draped in one common and 
 sombre dress of black cloth; a single lamp of 
 dark bronze was suspended over a solitary 
 table in its centre, which, like every other 
 article of the scanty furniture, had the same 
 melancholy covering as the walls. In the an- 
 eles of the room there were projecting closets, 
 which might have been what they seemed, or 
 merely passages into the other apartments of 
 the palace. All the doors were concealed 
 from casual observation by the hangings, 
 which gave one general and chilling aspect of 
 gloom to the whole scene. On the side of 
 the room opposite to that on which Antonio 
 stood, three men were seated in curule chairs ; 
 but their masks, and the drapery which con- 
 cealed their forms, prevented all recognition 
 of their persons. One ofthis powerful body 
 wore a robe of crimson, as the representative 
 that fortune had given to the select council 
 of the Doge, and the others robes of black, 
 being those which had drawn the lucky, or 
 rather the nnlucky balls, in the Council of 
 Ten, itself a temporary and chance-created 
 body of the senate. There were one or two 
 subordinates near the table, but these, as 
 well as the still more humble officials of the 
 place, were hid from all ordinary knowledge 
 by disguises similar to those of the chiefs. 
 Jacopo regarded the scene like one accustomed 
 to its effect, though with evident reverence 
 and awe; but the impression on Antonio was 
 too manifest to be lost. It is probable that 
 the long pause which followed his introduc- 
 tion was intended to produce, and to note 
 this effect, for keen eyes were intently watch- 
 ing his countenance during its continuance. 
 
 “Thou art called Antonio, of the La- 
 gunes?” demanded one of the secretaries 
 near the table, when a sign had been secretly 
 made from the crimson member of that fear- 
 ful tribunal, to proceed. 
 
 ‘‘A poor fisherman, eccellenza, who owes 
 much to blessed Saint Antonio of the Mirac- 
 ulous Draught.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 «* And thou hast a son who bears thine own 
 name, and who follows the same pursuit !” 
 
 “Tt is the duty of a Christian to submit to 
 the will of God! My boy has been dead 
 twelve years come the day when the republic’s 
 galleys chased the Infidel from Corfu to Can- 
 dia. He was slain, noble Signor, with many 
 others of his calling, in that bloody fight.” 
 
 There was a movement of surprise among 
 the clerks, who whispered together, and ap- 
 peared to examine the papers in their hands, 
 with some haste and confusion. Glances 
 were sent back at the judges, who sat motion- 
 less, wrapped in the impenetrable mystery of 
 their functions. A secret sign, however, 
 soon caused the armed attendants of the 
 place to lead Antonio and his companion 
 from the room. 
 
 ‘Here is some inadvertency!” said a 
 stern voice from one of the masked Three, 
 so soon as the fall of the footsteps of those 
 who retired was no longer audible. ‘It is 
 not seemly that the inquisition of St. Mark 
 should show this ignorance.” 
 
 ‘‘TIt touches merely the family of an 
 obscure fisherman, illustrious Signor,” re- 
 turned the trembling dependant; ‘‘and it 
 may be that his art would wish to deceive us 
 in the opening interrogatories.” 
 
 “Thou art in error,” interrupted another 
 of the Three. “The man is named Antonio 
 Vecchio, and as he sayeth, his only child died 
 in the hot affair with the Ottoman. He of 
 whom there is question is a grandson, and 
 is still a boy.” 
 
 ‘‘The noble Signor is right,” returned the 
 clerk: “In the hurry of affairs we have mis- 
 conceived a fact, which the wisdom of the 
 council has been quick to rectify. St. Mark 
 is happy in having among his proudest and 
 oldest names senators who enter thus famil- 
 iarly into the interests of his meanest chil- 
 dren!” 
 
 ‘‘Let the man be again introduced,” re- 
 sumed the judge, slightly bending his head 
 to the compliment. ‘‘ These accidents are 
 unavoidable in the press of affairs,” 
 
 The necessary order was given, and An- 
 tonio, with his companion constantly at 
 his elbow, was brought once more into the 
 presence. 
 
 “Thy son died in the service of the re- 
 public, Antonio ?” demanded the secretary. 
 
 “poy ae een 
 
 i 
 . 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 **Signor, he did. Holy Maria have pity 
 on his early fate, and listen to my prayers! 
 
 : 
 “So good a child and so brave a man can have 
 
 no great need of masses for his soul, or his 
 death would have been doubly grievous to 
 me, since I am too poor to buy them.” 
 
 *“'Thou hast a grandson ?” 
 
 **T had one, noble senator; I hope he still 
 lives.” 
 
 “ He is not with thee in thy labors on the 
 Lagunes ? ” 
 
 “San Teodoro grant that he were! He is 
 taken, Signor, with many more of tender 
 years, into the galleys, whence may our Lady 
 give hima safe deliverance! If your eccel- 
 lenza has an opportunity to speak with the 
 general of the galleys, or with any other who 
 may have authority in sucha matter, on my 
 knees, I pray you to speak in behalf of the 
 child, who is a good and_ pious lad, that 
 seldom casts a line into the water, without 
 an ave or a prayer to St. Anthony, and who 
 has never given me uneasiness, until he fell 
 into the grip of St. Mark.” 
 
 **Rise—This it not the affair in which I 
 have to question thee. Thou hast this day 
 spoken of thy prayer to our most illustrious 
 prince, the Doge?” i¢ 
 
 *“T have prayed his highness to give the 
 boy liberty.” 
 
 ‘‘And this thou hast done openly, and 
 with little deference to the high dignity and 
 sacred character of the chief of the republic ?” 
 
 “J did it like a father and a man. If but 
 half what they say of the justice and kind- 
 ness of the state were true, his highness 
 would have heard me as a father and a man.” 
 
 A slight movement among the fearful 
 Three caused the secretary to pause; when 
 he saw, however, that his superiors chose to 
 maintain their silence, he continned— 
 
 “This didst thou once in public and 
 among the senators, but when repulsed, as 
 urging a petition both out of place and out 
 of reason, thou soughtest other to prefer thy 
 request ?” 
 
 «True, illustrious Signor.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou camest among the gondoliers of 
 the regatta in an unseemly garb, and placed 
 thyself foremost with those who contended 
 for the favor of the senate and its prince ?” 
 
 “T came in the garb which I wear before 
 
 the Virgin and St. Antonio, and if [ was 
 
 481 
 
 foremost in the race, it was more owing to 
 the goodness and favor of the man at my 
 side, than any virtue which is still left in 
 these withered sinews and dried bones. San 
 Marco remember him in his need, for the 
 kind wish, and soften the hearts of the great 
 to hear the prayer of a childless parent! ” 
 
 There was another slight expression of sur- 
 prise, or curiosity, among the inquisitors, and 
 once more the secretary suspended his exam- 
 ination. 
 
 “Thou hearest, Jacopo,” said one of the 
 Three. “ What answer dost thou make the 
 fisherman ? ” 
 
 ‘Signor, he speaketh truth.” 
 
 “ And thou hast dared to trifle with the 
 pleasures of the city, and to set at naught 
 the wishes of the Doge!” 
 
 ‘‘ Jf it be a crime, illustrious senator, to 
 have pitied an old man who mourned for his 
 offspring, and to have given up my own 
 solitary triumph to his love for the boy, I 
 am guilty.” 
 
 There was a long and silent pause after 
 this reply. Jacopo had spoken with habitual 
 reverence, but with the grave composure that 
 appeared to enter deeply into the composition 
 of his character. The paleness of the cheek 
 was the same, and the glowing eye, which so 
 singularly lighted and animated a counte- 
 nance that possessed a hue not unlike that of 
 death, scarce varied its gaze, while he an- 
 swered. A secret sign caused the secretary 
 to proceed with his duty. 
 
 ‘‘ And thou owest thy success in the re- 
 gatta, Antonio, to the favor of thy competi- 
 tor—he who is now with thee, in the pres- 
 ence of the council ?” 
 
 “ Under St. Theodore and St. Antonio, the 
 city’s patron and my own.” 
 
 “ And thy whole desire was to urge again 
 thy rejected petition in behalf of the young 
 sailor ?” 
 
 “Signor, I had no other. What is the 
 vanity of a triumph among the gondoliers 
 or the bawble of a mimic oar and chain, to 
 one of my years and condition ?” 
 
 ‘“Thou forgettest that the oar and chain 
 are gold?” 
 
 ‘Excellent gentlemen, gold cannot heal 
 the wounds which misery has left on a heavy 
 heart. Give me back the child, that my eyes 
 may not be closed by strangers, and that I 
 EP 
 
 3 
 
482 
 
 may speak good council into his young ears, 
 while there is hope my words may be remem- 
 bered, and I care not for all the metals of 
 the Rialto! Thou mayest see that I utter 
 no vain vaunt, by this jewel, which I offer to 
 the nobles, with the reverence due to their 
 greatness and wisdom.” 
 
 When the fisherman had done speaking, 
 he advanced, with the timid step of a man 
 unaccustomed to move in superior presences, 
 and laid upon the dark cloth of the table a 
 ring that sparkled with, what at least seemed 
 to be, very precious stones. The astonished 
 secretary raised the jewel, and held it in sus- 
 pense before the eyes of the judges. 
 
 ‘‘How is this?” exclaimed he of the 
 Three, who had oftenest interfered in the 
 examination; “‘that seemeth the pledge of 
 our nuptials ! ” 
 
 ‘Tt is no other, illustrious senator: with 
 this ring did the Doge wed the Adriatic, in 
 the presence of the ambassadors and the 
 people.” 
 
 “ Hadst thou aught to do with this also, 
 Jacopo ?” sternly demanded the judge. 
 
 The Bravo turned his eye on the jewel 
 with a look of interest, but his voice main- 
 tained its usual depth and steadiness as he 
 answered, 
 
 ‘Signor, no—until now, I knew not the 
 fortune of the fisherman.” 
 
 A sign to the secretary caused him to re- 
 sume his questions. 
 
 ‘Thou must account, and clearly account, 
 Antonio,” he said, “ for the manner in which 
 this sacred ring came into thy possesion; 
 hadst thou any one to aid thee in obtaining 
 Th 39 
 
 « Signor, I had.” 
 
 “ Name him, at Onre; that we takers meas- 
 ures for his security.” 
 
 ««?T'will be useless, Signor; he is far above 
 the power of Venice.” 
 
 “What meanest thou, fellow? None are 
 superior to the right and the force of the re 
 public that dwell within her limits. Answer 
 without evasion, as thou valuest thy person.” 
 
 “T should prize that which is of little 
 value, Signor, and be guilty of a great folly, 
 as well as of a great sin, were I to deceive 
 you, to save a body old and worthless as mine 
 from stripes. If your eccellenzas are willing 
 to hear, you will find that I am no less wil- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ling to tell the manner in which I got the 
 ring.” 
 
 ‘Speak, then, and trifle not.” 
 
 ‘‘T know not, Signori, whether you are 
 used to hearing untruths, that you caution 
 meso much not to deal with them; but we | 
 of the Lagunes are not afraid to say what we 
 have seen and done, for most of our business 
 is with the winds and waves, which take 
 their orders from God himself. ‘There isa 
 tradition, Signori, among us fishermen, that 
 in times past, one of our body brought up 
 from the bay the ring with which the Doge is 
 accustomed to marry the Adriatic. A jewel 
 of that value was of little nse to one who 
 casts his nets daily for bread and oil, and he 
 brought it to the Doge, as became a fisher- 
 man, into whose hands the saints had thrown 
 a prize to which he had no title, as it were to 
 prove his honeaty. This act of our compan- 
 ion is much spoken of on the Lagunesand — 
 at the Lido, and it is said there is anoble © 
 painting done by some of our Venetian mas- 
 ters, in the halls of the palace, which tells the 
 story as it happened; showing the prince on 
 his throne, and the lucky fisherman with his 
 naked legs, rendering back to his highness 
 that which had been lost. I hope there is 
 foundation for this belief, Signori, which 
 greatly flatters our pride, and is not without 
 use in keeping some among us truer to the 
 right, and better favored in the eyes of St. 
 Anthony, than might otherwise be.” 
 
 “<The fact was so.” 
 
 ‘‘And the painting, excellent signor? I 
 hope our vanity has not deceived us concern- 
 ing the picture, either ? ” 
 
 “The picture ‘af mention is to be seen 
 within the palace.” 
 
 ‘‘ Corpo di Bacco! I have had my misgiv- 
 ings on that point, for it is not common that 
 the rich and the happy should take such note 
 of what the humble and the poor have done. 
 Is the work from the hands of the great Tizi 
 ano himself, eccellenza ?” 
 
 “Tt is not; one of little name hath put his 
 pencil to the canvas.” 
 
 “They say that Tiziano had the art of — 
 giving to his works the look and richness of 
 flesh, and one would think that a just man 
 might find, in the honesty of the poor fisher- 
 man, a coler bright enough to have satisfied 
 even his eye. But it may be that the senate 
 
 i 
 j 
 5 
 { 
 
 4 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 saw danger in thus flattering us of the La- 
 - gunes.” ; 
 
 “* Proceed with the account of thine own 
 fortune with the ring.” | 
 
 “ Tllustrious nobles, I have often dreamed 
 of the luck of my fellow of the old times; 
 and more than once have I drawn the nets 
 with an eager hand in my sleep, thinking to 
 find that very jewel entangled in its meshes, 
 or embowelled by some fish. What I have so 
 often fancied has at last happened. I aman 
 old man, signori, and there are few pools or 
 banks between Fusina and Giorgio, that my 
 lines or my nets have not fathomed or coy- 
 ered. The spot to which the Bucentaur is 
 wont to steer in these ceremonies is well 
 known to me, and I had a care to cover the 
 bottom round about with all my nets in the 
 hope of drawing up the ring. When his 
 highness cast the jewel, I dropped a buoy to 
 mark the spot—signori, this is all—my ac- 
 complice was St. Anthony.” 
 
 _ “For doing this you had a motive? ” 
 
 “Holy Mother of God! Was it not suffi- 
 cient to get back my boy from the gripe of 
 the galleys ?” exclaimed Antonio, with an 
 energy and a simplicity that are often found 
 to be in the same character. “I thought 
 that if the Doge and the senate were willing 
 to cause pictures to be painted, and honors 
 to be given to one poor fisherman, for the 
 ring, they might be glad to reward another, by 
 releasing a lad who can be of no great service 
 to the republic, but who is all to his parent.” 
 
 “Thy petition to his highness, thy strife 
 in the regatta, and thy search for the ring, 
 had the same object ?” 
 
 «<'T'o me, signor, life has but one.” 
 
 There was a slight but suppressed move- 
 ment among the council. 
 
 “When thy request was refused by his 
 highness, as ill-timed “ 
 
 “ Ah! eccellenza, when one has a white 
 head and a failing arm, he cannot stop to 
 look for the proper moment in such a cause! ” 
 interrupted the fisherman, with a gleam of 
 that impetuosity which forms the true base 
 of Italian character. 
 
 “When thy request was denied, and thou 
 hadst refused the reward of the victor, thou 
 _ wentest among thy fellows and fedest their 
 ears with complaints of the injustice of St. 
 Mark, and of the senate’s tyranny ?” 
 
 483 
 
 “Signor, no. I went away sad and heart- 
 broken, for I had not thought the Doge and 
 nobles would have refused a successful gon- 
 dolier so light a boon.” 
 
 ‘“‘And this thou didst not hesitate to pro-— 
 claim among the fishermen and idlers of the 
 Lido? ” 
 
 ‘* Kecellenza, it was not needed—my fel- 
 lows knew my unhappiness, and tongues were 
 not wanting to tell the worst.” 
 
 “There was a tumult, with thee at its 
 head, and sedition was uttered, with much 
 vain-boasting of what the fleet of the Lagunes 
 could perform against the fleet of the repub- 
 lie z? 
 
 ‘* There is little difference, signor, between 
 the two, except that the men of the one goin 
 gondolas with nets, and the men of the other 
 are in the galleys of the state. Why should 
 brothers seek each other’s blood ?” 
 
 The movement among the judges was more 
 manifest than ever. They whispered togeth- 
 er, and a paper containing a few lines, written 
 rapidly in pencil, was put into the hands of 
 the examining secretary. 
 
 “Thou didst address thy fellows and spakest 
 openly of thy fancied wrongs; thou didst 
 comment on the laws which require the ser- 
 vices of the citizens, when the republic is 
 compelled to send forth a fleet against its 
 enemies.” 
 
 “It is not easy to be silent, signor, when 
 the heart is full.” 
 
 “ And there was consultation among thee 
 of coming to the palace ina body, and of 
 asking the discharge of thy grandson from the 
 Doge, in the name of the rabble of the Lido.” 
 
 ‘* Signor, there were some generous enough 
 to make the offer, but others were of advice 
 it would be well to reflect before they took so 
 bold a measure.” 
 
 ‘* And thou—what was thine own counsel 
 on that point ?” 
 
 ‘* Kecellenza, I am old, and though unused 
 to be thus questioned by illustrious senators, 
 I had seen enough of the manner in which 
 St. Mark governs, to believe a few unarmed 
 fishermen and gondoliers would not be list- 
 ened to with 3 
 
 ‘Ha! Did the gondoliers become of thy 
 party: I should have believed them jealous, 
 and displeased with the triumph of one who 
 was not of their body.” 
 
484 
 
 «A gondolier is a man, and though they 
 had the feelings of human nature on being 
 beaten, they had also the feelings of human 
 nature when they heard that a father was 
 robbed of his son,—Signor,” continued An- 
 tonio, with great earnnestness and a singu- 
 lar simplicity, ‘‘there will be great discon- 
 tent on the canals, if the galleys sail with the 
 boy aboard them !” 
 
 ‘‘Such is thy opinion—were the gondo- 
 liers on the Lido numerous ?” 
 
 ‘When the sports ended, eccellenza, they 
 came over by hundreds, and I will do the 
 generous fellows the justice to say that they 
 had forgotten their want of luck in the love 
 justice. Diamine! these gondoliers are not 
 so bad a class as some pretend, but they are 
 men like ourselves, and can feel for a Chris- 
 tian as well as another !” 
 
 The secretary paused, for his task was 
 done; and a deep silence pervaded the gloomy 
 apartment. After a short pause one of the 
 Three resumed— 
 
 «Antonio Vecchio,” he said, ‘‘ thou hast 
 served thyself in these said galleys, to which 
 thou now seemest so averse—and served 
 bravely, as I learn ?” 
 
 ‘Signor, I have done my duty by St. 
 Mark. I played my part against the Infidel, 
 but it was after my beard was grown, and at 
 an age when I had learnt to know good from 
 evil. There is no duty more cheerfully per- 
 formed by us all than to defend the islands 
 and the Lagunes against the enemy.” 
 
 «“ And all the republic’s dominions. —Thou 
 canst make no distinctions between any of 
 the rights of the state.” 
 
 ‘There is a wisdom granted to the great, 
 which God hath denied the poor and the 
 weak, Signor. To me it does not seem clear 
 that Venice, a city built on a few islands, hath 
 any more right to carry her rule into Crete or 
 Candia than the Turk hath to come here,” 
 
 ‘‘How! Dost thou dare, on the Lido, to 
 question the claim of the republic to her con- 
 quests! or do the irreverent fishermen dare 
 thus to speak lightly of her glory !” 
 
 «¢ Kecellenza, I know little of rights that 
 eome by violence. God hath given us the 
 Lagunes, but I know not that he has given us 
 more. This glory of which you speak may 
 sit lightly on the shoulders of a senator, but 
 it weighs heavily on a fisherman’s heart.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 «Thou speakest, bold man, of that which 
 thou dost not comprehend.” 
 
 «Tt is unfortunate, Signor, that the power 
 to understand hath not been given to those 
 who have so much power to suffer.” 
 
 An anxious pause succeeded this reply. 
 
 «‘Thou mayest withdraw, Antonio,” said 
 he, who apparently presided in the dread 
 councils of the Three. ‘Thou wilt not 
 speak of what has happened, and thou wilt 
 await the inevitable justice of St. Mark, in 
 full confidence of its execution.” 
 
 ‘¢ Thanks, illustrious senator ; I will obey 
 your eccellenza ; but my heart is full, and I 
 would fain say a few words concerning the 
 child, before I quit this noble company.” 
 
 ‘«‘'Thou mayest speak—and here thou may- 
 est give free vent to all thy wishes, or to all 
 thy griefs, if any thou hast.. St. Mark has 
 no greater pleasure than to listen to the wishes 
 of his children.” 
 
 ‘«<T believe they have reviled the republic 
 in calling its chiefs heartless and sold to am- 
 bition !”’ said the old man, with generous 
 warmth, disregarding the stern rebuke which 
 gleamed in the eye of Jacopo. ‘‘ A senator 
 is but a man; and there are fathers and chil- 
 dren among them as among us of the Lag- 
 unes.” 
 
 ‘Speak, but refrain from seditious or dis- 
 creditable discourse,” uttered a secretary, in 
 a half-whisper. ‘‘ Proceed.” 
 
 ‘«<T have little now to offer, Signori ; I am 
 not used to boast of my services to the state, 
 excellent gentlemen, but there isa time when 
 human modesty must give way to human 
 nature. ‘These scars were got in one of the 
 proudest days of St. Mark, and in the fore- 
 most of all the galleys that fought among 
 the Greek islands. The father of my boy 
 wept over me then, us I have since wept over 
 his own son—yes !—I might be ashamed to 
 own it among men, but if the truth must be 
 spoken, the loss of the boy has drawn bitter 
 tears from me in the darkness of night, and 
 in the solitude of the Lagunes. I lay many 
 weeks, signori, less a man than a corpse, and 
 
 when I got back again to my nets and my — 
 
 toil, I did not withhold my son from the call — 
 of the republic. He went in my place to — 
 meet the Infidel—a service from which he 
 never came back. This was the duty of men 
 who had grown in experience, and who were 
 
THH BRAVO. 
 
 not to be deluded into wickedness by the evil 
 company of the galleys. But this calling of 
 children into the snares of the devil grieves 
 a father, and—I will own the weakness, if 
 such it be—I am not of a courage and pride 
 to send forth my own flesh and blood into 
 the danger and corruption of war and evil 
 society, as in days when the stoutness of the 
 heart was like the stoutness of the limbs. 
 Give me back, then, my boy, till he has seen 
 my old head laid beneath the sands, and 
 until, by the aid of blessed St. Anthony, and 
 
 485 
 
 should have ears for the meanest of his people 
 as well asfor the richest noble; and that not 
 a hair should fall from the head of a fisher- 
 man, without its being counted as if it were 
 a lock from beneath the horned bonnet ; and 
 
 that where God hath not made marks of his 
 
 displeasure, man should not.” 
 
 ‘* Do they dare to reason thus ?” 
 
 “*T know not if it be reason, illustrious 
 signor, but it is what they say, and, eccel- 
 lenza, it is holy truth. We are poor work- 
 men of the Lagunes, who rise with the day 
 
 such councils as a poor man can offer, I may | to cast our nets, and return at night to hard 
 
 give him more steadiness in his love of the 
 right, and until I may have so shaped his 
 life, that he will not be driven about by 
 every pleasant or treacherous wind that may 
 happen to blow upon his bark. Signori, you 
 are rich, and powerful, and honored, and 
 though you may be placed in the way of 
 temptation to do wrongs that are suited to 
 your high names and illustrious fortunes, ye 
 know little of the trials of the poor. What 
 are the temptations- of the blessed Saint 
 Anthony himself to those of the evil com- 
 pany of the galleys! And now, Signori, 
 though you may be angry to hear it, I will 
 say, that when an aged man has no other kin 
 on earth, or none so near as to feel the glow 
 of the thin blood of the poor than one poor 
 boy, St. Mark would do well to remember 
 that even a fisherman of the Lagunes can 
 feel as well as the Doge on his throne. This 
 much I say, illustrious senators, in sorrow 
 and not in anger; for I would get back the 
 child, and die in peace with my superiors as 
 with my equals.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou mayest depart,” said one of the 
 Three. 
 
 ** Not yet, signor; I has still more to say 
 of the men of the Lagunes, who speak with 
 loud voices concerning this dragging of boys 
 into the service of the galleys.” 
 
 *“We will hear their opinions.” 
 
 *“Noble gentlemen, if I were to utter all 
 they have said, word for word, I might do 
 some disfavor to your ears! Man is man, 
 though the Virgin and the saints listen to 
 his aves and prayers from beneath a jacket 
 of serge and a fisherman’s cap. But I know 
 too well my duty to the senate to speak so 
 plainly. But, signori, they say, saving the 
 bluntness of their language, that St. Mark 
 
 | 1 
 
 beds and harder fare; but with this we 
 might be content, did the senate count us as 
 Christians and men. That God hath not 
 given to all the same chances in life, I well 
 know, for it often happens that I draw an 
 empty net, when my comrades are groaning 
 with the weight of their draughts; but this 
 is doue to punish my sins, or to humble my 
 heart, whereas it exceeds the power of man 
 to look into the secrets of the soul, or to 
 foretell the evil of the still innocent child. 
 Blessed St. Anthony knows how many years 
 of suffering this visit to the galleys may 
 cause to the child in the end. Think of 
 these things, I pray you, signori, and send 
 men of tried principles to the wars.” 
 
 “Thou mayest retire,” rejoined the judge. 
 
 **T should be sorry that any who cometh 
 of my blood,” continued the inattentive 
 Antonio, ‘‘should be the cause of ill-will be- 
 tween_them them that rule and them that 
 are born to obey. But nature is stronger 
 even than the law, and I should discredit her 
 feelings were I to go without speaking as be- 
 comes a father. Ye have taken my child 
 and sent him to serve the state at the hazard 
 of body and soul, without giving opportunity 
 for a parting kiss or a parting blessing—ye 
 have used my flesh and blood as ye would use 
 the wood of the arsenal, and sent it forth 
 upon the sea asif it were the insensible metal 
 of the balls ye throw against the Infidel. Ye 
 have shut your ears to my prayers, as if they 
 were words uttered by the wicked, and when 
 I have exhorted you on my knees, wearied 
 my stiffened limbs to do ye pleasure, rendered 
 ye the jewel which St. Anthony gave to my 
 net, that it might soften your hearts, and 
 reasoned with you calmly on the nature of 
 your acts, you turn from me coldly, as if I 
 
486 
 
 were unfit to stand forth in defence of the 
 offspring that God hath left my age! This 
 ‘is not the boasted justice of St. Mark, Vene- 
 tian senators, but hardness of heart, and a 
 wasting of the means of the poor, that would 
 ill become the most grasping Hebrew of the} 
 Rialto !” 
 
 «‘ Hast thou aught more to urge, Antonio?” 
 asked the judge, with the wily desigu of un- 
 maskIng the fisherman’s entire soul. 
 
 «Tg it not enough, Signor, that I urge my 
 years, my poverty, my scars, and my love for 
 the boy? I know ye not, but though ye are 
 hid behind the folds of your robes and masks, 
 still must ye be men. There may be among 
 ye a father, or perhaps some one who hath a 
 still more sacred charge, the child of a dead 
 son. To him I speak. In vain ye talk of 
 justice when the weight of your power falls 
 on them least able to bear it; and though ye 
 may delude yourselves, the meanest gondo- 
 lier of the canal knows 4 
 
 He was stopped from uttering more by his 
 companion, who rudely placed a hand on his 
 mouth. 
 
 “Why hast thou presumed to stop the 
 complaints of Antonio?” sternly demanded 
 the judge. 
 
 <‘Tt was not decent, illustrious senators, ‘to 
 listen to such disrespect in so noble a pres- 
 ence,” Jacopo answered, bending reverently 
 as he spoke. “This old fisherman, dread 
 Signori, is warmed by love for his offspring, 
 and he will utter that which, in his cooler 
 moments, he will repent.” - 
 
 «St. Mark fears not the truth! 
 more to say, let him declare it.” 
 
 But the excited Antonio began to reflect. 
 The flush which had ascended to his weather- 
 beaten cheek disappeared, and his naked 
 breast ceased to heave. He stood like one 
 rebuked, more by his discretion than his con- 
 science, with a calmer eye, and a face that 
 exhibited the composure of his years, and the 
 respect of his condition— 
 
 ‘Tf I have offended, great patricians,” he 
 said, more mildly, “I pray you to forget the 
 zeal of an ignorant old man, whose feelings 
 are master of his breeding, and who knows 
 less how to render the truth agreeable to 
 noble ears than to utter it.” 
 
 “Thou mayest depart.” 
 
 The armed attendants advanced, and, obe- 
 
 If he has 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 dient toa sign from the secretary, they led 
 Antonio and his companion through the door 
 by which they had entered. The other 
 officials of the place followed, and the secret 
 judges were left by themselves in the cham- 
 ber of doom. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 O! the days that we have seen.--SHELTON. 
 
 A pausk like that which accompanies self- 
 contemplation, and perhaps conscious dis- 
 trust of purpose, succeeded. Then the Three 
 arose together, and began to lay aside the 
 instruments of their disguise. When the 
 masks were removed, they exposed the grave 
 visages of men in the decline of life, athwart 
 which worldly cares and worldly passions had 
 drawn those deep lines, which no subsequent 
 ease or recognition can erase. During the 
 process of unrobing neither spike, for the 
 affair, on which they had just been employed, 
 caused novel and disagreeable sensations to 
 them all. When they were delivered from 
 their superfluous garments and their masks, 
 however, they drew near the table, and each 
 sought that relief for his limbs and person 
 which was natural to the long restraint he 
 had undergone. 
 
 ‘There are letters from the French king 
 intercepted,” said one, after time had per- 
 mitted them to rally their thoughts;—‘ it 
 would appear they treat of the new inten- 
 tions of the emperor.” 
 
 “Have they been restored to the ambassa- 
 dor? or are the originals to go before the 
 senate ?” demanded another. 
 
 ‘’On that we must take counsel at our 
 
 leisure. I have naught else to communicate, 
 except that the order given to intercept the 
 messenger of the Holy See hath failed of its 
 object.” 
 
 “Of this the secretaries advertised me. 
 
 We must look into the negligence of the 
 
 agents, for there is good reason to believe 
 
 much useful lng edey would bare come | 
 
 from that seizure.’ 
 
 “As the attempt is already known andl ¥ 
 much spoken of, care must be had to issue — 
 orders for the arrest of the robbers, else may — 
 the republic fall into disrepute with its 
 
THE BRAVO, 
 
 friends. ‘There are names on our list which 
 might be readily marked for punishment, for 
 that quarter of our patrimeny is never in 
 want of proscribed, to conceal an accident of 
 this nature.” 
 
 “Good heed will be had to this, since, as 
 you say, the affair is weighty. ‘The govern- 
 ment or the individual that is negligent of 
 reputation cannot expect long to retain the 
 respect of its equals.” 
 
 “The ambition of the House of Hapsburg 
 robs me of my sleep!” exclaimed the other, 
 throwing aside some papers, over which his 
 eye had glanced in disgust. ‘‘Holy Saint 
 Theodore! what a scourge to the race is the 
 desire to augment territories, and to extend 
 an unjust rule, beyond the boundaries of 
 reason and nature! Here have we, in Venice, 
 been in undisputed possession of provinces 
 that are adapted to our institutions, conveni- 
 ent to our wants and agreeable to our de- 
 sires for ages—provinces that were gallantly 
 won by our ancestors, and which cling to us 
 as habits linger in our age; and yet are they 
 become objects of a covetous ambition to our 
 neighbor, under a vain pretext of a policy, 
 that I fear is strengthened by our increasing 
 weakness. I sicken, signori, of my esteem 
 for men as I dive deeper into their tempers 
 and desires, and often wish myself a dog as 
 I study their propensities. In his appetite 
 for power, is not the Austrian the most rapa- 
 cious of all the princes of the earth ?” 
 
 “ More so, think you, worthy signor, than 
 the Castilian? You overlook the unsatiated 
 desire of the Spanish king to extend his sway 
 in Italy.” 
 
 “Hapsburg or Bourbon—Turk or Eng- 
 lishman—they all seem actuated by the same 
 fell appetite for dominion; and now that 
 Venice hath no more to hope, than to pre- 
 serve her present advantages, the least of all 
 our enjoyments becomes a subject of covetous 
 envy to our enemies. ‘There are passions to 
 weary one of an interference with govern- 
 ments, and to send him to his cord of fear 
 tence and the cloisters!”’ 
 
 ‘‘T never listen to your observations, sig- 
 nor, without quitting the chamber an edified 
 man! ‘Truly this desire in the strangers to 
 trespass on our privileges, and it may be well 
 said, privileges which have been gained by 
 our treasures and our blood, becomes more 
 
 487 
 
 manifest daily. Should it not ‘be checked, 
 St. Mark will be stripped, in the end, of even 
 a landing-place for a gondola on the main.” 
 
 “The leap of the winged lion is much cur- 
 tailed, excellent sir, or these things might 
 not be! It is no longer in our power to 
 persuade, or to command, as of old, and our 
 canals begin to be encumbered with slimy 
 weeds, instead of well-freighted argosies and 
 swift-sailing feluccas.” 
 
 “The Portuguese hath done us irretrievable 
 harm, for without his African discoveries we 
 might yet have retained the traffic in Indian 
 commodities. I cordially dislike the mon- 
 grel race, being, as it is, half Gothic and half 
 Moorish!” 
 
 “TIT trust not myself to think of their 
 origin or of their deeds, my friends, lest 
 prejudice should kindle feelings unbecoming 
 a man and a Christian.—How now, Signor 
 Gradenigo; thou art thoughtful?” 
 
 The third member of the secret council, 
 who had not spoken since the disappearance 
 of the accused, and who was no other than 
 the reader’s old acquaintance of the name 
 mentioned, slowly lifted his head, from a 
 meditative position, at this address. 
 
 “The examination of the fisherman hath 
 recalled scenes of my boyhood,” he answered, 
 with a touch of nature, that seldom found 
 place in that chamber. 
 
 ‘‘T heard thee say that he was thy foster- 
 brother,” returned the other, struggling to 
 conceal a gape. 
 
 “We drank of the same milk, and, for the 
 first years of life, we sported at the same 
 games.” 
 
 ‘«These imaginary kindred often give great 
 uneasiness. Iam glad your trouble hath no 
 other source, for I had heard that the young 
 heir of your house hath shown a_ prodigal 
 disposition of late, and I feared that matter 
 might have come to your knowledge, as one 
 of the council, that a father might not wish 
 to learn.” 
 
 The selfish features of the Signor Gran- 
 denigo instantly underwent a change. He 
 glanced curiously, and with a strong distrust, 
 but in a covert manner, at the fallen eyes of 
 his two companions, anxious to penetrate 
 their secret thoughts ere he ventured to ex- 
 pose his own. 
 
 ‘Is there aught of complaint against the 
 
488 
 
 youth?” he demanded, in a voice of hesita- 
 tion. “You understand a father’s interest, 
 and will not conceal the truth.” 
 
 ‘Signor, you know that the agents of the 
 police are active, and little that comes to their 
 knowledge fails to reach the ears of the 
 council. But, at the worst, the matter is not 
 of life or death. It can only cost the incon- 
 siderate young man a visit to Dalmatia, or an 
 order to waste the summer at the foot of the 
 Alps.” 7 
 
 “Youth is the season of indiscretion, as ye 
 know, signori,” returned the father, breath- 
 ing more freely, ‘“‘and as none become old 
 that have not been young, I have little need 
 to awaken your recollection of its weaknesses. 
 I trust my son is incapable of designing 
 aught against the republic?” 
 
 ‘Of that he is not suspected.” A slight 
 expression of irony crossed the features of 
 the old senator, as he spoke. ‘‘ But he is 
 represented as aiming too freely at the person 
 and wealth of your ward; and that she, who 
 is the especial care of St. Mark, is not to be 
 solicited without the consent of the senate, 
 is an usage well known to one of its most 
 ancient and most honorable members.”’ 
 
 “Such is the law, and none coming of me 
 shall show it disrespect. I have preferred my 
 claims to that connection, openly, but with 
 diffidence ; and I await the decision of the 
 state, in respectful confidence.” 
 
 His associates bowed in courteous ac- 
 knowledgment of the justice of what he said, 
 and of the loyalty of his conduct, but it was 
 in the manner of men too long accustomed 
 to duplicity, to be easily duped. 
 
 “None doubt it, worthy Signor Gradenigo, 
 for thy faith to the state is ever quoted as a 
 model for the young, and as a subject for the 
 approbation of the more experienced. Hast 
 thou any communications to make on the 
 interest of the young heiress, thyself?” 
 
 “T am pained to say, that the deep obli- 
 gation conferred by Don Camillo Monforte 
 seems to have wrought upon her youthful 
 imagination, and I apprehend that, in dispos- 
 ing of my ward, the state will have to contend 
 with the caprice of afemale mind. 'T'’he way- 
 wardness of that age will give more trouble, 
 than the conduct of far graver matters.” 
 
 “Ts the lady attended by suitable com- 
 panions, in her daily life?” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 \ é 
 
 ‘« Ter companions are known to the senate. 
 In so grave an interest, I would not act with- 
 out their authority and sanction. But the 
 affair hath great need of delicacy in its gov- 
 ernment. ‘The circumstance that so much 
 of my ward’s fortune lies in the states of the 
 Church, renders it necessary to await the 
 proper moment for disposing of her rights, 
 and of transferring their substance within 
 the limits of the republic, before we proceed 
 to any act of decision. Once assured of her 
 wealth, she may be disposed of as seemeth best 
 to the welfare of the state, without further { 
 delay.” 
 
 ‘“The lady hath a lineage and riches, and 
 an excellence of person, that might render — 
 her of great account in some of these knotty 
 negotiations, which so much fetter our move- 
 ments of late. The time hath been, when a 
 daughter of Venice, not more fair, was wooed 
 to the bed of a sovereign.” 
 
 “Signor, those days of glory and greatness 
 exist no longer. Should it be thought expe- 
 dient to overlook the natural claims of my son, 
 and to bestow my ward to the advantage of 
 the republic, the most that can be expected 
 through her means is a favorable concession 
 in some future treaty, or a new prop to some 
 
 much, or even of more use, than the oldest — 
 and wisest of our body. But that her will 
 may be free, and the child may have no ob- 
 stacles to her happiness, it will be necessary — 
 to make a speedy determination of the claim 
 preferred by Don Camillo. Can we do better — 
 than to recommend a compromise, that he 
 may return without delay to his own Ca-— 
 labria? ” y ; 
 
 “The concern is weighty, and it demands — 
 deliberation.” j 
 
 ‘‘He complains of our tardiness already, — 
 and not without show of reason. It is five 
 years since the claim was first preferred.” 
 
 “Signor Gradenigo, it is for the vigorous 
 and healthful to display their activity, the 
 aged and the tottering must move with 
 caution. Were we, in Venice, to betray pre- 
 cipitation in so weighty a concern, without 
 seeing an immediate interest in the judgment, - 
 we should trifle with a gale of fortune that 
 every sirocco will not blow into the canals. 
 We must have terms with the lord of 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 Sant’ Agata, or we greatly slight our own ad- 
 vantage,” 
 
 <‘T hinted of the matter to your eccellen- 
 zas, as a consideration for your wisdom ; me- 
 thinks it will be something gained to remove 
 one so dangerous, from the recollection, and 
 from before the eyes, of a lovesick maiden.” 
 
 “Ts the damsel so amorous ?” 
 
 “She is of Italy, signor, and our sun 
 bestows warm fancies and fervent minds.” 
 
 «Let her to the confessional and her 
 prayers! The godly prior of St. Mark will 
 discipline her imagination, till she shall con- 
 ceit the Neapolitan a Moor, and an infidel. 
 Just San Teodoro, forgive me! But thou 
 canst remember the time, my friend, when 
 the penance of the Church was not without 
 service, on thine own fickle tastes and truant 
 practices.” 
 
 “The Signor Gradenigo was a gallant in 
 his time,” observed the third, ‘‘as all well 
 know who travelled in his company. ‘Thou 
 wert much spoken of at Versailles and at 
 Vienna,—nay, thou canst not deny thy vogue 
 to one who, if he hath no other merit, hath 
 a memory.” 
 
 “T protest against these false recollections,” 
 rejoined the accused, a withered smile light- 
 ing his faded countenance; “we have been 
 young, signori; but amony us all, I never 
 knew a Venetian of more general fashion 
 and of better report, especially with the 
 dames of France, than he who has just 
 spoken.” 
 
 *‘ Account it not—account it not—’twas 
 the weakness of youth and the use of the 
 times!—I remember to have seen thee, 
 Enrico, at Madrid, and a gayer or more 
 accomplished gentleman was not known at 
 the Spanish court.” 
 
 ‘“Thy friendship blinded thee—I was a 
 boy and full of spirits; no more, I may 
 assure thee. Didst hear of my affair with 
 the mousquetaire, when at Paris?” 
 
 “Did I hear of the general war?—Thou 
 art too modest, to raise this doubt of a meet- 
 ing that occupied the coteries for a month, 
 as it had been a victory of the powers! Sig- 
 nor Gradenigo, it was a pleasure to call him 
 countryman at that time, for I do assure 
 thee, a sprightlier or a more gallant gentle- 
 man did not walk the terrace.” 
 
 “Thou tellest me of what my own eyes 
 
 489 
 
 have been a witness. Did I not arrive when 
 men’s voices spoke of nothing else ?—A 
 beautiful court and a pleasant capital were 
 those of France in our day, signori.” 
 
 “None pleasanter, or of greater freedom 
 of intercourse—St. Mark aid me with his 
 prayers! The many pleasant hours that I 
 have passed between the Marais and the 
 Chateau! Didst ever meet La Comtesse de 
 Mignon in the gardens?” 
 
 “Zitto—thou growest loquacious, caro; 
 nay, she wanted not for grace and affability, 
 that I will say. In what a manner they played 
 in the houses of resort at that time!” 
 
 “T know it to my cost. Will you lend me 
 your belief, dear friends? I arose from the 
 table of La Belle Duchesse de —————,, the 
 loser of a thousand sequins, and to this hour 
 it seemeth but a moment that I was occu- 
 pied.” 
 
 ‘‘T remember the evening.—Thou wert 
 seated between the wife of the Spanish am- 
 bassador and a miladi of England. Thou 
 wert playing at rouge-et-noir, In more ways 
 than one, for thy eyes were on thy neighbors 
 instead of thy cards—Giulio, I would have 
 paid half the loss to have read the next 
 epistle of the worthy senator thy father!” 
 
 ‘‘He never knew it—he never knew it— 
 we had our friends on the Rialto, and the 
 account was settled a few years later. Thou 
 wast well with Ninon, Enrico?” 
 
 «A companion of her leisure, and one who 
 basked in the sunshine of her wit.” 
 
 “ Nay, they said thou wert of more favor 
 
 “Mere gossip of the salons. I do pro- 
 test, gentlemen—not that others were better 
 received—but idle tongues will have their 
 discourse!” 
 
 “ Wert thou of the party, Alessandro, that 
 went in a fit of gayety from country to 
 country, till it numbered ten courts at which 
 it appeared in as many weeks? ” 
 
 ‘“Was I not its mover? What a memory 
 art thou getting? ’*T'was for a hundred 
 golden louis, and it was bravely won by an 
 hour. A postponement of the reception by 
 the elector of Bavaria, went near to defeat 
 us, but we bribed the groom of the chambers, 
 as thou mayest remember, and got into the 
 presence as it were by accident.” 
 
 “Was that held to be sufficient ?” 
 
490 
 
 «That was it, for our terms mentioned the 
 
 condition of holding discourse with ten | some extraordinary consequence was to follow 
 
 sovereigns, in as many weeks, in their own 
 palaces. Oh! it was fairly won; and I may 
 say that it was as gayly expended!” 
 
 “For the latter will I vouch, since I never 
 quitted thee while a piece of it all remained. 
 There are divers means of dispensing gold in 
 those northern capitals, and the task was 
 quickly accomplished. They are pleasant 
 countries for a few years of youth and idle- 
 ness!” 
 
 ‘Tt is a pity that their climates are so 
 rude.” 
 
 A slight and general shudder expressed 
 their Italian sympathy, but the discourse did 
 not the less proceed. 
 
 “They might have a better sun, and a 
 clearer sky, but there is excellent cheer, and 
 no want of hospitality,” observed the Signor 
 Gradenigo, who maintained his full share of 
 the dialogue, though we have not found it 
 necessary to separate sentiments that were so 
 common among the different speakers. “I 
 have seen pleasant.hours even with the Gen- 
 oese, though their town hath a cast of reflec- 
 tion and sobriety that is not always suited to 
 the dispositions of youth.” 
 
 “Nay, Stockholm and Copenhagen have 
 their pleasures, too, I do assure thee. 1 passed 
 a season between them. Your Dane isa good 
 joker and a hearty bottle companion.” 
 
 ‘‘TIn that the Englishman surpasseth all ! 
 If I were to relate their powers of living in 
 this manner, dear friends, ye would discredit 
 me. That which I have seen often seemeth 
 impossible even to myself. “Lis a gloomy 
 abode, and one that we of ltaly little like, in 
 common.” 
 
 ‘*Name it not in comparison with Holland 
 —wert ever in Holland, friends?—didst ever 
 enjoy the fashion of Amsterdam and the 
 Hague? I remember to have heard a young 
 Roman urge a friend to pass a winter there; 
 for the witty rogue termed it the beau ideal 
 of the land of petticoats ! ” 
 
 The three old Italians, in whom this sally 
 excited a multitude of absurd recollections 
 and pleasant fancies, broke out into a general 
 and hearty fit of laughter. The sound of 
 their cracked merriment, echoing in that 
 gloomy and solemn room, suddenly recalled 
 them to the recollection of their duties. Hach 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 listened an instant, as if in expectation that 
 
 so extraordinary an interruption of the usnal 
 silence of the place, like a child whose truant 
 propensities were about to draw detection on 
 his offence,—and then the principal of the 
 council furtively wiped the tears from his 
 eyes, and resumed his gravity. 
 
 ‘«¢ Signori,” he said, fumbling in a bundle 
 of papers, ‘‘ we must take up the matter of 
 the fisherman—but we will first inquire into 
 the circumstance of the signet left, the past — 
 night, in the lion’s mouth. Signor rat anie 
 you were charged with the examination.’ | 
 
 ‘The duty hath been executed, noble sirs, 
 and with a success I had not hoped to meet 
 with. Haste, at our last meeting, prevented 
 a perusal of the paper to which it was attached, 
 but it will now be seen that the two have a 
 connection. Here is an accusation which — 
 charges Don Camillo Monforte with a design 
 to bear away, beyond the power of thesenate, 
 the Donna Violetta, my ward, in order to pos- | 
 sess her person and riches. It speaketh of proofs i | 
 in possession of the accuser, as if he were an : 
 
 agent intrusted by the Neapolitan. As a — 
 pledge of his truth, I suppose, for thereisno 
 mention made by any other use, he sends the 
 signet of Don Camillo himself, which cannot ~ 
 have been obtained without that noble’s con- 
 fidence.” 
 
 “Ts it certain that he owns the ring? ” 5 
 
 “ Of that am I well assured. You know I ~ 
 am especially charged with conducting his — 
 personal demand with the senate, and frequent — 
 interviews have given me opportunity to note 4 
 that he was wont to wear a signet, which is now ~ 
 wanting. My jeweller of the Rialto hath © 
 sufficiently identified this, as the missing s 
 ring.” y 
 «‘Thus far it is clear, though there is an 
 obscurity in the circumstance that the signet 
 of the accused should be found with the ac- 
 cusation, which being unexplained, renders 
 the charge vague and uncertain. Have you | 
 any clue to the writing, or any means of 
 knowing whence it comes?” i 
 
 There was a small but nearly impercept- 
 ible red spot on the cheek of Signor Grade- 
 nigo, that did not escape the keen distrust of 
 his companions ; but he concealed his alarm, 
 answering distinctly that he had none. 
 
 «¢ We must then defer a decision for further 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 proof. The justice of St. Mark hath been too 
 much vaunted to endanger its reputation by 
 a hasty decree, in a question which so closely 
 touches the interest of a powerful noble of 
 Italy. Don Camilla Monforte hath a name 
 of distinction, and counteth too many of note 
 among his kindred, to be dealt with as we 
 might dispose of a gondolier, or the messen- 
 ‘ger of some foreign state.” 
 
 ‘*As respects him, signor, you are un- 
 doubtedly right. But may we not endanger 
 our heiress by too tnuch tenderness ? ” 
 
 ‘There are many convents in Venice, sig- 
 nor.” 
 
 ‘The monastic life is ill-suited to the 
 temper of my ward,” the Signor Gradenigo 
 dryly observed, ‘“‘and I fear to hazard the 
 experiment; gold is a key to unlock the 
 strongest cell ; besides, we cannot with due 
 observance of propriety place a child of the 
 state in durance.”’ 
 
 ‘««Sionor Gradenigo, we have had this mat- 
 ter under long and grave consideration, and 
 agreeably to our laws, when one of our number 
 hath a palpable interest in the affair, we have 
 taken counsel of his highness, who is of ac- 
 cord with us in sentiment. Your personal 
 interest in the lady might have warped your 
 usually excellent judgment ; else, be assured 
 we should have summoned you to the con- 
 ference.” 
 
 The old senator, who thus unexpectedly 
 found himself excluded from consultation, on 
 the very matter, that, of all others, made 
 him most value his temporary authority, 
 stood abashed and silent—reading in his 
 countenance, however, a desire to know more, 
 his associates proceeded to communicate all 
 it was their intention he should hear. 
 
 **Tt hath been determined to remove the 
 lady to a suitable retirement, and for this 
 purpose care hath been already had to pro- 
 vide the means. Thou wilt be temporarily 
 relieved of a most grievous charge which 
 cannot but have worked heavily on thy 
 Spirits, and, in other particulars, have les- 
 sened thy much valued usefulness to the 
 republic.” 
 
 This unexpected communication was made 
 with marked courtesy of manner; but with 
 an emphasis and tone, that sufficiently ac- 
 quainted the Signor Gradenigo with the 
 nature of the suspicions that beset him. He 
 
 491 
 
 had too long been familiar with the sinuous 
 policy of the council, in which, at intervals, 
 he had so often sat, not to understand that 
 he would run the risk of a more serious ac- 
 cusation were he to hesitate in acknowledging 
 its justice. Teaching his features, therefore, 
 to wear a smile as treacherous as that of his 
 wily companion, he answered with seeming 
 gratitude— 
 
 ‘‘ His highness and you my excellent col- 
 leagues, have taken council of your good 
 wishes and kindness of heart, rather than of 
 the duty of a poor subject of St. Mark, to 
 toil on in his service while he hath strength 
 and reason for the task,” he said. “'I'he 
 management of a capricious female mind is a 
 concern of no light moment, and while I 
 thank you for this consideration of my case, 
 you will permit me to express my readiness 
 to resume the charge whenever it shall please 
 the state again to confer it.” 
 
 ‘‘Of this none are more persuaded than 
 we, nor are any better satisfied of your ability 
 to discharge the trust faithfully. But you 
 enter, Signor, into all our motives, and will 
 join us in the opinion, that it is equally un- 
 becoming the republic, and one of its most 
 illustrious citizens, to leave a ward of the 
 former in a position that shall subject the 
 latter to unmerited censure. Believe me, 
 we have thought less of Venice in this matter 
 than of the honor and the interests of the 
 house of Gradenigo; for, should this Neapoli- 
 tan thwart our views, you of us all would be 
 most liable to be disapproved of.” 
 
 ‘© A thousand thanks, excellent sir,” re- 
 turned the deposed guardian. ‘“ You have 
 taken a load from my mind, and restored 
 some of the freshness and elasticity of youth! 
 The claim of Don Camillo now is no longer 
 urgent, since it is your pleasure to remove 
 the lady, for a season, from the city.” 
 
 ***T'were better to hold it in deeper sus- 
 pense, if it were only to occupy his mind. 
 Keep up thy communications, as of wont, 
 and withhold not hope, which is a powerful 
 exciter in minds that are not deadened by 
 experience. We shall not conceal from one 
 of our number, that a negotiation is already 
 near a termination which will relieve the 
 state from the care of the damsel, and at 
 some benefit to the republic. Her estates 
 lying without our limits greatly facilitate 
 
492 
 
 the treaty, which hath only been withheld 
 from your knowledge, by the consideration, 
 that of late we have rather too much over- 
 loaded thee with affairs.” 
 
 Again the Signor Gradenigo bowed sub- 
 missively, and with apparent joy. He saw 
 that his secret design had been penetrated, 
 notwithstanding all his practised duplicity 
 and specious candor; and he submitted with 
 that species of desperate resignation which 
 becomes a habit, if not a virtue, in men long 
 accustomed to be governed despotically. 
 When this delicate subject, which required 
 the utmost finesse of Venetian policy, since 
 it involved the interests of one who happened 
 at the moment, to be in the dreaded council 
 itself, was disposed of, the Three turned 
 their attention to other matters, with that 
 semblance of indifference to personal feeling 
 which practice in tortuous paths of state- 
 intrigue enabled men to assume. 
 
 “Since we are so happily of opinion con- 
 cerning the disposition of the Donna Vio- 
 letta,” coolly observed the oldest senator, a 
 rare specimen of hackneyed, and worldly 
 morality, “ we may look into our list of daily 
 duties—what saith the lion’s mouths to- 
 night ?” 
 
 “A few of the ordinary and unmeaning 
 accusations that spring from personal hatred,” 
 returned another. ‘‘ One chargeth his neigh- 
 bor with oversight in religious duties, and 
 with some carelessness of the fasts of Holy 
 Church--—a foolish scandal, fitted for the ears 
 of a curate.” 
 
 “Ts there naught else ?” 
 
 “Another complaineth of neglect of a 
 husband. The scrawl is in a woman’s hand, 
 and beareth, on its face, the evidence of a 
 woman’s resentment.” 
 
 “Sudden to rise and easy to be appeased. 
 Let the neighborhood quiet the household by 
 its sneers— What next ?” 
 
 “ A suitor in the courts maketh complaint 
 of the tardiness of the judges.” 
 
 “'T'his toucheth the reputation of St. Mark; 
 it must be looked to!” 
 
 ‘“‘ Hold!” interrupted the Signor Grade- 
 nigo. ‘The tribunal acteth advisedly—'tis 
 in the matter of a Hebrew, who is thought 
 to have secrets of importance. The affair 
 hath need of deliberation I do assure you.” 
 
 “ Destroy the charge—Have we more?” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “‘ Nothing of note. The usual number of 
 pleasantries and hobbling verses which tend 
 tonothing. If we get some useful gleanings, _ 
 by these secret accusations, we gain much 
 
 nonsense. I would whip a youngster of ten | 
 who could not mould our soft Italian into 
 better rhyme than this.” Hi 
 
 “Tis the wantonness of security. Let it @ 
 pass, for all that serveth to amuse sup- _ 
 
 presseth turbulent thoughts. 
 see his highness, Signori ?” | 
 
 “You forget the fisherman,” gravely ob- 
 served the Signor Gradenigo. : 
 
 “Your honor sayeth true. What a head 
 for business hath he! Nothing that is useful 
 escapeth his ready mind.” . 
 
 The old senator, while he was too experi- 
 enced to be cajoled by such language, saw 
 the necessity of appearing flattered. Again 
 he bowed, and protested aloud and frequently 
 against the justice of compliments that he so 
 little merited. When this little by-play was 
 over, they proceeded gravely to consider the 
 matter before them. 
 
 As the decision of the Council of Three 
 will be made apparent inthe course of the 
 narrative, we shall not continue to detail 
 the conversation that accompanied their de- 
 liberations. The sitting was long, so long 
 indeed that when they arose, having com: 
 pleted their business, the heavy clock of the 
 square tolled the hour of midnight. 
 
 “The Doge will be impatient,” said one 
 of the two nameless members, as they threw 
 on their cloaks, before leaving the chamber. 
 “J thought his highness wore a more fatigued 
 and feeble air to-day, than he is wont to ex- 
 hibit, at the festivities of the city.” 
 
 ‘His highness is no longer young, signor. 
 
 If [remember right, he greatly outnumibers 
 
 either of us in years. Our Lady of Loretto 
 lend him strength long to wear the ducal 
 bonnet, and wisdom to wear it well! ” 
 
 “He hath lately sent offerings to her 
 shrine,” 
 
 “Signor, he hath. His confessor hath — 
 gone in person with the offering, as I know _ 
 of certainty. °*Tis not a serious gift, but a 
 mere remembrance to keep himself in the 
 odor of sanctity. I Rous that his reign will — 
 not be long!” ri 
 
 “There are, truly, signs of decay in his — 
 system. He is a worthy prince, and we shall 
 
 Shall we now 
 
 a ‘ 
 
 mene 
 ae! 
 
THE BRAVO. 493 
 
 lose a father when called to weep for his 
 loss!” 
 
 ‘¢ Most true, Signor: but the horned bonnet 
 is not an invulnerable shield against the 
 arrows of death. Age and infirmities are 
 more potent than our wishes.” 
 
 <¢ Thou art moody to-night, Signor Grade- 
 nigo. Thou art not used to be so silent with 
 thy friends.” 
 
 «JT am not the less grateful, Signor, for 
 their favors. If I havea loaded countenance, 
 I bear a lightened heart. One who hath a 
 daughter of his own so happily bestowed in 
 wedlock as thine, may judge of the relief I 
 feel by this disposition of my ward. Joy 
 affects the exterior, frequently, like sorrow; 
 ay, even to tears.” 
 
 His two companions looked at the speaker 
 ee much obvious sympathy in their man- 
 ners. They then left the chamber of doom 
 
 ‘together. The menials entered and extin- 
 / guished the lights, leaving all behind them 
 | in an obscurity that was no bad type of the 
 | gloomy mysteries of the place. 
 
 a 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Then methought, 
 A serenade broke silence, breathing hope 
 Through walls of stone.—Jtaly. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING the lateness of the 
 hour, the melody of music was rife on the 
 water. Gondolas continued to glide along 
 the shadowed canals, while the laugh or the 
 song was echoed among the arches of the 
 palaces. The piazza and piazzetta were yet 
 brilliant with lights, and gay with their 
 multitudes of unwearied revellers. 
 
 The habitation of Donna Violetta was 
 far from the scene of general amusement. 
 Though so remote, the hum of the moving 
 throng, and the higher strains of the wind- 
 instruments, came, from time to time, to the 
 ears of its inmates, mellowed and thrilling 
 by distance. 
 
 The position of the moon cast the whole 
 of the narrow passage which flowed beneath 
 the windows of her private apartments into 
 shadow. In a balcony which overhung the 
 water stood the youthful and ardent girl, 
 
 listening with a charmed ear and a tearful 
 eye to one of those soft strains, in which 
 Venetian voices answered to each other from 
 different points on the canals, in the songs of 
 the gondoliers. Her constant companion and 
 mentor was near, while the ghostly father of 
 them both stood deeper in the room. 
 
 ‘‘There may be pleasanter towns ,on the 
 main, and capitals of more revelry,” said the 
 charmed Violetta, withdrawing her person 
 from its leaning attitude, as the voices 
 ceased ; ‘‘but in such a night and at this 
 witching hour, what city may compare with 
 Venice ?” 
 
 «Providence has been less partial in the 
 
 distribution of its earthly favors than is ap- 
 
 3 
 
 parent to a vulgar eye,” returned the atten- 
 tive Carmelite. <‘‘If we have our peculiar 
 enjoyments and our moments of divine con- 
 templation, other towns have advantages of 
 their own; Genoa and Pisa, Firenze, Ancona, 
 Roma, Palermo, and, chiefest of all, Na- 
 poli y 
 
 ‘© Napoli, father !” 
 
 ‘‘Daughter, Napoli. Of all the towns of 
 sunny Italy, *tis the fairest and the most 
 blessed in natural gifts. Of every region I 
 have visited, during a life of wandering and 
 penitence, that is the country on which the 
 touch of the Creator hath been the most 
 God-like !” 
 
 ‘Thou art imaginative to-night, good 
 Father Anselmo. The land must be fair in- 
 deed that can thus warm the fancy of a Car- 
 melite.” 
 
 <‘The rebuke is just. I have spoken more 
 under the influence of recollections that came 
 from days of idleness and levity, than with 
 the chastened spirit of one who should see 
 the hand of the Maker in the most simple 
 and least lovely of all his wondrous works.” 
 
 ‘‘You reproach yourself causelessly, holy 
 father,” observed the mild Donna Florinda, 
 raising her eyes toward the pale countenance 
 of the monk; ‘“‘to admire the beauties of 
 nature, is to worship him who gave them 
 being.” 
 
 At that moment a burst of music rose on 
 the air proceeding from the water beneath 
 the balcony. Donna Violetta started back 
 abashed, and as she held her breath in won- 
 der, and haply with that delight which open 
 admiration is apt to excite in a youthful 
 
494 
 
 female bosom, the color mounted to her 
 temples, 
 
 “There passeth a band,” calmly observed 
 the Donna Florinda. 
 
 ‘“ No, it is a cavalier! There are gondo- 
 liers, servitors in his colors.”’ 
 
 ‘This is as hardy as it may be gallant,” 
 returned the monk, who listened to the air 
 with an evident and grave displeasure. 
 
 There was no longer any doubt but that 
 a serenade was meant. Though the custom 
 was of much use, it was the first time that a 
 similar honor had been paid beneath the 
 window of Donna Violetta. The studied 
 privacy of her life, her known destiny, and 
 the jealousy of the despotic state, and per- 
 haps the deep respect which encircled a 
 maiden of her tender years and high condi- 
 tion, had, until that moment, kept the aspir- 
 ing, the vain, and the interested equally in 
 awe. 
 
 ‘It is for me!” whispered the trembling, 
 the distressed, the delighted Violetta. 
 
 ‘*It is for one of us, indeed,” answered the 
 cautious friend. 
 
 ‘Be it for whom it may, it is bold,” re- 
 joined the monk. 
 
 Donna Violetta shrunk from observation 
 behind the drapery of the window, but she 
 raised a hand in pleasure, as the rich strains 
 rolled through the wide apartments. 
 
 ‘* What a taste rules the band !” she half- 
 whispered, afraid to trust her voice, lest a 
 sound should escape her ears. <‘ They touch 
 an air of Petrarch’s sonatas ! How indiscreet, 
 and yet how noble!” ° 
 
 ‘‘More noble than wise,” said the Donna 
 Florinda, who entered the balcony, and 
 looked intently on the water beneath. 
 
 _ “ Here are musicians in the color of a no- 
 ble in one gondola,” she continued, “and a 
 single cavalier in another.” 
 
 “Hath he no servitor ? 
 oar himself ? ” 
 
 “Truly that decency hath not not been 
 overlooked; one in a flowered jacket guides 
 the boat.” 
 
 “Speak, then, dearest Florinda, I pray 
 thee.” 
 
 “‘ Would it be seemly ?” 
 
 “Indeed, I think it. Speak them fair. 
 Say that I am the senate’s. That it is not 
 discreet to urge a daughter of the state 
 
 Doth he ply the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 bTORGE Say what thou wilt—but speak them 
 fair.” 
 
 ‘‘Ha! It is Don Camillo Monforte! I 
 know him by his noble stature and the gal- 
 lant wave of his hand.” 
 
 ‘This temerity will undo him! His claim 
 will be refused—himself banished. Is it not 
 near the hour when the gondola of the police 
 passes ? 
 Florinda—and yet—can we use this rudeness 
 to a signor of his rank ?” 
 
 ‘ Father, counsel us ; you know the haz- 
 ards of this rash galloniaual in the N eapolitan 
 —aid us with thy wisdom, for there is not a 
 moment to lose.” 
 
 The Carmelite had been an attentive and 
 an indulgent observer of the emotion, which 
 sensations so novel had awakened in the 
 ardent but unpractised breast of the fair 
 Venetian. Pity, sorrow, and sympathy were 
 painted on his mortified face, as he witnessed 
 the mastery of feeling over a mind so guile- 
 less, and a heart so warm; but the look was 
 rather that of one who knew the dangers of 
 the passions than of one who condemned 
 them, without thought of their origin or 
 power. At the appeal of the governess he 
 turned away and silently quitted the room. 
 Donna Florinda left the balcony and drew 
 near her charge. ‘There was no explanation, 
 nor any audible or visible means of making 
 their sentiments known to each other. Vio- 
 letta threw herself into the arms of her more 
 experienced friend, and struggled to conceal 
 her face in her bosom. At this moment the 
 music suddenly ceased, and the plash of oars 
 falling into the water succeeded. 
 
 ‘“‘He is gone!” exclaimed the young 
 creature, who had been the object of the 
 serenade, and whose faculties, spite of her 
 confusion, had lost none of their acuteness. 
 ‘“The gondolas are moving away, and we 
 have not made even the customary acknowl- 
 edgements for their civility !” 
 
 “It is not needed—or rather it might in- 
 crease a hazard that is already too weighty. 
 Remember thy high destiny, my child, and 
 let them depart.” 
 
 “And yet, methinks, one of my station 
 should not fail in courtesy. The compliment 
 may mean no more than any other idle usage, 
 and they should not quit us unthanked.” 
 
 «Rest you, within. 
 
 Admonish him to depart, good 
 
 aa oo ere ee: bu 
 
 I will watch the in 
 
 & =f > 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 movement of the boats, for it surpasseth 
 female endurance not to note their aspect.” 
 
 ' «Thanks, dearest Florinda! hasten, lest 
 they enter the other canal ere thou seest 
 them.” 
 
 The governess was quickly in the balcony. 
 Active as was her movement, her eyes were 
 scarcely cast upon the shadow beneath, be- 
 fore a hurried question demanded what she 
 beheld. 
 
 «< Both gondolas are gone,” was the answer. 
 «That with the musicians is already enter- 
 iag the great canal, but that of the cavalier 
 hath unaccountably disappeared !” 
 
 “ Nay, look again; he cannot be in such 
 haste to quit us.” 
 
 «‘T had not sought him in the right direc- 
 tion. Here is his gondola by the bridge of 
 our own canal.” | 
 
 ‘‘ And the cavalier? He waits for some 
 sign of courtesy ; it is meet that we should 
 not withhold it.” 
 
 ‘‘T see him not. His servitor is seated on 
 
 ‘the steps of the landing, while the gondola 
 
 appeareth to be empty. The man hath an 
 air of waiting, but I nowhere see the mas- 
 ter.” 
 
 ‘«< Blessed Maria ! can aught have befallen 
 the gallant Duca di Sant’ Agata ?” 
 
 ‘‘Naught but the happiness of casting 
 himself here!” exclaimed a voice near the 
 person of the heiress. ‘The Donna Violetta 
 turned her gaze from the balcony, and beheld 
 him who filled all her thoughts at her feet. 
 
 The cry of the girl, the exclamation of her 
 friend, and a rapid and eager movement of 
 the monk, brought the whole party into a 
 group. 
 
 «‘This may not be,” said: the latter in a 
 reproving voice. “ Arise, Don Camillo, lest 
 I repent listening to your prayer; you exceed 
 our conditions.” 
 
 <«©As much as this emotion exceedeth my 
 hopes,” answered the noble. ‘‘ Holy father, 
 it is vain to oppose Providence! Providence 
 brought me to the rescue of this lovely being, 
 when accident threw her into the Giudecca, 
 and, once more, Providence is my friend, by 
 permitting me to be a witness of this feeling. 
 Speak, fair Violetta, thou wilt not be an 
 instrument of the senate’s selfishness—thou 
 wilt not hearken to their wish of disposing of 
 thy hand on the mercenary, who would trifle 
 
 495 
 
 with the most sacred, of 
 thy wealth ?” 7 
 
 ‘¢For whom am | des, 
 Violetta. / 
 
 ‘‘ No matter, since it be not for me. Some 
 
 all vows, to possess 
 
 Agel ?*? demanded 
 
 trafficker in happiness, some worthless abuser 
 of the gifts of fortune.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou knowest, Camilla, our Venetian 
 
 custom, and must see that I am hopelessly 
 in their hands.” 
 
 «‘ Arise, Duca di Sant’? Agata,” said the 
 monk with authority; “‘ when I suffered you 
 
 you to enter this palace, it was to remove a 
 
 scandal from its gates, and to save you from 
 your own rash disregard of the state’s dis-. 
 pleasure. It is idle to encourage hopes that 
 the policy of the republic opposes. Arise, 
 then, and respect your pledges.” 
 
 «That shall be as this lady may decide. 
 Encourage me with but an approving look, 
 fairest Violetta, and not Venice, with its Doge 
 and inquisition, shall stir mean inch from thy 
 feet!” 
 
 « Camillo!” answered the trembling girl, 
 ‘thou, the preserver of my life, hast little 
 need to kneel to me!”’ 
 
 «Duke of St. Agata—daughter!” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, heed him not, generous Violetta. 
 He utters words of convention—he speaks as 
 all speak in age, when men’s tongues deny 
 the feelings of their youth. He is a Carmel- 
 ite, and must feign this prudence. He never 
 knew the tyranny of the passions. The damp- 
 ness of his cell has chilled the ardor of the 
 heart. Had he been human, he would have 
 loved; had he loved, he would never have 
 worn a cowl.” 
 
 Father Anselmo receded a pace, like one 
 pricked in conscience, and the paleness of his 
 ascetic features took a deadly hue. His lips 
 moved as if he would have spoken, but the 
 sounds were smothered by an oppression that 
 denied him utterance. The gentle Florinda 
 saw his distress, and she endeavored to inter- 
 pose between the impetuous youth and her 
 charge. 
 
 “It may be as you say, Signor Monforte,” 
 she said, “and that the senate, in its fatherly 
 care, searches a partner worthy of an heiress 
 of a house so illustrious and so endowed as 
 that of Tiepolo. But in this, what is there 
 more than of wont? Do not the nobles of all 
 Italy seek their equals in condition and in the 
 
 ¥ 
 
496 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 gifts of fortune, inorder that their union may | this be true. Of all the youths of Venice I 
 be fittingly ass* zd? How know we that | esteem Giacomo Gradenigo least.” 
 
 the estates of myh young friend have not a| “This interview must have an end,” said 
 value in the eyes of the Duke of St. Agata, as | the monk, interposing effectually, and com- 
 well as in those of him that the senate may | pelling the lover to rise. “It would be easier 
 
 elect for her husband ?” to escape the toils of sin than to elude the ) 
 “Can this be true?” exclaimed Vio-| agents of the police. I tremble lest this visit | 
 letta. should be known, for we are encircled with j 
 
 ; 
 
 _ Believe it not; my errand in Venice is | the ministers of the state, and not a palace 
 no secret. Iseek the restitution of lands and | in Venice is more narrowly watched than this. 
 houses long withheld from my family, with | Were thy presence here detected, indiscreet 
 the honors of the senate that are justly mine. | young man, thy youth might pine in a prison, 
 All these do I joyfully abandon for the hope | while thou would’st be the cause of persecu- 
 
 hao OR ae RN ep Ne I" 4. 
 
 of thy favor.” tion and unmerited sorrow to this innocent 
 ‘«Thou hearest, Florinda: Don Camillo is | and inexperienced maiden.” 
 not to be distrusted!” ‘‘ A prison, sayest thou, father ?” 
 
 ‘¢ What are the senate and the power of St. ‘“No less, daughter. Lighter offences 
 “Mark, that they should cross our lives with | are often expiated by heavier judgments, 
 misery? Bemine, lovely Vicletta,andinthe| when the pleasure of the senate is 
 fastnesses of my own good Calabrian castle, | thwarted.” ; 
 
 we will defy their vengeance and _ policy. “Thou must not be condemned to a 
 Their disappointment shall furnish merri- | prison, Camillo! ” 
 ment for my vassals, and our felicity shall ‘‘Fear it not. The years and peaceful 
 
 make the happiness of thousands. I affect | calling of the father make him timid. I 
 no disrespect for the dignity of the councils, | have long been prepared for this happy mo- 
 nor any indifference to that I lose, but to me | ment, and I ask but a single hour to put 
 art though far more precious than the horned | Venice and all her toils at defiance. Give 
 bonnet itself, with all its fancied influence | me the blessed assurance of thy truth, and 
 and glory.” confide in my means for the rest.” 
 
 “‘ Generous Camillo! ” ‘*Thou hearest, Florinda! ” 
 
 ‘**Be mine, and spare the cold calculators} ‘‘'This bearing is suited to the sex of Don 
 of the senate another crime. They think to | Camillo, dearest, but it ill becometh thee. A 
 dispose of thee, as if thou wert worthless | maiden of high quality must await the deci- 
 merchandise, to their own advantage. But | sion of her natural guardians.” 
 thou wilt defeat their design. I read the “ But should that choice be Giacomo Gra- 
 generous resolution in thine eye, Violetta; | denigo ?” 
 thou wilt manifest a will superior to their} “The senate will not hear of it The arts 
 arts and egotism.” of his father have long been known to thee; 
 
 “T would not be trafficked for, Don Camillo | and thou must. have seen, by the secrecy of 
 Monforte, but wooed and won as befitteth a | his own advances, that he distrusts their de- 
 maiden of my condition. ‘They may still] cision. ‘The state will have a care to dispose 
 leave me liberty of choice. The Signor Gra-| of thee as befitteth thy hopes. Thou art 
 denigo hath much encouraged me of late with | sought of many, and those who guard thy 
 this hope, when Pianeta of the establish- | fortune only await the proposals which best 
 ment suited to my years.” become thy birth.” 
 
 ‘* Believe him not; a colder heart, a spirit “ Proposals that become my birth!” 
 more removed frown charity, exists not in| “Suitable in years, condition, expectations, 
 Venice. He courts thy favor for his own | and character.” 
 prodigal son; a cavalier without honor, the| ‘‘ Am IJ to regard Don Camillo Monforte as 
 companion of profligates, and the victim of | one beneath me?” 
 the Hebrews. Believe him not, for he is} The monk again interposed. 
 stricken in deceit.” ‘< This interview must end,” he said. “‘ The 
 
 “He is the victim of his own designs, if | eyes drawn upon us, by your indiscreet music, 
 
 =) 
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a 
 
 - 5 eg. © oh 
 
 ‘*s eet : ee i | 
 rae U ont y panes 
 
 ~ - . 
 
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 4: 
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 : 
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 ‘ . nd _ 
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 cae oi 
 pana 
 ; 
 ht in 
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 \ 2 
 
Stretching his arms toward the stars he pronounced the absolution in a 
 voice that was touched with pious fervor.—The Bravo. 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 are now turned on other objects, signor, and 
 you must break your faith, or depart.” 
 
 <¢ Alone, father ? ” 
 
 ‘Ts the Donna Violetta to quit the roof 
 of her father with as little warning as an un- ; 
 favored dependent ?” 
 
 “ Nay, Signor Monforte, you could not, in 
 reason, have expected more, in this inter- 
 view, than the hope of some future termina- 
 tion to your suit—some pledge ? 
 
 << And that pledge ?”’ 
 
 The eyes of Violetta turned from her gov- 
 erness to her lover, from her lover to the 
 monk, and from the latter to the floor. 
 
 <‘Tg thine, Camillo.” 
 
 A common ery escaped the Carmelite and 
 the governess. 
 
 «“Thy mercy, excellent friend,” continued 
 the blushing but decided Violetta. “If I 
 have encouraged Don Camillo, in a manner 
 that thy counsels and maiden modesty would 
 reprove; reflect that had he hesitated to cast 
 himself into the Giudecca, I should have 
 wanted the power to confer this trifling 
 grace. Why should I be less generous than 
 my preserver? No, Camillo, when the senate 
 condemns me to wed another than thee, it 
 pronounces the doom of celibacy; I will hide 
 my griefs inaconvent till I die!” 
 
 There was a solemn and fearful interrup- 
 tion to a discourse which was so rapidly be- 
 coming explicit, by the sound of the bell, 
 that the groom of the chambers, a long-tried 
 and confidential domestic, had been com- 
 manded to ring before he entered. As this 
 injunction had been accompanied by another 
 not to appear, unless summoned, or urged 
 by some grave motive, the signal caused a 
 sudden pause, even at that interesting mo- 
 ment. 
 
 ‘How now!” exclaimed the Carmelite to 
 the servant, who abruptly entered. ‘‘ What 
 means this disregard of my injunctions?” 
 
 ‘«« Father, the republic!” 
 
 «Ts St. Mark in jeopardy, that females and - 
 priests are summoned to aid him?” 
 
 ‘‘There are officials of the state below, 
 who demand admission in the name of the 
 republic!” 
 
 ‘‘This grows serious,” said Don Camillo, 
 who alone retained his self-possession. “My 
 visit is known, and the active jealousy of the 
 state anticipates its object. Summon your res- 
 
 3 
 
 497 
 
 olution, Donna Violetta, and you, father, be of 
 heart! I will assume the responsibility of 
 the offence, if offence it be, and exonerate all 
 others from censure.” 
 
 ‘Forbid it, Father Anselmo. “Dearest 
 Florinda, we will share his punishment! ” 
 exclaimed the terrified Violetta, losing all 
 self-command in the fear of such a moment. 
 ‘‘He has not been guilty of this indiscretion 
 without participation of mine;.he has not 
 presumed beyond his encouragement.” 
 
 The monk and Donna Florinda regarded 
 each other in mute amazement, and haply 
 there was some admixture of feeling in the 
 look that denoted the uselessness of caution 
 when the passions were intent to elude the 
 vigilance of those who were merely prompted 
 by prudence. The former simply motioned 
 for silence, while he turned to the do- 
 mestic. 
 
 ‘‘Of what character are these ministers of 
 the state?” he demanded. 
 
 “ Father, they are its own officers, and wear 
 the badges of their condition.” 
 
 « And their request ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Ts to be admitted to the presence of the 
 Donna Violetta.” 
 
 “There is still hope!” rejoined the monk, 
 breathing more freely. Moving across the 
 room, he opened a door which communicated 
 with the private oratory of the palace. ‘‘ Re- 
 tire within this sacred chapel, Don Camillo, 
 while we await the explanation of so extraor- 
 dinary a visit.” 
 
 As the time pressed, the suggestion was 
 obeyed on the instant. The lover entered 
 the oratory, and when the door was closed 
 upon his person, the domestic, one known to 
 be worthy of all confidence, was directed to 
 usher in those who waited without. 
 
 But a single individual appeared. He was 
 known, at a glance, for a public and respon- 
 sible agent of the government, who was often 
 charged with the execution of secret and 
 delicate duties. Donna Violetta advanced to 
 meet him, in respect to his employers, and 
 with the return of that self-possession which © 
 long practice interweaves with the habits of 
 the great. 
 
 ‘*T am honored by this care of my dreaded 
 and illustrious guardians,” she said, making 
 an acknowledgment for the low reverence 
 with which the official saluted the richest 
 
498 
 ward of Venice. ‘*To what circumstance do 
 I owe this visit ? ” 
 
 The officer gazed an instant about him, 
 with an habitual and suspicious caution, and 
 then repeating his salutations, he answered. 
 
 “Lady,” he said, “I am commanded to 
 seek an interview with the daughter of the 
 state, the heiress of the illustrious house of 
 Tiepolo, with the Donna Florinda Mercato, 
 her female companion, with the Father An- 
 selmo, her commissioned confessor, and with 
 any other who enjoys the pleasure of her 
 society and the honor of her confidence.” 
 
 “Those you seek are here; I am Violetta 
 Tiepolo; to this lady I am indebted for a 
 mother’s care, and this reverend Carmelite 
 is my spiritual counsellor. Shall I summon 
 my household ?” 
 
 “Jt is unnecessary. My errand is rather 
 of private than of public concern. At the 
 decease of your late most honored and much- 
 lamented parent, the illustrious senator ‘Tie- 
 polo, the care of your person, lady, was com- 
 mitted by the republic, your natural and 
 careful protector, to the especial guardian- 
 ship and wisdom of Signor Alessandro Gra- 
 denigo, of illustrious and estimable qualities.” 
 
 “Signor, you say true.” 
 
 “Though the parental love of the councils 
 may have seemed to be dormant, it has ever 
 been wakeful and vigilant. Now that the 
 years, instruction, beauty, and other excel- 
 lencies of their daughter, have come to so 
 rare perfection, they wish to draw the ties 
 that unite them nearer, by assuming their 
 own immediate duties about her person.” 
 
 ‘* By this I am to understand that I am no 
 longer a ward of the Signor Gradenigo ?” 
 
 ‘* Lady, a ready wit has helped you to the 
 explanation. That illustrious patrician is 
 released from his cherished and well-acquitted 
 duties. ‘To-morrow new guardians will be 
 charged with the care of your prized person, 
 and will continue their honorable trust, un- 
 til the wisdom of the senate shall have formed 
 for you such an alliance, as shall not dispar- 
 age a noble name and qualities that might 
 adorn a throne.” 
 
 ‘* Am I to be separated from those I love ?” 
 demanded Violetta, impetuously. 
 
 “Trust to the senate’s wisdom. I know 
 not its determination concerning those who 
 have long dwelt with you, but there can be no 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 reason to doubt its tenderness or discretion. 
 I have now only to add, that until those 
 charged anew with the honorable office of 
 your protectors shall arrive, it will be well to 
 maintain the same modest reserve in the re- 
 ception of visitors as of wont, and that your 
 door, lady, must in propriety be closed against 
 the Signor Gradenigo as against all others of 
 his sex.” 
 
 “Shall I not even thank him for his care?” 
 
 “He is tenfold rewarded in the senate’s 
 gratitude.” 
 
 “It would have been gracious to have ex- 
 pressed my feelings toward the Signor Gra- 
 denigo in words; but that which is refused 
 to the tongue will be permitted to the pen.” 
 
 ‘<The reserve that becomes the state of one 
 so favored is absolute. St. Mark is jealous 
 where he loves. And, now my commission is 
 discharged, I humbly take my leave, flattered 
 in having been selected to stand in such a 
 presence, and to have been thought worthy 
 of so honorable a duty.” 
 
 As the officer ceased speaking and V ioletta 
 returned his bows, she turned her eyes, filled 
 with apprehension, on the sorrowful features 
 of her companions. The ambiguous lan- 
 guage of those employed in such missions 
 was too well known to leave much hope for 
 the future. They all anticipated their sepa- 
 ration on the morrow, though neither could 
 penetrate the reason of this sudden change 
 in the policy of the state. Interrogation was 
 useless, for the blow evidently came from the — 
 secret council, whose motives could no more _ 
 be fathomed than its decrees foreseen. The — 
 monk raised his hands in silent benediction — 
 toward his spiritual charge, and, unable, — 
 even in the presence of the stranger, to re- { 
 press their grief, Donna Florinda and Violetta 
 sunk into each cther’s arms and wept. | 
 
 In the meantime the minister of this cruel 
 blow had delayed his departure, like one who 
 had a half-formed resolution. He regarded 
 the countenance of the unconscious Carmelite 
 intently, and in a manner that denoted the 
 habit of thinking much before he decided, _ 
 
 “Reverend Father,” he said, ‘‘ may I craye 
 a moment of your time, for an affair that 
 concerns the soul of a sinner? | 
 
 Though amazed, the monk could not hesi 
 tate about answering such an appeal. pe! 
 dient to a gesture of the officer, he fle wet 
 
 i 
 ? 
 ‘a 
 
so glorious a sway on the decline. 
 
 THH BRAVO. 
 
 him from the apartment, and continued at 
 his side while the other threaded the mag- 
 nificent rooms and descended to his gondola. 
 
 “ You must be much honored of the sen- 
 ate, holy monk,” observed the latter, while 
 they proceeded, “to hold so near a trust 
 about the person of one in whom the state 
 takes so great an interest ?” 
 
 <‘T feel it as such, my son. A life of peace 
 and prayer should have made me friends.” 
 
 «Men like you, Father, merit the esteem 
 they crave. Are you long of Venice ?” 
 
 “Since the last conclave. I came into the 
 republic as confessor to the late minister 
 from Florence.” 
 
 “ An honorable trust. You have been with 
 us, then, long enough to know that the re- 
 public never forgets a servitor, nor forgives 
 an affront.” 
 
 “?Tis an ancient state, and one whose in- 
 fluence still reaches far and near.” 
 
 “Have a care of the step. These marbles 
 are treacherous to an uncertain foot.” 
 
 <* Mine is too practised in the desgent to 
 be unsteady. I hope I do not now descend 
 these stairs for the last time?” | 
 
 The minister ef the council affected not to 
 understand the question, but he answered as 
 if replying’only to the previous observation. 
 
 “?Tis truly a venerable state,” he said, 
 “but a little tottering with its years. All 
 who love liberty, Father, must mourn to see 
 Sie transit 
 gloria mundi! You bare-footed Carmelites 
 do well to mortify the flesh in youth, by 
 which you escape the pains of a decreasing 
 power. One like you can have few wrongs 
 of his younger days to repair?” 
 
 “ We are none of us without sin,” returned 
 the monk, crossing himself. “He who 
 would flatter his soul with being perfect jays 
 the additional weight of vanity on his life.” 
 
 “Men of my occupation, holy Carmelite, 
 have few opportunities of looking into them- 
 selves, and I bless the hour that hath brought 
 me into company so godly. My gondola 
 waits—will you enter?” 
 
 The monk regarded his companion in dis- 
 trust, but knowing the uselessness of resist- 
 ance, he murmured a short prayer and com- 
 plied. A strong dash of the oars announced 
 their departure from the steps of the palace. 
 
 499 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 O pescator! dell’ onda, 
 Fi da lin ; 
 O pescator ! dell’ onda, 
 Fi da lin: 
 Vien pescar in qua 
 Colla bella tua barca, 
 Colla bella se ne va, 
 Fi da lin, lin, la— Venetian Boat Song. 
 
 THE moon was at its height. Its rays fell | 
 in a flood on the swelling domes and massive | 
 roofs of Venice, while the margin of the. 
 town was brilliantly defined by the glittering 
 bay. The natural and gorgeous setting was 
 more than worthy of that picture of human 
 magnificence; for at that moment, rich as 
 was the queen of the Adriadic in her works 
 of art, the grandeur of her public monu- 
 ments, the number and splendor of her pal- 
 aces, and most else that the ingenuity and 
 ambition of man could attempt, she was but 
 secondary in the glories of the hour. 
 
 Above was the firmament, gemmed with 
 worlds, and sublime in immensity. Beneath 
 lay the broad expanse of the Adriatic, end- 
 less to the eye, tranquil as the vault it re- 
 flected, and luminous with its borrowed light. 
 Here and there a low island, reclaimed from 
 the sea by the patient toil of a thousand 
 years, dotted the Lagunes, burdened with 
 the group of some dwellings, or picturesque 
 with the modest roofs of a hamlet of the fish- 
 ermen. Neither oar, nor song, nor laugh, 
 nor flap of sail, nor jest of mariner, dis-— 
 turbed the stillness. All in the near view 
 was clothed in midnight loveliness, and all 
 in the distance bespoke the solemnity of na- 
 ture at peace. The city and the Lagunes, 
 the gulf and the dreamy Alps, the intermin- 
 able plain of Lombardy, and the blue void 
 of heaven, lay alike in a common and grand | 
 repose. ii 
 
 There suddenly appeared a gondola. It 
 
 issued from among the watery channels of «.., 
 
 the town, and glided upon the vast bosom 
 of the bay, noiseless asthe fancied progress of 
 aspirit. A practised and nervous arm guid- 
 ed its movement, which was unceasing and 
 rapid. So swift indeed was the passage of 
 the boat, as to denote pressing haste on the 
 part of the solitary individual it contained. 
 It held the direction of the Adriatic, steering 
 between one of the more southern outlets of — 
 
500 
 
 the bay and the well-known island of St. 
 Giorgio. For half an hour the exertions of 
 the gondolier were unrelaxed, though his 
 eye was often cast behind him, as if he dis- 
 trusted pursuit ; and as often did he gaze 
 ahead, betraying an anxious desire .to reach 
 some object that was yet invisible. When a 
 wide reach of water lay between him and the 
 town, however, he permitted his oar to rest, 
 and he lent all his faculties to a keen and 
 anxious search. 
 
 A small dark spot was discovered on the 
 water still nearer to the sea. The oar of the 
 gondolier dashed the element behind him, 
 and his boat again glided away, so far alter- 
 ing its course as to show that all indecision 
 was now ended. The darker spot was short- 
 ly beheld quivering in the rays of the moon, 
 and it soon assumed the form and dimen- 
 sions of a boat at anchor. Again the gon- 
 dolier ceased his efforts, and he leaned 
 forward, gazing intently at this undefined ob- 
 ject, as if he would aid his powers of sight by 
 the sympathy of his other faculties. Just 
 then the notes of music came softly across 
 the Lagunes. ‘The voice was feeble even to 
 trembling, but it had the sweetness of tone 
 and the accuracy of execution which belong 
 so peculiarly to Venice. It was the solitary 
 man, in the distant boat, indulging in the 
 song of a fisherman. The strains were sweet, 
 and the intonations plaintive to melancholy. 
 The air was common to all wheapplied the 
 oar in the canals, and familiar to the ear of 
 the listener. He waited until the close of 
 a verse had died away, and then he answered 
 with a strain of his own. The alternate 
 parts were thus maintained until the music 
 ceased, by the two singing a final verse in 
 chorus. 
 
 When the song was ended, the oar of the 
 gondolier stirred the water again, and he 
 was quickly by the other’s side. 
 
 “Thou art busy with thy hook betimes, 
 Antonio,” said he who had just arrived, as 
 he stepped into the boat of the old fisherman 
 already so well known tothereader. “There 
 are men that an interview with the Council 
 of Three would have sent to their prayers 
 and a sleepless bed.” 
 
 “There is not a chapel in Venice, Jacopo, 
 in which a sinner may so well lay bare his 
 soul as in this. I have been here on the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. : 
 
 empty Lagunes, alone with God, having the 
 gates of Paradise open before my eyes.” 
 
 ‘One like thee hath no need of images to 
 quicken his devotion.” 
 
 ‘“T see the image of my Saviour, Jacopo, 
 in those bright stars, that moon, the blue 
 heavens, the misty bank of mountain, the 
 waters on which we float, ay, even in my own 
 sinking form, as in all which has come from 
 His wisdom and power. I have prayed much 
 since the moon has risen.” 
 
 “ And is habit so strong in thee, that thou 
 thinkest of God and thy sins, while thou 
 anglest ?” 
 
 “The poor must toil and the sinful must 
 pray. My thoughts have dwelt so much of. 
 late on the boy that I have forgotten to pro- 
 vide myself with food. If I fish later or 
 earlier than common, *tis because a man can- 
 not live on grief.” 
 
 ‘‘T have bethought me of thy situation, 
 honest Antonio; here is that which will 
 support life and raise thy courage. See,” 
 added «he Bravo, stretching forth an arm 
 into his own gondola, from which he drewa 
 basket, ‘‘here is bread from Dalmatia, wine 
 of Lower Italy, and figs from the Levant— 
 eat, then, and be of good cheer.” 
 
 The fisherman threw a wistful glance at 
 the viands, for hunger was making powerful 
 appeals to the weakness of nature, but his 
 hand did not relinquish its hold of the line, 
 with which he still continued to angle. 
 
 ‘‘And these are thy gifts, Jacopo?” he 
 asked in a voice that, spite of his resignation, 
 betrayed the longings of appetite. ; 
 
 ‘‘ Antonio, they are the offerings of one 
 who respects thy courage and honors thy 
 nature.” 
 
 ‘‘ Bought with his earnings ?” 
 
 ‘‘Can it be otherwise ?—I am no beggar, 
 for the love of the saints, and few in Venice 
 give unasked. Lat, then, without fear; sel- — 
 dom wilt thou be more welcome.” | 
 
 ‘Take them away, Jacopo, if thou lovest — 
 me. Do not tempt them beyond what I can — 
 bear.” ) : 
 
 ‘‘How! art thou commanded to a pen- 
 ance ?” hastily exclaimed the other. 
 
 ‘© Not so—not so. It is long since I have — 
 found leisure or heart for the confessional.” 
 
 «‘Then why refuse the gift of a friend ? 
 Remember thy years and necessities.” 
 
 i i ae ee ee 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 <<T cannot feed on the price of blood!” 
 
 The hand of the Bravo was withdrawn as 
 if repelled by an electric touch. The action 
 caused the rays of the moon to fall athwart 
 his kindling eye, and firm as Antonio was in 
 honesty and principie, he felt the blood creep 
 to his heart as he encountered the fierce and 
 sudden glance of his companion. A long 
 pause succeeded, during which the fisherman 
 diligently plied his line, though utterly re- 
 gardless of the object for which it had been 
 cast. 
 
 <‘T have said it, Jacopo,” he added, at 
 length, ‘“‘ and tongue of mine shall not belie 
 the thought of my heart. Take away thy 
 food then, and forget all that is past ; for 
 what I have said hath not been said in scorn, 
 but out of regard to my own soul. Thou 
 knowest how I have sorrowed for the boy, 
 but next to his loss I could mourn over thee 
 —ay, more bitterly than over any other of 
 the fallen !” 
 
 _ The hard breathing of the Bravo was audi- 
 ble, but still he spoke not. 
 
 «<< Jacopo,” continued the anxious fisher- 
 man, ‘‘do not mistake me. The pity of the 
 suffering and poor is not like the scorn of 
 the rich and worldly. If I touch a sore, I do 
 not bruise it with my heel. ‘Thy present 
 pain is better than the greatest of all thy 
 former joys.” 
 
 «< Knough, old man,” said the other ina 
 smothered voice ; ‘‘ thy words are forgotten. 
 Eat without fear, for the offering is bought 
 with earnings as pure as the gleamings of a 
 mendicant friar.” 
 
 «‘T will trust to the kindness of St. 
 Anthony and the fortune of my hook,” sim- 
 ply, returned Antonio. ‘‘’Tis common for 
 us of the Lagunes to go to a supperless bed ; 
 take away the basket, good Jacopo, and let 
 us speak of other things.” 
 
 The Bravo ceased to press his food upon 
 the fisherman. Laying aside his basket, he 
 sat brooding over what had occurred. 
 
 «« Hast thou come thus far for naught else, 
 good Jacopo ?” demanded the old man, will- 
 ing to weaken the shock of his refusal. 
 
 The question appeared to restore Jacopo to 
 @ recollection of his errand. He stood erect, 
 and looked about him for more than a min- 
 ute, with a keen eye and an entire intentness 
 of purpose. The look in the direction of the 
 
 501 
 
 city was longer and more earnest than those 
 thrown toward the sea and the main, nor 
 was it withdrawn until an involuntary start 
 betrayed equally surprise and alarm. 
 
 “Tg there not a boat here, in a line with 
 the tower of the campanile?” he asked 
 quickly, pointing towards the city. 
 
 ‘‘Tt so seems. It is early for my comrades 
 to be abroad, but the draughts have not been 
 heavy of late, and the revelry of yesterday 
 drew many of our people from their toil. 
 The patricians must eat, and the poor must 
 labor, or both would die.” 
 
 The Bravo slowly seated himself, and he 
 looked with concern into the countenance of 
 his companion. 
 
 «¢ Art thou long here, Antonio ?” 
 
 ‘*But an hour. When they turned us 
 away from the palace, thou knowest that I 
 told thee of my necessities. There is not, in 
 common, a more certain spot on the Lagunes 
 than this, and yet have I long played the line 
 in vain. The trial of hunger is hard, but 
 like all other trials it must be borne. I have 
 prayed to my patron thrice, and sooner or 
 later he will listen to my wants. Thou art 
 used to the manners of these masked nobles, 
 Jacopo; dost thou think them likely to 
 hearken to reason? I hope I did the cause 
 no wrong for want of breeding, but I spoke 
 them fair and plainly as fathers and men 
 with hearts.” 
 
 “As senators they have none. Thou little 
 understandest, Antonio, the distinctions of 
 these patricians. In the gayety of their 
 palaces, and among the companions of their 
 pleasures, none will speak you fairer of 
 humanity and justice—ay, even of God! 
 but when met to discuss what they call the 
 interests of St. Mark, there is not a rock on 
 the coldest peak of yonder Alp, with less 
 humanity, or a wolf among their valleys 
 more heartless !”’ 
 
 ‘‘Thy words are strong, Jacopo—I would 
 not do injustice even to those who have 
 done me this wrong. ‘The senators are men, 
 and God has given all feelings and nature 
 alike.” 
 
 ‘‘The gift is then abused. Thou hast 
 felt the want of thy daily assistant, fisher- 
 man, and thou hast sorrowed for thy child ; 
 for thee it is easy to enter into another’s griefs ; 
 but the senators know nothing of suffering. 
 
502 
 
 Their children are not dragged to the gal- 
 leys, their hopes are never destroyed by laws 
 coming from hard task-masters, nor are their 
 tears shed for sons ruined by being made 
 companions of the dregs of the republic. 
 They will talk of public virtue and_ ser- 
 vices to the state, but in their own cases 
 they mean the virtue of renown, and services 
 that bring with them honors and rewards. 
 Lhe wants of the state are their conscience, 
 though they take heed those wants shall do 
 themselves no harm.” 
 
 ‘“‘ Jacopo, Providence itself hath made a 
 difference in men. One is large, another 
 small; one weak, another strong ; one wise, 
 another foolish. At what Providence hath 
 done, we should not murmur. ” 
 
 ‘* Providence did not make the senate tis 
 an invention of man. Mark me, Antonio, 
 thy language hath given offence, and thou 
 art not safe in Venice. They will pardon 
 all but complaint against their justice. 
 That is too true to be forgiven.” 
 
 ‘‘Can they wish to harm one who seeks 
 his own child ?” 
 
 “If thou wert great and respected, they 
 would undermine thy fortune and character, 
 ere thou should’st put their system in 
 danger—as thou art weak and poor, they 
 will do thee some direct injury, unless thou 
 art moderate. Before all, I warn thee that 
 their system must stand ! ” 
 
 ‘* Will God suffer this ?” 
 
 “We may not enter into His secrets,” 
 returned the Bravo, devoutly crossing 
 himself. ‘Did His reign end with this 
 world, there might be injustice in suffering 
 the wicked to triumph, but, as it is, we 
 Yon boat approaches fast! I little like its 
 air and movements.” 
 
 ‘* They are not fishermen, truly, for there 
 are many oars and a canopy!” 
 
 “It is a gondola of the state!” exclaimed 
 Jacopo, rising and stepping into his own 
 boat, which he cast loose from that of his 
 companion, when he stood in evident doubt 
 as to his future proceedings. ‘Antonio, we 
 should do well to row away.” 
 
 ‘‘ Thy fears are natural,” said the unmoved 
 fisherman, ‘‘and ’tis a thousand pities that 
 there is cause for them. There is yet time 
 for one skilful as thou to outstrip the fleetest 
 gondola on the canals.” 
 
 WORkKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘Quick, lift thy anchor, old man, and 
 depart,—my eye is sure. I know the boat.” 
 
 “Poor Jacopo! what a curse is a tender 
 conscience! Thou hast been kind to me in 
 my need, and if prayers, from a sincere 
 heart, can do thee service, thou shalt not 
 want them.” 
 
 “« Antonio!” cried the other, causing his 
 boat to whirl away, and then pausing an 
 instant like a man undecided—**I can stay 
 no longer—trust them not—they are false as 
 fiends—there is no time to lose—I must 
 away.” 
 
 The fisherman murmured an ejaculation 
 of pity as he waved a hand in adieu. 
 
 “Holy St. Anthony, watch over my own 
 child, lest he come to some such miserable 
 life!”’ he added in an audible prayer—* There 
 hath been good seed cast on a rock, in that 
 youth, for a warmer or kinder heart is not in 
 man. ‘'hat one like Jacopo should live by 
 striking the assassin’s blow!” 
 
 ‘The near approach of the strange gondola 
 now attracted the whole attention of the old 
 man. It came swiftly towards him, im- 
 pelled by six strong oars, and his eye turned 
 feverishly in the direction of the fugitive. 
 Jacopo, with a readiness that necessity and 
 long practice rendered nearly : instinctive, 
 had taken a direction which blended his 
 wake in a line with one of those bright 
 streaks that the moon drew on the water, 
 and which, by dazzling the eye, effectually 
 concealed the objects within its width. 
 When the fisherman saw that the Bravo had 
 disappeared, he smiled and seemed at ease. 
 
 ‘* Ay, let them come here,” he said; “it 
 will give Jacopo more time. I doubt not 
 the poor fellow hath struck a blow, since 
 quitting the palace, that the council will not 
 forgive! The sight of gold hath been too 
 strong, and he hath offended those who have 
 so long borne with him. God forgive me, 
 that I have had communion with such a 
 man ! but when the heart is heavy, the pity 
 of even a dog will warm our feelings. Few 
 care for me, now, or the friendship of such 
 as he could never have been welcome.” 
 
 Antonio ceased, for the gondola of the 
 state came with a rushing noise to the side 
 of his own boat, where it was suddenly stop- 
 ped by a backward sweep of the oars. The 
 
 water was still in ebullition, when a form 
 
 ee ae 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 passing into the gondola of the fisherman, 
 
 the larger boat shot away again, to the dis- 
 
 tance of a few hundred feet, and remained 
 at rest. 
 Antonio witnessed this movement in silent 
 
 curiosity; but when he saw the gondoliers of 
 the state lying on their oars, he glanced his 
 
 eye again furtively in the direction of Jacopo, 
 saw that all was safe, and faced his compan- 
 ion with confidence. 
 moon enabled him to distinguish the dress 
 and aspect of a bare-footed Carmelite. The 
 latter seemed more confounded than his 
 companion, by the rapidity of the move- 
 ment, and the novelty of his situation. Not- 
 withstanding his confusion, however, an evi- 
 dent look of wonder crossed his mortified 
 features, when he first beheld the humble 
 condition; the thin and whitened locks, and 
 the general air and bearing of the old man 
 with whom he now found himeelf. 
 
 << Who art thou ?” escaped him, in the im- 
 pulse of surprise. 
 
 “Antonio of the Lagunes! A fisherman 
 that owes much to St. Anthony, for favors 
 little deserved.” 
 
 «© And why hath one like thee fallen be- 
 neath the senate’s displeasure? ” 
 
 ‘<I am honest and ready to do justice to 
 others. If that offend the great, they are 
 men more to be pitied than envied.” 
 
 ««The convicted are always more disposed 
 to believe themselves unfortunate than guilty. 
 The error is fatal, and it should be eradicated 
 from the mind, lest it lead to death.” 
 
 “ Go tell this to the patricians. They have 
 need of plain counsel, and a warning from 
 the Church.” 
 
 “< My son, there is pride and anger, and a 
 perverse heart, in thy replies. The sins of 
 the senators—and as they are men, they are 
 not without spot—can in no manner whiten 
 thine own. Though an unjust sentence 
 should condemn one to punishment, it leaves 
 the offences against God in their native de- 
 formity. Men may pity him who hath 
 wrongfully undergone the anger of the 
 world, but the Church will only pronounce 
 pardon on him who confesseth his errors, 
 with a sincere admission of their magni- 
 tude.” 
 
 ‘Haye you come, father, to shrive a peni- 
 tent?” . 
 
 The brightness of the 
 
 503 
 
 “Such is my errand. I lament the occa- 
 sion, and if what I fear be true, still more 
 must I regret that one so aged should have 
 brought his devoted head beneath the arm 
 of justice.” 
 
 Antonio smiled, and again he bent his eyes 
 along that dazzling streak of light, which 
 had swallowed up the gondola and the person 
 of the Bravo. 
 
 ‘‘Father,” he said, when a long and ear- 
 nest look was ended, ‘‘there can be little 
 harm in speaking truth to one of thy hoiy 
 office. They have told thee there was a 
 criminal here in the Lagunes, who hath pro- 
 voked the anger of St. Mark?” 
 
 «Thou art right.” 
 
 ‘It is not easy to know when St. Marx is 
 pleased, or when he is not,’ continued An- 
 tonio, plying his line with indifference, “* for 
 the very man he now seeks has he long tol- 
 erated; ay, even in presence of the Doge. 
 The senate hath its reasons which lie beyond 
 the reach of the ignorant, but it would have 
 been better for the soul of the poor youth, 
 and more seemly for the republic, had it 
 turned a discouraging countenance on his 
 deeds from the first.” 
 
 «Thou speakest of another !—thou art not 
 then the criminal they seek ?” 
 
 ‘«‘Tam a sinner, like all born of woman, 
 reverend Carmelite, but my hand hath never 
 held any other weapon than the good sword 
 with which I struck the infidel. There was 
 one lately here, that, I grieve to add, cannot 
 say this !” 
 
 « And he is gone?” 
 
 ‘«‘ Father, you have your eyes, and you c.n 
 answer that question for yourself. He is 
 gone; though he is not far; still is he beyond 
 the reach of the swiftest gondola in Venice, 
 praised by St. Mark !” 
 
 Nhe Carmelite bowed his head, where he 
 was seated, and his lips moved, either in 
 prayer or in thanksgiving. 
 
 « Ave you sorry, monk, that a sinner has 
 escaped ? ”” 
 
 ‘Son, I rejoice that this bitter office hath 
 passed from me, while I mourn that there 
 should be a spirit so depraved as to require 
 it. Let us summon the servants of the re- 
 public, and inform them that their errand is 
 useless.” 
 
 ‘< Be not of haste, good father. The night 
 
504 
 
 is gentle, and these hirelings sleep on their 
 oars, like gulls in the Lagunes. The youth 
 will have more time for repentance, should 
 he be undisturbed.” | 
 
 The Carmelite, who had arisen, instantly 
 reseated himself, like one actuated by a strong 
 impulse. 
 
 “‘T thought he had already been far be- 
 yond pursuit,” he muttered, unconsciously 
 apologizing for his apparent haste. 
 
 “He is over-bold, and I fear he will row 
 back to the canals, in which case you might 
 meet nearer to the city—or, there may be 
 more gondolas of the state out—in short, 
 father, thou wilt be more certain to escape 
 hearing the confession of a Bravo, by listen- 
 ing to that of a fisherman, who has long 
 wanted an occasion to acknowledge his sins.” 
 
 Men who ardently wish the same result, 
 require few words to understand each other. 
 The Carmelite took, intuitively, the mean- 
 ing of his companion, and throwing back his 
 cowl, a movement that exposed the counte- 
 nance of Father Anselmo, he prepared to 
 listen to the confession of the old man. 
 
 «Thou art a Christian, and one of thy 
 years hath not to learn the state of mind 
 that becometh a penitent;” said the monk, 
 when each was ready. 
 
 “JT am a sinner, father; give me counsel 
 and absolution, that I may have hope.” 
 
 *«Thy will be done—thy prayer is heard— 
 approach and kneel.” 
 
 Antonio, who had fastened his line to his 
 seat, and disposed of his net with habitual 
 care, now crossed himself devoutly, and took 
 his station before the Carmelite. His ac- 
 knowledgments of error then began. Much 
 mental misery clothed the language and ideas 
 of the fisherman with a dignity that his 
 auditor had not been accustomed to find in 
 men of his class. A spirit so long chastened 
 by suffering had become elevated and noble. 
 He related his hopes for the boy, the manner 
 in which they had been blasted by the unjust 
 and selfish policy of the state, his different 
 efforts to procure the release of his grandson, 
 and his bold expedients at the regatta, and 
 the fancied nuptials with the Adriatic. When 
 he had thus prepared the Carmelite to under- 
 stand the origin of his sinful passions, which it 
 was now his duty to expose, he spoke of those 
 passions themselves, and’ of their influence 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 on a mind that was ordinarily at peace with 
 mankind. The tale was told simply and 
 without reserve, but in a manner to inspire 
 respect, and to awaken powerful sympathy in 
 him who heard it. 
 
 ‘‘And these feelings thou didst indulge 
 against the honored and powerful of Venice ?” 
 demanded the monk, affecting a severity he 
 could not feel. 
 
 ‘‘ Before my God do I confess the sin! In 
 bitterness of heart I cursed them ; for to me 
 they seemed men without feeling for the 
 poor, and heartless as the marbles of their 
 own palaces.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou knowest that to be forgiven, thou 
 must forgive. Dost thou, at peace with all 
 of earth, forget this wrong, and canst thou, 
 in charity with thy fellows, pray to Him who 
 died for the race, in behalf of those who have 
 injured thee ?” 
 
 Antonio bowed his head on his naked 
 breast, and he seemed to commune with his 
 soul. | 
 
 “ Father,” he said, in a rebuked tone, ‘I 
 hope I do.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou must not trifle with thyself to thine 
 own perdition. There is an eye in yon vault 
 above us which pervades space, and which 
 looks into the inmost secrets of the heart. 
 Canst thou pardon the error of the patricians, 
 in a contrite spirit for thine own sins? ” 
 
 ‘* Holy Maria, pray for them, as I now ask 
 mercy in their behalf !—Father, they are for- 
 given.” 
 
 « Amen !” 
 
 The Carmelite arose and stood over the 
 kneeling Antonio, with the whole of his 
 benevolent countenance illuminated by the 
 moon. Stretching his arms towards the 
 stars, he pronounced the absolution, in a 
 voice that was touched with pious fervor. 
 The upward expectant eye, with the withered 
 lineaments of the fisherman, and the holy 
 calm of the monk, formed a picture of resig- 
 nation and hope that angels would have loved 
 to witness. | 
 
 ‘*Amen! amen!” exclaimed Antonio, as 
 he arose, crossing himself; “St. Anthony 
 and the Virgin aid me to keep these reso- 
 lutions !” 
 
 ‘‘T will not forget thee, my son, in the 
 offices of holy church. Receive my benedic- 
 tion, that I may depart.” 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 Antonio again bowed his knee, while the 
 Carmelite firmly pronounced the words of 
 peace. When this last office was performed, 
 and a decent interval of mutual but silent 
 prayer had passed, a signal was given to 
 summon the gondola of the state. It came 
 rowing down with great force, and was in- 
 stantly at their side. ‘Two men passed into 
 the boat of Antonio, and with officious zeal 
 assisted the monk to resume his place in that 
 of the republic. 
 
 “Ts the penitent shrived?” half whispered 
 one, seemingly the superior of the two. 
 
 “Here is an error. He thou seekest has 
 escaped. This aged man is a fisherman 
 named Antonio, and one who cannot have 
 gravely offended St. Mark. The Bravo hath 
 passed towards the island of San Giorgio, and 
 must be sought elsewhere.” 
 
 The officer released the person of the monk, 
 who passed quickly beneath the canopy, and 
 he turned to cast a hasty glance at the feat- 
 ures of the fisherman. The rubbing of a 
 rope was audible, and the anchor of Antonio 
 was lifted by a sudden jerk. A heavy plash- 
 ing of the water followed, and the two boats 
 shot away together, obedient to a violent 
 effort of the crew. The gondola of the state 
 exhibited its usual number of gondoliers 
 bending to their toil, with its dark and 
 hearse-like canopy, but that of the fisherman 
 was empty ! 
 
 The sweep of the oars and the plunge of 
 the body of Antonio had been blended in a 
 common wash of the surge. When the fisher- 
 man came to the surface, after his fall, he 
 was alone in the centre of the vast but 
 tranquil sheet of water. There might have 
 been a glimmering of hope, as he arose from 
 the darkness of the sea to the bright beauty 
 of that moon-lit night. But the sleeping 
 domes were too far for human strength, and 
 the gondolas were sweeping madly towards 
 the town. He turned, and swimming feebly, 
 for hunger and previous exertion had under- 
 mined his strength, he bent his eyes on the 
 dark spot, which he had constantly recognized 
 as the boat of the Bravo. 
 
 Jacopo had not ceased to watch the inter- 
 view, with the utmost intentness of his 
 faculties. Favored by position, he could see 
 without being distinctly visible. He saw the 
 Carmelite pronouncing the absolution, and 
 
 505 
 
 he witnessed the approach of the larger boat. 
 He heard a plunge heavier than that of falling 
 oars, and he saw the gondola of Antonio tow- 
 ing away empty. The crew of the republic 
 had scarcely swept the Lagunes with their 
 oar-blades, before his own stirred the water. 
 
 ‘‘ Jacopo !—Jacopo!” came fearfully and 
 faintly to his ears. 
 
 The voice was known and the occasion 
 thoroughly understood. The cry of distress 
 was succeeded by the rush of the water, as 16 
 piled before the beak of the Bravo’s gondola. 
 The sound of the parted element was like the 
 sighing of a breeze. Ripples and bubbles 
 were left behind, as the driven scud floats 
 past the stars and all those muscles which 
 had once before that day been so finely de- 
 veloped in the race of the gondoliers, were 
 now expanded, seemingly in twofold volume. 
 Energy and skill were in every stroke, and 
 the dark spot came down the streak of light, 
 like the swallow touching the water with its 
 wing. 
 
 “Hither, Jacopo—thou steerest wide !” 
 
 The beak of the gondola turned, and the 
 glaring eye of the Bravo caught a glimpse of 
 the fisherman’s head. 
 
 “Quickly, good Jacopo,—I fail !” 
 
 The murmuring of the water again drowned 
 the stifled words. The efforts of the oar were 
 frenzied, and at each stroke the light gondola 
 appeared to rise from its element. 
 
 «‘ Jacopo—hither—dear Jacopo !” 
 
 “The mother of God aid thee, fisher- 
 man !—I come.” 
 
 “ Jacopo—the boy !—the boy !” 
 
 The water gurgled; an arm was visible in 
 the air, and it disappeared. The gondola 
 drove upon the spot where the limb had just 
 been visible, and a backward stroke, that 
 caused the ashen blade to bend like a reed, 
 laid the trembling boat motionless. The fu- 
 rious action threw the Lagune into ebullition, 
 but, when the foam subsided, it lay calm as 
 the blue and peaceful vault it reflected. 
 
 ‘«¢ Antonio! ”’—burst from the lips of the 
 Bravo. 
 
 A frightful silence succeeded the call. 
 There was neither answer nor human form. 
 Jacopo compressed the handle of his oar with 
 fingers of iron, and his own breathing caused 
 him to start. On every side he bent a frenzied 
 eye, and on every side he beheld the profound 
 
506 
 
 repose of that treacherous element which is 
 so terrible in its wrath. Like the human 
 heart, it seemed to sympathize with the 
 tranquil beauty of the midnight view ; but, 
 like the human heart, it kept its own fearful 
 secrets. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
 And I shall slumber well—but where?—no matter. 
 Adieu, my Angiolina.—Marino Faliero. 
 
 WHEN the Carmelite re-entered the apart- 
 ment of Donna Violetta, his face was covered 
 with the hue of death, and his limbs with 
 difficulty supported him to a chair. He 
 scarcely observed that Don Camillo Monforte 
 was still present, nor did he note the bright- 
 ness and joy which glowed in the eyes of the 
 ardent Violetta. Indeed his appearance was 
 at first unseen by the happy lovers, for the 
 lord of St. Agata had succeeded in wresting 
 the secret from the breast of his mistress, if 
 that may be called a secret which Itahan 
 character’ had scarcely struggled to retain, 
 and he had crossed the room before even the 
 more tranquil look of the Donna Florinda 
 rested on his person. 
 
 “Thou art ill!” exclaimed the governess. 
 “ Rather Anselmo hath not been absent with- 
 out grave cause!” 
 
 The monk threw back his cowl for air, and 
 
 the act discovered the deadly paleness of his | 
 
 features. But his eyes, charged with a mean- 
 ing of horror, rolled over the faces of those 
 who drew around him, as if he struggled 
 with memory to recall their persons. 
 
 ‘‘Ferdinando! Father Anselmo!” cried 
 the Donna Florinda, correcting the unbidden 
 familiarity, though she could not command 
 the anxiety of her rebel features; “speak to 
 us—thon art suffering!” 
 
 ‘¢T]] at heart, Florinda.” : 
 
 *«Deceive us not—haply thou hast more 
 evil tidings— Venice——” 
 
 “Ts a fearful state!” 
 
 * Why hast thou quitted us?—why, in a 
 moment of so much importance to our pupil 
 —a moment that may prove of the last in- 
 fluence on her happiness—hast thou been 
 absent for a long hour?” 
 
 Violetta turned a surprised and uncon- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 scious glance towards the clock, but she spoke 
 not. 
 
 ‘‘The servants of the state had need of 
 me,” returned the monk, easing the pain of 
 his spirit by a groan. 
 
 ‘“‘T understand thee, father;—thou last 
 shrived a penitent ?” 
 
 “ Daughter, I have; and fewer depart more 
 at peace with God and their fellows!” 
 
 Donna Florinda mnrmured a short prayer 
 for the soul of the dead, piously crossing 
 herself as she concluded. Her example was 
 imitated by her pupil, and even the lips of 
 Don Camillo moved, while his head was 
 bowed by the side of his fair companion, in 
 seeming reverence. 
 
 «?*Twas a just end, father?” demanded 
 Donna Florinda. 
 
 ‘‘It was an unmerited one!” cried the 
 monk, with fervor, “or there is no faith in 
 man, I have witnessed the death of one who 
 was better fitted to live, as happily he was 
 better fitted to die, than those who pro- 
 nounced his doom. What a fearful state is 
 Venice !” 
 
 “And such are they who are masters of 
 thy person, Violetta,” said Don Camillo; “ to 
 these midnight murderers will thy happiness 
 be consigned! ‘Tell us, father, does thy sad 
 tragedy touch in any manner on the inter- 
 ests of this fair being? for we are encircled 
 here by mysteries that are as incomprehensi- 
 ble, while they are nearly as fearful, as fate 
 itself.” 
 
 The monk looked from one to the other, 
 and a more human expression began, to 
 appear in his countenance. 
 
 “Thou art right,” he said; “such are the 
 men who mean to dispose of the person of 
 our pupil. Holy St. Mark pardon the pros- 
 titution of his revered name, and shield her 
 with the virtue of his prayers! ” 
 
 “Father, are we worthy to know more of 
 that thou hast witnessed ? ” 
 
 “'The secrets of the confessional are sacred, 
 my son; but this hath been a disclosure to 
 cover the living, and not the dead, with 
 shame.” 
 
 ‘“T see the hand of those up above in 
 this!” for so most spoke of the Council of — 
 Three. “They have tampered with my right, — 
 for years, to suit their selfish purposes, and, — 
 to my shame must I own it, they have driven — 
 
 U 
 Pers) 
 be 
 
 oar, 
 
‘ota 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 me to a submission, in order to obtain justice, 
 that as ill accords with my feelings as with 
 my character.” 
 
 ‘Nay, Camillo, thou art incapable of this 
 injustice to thyself!” 
 
 “?*Tis a fearful government, dearest, and 
 its fruits are equally pernicious to the ruler 
 and the subject. It hath, of all other dan- 
 gers the greatest, the curse of secrecy on its 
 intentions, its acts, and its responsibili- 
 ties!” 
 
 “Thou sayest true, my son; there is no 
 security against oppression and wrong in a 
 state, but the fear of God, or the fear of men. 
 Of the first, Venice hath none, for too many 
 souls share the odium of her sin; and as for 
 the last, her deeds are hid from their knowl- 
 edge.” | 
 
 *« We speak boldly, for those who live be- 
 neath her laws,” observed Donna Florinda, 
 glancing a look timidly around her. ‘‘ As we 
 can neither change nor amend the practices 
 of the state, better that we should be silent.” 
 
 “Tf we cannot alter the power of the coun- 
 cil, we may elude it,” hastily answered Don 
 Camillo, though he, too, dropped his voice, 
 and assured himself of their security, by clos- 
 
 - ing the casement, and casting his eyes toward 
 
 the different doors of the room. ‘‘ Are you 
 assured of the fidelity of the menials, Donna 
 Florinda ?” 
 
 <‘Far from it, signor ; we have those who 
 are of ancient service and of tried character ; 
 but we have those who are named by the 
 senator, Gradenigo, and who are doubtless no 
 other than the agents of the state.” 
 
 <‘In this manner do they pry into the pri- 
 vacy of all! Iam compelled to entertain, in 
 my palace varlets that I know to be their 
 hirelings ; and yet do I find it better to seem 
 unconscious of their views, lest they environ 
 me in a manner that I cannot even suspect. 
 Think you, Father, that my presence here 
 hath escaped the spies ?”. 
 
 «‘Tt would be to hazard much were we to 
 rely on such security. None saw us enter, as 
 I think, for we used the secret gate and the 
 more private entrance ; but who is certain of 
 being unobserved when every fifth eye is that 
 of a mercenary ?” 
 
 The terrified Violetta laid her hand on the 
 arm of her lover. 
 
 «¢ Even now, Camillo,” she said, “‘ thou 
 
 507 
 
 mayest be observed, and secretly devoted to 
 punishment ! ” 
 
 “Tf seen, doubt it not : St. Mark will never 
 pardon so bold an interference with his pleas- 
 ure. And yet, sweetest Violetta, to gain thy 
 favor, this risk is nothing; nor willa far 
 greater hazard turn me from my purpose.” 
 
 ‘© These inexperienced and confiding spirits 
 have taken advantage of my absence to com- 
 municate more freely than was discreet,” said 
 the Carmelite, in the manner of one who fore- 
 saw the answer. 
 
 ‘Father, nature is too strong for the weak 
 preventives of prudence.” | 
 The brow of the monk became clouded. 
 His companions watched the workings of his 
 mind, as they appeared in a countenance that 
 in common was so benevolent, though always 
 sad. For a few moments none broke the 
 
 silence. 
 
 The Carmelite at length demanded, raising 
 his troubled look to the countenance of Don 
 Camillo— 
 
 “ Hast thou duly reflected on the conse- 
 quences of this rashness, son? What dost 
 thou purpose, in thus braving the anger of the 
 republic, and in setting at defiance her arts, 
 her secret means of intelligence, and her ter- 
 rors ?” 
 
 ‘Father, I have reflected as all of my years 
 reflect, when in heart and soul they love. I 
 have brought myself to feel that any misery 
 would be happiness compared to the loss of 
 Violetta, and that no risk can exceed the re- 
 ward of gaining her favor. Thus much for the 
 first of thy questions—for the last I can only 
 say that I am too much accustomed to the 
 wiles of the senate to bea novice in the means 
 of counteracting them.” 
 
 <‘There is but one language for youth, 
 when seduced by that pleasing delusion which 
 paints the future with hues of gold. Age and 
 experience may condemn it, but the weakness 
 will continue to prevail in all, until life shall 
 appear in its true colors. Duca di Sant’ 
 Agata, though a noble of high lineage and 
 illustrious name, and though lord of many 
 vassals, thou art not a power—thou canst not 
 declare thy palace in Venice a fortress, nor 
 send a herald to the Doge with defiance.” 
 
 «True, reverend monk ; I cannot do this; 
 nor would it be well for him who could to 
 
 | trust his fortune on so reckless a risk. But 
 
508 
 
 the states of St. Mark do not cover the earth 
 —we can fly,” 
 
 ‘«'The senate hath a longarm ; and it hath 
 a thousand secret hands.” 
 
 “* None know it better than I; still it does 
 no violence without motive ; the faith of their 
 ward irretrievably mine, the evil, as respects 
 them, becomes irreparable.” 
 
 ‘“‘ Think’st thou so! Means would quickly 
 be found to separate you. Believe not that 
 Venice would be thwarted of its design so 
 easily ; the wealth of a house like this would 
 purchase many an unworthy suitor, and thy 
 right would be disregarded, or haply denied.” 
 
 ** But, Father, the ceremony of the Church 
 may not be despised!” exclaimed Violetta ; 
 “<it comes from heaven and is sacred.” 
 
 “ Daughter, I say it with sorrow; but the 
 great and the powerful find means even to 
 set aside that venerable and holy sacrament. 
 Thine own gold would serve to seal thy 
 misery.” 
 
 “This might arrive, Father, were we to 
 continue within the grasp of St. Mark,” 
 interrupted the Neapolitan; “but once be- 
 yond his borders, ’twould be a bold interfer- 
 ence with the right of a foreign state to lay 
 hand on our persons. More than this, I have 
 a castle in Sant’ Agata, that will defy their 
 most secret means, until events might happen 
 which should render it more prudent for 
 them to desist than to persevere.” 
 
 “ This reason hath force wert thou within 
 the walls of Sant’ Agata, instead of being, as 
 thou art, among the canals.” 
 
 “ Here is one of Calabria, a vassal born of 
 mine, a certain Stefano Milano, the padrone 
 of a Sorrentine felucca, now lying in the 
 port; the man is in strict amity with my own 
 gondolier—he who was third in this day’s 
 race. Art thou ill, Father, that thou appear- 
 est troubled ? ” 
 
 “Proceed with thy expedient,” answered 
 the monk, montioning that he wished not be 
 observed. 
 
 “ My faithful Gino reports that this Stefano 
 is on the canals, on some errand of the 
 republic, as he thinks, for though the mari- 
 ner is less disposed to familiarity than is wont, 
 he hath let drop hints that lead to such a 
 conclusion—the felucca is ready, from hour 
 to hour, to put upon the sea, and doubt not 
 the padrone would rather serve his natural 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE. COOPER. 
 
 lord than these double-dealing miscreants of 
 the senate. I can pay as well as they, if 
 served to my pleasure; and I can punish too, 
 when offended.” 
 
 “There is reason in this, signor, wert 
 thou beyond the wiles of this mysterious 
 city. But in what manner canst thou embark, 
 without drawing the notice of those, who 
 doubtless watch our movements, on thy per- 
 son?” 
 
 “There are maskers on the canal at all 
 hours, and if Venice be so impertinent in 
 her system of watchfulness, thou knowest, 
 Father, that, without extraordinary motive, 
 that disguise is sacred. Without this narrow 
 privilege, the town would not be habitable a 
 day.” | 
 
 “JT fear the result; ” observed the hesitat- 
 ing monk, while it was evident, from the 
 thoughtfulness of his countenance, that he 
 calculated the chances of the adventure. 
 “Tf known and arrested, we are all lost! ” 
 
 “Trust me, Father, that thy fortune shall 
 not be forgotten, even in that unhappy 
 issue. I have an uncle, as you know, high 
 in the favor of the pontiff, and who wears 
 the scarlet hat. I pledge to you the honor of 
 a cavalier, all my interest with this relative, 
 to gain such intercession from the Church as 
 shall weaken the blow to her servant.” 
 
 The features of the Carmelite flushed, and, 
 
 for the first time, the ardent young noble 
 
 observed around his ascetic mouth an expres- 
 sion of worldly pride. 
 
 “Thou hast unjustly rated my apprehen- 
 sions, lord of Sant’ Agata,” he said; “I fear 
 not for myself, but for others. This tender 
 and lovely child hath not been confided to 
 my care, without creating a parental solici- 
 tude in her behalf, and ”—he paused, and 
 seemed to struggle with himself—-“I have 
 too long known the mild and womanly vir- 
 tues of Donna Florinda, to witness, with in- 
 difference, her exposure to a near and fearful 
 danger. 
 
 consent to this risk. 
 
 happiness of Donna Violetta.” 
 
 ‘“«'That were to hope the winged lion would — 
 become a lamb, or the dark and soulless — 
 senate a community of self-mortifying and 
 
 m* 
 
 & 
 
 Abandon our charge, we cannot; _ 
 nor do I see in what manner, as prudent and — 
 watchful guardians, we may in any manner — 
 Let us hope that they — 
 who govern will yet consult the honor and — 
 
IF 
 a. 
 
 takes in your welfare. 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 godly Carthusians! No, reverend monk, we 
 must seize the happy moment, and none is 
 likely to be more fortunate than this, or trust 
 our hopes to a cold and calculating policy, 
 that disregards all motives but its own 
 object. An hour, nay, half the time, would 
 suffice to apprise the mariner, and ere the 
 morning light, we might see the domes of 
 Venice sinking into their own hated La- 
 gunes.” 
 
 “ These are the plans of confident youth, 
 quickened by passion. Believe me, son, if is 
 not easy as thou imaginest, to mislead the 
 agents of the police. This palace could not 
 be quitted, the felucca entered, or any one of 
 the many necessary steps hazarded, without 
 drawing upon us their eyes. Hark!—I hear 
 the wash of oars—a gondola is even now at 
 the water-gate!” 
 
 Donna Florinda went hastily ‘6 the bal- 
 cony, and as quickly returned to report that 
 she had seen an officer of the republic enter 
 the palace. There was no time to lose, and 
 Don Camillo was again urged to conceal him- 
 self in the little oratory. This necessary 
 caution had hardly been observed before the 
 door of the room opened, and the privileged 
 messenger of the senate announced his own 
 appearance. It was the very individual who 
 had presided at the fearful execution of the 
 fisherman, and who had already announced 
 the cessation of the Signor Gradenigo’s 
 powers. His eye glanced suspiciously around 
 the room, as he entered, and the Carmelite 
 trembled in every limb, at the look which 
 encountered his own. But all immediate 
 apprehensions vanished, when the usual art- 
 ful smile, with which he was wont to soften 
 his disagreeable communications, took the 
 place of the momentary expression of a vague 
 and an habitual suspicion. 
 
 “ Noble lady,” he said, bowing with defer- 
 ence to the rank of her he addressed, “ you 
 may learn by this assiduity on the part of 
 their servant, the interest which the senate 
 Anxious to do you 
 pleasure, and ever attentive to the wishes of 
 one so young, it hath been decided to give 
 you the amusement and variety of another 
 scene at a season when the canals of our city 
 become disagreeable from their warmth and 
 the crowds which live in the air. I am sent 
 to request you will make such preparations as 
 
 509 
 
 may befit your convenience during a few 
 months’ residence in a purer atmosphere, 
 and that this may be done speedily; as your 
 journey, always to prevent discomfort to your- 
 self, will commence before the rising of the 
 sun.” 
 
 “This is short notice, signor, for a female 
 about to quit the dwelling of her an- 
 cestors!” 
 
 ‘‘St. Mark suffers his love and parental 
 care to overlook the vain ceremonies of form. 
 It is thus the parent dealeth with the ehild. 
 There is little need of unusual notice, since 
 it will be the business of the government to 
 see all that is necessary dispatched to the 
 residence which is to be honored with the 
 presence of so illustrious a lady.” 
 
 ‘‘ For myself, signor, little preparation is 
 needed. But I fear that the train of servi- 
 tors, that befit my condition, will require 
 more leisure for their arrangements.” 
 
 ‘* Lady, that embarrassment hath been fore- 
 seen, and to remove it the council hath de- 
 cided to supply you with the only attendant 
 you will require, during an absence from the 
 city which will be so short.” 
 
 ‘How, signor! am I to be separated from 
 my people ?” 
 
 “ From the hired menials of your palace, 
 lady, to be confided to those who will serve 
 your person from a nobler motive.” 
 
 ‘And my maternal friend—my ghostly 
 adviser?” 
 
 ‘‘They will be permitted to repose from 
 their trusts during your absence.” 
 
 An exclamation from Donna Florinda, and 
 an involuntary movement of the monk, be- 
 trayed their mutual concern. Donna Vio- 
 letta suppressed the exhibition of her own 
 resentment, and of her wounded affections, 
 by a powerful effort, in which she was 
 greatly sustaingd by her pride; but she could 
 not entirely conceal the ares of another 
 sort that was seated inher eye. 
 
 “Do I understand that this prohibition 
 extends to her, who, in common, serves my 
 person?” 
 
 “ Signora, such are my instructions.” 
 
 “Ts it expected that Violetta Tiepolo will 
 do these menial offices for herself ? ” 
 
 “Siguora, no. A most excellent and 
 agreeable attendant has been provided for 
 that duty. Annina,” he continued, approach- 
 
510 
 
 ing the door, “thy noble mistress is impa- 
 tient to see thee.” 
 
 As he spoke the daughter of the wine- 
 seller appeared. She wore an air of assumed 
 humility, but it was accompanied by a secret 
 mien that betrayed independence of the 
 pleasure of her new mistress. 
 
 “And this damsel is to be my nearest con- 
 fidante,” exclaimed Donna Violetta, after 
 studying the artful and demure countenance 
 of the girl, a moment, with a dislike she did 
 not care to conceal. 
 
 ““Such hath been the solicitude of your 
 illustrious guardians, lady. As the damsel is 
 instructed in all that is necessary, I will in- 
 trude no longer, but take my leave, recom- 
 mending that you improve the hours, which 
 are now few, between this and the rising sun, 
 that you may sisi by the morning naka 
 in quitting the city.” 
 
 The officer glanced another look around 
 the room, more, however, through habitual 
 caution than any other reason, bowed, and 
 departed. 
 
 A profound and sorrowful silence suc- 
 ceeded. Then the apprehension that Don 
 Camillo might mistake their situation and 
 appear flashed upon the mind of Violetta, 
 and she hastened to ‘apprise him of the 
 danger by speaking to the new attendant. 
 
 “'Thou hast served before this, Annina ?” 
 she asked so loud as to permit the words to 
 be heard in the oratory. 
 
 ** Never a lady so beautiful and illustrious, 
 signora. But I hope to make myself agree- 
 able to one that I hear is kind to all around 
 her.” 
 
 ‘Thou art not new to the flattery of thy 
 class; go then, and acquaint my ancient at- 
 tendants with this sudden resolution, that I 
 may not disappoint the council by tardiness. 
 I commit all to thy care, Anngna, since thou 
 knowest the pleasure of my guardians—those 
 without will furnish the means.” 
 
 The girl lingered, and her watchful observ- 
 ers noted suspicion and hesitation in her re- 
 luctant manner of compliance. “She obeyed, 
 however, leaving the room with the domestic 
 Donna Violetta summoned from the ante- 
 chamber. ‘The instant the door was closed 
 behind her, Don Camillo was in the group, 
 and the whole four stood regarding each 
 other in a common panic. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “Canst thou still hesitate, Father?” de- 
 manded the lover. 
 
 ‘‘Not a moment, my son, did I see the 
 means of accomplishing flight.” 
 
 “How! Thou wilt not then desert me!” 
 exclaimed Violetta, kissing his hands in joy. 
 ‘*Nor thou, my second mother!” 
 
 “Neither,” answered the governess, who 
 possessed intuitive means of comprehending 
 the resolutions of the monk; ‘‘ we will go 
 with thee, love, to the castle of Sant’? Agata 
 or to the dungeon of St. Mark.” 
 
 ‘‘Virtuous and sainted Florinda, receive 
 my thanks,” cried the reprieved Violetta, 
 clasping her hands on her bosom, with an 
 emotion in which piety and gratitude were 
 Snag sets ‘Camillo, we await thy ae 
 ance.’ 
 
 ‘* Refrain,” observed the monk,—“ a food: 
 step—thy concealment.” 
 
 Don Camillo was scarcely hid from view 
 when Annina reappeared. She had the same 
 suspicious manner of glancing her eye around 
 as the official, and it would seem by the idle 
 question she put, that her entrance had some 
 other object than the mere pretence which 
 she made of consulting her new mistress’s 
 humor in the color of a robe. 
 
 “ Do as thou wilt, girl,” said Violetta, with 
 impatience; “thou knowest the place of my 
 intended retirement, and canst judge of the 
 fitness of my attire. Hasten thy prepara- — 
 tions, that I be not the cause of delay. En- 
 rica, attend my new maid to the wardrobe.” | 
 
 Annina reluctantly withdrew, for she was 
 far'too much practised in wiles not to dis 
 trust this unexpected compliance with the 
 will of the council, or not to perceive that 
 she was admitted with displeasure to the dis- 
 charge of her new duties. As the faithful — 
 domestic of Donna Violetta kept at her side, 
 she was fain, however, to submit, and, suf- 
 fered herself to be led a few steps from the — 
 door. Suddenly pretending to recollect a 
 new question, she returned with so much — 
 rapidity, as to be again in the room, before — 
 Enrico could anticipate the intention. 4 
 
 “Daughter, complete thy errands, and 
 forbear to interrupt our privacy,” said the 
 monk, sternly. ‘‘I am about to confess this — 
 penitent, who may pine long for the conso- 
 lations of the holy office ere we meet again. 
 If thou hast not aught urgent, withdraw, 
 
 —- 
 
 ie 
 
 ‘ - Vel 
 q , zs 
 
Th 
 mr) 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 ere thou seriousiy givest offence to the 
 Church.” 
 
 The severity of the Carmelite’s tone, and 
 the commanding, though subdued gleaming 
 of his eye, had the effect to awe the girl. 
 Quailing before his keen look, and in truth 
 startled at the risk she ran in offending against 
 opinions so deeply seated in the minds of 
 all,and from which her own superstitious 
 habits were far from free, she muttered a 
 few words of apology, and finally withdrew. 
 There was another uneasy and suspicious 
 glance thrown around her, however, before 
 the door was closed. When they were once 
 more alone, the monk motioned for silence to 
 the impetuous Don Camillo, who could scarce 
 restrain his impatience until the intruder 
 departed. 
 
 “Son, be prudent,” he said; “we are in 
 the midst of treachery; in this unhappy city 
 none know in whom they can confide.” 
 
 “| think we are sure of Enrico,” said the 
 Donna Florinda, though the very doubts she 
 affected not to feel lingered in the tones of 
 her voice. 
 
 “Tt matters not, daughter; he is ignorant 
 of the presence of Don Camillo, and in that 
 we are safe. Duca di Sant’ Agata, if you 
 can deliver us from these toils, we will ac- 
 company you.” 
 
 Avery of joy was near bursting from the 
 lips of Violetta; but, obedient to the eye of 
 the monk, she turned to her lover as if to 
 learn his decision. The expression of Don 
 Camillo’s face was the pledge of his assent. 
 Without speaking, he wrote hastily, with a 
 pencil, a few words on the envelope of a let- 
 ter, and inclosing a piece of coin in its folds, 
 he moved with a cautious step to the balcony- 
 A signal was given, and all awaited in breath- 
 less silence the answer. Presently they heard 
 the wash of the water, caused by the move- 
 ment of a gondola beneath the window. 
 Stepping forward again, Don Camillo dropped 
 the paper with such precision, that he dis- 
 tinctly heard the fall of the coin in the bot- 
 tom of the boat. The gondolier scarce raised 
 his eyes to the balcony, but commencing an 
 air much used on the canals, he swept on- 
 ward, like one whose duty called for no 
 haste. | 
 
 ‘That has succeeded !” said Don Camillo, 
 when he heard the song of Gino. ‘In an 
 
 511 
 
 hour my agent will have secured the felucca, 
 and all now depends on our own means of 
 quitting the palace unobserved. My people 
 will await us, shortly, and perhaps *twould 
 be well to trust openly to our speed in gain- 
 ing the Adriatic.” 
 
 ‘¢There is a solemn and necessary duty to 
 perform,” observed the monk. ‘‘ Daughters, 
 withdraw to your rooms, and occupy your- 
 selves with the preparation necessary for 
 your flight, which may readily be made to 
 appear as intended to meet the senate’s pleas- 
 ure. In afew minutes I shail summon you 
 hither again.” 
 
 Wondering, but obedient, the females 
 withdrew. The Carmelite then made a brief 
 but clear explanation of his intention. Don 
 Camillo listened eagerly, and when the other 
 had done speaking they retired together into 
 the oratory. Fifteen minutes had not passed 
 before the monk reappeared, alone, and 
 touched the bell, which communicated with 
 the closet of Violetta. Donna Florinda and 
 her pupil were quickly in the room. 
 
 «‘ Prepare thy mind for the confessional,” 
 said the priest, placing himself, with grave 
 dignity, in that chair which he habitually 
 used when listening to the self-accusations 
 and failings of his spiritual child. 
 
 The brow of Violetta paled and flushed 
 again, as if there lay a heavy sin on her con- 
 science, She turned an imploring look on 
 her paternal monitor, in whose mild features 
 she met an encouraging smile, and then, with 
 a beating heart, though ill-collected for the 
 solemn duty, but with a decision that the 
 occasion required, she knelt on the cushion 
 at the feet of the monk. 
 
 The murmured language of Donna Violetta 
 was audible to none but him for whose pater- 
 nal ear it was intended, and that dread Being 
 whose just anger it was hoped it might lessen. 
 But Don Camillo gazed, through the half- 
 opened door of the chapel, on the kneeling 
 form, the clasped hands and the uplifted coun- 
 tenance of the beautiful penitent. As she 
 proceeded with the acknowledgment of her 
 errors, the flush on her cheek deepened, anda 
 pious excitement kindled in those eyes which 
 had so lately seen glowing with a very different 
 passion. ‘The ingenuous and disciplined soul 
 of Violetta was not so quickly disburdened of 
 its load of sin as that of the more practised 
 
512 
 
 » mind of the lord of Sant’ Agata. The latter 
 fancied that he could trace in the movement 
 of her lips the sound of his own name, and a 
 dozen times during the confession, he thought 
 he could even comprehend sentences of which 
 he himself was the subject. ‘Twice the good 
 Father smiled, involuntarily, and at each in- 
 discretion he laid a hand in affection on the 
 bared head of the suppliant. But Violetta 
 ceased to speak, and the absolution was pro- 
 nounced, with a fervor that the remarkable 
 circumstances, in which they all stood, did 
 not fail to heighten. 
 
 When this portion of his duty was ended, 
 the Carmelite entered the oratory. With 
 steady hands, he lighted the candles of the 
 altar, and made the other dispositions for the 
 mass. During this interval Don Camillo was 
 at the side of his mistress, whispering with 
 the warmth of a triumphant and happy 
 lover. The governess stood near the door, 
 watching for the sound of footsteps in the 
 antechamber. The monk then advanced to 
 the entrance of the little chapel, and was 
 about to speak, when a hurried step from 
 Donna Florinda arrested his words. Don 
 Camillo had just time to conceal his person 
 within the drapery of a window, before the 
 door opened and Annina entered. 
 
 When the preparations of the altar and the 
 solemn countenance of the priest first met 
 her eye, the girl recoiled with the air of one 
 rebuked. But rallying her thoughts, with 
 that readiness which had gained her the em- 
 ployment she filled, she crossed herself rev- 
 erently and took a place apart, like one who, 
 while she knew her station, wished to partici- 
 pate in the mysteries of the holy office. 
 
 ‘« Daughter, none who commence this mass 
 with us can quit the presence ere it be com- 
 pleted,” observed the monk. 
 
 ‘Father, it is my duty to be near the per- 
 son of my mistress, and it is a happiness to be 
 near it on the occasion of this early matin.” 
 
 The monk was embarrassed. He looked 
 from one to the other, in indecision, and was 
 about to frame some pretence to get rid of 
 the intruder, when Don Camillo appeared in 
 the middle of the room. 
 
 « Reverend monk, proceed,” he said; ‘ ’tis 
 but another witness of my happiness.” 
 
 While speaking, the noble touched the 
 handle of his sword, significantly, with a 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 finger, and cast a look at the half-petrified 
 Annina, which effectually controlled the ex- 
 clamation that was about to escape her. The 
 monk appeared to understand the terms of 
 this silent compact; for with a deep voice he 
 commenced the offices of the mass. The 
 singularity of their situation, the important 
 results of the act in which they were engaged, 
 the impressive dignity of the Carmelite, and 
 the imminent hazard which they all ran of 
 exposure, together with the certainty of pun- 
 ishment for their daring to thwart the will of 
 Venice, if betrayed, caused a deeper feeling 
 than that which usually pervades a marriage 
 ceremony to preside at nuptials thus cele- 
 brated. ‘The youthful Violetta trembled at 
 every intonation of the solemn voice of the 
 monk, and toward the close, she leaned in 
 helplessness on the arm of the man to whom 
 she had just plighted her vows. ‘The eyes of 
 the Carmelite kindled, as he proceeded with 
 the office, however; and, long ere he had 
 done, he had obtained such a command over 
 the feelings of even Annina, as to hold her 
 mercenary spirit in awe. The final union 
 was pronounced, and the benediction given. 
 
 “ Maria, of pure memory, watch over thy 
 happiness, daughter!” said the monk, for 
 the first time in his life saluting the fair 
 brow of the weeping bride,—“ Duke of Sant’ 
 Agata, may thy patron hear thy prayers, as 
 thou provest kind to this innocent and con- 
 fiding child!” 
 
 «“ Amen!—Ha!—we are not too soon united, 
 my Violetta; I hear the sound of oars.” 
 
 A glance from the balcony assured him of 
 the truth of his words, and rendered it ap- 
 parent that it had now become necessary to 
 take the most decided step of all. 
 
 at the water-gate of the palace. 
 
 “JT wonder at this boldness! ” exclaimed — 
 “There must be no delay, lest — 
 some spy of the republic apprise the police. — 
 Away, dearest Violetta—away, Donna Flo- 
 
 Don Camillo. 
 
 rinda—Father, away! ” 
 
 The governess and her charge passed 
 In a minute, — 
 they returned bearing the caskets of Donna 
 Violetta, and a sufficient supply of neces- 
 saries, for a short voyage. The instant they 
 
 swiftly into the inner rooms. 
 
 DSS mR ie tie Dee fEOS).. aa; pS Se eo SE eee 
 
 *.’ 
 oe, 
 
 A six- — 
 oared gondola, of a size suited to endure the — 
 waves of the Adriatic at that mild season, — 
 and with a pavilion ot fit dimensions, stopped _ 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 reappeared, all was ready; for Don Camillo 
 had long held himself prepared for this de- 
 cisive moment, and the self-denying Car- 
 melite had little need of superfluities. It 
 was no moment for unnecessary explanation 
 or trivial objections. 
 
 “Our hope is in celerity,” said Don 
 Camillo ; “secrecy is impossible.” 
 
 He was still speaking when the monk led 
 the way from the room. Donna Florinda 
 and the half-breathless Violetta followed; 
 Don Camillo drew the arm of Annina under 
 his own, and in a low voice bid her, at her 
 peril, refuse to obey. 
 
 The long suite of outer rooms was passed, 
 without meeting a single observer of the ex- 
 traordinary movement. But when the fugi- 
 tives entered the great hall, that communi- 
 cated with the principal stairs, they found 
 themselves in the centre of a dozen menials 
 of both sexes. 
 
 “Place,” cried the Duke of Sant’ Agata, 
 whose person and voice were alike unknown 
 to them. “ Your mistress will breathe the 
 air of the canals.” 
 
 Wonder and curiosity were alive in every 
 countenance, but suspicion and eager atten- 
 tion were uppermost in the features of many. 
 
 The foot of Donna Violetta had scarcely 
 touched the pavement of the lower hall, when 
 several menials glided down the flight, and 
 quitted the palace by its different outlets. 
 Each sought those who engaged him in the 
 service. One flew along the narrow streets 
 of the island, to the residence of Signor 
 -Gradenigo; another sought his son; and one, 
 ignorant of the person of him he served, ac- 
 tually searched an agent of Don Camillo, to 
 impart a circumstance in which that noble 
 was himself so conspicuous an actor. ‘To 
 \such a pass of corruption had double-dealing 
 and mystery reduced the household of the 
 (fairest and richest in Venice! The gondola 
 ‘lay at the marble steps of the water-gate, 
 held against the stones by two of its crew. 
 Don Camillo saw, at a glance, that the 
 masked gondoliers had neglected none of the 
 precautions he had prescribed, and he in- 
 wardly commended their punctuality. Hach 
 wore a short rapier at his girdle, and he 
 fancied he could trace between the folds of 
 their garments evidence of the presence of 
 the clumsy firearms in use at that period. 
 
 513 
 
 These observations were made while the 
 Carmelite and Violetta entered the boat. 
 Donna Florinda followed, and Annina was 
 about to imitate her example, when she was 
 arrested by the arm of Don Camillo. 
 
 ‘‘Thy service ends here,’ whispered the 
 bridegroom. “Seek another mistress; in 
 fault of a better, thou mayest devote thyself 
 to Venice.” 
 
 The little interruption caused Don Camillo 
 to look backward, and, for a single moment, 
 he paused to scrutinize the group of eyes 
 that crowded the hall of the palace, at a re- 
 spectful distance. 
 
 “ Adieu, my friends!” he added. ‘* Those 
 among ye who love your mistress shall be re- 
 membered.” 
 
 He would have said more, but a rude seiz- 
 ure of his arms ‘caused him to turn hastily 
 away. He was firm in the grasp of the two 
 gondoliers who had landed. While he was 
 yet in too much astonishment to struggle, 
 Annina, obedient toa signal, darted past him 
 and leaped into the boat. The oars fell into 
 the water; Don Camillo was repelled by a 
 violent shove backward into the hall, the 
 gondoliers stepped lightly into their places, 
 and the gondola swept away from the steps 
 beyond the power of him they left to follow. 
 
 “Gino !— miscreant !—what means this 
 treachery ?” 
 
 The moving of the parting gondola was ac- 
 companied by no other sound than the usual 
 washing of the water. In speechless agony, 
 Don Camillo saw the boat glide, swifter and 
 swifter at each stroke of the oars, along the 
 canal, and then, whirling around the angle of 
 a palace, disappear. 
 
 - Venice admitted not of pursuit like another 
 city, for there was no passage along the canal 
 taken by the gondola, but by water. Several 
 of the boats used by the family lay within 
 the piles on the great canal, at the principal 
 entrance, and Don Camillo was about to rush 
 into one, and to seize its oars, with his own 
 hands, when the usual sounds announced the 
 approach of a gondola from the direction of 
 the bridge, that had so long served as a place 
 of concealment to his own domestic. It soon 
 issued from the obscurity, cast by the shadows 
 of the houses, and proved to be a large gon- 
 dola, pulled, like the one which had just dis- 
 appeared, by six masked gondoliers. The 
 
 QQ 
 
514 
 
 resemblance between the equipments of the 
 two was so exact, that at first not only the 
 wondering Camillo, but all the others present, 
 fancied the latter, by some extraordinary 
 speed, had already made the tour of the ad- 
 joining palaces, and was once more approach- 
 ing the private entrance of that of Donna 
 Violetta. 
 
 “Gino!” cried the bewildered bridegroom. 
 
 “Signor mio?” answered the faithful do- 
 mestic. 
 
 ‘* Draw nearer, varlet. What meaneth this 
 idle trifling, ‘at_ a moment like this ?” 
 
 Don Camillo leaped a fearful distance, and’ 
 happily he reached the gondola. To pass 
 the men and rush into the canopy needed but 
 a moment ; to perceive that it was empty was 
 the work of a glance. 
 
 ‘* Villains, have you dared to be false?” 
 cried the confounded noble. 
 
 At that instant the clock of the city began 
 to tell the hour of two, and it was only as 
 that appointed signal sounded heavy and 
 melancholy on the night-air, that the unde- 
 ceived Camillo got a certain glimpse of the 
 truth. 
 
 “Gino,” he said, repressing his voice, like 
 one summoning a desperate resolution—“ are 
 thy fellows true?” 
 
 “* As faithful as your own vassals, signor.” 
 
 “And thou didst not fail to deliver the 
 note to my agent ?” 
 
 “He had it before the ink was dry, eccel- 
 lenza.” 
 
 “The mercenary villain!—He told thee 
 where to find the gondola, equipped as I see 
 ine 
 
 “Signor, he did; and I do the man the 
 justice to say that nothing is wanting, either 
 to speed or comfort.” 
 
 “ Ay, he even dealsin duplicates, so tender 
 is his care! ” muttered Don Camillo, between 
 his teeth.— ‘‘ Pull away, men; your own 
 safety and my happiness now depend on your 
 arms. A thousand ducats if you equal my 
 hopes—my just anger if you disappoint 
 them!” 
 
 Don Camillo threw himself on the cushions 
 as he spoke, in bitterness of heart, though he 
 seconded his words by a gesture which bid 
 the men proceed. Gino, who occupied the 
 stern and managed the directing oar, opened 
 
 a small window in the canopy, which com-. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 municated with the interior, and bent to take 
 his master’s directions as the boat sprang 
 ahead. Rising from his stooping posture, 
 the practised gondolier gave a sweep with 
 his blade which caused the sluggish element 
 of the narrow canal to whirl in eddies, and 
 then the gondola glided into the great canal, 
 as if it obeyed an instinct. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Why liest thou so on the green earth? 
 "Tis not the hour of slumber :—why so pale ?—Cazn. 
 
 NoTWITHSTANDING his apparent decision, 
 the Duke of Sant’ Agata was completely at a 
 loss in what manner to direct his future 
 movements. That he had been duped, by 
 one or more of the agents to whom he had 
 been compelled to confide his necessary prep- 
 arations for the flight he had meditated 
 several days, was too certain to admit of his 
 deceiving himself with the hope that some 
 unaccountable mistake was the cause of his 
 loss. He saw, at once, that the senate was 
 master of the person of his bride, and he too 
 well knew its power, and its utter disregard 
 of human obligations, when any paramount 
 interest of the state was to be consulted, to 
 doubt for an instant its willingness to use its 
 advantage, in any manner that was most 
 likely to contribute to its own views. By the 
 premature death of her uncle, Donna Violetta 
 had become the heiress of vast estates in the 
 dominions of the Church, and a compliance 
 with that jealous and arbitrary law of Venice, 
 which commanded all of its nobles to dispose 
 of any foreign possessions they might acquire, 
 was only suspended on account of her sex, 
 and, as has already been seen, with the hope 
 of disposing of her hand ina manner that 
 would prove more profitable to the republic. 
 With this object still before them, and with 
 the means of accomplishing it in their own 
 hands, the bridegroom well knew that his 
 marriage would not only be denied, but he 
 feared the witnesses of the ceremony would 
 be so disposed of, as to give little reason ever 
 to expect embarrassment from their testi- 
 mony. For himself, personally, he felt less 
 apprehension, though he foresaw that he had 
 furnished his opponents with an argument 
 that was likely to defer to an indefinite period, 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 if it did not entirely defeat, his claims to the 
 disputed succession. But he had already 
 made up his mind to this result, though it 
 is probable that his passion for Violetta had 
 not entirely blinded him to the fact that her 
 Roman seigniories would be no unequal offset 
 for the loss. He believed that he might 
 possibly return to his palace with impunity, 
 so far as any personal injury was concerned; 
 for the great consideration he enjoyed in his 
 native land, and the high interest he pos- 
 sessed at the court of Rome, were sufficient 
 pledges that no open violence would be done 
 him. The chief reason why his claims had 
 been kept in suspense, was the wish to profit 
 by his near connexion with the favorite car- 
 dinal, and though he had never been able 
 entirely to satisfy the ever-increasing demands 
 of the council, in this respect, he thought it 
 probable that the power of the Vatican would 
 not be spared, to save him from any very 
 ‘imminent personal hazard. Still he had 
 given the state of Venice plausible reasons 
 for severity, and liberty, just at that moment, 
 was of so much importance, that he dreaded 
 falling into the hands of the officials, as 
 one of the greatest misfortunes which could 
 momentarily overtake him. He so well knew 
 the crooked policy of those with whom he 
 had to deal, that he believed he might be 
 arrested solely that the government could 
 make an especial merit of his future release, 
 under circumstances of so seeming gravity. 
 His order to Gino, therefore, had been to pull 
 down the principal passage toward the port. 
 
 Before the gondola, which sprung at each 
 united effort of its crew, like some bounding 
 animal, entered among the shipping, its 
 master had time to recover his self-possessicn, 
 and to form some hasty plans for the future. 
 Making a signal for the crew to cease rowing, 
 he came from beneath the canopy. Netwith- 
 standing the lateness of the hour, boats were 
 plying on the water within the town, and 
 the song was still audible on the canals. But 
 among the mariners a general stillness pre- 
 vailed, such as befitted their toil during the 
 day, and their ordinary habits. 
 
 “Call the first idle gondolier of thy ac- 
 quaintance hither, Gino,” said Don Camillo, 
 with assumed calmness; ‘‘I would question 
 him.” 
 
 In less than a minute he was gratified. 
 
 BLS 
 
 ‘«‘ Hast seen any strongly manned gondola 
 plying, of late, in this part of the canal?” 
 demanded Don Camillo, of the man they had 
 stopped. 
 
 “None, but this of your own, signor; 
 which is the fastest of all that passed beneath 
 the Rialto, in this day’s regatta.” 
 
 “ How knowest thou, friend, aught of the 
 speed of my boat ?” 
 
 «‘ Signor, I have pulled an oar on the canals 
 of Venice six-and-twenty years, and I do not 
 remember to have seen a gondola move more 
 swiftly on them than did this very boat but 
 a few minutes ago, when it dashed among 
 the feluccas, further down in the port, as if 
 it were again running for the oar. Corpo di 
 Bacco! There are rich wines in the palaces 
 of the nobles, that men can give such life to 
 wood!” 
 
 “Whither did we steer?” eagerly asked 
 Don Camillo. 
 
 “Blessed San Teodoro! I do not wonder, 
 eccellenza, that you ask that question, for 
 though it is but a moment since, here I see 
 you lying as motionless on the water as a float- 
 ing weed! ” 
 
 “Friend, here is silver—addio.” 
 
 The gondolier swept slowly onward, singing 
 a strain in honor of his bark, while the boat 
 of Don Camillo darted ahead. Mystic, fel- 
 ucca, xebec, brigantine, and three-masted 
 ship, were apparently floating past them as 
 they shot through the maze of shipping, when 
 Gino bent forward and drew the attention of 
 his master to a large gondola, which was 
 pulling with a lazy oar toward them, from the 
 direction of the Lido. Both boats were in a. 
 wide avenue in the midst of the vessels, the 
 usual track of those who went to sea, and 
 there was no object whatever between them. 
 By changing the course of his own boat, Don 
 Camillo soon found himself within an oar’s 
 length of the other. He saw, at a glance, it 
 was the treacherous gondola by which he had 
 been duped. 
 
 ‘‘Draw, men, and follow!” shouted the 
 desperate Neapolitan, preparing to leap into 
 the midst of his enemies. 
 
 “ You draw against St. Mark!” cried a warn- 
 ing voice from beneath the canopy. ‘“‘ The 
 chances are unequal, signor; for the smallest 
 signal would bring twenty galleys to onr 
 succor.” 
 
516 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Don Camillo might have disregarded this 
 menace, had he not perceived that it caused 
 the half-drawn rapiers of his followers to re- 
 turn to their scabbards. 
 
 “ Robber! ” he answered,“ restore her whom 
 you have spirited away.” 
 
 “Signer, you young nobles are often pleased 
 to play your extravagancies with the servants 
 of the republic. Here are none but the gon- 
 doliers and myself.” A movement of the boat 
 permitted Don Camillo to look into the coy- 
 ered part, and he saw that the other uttered 
 no more than the truth. Convinced of the 
 uselessness of farther parley, knowing the 
 value of every moment, and believing he was 
 on a track which might still lead to success, 
 the young Neapolitan signed to his people to 
 goon. The boats parted in silence, that of 
 Don Camillo proceeding in the direction from 
 which the other had just come. 
 
 In a short time the gondola of Don Camillo 
 was in an open part of the Guidecca, and 
 entirely beyond the tiers of the shipping. It 
 was so late that the moon had begun to fall, 
 and its light was cast obliquely on the bay, 
 throwing the eastern sides of the buildings 
 and the other objects into shadow. A dozen 
 different vessels were seen, aided by the land- 
 breeze, steering towards the entrance of the 
 port. The rays of the moon fell upon the 
 broad surface of those sides of their canvas 
 which were nearest to the town, and they re- 
 sembled so many spotless clouds, sweeping the 
 water and floating seaward. 
 
 «They are sending my wife to Dalmatia!” 
 cried Don Camillo, like a man on whom the 
 truth began to dawn. 
 
 “Signor mio!” exclaimed the astonished 
 Gino. 
 
 ‘¢T tell thee, sirrah, that this accursed sen- 
 ate hath plotted against my happiness, and 
 having robbed me of thy mistress, hath em- 
 ployed one of the many feluccas that I see, to 
 transport her to some of its strongholds, on 
 the eastern coast of the Adriatic.” 
 
 ‘* Blessed Maria! Signor Duca, and my hon- 
 ored master; they say that the very images of 
 stone in Venice have ears, and that the horses 
 of bronze will kick, if an evil word is spoken 
 against those up above.” 
 
 “Ts it not enough, varlet, to draw curses 
 from the meek Job, to rob him of a wife? 
 Hast thou no feeling for thy mistress ? ” 
 
 “T did not dream, eccellenza, that you were 
 so happy as to have the one, or that I was so 
 honored as to have the other.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou remindest me of my folly, good 
 Gino. In aiding me on this occasion, thou 
 wilt have thy own fortune in view, as thy ef- 
 forts, like those of thy fellows, will be made 
 in behalf of the lady to whom I have just 
 plighted a husband’s vows.” 
 
 ‘ San Teodoro help us all, and hint what 
 is to be done! The lady is most happy, Sig- 
 nor Don Camillo, and if I only knew by what 
 name to mention her, she should never be 
 forgotten in any prayer that so humble asin- 
 ner might dare to offer.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou hast not forgotten the beautiful 
 lady I drew from the Giudecca ? ” 
 
 ‘“Corpo di Bacco! Your eccellenza floated 
 like a swan, and swam faster than a gull. 
 Forgotten! Signor, no,—I think of it 
 every time I hear a plash in the canals, and 
 
 every time I think of it I curse the Ancona- - 
 
 man in my heart. St. Theodore forgive me, 
 if it be unlike a Christian to do so. But, 
 though we all tell marvels of what our lord 
 did in the Giudecca, the dip of its waters is 
 
 not the marriage ceremony, nor can we speak 
 
 with much certainty of beauty, that was seen 
 to so great disadvantage.” 
 
 “Thou art right, Gino.—But that lady, 
 the illustrious Donna Violetta Tiepolo, the 
 daughter and heiress of a famed senator, is 
 now thy mistress. It remains for us to es- 
 tablish her in the Castle of Sant’ Agata, 
 where I shall defy Venice and its agents.” 
 
 Gino bowed his head in subinission, though 
 he cast a look behind, to make sure that none 
 of those agents, whom his master set so 
 openly at defiance, were within earshot. 
 
 In the meantime the gondola proceeded, 
 for the dialogue in no manner interrupted 
 the exertions of Gino, still holding the direc- 
 tion of the Lido. As the land-breeze fresh- 
 ened, the different vessels in sight glided 
 away, and by the time Don Camillo reached 
 the barrier of sand, which separates the La- 
 gunes from the Adriatic, most of them had 
 glided through the passages, and were now 
 shaping their courses, according to their dif- 
 ferent destinations, across the open gulf. 
 The young noble had permitted his people 
 to pursue the direction originally taken, in 
 pure indecision. He was certain that his 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 bride was in one of the many barks in sight, 
 but he possessed no clew to lead him toward 
 the right one, nor any sufficient means of 
 pursuit, were he even master of that impor- 
 tant secret. When he landed, therefore, it 
 was with the simple hope of being able to 
 form some general conjecture as to the por- 
 tion of the republic’s dominions in which 
 he might search for her he had lost, by ob- 
 serving to what part of the Adriatic the dif- 
 ferent feluccas held their way. He had 
 determined on immediate pursuit, however, 
 and before he quitted the gondola, he once 
 more turned to his confidential gondolier to 
 give the necessary instructions. 
 
 <“Thou knowest, Gino,” he said, “that 
 there is one born a vassal on my estates, here 
 in the port, with a felucca from the Sorren- 
 tine shore ?” 
 
 <‘T know the man better than I know my 
 own faults, signor, or even my own virtues.” 
 
 <<Go to him, at once, and make sure of his 
 presence. I have imagined a plan to decoy 
 him into the service of his lord; but I would 
 now know the condition of his vessel.” 
 
 Gino said a few words in commendation of 
 the zeal of his friend Stefano, and in praise 
 of the Bella Sorrentina, as the gondola re- 
 ceded from the shore; and then he dashed 
 his oar into the water, like a man in earnest 
 to execute the commission. 
 There is a lonely spot on the Lido di Pal- 
 
 estrina, where Catholic exclusion has decreed 
 that the remains of all who die in Venice, 
 without the pale of the Church of Rome, 
 shall moulder into their kindred dust. 
 Though it is not distant from the ordinary 
 landing and the few buildings which line the 
 shore, it is a place that, in itself, is no bad 
 emblem of a hopeless lot. Solitary, exposed 
 equally to the hot airs of the south and the 
 bleak blasts of the Alps, frequently covered 
 with the spray of the Adriatic, and based on 
 barren sands, the utmost that human art, 
 aided by a soil which has been fattened by 
 human remains, can do, has been to create 
 around the modest graves a meagre vegeta- 
 tion, that is in slight contrast to the sterility 
 of most of the bank. This place of inter- 
 ment is without the relief of trees, at the 
 present day it is uninclosed, and in the opin- 
 ions of those who have set it apart for here- 
 tic and Jew, it is unblessed. And yet, 
 
 517 
 
 though condemned alike to this, the last in- 
 dignity which man can inflict on his fellow, 
 the two proscribed classes furnish a melan- 
 choly proof of the waywardness of human 
 passions and prejudice, by refusing to share 
 in common the scanty pittance of earth, 
 which bigotry has allowed for their everlast- 
 ing repose! While the Protestant sleeps by 
 the side of Protestant in exclusive obloquy, 
 the children of Israel moulder apart on the 
 same barren heath, sedulous to preserve, 
 even in the grave, the outward distinctions 
 of faith. We shall not endeavor to seek that 
 deeply-seated principle which renders men so 
 callous to the most eloquent and striking ap- 
 peals to liberality, but rest satisfied with 
 being grateful that we have been born in a 
 land in which the interests of religion are as 
 little as possible sullied by the vicious con- 
 tamination of those of life; in which Chris- 
 tian humility is not exhibited beneath the 
 purple, nor Jewish adhesion by intolerance ; 
 in which man is left to care for the welfare 
 of his own soul, and in which, so far as the 
 human eye can penetrate, God is worshipped 
 for himself. 
 
 Don Camillo Monforte landed near the re- 
 tired graves of the proscribed. As he wished 
 to ascend the low sand-hills, which have been 
 thrown up by the waves and the winds of the 
 gulf, on the outer edge of the Lido, it was 
 necessary that he should pass directly across 
 the contemned spot, or make such a circuit 
 as would have been inconvenient. Crossing 
 himself, with a superstition that was inter- 
 woven with all his habits and opinions, and 
 loosening his rapier, in order that he might 
 not miss the succor of that good weapon, at 
 need, he moved across the heath tenanted by 
 the despised dead, taking care to avoid the 
 mouldering heaps of earth which lay above 
 the bones of heretic or Jew. He had not 
 threaded more than half the graves, however, 
 when a human form arose from the grass, 
 and seemed to walk like one who mused on 
 the moral that the piles at his feet would be 
 apt to excite. Again Don Camillo touched 
 the handle of his rapier; then moving aside, 
 in a manner to give himself an equal advan- 
 tage from the light of the moon, he drew near 
 the stranger. His footstep was heard, for 
 the other paused, regarded the approaching 
 cavalier, and folding his arms, as it might 
 
518 
 
 be in sign of neutrality, awaited his nearer 
 approach. 
 
 “Thou hast chosen a melancholy hour for 
 thy walk, signor,” said the young Neapoli- 
 tan; ‘and a still more melancholy scene. I 
 hope I do not intrude on an Israelite, or a 
 Lutheran, who mourns for his friend ?” 
 
 “ Don Camillo Monforte, I am, like your- 
 self, a Christian ” 
 
 “Ha! Thou knowest me—’tis Battista, 
 the gondolier that I once entertained in my 
 household ? ” 
 
 ‘* Signor, *tis not Battista.” 
 
 As he spoke, the stranger faced the moon, 
 in a manner that threw all of its mild light 
 upon his features. 
 
 “ Jacopo !” exclaimed the duke, recoiling, 
 as did all in Venice habitually, when that 
 speaking eye was unexpectedly met. 
 
 “‘ Signor—Jacopo.” 
 
 In a moment the rapier of Don Camillo 
 glittered in the rays of the moon. 
 
 ** Keep thy distance, fellow, and explain 
 the motive that hath brought thee thus across 
 my solitude !” 
 
 The Bravo smiled, but his arms maintained 
 their fold. 
 
 “JT might, with equal justice, call upon 
 the Duke of Sant’ Agata to furnish reasons 
 why he wanders at this hour among the 
 Hebrew graves.” 
 
 “Nay, spare thy pleasantry; I trifle not 
 with men of thy reputation; if any in 
 Venice have thought fit to employ thee 
 against my person, thou wilt have need of 
 all thy courage and skill, ere thou earnest 
 thy fee.” 
 
 “Put up thy rapier, Don Camillo; here is 
 none to do you harm. Think you, if em- 
 ployed in the manner you name, I would be 
 in this spot to seek you? Ask yourself 
 whether your visit here was known, or 
 whether it was more than the idle caprice 
 of a young noble, who finds his bed less easy 
 than his gondola. We have met, Duke of 
 
 Sant’ Agata, when you distrusted my honor | 
 
 less.” 
 
 “Thou speakest true, Jacopo ;” returned 
 the noble, suffering the point of his rapier to 
 fall from before the breast of the Bravo, 
 though he still hesitated to withdraw the 
 point. “Thou sayest the truth. My visit 
 to this spot is indeed accidental, and thou 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. — 
 
 could’st not have possibly foreseen it. 
 art thou here?” 
 
 Why are these here?” demanded Jacopo, 
 pointing to the graves at his feet. “We are 
 born, and we die—that much is known to us 
 all; but the when and the where are mys- 
 teries, until time reveals them.” 
 
 ‘Thou art not a man to act without good 
 motive. Though these Israelites could not 
 foresee their visit to the Lido, thine hath not 
 been without intention.” 
 
 “J am here, Don Camillo Monforte, be- 
 cause my spirit hath need of room. I want 
 the air of the sea—the canals choke me—I 
 can only breathe in freedom on this bank of 
 sand !” 
 
 ‘Thou hast another reason, Jacopo?” 
 
 “ Ay, signor—I loathe yon city of crimes !” 
 
 As the Bravo spoke, he shook his hand in 
 the direction of the domes of St. Mark, and 
 the deep tones of his voice appeared to heave 
 up from the depths of his chest. 
 
 ‘¢ This is extraordinary language for a * 
 
 “ Bravo ; speak the word boldly, signor—it 
 is no stranger to myears. But even the 
 stiletto of a Bravo is honorable, compared to 
 that sword of pretended justice which St. 
 Mark wields! The commonest hireling of 
 Italy—he who will plant his dagger in the 
 heart of his friend for two sequins, is a man 
 of open dealing, compared to the merciless 
 treachery of some in yonder town !” 
 
 Why 
 
 “TJ understand thee, Jacopo ; thou art, at 
 
 length, proscribed. The public voice, faint 
 as it is in the republic, has finally reached 
 the ears of thy employers, and they withdraw 
 their protection.” 
 
 “ Jacopo regarded the noble, for an in- 
 stant, with an expression so ambiguous as to 
 cause the latter insensibly to raise the point 
 of his rapier, but when he answered, it was 
 with his ordinary quiet. 
 
 ‘‘Signor Duca,” he said, ‘‘I have been 
 thought worthy to be retained by Don Ca- 
 millo Monforte !” 
 
 ““T deny it not—and now that thou re- 
 callest the occasion, new light breaks in upon 
 me. Villain, to thy faithlessness I owe the 
 loss of my bride ! ” 
 
 Though the rapier was at the very throat 
 of Jacopo, he did not flinch. Gazing at his 
 excited companion, he laughed in a smoth- 
 ered manner, but bitterly. 
 
 i 
 
 va 
 
 Oe a a 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 ‘<Tt would seem that the Lord of Sant’ 
 Agata wishes to rob me of my trade,” he 
 said. ‘Arise, ye Israelites, and bear wit- 
 ness, less men doubt the fact! A common 
 bravo of the canals is waylaid, among your 
 despised graves, by the proudest signor of 
 Calabria! You have chosen your spot, in 
 mercy, Don Camillo, for sooner or later this 
 crumbling and sea-worn earth is to receive 
 me. Were I to die at the altar itself, with 
 the most penitent prayer of holy Church on 
 my lips, the bigots would send my body to 
 rest among those hungry Hebrews and ac- 
 cursed heretics. Yes, I am a man pro- 
 scribed, and unfit to sleep with the faithful!” 
 
 His companion spoke with so strange a 
 mixture of irony and melancholy, that the 
 purpose of Don Camillo wavered. But re- 
 membering his loss, he shook the rapier’s 
 point, and continued— 
 
 ‘<Thy taunts and effrontery will not avail 
 thee, knave;” he cried. “Thou knowest 
 that I would have engaged thee as the leader 
 of a chosen band, to favor the flight of one 
 dear from Venice.” 
 
 “Nothing more true, signor.” 
 
 «“ And thou didst refuse the service? ” 
 
 ‘* Noble duke, I did.” 
 
 “Not content with this, having learned 
 the particulars of my project, thou sold the 
 secret to the senate ?” 
 
 ‘“Don Camillo Monforte, I did not. My 
 engagements with the council would not per- 
 mit me to serve you; else, by the brightest 
 star of yonder vault! it would have glad- 
 dened my heart to have witnessed the 
 happiness of two young and faithful lovers. 
 No—no—no; they know me not, who think 
 I cannot find pleasure in the joy of another. 
 I told you that I was the senate’s—and there 
 the matter ended.” 
 
 “ And I had the weakness to believe thee, 
 Jacopo, for thou hast a character so strange- 
 ly compounded of good and evil, and bearest 
 so fair a name for observance of thy faith, 
 that the seeming frankness of the answer 
 lulled me to security. Fellow, I have been 
 betrayed, and that at the moment when I 
 thought success most sure.” 
 
 Jacopo manifested interest, but, as he 
 moved slowly on, accompanied by the vigi- 
 lant and zealous noble, he smiled coldly, like 
 one who had pity for the other’s credulity. 
 
 519 
 
 “Tn bitterness of soul, I have cursed the 
 whole race for its treachery ;” continued the 
 Neapolitan. 
 
 ‘‘This is rather for the priore of St. 
 Mark, than for the ear of one who carries a 
 public stiletto.” 
 
 “ My gondola has been imitated—the liv- 
 eries of my people copied—my bride stolen. 
 —Thou answerest not, Jacopo?” 
 
 ‘“What answer would you have? You 
 have been cozened, signor, in a state, whose 
 very prince dare not trust his secrets to his 
 wife. You would have robbed Venice of an 
 heiress, and Venice has robbed you of a 
 bride. You have played high, Don Camillo, 
 and have lost a heavy stake. You have 
 thought of your own wishes and rights, while 
 you have pretended to serve Venice with the 
 Spaniard.” 
 
 Don Camillo started in surprise. 
 
 ‘Why this wonder, signor?—You forget 
 that I have lived much among those who 
 weigh the chances of every political interest, 
 and that your name is often in their mouths. 
 This marriage is doubly disagreeable to Ven- 
 ice, who has nearly as much need of the 
 bridegroom as of the bride. The council 
 hath long ago forbidden the banns.” 
 
 « Ay—but the means ?—explain the means 
 by which I have been duped, lest the treach- 
 ery be ascribed to thee.” 
 
 ‘‘Signor, the very marbles of the city 
 give up their secrets to the state. I have 
 seen much, and understood much, when my 
 superiors have believed me merely a tool ; but 
 I have seen much that even those who em- 
 ployed me could not comprehend. I could 
 have foretold this consummation of your 
 nuptials, had I known of their celebration.” 
 
 “This thou could’st not have done, with- 
 out being an agent of their treachery.” 
 
 “The schemes of the selfish may be fore- 
 told ; it is only the generous and the honest 
 that baffle calculation. He who can gain a 
 knowledge of the present interest of Venice 
 is master of her dearest secrets of state ; for 
 what she wishes she will do, unless the serv- 
 ice cost too dear. As for the means—how 
 can they be wanting in a household like 
 yours, signor ? ” 
 
 ‘‘T trusted none but those deepest in my 
 confidence.” 
 
 ‘¢Don Camillo, there is not a servitor in 
 
520 
 
 your palace, Gino alone excepted, who is not 
 a hireling of the senate, or of its agents. 
 The very gondoliers, who row you to your 
 daily pleasures, have had their hands crossed 
 with the republic’s sequins. Nay, they are 
 not only paid to watch you, but to watch 
 each other.” 
 
 ‘Can this be true !” 
 
 ‘‘Have you ever doubted it, signor?” 
 asked Jacopo, looking up like one who ad- 
 mired at another’s simplicity. 
 
 ‘‘T knew them to be false—pretenders to 
 a faith that in secret they mock ; but I had 
 not believed they dared to tamper with the 
 very menials of my person. This undermin- 
 ing of the security of families is to destroy 
 society at its core !” 
 
 “You talk like one who hath not been 
 long a bridegroom, signor ;” said the Bravo 
 with a hollow laugh. “A year hence, you 
 may know what it is to have your own wife 
 turning your secret thoughts into gold.” 
 
 «¢ And thou servest them, Jacopo?” 
 
 ' Who does not, in some manner suited to 
 his habits ? Weare not masters of our for- 
 tune, Don Camillo, or the Duke of Sant’ 
 Agata would not be turning his influence 
 with a relative, to the advantage of the re- 
 public. What I have done hath not been 
 done without bitter penitence, and an agony 
 of soul, that your own light servitude may 
 have spared you, signor.” 
 
 ‘Poor Jacopo !” 
 
 ‘‘Tf I have lived through it all, ’tis be- 
 cause one mightier than the state hath not 
 deserted me. But, Don Camillo Monforte, 
 there are crimes which pass beyond the 
 powers of man to enaure.” 
 
 The Bravo shuddered, and he moved 
 among the despised graves, in silence. 
 
 ‘‘They have then proved too ruthless even 
 for thee ?” said Don Camillo, who watched 
 the contracting eye and heaving form of his 
 companion, in wonder. 
 
 «‘Signor, they have. I have witnessed, 
 this night, a proof of their heartlessness and 
 bad faith, that hath caused me to look for- 
 ward to my own fate. The delusion is over ; 
 from this hour I serve them no longer.” 
 
 The Bravo spoke with deep feeling, and 
 his companion fancied, strange as it was 
 coming from such a man, with an air of 
 wounded integrity. Don Camillo knew that 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 there was no condition of life, however de- 
 graded or lost to the world, which had not 
 its own particular opinions of the faith due 
 to its fellows ; and he had seen enough of 
 the sinuous course of the oligarchy of Venice, 
 to understand that it was quite possible its 
 shameless and irresponsible duplicity might 
 offend the principles of even an assassin. 
 Less odium was attached to men of that class, 
 in Italy and at that day, than will be easily 
 imagined in a country like this ; for the rad- 
 ical defects and the vicious administration of 
 the laws, caused an irritable and sensitive 
 people too often to take into their own hands, 
 the right of redressing their own wrongs. 
 Custom had lessened the odium of the crime, 
 and though society denounced the assassin 
 himself, it is scarcely too much to say, that 
 his employer was regarded with little more 
 disgust than the religious of our time regard 
 the survivor of a private combat. Still it 
 was not usual for nobles like Don Camillo to 
 hold intercourse, beyond that which the re- 
 quired service exacted, with men of Jacopo’s 
 cast; but the language and manner of the 
 Bravo so strongly attracted the curiosity, and 
 even the sympathy of his companion, that 
 the latter unconsciously sheathed his rapier 
 and drew nearer. 
 
 ‘““Thy penitence and regrets, Jacopo, 
 may lead thee yet nearer to virtue,” he 
 said, “than mere abandonment of the 
 senate’s service. Seek out some godly 
 priest, and ease thy soul, by confession and 
 prayer.” 
 
 The Bravo trembled in every limb, and his 
 
 eye turned wistfully to the countenance of 
 
 the other. 
 
 ‘<Speak, Jacopo; even I will hear thee, if 
 thou would’st remove the mountain from thy 
 breast.” 
 
 ‘‘Thanks, noble signor! a thousand 
 thanks fer this glimpse of sympathy, to 
 which I have long been a stranger! None 
 know how dear a word of kindness is, as he 
 who has been condemned by all, as I have 
 been. Ihave prayed—I have craved—I have 
 wept for some ear to listen to my tale, and I 
 thought I had found one who would haye 
 
 heard me without scorn, when the cold policy 
 
 of the senate struck him. I came here to 
 commune with the hated dead, when chance 
 brought us together. 
 
 Could I——” the 
 
 | 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 Bravo paused and looked doubtfully, again, 
 at his companion. 
 
 «« Say on, Jacopo.” 
 
 ‘«T have not dared to trust my secrets even 
 to the confessional, signor, and can I be so 
 bold as to offer them to you ?” 
 
 ‘<Truly, it is a strange behest !” 
 
 “Signor, it is. You are noble, I am of 
 humble blood. Your ancestors were senators 
 and doges of Venice, while mine have been, 
 since the fishermen first built their huts in 
 the Lagunes, laborers on the canals, and row- 
 ers of gondolas. You are powerful and rich, 
 and courted ; while I am denounced, and, in 
 secret, I fear, condemned. In short, you are 
 Don Camillo Monforte, and I am Jacopo 
 Frontoni !” 
 
 Don Camillo was touched, for the Bravo 
 spoke without bitterness, and in deep sorrow. 
 
 “*T would thou wert at the confessional, 
 poor Jacopo!” he said ; ‘‘I am little able to 
 give ease to such a burden.” 
 
 «« Signor, I have lived too long shut out from 
 the good wishes of my fellows, and I can bear 
 with it no longer. The accursed senate may 
 cut me off without warning, and then who 
 will stop to look at my grave. Signor, I must 
 speak, or die!” 
 
 ‘Thy case is piteous, Jacopo !—Thou hast 
 need of ghostly counsel.” 
 
 ‘«< Here is no priest, signor, and I carry a 
 weight past bearing. The only man who has 
 shown interest in me, for three long and 
 dreadful years, is gone !” 
 
 <‘But he will return, poor Jacopo.” 
 
 << Signor, he will never return. Heis with 
 the fishes of the Lagunes.” 
 
 “<< By thy hand, monster !” 
 
 ‘«< By the justice of the illustrious repub- 
 lic,” said the Bravo, with a smothered but 
 bitter smile. 
 
 ‘‘Ha! they are then awake to the acts of 
 thy class? Thy repentance is the fruit of 
 fear !” 
 
 Jacopo seemed choked. He had evidently 
 counted on the awakened sympathy of his 
 companion notwithstanding the difference in 
 their situations, and to be thus thrown off 
 again, unmanned him. He shuddered and 
 every muscle and nerve appeared about to 
 yield its power. Touched by so unequivocal 
 signs of suffering, Don Camillo kept close at 
 his side, reluctant to enter more deeply into 
 
 521 
 
 the feelings of one of his known character, 
 and yet unable to desert a fellow-creature in 
 SO grievous agony. 
 
 ‘‘Signor Duca,” said the Bravo, with a 
 pathos in his voice that went to the heart of 
 his auditor, ‘‘leave me. If they ask for a 
 proscribed man, let them come here ; in the 
 morning they will find my body near the 
 graves of the heretics.” 
 
 ‘Speak, I will hear thee.” 
 
 Jacopo looked up with doubt expressed on 
 his features. 
 
 ‘‘Unburden thyself ; I will listen, though 
 thou recounted the assassination of my dear- 
 est friend.” 
 
 The oppressed Bravo gazed at him, asif he 
 still distrusted his sincerity. His face work- 
 ed, and his look became still more wistful ; 
 but as Don Camillo faced the moon, and be- 
 trayed the extent of his sympathy, the other 
 burst into tears. 
 
 ** Jacopo, I will hear thee—I will hear thee, 
 poor Jacopo !” cried Don Camillo, shocked 
 at this exhibiton of distress in one so stern 
 by nature. A wave from the hand of the 
 Bravo silenced him, and Jacopo, struggling 
 with himself for a moment, spoke. 
 
 *¢ You have saved a soul from perdition, 
 signor,” he said, smothering his emotion. ‘‘ If 
 the happy knew how much power belongs to 
 a single word of kindness—a glance of feeling, 
 when given to the despised, they would not 
 look so coldly on the miserable. This night 
 must have been my last, had you cast me off 
 without pity—but you will hear my tale, sig- 
 nor—you will not scorn the confession of a 
 Bravo ?” 
 
 ‘‘T have promised. Be brief, for at this 
 moment I have great care of my own.” 
 
 *‘Signor, I know not the whole of your 
 wrongs, but they will not be less likely to be 
 redressed for this grace.” 
 
 Jacopo made an effort to command himself, 
 when he commenced his tale. 
 
 The course of the narrative does not require 
 that we should accompany this extraordinary 
 man through the relation of the secrets he 
 imparted to Don Camillo. It is enough, for 
 our present purposes, to say that, as he pro- 
 ceeded, the young Calabrian noble drew nearer 
 to his side, and listened with growing interest. 
 The Duke of Sant’? Agata scarcely breathed. 
 while his companion, with that energy of 
 
 2 
 
522 
 
 language and feeling which marks Italian 
 character, recounted his secret sorrows, and 
 the scenes in which he had been an actor. 
 Long before he was done, Don Camillo had 
 forgotten his own private causes of concern, 
 and, by the time the tale was finished, every 
 shade of disgust had given place to an un- 
 governable expression of pity. In short, so 
 eloquent was the speaker, and so interesting 
 the facts with which he dealt, that he seemed 
 to play with the sympathies of the listener, 
 as the improvisatore of that region is known 
 to lead captive the passions of the admiring 
 crowd. 
 
 During the time Jacopo was speaking, he 
 and his wondering auditor had passed the 
 limits of the despised cemetery; and as the 
 voice of the former ceased, they stood on the 
 outer beach of the Lido. When the low 
 tones of the Bravo were no longer audible, 
 they were succeeded by the sullen wash of 
 the Adriatic. 
 
 ‘This surpasseth belief!” Don Camillo 
 exclaimed, after a long pause, which had 
 only been disturbed by the rush and retreat 
 of the waters. 
 
 “Signor, as holy Maria is kind! it is 
 true.” 
 
 “T doubt you not, Jacopo—poor Jacopo! 
 I cannot distrust a tale thus told! Thou 
 hast, indeed, been a victim of their hellish 
 duplicity, and well mayest thou say, the load 
 was past bearing. What is thy intention ?” 
 
 “T serve them no longer, Don Camillo—I 
 wait only for the last solemn scene, which is 
 now certain, and then I quit this city of de- 
 ceit, to seek my fortune in another region. 
 They have blasted my youth, and loaded my 
 name with infamy.—God may yet lighten the 
 load!” 
 
 “Reproach not thyself beyond reason, 
 Jacopo, for the happiest and most fortunate 
 of us all are not above the power of tempta- 
 tion. Thou knowest that even my name and 
 rank have not, altogether, protected me from 
 their arts.” 
 
 “JT know them capable, signor, of deluding 
 angels! Their arts are only surpassed by 
 their means, and their pretence of virtue by 
 their indifference to its practice.” 
 
 “Thou sayest true, Jacopo ; the truth is 
 never in greater danger than when whole 
 communities lend themselves to the vicious 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 there is no virtue. This it is to substitute 
 profession for practice—to use the altar for a 
 worldly purpose—and to bestow power with- 
 out any other responsibility than that which — 
 is exacted by the selfishness of caste! Jacopo | 
 —poor Jacopo! thou shalt be my servitor—I 
 am lord of my own seigniories, and once rid of 
 this specious republic, I charge myself with the 
 care of thy safety and fortunes. Beat peace 
 as respects thy conscience: I have interest 
 near the Holy See, and thou shalt not want 
 absolution!” 
 
 The gratitude of the Bravo was more vivid | 
 in feeling than in expression. He kissed the | 
 hand of Don Camillo, but it was with a reser- 
 vation of self-respect that belonged to the 
 character of the man. | 
 
 “A system like this of Venice,” pantie 
 the musing noble, “‘ leaves none of us masters 
 of our own acts. The wiles of such a com- 
 bination are stronger than the will. It cloaks . 
 its offences against right in a thousand spe- 
 cious forms, and it enlists the support of, 
 every man under the pretence of a sacrifice 
 for the common good. We often fancy our- 
 selves simple dealers in some justifiable state) 
 intrigue, when in truth we are deep in sin. 
 Falsehood ‘is the parent of all crimes, and in 
 no case has it a progeny so numerous as that 
 in which its own birth is derived from the 
 state. I fear I may have made sacrifices, to. 
 this treacherous influence, I could wish for- 
 gotten.” | | 
 
 Though Don Camillo soliloquized, rather 
 than addressed his companion, it was evi- 
 dent, by the train of his thoughts, that the 
 narrative of Jacopo had awakened disagree- 
 able refiections, on the manner in which he 
 had pushed his own claims with the senate. 
 Perhaps he felt the necessity of some apology 
 to one who, though so much his inferior in 
 rank, was so competent to appreciate his con- 
 duct, and who had just denounced in the 
 strongest language, his own fatal subserviency | 
 to the arts of that irresponsible and meretri- 
 cious body. | 
 
 Jacopo uttered a few words of a general — 
 nature, but such as had a tendency to quiet — 
 the uneasiness of his companion; after which, 
 with a readiness that proved him qualified — 
 for the many delicate missions with which he 
 had been charged, he ingeniously turned the 
 
 deception of seemliness, and without in| | 
 
 SAA OE 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 discourse to the recent abduction of Donna 
 Violetta, with the offer of rendering his new 
 employer all the services in his power to re- 
 gain his bride. 
 
 «<That thou mayest know all thou hast 
 undertaken,” rejoined Don Camillo, “listen, 
 Jacopo, and I will conceal nothing from thy 
 shrewdness.” 
 
 The Duke of Sant’ Agata now briefly, but 
 explicitly, laid bare to his companion all his 
 own views and measures, with respect to her 
 he loved, and all those events with which the 
 reader has already become acquainted. 
 
 The Bravo gave great attention to the 
 minutest parts of the detail, and more than 
 once, as the other proceeded, he smiled to 
 himself, like a man who was able to trace the 
 secret means, by which this or that intrigue 
 had been effected. The whole was just 
 related, when the sound of a footstep an- 
 nounced the return of Gino. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Pale she look’d, 
 Yet cheerful ; though methought, once, if not twice, 
 She wiped away a tear that would be coming. 
 —RoGERS. 
 
 THE hours passed as if naught had _ oc- 
 curred, within the barriers of the city, to dis- 
 turb their progress. On the following morn- 
 ing men proceeded to their several pursuits, 
 of business or of pleasure, as had been done for 
 ages, and none stopped to question his neigh- 
 bor of the scene which might have taken 
 place during the night. Some were gay, 
 and others sorrowing ; some idle, and others 
 occupied ; here one toiled, there another 
 sported ; and Venice presented, as of wont, 
 its noiseless, suspicious, busy, mysterious, and 
 yet stirring throngs, as it had before done at 
 a thousand similar risings of the sun. 
 
 The menials lingered around the water- 
 gate of Donna Violetta’s palace, with dis- 
 trustful but cautious faces, scarce whispering 
 among themselves their secret suspicions of 
 the fate of their mistress. The residence of 
 the Signor Gradenigo presented its usual 
 gloomy magnificence, while the abode of 
 Don Camillo Monforte betrayed no sign of 
 the heavy disappointment which its master 
 
 D298 
 
 had sustained. The Bella Sorrentina still 
 lay in the port, with a yard on deck, while 
 the crew repaired its sail in the lazy manner 
 of mariners who work without excitement. 
 
 The Lagunes were dotted with the boats of 
 fishermen, and travellers arrived and departed 
 from the city, by the well-known channels of 
 Fusina and Mestre. Here, some adventurer 
 from the north quitted the canals, on his re- 
 turn toward the Alps, carrying with him a 
 pleasing picture of the ceremonies he had 
 witnessed, mingled with some crude conjec- 
 tures of that power which predominated in 
 the suspected state ; and there, a country- 
 man of the main sought his little farm, satis- 
 fied with the pageants and regatta of the 
 previous day. In short, all seemed as usnal, 
 and the events we have related remained a 
 secret with the actors, and that mysterious 
 council which had so large a share in their 
 existence. 
 
 As the day advanced, many a sail was 
 spread for the Pillars of Hercules, or the 
 genial Levant, and feluccas, mystics and 
 golettas, went and came as the land or sea- 
 breeze prevailed. Still the mariner of Cala- 
 bria lounged beneath the awning which 
 sheltered his deck, or took his siesta on a 
 pile of old sails, which were ragged with the 
 force of many a hot sirocco. As the sun fell, 
 the gondolas of the great and idle began to 
 glide over the water; and when the two 
 squares were cooled by the air of the Adria- 
 tic, the Broglio began to fill with those priv- 
 ileged to pace its vaulted passage. Among 
 these came the Duke of Sant’ Agata, who, 
 though an alien to the laws of the republic, 
 being of so illustrious descent and of claims 
 so equitable, was received among the senators, 
 in their moments of ease, as a welcome sharer 
 in this vain distinction. He entered the 
 Broglio at the wonted hour, and with his 
 usual composure, for he trusted to his secret 
 influence at Rome, and something to the 
 success of his rivals, for impunity. Reflec- 
 tion had shown Don Camillo that, as his 
 plans were known to the council, they would 
 long since have arrested him, had such been 
 their intention ; and it had also led him to 
 believe, that the most efficient manner of 
 avoiding the personal consequences of his 
 adventure, was to show confidence in his own 
 power to withstand them. When he ap: 
 
524 
 
 peared, therefore, leaning on the arm of a 
 high officer of the papal embassy, and with an 
 eye that spoke assurance in himself, he was 
 greeted, as usual, by all who knew him, as 
 was due to his rank and expectations. Still 
 Don Camillo walked among the patricians of 
 the republic with novel sensations. More 
 than once he thought he detected, in the 
 wandering glances of those with whom he 
 conversed, signs of their knowledge of his 
 frustrated attempt, and more than once, 
 when he least suspected such scrutiny, his 
 countenance was watched, as if the observer 
 sought some evidence of his future inten- 
 tions. Beyond this, none might have dis- 
 covered that an heiress of so much impor- 
 tance had been so near being lost to the state, 
 or, on the other hand, that a bridegroom 
 had been robbed of his bride. Habitual art, 
 on the part of the state, and resolute but 
 wary intention on the part of the young 
 noble, concealed all else from observation. 
 
 In this manner the day passed, not a tongue 
 in Venice, beyond those which whispered in 
 secret, making any illusion to the incidents 
 of our tale. : 
 
 Just as the sun was setting, a gondola 
 swept slowly up to the water-gate of the du- 
 cal palace. The gondolier landed, fastened 
 his boatin the usual manner to the stepping- 
 stones, and entered the court. He wore a 
 mask, for the hour of disguise had come, and 
 his attire was so like the ordinary fashion of 
 men of his class, as to defeat recognition by 
 its simplicity. Glancing an eye about him, 
 he entered the building by a private door. 
 
 The edifice in which the Doges of Venice 
 dwelt still stands a gloomy monument of the 
 policy of the republic, furnishing evidence, 
 in itself, of the specious character of the 
 prince whom it held. It is built around a 
 vast but gloomy court, as is usual with nearly 
 all of the principal edifices of HKurope. One 
 of its fronts forms a side of the piazzetta, 
 so often mentioned, and another lines the 
 quay next the port. ‘The architecture of 
 these two exterior faces of the palace renders 
 the structure remarkable. A low portico, 
 which forms the Broglio, sustains a row of 
 massive oriental windows, and above these 
 again lies a pile of masonry, slightly relieved 
 by apertures, which reverses the ordinary 
 uses of the arts, A third front is nearly con- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 cealed by the cathedral of St. Mark, and the _ 
 fourth is washed by its canal. The public 
 prison of the city forms the other side of this 
 canal, eloquently proclaiming the nature of 
 the government by the close approximation 
 of the powers of legislation and of punish- 
 ment. The famous Bridge of Sighs is the 
 material, and we might add the metaphorical, 
 link between the two. The latter edifice 
 stands on the quay, also, and though less 
 lofty and spacious, in point of architectural 
 beauty it is the superior structure, though 
 the quaintness and unusual style of the palace 
 are most apt to attract attention. 
 
 _'The masked gondolier soon reappeared be- 
 neath the arch of the water-gate, and with a 
 hurried step he sought his boat. It required 
 but a minute to cross the canal, to land on 
 the opposite quay, and to enter the public 
 door of the prison. It would seem that he 
 had some secret means of satisfying the vigi- 
 lance of the different keepers, for bolts were 
 drawn, and doors unlocked, with little ques- 
 tion, wherever he presented himself. In this 
 manner he quickly passed all the outer bar- 
 riers of the palace, and reached a part of the 
 building which had the appearance of being 
 fitted for the accommodation of a family. 
 Judging from the air of all around him, 
 those who dwelt there took the luxury of 
 their abode but little into the account, though 
 neither the furniture nor the rooms were 
 wanting in most of the necessaries suited to 
 people of their class and the climate, and in 
 that age. 
 
 The gondolier had ascended a orig stair- 
 way, and he was now before a door, which 
 had none of those signs of a prison that so 
 freely abounded in other parts of the build- 
 ing. He paused to listen, and then tapped, 
 with singular caution. 
 
 ‘‘ Who is without ?” asked a gentle female 
 voice, at the same instant that the latch 
 moved and fell again, as if she within waited _ 
 to be assured of the character of her ae : 
 before she opened the door. ; 
 
 “A friend to thee, Gelsomina;” was the 
 answer. ’ 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, here all are friends to the keepers, — 
 if words can be believed. You must name — 
 your nel or go elsewhere for your an- 
 swer.’ ’ 
 
 The gondolier removed the mask a little 
 
 i 
 d 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 which had altered his voice as well as con- 
 cealed his face. 
 
 «Tt is I, Gessina,” he said, using the di- 
 minutive of her name. 
 
 The bolts grated, and the door was hur- 
 riedly opened. 
 
 «It is wonderful that I did not know thee, 
 Carlo!” said the female, with eager simpli- 
 city; ‘but thou takest so many disguises of 
 late, and so counterfeitest strange voices, that 
 thine own mother might have distrusted her 
 ear.” 
 
 The gondolier paused to make certain they 
 were alone ; then, laying aside the mask al- 
 together, he exposed the features of the 
 Bravo. 
 
 “Thou knowest the need of caution,” he 
 added, “and wilt not judge me harshly.” 
 
 “JT said not that, Carlo—but thy voice is 
 so familiar, that I thought it wonderful thou 
 could’st speak asa stranger.” 
 
 ‘Hast thou aught for me?” 
 
 - The gentle girl, for she was both young 
 and gentle, hesitated. 
 
 ‘Hast thou aught new, Gelsomina?” re- 
 peated the Bravo, reading her innocent face 
 with his searching glance. 
 
 «Thou art fortunate in not being sooner 
 in the prison. I have just had a visitor. 
 Thou would’st not have liked to be seen, 
 Carlo?” 
 
 “Thou knowest I have good reasons for 
 coming masked. I might, or I might not 
 have disliked thy acquaintance, as he should 
 have proved.” 
 
 «‘ Nay, now thou judgest wrong; ” returned 
 the female, hastily ; “I had no other, here, 
 but my cousin, Annina.” 
 
 ‘¢Dost thou think me jealous?” said the 
 Bravo, smiling in kindness, as he took her 
 hand. “Had it been thy cousin Pietro, or 
 Michele, or Roberto, or any other youth of 
 Venice, I should have no other dread than 
 that of being known.” 
 
 “But it was only Annina—my cousin, An- 
 nina, whom thou hast never seen—and I have 
 no cousins Pietro, and Michele, and Roberto. 
 We are not many, Carlo. Annina has a 
 brother, but he never comes hither. Indeed 
 it is long since she has found it convenient 
 to quit her trade to come to this dreary place. 
 Few children of sisters see each other so 
 seldom as Annina and |!” 
 
 525 
 
 ‘Thou art a good girl, Gessina, and art 
 
 always to be found near thy mother. Hast 
 thou naught in particular, for my ear?” 
 
 Again the soft eyes of Gelsomina, or Ges- 
 sina, as she was familiarly called, dropped to 
 
 the floor—but raising them, ere he could note 
 the circumstance, she hurriedly continued the 
 
 discourse. 
 “JT fear Annina will return, or I would go 
 
 with thee, at once.” 
 
 “Tg this cousin of thine still here, then?” 
 
 asked the Bravo, with uneasiness.—‘‘ Thou 
 knowest I would not be seen.” 
 
 “Fear not. She cannot enter without 
 
 touching that bell, for she is above with my 
 poor bed-ridden mother. ‘Thou canst go into 
 the inner room, as usual, when she comes, 
 and listen to her idle discourse, if thou wilt 
 —or—but we have not time—for Annina 
 comes seldom, and I know not why, but she 
 seems to love a sick room little, as she never 
 stays many minutes with her aunt.” 
 
 «Thou would’st have said, or I might go 
 
 on my errand, Gessina?” 
 
 «J would, Carlo—but I am certain we 
 
 should be recalled by my impatient cousin.” 
 
 «‘T can wait; Iam patient when with thee, 
 dearest, Gessina.” 
 
 «Hist !—’Tis my cousin’s step.—Thou 
 canst go in.” 
 
 While she spoke, a small bell rang, and the 
 Bravo withdrew into the inner room, like one 
 accustomed to that place of retreat. He left 
 the door ajar, for the darkness of the closet 
 sufficiently concealed his person. In the 
 meantime Gelsomina opened the outer door 
 for the admission of her visitor. At the first 
 sound of the latter’s voice, Jacopo, who had 
 little suspected the fact from a name which 
 was so common, recognized the artful daugh- 
 ter of the wine-seller. 
 
 “Thou art at thy ease, here, Gelsomina,” 
 cried the latter, entering and throwing herself 
 into a seat, like one fatigued. “Thy mother 
 is better, and thou art truly mistress of the 
 house.” 
 
 ‘‘T would I were not, Annina, for I am 
 young to have this trust, with this afflic- 
 tion.” 
 
 “It is not so insupportable, Gessina, to be 
 mistress within doors, at seventeen ! Author- 
 
 ity is sweet, and obedience is odious.” 
 
 ‘I have found neither so, and I will give 
 
526 
 
 up the first with joy, whenever my poor 
 mother shall be able to take command of her 
 own family again.” 
 
 ‘‘This is well, Gessina, and does credit to 
 the good father confessor. But authority is 
 dear to woman, and go is liberty. Thou wast 
 not with the maskers yesterday, in the 
 square?” 
 
 “T seldom wear a disguise, and I could not 
 quit my mother.” 
 
 “Which means that thou would’st have 
 been glad to do it. Thou hast good reason 
 for thy regrets, since a gayer marriage of the 
 sea, or a braver regatta, has not been wit- 
 nessed in Venice, since thou wast born. But 
 the first was to be seen from thy window?” 
 
 “TI saw the galley of state sweeping toward 
 the Lido, and the train of patricians on its 
 deck ; but little else.” 
 
 “No matter. Thou shalt have as good an 
 idea of the pageant as if thou hadst played 
 the part of the doge himself. First came 
 the men of the guard with their ancient 
 dresses nd 
 
 ‘* Nay, this I remember to have often seen; 
 for the same show is kept from year to 
 year.” 
 
 “Thou art right; but Venice never wit- 
 nessed such a brave regatta! Thou knowest 
 that the first trial is always between gondolas 
 of many oars, steered by the best esteemed of 
 the canals. Luigi was there, and though he 
 did not win, he more than merited success, 
 by the manner in which he directed his boat. 
 Thou knowest Luigi?” 
 
 “T scarce know any in Venice, Annina, for 
 the long illness of my mother, and this un- 
 happy office of my father, keep me within, 
 when others are on the canals.” 
 
 “True. Thou art not well placed to make 
 acquaintances. But Luigi is second to no 
 gondolier, in skill or reputation, and he is 
 much the merriest rogue of them all that put 
 foot on the Lido.” 
 
 ‘‘He was foremost, then, in the grand 
 race?” 
 
 ‘* He should have been, but the awkward- 
 ness of his fellows, and some unfairness in the 
 crossing, threw him back to be second. *T'was 
 a sight to behold, that of many noble water- 
 men struggling to maintain or to get a name 
 on the canals. Santa Maria! I would thou 
 could’st have seen it, girl!” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ““T should not have been glad to see a 
 friend defeated.” 
 
 ‘* We must take fortune as it offers. But 
 the most wonderful sight of the day, after 
 all, though Luigi and his fellows did so well, 
 was to see a poor fisherman, named Antonio, 
 in his bare head and naked legs, a man of 
 seventy years, and with a boat no better than 
 that I use to carry liquors to the Lido, enter- 
 ing on the second race, and carrying off the 
 prize !” 
 
 ‘““He could not have met with powerful 
 rivals? ” 
 
 “The best of Venice; though Luigi, hay- 
 ing strived for the first, could not enter for 
 the second trial. ’Tis said, too,” continued 
 Annina, looking about her with habitual cau- 
 tion, “that one, who may scarce be named in 
 Venice, had the boldness to appear in that 
 regatta masked ; and yet the fisherman won! 
 Thou hast heard of Jacopo ?” 
 
 “The name is common.” 
 
 “There is but one who bears it now, in 
 Venice.—All mean the same when they say 
 Jacopo.” 
 
 ‘‘T have heard of a monster of that name. — 
 
 Surely he hath not dared to show himself 
 among the nobles, on such a festa! ” 
 “Gessina, we live in an unaccouutable 
 country! The man walks the piazza with a 
 step as lordly as the doge, at his pleasure, 
 and yet none say aught to him! I have 
 seen him, at noonday, leaning against the 
 triumphal mast, or the column of San T'eo- 
 doro, with as proud an air as if he were put 
 there to celebrate a victory of the republic ! ” 
 ‘‘Perhaps he is master of some terrible 
 secret, which they fear he will reveal ? ” 
 “Thou knowest little of Venice, child! 
 Holy Maria ! a secret of that kind isa death- 
 warrant of itself. It is as dangerous to know 
 
 too much, as it is to know too little, when 
 But they say 
 
 one deals with St. Mark. 
 Jacopo was there, standing eye to eye with 
 the doge, and scaring the senators as if he 
 had been an uncalled spectre from the vaults 
 of their fathers. Nor is this all; as I crossed 
 the Lagunes this morning, I saw the body of 
 a young cavalier drawn from the water, and 
 
 those who were near it said it had the mark _ 
 
 of his fatal hand !” 
 The timid Gelsomina shuddered. 
 
 “They who rule,” she said, “will have to 
 
 i 
 : : 
 ; 
 
p 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 \ 
 
 527 
 
 answer for this negligence to God, if they let | ‘thou canst come forth, for we have no fur- 
 
 the wretch longer go at large.” 
 
 ‘Blessed St. Mark protect his children! 
 They say there is much of this sin to answer 
 for—but see the body I did, with my own 
 eyes, in entering the canals this morning.” 
 
 «And didst thou sleep on the Lido, that 
 thou wert abroad so early ?” 
 
 “The Lido—yes—nay—I slept not, but 
 thou knowest my father had a busy day dur- 
 ing the revels, and I am not like thee, Gessina, 
 mistress of the household, to do as I would. 
 But I tarry here to chat with the, when there 
 is great need of industry at home. Hast 
 thou the package, child, which I trusted to 
 thy keeping, at my last visit ?” 
 
 “««Tt is here,” answered Gelsomina, opening 
 a drawer, and handing to her cousin a small 
 but closely enveloped package, which, un- 
 known to herself, contained some articles of 
 forbidden commerce, and which the other, in 
 her indefatigable activity, had been obliged to 
 secrete fora time. ‘‘I had begun to think 
 that thou hadst forgotten it, and was about 
 to send it to thee.” 
 
 “ Gelsomina, if thou lovest me, never do so 
 rash an act! My brother Guiseppe—thou 
 scarce knowest Guiseppe ? ” 
 
 ** We have little acquaintance, for cousins.” 
 
 “Thou art fortunate in thy ignorance. I 
 cannot say what I might of the child of the 
 the same parents, but had Guiseppe seen this 
 package, by any accident, it might have 
 brought thee into great trouble! ” 
 
 «* Nay, I fear not thy brother, nor any else,” 
 said the daughter of the prison-keeper, with 
 the firmness of innocence ; *‘ he could do 
 me no harm for dealing kindly by a relative.” 
 
 ‘Thou art right; but he might have 
 caused me great vexation. Sainted Maria! 
 if thou knewest the pain that unthinking and 
 misguided boy gives his family! He is my 
 brother, after all, and you will fancy the rest. 
 Addio, good Gessina; I hope thy father will 
 permit thee to come and visit, at last, those 
 who so much love thee.” 
 
 «‘ Addio, Annina; thou knowest I would 
 come gladly, but that I scarce quit the side 
 of my poor mother.” 
 
 The wily daughter of the wine-seller gave 
 her guileless and unsuspecting friend a kiss, 
 and then she was let out and departed. 
 
 ** Carlo,” said the soft voice of Gessina ; 
 
 ther fear of visits.” 
 
 The Bravo appeared, but with a paleness 
 deeper than common on his cheek. He looked 
 mournfully at the gentle and affectionate 
 being who awaited his return, and when he 
 struggled to answer her ingenuous smile, the 
 abortive effort gave his features an expression 
 of ghastliness. 
 
 ‘‘Annina has wearied thee with her idle 
 discourse of the regatta, and of murders on 
 the canals. Thou wilt not judge her harshly, 
 for the manner in which she spoke of Guiseppe, 
 who may deserve this, and more. ButI know 
 thy impatience, and I will not increase thy 
 weariness.” 
 
 ‘‘ Hold, Gessina—this girl isthy cousin ?” 
 
 ‘* Have I not told thee so ? our mothers are 
 sisters.” 
 
 ‘And she is here often ?” 
 
 “Not as often as she could wish, [ am cer- 
 tain, for her aunt has not quitted her room 
 for many, many months.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou art an excellent daughter, kind 
 Gessina, and would make all others as virtu- 
 ous as thyself.—And thou hast been to return 
 these visits ?” 
 
 ‘‘Never. My father forbids it, for they 
 are dealers in wines, and entertain the gondo- 
 liers in revelry. But Annina is blameless for 
 the trade of her parents.” 
 
 ‘‘No doubt—and that package ? it hath 
 been long in thy keeping.” 
 
 ‘*A month; Annina left it at her last visit, 
 for she was hurried to cross to the Lido. But 
 why these questions ? You do not like my 
 cousin, who is giddy, and given to idle con- 
 versation, but who, I think, must have a 
 good heart. Thou heard’st the manner in 
 which she spoke of the wretched bravo, Jacopo, 
 and of this late murder ?” 
 
 “T did.” 
 
 «‘Thou could’st not have shown more hor- 
 ror at the monster’s crime thyself, Carlo. 
 Nay, Annina is thoughtless, and she might 
 be less worldly ; but she hath, like all of us, 
 a holy aversion to sin. Shall I lead thee to 
 the cell ?” 
 
 ‘© Go on.” 
 
 ‘“Thy honest nature revolts, Carlo, at the 
 cold villany of the assassin. I have heard 
 much of his murders, and of the manner in 
 which those up above bear with him. ‘They 
 
528 
 
 say, in common, that his art surpasseth theirs, 
 and that the officers wait for proof, that they 
 may not do injustice.” 
 
 ‘‘Is the senate so tender, think you ?” 
 asked the Bravo, huskily, but motioning for 
 his companion to proceed. 
 
 The girl looked sad, like one who felt the 
 force of this question ; and she turned away 
 to open a private door, whence she brought 
 forth a little box. 
 
 ‘«This is the key, Carlo,” she said, showing 
 him one of a massive bunch, ‘‘and I am now 
 the sole warder. This much, at least, we 
 have effected ; the day may still come when 
 we shall do more.” 
 
 The Bravo endeavored to smile as if he ap- 
 preciated her kindness ; but he only succeded 
 in making her understand his desire to go 
 on. The eye of the gentle-hearted girl lost 
 its gleam of hope in an expression of sorrow, 
 and she obeyed. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 But let us to the roof, 
 And, when thou hast survey’d the sea, the land, 
 Visit the narrow cells that cluster there, 
 As in a place of tombs.—St. Mark’s Place. 
 
 ~~ WE shall not attempt to thread the vaulted 
 galleries, the gloomy corridors, and all the 
 apartments, through which the keeper’s 
 daughter led her companion. Those, who 
 have ever entered an extensive prison, will 
 require no description to revive the feeling 
 of pain which it excited, by barred windows, 
 creaking hinges, grating bolts, and all those 
 other signs, which are alike the means and 
 evidence of incarceration. The building, un- 
 happily like most other edifices intended to 
 repress the vices of society, was vast, strong, 
 and intricate within, although, as has been 
 already intimated, of a chaste and simple 
 beauty externally, that might seem to have 
 been adopted in mockery of its destination. 
 
 Gelsomina entered a low, narrow, and 
 glazed gallery, when she stopped. 
 
 ‘Thou soughtest me, as wont, beneath the 
 water-gate, Carlo,” she asked, “at the usual 
 hour? ” 
 
 “T should not have entered the prison had 
 I found thee there, for thou knowest I would 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 be little seen. But I bethought me of thy 
 mother, and crossed the canal.” 
 
 “Thou wast wrong. My mother rests 
 much as she has done, for many months— 
 thou must have seen that we are not taking 
 the usual route to the cell?” 
 
 “‘T have; but as we are not accustomed to 
 meet in thy father’s rooms, on this errand, I 
 thought this the necessary direction.” 
 
 ‘* Hast thou much knowledge of the palace 
 and the prison, Carlo ?” 
 
 ‘* More than I could wish, good Gelsomina; 
 —but why am I thus questioned, at a mo- 
 ment when I would be otherwise employed ?” 
 
 The timid and conscious girl did not an- 
 swer. Her cheek was never bright, for like 
 a flower reared in the shade, it had the deli- 
 cate hue of her secluded life: but at this 
 question it became pale. Accustomed to the 
 ingenuous habits of the sensitive being at his 
 side, the Bravo studied her speaking feat- 
 ures intently. He moved swiftly to a win- 
 dow, and looking out, his eye fell upon a 
 narrow and gloomy canal. Crossing the gal- 
 lery, he cast a glance beneath him, and saw 
 the same dark watery passage, leading be- 
 tween the masonry of two massive piles to 
 the quay and the port. 
 
 “Gelsomina!” he cried, recoiling from the __ 
 
 sight, ‘‘ this is the Bridge of Sighs ! ” 
 
 “It is, Carlo; hast thou ever crossed it 
 before ?” 
 
 ‘* Never; nor do I understand why I cross 
 it now. I have long thought that it might 
 one day be my fortune to walk this fatal pas- 
 sage, but I could not dream of such a 
 keeper !” 
 
 The eye of Gelsomina brightened, and her 
 smile was cheerful. 
 
 “Thou wilt never cross it to thy harm 
 with me.” 
 
 “Of that I am certain, kind Gessina,” he _ 
 “But this isa 
 Art thou in © 
 
 answered, taking her hand. 
 riddle that I cannot explain. 
 the habit of entering the dae by this gal- 
 sory 0 
 
 “Tt is little used, except by the keepers 
 and the condemned, as doubtless thou hast 
 often heard; but yet they have given me the ~ 
 keys, and taught me the windings of the — 
 place, in order that I might serve, as usual, a 
 for thy guide.” 
 
 “Gelsomina, I fear I have been too happy 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 in thy company to note, as prudence would 
 haye told me, the rare kindness of the coun- 
 cillin permitting me to enjoy it!” 
 
 “Dost thou repent, Carlo, that thou hast 
 known me ?” 
 
 The reproachful melancholy of her voice 
 touched the Bravo, who kissed the hand he 
 held with Italian fervor. 
 
 «‘T should then repent me of the only 
 hours of happiness I have known for years,” 
 he said. ‘Thou hast been to me, Gelsomina, 
 like a flower in a desert—a pure spring to a 
 feverish man—a gleam of hope to one suffer- 
 ing under malediction.—No, no; not for a 
 moment have I repented knowing thee, my 
 Gelsomina! ” 
 
 «?Twould not have made my life more 
 happy, Carlo, to have thought I had added 
 to thy sorrows. I am young, and ignorant of 
 the world, but I know we should cause Joy, 
 and not pain, to those we esteem.” 
 
 “Thy nature would teach thee this gentle 
 lesson. But, is it not strange that one, like 
 me, should be suffered to visit the prison un- 
 attended by any other keeper ?” 
 
 “JT had not thought it so, Carlo; but, 
 surely, it is not common! ” 
 
 - «We have found so much pleasure in each 
 other, dear Gessina, that we have overlooked 
 what ought to have caused alarm.” 
 
 “ Alarm, Carlo! ” 
 
 “Or, at least, distrust: for these wily sena- 
 tors do no act of mercy without a motive. 
 But it is now too late to recall the past, if we 
 would; and in that which relates to thee I 
 would not lose the memory of a moment. 
 Let us proceed.” 
 
 The slight cloud vanished from the face of 
 the mild auditor of the Bravo; but still she 
 did not move. 
 
 “Few pass this bridge, they say,”’. she 
 added tremulously, “and enter the world 
 again; and yet thou dost not even ask why 
 we are here, Carlo!” 
 
 There was a transient gleam of distrust in 
 the hasty glance of the Bravo. as he shot a 
 look at the undisturbed eye of the inno- 
 cent being who put this question. But it 
 scarcely remained long enough to change the 
 expression of manly interest she was accus- 
 tomed to meet in his look. 
 
 ‘‘Since thou wilt have me curious,” he 
 said, ‘“‘why hast thou come hither, and 
 
 529 
 
 more than all, being here, why dost thou 
 linger ?” 
 
 «<The season is advanced, Carlo,” she an- 
 swered, speaking scarcely above her breath, 
 ‘and we should look in vain among the 
 cells.” 
 
 «‘T understand thee,” he said; “‘ we will 
 proceed.” 
 
 Gelsomina lingered to gaze wistfully into 
 the face of her companion, but finding no 
 visible sign of the agony he endured, she 
 went on. Jacopa spoke hoarsely, but he was 
 too long accustomed to disguise, to permit 
 the weakness to escape, when he knew how 
 much it would pain the sensitive and faithful 
 being, who had yielded her affections to him, 
 with a singleness and devotion which arose 
 nearly as much from her manner of life as 
 from natural ingenuousness. 
 
 In order that the reader may be enabled to 
 understand the allusions, which seem to be 
 so plain to our lovers, it may be necessary to 
 explain another odious feature in the policy 
 of the republic of Venice. 
 
 Whatever may be the pretension of a state, 
 in its acknowledged theories, an unerring 
 clew to its true character is ever to be found 
 in the machinery of its practice. In those 
 governments which are created for the good 
 of the people, force is applied with caution 
 and reluctance, since the protection and 
 not the injury of the weak is their object ; 
 whereas the more selfish and exclusive the 
 system becomes, the more severe and ruthless 
 are the coercive means employed by those in 
 power. Thus, in Venice, whose whole politi- 
 cal fabric reposed on the narrow foundation 
 of an oligarchy, the jealousy of the senate 
 brought the engines of despotism in absolute 
 contact with even the pageantry of their titu- 
 lar prince, and the palace of the Doge himself 
 was polluted by the presence of the dungeons. 
 The princely edifice had its summer and win- 
 ter cells. The reader may be ready to believe 
 that mercy had dictated some slight solace 
 for the miserable in this arrangement. But 
 this would be ascribing pity to a body, which, 
 to its latest moment, had no tie to subject it 
 to the weakness of humanity. So far from 
 consulting the sufferings of the captive, his 
 winter cell was below the level of the canals, 
 while his summers were to be passed beneath 
 the leads, exposed to the action of the burn- 
 
530 
 
 ing sun of that climate. As the reader has 
 probably anticipated, already, that Jacopo 
 was in the prison on an errand connected 
 with some captive, this short explanation will 
 enable him to understand the secret allusion 
 of his companion. He they sought had, in 
 truth, been recently conveyed from the damp 
 cells, where he had passed the winter and 
 spring, to the heated chambers beneath the 
 roof. 
 
 Gelsomina continued to lead the way, with 
 a sadness of eye and feature that betrayed 
 her strong sympathy with the sufferings of 
 her companion, but without appearing to 
 think further delay necessary. She had com- 
 municated a circumstance, which weighed 
 heavily on her own mind, and, like most of 
 her mild temperament, who had dreaded such 
 
 a duty, now that it was discharged, she ex- 
 
 perieneed a sensible relief. They ascended 
 many flights of steps, opened and shut num- 
 berless doors, and threaded several narrow 
 corridors in silence, before reaching the 
 place of destination. While Gelsomina 
 sought the key of the door, before which they 
 stopped, in the large bunch she carried, the 
 Bravo breathed the hor air of the attic like 
 one who was suffocating. 
 
 ‘‘ They promised me that this should not 
 be done again !” he said.—* But they forget 
 their pledges, fiends as they are !” 
 
 “Carlo !—thou forgettest that this is the 
 palace of the Doge!” whispered the girl, 
 while she threw a timid glance behind her. 
 
 ‘‘T forget nothing that is connected with 
 the republic !—It is all here,” striking his 
 flushed brow—“ what is not there is in my 
 heart !” 
 
 “Poor Carlo! this cannot last forever— 
 there will be an end.” 
 
 ‘*Thou art right,” answered the Bravo, 
 hoarsely.—‘‘ The end is nearer than thou 
 thinkest.—No matter ; turn the key that we 
 may go in.” 
 
 The hand of Gelsomina lingered on the 
 lock, but, admonished by his impatient eye, 
 she complied, and they entered the cell. 
 
 ‘Father !” exclaimed the Bravo, hasten- 
 ing to the side of a pallet that lay on the floor. 
 
 The attenuated and feeble form of an old 
 man rose at the word, and an eye which, 
 while it spoke mental feebleness, was at that 
 moment even brighter than that of his son, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 > 
 
 glared on the faces of Gelsomina and her 
 companion. 
 
 “Thou hast not suffered, as I had feared, 
 by this sudden change, father!” continued 
 the latter, kneeling by the side of the straw. 
 — Thine eye, and cheek, and countenance 
 are better, than in the damp caves below! ” 
 
 “Tam happy here,” returned the prisoner; 
 —“there is light, and though they have 
 given me too much of it, thou canst never 
 know, my boy, the joy of looking at the day, 
 after so long a night.” 
 
 ‘‘He is better, Gelsomina!—They have not 
 yet destroyed him. See!-—his eye is bright 
 even, and his cheek has a glow!” 
 
 “'They are ever so, after passing the winter 
 in the lower dungeons,” whispered the gentle - 
 girl. 
 
 “Hast thou news for me, boy ?—What 
 tidings from thy mother ?” 
 
 Jacopo bowed his head to conceal the 
 anguish occasioned by this question, which 
 he now heard for the hundredth time. 
 
 “She is happy, father—happy as one can 
 be, who so well loves thee, when away from 
 thy side.” 
 
 “ Does she speak of me often?” 
 
 “The last word that I heard from her lips, 
 was thy name.” 
 
 ‘*Holy Maria, bless her! I trust she re- 
 members me in her prayers?” 
 
 “Doubt it not, father,—they are the 
 prayers of an angel!” 
 
 *‘And thy patient sister?—thou hast not 
 named her, son.” 
 
 “She, too, is well, father.” 
 
 “Has she ceased to blame herself for being 
 the innocent cause of my sufferings?” 
 
 ‘<She has.” F 
 
 “Then she pines no longer over a blow 
 that cannot te helped.” 
 
 The Bravo seemed to search for relief in 
 the sympathizing eyes of the pale and speech- 
 less Gelsomina. 
 
 “‘She has ceased to pine, father;” he 
 uttered with compelled calmness. 
 
 “Thou hast ever loved thy sister, boy, with 
 
 manly tenderness. Thy heart is kind, as I 
 have reason to know. If God has given me 
 grief, he has blessed me, in my children!” 
 
 A long pause followed, during which the 
 parent seemed to muse on the past, while the — 
 child rejoiced in the suspension of questions 
 
\ 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 which harrowed his soul, since those of 
 whom the other spoke had long been the 
 victims of family misfortune. ‘The old man, 
 for the prisoner was aged, as well as feeble, 
 turned his look on the still kneeling Bravo, 
 thoughtfully, and continued— 
 
 “There is little hope of thy sister marry- 
 ing, for none are fond of tying themselves to 
 the proscribed.” 
 
 “ She wishes it not—she wishes it not—she 
 is happy, with my mother!” 
 
 “Tt is a happiness the republic will not 
 begrudge. Is there no hope of our being 
 able to meet soon ?” 
 
 «Thou wilt meet my mother,—yes, that 
 pleasure will come at last!” 
 
 “Tt isa weary time since any of my blood, 
 but thee, have stood in my sight. Kneel, 
 that I may bless thee.” 
 
 Jacopo, who had arisen under his mental 
 torture, obeyed, and bowed his head in rever- 
 ence to receive the paternal benediction. 
 The lips of the old man moved, and his eyes 
 were turned to Heaven, but his language was 
 of the heart, rather than that of the tongue. 
 Gelsomina bent her head to her bosom, and 
 seemed to unite her prayers to those of the 
 prisoner. When the silent but solemn cere- 
 mony was ended, each made the customary 
 sign of the cross, and Jacopo kissed the 
 wrinkled hand of the captive. 
 
 “Hast thou hope for me?” the old man 
 asked, this pious and grateful duty done. 
 “Do they still promise to let me look upon 
 the sun again?” 
 
 “They do.—They promise fair.” 
 
 “Would that their words were true! | 
 have lived on hope, for a weary time—I have 
 now been within these walls more than four 
 years, methinks.” 
 
 Jacopo did not answer, for he knew that 
 his father named the period only that he 
 himself had been permitted to see, him. 
 
 ‘“‘T built upon the expectation, that the 
 Doge would remember his ancient servant, 
 and open my prison-doors.” 
 
 Still Jacopo was silent, for the Doge, of 
 whom the other spoke, had long been 
 dead. | 
 
 “ And yet I should be grateful, for Maria 
 and the saints have not forgotten me. Iam 
 not without my pleasures, in captivity.” 
 «God be praised!” returned the Bravo. 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 531 
 
 “Tn what manner dost thou ease thy sor- 
 rows, father ?” 
 
 ‘Took hither, boy,” exclaimed the old 
 man, whose eyes betrayed a mixture of fever- 
 ish excitement caused by the recent change 
 in his prison, and the growing imbecility of 
 a mind that was gradually losing its powers 
 for the want of use; “ dost thou see the rent 
 in that bit of wood? It opens with the 
 heat, from time to time, and since I have 
 been an inhabitant here, that fissure has 
 doubled in length—I sometimes fancy, that 
 when it reaches the knot, the hearts of the 
 senators will soften, and that my doors will 
 open. There is satisfaction, in watching its 
 increase, as it lengthens, inch by inch, year 
 after year!” 
 
 ets unig all 2°" 
 
 ‘Nay, I have other pleasures. ‘There was 
 a spider the past year, that wove his web from 
 yonder beam, and he was a companion, too, 
 that I loved to see; wilt thou look, boy, if 
 there is hope of his coming back ?” 
 
 “T see him not,” whispered the Bravo. 
 
 ‘Well, there is always the hope of his 
 return. The flies will enter soon, and then 
 he will be looking for his prey. They may 
 shut me up ona false charge, and keep me 
 weary years from my wife and daughter, but 
 they cannot rob me of all my happiness!” 
 
 The aged captive was mute and thought- 
 ful. A childish impatience glowed in his 
 eyes, and he gazed from the rent, the com- 
 panion of so many solitary summers, to the 
 face of his son, like one who began to dis- 
 trust his enjoyments. 
 
 “Well, let them take it away,” he said, 
 burying his head beneath the covering of his 
 bed; ‘I will not curse them!” 
 
 “ Father!” 
 
 The prisoner made no reply. 
 
 Father!” 
 
 “ Jacopo! ” 
 
 In his turn the Bravo was speechless. He 
 did not venture, even, to steal a glance to- 
 ward the breathless and attentive Gelsomina, 
 though his bosom heaved with longing to 
 examine her guileless features. 
 
 «“ Dost thou hear me, son?” continued the 
 prisoner, uncovering his head: “dost thou 
 really think they will have the heart to chase 
 the spider from my cell?” 
 
 “They will leave thee this pleasure, father, 
 
532 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 for it touches neither their power nor their | I have never heard thee speak so calmly of 
 
 fame. So long as the senate can keep its 
 foot on the neck of the people, and so long 
 as it can keep the seemliness of a good name, 
 it will not envy thee this.” 
 
 “Blessed Maria, make me thankful!—I 
 had my fears, child; for it is not pleasant to 
 lose any friend in a cell!” 
 
 Jacopo then proceeded to soothe the mind 
 of the prisoner, and he gradually led his 
 thoughts to other subjects. He laid by the 
 bedside a few articles of food, that he was 
 allowed to bring with him, and again holding 
 out the hope of eventual liberation, he pro- 
 posed to take his leave. 
 
 ‘JT will try to believe thee, son,” said the 
 old man, who had good reason to distrust 
 assurances so often made. “I will do all I 
 can to believe it. Thou wilt tell thy mother 
 that I never cease to think of her, and to 
 _ pray for her; and thou wilt bless thy sister, 
 in the name of her poor imprisoned 
 parent.” 3 
 
 The Bravo bowed in acquiescence, glad of 
 any means to escape speech. Ata sign from 
 the old man he again bent his knee, and 
 received the parting benediction. After 
 busying himself in arranging the scanty 
 furniture of the cell, and in trying to open 
 one or two small fissures, with a view to 
 admit more light and air, he quitted the 
 place. 
 
 Neither Gelsomina nor Jacopo spoke, as 
 they returned by the intricate passages 
 through which they had ascended to the 
 attic, until they were again on the Bridge of 
 Sighs. It was seldom that human foot trod 
 this gallery, and the former, with female 
 quickness, selected it as a place suited to 
 their further conference. 
 
 “ Dost thou find him changed ?” she asked, 
 lingering on the arch. 
 
 “* Much.” 
 
 “Thou speakest with a frightful mean- 
 ing!” 
 
 “T have not taught my countenance to lie 
 to thee, Gelsomina.” 
 
 “But there is hope-—Thou told’st him 
 there was hope, thyself.” 
 
 ‘« Blessed Maria forgive the fraud! I could 
 not rob the little life he has, of its only com- 
 fort.” 
 
 ‘© Carlo!—Carlo!—Why art thou so calm? 
 
 thy father’s wrongs and imprisonment.” 
 
 “It is because his liberation is near.” 
 
 “But this moment he was without hope, 
 and thou speakest, now, of liberation!” 
 
 ‘“The liberation of death. Even the anger 
 of the senate will respect the grave.” 
 
 ‘‘Dost thou think his end near? I had 
 not seen this change.” 
 
 “Thou art kind, good Gelsominan and 
 true to thy friends, and without suspicion of 
 those crimes of which thou art so innocent; 
 but to one who has seen as much eyil as I, 
 a jealous thought comes at every new event. 
 The sufferings of my poor father are near 
 their end, for nature is worn out; but were it 
 not, I can foresee that means would be found 
 to bring them to a close.” 
 
 “Thou canst not suspect that any one here 
 would do him harm ?” 
 
 ‘«‘T suspect none that belong to thee. Both 
 thy father and thyself, Gelsomina, are placed 
 here by the interposition of the saints, that 
 the fiends should not have too much power 
 on earth.” 
 
 “JT do not understand thee, Carlo—but 
 thou art often so.—Thy father used a word 
 to-day that I could wish he had not, in speak 
 ing to thee.” 
 
 The eye of the Bravo threw a quick, un- 
 
 easy, suspicious glance at his companion, and — 
 
 then averted its look with haste. 
 
 ‘* He called thee, Jacopo!” continued the 
 girl. 
 
 “Men often have glimpses of their fate 
 by the kindness of their patrons.” 
 
 «« Would’st thou say, Carlo, that thy father 
 suspects the senate will employ the monster 
 he named ?” 
 
 ‘“Why not?—they have employed worse 
 men. If report says true, he is not unknown 
 to them.” | 
 
 “Can this be so!—Thou art bitter against 
 the repnblic, because it has done injury to 
 thy family; but thou canst not believe it has 
 ever dealt with the hired stiletto.” 
 
 -‘T said no more than is whispered daily on 
 the canals.” 
 
 “‘T would thy father had not called thee by 
 this terrible name, Carlo!” 
 
 “Thou art too wise to be moved by a word, 
 Gelsomina. 
 unhappy father ?” 
 
 But what thinkest thou of my : 
 
 a 
 
 ——— 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 «‘This visit has not been like the others 
 thou hast made him in my company. I know 
 not the reason, but to me thou hast ever 
 seemed to feel the hope with which thou hast 
 cheered the prisoner; while now, thou seem- 
 est to have even a frightful pleasure in de- 
 spair.” 
 
 «‘Thy fears deceive thee,” returned the 
 Bravo, scarce speaking above his breath. 
 ‘¢ Thy fears deceive thee, and we will say no 
 more. The senate mean to do us justice at 
 last. ‘They are honorable signori, of illustri- 
 ous birth, and renowned names !—’T would 
 be madnegs to distrust the patricians! Dost 
 thou not know, girl, that he who is born of 
 gentle blood is above the weaknesses and 
 temptations that beset us of base origin ? 
 They are men placed by birth above the weak- 
 nesses of mortals, and owing their account to 
 none, they will be sure to do justice. This is 
 ‘reasonable, and who can doubt tly? 
 
 As he ended, the Bravo laughed bitterly. 
 
 “ Nay, now thou triflest with me Carlo; 
 none are above the danger of doing wrong, 
 but those whom the saints and kind Maria 
 favor.” 
 © «This comes of living in a prison, and of 
 
 saying thy prayers night and morning! No 
 
 -—no—silly girl, there are men in the world 
 born wise, from generation to generation; 
 ‘born honest, virtuous, brave, incorruptible, 
 and fit in all things to shut up and imprison 
 those who are born base andignoble. Where 
 hast thou passed thy days, foolish Gelsomina, 
 not to have felt this truth, in the very air 
 thou breathest ? Tis clear as the sun’s light, 
 and palpable—ay—palpable as these prison 
 ~walls!” 
 
 The timid girl recoiled from his side, and 
 there was a moment when she meditated 
 flight; for never before, during their num- 
 berless and confidential interviews, had she 
 ever heard so bitter a laugh, or seen so wilda 
 gleam in the eye of her companion. 
 
 “TI could almost fancy, Carlo, that thy 
 father was right in using the name he did;” 
 she said, as recovering herself, she turned a 
 reproachful look on his still excited features. 
 
 “Tt it the business of parents to name their 
 
 children ;—but, enough. I must leave thee, 
 good Gelsomina, and I leave thee with a 
 heavy heart.” | 
 
 The unsuspecting Gelsomina forgot her 
 
 be forgotten. 
 dola of late, Carlo ?” 
 
 the duty. 
 wear the horned bonnet, to feast in their halls, 
 to rest in their palaces, to be the gayest baw- 
 ble in such a pageant as that of yesterday, to 
 plot in their secret councils, and to be the 
 heartless judge to condemn my fellows to this 
 
 533 
 
 alarm. She knew not why, but, though the 
 imaginary Carlo seldom quitted her that she 
 was not sad, she felt a weight heavier than 
 common on her spirits at this declaration. 
 
 «Thou hast thy affairs, and they must not 
 Art fortunate with the gon- 
 
 «Gold and Iare nearly strangers. The 
 
 republic throws the whole charge of the ven- 
 erable prisoner on my toil.” 
 
 ‘‘T have little, as thou knowest, Carlo,” 
 
 said Gelsomina, in ahalf-audible voice; “ but 
 it is thine. My father is not rich, as thou 
 canst feel, or he would not live on the suffer- 
 ings of others, by holding the keys of the 
 prison.” 
 
 “He is better employed than those who set 
 Were the choice given me, girl, to 
 
 misery—or to be merely the keeper of the 
 keys and turner of the bolts—I should seize 
 on the latter office, as not only the most in- 
 nocent, but by far the most honorable!” 
 
 “Thou dost not judge as the world judges, 
 Carlo. I had feared thou might’st feel shame 
 at being the husband of a jailer’s daughter ; 
 nay, I will not hide the secret longer, since 
 thou speakest so calmly, I have wept that it 
 should be so.” 
 
 «Then thou hast neither understood the 
 world nor me. Were thy father of the senate, 
 or of the Council of Three, could the grievous 
 fact be known, thou would’st have cause to 
 sorrow. But Gelsomina, the canals are get- 
 ting dusky, and I must leave thee.” 
 
 The reluctant girl saw the truth of what he 
 said, and applying a key, she opened the 
 door of the covered bridge. A few turnings 
 and a short descent brought the Bravo and 
 his companion to the level of the quays. 
 Here the former took a hurried leave and 
 quitted the prison. 
 
534 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ‘But they who blunder thus are raw beginners, 
 —Don Juan. 
 
 THE hour had come for the revels of the 
 Piazza, and for the movement of the gondo- 
 las. Maskers glided along the porticos as 
 usual; the song and cry were heard anew, and 
 Venice was again absorbed in delusive gayety. 
 
 When Jacopo issued from the prison on the 
 quay, he mingled with the stream of human 
 beings that were setting towards the squares, 
 
 protected from observation by the privileged { 
 
 mask. Whaiie crossing the lower bridge of the 
 canal of St. Mark, he lingered an instant, to 
 throw a look at the glazed gallery he had just 
 quitted, and then moved forward with the 
 crowd—the image of the artless and confid- 
 ing Gelsomina uppermost in his thoughts. 
 As he passed slowly along the gloomy arches 
 of the Broglio, his eyes sought the person of 
 Don Camillo Monforte. They met at the 
 angle of the little square,and exchanging secret 
 signs, the Bravo moved on unnoticed. 
 
 Hundreds of boats lay at the foot of the 
 Piazzetta. Among these Jacopo sought his 
 own gondola, which he extricated from the 
 floating mass, and urged into the stream. A 
 few sweeps of the oar, and he lay at the side 
 of La BellaSorrentina. The padrone paced 
 the deck, enjoying the cool of the evening, 
 with Italian indolence, while his people sang, 
 or rather chanted, a song of those seas, 
 grouped on the forecastle. The greetings were 
 blunt and brief, as is usual among men of 
 that class. But the padrone appeared to ex- 
 pect a visit, for he led his guest far from the 
 ears of his crew, to the other extremity of the 
 felucca. 
 
 ‘* Hast thou aught in particular, good Rod- 
 erigo?” demanded the mariner, who knew 
 _ the Bravo by a sign, and yet who only knew 
 him by that fictitious name. ‘‘'Thou seest 
 we have not passed the time idly, though yes- 
 terday was a festa.” 
 
 ** Art thou ready for the gulf? ” 
 
 ‘* For the Levant, or the Pillars of Hercu- 
 les, as shall please the senate. We have got 
 our yard aloft since the sun went behind the 
 mountains, and though we may seem careless 
 of delay, an hour’s notice will fit us for the 
 outside of the Lido.” | 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 «‘'Then take the notice.” 
 
 “Master Roderigo, you bring your news to 
 an overstocked market. I have already been 
 informed that we shall be wanted to-night.” 
 
 The quick movement of suspicion made by 
 the Bravo escaped the observation of the pa- 
 drone, whose eye was running over the feluc- 
 ca’s gear, with a sailor’s habitual attention 
 to that part of his vessel, when there was 
 question of its service. 
 
 “Thou art right, Stefano. But there is 
 little harm in repeated caution. Preparation 
 is the first duty in a delicate commission.” 
 
 ‘* Will you look for yourself, Signor Rode- 
 rigo?” said the mariner, in a lower tone. 
 “ La Bella Sorrentina is not the Bucentaur,nor 
 a galley of the Grand Master of Malta; but, for 
 her size, better rooms are not to be had in the 
 palace of the Doge. When they told me there 
 was a lady in the freight, the honor of Cala- 
 bria was stirred in her behalf.” 
 
 “Tis well. If they have named to thee 
 all the particulars, thou wilt not fail to do 
 thyself credit.” 
 
 ‘IT do not say that they have shown me 
 half of them, good signor,” interrupted 
 Stefano. “'The secrecy of your Venetian 
 shipments is my greatest objection to the 
 trade. It has more than once happened to 
 me, that I have lain weeks in the canals, 
 with my hold as clean as a friar’s conscience, 
 when orders have come to weigh, with some 
 such cargo as a messenger, who has got into 
 his berth as we cleared the port, to get out 
 of it on the coast of Dalmatia, or among the 
 Greek islands.” 
 
 “Tn such cases thou hast earned thy money 
 easily.” 
 
 “Diamine! Master Roderigo, if I had a 
 friend in Venice to give timely advice, the 
 felucca might be ballasted with articles that 
 would bring a profit on the other shore. Of 
 what concern is it to the senate, when I do 
 my duty to the nobles faithfully, that I do 
 my duty at the same time to the good woman 
 and her little brown children, left at home 
 in Calabria ? ” 
 
 “There is much reason in what thou say- 
 est, Stefano; but thou knowest the republic 
 is a hard master. An affair of this nature ~ 
 must be touched with a gentle hand.” 
 
 “None know it better than I, for when 
 they sent the trader with all of his movables 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 out of the city, I was obliged to throw certain 
 casks into the sea to make room for his worth- 
 less stuffs. The senate owes me just com- 
 pensation for that loss, worthy Signor Rod- 
 erigo?” 
 
 “Which thou would’st be glad to repair 
 to-night ?” 
 
 “Santissima Maria! You may be the 
 Doge himself, signor, for anything I know 
 of your countenance ; but I could swear at 
 the altar you ought to be of the senate for 
 your sagacity!—If this lady will not be bur- 
 dened with many effects, and there is yet 
 time, I might humor the tastes of the Dal- 
 matians with certain of the articles that come 
 from the countries beyond the Pillars of 
 Hercules!” 
 
 “Thou art the judge of the probability 
 thyself, since they told thee of the nature 
 of thy errand.” 
 
 “San Gennaro of Napoli, open my eyes! 
 —They said not a word beyond this little 
 fact that a youthful lady, in whom the sen- 
 ate had great interest, would quit the city 
 this night for the eastern coast.—If it is at 
 all agreeable to your conscience, Master Rod- 
 erigo, I should be happy to hear who are to 
 be her companions ?” 
 
 ‘Of that thou shalt hear more in proper 
 season. Inthe meantime I would recommend 
 to thee a cautious tongue, for St. Mark makes 
 no idle jokes with those who offend him. I 
 am glad to see thee in this state of prepara- 
 tion, worthy padrone, and wishing thee a 
 happy night, and a prosperous voyage, I com- 
 mit thee to thy patron. But hold—ere I 
 quit thee, I would know the hour that the 
 land-breeze will serve?” 
 
 “You are as exact as a compass in your 
 own matters, signor, but of little charity to 
 thy friends! With the burning sun of to-day 
 we should have the air of the Alps about the 
 turn of the night.” 
 
 “Tig well.—My eye shall be on thee. 
 Once more, addio.” 
 
 «‘ Gospetto! and thou hast said nothing of 
 the cargo?” 
 
 “Twill not be so weighty in bulk as in 
 value,” carelessly answered Jacopo, shoving 
 his gondola from the side of the felucca. 
 The fall of his oar into the water succeeded, 
 and as Stefano stood, meditating the chances 
 
 of his speculation on his deck, the boat | 
 
 535 
 
 glided away towards the quay with a swift 
 but easy movement. 
 
 Deceit, like the windings of that subtle 
 animal the fox, often crosses its own path. It 
 consequently throws out those by whom it is 
 practised, as well as those who are meant to 
 be its victims. When Jacopo parted from 
 Don Camillo, it was with an understanding 
 that he should adopt all the means that his 
 native sagacity or his experience might sug- 
 gest, to ascertain in what manner the conneil 
 intended te dispose of the person of Donna 
 Violetta. They had separated on the Lido, 
 and as none knew of their interview but 
 him, and none would probably suspect their 
 recent alliance, the Bravo entered on his new 
 duty with some chances of success, that 
 might otherwise have been lost. A change 
 of its agents, in affairs of peculiar delicacy, 
 was one of the ordinary means taken by the 
 republic to avoid investigation. Jacopo had 
 often been its instrument in negotiating with 
 the mariner, who, as has been so plainly in- 
 timated, had frequently been engaged in car- 
 rying into effect its secret, and perhaps jus- 
 tifiable measures of police; but in no instance 
 had it ever been found necessary to interpose 
 a second agent between the commencement 
 and consummation of its bargains, except in 
 this. He had been ordered to see the pa- 
 drone and to keep him in preparation for 
 immediate service; but since the examination 
 of Antonio before the council, his employers 
 had neglected to give him any farther in- 
 structions. The danger of leaving the bride 
 within reach of the agents of Don Camillo 
 was so obvious, that this unusual caution had 
 been considered necessary. It was under this 
 disadvantage, therefore, that Jacopo entered 
 on the discharge of his new and important 
 duties. ‘ 
 
 That cunning, as has just been observed, 
 is apt to overreach itself, has passed into a 
 proverb; and the case of Jacopo and his em- 
 ployers was one in point to prove its truth. 
 The unusual silence of those who ordinarily 
 sought him on similar occasions, had not 
 been lost on the agent ; and the sight of the 
 felucca, as he strayed along the quays, gave 
 an accidental direction to his inquiries. The 
 manner in which they were aided, by the 
 cupidity of the Calabrian, has just been re- 
 lated. 
 
536 
 
 Jacopo had no sooner touched the quay 
 and secured his boat, than he hastened again 
 to the Broglio. It was now filled by maskers 
 and the idlers of the Piazzetta. The patri- 
 cians had withdrawn to the scenes of their 
 own pleasures, or, in furtherance of that sys- 
 tem of mysterious sway which it was their 
 policy to maintain, they did not choose to 
 remain exposed to the common eye, during 
 the hours of license which were about to fol- 
 low. 
 
 It would seem that Jacopo had his instruc- 
 tions, for no sooner did he make sure that 
 Don Camillo had retired, than he threaded 
 the throng with the air of a man whose course 
 was decided. By this time, both the squares 
 were full, and at least half of those who 
 spent the night in those places of amusement, 
 were masked. The step of the Bravo, 
 though so unhesitating, was leisurely, and he 
 found time, in passing up the Piazzetta, to 
 examine the forms, and when circumstances 
 permitted, the features of all he met. He 
 proceeded, in this manner, to the point of 
 junction between the two squares, when his 
 elbow was touched by a light hand. 
 
 Jacopo was not accustomed, unnecessarily, 
 to trust his voice in the square of St. Mark, 
 and at that hour. But his look of inquiry 
 was returned by a sign to follow. He had 
 been stopped by one whose figure was so 
 completely concealed by a domino, as to 
 baffle all conjecture concerning his true char- 
 acter. Perceiving, however, that the other 
 wished to lead him toa part of the square 
 that was vacant, and which was directly on 
 the course he was about to pursue, the Bravo 
 made a gesture of compliance and followed. 
 No sooner were the two apart from the press- 
 ure of the crowd, and ina place where no 
 eavesdropper could overhear their discourse 
 without detection, than the stranger stopped. 
 He appeared to evamine the person, stature, 
 and dress of Jacopo, from beneath his mask, 
 with singular caution, closing the whole with 
 a sign that meant recognition. Jacopo re- 
 turned his dumb-show, but maintained a 
 rigid silence. 
 
 “Just Daniel!” muttered the stranger, 
 when he found that his companion was not 
 disposed to speak, “‘one would think, illus- 
 trious signor, that your confessor had im- 
 posed a penance of silence, by the manner in 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 which you refuse to speak to your ser- 
 vant.” . 
 
 ‘¢ What would’st thou ?” 
 
 ‘* Here am I sent into the Piazza, among 
 knights of industry, valets, gondoliers, and 
 all other manner of revellers that adorn this 
 Christian land, in search of the heir of one 
 of the most ancient and honorable houses of 
 Venice.” 
 
 ‘‘ How knowest thou I am he thou seek- 
 est ?” 
 
 ‘‘Signor, there are many signs seen by a 
 wise man, that escape the wunobservant. 
 When young cavaliers have a taste for min- 
 gling with the people in honorable disguise, as 
 in the case of a certain patrician of this re- 
 public, they are to be known by their air, if 
 not by their voices.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou art a cunning agent, Hosea; but 
 the shrewdness of thy race is its livelihood!” 
 
 ‘‘Tt is its sole defence against the wrongs 
 of the oppressor, young noble. We are 
 hunted like wolves, and it is not surprising 
 that we sometimes show the ferocity of the 
 beasts you take us for. But why should I 
 tell the wrongs of my people to one who be- 
 lieves life is a masquerade ?” 
 
 ‘* And who would not be sorry, ingenious 
 Hosea, were it composed only of Hebrews ! 
 But, thy errand; I have no gage unredeemed, 
 nor do I know that I owe thee gold.” 
 
 ‘* Righteous Samuel! your cavaliers of the 
 senate are not always mindful of the past, 
 signor, or these are words that might have 
 been spared. If your eccellenza is inclined 
 to forget pledges, the fault is not of my seek- 
 ing; but as for the account that has been so 
 long growing between us, there is not a 
 dealer on the Rialto that will dispute the 
 proofs.” 
 
 “Well, be it so—would’st thou dun my 
 father’s son in the face of the revellers in St. 
 Mark ?” 
 
 “JT would do no discredit to any come of 
 that illustrious race, signor, and therefore - 
 we will say no more of the matter; always 
 relying that, at the proper moment, you will 
 not question your own hand and seal.” 
 
 “T like thy prudence, Hebrew. It is a 
 pledge thou comest on some errand less un- 
 gracious than common. AsI am pressed for 
 time, *twill be a favor wert thou to name it.” 
 
 Hosea examined, in a covert but very 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 thorough manner, the vacant spot around 
 them, and drawing nearer to the supposed 
 noble, he continued: 
 
 “ Signor, your family is in danger of meet- 
 ing with a great loss! It is known to you 
 that the senate has altogether and suddenly 
 removed Donna Violetta from,the keeping 
 of the faithful and illustrious senator your 
 father.” 
 
 Though Jacopo started slightly, the move- 
 ment was so natural for a disappointed lover, 
 that it rather aided than endangered his 
 disguise. 
 
 «“Compose yourself, young signor,” con- 
 tinued Hosea; “ these disappointments attend 
 us all in youth, as I know by severe trials. 
 Leah was not gained without trouble, and 
 next to success in barter, success in love is 
 perhaps the most uncertain. Gold is a great 
 make-weight in both, and it commonly pre- 
 vails. But, you are nearer to losing the lady 
 of your love and her possessions, than you 
 may imagine, for Iam sent expressly to say 
 that she is about to be removed from the 
 city.” 
 
 “ Whither ?” demanded Jacopo, so quickly 
 as to do credit to his assumed character. 
 
 «‘That is the point to learn, signor. Thy 
 father is a sagacious senator, and is deep, at 
 times, in the secrets of the state. But, judg- 
 ing from his uncertainty on this occasion, I 
 take it he is guided more by his calculations 
 than by any assurance of his own knowledge. 
 Just Daniel! I have seen the moments when I 
 have suspected that the venerable patrician 
 himself was a member of the Council of 
 Three! ” 
 
 «His house is ancient and his privileges 
 well established—why should he not ?” 
 
 “T say naught against it, signor. Itisa 
 wise body, that doeth much good, and pre- 
 venteth much harm. None speak evil of the 
 secret councils on the Rialto, where men are 
 more given to gainful industry than to wild 
 discussions of their rulers’ acts. But, signor, 
 be he of this or that council, or merely of 
 _the senate, a heedful hint has fallen from his 
 lips of the danger we are in of losing * 
 
 “ Wel—Hast thou thoughts of Donna 
 Violetta, Hosea ?” 
 
 “Teah and the law forbid!—If the comely 
 queen of Sheba, herself, were to tempt me, 
 and a frail nature showed signs of weakness, 
 
 537 
 
 I doubt that our rabbis would find reasons 
 for teaching self-denial! Besides, the daugh- 
 ter of Levi is no favorer of polygamy, nor 
 any other of our sex’s privileges. I spoke in 
 pluralities, signor, because the Rialto has 
 some stake in this marriage, as well as the 
 house of Gradenigo.” 
 
 ‘‘T understand thee. 
 thy gold?” 
 
 “Had I been easily alarmed, Signor Gia- 
 como, in that particular, I might not have 
 parted with it so readily. But, though the 
 succession of thy illustrious father will be 
 ample to meet any loan within my humble 
 means, that of the late Signor Tiepolo will 
 not weaken the security.” 
 
 «‘T admit thy sagacity, and feel the im- 
 portance of thy warning. But it seems to 
 have no other object or warranty, than thy 
 own fears.” 
 
 “With certain obscure hints from your 
 honored father, signor.” 
 
 “ Did he say more to the point?” 
 
 ‘He spoke in parables, young noble, but 
 haying an oriental ear, his words were not 
 uttered to the wind. That the rich damsel is 
 about to be conveyed from Venice am I cer- 
 tain, and for the benefit of the little stake I 
 have myself in her movements, I would give the 
 best turquoise in my shop to know whither.” 
 
 ‘‘CGanst thou say with certainty, ’twill be 
 this night ?” 
 
 “ Giving no pledge for redemption in the 
 event of mistake, I am so sure, young cava- 
 lier, as to have many unquiet thoughts.” 
 
 «« Bnough—lI will look to my own interests, 
 and to thine.” 
 
 Jacopo waved his hand in adieu, and pur- 
 sued his walk up the Piazza. 
 
 “ Had I looked more sharply to the latter, 
 as became one accustomed to deal with the 
 accursed race,” muttered the Hebrew, “ it 
 would be a matter of no concern to me if the 
 girl married a Turk!” 
 
 ‘«‘ Hosea,” said a mask at his ear; ‘‘ a word 
 with thee, in secret.” 
 
 The jeweller started, and found that, in 
 his zeal, he had suffered one to approach 
 within sound of his voice unseen. The other 
 was in a domino also, and so well enveloped 
 as to be effectually concealed. 
 
 «What would’st thou, Signor Mask?” de- 
 manded the wary Jew. 
 
 Thou hast fears for 
 
538 
 
 « A word in friendship and in confidence.— 
 Thou hast moneys to lend at usury? ” 
 
 ‘‘The question had better be put to the 
 republic’s treasury! JI have many stones, 
 valued much below their weight, and would 
 be glad to put them with some one more 
 lucky than myself, who will be able to keep 
 them.” 
 
 “Nay, this will not suffice—thou art 
 known to be abounding in sequins; one of 
 thy race and riches will never refuse a sure 
 loan, with securities as certain as the laws of 
 Venice. A thousand ducats in thy willing 
 hand is no novelty.” 
 
 ‘‘They who call me rich, Signor Mask, are 
 pleased to joke with the unhappy child of a 
 luckless race. That I might have been above 
 want—nay, that Iam not downright needy, 
 may be true; but when they speak of a 
 thousand ducats, they speak of affairs too 
 weighty for my burdened shoulders. Were 
 it your pleasure to purchase an amethyst, or 
 a ruby, gallant signor, there might possibly 
 be dealings between us.” 
 
 ‘‘T have need of gold, old man, and can 
 spare thee jewels myself, at need. My wants 
 are urgent, at this moment, and I have little 
 time to lose in words—name thy conditions.” 
 
 “One should have good securities, signor, 
 to be so peremptory in a matter of money.” 
 
 “Thou hast heard that the laws of Venice 
 are not more certain. A thousand sequins, 
 and that quickly. Thou shalt settle the 
 usury with thine own conscience.” 
 
 Hosea thought that this was giving ample 
 room to the treaty, and he began to listen 
 more seriously. 
 
 “ Signor,” he said, “athousand ducats are 
 not picked up at pleasure, from the pave- 
 ment of the great square. He who would 
 lend them, must first earn them with long 
 and patient toil; and he who would bor- 
 row——” 
 
 “Waits at thy elbow.” 
 
 ‘Should have a name and countenance 
 well known on the Rialto.” 
 
 “Thou lendest on sufficient pledges to 
 masks, careful Hosea, or fame belies thy gen- 
 erosity.” 
 
 ‘* A sufficient pledge gives me power to see 
 the way clearly though the borrower should 
 be as much hidden as those up above. But 
 here is none forthcoming. Come to me to- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 morrow, masked or not, as may suit your 
 own pleasure, for I have no impertinent de- 
 sire to pry into any man’s secrets, beyond 
 what a regard to my own interests requires, 
 and I will look into my coffers; though those 
 of no heir-apparent in Venice can be emp- 
 tier.” 
 
 ‘“My necessities are too urgent to brook 
 delay. Hast thou the gold, on condition of 
 naming thine own usury?” 
 
 ‘‘ With sufficient pledges in stones of price, 
 I might rake together the sum among our 
 dispersed people, signor. But he who goes 
 on the island to borrow, as I shall be obliged 
 to do, should be able to satisfy all doubts 
 concerning the payment.” 
 
 ‘‘The gold can then be had—on that point 
 I may be easy?” 
 
 Hosea hesitated, for he had in vain endeay- 
 ored to penetrate the other’s disguise, and 
 while he thought his assurance a favorable 
 omen, with a lender’s instinct he disliked his 
 impatience. | 
 
 “‘T have said, by the friendly aid of our 
 people;” he answered, with caution. 
 
 “This uncertainty will: not answer my 
 need. Addio, Hosea,—I must seek else- 
 where.” . 
 
 “Signor, you could not be more hurried 
 were the money to pay the cost of your nup- 
 tials. Could I find Isaac and Aaron within, 
 at this late hour, I think I might be safe in 
 saying that part of the money might be had.” 
 
 *‘T cannot trust to this chance.” 
 
 “Nay, signor, the chance is but small, 
 since Aaron is bedridden, and Isaac never 
 fails to look into his affairs, after the toil of 
 the day is ended. The honest Hebrew finds 
 sufficient recreation in the employment, 
 though I marvel at his satisfaction, since 
 nothing but losses have come over our people 
 the year past!” 
 
 “T tell thee, Jew, no doubt must hang 
 over the negotiation. The money, with 
 pledges, and thine own conscience for arbiter 
 between us; but no equivocal dealings, to be 
 
 followed by a disappointment, under the. 
 
 pretence that second parties are not satis- 
 fied.” 
 
 ‘‘ Just Daniel ! to oblige you, signor,I think 
 
 I may venture !—The well-known Hebrew, 
 
 Levi of Livorno, has:left with measack,con- 
 
 taining the very sum of which there is ques- 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 tion, and, under the conditions named, I will 
 convert it to my uses, and repay the good 
 jeweller his gold, with moneys of my own, at 
 a later day.” 
 
 «T thank thee for the fact, Hosea ;” said 
 the other, partially removing his mask, but 
 as instantly replacing it. “It will greatly 
 shorten our negotiations. Thou hast not 
 that sack of the Jew of Livorno beneath thy 
 domino ?” 
 
 Hosea was speechless. The removal of the 
 mask had taught him two material facts. He 
 had been communicating his distrust of the 
 senate’s intentions, concerning Donna Vio- 
 letta, to an unknown person, and, possibly, to 
 an agent of the police; and he had just de- 
 prived himself of the only argument he had 
 ever found available, in refusing the attempts 
 of Giacomo Gradenigo to borrow, by admit- 
 ting to that very individual, that he had in his 
 power the precise sum required. 
 
 ‘<T trust the face of an old customer is not 
 likely to defeat our bargain, Hosea?” de- 
 manded the profligate heir of the senator, 
 scarce concealing the irony in which the ques- 
 tion was put. 
 
 ‘‘ Father Abraham! Had I known it had 
 been you, Signor Giacomo, we might have 
 greatly shortened the treaty.” 
 
 «« By denying that thou hadst the money, as 
 thou hast so often done of late !” 
 
 “Nay, nay, I am not a swallower of my own 
 words, young signor; but my duty to Levi 
 must not be forgotten. The careful Hebrew 
 made me take a vow, by the name of our 
 tribe, that I would not part with his gold to 
 any that had not the means of placing its re- 
 turn beyond all chances.” 
 
 ‘<¢ This assurance is not wanting, since thou 
 art the borrower, thyself, to lend to me.” 
 
 “Signor, you place my conscience in an 
 awkward position. You are now my debtor 
 some six thousand sequins, and were I to 
 make this loan of money in trust, and were 
 you to return it—two propositions I make 
 on supposition—a natural love for my own 
 
 might cause me to pass the payment to ac- 
 ~ count, whereby I should put the assets of 
 Levi in jeopardy.” 
 
 “Settle that as thou wilt with thy con- 
 science, Hosea—thou hast confessed to the 
 money, and here are jewels for the pledge— 
 I ask only the sequins.” 
 
 539 
 
 It is probable that the appeal of Giacomo 
 Gradenigo would not have produced much 
 effect on the flinty nature of the Hebrew, who 
 had all the failings of a man proscribed by 
 opinion ; but having recovered from his sur- 
 prise, he began to explain to his companion 
 his apprehensions on account of Donna Vio- 
 letta, whose marriage, it will be remembered, 
 was a secret to all but the witnesses and the 
 Council of Three, when to his great joy he 
 found that the gold was wanting to advance 
 his own design of removing her to some secret 
 place. This immediately changed the whole 
 face of the bargain. As the pledges offered 
 were really worth the sum to be received, 
 Hosea thought, taking the chances of recover- 
 ing back his ancient loans, from the foreign 
 estates of the heiress, into the account, the 
 loan would be no bad investment of the pre- 
 tended sequins of his friend Levt. 
 
 As soon as the parties had come to a clear 
 understanding, they left the square together, 
 to consummate their bargain. 
 
 eS 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 We'll follow Cade, we'll follow Cade.—Henry VI. 
 
 THE night wore on. The strains of music 
 again began to break through the ordinary 
 stillness of the town, and the boats of the 
 great were once more in motion on every canal. 
 Hands waved timidly in recognition, from 
 the windows of the little dark canopies, as the 
 gondolas glided by, but few paused to greet 
 each other in that city of mystery and suspi- 
 cion. Even the refreshing air of the evening 
 was inhaled under an appearance of restraint, 
 which, though it might not be at the moment 
 felt, was too much interwoven with the habits 
 of the people ever to be entirely thrown aside. 
 
 ‘Among the lighter and gayer barges of the 
 patricians, a gondola of more than usual size, 
 but of an exterior so plain as to denote vulgar 
 uses, came sweeping down the great canal. 
 Its movement was leisurely, and the action of 
 the gondoliers that of men either fatigued or 
 little pressed for time. He who steered, 
 guided the boat with consummate skill, but 
 with a single hand, while his three fel- 
 lows, from time to time, suffered their oars 
 to trail on the water in very idleness. In 
 
540 
 
 short, it had the ordinary listless appearance 
 of a boat returning to the city from an excur- 
 sion on the Brenta, or to some of the more 
 distant isles. 
 
 Suddenly, the gondola diverged from the 
 centre of the passage, down which it rather 
 floated than pulled, and shot into one of the 
 least frequented canals of the city. From 
 this moment its movement became more 
 rapid and regular, until it reached a quarter 
 of the town inhabited by the lowest order of 
 Venetians. Here it stopped by the side of a 
 warehouse, and one of its crew ascended to a 
 bridge. The others threw themselves on the 
 thwarts and seemed to repose. 
 
 He who quitted the boat threaded a few 
 narrow but public alleys, such as are to 
 be found in every part of that confined town, 
 and knocked lightly at a window. It was 
 not long before the casement opened, and a 
 female voice demanded the name of him 
 without. 
 
 “It is I, Annina,” returned Gino, who 
 was not an unfrequent applicant for ad- 
 mission at that private portal. ‘Open the 
 door, girl, for I have come on a matter of 
 pressing haste.” 
 
 Annina complied, though not without 
 making sure that her suitor was alone. 
 
 ‘““Thou art come unseasonably, Gino,” 
 said the wine-seller’s daughter; ‘I was 
 about to go to St. Mark’s to breathe the 
 evening air. My father and brothers are 
 already departed, and I only stay to make 
 sure of the bolts.” 
 
 “*Their gondola will hold a fourth ?” 
 
 “They have gone by the footways.” 
 
 *‘And thou walkest the streets alone at 
 this hour, Annina ? ” 
 
 “*T know not thy right to question it, if I 
 do,” returned the girl, with spirit. ‘San 
 Teodoro be praised, I am not yet the slave of 
 a Neapolitan’s servitor !” 
 
 “<The Neapolitan isa powerful noble, An- 
 nina, able and willing to keep his servitors 
 in respect.” 
 
 ‘* He will have need of all his interest—but 
 why hast thou come at this unseasonable 
 hour? Thy visits are never too welcome, 
 Gino, and when I have other affairs, they 
 are disagreeable.” 
 
 Had the passion of the gondolier been very 
 deep or very sensitive, this plain dealing 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 might have given him a shock; but Gino 
 appeared to take the repulse as coolly as it 
 was given. 
 
 ‘‘Tam used to thy caprices, Annina,” he 
 said, throwing himself upon a bench, like 
 one determined to remain where he was. 
 ‘‘Some young patrician has kissed his hand 
 to thee as thou hast crossed San Marco, or 
 thy father has made a better day of it than 
 common on the Lido—thy pride always 
 mounts with thy father’s purse.” 
 
 ‘Diamine! to hear the fellow, one would 
 think he had my troth, and that he only 
 waited in the sacristy for the candles to be 
 lighted, to receive my vows! What art thou 
 to me, Gino Tullini, that thou takest on thee 
 these sudden airs ?” 
 
 ‘* And what art thou to me, Annina, that 
 thou playest off these worn-out caprices on 
 Don Camillo’s confidant ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Out upon thee, insolent ! I have no time 
 to waste in idleness.” 
 
 ‘Thou art in much haste to-night, 
 Annina.” 
 
 “<'To be rid of thee. 
 say, Gino, and let every word go to thy heart, 
 for they are the last thou wilt ever hear from 
 me. Thou servest a decayed noble, one 
 who will shortly be chased in disgrace from 
 the city, and with him will go all his idle ser- 
 vitors. I choose to remain in the city of my 
 birth.” 
 
 The gondolier laughed in real indifference 
 at her affected scorn. But remembering his 
 errand, he quickly assumed a graver air, and 
 endeavored to still the resentment of his 
 fickle mistress by a more respectful manner. 
 
 «St. Mark protect me, Annina! ” he said. 
 “Tf weare not to kneel before the good priore 
 together, it is no reason we should not bar- 
 gain in wines. Here have I come into the 
 dark canals, within stone’s-throw of thy very 
 door, with a gondola of mellow lachryma 
 Christi, such as honest Maso, thy father, has 
 rarely dealt in, and thou treatest me as a 
 dog, that is chased from a church !” 
 
 “T have little time for thee or thy wines, 
 to-night, Gino. Hadst thou not stayed me, 
 I should already have been abroad and 
 happy.” 
 
 ‘Close thy door, girl, and make little 
 ceremony with an old friend,” said the gon- 
 dolier, officiously offering to aid her in secur- 
 
 Now listen to what I ; 
 
 — —— 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 ing the dwelling. Annina took him at his 
 word, and as both appeared to work with 
 good-will, the house was locked, and the wil- 
 ful girl and her suitor were soon in the 
 street. Their route lay across the bridge al- 
 ready named. Gino pointed to the gondola, 
 as he said, ‘‘ Thou art not to be tempted, 
 Annina ?” 
 
 «Thy rashness in leading the smugglers to 
 my father’s door will bring us to harm some 
 day, silly fellow !” 
 
 «“The boldness of the act will prevent 
 suspicion.” 
 
 «“ Of what vineyard is the liquor ?” 
 
 <‘Tt came from the foot of Vesuvius, and 
 is ripened by the heat of the volcano. Should 
 my friends part with it to thy enemy, old 
 Beppo, thy father will rue the hour !” 
 
 Annina, who was much addicted to con- 
 sulting her interests on all occasions, cast a 
 longing glance at the boat. ‘The canopy was 
 closed, but it was large, and her willing im- 
 agination readily induced her to fancy it well 
 filled with skins from Naples. 
 
 «¢ This will be the last of thy visits to our 
 door, Gino?” 
 
 ‘«¢ As thou shalt please.—But go down and 
 taste——” | 
 
 Annina hesitated, and, as a woman is said 
 always to do when she hesitates, she com- 
 plied. They reached the boat with quick 
 steps, and without regarding the men who 
 were still lounging on the thwarts, Annina 
 glided immediately beneath the canopy. A 
 fifth gondolier was lying at length on the 
 cushions, for, unlike a boat devoted to the 
 contraband, the canopy had the usual ar- 
 rangement of a bark of the canals. 
 
 “T see nothing to turn me aside!” ex- 
 claimed the disappointed girl. ‘ Wilt thou 
 aught with me, signor ?” 
 
 “Thou art welcome. 
 so readily as before.” 
 
 The stranger had arisen while speaking, 
 and as he ended, he laid a hand on the 
 shoulder of his visitor, who found herself 
 confronted with Don Camillo Monforte. 
 
 Annina was too much practised in decep- 
 tion to indulge in any of the ordinary female 
 symptoms, either of real or affected alarm. 
 Commanding her features, though in truth 
 her limbs shook, she said, with assumed 
 pleasantry— 
 
 We shall not part 
 
 541 
 
 “The secret trade is honored in the ser- 
 vices of the noble Duke of St. Agata ! ” 
 
 “JT am not here to trifle, girl, as thou wilt 
 see in the end. ‘Thou hast thy choice before 
 thee, frank confession, or my just anger.” 
 
 Don Camillo spoke calmly, but in a man- 
 ner that plainly showed Annina she had to 
 deal with a resolute man. 
 
 ‘‘What confession would your eccellenza 
 have from the daughter of a poor wine- 
 seller?” she asked, her voice trembling in 
 spite of herself. 
 
 «The truth—and remember, that this time 
 we do not part until I am satisfied. ‘The 
 Venetian police and I are now fairly at issue, 
 and thou art the first-fruits of my plan.” 
 
 ‘Signor Duca, this is a bold step to take 
 in the heart of the canals !” 
 
 “The consequences be mine. ‘Thy interest 
 will teach thee to confess.” 
 
 “TJ ghall make no great merit, signor, of 
 doing that which is forced upon me. As it 
 is your pleasure to know the little I can tell 
 you, I am happy to be permitted to relate 
 it.” 
 
 ‘« Speak, then; for time presses.” 
 
 ‘Signor, I shall not pretend to deny you 
 have been ill-treated. Capperi ! how ill has 
 the council treated you! A noble cavalier, 
 of a strange country, who, the meanest gos- 
 sip in Venice knows, has a just right to the 
 honors of the senate, to be so treated is a 
 disgrace to the republic! I do not wonder 
 that your eccellenza is out of humor with 
 them. Blessed St. Mark himself would lose 
 his patience to be thus treated !” 
 
 “A truce with this, girl, and to your 
 facts.” 
 
 “My facts, Signor Duca, are a thousand 
 times clearer than the sun, and they are all 
 at your eccellenza’s service. I am sure iF 
 wish I had more of them, since they give you 
 pleasure.” 
 
 “ Enough of this profession.—Speak to the 
 facts themselves.” 
 
 Annina, who, in the manner of most of 
 her class, in Italy, that had been exposed to 
 the intrigues of the towns, had been lavish 
 of her words, now found means to cast a 
 glance at the water, when she saw that the 
 boat had already quitted the canals, and was 
 rowing easily out upon the Lagunes. Per- 
 ceiving how completely she was in the power 
 
542 
 
 of Don Camillo, she began to feel the neces- 
 sity of being more explicit. 
 
 “Your eccellenza has probably suspected 
 that the council found means to be ac- 
 quainted with your intention to fly from the 
 city with Donna Violetta ? ” 
 
 ‘* All that is known to me.” 
 
 ‘‘ Why they chose me to be the servitor of 
 the noble lady is beyond my powers to dis- 
 cover. Our Lady of Loretto! I am not the 
 person to be sent for, when the state wishes 
 to part two lovers ! ” 
 
 “‘T have borne with thee, Annina, because 
 I would let the gondola get beyond the limits 
 of the city ; but now thou must throw aside 
 thy subterfuge, and speak plainly. Where 
 didst thou leave my wife ?” 
 
 “Does your eccellenza then think the state 
 will almit the marriage to be legal ?” 
 
 “Girl, answer, or I will find means to 
 make thee. Where didst thou leave my 
 wife ?” 
 
 ‘Blessed St. Teodoro! Signor, the agents 
 of the republic had little need of me, and I 
 was put on the first bridge that the gondola 
 passed.” 
 
 “Thou strivest to deceive me in vain. 
 Thou wast on the Lagunes till a late hour in 
 the day, and I have notice of thy having 
 visited the prison of St. Mark as the sun was 
 setting ; and this on thy return from the boat 
 of Donna Violetta.”’ 
 
 There was no acting in the wonder of 
 Annina. 
 
 «‘ Santissima Maria! You are better served, 
 signor, than the council thinks ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ As thou wilt find to thy cost, unless the 
 truth be spoken. From what convent didst 
 thou come ?” 
 
 ‘‘Signor, from none. If your eccellenza 
 has discovered that the senate has shut up 
 the Signora Tiepolo in the prison of St. 
 Mark, for safe-keeping, it is no fault of 
 mine.” 
 
 “Thy artifice is useless, Annina,” observed 
 Don Camillo, calmly. ‘‘Thou wast in the 
 prison, in quest of forbidden articles that 
 thou hadst long left with thy cousin Gelso- 
 mina, the keeper’s daughter, who little sus- 
 pected thy errand, and on whose innocence 
 and ignorance of the world thou hast long 
 successfully practised. Donna Violetta is 
 no vulgar prisoner, to be immured in a jail.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘*Santissima Madre di Dio!” 
 
 Amazement confined the answer of the girl 
 to this single, but strong, exclamation. 
 
 “Thou seest the impossibility of deception. 
 I am acquainted with so much of thy move- 
 ments as to render it impossible that thou 
 should’st lead me far astray. Thou art not 
 wont to visit thy cousin; but as thou enter- _ 
 ed’st the canals this evening——” j 
 
 A shout on the water caused Don Camillo ~ 
 to pause. On looking out he saw a dense ~ 
 body of boats, sweeping toward the townas _ 
 if they were all impelled by a single set of 
 oars. A thousand voices were speaking at 
 once, and occasionally a general and doleful 
 cry proclaimed that the floating multitude 
 which came on was moved by a common feel- 
 ing. The singularity of the spectacle, and 
 the fact that his own gondola lay directly in 
 the route of the fleet, which was composed of _ 
 several hundred boats, drove the examination _ 
 of the girl momentarily from the thoughts of 
 the noble. 
 
 ‘What have we here, Jacopo ?” he de- 
 manded, in an undertone, of the gondolier 
 who steered his own barge. 
 
 ‘They are fishermen, signor, and by the 
 manner in which they come down toward the 
 canals, I doubt they are bent on some dis- 
 turbance. ‘There has been discontent among 
 them since the refusal of the Doge to liberate 
 the boy of their companion from the galleys.” 
 
 Curiosity induced the people of Don Camillo 
 to linger a minute, and then they perceived) _ 
 the necessity of pulling out of the course of 
 the floating mass, who came on like a tor-| 
 rent, the men sweeping their boats with that! _ 
 desperate stroke which is so often seen among) 
 the Italian oarsmen. A menacing hail, with) 
 a command to remain, admonished Don Ca-| 
 millo of the necessity of downright flight, or | 
 of obedience. He chose the latter, as the | 
 least likely to interfere with his own plans. 
 
 ‘‘Who art thou ?” démanded one, who | 
 had assumed the character of a leader. ‘If | 
 men of the Lagunes and Christians, join your — 
 friends, and away with us to St. Mark, for — 
 justice ! ” ! 
 
 ‘What means this tumult ?” asked Don 
 Camillo, whose dress effectually concealed his — 
 rank, a disguise that he completed by adopt- — 
 ing the Venetian dialect. ‘‘ Why are you 
 here in these numbers, friends?” ‘a 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 “Behold ! ” 
 
 Don Camillo turned, and he beheld the 
 withered features and glaring eyes of old 
 Antonio, fixed in death. The explanation 
 was made by a hundred voices, accompanied 
 by oaths so bitter, and denunciations so deep, 
 that had not Don Camillo been prepared by 
 the tale of Jacopo, he would have found great 
 difficulty in understanding what he heard. 
 
 In dragging the Lagunes for fish, the body 
 of Antonio had been found, and the result 
 was, first a consultation on the probable 
 means of his death, then a collection of the 
 men of his calling, and finally the scene de- 
 scribed. 
 
 “‘Giustizia!” exclaimed fifty excited 
 voices, as the grim visage of the fisherman 
 was held toward the light of the moon ; 
 ‘* viustizia in palazzo, e pane in piazza!” 
 
 “ Ask it of the senate!” returned Jacopo, 
 not attempting to conceal the derision of his 
 tones. 
 
 **Thinkest thou our fellow has suffered for 
 his boldness yesterday ?” 
 
 “Stranger things have 
 Venice! ” 
 
 «“They forbid us to cast our nets in the 
 Canale Orfano, lest the secrets of justice 
 should be known, and yet they have grown 
 bold enough to drown one of our own people 
 in the mit of our gondolas! ” 
 
 “Justice, justice!” shouted numberless 
 hoarse throats. 
 
 « Away to St. Mark’s! Lay the body at the 
 . feet of the Doge—away, brethren—Antonio’s 
 - blood is on their souls! ” 
 
 Bent on a wild and undigested scheme of 
 _ asserting their wrongs, the fishermen again 
 
 ‘plied their oars, and the whole fleet swept 
 away, as if it were composed of a single mass. 
 
 ) The meeting, though so short, was accom- 
 panied by cries, menaces, and all those accus- 
 
 tomed signs of rage which mark a popular 
 
 tumult among those excitable people, and it 
 
 _had produced a sensible effect on the nerves 
 of Annina. Don Camillo profited by her 
 evident terror to press his questions, for the 
 hour no longer admitted of trifling. 
 
 The result was, that while the agitated 
 mob swept into the mouth of the Great Canal, 
 raising hoarse shouts, the gondola of Don 
 Camillo Monforte glided away across the wide 
 and tranquil surface of the Lagunes. 
 
 happened in 
 
 545 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 A Clifford, a Clifford! we’ll follow the king and 
 Clifford.—Henry VI. 
 
 THE tranquillity of the best-ordered society | 
 may be disturbed, at any time, by a sudden 
 outbreaking of the malcontents. Against 
 such a disaster there is no more guarding than 
 against the commission of more vulgar 
 crimes; but when a government trembles for 
 its existence, before the turbulence of popular 
 commotion, it is reasonable to infer some 
 radical defect in its organization. Men will 
 rally around their institutions, as freely as 
 they rally around any other cherished interest, 
 when they merit their care, and there can be 
 no surer sign of their hollowness than when 
 the rulers seriously apprehend the breath of 
 the mob. No nation ever exhibited more of 
 this symptomatic terror, on all occasions of 
 internal disturbance, than the pretending re-' 
 public of Venice. There was a never-ceasing > 
 and a natural tendency to dissolution in her 
 factitious system, which was only resisted by 
 the alertness of her aristocracy, and the poli- 
 tical buttresses which their ingenuity had 
 reared. Much was said of the venerable 
 character of her polity, and of its consequent 
 security, but it is in vain that selfishness con- 
 tends with truth. Of all the fallacies with 
 which man has attempted to gloss his expedi- 
 ents there is none more evidently false than 
 that which infers the duration of a social sys- 
 tem from the length of time it has already last- 
 ed. It would be quite as reasonable to affirm 
 that the man of seventy has the same chances 
 for lifeas the youth of fifteen, or that the inevi- 
 table fate of all things of mortal origin was 
 not destruction. There isa period in human 
 existence, when the principle of vitality has 
 to contend with the feebleness of infancy, 
 but this probationary state passed, the child 
 attains the age when it has the most reason- 
 able prospect of living. Thus the social, like 
 any other machine, which has run just long 
 enough to prove its fitness, is at the precise 
 period when it is least likely to fail, and al- 
 though he that is young may not live to be- 
 come old, it is certain that he who is old was 
 once young. The empire of China was, in its 
 time, as youthful as our own republic, nor 
 can we see any reason for believing that it is 
 to outlast us, from the decrepitude which is 
 a natural companion of its years. 
 
544 
 
 At the period of our tale, Venice boasted 
 much of her antiquity, aud dreaded, in an 
 equal degree, her end. She was still strong 
 in her combinations, but they were combina- 
 tions that had the vicions error of being 
 formed for the benefit of the minority, and 
 which, like the mimic fortresses and moats of 
 a scenic representation, needed only a strong 
 light to destroy the illusion. The alarm 
 with which the patricians heard the shouts of 
 the fishermen, as they swept by the different 
 palaces, on their way to the great square, can 
 be readily imagined. Some feared that the 
 final consummation of their artificial condi- 
 tion, which had so long been anticipated by 
 a secret political instinct, was at length ar- 
 rived, and began to bethink them of the 
 safest means of providing for their own se- 
 curity. Some listened in admiration, for 
 habit had so far mastered dulness as to have 
 created a species of identity between the state 
 and far more durable things, and they believed 
 that St. Mark had gained a victory, in that 
 decline, which was never exactly intelligible 
 to their apathetic capacities. But afew, and 
 these were the spirits that accumulated all the 
 national good which was vulgarly and falsely 
 ascribed to the system itself, intuitively com- 
 prehended the danger, with a just apprecia- 
 tion of its magnitude, as well as of the means 
 to avoid it. 
 
 But the rioters were unequal to any esti- 
 mate of their own forces, and had little apti- 
 tude in measuring their accidental advan- 
 tages. They acted merely on impulse. The 
 manner in which their aged companion had 
 triumphed on the preceding day, his cold re- 
 pulse by the Doge, and the scene of the Lido, 
 which in truth led to the death of Antonio, 
 had prepared their minds for the tumult. 
 When the body was found, therefore, after 
 the time necessary to collect their forces on 
 the Lagunes, they yielded to passion, and 
 moved away toward the palace of St. Mark, 
 as described, without any other definite ob- 
 ject than a simple indulgence of feeling. 
 
 On entering the canal, the narrowness of 
 the passage compressed the boats into a mass 
 so dense as, in a measure, to impede the use 
 of oars, and the progress of the crowd was 
 necessarily slow. All were anxious to get as 
 near as possible to the body of Antonio, and, 
 like all mobs, they in some degree frustrated 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 their own objects, by ill-regulated zeal. Once 
 or twice the names of offensive senators were 
 shouted, as if the fishermen intended to visit 
 the crimes of the state on its agents; but 
 these cries passed away in the violent breath 
 that was expended. On reaching the bridge 
 
 of the Rialto, more than half of the multitude 
 
 landed, and took the shorter course of the 
 
 streets to the point of destination, while those 
 
 in front got on the faster, for being disem- 
 
 barrassed of the pressure in the rear. As they 
 drew nearer to the’port, the boats began to 
 loosen, and to take something of the form of 
 a funeral procession. } 
 
 It was during this moment of change that 
 a powerfully manned gondola swept, with 
 strong strokes, out of a lateral passage into 
 the Great Canal. Accident brought it directly 
 in front of the moving phalanx of boats, that 
 was coming down the same channel. Its crew 
 seemed staggered by the extraordinary appear- 
 ance, which met their view, and for an in- 
 stant its course was undecided. 
 
 «‘A gondola of the republic!” shouted 
 fifty fishermen. A single voice added— 
 ‘Canale Orfano !” 
 
 The bare suspicion of such an errand as 
 was implied by the latter words, and at that 
 moment, was sufficient to excite the mob. 
 
 They raised a cry of denunciation, and some 
 
 twenty boats made a furious derifnstration 
 of pursuit. The menace, however, was suffi- 
 cient ; for quicker far than the movements of 
 the pursuers, the gondoliers of the republic 
 dashed toward the shore, and leaping on one 
 of those passages of planks, which encircle so 
 many of the palaces of Venice, they disap- 
 peared by an alley. 
 
 Encouraged by this success, the fishermen 
 seized the boat as a waif, and towed it into 
 their own fleet, filling the air with cries of 
 triumph. Curiosity led a few to enter the 
 hearse-like canopy, whence they immediately 
 reissued, dragging forth a priest. 
 
 ‘©Who art thou ?” hoarsely demanded he 
 who took upon himself the authority of a 
 leader. 
 
 «© A Carmelite, and a servant of God !” 
 
 ‘Dost thou serve St. Mark ? 
 been to the Canale Orfano, to shrive a 
 wretch ?” 
 
 ‘‘T am here in attendance on a young and 
 noble lady, who has need of my counsel and 
 
 Hast thou 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 prayers. The nappy and the miserable, 
 the free and the captive, are equally my 
 care |” 
 
 ‘‘Ha!—Thou art not above thy office P— 
 Thou wilt say the prayers for the dead, in be- 
 half of a poor man’s soul ?” 
 
 “ My son, I know no difference, in this re- 
 spect, between the Doge and the poorest 
 fisherman. Still I would not willingly desert 
 the females.” 
 
 ‘<The ladies shall receive no harm. Come 
 into my boat, for there is need of thy holy 
 office.” 
 
 Father Anselmo—the reader will readily 
 anticipate that it was he—entered the canopy, 
 said a few words in explanation to his trem- 
 bling companions, and complied. He was 
 rowed to the leading gondola, and, by a sign, 
 directed to the dead body. — 
 
 ‘<Thou see’st that corpse, father ?” con- 
 tinued his conductor. ‘‘ It is the face of one 
 who was an upright and pious Christian !” 
 
 “He was.” 
 
 “©We all knew him as the oldest and most 
 skilful fisherman of the Lagunes, and one 
 _ ever ready to assist an unlucky companion.” 
 
 “T can believe thee !” | 
 
 «Thou mayest, for the holy books are not 
 more true than my words—yesterday he came 
 down this very canal, in triumph, for he bore 
 away the honors of the regatta from the 
 stoutest oars in Venice.” 
 
 “T have heard of his success.” 
 
 «They say that Jacopo, the Bravo he—who 
 once held the best oar in the canals—was of 
 the party! Santa Madonna! such a man was 
 too precious to die!” 
 
 «Tt is the fate of all—rich and poor, strong 
 and feeble, happy and miserable, must alike 
 come to this end.” 
 
 ‘Not to this end, reverend Carmelite, for 
 Antonio having given offence to the republic, 
 in the matter of a grandson that is pressed 
 for the galleys, has been sent to purgatory 
 without a Christian hope for his soul.” 
 
 “There is an eye that watcheth on the 
 meanest of us, son ; we will believe he was not 
 forgotten.” 
 
 «“ Cospetto !—They say that those the sen- 
 ate looks black upon, get but little aid from 
 the Church! Wilt thou pray for him, Car- 
 melite, and make good thy words?” 
 
 “J will,” said Father Anselmo, firmly. 
 
 novel picture. 
 church, the rows of massive and rich archi- 
 RR 
 
 545 
 
 “ Make room, son, that no decency of my duty 
 be overlooked.” 
 The swarthy, expressive faces of the fisher- 
 
 men gleamed with satisfaction, for in the 
 midst of the rude turmoil, they all retained 
 a deep and rooted respect for the offices of 
 the Church in which they had been educated. 
 
 Silence was quickly obtained, and the boats 
 
 moved on with greater order than before. 
 
 The spectacle was now striking.—In front 
 
 rowed the gondola which contained the 
 remains of the dead. The widening of the 
 canal, as it approached the port, permitted 
 the rays of the moon to fall upon the rigid 
 
 features of old Antonio, which were set in 
 such a look as might be supposed to charac- 
 terize the dying thoughts of a man so sud- 
 denly and so fearfully destroyed. The Car- 
 melite, bareheaded, with clasped hands and 
 a devout heart, bowed his head at the feet of 
 the body, with his white robes flowing in the 
 light ofthe moon. A single gondolier guided 
 the boat, and no other noise was audible but 
 the plash of the water, as the oars slowly fell 
 and rose together. The silent procession 
 lasted a few minutes, and then the tremulous 
 voice of the monk was heard chanting the 
 prayers for the dead. The practised fisher- 
 men, for few in that disciplined Church, and 
 that obedient age, were ignorant of those 
 solemn rites, took up the responses, in a 
 manner that must be familiar to every ear 
 that has ever listened to the sounds of Italy, 
 the gentle washing of the element on which 
 they glided forming a soft accompaniment. 
 Casement after casement opened while they 
 passed, and a thousand curious and anxious 
 faces crowded the balconies, as the funeral 
 cortege swept slowly on. 
 
 The gondola of the republic was towed in 
 the centre of the moving mass, by fifty lighter 
 boats, for the fishermen still clung to their 
 prize. In this manner the solemn procession 
 entered the port, and touched the quay at the 
 foot of the Piazzetta. While numberless 
 eager hands were aiding in bringing the body 
 of Antonio to land, there arose a shout from 
 the centre of the ducal palace, which pro- 
 
 claimed the presence already of the other part 
 of their body in its court. 
 
 The square of St. Mark now presented a 
 The quaint and oriental 
 
546 
 
 tecture, the giddy pile of the Campanile, the 
 columns of granite, the masts of triumph, 
 and all those peculiar and remarkable fix- 
 tures, which had witnessed so many scenes 
 of violence, of rejoicing, of mourning, and of 
 gayety, were there, like landmarks of the 
 earth, defying time ; beautiful and venerable 
 in despite of all those varying exhibitions of 
 human passions, that were daily acted around 
 them. 
 
 But the song, the laugh, and the jest, had 
 ceased. The lights of the coffee-houses had 
 disappeared, the revellers had fled to their 
 homes, fearful of being confounded with 
 those who braved the anger of the senate, 
 while the grotesque, the ballad-singers, and 
 the buffoon, had abandoned their assumed 
 gayety for an appearance more in unison 
 with the true feelings of their hearts. 
 
 “ Giustizia! ’—cried a thousand deep voices, 
 as the body of Antonio was borne into 
 the court—* Illustrious Doge! Guiustizia in 
 palazzo, e pane in piazza! Give us justice ! 
 We are beggars for justice !” 
 
 The gloomy but vast court was paved with 
 the swarthy faces and glittering eyes of the 
 fishermen. The corpse was laid at the foot 
 of the Giant’s Stairs, while the trembling 
 halberdier at the head of the flight scarce 
 commanded himself sufficiently to maintain 
 that air of firmness which was exacted by 
 discipline and professional pride. But there 
 was no other show of military force, for the 
 politic power, which ruled in Venice, knew 
 too well its momentary impotency to irritate 
 when it could not quell. The mob beneath 
 was composed of nameless rioters, whose 
 punishment could carry no other conse- 
 quences than the suppression of immediate 
 danger, and for that, those who ruled were 
 not prepared. 
 
 The Council of Three had been apprised 
 of the arrival of the excited fishermen. 
 When the mob entered the court, it was con- 
 sulting in secret conclave, on the probabilities 
 of the tumult having a graver and more de- 
 termined object than was apparent in the 
 visible symptoms. ‘The routine of office had 
 not yet dispossessed the men already present- 
 ‘ ed to the reader, of their dangerous and 
 despotic power. 
 
 ‘‘Are the Dalmatians apprised of this 
 movement ?” asked one of the secret tribu- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 nal, whose nerves were scarcely equal to the 
 high functions he discharged. “We may 
 have occasion for their volleys, ere this riot 
 is appeased,” 
 
 ‘‘Confide in the ordinary authorities for 
 that, signor,” answered the Senator Gra- 
 denigo. ‘‘I have only concern, lest some 
 conspiracy, which may touch the fidelity of 
 the troops, les concealed beneath the out- 
 cry.” 
 
 “The evil passions of man know no lim- 
 its! What would the wretches have? For 
 a state in the decline, Venice is to the last 
 degree prosperous. Our ships are thriving ; 
 the bank flourishes with goodly dividends ; 
 and I do assure you, signor, that, for many 
 years, I have not known so ample revenues 
 for most of our interests, as at this hour. 
 All cannot thrive alike !” 
 
 «“ You are happily connected with flourish- 
 ing affairs, signor, but there are many that 
 are less lucky. Our form of government is 
 somewhat exclusive, and it is a penalty that 
 we have ever paid for its advantages, to be 
 liable to sudden and malevolent accusations 
 for any evil turn of fortune that besets the 
 republic.” 
 
 ‘*Can nothing satisfy these exacting spir- 
 its? Are they not free—are they not 
 happy?” 
 
 “Tt would seem that they want better as- 
 surance of these facts than our own feelings, 
 or our words.” 
 
 “‘ Man is the creature of envy! The poor 
 desire to be rich—the weak, powerful.” 
 
 ‘‘There is an exception to your rule, at 
 least, signor, since the rich rarely wish to 
 be poor, or the powerful, weak.” 
 
 ‘© You deride my sentiments to-night, Sig- 
 nor Gradenigo. I speak, I hope, as becomes 
 a senator of Venice, and in a manner that 
 you are not unaccustomed to hear !” 
 
 ‘* Nay, the language is not unusual. But 
 I fear me, there is something unsuited to a 
 falling fortune in the exacting and nar- 
 row spirit of our laws. When a state is 
 eminently flourishing, its subjects overlook 
 general defects, in private prosperity, but 
 there is no more fastidious commentator on 
 measures than your merchant of a failing 
 trade.” . 
 
 ‘This is their gratitude! Have we not 
 converted these muddy isles into a mart for 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 half Christendom ? and now they are dissatis- 
 fied that they cannot retain all the monop- 
 olies that the wisdom of our ancestors has 
 accumulated.” 
 
 «“ They complain much in your own spirit, 
 signor,—but you are right in saying the 
 present riot must be looked to. Let us 
 seek his highness, who will go out to the 
 people, with such patricians as may be 
 present, and one of our number as a witness : 
 more than that might expose our character.” 
 
 The Secret Council withdrew to carry this 
 resolution into effect, just as the fishermen 
 in the court received the accession of those 
 who arrived by water. 
 
 There is no body so sensible of an increase 
 of its members as a mob. Without disci- 
 pline, and depending solely on animal force 
 for its ascendency, the sentiment of physical 
 power is blended with its very existence. 
 When they saw the mass of living beings 
 which had assembled within the walls of the 
 ducal palace, the most audacious of that 
 throng became more hardy, and even the 
 wavering grew strong. This isthe reverse of 
 the feeling which prevails among those who 
 are called on to repress this species of vio- 
 lence, who generally gain courage as its ex- 
 hibition is least required. 
 
 The throng in the court was raising one 
 of its loudest and most menacing cries as the 
 train of the Doge appeared, approaching by 
 one of the long open galleries of the principal 
 floor of the edifice. 
 
 The presence of the venerable man who 
 nominally presided over that  factitious 
 state, and the long training of the fishermen 
 in habits of deference to authority, notwith- 
 standing their present tone of insubordination, 
 caused a sudden and deep silence. <A feeling 
 of awe gradually stole over the thousand dark 
 faces that were gazing upwards, as the little 
 cortege drew near. So profound, indeed, was 
 the stillness caused by this sentiment, that 
 the rustling of the ducal robes was audible, 
 as the prince, impeded by his infirmities, and 
 consulting the state usual to his rank, slowly 
 advanced. The previous violence of the un- 
 tutored fishermen, and their present deference 
 to the external state that met their eyes, had 
 their origin in the same causes ;—ignorance 
 and habit were the parents of both. 
 
 “Why are ye assembled here, my chil- 
 
 547 
 
 dren?” asked the Doge, when he had 
 reached the summit of the Giant’s Stairs, — 
 “and most of all, why have ye come into the 
 palace of your prince, with these unbefitting 
 cries ?” } 
 
 The tremulous voice of the old man was 
 clearly audible, for the lowest of its tones 
 was scarcely interrupted by a breath. The 
 fishermen gazed at each other, and all ap- 
 peared to search for him who might be bold 
 enough to answer. At length one in the 
 centre of the crowded mass, and effectually 
 concealed from observation, cried, ‘‘ Justice!” 
 
 “Such is our object,’ mildly continued 
 the prince; “and such, I will add, is our 
 practice. Why are ye assembled here, in a 
 manner so offensive to the state, and so dis- 
 respectful to your prince?” 
 
 Still none answered. The only spirit of 
 their body, which had been capable of free- 
 ing itself from the trammels of usage and 
 prejudice, had deserted the. shell which lay 
 on the lower step of the Giant’s Stairs. 
 
 “Will none speak ?—are ye so bold with 
 your voices when unquestioned, and so silent 
 when confronted ?” 
 
 ‘‘Speak them fair, your highness,” whis- 
 pered he of the council, who was commis- 
 sioned to be a secret witness of the inter- 
 view ;— “the Dalmatians are scarce yet ap- 
 parelled.” 
 
 The prince bowed to advice which he well 
 knew must be respected, and he assumed his 
 former tone. 
 
 “Tf none will acquaint me with your 
 wants, I must command you to retire, and 
 while my parental heart grieves ‘a 
 
 ‘* Giustizia!” repeated the hidden mem- 
 ber of the crowd. 
 
 “Name thy wants, that we may know 
 them.” 
 
 “ Highness! deign to look at this!” 
 
 One bolder than the rest had turned the 
 body of Antonio to the moon, in a manner to 
 expose the ghastly features, and, as he spoke, 
 he pointed toward the spectacle he had pre- 
 pared. The prince started at the unexpected 
 sight, and, slowly descending the steps, 
 closely accompanied by his companions and 
 his guards, he paused over the body. 
 
 “Has the assassin done this?” he asked, 
 after looking at the dead fisherman, and 
 crossing himself. ‘‘ What could the end of 
 
548 
 
 one like this profit a Bravo ?—haply the un- 
 fortunate man hath fallen in a broil of his 
 class? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Neither, illustrious Doge! we fear that 
 Antonio has suffered for the displeasure of 
 St. Mark!” 
 
 « Antonio! Is this the hardy fisherman 
 who would have taught us how to rule in the 
 state regatta ?” 
 
 ‘‘Recellenza, it is,” returned the simple 
 ~ laborer of the Lagunes,—“ and a better hand 
 with a net, or a truer friend in need, never 
 rowed a gondola, to or from the Lido. Dia- 
 volo! It would have done your highness 
 pleasure to have seen the poor old Christian 
 among us, on a saint’s day, taking the lead 
 in our little ceremonies, and teaching us the 
 manner in which our fathers used to do 
 credit to the craft!” 
 
 “Or to have been with us, illustrious 
 Doge,” cried another, for, the ice once broken, 
 the tongues of a mob soon grow bold, “in a 
 merry-making, on the Lido, when old Anto- 
 nio was always the foremost in the laugh, 
 and the discreetest in knowing when to be 
 grave.” 
 
 The Doge began to have a dawning of the 
 truth, and he cast a glance aside to examine 
 the countenance of the unknown inquisitor. 
 
 ‘Tt is far easier to understand the merits 
 of the unfortunate man, than the manner of 
 his death,” he said, finding no explanation in 
 the drilled members of the face he had scru- 
 tinized. ‘Will any of your party explain 
 the facts ?” 
 
 The principal speaker among the fisher- 
 men willingly took on himself the office, and, 
 in the desultory manner of one of his habits, 
 he acquainted the Doge with the circum- 
 stances connected with the finding of the 
 body. When he had done, the prince again 
 asked explanations, with his eye, from the 
 genator at his side, for he was ignorant 
 whether the policy of the state required an 
 example, or simply a death. 
 
 «T gee nothing in this, your highness,” 
 observed he of the council, “but the chances 
 of a fisherman. The unhappy old man has 
 come to his end by accident, and it would be 
 charity to have a few masses said for his 
 soul.” 
 
 ‘“ Noble senator! ” exclaimed the fisher- 
 
 man, doubtingly, ‘‘ St. Mark was offended!” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “ Rumor tells many idle tales of the pleas- 
 ure and displeasure of St. Mark. If we are 
 to believe all that the wit of men can devise, 
 in affairs of this nature, the criminals are 
 not drowned in the Lagunes, but in the 
 Canale Orfano.” 
 
 “True, eccellenza, and we are forbidden 
 to cast our nets there, on pain of sleeping 
 with the eels at its bottom.” 
 
 ‘«¢ So much greater reason for believing that 
 this old man hath died by accident. Is there 
 mark of violence on his body ?—for though 
 the state could scarcely occupy itself with 
 such as he, some other might. Hath the 
 condition of the body been looked to?” 
 
 ‘«‘ Kecellenza, it was enough to cast one of 
 his .years into the centre of the Lagunes. 
 The stoutest arm in Venice could not save 
 him.” 
 
 «There may have been violence in some 
 quarrel, and the proper authority should be 
 vigilant. Here is a Carmelite!—Father, do 
 you know aught of this?” | 
 
 The monk endeavored to answer, but his 
 voice failed. He stared wildly about him, 
 for the whole scene resembled some frightfui 
 picture of the imagination, and then folding 
 his arms on his bosom, he appeared to resume 
 his prayers. 
 
 “Thou dost not answer, friar ?”’ observed 
 the Doge, who had been as effectually de- 
 ceived, by the natural and indifferent manner 
 of the inquisitor, as any other of his auditors. 
 “ Where didst thou find this body ?” 
 
 Father Anselmo briefly explained the man- 
 ner in which he had been pressed into the 
 service of the fishermen. 
 
 At the elbow of the prince there stood a 
 young patrician, who, at the moment, filled 
 no other office in the state than such as 
 belonged to his birth. Deceived, like the 
 others, by the manner of the only one who 
 knew the real cause of Antonio’s death, he 
 felt a humane and praiseworthy desire te 
 make sure that no foul play had been exer- 
 cised towards the victim. 
 
 “T have heard of this Antonio,” said this 
 person, who was called the Senator Soranzo, 
 and who was gifted by nature with feelings 
 that, in any other form of government, would 
 have made him a philanthropist,—‘‘and of 
 his success in the regatta. Was it not said 
 that Jacopo, the Bravo, was his competitor ?” 
 
Molo copra SuseuptAl feast 
 . hk wt wnee ) 
 AJ inn 1 THE BRA vO. 
 
 MBit. Sine oh yer 
 _A low, meaning, and common murmur ran 
 through the throng. 
 
 « A man of his reputed passions and fero- 
 city may well have sought to revenge defeat, 
 by violence !” 
 
 A second and a louder murmur denoted 
 the effect this suggestion had produced. 
 
 ‘< Becellenza, Jacopo deals in the stiletto. !” 
 observed the half-credulous but still doubting 
 
 fisherman. 
 
 «That is as may be necessary. A man of 
 his art and character may have recourse to 
 other means to gratify his malice. Do you 
 not agree with me, signor ?” 
 
 The Senator Soranzo put this question, in 
 perfect good faith, to the unknown member 
 of the secret council. The latter appeared 
 struck with the probability of the truth of 
 his companion’s conjecture, but contented 
 himself with a simple acknowledgment to 
 that effect, by bowing. 
 
 «Jacopo !—Jacopo !” hoarsely repeated 
 yoice after voice in the crowd—“ Jacopo has 
 done this! The best gondolier in Venice 
 has been beaten by an old fisherman, and 
 nothing but blood could wipe out the dis- 
 grace |!” 
 
 ‘Tt shall be inquired into, my children, 
 and strict justice done,” said the Doge, pre- 
 pairing to depart. “Officers, give money 
 for masses, that the soul of the unhappy man 
 be not the sufferer. Reverend Carmelite, I 
 commend the body to thy care, and thou 
 canst do no better service than to pass the 
 night in prayer, by its side.” 
 
 A thousand caps were waved in commen- 
 dation of this gracious command, and the 
 whole throng stood in silent respect, as the 
 prince, followed by his retinue, retired as he 
 had approached, through the long, vaulted 
 gallery above. 
 
 A secret order of the Inquisition prevented. 
 the appearance of the Dalmatians. 
 
 A few minutes later and all was prepared. 
 A bier and canopy were brought out of the 
 adjoining cathedral, and the corpse was 
 placed upon the former. Father Anselmo 
 then headed the procession, which passed 
 through the principal gate of the palace into 
 the square, chanting the usual service. The 
 Piazzetta and the piazza were still empty. 
 
 Here and there, indeed, a curious face, be- 
 
 longing to some agent of the police, or to 
 
 549 
 
 some observer more firm than common, looked 
 out from beneath the arches of the porticos 
 on the movements of the mob, though none 
 ventured to come within its influence. 
 
 But the fisherment were no longer bent on / 
 violence. With the fickleness of men little 
 influenced by reflection, and subject to sud- 
 den and violent emotions, a temperament 
 which, the effect of a selfish system, is com- 
 monly tortured into the reason why it should 
 never be improved, they had abandoned all 
 idea of revenge on the agents of the police, 
 and had turned their thoughts to the relig- 
 ious services, which, being commanded by 
 the prince himself, were so flattering to their 
 class. | 
 
 It is true that’a few of the sterner natures, 
 among them, mingled menaces against the 
 Bravo, with their prayers for the dead, but 
 these had no other effect on the matter in 
 hand than is commonly produced by the by- 
 players on the principal action of the piece. 
 
 The great portal of the venerable church 
 was thrown open, and. the solemn chant was 
 heard issuing, in responses, from among the 
 quaint columns and vaulted roots within. The 
 body of the lowly and sacrificed Antonio was 
 borne beneath that arch which sustains the 
 precious relics of Grecian art, and deposited 
 in the grave. Candles glimmered before the 
 altar and the ghastly person of the dead, 
 throughout the night; and the cathedral of 
 St. Mark was pregnant with all the imposing 
 ceremonials of the Catholic ritual, until the 
 day once more appeared. 
 
 Priest succeeded priest, in repeating the 
 masses, while the attentive throng listened, 
 as if each of its members felt that his own 
 honor and importance were elevated by this 
 concession to one of their number. In the 
 square the maskers gradually reappeared, 
 though the alarm had been too sudden and 
 violent to admit a speedy return to the levity 
 which ordinarily was witnessed in that spof, 
 between the setting and the rising of the sun. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, 
 The very last of that illustrious race. 
 —RoGERS. 
 
 WuENn the fishermen landed on the quay, 
 they deserted the gondola of the state to a 
 
550 
 
 man. Donna Violetta and her governess 
 heard the tumultuous departure of their sin- 
 gular captors with alarm, for they were nearly 
 in entire ignorance of the motive which had 
 deprived them of the protection of Father 
 Anselmo, and which had so unexpectedly 
 made them actors in the extraordinary scene. 
 The monk had simply explained that his 
 offices were required in behalf of the dead, 
 but the apprehension of exciting unnecessary 
 terror prevented him from adding that they 
 were in the power of amob. Donna Florinda, 
 however, had ascertained sufficient, by look- 
 ing from the windows of the canopy and from 
 the cries of those around her, to get a glim- 
 mering of the truth. Under the circum- 
 tances, she saw that the most prudent course 
 was to keep themselves as much as possible 
 from observation. But when the profound 
 stillness that succeeded the landing of the 
 rioters announced that they were alone, both 
 she and her charge had an intuitive percep- 
 tion of the favorable chance, which fortune 
 had so strangely thrown in their way. 
 
 ‘«* They are gone!” whispered Donna Flo- 
 rinda, holding her breath in attention, as 
 soon as she had spoken. 
 
 « And the police will soon be here to seek 
 us!” 
 
 No further explanation passed, for Venice 
 was a town in which even the young and inno- 
 cent were taught caution. Donna Florinda 
 stole another look without. 
 
 “They have disappeared, Heaven knows 
 where! Let us go!” 
 
 In an instant the trembling fugitives were 
 on the quay. The Piazzetta was without a 
 human form, except their own. <A low, mur- 
 muring sound arose from the court palace, 
 which resembled the hum of a disturbed 
 hive; but nothing was distinct or intelligible. 
 
 ‘‘ There is violence meditated,” again whis- 
 pered the governess; ‘would to God that 
 Father Anselmo were here !” 
 
 A shuffling footstep caught their ears, and 
 both turned toward a boy, in the dress of one 
 of the Lagunes, who approached from the 
 direction of the Broglio. 
 
 ‘A reverend Carmelite bid me give you 
 this,” said the youth, stealing a glance be- 
 hind him, like one who dreaded detection. 
 Then putting a small piece of paper in the 
 hand of Donna Florinda, he turned his own 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 swarthy palm, in which a small silver coin 
 glittered, to the moon, and vanished. 
 
 By the aid of the same light the governess 
 succeeded in tracing pencil-marks, in a hand 
 that had been well known in her younger 
 days. 
 
 “Save thyself, Florinda—there is not an 
 instant to lose. 
 seek a shelter quickly.” 
 
 ‘But whither?” asked the bewildered 
 woman, when she had read aloud the scroll. 
 
 ‘“ Anywhere but here,” rejoined Donna 
 Violetta ; ‘‘ follow me.” 
 
 Nature frequently more than supplies the 
 advantages of training and experience, by 
 her own gifts. Had Donna Florinda been 
 possessed of the natural decision and firmness 
 of her pupil, she weuld not now have been 
 existing in the isolated condition which is so 
 little congenial to female habits, nor would 
 Father Anselmo have been a monk. Both 
 had sacrificed inclination to what they con- 
 sidered to be duty, and if the ungenial life 
 of the governess was owing to the tranquil 
 course of her ordinary feelings, it 1s probable 
 that its impunity’ was to be ascribed to the 
 same respectable cause. Notso with Violetta. 
 She was ever more ready to act than to re- 
 flect, and though, in general, the advantage 
 might possibly be with those of a more regu- 
 lated temperament, there are occasions that 
 form exceptions to the rule. The present 
 moment was one of those turns in the chances 
 of life, when it is always better to do any- 
 thing than to do nothing. 
 
 Donna Violetta had scarcely spoken, before 
 her person was shadowed beneath the arches 
 of the Broglio. Her governess clung to her 
 side, more in affection than in compliance 
 with the warning of the monk, or with the 
 dictates of her own reason. A vague and 
 romantic inter.tion of throwing herself at the 
 feet of the Doge, who was a collateral de- 
 scendant of her own ancient house, had 
 flashed across the mind of the youthful bride, 
 when she first fled ; but no sooner had they 
 reached the palace, than a cry from the court 
 acquainted them with its situation, and con- 
 sequently with the impossibility of penetrat- 
 ing to the interior. 
 
 ‘Let us retire, by the streets, to thy 
 dwelling, my child,” said Donna Florinda, 
 drawing her mantle about her in womanly 
 
 Avoid public places, and 
 
THH BRAVO. 
 
 dignity. ‘‘None will offend females of our 
 condition ; even the senate must, in the end, 
 respect our sex.” 
 
 ‘This from thee, Florinda!—Thou, who 
 hast so often trembled for their anger! But 
 go, if thou wilt—I am no longer the senate’s 
 —Don Camillo Monforte has my duty.” 
 
 Donna Florinda had no intention of dis- 
 puting this point, and as the moment had 
 now arrived when the most energetic was 
 likely to lead, she quietly submitted herself 
 to the superior decision of her pupil. The 
 latter took the way along the portico, keeping 
 always within its shadows. In passing the 
 gateway, which opened towards the sea, the 
 fugitives had a glimpse of what was passing 
 in the court. The sight quickened their 
 steps, and they now flew, rather tnan ran, 
 along the arched passage. In a minute they 
 were on the bridge, which crosses the canal 
 of St. Mark, still flying with all their force. 
 A few mariners were looking from their fel- 
 uccas and gazing in curiosity, but the sight 
 of two terrified females, seeking refuge from 
 a mob, had nothing in itself likely to attract 
 notice. 
 
 At this moment, a dark mass of human 
 bodies appeared advancing along the quay in 
 the opposite direction. Arms glittered in 
 the moonbeams, and the measured. tread of 
 trained men became audible. The Dalmatians 
 were moving down from the arsenal in a body. 
 Adyance and retreat now seemed equally im- 
 possible to the breathless fugitives. As de- 
 cision and self-possession are very different 
 qualities, Donna Violetta did not understand 
 so readily as the circumstances required, that 
 it was more than probable the hirelingsof the 
 republic would consider the flight perfectly 
 natural, as it had appeared to the curious 
 gazers of the port. 
 
 Terror made them blind, and as shelter 
 was now the sole object of the fugitives, they 
 would probably have sought it in the cham- 
 ber of doom itself, had there been an oppor- 
 tunity. As it was, they turned and entered 
 the first, and indeed the only, gate which of- 
 fered. They were met by a girl, whose anx- 
 ious face betrayed that singular compound of 
 self-devotion and terror, which probably has 
 its rise in the instinct of feminine sympathies. 
 
 “ Here is safety, noble ladies,” said the 
 youthful Venetian, in the soft accent of her 
 
 551 
 
 native islands ; ‘‘ none will dare do you harm 
 within these walls.” 
 
 ‘© Into whose palace have I entered ?” de- 
 manded the half-breathless Violetta. ‘*‘ Ifits 
 owner has a name in Venice, he will not re- 
 fuse hospitality to a daughter of Tiepolo.” 
 
 ‘«<Signora, you are welcome,” returned the 
 gentle girl, courtesying low, and still leading 
 the way deeper within the vast edifice. ‘‘ You 
 bear the name of an illustrious house. 
 
 ‘‘There are few in the republic of note 
 from whom I may not claim, either the kind- 
 ness of ancient and near service, or that of 
 kindred. Dost thou serve a noble master ?” 
 
 ‘The first in Venice, lady.” 
 
 ‘‘Name him, that we may demand his 
 hospitality as befits us.” 
 
 «Saint Mark.” 
 
 Donna Violetta and her governess stopped 
 short. 
 
 ‘Have we unconsciously entered a portal 
 of the palace ?” 
 
 ‘That were impossible, lady, since the 
 canal lies between you and the residence of 
 the Doge. Still is St. Mark master here. 
 I hope you will not esteem your safety less, 
 because it has been obtained in the public 
 prison, and by the aid of its keeper's 
 daughter.” 
 
 The moment for headlong decision was 
 passed, and that of reflection had returned. 
 
 ‘‘How art thou called, child?” asked 
 Donna Florinda, moving ahead of her pupil 
 and taking the discourse up, where in 
 wonder the other had permitted it to pause. 
 ‘We are truly grateful for the readiness 
 with which thou threw open the gate for our 
 admission, in a moment of such alarm—How 
 art thou called ?” 
 
 ‘<Gelsomina,” answered the modest girl. 
 ‘‘T am the keeper’s only child—and when I 
 saw ladies of your honorable condition, flee- 
 ing on the quay, with the Dalmatians march- 
 ing on one side, and a mob shouting on the 
 other, I bethought me that even a prison 
 might be welcome.” 
 
 «Thy goodness of heart did not mislead 
 thee.” | 
 ‘Had I known it was a lady of the Tie- 
 polo, I should have been even more ready ; 
 for there are few of that great name now left 
 to do us honor.” 
 
 Violetta courtesied to the compliment, but 
 
552 WORKS OF FENIMORE, COOPER. 
 
 she seemed uneasy that haste and pride of 
 rank had led her, so indiscreetly, to betray 
 herself. 
 
 ‘‘Canst thou not lead us to some place less 
 public ?” she asked, observing that her con- 
 ductor had stopped in a public corridor to 
 make this explanation. 
 
 ‘Here you will be retired as in your own 
 palaces, great ladies ;” answered Gelsomina, 
 turning into a private passage, and leading 
 the way towards the rooms of her family, 
 from a window of which she had first wit- 
 nessed the embarrassment of her guests. 
 ‘‘None enter here, without cause, but my 
 father and myself; and my father is much 
 occupied with his charge.” 
 
 ‘Hast thou no domestic ?” 
 
 ‘<‘ None, lady. A prison-keeper’s daughter 
 should not be too proud to serve herself.” 
 
 ‘Thou sayest well. One of thy discretion, 
 good Gelsomina, must know it is not seemly 
 for females of condition to be thrown within 
 walls like these, even by accident, and thou 
 wilt do us much favor, by taking more than 
 common means, to be certain that we are un- 
 seen. We give thee much trouble, but it 
 shall not go unrequited. Here is gold.” 
 
 Gelsomina did not answer, but as she stood 
 with her eyes cast to the floor, the color stole 
 to her cheeks, until her usually bloodless face 
 was in a soft glow. 
 
 ‘‘Nay, I have mistaken thy character !” 
 said Donna Florinda, secreting the sequins, 
 and taking the unresisting hand of the 
 silent girl. <‘‘If I have pained thee, by 
 my indiscretion, attribute the offer to our 
 dread of the disgrace of being seen in this 
 place.” } 
 
 The glow deepened, and the lips of the girl 
 quivered. 
 
 “Ts it then a disgrace to be innocently 
 within these walls, lady?” she asked, still 
 with an avertedeye. <‘‘I have long suspected 
 this, but none has ever before said it, in my 
 hearing !” 
 
 ‘‘Holy Maria pardon me! If I have 
 uttered a syllable to pain thee, excellent girl, 
 it has been unwittingly and without inten- 
 tion! ” 
 
 ‘We are poor, lady, and the needy must 
 submit to do that which their wishes might 
 lead them to avoid. J understand your feel- 
 ings, and will make sure of your being secret, 
 
 and Blessed Maria will pardon a greater sin 
 than any you have committed here.” 
 
 While the ladies were wondering, at wit- : 
 
 nessing such proofs of delicacy and feeling 
 in so singular a place, the girl withdrew. 
 
 «‘T had not expected this in a prison !” 
 exclaimed Violetta. 
 
 «© As all is not noble, or just, in a palace, 
 neither is all to be condemned unheard, that 
 we find ina prison. But this is, in sooth, 
 an extraordinary girl for her condition, and 
 we are indebted to blessed St. Theodore 
 (crossing herself), for putting her in our 
 way.” 
 
 ‘‘Can we do better than by making her a 
 confidante and a friend ?” 
 
 The governess was older, and less disposed 
 than her pupil, to confide in appearances. 
 But the more ardent mind and superior rank 
 of the latter had given her an influence that 
 the former did not always successfully resist. 
 Gelsomina returned before there was time to 
 discuss the prudence of what Violetta had 
 proposed. 
 
 “Thou hast a father, Gelsomina?” asked 
 the Venetian heiress, taking the hand of the 
 gentle girl, as she put her question. 
 
 “Holy Maria be praised !—I have still that 
 happiness.” 
 
 “It is a happiness—for surely a father 
 would not have the heart to sell his own child 
 to ambition and mercenary hopes! And thy 
 mother ?” 
 
 “Has long been bed-ridden, lady. I be- 
 lieve we should not have been here, but we 
 have no other place so suitable for her suffer- 
 ings, as this jail.” 
 
 “ Gelsomina, thou art happier than I, even 
 in thy prison. I am fatherless—motherless 
 —I could almost say, friendless.” 4 
 
 ‘¢ And this from a lady of the Tiepolo!” 
 
 « All is not as it seems in this evil world, 
 kind Gelsomina. We have had many doges, 
 but we have had much suffering. Thou may- 
 est have heard that the house of which I come 
 is reduced to a single, youthful girl like thy- 
 self, who has been left in the senate’s charge?” 
 
 “They speak little of these matters, lady, 
 in Venice ; and, of all here, none go so sel- 
 dom intothe square as I. Still have I heard 
 of the beauty and riches of Donna Violetta. 
 The last I hope is true; the first 1 now see 
 is so.” 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 The daughter of Tiepolo colored, in turn, 
 but it was not in resentment. 
 
 -«They have spoken in too much kindness 
 for an orphan,” she answered; ‘‘ though that 
 fatal wealth is perhaps not overestimated. 
 Thou knowest that the state charges itself 
 with the care and establishment of all noble 
 females, whom Providence has left fatherless?” 
 
 «Lady, I did not. It is kind of St. Mark 
 to do it!” 
 
 «Thou wilt think differently, anon. Thou 
 art young, Gelsomina, and hast passed thy 
 time in privacy ?” 
 
 “True, lady. It is seldom I go farther 
 than my mother’s room, or the cell of some 
 suffering prisoner. ” 
 
 Violetta looked toward her governess, with 
 an expression which seemed to say that she an- 
 ticipated her appeal would be made in vain, 
 to one so little exposed to the feelings of the 
 world. 
 
 ‘*«Thou wilt not understand, then, that a 
 noble female may have little inclination to 
 comply with all the senate’s wishes, in dis- 
 posing of her duties and affections ?” 
 
 Gelsomina gazed at the fair speaker, but it 
 was evident that she did not clearly compre- 
 hend the question. Again Violetta looked at 
 the governess as if asking aid. 
 
 “ The duties of our sex are often painful,” 
 said Donna Florinda, understanding the ap- 
 peal with female instinct. ‘‘ Our attach- 
 ments may not always follow the wishes of 
 our friends. We may not choose, but we 
 cannot always obey.” 
 
 ‘‘T have heard that noble ladies are not 
 suffered to see those to whom they are to be 
 wedded, signora, if that is what your eccel- 
 lenza means, and, to me, the custom has al- 
 ways seemed unjust, if not cruel.” ) 
 
 « And are females of thy class permitted to 
 make friends among those who may become 
 dearer at any other day?” asked Violetta. 
 
 *« Lady, we have that much freedom even 
 in the prisons.” 
 
 “Then art thou happier than those of the 
 palaces! I will trust thee, generous girl, for 
 thou canst not be unfaithful to the weakness 
 and wrongs of thy sex.” 
 
 Gelsomina raised a hand, as if to stop the 
 impetuous confidence of her guest, and then 
 she listened intently. 
 
 553 
 
 are many ways of learning secrets within these 
 walls which are still unknown to me. Come 
 deeper into the rooms, noble ladies, for here 
 isa place that I have reason to think is safe, 
 even from listeners.” 
 
 The keeper’s daughter led the way into 
 the little room in which she was accustomed 
 to converse with Jacopo. 
 
 ‘You were saying, lady, that I had a feel- 
 ing for the weakness and helplessness of our 
 sex ; and surely you did me justice.” 
 
 Violetta had leisure to reflect an instant, 
 in passing from one room to the other, and 
 she began her communications with more re- 
 serve. But the sensitive interest that a being 
 of the gentle nature and secluded habits of 
 Gelsomina took in her narrative, won upon 
 her own natural frankness, and, in a manner 
 nearly imperceptible to herself, she made 
 the keeper’s daughter mistress of most of the 
 circumstances under which she had entered 
 the prison. 
 
 The cheek of Gelsomina became colorless 
 as she listened, and when Donna Violetta 
 ceased, every limb of her slight frame trem- 
 bled with interest. 
 
 ‘The senate is a fearful power to resist !”’ 
 she said, speaking so low as hardly to be au- 
 dible. ‘‘Have you reflected, lady, on the 
 chances of what you do?” 
 
 «Tf I have not, it is now too late to change 
 my intentions. I am the wife of the Duke of 
 Sant’? Agata, and can never wed another.” 
 
 “Gesu!—This is true.-—And yet, me- 
 thinks, I would choose to die a nun rather 
 than offend the council! ” 
 
 «Thou knowest not, good girl, to what 
 courage the heart of even a young wife is 
 equal.—Thou art still bound to thy father, in 
 the instruction and habits of childhood, but 
 thou mayest live to know that all thy hopes 
 will centre in another.” 
 
 Gelsomina ceased to tremble, and her mild 
 eye brightened. 
 
 ‘The council is terrible,’ she answered, 
 “ut it must be more terrible to desert one 
 to whom you have vowed duty and love at 
 the altar !” 
 
 “Hast thou the means of concealing us, 
 kind girl,” interrupted Donna Florinda, 
 ‘and canst thou, when this tumult shall be 
 quieted, in any manner help us to farther 
 
 “Few enter here,” she said ; ‘‘ but there | secrecy or flight ?” 
 
554 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “Lady, I have none. 
 and squares of Venice are nearly strangers 
 tome. Santissima Maria! what would I give 
 to know the ways of the town as well as my 
 cousin Annina, who passes, at will, from her 
 father’s shop to the Lido, and from St. 
 Mark’s to the Rialto, as her pleasure suits. 
 I will send for my cousin, who will counsel 
 us in this fearful strait!” 
 
 «Thy cousin!—Hast thou a cousin named 
 Annina ? ” | 
 
 ‘“‘Lady, Annina. 
 child.” 
 
 “The daughter of a wine-seller called Tom- 
 maso Torti ?” 
 
 “To the noble dames of the city take such 
 heed of their inferiors!—This will charm my 
 cousin, for she has great desires to be noted 
 by the great.” 
 
 ‘© And does thy cousin come hither ?” 
 
 “Rarely, lady—We are not of much 
 intimacy. I suppose Annina finds a girl, 
 simple and uninstructed as I, unworthy of 
 her company. But she will not refuse to aid 
 us, in a danger like this. I know she little 
 loves the republic, for we have had words on 
 its acts, and my cousin has been bolder of 
 speech about them, than befits one of her 
 years, in this prison.” 
 
 ‘¢Gelsomina, thy cousin is a secret agent 
 of the police, and unworthy of thy confi- 
 dence r 
 
 “Lady !” 
 
 “T do not speak without reason. Trust 
 me, she is employed in duties that are unbe- 
 coming her sex, and unworthy of thy confi- 
 dence.” 
 
 “ Noble dames, I will not say anything to 
 do displeasure to your high rank and present 
 distress, but you should not urge me to think 
 thus of my mother’s niece. You have been 
 unhappy, and you may have cause to dislike 
 the republic, and you are safe here—but I do 
 
 not desire to hear Annina censured.” 
 
 ' Both Donna Florinda and her less experi- 
 enced pupil knew enough of human nature, 
 to consider this generous incredulity as a 
 favorable sign of the integrity of her who 
 manifested it, and they wisely contented 
 themselves with stipulating that Annina 
 should, on no account, be made acquainted 
 with their situation. 
 
 My mother’s sister’s 
 
 Even the streets 
 
 their prayers. 
 
 them to the galleys. 
 
 After this understand- 
 ing, the three discussed, more leisurely, the 
 
 prospect of the fugitives being able to quit 
 the place, when ready, without detection. 
 
 At the suggestion of the governess, a servi- 
 tor of the prison was sent out by Gelsomina, 
 to observe the state of the square. He was 
 particularly charged, though in a manner to 
 avoid suspicion, to search for a Carmelite of 
 the order of the bare-footed friars. On his 
 return, the menial reported that the mob 
 had quitted the court of the palace, and was 
 gone to the cathedral, with the body of the 
 fisherman who had so unexpectedly gained 
 the prize in the regatta of the preceding 
 day. 
 
 “Repeat your aves and go to sleep, Bella 
 Gelsomina,” concluded the sub-keeper, “for 
 the fishermen have left off shouting to say 
 Per Diana! 
 and bare-legged rascals are as impudent as if 
 St. Mark were their inheritance! The noble 
 
 patricians should give them a lesson in mod- 
 
 esty, by sending every tenth knave among 
 Miscreants! to disturb 
 the quiet of an orderly town with their 
 vulgar complaints !” 
 
 “ But thou hast said nothing of the friar; 
 is he with the rioters ? ” 
 
 «There is a Carmelite at the altar—but 
 my blood boiled at seeing such vagabonds 
 disturb the peace of respectable persons, and 
 I took little note of his air or years.” 
 
 «‘Then thou failedst to do the errand on 
 which I sent thee. It is now too late to 
 repair thy fault. Thou canst return to thy 
 charge.” 
 
 «“ A million pardons, Bellissima Gelsomina, 
 but indignation is the uppermost feeling, 
 when one in office sees his rights attacked by 
 the multitude. Send me to Corfu, or to 
 Candia, if you please, and I will bring back 
 the color of every stone in their prisons, but 
 do not send me among rebels. My gorge 
 rises at the sight of villany !” 
 
 As the keeper’s daughter withdrew, while 
 her father’s assistant was making this protes- 
 tation of loyalty, the latter was compelled to 
 give vent to the rest of his indignation in a 
 soliloquy. 
 
 One of the tendencies of oppression is to 
 create a scale of tyranny, descending from 
 those who rule a state, to those who domineer 
 over a single individual. He, who has been 
 much accustomed to view men, need not be 
 
 The bare-headed. 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 told that none are so arrogant with their in- 
 feriors as those who are oppressed by their 
 superiors ; for poor human nature has a se- 
 cret longing to revenge itself on the weak 
 for all the injuries it receives from the 
 strong. On the other hand, no class is so 
 willing to render that deference when unex- 
 acted, which isthe proper need of virtue, and 
 experience, and intelligence, as he who knows 
 that he is fortified on every side against in- 
 novations on his natural rights. Thus it is, 
 that there is more security against popular 
 violence and popular insults in these free 
 ‘states, than in any other country on earth, 
 ‘for there is scarcely a citizen so debased as 
 ‘not to feel that, in assuming the appearance 
 of a wish to revenge the chances of fortune, 
 he is making an undue admission of infer- 
 | ionity 
 Though the torrent may be pent and 
 /dammed by art, it is with the constant hazard 
 of breaking down the unnatural barriers; 
 | ba left to its own course, it will become the 
 tranquil and the deep stream, until it finally 
 ‘throws off its superfluous waters into the 
 rast receptacle of the ocean. 
 
 When Gelsomina returned to her visitors, 
 it was with a report favorable to their tran- 
 quillity. The riot in the court of the palace, 
 and the movement of the Dalmatians, had 
 drawn all eyes in another direction; and al- 
 though some errant gaze might have wit- 
 nessed their entrance into the gate of the 
 prison, it was so natural a circumstance, that 
 no one would suspect females of their appear- 
 ance of remaining there an instant longer 
 than was necessary. The momentary ab- 
 sence of the few servants of the prison, who 
 took little heed of those who entered the 
 open parts of the building, and who had 
 been drawn away by curiosity, completed 
 their security. The humble room they were 
 in was exclusively devoted to the use of their 
 gentle protector, and there was scarcely a 
 possibility of interruption, until the council 
 had obtained the leisure and the means of 
 making use of those terrible means, which 
 rarely left anything it wished to know con- 
 cealed. 
 
 With this explanation Donna Violetta and 
 ‘her eompanion were greatly satisfied. It 
 left them leisure to devise means for their 
 flight, and kindled a hope in the former of 
 
 555 
 
 being speedily restored to Don Camillo, Still 
 there existed the cruel embarrassment of not 
 possessing the means of acquainting the lat- 
 ter with their situation. As the tumult 
 ceased, they resolved to seek a boat, favored 
 by such disguises as the means of Gelsomina 
 could supply, and to row to his palace; but 
 reflection convinced Donna Florinda of the 
 danger of such a step, since the Neapolitan 
 was known to be surrounded by the agents 
 of the police. Accident, which is more ef- 
 fectual than stratagem in defeating intrigues, 
 had thrown them into a place of momentary 
 security, and it would be to lose the vantage- 
 ground of their situation to cast themselves, 
 without the utmost caution, into the hazards 
 of the public canals. 
 
 At length the governess bethought her of 
 turning the services of the gentle creature, 
 who had already shown so much sympathy in 
 their behalf, to account. During the revela- 
 tions of her pupil, the feminine instinct of 
 Donna Florinda had enabled her to discover 
 the secret springs which moved the unprac- 
 tised feelings of their auditor. Gelsomina 
 had listened to the manner in which Don 
 Camillo had thrown himself into the canal to 
 save the life of Violetta, with breathless ad- 
 miration; her countenance was a pure reflec- 
 tion of her thoughts, when the daughter of 
 Tiepolo spoke of the risks he had run to gain 
 her love, and woman glowed in every linea- 
 ment of her mild face, when, the youthful 
 bride touched on the nature of the engross- 
 ing tie which had united them, and which 
 was far too holy to be severed by the senate’s 
 policy. 
 
 “Tf we had the means of getting our posi- 
 tion to the ears of Don Camillo,” said the 
 governess, “all might yet be served ; else will 
 this happy refuge in the prison avail us noth- 
 ing.” 
 
 ‘‘Ts the cavalier of too stout a heart to 
 shrink before those up above?” demanded 
 Gelsomina, 7 
 
 « He would summon the people of his confi- 
 dence, and ere the dawn of day we might 
 still be beyond their power. Those calculat- 
 ing senators will deal with the vows of 
 my pupil, as if they were childish oaths, 
 and set the anger of the Holy See itself 
 at defiance, when there is question of their 
 interest.” 
 
556 
 
 ‘‘But the sacrament of marriage is not of 
 man; that, at least, they will respect !” 
 
 “Believe it not. There is no obligation so 
 solemn as to be respected, when their policy 
 is concerned. What are the wishes of a girl, 
 or what the happiness of a solitary and help- 
 less female, to their fortunes? That my 
 charge is young, is a reason why their wisdom 
 should interfere, though it is none to touch 
 their hearts with the reflection that the mis- 
 ery to which they would condemn her, is to 
 last the longer. They take no account of 
 the solemn obligations of gratitude ; the ties 
 of affection are so many means of working 
 upon the fears of those they rule, but none 
 for forbearance ; and they laugh at the de- 
 votedness of woman’s love, as a folly to 
 amuse their leisure, or to take off the edge of 
 disappointment in graver concerns.” 
 
 ‘‘Can anything be more grave than wed- 
 lock, lady?” 
 
 “To them it is important, as it furnishes 
 the means of perpetuating their honors and 
 their proud names. Beyond this, the coun- 
 cils look little at domestic interests.” 
 
 “They are fathers and husbands !” 
 
 “True, for to be legally the first, they 
 must become the last. Marriage to them is 
 not a tie of sacred and dear affinity, but the 
 means of increasing their riches and of sus- 
 taining their names;” continued the gover- 
 ness, watching the effect of her words on the 
 countenance of the guileless girl. ‘‘ They 
 call marriages of affection children’s games, 
 and they deal with the wishes of their own 
 daughters, as they would traffic with their 
 commodities of commerce. When a state 
 sets up an idol of gold as its god, few will 
 refuse to sacrifice at its altar.” 
 
 “T would I might serve the noble Donna 
 Violetta ! ” 
 
 ‘¢Thou art too young, good Gelsomina, and 
 I fear too little practised in the cunning of 
 Venice.” 
 
 ‘“Doubt me not, lady ; for I can do my 
 duty like another, in a good cause.” 
 
 “Tf it were possible to convey to Don Ca- 
 millo Monforte a knowledge of our situa- 
 tion—but thou art too inexperienced for the 
 service |” 
 
 “Believe it not, signora,” interrupted the 
 generous Gelsomina, whose pride began to 
 stimulate her natural sympathies with one so 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 near her own age, and one too, like herself, 
 subject to that passion which engrosses a 
 female heart. ‘‘I may be apter than my 
 appearance would give reason to think.” 
 
 ‘*J will trust thee, kind girl, and if the 
 Sainted Virgin protects us, thy fortunes shall 
 not be forgotten !” 
 
 The pious Gelsomina crossed herself, and, 
 first acquainting her companions with her 
 intentions, she went within to prepare her- 
 self, while Donna Florinda penned a note, in 
 terms so guarded as to, defy detection in the 
 event of accident, but which might suffice to 
 let the lord of St. Agata understand their 
 present situation. 
 
 In a few minutes the keeper’s daughter 
 reappeared. Her ordinary attire, which was 
 that of a modest Venetian maiden of humble 
 condition, needed no concealment; and the 
 mask, an article of dress which none in that 
 city were without, effectually disguised her 
 features. She then received the note, with 
 the name of the street, and the palace she 
 was to seek, a description of the person of 
 the Neapolitan, with often-repeated cautions 
 to be wary, and departed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Which is the wiser here ?—Justice or iniquity ? 
 
 —Measure for Measure. 
 
 In the constant struggle between the inno- 
 cent and the artful, the latter have the ad- 
 vantage, so long as they confine themselves 
 to familiar interests. But the moment the 
 former conquer their disgust for the study of 
 vice, and throw themselves upon the protec- 
 tion of their own high principles, they are 
 far more effectually concealed from the cal- 
 culations of their adversaries than if they 
 practised the most refined of their subtle 
 expedients. Nature has given to every man 
 enough of frailty to enable him to estimate 
 the workings of selfishness and fraud, but 
 her truly privileged are those who can shroud 
 their motives and intentions in a degree of 
 justice and disinterestedness which surpasses 
 the calculations of the designing. Millions 
 may bow to the commands of a conventional 
 right, but few, indeed, are they who know 
 how to choose in novel and difficult cases. 
 There is often a mystery in virtue. While 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 the cunning of vice is no more than a pitiful 
 imitation of that art which endeavors to cloak 
 its workings in the thin veil of deception, 
 ‘the other, in some degree, resembles the sub- 
 limity of infallible truth. 
 
 Thus men, too much practised in the in- 
 terests of life, constantly overreach them- 
 selves, when brought in contact with the 
 simple and intelligent; and the experience of 
 every day proves, that, as there is no fame 
 permanent which is not founded on virtue, 
 so there is no policy secure which is not 
 bottomed on the good of the whole. Vulgar 
 minds may control the concerns of a com- 
 munity, so long as they are limited to vulgar 
 views; but woe to the people who confide, on 
 great emergencies, in any but the honest, the 
 noble, the wise, and the philanthropic; for 
 there is no security for success when the 
 meanly artful control the occasional and 
 providential events which regenerate a nation. 
 
 More than half the misery which has de- 
 feated, as well as disgraced, civilization, pro- 
 ceeds from neglecting to use those great men 
 that are always created by great occasions. 
 ™ Treating, as we are, of the vices of the 
 ‘Venetian system, our pen has run truant 
 ‘with its subject, since the application of the 
 moral must be made on the familiar scale 
 jsuited to the incidents of our story. It has 
 ‘already been seen that Gelsomina was in- 
 trusted with certain important keys of the 
 prison. For this trust there had been suffi- 
 cient motive with the wily guardians of the 
 jail, who had made their calculations on her 
 serving their particular orders, without ever 
 suspecting that she was capable of so far 
 listening to the promptings of a generous 
 temper, as might induce her to use them in 
 any manner prejudicial to their own views. 
 The service to which they were now to be 
 applied, proved that the keepers, one of 
 whom was her own father, had not fully 
 known how to estimate the powers of the 
 innocent and simple. 
 
 Provided with the keys in question, Gelso- 
 mina took a lamp, and passed upward from 
 the mezzinino in which she dwelt, to the 
 first floor of the edifice, instead of descending 
 to its court. Door was opened after door, 
 and many a gloomy corridor was passed by 
 the gentle girl, with the confidence of one 
 who knew her motive to be good. She soon 
 
 557 
 
 crossed the Bridge of Sighs, fearless of inter- 
 ruption in that unfrequented gallery, and 
 entered the palace. Here she made her way 
 to a door that opened on the common and 
 public vomitories of the structure. Moving 
 with sufficient care to make impunity from 
 detection sure, she extinguished the light, 
 and applied the key. At the next instant 
 she was on the vast and gloomy stairway. It 
 required but a moment to descend it, and to 
 reach the covered gallery which surrounded 
 the court. A halberdier was within a few 
 feet of her. He looked at the unknown 
 female with interest; but as it was not his 
 business to question those who issued from 
 the building, nothing was said. Gelsomina 
 walked on. A half-repenting, but vindic- 
 tive being, was dropping an accusation in the 
 lion’s mouth. Gelsomina stopped involun- 
 tarily, until the secret accuser had done his 
 treacherous work and departed. Then, when 
 she was about to proceed, she saw that the 
 
 halberdier, at the head of the Giant’s stair- 
 
 way, was smiling at her indecision like one 
 accustomed to such scenes. 
 
 “Tg there danger in quitting the palace?” 
 she asked of the rough mountaineer. 
 “ Corpo di Bacco! There might have been, 
 an hour since, Bella Donna; but the rioters 
 are muzzled, and at their prayers!” 
 Gelsomina hesitated no longer. She de- 
 scended the well-known flight, down which 
 the head of Faliero had rolled, and was soon 
 beneath the arch of the gate. Here the timid 
 and unpractised girl again stopped, for she 
 could not venture into the square without 
 assuring herself, like a deer about to quit 
 its cover, of the tranquillity of the place, 
 into which she was to enter. 
 The agents of the police had been too much 
 alarmed by the rising of the fishermen, not 
 to call their usual ingenuity and finesse into 
 play, the moment the disturbance was ap- 
 peased. Money had been given to the mounte- 
 banks and ballad-singers to induce them to 
 reappear, and groups of hirelings, some in 
 masks and others without concealment, were 
 ostentatiously assembled in different parts of 
 the piazza. In short, those usual expedients 
 were resorted to, which are constantly used 
 to restore the confidence of a people, in those 
 countries in which civilization is so new, that 
 they are not yet considered sufficiently ad- 
 
558 
 
 vanced to be the guardians of their own 
 security. There are few artifices so shallow 
 that many will not be their dupes. The 
 
 idler, the curious, the really discontented, the. 
 
 factious, the designing, with a suitable mix- 
 ture of the unthinking and of those who 
 only live for the pleasure of the passing hour, 
 a class not the least insignificant for numbers, 
 had lent themselves to the views of the police ; 
 and when Gelsomina was ready to enter the 
 Piazzetta, she found both the squares partially 
 filled. A few excited fishermen clustered 
 about the doors of the cathedral, like bees 
 swarming before their hive; but, on that 
 side, there was no very visible cause of alarm. 
 Unaccustomed as she was to scenes like that 
 before her, the first glance assured the gentle 
 girl of the real privacy which so singularly 
 distinguishes the solitude of a crowd. Gather- 
 ing her simple mantle more closely about 
 her form, and settling her mask with care, 
 she moved with a swift step into the centre 
 of the piazza. 
 
 We shall not detail the progress of our 
 heroine, as, avoiding the commonplace gal- 
 lantry that assailed and offended her ear, she 
 went her way, on her errand of kindness. 
 Young, active, and impelled by her inten- 
 tions, the square was soon passed, and she 
 reached the place of San Nico. Here was 
 one of the landings of the public gondolas. 
 But, at the moment, there was no boat in 
 waiting, for cuxiosity or fear had induced the 
 men to quit their usual stand. Gelsomina 
 had ascended the bridge, and was on the 
 crown of its arch, when a gondolier came 
 sweeping lazily in from the direction of the 
 Grand Canal. Her hesitation and doubting 
 manner attracted his attention, and the man 
 made the customary sign, which conveyed the 
 offer of his services. As she was nearly a 
 stranger to the streets of Venice, labyrinths, 
 that offer greater embarrassment to~the-un- 
 initiated, than perhaps the passages of any 
 other town of its size, she gladly availed her- 
 self of the offer. ‘To descend to the steps, to 
 leap into the boat, to utter the word “ Rialto,” 
 and to conceal herself in the pavilion, was 
 the business of a minute. The boat was in- 
 stantly in motion. 
 
 Gelsomina now believed herself secure of 
 effecting her purpose, since there was little.to 
 apprehend from the knowledge, or the de- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 signs, of acommon boatman. He could not 
 know her object, and it was his interest to 
 carry her, in safety, to the place she had com- 
 manded. But so important was success, that 
 she could not feel secure of attaining it, while 
 it was still unaccomplished. She soon sum- 
 moned sufficient resolution to look out at the 
 palaces and boats as they were passing, and 
 she felt the refreshing air of the canal revive 
 her courage. Then turning, with sensitive dis- 
 trust, to examine the countenance of the gon- 
 dolier, she saw that his features were con- 
 cealed beneath a mask that. was so well de- 
 signed, as not to be perceptible toa casual 
 observer by moonlight. 
 
 Though it was common, on occasions, for 
 the servants of the great, it was not usual for 
 the public gondoliers, to be disguised. The 
 circumstance itself was one justly to exeite 
 shght apprehension, though, on second 
 thoughts, Gelsomina saw no more in it, than 
 a return from some expedition of pleasure, or 
 some serenade, perhaps, in which the eaution 
 of a lover had compelled his followers to re- 
 sort to this species of concealment. 
 
 “Shall I put you on the public quay, 
 signora,’ demanded the gondolier, “or 
 shall I see you to the gate of your own 
 palace ?” 
 
 The heart of Gelsomina beat high. She 
 liked the tone of the voice, thongh it was 
 necessarily smothered by the mask, but she 
 was little accustomed to act in the affairs of 
 others, and less still in any of so great inter- 
 est, that the sounds caused her to tremble 
 like one less worthily employed. 
 
 “Dost thou know the palace of a certain 
 Don Camillo Monforte, a lord of Calabria, 
 who dwells, here, in Venice ?” she asked, 
 after amoment’s pause. ‘The gondolier sens- 
 ibly betrayed surprise, by the manner in 
 which he started at the question. _ 
 
 “ Would you be rowed there, lady? ” 
 
 **Tf thou art certain of knowing the pal- 
 lazzo.” 
 
 The water stirred, and the gondola glided 
 between high walls. Gelsomina knew, by the 
 sound, that they were in one of the smaller 
 canals, and she augured well of the boatman’s 
 knowledge of the town. They soon stopped 
 by the side of a water-gate, and the man ap- 
 peared on the step, holding an arm, to aid 
 her in ascending, after the manner of people 
 
 ‘ 
 1 ge 2 PEI pt 
 
 : 
 
 ae Pe 
 
 >, om 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 of his craft. Gelsomina bade him wait her 
 return, and proceeded. 
 
 There was a marked derangement in the 
 household of Don Camillo, that one more 
 practised than‘ our heroine would have noted. 
 The servants seemed undecided, in the man- 
 ner of performing the most ordinary duties ; 
 their looks wandered distrustfully from one 
 to the other, and when their half-frightened 
 visitor entered the vestibule, though all arose, 
 none advanced to meet her. A female masked 
 was not a rare sight, in Venice, for few of 
 that sex went upon the canals, without using 
 the customary means of concealment; but it 
 would seem, by their hesitating manner, that 
 the menials of Don Camillo did not view the 
 entrance of her, who now appeared, with the 
 usual indifference. 
 
 ‘‘T am in the dwelling of the Duke of St. 
 Agata, a signor of Calabria ?” demanded Gel- 
 somina, who saw the necessity of being firm. 
 
 “ Signora, sl 3 
 
 ‘Tg your lord in the palace?” 
 
 “Signora, he is—and he is not. 
 
 honor ?” 
 
 “Tf he be not at home, it will not be neces- 
 sary to tell him anything. If he is, I could 
 wish to see him.” 
 
 The domestics, of whom there were sev- 
 eral, put their heads together, and seemed 
 to dispute on the propriety of receiving the 
 visit. At this instant, a gondolier, in a 
 flowered jacket, entered the vestibule. Gel- 
 somina took courage at his good-natured eye 
 and frank manner. 
 
 ««Do you serve Don Camillo Monforte ?” 
 she asked, as he passed her, on his way to 
 the canal. 
 
 “With the oar, Bellissima Donna,” an- 
 swered Gino, touching his cap, though scarce 
 looking aside at the question. 
 
 ‘¢And could he be told that a female 
 wishes earnestly to speak to him in private? 
 —A female.”’ 
 
 “ Qanta Maria! Bella Donna, there is no 
 end to females who come on these errands, in 
 Venice. You might better pay avisit to the 
 statue of San Teodore, in the piazza, than 
 see my master at this moment; the stone 
 will give you the better reception.” 
 
 «¢ And this he commands you to tell all of 
 
 my sex who come !” 
 
 What 
 beautiful lady shall I tell him does him this 
 
 559 
 
 « Diavolo!—Lady, you-are particular in 
 your questions. Perhaps my master might, 
 on a strait, receive one of the sex, I could 
 name, but on the honor of a gondolier, he is 
 not the most gallant cavalier of Venice, just 
 at this moment.” 
 
 “Tf there is one to whom he would pay 
 this deference, you are bold for a servitor. 
 How know you I am not that one? z 
 
 Gino started. He examined the figure of 
 the applicant, and lifting his cap he bowed. 
 
 «Lady, I do not know anything about it,” 
 he said; “ you may be his highness the Doge, 
 or the ambassador of the emperor. I pretend. 
 to know nothing in Venice, of late is 
 
 The words of Gino were cut short by a tap 
 on the shoulder from the public gondolier, 
 who had hastily entered the vestibule. The 
 man whispered in the ear of Don Camillo’s 
 servitor. 
 
 ‘«‘ This is not a moment to refuse any,” he 
 said—‘* Let the stranger go up.” 
 
 Gino hesitated no longer. With the decis- 
 ion of a favored menial he pushed the groom 
 of the chambers aside, and offered to con- 
 duct Gelsomina, himself, to the presence of 
 his master. As they ascended the stairs, 
 three of the inferior servants disappeared. 
 
 The palace of Don Camillo had an air of 
 more than Venetian gloom. The rooms were 
 dimly lighted, many of the walls had been 
 stripped of the most precious of their pict- 
 ures, and, in other respects a jealous eye 
 might have detected evidence of a secret in 
 tention on the part of its owner, not to ‘make 
 a permanent residence of the dwelling. But 
 these were particulars that Gelsomina did 
 not note, as she followed Gino through 
 the apartments, into the more private parts 
 of the building. Here the gondolier un- 
 locked a door, and regarding his companion 
 with an air, half-doubting, half-respectful, 
 he made a sign for her to enter. 
 
 “ My master commonly receives the ladies, 
 here,” he said. ‘‘ Enter, excellenza; while I 
 run to tell him of his happiness.” 
 
 Gelsomina did not hesitate, though she 
 felt a violent throb at her heart, when she 
 heard the key.turning in the lock, behind 
 her. She was in an ante-chamber, and, in- 
 ferring from the light which shone through 
 the door of an adjoining room, that she was 
 to proceed, she went on. No sooner had she 
 
560 
 entered the little closet, than she found her- 
 self alone with one of her own sex. 
 
 *¢ Annina !” burst from the lips of the un- 
 practised prison-girl, under the impulse of 
 surprise. 
 
 “ Gelsomina!—The simple, quiet, whisper- 
 ing, modest Gelsomina !” returned the other. 
 
 The words of Annina admitted but of one 
 construction. Wounded, like the bruised 
 sensitive plant, Gelsomina withdrew her 
 mask, for air, actually gasping for breath, be- 
 tween offended pride and wonder. 
 
 “Thou here!” she added, scarce knowing 
 what she uttered. 
 
 ‘‘Thou here!” repeated Annina, with 
 such a laugh as escapes the degraded when 
 they believe the innocent reduced to their 
 own level. 
 
 ‘* Nay—I come on an errand of pity.” 
 
 “Santa Maria! we are both here with the 
 same end !” 
 
 **Annina! I know not what thou would’st 
 say !—This is surely the palace of Don 
 Camillo Monforte !—A noble Neapolitan, who 
 urges claims to the honors of the senate ?” 
 
 “'The gayest—the handsomest—the richest, 
 and the most inconstant cavalier in Venice ! 
 Hadst thou been here a thousand times, thou 
 could’st not be better informed !” 
 
 Gelsomina listened in horror. Her artful 
 cousin, who knew her character to the full 
 extent that vice can comprehend innocence, 
 watched her colorless cheek and contracting 
 eye, with secret triumph. At the first move- 
 ment, she had believed all that she insinu- 
 ated, but second thoughts, and a view of the 
 visible distress of the frightened girl, gave a 
 new direction to her suspicions. 
 
 ‘* But I tell thee nothing new,” she quickly 
 added. ‘I only regret thou should’st find 
 me, where, no doubt, you expect to meet the 
 Duca di Sant’ Agata himself.” 
 
 ‘¢ Annina !—This from thee !” 
 
 ‘*'Thou surely didst not come to this palace 
 to seek thy cousin !” 
 
 Gelsomina had long been familiar with 
 grief, but until this moment she had never 
 felt the deep humiliation of shame. Tears 
 started from her eyes, and she sank back into 
 a seat, in utter inability to stand. 
 
 “T would not distress thee out of bearing,” 
 added the artful daughter of the wine-seller. 
 ‘* But that we are both in the closet of the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 i co cavalier of Venice, is beyond dis- 
 
 pute.” | 
 “T have told thee that pity Hof another 
 
 brought me hither.” 
 
 “Pity for Don Camillo?” 
 
 «‘For a noble lady—a young, a virtuous, 
 and a beautiful wife—a daughter of the Tie- 
 polo—of the Tiepolo, Annina!”, 
 
 ‘* Why should a lady of the Tiepolo employ 
 a girl of the public prisons !7 | 
 
 “Why !—because there has been injustice 
 by those up above. There has been a tumult 
 among the fishermen—and the lady with her 
 governess was liberated by the rioters—and 
 his highness spoke to them in the great 
 court-—and the Dalmatians were on the quay 
 —and the prison was a refuge for ladies of 
 their quality, in a moment of so great terror 
 —and the Holy Church itself has blessed their 
 love fs 
 
 Gelsomina could utter no more, but breath- 
 less with the wish to vindicate herself, and 
 wounded to the soul by the strange embarrass- 
 ment of her situation, she sobbed aloud. In- 
 coherent as had been her language, she had 
 said enough to remove every doubt from the 
 mind of Annina. Privy to the secret mar- 
 riage, to the rising of the fishermen, and to 
 the departure of the ladies, from the convent 
 on a distant island, where they had been car- 
 ried on quitting their own palace, the pre- — 
 ceding night, and whither she had been com- 
 pelled to conduct Don Camillo, who had 
 ascertained the departure of those he sought 
 without discovering their destination, the 
 daughter of the wine-seller readily compre- 
 hended, not only the errand of her cousin, 
 but the precise situation of the fugitives. 
 
 ‘“*And thou believest this fiction, Gelso- 
 mina ?” she said, affecting pity for her 
 cousin’s credulity. ‘‘The characters of thy 
 pretended daughter of Tiepolo and her gover- 
 ness are no secrets to those who frequent the 
 piazza of San Marco.” 
 
 ‘“Hadst thou seen the beauty and inno- 
 cence of the lady, Annina, thou would’st not 
 say this !” 
 
 ‘‘ Blessed San Teodoro! What is more 
 beautiful than vice! *Tis the cheapest arti- 
 fice of the devil to deceive frail sinners, This 
 thou hast heard of thy confessor, Gelsomina, 
 or he is of much lighter discourse than 
 mine.” 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 «‘ But why should a woman of this life enter 
 the prisons ?” 
 
 ‘< They had good reasons to dread the Dal- 
 matians, no doubt. But, it is in my power 
 to tell thee more, of these thou hast enter- 
 tained, with such peril to thine own reputa- 
 tion. There are women in Venice who dis- 
 credit their sex in various ways, and these, 
 more particularly she who calls herself Flo- 
 rinda, is notorious for her agency in robbing 
 St. Mark of his revenue. She has received a 
 largess from the Neapolitan, of wines grown 
 on his Calabrian mountains, and wishing to 
 tamper with my honesty, she offered the 
 liquor to me, expecting one like me to forget 
 my duty, and to aid her in deceiving the 
 republic.” 
 
 <‘Gan this be true, Annina ?” 
 
 «Why should I deceive thee ? Are we not 
 sisters’ children, and though affairs on the 
 Lido keep me much from thy company, is not 
 the love between us natural? I complained 
 to the authorities, and the liquors were seized, 
 and the pretended noble ladies were obliged 
 to hide themselves this very day. *Tis thought 
 they wish to flee the city, with their profligate 
 Neapolitan. Driven to take shelter, they have 
 sent thee to acquaint him with their hiding- 
 place, in order that he may come to their 
 aid.” 
 
 «¢ And why art thou here, Annina ?” 
 
 ‘‘T marvel that thou didst not put the 
 question sooner. Gino, the gondolier of Don 
 Camillo, has long been an unfavorable suitor 
 of mine, and when this Florinda complained 
 of my having, what every honest girl in Ven- 
 ice should do, exposed her fraud to the au- 
 thorities, he advised his master to seize me, 
 partly in revenge, and partly with the vain 
 hope of making me retract the complaint I 
 have made. Thou hast heard of the bold 
 violence of these cavaliers when thwarted in 
 their wills.” 
 
 Annina then related the manner of her 
 seizure, with sufficient exactitude, merely 
 concealing those facts that it was not her in- 
 terest to reveal. 
 
 “But there is a lady of the Tiepolo, 
 Annina!” | 
 
 « As sure as there are cousins like ourselves. 
 Santa Madre di Dio! that women so treach- 
 erous and go bold should have met one of thy 
 innocence! 
 
 It would have been better had | 
 
 561 
 
 they fallen in with me, who am too ignorant 
 for their cunning, blessed St. Anna knows!— 
 but who has not to learn their true charac- 
 ters.” 
 
 «“ They did speak of thee, Annina!” 
 
 The glance, which the wine-seller’s daugh- 
 ter threw at her cousin, was such as the 
 treacherous serpent casts at the bird; but 
 preserving her self-possession, she added— 
 
 “Not to my favor; it would sicken me to 
 hear words of favor from such as they!” 
 
 «They are not thy friends, Annina.”’ 
 
 “Perhaps they told thee, child, that I was 
 in the employment of the council ?” 
 
 ‘Indeed they did.” 
 
 ‘‘No wonder. Your dishonest people can 
 never believe one can do an act of pure con- 
 science. But, here comes the Neapolitan.— 
 Note the libertine, Gelsomina, and thou wilt 
 feel for him the same disgust as I!” 
 
 The door opened and Don Camillo Mon- 
 forte entered. There was an appearance of 
 distrust in his manner, which proved that he 
 did not expect to meet his bride. Gelsomina 
 arose, and, though bewildered by the tale of 
 her cousin, and her own previous impressions, 
 she stood resembling a meek statue of mod- 
 esty, awaiting hisapproach. The Neapolitan 
 was evidently struck by her beauty, and the 
 simplicity of her air, but his brow was fixed, 
 like that of a man who had steeled his feel- 
 ings against deceit. 
 
 «Thou would’st see me?” he said. 
 
 “J had that wish, noble signor, but— 
 Annina a 
 
 ‘‘ Seeing another, thy mind hath changed.” 
 
 ‘< Signor, it has.” | 
 
 Don Camillo looked at her earnestly, and 
 with manly regret. 
 
 «Thou art young for thy vocation—here 
 is gold. Retire as thou camest.—But hold— 
 dost thou know this Annina?” 
 
 «She is my mother’s®sister’s daughter, 
 noble Duca.” 
 
 ‘‘Per Diana! a worthy sisterhood! De- 
 part together, for I have no need of either. 
 But mark me,” and as he spoke, Don Camillo 
 took Annina by the arm, and led her aside, 
 when he continued with a low but menacing 
 voice—‘*Thou seest I am to be feared, as 
 well as thy Councils. Thou canst not cross 
 the threshold of thy father without my knowl- 
 edge. If prudent, thou wilt teach thy tongue 
 
562 
 
 discretion. Do as thou wilt, I fear thee not; 
 but remember, prudence.” 
 
 Annina made a humble reverence, as if in 
 acknowledgment of the wisdom of his ad- 
 vice, and taking the arm of her half-uncon- 
 scious cousin, she again courtesied, and hur- 
 ried from the room. As the presence of 
 their master in his closet was known to them, 
 none of the menials presumed to stop those 
 who issued from the privileged room. Gelso- 
 mina, who was even more impatient than her 
 wily companion to escape from a place she 
 believed polluted, was nearly breathless when 
 she reached the gondola. Its owner was in 
 waiting on the steps, and in a moment the 
 boat whirled away from a spot, which both 
 of those it contained were, though for reasons 
 so very different, glad to quit. 
 
 Gelsomina had forgotten her mask, in her 
 hurry; and the gondola was no sooner in the 
 great canal than she put her face at the win- 
 dow of the pavilion in quest of the evening 
 air. The rays of the moon fell upon her 
 guileless eye, and a cheek that was now 
 glowing, partly with offended pride, , and 
 partly with joy at her escape from a situa- 
 tion she felt to be so degrading. Her fore- 
 head was touched with a finger, and turning 
 she saw the gondolier making a sign of cau- 
 tion. He then slowly lifted his mask. 
 
 “Carlo!” had half burst from her lips, but 
 another sign suppressed the cry. 
 
 Gelsomina withdrew her head, and, after 
 her beating heart had ceased to throb, she 
 bowed her face and murmured thanksgivings, 
 at finding herself, at such a moment, under 
 “the protection of one who possessed all her 
 confidence. 
 
 The gondolier asked no orders for his 
 direction. 'The boat moved on, taking the 
 direction of the port, which appeared per- 
 fectly natural to the two females. 
 
 Annina supposed it was returning to the 
 square, the place she would have sought had 
 she been alone, and Gelsomina, who believed 
 that he whom she called Carlo toiled regu- 
 larly as a gondolier for support, fancied, of 
 course, that he was taking her to her ordi- 
 nary residence. 
 
 But though the innocent can endure the 
 scorn of the world, it is hard indeed to be 
 suspected by those they love. All that 
 Annina had told her of the character of Don 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Camillo and his associates came gradually 
 across the mind of the gentle Gelsomina, and 
 she felt the blood creeping to her temples, as 
 she saw the construction her lover might put 
 on her conduct. A dozen times did the art- 
 less girl satisfy herself with saying inwardly, 
 ‘she knows me and will believe the best,” 
 and as often did her feelings prompt her to 
 tell the truth. Suspense is far more painful, 
 at such moments, than even vindication, 
 which, in itself, is a humiliating duty to the 
 virtuous. Pretending a desire to breathe the 
 air, she left her cousin in the canopy. 
 Annina was not sorry to be alone, for she had 
 need to reflect on all the windings of the sin- 
 uous path on which she had entered. 
 
 Gelsomina succeeded in passing the pavil- 
 ion, and in gaining the side of the gondolier. 
 
 “Carlo!” she said, observing that he con- 
 tinued to row in silence. 
 
 ‘“Gelsomina! ” | 
 
 «Thou hast not questioned me!” 
 
 <‘T know thy treacherous cousin, and can 
 believe thou art her dupe. The moment to 
 learn the truth will come.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou didst not know me, Carlo, when I 
 called thee from the bridge ?” 
 
 “JT did not—any fair that would occupy 
 my time was welcome.” 
 
 “ Why dost thou call Annina treacherous?” 
 
 “Because Venice does not hold a more 
 wily heart, or a falser tongue.” 
 
 Gelsomina remembered the warning of 
 Donna Florinda. Possessed of the advantage 
 of blood, and that reliance which the inex- 
 perienced always place in the integrity of 
 their friends, until exposure comes to destroy 
 the illusion, Annina had found it easy to per- 
 suade her cousin of the unworthiness of her 
 guests. But here was one who had all her 
 sympathies, who openly denounced Annina 
 herself. In such a dilemma the bewildered 
 girl did what nature and her feelings sug- 
 gested. She recounted, in a low but rapid 
 voice, the incidents of the evening, and 
 Annina’s construction of the conduct of the 
 females whom she had left behind in the 
 prison. A 
 
 Jacopo listened so intently that his oar 
 dragged in the water. q 
 
 ‘‘Enough,” he said, when Gelsomina, — 
 blushing with her own earnestness to stand 
 exculpated in his eyes, had done; “I under- | 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 stand it all. Distrust thy cousin, for the 
 senate itself is not more false.” 
 
 The pretended Carlo spoke cautiously, but 
 in a firm voice. Gelsomina took his meaning, 
 though wondering at what she heard, and re- 
 turned to Annina within. The gondola pro- 
 ceeded, as if nothing had occurred. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Enough. 
 I could be merry now; Hubert, I love thee ; 
 Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee ; 
 Remember.—King John. 
 
 JACOPO was deeply practised in the wind- 
 ings of Venetian deceit. He knew how un- 
 ceasingly the eyes of the Councils, through 
 their agents, were on the movements of those 
 in whom they took an interest, and he was 
 far from feeling all the advantage circum- 
 stances had seemingly thrown in his way. 
 Annina was certainly in his power, and it 
 was not possible that she had yet communi- 
 eated the intelligence, derived from Gelso- 
 mina, to any of her employers. Buta gesture, 
 a look in passing the prison-gates, the ap- 
 pearance of duress, or an exclamation, might 
 give the alarm to some one of the thousand 
 spies of the police. The disposal of Annina’s 
 person in some place of safety, therefore, be- 
 came the first and the most material act. 
 To return to the palace of Don Camillo, 
 would be to go into the midst of the hirelings 
 of the senate; and although the Neapolitan, 
 relying on his rank and influence, had pre- 
 ferred this step, when little importance was 
 attached to the detention of the girl, and 
 when all she knew had been revealed, the 
 case was altered, now that she might become 
 the connecting link in the information neces- 
 sary to enable the officers to find the fugi- 
 tives. 
 
 The gondola moved on. Palaceafter palace 
 was passed, and the impatient Annina thrust 
 her head from a window to note its progress. 
 They came among the shipping of the port, 
 and her uneasiness sensibly increased. Mak- 
 ing a pretext similar to that of Gelsomina, 
 the wine-seller’s daughter quitted the pavilion, 
 to steal to the side of the gondolier. 
 
 ‘‘T would be landed quickly at the water- 
 gate of the Doge’s palace,” she said, slapping 
 a piece of silver into the hand of the boatman. 
 
 563 
 
 << You shall be served, Bella Donna. But 
 —Diamine! I marvel that a girl of thy wit 
 should not scent the treasures in yonder fe- 
 lucca !” 
 
 ‘Dost thou mean the Sorrentine ?” 
 
 ‘‘ What other padrone brings as well-fla- 
 vored liquors within the Lido? Quiet thy im- 
 patience toland, daughter of honest old Maso, 
 and traffic with the padrone, for the comfort 
 of us of the canals.” 
 
 “How! Thou knowest me then ?” 
 
 ‘<To be the pretty wine-seller of the Lido. 
 Corpo di Bacco! Thou art as well known as 
 the sea-wall itself, to us gondoliers.” 
 
 ‘Why art thou masked ? thou canst not 
 be Luigi !” 
 
 ‘Tt is little matter whether I am called 
 Luigi, or Enrico, or Giorgio—I am thy cus- 
 tomer, and honor the shortest hair of thy eye- 
 brows. Thou knowest, Annina, that the 
 young patricians have their frolics, and they 
 swear us gondoliers to keep secret till all dan- 
 ger of detection is over ; were any impertinent 
 eyes following me, I might be questioned as 
 to the manner of having passed the earlier 
 hours.” 
 
 “ Methinks it would be better to have given 
 thee gold, and to have sent thee at once to 
 thy home.” 
 
 ‘¢To be followed like a denounced Hebrew 
 to my door. When I have confounded my 
 boat with a thousand others, it will be time 
 to uncover. Wilt thou to the Bella Sorren- 
 tina ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, *tis not necessary to ask, since thou 
 takest the direction of thine own will !” 
 
 The gondolier laughed and nodded his 
 head, as if he would give his companion to 
 understand that he was master of her secret 
 wishes. Annina was hesitating in what man- 
 ner she should make him change his pur- 
 pose, when the gondola touched the felucca’s 
 side. 
 
 ‘«‘ We will go up and speak to the padrone,” 
 whispered Jacopo. 
 
 “Tt is of no avail ; he is without liquors.” 
 
 «Trust him not—I know the man and his 
 pretences.” 
 
 ‘“Thou forgettest my cousin.” 
 
 “She is an innocent and unsuspecting 
 child.” 
 
 Jacopo lifted Annina, as he spoke, on the 
 deck of the Bella Sorrentina, in a manner be- 
 
564 
 
 tween gallantry and force, and leaped after 
 her. Without pausing, or suffering her to 
 rally her thoughts, he led her to the cabin- 
 stairs, which she descended, wondering at his 
 conduct, but determined not to betray her 
 own secret wrongs on the customs to a stran- 
 ger. 
 
 Stefano Milano was asleep, in a sail, on deck. 
 A touch aroused him, and a sign gave him to 
 understand that the imaginary Roderigo stood 
 before him. 
 
 « A thousand pardons, signor,” said the gap- 
 ing mariner ; “is the freight come ?” 
 
 ‘In part only. I have brought thee a cer- 
 tain Annina Torti, the daughter of old Tom- 
 maso Torti, a wine-seller of the Lido.” 
 
 “Santa Madre! does the senate think it 
 necessary to send one like her from the city 
 in secret ?” 
 
 “Tt does—and it lays great stress on her 
 detention. I have come hither with her, 
 without suspicion of my object, and she has 
 been prevailed on to enter thy cabin, under a 
 pretence of, some secret dealings in wines. 
 According to our former understanding, it 
 will be thy business to make sure of her pres- 
 ence.” 
 
 “That is easily done,” returned Stefano, 
 stepping forward and closing the cabin-door, 
 which he secured by a bolt. ‘‘ She is alone, 
 now, with the image of our Lady, and a bet- 
 ter occasion to repeat her aves cannot offer.” 
 
 “This is well, if thou canst keep her so. 
 It is now time to lift thy anchors, and to go 
 beyond the tiers of the vessels with the fe- 
 lucca.” 
 
 ‘«Signor, there wants but five minutes for 
 that duty, since we are ready.” 
 
 «Then perform it, in all speed, for much 
 depends on the management of this delicate 
 duty. I will be with thee, anon. Harkee, 
 Master Stefano; take heed of thy prisoner, 
 for the senate makes great account of her 
 security.” 
 
 The Calabrian made such a gesture, as one 
 initiated uses, when he would express a con- 
 fidence in his own shrewdness. While the 
 pretended Roderigo re-entered his gondola, 
 Stefano began to awaken his people. As the 
 gondola entered the canal of San Marco, the 
 sails of the felucca fell, and the low Calabrian 
 vessel stole along the tiers toward the clear 
 water beyond. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 The boat quickly touched the steps of the 
 water-gate of the palace. Gelsomina entered 
 the arch, and glided up the Giant’s Stair- 
 way, the route by which she had quitted the 
 palace. The halberdier was the same that 
 watched as she went out. He spoke to her, 
 in gallantry, but offered no impediment to 
 her entrance. 
 
 ‘‘Haste, noble ladies, hasten for the love 
 of the Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Gelsomina, 
 as she burst into the room in which Donna 
 Violetta and her companion awaited her 
 appearance. ‘‘I have endangered your 
 liberty by my weakness, and there is not 
 a moment to lose. Follow while you may, 
 nor stop to whisper even a prayer.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou art hurried and breathless,” re- 
 turned Donna Florinda; ‘“‘hast thou seen 
 the Duca di Sant’ Agata ?” 
 
 ‘Nay, question me not, but follow, noble 
 dames.” 
 
 Gelsomina seized the lamp, and casting a 
 glance that appealed strongly to her visitors 
 for tacit compliance, she led the way into 
 the corridors. It is scarcely necessary to say 
 that she was followed. 
 
 The prison was left in safety, the Bridge 
 of Sighs was passed, for it will be remem- 
 bered that Gelsomina was still mistress of 
 the keys, and the party went silently by the 
 great stairs of the palace into the open 
 gallery. No obstruction was offered to their 
 progress, and they all descended to the court, 
 with the quiet demeanor of females who 
 went out on their ordinary affairs. 
 
 Jacopo awaited at the water-gate. In less 
 than a minute he was driving his gondola 
 across the port, following the course of the 
 felucca, whose white sail was visible in the 
 moenlight, now bellying in the breeze, and 
 now flapping as the mariners checked her 
 speed. Gelsomina watched their progress 
 for a moment in breathless interest, and then 
 she crossed the bridge of the quay, and 
 entered the prison by its public gate. 
 
 ‘‘Hast thou made sure of the old Maso’s 
 daughter ?” demanded Jacopo, on reaching 
 the deck of the Bella Sorrentina again. 
 
 ‘‘She is like shifting ballast, Master 
 Roderigo ; first on one side of the cabin, and 
 then on the other; but you see the bolt is 
 undrawn.” ‘thts 
 
 «<?Tig well ; here is more of thy freight— 
 
 ee - 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 thou hast the proper passes for the galley of 
 the guard ?” 
 
 << All is in excellent order, signor; when 
 was Stefano Milano out of rule in a matter 
 of haste ? Diamine! let the breeze come, 
 and though the senate should wish us back 
 again, it might send all its spirri after us 
 in vain.” 3 
 
 << Rxcellent’' Stefano! fill thy sails, then, 
 for our masters watch your movements, and 
 set a value on your diligence.” 
 
 While the Calabrian complied, Jacopo 
 assisted the females to come up out of the 
 gondola. In a moment the heavy yards 
 swung off, wing and wing, and the bubbles 
 that appeared to glance past the sides of the 
 Bella Sorrentina, denoted her speed. 
 
 «‘Thou hast noble ladies in thy passen- 
 gers,” said Jacopo to the padrone, when the 
 latter was released from the active duties of 
 getting his vessel in motion; ‘‘and though 
 policy requires that they should quit the city 
 for a time, thou wilt gain favor by consult- 
 ing their pleasures.” 
 
 ‘‘Doubt me not, Master Roderigo; but 
 thou forgettest that I have not yet received 
 my sailing instructions ; a felucca without a 
 course, is as badly off as an owl in the 
 sun.” 
 
 ‘‘That in good time; there will come an 
 officer of the republic to settle this matter 
 with thee. I would not have these noble 
 ladies know, that one like Annina is to be 
 their fellow-passenger, while they are near 
 the port; for they might complain of dis- 
 respect. Thou understandest, Stefano ?” 
 
 «‘ Cospetto ! am I a fool? a blunderer ? if 
 so, why does the senate employ me ? the girl 
 is out of hearing, and there let her stay. As 
 long as the noble dames are willing to breathe 
 the night-air, they shall have none of her 
 company.” 
 
 “No fear of them. The dwellers of the 
 land little relish the pent air of thy cabin. 
 Thou wilt go without the Lido, Stefano, and 
 await my coming. If thou should’st not 
 see me before the hour of one, bear away 
 for the port of Ancona, where thou wilt get 
 further tidings.” 
 
 Stefano, who had often previously received 
 his instructions from the imaginary Roderi- 
 go, nodded assent, and they parted. It is 
 scarcely necessary to add, that the fugitives 
 
 565 
 
 had been fully instructed in the conduct they 
 were to maintain. 
 
 The gondola of Jacopo never flew faster, 
 than he now urged it towards the land. In 
 the constant passage of the boats, the move- 
 ments of one were not likely to be remarked; 
 and he found, when he reached the quay of 
 the square, that his passing and repassing had 
 not been observed. He boldly unmasked and 
 landed. It was near the hour when he had 
 given Don Camillo a rendezvous in the Piazza, 
 and he walked slowly up the smaller square, 
 towards the appointed place of meeting. 
 
 Jacopo, as has been seen in an earlier 
 chapter, had a practice of walking near the 
 columns of granite in the first hours of the 
 night. It was the vulgar impression that he 
 waited there for custom in his bloody calling, 
 as men of more innocent lives take their 
 stands in places of mark. When seen on his 
 customary stand, he was avoided by all who 
 were chary of their character, or scrupulous 
 of appearances. 
 
 The persecuted and yet singularly tolerated 
 Bravo was slowly pacing the flags on his way 
 to the appointed place, unwilling to antici- 
 pate the moment, when a laquais thrust a 
 paper into his hand, and disappeared as fast 
 as legs would carry him. It has been seen 
 that Jacopo could not read, for that was an 
 age when men of his class were studiously 
 kept in ignorance. He turned to the first 
 passenger who had the appearance of being 
 likely to satisfy his wishes, and desired him 
 to do the office of interpreter. 
 
 He had addressed an honest shopkeeper of 
 a distant quarter. The man took the scroll, 
 and good-naturedly commenced reading its 
 contents aloud. “I am called away, and 
 cannot meet thee, Jacopo!” At the name of 
 Jacopo, the tradesman dropped the paper 
 and fled. 
 
 The Bravo walked slowly back again, to- 
 wards the quay, ruminating on the awkward 
 accident which had crossed his plans; his el- 
 bow was touched, and a masker confronted 
 him when he turned. 
 
 “Thou art Jacopo Frontoni?” said the 
 stranger. 
 
 « None else.” 
 
 “Thou hast a hand to serve an employer, 
 faithfully ?” 
 
 “‘T keep my faith.” 
 
566 
 
 “°Tis well,—thou wilt find a hundred se- 
 quins in this sack.” 
 
 ‘Whose life is set against this gold?” 
 asked Jacopo, in an undertone. 
 
 ‘Don Camillo Monforte.” 
 
 “* Don Camillo Monforte! ” 
 
 “The same; dost thou know the rich 
 noble?” 
 
 ‘“You have well described him, signor. 
 He would pay his barber this for letting 
 
 lood.” 
 
 “ Do thy job thoroughly and the price shall 
 be doubled.” 
 
 “T want the security of a name. 
 you not, signor.” 
 
 The stranger looked cautiously around him, 
 and raising his mask for an instant, he 
 showed the countenance of Giacomo Gra- 
 denigo. 
 
 ‘Is the pledge sufficient ? ” 
 
 “Signor, it is. When must this deed be 
 done?” 
 
 ‘‘ This night.—Nay, this hour, even.” 
 
 ‘« Shall I strike a noble of his rank in his 
 palace—in his very pleasures ?” 
 
 “Come hither, Jacopo, and thou 
 know more. Hast thou a mask ?” 
 
 The Bravo signified his assent. 
 
 “Then keep thy face behind a cloud, for it 
 is not in favor here, and seek thy boat. I 
 will join thee.” 
 
 The young patrician, whose form was effect- 
 ually concealed by his attire, quitted his 
 companion, with a view of rejoining him 
 anew, where his person should not be known. 
 Jacopo forced his boat from among the crowd 
 at the quay, and having entered the open 
 space, between the tiers, he lay on his oar, 
 well knowing that he was watched, and that 
 he would soon be followed. His conjecture 
 was right, for in a few moments a gondola 
 pulled swiftly to the side of his own, and two 
 men inmasks passed from the strange boat 
 into that of the Bravo, without speaking. 
 
 “To the Lido,” said a voice, which Jacopo 
 knew to be that of his new employer. 
 
 He was obeyed, the boat of Giacomo Gra- 
 denigo following at a little distance. When 
 they were without the tiers, and consequently 
 beyond the danger of being overheard, the 
 two passengers came out of the pavilion, 
 and made a sign to the Bravo to cease rowing. 
 
 “Thou wilt accept the service, Jacopo 
 
 I know 
 
 shalt 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Frontoni ?” demanded the profligate heir of 
 the old senator. 
 
 _ “Shall I strike the noble in his pleasures, 
 signor ?” 
 
 ‘‘It is not necessary. We have found 
 means to lure him from his palace, and he is 
 now in thy power, with no other hope than 
 that which may come from his single arm 
 and courage. Wilt thou take the service ?” 
 
 ‘‘Gladly, signor.—It is my humor to en- 
 counter the brave.” 
 
 ‘* Thou wilt be gratified. The Neapolitan 
 has thwarted me in my—shall I call it love, 
 Hosea ; or hast thou a better name ?” 
 
 ‘Just Daniel! Signor Giacomo, you have 
 no respect for reputations and surety! I see 
 
 no necessity for a home thrust, Master — 
 
 Jacopo ; but a smart wound, that may put 
 matrimony out of the head of the Duca for a 
 time at least, and penitence into its place, 
 would be better ? 
 
 ‘‘Strike to the heart!” interrupted Gia- 
 como. “It is the certainty of thy blow which 
 has caused me to seek thee.” 
 
 ‘‘This is usurious vengeance, Signor Gia- 
 como,” returned the less resolute Jew. 
 “<< will be more than sufficient for our pur- 
 poses, if we cause the Neapolitan to keep 
 house for a month.” 
 
 ‘*Send him to his grave. Harkee, Jacopo, 
 a hundred for thy blow—a second for insur- 
 
 ance of its depth—a third if the body shall 
 
 be buried in the Orfano, so that the water 
 will never give back the secret.” — 
 
 ‘Tf the two first must be performed, the 
 last will be prudent caution,” muttered the 
 Jew, who was a wary villain, and who greatly 
 preferred such secondary expedients, as might 
 lighten the load on his conscience. ‘* You 
 will not trust, young signor, to a smart 
 wound ?” 
 
 “Not a sequin. *Twill be heating the 
 fancy of the girl with hopes and pity. Dost 
 thou accept the terms, Jacopo ?” 
 
 “I do.” 
 
 ‘‘Then row to the Lido. Among the 
 graves of Hosea’s people—why dost thou pull 
 at my skirts, Jew? would’st thou hope to 
 deceive a man of this character with a flimsy 
 lie?—among the graves of Hosea’s people thou 
 wilt meet Don Camillo within the hour. 
 
 He 
 is deluded by a pretended letter from the — 
 lady of our common pursuit, and will be 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 alone, in the hopes of flight; I trust to 
 thee to hasten the latter, so far as the Nea- 
 politan is concerned. Dost take my mean- 
 que fe? 
 
 «Signor, it is plain.” 
 
 «Tig enough. Thou knowest me, and 
 canst take the steps necessary for thy reward, 
 as thou shalt serve me. Hosea, our affair is 
 ended.” 
 
 Giacomo Gradenigo made a sign for his 
 gondola to approach, and dropping a sack 
 which contained the retainer in this bloody 
 business, he passed into it, with the indiffer- 
 ence of one who had been accustomed to con- 
 
 - sider such means of attaining his objects law- 
 
 ful. Not so Hosea—he was a rogue, rather 
 than a villain. The preservation of his 
 money, with the temptation of a large sum 
 which had been promised him, by both father 
 and son, in the event of the latter’s success 
 with Violetta, were irresistible temptations to 
 one who had lived contemned by those around 
 him, and he found his solace for the ruthless 
 attempt in the acquisition of those means of 
 enjoyment which are sought equally by 
 Christian and Jew. Still his blood curdled, 
 at the extremity to which Giacomo would 
 push the affair, and he lingered to utter a 
 parting word to the Bravo. 
 
 «Thou art said to carry a sure stiletto, 
 honest Jacopo,” he whispered. ‘‘ A hand of 
 thy practice must know how to maim, as well 
 as to slay.—Strike the Neapolitan smartly, 
 but spare his life. Even the bearer of a pub- 
 lic dagger like thine, may not fare the worse, 
 at the coming of Shiloh, for having been ten- 
 der of his strength, on occasion.” 
 
 « Thou forgettest the gold, Hosea!” 
 
 « Wather Abraham ! what a memory am I 
 getting, in my years! ‘Thou sayest truth, 
 mindful Jacopo ; the gold shall be forthcom- 
 ing, in ahy event—always provided that the 
 affair is so managed as to leave my young 
 friend a successful adventurer with the heir- 
 ess.” 
 
 Jacopo made an impatient gesture, for at 
 that moment he saw a gondolier pulling 
 rapidly towards a private part of the Lido. 
 The Hebrew joined his companion, and the 
 boat of the Bravo darted ahead. It was not 
 long ere it lay on the strand of the Lido. The 
 steps of Jacopo were rapid as he moved to- 
 wards those proscribed graves, among which 
 
 567 
 
 he had made his confession to the very man 
 he was now seut to slay. 
 
 «¢ Art thou sent to meet me ?” demanded 
 one, who started from behind a rising in the 
 sands, but who took the precaution to bare 
 his rapier as he appeared. 
 
 “ Signor Duca, I am,” returned the Bravo, 
 unmasking. 
 
 « Jacopo !—This is even better than I had 
 hoped! Hast thou tidings from my bride?” 
 
 “Follow, Don Camillo, and you shall 
 quickly meet her.” 
 
 Words were unnecessary to’persuade, when 
 there was such a promise. They were both 
 in the gondola of Jacopo, and on their way 
 to one of the passages through the Lido, 
 which conducts to the gulf, before the Bravo 
 commenced his explanation. This, how- 
 ever, was quickly made, not forgetting the 
 design of Giacomo Gradenigo on the life of 
 his auditor. 
 
 The felucca, which had been previously pro- 
 vided with the necessary pass, by the agents 
 of the police, itself, had quitted the port 
 under easy sail, by the very inlet through 
 which the gondola made its way into tlie 
 Adriatic. The water was smooth, the breeze 
 fresh from the land, and in short all things 
 were favorable to the fugitives. Donna Vio- 
 letta and her governess were leaning against 
 a mast, watching with impatient eyes the 
 distant domes and the midnight beauty of 
 Venice. Occasionally, strains of music came 
 to their ears from the canals, and then a 
 touch of natural melancholy crossed the 
 feelings of the former, as she feared they 
 might be the last sounds of that nature she 
 should ever hear from her native town. But 
 unalloyed pleasure drove every reeret from 
 her mind when Don Camillo leaped from 
 the gondola, and folded her in triumph to 
 his heart. 
 
 There was little difficulty in persuading 
 Stefano Milano to abandon, forever, the ser- 
 vice of the senate, for that of his feudal lord. 
 The promises and commands of the latter 
 were sufficient of themselves to reconcile him 
 to the change, and all were convinced there 
 was no time to loge. The felucca soon spread 
 her canvas to the wind, and slid away from 
 the beach. Jacopo permitted his gondola to 
 be towed a league to sea, before he prepared 
 to re-enter it. 
 
063 
 
 “You will steer for Ancona, Signor Don 
 Camillo,” said the Bravo, leaning on the 
 felucca’s side, still unwilling to depart, “and 
 throw yourself, at once, under the protection 
 of the Cardinal Secretary. If Stefano keep 
 the sea, he may chance meet the galleys of 
 the senate.” 
 
 “ Distrust us not—but thou, my excellent 
 Jacopo—what wilt thou become, in their 
 hands ?” 
 
 “Fear not for me, signor. God disposes 
 of all, as he sees fit. I have told your 
 eccellenza that I cannot yet quit Venice. If 
 fortune favor me, I may still see your stout 
 Castle of Sant’ Agata.” 
 
 “ And none will be more welcome, within 
 its secure walls; I have much fear for thee, 
 Jacopo !” 
 
 ‘Signor, think not of it. I am used to 
 danger—and to misery—and to hopelessness. 
 I have known a pleasure, this night, in wit- 
 nessing the happiness of two young hearts, 
 that God, in His anger, has long denied me. 
 Lady, the Saints keep you, and God, who is 
 above all, shield you from harm !” 
 
 He kissed the hand of Donna Violetta, 
 who, half ignorant still of his services, lis- 
 tened to his words, in wonder. 
 
 “Ton Camillo Monforte,” he continued, 
 “distrust Venice to your dying day. Let 
 no promises—no hopes—no desire of increas- 
 ing your honors, or your riches, ever tempt 
 you to put yourself in her power. None 
 know the falsehood of the state, better than 
 I, and with my parting words I warn you to 
 be wary !” 
 
 ‘‘'Thou speakest as if we were to meet no 
 more, worthy Jacopo !” 
 
 The Bravo turned, and the action brought 
 his features tothe moon. There wasa melan- 
 choly smile, in which deep satisfaction at 
 the success of the lovers was mingled with 
 serious forebodings for himself. 
 
 ‘“We are certain only of the past,” he 
 said, in a low voice. 
 
 Touching the hand of Don Camillo, he 
 kissed his own and leaped hastily into his 
 gondola. The fast was thrown loose, and 
 the felucca glided away, leaving this extraor- 
 dinary being, alone, in the waters. The 
 Neapolitan ran to the taffrail, and the last he 
 saw of Jacopo, the Bravo was rowing leisurely 
 back towards that scene of violence and decep- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tion, from which he himself was so glad to 
 have escaped. ; 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 
 But rusted with a vile repose, 
 For they have been a dungeon’s spoil, 
 And mine hath been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann’d and barred—forbidden fare. 
 —Prisoner of Chillon. 
 
 WHEN the day dawned on the following 
 morning, the square of St. Mark was empty. 
 The priests still chanted their prayers for the 
 dead, near the body of old Antonio, and a 
 few fishermen still lingered in and near the 
 cathedral, but half persuaded of the manner 
 in which their companion had come to his 
 end. But, as was usual at that hour of the 
 day, the city appeared tranquil, for though a 
 slight alarm had passed through the canals, 
 at the movement of the rioters, it had sub- 
 sided in that specious and distrustful quiet, 
 which is, more or less, the unavoidable con- 
 sequence of a system that is not substantially 
 based on the willing support of the mass. 
 
 Jacopo was again in the attic of the Doge’s 
 palace, accompanied by the gentle Gelsomina. 
 As they threaded the windings of the build- 
 ing, he recounted to the eager ear of his com- 
 panion, all the details connected with the es- 
 cape of the lovers; omitting, as a matter of 
 prudence, the attempt of Giacomo Gradenigo 
 on the life of Don Camillo. The unpractised 
 and single-hearted girl heard him in breath- 
 less attention, the color of her cheek, and the 
 changeful eye, betraying the force of her 
 sympathies, at each turn in their. hazardous 
 adventure. 
 
 “ And dost thou think they can yet escape 
 from those up above?” murmured Gelso- 
 mina, for few in Venice would trust their 
 voices, by putting such a question aloud. 
 “Thou knowest the republic hath at all times 
 its galleys in the Adriatic! ” 
 
 «“ We have had thought of that, and the 
 Calabrian is advised to steer for the mole of 
 Ancona. Once within the States of the 
 Church, the influence of Don Camillo and 
 the rights of his noble wife will protect them. 
 Is there a place here, whence we can look 
 out upon the sea?” 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 Gelsomina led the Bravo into an empty 
 room of the attic which commanded a view 
 of the port, the Lido, and the waste of water 
 beyond.- The breeze came in strong currents 
 over the roofs of the town, and causing the 
 masts of the port to rock, it lighted on the 
 Lagunes, without the tiers of the shipping. 
 From this point to the barrier of sand, it was 
 apparent, by the stooping sails and the strug- 
 gles of the gondoliers who pulled toward the 
 quay, that the air was swift. Without the 
 Lido itself, the element was shadowed and 
 fitful, while farther in the distance, the troub- 
 led waters, with their crests of foam, sufii- 
 ciently proved its power. 
 
 ‘Santa Maria be praised!” exclaimed Ja- 
 copo, when his understanding eye had run 
 over the near and distant view—‘‘they are 
 already far down the coast, and with a wind 
 like this they cannot fail to reach their ha- 
 ven in a few hours.—Let us go to the 
 cell” 
 
 Gelsomina smiled when he assured her of 
 the safety of the fugitives, but her look sad- 
 dened when he changed the discourse. With- 
 out reply, however, she did as he desired, 
 and in a very few moments they were stand- 
 ing by the side of the prisoner’s pallet. The 
 latter did not appear to observe their en- 
 trance, and Jacopo was obliged to announce 
 himself. 
 
 “Father!” he said, with that melancholy 
 pathos which always crept into his voice when 
 he addressed the old man, “it is I.” 
 
 The prisoner turned, and though evidently 
 much enfeebled since the last visit, a wan 
 smile gleamed on his wasted features. 
 
 « And thy mother, boy?” he asked, so ea- 
 gerly as to cause Gelsomina to turn hastily 
 aside. 
 
 «Happy, father—happy !” 
 
 “Happy without me ?” 
 
 ‘‘She is ever with thee in spirit, father. 
 She thinks of thee in her prayers. Thou hast 
 a saint for an intercessor, in my mother— 
 father.” | 
 
 « And thy good sister ?” 
 
 “Happy too—doubt it not, father. They 
 are both patient and resigned.” 
 
 “The senate, boy?” 
 
 “Tg the same: soulless, selfish, and pre- 
 tending !” answered Jacopo sternly; then 
 turning away his face, in bitterness of heart, 
 
 569 
 
 though without permitting the words to be 
 audible, he cursed them. 
 
 ‘‘The noble signori were deceived in be- 
 lieving me concerned in the attempt to rob 
 their revenues,” réturned the patient old 
 man ; ‘one day they will see and acknowl- 
 edge their error.” 
 
 Jacopo made no answer, for, unlettered as 
 he was, and curtailed of that knowledge 
 which should be, and is, bestowed on all, by 
 every paternal government, the natural 
 strength of his mind had enabled him to un- 
 derstand, that a system, which on its face 
 professed to be founded on the superior ac- 
 quirements of a privileged few, would be the 
 least likely to admit the fallacy of its theo. ies, » 
 by confessing it could err. 
 
 «<Thou dost the nobles injustice, son; they 
 are illustrious patricians, and have no motive 
 in oppressing one like me.” 
 
 ‘<None, father, but the necessity of main- 
 taining the severity of the laws, which make 
 them senators and you a prisoner.” 
 
 “Nay, boy; I have known worthy gentlemen 
 of the senate! There was the late Signor 
 Tiepolo, who did me much favor in my youth. 
 But for this false accusation, I might now 
 have been one of the most thriving of my 
 craft in Venice.” 
 
 ‘‘ Father, we will pray for the soul of the 
 Tiepolo.” 
 
 “Ts the senator dead ?” 
 
 « So says a gorgeous tomb in the Church of 
 the Redentore.” 3 
 
 “We must all die at last,” whispered the 
 old man, crossing himself. “Doge as well as 
 patrician—patrician as well as gondolier.— 
 Jaco qf 
 
 ‘‘ Father! ” exclaimed the Bravo so sud- 
 denly as to interrupt the coming word, then 
 kneeling by the pallet of the prisoner he 
 whispered in his ear, ‘‘ thou forgettest there 
 is reason why thou should’st not call me by 
 that name. I have told thee, often, that if 
 thus called, my visits must stop.” 
 
 The prisoner looked bewildered, for the 
 failing of nature rendered that obscure which 
 was once so evident to his mind. After gazing 
 long at his son his, eyes wandered between 
 him and the wall, and he smiled childishly. 
 
 « Wilt thou look, good boy, if the spider ia 
 come back ?” 
 
 Jacopo groaned, but he rose to comply. 
 
570 
 
 “JT do not see it, father; the season is not 
 yet warm.” 
 
 ‘Not warm! my veins feel heated to 
 bursting. Thou forgettest this is the attic, 
 and that these are the leads, and then the 
 suan—oh! the sun! The illustrious senators 
 do not bethink them of the pain of passing 
 the bleak winters below the canals, and the 
 burning summers beneath hot metal.” 
 
 ‘<They think of nothing but their power,” 
 murmured Jacopo—“that which 1s wrong- 
 fully obtained, must be maintained by merci- 
 less injustice—but why should we speak of 
 this, father ; hast thou all thy body needs? ” 
 
 «« Air—son, air !—give me of that air, which 
 God has made for the meanest living thing.” 
 
 The Bravo rushed towards those fissures in 
 the venerable but polluted pile, he had al- 
 ready striven to open, and with frantic force 
 he endeavored to widen them with his hands. 
 The material resisted, though blood flowed 
 from the ends of his fingers, in the desperate 
 effort. 
 
 “The door, Gelsomina, open wide the 
 door!” he cried, turning away from the spot, 
 exhausted with his fruitless exertions. 
 
 “Nay, I do not suffer now, my child—it is 
 when thou hast left me, and when I am alone 
 with my own thoughts, when I see thy weep- 
 ing mother and neglected sister, that I feel 
 most the want of air—are we not in the fer- 
 vid month of August, son?” | 
 
 ‘Father, it is not yet June.” 
 
 - **T shall then have more heat to bear! 
 God’s will be done, and blessed Santa Maria, 
 his mother undefiled, give me strength to 
 endure it.” 
 
 The eye of Jacopo gleamed with a wild- 
 ness scarcely less frightful than the ghastly 
 look of the old man, his chest heaved, his 
 fingers were clenched, and his breathing was 
 audible, 
 
 “No,” he said, in a low, but in so deter- 
 mined a voice, as to prove how fiercely his reso- 
 lution was set, ‘‘thou shalt not await their 
 torments: arise, father, and go with me. The 
 doors are open, the ways of the palace are 
 ‘known to me in the darkest night, and the 
 keys are at hand. I will find means to con- 
 ceal thee until dark, and we will quit the 
 accursed republic forever.” 
 
 Hope gleamed in the eye of the old captive, 
 as he listened to this frantic proposal, but 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 distrust of the means immediately altered its 
 expression. 
 
 “Thou forgettest those up above, son.” 
 
 ‘7 think only of One truly above, father.” 
 
 «‘And this girl—how canst thou hope to 
 deceive her ?” 
 
 ‘‘She will take thy place—she is with us 
 in heart, and will lend herself to a seeming 
 violence. I do not promise for thee idly, 
 kindest Gelsomina ?” 
 
 The frightened girl, who had never before 
 witnessed so plain evidence of desperation in 
 her companion, had sunk upon an article of 
 furniture, speechless. The look of the pris- 
 oner changed from one to the other, and he 
 made an effort to rise, but debility caused 
 him to fall backward, and not till then, did 
 Jacopo perceive the impracticability, on many 
 accounts, of what, in a moment of excitement, 
 he had proposed. A long silence followed. 
 The hard breathing of Jacopo gradually sub- 
 sided, and the expression of his face changed 
 to its customary settled and collected look. 
 
 ‘‘Father,” he said, ‘‘I must quit thee ; 
 our misery draws near a close.” 
 
 ‘Thou wilt come to me soon again ?” 
 
 “If the saints permit—thy blessing, 
 father.” 
 
 The old man folded his hands above the © 
 head of Jacopo, and murmured a prayer. 
 When this pious duty was performed, both 
 the Bravo and Gelsomina busied themselves 
 a little time in contributing to the bodily 
 comforts of the prisoner, and then they de- 
 parted in company. 
 
 Jacopo appeared unwilling to quit the vi- 
 cinity of the cell. A melancholy presentiment 
 seemed to possess his mind that these stolen 
 visits were soon to cease. After a little de- 
 lay, however, they descended to the apart- 
 ments below, and as Jacopo desired to quit 
 the palace, without re-entering the prisons, 
 Gelsomina prepared to let him out by the 
 principal corridor. 
 
 ‘*Thou art sadder than common, Carlo,” 
 she observed, watching with feminine as- 
 siduity his averted eye. ‘‘ Methinks thou 
 should’st rejoice in the fortunes of the Nea- 
 politan, and of the lady of the Tiepolo.” 
 
 ‘‘That escape is like a gleam of sunshine 
 in a wintry day. Good girl—but we are ob- — 
 served ! why is yon spy on our movements ?” 
 
 <’Tis a menial of the palace; they con- | 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 stantly cross us in this part of the building : 
 come hither, if thou art weary. The room is 
 little used, and we may again look out upon 
 the sea.” 
 
 Jacopo followed his mild conductor into 
 one of the neglected closets of the second 
 floor. where, in truth, he was glad to catch a 
 glimpse of the state of things in the piazza, 
 before he left the palace. His first look was 
 at the water, which was still rolling south- 
 ward before the gale from the Alps. Satisfied 
 with this prospect, he bent his eye beneath. 
 At the instant, an officer of the republic 
 issued from the palace gate, preceded by 
 a trumpeter, as was usual, when there was 
 occasion to make public proclamation of the 
 Senate’s will. Gelsomina opened the case- 
 ment, and both leaned forward to listen. 
 When the little procession had reached the 
 front of the cathedral, the trumpet sounded, 
 and the voice of the officer was heard. 
 
 «‘ Whereas many wicked and ruthless as- 
 sassinations have of late been committed on 
 the persons of divers good citizens of Venice,” 
 —he proclaimed—‘“‘ the senate, in its fatherly 
 care of all whom it is charged to protect, has 
 found reason to resort to extraordinary means 
 of preventing the repetition of crimes so con- 
 trary to the laws of God and the security of 
 society. The Illustrious Ten therefore offer, 
 thus publicly, a reward of one hundred se- 
 quins to him who shall discover the perpe- 
 trator of any of these most horrible assassin- 
 ations ; and, whereas, during the past night, 
 the body of a certain Antonio, a well-known 
 fisherman, and a worthy ‘citizen, much es- 
 teemed by the patricians, has been found in 
 the Lagunes, and, whereas, there is but too 
 much reason to believe that he has come to 
 his death ‘by the hands of a certain Jacopo 
 Frontoni, who has the reputation of a com- 
 mon bravo, but who has been long watched, 
 in vain, by the authorities, with the hope of 
 detecting him in the commission of some one 
 of the aforesaid horrible assassinations ; now, 
 all good and honest citizens of the republic 
 are enjoined to assist the authorities in seiz- 
 ing the person of the said Jacopo Frontoni, 
 even though he should take sanctuary: for 
 Venice can no longer endure the presence of 
 one of his sanguinary habits, and for the en- 
 couragement of the same, the senate, in its 
 paternal care, offers the reward of three hun- 
 
 571 
 
 dred sequins.” The usual words of prayer 
 and sovereignty closed the proclamation. 
 
 As it was not usual for those who ruled so 
 much in the dark, to make their intentions 
 public, all near listéned with wonder and 
 awe to the novel procedure. Some trembled 
 lest the mysterious and much-dreaded power 
 was about to exhibit itself ; while most found 
 means of making their admiration of the 
 fatherly interest of their rulers audible.” 
 
 None heard the words of the officer with 
 more feeling than Gelsomina. She bent her 
 body far from the window, in order that not 
 a syllable should escape her. 
 
 ‘‘Dids’t thou hear, Carlo?” demanded 
 the eager girl, as she drew back her head : 
 “they proclaim, at last, money for the mon- 
 ster who has committed so many murders !” 
 
 Jacopo laughed ; but to the ears of his 
 startled companion the sounds were unnat- 
 ural. 
 
 “The patricians are just, and what they do 
 is right,” he said. ‘‘ They are of illustrious 
 birth, and cannot err! They will do their 
 duty.” 
 
 “But here is no other duty than that they 
 owe to God, and to the people.” 
 
 «I have heard of the duty of the people, 
 but little is said of the senate’s. 
 
 ‘Nay, Carlo, we will not refuse them 
 credit when in truth they seek to keep the 
 citizens from harm. This Jacopo is a mou- 
 ster, detested by all, and his bloody deeds 
 have too long been a reproach to Venice. 
 Thou hearest that the patricians are not 
 niggard of their gold, when there is hope of 
 his being taken.—Listen ! they proclaim 
 again ?” 
 
 The trumpet sounded, and the proclam- 
 ation was repeated between the granite col- 
 umns of the Piazzetta, and quite near to 
 the window occupied by Gelsomina and her 
 unmoved companion. ® 
 
 “ Why dost thou mask, Carlo ?” she asked, 
 when the officer had done ; “it is not usual 
 to be disguised, in the palace, at this hour.” 
 
 “They will believe it the Doge, blushing 
 to be an auditor of his own liberal justice, or 
 they may mistake me for one of the Three 
 itself.” f 
 
 “They go by tha quay to the arsenal ; 
 thence they will take boat, as is customary, 
 for the Rialto.” 
 
572 
 
 ‘Thereby giving this redoubtable Jacopo 
 timely notice to secrete himself? Your 
 judges up above are mysterious when they 
 should be open, and open when they should 
 be secret. I must quit thee, Gelsomina—go, 
 then, back to the room of thy father, and 
 leave me to pass out by the court of the 
 palace.” 
 
 ‘‘Tt may not be, Carlo—thou knowest the 
 permission of the authorities—I have exceeded 
 —why should I wish to conceal it from thee 
 —but, it was not permitted to thee to enter 
 at this hour.” 
 
 «¢ And thou hast had the courage to trans- 
 gress the leave, for my sake, Gelsomina?”’ 
 
 The abashed girl hung her head, and the 
 color which glowed about her temples was 
 like the rosy light of her own Italy. 
 
 ‘Thou would’st have it so,” she said. 
 
 “A thousand thanks, dearest, kindest, 
 truest Gelsomina ; but doubt not my being 
 able to leave the palace unseen. ‘The danger 
 was in entering. ‘They who go forth do it 
 with the air of having authority.” 
 
 “ None pass the halberdiers masked by day, 
 Carlo, but they who have the secret word.” 
 
 The Bravo appeared struck with this truth, 
 and there was great embarrassment expressed 
 in his manner. The terms of his admittance 
 were so well understood to himself, that he 
 
 distrusted the expediency of attempting to | 
 
 get upon the quays by the prison, the way he 
 had entered, since he had little doubt that 
 his retreat would be intercepted by those who 
 kept the outer gate, and who were probably, 
 by this time, in the secret of his true charac- 
 ter. It now appeared that egress by the 
 other route was equally hazardous. He had 
 not been surprised so much by the substance of 
 the proclamation, as by the publicity the sen- 
 ate had seen fit to give to its policy,—and he 
 had heard himself denounced, with a severe 
 pang, it is true, but without terror. Still he 
 had so many means of disguise, and the prac- 
 tice of personal concealment was so general 
 in Venice, that he had entertained no great 
 distrust of the result until he now found 
 himself in this awkward dilemma. Gelso- 
 mina read his indecision in his eye, and re 
 gretted that she should have caused him so 
 much uneasiness. 
 
 “Tt is not so bad as thou seemest to think, 
 Carlo,” she observed ;. “they have permitted 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 thee to visit thy father at stated hours, and 
 the permission isa proof that the senate is 
 not without pity. Now that I, to oblige thy 
 wishes, have forgotten one of their injunc- 
 tions, they will not be so hard of heart as to 
 visit the fault as a crime.” 
 
 Jacopo gazed at her with pity, for well did 
 he understand how little she knew of the real 
 nature and wily policy of the state. 
 
 “Jt is time that we should part,” he said, 
 “lest thy innocence should be made to pay 
 the price of my mistake. I am nownear the 
 public corridor, and must trust to my fortune 
 to gain the quay.” 
 
 Gelsomina hung upon his arm, unwilling to 
 trust him to his own guidance in that fear- 
 ful building. 
 
 “‘ It will not do, Carlo ; thou wilt stumble 
 on a soldier, and thy fault will be known; 
 perhaps they will refuse to let thee come 
 again ; perhaps altogether shut the door of 
 thy poor father’s cell.” 
 
 Jacopo made a gesture for her to lead the 
 way, and followed. With a beating but still 
 lightened heart, Gelsomina glided along the 
 passages, carefully locking each door, as of 
 wont, behind her, when she had passed 
 through it. At length they reached the well- 
 known Bridge of Sighs. The anxious girl 
 went on with a lighter step, when she found 
 herself approaching her own abode, for she 
 was busy in planning the means of concealing 
 her companion in her father’s rooms, should 
 there be hazard in his passing out of the 
 prison during the day. 
 
 ‘‘But a single minute, Carlo,” she whis- 
 pered, applying the key to the door which 
 opened into the latter building—the lock 
 yielded, but the hinges refused to turn. 
 Gelsomina paled as she added—“ They haye 
 drawn the bolts within ! ” . 
 
 ‘* No matter ; I will go down by the court 
 of the palace, and boldly pass the halberdier 
 unmasked.” 
 
 Gelsomina, after all, saw but little risk of 
 his being known by the mercenaries who 
 served the Doge, and, anxious to relieve him 
 from so awkward a position, she flew back to 
 the other end of the gallery. Another key 
 was applied to the door by which they had 
 just entered, with the same result. Gelso- 
 mina staggered back, and sought support 
 against the wall. 
 
 | 
 2. 
 " 
 
 ae | 
 y 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 ‘‘We can neither return nor proceed !” 
 she exclaimed, frightened she knew not why. 
 
 <‘T gee it all,” answered Jacopo, “‘ we are 
 prisoners on the fatal bridge.” 
 
 As he spoke, the Bravo calmly removed 
 his mask and showed the countenance of a 
 man whose resolution was at its height. 
 
 ‘‘Santa Madre di Dio! what can it 
 mean?” 
 
 ‘«« That we have passed here once too often, 
 love. The council is tender of these visits.” 
 
 The bolts of both doors grated, and the 
 hinges creaked at the same instant. An 
 officer of the inquisition entered armed, and 
 bearing manacles. Celsomina shrieked, but 
 Jacopo moved not a limb or muscle while he 
 was fettered and chained. 
 
 “T too!” cried his frantic companion. 
 ‘“‘IT am the most guilty—bind me—cast me 
 into a cell, but let poor Carlo go.” 
 
 ‘‘ Carlo!” echoed an officer, laughing un- 
 feelingly. 
 
 “Ts it such a crime to seek a father in his 
 prison ? They knew of his visits—they per- 
 mitted them—he has only mistaken the 
 hour.” 
 
 ‘Girl, dost thou know for whom thou 
 pleadest ?” 
 
 «‘ For the kindest heart—the most faithful 
 son in Venice! Oh! if ye had seen him 
 weep, as I have done, over the sufferings of 
 the old captive—if ye had seen his very form 
 shivering in agony, ye would have pity on 
 him!” 
 
 ‘‘ Listen ;”? returned the officer, raising a 
 finger for attention. 
 
 The trumpeter sounded on the bridge of 
 St. Mark, immediately beneath them, and 
 proclamation was again made, offering gold 
 for the arrest of the Bravo. 
 
 «?Tis the officer of the republic, bidding 
 for the head of one who carries a common 
 stiletto.” cried the half-breathless Gelsomina, 
 who little heeded the ceremony at that in- 
 stant ; “he merits his fate.” 
 
 «<Then why resist it ?” 
 
 «Ye speak withcut meaning !” 
 
 ‘‘ Doting girl, this is Jacopo Frontoni 
 
 » Gelsomina would have disbelieved her ears, 
 
 _ but for the anguished expression of Jacopo’s 
 
 -eye. he horrible truth burst upon her 
 mind, and she fell lifeless. At that moment 
 the Bravo was hurried from the bridge. 
 
 1» 
 
 573 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Let us lift up the curtain, and observe 
 What passes in that chamber.—RocErs. 
 
 THERE were many rumors, uttered in the 
 fearful and secret manner which character- 
 ized the manners of the town, in the streets 
 of Venice that day. Hundreds passed near 
 granite columns, as if they expected to see 
 the Bravo occupying his accustomed stand, 
 in audacious defiance of the proclamation, for 
 so long and so mysteriously had he been per- 
 mitted to appear in public, that men had 
 difficulty in persuading themselves he would 
 quit his habits so easily. It is needless to say 
 that the vague expectation was disappointed. 
 Much was also said, vauntingly, in behalf of 
 the republic’s justice, for the humbled are 
 bold enough in praising their superiors ; and 
 he, who had been dumb for years, on sub- 
 jects of a public nature, now found his voice 
 like a fearless freeman. 
 
 But the day passed away without any new 
 occurrence to call the citizens from their 
 pursuits. The prayers for the dead were 
 continued, with little intermission, and 
 masses were said before the altars of half the 
 churches for the repose of the fisherman’s soul. 
 His comrades, a little distrustful, but greatly 
 eratified, watched the ceremonies with jeal- 
 ousy and exultation singularly blended. Ere 
 the night set in again, they were among the 
 most obedient of those the oligarchy habit- 
 ually trod upon; for such is the effect of this 
 species of domination, that it acquires a 
 power to appease, by its flattery, the very 
 discontents created by its injustice. Such 
 is the human mind: a factitious but deeply- 
 seated sentiment of respect is created by the 
 habit of submission, which gives the subject 
 of its influence a feeling of atonement when 
 he who has long played the superior comes 
 down from his stilts, and confesses the com- 
 munity of human frailties! 
 
 The square of St. Mark filled at the usual | 
 hour, the patricians deserted the Broglio as 
 of wont, and the gayeties of the place were 
 again uppermost before the clock had struck 
 the second hour of the night. Gondolas, | 
 filled with noble dames, appeared on the 
 canals; the blinds of the palaces were raised 
 for the admission of the sea-breeze; and 
 music began to be heard in the port, on the 
 bridges, and under the balconies of the fair. 
 
O74 
 
 The course of society was not to be arrested 
 merely because the wronged were unavenged, 
 or the innocent suffered. 
 
 There stood, then, on the grand canal, as 
 there stand now, many palaces of scarcely 
 less than royal magnificence. The reader 
 has had occasion to become acquainted with 
 one or two of these splendid edifices, and it 
 has now become our duty to convey him, in 
 imagination, to another. 
 
 The peculiarity of construction, which is a 
 consequence of the watery site of Venice, 
 ‘gives the same general character to all the 
 superior dwellings of that remarkable town. 
 The house to which the thread of the narra- 
 tive now leads us, had its water-gate, its 
 vestibule, its massive marble stairs, its inner 
 court, its magnificent suites of rooms above, 
 its pictures, its lustres, and its floors of pre- 
 cious stones embedded in composition, like 
 all those which we have already found it 
 necessary to describe. 
 
 The hour was ten, according to our own 
 manner of computing time. <A small, but 
 lovely family picture presented itself, deep 
 within the walls of the patrician abode, to 
 which we have alluded. There was a father, 
 a gentleman who had scarcely attained the 
 middle age, with an eye in which spirit, in- 
 telligence, philanthropy, and, at that mo- 
 ment, paternal fondness were equally glow- 
 ing. He tossed in his arms, with parental 
 pride, a laughing urchin of some three or 
 four years, who rioted in the amusement 
 which brought him, and the author of his 
 being, for a time, seemingly on a level. A 
 fair Venetian dame, with golden locks and 
 glowing cheeks, such as Titian loved to paint 
 her sex, reclined on a couch near by, follow- 
 ing the movements of both, with the joint 
 feelings of mother and wife, and laughing in 
 pure sympathy with the noisy merriment of 
 her young hope. A girl, who was the youth- 
 ful image of herself, with tresses that fell to 
 her waist, romped with a crowing infant, 
 whose age was so tender as scarcely to admit 
 the uncertain evidence of its intelligence. 
 Such was the scene as the clock of the piazza 
 told the hour. Struck with the sound, the 
 father set down the boy and consulted his 
 watch. 
 
 “Dost thou use thy gondola to-night, 
 love?” he demanded. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘“‘With thee, Paolo?” 
 
 ““Not with me, dearest; I have affairs 
 which will employ me until twelve ! ” 
 
 ** Nay, thou art given to cast me off when 
 thy caprices are wayward.” 
 
 “Say not so. I have named to-night for 
 an interview with my agent, and I know thy 
 maternal heart too well to doubt thy being 
 willing to spare me for that time, while I 
 look to the interests of these dear ones.” 
 
 The Donna Giulietta rang for her mantle 
 and attendants. ‘The crowing infant and the 
 noisy boy were dismissed to their beds, while 
 the lady and the eldest child descended to | 
 the gondola. Donna Giulietta’ was not per- 
 mitted to go unattended to her boat, for this 
 was a family in which the inclinations had 
 fortunately seconded the ordinary caleula- 
 tions of interest, when the nuptial knot was 
 tied. Her husband kissed her hand fondly, 
 as he assisted her into the gondola, and the 
 boat had glided some distance from the pal- 
 ace, ere he quitted the moist stones of the 
 water-gate. 
 
 “Hast thou prepared the cabinet for my 
 friends ?” demanded the Signor Soranzo, for 
 it was the same senator who had been in com- 
 pany with the Doge, when the latter went to 
 meet the fishermen. 
 
 “Signor, si.” 
 
 ‘And the quiet, and the lights—as or- 
 dered ?” 
 
 ‘« Kecellenza, all will be done.” 
 
 ‘*Thou hast placed seats for six ?—we shall 
 be six.” 
 
 “Signor, there are six armed chairs.” 
 
 «?Tis well: when the first of my friends 
 arrive I will join them.” 
 
 ** Kecellenza, there are already two cayva- 
 liers in masks, within.” 
 
 The Signor Soranzo started, again consulted 
 his watch, and hastily went toward a distant, 
 and very silent, part of the palace. He reach- 
 ed a small door unattended, and, closing it, 
 found himseif at once in the presence of those 
 who evidently awaited his appearance. 
 
 ‘«* A thousand pardons, signori,” cried the 
 master of the house ; “‘ this is novel duty to 
 me, at least—I know not what may be your 
 honorable experience—and the time stole upon 
 me unmarked. I pray for grace, Messires ; 
 future diligence shall repair the present neg- 
 
 lect.” 4 
 fy : 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 Both the visitors were older men than their 
 host, and it was quite evident by their hard- 
 ened visages they were of much longer prac- 
 tice in the world. His excuses were received 
 with courtesy, and, for a little time, the dis- 
 course was entirely of usage and conven- 
 tion. 
 
 ‘We are in secret here, signor ?” asked 
 one of the guests, after some little time had 
 been wasted in this manner. 
 
 «¢Asthetomb. None enter here unbidden, 
 _but my wife, and she has, this moment, taken 
 boat, for better enjoyment of the evening.” 
 
 “The world gives you credit, Signor 
 Soranzo, fora happy ménage. I hope you 
 have duly considered the necessity of shutting 
 the door, even against the Donna Guiulietta, 
 to-night ?” 
 
 ‘< Doubt me not, signor ; the affairs of St. 
 Mark are paramount.” 
 
 “TJ feel myself thrice happy,signori,that in 
 drawing a lot for the Secret Council, my good 
 fortune hath given me so excellent colleagues. 
 Believe me, I have discharged this awful 
 trust, in my day, in less agreeable company.” 
 
 This flattering speech, which the wily old 
 senator had made regularly to all with whom 
 chance had associated him in the Inquisition, 
 during a long life, was well received, and it 
 was returned with equal compliments. 
 
 ‘<Tt would appear that the worthy Signor 
 Alessandro Gradenigo was one of our pred- 
 ecessors,” he continued, looking at some 
 papers ; for though the actual Three were un- 
 known, at the time being, to all but a few 
 secretaries and officers of the state, Venetian 
 policy transmitted their names to their suc- 
 cessors, as a matter of course,—“a noble 
 gentleman, and one of great devotion to the 
 state!” 
 
 The others assented, like men accustomed 
 to speak with caution. 
 
 ‘«<We were about to have entered on our 
 _ duties at a troublesome moment, signori,” 
 observed another. ‘‘ But it would seem that 
 this tumult of the fishermen has already sub- 
 sided. I understand the knaves had some 
 reason for their distrust of the state!” 
 
 «Tt is an affair happily settled,” answered 
 the senior of the three, who was long practised 
 in the expediency of forgetting all that policy 
 required should cease to be remembered, after 
 the object was attained. “ The galleys must 
 
 575 
 
 be manned, else would St. Mark quickly hang 
 his head in shame.” 
 
 The Signor Soranzo, who had received some 
 previous instruction in his new duties, looked 
 melancholy ; but he, too, was merely the 
 creature of a system. 
 
 ‘<< Tg there matter of pressing import for our 
 reflection ?” he demanded. 
 
 ‘‘Signori, there is every reason to believe 
 that the state has just sustained a grievous 
 loss. Ye both well know the heiress of Tie- 
 polo, by reputation at least, though her re- 
 tired manner of life may have kept you from 
 her company.” 
 
 ‘Donna Giulietta is eloquent in praise of 
 her beauty,” said the young husband. 
 
 ‘‘ We had not a better fortune in Venice,” 
 rejoined the third inquisitor. 
 
 ‘«‘ Excellent in qualities,and better in riches, 
 as she is, I fear we have lost her, signori |! Don 
 Camillo Monforte, whom God protect until 
 we have no future use for his influence! had 
 come near to prevail against us; but just as 
 the state baffled his well-laid schemes, the lady 
 has been thrown by hazard into the hands of 
 the rioters, since which time there is no ac- 
 count of her movements!” 
 
 Paolo Soranzo secretly hoped she was in 
 the arms of the Neapolitan. 
 
 ‘«‘ A secretary has communicated to me the 
 disappearance of the Duca di Sant’ Agata, 
 also,” observed the third,—* nor is the feluc- 
 ca, usually employed in distant and delicate 
 missions, any longer at her anchors.” 
 
 The two old men regarded each other, as 
 if the truth was beginning to dawn upon their 
 suspicions. ‘They saw that the case was hope- 
 less, and as theirs was altogether a practical 
 duty, no time was lost in useless regrets. 
 
 ‘©We have two affairs which press,” ob- 
 served the elder. —‘“ The body of the old fisher- 
 man must be laid quietly in the earth, with 
 as little risk of future tumult, as may be—and 
 we have this notorious Jacopo to dispose of.” 
 
 “The latter must first be taken,” said the 
 Signor Soranzo. 
 
 “That has been done already. Would you 
 think it, Sirs? he was seized in the very palace 
 of the Doge!” piste 
 
 «To the block with him, without delay!” 
 
 The old men again looked at each other, 
 and it was quite apparent that, as both of 
 them had been in previous councils, they had 
 
576 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 a secret intelligence, to which their compan- 
 ion was yet astranger. ‘There was also vis- 
 ible in their glances, something like a design 
 to manage his feelings, before they came 
 more openly to the graver practices of their 
 duties. 
 
 « For the sake of blessed St. Mark, signori, 
 let justice be done openly in this instance!” 
 continued the unsuspecting member of the 
 Three. ‘ What pity can the bearer of a com- 
 mon stiletto claim ? and what more lovely ex- 
 ercise of our authority than to make public 
 an act of severe and much-required justice? ”’ 
 
 The old senators bowed to this sentiment 
 of their colleague, which was uttered with 
 the fervor of young experience, and the frank- 
 ness of an upright mind; for there is a con- 
 ventional acquiescence in received morals, 
 which is permitted, in semblance at least, to 
 adorn the most tortuous. 
 
 “Tt may be well, Signor Soranzo, to do this 
 homage to the right,” returned the elder. 
 ‘‘Here have been sundry charges found in 
 different lions’ mouths, against the Neapoli- 
 tan, Signor Don Camillo Monforte. I leave it 
 to your wisdom, my illustrious colleagues, to 
 decide on their character.” 
 
 «An excess of malice betrays its own 
 origin,” exclaimed the least-practised mem- 
 ber of the Inquisition. “My life on it, sig- 
 nori, these accusations come of private spleen, 
 and are unworthy of the state’s attention. I 
 have consorted much with the young lord of 
 Sant’ Agata, and a more worthy gentleman 
 does not dwell among us.” 
 
 “ Still hath he designs on the hand of old 
 Tiepolo’s daughter! ” 
 
 “Ts it a crime in youth to seek beauty ? He 
 did great service to the lady, in herneed, and 
 that youth should feel these sympathies is 
 nothing strange.” 
 
 ‘Venice hath her sympathies, as well as the 
 youngest of us all, signor.” 
 
 “ But Venice cannot wed the heiress!” 
 
 «True. St. Mark must be satisfied with 
 playing the prudent father’s part. You are 
 yet young, Signor Soranzo, and the Donna 
 Giulietta is of rare beauty! As life wears up- 
 on yg both, ye will see the fortunes of king- 
 doms, as well as families, differently. But we 
 waste our breath uselessly in this matter, 
 since our agents have not yet reported their | 
 success in the pursuit. The most pressing | 
 
 affair, just now, is the disposition of the 
 Bravo. Hath his highness shown you the 
 letter of the sovereign pontiff, in the question 
 of the intercepted dispatches, signor ?” 
 
 “He hath. A fair answer was returned by 
 our predecessors, and it must rest there.” 
 
 ‘© We will then look freely into the matter 
 of Jacopo Frontoni. There will be necessity 
 of our assembling in the chamber of the In- 
 quisition, that we may have the prisoner con- 
 fronted to his accusers. *Tis a grave trial, 
 signori, and Venice would loose in men’s . 
 estimation, were not the highest tribunal to 
 take an interest in its decision.” 
 
 ‘¢To the block with the villain!” again ex- 
 claimed the Signor Soranzo. 
 
 “He may haply meet with that fate, or 
 even with the punishment of the wheel. A 
 mature examination will enlighten us much 
 on the course which policy may dictate.” 
 
 ‘‘There can be but one policy when the 
 protection of the lives of our citizens is in 
 question. Ihave never before felt impatience 
 to shorten the life of man, but in this trial 
 I can scarce brook delay.” 
 
 ‘Your honorable impatience shall be 
 gratified, Signor Soranzo ; for, foreseeing the 
 urgency of the case, my colleague, the worthy 
 senator, who is joined with us in this high 
 duty, and myself, have already issued the 
 commands necessary to that object. The 
 hour is near, and we will repair to the 
 chamber of the Inquisition in time to our 
 duty.” 
 
 The discourse then turned on subjects of 
 a more general concern. This secret and 
 extraordinary tribunal, which was obliged to 
 confine its meetings to no particular place, 
 
 which could decide on its decrees equally in 
 
 the piazza or the palace, amidst the revel- 
 ries of the masquerade, or before the altar ; 
 in the assemblies of the gay, or in their own 
 closets, had of necessity much ordinary mat- _ 
 ter submitted to its inspection. As the 
 chances of birth entered into its original — 
 composition,—and God hath not made all 
 alike fit for so heartless a duty,—it some- 
 times happened, as in the present instance, 
 that the more worldly of its members had to 
 overcome the generous disposition of a col- 
 league, before the action of the terrible 
 machine could go on. 
 It is worthy of remark, that communities] 
 i 
 
 Bs 
 
5 ee es 
 
 ‘ 
 i 
 
 ; 
 
 - vidual members. 
 
 THE BRAVO. 
 
 always establish a higher standard of justice 
 and truth than is exercised by their indi- 
 The reason is not to be 
 
 | sought for, since nature hath left to all a 
 _ perception of that right, which is abandoned 
 
 - cannot imitate. 
 
 _ only under the stronger impulses of personal 
 
 We commend the virtue we 
 Thus it is that those coun- 
 
 temptation. 
 
 _ tries, in which public opinion has most influ- 
 ence, are always of the purest public prac- 
 
 tice. 
 
 It follows as a corollary from this 
 
 _ proposition, that a representation should be 
 ' as real as possible, for its tendency will be 
 
 inevitably to elevate national morals. Miser- 
 able, indeed, is the condition of that people, 
 whose maxims and measures of public policy 
 are below the standard of its private integ- 
 rity, for the fact not only proves it is not the 
 master of its own destinies, but the still more 
 dangerous truth, that the collective power is 
 employed in the fatal service of undermining 
 those very qualities which are necessary to 
 
 _ yirtue, and which have enough to do, at all 
 
 PRT EF 
 
 eel 
 = expen mae 
 
 times, in resisting the attacks of immediate 
 selfishness. A strict legal representation of 
 all its interests is far more necessary to a 
 worldly than to a simple people, since respon- 
 sibility, which is the essence of a free gov- 
 ernment, is more likely to keep the agents of 
 a nation near to its own standard of virtue 
 than any other means. The common opin- 
 ion that a republic cannot exist, without an 
 extraordinary degree of virtue in its citi- 
 zens, is so flattering to our own actual con- 
 dition, that we seldom take the trouble to 
 inquire into its truth; but to us it seems 
 quite apparent that effect. is here mistaken 
 for the cause. It is said, as the people are 
 virtually masters in a republic, that the peo- 
 ple ought to be virtuous to rule well. So far 
 as this proposition is confined to degrees, it 
 is just as true of a republic as of any other 
 form of government. But kings do rule, 
 and surely all have not been virtuous; and 
 that aristocracies have ruled with the very 
 minimum of that quality, the subject of our 
 tale sufficiently shows. That, other things 
 being equal, the citizens of a republic will 
 have a higher standard of private virtue than 
 the subjects of any other form of govern- 
 
 - ment, is true as an effect, we can readily be- 
 
 lieve, for responsibility to public opinion ex- 
 isting in all the branches of its administra- 
 
 577 
 
 tion, that conventional morality, which char- | 
 acterizes the common sentiment will be left, 
 to act on the mass, and will not be perverted 
 
 into a terrible engine of corruption, as is the 
 
 case when factitious institutions give a false 
 
 direction to its influence. 
 
 The case before us was in proof of the 
 truth of what has here been said. The Sig- 
 nor Soranzo was a man of great natural ex- 
 cellence of character, and the charities of his 
 domestic circle had assisted in confirming his 
 original dispositions. Like others of his 
 rank and expectations, he had, from time to 
 time made the history and polity of the self- 
 styled republic his study, and the power of 
 collective interests and specious necessities 
 had made him admit sundry theories, which, 
 presented in another form, he would have 
 repulsed with indignation. Still the Signor 
 Soranzo was far from understanding the full 
 effects of that system which he was born to 
 uphold. Even Venice paid that homage to 
 public opinion, of which there has just been 
 question, and held forth to the world but a 
 false picture of her true state maxims. Still 
 many of those which were too apparent to 
 be concealed were difficult of acceptance 
 with one whose mind was yet untainted with 
 practice; and the young senator rather shut 
 
 his eyes on their tendency, or, as he felt their 
 
 influence in every interest which environed 
 him, but that of poor, neglected, abstract 
 virtue, whose rewards were so remote, he was 
 fain to seek out some palliative, or some 
 specious and indirect good as the excuse for 
 his acquiescence. 
 
 In this state of mind the Signor Soranzo 
 was unexpectedly admitted a member of the 
 Council of Three. Often, in the day-dreams 
 of his youth, had he contemplated the pos- 
 session of this very irresponsible power as 
 the consummation of his wishes. A thousand 
 pictures of the good he would perform had 
 crossed his brain, and it was only as he ad- 
 vanced in life, and came to have a nearer 
 view of the wiles which beset the best inten- 
 tioned, that he could bring himself to be 
 lieve most of that which he meditated was 
 impracticable. As it was, he entered .into 
 the council with doubts and misgivings. 
 Had he lived in a later age, under his own 
 system modified by the knowledge which has 
 been a consequence of the art of printing, it 
 SS 
 
578 
 
 is probable that the Signor Soranzo would 
 have been a noble in opposition, now sup- 
 porting with ardor some measure of public 
 benevolence, and now yielding, gracefully, 
 to the suggestions of a sterner policy, and 
 always influenced by the positive advantages 
 he was born to possess, though scarcely con- 
 scious himself he was not all he professed to 
 be. The fault, however, was not so much 
 that of the patrician as that of circumstances, 
 which, by placing interest in opposition to 
 duty, lures many a benevolent mind into 
 still greater weaknesses. 
 
 The companions of the Signor Soranzo, 
 however, had a more difficult task to prepare 
 him for the duties of the statesman, which 
 were so very different from those he was ac- 
 customed to perform as a man, than they 
 had anticipated. They were like two trained 
 elephants of the east, possessing themselves 
 all the finer instincts and generous qualities 
 of the noble animal, but disciplined by a 
 force quite foreign to their natural condition 
 into creatures of mere convention, placed 
 one on each side of a younger brother, fresh 
 from the plains, and whom it was their duty 
 to teaeh new services for the trunk, new 
 affections, and haply the manner in which to 
 carry with dignity the howdah of a Rajah. 
 
 With many allusions of their policy, but 
 with no direct intimation of their own inten- 
 tion, the seniors of the council continued the 
 conversation until the hour for the meeting 
 in the Doge’s palace drew nigh. They then 
 separated as privately as they had come to- 
 gether, in order that no vulgar eye might 
 penetrate the mystery of their official char- 
 acter. 
 
 The most practised of the three appeared 
 in an assembly of the patricians, which noble 
 and beautiful dames graced with their pres- 
 ence, from whicb he disappeared in a man- 
 ner to leave no clew to his motions. ‘The 
 other visited the death-bed of a friend, where 
 he discoursed long and well with a friar of 
 the immortality of the soul and the hopes of 
 a Christian: when he departed, the godly 
 man bestowing his blessing, and the family 
 he left being loud and eloquent in his praise. 
 
 The Signor Sorenzo cluug to the enjoy- 
 ments of his own family circle until the last 
 moment. The Donna Giulietta had _ re- 
 turned, fresher and more lovely than ever, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 from the invigorating sea-breeze, and her 
 soft voice, with the melodious laugh of his 
 first born, the blooming, ringlet-covered girl 
 described, still rang in his ears, when his 
 gondolier landed him beneath the bridge of 
 the Rialto. Here he masked, and, drawing 
 his cloak about him, he moved with the 
 current toward the square of St. Mark by 
 means of the narrow streets, Once in the 
 crowd there was little danger of impertinent 
 observation. Disguise was so often useful to 
 the oligarchy of Venice, as it was absolutely ~ 
 necessary to elude its despotism, and to ren- 
 der the town tolerable to the citizen. Paolo 
 saw swarthy, bare-legged men of the Lagunes 
 entering occasionally into the cathedral. He 
 followed, and found himself standing near 
 the dimly-lighted altar, at which masses were 
 still saying for the soul of Antonio. 
 
 ‘This is one of thy fellows ?” he asked of 
 a fisherman, whose dark eye glittered in that 
 light like the organ of a basilisk. 
 
 “Signor, he was—a more honest, or a 
 more just man, did not cast his net in the 
 gulf.” 
 
 ‘* He has fallen a victim to his craft ?” 
 
 ‘“‘ Cospetto di Bacco! none know in what 
 manner he came by his end. Some say St. 
 Mark was impatient to see him in paradise, 
 and some pretend he has fallen by the hand 
 of a common bravo named Jacopo Fron- 
 toni.” 
 
 “ Why should a bravo take the life of one 
 like this ?” iy 
 ‘By having the goodness to answer your 
 own question, signor, you will spare me 
 some trouble. Why should he, sure enough? 
 They say Jacopo is revengeful, and that 
 shame and anger at his defeat in the late 
 regatta by one old as this was the reason. 
 
 “Ts he so jealous of his honor with the 
 oar?” 
 
 ‘‘Diamine! I have seen the time when 
 Jacopo would sooner die than lose a race; 
 but that was before he carried a stiletto. 
 Had he kept to his oar the thing might have 
 happened,—but once known for the hired 
 blow, it seems unreasonable he should set his 
 heart so strongly on the prizes of the canals.” 
 
 “May not the man have fallen into the 
 Lagunes by accident ?” 
 
 “No doubt, signor. This happens to some 
 of us daily; but then we think it wiser to 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 swim to the boat than to sink. Old An- 
 tonio had an arm in youth to carry him from 
 the quay to the Lido.” 
 
 ‘But he may have been struck in falling, 
 and rendered unable to do himself this good 
 office.” 
 
 “There would be marks to show this, were 
 it true, signor! ” 
 
 ‘“Would not Jacopo have used the sti- 
 letto?” 
 
 ‘*Perhaps not, on one like Antonio. The 
 gondola of the old man was found in the 
 mouth of the Grand Canal, half a league 
 from the body, and against the wind! we 
 note these things, signor, for they are within 
 our knowledge.” 
 
 “A happy night to thee, fisherman.” 
 
 “A most happy night, eccellenza!” said 
 the laborer of the Lagunes, gratified with 
 having so long occupied the attention of one 
 he rightly believed so much his superior. 
 The disguised senator passed on. He had no 
 difficulty in quitting the cathedral unob- 
 served, and he had his private means of 
 entering the palace, without attracting any 
 impertinent eye to his movements. Here he 
 quickly joined his colleagues of the fearful 
 tribunal. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 There the prisoners rest together; they hear not 
 _ the voice of the oppressor.—Jod. 
 
 THE manner in which the Council of 
 Three held its more public meetings, if 
 aught connected with that mysterious body 
 could be called public, has already been seen. 
 On the present occasion, there were the same 
 robes, the same disguises, and the same offi- 
 cers of the inquisition, as in the scene re- 
 lated in a previous chapter. The only change 
 was in the character of the judges, and in 
 that of the accused. By a pecuhar arrange- 
 ment of the lamp, too, most of the light was 
 thrown upon the spot it was intended the 
 prisoner should occupy, while the side of the 
 apartment on which the inquisitors sat, was 
 left in a dimness that well accorded with 
 their gloomy and secret duties. Previously 
 to the opening of the door, by which the per- 
 son to be examined was to appear, there was 
 audible the clanking of chains, the certain 
 
 579 
 
 evidence that the affair in hand was consid- 
 ered serious. The hinges turned, and the 
 Bravo stood in the presence of those unknown 
 men who were to decide on his fate. 
 
 As Jacopo had often been before the coun- 
 cil, though not as a prisoner, he betrayed 
 neither surprise nor alarm at the black aspect 
 of all his eye beheld. His features were 
 composed though pale, his limbs immovable, 
 and his mien decent. When the little bustle 
 of his entrance had subsided, there reigned a 
 stillness in the room. 
 
 “Thou art called Jocopo Frontoni?” said 
 the secretary, who acted as the mouth-piece 
 of the Three on this occasion. 
 
 ham.” 
 
 “Thou art the son of a certain Ricardo 
 Frontoni, a man well known as haying been 
 concerned in robbing the republic’s customs, 
 and who is thought to have been banished to 
 the distant islands or to be otherwise pun- 
 ished ? ” 
 
 “<Signor—or otherwise punished.” 
 
 “Thou wert a gondolier in thy youth?” 
 
 “T was a gondolier.” 
 
 “Thy mother is 
 
 ‘‘Dead;” said Jacopo, perceiving the 
 other pause to examine his notes. 
 
 The depth of the tone in which this word 
 was uttered, eaused a silence, that the secre- 
 tary did not interrupt, until he had thrown a 
 glance backward at the judges. 
 
 ‘“She was not accused of thy father’s 
 crime ?” 
 
 “Had she been, signor, she is long since 
 beyond the power of the republic.” 
 
 “Shortly after thy father fell under the 
 displeasure of the state, thou quittedst thy 
 business of a gondolier ?” 
 
 ‘Signor, I did.” 
 
 *«Thou art accused, Jacopo, of having laid 
 aside the oar for the stiletto?” 
 
 ‘<Signor, I am.” 
 
 ‘‘For several years, the rumors of thy 
 bloody deeds have been growing in Yenice, 
 until, of late, none have met with an un- 
 timely fate that the blow has not been attri- 
 buted to thy hand?” 
 
 *“This is too true, Signor Segretario—I 
 would it were not !” : 
 
 “The ears of his highness, and of the 
 councils, have not been closed to these re- 
 ports, but they have long attended to the 
 
 99 
 
580 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 rumors with the earnestness which becomes 
 a paternal and careful government. If they 
 have suffered thee to go at large, it hath only 
 been that there might be no hazard of sully- 
 ing the ermine of justice with a premature 
 and not sufficiently supported judgment.” 
 
 Jacopo bent his head, but without speak- 
 ing. A smile so wild and meaning, however, 
 gleamed on his face at this declaration, that 
 the permanent officer of the secret tribunal, 
 he who served as its organ of communication, 
 bowed nearly to the paper he held, asit might 
 be to look deeper into his documents. Let 
 not the reader turn back to this page in sur- 
 prise, when he shall have reached the expla- 
 nation of the tale, for mysticisms quite as 
 palpable, if not of so ruthless a character, 
 have been publicly acted by political bodies 
 in his own times. 
 
 ‘There is now a specific and a frightful 
 charge brought against thee, Jacopo Fron- 
 toni,” continued the secretary; “ and, in 
 tenderness of the citizen’s life, the dreaded 
 council itself hath taken the matter in hand. 
 Didst thou know a certain Antonio Vecchio, 
 a. fisherman here in our Lagunes ?” 
 
 «Signor, I knew him well of late, and 
 much regret that it was only of late.” 
 
 «Thou knowest, too, that his body hath 
 been found drowned in the bay.” 
 
 Jacopo shuddered, signifying his assent 
 merely by a sign. The effect of this tacit ac- 
 knowledgment on the youngest of the three 
 was apparent, for he turned to his com- 
 panions, like one struck by the eenfession it 
 implied. His colleagues made dignified incli- 
 nations in return, and the silent communica- 
 tion ceased. 
 
 ‘‘ His death has excited discontent among 
 his fellows, and its cause has become a serl- 
 ous subject of inquiry for the illustrious 
 council.” 
 
 «The death of the meanest man in Venice 
 should call forth the care of the patricians, 
 signor.” 
 
 «© Dost thou know, Jacopo, that thou art 
 accused of being his murderer ?” 
 
 ‘« Signor, I do.” 
 
 ‘It is said that thou camest among the 
 gondoliers in the late regatta, and that, but 
 for this aged fisherman, thou would’st have 
 been winner of the prize ?” 
 
 «‘Tn that rumor had not lied, signor.” 
 
 ‘Thou dost not, then, deny the charge !” 
 said the examiner, in evident surprise. 
 
 «Tt is certain that but for the fisherman 
 I should have been the winner. 
 
 ‘«¢ And thou wished it, Jacopo?” 
 
 «‘ Signor, greatly ;” returned the accused, 
 with a show of emotion that had not hither- 
 to escaped him. ‘‘ I was a man condemned 
 of his fellows, and the oar had been my pride 
 from childhood to that hour.” 
 
 Another movement of the third inquisitor 
 betrayed, equally, his interest and his sur- 
 prise. 
 
 ‘Dost thou confess the crime ?” 
 
 Jacopo smiled, but more in derision than 
 with any other feeling. 
 
 ‘«‘Tf the illustrious senators here present 
 will unmask, I may answer that question, 
 haply, with greater confidence,” he said. 
 
 ‘Thy request is bold and out of rule. 
 None know the persons of the patricians who 
 preside over the destinies of the state. Dost 
 thou confess the crime ?” 
 
 The entrance of an officer, in some haste, 
 
 prevented a reply. The man placed a written 
 report in the hands of the inquisitor in red, 
 and withdrew. After ashort pause, the guards 
 
 were ordered to retire with their prisoner. 
 « Great senators!” said Jacopo, advancing 
 
 earnestly towards the table, as if he would 
 
 seize the moment to urge what he was about 
 to say—‘‘ Mercy! grant me your authority 
 
 to visit one in the prisons, beneath the leads ! 
 —_I have weighty reasons for the wish, and Bb 
 pray you, as men and fathers, to grant itt.” 
 
 The interest of the two, who were consult- 
 
 ing apart on the new intelligence, prevented 
 them from listening to what he urged. The — 
 other inquisitor, who was the Signor Soranzo, 
 
 had drawn near the lamp, anxious to read the 
 
 lineaments of one so notorious, and was gaz- 
 
 ing at his striking countenance. Touched by 
 the pathos of his voice, and agreeably disap- 
 pointed in the lineaments he studied, he took 
 upon himself the power to grant the request. 
 
 “Humor his wish,” he said to the halber- 
 diers; ‘but have him in readiness to re- 
 appear.” 
 
 Jacopo looked his gratitude, but fearful 
 that the others might still interfere to pre- 
 vent his wish, he hurried from the room. 
 
 The march of the little procession which 
 proceeded from the chamber of the Inqnisi- 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 tion to the summer cells of its victims, was 
 sadly characteristic of the place and the gov- 
 ernment. 
 
 It went through gloomy and secret corri- 
 - dors, that were hid from the vulgar eye, while 
 thin partitions only separated it from the 
 ‘ apartments of the Doge, which, like the spe- 
 cious aspect of the state, concealed the na- 
 kedness and misery within, by their gor- 
 geousness and splendor! On reaching the 
 attic, Jacopo stopped, and turnea to his 
 conductors. 
 
 ‘If you are beings of God’s forming,” he 
 said, “ take off these clanking chains, though 
 it be but for a moment.” 
 
 The keepers regarded each other in sur- 
 prise, neither offering to do the charitable 
 office. 
 
 «T go to visit, probably for the last time,” 
 continued the prisoner, “a bedridden—I may 
 say—a dying father, who knows nothing of 
 my situation,—will ye that he should see me 
 thus?” 
 
 The appeal, which was made more with the 
 yoice and manner, than in the words, had its 
 effect. A keeper removed the chains and 
 bade him proceed. With a cautious tread, 
 Jacopo advanced, and when the door was 
 opened he entered the room alone, for none 
 there had sufficient interest in an interview 
 between a common Bravo and his father, to 
 endure the glowing warmth of the place, the 
 while. The door was closed after him, and 
 the room became dark. 
 
 Notwithstanding his assumed firmness, 
 Jacopo hesitated when he found himself so 
 suddenly introduced to the silent misery of 
 the forlorn captive. A hard breathing told 
 him the situation of the pallet, but the walls, 
 which were solid on the side of the corridor, 
 effectually prevented the admission of light. 
 
 ‘‘Father!” said Jacopo, with gentleness. 
 
 He got no answer. 
 
 ‘“‘Father!” he repeated in a stronger 
 voice. 
 
 The breathing became more audible, and 
 then the captive spoke. 
 
 “Holy Maria hears my prayers!” he said 
 feebly. “God hath sent thee, son, to close 
 my eyes!” 
 
 «Doth thy strength fail thee, father?” 
 
 “ Greatly—my time is come—I had hoped 
 to see the light of the day again ; to bless 
 
 581 
 
 thy dear mother and sister—God’s will be 
 done!” 
 
 «They pray for us both, father. 
 beyond the power of the senate.” 
 
 “ Jacopo,—I do not understand thee 
 
 “My mother and sister are dead; they are 
 saints in Heaven, father.” 
 
 The old man groaned, for the tie of earth 
 had not yet been entirely severed. Jacopo 
 heard him murmuring a prayer, and he knelt 
 by the side of his pallet. 
 
 ‘«‘This is a sudden blow !” whispered the 
 old man. ‘‘ We depart together.” 
 
 «¢ They are long dead, father.” 
 
 ‘‘Why hast thou not told me this before, 
 Jacopo?” 
 
 ‘‘Hadst thou not sorrows enough without 
 this ?—now that thou art about to join them, 
 it will be pleasant to know that they have so 
 long been happy.” 
 
 «And thou?—thou wilt be alone—give 
 me thy hand,—poor Jacopo !” 
 
 The Bravo reached forth, and took the 
 feeble member of his parent; it was clammy 
 and cold. 
 
 ‘‘ Jacopo,” continued the captive, whose 
 mind still sustained the body, ‘‘I have prayed 
 thrice within the hour—once for my own soul 
 —once for the peace of thy mother—lastly, 
 for thee!” 
 
 ‘‘Bless thee, father!—bless thee!—I have 
 need of prayer!” 
 
 “T have asked of God—favor in thy be- 
 half. I have bethought me—of all thy love 
 and care—of all thy devotion to my age and 
 sufferings. When thou wert a child, Jaco- 
 po—tenderness for thee—tempted me to acts 
 of weakness,—I trembled lest thy manhood 
 might bring upon me—pain and repentance. 
 Thou hast not known the yearnings—of a 
 parent for his offspring—but thou hast well 
 requited them. Kneel, Jacopo—that I may 
 ask of God—once more to remember 
 thee.” 
 
 “Tam at thy side, father.” 
 
 The old man raised his feeble arms, and 
 with a voice whose force appeared reviving, 
 he pronounced a fervent and solemn benedic- 
 tion. 
 
 «The blessing of a dying parent will 
 sweeten thy life—Jacopo,” he added, after a 
 pause, “and give peace to thy last moments.” 
 
 “Tt will do the latter, father.” 
 
 They are 
 
 12? 
 
582 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 A rude summons at the door interrupted 
 them. 
 
 “Come forth, Jacopo,” said a keeper;— 
 ‘the Council seeks thee!” 
 
 Jacopo felt the convulsive start of his 
 father, but he did not answer. 
 
 «Will they not leave thee—a few minutes 
 longer?” whispered the old man—“TI shall 
 not keep thee long!” 
 
 The door opened, and a gleam from the 
 lamp fell on the group in the cell. The 
 keeper had the humanity to shut it again, 
 leaving all in obscurity. The glance which 
 Jacopo obtained, by that passing light, was 
 the last look he had of his father’s counte- 
 nance. Death was fearfully on it, but the 
 eyes were turned in unutterable affection on 
 his own. 
 
 ‘‘The man is mereiful—he will not shut 
 thee out!” murmured the parent. 
 
 ‘‘They cannot leave thee to die alone, 
 father!” 
 
 “Son, I am with my God—yet I would 
 gladly have thee by my side !—Didst thou 
 say—thy mother and thy sister were dead ?” 
 
 “ Dead! ” 
 
 «“Thy young sister, too?” 
 
 “ Father, both. They are saints in Heaven.” 
 
 The old man breathed thick, and there 
 was silence. Jacopo felt a hand moving in 
 the darkness, as if in quest of him. He 
 aided the effort, and laid the member in 
 reverence on his own head. 
 
 ‘¢ Maria undefiled, and her son, who is God! 
 —bless thee, Jacopo!” whispered a voice, 
 that to the excited imagination of the kneel- 
 ing Bravo, appeared to hover in the air. 
 The solemn words were followed by a quiver- 
 ing sigh. Jacopo hid his face in the blanket, 
 and prayed. After which there was deep 
 quiet. 
 
 “Father!” he asked, trembling at his own 
 smothered voice. 
 
 He was unanswered, Stretching out a 
 hand, it touched the features of a corpse. 
 With a firmness that had the quality of des- 
 peration, he again bowed his head, and ut- 
 tered, fervently, a prayer for the dead. 
 
 When the door of the cell opened, Jacopo 
 appeared to the keepers, with the dignity of 
 air that belongs. only to character, and which 
 was heightened by the scene in which he 
 had just been an actor. He raised his hands, 
 
 and stood immovable while the manacles 
 were replaced. This office done, they walked 
 away together, in the direction of the secret 
 chamber. It was not long ere all were again 
 in their places, before the Council of Three. 
 
 ‘«< Jacopo Frontoni,” resumed the secretary, 
 “thou art suspected of being privy to another 
 dark deed, that. hath had place of late, with- 
 in our city. Hast thou any knowledge of a 
 noble Calabrian, who hath high claim to the 
 senate’s honors, and who hath long had his 
 abode in Venice?” 
 
 «Signor, I have.” 
 
 “Hast thou had aught of concern with 
 him ?” 
 
 “ Signor, yes.” 
 
 A movement of common interest made 
 itself apparent among the auditors. 
 
 ‘‘ Dost thou know where the Don Camillo 
 Monforte is at present ?” 
 
 Jacopo hesitated. He so well understood 
 the means of intelligence possessed by the 
 Council, that he doubted how far it might be 
 prudent to deny his conneetion with the 
 flight of the lovers. Besides, at that mo- 
 ment his mind was deeply impressed with a 
 holy sentiment, of truth. 
 
 “Canst thou say, why the young duca is 
 not to be found in his palace? ” repeated the 
 secretary. 
 
 “Tllustrissimo, he hath quitted Venice for- 
 ever.” 
 
 ‘‘How canst thou know this?—Would he 
 make a confidant of a common Bravo ?” 
 
 The smile which crossed the features of 
 Jacopo was full of superiority; it caused the 
 conscious agent of the Secret Tribunal to 
 look closely at his papers, like one who felt 
 its power. 
 
 « Art thou his confidant—I ask again?” 
 
 ‘Signor, in this, I am.—I have: the as- 
 surance from the mouth of Don Camillo 
 Monforte himself that he will not return.” 
 
 “ This is impossible, since it would involve 
 a loss of all his fair hopes and illustrious 
 fortunes.” 
 
 ‘*He consoled himself, signor, with the 
 possession of the heiress of Tiepolo’s love, 
 and with her riches.” 
 
 Again there was a movement among the 
 Three, which. all their practised restraint, 
 and the conventional, dignity of their mysteri- 
 
ee er 
 
 THE BRAVO. 583 
 
 “ Let the keepers withdraw,” said the in- 
 quisitor of the scarlet robe. So soon as the 
 prisoner was alone with the Three, and their 
 permanent officer, the examination continued ; 
 the senators themselves, trusting to the effect 
 produced by their masks, and some feints, 
 speaking as occasion offered. 
 
 “This is important intelligence that thou 
 hast communicated, Jacopo,” continued he 
 of the robe of flame. ‘‘It may yet redeem 
 thy life, wert thou wise enough to turn it to 
 account.” 
 
 “ What would your eccellenza at my hands? 
 It is plain that the council know of the flight 
 of Don Camillo, nor will I believe that eyes, 
 which so seldom are closed, have not yet 
 missed the daughter of the Tiepolo.” 
 
 “Both are true, Jacopo; but what hast 
 thou to say of the means? Remember, that 
 as thou findest favor with the council, thine 
 own fate will be decided.” 
 
 The prisoner suffered another of those 
 
 - freezing gleams to cross his face, which in- 
 
 variably caused his examiners to bend their 
 looks aside. 
 
 “The means of escape cannot be wanting 
 to a bold lover, signor,” he replied. ‘‘ Don 
 Camillo is rich, and might employ a thousand 
 agents, had he need of them.” 
 
 ‘“Thou art equivocating; “twill be the 
 worse for thee, that thou triflest with the 
 council—who are these agents ?”’ 
 
 “He had a generous household, eccellenza; 
 —many hardy gondoliers and servitors of all 
 conditions.” 
 
 ‘© Of these we have nothing to learn. He 
 hath escaped by other means—or art thou 
 sure he hath escaped at all?” 
 
 “Signor, is he in Venice?” 
 
 “ Nay, that we ask of thee. Here is an 
 accusation, found in the lion’s mouth, which 
 charges thee with his assassination.” 
 
 ‘And the Donna Violetta’s too, eccel- 
 lenza?” 
 
 “Of her, we have heard nothing. What 
 answer dost thou make to the charge?” 
 
 ‘Signor, why should I betray my own 
 secrets ?” 
 
 ‘“Ha ! art thou equivocating and faithless ? 
 Remember that we_have a prisoner beneath 
 the leads who can extract the truth from 
 thee.” 
 
 Jacopo raised his form to such an altitude 
 
 as one might fancy to express the mounting 
 of a liberated spirit. Still his eye was sad, 
 and spite of an effort to the contrary, his 
 voice melancholy. 
 
 **Senators,” he said, “your prisoner be- 
 neath the leads is free.” 
 
 “How! thou art trifling, in thy despair!” 
 
 “JT speak truth. The liberation, so long 
 delayed, hath come at last! ” 
 
 “Thy father 1s 
 
 ‘‘Is dead,” interrupted Jacopo, solemnly. 
 
 The two elder members of the council 
 looked at each other, in surprise, while their 
 junior colleague listened with the interest of 
 one who was just entering on a novitiate of 
 secret and embarrassing duties. The former 
 consulted together, and then they communi- 
 cated as much of their opinions to the Signor 
 Soranzo as they deemed necessary to the 
 occasion. 
 
 “Wilt thou consult thine own safety, 
 Jacopo, and reveal all thou knowest of this 
 affair of the Neapolitan?” continued the 
 inquisitor, when his by-play was ended. 
 
 Jacopo betrayed no weakness at the menace 
 implied by the words of the senator; but, 
 after a moment’s reflection, he answered 
 with as much frankness as he could have 
 used at the confessional. i! 
 
 “Tt is known to you, illustrious senator,” 
 he said, ‘‘that the state had a desire to 
 match the heiress of Tiepolo to its own ad- 
 vantage; that she was beloved of the Nea- 
 politan noble; and that, as is wont, between 
 young and virtuous hearts, she returned his 
 love, as became a maiden of her high con- 
 dition and tender years. Is there anything 
 extraordinary in the circumstance, that two 
 of so illustrious hopes should struggle to 
 prevent their own misery? signori, the 
 night that old Antonio died, I was alone 
 among the graves of the Lido, with many 
 melancholy and bitter thoughts, and life had 
 become a burden to me. Had the evil spirit 
 which was then uppermost maintained its 
 mastery, I might have died the death of a 
 hopeless suicide. God sent Don Camillo 
 Monforte to. my succor—praised be the im- 
 maculate Maria and her blessed Son for the 
 mercy ! it was there I learned the wishes of 
 the Neapolitan, and enlisted myself in his 
 service. I swore to him, senators of Venice, 
 to be true; to die in his cause should it be 
 
584 
 
 necessary, and to help him to his bride. This 
 pledge have I redeemed. The happy lovers 
 are now in the states of the Church, and 
 under the puissant protection of the cardinal- 
 secretary, Don Camillo’s mother’s brother.” 
 
 ‘Fool! why didst thouthis ? Hadst thou 
 no thought for thyself?” 
 
 “ Kecellenza, but little ; I thought more 
 of finding a human bosom to pour out my 
 sufferings to than of your high displeasure. 
 I have not known so sweet a moment in 
 years, as that in which I saw the lord of 
 Sant’ Agata fold his beautiful and weeping 
 bride to his heart !” 
 
 The inquisitors were struck with the quiet 
 enthusiasm of the Bravo, and surprise once 
 more held them in suspense. At length, the 
 elder of the three resumed the examination. 
 
 ‘Wilt thou impart the manner of this es- 
 cape, Jacopo?” he demanded. “ Remember 
 thou hast still a life to redeem !” 
 
 «Signor, it is scarce worth the trouble, 
 But to do you pleasure, nothing shall be con- 
 cealed.” i, 2S i () 
 
 Jacopo then recounted, insimple and un- 
 disguised terms, the entire means employed 
 by Don Camillo in effecting his escape : his 
 hopes, his disappointments, and his final 
 success. In this narrative nothing was con- 
 cealed, but the place in which the ladies had 
 temporarily taken refuge, and the name of 
 Gelsomina. Even the attempt of Giacomo 
 Gradenigo on the life of the Neapolitan, and 
 the agency of the Hebrew, were fully ex- 
 posed. None listened to this explanation so 
 intently as the young husband. Notwith- 
 standing his public duties, his pulse quick- 
 ened as the prisoner dwelt on the different 
 chances of the lovers, and when their final 
 union was proclaimed, he felt his heart 
 bound with delight. On the other hand, 
 his more practised colleagues heard the de- 
 tail of the Bravo with politic coolness. The 
 effect of all factitious systems is to render 
 the feelings subservient to expediency. Con- 
 vention and fiction take place of passion and 
 truth, and like the Mussulman with his doc- 
 trine of predestination, there is no one more 
 acquiescent in defeat than he who has ob- 
 tained an advantage in the face of nature 
 and justice; his resignation being, in com- 
 mon, as perfect as his previous arrogance was 
 insupportable. The two old senators per- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ceived at once, that Don Camillo, and his 
 fair companion, were completely beyond the 
 reach of their power, and they instantly ad- 
 mitted the wisdom of making a merit of 
 necessity. Having no further occasion for 
 Jacopo, they summoned the keepers, and dis- 
 missed him to his cell. 
 
 “It will be seemly to send letters of con- 
 gratulation to the cardinal-secretary, on the 
 union of his nephew with so rich an heiress 
 of our city,” said the inquisitor of the Ten, 
 as the door closed on the retiring group. - 
 “So great an interest as that of the Neapol- 
 itan should be propitiated.”’ 
 
 “ But should he urge the state’s resistance 
 to his hopes? ” returned the Signor Soranzo, 
 in feeble objection to so bold a scheme. 
 
 “ We will excuse it as the act of a former 
 council. These misconceptions are the un- 
 avoidable consequences of the caprices of lib- 
 erty, signor. The steed that ranges the 
 plains, in the freedom of nature, cannot be 
 held to perfect command like the dull beast 
 that draws the car. This is the first of your 
 sittings, in the Three, but experience will 
 show you that, excellent as we are in system, 
 we are not quite perfect in practice. This is 
 a grave matter of the young Gradenigo, sig- 
 NOVI i 
 
 ‘«‘T have long known his unworthiness,” re- 
 turned his more aged colleague. “It is a 
 thousand pities that so honorable and so 
 noble a patrician should have produced so 
 ignoble a child. But neither the state, nor the 
 city, can tolerate assassination.” 
 
 «“ Would it were less frequent !” exclaimed 
 the Signor Soranzo, in perfect sincerity. 
 
 «“ Would it were, indeed! ‘There are 
 hints in our secret information which tend 
 to confirm the charge of Jacopo, though long 
 experience has taught us to put full faith in 
 his reports.” 
 
 “ How—is Jacopo, then, an agent of the 
 police ?” 
 
 ‘Of that more at our leisure, Signor Sor- 
 anzo. At present we must look to this at- 
 tempt on the life of one protected by our 
 laws.” 
 
 The Three then entered into a serious 
 discussion of the case of the two delinquents. 
 Venice, like all despotic governments, had 
 the merit of great efficiency in its criminal 
 police, when it was disposed to exert it. Jus- 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 tice was sure enough in those instances in 
 which the interests of the government itself 
 were not involved, or in which bribery could 
 not well be used. As to the latter, through 
 the jealousy of the state, and the constant 
 agency of those who were removed from 
 temptation, by being already in possession of 
 a monopoly ef benefits, it was by no means 
 as frequent as in some other communities, in 
 which the affluent were less interested. The 
 Signor Soranzo had now a fair occasion for 
 the exercise of his generous feelings. Though 
 related to the house of Gradenigo, he was 
 not backward in decrying the conduct of its 
 heir. His first impulses were to makea ter- 
 rible example of the accused, and to show the 
 world that no station brought with it, in Ven- 
 ice,impunity for crime. From this view of 
 the case, however, he was gradually enticed 
 by his companions, who reminded him that 
 the law commonly made a distinction be- 
 tween the intention and the execution of an 
 offence. Driven from his first determination 
 by the cooler heads of his colleagues, the 
 young inquisitor next proposed that the case 
 should be sent to the ordinary tribunals for 
 judgment. Instances had not been wanting 
 in which the aristocracy of Venice sacrificed 
 one of its body to the seemliness of Justice ; 
 for when such cases were managed with dis- 
 cretion, they rather strengthened than weak- 
 ened their ascendancy. But the present 
 crime was known to be too common to per- 
 mit so lavish an expenditure of their immu- 
 nities, and the old inquisitors opposed the 
 - wish of their younger colleague with great 
 plausibility, and with some show of reason. 
 It was finally resolved that they should them- 
 selves decide on the case. 
 
 The next question was the degree of pun- 
 ishment. The wily senior of the Council be- 
 gan by proposing a banishment for a few 
 months, for Giacomo Gradenigo was already 
 obnoxious to the anger of the state, on more 
 accounts than one. But this punishment 
 was resisted, by the Signor Soranzo, with the 
 ardor of an uncorrupted and generous mind. 
 The latter gradually prevailed, his compan- 
 ions taking care that their compliance should 
 have the air of a concession to his argu- 
 ments. The result of all this management was 
 that the heir of Gradenigo was condemned 
 to ten years’ retirement in the provinces, 
 
 585 
 
 and Hosea to banishment for life. Should 
 the reader be of opinion that strict justice 
 was not meted out to the offenders, he should 
 remember, that the Hebrew ought to be glad 
 to have escaped as he did. 
 
 “ We must not conceal this judgment, nor 
 its motive,” observed the Inquisitor of the 
 Ten, when the affair was concluded. ‘‘The 
 state is never a loser for letting its justice be 
 known.” 
 
 ‘‘Nor for its exercise, J should hope;” 
 returned the Signor Soranzo. ‘‘ As our 
 affairs are ended for the night, is it your 
 pleasures, signori, that we return to our 
 palaces ?” 
 
 “ Nay, we have this matter of Jacopo.” 
 
 “Him may we, now, surely, turn over to 
 the ordinary tribunals! ” 
 
 «¢ Ags you may decide, signori; is this your 
 pleasure ?”’ 
 
 Both the others bowed assent, and the 
 usual preparations were made for departure. 
 
 Ere the two seniors of the Council left the 
 palace, however, they held a long and secret 
 conference together. The result was a pri- 
 vate order to the criminal judge, and then 
 they returned, each to his own abode, like 
 men who had the approbation of their own 
 consciences. 
 
 On the other hand, the Signor Soranzo 
 hastened to his own luxurious and happy 
 dwelling. For the first time in his life he 
 entered it with a distrust of himself. With- 
 out being conscious of the reason, he felt 
 sad, for he had taken the first step in that 
 tortuous and corrupting path, which eventu- 
 ally leads to the destruction of all those gen- 
 erous and noble sentiments, which can only 
 flourish apart from the sophistry and fictions 
 of selfishness. He would have rejoiced to 
 have been as light of heart as at the moment 
 he handed his fair-haired partner into the 
 gondola that night; but his head had pressed 
 the pillow for many hours before sleep drew 
 a veil over the solemn trifling with the most 
 serious of our duties, in which he had been 
 an actor. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Art thou not guilty! No, indeed, I am not. 
 —RoGERs. 
 
 THE following morning brought the funer- 
 al of Antonio. The agents of the police took 
 
586 
 
 the precaution to circulate in the city, that 
 the senate permitted this honor to the mem- 
 ory of the old fisherman, on account of his 
 success in the regatta, and as some atonement 
 for his unmerited and mysterious death. All 
 the men of the Lagunes were assembled in 
 the square at the appointed hour, in decent 
 guise, flattered with the notice that their 
 craft received, and more than half disposed 
 to forget their former anger in the present 
 favor. Thus easy is it for those who are 
 elevated above their fellow-creatures by the 
 accident of birth, or by the opinions of a 
 factitious social organization, to repair the 
 wrongs they do in deeds, by small concessions 
 of their conventional superiority. 
 
 Masses were stili chanted for the soul of 
 old Antonio before the altar of St. Mark. 
 Foremost among the priests was the good 
 Carmelite, who had scarce known hunger or 
 fatigue, in his pious desire to do the offices of 
 the Church, in behalf of one whose fate he 
 might be said to have witnessed. His zeal, 
 however, in that moment of excitement 
 passed unnoticed by all, but those whose 
 business it was to suffer no unusual display 
 of character, nor any unwonted circumstance, 
 to have place, without attracting their sus- 
 picion. As the Carmelite finally withdrew 
 from the altar, previously to the removal of 
 the body, he felt the sleeve of his robe slightly 
 drawn aside, and yielding to the impulse, he 
 quickly found himself among the columns of 
 that gloomy church, alone with a stranger. 
 
 ‘¢ Father, thou hast shrived many a parting 
 soul ?” observed, rather than asked, the 
 other. 
 
 “Tt is the duty of my holy office, son.” 
 
 ‘The state will note thy services; there 
 will be need of thee when the body of this 
 fisherman is committed to the earth.” 
 
 The monk shuddered, but making the 
 sign of the cross, he bowed his pale face, in 
 signification of his readiness to discharge the 
 duty. At that moment the bearers lifted the 
 body, and the procession issued upon the 
 great square. . First marched the usual lay 
 underlings of the cathedral, who were followed 
 by those who chanted the offices of the occa- 
 sion, Among the latter the Carmelite hast- 
 ened to take his station. 
 
 Next came the 
 corpse, without a coffin, for that is a luxury 
 of the grave even now unknown to the Ital- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ians of old Antonio’s degree. ‘The body was 
 clad in the holiday vestments of a fisherman, 
 the hands and feet being naked. A cross 
 lay on the breast ; the gray hairs were blow- 
 ing about in the air, and, in frightful adorn- 
 ment of the ghastliness of death, a bouquet 
 of flowers was placed upon the mouth. ‘The 
 bier was rich in gilding and carving, another 
 melancholy evidence of the lingering wishes 
 and false direction of human vanity. 
 
 Next to this characteristic equipage of the 
 dead walked a lad, whose brown cheek, half- 
 naked body, and dark, roving eye, announced - 
 the grandson of the fisherman. Venice knew 
 when to yield gracefully, and the boy was 
 liberated, unconditionally, from the galleys, 
 in pity, as it was whispered, for the untimely 
 fate of his parent. There was the aspiring 
 look, the dauntless spirit, and the rigid hon- 
 esty of Antonio, in the bearing of the lad ; 
 but these qualities were now smothered by a 
 natural grief; and, as in the case of him 
 whose funeral escort he followed, something 
 obscured by the rude chances of his lot. 
 From time to time the bosom of the generous 
 boy heaved, as they marched along the quay, 
 taking the route of the arsenal ; and there 
 were moments that his lips quivered; grief 
 threatening to overcome his manhood. 
 
 Still not a tear wetted his cheek, until the 
 body disappeared from his view. ‘Then nature 
 triumphed, and straying from out the circle, 
 he took a seat apart and wept, as one of his 
 years and simplicity would be apt to weep, at 
 finding himself a solitary wanderer in the 
 wilderness of the world. 
 
 Thus terminated the incident of Antonio 
 Vecchio, the fisherman, whose name soon 
 ceased to be mentioned in that city of myste- 
 ries, except on the Lagunes, where the men 
 of his craft long vaunted his merit with the 
 net, and the manner in which he bore away 
 the prize from the best oars of Venice. His 
 descendant lived and toiled, like others of his 
 condition, and we will here dismiss him, by 
 saying, that he so far inherited the native 
 qualities of his ancestor, that he forbore to 
 appear, a few hours later, in the crowd, which 
 curiosity and vengeance drew into the Piaz- 
 zetta. 
 
 Father Anselmo took boat to return to the 
 canals, and when he landed at the quay of 
 the smaller square, it was with the hope that 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 he would now be permitted to seek those of 
 whose fate he was still ignorant, but in whom 
 he felt so deep an interest. Notso, however. 
 The individual who had addressed him in 
 the cathedral was, apparently, in waiting, and 
 knowing the uselessness, as well as the 
 danger of remonstrance, where the state was 
 concerned, the Carmelite permitted himself 
 to be conducted whither his guide pleased. 
 They took a devious route, but it led them to 
 the public prisons. Here the priest was 
 shown into the keeper’s apartment, where he 
 was desired to wait a summons from his com- 
 panion. 
 
 Our business now leads us to the cell of 
 Jacopo. On quitting the presence of the 
 Three, he had been remanded to his gloomy 
 room, where he passed the night like others 
 similarly situated. With the appearance of 
 the dawn, the Bravo had been led before those 
 who ostensibly discharged the duties of his 
 judges. We say ostensibly, for justice never 
 was yet pure under a system in which the 
 governors have an interest in the least sep- 
 arated from that of the governed ; for in all 
 cases which involve the ascendency of the 
 existing authorities, the instinct of self-pres- 
 ervation is as certain to bias their decision, 
 as that of life is to cause man to shun dan- 
 ger. If such is the fact in countries of milder 
 sway, the reader will easily believe in its ex- 
 istence in a state like that of Venice. As 
 may have been anticipated, those who sat in 
 judgment on Jacopo had their instructions, 
 and the trial that he sustained was rather a 
 concession to appearances than a homage to 
 the laws. All the records were duly made, 
 witnesses were examined, or said to be exam- 
 ined, and care was had to spread the rumor 
 in the city, that the tribunals were at length 
 occupied in deciding on the case of the ex- 
 traordinary man, who had so long been per- 
 mitted to exercise his bloody profession with 
 impunity, even in the centre of the canals. 
 During the morning, the credulous tradesmen 
 were much engaged in recounting to each 
 other the different flagrant deeds that, in the 
 course of the last three or four years, had been 
 imputed to his hand. One spoke of the body 
 of a stranger that had been found near the 
 gaming-houses frequented by those who vis- 
 ited Venice. Another recalled the fate of the 
 young noble, who had fallen by the assassin’s 
 
 587 
 
 blow even on the Rialto, and another went 
 into the details of a murder which had de- 
 prived a mother of her only son, and the 
 daughter of a patrician of her lover. In this 
 manner, as one after another contributed to 
 the list, a little group, assembled on the quay, 
 enumerated no less than five-and-twenty lives, 
 which were believed to have been taken by 
 the hand of Jacopo, without including the 
 vindictive and useless assassination of him 
 whose fnneral rites had just been celebrated. 
 Happily, perhaps, for his peace of mind, the 
 subject of all these rumors, and of the male- 
 dictions which they drew upon his head, 
 knew nothing of either. Before his judges 
 he had made no defence whatever, firmly re- 
 fusing to answer their interrogatories, 
 
 ‘‘Ye know what I have done, Messires,” 
 he said, haughtily. ‘‘ And what I have not 
 done, ye know. As for yourselves, look to 
 your own interests.” 
 
 When again in his cell, he demanded food, 
 and ate tranquilly, though with moderation. 
 Every instrument which could possibly be 
 used against his life, was then removed, his 
 irons were finally and carefully examined, and 
 he was left to his thoughts. It was in this 
 situation that the prisoner heard the approach 
 of footsteps to his cell. The bolts turned, 
 and the door opened. The form of a priest 
 appeared between him and the day. The 
 latter, however, held a lamp, which, as the 
 cell was again shut and secured, he placed on 
 the low shelf that held the jug and loaf of 
 the prisoner. | 
 
 Jacopo received his visitor calmly, but with 
 the deep respect of one who reverenced his 
 holy office. He arose, crossed himself, and 
 advanced as far as the chains permitted, to 
 do him honor. 
 
 “Thou art welcome, father,” he said; ‘in 
 cutting me off from earth, the Council, I see, 
 does not wish to cut me off from God.” 
 
 ‘That would exceed their power, son. 
 He who died for them, shed His blood for 
 thee, if thou wilt not reject His grace. But 
 —Heaven knows I say it with reluctance! 
 thou art not to think that one of thy sins, 
 Jacopo, can have hope without deep and 
 heartfelt repentance ! ” 
 
 “Father, have any ?” 
 
 The Carmelite started, for the point of 
 the question, and the tranquil tones of the 
 
588 
 
 speaker, had a strange effect in such an in- 
 terview. 
 
 ‘‘Thou art not what I had supposed thee, 
 Jacopo!” he answered. ‘Thy mind is not 
 altogether obscured in darkness, and thy 
 crimes have been committed against the con- 
 sciousness of their enormity.” 
 
 ‘‘T fear this is true, reverend monk.” 
 
 ‘Thou must feel their weight in the 
 poignancy of grief—in the——” Father An- 
 selmo stopped, for a sob at that moment 
 apprised them that they were not alone. 
 Moving aside, in a little alarm, the action 
 discovered the figure of the shrinking Gelso- 
 mina, who had entered the cell, favored by 
 the keepers, and concealed by the robes of 
 the Carmelite. Jacopo groaned, when he 
 beheld her form, and turning away, he 
 leaned against the wall. 
 
 ‘‘ Daughter, why art thou here—and who 
 art thou ?” demanded the monk. 
 
 «?Tis the child of the principal keeper,” 
 said Jacopo, perceiving that she was unable 
 to answer, ‘‘one known to me, in my fre- 
 quent adventures in this prison.” 
 
 The eye of Father Anselmo wandered from 
 one to the other. At first its expression was 
 severe, and then, as it saw each countenance 
 in turn, it became less unkind, until it soft- 
 ened, at the exhibition of their mutual 
 agony. 
 
 . “ This comes of human passions!” he said, 
 -_ in a tone between consolation and reproof. 
 «‘Such are ever the fruits of crime.” 
 
 “ Father,” said Jacopo, with earnestness, 
 ‘“T may deserve the word; but the angels in 
 Heaven are scarce purer than this weeping 
 girl!” 7 
 
 ‘I rejoice to hear it. I will believe thee, 
 unfortunate man, and glad am I that thy 
 soul is relieved from the sin of having cor- 
 rupted one so youthful.” 
 
 The bosom of the prisoner heaved, while 
 Gelsomina shuddered. 
 
 “Why hast thou yielded to the weakness 
 of nature, and entered the cell?” asked the 
 good Carmelite, endeavoring to throw into 
 his eye a reproof that the pathos and kind- 
 ness of his tones contradicted. ‘* Didst thou 
 know the character of the man thou loved ?” 
 
 ‘‘Immaculate Maria!” exclaimed the girl 
 —*no—no—no!” 
 
 *¢ And now that thou has learned the truth, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 surely thou art no longer the victim of way- 
 ward fancies! ” 
 
 The gaze of Gelsomina was bewildered, but 
 anguish prevailed over all other expression. 
 She bowed her head, partly in shame, but 
 more in sorrow, without answering. 
 
 “‘T know not, children, what end this in- 
 terview can answer,” continued the monk— 
 ‘‘T am sent hither to receive the last confes- 
 sion of a bravo, and surely one who has so 
 much cause to condemn the deception he has 
 practised, would not wish to hear the details 
 of such a life?” 
 
 “ No—no—no—” murmured Gelsomina 
 again, enforcing her words with a wild gesture 
 of the hand. 
 
 “It is better, Father, that she should be- 
 lieve me all that her fancy can imagine as 
 monstrous,” said Jacopo, in a thick voice; 
 “she will then learn to hate my memory.” 
 
 Gelsomina did not speak, but the negative 
 gesture was repeated frantically. 
 
 “The heart of the poor child hath been 
 sorely touched,” said the Carmelite, with con- 
 cern. “ We must not treat so tender a flower 
 rudely. Hearken to me, daughter, and con- 
 sult thy reason more than thy weakness.” 
 
 ‘Question her not, Father—let her curse 
 me and depart.” 
 
 ‘*Carlo!” shrieked Gelsomina. 
 
 A long pause succeeded. The monk per- 
 ceived that human passion was superior to 
 his art, and that the case must be left to 
 time; while the prisoner maintained within 
 himself a struggle more fierce than any which 
 it had yet been his fate to endure. ‘The lin- 
 gering desires of the world conquered, and he 
 broke silence. 
 
 “ Father,” he said, advancing to the length 
 of his chain, and speaking both solemnly, and 
 with dignity, “ I had hoped—-I had prayed 
 that this unhappy but imnocent creature 
 might have turned from her own weakness 
 with loathing, when she came to know that 
 the man she loved was a bravo.—But I did 
 injustice to the heart of woman!” ‘Tell me, 
 Gelsomina, and as thou valuest thy salvation, 
 deceive me not—canst thou look at me with- 
 out horror ? ” 
 
 Gelsomina trembled, but she raised her 
 eyes, and smiled on him, as the weeping in- 
 fant returns the earnest and tender regard of 
 its mother. The effect of that glance on 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 Jacopo was so powerful, that his sinewy frame 
 shook, until the wondering Carmelite heard 
 the clanking of his chains. 
 
 «Tis enough,” he said, struggling to com- 
 
 mand himself, “Gelsomina, thou shalt hear 
 my confession. Thou hast long been mistress 
 of one great secret, none other shall be hid 
 from thee.” 
 
 «“ Antonio?” gasped the girl,—‘‘ Carlo! 
 Carlo! what had that aged fisherman done 
 that thy hand should seek his life ? ” 
 
 <‘ Antonio! ” echoed the monk; dost thou 
 stand charged with his death, my son ?” 
 
 ‘Tt is the crime for which I am condemned 
 to die.” 
 
 The Carmelite sank upon the stool of the 
 prisoner, and sat motionless, looking with an 
 eye of horror from the countenance of the 
 unmoved Jacopo to that of his trembling 
 companion. The truth began to dawn upon 
 him, though his mind was still enveloped in 
 the web of Venetian mystery. 
 
 ‘Here is some horrible mistake!” he 
 whispered, ‘‘I will hasten to thy judges and 
 undeceive them.” 
 
 ‘The prisoner smiled calmly, as he reached 
 out a hand to arrest the zealous movement of 
 the simple Carmelite. 
 
 <‘?*T will be useless,” he said; “it is the 
 pleasure of the Three that I should suffer for 
 old Antonio’s death.” 
 
 “Then wilt thou die unjustly—I am a 
 witness that he fell by other hands.” 
 
 “Father!” shrieked Gelsomina, ‘oh ! 
 repeat the words—say that Carlo could not 
 do the cruel deed !” 
 
 «¢ Of that murder, at least, is he innocent.” 
 
 «« Gelsomina !” said Jacopo, struggling to 
 stretch forth his arms toward her, and yield- 
 ing to a full heart, ‘‘and of every other!” 
 
 A cry of wild delight burst from the lips 
 of the girl, who in the next instant lay sense- 
 less on his bosom. 
 
 We draw the veil before the scene that fol- 
 lowed. Near an hour must pass before we 
 can again remove it. The cell then exhibited 
 a group in its centre, over which the lamp 
 shed its feeble light, marking the counte- 
 nances of the different personages with strong 
 
 tints and deep shadows, in a manner to bring 
 
 forth all the force of Italian expression. The 
 Carmelite was seated on the stool, while 
 Jacopo and Gelsomina knelt beside him. 
 
 patricians of their own injustice. 
 afraid that when men pretend that the chosen 
 
 589 
 
 The former of the two last was speaking ear- 
 nestly, while his auditors caught each syllable 
 that issued from his lips, as if interest in his 
 innocence were still stronger than curiosity. 
 “T have told you, Father,” he continued, 
 ‘that a false accusation of having wronged 
 the customs, brought my unhappy parent 
 under the senate’s displeasure, and that he 
 was many years an innocent inhabitant of 
 one of these accursed cells, while we believed 
 him in exile among the islands. At length 
 we succeeded in getting such proof before 
 the council as ought to have satisfied the 
 I am 
 
 of the earth exercise authority, they are not 
 ready to admit their errors, for it would be 
 
 proof against the merit of their system. The 
 council delayed a weary time to do us justice 
 —so long, that my poor mother sank under 
 her sufferings. 
 
 My sister, a girl of Gelso- 
 mina’s years, followed her soon—for the only 
 
 reason given by the state, when pressed for 
 proof, was the suspicion that one who sought 
 
 her love was guilty of the crime for which 
 my unhappy father perished.” 
 
 ' «© And did they refuse to repair their in- 
 justice ?” exclaimed the Carmelite. 
 
 «They could not do it, Father, without 
 publishing their fallibility. The credit of 
 certain great patricians was concerned, and I 
 fear there is a morality in these councils 
 which separates the deed of the man from 
 those of the senators, putting policy before 
 justice.” 
 
 «This may be true, son—for when a com- 
 munity is grounded on false principles, its 
 interests must, of necessity, be maintained by 
 sophisms. God will view this act with a dif- 
 ferent eye!” 
 
 «‘ Blse would the world be hopeless, Father! 
 After years of prayers and interest, I was, 
 under a solemn oath of secrecy, admitted to 
 my father’s cell. There was happiness in 
 being able to administer to his wants—in 
 hearing his voice—in kneeling for his bless- 
 ing. Gelsomina was then a child approach- 
 ing womanhood. I knew not their motive, 
 though after-thoughts left it no secret, and 
 I was permitted to see my father through her 
 means. When they believed that I was suf- 
 ficiently caught in their toils, I was led 
 into that fatal error which has destroyed 
 
590 
 
 my hopes, and brought me to this condi- 
 tion.” 
 
 ‘Thou hast affirmed thy innocence, my 
 son!” 
 
 «* Innocent of shedding blood, Father, but 
 not of lending myself to their artifices. I 
 will not weary you, holy monk, with the his- 
 tory of the means by which they worked 
 upon my nature. I was sworn to serve the 
 state, as its secret agent, for a certain time. 
 The reward was to be my father’s freedom. 
 Had they taken me in the world, and in my 
 senses, their arts would not have triumphed ; 
 but a daily witness of the sufferings of him 
 who had given me life, and who was now all 
 that was left to me in the world, they were 
 too strong for my weakness. They whispered 
 to me of racks and wheels, and I was shown 
 paintings of dying martyrs, that I might 
 understand the agony they could inflict. 
 Assassinations were frequent, and called for 
 the care of the police—in short, Father,’— 
 Jacopo hid his face in the dress of Gelsomina, 
 —**I consented to let them circulate such 
 tales as might draw the eye of the public on 
 me. I need: not add, that he who lends him- 
 self to his own infamy. will soon obtain his 
 object.” 
 
 ‘‘ With what end was this miserable false- 
 hood invented ?” 
 
 ‘“* Father, I was applied to as a public 
 bravo, and my reports, in more ways than 
 one, answered their designs. That I saved 
 some lives is at least a consolation for the 
 error, or crime, into which I fell ! ” 
 
 **T understand thee, Jacopo. Ihave heard 
 that Venice did not hesitate to use the ardent 
 and brave in this manner. Holy St. Mark! 
 can deceit like this be practised under the 
 sanction of thy blessed name !” 
 
 “Father, it is, and more. I had other 
 duties connected with the interests of the 
 republic, and, of course, I was practised in 
 their discharge. The citizens marvelled that 
 one like me should go at large, while the vin- 
 dictive and revengeful took the circumstance 
 as a proof of address. When rumor got too 
 strong for appearances, the Three took meas- 
 ures to direct it to other things; and when 
 it grew too faint for their wishes, it was 
 fanned. In short, for three long and bitter 
 years did I pass the life of the damned—sus- 
 tained only by the hope of liberating my 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 father, and cheered by the love of this inno- 
 cent !” 
 
 ‘Poor Jacopo, thou art to be pitied! I 
 will remember thee in my prayers.” 
 
 ** And thou, Gelsomina ?” 
 
 The keeper’s daughter did notanswer. Her 
 ears had drunk in each syllable that fell from 
 his lips, and now that the whole truth began 
 to dawn on her mind, there was a bright radi- 
 ance in her eye that appeared almost super- 
 natural to those who witnessed it. 
 
 ‘‘If I have failed in convincing thee, Gel- 
 somina,” continued Jacopo, “ that I am not 
 the wretch I seemed, would that I had been 
 dumb !” 
 
 She stretched a hand toward him, and, 
 dropping her head on his bosom, wept. 
 
 ‘*T see all thy temptations, poor Carlo,” she 
 said, softly ; «‘I know how strong was thy 
 love for thy father.” 
 
 “Dost thou forgive me, dearest Gelsomina, 
 for the deception on thy innocence ? ” 
 
 ‘There was no deception—I believe thee a 
 son ready to die for his father, and I find thee 
 what I thought thee.” 
 
 The good Carmelite regarded this scene 
 with eyes of interest and indulgence.— Tears 
 wetted his cheeks. 
 
 “'Thy affection for each other, children,” 
 he said, ‘‘is such as angels might indulge.— 
 Has thy intercourse been of long date ? ” 
 
 ‘Tt has lasted years, Father.” 
 
 ‘‘ And thou, daughter, has been with Ja- 
 copo in the cell of his parent ?” 
 
 ‘“‘T was his constant guide on these holy 
 errands, Father.” 
 
 The monk mused deeply. After a silence 
 of several minutes, he proceeded to the duties 
 of his holy office. Receiving the spiritual 
 confession of the prisoner, he gave the absolu- 
 tion with a fervor which proved how deeply 
 his sympathies were enlisted in behalf of the 
 youthful pair. This duty done, he gave Gel- 
 somina his hand, and there was a mild con- 
 fidence in his countenance, as he took leave 
 of Jacopo. 
 
 “We quit thee,” he said—‘‘ but be of heart, 
 son. I cannot think that even Venice will be 
 deaf to a tale like thine! ‘Trust first to thy 
 God—and, believe that. neither this faithful 
 girl nor I will abandon thee, without an 
 effort.” 
 
 Jacopo received this assurance like one ac- 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 customed to exist in extreme jeopardy. The 
 
 591 
 
 The jealousy of the Venetian patricians on 
 
 smile which accompanied his own adieus had | the subject of their Doge isa matter of his- 
 
 in it as much of incredulity as of melancholy. 
 It was, however, full of the joy of a lightened 
 heart. 
 
 —— 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Your heart 
 Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 
 Appearances ; and views a criminal 
 In innocence’s shadow.—- WERNER. 
 
 Tur Carmelite and Gelsomina found the 
 keepers in waiting, and when they quitted the 
 cell its door was secured for the night. As 
 they had no farther concerns with the jailers, 
 they passed on unquestioned. But when the 
 end of the corridor, which led towards the 
 apartments of the keeper was reached, the 
 monk stopped. 
 
 ‘- Art thou equal to a great effort, in order 
 that the innocent shall not die ?” he suddenly 
 asked, though with a solemnity that denoted 
 the influence of a high and absorbing motive. 
 
 «« Father !” 
 
 «‘T would know if thy love for the youth 
 can sustain thee in a trying scene ; for with- 
 out this effort he will surely perish !” 
 
 ‘¢T would die to save Jacopo a pang !” 
 
 “‘Deceive not thyself, daughter !—Canst 
 thou forget thy habits, overstep the diffidence 
 of thy years and condition; stand and speak 
 fearlessly in the presence of the great and 
 dreaded ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Reverend Carmelite, I speak daily, with- 
 out fear, though not without awe, to one 
 more to be dreaded than any in Venice.” 
 
 The monk looked in admiration at the 
 gentle being whose countenance was glowing 
 with the mild resolution of innocence and 
 affection, and he motioned for her to follow. 
 «‘ We will go, then, before the proudest and 
 the most fearful of earth, should there be 
 
 occasion,” he resumed. ‘‘ We will do our 
 duty to both parties; to the oppressor and 
 the oppressed, that the sin of omission lie not 
 on our souls.” 
 
 Father Anselmo, without further explana- 
 tion, led the obedient girl into that part of 
 the palace, which was known to be appropri- 
 ated to the private uses of the titular head 
 of the republic. 
 
 tory. He was, by situation, a puppet in the 
 hands of the nobles, who only tolerated his 
 existence, because the theory of their gov- 
 ernment required a seeming agent in the im- 
 posing ceremonies that formed part of their 
 specious system, and in their intercourse 
 with other states. 
 like the queen-bee in the hive, pampered and 
 honored to the eye, but in truth devoted to the 
 objects of those who alone possess the power 
 to injure, and perhaps we might add, like the 
 
 He dwelt, in his palace, 
 
 insect named, known for consuming more 
 than a usual portion of the fruits of the com- 
 mon industry. 
 
 Father Anselmo was indebted to his own 
 decision, and to the confidence of his mian- 
 ner, in reaching the private apartments of a 
 prince, thus secluded and watched. He was 
 permitted to pass by various sentinels, who 
 imagined, from his holy calling and calm 
 step, that he was some friar employed in his 
 usual and privileged office. By this easy, 
 quiet method did the Carmelite and his com- 
 panion penetrate to the very antechamber of 
 the sovereign, a spot that thousands had been 
 defeated in attempting to reach by means 
 more elaborate. 
 
 There were merely two or three drowsy 
 inferior officers of the household in waiting. 
 One arose, quickly, at the unexpected ap- 
 pearance of these unknown visitors, express- 
 ing, by the surprise and the confusion of his 
 eye, the wonder into which he was thrown by 
 so unlooked-for guests. 
 
 “His highness waits for us, I fear?” sim- 
 ply observed Father Anselmo, who had 
 known how to quiet his concern in a look of 
 passive courtesy. 
 
 “Santa Maria! holy Father, you should 
 know best, but——” 
 
 “ We will not lose more time in idle words, 
 son, when there has already been this delay 
 —show us to the closet of his highness.” 
 
 “Tt is forbidden to usher any, unan- 
 nounced, into the presence e 
 
 «Thou seest this is not an ordinary visit. 
 Go, inform the Doge that the Carmelite he 
 expects, and the youthful maiden, in whom 
 his princely bosom feels so parental an in- 
 terest, await his pleasure.” 
 
 ‘‘ His highness has then commanded 
 
 33 
 
592 
 
 “Tell him, moreover, that time presses; 
 for the hour is near when innocence is con- 
 demned to suffer.” 
 
 The usher was deceived by the gravity and 
 assurance of the monk. He hesitated, and 
 then, throwing open a door, he showed the 
 visitors into an inner room, where he re- 
 quested them to await his return. After 
 this, he went on the desired commission to 
 the closet of his master. 
 
 It has already been shown that the reign- 
 ing Doge, if such a title can be used of.a 
 prince who was merely a tool of the aristoc- 
 racy, was © man advanced in years. He had 
 thrown aside the cares of the day, and, in 
 the retirement of his privacy, was endeav- 
 oring to indulge those human sympathies 
 that had so little play in the ordinary duties 
 of his factitious condition, by holding inter- 
 course with the mind of one of the classics 
 of his country. His state was laid aside for 
 lighter ease and personal freedom. The 
 monk could not have chosen a happier mo- 
 ment for his object, since the man was unde- 
 fended by the usual appliances of his rank, 
 and he was softened by communion with one 
 who had known how to mould and temper 
 the feelings of his readers at will. So entire 
 was the abstraction of the Doge, at the mo- 
 ment, that the usher entered unheeded, and 
 had stood in respectful attention to his sov- 
 ereign’s pleasure, near a minute before he 
 was seen. 
 
 “What would’st thou, Marco?” demanded 
 the prince, when his eye rose from the 
 page. 
 
 « Signor,” returned the officer, using the 
 familiar manner in which those nearest to 
 the persons of princes are permitted to in- 
 dulge—“ here are the reverend Carmelite, and 
 the young girl, in waiting.” 
 
 “How sayest thou?”—a Carmelite and a 
 girl!” 
 
 “Signor, the same. 
 highness expects.” 
 
 “ What bold pretence is this! ” 
 
 “Signor, I do but repeat the words of the 
 monk. ‘Tell his highness,’ said the father, 
 ‘that the Carmelite he wishes to see, and the 
 young girl in whose happiness his princely 
 bosom feels so parental an interest, await his 
 pleasure.’ ”’ 
 
 There passed a glow, in which indignation 
 
 3 
 
 Those whom your 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 was brighter than shame over the wasted 
 cheek of the old prince, and his eye kindled. 
 
 “ And this to me—even in my palace ! ” 
 
 ‘*Pardon, signor—This is no shameless 
 priest, like so many that disgrace the tonsure, 
 Both monk and girl have innocent and harm- 
 less looks, and I do suspect your highness 
 may have forgotten.” 
 
 The bright spots disappeared from the 
 prince’s cheeks, and his eye regained its pa- 
 ternal expression. But age and experience, 
 in his delicate duties, had taught the Doge of 
 Venice caution. He well knew that memory 
 had not failed him, and he at once saw that 
 a hidden meaning lay concealed beneath an 
 application so unusual. There might be a 
 device of his enemies, who were numerous 
 and active, or, in truth, there might be some 
 justifiable motive to warrant the applicant in 
 resorting to a measure so hardy. 
 
 “Did the Carmelite say more, good 
 Marco?” he asked, after deep reflection. 
 
 “Signor, he said there was great urgency, 
 as the hour was near when the innocent 
 might suffer. I doubt not that he comes 
 with a petition in behalf of some young in- 
 discreet, for there are said to be several 
 young nobles arrested for their follies in the 
 carnival. ‘The female may be a sister dis- 
 guised.” 
 
 ‘* Bid one of thy companions come hither ; 
 and, when I touch my bell, do thou usher 
 these visitors to my presence.” 
 
 The attendant withdrew, taking care to 
 pass into the antechamber, by doors thai 
 rendered it unnecessary to show himself, too 
 soon, to those who expected his return. The 
 second usher quickly made his appearance, 
 and was immediately dispatched in quest of 
 one of the Three, who was occupied with 
 important papers, in an adjoining closet. 
 The senator was not slow to obey the sum- 
 mons, for he appeared there as a friend of 
 the prince, having been admitted publicly 
 and with the customary honors. 
 
 “ Here are visitors of an unusual character, 
 signor,” and the Doge, rising to receive him 
 whom he had summoned in precaution to 
 himself, ‘‘and I would have a witness of 
 their requests.” 
 
 “Your highness does well to make us of 
 the senate share your labors ; though if any 
 mistaken opinion of the necessity has led you 
 
‘‘Maria undefiled, and her son, who is God! bless thee, Jacopo,” whis- 
 pered a voice that to the excited imagination of the kneeling Bravo 
 appeared to hover in the air.—The Bravo. 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 to conceive it important to call a counsellor | 
 
 39 
 
 each time a guest enters the palace 
 
 ‘Tt is well, signor,” mildly interrupted 
 the prince, touching the bell. ‘‘I hope my 
 importunity has not deranged you. But here 
 come those I expect.” 
 
 Father Anselmo and Gelsomina entered 
 the closet together. The first glance con- 
 vinced the Doge that he received strangers. 
 He exchanged looks with the member of the 
 secret council, and each saw in the other’s 
 eye that the surprise was mutual. 
 
 When fairly in the presence, the Carmelite 
 threw back his cowl, entirely exposing the 
 whole of his ascetic features, while Gelsomina, 
 awed by the rank of him who received them, 
 shrunk abashed, partly concealed by his robes. 
 
 ‘‘ What means this visit?” demanded the 
 prince, whose finger pointed to the shrinking 
 form of the girl, while his eye rested steadily 
 on that of the monk, ‘‘and that unusual 
 companion? Neither the hour, nor the 
 mode, is customary.” 
 
 Father Anselmo stood before the Venetian 
 sovereign for the first time. Accustomed, 
 like all of that region, and more especially in 
 that age, to calculate his chances of success 
 warily, before venturing to disburden his 
 mind, the monk fastened a penetrating look 
 on his interrogator. 
 
 “Tllustrious prince,’ he said “we come 
 petitioners for justice. They who are thus 
 commissioned had need be bold, lest they do 
 their own character, and their righteous 
 office, discredit.” 
 
 ‘¢ Justice is the glory of St. Mark, and the 
 happiness of his subjects. Thy course, 
 Father, is not according to established rules, 
 and wholesome restraints, but it may have its 
 apology—name thy errand.” 
 
 “There is one in the cells, condemned of 
 the public tribunals, and he must die with 
 the return of day, unless your princely au- 
 thority interfere to save him.” 
 
 ‘One condemned of the tribunals may 
 merit his fate.” 
 
 “‘T am the ghostly adviser of the unhappy 
 youth, and in the execution of my sacred 
 office I have learned that he is innocent.” 
 
 ‘‘Didst thou say, condemned of the com- 
 mon judges, father? ” 
 
 ‘‘Sentenced to die, highness, by a decree 
 of the criminal tribunals.” 
 
 593 
 
 The prince appeared relieved. So long as 
 the affair had been public, there was at least 
 reason to believe he might indulge his love 
 of the species, by listening farther, without 
 offence to the tortuous policy of the state. 
 Glancing his eye at the motionless inquisitor, 
 as if to seek approbation, he advanced a step 
 nearer to the Carmelite, with increasing in- 
 terest in the application. 
 
 “ By what authority, reverend priest, dost 
 thou impeach the decision of the judges?” 
 he demanded. 
 
 ‘Signor, as I have just said, in virtue of 
 knowledge gained in the exercise of my holy 
 office. He has laid bare his soul to me, as 
 one whose feet were in the grave; and, 
 though offending, like all born of woman, to- 
 wards his God, he is guiltless as respects the 
 state.” 
 
 ‘“Thinkest thou, father, that the law 
 would ever reach its victim, were we to listen 
 only to self-accusations? I am old, monk, 
 and have long worn that troublesome cap,” 
 pointing to the horned bonnet, which lay 
 near his hand, the symbol of his state, “and 
 in my day, I do not recall the criminal that 
 has not fancied himself the victim of unto- 
 ward circumstances.” 
 
 “That men apply this treacherous solace 
 to their consciences, one of my vocation has 
 not to learn. Our chief task is to show the 
 delusion of those, who, while condemning 
 their own sins, by words of confession and 
 self-abasement, make a merit of humility; 
 but, Doge of Venice, there is still a virtue in 
 the sacred rite I have this evening been re- 
 quired to perform, which can overcome the 
 mounting of the most exalted spirit. Many 
 attempt to deceive themselves, at the confes- 
 sional, while, by the power of God, few suc 
 ceed.”’ 
 
 ‘‘Praised be the blessed mother and the 
 incarnate son, that it is so!” returned the 
 prince, struck by the mild faith of the monk, 
 and crossing himself, reverently. “ Father, 
 thou hast forgotten to name the condemned?” 
 
 “Tt is a certain Jacopo Frontoni;—a re- 
 puted bravo.” 
 
 The start, the changing color, and the 
 glance of the prince of Venice, were full of 
 natural surprise. 
 
 “Callest thou the bloodiest stiletto that 
 ever disgraced the city, the weapon of a re 
 
594 
 
 puted bravo! The arts of the monster have 
 prevailed over thy experience, monk !—the 
 true confession of such a wretch, would be 
 but a history of bloody and revolting 
 crimes.” 
 
 ‘© T entered his cell with this opinion, but 
 I left it convinced that the public sentiment 
 has done him wrong. If your highness will 
 deign hear his tale, you will think him a fit 
 subject for your pity, rather than for pun- 
 ishment.” 
 
 “ Of all the criminals of my reign, this is 
 the last in whose favor I could have imagined 
 there was aught to be said !—Speak, freely, 
 Carmelite; for curiosity is as strong as won- 
 der.” 
 
 So truly did the Doge give utterance to 
 his feelings, that he momentarily forgot the 
 presence of the inquisitor, whose countenance 
 might have shown him that the subject was 
 getting to be grave. 
 
 The monk ejaculated a thanksgiving, for 
 it was not always easy, in that city of mys- 
 tery, to bring truth to the ears of the great. 
 When men live under a system of duplicity, 
 more or less of the quality gets interwoven 
 with the habits of the most ingenuous, al- 
 though they may remain, themselves, uncon- 
 scious of the taint. Thus Father Anselmo, 
 as he proceeded with the desired explanation, 
 touched more tenderly on the practices of 
 the state, and used more of reserve in allud- 
 ing to those usages and opinions, which one 
 of his holy calling and honest nature, under 
 other circumstances, would have fearlessly 
 condemned, 
 
 “It may not be known to one of your 
 high condition, sovereign prince,” resumed 
 the Carmelite, “that an humble, but labori- 
 ous mechanic of this city, a certain Francesco 
 Frontoni, was long since condemned for 
 frauds against the republic’s revenue. This 
 is a crime St. Mark never fails to visit with 
 his heavy displeasure; for when men place 
 the goods of the world before all other con- 
 siderations, they mistake the objects which 
 have brought them together in social union.” 
 
 ‘Father, thou wert speaking of a certain 
 Francesco Frontoni ? ” 
 
 “ Highness, such was his name. The un- 
 happy man had taken into his confidence 
 and friendship one, who, pretending to his 
 daughter’s love, might appear to be the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 master of his secrets. When this false suitor 
 stood on the verge of detection, for offences 
 against the customs, he laid a snare of decep- 
 tion which, while he was permitted to escape, 
 drew the anger of the state on his too con- 
 fiding friend. Francesco was condemned to 
 the cells, until he might reveal facts which 
 never had an existence.” 
 
 “This is a hard fate, reverend friar, could 
 it be but proved!” 
 
 ‘¢?Tis the evil of secrecy and intrigue, great 
 Doge, in managing the common interests—” 
 
 ‘“‘Hast thou more of this Francesco, 
 monk !” 
 
 “His history is short, signor; for at the 
 age when most men are active in looking to 
 their welfare, he was pining in a prison.” 
 
 “T remember to have heard of some such 
 accusation—but it occurred in the reign of 
 the last Doge---did it not, father ? ” 
 
 ‘« And he has endured to near the close of 
 the reign of this, highness! ” 
 
 “How! The senate, when apprised of the 
 error of its judgment, was not slow to repair 
 the wrong!” 
 
 The monk regarded the prince earnestly, 
 as if he would make certain whether the 
 surprise he witnessed was not a piece of con- 
 summate acting. He felt convinced that the 
 affair was one of that class of acts, which, 
 however oppressive, unjust, and destructive 
 of personal happiness, had not sufficient im- 
 portance to come before them who govern 
 under systems which care more for their own 
 preservation, than for the good of the ruled. 
 ‘‘Signor Doge,” he said, ‘‘the state is dis- 
 creet in matters that touch its own reputa- 
 tion. There are reasons that I shall not — 
 presume to examine, why the cell of poor 
 Francesco was kept closed long after the 
 death and confession of his accuser leit his 
 innocence beyond dispute.” 
 
 The prince mused, and then be bethought 
 him to consult the countenance of his com- 
 panion. The marble of the pilaster, against 
 which he leaned, was not more cold and un- 
 moved than the face of the inquisitor. The 
 man had learned to smother every natural 
 impulse in the assumed and factitious duties 
 of his office. 
 
 “And what has this case of Francesco to — 
 do with the execution of the Bravo?” de 
 manded the Doge, after a pause, in which he 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 had in yain struggled to assume the indiffer- 
 ence of his counsellor. 
 
 «That I shall leave this prison-keeper’s 
 daughter to explain—stand forth, child, and 
 relate what you know, remembering, if you 
 speak before the prince of Venice, that you 
 also speak before the King of Heaven!” 
 
 Gelsomina trembled, for one of her habits, 
 however supported by her motives, could not 
 overcome a nature so retiring without a 
 struggle. Bnt faithful to her promise, and 
 sustained by her affection for the condemned, 
 she advanced a step, and stood no longer con- 
 cealed by the robes of the Carmelite. 
 
 ‘Thou art the daughter of the prison- 
 keeper?” asked the prince mildly, though 
 surprise was strongly painted in his eye. 
 
 ** Highness, we are poor, and we are unfor- 
 tunate; we serve the state for bread.” 
 
 ““Ye serve a noble master, child. Dost 
 thou know aught of this Bravo?” 
 
 “ Dread sovereign, they that call him thus, 
 know not his heart. One more true to his 
 friends, more faithful to his word, or more 
 suppliant with the saints, than Jacopo Fron- 
 toni, is not in Venice ! ” 
 
 “This is a character which art might ap- 
 propriate, even to a bravo. But we waste the 
 moments.—What have these Frontoni in 
 common?” 
 
 “ Highness, they are father and son, When 
 Jacopo came to be of an age to understand 
 the misfortunes of his family, he wearied the 
 senators with applications in his father’s behalf 
 until they commanded the door of the cell to 
 be secretly opened to a child so pious. I well 
 know, great prince, that they who rule can- 
 not have all-seeing eyes, else could this wrong 
 never have happened. But Francesco wasted 
 years in cells, chill and damp in winter, and 
 scorching in summer, before the falsehood of 
 the accusation was known. Then, as some 
 relief to the sufferings so little merited, Ja- 
 copo was admitted.” 
 
 “With what object, girl?” 
 
 “Highness, was it not in pity? They 
 promised too, that in good time, the service 
 of the son should buy the father’s liberty. 
 The patricians were slow to be convinced, 
 and they made terms with poor Jacopo, who 
 agreed to undergo a hard service, that his 
 father might breathe free air before he died.” 
 
 “Thou dealest in enigmas.” 
 
 595 
 
 ‘*T am little used, great Doge, to speak in 
 such a presence, or on such subjects, But 
 this I know, that for three weary years hath 
 Jacopo been admitted to his father’s cell, and 
 that those up above consented to the visits; 
 else would my father have denied them. I 
 was his companion in the holy act, and will 
 call the blessed Maria and the saints—” 
 
 “Girl, didst thou know him for a bravo?” 
 
 ‘‘Oh! Highness, no. To me he seemed a 
 dutiful child, fearing God and honoring his 
 parent. I hope never to feel another pang, 
 like that which chilled my heart, when they 
 said he I had known as the kind Carlo, was 
 hunted in Venice as the abhorred Jacopo! 
 But it is passed, the Mother of God be 
 praised!” ; 
 
 “Thou art betrothed to this condemned 
 man?” 
 
 The color did not deepen on the cheek of 
 Gelsomina at this abrupt question, for the tic 
 between her and Jacopo had become too 
 sacred, for the ordinary weaknesses of her 
 sex. 
 
 “ Highness, yes; we were to be married, 
 should it have pleased God, and those great 
 senators who have so much influence over the 
 happiness of the poor, to permit it.” 
 
 “And thou art still willing, knowing the 
 man, to pledge thy vows to one like Jacopo!” 
 
 ‘It is because I do know him to be as he 
 is, that I most reverence him, great Doge. 
 He has sold his time and his good name to 
 the state, in order to save his imprisoned 
 father, and in that I see nothing to frighten 
 one he loves.” 
 
 “This affair needs explanation, Carmelite. 
 The girl has a heated fancy, and she renders 
 that obscure she should explain.” 
 
 “Tllustrious prince, she would say that the 
 republic was content to grant the son the in- 
 dulgence of visiting the captive, with some 
 encouragement of his release, on condition 
 that the youth might serve the police by 
 bearing a bravo’s reputation.” 
 
 « And for this incredible tale, father, you 
 have the word of a condemned criminal!” 
 
 «With the near view of death before his 
 eyes. There are means of rendering truth 
 evident, familiar to those who are often near 
 the dying penitents, that are unknown to 
 those of the world. In any case, signor, the 
 matter is worthy of investigation.” 
 
596 
 
 “In that thou are right. Is the hour 
 named for the execution ?” 
 
 “ With the morning light, prince.” 
 
 « And the father ?” 
 
 “Ts dead.” 
 
 “A prisoner, Carmelite?” 
 
 «A prisoner, Prince of Venice.” 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 “Hast thou heard of the death of one 
 named Antonio ?” 
 
 “Signor, yes. By the sacred nature of my 
 holy office, do I affirm that of this crime is 
 Jacopo innocent! I shrived the fisherman.” 
 
 The Doge turned away, for the truth 
 began to dawn upon him, and the flush 
 which glowed on his aged cheek contained a 
 confession that might not be observed by 
 every eye. He sought the glance of his com- 
 panion, but his own expression of human 
 feeling was met by the disciplined features of 
 the other, as light is coldly repelled from 
 polished stone. 
 
 “Highness! ” added a tremulous voice. 
 
 “What would’st thou, child?” 
 
 «here is a God for the republic, as well 
 as for the gondolier! Your highness will 
 turn this great crime from Venice?” 
 
 ‘Thou art of plain speech, girl!” 
 
 «The danger of Carlo has made me bold. 
 You are much beloved by the people, and 
 none speak of you that they do not speak of 
 your goodness, and of your desire to serve the 
 poor. You are the root of a rich and happy 
 family, and you will not—nay, you cannot if 
 you would, think it a crime for a son to 
 devote all to a father. You are our father, 
 and we have a right to come to you, even for 
 mercy—but, highness, I ask only for justice.” 
 
 “Justice is the motto of Venice.” 
 
 «They who live in the high favor of Provi- 
 dence do not always know what the unhappy 
 undergo. It has pleased God to afflict my 
 own poor mother, who has griefs that, but 
 for her patience and Christian faith, would 
 have been hard to bear. The little care I 
 had it in my power to show, first caught 
 Jacopo’s eye, for his heart was then full of 
 the duty of the child. Would your highness 
 consent to see poor Carlo, or to command 
 him to be brought hither, his simple tale 
 would give the lie to every foul slander they 
 have dared to say against him.” 
 
 “ Tt is unnecessary—it is unnecessary. Thy 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 faith in his innocence, girl, is more eloquent 
 than any words of his can prove.” 
 
 A gleam of joy irradiated the face of Gel- 
 somina, who turned eagerly to the listening 
 monk, as she continued— | 
 
 “His highness listens,” she said, “and we 
 shall prevail! Father, they menace in Venice, 
 and alarm the timid, but they will never do 
 the deed we feared. Is not the God of 
 Jacopo my God, and your God ?—the God of 
 the senate, and of the Doge ?—of the Coun- 
 cil, and of the republic? I would the secret 
 members of the Three could have seen poor 
 Jacopo, as I have seen him, coming from his 
 toil, weary with labor, and heart-broken with 
 delay, enter the winter or the summer cell— 
 chilling or scorching, as the season might be 
 —and struggling to be cheerful, that the 
 falsely accused might not feel a greater 
 weight of misery.—Oh! venerable and kind 
 prince, you little know the burden that the 
 feeble are often made to carry, for to you life 
 hag been sunshine; but there are millions 
 who are condemned to do that they loathe, 
 that they may not do that they dread.” 
 
 “Child, thou tell’st me nothing new.” 
 
 “ Except in convincing you, highness, that 
 Jacopo is not the monster they would have 
 him. I do not know the secret reasons of the 
 councils for wishing the youth to lend him- 
 self to a deception that had nigh proved so 
 fatal; but all is explained, we have naught 
 now to fear. Come, father; we will leave the 
 good and just Doge to go to rest, as suits his 
 years, and we will return to gladden the heart 
 of Jacopo with our success, and thank the 
 blessed Maria for her favor.” 
 
 “Stay!” exclaimed the half-stifled old man. 
 «Tg this true that thou tellest me, girl:— 
 Father, can it be so!” 
 
 “Sionor, I have said all that truth and my 
 conscience have prompted.” 
 
 The prince seemed bewildered, turning his 
 look from the motionless girl to the equally 
 immovable member of the Three. 
 
 “Come hither, child,” he said, his voice 
 trembling as he spoke. “Come hither, that 
 I may bless thee.” Gelsomina sprang for- 
 ward, and knelt at the feet of her sovereign. 
 Father Anselmo never uttered a clearer or 
 more fervent benediction than that which fell 
 from the lips of the Prince of Venice, He 
 raised the daughter of the prison-keeper, and 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 motioned for both his visitors to withdraw. 
 Gelsomina willingly complied, for her heart 
 was already in the cell of Jacopo, in the eager- 
 ness to communicate her success; but the 
 Carmelite lingered to cast a look behind, like 
 one better acquainted with the effects of 
 worldly policy, when connected with the in- 
 terests of those who pervert governments to 
 the advantage of the privileged. As he passed 
 through the door, however, he felt his hopes 
 revive, for he saw the aged prince, unable any 
 longer to suppress his feelings, hastening 
 towards his still silent companion, with both 
 hands extended, eyes moistening with tears, 
 and a look that betrayed the emotions of one 
 anxious to find relief in human sympathies. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 On—on— 
 It is our knell, or that of Venice.—On. 
 — Marina Faliero. 
 
 ANOTHER morning called the Venetians to 
 their affairs. Agents of the police had been 
 active in preparing the public mind, and as 
 the sun rose above the narrow sea, the squares 
 began to fill. There were present the curious 
 citizen in his cloak and cap, bare-legged labor- 
 ers in wondering awe, the circumspect Hebrew 
 in his gaberdine and beard, masked gentle- 
 men, and many an attentive stranger from 
 among the thousands who still frequented that 
 declining mart. It was rumored that an act 
 of retributive justice was about to take place, 
 for the peace of the town and and the pro- 
 tection of the citizen. In short, curiosity, 
 idleness, and revenge, with all the usual train 
 of human feelings, had drawn together a mul- 
 titude eager to witness the agonies of a fellow 
 creature. 
 
 The Dalmatians were drawn up near the 
 sea, in a manner to enclose the two granite 
 columns of the Piazetta. Their grave and 
 disciplined faces fronted inwards, towards the 
 African pillars, those well-known landmarks 
 of death. A few grim warriors, of higher 
 rank, paced the flags before the troops, while 
 a dense crowd filled the exterior space. By 
 special favor more than a hundred fishermen 
 were grouped within the armed men, wit- 
 nesses that their class had revenge. Between 
 
 59? 
 
 the lofty pedestals of St. Theodore and the 
 winged lion lay the block and axe, the basket 
 and the saw-dust; the usual accompaniments 
 of justice in that day. By their side, stood 
 the executioner. 
 
 At length a movement in the living mass 
 drew every eye towards the gate of the palace. 
 A murmur arose, the multitude waved, anda 
 small body of the Sbirri came into view. Their 
 steps were swift, like the march of destiny. 
 The Dalmatians opened to receive these min- 
 isters of fate into their bosom, and closing 
 their ranks again appeared to preclude the 
 world, with its hopes, from the condemned. 
 On reaching the block between the columns, 
 the Sbirri fell off in files, waiting at a little 
 distance, while Jacopo was left before the 
 engines of death, attended by his ghostly 
 counsellor, the Carmelite. The action left 
 them open to the gaze of the throng. 
 
 Father Anselmo was in the usual attire of 
 a bare-footed friar of his order. The cowl 
 of the holy man was thrown back, exposing 
 his mortified lineaments, and self-examining 
 eye, to those around. The expression of his 
 countenance was that of bewildered uncer- 
 tainty, relieved by frequent, but fitful, glim- 
 merings of hope. Though his lips moved 
 constantly in prayer, his looks wandered, by 
 an irrepressible impulse, from one window of 
 the Doge’s palace to another. He took his 
 station near the condemned, however, and 
 thrice crossed himself, fervently. 
 
 Jacopo had tranquilly placed his person 
 before the block. His head was bare, his 
 cheek colorless, his throat and neck uncov- 
 ered to the shoulders, his body, in its linen, 
 and the rest of his form, was clad in the 
 ordinary dress of a gondolier. He kneeled, 
 with his face bowed to the block, repeated a 
 prayer, and rising he faced the multitude, 
 with dignity and composure. As his eye 
 moved slowly over the array of human coun- 
 tenances by which he was environed, a hec- 
 tic glowed on his features, for not one of them 
 all betrayed sympathy in his sufferings. His 
 breast heaved, and those nearest to his per- 
 son thought the self-command of the miser- 
 able man was about to fail him. The result 
 disappointed expectation. ‘There was a shud- 
 der, and the limbs settled into repose. 
 
 «‘Thou hast looked in vain, among’ the 
 multitude, for a friendly eye?” said the Car- 
 
598 
 
 melite, whose attention had been drawn to 
 the convulsive moment. 
 
 ‘None here have pity for an assassin.” 
 
 ‘Remember thy Redeemer, son. He suf- 
 fered ignominy and death, for a race that | 
 denied his Godhead, and derided his sor- 
 rows.” 
 
 Jacopo crossed himself, and bowed his 
 head, in reverence. 
 
 ‘Hast thou more prayers to repeat, Fa- 
 ther?” demanded the chief of the Sbirri ; he 
 who was particularly charged with the duty 
 of the hour. “Though the illustrious coun- 
 cils are so sure in justice, they are merciful 
 to the souls of sinners.” 
 
 «‘ Are thy orders peremptory ?” asked the 
 monk, unconsciously fixing his eye, again, on 
 the windows of the palace. ‘Is it certain 
 that the prisoner is to die?” 
 
 The officer smiled at the simplicity of the 
 question, but with the apathy of one too 
 much familiarized with human suffering, to 
 admit of compassion. 
 
 “Do any doubt it?” he rejoined. ‘‘It is 
 the lot of man, reverend monk ; and more 
 especially is it the lot of those on whom the 
 judgment of St. Mark has alighted. It were 
 better that your penitent looked to his 
 soul.” 
 
 ‘‘Surely thou hast thy private and express 
 commands! They have named a minute, 
 when this bloody work is to be performed ? ” 
 
 “Holy Carmelite, I have. The time will 
 not be weary, and you will do well to make 
 the most of it, unless you have faith, already, 
 in the prisoner’s condition.” 
 
 As he spoke, the officer threw a glance at 
 the dial of the square, and walked coolly 
 away. The action left the priest and the 
 prisoner again alone, between the columns. 
 It was evident that the former could not yet 
 believe in the reality of the execution. 
 
 “Hast thou no hope, Jacopo?” he asked. 
 
 ‘‘Carmelite, in my God.” 
 
 “They cannot commit this wrong! I 
 shrived Antonio—I witnessed his fate, and 
 the prince knows it ! ” 
 
 “What isa prince and his justice, where 
 the selfishness of a few rules! Father, thou 
 art new in the senate’s service.” 
 
 “T shall not presume to say that God will 
 blast those who do this deed, for we cannot 
 trace the mysteries of His wisdom. This 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 life, and all this world can offer, are but 
 specks in His omniscient eye, and what to us 
 seems evil, may be pregnant with good.— 
 Hast thou faith in thy Redeemer, Jacopo ? ” 
 
 The prisoner laid his hand upon his heart, 
 and smiled, with the calm assurance that 
 none but those who are thus sustained can 
 feel. 
 
 “We will again pray, my son.” 
 
 The Carmelite and Jacopo kneeled, side by 
 side, the latter bowing his head to the block, 
 while the monk uttered a final appeal to the 
 mercy of the Diety. The former arose, but 
 the latter continued in the supplant atti- 
 tude. The monk was so full of holy thoughts, 
 that, forgetting his former wishes, he was 
 nearly content the prisoner should pass into 
 the fruition of that hope which elevated his 
 own mind. The officer and executioner drew ~ 
 near, the former touching the arm of Father 
 Anselmo, and pointing toward the distant 
 dial. 
 
 «‘The moment is near;” he whispered, 
 more from habit, than in any tenderness to 
 the prisoner. 
 
 The Carmelite turned instinctively toward 
 the palace, forgetting, in the sudden impulse, 
 all but his sense of earthly justice. There 
 were forms at the windows, and he fancied a 
 signal, to stay the impending blow, was about 
 to be given. 
 
 “Hold!” he exclaimed. ‘For the love 
 of Maria of most pure memory, be not too 
 hasty !” 
 
 The exclamation was repeated by a shrill 
 female voice, and then Gelsomina, eluding 
 every effort to arrest her, rushed through the 
 Dalmatians, and reached the group between 
 the granite columns. Wonder and curiosity 
 agitated the multitude, and a deep murmur 
 ran through the square. 
 
 “?Tis a maniac! ” cried one. 
 
 «Tis a victim of his arts! ” said another, 
 for when men have a reputation for any par- 
 ticular vice, the world seldom fails to attrib- 
 ute all the rest. 
 
 Gelsomina seized the bonds of Jacopo, 
 and endeavored, frantically, to release his 
 arms. 
 
 ‘‘T had hoped thou would’st have been 
 spared this sight, poor Gessina!” said the 
 condemned. 
 
 “ Be not alarmed!” she answered, gasping 
 
THE BRAVO. 
 
 for breath. “They do it in mockery—'tis one 
 of their wiles to mislead—but they cannot— 
 no, they dare not harm a hair of thy head, 
 Carlo!” 
 
 ‘Dearest Gelsomina!” 
 
 ‘Nay, do not hold me.—I will speak to 
 the citizens, and tell them all. ‘They are 
 angry now, but when they know the truth 
 they will love thee, Carlo, as 1 do.” 
 
 «Bless thee—bless thee!—I would thou 
 hadst not come !” 
 
 «Fear not for me! I am little used to 
 such a crowd, but thou wilt see that I shall 
 dare to speak them fair, and to make known 
 the truth boldly. I want but breath.” 
 
 ‘Dearest ! Thou hast a mother—a father 
 to share thy tenderness. Duty to them will 
 make thee happy.” 
 
 « Now, I can speak, and thou shalt see how 
 I will vindicate thy name.” 
 
 She arose from the arms of her lover, who, 
 notwithstanding his bonds, released his hold 
 of her slight form with a reluctance greater 
 ‘than that with which he parted with life. 
 The struggle in the mind of Jacopo seemed 
 over. He bowed his head, passively, to the 
 block, before which he was kneeling, and it 
 is probable, by the manner in which his hands 
 were clasped, that he prayed for her who 
 left him. Not so Gelsomina. Parting her 
 hair over her spotless forehead with both 
 hands, she advanced toward the fishermen, 
 who were familiar to her eye by their red 
 caps and bare limbs. Her smile was like 
 that which the imagination would bestow 
 on the blessed, in their intercourse of 
 love. 
 
 “ Venetians!” she said, ‘‘I cannot blame 
 you; ye are here to witness the death of one 
 whom ye believe unfit to live a 
 
 ‘The murderer of old Antonio!” mut- 
 tered several of the group. 
 
 “ Ay, even the murderer of that aged 
 and excellent man. But, when your hear 
 the truth, when you come to know that he, 
 whom you have believed an assassin, was a 
 pious child, a faithful servant of the repub- 
 lic, a gentle gondolier, and a true heart, you 
 will change your bloody purpose, for a wish 
 ' for justice.” 
 
 A common murmur drowned her voice, 
 which was so trembling and low, as to need 
 deep stillness to render the words audible. 
 
 599 
 
 The Carmelite had advanced to her side, and 
 he motioned earnestly for silence. 
 
 “Hear her, men of the Lagunes! ” he said; 
 “she utters holy truth.” 
 
 “This reverend and pious monk, with 
 Heaven, is my witness. When you shall 
 know Carlo better, and have heard his tale, 
 ye will be the first to cry out for his release. 
 I tell you this, that when the Doge shall 
 appear at yon window and make the signal 
 of mercy, you need not be angry, and 
 believe that your class has been wronged. 
 Poor Carlo 14 
 
 “The girl raves! ” interrupted the moody 
 fishermen. ‘‘ Here is no Carlo, but Jacopo 
 Frontoni, a common bravo.” 
 
 Gelsomina smiled, in the security of the 
 innocent, and, regaining her breath, which 
 nervous agitation still disturbed, she resumed. 
 
 «‘Qarlo, or Jacopo—Jacopo, or Carlo—it 
 matters little.” 
 
 ‘‘Ha! There is a sign from the palace !” 
 shouted the Carmelite, stretching both his 
 arms in that direction, as if to grasp a boon. 
 The clarions sounded, and another wave 
 stirred the multitude. Gelsomina uttered a 
 cry of delight, and turned to throw herself 
 upon the bosom of the reprieved. The axe 
 glittered before her eyes, and the head of 
 Jacopo rolled upon the stones, as if to meet 
 her. A general movement in the living mass 
 denoted the end. 
 
 The Dalmatians wheeled into column, the 
 Sbirri pushed aside the throng, on their way 
 to their haunts, the water of the bay was 
 dashed upon the flags, the clotted saw-dust 
 was gathered, the head and trunk, block, 
 basket, axe, and executioner disappeared, and 
 the crowd circulated around the fatal spot. 
 
 During this horrible and brief moment, 
 neither Father Anselmo nor Gelsomina 
 moved. All was over, and still the entire 
 scene appeared to be delusion. 
 
 «Take away this maniac!” said an officer 
 of the police, pointing to Gelsomina as he 
 spoke. 
 
 He was obeyed with Venetian readiness, 
 but his words proved prophetic, before his 
 servitors had quitted the square. The Carme- 
 lite scarce breathed. He gazed at the moving 
 multitude, at the windows of the palace, and 
 at the sun which shone so gloriously in the 
 heavens. 
 
600 
 
 “Thou art lost in this crowd !” whispered 
 one at his elbow. ‘‘ Reverend Carmelite, 
 you will do well to follow me.” 
 
 The monk was too much subdued to hesi- 
 tate. His conductor led him, by many secret 
 ways, to a quay, where he instantly embarked, 
 in a gondola, for the main. Before the sun 
 reached the meridian, the thoughtful and 
 trembling monk was on his journey toward 
 the States of the Church; and ere long he 
 became established in the castle of Sant’ 
 Agata. 
 
 At the usual hour the sun fell behind the 
 mountains of the Tyrol, and the moon reap- 
 peared above the Lido. The narrow streets 
 of Venice, again, poured out their thousands 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 upon the squares. The mild light fell athwart 
 the quaint architecture, and the giddy tower, 
 throwing a deceptive glory on the city of-is- 
 lands. “a 
 The porticos became brilliant with lamps,/ 
 the gay laughed, the reckless trifled, the 
 masker pursued his hidden purpose, the can- 
 tatrice and the grotesque acted their parts, 
 and the million existed in that vacant enjoy- 
 ment which distinguishes the pleasures of the. 
 thoughtless and the idle. Each lived for him- 
 self, while the State of Venice held its vicious | 
 sway, corrupting alike the ruler and the ruled, | 
 by its mockery of those sacred principles | 
 which are alone founded in truth and natural | 
 justice. a 
 
 EED OF “THE BRAVO.” 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 “‘T shall crave your forbearance a little; may be, 
 I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to 
 yourself.”—Measure for Measure. 
 
 ConTRARY to a long-established usage, a 
 summer had been passed within the walls of 
 a large town; but, the moment of liberation 
 arrived, the bird does not quit its cage with 
 greater pleasure than that with which post- 
 horses were commanded. We were four ina 
 light travelling caleghe, which strong Norman 
 eattle transported merrily toward their native 
 province. Fora time we quitted Paris, the 
 queen of modern cities, with its tumults and 
 its order ; its palaces and its lanes ; its ele- 
 gance andits filth; its restless inhabitants and 
 its stationary politicians; its theories and its 
 practices; its riches and its poverty; its 
 gay and its sorrowful; its rentiers and its 
 patriots; its young liberals and its old illib- 
 erals; its three estates and its equality; its 
 delicacy of speech and its strength of conduct: 
 its government of the people and its people 
 of no government; its bayonets and its moral 
 force; its science and its ignorance; its 
 amusements and its revolutions; its resistance 
 that goes backward, and its movement that 
 stands still; its milliners, its philosophers, 
 its opera-dancers, its poets, its fiddlers, its 
 bankers, and its cooks. Although so long en- 
 thralled within the barriers, it was not easy 
 to quit Paris entirely without regret—Paris, 
 which every stranger censures, and every 
 stranger seeks; which moralists abhor and 
 imitate; which causes the heads of the old to 
 shake, and the hearts of the young to beat ;— 
 Paris, the centre of so much that is excellent, 
 and of so much that cannot be named! 
 
 That night we laid our heads on rustic pil- 
 lows, far from the French capital. The suc- 
 ceeding day we snuffed the air of the sea. 
 
 Passing through Artois and French Flanders, 
 on the fifth morning we entered the new 
 kingdom of Belgium, by the historical and 
 respectable towns of Doua, and Tournai, and 
 Ath. At every step we met the flag which 
 flutters over the pavilion of the Tuileries, and 
 recognized the confident air and swinging 
 gait of French soldiers. They had just been 
 employed in propping the crumbling throne 
 of the house of Saxe. To us they seemed as 
 much at home as when they lounged on the 
 Quai d’Orsay. 
 
 There was still abundant evidence visible 
 at Brussels, of the fierce nature of the strug- 
 gle that had expelled the Dutch. Forty-six 
 shells were sticking in the side of a single 
 building of no great size, while ninety-three 
 grape-shot were buried in one of its pilasters! 
 In our own rooms, too, there were fearful 
 signs of war. The mirrors were in fragments,, 
 the walls broken by langrage, the wood-work 
 of the beds was pierced by shot, and the fur- 
 niture was marked by rude encounters. ‘The 
 trees of the park were mutilated in a thou- 
 sand places, and one of the little Cupids, that 
 we had left laughing above the principal gate 
 three years before, was now maimed and 
 melancholy, whilst its companion had alto- 
 gether taken flight on the wings of a cannon- 
 ball. Though dwelling in the very centre 
 of so many hostile vestiges, we happily es- 
 caped the sight of human blood; for we 
 understood from the obliging Swiss who pre- 
 sides over the hotel that his cellars, at all 
 times in repute, were in more than usual re- 
 quest during the siege. From so much proof 
 we were left to infer, that the Belgians had 
 made stout battle for their emancipation, one 
 sign at least that they merited to be free. 
 
 Our road lay by Louvain, Thirlemont, 
 Liége, Aix-la-Chapelle, and Juliers, to the 
 Rhine. The former of these towns had been 
 
 (601) 
 
602 
 
 the scene of a contest between the hostile 
 armies, the preceding week. As the Dutch 
 had been accused of unusual excesses in their 
 advance, we looked out for the signs. How 
 many of these marks had been already oblit- 
 erated, we could not well ascertain; but 
 those which were still visible gave us reason 
 to think that the invaders did not merit all 
 the opprobrium they had received. Hach 
 hour, as life advances, am I made to see how 
 capricious and vulgar is the immortality con- 
 ferred by a newspaper! 
 
 It would be injustice to the ancient Bishop- 
 ric of Liége to pass its beautiful scenery 
 without a comment. The country possesses 
 nearly every requisite for the milder and 
 more rural sort of landscape;—isolated and 
 innumerable farm-houses, herds in the fields, 
 living hedges, a waving surface, anda verdure 
 to rival the emerald. By a happy accident, 
 the road runs for miles on an elevated ridge, 
 enabling the traveller to enjoy these beauties 
 at his ease. 
 
 At Aix-la-Chapelle we bathed, visited the 
 relics, saw the scene of so many coronations 
 of emperors of more’ or less renown, sat in 
 the chair of Charlemagne, and went our way. 
 
 The Rhine was an old acquaintance. <A 
 few years earlier, I had stood upon the sands, 
 at Katwyck, and watched its periodical flow 
 into the North Sea, by means of sluices made 
 in the short reign of the good King Louis, 
 and, the same summer, I had bestrode it, a 
 brawling brook, on the icy side of St. Gothard. 
 We had come now to look at its beauties, in 
 its most beautiful part, and to compare them, 
 so far as native partiality might permit, with 
 the well-established claims of our own Hud- 
 son. 
 
 Quitting Cologne, its exquisite but incom- 
 plete cathedral, with the crane that has been 
 poised on its unfinished towers five hundred 
 years, its recollections of Rubens and his 
 royal patroness, we travelled up the stream 
 so leisurely as to examine all that offered, and 
 yet so fast as to avoid the hazard of satiety. 
 Here we met Prussian soldiers, preparing, by 
 mimic service, for the more serious duties of 
 their calling. Lancers were galloping, in 
 bodies, across the open fields; videttes were 
 posted, the cocked pistol in hand, at every 
 hay-stack ; while couriers rode, under the 
 spur, from point to point, as if the great 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 strife, which is so menacingly preparing, and 
 which sooner or later must come, had actually 
 commenced. As Europe is now a camp, these 
 hackneyed sights scarce drew a look aside. 
 We were in quest of the interest which Nature, 
 in her happier humors, bestows. 
 
 There were ruined castles, by scores; gray 
 fortresses, abbeys, some deserted and others 
 yet tenanted; villages and towns; the seven 
 mountains; cliffs and vineyards. At every 
 step we felt how intimate is the association 
 between the poetry of Nature and that of 
 art ; between the hill-side with its falling 
 torrent, and the moral feeling that lends 
 them interest. Here was an island, of no 
 particular excellence, but the walls of a con- 
 vent of the middle ages crumbled on its sur- 
 face. ‘There was a naked rock, destitute of 
 grandeur, and wanting in those tints which 
 milder climates bestow, but a baronial hold 
 tottered on its apex. Here Cesar led his 
 legions to the stream, and there Napoleon 
 threw his corps-d’armée on the hostile bank; 
 this monument was to Hoche, and from that 
 terrace the great Adolphus directed his bat- 
 talions. Time is wanting to mellow the 
 view of our own historical sites; for the sym- 
 pathy that can be accumulated only by the 
 general consent of mankind has not yet 
 clothed them with the indefinable colors of 
 distance and convention. 
 
 In the mood likely to be created by a flood 
 of such recollections, we pursued our way 
 along the southern margin of this great ar- 
 tery of central Europe. We wondered at 
 the vastness of the Rheinfels, admired the 
 rare jewel of the ruined church at Bacharach, 
 and marvelled at the giddy precipice on 
 which a prince of Prussia even now dwells, in 
 the eagle-like grandeur and security of the 
 olden time. On reaching Mayence, the even- 
 ing of the second day, we deliberately and, 
 as we hoped, impartially compared what had 
 just been seen with that which is so well and 
 so affectionately remembered. 
 
 I had been familiar with the Hudson from 
 childhood. The great thoroughfare of al. 
 who journey frem the interior of the state 
 toward the sea, necessity had early made me 
 acquainted with its windings, its promonto- 
 ries, its islands, its cities, and its villages. 
 Even its hidden channels had been profes- 
 sionally examined, and time was when there 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 did not stand an unknown seat on its. bai.ks, 
 or a hamlet that had not been visited. Here 
 then was the force of deep impressions to 
 oppose the influence of objects still visible. 
 To me it is quite apparent that the Rhine, 
 while it frequently possesses more of any 
 particular species of scenery, within a given 
 number of miles, than the Hudson, has none 
 of so great excellence. It wants the variety, 
 the noble beauty, and the broad grandeur of 
 the American stream. The latter, within 
 the distance universally admitted to contain 
 the finest parts of the Rhine, is both a large 
 and a small river; it has its bays, its narrow 
 passages among the meadows, its frowning 
 gorges, and its reaches resembling Italian 
 lakes; whereas the most that can be said of 
 its European competitor, is that all these 
 wonderful peculiarities are feebly imitated. 
 Ten degrees of a lower latitude supply richer 
 tints, brighter transitions of light and shadow, 
 and more glorious changes of the atmos- 
 phere, to embellish the beauties of our west- 
 ern clime. In islands, too, the advantage is 
 with the Hudson, for, while those of the 
 Rhine are the most numerous, those of the 
 former stream are bolder, better placed, and, 
 in every natural feature, of more account. 
 When the comparison between these cele- 
 brated rivers is extended to their artificial 
 accessories, the result becomes more doubt- 
 ful. The buildings of the older towns and 
 villages of Europe seemed grouped especially 
 for effect, as seen in the distant view, though 
 security was in truth the cause, while the 
 spacious, cleanly, and cheerful villages of 
 America must commonly be entered to be 
 appreciated. In the other hemisphere, the 
 maze of roofs, the church-towers, the irregu- 
 lar faces of wall, and frequently the castle 
 rising to a pinnacle in the rear, give a town 
 the appearance of some vast and antiquated 
 pile devoted to a single object. Perhaps the 
 boroughs of the Rhine have less of this pic- 
 turesque or landscape effect, than the vil- 
 lages of France and Italy, for the Germans 
 regard space more than their neighbors, but 
 still, are they less commonplace than the smil- 
 ing and thriving little marts that crowd the 
 borders of the Hudson. To this advantage 
 must be added that which is derived from the 
 countless ruins and a crowd of recollections. 
 Here, the superiority of the artificial auxil- 
 
 603 
 
 iaries of the Rhine ceases, and those of her 
 rival come into the ascendant. In modern 
 abodes, in villas, and even in seats, those of 
 princes alone excepted, the banks of the Hud- 
 son have scarcely an equal in any region. 
 There are finer and nobler edifices on the 
 Brenta, and in other favored spots, certainly, 
 but I know no stream that has so many that 
 please and attract the eye. As applied to 
 moving objects, an important feature in this 
 comparison, the Hudson has perhaps no rival 
 in any river that can pretend to a picturesque 
 character. In numbers, in variety of rig, in 
 beauty of form, in swiftness and dexterity of 
 handling, and in general grace of movement, 
 this extraordinary passage ranksamongst the 
 first of the world. The yards of tall ships 
 swing among the rocks and forests of the 
 highlands, while sloop, schooner, and bright- 
 canopied steam-boat, yacht, periagua, and 
 canoe are seen in countless numbers, deck- 
 ing its waters. ‘There is one more eloquent 
 point of difference that should not be neg- 
 lected. Drawings and engravings of the 
 Rhine lend their usual advantages, softening 
 and frequently rendering beautiful objects of 
 no striking attractions when seen as they ex- 
 ist ; while every similar attempt to represent 
 the Hudson at once strikes the eye as un- 
 worthy of its original. 
 
 Nature is fruitful of fine effects in every 
 region, and it is a mistake not to enjoy her 
 gifts, as we move through life, on account of 
 some fancied superiority in this, or that, 
 quarter of the world. We left the Rhine, 
 therefore, with regret, for, in its way, a love- 
 lier stream can scarce be found. 
 
 At Mayence we crossed to the right bank of 
 the river, and passing by the duchies of 
 Nassau and Darmstadt, entered that of Ba- 
 den, at Heidelberg. Here we sat upon the 
 Tun, examined the castle, and strolled in the 
 alleys of the remarkable garden. ‘Thence we 
 proceeded to Manheim, turning our faces, 
 once more, toward the French capital. ‘The 
 illness of one of the party compelled us to re- 
 main a few hours in the latter city, which 
 presented little for reflection, unless it were 
 that this, like one or two other towns we had 
 lately seen, served to convince us, that the 
 symmetry and regularity which render large 
 cities magnificent, cause those that are small 
 to appear mean. 
 
604 
 
 It was a bright autumnal day when we re- 
 turned to the left bank of the Rhine, on the 
 The wishes of the invalid had 
 taken the appearance of strength, and we 
 hoped to penetrate the mountains which 
 bound the Palatinate on its southwestern 
 
 way to Paris. 
 
 side, and to reach Kaiserslautern, on the 
 
 great Napoleon road, before the hour of 
 The main object had been accom- 
 
 rest. 
 plished, and as with all who have effected. 
 their purpose, the principal desire was to be 
 at home. A few posts convinced us that re- 
 pose was still necessary to the invalid. This 
 conviction, unhappily as I then believed, 
 came too late, for we had already crossed the 
 plain of the Palatinate, and we were draw- 
 ing near to the chain of mountains just men- 
 tioned, which are a branch of the Vosges, 
 and are known in the country as the Haart. 
 We had made no calculations for such an 
 event, and former experience had caused us 
 to distrust the inns of this isolated portion 
 of the kingdom of Bavaria. I was just bit- 
 terly regretting our precipitation, when the 
 church-tower of Duerckheim peered above 
 the vineyards ; for, on getting nearer to the 
 base of the hills, the land became slightly 
 undulating, and the vine abundant. As we 
 approached, the village or borough promised 
 little, but we had the word of the postilion 
 that the post-house was an inn fit for a king; 
 and as to the wine, he could give no higher 
 eulogium than a flourish of the whip, an 
 eloquent expression of pleasure for a German 
 of his class). We debated the question of 
 proceeding, or of stopping, in a good deal of 
 doubt, to the moment when the carriage 
 drew up before the sign of the Ox. <A sub- 
 stantial-looking burgher came forth to re- 
 ceive us. There was the pledge of good cheer 
 in the ample development of his person, 
 which was not badly typified by the sign, and 
 the hale, hearty character of his hospitality 
 removed all suspicion of the hour of reckon- 
 ing. Ifhe who travels much is a gainer in 
 knowledge of mankind, he is sure to be a 
 loser in the charities that sweeten life. Con- 
 stant intercourse with men who are in the 
 habit of seeing strange faces, who only dis- 
 pose of their services to those that are likely 
 never toneed them again, and who, of necessi- 
 ty, are removed from most of the responsibili- 
 
 ties and infirmities of a more permanent in- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 tercourse, exhibits the selfishness of our nature 
 in its least attractive form. Policy may sug- 
 gest a specious blandishment of air, to con- 
 ceal the ordinary design on the pocket of the 
 stranger ; but it is in the nature of things 
 that the design should exist. ‘The passion of 
 gain, like all other passions, increases with 
 indulgence ; and thus do we find those who 
 dwell on beaten roads more rapacious than 
 those in whom the desire is latent for want 
 of use. 
 
 Our host of Duerckheim offered a pledge, 
 in his honest countenance, independent air, 
 and frank manner, of his also being above the 
 usual mercenary schemes of another portion 
 of the craft, who, dwelling in places of little 
 resort, endeavor to take their revenge of fort- 
 une, by showing that they look upon every 
 post-carriage as an especial Godsend. He 
 had a garden, too, into which he invited us 
 to enter, while the horses were changing, in 
 a way that showed he was simply desirous of 
 being benevolent, and that he cared little 
 whether we staid an hour ora week. In short, 
 his manner was of an artless, kind, natural, 
 and winning character, that strongly reminded 
 us of home, and which at once established an 
 agreeable confidence that is of an invaluable 
 moral effect. ‘Though too experienced blind- 
 ly to confide in national characteristics, we 
 liked,too, his appearance of German faith, and 
 more than all were we pleased with the German 
 neatness and comfort, of which there were 
 abundance, unalloyed by the swaggering pre- 
 tension that neutralizes the same qualities 
 among people more artificial. The house was 
 not a beer-drinking, smoking caravanserai, 
 like many hotels in that quarter of the world, 
 but it had detached pavilions in the gardens, 
 in which the wearied traveller might, in sooth, 
 take his rest. With such inducements before 
 our eyes, we determined to remain, and we 
 were not long in instructing the honest 
 burgher to that effect. The decision was re- 
 ceived with great civility, and, unlike the im- 
 mortal Falstaff, I began to see the prospects 
 of taking ‘‘ mine ease in my inn ” without hay- 
 ing a pocket picked. 
 
 The carriage was soon housed, and the bag- 
 gage in the chambers. Notwithstanding the 
 people of the house spoke confidently, but 
 with sufficient modesty, of the state of the 
 larder, it wanted several hours, agreeably to 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 our habits, to the time of dinner, though we 
 
 had enjoyed frequent opportunities of re- 
 marking that in Germany a meal is never un- 
 seasonable. Disregarding hints, which ap- 
 peared more suggested by humanity than the 
 
 love of gain, our usual hour for eating was 
 
 named, and, by way of changing the subject, 
 I asked,— 
 
 ‘«‘ Did I not see some ruins, on the adjoin- 
 
 ing mountain, as we entered the village ?” 
 
 << We call Duerckheim a city, mein Herr,” 
 rejoined our host of the Ox; “though none 
 of the largest, the time has been when it was 
 a capital !” 
 
 Here the worthy burgher munched his pipe 
 and chuckled, for he was a man that had 
 heard of: such places as London, and Paris, 
 and Pekin, and Naples, and St. Petersburg, 
 or, haply, of the Federal City itself. 
 
 «‘ A capital !—it was the abode of one of the 
 smaller princes, I suppose ; of what family was 
 your sovereign, pray ?” 
 
 ‘You areright, mein Herr. Duerckheim, 
 before the French revolution, was a _ res- 
 idence (for so the political capitals are called 
 in Germany), and it belonged to the princes 
 of Leiningen, who had a palace on the other 
 side of the city (the place may be about half 
 as large as Hudson, or Schenectady), which 
 was burnt in the war. After the late wars, 
 the sovereign was médiatisé, receiving an in- 
 demnity in estates on the other side of the 
 Rhine.” 
 
 As this term of médiatisé has no direct 
 synonyme in English,it may be well to explain 
 its signification. Germany, as well as most 
 of Europe, was formerly divided into a count- 
 less number of petty sovereignties, based on 
 the principle of feudal power. As accident, 
 or talent, or alliances, or treachery advanced 
 the interests of the stronger of these princes, 
 their weaker neighbors began to disappear 
 altogether, or to take new and subordinate 
 stations in the social scale. In this manner 
 has France been gradually composed of its 
 original, but comparatively insignificant king- 
 dom, buttressed, as it now is, by Brittany, 
 and Burgundy, and Navarre, and Dauphiny, 
 and Provence, and Normandy, with many 
 other states; and in like manner has Kng- 
 land been formed of the Heptarchy. The 
 confederative system of Germany has con- 
 tinued more or less of this feudal organization 
 
 605 
 
 to our own times. The formation of the em- 
 pires of Austria and Prussia has, however, 
 swallowed up many of these principalities, 
 and the changes produced by the policy of 
 Napoleon gave the death-blow, without dis- 
 tinction, to all in the immediate vicinity of 
 the Rhine. Of the latter number were the 
 princes of Leiningen, whose possessions were 
 originally included in the French republic, 
 then in the empire, and have since passed 
 under the sway of the King of Bavaria, who, 
 as the legitimate heir of the neighboring 
 duchy of Deux Ponts, had a nucleus of suffi- 
 cient magnitude in this portion of Germany 
 to induce the Congress of Vienna to add to 
 his dominions ; their object being to erect a 
 barrier against the future aggrandizement of 
 France. As the dispossessed sovereigns are 
 permitted to retain their conventional rank, 
 supplying wives and husbands, at need, to 
 the reigning branches of the different princely 
 families, the term médiatisé has been aptly 
 enough applied to their situation. 
 
 «The young prince was here, no later than 
 last week,” continued our host of the Ox; 
 ‘he lodged in that pavilion, where he passed 
 several days. You know that he is a son of 
 the Duchess of Kent, and half-brother to the 
 young princess who is likely, one day, to be 
 the queen of England.” 
 
 ‘«‘Has he estates here, or is he still, in any 
 way, connected with your government ?” 
 
 -‘ All they have given him is in money, or 
 on the other side of the Rhine. He went te 
 see the ruins of the old castle; for he had a 
 natural curiosity to look at a place which lus 
 ancestors had built.” 
 
 ‘<Tt was the ruins of the castle of Leinin- 
 gen, then, that I saw on the mountain, as we 
 entered the town ?” 
 
 ‘‘No, mein Herr. You saw the ruins of 
 the Abbey of Limburg ; those of Hartenburg, 
 for so the castle was called, lie farther back 
 among the hills.” 
 
 ‘What! a ruined abbey, and a ruined 
 castle, too !—Here is sufficient occupation for 
 the rest of the day. An abbey and a castle !” 
 
 «¢ And the Heidenmauer and the Teufel- 
 stein.” 
 
 ‘How! a Pagan’s Wall and a Devil’s 
 Stone !—you are rich in curiosities !” 
 
 The host continued to smoke on philosophix 
 cally. 
 
606 
 
 ‘Have you a guide who can take me, by 
 the shortest way, to these places ?” 
 
 «¢ Any child can do that.” 
 
 «¢ But one who can speak French is desirable 
 —for my German is far from being classical.” 
 The worthy inn-keeper nodded his head. 
 
 ‘‘ Here is one Christian Kinzel,” he rejoin- 
 ed, after a moment of thought, “a tailor who 
 has not much custom, and who has lived a 
 little in France ; he may serve your turn.” 
 
 I suggested that the tailor might find it 
 healthful to stretch his knee-joints. 
 
 The host of the Ox was amused with the 
 conceit, and he fairly removed the pipe, in 
 order to laugh at his ease. His mirth was 
 hearty, like that of a man without guile. 
 
 The affair was soon arranged. A mes- 
 senger was sent for Christian Kinzel, and 
 taking my little male travelling companion 
 by the hand, I went leisurely ahead, expect- 
 ing the appearance of the guide. But, as the 
 reader will have much to do with the place 
 about to be described, it may be desirable 
 that he should possess an accurate knowledge 
 of its locality. 
 
 Duerckheim lies in that part of Bavaria 
 which is commonly called the circle of the 
 Rhine. The king, of the country named, 
 may have less than half a million of subjects 
 in this detached part of his territories, 
 which extends in one course from the river 
 to Rhenish Prussia, and in the other from 
 Darmstadt to France. It requires a day of 
 hard posting to traverse this province in any 
 direction, from which it would appear that 
 its surface is about equal to two-thirds of 
 that of Connecticut. <A line of mountains, 
 resembling the smaller spurs of the Allegha- 
 nies, and which are known by different local 
 names, but which are a branch of the Vos- 
 ges, passes nearly through the centre of the 
 district, in a north and south course.: These 
 mountains cease abruptly on their eastern 
 side, leaving between them and the river, a 
 vast level surface of that description which is 
 called ‘‘ flats,” or “‘ bottom-land,” in Amer- 
 ica. This plain, part of the ancient Palati- 
 nate, extends equally on the other side of 
 the Rhine, terminating as abruptly on the 
 eastern as on the western border. In an air- 
 line, the distance between Heidelberg and 
 Duerckheim, which lie opposite to each other 
 on the two lateral extremities of the plain, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 may a little exceed twenty miles, the Rhine’ 
 running equidistant from both. There is a 
 plausible theory, which says that the plain of 
 the Palatinate was formerly a lake, receiving 
 the waters of the Rhine, and of course dis- 
 charging them by some inferior outlet, until 
 time, or a convulsion of the earth, broke 
 through the barrier of the mountains at 
 Bingen, draining off the waters, and leaving 
 the fertile bottom described. Irregular sand- 
 hills were visible, as we approached Duerck- 
 heim, which may go to confirm this suppo- 
 sition, for the prevalence of northerly winds 
 might easily have cast more of these light 
 particles on the southwestern than on the 
 opposite shore. By adding that the eastern 
 face of the mountains, or that next to the 
 plain, is sufficiently broken and irregular to 
 be beautiful, while it is always distinctly 
 marked and definite, enough has been said 
 to enable us to proceed with intelligence. 
 
 It would appear that one of the passes that 
 has communicated, from time immemorial, 
 between the Rhine and the country west of 
 the Vosges, issues on the plain through the 
 gorge near Duerckheim. By following the 
 windings of the valleys, the post-road pene- 
 trates, by an easy ascent, to the highest ridge, 
 and following the water-courses that run into 
 the Moselle, descends nearly as gradually into 
 the duchy of Deux Ponts, on the other side 
 of the chain. The possession of this pass, 
 therefore, in the ages of lawlessness and vio- 
 lence, was, in itself, a title to distinction and 
 power ; since all who journeyed by it, lay in 
 person and effects more or less at the mercy 
 of the occupant. 
 
 On quitting the town, my little companion 
 and myself immediately entered the gorge. 
 The pass itself was narrow, but a valley soon 
 opened to the width of a mile, out of which 
 issued two or three passages, besides that by 
 which we had entered, though only one of 
 them preserved its character for any distance. 
 The capacity of this valley, or basin, as it 
 must have been when the Palatinate was a 
 lake, is much curtailed by an insulated moun- 
 tain, whose base, covering a fourth of the 
 area, stands in its very centre, and which 
 doubtless was an island when the valley was 
 a secluded bay. The summit of this moun- 
 tain or island-hill is level, of an irregularly 
 oval form, and contains some six or eight 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 acres of land. Here stand the ruins of Lim- 
 burg, the immediate object of our visit. 
 
 The ascent was exceedingly rapid, and of 
 several hundred feet ; reddish free-stone ap- 
 peared everywhere through the scanty soil, 
 the sun beat powerfully on the rocks; and 
 I was beginning to weigh the advantages and 
 disadvantages of proceeding, when the tailor 
 approached, with the zeal of new-born cour- 
 age. 
 
 “¢ Voici Christian Kinzel !” exclaimed , 
 to whom novelty was always an incentive, 
 and who, in his young life, had eagerly 
 mounted Alp and Apennine, Jura and Cala- 
 brian hill, tower, monument, and dome, or 
 whatever else served to raise him in the air ; 
 «« Allons,—grimpons ! ” 
 
 We scrambled up the hill-side, and, wind- 
 ing among terraces on which the vine and 
 vegetables were growing, soon reached the 
 natural platform. There was a noble view 
 from the summit, but it would be premature 
 to describe it here. The whole surface of the 
 hill furnished evidence of the former extent 
 of the Abbey, a wall having encircled the en- 
 tire place; but the principal edifices had 
 been built, and still remained, near the long- 
 itudinal centre, on the very margin of the 
 eastern precipice. Enough was standing to 
 prove the ancient magnificence of the struct- 
 ure. Unlike most of the ruins which border 
 the Rhine, the masonry was of a workman- 
 like kind, the walls being not only massive, 
 but composed of the sand-stone just men- 
 tioned neatly hewn, for immense strata of 
 the material exist in allthis region. I traced 
 the chapel, still in tolerable preservation, the 
 refectory, that never-failing solacer of mo- 
 nastic seclusion, several edifices apparently ap- 
 propriated to the dormitories, and some ves- 
 tiges of the cloisters. There is also a giddy 
 tower, of an ecclesiastical form, that suffi- 
 ciently serves to give a character to the ruins. 
 It was closed, to prevent idlers from incurring 
 foolish risks by mounting the crazy steps ; 
 but its having formerly been appropriated to 
 the consecrated bells was not at all doubtful. 
 There is also a noble arch near, with several 
 of its disjointed stones menacing the head of 
 him who ventures beneath. 
 
 Turning from the ruin, I cast a look at the 
 surrounding valley. Nothing could have 
 
 been softer or more lovely than the near 
 
 607 
 
 view. That sort of necessity, which mduces 
 us to cherish any stinted gift, had led the in- 
 habitants to turn every foot of the bottom- 
 land to the best account. No Swiss Alp 
 could have been more closely shaved than the 
 meadows at my feet, and a good deal had 
 been made of two or three rivulets that me- 
 andered among them. The dam of a rustic 
 mill threw back the water into a miniature 
 lake, and some zealous admirer of Neptune 
 had established a beer-house on its banks, 
 which was dignified with the sign of the 
 Anchor. But the principal object in the 
 interior or upland view was the ruins of a 
 castle, that occupied a natural terrace, or 
 rather the projection of a rock, against the 
 side of one of the nearest mountains. ‘The 
 road passed immediately beneath its walls, a 
 short arrow-flight from the battlements, the 
 position having evidently been chosen as the 
 one best adapted to command the ordinary 
 route of the traveller. I wanted no explana- 
 tion from the guide to know that this was 
 the castle of Hartenburg. It was still more 
 massive than the remains of the Abbey, built 
 of the same material, and seemingly in differ- 
 ent centuries ; for while one part was irregu- 
 lar and rude, like most of the structures of 
 the middle ages, there were salient towers 
 filled with embrasures, for the use of artillery. 
 One of their guns, well elevated, might pos- 
 sibly have thrown its shot on the platform of 
 the Abbey-hill, but with little danger even to 
 the ruined walls. 
 
 After studying the different objects in 
 this novel and charming scene, for an hour, 
 I demanded of the guide some account of 
 the Pagan’s Wall and of the Devil’s Stone. 
 Both were on the mountain that lay on the 
 other side of the ambitious little lake, a long 
 musket-shot from the Abbey. It was even 
 possible to see a portion of the former, from 
 our present stand; and the confused ac- 
 count of the tailor only excited a desire to 
 see more. We had not come on this excur- 
 sion without a fit supply of road-books and 
 maps. One of the former was accidentally 
 in my pocket, though so little had we ex- 
 pected anything extraordinary on this un- 
 frequented road, that as yet it had not been 
 opened. On consulting its pages now, I was 
 agreeably disappointed in finding that 
 Duerckheim and its antiquities had not been 
 
608 
 
 thought unworthy of the traveller’s especial 
 attention. ‘The Pagan’s Wall was there 
 stated to be the spot in which Attila passed 
 the winter before crossing the Rhine, in his 
 celebrated inroad against the capital of the 
 civilized world, though its origin was referred 
 to his enemies themselves. In short, it was 
 believed to be the remains of a Roman camp, 
 one of those advanced works of the empire, 
 by which the Barbarians were held in check, 
 and of which the Hun had casually and pru- 
 dently availed himself, in his progress south. 
 The Devil’s Stone was described as a natural 
 rock, in the vicinity of the encampment, on 
 which the Pagans had offered sacrifices. Of 
 course the liberated limbs of the guide 
 were put in requisition, to conduct us to a 
 spot that contained curiosities so worthy of 
 even his exertions. 
 
 As we descended the mountain of Lim- 
 burg, Christian Kinzel lighted the way, by re- 
 lating the opinions of the country concerning 
 the places we had seen and were about to 
 see. It would appear by this legend, that 
 when the pious monks were planning their 
 monastery, a compact was made with the 
 Devil to quarry the stones necessary for so 
 extensive a work, and to transport them up 
 the steep acclivity. The inducement held 
 forth to the evil spirit, for undertaking a 
 work of this nature, was the pretence of 
 erecting a tavern, in which, doubtless, un- 
 due quantities of Rhenish wine were to be 
 quaffed, cheating human reason, and leaving 
 the undefended soul more exposed to the 
 usual assaults of temptation. It would seem, 
 by the legends of the Rhine, that the monks 
 often succeeded in outwitting the arch foe 
 in this sort of compact, though perhaps never 
 with more signal success than in the bargain 
 in question. Completely deceived by the 
 artifices of the men of God, the father of sin 
 lent himself to the project with so much 
 zeal, that the Abbey and its appendages 
 were completed in atime incredibly short ; 
 a circumstance that his employers took good 
 care to turn to account, after their own 
 fashion, by ascribing it to a miracle of purer 
 emanation. By all accounts the deception 
 was so well managed, that, notwithstanding 
 his proverbial cunning, the Devil never knew 
 the true destination of the edifice until the 
 Abbey-bell actually rang for prayers. Then, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 indeed, his indignation knew no bounds, and 
 he proceeded forthwith to the rock in ques- 
 tion, with the fell intent of bringing it into 
 the air above the chapel, and by its fall, of 
 immolating the monks and their altar to- 
 gether, to his vengeance. But the stone was 
 too firmly rooted to be displaced even by the 
 Devil ; and he was finally compelled, by the 
 prayers of the devotees, who were now, after 
 their own fashion of fighting, fairly in the 
 field, to abandon this portion of the country 
 in shame and disgrace. The curious are 
 shown certain marks on the rock, which go 
 to prove the violent efforts of Satan, on this 
 occasion, and among others the prints of his 
 form, left by seating himself on the stone, 
 fatigued by useless exertions. The more in- 
 genious even trace, in a sort of groove, evl- 
 dence of the position of his tail, during the 
 time the baffled spirit was chewing the cud 
 of chagrin on his hard stool. 
 
 We were at the foot of the second mountain 
 when Christian Kinzel ended this explana- 
 tion. ) 
 
 «And such is your Duerckheim tradition 
 concerning the Devil’s Stone ?” I remarked, 
 measuring the ascent with the sight. 
 
 ‘Such is what is said in the country, mein 
 Herr,” returned the tailor; “‘ but there are 
 people, hereabouts, who do not believe it.” 
 
 My little travelling companion laughed, 
 and his eyes danced with expectation. 
 
 ‘‘Allons, grimpons!” he cried again— 
 ‘¢ Allons voir ce Teufelstein !” 
 
 In a suitable time we were in the camp. It 
 lay on an advanced spur of the mountain, a 
 sort of salient bastion made by Nature, and 
 was completely protected on every side, but 
 that at which it was joined to the mass, by 
 declivities so steep as to be even descended 
 with some pain. There was the ruin of a cir- 
 cular wall, half a league in extent, the stones 
 lying in a confused pile around the whole ex- 
 terior, and many vestiges of foundations and 
 intersecting walls within. The whole area 
 was covered witha young growth of dark and 
 melancholy cedars. On the face exposed to 
 the adjoining mountain, there had evidently 
 been the additional protection of a ditch. 
 
 The Teufelstein was a thousand feet from 
 the camp. It is a weather-worn rock, that 
 shows its bare head from a high point in the 
 more advanced ranges of the hills. I took a 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 609 
 
 seat on its most elevated pinnacle, and for a| success by the vestiges they found of the in- 
 
 moment the pain of the ascent was forgotten. 
 
 The plain of the Palatinate, far as eye 
 could reach, lay in the view. Here and there 
 the Rhine and the Neckar glittered like sheets 
 of silver, among the verdure of the fields, and 
 towers of city and of town, of Manheim, 
 Spires, and Worms, of nameless villages, and 
 of German residences, were as plenty in the 
 scene as tombs upon the Appian Way. A 
 dozen gray ruins clung against the sides of 
 the mountains of Baden and Darmstadt, 
 while the castle of Heidelberg was visible, in 
 its romantic glen, sombre, courtly, and mag- 
 nificent. The landscape was German, and 
 in its artificial parts slightly Gothic; it 
 wanted the warm glow, the capricious out- 
 lines and seductive beauty of Italy, and the 
 grandeur of the Swiss valleys and glaciers ; 
 but it was the perfection of fertility and in- 
 dustry embellished by a crowd of useful ob- 
 jects. 
 
 It was easy for one thus placed, to fancy 
 
 himself surrounded by so many eloquent 
 
 memorials of the progress of civilization, of 
 the infirmities and constitution, of the growth 
 and ambition of the human mind. The rock 
 recalled the age of furious superstition and 
 debased ignorance—the time when the coun- 
 try lay in forest, over which the hunter ranged 
 at will, contending with the beast for the 
 mastery of his savage domain.’ Still the 
 noble creature bore the image of God, and 
 occasionally some master mind pierced the 
 shades, catching glimpses of that eternal 
 truth which pervades Nature. Then followed 
 the Roman, with his gods of plausible at- 
 tributes, his ingenious and specious philoso- 
 phy, his accumulated and borrowed art, his 
 concerted and overwhelming action, his love 
 of magnificence, so grand in its effects, but so 
 sordid and unjust in its means, and last, the 
 most impressive of all, that beacon-like am- 
 bition which wrecked his hopes on the sea of 
 its vastness, with the evidence of the falsity 
 of his system as furnished in his fall. The 
 memorial before me showed the means by 
 which he gained and lost his power. The 
 Barbarian had been taught, in the bitter 
 school of experience, to regain his rights, and, 
 in the excitement of the moment, it was not 
 
 difficult to imagine the Huns pouring into 
 
 the camp, and calculating their chances of 
 
 the love of domination. 
 
 genuity and resources of their foes. 
 
 The confusion of misty images that suc-. 
 ceeded was an apt emblem of the next age. 
 Out of this obscurity, after the long and 
 glorious reign of Charlemagne, arose the 
 baronial castle, with feudal violence and its 
 progeny of wrongs. Then came the abbey, 
 an excrescence of that mild and suffering 
 religion, which had appeared on earth, like a 
 ray of the sun, eclipsing the factitious bril- 
 liancy of a scene from which natural light 
 had been excluded for a substitute of a mere- 
 tricious and deceptive quality. Here arose 
 the long and selfish strife, between antagonist 
 principles, that has not yet ceased. The 
 struggle was between the power of knowledge 
 and that of physical force. The former, 
 neither pure nor perfect, descended to sub- 
 
 terfuge and deceit ; while the latter vacillated 
 
 between’ the dread of unknown causes and 
 Monk and baron 
 came in Gollision; this secretly distrusting 
 the faith he professed, and that trembling at 
 the consequences of the blow which his own 
 sword had given; the fruits of too much 
 knowledge in one, and of too little in the 
 other, while both were the prey of those in- 
 cessant and unwearied enemies of the race, 
 the greedy passions. 
 
 A laugh from the child drew my attention 
 to the foot of the rock. He and Christian 
 Kinzel had just settled, to their mutual satis- 
 faction, the precise position that had been oc- 
 cupied by the Devil’s tail. A more suitable 
 emblem of his country than that boy, could 
 not have been found on the whole of its wide 
 surface. Ags secondary to the predominant 
 English or Saxon stock, the blood of France, 
 Sweden, and Holland ran, in nearly equal 
 currents, in his veins. He had not far to 
 seek, to find among his ancestors the peace- 
 ful companion of Penn, the Huguenot, the 
 Cavalier, the Presbyterian, the follower of 
 Luther and of Calvin. Chance had even 
 deepened the resemblance; for, a wanderer 
 from infancy, he now blended languages in 
 merry comments on his recent discovery. 
 The train of thought that his appearance 
 suggested was natural. It embraced the long 
 and mysterious concealment of so vast a por- 
 tion of the earth as America, from the ac- 
 quaintance of civilized man; its discovery 
 TT 
 
610 
 
 and settlement; the manner in which vio- 
 lence and persecution, civil wars, oppression 
 and injustice, had thrown men of all nations 
 upon its shores; the effects of this collision 
 of customs and opinions, unenthralled by 
 habits and laws of selfish origin; the religious 
 and civil liberty that followed; the novel but 
 irrefutable principle on which its government 
 was based; the silent working of its example, 
 in the two hemispheres, one of which had 
 already imitated the institutions that the 
 other was struggling to approach; and all the 
 immense results that were dependent on this 
 inscrutable and grand movement of Provi- 
 dence. J know not indeed but my thoughts 
 might have approached the sublime, had not 
 Christian Kinzel interrupted them, by point- 
 ing out the spot where the Devil had kicked 
 the stone, in his anger. 
 
 Descending from the perch, we took the 
 path to Duerckheim. As we came down the 
 mountain, the tailor had many philosophical 
 remarks to make, that were chiefly elicited 
 by the forlorn condition of one who had much 
 toil and little food. In his view of things, 
 labor was too cheap, and wine and potatoes 
 were too dear. To what depth he might 
 have pushed reflections bottomed on princi- 
 ples so natural, it is impossible to say, had 
 not the boy started some doubts concerning 
 the reputed length of the Devil’s tail. He 
 had visited the Jardin des Plantes at Paris, 
 seen the kangaroos in the Zoological Garden 
 in London, and was familiar with the in- 
 habitants of a variety of caravans encountered 
 at Rome, Naples, Dresden, and other capi- 
 tals; with the bears of Berne he had actually 
 been on the familiar terms of a friendly visit- 
 ing acquaintance. Having also some vague 
 ideas of the analogies of things, he could not 
 recall any beast so amply provided with such 
 an elongation of the dorsal bone as was to be 
 inferred from Christian Kinzel’s gutter in 
 the Teufelstein. During the discussion of 
 this knotty point we reached the inn. 
 
 The host of the Ox had deceived us in 
 nothing. The viands were excellent, and 
 abundant to prodigality. The bottle of old 
 Duerckheimer might well have passed for 
 Johannisberger, or for that still more del- 
 cious liquor, Steinberger, at London or New 
 York; and the simple and sincere civility with 
 which everything was served, gave a zest to all. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 It would haye been selfish to recruit na- 
 ture without thought of the tailor, after so 
 many hours of violent exercise in the keen 
 air of the mountains. He, too, had his cup 
 and his viands, and when both were invigo- 
 rated by these natural means, we held a con- 
 ference, to which the worthy post-master was 
 admitted. 
 
 The following pages are the offspring of 
 the convocation held in the parlor of the Ox. 
 Should any musty German antiquary discover 
 some immaterial anachronism, a name mis- 
 placed in the order of events, or a monk 
 called prematurely from purgatory, he is in- 
 vited to wreak his just indignation on Chris- 
 tian Kinzel, whose body and soul may St. 
 Benedict of Limburg protect, for evermore, 
 against all critics. 
 
 ee 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 «‘Stand you both forth now; stroke your chins, 
 and swear by your beards that I am a knave.”—As 
 You Like It. 
 
 THE reader must imagine a narrow and 
 secluded valley, for the opening scene of this 
 tale. The time was that in which the day 
 loses its power, casting a light on objects most 
 exposed, that resembles colors seen through 
 glass slightly stained; a peculiarity of the at- 
 mosphere, which, though almost of daily oc- 
 currence in summer and autumn, is the source 
 of constant enjoyment to the real lover of 
 Nature. The hue meant is not asickly yellow 
 but rather a soft and melancholy glory, that 
 lends to the hill-side and copse, to tree and 
 tower, to stream and lawn, those tinges of 
 surpassing loveliness that impart to the close 
 of day its proverbial and soothing charm. The 
 setting sun touched with oblique rays a bit of 
 shaven meadow, that lay in a dell so deep as 
 to owe this parting smile of Nature to an acci- 
 dental formation of the neighboring emi- 
 nences, a distant mountain crest, that a flock 
 had cropped and fertilized, a rippling current 
 that glided in the bottom, a narrow beaten 
 path, more worn by hoof than» wheel, and a 
 vast range of forest, that swelled and receded 
 from the view, covering leagues of a hill- 
 chase, that even tradition had never peopled. 
 The spot was seemingly as retired as if it had 
 been chosen in one of our own solitudes of the 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 wilderness, while it was, in fact, near the 
 centre of Europe, and in the sixteenth cen- 
 tury. But, notwithstanding the absence of 
 dwellings, and all the other signs of the imme- 
 diate presence of man, together with the 
 wooded character of the scene, an American 
 eye would not have been slow to detect its 
 distinguishing features from those which 
 mark the wilds of this country. The trees, 
 though preserved with care, and flourishing, 
 wanted the moss of ages, the high and rock- 
 ing summit, the variety and natural wildness 
 of the western forest. No mouldering trunk 
 lay where it had fallen, no branch had been 
 twisted by the gale and forgotten, nor did any 
 upturned root betray the indifference of man 
 to the decay of this important part of vegeta- 
 tion. Here and there, a species of broom, 
 such as is seen occasionally on the mast-heads 
 of ships, was erected above some tall member 
 of the woods that stood on an elevated point; 
 landmarks which divided the rights of those 
 who were entitled to cut and clip; the certain 
 evidence that man had long before extended 
 his sway over these sombre hills, and that, re- 
 tired as they seemed, they were actually sub- 
 ject to all the divisions, and restraints, and 
 vexations, which, in peopled regions, accom- 
 pany the rights of property. 
 
 For an hour preceding the opening of our 
 tale, not asound of any nature, beyond that 
 of a murmuring brook, had disturbed the 
 quiet of the silent little valley, if a gorge so 
 narrow, and in truth so wild, deserved the 
 name. There was not even a bird fluttering 
 among the trees, nor a hawk soaring above 
 the heights. Once, and for a minute only, did 
 a roebuck venture from its cover, and descend 
 to the rivulet to drink. The animal had not 
 altogether the elastic bound, the timid and 
 irresolute movement, nor the wandering eye 
 of our own deer, but it was clearly an inhabi- 
 tant of a forest; for while it in some degree 
 confided in the protection, it also distrusted 
 the power of man. No sooner was its thirst 
 assuaged, than, listening with the keenness 
 of an instinct that no circumstances of acci- 
 dental condition could destroy, it went up the 
 acclivity again, and sought its cover with 
 troubled steps. At the same instant a gray- 
 hound leaped from among the trees, on the 
 opposite side of the gorge, into the path, and 
 began bounding back and forth in the well- 
 
 611 
 
 known manner of that species of dog, when ex- 
 ercising in restlessness rather than engaged in 
 the hot strife of the chase. A whistle called 
 the hound back from its gambols, and its 
 master entered the path. 
 
 A cap of green velvet, bearing a hunting- 
 horn above the shade, a coarse but neat frock 
 of similar color, equally ornamented with the 
 same badge of office, together with the in- 
 strument itself suspended from a shoulder, 
 and the arms usual to one of that class, de- 
 noted a forester,’or an individual charged 
 with the care of the chase, and. otherwise in- 
 trusted with a jurisdiction in the forest; func- 
 tions that would be much degraded by the use 
 of the abused and familiar term of game- 
 keeper. 
 
 The forester was young, active, and, not- 
 withstanding the rudeness of his attire, of a 
 winning exterior. Laying his fusee against 
 the root of a tree, he whistled in the dog, 
 and renewing the call, by means of a shrill 
 instrument that was carried for that purpose, 
 he soon succeeded in bringing its fellow to 
 his side. Coupling the grayhounds in a 
 leash, which he attached to his own person, 
 he threw the horn from its noose, and blew a 
 lively and short strain, that rolled up the val- 
 ley in mellow and melodious notes. When 
 the instrument was removed from his lips, 
 the youth listened till the last of the distant 
 echoes was done, as if expecting some reply. 
 He was not disappointed. Presently an an- 
 swering blast came down the gorge, ringing 
 among the woods, and causing the hearts of 
 many of its tenants to beat quick and fear- 
 fully. The sounds of the unseen instrument 
 were far more shrill and wild than those of 
 the hunting-horn, while they wanted not for 
 melancholy sweetness. They appeared both 
 familiar and intelligible to the young forester, 
 who no sooner heard them, than he slung the 
 horn in its usual turn of the cord, resumed 
 the fusee, and stood in an attitude of expec- 
 tation. 
 
 It might have been a minute before an- 
 other youth appeared in the path, higher in 
 the gorge, and advancing slowly toward the 
 forester. His dress was rustic, and alto- 
 gether that of a peasant, while in his hand 
 he held a long, straight, narrow tube of 
 cherry wood, firmly wrapped with bark, havy- 
 ing a mouth-piece and a small bell at the 
 
612 
 
 opposite end, resembling those of a trum pet. 
 As he came forward, his face was not without 
 an expression of ill-humor, though it was 
 rather rendered comic than grave, by a large 
 felt hat, the front rim of which fell in an 
 enormous shade above his eyes, rendering the 
 trim cock in the rear, ludicrously pretending. 
 His legs, like those of the forester, were 
 encased in a sort of leathern hose, that left 
 the limbs naked and free below the knee, 
 while the garment above set so loosely and 
 unbuttoned above that important joint, as to 
 offer no restraint to his movements. 
 
 «Thou art behind thy time, Gottlob,” said 
 the young forester, as the boor approached, 
 ‘and the good hermit will not give us better 
 welcome for keeping him from prayer. What 
 has become of thy herd ?” 
 
 «That may the holy man of the Heiden- 
 mauer declare, for it is more than I could 
 answer were Lord Emich himself to put the 
 question, and say, in the manner he is wont 
 to use to the Abbot of Limburg—What hath 
 become of thy herd, Gottlob?” 
 
 ‘Nay, this is no trifling matter, if thou 
 hast, in sooth, let the cattle stray ! Where 
 hadst thou the beasts last in sight? ” 
 
 “Here in the forest of Hartenburg, Mas- 
 ter Berchthold, on the honor of an humble 
 servitor of the Count.” 
 
 «Thou wilt yet lose this service, Gottlob, 
 by thy carelessness !” 
 
 “Tt would be a thousand pities were thy 
 words to be true, for in that case Lord Emich 
 would lose the honestest cow-herd in Ger- 
 many, and it would go near to break my 
 heart were the friars of Limburg to get him ! 
 But the beasts cannot be far, and I will try 
 the virtue of the horn once more, before I 
 go home to a broken head and a discharge. 
 Dost thou know, Master Berchthold, that the 
 disgrace of which thou speakest never yet 
 befell any of my family, and we have been 
 keepers of cattle longer than the Friedrichs 
 have been electors ? ” 
 
 The forester made an impatient gesture, 
 patted his hounds, and waited for the effects 
 of the new blast, that his companion was by 
 this time preparing to sound. The manner 
 of Gottlob was that of entire confidence in 
 his own knowledge of his calling, for not- 
 withstanding his words, his countenance at 
 no time betrayed uneasiness for the fate of 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 his trust. The valley was soon ringing with 
 the wild and plaintive tones of the cherry- 
 wood horn, the hind taking care to give the 
 strains those intonations, which, by a mute 
 convention, had from time immemorial been 
 understood as the signal for collecting a lost 
 herd. His skill and faith were soon re- 
 warded, for cow after cow came leaping out 
 of thé forest, as he blew his air, and ere long 
 the necessary number of animals were in the 
 path, the younger beasts frisking along the 
 way, with elevated tails and awkward bounds, 
 while the more staid contributors of the dairy 
 hurried on, with business-like air but grave 
 steps, as better became their years and their 
 characters in the hamlet. In a few minutes 
 they were all collected around the person of 
 the keeper, who, having counted his charge, 
 shouldered his horn, and disposed himself to 
 proceed toward the lower extremity of the 
 gorge. 
 
 «Thou art lucky to have gotten the beasts 
 together, with so little trouble, Gottlob,” re- 
 sumed the forester, as they followed in the 
 train of the herd. 
 
 “Say dexterous, Master Berchthold, and 
 do not fear to make me vain-glorious. In 
 the way of understanding my own merits 
 there is little danger of doing me harm. 
 Thou should’st never discourage modesty, by 
 an over-scrupulous discretion. It would be 
 a village miracle, were a herd so nurtured in 
 the ways of the church to forget its duty !” 
 
 The forester laughed, but he looked aside, 
 like one who would not see that to which he 
 wished to be blind. 
 
 « At thy old tricks, friend Gottlob! Thou 
 hast let the beasts roam upon the range of 
 the friars ! ” 
 
 “T have paid Peter’s pence, been to the 
 chapel of St. Benedict for prayer, confessed 
 to Father Arnolph himself, and all within 
 the month: what more need a man do, to be 
 in favor with the Brothers ?” 
 
 «“T could wish to know if thou ever enter- 
 tainest Father Arnolph with the history of 
 thy visits to the pastures of the convent, 
 with Lord Emich’s herd, honest Gottlob.” 
 
 ‘<So! Dost thou fancy, Master Bercht- 
 hold, that, at a moment when there is every 
 necessity to possess a calm and contemplative 
 spirit, I should strive to put the pious monk 
 in a passion, by relating all the antics of some 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 ill-bred cow, or of a heifer, who is as little to 
 be trusted without a keeper,as your jungfrau 
 before she reaches the years of caution is to 
 be trusted at a fair without her mother, or a 
 sharp-sighted old aunt, at the very least?” 
 
 “Well, have a care, Gottlob, for Lord 
 Emich, though loving the friars so little, 
 will be apt to order thee into a dungeon, on 
 bread and water for a week, or to make thy 
 back acquainted with the lash, should he 
 come to hear that one of his hinds has taken 
 this liberty with the rights of a neigh- 
 bor.” 
 
 «‘ Let Lord Emich then expel the brother- 
 hood from the richest pasturage near the 
 Jaegerthal. Flesh and blood cannot bear to 
 see the beasts of a noble digging into the 
 earth with their teeth, after a few bitter 
 herbs, while the carrion of a convent are 
 rolling the finest and sweetest grasses over 
 their tongues. Look you, Master Bercht- 
 hold, these friars of Limburg eat the fattest 
 venison, drink the warmest wine, and say 
 the shortest prayers of any monks in Chris- 
 tendom! Potztausend! ‘There are some 
 who accuse them, too, of shriving the pretti- 
 est girls! As for bread and water, and a 
 dungeon, I know from experience that 
 neither of the remedies agrees with a melan- 
 choly constitution, and I defy the Emperor, 
 or even the Holy Father himself, to work 
 such a miracle as to make back of mine ac- 
 quainted with the lash.” 
 
 ‘Simply because the introduction hath 
 long since had place.” 
 
 «That is thy interpretation of the matter, 
 Master Berchthold, and I wish thee joy of a 
 quick wit. But we are getting beyond the 
 limits of the forest, and we will dismiss the 
 question to another conversation. The beasts 
 are full, and will not disappoint the dairy- 
 girls, and little matters it whence the nour- 
 ishment comes—Lord Emich’s pastures or a 
 churehly miracle. Thou hast hunted the 
 dogs lightly to-day, Berchthold ?” 
 
 «T have had them on the mountains for 
 air and movement. They got away on the 
 heels of a roebuck for a short run, but as all 
 the game in this chase belongs to our mas- 
 ter, 1 did not see fit to let them go faster 
 than there was need.” 
 
 “TJ yejoice to hear thee say it, for I count 
 upon thy company in climbing the mountain 
 
 613 
 
 when our work is ended ; thy legs will only 
 be the fresher for the toil.” 
 
 “Thou hast my word, and I will not fail 
 thee; in order that no time be lost, we will 
 part here to meet again in the hamlet.” 
 
 The forester and the cow-herd made signs 
 of leave-taking, and separated. The former 
 quitted the public road, turning short to the 
 right by a private way, which led him across 
 narrow meadows, and the little river that 
 
 glided among them, toward the foot of the 
 
 opposite mountain. Gottlob held on his 
 course to a hamlet that was now visible, and 
 which completely filled a narrow pass in the 
 valley, at a point where the latter made a 
 turn, nearly ata right angle with its general 
 direction. 
 
 The path of the former led him to a habi- 
 tation very different from the rude dwellings 
 toward which the steps of the cow-herd 
 tended. A massive castle occupied a pro- 
 jecting point af the mountain, overhanging 
 the cluster of houses in the gorge, and frown- 
 ing upon all that attempted to pass. The 
 structure was a vast but irregular pile. ‘The 
 more modern parts were circular salient tow- 
 ers, that were built upon the uttermost 
 verge of the rock, from whose battlements it 
 would not have been difficult to cast a stone 
 into the road, and which denoted great atten- 
 tion to strength in their masonry, while 
 beauty of form and of workmanship, as they 
 were understood at the period of which we 
 write, were not entirely neglected. These 
 towers, though large, were mere appendages 
 to the main building, which, seen from the 
 position now before the mind of the reader, 
 presented a confused maze of walls, chim- 
 neys, and roofs. In some places, the former 
 rose from the greensward which covered the 
 hill-side; while in others, advantage had 
 been taken of the living rock, which was 
 frequently so blended with the pile it sup- 
 ported, both being of the same reddish free- 
 stone, that it was not easy at the first glance 
 to say, what had been done by Nature and 
 what by art. 
 
 The path of the forester led from the val- 
 ley up the mountain, by a gradual and lateral 
 ascent to a huge gate that opened beneath 
 a high arch, communicating with a court 
 within. On this side of the castle there was 
 neither ditch, nor bridge, nor any other of 
 
614 
 
 the usual defences, beyond a portcullis, for 
 the position of the hold rendered these pre- 
 cautions in a measure unnecessary. Still 
 great care had been taken to prevent a sur- 
 prise, and it would have required asure foot, 
 a steady head, and vigorous limbs, to have 
 effected an entrance into the edifice, by any 
 other passage than its gate. 
 
 When Berchthold reached the littie terrace 
 that lay before the portal, he loosened his 
 
 horn, and, standing on the verge of the preci-, 
 
 pice, blew a hunting strain, apparently in 
 glee. The music echoed among the hills as 
 suited the spot, and more than one crone of 
 the hamlet suspended her toil, in dull admira- 
 tion, to listen to its wild effect. Replacing 
 the instrument, the youth spoke to his 
 hounds and passed beneath the portcullis, 
 which happened to be raised at the moment. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ‘* What sayest thou toa hare, or the melancholy of 
 moor-ditch?””—King Henry IV. 
 
 THE light had nearly disappeared from the 
 gorge, in which the hamlet of Hartenburg lay, 
 when Berchthold descended from the castle, 
 by a path different from that by which he 
 had entered it an hour before, and crossing 
 the rivulet by a bridge of stone, he ascended 
 the opposite bank into the street, or rather 
 the road. The young forester, having ken- 
 nelled the hounds, had laid aside his leash 
 and fusee, but he still kept the horn sus- 
 pended from his shoulder. At his side, too, 
 he carried a couteau-de-chasse, a useful in- 
 strument of defence in that age and country, 
 as well as a weapon he was entitled to carry, 
 in virtue of his office under the Count of 
 Leiningen-Hartenburg, the master of the hold 
 he had just quitted, and the feudal lord of 
 most of the adjoining mountains, as well as 
 of sundry villages on the plain of the Palat- 
 inate. It would seem that the cow-herd 
 expected his associate, or perhaps we might 
 venture to call him friend, for such in truth 
 did he appear to be, by the easy terms on 
 which they met. Gottlob was in waiting near 
 the cottage of his mother, and when the two 
 joined each other they communicated by a 
 sign, and proceeded with swift steps, leaving 
 the cluster of houses. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Immediately on quitting the hamlet, the 
 valley expanded, and took that character of 
 fertility and cultivation, which has been de- 
 scribed to the reader in the Introduction; for 
 all who have perused that opening and neces- 
 sary preface to our labors, will at once recog- 
 nize that the two youths introduced to their 
 acquaintance were now in the: mountain 
 basin which contained the Abbey of Limburg. 
 But three centuries, while they have effected 
 little in altering the permanent features of 
 the place, have wrought essential changes in 
 those which were more perishable. 
 
 As the young men moved swiftly on, the 
 first rays of the moon touched the tops of the 
 mountains, and ere they had gone a mile, 
 always holding the direction of the pass 
 which communicated with the valley of the 
 Rhine, the towers and roofs of the Abbey 
 itself were illuminated. ‘The conventual 
 buildings were then perfect, resembling, by 
 their number and confusion, the grouping of 
 some village, while a strong and massive wall 
 encircled the entire brow of the isolated hill. 
 The construction resembled one of those war- 
 like ecclesiastical princes of the middle ages, 
 who wore armor beneath the stole ; for while 
 the towers and painted windows, the pious 
 memorials and votive monuments, denoted 
 the objects of the establishment, the defences 
 betrayed that as much dependence was placed 
 on human as on other means, for the protec- 
 tion of those who composed the brotherhood. 
 
 ‘©There is a moon for a monk as well as 
 for a cow-herd, it would seem,” observed 
 Gottlob, speaking, however, in a voice sub- 
 dued nearly to a whisper. “There comes 
 the ight npon the high tower of the Abbey, 
 and presently it will be glistening on the 
 bald head of every straggler of the convent, 
 who is abroad tasting the last vintage, or 
 otherwise prying into the affairs of some 
 burgher of Duerckheim!” 
 
 “Thou hast not much reverence for the 
 pious fathers, honest Gottlob; for it is seldom 
 thou lettest opportunity pass to do them an 
 ill turn, with tongue or hungry beast.” 
 
 ‘‘Look you, Berchthold, we vassals are 
 little more than so much clear water in which 
 our master may see his own countenance, 
 and at need his own humors. Whenever 
 Lord Emich has a sincere hatred for man or 
 horse, dog or cat, town or village, monk or 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 count, I know not why it is so, but I feel my 
 
 own choler rise, until I am both ready and 
 willing to strike when he striketh, to curse 
 when he curseth, and even to kill when he 
 killeth.” . 
 
 *©*Tis a good temper for a servitor, but it 
 is to be hoped, for the sake of Christian 
 credit, that the sympathy does not end here, 
 but that thy affections are as social as thy 
 dislikes.” 
 
 “ More so, as there is faith in man! Count 
 Emich is a huge lover of a venison pasty of 
 a morning, and I feel a yearning for it the 
 day long—Count Emich will despatch you a 
 bottle of Duerckheim in an hour, whereas 
 two would scarce show my zeal for his honor 
 in the same time, and as for other mortifica- 
 tions of this nature, I] am not the man to 
 desert my master for want of zeal.” 
 
 ““T believe thee, Gottlob,” said Berchthold, 
 laughing, ‘‘and even more than thou canst 
 find words to say in thine own favor, on 
 topics like these. But, after all, the Bene- 
 dictines are churchmen, and sworn to their 
 faith and duty, as well as any bishop in Ger- 
 many; and I do not see the cause of all the 
 dislike of either lord or vassal.” 
 
 « Ay, thou art in favor with some of the 
 fraternity, and it is rare that the week passes 
 in which thou art not kneeling before some 
 of their altars; but with me the case is 
 different, for since the penance commanded 
 for that affair of dealing a little freely with 
 one of their herds, I have small digestion for 
 their spiritual food.” 
 
 “And yet thou hast paid Peter’s pence, 
 said thy prayers, and confessed thy sins to 
 Father Arnolph, and all within the month!” 
 
 “What wouldst thou have of a sinner ? 
 I gave the money on the promise of haying 
 it back with usury; I prayed on account of an 
 accursed tooth that torments me, at times, 
 in a manner worse than a damned soul is 
 harrowed; and as to confession, ever since 
 my uncommon candor, concerning the herd, 
 got me into that penance, I confess under 
 favor of a proper discretion. To tell the 
 truth, Master Berchthold, the church is 
 something like a two-year-old wife; pleasant 
 enough when allowed her own way, but a 
 devil of a vixen when folded against her 
 will.” 
 
 The young forester was thoughtful and 
 
 615 
 
 silent, and as they were now in the vicinity 
 of the hamlet which belonged to the friars 
 of Limburg, his loquacious and _ prurient 
 companion saw fit to imitate his reserve, from 
 a motive of prudence. The little artificial 
 lake mentioned in the Introduction was in 
 existence, at the time of our tale; but the 
 inn, with the ambitious sign of the Anchor, 
 is the fruit of far more modern enterprise. 
 When the young men reached a ravine, 
 that opened into the mountain near the 
 present site of this tavern, they turned aside 
 from the high-road, first taking care to 
 observe that no curious eye watched their 
 movements. 
 
 Here commenced a long and somewhat 
 painful ascent, by means of a rough path, 
 that was only lighted in spots by the rising 
 moon. ‘The vigorous limbs of the forester 
 and the cow-herd, however, soon carried them 
 to the summit of the most advanced spur of 
 the adjoining mountain, where they arrived 
 upon an open heath-like plain. Although the 
 discourse between them had been maintained 
 during the ascent, it was in more subdued 
 tones even than when beneath the walls of 
 Limburg, the spirits of Gottlob appearing 
 to ooze away the higher he mounted. 
 
 ‘‘This is a dreary and courage-killimg waste, 
 Berchthold,” whispered the cow-herd, as his 
 foot touched the level ground ; ‘‘and it is 
 even more disheartening to enter on it by the 
 aid of the moon, than in the dark. Hast 
 ever been nearer to the Teufelstein, at this 
 hour ?” 
 
 “TI came upon it once at midnight ; for it 
 was there I made acquaintance with him that 
 we are now about to visit. — Did I never relate 
 the manner of that meeting ? ” 
 
 ‘* What a habit hast thou of taxing a mem- 
 ory! Perhaps if thou wert to repeat it, I 
 might recall the facts by the time thou wert 
 ended ; and to speak truth, thy voice is com- 
 fortable on this sprite’s common.” 
 
 The young forester smiled, but without 
 derision, for he saw that his companion, spite 
 of his indifference to all grave subjects, was, 
 as is generally the case, the most affected of 
 the two when put to a serious trial, and per- 
 haps he also remembered the difference that 
 education had made in their powers of think- 
 ing. That he did not treat the subjectas one 
 of light import himself, was also apparent by 
 
616 
 
 the regulated and cautious manner in which 
 he delivered the following account. 
 
 “ T had been on the chases of Lord Emich 
 since the rising of the sun,” commenced 
 Berchthold, “for there was need of more than 
 common vigilance to watch the neighboring 
 boors. ‘Ihe search had led me far into the 
 hills, and the night came, not as it is Now 
 seen, but so pitchy dark, that, accustomed as 
 I was from childhood to the forest, it was not 
 possible to tell the direction of even a star, 
 much less that of the Castle. For hours I 
 wandered, hoping at each moment to reach 
 the opening of the valley, when I found my- 
 self of a sudden in a field that appeared end- 
 less and uninhabited.” 
 
 «¢ Ny—that was this devil’s ball-room !— 
 thou meanest untenanted by man.” 
 
 ‘¢ Hast thou ever known the helplessness of 
 being lost in the forest, Gottlob ?” 
 
 ‘In my own person, never, Master Bercht- 
 hold ; but in that of my herd, it is a mis- 
 fortune that often befalls me, sinner that I 
 am !” 
 
 ‘«<T know not that sympathy with thy cows 
 can teach thee the humiliation and depression 
 that come over the mind, when we stand on 
 this goodly earth, cut off from all communica- 
 tion with our fellows, in a desert, though sur- 
 rounded by living men, deprived of the senses 
 of sight and hearing for useful ends, and with 
 all the signs of God before the eyes, and yet 
 with none of the common means of enjoying 
 his bounty, from having lost the clew to his 
 intentions.” 
 
 ‘‘Must the teeth, of necessity, be idle, or 
 the throat dry, Master Forester, because the 
 path is hid ?” 
 
 «At such a moment the appetites are 
 quieted, in the grand desire to return to our 
 usual communicatiou with the earth. It is 
 like being restored to the helplessness of in- 
 fancy, with all the wants and habits of man- 
 hood besetting the character and wishes.” 
 Tf thou callest such a thing a restoration, 
 
 friend Berchthold, I shall make interest with 
 St. Benedict that I may remain deposed to 
 the end of my days.” 
 
 “JT weigh not the meaning of every word 
 I utter, with the recollection of that helpless 
 moment so fresh. But it was when the 
 desolate feeling was strongest, that I roved 
 out of the chase upon this mountain heath ; 
 
 tions. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 there appeared something before my sight, 
 that seemed a house, and by a bright light 
 
 that glittered, as I fancied, at a window, I 
 felt again restored to intercourse with my 
 kind.” 
 
 «Thou usest thy terms with more discre- 
 tion now,” said the cow-herd, fetching a heavy 
 
 breath, like one who was glad the difficulty 
 
 had found a termination. ‘‘I hope it was 
 the abode of some substantial tenant of Lord 
 Emich, who was not without the means of 
 comforting a soul in distress.” 
 
 «Gottlob, the dwelling was no other than 
 
 the Teufelstein, and the light was a twinkling 
 star, that chance had brought in a line with 
 the rock.” 
 
 ‘‘T take it for granted, Master Berchthold, 
 
 thou didst not knock twice for admission at 
 
 that door !” 
 ‘‘J am not much governed by the vulgar 
 
 legends and womanish superstitions of our | 
 hills, but « 
 
 «‘ Softly—softly—friend Forester ; what 
 thou callest by names so irreverent, are the 
 opinions of all who dwell in or about Duerck- 
 
 heim; knight or monk—burgher or count, 
 
 has equally a respect for our venerable tradi- 
 Tausend Sechs und Zwanziges ! what 
 would become of us if we had not a gory tale, 
 or some alarming and reverend spectacle OLY, 
 this sort, to set up against the penances, and 
 prayers, and masses of the Friars of Limburg ? 
 __Ag much wisdom and philosophy as thou 
 wilt, foster-brother of mine, but leave us our 
 Devil, if it be only to make battle against the 
 Abbot !” 
 
 “ Notwithstanding thy big words, I well 
 know that none among us has, at heart, a 
 greater dread of this very hill than thyself, 
 Gottlob! I have seen thee sweat cold drops 
 from thy forehead, in crossing the heath after 
 night-fall.” 
 
 « Art quite sure *twas not the dew? We 
 have heavy falls of that moisture in these 
 hills, when the earth is parched!” 
 
 ‘«‘ Let it then be the dew.” 
 
 «To oblige thee, Berchthold, I would 
 willingly swear it was a water-spout. But 
 what didst thou make of the rock and the 
 star?” 
 
 «‘T could change the nature of neither. 
 I pretend not to thy indifference to the 
 mysterious power that rules the earth, but 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 thou well knowest that fear never yet kept 
 me from this hill. When a near approach 
 showed me my error, I was about to turn 
 away, not without crossing myself and re- 
 peating an Ave, as I am ready to acknowl- 
 edge; but a glance upward convinced me 
 that the stone was occupied——” 
 
 «‘ Occupied ?—I have always known that it 
 was possessed, but never before did I think 
 it was occupied !” 
 
 “There was one seated on its uppermost 
 projection, as plainly to be seen as the rock 
 itself.” 
 
 «‘ Whereupon thou madest manifest that 
 good speed which had gained thee the favor 
 of the Count, and thy post of forester.” 
 
 “T hope the nerves to put the duties of my 
 office in practice, had their weight with Lord 
 Emich,” rejoined Berchthold, a little quickly. 
 <©T did not run, Gottlob, but I spoke to the 
 being who had chosen a seat so remarkable, 
 and at that late hour.” 
 
 Spite of his spirit and affected humor, the 
 
 cow-herd unconsciously drew nearer to his 
 companion, casting at the same time an 
 oblique glance in the direction of the sus- 
 pected rock. 
 
 <‘ Thou seemest troubled, Gottlob.” 
 
 “Dost thou think I am without bowels? 
 What, shall a friend of mine be in this strait, 
 and I not troubled? Heaven save thee, 
 Berchthold, were the best cow in my herd 
 off her stomach, I could not be in greater 
 concern. Hadst any answer?” 
 
 “J had—and the result has gone to show 
 me,” returned the forester, musing as he 
 spoke, like one who was obtaining glimpses 
 of long-concealed truth, “that our fears 
 oftentimes prevent us from seeing things as 
 they are, and are the means of nourishing 
 our mistakes. I got an answer, and certainly, 
 contrary to what most in Duerckheim would 
 have believed, it was given in a human voice.” 
 
 “That was encouraging, though it were 
 hoarser than the roaring of a bull!” 
 
 “It spoke mildly and in reason, Gottlob, 
 as thou wilt readily believe, when I tell thee 
 it was no other than the voice of the An- 
 chorite of the Cedars. Our acquaintance 
 then and there commenced, since which time, 
 as thou knowest well, it hath not flagged for 
 want of frequent visits to his abode, on my 
 part.” 
 
 617 
 
 The cow-herd walked on in silence, for 
 more than a minute, and then stopping short, 
 he abruptly addressed his companion :— 
 
 ‘And this then hath been thy secret, 
 Berchthold, concerning the manner of com- 
 mencing on thy new friendship.” 
 
 “There is no other. I well knew how 
 much thou wert fettered by the opinions of 
 the country, and was afraid of losing thy 
 company in these visits, were I, without cau 
 tion, to tell all the circumstances of our. 
 interview. But now thou hast become known 
 to the anchorite, I do not fear thy desertion.” 
 
 “Never count upon too many sacrifices 
 from thy friends, Master Berchthold! The 
 mind of man is borne upon by so many 
 fancies, is ruled by so many vagaries, and 
 tormented by so many doubts, when there 
 is question concerning the safety of the body, 
 to say nothing of the soul, that I know no 
 more rash confidence, than to count too se- 
 curely on the sacrifices of a friend.” 
 
 “Thou knowest the path, and canst return 
 by thyself, to the hamlet, if thou wilt,” said 
 the forester peevishly, and not without se- 
 verity. 
 
 “There are situations in which it is as 
 difficult to go back as to go forward,” ob- 
 served Gottlob; “else, Berchthold, I might 
 take thee at thy word, and go back to my 
 careful mother, a good supper, and a bed that 
 stands between a picture of the Virgin, one 
 of St. Benedict, and one of my Lord the 
 Count. But for my concern for thee, I would 
 not go another foot toward the camp.” 
 
 “Do as thou wilt,” said the forester, who 
 appeared, however, to know the apprehension 
 his companion felt of being left alone in that 
 solitary and suspected spot, and who turned 
 his advantage to good account by quickening 
 his pace in such a manner as would soon have 
 left Gottlob to his own thick-coming fancies, 
 had he not diligently imitated his gait. 
 “Thou canst tell the people of Lord Emich, 
 that thou abandoned’st me on this hill.” 
 
 ‘‘ Nay,” returned Gottlob, making a merit 
 of necessity, “if Ido that or say that, may 
 they make a Benedictine of me, and the 
 Abbot of Limburg to boot !” 
 
 As the cow-herd, who felt all his master’s 
 antipathies against their religious neighbors, 
 expressed this determination in a voice 
 strong as his resolution, confidence was re 
 
618 
 
 stored between the friends, who continued 
 their progress with swift paces. ‘The place 
 was, sooth to say, one every way likely to 
 quicken any dormant seeds of superstition 
 that education, or tradition, or local opinions 
 had implanted in the human breast. 
 
 By this time our adventurers had ap- 
 proached a wood of low cedars, which, 
 apparently encircled in a round wall that 
 was composed of a confused but vast pile of 
 fallen stones, grew upon the advanced spur 
 of the hills. Behind them lay the heath-like 
 plain, while the bald rock which the moon- 
 beams had just lighted, raising its head from 
 out of the earth, resembled some gloomy 
 monument placed in the centre of the 
 waste, to mark and to render obvious, by 
 comparison, the dreary solitude of the naked 
 fields. The back-ground was the dark slopes 
 and ridges of the forest of the Haart moun- 
 tains. On their right was the glen, or val- 
 ley, from which they had just ascended ; and 
 on their front, looking a little obliquely from 
 the grove, the plain of the Palatinate, which 
 lay in misty obscurity, like a dim sea of cul- 
 tivation, hundreds.of feet beneath their ele- 
 vated stand. 
 
 It was rare, indeed, that any immediate 
 dependant of the Count Emich, and more 
 especially any of those who dwelt in or 
 about his castle, and who were likely to be 
 called into his service at an unexpected 
 moment, ventured so far from the fortress, 
 and in the direction of the hostile Abbey, 
 without providing himself with the means 
 of offence and defence. Berchthold wore, 
 as wont, his hunting-knife, or the short 
 straight sword which to this day is carried 
 by that description of European dependant 
 called a chasseur, and who is seen, degraded 
 to the menial offices of a footman, standing be- 
 hind the carriages of ambassadors and princes, 
 reminding the observant spectator of the 
 regular and certain decadency of the usages 
 of feudal times. Neither had Gottlob been 
 neglectful of his personal security, as re- 
 spects human foes; for on the subject of 
 resisting all such attacks, his manhood was 
 above reproach, as had been proved in more 
 than one of those bloody frays which in that 
 age were of frequent occurrence between the 
 vassals of the minor German princes. The 
 cow-herd had provided himself with a heavy 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 weapon that his father had often wielded in 
 battle, and which needed all the vigor of the 
 muscular arm of the son, to flourish with a 
 due observance of the required positions and 
 attitudes. Fire-arms were of too much yalue 
 and of too imperfect use to be resorted to on 
 every light occasion, like that which had now 
 drawn the foster-brothers, for such sup- 
 ported by long habit was the secret of the 
 intimacy between the forester and the cow- 
 herd, from their hamlet to the hill of Duerck- 
 heim. 
 
 Berchthold loosened his couteau-de-chasse, 
 as he turned by an ancient gate-way, whose 
 position was known merely by an interrup- 
 tion of the ditch that had protected this 
 face of the wall, and an opening in the wall 
 itself, to enter the inclosure, which the 
 reader will at once recognize as the Pagan’s 
 Camp of the Introduction. At the same 
 moment Gottlob cast his heavy weapon from 
 his shoulder, and grasped its handle in a 
 more scientific manner. There was certainly 
 no enemy visible to justify these movements, 
 but the increasing solitude of the place, and 
 that impression of danger which besets the 
 faculties when we find ourselves in situa- 
 tions favorable to deeds of violence, probably 
 induced the double and common caution. 
 The light of the moon, which was not yet 
 full, had not sufficient power to penetrate 
 the thick branches of the cedars ; and when 
 the youths were fairly beneath the gloomy 
 foliage, although not left in the ordinary 
 darkness of a clouded night, they were per- 
 haps in that very species of dull and misty 
 illumination, which, by leaving objects un- 
 certain while visible, is the best adapted to 
 undermine the confidence of a distrustful 
 spirit. There was little wind, but the sighs 
 of the night air were plaintively audible, 
 while the adventurers picked their way 
 among the fragments of the place. 
 
 It has been elsewhere said, that the Hei- 
 denmauer was originally a Roman camp. The 
 warlike and extraordinary people who had 
 erected these advanced works on the re- 
 motest frontier of their wide empire, had,’ 
 of course, neglected none of the means that 
 were necessary, under the circumstances, 
 either for their security or for their com- 
 fort. The first had been sufficiently ob- 
 tained by the nearly isolated position of the 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 hill, protected, as it was, by walls so massive 
 and so high as those must have been, which 
 had consumed the quantity of materials still 
 visible in the large circuit that remained ; 
 while the interior furnished abundant proofs 
 that the latter had not been neglected, in its 
 intersecting remains, over which Gottlob 
 more than once stumbled, as he advanced 
 into the shadows of the place. Here and 
 there, a ruined habitation, more or less 
 dilapidated, was still standing, furnishing, 
 like the memorable remains of Pompei and 
 Herculaneum, interesting and infallible evi- 
 dence of the usages of those who have so 
 long since departed to their eternal rest. It 
 would seem, by the rude repairs which rather 
 injured than embellished these touching 
 though simple monuments of what the in- 
 terior of the camp had been in its days of 
 power and pride, that modern adventurers 
 had endeayored to turn them to account, by 
 converting the falling huts into habitations 
 appropriated to their own temporary uses. 
 All, however, appeared to have been long 
 before finally abandoned ; for as Berchthold 
 and his companion stole cautiously among 
 the crumbling stones, the gaping rents and 
 roofless walls denoted hopeless decay. At 
 length the youths paused, and fastened their 
 looks in a common direction, as if apprised 
 that they were near the goal of their expedi- 
 tion. 
 
 In a part of the grove where the cedars 
 grew more dense and luxuriant than on most 
 of that stony and broken soil, stood a single 
 low building, which, of all there, had the air 
 of being still habitable. Like the others, it 
 either had been originally constructed by the 
 masters of the world, or restored on the foun- 
 dations of some Roman construction by the 
 followers of Attila, who, it will be remem- 
 bered, had passed a winter in this camp; and 
 it was now rendered weather-proof by the 
 usual devices of the poor and laborious. 
 There was a single window, a door, and a 
 rude chimney, which the climate and the 
 elevated situation of the place rendered 
 nearly indispensable. The light of a dim 
 torch shone through the former, the only 
 sign that the hut was tenanted ; for on the 
 exterior, with the exception of the rough re- 
 pairs just mentioned, all around it lay in the 
 neglected and eloquent stillness of ruin. The 
 
 619 
 
 reader will not imagine, in this description, 
 any of that massive grandeur which so insen- 
 sibly attaches itself to most that is connected 
 with the Roman name; for while, in the na- 
 ture of things, the most ponderous and the 
 most imposing of the public works of that 
 people are precisely those which are the most 
 likely to have descended to our own times, 
 the traveller often meets with memorials of 
 their power that are so frail and perishable 
 in their construction, as to owe their preserva- 
 tion, in a great measure, to an accidental 
 combination of circumstances favorable to 
 such a result. Still, the Roman was ordi- 
 narily as much greater in little things, if 
 connected with a public object, as he ex- 
 celled all who have succeeded him, in those 
 which were of more importance. The Ring- 
 mater, or Heidenmauer, is a strong proof 
 of what we say. There is not an arch, nor 
 a tomb, nor a gate, nor a paved road of any 
 description in the vicinity of Duerckheim, to 
 show that the post was more than a tempo- 
 rary military position ; and yet the presence 
 of its former occupants is established by more 
 evidences than would probably be found, a 
 century hence, were half of the present 
 cities of Christendom to be suddenly aban- 
 doned. But these evidences are rude and 
 suited to the objects which had brought 
 them into existence. 
 
 The forester and the cow-herd stood long 
 regarding the solitary hut, which had arrested 
 their looks, like men hesitating to pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 “‘T had more humor for the company of 
 the honest anchorite, Master Berchthold,” 
 said the latter, ‘‘ before thou madest me ac- 
 quainted with his fondness for taking the 
 night air on the Teufelstein.” 
 
 ‘<‘Thou hast not fear, Gottlob? Thou, 
 who bearest so good a name for courage 
 among our youths !” 
 
 “TJ shall be the last to accuse myself of 
 cowardice or of any other discreditable 
 quality, friend forester, but prudence is a 
 virtue in a youth, as the Abbot of Limburg 
 himself would swear, were he here——” 
 
 ‘‘He is not present in his own reverend 
 and respected person,” said a voice so nigh 
 the ear of Gottlob, as to cause him to jump 
 nimbly aside; “but one who may humbly 
 represent some portion of his sanctity, 1s not 
 
620 
 
 wanting to affirm the truth of what thou 
 sayest, son.” 
 
 The startled young men saw that a monk 
 of the opposite mountain had unexpectedly 
 appeared between them. ‘They were on the 
 lands of the Abbey, or rather on ground in 
 dispute between the burghers of Duerckheim 
 and the convent, but actually in possession 
 of the latter; and they felt the insecurity of 
 their situation as the dependants of the Count 
 of Hartenburg. Neither spoke, therefore, 
 for each was striving to invent some plausible 
 pretext for his appearance in a place so un- 
 frequented, and which, in general, was held 
 in so little favor by the neighboring peas- 
 antry. 
 
 «You are youths of Duerckheim?” asked 
 the monk, endeavoring to observe their 
 features by the imperfect light that pene- 
 trated the foliage of the dark cedars. Gott- 
 lob, whose besetting infirmity was a too ex- 
 uberant fluency of tongue, took on himself 
 the task of answering. 
 
 “We are youths, reverend father,” he said, 
 ‘Cas thy quick and sagacious sight hath so 
 well seen. I will not deny my years, and if I 
 would, the Devil, who besets all between fif- 
 teen and five-and-twenty in the shape of some 
 eiddy infirmity, would soon betray the im- 
 posture.” 
 
 “Of Duerckheim, son?” 
 
 “Ag there is question between the Abbey 
 and the town concerning these hills, we 
 might not stand any better in thy favor, 
 holy Benedictine, were we to say yes.” 
 
 Tn that suspicion thou dost little justice 
 to the Abbey, son; we may defend the rights 
 of the Church, confided in their temporalities 
 as they are to an unworthy and sinful 
 brotherhood, without feeling any unchari- 
 tableness against those who believe they have 
 claims better than our own. The love of 
 mammon is feeble in bosoms that are de- 
 voted to self-denying and repentant lives. 
 Say then boldly that you are of Duerckheim, 
 and dread not my displeasure.” 
 
 “Since it is thy good pleasure, benevolent 
 monk, I will say boldly that we are of Duerck- 
 heim.” 
 
 «And you come to consult the holy An- 
 chorite of the Cedars?” 
 
 ‘‘Tt is not necessary that I should tell one 
 of thy knowledge of human nature, reverend 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Benedictine, that the failing of all dwellers 
 
 in small towns is an itching to look into the 
 affairs of their neighbors. Himmel! If our 
 worthy burgomasters would spare a little 
 time from the affairs of other people to look 
 into their own, we should all be greatly 
 gainers; they in their property, and we in 
 our comfort!” 
 
 The Benedictine laughed, and he motioned 
 for the youths to follow, advancing himself 
 toward the hut. 
 
 ‘Since you have given yourselves this 
 trouble, no doubt with a praiseworthy and 
 pious intention, my sons,” he said, “let not 
 respect for my presence change your purpose. 
 We will go into the cell of the holy hermit, 
 in company; and if there should be advan- 
 tage from his blessing, or discourse, believe 
 me, I will not be so unjust as to envy either 
 of you a share.” | 
 
 «The manner in which the friars of Lim- 
 burg deny themselves advantages, in order to 
 do profit to their fellow-Christians, is in the 
 mouths of all, far and near; and this gener- 
 osity of thine, reverend monk, is quite of a 
 piece with the well-earned reputation of the 
 whole brotherhood.” 
 
 As Gottlob spoke gravely, and bowed with 
 sufficient reverence, the Benedictine was in a 
 slight degree his dupe; though, as he passed 
 beneath the low portal of the hut, he could 
 not prevent a lurking suspicion of the truth. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 « He comes at last in sullen loneliness, 
 
 And whence they know not, why they need not 
 
 guess.” —Lara. 
 
 In those days in which mortal wrongs were 
 chiefly repaired by superstition, and the 
 slaves of the grosser passions believed they 
 were only to be rebuked by signal acts of 
 physical self-denial, the world often witnessed 
 examples of men retiring from its allure- 
 ments, to caves and huts, for the ostensible 
 purposes of penitence and prayer. That this 
 extraordinary pretension to godliness was 
 frequently the cloak of ambition and deceit 
 
 is certain, but it would be uncharitable to — 
 believe that, in common, it did not proceed — 
 
 from an honest, though it might be an ill- 
 directed, zeal. Hermitages are still far from 
 
 —— 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 infrequent in the more southern parts of 
 Europe, though they are of rare occurrence 
 in Germany; but previously to the change of 
 religion which occurred in the sixteenth 
 century, and consequently near the period of 
 this tale, they were perhaps more often met 
 with among the descendants of the northern 
 race, than among the more fervid fancies of 
 the southern stock of that quarter of the 
 world. It is a law of Nature that the sub- 
 stances which most easily receive impressions 
 are the least likely to retain them; and 
 possibly there may be requisite a constancy 
 and severity of character to endure the 
 never-ending and mortifying exactions of the 
 anchorite, that were not so easily found 
 among the volatile and happy children of the 
 sun, as among the sterner offspring of the 
 regions of cold and tempests. 
 
 Whatever may be said of the principles of 
 him who thus abandoned worldly ease for 
 the love of God, it is quite sure that, in 
 practice, there were present and soothing re- 
 wards in this manner of life, that were not 
 without strong attractions to morbid minds; 
 especially to those in which the seeds of 
 ambition were dormant rather than extinct. 
 It was rare, indeed, that a recluse established 
 himself in the vicinity of a simple and re- 
 ligious neighborhood, and few were they who 
 sought absolute solitude, without reaping a 
 rich harvest of veneration and moral depend- 
 enceamong the untrained minds of his admir- 
 ers. In this treacherous manner does vanity 
 beset us in our strongholds of mental secur- 
 ity, and he who has abandoned the world, in 
 the hope of leaving behind him those impulses 
 which endangered his hopes, finds the enemy 
 in anew shape, intrenched in the very citadel 
 of his defences. There is little merit, and com- 
 monly as little safety, in turning the back 
 on any danger, and he has far less claims to 
 the honors of a hero who outlives the con- 
 test in consequence of means so questionable, 
 than he who survives because he has given a 
 mortal blow to his antagonist. The task 
 assigned to man is to move among his fel- 
 lows doing good, filling his part in the scale 
 of creation, and escaping from none of the 
 high duties which God has allotted to his 
 being ; and greatly should he be grateful, 
 that, while his service is arduous, he is not left 
 without the powerful aid of that intelligence 
 
 621 
 
 which controls the harmony of the uni 
 verse. 
 
 The Anchorite of the Cedars, as the recluse 
 now visited by the monk and his accidental 
 companions was usually termed by the peas- 
 ants, and by the burghers of Duerckheim, 
 had made his appearance about six months 
 before the opening of our story, in the Ring- 
 mauer. Whence he had come, how long he 
 intended to remain, and what had been his 
 previous career, were facts equally unknown 
 to those among whom he so suddenly took 
 up his abode. None had seen him arrive, 
 nor could any say from what sources he drew 
 the few articles of household furnicure which 
 were placed in his hut. They who left the 
 camp untenanted one week, on returning the 
 next, had found it occupied by a man, who 
 had arranged one of the deserted buildings 
 in a manner to shelter him from the storms, 
 and who, by erecting a crucifix at his door, 
 had sufficiently announced the motive of his 
 retirement. It was usual to hail the estab- 
 lishment of a hermit in any particular dis- 
 trict, as a propitious event ; and many were 
 the hopes excited, and plans of effecting tem- 
 poral objects concocted, by the intervention 
 of the prayers of the stranger, before his pres- 
 ence had been known a fortnight. All within 
 the influence of the name of the hermit, except 
 Emich of Leiningen-Hartenburg, the burgo- 
 master of Duerckheim, and the monks of 
 Limburg, heard of his arrival with satisfac- 
 tion. The haughty and warlike baron had 
 imbibed a standing prejudice against all 
 devotees, from an inherited enmity to 
 the adjoining convent, which had contested 
 the sovereignty of the valley with his family 
 for ages ; while the magistrate had a latent 
 jealousy of every influence which custom 
 and the laws had not rendered familiar. 
 As to the monks, the secret of their distrust 
 was to be found in that principle of human 
 nature, which causes us to dislike being out- 
 done in any merit of which we make an es- 
 pecial profession, even though superior god- 
 liness be its object. Until now the Abbot 
 of Limburg was held to be tne judge, in the 
 last resort, of all intercessions between earth 
 and heaven; and as his supremacy had the 
 support of time, he had long enjoyed it in 
 that careless security which lures so many of 
 the prosperous to their downfall. 
 
622 
 
 These antipathies on the part of the hon- 
 ored and powerful might, to say the least, 
 have rendered the life of the anchorite very 
 uncomfortable, if not positively insecure, 
 were it not for the neutralizing effect of the 
 antagonistic forces which were set in motion. 
 Opinion, deepened by superstition, held its 
 shield over the humble hut, and month 
 after month glided away, after the arrival of 
 the stranger, during which he received no 
 other testimonials of the feelings excited by 
 his presence, than those connected with the 
 reverence of the bulk of the population. An 
 accidental communication with Berchthold 
 was ripening into intimacy, and, as will be 
 seen in the course of the narrative, there 
 were others to whom his counsel, or his mo- 
 tives, or his prayers, were not indifferent. 
 
 The latter fact was made sufficiently ap- 
 parent to those who, on account of their mu- 
 tual distrust, now presented themselves with 
 less ceremony than usual, at the threshold 
 of the hut. The light within came from a 
 fagot which was burning on the rude hearth, 
 but it was quite strong enough to show the 
 monk and his companions that the anchorite 
 was not alone. Their footsteps had evidently 
 been heard, and a female had time to arise 
 from her knees, and to arrange her mantle 
 in such a manner as effectually to conceal 
 her countenance. The hurried action was 
 scarcely completed when the Benedictine 
 darkened the door with his gloomy robes, 
 while Berchthold and his friend stood gaz- 
 ing over his shoulders, with lively curiosity 
 mingled with surprise. 
 
 The form and countenance of the anchorite 
 were those of middle age. His eye had lost 
 nothing of its quickness or intelligence, 
 though his movements had the deliberation 
 and care that long experience insensibly inter- 
 weaves in the habits of those who have not lived 
 in vain. He expressed neither concern nor 
 wonder at the unexpected visits, but regard- 
 ing his guests earnestly, like one who assured 
 himself of their identity, he mildly motioned 
 for all to enter. There was jealous suspicion 
 in the glance of the Benedictine, as he com- 
 plied ; for until now, he had no reason to be- 
 lieve that the recluse was usurping so inti- 
 mate and so extensive an influence over the 
 minds of the young, as the presence of the 
 unknown female would give reason to believe. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘‘T knew that thou wert of holy life and 
 constant prayer, venerable hermit,” he said, 
 in a tone that questioned in more than one 
 meaning of the term, ‘‘ but until this mo- 
 ment, I had not thought thee vested with 
 the Church’s power to hearken to the trans- 
 gressions of the faithful and to forgive sins!” 
 
 “The latter is an office, brother, that of 
 right belongs only to God. The head of the 
 Church himself is but an humble instrument 
 of faith, in discharging this solemn trust.” 
 
 The countenance of the monk did not be- 
 come more amicable at this reply, nor did he 
 fail to cast a scrutinizing glance at the muf- 
 fled form of the stranger, in a fruitless en- 
 deavor to recognize her person. 
 
 “Thou hast not even the tonsure,” he 
 continued, while his uneasy eye rolled from 
 that of the recluse to the form of the stran- 
 ger, who had shrunk, as far as the narrow 
 place would permit, from observation. 
 
 “Thou seest, father, that I have all the 
 hair that time and infirmities have left me. 
 But is it thought, in thy beneficed and war- 
 like abbey, that the advice of one who has 
 lived long enough to know and to lament his 
 own errors, can injure the less experienced ? 
 If unhappily I may have deceived myself, 
 thou art timely present, reverend monk, to 
 repair the wrong.” 
 
 ‘Let the maiden come to the confessional 
 of the Abbey Church, if distrust or appre- 
 hension weigh upon her mind ; doubt it not, 
 she will find great comfort in the experiment.” 
 
 ‘‘As I will testify, from many trials—” 
 abruptly interposed the cow-herd, who ad- 
 vanced intrusively between the two devotees, 
 in a manner to occupy all their attention. 
 <©*¢ Go upon the hill, and ease thy soul, Gott- 
 lob,’ is my good and venerable mother in the 
 practice of saying, whenever my opinion of 
 myself is getting to be too humble, ‘and dis- 
 course with some of the godly fathers of the 
 Abbey, whose wisdom and unction will not 
 fail to lighten thy heart of even a heavier 
 load. There is Father Ulrich, he is a paragon 
 of virtue and self-denial ; and Father Cuno 
 is even more edifying and salutary than he ; 
 while Father Siegfried is more balmy to a 
 soul, than the most reverend Abbot, the vir- 
 tuous and pious Father Bonifacius himself! 
 Whatever thou doest, child, go upon the hill, 
 and enter boldly into the church, like a 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 loaded and oppressed sinner as thou art, and 
 especially seek counsel and prayer from the 
 excellent and beloved Father Siegfried.’ ” 
 
 «And thou—who art thou?” demanded 
 the half-doubting monk, ‘‘ that thou speakest 
 of me in terms that I so little merit, to my 
 face ?” 
 
 “JT would I were Lord Emich of Harten- 
 burg, or for that matter, the Elector Palatine 
 himself, in order to do justice to those I 
 honor; in which case certain Fathers of Lim- 
 burg should have especial favor, and that 
 quickly too, after my own flesh and blood! 
 Who am I, father? I wonder that a face so 
 often seen at the confessional should be for- 
 gotten. What there is of me to boast of, Fa- 
 ther Siegfried, is of thine own forming—but 
 it is no cause of surprise that thou dost not 
 recall me to mind, since the meek and lowly 
 of spirit are sure to forget their own good 
 works!” 
 
 “Thou callest thyself Gottlob—but the 
 name belongs to many Christians.” 
 
 “More bear it, reverend monk, than’ know 
 how to do it honor. There is Gottlob 
 Frinecke, as arrant a knave as any in Duerck- 
 heim; and Gottlob Popp might have more re- 
 spect for his baptismal vow; and as to Lord 
 Gottlob of Manheim 4 
 
 “ We will overlook the transgressions of the 
 remainder of thy namesakes, for the good 
 that thou thyself hast done,” interrupted the 
 Benedictine, who, having insensibly yielded 
 to the unction of flattery in the commence- 
 ment of the interview, began now to be 
 ashamed of the weakness, as the fluent cow- 
 herd poured forth his words in a manner to 
 excite some suspicion of the quality of praise 
 that came from such a source. ‘ Come to 
 me when thou wilt, son, and such counsel as 
 a weak head, but a sincere heart, can render, 
 shall not be withheld.” 
 
 «How this would lighten the heart of my 
 old mother to hear! ‘ Gottlob,’ would she 
 say 39 ‘ 
 
 ‘“What has become of thy companion, and 
 off the maiden ?” hastily demanded the Bene- 
 dictine. 
 
 As the part of the cow-herd was success- 
 fully performed, he stood aside, with an air 
 of well-acted simplicity and amazement, leay- 
 ing the discourse to be pursued between the 
 recluse and the monk. 
 
 623 
 
 ‘‘Thy guests have suddenly left us,” con- 
 tinued the latter, after satisfying himself, by 
 actual observation, that no one remained in 
 the hut but himself, its regular occupant, and 
 the honey-tongued Gottlob; “ and, as it would 
 seem, in company!” 
 
 “They are gone as they came, voluntarily 
 and without question.” 
 
 “Thou knowest them, by frequent visits, 
 holy hermit ?” 
 
 “‘Father,- I question none: were the Elec- 
 tor Friedrich to come into my abode, he would 
 be welcome, and this cow-herd is not less go. 
 To both, at parting, I merely say, ‘ God speed 
 
 e! 2 99 
 
 ‘‘Thou keepest the cattle of the burghers, 
 Gottlob ?” 
 
 *“T keep a herd, reverend priest, such as 
 my masters please to trust to my care.” 
 
 “We have great cause of complaint against 
 one of thy fellows who serves the Count of 
 Hartenburg, and who is in the daily habit of 
 trespassing on the pastures of the church. 
 Dost know the hind ?” 
 
 “Potztausend! If all the knaves who do 
 these wrongs, when out of sight of their 
 masters, were set in a row before the eyes of 
 the most reverend Abbot of Limburg, he 
 would scarce know whether to begin with 
 prayers or stripes, and they say he isa potent. 
 priest at need, with both! I sometimes 
 tremble for my own conduct, though no one 
 can have a better opinion of himself than I, 
 poor and lowly as I stand in your reverend 
 presence; for a hard fortune, and some over- 
 sight in the management of my father’s af- 
 fairs, have brought me to the need of living 
 among such associates. Were I not of ap- 
 proved honesty, there might be more beasts 
 on the Abbey lands; and they who now pass 
 their time in fasting in sheer humility, might 
 come to the practice of sheer necessity.” 
 
 The Benedictine examined the meek 
 countenance of Gottlob with a keen distrust- 
 fuleye; he next invited the hermit to bestow 
 his blessing, and then motioning for the hind 
 to retire, he entered on the real object of 
 his visit to the hermitage. 
 
 We shall merely say, at this point of the 
 narrative, that the moment was extremely 
 critical to all who dwelt in the Palatinate of 
 the Rhine. The Elector had, perhaps impru- 
 dently for a prince of his limited resources, 
 
624 
 
 taken an active part in the vindictive warfare 
 then raging, and serious reverses threatened 
 to endanger not only his tranquillity but his 
 throne. It was a consequence of the feudal 
 system, which then so generally prevailed in 
 Europe, that internal disorders succeeded any 
 manifest, though it might be only a tempo- 
 rary derangement of the power of the poten- 
 tate that held the right of sovereignty over 
 the infinite number of petty rulers who, at 
 that period, weighed particularly heavy on 
 Germany. To them he was the law, for they 
 were not apt to acknowledge any supremacy 
 that did not come supported by the strong 
 hand. The ascending scale of rulers, includ- 
 ing baron, count, landgrave, margrave, duke, 
 elector, and king, up to the nominal head of 
 the state, the Emperor himself, with the com- 
 plicated and varied interests, embracing alle- 
 giance within allegiance, and duty upon duty, 
 was likely in itself to lead to dissension, had 
 the Imperial Crown been one of far more de- 
 fined and positive influence than it was. But, 
 uncertain and indirect in the application of 
 its means, it was rare that any very serious 
 obstacle to tranquillity was removed without 
 the employment of positive force. No sooner 
 was the Emperor involved in a serious strug- 
 gle, than the great princes endeavored to re- 
 cover that balance which had been lost by the 
 long ascendency of a particular family, while 
 the minor princes seldom saw themselves sur- 
 rounded with external embarrassment, that 
 internal discord did not come to increase the 
 evil. As a vassal was commonly but a rude 
 reflection of his lord’s enmities and preju- 
 dices, the reader will have inferred from the 
 language of the cow-herd, that affairs were 
 not on the most amicable footing between 
 those near neighbors, the Abbot of Limburg 
 and the Count of Hartenburg. The circum- 
 stance of their existing so near each other 
 was, of itself, almost a certain cause of rivalry; 
 to which natural motive of contention may be 
 added the unremitted strife between the in- 
 fluence of superstition and the dread of the 
 sword. 
 
 The visit of the monk had reference to 
 zertain interests connected with the actual 
 state of things, as they existed between the 
 Abbey and the Castle. As it would be pre- 
 mature, however, to expose his object, we 
 shall be content with saying, that the confer- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ence between the priest and the hermit lasted 
 for half an hour, when the former took his 
 leave, craving a blessing from one of a life so 
 pure and self-denying as his host. 
 
 At the door of the hut the monk found 
 Gottlob, who had early been gotten rid of, 
 it will be remembered, but, who for reasons 
 of his own, had seen fit to await the termina- 
 tion of the conference. 
 
 <*Thou here, son!” exclaimed the Bene- 
 dictine. “I had thought thee at peace in 
 thy bed, favored with fhe benediction of a 
 hermit so holy !” 
 
 “Good fortune is sure to RE sleep from 
 my eyes, father,” returned Gottlob, dropping 
 in by the side of the monk, who was walking 
 through the cedars toward the ancient gate- 
 way of the camp. ‘Iam not of your animal 
 kind, that is no sooner filled with a good 
 thing than it lies down to rest; but the hap- 
 pier I become, the more I desire to be up to 
 enjoy it.” 
 
 “Thy wish is natural, and, although many 
 natural desires are to be resisted, I do not 
 see the danger of our knowing our own hap- 
 piness.” 
 
 ‘«< Of the danger I will say nothing, father, 
 but of the comfort, there is not a youth in 
 Duerckheim, who can speak with greater 
 certainty than myself.” 
 
 ‘<Gottlob,” said the Benedictine, insensi- 
 bly edging nearer his companion, like one 
 willing to communicate confidentially, “ since 
 thou namest Duerckheim, canst say aught of 
 the humor of its people, in this matter of 
 contention between our holy Abbot and Lord 
 Emich of Hartenburg? ” 
 
 «Were I to tell thy reverence the truth 
 that lies deepest in my mind, it would be to 
 say that the burghers wish to see the affair 
 brought to an end, in such a way as to leave 
 no doubt, hereafter, to which party they 
 most owe obedience and love, since they find 
 it a little hard upon their zeal, to have so 
 large demands of these services made by both 
 parties.” 
 
 ‘Thou canst not serve God and Mammon, 
 son, so sayeth one who could not deceive.” 
 
 «And so sayeth reason, too, worshipful 
 
 monk, but to give thee at once my inmost — 
 
 soul, I believe there is not a man in our 
 Duerckheim, who believes himself strong 
 enough in learning to say, in this strife of 
 
THE HEHIDENMAUER. 
 
 duties, which is God and which is Mam- 
 mon!” 
 
 «‘ How! do they call in question our sacred 
 mission—our divine embassy—in short, our 
 being what we are?” 
 
 ‘‘No man is so bold as to say that the 
 monks of Limburg are what they are; that 
 might be irreverent to the Church, and in- 
 decent to Father Siegfried; and the most we 
 dare to say is, that they seem to be what 
 they are; and that is no small matter, con- 
 sidering the way things go in this world. 
 ‘Seem to be, Gottlob,’ said my poor father, 
 ‘and thou wilt escape envy and enemies; for 
 in this seemliness there is nothing so alarm- 
 ing to others; it is only when one is really 
 the thing itself, that men begin to find fault. 
 If thou wishest to live peaceably with thy 
 neighbors, push nothing beyond seeming to 
 be, for that much all will bear, since all can 
 seem; whereas being oftentimes sets a whole 
 village in an uproar. It is wonderful the 
 
 virtue there is in seeming, and the heart- 
 
 burnings and scandal, ay, and the downright 
 quarrels there are in being just what one 
 
 seems.’ No, the most we say, in Duerck- 
 
 heim, is that the monks of Limburg seem to 
 be men of God.” 
 «* And Lord Emich ?” 
 
 «Ag to Count Emich, father, we hold it 
 
 wise to remember he is a great noble. The 
 Elector has not a bolder knight, nor the Em- 
 peror a truer vassal; we say, therefore, that 
 he seems to be brave and loyal.” 
 
 «Thou makest great account, son, of these 
 apparent qualities.” 
 
 “ Knowing the frailty of man, father, and 
 the great likelihood of error, when we wish 
 to judge of acts and reasons, that lie deeper 
 than our knowledge, we hold it to be the 
 most prudent. No, let us of Duerckheim 
 alone, as men of caution !” 
 
 ‘¢Bor a cow-herd, thou wantest not wit— 
 Canst read ?”’ 
 
 «By God’s favor, Providence put that lit- 
 tle accident in my way whena child, reverend 
 monk, and I picked it up, as I might swallow 
 a sweet morsel.” 
 
 «<°Tis a gift more likely to injure than to 
 serve one of thy calling. The art can do 
 little benefit to thy herd !” 
 
 <¢J will not take upon myself to say, that 
 any of the cattle are much the better for it ; 
 
 625 
 
 though, to deal fairly by thee, reverend Ben- 
 edictine, there are animals among them that 
 seem to be.” 
 
 ‘*How ! wilt thou attempt to show a fact 
 not only improbable but impossible ? Go to, 
 thou hast fallen upon some silly work of a 
 jester. There have been numberless of these 
 commissions of the devil poured forth, since 
 the discovery of that imprudent brother of 
 Mainz. I would gladly hear in what manner 
 a beast can profit by the art of printing !” 
 
 Thy patience, Father Siegfried, and thou 
 shalt know. Now here is a hind that can 
 read, and there is one that cannot. We will 
 suppose them both the servants of Emich of 
 Hartenburg. Well, they go forth of a morn- 
 ing with their herds ; this taking the path to 
 the hills of the Count, and that, having read 
 the description of the boundaries between his 
 Lord’s land and that of the holy Abbot of 
 Limburg, taking another, because learning 
 will not willingly follow ignorance ; where- 
 upon the reader reaches a nearer and better 
 pasture than he who hath gone about to feed 
 upon ground that has only been trodden upon 
 too often before, by hoof of beast and foot of 
 man.” 
 
 «Thy learning hath not done much to- 
 wards clearing thy head, Gottlob, whatever 
 it may have done for the condition of thy 
 herd !” 
 
 «‘If your worship has any doubts of my 
 being what I say, here is proof of its justice, 
 then—-l know nothing that so crams a man 
 and confuses him as learning! He who has 
 but one horn can take it and go his way ; 
 whereas he that hath many, may lose his 
 herd while choosing between instruments that 
 are better or worse. He that hath but one 
 sword, will draw it and slay his enemy ; but 
 he that hath much armor, may lose his life 
 while putting on his buckler or head- 
 piece.” 
 
 «<T had not thought thee so skilful in an- 
 swers. And thou thinkest the good people of 
 Duerckheim will stand neuter between the 
 Abbey and the Count ?” 
 
 «Father, if thou wilt show me by which 
 side they will be the greatest gainers, I think 
 I might venture to say, with some certainty, 
 on which side they will be likely to draw the 
 sword. Our burghers are prudent townsmen, 
 as I have said, and it is not often that they 
 
626 
 
 are found fighting against their own inter- 
 ests.” 
 
 ‘Thou shouldst know, son, that he who 
 is most favored in this life, may find the bal- 
 ances of justice weighing against him in the 
 next ; while he who suffers in the flesh, will 
 be most likely to find its advantage in the 
 spirit.” 
 
 “‘Himmel! In that case, reverend Bene- 
 dictine, the most holy Abbot of Limburg 
 himself may fare worse hereafter than evena 
 hind who now lives like a dog!” exclaimed 
 Gottlob, with an air of admiration and sim- 
 plicity that completely misled his listener. 
 ‘* The one is said to comfort the body in va- 
 rious ways, and to know the difference be- 
 tween a cup of pure Rhenish and a draught 
 of the washy liquors that come from the 
 other side of our mountains ; while the other, 
 whether it be of necessity or inclination I 
 will not take upon myself to say, drinks only 
 of the spring. ’Tis a million of pities that 
 one never knoweth which to choose, present 
 ease with future pain, or astarving body with 
 a happysoul! Believe me, Father Siegfried, 
 were thy reverence to think more of these 
 trials that befall us ignorant youths, thou 
 wouldst not deal so heavily with the penances, 
 as thine own severe virtue often tempts thee 
 to do.” 
 
 ‘* What is thus done is done for thy health, 
 future and present. By chastening the spirit 
 in this manner, it is gradually prepared for 
 its final purification, and thou art not a loser 
 in the eyes of thy fellows, by leading a chaste 
 life. Thou wilt have justice at the settle- 
 ment of the great account.” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, I am no greedy creditor, to dun 
 Providence for my dues. I very well know 
 that what will come cannot be prevented, and 
 therefore I take patience to be avirtue. But 
 I hope these accounts, of which you tell us 
 often, are kept with sufficient respect for a 
 poor man; for, to deal fairly with thee, father, 
 we have not overmuch favor in settling those 
 of the world.” 
 
 “Thou hast credit for all thy good deeds 
 with thy fellows, Gottlob.” 
 
 ‘‘T wish it were true! To me it seems 
 that the world is ready enough to charge, 
 while it is as niggardly as a miser in giving 
 credit—I never did an evil act—and as we 
 are all mortal and frail, most holy monk, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 these accidents will befall even your saint or 
 a Benedictine—that the deed itself and all 
 its consequences were not set down against 
 me, in letters that a short-sighted man might 
 read; while most of my merits—and consid- 
 ering 1am but a cow-herd they are of re- 
 spectable quality—seem to be forgotten. 
 Now your Abbot, or his Highness the Elec- 
 tor, or even Count Emich ig 
 
 “The Summer Landgrave!” interrupted 
 the monk, laughing. 
 
 ‘‘Summer or winter, as thou wilt, Father 
 Siegfried, he is Count of Hartenburg, and a 
 noble of Leiningen. Even he does no deed 
 of charity, or even of simple justice, that all 
 men do not seize upon the occasion to pro- 
 claim it, as eagerly as they endeavor to up- 
 braid me for the accidental loss of a beast, 
 or any other little backsliding, that may be- 
 fall one, who being bold under thy holy in- 
 struction, sometimes stumbles against a sin.” 
 
 «Thou art a casuist, and, at another time, 
 I must look more closely into the temper of 
 thy mind. At present, thou mayst purchase 
 favor of the Church by enlisting a little more 
 closely in her interests. J remember thy 
 cleverness and thy wit, Gottlob, for both 
 have been remarked in thy visits to the con- 
 vent; but, until this moment, there has not 
 been sufficient reason to use the latter in the 
 manner that we may fairly claim to do, con- 
 sidering our frequent prayers, and the other 
 consolations afforded in thy behalf.” 
 
 ““Do not be too particular, Father Sieg- | 
 
 fried, for thy words reveal grievous penance! ” 
 
 “ Which may be much mitigated in future, 
 if not entirely avoided, by a service that I 
 would now propose to thee, honest Gottlob, 
 and which I will venture to say, from my 
 knowledge of thy reverence for holy things, 
 as 1s manifest in thy attentions to the pious 
 hermit, and thy love for the Abbey of Lim- 
 burg, thou wouldst not refuse to undertake.” 
 
 5 ROUe; 
 
 “Nay, I have as good as pledged myself 
 to Father Bonifacius to procure either thee, 
 or one shrewd and faithful as thee, to doa 
 trusty service for the brotherhood.” 
 
 “The latter might not be easy among the 
 cow-herds!” . 
 
 “Of that I am sure. Thy skill in the 
 management of the beasts may yet gain thee 
 the office of tending the ample herds of the 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 Abbey. ‘Thou art already believed fit for the 
 charge.” 
 
 “Not to deny my own merits, sagacious 
 father, I have already some knowledge of the 
 pastures.” 
 
 « And of the beasts, too, Gottlob ; we keep 
 good note of the characters of all who come 
 to our confessionals. There are worse than 
 thine among them, I do assure thee.” 
 
 « And yet have I never told thee half that 
 I might say of myself, father !” 
 
 “Tt is not important now. Thou knowest 
 the state of the contest between Count Emich 
 and our Abbey. The service that I ask of 
 thee, son, is this; and by discharging it, 
 with thy wonted readiness, believe me thou 
 wilt gain favor with St. Benedict and his 
 children. We have had reason to know, that 
 there is a strong band of armed men in the 
 castle, ready and anxious to assail our walls, 
 under a vain belief that they contain riches 
 and stores to repay the sacrilege; but we 
 want precise knowledge of their numbers 
 and intentions. Were we to send one of 
 known pursuits on this errand, the Count 
 would find means to mislead him; whereas, 
 we think a hind of thy intelligence might 
 purchase the Church’s kindness without sus- 
 picion.” 
 
 ‘‘Were Count Emich to get wind of. the 
 matter, he would not leave me an ear with 
 which to listen to thy holy admonitions.” 
 
 « Keep thine own counsel, and he will not 
 suspect one of thy appearance. Hast no 
 pretext for visiting the castle ?” 
 
 ‘Nay, it would be easy to make a thou- 
 sand. Here, I might say, I wished to ask 
 the cow-herd of Lord Emich for his cunning 
 in curing diseased hovfs, or 1 might pretend 
 a wish to change my service, or, there is no 
 want of laughing damsels in and about the 
 hold.” 
 
 « Hnough: thou art he, Gottlob, for whom 
 I have sought daily for a fortnight. Go thy 
 way, then, without fail, and seek me-after to- 
 morrow’s mass, in the Abbey.” 
 
 “Tt may be enough on the side of Heaven, 
 father, but men of our prudence must not 
 forget their mortal state. Am I to risk my 
 ears, do discredit to my simplicity, and neg- 
 lect my herd, without a motive?” 
 
 «©Thou wilt serve the Church, son; get 
 - favor in the eyes of our reverend Abbot, and 
 
 627 
 
 thy courage and dexterity will be remem: 
 bered in future indulgences.” 
 
 “That I shall serve the Church it is well 
 known to me, reverend Benedictine, and it is 
 a privilege of which a cow-herd hath reason 
 to be proud ; but, by serving the Church, I 
 shall make enemies on earth, for two suffi- 
 cient reasons: first, that the Church is in no 
 great esteem in this valley; and second, be- 
 cause men never love a friend for being any 
 better than themselves. ‘No, Gottlob,’ used 
 my excellent father to say, ‘seem to all 
 around thee conscious of thy unworthiness, 
 after which thou mayst be what thou seemest. 
 On this condition only can virtue live at 
 peace with its fellow-creatures. But if thou 
 wouldst have the respect of mankind,’ would 
 he say, ‘set a fair price on all thou doest, for 
 the world will not give thee credit for disin- 
 terestedness ; and if thou workest for naught, 
 it will think thou deservest naught. No,’ 
 did he shake his head and add, ‘that which 
 cometh easy is little valued, while that which 
 is costly, do men set a price upon.’”’ 
 
 “Thy father was, like thyself, one that 
 looked to his ease. Thou knowest that we 
 inhabitants of cells do not carry silver.” 
 
 ‘Nay, righteous Benedictine, if it were a 
 trifle of gold, I am not one to break a bar- 
 gain for so small a difference.” ‘ 
 
 “Thou shalt have gold, then. On the 
 faith of my holy calling, I will give thee an 
 image of the Emperor in gold, shouldst thou 
 succeed in bringing the tidings we require.” 
 
 Gottlob stopped short, and kneeling, he 
 reyerently asked tle monk to bless him. 
 The latter complied, half doubting the dis- 
 cretion of employing such an emissary, be- 
 tween whose cunning and simplicity he was 
 completely at fault. Still, as he risked noth- 
 ing, except in the nature of the information 
 he was to receive, he saw no sufficient reason 
 for recalling the commission he had just be- 
 stowed. He gave the desired benediction, 
 therefore; and our two conspirators de- 
 scended the mountain in company, discours- 
 ing, as they went, of the business on which 
 the cow-herd was about to proceed. When 
 go near the road as to be in danger of obser: 
 vation, they separated, each taking the direc: 
 tion necessary to his object. 
 
628 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ‘‘ And nota matron, sitting at her wheel, 
 But could repeat their story.” —RoGERs. 
 
 THE female, enveloped in her mantle, had 
 so well profited by the timely interposition 
 of Gottlob Frincke, as to quit the hermit’s 
 hut without attracting the notice of the Ben- 
 edictine. But the vigilance of young Berch- 
 thold had not been so easily eluded. He 
 stepped aside as she glided through the door, 
 then stooping merely to catch the eye of the 
 cow-herd, to whom he communicated his in- 
 tention by a sign, he followed. Had the for- 
 ester felt any doubts as to the identity of 
 her he pursued, the light and active move- 
 ment would have convinced him that age, at 
 least, had no agency in inducing her to con- 
 ceal her features. The roe-buck of his own 
 forests scarce bounded with more agility than 
 the fugitive fled, on first quitting the abode 
 of the recluse ; nor did her speed sensibly 
 lessen, until she had crossed most of the 
 melancholy camp, and reached a spot where 
 the opening of the blue and star-lit void 
 showed that she was at the verge of the 
 wood, and near the margin of the summit of 
 the mountain. Here she paused, and stood 
 leéning against a cedar, like one whose 
 strength was exhausted. 
 
 Berchthold had followed swiftly, but with- 
 out losing that appearance of calmness and 
 of superior physical force which gives dig- 
 nity to the steps of young manhood, as com- 
 pared with the timid but more attractive 
 movements of the feebler sex. He seemed 
 conscious of his greater powers, and unwil- 
 ling to increase a flight that was already 
 swifter than circumstances required, and 
 which he knew to be far more owing to a 
 vague and instinctive alarm than to any real 
 cause for apprehension. When the speed of 
 the female ceased, his own relaxed, and he 
 approached the spot where she stood panting 
 for breath, like a cautious boy, who slackens 
 his haste in order not to give new alarm to 
 the bird that has just alighted. 
 
 «« What is there so fearful in my face, Meta, 
 that thou fleest my presence, as I had been 
 the spirit of one of those Pagans that they 
 say once peopled this camp? It is not thy 
 wont to have this dread of a youth thou hast 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 known from childhood, and I will say, in my 
 own defence, known as honest and true !” 
 
 “Tt is not seemly in a maiden of my years 
 it was foolish, if not disobedient, to be here 
 at this hour,” answered the hurried girl ;— 
 ‘T would I had not listened to the desire of 
 hearing more of the holy hermit’s wisdom!” — 
 
 «Thou art not alone, Meta!” 
 
 ‘That were unbecoming, truly, in my 
 father’s child !” returned the young damsel, 
 with an expression of pride of condition, as 
 she glanced an eye toward the fallen wall, 
 among whose stones Berchthold saw the well- 
 known form of a female servitor of his com- 
 panion’s family. ‘Had I carried imprudence — 
 to this pass, Master Berchthold, thou wouldst 
 have reason to believe, in sooth, that it was 
 the daughter of some peasant, that by chance 
 had crossed thy footstep.” 
 
 ‘©There is little danger of that error,” an- 
 swered Berchthold quickly. ‘‘I know thee 
 well ; thou art Meta, the only child of Hein- 
 rich Frey, the Burgomaster of Duerckheim. 
 None know thy quality and hopes better than 
 I, for none have heard them oftener ! ” 
 
 The damsel dropped her head in a move- 
 ment of natural regret and sudden repent- 
 ance, and when her blue eye, softened by a 
 ray of the moon, met the gaze of the forester, 
 he saw that better feelings were uppermost. 
 
 ‘‘T did not wish to recount my father’s 
 honors nor any accidental advantage of my 
 situation, and, least of all, to thee,” answered 
 the maiden, with eagerness ; ‘‘ but I felt con- 
 cern lest thou shouldst imagine I had forgot- 
 ten the modesty of my sex and condition—or, 
 
 I had fear that thou mightest—thy manner is 
 much changed of late, Berchthold !” 
 
 ‘Tt is then without my knowledge or in- 
 tention. But we will forget the past, and 
 thou wilt tell me, what wonder hath brought 
 thee to this suspected and dreaded moor, at 
 an hour so unusual ? ” 
 
 Meta smiled, and the expression of her 
 countenance proved, that if she had moments 
 of uncharitable weakness, they were more the ) 
 offspring of the world’s opinions, than of her 
 own frank and generous nature. 
 
 ‘‘T might retort the quceaeR on theal 
 Berchthold, and plead a woman’s curiosity as 
 a reason why I should be quickly answered— 
 Why art thou here, at an hour when most 
 
 young hunters sleep ?” 
 
 39 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 <«©J am Lord Emich’s forester ; but thou, 
 as there has just been question, art a daugh- 
 ter of the Burgomaster of Duerckheim.” 
 
 «‘T give thee credit for all the difference. 
 Did my mother know that I was thus about 
 to furnish a reason for my conduct, she would 
 say, ‘Keep thy explanations, Meta, for those 
 who have a right to demand them !’” 
 
 «© And Heinrich Frey ?” 
 
 “He would be little likely to approve of 
 either visit or explanation.” 
 
 ‘¢ He does not so much disapprove of thee, 
 Master Berchtold, as that thou art only Lord 
 Emich’s forester. Wert thou as thine own 
 parent was, a substantial burgher of our town, 
 he might esteem thee much. But thou hast 
 great favor with my dear mother !” 
 
 <‘Heaven bless her, that in her own pros- 
 perity she hath not forgotten those who have 
 fallen! I think that, in thy heart as in thy 
 looks, Meta, thou more resemblest thy mother 
 than thy father.” 
 
 <©T would have it so. When I speak to thee 
 of my being the child of Heinrich Frey, it is 
 without thought of any present difference be- 
 tween us, I do affirm to thee, Berchthold, but 
 rather as showing that in not forgetting my 
 _ station, I am not likely to do it discredit. 
 Nay, I know not that a forester’s is a dis- 
 honorable office! They who serve the Elec- 
 tor in this manner are noble.” 
 
 « And they who serve nobles, simple. Iam 
 but a menial, Meta, though it be in a way to 
 do little mortification to my pride.” 
 
 «« And what is Count Emich but a vassal of 
 the Elector, who, in turn, is a subject of the 
 Emperor! Thou shalt not dishonor thyself 
 in this manner, Berchthold, and no one say 
 aught to vindicate thee.” 
 
 «‘Thanks, dearest Meta. Thou art the 
 child of my mother’s oldest and closest friend, 
 and whatever the world may proclaim of the 
 difference that now exists between us, thy ex- 
 cellent heart whispers to the contrary. Thou 
 art not only the fairest, but, in truth, the 
 kindest and gentlest damsel of thy town !” 
 
 The daughter, only child, and consequently 
 the heiress of the wealthiest burgher of 
 Duerckheim, did not hear this opinion of 
 Lord Emich’s handsome forester without 
 secret gratification. 
 
 « And now thou shalt know the reason of 
 this unusual visit,” said Meta, when the si- 
 
 629 
 
 lent pleasure excited by the last speech of 
 young Berchthold had a little subsided; ‘‘for 
 this have I, in some measure, promised to 
 thee; and it would little justify thy good 
 opinion to forget a pledge. Thou knowest 
 the holy hermit, and the sudden manner of 
 his appearance in the Heidenmauer ?” 
 
 ‘None are ignorant of the latter, and thou 
 hast already seen that I visit him in his hut.” 
 
 “JT shall not pretend to give, or to seek, 
 the reason, but sure it is, that he had not 
 been a week in the old Roman abode, when 
 he sought occasion to show me greater notice 
 than to any other maiden of Duerckheim, or 
 than any merit of mine might claim.” 
 
 “How! is the knave but a pretender to 
 this sanctity, after all?” 
 
 “Thou canst not be jealous of a man of 
 his years; and, judging by his worn counte- 
 nance and hollow eyes, years too of mortifi- 
 cation and suffering! He truly isof a char- 
 acter to give a youth of thy age, and gentle 
 air, and active frame, and comely appear- 
 ance, uneasiness ! But I see the color in thy 
 cheek, Master Berchthold, and will not of- 
 fend thee with comparisons that are so much 
 to. thy disadvantage. Be the motive of the 
 holy hermit what it will, on the two occa- 
 sions when he visited our town, and in the 
 visits that we maidens have often made to 
 his cell, he hath shown kind interest in my 
 welfare and future hopes, both as they are 
 connected with this life, and with that to 
 which we all hasten, although it be with 
 steps that are not heard even by our own 
 ears.” 
 
 “Tt does not surprise me, that all who see 
 and know thee, Meta, should act thus. And 
 yet I find it very strange !” 
 
 “Nay,” said the amused girl, “now thou 
 justifiest the exact words of old Ilse, who 
 hath often said to me, ‘Take heed, Meta, and 
 put not thy faith too easily im the language 
 of the young townsmen ; for, by looking 
 closely into their meaning, thou wilt see that 
 they contradict themselves. Youth is so 
 eager to obtain its end, that it stops not to 
 separate the true from the plausible.” These 
 are her very words, and oft repeated too, 
 which thou hast just verified—I believe the 
 crone fairly sleepeth on that pile of the fallen’ 
 wall! ”’ 
 
 ‘Disturb her not. One of her years hath 
 
630 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 great need of rest ; nay, it would be thought- 
 less to rob her of this little pleasure !” 
 
 Meta had made a step in advance, seem- 
 ingly with intent to arouse her attendant, 
 when the hurried words and rapid action of 
 the youth caused her to hesitate. Receding 
 to her former attitude, beneath the shadow of 
 the cedar, she more considerately resumed— 
 
 ‘‘It would be ungracious, in sooth, to 
 awaken one who hath so lately toiled up this 
 weary hill.” 
 
 « And she so aged, Meta 
 
 ‘“And one that did so much for my in- 
 fancy! I ought to go back to my father’s 
 house, but my kind mother will overlook the 
 delay, for she loveth Ilse little less than one 
 of her own blood.” 
 
 “Thy mother knoweth of this visit to the 
 hermit’s hut, then?” 
 
 “Dost think, Master Berchthold, that a 
 Burgomaster of Duerckheim’s only child 
 would go forth, at this hour, without permis- 
 sion had? There would be great unseemli- 
 ness in such secret gossiping, and a levity 
 that would better suit thy damsels of Count 
 Emich’s village; they say indeed, in our 
 town, that the castle damsels are none too 
 ' nice in their manner of life.” 
 
 ‘They belie us of the mountain strangely, 
 in the towns of the plain! I swear to thee, 
 there is not greater modesty in thy Duerck- 
 heim palace than among our females, whether 
 of the village or of the castle.” 
 
 ‘‘ Tt may be true in the main, and, for the 
 credit of my sex, I hope it is so; but thou 
 wilt scarce find courage, Berchthold, to say 
 aught in favor of her they call Gisela, the 
 warder’s child? More vanity have I never 
 seen in female form ! ” 
 
 “They think her fair, in Hartenburg.” 
 
 “?Tis that opinion which spoileth the 
 creature’s manner! Thou art much in her 
 society, Master Berchthold, and I doubt not 
 that use causeth thee to overlook some quali- 
 ties that are not concealed from strangers. 
 ‘Do but regard that flaunting bird from the 
 pass of the Jaegerthal,’ said the excellent old 
 Ilse, one morn that we had a festival in our 
 venerable church, to which the country round 
 came forth in their best array; ‘ one would 
 imagine from its fluttering, and the move- 
 ments of its feathers, that it fancied the eye 
 
 { 
 
 and that it dreaded the bolt of the archer 
 unexpectedly! And yet have I known ani- 
 mals of this breed that did not so greatly fear 
 the fowler’s hand, if truth were said !’” 
 
 «Thou judgest Gisela harshly ; for though 
 of some lightness of speech, and haply not 
 without admiration of her own beauty, the 
 girl is far from being uncompanionable, or, 
 at times, of agreeable discourse.” 
 
 “Nay, I do but repeat the words of Ilse, 
 Master Berchthold !” 
 
 “ Thy Ilse is old, and garrulous, and is like 
 to utter foolishness.” 
 
 “This may be so—but let it be foolish, if 
 thou wilt—the folly of my nurse is my folly. 
 I have gained so much from her discourse, 
 that I fear it is now too late toamend. ‘'To 
 deal fairly with thee, she did not utter a 
 syllable concerning thy warder’s daughter 
 that I do not believe.” 
 
 Berchthold was but little practised in the 
 ways of the human heart. Free in the ex- 
 pression of his own sentiments as the air he 
 breathed on his native hills, and entirely 
 without thought of guilt, as respects the feel- 
 ing which bound him to Meta, he had never 
 descended into the arcana of that passion of 
 which he was so completely the subject, with- 
 out mdeed knowing even the extent of his 
 own bondage. He viewed this little ebulli- 
 tion of jealousy, therefore, as a generous 
 nature regards all injustice, and he entered 
 only the more warmly into the defence of the 
 injured party. One of those sieve-like hearts 
 that have been perforated a hundred times 
 by the shots that Cupid fires, right and left, 
 in a capital, would probably have had re- 
 
 course to the same expedient, merely to- 
 
 observe to what extent he could trifle with 
 the feelings of a being he professed to love. 
 
 Europeans, who are little addicted to look- 
 ing into the eye of their cis-Atlantic kinsman 
 in search of the mote, say, that the master 
 passion of life is but a sluggish emotion in 
 the American bosom. That those who are 
 chiefly employed in the affairs of this worl¢ 
 should be content with the natural course of 
 the affections, as they arise in the honest re- 
 lations of the domestic circle, is quite as pro- 
 bable, as it is true that they who feed their 
 passions by vanity and variety, are mistaken 
 when they think that casual and fickle sen- 
 
 of every young hunter was on its plumage, | sations compose any of the true mgredients 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 631 
 
 of that purifying and elevated sentiment, ‘The luckier then will he be who weds 
 
 which, by investing the admired object 
 with all that is estimable, leaves us to endeavor 
 to be worthy of the homage we insensibly pay 
 to virtue. In Berchthold and Meta, the 
 reader is to look for none of that constitu- 
 tional fervor, which sometimes substitutes 
 impulse for a deeper feeling, or for any of 
 that factitious cultivation of the theory of 
 love, that so often tempts the neophyte to 
 mistake his own hallucinations for the more 
 natural attachment of sympathy and reason. 
 For the former they lived too far north, and 
 for the latter it might possibly be said, that 
 fortune had cast their lot a little too far 
 south. That subtle and nearly indefinable 
 sympathy between the sexes, which we call 
 love, to which all are subject, since its prin- 
 ciple is in nature itself, exists perhaps in its 
 purest and least conventional form precisely 
 in the bosoms of those whom Providence has 
 placed in the middle state, between extreme 
 cultivation and ignorance ; between the fas- 
 tidious and sickly perversion of over indul- 
 gence, and the selfishness that is the fruit of 
 constant appeals to exertion ; or the very 
 condition of the two young persons that have 
 been placed before the reader in this chap- 
 ter. Enough has been seen to show that 
 Berchthold, though exercising a menial office, 
 had received opinions superior to his situ- 
 ation ; a circumstance that is sufficiently ex- 
 plained by the allusions already made to the 
 decayed fortunes of his parents. His lan- 
 guage and manner, therefore, as he gener- 
 - ously vindicated Gisela, the daughter of the 
 person charged to watch the approaches of 
 Lord Emich’s castle, was perhaps superior to 
 what would have been expected in a mere 
 forester. 
 
 “T shall not take upon myself the office of 
 pointing out the faults of our castle beauty, 
 if faults she hath,” he said ; ‘‘ but thismuch 
 may I say in her defence, without fear of 
 exceeding truth; her father is grown gray 
 under the livery of Leiningen, and there is 
 not a child in the world that showeth more 
 reverence or affection to him who gave her 
 being, than this same bird of thine, with its 
 flaunting plumes, and the coquetry with the 
 archer’s bolt ! ” 
 
 ?*Tis said, a dutiful daughter will ever 
 make an excellent and an obedient wife.” 
 
 old Friedrich’s child. I have known her 
 keep the gates, deep into the night, that her 
 father might take his rest, when the nobles 
 have frequented the forest later than com- 
 mon ; aye, and to watch weary hours, when 
 most of her years and sex would find excuses 
 for being on their pillows. Now this have I 
 often seen, going forth, as thou may’st be 
 certain by my office, in Count Emich’s com- 
 pany, in most of his hunts. Nay, Gisela is 
 fair, none will deny ; and it may be that, 
 among her other qualities, the girl knows 
 it.” 
 
 “She appeareth not to be the only one of 
 thy Hartenburg pile that is aware of the fact, 
 Master Berchthold!” 
 
 ‘* Dost thou mean, Meta, the revelling abbé, 
 from Paris, or the sworn soldier-monk of 
 Rhodes, that now abide in the castle ? ” asked 
 the young forester, with a simplicity that 
 would have set the heart of a coquette at ease, 
 by its perfect nature and openness. “ Now 
 thou touchest on the matter, I will own, 
 though one of my office should be wary of 
 opinions on those his master loves, but I know 
 thy prudence, Meta—Therefore will I say, 
 that I have half suspected these two ill- 
 assorted servants of the church, of thinking 
 more of the poor girl than is seemly.” 
 
 ‘¢Thy poor Gisela hath cause to hang her- 
 self. Truly, were wassailers, like these thou 
 namest, to regard me with but a free look, 
 the Burgomaster of Duerckheim should know 
 of their boldness! ” 
 
 “ Meta, they would not dare! Poor Gisela 
 is not the offspring ofa stout citizen, but the 
 warder of Hartenburg’s child, and there may 
 be some difference in thy natures, too—nay, 
 there is; for thou art not one of those that 
 seek the admiration of each cavalier that 
 passeth, but a maiden that knoweth her worth, 
 and thé meed that is her due. That thou 
 hast, in something, wronged our beauty of 
 the hold, I needs must say; but to compare 
 thee with her, either in the excellence of the 
 body or that of the mind, is what could never 
 be done justly. If she is fair, thou art fairer; 
 if she is witty, thou art wise!” 
 
 “Nay, do not mistake me, Berchtold, by 
 
 thinking that I have uttered aught against 
 
 thy warder’s daughter that is harsh and un- 
 seemly. I know the girl’s cleverness, and 
 
632 
 
 moreover I am willing to acknowledge, that 
 one cruelly placed by fortune in a condition 
 of servitude, like her’s, may find it no easy 
 matter to be always what one of her sex and 
 
 years could wish. I dare to say, that Gisela, | 
 
 did fortune and opportunity permit, would 
 do no discredit to her breeding and looks, 
 both of which, sooth to say, are somewhat 
 above her condition.” 
 
 << And thou saidst, thy mother knew of this 
 visit to the hermit ? ” 
 
 «And said truth. My mother has never 
 made objection to any reverence paid by her 
 daughter to the Church or to its servants.” 
 
 «That hath she not!—Thou art amongst 
 the most frequent of those who resort to the 
 Abbey in quest of holy offices thyself, Meta!” 
 
 «Am I not a Christian? Wouldst have a 
 well-respected maiden forget her duties?” 
 
 “T say not that; but there is discourse 
 amongst us hunters, that of late the prior hath 
 much preferred his young nephew, Brother 
 Hugo, to the duty of quieting the consciences 
 of the penitents. It were better that some 
 father, whose tonsure hath a ring of gray, were 
 put into the confessional, in a church so much 
 frequented by the young and fair of Duerck- 
 heim.” | 
 
 «‘Thou wouldst do well to write of this to 
 the Bishop of Worms, or to our holy Abbot, 
 in thine own scholarly hand. Thou hast the 
 clerkly gifts, Master Berchthold, and might 
 persuade!” 
 
 “JT would that the little I have done in this 
 way had not so failed of its design. Thou 
 hast had frequent proofs of its sincerity, if 
 not of its skill, Meta.” 
 
 ‘Well this is idle, and leads me to forget 
 the hermit. My mother—I know not why 
 —and now thou makest me think of it, I find 
 it different from her common rule; but it is 
 certain that she in nowise discourages these 
 visits to the Heidenmauer. We are very 
 young, Berchthold, and may not yet under- 
 stand all that enters into older and wiser 
 heads!” 
 
 ‘‘ Tt is strange that the holy man should 
 seek just us! If he most urges his advice on 
 you among the damsels of the town, he most 
 gives his counsel to me among the youths of 
 the Jaegerthal!” 
 
 There was a charm in this idea which held 
 these two young and unpractised minds in 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 sweet thraldom for many fleeting minutes. 
 They conversed of the unexplained sympathy 
 between the man of God and themselves, long 
 and with undiminishing interest in the sub- 
 ject, for it seemed to both that it contained 
 a tie to unite them still closer to each other. 
 Whatever philosophy and experience may pre- 
 tend on such subjects, it is certain that man 
 is disposed to be superstitious in respect to 
 the secret influences that guide his fortunes, 
 in the dark passage of the world. Whether 
 it be the mystery of the unforeseen future, or 
 the consciousness of how much of even his 
 most prized success is the result of circum- 
 stances that he never could or did control, or 
 whether God, with a view to his own harmoni- 
 ous and sublime ends, has implanted this 
 principle in the human breast, in order to 
 teach us dependence on a superior power, it 
 is certain that few reach a state of mind so 
 calculating and reasoning as not to trust some 
 portion of that which is to come, to the chances 
 of Fortune, or to Providence; for so we term 
 the directing power, as the mind clings to or 
 rejects the immediate agency of the Deity, in 
 the conduct of the subordinate concerns of 
 life. In the age of which we write, intelli- 
 gence had not made sufficient progress to 
 elevate ordinary minds above the arts of nec- 
 romancy. Men no longer openly consulted 
 the entrails of brutes, in order to learn the 
 will of fate, but they often submitted to a dic- 
 tation scarcely less beastly, and few indeed 
 were they who were able to separate piety from 
 superstition, or the grand dispensations of 
 Providence from the insignificant interests of 
 selfishness. It is not surprising, therefore, 
 that Berchthold and Meta should cling to the 
 singular interest that the hermit manifested 
 in them respectively, as an omen propitious 
 to their common hopes; common, for though 
 
 the maiden had not so far relinquished the — 
 
 reserve she still deemed essential to her sex, 
 as to acknowledge all she felt, that subtle 
 instinct which unites the young and innocent 
 left little doubt in the mind of either, of the 
 actual state of the other’s inclinations, 
 
 Old Ilse had consequently ample time to 
 rest her frame, after the painful toil of the 
 ascent between the town and the camp. 
 
 When Meta at length approached to arouse ~ 
 
 her, the garrulous woman broke out in ex- 
 clamations of surprise at the shortness of the 
 
 bd 
 
 ; 
 t 
 
 f 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 interview with the hermit, for the soundness 
 of her slumbers left her in utter ignorance 
 of the appearance and disappearance of 
 Berchthold. 
 
 ‘It is but a moment, Meta, dear,” she 
 said, “since we came up the hill, and I fear 
 thou hast not given sufficient heed to the 
 wise words of the holy man. We should not 
 reject a wholesome draught because it proves 
 bitter to the mouth, child, but swallow all to 
 the last drop, when we think there is healing 
 in the cup. Didst deal fairly by the hermit, 
 and tell him honestly of thy evil nature?” 
 
 “Thou forgettest, Ilse, the hermit has not 
 even the tonsure, and cannot shrive and 
 pardon.” 
 
 “Nay, nay—I know not that! A hermit 
 is a man of God; and a man of God is holy ; 
 and any Christian may, aye, and should par- 
 don; and as to shriving, give me a self-deny- 
 ing recluse, who passes his time in prayer, 
 mortifying soul and body, before any monk 
 of Limburg, say I! There is more virtue in 
 one blessing from such a man, than in a 
 dozen from a carousing Abbot—I know not 
 but I might say fifty.” 
 
 ‘*But I had his blessing, nurse.” 
 
 «Well, that is comforting, and we have 
 not wearied our limbs for naught; but thou 
 shouldst have told him of thy wish to wear 
 the laced bodice, at the last mass, in order 
 that thy equals might envy thy beauty. It 
 would have been wholesome to have acknowl- 
 edged that sin, at least.” 
 
 ‘But he questioned me not of my sins. 
 All his discourse was of my father’s house, 
 and of my good mother, and—and of other 
 matters.” 
 
 «Thou shouldst then have edged the 
 bodice in among the other matters. Have 
 I not always forewarned thee, Meta, of the 
 danger of pride, and of stirring envy in the 
 bosom of a companion? There is naught 
 more uncomfortable than envy, as I know by 
 experience. Oh! Iam no longer young; and 
 come to me if thou wouldst wish to know 
 what envy is, or any other dangerous vice, 
 and I warrant thee thou shalt hear it well 
 explained! Aye, thou wert very wrong not 
 to have spoken of the bodice!” 
 
 “Had it been fit to confess, I might have 
 found more serious sins to own than any that 
 belong to dress.” 
 
 633 
 
 ‘‘T know not that! Dress is a great be- 
 guiler of the young heart, and of the hand- 
 some face. If thou hast beauty in thy 
 house, break thy mirrors that the young 
 should not know it, is what I have heard a 
 thousand times; and as thou art both young 
 and fair, will repeat it, though all Duerckheim 
 gainsay my words, thou avt in danger if thou 
 knowest it. No, hadst thou told the hermit 
 of that bodice, it might have done much 
 good. What matters it to such a man, 
 whether he hath the tonsure or not? He 
 hath prayers, and fastings, and midnight 
 thought, and great bodily suffering, and 
 these are surely worth as much hair as hath 
 ever fallen from all the monks in the Pala- 
 tinate. I would that thou hadst told him of 
 that bodice, child!” 
 
 ‘‘Since thou so wishest it, at our next 
 meeting it shall be said, dear Hse; so set thy 
 heart at peace.” 
 
 “This will give thy dear mother great 
 pleasure; else, why should she consent that 
 a daughter of her’s should visit a heathenish 
 camp at so late an hour? I warrant thee 
 that she thought of the bodice!” 
 
 “Do cease speaking of the garment, nurse; 
 my thoughts are bent on something else.” 
 
 ‘Well, if indeed thou thinkest of some- 
 thing else, it may be amiss to say more at 
 present, though, Heaven it knows! thou hast 
 great occasion to recall that vain-glorious 
 mass to thy mind. How suddenly thy com- 
 munion with the hermit ended to-night, 
 Meta! ” 
 
 “ We have not been long on the mountain, 
 truly, Ilse. But we must hasten back, lest 
 my mother should be uneasy.” 
 
 ‘© And why should she be so? Am I not with 
 thee? Isage nothing, and experience, and 
 prudence, and an old head, aye, and, for that 
 matter, an old body, too, and a good memory, 
 and such eyes as no other in Duerckheim of 
 my years hath—I say of my years, for thou hast 
 better ; and thy dear mother’s are little worse 
 than thine—but of my years few have their 
 equal. At thy age, girl, I was not the old 
 Ilse, but the lively Ilse, and the active, and, 
 God forgive me if there be vain-glory in the 
 words! but truth should always be spoken— 
 the handsome Ilse, and this too without aid 
 from any such bodice as that of thine. % 
 
 ‘‘ Wilt never forget the bodice! here, lean 
 
634 
 
 on me, nurse, or thy foot may fail thee in the 
 steep descent.” 
 
 Here they began to descend, and as they 
 were now at a point of the path where much 
 caution was necessary, the conversation in a 
 great measure ceased. 
 
 He who visits Duerckheim now, will find 
 sufficient remainiwg evidence to show that 
 the town formerly extended more towards 
 the base of the mountain than its present 
 site would prove. There are the ruins of 
 walls and towers among the vineyards that 
 ornament the foot of the hill, and tradition 
 speaks of fortifications that have long since 
 disappeared, rendered useless by those im- 
 provements in warfare that have robbed so 
 many other strong places of their importance. 
 Then, every group of houses on an eminence 
 was more or less a place of defence ; but the 
 use of gunpowder and artillery centuries ago 
 rendered all these targets useless, and he who 
 would now seek a citadel, is most sure to find 
 it buried in some plain or morass. ‘The world 
 has reached another crisis In improvement, 
 for the introduction of steam is likely to alter 
 all its systems of offence and defence both by 
 land and sea; but, be the future as it may, 
 the skill of the engineer had not so for ri- 
 pened at the period of our tale as to prevent 
 Meta and herattendant from entering with- 
 in walls of ancient construction, clumsily 
 adapted to meet the exigencies of the imper- 
 fect state of the existing art. As the hour 
 was early, they had no difficulty in reaching 
 the Burgomaster’s door without attracting 
 remark. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ‘* What news?” 
 ‘‘None, my lord ; but that the world is grown hon- 
 eat.” 
 ‘«Then is doomsday near ! ”’—Hamlet. 
 
 WITHIN the whole of these widely extended 
 states, there is scarcely a single vestige of the 
 manner of life led by those who first settled 
 in the wilderness. Little else is found to 
 arrest the eye of the antiquary in the shape 
 of a ruin, except the walls of some fortress 
 or the mounds of an intrenchment of the war 
 of independence. We have, it is true, some 
 faint remains of times still more remote; and | 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 there are even a few circumyallations, or oth- 
 er inventions of defence, that are believed to 
 have once been occupied by the red men; but 
 in no part of the country did there ever exist 
 an edifice, of either a public or a private nat- 
 ure, that bore any material resemblance to a 
 feudal castle. In order, therefore, that the 
 reader shall have as clear a picture as our 
 feeble powers can draw, of the hold occupied 
 by the sturdy baron who is destined to act 
 a conspicuous part in the remainder of this 
 legend, it has become necessary to enter at 
 some length into a description of the sur- 
 rounding localities, and of the building itself. 
 We say of the reader, for we profess to write 
 only for the amusement—fortunate shall we 
 be if instruction may be added—of our own 
 countrymen; should others be pleased to read 
 these crude pages, we shall be flattered and of 
 course grateful; but with this distinct avowal 
 of our object in holding the pen, we trust 
 they will read with the necessary amount of 
 indulgence. 
 
 And here we shall take occasion to hold was 
 
 moment’s communion with that portion of 
 the reading public of all nations, that as re- 
 spects a writer, composes what is termed the 
 world. Let it not be said of us, because we 
 make frequent references to opinions and cir- 
 cumstances as they exist in our native land, 
 that we are profoundly ignoraut of the exist- 
 ence of all others. 
 ences, crime though it be in hostile eyes, be- 
 cause they best answer our end in writing 
 at all, because they allude to a state of society 
 most familiar to our own mind, and because 
 we believe that great use has hitherto been 
 made of the same things, to foster ignorance 
 and prejudice. Should we unheedingly be- 
 tray the foible of national vanity—that foul 
 and peculiar blot of American character! we 
 solicit forgiveness; urging, in our own justi- 
 fication, the aptitude of a young country for 
 falling insensibly into the vein of imitation, 
 and praying the critical observer to overlook 
 any blunders in this way, if perchance we 
 should not manifest that felicity of execution 
 which is the fruit only of great practice. 
 Hitherto we believe that our modesty cannot 
 justly be impeached. As yet we have left 
 the cardinal virtues to mankind in the gross, 
 never, to our knowledge, having written of 
 ‘¢ American courage,” or ‘‘ American hon- 
 
 We make these refer- , 
 
 ————— CU 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 esty,” nor yet of ‘‘ American beauty,” nor 
 haply of “ American manliness,” nor even of 
 “ American strength of arm,” as qualities 
 abstracted and not common to our fellow- 
 creatures; but have been content, in the un- 
 sophisticated language of this western clime, 
 to call virtue, virtue—and vice, vice. In this 
 we well know how much we have fallen 
 short of numberless but nameless classical 
 writers of our time, though we do not think 
 we are greatly losers by the forbearance, be- 
 cause we have sufficient proof that when we 
 wish to make our pages unpleasant to the 
 foreigner, we can effect that object by much 
 less imposing allusions to national merits; 
 since we have good reason to believe, there 
 exists a certain querulous class of readers 
 who consider even the most delicate and 
 reserved commendations of this: western 
 world as so much praise unreasonably and 
 dishonestly abstracted from themselves. As 
 for that knot in our own fair country who 
 aim at success by flattering the stranger, and 
 who hope to shine in their own little orbits 
 by means of borrowed light, we commit 
 them to the correction of a reproof which is 
 certain to come, and, in their cases, to come 
 embittered by the consciousness of its being 
 merited by a servility as degrading as it is un- 
 natural. As they dive deeper into the secrets 
 of the human heart, they will learn there is 
 a healthful feeling that cannot be repulsed 
 with impunity, and that as none are so 
 respected as they who fearlessly and frankly 
 maintain their rights, so none are so con- 
 temned as those who ignobly desert them. 
 During the time that Berchthold was hold- 
 ing converse with Meta, on the mountain of 
 the Heidenmauer, Emich of Leiningen was 
 at rest in his castle of Hartenburg. It has 
 already been said, that the hold was of mas- 
 sive masonry, the principal material being 
 the reddish sand-stone, that is so abundantly 
 found in nearly the whole region of the 
 ancient Palatinate. The building had grown 
 with time, and that which had originally 
 been a tower had swelled into a formidable 
 and extensive fortress. In the ages which 
 
 succeeded the empire of Charlemagne, he 
 
 who could rear one of these strong places, 
 and maintain it in opposition to his neigh- 
 bors, became noble, and in some measure a 
 sovereign. He established his will as law for 
 
 635 
 
 the contiguous territory, and they who could 
 not enjoy their own lands, without submit- 
 ting to his pleasure, were content to purchase 
 protection by admitting their vassalage. No 
 sooner was one of these local lords firmly 
 established in his hold, by receiving service 
 and homage from the husbandmen, than 
 he began to quarrel with his nearest neighbor 
 of his own condition. The victor necessarily 
 grew more powerful by his conquests, until, 
 from being the master of one castle and one 
 village, he became in process of time the 
 master of many. In this manner did minor 
 barons swell into power and sovereignty, 
 even mighty potentates tracing their gene- 
 alogical and political trees into roots of this 
 wild growth. There still stands on an abrupt 
 and narrow ledge of land in the confedera- 
 tion of Switzerland and in the canton of 
 Argovie, a tottering ruin, that, in past ages, 
 was occupied by a knight, who from his aerie 
 overlooked the adjoining village, and com- 
 manded the services of its handful of boors. 
 This ruined castle was called Hapsbourg, and 
 is celebrated as the cradle of that powerful 
 family which has long sat upon the throne of 
 the Cesars, and which now rulesso much of 
 Germany and Upper Italy. The King of 
 Prussia traces his line to the House of Hoh- 
 enzollern, the offspring ot another castle; 
 and numberless are the instances in which 
 he who thus laid the corner-stone of a strong 
 place, in ages when security was only to be 
 had by good walls, also laid the foundation of 
 a long line of prosperous and puissant 
 princes. 
 
 Neither the position of the castle of Hart- 
 enburg, however, nor the period in which it 
 was founded, was likely to lead to results as 
 great as these just named. As has been said, 
 it commanded a pass important for local pur- 
 poses, but not of so much moment as to 
 give him who held the hold any material 
 rights beyond its immediate influence. Still, 
 as the family of Leiningen was numerous, 
 and had other branches and other possessions 
 in more favored portions of Germany, Count 
 Emich was far from being a mere mountain 
 chief. The feudal system had become 
 methodized long before his birth, and the 
 laws of the Empire secured to him many vil- 
 lages and towns on the plain, as the successor 
 of those who had obtained them in more re- 
 
636 
 
 mote ages. He-had -recently claimed even a 
 higher dignity, and wider territories, as the 
 heir of a deceased kinsman ; but in this at- 
 tempt to increase his powers, and to elevate 
 his rank, he had been thwarted by a decision 
 of his peers. It was to this abortive assump- 
 tion of dignity that he owed the sobriquet of 
 the Summer Landgrave; for such was the 
 rank he had claimed, and the period for 
 which he had been permitted to bear it. 
 
 With this knowledge of the power of their 
 family, the reader will not be surprised to 
 hear that the castle of the counts of Harten- 
 burg, or, to be more accurate, of the counts 
 of Hartenburg-Leiningen, was on a commen- 
 surate scale. Perched on the advanced spur 
 of the mountain, just where the valley was 
 most confined, and at a point where the little 
 river made a short bend, the pass beneath 
 lay quite at the mercy of the archer on its 
 battlements. In the fore-ground, all that 
 part of the edifice which came into the view 
 was military, and, in some slight degree, 
 fitted to the imperfect use that was then 
 made of artillery; while in the rear arose 
 that maze of courts, chapels, towers, gates, 
 portcullises, state-rooms, offices, and family 
 apartments, that marked the usages and 
 tastes of the day. The hamlet which lay in 
 the dell, immediately beneath the walls of the 
 salient towers, or bastions, for they partook 
 of both characters, was insignificant, and of 
 little account in estimating the wealth and 
 resources of the feudal lord. These came 
 principally from Duerckheim, and the fertile 
 plains beyond, though the forest was not 
 without its value, in a country in which the 
 axe had so long been used. 
 
 We have said that Emich of Leiningen was 
 taking his rest in the hold of Hartenburg. 
 Let the reader imagine a massive building, in 
 the centre of the confused pile we have men- 
 tioned, rudely fashioned to meet the wants 
 of the domestic economy of that age, and he 
 will get a nearer view of the interior. The 
 walls were wainscoted, and had much un- 
 couth and massive carving; the halls were 
 large and gloomy, loaded with armor, and at 
 this moment pregnant with armed men ; the 
 saloons of a medium size which suited a 
 baronial state, and all the appliances of that 
 mingled taste in which comfort and luxury, 
 as now understood, were unknown, but which 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 was not without a portion of the effect that 
 is produced by an exhibition of heavy mag- 
 nificence. With a few but signal exceptions, 
 Germany, even at this hour, is not a country 
 remarkable for the elegancies of domestic 
 life. Its very palaces are of simple decora- 
 tion, its luxuries of a homebred and inartifi- 
 cial kind, and its taste is rarely superior, and 
 indeed not always equal, to our own. ‘There 
 is still a shade of the Gothic in the habits 
 and opinions of this constant people, who 
 seem to cultivate the subtle refinements of 
 the mind, in preference to the more obvious 
 and material enjoyments which address them- 
 selves to the senses. 
 
 Quaint and complicated ornaments, 
 wrought by the patient industry of a race 
 proverbial for this description of ingenuity; 
 swords, daggers, morions, cuirasses, and all 
 sorts of defensive armor then in use ; such 
 needle-work as it befitted a noble dame to 
 produce ; pictures that possessed most of the 
 faults and few of the beauties of the Flemish 
 school; furniture that bore some such rela- 
 tion to the garniture of the palaces of elect- 
 ors and kings, as the decorations of a village 
 drawing-room in our own time, bear to those 
 of the large towns; a profuse display of 
 plate, on which the arms of Leiningen were 
 embossed and graven in every variety of style, 
 with genealogical trees and heraldic blazonry 
 in colors, were the principal features. 
 
 Throughout the whole pile, there was little 
 appearance, however, of the presence of 
 females, or even of the means of their ac- 
 commodation. Few of that sex were seen in 
 the corridors, or offices, or courts ; though 
 men crowded the place in unusual numbers. 
 The latter were chiefly grim and whiskered 
 warriors, who loitered in the halls, or in the 
 more public parts of the castle, like idlers 
 waiting for the expected movement of exer- 
 tion. None among them were armed at all 
 points, though this carelessly wore his morion, 
 that had buckled on a breast-plate, and an- 
 other leaned listlessly on his arquebuse or 
 handled his pike. Here a group exercised, in 
 levity, with their several weapons of offence ; 
 there a jester amused a crowd of sluggish 
 listeners, with his ribaldry and humor: and 
 numberless were those who quaffed of the 
 Rhenish of their lord. Although this conti- 
 nent had then been discovered, the goodly — 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 portion which has since fallen to our heritage 
 was still in the hands of its native proprie- 
 tors; and the plant, so long known as the 
 weed of Virginia, but which has since become 
 a staple of so many other countries in this 
 hemisphere, was not in its present general 
 use amongst the Germans; else would it have 
 been our duty to finish this hasty sketch by 
 enveloping it all in mist. Notwithstanding 
 the general air of indifference and negligence, 
 which reigned within the walls of Harten- 
 burg without the gates, in the turrets, and 
 on the advanced towers, there was the ap- 
 pearance of more than the customary watch- 
 fulness. Had one been there to note the 
 circumstance, he would have seen, in addi- 
 tion to the sentries who always guarded the 
 approaches of the castle, several swift-footed 
 spies on the look-out, in the hamlet, on the 
 rocks of the mountain-side, and along the 
 winding paths; and as all eyes were turned 
 towards the valley in the direction of Lim- 
 burg, it was evident that the event they 
 awaited was expecttd to arive from that 
 quarter. 
 
 While such was the condition of his hold 
 and of so strongsa body of his vassals, Count 
 Emich himself had retired from observation, 
 to one of the quaint, half-rude, half-magnifi- 
 cent saloons of the place. The room was 
 lighted by twenty tapers, and other well- 
 known signs indicated the near approach of 
 guests. He paced the large apartment with 
 a heavy and armed heel; while care, or at 
 least severe thought, contracted the muscles 
 around a hard and iron brow, which bore 
 evident marks of familiar acquaintance with 
 the casque. Perhaps this is the only country 
 of Christendom, even now, in which the pro- 
 fession of the law is a pursuit still more 
 honorable and esteemed than that of arms— 
 the best proof of a high and enviable civili- 
 zation—but at the age of our narrative, the 
 gentleman that was not of the Church, the 
 calling which nearly monopolized all the 
 learning of the times, was of necessity a 
 soldier. Emich of Leiningen carried arms, 
 therefore, as much in course as the educated 
 man of this century reads his Horace or 
 Virgil; and as nature had given him a 
 vigorous frame, a hardy constitution, and a 
 mind whose indifference to personal suffering 
 
 637 
 
 more successful in his trade of violence than 
 many a pale and zealous student proves in 
 the cultivation of letters. 
 
 The musing Count scarce raised his looks 
 from the oaken floor he trod, as menial after 
 menial appeared, moving with light step in 
 the presence of one so dreaded and yet so 
 singularly loved. At length a female, busy 
 in some of the little offices of her sex, glided 
 before his half-unconscious sight. The youth, 
 the bloom, the playful air, the neat coif, the 
 tight bodice, and the ample folds of the 
 falling garments, at length seemed to fill his 
 eye with the form of his companion. 
 
 ‘‘Ts it thou, Gisela?” he said, speaking 
 mildly, as one addresses a favored dependent. 
 “ How fareth it with the honest Karl?” 
 
 “JT thank my lord the Count, his aged and 
 wounded servant hath less of pain than is 
 commonly his lot. The limb he has lost in 
 the service of the House of Leiningen tf 
 
 ‘‘No matter for the leg, girl—thou art too 
 apt to dwell upon that mischance of thy 
 parent.” 
 
 ‘‘ Were my lord the Count to leave a limb 
 on the field, it might be missed when he was 
 hurried! ” 
 
 ‘‘Thinkest, thou, child, that my tongue 
 would never address the Emperor without 
 naming the defect? Go to, Gisela; thou art 
 a calculating hussy, and rarely permittest 
 occasion to pass without allusion to this grow- 
 ing treasure of thy family. Are my people 
 actively on the watch, with or without their 
 limbs?” 
 
 ‘‘They are as their natures and humors 
 tend. Blessed Saint Ursula knows where 
 the officers of the country have picked up so 
 ungainly a band, as these that now inhabit 
 Hartenburg!” One drinketh, from the time 
 his eyes open in the morn until they shut 
 at even; another sweareth worse than the 
 northern warriors that do these ravages in 
 the Palatinate ; this a foul dealer in ribaldry: 
 that a glutton who never moveth lip but to 
 swallow; and none, nay, not a swaggerer of 
 them all, hath civil word for a maiden, 
 though she be known as one esteemed in 
 their master’s household.” 
 
 “They are my vassals, girl, and stouter 
 
 ;men at need are not mustered in Germany.” 
 
 ‘Stout in speech, and insolent of look, ' 
 
 amounted at times to ruthlessness, he was|my Lord Count, but most odious company 
 
638 
 
 to all, of modest demeanor and of good in- 
 tentions, in the hold.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou hast been humored by thy mis- 
 tress, girl, until thou sometimes forgettest 
 discretion. Go and look my guests are 
 informed that the hour of the banquet is at 
 hand ;—I await the pleasure of their pres- 
 ence.” 
 
 Gisela, whose natural pertness had been 
 somewhat heightened by an indulgent mis- 
 tress, and in whom consciousness of more 
 beauty than ordinarily falls to the share of 
 females of her condition had produced free- 
 dom of language that sometimes amounted 
 to temerity, betrayed her discontent in a 
 manner very common to her sex, when it is 
 undisciplined, or little restrained by a whole- 
 some education. She pouted, taking care 
 however that Emich’s eye was again turned 
 to the floor, tossed her head and quitted the 
 room. Left to himself, the Count relapsed 
 into his reverie. In this manner did several 
 minutes pass unheeded. 
 
 ‘Dreaming, as usual, noble Emich, of 
 escalades and excommunication!” cried a 
 gay voice at his elbow, the speaker having 
 entered the saloon unseen—‘‘ of revengeful 
 priests, of vassalage, of shaven abbots, the 
 confessional and penance dire, thy rights 
 redressed, the frowning conclave, the Abbey 
 cellar, thy morion, revenge, and, to sum up 
 all, in a word that covers every deadly sin, 
 that fallen angel the Devil !” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 : 
 
 Benedictine is no less so—then are we self- 
 dedicated to chastity, as is your Limburg 
 monk ; next we respect our oaths, as does your 
 
 Father Bonifacius; then both are servants 
 
 of the holy cross;” by a singular influence 
 the speaker and the Count made the sacred 
 
 symbol on their bosoms, as the former uttered — 
 the word, ‘‘and, doubt it not, I shall be the 
 
 equal of the reverend brotherhood. They 
 
 say sin can match sin, and saint should 
 
 surely be saint’s equal! But, Emich, thou 
 
 art graver than becometh a hot carousal, like 
 
 this we meditate ! ” 
 
 «‘ And thou gay as if about to ee the 
 dames of Rhodes to one of thy island festi- 
 vals ! ”’ 
 
 The Knight of Saint John regarded his 
 attire with complacency, strutting by the 
 side of his host, as the latter resumed his 
 walk, with the air of a bird of admired 
 plumage. Nor was the remark of the Count 
 of Hartenburg misapplied; since his kinsman 
 and guest had, in reality, expended more 
 labor on his toilet than was customary in the 
 absence of females, and in that rude hold. 
 Unlike the stern and masculine Emich, who 
 rarely divested himself of alk his warlike gear, 
 the sworn defender of the Cross appeared 
 entirely in a peaceful guise, if the long 
 rapier that dangled at his side, and which to 
 a much later period formed an indispensable 
 accompaniment of one of gentle condition, 
 could be excepted from the implements of 
 
 war. His doublet, fully decorated with em- 
 broidery, fringes, and loops, and dotted with 
 buttons, was of a pale orange stuff, that was 
 puffed and distended about his person, in the 
 liberal amplitude of the prevailing fashion. 
 The nether garment, which scarce appeared, 
 however, essential as it might be, was of the 
 same material, and cut with a similar expen- 
 diture of cloth. The hose were pink, and, 
 rolling far above the knee, gave the effect of a 
 rich coloring to the whole picture. He wore 
 shoes whose upper-leather rose high against 
 the small of the leg, buckles that covered the 
 instep, and about the throat and wrists there 
 was a lavish display of lace. The well-known 
 Maltese cross dangled by a red ribbon, at @ 
 button-hole of the doublet ; not above the 
 heart, as is the custom at present among the 
 chevaliers of the other hemisphere, but, by @ 
 vagary of taste, so low as to demonstrate, if, 
 
 Emich forced a grim smile at this uncere- 
 monious and comprehensive salutation, ac- 
 cepting the offered hand of him who uttered 
 it, however, with the frank freedom of a 
 boon companion. 
 
 «Thou art right welcome, Albrecht,” he 
 replied, ‘“‘for the moment is near when my 
 ghostly guests should arrive; and to deal 
 fairly by thee, I never feel myself quite 
 equal to a single combat of wits with the 
 pious knaves; but thy support will be 
 enough, though the whole Abbey commu- 
 nity were of the party.” 
 
 «« Ay, we are akin, we sons of Saint John and 
 these bastards of Saint Benedict. Though 
 more martial than your monks of the hill, 
 we of the island are sworn to quite as many 
 virtues. Let me see,” he added, counting on 
 his fingers with an air of bold licentiousness ; 
 “firstly are we vowed to celibacy, and your 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 indeed, there is any allusion intended by the 
 accidental position of these jewels, that the 
 honorable badge was assumed in direct refer- 
 ence to that material portion of the human 
 frame which is believed to be the repository 
 of good cheer ; an interpretation that, in the 
 case of Albrecht of Viederbach, the knight 
 in question, was perhaps much nearer to the 
 truth than he would have been willing to 
 own. After poising himself, first on the 
 point of one shoe, and then on the other, 
 smoothing his ruffles, shoving the rapier 
 more aside, and otherwise adjusting his attire 
 to his mind, the professed soldier of Saint 
 John of Jerusalem pursued the discourse. 
 
 “Tam decent, kinsman,” he replied ; “ fit 
 to be a guest at thy hospitable board, if thou 
 wilt, in the absence of its fair mistress, but 
 beyond that unworthy to benamed. As forthe 
 dames of our unhappy and violated Rhodes, 
 dear cousin, thou knowest little of their 
 humors, if thou fanciest that this rude guise 
 would have any charm in their refined eyes. 
 Our knights were used to bring into the island 
 the taste and improvements of every distant 
 land ; and small though it be, there are few 
 portions of the earth, in which the human 
 arts, for so I call the decoration of the human 
 body, flourished more than in our circum- 
 scribed, valiant, and much-regretted Rhodes. 
 Thus was it, at least, until the fell Ottoman 
 triumphed !” 
 
 “°Fore God, I had thought thee sworn to 
 all sorts of modesty, in speech, life, and other 
 abstinences !” 
 
 «And art thou not sworn, most mutinous 
 Kmich, to obey thy liege lords, the Emperor 
 and the Hlector—nay, for certain of thy lands 
 and privileges, art thou not bound to knight’s 
 service and obedience to the holy Abbot of 
 Limburg ?” 
 
 “*God’s curse on him and on all the others 
 of that grasping brotherhood !” 
 
 ** Aye, that is but the natural consequence 
 of thy oath, as this doublet is of mine. If 
 the rigid performance of a vow is as agreeable 
 to the body, as we are taught it may be health- 
 ful to the soul, Count of Leiningen, where 
 would be the merit of observance? I never 
 don these graceful garments, but a wholesome 
 remembrance of watchful nights passed on the 
 ramparts, of painful siegesand watery trench- 
 es, or of sickly cruises against the Mussul- 
 
 639 
 
 mans, do not-present themselves in the shape 
 of past penances. In this manner do we 
 sweeten sin, by our bodily pains, and by the 
 memory of hours of virtuous hardships ! ” 
 
 ‘* By the three sainted Kings of Koeln, and 
 the eleven thousand virgins of that honored 
 city, Master Albrecht ! but thou wert much 
 favored in thy narrow island, if it were per- 
 mitted to thee to sin in this fashion, with the 
 certainty of tempering punishment with so 
 light service! These griping monks of Lim- 
 burg make much of their favors, and he who 
 would go with a safe skin, must needs look to 
 an indulgence had and well paid for, in ad- 
 vance. I know not the number of goodly 
 casks of the purest Rhenish that little sallies 
 of humor may have cost me, first and last, in 
 this manner of princely expenditure ; but cer- 
 tain am I, that did occasion offer, the united 
 tributes would leave little empty space in 
 Prince Friedrich’s vaunted Tun, in his ample 
 cellars of Heidelberg !” 
 
 “<T have often heard of that royal receptacle 
 of generous liquor, and have meditated a pil- 
 grimage in honor of its capacity. Does the 
 Elector receive noble travellers with a hospi- 
 tality suited to his rank and means ? ” 
 
 ‘* That doth he, and right willingly, though 
 this war presses sorely, and giveth him other 
 employment. Thy wayfaring will not be 
 weary, fcr thou mayst see the towers of Hei- 
 delberg from off these hills, and a worthy 
 steed might be pricked from this court of 
 mine into that of Duke Friedrich in a couple 
 of hours of hard riding.” 
 
 ‘‘When the merits of thy cellar are ex- 
 hausted, noble Emich, it will be in season to 
 put the Tun to the proof,” replied the Knight 
 of Rhodes, ‘‘ as our esteemed friend here, the 
 Abbé, will maintain, in the face of all the 
 reformers with which our Germany is in- 
 fested.” 
 
 In introducing another character, we claim 
 the reader’s patience for a moment of digres- 
 sion. Whatever may be said of the merits 
 and legality of the Reformation, effected 
 chiefly by the courage of Luther (and we are 
 neither sectarian nor unbeliever, to deny the 
 sacred origin of the Church from which he 
 dissented,) it is very generally admitted, that 
 the long and undisputed sway of the prevail- 
 ing authority of that age, had led to abuses, 
 which called loudly for some change in its 
 
640 
 
 administration. Thousands of those who had 
 devoted their lives to the administrations of 
 the altar, were quite as worthy of the sacred 
 office as it falls to man’s lot to become ; but 
 thousands had assumed the tonsure, the cowl, 
 or the other symbols of ecclesiastical duty, 
 merely to enjoy the immunities and. facilities 
 the character conferred. A long and nearly 
 undisputed monopoly of letters, the influence 
 obtained by the unnatural union between sec- 
 ular and religious power, and the dependent 
 condition of the public mind, the legitimate 
 consequence of both, induced all who aspired 
 to moral preéminence, to take this, the most 
 certain, because the most beaten, of the paths 
 that lead to this species of ascendency. It is 
 not alone to the religion of Christendom, as 
 it existed in the time of Luther, that we are 
 to look for an example of the baneful con- 
 sequence of spiritual and temporal authority, 
 as blended in human institutions. Christian 
 or Mahommedan, Catholic or Protestant, the 
 evil comes in every case from the besetting 
 infirmity which tempts the strong to oppress 
 the weak, and the powerful to abuse their 
 trust. Against this failing there seems to be 
 no security but an active and certain respon- 
 sibility. So long as the severe morality re- 
 quired of its ministers, by the Christian faith, 
 is uncorrupted by any gross admixture of 
 worldly advantage, there is reason to believe 
 that the altar, at least, will escape serious 
 defilement ; but no sooner are these fatal ene- 
 mies admitted to the sanctuary, than a thou- 
 sand spirits, prompted by cupidity,rush rashly 
 into the temple, willing to bear with the out- 
 ward exactions of the faith, in order to seek 
 its present and visible rewards. 
 
 However pure may be a social system, or a 
 religion, in the commencement of its power, 
 the possession of an undisputed ascendency 
 lures all alike into excesses fatal to consist- 
 ency, to justice, and to truth. This is a conse- 
 quence of the independent exercise of human 
 volition, that seems nearly inseparable from 
 human frailty. We gradually come to substi- 
 tute inclination and interest for right, until 
 the moral foundations of the mind are sapped 
 by indulgence, and what was once regarded 
 with the aversion that wrong excites in the 
 innocent, gets to be not only familiar, but justi- 
 fiable by expediency and use. There is no more 
 certain symptom of the decay of the princi- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ples requisite to maintain even our imperfect 
 standard of virtue, than when the plea of nec- 
 essity is urged in vindication of any depart- 
 ure from its mandate, since it is calling in 
 the aid of ingenuity to assist the passions, a 
 coalition that rarely fails to lay prostrate the 
 feeble defences of a tottering morality. 
 
 It is no wonder, then, that the world, at a 
 period when religious abuses drove even 
 churchmen reluctantly to seek relief in insub- 
 ordination, should exhibit bold instances of 
 the flagrant excesses we have named. Maili- 
 tary ambition, venality, love of ease, and even 
 love of dissipation, equally sought the mantle 
 of religion as cloaks to their several objects, 
 and if the reckless cavalier was willing to flesh 
 his sword on the body of the infidel, in order 
 that he might live in men’s estimation as a 
 hero of the cross, so did the trifler, the de- 
 bauchee, and even the wit of the capital, con- 
 sent to obtain circulation by receiving an 
 impression which gave currency to all coin, 
 whether of purer or of baser metal, since it 
 bore the outward stamp of the Church of 
 God. 
 
 ‘«‘ Reformers, or rather revilers, for that is 
 the term they most merit,” returned the 
 Abbé, alluded to in the last speech of Al- 
 precht of Viederbach, “I consign without 
 remorse to the devil. As for this pledge of 
 our brave Knight of Saint John, noble Count 
 Emich, so far as I am concerned, it shall be | 
 redeemed : for I am certain the cellars of 
 Heidelberg can resist a heavier inroad than 
 any that is likely to invade them by such 
 means. But I am late from my chamber, 
 and I had hoped, ere this, to have seen our 
 brethren of Limburg ! I hope no unneces- 
 sary misunderstanding is likely to deprive us 
 of the satisfaction of their presence, Lord 
 Count ?” ! 
 
 ‘Little fear of that, so far as it may de- 
 pend on any disappointment in a feast. If 
 ever the devil tempted these monks of the 
 hill, it has been in the shape of gluttony. 
 Were I to judge by the experience of forty 
 years passed in their neighborhood, I should 
 think they deem abstinence an eighth deadly 
 pif 
 
 ‘¢Your Benedictine is privileged to con- 
 sider hospitality a virtue, and the Abbot has 
 fair license for the indulgence of some little 
 cheer. We will not judge them harshly, 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 therefore, but form our opinions of their 
 merits by their deeds. Thou hast many 
 servitors without, to do them honor to-night, 
 Lord Emich.” 
 
 The Count of Leiningen frowned, and, ere 
 he answered, his eye exchanged a glance with 
 that of his kinsman, which the Abbé might 
 have interpreted into a hidden meaning, had 
 it attracted his observation. 
 
 ‘“My people gather loyally about their 
 lord, for they have heard of his succor sent 
 by the Elector to uphold the lazy Benedic- 
 tines,” wis the reply. ‘‘ Four hundred mer- 
 cenaries lie within the Abbey walls this night, 
 Master Latouche, and it should not cause 
 surprise that the vassals of Emich of Harten- 
 burg are ready with hand and sword to do 
 service in his defence. God’s mercy! The 
 cunning priests may pretend alarm, but if 
 any here hath cause to be afraid, truly it is 
 the rightful and wronged lord of the Jaeger- 
 thal ! ” 
 
 © Thy situation, Cousin of Hartenburg,” ob- 
 served the wearer of the cross of Saint John, 
 “is, in sooth, one of masterly diplomacy. 
 Here dost thou stand at sword’s point with 
 the Abbot of Limburg, ready at need to ex- 
 change deadly thrusts, and to put this long- 
 disputed supremacy on the issue of battle, 
 while thou callest on the keeper of thy cellar 
 to bring forth the choicest of its contents, in 
 order to do hospitality and honor to thy mor- 
 tal foe! This beateth, in all niceties, Mon- 
 sieur Latouche, the situation of an abbé of 
 thy quality, who is scarce churchman enough 
 to merit salvation, nor yet deep enough in sin 
 to be incontinently damned in the general 
 mass of evil-doers.” 
 
 ‘*“ It is to be hoped that we shall share the 
 common lot of mortals, which is to receive 
 more grace than they merit,” returned the 
 Abbé, a title that in fact scarce denoted one 
 seriously devoted to the Church. “But I 
 trust this present meeting between the hostile 
 powers may prove amicable; for, not to con- 
 ceal the truth, unlike our friend the Knight 
 here, I am of none of the belligerent orders.” 
 
 “ Hark!” exciaimed the host, lifting a fin- 
 ger to command attention. ‘‘ Heard ye 
 aught ?” 
 
 “There is much of the music of thy growl- 
 ers in the courts, cousin, and some oaths in 
 a German that needs be translated to be un- 
 
 641 
 
 derstood; but that blessed signal the supper- 
 bell is still mute.” 
 
 “Go to!—’Tis the Abbot of Limburg and 
 his brethren, Fathers Siegfried and Cuno. 
 Let us to the portal, to do them usual honor.” 
 
 As this was welcome news to both the 
 Knight and the Abbé, they manifested a suit- 
 able desire to be foremost in paying the re- 
 quired attention to a personage as important 
 in that region as the rich and powerful chief 
 of the neighboring religious establishment. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ‘‘ Why not ?—The deeper sinner, better saint.” 
 —BYRON. 
 
 A witb and plaintive note had been 
 sounded on a horn far in the valley toward 
 the hill of Limburg. This melodious music 
 was of common occurrence, for of all that 
 dwell in Europe, they who inhabit the banks 
 of the Rhine, the Elbe, the Oder, and the 
 Danube, with their tributaries, are the most 
 addicted to the cultivation of sweet sounds. 
 We hear much of the harshness of the Teu- 
 tonic dialects, and of the softness of those of 
 Latin origin; but, Venice and the regions of 
 the Alps excepted, Nature has amply requited 
 for the inequality that exists between the lan- 
 guages, by the difference in the organs of 
 speech. He who journeys in those distant 
 lands must, as a rule, expect to hear German 
 warbled and Italian in a grand crash, though 
 exceptions are certainly to be found in both 
 cases. But music is far more common on the 
 vast plains of Saxony than on the Campagna 
 Felice, and it is no uncommon occurrence to 
 be treated by a fair-haired postilion of the 
 former country, as he slowly mounts a hill, 
 with airs on the horn that would meet with 
 favor in the orchestra of a capital. It was 
 one of these melancholy and peculiar strains 
 which now gave the signal to the spies of 
 Count Emich that his blenice guests had 
 quitted the convent. 
 
 “Heard ye aught, brothers D demanded 
 Father Bbhitachis of the companions who 
 rode at his side, nearly at the same moment 
 that the Lord of Leiningen put the same 
 question in his hold; ‘‘ that horn spoke in a 
 meaning strain!” 
 
 “We may be defeated in our wish to reach 
 
 UU 
 
642 
 
 the castle suddenly,” returned the monk al- 
 ready known to the reader as Father Sieg- 
 fried; “but though we fail in looking into 
 Count Emich’s secret with our own eyes, I 
 have engaged one to do that office for us, and 
 in a manner, | trust, that shall put us on the 
 scent of his designs. Courage, most holy 
 Abbot, the cause of God is not likely to fail 
 for want of succor. When were the meek 
 and righteous ever deserted ?” 
 
 The Abbot of Limburg ejaculated, in a 
 manner to express little faith in any mir- 
 aculous interposition in behalf of his cure, 
 and he drew about him the mantle that served 
 in some degree to conceal his person, spurring 
 the beast he rode only the quicker, from a 
 feverish desire, if possible, to outstrip the 
 sounds, which he intuitively felt were in- 
 tended to announce his approach. The prel- 
 ate was not deceived, for no sooner did the 
 wild notes reach the castle, than the signal, 
 which had caught the attention of its owner, 
 was communicated to those within the walls. 
 
 At the expected summons there was a 
 general moyement among the idlers of the 
 courts. Subordinate officers passed among 
 the men, hurrying those away to their secret 
 lodging-places who were intractable from ex- 
 cess of liquor, and commanding the more 
 obedient to follow. In a very few minutes, 
 and long before the monks, who, however, 
 pricked their beasts to the utmost, had time 
 to get near the hamlet even, all in the hold 
 was reduced to a state of tranquil repose; the 
 castle resembling the abode of any other 
 powerful baron, in moments of profound se- 
 curity. Emich had seen to this disposition 
 of his people in person, taking strict caution 
 that no straggler should appear, to betray the 
 preparations that existed within his walls. 
 When this wise precaution was observed, he 
 proceeded, with his two companions, to take 
 a station near the door of the building more 
 especially appropriated to the accommodation 
 of himself and*his friends, in order to await 
 the arrival of the monks. 
 
 The moon had ascended high enough to 
 illuminate the mountain-side, and to convert 
 the brown towers and ramparts of Harten- 
 burg into picturesque forms, relieved by 
 gloomy shadows. The signals appeared to 
 have thrown all who dwelt in the hamlet, as 
 well as they who inhabited the frowning 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 hold which overhung that secluded spot, 
 into mute attention. For a few minutes 
 the quiet was so deep and general, that the 
 murmuring of the rivulet which meandered 
 through the meadows was audible. ‘Then 
 came the swift clattering of hoofs. 
 
 «Our churchmen are in haste to taste thy 
 Rhenish, noble Emich,” said Albrecht of 
 Viederbach, who rarely thought; ‘‘or ig it a 
 party of their sumpter mules that I hear in 
 the valley !” 
 
 ‘‘Were the Abbott about to journey to 
 some other convent of his order, or were he 
 ready to visit his spiritual master of Spires, 
 there is no doubt that many such cattle 
 would be in his train ; for of all lovers of fat 
 cheer, Wilhelm of Venloo, who has been 
 styled Bonifacius in his baptism of office, is 
 he that most worships the fruits of the earth. 
 I would he and all his brotherhood were 
 spiritually planted in the garden of Eden ! 
 They should be well watered with my tears! i 
 
 ‘©The wish hath a saintly odor, but may 
 not be accomplished without mortal aid— 
 unless thou hast favor with the Prince Elec- 
 tor of Koeln, who might haply do thee that 
 service, in the way of miracle.” 
 
 «Thou triflest, knight, in a matter of 
 great gravity,” answered Emich, rou ghly; for, 
 notwithstanding his inherited and deadly 
 dislike of the particular portion of the 
 Church which interfered with hisown power, 
 the Count of Hartenburg had all the depend- 
 ence on superior knowledge that is the un- 
 avoidable offspring of a limited education. 
 “The Prince Elector hath served many noble 
 families in the way thou namest, and he 
 might do honor to houses less deserving of 
 his grace than that of Leiningen. But here 
 cometh the Abbot and his boon associates. 
 God’s curse await them for their pride and 
 avarice! ”’ 
 
 The clattering of hoofs had been gradually 
 increasing, and was now heard even on the 
 pavement of the outer court ; for in order 
 to do honor to his guests, the Count had 
 especially ordered there should be no de- 
 lay or impediment from gate, portcullis or 
 bridge. 
 
 ‘«« Welcome, and reverence for thy churchly 
 office, right holy Abbot!” cried Emich, 
 from whose lips had just parted the maledic-_ 
 tion, advancing officiously to aid the prelate 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 - in dismounting—‘* Thou art welcome, broth- 
 ers both; worthy companions of thy re- 
 spected anit honored chief.” 
 
 The churchmen alighted, assisted by the 
 menials of Hartenburg, with much show of 
 honor on the part of the Count himself, and 
 on that of his friends. When fairly on their 
 feet, they courteously returned the greet- 
 ings. . | 
 
 “Peace be with thee, son, and with this 
 cavalier and servitor of the Church!” said 
 Father Bonifacius, signing with the rapid 
 manner in which a Catholic priest scatters 
 his benedictions. “St. Benedict and the 
 Virgin take ye all in their holy keeping! I 
 trust, noble Emich, we have not given thee 
 cause of vexation, by some little delay?” 
 
 “Thou never comest amiss, father, be it at 
 morn, or be it at even; I esteem Hartenburg 
 more than honored, when thy reverend head 
 passeth beneath its portals.” 
 
 ‘“We had every desire to embrace thee, 
 son, but certain offices of religion, that may 
 not be neglected, kept us from the pleasure. 
 But let us within; for I fear the evening air 
 may do injury to those that are uncloaked.” 
 
 At this considerate suggestion, Emich, 
 with much show of respect to his guests, ush- 
 ered them into the apartment he had himself 
 so lately quitted. Here recommenced the 
 show of those wily courtesies which, in that 
 semi-barbarous and treacherous age, often 
 led men to a heartless and sometimes to a 
 blasphemous trifling, with the most sacred 
 obligations, to effect their purposes, and 
 which, in our times, has degenerated to a 
 deception, that is more measured perhaps, 
 but which is scarcely less sophisticated and 
 vicious. Much was said of mutual satisfaction 
 at this opportunity of commingling spirits, 
 and the blunt professions of the sturdy but 
 politic baron were more than met by the pre- 
 tending sanctity and official charity of the 
 priest. ' 
 
 The Abbot of Limburg and his compan- 
 ions had come to the intended feast. with 
 vestments that partially concealed their char- 
 acters; but when the outer cloaks and the 
 other garments were removed, they remained 
 in the usual attire of their order, the prelate 
 being distinguished from his inferiors by 
 those: symbols of clerical rank which it was 
 usual for one. of his authority to display 
 
 643 
 
 when not engaged in the ministrations of the 
 altar. 
 
 When the guests were at their ease, the 
 conversation took a less personal direction, 
 for though rude and unnurtured as his own 
 war-horse, as regards most that is called cul- 
 tivation in our bookish days, Emich of Har- 
 tenburg wanted for none of the courtesies 
 
 | that became his rank, more especially as 
 
 civilities of this nature were held to be 
 worthy of a feudal lord, and in that particu- 
 lar region. 
 
 Tis said, reverend Abbot,” continued the 
 host, pushing the discourse to a point that 
 might favor his own secret views, “that our 
 common master, the Prince Elector, is sorely 
 urged by his enemies, and that there are 
 even fears a stranger may usurp the rule in 
 the noble Castle of Heidelberg. Hast thou 
 heard aught of his late distresses, or of the 
 necessities that bear upon his house ?” 
 
 “Masses have been said for his benefit mm 
 
 -all our chapels, and there are hourly prayers 
 
 that he may prevail against his enemies. In 
 virtue of a concession made to the Abbey, by 
 our common father at Rome, we offer liberal 
 indulgences, too, to all that take up arms in 
 this behalf.” 
 
 «Thou art much united in love with Duke 
 Friedrich, holy prelate!” muttered Emich. 
 
 “We owe him such respect as all should 
 willingly pay to the strong temporal arm that 
 shields them; our serious fealty is. due alone 
 to Heaven. But how comes it that so stout 
 a baron, one so much esteemed in warlike 
 exercises, and so well known in dangerous 
 enterprises, rests in his doublet, at a time 
 when his sovereign’s throne is tottering? 
 We had heard that thou wert summoning thy 
 people, Herr Count, and thought it had been 
 in the Elector’s interest.” 
 
 “Friedrich hath not of late given me 
 cause to love him. IfI have called my vas- 
 sals about me, ’tis because the times teach 
 every noble to be wary of his rights. I have 
 consorted so much of late with my cousin of 
 Viederbach, this self-denying Knight of 
 Rhodes, that martial thoughts will obtrude 
 even on the brain of one, peaceful and home- 
 bred as thy poor neighbor and penitent.” 
 
 The Abbot bowed and smiled, like one 
 who gave full credit to the speaker’s words, 
 while a by-play arose between the wandering 
 
644 
 
 and houseless knight, the Abbé, and the 
 brothers of Limburg. In this manner did a 
 few minutes wear away, when a flourish of 
 trumpets announced that the expected ban- 
 quet awaited its guests. Menials lighted the 
 party to the hall in which the board was 
 spread, and much ceremonious form was ob- 
 served in assigning to each of the individuals 
 the place suited to his rank and character. 
 Count Emich, who in common was of a nat- 
 ure too blunt and severe to waste his efforts 
 in superfluous breeding, now showed himself 
 earnest to please, for he had at heart an ob- 
 ject that he knew was in danger of being 
 baffled by the more practised artifices of the 
 monks. During the preliminary movements 
 of the feast, which had all the gross and all 
 the profuse hospitality which distinguished 
 such entertainments, he neglected no cus- 
 tomary observance. ‘The robust and sensual 
 Abbot was frequently plied with both cup 
 and dish, while the inferior monks received 
 the same agreeable attentions from Albrecht 
 of Viederbach, and Monsieur Latouche, who, 
 notwithstanding it suited his convenience to 
 pass through life under the guise of a church- 
 man, was none the worse at board or revel. 
 As the viands and the generous liquors be- 
 gan to operate on the physical functions of 
 the brothers, however, they insensibly dropped 
 their masks, and each discovered more of 
 those natural qualities which usually lay con- 
 cealed from casual observation. 
 
 It was a rule of the Benedictines to prac- 
 tise hospitality. The convent door was 
 never closed against the wayfarer, and he 
 who applied for shelter and food was certain 
 of obtaining both, administered more or less 
 in a manner suited to the applicant’s ordinary 
 habits. The practice of a virtue so costly 
 was a sufficient pretence for accumulating 
 riches, and he who travels at this day in 
 Europe will find ample proofs that the means 
 of carrying into effect this law of the order 
 were abundantly supplied. Abbeys of this 
 particular class of monks are still of frequent 
 occurrence in the forest cantons of Switzer- 
 land, Germany, and in most of the other 
 Catholic states. Butthe gradual and health- 
 ful transfer of political power from clerical 
 to laical hands, has long since shorn them of 
 their temporal lustre. Many of these abbots 
 were formerly princes of the empire, and 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 several of the communities exercised sover- © 
 
 elgn sway over territories that have since 
 taken to themselves the character of inde- 
 pendent states. 
 
 While the spiritual charge and the mortifi- 
 cations believed to characterize a brother- 
 hood of Benedictines were more especially 
 left to a subordinate monk termed the prior, 
 the abbot, or head of the establishment, was 
 expected to preside not only over the tempo- 
 ralities, but at the board. This frequent 
 communication with the vulgar interests of 
 life, and the constant indulgence of its 
 grosser gratifications, were but ill adapted 
 to the encouragement of the monastic vir- 
 tues. We have already remarked that the 
 intimate connection between the interests of 
 life and those of the church is destructive of 
 apostolical character. This blending of God 
 with Mammon, this device of converting the 
 revealed ordinances of the Master of the Uni- 
 verse into a species of buttress to uphold 
 temporal sway, though habit has so long ren- 
 dered it familiar to the inhabitants of the 
 other hemisphere, and even to a large portion 
 of those who dwell in this, is, in our Ameri- 
 can eyes, only a little removed from blas- 
 phemy ; but the triumphs of the press, and 
 the changes made by the steady advances of 
 public opinion, have long since done away 
 with a multitude of still more equivocal 
 usages, that were as familiar to those who 
 existed threecenturies ago, as our own customs 
 to us at this hour. When prelates were seen 
 in armor, leading their battalions to slaugh- 
 ter, it is not to be supposed that other dig- 
 nitaries of this privileged class would be 
 more tender of appearances than was ex- 
 acted by the opinions of the age. 
 
 Wilhelm of Venloo,known since his elevation 
 as Bonifaciusof Limburg, was not possessed of 
 all that temporal authority, however, which 
 tempted so many of his peers to sin. Still he 
 was the head of a rich, powerful, and re- 
 spected brotherhood, that had many allodial 
 rights in lands beyond the Abbey walls, and 
 which was not without its claims to the 
 fealty of sundry dependants. Of vigorous 
 mind and body, this dignified churchman 
 commanded much influence by means of a 
 
 -species of character that often crosses us in 
 
 life, a sturdy independence of thought and 
 
 action that imposed on the credulous and — 
 
THH HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 timid, and which sometimes caused the bold 
 and intelligent to hesitate. His reputation 
 was far greater for learning than for piety, 
 and his besetting sin was well known to be 
 a disposition to encounter the shock between 
 the powers of mind and matter, as both were 
 liable to be affected by deep potations and 
 gross feeding—a sort of degeneracy to which 
 all are peculiarly liable who place an unnat- 
 ural check on the ordinary and healthful 
 propensities of —just as one sense is 
 known to grow 1n acuteness as it is deprived 
 of a fellow. The Abbot loosened his robe, 
 and threw his cowl still farther from his 
 neck, while Emich pledged him in Rhenish, 
 cup after cup; and by the time the meats 
 were removed, and the powers of digestion, 
 or we might better say of retention, would 
 endure no more, his heavy cheeks became 
 flushed, his bright, deeply-seated, and search- 
 ing gray eyes flashed with a species of fero- 
 cious delight, and his lip frequently quivered, 
 as the clay gave eloquent evidence of its en- 
 joyment. Still his voice, though it had lost 
 its rebuked and schooled tones, was firm, 
 deep, and authoritative, and ever and anon 
 he threw into his discourse some severe and 
 pointed sarcasm, bitingly scornful. His sub- 
 ordinates, too, gave similar proofs of the grad- 
 ual lessening of their caution, though in de- 
 grees far less imposing, we had almost said 
 less grand, than that which rendered the 
 sensual excitement of their superior so re- 
 markable. Albrecht and the Abbé also be- 
 trayed, each in his own manner, the influence 
 of the banquet, and all became garrulous, 
 disputative, and noisy. 
 
 Not so with Emich of Hartenburg. He 
 had eaten ina manner to do‘justice to his 
 vast frame and bodily wants, and he drank 
 fairly; but, until this moment, the nicest ob- 
 server would have been puzzled to detect any 
 decrease of his powers. The blue of his large 
 leaden eyes became brighter, it is true, but 
 their expression was yet in command, and 
 their language courteous. 
 
 “Thou dost but little compliment to my 
 poor fare, most holy Abbot,” cried the host, 
 as he witnessed a lingering look of the prelate, 
 whose eye followed the delicious fragments of 
 a wild boar from the hall.—‘‘If the knaves 
 have stinted thee in the choice of morsels, by 
 St. Benedict! but the mountains of my chase 
 
 645 
 
 can still furnish other animals of the kind.— 
 How now *, 
 
 ‘‘T pray thee, mercy, noble Emich! Thy 
 forester hath done thee fair justice with his 
 spear; more savory beast uever smoked at 
 table.” 
 
 «Tt fell by the hand of young Berchthold, 
 the burgher of Duerckheim’s orphan. *Tisa 
 bold youth in the forest, and I doubt not, his 
 will one day be a ready hand in battle. Thou 
 knowest him I mean, father, for he is often 
 at the Abbey confessionals.” 
 
 ‘‘ He is better known to the prior than to 
 one so busied with worldly cares as I. Is the 
 youth at hand? I would fain render him 
 thanks.” | 
 
 ‘‘Hear ye that, varlet! Bid my head 
 forester appear. The reverend and noble Ab- 
 bot of Limburg owes him grace.” 
 
 “ Didst thou say the youth was of Duerck- 
 heim ?” 
 
 ‘Of that goodly town, reverend priest ; 
 and, though reduced by evil chances to be 
 the ranger of my woods, a lad of mettle in 
 the chase, and of no bad discourse in moments 
 of ease.” 
 
 ‘““Thou claimest hard service, Cousin of 
 Hartenburg, of these peaceful townsmen ! 
 Were they left freely to choose between the 
 ancient duty of our convent, and this stirring 
 life thou leadest the artisans, we should have 
 more penitents within our walls.” 
 
 The fealty of Duerckheim was a long 
 mooted point between the corporation of 
 Limburg and the house of Leiningen, and 
 the allusion of the monk was not thrown 
 away upon his host. Emich’s brow clouded, 
 and for a moment it threatened a storm ; but, 
 recovering his self-command, he answered in 
 a tone of hilarity, though with sufficient 
 coolness :— 
 
 ‘«Thy words remind me of present affairs, 
 reverend Bonifacius, and I thank thee that 
 thou hast put a sudden check on festivities 
 which were getting warm without an object.” 
 The Count arose, and filled to the brim a cup 
 of horn, elaborately ornamented with gold, 
 drawing the attention of all at table to him- 
 self by the action. ‘Nobles and reverend 
 servants of God,” he continued, ‘‘I drink to 
 the health and happiness of the honored 
 Wilhelm of Venioo, the holy Abbot of Lim- 
 burg, and my loving neighbor. May his 
 
646 
 
 brotherhood never know a worse guide, and 
 ‘may the lives and contentment of all that now 
 belong to it be as lasting as the abbey walls.” 
 
 Emich coneluded the potent cup at a 
 single draught. In order to do honor to the 
 mitred monk, there had been placed by the 
 side of Bonifacius a vessel of agate richly 
 decorated with jewelry, an heir-loom of the 
 house of Leiningen. While his host was 
 speaking, the looks of the latter watched 
 every expression of his countenance, through 
 gray, overhanging, shaggy brows, that shaded 
 the upper part of his face like a screen of 
 shrubbery planted to shut out prying eyes 
 from a close ; and he paused when the health 
 was given. Then, rising in his turn, he 
 quaffed a compliment in return. 
 
 ‘‘T drink of this pure and wholesome 
 liquor,” he said, ‘‘to the noble Emich of 
 Leiningen, to all of his ancient and illustrious 
 house, to his and their present hopes, and to 
 their final deliverance. May this goodly hold, 
 and the happiness of its lord, endure as long 
 as those walls of Limburg of which the count 
 has spoken, and which, were his loving 
 wishes consulted, would doubtless stand for 
 ever.” 
 
 ‘By the life of the Emperor, learned 
 Bonifacius !”’? exclaimed Emich, striking his 
 fist on the table with force, ‘‘ you as much 
 exceed one of my narrow wit in wishes, as in 
 godliness, and other excellences ! But I pre- 
 tend not to set limits to my desires in your 
 behalf, and throw the fault of my imperfect 
 speech on a youth that had more to do with 
 the sword than with the breviary. And now 
 let us to serious concerns. It may not be 
 known to you, Cousin of Viederbach, or to 
 this obliging churchman who honors Harten- 
 burg with his presence, that there has been 
 subject of amicable dispute between the 
 brotherhood of Limburg and my unworthy 
 house, touching the matter of certain wines, 
 that are believed by the one party to be its 
 dues, and by the other to be a mere pious 
 grace accorded to the Church fi 
 
 ‘* Nay, noble Emich,” interrupted the Ab- 
 bot, “we have never held the point to be 
 disputable in any manner. The lands in 
 question are held of us in socage ; and, in 
 lieu of bodily service, we have long since 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘‘T cry you mercy; if there be dues at all, 
 they come of naught else than knight’s ser- 
 vice, None of my name or-lineage ever paid 
 less to mortal !” , 
 
 ‘“‘Let it be thus,” Bonifacius answered 
 more mildly. ‘‘ The question is of the amount 
 of liquor, and not of the tenure whence it 
 comes.” | 
 
 ‘“Thou sayst right, wise Abbot, and I cry 
 mercy of these listeners. State thou the mat- 
 ter, reverend Bonifacius, that our friends 
 may know the humor on which we are madly 
 bent.” 
 
 The Count of Hartenburg succeeded in 
 swallowing his rising ire, and made a gesture 
 of courtesy toward the Abbot, as he con- 
 cluded, Father Bonifacius rose again, and 
 notwithstanding the physical ravages that 
 excess was making within, it was still with 
 the air of calmness and discipline that be- 
 came his calling. 
 
 ‘«« As our upright and esteemed friend has 
 just related,” he said, ‘‘ there is truly a point, 
 of a light but unseemly nature to exist be- 
 tween so dear neighbors, open between him 
 and us servants of God. The. Counts of 
 Leiningen have long considered it a pleasure 
 to do favor to the Church, and in this just and 
 commendable spirit, it is now some. fifty 
 years that, at the termination of each vin- 
 tage, without regard to seasons or harvest, 
 without stooping to change their habits at 
 every change of weather, they have paid to 
 our brotherhood 4 | 
 
 “ Presented, priest ! ” 
 
 ‘« Presented,—if such is thy will, noble 
 Emich,—fifty casks of this gentle liquor that 
 now warms our hearts toward each other, 
 with brotherly and praiseworthy affection. 
 Now, it has been settled between us, to avoid 
 all future motive of controversy, and either 
 the better to garnish our cellars, or to relieve 
 the house of Hartenburg altogether of future 
 imposition, that it shall be decided this 
 night, whether the tribute henceforth shall 
 consist of one hundred casks, or of nothing.” 
 
 ‘“By’re Lady! A most important issue, 
 and one likely to impoverish or to enrich !” 
 exclaimed the Knight of Rhodes, 
 
 “As such we deem it,’ continued the 
 monk, “and in that view, parchments of re- 
 
 commuted for the produce of vines that might | lease, with all due appliances and seals, have 
 
 be named.” 
 
 been prepared by a clerkly scholar of Heidel- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 berg. This indenture, duly executed,” he 
 added, drawing from his bosom the instru- 
 ments in question, ‘‘ yieldeth to Emich all 
 the Abbey’s rights to the vines in dispute, 
 and this wanteth but his sign of arms and 
 noble name to double their present duty.” 
 
 ‘* Hold !” cried the Chevalier of the Cross, 
 whose faculties began already to give way, 
 though it was only in the commencement of 
 the debauch : “ Here is matter might puzzle 
 the Grand Turk, who sits in judgment in the 
 very seat of Solomon! If thou renderest thy 
 claims, and my cousin Emich yieldeth double 
 tribute-money, both parties will be the worse, 
 and meither possessed of the liquor !” 
 
 “In a merry mood, it hath been proposed 
 that there shall be the trial of love and not 
 of battle, between us, for the vines, The 
 question is of liquor, and it is agreed,—St. 
 Benedict befriend me if there be sin in the 
 folly ! to try on whose constitution the disput- 
 ed liquor is the most apt to work good or evil. 
 Let the Count of Hartenburg give to his parch- 
 ment the virtue that hath already been given 
 to this of ours, and we shall leave both in 
 some place of observation ;—then, when he 
 alone is able to rise and seize on both, let 
 him give the victor’s cry ; but should he fail 
 of that power, and there be a servant of the 
 Church ready, and able to grasp the instru- 
 ments, why let him go, and think no more 
 of land that he hath right merrily lost.” 
 
 “By St. John of Jerusalem, but this is a 
 most unequal contest—three monks against 
 one poor baron in a trial of heads!” 
 
 ‘« Nay, we think more of our honor, than 
 to permit this wrong. The Count of Har- 
 tenburg hath full right to callin equal succor, 
 and I have taken thee, gallant cavalier of 
 Rhodes, and this learned Abbé, to be his 
 chosen backers !” 
 
 “< Let it be so!” cried the two in question, 
 —‘*‘We ask no better service than to drain 
 Count Emich’s cellars to his honor and 
 profit !” 
 
 But the lord of the hold had taken the 
 matter, as indeed it was fully uuderstood be- 
 tween the principals, to be a question on 
 which depended a serious amount of revenue 
 for all futurity. The wager had arisen in 
 one of those wild contests for physical and 
 gross supremacy, which characterize ages 
 and countries of imperfect civilization ; for 
 
 647 
 
 next to deeds in arms and other manful ex- 
 
 -ercises, like those of the chase and saddle, it 
 
 was deemed honorable to be able to undergo 
 the trials of the festive board with impunity. 
 Nor should it occasion surprise to find church- 
 men engaged in these encounters ; for, inde- 
 pendently of our writing of an age when 
 they appeared in the field, there is sufficient 
 evidence that our own times are not entirely 
 purified from so coarse abuses of the gown. 
 But Bonifacius of Limburg, though a man 
 of extensive learning and strong intellectnal 
 qualities, had a weakness on this particular 
 point for which we may be driven to seek an 
 explanation in his peculiar animal construc- 
 tion. He was of a powerful frame and slug- 
 gish temperament, both of which required 
 strong excitement to be wrought up to the 
 highest point of physical enjoyment; and 
 neither the examples around him, nor his 
 own particular opinions, taught him to avoid 
 a species of indulgence that he found so 
 agreeable to his constitution. With these 
 serious views of a contest to which neither 
 party would probably have consented, had 
 not each great confidence in himself as a 
 well-tried champion, both Emich and the. 
 Abbot required that the instruments should 
 be openly read. The discharge of this duty 
 was assigned to Monsieur Latouche, who forth- 
 with proceeded to wade through a torrent of 
 unintelligible terms,that were generated in the 
 obseurity of feudal times for the benefit of 
 the strong, and which are continued to our 
 own period through pride of professional 
 knowledge, a little quickened by a view to 
 professional gain. On the subject of the 
 true consideration of the respective releases, 
 the instruments themselves were silent, 
 though nothing material was wanting to give 
 them validity, especially when supported by 
 a good sword ; or the power of the Church, to 
 which the parties looked respectively in the 
 event of flaws. 
 
 Count Emich listened warily as his guest 
 the Abbé red clause after clause of the deed. 
 Occasionally his eye wandered to the firm 
 countenance of the Abbot, betraying habitual 
 distrust of his hereditary and powerful ene- 
 my, but it was quickly riveted again on the 
 heated features of the reader. 
 
 “This is well,” he said, when both papers 
 had been examined: “These vines are to 
 
648 
 
 remain forever with me and mine, without 
 claim from any grasping churchman, so long 
 as grass shall grow or water run, or hence- 
 forth they pay double tribute, a tax that will 
 leave little for the cellar of their rightful 
 lord.” 
 
 “Such are our terms, noble Emich. But 
 to confirm the latter condition, thy seal and 
 name are wanting to the instrument.” 
 
 “Were the latter to be written by a good 
 sword, none could do the office better than 
 this poor arm, reverend Abbot; but thou 
 knowest well, that my youth was too much 
 given to warlike and other manly exercises 
 befitting my rank, to allow much time for 
 acquiring clerkly skill. By the holy Virgins 
 of Koeln! it were, in sooth, a shame to con- 
 fess, that one of my class in these stirring 
 times had leisure for such lady games! 
 Bring hither an eagle’s feather—hand of 
 mine never yet touched aught from meaner 
 wing—that I may do justice to the monks.” 
 
 The necessary implements being produced, 
 the Count of Hartenburg proceeded to exe- 
 cute the instrument on his part. ‘The wax 
 was speedily attached and duly impressed 
 with the bearings of Leiningen, for the noble 
 wore a signet-ring of massive size, ready at all 
 times to give this token of his will. But 
 when it became necessary to subscribe the 
 name, a signal was made to a domestic, who 
 disappeared in quest of the Count’s man of 
 charge. This individual manifested some 
 reluctance to perform the customary office, 
 but, as there was just then a clamorous 
 dialogue among the party at the table, he 
 seized the moment to examine into the nature 
 of the document, and the consideration that 
 was to decide the ownership of the vineyard. 
 Grinning in satisfaction, at a species of pay- 
 ment in which he held it to be impossible 
 Lord Emich could fail to acquit himself hon- 
 orably, the dependant took the hand of his 
 master, and, accustomed to the duty, he so 
 guided it as to leave a very legible and cred- 
 itable signature. When this had been done, 
 and the papers were properly witnessed, the 
 Count of Hartenburg glanced suspiciously 
 from the deed in his hand to the indomitable 
 face of the Abbot, as if he still half repented 
 of the act. “Look you, Bonifacius,” he 
 said, shaking a finger,—‘‘Should there be 
 flaw, or doubt of any intention in this 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 our covenant, sword of mine shall cut 
 
 it 1” 
 
 ‘¢ First earn the right, Count of Leiningen, 
 The deeds are of equal virtue, and he who 
 would lay claim to their benefits must win 
 the wager. We are but poor brothers of St. 
 Benedict, and little worthy to be named with 
 warlike barons and devoted followers of St. 
 John, but we have an humble trust in our 
 patron.” 
 
 ‘By St. Benedict, it shall pass for a mir- 
 acle, if thou prevailest !” shouted Emich, 
 yielding the deed in a burst of delight. 
 ‘‘ Away with these cups of agate and horn, 
 and bring forth vessels of glass, that allemay 
 see we deal fairly by each other, in this right 
 manly encounter. Look to your wits, monks. 
 —By the word of a cavalier, your Latin will 
 do little service in this dispute.” 
 
 “Our trust is in our patron,” answered 
 Father Siegfried, who had already done so 
 much honor to the banquet, as to give reason 
 to believe, that, in his case, the fraternity 
 leaned upon a fragile staff. ‘*‘He never yet 
 deserted his children, when fairly enlisted in 
 a good cause.” 
 
 ‘You are cunning in reasons, fathers,” 
 
 ‘put in the knight—“and I doubt not that 
 sufficient excuses would be forthcoming, 
 were you pushed to justify service to the 
 devil.” 
 
 “We suffer for the Church,” was the Ab- 
 bot’s answer, after taking a bumper in obe- 
 dience to a signal from his host. “ We hold 
 it to be commendable to struggle with the 
 flesh, that our altars may flourish.” 
 
 As soon as executed, the two deeds had 
 been placed on a high and curiously wrought 
 vessel of silver, that contained cordials, and 
 which occupied the centre of the board, 
 and more fitting cups having been brought, 
 the combatants were compelled to swallow 
 draught after draught, at signals from Emich, 
 who, like a true knight, saw that each man 
 showed loyalty. But, as the conflict was be- 
 tween men of great experience in this species 
 of contention, and as it endured hours, we 
 deem it unworthy of the theme to limit 
 its description to a single chapter. Before 
 closing the page, however, we shall digress 
 for a moment, in order to express our opinions | 
 concerning the great human properties in- 
 volved in this sublime strife. 
 
THH HHIDENMAUER. 
 
 It has been the singular fortune of America 
 to be the source of numberless ingenious 
 theories, that, taking their rise in the other 
 hemisphere, have been let loose upon the 
 world to answer ends that we shall not stop 
 to investigate. The dignified and beneficed 
 prelate maintains there is no worship of God 
 within our land, probably because there are 
 no dignified and beneficed prelates ; a suffi- 
 ciently logical conclusion for all who believe 
 in the éfficacy of that self-denying class of 
 Christians; while the neophyte, in some lately 
 invented religion, denounces us all in a body, 
 asso many miserable bigots devoted to Christ ! 
 In this manner is a pains-taking and _ plain- 
 dealing nation of near fourteen millions of 
 souls kept, as it were, in abeyance in the 
 opinions of the rest of mankind, one deeming 
 them as much beyond, as another fancies 
 them to be short of, truth. In the fearful 
 catalogue of our deadly sins, is included a 
 propensity to indulge in excesses similar to 
 that it is now our office to record. As we 
 are confessedly democrats, dram-drinking 
 in particular has been pronounced to be a 
 “democratic vice.” 
 
 It has been our fortune to have lived in 
 familiarity with a greater variety of men, 
 either considered in reference to their charac- 
 ters or their conditions, than ordinarily falls 
 to the lot of any one person. We have visited 
 many lands, not in the capacity of a courier, 
 but staidly and soberly, as becomes a grave 
 occupation, setting up our household gods, 
 and abiding long enough to see with our eyes 
 and to hear with our ears; and we feel em- 
 boldened to presume on these facts, in order 
 to express a different opinion, amid the flood 
 of assertions that has been made by those 
 who certainly have no better claim to be 
 heard. And, firstly, we shall here say that, 
 as in the course of justice, an intelligent, 
 upright, single-minded, and discriminating 
 witness is, perhaps, the rarest of all desirable 
 instruments in effecting its sacred ends, so 
 do we acknowledge a traveller, entitled. to 
 full credit, to be the mortal of all others the 
 least likely to be found. 
 
 The art of travelling, we apprehend, is far 
 more practised than understood. To us it 
 has proved a laborious, harassing, puzzling, 
 and oftentimes a painful pursuit. To divest 
 one’s self of impressions made in youth; 
 
 649 
 
 to investigate facts without referring their 
 merits to a standard bottomed on a foundation 
 no better than habit; to analyze, and justly 
 to compare the influence of institutions, 
 climate, natural causes, and practice; to se- 
 parate what is merely exception from that 
 which forms the rule; or even to obtain 
 and carry away accurate notions of physical 
 things, and, most of all, to possess the gift 
 of imparting these results comprehensively 
 and with graphical truth, requires a com- 
 bination of time, occasion, previous know- 
 ledge, and natural ability, that rarely falls 
 to the lot ofa single individual, One assumes 
 the task prepared by acquaintance with estab- 
 lished opinions, which are commonly no more 
 than prejudices, the result of either policy, 
 or of the very difficulties just enumerated ; 
 and he goes on his way, not only ready but 
 anxious to receive the proofs of what he 
 expects, limiting his pleasure to the sort of 
 delight that dependent minds feel in follow- 
 ing the course pointed out by those that are 
 superior. As the admitted peculiarities of 
 every people are sufficiently apparent, he 
 converts self-evident facts into collateral 
 testimony, and faithfully believes and ima- 
 gines all that is concealed on the strength 
 of that which is obvious. For such a traveller 
 time wears away men and things in vain; he 
 accords his belief to the last standard opinion 
 of his sect, with a devotion to convention that 
 might purchase salvation in a better cause. 
 To him Vesuvius is just as high, produces 
 the same effect in the view, and has exactly 
 the same outline as before the crater fell; and 
 he watches the workmen disinterring a house 
 at its base, and he goes away rejoicing at hav- 
 ing witnessed the resurrection of a Roman 
 dwelling after eighteen hundred years of in- 
 terment, simply because it is the vulgar ac- 
 count that Pompeii was lost for that period. 
 If he should happen to be a scholar, what is 
 his delight in following a cicerone (a title as- 
 sumed by some wily servitore di Prazza) te 
 the little garden that overlooks the Roman 
 Forum, and in fancying that he stands upon 
 the Tarpeian Rock! His faith in moral quali- 
 ties, his graduation of national virtue, and his 
 views of manners, are equally the captives of 
 the last popular rumor. A Frenchman may 
 roll incontinently in the gras de Paris, filled 
 with an alcohol inflammable as gunpowder, 
 
650 
 
 and in his eyes it shall pass for pure animal 
 light-heartedness, since it is out of all rule for 
 a Frenchman to be intoxicated, while the 
 veriest tyro knows that the nation dances to 
 aman! The gallant general, the worshipful 
 alderman, the right honorable adviser of the 
 king, may stammer around a subject for half 
 an hour, in St. Stephen’s, in a manner to 
 confound all conclusion, and generalize so 
 completely as to baffle particularity, and your 
 hearer shall go away convinced of the excel- 
 lence of the great school of modern eloquence, 
 because the orator has been brought up at the 
 “feet of Gamaliel.” When one thoroughly 
 imbued with this phant faculty gets into a 
 foreign land, with what a diminished rever- 
 ence for his own does he journey! As few 
 men are endowed with sufficient penetration 
 to pierce the mists of received opinion, fewer 
 still are they that are so strong in right as to 
 be able to stem its tide. He who precedes his 
 age is much less likely to be heard, than he 
 who lingers in its rear: and when the un- 
 wieldy body of the mass reaches the eminence 
 on which he has long stood the object of free 
 comment, it may be assumed as certain, that 
 they who were his bitterest deriders when his 
 doctrine was new, will be foremost in claim- 
 ing the honors of theadvance. In short, to 
 instruct the world, it is necessary to watch the 
 current, and to act on the public mind like 
 the unseen rudder, by shght and impercep- 
 tible variations, avoiding, as a seaman would 
 express it, any very rank sheer, lest the vessel 
 should refuse to mind her helm and go down 
 with the stream. 
 
 We have been led into these reflections by 
 frequent opportunities of witnessing the facil- 
 ity with which opinions are adopted concern- 
 ing ourselves, because they have come from 
 the pens of those who have long contributed 
 to amuse and instruct us, but which are per- 
 fectly valueless, both from the unavoidable 
 ignorance of those who utter them, and from 
 the hostile motives that gave them birth. To 
 that class which would wish to put in a claim 
 to bor ton, by undervaluing their country- 
 men, we have nothing to say, since they are 
 much beyond improvement, and are quite un- 
 able to understand all the high and glorious 
 consequences dependent on the great princi- 
 ples of which this republic is the guardian. 
 Their fate was long since settled by a perma- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 nent and wise provision of human feeling; but, 
 presuming on the opportunities mentioned, 
 and long habits of earnest observation in the 
 two hemispheres, we shall conclude this di- 
 gression by merely adding, that it is the mis- 
 fortune of man to abuse the gifts of God, let 
 him live in what country or unaer what 
 institutions he may. Excess of the descrip- 
 tion in question is the failing of every people, 
 nearly in proportion to their means; nor are 
 there any certain preventives against a vice so 
 destructive, but absolute want, or a high cul- 
 
 tivation of the reasoning faculties. 
 
 He who has accurately ascertained how far 
 the people of this republic are behind or be- 
 fore the inhabitants of other lands, in mental 
 improvement and moral qualities, will not be 
 far from the truth in assigning to them a cor- 
 respondent place in the scale of sobriety. It 
 is true that many foreigners will be ready 
 enough to deny this position, but we have 
 had abundant opportunities of observing, that 
 all those who visit our shores do not come 
 sufficiently prepared, by observation at home, 
 to make just comparisons, and what we have 
 here said has not been ventured without years 
 of close and honest investigation. We shall 
 gladly hail the day when it can be said, that 
 not an American exists so lost to himself as 
 to trifle with the noblest gift of the Creator; 
 but we cannot see the expediency of attaining 
 an end, desirable even as this, by the conces- 
 sion of premises that are false. 
 
 eer 
 
 CHAPTER. VII. 
 
 «‘ What a thrice-double ass 
 Was I, to take this drunkard for a god!” 
 — Caliban. 
 PHYSICAL qualities are always prized in 
 proportion to the value that is attached to 
 those that are purely intellectual. So long as — 
 power and honor depend on the possession of 
 brute force, strength and agility are.endow- 
 ments of the last importance, on the same 
 principle that they render the tumbler of 
 more account in his troop; and he who has — 
 ever had occasion to mingle much with the 
 brave, and subject to a qualification that will 
 readily be understood, we might add, the no- 
 ble savages of this continent, will have re- 
 marked that, while the orators are in general 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 a class who have cultivated their art for want 
 of qualifications to excel in that which is 
 deemed still more honorable, the first requi- 
 site in the warrior is stature and muscle. 
 There exists a curious document to prove 
 how much even their successors, a people in 
 no degree deficient in acuteness, have been 
 subject to a similar influence. We allude to 
 a register that was made of the thews and 
 sinews among the chiefs of the army of Wash- 
 ington, during the moment of inaction that 
 preceded the recognition of Independence. 
 By this report it would seem, that the animal 
 entered somewhat into the ideas of our fa- 
 thers, when they made their original selection 
 _ of leaders, a circumstance that we attribute 
 to the veneration that man is secretly dis- 
 posed to show to physical perfection, until a 
 better training and experience have taught 
 him there is still a superior power. Our first 
 impressions are almost always received 
 through the senses, and the connexion be- 
 tween martial prowess and animal force seems 
 so natural, that we ought not to be surprised 
 that a people so peaceful and unpractised, in 
 their simplicity, betrayed a little of this def- 
 erence to appearances. Happily, if they 
 sometimes put matter into stations which 
 would have been better filled by mind, the 
 honesty and zeal that were so general in the 
 patriotic ranks carried the country through 
 in triumph. 
 
 It was a consequence of the high favor en- 
 joyed by all manly or physical qualities in the 
 sixteenth century, that men were even prized 
 for their excesses. Thus he who could long- 
 est resist the influence of liquor was deemed, 
 in a more limited sense, as much a hero as he 
 who swung the heaviest mace, or pointed the 
 surest cannon in battle. The debauch in 
 which the Abbot of Limburg and his neighbor 
 Emich of Leiningen were now engaged, was 
 one of no unusual nature; for, in a country 
 in which prelates appeared in so many other 
 doubtful characters, it should not excite sur- 
 prise that some of the class were willing to 
 engage in a strife that had little danger, 
 while it was so highly in favor with the noble 
 and the great. 
 
 The reader will have seen that great progress 
 had been made toward the issue of the celebrat- 
 ‘ed encounter it is our duty to relate, even be, 
 fore its precise object had been formally intro- 
 
 651 
 
 duced among the contending parties. But 
 while the monks came to the struggle ap- 
 prised of its motive, and prepared at all points 
 to maintain the reputation of their ancient 
 and hospitable brotherhood, the Count of 
 Leiningen, with a sullen reliance on his own 
 powers, that was somewhat increased by his 
 contempt for priesteraft, had neglected to be- 
 stow the same care on his auxiliaries. It is 
 scarcely necessary to add that both the Abbé 
 and the Knight of Rhodes had become heated 
 to garrulousness, before they perfectly under- 
 stood the nature of the service that was ex- 
 pected at their hands, or, we ought rather to 
 say, of their heads. With this explanation 
 we shall resume the narrative, taking up its 
 thread some two hours later than the moment 
 when it was last dropped. 
 
 At this particular juncture of the strife, 
 Fathers Siegfried and Cuno had become thor- 
 oughly warmed with their endeavors, and 
 habitual and profound respect for the Abbot 
 was gradually giving way before the quicken- 
 ing currents of their blood. The eyes of the 
 former glistened with a species of forensic 
 ferocity, for he was ardently engaged ona 
 controversial point with Albrecht of Vieder- 
 bach, all of whose faculties appeared to be 
 rapidly exhaling with his potations. The 
 other Benedictine and the Abbé from time to 
 time mingled in the dispute, in the charac- 
 ter of seconds, while the two most interested 
 in the issue sat, warily collecting their powers, 
 and sternly regarding each other, like men 
 who knew they were not engaged in idle 
 sport. 
 
 ‘This is well, with thy tales of L’Isle 
 Adam, and the Ottoman power,” continued 
 Father Siegfried, pursuing the discourse 
 from a point beyond which we consider it 
 unnecessary to record all that passed.—‘‘ This 
 will do to repeat to the dames of our Ger- 
 man courts, for the journey between these 
 Rhenish plains and yonder island of Rhodes 
 is far, and few are inclined to make it, in or- 
 der to convict thy chiefs of neglect, or their 
 sworn followers of forgetfulness of their 
 vows.” 
 
 ‘“ By the quality of ‘my order! reverend 
 Benedictine, thou pushest words to unseem- 
 liness! Is it not enough, that the chosen 
 and the gentlest of Europe should devote soul 
 and body to services that would better become 
 
652 
 
 thy lazy order—that all that is noble and 
 brave should abandon the green fields and 
 pleasant rivers of their native lands, to en- 
 dure hot suns and sultry winds from Africa, 
 in order to keep the unbeliever in his limits, 
 but they must be taunted with gibes like 
 these ? Go, count the graves and number 
 the living, if thou wouldst learn the manner 
 in which our illustrious master held out 
 against Solyman, or wouldst know the serv- 
 ices of his knights !” 
 
 ‘It would sound ill in thy ears, were I to 
 bid thee enter purgatory, to inquire into the 
 fruits of our masses and prayers, and yet one 
 and the other are equally easy to perform. 
 Thou knowest well, that Rhodes is no longer 
 a Christian island, and that none bearing the 
 cross dare be seen on its shores. Go to, 
 Count Albrecht, thy order is fallen into dis- 
 use, and it is better where it is, hid beneath 
 the snowy mountains of che country of Nice, 
 than it might be in the front ranks of Chris- 
 tendom. ‘There is not a crone in Germany 
 that does not bewail the backsliding of an or- 
 der so esteemed of old, or a maiden that does 
 not speak lightly of its deeds !” 
 
 ‘‘ Heavenly patience! hearest thou this, 
 Monsieur Latouche ? and from the mouth of 
 a chanting Benedictine, who passeth his days 
 between safe walls of stone, here in the heart 
 of the Palatinate, and his nights on a warm 
 pallet, beyond sound even of the rushing 
 winds, unless, in sooth, he be not sent on 
 offices of midnight charity among the beliey- 
 ing wives of the faithful !” 
 
 ‘““Boy! dost presume to scandalize the 
 Church, and dare its anger?” demanded 
 Bonifacius, in a voice of thunder. 
 
 ‘‘Reverend Abbot,” answered Albrecht, 
 crossing himself, for habit and policy equally 
 held him subject to the predominant author- 
 ity of the age, ‘‘the little I say is more di- 
 rected to the man than to his cloth.” 
 
 ‘* Let him give utterance to all he fancies,” 
 interrupted the wily Siegfried. <‘‘Is not a 
 knight of Rhodes immaculate, and shall we 
 refuse him right of speech ? ” 
 
 ‘Tt is held at the court of the chivalrous 
 Valois.” observed the Abbé, who perceived 
 it was necessary to interfere, in order to pre- 
 serve the peace, ‘‘ that the defence of Rhodes 
 was of exceeding valor, and few survived it, 
 who did not meet with high honors from 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Christian hands. We have seen numberless 
 of the brave knights among us, in the most 
 esteemed houses of Paris, and at the merry 
 castle of Fontainebleau, and believe me, none 
 were more sought or better honored! The 
 scars of even Marignano and of Pavia are less 
 prized than those given by the hands of the 
 infidel.” 
 
 ‘“Thou dost well, my learned and. self- 
 denying brother,” answered Siegfried, with a 
 sneer, “to remind us of the fight of Pavia, 
 and of thy great master’s present abode! 
 Are these tidings of late from the Castiles, or 
 is it not permitted to thy prince to dispatch 
 couriers to his own capital ? ” 
 
 ‘Nay, reverend monk, thou pressest with 
 unkind allusions, and forgettest that, like 
 thee, we are both servitors of the Church.” 
 
 ‘* We count thee not—one nor the other. 
 Martyred St. Peter! what would become of 
 thy keys were they intrusted to the keeping 
 of such hands !—Go, doff thy vanities—lay 
 aside that attire of velvet, if though wouldst 
 be known as of the flock.” 
 
 ‘* Master Latouche,” exclaimed Emich, 
 who was boiling with indignation, but who 
 preserved his self-command in order to circu- 
 late the cups, and to see that each mad did 
 true service in the prescribed contest, “tell 
 him of his brother of Wittenberg, and of these 
 late doings in the hive. Stick that thorn 
 into his side, and thou shalt see him shrink 
 like a jaded and galled steed under a pointed 
 spur! Who art thou, and why dost thou dis- 
 turb my pleasures ? ” 
 
 This sudden interruption of himself was 
 addressed by the baron to a youth, in neat 
 but modest attire, who had just entered the 
 banqueting-room, and who, passing by the 
 menial that filled the glasses at the beck of 
 his master’s hand, now stood, with a firm 
 but respectful mien, at the elbow of the 
 speaker. 
 
 ‘*?Tis Berchthold, mr lord’s forester. They 
 bid me come to do your pleasure, noble 
 Count.” 
 
 ‘Thou art seasonably arrived to keep the 
 peace between a sworn knight of Rhodes and 
 a garrulous monk of Limburg. This rever- 
 end Abbot would do thee favor, boy.” 
 
 Berchthold bowed respectfully, and turned 
 towards the prelate. 
 
 “'Thou art the orphan of our ancient liege. 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 man, he who bore thy name, and was well 
 
 esteemed among the townsmen of Duerck- 
 
 heim ?” 
 
 ‘“‘T am the son of him your reverence 
 means, but that he was liegeman of any of 
 Limburg, I deny.” 
 
 “ Bravely answered, boy! ” shouted Emich, 
 striking his fist on the table so hard as to 
 threaten destruction to all it held: ‘‘ Aye, 
 and as becomes thy master’s follower! Hast 
 enough, Father Bonifacius, or wilt dip deeper 
 into the youth’s catechism ? ” 
 
 “The young man has been tutored to re- 
 spect his present ease,” returned the Abbot, 
 affecting indifference equally to the exulta- 
 tion of the Count and to the disrespect of 
 his forester. .<‘When he next comes to our 
 confessionals, there will be occasion to give 
 him other schooling.” 
 
 “‘God’s truth ! that hour may never hap- 
 pen. Weare half disposed to live on in our 
 sins, and to take soldier’s fortune, in these 
 stirring times, which is ever the chance of 
 sudden death, without the Church’s passport. 
 We are fast getting of this mind—are we 
 not, brave Berchthold ?” 
 
 The youth bowed respectfully, but without 
 answering, for he saw by the inflamed coun- 
 tenances and swimming eyes of all at the 
 table, that the moment was one in which ex- 
 planations would be useless. Had it been 
 possible to doubt the cause of the scene he 
 witnessed, the manner in which glass after 
 glass was swallowed, at the will of the cup- 
 bearer, would have explained its nature. 
 But, far advanced. as Father Bonifacius had 
 now become in inebriety, in common with 
 the other guests, he retained enough of his 
 faculties, to see that the words of Emich 
 contained an allusion of a dangerously heret- 
 ical character, 
 
 «Thou art resolved to despise our counsel 
 and our warnings!” he exclaimed, glancing 
 fiercely at one and the other. ‘‘’I'were bet- 
 ter to say at once, that thy wish is to see 
 the walks of Limburg Abbey lying on the 
 side of Limburg hill.” 
 
 ‘** Nay, reverend and honored priest, thou 
 pushest a few hasty words beyond their 
 meaning. What is it to a Count of the 
 noble house of Leiningen, that a few monks 
 find shelter for their heads, and ease for their 
 souls, beneath a consecrated roof within 
 
 653 
 
 cannon-shot of his own towers. Lf tny walls 
 do not tumble until hand of mine helps to 
 unsettle them, they may stand till the fallen 
 Angel that set them up, shall aid in their 
 overthrow. Truly, Father Bonifacius, for a 
 godly community, this tale of thy sanctuary’s 
 origin makes it of none of the best parent- 
 age!” 
 
 ‘‘Hear ye that!” sputtered Albrecht of 
 Viederbach, who, though his tongue had con- 
 tinued to sound a sort of irregular accom- 
 paniment to his cousin’s speeches, was no 
 longer able to articulate clearly—“ Hear ye 
 that ! imp of St. Benedict ! The devil set ye 
 up, and the devil will be your downfall. 
 L’Isle Adam is a saint to thy holiest; and 
 his—good—sword 
 
 At this word, the Knight of Rhodes suc- 
 cumbed, losing his balance in an animated 
 effort to gesticulate, and fairly falling under 
 the table. A sarcastic smile crossed the Ab- 
 bot’s face, at this overthrow of one of his ad- 
 versaries, while Emich scowled in disdain at 
 the ignoble exhibition made by ois kinsman; 
 who finding it impossible to ise, resigned 
 himself to sleep on the spot where he had 
 fallen. 
 
 ‘‘Swallow thy Rhenish, monk, and count 
 not on the slight advantage thou hast got in 
 the overthrow of that prating fool,” said the 
 host, whose tones grew less and less amicable, 
 as the plot thickened—‘‘ But to a more fit- 
 ting subject; Berchthold is worthy of his 
 lord, and is a youth that think of things as 
 things appear. We may quit thy confession- 
 als for divers reasons, as thou knowest. Here 
 is the Monk of Erfurth! Ha! what think 
 you of his new teaching, and of the manner 
 in which he advises the faithful to come to 
 the altar? You have had him at Rome, and 
 
 | at Worms, and among ye in many councils, 
 
 yet the honest man stands fast in all reason- 
 able opinions. Thou hast heard of Luther, 
 is it not so, young Berchthold ? ” 
 
 “Tis certain, my Lord Count, that few 
 in the Jaergerthal escape the tidings of his 
 name.” 
 
 “Then are they in danger of a most damn- 
 able heresy!” interrupted Bonifacius, in a 
 voice of thunder. ‘‘ Why tell me of this 
 driveller of Erfurth, Lord Emich, if thou 
 art not in secret praying that his rebellious 
 wishes may prosper at the Church’s cost! 
 
654 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 But we mark thee, irreverent Count, and 
 hard and griping penance may yet purge 
 thee of these prurient fancies—”’ Here the 
 Abbot, inflamed as he was with wine and 
 resentment, paused; for the silent monk, 
 Father Cuno, fell from his seat like a soldier 
 shot in battle; the simple inferior having 
 entered into the trial of heads, more with a 
 relish for the liquor than with any thought 
 of victory, and having, in consequence, done 
 so much honor to the potations, as to become 
 an easy sacrifice to the common enemy. The 
 Abbot looked at his prostrate follower with 
 grim indifference, showing by his hard, 
 scowling, and angry eye, that he deemed the 
 loss of little moment to the main result. 
 
 “ What matters the impotency of a fool!” 
 he muttered, turning away to his principal 
 and only dangerous opponent, with a full re- 
 turn of all his angry feelings:—‘‘ That the 
 devils are suffered to gain a momentary and 
 specious triumph, we are well aware, Baron 
 of Hartenbu ‘g 
 
 ‘‘By my f ther’s bones, proud priest, but 
 thou strange , torgettest thyself! Am I not 
 a prince of Leiningen, that one of the cowl 
 should please to call me less?” 
 
 “T should have said the Summer Land- 
 grave!” answered Bonifacius sneeringly, for 
 long-smothered hatred was beginning to 
 break through the feeble barriers that their 
 reeling faculties still preserved. “I crave 
 pardon of your highness; but a short reign 
 leaves brief recollections. Even thy sub- 
 jects, illustrious Emich, may be forgiven, 
 that they know not their sovereign’s title. 
 The coronet that is worn from June to Sep- 
 tember scarce gets the fit of the head!” 
 
 “Tt was worn longer, Abbot, than ever 
 head of thine will wear a saintly crown. But 
 I forget my ancient house, and the forbear- 
 ance due to a guest, in honest anger at an 
 artful and malignant monk !” 
 
 Bonifacius bowed with seeming composure, 
 and while each appeared to recover his 
 moderation in a misty recollection of the 
 true affair in hand, the dialogue between the 
 Abbé and Father Siegfried, which had been 
 drowned by the stentorian lungs of the prin- 
 cipal disputants, broke out in the momentary 
 pause. 
 
 ‘Thou sayest true, reverend father,” said 
 the former, “but were our fair and sprightly 
 
 dames of France to perform these pilgrimages 
 to distant shrines, of which thou speakest, 
 rude treatment in the wayfaring, evil com- 
 pany, and, haply,. designing confessors, might 
 tarnish the present lustre of their graces, and 
 leave them less ornaments to our brilliant 
 and gallant court than they at present prove. 
 No, I espouse no such dangerous opinions, 
 but endeavor, by gentle persuasion and 
 courtly arguments, to lead their precious 
 souls nearer to the heaven they so well merit, 
 and which it were scarce impious to say they 
 will so rarely become.” 
 
 “'This may be well for the towering fancies 
 of thy French imaginations, but our slower 
 
 German minds must be dealt with differently. - 
 
 By the mass! I would give little for the suc- 
 cess of the confessor that should deal only 
 In persuasive and gentle discourse! Here, 
 we throw our manifold hints of damnation 
 in plainer speech.” 
 
 “T condemn no usage on speculation, 
 Benedictine; but truly this directness of con- 
 demnation would be thought indecorous in 
 our more refined presences. As yet, thou 
 wilt acknowledge, we are less tainted with 
 heresies than thy northern courts.” 
 
 Here the deep voice of Emich, who had re- 
 covered a little self-command, again drowned 
 the by-play of the subordinates. 
 
 “We are not children, most reverend Boni- 
 facius,’ he resumed, “to irritate ourselves 
 with names. That I have been denied the 
 honors and rights of my birth and line, for 
 one come of no direct descent, is admitted ; 
 but let it be forgotten. Thou art welcome to 
 my board, and there is no dignitary of the 
 church, or of thy brotherhood, that I esteem 
 more than thee and thine, within a hard ride 
 of these towers. Let us be friends, holy 
 Abbot, and drink to our loving graces.” 
 
 “Count Emich, I pledge thee, and pray 
 for thee, as thou meritest. If there have 
 been misunderstandings between our convent 
 and thy house, they have come of the mis- 
 guiding of the Devil. We are a peaceful 
 community, and one given more to prayer 
 
 and a just hospitality than to any Sra pine 
 
 desire to enrich our coffers.” 
 
 ‘“On these points we will not dwell, father, 
 
 for it is not easy for baron and abbot, layman 
 and priest, to see at all times with the same 
 eyes. I would that this question of authority 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 in Duerckheim were fairly disposed of, that 
 there might always be good neighborhood in 
 the valley. Our hills shut in no wide plain, 
 like yon of the river, that we must needs 
 turn the little level land we have into a bat- 
 tle-ground. By the mass! most holy Abbot, 
 but thou wouldst do well to dismiss the 
 Elector’s troops, and trust this matter be- 
 tween us to gentle and friendly argument.” 
 << If it were the last prayer I uttered before 
 passing into the fruition of aself-denying and 
 holy life, princely Emich, thy wish should 
 not want support! Have we not often pro- 
 fessed a willingness to refer the question to 
 the Holy Father, or any other high church 
 authority, that can fittingly take cognizance 
 of so knotty a point.. Less than this arbitra- 
 tion would scarce become our apostolic mis- 
 sion.” 
 “ God’s truth ! mein Herr Wilhelm, but ye 
 are to grasping for those who mortify the 
 flesh! Is it meet, I ask ye, that a goodly 
 number of valiant and painstaking burghers 
 should be led by shaven crowns in the day of 
 strife, in fair and foul, evil and good, like so 
 many worthless women, who, having lived in 
 the idleness and vanities of gossip and back- 
 biting, are fain to hope that their sex’s sins 
 may be hid beneath a monk’s frock? Give 
 me up, therefore, this question of Duerck- 
 heim, and certain other rights that might be 
 fairly written out, and the saints in Paradise 
 shall not live in more harmony than we of the 
 Jaegerthal.” 
 ‘«<Truly, Lord Emich, the means of fitting 
 us for the heavenly state thou namest have 
 not been forgotten, since thou hast made a 
 purgatory of the valley these many years ? 
 ‘¢ By the mass, priest, thou again pushest 
 thy remarks beyond discreet speech ! In what 
 manner have I done aught to bring this scan- 
 dal on the neighborhood, beyond a mere fore- 
 thought to mine own interest. Hast thou 
 not opened thy abbey-gates to receive armed 
 and irreligious men ?—are not thy ears hourly 
 wounded by rude oaths, and thy eyes affronted 
 by sights that should be thought unseemly in 
 a sanctuary ?—Nay, that thou mayest not 
 suppose I am ignorant of thy hidden inten- 
 tions, do not the armed bands of Duke Fried- 
 rich lie at watch, this very moment, within 
 thy cloisters ?” | 
 “ We have a just cantion of our rights and 
 
 655 
 
 of the church’s honor,” answered Bonifacius, 
 who scarce endeavored to conceal the con- 
 temptuous smile the question excited. 
 
 ‘« Believe me, Abbot of Limburg, so far 
 from being the enemy of our holy religion, I 
 am its sworn friend ; else should I long since 
 have joined the proselytes of this brother 
 Luther, and have done thee harm openly.” 
 
 «“?T were better than to pray at our altars 
 by day, and to plot their fall at night.” 
 
 ‘<I swear by the life of the Emperor that 
 thou urgest me too far, haughty priest !” 
 
 The clamor created by the Abbé and Father 
 Siegfried here caused the two principal 
 speakers to direct their attention, for the mo- 
 ment, to the secondary combatants. From a 
 courtly dispute, the argument had got to be 
 so confused and warm, between the latter, 
 that each raised his voice in vain endeavor to 
 drown that of his adversary. It was but an 
 instant before the whirling senses of M. La- 
 touche, who had only maintained his present 
 place in the debauch by fraud, gave way to so 
 rude an assault, and he staggered to a settee, 
 where, gesticulating wildly, he soon sunk at 
 his length, unable to lift his head. Father 
 Siegfried witnessed the retreat of his mer- 
 curial foe with a grin of exultation ; then he 
 raised a ferocious shout, which, coming from 
 lungs that had so lately chanted to the honor 
 of God, caused the young Berchthold to shud- 
 der with horror. But the glazed eyes of the 
 monk, and his failing countenance, betrayed 
 an inability to endure more. After staring 
 wildly about him, with the unmeaning idiocy 
 of a drunkard, he settled himself in his chair, 
 and closed his eyes in the heavy sleep that 
 nature unwillingly furnishes to those who 
 abuse her gifts. . 
 
 The Abbot and the Count witnessed the 
 manner in which their respective seconds were 
 thus put hors de combat, in sullen silence. 
 Their growing warmth, and the feelings ex- 
 cited by the mention of their several griev- 
 ances, had insensibly drawn their attention 
 from the progress of the contest, but each 
 now regained a certain glimpse of its nature 
 and of its results; the recollection served to 
 recall the temper of both, for they were too 
 well practised in these scenes not to under- 
 stand the value of presence of mind in main- 
 taining the command of their faculties. 
 
 ‘«<Our brother Siegfried hath yielded to the 
 
656 
 
 frailties of nature, noble Emich,” resumed 
 Boniface, smiling as placidly on his remaining 
 companion, as flushed features and a heated 
 eye would permit. ‘The flesh of priest can 
 endure no more than that of layman, else 
 would he have seen thy flasks drained of the 
 last drop, for better intention never filled 
 grateful heart, in doing honor to the gifts of 
 Providence.” 
 
 ‘Ay, thou passest thy debauches to the 
 account of this subtilty, while we of the sword, 
 Master Abbot, sin to-night, and ask forgive- 
 ness to-morrow, without other pretence than 
 our pleasures. But the hood of a monk isa 
 mask, and he who wears it thinks he hath a 
 right to the benefit of the disguise. I would 
 I knew, toa bodice, the number of burgh- 
 ers’ wives thou hast shrived since Corpus 
 Domini ! ” 
 
 “Jest not with the secrets of the confes- 
 sional, Count Emich; the subject is too sa- 
 cred for profane tongues. There has been 
 bitter penance for greater than thou ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, mistake me not, holy Abbot,” re- 
 turned the baron, hurriedly crossing himself ; 
 ‘‘but your bold talkers say there is discon- 
 tent in Duerckheim on this point, and I 
 deem it friendly to communicate the accusa- 
 tions of the enemy. This is a moment in 
 which our German monks are in danger; for, 
 in sooth, thy brother of Erfurt is no drivel- 
 ler in his cry against Rome.” 
 
 The eye of Father Boniface flashed fire, 
 for none are so quick to meet, or so violent 
 to resent attacks, on what they consider their 
 rights, as those who have long been permit- 
 ted to enjoy monopolies, however frail or 
 unjust may be the tenure of their possession. 
 
 ‘In thy heart, rude Emich, thou clingest 
 to the heresy!” he said. ‘‘ Beware, in what 
 manner thou castest the weight of thy 
 example and name into the scale against the 
 commands of God and the authority of the 
 Church! As for this Luther, a backsliding 
 wretch, that unquiet ambition and love for a 
 professed but misguided nun, have urged 
 to rebellion, the devils are rejoicing in his 
 iniquity, and imps of darkness stand ready 
 to riot in his final and irretrievable fall.” 
 
 ‘* By the mass! Father, to a, plain soldier 
 it seemeth better to wive the sister honestly, 
 than to give all this scandal in Duerckheim, 
 and otherwise to do violence to the peace of 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 families on the fair plains of the Palatinate. 
 If Brother Luther hath done no more than 
 thou sayest here, he hath fairly cheated 
 Satan, which is what thy community did of 
 old, when it got the evil spirit to aid in rais- 
 ing thy chapel, and then, with no great 
 regard to a debtor’s obligations, sent him 
 away penniless.” 
 
 ‘‘Were the truth known, Kmich, I fear 
 it would be found that thou hast faith in — 
 this silly legend !” 
 
 “If thou hast not outwitted the Devil, 
 priest, it hath been that his prudence hath 
 kept him from bargaining with those he 
 knows to be his betters in cunning. By the 
 rood ! *twas a bold spirit that would grapple, 
 wit to wit, with the monks of Limburg ! ” 
 
 Disdain kept the Abbot from answering, 
 for he was too superior to vulgar tradition to 
 feel even resentment at an imputation of 
 this kind. His host perceived that he was 
 losing ground, and he began. to see, by the 
 manner in which his senses were slowly 
 receding, that he was in imminent danger of 
 forfeiting the important stake that now 
 depended wholly on his powers of endurance. 
 The Abbot had a well-earned reputation of 
 having the strongest head of all the church- 
 men of the Palatinate, and Count Emich, 
 who was nowise wanting in physical excel- 
 lence of this sort, began to feel that species 
 of failing which is commonly the forerunner, 
 as it is often the cause, of defeat. He swal- 
 lowed bumper after bumper, with a reckless 
 desire to overwhelm his antagonist, without 
 thought of the inroads that he was producing 
 on his own faculties. Bonifacius, who saw 
 and felt his superiority, willingly indulged 
 his antagonist in this feverish desire to 
 drive the struggle to a premature issue, and 
 several glasses were taken in a sort of sullen 
 defiance, without a syllable issuing from the 
 hips of either. In this strait, the Count turned 
 his swimming eyes toward the attendants, 
 in a vague hope that they who served him so 
 faithfully on ordinary occasions, might aid 
 him in the present desperate emergency. 
 
 Young Berchthold Hintermayer stood near 
 his lord, in respectful attendance on his 
 pleasure, for habit prevented him from with- 
 drawing without an order. Enough had 
 fallen from the parties in this singular contest 
 to let him into the secret of its object. He 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 appeared to understand the appeal, and ad- 
 vanced to do the office of cup-bearer, a duty 
 that in truth required some such interference, 
 for he who should have discharged it had 
 been too diligently imitating those at the 
 board to be able any longer to acquit himself 
 with propriety of his functions. 
 
 ‘‘If my Lord Abbot would but relieve the 
 passing time,” said Berchthold, as he poured 
 out the wine, ‘‘ by descanting more at large 
 ’ on this heresy, he might be the instrument 
 of saving a doubting soul; I freely confess, 
 that, for one, I find much reason to distrust 
 the faith of my fathers.” 
 
 . This was attacking the Abbot on his 
 weakest, not to say his only vulnerable, 
 point. 
 
 ‘Thou shalt smart for this, bold boy !” 
 he cried, striking the table with a clenched 
 fist. ‘*Thou harborest heresies, unfledged 
 and paltry reasoner on apostolic missions ! 
 *Tis well—’tis well—the impudent avowal is 
 noted !” 
 
 Emich made a sign of gratitude, for in 
 his rage the priest took a heavy draught, un- 
 conscious of what he was about. 
 
 *‘ Nay, my lord, the most reverend Abbot 
 will pardon imprudent speech in one little 
 gifted in knowledge of this sort. Were it to 
 strike a wild boar, or to stop a roebuck, or 
 haply to do harm to my master’s enemies, 
 this hand might prove of some account ; but 
 is it matter of fair surprise that we of simple 
 wit should be confounded, when the most 
 learned of Germany are at a loss what to be- 
 lieve? JI have heard it said, that Master 
 Luther made noble answers in all the coun- 
 cils, and wise bodies, in which he hath of late 
 appeared.” 
 
 ‘* He spoke with the tongue of Lucifer! ” 
 roared the Abbot, fairly frothing with the 
 violence of ungovernable rage. ‘‘ Whence 
 cometh this new and late-discovered religion ? 
 Of what stock and root is it? Why hath it 
 been so long hid, and where is its early his- 
 tory? Doth it mount to Peter and Paul, or 
 is it the invention of modern arrogance and 
 rank conceit ?” 
 
 ‘Nay, father, the same might be asked of 
 Rome itself, before Rome knew an apostle. 
 The tree is not less a tree after it hath been 
 
 trimmed of its decayed branches, though it 
 
 may be more comely.” 
 
 657 
 
 Father Bonifacius was both acute and 
 learned, and, under ordinary circumstances, 
 even the monk of Wittenberg might have 
 found him a stubborn and subtle casuist ; but 
 in his actual condition, the most sophistical 
 remark, if it had but the aspect of reason, 
 was likely to inflame him. Thus assailed, 
 therefore, he exhibited an awful picture of 
 the ferocity of human passions when brutal- 
 ized by indulgence. His eyes seemed starting 
 from his head, his lips quivered, and _ his 
 tongue refused its functions. He was now in 
 the predicament in which the.Count had so 
 lately stood; and, though he foresaw the 
 consequences, with the desperation of an in- 
 ebriated man, he sought the renewal of his 
 forces in the very agent which had under- 
 mined them. Count Emich himself was past 
 intelligible utterance, but eloquence not being 
 his strongest arm, he still maintained suffi- 
 cient command of his physical powers to con- 
 tinue the conflict. He flourished his hand in 
 defiance, and muttered words that seemed to 
 breathe hatred and scorn. In this manner 
 did a noble of an illustrious and princely 
 house, and a mitred prelate of the Church, 
 stand at bay, with little other consciousness 
 of the existence of the nobler faculties of 
 their being than that connected with the 
 common mercenary object which had induced 
 this trial of endurance. 
 
 ‘“The Church’s malediction on ye all!” 
 Boniface at length succeeded in uttering :— 
 then fallimg back in his elbowed and well- 
 cushioned chair, he yielded ~is faculties to 
 the sinister influence of the liquor he had 
 swallowed. 
 
 When Emich of Leiningen witnessed the 
 overthrow of his last antagonist, a gleam of 
 intelligence and triumph shot from beneath 
 his shaggy brows. By a desperate effort he 
 raised himself, and stretching forth an arm, 
 he gained possession of the deed by which the 
 community of Limburg formally released its 
 claims upon the products of the disputed 
 vineyards. Arising, with the air of one ac- 
 customed to command even in his cups, he 
 signed for his forester to approach, and aided 
 by his young and nervous arm, he tottered 
 from the room, leaving the banqueting-hall, 
 like a deserted field, a revolting picture of 
 human infirmity in its degradation and 
 neglect. 
 
658 
 
 As the Count fell heavily upon his couch, 
 clad as he had been at table, he shook the 
 parchment toward his young attendant, till 
 the folds rattled. Then closing his eyes, his 
 deep and troubled breathing soon announced 
 that the victor of this debauch lay like the 
 vanquished, unconscious, feverish, and un- 
 manned. 
 
 Thus terminated the well-known debauch 
 of Hartenburg, a feat of physical endurance 
 on the part of the stout baron who prevailed, 
 that gained him little less renown among the 
 boon companions of the Palatinate than he 
 would have reaped from a victory in the field ; 
 and which, strange as it may now appear, dero- 
 gated but little from any of the qualities of 
 the vanquished. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ‘‘ And from the latticed gallery came a chant 
 Of psalms, most saint-like, most angelical, 
 Verse after verse sung out most holily.”—RoGERs. 
 
 THE succeeding day was the Sabbath. The 
 morning of the weekly festival was always 
 announced to the peasants of the Jaegerthal 
 with the usual summons to devotion. The 
 matin bell had been heard on the Abbey walls, 
 even before the light penetrated to the bot- 
 tom of the deep vale; and all the pious had 
 bent, in common, wherever the sounds hap- 
 pened to reach their ears, in praise and 
 thanksgiving. But as the hours wore on, a 
 more elevated display of Roman worship was 
 prepared in the high mass, a ceremony ad- 
 dressed equally to the feelings and the 
 senses. ‘ 
 
 The sun was fairly above the hills, and the 
 season bland to seduction. The domestic 
 cattle, relieved from their weekly toil, basked 
 against the hill-side, ruminating in content- 
 ment, and filled with the quiet pleasures of 
 their. instinet. Children gambolled before 
 the cottage doors ; the husbandman loitered, 
 in the habiliments that had borne the fash- 
 ions of the Haart through many generations, 
 regarding the silent growth of his crops, and 
 the housewife hurried from place to place, in 
 the excitement of simple domestic enjoyment. 
 Tho month was the most grateful of the 
 twelve, and well filled with hopes., The 
 
 grass had reached its height, and was throw- | 
 
 / 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ing out its exuberance, the corn was filling 
 fast, and the vine began to give forth its clus- 
 ters. 
 
 In the midst of this scene of rural tran- 
 quillity, the deep-toned bells of the Abbey 
 called the flock to its usual fold.. Long prac- 
 tice had made the brotherhood of Limburg 
 expert in all the duties that were necessary 
 
 to the earthly administration of their func-_ 
 
 tions. Even the peals of the bells were regu- 
 lated and skilful. 
 ed note, and there was not a silent dell, for 
 miles, into which the solemn eall did not 
 penetrate. Bells were heard too from 
 Duerckheim, and even from the wide plains 
 beyond; but none rose fuller upon the air, 
 or came so sweet and melancholy to the ear, 
 as those which hung in the Abbey towers. 
 Obedient to the summons, there was a 
 gathering of all in the valley toward the gate 
 of Limburg. A crowd appeared also in the 
 direction of the gorge, for devotion, supersti- 
 tion, or curiosity never failed to attract a 
 multitude on these occasions, to witness mass 
 in that celebrated conventual chapel. Among 
 the latter came equally the skeptical and the 
 believing, the young and the old, the fair 
 and her who deemed it prudent to shade a 
 matronly countenance with the veil, the idle, 
 
 the half-converted follower of Luther, and © 
 
 the lover of music. It was customary for 
 one of the brothers to preach, when mass was 
 ended ; and Limburg had many monks that 
 were skilled in the subtleties of the times, 
 and some even who had names for eloquence. 
 
 With a management and coquetry that 
 enter into most human devices that are in- 
 tended to act on our feelings, especially in 
 matters that it is not thought safe to confide 
 too much to naked reason, the peals of the 
 bells were continued long, with a view to 
 effect. As group after group arrived, the 
 court of the Abbey slowly filled, until there 
 appeared a congregation sufficiently numer- 
 ous to gratify the self-love of even a clerical 
 star of our own times. There was much 
 grave salutation among the different dignita- 
 ries that were here assembled, for of all those 
 who doff the cap in courtesy, perhaps the 
 German is the most punctilious and respect- 
 ful. As the neighboring city was fully rep- 
 resented in this assembly of the religious and 
 curious, there was also a profitable display of 
 
 Note mournfully succeed= 
 
 . 
 
 ee 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 the duties that are due to station. A herald 
 might have obtained many useful hints, had 
 he been there to note the different degrees of 
 simple homage that were paid, from the Bur- 
 gomaster to the Bailiff. Among the variety 
 of idle and ill-digested remarks that are lay- 
 ished on the American people and their insti- 
 tutions, it is a received pleasantry to joke on 
 their attachment to official dignities. But 
 he who has not only seen, but observed both 
 his own countrymen and strangers, will have 
 had numberless occasions to remark that this, 
 like most similar strictures, is liable to the 
 imputation of vapidity, and of being proof of 
 @ narrow observation. ‘The functionary that 
 is literally a servant of the people, whatever 
 may be his dispositions, can never triumph 
 over his masters; and, though it be an hon- 
 est and commendable ambition to wish to be 
 so distinguished, we need only examine the 
 institutions to-see that in this, as in most 
 other similar circumstances, there is no strict 
 analogy between ourselves and European na- 
 tions. The remark has probably been made 
 because a respect for official authority has 
 been found among us, when there was the 
 expectation, and possibly the wish, to find 
 anarchy. 
 
 At the high mass of Limburg there was 
 more ceremony observed in ushering the 
 meanest village dignitary to his place in the 
 church than would be observed in conduct- 
 ing the head of this great republic to the 
 high station he occupies ; and care was had, 
 by an agent of the convent, to see that no 
 one should approach the altar of the Lord of 
 the Universe without his receiving the def- 
 erence he might claim in virtue of his tem- 
 poral rank! Here, where all appear in the 
 temple as they must appear in their graves, 
 equals in dependence on divine support as 
 they are equals in frailty, it will not be easy 
 to understand the hardihood of sophistry 
 which thus teaches humility and penitence 
 with the tongue, and invites to pride and 
 presumption in the practice ; and which, 
 when driven to a reason for its conduct, 
 defends itself against the accusation of incon- 
 sistency by recriminating the charge of envy! 
 
 There had been a suitable display of cere- 
 mony when several functionaries of Duerck- 
 heim appeared, but the strongest manifesta- 
 tion. of respect was reserved for a burgher 
 
 659 
 
 who did not enter the gates until the people 
 were assembled in the body of the church. 
 This personage, a man whose hair was just 
 beginning to be gray, and whose solid, vigor- 
 ous frame denoted full health and an easy 
 life, came in the saddle; for at the period 
 of which we write, there was a bridle-path to 
 the portal of Limburg. He was accompanied 
 by a female, seerningly his spouse, who rode 
 an ambling nag, bearing on the crupper a 
 crone that clung to her well-formed waist, 
 with easy, domestic familiarity, but like one 
 unused to her seat. <A fair-haired, rosy girl 
 sat the pillion of the father, and a serving- 
 man, in a species of official livery, closed the 
 cavalcade. 
 
 Sundry of the more substantial citizens of 
 Duerckheim hastened to the reception of this 
 little party, for it was Heinrich Frey, with 
 Meta, her mother, and Ilse, that came unex- 
 pectedly to the mass of Limburg. The afflu- 
 ent and flourishing citizen was ushered to 
 the part of the church, or chapel, where es- 
 pecial chairs were reserved for such casual 
 visits of the neighboring functionaries, or 
 for any noble that devotion, or accident, 
 might lead to worship at the Abbey’s altars. 
 
 Heinrich Frey was a stout, hale, obstinate, 
 sturdy burgher, in whom prosperity had a 
 little cooled benevolence, but who, had he 
 escaped the allurements of office and the 
 recollection of his own success, might have 
 passed through life as one that was wanting 
 in neither modesty nor humanity. He was, 
 in short, on a diminished scale, one of those 
 examples of desertion from the ranks of man- 
 kind to the corps d’élite of the lucky, that 
 we constantly witness among the worldly and 
 fortunate. While a youth, he had been suf- 
 ficiently considerate for the burdens and dif- 
 ficulties of the unhappy; but a marriage with 
 a small heiress, and subsequent successes, had 
 gradually brought him to a view of things 
 that was more in unison with his own par- 
 ticular interests, than it was either philo- 
 sophical or Christian-like. He was a firm 
 believer in that dictum which says none but 
 the wealthy have sufficient interest in society 
 to be intrusted with its control, though his 
 own instinct might have detected the sophis- 
 try, since he was daily vacillating between 
 opposing principles, just as they happened 
 to affect his own particular concerns. Hein- 
 
660 
 
 rich Frey gave freely to the mendicant, and 
 to the industrious; but when it came to be a 
 question of any serious melioration of the lot 
 of either, he shook his head, in a manner to 
 imply a mysterious political economy, and 
 uttered shrewd remarks on the bases of so- 
 ciety, and of things as they were established. 
 In short, he lived in an age when Germany, 
 and indeed all Christendom, was much agi- 
 tated by a question that was likely to unset- 
 tle not only the religion of the day, but divers 
 other vested interests; and he might have 
 been termed the chief of the conservative 
 party, in his own particular circle. These 
 qualities, united to his own wealth; a repu- 
 tation for high probity, which was founded 
 on the belief that he was fully able to repair 
 any pecuniary wrong he might happen to 
 commit; a sturdy maintenance of his own 
 opinions, that passed with the multitude for 
 the consistency of rectitude; and a perfect 
 fearlessness in deciding against all those who 
 had not the means of disputing his decrees, 
 had procured for him the honor of being the 
 first Burgomaster of Duerckheim. 
 
 Were the countenance a certain index of the 
 qualities of the mind, a physiognomist might 
 have been ata loss to discover the motives 
 which had induced Ulricka Hailtzinger, not 
 only the fairest but the wealthiest maiden of 
 the town, to unite herself in marriage with the 
 man we have just delineated. A mild, melan- 
 choly blue eye, that retained its lustre in de- 
 spite of forty years, a better outline of features 
 than is common to the region in which she 
 dwelt, and a symmetry of arm and bust that, 
 on the other hand, is rather peculiar to the na- 
 tives of Germany, still furnished sufficient evi- 
 dence of the beauty for which she must have 
 been distinguished in early life. In addition 
 to these obvious and more vulgar attractions, 
 the matronly partner of Heinrich had an 
 expression of feminine delicacy and intelli- 
 gence, of elevated views, and even of myste- 
 rious aspirations, which rendered her a 
 woman that a nice observer of nature might 
 have loved to study—and have studied to 
 love. 
 
 In personal appearance, Meta was a copy of 
 her mother, engrafted on the more ruddy 
 health and less abstracted habits of the father. 
 Her character will be sufficiently developed 
 as we proceed in the tale. Wecommit Ilse to 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the reader’s imagination, which will readily 
 conceive the sort of attendant that has been 
 introduced. 
 
 The Herr Heinrich did not take possession 
 of his customary post before the high altar 
 without causing the stir and excitement 
 among the simple peasants of the Jaegerthal, 
 and the truant Duerckheimers who were 
 present, that became his condition in life. 
 But even city importance cannot predomi- 
 nate forever in the house of God, and the 
 bustle gradually subsiding, expectation began 
 to take precedency of civic rank. 
 
 The Abbey of Limburg stood high among 
 the religious communities of the Rhine, for 
 its internal decorations, its wealth, and its 
 hospitality. The chapel was justly deemed a 
 rare specimen of monastic taste, nor was it 
 wanting in most of those ornaments and dec- 
 orations that render the superior buildings, 
 devoted to the service of the Church of Rome, 
 so imposing to the senses, and so pleasing to 
 the admirers of solemn effect. The building 
 was vast, and, as prevailed throughout that 
 region and in the century of which we write, 
 sombre. It had numerous altars, rich in 
 marbles and pictures, each celebrated in the 
 Palatinate for the kind mediation of the par- 
 ticular saint to whom it was dedicated, and 
 each loaded with the votive offerings of the 
 suppliant, or of the grateful. The walls and 
 the nave were painted al fresco, not indeed 
 with the pencil of Raphael, or Buonarotti, 
 but creditably, and in a manner to heighten 
 the beauty of the place. The choir was carved 
 in high relief, after a fashion much esteemed, 
 and that was admirably executed in the 
 middle states of Europe, no less than in 
 Italy, and whole flocks of cherubs were seen 
 poising on the wing around the organ, the 
 altar, and the tombs. The latter were nu- 
 merous, and indicated, by their magnificence, 
 that the bodies of those who had enjoyed the 
 world’s advantages slept within the hallowed 
 precincts. 
 
 At length a door, communicating with the 
 cloisters, opened, and the monks appeared, 
 walking in procession. At their head came 
 the Abbot, wearing his mitre, and adorned 
 with the gorgeous robes of his ecclesiastical 
 office. 'T'wo priests, decorated for the duties 
 
 of the altar, followed, and then succeeded the — 
 professed and the assistants, in pairs. The — 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 whole procession swept through the aisles in 
 stately silence ; and, after making the tour 
 of most of the church, paying homage and 
 offering prayers at several of the most hon- 
 ored altars, it passed into the choir. Father 
 Bonifacius was seated on his episcopal throne, 
 and the rest of the brotherhood occupied the 
 glossy stalls reserved for such occasions. Dur- 
 ing the march of the monks, the organ 
 breathed a low accompaniment, and, as they 
 became stationary, its last strain died in the 
 vaulted roof. At this moment the clattering 
 of horses’ hoofs was audible without, causing 
 the startled and uneasy priests to suspend 
 the mass. The rattling of steel came next, 
 and then the heavy tread of armed heels was 
 heard on the pavement of the church itself. 
 
 Emich of Hartenburg came up the princi- 
 pal aisle, with the steady front of one confi- 
 dent of his power, and claiming deference. 
 He was accompanied by his guests, the Knight 
 of Rhodes and Monsieur Latouche, while 
 young Berchthold Hintermayer kept at his 
 elbow, like one accustomed to be in close at- 
 tendance. A small train of unarmed depend- 
 ents brought up the rear. There was a seat 
 of honor, in the choir itself, and near the 
 master altar, to which it was usual to admit 
 princes and nobles of high consideration. 
 Passing through the crowd that had collected 
 at the railing of the choir, the Count inclined 
 toward one of the lateral aisles, and was soon 
 face to face with the Abbot. The latter 
 arose, and slightly recognized the presence of 
 his guest, while the whole brotherhood imi- 
 tated his example, though with greater re- 
 spect; for, as we have said, it was usual to 
 pay this homage to worldly rank, even in the 
 temple. Emich seated himself, with a scowl 
 on his visage, while his two noble associates 
 found seats of honor near. Berchthold stood 
 at hand. 
 
 An inexperienced eye could have detected 
 no outward signs of his recent defeat, in the 
 exterior of Wilhelm of Venloo. His muscles 
 had already regained their tone, and his entire 
 countenance its usual expression of severe 
 
 authority, a quality for which it was more re- 
 
 markable than for any lines of mortification 
 or of thought. He glanced at the victor, 
 and then, by a secret sign, communicated 
 with a lay brother. At this moment the 
 mass commenced. 
 
 661 
 
 Of all the nations of Christendom, this, 
 compared with its numbers, is the least con- 
 nected with the Church of Rome. The pe- 
 culiar religious origin of the people, their 
 habits of examination and mental independ- 
 ence, and their prejudices (for the Protes- 
 tant is no more free from this failing than the 
 Catholic) are likely to keep them long sepa- 
 rated from any policy, whether of Church or 
 State, that exacts faith without investigation, 
 or obedience without* the right to remon- 
 strance. An opinion is sedalously dissem- 
 inated in the other hemisphere that busy 
 agents are rapidly working changes in this 
 respect, and a powerful party is anxiously 
 anticipating great ecclesiastical and political 
 results from the return of the American na- 
 tion to the opinions of their ancestors of the 
 middle ages. Were the fact so, it would give 
 us little concern, for we do not believe salva- 
 tion to be the peculiar province of sects; but, 
 had we any apprehensions of the consequences 
 of such a conversion, they would not be ex- 
 cited by the accidental accumulations of emi- 
 grants in towns, or on the public works 
 in which the country is so actively engaged. 
 We believe that where one native Protestant 
 becomes a Catholic in America, ten emigrant 
 Catholics drop quietly into the ranks of the 
 prevailing sects; and, without at all agitating 
 the point of which is the gainer or the loser 
 by the change, we shall proceed to describe 
 the manner of the mass, as a ceremony, that 
 ninety-nine in a hundred of our readers have 
 never had, nor probably ever will have, an 
 opportunity of witnessing. 
 
 There is no appeal to the feelings of man 
 which has given rise to opinions so decidedly 
 at variance as those which are entertained of 
 the Roman ritual. To one description of 
 Christians these ceremonies appear to be 
 vain mummeries, invented to delude, and 
 practised for unjustifiable ends; while to 
 another they contain all that is sublime and 
 imposing in human worship. As is usual in 
 most cases of extreme opinions, the truth 
 would seem to lie between the two. ‘The 
 most zealous Catholic errs when he would 
 maintain the infallibility of all who minister 
 at the altar, or when he overlooks the slovenly 
 and irreverent manner in which the most. 
 holy offices are so frequently performed; end, 
 surely, the Protestant who quits the temple,. 
 
662 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 in which justice has been done to the formula 
 of this Church, without perceiving that there 
 is deep and sublime devotion in its rites, has 
 steeled his feelings against the admission of 
 every sentiment in favor of a sect that he is 
 willing to proscribe. We belong to neither 
 
 class and shall, therefore, endeavor to repre-- 
 
 sent things as they have been seen, not dis- 
 guising or affecting a single emotion because 
 our fathers happened to take refuge in this 
 western world to set uf altars of a different 
 shade of faith. 
 
 The interior of the Abbey-church of Lim- 
 burg, as has just been stated, was renowned 
 in Germany for its magnificence. Its vaulted 
 roof was supported by many massive pillars, 
 and ornamented with scriptural stories, by 
 the best pencils of that region. The grand 
 altar was of marble, richly embellished with 
 agate, containing as usual a labored represen- 
 tation of the blessed Mary and her deified 
 child. <A railing of exquisite workmanship, 
 and richly gilded, excluded profane feet from 
 this sanctified spot, which, in addition to its 
 fixtures, was now glittering with vessels of 
 gold and precious stones, bemg decorated for 
 theapproaching mass. ‘The officiating priests 
 wore vestments stiffened with golden embroid- 
 ery, while the inferior attendants were as 
 usual clad in white, and bound with scarfs of 
 purple. 
 
 Upon this scene of gorgeous and elaborate 
 splendor, in which the noble architecture 
 united with the minute preparations of the 
 service to lead the spirit to lofty contempla- 
 . tions, the chant of the monks, and the tones 
 of the organ, broke in a deep and startling 
 appeal to the soul. Lives dedicated to the 
 practices of their community, had drilled the 
 brotherhood into perfection, and scarce a note 
 issued among the vaults that was not attuned 
 to the desired effect. ‘Trombones, serpents, 
 and viols, lent their aid to increase the solemn 
 melody of powerful masculine voices, which 
 were so blended with the wind instruments as 
 to comprise but one deep, grand, and grave 
 sound of praise. Count Emich turned on 
 his seat, clenching the handle of his sword, 
 as if the clamor of the trumpet were in his 
 ears; then his unquiet glance met that of the 
 Abbot, and his chin fell upon a hand. As 
 the service proceeded, the zeal of the brother- 
 hood seemed to increase, and, as it was after- 
 
 wards remarked, on no occasion had the mass 
 of Limburg, at all times known for its power 
 
 in music, been so remarkable for its strong — 
 
 and stirring influence. Voice rolled above 
 voice, in a manner that must be heard to be 
 understood, and there were moments when 
 the tones of the instruments, full and united 
 as they were, appeared drowned in the blend- 
 ing of a hundred human aspirations. From 
 the deepest of one of these solemn peals there 
 arose a strain, at whose first tone all other 
 music was hushed. It was a single human 
 voice, of that admixture of the male and fe- 
 male tones which seems nearest allied to the 
 supernatural, being, in truth, a contralto of 
 great compass, roundness, and sweetness. 
 Count Emich started, for, when these heaven- 
 ly strains broke upon his ear, they seemed to 
 float in the vault above the choir; nor could 
 he, as the singer was concealed, assure him- 
 self of the delusion, while the solo lasted. He 
 dropped his sword, and gazed about him, for 
 the first time that morning, with an expres- 
 sion of human charity. The hps of young 
 Berchthold parted in admiration, and as he 
 just then met the blue eye of Meta, there was 
 an exchange of gentle feeling in that quiet 
 and secret glance. In the meantime, the 
 chant proceeded. The single unearthly voice 
 that had so stirred the spirits of the listeners 
 ceased, and a full chorus of the choir con- 
 cluded the hymn. 
 
 The Count of Leiningen drew a breath so 
 heavy that it was audible to Bonifacius. The 
 latter suffered his countenance to unbend, 
 and, as in the case of the youthful pair, the 
 spirit of concord appeared to soothe the tem- 
 pers of these fierce rivals. But here com- 
 menced the ritual of the mass. The rapid ut- 
 terance of the officiating priest, gesticulations 
 which lost their significance by being blended 
 
 and indistinct, and prayers in a tongue that 
 
 defeated their object by involving instead of 
 rendering the medium of thought noble and 
 clear, united to weaken the effect produced 
 by the music. Worship lost its character of 
 inspiration, by assuming that of business, 
 neither attracting the imagination, influenc- 
 ing the feelings, nor yet sufficiently convine- 
 ing the reason. Abandoning all these per- 
 suasive means, too much was left to the 
 convictions of anaked and settled belief. 
 Emich of Hartenburg gradually resumed 
 
 Ce ne eg age ep gla 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 his repulsive mien, and the effect of all that 
 he had so lately felt was lost in cold indiffer- 
 ence to words that he did not comprehend. 
 Eyen young Berchthold sought the eye of Meta 
 less anxiously, and both the Knight of Rhodes 
 and Monsieur Latouche gazed listlessly toward 
 the throng grouped before the railing of the 
 choir. In this manner did the service com- 
 mence and terminate. There was another 
 hymn, and a second exhibition of the power 
 of music, though with an effect less marked 
 than that which had been produced when the 
 listeners were taken by surprise. 
 
 Against a column, near the centre of the 
 church, was erected a pulpit. A monk rose 
 from his stall, at the close of the worship, 
 and, passing through the crowd, ascended its 
 stairs like one about to preach. It was Father 
 Johan, a brother known for the devotedness 
 of his faith and the severity of his opinions. 
 The low receding forehead, the quiet but 
 glassy eye, and the fixedness of the inferior 
 members of the face, might readily have per- 
 suaded a physiognomist that he beheld a 
 heavy enthusiast. The language and opinions 
 of the preacher did not deny the expecta- 
 tions excited by his exterior. He painted, in 
 strong and ominous language, the dangers of 
 the sinner, narrowed the fold of the saved 
 within metaphysical and questionable limits, 
 and made frequent appeals to the fears and 
 to the less noble passions of his audience. 
 While the greater number in the church kept 
 aloof, listening indifferently, or gazing at the 
 monuments and other rich decorations of the 
 place, a knot of kindred spirits clustered 
 around the pillar that supported the preach- 
 er’s desk, deeply sympathizing in all his pict- 
 ures of pain and desolation. 
 
 The sharp, angry, and denunciatory address 
 of Father Johan was soon ended; and,as he 
 re-entered the choir, the Abbot rose and re- 
 tired to the cloisters, followed by most of the 
 brotherhood. But neither the Count of Har- 
 tenburg, nor any of his train, seemed dis- 
 posed to quit the church so soon. An air of 
 “expectation appeared, also, to detain most of 
 those in the body of the building. A monk, 
 toward whom many longing eyes had been 
 cast, yielded to the general and touching 
 ‘appeal, and quitting his stall, one of high 
 honor, he took the place just vacated by 
 Father Johan. 
 
 663 
 
 The movement was no sooner made, than 
 the name of Father Arnolph, the Prior, or the 
 immediate spiritual governor of the commu- 
 nity, was buzzed among the people, Emich 
 arose, and, accompanied by his friends, took 
 a station near the pulpit, while the dense 
 mass of uplifted and interested faces, that 
 filled the middle aisle, proclaimed the inter- 
 est of the congregation. There was that in 
 the countenance and air of Father Arnolph 
 to justify this plain demonstration of sympa- 
 thy. His eye was mild and benevolent, his 
 forehead full, placid and even, and the whole 
 character of his face was that of winning 
 philanthropy. To the influence of this gen- 
 eral and benevolent expression, must be added 
 evident signs of discipline, much thought, 
 
 ‘and meek hope. 
 
 The spiritual part of such a man was not 
 likely to belie the exterior. His doctrine, 
 like that of the divine being he served, was 
 charitable and full of love. Though he 
 spoke of the terrors of judgment, it was with 
 grief rather than with menace ; and it was 
 when dwelling on the persuasive and attract- 
 ive character of faith, that he was most ear- 
 nest and eloquent. Again Emich found his 
 secret intentions shaken, and his frown re- 
 laxed to gleamings of sympathy and interest. 
 The eye of the preacher met that of the stern 
 baron, and, without making an alarming 
 change of manner, he continued, as it were, 
 by a natural course of thought—‘‘ Such is 
 the Church in its purity, my hearers, let the 
 errors, the passions, or the designs of man 
 pervert it in what manner they may. The 
 faith I preach is of God, and it partakes of 
 the godlike qualities of His divine essence. 
 He who would impute the sins of its mis- 
 taken performance to aught but His erring 
 creatures, casts odium on that which is insti- 
 tuted for his own good; and he who would 
 do violence to its altars, lifts a hand against 
 a work of omnipotence !” 
 
 With these words in his ears, Emich of 
 Hartenburg turned away, and passed mus- 
 ingly up the church. 
 
664 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ‘‘ Japhet, I cannot answer thee.”—BYRon. 
 
 THE Abbey of Limburg owed its existence 
 and its rich endowments chiefly to the favor 
 of an emperor of Germany. In honor of 
 this great petron, an especial altar, and a 
 gorgeous and elaborate tomb, had been 
 erected. Similar honors had been also paid 
 to the Counts of Leiningen, and to certain 
 other noble families of the vicinity. These 
 several altars were in black marble, relieved 
 by ornaments of white, and the tombs were 
 decorated with such heraldic devices as 
 marked the particular races of the different 
 individuals. They stood apart from those 
 
 already described in the principal church, in 
 
 a sort of crypt, or semi-subterranean chapel, 
 beneath the choir. hither Count Emich 
 held his way, when he quitted the column 
 against which he had leaned while listening 
 to the sermon of Father Arnolph. 
 
 The light of the upper church had that 
 soft aud melancholy tint which is so peculiar 
 and so ornamental to a Gothic edifice. It 
 entered through high, narrow windows of 
 painted glass, coloring all within a hue that 
 it was not difficult for the imagination to 
 conceive had some secret connection with the 
 holy character of the place. The depth and 
 the secluded position of the chapel rendered 
 this light still more gloomy and touching 
 in the crypt. When the Count reached the 
 pavement, he felt its influence deeply, for 
 few descended into that solemn and hallowed 
 vault without becoming sensible to the relig- 
 lous awe that reigned around. Emich crossed 
 himself, and, as he passed before the altar 
 reared by his race, he bent a knee to the mild 
 and lovely female countenance that was there 
 to represent the Mother of Christ. He 
 thought himself alone, and he uttered a 
 prayer ; for, though Emich of Leiningen was 
 aman that rarely communed seriously with 
 God when exposed to worldly and deriding 
 eyes, he had in his heart deep reverence for 
 tis power. As he arose, a movement at his 
 elbow attracted a look aside. 
 
 “Ha! Thou here, Herr Prior!” he ex- 
 
 claimed, suppressing as much of his surprise 
 _as self-command enabled him to do with suc- 
 cess ; ‘‘thou art swift in thy passage from 
 
 - 
 
 the stall to the pulpit, and swifter from the 
 pulpit to the chapel !” | 
 
 “We that are vowed to lives of monkish 
 devotion, need to be often at all. Thou wert 
 kneeling, Emich, before the altar of thy 
 race,?,.”’ 
 
 “By St. Benedict, thy patron ! but thou 
 hast, in good sooth, found me in some such 
 act, holy father. A weakness came over me, 
 on entering into this gloomy place, and I 
 would fain do reverence to the spirits of 
 those who have gone before me.” 
 
 ‘*Callest thou the desire to pray a weak- 
 ness? At what shrine could one of thy 
 name worship more fittingly than at this, 
 which has been reared and enriched by the 
 devout of his own kindred ; or in what better 
 mood canst thou look into thyself, and call 
 
 upon divine aid, than in that thou hast men- 
 
 tioned ?”’ 
 
 ‘Herr Prior, thou overlookest the occasion 
 of my visit, which is to hear the Abbey mass, 
 and not to confess and be shrived.” 
 
 “Tt is long since thou hast had the benefit 
 of these sacred offices, Emich !” 
 
 “Thou hast done well in thy way, father, 
 at the desk; and I question not that the 
 burghers of Duerckheim and their gossips 
 will do thee credit in their private dis- 
 courses. ‘Thy fame as a preacher is not of 
 mean degree even now, and this effort of to- 
 day would well-nigh gain thee a bishopric, 
 were the women of our valley in the way of 
 moving Rome. How fareth it with the most 
 holy Abbot this morning, and with those 
 two pillars of the community, the Fathers 
 Siegfried and Cuno?” 
 
 “Thou sawest them in their places at the 
 most holy mass.” 
 
 “’Rore heaven! but they are worthy 
 companions! Believe me, father, more hon- 
 est boon associates do not dwell in our merry 
 Palatinate, nor men that I love in a better 
 fashion, according to their merits! Did’st 
 hear, reverend Prior, of their visit to Har- 
 tenburg, and of their deeds in the flesh ?” 
 
 “The humor of thy mind is quickly 
 changed, Herr Count, and pity tis *twere 
 thus. I came not here to listen to tales of 
 excesses in thy hold, nor of any forgetful- 
 
 ness of those who, having sworn to better 
 
 things, have betrayed that they are merely 
 men”. 
 
 * 
 ow 
 ; 
 
 ES i i Bis alg 
 
 _ = 
 
 ¥ 
 4 
 
 pe 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 «« Ay, and stout men, if any such dwell in 
 the empire! I prize my good name as an- 
 other, or I would tell thee the number of 
 vessels that my keeper of the cellar sweareth 
 are no better than so many men-at-arms 
 fallen in a rally or an onset.” 
 
 “This love of wine is the curse of our 
 region and of the times. I would that none 
 of the treacherous liquor should again enter 
 the gates of Limburg !” 
 
 * God’s justice ! reverend Prior, thou wilt 
 in sooth find some decrease of quantity in 
 future,” returned Emich, laughing, ‘‘ for the 
 disputed vineyards have at last found a 
 single, and, though it might better come 
 from thee, as one that hath often looked into 
 my interior, as it were, by confession, a 
 worthy master. I pledge thee the honor of 
 a noble, that not a flask of that which thou 
 so contemnest shall ever again do violence to 
 thy taste.” 
 
 The Count cast a triumphant glance at the 
 monk, in the expectation, and possibly in 
 the hope, that, notwithstanding his profes- 
 sions of moderation, some lurking signs of 
 regret might betray themselves at this an- 
 nouncement of the convent’s loss. But 
 Father Arnolph was what he seemed, a man 
 devoted to the holy office he had assumed, and 
 one but little influenced by worldly interests. 
 
 “JT understand thee, Emich,” he said, 
 mildly, but unmoved. ‘*'This scandal was 
 not wanting at such a moment to bring ob- 
 loquy upon a reverend and holy Church, 
 against which its enemies have been per- 
 mitted to make rude warfare, for reasons 
 that are concealed in the inscrutable myste- 
 ries of Him who founded it.” 
 
 “Thou speakest in reason, monk, for, to 
 say truth, yon fellow of Saxony, and his fol- 
 lowers, who are anything but few or weak, 
 begin to move many in this quarter to doubts 
 and disobedience. ‘Thou must most stoutly 
 hate this brother Luther in thy heart, 
 father !” 
 
 For the first time that day, the counte- 
 nance of the Prior lost its even expression of 
 benevolence. But the change was so imper- 
 ceptible to a vulgar eye, as to escape the 
 scrutiny of the Count ; and the feeling, a 
 lingering remnant of humanity, was quickly 
 mastered by one so accustomed to hold the 
 passions in subjection. 
 
 665 
 
 “The name of the schismatic hath 
 troubled me!” returned the Prior, smiling 
 mournfully at the consciousness of his own 
 weakness ; ‘‘[ hope it has not been with a 
 feeling of personal dislike. He stands on a 
 frightful precipice, and from my soul do I 
 pray, that not only he, but all the delud- 
 ed that follow in his dangerous track, may 
 see their peril in time to retire unharmed !” 
 
 ‘‘Father, thou speakest like one that 
 wisheth good to the Saxon rather than 
 harm !” 3 
 
 “T think I may say, the words do not belie 
 the thoughts.” 
 
 ‘“Nay, thou forgettest the damnable her- 
 esies he practiseth, and overlookest his mo- 
 tive! Surely one that can thus sell soul 
 and body for love of a wanton nun, hath little 
 claim to thy charity !” 
 
 There was a slight glow on the temples of 
 Father Arnolph. 
 
 “They have attributed to him this craven 
 passion,” he answered, “and they have tried 
 to prove, that a mean wish to partake of the 
 pleasures of the world lies at the bottom of 
 his rebellion ; but I believe it not, and I 
 say it not.” 
 
 “God’s truth! Thou art worthy of thy 
 holy office, Herr Prior, and I honor thy 
 moderation. Were there more like thee 
 among us, we should have a better neighbor- 
 hood, and less meddling with the concerns 
 of others. With thee, I see myself no such 
 necessity of his openly wiving the nun, for 
 it is very possible to enjoy the gifts of life 
 even under a cowl, should it be our fortune 
 to wear it.” 
 
 The monk made no answer, for he per- 
 ceived he had to do with one unequal to 
 understanding his own character. 
 
 “ Of this we will say no more,” he rejoined, 
 after a brief and painful pause; ‘“‘let us 
 look rather to thine own welfare. It is said, 
 Count Emich, that thou meditatest evil to 
 this holy shrine; that ambition, and the 
 longings of cupidity, have tempted thee to 
 plot our abbey’s fall, in order that none may 
 stand between thine own baronial power and 
 the throne of the Elector ! ” 
 
 «Thou art less unwilling to form unkind 
 opinions of thy nearest neighbor, than of 
 that mortal enemy of the Church, Luther, it 
 would appear, Herr Prior. What hast thou 
 
666 
 
 seen in me, that can embolden one of thy 
 charity to hazard this accusation?” 
 
 “‘T do but hazard what all in our convent 
 think and dread. Hast thou reflected well, 
 Emich, of this sacrilegious enterprise, and of 
 what may be its fruits? Dost thou recall 
 the objects for which these holy altars were 
 reared, or the hand that laid the corner-stone 
 of the edifice thou wouldst so profanely over- 
 throw?” 
 
 ‘‘Took you, good Father Arnolph, there 
 are two manners of viewing the erection of 
 thy convent, and more especially of this 
 identical church in which we stand. One of 
 our traditions sayeth that the arch-knave 
 himself had his trowel in thy masonry.” 
 
 «Thou art of too high lineage, of blood 
 too noble, and of intelligence too ripe, to 
 credit the tale.” 
 
 ‘“These are points in which I pretend not 
 to dip too deeply. Iam no scholar of Prague 
 or Wittenberg, that thou shouldst put these 
 questions so closely to me, It were well that 
 the brotherhood had bethought itself of this 
 imputation in season, that the question might 
 have been settled, for or against, as justice 
 needed, when the learned and great among 
 our fathers were met at Constance, in grave 
 and general council.” 
 
 Father Arnolph regarded his companion 
 in serious concern. He too well knew the 
 deplorable ignorance, and the consequent 
 superstition, in which the great of his time 
 were involved, to manifest surprise; but he 
 also knew the power the other wielded suffi- 
 ciently to foresee the evils of such a union 
 between force and ignorance. Still it was 
 not his present object to combat opinions 
 that were only to be removed by time and 
 study, if indeed they can ever be eradicated, 
 when fairly rooted in the human mind, He 
 pursued his immediate design, therefore, 
 avoiding a discussion, which, at that moment, 
 might prove worse than useless. 
 
 ‘‘That the finger of evil mingles more 
 or less with all things that come of human 
 agency, may be true,” he continued, taking 
 care that the expression of his eye should 
 neither awaken the pride, nor arouse the 
 obstinacy of the noble--“ but when altars 
 have been reared, and when the worship of 
 the Most High God hath continued for ages, 
 we have reason to hope that His Holy Spirit 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 presideth in majesty and love acofhed the 
 shrines. Such hath been the case with Lim- 
 burg, Count Emich; and doubt it. not, we 
 who stand here, holding this discourse, stand 
 also in the immediate presence of that dread 
 Being who created heayen and earth, who 
 guideth our lives, and who will judge us in 
 death !” 
 
 “God help us, Herr Prior! Thou hast 
 already done thy office in the desk this day, 
 and I see no occasion that thou shouldst 
 doubly perform a function that was so well 
 acquitted at first. I like not the manner of 
 being ushered, as it were unannounced, into 
 so dread a presence as this thou hast just 
 proclaimed. Were it but the Elector Fried- 
 rich, Emich of Leiningen could not presume 
 to this famiheuiyy without some eonanitation 
 as to its fitness.” 
 
 ‘In the eyes of the Being we mean, Elec- 
 tors and Emperors are equally indifferent. 
 He loveth the meek, and the merciful, and 
 the just, while he scourgeth them who deny 
 His authority. But thou hast named thy 
 feudal prince, and I will question thee in a 
 manner suited to thy habits. Thou art, in 
 truth, Emich of Leiningen, a noble of name 
 in the Palatinate, and one known to be of 
 long-established authority in these regions. 
 Still art thou second, or even third, in 
 worldly command, in this thy very country. 
 The Elector and the Emperor both hold thee 
 in check, and either is strong enough to 
 destroy thee at pleasure, in thy vaunted hold 
 of Hartenburg.” 
 
 ‘To the last I yield the means, if thou 
 wilt, worthy Prior”—interrupted the Count 
 —“hbut for the first, he must needs dispose 
 of his own pressing enemies, before he 
 achieves this victory!” . 
 
 Father Arnolph understood the other’s 
 meaning, for it was no secret that Friedrich 
 was, just then, so pressed as to sit on a tot- 
 tering throne; a circumstance that was 
 known to have encouraged the long-medi- 
 tated designs of the Count of Hartenburg to 
 get rid of a community that thwarted his 
 views, and diminished his local authority. 
 
 ‘* Forgetting the Elector, we will turn only 
 to the Emperor, then,” rejoined the Prior. 
 ‘‘ Thou believest him to be in his palace, and 
 remote from thy country, and certainly he 
 hath here no visible force to restrain thy re- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 bellions hand. We will imagine that a fam- 
 ily he protected—nay, that he loved—stood 
 in the way of some of thy greedy projects, 
 and that the tempter had persuaded thee it 
 would be well to remove it, or to destroy it 
 with the strong hand. Art thou weak 
 enough, Count Emich, to listen to such ad- 
 vice, when thou knowest that the arm of 
 Charles is long enough to reach from his dis- 
 tant Madrid to the most remote corner of 
 Germany, and that his vengeance would be 
 as sure as it would be fearful ?” 
 
 ‘Tt would be a bold warfare, Herr Prior, 
 that of Emich of Leiningen against Charles 
 Quintus! Left to mine own humor, holy 
 monk, I would rather choose another en- 
 emy. 3) 
 
 «And yet thou wouldst war with one 
 mightier than he! Thou raisest thy impo- 
 tent arm, and thy audacious will, against thy 
 God! Thou wouldst despise His promises, 
 profane His altars, nay, thou wouldst fain 
 throw down the tabernacle that He hath 
 reared ! Dost thou think that Omnipotence 
 will be a nerveless witness of this sin; or 
 that.an eternal and benign wisdom will for- 
 get to punish ?” 
 
 «By St. Paul! thou puttest the matter 
 altogether in thine own interest, Father Ar- 
 nolph, for there is yet no proof that this 
 Abbey of Limburg hath any such origin, or, 
 ~ if it had, that it hath not fallen into disfavor, 
 by the excesses of its own professed. *T'were 
 well to send for the right reverend Abbot, 
 and those pillars of sanctity, the Fathers 
 Cuno and Siegfried, to bear witness in thy 
 behalf. God’s wisdom! I reason better 
 with those worthies, in such a matter, than 
 with thee !” 
 
 Emich laughed, the sound echoing in that 
 vaulted chapel to the ears of the monk, like 
 the scoffing of a demon. Still, the natural 
 equity of Father Arnolph told him that there 
 was too much to justify the taunt of the no- 
 ble, for he had long and bitterly mourned the 
 depravity of many of the brotherhood. 
 
 ‘‘T amnot here to sit in judgment on those 
 who err, but to defend the shrines at which 
 I worship, and to warn thee from a fatal sin. 
 If thy hand is ever lifted against these walls, 
 it is raised against that which God hath 
 blessed, and which God will avenge. But 
 thou art of human feeling, Emich of Harten- 
 
 667 
 
 burg; and, though doubting of the sacred 
 character of that which thou wouldst fain 
 destroy, thou canst not deceive thyself con- 
 cerning these tombs—in this holy chapel 
 have prayers been often raised, and masses 
 said, for the souls of thine own line!” 
 
 The Count of Leiningen looked steadily at 
 the speaker. Father Arnolph had _ placed 
 himself, without design, near the opening 
 which communicated between that sombre 
 chapel and the superior church. Rays of 
 bright light shot through the eastern window, 
 and fell upon the pavement at his feet, 
 throwing around his form the mild and sol- 
 emn lustre which comes from the stained 
 glass of the Gothic ages. The services of 
 the morning had also spread, throughout the 
 entire building, that soothing atmosphere 
 which is usually the attendant of Roman 
 worship. The incense had penetrated to the 
 crypt, and unconsciously the warlike noble 
 had felt its influence quieting his nerves and 
 lulling the passions. All who have entered 
 the principal Basilica of modern Rome, have 
 been subject to a combination of moral and 
 physical causes that produce the result we 
 mean, and which, though more striking. in 
 that vast and glorious pile, resembling a 
 world with attributes and an atmosphere of 
 its own, is also felt in every Catholic temple 
 of consequence in a lessened degree. 
 
 ‘* Here lie my fathers, Arnolph,” ans'vered 
 the Count, huskily ; ‘‘ and here, as thou say- 
 est, have masses been said for their souls !” 
 
 “And thou contemnest their graves— 
 thou wouldst violate even their bones ! ” 
 
 ««?Twere not an act for a Christian !” 
 
 * Look hither, Count. This is the monu- 
 ment of the good Emich, thy ancestor. He 
 honored his God, and did not scruple to 
 worship at our altars.” 
 
 ‘¢Thou knowest, holy Prior, that I have 
 often bared my soul at thy knees.” 
 
 ‘Thou hast confessed, and hast been 
 shrived ; that thou didst not lay up future 
 griefs——” 
 
 ‘« Say rather damnation ”—interrupted one 
 behind, whose voice, issuing suddenly from 
 that sepulchral chapel, seemed to come from 
 the tombs themselves.—‘‘ Thou triflest, rev- 
 erend Prior, with our holy mission, to deal 
 thus tenderly with so sore a sinner.” 
 
 The Count of Leiningen had started, and 
 
668 
 
 even quailed, at the first words of interrup- 
 tion ; but looking around, he beheld the re- 
 ceding front, the sunken eye, and the bending 
 person of Father Johan. 
 
 ‘Monks, I leave you,” said Emich, firmly. 
 “It is good for ye to pray, and to frequent 
 these gloomy altars; but I, who am a soldier, 
 cannot waste further time in your vaults. 
 Herr Prior, farewell. Thou hast a guardian 
 that will protect the good.” 
 
 Before the Prior could recover his voice, 
 for he too had been taken by surprise, the 
 Count stalked, with a heavy footstep, up the 
 marble stairs, and the tread of his armed heel 
 was soon heard on the flags above. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ‘The way is but short ; away.”—Armado. 
 
 WHILE all must be conscious of the fearful 
 infirmities that beset human nature, there are 
 none so base as not to know that their being 
 contains the seeds of that godlike principle 
 which still likens them to their divine Creator. 
 Virtue commands the respect of man, in 
 whatever accidental stage of civilization, or of 
 mental improvement, he may happen to exist ; 
 and he who practises its precepts is certain of 
 the respect, though he may not always secure 
 the protection, of his contemporaries. 
 
 As the Count of Leiningen walked down 
 the rich and vast aisle of the Abbey-church, 
 his thoughts vacillated between the impres- 
 sions produced by the Prior, and his latent, 
 but still predominant, intentions. He might 
 have been likened to one who listened to the 
 counsels of a good and of an evil genius ; that 
 exhorting to forbearance and mercy, and this 
 tempting to violence by the usual array of 
 flattery and hopes. While he brooded over 
 the exactions of the community, which were 
 founded on a legal superiority that was alike 
 hurtful to his power and galling to his pride, 
 its manner of thwarting his views, and its 
 constant opposition to his supremacy in the 
 valley, motives of enmity that were justly 
 heightened by the dissolute and audacious de- 
 portment of too many of its members, the 
 effect of all was secretly opposed by the image 
 of Father Arnolph, surrounded by the mild 
 and noble characteristics of Christian virtue. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Emich could not, though he fain would, chase 
 from his imagination the impression of meek- 
 ness, charity, and of self-denial, that a long 
 acquaintance with the monk had made, and 
 which the recent interview had served both 
 to freshen and to render more deep. Buta 
 spectacle was prepared to meet his eyes in the 
 court of the convent, that did as much to- 
 ward weakening this happy influence of the 
 Prior, by setting the pride of the noble in op- 
 position to his better feelings, as could have 
 been wished by the bitterest enemy of Lim- 
 burg. 
 
 It has been said that the outer wall of the 
 Abbey encircled the entire brow of the hill, 
 or mountain, on which the convent stood. 
 Though the buildings were spacious and nu- 
 merous, the size of the little plain on the,sum- 
 mit left ample space for exercise and air. 
 Besides the cloisters, which were vast, though 
 possessing the character of monkish seclusion, 
 there were gardens in the rear of the Abbot’s 
 abode, and a court of considerable extent, 
 immediately infront of thechurch. Athwart 
 this court, in which sundry groups of the late 
 congregation yet lingered, was drawn up, in 
 military order, a band of soldiers, wearing the 
 colors, and acknowledging the authority, of 
 the Elector Friedrich. The secret signal 
 given by Father Bonifacius, when the Count 
 entered the choir, had prepared this unwel- 
 come sight for his neighbor. 
 
 While the men-at-arms leaned on their ar- 
 quebuses, in grave attention to discipline, the 
 Knight of Rhodes and the Abbé were oc- 
 cupied in paying their court to the fair wife - 
 of the Burgomaster of Duerckheim, and to 
 her scarce fairer daughter. Young Bercht- 
 hold stood aloof ; watching the interview with 
 feelings allied equally to envy and jealousy. 
 
 «‘ A fair morning and a comfortable mass 
 to you, high-born Emich !” cried the husband 
 and father heartily, but lifting his cap, as the 
 noble approached the spot where the burgher 
 stood, waiting for this meeting ere he put 
 foot into the stirrup; “I had thought the 
 sight of your fathers’ altar was like to cheat 
 me of this honor, and to send me away with- 
 out a word from your friendly and much- 
 prized grace.” 
 
 ‘‘Between thee and me, Heinrich, this 
 slight could not happen,” answered the Count. 
 grasping the hand of the Burgomaster, which 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 he squeezed with the cordiality and vigor of a 
 soldier. ‘‘ How fareth it with allin Duerck- 
 heim, that town of my affection, not to say of 
 my right ?” 
 
 ‘‘As you could wish, noble Count, and 
 well-disposed to the house of Leiningen. In 
 all that pertaineth to love of your name and 
 race, we lack nothing.” 
 
 ‘© This is well, honest Heinrich ; it may yet 
 be better.—But thou wilt do me grace this 
 summer morning ?” 
 
 ‘“< Nay, it is for your grace to command in 
 this particular, and for one like me to obey.” 
 
 ‘¢ Herr Heinrich, hast looked well at these 
 knaves of Friedrich ? Ha! are they not mel- 
 ancholy and ill-disposed at being cooped with 
 Benedictines, when there are stirring times 
 in the Palatinate, and when their master hath 
 as much as he can do to hold his court in 
 Heidelberg ? Seest thou aught of this ?” 
 
 Emich. had dropped his voice, and the 
 burgher was not a man to express more in 
 answer than the circumstances actually re- 
 quired. He looked eloquently, however, and 
 the exchange of glances between him and the 
 Count betrayed the nature of the undertaking 
 that connected the castle and the city. 
 
 ‘‘You spoke of commanding my duty, 
 mein Herr Graf, and it is fitting I should 
 know in what manner to do you pleasure.” 
 
 ‘Nay, tis no pain-giving penance I ask. 
 Turn my horse’s head toward Hartenburg, 
 and share of my poor fare, with a loving wel- 
 come, for an hour or so.” 
 
 «<7 would it were within compass, my Lord 
 Count,” returned Heinrich, casting a doubt- 
 ing look toward Meta and his wife—‘‘ but 
 these Sunday masses are matters in which 
 the women love to deal ; and from the first 
 sound of the matin bell, till we shut the gates 
 at even, I scarce call myself master of a 
 thought.” 
 
 ‘«‘ By the Virgin! *I'would seem ill indeed, 
 did not Hartenburg contain a roof to shelter 
 all of thy name and love.” 
 
 «There are noble gentlemen already on 
 your hospitality, and I would not fain ? 
 
 ‘‘Name them not. This in the gay doub- 
 let, that weareth the white cross, is but a 
 houseless Knight ef Rhodes, one that wan- 
 dereth like the dove from the ark, uncertain 
 where to place his foot ; and he of black vest- 
 
 ments, an idle Abbé from among the French, 
 
 669 
 
 who doth little else but prate with the 
 women. Leave thy female gender in their 
 hands, for they are much accustomed to these 
 gallantries.” 
 
 “Zum Henker! most nobly born eccellenz, 
 I never doubted their handiness in all idle- 
 nesses, but my wife hath little humor for vain 
 attentions of this nature, and not to conceal 
 from my lord any of our humors, I will con- 
 fess it is as little to my pleasure to witness so 
 much ceremony with a woman. Were the 
 well-born Ermengarde, your noble consort, 
 in the castle, my female charge might be glad 
 to pay their court to her, but in her absence 
 I doubt that they will cause more encum- 
 brance than they will afford satisfaction.” 
 
 “‘ Name it not, honest Heinrich, but leave 
 the matter to me. As for these idlers, I will 
 find them occupation when fairly out of the 
 saddle ; so will I not excuse the youngest of 
 thy name.” 
 
 The warm, frank manner of the noble pre- 
 vailed, though the arrangement was not alto- 
 gether agreeable to the Burgomaster ; but,in 
 that age hospitality was always of so direct a 
 character as seldom to admit of denial with- 
 out sufficient excuse. Emich now paid his 
 court to the females. Smoothing his mous- 
 tache and beard, he saluted the cheeks of 
 Ulricke, with affectionate freedom, and then, 
 presuming on his years and rank, he pressed 
 a kiss on the ruby lips of Meta. The girl 
 blushed and laughed, and in her confusion 
 courtesied, as if in acknowledgment of the 
 grace from one of so high quality. Heinrich 
 himself, though he so little liked the coquetry 
 of the strangers, witnessed these liberties not 
 only without alarm but with evident content- 
 ment. 
 
 ‘‘ Many tpanks, noble Emich, for this honor 
 to my women,” he cried, lifting his bonnet 
 again. ‘‘ Meta is not used to these compli- 
 ments, and she scarce knoweth rightly how 
 to acknowledge the grace, for to say truth, it 
 is not often that her cheek feeleth the tick- 
 ling of a beard. Iam no saluter of her sex, 
 and there are none in Duerckheim that may 
 so presume.” 
 
 ‘*St. Denis defend me!” exclaimed the 
 Abbé; ‘‘in what shameful negligence have 
 we fallen!” saluting the mild Ulricke on the 
 instant, and repeating the same ceremony 
 with the daughter, so suddenly, as to leave 
 
670 
 
 none present time to recover from their sur- 
 prise. “Sir Knight of Rhodes, we appear 
 in this affair as but of indifferent breeding !” 
 
 ‘«< Hold, cousin of Viederbach,” said Emich, 
 laughing, while he placed a hand before his 
 kinsman.—‘** We forget, all this time, that we 
 are in the court of Limburg, and that salu- 
 tations which savor so much of earth may 
 scandalize the holy Benedictines. We will 
 to horse, and keep our gallantries for a better 
 season. ” 
 
 The forward, impatient movement of young 
 Berchthold was self-checked, and, swallowing 
 his discontent, he turned aside to conceal his 
 vexation. 
 
 In the meantime, the whole party prepared 
 to mount. Although repulsed in his effort 
 to obtain a salute from the fair girl, who had 
 so passively received these liberties from his 
 kinsman and the Abbé, the Knight of 
 Rhodes busied himself in assisting the damsel 
 upon the crupper of her father’s saddle. A 
 similar office was performed for Ulricke by 
 the Count of Leiningen himself, and then 
 the noble threw his own booted and heavy 
 leg across the large and strong-jointed war- 
 horse that was pawing the pavement of the 
 court. The others imitated his example, 
 even to the mounted servitors, who were nu- 
 merous; when, doing stately reverence to 
 the large crucifix that stood before them, the 
 whole cavalcade ambled from the court. 
 
 There were many curious spectators around 
 the outer gate, among whom were sundry of 
 the more humble dependants of Hartenburg, 
 purposely collected there, by an order of their 
 lord, in the event of any sudden violence 
 arising from his visit to the Abbey, together 
 with a crowd of mendicants. 
 
 «« Alms, great Emich! Alms§worthy and 
 wealthy Burgomaster! God’s blessing on 
 you both, and holy St. Benedict heed ye in 
 his prayers! We are a-hungered and a-cold, 
 and we crave alms at your honorable hands!” 
 
 ‘Give the rogues a silver pence,” said the 
 Count to the purse-bearer, who rode in his 
 train. ‘They have a starving look, in sooth. 
 These godly Benedictines have, of late, been 
 so busied between their garrison and their 
 - masses, that they have forgotten to feed the 
 poor, Come nearer, friend; art thou of the 
 Jaegerthal ?” 
 
 “No, noble Count. I come from a pil- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 grimage to a distant shrine, but want and 
 suffering have befallen me by the way.” 
 
 ‘‘ Hast pressed the monks for charity? or 
 dost thou find them too much engaged in 
 godliness to remember human suffering ?” 
 
 “Great Count, they give freely; but where 
 there are many mouths to feed, there needs 
 be much gold. I say naught against the 
 holy community of Le which is godly 
 in charity, as in grace.” 
 
 ‘Give the knave a kreutzer,” Pattee: 
 Heinrich Frey; “ hast thou aught to show in 
 the way of authority for undertaking this © 
 pilgrimage, and for assailing the Hlector’s 
 subjects and servitors in a aie horse 
 path ?” 
 
 ‘Naught but this, rer Burgo- 
 master,’—Heinrich wore his chain of office 
 —“naught but the commands of my contfess- 
 or, and this pass of our own chief men.” 
 
 ‘¢ Callest this naught? Thou speakest of 
 a legal instrument of high quality, an’ it 
 were but a copy of silly rhymes! Hold! 
 thou must not be led into temptation by too 
 much want. Meta, wench, hast a kreut- 
 zer?”? 
 
 ‘‘Here is a silver pence, that may better 
 suit the pilgrim’s necessities, father.” 
 
 “God keep thee, child! Dost expect to 
 escape want thyself, with such prodigality ? 
 But stay—there are many of them, and the ~ 
 piece justly distributed might do good. 
 Come nearer, friends. Here is a silver zwan- 
 ziger, which you will divide honestly into 
 twenty parts, of which two are for the 
 stranger, for to him are we most indebted by 
 the commands of God, and one for each in- 
 habitant of the valley, not forgetting the © 
 poor woman that, in your haste, and by — 
 reason of her years, you have prevented from — 
 drawing near. For this boon; I ask prayers — 
 of you in behalf of the Elector, the ity of @ 
 Duerckheim, and the family of Frey.” 
 
 So saying, the Burgomaster pushed ahead, 
 and was soon at the foot of the mountain of — 
 Limburg. The train of footmen, who had 
 lingered to witness the largess of the magis- 
 trate, and who had considered the indiffer-— 
 ence of Emich as what was no more than 
 natural im one placed +by Providence in a 
 situation so far removed from vulgar wants, 
 was about to follow, when a lay-brother of 
 the convent touched one of the party on 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 the arm, signing for him to re-enter the 
 court. 
 
 “Thou art needed further, friend,” whis- 
 pered the lay-brother. “Amuse thyself with 
 these men-at-arms till they retire; then seek 
 the cloisters.” 
 
 A nod sufficed to tell the lay-brother that 
 he was understood, and he immediately dis- 
 appeared. The follower of Count Emich did 
 as commanded, loitering in the court until 
 the object of the Abbot was accomplished, 
 that of exhibiting the protection of the Elec- 
 tor to his dangerous neighbor, and the arque- 
 busiers marched to their quarters. The road 
 was no sooner clear, than the peasant who 
 had been detained proceeded to do as he had 
 been ordered. 
 
 In each conventual edifice of the other 
 hemisphere, there is an inner court. sur- 
 rounded by low and contemplative arcades 
 called the cloisters. The term whichis given 
 to the seclusion of monastic life in general, 
 and to the objects of the institution itself, in 
 an architectural sense, is limited to the se- 
 cluded and sombre piazzas just mentioned. 
 When this part of the building is decorated, 
 as often happens, with the elaborate orna- 
 ments of the Gothic style, it is not easy to 
 conceive a situation more happily imagined 
 for the purposes of reflection, self-examina- 
 tion, and religious calm. ‘To us the cloisters 
 have ever appeared pregnant with the poetry of 
 monkish existence, and, Protestant as we are, 
 we never yet entered one without feeling the 
 
 influence of that holy and omnipotent power. 
 
 that is thought to be propitiated by convent- 
 ual seclusion. In Italy, the land of vivid 
 thought and of glorious realities, the pencils 
 of the greatest masters have been put in req- 
 uisition to give the cloisters a mild attrac- 
 tion, blended with lessons of instruction, that 
 are in strict consonance with their uses. 
 Here are found some of the finest remains of 
 Raphael, of Domenichino, and of Andrea del 
 Sarto ; and the traveller now enters vaulted 
 galleries, that the monk so long paced in re- 
 ligious hope or learned abstraction, to visit 
 the most prized relics of art. 
 
 The dependant of Count Emich had no 
 difficulty in finding his way to the place in 
 question, for, as usual, there was a direct 
 communication between the cloisters of Lim- 
 burg and the church. By entering the latter 
 
 671 
 
 and taking a lateral door, which was known 
 to lead to the sacristy, he found himself be- 
 neath the arcades, in the midst of the touch- 
 ing seclusion described. Against the walls 
 were tablets with Latin inscriptions, in honor 
 of different brothers who had been distin- 
 guished by piety and knowledge; and here 
 and there was visible, in ivory or stone, that 
 constant monitor of Catholic worship, the 
 crucifix. 
 
 The stranger paused, for a single monk 
 paced the arcades, and his mien was not in- 
 viting for one who doubted of his reception. 
 At least so thought the dependant of Emich, 
 who might easily have mistaken the chastened 
 expression of Father Arnolph’s features, 
 clouded as they now were with care, for se- 
 verity. 
 
 “What wouldst thou ?” demanded the 
 Prior, when a turn brought him face to face 
 with the intruder. 
 
 ‘‘ Reverend monk, thy much-prized bless- 
 ing.” 
 
 “‘ Kneel, and receive it, son. ‘Thou art 
 doubly blest; in seeking consolation from 
 the Church, and in avoiding the fatal here- 
 sies of the times.” 
 
 The Prior repeated the benediction, made 
 the usual sign of grace, and motioned for 
 the other to rise. : 
 
 ‘‘Wouldst thou aught else?” he asked, 
 observing that the peasant did not retire, as 
 was usual for those who received this favor. 
 
 ‘* Naught—unless yonder brother hath oc- 
 casion for me.” 
 
 The face of Siegfried was thrust througha 
 door which led to the cells. The countenance 
 of the Prior changed lke that of one who 
 had lost all confidence in the intentions of 
 his companion, and he pursued his way along 
 the arcade. The other glided past, and dis- 
 appeared by the door whic hhe had been cov- 
 ertly invited to enter. 
 
 It has already been said that the Benedic- 
 tine ig an order of hospitality. A principal 
 building of the hill was especially devoted to 
 the comforts of the Abbot, and to those of 
 the travellers it was always his duty, and in 
 the case of Father Bonifacius scarcely less 
 often his pleasure, to entertain. Here were 
 seen some signs of the great wealth of the 
 monastery, though it was wealth chastened 
 by forms, and restricted by opinion ; still 
 
672 
 
 there was little of self-denial, or indeed of 
 any of that self-mortification which is com- 
 monly thought to be the inseparable attend- 
 ant of the cell. The rooms were wainscoted 
 with dark oak ; emblems of religious faith, 
 in costly materials, abounded ; nor was there 
 any want of velvet and other stuffs, all how- 
 ever of sober colors, though of intrinsic value. 
 Father Siegfried ushered the peasant into 
 one of the most comfortable of these rooms. 
 It was the cabinet of the Abbot, who, having 
 thrown aside the robes of office in which he 
 so lately appeared in the choir, and ungirt 
 and divested of all the churchly pomp in 
 which he had just shown himself to the peo- 
 ple, was now taking his ease, with the indo- 
 lence of a student, and with some of the neg- 
 ligence of a debauchee. 
 
 ‘Here is the youth I have named to you, 
 holy Abbot,” said Father Siegfried, motion- 
 ing his companion to advance. 
 
 Bonifacius laid down a parchment-covered 
 and illuminated volume, one but lately issued 
 from the press, rubbing his eyes like a man 
 suddenly roused from a dreamy abstrac- 
 tion. 
 
 “Truly, Brother Siegfried, these knaves 
 of Leipzig have done wonders with their art! 
 Not a word can I find astray, or a thought 
 concealed. God knows to what pass of infor- 
 mation this excess of knowledge, so long sa- 
 cred to the learned, may yet lead us! The 
 office of a librarian will no longer be of rare 
 advantages, or scarcely of repute.” 
 
 -** Have we not proofs of the evil in the 
 growing infidelity and in the manifest in- 
 subordination of the times?” 
 
 ‘“*It were better for all their souls, and 
 their present repose, that fewer did the 
 thinking in this troublesome world.—Thou 
 art named Johan, son?” 
 
 “Gottlob, most reverend Abbot, by your 
 leave, and with the Church’s favor.” 
 
 “?Tig a pious appellation, and I trust thou 
 dost not forget to obey the toe of ee it 
 should Heaily remind thee. 
 
 “Tn that particular I can say that I praise 
 God, father, for all the benefits I receive ; 
 and were they double what they are, I feel 
 that within me which says I could go on ren- 
 dering thanks forever, for gracious gifts.” 
 
 The answer of Gottlob caused the Abbot 
 to turn his head. After studying the de- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 mure expression of the young man’s face in- 
 tently, he continued— 
 
 “This is well; thou art a huntsman in 
 Count Emich’s household ?” 
 
 ‘‘ His cow-herd, holy Abbot, and a hunts- 
 man in the bargain; for a more scampering, 
 self-losing, trouble-giving family is not to be 
 found in the Palatinate, than this of mine! ” 
 
 “T remember it was a cow-herd; thou 
 dealt a little lightly with my brother Sieg- 
 fried here, in pretending thou wert of 
 Duerckheim, and not of the castle.” 
 
 “To speak fairly to your reverence, there 
 was some business between us; for be it 
 known to you, holy Abbot, a cow-herd is 
 made to suffer for all the frolics of his beasts, 
 and so I preferred to do penance simply for 
 my own backslidings, without white-washing 
 the conscience of all Lord Emich’s soy in 
 the bargain.” 
 
 The Abbot turned again, and this time his 
 look was still longer and more scrutinizing 
 than before. 
 
 ‘* Hast thou heard of Luther ?” 
 
 “Does your reverence mean the drunken 
 cobbler of Duerckheim?” 
 
 ““T mean the monk of Wittenberg, knave: 
 though, by St. Benedict ! thou hast not un- 
 aptly named the rebel; for truly doth he 
 cobble that would fain mend the offices or 
 discipline of Holy Church! I ask if thou 
 hast sullied thy understanding and weakened 
 thy faith, by lending ear to this damnable 
 heresy, that is abroad in our Germany ?” 
 
 «St. Benedict and the blessed Maria keep 
 your reverence in mind, according to your 
 deserts! What hath a poor cow-herd to do 
 with questions that trouble the souls of the 
 learned, and cause even the peaceably dis- 
 posed to become quarrelsome and warlike?” 
 
 ‘Thou hast received a schooling above 
 thy fortune. Art of the Jaegerthal ? ” 
 
 ‘* Born and nurtured, holy Abbot. Weare 
 of long standing in the valley, and few fami- 
 lies are better known for skill in rearing 
 beeves, or for dealing cunningly with a herd, 
 than that of which I come humble and poor 
 as I may seem to your reverence.” 
 
 “T doubt but there is as much seeming as 
 reality in this indifferent opinion of thyself. 
 But thou hast had ‘an explanation’ with 
 Brother Siegfried, and we count on thy ser- — 
 vices. .Thou knowest the power of the 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 Church, son, and canst not be ignorant of its 
 disposition to deal mercifully with those that 
 do it homage, nor of its displeasure when 
 justly angered. Weare disposed to deal in 
 increased kindness with those who do not 
 stray from the fold, at this moment when the 
 Devils are abroad scattering the ignorant and 
 helpless.” 
 
 “ Notwithstanding all you have said, most 
 reverend Abbot, concerning the trifle I have 
 gleaned in the way of education, I am too 
 little taught to understand aught but plain 
 speech. In the matter of a bargain it might 
 be well to name the conditions clearly, lest a 
 poor, but well-meaning, youth should hap- 
 pen to be damned, simply because he hath 
 little knowledge of Latin, or cannot clearly 
 understand what hath not been clearly said.” 
 
 “Ihave no other meaning than that thy 
 pious conduct will be remembered at the altar 
 and the confessional ; and that indulgences, 
 and other lenities, will not be forgotten when 
 there is question of thee.” 
 
 “ This is excellent, holy Abbot, for those 
 that may profit by it—but, St. Benedict help 
 us! of what account would it all be, were 
 Lord Emich to threaten his people with the 
 dungeon and stripes, should any dare to fre- 
 quent the altars of Limburg, or otherwise to 
 have dealings with the reverend brother- 
 hood ?” 
 
 “ Dost think our prayers, or our authority, 
 cannot penetrate the walls of Hartenburg ? ” 
 
 “ Of that, most powerful Bonifacius, I say 
 nothing, since I never have yet profited in 
 the way you mean. The dungeon of Har- 
 tenburg and I are not strangers to each 
 other; and, were I to speak my most inti- 
 mate thoughts, it would be to say, that St. 
 Benedict himself would find it no easy matter 
 to open its doors, or to soften its pavements, 
 so long as the Count was in an angry humor. 
 Potztausend, holy Abbot! it is well to speak 
 of miracles and of indulgences ; but let him 
 who imagines that either is about to make 
 that damp and soul-chilling hole warm and 
 pleasant, pass a night within its walls in 
 November! He may enter with as much 
 faith in the Abbey prayers as he will; but if 
 he do not come forth with great dread of 
 Lord Emich’s displeasure, why, he is not 
 flesh and blood, but a burning kiln in the 
 form of mortality!” 
 
 673 
 
 Father Bonifacius saw that it was useless 
 endeavoring to influence the mind of the 
 cow-herd in the vulgar manner, and he had 
 recourse to surer means. Motioning his 
 companion to hand him a little casket, ex- 
 ternally decorated with many of the visible 
 signs of the Christian faith, he took out 
 of ita purse, that wanted for neither size 
 nor weight. The eyes of Gottlob glistened 
 —had not the monks been much occupied in 
 examining the gold, they might have sus- 
 pected that the pleasure he betrayed was a 
 little affected—and he manifested a strong 
 disposition to know the contents of a bag 
 that had so many outward signs of value. 
 
 “This will make peace and create faith 
 between us,” said the Abbot, handing a 
 golden mark to Gottlob. <‘‘Here is that 
 which the dullest comprehension can under- 
 stand; and whose merits, I doubt not, will 
 be sufficiently clear to one of thy ready wit.’ 
 
 “Your reverence does not over-value my 
 means,” answered the cow-herd, who pock- 
 eted the piece without further ceremony. 
 “Were our good Mother of the Church to 
 take this method of securing friends, she 
 might laugh at all the Luthers between the 
 Lake of Constance and the ocean, him of 
 Wittenberg among the number: but, by 
 some strange oversight, she has of late done 
 more toward taking away the people’s gold, 
 than toward bestowing! I am rejoiced to 
 find that the mistake is at last discovered; 
 and chiefly am I glad, that one, poor and. 
 unworthy as I, has been among the first that 
 she is pleased to make an instrument of her 
 new intentions! ” 
 
 The Abbot appeared at a loss to under- 
 stand the character of his agent; but, being 
 a worldly and selfish man himself, he counted 
 rather loosely on the influence of a mediator 
 whose potency is tacitly admitted by all of 
 mercenary propensities. He resumed hig 
 seat, therefore, like one who saw little neces- 
 sity for further concealment, and went di 
 rectly to the true object of the interview. 
 
 “Thou hast something to communicate 
 from the Castle of Hartenburg, good Gott- 
 lob?” 
 
 “‘If it be your reverence’s pleasure to lis- 
 ten.” 
 
 “Proceed.—Canst tell anght of the force 
 Emich hath cae in the hold ?” 
 
 VV 
 
674 
 
 “Mein Herr Abbot, it is no easy matter to 
 count varlets that go staggering about, from 
 the moment the sun touches your Abbey 
 towers, to that in which he sets behind the 
 Teufelstein.” 
 
 “ Hast thou not means of separating them 
 in divisions, and of making the enumerations 
 of each apart ?” 
 
 “ Holy Abbot, that experiment hath failed. 
 I divided them into the drunk and the sober; 
 but, for the life of me, I could never get 
 them all to be long enough of the same mind, 
 to hunt up those that were in garrets and 
 cellars ; for while this slept off his debauch, 
 that swallowed cup after cup, in a manner 
 to recruit the drunkards as fast as they lost. 
 It were far easier to know the Emperor’s 
 policy, than to count Lord Emich’s follow- 
 ers!” 
 
 *¢ Still they are many.” 
 
 ‘‘They are and they are not, as one hap- 
 pens to view soldiership. In the way of 
 draining a butt, Duke Friedrich would find 
 them a powerful corps, even in an attack 
 against his Heidelberg tun; and yet I doubt 
 whether he would think them of much ac- 
 count in the pressing warfare he wageth.” 
 
 “Go to—thou art too indirect in thy an- 
 swers for the duty thou hast undertaken. 
 Return the gold if thou refusest the service.” 
 
 ‘‘T pray thee, reverend Abbot, to remem- 
 ber the risks I have already run in this des- 
 perate undertaking, and to consider that the 
 trifle you have so munificently bestowed, is 
 already more than earned by the danger of 
 my ears, to say nothing of great loss of repu- 
 tation, and some pricking of conscience.” 
 
 ‘‘This clown hath tampered with thee, 
 Father Siegfried,” said the Abbot, in a tone 
 of reproach to the attending monk ; ‘‘he 
 even dares to make light of our presence and 
 office !” 
 
 “We have the means of recalling him to 
 his respect, as well as to a remembrance of 
 his engagements.” 
 
 “Thou sayest true: let the remedies be 
 applied—but hold !” 
 
 During this brief colloquy between the 
 Benedictines, Father Siegfried had touched 
 a cord, and a lay-brother, of vigorous frame, 
 showed himself. At a signal from the monk, 
 he laid a hand on an arm of the unresisting 
 Gottlob, and was about to lead him from the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 room when the last words of the Abbot, and 
 another signal from Father Siegfried, caused 
 him to pause. . 
 
 Bonifacius leaned a cheek on his hand, 
 and mused long on the policy of the step he 
 was about to take. The relations between 
 the Abbey and the Castle, to adopt diplomat- 
 ic language, were precisely in that awkward 
 state in which it was almost as hazardous to 
 recede as to advance. ‘Tio imprison a vassal 
 of the Count of Hartenburg, might bring 
 matters to an immediate issue; and yet, to 
 permit him to quit the convent, was to de- 
 prive the brotherhood of the means of ex- 
 tracting the information it was so important 
 to obtain, and to procure which had been the 
 principal inducement of attending the de- 
 bauch already described, at a moment when 
 there was so little real amity between the 
 revellers. The precaution of Emich had 
 frustrated this well-laid scheme, and the 
 result of the experiment had been too costly 
 to admit of repetition. There was also haz- 
 ard in permitting Gottlob to return to Har- 
 tenburg, for the expectations and hostile spirit 
 of the Abbey had been so unadvisedly exposed 
 to the hind, as to render it certain he would 
 relate what had occurred. It was desirable, 
 too, to maintain an appearance of confidence, 
 although so little was felt; for the monk 
 well knew, that next to friendship, its ap- 
 parent existence was of account in prevent- 
 ing the usual expedients of open hostility. 
 Agents were at Heidelberg, pressing the 
 Elector on a point of the last concern to the 
 welfare of the brotherhood; and it was par- 
 ticularly material that Emich should not be 
 driven to any overt act before the result of 
 this mission was known. In short, these two 
 little powers were in a condition similar to 
 that in which some greater communities have 
 been known to exist, instinctively alive to 
 the opposing character of their respective 
 interests, and yet tampering with the de- 
 nouement, because neither was yet prepared 
 to proclaim all it wished, meditated, and 
 hoped to be able toattain. In the meantime, 
 there was an ostensible courtesy between the 
 belligerent parties, occasionally obscured by 
 bursts of natural feeling, which, in politics, 
 the world calls bonhomie, but which would, 
 perhaps, be better termed by the frank desig- 
 nation of artifice. 
 
THH HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 The Abbot was so much accustomed to 
 this sort of politic reflection, that all these 
 considerations passed before his mind in less 
 time than we have consumed in enumerating 
 them. Still the pause was salutary; for, 
 when he resumed the discourse, he spoke like 
 one whose decision was supported by thought. 
 
 “Thou wilt tarry with us a little, Gottlob, 
 for the good of thy soul,” he said, making a 
 sign that was understood by his inferiors. 
 
 “A thousand thanks, humane and godly 
 Abbot. Next to the present good of my 
 body, I look with most concern to the future 
 condition of my poor soul; and there is great 
 comfort and consolation in your gracious 
 words. It is but the soul of a poor man; 
 but, being my all,, in the way of souls, it 
 must needs be taken care of.” 
 
 “The discipline we meditate will be 
 healthful. Brothers, lead the penitent to his 
 cell.” 
 
 The singular indifference with which Gott- 
 lob heard his doom, might have given the 
 Abbot motive for reflection, had he not been 
 so much occupied by other thoughts. As it 
 was, the hind accompanied the lay-brother 
 without resistance, and indeed with the man- 
 ner of one who appeared to think he was a 
 gainer by this especial notice from the com- 
 munity of Limburg. So natural and easy 
 was the air of Gottlob, as they took the direc- 
 tion of a gloomy corridor, that Father Sieg- 
 fried began to believe he had employed an 
 agent whose mind, shrewd and peculiar as it 
 seemed at times, was in truth subject to 
 moments of more than usual imbecility and 
 dulness. He placed the cow-herd in a cell, 
 pointed to a crucifix, its only article of fur- 
 niture, and, without deeming it necessary 
 even to secure the door, retired. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ‘‘The Lady Valera is come 
 To visit you.” —Coriolanus. 
 
 A sHoRT ride brought the cavalcade of 
 Count Emich to the gates of Hartenburg. 
 When all had alighted, and the guests, with 
 the more regular inmates of the castle, were 
 ushered into the hall, the lord of the hold 
 again saluted Ulricke and her daughter. This 
 freedom was the privilege of his rank, and 
 
 675 
 
 of his character as host ; and for its exercise, 
 he once more received the grateful acknowl- 
 edgments of Heinrich Frey. The females 
 were then committed to the care of Gisela, 
 the warder’s daughter, who, in the absence 
 of its more noble mistress, happened to be 
 the presiding person of her sex in the place. 
 
 “Thou art thrice welcome, upright and 
 loyal Heinrich !” exclaimed the Count, heart- 
 ily, while he led the Burgomaster by the 
 hand, into one of the rooms of honor.— 
 “None know thy worth, and thy constancy 
 to thy friends, better than the master of this 
 poor castle ; and none love thee better.” 
 
 “ Thanks, well-born Emich, and such duty 
 as one of poor birth and breeding can and 
 should pay to a noble so honored and prized. 
 I am little used to courtesies, beyond those 
 which we burghers give and take in the 
 streets, and may not do myself full justice 
 in the expression of reverence and respect, 
 but I pray you, Herr Count, to take the 
 desire for the performance.” 
 
 ‘‘Were thou the Emperor’s most favored 
 chamberlain, thy speech could not do thee 
 more credit. Though Duerckheim be not 
 Madrid, it is a well-respected and courtly 
 city, and none need envy the Roman, or the 
 Parisian, that dwelleth there. Here is my 
 kinsman of Viederbach, a knight that Provi- 
 dence hath cast a little loosely upon the 
 world since the downfall of his Mediterra- 
 nean island of Rhodes, and who hath tray- 
 elled far and near, and he swears, daily, thy 
 town has no parallel, for its dimensions.” 
 
 ‘“Considered as a mountain city of no 
 great magnitude, meine Herren, we do not 
 blush at the aspect of our ancient walls.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou needest not, and thou must have 
 noted that I spoke in reference to its size. 
 Monsieur Latouche is a gentleman that 
 cometh from the capital of King Francis 
 itself ; and no later than this morning, he 
 remarked on the neatness and wealth and 
 other matters of consideration, that make 
 themselves apparent, even to the stranger, 
 in thy well-governed and prosperous bor- 
 ough.” 
 
 The Burgomaster acknowledged the com- 
 pliment, by a profound inclination and a 
 gratified eye, for no flattery is so palpable as 
 not to meet a welcome with those who labor 
 for public distinction ; and Emich well knew, 
 
676 
 
 that the police and order of his city were 
 weak spots in Heinrich Frey’s humility. 
 
 “Tord Emich scarce does me justice,” 
 returned the pliant Abbé, ‘‘since I found 
 many other causes of admiration. The 
 deference that is paid to rank in thy 
 populace, and the manner in which the con- 
 venience of the honorable is respected, are 
 particularly worthy of commendation.” 
 
 «<The churchman is right, Lord Emich— 
 for, of all the towns in Germany, I do not 
 think it easy to find another in which the 
 poor and base are so well taught to refrain 
 from thrusting their importunities and dis- 
 advantages on the gentle, as in our Duerck- 
 heim. I think my lord the Count must have 
 ‘ observed the strict severity and cautious 
 justice of our rules in this particular.” 
 
 “None know them better, nor does any 
 heed them more. I cannot recall the mo- 
 ment, cousin Albrecht, when any unpleasant 
 intrusion on my privileges hath ever oc- 
 curred within its gates. But I keep you 
 from refreshing yourselves, worthy friends. 
 Give us leave a little ;—we will seek you 
 again, at your own convenience.” 
 
 The Knight and the Abbé took this inti- 
 mation of the desire of the Count to be 
 alone with the Burgomaster in good part, 
 and withdrew without unnecessary delay. 
 When alone, Emich again took Heinrich 
 Frey by the hand, and led him away into a 
 part of the castle where none presumed to 
 intrude without an especial errand. Here he 
 entered one of those narrow rooms, which 
 were devoted to secret uses, and which was 
 well termed a closet, being in effect but little 
 larger and scarcely better lighted than the 
 straitened apartments to which we give the 
 same appellation in these later times. 
 
 When fairly protected from observation, 
 and removed beyond the danger of eaves- 
 droppers and spies, the Count threw aside his 
 cloak, unbuckled his sword-belt, and assumed 
 the manner of one at his ease. The Burgo- 
 master took a seat on a stool, in deference to 
 his companion’s rank; while the latter, with- 
 out seeming sensible of the act, seated him- 
 self at his side, in the only chair that the 
 closet contained. Whoever has had much 
 intercourse with Asiatics, or with Mussul- 
 mans of the southern shore of the Mediter- 
 ranean, must have frequently observed the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 silent, significant manner with which they re- 
 gard each other, when disposed to court or to 
 yield confidence; the eye gradually kindling, 
 and the muscles of the mouth relaxing, until 
 the feeling is fully betrayed in asmile. . ‘This 
 is one of the means employed by men who 
 dwell under despotic and dangerous govern- 
 ments, and where the social habits are much 
 tinctured with violence and treachery, of 
 assuring one another of secret faith and ready 
 support. There is a sort of similar free- 
 masonry in all conditions of life, in which 
 frank and just institutions do not spread their 
 mantle equally over the powerful and the 
 weak, superseding, by the majesty of the law, 
 the necessity of these furtive appeals to the 
 pledges and sympathies of confidants. Such, 
 in some degree, was the nature of the com- 
 munication with which Emich of Hartenburg 
 now commenced his private intercourse with 
 Heinrich Frey. The Count first laid his 
 square, bony hand on the knee of the Burgo- 
 master, which he squeezed until the iron fin- 
 gers were nearly buried in the fleshy protu- 
 berance. Each turned his head toward his 
 companion, looking askance, as if they mutu- 
 ally understood the meaning of what was 
 conveyed by this silent coquetry. Still, not- 
 
 withstanding the apparent community of — 
 
 thought and confidence, the countenance and 
 air of each was distinguished by the personal 
 character and the social station of the indi- 
 vidual. The eye of the Baron was both more 
 decided, and more openly meaning, than that 
 of the Burgomaster; while the smile of the 
 latter appeared rather like a faint reflection 
 of the inviting expression of the former, than 
 the effect of any inward impulse. 
 
 “ Hast heard of last night’s success? ” ab- 
 ruptly demanded the Count. 
 
 ‘« Nothing of the sort hath gladdened me, 
 Herr Count; my heart yearns to know all, if 
 it touches your high interests.” 
 
 “The mass-singing rogues are stripped of 
 their wine-tribute! Of that much are they 
 fairly and legally disburthened! Thou know- 
 est of our long-intended trial of heads; I had — 
 intended to have prayed thee to be a second 
 at the banquet, but the presence of these 
 idlers put some restraint on my hospitality. | 
 
 Thou wouldest have proved a stanch second ~ 
 
 in such an onset, Heinrich! ” 
 ABT thank my lord the Count, and shall deal 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 the grace as good as accomplished in the wish. 
 Tam not worse than another at board,and may 
 boast of some endurance in the way of liquor, 
 but the seriousness of the times admonishes 
 us, of civic authority, to be prudent. There 
 is a wish in the people to be admitted to cer- 
 tain unreasonable and grave privileges, such 
 as the right of vending their wares in the 
 market-place at unseasonable hours, when 
 the convenience of the burgomasters would 
 be much vexed by the concession; and 
 other similar innovations, against which we 
 must make a firm stand, lest they come, in 
 time, to invade our general authority and 
 cause an unnatural convulsion. Were we to 
 give way to pretensions so extravagant, Herr 
 ‘Count, the town would come to general con- 
 fusion ; and the orderly and respectable city 
 of Duerckheim would justly merit to be com- 
 pared to the huts of those countries of which 
 they speak in the distant land of America, 
 that hath so much, of late, given cause to 
 writings and conversation. We need, there- 
 fore, look to the example set; for we have 
 busy enemies, who make the most of the 
 smallest indulgences. At another time, I 
 would gladly have drained Heidelberg to your 
 gracious honor.” 
 
 “Thou wouldest not have been in danger 
 of observation here; and, by the three holy 
 Kings of Koeln, I‘should know how to tutor 
 any prying knave that might chance to thrust 
 a curious eye within these walls! But thy 
 discretion is worthy of thy prudence, Hein- 
 rich; for, with thee, I deem the time serious 
 for all lovers of established order, and of the 
 peace of mankind. What would the knaves, 
 that they thus trouble thy authority? Are 
 they not fed and clad? and do they not now 
 possess privileges out of number ? The greedy 
 rogues, if left to their humors, would fain 
 envy their betters each delicate mors] they 
 carry to their mouths, or each drop of gener- 
 ous rhenish that moistens their lips! ” 
 
 “I fear, well-born Emich, that this spirit 
 of covetousness is in their vile natures! I 
 have rarely consented to any little yielding to 
 their entreaties, such as a wish to swell out 
 the time of their merrymakings, or a desire 
 like this of the market-place, that the taste 
 of the indulgence hath not given a relish for 
 fuller fare. No; he that would govern 
 quietly, and at his own ease, must govern 
 
 677 
 
 thoroughly ; else shall we all become illiterate 
 savages, fitter for the forests of the Indies, 
 than for our present rational and charitable 
 civilization.” 
 
 “ Braver words were never uttered in thy 
 council-hall, and well do I know the head 
 that conceived them! Had there been occa- 
 sion to have summoned thee hither for the 
 banquet, the excuse should have satisfied, 
 though the vineyards were the forfeiture, 
 But what didst think, friend Heinrich, of the 
 priests to-day, and of their warlike com- 
 pany?” 
 
 ‘Tis plain Duke Friedrich still upholds 
 them ; and to deal frankly with my lord the 
 Count, the men-at-arms have the air of fel- 
 lows that are not likely to yield the hill with- 
 out fair contention.” 
 
 “'Thinkest thou thus, Burgomaster? ’T'were 
 a thousand pities that men of tried mettle 
 should do each other harm, for the benefits 
 and pleasure of a community of shaven Ben- 
 edictines ! What is there to urge in favor 
 of pretensions so audacious as these they 
 prefer, and which are so offensive, both to 
 me, asa noble of the empire, and to all of 
 any note or possessions in Duerckheim ?” 
 
 “They lay great stress, Herr Count, on 
 the virtue of ancient usages, and on the sa- 
 cred origin of their mission.” 
 
 “As much respect as thou wilt for rights 
 that are sealed by time, for such is the stamp 
 that gives value to my own fair claims ; and 
 many of thy city privileges come chiefly of 
 use. But the matter between us is of abuse; 
 and I hold it to be unworthy of those who 
 can right themselves, to submit to wrong. 
 Do the monks still press the town for 
 dues ?” 
 
 “‘ With offensive importunity. If matters 
 be not quickly stayed, we shall come to open 
 and indecent dissension.” 
 
 “IT would give a winter’s enjoyment of my 
 chases, were Friedrich more solely pressed !” 
 exclaimed the Count, laying his hand again 
 on the Burgomaster’s knee, whose coun- 
 tenance he studied with a significance that 
 was not lost on his companion. ‘I speak 
 merely in the manner of his being driven to 
 know his true and fast friends from those 
 who are false.” 
 
 Heinrich Frey remained silent. 
 
 ** The Elector is a mild and loving prince, 
 
678 
 
 but one sorely ridden by Rome! I fear we 
 shall never have a tranquil neighborhood, 
 notwithstanding our long forbearance, until 
 the Church is persuaded to limit its author- 
 ity to its duties.” 
 
 The eyelids of the Burgomaster lowered, 
 as it might be in reflection. 
 
 “‘And chiefly, Heinrich, am I troubled lest 
 my good and loving Duerckheimers lose this 
 occasion to do themselves right,” continued 
 the Count, squeezing the knee he still 
 grasped, until even the compact citizen 
 flinched with the force of the pressure. 
 ‘‘ What say they in the council-hall touching 
 this matter?” 
 
 There was no longer any plausible apology 
 for the silence of the Burgomaster, who did 
 not answer, however, without working the 
 heavy muscles of his face, as if delivered of 
 his opinions with pain. 
 
 ‘¢ Men speak their minds among us, noble- 
 born Count, much as Duke Friedrich pros- 
 pers or fails, in his warfare. When we hear 
 good tidings from the other side of the river, 
 the brotherhood fares but badly in our dis- 
 eourses ; but when the Elector’s warriors tri- 
 umph, we hold it prudent to remember they 
 have friends.” 
 
 **God’s truth! Herr Heinrich, it is full 
 time that you come to certain conclusions, 
 else shall we be saddled to the end of our 
 days by these hard-riding priests! Art thou 
 not wearied with all their greedy exactions, 
 that thou waitest patiently for more ? ” 
 
 *‘In that particular, a little sufficeth for 
 our humors. There is not a city between 
 Constance and Leyden, that is more quickly 
 satisfied with paying than our Duerckheim ; 
 but we are husbands and fathers, Herr 
 Count, and men that bear a heavy burthen of 
 _authority ; and we must be wary, lest in 
 throwing aside one portion of the load, space 
 be found on our shoulders to place another 
 that is heavier. When I would speak of 
 your strong love to the town, there are dis- 
 trustful tongues, that question me sorely of 
 its fruits, and of your own honorable inten- 
 tions in our behalf.” 
 
 “To all of which thou couldest not be 
 wanting of replies! Have I not often enter- 
 tained thee with my loving wishes in behalf 
 ef the citizens?” 
 
 “Tf wishes in our behalf could serve 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 our interests, the townsmen might, in their 
 proper right, put ina claim to high favor. 
 In the way of longing for our own success, 
 Antwerp itself is not our better.” 
 
 “Nay, thou takest my meaning unkindly; 
 what Emich of Hartenburg wishes for his 
 friends, he finds means to perform. But we 
 will not trouble digestion, as we are about to 
 
 feed, with these tiresome details——” 
 ‘‘JT pray you, Herr Count, not to doubt my 
 means—little troubles me, when ? 
 
 ‘Thou shalt yield to my humor. What! 
 is not the Count of Leiningen master in his 
 own castle? Nota word more will I hear till 
 thou hast tasted of my poor hospitality. Did 
 my knaves serve thee, as I commanded yester- 
 day, with the fat buck that fell by my own 
 hand, Heinrich ?” 
 
 ‘‘A thousand thanks, mein Herr—they 
 did, and right cheerfully. I gave the rogues 
 a silver penny for their largess; and the dust 
 of the Jaegerthal was washed away in heavy 
 draughts of our wine of the plain.” 
 
 ‘‘T would have it so; between friends, 
 there should be no niggardly reserve, in the 
 way of courtesies,” said Emich, rising. “ Dost 
 not bethink thee, Burgomaster, of looking 
 among the youths of Duerckheim for a son 
 to stay thy age? Meta hath reached the 
 years when maidens gladly become wives.” 
 
 “The wench is not ignorant of her time 
 of life, and the search of a suitable husband 
 hath not failed to give me fatherly concern. 
 I do not presume to compare our conditions 
 and early lives in aught that is disrespectful, 
 mein Herr Graf; but, touching all that is 
 common to great and little, the youth of this 
 day seem not as they were in the time of our 
 young manhood.” 
 
 “ Priest-ridden, Burgomaster; too much 
 of Rome in our laws and habits. God’s my 
 life! when I first mounted steed, in the court 
 below, I could have leaped the convent 
 towers, did a Benedictine dare gainsay the 
 feat!” 
 
 “That would have been a miracle little 
 short of the raising of their convent walls,” 
 answered Heinrich, laughing at his com- 
 panion’s flight, and rising in deference to the 
 attitude the noble had been pleased to take. 
 “'These Benedictines have been careless of 
 their advantages, else might they still have 
 kept the circumstance of that miracle as 
 
THE HHIDENMAUER. 
 
 much beyond dispute, as it was in our young 
 days, Lord Count.” 
 
 « And what say they in Duerckheim, now, 
 touching the affair?” 
 
 “Nay, men treat it, at present, as they 
 treat other disreputable subjects. Since this 
 outcry of Brother Luther, there have ap- 
 peared many who call in question not only 
 that, but divers others of the Abbey’s feats.” 
 
 The Count unconsciously crossed himself, 
 seeming to ponder gloomily on the subject, 
 within his own mind. Then glancing to- 
 ward his companion, he perceived that he 
 was standing. 
 
 “T cry thy mercy, worthy Burgomaster ; 
 but myinattention hath given thee this pain. 
 My leg hath been so much of late suspended 
 in the stirrup, that it hath need of straight- 
 ening; but itshould not, in justice, cause thee 
 this inconvenience. I pray thee, Herr Frey, 
 be seated.” 
 
 “That would ill become my station in your 
 presence, noble and well-born Emich; nor 
 would it do fit credit to my reverence and 
 affection.” 
 
 “ Nay, I will hear none of this. Thy seat, 
 Master Heinrich, and that without delay, 
 lest I seem to overlook thy merits.” 
 
 «T pray mein Herr Graf not to do himself 
 this wrong; nay, if it be your honorable will 
 —I blush at mine own daring—if I consent, 
 I call my lord to witness ’tis only in profound 
 respect for his will!” 
 
 During this struggle of courtesy, the Count 
 succeeded, by means of gentle violence, in 
 forcing the Burgomaster to resume his seat. 
 Heinrich had yielded with a species of maiden 
 coyness ; but when he found that, instead of 
 occupying his own humble stool, he had un- 
 wittingly been forced into the arm-chair of 
 the noble, he rebounded from the cushion, 
 as if the leather contained enough of the 
 electric fluid to bid defiance to the non- 
 conductor qualities of the ample woollen gar- 
 ment in which his nether person was cased. 
 
 ‘Gott bewahre!” exclaimed the Burgo- 
 master, in harsh, energetic German: ‘‘ The 
 empire would cry out against this scandal, 
 were it known! I owe it to my reputation 
 to deny myself an honor so little deserved.” 
 
 ‘“And I to my authority to enforce my 
 will, and to proclaim thy deserts.” 
 
 Here the amiable force on the part of the 
 
 679 
 
 Count, and the courteous coquetry of Hein- 
 rich Frey, were resumed, until the latter, 
 fearful of offending by longer resistance, was 
 obliged to submit, protesting, however, to the 
 last, against the apparent presumption on his 
 own part, and against the great injustice 
 which the lord of the hold was doing to his 
 own rights, by thus insisting. 
 
 A distinguished foreign orator once pro- 
 nounced the titles of honor, and the social 
 distinctions that are conferred by the Euro- 
 pean governments, to be the “cheap defence 
 of nations.” ‘This opinion strikes us to be 
 merely one of the thousand bold fallacies that 
 have been broached to uphold existing inter- 
 ests, without reference to their true effects, 
 or to their inherent justice. This “cheap 
 defence,” like the immortal Falstaff, who was 
 not only witty himself, but the cause of wit 
 in others, is the origin of a hundred suffi- 
 ciently costly habits, that leave him who 
 bears the burden but little reason to exult in 
 its discovery. Werecommend to all one-eyed 
 economists, who still retain any faith in this 
 well-known opinion of the English orator, to 
 read that letter in the Spectator, in which a 
 city youth relates the manner he is driven to 
 vindicate his own reserve to his fair country 
 cousins, who would fain reproach him withan 
 ungrateful disrespect of his holiday privileges, 
 by reminding them of the calculations of the 
 individual who refused to indulge in cheese- 
 cakes, because they brought with them so 
 many other unnecessary expenditures. 
 
 But whether honors of the description just 
 alluded to, do or do not form any portion of 
 the economy of a nation, there is little ques- 
 tion but flattery, like this which Emich had 
 just bestowed on the Burgomaster, is one of 
 the subtle and most powerful agents of the 
 great in effecting their secret purposes. Few 
 are they—alas, how few!—that possess a vision 
 sufficiently clear, and an ambition so truly 
 noble, as to look beyond the narrow and vul- 
 gar barriers of human selfishness, and to re- 
 gard truth as it came from God, without re- 
 spect for persons and things, except as they 
 are the instruments of His will. It is certain 
 that Heinrich Frey had little pretension to be 
 one of this scrutinizing and elevated class; 
 for when he found himself fairly seated in the 
 chair of the Count of Hartenburg, with the 
 noble himself standing, his sensations were 
 
680 
 
 like those which are felt by the philosopher 
 of the other hemisphere, who is authorized to 
 put a ribbon at his button-hole ;—or the 
 tradesman of this, who is elected to the com- 
 mon-council of his native city, after being 
 run on both tickets. Still he greatly regret- 
 ted there was no one to envy his preferment; 
 for, after the first soothing effect on his own 
 self-love, that unquiet spirit which haunts us 
 to the last, disfiguring the fairest pictures, 
 and casting its alloy into every scheme of 
 happiness, suggested that his triumph would 
 be imperfect without a witness. Just as this 
 rebellious feeling became troublesome, there 
 appeared at the door of the closet, the very 
 being of all others that the Burgomaster 
 would have chosen to see him in the enjoy- 
 ment of this high honor. A gentle tap an- 
 nounced the presence of the intruder, and 
 when the authoritative voice of Emich had 
 given the permission, the mild Ulrike ap- 
 peared on the threshold. 
 
 Surprise was strongly painted on the feat- 
 ures of the Burgomaster’s wife. The hus- 
 band had crossed his legs, and was indulging 
 in his ease, with a sort of noble indifference 
 to the unusual situation in which he was 
 placed, when this extraordinary sight greeted 
 the eyes of his amazed consort. So absolute and 
 so tenacious were the rulesof Germany on all 
 things that concerned the respect due to rank, 
 that even one as little troubled by ambition 
 as the meek Ulrike, had great difficulty in 
 believing her senses when she beheld Hein- 
 rich Frey thus suddenly elevated to a seat of 
 honor in the presence of aCount of Leinin- 
 gen. 
 
 ““ Nay, enter without fear, my good Ulrike,” 
 said Emich, graciously; “ thy worthy husband 
 and I do but indulge in mutual friendship, 
 while my varlets prepare an unworthy ban- 
 quet. Do not think to break our discourse.” 
 
 “T only hesitate, noble Emich, at seeing 
 
 Heinrich Frey preferred to that seat, while | 
 
 the Lord of Hartenburg stands, hke one of 
 humble birth, at his side !” 
 
 ‘‘'Touch not the matter, meine Frau,” said 
 the husband, condescendingly. ‘‘ Thou arta 
 loving consort, and art well enough amid 
 thy sex, and in questions that belong to thy 
 breeding; but in an affair, like this, between 
 mein Herr Graf and me, thou mayest only 
 mar what thou canst not mend.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “ By the life of the princely Karl! master 
 Heinrich, you do insufficient justice to Ulrike’s 
 discernment! Were mine own Ermengarde 
 among us, thou shouldst see that we prize thy 
 loving wife little less than we esteem thee. 
 But it were better that we inquire of Ulrike 
 the occasion of her visit, before we attempt to 
 school her on matters of deportment.” 
 
 Though so rough and unnurtured on many 
 of the points that are now deemed essential 
 even to an indifferent civilization, Emich 
 had a quick interest for the perception of 
 character, and possessed as much of the re- 
 finement that marks a superior condition in 
 life as the state of the age and the situation 
 of his own country permitted. There can be 
 no greater mistake than toimagine that mere 
 nominal rank is any pledge for a correspond- 
 ent degree of refinement, since everything 
 
 is relative in this world, and where the base 
 
 of the pillar is rude and little polished, it 
 would be a violation of all architectural keep- 
 ing to expect a capital of a different style. 
 Thus it is that we, without any social orders 
 but those of convention, are struck with so 
 many glaring discrepancies among people 
 whose patricians, having studied all that is 
 factitious and plausible in breeding, are still 
 deficient in the grand essentials of reason and 
 humanity, simply because the roots of the 
 society, of which they are only the more lux- » 
 uriant branches, are planted in the soil of 
 ignorance and debasement. The Count of 
 Hartenburg had possessed ample opportuni- 
 ties of witnessing how much the intellectuai 
 qualities of the Burgomaster’s wife were 
 superior to those of her husband; and he had 
 sufficient discrimination and experience to be 
 quite aware of the importance of conciliating 
 such an ally in advancing his own particular 
 views. It was in this spirit, therefore, that 
 he ventured on so blunt a reproof of Hein- 
 rich’s superciliousness, and volunteered the 
 compliment to the spouse ; probably hazard- 
 ing the latter from an intimate conviction 
 that most husbands are content to hear eulo- 
 gies on those who are so completely in their 
 power as their own wives. 
 
 «Since it is your honorable pleasure, Herr 
 Count, for God’s sake let the woman come 
 in,” answered Heinrich, still, however, with- 
 out changing an attitude so soothing to his 
 self-esteem. ‘‘If she should see me seated 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 in a presence in which it would much better 
 become me to kneel, whyit may help to show 
 that God hath given her a companion that is 
 not altogether without the world’s esteem, 
 little as he may merit it. Enter freely, 
 therefore, good Ulrike, since it is my lord’s 
 pleasure ; but presume not on his condescen- 
 sion to me, which is rather a mark of great 
 love for our town, than any matter connected 
 with domestic life.” 
 
 “In all that the high-born Count hath 
 done honor to any of us, whether as of 
 Duerckheim, or as his unworthy neighbors, 
 I desire respectfully to be grateful,” returned 
 the wife, who by this time had recovered 
 from her surprise, and who now advanced 
 farther into the narrow room, with the mod- 
 est self-possession which ordinarily distin- 
 guished her manner :—‘“‘If Ido not come 
 amiss, I crave to be heard of both, in a mat- 
 ter that toucheth nearly a mother’s heart ; 
 and a matter, as it is of Heinrich Frey’s child 
 I would fain speak, that I trust may not be 
 indifferent to my lord the Count.” 
 
 ‘‘ Were it of mine own little Kunigunde, 
 the subject should not be more welcome !” 
 said the noble. ‘‘ Speak freely then, gentle 
 Ulrike, and with the same simplicity thou 
 wouldest use were it only to thy husband’s 
 ear.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou hearest, woman! mein Herr Graf 
 enters, as it were, into all our tribulations 
 and happiness, an’-he were no other than a 
 brother. So mince not the matter, but deal 
 frankly with us; though I admonish thee 
 not to push thy words to all the familiarity 
 of household discourse.” 
 
 « As it is of a subject so near, I pray leave 
 to close the door, before more is uttered.” 
 
 The words of Ulrike were cut short by a 
 hasty gesture of approbation from her hus- 
 band, and by the Count himself, who, with 
 more of the consideration and manner of a 
 gentleman, performed the desired office with 
 his own hands, thus admitting the wife, as it 
 were, into the very cabinet of their secret 
 councils, 
 
 681 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ‘You would be another Penelope: yet they 
 Say, all the yarn she spun, in Ulysses’ absence, did 
 But fill Ithaca full of moths.”—Coriolanus. 
 
 WHEN Ulrike found herself fairly closeted 
 with the Count and her husband, and was 
 quietly seated on the stool which the former, 
 spite of the latter’s protestations to the con- 
 trary, had insisted on her taking, she cast 
 her mild eyes about her, with that expression 
 and touching appeal that a woman is apt to 
 make when she feels called on to act as the 
 adviser, if not the guardian, of him whom 
 nature intended, and the law presumes, is 
 both able and willing to discharge those 
 offices for her. Notwithstanding Heinrich’s 
 obstinacy and masculine swaggering, many 
 occasions had arrived in the course of their 
 matrimonial life to produce a latent convic- 
 tion in both, that the order of things was a 
 little inverted, as respects judgment and 
 moral authority, by inclining one to lean, 
 though with but an indifferent grace, where 
 he should have supported ; and tempting the 
 other, at times, to overstep her sex’s duties, 
 though it was always done with an intuitive 
 perception of her sex’s seemliness and means. 
 
 ‘For this condescension I thank my 
 Lord Emich, and thee, Heinrich,” com- 
 menced the thoughtful matron; “for it is not 
 at all times advisable for the wife to intrude 
 unbidden even to her husband’s presence.” 
 
 A significant ejaculation, which might al- 
 most merit a coarser term, was the manner 
 in which the Burgomaster expressed his 
 assent, during the brief pause that succeeded 
 this excuse of Ulrike. The more courteous 
 host bowed with sufficient respect, though 
 even by his manner it was evident he was 
 getting impatient to know the real motive of 
 the interruption. 
 
 ‘«< We are too well pleased to receive thee, 
 to remember the usages and rights of man- 
 hood,” answered the latter, with a kindness of 
 that manner was insensibly extorted by the 
 winning and feminine qualities of her he 
 addressed, and which in some degree softened 
 the pretensions of his language.—‘‘ Proceed 
 with thy matter, for none can be more ready 
 to listen.” 
 
 “Thou hearest, good Ulrike! the Herr 
 Count is willing to remember thou art a 
 
.*™~ 
 
 682 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Burgomaster’s consort ; and, as he is pleased 
 to say, we are truly impatient to be let into 
 the.cause of thy sudden visit.” 
 
 The thoughtful Ulrike received this en- 
 couragement like one accustomed to be 
 treated, in some measure, as a being inferior 
 in capacity and force to her husband, but not 
 without a shade like that which is produced 
 by unmerited humiliation. Smiling—and 
 few, even in early and attractive youth, had 
 so sweet an expression, when her countenance 
 thus gleamed, whether it were in pleasure, 
 or in melancholy—smiling, as it might be, 
 partly in female gentleness, and partly in 
 sadness, she commenced the purport of her 
 visit, coming, however, to her true object 
 with great reserve and with the caution of a 
 woman accustomed to influence, rather than 
 to control. 
 
 “ For the great kindness and condescension 
 of the Herr Emich, in behalf of Heinrich 
 Frey, and of all that are his, no one is more 
 grateful than I,” she said; ‘‘if I may now 
 seem to trouble him with the concerns of a 
 family on which he has already so freely 
 lavished favors a 
 
 << And friendship, good Ulrike.” 
 
 ‘And friendship, since you permit me, 
 noble Count, to use the word—but, if I now 
 seem to trespass beyond breeding, by troub- 
 ling your mind with a concern that is so 
 remote from your own interests, I tiust 
 you will remember a mother’s tenderness, 
 and think of the high-born Ermengarde, 
 whose anxiety for her own offspring may 
 furnish some excuse for that I feel for 
 mine.” 
 
 “ Hath aught befallen the blooming Meta ?” 
 
 “ God’s my life!” exclaimed the troubled 
 Heinrich, abandoning his much-prized seat, 
 in the suddenness of paternalalarm. “ Hath 
 the wench suffered from the over-rich eels of 
 the Rhine? or is she massed to death by 
 these accursed monks ?” 
 
 “Our child is well in the body, and, the 
 blessed Maria be praised! she is pure and in- 
 nocent in mind,” returned Ulrike. “I have 
 little cause for aught but gratitude in either 
 of these behalfs ;—but, she is of an age when 
 girlish fancies become unsettled, and the 
 flexible female spirit seeks impressions from 
 others than those whom Nature hath made 
 its guardians.” 
 
 ‘*This is some of thy usual incomprehen- 
 sibilities, good woman, and language that is 
 not easily understood by any but thyself. 
 The noble Graf hath no leisure to hunt up 
 new ideas to maintain a discourse in subtle- 
 ties. Had the girl indeed tasted too freely 
 of the rare dish which the honest Burgo- 
 master of Manheim so kindly sent me, as I 
 at first feared, no doubt the means to cure 
 might be found in Hartenburg; but thou 
 askest too much, wife of mine, when thou 
 wouldest have any but thine own husband 
 enter into all the cunning niceties that some- 
 times beset thy imagination.” 
 
 “ Nay, Master Heinrich, here may be more 
 urgent matter than thou thinkest: thy dame 
 is not a woman whose opinions are to be 
 neglected. Wilt proceed with thy recital, 
 good Ulrike ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Our child is at that period of life,” con- 
 tinued the mother, too much accustomed to 
 the manner of her husband to permit it to 
 divert her thoughts from their main intention 
 —‘‘when the young of every sort begin to 
 think of the future. It is a principle that 
 God hath implanted, Herr Emich, and there- 
 fore it isfor good ; and we, who have watched 
 over the infancy of our offspring with so 
 much anxiety, have trained their youth with 
 so much care, and have so often trembled for ° 
 their noon-time, must, sooner or later, consent 
 to loosen the sweet ties that bind us to our 
 second selves, in order that the great ends of 
 the creation shall be accomplished.” 
 
 ‘“¢Umph !” ejaculated Heinrich. 
 
 ‘Nay, gentle Ulrike,” said the Count, 
 ‘¢maternal love hath drawn this picture in 
 stronger colors than may benecessary. When 
 the time for matrimony comes, God’s my 
 life ! daughter of thine and honest Heinrich 
 Frey need not wear maiden’s coif a day longer 
 than is necessary to do suitable reverence to 
 the Church. Here have I youths, out of num- 
 ber, that look to the house of Leiningen for 
 grace, any one of whom would be glad to 
 wive with the damsel I should name. There 
 is young Friedrich Zantzinger, the orphan of 
 my last deputy in the villages of the plain ; 
 he is a lad that would gladly do harder ser- — 
 vice to gain my love.” | 
 
 ‘‘ When old Friedrich left the boy father- 
 less, he left him without a penny,” dryly re- 
 joined the Burgomaster. 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 ‘«That is a fault which might be mended ; 
 but I have others that can be named. What 
 thinkest thou of the eldest son of my Heidel- 
 berg attorney, worthy Conrad Walther ?” 
 
 ‘‘Curse the knave! I hate him from my 
 heart.” 
 
 ‘*Thou art warm, Master Heinrich, against 
 one that I both trust and favor.” 
 
 “IT cry your mercy, Herr Graf; but a 
 sudden rising of the bile, at the mention of 
 the fellow’s name, got the better of respect,” 
 answered the Burgomaster, with more modera- 
 tion, who, as he saw by the lowering look of 
 Emich’s brow the necessity of explanation, 
 continued, with rather more openness than he 
 might have thought necessary under circum- 
 stances of less urgency : ‘‘ Perhaps the high- 
 
 born Count was never possessed of the matter. 
 
 of our late controversy ?” 
 ‘‘ Nay, I pretend not to judge my friends 
 3) 
 
 «‘Let but my lord condescend to hear me, 
 and I leave him arbiter between us. It is well 
 known to you, Herr Emich, that collections 
 were made, and charity asked, in behalf of the 
 peasants who suffered, the past year, from the 
 sudden rising of the Rhine. Among others, 
 the good Christians of our town were impor- 
 _ tuned for succor ; and, for none will deny that 
 it was a sad visitation of Providence, we gave 
 freely as became our several means. To pre- 
 vent improper uses of the money, in all cases 
 of liberal donations the sealed bond of the 
 donor, at a near day, was asked in preference 
 to the silver; and mine was granted for the 
 fair sum of twelve crowns, as a poor donation 
 suited to my hopes and station. It so fell out, 
 Herr Graf, that those charged with the dis- 
 tribution had occasion for their money before 
 the instruments were up; and they sent 
 agents among us, in order to enter into such 
 negotiations as the cases might need. Gold 
 was scarce at the moment; and because, in 
 regaining my bond, I had a heedful regard to 
 mine own interests, the misdealing Conrad 
 would fain transport me, like a thief, before 
 the authorities of Heidelberg, to undergo the 
 penalties of a usurer. Son of his shall never 
 call me father, with your gracious leave, nobly- 
 born Count of Leiningen !” 
 
 ‘This truly offereth some impediment to 
 the affair; but, failing of young Conrad, I 
 have others that may be accounted worthy of 
 
 683 
 
 this advantage. So put thy maternal heart 
 at ease, good Ulrike, and trust to my active 
 friendship to dispose of the girl.” 
 
 The Burgomaster’s consort had been a pa- 
 tient listener during the short but charac- 
 teristic digression of her husband. Trained 
 in the opinions of the times, she did not pos- 
 sibly endure all that a mother and wife, of 
 equal native sensibility, might now suffer at 
 so evident a debasement of her sex ; but as 
 the laws of nature are permanent, neither did 
 she escape a pang of wounded feeling as she 
 heard the different expedients that were so 
 hastily devised for the future disposal of one 
 who formed her chief happiness in life. There 
 was less of that hectic color, which commonly 
 gave a lustre to eyes that were by nature 
 rather melancholy than bright, and her voice 
 was fuller of emotion than before, as she con- 
 tinued. 
 
 ‘«* For all this heed of me and mine, I again 
 thank the Herr Count ; but there is a power 
 that is stronger with the young than the 
 counsel of the experienced, or even than the 
 wishes of their friends,” she said. ‘‘ My in- 
 tent, in intruding myself unbidden into this 
 secret conference, was to say that Meta had 
 listened to the voice of her sympathies more 
 than to the usages of her class, and chosen 
 for herself.” 
 
 The Count and Heinrich Frey stared at the 
 speaker in mute surprise, for neither fully 
 comprehended her meaning; while Ulrike 
 herself, one of her objects being accomplished, 
 in having made this long-dreaded declaration 
 in the presence of a person able to repress the 
 anger of her husband, sat silent, inwardly 
 trembling for the consequences. 
 
 «Wilt thou explain the meaning of thy 
 worthy consort, Herr Heinrich?” abruptly 
 asked the Count. 
 
 «‘Zum Henker ! you ask me to.perform an 
 office, Lord Count, that might better fit a 
 Benedictine, or a clerk. When Ulrike, who 
 is an excellent and obedient companion in the 
 main, once gets upon the stilts of fancy, I 
 never pretend to be able to raise an idea to 
 the level of her shoe-buckle. Goto! thou 
 hast well spoken, wife of mine; and it will 
 now be better to seek our child, lest yonder 
 cavalier of Rhodes be oiling her ears with the 
 unction of flattery.” 
 
 “Nay, by my house’s honors! but I will 
 
684 
 
 know more of this matter, thy fair and vir- 
 tuous consort consenting, Master Heinrich. 
 Wilt explain thyself freely, dame ?” 
 
 Whether it be from the instinct of weak- 
 ness and delicacy, or only the fruit of pre- 
 cepts constantly inculcated, a virtuous woman 
 rarely admits the existence of the sentiment 
 of love, either in herself or in any that is dear 
 to her, without a feeling of shame, and pos- 
 sibly not without an intuitive knowledge that 
 she is conceding some of the vantage-ground 
 of her sex’s privileges. 
 
 This feeling was apparent in Ulrike, by the 
 slow but complete suffusion of her cheek, and 
 by the manner in which her looks avoided 
 those of Emich, spite of the self-possession 
 and calm of her years. 
 
 **T would merely say, Herr Emich,” she 
 replied, ‘‘ that Meta, like all who are young 
 and innocent, hath fancied an image of per- 
 fection, and that she hath found an original 
 for her picture in a youth of the Jaegerthal. 
 While of this mind she cannot, in honesty or 
 in maidenly respect, become the bride of any 
 other than him she loves.” 
 
 ‘The affair grows clearer,” returned the 
 Count, smiling like one who took no very 
 deep interest in the matter; ‘‘and it is as 
 well explained as heart could wish—at least, 
 heart of the youth in question. What think- 
 est thou of this, Herr Burgomaster ?” 
 
 The comprehension of Heinrich Frey could 
 not altogether misconceive so plain an expla- 
 nation, and, since the moment when his wife 
 had ceased speaking, he sat regarding her 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 with womanly dignity. ‘‘ Our child has done 
 no more than listened to.the secret whisper- 
 ings of Nature ; and, in yielding her affections 
 to a youth whom she hath often seen and long 
 known, she hath merely paid an homage to 
 merit, that the most virtuous are the most apt 
 to yield.” 
 
 *“Go to, Ulrike! Thou art well enough 
 among thy household, and a woman for whom 
 I have esteem ; but these visions with which 
 thou art so often troubled, give thee an air, 
 at times, of being of less discernment than 
 thou mayest fairly claim to be. Excuse the 
 dame, Herr Count; for, though her own 
 husband, and a little weak on the subject of 
 her infirmities perhaps, there is not a more 
 thrifty manager, a more faithful spouse, or a 
 kinder mother in the Palatinate.” 
 
 ‘Nay, thou little need’st say this to me! 
 None know the worth of Ulrike better ; and, 
 I may add, few respect her so much. It were 
 well to hear further of this matter, Heinrich ; 
 for, to treat thee in candor, there may lie 
 more beneath this opening of the excellent 
 wife than is at first apparent. Our Meta 
 hath seen the qualities of some worthy youth 
 sooner than they have struck the eye of her 
 quick-sighted father, thou wouldst say. Is it 
 not so, dame ?” 
 
 “T would say that the heart of my child 
 is so closely bound in that of another, as to 
 leave little hope of happiness should her mat- 
 rimonial duties teach her to forget him.” 
 
 ‘* Thou thinkest, then, good dame, that the 
 young fancies of a female, when once in- 
 
 mild but troubled countenance, with parted | dulged, are not to be removed by the offices 
 
 lips and open eyes, like a man that first learns 
 some unlooked-for intelligence of great mo- 
 ment. 
 
 ‘‘ Herr Teufel ! exclaimed Heinrich, taking 
 up the last words of the Baron, unconscious 
 of the disrespect of what he did—‘‘ Art talk- 
 ing of our own natural-born child ?” 
 
 ‘*Of none other. In whom else have I 
 this motherly affection ?—or for what other 
 can I feel this deep concern ?” 
 
 ‘Dost mean that Meta—my daughter, 
 Meta Frey—hath inclination for son of 
 woman, except it may be the natural love and 
 reverence she beareth her own father ?——that 
 the girl hath truant and free fancies ?” 
 
 ‘‘T say nothing to give this opinion of 
 Mcta--my daughter, Meta,” returned Ulrike, 
 
 of wife and mother ?—that a caprice of the 
 imagination is stronger than a vow made at 
 the altar? ” 
 
 Though the eyes of both the Count and 
 the Burgomaster were riveted on the fine and 
 speaking countenance of Ulrike, the volume 
 of eloquent nature, that was thus opened to 
 their observation, proved little better than a 
 blank. Strong and dramatic exhibitions of 
 feeling require but little interpretation for 
 the dullest faculties; but few indeed are 
 they who are capable of comprehending the 
 secret workings of a system chastened and — 
 restrained as that of a virtuous but unhap- 
 pily-paired woman. ‘There is, perhaps, no 
 one aspect of human nature more common- 
 place, or more easily understood, than that 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 685 
 
 which is hourly offered by a worldly-minded | be looked to. Wilt condescend to name the 
 
 and capricious fair. 
 reer, seemingly as erratic as a comet, though, 
 in truth, her course is always to be calculated 
 on the infallible principles of vanity and sel- 
 fishness ; but no secret 1s more hermetically 
 sealed against impertinent and vulgar curlos- 
 ity, than the elevated sentiments which sus- 
 
 tain the suffering and silent female who is 
 
 truly instinct with the high qualities of her 
 sex. 
 
 We are no railer at the domination of 
 man; for we are persuaded that he who 
 would wish to transform the being that was 
 created to be his solacer and companion— 
 his guide in moral darkness, and his sharer 
 in sorrow as in joy—into a worldly compet- 
 itor, changing love and confidence to rivalry 
 and contention, is but miserably instructed in 
 that sublime ordinance of Nature, which has 
 thus separated the highest order of its crea- 
 tion into two great classes, so replete with 
 mutual consolation and happiness. 
 
 ‘Had the wife of the Burgomaster arisen, 
 and, in chosen terms, made an appeal to the 
 sympathies of her companions, in which 
 language should unite with manner to pro- 
 duce an effect, she might have been under- 
 stood, as the every-day reader understands 
 all such pictures of female character ; but 
 where she sat, silent, suffering, and meek, 
 she was completely concealed from any means 
 of comprehension possessed by either. Her 
 eye did not kindle, for long and patient sub- 
 ordination had taught her to submit to the 
 misconstructions of her husband ; nor scarce- 
 ly did the faint color of her cheek deepen, 
 since the load at her heart counteracted the 
 natural impulses of pride and resentment. 
 
 «‘T think, Lord Count, that when an in- 
 nocent and youthful female heart yields to a 
 power that Nature perhaps has made irresist- 
 ible,” she said, “it, at least, merits to be 
 treated tenderly. Meta hath few fancies of 
 the kind you mention ; and the attachment 
 she feels, though doubtless deepened by 
 those colors which the least experienced in 
 the truths of life are the most apt to paint, 
 is but the natural consequence of much asso- 
 ciation, and of great deserving on the part 
 of the young man.” 
 
 « This is getting to be plain, Herr Emich,” 
 said Heinrich Frey, pithily, “ and must needs 
 
 She runs her little ca- | youth thou meanest, Ulrike ?” 
 
 “ Berchthold Hintermayer.” 
 
 “ Berchthold Teufelstein !” exclaimed the 
 Burgomaster, laughing, though there was 
 something like a secret consciousness of dan- 
 ger in the very manner in which he gave loose 
 to his merriment. <‘‘ A penniless boy is truly 
 a fit husband for child of mine !” 
 
 The quiet, blue eye of Ulrike was fast- 
 ened on her husband; but she averted it 
 with sensitive haste, lest it might betray that 
 she was thinking of the time when her own 
 father had consented to her marriage with 
 one nearly as poor, merely because the pen- 
 etration of the parent had discovered those 
 qualities of prudence and gainful industry in 
 his townsman which after-experience so fully 
 developed. 
 
 “He is not rich, Heinrich,” was her an- 
 swer; “but he is worthy; and why need a 
 chill be thrown on the heart of ‘Meta, for the 
 desire of that which she already hath in suf- 
 ficient plenty?” 
 
 ‘Hear you this, Herr Emich? My wife 
 is lifting the curtain of privacy before your 
 respected eyes with a freedom for which I 
 could fain ery mercy.” 
 
 ‘« Berchthold is a youth I love,” gravely 
 observed the Count. 
 
 «Tn that case, I-shall say nothing disre- 
 spectful of the lad, who is a worthy forester, 
 and in all things suited to his service in the 
 family of Hartenburg ; still, he is but a for- 
 ester, and a very penniless one. I had not 
 thought to dispose of the girl so soon, for a 
 little maidenly leisure does none of the sex 
 injury, Lord Count; but as she hath her 
 head set upon this Berchthold, it may be well 
 to wrap it in a matron’s coif, by way of fill- 
 ing it with ideas more suited to her hopes.” 
 
 “The remedy may prove fatal, Heinrich!” 
 mildly observed Ulrike, raising her tearful 
 eye to the obstinate features of the Burgo- 
 master. 
 
 “Nay, Lought to know the constitution of 
 the family; what has so well succeeded with 
 the mother cannot harm the child.” 
 
 The wife did not reply. But Emich of 
 Hartenburg had been deeply interested by 
 her gentle and winning manner, for he had 
 watched her countenance closely, and under- 
 stood the womanly effort by which the ap- 
 
686 
 
 pearance of calm was preserved. Turning 
 to the Burgomaster, he laid a hand on his 
 shoulder, with a friendly smile, and said— 
 
 “Herr Heinrich, thou hast a fair and 
 gentle consort; but, I think, too, thou hast 
 scarce less faith in me than in thy wife. 
 Give us leave; I would fain reason this mat- 
 ter with Ulrike, without the aid of thy influ- 
 ence.” 
 
 ** A thousand thanks for the honor to me 
 and mine, high-born Count! As to faith, I 
 would leave the dame a year on Limburg-hill 
 without other thought than for her conveni- 
 ence; for none know the worth of Ulrike 
 better, though she is so difficult to compre- 
 hend when her fancy is moulting. Now kiss 
 me, dame, and prithee do no dishonor to the 
 Count’s counsel.” 
 
 Thus saying, Heinrich Frey placed a hearty 
 kiss on the soft cheek that the obedient 
 Ulrike freely offered, and left his wife alone 
 with the noble, without other thought than 
 of the high distinction that was conferred on 
 his name. The manner in which he prized 
 the notice of the Baron was sufficiently mani- 
 fested by the readiness with which he com- 
 municated the circumstance that Emich and 
 his consort were closeted on an affair touch- 
 ing the interests of the family of Frey, to all 
 who would listen to his tale. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 **Ah me! for aught that ever I could read, 
 Could ever hear by tales or history, 
 The course of true love never did run smooth! ” 
 —SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 WHEN the door was closed on the hus- 
 band, the Count turned to the wife, and con- 
 tinued the discourse. 
 
 “T love young Berchthold Hintermayer, 
 good Ulrike,” he said, “and would gladly be 
 of aid in this affair, which, I see plainly, 
 thou hast much at heart.” 
 
 “The mother would be unnatural that 
 had not anxiety for the happiness of her 
 child. In youth, Lord Count, we gaze before 
 us, filling the dim ascent with scenes drawn 
 after our wishes, and peopling the world with 
 the beings that we deem most necessary to 
 our hopes; but when we have reached the 
 eminence, whence the commencement and 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the end of life can both be plainly. seen, do 
 we first find truth. I am as little disposed 
 as another to venture rashly on a union that 
 has no better security for its fruits than a 
 blind and feverish passion, that will be cer- 
 tain to consume itself by its own fierceness ; 
 but, on the other hand, none who have 
 known life as I can be disposed to consider 
 lightly those resemblances of taste and opin- 
 ions, those gentle touches of character and 
 disposition, that are most likely to conduce 
 to wedded love.” 
 
 ‘*Thou art esteemed lucky in thine own 
 consorting, dame ?” 
 
 ‘‘God hath much blessed me in many 
 mercies—the question is of Meta, my Lord 
 Count.” 
 
 Ulrike, spite of herself, had changed color; 
 but, aided by the manner of matronly re- 
 serve she immediately assumed, the little 
 emotion passed with Emich as no more than 
 a display of feminine reserve, that was in- 
 tended to repress acuriosity he had no titl 
 to indulge. | 
 
 ‘‘The question is of Meta, in sooth,” he 
 answered; “and, by Saint Benedict! the 
 youth shall not want for friendly and free 
 support. But favor should have favor’s 
 reward. If I give into thy humor in this 
 concern of thy daughter’s marriage, good 
 Ulrike, in return, I expect of thee a service 
 on which I scarce lay less stress.” 
 
 The matron raised her eyes to the coun- 
 tenance of her companion, in surprise. One 
 who had not so uniformly preserved her own 
 self-respect, might have doubted of what she 
 heard ; but the look of the Burgomaster’s 
 wife merely conveyed a meaning of curiosity 
 and innocence. 
 
 “You will deserve far more than I can 
 bestow, Herr Count, should you do aught to 
 secure the happiness of Meta.” 
 
 ‘‘Fair wife,” continued Emich, seating 
 himself, and taking her hand, with the free- 
 dom which his superior rank and the usages 
 of the country allowed, ‘‘thou knowest the 
 manner in which these Benedictines have so 
 long vexed our valley; and, being so deeply in 
 the confidence of the honest Heinrich, thou 
 must have suspected that, wearied of their 
 insolence and exactions, we have seriously 
 bethought us of the means by which to 
 reduce them to the modesty that becometh 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. , 
 
 their godly professions, and which might 
 better justify their pretensions ?” 
 
 Emich paused, and sat intently regarding 
 the face of his quiet listener. He had un- 
 wittingly touched upon the very subject that 
 had been the chief inducement with the 
 Burgomaster’s wife for intruding upon the 
 privacy of the conspirators. She had long 
 suspected their intentions ; and, though she 
 felt deep care for the future lot of Meta, and 
 had gladly availed herself of a favorable 
 occasion to break the ice on a subject that, 
 sooner or later, must be disclosed, her real 
 object was to warn Heinrich against the 
 probable consequences of the plot. In this 
 disposition, then, she heard the Count with 
 secret pleasure, and prepared herself to 
 reply, in the manner she had long medi- 
 tated. 
 
 « All that you say, Herr Count,” she an- 
 swered, ‘‘has more than once crossed my 
 mind ; and deeply have I grieved that those I 
 so love and honor should thus meditate injury 
 to the altars of God—plan desperate devices 
 to interrupt His praise.” 
 
 “How! dost thou call the whinings of 
 these knaves praise of aught but their own 
 hypocrisy ?” interrupted Emich. ‘‘ Are they 
 not the instigators of most of our sins, by 
 their example ?—the parents of all the con- 
 tention that troubles the neighborhood ?— 
 Consider, good Ulrike, that heaven is nota 
 close into which souls are to be driven blind- 
 folded ; but that we, who are of the flock, 
 have at least the right, as we have the means, 
 of judging whether the shepherds are fit for 
 their office or not.” 
 
 «‘And should they prove unequal to, or 
 unworthy of their duties, where do we find 
 authority to do them harm ?” 
 
 «God’s my life! good wife, are our 
 swords nothing? Are a noble name, an 
 ancient and high descent, a long-standing 
 claim to command, and a stout heart, 
 nothing ?” 
 
 « Arrayed against the Almighty, they count 
 as the leaves of your own forest when flutter- 
 ing in a gale ;—less than the flakes of snow 
 that drive, in winter, against the battlements 
 of your strong castle. Limburg is reared in 
 honor of God; and he that raiseth a hand 
 against the sacred walls, will be apt to repent 
 the rashness in woe. 
 
 If there are unworthy 
 
 687 
 
 ministers at its altars, there are also those 
 that are worthy ; and were it not so, the 
 mission is too high to be sullied by any frail- 
 ty of those who abuse their trusts.” 
 
 The Count was disturbed; for Ulrike 
 spoke earnestly, and in a voice of sweet per- 
 suasion. He leaned his chin upon a hand, 
 as a man that pondered well upon the haz- 
 ards of his enterprise. 
 
 ‘‘What thinkest thou, Ulrike, of this 
 brother of Wittenberg ?” he at length asked. 
 ‘* Could we but fairly make him out honest 
 and wise, ecclesiastical authority for lowering 
 the pride of Limburg might be had !” 
 
 ‘‘T am one of those who think Brother 
 Luther honest; I am also one of those who 
 think him mistaken : but even he is far from 
 urging to deeds of violence.” 
 
 ‘«‘By Saint Benedict! woman, thou hast 
 had converse with Father Arnolph, touching 
 this question. Echo does not answer sound 
 more faithfully than thou repeatest the senti- 
 ments of the Prior.” 
 
 «<It is not strange that they who love God 
 should feel and speak alike in a matter affect- 
 ing His honor. 1 have said naught to Father 
 Arnolph, nor to any other of the Abbey, of 
 your designs; for it is not easy for Ulrike 
 Frey to forget she is both wife and mother. 
 But I have prayed often, that the hearts of 
 those who contemplate this dangerous sacri- 
 lege may be softened ; and that, for their 
 own safety, they may yet see the evil of their 
 plot. Believe me, Count, the Dread Being 
 who is worshipped in Limburg will not for- 
 get to avenge himself of those who despise 
 His power !” 
 
 «Thou art certain, Ulrike, that thy opin- 
 ions have weight with me, for since child- 
 hood have I known and respected thy wis- 
 dom. Nay, had there not been want of 
 those claims which birth can alone give, 
 thou wouldst now be sitting in this castle its 
 mistress, and not a guest. The self-denial 
 which was practised, in order to do my father 
 pleasure, cost me much pain for many years ; 
 nor did I rightly regain my freedom, until 
 the birth of my eldest born turned my hopes 
 toward posterity.” 
 
 It is seldom woman hears the acknowledg- 
 ment of her influence with the stronger sex 
 without secret satisfaction. As there had 
 been nothing in the attachment to which the 
 
688 
 
 Count alluded, to alarm her principles or to 
 offend her delicacy, Ulrike listened to this 
 reference to the feelings and incidents of their 
 younger days, with a smile that produced an 
 effect on her gentle features, which resembled 
 the melancholy light which illuminated the 
 chapel of the religious community in ques- 
 tion; or which was mild, placid, and, if we 
 may be permitted an expression so vague, 
 tinged with hues of the past. 
 
 ‘“We are no longer young, Emich,” she 
 answered, withdrawing her hand, under a 
 keen impulse of its propriety—“and that 
 which thou speakest belongs to a former age. 
 But if thou dost, in sooth, entertain this 
 opinion of my discretion, I have never said 
 aught of thee but in thy honor. There were 
 other reasons than the late Count’s will, why 
 I could not listen to thy suit, as thou wert 
 then informed ; for we are none of us the 
 controllers of those sentiments which so much 
 depend on taste or accident.” 
 
 «« By the sainted eleven thousand of Koeln! 
 Heinrich Frey was scarce a youth to do this 
 disadvantage to the heir of my line and 
 name!” 
 
 “ Heinrich Frey received my troth, as the 
 noble Ermengarde received thine, Herr von 
 Hartenburg,” answered Ulrike, with the 
 composure of one whose feelings had never 
 been interested in the refusal to which she 
 alluded, and with the dignity of a woman 
 sensitively alive to her husband’s character. 
 “ By Heaven’s favor, we are both happier 
 than if wedded either above or beneath our 
 hopes. But if thou couldst deny thyself this 
 boon—for such, in thy young fancies, didst 
 thou believe my hand—to oblige thy father 
 of earth, wilt thou still defy him of Heaven, 
 to gratify a longing less excusable ? ” 
 
 “Go to, Ulrike; thou pressest me out of 
 reason; I know not fairly that I even medi- 
 tate the enterprise thou meanest.” 
 
 “Or, in other language, thou art not yet 
 decided to commit the sacrilege. Before thy 
 hand strikes the irretrievable blow, Herr 
 Count, hear one that, in thy youth, thou 
 professedst to love, and who yet remembers 
 thy preference, with grateful kindness.” 
 
 “Thou art more indulgent as a matron 
 than as a maid! This is the first word of 
 pity for all the sorrow thou causedst my 
 youth, that hath ever escaped thee! ” 
 
 BJ 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “Pity is a term it would ill become Ulrike 
 Haitzinger to use to Emich yon Leiningen. 
 I said gratitude, Herr Count; for the woman 
 that pretendeth not to feel this sentiment 
 toward the honorable youth that has pre- 
 ferred her to all others of her sex, payeth 
 an indifferent compliment to her own heart. 
 I never disavowed that thy suit gave me both 
 gratification and sorrow—gratification, that 
 one of thy hopes could find sufficient in me 
 to justify thy choice; sorrow, that thou wert 
 necessarily disappointed.” 
 
 “And had our births been nearer an equal- 
 ity, gentle Ulrike, hadst thou, like me, come 
 of noble parentage, or I, like thee, been of 
 more humble origin, couldst: thou, in sooth, 
 have found in thy heart the excuse for a 
 different answer ? ” 
 
 “We are here to discuss other matters, 
 Herr von Hartenburg, than these recollec- 
 tions of childish feelings.” 
 
 “God’s my life! Callest thou the pain of 
 disappointed affection a childish sorrow ? 
 Thou wert ever tranquil in temper, and too 
 much disposed to indifference on the subject 
 of any warmth of heart beyond the cold du- 
 ties of family regard.” 
 
 “This may be my fault, if you will, Count 
 
 Emich, but I esteem it an advantage to feel 
 strongest where duty most directs the affec- 
 tions.” 
 
 ‘‘T remember thy final answer, made 
 through thy friend young Berchthold’s 
 mother—I owe the lad no grace for the boon, 
 were justice done—but thou answeredst, that 
 the daughter of a Burgomaster was unfit to 
 be the partner of a Baron; and thou prayedst 
 me to render all duty to the Count my father, 
 that his blessing might lighten the disappoint- 
 ment. Now, were the truth known, that re- 
 ply cost thee no more than a simple refusal 
 to one of thy maidens of some trifling grace!” 
 
 “Were the truth known, Emich, it would 
 tell a different tale. Thou wert then young, 
 and, though violent and hot-headed, not 
 without many manly virtues; and thou 
 greatly overratest the power of a thoughtful 
 girl, if thou supposest she would gladly give 
 pain, where she has received naught but 
 esteem! ” 
 
 *¢ And had I been thv neighbor’s child—or 
 wert thou the daughter of some equal of 
 the empire ?—” 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 “Tn that case, Lord Count, the answer 
 would have been the same,” said the other, 
 firmly, though her countenance evidently lost 
 its tranquil brightness iu a transient cloud : 
 ‘««The heart of Ulrike Haitzinger spoke in 
 that reply, as well as her prudence.” 
 
 ‘‘God’s truth! thou art of cutting simplic- 
 ity!” cried the Count, rising abruptly, and 
 losing the expression of gentleness that the 
 recollection of his better days and youthful 
 feelings had given his features, in their usual 
 hardened character. “Thou forgettest, Frau 
 Frey, that I am a poor Count of Leiningen!” 
 
 “ Tf I have failed in meet respect,” returned 
 the mild Ulrike, “ I am now reminded of the 
 fault, and will sin no more.” 
 
 “ Nay, I would say naught unkind or un- 
 gentle—but thou bruisedst my spirit, with a 
 sore answer. We were conversing of the ac- 
 cursed monks, too, and blood gets hot at the 
 mention of their names. Thou thinkest, 
 then, my excellent neighbor, that, as Chris- 
 tians, we are bound to submit to all the ex- 
 actions of these reverend knaves, and that to 
 presume to right ourselves, is flying in the 
 face of Heaven’s authority ?” 
 
 ‘“You put the case in your own humor, 
 Count. I have said naught of abject for- 
 bearance, or of unnecessary submission. If 
 the Limburg monks are forgetful of their 
 vows, the question is of their own safety :—as 
 for us, we have to look that we do nothing 
 wrongful of itself, or nothing that may 
 be accounted disrespectful to Him we wor- 
 ship ¥ 
 
 “Prithee, good Ulrike,’ interrupted 
 Emich, resuming his seat, in the familiar 
 manner he had used at the commencement of 
 the dialogue, “let us converse, in freedom, of 
 this inclination of thy child. I love young 
 
 689 
 
 “This quality of thy excellent consort hath 
 not escaped me. But Heinrich Frey was 
 wived so happily himself, and with so little 
 claim to riches on his own part, that he 
 should not, in reason, bear too heavily on a 
 youth that might have known better days, 
 but for a hard fortune befalling his parents. 
 He that hath been poor, should have respect 
 for poverty in others.” 
 
 ‘‘T fear that such is not the working of 
 human nature,” answered the thoughtful 
 wife, nearly unconscious of what she uttered. 
 “Our experience in life would prove that 
 they who have risen show the least tolerance 
 for those who tarry in the rear; and, as none 
 prize the gifts of rank and consequence so 
 much as they to whom they are novelties, we 
 ought not to expect the successful man too 
 soon to forget the longings he felt when in 
 adversity, nor him to whom honors are new, 
 to look too closely into their vanity.” 
 
 “Nay, Heinrich is not so young in consid- 
 eration, or so new to fortune, as to be classed 
 with these.” 
 
 “ Heinrich!” exclaimed the matron, across 
 whose chaste brow there stole a crimson suf- 
 fusion, that resembled the flush of even 
 upon the snowy peaks of the Alps—‘‘ there 
 is not question, here, of Heinrich Frey !” 
 
 The Count smiled till the mustachios 
 curled upon his brown cheeks. 
 
 «Thou art right,” he answered courteous- 
 ly; ‘‘it isin Berchthold and Meta that we 
 are most interested. I think I see the means 
 of accomplishing all we wish in their behalf, 
 and means that offer so readily as to wear 
 the air of being a gift of Providence.” 
 
 “ They are only the more welcome for their 
 character.” 
 
 “Thou knowest, Ulrike, that I am greatly 
 
 Berchthold, aud would fain do him service | burthened with charges that he heavily on 
 were the means: offering; but I greatly fear | all of my rank. Ermengarde hath most of 
 we shall have difficulty in bringing Heinrich | the qualities of her station, and a love of 
 
 to a complying state of mind.” 
 
 “The apprehension of his refusal hath 
 caused me much uneasiness, Herr von Har- 
 tenburg,” returned the tender mother; “ for 
 the Burgomaster is not one of those who 
 change their opinions readily. The over- 
 zealous persuasion of friends increases his 
 faith in himself, at times, instead of soften- 
 ing those resolutions which the wisest of us 
 are apt to form hastily and without thought.” 
 
 | 
 
 splendor that is costiy; besides, this outfit of 
 my young heir, who travels with the Emper- 
 or, hath much drained me of means, of late; 
 else would I offer, of pure love for thee and 
 thine, that which would make the connection 
 acceptable to Heinrich. In thisstrait, borne 
 down, as we all are, by the war, and saddled 
 with the cost of keeping on foot so many 
 men in Hartenburg, I see no other present 
 means than that I have just mentioned. ”’ 
 
690 
 
 <‘Or have not mentioned ; for, in the de- 
 sire to prove your inability to serve the 
 youth, nothing hath yet been said of this fa- 
 vorable chance offered by Providence.” 
 
 «‘T cry thy mercy! Thou hast nghtly 
 judged me, Ulrike, for I feel it a reproach to 
 be able to do nothing for one I so esteem.” 
 
 ‘Put no undue meaning on my words,” 
 interrupted the matron, smiling like one who 
 wished to reassure her companion. ‘‘ It has 
 never entered my thoughts that the Counts 
 of Leiningen are bound to portion all who 
 serve them, according to their several hopes. 
 It would lighten the heaviest purse in the 
 Palatinate, Herr Emich, to furnish an equal 
 marriage-gift to that which may be the share 
 of Meta Frey.” 
 
 ‘‘ None know this better than I. Heinrich 
 and I have often discoursed of the affair, and 
 I could fain wish there existed no inequality 
 of rank—but this is idle, and we will talk 
 only of Berchthold and his hopes. Thou art 
 aware, Ulrike, that there are heavy issues be- 
 tween me and the brotherhood concerning 
 certain dues, not only in the valley, but on 
 the plain, and that the contest fairly settled 
 in my favor will much increase my revenues. 
 Now were this unhappy dissension decided as 
 I could wish, it would not only be in my 
 power, but it would become my wish, to be- 
 stow such grace on all my principal followers, 
 and on none so much as on Berchthold, as 
 might leave a favorable opinion of my bounty. 
 We want but this affair rightly settled to 
 possess the means of winning Heinrich to our 
 desires.” 
 
 ‘Could this be honestly done, my blessing 
 on him that shall effect it !” 
 
 “‘T rejoice to hear thee say this, good Ul1- 
 rike. Thou, of all others, mayest be most 
 useful in the matter. Heinrich and I have 
 well nigh decided on the fitness of disturbing 
 the monks in their riotous abominations - 
 
 ‘The words are strong, when applied to 
 professed Benedictines !” 
 
 ‘By the holy Magi! they are more than 
 merited. Here has not the day twice turned 
 since I had Bonifacius himself weltering in 
 wine beneath the roof of Hartenburg, an’ he 
 had been aroisterer of asuburb! Bontfacius, 
 Limburg’s' Abbot, have I seen in this unfit 
 condition, Frau Ulrike, within mine own 
 good castle walls!” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘‘And in thine own good castle company, 
 Herr Emich ?” 
 
 ‘Dost thou make no difference between 
 Baron and Monk ? Am I a sworn professor 
 of godliness, a shaven crown, or one that 
 looketh to be accounted better than his fel- 
 lows? ‘That I am noble is the chance of for- 
 tune, and as such I receive and profit by the 
 advantage, though, I trust, always in fitting 
 reason ; but no man can say that Emich of 
 Leiningen pretends aught to the especial vir- 
 tues of a monkish character. We that are 
 modest may claim to indulge our failings, 
 but justice should heavily visit him that sins 
 under a cloak of sanctity.” 
 
 ‘¢T know not that thy exception may avail 
 thee inthe end. But thou wouldest say some- 
 thing to Berchthold Hintermayer’s advan- 
 tage ?” 
 
 ‘That would I, and right heartily. Could 
 Heinrich be brought to a firm mind, that I 
 might count on the support of the townsmen, 
 these reprobates in cowls should be quickly 
 disposed of ; and as, of necessity, my dues 
 would be much augmented, by clothing 
 Berchthold with a deputy’s authority over 
 the recovered fields and villages, he should so 
 gain in men’s respect, as to soften the reluc- 
 tance of the hardest-hearted Burgomaster in 
 all Germany.” 
 
 ‘«* And in what manner dost thou look to 
 me in effecting this object ?” 
 
 «One of thy understanding need scarce put 
 the question. Thou hast been long a wife, 
 Ulrike, and art skilled in the persuasions of 
 thy sex. I know not thy practice with Hein- 
 rich ; but when Ermengarde would have her 
 way, spite of her husband’s inclinations, she 
 has various manners of coming to her wishes. 
 To-day she is smiling, to-morrow silent ; now 
 she fondles, and then she frowns; and, most 
 of all, is she ready in seizing the moments of 
 idle confidence to press on my unprepared 
 reason the arguments of kisses and co- 
 quetry.”” 
 
 ‘«Tt were idle to say I do not understand 
 you, Herr von Hartenburg. I-wish not to 
 raise the curtain of your domestic confidence, 
 nor do I feel disposed that any should pre- 
 sume to lift mine. Heinrich and I pursue 
 our several ways, as each deems right, though, 
 I trust, always with the harmony of wedded 
 interests, and I am little practised in the in- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 fluence you mention. But, dear as Meta is 
 to the heart of her mother—and surely no 
 shoot from the parent stem ever gave fonder 
 hopes, or justified more tender regard ”— 
 Ulrike folded her hands, and turned her 
 meek blue eyes to heaven—‘‘ much as I es- 
 teem young Berchthold, who is the child of 
 my youth’s nearest friend; and gladly as I 
 would see their young hearts forever bound 
 up in the same ties of family concord and 
 matrimonial love, the common parents of 
 lisping, laughing babes that should cluster at 
 my knee, giving the evening of life some 
 compensation for the chill of its noontide 
 —rather than aid thee in this unhallowed 
 design; rather than do aught, even in 
 rebellious thought, against the altars of my 
 God ; rather than set my selfishness in array 
 against His dread power, or fancy wish of 
 mine can prove excuse for sacrilege—I could 
 follow the girl to her grave, with a tearless 
 eye, and place my own head by her side, 
 without regret for that calm decline which, 
 when the weary probation of life is ended, 
 Heaven grants to the deserving.” 
 
 The Count of Leiningen recoiled at the en- 
 ergy with which his companion spoke; for 
 none are so commanding as the mild when 
 aroused to resistance, or so authoritative as 
 the good when required to exhibit the beauty 
 of their principles. He was disappointed ; but, 
 though a sort of instinct warned him that he 
 had no further hopes of gaining the assist- 
 ance of Ulrike, and almost without knowing 
 it himself, the respect which he had always 
 entertained for his companion was increased. 
 Taking the hand she extended to him, in am- 
 ity, the moment her excitement had a little 
 abated, he was about to reply, when a foot- 
 step in the adjoining room, and a timid tap 
 at the door, interrupted him. 
 
 ‘¢Thou canst enter,” said the Baron, be- 
 lieving that one of the castle maidens was 
 without, and glad for the relief. 
 
 ‘¢A million of thanks for the honor,” 
 returned Ilse, courtesying to the floor as she 
 availed herself of the privilege. “This is the 
 first time so great a favor ever befell me in 
 Hartenburg, though, when a girl, as it might 
 be a ruddy maiden like our Meta, I once was 
 admitted to a closet in Heidelberg. There 
 was I, and the late Burgomaster, Ulrike’s 
 father, and the good wife, her mother, on a 
 
 691 
 
 junketing, in our young days, to see the curi- 
 osities of the Elector’s Palace, and we had 
 visited the tun y 
 
 ‘Thou art sent to seek me?” interrupted 
 the mistress. “ Hath Meta need of her 
 mother ?” 
 
 “That may be always said of a certainty, 
 for girls of that age are like the young of the 
 nest, Herr Count, who are ever in danger of 
 breaking their necks, if they take a hasty 
 flight, without the example of the old to give 
 them prudence as well as courage. ‘Twenty 
 times each day—I know not an’ if it be not 
 fifty—do I say to our Meta, ‘ Do as thou wilt, 
 child, an’ thou dost nothing amiss.’ I hold 
 it to be wrongful to curb young humors so 
 long as they are innocent; and therefore do I 
 say, that kindness is a better rod than anger; 
 and in this reproving and chastening man- 
 ner, Herr von Hartenburg, have I reared both 
 Meta and her mother. Well, here you both are, 
 in friendly communion, an’ you were children 
 of the same cradle!—and Heinrich Frey is 
 yon, without, tasting the rhenish with the 
 two churchmen that infect the castle sf 
 
 ‘‘Thou wouldst surely say frequent, good 
 nurse.” 
 
 “What matters a word, child? Infect or 
 frequent are much the same, when one speak- 
 eth of the gentle and gay! I remember ye 
 both young and handsome, and a pair that 
 the whole town of Duerckheim said ought 
 never to be parted; for if one was noble, the 
 other was good; if one was strong and valiant, 
 the other was fair and virtuous; but the ways 
 of the world led ye on different paths, and 
 Heaven forbid that [should say aught against 
 ways that so many travel!” 
 
 ‘¢ And thou hast left Meta with those that 
 infect the castle, to come and say this ?” 
 
 ‘‘Naught like it. It is true I let the girl 
 listen to a few of their idle words, for with- 
 out experience a maiden may not know when 
 to repulse an improper freedom; but for any 
 levity to escape my eye, were as impossible as 
 for my Lord Count to fail in duty to the Lim- 
 burg altars. No, I complain not of the 
 stranger nobles; for while he of Rhodes did 
 many gentle offices in behalf of Meta, the 
 reverend Abbé held me in discourse touching 
 this heresy of Luther, and, I warrant you, 
 ecclesiastic as he is, he went not away the 
 worse for my opinion of the schismatic. We 
 
692 
 
 had goodly discourse on the dangers and trib- 
 ulations of the times, and might have had 
 much learning between us, but for young 
 Berchthold, who fancied himself beating the 
 forest, by the manner in which he threshed 
 among the old armor of the hall, disturbing 
 all present with the idle pretence of seeking 
 a cross-bow for the Count’s pleasure in the 
 morning; as if the Herr Count would have 
 hunted with less satisfaction because there 
 were wise words uttered in his halls! The 
 Hintermayers area race I love, but this youth 
 seemeth to be wanting of respect for years.” 
 
 ‘¢ And what hast done with my child ?” 
 
 ‘Thou knowest it was thy desire she 
 should say a few greetings to the fallen Lott- 
 chen; and when I thought the wandering 
 cavalier had had his say, I beckoned the 
 child away, in order that she might go to the 
 hamlet on that errand. She will be none 
 the worse for the discourse with that free 
 cavalier, for naught so quickens virtue of the 
 pure stamp as a httle contamination with 
 vice—it is like the base metal they put in 
 gold, to make the precious ore hard and able 
 to undergo many hands.” 
 
 «Thou hast not suffered Meta to go un- 
 attended ?” 
 
 ‘‘Didst ever know me to fail in duty? 
 Thy motherly heart is quick to take alarm, 
 like the bird fluttering at each leaf that 
 rustles. Not I, in sooth; I sent the vain 
 Gisela to keep her company, and whispered 
 our Meta well, as they departed, not to fail 
 to draw instructions from her companion’s 
 light discourse, which, I will warrant, turns 
 on naught else but the gallantries of these 
 strangers. Oh! leave old Ilse to profit by 
 anything edifying that may turn up, in the 
 way of accident! I that never yet lost a 
 good moral for want of pushing an opportu- 
 nity! and here stands Ulrike as proof of 
 what I have done. I owe you excuses, 
 Herr Emich, for sending away your forester ; 
 but the boy vexed me with his clatter among 
 the shields and arquebuses, and, in order to 
 give him a wholesome lesson in silence, I 
 sent him to see Meta safe to his mother’s 
 door, under the pretence of its being neces- 
 sary to have a manly arm present, to beat off 
 the barking curs of the hamlet.” 
 
 * Does Heinrich know this ? ” 
 
 “In sooth, he is so beset with thy honor in 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 being closeted with my Lord the Count, that 
 he does little besides talk of it, and take his 
 cup. When the child was thus cared for, by 
 the one who first held her in arms, and one, 
 too, whose experience is little short of three- 
 score and fourteen, I saw not the necessity of 
 calling him from his pleasures.” 
 
 Ulrike smiled, and turning to the Count, 
 who had been so much lost in thought as to 
 give little heed to the words of the nurse, 
 she offered him her hand, and they left the - 
 closet in company. 
 
 os 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ‘« Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, 
 And mantle on her neck of snow.”’—-ROGERS. 
 
 THE cottage of Lottchen, the mother of 
 Berchthold, was distinguished from the 
 other habitations of the hamlet only by its 
 greater neatness, and by that air of superior 
 comfort which depends chiefly on taste and 
 habit, and of which poverty itself can scarcely 
 deprive those who have been educated in the 
 usages and opinions of a higher caste. It 
 stood a little apart from the general cluster 
 of humble roofs; and, in addition to its 
 other marks of superiority, it possessed the 
 advantage of a small inclosure, by which it 
 was partially removed from the publicity and 
 noise that rob most of the villages and ham- 
 lets of Europe of a rural character. 
 
 We have had frequent occasions to allude 
 to the difficulty of conveying accurate ideas 
 of positive things, or even of moral and. 
 political truths, while using the terms which 
 use has appropriated to the two hemispheres, 
 but which are liable to so much qualification 
 in their respective meanings. What is com- 
 fort in one country would be thought great 
 discomfort in another, and even the two 
 higher degrees of comparison must always be 
 understood subject to right knowledge of 
 their positive qualities. Thus most beautiful 
 conveys nothing clear, unless we can agree 
 on what is beautiful; while neatness and 
 elegance, and even size, taken in their popu- 
 lar significations, become purely terms of 
 local convention. Were we to say that the 
 cottage of Lottchen Hintermayer resembled, 
 in the least, one of those white and spotless 
 dwellings, with its Venetian blinds and _ pil- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 lared piazzas, its grassy court in front, and 
 its garden teeming with golden fruit in the 
 rear, its acacias and willows shading the low 
 roof, and its shrubbery exhaling the odors 
 that a generous sun can extract, we should 
 give such a picture to the reader as Europe 
 nowhere presents—nowhere, because in those 
 regions in which Nature*has been bountiful, 
 man has been*held in mental duress; and in 
 those in which man is sufficiently advanced 
 and free to require the indulgences we have 
 named, Nature denies the boons so necessary 
 to their existence. Here, and here only, do 
 those whom fortune has not smiled upon, 
 possess the union of comfort, space, retire- 
 ment and luxury, which depends on the 
 causes named, for it is only here that are 
 found the habits necessary to their produc- 
 tion, in conjunction with the required climate 
 and a cheapness of material and land, to 
 place the whole within the reach of those 
 who are not affluent. We wish, therefore, to 
 be understood as speaking, at all times, 
 under the consciousness of this difference in 
 the value of terms, for, without such an 
 understanding, there will be little intelligence 
 between us and our countrymen. 
 
 We have made this explanation, lest the 
 reader might fancy some affinity between the 
 hamlet of Hartenburg and one in the older 
 settlements of the Union. The remoteness 
 of the period might indeed give some reason 
 to suspect such a resemblance, but were 
 the tale one of our own times, it would be 
 scarcely probable. The Germans, like all 
 the more vorthern nations, are neat, in pro- 
 portion to their several degrees of civilization ; 
 and the great frequency of the little capitals 
 which dot its surface, and which have’ all 
 been, more or less, beautified by their re- 
 spective princes, has caused it to possess a 
 greater number of spacious and cleanly towns, 
 in proportion te its population, than are to 
 be met with in most of the other countries 
 of the Europes continent; but, as elsewhere, 
 in that quarter of the world, the poor are 
 poor indeed. 
 
 The little cluster of houses that were 
 grouped beneath the salient bastions of Har- 
 tenburg, had the general character of poverty 
 and humility which still belongs to nearly 
 all such hamlets. The buildings were con- 
 structed of timber and mud, with thatched 
 
 693 
 
 roofs, and openings to which, in that age, 
 glass was a stranger. In speaking of the com- 
 fort of the dwelling of Lottchen, we wish to 
 say little more than that it was superior to 
 its fellows in these particulars, and that it 
 had the additional merit of faultless neatness. 
 The furniture, however, gave much stronger 
 evidence of the former condition of its tenant. 
 Enough of this description of property had 
 been saved from the wreck of her husband’s 
 fortunes, to leave before the eyes of its mis- 
 tress these traces of happier days—one of 
 those melancholy consolations in adversity 
 which are common among those whose fall 
 has been broken by some light circumstances 
 of mitigation, and which, as monitors to 
 delicacy and tenderness, make touching ap- 
 peals to the recollections of the spectator. 
 But Berchthold’s motherhad still better claims 
 to the respect of those who came beneath her 
 humble lintel. As we have already said, she 
 had been the bosom friend of Ulrike in early 
 youth, and, by education and character, she 
 was still every way worthy of holding so near 
 a trust with the wife of the Burgomaster. 
 The allowance of her son was small in money, 
 but the Count permitted his forester to use 
 the game freely; and, as German frugality 
 left her mistress of the wardrobes of several 
 generations, the respectable matron had never 
 known absolute want, and was at all times 
 able to make such a personal appearance as 
 better suited her former than her present 
 means. In addition to these advantages, 
 Ulrike never visited the Jaegerthal without 
 thought of her friend’s necessities; and full 
 often, at times and seasons when this sacred 
 duty could not be performed in person, was 
 Ilse dispatched to the hamlet as the substitute 
 of her considerate and affectionate mistress. 
 
 The cavalcade from the Abbey had, of 
 necessity, passed the door of Lottchen, and 
 she was fully aware of the intended visit. 
 When, therefore, Meta, blooming and happy, 
 entered the cottage, attended by the warder’s 
 daughter, and accompanied by Berchthold, 
 though secretly rejoicing in what she saw, 
 the pleased and watchful matron neither ex- 
 pressed nor felt surprise. 
 
 “Thy mother ?” were the first words which 
 passed the lips of the widowed Lottchen, 
 after she had kissed the glowing and warm 
 cheek of the girl. 
 
694 
 
 “Is closeted with the Herr Emich, my 
 father says; else would she be sure to be here. 
 She has sent me to say this.” 
 
 “ And thy father?” added Lottchen, with 
 emphasis, glancing an uneasy eye from Meta 
 to her son. 
 
 ‘He drinks of rhenish with the castle 
 wassailers. Truly, my mother Lottchen, 
 thou must find the hamlet unquiet with these 
 graceless spirits in the hold. Our Limburg 
 monks are scarcely so thirsty; and for idle 
 discourse, I know not their equal in Duerck- 
 heim, town of vanities and folly though it be, 
 as good Ilse is apt to say.” 
 
 Lottchen smiled, for she saw by the playful 
 eye of her young visitor, that nothing un- 
 pleasant had occurred; and giving Gisela 
 welcome, she led the way within. 
 
 “* Does Heinrich know of this visit?” asked 
 the widow, when her young guests were 
 seatedy and with a painful interest in the 
 answer. 
 
 ‘IT tell thee, Lottchen, that my father 
 quafis with the strangers. Here is Bercht- 
 hold thy son—the restless, impatient Bercht- 
 hold—he can tell thee, mother, into what 
 goodly company the Burgomaster of Duerck- 
 heim hath fallen !” 
 
 As Meta said this, she laughed, though, 
 in very sooth, she scarce knew why. The 
 more experienced Lottchen saw little else in 
 the mirth of her young visitor than one of 
 those buoyant impulses of youth which lead 
 equally to gayety and sorrow, without suffi- 
 cient cause ; but she watched the countenance 
 _ of her own child with solicitude, to note how 
 far he sympathized with the merriment of 
 Meta. Berchthold, by speaking, was the in- 
 terpreter of his own thoughts. 
 
 “Since thou appealest to me,” he said, 
 “my answer is, that Heinrich Frey consorts 
 at present with two as hopeless idlers as ever 
 darkened door in Hartenburg. Truly, Brother 
 Luther needs bestir himself for the Church, 
 When such as these go forth in its gar- 
 ments !” 
 
 ‘Say what thou wilt, Master Berchthold,” 
 cried Gisela, ‘‘of the prating half-shaven 
 Abbé, but respect him of Rhodes, as a soldier 
 in evil fortune, and one that is both gentle 
 and gallant.” 
 
 “ As gallant as thou wilt,” cried Meta, with 
 warmth. ‘Thy humor for mild discourse 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 must be formed by the rude company of the 
 bold, if thou stylest these gentle !” 
 
 Lottchen had examined each face earnestly, 
 and her countenance brightened with the 
 frankness and fervor of the last speaker. She 
 was about to say something in guarded com- 
 mendation of her judgment, when a light step 
 was heard before the outer door, and Ulrike 
 herself entered. Notwithstanding the early 
 departure of the young people from the castle, 
 and the trifling distance between its walls and 
 the hamlet, so much leisure had been wasted in 
 idle laughter by the way, or in culling flowers 
 on the hill-side, that she had sufficient time 
 to exhaust all that old Ilse had to recount 
 concerning the manner in which she had dis- 
 posed of her charge, and to follow them to 
 the cottage, ere the discourse had gone farther. 
 The meeting between the friends was, as 
 wont, warm and happy. When the usual 
 inquiries were exhausted, and a few unmean- 
 ing observations had been made by the girls, 
 the younger part of the company were gotten 
 rid of, under pretence of conducting Meta to 
 witness the manner in which Berchthold had 
 arranged the nests for some doves, which had 
 been a present from herself to his mother. 
 The two parents saw the departure of their 
 children, always accompanied by Gisela, with 
 satisfaction ; for each had need of a secret 
 conference with the other, and both knew how 
 apt youth and inclination were to prolong 
 their absence by means of those thousand little 
 delays which form the unconscious and inno- 
 cent coquetry of love. 
 
 When left to themselves, Ulrike and Lott- 
 chen sat, for some time, with hands inter- 
 locked, regarding one another earnestly. 
 
 ‘*'Thou hast borne the trying season of the 
 spring-time well, good Lottchen,” said the 
 former, with affection. “I have no longer 
 any fear that thy health might suffer in this 
 damp abode.” 
 
 “And thou lookest youthful and fair as 
 when we strolled, like thy Meta there, laugh- 
 ing and thoughtless girls, on the heath of the 
 Heidenmauer. Of all I have known, Ulrike, 
 thou art the least changed by time, either in 
 form or heart.” 
 
 The gentle pressure, before they released 
 each other’s hands, was a silent pledge of 
 their mutual esteem. 
 
 “Thou findest Meta blooming and happy? ” 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 ‘¢ As she meriteth to» be—and Berchthold 
 —I think him fast growing into the comeli- 
 
 ness and form of his sire.” 
 
 ‘¢ He is all I could wish—one qualification 
 excepted, my friend; and that, thou well 
 knowest, I do not wish him for any other 
 reason than to satisfy Heinrich’s scruples.” 
 
 «‘For my child, that qualification is hope- 
 less. 
 difference to gold, ever to accumulate, were 
 the means his. But what hope is there for 
 an humble forester, who travels his range of 
 chase, follows his lord to ceremonies, or at- 
 tends him in battle ?” 
 
 ‘‘The Herr Emich values thy son, and I do 
 think would fain do him favor. Were the 
 Count earnestly to reason with Heinrich, all 
 hope would not yet be lost.” 
 
 Lottchen dropped her eyes to the work on 
 which her needle was employed, for necessity 
 had rendered her systematically industrious. 
 The pause was long and thoughtful. But 
 while Ulrike pondered on the chances of over- 
 coming her husband’s love of money and his 
 worldly views, a very different picture had 
 presented itself to the mind of her friend. 
 The eyelids of the latter trembled, and a hot 
 tear fell upon the linen in her lap. 
 
 «‘T have thought much of late, Ulrike,” 
 she said, ‘‘of the justice of burdening thy 
 happiness and golden fortunes with the load 
 of our adversity. Berchthold is young and 
 brave, and there seems as little necessity as 
 there is right in weighing thee and Meta 
 down to our own level. I have anxiously 
 wished for the means of counselling with 
 some friend less interested than thou, on the 
 fitness of what we do; but it is difficult to 
 speak of so delicate a subject without wrong- 
 ing thy daughter.” 
 
 “Tf thou wouldst have the most disin- 
 terested and wisest of all advisers, Lottchen, 
 take counsel of thine own heart.” 
 
 “That tells me to be just to thee and 
 Meta.” 
 
 ‘‘ Dost thou know aught of Berchthold’s 
 manners or mind that may have escaped the 
 observation of an anxious mother, who de- 
 sires to match her own child with none but 
 the deserving ?”’ 
 
 Lottchen smiled through her tears, and 
 
 gazed at the mild features of Ulrike with 
 
 reverence. 
 
 Berchthold has too much generous in- 
 
 695 
 
 ‘If thou wouldst hear evil of the youth, 
 do not come to her who hath no other hope, 
 for the tidings. The orphan is the sole 
 riches of his widowed mother, and thou 
 mayest not get the truth from one that re- 
 gards her treasure with so much covetous- 
 ness.” 
 
 « And dost thou fancy, Lottchen, that thy 
 son in poverty is dearer to thee than is Meta 
 to her mother, though Providence may have 
 left us wealth and consideration? Misfor- 
 tune hath indeed changed thee, and thou art 
 no longer the Lottchen of my young days !” 
 
 ‘‘T will say no more, Ulrike,” answered the 
 widow, in a low voice, speaking like one re- 
 buked ; ‘‘I leave all to Heaven and thee! 
 Thou are certain that were Berchthold 
 Count of Leiningen, his and my desire 
 would be to see Meta his bride.” 
 
 A nearly imperceptible smile played upon 
 the sweet mouth of Ulrike, for she be- 
 thought her of the recent discourse with 
 Emich ; but there was neither suspicion nor 
 discontent in the passing thought. She was 
 too wise to put human nature to very severe 
 tests, and much too meek to believe all who 
 fell short of perfection unworthy of her 
 esteem. 
 
 ‘‘We will think of things as they are,” 
 she answered, “and not dwell on impossible 
 chances. Wert thou Ulrike and I Lottchen, 
 none can believe more fervently than I, that 
 these opinions would undergo no change. 
 Of Meta thou art sure, my friend; but 
 truth bids me say, that I fear Heinrich will 
 never yield. His mind is much occupied 
 with what the world deems its equality of in- 
 terests ; and it will be hard, indeed, to bring 
 him to balance virtues against gold.” 
 
 ‘«‘ And is he so wrong? Of what excellence 
 is Berchthold possessed, that does not find at 
 least its equal in Meta?” 
 
 “Happiness cannot be bartered for, as we 
 would look into the value of houses and 
 lands. He is wrong; and I could weep—oh, 
 how bitterly I have wept-!—that Heinrich 
 Frey should be thus bent on casting the 
 happiness of that artless and unpractised 
 child on the rude chances of so narrow cal- 
 culations. But we will still hope,” added 
 Ulrike, drying her tears, ‘‘and turn our 
 thoughts to the more cheerful side.” 
 
 «Thou saidst something of the power of 
 
696 
 
 my boy with the Count, and of his wish to do 
 us service ? ” 
 
 “TI know no other means to move Hein- 
 rich’s mind. Though kind and yielding to 
 me in all matters that he believes touch my 
 state, he believes that no woman is a fit 
 judge of the world’s interests ; and I fear I 
 should add, that, from too much familiarity 
 with my poor means, he places his wife low- 
 est among her sex in this particular; there is 
 no hope, therefore, that any words of mine 
 can change him. But the Lord Emich has 
 great hold on his judgment, for, Lottchen, 
 they who prize the world’s smiles ever yield 
 reverence to those that chance to possess 
 them largely.” 
 
 The widow dropped her eyes, for, rarely, 
 in their numerous and friendly conferences, 
 did her friend allude to the weaknesses of 
 her husband. 
 
 ‘¢ And the Herr Emich ?” she asked, desir- 
 ous to change the discourse. 
 
 “The Count is much disposed to aid us, as 
 I have said ; for I have laid bare to him our 
 wishes this morning, and have much en- 
 treated him to do this kind act.” ' 
 
 ‘Tt is not wont for thee to be the solicitor 
 with the Herr von Hartenburg, Ulrike !” 
 rejoined Lottchen, raising her eyes again to 
 the countenance of her friend, across whose 
 cheek there passed a flush so faint as to re- 
 semble the reflection of some bright color of 
 her attire, while a still less obvious smile 
 dimpled the skin. The looks that were ex- 
 changed told of recollections that were both 
 joyous and melancholy, being, as it were, 
 hasty but comprehensive glances into the 
 pregnant volume of the past. 
 
 ‘“ It was the first request,” resumed Ulrike ; 
 ‘‘nor can I say the boon was absolutely re- 
 fused, though its gift was coupled with a con- 
 dition impossible to grant.” 
 
 ‘‘ If it were too much for thy friendship, it 
 must have been hard indeed !” 
 
 Lottchen spoke under the influence of one 
 of those sudden and keen impulses of disap- 
 pointment which sometimes make the strong 
 in principle momentarily forget their justice ; 
 and Ulrike perfectly understood the meaning 
 of her words. The difference in their fort- 
 unes, the hopelessness of the future with the 
 fallen Lottchen, and all the bitterness of un- 
 merited contumely and poverty, the severe 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 judgments which a thoughtless world inflicts 
 on’ the unlucky, passed quickly through the 
 mind of the latter, amid a tumult of regrets 
 and recollections. 
 
 “Of this thou shalt judge for thyself, 
 Lottchen,” she answered calmly; ‘and 
 when thou hast heard me, I require thy un- 
 concealed reply, conjuring thee, by that long 
 and constant friendship across which no cloud 
 has ever yet passed, to lay bare thy soul, shad- 
 ing no thought, nor desiring to color even the 
 most latent of thy wishes!” 
 
 “Thou hast only to speak ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ Hast thou never suspected that all this 
 warlike preparation in the hold, in the pres- 
 ence of the men-at-arms in Limburg, tends 
 to no good ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Both speak of war; but the Elector is 
 sore pressed, and it is now long since our Ger- 
 many was at perfect peace.” — 
 
 “ Nay, thy surmises must have gone beyond 
 these general causes.” 
 
 The look of surprise assured Ulrike she was 
 mistaken. 
 
 ‘‘And Berchthold ? Has he said naught 
 of his lord’s intentions ?” continued the lat- 
 ter. 
 
 “‘ He talks of battles and sieges, like most 
 of his years, and he often essays the armor of 
 his grandfather, which lumbers yon closet ; 
 for thou knowest, though not of knightly 
 rank, we have had soldiers in our race.” 
 
 ‘Is he not angered against Limburg ?” 
 
 ‘“‘He is, and yet is he not. There is a little 
 flame of resentment, I regret to say, in all of 
 the Jaegerthal against the monks, which is 
 much fanned in my son by his foster-brother, 
 Gottlob, the cow-herd.” 
 
 “‘This flame hath descended to the hind 
 from his lord. All that Gottlob says, Emich 
 hath more than hinted.” 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, there was revelling in the hold, be- 
 tween Bonifacius and the Count, no later 
 than the night past !” 
 
 ‘Too much blindness to that. which passeth 
 before thy eyes, dear Lottchen, is a virtuous 
 failing of thy nature. The Count of Harten- 
 burg plots the downfall of the Abbey-altars, 
 and he has this day sworn to me, that if I 
 will win Heinrich to his wishes, no influence 
 or authority of his shall be wanting to make 
 Berchthold and Meta happy.” 
 
 Lottchen heard this announcement with 
 
THE HEIDENMAUELER. 
 
 the silent amazement with which the un- 
 suspecting and meek first hearken to the 
 bold designs of the ambitious and daring. 
 
 ‘¢ This would be sacrilege !”” she exclaimed 
 with emphasis. 
 
 <<*T' would be to disgrace the altars of God, 
 that our desires might prevail.” 
 
 There was a pause. Lottchen rose from 
 her chair, with so little effort, that, to the 
 imagination of her excited friend, it seemed 
 her stature grew by supernatural means. Then 
 raising her arms, the widowed mother poured 
 out her feelings in words. 
 
 ‘‘Ulrike, thou knowest my heart,” she 
 said ; ‘“‘thou, who art the sister of my love, 
 if not of my blood—thou, from whom no 
 childish thought was hid, no maiden feeling 
 concealed—thou, to whom my mind was but 
 a mirror of thine own, reflecting every wish, 
 ‘all impulses, each desire—and well dost thou 
 know how dear to me’is Berchthold! Thou 
 canst say, that when Heaven took his father, 
 the yearnings of a mother alone tempted me 
 to live; that for him, I have borne adversity 
 with contentment, smiling when he smiled, 
 and rejoicing when the buoyancy of youth 
 made him rejoice; that as for him I have 
 lived, so that for him would I die. Thou 
 canst say, Ulrike, that my own youthful and 
 virgin affections were not yielded with greater 
 delight and confidence than I have witnessed 
 this growing tenderness for Meta; and yet 
 do I here declare, in the presence of God and 
 His works, that before a rebel wish of mine 
 shall aid Count Emich in this act, there is no 
 earthly sorrow I will not welcome, no humility 
 that I will dread!” 
 
 The pious Lottchen sank into her seat, pale, 
 trembling, and exhausted with an effort so 
 unusual. The widowed mother of Berchthold 
 had never possessed the rare personal attrac- 
 tions of her friend, and those which were left 
 by time had suffered cruel marks from sor- 
 row and depression. Still, where she now 
 sat, her face beaming with the inspiration of 
 the reverence she felt for the Deity, and her 
 soul charged to bursting, Ulrike thought she 
 had never seen one more fair. Her own eyes 
 brightened with delight, for at that moment 
 of spiritual elevation, neither thought of any 
 worldly interests; and her strongest wish 
 was that the Count of Hartenburg could be 
 a witness of this triumph of principle over 
 
 69” 
 
 selfishness. Her own refusal, though so 
 similar in manner and words, the natural 
 result of their great unity of character, 
 seemed destitute of all merit ; for what was 
 the simple denial of one of her means, com- 
 pared to this lofty readiness to encounter a 
 contumely that was already so bitterly under- 
 stood ? 
 
 ‘‘T expected no less,” answered Ulrike, 
 when emotion permitted speech : ‘‘ from thee, 
 Lottchen, less would have been unworthy, 
 aud more could scarcely come! We will now 
 speak of other things, and trust to the power 
 of the dread Being whose majesty is menaced. 
 Hast thou yet visited the Heidenmauer ?” 
 
 Notwithstanding the excited state of her 
 own feelings, which were, however, gradually 
 subsiding to their usual calm, Lottchen took 
 heed-of the change of manner in her friend 
 as she uttered the last words, and the slight 
 tremor of the voice with which her question 
 was put. 
 
 «<The kindness of the anchorite to Bercht- 
 hold, and his great reputation for sanctity, 
 drew me thither. I found him of mild dis- 
 course, and a recluse of great wisdom.” 
 
 ‘¢Didst note him well, Lottchen ?” 
 
 ‘‘As the penitent regards him who offers 
 consolation.” 
 
 ‘«‘T would thou hadst been more particular!” 
 
 The widow glanced toward her friend in 
 surprise, but immediately-turned her eyes, 
 that were still filled with tears, to her work. 
 There was a moment of musing and painful 
 pause, for each felt the want of their usual 
 and entire confidence. 
 
 ‘¢ Dost thou distrust him, Ulrike?” 
 
 ‘‘Not as a penitent, or one willing to 
 atone.” 
 
 «Thou disapprovest of the deference he 
 receives from the country round ? ” 
 
 “Of that thou mayest judge, Lottchen, 
 when I tell thee that I suffer Meta to seek 
 counsel from him.” 
 
 Lottchen showed greater surprise, and the 
 silence was longer than before, and still more 
 embarrassing. 
 
 “Tt is long since thou hast named to me, 
 good Lottchen, one that was so much and so 
 warmly in our discourse when we were girls!” 
 
 The amazement of the listener was sudden 
 and marked. She dropped her work, and 
 clasped her hands together with force. 
 
698 
 
 “Dost thou believe this?” burst from her 
 lips. 
 
 Ulrike bowed her head, apparently to ex- 
 amine the linen, though really unconscious 
 of the act, while the hand she extended 
 trembled violently. 
 
 “JT have sometimes thought it,” she an- 
 swered, scarce speaking above a whisper. 
 
 A merry laugh, one of those joyous impul- 
 ses which spring from the gayety of youth, 
 was heard at the door, and Meta entered, fol- 
 lowed by Berchthold and the warder’s daugh- 
 ter. At this interruption the friends arose, 
 and withdrew to an inner room. 
 
 oe 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ‘‘T pray thee, loving wife and gentle daughter, 
 Give even way unto my rough affairs.” 
 — King Henry IV. 
 
 Axsout an hour after the moment when 
 Ulrike and Lottchen disappeared, as described 
 in the close of the last chapter, the cavalcade 
 of Heinrich Frey was seen moving along the 
 Jaegerthal, beneath the hill of Limburg, on 
 its way toward the town. Four light-armed 
 followers of Emich accompanied the party, 
 on foot, under the pretence of doing honor 
 to the Burgomaster, but in truth to protect 
 him against insult from any stragglers be- 
 longing to the mren-at-arms who lay in the 
 Abbey—a precaution that was not altogether 
 without utility, as the reader will remember 
 that the path ran within call of the ecclesias- 
 tical edifices. 
 
 As the beasts ambled past the imposing 
 towers and wide roofs, that were visible even 
 to those who journeyed in that deep glen, 
 Heinrich’s countenance, which had been 
 more than usually thoughtful ever since he 
 passed beneath the gate of Hartenburg, grew 
 graver; and Meta, who rode as usual at his 
 crupper, heard him draw one of those heavy 
 respirations which were so many infallible 
 signs that the mental part of her worthy 
 parent was undergoing extraordinary exer- 
 cises. 
 
 Nor did this shade appear only on the face 
 of the Burgomaster. A deep and thoughtful 
 gloom clouded the fine features of his wife, 
 while the countenance of the blooming daugh- 
 ter betrayed that sort of sombre rest which is 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 apt to succeed high excitement; a moment in 
 which the mind appears employed in examin- 
 ing the past, as if disposed to dissect the 
 merits and demerits of its recent enjoyments. 
 Of them all, the male attendants alone ex- 
 cepted, old Ilse returned as she had gone, 
 self-satisfied, unmoved, and talkative. 
 
 “Count Emich hath displeased thee, 
 father,’ Meta said, quickly, when a respira- 
 tion, which in one less physical would have 
 been termed a sigh, gave her reason to think 
 the Burgomaster’s bosom was struggling with 
 some bitter vexation; ‘‘else wouldst thou be 
 more cheerful, and better disposed to give me 
 thy parental counsel, as is thy habit when we 
 go together on the pillion.” 
 
 ‘¢The occasion shall not fail, girl; and these 
 Abbey-walls offer in good time to prick my 
 fatherly memory. But thou art in error if 
 thou thinkest that the souls of the Herr’ 
 Emich and mine are not bound together like 
 those of David and Jonathan. I know not 
 the man I more love, or, the Emperor and 
 Elector apart, as is my duty, the noble I so 
 much respect.” 
 
 “Tt is well it is so, for I greatly value these 
 airy rides among the hills, and most of all do 
 I prize a visit to the cottage of Lottchen!” 
 
 Heinrich ejaculated audibly. Then, riding 
 a short distance in silence, he continued the 
 dialogue. 
 
 “ Meta,” he said, “thou art now getting 
 to be of a womanish age, and it is time to 
 fortify thy young mind in a manner that it 
 may meet the cunning and malice of the 
 world. Life is of great precariousness, es- 
 pecially to the valiant and enterprising, and 
 we live in perilous times. He that is in his 
 prime to-day, honored and of credit, may be 
 cut down to-morrow, or even to-night, to 
 bring the allusion more closely to ourselves; 
 and thine own parent is as mortal as any rep- 
 tile that creeps, or even as the most worthless 
 roisterer of the Electorate, that wasteth his 
 substance, the saving of some gainful parent, 
 perhaps, in riotousness ! ” 
 
 “This is true, father,” rejoined the girl, 
 who, though accustomed to the homely mo- 
 rality of the good citizen, never before had 
 heard the Burgomaster deal with so little 
 deference to himself, and who spoke in a 
 lowered tone, as if the reflection of his sudden 
 humility produced a withering influence on 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 her own self-esteem. ‘‘ We are no better 
 than the poorest of Duerckheim, and scarcely 
 as good as poor Lottchen and Berchthold.” 
 
 A strong ejaculation betrayed Heinrich’s 
 displeasure. 
 
 ‘‘ Let these honest people alone,” he an- 
 swered; “since each must be saved or be 
 damned on his own account, let Lottchen 
 and her son take such fare as Providence 
 shall send; we have just now serious matters 
 of great family concernment to occupy us. 
 I would reason with thee gravely, child, and 
 therefore I have need of thy closest attention. 
 It being conceded that I am mortal—an ad- 
 mission thou mayest be certain, Meta, I 
 should not loosely make or without necessity 
 —it follows, as a consequence,—that, sooner 
 or later, I must be taken from thee, when 
 thou wilt be left an orphan. Now this great 
 calamity may befall us both much sooner 
 than thou fanciest; for, I repeat it, we live 
 in perilous times, when shot-headedness and 
 valor may any day bring 4 man to a prema- 
 ture end.” 
 
 The round arm of Meta clung more forcibly 
 to the body of the Burgomaster, who took 
 the gentle pressure as so much proof of his 
 child’s concern in his supposititiotis end. 
 
 “Why tell me of this, father?” she ex- 
 claimed, “when thou knowest it only makes 
 both unhappy! Though young, it may be 
 my fate to die first.” 
 
 ‘That is possible, but little probable,” re- 
 turned Heinrich, with a melancholy air. 
 ‘‘ Giving nature a fair chance, it will be my 
 turn to precede even thy mother, since I have 
 ten good years the start of her; and as for 
 thee, I greatly dread it will be, one day, thy 
 misfortune to be left an orphan. God knows 
 what will be the end of all these contentions 
 that now beset us, and therefore I hold it 
 wise to be prepared. Whenever the evil day 
 of parting may come, Meta, thou wilt be left 
 with a sore companion for one of tender years 
 and little experience.” | 
 
 “Father! ” 
 
 “TI mean money, child, which is a blessing, 
 or a curse, as it proveth. Were I taken sud- 
 denly away, many idle and dissolute gallants 
 would beset thee, swearing by their mous- 
 taches and beards, that thou wert dearer to 
 them than the air they breathe, when in 
 truth their sole desire would be to look into 
 
 699 
 
 the leavings of the departed Burgomaster. 
 There is great difficulty in marrying one of 
 thy neutral condition happily, for, while want 
 of birth closeth the door of the castle and the 
 palace against thy entrance, ample means give 
 thee right to look beyond the mere burgh- 
 er. I would fain have one of good hopes 
 for a son-in-law, and yet no spendthrift.” 
 ‘‘That may not be so easy of accomplish- 
 ment, good father,” returned Meta, laugh- 
 ing, for few girls of her years listen to con- 
 
 jectures or plans concerning their future es- 
 
 tablishment without a nervous irritability 
 that easily takes the appearance of merri- 
 ment—‘* to me the world seems divided into 
 those who get and those who spend.” 
 
 ‘Or into the wise and foolish. There are 
 three great ingredients that commonly enter 
 into all marriages of girls in thy condition, 
 and without which there is little hope of 
 happiness, or even of every-day respect. 
 The first is the means of livelihood, the sec- 
 ond is the consent and blessing of the par- 
 ents, and the third is equality of condition.” 
 
 ‘‘T had thought thee about to say some- 
 thing of tastes and inclinations, father !” 
 
 “Tdle conceit, child, that any whim may 
 change. Look at yonder peasant, who is 
 trimming the Abbey vines—dost think him 
 less happy with his cup of sour liquor, than 
 if he quaffed of the best rhenish in Boni- 
 facius’s cellar? And yet, had the hind his 
 choice, doubt it not he would be ready to 
 swear none but the liquor of Hockheim 
 should wet lip of his! The fellow might 
 make himself miserable, by mere dint of 
 fancy, were he once to set his mind on other 
 fare; but, taking life soberly and indus- 
 triously, who so content as he? Oh! I have 
 often envied these knaves their happiness, 
 when vexation and losses have weighed upon 
 my spirits !” 
 
 «And wouldest thou change conditions 
 with these vine-trimmers, father ?” 
 
 ‘What art thinking of, wench? Is there 
 not such a thing as order and propriety on 
 earth ?—And this brings me to my purpose. 
 There has been question to-day concerning 
 some silliness, not to say presumption, on the 
 part of young Berchthold Hintermayer, in 
 wishing to couple his poverty with thy 
 means.” 
 
 The head of Meta fell abashed, and the 
 
700 
 
 arm, which clasped the body of her father, 
 trembled perceptibly. | 
 
 **T doubt that Berchthold has not thought 
 of this,’ she answered, in a voice but little 
 above her breath, though her respiration was 
 very audible.” 
 
 ‘‘ All the better for him, since such a de- 
 sire would be just as unreasonable as it would 
 be, on thy part, to wish to wed with Count 
 Emich’s heir.” 
 
 ‘“Nay, that silly thought never crossed 
 me !” exclaimed Meta, frankly. 
 
 ‘* All the better for thee, girl, since the 
 Herr von Hartenburg has had the boy be- 
 trothed these many years. Well, as we now 
 understand each other so well, leave me to 
 my thoughts, for weighty matters press on 
 my mind.” 
 
 So saying, Heinrich composed himself to 
 reflection, fully content with the parental 
 lesson he had just imparted to his daughter. 
 But, in the few and vague remarks that had 
 fallen from the Burgomaster, Meta found 
 sufficient food for uncomfortable conjecture 
 for the rest of the ride. . 
 
 During the short dialogue between Hein- 
 rich and Meta, there had also been a dis- 
 course between Ulrike and the crone that 
 rode on her pillion. The propensity of old 
 Ilse to talk, and the well-tried indulgence of 
 her mistress, Induced the former to break 
 silence the moment they were clear of the 
 hamlet, and were so far advanced beyond the 
 rest of the party as to render it safe to speak 
 freely. 
 
 “‘ Well,” exclaimed the nurse, ‘‘ this hath 
 been, truly,a day! First had we matins in 
 Duerckheim ; and then, the stirring words 
 of Father Johan, with the Abbey mass ; and 
 lastly, this high demeanor of the Count 
 Emich! I do not think, good wife, that 
 thou hast ever before seen the Burgomaster 
 so preferred ! ” 
 
 “ He is ever in the graces of the Herr von 
 Hartenburg, as thou mayest know, Ilse,” re- 
 turned Heinrich’s partner, speaking like one 
 that thought of other things. “I would 
 that they were less friendly at this mo- 
 ment.” 
 
 ‘“‘ Nay, therein thou dost little justice to 
 thy husband. It is honorable to be honored 
 by the world’s honored, and thou shouldest 
 wish the Burgomaster favor with all such, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 though it were even with the Emperor. But 
 thou wert ever particular, even as a child ; 
 and I should not deal too harshly with a pro- 
 pensity that, coming as if it were of nature, 
 is not without reason. Ah ! Heaven is even 
 tender with the good! Now what a happy 
 life is thine, Ulrike; here canst thou go 
 forth before all that were once thy equals, a 
 Burgomaster’s companion,—and not a varlet 
 between Duerckheim-gate, or indeed thine 
 own gate, and the hold of Hartenburg shall 
 stand covered as thy steed shuffles past. 
 This is it to be fortunate ! Then have we 
 worthy Heinrich for a master, and such an- 
 other for keeping all in due respect is not to 
 be seen in our town ; and Meta, who, beyond 
 dispute, is both the fairest and the wisest 
 of her years among all the maidens, and thy- 
 self scarcely less blooming than of old, with 
 such health and contentment as might even 
 disarm widowhood of its sorrows. Ah ! what 
 a life hath been thie!” 
 
 Ulrike seemed to arouse herself from a 
 trance, as the nurse thus chanted praises in 
 honor of her good fortune, and the sigh she 
 drew, unconscious of its meaning, was long 
 and tremulous. 
 
 ‘«* T confplain not of my fate, good Ilse.” 
 
 “Tf thou didst, I would cause the beast to 
 halt, that I might quickly descend, for noth- 
 ing good could come of a journey so blas- 
 phemous! No, gratitude before all other vir- 
 tues, except humility ; for humility leadeth 
 to favors, and favor is the lawful parent of 
 gratitude itself. JI would thou couldest have 
 been at my last shriving, Ulrike, and thou 
 shouldest have heard questions of nice mean- 
 ing closely reasoned! It happened that Father 
 Johan was in the confessional, and when he 
 had got the little I had to say of myself in 
 the way of acknowledgment (for, though a 
 great sinner like all human, it is little I can 
 do against Heaven at three score and ten), 
 we came to words concerning doctrine. The 
 Monk maintained that the best of us might 
 
 fall away, so as to merit condemnation ; 
 
 while I would have sworn, had it been seem- 
 ly to swear in such a place, that the late Prior, 
 than whom none better ever dwelt in Lim- 
 burg, always gave comfortable assurance of 
 mercy being safe, when fairly earned. I 
 wonder not that these heresies should be 
 abroad, when the professed throw this dis- 
 
 7 
 eats ea ee ee ee ee 
 
 Po a ee Oe 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 couragement in the way of the old and 
 weak ! ” 
 
 «Thou art too apt, good Ilse, to dwell on 
 subtleties, when a meeker faith might better 
 become thy condition.” 
 
 “ And what is this condition, prithee, that 
 thov namest it as a disqualifier? Am I not 
 aged—and can any say better what is sin, or 
 what not? Didst thou know what sin was 
 thyself, child, till I taught thee? Am I not 
 mortal, and therefore frail—am I not a wo- 
 man, and therefore inquiring—and am I not 
 aged, and therefore experienced ? No, come 
 to me, an’ thou wouldest get insight into 
 real sin—sin that hath much need of grace !” 
 
 ‘Well, let it be thus. But, Ilse, I would 
 recall thy mind to days long past, and take 
 counsel of thy experience in a matter that 
 toucheth me nearly.” 
 
 «That must be some question of Meta ; 
 naught else could touch a mother nearly.” 
 
 «‘Thou hast reason in part: ’tis of Meta, 
 and of us all, in sooth, that I would speak. 
 Thou hast now been to the Heidemauer more 
 than once with our girl, in quest of the holy 
 Anchorite? ” 
 
 ‘‘Have I not! Thou mayest well say 
 more. than once, since I have twice made 
 that weary journey; and few of my years 
 would have come off so lightly from the fa- 
 tigue.” 
 
 « And what is said in the country round 
 of the holy man—of his origin and history, 
 I mean?” 
 
 “Much is said; and much that is good 
 and edifying is said. It is thought that one 
 blessing of his is as good as two from the Ab- 
 bey ; for of him no harm is known, whereas 
 there is much reputed of Limburg that had 
 better not be true. For mysel, Ulrike—and 
 I am one that does not treat these matters 
 lightly--I should go away with more surety 
 of favor with a single touch of the Hermit’s 
 hand, than if honored with blows from all 
 of Limburg. But, from the account I except 
 Father Arnolph, who if he be not an anchor- 
 ite, well deserves, from his virtues, to be one. 
 Oh! that is a man, were justice done him, 
 who ought never to taste other liquor than 
 water of the spring, or other food than bread 
 hard as a rock ?” 
 
 <¢ And hast thou seen him of the Heiden- 
 mauer ?” 
 
 ¢ 
 
 701 
 
 ‘Tt hath been sufficient for me to be in 
 sight of his hut. I am none of those that 
 cannot have a good thing in possession, with- 
 out using it up. I have never laid eyes on 
 the holy man, for that is a virtue I keep in 
 store against some of the sore evils that beset 
 allin age. Let any of the autumn plagues 
 come upon me, and thou shalt see in what 
 manner I will visit him !” 
 
 “T]se, thou mayest yet remember the days 
 of my infancy, and hast some knowledge of 
 most of the events of Duerckheim for these 
 many, many years?” 
 
 “JT know not what thou callest infancy, but 
 if it mean the first ery thy feeble voice ever 
 made, or the first glance of thy twinkling 
 eyes, I remember both an’ it were yesterday’s: 
 vespers.” 
 
 « And thou hast not forgotten the youths 
 and maidens than then sported at our merry- 
 makings, and were gay in their time, as these 
 we see to-day?” 
 
 ‘‘Qall you these gay? These are hired 
 mourners compared to those of my youth. 
 You that have been born in the last fifty 
 years know little of mirth and gayety. If 
 thou wouldest learn a 
 
 ‘©Of this we can speak at another season. 
 But since thy memory remains so clear, thou 
 canst not have forgotten the young Herr von 
 Ritterstein; he that was well received of old 
 within my father’s doors?” 
 
 Ulrike spoke in a low voice, but the easy 
 movement of the beast they rode suffered 
 every word to reach the ear of her com- 
 panion. 
 
 «Do I remember Odo von Ritterstein?” 
 exclaimed the crone. “Am I heathen, to 
 forget him cr his crime?” 
 
 “Poor Odo! Bitterly hath he repented 
 that transgression in banishment, as I have 
 heard. We may hope that his offence is for- 
 given !” 
 
 «Of whom—of Heaven? Never, as thou 
 livest, Ulrike, can such a crime be pardoned. 
 It will be twenty years this night since he 
 did that deed, as all in the Jaegerthal well 
 know; for there have been masses and exor- 
 cisms without number said in the Abbey- 
 chapel on his account. What dost take 
 Heaven to be, that it can forget an offence 
 like that !” 
 
 “Tt was a dreadful sin!” answered Ulrike, 
 
702 
 
 shuddering, for though she betrayed a desire 
 to exonerate the supposed penitent, horror 
 at his offence was evidently uppermost in 
 her mind. 
 
 ‘‘It was blasphemy to God and an outrage 
 to man. Let him look to it, I say, for his 
 soul is in cruel jeopardy !” 
 
 A heavy sigh was the answer of the Burgo- 
 master’s wife. 
 
 ‘‘T knew young Odo von Ritterstein well,” 
 continued the crone, “and, though not ill 
 gifted as to outward appearance, and of 
 most seductive discourse to all who would 
 listen to a honeyed tongue, I can boast of 
 having read his inmost nature at our very 
 first acquaintance.” 
 
 ‘“Thou understood a fearful mystery !” 
 half whispered Ulrike. 
 
 “It was no mystery to one of my years and 
 experience. What is a comely face, and a 
 noble birth, and a jaunting air, and a bold 
 eye, to your woman that hath had her oppor- 
 tunities, and who hath lived long? Nay, nay 
 —young Odo’s soul was read by me, as your 
 mass-saylng priest readeth his missal; that 
 is, With half a glance.” 
 
 ‘‘It is surprising that one of thy station 
 should have so quickly and so well under- 
 stood him that most have found inexplicable. 
 Thou knowest he was long in favor with my 
 parents?” 
 
 “Aye, and with thee, Ulrike; and this 
 proves the great difference of judgments. 
 But not a single day, nay, not even an hour, 
 was I mistaken in his character. What was 
 his name to me? ‘They say he had crusad- 
 ers among his ancestors, and that nobles of 
 his lineage bore the sign of the cross, under 
 a hot sun and in a far land, in honor of God; 
 but none of this would I hear. I saw the 
 man with mine own eyes, and with mine own 
 judgment did I judge.” 
 
 “Thou sawest one, Lse, of no displeasing 
 mien.” 
 
 ‘*So thought the young and light-minded. 
 I deny not his appearance; ’*twas according 
 to Heaven’s pleasure—nor do I say aught 
 against his readiness in exercises, or any 
 other esteemed and knightly qualities, for I 
 am not one to backbite a fallen enemy. But 
 he had a way! Now when he came first to 
 visit thy father, here did he enter the presence 
 of the honest Burgomaster an’ he had been 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the Elector, instead of a mere Baron; and 
 though there I stocd, waiting to do him 
 reverence as became his rank, and my breed- 
 ing, nay, doing him reverence, and that oft 
 repeated, not a look of grace, nor a thank, 
 nor a smile of condescension, did I get for 
 my pains. His eyes could not stoop to the 
 old nurse, but were fastened on the face of 
 the young beauty, besides many other levi- 
 ties. —Oh! I quickly accounted him for what 
 he was !” 
 
 ‘‘ He was of contradictory qualities.” 
 
 “ Worse than that—a hundred-fold worse. 
 I can count you up his graces in brief speech 
 —First was he a roisterer, that never missed 
 occasion to enter into all debaucheries with 
 the very monks he dishonored Z 
 
 ‘Nay, that I did never hear !” 
 
 ‘‘Ts it reasonable to suppose otherwise, 
 after what we know of a certainty? Give 
 me but one bold vice in a man, and I will 
 quickly show you all its companions.” 
 
 *‘ And is this true? Ought we not rather 
 to think that most yield in their weakest 
 points, while they may continue to resist in 
 the strongest ?—That there are faults, which, 
 inviting the world’s condemnation, produce 
 indifference to the world’s opinion, may be 
 true; but I hope few are so evil as not to 
 retain some portion of their good qualities.” 
 
 ‘* Hadst thou ever seen a siege, good wife, 
 thou wouldst not say this. Here is your 
 enemy, without the ditch, shouting and 
 screaming, and doing his worst to alarm the 
 garrison.—I say now but what I have thrice 
 seen here, in our very Duerckheim—but so 
 long as the breach is not made, or the ladders 
 placed, each goes his way in the streets, 
 quietly and unharmed. But let the enemy 
 once enter, though it be but by a window, or 
 down a chimney, open fly the gates, and in 
 pour the columns, horsemen and footmen, till 
 not a house escapes rifling, nor a sanctuary 
 violation. Now this blasphemy of Herr Odo 
 was much as ifa curtain of wall had fallen at 
 once, letting in whole battalions and squad- 
 rons of vices In company.” 
 
 “That the act was fearful, is as certain as 
 that it was heavily punished; but still may 
 it have been the fault of momentary folly, or 
 of provoked resentment.” 
 
 “Tt was blasphemy, and as such it is pun- 
 ished; why then say more in its defence? 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 Here cometh Meta within call, and it were 
 well she should not hear her mother justify 
 sin. Remember thou art a mother, and bear 
 thy charge with prudence.” 
 
 As the horse ridden by the Burgomaster 
 and his daughter drew near, Ulrike ceased 
 speaking, with the patient forbearance that 
 distinguished her intercourse with the old 
 woman. And during the rest of the ride 
 little more passed among the equestrians. 
 On reaching his own abode, however, Heinrich 
 hastened to hold a secret council with the 
 chief men of the place. 
 
 The remainder of the day passed as was 
 wont in the towns of that age. The archers 
 practised with their bows, without the walls; 
 the more trained arquebusiers were exercised 
 with their unwieldy but comparatively dan- 
 gerous weapons; the youthful of the two 
 sexes danced, while the wine-houses were 
 thronged with artisans, who quaffed, after the 
 toil of the week, the cheap and healthful 
 liquor of the Palatinate in a heavy animal 
 enjoyment. Here and there a monk of the 
 neighboring Abbey appeared in the streets, 
 though it was with an air less authoritative 
 and assured, than before the open promulga- 
 tion of the opinions of Luther had brought 
 into the question so many of the practices 
 of the prevailing Church. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 « Thus I renounce the world and worldly things.” 
 —ROoGERS. 
 
 Tr will be remembered, that the time of this 
 tale wasin the winning month of June. When 
 the sun had fallen beneath those vast and fer- 
 tile plains of the west, among which the Rhine 
 winds its way, a swift and turbid, though 
 noble current, that, like some bold moun- 
 taineer, has made a descent from the passes 
 of Switzerland, to gather tribute from every 
 valley on his passage, there remained in 
 the air the bland and seductive warmth of 
 the season.—Still the evening was not a 
 calm moonlight night, like those which grace 
 a more alluring climate; but there reigned in 
 its quiet, a character of sombre repose that 
 constantly reminded all of the hour. It 
 seemed a moment more adapted to rest than 
 
 703 
 
 toindulgence. Thesimple habits of Duerck- 
 heim caused its burghers to shut their doors 
 early, and, as usual, the gates of the town 
 were closed when the bells sounded the stroke 
 of eight. The peasants of the Jaegerthal 
 had not even waited so long, before they 
 sought their beds. 
 
 It was, however, near ten, when a private 
 door in the dwelling of Heinrich Frey opened, 
 and a party of three individuals issued into 
 the street. All were so closely muffled as 
 effectually to conceal their persons. The 
 leader, a man, paused to see that the way was 
 clear, and then, beckoning to his companions, 
 who were of the other sex, to follow, he pur- 
 sued his way within the shadows thrown from 
 the houses. It was not long ere they all 
 reached the gate of the town, which opened 
 to the hill of the Heidenmauer. 
 
 There was a stronger watch afoot that night, 
 than was usual in Duerckheim, though the 
 city, and especially at a moment when armies 
 ravaged the Palatinate, was never left with- 
 outa proper guard. A few armed men paced 
 the street at the point where it terminated 
 with the defences, and a sentinel was visible 
 on the superior wall. 
 
 “ Who cometh ?” demanded an arquebusier. 
 
 The muffled man approached, and spoke to 
 the leader of the guard in a low voice. It 
 would seem that he spoke him fair; for no 
 sooner did he utter the little he had to say, 
 than a bustle among the citizens announced 
 an eager desire to do hispleasure. ‘The keys 
 were produced, and a way made for the exit 
 of the party. But the man went no farther. 
 Having produced the egress of his compan- 
 ions, he returned into the town, stopping, 
 however, to hold discourse with those on 
 watch, before he disappeared. 
 
 When without the gate, the females began 
 to ascend. The way was difficult, for it lay 
 among terraces and vineyards, by means of 
 winding narrow foot-paths, and, as it ap- 
 peared, the limbs of those who were now 
 obliged to thread them, felt all the difficul- 
 ties of the steep acclivity. At length, though 
 not without often stopping to breathe and 
 rest, they reached the fallen pile of the 
 ancient wall of the camp. Here both seated 
 themselves, to recover their strength, in pro- 
 found silence. They had mounted by means 
 
 ‘of a path that conducted them towards that 
 
704 
 
 extremity of the mountain which overlooked 
 the valley of our tale. 
 
 The sky was covered with fleecy clouds, 
 that dimmed the light of the moon so as to 
 render objects beneath uncertain and dull ; 
 though occasionally the mild orb seemed to 
 sail into a little field of blue, shedding all its 
 light below. But these momentary illumina- 
 tions were too fitful to permit the eye to 
 become accustomed to the change, and ere 
 any saw distinctly, the driving vapor would 
 again intercept the rays. To this melan- 
 choly character of the hour must be added 
 the plaintive sound of a night-breeze, which 
 audibly rustled the cedars. 
 
 A heavy respiration from the one of the two 
 who, by her air and attire, was evidently the 
 superior, was taken by the other as a per- 
 mission to speak. 
 
 “ Well, thrice in my life have I mounted 
 this hill, at night!” she said: ‘‘and few of 
 my years could do the deed, by the light of 
 the sun rs 
 
 “Hist, Ilse! Hearest thou naught uncom- 
 mon ?” 
 
 **Naught but mine own voice, which, for 
 so mute a person, is, in sooth, of little 
 wont——” 
 
 ‘Truly, there is other sound! Come hith- 
 er to the ruin; I fear we are abroad at a 
 perilons moment! ” 
 
 As both arose, there was but a minute be- 
 fore their persons were concealed in such a 
 manner as to render it little probable that 
 any but a very curious eye would remark 
 their presence. It was evident that many 
 footsteps were approaching, and nearly in 
 their direction. Ilse trembled, but her com- 
 panion, more self-possessed, and better sup- 
 ported by her reason, was as much or even 
 more excited by curiosity than by fear. The 
 ruined hut in which they stood was within 
 the cover of the cedars, where a dull light 
 alone penetrated. By means of this light, 
 however, a band of men was seen moving 
 across the camp. They came in pairs, 
 and their march was swift and nearly 
 noiseless. The glittering ofa morion, as it 
 passed beneath some opening in the trees, 
 and the reclining arquebuses, no less than 
 their order, showed them to be warriors. 
 
 The line was long, extending to some 
 hundreds of men. They came, in this swift 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 and silent manner, from the direction of the 
 Jaegerthal, and passed away, among the 
 melancholy cedars, in that of the plain of the 
 Rhine. 
 
 When the last of this long and ghost-like 
 band had disappeared, Ilse appeared to revive. 
 
 ‘*In very sooth,” she said, “they seem to 
 be men! Do they, too, come to visit the 
 Holy Hermit?” 
 
 ‘“‘ Believe it not. They have gone down by 
 the rear of Duerckheim, and will soon be 
 beyond our wishes or our fears.” 
 
 “Lady! Of what origin are they—and 
 on what errand do they come?” 
 
 This exclamation of old Ilse sufficiently 
 betrayed the nature of her own doubts, 
 though the firmness of her companion’s 
 manner proved that, now the armed men 
 were gone, she no longer felt distrust. 
 
 ‘This may, or may not, bea happy omen,” 
 she answered, musingly. “There was a 
 goodly number, and warriors, too, of fair 
 appearance! ” 
 
 ‘*Thrice have I visited this camp at night, 
 and never before has it been my fate to view 
 its tenants! 'Thinkest thou they were 
 Romans—or are they the followers of the 
 Hun?” 
 
 “They were living men—but let us not 
 forget our errand.” 
 
 Without permitting further discourse, the 
 superior of the two then took the way to- 
 wards the hut of the Hermit. A¢ first her 
 footstep. was timid and unassured; for, — 
 strengthened as she was by reflection and 
 knowledge, the sudden and sprite-like pas- 
 sage of such a line of warriors across the de- 
 serted camp was indeed likely to affect the 
 confidence of one even more bold. 
 
 “Rest thy old limbs on this bit of fallen 
 wall, good nurse,” said the muffled female, 
 ‘‘while I go within. Thou wilt await me 
 here.”’ | 
 
 ‘“Go, of Heaven’s mercy ! and speak the 
 holy Anchorite fair. Take what thou canst 
 of comfort and peace for thine own soul, and 
 if there should be a blessing, or a relic more 
 than thou needest, remember her who fondled 
 thy infancy, and who, I may say, and say it 
 I do with pride, made thee the woman of 
 virtue and merit thou art.” 
 
 ‘*“God be with thee—and with me!” mur- 
 mured the female, as she moved slowly away. 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 The visitor of the Anchorite hesitated at 
 Encouraged by sounds 
 within, and certain that the holy man was 
 
 the door of his hut. 
 
 still afoot, by the strong light that shone 
 through the fissures of the wall, she at length 
 summoned resolution to knock. 
 
 ‘<Enter, of God’s will !” returned a voice 
 from within. 
 
 The door opened, and the female stood 
 confronted to the person of the Anchorite. 
 The cloak and hood both fell from the fe- 
 male’s head, as by an involuntary weakness 
 of her hands—and each stood gazing long, 
 wistfully, and perhaps in doubt, at the other. 
 The female, more prepared for the interview, 
 was the first to speak. 
 
 ‘‘Odo!” she said, with melancholy em- 
 phasis. : 
 
 ‘eT lrike th? 
 
 Eye then studied eye, in that eager and 
 painful gaze with which the memory traces 
 the changes that time and the passions pro- 
 duce in the human face. In that of Ulrike, 
 however, there was little to be noted but the 
 development of more mature womanhood, 
 with such a shadowing of thought as deeper 
 reflection and diminished hopes are apt to 
 bring ; but, had she not been apprised of the 
 person of him she sought, and had her mem- 
 ory not retained so vivid an impression of the 
 past, it is probable that the wife of Heinrich 
 Frey might not have recognized the features 
 of the gayest and handsomest cavalier of the 
 Palatinate, in the sunken but still glowing 
 eye, the grizzled beard, and the worn though 
 bold lineaments of the Anchorite. 
 
 “Thou Odo, and a penitent!” Ulrike 
 added. 
 
 <¢One of astricken soul. ‘Thou seest me, 
 sworn to mortifications and sorrow.” 
 
 «Tf repentance come at all, let it be wel- 
 come. ‘Thou leanest on a rock, and thy soul 
 will be upheld.” 
 
 The recluse made a vague gesture, which 
 his companion believed to be the usual sign 
 of the cross. She meekly imitated the sym- 
 bol, and, bowing her head, repeated an ave. 
 In all great changes in religions and politics, 
 the spirit of party attaches importance to 
 immaterial things, which, by practice and 
 convention, come to be considered as the evi- 
 dences of opinion. ‘Thus it is, when revolu- 
 tions are sudden and violent, that so many 
 
 705 
 
 mistake their symbols for their substance, 
 and men cast their lives on the hazards of 
 battle, in order to support an empty name, a 
 particular disposition of colors in an ensign, 
 or some idle significations of terms that were 
 never well explained, long after the real 
 merits of the controversy have been lost by 
 the cupidity and falsehood of those intrusted 
 with the public welfare ; and thus it is that 
 here, where all change has been gradual and 
 certain, that the neglect of these trifles has 
 subjected the country to the imputation of 
 inconsistency, because, in attending so much 
 to the substance of their work, it has over- 
 looked so many of those outward signs, 
 which, by being the instruments of excite- 
 ment in other regions, obtain a value that 
 has no influence among ourselves. The 
 Reformation made early and rude inroads 
 upon the formula of the Romish church. 
 The cross ceased to be a sign in favor with 
 the Protestant ; and, after three centuries, it 
 is just beginning to be admitted that this 
 sacred symbol is a more fitting ornament of 
 one of ‘‘ those silent fingers pointing to the 
 skies,” which so touchingly adorn our 
 churches, than the representation of a barn- 
 yard fowl! Had Ulrike been more critical 
 in this sort of distinctions, or had her mind 
 been less occupied with her own sad reflec- 
 tions, she might have thought the movement 
 of the Hermit’s hand, when he made the sign 
 alluded to, had such a manner of indecision 
 and doubt, as equally denotes one new in 
 practices of this nature, or one about to 
 abandon any long-established ritual. As it 
 was, however, she noted nothing extraordi- 
 nary, but silently took the seat to which the 
 Anchorite pointed, while he placed himself 
 on another. 
 
 The earnest, wistful, and half mournful 
 look of each was renewed. ‘They sat apart, 
 with the torch throwing its light fully upom 
 both. 
 
 ‘Grief hath borne heavily upon thee, 
 Odo,” said Ulrike. ‘Thou art much 
 changed !” | 
 
 ‘«¢ And innocence and happiness have dealt 
 tenderly by thee! Thou hast well merited 
 this favor, Ulrike.” 
 
 «Art thou long of this manner of life— 
 or touch I on a subject that may not be 
 treated ?” 
 
 Www 
 
706 
 
 ‘*I know not that I may refuse to give the 
 world the profit of my lesson—much less can 
 I pretend to mystery with thee.” 
 
 “T would gladly give thee consolation. 
 Thou knowest there is great comfort in sym- 
 pathy.” 
 
 “Thy pity is next to the love of angels— 
 but why speak of this? Thou art in the hut 
 of a hermit condemned, of his own conscience, 
 to privation and penitence. Go to thy happy 
 home, and leave me to the solemn duty 
 which I have allotted to be done this night,” 
 
 As he spoke, the Anchorite folded his 
 head in a mantle of coarse cloth, for he was 
 evidently clad to go abroad, and he groaned. 
 
 “Nay, Odo, I quit thee not, in this humor 
 of thy mind. The sight of me hath added 
 to thy grief, and it were uncharitable—more, 
 it were unkind, to leave thee thus.” 
 
 ‘What wouldst thou, Ulrike ?” 
 
 “Disburthen thy soul; this life of seclu- 
 sion hath heaped a load too heavy on thy 
 thoughts. Where hast thou passed the years 
 of thy prime, Odo—what hath brought thee 
 to this condition of bitterness ? ” 
 
 “Hast thou still so much of womanly 
 mercy, as to feel an interest in the fate of an 
 outcast ?” 
 
 The paleness of Ulrike’s cheek was suc- 
 ceeded by a mild glow. It was no sign of 
 tumultuous feeling, but a gentle proof that 
 a heart like hers never lost the affinities it 
 had once fondly and warmly cherished. 
 
 “‘Can I forget the past?” she answered. 
 “Wert thou not the friend of my youth— 
 nay, wert thou not my betrothed ?” 
 
 “ And dost thou acknowledge those long- 
 cherished ties? Oh Ulrike!” with what 
 maddened folly did I throw away a jewel be- 
 yond price! But listen and thou shalt know 
 in what manner God hath avenged himself 
 and thee.” 
 
 The Burgomaster’s wife, though secretly 
 much agitated, sat patiently awaiting, while 
 the Hermit seemed preparing his mind for 
 the revelation he was about to make. 
 
 “Thou hast no need to hear aught of my 
 youth,” he at length commenced. “Thou 
 well knowest that, an orphan from childhood, 
 of no mean estate, and of noble birth, I en- 
 tered on life exposed to all the hazards that 
 beset the young and thoughtless. I had mést 
 of the generous impulses of one devoid of 
 
 WOLKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 care, and a heart that was not needlessly 
 shut against sympathy with the injured, and, 
 I think, I may say one that was not closed 
 against compassion 2. Ok 
 
 ‘““Thou dost not justice to thyself, Odo! 
 Say that thy hand was open, and thy heart 
 filled with gentleness.” 
 
 The Anchorite, humbled as he was by peni- 
 tence and self-devotion, did not hear this 
 opinion, uttered by lips so gentle and so 
 true, without a change of features. His eye 
 lighted, and fora moment it gazed towards 
 his companion with some of its former. 
 bright, youthful expression. But the change 
 escaped Ulrike, who was occupied with the 
 generous impulse that caused her, thus in- 
 voluntarily, to vindicate the Hermit to him- 
 self, , 
 
 “It might have been so,” the latter re- 
 sumed, coldly, after a moment of thought; 
 “but in youth, unless watched and wisely 
 directed, our best qualities may become in- 
 struments of our fall. I was of violent pas- 
 sions above all; miserable traces in that 
 unerring index, the countenance, prove how 
 violent !” 
 
 Ulrike had no answer to this remark ; for 
 she had felt how easy it is for the strong of 
 character to attach the mild, and how com- 
 mon it is for the human heart to set value 
 on qualities that serve to throw its own into 
 relief. 
 
 “ When I knew thee, Ulrike, the influence 
 of thy gentleness, the interest thou gavest 
 me reason to believe thou felt in my happi- 
 ness, and the reverence which the young of 
 our sex so readily pay to innocence, and 
 beauty, and faith, in thine, served to tame 
 the lon of my reckless temper, and to bring 
 me, for a time, in subjection to thy gentle- 
 ness.” 
 
 His companion looked grateful for his 
 praise, but she remained silent. 
 
 ‘*'The tie between the young and guiltless 
 is one of nature’s holiest mysteries! I loved 
 thee, Ulrike, purely, and in perfect faith! 
 The reverence I bear, here in my solitude 
 and penance, to these signs of sacred char- 
 acter, is not deeper, less tinctured with hu- 
 man passion, or more fervent, than the re- 
 spect I felt for thy virgin innocence! ” 
 
 Ulrike trembled, but it was like the leaf 
 quivering at the passage of a breath of air. 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. on 707 
 
 «For this I gave thee credit, Odo,” she 
 whispered, evidently afraid to trust her 
 voice. 
 
 ‘¢Thou didst me justice. When thy pa- 
 rents consented to our union, I looked for- 
 ward to the marriage with blessed hope; for 
 young though I was, I so well understood 
 myself, as to foresee that some spirit, per- 
 suasive, good, and yet firm as thine, was 
 necessary to tame me. Woman winds herself 
 about the heart of man by her tenderness, 
 nay, by her very dependence, in a manner to 
 effect that which his pride would refuse to a 
 power more evident.” 
 
 «¢ And couldst thou feel all this ? ” 
 
 ‘Ulrike, I felt more, was convinced of 
 more, and dreaded more, than I ever dared 
 avow. But all feelings of pride are now 
 past. What further shall I say? Thou 
 knowest the manner in which bold spirits 
 began to assail the mysteries and dogmas of 
 the venerable Church that has so long gov- 
 erned Christendom, and that some were so 
 hardy as to anticipate the reasonings and 
 changes of more prudent heads, by rash acts. 
 Tis ever thus with young and heated reform- 
 ers of abuses. Seeing naught but the wrong, 
 they forget the means by which it has been 
 produced, and overlook the sufficient causes 
 which may mitigate, if they do not justify 
 the evil.” 
 
 << And this unhappily was thy temper ?” 
 
 “I deny it not. Young, and without 
 knowledge of the various causes that temper 
 every theory when reduced to practice, I 
 looked eagerly to the end alone.” 
 
 Though Ulrike longed to extort some 
 apology from the penitent for his own fail- 
 ings, she continued silent. After minutes of 
 thought, the discourse at length proceeded. 
 
 ‘¢ There were some among thy friends, Odo, 
 who believed the outrage less than the con- 
 vent reported ?” 
 
 «‘ They trusted too much to their wishes,” 
 said the Anchorite, in a subdued tone. ‘‘ It 
 is most true, that, heated with wine, and 
 maddened with anger, I did violence in pres- 
 ence of my armed followers, to those sacred 
 elements which Catholics soreverence. Ina 
 moment of inebriated frenzy, I believed the 
 hoarse applause of drunken parasites, and the 
 confusion of a priest, of more account than 
 the just anger of God! I impiously tram- 
 
 pled on the Host, and sorely hath God since 
 trampled on my spirit !” 
 
 ‘© Poor Odo !—That wicked act changed 
 the course of both our lives! and dost thou 
 now adore that Being to whom this great in- 
 dignity was offered—Hast thy mind returned 
 to the faith of thy youth ?” 
 
 ‘¢?Tig not necessary, in order to feel the 
 burthen of my guilt!” exclaimed the An- 
 chorite, whose eye began to lose the human 
 expression which had been kindled by com- 
 munion with this gentle being, in gleamings 
 of a remorse that had been so long fed by 
 habits of morbid devotion. ‘‘Is not the 
 Lord of the universe my God? The insult 
 was to Him; whether there be error in this 
 or that form of devotion, I was in His tem- 
 ple, at the foot of His altar, in the presence 
 of His spirit—There did I mock His rule, 
 and defy His power; and this for a silly 
 triumph over a terrified monk !” 
 
 ‘¢ Heart-stricken Odo! Where soughtest 
 thou refuge, after the frantic act ?” 
 
 The Anchorite looked intently at his com- 
 panion, as if a flood of distressing and touch- 
 ing images were pressing painfully upon his 
 memory. ‘My first thought was of thee,” 
 he said ; ‘the rash blow of my sword was 
 no sooner given, than it seemed suddenly to 
 open an abyss between us. I knew thy gen- 
 tle piety, and could not, even in that moment 
 of frenzy, deceive myself as to thy decision. 
 When in a place of safety, I wrote the letter 
 which thou answered, and which answer was 
 so firm and admirable a mixture of holy hor- 
 ror and womanly feeling. When thou re- 
 nounced me, I became a vagrant on earth, 
 and from that hour to the moment of my re- 
 turn hither, have I been a wanderer. Much 
 influence and heavy fines saved my estates, 
 which the life of a pilgrim and a soldier has 
 greatly augmented, but never till this sum- 
 mer have I felt the courage necessary to re- 
 visit the scenes of my youth.” 
 
 ‘¢ And whither strayed thou, Odo ?” 
 
 ‘‘T have sought relief in every device of 
 man :—the gayety and dissipation of capitals 
 —hermitages (for this is but the fourth of 
 which I am the tenant)—arms—and rude 
 hazards by sea. Of late have I much occu- 
 pied myself in the defence of Rhodes, that 
 unhappy and fallen bulwark of Christendom. 
 But wherever I have dwelt, or in whatever 
 
708 
 
 occupation I have sought relief, the recollec- 
 tion of my crime, and of its punishment, pur- 
 gues me. Ulrike, Iam a man of woe!” 
 
 ‘© Nay, dear Odo, there is mercy for offend- 
 ers more heavy than thou. Thou wilt return 
 to thy long-deserted castle, and be at 
 peace.” 
 
 ‘© And thou, Ulrike! hath my crime caused 
 thee sorrow ? Thou, at least, art happy ?” 
 
 The question caused the wife of Heinrich 
 Frey uneasiness. Her sentiments towards 
 Odo von Ritterstein had partaken of passion, 
 ~ and were still clothed with hues of the imag- 
 ination; while her attachment to the Burgo- 
 master ran in the smoother channel of duty 
 and habit :—Still time, a high sense of her 
 sex’s obligations, and the common bond of 
 Meta, kept her feelings in the subdued state 
 which most fitted her present condition. 
 Had her will been consulted, she would not 
 have touched on this portion of the subject 
 at all; but since it was introduced, she felt 
 the absolute necessity of meeting it with com- 
 posure. 
 
 “JT am happy in an honest husband and an 
 affectionate child,” she said; “set thy heart 
 at rest on this account—we were not fitted 
 for each other, Odo; thy birth, alone, offered 
 obstacles we might not properly have over- 
 come.” 
 
 The Anchorite bowed his head, appearing 
 to respect her reserve. The silence that suc- 
 ceeded was not free from embarrassment. It 
 was relieved by the tones of a bell that came 
 from the hill of Limburg. The Anchorite 
 arose, and all other feeling was evidently lost 
 in a sudden return of that diseased repent- 
 ance which had so lony haunted him, and 
 which, in truth, had more than once gone nigh 
 to unsettle his reason. 
 
 ««That signal, Ulrike, is for me.” 
 
 “‘And dost thou go forth to Limburg at 
 this hour ? ” 
 
 ‘*An humble penitent, I have made my 
 peace with the Benedictines by means of 
 gold, and I go to struggle for my peace with 
 God. This is the anniversary of my crime, 
 and there will be midnight 1 masses for its 
 expiation.” 
 
 The wife of Heinrich an heard of his 
 intention without surprise, though she re- 
 gretted the sudden interruption of their 
 interview. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “ Odo, thy blessing !” said Ulrike, kneel- 
 ing. 
 
 ‘‘Thou, ask this mockery of me!” cried 
 the Hermit, wildly.—“<Go, Ulrike !—leave 
 me with my sins.” 
 
 The Anchorite appeared irresolute for a 
 moment, and then he rushed madly from the 
 hut, leaving the wife of Heinrich Frey still 
 kneeling in its centre. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ‘‘ Mona, thy Druid rites awake the dead ! * 
 —RoGERs. 
 
 ULRIKE was in the habit of making fre- 
 quent and earnest appeals to God, and she 
 now prayed fervently, where she knelt. Her 
 attention was recalled to earth by a violent 
 shaking of the shoulder. 
 
 “Ulrike, child !—Frau Frey !” exclaimed 
 the assiduous [lse—” Art glued to the ground 
 by necromancy? Why art thou here, and 
 whither hath the holy man sped ?” 
 
 “ Sawest thou Odo-von Ritterstein ?” 
 
 ‘Whom! Art mad, Frau? I saw none 
 but the blessed Anchorite, who passed me 
 an’ he were an angel taking wing for heaven ; 
 and though I knelt and beseeched but a 
 look of grace, his soul was too much occupied 
 with its mission to note a sinner. Had I 
 been evil as some that might be named, this 
 slight might give some alarm; but being 
 that Iam, I set it down rather to the account 
 of merit than to that of any need. Nay, I 
 saw naught but the Hermit.” 
 
 ‘«'Then didst thou see the unhappy Herr 
 von Ritterstein! ” 
 
 Ilse stood aghast. 
 
 ‘Have we harboreé a wolf in sheep’ 8 
 clothing?” she cried, when the power of 
 speech returned. ‘‘ Hath the Palatinate 
 knelt, and wept, and prayed at the feet of a 
 sinner like ourselves—nay, even worse than 
 ourselves, after all! Hath what hath passed 
 for true coin been naught but base metal— 
 our unction, hypocrisy—our hopes, wicked 
 delusions—our holy pride, vanity ?” 
 
 “Thou sawest Odo von Ritterstein, Ilse,” 
 returned Ulrike, rising, ‘*‘ but thou sawest a 
 devout man.” 
 
 Then giving her arm to the nurse, for of 
 the two the attendant most required assist- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 ance, she took the way from the hut. While 
 walking among the fallen walls of the desert- 
 ed camp, Ulrike endeavored to bring her 
 companion to consider the character and for- 
 mer sins of the Anchorite with more lenity. 
 The task was not easy, for Ilse had been 
 accustomed to think the truant Odo alto- 
 gether abandoned of God, and opinions that 
 have been pertinaciously maintained for 
 twenty years, are not gotten rid of in a mo- 
 ment. Still there isa process by which the 
 human mind can be made to do more than 
 justice, when prejudice is finally eradicated. 
 It is by this species of reaction that we see 
 the same individuals now reprobated as mon- 
 sters, and now admired as heroes; the com- 
 mon sentiment as rarely doing strict justice 
 in excessive applause as in excessive condem- 
 nation. 
 
 We do not mean to say, however, that the 
 sentiment of Ilse toward the Anchorite un- 
 derwent this violent revulsion from detesta- 
 tion to reverence; for the utmost that Ulrike 
 could obtain in his favor, was an admission 
 that he was a sinner in whose behalf all de- 
 yout Christians might without any manifest 
 impropriety occasionally say an ave. This 
 small concession of Ilse sufficiently favored 
 the wishes of her mistress, which were to fol- 
 low the Hermit to the Abbey church, to 
 kneel at his altars, and to mingle her prayers 
 with those of the penitent, on this the anni- 
 versary of his crime, for pardon and peace. 
 We pretend not to show by what cord of hu- 
 man infirmity the wife of Heinrich Frey was 
 led into the indulgence of a sympathy so 
 delicate, with one to whom her hand had 
 formerly been plighted; for we: are not act- 
 ing here in the capacity of censors of female 
 propriety, but as those who endeavor to ex- 
 pose the workings of the heart, be they for 
 good or be they for evil. It is sufficient for 
 our object, that the result of the whole pict- 
 ure shall be a lesson favorable to virtue and 
 truth. 
 
 So soon as Ulrike found she could lead her 
 companion in the way she wished, without 
 incurring the risk of listening to stale morals 
 dealt out with a profuse garrulity, she took 
 the path directly towards the convent. As 
 the reader has most probably perused our In- 
 troduction, there is no necessity of saying 
 more than that Ulrike and her attendant pro- 
 
 709 
 
 ceeded by the route we ourselves took in go- 
 ing from one mountain to another. But the 
 progress of Ilse was far slower than that de- 
 scribed as our own, in ascending to the Hei- 
 denmauer under the guidance of Christian 
 Kinzel. The descent itself was long and slow, 
 for one of her infirmities and years, and the 
 ascent far more tedious and painful. During 
 the latter, even Ulrike was glad to halt often, 
 to recover breath, though they went up by 
 the horse-path over which they had ridden in 
 the morning. 
 
 The character of the night had not changed. 
 The moon appeared to wade among fleecy 
 clouds as before, and the light was misty but 
 sufficient to render the path distinct. At 
 this hour, the pile of the convent loomed 
 against the sky, with its dark Gothic walls 
 and towers, resembling a work of giants, in 
 which those who had reared the structure were 
 reposing from their labors. Accustomed as 
 she was to worship at its altars, Ulrike did 
 not now approach the gate without a senti- 
 ment of admiration. She raised her eyes to 
 the closed portal, to the long ranges of dark 
 and sweeping walls, and everywhere she met 
 evidences of midnight tranquillity. There 
 was a faint glow upon the side of the narrow 
 giddy tower, that contained the bells, and 
 which flanked the gate ; and she knew that it 
 came from a lamp that burnt before the image 
 of the Virgin in the court. This gave no 
 sign that even the porter was awake. She 
 stepped, however, to the wicket, and rang the 
 night-bell. The grating of the bolts quickly 
 announced the presence of one within. 
 
 ‘Who cometh to Limburg at this hour ?” 
 demanded the porter, holding the wicket 
 chained, as if distrusting treachery. 
 
 ‘A penitent to pray.” 
 
 The tones of the voice assured the keeper 
 of the gate, who had means also of examining 
 the stranger with the eye, and he so far opened 
 the wicket as to permit the form of Ulrike to 
 be distinctly seen. 
 
 ‘‘It is not usual to admit thy sex within 
 these holy walls, after the morning mass 
 hath been said, and the confessionals are 
 empty.” 
 
 ‘‘There are occasions on which the rule 
 may be broken, and the solemn ceremony of 
 to-night is one.” 
 
 “TI know not that.—Our reverend Ab- 
 
710 
 
 bot is severe in the observance of all decen- 
 cies 4 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, I am one closely allied to him in 
 whose behalf this service is given,” said Ulrike, 
 hastily.—‘‘ Repel me not, for the love of 
 God !” 
 
 ‘«* Art thou of his kin and blood ?” 
 
 ‘*Not of that tie,” she answered, in the 
 checked manner of one who felt her own pre- 
 cipitation, ‘‘ but bound to his hopes by the 
 near interests of affection and sympathy.” 
 
 She paused, for at that instant the form of 
 the Anchorite filled the space beside the 
 porter. He had been kneeling before the 
 image of a crucifix hard by, and had been 
 called from his prayers by the soft appeal that 
 betrayed Ulrike’s interest in him, every tone 
 of which went to his heart. 
 
 ‘* She is mine,” he said, authoritatively ;— 
 ‘she and her attendant are both mine.—Let 
 them enter !” 
 
 Ulrike hesitated—she scarce knew why,— 
 and Ilse, wearied with her efforts, and im- 
 patient to be at rest, was obliged to impel her 
 forward. The Hermit, as if suddenly recalled 
 to the duty on which he had come to the con- 
 vent, turned and glided away. The: porter, 
 who had received his instructions relative to 
 him for whom the mass was to be said, offered 
 no further obstacle, but permitted Ilse to con- 
 duct her mistress within. Nosooner were the 
 , females in the court, than he closed and barred 
 the wicket. 
 
 Ulrike hesitated no longer, though she 
 trembled in every limb. Dragging the loiter- 
 ing Ilse after her with difficulty, she took 
 the way directly toward the door of the 
 chapel. With the exception of the porter at 
 the wicket, and the lamp before the Virgin, 
 all seemed as dim and still within as it had 
 been without the Abbey-walls. Not even a 
 sentinel of Duke Friedrich’s men-at-arms 
 was visible ; but this occasioned no surprise, 
 as these troops were known to keep as much 
 aloof from the more religious part of the 
 tenants of Limburg as was possible. The 
 spacious buildings, in the rear of the Abbot’s 
 dwelling, might well have lodged double their 
 number, and in these it was probable they 
 were now housed. As for the monks, the 
 lateness of the hour, and the nature of the 
 approaching service, fully accounted for their 
 absence. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 The door of the Abbey-church was always 
 open. ‘This usage is nearly common to every 
 Catholic place of worship in towns of any 
 size, and it contains an affecting appeal, to 
 the passenger, to remember the Being in 
 whose honor the temple has been raised. 
 The custom is, in general, turned to account 
 equally by the pious and the inquisitive, the 
 amateur of the arts, and the worshipper of 
 God; and it is to be regretted that the 
 former, more especially when they belong to 
 a different persuasion or sect, should not 
 oftener remember, that their taste becomes 
 bad when it is indulged at the expense of 
 that reverence which should mark all the 
 conduct of man in the immediate presence 
 of his Creator. On the present occasion, 
 however, there were none present to treat 
 either the altar or its worship with levity. 
 When Ulrike and Ilse entered the chapel, the 
 candles of the great altar were lighted, and 
 the lamps of the choir threw a gloomy illu- 
 mination on its sombre architecture. The 
 fretted and painted vault above, the carved 
 oak of the stalls, the images of the altar, and 
 the grave and kneeling warriors in stone, that 
 decorated the tombs, stood out prominent in 
 the relief of their own deep shadows. 
 
 If it be desirable to quicken devotion by 
 physical auxiliaries, surely all that was nec- 
 essary to reduce the mind to deep and con- 
 templative awe existed here. The officials of 
 the altar swept past the gorgeous and conse- 
 erated structure in their robes of duty ; grave, 
 expectant monks were in their stalls, and 
 Boniface himself sat on his throne, mitred 
 and clad in vestments of embroidery. It is 
 possible that: an inquisitive and hostile eye 
 might have detected in some weary counte- 
 nauce or heavy eyelid longings for the pillow, 
 and little sympathy in the offices ; but there 
 were others who entered on their duties with 
 zeal and conviction. Among the last was 
 Father Arnolph, whose pale features and 
 thoughtful eye were seen in his stall, where 
 he sat regarding the preparations with the 
 tranquil patience of one accustomed to seek 
 his happiness in the duties of his vow. To 
 him might be put in contrast the unquiet 
 organs and severe, rather than mortified, 
 lineaments of Father Johan, who glanced 
 hurriedly from the altar, and its rich decora- 
 tions, to the spot where the Anchorite knelt. 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 as if to calculate to what degree of humilia- 
 tion and bitterness it were possible to reduce 
 the bruised spirit of the penitent. 
 
 Odo of Ritterstein, for there no longer re- 
 mains a reason for refusing to the Anchorite 
 his proper appellation, had placed himself 
 near the railing at the foot of the choir, on 
 his knees, where he continued with his eyes 
 fixed on the golden vessel that contained the 
 consecrated host he had once outraged—the 
 offence which he had now come, as much as 
 in him lay, to expiate. The light fell but 
 faintly on his form, but it served to render 
 every furrow that grief and passion had 
 drawn athwart his features more evident. 
 Ulrike studied his countenance, seen as it 
 was in circumstances of so little flattery ; and, 
 trembling, she knelt by the side of Llse, on 
 the other side of the little gate that served 
 to communicate between the body of the 
 church and the choir. Just as she had as- 
 sumed this posture, Gottlob stole from 
 among the pillars, and knelt in the distance, 
 on the flags of the great aisle. He had come 
 to the mass as a ceremony refused to none. 
 
 So strong was the light around the altar, 
 and so obscure the aisles below, that it was 
 with difficulty Bonifacius could assure him- 
 self of the presence of him in whose behalf 
 this office was had. But when, by contract- 
 ing his heavy front, so as to form a sort of 
 screen of his shaggy brows, he was enabled 
 to distinguish the form of Odo, he seemed 
 satisfied, and motioned for the worship to 
 proceed, 
 
 There is little need to repeat the details of 
 a ceremony it has been our office already to 
 relate in these pages; but as the music and 
 other services had place in the quiet and 
 calm of midnight, they were doubly touching 
 and solemn. ‘There was the same power of 
 the single voice as in the morning, or rather 
 on the preceding day, for the turn of the 
 night was now passed, and the same startling 
 effect was produced, even on those who were 
 accustomed to its thrilling and superhuman 
 melody. As the mass proceeded, the groans 
 of the Anchorite became so audible, that, at 
 times, these throes of sorrow threatened to 
 interrupt the ceremonies. ‘The heart of 
 Ulrike responded to each sigh that escaped 
 the bosom of Odo, and ere the first prayers 
 were ended, her face was bathed in tears. 
 
 711 
 
 The examination of the different counte- 
 nances of the brotherhood, during this scene, 
 would have been a study worthy of a deep 
 inquirer into the varieties of human charac- 
 ter, or of those who love to trace the various 
 forms in which the same causes work on dif- 
 ferent tempers. Hach groan of the Anchorite 
 lighted the glowing features of Father Johan 
 with a species of holy delight, as if he tri- 
 umphed in the power of the offices ; and, at 
 each minute, his head was bent inguiringly 
 in the direction of the railing, while his ear 
 listened eagerly for the smallest sound that 
 might favor his desires. On the other hand, 
 the working of the Prior’s features were those 
 of sorrow and sympathy. Lvery sigh that 
 reached him awakened a feeling of pity— 
 blended with pious joy, it is true—but a pity 
 that was deep, distinct, and human. Boni- 
 facius listened like one in authority, coldly, 
 and with little concern in what passed beyond 
 that which was attached to a proper observ- 
 ance of the ritual ; and, from time to time, 
 he bent his head on his hand, while he evi- 
 dently pondered on things that had little con- 
 nection with what was passing before his eyes. 
 Others of the fraternity manifested more or 
 less of devotion, according to their several 
 characters ; and a few found means to obtain 
 portions of sleep, as the rights admitted of 
 the indulgence. 
 
 In this manner did the community of Lim- 
 burg pass the first hours of the day, or rather 
 of the morning, that succeeded the Sabbath 
 of this tale. It may have been, afterwards, 
 source of consolation to those among them 
 that were most zealous in the observance of 
 their vows, that they were thus passed ; for 
 events were near that had a lasting influence 
 not only on their own destinies, but on those 
 of the very region in which they dwelt. 
 
 The strains of the last hymn were rising 
 into the vault above the choir, when, amid 
 the calm that exquisite voice never failed to 
 
 ‘produce, there came a low rushing sound, 
 
 which might have been taken for the mur- 
 muring of wind, or for the suppressed hum 
 of a hundred voices. When it was first heard, 
 stealing among the ribbed arches of the 
 chapel, the cow-herd arose from his knees. 
 and disappeared in the gloomy depths of the 
 
 ‘church. The monks turned their heads, as 
 
 by a general impulse, to listen, but the com- 
 
712 
 
 mon action was as quickly succeeded by grave 
 attention to the rites. Bonifacius, indeed, 
 seemed uneasy, though it was like a man 
 who scarce knew why. His gray eyes roamed 
 over the body of darkness that reigned among 
 the distant columns of the church, and then 
 they settled, with vacancy, on the gorgeous 
 vessels of the altar. The hymn continued, 
 and its soothing power appeared to quiet 
 every mind, when the sound of tumult at the 
 great gate of the outer wall became too 
 audible and distinct to admit of doubt. The 
 whole brotherhood arose as a man, and the 
 voice of the singer was mute. Ulrike clasped 
 her hands in agony, while even Odo of Rit- 
 terstein forgot his grief in the rude nature 
 of the interruption. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ‘‘Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason ! ” 
 —Twelfth Night. 
 
 IT is scarcely necessary to explain, that the 
 man who had accompanied Ulrike and Ilse 
 to the gate of Duerckheim, was Heinrich 
 Frey. No sooner had his wife disappeared, 
 and his short conference with the men on 
 watch was ended, than the Burgomaster hur- 
 ried towards that quarter of the town which 
 lay nearest to the entrance of the Jaegerthal. 
 Here he found collected a band of a hundred 
 burghers, chosen from among their towns- 
 men for resolution and physical force. They 
 were all equipped, according to the fashion 
 of the times, with such weapons of offence as 
 suited their several habits and experience. 
 We might also add, that, as each good man, 
 on going forth on the present occasion, had 
 seen fit to consult his bosom’s partner, there 
 was more than the usual display of head- 
 pieces, and breastplates, and bucklers. 
 
 When with his followers, and assured of 
 their exactitude and numbers, the Burgo- 
 master, who was a man nowise deficient in 
 courage, ordered the postern to be opened, 
 and issued first himself into the field. The 
 townsmen succeeded in their allotted order, 
 observing the most profound silence. In- 
 stead of taking the direct.road to the gorge, 
 Heinrich crossed the rivulet, by a private 
 bridge, pursuing a footpath that led him up 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the ascent of the most advanced of the moun- 
 tains, on that side of the valley. The reader 
 will understand, that this movement placed 
 the party on the hill which lay directly op- 
 posite to that of the Heidenmauer. At the 
 period of the tale, cedars grew on the two 
 mountains alike, and the townsmen, of course, 
 had the advantage of being concealed from 
 observation. A half-hour was necessary to 
 effect this lodgment, with sufficient caution 
 and secrecy ; but once made, the whole band 
 seemed to consider itself beyond the danger 
 of discovery. ‘The men then continued the 
 march with less attention to order and silence, 
 and even their leaders: began to indulge in 
 discourse. ‘Their conversation was, however, 
 guarded, like that of those who felt they were 
 engaged in an enterprise of hazard. 
 
 “?Tis said, neighbor Dietrich,” commenced 
 the Burgomaster, speaking to a sturdy smith, 
 who acted on this occasion as lieutenant to 
 the commander-in-chief, an honor that was 
 mainly due to the power of his arm, and who, 
 emboldened by his temporary rank, had ad- 
 vanced nearly to Heinrich’s side, “’Tis said, 
 neighbor Dietrich, that these Benedictines 
 are like bees, who never go forth but in the 
 season of plenty, and rarely return without 
 rich contribution to their hive. Thou art a 
 
 reflecting and solid townsman; one that is 
 
 little moved by the light opinions of the idle, 
 and a burgher that knoweth his own rights, 
 which is as much as to say, his own interests, 
 and one that well understandeth the necessity 
 of preserving all of our venerable usages and 
 laws, at least in such matters as touch the 
 permanency of the welfare of those that may 
 lay claim to have a welfare. Ispeak not now 
 of the varlets who belong, as it were, neither 
 to heaven nor earth, being condemned of 
 both to the misery of houseless and irrespons- 
 ible knayes; but of men of substance, that, 
 like thee and thy craft, pay scot and lot, 
 keep bed and board, and are otherwise to be 
 marked for their usefulness and natural 
 rights ;—and this brings me to my point, 
 which is neither more nor less than to say, 
 that God hath created all men equal, and 
 therefore it is our right, no less than our 
 duty, to see that Duerckheim 1s not wronged, 
 especially in that part of her interests that 
 belong, in particularity, to her substantial 
 inhabitants. Do I say that which is reason- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 able, or do I deceive both myself and thee, 
 friend smith ?” 
 
 Heinrich had a reputation for eloquence 
 and logic, especially among his own partisans, 
 and his appeal was now made to one who 
 was little likely to refuse him any honor. 
 Dietrich was one of those animal philos- 
 ophers who seem specially qualified by nature 
 to sustain a parliamentary leader, possessing 
 a good organ, with but an indifferent intel- 
 lect to derange its action. His mind had 
 precisely the description of vacuum which is 
 so necessary to produce a good political or 
 moral echo, more particularly when the pro- 
 position is false ; for the smallest addition to 
 his capacity might have had such an effect 
 on his replies, as a sounding-board is known 
 to possess in defeating the repetitions of the 
 voice. 
 
 «By St. Benedict, Master Heinrich,” he 
 answered, “for it is permitted to invoke the 
 . gaint, though we so little honor his monks, it 
 were well for Duke Friedrich had he less 
 “wine in his Heidelberg tuns, and more of 
 your wisdom in his councils! What you have 
 just proclaimed is no other than what I have 
 myself thought these many years, though 
 never able to hammer down an idea into 
 speech so polished and cutting as this of 
 your worship! Let them that deny what I 
 say take up their weapons, and I will repose 
 on my sledge as on an argument not to be 
 answered. We must, in sooth, see Duerck- 
 
 heim righted, and more is the need, since 
 
 there is this equality between all men, as hath 
 just been so well said.” 
 
 “Nay, this matter of equality is one much 
 spoken of, but as little understood. Look 
 you, good Dietrich; give me thy ear for a few 
 minutes, and thou shalt get an insight into 
 its justice. Here are we of the small towns 
 born with all properties and wants of those 
 in your large capitals—are we not men to 
 need our privileges—or are we not human, 
 that air is unnecessary for breath—I think 
 thou wilt not gainsay either of these truths.” 
 
 “ He that would do it is little better than 
 an ass! ” 
 
 “This being established, therefore, naught 
 remains but to show the conclusion. We, 
 having the same rights as the largest towns 
 in the empire, should be permitted to enjoy 
 them; else is language little better than 
 
 713 
 
 mockery, and a municipal privilege of no 
 more value than a serf’s oath.” 
 
 ‘«< This is so clear I marvel any should deny 
 it! And what they say of the villages, 
 Master Burgomaster? Will they, think you, 
 sustain us in this holy cause ?” 
 
 “Nay, I touch not on the villages, good 
 smith, since they have neither burgomasters 
 nor burghers ; and where there is so little to 
 sustain a cause, of what matter is resistance? 
 I speak chiefly of ourselves, and of towns 
 having means, which is a case so clear, that 
 it were manifest weakness to confound it 
 with any other. He that hath right of his 
 side were a fool to enter into league with any 
 of doubtful franchises. All have their nat- 
 ural and holy advantages, but those are the 
 best which are most clear by their riches and 
 force.” 
 
 ‘«‘T pray you, worshipful Heinrich, grant 
 me but a single favor, an’ you love me so 
 much as a hair.”’ 
 
 “Name thy will, smith.” 
 
 ‘That I may speak of this among the 
 townsmen !—such wisdom, and conclusion so 
 evident, should not be cast to the winds.” 
 
 «<Thou knowest I do not discourse for vain 
 applause.” 
 
 « By my father’s bones ! I will touch upon it 
 with discretion, most honorable Burgomaster, 
 and not as one of vain speech-—your honor 
 knows the difference between a mere street 
 babbler and one that hath a shop.” 
 
 ‘¢ Have it as thou wilt ; but I take not the | 
 merit of originality, for there are many good 
 and substantial citizens, and some statesmen, 
 who think much in this manner.” 
 
 “Well, it is happy that God hath not gifted 
 all alike, else might there have been great 
 and unreasonable equality, and some would 
 have arrived to honors they were little able 
 to bear. But having so clearly explained 
 your most excellent motives, worshipful 
 Heinrich, wilt condescend to lighten the 
 march by an application of its truth to the 
 
 enterprise on which we go forth?” 
 
 “That may be done readily, for no tower 
 in the Palatinate is more obvious. Here 1s 
 Limburg, and yon is Duerckheim; rival com- 
 munities, as it were, in interests and hopes, 
 and of necessity but little disposed to do each 
 other favor. Nature, which is a great mas- 
 ter of all questions of right and wrong, say- 
 
714 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 eth that Duerckheim shall not harm Lim- 
 burg, nor Limburg, Duerckheim.—lIs this 
 clear ?” 
 
 “* Himmel ! as the flame of a furnace, hon- 
 orable Burgomaster.”’ 
 
 “Now, it being thus settled, that there 
 shall be no interference in each other’s con- 
 cerns, we yield to necessity, and go forth 
 armed in order to prevent Limburg doing 
 wrong to a principle that all just men admit 
 to be inviolable. You perceive the nicety; 
 we confess that what we do is weak in argu- 
 ment, and the greater need it should be 
 strong in execution. We are no madcaps to 
 unsettle a principle to gain our ends, but 
 then all must have heed to their interests, 
 and what we do is with a reserve of doc- 
 trine.” 
 
 ‘<'This relieves my soul from a mountain !” 
 exclaimed the smith, who had listened with a 
 sort of earnestness that denotes honesty of 
 purpose ; ‘‘naught can be more just, and 
 woe to him that shall gainsay it, while back 
 of mine carries harness !” 
 
 In this manner did Heinrich and his lieu- 
 tenant lighten the way by subtle discourse, 
 and by arguments that we feel some con- 
 sciousness may subject us to the imputation 
 of plagiarisms, but for which we can vouch 
 as genuine, on the authority of Christian Kin- 
 zel, already so often named. 
 
 The high and disinterested intellect that 
 is active in regulating the interests of the 
 world has been so often alluded to, in other 
 places and on different occasions, that it is 
 quite useless to expatiate on it here. We 
 have already said, that Heinrich Frey was a 
 stout friend of the conservative principle, 
 which, reduced to practice, means little more 
 than that 
 
 “They shall get, who have the power, 
 And they shall keep, who can.” 
 
 Justice, like liberality, has great reserva- 
 tions, and perhaps there are few countries, in 
 
 the present advanced condition of the hu-. 
 
 man species, that do not daily employ some 
 philosophy of the same involved character 
 as this of Heinrich, supported by reasoning as 
 lucid, irresistible, and nervous. 
 
 The direction in which the band of Duerck- 
 neimers proceeded, led them by a tortuous 
 way, it is true, but surely, to the side of the 
 
 valley on which the Castle of Hartenburg 
 stood. Heinrich, however, brought his fol- 
 lowers to a halt long before they had made 
 the circuit which would have peen necessary 
 to reach the hold of Count Emich. The 
 place he chose for the collection and review 
 of the band, was about midway between 
 Duerckheim and the castle, pursuing a line 
 that conformed to the sinuosities and varia- 
 tions of the foot of the mountain. It was in 
 an open grove, where the shadows of the 
 trees effectually concealed the presence of the 
 unusual company. Here refreshments were 
 taken by all, for the good people of the 
 town were much addicted to practices of this 
 consolatory nature, and the occasion must 
 have been doubly urgent that could induce 
 them to overlook the calls of the appetite. 
 
 ‘‘Seest thou aught of our allies, honest 
 smith ?” demanded Heinrich of his lieuten- 
 ant, who had been sent a short distance along 
 the brow of the hill to reconnoitre. “It 
 were unseemly in men so trained as our 
 friends, to be lacking at need.” 
 
 “Doubt them not, Master Heinrich. I 
 know the knaves well; they merely tarry to 
 lighten their packs by the way, in consump- 
 tions like this of our own. Dost see the 
 manner in which the Benedictines affect 
 tranquillity, worshipful Burgomaster ?” 
 
 “Tis their usual ghostly hypocrisy, brave 
 Dietrich; but we shall uncloak them! Good 
 will come of our enterprise, for, of a truth, 
 by this spirit on our part, which shall for- 
 ever demonstrate the necessity of not med- 
 dling in the concerns of a neighbor, we settle 
 all uncertainties between us. By the Kings 
 of Koeln! is it to be tolerated, that a gowns- 
 man shall hoodwink a townsman to the day 
 of judgment ?—Is there not a light in the 
 Abbey-chapel ?” , 
 
 “The reverend fathers pray against their 
 enemies. Dost think, worshipful Burgomas- 
 ter, that the tale concerning the manner in 
 which those heavy stones were carried upon 
 Limburg-hill, has received small additions 
 by oft telling ?” 
 
 “It may be thus, . Dietrich; for naught, 
 unless it may be damp snow, gaineth more 
 by repeated rolling, than your story.” 
 
 ‘And gold,” rejoined the smith, chuckling 
 ina manner not to displease his superior, 
 since it palpably intimated the idea he enter- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 tained of the Burgomaster’s success in accu- 
 mulating money, an idea that is always 
 pleasant to those who deem prosperity of this 
 nature to be the principal end of life.—“Gold 
 well rolled increases marvellously! I am of 
 your mind, Master Heinrich; for to speak 
 truth, I much question whether the Evil 
 Spirit would have troubled himself with so 
 light an affair as carrying the smaller mate- 
 rials afoot.—As to the heavy columns, and 
 the hewn key-stones, with other loads of 
 weight, it was so much beneath his character, 
 and may be considered as probable. I have 
 never contradicted that part of the legend, 
 for it hath likelihood to back it, but—ha! 
 here cometh the succor.” 
 
 The approach of a band of men, who came 
 from the direction of Hartenburg, always 
 keeping along the margin of the hills, and 
 within the shadows, absorbed all attention. 
 This second party was treble the force of the 
 townsmen, like them it was armed, and, like 
 them, it showed every sign of military prep- 
 aration. When it had halted, which it did 
 at a little distance from the band of Hein- 
 rich, as if it were not deemed advisable to 
 blend the two bodies in one, a warrior ad- 
 vanced to the spot where the Burgomaster 
 had taken post. The new-comer was well 
 but lightly armed, wearing head-piece and 
 harness, and carrying his sword at rest. 
 
 “ Who leadeth the Duerckheimers ?” he de- 
 manded, when near enough to trust his voice. 
 
 ‘‘Their poor Burgomaster, in person ; 
 would there had been a better for the duty!” 
 
 «“ Welcome, worshipful sir,” said the other, 
 bowing with more than usual respect. “In 
 my turn, I come at the head of Count Emich’s 
 followers.” 
 
 ‘«< How art thou styled, brave captain? ” 
 
 “-Tigs a name but little worthy to be 
 classed with yours, Herr Frey. But such as 
 it is, I disown it not. I am Berchthold Hin- 
 
 termayer.” 
 
 '  ©Umph!—A young leader for so grave an 
 enterprise!—I had (ous for the honor of 
 thy lord’s company.” 
 
 “JT am commanded to supine this matter 
 to your worship.” Berchthold then walked 
 aside with the Burgomaster, while Dietrich 
 proceeded to take a nearer view of the allied 
 force. 
 
 It is well known to most of our readers, 
 
 715 
 
 that every baron of note, at the time of which 
 we write, entertained more or fewer depend- 
 ants, who, succeeding to the regularly banded 
 vassals of the earlier ages, held a sort of mid- 
 dle station between the servitor and the sol- 
 dier. There stands a noble ruin, called 
 Pierrefont, within a day’s ride of Paris, and 
 on the very verge of a royal forest,—a forest 
 that in some of its features approaches nearer 
 to an American wood than any we have yet 
 met in the other hemisphere—which castle 
 of Pierrefont is known to have been the hold 
 of one of these warlike nobles, who did many 
 and manifest wrongs to the lieges of the king, 
 even in an age considerably later than this of 
 our tale. In short, European society, just 
 then, was in the state of transition, beginning 
 to reject the trammels of feudalism, and 
 struggling to wear its bonds at least in a new 
 and less troublesome form. But the impor- 
 tance and political authority of the Counts of 
 Leiningen fully entitled them to preserve a 
 train that barons of lesser note were begin- 
 ning to abandon, and consequently all of 
 their castles had many of these loose follow- 
 ers, who have since been entirely superseded 
 by the regularly embodied and trained troops 
 of our own time. 
 
 The smith found much to approve, and 
 something to censure, in the party that 
 Berchtold and led to their support. So faras 
 recklessness of character and object, audacity 
 in acts, and indifference to moral checks, 
 were concerned, a better troop could not 
 have been desired, for more than half of 
 them were men who lived by the excesses of 
 the community, occupying exactly that posi- 
 tion in the social scale that fungi do in the 
 vegetable, or that sores and blotches fill in 
 the physical economy of the species. But in 
 respect to thews and sinews, a primary con- 
 sideration with the smith in estimating the 
 value of every man he saw, they were much 
 inferior, as a body, to the townsmen, in whom 
 orderly living, gainful and regular industry, 
 had permitted the animal to become devel- 
 oped. There was, however, a band of peas- 
 ants, drawn from among the mountains, or 
 inhabitants of the hamlet beneath the castle 
 walls, who, though less menacing in air, and 
 bold of speech, were youths that Dietrich 
 thought only required the Duerckheim train- 
 ing to become heroes. 
 
716 
 
 When Heinrich and Berchthold rejoined 
 their respective followers, after the private 
 discourse, all discontent was banished from 
 the former’s brow, and both immediately 
 occupied themselves in making the disposi- 
 tions necessary to the success of the common 
 enterprise. The wood, in which they had 
 halted, lay directly opposite to the inner 
 extremity of the Abbey-hill, from which it 
 was separated by a broad and perfectly even 
 meadow. ‘The distance, though not great, 
 was sufficient to render it probable, that the 
 approach of the invaders would be seen by 
 
 some of the sentinels, who, there was little | 
 
 doubt, the men-at-arms, lent by the Elector 
 to the monks, maintained, were it only for 
 their own security. Limburg was not a for- 
 tress, its impunity being due altogether to 
 the moral power that the Church, to which it 
 belonged, still wielded, though it were so 
 much weakened in that part of Germany; 
 but its walls were high and solid, its towers 
 numerous, its edifices massive, and all was so 
 disposed that a body within, resolutely bent 
 on resistance, might well have set at defiance 
 a force like that which now came against it. 
 
 Of all these truths Heinrich was sensible, 
 for he had shown courage and gained experi- 
 ence in the defence of places, during a life 
 that was now past its meridian, and which 
 had been necessarily spent amid the tumults 
 and contentions of that troubled age. He 
 looked about him, therefore, with greater 
 seriousness, in order to ascertain on whom he 
 might rely,and the fine and collected deport- 
 ment of Berchthold Hintermayer gave him 
 that sort of satisfaction which brave men feel 
 by communion with kindred spirits in the 
 moment of danger. When every necessary 
 disposition was made, the party advanced, 
 moving deliberately to preserve their order, 
 and conscious that breath would be necessary 
 in mounting the steep acclivity. 
 
 Perhaps there is no time in which the in- 
 genuity of man is more active, than in those 
 moments when he has a sensitive conscious- 
 ness of being wrong, and consequently a 
 feverish desire to vindicate his works or acts 
 to himself, as well as to others. A deep con- 
 viction of truth, and the certainty of being 
 right, fortifies the mind with a high moral 
 dignity, that even disinclines it to the humil- 
 ity of vindication. Thus he who rushes 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 from a dispute in which his own convictions 
 cause him to distrust his own arguments, into 
 rash and general asseverations, betrays the 
 goadings of conscience rather than spirit, 
 and weakens the very canse that it may be 
 his wish to establish. An arrogant assump- 
 tion of knowledge, especially in matters that 
 our previous habits and education rather 
 disqualify than teach us to comprehend, can 
 only lead to contradiction and detection; and 
 although circumstances may lend a momen- 
 tary and fallacious support to error, the 
 triumph of truth is as certain as its punish- 
 ments are severe. Happily, this is an age 
 in which no sophistry can long escape un- 
 scathed, nor any injury to natural justice go 
 long unrequited. No matter where the 
 wrong to truth has been committed—on the 
 throne, or in the cabinet, in the senate, or by 
 means of the press—society is certain to 
 avenge itself for the deceptions of which it 
 has been the dupe, and its final judgments 
 are recorded on that opinion which lasts long 
 after the specious triumphs of the plausible 
 are forgotten. It were well that they who 
 abuse their situations, by a reckless disregard 
 of consequences, in order to obtain a momen-— 
 tary object, oftener remembered this fact, for 
 they would spare themselves the mortification, 
 and in some cases the infamy, that is so sure 
 to rest on him who disregards right to attain 
 an end. 
 
 Heinrich Frey greatly distrusted the law- 
 fulness of the enterprise in which he was en- 
 gaged ; for, unlike his companions, he had 
 the responsibility of advising, as well as that 
 of execution, on his head. He had, there- 
 fore, a restless wish to find reasons of justi- 
 fication for what he did ; and as he marched 
 slowly across the meadows, with Berchthold 
 and the smith at his side, his tongue gave 
 utterance to his thoughts. 
 
 “‘There cannot be any manner of doubt 
 of the necessity and justice of what we do | 
 to Limburg, Master Hintermayer,” he said ; 
 for men usually affirm in all dubious cases 
 with a. confidence precisely in an inverse 
 ratio to the distrust they feel of the rectitude 
 of their cause :—“ else why are we here? Is 
 Limburg forever to trouble the valley and 
 the plain, with its accursed exactions and 
 avarice, or are we slaves for shaven monks te 
 trample on?” 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 «<There are sufficient reasons, of a truth, 
 for what we do, Herr Burgomaster,” an- 
 swered Berchthold, whose mind had taken a 
 strong bias to the new change in religious 
 opinions, that were then fast gaining ground. 
 «“ When we have so good motives, let us look 
 no farther.” 
 
 “Nay, young man, I am certain that the 
 honest smith here will say, no nail that he 
 drives into a hoof can be too well clenched.” 
 
 ««That fact is out of all question, Master 
 Berchthold,” answered Dietrich, “and there- 
 fore must his worship be right in the whole 
 argument.” 
 
 ‘«<Let it be so; I shall never gainsay the 
 necessity of breaking up a nest of drones.” 
 
 ‘J call them not drones, young Bercht- 
 hold, nor do I come to break them up; but 
 simply to show the world, that he who would 
 deal with the affairs of Duerckheim, hath 
 need of a lesson to teach him not to enter his 
 neighbor’s grounds.” 
 
 ‘‘This is wholesome, and will bring great 
 credit on our town!” responded the smith. 
 «The more the pity that we do rot press the 
 same matter home upon the Elector too, who 
 hath of late raised new pretensions to our 
 earnings.” 
 
 «“ With the Elector the affair may not be 
 discussed, for his interference is of too strong 
 a quality to call upon our manhood in main- 
 taining the right of non-interference. These 
 subtle questions of law are not to be learned 
 over a furnace, but need nice capacities to 
 render them clear; but clear they are,—to all 
 who have the power to understand them. It 
 is more than probable, that to thee, Dietrich, 
 they are not so manifest ; but wert thou one 
 of the town-council, thou shouldst look into 
 the question with different eyes.” 
 
 ‘That I doubt not, honorable Heinrich, 
 that I doubt not. Could but such an honor 
 light on one of my name and breeding—Him- 
 mel! the worshipful council should find a man 
 ready to believe any nicety of this sort, or 
 indeed of any other sort !” 
 
 ‘‘Ha! There is a light at yonder loop!” 
 exclaimed Berchthold. ‘‘ This bodes well.” 
 
 “ Hast a friend in the Abbey?” 
 
 “ Go to, Herr Burgomaster.—This touches 
 on excommunication ;—but I much like yon 
 light at the loop !” 
 
 “Let there be silence,’ whispered Hein- | ber thy friends. 
 
 order to their fellows. 
 
 117 
 
 rich to those in his rear, who passed the 
 “ We draw near.” 
 The party was now at the foot of the hill. 
 Not a sign of their approach being known 
 had yet met them; unless a single taper 
 placed at a dungeon-loop could thus be inter- 
 preted. On the contrary, the stillness al- 
 ready described in the approach of Ulrike, 
 reigned over the whole of the vast pile. But 
 neither Heinrich nor his companion liked 
 this fearful quiet, for it boded a defence the 
 more serious when it did come. They would 
 have greatly preferred an open resistance, 
 and nothing would have more relieved the 
 minds of the two leaders, than to have been 
 able to command a rush, under a hot dis- 
 charge from the arquebusiers of Duke Fried- 
 rich. But this relief was refused them, and 
 the whole band reached a point of the hill, 
 under a flanking tower, where it became nec- 
 essary to abandon all idea of cover, and to 
 make a swift movement, to gain the road. 
 It was the rush of this evolution which first 
 disturbed the monks in the chapel. The 
 second interruption proceeded from the 
 ruder sounds of the assault, that immediately 
 after was made upon the outer gate, itself. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 *‘T’ll never 
 Be such a ghostling to obey instinct, but stand 
 As if a man were author of himself, 
 And knew no other line.” —Coriolanus. 
 
 THe assailants, as has been seen, were led 
 by the Burgomaster, and his two heutenants, 
 Berchthold and the smith. Close at the 
 heels of the latter followed three of his own 
 journeymen, each, like his master, armed 
 with a massive sledge. No sooner did the 
 party reach the gate, than these artisans 
 commenced the duty of pioneers, with great 
 readiness and skill. At the third blow, from 
 Dietrich’s brawny arm, the gate flew open, 
 and those in front rushed into the court. 
 
 ‘Who art thou ?” cried Berchthold, seiz- 
 ing a man who knelt with a knee on another’s 
 breast, immediately across his passage ; 
 ‘‘sneak, for this is not a moment of tri- 
 fling!” 
 
 ‘‘ Master Forester, be less hot, and remem- 
 Dost not see it is Gottlob, 
 
718 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 that holdeth the convent porter, lest the 
 knave should use the additional bars? There 
 are strangers within, and, to consult his ease, 
 the faithless varlet hath not done his fasten- 
 ings properly, else mightest thou have 
 pounded till Duke Friedrich’s men were 
 upon thee.” 
 
 ‘‘ Bravely done, foster-brother! Thy sig- 
 nal was seen and counted on ; but, since thou 
 knowest the ways so well, lead on, at once, 
 against the men-at-arms.” 
 
 “Himmel! The rogues have bristly 
 beards, well grizzled with war, and may not 
 like to have their sleep thus suddenly broken ; 
 but service must be done.—Choose the most 
 godly of thy followers, worshipful Burgo- 
 master, to go against the monks, who are 
 fortified in their choir, and well armed with 
 prayer; while I will lead the more carnal to 
 another sort of work against the Elector’s 
 people.” 
 
 While this short dialogue had place, the 
 whole of the assailants poured through the 
 gate, their officers endeavoring to maintain 
 something like order among the ill-trained 
 band. All felt the imperious necessity of 
 first disposing of the troops; for as respects 
 the monks themselves, there was certainly 
 no cause of immediate apprehension. A few 
 were left, therefore, to guard the gate, while 
 Heinrich, guided by the cow-herd, led his 
 followers toward the buildings where the 
 men-at-arms were known to lodge. 
 
 If we were to say that the party advanced 
 to this attack without concern, we should 
 overrate their valor, and do the reputation 
 of the Hlector’s men injustice. There was 
 sacrilege in the invasion of the conyent, ac- 
 cording to the predominant opinions of the 
 age; for though Protestantism had made great 
 progress, even reformers had grievous doubts 
 in severing the bonds of habit and long- 
 established prejudices. ‘To this lurking sen- 
 timent was added the unaccountable silence 
 that still reigned among the men-at-arms, 
 who, as Gottlob had said, were known to be 
 excellent soldiers at need. They lay in the 
 rear of the Abbot’s dwelling, and were suffi- 
 ciently intrenched behind walls, and among 
 the gardens, to make a fierce resistance. 
 
 But all these considerations rather flashed 
 upon the minds of the leaders, than they were 
 maturely weighed. Inthe moment of assault 
 
 there is little leisure for thought, espe- 
 cially when the affair gets to be as far ad- 
 vanced as this we are now describing. The 
 men rushed toward the point of attack, ac- 
 cordingly, beset by misgivings rather than 
 entertaining any very clear ideas of the 
 dangers they ran. 
 
 Gottlob had evidently made the best of 
 the time he had been at liberty in the Abbey, 
 to render himself master of the intricate 
 windings of the different passages. He was 
 soon at the door of the Abbot’s abode, which 
 was dashed into splinters by a single blow of 
 Dietrich’s sledge, when there poured a stream 
 of reckless, and we may add lawless, soldiery 
 through the empty apartments. In another 
 moment, the whole of the assailants were in 
 the grounds, in the rear of this portion of 
 the dwellings. 
 
 As there is nothing that more powerfully 
 rebukes violence than a calm firmness, so is 
 there nothing so appalling to or so likely to 
 repulse an assault, as a coolness that seems 
 to set the onset at defiance. In such mo- 
 ments, the imagination is apt to become 
 more formidable than the missiles of an ene- 
 my ; conjuring dangers in the place of those 
 which, in the ordinary course of warfare, 
 might be lightly estimated, were they seen. 
 Every one knows that the moment which 
 precedes the shock of battle is by far the 
 most trying to the constancy of man, and a 
 reservation of the means of resistance is pro- 
 longing that moment, and of course increas- 
 ing its influence. 
 
 Every man among the hostile band, even 
 to the leaders, felt the influence of this mys- 
 terious quiet among the troops of the Elector. 
 So imposing in fact did it become, that they 
 halted in a group, a position of all others 
 most likely to expose them to defeat,—and 
 there was a low rumor of mines and am- 
 buscades. 
 
 Berchthold perceived that the moment was 
 critical, and that there was imminent danger 
 of defeat. 
 
 “Follow!” he cried, waving his sword, 
 and springing toward the silent buildings 
 in which it was known the men-at-arms were 
 quartered. He was valiantly seconded by 
 the Burgomaster and the smith, when the 
 whole party resumed its courage, and ad- 
 vanced tumultuously against the doors and 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 windows. The sounds of the sledges and the 
 yielding of bars and bolts came next; after 
 which the rush penetrated to the interior. 
 The cries of the assailants rang among empty 
 vaults. There was the straw, the remnants 
 of food, the odor of past debauches, and all 
 the usual disgusting signs of ill-regulated 
 barracks; for in that day, neatness and 
 method did not descend far below the con- 
 dition of the affluent; but no cry answered 
 ery, no sword or arquebus was raised to 
 meet the blow of the invader. Stupor was 
 the first feeling, on gaining the knowledge 
 of this important fact. Then Heinrich and 
 Berchthold both issued orders to bring the 
 captured porter, who was in the centre of the 
 assailants, before them. 
 
 “Explain this,” said the Burgomaster, 
 authoritatively. “ What hath become of Duke 
 Friedrich’s followers?” 
 
 «They departed at the turn of the night, 
 worshipful Herr, leaving Limburg to the 
 care of its patron saint.” 
 
 ‘Gone! whither, and in what manner?— 
 If thou deceivest me, knave, thy Saint Bene- 
 dict himself shall not save thee from a 
 flaying !” 
 
 “JT pray you be not angered, great magis- 
 trate, for I say nothing but truth. There 
 - came an order from the Elector, as the sun 
 set, recalling his meanest warrior; for, it is 
 said, he is sore pressed, and hath great need 
 of succor.” 
 
 The silence which followed this explanation 
 was succeeded by a shout, and individuals 
 began to steal eagerly away from the main 
 body, bent on their own designs of pillage. 
 
 «“ What road took the Duke’s men?” 
 
 “Worshipful Heinrich, they went down 
 by the horse-path, in great secrecy and order, 
 and passed up the opposite mountain, in 
 order to escape troubling the townsmen to 
 onen the gates at that late hour. It was their 
 intention to cross the cedars of the Heiden- 
 mauer, and, descending on the other side of 
 the camp, to gain the plain in the rear of 
 Duerckheim.”’ 
 
 There no longer remained a doubt that the 
 conquest was achieved, and the entire party 
 broke off in bands; some to execute their 
 private orders, and others, like those who 
 had already proved delinquent, to look after 
 their own particular interests. 
 
 719 
 
 Until this moment not a solitary straggler 
 had gone near the chapel. As it was not the 
 wish of those who had planned the assault to 
 do personal injury to any of the fraternity, 
 the orders had been so worded as to leave 
 this portion of the Abbey for a time unvisited, 
 in the expectation that the monks would 
 profit by the omission, to escape by some of 
 the many private posterns that communicated 
 with the cloisters. But, as there no longer 
 was an armed enemy to subdue, it now be- 
 came necessary to think of the fraternity. 
 The process of sacking their dormitories 
 was already far advanced, and the bursts of 
 exultation that began to issue from the build- 
 ings, announced that the rich and commodi- 
 ous dwelling of the Abbot himself was un- 
 dergoing a similar summary process. 
 
 “Himmel!” muttered Gottlob, who from 
 the moment of his liberation had not quitted 
 the side of his foster-brother; ‘‘our castle 
 rogues are taking deep looks into the books 
 of the most reverend Bonifacius, Master 
 Berchthold! It were good to tell them which 
 are Latin, at least, lest they burthen their 
 shoulders with learning they can never use.” 
 
 ‘Tet the knaves plunder,” replied Hein- 
 rich, gruffly; ‘‘as much evil as good hath 
 come from that store of letters, and it will 
 be all the better for Duerckheim, were the 
 damnable ammunition of the Benedictines a 
 little less plenty. There are those on the 
 plains who doubt that necromancy is bound 
 up in some of the volumes that bear a saint’s 
 name on their backs.” 
 
 Perhaps Berchthold might have remon- 
 strated, had not his instinct told him, that 
 remonstrance on such a subject, in that mo- 
 ment of riot and confusion, would have been 
 worse than useless. ‘The consequence was, 
 that valuable works and numerous manu- 
 scripts, which had been collected during cen- 
 turies of learned ease, were abandoned to the 
 humor of men incapable of estimating their 
 value, or even of understanding their objects. 
 
 “Tet us to the monks,” said Heinrich, 
 sheathing his heavy blade, for the first time 
 since they had quitted the wood. ‘“ Friend 
 smith, thou wilt look to the duties here, and 
 see that what is done is done thoroughly. 
 Remember that thy metal is well heated, and 
 on the anvil, waiting thy pleasure; it must be 
 
 | beaten flat, lest at another day it be remoulded 
 
720 
 
 into a weapon to do us harm. Go to, Diet- 
 rich; thou knowest what we of the town 
 would have, and what we expect of thy skill.” 
 
 Taking Berchthold by the arm, the Burgo- 
 master led the way toward that far-famed 
 pile, the Abbey-church. They were followed 
 by a body of some twenty chosen artisans, 
 who, throughout the whole of that eventful 
 night, kept close to the two leaders, like men 
 who had been selected for this particular 
 duty. 
 
 The same ominous silence reigned around 
 the chapel as had rendered the approach to 
 the quarters of the men-at-arms imposing. 
 But here the invaders went against a different 
 enemy. With most then living, the mysteri- 
 ous power of the Church still possessed a deep 
 and fearful interest. Dissenters had spoken 
 boldly, and the current of public opinion had 
 begun to set strongly against the Romish 
 Church, in all that region, it is true; but it 
 is not easy to eradicate, by the mere efforts of 
 reason, the deep roots that are thrown out by 
 habit and sentiment. At this very hour, we 
 see nearly the entire civilized world commit- 
 ting gross and evident wrongs, and justifying 
 its acts, if we look closely into its philosophy, 
 on a plea little better than that of a sickly 
 taste formed by practices which in them- 
 selves cannot be plausibly vindicated. ‘The 
 very vicious effects of every system are 
 quoted as arguments in favor of its continu- 
 ance; for change is thought to be, and some- 
 times is, a greater evil than the existing 
 wrong; and men, in millions, are doomed to 
 continue degraded, ignorant, and brutal, 
 simply because vicious opinions refuse all 
 sympathy with those whose hopeless lot it has 
 been to have fallen,by the adventitious chances 
 of life, beneath the ban of society. In this 
 manner does error beget error, until even 
 philosophy and justice are satisfied with mak- 
 ing abortive attempts to palliate a disease that 
 a bolder and better practice might radically 
 cure. It will not occasion surprise, therefore, 
 when we say, that both Heinrich and Bercht- 
 hold had heavy misgivings concerning the 
 merit of their enterprise, as they drew near 
 the church. Perhaps no man ever much pre- 
 ceded his age without at moments distrusting 
 his own principles; and it is certain, that 
 Luther himself was often obliged to wrestle 
 with harassing doubts. Berchthold was less 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 troubled, however, than his companion, for 
 he acted under the orders of a superior, and 
 was both younger and better taught than the 
 Burgomaster. The first of these facts was 
 sufficient of itself, under his habits, to re- 
 move a load of responsibility from his shoul- 
 ders, while the latter not only weakened the 
 influence of previous opinions, but caused 
 those which he adopted to be well fortified. In 
 short, there existed between Heinrich and 
 Berchthold that sort of difference which all 
 must have remarked, in the advancing age in 
 which we live, between him who has inherited 
 his ideas from generations that have passed, 
 and him who obtains them from his contem- 
 poraries. The young forester had grown into 
 manhood since the voice of the Reformer was 
 first heard in Germany, and as it happened to 
 be his lot to dwell among those who listened 
 to the new opinions, he had imbibed most of 
 their motives of dissent, without ever having 
 been much subject to the counteracting in- 
 fluence of an opposite persuasion. It is in 
 this gradual manner, that nearly all salutary 
 moral changes are effected, since they who 
 first entertain them, are rarely able to do 
 more, in their generation, than to check the 
 progress of habit; while the duty of causing 
 the current to flow backward, and to take a 
 new direction, devolves on their successors. 
 
 In believing that Wilhelm of Venloo would 
 be foremost in deserting his post, in this mo- 
 ment of outrage and tumult, the authors of 
 the assault did him injustice. Though little 
 likely to incur the hazards, or to covet the 
 honors of martyrdom, the masculine mind of 
 the Abbot elevated him altogether above the 
 influence of any very abject passion; and if 
 he had not self-command to curtail the appe- 
 tites, he had a dignity of intellect which 
 rarely deserts the mentally-gifted in situations 
 of difficulty. When Heinrich and Berchthold, 
 therefore, entered the church, they found the 
 entire community in the choir, remaining, like 
 Roman senators, to receive the blow in their 
 collective and official character. There might 
 have been artifice, as well as magnanimity, 
 in the resolution which had decided Bonifa- 
 cius to adopt this course; for, coming as they 
 did from the scene of brutal violence without, 
 those who entered the church were much im- 
 pressed by the quiet solemnity which met 
 them. 
 
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As the excited monk suited his words by corresponding energy of 
 
 emphasis and tone, Emich recoiled a step, like one who distrusted a secret 
 mine.—The Heidenmauer. 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 The candles still burned before the altar, 
 
 the lamps threw their flickering light on the 
 % ° 
 
 quaint architecture and the gorgeous orna- 
 ments of the chapel, while every pale face 
 and shaven head, beneath, looked like some 
 consecrated watchman, placed near the shrine 
 to protect it from pollution. Each monk 
 
 was in his stall, with the exception of the 
 
 Prior and Father Johan, who had stationed 
 
 themselves on the steps of the altar; the first 
 as the officiating priest of the late mass, and 
 the latter under an impulse of his governing 
 
 and natural exaggeration, which moved him 
 to throw his person as a shield before the 
 vessel that contained the Host. 
 was on his throne, motionless, indisposed to 
 yield, and haughty, though with features 
 that betrayed great and condensed passion. 
 The Burgomaster and Berchthold advanced 
 into the choir alone, for their followers re- 
 mained in the body of the church, in obedi- 
 ence toa sign from the former. Both were 
 uncoyered, and while they walked slowly up 
 
 the choir, scarce a head moved. Every eye 
 
 seemed riveted, by a common spell, on the 
 erucifix of precious stones and ivory that 
 stood upon the altar. The blood of Hein- 
 rich crept under the influence of this solemn 
 calm, and by the time he had reached the 
 steps, where he stood confronted equally to 
 the Abbot and the Prior, for the former of 
 whom he had quite as much fear as hatred, 
 and for the latter an unfeigned love and rev- 
 erence, the resolution of the honest Burgo- 
 master was sensibly weakened. 
 
 “ Who art thou ?” demanded Bonifacius, 
 admirably timing his question, by the inde- 
 cision and the quailing eye of him he ad- 
 dressed. 
 
 “By St. Benedict! my face is no such 
 stranger in Limburg that you put this ques- 
 tion, most holy Abbot,” answered Heinrich, 
 making an effort to imitate the other’s com- 
 posure, that was very sensible to himself, but 
 better concealed from others; ‘‘ though not 
 shaven and blessed, like a monk, I am one 
 well known to most that dwell in or near 
 Duerckheim!”’ 
 
 “JT had better said, ‘What art thou?’ 
 
 Thy name and office are known to me, Hein- 
 
 rich Frey; but in what character dost thou 
 now presume to enter Limburg church, and 
 to show this want of reverence to our altars?” 
 
 The Abbot 
 
 721 
 
 «‘To speak thee fairly, reverend Bonifa- 
 cius, tis in the character of the head-man of 
 Duerckheim, a much-injured and long-abused 
 town, that is tired of monkish exactions and 
 monkish pride, and which hath at length 
 assumed the office of doing itself justice, that 
 I appear. We are here to-night, not as 
 peaceful citizens bent on prayers and hymn- 
 singing, but armed, as thou seest, and bold 
 in the intention to do away a nuisance from 
 the neighborhood forever.” 
 
 ‘Thy words are as little friendly as thy 
 guise, and what thou sayest here but too 
 well answers to that which thy rude follow- 
 ers perform beyond the walls of this conse- 
 crated spot. Hast thou well pondered on 
 this bold step of thy town, Herr Heinrich?” 
 
 “Tf often pondering be well pondering, it 
 hath been before us, Bonifacius, at different, 
 meetings, and in various discussions, any 
 time this year past.” 
 
 «“ And hast thou no dread of Rome?” 
 
 ‘That is an authority which lessens daily 
 in this region, holy Benedictine. Not to 
 deal doubly by thee, of the two we have most 
 distrusted the anger of Duke Friedrich ; but 
 that fear is diminished by the certainty that 
 he hath so much on his hands just now that 
 his thoughts cannot easily turn to other af- 
 fairs. We did not know, in sooth, that he 
 had recalled his men-at-arms, but had counted 
 on some angry discussion with those obstinate 
 warriors; and thou wilt easily comprehend 
 that their absence hath, in no manner, les- 
 gened our faith in our own cause.” 
 
 “The Elector may regain his power, when 
 a day of reckoning will come for those who 
 have dared to profit by his present distress.” 
 
 ‘«‘ We are traders and artisans, good Boni- 
 facius, and have made our estimates with 
 some nicety. If the Abbey must be paid for 
 —an event by no means certain—we shall 
 count the bargain profitable so long as it can- 
 not be rebuilt.’ Brother Luther, we think, 
 is laying a corner-stone that will prevent the 
 Devil from ever attempting to set up that 
 which we now propose to throw down.” 
 
 “This is thy final answer, Burgomaster ?” 
 
 «Nay, I say not that, Abbot. Send in 
 thy terms to the town-council to-morrow, 
 and, if we can entertain them, it may happen 
 that a present accommodation shall stop all 
 further claims. But what has here been so 
 
722 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 happily commenced, must be as happily fin- 
 
 ished.” 
 
 “Then before I quit these holy walls, heark- 
 
 en to my malediction,” returned Bonifacius, 
 
 rising with priestly and practised dignity ;— 
 ‘fon thee and on thy town—on all that cal] 
 
 33 
 
 thee magistrate—parent 
 
 “Stay the dreadful words ! ” cried a pierc- 
 ing female voice from among the columns be- 
 
 hind the choir. <* Reverend and holy Abbot, 
 have mercy !” added Ulrike, pale, trembling, 
 and shaken equally with horror and alarm, 
 
 though her eye was bright and wild, like 
 that of one sustained by more than human 
 parpose : “‘ Holy Priest, forbear! He knows 
 
 not what he does. Madness hath seized on 
 him and on the town. They are but tools in 
 the hands of one more powerful than they.” 
 
 At the appearance of Ulrike, Bonifacius 
 resumed his seat, disposed to await the effect 
 of her appeal. 
 
 ‘“Thou here!” gaid Heinrich, regarding 
 his wife with surprise, but entirely without 
 anger or suspicion. 
 
 ‘* Happily here, to avert this fearful crime 
 from thee and thy household.” 
 
 “T had thought thee at thy prayers with 
 the poor Herr von Ritterstein, in his com- 
 fortless hermitage of the Heidenmauer !” 
 
 “And canst thou think of the deed which 
 hath driven the Herr Odo to this penitence 
 and suffering, and stand here armed and des- 
 perate? Thou seest that years do not suffice 
 to relieve a soul on which the weight of sac- 
 rilege rests ; oh! hadst thou been with me, 
 to witness the agony that preyed upon poor 
 Odo, as he knelt at yonder step, listening to 
 the mass that hath this night been said in his 
 behalf, thou mightest better know how deep 
 is the wound made on the heart that hath 
 been seared by God’s anger !” 
 
 “This is most strange ! ” rejoined the won- 
 dering Burgomaster ; “‘ that those whom I had 
 hoped well disposed of, and that ina manner 
 neither to suspect nor to trouble our enter- 
 prise, should cross us at the moment when all 
 is SO near completion ! Sapperment ! young 
 Berchthold, thou seest in what manner mat- 
 rimony clogs the stoutest of us, though girded 
 with the sword.” 
 
 ‘And thou, Berchthold Hintermayer, son 
 of my dearest friend—child of my fondest 
 hope,—thou comest, too, on this unholy er- 
 
 rand, like the midnight robber, stealing upon 
 the unarmed and consecrated !” ‘ 
 
 “‘ None love, or none reverence thee, more 
 than I, Madame Ulrike,” answered the youth, 
 bowing with sincere respect ; ‘* but wert thou 
 to address thy speech to the Herr Heinrich, 
 it would go at once to him who directs our 
 movements.” 
 
 “« Then on thee, Burgomaster, will be thrown 
 the heaviest load of Heaven’s displeasure, as 
 on the leader of the outrage. What matters 
 it that the Benedictines are grasping, or over- 
 weening in their respect for themselves, or 
 that some among them have forgotten their 
 vows? Is not this temple devoted to God ? 
 Are not these His altars, before which thon 
 hast dared to come, with a hostile heart and 
 an angry purpose ? ” 
 
 “Go to, good Ulrike,” returned Heinrich, 
 saluting the cold but ever handsome cheek of 
 his wife, who leaned her head on his shoulder 
 to recall her faculties, while she firmly held 
 his hand with both her own, as if to stay his 
 acts. ‘‘Go to, thou art excellent in thy way, 
 but what can thy sex know of policy ? This 
 matter hath been had up before many coun- 
 cils ; and—by my beard !—tongue of woman 
 cannot shake the resolutions of Duerckheim, 
 Go, depart with thy nurse, and leave us todo 
 our pleasure.” 
 
 “Is it thy pleasure, Heinrich, to brave 
 Heaven ? Dost thou not know, that the 
 crimes of the parent are visited on the child 
 —that the wrong done to-day, however we 
 may triumph in present success, is sure to re- 
 visit us in the dread shape of punishment ? 
 Were there no other power than conscience, 
 so long as that fearful scourge remains on 
 earth, *tis vain to expect immunity. Dost 
 thou owe all to thy Duerckheim council and 
 its selfish policy? Hast thou forgotten the 
 hour that my pious parents gave thee my 
 hand, and the manner in which thou then 
 plightedst thy faith to protect me and mine, to 
 assume the place of these departed friends, 
 to be father, and mother, and husband, to 
 her thou tookest to thy bosom ? Is Meta—that 
 child of our mutual esteem—naught, that 
 thou triflest with her peace and hopes? Lay 
 aside, then, these hasty intentions, and turn 
 
 thy mind to thine own abode; bethink thee _ 
 
 of those whom Nature and the law condemn 
 to suffer for thy faults, or to whom both have 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 given the dearer right to rejoice in thy clem- 
 ency and mercy.” 
 
 «< Was ever woman so bent on crossing 
 the noble duties of man ?” said the Burgo- 
 master, who, spite of himself, had been sen- 
 
 sibly moved by this hasty and comprehensive 
 picture of his domestic duties, and who was 
 
 greatly troubled to find the means of. extri- 
 
 cating himself from the position in which he 
 
 stood. —« Thou art better in thy chamber, 
 good Ulrike. Meta will hear of this onset, 
 
 and have her fears.—Go then, and calm the 
 child; thou shalt have such escort as be- 
 
 cometh my quality and thy deserts.” 
 ‘‘Berchthold, I make the last appeal to 
 thee. This cruel father, this negligent hus- 
 
 band, is too madly bent on his council, and 
 
 on the wild policy of the town, to remember 
 
 God! But thou hast young hopes, and sen- 
 
 timents that become thy years and virtue. 
 
 Dost think, rash boy, that one like Meta will 
 
 dare trust the last chance of happiness to a 
 participator in this crime, when such an 
 inheritance of guilt will be the portion that 
 shall descend from her own father?” 
 
 A stir among the monks, who had hitherto 
 listened with an attention that vacillated 
 between hope and fear, interrupted the an- 
 swers of the wavering Burgomaster and his 
 young companion. The movement was 
 caused by the entrance of the group which, 
 until now, had stood aloof in the obscurity 
 of the great aisle, but which seized the 
 moment of doubt to advance into the centre 
 of the choir. One, closely muffled, walked 
 from out its centre, and throwing aside the 
 cloak that had concealed his form, showed 
 the armed person of Emich of Leiningen. 
 The moment Ulrike recognized the unbend- 
 ing eye of the Baron, she buried her face in 
 her hands, and quitted the place. She went 
 not unattended, however, for both her hus- 
 band and Berchthold followed anxiously; 
 nor did either return to the work of the 
 night until he had seen the heart-stricken 
 wife and mother under the protection of a 
 well-chosen company of the townsmen. 
 
 123 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ‘¢ He who the sword of heaven will bear, 
 Should be as holy as severe’”’—Measure for Measure. 
 
 THE first glances between Emich and 
 Bonifacius were filled with those passions 
 which each had so long dissembled, and of 
 which the reader has already had glimpses 
 during the more unguarded moments of the 
 recent debauch. In the eyes of the Count, 
 triumph mingled with hatred; while there 
 still remained a slight covering of artifice 
 and caution about the lineaments of the 
 Abbot, masks that he scarcely thought it yet 
 expedient to throw entirely aside. 
 
 ‘© We owe this visit, then, to thee, Herr 
 Emich ?” said the latter, struggling to ap- 
 pear calm. 
 
 “And to thine own desert, most holy 
 Bonifacius.” 
 
 “What wouldst thou, audacious Baron?” 
 
 “Peace in this oft-violated valley—humil- 
 ity in shaven crowns—religion without hy- 
 pocrisy—and mine own.” 
 
 ‘‘] will not talk to thee of Heaven, bold 
 man, for the word were blasphemy in such 
 a presence; but thou art not yet so lost to 
 worldly policy as to overlook the punishment 
 ofthe empire. Hast thou well counted thy 
 gold, and art thou sure thy coffers are suffi- 
 ciently stored to rebuild the sainted pile 
 which thy hand would fain destroy—or dost 
 think thy riches can replace all that pious 
 princes have here bestowed, during ages in 
 which the Church hath been duly rever- 
 enced?” 
 
 «© As to thy vessels and precious stones, 
 reverend Abbot, it shall be my heed to pre- 
 serve them to meet this demand, which hap- 
 ly may never be made; and as to the cost of 
 rebuilding the Abbey, why, the same notable 
 workman that helped first to set it up, will 
 owe me a good turn for punishing those that 
 outwitted him, and sent him away without 
 the promised boon of souls. Though, God’s 
 truth! were the fact fairly dived into, I am 
 of opinion that Limburg, after all, hath sent 
 more customers to his furnaces than all the 
 drinking-inns and pot-houses of the Palat- 
 inate! ” 
 
 This sally of their lord produced a gen- 
 eral and deriding laugh among his followers, 
 who now began to flock into the church from 
 other parts of the Abbey, with the expecta 
 
724 
 
 tion that there was rich plunder to be had 
 in the sanctuary. It was about this time, 
 too, that a brand was cast among the straw 
 of the barracks, and the strong light which 
 glared through the stained windows very 
 effectually told the monks of the inefficiency 
 of further remonstrances. 
 
 Notwithstanding his known licentiousness, 
 and the general freedom of his life, the Abbot 
 had imbibed from the high objects of his 
 calling, by that secret process that renders 
 even the least deserving in some measure 
 subject to the influence of their professions, 
 a cast of dignity, and perhaps we might add 
 even of sincerity (for there is often a strange 
 admixture of inherent faith and practical 
 unbelief about the dissolute), that caused him 
 frequently to rise to the level of his most 
 solemn duties. A character strong and 
 masculine as his could not be aroused with- 
 out displaying some of its latent energies, be 
 it for good or be it for evil; and Emich had 
 doubts of the result when he witnessed the 
 manner in which his enemy succeeded in re- 
 pressing his fierce resentment, and the ex- 
 pression of clerical dignity and official calm- 
 ness that reigned in his countenance. The 
 Abbot arose, like a prelate in the undisturbed 
 exercise of his functions, and raising his 
 voice, so as to send his words to the deepest 
 recesses of the chapel, he spoke after the 
 manner of the peculiar rites of the Church 
 he served. 
 
 ‘‘God, in His hidden wisdom, hath per- 
 mitted to the wicked a momentary triumph,” 
 he said ; ‘‘ we search not now into the rea- 
 sons of this mysterious dispensation; the 
 truth will be known in His own time :—but, 
 as servitors of the altar—as guardians of this 
 holy sanctuary—as the sworn and professed 
 of Heaven—as one consecrated and blessed— 
 there remaineth a solemn, an imperative duty 
 to perform.” 
 
 ‘‘ Bonifacius, beware!” interrupted the 
 Count of Leiningen ; ‘‘thou dealest not now 
 with burgomasters and weeping wives.” 
 
 “‘In the behalf, then, of that God to 
 whom this shrine hath been raised,” contin- 
 ued the unmoved Abbot, ‘“‘in His holy in- 
 terest, and in His holy name——” 
 
 “ At thy peril, priest !” and Emich shook, 
 partly in anger, and partly in a terror he 
 could scarce explain. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘“‘ As his unworthy but necessary minister 
 —as consecrated and blessed—gifted with the 
 power by the head of the Church, and now 
 required to use it, do I pronounce thee——” 
 
 ‘‘ Where are ye, followers of Hartenburg ? 
 Down with the silly maledictions of this mad- 
 monk; remember ye are not trembling wom- 
 en, to need a Benedictine’s blessing !” 
 
 The voice of Emich was drowned, as well 
 as that of the Abbot, by the noises that were 
 now raised in the chapel. The first inter- 
 ruption came from a long dark instrument, 
 that was thrust from out of the aisle behind 
 the throne of Bonifacius, and within a few 
 feet of his head ; an interruption that filled 
 the whole edifice with the wild, plaintive 
 strains of the mountains. 
 
 This signal, which came from the cherry- 
 wood trumpet of Gottlob, who rarely went 
 abroad without this badge of his profession, 
 was immediately followed by a general shout 
 from the band of the count, and by a variety 
 of similar sounds, that were raised by differ- 
 ent instruments that had hitherto been mute. 
 The effect of these shrill strains, echoing 
 among the vaulted and fretted roofs, which 
 were brightly illuminated by the growing and 
 fierce light that now pervaded the church, 
 and of the seeming calm of the Abbot, who 
 ended his malediction, spite of the uproar, is 
 left to the reader’s imagination.. When he 
 had finished the unheard curse, Bonifacius 
 looked about him in gloomy observation. 
 
 It was evident to his cool and instructed 
 mind, which was far too earthly in its habits 
 to cling to any hopes of a merely spiritual 
 nature, that the outrage had already gone so 
 far, as to render it more hazardous to his en- 
 emy to retreat than to advance. Signing to 
 the community, he descended slowly, and 
 with dignity, from his throne, and led the 
 way from the choir. The ready monks 
 obeyed, the fraternity walking from that ex- 
 traordinary scene in their customary silent 
 order. Emich followed the dark procession 
 with a troubled eye, for even the conqueror 
 regards the calm retreat of his foes with un- 
 easiness, and there was an instant of painful 
 distrust of his own purpose, as the last flow- 
 ing robe vanished through a private door that 
 led to a secret postern, by which the routed 
 Benedictines quitted a mountain where they 
 had so long dwelt in the calm, and, we might 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 add, in the ease, of an affluent and privileged | 
 
 seclusion. 
 
 The invaders of the Abbey took this open 
 abandonment of the place, by its ancient pos- 
 sessors, to be an unequivocal admission of 
 their triumph. There is no moment so likely 
 to produce excesses as that in which the un- 
 certainty of strife is changed to the certainty 
 of victory. The feelings seem willing to 
 avenge themselves for all their previous 
 doubts, and man is ever, too ready to ascribe 
 his successes to some inherent qualities, 
 which give him an apparent right to abuse 
 any advantages that may happen to be their 
 consequence. ‘The band of the castle and 
 the people of the town, among whom a large 
 proportion had to the last distrusted the 
 presence of the community, to which vulgar 
 opinion attributed the power of working mir- 
 acles, no sooner found themselves, as they 
 believed, in undisputed possession of the 
 mountain, than the reaction of feeling, to 
 which there has just been allusion, urged 
 them to increase their violence, and to re- 
 double those efforts which had momentarily 
 been checked. 
 
 A shout of triumph was the common 
 signal for renewing the assault. It was fol- 
 lowed by the crashing of windows, and. the 
 overthrow of every fixture in the body of the 
 church that was not too solid to resist their 
 first and ill-directed efforts, and a general 
 mutilation of the monuments and labored 
 statuary. Marble cherubs fell on every side, 
 wings and limbs of angels separated from the 
 trunks, and the grave and bearded visages of 
 many an honored saint were doomed to en- 
 dure contumely and fractures. Even the 
 ‘nferior altars were no longer respected, but 
 they and their decorations were ruthlessly 
 scattered, as if the enmity of the conquerors 
 was transferred from those who had admin- 
 istered at them, to the dreaded Being in 
 whose name the rites had been celebrated. 
 
 The reader will imagine the confusion and 
 tumult that attended a scene like this. Dur- 
 ing the uproar, Emich buried his face in his 
 mantle, and paced to and fro in the choir, 
 which his presence, and perhaps some linger- 
 ing reverence for the sacred spot, still pre- 
 served from violence. He was joined only 
 by the Burgomaster and Berchthold, the re- 
 mainder of the party having mingled with 
 
 %25 
 
 those who were destroying the chapels and 
 decorations of the church. Heinrich seated 
 himself in one of the vacant stalls, for the 
 recent scene and the subsequent parting with 
 his wife had shaken his resolution ; while the 
 young forester advanced respectfully to the 
 side of his lord. 
 
 ‘Ig the Herr Count troubled?” de- 
 manded the latter, after a moment of defer- 
 ential silence. 
 
 Emich dropped the cloak, and leaning a 
 hand familiarly on the shoulder of his young 
 servitor, he stood regarding the gorgeous 
 riches and elaborate beauty of the high altar, 
 all of which was rendered doubly imposing 
 by the powerful light that now illuminated 
 the whole interior of the edifice, which was 
 never more beautiful than as then seen, with 
 its strong relief and deep shadows. 
 
 ‘‘ Berchthold, there is a God!” he said 
 with emphasis. 
 
 “None but the fool doubts it, Herr 
 Emich.” 
 
 «© And he hath His ministers on earth— 
 those whom He hath commissioned to do 
 Him pleasure, and to burn His incense.” 
 
 ‘We have high authority for this belief, 
 my good Lord.” 
 
 ‘‘We have—the authority is high, that 
 hath so much antiquity—which so suits our 
 secret desires—which descends to us from our 
 fathers.” 
 
 ‘¢And which is so supported by proofs, 
 sacred and profane.” 
 
 ‘Thou hast been well schooled, good 
 Berchthold,” said the Count, looking ear- 
 nestly at his companion. 
 
 ‘‘Heaven left me a pious and tender 
 mother, when it took my father away.” 
 
 Emich continued to lean on the shoulder 
 of Berchthold, while his eye, in which stern- 
 ness of purpose was singularly blended with 
 the waverings of doubt, never turned from 
 its contemplation of the altar. Above the 
 chased and gilded cabinet which contained 
 the Host, was a small picture of the Mother 
 of Christ, delineated in those mild and at- 
 tractive colors with which the pencil 1s accus- 
 tomed to portray the Virgin Wite of Joseph. 
 Her eye seemed to meet the gaze of Emich 
 in sorrow. It was easy to fancy the gentle 
 expression was in reproach of the sacrilege. 
 
 ‘These Benedictines are at length un- 
 
| 
 | 
 
 726 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 housed ”—he continued, trying fruitlessly to 
 avert his look from that mild but expressive 
 image ; ‘‘ they have too long ridden roughly 
 on their betters.” 
 
 Berchthold bowed. 
 
 “Dost thou see aught strange, youth, in 
 that image of Maria ?” 
 
 ‘Tis a skilful design, Herr Count, and a 
 fair face to regard.” 
 
 ‘‘ Methinks it looks upon this violence 
 with an evil eye! ” 
 
 “°Tis but the work of an ingenious man, 
 my Lord, and cannot look other than it hath 
 always seemed.” 
 
 ‘Dost think thus, Berchthold ? There 
 are many who pretend that images and paint- 
 ings have been known to speak, when it was 
 Heaven’s pleasure.” 
 
 ‘They relate such legends, my good Lord, 
 but these are events that are little wont to 
 touch those who are not much disposed to 
 see them.” 
 
 ““ And yet in these facts had my fathers 
 faith, and in this belief was I trained ! ” 
 
 Berchthold was mute, his own education 
 having been more suited to the growing opin- 
 ions of the times. 
 
 “That God can surpass the ordinary work- 
 ings of Nature, to effect His pleasure,” con- 
 tinued Emich, ‘‘ we may at least believe.” 
 
 “Jt may be believed, Herr Count, but is it 
 necessary? He who made Nature may use it 
 at His pleasure.” 
 
 ‘fa! thou hast no faith in miracles, boy!” 
 
 “Tam myself a miracle, that tells me every 
 moment of the existence of a superior power; 
 and in that much I bend to its control. 
 But it hath never been my fortune to hear 
 an image speak, or see it do aught else that 
 belongs to the will.” 
 
 “‘ By my father’s bones! but thou art fit to 
 deal with the cunningest knave that wears a 
 cowl! How now, brave followers!” turning 
 toward his people; “leave no vestige of the 
 roguery and abominations that have so long 
 been done within these polluted walls!” 
 
 “‘Herr Count!” said Berchthold eagerly, 
 presuming in his haste to touch the cloak of 
 Emich, “‘ here are the Benedictines! ” 
 
 The word caused the bold, and at that 
 moment the independent, Baron to turn sud- 
 denly, laying a hand on his sword, as he did 
 so. But the hand released its grasp, and the 
 
 features of Emich immediately reverted to 
 their former expression of anxiety and doubt, 
 at what he now beheld. 
 
 By this time all of the different edifices 
 which composed the Abbey of Limburg were 
 fired, the church and its immediate append- 
 ages alone excepted. The consequence was 
 such an increase of light within the latter, 
 as penetrated the most obscure of its Gothic 
 recesses. The choir, above all, received the 
 strongest illumination; and young Bercht- 
 hold thought its tracery never appeared so 
 beautiful as in that fearful moment of im- 
 pending destruction. The candlesand lamps 
 of the great altar began to look dim, and all 
 around prevailed the glorious and fiery bright- 
 ness which accompanies a fierce conflagration. 
 During the instant that Emich was .turned 
 toward his people, two monks had come from 
 the sacristy, and placed themselves on the 
 steps of the altar. They were the Prior and 
 Fether Johan. The former bore a small 
 ivory crucifix, which from time to time he 
 kissed, while the latter placed at his feet a 
 massive and curiously carved chest, of suffi- 
 cient size and weight to have required the aid 
 of a lay-brother to bring it from its reposi- 
 tory. 
 
 The countenance of the Prior was mild, 
 persuasive, and filled with holy concern; 
 that of his companion flushed, excited, and 
 bearing the look of feverish fire, which is the 
 effect of an enthusiasm that springs as much 
 from temperament as from conviction. 
 
 Emich looked at the Benedictines uneasily, 
 and he advanced so near, always attended by 
 the forester, as to be within reach of his arm. 
 
 “’Fore God, but ye are tardy, Fathers,” 
 he said, determined to assume an indiffer- 
 ence he was far from feeling; ‘the pious 
 Bonifacius hath departed many minutes, and 
 quickened, as he is, by love of his person, I 
 make no question that his footsteps have al- 
 ready gone down the mountain-side! ” 
 
 ‘<'Thou hast at length yielded to the whis- 
 pering of the Devil, Count of Leiningen!” 
 returned the Prior; ‘‘ thou art resolute that 
 this blot shall rest upon thy soul!” 
 
 “ We are not at confession, holy Arnolph, 
 but engaged in a knightly redressing of our 
 rights; if thou hast aught here that is dear 
 to thee, take it, of God’s name, and go thy 
 way. ‘Thou shalt have safe conduct, were it 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 to the gates of Rome; for, of all my frater- 
 nity, thou art he for whom alone I feel regret 
 
 or amity, in this just enterprise.” 
 
 « T know not this difference in love, when 
 it touches the existence of our shrine, or the 
 duty that ties us to its service. This ques- 
 
 tion is not between thee and me, Lord Emich, 
 put between thee and God.” 
 
 ‘«‘ Have it as thou wilt, Herr Prior, so thou 
 dost but depart in peace.” 
 
 «<T am not weak enough to resist when re- 
 sistance is vain,” mildly answered the monk; 
 «nor am I quick to desert my post, while 
 there is hope. Thou hast not well bethought 
 thee of this act, Emich; thou hast not re- 
 membered thy posterity, nor thy kind inter- 
 est in the noble Ermengarde! ” 
 
 « Dost fancy me an uxurious citizen, rev- 
 
 erend Arnolph, that thou wouldst fain stop 
 a knight in his onset by speaking of the good 
 wife and her babes?” 
 
 As he concluded, Emich laughed. 
 
 «Thou hast not well conceived me. This 
 is not a question of death in battle, or of the 
 grief of those who survive; for such thoughts 
 are, unhappily, but too common with those 
 who rule the earth, to raise disquiet; but I 
 would speak to thee of the long future and 
 of its pains, Dost thou know, irreverend 
 Baron, that the God of Israel—who is my 
 God and thine—the God of Israel hath said 
 that he will visit the sins of the parent upon 
 the descendant, from generation to genera- 
 tion? and yet, blinded by this specious suc- 
 cess, thou seemest to court His anger.” 
 
 «This may be so or not; for ye of the 
 cloisters have many subtle ways of reasoning 
 as you wish; but to me it seemeth better 
 that each should suffer for his own sins ; and 
 such, I take it, is what the community of 
 Limburg doth now undergo.” 
 
 “That we have done much evil, and neg- 
 lected much good, is, alas, too true!” 
 
 «By the Kings of Koeln! thou art getting 
 to be of our side, holy Arnolph!” 
 
 ‘Hor such is the common course,” con- 
 tinued the unmoved Prior,—“ but that thou 
 art not our judge is equally certain. That 
 each does and will suffer for his own acts is 
 beyond denial, but the fearful consequences 
 of crime do not stop with him who hath 
 committed it. This much is taught us by 
 reason, and what is still more sure, it is con- 
 
 39 
 
 720 
 
 secrated by words from God’s own mouth. 
 Ponder, then, while thou mayest, on the load 
 of sorrow thou art heaping on thy descend- 
 ants; remember that thou standest there, 
 subject to goading passions, the miserable 
 being thou art, simply that in thy person 
 thou payest the price of a parent's sins. 
 What our common father did is still avenged 
 on us his children.” 
 
 «How now, Herr Prior! thou pushest my 
 pedigree much beyond its pretensions. Noble 
 and princely, if thou wilt, but I pass not the 
 dark ages in any of my claims. Let them 
 that have greater ambition pay for the pur- 
 chase in the way thou namest; I am content 
 with more modern honors.” 
 
 Emich spoke jeeringly, but the attentive 
 monk saw that he was troubled. 
 
 ‘‘Tf thou hast no thought for posterity— 
 none for thyself—none for thy God, Emich,” 
 the latter resumed, “bethink thee of those 
 who have gone before. Hast already forgot- 
 ten thy visit to the tombs of thy family ?” 
 
 «Thou hast me there, Arnolph!—those 
 sacred vaults have been thy convent’s shield 
 these many months! ” 
 
 «And thou art now disposed to forget 
 them ?” 
 
 «Tf thou wilt ask yon honest men, they 
 will tell thee, Prior, they have no order to 
 spare the meanest of thy marble cherubs, 
 even though it hover over a grave of mine 
 own house.” 
 
 «Then do I indeed despair of touching 
 thy heart!” answered Father Arnolph, sor- 
 rowing as much for the crime as for its con- 
 sequences. “Then indeed art thou madly 
 and ruthlessly bent, not only on our destruc- 
 tion, but on thine own; for pity for the child, 
 and love of the parent, are equally despised. 
 Emich of Leiningen, I curse thee not—this 
 is a weapon too fearful for human hands 
 lightly to wield. I bless thee not; duty to 
 God forbids the holy office.” 
 
 ‘‘Hfold! reverend Arnolph, let us not part 
 in anger—I would, in sooth, crave from thy 
 worthy hands some touch of consolation—if 
 —ay—if there be chapel in this church, for 
 which thou hast more than usual reverence, 
 let it be named, and I swear, by knight’s 
 faith, unless the work be already done, it 
 shall stand unscathed amid the ruins, in tes- 
 timony of my love for thee—or if thou hast 
 
728 
 
 aught here of price, whether of monkish or 
 worldly value, point it out, that it may be 
 held safe for thy better leisure. In return, I 
 ask but the parting words of peace.” 
 
 “°Tis forbidden to those who war against 
 God,” returned the grieved Prior, releasing 
 his robe from the eager grasp of the Baron— 
 “JT can and will pray for thee, Emich; but 
 to bless thee were treachery to Heaven! ” 
 
 So saying, the pious Arnolph buried his 
 face in his dress, to shut out the view of the 
 profanation that was working around him, 
 and withdrew slowly from the choir. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ‘* Avaunt! 
 Incarnate Lucifer! ‘tis holy ground : 
 A martyr’s ashes now lie there, which make it 
 A shrine.” —Byron. 
 
 DuRING the foregoing scene, the Benedic- 
 tine, already known to the reader as Father 
 Johan, had awaited its issue with a species 
 of lofty patience on the steps of the altar. 
 But in a character so exaggerated, there re- 
 mained little that was purely natural; even 
 the forbearance of the monk partook of the 
 forced and fervid qualities of his mind. 
 Conventual discipline, deep and involuntary 
 respect for the Prior, and that very disdain 
 which he felt for all gentle means of recall- 
 ing a sinner to the fold, kept him tolerably 
 tranquil, while Emich and his spiritual supe- 
 rior held their parley; but there was a gleam 
 of wild delight in his eye, when he found, of 
 all that powerful and boasted fraternity, that 
 he alone remained to defend the altars. The 
 feeling of the moment in such a breast, not- 
 withstanding the scene of tumult that rather 
 increased than diminished in the church, was 
 that of triumph. He exulted in his own 
 constancy, and he anticipated the effects 
 which were to follow from his firmness, with 
 the self-complacency of a prurient confi- 
 dence, and with the settled conviction of an 
 enthusiast. * 
 
 Emich took little heed of his presence, 
 during the first moments that succeeded the 
 departure of the Prior. There is a majesty 
 and a quiet energy in truth and sound prin- 
 ciples, that happily form their constant 
 buttresses. Without this wise provision of 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Providence, the world would be hopelessly 
 abandoned to the machinations of those who 
 consider all means lawful, provided the ends 
 tend to their own success. All near the Ab- 
 bey of Limburg had felt the influence of 
 these high qualities in Father Arnolph, and 
 it is more than probable that, as in the case 
 of the city of Canaan, had the community 
 contained four of his spiritual peers, the 
 Abbey would not have fallen. 
 
 The Count, in particular, who, like all 
 that first break from mental servitude, was 
 so often troubled with strong doubts, had 
 long entertained a deep respect for this monk; 
 and it is not improbable, that had the pious 
 Arnolph fully understood his own power, by 
 an early and more vigilant use of his means, 
 he might have found a way to avert the blow 
 that had now alighted on Limburg. But 
 the meekness and modesty of the Prior were 
 qualities as strongly marked as his more 
 active virtues, and the policy of Limburg was 
 not of a character to rely on either for its 
 security. 
 
 ‘“‘There is good in that brother,” said 
 Emich to Berchthold, when his thoughtful 
 eye again rose to the face of the young for- 
 ester.—‘‘ Had he been mitred, instead of 
 Bonifacius, our rights might have still suf- 
 fered.” 
 
 ‘‘Few are more beloved than Father Ar- 
 nolph, Herr Count, and none so deserve to 
 be.” 
 
 “ Thou art of this mind ! How now, Master 
 Heinrich ! art in monkish meditation in thy 
 stall, or dost dispose of the lesson of the 
 virtuous Ulrike, more at thy ease, in a seat 
 where so much substantial carnal aliment 
 hath been digested by godly Benedictines ? 
 Come to the front, like a stout soldier, and 
 give us the savor of thy good wisdom in this 
 strait.” 
 
 “Methinks, our work is well-nigh done, 
 Lord Emich,” answered Heinrich, complying 
 with the request; ‘‘my faithful townsmen 
 are not idle in the chapels and among the 
 tombs, and the sledge of yon smith dealeth 
 with an angel an’ it werea bar of molten iron. 
 Kach stroke leaves a mark that no chisel will 
 repair! ” 
 
 <*Let the knaves amuse themselves; every 
 blow is quickened by the recollection of some 
 hard penance. Thou seest that they place 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 the confessionals in a pile ready for the torch! 
 This is. attacking the enemy in his citadel. 
 But Heinrich, is the excellent Ulrike wont 
 to come forth with thee in thy frays against 
 the Church? God’s judgments! were Er- 
 mengarde of this humor, we should have no 
 hope of salvation in our castle!” 
 
 ‘<You do my wife injustice, Herr Count; 
 
 Ulrike was here to pray, and not to encour- 
 age.” 
 “Thou mightest have spared the explana- 
 tion, for truly such encouragement never did 
 soldier need! Wert privy to the visit,—ha!— 
 wert privy, worthy Burgomaster? ” 
 
 “To speak you honestly, Herr Emich, I 
 thought the woman otherwise bestowed.” 
 
 «‘ By the Magi !—in her bed?” 
 
 “ Nay, at her prayers, but ina different 
 place. But we do her too much honor, noble 
 Emich, to let the movements of a mere 
 housewife occupy our high thoughts in this 
 busy moment.” 
 
 “Nothing that touches thee is of light 
 concern with thy friends, good Burgomaster,” 
 answered the Baron, who pondered with in- 
 stinctive uneasiness, even in that moment of 
 tumult, on this visit of Ulrike to the Bene- 
 dictines, at an hour so unusual. “ Thou art 
 well wived, Herr Heinrich, and all that know 
 thy consort do her honor !” 
 
 The Burgomaster was a man by far too 
 well satisfied with his own superior merits to 
 harbor jealousy. Self-complacency might 
 have been at the bottom of his security, 
 though it were scarce possible for one even 
 much more addicted by nature to that tor- 
 menting passion, to have lived so long in 
 perfect familiarity with the pure mind of 
 Ulrike, without feeling reverence for its 
 principles and virtue. The sentiments of 
 the Baron were very different; for though 
 in his heart equally convinced of the char- 
 acter of her to whom he alluded, he could 
 not altogether exclude the suspicions of a 
 man of loose habits, nor the uneasiness of 
 ene who had himself been discarded. The 
 answer of the husband, however, served to 
 turn the discourse, by giving the Burgo- 
 master an opportunity of placing himself in 
 the most prominent relief. 
 
 «A thousand thanks, illustrious Herr,” he 
 said, raising his cap; “the woman is not 
 
 amiss, though much troubled with infirmity 
 
 729 
 
 on the score of altars and penances. When 
 we shall have fairly disposed of Limburg, 
 another reign will commence among our 
 wives and daughters, and we can hope for 
 more quiet Sabbaths. As to this grace of 
 your present speech, Lord Count, I take it, 
 as was no doubt meant, to be another pledge 
 of our lasting amity and close alliance.” 
 
 «Thou talkest well,” quickly answered 
 Emich, losing the passing feeling of distrust 
 in the recollection of his present purpose ; 
 ‘‘no words of friendship are lost, on a true 
 and sworn supporter. Well, Heinrich, is our 
 affair finally achieved ?” 
 
 “Sapperment! Herr Count, if not fin- 
 ished, it is in a fair way to be so quickly.” 
 
 “Here remaineth a Benedictine!” said 
 Berchthold, drawing their attention to the 
 monk, who still maintained his post on the 
 steps of the altar. 
 
 “The bees do not relish quitting their hive, 
 while any of the hard earnings are left,” said 
 the Count, laughing ; ‘‘ what wouldst thou, 
 Father Johan?—if thy careful mind hath 
 had thought of the precious vessels, make 
 thy choice and depart.” 
 
 The Benedictine returned the laugh of the 
 noble, with a smile of deep but quiet exulta- 
 tion. 
 
 “ Assemble thy followers, rude Baron,” he 
 said ; ‘call all within thy control to this 
 sanctified spot, for there yet remaineth a 
 power to be overcome of which thou hast not 
 taken heed; at the moment when thou fanci- 
 est thyself most secure, art thou nearest to 
 disgrace and to destruction.” 
 
 As the excited monk suited his words by a 
 corresponding energy of emphasis and tone, 
 Emich recoiled a step, like one who distrusted 
 a secret mine. 'The desperate character of 
 Father Johan’s enthusiasm was well-known, 
 and neither of the three listeners was without 
 apprehension that the fraternity, aware of 
 the invasion, had plotted some deep design 
 of vengeance, which this exaggerated brother 
 had been deputed to execute. 
 
 “Ho! without there !” cried the Count.— 
 “Let a party descend quickly to the crypt, 
 and look to the villanies of these pretended 
 saints; cousin of Viederbach,” revealing in 
 the eagerness of the moment the presence of 
 this sworn soldier of the Cross, “see thou to 
 our safety, for the Rhodian warfare hath 
 
730 
 
 made thee familiar with these treach- 
 erles.” 
 
 The call of the Count, which was uttered 
 lke a battle-cry, stayed the hands of the de- 
 stroyers. Some rushed to obey the order, 
 while most of the others gathered hastily 
 into the choir. It is certain that the pres- 
 ence of fellow-sufferers diminishes the force 
 of fear, even though it may in truth increase 
 the danger; for such is the constitution of 
 our minds, that they willingly admit the in- 
 fluence of sympathy whether it be in pain or 
 pleasure. When Emich found himself backed 
 by so many of his band, he thought less of 
 the apprehended mine, and he turned to 
 question the monk, with more of the calm- 
 ness that became his condition. 
 
 “Thou wouldst have the followers of 
 Hartenburg, Father,’ he said, ironically, 
 “and thou seest how readily they come ! ” 
 
 ““T would that all who have listened to 
 schismatics—all who refuse honor to the holy 
 Church—all who deny Rome—and all that 
 believe themselves on earth freed from the 
 agency of Heaven, now stood before me ! ” 
 answered the Benedictine, examining the 
 group of heads that clustered among the 
 stalls, with the bright but steady eye of 
 one engrossed with the consciousness of his 
 force. ‘**Thou art in hundreds, Count Lein- 
 ingen—would it were God’s pleasure that it 
 had been in millions!” 
 
 “We are of sufficient strength for our ob- 
 ject, monk.” 
 
 “That remaineth to be seen. Now, listen 
 to a voice from above !—I speak to you, un- 
 hallowed ministers of the will of this ambi- 
 tious Baron—to you, misguided and ignorant 
 tools of a scheme that hath been plotted of 
 evil, and hath been brought forth from the 
 prolific. brain of the restless Father of Sin. 
 Ye have come at the heels of your lord, 
 vainly rejoicing in a visible but impotent 
 power—impiously craving the profits of 
 your unholy enterprise, and forgetting 
 God ! . 
 
 “ By the mass, priest !” interrupted Em- 
 ich ; “thou hast once already given us a ser- 
 mon to-day, and time presseth. If thou 
 hast an enemy to present, bring him forth ; 
 but we tire of these churchly offices.” 
 
 ‘*Thou hast had thy moment of wanton 
 will, abandoned Emich, and now cometh the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 judgment—seest thou this box of precious 
 relics >—dost thou forget that Limburg is 
 rich in these holy remains, and that their 
 virtues are yet untried ?—Woe to him who 
 scoffeth at their character, and despiseth 
 their power !” 
 
 “Stay thy hand, Johan!” cried the 
 Count, hastily, when he saw that the monk 
 was about to expose some of those well- 
 known vestiges of mortality to which the 
 Church of Rome then, as now, attributed 
 miraculous interventions; “this is no mo- 
 ment for fooleries ! ” 
 
 “ Callest thou this sacred office by so pro- 
 fane a name ?—abide the issue, foul-mouthed 
 asperser of our holy authority, and triumph 
 if thou canst ! ” 
 
 The Count was much disturbed, for his 
 reason had far less influence now in sup- 
 porting him than his ambition. The party 
 in the rear, too, began to waver, for opinion 
 was not then sufficiently confirmed to render 
 the mass indifferent to such an exposure of 
 clerical power. Whatever may be the differ- 
 ence that exists between Christian sects con- 
 cerning the validity of modern miracles, all 
 will allow, that, when trained in the belief 
 of their reality, the mind is less prepared to 
 resist their influence than that of any other 
 engine by which it can be assailed, since it 
 is placing the impotency of man in direct 
 and obvious collision with the power of the 
 Deity. Before such an exhibition of force, 
 Nature offers no means of resistance ; and 
 the mysterious and unseen agency by which 
 the wonder is produced, enlists in its interest 
 both the imagination and that innate dread 
 of omnipotence which all possess. 
 
 “*T were well this matter went no farther! ” 
 said Emich, uneasily whispering to his prin- 
 cipal agents. 
 
 ‘* Nay, my Lord Count,” answered Bercht- 
 hold, calmly, ‘it may be good to know the 
 right of the matter. If we are not of Heay- 
 en’s side in this affair, let it be shown in our 
 own behalf ; and if the Benedictines are no 
 better than pretenders, our consciences will 
 be all the easier.” 
 
 “Thou art presuming, boy—none know’ 
 
 the end of this !—Herr Heinrich, thou art 
 silent ?” 
 
 “ What would you have, noble Emich, of a 
 poor Burgomaster? I will own, I think it 
 
 7 —~ 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 were more for the advantage of Duerckheim 
 that the matter went no farther.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou hearest, Benedictine!” said the 
 Count, laying the point of his sheathed 
 sword on the richly chased and much rever- 
 enced box that the monk had already unlocked 
 —*‘this must stop here!” 
 
 «Take away the weapon, Emich of Lein- 
 ingen,” said Father Johan, with dignity. 
 
 The Count obeyed, though he scarce knew 
 why. 
 
 «This is a fearful instant for the unbe- 
 liever,” continued the monk ; ‘‘the moment 
 is near when our altars shall be avenged— 
 nay, recoil not, bold Baron—remain to the 
 end, ye dissolute and forsaken followers of 
 the wicked, for in vain ye hope to flee the 
 judgment.” 
 
 ‘There was so much of tranquil enthusiasm 
 
 in the air and faith of Father Johan, that, 
 spite of a general wish to be at a distance 
 from the relics, curiosity, and the inherent 
 principle of religious awe, held each man 
 spell-bound ; though every heart beat quick- 
 er as the monk proceeded, calmly, and with 
 a reverential mien, to expose the bones of 
 saints, the remnants of mantles, the reputed 
 nails of the true cross, and morsels of its 
 wood, with divers other similar memorials of 
 holy events and of sainted martyrs. Not a 
 foot had power to retire. When all were 
 Jaid, in solemn silence, on the bright and 
 glowing shrine, Father Johan, crossing him- 
 self, again turned to the crowd. 
 
 «What may be Heayen’s purpose in this 
 strait, I know not,” he said ; “but withered 
 ve the hand, and forever accursed the soul, 
 of him who dareth violence to these holy 
 vestiges of Christian faith iat 
 
 Uttering these ominous words, the Bene- 
 dictine faced the crucifix, and kneeled in 
 silent prayer. ‘The minute that followed was 
 one of fearful portent to the cause of the in- 
 vaders. Hye sought eye in doubt, and one 
 ‘yegarded the fretted vault, another gazed in- 
 tently at the speaking image of Maria, as if 
 each expected some miraculous manifestation 
 of divine displeasure. The issue would have 
 been doubtful, had not the cherry-wood 
 trumpet of the cow-herd again sounded most 
 opportunely in his master’s behalf. The 
 wily knave blew a well-known and popular 
 imitation of the beasts of his herd, among 
 
 731 
 
 the arches of the chapel, striking at the ef- 
 fect of what had just passed by the interpo- 
 sition of a familar and vulgar idea. The in- 
 fluence of the ludicrous, at moments when 
 the passions vacillate, or the reason totters, 
 is too well known to need elucidation. It is 
 another of those caprices of humanity that 
 baffle theories, proving how very far we are 
 removed from being the exclusively reasoning 
 animal we are fond of thinking the species. 
 
 The expedient of the ready-witted Gottlob 
 produced its full effect. ‘The most ignorant 
 of the castle followers, those even whose dull 
 minds had been on the verge of an abject 
 deference to superstition, took courage at 
 the daring of the cow-herd ; and, as the 
 least founded in any belief are commonly the 
 most vociferous in its support, this’portion of 
 the band echoed the interruption from fifty 
 hoarse throats. Emich felt like a man re- 
 prieved ; for under the double influence of 
 his own distrust, and the wavering of his 
 followers, the Count for a moment had fan- 
 cied his long-meditated destruction of the 
 community of Limburg in great danger of 
 being frustrated. 
 
 Encouraged by each other’s cries, the in- 
 vaders returned to their work laughing at 
 their own alarm. The chairs and confes- 
 sionals had been already heaped in the great 
 aisle, and a brand was thrown into the pile. 
 Fire was applied to the church wherever 
 there was food for the element, and some of 
 the artisans of Duerckheim, better instructed 
 than their looser associates, found the means 
 to light the conflagration in such parts of 
 the roofs, and the other superior stories, as 
 would insure the destruction of the pile. In 
 the meantime, all the exterior edifices had 
 been burning, and the whole hill, to the eye 
 of him who dwelt in the valley beneath, 
 presented volumes of red flame, or of lurid 
 smoke. 
 
 During the progress of this scene, Emich 
 paced the choir, partly exulting in his suc- 
 cess, and partly doubting of its personal 
 fruits. Over the temporal consequences he 
 had well pondered ; but the motionless atti- 
 tude of Father Johan, the presence of the 
 long-reverenced relics, and the denunciations 
 of the Church, still had their terrors for one 
 whose mind had few well-grounded resources 
 to sustain it. From this state of uneasiness 
 
732 
 
 he was aroused by the noise of the sledge, at 
 work in the crypt. Followed by Heinrich 
 and Berchthold, the Count hastened to de- 
 scend to this place, which it will be remem- 
 bered contained the tombs and the chapel of 
 his race. Here, as above, all was in bright 
 light, and all was in confusion. Most of the 
 princely and noble tombs had already under- 
 gone mutilation, and no chapel had been re- 
 spected. Before that of Hartenburg, how- 
 ever, Albrecht of Viederbach stood, with 
 folded arms and a thoughtful eye. The 
 cloak which, during the commencement of 
 the attack, had served to conceal his person, 
 was now neglected, and he seemed to forget 
 the prudence of disguise, in deep contempla- 
 tion. 
 
 ““We have at length got to the monu- 
 ments of our fathers, cousin;” said the 
 Count, joining him. 
 
 “To their very bones, noble Emich ! ” 
 
 “The worthy knights have long slept in 
 evil company ; there shall be further rest for 
 them in the chapel of Hartenburg.” 
 
 “JT hope it may be found, Herr Graf, that 
 this adventure is lawful ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ How !—dost thou doubt, with the work 
 so near accomplished ? ” 
 
 ‘* By the mass ! a soldier of Rhodes might 
 better be fighting your turbaned infidel, 
 than awakening the nobles of his own house 
 from so long a sleep, at so short a sum- 
 mons ! ” 
 
 “Thou canst retire into my hold, Herr 
 Albrecht, if thy arm is wearied,” said Emich, 
 coldly ; ‘‘not a malediction can reach thee 
 there.” 
 
 ‘‘That would be poor requital for a free 
 hospitality, cousin ; the travelling knight is 
 the ally of the last friend, even though there 
 be some wrong to general duties. But we 
 eavaliers of the island well know, that a re- 
 treat, to be honorable, must be orderly, and 
 not out of season. I am with thee, Emich, 
 for the hour, and so no more parley. This 
 was the image of the good Bishop of our 
 line?” 
 
 ‘‘ He had some such reverend office, I do 
 believe ; but speak of him as thou wilt, none 
 can say he was a Benedictine.” 
 
 *“It had been better, cousin, since this 
 church is to be sacked, that our predecessors 
 had found other consecrated ground for their 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 dust. Well, we sworn soldiers pass uneven 
 lives! It is now some twelve months or so, 
 that, like a loyal and professed Rhodian, I 
 stood to my knees in water, making good a 
 trench against your believer in Houris and 
 your unbeliever in Christ ; and now, forsooth, 
 I am here as a spectator (none call me more 
 with honesty), while a Christian altar is over- 
 turned, and a brotherhood of shaven monks 
 are sent adrift upon earth, like so many dis- 
 banded mercenaries ! ” 
 
 ‘“By the Three Kings! my cousin, thou 
 makest a fit comparison ; for like disbanded 
 mercenaries have they gone forth to prey 
 upon society in a new shape.—Spare the 
 angel of my grandfather, good smith,” cried 
 Emich, interrupting himself; ‘‘if there be 
 any virtue in the image, ’tis for the benefit of 
 our house !” 
 
 Dietrich stayed his uplifted arm, and 
 directed the intended blow at another object. 
 The marble flew in vast fragments at each 
 collision with his sledge, and the leaders of 
 the party soon found it necessary to retire, 
 to avoid the random efforts of the heated 
 crowd. 
 
 There no longer remained a doubt of the 
 fate of these long-known and much celebrated ° 
 conventual buildings. Tomb fell after tomb, 
 monuments were defaced, altars were over- 
 turned, chapels sacked, and every object that 
 was in the least likely to resist the action of 
 fire received such indelible injuries as ren- 
 dered its restoration difficult or impossible. 
 
 During the continuance of their efforts, 
 the conflagration had advanced, as the fierce 
 element that had been called in to assist the 
 destroyers is known to do its work. Most of 
 the dormitories, kitchens, and outer build- 
 ings were consumed, so far as the materials 
 allowed, beyond redress; and it became ap- 
 parent that the great church and its depend- 
 encies would soon be untenable. 
 
 Emich and his companions were still in 
 the crypt, when a cry reached them, ad-’ 
 monishing all within hearing to retreat, lest 
 they become victims to the flames. Bercht- 
 hold and the smith drove before them the 
 crowd from the crypt, and there was a gen- 
 eral rush to gain the outer door. 
 
 When the interior of the church was clear, 
 the Count and his followers paused in the 
 court, contemplating the scene, with curious 
 
THE HBEIDENMAUER. 
 
 eyes, like men satisfied with their work. No 
 sooner was the common attention directed 
 back toward the spot from whence they had 
 just escaped, than a general cry, that partook 
 equally of wonder and horror, broke from the 
 crowd. As the doors were all thrown wide, 
 and every cranny of the building was illumi- 
 nated by the fierce light of the flames that 
 were raging in the roofs, the choir was 
 nearly as visible to those without as if it 
 stood exposed to the rays of a noon-day sun. 
 Father Johan was still kneeling before the 
 altar. 
 
 In obedience to the commands of Emich, 
 the sacred shrine had been stript of its pre- 
 cious vessels, but none had presumed to touch 
 a relic. On these long-venerated memorials, 
 the Benedictine kept his eyes riveted, in the 
 firm conviction that, sooner or later, the 
 power of God would be made manifest in de- 
 fence of His violated temple. 
 
 «The monk! the monk !” exclaimed fifty 
 eager voices. 
 
 <JT would fain save the fanatic!” said 
 Emich, with great and generous concern. 
 
 ‘He may listen to one who beareth this 
 holy emblem,” cried the Knight of Rhodes, 
 releasing his cross from the doublet in which 
 it had been concealed. 
 me to the rescue of this mad Benedictine ?” 
 
 There was as much of repentant atonement 
 in the offer of Albrecht of Viederbach, as 
 there was of humanity. But the impulse 
 which led young Berchthold forward, was 
 purely generous. Notwithstanding the im- 
 minent peril of the attempt, they darted to- 
 gether into the building, and passed swiftly 
 up the choir. The heat was getting to be 
 oppressive, though the great height of the 
 ceilings still rendered it tolerable. They 
 approached the altar, advising the monk of 
 his danger by their cries. 
 
 «‘Do ye come to be witnesses of Heaven’s 
 power ?” demanded Father Johan, smiling 
 with the calm of an inveterate enthusiast ; 
 «or do ye come, sore-stricken penitents that 
 ye have done this deed REA 
 
 «« Away, good father !” hurriedly answered 
 Berchthold ; ‘‘ Heaven is against the com- 
 munity to-night; in another minute, you 
 fiery roof will fall.” 
 
 ‘¢ Hearest thou the blasphemer, Lord? Is 
 it thy holy will, that——” 
 
 ‘«s Will any come with 
 
 towards the altar. 
 which resembled the settling of a mountain of 
 
 733 
 
 ‘<LListen to a sworn soldier of the Cross,” 
 interrupted Albrecht, showing his Rhodian 
 emblem—‘‘ we are of one faith, and we will 
 now depart together for another trial.” 
 
 «‘ Away! false servant ! and thou, aban- 
 doned boy !—See ye these sainted relics ——”’ 
 
 At a signal from the knight, Berchthold 
 seized the monk by one side, while Albrecht 
 did the same thing on the other, and he was 
 yet speaking as they bore him down the 
 choir. But they struggled with one that a 
 long-encouraged and morbid view of life had 
 rendered mad. Before they reached the great 
 aisle, the fanatic had liberated himself, and, 
 while his captors were recovering breath, he 
 was again at the foot of the altar. Instead of 
 kneeling, however, Father Johan now seized 
 the most venerated of the relics, which he 
 held on high, audibly imploring Heaven to 
 hasten the manifestation of its majesty. 
 
 «He is doomed!” said Albrecht of Vieder- 
 bach, retiring from the church. 
 
 As the Knight of Rhodes rushed through 
 the great door, a massive brand fell from the 
 ceiling upon the pavement, scattering its coals 
 like so many twinkling stars. 
 
 “ Berchthold! Berchthold!” was shouted 
 from a hundred throats. 
 
 « Come forth, rash boy!” cried Emich, with 
 a voice in which agony was blended with the 
 roar of the conflagration. 
 
 Berchthold seemed spell-bound. He gazed 
 wistfully at the monk, and darted back again 
 An awful crashing above, 
 
 snow about to descend in an avalanche, grated 
 on the ear. The very men who, so short a 
 time before, had come upon the hill ready and 
 prepared to slay, now uttered groans of horror 
 at witnessing the jeopardy of their fellow- 
 creatures; for, whatever we may be in mo- 
 ments of excitement, there are latent sympa- 
 thies in human nature, which too much use 
 may deaden, but which nothing but death 
 can finally extinguish. 
 
 “Come forth, young Berchthold! come 
 forth, my gallant forester! ” shouted the voice 
 of the Count above the clamor of the crowd, 
 as if rallying his followers with a battle-cry. 
 “He will die with the wretched monk !—The 
 youth is mad!” 
 
 Berchthold was struggling with the Bene- 
 dictine, though none knew what passed be- 
 
734 
 
 tween them. ‘There was another crash, and 
 the whole pavement began to glow with fallen 
 brands. Then came a breaking of rafters, 
 and a scattering of fire that denoted the end. 
 The interior of the chapel resembled the 
 burning shower which usually closesa Roman 
 girandola, and the earth shook with the fall 
 of the massive structure. There are horrors 
 on which few human eyes can bear to dwell. 
 At this moment nearly every hand veiled a 
 face, and every head was averted. But the 
 movement lasted only an instant. When the 
 interior was again seen, it appeared a fiery 
 furnace. The altar still stood, however, and 
 Johan miraculously kept his post on its steps. 
 Berchthold had disappeared. The gesticula- 
 tions of the Benedictine were wilder than 
 ever, and his countenance was that of a man 
 whose reason had hopelessly departed. He 
 kept his feet only for a moment, but wither- 
 ing fell. After which his body was seen to 
 curl like a green twig that is seared by the 
 flames. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 “ Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves.” 
 —NMidsummer Night’s Dream. 
 
 THE constant moral sentinel that God hath 
 set on watch in every man’s breast, but which 
 acts so differently in different circumstances, 
 though, perhaps, in no condition of humili- 
 ation and ignorance does it ever entirely desert 
 its trust, is sure to bring repentance with the 
 
 sense of error. It is vain to say that this 
 innate sentiment of truth, which we call con- 
 science, is the mere result of opinion and 
 habit, since it is even more apparent in the 
 guileless and untrained child than in the most 
 practised man, and nature has so plainly set 
 her mark upon all its workings as to prove its 
 identity with the fearful being that forms the 
 incorporeal part of our existence. Like all 
 else that is good, it may be weakened and per- 
 verted, or be otherwise abused; but, like 
 everything, that comes from the same high 
 source, even amid these vicious changes, it 
 will retain traces of its divine author. We 
 look upon this unwearied monitor as a vestige 
 of that high condition from which the race 
 fell: and we hold it to be beyond dispute, 
 that precisely as men feel and admit its in- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 fluence, do they approach, or recede from, 
 their original condition of innocence. 
 
 The destruction of the Abbey was succeeded 
 by most of those signs which attend all acts 
 of violence, in degrees that are proportioned 
 to previous habits. Even they who had been 
 most active in accomplishing this long-medi- 
 tated blow began to tremble for its conse- 
 quences; and few in the Palatinate heard of 
 the deed, without holding their breaths like 
 men who expected Heaven would summarily 
 avenge the sacrilege. But in order that the 
 thread of the narrative should not be broken, 
 we will return to our incidents in their proper 
 order, advancing the time but a few days 
 after the night of the conflagration. 
 
 The reader will have to imagine another 
 view of the Jaegerthal. There was the same 
 smiling sun, and the same beneficent season ; 
 
 the forest was as green and waving, the — 
 
 meadows were as smooth and dark, the 
 hill-sides as bright beneath the play of 
 light and shade, while the murmuring brook 
 was as limpid and swift as when first pre- 
 sented to his eye in these pages. 
 or cottage was disturbed, either in the ham- 
 lets or along the travelled paths, and the 
 Hold of Hartenburg still frowned in feudal 
 power and baronial state, on the well-known 
 pass of the mountains, gloomy, massive, and 
 dark. But the hill of Limburg presented 
 one of those sad and melancholy proofs of 
 the effects of violence which are still scattered 
 over the face of the old world, like so many 
 admonitory beacons of the scenes through 
 which its people have reached their present 
 state of comparative security :—beacons that 
 should be as useful in communicating lessons 
 for the future, as they are pregnant with pict- 
 ures of the past. 
 
 The outer wall remained unharmed, with 
 the single exception of the principal gate, 
 which bore the indelible marks of the smith’s 
 sledges ; but above this barrier the work of 
 devastation appeared in characters not to be 
 mistaken. Every roof, and there had been 
 fifty, was fallen ; every wall, some of which 
 were already tottering, was blackened ; and 
 not a tower pointed towards the sky that did 
 not show marks of the manner in which the 
 flames had wreathed around its slender shaft. 
 Here and there a small thread of white smoke 
 curled upwards, losing itself in the currents 
 
 — 
 
 Not a hut © 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 of the air, resembling so many of the lessen- 
 ing symptoms of a volcano after an explosion. 
 A small crucifix, which popular rumor said 
 was wood, but which, in fact, was of painted 
 stone, still kept its place on a gable of the 
 ruined church ; and many a peasant addressed 
 to it his silent prayers, firm in the belief that 
 God had protected this image of His sacrifice 
 throughout the terrors of the memorable 
 night. 
 
 In and about the castle there appeared the 
 usual evidences of a distrustful watch ;—such 
 ward as is kept by him who feels that he has 
 justly become obnoxious to, the hand of the 
 constituted powers. The gates were closed ; 
 the sentinels on the walls and bastions were 
 doubled; and, from time to time, signals 
 were made that communicated with lookouts, 
 so stationed on the hills that they could com- 
 mand views of the roads which led toward 
 
 the Rhine, beyond the gorge of the valley. 
 The scene in Duerckheim was different, 
 though it also had some points of resemblance 
 with that in the hold. There was the same 
 apprehension of danger from without, the 
 same watchfulness on the walls and in the 
 towers, and the same unusual display of an 
 armed force. But in a town of this descrip- 
 tion, it was not easy to imitate the gloomy 
 reserve of baronial state. The citizens 
 grouped together in the streets, the women 
 gossiped as in all sudden and strong cases of 
 excitement, and even the children appeared 
 to reflect the uneasiness and indecision of 
 their parents; for as the hand of authority 
 relaxed in their seniors, most wandered idly 
 and vaguely among the men, listening to 
 catch such loose expressions as might en- 
 lighten their growing understandings. The 
 shops were opened, as usual, but many 
 stopped to discourse at the doors, while few 
 entered ; and most of the artisans wasted 
 their time in speculations on the consequence 
 of the hardy step of their superiors. 
 
 In the meantime there was a council held 
 in the town-hall. Here were assembled all 
 who laid claim to civic authority in Duerck- 
 heim, with some who appeared under the 
 claim of their services in the late assault 
 upon the monks. A few of the anxious wives 
 of the burghers, also, were seen collected in 
 the more public rooms of the building ; for 
 domestic influence was neither covert nor 
 
 735 
 
 trifling in that uxorious and simple commun- 
 ity. We shall resume the narrative within 
 the walls of this municipal edifice. 
 
 The Burgomaster and other chief men 
 were much moved by the vague apprehension 
 which was the consequence of their hazard- 
 ous experiment. Some were bold in the au- 
 dacity of success; some doubted merely be- 
 cause the destruction of the brotherhood 
 seemed too great a good to come unmixed 
 with evil ; some held their opinions in sus- 
 pense, waiting for events to give a value to 
 their predictions, and others shook their 
 heads in a manner that would appear to im- 
 ply a secret knowledge of consequences that 
 were not apparent to vulgar faculties. The 
 latter class was more remarkable for its pre- 
 tension to exclusive merit than for numbers, 
 and would have been equally prompt to ex- 
 aggerate the advantages of the recent measure 
 had the public pulse just then been beating 
 on the access. But the public pulse was on 
 the decline, and, as we have said, seeing and 
 understanding all the advantages that were 
 to be hoped from the defeat of Bonifacius, 
 uncertainty quickened most imaginations in 
 a manner to conjure disagreeable pictures of 
 the future. Even Heinrich, who wanted for 
 neither moral nor physical resolution, was 
 disturbed at his own victory, though if ques- 
 tioned he could scarcely have told the reason 
 why. ‘This uneasiness was heightened by the 
 fact that most of his compeers regarded him 
 as the man on whom the weight of the 
 Church’s and of the Elector’s displeasure was 
 most likely to fall, though it is more than 
 probable that his situation would have been 
 far less prominent had there been no question 
 of any results but such as were agreeable. 
 
 This sort of distinction, so isolated in de- 
 feat, and so social in prosperity, is a species 
 of revenge that society is very apt to take of 
 all who pretend to be wiser or better than 
 itself by presuming to point the way in cases 
 of doubtful expediency, or in presuming to 
 lead the way in those that require decision 
 and nerve. He alone is certain of an unen- 
 vied reputation who, in preceding the main 
 body in the great march of events, leaves no 
 very sensible space between him and his fel- 
 lows; while he alone can hope for impunity 
 who keeps so near his backers as to be able 
 to confound himself in the general mass 
 
736 
 
 when singularity brings comment and cen- 
 sure. 
 
 Heinrich fully felt the awkwardness of his 
 position, and, just then, he would gladly 
 have compounded for less of the fame ac- 
 quired by the bold manner in which he had 
 led the attack, in order to be rid of some of 
 his anxiety. Still a species of warlike in- 
 stinct led him to put the best face on the 
 affair, and when he addressed his colleagues, 
 it was with cheerfulness in his tones, however 
 little there might have been of that desirable 
 
 feeling in his heart. 
 
 «Well, brethren,” he said, looking around 
 at the knot of well-known faces which sur- 
 rounded him in the gravity of civic authority, 
 ‘this weighty matter is, at length, happily, 
 and, as it has been effected without blood- 
 shed, I may say peaceably, over! The Bene- 
 dictines are departed, and though the excel- 
 lent Abbot hath taken post in a neighboring 
 Abbey, where he sends forth brave words to 
 frighten those who are unused to more dan- 
 gerous missiles, it will be long before we 
 shall again hear Limburg bell tolling in the 
 Jaegerthal.” 
 
 ‘¢ For that I can swear,” said the smith, 
 who was among the inferiors that crowded 
 a corner of the hall, occupying as little space 
 as possible in deference to their head-men; 
 —‘‘my own sledge hath helped to put the 
 ~ fine-tuned instrument out of tune !” 
 
 «¢We are now met to hear further proposi- 
 tions from the monks; but as the hour set 
 for the arrival of their agent is not yet come, 
 we can lighten the moments by such dis- 
 course as the circumstances may seem to 
 require. Hast anything to urge that will 
 ease the miuds of the timid, brother Wolf- 
 gang?—if so, of God’s name, give it utter- 
 ance, that we may know the worst at once.” 
 
 The affinity between Wolfgang and Hein- 
 rich existed altogether in their civic rela- 
 tions. The former, although he coveted the 
 anticipated advantages that were to result 
 from the downfall of Limburg, had a con- 
 stitutional deference for all superior power, 
 and was unable to enjoy the triumph without 
 the bitterest misgivings concerning the dis- 
 pleasure of the Elector and Rome. He was 
 aged, too—a fact that served to heighten the 
 tremor of tones that, by a very general con- 
 vention, are termed raven. 
 
 peaceful. 
 chick nor child, neighbor Heinrich, and the 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “It is wise to call upon the experienced 
 and wise, for counsel, in pressing straits,” 
 returned the old burgher, “for years teach 
 the folly of everything human, inclining us 
 to look at the world with moderation, and 
 with less love for ourselves and our inter- 
 ests a3 
 
 “Brother Wolfgang, thou art not yet 
 yielding so fast as thou wouldst have us 
 believe,” interrupted Heinrich, who particu- 
 larly disliked any discouraging views of the 
 future. ‘Thou art but a boy—the differ- 
 ence between us cannot be greater than some 
 five-and-twenty years.” 
 
 ‘‘Not that, not that ;—I count but three- 
 and-seventy, and thou mayest fairly number 
 fifty-and-five.” 
 
 ‘<Thou heapest honors on me I little de- 
 serve, friend Wolfgang. I shall not number 
 the days thou namest these many months, 
 and Time marches fast enough without any 
 fillips from us to help him. If I have yet 
 seen more than fifty-four, may my fathers 
 arise from their graves to claim the little 
 they left behind, when they took leave of 
 earth !” 
 
 ‘Words will make neither young, but I 
 could wish we had found means to lay this 
 unquiet spirit of Limburg without so much 
 violence and danger to ourselves. I am old, 
 and have little interest in life, except to see 
 those who will come after me happy and 
 Thou knowest that I have neither 
 
 heart of such a man can only beat for all. 
 "Twere, indeed, folly in me to think of much 
 else than of that great future which lies 
 
 before us.” 
 
 ‘‘Sapperment! ” exclaimed the smith, who 
 was disposed to presume a little on the spirit 
 he had shown in the late attack.—‘* Wor- 
 shipful Burgomaster, were Master Wolfgang 
 to deal out some of his stores a little freely 
 to the Benedictines, the whole affair might 
 be quietly settled, and Duerckheim would be 
 a great gainer. I warrant you now, that 
 Bonifacius would be glad to receive a well- 
 told sum in gold, without question or farther 
 account, in lieu of his lodgings and fare in 
 Limburg, of which he was only a life-tenant 
 at best. At least such had been my humor 
 an’ it had pleased Heaven to have made mé 
 a Benedictine, and Bonifacius a smith.” 
 
ANN 
 
 f{ 
 Nt 
 
 | i , 
 
 ~ 
 SS SS 
 
 “Go! Ulrike !—leave me with my sins.’”—The Heidenmauer 
 
ig a 
 
 THE HEIDENMAUER. %37 
 
 « And where is this gold to be had, bold- 
 speaking artisan?” demanded the aged 
 burgher, severely. 
 
 ‘¢Where but from your untouched stores, 
 yenerable Wolfgang ?” answered the single- 
 minded smith; “thou art old, father, and, 
 as thou truly sayest, without offspring; the 
 hold of life is getting loose, and to deal with 
 thee in frankness, I see no manner in which 
 the evil may be so readily turned from our 
 town.” | 
 
 “Peace, senseless talker! dost think thy 
 betters have no other employment for their 
 goods than to cast them to the winds, as thy 
 sparks scatter at the stroke of the sledge? 
 The little I have hath been gained with sore 
 toil and much saving, and it may yet be 
 needed to keep want and beggary from my 
 door. Nay, nay, when we are young we 
 think the dirt may be turned into gold; hot 
 blood and lusty limbs cause us to believe man 
 equal to any labor, ay, even to living with- 
 out food ; but when experience and tribula- 
 tion have taught us truth, we come to know, 
 neighbors, the value of pence. I am ofa 
 long-living stock, Heaven help us! and 
 there is greater likelihood of my yet becom- 
 ing a charge to the town than of my ever 
 doing a tithe of that this heedless smith hath 
 hinted.” 
 
 “By St. Benedict, master! I hinted 
 naught ; what I said was in plain words, and 
 it is this, that one so venerable for his years, 
 and so respected for his means, might do 
 great good in this strait! Such an act would 
 sweeten the few days thou yet hast.” 
 
 “Get thee away, fellow; thou talkest of 
 death an’ it were a joke. Do not the young 
 go to their graves as well as the old, and are 
 there not instances of thousands that have 
 ontlived their means? No, I much fear that 
 this matter will not be appeased without 
 mulcting the artisans in heavy sums;—but 
 happily, most that belong to the crafts are 
 young and able to pay!” , 
 
 The reply of the smith, who was getting 
 warm ina dispute in which he believed all 
 the merit was on his own side, was cut short 
 by a movement among the populace, who 
 crowded the outer door of the town-house ; 
 the burghers seemed uneasy, as if they saw a 
 crisis was near, and then a beadle announced 
 the arrival of a messenger from the routed 
 
 community of Limburg. The civic authori- 
 ties of Duerckheim, although assembled ex- 
 pressly with the expectation of such a visit, 
 were, like all men of but indifferently regu- 
 lated minds, taken by surprise at the mo- 
 ment. Nothing was digested, no plan of 
 operations had been proposed, and, although 
 all had dreamed for several nights of the very . 
 subject before them, not one of them all had — 
 thought upon it. Still it was now necessary 
 to act, and after a little bustle, which had no 
 other object than an idle atternpt to impose 
 upon the senses of the messenger by a sense- 
 less parade, orders were given that the latter 
 should be admitted. 
 
 The agent of the monks was himself a 
 Benedictine. He entered the hall, attended 
 only by the city-guard who had received him 
 at the gate, with his cowl so far drawn upon 
 his head as to conceal the features. There 
 was a moment of curiosity, and the name of 
 ‘‘Father Siegfried”? was whispered from 
 one to another, as each judged of the man by 
 the exterior. 
 
 “Uncover, of Heaven’s mercy! Father,” 
 said Heinrich, “ and seat thyself as freely in 
 the town-hall of Duerckheim as if thou wert 
 at thy ease in the ancient cloisters of Lim- 
 burg. We are lions in the attack, but harm- 
 less as thy marble cherubs when there is not 
 occasion for your true manly qualities ; so 
 take thy seat, of God’s name ! and be of good 
 cheer ;—none will harm thee.” 
 
 The voice of the Burgomaster lost its con- 
 fidence as he concluded. The Benedictine 
 was calmly removing the cowl ; and when 
 the cloth fell, it exposed the respected feat- 
 ures of Father Arnolph. 
 
 “He that comes in the service of Him I 
 call master, needeth not this assurance,” an- 
 swered the monk; “still I rejoice to find ye 
 in this mood, and not bent on maintaining 
 an original error, by further outrages. It 1s 
 never too late to see our faults, nor yet to 
 repair them.” 
 
 “T ery thy mercy, Holy Prior! we had 
 taken thee ‘or a very different member of 
 the fraternity, and thou art not the less wel- 
 come for being him thou art.” 
 
 Heinrich arose respectfully, and his ex- 
 ample was followed by all present. The 
 Prior seemed pleased, and a glow, like that 
 which a benevolent hope creates, passed 
 XX 
 
738 WORKS OF PENIMORH COOPER. 
 
 athwart his countenance. With perfect sim-| fully composed of the material and imma- 
 plicity he took the offered stool, as the least | terial, and that so far as it is connected with 
 obtrusive manner of inducing the burghers | our probation here, it is never to be con- 
 to resume their seats. The experiment pro- | sidered as entirely distinct from one or the 
 duced the effect he intended. other of the great attributes of our nature. 
 
 *‘T should pretend to an indifference I do | It is evident that such were not the views of 
 not feel, were I to say, Heinrich Frey, that I | the honest smith; and it is probable had the 
 come among you, men to whom I have often | matter been thoroughly sifted, it would have 
 administered the rites of the Church during | been found that, as respects Duerckheim, he 
 long and watchful years, without the wish to | was altogether of the popular party. 
 find that my ministrations are remembered.” | ‘Thou comest, Father, like the dove to 
 
 “Tf there dwelleth knave in Duerckheim | the ark, the bearer of the olive branch,” re- 
 whose heart hath not been touched by thy | sumed Heinrich ; “‘ though for our northern 
 good works, Father, the hound is with-| regions a leaf of the oak would more likely 
 out bowels, and unfit to live among honest | have been the emblem, had ee been one 
 people.” of these well-wooded hills of ours.’ 
 
 *« Most true!” exclaimed the smith, in his ‘“T come to offer the conditions of our 
 audible by-play. ‘‘ The Burgomaster doth us | brotherhood, and to endeavor to persuade the 
 all justice! I never struck spark from iron | misguided in Duerckheim to accept them. 
 more freely than I will render respect to the | The holy abbots, with the right reverend 
 most reverend Prior. His prayers are like | fathers in God, the Bishops of Spires and 
 tried steel, and next to those of him of the} Worms, now assembled in the latter city, 
 hermitage are in most esteem among us. Fill | have permitted me to be the bearer of their 
 me an abbey with such men, and for one I ; terms, an office I have sought, lest another 
 shall be ready to trust all our salvation to | should forget to entreat and influence in the 
 their godliness, without thought or concern | desire to menace.” 
 for ourselves. Sapperment! could such a} “Gott bewahre! thou hast done well, as is 
 eommunity be found, it would be a great; thy wont, excellent Arnolph! Threats are 
 relief to the laymen, and more particularly | about as useful with Duerckheim as the holy 
 to your artisan, who might turn all his | water is in our rhenish, both being well 
 thoughts to his craft, with the certainty of | enough in their places; but he that cannot 
 being watched by men capable of setting the | be driven must be led, and liquor that is 
 quickest-witted devil at defiance !” right good in itself needeth no flavor from 
 
 Arnolph listened to this digression with |the Church. As for this old misunder- 
 patience, and he acknowledged the courtesy | standing between Limburg of the one side, 
 and friendliness of his reception by a slow | and the noble Count of Hartenburg with our 
 inclination of the head. He was too much | unworthy town of the other, the matter may 
 accustomed to hear these temporal appli- | be said to be now of easy adjustment, since 
 cations of the spiritual interests of which he | the late events have cleared it of its greatest 
 was a minister, to be surprised at anything; | difficulty; and so, from my heart, I wish thee 
 and he was too meek on the subject of his} joy of thy mission, and felicitate the town 
 own deserving, to despise any because they | that it hath to treat with one so skilful and 
 were weaker than himself. The Christian | so reasonable. Thou wilt find us in a friendly 
 religion seems to be divided into two great | humor, and ready to meet thee half-way; for 
 classes of worshippers: those who think its|I know not the man in Duerckheim that 
 consolations are most palpable in their direct | desireth to push the controversy a foot fur- 
 and worldly form, and those whose aspira- | ther, or who is not at heart content.” 
 tions are so spiritualized, and whose thoughts| ‘‘No, that would be out of reason and 
 are so sublimated as to consider it a meta-| charity,” said the smith, speaking again 
 physical theory, in which the principal object | among the auditors. ‘‘We ought to show 
 is to preserve the logical harmony. For our- | those Benedictines an example of moderation 
 selves, we believe it to be a dispensation from | neighbors; and therefore for one, though no 
 God to those of his creatures who are fear- | better than a poor artisan that gaineth his 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 bread by blows on the anvil, do I agree with 
 the worshipful Heinrich, and say, of God’s 
 name! let us be reasonable in our demands, 
 and be content with as little as may be, in 
 the settlement of our dispute.” 
 
 The Prior listened patiently, as usual, but 
 a hectic glowed, for an instant, on his cheek. 
 It disappeared, and the benevolent blue eye 
 was again seen shining amid features that the 
 cloister and the closet had long since robbed 
 of all other bloom. “Ye know, burghers of 
 Duerckheim,” he answered, “that in assail- 
 ing the altars of Limburg ye set a double 
 power at defiance;—that of the Church, as 
 it is constituted and protected on earth, and 
 that of God. My errand, at this moment, is 
 to speak of the first. Our Father of Worms 
 is sorely angered, and he has not failed to 
 address himself directly and promptly to our 
 Father at Rome. In addition to this rever- 
 end appeal, messengers have been dispatched 
 to both the Elector and Emperor, as well as 
 to divers of the Ecclesiastical Princes who 
 rule on the banks of the Rhine. This is a 
 fearful array of power to be met by a moun- 
 tain baron, and a city whose walls can be 
 measured. by the leg in so short atime. But 
 chiefly would I lay stress on the evil that may 
 flow from the displeasure of the Head of the 
 Church.” 
 
 << And should he read the late exploit with 
 severity, reverend Prior, what are we to look 
 to, as its fruits?” 
 
 «<To be denounced as excluded, from the 
 fold, and to be left to the wickedness and 
 folly of your own hearts. In a word, excon- 
 munication.” ® 
 
 “Umph !—this might prove a short way 
 of recruiting the followers of Brother Luther! 
 thou knowest, holy Arnolph, that men look 
 more and more closely, every day, into these 
 disputed points.” 
 
 “ Would that they looked with more hu- 
 mility and understanding! If ye consider 
 the denunciations and benedictions of him 
 to whom has been confided the authority to 
 bless and to curse as of little weight, no 
 words of mine can heighten their effect; but 
 all among ye who are not prepared to go the 
 length that your Burgomaster hath just 
 hinted, may deem it prudent to pause, ere 
 they incur the heavy risk of living under 
 such a weight of Heaven’s displeasure.” 
 
 739 
 
 The burghers regarded each other in 
 doubt, few among them being yet prepared 
 to push resistance so far. Some inwardly 
 trembled, for habit and tradition were too 
 strong for the new opinions; some shrewdly 
 weighed the temporal rather than the spirit- 
 ual consequences; and others ruminated on 
 the possibility of enduring the anathema in 
 so good company. ‘Thereare thousands that 
 are willing to encounter danger in large bod- 
 ies, who shrink from its hazards alone; and 
 perhaps the soldier goes to the charge quite 
 as much stimulated by the sympathy of as- 
 sociation, as he is sustained by the dread of 
 shame or the desire of renown. The civic 
 counsellors of Duerckheim now found them- 
 selves in some such plight, and each man felt 
 assurance or doubt, much as he happened to 
 meet with either of those feelings expressed 
 in the eyes of his neighbor. 
 
 «Have ye any less godly proposition to 
 make?” asked Heinrich, who perceived that 
 the moral part of his civic support began to 
 waver, “for these are points in which we are 
 better skilled than on those that touch your 
 doctrinal niceties.” 
 
 ‘<T am commanded to say, that, as becomes 
 their divine office, the brotherhood of Lim- 
 burg is disposed to pardon and forget, inas- 
 much as duty will allow, the late act of Du- 
 erckheim, on conditions that may be named.” 
 
 « Aye, this is Christian-like, and will meet 
 with a ready return, in our dispositions. On 
 our side, too, holy Prior, there is every wish 
 to forget the past, and to look only to a 
 quiet and friendly future—do | interpret the 
 intentions of the town well, my neighbors?” 
 
 “To the letter!—no clerk could do it bet- 
 ter.”—“ Yes, we are of the community’s 
 mind; it ig wise to live at peace, and to par- 
 don and overlook ;” were ready answers to 
 this appeal. 
 
 «Thou hearest, Father! a better mood no 
 minister or messenger need wish! ’Fore 
 Heaven ! we are all of one mind in this par- 
 ticular ; and I know not that the man would 
 find safety in Duerckheim who should talk 
 of aught but peace !” 
 
 «Tt is to be mourned that ye have not al- 
 ways been of this humor; I come not, how- 
 ever, to reproach, but to reclaim; not to 
 defy, but to persuade ; not to intimidate, but 
 
 'to convince. Here are the written proposi- 
 
740 
 
 tions of the holy divines by whom I am 
 charged with this office of mediator, and I 
 leave it for a time to your private consulta- 
 tions. When ye shall have well digested this 
 fit offer, I will come among ye in peace and 
 friendliness.” 
 
 The written proposals were received, and 
 the whele assembly rose to do the Prior 
 honor. As the latter left the hall, he asked 
 permission of several of the burghers, among 
 whom was Heinrich Frey, to visit their 
 families, in the spirit of Christian guardian- 
 ship. The desired consents were obtained 
 without demur or doubt, on the part of any ; 
 for whatever may be said or thought of the 
 errors of public opinion, it is usually right 
 where the means are possessed of at all giving 
 it a true direction. The high estimation in 
 which Arnolph was held, by the mere force 
 of popular instinct, was never more plainly 
 seen than on the present occasion, when even 
 those who had so lately warred against the 
 community, threw open their doors without 
 reserve ; though it was well known that the 
 late policy of the town had many a secret 
 enemy, and many a bitter commentator, in 
 that sex which is sometimes as slow to incite 
 to violence and resistance, as at others it is 
 thoughtless and hasty. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ‘“What well-appointed leade, fronts us here? ”’ 
 
 —King Henry IV. 
 
 THE missive of the monks was written in 
 Latin. At that period few wrote but the 
 learned, and every noble or town was obliged 
 to maintain a scholar to perform what are 
 now the commonest duties of intercourse. 
 The clerkly agent of Duerckheim had been 
 educated for the Church, and had even 
 received the tonsure ; but some irregularities 
 of life, which, as it would appear, were not 
 within the pale of clerical privileges, or 
 which had been so unguarded as to bring 
 scandal on the profession, compelled him to 
 give his destinies a new direction. As hap- 
 pens with most men who have expended 
 much time and labor in qualifying themselves 
 for any particular pursuit, and who are unex- 
 pectedly driven from its exercise, this individ- 
 ual, who was named Ludwig, and who was 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 often ironically styled in common parlance 
 Father Ludwig, never completely succeeded 
 in repairing the injury done by the first false 
 step he had made. His acquirement pro- 
 cured for him a certain amount of consider- 
 ation, but as he was known to be somewhat 
 free in his manner of life, and, especially as 
 schism grew strong in Germany, a bold 
 skeptic on most of the distinctive doctrines 
 of the Catholic Church, he ever wore about 
 his character some of that fancied looseness 
 which insensibly attaches itself to all rene- 
 gades, whether their motives be more or less 
 corrupt. Still, as he was known to be in- 
 structed, the multitude ascribed more virtue 
 to his secession than it would have imputed 
 to the withdrawal from the fold of fifty sin- 
 cere believers; for most believed there were 
 means of judging that belonged to the 
 initiated, which did not fall to the lot of 
 those who worshipped in the outer court. 
 We have daily proofs that this weakness 
 reaches into the temporal interests of life, 
 and that opinions are valued in proportion as 
 there is believed to be some secret means of 
 acquiring information; though men rarely 
 conceal anything that they know which may 
 be revealed, and few indeed are disposed to 
 ‘hide their lights under a bushel.” 
 
 Ludwig forgot no part of the intonation 
 or emphasis, while he uttered the unintelli- 
 gible phrases of the monkish missive. His 
 auditors listened the more attentively, be- 
 
 cause they did not understand a syllable of 
 
 what was said; attention seeming usually to 
 be riveted in an inverse ratio to the facilities 
 of comprehensien. Perhaps some of the 
 higher dignitaries flattered themselves that 
 their inferiors might be duped into the be- 
 lief of their attainments; a fact that could 
 not fail to increase their influence, since 
 there is no better evidence of the innate as- 
 pirations of our intellectual being than the 
 universal deference that is paid to knowledge. 
 We have hazarded this supposition against 
 the civic authorities of Duerckheim, because 
 we believe it depends upon a general principle 
 of human ambition ; and because in our own 
 case, we well remember hearing out a sermon 
 of more than an hour’s duration, delivered in 
 Low Dutch, and in a damp church in Hol- 
 land, when not a word, from the text to the 
 
 | benediction, was understood. 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 ‘* Right learnedly worded, and no doubt of 
 proper courtesy !” exclaimed Heinrich, when 
 the letter was ended, and while the clerk 
 was clearing his spectacles, preparatory to 
 the more vulgar version.—‘‘It is a happy 
 strife, neighbors, in which such language 
 passes between the parties; for it proves 
 that charity is stronger than malice, and 
 that reason is not forgotten merely because 
 there have been blows!” 
 
 “‘T have rarely heard braver words,” an- 
 swered a fellow-burgher, “or those that are 
 better penned! ” 
 
 “ Potz-tausend!” muttered the smith ; “it 
 were almost asin to dispossess men that can 
 write thus! ” 
 
 Murmurs of approbation passed through 
 the crowd, and not an individual was there, 
 with thesolitary exception of a gaping idiot 
 that had stolen into the hall, who did not 
 affect to have received more or less pleasure 
 from the communication. Even the idiot 
 had his share of satisfaction, for, by the pure 
 force of sympathy, he caught gleamings of a 
 delight that seemed so strong and so gen- 
 eral 
 
 Ludwig now commenced translating the 
 letter into the harsh, energetic German of 
 the Rhine. The wonderful capabilities of 
 the language enabled him to convert the 
 generalities and comprehensive terms of the 
 Latin, with a minuteness of signification, 
 which put the loss of any shade of idea 
 utterly out of the question. 
 
 What the monks had meant, and perhaps 
 even more, was laboriously, and with mualig- 
 nant pleasure, rendered; and so rendered as 
 to give to each expression the fullest weight 
 and meaning. 
 
 We have no intention of attempting the 
 office of translating this harsh summons our- 
 selves, but must be centent with a brief 
 summary of its contents. The instrument 
 opened with a greeting that was not unlike 
 those which were sent, in the first ages of the 
 present dispensation, from the apostles to 
 the churches of the east. It then contained 
 a short but pointed narrative of the recent 
 events, which were qualified in a way that 
 the reader can easily imagine ; it proceeded 
 to refer to the spiritual and temporal authori- 
 ties from which the brotherhood had assur- 
 ances of support; and it concluded by de- 
 
 f T4] 
 
 manding, under the penalty of incurring 
 every earthly and heavenly risk, an enormous 
 sum in gold, as a pecuniary reparation for 
 the injury done—a complete and absolute 
 submission of the town to the jurisdiction of 
 the community, even more than was ever be- 
 fore pretended to—a public and general 
 acknowledgment of error, with a variety of 
 penances and pilgrimages to be performed by 
 functionaries that were named—and the de- 
 livery of Heinrich Frey, with eleven others 
 of the principal inhabitants, into the Abbot’s 
 hands as hostages, until all of these exactions 
 and conditions should be completely and sat- 
 isfactory fulfilled. 
 
 «* Wh—e—e—e—w !”’ whistled Heinrich, 
 when Ludwig ended, after a most provoking 
 prolixity, that had completely exhausted the 
 Burgomaster’s patience. ‘‘ Himmel! here is 
 a victory that is likely to cost us our means, 
 our characters, our liberties, our consciences, 
 and our ease! Are the monks mad, Master 
 Ludwig, or art thou sporting with our cred- 
 ulity:—Do they really speak of hostages, and 
 of gold ?” 
 
 ‘‘Of a surety, worshipful Herr, and seem- 
 ingly with a right good will.” 
 
 ‘¢ Wilt read the part touching the hostages 
 again, in the Latin; thou mayest have indis- 
 creetly overlooked a conjunction or a pro- 
 noun, as I think thou callest these notable 
 figures of speech.” 
 
 “* Aye, it were well to judge of the letter 
 by the Latin,” echoed the smith; ‘‘ one never 
 knows the quality of his metal, at the first 
 touch of the hammer.” 
 
 Ludwig read, a second time, extracts in 
 the original, and, through a species of wag- 
 gery, by which he often took a secret and 
 consolatory revenge for the indignities he 
 frequently received from the ignorant, and 
 which served him as food for merriment and 
 as a vent to his confined humors in occasional 
 interviews with others of his own class, he 
 gave with singular emphasis the terms of 
 greeting, which were, as usual, embellished 
 with phrases of priestly benediction, as the 
 part that especially demanded the prompt 
 delivery of Heinrich Frey and his fellows 
 into the hands of the Benedictines. 
 
 “Gott bewahre!” cried the Burgomaster, 
 who had shifted a leg each time the clerk 
 glanced an eye at him over his spectacles— 
 
742 
 
 ‘‘T have other concerns than to sit in a cell, 
 and Duerckheim would fare but badly were 
 the town left without so large a share of its 
 knowledge and experience. Prithee, Master 
 Ludwig, give us the kinder language of these 
 Benedictines; for methinks there may be 
 found some words of peace in the blessings 
 they bestow.” 
 
 The crafty clerk now al in the original, 
 the strongest of the denunciations, and the 
 parts of ‘he letter which so peremptorily 
 demanded the hostages. 
 
 ‘‘ How now, knave!” said the hasty Bur- 
 gomaster, “thou hast not been faithful in 
 thy former readings. Thou hearest, neigh- 
 bors, I am named especially in their benedic- 
 tions; for you must know, worthy burghers, 
 that Henricus means Heinrich, and Frey well 
 pronounced, ig much the same in all lan- 
 guages. ‘This | know from long experience 
 in these cunning instruments. I owe ‘the 
 reverend Benedictines grace for their good 
 wishes, expressed with. this. particularity ; 
 though the manner in which they introduce 
 the hostages is unseemly.” 
 
 ‘‘T thought when it came to the worst,” 
 muttered the smith, ‘‘ that Master Heinrich 
 would be considered with especial favor. This 
 it is, brother artisans, to be honored in one’s 
 town, and to have a name!” 
 
 ‘« There sounds a parley !” interrupted the. 
 
 Burgomaster. ‘‘ Can these crafty monks have 
 dared to trifle with us, by sending the choicest 
 of their flock to hold us in discourse; while 
 they steal upon us in armor ?” 
 
 The idea was evidently unpleasant to most 
 of the council, and. to none more so than to 
 the aged Wolfgang, whose, years would seem 
 to have given less value to his personal safety 
 than to the rest. Many quitted the hall, 
 while those that remained appeared to be de- 
 tained more by their apprehensions than by 
 their fortitude. Heinrich, who was constitu- 
 tionally firm, continued the most undisturbed 
 of them all, though even he went from win- 
 dow to window like a man that was uneasy. 
 
 ‘‘If the godly villains have done this 
 treachery, let them look to it—we are not 
 vassals to be hoodwinked with a cowl !” 
 
 “* Perhaps, worshipful and wise Heinrich,” 
 said the crafty Ludwig, ‘‘they send the 
 trumpet, in readiness to receive the host- 
 ages.” 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 “‘The holy Magi curse them, and their im- 
 pudent long-winded musician !—How now, 
 fellow !—who maketh this tan—ta—ra—ra 
 at our gate ?” 
 
 ‘‘ The noble Count of Hantenburgyi is at the 
 valley side of the town, honorable Burgo- 
 master, with a stout troop of mounted follow- 
 ers,” announced the breathless runner who 
 came on this errand. ‘‘ He chafes at the 
 delay, but as the order to keep fast is so rigid, 
 the captain of the watch dares not unbar and 
 unbolt without permission had.” | 
 
 “ Bid the valiant and faithful burgher undo 
 his fastenings, o’ Heaven’s name !—and right 
 speedily. We should have bethought us, ex- 
 cellent neighbors, of the chances of this visit, 
 and had a care that our princely friend were 
 without this cause of complaint. But we 
 should rejoice, too, that our people are so true, 
 as to keep their trust even against one so 
 known and honored. I warrant. ye, neigh- 
 bors, were it the imperial Karl himself, he 
 would fare no better 2 
 
 ‘Heinrich was interrupted while vaunting 
 and extolling the civic discipline, by the 
 tramping of horses’ feet on the pavement be- 
 low the windows, and on looking out he saw 
 Emich and all his cortege coolly alighting. 
 
 ‘‘Umph !” ejaculated the Burgomaster— 
 ‘‘go forth, and do reverence to my Lord the 
 Count.” 
 
 The council awaited in ast silence the ap- 
 pearance of their visitor. Emich entered the 
 hall with the assured step of a superior, and 
 with acountenance that was clouded. He bow- 
 ed to the salutations of the council, signed for 
 his armed followers to await at the door, and 
 walked himself to the seat which Heinrich 
 had previously vacated, and which in truth 
 was virtually the throne of Duerckheim. Plac- 
 ing his heavy form in the chair, with the air 
 of one accustomed to fill it, he again bowed, 
 and made a gesture of the hand, which the 
 burghers understood to be an invitation to be 
 seated. With doubting faces the awed au- 
 thorities submitted, receiving that permission 
 as a boon, which they were ready so lately 
 themselves to urge as a civility.. Heinrich 
 looked surprised, but, accustomed to pay great 
 deference to his noble friend, he returned the 
 bow and smile—for he was especially saluted 
 with a smile—and took the second place: 
 
 “It was not well, my worthy townsmen, to 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 close your gates thus churlishly against me,” 
 commenced the baron; ‘‘thereare rights and 
 honors that ought to be respected, at all hours 
 and seasons, and I marvel that this need be 
 taught to the Duerckheimers by a Count of 
 Leiningen. I and my train were held at 
 parlance at your barriers, an’ we had been so 
 many wandering gypsies, or some of the free 
 bands that sell their arquebuses and lances to 
 the highest bidder !” 
 
 «« That there may have been som little delay, 
 my Lord Count ” answered Heinrich. 
 
 « Little, Burgomaster ! dost thou call that 
 little which keeps a noble of Leiningen chaf- 
 ing at a gate, amid dust and heat, and gaping 
 mouths ? Thou knowest not the spirit of our 
 steeds, Herr Frey, if thou imaginest they like 
 such sudden checks of the curb. We are of 
 high mettle, horses and riders, and must have 
 our way when fairly spurred ! ” 
 
 «« There was every desire, nobly born Emich, 
 to do you honor, and to undo our bolts as 
 speedily as might be done; for this end we 
 were about to depute the necessary orders, 
 when we were suddenly favored with your 
 gracious and high dispensing company. We 
 doubt not that the captain of the watch rea- 
 soned with himself, and did that, of good in- 
 tention and of his own accord, which he 
 would speedily have been called upon to do, 
 by our commands.” 
 
 “ God’s truth! that may not prove so true,” 
 answered Emich, laughing. ‘“ Our impa- 
 tience was stronger than your bolts, and lest 
 the same oversight might renew the incon- 
 venience, we found means to enter with little 
 formality.” iy 
 
 The burghers in general seemed greatly 
 troubled, and Heinrich as greatly surprised. 
 The baron saw that enough had been said for 
 the moment; and assuming a more gracious 
 mien, he continued in another strain. 
 
 *‘ Well, loving townsmen,” he said, “it is 
 now a happy week, since all our desires have 
 been accomplished. The Benedictines are 
 defeated, the Jaegerthal is at peace and under 
 the sway of its rightful lord, and yet the sun 
 rises and sets as before, the heavens seem as 
 smiling, the rains as refreshing, and all our 
 hopes as reasonable as of old! There is to 
 be no miracle in their behalf, Herr Heinrich, 
 and we may fain sleep in peace.” 
 
 “That may depend, Lord Count, on other 
 
 743 
 
 humors than ours. Here are reports abroad 
 that are anything but pleasant to the ear, 
 and our honest townsmen are troubled lest, 
 after doing good service in behalf of their 
 betters, they may yet be made to pay all the 
 charges of the victory.” 
 
 “Set their hearts at peace, worthy Burgo- 
 master, for I have not thrust a hand into the 
 ecclesiastical flame, without thought of keep- 
 ing it from being scorched. ‘Thou knowest I 
 have friends, and ’twill not be easy to puta 
 Count of Leiningen to the ban.” 
 
 ‘“« Nay, we doubt but little, illustrious noble, 
 of your safety, and of your house’s; our fear 
 is for ourselves.” 
 
 ‘Thou hast only to lean on me, Master 
 Frey. When the tie between us shall be ex- 
 plained more clearly to the Emperor and the 
 Diet, and when our loving wishes, as respects 
 each other, shall be better understood, all will 
 know that to strike Duerckheim is to aim a 
 blow at me. Whence cometh this sudden 
 fear, for last reports touching your condition 
 said that the town was firm of heart, and 
 bent on joining Luther,rather than confess ?” 
 
 “‘Sapperment! the heart must not always 
 be judged by the countenance! Here is the 
 smith, who is seldom of a bright visage, but 
 were it said that his heart is as black as his 
 face, great injustice would be done the man.” 
 
 A movement and a murmur betrayed the 
 admiration of those who crowded the door, at 
 this figure of the Burgomaster. 
 
 “Thou hast some reason for this sudden 
 despondency ?” rejoined the Count, glancing 
 a look of indifference at the artisans. 
 
 ‘“Why, to speak the truth, Lord Emich, 
 Bonifacius hath sent us a missive, written in 
 very fair Latin, and in a scholarly manner, 
 that threatens us to a man with every Chris- 
 tian wish, from plagues to downright incur- 
 able damnation.” 
 
 “And art thou troubled, Heinrich, at a 
 scrawl of unintelligible words?” 
 
 “T know not what is to be understood, 
 Herr Count, if a demand for Heinrich Frey, 
 with eleven others of our most respected, as 
 hostages, doubtless to be kept from their 
 affairs in some convent cells, on hard fare, 
 and hard penance, for weary months, be not 
 plain! To this they add demands for gold, 
 with pilgrimages, and penances, and other 
 godly recreations.” 
 
744 
 
 “ By whose hand got ye this?” 
 
 ‘‘ By that of the honest Prior, a man of so 
 much bowels, that I marvel he should be the 
 bearer of a message so unwelcome and so un- 
 charitable. But the best of us have our 
 moments of weakness, for all are not always 
 thoughtful or just.” 
 
 “Ha! Arnolph is afoot!—Hath he de- 
 parted ?” 
 
 ‘“‘He tarries, my good lord; for look you, 
 we have not yet determined on the fashion of 
 our reply.” 
 
 “Thou wouldst not have thought of send- 
 ing answer, without taking counsel of me, 
 Herr Frey!” said Emich, sharply, and much 
 in the manner that a parent reproves his 
 child. “Iam luckily arrived, and the mat- 
 ter shall be looked to. Have ye bethought 
 ye of the fitting terms?” 
 
 “No doubt all have bethought them much, 
 though as yet, none have uttered their secret 
 opinions. For one, I cry out loudly against 
 all hostages, though none could be readier 
 than I to undergo this risk to serve the town; 
 but it is admitting an error in too plain evi- 
 dence, and carrieth with it a confession that 
 our faith is not to be depended on.” 
 
 This sentiment, which had long been 
 struggling in Heinrich’s breast, met with an 
 audible echo in that of everyone of the eleven 
 who were likely, by situation and years, to be 
 chosen for this honorable distinction; and 
 every man among them uttered some proper 
 phrase concerning the value of character, and 
 the necessity of so demeaning themselves, as 
 not to cheapen that of Duerckheim. Emich 
 listened coolly, for it was of great indifference 
 to him how much the burghers were alarmed, 
 since their fears could only induce them the 
 more to seek support from his interest and 
 power. 
 
 ‘Thou hast then refused the conditions? ” 
 
 <‘ We have done nothing, Herr Count, but 
 we have thought much and sorely, as hath 
 just been said. I take it, the gold and the 
 hostages will find but little favor among us; 
 but, rather than keep the Palatinate in a dis- 
 turbed and insecure state, and as we are quiet 
 burghers, who look to peace and the means 
 of getting their bread, our answer may not 
 be so short, could the matter be brought 
 down to a few chosen penitents and pilgrim- 
 ages. Though halfof Brether Luther’s mind 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 in many things, it were well to get quit of 
 even the chances of damnation, for a few 
 sore feet and stripes, that might be so man- 
 aged as to do little civic harm.” 
 
 ‘« By the lineage of my house !” exclaimed 
 Heinrich, thou dost but echo my thoughts. 
 The Prior is a man with bowels, and this 
 matter shall be speedily arranged. We must 
 bethink us of the details, for these monks 
 are close calculators, and on a time are said 
 to have outwitted Lucifer. First then, there 
 shall be an offering of gold.” 
 
 ‘Nay, my Lord Count will consider the 
 means of our town !” 
 
 ‘* Peace, honest-Heinrich, ” whispered Em- 
 ich, leaning toward the place where the Bur- 
 gomaster and two or three of the principal 
 members of the council sat—‘‘ We have 
 accounts from the Hebrews at Koeln, which 
 say the Limburg treasures may be well ap- 
 plied, in this manner, to purchase a little 
 peace. We will be liberal as becomes our 
 names,” he now spoke to all, ‘‘ ana not send 
 the brotherhood naked into a world, which 
 is getting every day less disposed to clothe 
 them; we must drain our coffers rather than 
 they should starve, and this point may be 
 looked upon as settled. As for our penitents 
 and pilgrims, the castle and the town shall 
 equally furnish a share. I[ can send the 
 lieutenant of my men-at-arms, who hath a 
 nimble foot—Gottlob the cowherd, to whom 
 punishment is fairly due, on many general 
 accounts—and others doubtless that may be 
 found. What good, of this nature, can 
 Duerckheim supply?” 
 
 ‘We are a homely people, high-born Graf, 
 and having fewer virtues than our betters, 
 are not so well gifted either in vices. As 
 becometh a middle state, we arecontent with 
 no great excess in the one or the other of the 
 more striking qualities ; and yet I doubt not, 
 neighbors, that at need there might be 
 among us men who would not fare the worse 
 for wholesome correction and fitting pen- 
 ances?” 
 
 Heinrich looked about him, in an inquir- 
 ing manner, while each burgher passed the 
 investigation on to the next, as men forward 
 a glance that they wish to think has no appli- 
 cation to themselves. The crowd at the door 
 recoiled a pace, and heads were turned cu- 
 riously, and eyes roamed among the infe- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 riors, with quite as much expression as had 
 just been done by their superiors. 
 
 ‘«< There are delinquents, young and thought- 
 less varlets, who vex the town with their 
 ribaldry and noise, that it might do to 
 scourge with the Church’s rod,”—suggested 
 the tremulous and aged Wolfgang. 
 
 “«St. Bendict will be put off with none of 
 these,” bluffly answered the Burgomaster; 
 ‘‘he must have men of substance and of 
 some esteem, or the affair will be as far as 
 ever froma happy conclusion. What think- 
 est thou, honest and patriotic Dietrich?— 
 Thou hast a constitution to endure, and a 
 heart of iron.” 
 
 «Tausend sex und zwanzig!” returned the 
 smith; ‘‘ you little know all my ailings, most 
 worshipful masters, if you think I am near 
 this force! I have difficulties of breath, that 
 are only at peace near the heat of the forge, 
 and my heart gets soft as a feather on a jour- 
 ney. Then there is the wife and the young 
 to wail my absence, and I am not scholar 
 enough to repeat a prayer more than some 
 six or ten times in a day.” 
 
 This excuse did not appear to satisfy the 
 council, who, acting on that principle of ex- 
 action which is found among all people and 
 in all communities, felt disposed to recollect 
 the former services of the artisan, as a sort of 
 apology for further claims on his exertions. 
 
 ‘Nay, for one that hath ever been so free 
 at the wish of Duerckheim, this plea cometh 
 with an ill grace,”” answered Heinrich,—a 
 sentiment that was audibly repeated in a 
 general exclaination of discontent by all the 
 other burghers.—‘‘ We expected other reply 
 from thee!” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, since the worshipful council ex- 
 pects—but there will be the wife and the 
 young, with none to care for them !” 
 
 “That difficulty may be disposed of—thou 
 hast six, if I remember, in thy household ?” 
 
 «Ten, honorable Heinrich—not a mouth 
 less than half a score, and all of an age to 
 require much food and strong.” 
 
 ‘* Here are all but two of our dozen, ina 
 word, noble Emich,” promptly added the 
 Burgomaster ; ‘‘and of a scriptural quality, 
 for we are told, the prayers and sacrifices of 
 the young and innocent are acceptable. 
 Thanks, honest smith, and more than thanks: 
 thou shalt have marks of a quality different 
 
 745 
 
 from those left by the scourge. No doubt 
 the others may be picked up among the 
 useless and idle.” 
 
 ‘‘Our affairs seem settled, loving burgh- 
 ers,” answered the Count. ‘‘ Leave me to 
 dispose of the question of indemnity, and 
 look ye to the penitents, and to the seemli- 
 ness of the atonement. Ye may retire, ye 
 that throng the way.”—The mandate was 
 hurriedly obeyed, and the door closed.—‘‘ As 
 for support at Heidelberg and Madrid,” con- 
 tinued the Count, ‘‘the matter hath been 
 looked to; and should the complaint be 
 pushed beyond decency at Rome, we have 
 always Brother Luther as an ally. Boni- 
 facius wanteth not for understanding, and 
 when he looks deeper into our defences, and 
 into the humor of the times, I know him for 
 one that will be disposed to stay an evil, be- 
 fore it becomes an incurable sore. ‘These 
 shaven crows, Master Heinrich, are not like 
 ns fathers of families, much troubled for pos- 
 terity ; for they leave no name or blood be- 
 hind them ; and so long as we can fairly sat- 
 isfy their present longings, the truce may be 
 considered as more than half concluded. ‘To 
 strip a churchman of his hoardings, needeth 
 but a bold spirit, a present bribe, and strong 
 hand.” 
 
 The whole council murmured its approval 
 of this reasoning, and the discussion now 
 took a turn more inclining to the details. 
 
 Emich grew gracious, and the burghers 
 bolder. Some even laughed openly at their 
 late apprehensions, and nearly all thought 
 they saw a final settlement of this long-dis- 
 puted and serious question. ‘The Prior, who 
 had been engaged in visits of religious charity 
 in the town, was soon summoned, and the 
 Count assumed the office of communicating 
 the common answer. 
 
 The meeting between Emich and Father 
 Arnolph was characteristic. It took place 
 in the public hall, and in the presence of a 
 few of the principal burghers. The Count 
 was at first disposed to be haughty, imperi- 
 ous, and even repulsive; but the Monk was 
 meek, earnest, and calm. ‘The effect of this 
 forbearance was quickly apparent. Their 
 intercourse soon grew more courteous, for 
 Emich, when not excited, or misled by the 
 cupidity that disgraced the age, possessed 
 most of the breeding of his peers. On the 
 
746 
 
 other hand, Arnolph never lost sight of his 
 duties, the chiefest of which he believed to 
 be charity. 
 
 ‘‘Thou art the bearer of the olive branch, 
 holy Prior,” said the Count, as they took 
 their seats, after some little previous parley ; 
 ‘and pity ’tis, that all who wear the cowl, 
 did not as well comprehend the pleasantest 
 quality of their sacred characters. The world 
 would grow less quarrelsome, and: we who 
 worship in the court of the temple, would be 
 less disturbed by doubts touching those who 
 lift its veil.” 
 
 ‘JT did not look to hold discussion of 
 clerkly duties with thee, Lord Count, when 
 my superior sent me on this errand to the 
 town of Duerckheim,” mildly answered the 
 monk, indifferent to the other’s wily compli- 
 ments. ‘*Am'I, then, to consider the castle 
 and the council as one ?” 
 
 **In heart, humor, and interests ;—I might 
 add also, in rights and sovereignty ; for, now 
 all question of the Abbey is settled, the 
 ancient temporal rule is replaced.Say I 
 well, loving burghers ?” 
 
 ‘Umph!” ejaculated Heinrich. The 
 rest bent their heads, though doubtingly, like 
 men taken by surprise. But Emich seemed 
 perfectly satisfied. 
 
 ‘‘It is of no great moment who governs 
 here, since the wrong done to God and our 
 brotherhood must be repaired by those who 
 have committed it. Hast thou examined the 
 missive of the Abbey, Herr Burgomaster, and 
 art ready with the reply ?” | 
 
 ‘This duty hath been done, reverened 
 Arnolph, and here is our answer. 
 the letter, it is our mature opinion, that it 
 hath been indited in a fair hand,and in very 
 learned Latin, as befitteth a brotherhood of 
 somuch repute. We deem this more credit- 
 able, since there have been some late heavy 
 losses in books, and he who did this might 
 not have the customary aid of materials to 
 which use had made him familiar. As for 
 what. hath been said: in the way of greeting 
 and benedictions, holy Prior, we are thankful, 
 and most especially for the part that is of thy 
 share, which we esteem to be of particular 
 unction; in mine own behalf, especially 
 would I thank all of the convent for the 
 manner in which my name hath been intro- 
 duced into their good wishes; though I must 
 
 As for | 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 add, it were better that he who wrote had 
 been content to stop there, since these fre- 
 quent introductions of private personages, in 
 matters of general concernment, are apt to 
 raise envy and other evil passions. As re- 
 specting, moreover, any especial: pilgrimages 
 and penances in my own person, I feel not 
 the occasion, as would doubtless be the fact 
 at need, since we see most men pricked on 
 to these mortifications by their own con- 
 sciences.” 
 
 . «The expiation is not sought for particu- 
 lar consolation, neither is it desired as a balm 
 to the Convent’s wounds, but as an humble 
 and a necessary atonement to God. In this 
 view have we deemed it important to choose 
 those who are most esteemed among men, 
 since it is before the eyes of mankind that 
 the expiation must be made. I am the 
 bearer of similar proposals to the Castle, and, 
 by high ecclesiastical authority, am I charged 
 to demand .that its well-born lord, himself, 
 make these acknowledgments in his own per- 
 son. The sacrifice of the honored and inno- 
 cent hath more flavor than that of the mean 
 and wicked.” ¢ 
 
 -“ Potz Tausend!” muttered Heinrich. —*“ I 
 see little use for leading a clean life with 
 such doctrines and discipline! ” 
 
 But Emich heard the proposal without a 
 frown. Bold, haughty, and audacious, he 
 was also deeply artful and superstitious. 
 For years, his rude mind had been tormented 
 by conflicting passions—those of cupidity 
 and religious dread ; and now that the former 
 was satisfied, he had begun to reflect seriously 
 of appeasing his latent apprehensions in 
 some effectual manner. Plans of various 
 expiatory offerings had already crossed his 
 mind, and so far from hearing the declara- 
 tion of the Benedictine with resentment, he 
 entertained the idea with pleasure. It 
 seemed an easy and cheap expedient of satis- 
 fying all scruples; for the re-establishment 
 of the community on the hill of Limburg 
 was a condition he knew to be entirely out of 
 the question, in the present state of the 
 public mind in Germany. In this humor, 
 then, did he reply. The conference of course 
 proceeded harmonionsly, and it was  pro- 
 tracted for several hours. Butas its results will 
 be more regularly developed in the course of 
 the narrative, we shall not anticipate events. 
 
a 
 
 THE HEIDENMAUER. 747 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ‘‘Tn a strange land 
 Such things, however trival, reach the heart, 
 And through the heart the head, clearing away 
 The narrow notions that grew up at home, 
 And in their place grafting good-will to all.” 
 —ROoGERS. 
 
 Iv is necessary to advance a few weeks in 
 the order of time; a change that will bring 
 us to the middle of the warm and generous 
 month of July. The hour was towards the 
 close of day, and the place and scenery such 
 ws it is now our duty to describe. 
 
 Let the reader imagine a high naked down, 
 whose surface was slightly broken by irregu- 
 larities. Scarce a tree was visible over the 
 whole of its bold face, though a few stunted 
 shrubs betrayed the efforts of the earth to 
 push forth a meagre vegetation. The air 
 was pure, thin, and volatile, and, together 
 with the soft blue of the void, denoted a 
 great elevation above the vapors and impuri- 
 ties which linger nearer to regions that he on 
 the level of the sea. Notwithstanding these 
 neyer-failing signs of a mountain country, 
 here and there were to be seen distant peaks, 
 that shot upward into the fierce light, glitter- 
 ing with everlasting frost. Along one side 
 of this naked expanse, the land fell suddenly 
 away, towards a long, narrow sheet of water, 
 which lay a thousand feet below. The shores 
 of this lake, for such it was, were clothed 
 with innumerable white dwellings, and gar- 
 nished with hamlets and vineyards, while a 
 walled town, with its towers and battlements, 
 occasionally darkened the shores. But these 
 were objects scarcely to be seen, from the 
 precise situation which we desire the mind of 
 the reader to occupy. In the distant view, 
 always in that direction, one favorably placed 
 might have seen the vast range of undulating 
 country, stretching towards the north and 
 east, that had the usual characteristics of a 
 region in which Alpine mountains begin 
 gradually to melt into the plain. This region 
 was beautified with several spots of dark 
 blue, resembling so many deep reflections of 
 the skies, which were sheets of limpid and 
 tranquil water. Towards the south and 
 west, the down was bounded by a natural 
 wall of rude and gray rock, that rose, in 
 nearly all its line, to the elevation of a moun- 
 
 tain, and which shot up to a giddy height, 
 near its centre, in two pointed cones, that, 
 by their forms, coupled with other circum- 
 stances that shall be soon explained, had 
 obtained the name of the “ Mitres.” 
 
 Near the barrier of mountain, and almost 
 directly beneath these natural mitres, was 2 
 small village, whose houses, constructed of 
 wood, had the wide roof, numerous windows, 
 and the peculiar resin-like color of Swiss 
 habitations. 
 
 The place was a hamlet, rather than a vil- 
 lage, and most of the land around it lay at 
 waste, like all that was visible for miles, in 
 every direction. On a rising ground near 
 the hamlet, from which it was separated 
 merely by a large esplanade, or green, as we 
 should be apt to turn the spot, stood one of 
 those mazes of roofs, chimneys, and towers, 
 which in that age, and indeed, even now, 
 mark a conventual pile. The edifices were 
 large, complicated in their forms and order, 
 and had been constructed without much 
 architectural knowledge or taste ; the air of 
 the whole being that of rude but abundant 
 wealth. In the centre was a church, or 
 chapel, evidently of ancient existence and 
 simple origin, though its quaint outlines were 
 elaborately decorated, after the fashion of the 
 times, by a variety of after-thoughts, in a 
 manner to show that means were not want- 
 ing to render the whole more magnificent, 
 and that the fault of the construction lay 
 rather in the first idea, than in any subse- 
 quent ability or inclination to repair it. 
 
 The site of this hamlet and down was in 
 the celebrated Canton of Schwytz, a small 
 district that has since given its name to the 
 heroic confederation that oceupies so much 
 of the country among and near the Western 
 Alps. Its name was Einsiedeln ; the mon- 
 astic buildings belonged to a convent of 
 Benedictines, and the church contained one 
 of the shrines even then most in repute, 
 after that of Loretto. ‘Time and revolutions 
 have since elevated our Lady of Einsiedelh, 
 perhaps, to the very highest rank among 
 the pilgrimages of the Catholic; for we have 
 lately seen thousands crowding her altars, 
 while we found the Santa Casa abandoned 
 chiefly to the care of its guardians, or subject 
 to the casual inspection of curious heretics. 
 
 Having thus described the spot to which 
 
745 
 
 the scene is shifted, it is proper to refer to 
 the actors. 
 
 Ata point distant less than a league from 
 the hamlet, and on the side of the open 
 down just mentioned, which lies next to the 
 steep ascent from the lake of Zurich, and in 
 the direction of the Rhine, there came a 
 group of travellers of both sexes, and appar- 
 ently of all ages between declining manhood 
 and vigorous youth. They were afoot, wear- 
 ing the garb and symbols of pilgrims. Weari- 
 ness had caused them to lengthen their line, 
 and they went in pairs, the strongest in 
 front, the feeble and more fatigued in the 
 rear. 
 
 In advance marched two men. One wore 
 the gown and cowl of a Benedictine, while 
 he carried, like the rest, the staff and wallet 
 of a pilgrim. His companion had the usual 
 mantle decorated with scollop shells, and 
 also bore his scrip and stick. The others 
 had the same attire, with the usual excep- 
 tions that distinguish the sexes. They con- 
 sisted of two men of middle age, who followed 
 those in front; two of each sex in pairs, all 
 still young and active; two females, who 
 were in their prime, though wearied and sad; 
 and a maiden, who dragged her hmbs after 
 them with a difficulty disproportioned to her 
 years. At the side of the latter was a crone, 
 whose infirmities and age had enabled her to 
 obtain the indulgence of an ass, on which 
 she was seated comparatively at her ease ; 
 though, by a license that had been winked 
 at by the monk, her saddle was encumbered 
 with the scrips of most of the female peni- 
 tents. In the rear of all came two males, 
 who seemed to form a sort of rear guard to 
 the whole party. 
 
 This group was composed of the Prior and 
 Emich, who led the van ; of Heinrich, and 
 Dietrich, the smith ; of Gisela and Gottlob, 
 with a youth and maiden from Duerckheim ; 
 of Ulrike and Lottchen, of Meta and Ilse, 
 and of M. Latouche and the Knight of 
 Rhodes. ‘These were the penitents chosen 
 to explate the late offence to the majesty 
 of God, by prayers and mortifications before 
 the shrine of Kinsiedeln. The temporal 
 question had been partially put at rest, by 
 the intrigues and influence of the Count, 
 backed, as he was, by timely applications of 
 
 gold, and by the increasing heresy that had 
 
 ° 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 effectually shaken the authority of the 
 Church throughout all Germany, and which 
 had sufficiently apprised the practised Boni- 
 facius, and his superiors, of the expediency 
 of using great moderation in their demands. 
 
 “St. Benedict make us thankful, holy 
 Father ! ” said the Count, as his gratified eye 
 first beheld the long-wished-for roofs of the 
 
 -Convent.—*‘ We have journeyed a weary dis- 
 
 tance ; and this snail’s pace, which, in defer- 
 ence to the weak, we are bound to observe, 
 but little suits the impatience of a warrior 
 accustomed to steed and spur. Thou hast 
 often visited this sacred shrine, pious Ar- 
 nolph ? ” 
 
 The monk had stopped, and with a tearful 
 eye he stood gazing, in religious reverence, at 
 the distant pile. Then kneeling on the 
 grass, he prayed, while the others, accus- 
 tomed to these sudden demonstrations of 
 zeal, gladly rested their limbs, the while. 
 
 ‘‘Never before hath eye of mine greeted 
 you holy pile,” answered the Prior, as they 
 slowly resumed their journey ; ‘‘ though of- 
 ten, in night dreams, hath my soul yearned 
 for the privilege ! ” 
 
 ‘Methinks, Father, thou hast little occa- 
 sion for penitence or pilgrimage :—thou, 
 whose life hath rolled on in deeds of Chris- 
 tian charity and love.” 
 
 ‘‘ Each day brings its evil, and each day 
 should have its expiation.” 
 
 ‘Truly, not in marches over stony and 
 mountain paths, like these we travel. Hin- 
 siedeln must have especial virtue, to draw 
 men so far from their homes to do it honor. 
 Hast the history of the shrine at command, 
 reverend Prior ?” 
 
 ‘¢Tt should be known to all Christians, and 
 chiefly to the pilgrim. I had thought thee 
 instructed in these great events !” 
 
 “ By the Magi !—to speak thee honestly, 
 Father Arnolph, the little friendship which 
 hath subsisted between Limburg and my 
 house, had given a disrelish for any Benedic- 
 tine miracle, let it be of what quality it 
 would ; but now that we are likely to be so 
 lovingly united, I could gladly hear the tale, 
 which will at least serve to divert our 
 thoughts froma subject so grovelling as our 
 own feet ; for to conceal nothing, mine make 
 most importunate appeals to be at rest!” 
 
 ‘* Our journey draweth near its end ; but, 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 as thy request is reasonable, it shall be an- 
 swered. Listen, then, Emich, and may the 
 
 lesson profit thy soul ! During the reign of 
 
 the illustrious and warlike Charlemagne, who 
 governed Gaul, with so much of our Ger- 
 many and the country of the Franks, there 
 
 lived a youth of the ancient family of Hohen- 
 
 zollern, branches of which still possess prin- 
 cipalities and marches in the empire. ‘The 
 name of this learned and pious youth was 
 Meinard. Early fatigued with the vanities 
 of life, he sought a hermitage, nearer than 
 this to the banks of that lake which we so 
 lately crossed at Rapperschwyl. But, over- 
 burdened by the number of the curious and 
 pious who visited his cell, the holy Meinard, 
 after seven years of prayer, retired to a clear 
 fountain, which must still run near yonder 
 church, where another cell and a chapel were 
 built for him, expressly by command of Hil- 
 degarde, a royal lady, and the Abbess of a 
 monastery in the town of Zurich. Here 
 Meinard lived and here he died, filled with 
 grace, and greatly blessed by godly exer- 
 cises.”” 
 
 “Father, had he a profitable and happy 
 end, in this wild region ?”’ 
 
 ‘Spiritually, nothing could have been 
 more desirable ; temporally, naught more 
 foul. He died by the hands of vile assassins, 
 to whom he had rendered hospitality. The 
 deed was discovered by means of two crows, 
 who followed the murderers to Zurich, where 
 they were taken and executed—at least, so 
 sayeth tradition. In a later age, the holy 
 Meinard was canonized by Benedict VILI. 
 For nearly half a century, the cell of Mei- 
 nard, though in great request as a place of 
 prayer, remained without a tenant; but at 
 the end of that period, Beurun, a canon of 
 the house of Burgundy, which house then 
 ruled most of the country far and near, 
 caused the chapel and cell to be repaired, re- 
 placed the image of the blessed Maria, and 
 devoted his own life to the hermitage. The 
 neighboring Seigneurs and Barons contrib- 
 uted to endow the place, and divers holy men 
 joined themselves to the service of the altar, 
 from which circumstance the shrine obtained 
 the name of our ‘ Lady of the Hermits,’ its 
 true appellation to this hour. It would 
 weary thee to listen to the tale of miracles 
 
 performed in virtue of their prayers, even in 
 
 749 
 
 that early and less gifted condition of the 
 place ; but its reputation so circulated that 
 many came from afar to see and to believe. 
 In the process of time, a regular community 
 was established, and the church thou seest 
 was erected, containing in its nave the origi- 
 nal cell, chapel, and image of Saint Meinard. 
 Of the brotherhood, Saint Eberhaud was 
 named the Abbot.” 
 
 ‘‘T had thought there was still higher virtue 
 in the place!” observed Emich, when the 
 Prior paused, and seemingly a little disap- 
 pointed; for your deep sinner as little likes 
 a simple dispensation, as the drunkard rel- 
 ishes small drinks. 
 
 «<Thou shalt hear. When the buildings 
 were completed, and it became necessary to 
 consecrate the place, agreeably to the forms 
 and usages of the Church, Conrad Bishop of 
 Constance was invited to discharge the holy 
 office. Here cometh the wonderful favor of 
 Heaven! As Conrad of Constance, with 
 other pious men, arose to pray, at midnight 
 of the day appointed for the service, they 
 suddenly heard divine music most sweetly 
 chanted by angels. Though sore amazed and 
 impressed, they were still sufficiently masters 
 of their reason to discover that the unseen 
 beings sang the prescribed formula of the 
 consecration, that office which they were pre- 
 paring themselves to perform a few hours 
 later. Satisfied with this especial and won- 
 derful interference, Conrad would have ab- 
 stained from repeating a service which had 
 already been thus performed, but for the 
 demands and outcries of the ignorant. But 
 when, after hours of delay, he was about to 
 yield to their impatience, a clear voice three 
 times admonished him of the blasphemy, by 
 saying, ‘ Cease, brother! thy chapel is divinely 
 consecrated !’ From that moment the place 
 is so esteemed, and all our rites are performed 
 as at a shrine of high behest and particular 
 virtue.” 
 
 Emich crossed himself devoutly, having 
 listened in perfect faith, and with deep inter- 
 est ;—for at that moment early impressions 
 were stronger than the modern doubts. 
 
 «Tt is good to be here, father,” he rever- 
 ently answered ; ‘‘ I would that Ermengarde, 
 and all of my house, were at my side! But 
 are there any especial favors accorded to 
 those who come hither, in a fitting temper, 
 
730 
 
 in the way of temporal gifts or political con- 
 siderations ; since, being before a shrine so 
 holy, I could fain profit by the sore pains and 
 privations by which the grace is gained ?” 
 
 The Prior seemed mortified, for, though 
 he lent the faith required by the opinions of 
 the age to the tradition he had recounted, he 
 was too well instructed in the true doctrines 
 of his Church not to perceive the false bias of 
 his companion’s mind. The embarrassment 
 caused a silence, during which the reader is 
 to imagine that they passed on, giving place 
 to other personages of the tale. 
 
 Before turning to another group, however, 
 we desire to say distinctly, that, in relating 
 the manner of the miraculous consecration of 
 the chapel of ‘Our Lady of the Hermits,’ we 
 have wished merely to set the tradition be- 
 fore the reader without inferring aught for, 
 or against, its authenticity. It is well known 
 that the belief of these supernatural interfer- 
 ences of Divine Power forms no necessary 
 part of doctrine, even in that Church which 
 is said to be the most favored of these dis- 
 pensations; and it ought always to be re- 
 membered that those sects which impugn 
 these visible and physical signs of Omnipo- 
 tence, entertain opinions of a more purely 
 spiritual character, that are scarcely less out 
 of the course of ordinary and vulgar nature. 
 In cases in which there exist so nice shades 
 of distinction, and in which truth is so diffi- 
 cult of discovery, it is our duty to limit our- 
 selves to popular facts, and as such have we 
 given the history of Hinsiedeln, its Abbey, 
 and its Virgin. The opinion of Father Ar- 
 nolph is the local opinion of our own times, 
 and it is the opinion of thousands who, even 
 now, yearly frequent the shrine. 
 
 Heinrich and the smith were the couple 
 next to the Count and the Prior, and of 
 course they were the next to cross the stage. 
 
 *‘Tt is no doubt much, or I may add 
 altogether as you say, Worshipful Burgo- 
 master i 
 
 ‘‘ Brother Pilgrim,” 
 Heinrich. 
 
 ‘‘T should have said, Brother Worshipful 
 Pilgrim,—though, Heaven it knows, the 
 familiarity goes nigh to choke me !—but it is 
 much as you say, that whether we cling to 
 Rome, or finally settle quietly into the new 
 worship of Brother Luther, this journey 
 
 ruefully interrupted 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ought, in all fairness, to be set down to our 
 account, as of so much virtue ; for, look you, 
 Brother Worshipful, it is made at the cost of 
 Christian flesh and blood, and therefore 
 should it be savory, without much particu- 
 larity concerning mere outward appearances. 
 I do not think, were truth spoken, that 
 wielding the sledge a twelve-month would 
 have done this injury to my feet !” 
 
 ‘Have mercy on thyself and me, good 
 smith, and think less of these trifling griey- 
 ances. What Heaven wills must happen, else 
 would one of thy merit have risen higher in 
 the world.” 
 
 “Thanks, Worshipful Brother Pilgrim and 
 Burgomaster ; I will bethink me of resigna- 
 tion, though these wire-drawn pains are never 
 to the liking of your men of muscle and great 
 courage. A knock o’ the head, or the bullet 
 of an arquebuse gives less uneasiness than 
 smaller griefs much endured. Were things 
 properly governed, the penances and pilgrim- 
 ages, and other expiations of the Church, 
 would be chiefly left to the women.” 
 
 ‘* We shall see hereafter how Luther hath 
 ordered this ; but having ourselves embarked 
 in this journey for the good of Duerckheim, 
 to say nothing of our own souls, it behooveth 
 us to hold out manfully ;—a duty the more 
 easily performed, as we can now see the end 
 of it. ‘To speak thee fair, Dietrich, I do not 
 remember ever to have beheld Benedictine 
 abode with so much joy as this we see at yon- 
 der mountain’s foot !” 
 
 ‘* Be of cheer, most honorable and excellent 
 Brother Worshipful Pilgrim; the trial is 
 near its end, and if we come thus far to do 
 this honor to our own community, why,— 
 Himmel ! it is but the price paid for getting 
 rid of another ! ” 
 
 ‘*Be of cheer, truly, brother smith, for it 
 is but some kneeling, and a few stripes that 
 each is to apply to his own back ; after which 
 the return will reasonably be more joyous 
 than the advance.” 
 
 Encouraged by each other, the devotees 
 hobbled on, their heavy massive frames yield- 
 ing at every step, like those of overgrown 
 oxen which had been but indifferently shod. 
 As they passed by, their places were filled by 
 the four, of whom Gisela and Gottlob formed 
 a part. Among these the discourse was light 
 and trifling, for bodily fatigue had little in- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 fluence on the joyous buoyancy of such 
 spirits ; especially at a moment when they 
 saw before them the immediate termination 
 of their troubles. Not so with those that 
 came next ; these were Ulrike and her friend, 
 who moved along the path, like those who 
 were loaded with griefs of the soul. 
 
 ‘<< God is among these hills, as he is on our 
 plains, Lottchen !” said the former, continu- 
 ing the discourse. “ Yon temple is his shrine, 
 as was that of Limburg ; and it is as vain for 
 man to think of forgetting him on earth, as 
 it would be to invade him in that Heaven 
 which is His throne! What he doth is wise, 
 and we will endeavor to submit.” 
 
 The words of Ulrike were perhaps more 
 touched with resignation than her manner. 
 The latter, though subdued, was filled with 
 sorrow, and her voice was tremulous nearly to 
 tears. ‘Though the exhibition of her melan- 
 choly was deep and evident, it was of a char- 
 acter which denotes no extinction of hope. 
 On the other hand, the features, eye, and 
 entire manner of her friend, bore the heavy 
 and fatal impress of incurable woe. 
 
 ““God is among these hills!” repeated 
 Lottchen, though she scarce seemed to hear 
 the words; ‘‘God is among these hills !” 
 
 «‘We approach a much-esteemed shrine, 
 dearest Lottchen ; the Being, in whose name 
 it hath been raised, will not permit us to de- 
 part from it unblessed.” 
 
 <¢ We shall be blessed, Ulrike !” 
 
 «<Thou dwellest hopelessly on thy loss, my 
 Lottchen! Would thou had less thought of 
 the past, and more of the future !” 
 
 The smile with which the widow regarded 
 her friend was full of anguish. 
 
 ‘«‘T have no future, Ulrike, 
 grave |” 
 
 ‘‘ Dearest Lottchen !—we willspeak of this 
 holy shrine !*” Emotion smothered her voice. 
 
 «Speak of what thou wilt, my friend,” 
 answered the childless widow, with a fright- 
 ful calm. ‘<I see no difference in subjects.” 
 
 ‘«¢ Lottchen !—not when we discourse of 
 Heaven !” 
 
 The widow bowed her vacant eyes to earth, 
 and they passed on. Their footsteps were 
 succeeded by those of the beast ridden by Hse, 
 and by the faltering tread of Meta. 
 
 «« Aye,—yon is the shrine of our Lady of 
 the Hermits!” said the former; ‘‘a temple 
 
 but the 
 
 751 
 
 of surpassing virtue! Well, Heaven is not in 
 churches and chapels, and that of Limburg 
 may yet be spared ; the more especially as the 
 brotherhood was far from being of unexcep- 
 tionable lives. Keep up thy heart, Meta, and 
 think not of weariness, for not a pain dost 
 thou now bear that will not be returned to 
 thee, another day, in joy, or in some other 
 precious gift. This is Heaven’s justice, which 
 is certain to requite all equally, for good or 
 evil. Well-a-day !—it is this certainty that 
 comforteth the godly, and giveth courage to 
 the tottering.” 
 
 She spoke to an insensible listener. The 
 countenance of Meta, like that of Lottchen, 
 expressed hopelessness, though it were in less 
 palpable and certain signs. The eye was 
 dull but wandering, the cheek pale, the 
 mouth convulsive and at times compressed, 
 the step languid, and the whole being of this 
 young and innocent creature seemed wasting 
 under a premature and unnatural blight ! 
 
 he looked at the convent with indifference, 
 though it brought relief to her bodily pains. 
 The mountains rose dark and rugged near, 
 or glittered in the distance like hills of ala- 
 baster, without giving birth to a single ex- 
 clamation of that delight which these scenes 
 are known to excite in young breasts; and 
 even the pure void above was gazed at, 
 though it seemed to invite to a more tranquil 
 existence, with vacuity and indifference. 
 
 ‘© Ah’s me!” continued Ilse, whose obser- 
 vation rarely penetrated beyond her own 
 feelings, and whose tongue was never known 
 to wax weary——‘‘ Ah’s me! Meta. Oh! it 
 
 must be a wicked world that needs all these. 
 
 pilgrimages and burnings. But they are 
 only types, child, of the past and of the 
 future; of the ‘has been,’ and of the ‘to 
 come.’ First, life is a pilgrimage, and a 
 penance; though few of us think so while 
 journeying on its way ; but so it is to all; 
 especially to the little favored—but a pen- 
 ance it is, by means of our ailings and other 
 infirmities, particularly in age; and there- 
 fore dol bear with it cheerfully, since pen- 
 ances are to be borne; and the burnings of 
 convents and villages are types of the burn- 
 ings of the wicked. Thou dost not answer, 
 child ? ” 
 
 ‘< Dost think, nurse, that they who die by 
 fire are blessed ? ” 
 
 \ 
 
752 
 
 “Of what art speaking, Meta!—Poor 
 Berchthold Hintermayer perished, as thou 
 knowest, in the flames of Limburg; so did 
 Father Johan, and so did one, far more 
 evil than either!—Oh ! I could reveal secrets, 
 an’ I had not a prudent tongue! But wis- 
 dom lieth in prudence, and I say naught; 
 therefore, Meta, be thou silent.” 
 
 “T will obey thee, nurse.” 
 
 The tones of the girl trembled, and the 
 smile with which she gladly acquiesced in the 
 demand of Ilse was such as the sinking in- 
 valid gives the kind attendant. 
 
 “Thou art dutiful, and it isa merit. I 
 never knew thee more obedient and less 
 given to merriment or girlish exclamations, 
 than on this very pilgrimage ; all of which 
 shows that thy mind is in a happy state for 
 these holy offices. Well-a-day!—the pious 
 Arnolph has halted, and now we are about, 
 in sooth, to reap the virtue of all our labors. 
 Oh! an’ I had been a monk, thou wouldest 
 have had a leader ! ” 
 
 Ilse beat the sides of the patient animal 
 she rode, and Meta toiled after, as well as 
 her trembling limbs permitted. The Knight 
 and the Abbé came last. 
 
 “Thou hast made many of these pious 
 explations, reverend Abbé?” observed the 
 former, when they had risen the hill, which 
 commanded a view of the convent. 
 
 “ Never another. Had not chance made 
 me an innocent participator in the destruc- 
 tion of Limburg, this indignity would have 
 been spared.” 
 
 “How! callest thou a pilgrimage, and 
 prayer at a shrine, an indignity ?—thon, a 
 churchman ! ” 
 
 “Gallant Knight, I speak to thee as to a 
 comrade of many days, and of weary pas- 
 sages; as one enlightened. Thou knowest 
 the constitution of earth, and the divers 
 materials that compose society. We have 
 doctrines for all ; but practices must be mit- 
 igated, like medicaments to the sick. Your 
 pilgrimage is well enough for the peasant, or 
 the citizen, or even for your noble of the 
 Provinces, but their merit is much ques- 
 tioned among us of the capitals—unless, 
 indeed, there should mingle some hope for 
 the future; but penance for deeds accom- 
 plished we hold to be supererogatory.” 
 
 “By my rapier! no such doctrine was in 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 vogue at Rhodes, where all ordinances were 
 much respected, and uniformly admitted.” 
 
 ‘‘ And had ye then these familiar practices 
 of religion in your daily habits, Sir Knight?” 
 
 “TI say not in practice; but ever in ad- 
 mission. Thou knowest the distinction, 
 Sir Abbé, between the purity of doctrine 
 and some constructions of practice.” 
 
 “That doubtless. Were we to tie the 
 gentle down to all the observances and exac- 
 tions of a severe theory, there would grow 
 up numberless inconveniences. For myself, 
 had it been possible to preserve the ecclesias- 
 tical character, without penance under the 
 odium of this unhappy but accidental yisit 
 to our host the Count, I could have dispensed 
 with the last act of the drama.” 
 
 ‘Tis whispered, Herr Latouche, my cousin 
 bethought him, that the presence of an ec- 
 clesiastic might prove a cloak to his inten- 
 tions, and that we owe the pleasure of thy 
 agreeable society to a policy that is deeper 
 than chance ! ” 
 
 Albrecht of Viederbach laughed, as he in- — 
 timated this ruse of Emich ; and his com- 
 panion, who had long perceived how com- 
 pletely he had been the dupe of his host, for 
 in truth he knew nothing previously of the 
 intended assult, was fain to make the best of 
 his situation. He laughed, in his turn, as 
 the loose of principle make light of any mis- 
 adventure that may happen to be the conse- 
 quence of their laxity of morals ; and, press- 
 ing each other, on their several parts in the 
 late events, the two proceeded leisurely to- 
 wards the spot where the Prior and Emich, 
 as leaders of the party, had now come toa halt. 
 We shall profit by the occasion to make some 
 necessary explanations. 
 
 We are too much accustomed in this Prot- 
 estant country to believe that most of the 
 piety of those who profess the religion of Rome 
 consists in externals. When the great anti- 
 quity of this Church shall be remembered, as 
 well as the general tendency, in the early ages, 
 to imitate the forms and habits of their im- 
 mediate predecessors, it should not occasion 
 surprise if some observances were retained, that 
 cannot very clearly be referred, either to apos- 
 tolic authority or to reason. The pro-nulga- 
 tion of abstract truth does not necessarily 
 infer a departure from those practices which 
 have become of value by use, even though 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 they may not materially assist in the attain- 
 ment of the great end. We have inherited 
 many of the vestments and ceremonies which 
 are retained in the Protestant churches, from 
 Pagan priests; nor is there any sufficient 
 motive for abandoning them, so long as they 
 aid the decencies of worship, without weaken- 
 ing its real objects. ‘The Pagans themselves 
 probably derived some of these very practices 
 from those whom we are taught to believe 
 held direct communion with God, and who 
 should have best known in what manner to 
 render human adoration most acceptable to 
 the ruler of the universe. 
 
 In this country, Catholicism, in its limited 
 and popular meaning, is no longer catholic, 
 since it is in so small a minority as to have 
 no perceptible influence on the opinions or 
 customs of the country. The outward sym- 
 pols, the processions, and all the peculiar 
 ceremonies of the Romish Church, are con- 
 fined to the temples, and the eye rarely or 
 never meets any evidence of its existence be- 
 yond their walls. But in Europe the reverse 
 is altogether the case, more particularly in 
 those countries in which the spiritual sway of 
 the head of the Church has not been inter- 
 rupted by any adventitious changes, proceed- 
 ing from political revolutions, or other power- 
 ful causes. The crucifix, the spear, the cock, 
 the nails, and the sponge, are erected at cross- 
 roads,—chapels dedicated to Mary are seen 
 near many a spring, or at the summit of some 
 weary mountain ; while the usual symbols of 
 redemption are found scattered along the 
 highways, marking the site of some death by 
 accident, or the scene of a murder. 
 
 In no part of the other hemisphere are 
 these evidences of faith and zeal more com- 
 mon than in the Catholic cantons of Switzer- 
 land, Hermitages are still frequent among 
 the rugged rocks of that region, and it is 
 usual to see near these secluded abodes a sort 
 of minor chapel, that is termed, in ordinary 
 language, a “station.” These stations are so 
 many tabernacles raised by the way-side, each 
 containing a representation of one of the 
 twelve sufferings of Christ. They are met 
 
 equally on the side of Vesuvius, overlooking 
 
 the glorious sea and land of that unequalled 
 country ; among the naked wastes of the 
 Apennines ; or buried in gorgeous groves ; as 
 accident may have determined their location. 
 
 153 
 
 In some of the valleys of Switzerland, these 
 little tabernacles dot the mountain-side for 
 miles, indicating by zig-zag lines and white 
 walls the path that leads from the village be- 
 neath to some shrine that is perhaps perched 
 on the pinnacle of a naked rock, or which 
 stands on a spur of the nearest range. 
 
 The shrine of Hinsiedeln possessed the usual 
 number of these tabernacles, stretching along 
 the path that communicated with the lake of 
 Zurich. They were designated in the cus- 
 tomary manner ; each alluding to some one 
 of those great personal afflictions that preced- 
 ed the crucifixion, and each having sentences 
 of holy writ, to incite the pious to devotion. 
 Here the pilgrims ordinarily commenced the 
 worship peculiar to the place, and it was here 
 that the Prior now awaited his companions. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ‘¢ Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines, 
 The best were synners grete ; 
 Christ’s vycarr only knowes no synne, 
 Ynne alle thys mortall state.” —CHATTERTON. 
 
 WueEn all were arrived, the pilgrims di- 
 vided themselves along the path, some kneel- 
 ing before one tabernacle, and some at an- 
 other. Ulrike and Lottchen, followed by 
 the pallid Meta, prayed long at each in suc- 
 cession. The other females imitated their 
 example, though evidently with less zeal and 
 earnestness. The Knight of Rhodes and 
 Monsieur Latouche limited their observances 
 to a few genuflexions, and much rapid cross- 
 ing of themselves with the fingers, appearing 
 to think their general professions of faith 
 possessed a virtue that superseded the ne- 
 cessity of any extraordinary demonstrations 
 of piety. Heinrich and the smith were more 
 particular in showing respect for the pre- 
 scribed forms; the latter, who was secretly 
 paid by his townsmen for what he did, feel- 
 ing himself bound in honor to give them the 
 worth of their money, and the Burgomaster, 
 in addition to his looking for great temporal 
 advantages from the whole affair, being much 
 influenced by paternal regard for Duerck- 
 heim. As for Ilse, none was more exact than 
 she; and, we may add, none more ostenta- 
 tious. 
 
 “Hast bethought thee, Dietrich, to say an 
 
754 
 
 extra word in behalf of the general inter- 
 ests?” demanded Heinrich, while he pa- 
 tiently awaited the removal of the other, 
 from before the last tabernacle, in order to 
 resume the post himself. 
 
 “¢ Nay, worshipful Burgomaster ) 
 
 “ Brother Pilgrim, good smith!” 
 
 “Nay, worshipful brother and good Pil- 
 grim, there was no question of this duty in 
 the understanding.” 
 
 “Himmel! Art such a hound, Dietrich, 
 as to need a bribe to pray in thine own in- 
 terest? Do that thou hast promised, for the 
 penance, and in the interest of the monks, 
 and then bethink thee, like an honest artisan, 
 of the town of which thou art a citizen. I 
 never rise from my knees without counting 
 a few beads on the score of Duerckheim, and 
 others for favor on the family of Frey.” 
 
 “T cry you mercy, honorable Heinrich and 
 excellent brother Pilgrim; the wish is rea- 
 sonable, and it shall be performed.” 
 
 The smith then counted off his rosary, 
 making place for the Burgomaster as soon as 
 he could conveniently get through with the 
 duty. Inthe meantime, Arnolph had prayed 
 devoutly, and with sincere mental abasement, 
 before each station. 
 
 The pilgrims then arranged themselves in 
 two lines, a form of approaching the convent 
 of Einsiedeln that is still observed by thon- 
 sands annually ; the men placing themselves 
 on the right of the path in single file, and 
 the females on its left, in a similar order. 
 Arnolph walked ahead, and the whole pro- 
 ceeded. Then began the repetition of the 
 short prayers aloud. 
 
 Whoever has wandered much through this 
 remarkable and wild country, must have fre- 
 quently met with parties of pilgrims, march- 
 ing in the manner described, and uttering 
 their aspirations in the pure air, as they as- 
 cend to, or descend from, the altar of “our 
 Lady of the Snow,” on the Righi, or wend 
 their way among rocky and giddy paths, 
 seeking or returning from some other shrine. 
 We know of no display of human worship 
 that is more touching or impressive than 
 this. ‘The temple is the most magnificent on 
 earth, the air is as limpid as mountain tor- 
 rents and a high region can bestow, while 
 sound is conveyed to the ear in its clearest 
 and most distinct tones, aided perhaps by the 
 
 3 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 echoes of dells that are nearly unfathomable, 
 or of impending masses that appear to prop 
 the skies. Long before the party is seen, the 
 ear announces its approach by the music of 
 the prayers; for music it isin such a place, 
 the notes alternating regularly between the 
 deep bass of the male and the silvery softness 
 of the female voice. 
 
 Such was now the effect produced by the 
 advance of our party from the Palatinate. 
 Father Arnolph gave the lead, and the pow- 
 erful lungs of Heinrich and the smith, though 
 much restrained, uttered the words in tones 
 impressively deep and audible. The response 
 of the women was tremulous, soft, and sooth- 
 ‘ng. in this manner did they proceed for a 
 mile, when they entered the street of the 
 hamlet. 
 
 An express had announced to the com- 
 munity of Einsiedeln the approach of the 
 German penitents. By asingular perversion 
 of the humble doctrines of the founder of 
 the religion, far more importance was at- 
 tached to the expiations and offerings of 
 princes, and of nobles of high degree, than 
 to those which proceeded from sources that 
 were believed to be meaner. All the dwell- 
 ers of the hamlet, therefore, and most of the 
 others that frequented the shrine, were 
 abroad to witness this unexpected procession. 
 The name of Emich was whispered from ear 
 to ear, and many curious eyes sought the 
 form of the powerful baron, under the guise 
 common to the whole party. By general 
 consent, after much speculation, the popular 
 opinion settled on the person of the smith, 
 as on the illustrious penitent; a distinction 
 which Dietrich owed to the strength of his 
 lungs, to some advantage in stature, and par 
 ticularly to the zeal which, as a hireling, he 
 thought it just to throw into his air and 
 manner. 
 
 Among the other traditions that serve to 
 give a popular celebrity to the shrine of our 
 Lady of the Hermits, is one which affirms 
 that, on an occasion it is unnecessary to re- 
 late, the Son of God, in the form of man, 
 visited this favored shrine. He is said to 
 have assuaged his thirst at the fountain 
 which flows, with Swiss purity and profusion, 
 before the door of the building; and as the 
 clear element has been made to run through 
 different metal tubes, it is a custom of the 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 pilgrims, as they arrive, to drink a hasty | impressive, 
 
 swallow at each, in order to obtain the virtue 
 of a touch so revered. There was also a plate 
 of silver, that had marks which were said to 
 have been left by the fingers of Jesus, and to 
 these it was the practice to apply the hand. 
 The former usage is still universal ; though 
 modern cupidity has robbed the temple of 
 the latter evidence of the reputed visit, in 
 consequence of the value of the metal which 
 bore its memorial. 
 
 Arnolph halted at the fountain, and, slowly 
 making its circuit, drank at each spout. He 
 was followed by all of his companions. But 
 he passed the silver plate, and entered the 
 building, praying aloud until his foot was on 
 the threshold. Without stopping, he ad- 
 yanced and knelt on the cold stones before 
 the shrine, fastening his eye the while on the 
 carved image of Mary. The others imitated 
 
 his movements, and, in a few minutes, all 
 were kneeling before the far-famed chapel of 
 the Divine Consecration. 
 
 The ancient church of Hinsiedeln (for the 
 building has since been replaced by another 
 still larger and more magnificent) had been 
 raised around the spot where the cell of Saint 
 Meinard originally stood. The chapel re- 
 puted to have been consecrated by angels, 
 was in this revered cell, and the whole stood 
 in the centre of the more modern edifice. It 
 was small, in comparison with the pile which 
 held it, but of sufficient size to admit of an 
 officiating priest, and to contain many rich 
 offerings of the pious. The whole was en- 
 cased in marble, blackened by time and the 
 exhalations of lamps; while the front, and 
 part of the sides, permitted a view of the 
 interior, through openings that were pro- 
 tected by gratings curiously and elaborately 
 wrought. 
 
 In the farther and dark extremity of this 
 sacred chapel, were the images of the Mother 
 and Child. Their dresses, as is usual at all 
 much-worshipped shrines, were loaded with 
 precious stones and plates of gold. ‘The face 
 of each had a dark and bronzed color, resem- 
 bling the complexion of the far east, but 
 which probably is a usage connected with the 
 association of an origin and destiny that are 
 superhuman. The whole was illuminated by 
 strong lights, in lamps of silver gilt, and the 
 effect, to a mind indisposed to doubt, was 
 
 rah) 
 
 and of a singularly mysterious 
 influence. Such was the shrine of our Lady 
 of the Hermits at the time of our tale, and 
 such it continues to be to this day, with some 
 immaterial additions and changes, that are 
 more the results of time than of opinion. 
 
 We have visited this resort of Catholic 
 devotion in that elevated region of hill and 
 frost ; have strolled, near the close of day, 
 among its numerous and decorated chapels ; 
 have seen the bare-kneed peasant of the 
 Black Forest, the swarthy Hungarian, the 
 glittering-eyed Piedmontese, and the fair- 
 haired German, the Tyrolese, and the Swiss, 
 arrive, in groups, wearied and foot-sore ; have 
 watched them drinking with holy satisfaction 
 at the several spouts, and, having followed 
 them to the front of the altar, have won- 
 dered at the statue-like immovability with 
 which they have remained kneeling, without 
 changing their gaze from that of the un- 
 earthly-looking image that seemed to engross 
 their souls. Curiosity led us to the spot 
 alone, and at no moment of a pilgrimage in 
 foreign lands, that has now extended to years, 
 do we remember to have felt so completely 
 severed from all to which we were most 
 accustomed, as at that hour. The groups 
 arrived in scores, and, without pausing to 
 exchange a greeting, without thought of 
 lodging or rest, each hurried to the shrine, 
 where he seemed embodied with the stone 
 of the pavement, as, with riveted eye and 
 abased mien, he murmured the first prayers 
 of expiation before the image of Mary.—But 
 to return to the narrative. 
 
 For the first hour after the arrival of the 
 expected pilgrims of Duerckheim, not a sign 
 of recognition, or of grace, was manifested in 
 the convent. The officials came and went, 
 as if none but of common character made 
 their expiations; and the fixed eye and 
 swarthy face of the image seemed to return 
 each steady gaze, with supernatural tran- 
 quillity. At length Arnolph arose, and, as 
 if his movements were watched, a bell rang 
 in a distant aisle. A lateral door, which 
 communicated with the conventual buildings, 
 opened, and the whole brotherhood issued 
 through it into the body of the church. 
 Arnolph immediately kneeled again, and, by 
 a sign, commanded his companions to main- 
 tain their places. Though grievously wearied 
 
756 
 
 with their positions, the men complied, but 
 neither of the females had yet stirred. 
 
 The Benedictines of LEinsiedeln entered 
 the church in the order that has been already 
 described in the processions of Limburg. 
 The junior monks came first, and the digni- 
 taries last. In that age, their Abbot was 
 commonly of a noble and ancient, and some- 
 times of a princely house ; for, in maintain- 
 ing its influence, the Church has rarely been 
 known to overlook the agency of those opin- 
 ions and prejudices that vulgarly exist 
 among men. In every case, however, the 
 prelate who presided over this favored com- 
 munity possessed, in virtue of his office, the 
 latter temporal distinction ; being created a 
 mitred Abbot anda prince of the Empire, 
 on the day of his consecration. 
 
 During the slow advance of the long line 
 of monks, that now drew near the shrine, 
 there was a chant in the loft, and the deep 
 organ accompanied the words, in a low key. 
 Even Albrecht and the Abbé were much im- 
 pressed, while Emich fairly trembled, like 
 one that had unwittingly committed himself 
 into the hands of his enemies. 
 
 The head of the train swept round the 
 little chapel, and passed with measured steps 
 before the pilgrims. The Prior and the 
 females only prayed,the more devoutly, but 
 neither the Count nor the Burgomaster could 
 prevent their truant eyes from watching the 
 movement. Dietrich, little schooled in his 
 duties, fairly arose, and stood repeating rev- 
 erences to the whole fraternity, as it passed. 
 When the close drew near, Emich endeavored 
 to catch a glance of the Abbot’s eyes, hoping 
 to exchange one of those secret signs of cour- 
 tesy, with which the initiated, in every class 
 of life, know how to express their sympathies. 
 To his confusion, and slightly to his uneasi- 
 ness, he saw the well-known countenance of 
 Bonifacius, at the side of the dignitary who 
 presided over the brotherhood of Einsiedeln. 
 The glances of these ancient and seemingly 
 irreconcilable rivals were such as might have 
 been anticipated. That of Bonifacius was 
 replete with religious pride, and a resentment 
 that was at least momentarily gratified ; 
 though it still retained glimmerings of con- 
 scious defeat ; while that of Emich was fierce, 
 mortified, and alarmed, all in a moment. 
 
 But the train swept on, and it was not 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 long ere the music announced the presence 
 of the procession in the choir. Then Arnolph 
 again arose, and, followed by all the pilgrims, 
 he drew near to listen to the vespers. After 
 the prayers, the usual hymn was sung. 
 
 ‘‘Himmel! Master brother Pilgrim,” 
 whispered the smith to the Burgomaster, 
 *‘that should be a voice known to all of 
 Duerckheim !” | 
 
 ‘“‘Umph !”—ejacuiated Heinrich, who 
 sought the eye of Emich. ‘‘ These Bene- 
 dictines sing much in the same strain, Herr 
 Emich, whether it be in Limburg, or here in 
 the church of our Lady of the Hermits.” 
 
 ‘‘By my fathers! Master Frey, but thou 
 sayest true! ‘To treat thee as a confidant, I 
 little like this intimate correspondence be- 
 tween the Abbots, and, least of all, to see the 
 reverend Bonifacius enthroned here, in this 
 distant land, much as he was wont to be in 
 our valley. I fear me, Burgomaster, that we 
 have entered lightly on this penance ! ” 
 
 “Tf you can say this, well-born Emich, 
 what should be the reply of one that hath 
 wife and child, in addition to his own person, 
 in the risk ? It would have been better to 
 covet less of Heaven, the least portion of 
 which must naturally be better than the best 
 of that to which we are accustomed on earth, 
 and to be satisfied with the advantages we 
 have. Do you note, noble Count, the 
 friendly manner in which Bonifacius regards 
 us from time to time ?” 
 
 ‘‘His favors do not escape me, Heinrich ; 
 —but peace ! we shall learn more, after the 
 vespers are ended.” 
 
 Then came the soothing power of that re- 
 markable voice. The singer had been pre- 
 sented to the convent of Einsiedeln, by Boni- 
 facius, to whom he was now useless, as a 
 boon that was certain to give him great per- 
 sonal favor: and so it had proved ; for in 
 those communities, that passed their lives in 
 the exercise of the offices of the Church, the 
 different shades of excellence in the execu- 
 tion, or the greater external riches and deco- 
 rations of their several shrines, often usurped 
 the place of a nobler strife in zeal and self- 
 denial. The ceremony now ended, and a 
 brother, approaching, whispered Father Ar- 
 nolph. The latter proceeded to the sacristy, 
 attended by the pilgrims, for it was forbidden, 
 even to the trembling Meta, to seek refresh- 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 ment or rest, until another important duty 
 had been performed. 
 
 The sacristy was empty, and they awaited 
 still in silence, while the music of the organ 
 announced the retiring procession of the 
 monks. After some delay, a door opened, 
 and the Abbot of Einsiedeln, accompanied 
 by Bonifacius, appeared. They were alone, 
 with the exception of the treasurer of the 
 Abbey ; and as the place was closed, the in- 
 terview that now took place, was no longer 
 subject to the yulgar gaze. 
 
 «©Thou art Emich, Count of Hartenburg- 
 
 Leiningen,” said the prelate, distinguishing | 
 
 the noble spite of his mean attire, by a single 
 glance of an eye accustomed to scan its 
 equals ;—‘‘a penitent at our shrine, for 
 wrongs done the Church, and for dishonor to 
 God ?” 
 
 ‘J am Emich of Leiningen, holy Abbot !” 
 
 ‘<< Dost thou disclaim the obligation to be 
 here ?” 
 
 «And a penitent—” the words “‘ for be- 
 ing here ” being bitterly added, in a mental 
 reservation. 
 
 The Abbot regarded him sternly, for he 
 disliked the reluctance of his tongue. 'Tak- 
 ing Bonifacius apart, they consulted together 
 for a few minutes; then returning to the 
 group of pilgrims, he resumed— 
 
 «Thou art now in a land that listeneth to 
 no heresies, Herr von Hartenburg; and it 
 would be well to remember thy vow and thy 
 object. Hast thou aught to say al 
 
 Emich slowly undid his scrip, and sought 
 his offerings among its scanty contents. 
 
 «‘ This crucifix was obtained by a noble of 
 my house, when a crusader. It is of jasper, 
 as thou seest, reverend Abbot, and it is not 
 otherwise wanting in valuable additions.” 
 
 The Abbot bowed in the manner of one in- 
 different to the richness of the boon, signing 
 to the treasurer to accept the gift. There 
 was then a brief pause. 
 
 «his censer was the gift of a noble far 
 less possessed than thee !” said he who kept 
 the treasures of the Abbey, with an emphasis 
 that could not easily be mistaken. 
 
 «Thy zeal outstrippeth the limbs of a 
 weary man, Brother.—Here is a diamond, 
 that hath been heirloom of my house a cen- 
 tury. “Iwas an emperor's gift 1” 
 
 “Tt is well bestowed on our Lady of the 
 
 ToT 
 
 Hermits, though she can boast of far richer 
 
 offerings from names less known than thine.” 
 Emich now hesitated, but only for an in- 
 
 stant, and then laid down another gift. 
 
 «This vessel is suited to thy offices,” he 
 said, ‘‘being formed for the altar’s services.” 
 
 ‘‘ Lay the cup aside,” sternly and severely 
 interrupted Bonifacius : ‘‘it cometh of Lim- 
 burg !” 
 
 Emich colored, more in anger than in 
 shame, however, for in that age plunder was 
 one of the speediest and most used means of 
 acquiring wealth. He eyed the merciless 
 Abbot, fiercely, without speaking. 
 
 ‘‘T have no more,” he said; ‘‘ the wars— 
 the charges of my house—and gold given the 
 routed brotherhood, have left me poor !” 
 
 The treasurer turned to Heinrich, with an 
 eloquent expression of countenance. 
 
 «Thou wilt remember, Master Treasurer, 
 that there is no longer any question of a pow- 
 erful baron,’ said the Burgomaster, “but 
 that the little I have to give, cometh of a 
 poor and saddled town. First we offer our 
 wishes and our prayers,—secondly, we pre- 
 sent, in all humility, and with the wish they 
 may prove acceptable, these spoons, which 
 may be of use in some of thy many ceremo- 
 nies,—thirdly, this candlestick, which though 
 small is warranted to be of pure gold, by jew- 
 ellers of Frankfort :—and lastly, this cord, 
 with which seven cf our chief men have 
 grievously and loyally scourged themselves, 
 in the reparation of the wrong done thy 
 brethren.” 
 
 All these offerings were graciously received, 
 and the monk turned to the others. It is 
 unnecessary to repeat the different donations 
 that were made by the inferiors who came 
 from the costle and the town. That of 
 Gottlob was, or pretended to be, the offend- 
 ing horn, which had so irreverently been 
 sounded near the altar of Limburg, and a 
 piece of gold. The latter was the identical 
 coin he had obtained from Bonifacius, in the 
 interview which led to his arrest; and the 
 other was a cracked instrument, that the 
 roguish cow-herd had often essayed among 
 his native hills, without the léast success. 
 In after-life, when the spirit of religious 
 party grew bolder, he often boasted of the 
 manner in which he had tricked the Bene- 
 dictines by bestowing an instrument so useless. 
 
798 
 
 Ulrike muaue her offering, with sincere and 
 meek penitence. It consisted of a garment 
 for the image of the Virgin, which had been 
 chiefly wrought by her own fair hands, and 
 on which the united tributes of her towns- 
 women had been expended, in the way of 
 ornaments, and in stones of inferior price. 
 The gift was graciously received; for the com- 
 munity had been well instructed in the dif 
 ferent characters of the various penitents. 
 
 “Hast thou aught in honor of Maria?” 
 demanded the treasurer of Lottchen. 
 
 The widowed and childless woman endeay- 
 ored to speak, but her power failed her. 
 She laid upon the table, however, a neatly 
 
 bound and illuminated missal; a cap that. 
 
 seemed to have no particular value, except 
 its tassel of gold and green, and a hunting- 
 horn; all of which, with many others of the 
 articles named, had made part of the load 
 borne on the furniture of the ass. 
 
 «« These are unusual gifts at our shrine 
 muttered the monk. 
 
 “Reverend Benedictine,” interrupted Ul- 
 rike, nearly breathless in the generous desire 
 to avert pain from her friend, ‘they are ex- 
 torted from her who gives, like drops of blood 
 from the heart. This is Lottchen Hinter- 
 mayer, of whom thou hast doubtless heard ?” 
 
 The name of Lottchen Hintermayer had 
 never reached the treasurer’s ear; but the 
 sweet and persuasive manner of Ulrike pre- 
 vailed. The monk bowed, and he seemed 
 satisfied. The next that advanced was Meta. 
 The Benedictines all appeared struck by the 
 pallid color of her cheek, and the vacant, 
 hopeless expression of an eye that had lately 
 been so joyous. 
 
 ‘The journey hath been hard upon our 
 daughter!” said the princely Abbot, with 
 gentleness and concern. 
 
 “She is young, reverend Father,” answered 
 Ulrike; “but God will temper the wind to 
 the shorn lamb.” 
 
 The Abbot looked surprised, for the tones 
 of the mother met his ear with an appeal as 
 touching as that of the worn countenance of 
 the girl. 
 
 “Ts she thy child, good pilgrim ?” 
 
 «‘ Father, she is—Heaven make me. grate- 
 ful for its blessed gift!” 
 
 Another gaze from the wondering priest, 
 and he gave place to the treasurer, who ad- 
 
 29 
 
 3 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 vanced to receive the offering. The frame 
 of Meta trembled violently, and she placed 
 a hand to her bosom. Drawing forth a 
 paper, she laid it simply before the monk, 
 who gazed at it in wonder. 
 
 ‘‘What is this?” he asked. “It is the 
 image of a youth, rudely sketched! ” 
 
 ‘‘It meaneth, Father,” half whispered 
 Ulrike, ‘‘that the heart which loved him, 
 now belongs to God! ” 
 
 The Abbot bowed, hastily signing to the 
 inferior to accept the offering; and he walked 
 aside to conceal a tear that started to his eye. 
 Meta at that moment fell upon her mother’s 
 breast, and was borne silently from the 
 sacristy. 
 
 The men followed, and, with a single ex-. 
 ception, the two Abbots and the treasurer 
 were now left alone. 
 
 “Hast thou an offering, good woman?” 
 demanded the latter of the female who re- 
 mained. 
 
 “ Have I an offering, Father! Dost think I 
 would come thus far with an empty hand? 
 Iam Ilse, Frau Frey’s nurse, that Duerck- 
 heim hath sent on this pilgrimage, as an 
 offering in herself; and such it truly is for 
 frail bones, and threescore and past. We are 
 but poor townspeople of the Palatinate, but 
 then we know what is available at need! 
 There are many reasons why I should come, 
 as thou shalt hear. Firstly, I was in Lim- 
 burg church when the deed was a 
 
 “How! did one of thy years go forth on 
 such an expedition ?” 
 
 «Ay, and on many other expeditions. 
 Firstly, I was with the old Burgomaster, 
 Frau Ulrike’s father, when there was succor 
 sent to Manheim; secondly, I beheld, from 
 our hills, the onset between the Elector’s 
 men and the followers of i. 
 
 ‘‘Dost thou serve the mother of yonder 
 weeping girl?’ demanded the Abbot, cut- 
 ting short the history of Ilse’s campaigns. 
 
 “And the weeping girl herself, reverend, 
 and holy, and princely Abbot, and, if thou 
 wilt, the Burgomaster too, for, at times, in 
 sooth, I serve the whole family.” 
 
 ‘«Canst thou repeat the history of her sor- 
 row 2.” 
 
 “Naught easier, my lord and Abbot. 
 Firstly, is she youthful, and that is an age 
 when we grieve or are gladdened with little 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 759 
 
 events. There lay but a few arrow’s flights 
 between his castle and our unhappy walls.” 
 
 “Had ye good understanding of old, or 
 cometh the present difficulty from long- 
 standing grievances ?” 
 
 «Thou art happy, pious Rudiger, to be 
 locked, as you are, among your frosts and 
 mountains, beyond the reach of noble’s arm, 
 and beyond the desires of noble’s ambition. 
 Limburg and the craving Cou nts have scare 
 known peace since our Abbey’s foundation. 
 Your unquiet baron fills some such agency, 
 in respect to our religious communities, as 
 that which the unquiet spirit of the Father 
 of Sin occupies in the moral world.” 
 
 «And yet, I doubt that the severest blow 
 we are to receive will come from one of our- 
 selves! If all that rumor and missives from 
 the Bishops reveal, be true, this schism of 
 Luther promises us a lasting injury!” 
 
 Bonifacius, whose mind penetrated the 
 future much farther than most of his breth- 
 ren possessed the means of doing, heard this 
 remark gloomily; and he sat brooding over 
 the pictures which a keen imagination pre- 
 sented, while his companion watched the 
 play of his massive features with intuitive 
 interest. 
 
 «Thou art right, princely Abbot,” the for- 
 mer at length replied. “To us, both the 
 future and the past are filled with lessons of 
 deep instruction, could we but turn them to 
 present advantage. All that we know of 
 earth shows that each physical thing returns 
 to its elements, when the object of its crea- 
 tion has been accomplished. ~The tree helps 
 to pile the earth which once nourished its 
 roots ; the rock crumbles to the sand of 
 which it was formed ; and even man turns 
 to that dust which was animated that he 
 might live. Can we then expect that our 
 Abbeys, or that even the Church itself, in its 
 present temporal organization, will stand 
 forever?” 
 
 «‘ Thou hast done well to qualify thy words 
 by saying temporal, good Bonifacius, for if 
 the body decays, the soul remains ; and the 
 essence of our communion is in its spiritual 
 character.” 
 
 “ Hearken, right reverend and noble Ru- 
 diger. Go ask of Luther the niceties of his 
 creed on this point, and he will tell thee, 
 that he is a believer in the transmigration of 
 
 reason; then she is an only child, which is 
 apt to weaken the spirit by indulgence ; 
 next, she is fair, which often tempts the 
 heart into various vanities, and, doubtless, 
 into sorrow, among the others ; then is she 
 foot-sore, a bitter grief of itself ; and, finally, 
 she hath much repentance for this nefarious 
 sin, of which we are not yet purged, and 
 which, unless pardoned, may descend to her, 
 among other bequests from her father.” 
 
 “It ig well. Deposit thy gift, and kneel 
 that I may bless thee.” 
 
 Ilse did as ordered, after which she with- 
 drew, making many reverences in the act. 
 
 As the door closed on the crone, Bonifacius 
 and his brother Abbot quitted the place in 
 company, leaving the monk charged with 
 that duty, to care for the wealth that had 
 been so liberally added to the treasury of 
 Hinsiedeln, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ‘«Tsrael, are these men 
 
 The mighty hearts you spoke of ?"°—ByRon. 
 
 THERE was little resemblance in the char- 
 acters of the two prelates, beyond that which 
 was the certain consequence of their common 
 employment. If Bonifacius was the most 
 learned, of the strongest intellectual gifts, 
 and, in other particulars relating to the mind, 
 of the higher endowments, the princely 
 Abbot of Hinsiedeln had more of those gentle 
 and winning qualities which best adorn the 
 Christian life. Perhaps neither was pro- 
 foundly and meekly pious, for this was not 
 easy to men surrounded by so many induce- 
 ments to flatter their innate weaknesses : but 
 both habitually respected the outward observ- 
 ances of their Church ; and both, in degrees 
 proportioned to the boldness and sagacity of 
 their respective intellects, yielded faith to 
 the virtue of its offices. 
 
 On quitting the sacristy, they proceeded 
 through the cloisters, to the abode of the 
 chief of the community. Here, closeted to- 
 gether, there was a consultation concerning 
 their further proceedings. : 
 
 ‘¢Thou wert of near neighborhood,” said 
 he of our Lady of the Hermits, “to this hardy 
 baron, Brother Bonifacius?” 
 
 ‘©Ag thou mayest imagine by the late 
 
760 
 
 souls—that he keepeth this spiritual charac- 
 ter, but in a new dress; and that, while he 
 consigns the ancient body to the tomb, 
 he only lightens the imperishable part of 
 a burden that has grown too heavy to be 
 borne.” 
 
 ‘But this is rank rebellion to authority, 
 and flat refusal of doctrine !” 
 
 ‘Of the former, there can be no question ; 
 and, as to our German regions, most seem 
 prepared to incur its risks. In respect to 
 doctrine, learned Rudiger, you now broach a 
 thesis which resembles the bells in your con- 
 vent towers—on which, there may be rung 
 endless changes, from the simple chime to a 
 triple-bob-major.” 
 
 “Nay, reverend Bonifacius, thou treatest 
 a grave subject with irreverent levity. If we 
 are to tolerate these innovations, there is an 
 end of discipline ; and I marvel that a digni- 
 fied priest should so esteem them!” 
 
 “Thou dost me injustice, Brother; for 
 what I urge is said in befitting seriousness. 
 The ingenuity of man is so subtle, and his 
 doubts, once engaged, so restless, that when 
 the barrier of discipline is raised, I know no 
 conclusion for which a clever head may not 
 find a reason. Has it never struck thee, 
 reverend Rudiger, that a great error hath 
 been made from the commencement, in 
 founding all our ordinances to regulate 
 society, whether they be of religious or of 
 mere temporal concerns ?” 
 
 “'Thou asketh this of one who hath been 
 accustomed to think of his superiors with 
 respect.” 
 
 ‘“‘T touch not on our superiors, nor on their 
 personal qualities. What I would say is, that 
 our theories are too often faulty, inasmuch 
 as they are made to suit former practices; 
 whereas, in a well-ordered world, methinks 
 the theory should come first, and the usage 
 follow as a consequence of suitable conclu- 
 sions.” 
 
 ‘This might have done for him who pos- 
 sessed Eden, but those who came after were 
 compelled to receive things as they were, 
 and to turn them to profit as they might.” 
 
 “Brother and princely Abbot, thou hast 
 grappled with the dilemma! Could we be 
 placed in the occupancy of this goodly 
 heritage, untrammelled by previously en- 
 deared interests, seeing the truth, naught 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 would be easier than to make practice con- 
 form to theory; but, being that we are, priest 
 and noble, saint and sinner, philosopher and 
 worldling, why, look you, the theory is driven 
 to conform to thé necessities of practice; and 
 hence doctrine, at the best, is but a convert- 
 ible authority. As a Benedictine, and a 
 lover of Rome, I would that Luther had been 
 satisfied with mere changes in habits, for 
 these may be accommodated to climates and 
 prejudices ; but when the flood-gates of dis- 
 cussion are raised, no man can say to what 
 extent, or in what direction, the torrent will 
 flow.” 
 
 “Thou hast little faith, seemingly, in the 
 quality of reason ?” 
 
 Bonifacius regarded his companion a mo- 
 ment with an ill-concealed sneer. 
 
 “Surely, holy Rudiger,’ he gravely re- 
 plied, ‘‘ thou hast not so long governed thy 
 fellows to put this question to me! Hadst 
 thou said passion, we might right quickly 
 come to an understanding. ‘The corollaries 
 of our animal nature follow reasonably enough 
 from the proposition; but when we quit the 
 visible landmarks of the species, to launch 
 upon the ocean of speculation, we commit 
 ourselves, like the mariner who trusts his 
 magnet, to an unknown cause. He that is 
 a-hungered will eat, and he that is pained 
 will roar; he that hath need of gold will rob, 
 in some shape or other; and he that loveth 
 
 | his ease may prefer quiet to trouble: all this 
 
 may be calculated, with other inferences that 
 follow; but if thou wilt tell me what course 
 the lammergeyer will take when he hath 
 soared beyond the Alps, I will tell thee the 
 direction in which the mind of man _ will 
 steer when fairly afloat on the sea of specula- 
 tion and argument.” 
 
 ‘The greater the necessity that it should 
 be held in the wholesome limits of discipline 
 and doctrine.” 
 
 “ Were doctrine like our convent walls, all 
 would be well; but being what it is, men be- 
 come what they are.” 
 
 ‘‘How! Dost thou account faith for 
 naught? I have heard there were brothers 
 of deep piety in Limburg. Father Johan, 
 who perished in defence of thy altars, may 
 go near to be canonized—to say nothing of 
 the excellent Prior, who is here among us on 
 this pilgrimage.” 
 
 ———— 
 
 _—" 4 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. "61 
 
 “ T count faith for much, excellent Brother; 
 and happy is he who can satisfy uneasy 
 - seruples by so pleasant an expedient. Brother 
 Johan may be canonized, if our Father of 
 Rome shall see fit, hereafter, and the fallen 
 Limburg will have reason to exult in its 
 member. Still I do not see that the unhappy 
 Johan proveth aught against the nature of 
 doctrine, for, had he been possessed of less 
 pertinacity in certain of his opinions, he 
 would have escaped the fate which befell 
 him.” 
 
 «Ts martyrdom a lot to displease a Chris- 
 tian? Bethink thee of the Fathers, and of 
 their ends!” 
 
 ‘‘Had Johan bethought him more of their 
 fortunes, his own might have been different. 
 Reverend Abbot, Johan hath long ceased to 
 be a riddle to me;—though I deny not his 
 utility with the peasant and the fervent. But 
 him thou hast last mentioned ”—here Boni- 
 facius leaned a cheek on his hand, and spoke 
 like one that was seriously perplexed—* him 
 thou namedst last—the sincere, and wise, and 
 simple Arnolph, have I never truly compre- 
 hended! That man appeareth equally con- 
 tented in his cell or in his stall; honored 
 equally in his office and on this weary pil- 
 grimage; whether in prosperity or in misfort- 
 une, he is ever at peace with himself and 
 with others. Here is truly a man that no 
 reasoning of mine hath been able to fathom. 
 He is not ambitious, for thrice hath he refused 
 the mitre! He is sustained by no wild visions 
 or deceitful fantasies, like the unhappy Jo- 
 han; nor yet is he indifferent to any of the 
 more severe practices of his profession, all of 
 which are observed quietly, and seemingly 
 with satisfaction. He is learned, without the 
 desire of discussion; meek, amid a firmness 
 that would despise the stake; and forgiving 
 to a degree that might lead us to call him 
 easy, but fora consistency that never seemeth 
 to yield to any influence of season, events, or 
 hopes. Truly, this is a man that baffleth all 
 my knowledge! ” 
 
 Bonifacius, in despite of his acquirements, 
 his masculine intellect, and his acquaintance 
 with men, did not perceive how much head- 
 mitted against himself, by expressing his own 
 inability to fathom the motives of the Prior. 
 Nor did the enigma appear to be perfectly 
 intelligible to his companion, who listened 
 
 curiously to the other’s description of their 
 brother, much as we hearken to a history of 
 inexplicable or supernatural incidents. 
 
 ‘«<T have heard much of Arnolph,” observed 
 the latter, ‘‘ though never matter so strange 
 as this;—and yet most seem to love him!” 
 
 “ Therein is his power!—though often most 
 opposed to me, I cannot say that I myself am 
 indifferent to the man.—By our patron saint! 
 I sometimes fain believe I love him! He was 
 among the last to desert our altars, when 
 pressed by this rapacious noble, and his credu- 
 lous and silly burghers ; and yet was he fore- 
 most to forgive the injury when committed. 
 But for him, and his high influence with the 
 Bishops, there might have been blows for 
 blows spite of this schism that hath turned so 
 many in Germany from our support.” 
 
 « And since thou speakest of the schism, in 
 what manner dost thou account for an inno- 
 vation so hardy in a region that is usually 
 esteemed reasonable ? There must have been 
 relaxation of authority, for there is no ex- 
 pedient so certain to prevent heresies, or 
 errors of doctrine, as a Church well estab- 
 lished and which is maintained by fitting 
 authority.” 
 
 Bonifacius smiled, for even in that early 
 age, his penetrating mind saw the fallacy to 
 which the other was a dupe. 
 
 ‘‘This is well when there is right; but 
 when there is error, Brother, your established 
 authority does not uphold it. The provisions 
 that are made in thy comfortable abode to 
 keep the cold air out, may be the means of 
 keeping foul air within.” 
 
 ‘‘In this manner of reasoning, truth can 
 
 have no existence!—T'hou dreadest doctrine, 
 and thou wilt naught of discipline! ” 
 “Nay, holy Rudiger, in the latter thou 
 greatly misconceivest me. Of discipine I 
 would haye all that is possible; I merely deny 
 that it is any pledge of truth. We are apt 
 to say that a well-ordained and established. 
 Church is the buttress of truth, when expe- 
 rience plainly showeth that this discipline 
 doeth more harm to truth than it can ever 
 serve it, and that simply because there can 
 be but one truth, while there are many modes 
 of discipline; many establishments therefore 
 uphold many errors, or truth hath no identity 
 with itself.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou surprisest me!—Whatever may 
 
762 
 
 come of this heresy, as yet I know of but one 
 assault on our supremacy; and that cometh 
 of error, as we come of right.” 
 
 ‘«This is well for Christendom, but what 
 sayeth it for your Moslem—your fire-worship- 
 per—your Hindoo—your Pagan, and all the 
 rest; any one of whom is just as ready to 
 keep out error by discipline, as we of Rome ? 
 Until now, certainly among Christians this 
 evil hath not often happened, though even we 
 are not without our differences; but looking 
 to this advance of the printing art, and of the 
 variety of opinions that are its fruits, I fore- 
 see that we are to have many opposing ex- 
 pedients, all of which will be equally well 
 pondered and concocted to keep in truth, and 
 to exclude error. This pretension of high 
 authority, and of close exactions to maintain 
 purity of doctrine, and what we deem truth, 
 is well, as the jurists say, guoad hoc; but 
 touching the general question, I donot see its 
 virtue. Now that men enlist with passion in 
 these spiritual discussions, we may look to see 
 various modifications of the Church, all of 
 which will be more or less buttressed by 
 human expedients, as so many preservatives 
 of truth; but when the time shall come that 
 countries and communities are divided among 
 themselves on these subtleties, look you, ex- 
 cellent Rudiger, we may expect to shut in as 
 much error by our laws and establishments, 
 as we shall shut out. I fear heaven is a goal 
 that must be reached by a general mediation, 
 leaving each to give faith to the minor points 
 of doctrine, according to his habits and 
 abilities.” 
 
 ««'This savors more of the houseless Abbot 
 than of him who lately had an obedient and 
 flourishing brotherhood!” Rudiger some- 
 what piquantly rejoined. 
 
 Bonifacius was unmoved by the evident 
 allusion, regarding his companion coolly, 
 and like a man who too well knew his own 
 superiority easily to take offence. His reply, 
 however, would probably have been a retort, 
 notwithstanding this seeming moderation, 
 had not a door opened, and Arnolph quietly 
 entered the room. 
 
 The reception of the Prior, by his two 
 mitred brethren, proved the deep respect 
 which had so universally been won by his 
 self-denying qualities. In the great struggle 
 of the conflicting egotism which composes, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 in a great degree, the principle of most of 
 the actions of this uneasy world, no one is. 
 so likely to command universal esteem, as he 
 who appears willing to bear the burden of 
 life, with as little as possible of its visible 
 benefits, by withdrawing himself from the 
 arena of its contentions. In the great. mass, 
 an occasional retreat from the struggle, on 
 the part of those who have few means of 
 success, creates but little feeling of any sort, 
 perhaps ; but when he that hath undeniable 
 pretensions exhibits this forbearance, he may 
 be certain of obtaining full credit for all 
 that he possesses, and more, even to the ad- 
 mission of qualifications that would be ve- 
 hemently denied had he taken a different 
 attitude in respect to his rivals. Such was, 
 in some measure, the position of Father 
 Arnolph ; and Bonifacius himself never 
 struggled to resist his natural impulses to- 
 wards the pious monk, having a secret per- 
 suasion that none of his virtues, however 
 publicly proclaimed, were likely to militate 
 against his own interests. 
 
 “Thou art much wearied, holy Prior,” 
 said the Abbot of Einsiedeln, offering a seat 
 to his visitor, with assiduous and flattering 
 attention. 
 
 << T count it not, princely Rudiger ; having 
 lightened the way with much good discourse, 
 and many prayers; my pilgrims are faint, 
 but, happily arrived, they are now fairly 
 committed to the convent’s hospitality.” 
 
 “Thou hast with thee, reverend Arnolph, 
 a noble of high esteem in thy German coun- 
 try!?” | 
 
 ‘Of ancient blood, and of great worldly 
 credit,” returned the Prior, with reserve. _ 
 
 « What thinkest thou, Brother Bonifacius ? 
 —It may not be prudent to make any very 
 public manifestations of a difference of treat- 
 ment, between those who seek our shrine ; 
 but do not hospitality and such courtesy as 
 marketh our own breeding, demand some 
 private greetings. Is my opinion suitable, 
 worthy Arnolph ?” | 
 
 “ God is no respecter of persons, Abbot. of 
 Einsiedeln.” 
 
 “Can any know ths better than our- 
 selves? But we pretend not to perfection, 
 nor can our judgments be set up as decisive 
 of men’s merits, farther than belongs to.our 
 office. Ours is an hospitable order, and we 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 are priveleged to earn esteem, and therefore 
 doth it appear to me not only becoming but 
 politic to show a noble of this repute, and at 
 4 moment when heresy runs mad, that we do 
 not overlook the nature of his sacrifices. 
 Thou art silent, Brother Abbot!” 
 
 The Abbot of Limburg listened with secret 
 satisfaction, for ‘he had views of his own that 
 the proposal favored. He was therefore 
 about to give a ready assent, when Arnolph 
 interrupted him. , 
 
 «J have nobles among my followers, right 
 reverend Abbot,” said the latter, earnestly ; 
 “and Ihave those that deserve to be more 
 than noble, if deep Christian humility can 
 claim to be so esteemed. I did not come to 
 speak of Emich of Hartenburg, but of spirits 
 sorely bruised, and to beg of thee, in their 
 behalf, a boon of churchly offices.” 
 
 “Name it, Father, and make certain of its 
 
 fair reception. But it is now late, and no 
 rites of the morrow need defeat. our inten- 
 tions of honest hospitality.” 
 «They in whose behalf I would speak,” 
 said Arnolph, with apparent ‘mortification, 
 “are already without ; if admitted, they may 
 best explain their own desires.” 
 
 The Abbot signified a ready assent to re- 
 ceive these visitors, and the Prior hastened to 
 admit them, anticipating a wholesome effect 
 on the minds of his superiors from the inter- 
 view. When he reappeared, he was followed 
 by Ulrike, Lottchen, and Meta, who came 
 after him in the order named. Both the 
 Abbots seemed surprised, for it exceeded 
 their confidence in themselves to admit vis- 
 itors of that sex, at an hour so equivocal, in 
 the more retired parts of the buildings, and 
 they counted little on the boldness of inno- 
 cence. 
 
 «This exceedeth usage!” exclaimed the 
 superior of Hinsiedeln. “ It is true, we 
 have our privileges, pious Arnolph, but they 
 are resorted to with great discretion.” 
 
 “Fear not, holy Abbot,” Arnolph calmly 
 answered, “this visit may at least claim to 
 be as harmless as that of those thou hast just 
 named. Speak, virtuous Ulrike, that thy 
 wishes may be known.” 
 
 Ulrike crossed herself, first casting a tear- 
 ful eye on the pallid and depressed coun- 
 tenances of her daughter and of her friend. 
 
 ‘©We are come to your favored shrine, 
 
 763 
 
 princely.and pious Abbot,” she slowly com- 
 menced, like one who feared the effects of 
 her own words, “penitents, pilgrims, and 
 acknowledging our sins, in order to expiate a 
 great wrong, and to implore Heaven’s par- 
 don. The accomplishment of our wishes 
 hath been promised by the Church, and by 
 one greater than the Church, should we 
 bring with us contrite hearts. In this be- 
 half, then, we have now little to offer, since 
 our pious guide, the beloved and instructed 
 Arnolph, hath taught us to omit no observ- 
 ance, nor hath he, in any particular, left us 
 ignorant of the state of mind that best befit- 
 teth our present undertaking. But, right 
 reverend Abbot i 
 
 «Proceed, daughter ; thou wilt find: all 
 here ready to listen,” said Rudiger, kindly, 
 observing that her words became choked, 
 and that she continued to cast uneasy looks 
 at Lottchen and Meta. The voice of the 
 speaker sank, but her tones were still more 
 earnest, as: she continued. 
 
 “Holy Benedictine, aided by Heaven’s 
 kindness, I will. In all that toucheth our 
 pilgrimage and its duties, we confide entirely 
 to the pious counsel of the learned and 
 godly Arnolph, and he will tell you that 
 naught material hath by us been neglected. 
 We have prayed, and confessed, and fasted, 
 and done the needed expiations, in a meek 
 mood, and with contrite hearts. We come 
 then to ask a service of this favored commu- 
 nity, which, we trust, may not be refused to 
 the Christian.” ; 
 
 The Abbot looked surprised, but he awaited 
 her own time to continue. 
 
 “It hath pleased Heaven to call away one 
 dear to us, at a short summons,” proceeded 
 Ulrike, not without casting another fearful 
 glance at her companions ; “and we would 
 ask the powerful prayers of the community 
 of Our Lady of the Hermits, in behalf of his 
 soul.” 
 
 ‘«‘Of what age was the deceased ?” 
 
 ‘<< (tod summoned him, reverend Abbot, in 
 early youth.” 
 
 «By what means did he come to his 
 end ?” 
 
 « By a sudden display of Heaven’s power.” 
 
 “Died he at peace with God and the 
 Church ?” 
 
 ‘‘Wather, his end was sudden and calami- 
 
764 
 
 tous. None can know the temper of the 
 mind at that awful moment.” 
 
 “ But did he live in the practices of our 
 faith? Thou comest of a region in which 
 there is much heresy, and this is an hour 
 in which the shepherd cannot desert the 
 fold.” | 
 Ulrike paused, for the breathing of her 
 friend was thick and audible. 
 
 «‘Princely Abbot, he was a Christian. I 
 held him myself at the font. This humble 
 penitent and pilgrim gave him birth, and to 
 this holy Prior hath he often confessed.” 
 
 The Abbot greatly disliked the manner of 
 the answers. His brow drew over the eyes, 
 and he turned jealous glances from Arnolph 
 to the females. 
 
 “*Canst thou vouch for thy penitent ?” he 
 demanded abruptly of the Prior. 
 
 ‘«« His soul hath need of masses.” 
 
 “ Was he tainted with the heresy of the 
 times ?” 
 
 Arnolph paused. His mind underwent a 
 severe struggle, for, while he distrusted the 
 opinions of Berchthold, he knew nothing 
 that a scrupulous and conscientious judge 
 covld fairly construe into unequivocal evi- 
 dence of his dereliction from the Church. 
 
 <‘Thou dost not answer, Prior ! ” 
 
 “‘God hath not gifted me with knowledge 
 to judge the secret heart.” 
 
 “Ha! this grows plainer. Reverend Bon- 
 ifacius, canst thou say aught of this ?” 
 
 The dethroned Abbot of Limburg had, at 
 first, listened to the dialogue with indiffer- 
 ence. ‘There had even been an ironical smile 
 on his lips while Ulrike was speaking, but 
 when Arnolph was questioned, it disappeared 
 in an active and a curious desire to know in 
 what manner a man so conscientious would 
 extricate himself from the dilemma. Thus 
 directly questioned, however, he found him- 
 self obliged to become a party in the dis- 
 course. 
 
 “I well know, princely and pious Rudiger, 
 that heresy is rife in our misguided Palatin- 
 ate,” he answered; ‘‘else would not the 
 Abbot of Limburg be a houseless guest in 
 Hinsiedeln.” 
 
 “Thou hearest, daughter! The youth is 
 suspected of having died an enemy of the 
 Church.” 
 
 “The greater the errors, if this be true, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 the greater the need that prayers be offered 
 for his soul.” 
 
 ‘‘This would be truly aiding Lucifer in 
 his designs to overturn our tabernacles, and 
 a weakness not to be indulged. Iam grieved 
 to be compelled to show this discipline to 
 one of thy seeming zeal, but our altars can- 
 not be defiled by sacrifices in behalf of those 
 who despise them. Was the youth connected 
 with the fall of Limburg ? ” 
 
 “ Father, he died in the crush of its roofs,” 
 said Ulrike, in nearly inaudible syllables ; 
 ‘‘and we deem the manner of his end another 
 reason why extraordinary masses should be 
 said in his behalf.” 
 
 ‘Thou askest an impossibility. Were we 
 to yield to our pity, in these cases of desper- 
 ate heresies, it would discourage the faithful, 
 and embolden those who are already too in- 
 dependent.” 
 
 ‘‘ Father!” said a tremulous and low, but 
 
 eager voice. 
 
 ‘‘What wouldst thou, daughter ?” asked 
 the Abbot, turning to Lottchen. 
 
 ‘‘ Listen to a mother’s prayer. The boy 
 was born and educated in the bosom of the 
 Church. For reasons at which I do not re- 
 pine, Heaven early showed its displeasure on 
 his father and on me. We were rich and we 
 became poor; we were esteemed of men, and 
 we learned how much better is the support 
 of God. We submitted; and when we saw 
 those who had once looked up to us in re- 
 spect, looking down upon us in scorn, we 
 kissed the child, were grateful, and did not 
 repine. Even this trial was not sufficient— 
 the father was taken from his pains and 
 mortifications, and my son put on the livery 
 ofa baron. I will not say—I cannot say— 
 my strength would have been equal to all this 
 of itself. An angel, in the form of this con- 
 stant and excellent woman, was sent to sus- 
 tain me. Until the late wrong to Limburg, 
 we had our hopes and our hours of happi- 
 ness—but that crime defeated all. My boy 
 hath perished by a just anger, and I remain 
 to implore Heaven in his behalf. Wilt thou 
 refuse the Church’s succor to a childless 
 mother, who, this favor obtained, will be 
 ready to bless God and die ?” 
 
 “ Thou troublest me, daughter ; but I beg 
 thee to remember I am but the guardian of a 
 high and sacred trust.” 
 
 ———— 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 765 
 
 “Father!” said a second and still more 
 thrilling appeal. 
 
 « Thiou too, child ! What wouldst thou of 
 one but too ready to yield, were it not for 
 duty ?” 
 
 Meta had kneeled, and throwing back the 
 hood of her pilgrim’s mantle, the change left 
 her bloodless face exposed to the Abbot’s 
 view. The girl seemed severely struggling 
 with herself; then, finding encouragement 
 in her mother’s eye, she was able to continue. 
 
 “J know, most holy and very reverend 
 Abbot,” she commenced, with an evidently 
 regulated phraseology, like one who had been 
 ‘nstructed how to make the appeal, “ that 
 the Church hath need of much discipline ; 
 without which there would be neither dura- 
 tion nor order in its existence. This hath 
 my mother taught me; and we both admit 
 it, and prize the truth. For this reason have 
 we submitted ourselves to all its ordinances, 
 never failing to confess and worship, or to 
 observe fasts and saints’ days. Even the 
 ~mitred Bonifacius, there, will not deny this, 
 as respects either of us i 
 
 Meta delayed, as if inviting the Abbot to 
 gainsay her words if he could ; but Bonifa- 
 cius was silent. 
 
 ‘© Ag for him that hath died,” resumed 
 Meta, whose voice sounded like plaintive 
 music, ‘ this is the truth. He was born a 
 
 Christian, and he never said aught in my 
 presence against the Church. Thou canst 
 not think, father, that he who sought my es- 
 teem, would strive to gain it by means that 
 no Christian girl could respect? That he 
 was often at the Abbey confessionals I know; 
 and that he was in favor with this holy Prior, 
 thou hast but to ask, to learn. In going 
 against Limburg, he did but obey his lord, as 
 others have often done before; and surely all 
 that fall in battle are not to be hopelessly 
 condemned. If there is heresy in Germany, 
 is it not enough of itself to endure so great a 
 danger in life, that the dead must be aban- 
 doned to their past acts, without succor from 
 the Church, or thought from their friends ? 
 Oh! thou wilt think better, holy but cruel 
 Rudiger, of thy hasty decision. Give us 
 then masses for poor Berchthold ! I know 
 not what Bonifacius may have said to thee in 
 secret, concerning the youth, but this much 
 would I say in his favor, in presence of the 
 
 assembled earth — more pious son, more 
 faithful follower, a braver at need, a more 
 gentle in intercourse, a truer or kinder heart 
 than his, does not now beat in the Palati- 
 nate! I know not but I exceed the limits of 
 a maiden’s speech, in what I say,” continued 
 the girl ardently, a bright spot shining on 
 each cheek amid her tears, “‘ but the dead 
 are mute, and if those they loved are cold to 
 their wants, in what manner is Heaven to 
 know their cruel need ?” 
 
 “ Good daughter,” interrupted the Abbot, 
 who began to feel distressed, “we will think 
 of this. Go thou to thy rest,—and may God 
 bless thee !” 
 
 ‘Nay, I cannot sleep while the soul of 
 Berchthold endures this jeopardy ! Perhaps 
 the Church will demand penance in his be- 
 half. My mother Lottchen is no longer 
 young and strong, as formerly ; but thou 
 seest, Father, what I am ! Name what thou 
 wilt—pilgrimages, fasts, stripes, prayers, or 
 vigils, are alike to me. Nay, think not that 
 I regard them! Thou canst not bestow more 
 happiness than to give this task for poor 
 Berchthold’s sake. Oh! hadst thou known 
 him, holy monk, so kind with the weak, so 
 gentle with us maidens, and so true, thou 
 wouldst not, nay, thou couldst not heed an- 
 other prayer to grant the masses ee 
 
 «¢ Bonifacius, is there no means of justify- 
 ing the concession ? ” 
 
 «‘T would speak to thee, Brother,” an- 
 swered he of Limburg, who, with a thought- 
 ful countenance, awaited his companion a 
 little apart from the others. 
 
 The conference of the two prelates was 
 short, but it was decisive. 
 
 “Take away the child,” said the Abbot 
 Rudiger, to Ulrike ; “the weight of Heaven’s 
 displeasure must be borne.” 
 
 The Prior sighed heavily ; but he signed 
 for the females to obey, like one who saw the 
 uselessness of further entreaties. Leading 
 the way, he left the Abbot’s abode, his com- 
 panions following ; nor did a murmur escape 
 either while giving this proof of patient sub- 
 mission. It was only when Ulrike and Lott- 
 chen had reached the open air that they 
 found the helpless girl they supported was 
 without sensibility. As fits of fainting had 
 been common of late, her mother felt no 
 great alarm, nor was it long before all the 
 
766 
 
 female pilgrims sought the pillows they so 
 much needed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 ‘Fy, uncle Beaufort ! I have heard you preach, 
 That malice was a great and grievous sin.” 
 —King Henry VI. 
 
 THE social character of a Benedictine com- 
 munity has been mentioned in one of the 
 earlier chapters. ‘That of Einsiedeln, though 
 charged with the worship of altars especially 
 favored, formed no exception to the general 
 rule. If anything, the number of distin- 
 guished pilgrims that frequented its shrine, 
 readered it liable to more than usual de- 
 mands on its hospitality; demands that 
 were met by a suitable attention to the rules 
 of the brotherhood. Even Loretto has its 
 palace for the entertainment of such princes 
 as can descend from their thrones to kneel in 
 the ‘santa casa ;” for policy, not to speak 
 of a more generous motive, requires that the 
 path should be smoothed to those devotees 
 who are unaccustomed to encounter diffi- 
 culties.. In conformity with a rule of their 
 order, then, though dwelling in the secluded 
 and wild region already described, the fra- 
 ternity of our Lady of the Hermits, had their 
 Abbot’s abode, their lodgings for the stranger, 
 and their stores of cheer, as well as their cells 
 and their religious rites. 
 
 It was about three hours after the inter- 
 view related in the last chapter—a time that 
 brings us near the turn of the night—that 
 we shall return to the narrative. The scene 
 is a banqueting-hall, or, to speak in more 
 measured phrase, a private refectory, in 
 which the princely Abbot was wont to enter- 
 tain those in whose behalf he saw sufficient 
 reasons to exercise more than ordinary atten- 
 tion and favor. ‘here was no great show of 
 luxury in the ordinary decorations of the 
 place, for a useless display of its means 
 formed no part of the system of a commu- 
 nity that chiefly existed by the liberality of 
 the pious. Still the hall was as well arranged 
 as comported with the rude habits of the age, 
 in that secluded region—habits that con- 
 sulted the substantial portion of human en- 
 joyments far more than those elaborate and 
 effeminate inventions, which use has since 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 rendered nearly indispensable to later gen- 
 erations. ‘The floor was of tile, not very 
 nicely polished ; the walls were wainscoted 
 in dark oak ; and the ceiling had a rude at- 
 tempt to represent the supper given at the 
 marriage of Cana, and the miracle of the 
 wine. Notwithstanding it was midsummer, 
 a cheerful fire blazed in a chimney of huge 
 dimensions ; the size of the apartment and 
 the keen air of the mountains rendering such 
 an auxiliary not only agreeable, but neces- 
 sary. ‘The board was spacious and well cov- 
 ered, offering a generous display of those 
 healthful and warm liquors, which have so 
 long given the Rhine additional estimation 
 with every traveller of taste. 
 
 Around the table were placed the Abbot, 
 and his unhoused peer, Bonifacius ; a favor- 
 ite or two of the community of Einsiedeln ; 
 with Emich, the Knight of Rhodes, the 
 Abbé, Heinrich Frey, and the smith. The 
 former were in their usual conventual robes ; 
 while the latter were confounded, so far as 
 externals were concerned, in their dresses of 
 pilgrims. Deitrich owed his present advan- 
 tage altogether to the fortuitous circumstance 
 of being found in so good company, divested 
 of the usual distinguishing marks of his rank. 
 If Bonifacius was at all aware of his charac- 
 ter, indifference’ or policy prevented its ex- 
 posure. 
 
 Had one been suddenly introduced to this 
 midnight scene, he would scarce have recog- 
 nized the weary penitent and the reproving 
 churchman, in the jovial cheer and boon com- 
 panionship of the hour. The appetite was 
 already more than satisfied, and many a glass 
 had been quaffed in honor of both hosts and 
 and guests, ere the precise moment to which 
 we transfer the action of the tale. ee 
 
 The princely prelate occupied the seat of 
 honor, as became his high rank, while Boni- 
 facius was seated at one elbow, and the Count 
 of Hartenburg at the other. The great con- 
 
 sideration due to the first, as well as to his 
 
 personal character and mild manners, had 
 served to preserve all outward appearances of 
 amity and courteous intercourse between his 
 neighbors, neither of whom had as yet suf- 
 fered the slightest intimation of their former 
 knowledge of each other to escape him. This 
 polite duplicity, which we have reason to 
 think is of very ancient origin, and in which 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 Albrecht of Viederbach and Monsieur La- 
 couche assisted with rare felicity, aided in 
 curbing the feelings of their inferiors, who 
 being less trained in the seemliness of decep- 
 tion, might otherwise have given vent to 
 some of their bodily pains by allusions of an 
 irritating and questionable nature. 
 
 <-Thou findest our liquors palatable ? ” 
 courteously observed the Abbot, as we shall, 
 par. excellence, NOW distinguish him of Hin- 
 siedeln. “This of the silver cup, cometh from 
 the liberality of thy late Elector, who had oc- 
 casion to send votive offerings, in behalf of 
 the illness of one of his family, to our Lady 
 of the Hermits, and who had the grace to ac- 
 company the memorial to the convent treasury 
 by this sign of private regard ; and that thou 
 seemest most to relish, is a neighborly boon 
 from our Brother of Saint Gall, than whom 
 more generous churchman does not wear a 
 cowl. Thou knowest, son, that the matter 
 of good wine hath long been the subject of 
 especial care with that thriving brother- 
 hood.” 
 
 «s Thou overratest my knowledge of history, 
 princely Abbot,” returned Emich, setting 
 down the glass, however, in a manner to 
 show that his familiarity with good liquors 
 might safely be assumed. “ We of the lower 
 countries waste but little time on these 
 studies, trusting chiefly to those who dwell 
 at the universities for the truth of what we 
 hear. If he of Saint Gall dispenseth much 
 of this goodly liquor, certes it were well that 
 our spiritual guardians sent us, on occasions, 
 to make our pilgrimages in that region, which 
 cannot be far from this, unless my geography 
 is greatly in fault.” 
 
 «Thou couldest not have better divined, 
 hadst thou been a doctor of Wittenberg, or of 
 Rome itself! Considering our mountain 
 paths, and the insufficiency of the bridges 
 and other conveniences, it may require two 
 suns to urge a beast from our convent gate 
 to that of our brother of Saint Gall, though, 
 on emergencies, we have succeeded, by means 
 of faithful footmen, in getting tidings to 
 their ears within the day and night. Saint 
 Gall is a wealthy and well-bestowed Abbey, 
 of very ancient existence, and of much re- 
 pute as the haven of letters, during the 
 darkest period, learned Bonifacius, of our 
 more modern times ; though the late increase 
 
 167 
 
 of its town, and the growing turbulence of 
 the times, have not permitted it to escape, 
 with impunity, from the dangers that now 
 beset all of Rome.” 
 
 This was the first allusion which had been 
 made to the events that had so singularly 
 brought the present company together ; and, 
 but for the address and self-command of 
 Bonifacius, it might have brought on a dis- 
 cussion that would not have proved agree- 
 able. 
 
 ‘Saint Gall and its merits are unknown 
 to none who wear the frock of Saint Bene- 
 dict,” he said, with admirable composure. 
 «¢Thou hast well said that its walls were, for 
 many ages, the sole protectors of learning 10 
 our Europe; for without the diligence and 
 fidelity of its Abbots and brotherhood, much 
 that is now preserved and prized would have 
 been irretrievably lost to posterity and to 
 ourselves.” 
 
 ‘<T doubt not, reverend Benedictine,” ob- 
 served Emich, speaking courteously across 
 the Abbot to Bonifacius, much as a well-bred 
 guest at board addresses a convive to whom 
 he is otherwise a stranger, ‘“‘that this rare 
 taste in liquors, of which there has just been 
 question, is the fruit of the excellent knowl- 
 edge which you extol ?” 
 
 «That is a point I shall not hastily 
 decide,” returned Bonifacius, smiling. ‘It 
 may be so, for we have accounts of sore dis- 
 cord between Saint Gall and others even of 
 the Church, touching the uses and qualities 
 of their wines.” 
 
 ‘“That have we, and right faithfuily re- 
 corded!” rejoined the Abbot. ‘* There was 
 the war between the Prince Bishop of Basle 
 and our brethren of Saint Gall, that led to 
 sore contentions and heavy losses.” 
 
 <¢ How ! did the desire to partake urge our 
 Rhenish prelate to push adventure so far as 
 to come this distance in quest of liquor ?” 
 
 «¢T hou art in error, son pilgrim, concern- 
 ing the nature of Saint Gall’s stores. We 
 have vineyards, it is true, among these 
 mountains, as witness those on the shores of 
 the neighboring lake of Zurich, as well as 
 others that might be named; but our coun- 
 try wines will warm the blood of peasant 
 only. He that hath tasted better, seldom 
 fills his cup with liquor that comes from any 
 region this side the farther border of Swabia 
 
768 
 
 —your vines of the Rheingau in specialty ; 
 whereas the territories of Saint Gall lie still 
 farther from those favored countries than we 
 ourselves.” 
 
 ‘You have need to explain, princely Ab- 
 bot ; for that the Baslois should come in our 
 direction, in quest of good liquor, is clear 
 enough, whereas the war you have named 
 would have sent him farther from his 
 object.” 
 
 ‘““Thou hast not come hither, son, without 
 marking the course of the Rhine, on whose 
 banks thou hast so long journeyed. This 
 sreat stream, though so turbulent and dan- 
 gerous among the mountains, is of much use 
 in procuring our supplies. By means of the 
 lake of Constance, and the lower river, 
 heavy burthens arrive at the very territory of 
 our sister Abbey ; and the dispute to which 
 there has been allusion, came of the fact that 
 the right reverend prelate of Basle would fain 
 have demanded toll on the purchases of the 
 Abbey. Thou mayest remember, brother,” 
 looking toward Bonifacius, ‘‘ that when both 
 were tired of blows, the good Bishop sent to 
 demand ‘What the Virgin had done, that 
 the churchmen above should slay her 
 people?’ and that he received for a merry 
 answer the question of, ‘What has Saint 
 Gall done, that thou shouldest stop his 
 wines 2?” 
 
 The listeners laughed, in low simpers, like 
 men amused with this characteristic nara- 
 tive; for such incidents were yet too recent 
 to excite much other reflection, even among 
 churchmen, than what was connected with 
 the vulgar temporal interests of the incident. 
 
 ‘“‘ By the Magi! holy and princely Abbot, 
 thy tale giveth additional flavor!” said 
 Emich, who greatly enjoyed the quarrel ; ‘it 
 moreover serveth to shut out thoughts that 
 come from aching bones and weary feet.” 
 
 ‘«Thy pilgrimage, son, will bring its re- 
 wards as well as its pains. Should it bea 
 means of removing thee, for a time, from the 
 heresies of Germany, and of placing thee and 
 thine in more friendly communion with the 
 Church, the toil will not be lost.” 
 
 ““As such do I esteem the duty,” returned. 
 
 Emich, tossing off his glass, after steadily 
 regarding the liquor a moment by the fire- 
 light. “Saint Gall had the right of the 
 matter ; and he who would not take up arms 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 for this, did not deserve to wear them. How, 
 now, Herr Frey! Thou art silent ?” 
 
 ‘* Not more so, I trust, nobly-born Emich, 
 than becometh one on a pilgrimage ; and 
 one who hath need to bethink him of his 
 duties, lest his town should have cause to 
 reproach him with negligence.” 
 
 ‘*God’s truth, Master Burgomaster! If 
 any here have reason to bethink them of 
 Duerckheim, it is the city’s sovereign and 
 lord. So cheer up, and let us lighten the 
 load we carry, always under the favor and 
 good graces of this hospitable and well-en- 
 dowed brotherhood.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou art a servitor of the Cross ?” de- 
 manded the Abbot of Albrecht of Vieder- 
 bach, beckoning the Knight to come nearer. 
 
 “An indifferent one, princely and pious 
 Rudiger, and, I might say, one that hath 
 ylelded to the seductions of company and 
 good fellowship, not to speak of the force of 
 blood ; else would he have been spared this 
 explation.” | 
 
 “Nay, I name not thy pursuit with the 
 intent to reproach,” interrupted the cour- 
 teous prelate. “Such liberty does not be- 
 come hospitality. We make a difference 
 within these walls between the confessional 
 and the board.” | 
 
 ‘<The distinction is just, and promises per- 
 petuity and lasting respect to our faith, spite 
 of all heresies. The rock on which this 
 Brother Luther and his followers will split, 
 holy Abbot—at least, it so seemeth to an un- 
 instructed capacity—is the desire to refine 
 beyond men’s means of endurance. Relig- 
 ion, like chivalry, is good in its way; but nei- 
 ther the priest nor the knight can bear his 
 armor at all times and seasons. Your schis- 
 matic hath the desire to convert the layman 
 into a monk, whereas the beauty of creation 
 is its order ; and he that is charged with the 
 cure of souls, is sufficient for his object, 
 without laying this constant burthen on the 
 «shoulders of him that hath already more of 
 temporal cares than he can bear.” 
 
 ‘‘Were others more of thy mind, son, we 
 should have less trouble, and better disci- 
 pline. Our altars are not useless, and if they 
 who frequent them, could be content to think 
 that we are sufficient for their safety, the 
 world would be saved much disputation and 
 haply some shedding of blood. But with 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER., 
 
 these safe and creditable opinions, Sir Knight 
 and Pilgrim,” continued the Abbot, dropping 
 his voice to a more confidential key, ‘‘ it may 
 be permitted me to express surprise, that I 
 see thee one of a penitence commanded for 
 violence done a convent !” 
 
 Albrecht of Viederbach shrugged his 
 shoulders, and glanced meaningly toward his 
 cousin. 
 
 «¢ What will you, right noble and reverend 
 Prelate |—We are but the creatures of acci- 
 dent. There is respect due to fellowship and 
 hospitality, to say naught of the claims of 
 blood and kindred. The evil turn of the 
 Rhodian warfare, some longings to look again 
 at our German fields, for the father-land 
 keeps its hold of us more particularly in ad- 
 versity, with the habits of an unsettled exist- 
 ence, served to lead me to the castle of Hart- 
 enburg ; and fairly entered, it will excite no 
 wonder that the guest was ready to lend his 
 sword, in a short foray, to the host. These 
 sallies, as thou well knowest, princely Rudi- 
 ger, are not so rare as to be deemed mira- 
 cles.” 
 
 “ What thou sayest is true,” returned the 
 Abbot, always speaking as it were aside to 
 the Knight, and manifesting no great sur- 
 prise at this avowal of principles, that were 
 common enough in that age, and which have 
 descended in a different form to our own, 
 since we daily see men, in the gravest affairs 
 of a nation, putting their morality at the dis- 
 posal of party, rather than incur the odium 
 of being wanting im this species of social 
 faith. ‘‘ What thou sayest is very true, and 
 may well furnish thy plea with the Grand 
 Master. Thou mayest on many accounts, 
 too, find this pilgrimage wholesome.” 
 
 ‘<PDoubt it not, reverend Abbot. We had 
 little time during the siege, to pay due atten- 
 tion to the rites ; and the general looseness 
 of our lives, since driven from the island, has 
 left long arrears to settle ; a fact that I en- 
 deavor to remember now.” 
 
 «« And thy associate-—he of gentle mien ; 
 ‘hath he not also connection with the 
 Church ?” 
 
 Albrecht turned to whisper the reply. 
 
 «Tig but one that circulates under the 
 frock, holy Benedictine—a youth that hath 
 been the dupe of Lord Emich ; for to speak 
 thee fair, my cousin wanteth not of the pol- 
 
 769 
 
 icy necessary to his condition and to the 
 habits of sage government.” 
 
 The Abbot smiled in a way to show a good 
 intelligence between him and his companion. 
 After this, they talked apart earnestly for a 
 while, beckoning Monsieur Latouche to make 
 one of their party, after sundry glances in 
 his direction. In the meantime, the general 
 discourse proceeded among the other guests. 
 
 ‘¢T was sorrowed to hear, reverend Bene- 
 dictine,”’ proceeded the Count, purposely 
 avoiding the eye of Bonifacius, by addressing 
 himself to one of the brotherhood of Ein- 
 siedeln, “that thy community hath refused 
 us masses, for the soul of one that fell in 
 that unhappy dispute which is the cause of 
 our present pleasure, in being in so goodly 
 company. I loved the youth, and would fain 
 deal liberally by those that remember his 
 present necessities.” 
 
 ‘‘ Hath the matter been fairly put to those 
 having the right to decide ?” demanded the 
 monk, showing by the direction of his eye, 
 that he meant his superior. 
 
 « They tell me it hath, and put touchingly; 
 but without success. I trust there has been 
 no hostile interference in this affair, which 
 concerneth no less than a soul, and ought to 
 be dealt by tenderly.” 
 
 ‘«“T know of but one, and that is the 
 Father of Evil himself, that hath an enmity 
 to souls!” answered the monk, with very 
 honest surprise—‘‘ As for us, it is our pleas- 
 ure to be of use on all such occasions ; and 
 that especially when the request is preferred 
 by friends of the deceased, that are worthy 
 of so much higher favor.” 
 
 ‘Dost thou call those who overturn 
 altars,” said Bonifacius, sternly, and with 
 great firmness of voice,—‘‘who visit the 
 temple with the armed hand, and who defy 
 the Church, worthy of her favors ! ” 
 
 «Reverend Abbot ! =e 
 
 ‘< Nay, let him give his humor vent,” said 
 Emich, proudly—‘ the cold air and a roofless 
 head are apt to move the temper. I would 
 fain have met thee, Bonifacius, in amity, as 
 should have been the case, after our solemn 
 treaty, and all the reparations that are made; 
 but the desire to rule, it would seem, does 
 not abandon thee, even in banishment !” 
 «‘Thou art deceived in imagining that I 
 shall forget myself, or my office, rade Emich ; 
 vv 
 
770 
 
 —the question put was to the Benedictine, 
 and not to thee.” 
 
 ‘Then let the Benedictine answer. I ask 
 thee, Father, is it becoming or just, that the 
 soul of a youth of good repute, of moral life, 
 and of reasonable earthly hopes, should be 
 refused aid, on the mere grudge.of ancient 
 hostility, or haply that there were some pas- 
 sages at his death, that might have been bet- 
 ter avoided ?” 
 
 “The Church must judge for itself, noble 
 Pilgrim, and decide on those rules which 
 regulate its course!” 
 
 ‘By the sainted eleven thousand !—thou 
 forgettest, that all usages have been respected, 
 and that the masses are not asked as the 
 beggar imploreth alms, but that fairly 
 counted gold is proffered in behalf of the 
 youth. If enough has not been done in this 
 way, I swear to thee, Bonifacius, since it 
 would seem thy influence here is so strong, 
 that on my return there shall be further 
 offerings on his account. Berchthold was 
 very dear to me, and I would not have it said 
 that all memory of the boy is lost beneath 
 the ashes of Limburg.” 
 
 Though both in their several ways were 
 irascible, violent, and unaccustomed to con- 
 trol, neither Emich nor Bonifacius was want- 
 ing in that species of self-command, which 
 is so necessary to men intrusted with the 
 eare of important interests. They had early 
 learned to bring feeling more or less in sub- 
 jection to their policy ; and though not quite 
 equal toa cold and managed display of indif- 
 ference on such subjects as too closely crossed 
 their views, it required a certain combination 
 of excitement to induce either, unnecessarily, 
 to betray his true emotions. Their personal 
 intercourse had, in consequence of this af- 
 fected moderation, been less violent and 
 wrangling than would otherwise have proved, 
 for it did not often happen that both found 
 themselves wrought up to the point of explo- 
 sion, precisely at the same instant ; and he 
 that happened to remain the coolest, stood 
 as a check on the passions of him who had 
 momentarily forgotten appearances. But 
 for this fact, the ill-timed and ill-worded 
 question of the Count might have produced 
 an immediate rupture, to the injury of the 
 pilgrims’ interests, and to the great scandal 
 of the brotherhood of Einsiedeln : as it was, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 however, Bonifacius listened with outward 
 courtesy, and answered more like one that 
 remembered his priestly office than his par- 
 ticular injuries. | 
 
 ‘‘Had it been my good fortune, Herr Pil- 
 grim,” he said calmly, ‘‘to have remained in 
 charge of altars so esteemed, as to be sought 
 on such a behalf, thy application in favor of 
 the youth would have received meet atten- 
 tion; but thou now addressest a prelate, 
 that, like thee, is indebted to the hospitality 
 of these excellent brothers, for a roof to cover’ 
 his head.” 
 
 ‘“Nay, I know not,” added the Count, a 
 little confused by this sudden humility, ‘‘ but 
 rather than desert so young a soul in this 
 strait, and soul of a servitor whom I so much 
 loved, that I would not even now endow 
 some chapel—of a size and decorations suited 
 to his station while living.” 
 
 “On Limburg Hill, Herr Emich ?” 
 
 ‘Nay, excellent Bonifacius, thou forget- 
 test our loving treaty, this pilgrimage, and 
 other conditions honorably fulfilled. Altars 
 can never rise again on Limburg hill, for 
 that were to lose sight of our oaths and prom- 
 ises, which would be acrying sin in both ; 
 but altars and chapels may exist elsewhere. 
 Give us then this grace, and look to our 
 gratitude and justice for the reward.” 
 
 Bonifacius smiled, for he felt his power, 
 and he enjoyed it like a man conscious of 
 having so lately been in the hands of the 
 very baron who now so earnestly beseeched 
 his favor. It may not be easy for one 
 educated in these later days, to understand 
 the singular contradiction which led Emich 
 of Hartenburg, the destroyer of Limburg, 
 thus to entreat a monk; but he who would 
 properly understand his character, must re- 
 member the durability of impressions made 
 in youth, the dread mystery that is attached 
 to the unknown future, and, most of all, the 
 flagrant inconsistencies that are always the 
 fruits of a struggle between principles and 
 interests,—between the force of reason and 
 the desires of selfishness. 
 
 “Thou accusest me unwarrantably, when 
 thou sayest that our oaths or our loving treaty 
 is forgotten, pious Pilgrim,” returned the 
 Benedictine; “ both are respected and well — 
 remembered, as thou wilt see, in the end. 
 But there is a feature in this request of 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 thine, that hath apparently escaped unwit- 
 tingly one of thy known justice and imparti- 
 ality. Thy forester is well known for having 
 greatly affected the heresy that is ripe in 
 Germany 2 
 
 “‘ Nay, Bonifacius, here must be an error,” 
 —interrupted the Count; “thou hast his 
 very mother in our pilgrimage ; and dost 
 think a proselyte of Luther would undertake 
 so grievous pain to satisfy Rome?” 
 
 “We speak of the child, and not of the 
 parent, Herr Pilgrim. Had all that were 
 trained in better principles observed the 
 opinions of their fathers, our age would have 
 been spared this heresy. Of the boy’s irrev- 
 erence there can be little doubt, since mine 
 own ears have been my witnesses.” 
 
 ‘‘ How, hast thou ever shrived the youth, 
 reverend Abbot ?” demanded Emich in sur- 
 prise. “I did not think thee of so great 
 condescension to one of his hopes, nor—by 
 the mass! did I think the youth so weak as 
 to touch on disputed points at the confes- 
 sional!” 
 
 “ There are other acknowledgments made, 
 Herr Pilgrim, than those which are heard in 
 the Church, or under the cloak of her mys- 
 teries. There was formerly a question be- 
 tween us, noble Count, amicably settled, and 
 in a merry manner that need not now be 
 named.” 
 
 ‘Touching certain vineyards! ” rejoined 
 Emich, laughing. “The fact is not so dis- 
 tant as to be forgotten, though neither my 
 cousin nor this good Abbé proved as stanch 
 in that matter as had been expected!” 
 
 «Thy forester did better service. Thou 
 mayest also remember there were certain dis- 
 cussions then had, and that the bold boy 
 ventured on a comparison of the tree trim- 
 med of its useless branches, and the tree suf- 
 fered to stand in its deformity.” 
 
 «Wilt thou abandon a soul to jeopardy for 
 speech light as this, Herr Bonifacius? God’s 
 justice! this promiseth but little in mine 
 own behalf, at some future day. Bercht- 
 hold, heated and warm in the interest of his 
 lord, threw out hints that might otherwise 
 have been spared; moreover, the greater the 
 sinner, Father, the greater need of masses 
 and prayers.” 
 
 “This will not I gainsay—my objection 
 goeth no farther than to urge that those who 
 
 U7) 
 
 are willing to live by the counsels of Luther, 
 should be also willing to seek salvation by 
 his means.” 
 
 ‘‘Friends and pilgrims,” said the Abbot 
 of Einsiedeln, approaching the table, from 
 which he had retired a little, to converse 
 more freely with the Abbot and the Knight 
 of Rhodes—‘“‘ the hour is at hand which has 
 been set to celebrate an early mass in behalf 
 of this pilgrimage. The bell is giving the 
 first summons, and it is meet that we retire 
 to prepare ourselves for the duty.” 
 
 At this interruption, Bonifacius, who saw 
 a storm gathering, gladly arose, and instantly 
 withdrew ; the rest dropped off, according 
 to their several conditions ; Emich and lis 
 cousin retiring with the leisure of men more 
 accustomed to make others wait, than to 
 hastening their movements to the injury of 
 their own convenience. 
 
 After perusing this scene, we admonish 
 the reader to spare his remarks until the sub- 
 ject has been well pondered in his mind. In 
 portraying what passed in the private refec- 
 tory of the convent of our Lady of the Her- 
 mits, we wish to convey no censure on any 
 particular persuasion, or sect, or oraer of 
 Christians, but simply to exhibit the habits 
 and opinions of the age in which the individ- 
 uals of this legend existed. Let those who 
 are disposed to be hypercritical, or censorious 
 in their remarks, coolly look around them, 
 and, first making the necessary allowances 
 for the new aspects of society, put the ques- 
 tion, whether contradictions as apparent, in- 
 consistencies nearly as irreconcilable with 
 truth, and selfishness almost as gross and as 
 unjust, are not now manifest equally among 
 the adherents of Rome and the proselytes of 
 Luther, as any that have been here repre- 
 sented. We may claim to have improved on 
 the opinions and practices of our predecessors, 
 but we are still far from being the consistent 
 and equitable creatures that, it is to be 
 hoped, we are yet destined to become. 
 
72 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 ‘‘ Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.”’ 
 —King Henry VI. 
 
 AMONG the expiations prescribed to the 
 pilgrims of Duerckheim and Hartenburg, 
 there had been included an especial and early 
 morning seryice, the one to which they were 
 now summoned. Time had been allowed the 
 weaker portion of the party to rest, while 
 stronger had been employed in the manner 
 described in the preceding chapter. Certain 
 self-inflicted stripes it was taken for granted 
 had been duly bestowed, at different periods, 
 during the long journey from the Palatinate. 
 
 It was an hour after the separation of the 
 Abbey guests that the procession of Benedic- 
 tines swept out of the cloisters into the body 
 of the church. Though far from being a 
 community remarkable for the austerity of 
 its practices, it was not unusual for monks 
 of all orders, to quit their pallets on extra- 
 ordinary occasions, and to break the stillness 
 of night with the music and service of the 
 altar. When the spirit comes thus fresh 
 from repose, and in a disposition suited to 
 the object, into the immediate presence of 
 the Deity, incense and praise so free from the 
 dross of humanity, must come nearer to that 
 high purity which adorns the worship of 
 angels than at any other that can ascend 
 from man, since it is at such a moment that 
 all least feel the burthen of their corporeal 
 adjunct. 
 
 Hven in the daily parochial duty, the 
 good Catholics still observe a uniformity and 
 rigidity of practice that are unknown even 
 in this land of Puritan origin. The church- 
 bell is heard in every village, with the first 
 dawn of light; at indicated hours, all within 
 hearing of its sound are admonished to recall 
 their thoughts from earth, by addressing a 
 prayer to God; and with the close of day, 
 the flock is once again summoned to the 
 fold, at the service of vespers. These are 
 beautiful and touching memorials of our 
 duty, and when practised in sincerity, can- 
 not fail to keep the mind in better subjection 
 to the great authority that directs all our 
 destinies. In countries where the husband- 
 men dwell together in villages, the .practice 
 18 easy, and we hold its loss to be one of the 
 greatest disadvantages of our own diffuse 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 distribution of rural population; a distribu- 
 tion which is also the reason why we must 
 forever be wanting in several other features 
 of social intercourse, that give to life more 
 or less of its poetical charm. Happily there 
 are on the other hand, accompanying advan- 
 tages that perhaps more than serve as offsets 
 to this, as to most other similar anomalies in 
 our usages. 
 
 The arrangements of a Benedictine chapel, 
 and the decorations of its altars, together 
 with the manner in which the brotherhood 
 occupy their stalls in the choir, have been 
 too often mentioned in these pages, to re- 
 quire repetition. Long accustomed to these 
 exercises, the monks were early in their 
 places, though they for whom the mass was 
 to be said were not at all as punctual. 
 
 Ulrike and Lottchen, with the rest of the 
 females, entered the church in a body, while 
 the men as is usual in matters that touch the 
 finer feelings, were the last. Emich and the 
 Burgomaster, however, finally. made their 
 appearance followed by their companions, 
 the whole betraying by their drowsy air, that 
 they had been endeavoring to sleep off the 
 
 late repast, and to recover from their fatigue. 
 
 During the mass, the companions of Lott- 
 chen and Ulrike exhibited exemplary devo- 
 tion, and a close attention the service; but 
 the gaping of the Count and his circle, the 
 wandering eyes, and finally the profound re- 
 pose of several, sufficiently showed that the 
 ethereal part of their natures was altogether 
 unequal to the mastery of that which was 
 material. 
 
 There was a procession from the choir to 
 the shrine, and prayers were said, as on the 
 previous day, with the eyes of all riveted on 
 the unearthly countenance of Maria. As each 
 was left to judge for himself of the manner in 
 which he discharged his particular duties, 
 there was a very sensible difference in the 
 time occupied by the several devotees, in the 
 performance of the common vows. ‘The 
 females appeared to be embodied with the 
 stone, and there were entire minutes during 
 which their motionless forms would have 
 seemed to be as inanimate as the image on 
 which they gazed, but for the heaving of a 
 breast, or an occasional tremor,—outward 
 and visible signs of the workings of the spirit 
 within. Meta kneeled between her mother 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 773 
 
 and Lottchen, her whole soul apparently en- 
 grossed in devotion. As she studied the 
 bright eye that gleamed upon her from the 
 depths of that mysterious chapel, illuminated 
 as it was by gorgeous and bright lamps, her 
 fancy transformed the image into a being 
 sainted and blessed by the choice of God; 
 and her own gentle spirit clung to the delu- 
 sion, as one replete with a hope to cheer her 
 own desolation. She thought of the future, 
 and of the grave; of the rewards of the just, 
 and of Heaven; of that endless eternity and 
 its fruition in which she confided,—and the 
 ties of earth began sensibly to lessen. There 
 was a holy desire to be at rest. But, not- 
 withstanding the spiritual nature of her em- 
 ployment, the form of Berchthold, gay in the 
 green garb of a forester, with laughing eye, 
 light step, and cheerful voice, mingled in all 
 the pictures of her imagination. Now he 
 appeared a saint, robed and bearded, as she 
 had been wont to see those holy men repre- 
 sented in works of art, and yet, by a contra- 
 diction wrought by her own heart, always 
 bright and youthful ; and now she thought 
 him gifted with wings, and united to the 
 beings of that heavenly choir which had so 
 many representatives around her suspended 
 between the roof and the pavement of the 
 edifice. Singular as it may seem to some of 
 our readers, so busy and so alluring was the 
 working of her imagination at this thrilling 
 moment, that the mourning and affectionate 
 girl had rarely spent an hour of more holy 
 enjoyment than this which she passed before 
 the shrine of our Lady of the Hermits. 
 
 Very different were the sensations of Lott- 
 chen. Her griefs were those in which the 
 fancy had no share. She wept for the child 
 to which she had given birth ; for the stay of 
 her age, and for the pride of her life. No 
 fancy could betray the imagination of a 
 mother, nor could any workings of the mind 
 convert the sad reality into aught but the 
 bitter truth. Still Lottchen found conso- 
 lation in her prayers. Religious faith was 
 active, though imagination slumbered ; for 
 nothing can be more different than the delu- 
 sions of the one, and the deep-sustained con- 
 victions of the other ; and she was able to 
 find a solace for her sorrow, by looking with 
 calm, Christian hope beyond the interests of 
 life. 
 
 The sentiments and feelings of Ulrike dif- 
 fered from those of her friend only in the 
 degree, and in the peculiarity of those cir 
 cumstances which directed her maternal so- 
 licitude to a still living object. But Ulrike, 
 kind, true, and warm of heart, had tenderly 
 regarded the lost Berchthold. Had there 
 been no other motive than the fact of his 
 being the offspring of Lottchen, she could 
 not have been indifferent to him ; but, accus- 
 tomed, as she had been for years, to look for- 
 ward to his union with Meta, she felt his loss 
 little less than she would have mourned over 
 that of a child of her own. ; 
 
 Not so with Heinrich. The bold and 
 spirited support he received from Berchthold 
 during the assault, had sensibly won upon his 
 esteem, for the affinities between the brave 
 are amongst the strongest ; but the Burgo- 
 master had not passed a life in the indulgence 
 of a passion so engrossing, and so incurable, 
 as the love of gain, readily to cast aside all 
 his intentions and objects, at the impulse of 
 a purely generous feeling. He would freely 
 have given of his beloved stores to the youth ; 
 but to bestow Meta was, in his eyes, to bestow 
 all, and, under his habits, it seemed to be 
 giving gold without an equivalent, to give 
 his daughter’s hand to a penniless husband. 
 There are some who accumulate for the 
 advantages that are incidental to wealth ; 
 others hoard under the goadings of an ab- 
 stract and nearly inexplicable passion ; while 
 another set heap together their means,. as 
 boys roll up snow, with a delight in witness- 
 ing how large a mass may be collected by 
 their agency. Heinrich was of the latter 
 class, subject, however, to a relish for the 
 general results of wealth, and, like all men 
 who deem money as an end and not as a 
 means, he was in the practice of considering 
 the last measure of his policy, which was in- 
 tended to double the stock by the marriage 
 of his daughter, as the happiest and the 
 greatest stroke of a fortunate and prosperous 
 life. And yet Heinrich Frey had his mo- 
 ments of strong natural feeling, and the 
 manner in which Meta mourned for the 
 death of Berchthold touched him, to a degree 
 that might have disposed him to say he re- 
 gretted the fate of his young lieutenant as 
 much on her account as on his own. It is 
 more than probable, however, could Bercht- 
 
774 
 
 hold have been suddenly restored to life, 
 that the Burgomaster would have returned to 
 his former mode of thinking, and would have 
 thought the resuscitation of the young for- 
 ester sufficient, of itself, to assuage the grief 
 of a whole family. 
 
 Heinrich and the Count were among the 
 
 first to quit their suppliant attitudes before. 
 
 the shrine. ‘They had each said the required 
 number of prayers, and brushing their knees, 
 the two pilgrims strolled away, deeper into 
 the body of the church, like men well satis- 
 fied with themselves. But, while so ready to 
 give relief to his own bones, the Burgomas- 
 ter kept a vigilant eye on Dietrich, who, be- 
 ing a hired penitent, was expected to give 
 Duerckheim the full worth of its money, in 
 the way of mortifications and aves. 
 
 Most of the lights in the choir had been 
 extinguished, and the aisles of the edifice 
 were dimly visible, by means of a few scat- 
 tered candles, that burned almost without 
 ceasing, before the altars of different subor- 
 dinate chapels. As they walked down the 
 great aisle, Emich slowly laid a hand on the 
 shoulder of his companion, seeming to invite 
 his close attention, by the grave and meaning 
 manner of the action. 
 
 **T could wish that our poor Berchthold, 
 after all, had the virtue of masses from these 
 servitors of our Lady of the Hermits!” said 
 the Count. ‘‘If there be especial savor in 
 any of this description of prayers, methinks 
 it must be among men who watch a shrine of 
 which they tell all these miracles! ” 
 
 ‘Your wish, nobly born brother Pilgrim 
 and friend, is but the expression of mine 
 own. ‘T’o own the truth, I have thought of 
 little else, while going through the aves, but 
 to devise the means of persuading the holy 
 Abbot, at a reasonable rate, to change his 
 mind, and honestly to let the youth’s soul 
 benefit by his intercessions.” 
 
 “Thou hast not well bethought thee alto- 
 gether, friend Heinrich, of thine own errand 
 here!” 
 
 ‘<Sapperment! What would you, Herr 
 Emich, from a man of my years and educa- 
 tion? One gets to be so ready with the 
 words by oft repeating, that going through 
 the beads is much like tapping with a finger 
 while the eve looks over an account. But to 
 speak of the boy—were we to bid higher for 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 these masses, it might raise the present price, 
 and we be uselessly losers; for, as I under- 
 stand the question, the amount given in no 
 manner changes the true value of the inter- 
 cession to the defunct.” 
 
 ‘‘ Heinrich,” returned the Count, mus- 
 ingly, “they say that Brother Luther de- 
 nounces these post-mortem prayers, as vain 
 and of none avail!” | 
 
 “That would alter the case greatly, Lord 
 Count and brother Pilgrim. One could wish 
 to be sure in an affair of this delicacy, for if 
 the monk of Wittenberg hath reason of his 
 side, we lose our gold; and if he hath wrong, 
 the soul of Berchthold may be none the bet- 
 ter for our doubts!” 
 
 “We laymen are sorely pressed between 
 the two opinions, worthy Burgomaster, and 
 I could fain wish that these reformers would 
 bring the question speedily to a conclusion. 
 By the mass! there are moments when I am 
 ready to throw away the rosary, and to take 
 Duke Friedrich of Saxony’s side of the ques- 
 tion, as being the most reasonable and manly. 
 But then, again, should he prove wrong, thou 
 know’st, Heinrich, we lose the benefit of 
 chapels built, of aves said, of gold often paid, 
 and the high protection of Rome! Thou 
 seest the strait of poor Berchthold, and this 
 only for some little freedom of discourse!” 
 
 Heinrich sighed, for he felt the force of 
 the dilemma, and he appeared to ponder well 
 before he answered. Edging nearer to the 
 Count, like a man who felt he was about to 
 utter dangerous sentiments in a delicate sit- 
 uation, he whispered the reply. 
 
 “ Here, Emich,” he said, ‘‘ we are but dust, 
 and that of no very excellent quality. The 
 potter’s ware hath its utility, if well baked 
 and otherwise prepared; but of what use is a 
 man when the breath hath departed ? They 
 say the soul remains, and that it must be 
 cared for, neither of which will I dispute; 
 but is it reasonable to buy out a patent of 
 salvation, for an intangible thing, with cur- 
 rent coin? Look to that knave, the smith! 
 —Your pardon, nobly-born Count—but here 
 hath our town engaged the rogue to do pen- 
 ance in its behalf, and my eyes are no sooner 
 off him than his lips become as stationary as 
 the wings of a mill in a calm. Duty to 
 Duerckheim demands that I should give him 
 a jog, after which, with your gracious leave, 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 we will look further into the philosophy of 
 that in which we were dealing.” 
 
 So saying, the zealous Heinrich hurried 
 down the aisle towards his religious mercen- 
 ary, with a laudable and sensitive watchful- 
 ness over the interests of his constituents. 
 He found the smith perfectly immovable, 
 and it was only by repeated and vigorous 
 shakes, that he succeeded in arousing his 
 auxiliary from a profound slumber. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Emich walked on, still 
 occupied by his reflections. On reaching the 
 gate of the choir, he was about to retrace his 
 steps, when he was privately beckoned, by 
 one whose dusky form appeared at a side 
 door of the church, to draw nearer. On 
 approaching, Emich found that his old rival, 
 Bonifacius, awaited his coming. 
 
 The salutatious of these ancient enemies 
 were courteous, but distant. After a short 
 parley, however, they withdrew in company; 
 and it was past the turn of the day, ere the 
 Count of Hartenburg reappeared among the 
 pilgrims. The details of what passed in this 
 secret conference were never known to the 
 public, though subsequent events gave rea- 
 son to believe that they had reference to the 
 final settlement of the long-contested exist- 
 ence of Limburg in the Jaegerthal. It was 
 known generally in the Abbey, that the Abbot 
 Rudiger made one of the council, and that 
 its termination was friendly. Those who 
 were disposed to be critical, intimated in 
 after days, that in this dispute, as in most 
 others in which the weak and humble lend 
 themselves to the views of the great and the 
 strong, they for whom the battle had been 
 fought, and whose apparently implacable 
 enmities had sown discord among their fol- 
 lowers, suddenly found means to appease 
 their resentments, and to still the tempest 
 they had raised, in such a manner as to suf- 
 fer most of its consequences to fall on the 
 heads of their allies). This result, which 
 appears to be universal with those who have 
 the imprudence to connect themselves in- 
 dissolubly with friends who can irretrievably 
 dispose of their destinies, was perhaps to be 
 looked for, since the man or the community 
 that is so weak as to confide too implicitly 
 in the faith of the powerful, whether con- 
 sidered individually or as nations, may at 
 once consider itself a tool to favor views that 
 
 775 
 
 have little connection with its own interests. 
 In cases of this nature, men are wont to 
 share the fate of the orange-skin, which is 
 
 thrown away after being sucked ; and com- 
 
 i 
 
 munities themselves are apt to undergo some 
 such changes as those which mark the exist- 
 ence of the courser, which is first pampered 
 and caressed, then driven upon the pole, and 
 which commonly ends its career at the plow. 
 
 During the time Bonifacius and Emich 
 were arranging their secret treaty, in the 
 best manner that the former could hope for, 
 in the actual state of Germany, and to thé 
 entire satisfaction of the latter, the ceremon: 
 ies of the expiation proceeded. Aroused 
 from his sleep, Dietrich endeavored to com- 
 pensate for lost time by renewed diligence, 
 and the Burgomaster himself, apprehensive 
 that the negligence of the hireling might 
 bring a calamity on the town, joined himself 
 to the party, with as much zeal as if he had 
 as yet done nothing towards effecting the 
 object of their journey. 
 
 The sun had fallen far towards the west, 
 when the pilgrims finally took their departure 
 for the Palatinate. Father Arnolph was 
 again at their head, and, blessed by the Ab- 
 bot, and in favor with the Church, the whole 
 went their way, if not with lightened hearts, 
 at least with bodies’ much refreshed, with 
 hopes rekindled and with packs materially 
 diminished in size. 
 
 Ulrike and Lottchen paused wher they 
 reached the boundary of the plain, where 
 they could command a parting view of the 
 Abbey. Here they, and Meta, and indeed 
 most of the party, prayed long and fervent- 
 ly; or at least so seemed to pray. When 
 they arose from their knees, the Prior, whose 
 whole time while at the convent had been 
 deeply occupied by religious exercises, and 
 whose spirit had been refreshed, in a degree 
 proportioned to his sincerity and faith, came 
 to the side of the principal group of the fe- 
 males, his eye beaming with holy hope, and 
 his face displaying innate peace of mind. 
 
 “Ye are now, daughters, about to take 
 leave, forever, of the shrine of our Lady of 
 the Hermits,” he said. “If ye have seen aught 
 to lessen the high expectation with which 
 the pious are apt to draw near this sacred al- 
 tar, ascribe it to that frailty which is in- 
 herent in the nature of man ; and if ye have 
 
776 
 
 reaped consolation and encouragement from 
 your offerings and prayers, ye may, with 
 all security, impute it to the goodness of 
 God. And thou, my child,” he added with 
 paternal tenderness, addressing Meta—“ thou 
 hast been sorely tried in thy young life—but 
 God is with thee, as He is in yon blue sky— 
 in that sun of molten gold—in yonder icy 
 pile that props the heavens, and in al His 
 works, that are so glorious in our eyes! 
 Turn with me to yonder mountain, that from 
 its form is called the Mitre. Regard it well 
 —Dost see aught in particular ? ” 
 
 “Tis an abrupt and dreary pile of rock, 
 Father,” answered Meta. 
 
 ‘““Seest thou naught else—on its highest 
 summit?” 
 
 Meta looked intently, for in sooth there 
 did appear on the uppermost pinnacle of the 
 mass an object so small, and so like a line, 
 that, at first, she passed a hand across her 
 eye to remove a floating hair from before her 
 sight. 
 
 “Father!” exclaimed the girl, clasping 
 her hands fervently, “T behold a cross !” 
 
 ‘That rock is the type of God’s durable 
 justice ;—that cross is the pledge of His 
 grace and love. Go thy way, daughter, and 
 have hope.” 
 
 The pilgrims turned and descended the 
 mountain in musing silence. That evening 
 they crossed the lake, and slept within the 
 ancient walls of the romantic town of Rap- 
 perschwyl. On the following day, the pil- 
 grimage being now happily accomplished, 
 they proceeded toward their own distant hab- 
 itations, descending the Rhine in boats. 
 
 ee 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 “* But thou art clay—and canst but comprehend 
 That which was clay, and such thou shalt behold.” 
 
 — Cain. 
 Tue return of the pilgrims was a happy 
 moment to all who dwelt in Duerckheim. 
 Many prayers had been offered in their be- 
 half, during the long absence, and divers 
 vague reports of their progress and success 
 had been eagerly swallowed by their friends 
 and townsmen. When, however, the Burgo- 
 master and his companions were actually seen 
 entering their gates, the good citizens ran to 
 
 WORKS OF PENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 and fro, in troubled delight, and the greet- 
 ings, especially among the gentler sex, were 
 mingled with many tears. Emich and his 
 followers did not appear, having taken a pri- 
 vate path to the Castle of Hartenburg. 
 
 The simple and still Catholic (though wa- 
 
 vering) burghers had felt many doubts con- 
 cerning the fruits of their bold policy, while 
 the explatory penance was pending. Their 
 town was in the midst of a region that is per- 
 haps more pregnant with wild legends, even 
 at this hour, than any other of equal extent 
 in Europe ; and it can be easily conceived 
 that, under such circumstances, the imagina- 
 tions of a people who had been, as it were, 
 nurtured in superstition, would not be likely 
 to slumber. In effect, numberless startling 
 rumors were rife, in the town, the valley, and 
 on the plain. Some spoke of fiery crosses 
 gleaming at night above the walls of the 
 fallen Abbey ; others whispered of midnight 
 chants and spectre-like processions, that had 
 been heard or seen among the ruined towers ; 
 while one peasant, in particular, asseverated 
 that he had held discourse with the spirit of 
 Father Johan. These tales found credulous 
 auditors or not, according to the capacity of 
 the listener ; and to these may be added an- 
 other, that was accompanied by such cireum- 
 stances of confirmation, as are apt momen- 
 tarily to affect the minds of those, even, who 
 are little wont to lend attention to any inci- 
 dents of miraculous nature. 
 _ A peasant, in crossing the chase by a retired 
 path, was said to have encountered Bercht- 
 hold, clad in his dress of green, wearing the 
 hunting-horn and cap, and girded with the 
 usual couteau-de-chasse, or, in fine, much as 
 he was first presented to the reader in our 
 early pages. The youth was described to 
 have been hot on the chase of a roebuck, and 
 flushed with exercise. From time to time, 
 he was said to wind his horn. The hounds 
 were near, obedient as usual to his call, and 
 indeed the vision was described as partaking 
 of most of the usual accompaniments of the 
 daily exercise of the forester. 
 
 Had the tale ended here, it might have 
 passed off among the thousand other similar 
 wonderful sights that were then related in 
 that wonder-loving country, and been forgot- 
 ten. But it was accompanied with positive 
 circumstances, that addressed themselves, in 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 a manner not to be disputed, to the senses. 
 The two favorite hounds of the forester had 
 been missing for some weeks, and, from 
 time to time, cries resembling theirs were 
 unequivocally heard, ringing among the 
 arches of the forest, and filling the echoes of 
 the mountains. 
 
 This extraordinary confirmation of the tale 
 of the boor occurred the week preceding the 
 return ofthe pilgrims. The latter found th eir 
 townsmen under a strong excitement from 
 this cause, for that very day, nearly half the 
 population of Duerckheim had been into the 
 pass of the Haart, which was described in the 
 opening chapter of this work, and with their 
 own ears had heard the deep baying of the 
 hounds. It was only after the first felicita- 
 tions of the return were over, and during 
 the night which followed, that the pilgrims 
 learned this unusual circumstance. It 
 ‘reached Emich himself, however, ere his 
 foot crossed the threshold of his castle. 
 
 On the following day, Duerckheim present- 
 ed a picture of pleased but troubled excite- 
 ment. Its population was happy in the re- 
 turn of their chosen and best, but troubled 
 with the marvellous incident of the dogs, and 
 by the wild rumors that accompanied it ; 
 rumors which thickened every honr by cor- 
 roborating details from different sources. Kar- 
 ly that very morning a new occurrence helped 
 to increase the excitement. 
 
 From the moment that the Abbey was de- 
 stroyed, not an individual had dared to enter 
 its tottering walls. Two peasants of the Jae- 
 gerthal, incited by cupidity, had indeed se- 
 eretly made the attempt, but they returned 
 with the report of strange sights, and of fear- 
 ful groans existing within the consecrated 
 pile. The rumor of this failure, together 
 with a lingering respect for altars that had 
 been so long reverenced, effectually secured 
 the spot against all similar expeditions. ‘The 
 alarm spread to the Heidenmauer, for, by a 
 confusion of incidents, that is far from un- 
 usual in popular rumors, an account of Ilse, 
 concerning the passage of the armed band 
 through the cedars, on the night of the as- 
 sault, coupled with the general distrust that 
 was attached to the place, had been so per- 
 verted and embellished as effectually to leave 
 the ancient camp to its solitude. Some said 
 that even the spririts of the Pagans had been 
 
 U77 
 
 aroused by the sacrilege, from the sleep of 
 centuries, and other argued that, as the Her- 
 mit was known to have perished in the con- 
 flagration, it was a spot accursed. The secret 
 of the true name, and of the history of the 
 Anchorite, was now generally known, and 
 men so blended the late events with former 
 
 offences, as to create a theory to satisfy their 
 own longings for the marvellous ; though, as 
 is usual in most of these cases of supernatural 
 
 agency, it might not have stood the test of 
 a severe logical and philosophical investiga- 
 tion. 
 
 During the night which succeeded the re- 
 turn of the pilgrims, there had been a grave 
 
 consultation among the civic authorities, on 
 
 the subject of all these extraordinary tales and 
 spectacles. The alarm had reached an incon- 
 venient point, and the best manner of quiet- 
 ing it was now gravely debated. There was 
 not a burgher present at the discussion, who 
 
 felt himself free from the general uneasiness ; 
 but men, and especially men in authority, 
 
 ordinarily choose to affect a confidence they 
 are frequently far from feeling. In this spirit, 
 
 then, was the matter discussed and decided. 
 
 We shall refer to the succeeding events for the 
 explanation. 
 
 Just as the sun began to shed his warmth 
 into the valley, the people of Duerckheim, 
 with few exceptions, collected without that 
 
 gate which the Count of Hartenburg had 
 
 so unceremoniously forced. Here they were 
 marshalled by citizens appointed to that duty, 
 in the usual order of a religious procession. 
 In front went the pilgrims, to whom an espe- 
 cial virtue was attached, in consequence of 
 their recent journey ; then came the parochial 
 clergy, with the ordinary emblems of Catholic 
 worship ; the burghers succeeded, and last of 
 all followed the women and children, without 
 much attention to order. When all were duly 
 arranged, the crowd proceeded, accompanied 
 by a chant of the choristers, and taking the 
 direction of Limburg. 
 
 ‘«‘ This is a short pilgrimage, brother Die- 
 trich,” said the Burgomaster, who in his quali- 
 ty of a Christian of a peculiar savor was still 
 associated with the smith, ‘and little likely 
 to weary the limbs ; still had the town been 
 as active and true as we who have visited the 
 mountains, this little affair of a few barking 
 hounds, and some midnight moans in the Ab- 
 
778 
 
 bey ruins, would have been ready settled to 
 our hands. But a town without its head, is 
 like a man without his reason.” 
 
 “¢ You count on an easy deliverance then, 
 honorable Heinrich, from this outcry of devils 
 and unbidden guests! For mine own par- 
 ticular exercises, I will declare that, though 
 sufficiently footsore with what hath already 
 been done, I could wish the journey were 
 longer, and the enemy more human.” 
 
 ‘Go to, smith ; thou art not to believe 
 above half of what thou hast heard. The 
 readiness to give faith to idle rumors formsa 
 chief distinction between the vagrant and 
 the householder—the man of weakness, and 
 the man of wisdom. Wereit decent, between 
 a magistrate and an artisan, I would hold thee 
 some hazards of coin, now, that this affair 
 turns out very different from what thou ex- 
 pectest ; and I do not account thee, Dietrich, 
 an every-day swallower of lies.” 
 
 “Jf your worship would but hint what a 
 fair-dealing man ought in truth to be- 
 lieve % 
 
 “Why, look you, smith, here is all that I 
 expect from the inquiry, though we hunt and 
 exercise for a month. It will be found that 
 there is no pack of hounds at all, loose or in 
 leash, but at most a dog or two, that may be 
 beset or not, as the case shall prove ; next, 
 thou wilt see that this tale of Father Johan 
 chasing young Berchthold, while the boy 
 hunts a roebuck, is altogether an invention, 
 since the monk was the last man to give loose 
 to such a scampering, noisy device ; as for 
 the forester, my life on it, his appearance 
 too will end in footmarks, or perhaps some 
 other modest sign that he desires the masses 
 refused by the Benedictines; for I know not 
 the youth that would be less likely needlessly 
 to disturb a neighborhood, with his own par- 
 ticular concerns, than Berchthold Hinter- 
 mayer, living or dead.” 
 
 A general start, and a common murmur 
 among his companions, caused Heinrich to 
 terminate his explanations. The head of the 
 procession had reached the gorge, and as it 
 was about to turn into the valley, the tramp- 
 ling of many hoofs became audible. Feelings 
 so highly wrought were easily excited to a 
 painful degree, and the common expectation, 
 for the moment, seemed to be some super- 
 natural exhibition. A whirlwind of dust 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER 
 
 swept round the point of the hill, and Count 
 Emich, with a train of well-mounted follow- 
 ers, appeared from its cloud. It was so com- 
 mon to meet religious processions of this 
 nature, that the Count would not have man- 
 ifested surprise, had he been ignorant of the 
 motive which induced the population of 
 Duerckheim to quit its walls; but, already 
 apprised of their intentions, he hastily dis- 
 mounted and approached the Burgomaster, 
 cap in hand. 
 
 “Thou goest to exercise, worshipful 
 Heinrich,” he said, ‘‘and love for my town 
 hath quickened our steps, that no honor or 
 attention should be wanting to those I love,— 
 hast a place among thy pilgrims for a poor 
 baron and his friends ?” | 
 
 The offer was gladly accepted, courage 
 being quickened by every appearance of suc- 
 cor. Emich, though equipped as a cavalier, 
 was therefore willingly received among his 
 fellow-travellers. The delay caused by this 
 interruption ended, the procession, or rather 
 the throng, for eagerness and anxiety and 
 curiosity had nearly broken all order, pro- 
 ceeded toward the ascent of the mountain. 
 
 The ruins of Limburg, then recent and still 
 blackened with smoke, were found in the 
 deep silence of utter desertion, To judge 
 from appearances, not a footstep had trodden 
 them, since the moment when the band of 
 the assailants had last poured through the 
 gates, after a tumultuous triumph which had 
 been so chilled by the awful catastrophe of 
 the falling roofs. If that party had drawn 
 near the Abbey in expectation of a sudden 
 and furious assault, this slowly advanced with 
 a troubled apprehension of witnessing some 
 fearful manifestation of superhuman power. 
 Both were disappointed. The unresisted suc- 
 cess of the assailants is known, and the pro- 
 cession now proceeded with the same impu- 
 nity ; though many a voice faltered in the 
 chant as they entered the spoiled and deso- 
 late church. Nothing, however, occurred to 
 justify their alarm. 
 
 Encouraged by this pacific tranquillity, 
 and desirous of giving proofs of their personal 
 superiority to vulgar terrors, the Count and 
 Heinrich commanded the throng to remain in 
 the great aisle of the church, while they pro- 
 ceeded together into the choir. They found 
 the usual evidences of a fierce conflagration 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 779 
 
 at every step, but nothing to create surprise, 
 until they arrived at the mouldering altar. 
 
 ‘Himmel !” exclaimed the Burgomaster, 
 hastily pulling back his noble friend by the 
 cloak,—‘ your foot was about to do disrever- 
 ence to the bones of a Christian, my Lord 
 Count !—For Christian Father Johan was, 
 beyond all question, though one more given 
 to damnation than to charity.” 
 
 Emich recoiled, for he saw in truth that, 
 with heedless step, he had been near crushing 
 these revolting remnants of mortality. 
 
 ‘<< Here died a wild enthusiast !” he said, 
 moving the skeleton with the point of his 
 sheathed sword. 
 
 « And here he is still, nobly-born Graf !— 
 This settles the question of the monk chasing 
 young Berchthold through the forest, and 
 among the cedars of the Heidenmauer, and it 
 would be well to show these remains to the 
 people.” 
 
 The hint was improved, and the throng 
 ‘was summoned to bear witness that the bones 
 of Johan still lay on the precise spot in 
 which he had died. While the curious and 
 the timid were whispering their opinions of 
 this discovery, the two leaders descended to 
 the crypt. 
 
 This portion of the edifice had suffered 
 least by the fire. Protected by the superior 
 pavement, and constructed altogether of 
 stone, it had received no very material in- 
 jury, but that which had been inflicted by 
 the sledges of the invaders. Fragments of 
 the tombs lay scattered on every side, and 
 here and there a wreath of smoke had left its 
 mark upon the wall; but Emich saw with re- 
 gret, that he owed the demolition of the altar, 
 and of the other memorials of his race, en- 
 tirely to his own precipitation, 
 
 “] will cause the bones of my fathers to 
 be interred elsewhere,” he said, musingly:— 
 «“ this is no sepulchre for an honored stock!” 
 
 “« Umph!—They have long and creditably 
 decayed where they lie, Herr Emich, and it 
 would have been well had they been left be- 
 neath the cover of their ancient marbles; but 
 our partisans showed unusual agility in this 
 part of their toil, in honor, no doubt, of an 
 illustrious house.” 
 
 “ None of my race shall sleep within walls 
 accursed by Benedictines! Hark!—what 
 movement is that above, good Heinrich ?” 
 
 «<The townsmen have doubtless fallen upon 
 the bones of the hermit, and of young Berch- 
 thold. Shall we go up, Lord Count, and see 
 that fitting reverence be paid their remains ? 
 The forester has claims upon us all, and as 
 for Odo von Ritterstein, his crime would be 
 deemed all the lighter in these days, more- 
 over he was betrothed to Ulrike in’ their 
 youth.” 
 
 “ Heinrich, thy wife was very fair;—she 
 had many suitors !” 
 
 «<I ery your mercy, noble Count; I never 
 heard but of poor Odo, and myself. The 
 former was put out of the question by his 
 own madness, and as for the latter, he is such 
 as Heaven was pleased to make him; an in- 
 different lover and husband if you will, but a 
 man of some credit and substance among his 
 equals.” 
 
 The Count did not care to dispute the 
 possession of these qualities with his friend, 
 and they left the crypt, with a common de- 
 sire to pay proper respect to the remains of 
 poor Berchthold. To their mutual surprise 
 the church was found deserted. By the 
 clamor of voices without, however, it was easy 
 to perceive that some extraordinary incident 
 had drawn away the members of the proces- 
 sion, ina body. Curious to have so violent 
 an interruption of the proceedings explained, 
 the two chiefs, for Heinrich was still en- 
 titled to be so styled, hastened down the great 
 aisle, picking their way among fallen frag- 
 ments, towards the great door. Near the 
 latter, they were again shocked by the spec- 
 tacle of the charred skeleton of Johan, which 
 seemingly had been dropped under the im- 
 pulse of some sudden and great confusion. 
 
 ‘‘Himmel!” muttered the Burgomaster, 
 while he hurried after his leader, “ they have 
 deserted the bones of the Benedictine!—can 
 it be, Lord Emich, that some fiery miracle, 
 after all our unbelief, hath wrought this 
 fear?” 
 
 Emich made no reply, but issued into the 
 court with the air of an offended master. 
 The first glimpse, however, that he caught of 
 the group, which now thronged the ruined 
 walls of the minor buildings, whence there 
 was a view of the surrounding country, and 
 particularly of parts of the adjacent hill of 
 the Heidenmauer, convinced him that the 
 present was no moment to exhibit displeas- 
 
780 
 
 ure. Climbing up a piece of fallen stone- 
 work, he found himself on a fragment of 
 wall, surrounded by fifty silent, wondering 
 countenances, among whom he recognized 
 several of his own most trusty followers. 
 
 “ What meaneth this disrespect of the ser- 
 vice, and so sudden an abandonment of the 
 remains of the monk?” demanded the 
 baron,—vainly looking about him, in the 
 hope of finding some quicker explanation by 
 means of his own eyes. | 
 
 “ Hath not my Lord the Count seen and 
 heard?” muttered the nearest vassal. 
 
 “What—knave ? I have seen naught, but 
 pallid and frightened fools, nor heard more 
 than beating hearts! Wilt thou explain this, 
 varlet—for, though something of a rogue, 
 thou, at least, art no coward?” 
 
 Emich addressed himself to Gottlob. 
 
 “Tt may not be so easy of explanation as is 
 thought, Lord Count,” returned the cow-herd 
 gravely; ‘‘ the people have come hither with 
 this speed, inasmuch as the cries of the su- 
 pernatural dogs have been heard, and some 
 say the person of poor Berchthold hath been 
 ‘again seen! ” 
 
 The Count smiled contemptuously, though 
 he knew the speaker sufficiently well to be 
 surprised at the concern which was very un- 
 equivocally painted in his face. 
 
 “Thou wert attached to my forester ?” 
 
 ‘* Lord Emich, we were friends, if one of 
 so humble station may use the word, when 
 speaking of a youth that served so near the 
 person of our master. Like his, my own 
 family once knew better days, and we often 
 met in the chase, which I was wont to cross, 
 coming or going to the pastures. I loved 
 poor Berchthold, nobly-born Count, and still 
 love his memory.” 
 
 ‘JT believe thou hast better stuff in thee 
 than some idle and silly deeds would give 
 reason to believe. I have remembered thy 
 good will on various occasions, and especially 
 thy cleverness in making the signals on the 
 night these walls were overturned, and thou 
 wilt find thyself named to the employment 
 left vacant by my late forester’s unhappy 
 enc 34 
 
 Gottlob endeavored to thank his master, 
 but he was too much troubled by real grief 
 for the loss of his friend, to find consolation 
 in his own preferment. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ‘“My services are my Lord Count’s,” he 
 answered, “but, though ready to do as com- 
 manded, I could well wish that Berchthold 
 were here to do that for me, which . 
 
 ‘* Listen !— Hark !””— cried a hundred 
 voices, 
 
 Emich started, and bent forward in fixed 
 attention. ‘The day was clear and cloudless, 
 and the air of the hills pure as a genial 
 breeze and a bright sun could bestow. Fay- 
 ored by such circumstances, and amid a 
 silence that was breathing and eloquent, 
 there were borne across the valley the well- 
 known cries of hounds on the scent. In that 
 region and age none dared hunt, and indeed 
 none possessed the means of hunting, but the 
 feudal lord. Since the late events, his chases 
 had been unentered with this view, and the 
 death of Berchthold, who had especial privil- 
 eges in this respect, had left them without 
 another who might dare to imitate his habits. 
 
 “This is at least bold!” said Emich, when 
 the cries had passed away ; ‘‘ hath any other 
 near dogs of that noble breed ?” 
 
 “ We never heard of other !” 
 
 ‘‘None would dare use them,” were the 
 answers. 
 
 “T know those throats—they are, of a cer- 
 tainty, the favorite hounds of my poor fores- 
 ter! Have not the dogs escaped the leash, 
 to play their gambols at will among the 
 deer?” 
 
 ‘‘In that case, Lord Count, would tried 
 hounds remain abroad for weeks?” answered 
 Gottlob. ‘It is now a sennight since these 
 cries have been first heard, and yet no one 
 has seen the dogs, from that hour to this, 
 unless as some one of our hinds says they 
 have in sooth been seen running madly on 
 the scent.” 
 
 ‘Tis said, mein Herr Graf,’ put in an- 
 other, “that Berchthold, himself, hath been 
 viewed in their company, his garments float- 
 ing in the wind, while he flew along, keeping 
 even pace with the dogs, an’ he had been 
 
 swift of foot as they !” 
 
 “With Father Johan at his heels, cowl 
 undone and robe streaming like a pennon, 
 by way of religious amusement !” added the 
 Count, laughing. ‘Dost not see, dotard, 
 that the crackling bones of thy monk are 
 still in the ruin ? ” 
 
 The hind was daunted by his master’s 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 manner, but nothing convinced. There then 
 succeeded a long and expecting silence, for 
 this little by-play near the Count had not in 
 the least affected the solemn attention of the 
 
 mass. At length the throats of these mys- 
 
 terious dogs again opened, and the cries in- 
 deed appeared like those of hounds rushing 
 from beneath the cover of woods into the 
 open air. In a few moments they were re- 
 peated, and beyond all dispute, they were 
 now upon the open hearth that surrounded 
 the Teufelstein. The crisis grew alarming 
 for the local superstitions of such a place, in 
 the commencement of the sixteenth century. 
 Even Emich wavered. Though he had a 
 vague perception of the inconsistency of liv- 
 ing dogs being hunted by a dead forester, 
 still there were so many means of getting 
 over this immaterial difficulty, when the 
 greater point of the supernatural chase was 
 admitted, that he found little relief in the 
 objection. Descending from the wall, he was 
 
 in the act of beckoning the priests and Hein- 
 
 rich to his side, when a general shout arose 
 among the male spectators, while the women 
 rushed in a body around Ulrike, who was 
 kneeling, with Lottchen and Meta, before 
 the great crucifix of the ancient court of the 
 convent. In the twinkling of an eye, Emich 
 reoccupied his place on the wall, which shook 
 with the impetus of his heavy rush. 
 
 ‘‘ What meaneth this disrespectful tu- 
 mult ?” angrily demanded the baron. 
 
 «The hounds!—mein Herr Graf !—the 
 hounds !” answered fifty breathless peasants. 
 
 ‘¢ Explain this outcry, Gottlob.” 
 
 «My Lord Count, we have seen the dogs 
 leaping past yonder margin of the hill—here 
 —just in a line with the spot where the Tue- 
 felstein lies. I know the dear animals well, 
 Herr Emich, and believe me, they are truly 
 the old favorites of Berchthold !” 
 
 « And Berchthold! ” continued one or two 
 of the more decided lovers of the marvellous 
 _«« we saw the late forester, great Emich, 
 pounding after the dogs, an’ he had wings !” 
 
 The: matter grew serious, and the Count 
 slowly descended to the court, determined to 
 bring the affair to some speedy explanation. 
 
 731 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 “By the Apostle Paul, shadows to-night 
 Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, 
 Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers.” 
 —Richard II], 
 
 THe consultation that now took place was 
 between the principal laymen. The connec- 
 tion which the Church had so long maintained 
 with supernatural agencies determined Emich, 
 who was jealous of its again obtaining its lost 
 ascendency in that country, to exclude the 
 officiating priests altogether from the decision 
 he was about to take. Were we to say that 
 
 the Count of Hargenburg gave full faith to 
 
 the rumors concerning the spirit of his late 
 forester having been seen engaged in the 
 chase, as when in the flesh, we should prob- 
 ably not do entire credit to his intelligence 
 and habits of thinking; but were we to say 
 that he was altogether free from supersti- 
 tion and alarm on this difficult point, we 
 should attribute to him a degree of. philoso- 
 phy and a mental independence which in that 
 age were the property only of the learned and 
 reflecting, and not always even of them. <As- 
 trology, in particular, had taken strong hold 
 of the imaginations of those who even pre- 
 tended to general science; and when the mind 
 once admits of theories of a character so lit- 
 tle in accordance with homely reason, it opens 
 the avenues to a multitude of collateral weak- 
 nesses of the same nature, which seem to fol- 
 low as the necessary corollaries of the main 
 proposition. 
 
 The necessity of a prompt solution of the 
 question was admitted by all of those whom 
 the Count consulted. Many had begun to 
 whisper that the extraordinary visitation was 
 a consequence of the sacrilege, and that it was 
 hopeless to expect peace, or exemption from 
 supernatural plagues, until the Benedictines 
 were restored to their Abbey and their former 
 rights. Though Emich felt convinced that 
 this idea came originally from the monks, 
 through some of their secret and paid agents, 
 he saw no manner of defeating it so effectu- 
 ally as that of demonstrating the falsity of 
 therumor. In our time, and in this land, a 
 weapon that was forged by a miracle would 
 be apt to become useless of itself ; but in the 
 other hemisphere there still exist entire coun 
 tries that are yet partially governed by agents 
 
 of this description. At the period of the tale, 
 
mQe 
 782 
 
 the public mind was so uninstructed and de- 
 pendent that the very men who were most 
 interested in defeating the popular delirium 
 of the hour, had great difficulty in overcom- 
 ing their own doubts. It has been seen that 
 Emich, though much disposed to throw off 
 the dominion of the Church, so far clung to 
 his ancient prejudices as secretly to distrust 
 the very power he was about to defy, and to 
 entertain grave scruples not only of the 
 
 policy, but of the lawfulness of the step his’ 
 
 ambition had urged him to adopt. In this 
 manner does man become the instrument of 
 the various passions and motives that beset 
 him, now yielding, or now struggling to resist, 
 as a stronger inducement is presented to his 
 mind; always professing to be governed by 
 reason and constrained by principles, while in 
 truth he rarely consents to consult the one, or 
 to respect the other, until both are offered 
 through the direct medium of some engross- 
 ing interest that requires an immediate and 
 active attention. Then indeed his faculties 
 become suddenly enlightened, and he eagerly 
 presses into his service every argument that 
 offers, the plausible as well as the sound; and 
 thus it happens that we frequently see whole 
 communities making a moral pirouette in a 
 breath, adopting this year a set of principles 
 that are quite in opposition to all they had ever 
 before professed. Fortunately, all that is 
 thus gained on sound principles is apt to con- 
 tinue, since whatever may be the waywardness 
 of those who profess them, principles them- 
 selyes are immutable, and when once fairly 
 admitted, are not easily dispossessed by the 
 bastard doctrines of expediency and error. 
 These changes are gradual.as respects those 
 avant-couriers of thought, who prepare the 
 way for the advance of nations, but who, in 
 general, so far precede their contemporaries, 
 as to be utterly out of view at the effectual 
 moment of the reformation, or revolution, 
 or by whatever name these sudden summer- 
 sets are styled; but as respects the mass, 
 they often occur by a coup-de-main; an entire 
 people awakening, as it were, by magic, to 
 the virtues of a new set of maxims, much as 
 the eye turns from the view of one scenic 
 representation to that of its successor. 
 
 Our object in this tale is to represent 
 society, under its ordinary faces, in the act 
 of passing from the influence of one set of 
 
 and Heinrich, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 governing principles to that of another. 
 Had our efforts been confined to the work- 
 ings of a single and a master mind, the 
 picture, however true as regards the indi- 
 vidual, would have been false in reference to 
 a community; since such a study would have 
 been no more than following out the deduc- 
 tions of philosophy and reason—something 
 the worse, perhaps, for its connection with 
 humanity ; whereas, he that would represent 
 the world, or any material portion of the 
 world, must draw the passions and the more 
 vulgar interests in the boldest colors, and be 
 content with portraying the intellectual part 
 in a very subdued back-ground. We know 
 not that any will be disposed to make the re- 
 flection that our labors are intended to sug- 
 gest, and without which they will scarcely be 
 useful; but, while we admit the imperfection 
 of what has been here done, we feel satisfied 
 that he who does consider it coolly and in 
 candor, will be disposed to allow that our 
 picture is sufficiently true for its object. 
 
 We have written in vain, should it now be 
 necessary to dwell on the nature of the mis- 
 givings that harassed the minds of the Count 
 and Heinrich, as they descended the hill of 
 Limburg at the head of the new procession. 
 Policy, and the determination to secure ad- 
 vantages that had been so dearly obtained, 
 urged them on; while doubt and all the 
 progeny of ancient prejudices contributed to 
 their distrust. 
 
 The people advanced much in the same 
 order as that in which they had ascended to 
 the ruins of the Abbey. The pilgrims were 
 in front, followed closely by the parochial 
 priests and their choirs; while the rest suc- 
 ceeded in an eager, trembling, curious, and 
 devout crowd. Religious change existed, as 
 yet, rather in doctrine, and among the few, 
 than in the practices of the many ; and all 
 the rites, it will be remembered, were those 
 usually observed by the Church of Rome on 
 an occasion of exorcism, or of an especial 
 supplication to be released from a mysterious 
 display of Heaven’s displeasure. The Count 
 as became their stations, 
 walked boldly in advance; for, whatever 
 might have been the extent and nature of 
 their distrust, it was wisely and successfully 
 concealed from all but themselves—even the 
 worthy Burgomaster entertained a respectful 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 opinion of the noble’s firmness, and the latter 
 much wondering at a man of Heinrich’s edu- 
 cation and habits of life being able to show a 
 resolution that he thought more properly 
 belonged to philosophy. They passed up 
 toward the plain of the Heidenmauer, by the 
 hollow way that has already been twice men- 
 tioned in these pages—once in the Introduc- 
 tion, and again as the path by which Ulrike 
 descended on her way to the Abbey, on the 
 night of its destruction. Until near the 
 summit, nothing occurred to create new un- 
 easiness; and as the choristers increased the 
 depth of their chant, the leaders began to 
 feel a vague hope of escaping from farther 
 interruption. As the moments passed, the 
 Count breathed freer, and he already fancied 
 that he had proved the Heidenmauer to be a 
 spot as harmless as any other in the Palati- 
 nate. | 
 
 “You have often pricked courser over this 
 
 wild common of the Devil, noble and fearless 
 - Count,” said Heinrich, when they drew near 
 the margin of the superior plain. ‘“‘One so 
 accustomed to its view is not easily troubled 
 by the cries and vagaries of a leash of uneasy 
 dogs, though they might be kennelled beneath 
 the shades of the Teufelstein! ” 
 
 ‘¢Thou mayest well say often, good Hein- 
 rich. When but an urchin, my excellent 
 father was wont to train his chargers on this 
 height, and it was often my pleasure to be of 
 the party. Then our hunts frequently drove 
 the deer from the cover of the chases to this 
 open ground——” 
 
 The Count paused, for a swift, pattering 
 rush, like that of the feet of hounds beating 
 the ground, was audible, just above their 
 heads, though the edge of the mountain still 
 kept the face of the level ground from being 
 geen. Spite of their resolution, the two 
 leaders came to a dead halt—a delay which 
 those in the rear were compelled to imitate. 
 
 “he common hath its tenants, Herr 
 Frey,” said Emich, gravely, but in a tone of 
 a man resolute to struggle for his rights; “it 
 will soon be seen if they are disposed to ad- 
 mit the sovereignty of their’ feudal lord.” 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, the Count 
 spite of himself muttered an ave, and mount- 
 ed with sturdy limbs to the summit. The 
 first glance was rapid, uneasy, and distrust- 
 ful; but nothing rewarded the look. The 
 
 183 
 
 naked rock of the Teufelstein lay in the 
 ancient bed—where it had probably been 
 left, by some revolution of the earth’s crust, 
 three thousand years before—gray, solitary, 
 and weather-worn as at this hour; the grassy — 
 common had not a hoof or foot over the 
 whole of its surface; and the cedars of the 
 deserted camp sighed in the breeze, as usual, 
 dark, melancholy, and suited to the traditions 
 
 which had given them interest. 
 
 “Here is nothing!” said the Count, draw- 
 ing a heavy breath, which he would fain 
 ascribe to the difficulty of the ascent. 
 
 ‘«‘ Herr von Hartenburg, God is here, as he 
 is among the hills we have already quitted— 
 on that fair and wide plain below—and in thy 
 hold tt 
 
 ‘©Prithee, good Ulrike, we will of this 
 another time. We touch now on the de- 
 struction of a silly legend, and of some recent 
 alarms.” 
 
 At a wave of his hand the procession pro- 
 ceeded, taking the direction of the ancient 
 
 gateway of the camp, the choir renewing its 
 
 chant, and the same leaders always in 
 advance. 
 
 It is not necessary to say that the Heiden- 
 mauer was approached on this solemn occa- 
 sion with beating hearts. No man of reflec- 
 tion and proper feeling can ever visit a spot 
 like this without fancying a picture that 1s 
 fraught with pleasing melancholy. ‘The cer- 
 
 tainty that he has before his eyes the remaiis 
 
 of a work, raised by the hands of beings who 
 existed so many centuries before him in that 
 great chain of events which unites the past 
 with the present, and that his feet tread 
 earth that has been trodden equally by the 
 Roman and the Hun, is sufficient of itself 
 to raise a train of thought allied to the won- 
 derful and grand. But to these certain and 
 natural sensations was now added a dread of 
 omnipotence and the apprehension of instant- 
 ly witnessing some supernatural effect. 
 
 Not a word was uttered, until Emich and 
 the Burgomaster turned to pass the pile of 
 stones which mark the position of the ancient 
 wall, by means of the gateway already named, 
 when the former, encouraged by the tran- 
 quillity, again spoke. 
 
 “The ear is often a treacherous compan- 
 ion, friend Burgomaster,” he said, ‘‘and like 
 the tongue, unless duly watched, may lead 
 
784 
 
 to misunderstandings. No doubt we both 
 thought, at the moment, that we heard the 
 feet of hounds beating the earth, as on a 
 hunt; thou now seest, by means of one sense, 
 that the other hath served us false. But we 
 approach the end of our little pilgrimage, 
 and we will halt, while I speak the people in 
 explanation of our opinions and intentions.” 
 
 Heinrich gave the signal, and the choir 
 ceased its chant, while the crowd drew near 
 to listen. The Count both saw and felt that 
 he touched the real crisis, in the furtherance 
 of his own views, as opposed to those of the 
 brotherhood, and he determined, by a severe 
 effort, not only to overcome his enemies, but 
 himself. In this mood, he spoke. 
 
 << Ye are here, my honest friends and vas- 
 sals,” he commenced, “both as the faithful 
 who respect the usefulness of the altar when 
 rightly served, and as men who are disposed 
 to see and judge for themselves. This camp, 
 as ye witness by its remains, was once occu- 
 pied by armed bands of warriors who, in 
 their day, fought and fortified, suffered and 
 were happy, bled and died, conquered or 
 were vanquished, much as we see those who 
 carry arms in our own time, perform these 
 several acts, or submit to those several mis- 
 fortunes. ‘The report that their spirits fre- 
 quent this spot, is as little likely to be true, 
 as that the spirits of all who have fallen with 
 arms in their hands remain near the earth 
 that hath swallowed their blood; a belief 
 that would leave no place in our fair Palati- 
 nate without its ghostly tenant. As for this 
 late alarm, concerning my forester, poor 
 Berchthold Hintermayer, it is the Iess prob- 
 able from the character of the youth, who 
 well knew when living the disrelish I have 
 for all such tales, and my particular desire 
 to banish them altogether from the Jaeger- 
 thal, as well as from his known modesty and 
 dutiful obedience. You see plainly that here 
 are no dogs 7 
 
 Emich met with a startling contradiction, 
 Just as his tongue, which was getting fluent 
 with the impunity that had so far attended 
 his declarations, uttered the latter word, the 
 long drawn cries of hounds were heard. 
 Fifty strong German exclamations escaped 
 the crowd, which waved like a troubled sea, 
 The sounds came from among the trees in 
 the very centre of the dreaded Heidenmauer, 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. — 
 
 and seemed only the more unearthly from 
 rising beneath that gloomy canopy of cedars. 
 
 ‘* Let us go on !” cried the Count, excited 
 nearly to madness, and seizing the handle of 
 his sword with iron grasp. “Tis but a 
 hound! Some miscreant hath loosened the 
 dog from his leash, and he scents the foot- 
 steps of his late master, who had the habit of 
 visiting the holy hermit that dwelt here of 
 late << 
 
 “Hush!” interrupted Lottchen, advancing 
 hurriedly, and with a wild eye, from among 
 the throng of females. ‘‘ God is about to re- 
 veal his power for some great end! I know— 
 I know—that footstep 2 
 
 She was fearfully interrupted, for while 
 speaking, the hounds rushed out of the grove, 
 in the swift, mad manner common to the 
 animal, and made a rapid circuit around the 
 form of the dazzled and giddy woman. In 
 the next moment, a tottering wall gave way 
 to the powerful leap of a human foot, and 
 Lottchen lay senseless on the bosom of her 
 son ! 
 
 We draw a veil before the sudden fear, the 
 general surprise, the tears, the delight, and 
 the more regulated joy of the next hour. 
 
 At the end of that period, the scene had 
 altogether changed. The chant was ended, 
 the order of the procession was forgotten, 
 and a burning curiosity had taken place of 
 all sensations of superstitious dread. But the 
 authority of Emich had driven the crowd 
 back upon the common of the Teufelstein, 
 where it was compelled to content itself, for 
 the moment, with conjectures, and with tales 
 of similar sudden changes from the incarnate 
 to the carnate, that were reputed to have 
 taken place in the eventful history of the 
 borders of the Rhine. | 
 
 The principal group of actors had retired a 
 little within the cover of the cedars, where, 
 favored by the walls and the trees, they re- 
 mained unseen from without. Young Berch- 
 thold was seated on a fragment of fallen wall, 
 supporting his still half-incredulous mother 
 in his arms, a position which he had received 
 the Count’s peremptory, but kind orders to 
 occupy. Meta was kneeling before Lottchen, 
 whose hand she held in her own, though the 
 bright eye and glowing face of the girl fol- 
 lowed, with undisguised and ingenuous in- 
 terest, every glance and movement of the 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 countenance of the youth. The emotions of | 
 
 that hour were too powerful for concealment, 
 and had there been any secret concerning her 
 sentiments, surprise and the sudden burst of 
 feeling that was its consequence, would have 
 wrung it from her heart. Ulrike kneeled 
 too, supporting the head of her friend, but 
 smiling and happy. The Knight of Rhodes, 
 the Abbé, Heinrich, and the smith, paced 
 back and forth, as sentinels, to keep the curi- 
 ous at a distance, though occasionally stop- 
 ping to catch sentences of the discourse. 
 Emich leaned on his sword, rejoicing that 
 his apprehensions were groundless, and we 
 should do injustice to his rude but not un- 
 generous feelings, did we not say, glad to 
 find that Berchthold was still in the flesh. 
 When we add that the dogs played their 
 frisky gambols around the crowd on the com- 
 mon, which could hardly yet believe in their 
 earthly character, our picture is finished. 
 
 The deserving of this world may be di- 
 vided into two great classes; the actively and 
 thegpassively good. Ulrike belonged to the 
 fofmer, for though she felt as strongly as 
 of others, an instinctive rectitude rarely 
 fai’od to suggest some affirmative duty for 
 every crisis that arrived. It was she then 
 (and we here beg to tell the reader plainly, 
 she is our heroine), that gave such a direc- 
 tion to the discourse as was most likely to 
 explain what was unknown, without harass- 
 ing anew feelings that had been so long and 
 so sorely tried. 
 
 «And thou art now absolved from thy 
 vow, Berchthold!” she asked, after one of 
 those short interruptions, in which the ex- 
 quisite happiness of such a meeting was best 
 expressed by silent sympathy. ‘The Bene- 
 dictines have no longer any claim to thy 
 silence?” 
 
 «They set the return of the pilgrims as 
 their own period, and, as I first learned the 
 agreeable tidings by seeing you all in the pro- 
 cession, I had called in the hounds, who were 
 scouring the chase, and was about to hurry 
 down to present myself, when I met you all 
 at the gateway of the camp. Our meeting 
 would have taken place in the valley, but 
 that duty required me first to visit the Herr 
 Odo von Ritterstein——” 
 
 ‘The Herr von Ritterstein !” exclaimed 
 Ulrike, turning pale. 
 
 4 
 red 
 
 ‘“‘What of my ancient comrade, the Herr 
 Odo, boy?” demanded Emich. “This is the 
 first we have heard of him since the night 
 the Abbey fell.” 
 
 **T have told my tale badly,” returned 
 Berchthold, laughing and blushing, for he 
 was neither too old nor too practical to blush, 
 ‘‘since I have forgotten to name the Herr 
 Odo.” 
 
 «Thou told’st us of a companion,” rejoined 
 his mother, glancing a look at Ulrike, and 
 raising herself from the support of her son, 
 instinctively alive to her friend’s embarrass- 
 ment, ‘‘ but thou called’st him merely a re- 
 ligious.” 
 
 “T should have said the holy Hermit, 
 whom all now know to be the Baron yon 
 Ritterstein. When obliged to fly from the 
 falling roof, I met the Herr Odo kneeling 
 before an altar, and recalling the form of 
 one who had shown me much favor, it was 
 he that I dragged with me to the crypt.—I 
 surely spoke of our wounds and helplessness!” 
 
 “True; but without naming thy compan- 
 ion.” | 
 
 ““Tt was the Herr Odo, Heaven be praised! 
 When the monks found us, on the following 
 day, unable to resist, and weakened with 
 hunger and loss of blood, we were secretly 
 removed together, as ye have heard, and 
 cared for in a manner to restore us both, in 
 good time, to our strength and to the use of 
 our limbs. Why the Benedictines chose to 
 keep us secret, I know not; but this silly 
 tale of the supernatural huntsman, and of 
 dogs loosened from their leash, would seem 
 to prove that they had hopes of still working 
 on the superstition of the country.” 
 
 “Wilhelm of Venloo had naught to do 
 with this !” exclaimed Emich, who had been 
 musing deeply. ‘‘The underlings have con- 
 tinued the game after it was abandoned by 
 their betters.” 
 
 ‘‘This may be so, my good Lord; for | 
 thought Father Bonifacius more than. dis- 
 posed to let us depart. But we were kept 
 until the matters of the compensation and of 
 the pilgrimage were settled. They found us 
 easy abettors in their plot, if plot to work 
 upon the fears of Duerckheim was in their 
 policy ; for when they pledged their faith 
 that my two mothers and dearest Meta had 
 been let into the secret of our safety, I felt 
 
786! | 
 no extraordinary haste to quit leeches so 
 skilful, and so likely to make a speedy cure 
 of our hurts.” 
 
 ‘< And did Bonifacius affirm this lie?” 
 
 “JT say not the Abbot, my Lord Count, 
 but most certainly the Brothers Cuno and 
 Siegfried said all this and more—the male- 
 diction of a wronged son, and of a most 
 foully treated mother x8 
 
 His mouth was stopped by the hand of 
 Meta. 
 
 “ We will forgive past sorrow for the pres- 
 ent joy,” murmured the weeping girl. 
 
 The angry and flushed brow of Berchthold 
 grew more calm, and the discourse continued 
 in a gentler strain. 
 
 Emich now walked away to join the Bur- 
 gomaster, and together they endeavored to 
 penetrate the motives which had led the 
 monks to practise their deception. In the 
 possession of so effectual a key, the solution 
 of the problem was not difficult. The meet- 
 ing of Bonifacius and the Count of Einsie- 
 deln had been maturely planned, and the 
 uncertain state of the public mind in the 
 valley and town was encouraged as so much 
 make-weight in the final settlement of the 
 Convent’s claims ; for in that age, the men 
 of the cloisters knew well how to turn every 
 weakness of humanity to good purpose, so 
 far as their own interests were concerned. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ‘<?Tis over, and her lovely cheek is now 
 On her hard pillow.’”’— RoGErs. 
 
 On the following morning the Count of 
 Hartenburg took horse at an early hour. 
 His train, however, showed that the journey 
 -was to be short. But Monsieur Latouche, 
 who mounted in company, wore the attire 
 and furniture of a traveller. It wasin truth 
 the moment when Emich, having used this 
 quasi churchman for his own ends, was about 
 to dismiss him, with as much courtesy and 
 grace as the circumstances seemed to require. 
 Perhaps no picture of the different faces 
 presented by a Church that had so long en- 
 joyed an undisputed monopoly in Christen- 
 dom, and which, as a consequence, betrayed 
 so strong a tendency to abuses, would have 
 been complete without some notice of such 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 characters as the Knight of the Cross and 
 
 the Abbé ; and it was, moreover, our duty, as 
 
 faithful chroniclers, to speak of things as 
 they existed, although the accessories might 
 not have a very capital connection with the 
 interest of the principal subject. But here 
 our slight relations with the Abbé are to 
 cease altogether, his host having treated him, 
 as many politic rulers treat others of his 
 profession, purely as the instrument of his 
 own views: Albrecht of Viederbach was 
 prepared to accompany his boon associate as 
 far as Manheim, but with the intention to re- 
 turn, the unsettled state of his order, and his 
 consanguinity with the Count, rendering 
 such a course both expedient and agreeable. 
 Young Berchthold, too, was in the saddle, 
 his lord having, by especial favor, commanded 
 the forester to keep at his crupper. 
 
 The cavalcade ambled slowly down the 
 Jaegerthal, the Count courteously endeavor- 
 ing to show the departing Abbé, by a species 
 of misty logic that appears to be the poetical 
 atmosphere of diplomacy, that he was fmlly 
 justified by circumstances for sna 
 that had been done, and the latter acquies@ing 
 as readily in his conclusions as if he did not 
 feel that he had been an egregious dupe. 
 
 ‘Thou wilt see this matter rightly repre- 
 sented among thy friends, Master Latouche,” 
 concluded the Baron—‘‘ should there be 
 question of it, at the court of thy Francis :— 
 whom may Heaven quickly restore to his 
 
 longing people—the right valiant and loyal — 
 
 Prince and gentleman !” 
 
 ‘J will take upon myself, high-born and 
 ingenuous Emich, to see thee fully justified, 
 whenever there shall be discussion of thy 
 great warfare and exquisite policy at the 
 court of France. Nay—by the mass! should 
 our jurists or our statesmen take upon them- 
 selves to prove to the world that thy house 
 hath been wrong in this immortal enterprise, 
 I pledge thee my faith to answer their reasons, 
 both logically and politically, to their eternal 
 shame and confusion.” 
 
 As Monsieur Latouche uttered this promise 
 with an unequivocal sneer, he thought him- 
 self fully avenged for the silly part he had 
 been made to act in the Count’s intrigues. 
 At a later day he often told the tale, always 
 concluding with a recital of this bold and 
 ironical allusion to the petty history of the 
 
 ee 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. hee 
 
 Jaegerthal, which not only he, but a certain 
 portion of his listeners, seemed to think gave 
 him altogether the best of the affair. Satis- 
 fied with his success, the Abbé pricked on, 
 to repeat it to the knight, who laughed in his 
 sleeve at his friend while he most extolled his 
 wit, the two riding ahead in a manner to leave 
 Emich an occasion to speak in confidence 
 with his forester. 
 
 “Hast treated of this affair with Heinrich, 
 as 1 bid thee, boy ?” demanded the Count, in 
 a manner between authority and affection, 
 that he was much accustomed to use with 
 Berchthold. 
 
 «‘T have, my Lord Count, and right press- 
 ingly, as my heart urged, but with little 
 hope of benefit.” 
 
 “How ?—Doth the silly burgher still count 
 upon his marks, after what hath passed ? 
 Didst tell him of the interest I take in the 
 marriage, and of my intent to name thee to 
 higher duties, in my villages 227 
 
 “ None of these favors were forgotten, or 
 aught else that a keen desire could suggest, 
 or a willing memory recall.” 
 
 “What answer had the burgher?” 
 
 Berchthold colored, hesitating to reply. It 
 was only when Emich sternly repeated the 
 question, that the truth was extorted from 
 him; for naught but truth would one so 
 loyal consent to use. 
 
 “He said, Herr Count, that if 1t was your 
 pleasure to name a husband for his child, it 
 should also be your pleasure to see that he 
 was not a beggar. I do but give the words 
 of the Herr Frey; for which liberty, I beg 
 my lord to hold me free of all disrespect.” 
 
 «The niggardly miser! These hounds of 
 Duerckheim shall be made to know their 
 master.—But be of cheer, boy ; our tears and 
 pilgrimages shall not be wasted, and thou 
 shalt soon wive with a fairer and better, as 
 becometh him I love.” 
 
 «Nay, Herr Emich, I do beseech and im- 
 plore is 
 
 “Ha! Yon is the drivelling Heinrich 
 seated on a rock of this ravine, like a vidette 
 watching the marauders! Prick forward, 
 Berchthold, and desire my noble friends to 
 tarry at the Town-Hall making their compli- 
 ments;—as for thee, thou mayest humor thy 
 folly, and greet the smiling face of the pretty 
 Meta the while.” 
 
 18% | 
 
 The forester dashed ahead like an arrow ; 
 while the Count reined his own courser aside, 
 turning into that ravine by which the path 
 led to the Heidenmauer, when the ascent 
 was made from the side of the valley. Emich 
 was soon at the Burgomaster’s side, having 
 thrown his bridle to a servitor that followed. 
 
 “How is this, brother Heinrich?” he 
 cried, displeasure disappearing in habitual 
 policy and well-practised management—‘“ art 
 still bent on exorcism, or hast neglected 
 some offices in yester’s pilgrimage ?” 
 
 ‘Praised be St. Benedict, or Brother 
 Luther !—for I know not fairly to which the 
 merit is most due—our Duerckheim is in a 
 thrice happy disposition, as touching all 
 witchcraft, and devilry, or even churchly 
 miracles. This mystery of the hounds being 
 so happily settled, the public mind seemeth 
 to have taken a sudden change, and from 
 sweating in broad daylight at the nestling of 
 a mouse, or the hop of a cricket, our crones 
 are ready to set demonology and Lucifer him- 
 self at defiance.” 
 
 «The lucky clearing up of that difficulty 
 will, in sooth, do much to favor the late Sax- 
 on opinions and may go near to set the monk 
 of Wittenberg firmly upon his feet, in our 
 country. ‘Thou seest, Heinrich, that a di- 
 lemma so unriddled is worth a library of 
 musty Latin maxims.” 
 
 «That is it, Herr Emich, and the more 
 especially as we are a reasoning town. Our 
 minds once fairly enlightened, it is no easy 
 matter to throw them into the shade again. 
 It was seen how sorely the best of us were 
 troubled with a couple of vagrant dogs so 
 lately as yesterday, and now I much question 
 if the whole of the gallant pack would so 
 much as raise a doubt! We have had a 
 lucky escape, Lord Count, for another day 
 of uncertainty would have gone nigh to set 
 up Limburg church again, and that without 
 the masonry of the devil. There is naught 
 so potent in an argument as a little appre- 
 hension of losses or of plagues thrown into 
 the scale. Wisdom weighs light against 
 profit or fear.” 
 
 “Tt is well as it is, though Limburg roof 
 will never again cover Limburg wall, 
 friend Heinrich, while an Emich rules in 
 Hartenburg and Duerckheim.”—The Count 
 saw the cloud on the Burgomaster’s brow as 
 
188 
 
 he uttered the latter word, and slapping him 
 familiarly on a shoulder, he added so quickly 
 as to prevent reflection :—“ But how now, 
 Herr Frey ; why art at watch in this solitary 
 ravine ? ” 
 
 Heinrich was flattered by the noble’s con- 
 descension, and not displeased to have a lis- 
 tener to his tale. First looking about him 
 to see that no one could overhear their dis- 
 course, he answered on a lower key, in the 
 manner in which communications that need 
 confidence are usually made. 
 
 “You know, Herr Emich, this weakness 
 of Ulrike, concerning hermitages and monks, 
 altars and saints’ days, with all those other 
 practices of which we may now reasonably 
 expect to be quit, since late rumors speak 
 marvels of Luther’s success. Well, the good 
 woman would have a wish to come upon the 
 Heidenmauer this morning, and as there had 
 been some warm argument between us, and 
 the poor wife had wept much concerning 
 marrying our child with young Berchthold, a 
 measure out of all prudence and reason, as 
 you must see, nobly-born Count, I was fain 
 willing to escort her thus far, that she might 
 give vent to her sorrow in godly discourse 
 with the hermit.” 
 
 ‘And Ulrike is above, in the cedars, with 
 the Anchorite ? ” 
 
 ‘* As sure as I am here waiting her return, 
 Lord Count.” 
 
 “Thou art a gallant husband, Master 
 Frey !—Wert wont of old to resort much with 
 the Herr Odo von Ritterstein—he who play- 
 eth this masquerade of penitence and seclu- 
 sion ?” 
 
 “Sapperment !—I never could endure the 
 arrogant! But Ulrike fancieth he hath 
 qualities that are not so evil, and a woman’s 
 taste, like a child’s humors, is easiest altered 
 by giving it scope.” 
 
 Emich laid both hands on the shoulders of 
 his companion, looking him full and earnestly 
 in the face. The glances that were ex- 
 changed in this attitude were pregnant with 
 meaning. That of the Count expressed the 
 distrust, the contempt, and the wonder of a 
 man of loose life, while that of the Burgo- 
 master, by appearing to reflect the character 
 of the woman who had so long been his wife, 
 expressed volumes in her favor. No lan- 
 guage could have said more for Ulrike’s prin- 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 ciples and purity, than the simple, hearty, 
 and unalterable confidence of the man who 
 necessarily had so many opportunities of 
 knowing her. Neither spoke, until the 
 Count, releasing his grasp, walked slowly up 
 the mountain, saying in a voice which proved 
 how strongly he felt— 
 
 ‘‘f would thy consort had been noble, 
 Heinrich !” 
 
 “Nay, my good lord,” answered the Bur- 
 gomaster, ‘‘the wish were scarcely kind to a 
 friend! In that case, I could not have 
 wived the Frau.” 
 
 “Tell me, good Heinrich—for I never 
 heard the history of thy love—wert thou and 
 thy proposal well received, when first offered 
 to the virgin heart of Herr Haitzinger’s 
 daughter ?” 
 
 The Burgomaster was not displeased with 
 an opportunity of alluding to a success that 
 had made him the envy of his equals. 
 
 “The end must speak for the means, Herr 
 Count,” he answered chuckling. “ Ulrike is 
 none of your free and froward spirits to 
 jump out of a window, or to meet a youth 
 more than half-way, but such encouragement 
 as becometh maiden diffidence was not want- 
 ing, or mine own ill opinion of myself might 
 have kept me a bachelor to this hour.” 
 
 Emich chafed to hear such language 
 coming from one he so little respected, and 
 applied to one he had really loved. The 
 effort to swallow his spleen produced a short 
 silence, of which we shall avail ourselves to 
 transfer this scene to the hut of the hermit, 
 where there was an interview that proved 
 decisive of the future fortunes of several of 
 the characters of our tale. eS, 
 
 The day which succeeded the restoration 
 of Berchthold had been one of general joy 
 and felicitation in Duerckheim. There was 
 an end to the doubts of the timid and super- 
 stitious, concerning an especial and an angry 
 visitation from Heaven, as a merited punish- 
 ment for overturning the altars of the Abbey, 
 and few were so destitute of good feeling not 
 to sympathize in the happiness of those who 
 had so bitterly mourned the fancied death of 
 the forester. As is usual in cases of violent 
 transitions, the reaction helped to lessen the 
 influence of the monks, and even those most 
 inclined to doubt were now encouraged to 
 
 hope that the religious change, which was so 
 
THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 fast gaining ground, might not produce all 
 the horrors that had been dreaded. 
 
 Heinrich has revealed the nature of the 
 discussion that took place between himself 
 and his wife. The latter had endeavored in 
 vain to seize the favorable moment to work 
 upon the feelings of the Burgomaster, in the 
 interests of the lovers; but though sincerely 
 glad that a youth who had shown such mettle 
 in danger was not the victim of his courage, 
 Heinrich was not of a temperament to let 
 any admiration of generous deeds affect the 
 settled policy of a whole life. It was at the 
 close of this useless and painful conference, 
 
 that the mother suddenly demanded permis- 
 
 sion of her husband to visit the hermit, who 
 had been left, as before the recent events, 1n 
 undisturbed possession of the dreaded Heiden- 
 mauer. 
 
 Any other than a man constituted like 
 Heinrich might, at such a moment, have 
 heard this request with distrust. But strong 
 in his opinion of himself, and accustomed to 
 confide in his wife, the obstinate Burgomaster 
 hailed the application as a means of relieving 
 him from a discussion, in which, while he 
 searce knew how plausibly to defend his 
 opinion, he was resolutely determined not to 
 yield. The manner in which he volunteered 
 to accompany his wife, and in which he re- 
 mained patiently awaiting her return, and 
 the commencement of his dialogue with 
 Emich are known. With this short explana- 
 tion, we shall shift the scene to the hut of 
 the Anchorite. 
 
 Odo of Ritterstein was pale with loss of 
 blood from the wounds received from a frag- 
 ment of the falling roof, but paler still by the 
 force of that inward fire which consumed 
 him. The features of his fair and gentle 
 companion were not bright, as usual, though 
 naught could rob Ulrike of that winning 
 beauty which owed so much of its charm to 
 expression. Both appeared agitated with what 
 had already passed between them, and per- 
 haps still more by those feelings, which each 
 had struggled to conceal. 
 
 “Thou hast indeed had many moving 
 passages in thy life, Odo,” said the gentle 
 Ulrike, who was seemingly listening to some 
 recital from the other’s lips; ‘‘and this last 
 miraculous escape from death is among the 
 - most wonderful.” 
 
 Vohra 
 
 «That I should have perished beneath the 
 roof of Limburg, on the anniversary of my 
 crime, and with the fall of those altars I 
 violated, would have been so just a manitfes- 
 tation of Heaven’s displeasure, Ulrike, that 
 even row I can scarce believe | am permitted 
 to live! Thou then thought in common with 
 others, that I had been released from this 
 life of woe?” 
 
 «Thou lookest with an unthankful eye at 
 what thou hast of hope and favor, or thou 
 wouldst not use a term so ungrateful in 
 speaking of thy sorrows. Remember, Odo, 
 that our joys, in this being, are tainted with 
 mortality, and that thy unhappiness does not 
 surpass that of thousands who still struggle 
 with their duties.” | 
 
 «his is the difference between the un- 
 quiet ocean and tranquil waters—between 
 the oak and the reed! The current of thy 
 calm existence may be ruffled by the casual 
 interruption of some trifling obstacle, but the 
 gentle surface soon subsides, leaving the ele- 
 ment limpid and without stain! Thy course 
 is that of the flowing and pure spring, while 
 mine is the torrent’s mad and turbulent leaps. 
 Thou hast indeed well said, Ulrike, God did 
 not form us for each other !” 
 
 «¢ Whatever nature may have done towards 
 suiting our dispositions and desires, Odo, 
 Providence and the world’s usages have inter- 
 posed to defeat.” 
 
 The hermit gazed at the mild speaker with 
 eyes so fixed and dazzling, that she bowed 
 her own look to the earth. 
 
 “No,” he murmured rapidly, ‘‘ Heaven 
 and earth have different destinies—the hon 
 and the lamb different instincts! ” 
 
 “Nay, I will none of this disreputable de- 
 preciation of thyself, poor Odo. That thou 
 hast been erring, we shall not deny—for who 
 is without reproach ?—but that thou merit- 
 est these harsh epithets, none but thyself 
 would venture to affirm.” 
 
 ‘‘T have met with many enigmas, Ulrike, 
 in an eventful and busy life—I have seen 
 those who worked both good and evil— 
 encountered those who have defeated their 
 own ends by their own wayward means—but 
 never have I known one 80 devoted to the 
 right, that seemed so disposed to extenuate 
 the sinner’s faults!” 
 
 «‘'Then hast thou never met a true lover of 
 
790. 
 
 God or known a Christian. It matters not, 
 Odo, whether we admit of this or that form 
 of faith—the fruit of the right tree is charity 
 and self-abasement, and these teach us to 
 think humbly of ourselves and kindly of 
 others.” 
 
 ‘< Thou beganst early to practise these gold- 
 en rules, or surely thou never wouldst haye 
 forgotten thine own excellence, or have been 
 ready to sacrifice it to the heedless impulses 
 of one so reckless as him to whom thou wast 
 betrothed!” 
 
 The eye of Ulrike grew brighter, but it was 
 merely because a tinge of color diffused itself 
 on her features. 
 
 ‘<I know not for what good purpose, Herr 
 von Ritterstein,” she said, “‘ that these allu- 
 sions are now made. You know that I have 
 come to make a last effort to secure the peace 
 of Meta. Berchthold spoke to me of your 
 intention to reward the service he did your 
 life, and have now to say, that if in aught you 
 can do the youth favor, the moment when it 
 will be most acceptable hath come—for Lott- 
 chen has been too sorely stricken to bear up 
 long against further grief.” 
 
 The hermit was reproved. He turned 
 slowly to one of his receptacles of worldly 
 stores, and drew forth a packet. The rat- 
 tling told his companion that it was of parch- 
 ment, and she waited the result with curious 
 interest. 
 
 “‘J will scarce say, Ulrike,” he replied, 
 
 ‘that this deed is the price of a life that is 
 scarce worth the gift. Early in my acquaint- 
 ance with young Berchthold and Meta, I 
 wrung their secret from them; and from that 
 moment it hath been my greatest pleasure to 
 devise means to secure the happiness of one 
 so dear to thee. I found in the child the 
 simple, ingenuous faith which was so admi- 
 rable in the mother, and shall I say that rey- 
 erence for the latter quickened the desire to 
 serve her offspring?” 
 
 “IT certainly owe thee thanks, Herr von 
 Ritterstein, for the constancy of this good 
 opinion,” returned Ulrike, showing sensi- 
 bility. 
 
 “Thank me not, but rather deem the desire 
 to serve thy child a tribute that repentant 
 error gladly pays to virtue. Thou knowest 
 that Iam the last of my race, and there re- 
 mained naught but to endow some religious 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 house, to let my estate and gold pass to the 
 feudal prince, or to do this.” 
 
 ‘“‘I could not have thought it easy to effect 
 this change, in opposition to the Elector’s in- 
 terests! ” 
 
 “Those have been looked to; a present 
 fine has smoothed the way, and these parch- 
 ments contain all that is necessary to install 
 young Berchthold as my substitute and heir.” 
 
 “Friend!—dear, generous friend!” ex- 
 claimed the mother, moved to tears, for, at 
 that moment, Ulrike saw nothing but the 
 future happiness of her child assured, and 
 Berchthold restored to more than his former 
 hopes—“ generous and noble Odo!” 
 
 The hermit arose, and placed the parch- 
 ments in her hand, in the manner of one long 
 prepared to perform the act. 
 
 ‘< And now, Ulrike,” he said with a forced 
 calm, ‘‘this solemn and imperative duty 
 done, there remaineth but the last leave- 
 taking.” 
 
 ‘* Leave-taking!— Thou wilt live with 
 Meta and Berchthold,—the castle of Ritter- 
 stein will be thy resting-place, after so much 
 sorrow and suffering !” 
 
 “This may not be—my vow—my duties— 
 Ulrike, I fear my prudence forbids.” 
 
 “Thy prudence!—Thou art no longer 
 young, dear Odo, privations thou hast hith- 
 erto despised will overload thy increasing 
 years, and we shall not be happy with the 
 knowledge that thou art suffering for the 
 very conveniences which thine own liberality 
 hath conferred on others.” 
 
 “Habit hath taken nature’s place, and 
 the hermitage and the camp are no longer 
 strangers tome. If thou wouldst secure not 
 only my peace, but my salvation, Ulrike, let 
 me depart. I have already lingered too long 
 near a scene which is filled with recollections 
 that prove dread enemies to the peni- 
 tent.” 
 
 Ulrike recoiled, and her cheek blanched to 
 paleness. Every limb trembled, for that 
 quick sympathy, which neither time nor 
 duty had entirely extinguished, silently ad- 
 monished her of his meaning. There was a 
 fervor in his voice, too, that thrilled on her 
 ear like tones which, spite of all her care, 
 the truant imagination would sometimes 
 recall; for, in no subsequent condition of 
 life, can a woman entirely forget the long- 
 
a 
 
 THE HEIDENMAUER. 
 
 cherished sounds with which true love first 
 greets the maiden ear. 
 
 <‘Qdo,” said a voice so gentle that it 
 caused the heart of the Anchorite to beat, 
 “when dost thou think to depart?” 
 
 «This day—this hour—this minute.” 
 
 “JT believe—yes—thou art right to go!” 
 
 ‘Ulrike, God will keep thee in mind. 
 Pray often for me.” 
 
 «‘ Harewell, dear Odo.” 
 
 <* God bless thee—may He have mercy on 
 me !” 
 
 There was then a short pause. The her- 
 mit approached and lifted his hands in the at- 
 titude of benediction; twice he seemed about 
 to clasp the unresisting Ulrike to his bosom, 
 but her meek, tearful countenance repressed 
 the act, and, muttering a prayer, he rushed 
 from the hut. Left to herself, Ulrike sank 
 on a stool, and remained like an image of 
 
 woe, tears flowing in streams down her 
 
 cheeks. 
 Some minutes elapsed before the wife of 
 
 Heinrich Frey was aroused from her forget- 
 
 fulness. ‘Then the approach of footsteps 
 told her that she was no longer alone. For 
 the first time in her life, Ulrike endeavored 
 to conceal her emotion with a sentiment of 
 shame; but ere this could be effected, the 
 Count and Heinrich entered. 
 
 «What hast done with poor Odo von Rit- 
 terstein, good Frau; that man of sin and 
 sorrow ?” demanded the latter, in his hearty, 
 unsuspecting manner. 
 
 “He has left us, Heinrich.” 
 
 “For his castle !—well, the man hath had 
 his share of sorrow, and ease may not yet 
 come too late. The life of Odo, Lord Count, 
 hath not been, like our own histories, of a 
 nature to make him content. Had that 
 affair of the Host, though at the best but an 
 irreverent and unwarrantable act, happened 
 in these days, less might have been thought 
 of it; and then” (tapping his wife’s cheek), 
 “to loge Ulrike’s favor was no slight calamity 
 of itself.—But what have we here?” 
 
 <<*Tis a deed, by which the Herr von Rit- 
 terstein invests Berchthold with his worldly 
 
 effects.” 
 
 The Burgomaster hastily unfolded the 
 ample parchment. Ata glance, though un- 
 able to comprehend the Latin of the instru- 
 ment, his accustomed eye saw that all the 
 
 Be k ie 
 
 cheer 
 usual appliances were there. Turning sud- 
 denly to Emich, for he was not slow to 
 comprehend the cause of the gift, he ex- 
 claimed— 
 
 “Here is manna in the wilderness! Our 
 differences are all happily settled, nobly-born 
 Count, and next to according the hand of 
 Meta to the owner of the lands of Ritterstein, 
 I hold it a pleasure to oblige an illustrious 
 friend and patron. Henceforth, Herr Emich, 
 let there be nought but fair words between 
 us.’ 
 
 Since entering the hut, the Count had not 
 spoken. His look had studied the tearful 
 eyes, and colorless cheeks of Ulrike, and he 
 put his own constructions on the scene. 
 Still he did the fair wife of the burgher jus- 
 tice, for, though less credulous than Hein- 
 rich on the subject of his consort’s affections, 
 he too well knew the spotless character of 
 her mind, to change the opinion her virtue 
 had extorted from him, in early youth. He 
 accepted the conditions of his friend, with 
 as much apparent frankness as they were 
 offered, and, after a few short explanations, 
 the whole party left the Heidenmauer to- 
 gether. 
 
 Our task is ended. On the following day 
 Berchthold and Meta were united. The 
 Castle and the Town vied with each other in 
 doing honor to the nuptials, and Ulrike and 
 Lottchen endeavored to forget their own 
 permanent causes of sorrow in the happiness 
 of their children. 
 
 In due time Berchthold took possession 
 of his lands, removing with his bride and 
 mother to the Castle of Ritterstein, which he 
 always affected to hold merely as the trustee 
 of its absent owner. Gottlob was promoted 
 in his service, and having succeeded in per- 
 suading Gisela to forget the gay cavalier who 
 had frequented Hartenburg, these two way- 
 ward spirits settled down into a half-loving, 
 half-wrangling couple, for the rest of their 
 lives. 
 
 Duerckheim, as is commonly the case with 
 the secondary actors in most great changes, 
 shared the fate of the frogs in the fable ; it 
 got rid of the Benedictines for a new master, 
 and though the Burgomaster and Dietrich, 
 in after-life, had many wise discourses con- 
 cerning the nature of the revolution of Lim- 
 burg, as the first affected to call the destruc- 
 
TULA 
 
 792 
 
 tion of the Abbey, he never could very clearly 
 explain to the understanding of the latter, 
 the great principles of its merits. Still the 
 smith was not the less an admirer of the 
 Count, and to this day his descendants show 
 the figure of a marble cherub, as a trophy 
 brought away by their ancestor on that 
 occasion. 
 
 Bonifacius and his monks found shelter in 
 other convents, each endeavoring to lessen 
 the blow, by such expedients as best suited 
 his tastes and character. The pious Arnolph 
 persevered to the end, and, believing charity 
 to be the fairest attribute of the Christian, he 
 never ceased to pray for the enemies of the 
 Church, or to toil that they might have the 
 benefit of his intercession. 
 
 As for Odo Von Ritterstein, the country 
 was long moved by different tales of his fate. 
 One rumor—and it had much currency—said 
 he was serving in company with Albrecht of 
 Veiderbach, who rejoined his brother knights, 
 and that he died on the sands of Africa. 
 But there is another tradition extant in the 
 Jaegerthal, touching his end. It is said, that, 
 thirty years later, after Heinrich, and Emich 
 of Leinengen, and most of the other actors of 
 this legend, had been called to their great 
 accounts, an aged wanderer came to the gate 
 of Ritterstein, demanding shelter for the 
 night. He is reported to have been well re- 
 ceived by Meta, her husband and son being 
 then absent in the wars, and to have greatly 
 interested his hostess by the histories he gave 
 of customs and events in distant regions. 
 
 WORKS OF FENIMORE COOPER. 
 
 Pleased with her guest, the Madame Von 
 Ritterstein (for Berchthold had purchased 
 this appellation by his courage ) urged him to 
 rest himself another day within her walls. 
 From communicating, the stranger began to 
 inquire ; and he so knew how to put his 
 questions, that he soon obtained the history 
 of the family. Ulrike was the last he named; 
 and the younger female inmates of the castle 
 fancied that his manner changed as he lis- 
 tened to the account of the close of her life, 
 and of her peaceful and pious end. The 
 stranger departed that very day, nor would 
 his visit probably have been remembered, 
 had not his body been shortly after found in 
 the hut of the Heidenmauer, stiffened by 
 death. Those who love to throw a coloring of 
 romance over the affections, are fond of be- 
 lieving this was the hermit, who had found a 
 secret satisfaction, even at the close of so long 
 a life, in breathing his last on the spot where 
 he had finally separated from the woman he 
 had so long and fruitlessly loved. 
 
 To this tradition—true or false—we attach 
 noimportance. Our object has been to show, 
 by a rapidly-traced picture of life, the reluc- 
 tant manner in which the mind of man aban- 
 dons old, to receive new impressions—the in- 
 consistencies between profession and practice 
 —the error in confounding the good with the 
 bad, in any sect or persuasion—the common 
 and governing principles that control the sel- 
 fish, under every shade and degree of exist- 
 ence—and the high and immutable qualities of 
 the good, the virtuous and of the really noble. 
 
 ’ 
 
 THE END. 
 
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