"H B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 623 
 C372ro 
 1807 
 v.l
 
 ROMANCE 
 
 or 
 
 THE PYRENEES. 
 
 Vol. I. • 
 
 \
 
 Vol.L 
 
 p. 37
 
 ROMANCE 
 
 O F 
 
 THE PYRENEES. 
 
 FOUR VOLUMES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF SANTO SEEA8TIAN0, A NOVEL, 
 THIRD EDITION, 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LONDO N: 
 PRINTED FOR G. ROBINSON, 
 
 PATEKNOSTER.ROW : 
 
 By T. Davison, White- Friars. 
 I8O7.
 
 
 TO THE BINDER. 
 
 Pages 229 and 230 of Vol. II. are to be cancelled, and the t.o 
 pages at the eud of Vol. III. placed in their stead. 
 
 Through mistake, signature N is omitted in Vol.11.: sheet O 
 must, therefore, be placed immediately after M. 
 
 C 
 in
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Author of the following work, 
 grateful for the commendations and anim- 
 adverfions it has been honoured with (both 
 in public critique and private opinions), 
 while cherifhing in fond remembrance the 
 encouraging pralfe as a pleafing incentive to 
 future exertions, more fully to deferve it — 
 to prove that the cenfure has been treafured 
 in the (lores of reafon and refledllon, as pre- 
 cious precepts to amend by, has in this edi- 
 tion attempted to correct thofe errors which 
 fuperior judgment pointed out, as much as
 
 IV 
 
 might be without injury to the plan of the 
 whole; the leading features of which were 
 too clofely interwoven with every compo- 
 nent part to allow greater latitude of altera- 
 tion. The horrors of the work are fomething 
 foftened ; repetitions avoided j and the long 
 ftory now divided : but of imprGbabilities the 
 author has made no effort to diveft it. For 
 while the title-page announces a romance, 
 the reader furely has no right to form an 
 expectation of meeting only with the fimple 
 fa£i:s of common life, delineated by the 
 hand of Nature ; and thofe who reliih not 
 the bold unlicenfed flights of fancy, in the 
 region of fidion, mull: relinquifh the peru- 
 fal of this work, fmce romance has ever 
 been the avowed offspring of imagination.
 
 ROMANCE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 PYRENEES, 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 D.,ECT.o, pale, and emaciated, the vc 
 nerable Fidato (for many years the respected 
 maggior-donio at the castle of Manfredonia) en- 
 tered with slow and unequal paces the plea- 
 sure-grounds belonging to the castle — now 
 grounds of pain to him ; each shrub, each 
 walk, each building, bringing more immedi- 
 ately to the lingering eye of fond remem- 
 brance, the lamented lord of this faithful and 
 affectionate domestic, Lorenzo duca di Man- 
 fredonia, who had been a few weeks prior to 
 this period torn from his friends and a respect- 
 ing world, by relentless fate, on his passage 
 
 VOL. !• B
 
 Q 
 
 from the islands of the Archipelago, where 
 domestic sorrows had led him to wander in 
 search of lost repose. 
 
 * SoHtude Fidato now sought, that he might 
 give free indulgence to his own affliction, with- 
 out auo^mentins: that of the other domestics, 
 who all adored their late lord, and now, with 
 genuine and poignant sorrow, deplored the 
 early death of a man who in their estimation 
 left not his compeer upon earth. In the 
 keen anguish of affliction, the good old man 
 threw himself upon a sloping bank, where 
 through a vista he could behold the castle. 
 Sorrow's large tears rolled down 'his furrow- 
 ed cheeks ; and to ease his bursting heart he 
 spoke his griefs aloud. 
 
 *'.Ah Manfredonia !" he exclaimed, " ho- 
 noured, beloved, illustrious name ! art thou 
 indeed no more ? Is then thy resplendent glo- 
 ry set, and thy noble race extinct ? No, no ! 
 while "virtue lives in the memory of man^ 
 Lorenzo's name must be immortal. Ah 
 Manfredonia 1 ill-fated castle ! so long inha- 
 bited by a virtuous race, blighted are now 
 thy honours. Moulder from thy base, once 
 grand and envied pile— thy glory is laid in the
 
 dust, and crumbie thou with it. No longer 
 raise thy proudly conscious turrets to the 
 sky, as if you stilljsheltered worth unequalled. 
 No ; low art thou fallen ; Lorenzo is no 
 more 5 and thou hast nothing now to boast 
 of, nor I to make life precious : the prop on 
 which we long had rested is torn from us. 
 His sweet babe too ;. ah ! gone ! gone ! bereft 
 of all ! destitute ! forlorn ! nothing spared to 
 us but the widowed mate of our Lorenzo ! and 
 she, O heaven ! cannot long survive this soul- 
 rending calamity, when I sink beneath its fa- 
 tal influence. Oh ! too surely, with feelings 
 strong as hers, with such an attachment, and 
 for such a husband, she will despair and die. 
 Then, then, tlie property of strangers wilt 
 thou become, once grand and noble pile ! or^ 
 sadder yet, on some court parasite or minion 
 of vice our deluded sovereign may perhaps be- 
 stow thee ! — but may the agitated earth open 
 and save thee from such dishonour ! and, oh! 
 may grief terminate my now hapless days 
 before that disgraceful hour !*' 
 
 At this moment a domestic appeared, to 
 inform Fidato a courier was just arrived from 
 Naples with dispatches from Elvira the widow- 
 B 2 ■
 
 cd duchessa. Enervated by age and gricT, 
 Fidato slowly arose, and with tottering* steps 
 reached the castle to receive the dispatches, 
 which he trembled to read, fearing the power 
 of sympathy over his feeling and already too 
 much afflicted mind. 
 
 With a degree of trepidation almost too 
 much for his feeble frame to support, he took 
 the packet from the courier, who was clad in 
 the Vicenza livery ; and as he read its con- 
 tents, he suddenly ceased to tremble ; a shade 
 of the deepest crimson overspread his before 
 paUid cheeks ; a gleam of indignant fire flash- 
 ed from his languid eyes ; and, in a moment 
 more, deadly paleness diffused itself over his 
 agitated countenance ; his eyes closed, and 
 he fell senseless to the ground. 
 
 So beloved was Fidato, that his illness w^as 
 no sooner known than every domestic in the 
 castle rushed forward to his assistance, and 
 after a long interval their efforts for his reco- 
 very proved successful. Looking sadly upon 
 them, he in some litde time after spoke, in a 
 tone of firmness which a painful exertion of 
 fortitude had lent him, to impart that intelli- 
 gence the packet contained j which he still
 
 grasped in his hand, as all held him in too 
 much respect to allow them to inspect papers 
 addressed to him. 
 
 "My friends and fellow domestics," said 
 he, " this packet contains orders for our im- 
 mediately preparing for the reception of the 
 duchessa — not as the sad relic of our adored 
 lamented lord, but, my friends — can you be- ^ 
 
 Ueve it ?'' and the old man's voice was 
 
 now broken by tears . . . • " but as the happy 
 bride of conte Vicenza." 
 
 A general groan burst from the hearts of 
 his auditors; an awful silence for some mo- 
 ments after reigned ; all covered at once their 
 faces, as if ashamed to look around, after 
 such an insult had been offered to the memory 
 of him they loved. At length, a murmur of 
 stifled grief and indignation burst forth, as 
 they all hurried away to conceal their feelings: 
 from conte Vicenza's courier, whom none 
 could make welcome, and upon whom they 
 all united to look with cofdness and aversion,, 
 for being in the service of him who was ta 
 them an object of hatred. 
 ^ *'Alas! alasl" said they one to another, 
 " dare we murmur at the decrees of Provi- 
 
 B 5
 
 6 
 
 dence, we surely might arraign its dispensa- 
 tions to the best of men ; so beautiful in per- 
 son, so amiable in mind, so lovely in disposi- 
 tion ; and yet to his lot fell two fiends whose 
 conduct reflect disgrace upon their sex for 
 ever. His first wife basely deserted him, the 
 most tender and .indulgent of husbands— for- 
 sook her lovely babe, and fled with a wretch 
 outlawed by his country's justice ; and his 
 second spo'use has, in defiance of every rule 
 of decorum, of gratitude, of every thing just or 
 good, outraged his memory by an insult, that 
 stigmatizes her name with infamy for ever/' 
 
 The day at length arrived on which the 
 diichessa was expected at Manfredonia, when 
 the indignant domestics w^ere compelled to 
 lay aside their mourning habiliments ; in 
 doing which, grief was more forcibly avv alien- 
 ed, and sat conspicuous, in sable v;oe, upon 
 each but too intelligent countenance. 
 
 As the beautiful bride and no less beautiful 
 bridegroom approached the castle of Manfre- 
 . donia, disappointment darkened the duchessa's 
 brow. No bands of jocund vassals met her and 
 her gay retinue, to bid her welcome, and testify 
 their joy with dance, song, and acclamations.
 
 7 
 A\ hich she had ever been hailed with, when 
 returning, even after short absences, with her 
 late husband : fiow how different v^as her re- 
 ception ! Advancing nearer to the castle, she 
 found the road strewed, not, gentle reader, 
 with roses and myrtle, but with cypress, rose- 
 mary, and yew ; ' and the knell of death toll- 
 ed heavily irom the belfry of the neighbour- 
 ino; convent ; out of which, as the weddin?;; 
 train passed it, the monks issued forth in 
 solemn procession, chanting most audibly a 
 requiem for the repose of the late duca di Man- 
 fredonia's soul. 
 
 Dreadfully disconcerted and chagrined, the 
 bride and bridegroom entered the castle of 
 Manfredonia, where the countenance of each 
 . domestic whom duty called forth at their arri- 
 val conveyed the most severe but tacit reproof. 
 The duchessa, not deigning to betray her 
 mortification, demanded angrily " where was 
 Fidato ?" " Confined to his bed with a fever 
 on his spirits since the day he had the honour 
 of receiving her last dispatches," was the sar- 
 castic reply. Her eyes flashed fire. " Where, 
 then, was father Rinaldo ?" she asked. '^ In 
 the chapel," she was informed. Bianca, her 
 
 B 4
 
 8 
 
 chief and favourite woman, was ordered by 
 the indignant duchessa to summon father 
 Rinaldo, the domestic chaplain. Bianca re- 
 turned in evident discomposure. " The holy 
 father was engaged saying a mass^ and she 
 feared to disturb him.'* 
 
 Elvira, whose feelings were now worked 
 into a paroxysm of rage, scarcely knowing 
 the motive of her conduct, hurried to the 
 chapel, and flung open the door ; but there 
 she stopped, not daring, though bold and 
 ungovernable was her spirit, to proceed. 
 To her utter dismay she beheld the chapel 
 hung with black, with every insignia of woe y 
 and father Rinaldo^ with two subordinate 
 priests, performing a mass for the repose of 
 her late husband's soul. Hastily she retreated 
 to the saloon where conte Vicenza was, and, 
 without speaking, threw herself into a seat in, 
 rage and spleen too great for utterance. 
 
 In about twenty minutes the reverend Ri- 
 naldo appeared before Elvira, who, sum- 
 inoning a look to kill him with, haughtily 
 demanded "why he was not in readiness to 
 receive her upon her arrival?" 
 
 " I, duchessa," replied the venerable man
 
 9 
 
 in a firm tone of voice and with an undaunt- 
 ed countenance, " I have not forgotten the- 
 duca di Manfredonia, or what he raised me 
 to. He appointed me his chaplain, and. 
 elected me his friend, and death has not yet 
 consigned him or my duty to oblivion in my 
 memory. My duties became more sacred 
 after his decease ; and my respect to the 
 memory of him who was kind to me, has. 
 but increased my diligence. The time our 
 holy religion teaches us to believe his soul in. 
 purgatory is not yet expired y and if his pre- 
 cious soul is afflicted, too surely it required, 
 the aid of prayer in that dreadful moment, 
 when insult and injury, envenomed by the 
 barbed shaft of black ingradtude, were oifer-. 
 ed to his scarcely cokl manes. Yes, duches- 
 sa, in that fell moment when, his widow en- 
 tered this casde with a successor to him, 
 whose remains I so lately consigned to the. 
 tomb of his virtuous ancestors, affection and 
 duty summoned me to requiems,;, my. soul, 
 devoted, to virtue, still turns with fond regret 
 to the sacred memory of your late inestima- 
 ble lord, and leads me in scorn and horror 
 
 33 5
 
 10 
 
 from you, and the now fallen and dishonour- 
 ed castle of Manfredonia, for ever." 
 
 Widi all the dignity of conscious rectitude, 
 the holy man now left the room unanswered ; 
 and in a few moments after, quitted that asy- 
 lum which from his youth had kindly shelter- 
 ed him, giving up to friendship and to virtue 
 a lucrative and high situation, and ^vent a 
 willing exile into poverty and concealment, 
 where the emissaries of Elvira and conte 
 Vicenza could never find hiin, although dis- 
 patched to different climes in pursuit of 
 him, whom they vowed implacable vengeance 
 against. 
 
 The most sumptuous preparations were 
 made at the castle for the reception of con- 
 gratulatory visitors, but not one appeared ; 
 and the duchessa, quite determined to brave 
 the indecorum of her conduct out, resolved 
 to appear on the following Sunday in all her 
 nuptial state at church. Not choosing to 
 honour with her presence the church of that 
 monastery, by the hionks of which she had 
 been so palpably insulted, she determined 
 upon going to a convent of Ursulines situ-
 
 11 
 
 ated about a league further from the castle, 
 and which it was then much the fashion to 
 frequent : but upon entering the Ursuline 
 church in all the eclat of her bridal pomp, 
 how was she mortified to find it hung with, 
 black ' and, still worse, in the course of the 
 service the nuns most touchingly chanted a 
 requiem for the late duca, who had been a 
 powerful benefactor to their house ; and one 
 of the most popular preachers in the pro- 
 vince pronounced a funeral oration on the 
 virtues of the deceased. 
 
 After such insults and contempt being 
 evinced by all descriptions of people, the 
 duchessa and conte Vicenza, considering it 
 vain to contend with public prejudice, made 
 a precipitate retreat from Manfredonia to a 
 superb chateau near Versailles,- a late pur- 
 chase of the conte's ; where they soon enter- 
 ed upon that career of vice and dissipation sa 
 congenial tp their incHnations. ^ 
 
 Poiydore conte di Vicenza, descended 
 from an illustrious house, had been the ward 
 of the late conte Ariosto, Elvira's iather ; 
 but havuig soon lavi-hed away a rather small- 
 patrimony, he had for the last few years o£'
 
 12 
 
 his life, appeared to be indebted to conte 
 Ariosto, Elvira's brother, for every comfort 
 he enjoyed. Deeply artful and insinuating, 
 'he had ever worn to the young conte Ariosto 
 the semblance of every virtue, and enjoyed 
 from his friendship and good opinion every 
 pecuniary assistance his prodigality could wish 
 for. 
 
 At the period Elvira's indecorous marriage 
 took place, conte Ariosto had secluded him- 
 self from the world, in his castle in Tuscany, 
 to lament his Clementina, his tenderly adored 
 wife, whom he had recently lost. The death 
 of his beloved friend the duca di Manfredonia 
 considerably increased his portion of grief: 
 and the marriage of his sister, so shame- 
 fully premature, was heard of with sorrow 
 and indignation by this truly amiable young 
 man : he refused to see her, or the man he 
 had once called friend ; nor would he reply 
 to any of their numerous letters for above 
 two years after their union 5 when finding 
 how serious had been the inroads made by 
 grief upon his constitution, and that the awful 
 moment of his dissolution was fast approach- 
 ing, he wished to die in charity with all the
 
 13 
 
 world, and therefore wrote a conciliatory let- 
 ter to his sister and her husband, whose dis- 
 solute lives, from the circumstance of distance 
 and his own seclusion from society, he was 
 totally unacquainted with ; but believing their 
 lives untinctured by any error of consequence 
 except their indecorous marriage, entreated, 
 in the most awfully solemn manner to be con- 
 ceived, " their parental care and protection 
 for his two lovely and adored children, 
 Alphonso and Victoria, whom he requested 
 permission to leave under the guardianship of 
 Elvira :*' and very shortly after receiving the 
 answers from his sister and her specious hus- 
 band, promising in the most solemn manner 
 to fulfil all the anxious father's wishes, the 
 amiable conte Ariosto breathed his last, in the 
 thirtieth year of his age, lamented by all who 
 knew him. 
 
 Immediately after the death of their inesti- 
 mable father, the two lovely orphans, Alphon- 
 so then in his sixth year, Victoria in her third, 
 were conducted by the persons appointed by 
 their late anxious parent to superintend their 
 education, together with a little smiling rosy- 
 Tuscan girl, of five years old (a poor orphai>^
 
 14 
 
 whomconte Arlo'^to had taken under his pro- 
 tection to bring up as an attendant for his 
 daughter), to the chateau of conte Vicenza. 
 
 Elvira, immersed in pleasure and unbound- 
 ed dissipation, consulted the me hod only, 
 that would be attended with the least trouble 
 to herself, of fulfilling the important trust 
 
 . her deluded brother had unfortunately repos- 
 ed in her. Alphon!?d she therefore left solely 
 to the guidance of Ludovico Alberti, a learn- 
 ed priest, who having been cautiously elected 
 by conte Ariosto to educate his son, happily 
 
 , possessed niore virtues than the duchessa 
 would have thought in the least necessary for 
 the preceptor of an affluent nobleman to be 
 endowed with. So, unheeded by this faithless 
 guardian, / Iphonso learned from the wise 
 and good Alberti all that could enlarge the 
 understanding and adorn the heart; while 
 Victoria, too, left totally to the care of the 
 person appointed by her father to form her 
 mind, soon proved, by the high and proper 
 cultivation of her naturally line talents, and 
 the skilful nurture and training of those in- 
 born virtues she eminently possessed, how 
 judicious and fortunate had been the choice
 
 of conte Aiiosto, when he selected the amia- 
 ble Urseline Farinelli for the instructor of his 
 daughter. 
 
 And now, leaving these able instructors for 
 the present^ to form the minds of their young 
 pupils, we will proceed to lay before our 
 readers a short history of the parents, guar- 
 dians, and some ether relatives of Alphonso 
 and Victoria.
 
 16 
 
 CHAP. IL 
 
 Angelina and Julia di Rossano were two 
 of the most lovely women that Sicily ever 
 boasted. They sprung from a noble thougb 
 not affluent family ; and at a period little 
 advanced from infancy these beaudful sis- 
 ters had been bequeathed by their sole sur- 
 viving parent (a bigoted mother) to the care 
 of the abbadessa of a convent of Carmelite 
 nuns at Palermo, 
 
 In obedience to the w^ill of their deceased 
 parents they were educated for the conven- 
 tual life; and their pious and faithful guar- 
 dian deter«iined, that at the age of eighteen' 
 they should each assume the sacred vow. 
 So long initiated in the mysteries of a mo- 
 nastic life, they became completely weary 
 of it by the time Angelina attained her six- 
 teenth year ; when she formally announcedL 
 to her guardian her fixed determination 
 against ever fulfilling the arbitrary will of her. 
 parent.
 
 17 
 
 The pious mother was amazed, was shock- 
 ed, was dismayed, at such impious, such 
 dreadful disobedience. The holy fathers at- 
 tached to that convent^ and all the eccle- 
 siastics in Sicily, were appealed to. They 
 thundered anathemas against the apostate girl, 
 inflicted heavy penances, and bewildered her 
 by all the perplexities of bigotry and igno- 
 rant theological controversy. Their displea- 
 sure and their penances, however severe, 
 Angelina submitted to with the most philoso- 
 phic resignation ; nor could their elaborate 
 disquisitions make the smallest impression 
 upon her mind — probably because she could 
 scarcely comprehend them. All she perfect- 
 ly undersood of the matter in question were 
 her own feelings, which determined her to 
 undergo every punishment^he frenzy of the 
 furious zealots might inflict, sooner than 
 present herself a perjured votary at the altar 
 of her Creator. 
 
 This extraordinary controversy between 
 the ecclesiastic power and a girl of sixteen 
 £lled the city of Palermo v/ith astonishment, 
 and formed the favourite topic of disquisi- 
 tion at every convert-aziGni in the place. The
 
 13 
 youth, beauty, and fortitude of Angelina 
 gained her universal partisans among the 
 young, while the old expressed censures- 
 rather than admiration at her conduct. 
 :■ The archbishop of Montreal was the only 
 one among the Sicilian p-elates who acted the 
 liberal, upright, and unprejudiced adviser. 
 lie was a learned, just, and truly pious man, 
 and his opinions were only understood and 
 received with reverence by Angelina. With 
 bim she held, long and frequent conferences ; 
 and at length, instead of his gaining a pro- 
 selyte, Angelina convinced him of the pro- 
 priety of the determination she had formed. 
 His influence, which was great, w as all ex- 
 cited to hush the storms of bigotry against 
 her. In a short time, by his means, the 
 contest was given up : Angelina and . Julia 
 were to remain as boar-ders in the convent, 
 under the protection of their guardian, but 
 no compulsive measures were to be used to 
 enforce their acquiescence in the will of their 
 mother. Unmolested were they to conti- 
 nue there, and either to take the veil or not 
 as inclination might prompt them at a fu- 
 ture period.
 
 19 
 
 The marchese of Palernio, then in his 
 iwcnty-sccond year, was one of the hand- 
 somest as well as the most fascinating men 
 of his time. Such was his exterior -. — but 
 far, infinitely far from estimable was his dis- 
 position ; for he was profligate, capricious, 
 violent in temper, vain to excess, and pas- 
 sionately fond of notoriety. At the house 
 of his maternal uncle, the archbishop of 
 Pt'Iontreal, he several times saw the lovely 
 sisters during this memorable controversy. 
 The m.ild and interesting sweetness of the 
 timid Julia charm.ed his fancy and captivat- 
 ed his heart; but the majestic, spirited An- 
 gelina was enrolled in flaming characters in 
 the brightest records of fame. ' She was the 
 admiration of all the young and gay at Paler- 
 mo, and the palm of beauty had been adjudg- 
 ed to her from her sister by general consent. 
 To wed Angelina would be exactly that 
 kind oi edit his heart panted for. His name 
 coupled v;ith Angelina di Rossano's would 
 indeed be notoriety. In vain did his heart 
 whisper that he should be happier with Julia. 
 Vanity was arbitrary, and affection disregard- 
 ed. In thq sembhmce then of all that was
 
 20 ^ 
 
 amiable and seductive he presented hiniself 
 as the most passionate lover to the beautiful,' 
 ingenuous, and susceptible' Angelina ; who, 
 completely deceived, bestowed upon him her 
 tenderest affections, and very shortly after be- 
 came his wretched wife. 
 
 Even before they arose from the altar the 
 infatuation of vanity was pastj for, while 
 the archbishop of Montreal was piously pro- 
 nouncing the nuptial benediction, the mar- 
 chese looked upon the bewitching face X>i 
 Julia, then animated as he had never before 
 beheld it. She was breathing the most fer- 
 vent aspirations for the happiness of her be- 
 loved sister. Alas ! poor Julia Jiad no pre- 
 sentiment that she was to prove the fatal 
 bane to that happiness. From this moment 
 the marchese considered his beauteous in. 
 estimable bride as the blighter of his peace. 
 She became his detestation j and shortly 
 after, when Julia bestowed her heart and 
 hand upon a truly amiable young English- 
 man, lord Frederic Stanhope (the youngest 
 of the then duke of Riversdale's sons), the 
 phrensy of the marchese of Palermo's rage 
 and envy broke through all bounds j con-
 
 51 
 
 ceahlient was no more ; and he had the in- 
 humanity to tell the dismayed Angelina, that 
 she was the destruction of his happiness, his 
 detestation, his torment, — while his tender- 
 est affections had been, from the moment of 
 first beholding her, irrevocably devoted to 
 her sister. 
 
 From that moment the thread of the mar- 
 chesa's health was snapped, and the fife of 
 her vivacity extinguished by grief and horror. 
 The soul of lively graceful animation, that 
 had inspirited all her actions, and made her 
 the fascinating admiration of every circle, fled 
 for ever. In one dreadful moment all of 
 hope, of joy, of happiness,, was wrecked. 
 Not a complaint, not a murmur, broke from 
 her lips : but misery found an everlasting 
 mansion in her bosom. Her air became 
 at once dejected. Sorrow and patience sat 
 touchingly blended upon her brow ; and her 
 once so arch and playful smiles were now so 
 mournful, yet so sweet and resigned, they 
 called forth the spontaneous tear of sympa- 
 thy ; and he» melodious voice was from hence- 
 forth attuned by the most melting tones of 
 sadness.
 
 The' happy Julia was gone with her ador- 
 ing husband to England : but even had she 
 remained in Sicily, her society could now, 
 alas ! no longer prove a consolation to An- 
 gelina, who, before she attained her seven- 
 teenth year, ' had every comfort in life torn 
 from her, but the friendship of the archbishop 
 of Montreal, and the maternal tenderness 
 W'hich her child, the infant Viola, called 
 forth* The birth of this babe, the mother's 
 only joy, gave additional force to the father's 
 hatred. Influenced by his constitutional ca- 
 price, because his child was a daughter he 
 wislied for a son ; and enraged at what he 
 fancied a dreadful disappointment, he, in 
 the injustice of his phrensy accusing his wife 
 and child as the source of all his sorrows, 
 banished them both from his house and pro^ 
 tection j when, under the auspices of the amia- 
 ble and benevolent archbishop, they took re- 
 fuge in a Benedictine convent dedicated to 
 St. Rosolia, a short distance from the -city 
 of Palermo, while the marchese continued to 
 pass his time in a manner that sunk him 
 lower and lower in the estimation of all good 
 men.
 
 o 
 
 The amiable archbishop undertook to super- 
 intend the education of this discarded child ; 
 and, with the assistance of her highly-inform- 
 ed and accoinplished mother, and with pro- 
 per aid from Palermo, this lovely plant of 
 paternal hate was* reared and brought to per- 
 fection before her unnatural father ever be- 
 held her. 
 
 The family of lord Frederic Stanhope re- 
 ceived Julia with civility, but never with 
 cordiaHty. She was a foreigner, a catholic, 
 arid her fortune was small. The duke of 
 Riversdale was avaricious, was national to 
 illiberality, and believed the professor of 
 every religion but his own must be devoid 
 of virtue. Frederic was his favourite child : 
 that partiality induced him to forgive his 
 marriage, and receive his wife : but not even 
 that partiality, nor Julia's perfections, could 
 conquer his deep-rooted prejudices. Every 
 individual of the family formed their conduct 
 by his grace's : the Igvely interesting Julia 
 was no favourite amongst them: 'but the 
 energy of her husband's character, and the 
 high estimation his country held him in, en- 
 forced respect to his adored Julia from every
 
 person who approached her, so long as he 
 was spared to protect her. But he had cho< 
 sen the naval profession ; his country often 
 called him from his Juha : and in five vears 
 after their union he fell, crowned with laurels, 
 conquering a force far superior to that which 
 he commanded. 
 
 The affliction of JuHa was proportionate 
 to the tender affection she bore him, and the 
 loss she sustained in being deprived of such a 
 husband, such a protector; and the only- 
 consolation she had left prejudice threatened 
 to tear from her. Her sole surviving child, 
 the little Clementina, it was decreed by the 
 inflexible grandfather, must be taken from 
 her papist mother, and reared in the per- 
 suasion of her father. This was a fell blow 
 to the already breaking heart of Julia. Her 
 child to be taken from her and bred a heretic ! 
 and neither in this life nor the next could she 
 more hope to behold her husband or her child ! 
 While her Frederic lived, happiness had pre- 
 vented her reverti:*g deeply to the horrors of 
 future separation ; but now he was gone, and 
 she had. not the hope to console her of future 
 meeting. All the horrors of the catholic per- 
 suasion, in their belief of heretical perdition,
 
 25 
 
 now fastened upon her mind;, shattered her 
 frame, and tortured her heart to dh'est an- 
 guish. Her confessor was her adviser ; and 
 he had many counsellors among the bigots of 
 his faith which London contained, by whom 
 poor JuHa was at length persuaded to forego 
 the maternal transports of her child's presence, 
 to ensure her eternal salvation. 
 
 The crafty priest secretly and dexterously 
 conveyed the beautiful and engaging little 
 Clementina, then in her fourth year, from 
 the arms of her doting heart-broken mother 
 to the city of Palermo, where he carefully 
 delivered up his charge to the archbishop of 
 Montreal, to whose protection Julia had Con- 
 fided her child. And in a few months after, 
 this amiable, lovely, unfortunate young wo- 
 man fell, in the prime of beauty, a martyr 
 to bigotry — friendless, forlorn, persecuted by 
 her husband's family with increasing cruelty 
 to enforce confession of the place of her 
 child's concealment, and far from her native 
 country, a return to which a dreadful interdict 
 in her husband's will prevented ; for in his 
 professional excursions he had visited Palermo 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 
 
 after his marriage, and had learned from the 
 archbishop of Montreal the fatal cause of the 
 unfortunate disunion of the marchcse and 
 marchesa of Palermo. The dreadful pang 
 which such intelligence would inflict he spared 
 his Julia, resolving during her youth, or the 
 existence of the marchese, never to allow her 
 to revisit Sicily : and to prevent her doing so, 
 should she survive himself, he left in his will a 
 /solemn request to her not to visit her native 
 country until she had attained her fortieth 
 'year. And as he forbore to assign any cause 
 for this extraordinary request, Julia consider- 
 ed it only as inspired by a degree of that 
 national prejudice so conspicuous in the rest 
 of her Frederic's family ; and although she 
 would have given worlds to accompany her 
 child to Sicily, to weep upon the sympathis- 
 ing bosom of her Angelina (who she had 
 heard from others, but never from herself, 
 was an unhappy wife), and to commit herself 
 solely to the guidance of her revered friend 
 the archbishop, yet she acquiesced without 
 murmuring in a request that added, as she 
 thought, affliction to her sorrows, but which
 
 27 
 
 in fact spared her the torturing pang of know- 
 ing she had, though innocently, caused her 
 sister's misery. 
 
 The convent of St. Rosolia was also the 
 asylum of the lovely interesting Clementina, 
 to whom the good archbishop proved a Jj.ind 
 and faithful guardian ; while the affectionate 
 heart of Angelina prompted her to bestow 
 every attention, every endearment upon Cle- 
 mentina that could possibly make up to her 
 in any degree for the loss of that maternal 
 tenderness she doubted not the sweet child 
 would have received from her absent mother 
 for whom Angelina retained the most ardent 
 and unalterable affection ; for whose sorrows 
 she vvept the purest tears of sympathy — for 
 whose alienation from her child, her country, 
 and herself, she keenly mourned — and whose 
 premature death gave a fell blow to her al- 
 ready tottering health, and to her agonised 
 heart an endless source of grief. 
 
 Too well Angelina guessed the motive 
 which actuated the will of the amiable lord 
 Frederic Stanhope ; and her feeling heart was 
 wrung with anguish. To make up to the 
 little Clementina that maternal protection 
 
 o
 
 28 
 
 and advantage she had been, though inno- 
 cently, the cause of depriving her of, was 
 now, alas ! all that she had in her power to 
 evince her affection by, to the memory of her 
 beloved lamented Julia : and Viola herself 
 was not an object of more tender solicitude 
 than Clementina, whose lively and ardent 
 disposition led her to return wi,th fervor the 
 tenderness of her aunt, and the affection of 
 her cousin — between whom and herself a most 
 pure and lasting friendship cemented, which 
 grew with their growth and strengthened with 
 their strength.
 
 m 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 So attached was the good archbishop io 
 these children of misfortune, that to see them 
 happy was his earnest wish, and to indulge 
 them in every thing within his power to be- 
 stow, his chief delight : scarcely a day passed 
 without his taking either his lovely niece or 
 his playful ward into the city, or to his pa- 
 lazzo, to load each of these fascinating child- 
 ren with every present affluence and affection 
 could suggest to please them, and through 
 their happiness to steal a pang from the sor- 
 rows of Angelina. 
 
 It was in one of these excursions, and just 
 at the period Viola had entered her fifteenth 
 year, as she and her reverend uncle were 
 driving from St. Rosolia's to his palazzo in 
 Palermo, one of the numerous processions 
 which so frequently throng the streets in ca- 
 tholic countries impeded the progress of their 
 carriage in a narrow street ; and whilst the 
 
 c 3
 
 30 
 
 pious prelate was engaged at the window 
 next to him, bestowing his loudly called for 
 benediction upon the^ devout procession, 
 Viola hastily turned her head from the pious 
 multitude to look into a carriage which just 
 then had drawn up by the side of her uncle's, 
 and beheld in it, a remarkably handsome and 
 elegant-looking man, with his eyes earnestly 
 riveted upon her face. The sensitive mo- 
 desty of Viola ever made her shun the gaze 
 of observation ; but though transient was the 
 glance her timidity gave her of this stranger, 
 he made her not only blush but tremble too ; 
 and scarcely knowing what she felt, or why 
 she was so tinusually agitated, she caught, in 
 her tremulous grasp, the hand of her asto- 
 nished lincle, who, casting a contemptuous 
 look at the still rudely gazing stranger, called 
 to his attendants to proceed with expedition. 
 
 The archbishop's carriage was once more 
 in motion 3 and they were proceeding rapidly 
 to enter the court-yard of the palace, when 
 they were arrested by a violent jar, and at the 
 same moment heard a dreadful crash. Viola 
 was terribly alarmed, although soon informed 
 that the accident was occasioned by a coach
 
 Si 
 
 which, in striving to pass the archbishop's, 
 when too nearly in contact with it, had been,; 
 by the mismanagement of the driver, over- 
 turned. The archbishop's coachman,, with- 
 out further impediment, drove up to the pa- 
 lace door; and the moment the good prelate 
 alighted, he sent his people to afford all pos- 
 sible assistance to those who might have suf- 
 fered in the overturn ; and with orders, if any 
 person was hurt, to bring them into the 
 palace. 
 
 The perturbation and alarm of Viola pre« 
 vented her uncle from leaving her and going 
 himself, as he otherwise would have done, to 
 offer assistance to those who might claim it ; 
 and she had just finished drinking a glass of 
 water, which her uncle had made her take, 
 when the stranger, whose gaze had so much 
 disconcerted her uncle and agitated her, en- 
 tered the apartment leaning upon two of 
 the good prelate'^ domestics. Haughty w^as 
 his mien, while resentment glowed on his 
 cheeks, shot from his eyes, and sounded in 
 his voice. 
 
 " The accident I have just received,** said 
 he, " must plead my excuse for presuming 
 
 c 4
 
 S9 
 
 to enter here; and as a child of misfortune 1 
 claim from the benevolent prelate of Mont- 
 real an asylum here until a carriage can arrive 
 to convey me home." 
 
 " My lord," replied the archbishop, " you 
 well know that apology is unnecessary ; since 
 you are not now to learn my doors and heart 
 are never closed against the unfortunate or 
 the penitent.'* 
 
 The stranger's eyes flashed fire as he sunk 
 upon a couch to which the servants had sup- 
 ported him; while Viola, grieved and amazed 
 at the ungracious coldness of her uncle's man- 
 ner, stood irresolute — humanity urging her 
 to offer assistance to him whom her uncle's 
 unusual conduct seemed to proclaim un- 
 worthy of compassion. The archbishop, 
 however, did not suffer her long to remain 
 in this dilemma ; for, taking her hand, he 
 abruptly said — 
 
 " Come, my child, this is no place for 
 thee — come then, and let us leave this gen- 
 tleman to the care of the domestics/* 
 
 The archbishop had taken the hand of 
 Viola to lead her out ; but she moved not 
 one step. Shocked, grieved, and ashamed.
 
 0'» 
 
 at such cruel conduct, she gently articulated 
 in a voice of soft reproach — 
 
 " Will the archbishop of Montreal leave 
 a wounded stranger, who has flown to him 
 for succour ?" 
 
 The moment Viola's voice reached the 
 stranger's ear, the scorn and rage depicted 
 upon his fine countenance gave way to ex- 
 pressions of a very different nature : admira- 
 tion and grateful sensibility played round 
 his mouth and darted from his eyes, whilst 
 the interestingly lovely Viola stood looking 
 touchingly up at her uncle, imploring that 
 pity with her melting eyes for this stranger 
 which, until now, he seemed to give with 
 prodigal hand to ail who claimed ir. 
 
 The good prelate, visibly aiTected, looked 
 from Viola to the stranger, then from him 
 to Viola ; and at length benignly said — " I 
 will only go to bring him proper aid; but 
 stay you here, my child — your soothing pity 
 *tnay beguile his pain till my return." Then 
 motioning for the domestics to depart with 
 him, the door was closed upon Viola and 
 the stranger. 
 
 For a moment Viola forcibly felt the awk- 
 
 c 5
 
 54 
 
 wafdness of her situation ; but her native 
 dignity, and a wish to be serviceable, soon 
 banishing all embarrassment, she gracefully 
 (although with a tremulous hand; presented 
 him with some wine, which the archbishop 
 had in vain poured out for her. 
 
 " Let me recommend this specific to you, 
 srgnior," said she gently ; " it was the arch- 
 bishop's prescription to me. I was only 
 frightened ; but, as I fear you are severely 
 bun, you much more require it." 
 
 The stranger took the glass with a hand 
 infinitely more tremulous than her own ; 
 then gallantly thanking her, and washing 
 her health and felicity, drank off the wine; 
 whilst his fine and speaking eyes still remain- 
 ed riveted upon her : then in the most insi- 
 nuating voice Viola had ever heard, he ex- 
 pressed his " regret at her having experi- 
 enced so serious an alarm ; at the same time 
 he rejoiced in being the material sufferer, 
 since she had escaped any real injury from 
 an accident that threatened each carriage 
 with equal danger ;" and concluded by speak- 
 ing " of the joy her friends in Palermo would; 
 experience upon learning her escape*.'*
 
 35 
 
 ** I have no friend in Palermo, signior/* 
 replied Viola with a painful sigh, " but the 
 archbishop of Montreal." 
 
 The\ stranger looked anxiously at her, 
 while he eagerly said — " I wish not to hurt 
 your feelings, believe me, lovely signora, or 
 appear impertinently inquisitive j but your 
 manner leads me to fear you have no pa- 
 
 rents.'* 
 
 *' Oh yes> thank Heaven, I have a mo- 
 ther!" 
 
 The stranger turned pale; his lips quiver- 
 ed, whilst with painful agitation he articu- 
 lated — 
 
 "Your father then is no more r'' 
 
 " My father lives, signior, but — he Is the 
 marchese of Palermo ; and — " Viola, shock- 
 ed at what she had so for inadvertently saidj> 
 suddenly ceased, and spread her beautiful 
 hands over her face to hide her emotion, 
 while the trickling tears strayed through her 
 taper fingers on her snowy bosom. 
 
 *' And," exclaimed the stranger in atone 
 of agitation alarming to Viola, *' and you 
 execrate, disclaim the villain who has so 
 shamefully thrown off his child r"
 
 S6 
 
 « My father is no villain!" said Viola, 
 rising from her seat with all the dignity of 
 offended majesty ; and, casting a look of in- 
 effable disdain upon the stranger, moved in- 
 dignantly towards the door. 
 
 *' Stay! but one moment stay, I conjure 
 you!" exclaimed the now almost conTulsed 
 stranger with a look of supplication Viola 
 found it impossible to withstand ; " stay, and 
 tell me truly — Do you not curse your un- 
 natural father ? Has not your injured mo- 
 ther taught you to invoke the bitterest male- 
 dictions upon his unworthy head ?*' 
 
 Viola shuddered ; but, eager to exculpate 
 her adored mother from such a horrible im- 
 putation, firmly said — " You know not my 
 mother, else that insult had been spared me. 
 In my mother is comprised every Christian 
 virtue ; and, from my earliest days till now, 
 it has been her care to teach me, and in the 
 most impressive manner, the duty and rever- 
 ence which I owe my father : and should the 
 marchese of Palermo ever allow me the hap- 
 piness to evince it, he will know how able has 
 been the instructor, how willing the pupil j 
 and you, signior, will be convinced how cruel^
 
 57 
 
 how unjust, was that suspicion which led you 
 to suppose a pious mother ever taught her 
 child to curse its father." Then, with the 
 blush of resentment mantling on her cheeks, 
 and the tears of wounded sensibility stream- 
 ing from her eyes, she was about to quit the 
 yoom, when the agitated stranger suddenly 
 exclaimed — 
 
 ** My child! my child! evince it now, and 
 take mc to your heart ; as henceforth I take 
 my long neglected child to mine.'* And he 
 elapsed the astonished, agitated Viola with ar- 
 dour to his breast. 
 
 For one moment the remembrance of her 
 mother's injuries taught her to recoil from 
 her father's first embrace : but instantly the 
 recollection of that mother's precepts con- 
 quered the impulse; she returned with fer- 
 vour his embrace, then sunk at his feet, and 
 softly articulated — 
 
 " My father, bless your child." 
 
 The marchese sunk on his knees besldt 
 her. " Join your prayers to Heaven with 
 mine, my Viola, to pardon my injustice, my 
 cruelty to you." 
 
 At this moment the good and venerable
 
 3S 
 
 prelate entered the room, unobserved by- 
 father and child. Pleased, but not surprised, 
 at the scene before him, he advanced with a 
 glad and pious heart, and on his knees poured 
 forth his solemn benediction upon them both. 
 
 The marchese of Palermo had been only 
 a few days returned from the carnival of 
 Venice to his native city, when the before- 
 mentioned procession stopped the progress of 
 his carriage ; and well knowing his uncle's 
 equipage, as his drew up by the side of the 
 •archbishop's carriage, he eagerly bent forward 
 to throw some of his resentful looks at his 
 estimable relation, who had for years refused 
 all intercourse with him, when the beautiful, 
 interesting Viola caught and arrested his most 
 earnest attention. 
 
 His agitated heart instantly prompted a 
 wish that this lovely creature might be his 
 child ', while, from her exquisite beauty, his 
 long unconquerable love for Julia led him 
 to fear that this must be her daughter, whom 
 iie well knew to be under the guardianship 
 of the archbishop of Montreal. But soon 
 the sudden blush, quickly averted eye, 
 and the agitated grasp of the= archbishop'sL
 
 39 
 
 hand, led him to suppose his wish realised ; 
 but that his child knew him, and had turned 
 from him in resentment and disgust. His 
 busy conscience told him he well deserved 
 such conduct ; while mortified pride, with 
 the torturing sting of self-reproach, awaken- 
 ed a violent glow of anger against the in- 
 nocent cause of all this unusual agitation* 
 The archbishop's command to his people to 
 hasten home, which of course the marchese 
 heard, increased his indignation ; and scarce- 
 ly knowing what he incended, he madly 
 ordered his coachman to turn (for he had 
 been going a contrary way to his uncle), 
 and to draw up again by the side of the 
 archbishop's carriage. The delay the turn- 
 ing necessarily occasioned prevented the 
 marchese's coach from overtaking the arch- 
 bishop's until arrived at the palace-gate, 
 when the accident occurred which our reader 
 is already acquainted with. 
 
 The marchese was but slightly hurt, but 
 mortification and chagrin made him feel 
 disordered ; and believing himself marerially 
 injured by the concussion, and wishing for 
 an opportunity of learning who the lovdy
 
 10 
 
 companion of his uncle really was, he suf- 
 fered himself to be led into the archbishop's 
 presence, where the conduct of the fas- 
 cinating Viola soon convinced him that he 
 was perfectly unknown to her. Her blush 
 and averted face he now rightly attributed 
 to youthful timidity ; and, more anxious 
 than ever to Icarn if she was indeed his 
 child, or only Julia's, he resolved not to leave 
 the house until he gained that information 
 his hopes and fears so eagerly panted for. 
 The penetrating prelate, well versed in all 
 the turnings of the human mind, saw in 
 the agitation his nephew betrayed some- 
 thing that whispered hopes of reconciliation ; 
 and calling the domestics away, he quitted 
 the room, resolving not to interfere, but to 
 leave all to nature and the fascination of his 
 beloved Viola. 
 
 The marchese, happy almost beyond con- 
 cealment at this unexpected cTent, eagerly 
 and artfully turned his conversation to the 
 subject of her parents, to learn who was so 
 blessed with such a child ; and if, as he each 
 moment more fervently wished, she was his 
 own, to learn if possible the opinion she had
 
 41 . 
 
 been led to tbnii of him. All turned out 
 most flattering to his hopes, and far beyond 
 the expectations that conscience formed. He 
 had no intention, when their tete-a-tete com- 
 menced, to avow himself as her parent, should 
 she prove to be his child : but the bewitching 
 power of nature conquered — the pure and 
 filial virtue of Viola awakened every dormant 
 worthy feeling. Nature gave the signal, and 
 the father reclaimed the libertine.
 
 ^^ 
 
 CHAR IV. 
 
 The marchese of Palermo, by the arch- 
 bishop's desire, remained at his palace until 
 the bruises he had sustained in his over- 
 turn were perfectly recovered; and, at the 
 marchese*s earnest request, Viola continued 
 there also, as his companion and his nurse. 
 Her not returning to St. Rosolia's was oc- 
 casioned by such an unexpected fortunate 
 event, that it perfectly reconciled her de* 
 lighted mother to being for a time bereft 
 of the sweet society of her adored child j 
 whilst the now little less adoring father 
 found each day, each hour, new causes for 
 admiration, for exultation, in the expand- 
 ing perfections of his lovely child, wh'om he 
 now could scarcely bear one moment from 
 his sight — angry at every cause that occa- 
 sioned her absence, suspicious of every delay, 
 jealous of her affection for her mother and 
 uncle, and trembling lest, when the time
 
 4.:i 
 arrived that he could no longer reasonably 
 prevent her visiting her mother, she should 
 return to him no more. 
 
 At length every inconvenience the mar- 
 chese had experienced from his accident 
 was past, and he anxiously wished to strike 
 the wondering world with admiration and 
 delight at the perfections of his child ; and 
 he courteously asked the archbishop's leave 
 for Viola to accompany him to his own 
 palazzo, there to remain some time with him 
 — ^yet firmly resolved, should uncle or mo- 
 ther object, to claim his right as a father, and 
 take her by force of authority. The arch* 
 bishop was too politic, and the tender mar- 
 chesa too happy at the auspicious prospects of 
 her child, to think of a refusal ; and Viola 
 accompanied her father to his palazzo, with* 
 out the earnest wish of her heart being grati- 
 fied by visiting her mother. 
 
 Our reader has been already told the 
 marchese of Palermo was vain, and pas- 
 sionately fond of notoriety. Viola was his 
 own ; and next to being admired and talked 
 of himself, to have his child the object of 
 public applause and conversation was most
 
 congenial to his wishes. Viola then, at- 
 tired with all the elegance and splendor 
 of taste and affluence, w^as presented to the 
 great world at Palermo by her exulting 
 father. 
 
 Here for the first time his wishes and 
 projects were not disappointed. Lady Viola 
 de AveUino w^as the rage, the phrensy of 
 the moment : crowds followed her, to gaze 
 at and admire ; suitors poured in from every 
 side: h^r dress, her walk, her air, her man- 
 ner, even the tone of her voice and the 
 expression of her countenance, were the 
 aim of imitation for every fashionable belle y 
 and the society of the marchese of Palermo 
 was now a;; eagerly sought by the estimable 
 and exalted as it had for fifteen preceding 
 years been shunned. 
 
 Among the numerous visitors who en- 
 tered the lists for Viola's favour was the 
 prince of Romando, a man young, hand- 
 some, amiable, sensible, and accomplished, 
 with rank and affluence to gratify the 
 father's ambition, with every requisite to 
 captivate a girl of fifteen just emerged 
 from a convent. But fervently as the mar-
 
 45 
 
 chese wished for this alliance to take place, 
 his own ill-fated marriage determined him 
 never to force the inclination of his child, 
 nor to urge her to marry where he was 
 not assured her affections were irrevocably 
 placed, or allow her to bestow her hand 
 where there was not positive proof of her 
 being firmly beloved again. Yet still wish- 
 ing for this union, he considered it no 
 infringement of his resolution to throw the 
 prince and Viola in each other's way as 
 frequently as possible, without apparent 
 design, and to forward and promote the 
 attachment by every means consistent with 
 delicacy and his daughter's future hap- 
 piness. 
 
 A splendid ball was given by the prince 
 of Romando's mother ; and to it Viola went, 
 adorned with a number of valuable gems, 
 and every elegance the fortune of her father 
 could procure. Her youthful fancy was daz- 
 zled by the brilliancy of her dress, and, 
 elated by expected homage, she appeared 
 with a degree of animated loveliness even 
 surpassing her former attractions. Beautiful 
 and gay, the admiration of every beholder.
 
 4b 
 
 the partner of the prince, the idol of his 
 adoration, A'iola emerged from the gentle, 
 sweetly plaintive character circumstances 
 had formed for her, and here 'appeared the 
 life, the soul, the spirit of the circle — until, 
 as she stood at the entrance of a pergola^ 
 listening with playful archness to the im- 
 passioned homage of the prince, the de- 
 lighted father gazing on her in all the 
 exultation of realising hope — when on a 
 sudden her mirthful look changed to an 
 expression of horror mingled with anguish ; 
 the animated vermilion of her cheeks as- 
 sumed the ashy hue of death ; tears gushed 
 from her eyes; her head sunk in disorder 
 against the arbour ; her father caught her 
 in his arms. " Oh take me hence!'* she 
 cried. All was consternation, astonish- 
 ment, vague conjecture. She pleaded sud- 
 den illness ; and the marchese conveyed her 
 home. 
 
 Alarmed almost to torture, her agonised 
 father summoned his own physician, uha 
 finding no alarming symptom about lady 
 Viola, whom he pronounced agitated and 
 overcome by heat and fatigue, desired her
 
 4/ 
 
 to retire immediately to bed, and prescribed 
 a soporific for her. Notwithstanding dot- 
 tore Balsamico's assurance to the contrary, 
 the marchese wound himself into a belief 
 that Viola w^as in imminent danger. He 
 laid an embargo upon dottore Balsamico, 
 and roused every domestic in the palazzo to 
 be in readiness to summon other medical 
 assistance, should any change for the worse 
 take place. Every horse Avas saddled, every 
 carriage ready; while he himself paced from 
 one room to another, up stairs and down, in 
 all the phrensy of ungoverned sorrow, fully 
 believing the moment of retribution was at 
 hand, and that his child was about to be 
 snatched from him, as a punishment for his 
 cruelty to her mother and to her. 
 
 At length Zingaresca, Viola's own woman, 
 appeared, to inform the marchese that lady 
 Viola, after weeeping a great deal, had, from 
 the power of the medicine she had taken, 
 fallen into a profound and tranquil sleep. 
 
 " The sleep of death!" fear instantly whis- 
 pered to the anticipating terrors of the ago- 
 nised father ; and he as instantly darted by 
 Zingaresca, and, followed by dottore Balsa-
 
 48 
 
 mico, flew to the chamber of his child. Soft- 
 ly, but precipitately, he hastened to her bed, 
 and, drawing the curtains aside, beheld her 
 in a profound though not a tranquil slumber. 
 Her closed eyelids were moistened by tears, 
 and from the long fringe of each trembled 
 the humid distillations of sorrow, whilst on 
 the only cheek her position exhibited a pearly 
 drop rested : her head lay reclined upon one 
 hand, which held grasped within it a minia- 
 ture picture, which seemed to have been press- 
 ed close to her lips when she fell into her 
 sleep. 
 
 ^' Tortures and madness !" — Here was an 
 annihilating discovery for an impetuous father. 
 — " Here was the portrait of some clandes- 
 tine lover, the solution of the evening's enig- 
 ma I Ambition and vanity had led her on to 
 listen for a moment to the prince, when a sud- 
 den recollection of this vile and low-born 
 wretch (for vile and low-born the marchese 
 decidedly pronounced him) had startled, dis- 
 ordered, and agitated ner." — Ten thousand 
 furies! From the seclusion and humble 
 sphere his child had been reared in, she had 
 imbibed plebeian notions. The brother of a
 
 49 
 iay-sister, the nephew of a portress, the cousin, 
 of a grave-digger, all passed in terrible array 
 before his phrensied imagination. He con- 
 signed the whole convent of St. Rosolia to 
 
 the d 1; execrated his own conduct as the 
 
 cause of all : and these thoughts, as they 
 passed rapidly through his mind, wound him 
 into such a paroxysm of rage, that, forgetting 
 every fear of awaking the sleeping invalid, he 
 resolved to know the extent of this disgrace 
 so providentially discovered to him, and hasti- 
 ly snatched the portrait from his daughter's 
 grasp, and beheld, most strikingly pourtrayed, 
 the beautiful, interesting, plaintive colinte- 
 nance of her mother ! — The conviction he 
 expected could scarcely have disconcerted 
 him more completely. The picture fell from 
 his trembling hand ; and as precipitately as he 
 had entered he now quitted Viola's chamber, 
 and retired to his own, from whence he 
 emerged no more that night. 
 
 The power of the medicine Viola had 
 taken was dispelled by the rough manner in 
 which she had been awakened : she slept no 
 more that night, for her thoughts had painful 
 subjects, and she wept uncontrolled till morn- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 
 
 ing ; when she arose, and on her knees again 
 entreated pardon of Heaven for her culpable 
 folly, and inexcusable ingratitude to the best 
 of mothers. 
 
 The cause of this suddenly founded accusa- 
 tion we must now take the liberty of recount- 
 ing to our reader, as a solution of Viola's mys- 
 terious agitation at the princess of Romando's 
 ball. As she stood by the pergola, listening 
 with all th€ pleasure of youthful vanity to the 
 prince's adulation, which touched not her 
 hearty but often from its superlative flights 
 nearly exciting her risibility, the conversation 
 of two elderly ladies, who had entered the ar- 
 bour from another room, reached her ears 
 and arrested her attention ; it was the conti- 
 nuation of a discourse relative to herself. 
 
 *' I certainly agree with you in thinking," 
 said one, *' that lady Viola di Avellino is 
 even more beautiful than was her beautiful 
 mother." 
 
 '^ But mark me," replied the other, " it is 
 only in jpersonal perfection that I admit the 
 superiority. Lady Viola, is, I fear, vain and 
 frivolous — insensible, at least, if not ungrate- 
 ful. Decked out in all the gems I well re-
 
 member her unfortunate mother to- have 
 worn in the short days of her happiness, she 
 seems to forget, in the legions of mirth and 
 prosperity, the sorrows and injuries of that 
 incomDarable mother." 
 
 Viola was neither insensible nor ungrateful: 
 these words struck dreadfully upon her heart. 
 Every accusing feeling flew to the court of 
 justice within her own breast. She con- 
 demned herself without ofi'ering a single pal- 
 liation ; and the sentence of her mental judge 
 was the misery of self-reproach. 
 
 At breakfast the father and daughter met, 
 with heavy eyes and dejected countenance; 
 but no explanation ensued, nor did the evi- 
 dently depressed marchese start any subject 
 that could lead Viola to offer that request she 
 feared yet panted to make, for permission to 
 visit and ask forgiveness of her adored mother. 
 That day the prince of Romando made his 
 proposals to the m.archese of Palermo for lady 
 Viola ; who being left by her father totally to 
 her own decision, rejected (almost with hor- 
 Tor) the man who had caused her, even for a 
 moment, to forget her mother's sorrows. 
 
 From this period Viola secluded herself as 
 
 iX OF ILL 03:
 
 much as possible from every scene of gaiety. 
 Her short flight of vivacity was past ; her ap- 
 petite fled ; her rest was broken ; and her 
 bloom faded like a blighted flower. At 
 length, anxiety for his child's health led the 
 agitated father to that subject he had antici- 
 pated in idea, and dreaded to enter upon. One 
 morning, as they were sitting together after** 
 breakfast, the marchese, with all the winning 
 gentleness of afl:ection, entreated the confi- 
 dence of his child, and desired to learn the 
 cause of her but too apparent unhappiness. 
 
 " I have no cause for unhappiness, my 
 father," replied Viola, bursting into tears, 
 " but in being separated from my mother ; 
 and from my self-reproaches for suflering the 
 delusions of pleasure to teach me, even for a 
 moment, to forget her," 
 
 A painful pause ensued. At length the 
 marchese mournfully said — '^ You are weary, 
 then, Viola, of the affection of a doting father, 
 and wish to leave him V* 
 
 *' No, Heaven forbid I" returned Viola fer- 
 vently. " My wish, my lord, is to reside 
 alternately here and at St. Rosolia's ; to share 
 alike the aflfection of both my honoured pa-
 
 53 
 
 rents ; and to divide mine and rny tenderest 
 attentions equally between them." 
 
 The marchese arose, and traversed the room 
 in much disorder ; at length he returned to 
 his seat, and almost, from agitation, inarticu- 
 lately said : — ■" I am grieved to say, my child, 
 your amiable wish can never be realised. The 
 unhappy disagreement so long subsisting be- 
 tween your mother and me, which my Viola 
 will spare me the pain and humiliation of en- 
 tering upon, must, alas ! affect our child. Si- 
 tuated as the marchesa and I are, you cannot 
 divide your affection between us. Mutual 
 jealousy in an alternate residence would buc 
 increase our misery and division. To one 
 parent only can you devote yourself. You 
 must be alone your mother's j or, oh, rapture ! 
 wholly mine." 
 
 Viola, uttering a faint shriek, fell at his feet, 
 and grasped his knees in all the convulsed agi- 
 tation of horror and despair. 
 
 " Oh, my father! revoke, revoke that 
 dreadful sentence. Oh ! in pity to us both, 
 drive not your affectionate child for ever from 
 •you." 
 
 The marchese flung her from him in ago- 
 
 D 3
 
 .54 
 
 nised phrensy. " So then you hzcve decided ! 
 — You throw me off! I — I am to be the vic- 
 tim of your choice ! It is well — very wdl. 
 But remember, girl," and he fixed his eyes 
 sternly upon her, " though afTection turns you 
 iiot to me, interest should sway you. Re- 
 member, infatuated girl, that I have the power 
 to disinherit you — to leave you a titled beggar 
 ' — to leave the young marchesa of Palermo a 
 poor dependent upon the charity of an unfeel- 
 ing world!" Recollect this, Viola, ere you 
 rashly fly from the protection of your despised, 
 your hated father.*' 
 
 " For the love of the Holy Virgin,'' ex- 
 claimed Viola almost frantically, "rend not 
 thus the heart of your affectionate child. I 
 love you so w^ell — indeed I do, my father, and 
 am .so very grateful for your kindness and 
 tenderness to me, that Heaven knovv s I would 
 not voluntarily leave you. But my poor mo- 
 ther has long been deprived of health, is often 
 very sick, and always very miserable : — her 
 kindness, and my debt of gradtude, com- 
 menced from the hour of my birth. She 
 nurtured, she loved, she cherished me ; she 
 taught me every good 1 know ; while Heaven
 
 DO 
 
 and her Viola Vv'ere for fifteen years the only 
 consolation her sorrows knewj-and can I 
 now forsake her?" 
 
 '• You might have spa.red these reproaches, 
 Viola," said the marchese with terrifying 
 calmness ; " they ill befit you to speak, nor 
 will I hear more of them. This conversation 
 can never be renevv'ed. This instant decides 
 your fate. • Your choic'>3 is free, lady Viola : 
 remain with a fond, a doting father, and en- 
 joy all that aflluence, that indulgence can be- 
 stow ; or return to your mother, and to irre- 
 vocable poverty and obscurity." 
 
 " Then to my mother, and to that poverty 
 and obscurity which the self-conviction of in- 
 gratitude shall not embitter, will I return. 
 Viola di AvcUino will never dishonour the il- 
 lustrious name she bears ; but ever must she 
 deplore her cruel destiny, that awakened in 
 her heart the most pure and glowing affection 
 for a parent who thus throws her off for ever." 
 Viola, with a look of agonised supplication, 
 suiHcient to melt the most obdurate heart, 
 pressed her father *s hand to her lips, as she 
 tremulously arose. He flew from her touch 
 to the bell, which he vehemently rung, A 
 
 D 4
 
 36 
 servant appeared. The marchese ordered a 
 carriage to be got ready immediately, and 
 that father Leopold, his domestic chaplain, 
 should attend him on the instant in the libra- 
 ry ; and dashing Viola from him with a me- 
 nacing look, who was again on her knees 
 clinging to his coat, imploring a blessing ere 
 they parted, he with all the phrensied gestures 
 of a maniac rushed from the room. 
 
 In about half an hour father Leopold ap« 
 peared to the weeping Violaj to inform her 
 she must instantly accompany him. A'iola 
 £tood too much in awe of her father to at- 
 tempt any further supplication ; but silent, 
 and full of grief, she attended her father's 
 chaplain to the convent of St. Rosolia, to the 
 good abadessa of which he delivered lady 
 Viola, who, he said, would herself account to 
 the marchesa of Palermo for her unexpected 
 return.
 
 r^7 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 The joy Viola would have experienced in 
 once more embracing her fond and beloved 
 mother was most dreadfully allayed by the 
 agonising reflexion of the lamentable event 
 which restored her so unexpectedly to her 
 mother's arms; and how to disclose all the 
 heart-rending circumstances of her second 
 banishment from the house and affection of 
 her father was a task poor Viola found her- 
 self at this moment perfectly unequal to. She 
 well knew that to see her in the favour and 
 alfection of her father had been for years the 
 first wish of the amiable marchesa's heart ; 
 and after that wish had been so unexpectedly 
 and flatteringly realised, the bitter disappoint- 
 ment, Viola feared, would be more than the 
 fragile frame of her mother could endure. 
 From inflicting such a fell blow to the peace 
 of her beloved parent she recoiled, and there- 
 ioxQ resolved to make no disagreeable com-
 
 Ss 
 munications until she had seen raid consulted 
 her uncle. But this concealment, with the 
 s^ecret anguish her heart had long endured, 
 with this day's dreadful increase of it, now 
 proved too much for Viola. Her head ached 
 violently ; her eyes were heavy ; her pulse 
 beat quick ; and her attentive mother found 
 her very feverish ; from which, and the eva- 
 sive answers Viola made when questioned 
 upon the reason of her unexpected return, 
 the marchesa's anticipating fears whispered 
 that something of new misfortune had oc- 
 curred : and in her anxiety to learn what, she 
 sent a hasty summons to the archbishop of 
 Montreal ; who came to her fully equal to in- 
 forming her upon the distressing subject, hav- 
 ing, just before her summons reached him, 
 received a letter from his nephew relative to 
 the transactions of that mormng. 
 
 The exultation and gratified affection of 
 the marchesa upon the conduct of her amiable, 
 grateful child, only increased her affliction and 
 disappointment at that child's being so unjust- 
 ly and cruelly deprived of her brilliant ex- 
 pectations, by a conduct so meritorious, it 
 deserved applause and recompense, not the
 
 '" alarm 
 
 punishment It met with; and feeling that it 
 was for her Viola had given up every smile of 
 fortune, her grief, gratitude, and aifecdon 
 were wound up to the most painful and high- 
 est pitch, and added the most dreadful poig- 
 nancy to every fear the too evident indisposi- 
 tion of her child inspired. 
 
 The amiable archbishop remained the whole 
 day at St. Rosolia's, to give every consolation 
 in his power to his beloved Angelina ; and as 
 the day advanced, the increasing indisposition 
 of Viola prevented her being able longer to 
 deny her illness, which for her mother's peace 
 she had for some hours done ; and nov/ also, 
 for that mother's peace, she consented to re- 
 ceive medicinal aid. 
 
 The evening was fast closing in, when a 
 little group, drav/n by affection thither, were 
 collected round Viola's couch, on which she 
 reclined, her head resting upon that balmy 
 pillow where the '^affectionate child finds ease 
 for every ill — the bosom of her fond attentive 
 mother; tlie good prelate and amiable prior- 
 ess seated by her, ready to give every comfort 
 in their power, or to beguile sickness and sor- 
 row of their pangs by their instructive or 
 amusing conversation ; while close to the
 
 60 
 
 mir Clementina sat, one hand of Viola's 
 ^ast clasped in hers, and which often felt a 
 trickling tear that fell, because she had not 
 power to make her cousin well or her aunt 
 happy. This friendly little group were thus 
 situated, when the solemn stillness that then 
 reigned in the convent was unusually inter- 
 rupted by a loud and violent ringing at the gate ; 
 and in a few moments after the following let- 
 ter was, by a conversay delivered into the 
 hand of the agitated and alarmed Viola, 
 
 *' MY CHIJ.D, 
 
 *' Erase from your remembrance the trans- 
 actions of this morning ; — but in mine they 
 shall hold a place for ever. If it is possible, 
 look on me again with the same affection you 
 bore me yesterday. Viola, I implore you to 
 return to me instantly with father Leopold, 
 whom I have sent for you. I am very ill, 
 Viola, and want your care. The amiable 
 mother, who has made you what you are, 
 will not refuse to let you come to and com- 
 fort a miserable man. 
 
 " My Viola's henceforth 
 " affectionate father, 
 
 " Palermo."
 
 6i 
 
 The agitated marchesa beheld with alarm 
 the variations of her child's countenance as 
 she perused the billet ; and with equal agita- 
 tion she herself read it, when Viola presented 
 it to her. Without speaking, she gave it to 
 the archbishop ; then looked anxiously at her 
 child, inquiringly at him. 
 
 " Viola must go," said the archbishop. 
 
 " 111 as she is?" replied, the anxious mp- 
 ther. 
 
 '' Diseases generally cease when the cause 
 is removed,'* returned the archbishop : " un- 
 easiness of mind solely occasioned Viola's in- 
 disposition ; and" 
 
 " And now 1 am well, almost quite well," 
 said Viola. " The cause of my mother's re- 
 cent sorrow Is now providentially removed, 
 and my anticipating heart^predicts a thousand 
 happy things for us all." 
 
 '' Ileaven grant them, my daughter !" said 
 the good abadessa. " But you shall not l^ave 
 us without the attendance of sister Constantia: 
 she is a careful nurse, Is firmly attached to 
 you, and you love her. Her being with you 
 will be a consolation to our dear marchesa ; 
 and should you not want her care, she can 
 assist you in nursing your father."
 
 62 
 
 This kind and considerate offer was grate- ' 
 fully accepted ; and while the good Constan- 
 tia (one of the hospital sisters) was preparing 
 to attend Viola, the agitated marchesa took her 
 daughter by the hand, and, accompanied by the 
 archbishop, the prioress, and Clementina, pro- 
 ceeded to the parlour, where father Leopold was 
 waiting, and herself delivered Viola to his care. 
 
 " My child is far from well, reverend fa- 
 ther," said she: ^Mny lord will therefore, 
 I trust, excuse the liberty my anxiety has 
 prompted me to take, in sending one of our 
 convent nurses to attend her." 
 
 Fcither Leopold had never before beheld 
 the unfortunate Angelina ; and, whether awed 
 or affected by her appearance, he was unable 
 to reply to her. But intimating that the mar- 
 chese would feel impatient at delay, Viola em- 
 braced her mother and cousin, received the 
 parting benediction of the prelate and abades- 
 sa, and, accompanied by sister Constantia, at- 
 tended father Leopold to the carriage, which 
 quickly conveyed her to her father; who re- 
 ceived her with redoubled affection from her 
 late alienauon. 
 
 The attendance of the nurse being mention- 
 ed, and explained to the marchese, every idea
 
 ^3 
 
 of his own iiidlsposition vanished in care and 
 anxiety /or his daughter. ' Viola assured that 
 her time should be equally 'shared by both her 
 parents, and all mental ill being removed, 
 sister Constantia returned in a few days to 
 St. Rosolia's with the happy intelligence of 
 Viola's perfect recovery. 
 
 Lady Viola had been about a month on her 
 second visit to her father, during which pe- 
 riod she had made several morning visits to 
 her mother and her uncle ; when one day, 
 after the marchese had been absent from home 
 for some hours, father Leopold rushed into 
 th^ apartment where she was, and with looks 
 aghast suddenly exclaimed — 
 
 '• Your unfortunate father has been drawn 
 into the commission of a dreadful crime, amen- 
 able to the law not only of Sicily, but where- 
 ever the power of Italy can reach him. His 
 property all is forfeited, and his person will be 
 instantly seized, unless he flies. He sends me 
 to you, to implore you to join his wanderings, 
 although an exile and a beggar." 
 
 The shock of this intelligence was too pow- 
 erful for Viola to sustain ; she ftil senseless to 
 the ground. On her recovery she found her-
 
 64 
 
 self in the arms of her father, who appeared 
 in the utmost grief and consternation. 
 
 " Forgive me, my child," he cried. 
 
 " Oh! why do we delay ?" she eagerly ex- 
 claimed. " Let us instantly fly — I am ready 
 to accompany you, my father." 
 
 *^ What ! ' said the 'marchese in breathless 
 agitation, '* will Viola go with a beggared 
 criminal, and leave that mother for whom she 
 unhesitatingly gave up every smile of fortune ? ' 
 
 Viola clung round the marchese's neck. — 
 *' For the love of Heaven ! ' she cried, " name 
 not my mother until we are far from Palermo. 
 You are now the most unfortunate of my pa- 
 rents j and your claims upon my affection, my 
 duty, my attentions, are therefore now the 
 strongest. Let us fly, my father, and 1 will be 
 all the comfort to you that I can." 
 
 Her father pressed her with exulting ten- 
 derness to his breast. *' My child, forgive the 
 cruel stratagem that has put your filial virtue 
 and affection to so severe a trial. I have com- 
 mitt.ed no offence against the laws of my coun- 
 try. I am not bereft of my fortune, or com- 
 pelled to fly; but, keenly feeling my long 
 series of unkindness to you, and my late cruel
 
 65 
 
 caprice, I thought it impossible that you 
 could experience any affection for me ; and 
 that duty and obedience which you evinced 
 by 60 readily returning to me, even when you 
 were ill, I feared was the effect of your mo- 
 ther's and uncle's policy. Father Leopold, 
 participating in my doubts and fears, formed 
 that plot which gave such anguish to your 
 feeling heart. As a proscribed criminal I had 
 nothing to bestow upon my child but poverty 
 and sorrow. The dreadful ordeal unveiled 
 her heart, and proved its sterling virtue. I 
 now glory and exult in niy child j and could 
 I, by any means within my power, silence the 
 reproaches of my conscience for my cruelties 
 to that exalted incomparable being who has 
 made my Viola what she is, I think my future 
 life should be such that could not make my 
 child unhappy ; should be such that even the 
 fastidious archbishop of Montreal should not 
 disapprove." 
 
 Viola threw her arms around her father's 
 neck, and, while she imprinted a kiss of sen- 
 sibility and affection upon his cheek, timidly 
 whispered the first wish of her heart, as the 
 means most likely to silence the reproaches of
 
 cs 
 
 his mental guide. From that hour Viola was 
 empowered to take every proper method to 
 effect a reconciliation between her long- 
 estranged parents. Her task was not very 
 difficult, since the marchesa was too amiable, 
 too susceptible of every Christian virtue, for 
 one moment to shelter resentment against the 
 contrite. She found her husband a sincere 
 penitent ; and though great were the afflic- 
 tions he had made her sulFer, she graciously 
 forgave him, and, at his desire, returned to fJl 
 that place in the world he had so long banish- 
 ed her from. The good archbishop was once 
 more on friendly terms with his no longer 
 despicable nephew ; and the now happy and 
 sanguine Viola thought of nothing but per- 
 manent felicity in the re-union of her parents. 
 But, alas! Viola was not born to experience 
 felicity unalloyed. 
 
 Angelina now^, in her thirty-second year, 
 a phantom only of her former self, which 
 each rude blast seemed ready to dissolve, re- 
 turned to her husband at the call of duty, 
 without one idea of expecting to find in her 
 re-union any of that happiness she had once 
 hoped for and been disappointed in. She
 
 67 
 found the marchese a most tender, at- 
 tentivCg and, to all appearance, afFectionate 
 hiisband. But Ano^elina was no lony;er to be 
 deceived by appearances. She had been ten- 
 derly and firmly attached to the marchese of 
 Palermo, and his cruelties to her and to her 
 child had not been able to shake that attach- 
 ment. She still loved him, and clearly saw 
 she had no power over his heart but what his 
 newly awakened duty and sorrow for the misery 
 he had heaped upon her gave her. Her feeling, 
 delicate mind shrunk with horror from this 
 conviction: she now considered herself as the 
 bane of her husband's repose, the only alloy 
 to the happiness of him so tenderly beloved 
 by her. Her presence, she feared, was. a 
 source of constant mental reproach to him ; 
 and that every kindness she experienced from 
 him was an act of painful penance inflicted by 
 his conscience. 
 
 This, baneful idea, S6 unfortunately con- 
 ceived, so fatally cherished, fast mined the 
 feeble wreck of an already exhausted frame. 
 For Viola's sake she strove against mental and 
 bodily ill ; put her fortitude to the utmost 
 streichj v/ent into public with a placid air and
 
 C8 
 
 assumed cheerfulness: but it was in vain — 
 mental suffering had signed her death-warrant, 
 and her rapid decline was soon too visible to 
 every one. 
 
 The grief and distraction of the marchese 
 (who now looked upon his Angelina as the 
 most perfect of human beings) was little short 
 of the affectionate Viola*s. Every medicinal 
 aid, every domestic care, were eagerly bestow- 
 ed upon her ; but Still she declined ; and the 
 distress of the father, and anguish of the daugh- 
 ter^ knew no consolation. The marchese ex- 
 pected very shortly a summons to Rome, re- 
 lative to a laW'Suit he had been for some time 
 engaged in about some considerable property 
 he held in the pope^s dominions -, and he now 
 resolved to set out immediately wdth the mar- 
 chesa upon a voyage to Lisbon, A\here he 
 would leave her with some near relations of 
 his own, while he should go and negotiate his 
 business at Rome; that he would then return 
 to Portugal, and, when the marchesa was suf- 
 ficiently recovered (which he would not en- 
 tertain a doubt of), he would take her a tour 
 through the southern and most salubrious pro- 
 vinces of the continent.
 
 69 
 
 A^iola was In ecstasies at this arrangement, 
 as her fond and flattering wishes reaHsed from 
 It that perfect recovery of her adored mother 
 her agonised heart so anxiously panted for. 
 A commodious vessel, wich a skilful captain 
 and crew, was now procured. Dottore Bal- 
 saniico and sister Constantia engaged to at- 
 tend the marchesa during her expedition. But 
 that which afforded the declining Angelina 
 more pleasure than any other part of her hus- 
 band's kind arrangements was, his asking 
 Clementina to accompany them upon this 
 tour; for to this poor girl the marchesa 
 thought her husband's conduct hitherto frigid 
 and unkind. 
 
 The marchese had certainly treated Cle- 
 mentina with a cold formality that had morti- 
 fied the susceptible girl, and much hurt her 
 aunt and Viola. But in some degree this con- 
 duct of the marchese's was actuated by the 
 most laudable motives. He believed that it 
 would be indelicate and unkind in him to An- 
 gelina to evince the smallest partiality towards 
 the child of Julia; and while wishing to steer 
 clear of every thing that could wound the 
 feelings of his wife, he, like the generality of
 
 70 
 
 people who act by rule, went beyond the 
 mark, and appeared to every one often rude, 
 but always ungracious, to an amiable and love- 
 ly young creature, whose misfortunes he pi- 
 tied, whose perfections he admired, and whom 
 he had a sincere regard for — as soon as a little 
 pang of jealous apprehension had subsided^ 
 wliich hehad entertained, lest her beauty should 
 prove more attractive, and occasion more ce- 
 lebrity, than his Viola's. He acknowledged 
 Clementina excessively lovely and fascinating ; 
 but he thought Viola infinitely more so ; yet 
 as he had formerly, contrary to the general 
 opinion, given the palm of beauty to Julia 
 from Angelina, he trembled lest his judgment 
 might not now, no more than then, coincide 
 with the fancy of the multitude. But in this 
 matter his dreadful apprehensions were most 
 decisively allayed. Clementina was admired 
 by all who saw her ; but she attracted no 
 gazing crowd like Viola ; she numbered not 
 one quarter of the suitors in her train; she 
 received not the homage, the adulation, that 
 lady Viola di Avellino received ; — not, gentle 
 reader, that Clementina Stanhope w^as less 
 lovely than her cousin, but she was not heiress
 
 71 
 to the titles and estates of the marchese of 
 Palermo. Clementina was an almost portion- 
 less foreigner; and the beaux of Palermo, 
 like the beaux of other countries which we 
 could name, found those charms the most at- 
 tractive whrch were seen through the magni- 
 fying perspective of rank and fortune.
 
 72 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 Ar length, attended by the fervent bene- 
 dictions of the amiable prelate of Montreal, 
 this anxious party set out, with the grateful 
 marchesa, upon this hope-inspiring voyage. 
 Propitious gales wafted them, with the utmost 
 expedition, to the shore of Lisbon ; and as 
 soon as the marchesa and her attendants, with 
 Viola and Clementina, were comfortably set- 
 tled at the house of the marchese's relations, 
 he set out for Rome upon that business 
 which peremptorily demanded his presence. 
 
 The delusive malady of Angelina in a very 
 few weeks assumed the most flattering appear- 
 ance. From her amiable host and hostess she 
 received the most friendly, hospitable, and 
 polite attention. The salubrious air of the 
 place seemed to renovate her strength, and 
 the absence of the marchese took from her 
 spirits a considerable load of sadness. She 
 had not now, momentarily, to undergo the
 
 t3 
 
 agonising pang each act of kindness, each 
 trait of tenderness he evinced, inflicted, from 
 the direful behef that all was inspired by con- 
 trition — all the painful and humiliating task of 
 retribution. 
 
 The affectionate and ardent Viola, now 
 inspired with the most fond and flattering 
 hopes, and Clementina, equally elated at the 
 auspicious prospect of her beloved aunt's re- 
 covery, no longer refused to appear In com- 
 pany, or enter into those amusements the 
 marchesa could partake of. Fame soon bla- 
 zoned forth the beauty, suavity, and elegance 
 of manners of the lovely and interesting Sicili- 
 ans. The state of Clementina's finances was 
 here unknown ; and it would be diflicult to 
 say which — she, her aunt (who now lookedfull 
 as beautiful as she had ever done, and, from 
 the nature of her malady, almost celestial,) or 
 Viola — was most admired, or which fascinated 
 most completely. But we only find it neces- 
 sary to inform our reader of one conquest 
 made upon this expedition ; as no other made 
 by the fair cousins, at this period, turned out 
 of any importance to our narrative. 
 
 At this time was stationed at Lisbon an 
 
 VOL.1. R
 
 74 
 
 officer in the Spanish navy, who had lately 
 signalised himself against thq Dutch, in some 
 of the most gallant actions ever fought by the 
 Spaniards against a maritime foe ; and for his 
 almost unprecedented bravery, by which his 
 comitry obtained a glorious and complete 
 victory over the enemy, and gained several 
 valuable and important conquests in the West- 
 India settlements, he was created a grandee 
 of Spain, knight of the golden fleece (an ho- 
 nour seldom bestowed but on princes), and 
 raised to the rank of admiral in the Spanish 
 navy. 
 
 This popular hero was then, as our female 
 reader can readily suppose, the admiration of 
 all the women in Spain and Portugal ; for, in 
 addition to ever-captivating valour, he was 
 only in his twenty-fourth year, beautiful in 
 face and figure, seductive in manners, fasci- 
 nating in voice and conversation, the favour- 
 ite of his sovereign, and the idol of the people. 
 But, alas ! his heart bore no proportion to the 
 perfections of his exterior ; for in that was to 
 be found the most singular compound of 
 every vice and virtue that ever disgraced or 
 ornamented the mind of man. With a
 
 lo 
 
 strange versatility of character, he would at 
 times be absolutely all that was great and 
 good ; or, by quick and unaccountable tran- 
 sition, turn to vice and be contemptible. 
 
 This modern Alcibiades, at this period 
 elated by his success and fame, and anxious 
 for increasing honours, had given himself 
 wholly up to the guidance of his good genii j 
 and in the semblance of every thing amia- 
 ble and captivating, he was introduced by 
 their host, Don Philip de Santra, to the fair 
 Sicilians. The fame of Viola's beauty, her 
 rank and riches, had reached his ears, and 
 determined him, even before he beheld her, 
 to obtain the invaluable prize. Ambition 
 led him into that society where love soon 
 chained him. Through some inattention 
 at the moment of introduction, he believed 
 Clementina to be the heiress to the Palermo 
 titles and wealth ; and ere the mistake was 
 corrected, in defiance of ambition, his heart 
 made a decision in favour of Viola, whose 
 exquisite loveliness, uncommon talents, and 
 sweetness of manners, afterwards inspired 
 him with a firm and ardent attachment to 
 her, which never was subdued. And ouf 
 
 E 'Z
 
 76 
 
 readers will not surely wonder that the art- 
 ful and seducing Don Ambrosio Fadrique 
 Enriquez Valdevieso de Montalvan, in the 
 fascinating form he then wore, stole imper- 
 ceptibly into the affections of Viola — young, 
 susceptible, with a disengaged heart, residing, 
 as she then did, with a family who idolised 
 him, who ever were resounding his fame, his 
 virtues, his exploits ; and what girl, not yet 
 sixteen, could withstand 
 
 ;; ^' a conqueror, and young, 
 
 • '* Bound in her chains, and sighing at her feet r" 
 
 The moment the watchful marchesa per- 
 ceived the admiring eyes of Don Ambrosio 
 riveted upon Viola, she trembled for the 
 heart of her child, and immediately wrote 
 to her husband, to inform him of those anxi- 
 t>us fears the fascinating appearance, cha- 
 racter, and manners of Don Ambrosio had 
 awakened in her maternal bosom. Ange- 
 lina could not interdict the visits of Don 
 Ambrosio to a house not her own ; nor could 
 she prevent his frequent interviews with her 
 daughter, as he was now scarcely ever out of
 
 77 
 
 the Iiouse which she inhabited ; and it was with 
 infinite pain the inarchesa saw the affections ot 
 her child gone, before she could receive any 
 reply from Rome, The artless Viola kept not 
 a single thought of her heart secret from her 
 adored mother ; and that 'guileless heart wsg 
 Ambrosio"s before she was 'aware of her par- 
 tiality. 
 
 Several days were most anxiously and un- 
 easily passed by Angelina, after the time in 
 which she could reasonably expect to hc<\r 
 from the marchese had elapsed without her 
 receiving any letter ; and as each day went 
 by without bringing any intelligence or in- 
 stru£i:Ions to her, her fears and perplexities 
 dreadfully augmented. At length a mandate 
 arrived by her unthought of,— to the peace of 
 Ambrosio a dreadful unexpected blow, — in an 
 order from the marine minister to Don Am- 
 brosio to sail instantly to Gibraltar. 
 
 In the most pitiable agony of mind at a 
 blow that threatened destruction to all his 
 hopes of happiness, he flew to Viola, resolv- 
 ing to avail himself of that influence which 
 her artlessness had discovered to his wary pe- 
 netration he possessed over her affections, and 
 
 E 3
 
 78 
 
 strove, by every alluring wile in his power to 
 adopt, to persuade her into a private mar- 
 riage. But her upright and dutiful mind re- 
 volted from such a measure. She felt shocked 
 and offended at the proposition ;, withstood 
 the bewitching power of his seducing elo- 
 quence 5 and this attack upon her filial duty 
 stole a suspicion into her ingenuous mind, of 
 ker lover's heart being not quite so amiable as 
 §he had hitherto conceived it ; and from that 
 moment the basis of her attachment felt a 
 shock which weakened the before firm struc- 
 ture. In an agony of mental anguish scarcely 
 to be conceived, Ambrosio quitted Lisbon al- 
 piost immediately5more enamoured than ever; 
 ♦ind admiring, with reverence almost idolatrous, 
 that purity of rectitude which even his allur- 
 ing arts had not power to overthrow. 
 
 The day after this dangerous man's de- 
 parture from Lisbon, the marchese of Pa- 
 lermo arrived, rejoiced at the apparent im- 
 provement in his interesting wife's health, 
 and grieved at the unpropitious attachment 
 of his child. He had just completed his 
 business at Rome, when Angelina's letter of 
 apprehensions, relative to Don Ambrosio^ ar-
 
 79 
 
 rived ; and in compliance with his resolutioa 
 of never bestowing his child but on a maa 
 worthy of so much excellence, he instantly 
 set out for Madrid, and, by an arduous and 
 fatiguing scrutiny, traced out the origin of 
 Don Ambrosio, his hfe prior to his late ho- 
 nourable successes, a true and unprejudiced 
 statement of his real character, with several: 
 authentic and strongly-attested proofs of crimes 
 committed from time to time by this lately 
 ennobled eccentric man. The marchese next 
 found means, by the interest of a powerful 
 friend in the Spanish admiralty, to have the 
 station of Don Ambrosio changed ; and the 
 moment after that official mandate was dis- 
 patched, he set out for Lisbon ; v/here as 
 soon as he arrived, he faithfully recounted to 
 his Angelina all his proceedings subsequent to 
 the receipt of her important letter j and con- 
 sulted with her upon the means of weaning 
 the affections of their child from this un- 
 worthy object, Angelina, who well knew the 
 disposition of her daughter, advised that plan 
 which the marchese implicitly pursued. 
 
 Viola was terrified at the return of her 
 father. She knew her mother would inform 
 
 E 4
 
 80 
 
 him of lier attachment to Ambroslo ; and she 
 trembled at the Idea of his anger, should he 
 disapprove of an alliance with Don Ambrosio, 
 who had, before he left Lisbon, commission- 
 ed Don Philip de Santra to make his propo- 
 sals for Viola to the marchese of Palermo, 
 when and how he should think most likel/ 
 to meet success. 
 
 Contrary to Viola's anticipating apprehen- 
 sions, her father appeared more kind and 
 affectionate to her, if possible, than ever j 
 even after she knew Don Philip had executed 
 his fr&id's request ; and the morning after, 
 summoning her into her mother's dressings 
 room, he, with much affectionate tenderness, 
 informed her of the proposals Don Philip 
 had made for his friend ; of her happiness 
 being one of the dearest wishes of his heart ; 
 ;jnd that, as her mother had imparted to him 
 the attachment's being mutual, he should 
 not withhold his consent, provided his child 
 should wish to become the wife of Don Am- 
 brosio de Montalvan after she knew that ex- 
 traordinary man's real character. The mar- 
 chese then impressively, but dispassionately, 
 informed her of every particular relative to
 
 81 
 
 Bon Ambrosio ; which he had with so much 
 difficulty obtained. 
 
 The facts were too well attested both by 
 written vouchers, and the word of persons 
 of unimpeached honour and truth, for one 
 nioment to be doubted. Viola shuddered 
 as she listened, and then sunk upon the 
 bosom of her sympathising mother to hide 
 her blushes and her .tears. The painful and, 
 in truth, horrid detail at length was finished, 
 and the marchese of Palermo concluded with 
 the tenderest assurances to his dreadfully agi- 
 tated child, that to see her happy, in an 
 union of reciprocal attachment, was, after 
 her mother's perfect re-establishment in health, 
 the first wish of his heart. " I will never 
 control the affections of my sweet child," said 
 he ; "I will only advise her as a tender, un- 
 alterable friend, and give her all that inform- 
 ation relative to the object of her choice 
 necessary for her to be acquainted with. For 
 the present then, my love, we will drop this 
 important subject, 'i'ake one week to con- 
 sider seriously, my child ; consult your heart 
 well, and, at the expiration of that tlme^ 
 should you find — " 
 
 ^E 5..
 
 82 
 
 " My father !" said Viola firmly, '^ I will 
 not take a day, an hour, a moment to con- 
 sider. My heart has already decided. Your 
 Viola will never unite herself to a man who 
 stands convicted of the dreadful crimes of 
 cruelty and ingratitude. Reject for me, my 
 lord, the proposals gf Don Ambrosio, whom 
 I did love because I believed him possessed 
 of every virtue under heaven. That delusion 
 is dissolved, and I must now despise. — Yet 
 will I confess to my indulgent parental friends, 
 my heart is pained by this dreadful conviction. 
 My imagination had formed a paragon of 
 perfection, and I am shocked and grieved to 
 find myself deceived. To Heaven and my 
 father am I indebted for my fortunate escape 
 from misery, and my gratitude to both shall 
 be eternal ; and that week my father would 
 have kindly given me to consult my heart, 
 I now will take to restore it to tranquillity, and 
 to erase from it every partial thought of this 
 unworthy man." 
 
 Viola now tenderly embraced both hey 
 exulting and sympathising parents, and has- 
 tened from their caresses to go and give free 
 indulgence to her agitated feelings. — A vie-
 
 83 
 
 lent shower of tears relieved her throbbing, 
 bursting heart ; and a pious thanksgiving to 
 Almighty Providence, for " its mercy to her,'* 
 calmed the conflict in her mind. The pangs 
 of grief and horror, at finding a beloved object 
 unworthy of regard, gradually vanished be- 
 fore her detestation of his crimes. She gave 
 him just praise for his virtues — wept that they 
 were so basely alloyed ; but at the expiration 
 of that week she had taken to tranquillise 
 her mind, every trace of attachment to Don 
 Ambrosio de Montalvan was erased from her 
 pure heart. 
 
 Her sympathising parents were charmed 
 with the virtuous exertions of this darling 
 child, whilst they grieved at the necessity of 
 her making them ; and both wished to re- 
 move her from a place where every one still 
 sounded forth the praises of the young and 
 beautiful hero, Don Ambrosio de Montal- 
 van, whilst Don Philip de Santra locked 
 coldly on his guests for a rejection which 
 he thought unjust and cruel. But Ange- 
 lina's appearing to derive benefit from the 
 air of Lisbon was a powerful chain that linked 
 the marchess to the place. However, to re-
 
 84 
 
 main now at Don Philip's his pride told him 
 was impossible ; and he consulted his friend 
 and physician Dottore Balsamico upon the 
 place best caleulated for Angelina to remove 
 
 • to 5 when that friend shocked him to the very 
 soul, by revealing a fatal truth which he 
 thought ft unpardonable longer to conceal 
 from him. 
 
 The apparent amendment in the marchesa's 
 health was only a deceitful gleam of sun- 
 shine, to render more dreadful the impending 
 Storm. Neither clime nor medicine now 
 could save her ; nor had she strength to un- 
 dergo the tour of the continent her anxious 
 husband had projected for her. Dottare 
 Balsamico advised, therefore, her removal to 
 be a return to Sicily. 
 
 Dottore Balsamico's advice was followed. 
 The marchesa and her sorrowful friends re- 
 
 , turned to Palermo, where, in a few weeks 
 after, his dreadful prediction was fulfilled. 
 The lovely, amiable, unfortunate Angelina 
 yielded her last breath upon the agonised 
 bosom of her child, just after receiving the 
 host, with all the beautiful fervor of sincere 
 ffiith and piety j and bestowing, ia the most
 
 85 
 
 touching Christian firmness and mortal ten- 
 derness, her dying benediction upon her hus- 
 band, her Vi la, her Clementina, and her 
 ever sincere friend the archbishop of Mont- 
 real,
 
 S6 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 We will here draw a veil over the sacred 
 grief of Viola : it was awakened by the tender- 
 est feelings, and tempered by the resignation 
 of Christianity. 
 
 The marchese was a real mourner : the 
 bitters of remorse were blended with his cup 
 of sorrow. Too late was he sensible of the 
 merits of his wife ; too late had the tenderest 
 affections mingled with his thoughts of her, 
 whom conscience now unceasingly told him 
 he had hurried like a cruel frost to an un- 
 timely grave. 
 
 The archbishop had ever felt the most ten- 
 der parental affection for Angelina : he vene- 
 rated her virtue ; and her misfortunes placed 
 her in the most genial spot that pity found 
 within his compassionate breast. His regret 
 was poignant ; but it was fast locked within 
 the centre ©f his heart, while his venerable 
 face wore the solemn calm of pious resigna- 
 tioHt The uncontrollable lamentations of the
 
 87 
 ardent Clementina for her adored aunt, her 
 second mother, the good prelate feared would 
 but increase the heart rending sorrows of 
 Viola ; he therefore removed her to St. Roso- 
 lia's : while Viola, to beguile her father's poig- 
 nant grief, repressed her own affliction in his 
 presence, hushed his wailings by her tender- 
 ness and fortitude, and won him from his 
 sadness by her smile of resignation ; while 
 from her pillow she stole many an hour to 
 mourn and weep for her adored incompara- 
 ble mother. 
 
 Time, that lenient balm to every mental 
 wound, had scarcely begun to steal from the 
 poignancy of Viola's sorrow, when another 
 dreadful blow fell on her. The truly penitent 
 and mourning marchese had lately been se- 
 duced, by the compassionating archbishopj^ 
 from home and unavailing lamentation, to his 
 palace in Palermo, to dine sometimes with a 
 party of entertaining and estimable men. It 
 was now the winter- season ; and one unfortu-* 
 nate evening, as the marchese was about to 
 return from one of these parties at his uncle's, 
 he found that neither his carriage nor servants 
 were yet arrived, although he had ordered
 
 88 
 
 them to attend at an earlier hour than it thea 
 was. A man, who appeared to be a domestic 
 belonging to some one of the archbishop's 
 guests, and who was standing in the hall when 
 the marchese entered it, respectfully informed 
 him, that he had seen hh lordship's equipage, 
 about a quarter of an hour before, drive most 
 furiously up to Dottore Balsamico's door. 
 
 One dreadful idea now took possession of 
 the marchese's mind — his child was ill: and 
 Ignominious as it was deemed to be to walk in 
 the streets of Palermo, the agitated marchese 
 disregarded the entreaties of his uncle's old 
 domestics to wait for a carriage to be got 
 ready; and in an agony of mind which baffles all 
 description, he rushed towards home, followed 
 closely by his respectful informer, and at a 
 greater distance by two of the archbishop's 
 footmen, whose age would not allow them to 
 keep pace with the anxious, agonised, impe- 
 tuous father, who, just as he turned into the 
 Ottangolo Marino, where his palazzo stood, 
 vras furiously attacked by four bravos. The 
 distraction of the marchese's mind had thrown 
 him off his guard; and he found himself wound- 
 ^ before his thoughts were sufficiently ab-
 
 89 
 stracted from his child to remind him of de- 
 fending himself. The marchesc by no means 
 was deiicient in courage or strength ; but num- 
 bers were overpowering him, when a stranger 
 came up to his assistance, who by his valour 
 and self-command wounded and dispersed the 
 assassins, and, aided by the archbishop's do- 
 mestics, who by this time arrived, conducted 
 the marchese to the Palermo palazzo, — and 
 where, anxious to know the fate of a man who 
 had been so unfairly attacked, the gallant 
 stranger begged leave to wait until the sur- 
 geons who were summoned should arrive and 
 declare their opinions. 
 
 The grateful marchese, thankful for this 
 new proof of the stranger's humanity, entreat- 
 ed him to attend him to his chamber, whither 
 he ordered himself to be conveyed the mo- 
 ment his agonising apprehensions relative to 
 his child had been subdued by father Leopold's 
 solemn assurances of her perfect health. 
 
 Viola, who was weeping in that chamber 
 where her adored mother had breathed her 
 last, and where she spent every hour she could 
 steal from observation, alarmed by the un- 
 usual commotion that reigned in the adjacent
 
 90 
 
 rooms after her father s return, was led to in- 
 quire the cause, and soon learned the fatal 
 truth, with an account of the gallant stran- 
 ger's valour and humanity. 
 
 Almost frantic with grief, disnlay, and ap- 
 prehension, Viola flew to the chamber of her 
 father, and there saw her sole surviving parent 
 stretched on a couch^ pale, faint, and bleeding 
 from his wounds ; and in the assiduous stran- 
 ger beheld Don Ambrosio de Montalvan. 
 The most dreadful idea instantly took posses- 
 sion of her mind; she believed the assassina- 
 tion of her father had been the plot of Am- 
 brosio for some sinister purpose. A deadly 
 sickness stole over her faculties, and she fell 
 senseless on the floor. Upon her recovery 
 she found herself in her own chamber, whi- 
 ther she had, in her moments of insensibility, 
 been conveyed. Again she hastened to her 
 beloved father. The surgeons had dressed 
 his wounds ; and oh, rapture to Viola! had 
 pronounced them not mortal. Don Ambro- 
 sio was gone to another apartment : it had 
 been discovered that he had been wounded in 
 defence of the marchese, who entreated him to 
 tal^ a. chamber in his palazzo, and whither
 
 the surgeons now attended to dress his wounds 
 which was not deep or dangerous. 
 
 The affectionate Viola, stationed by her 
 fond father's pillow, became in the course of 
 the night almost distracted with terror : his 
 moans and uneasy slumbers conveyed the most 
 agonising apprehensions to her susceptible 
 heart, which too soon were realised. She 
 had the surgeons summoned ere the dawn of 
 day ; when, upon examination of the wounds, 
 the one which had been considered of the least 
 importance now created the most serious alarm. 
 From its dreadful appearance they now feared 
 it had been inflicted by a poisoned stiletto. 
 Those fears were quickly verified. Its bane- 
 ful influence soon spread to every vital part; 
 and, in defiance of all the aid that Sicily 
 could give, the marchese of Palermo was in a. 
 few days numbered with the dead, leaving his 
 almost distracted Viola, his orphan and ill- 
 fated child, sole heiress to all his immense pos- 
 sessions, and to the guardianship of his esti- 
 mable uncle. 
 
 Every inquiry was now set on foot to trace 
 out the murderers of the marchese, but to no 
 effect. A man, in the princess of Camarino's
 
 .9i2 
 livery, had come to the niarchese's palazzo 
 that fatal evening, as with orders from the 
 marchese for his equipage to go for him to 
 the princess's conversazioni^ which was the 
 cause of the carriage not being at the arch- 
 bishop's : but no intelligence could be ob- 
 tained relative to this man, or of the obliging 
 informer at the archbishop's; and no clue 
 could by any means be discovered whicl" 
 could lead even to a suspicion of the perpe- 
 trators of this sanguinary d^cd, except in th# 
 mind of Viola j and, by some intuitive im« 
 pulse, her eye of suspicion fixed upon the very 
 man. 
 
 It was Don Ambrosio who deprived Viola 
 of her father, v\^hom he considered as the only 
 barrier to his happiness, and therefore resolved 
 upon his death. In Sicily it was easy to gain 
 accomplices, and to hire wretches to spill the 
 blood of those who never injured them ; and 
 as a master-stroke of policy, he resolved to ap- 
 pear before his adored Viola in the amiable cha- 
 racter of an heroic being who had risked his life 
 ia defence of a fellow-creature. But in this 
 political scheme he over-reached himself: had 
 the poisoned stiletto been omitted, had the
 
 9J 
 
 marchese's life been spared, Viola might pro- 
 bably have been his. The marchese, fond of 
 life, might have been led by gratitude to 
 espouse the cause of his supposed deliverer, 
 and, from the natural caprice of his mind, to 
 think lightly of his past offences ; and the 
 young Viola might have been persuaded into 
 the alliance. As it was, he only gained a 
 dreadful addition to his crimes, and the firm 
 abhorrence of her he loved. Viola's was not 
 a vindictive heart ; and even had she proof 
 against Ambrosio, vengeance could not re- 
 store her murdered parent. The suspicions, 
 therefore, which harrowed up her soul she 
 communicated to no one, but left her revenge 
 to Him who knows all hearts, and cannot err 
 in judgment. 
 
 Upon the death of her father, the sorrow-^ 
 ful Viola, now marchesa of Palermo, quitted 
 the house which still contained her father's 
 murderer,' and with her uncle removed to the 
 lonely castle of Palermo, situated upon the 
 sea-shore, a few miles' distance from the city,' 
 where she could give free indulgence to her 
 grief, and where she immediately summoned 
 her beloved Clementina.
 
 (j4 
 
 Clementina Stanhope was only one year 
 younger than Viola, m horn she so strongly re- 
 sembled, that all who saw them had even from 
 their infancy been struck by their wonderful 
 similitude. Each form, each nmb,each feature, 
 seemed almost to have been cast in the same 
 mould. Their hearts were equally amiable; but 
 in expression of countenance, in air, in under- 
 standing, and in manner, the likeness failed. 
 
 Clementina, although the child of adversity, 
 had lost both her parents when she was too 
 young to appreciate their value, or keenly to 
 feel their loss ; and treated with kindness and 
 affection by every one from the hour of her 
 birth, she only knew sorrow by sympathy, 
 until the death of Angelina taught her grief. 
 The laughing graces were therefore all her 
 own, and gaiety the most fascinating and 
 unbounded illumined her face, actuated all her 
 movements, and played in every word she ut- 
 tered. 
 
 Viola, the child of affluence, had been rear- 
 ed in the bosom of sorrow. Her first accents, 
 caught from the tones of her wretched mother, 
 were spoken in plaintive sweetness. Her eyes, 
 accustomed to look upon the fading form of
 
 95 
 
 grief, assumed for life the expression such a 
 contemplation inspired, and looked like Pity's 
 own. Her smile, her air, her manner, all 
 tuned from her mother's woes, were touching- 
 ly pensive, and bore in them an interesting 
 fascination, that at once spoke to the heart of 
 every being possessed oi^ sensibility. 
 
 The understanding of Clementina, v/ith all 
 the fire of genius, would at one glance con- 
 ceive the nature of every art and science, and, 
 as if by inspiration, acquire the first rudiments 
 of every thing she wished to learn, and with- 
 out the smallest exertion became mistress of 
 every showy accomplishment; but in mental 
 acquirements she had not perseverance, or 
 perhaps powers, to delve to the very bottom 
 of the springs of knowledge : while Viola, 
 slower in her acquisitions, made herself mis- 
 tress of the theory before she attempted the 
 practice. To meet and overcome difficulties 
 in her studies was Viola's peculiar delight ; 
 and, in every mental accomplishment, her un- 
 common application and strength of talents 
 led her, not on wings, but by the steady un- 
 erring pace of science, to perfection. One 
 was the child of genius, the other af judg-
 
 9^ 
 
 ment. The opinions of Clementina seemed 
 always ready formed in her mind, prompt upon 
 demand. Violaever reflected, looked with a pe- 
 netrating steady eye, and reasoned upon causes 
 and effects before she suffered her judgment to 
 decide. In tempers they were both perfection, 
 and in their hearts glowed equally bright every 
 virtue that could adorn a female mind. Such 
 were they both before they were summoned 
 from St. Rosoli^'s upon the stage of life, when, 
 like two dazzling meteors, they blazed for a 
 moment, were admired and wondered at, then 
 lost to the view for ever.
 
 97 
 
 CHAP. VIIT. 
 
 In about a month after the death of the mar« 
 chese of Palermo, Viola was shocked and 
 amazed by the appearance of Don Ambrosio 
 at the castle. The duties of his profession, 
 which called him immediately from Sicily, he 
 pleaded in excuse for such an early intrusion ; 
 and then, with all the fascinating rhetoric his 
 artful eloquence could supply, with all the 
 sighs and tears, with all the insidious blandish- 
 ments, the seducing looks he well knew so 
 judiciously how to assume, he urged his suit : 
 but althouo;h now without a father to control 
 her, he found Viola inflexible, who rejected 
 him with the cool impressive dignity of de- 
 termination. In vain did prudence strive to 
 veil, with courtesy, the horror and contempt 
 she now entertained for him. The wary Am- 
 brosio saw she despised him. His heart bled, 
 but did not amend at the humihating, agon's* 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 
 
 ing conviction : he retired in despair, and left 
 the castle in a state Httle short of distraction. 
 
 In a few days after, Viola was informed that 
 a stranger lay dangerously ill at a fisherman's 
 hut, not far from the castle, who refused every 
 kind of nourishment which the miserably 
 poor pescatore could offer him ; and that he 
 had no friend, no attendant, to take care of 
 him, or give the smallest information relative 
 to who he was; which the stranger himself 
 refused to tell. 
 
 The humanity of Viola, ever awake to the 
 su^erings of others, commissioned father Leo- 
 pbld to go immediately to the hut, and to have 
 ^very possible thing instantly done for the ac- 
 commodation and benefit of the stranger; and 
 to afford all necessary relief to the pescatore 
 and his family, whose poverty, she was shock- 
 ed to hear, had been suffered to continue un- 
 noticed SQ near the castle of Palermo. In her 
 father's lifetime she had seldom visited this 
 castle, round which, she took for granted, the 
 vassals lived in comfort, protected and assisted 
 by their lord ; for, as her father had been so 
 prodigal to her, she believed he was liberal 
 and generous to all his dependents. Since
 
 99 
 his death, sorrow had monopolised every 
 thought, and she had yet made no inquiry 
 into the state of her vassals. 
 
 Upon father Leopold's return from his em- 
 bassy, he informed Viola (what she before 
 suspected) that the stranger was Don Am- 
 brosio, who appeared to him to be dangerous- 
 ly ill, he said, and so much under the domi- 
 nion of despair^ that he obstinately refused all 
 nourishment and medicine. 
 
 A iola was shocked, was grieved, was agi- 
 tated. She had once tenderly loved Ambro- 
 sio; she still admired his great talents and 
 many virtues, while she contemned his vices, 
 and recoiled with horror from him, v;hen, 
 through the eye of suspicion, she glanced at 
 him as the murderer of her father. But al- 
 though she had so many reasons to abhor 
 him, she still was distressed at being the cause 
 of misery to any one. Earnestly she there- 
 fore entreated father Leopold to return to 
 Don Ambrosio, and exert towards him the 
 duties of his function. " Convince him of 
 J:he impiety of his conduct," said she; " a- 
 waken that fortitude in his mind which I well 
 know he possesses j summon evety medicinal 
 
 1*^2
 
 100 
 aid for him ; do all that can be done to assist, 
 to comfort, to restore him to himself: but feed 
 him not with one single ray of hope from me; 
 for know, holy father, that although I should 
 be shocked, should grieve, rt his death, I 
 could not be his, even to save his soul's ex' 
 istence.'* 
 
 From this time father Leopold was almost 
 constantly with Ambrosio ; and whenever he 
 returned to the castle, he brought with him 
 piteous accounts of the mental and bodily suf- 
 ferings of Ambrosio, whose life and miseries 
 he said were drawing fast to a conclusion. 
 
 The archbishop of Montreal was at this pe- 
 riod gone to Palermo to stay some days, both 
 upon ecclesiastical business and to arrange the 
 train for settling the affairs of the late mar- 
 chese. Viola now keenly deplored his ab- 
 sence; for she doubted not that his great piety 
 and judgment would have had due influence 
 to rouse all the dormant virtues which Am- 
 brosio possessed into action; while she sus 
 pected both the powers and inclination of Leo- 
 pold, who, though long her father's favourite, 
 had never been esteemed by her. She knew 
 that he had violently opposed the marchese's
 
 101 
 taking her Into favour a second time, and had 
 exerted himself to impede the re-union of her 
 parents; as hers and her mother'^ presenee 
 had totally put a period to those improprieties 
 in her father's conduct which Leopold had, 
 instead of censuring, not only approvetl, but 
 promoted. After the marchese of Palermo's 
 re-union with his wife, he made a new dis- 
 position of his property, and in this, his lasc 
 will bequeathed not one shilling, to Leopold 
 di Pessimo, whom in a prior testament he had 
 nobly provided fon This proof of alteration 
 in her father's opinion of Leopold, united 
 with her own disapprobation of his general 
 conduct, determined her to dismiss him from 
 his sacred station in her family,, as soon as she 
 could do it without an appearance of disre- 
 spect to the memory of him who had placed 
 him- in that situation^ 
 
 At length Leopold brought intelligence 
 to Viola of Ambrosio's being at the point of 
 death; that the physicians had declared he 
 could never see another day; that he had 
 made his confession, but positively refused to 
 receive absolution, or the host, until Viola 
 should be prevailed upon to visit his death.* 
 
 ^3
 
 htd) and to hear, In his last moments, some- 
 thing of the utmost importance to his eternal 
 salvation. 
 
 Viola was dreadfully shocked and agitated, 
 Leopold told her, it was her duty to give 
 comfort to an expiring fellov/ creature, whose 
 death she had, though innocently, absolutely 
 Occasioned; and although she had destroyed 
 ^ tiis peace in this world, she could not be so 
 cruel, so unjust, so wicked, so diabolical, 
 as to deprive him of every hope in the world 
 to come. 
 
 Viola shuddered ; but, convinced that it 
 was her duty, acquiesced. Every moment 
 iszt precious, Leopold said, where so few re- 
 mained, and she must instantly go. She 
 wished for Clementina to accompany her ; 
 but. Leopold objected to her as a companion 
 iipon such a solemn occasion, both from her 
 youth, and not possessing sufficient firmness 
 to engage in such a scene. " From your 
 present agitation," said he, " I see you will 
 tvant support ; therefore take Zingaresca with 
 you." After a moment's reflexion Viola 
 thought he was right, and, that she might 
 not give any unnecessary uneasiness to her
 
 10.3 
 
 beloved cousin, would not even tell her what 
 a distressing scene she was about to en- 
 counter : and unknown to Clementina she 
 set out with her late father's domestic chap- 
 lain and Zingaresca^ who had , been placed by 
 . her father about her person upon her first re- 
 storation to his favour, and who had ever 
 since evinced herself a faithful, aixectionate, 
 intelligent domestic. 
 
 In the most pitiable agitation of both mind 
 and frame, the young and guileless marchesa 
 was supported by father Leopold about a quar- 
 ter of a league along the sea-shore to the fish- 
 erman's hut, where she was struck with 
 amazement upon beholding Don Ambrosio, 
 not in his bed, as she expected to find an ex- 
 piring man, but seated in an elbow-chair, 
 looking certainly wan, languid, and attenu- 
 ated, but by no means in that deplorable state 
 she was taught to believe him in. We cannot 
 suppose Viola was angry at not finding her 
 lover at the point of death ; but she was high- 
 ly offended at being so meanly and dishonour- 
 ably trepanned thither ; and darting an up- 
 braiding look at Leopold, she was about to 
 retire, when Ambrosio throwing himself at 
 
 F 4
 
 104 
 
 her feet, and grasping her robe to detain her, 
 pleaded, with all the seducing eloquence he 
 was master of, for her to pity, and not con- 
 sign him to misery and death. 
 
 The marchesa answered him only by a 
 look of ineffable disdain ; and, while strug- 
 gling to get free, indignantly demanded from 
 father Leopold what could have induced him 
 to act a part so degrading to the sacred pro- 
 fession he belonged to ? 
 
 " My solemn promise to your deceased 
 father/' replied the undaunted Leopold. " In 
 the last confession of the marchese of Paler- 
 mo, he informed me that he had basely wrong- 
 ed the man who had nobly and gallantly 
 attempted to preserve his life at the peril of 
 his own 5 that, averse to your union with a 
 foreigner, he had ungenerously fabricated 
 anecdotes to Don Ambrosio's disadvantage ; 
 and to make ail the retribution in his power, 
 fee, at that awful moment, bound me by a 
 solemn, sacred vow, to use every means that 
 mortal ingenuity could devise to promote 
 your union with the noble but ill-treated Don 
 Ambrosio de Montalvan." 
 
 "It would ill befit me," said Viola 'with
 
 105 
 
 a look of firm incredulity, " to say I disbe- 
 lieve the assertions of a man who has devoted! 
 his days to the service of the Almighty ; but 
 you must forgive a child for believing her 
 parent incapable of such baseness, such dis- 
 honour. To the archbishop of Montreal my 
 father made his last awful confession ;. but if 
 to you the marchese of Palermo entrusted a 
 secret and wishes of such- importance, why 
 did you not evince your respect to his memory, 
 by sooner imparting this intelligence to me, 
 and in a manner more honourable to his 
 chaplain, and less degrading to his child V* 
 
 Leopold now lost his temper, and in a 
 most turbulent and unbecoming manner 
 called upon all that heaven Contains to attest 
 the truth of his assertions^ He then intem- 
 perately reprobated the cruelty and injustice 
 of her conduct to Ambrosio ; and proceeded 
 to denounce the most dreadful maledictions 
 upon her, and to threaten her with all the 
 anathemas of the church if she persisted iui 
 such cruel and undutiful conduct.' 
 
 Mola was shocked,, but not vanquished, by 
 his violence. <« That I once loved Don Am- 
 brosio, and gave him that encouragement. 
 
 I 5
 
 105 
 
 you accuse me of," said she, " I deny not* 
 I am not ashamed to own it ; for to be. sen- 
 sible of m.erit is no crime. In the semblance 
 of every virtue Don Ambrosio first presented 
 himself to me : in that form he won my affec- 
 tion, and I bade him hope. But was I in 
 fault because he had two souls, two charac- 
 ters ? that he was one day susceptible of every 
 virtue, the next a slave to every vice? that 
 he could this hour, with every action that was 
 noble, just, and generous, win the friendship 
 4&^f him whose happiness in the next he would 
 not scruple to blast for ever? that he could, 
 with the most heroic valour, obtain for him- 
 self fame and honour, and in the ticxt mo« 
 ment tarnish his fame and blight his laurels, 
 by insulting with every indignity, and 
 wounding by every cruelty, those whom his 
 hand had deprived of liberty, who therefore 
 more forcibly claimed his kindness ? 'Such 
 is the real character of Don Ambrosio de 
 Montalvan ; and when I had incontestible 
 proof of its being so, I found the Ambrosio I 
 had loved a delusive phantom, with which my 
 affection vanished. Such is the portrait facts 
 have drawn of Don Ambrosio, and this is the
 
 107 
 
 resolution I have formed on viewing It — ^never 
 to be his : nor can 'the story of rny request to 
 you, nor the anathemas you threaten me 
 with, aher my determination. He, whose 
 omnipresent eye sees into the inmost recesses 
 of the darkest heart, can penetrate the base 
 assassin's secret haunts, and beholds his most 
 wary actions, will not suffer the child of the 
 late marchese of Palermo ever to unite herself 
 with Don Ambrosio de Montalvan. — Zinga- 
 resca, open the door, and go with me to the 
 castle. — Father Leopold, you return there no 
 
 more." 
 
 With a look that spoke every feeling of 
 her soul, and with all the dignity of consci- 
 ous virtue, she turned to the door ; but Zin-' 
 garesca obeyed her not. 
 
 *' Zingaresca !" said she,-** did you not 
 hear me ?*' 
 
 ** I did," replied that treacherous woman, 
 **and also heard the last commands of the 
 deceased marchese to this holy man. To 
 see them obeyed I came hither, and shall not 
 move until the will of my dear late lord is 
 fulfilled."
 
 108 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! what can this mean r*' 
 exclaimed Viola shuddering. 
 
 *' It means," said Leopold, *' that you quit 
 not this hovel until the will of your father is 
 accomplished by your union with Don Am- 
 brosio." 
 
 " My union with Don Ambrosio never can 
 take place, since tortures shall not rend 
 acquiescence from me," said the marchesa 
 determinately. 
 
 Leopold took out his missal — "Perform 
 your office, holy father,'* cried Zlngaresca : 
 *' I will make oath that I heard the marchesa 
 assent to the union/' 
 
 " Ai;id so too will we,'* said both the fish- 
 erman and his wife, who now made their 
 appearance from an inner kind of room. 
 
 ''Your refusal will avail you nothing,*' 
 said the worthless Leopold. — " A vessel is 
 waiting, to convey you from Sicily the mo- 
 ment the ceremony is over. The vahdity of 
 the marjiage will vever be doubted ; — for 
 who will disbelieve the solemn testimony of 
 your father's domestic chaplain^ of this re- 
 spectable woman, and of these simple, . honest.
 
 109 
 people; while you can have no Witness ifL 
 your behalf, and your own affirmation will 
 not be sufficient in law ?" 
 
 Viola burst into tears, and, in a voice of 
 agony, demanded if Spain 's'^boasted hero could 
 act such a perfidious part ? 
 
 Ambrosio was silent j her conduct during 
 this scene of villany had charmed him to 
 enthusiasm I he admired, adored her, evea 
 more than he had before done ; and the good 
 properties of his soul, awakened by the ex* 
 ample she gave him, would have urged him 
 on to the side of honour, had not some 
 words she emphatically uttered told him most 
 horribly that he had nothing to hope from 
 her. Perfidy and force were therefore all he 
 had now to depend upon ; and vengeance for 
 the suspicions she so unaccountably entertain- 
 ed urged him to perseverance in this scheme 
 of villany. 
 
 Zingaresca now grasped Viola round the 
 waist, to fix her to the spot near Ambrosio's 
 chair. Leopold began the marriage ceremc« 
 ny ; and Ambrosio was just placing the ring 
 upon her finger, in spite of her shrieks, her 
 -struggles, her agony almost amounting tQ
 
 110 
 phrensy, when the door of the hut was burst 
 in, and the archbishop of Montreal and Cle- 
 mentina entered. Viola flew into the arms 
 of her reverend uncle, who, casting a look 
 of menace at the perfidious wretches there 
 assembled, bore his lovely and agitated niece 
 to his carriage, which was near, and with her 
 and Clementina drove off instantly to the 
 castle. 
 
 When Viola left the castle with Leopold, 
 Clementina was engaged writing to some 'of 
 her friends at St. Rosolia's ; and when she 
 had completed her letters, and sought her 
 cousin, she learned that the marchesa was 
 gone out with Leopold and Zingaresca, two 
 persons whom Clementina believed capable of 
 any mischief. V^iola's going out with them, 
 unknown to herself, ii:icreased her suspicions 
 of perfidy, which she scarcely knew what had 
 before awakened. Their long absence aug- 
 mented her alarms ; and in the restless roving 
 humour her anxiety worked her into, she 
 strayed out of the castle-grounds upon the 
 sea shore, towards the hut, to where fear and 
 suspicion pointed. Footsteps, which she now 
 5aw upon the sands, confirmed her appre*
 
 Ill 
 
 hensions, and she almost flew to the hut, 
 where, the moment she arrived, she heard 
 the sounds of her beloved Viola's voice in 
 cadences of distress. Clementina strove in 
 vain to gain admittance ; her knocks and calls 
 were disregarded or unheard, from the tumult 
 within. The piteous shrieks of Viola at 
 length appalled the ears of Clementina, who 
 re-echoed them with increased violence, as 
 she frantically ran round and round the hut 
 in search of a place to enter by. In this mo- 
 ment of agonised distress she heard the sound 
 of a carriage coming the road from Palermo, 
 which wound at no very considerable distance 
 from the hovel. Wildly and impetuously 
 she darted into the highway to meet the car- 
 riage and implore assistance ; when, oh 
 raptures ! she beheld the equipage of her 
 guardian, who, unexpected by any one, was 
 returning to the castle in search of papers 
 necessary for the completion of the business 
 he was engaged in. 
 
 V^iola was so completely subdued by agita* 
 tion and terror, that she was compelled to 
 retire to her chamber the moment she got 
 feome, where Clementina remained with her
 
 112^ 
 aJmost the whole day ; and before the good 
 prelate retired to rest, he visited his wards,^ 
 and told them, " he should take them on the 
 morrow to St. Rosolla's, there to remain- 
 whik Don Ambrosio continued in Sicily, 
 since he was now convinced it would be less in- 
 jurious to his beloved Viola's peace and health 
 to be where every scene around her would 
 feed her unceasing grief for her incomparable 
 mother, than to remain exposed to the dreadful 
 apprehensions of new outrage; and as soon 
 as he had delivered them into the protection 
 of the abbadessa of St. Rosolia's, he should 
 take proper measures for the punishment of 
 the vile Leopold and his accomplices ;." and; 
 with a paternal embrace, and a most fervent 
 benediction, this amiable man parted from, 
 his beloved wards, never more in this life to, 
 behold them. 
 
 The inestimable prelate of Montreal was. 
 found next morning a clay cold corse by his. 
 old caineriro. No mark of violence appeared; 
 about him ; yet the moment of his death, 
 with the extraordinary circumstance of nO' 
 one belonging to the church appearing to pay 
 the due respect, and go through the rcqui^
 
 113 
 
 site forms upon the demise of such an illustri-' 
 ous catholic, might have introduced suspicion 
 into the minds of the lovely cousins, had not 
 grief and horror so totally occupied their 
 thoughts, that they minded not the singularity 
 of the dead calm that reigned through the 
 castle, that no one appeared from Palermo or 
 St. Rosolia's, Viola had ordered expresses 
 to go with the fatal intelligence to the chapter 
 of the archbishop's diocese, to Palermo, and 
 St. Rosolia's 5 and to summon dottore Bal- 
 samico to her uncle's truly worthy valet, who 
 had fallen into a fit upon discovering the 
 dreadful calamity, and had been conveyed to 
 his chamber dangerously ill : and after this 
 exertion the raarchesa sunk upon the bosom 
 of the sympathising Clementina, so complet- 
 ly subdued by grief and dismay, that she 
 could not weep, and lament with her cousin 
 the dreadful blow they had just sustained. 
 
 Totally absorpt in sorrow, they could not 
 lessen the food offered by the officious do- 
 mestics ; and soon after the untouched dinner 
 was removed, Clementina providentially ob- 
 served a letter lying at her feet, which upon
 
 114 
 
 opening, she found contained these words, 
 almost unintelligibly written : 
 
 " Honoured Labtfs, 
 ** I am grieved to say villany is at work, 
 All who could protect have been removed 
 by bad means ; and this castle is not one 
 moment longer a place of safety for the inao» 
 cent.**
 
 11. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 Viola and Clementina were thrown Into 
 the utmost consternation. Suspicion once ^ 
 awakened, they clearly saw their danger. 
 Struck with the conviction of their guardian 
 having been destroyed by the visitation of a 
 mortal hand, that the schemes of th^ diabo- 
 lical Leopold and Ambrosio might meet no 
 further opposition, the imminence and mag- 
 nitude of the perils which threatened them 
 suspended their grief for a time, and every 
 idea of their minds Was now called into coun- 
 cil upon measures for escaping the dangers 
 which encompassed them. 
 
 It was evident, by their hearing nothing * 
 from St. Rosolia's, that the express had not 
 been allowed to reach the place of destina- 
 tion ; and this circumstance clearly evinced 
 their intercourse being cut off, and that they 
 would not be allowed to receive succour from 
 thence, or from the city. Neither could they 
 poffibly expect that any attempt of theirs to
 
 116 
 
 gain Palermo, or the convent, could be suc- 
 cessful ; and after much painful deliberation? 
 they were both convinced that their only 
 hope of safety would be in an immediate flight 
 from Sicily. 
 
 " But even could we, my Clementina," 
 said the marchesa, " contrive to procure a 
 vessel to convey us secretly away, whither 
 can we go ? We have no friends, no protect- 
 ors in any country we can fly to." 
 
 ** Yes," replied Clementina, " we shall 
 find both a friend and a protector at Naples.'* 
 
 "At Naples! Who?" 
 
 '^ The duchessa di Manfredonia, the pro- 
 tector of the unfortunate, the friend of the 
 destitute. I know her character well, from 
 a Neapolitan girl who came to St. Rosolia's 
 after you left it. The duchessa is amiable, 
 sensible, and compassionate :. we will fly to- 
 her, tell her our distress ; she will protect 
 and place us in a safe asylum. Since the 
 death of her only son and his v^ife, she has 
 deserted the castle of Manfredonia,, and re-* 
 sides entirely at Naples.. Her grandson, the 
 present duca, a wonderfully amiable and
 
 117 
 karned man, chiefly lives with her ; and ha 
 will prove a powerful auxiliary to us.*'* 
 
 "My dear ardent cousin, you make your 
 arrangements as if no obstacle could impede 
 your way : but consider, would it be quite 
 consistent with delicacy for us to intrude for 
 protection where we know this young and, 
 I suppose, unmarried duca resides ?' 
 
 *' Y€S, I know he is unmarried : but his 
 living at the duchessa's cannot possibly af- 
 fect our delicacy, since he is quite an old 
 
 man/' 
 
 *^ Her grandson so old ! — Then surely she 
 must be superannuated, or at least inactive^ 
 and could be of no service to us." 
 
 " Indeed she is not : she is a wonderful 
 woman 5 and although certainly very old, 
 age seems to have had no ejSect upon her 
 mind, but to expand the powers of her un- 
 derstanding, and to enlarge her benevolence.** 
 
 The duchessa di Manfredonia being the 
 only person out of Sicily or Lisbon whose 
 character and residence they were acquainted 
 with, these two unfortunate and singularly 
 destitute young and totally unexperienced 
 women at length determined, could they ef-
 
 118 
 
 feet their escape, to go to Naples, and throw 
 themselves upon her goodness for protection ; 
 but in whom to confide the arrangement for 
 cheir escape was a matter of greater difficulty 
 still. They had reason to suspect the fidelity 
 of every one around them 5 and the perfidy 
 pf Zingaresca taught them that even the most 
 specious were capable of treachery. 
 
 '^ Alas V said Clementina ; " and amongst 
 the numbers in this castle who have lived 
 by your father's bounty, and some have re- 
 ceived signal favours from him, there now is 
 not one whom his unhappy child can with 
 confidence apply to for assistance 1'* 
 
 *' No,'* replied Viola, blushing for human 
 nature ; " no, not one amongst those whom 
 gratitude to my father ought to attach to me ! 
 But there is in the castle a man of sullen 
 temper, and unfortunate appearance, who at 
 an early period of my father's life saved him 
 from perishing in the sea, at imminent peril 
 to himself ; which noble and humane action, 
 I am grieved to say, met its only reward in 
 the consciousness of having, done his duty, by 
 saving a fellow creature from destruction. 
 My father's heart was turned by his favouir
 
 119 
 
 ites from poor Bernardo, his preserver. He 
 was taught to think ill of him, and therefore 
 hardly used him ; and I am shocked to think, 
 that on every occasion Bernardo's comfort 
 was since unheeded, and the misery of his 
 vassalage augmented by the barbed arrow of 
 ingratitude. Upon my arrival here, after the 
 decease of my father, all the domestics hailed 
 me with fawning servility, and elaborate 
 speeches, except Bernardo, who then appear- 
 ed not. I afterwards accidentally met him : he 
 looked mournfully at me, burst into tears, 
 and, without speaking, precipitately retired. 
 That man, I told my dear deceased uncle, 
 should be the first in my family provided for, 
 and that man is the only one amongst them 
 that I will confide in." 
 
 " And on that man's faith will I risk my 
 life," said Clementina. 
 
 Having now determined upon the only 
 plan of safety which appeared within their 
 power, they exerted all their ingenuity to 
 obtain an*interview with Bernardo, unobserv- 
 ed by those spies they doubted not were every- 
 where around them. They accomplished 
 that difficult and hazardous project 5 and
 
 120 
 
 Bernardo strongly recommended their flight 
 that very night. 
 
 Bernardo's intellects being held in sove- 
 reign contempt by the other domestics, he 
 was thought incapable of observation, and 
 they scrupled not to hold their cabals in 
 ambiguous sentences before him, believing 
 them incomprehensible to him. But they 
 were deceived in Bernardo, who possessed 
 acute observation, a clear understanding, and 
 a feeling heart. From the extreme deformi- 
 ty of his figure he early became an object for 
 derision to the unthinking and profligate. 
 His sensitive sensibility made him shrink from 
 ridicule ; taught him to shun society, and re- 
 tire within himself; and, in the end, the 
 keenness of his feelings changed him into the 
 morose and apparently stupefied misanthrope. 
 He had caught, from what he had heard that 
 day, sufficient to convince him that the mar- 
 chesa and her cousin were to be carried oflf 
 whilst in their present unprotected state 5 and 
 reflexion and observation led him to believe 
 hat the archbishop had been unfairly remov- 
 ed ; and interest for his dear young lady 
 aught him how to manage the conveyance
 
 121 
 
 of that billet which roused her to a sense of 
 her danger. 
 
 The suspicions of Bernardo were too well 
 grounded. As the good and virtuous are 
 impelled by sympathy to friendship, so vil- 
 lany soon finds ite counterpart. During the 
 illness of the marchese of Palermo, Am- 
 brosio and Leopold formed a league of inte- 
 rest : — we cannot degrade friendship by call- 
 ing the cement which binds the vicious to 
 each other by that sacred name. The mar- 
 chese died without leaving any provision for 
 his once favourite parasite, and Leopold there- 
 fore determined to provide for himself. Hq 
 undertook to effect an union between the 
 young marchesa and Ambrosio, for which 
 service one third of her wealth was to be his. 
 The venal domestics, all his own creatures, 
 placed in the service of the marchese at his 
 recommendation, were easily secured ; and 
 upon the failure of the first attempt at the 
 fisherman's hut, by the interposition of the 
 good archbishop, Leopold resolved to pre- 
 vent such another unexpected rescue by the 
 murder of Viola's only protector. 
 
 The wary Leopold, ever committing crime?, 
 
 VOL. I, c
 
 153 
 
 was always provided with salvos. The mur- 
 der of the archbishop was a dangerous enter- 
 prise : but he was too well versed in all the 
 chicanery of priestcraft not to be guarded 
 against contingencies ; he was therefore al- 
 ways armed with indulgences of every descrip- 
 tion, and absolutions for all the sins he ever 
 did or ever should commit. Ambrosio, too, 
 was. by his means equally well fortified. Yet, 
 notwithstanding these infallible talismanic 
 treasures, Leopold determined to act secretly, 
 nor to allow the eye of suspicion to glance at 
 him. He therefore, by a subterraneous pas- 
 sage, re-entered the castle, where Viola had 
 forbid his return j and remaining there in 
 secret, he had a sufficient quantity of opium 
 infused in the archbishop's wine at supper 
 to cause profound sleep, but did not attempt 
 enough for death, lest it should fail, and 
 poison would tell tales : but going more se- 
 curely to work, he and one of his most de- 
 voted creatures entered the chamber of his 
 sleeping victim, who awoke in that blessed 
 paradise where his virtues placed him. By 
 holding a down bed tight over him, they 
 effected their diabolical purposes, and left no
 
 123 
 
 trace of murder, Leopold, not choosing that 
 .the death of the archbishop should transpire 
 at Palermo until the succeeding day, took his 
 measures accordingly. There was a vessel 
 belonging to Ambrosio in readiness to con- 
 vey them to Spain, and in the dead of night 
 Viola and Clementina were to be carried 
 off. 
 
 Bernarda had a relation, a fisherman, who 
 lived at no great distance from the castle ; 
 and this man, v/hose name was Stephano, 
 he engaged to be ready with his hattello near 
 the mouth of a cave upon the shore, which 
 communicated with the castle by the same 
 subterraneous passage Leopold had benefited 
 by. 
 
 At an hour eiarlier than usual, Viola, 
 pleading indisposition, retired to bed, and 
 dismissed her attendants for the night, as 
 Clementina was to sleep with her. The mo- 
 ment her women departed, the marchesa 
 arose ; and, quickly redressing, took all the 
 money and jewels her cabinet contained, 
 and with Clementina proceeded to foUovr 
 Bernardo's directions. From Viola's dress- 
 ing-room there was a door of communication 
 
 G 2
 
 . 124 
 
 which led to one of the castle towers, that 
 from some ancient tradition was reported to 
 be haunted, for which reason none of the 
 domestics ever approached it. Quickly they 
 descended the staircase of this tower, which 
 led them into the vaults of the castle, where 
 Bernardo^ disguised as zpescators^ was waiting 
 for them ; and who now safely conducted the 
 trembling fugitives through the subterrane- 
 ous way to the cave where Stephano was 
 posted. In two hampers were Viola and 
 Clementina conveyed on board the fishing- 
 smack by Stephano and Bernardo; and pious- 
 ly involking the care of Providence, they 
 instantly put to sea. The wind was favour* 
 able, the Mediterranean calm, their boatmen 
 skilful ; and notwithstanding the distance 
 between Palermo and Naples, they arrived at . 
 the latter place without encountering any 
 accident, and in less time than they even 
 hoped for ; when Viola liberally rewarded 
 Stephano, whom she advised by no means 
 to return at present to Sicily, lest the ven- 
 geance of Leopold and Ambrosio should 
 await him. 
 
 Bernardo knew Naples well : he therefore
 
 1^5 
 
 safely conducted his lovely mistress and her 
 beautiful companion to the villa di Manfre^ 
 donia. The duchessa being easy of access, 
 our two fair fugitives found no difficulty in ob- 
 taining an interview ; when Clementina, al- 
 though evidently under the influence of that 
 timidity so amiable in youth, introduced her- 
 self and cousin, and told the short story of 
 their distress with such a fascinating grace, 
 that the duchessa instantly promised to pro- 
 tect them : and in a very few moments the 
 beautiful simplicity of their manners, the 
 uncommon loveliness of their appearance, with 
 their helplessness, and the singularity of their 
 case, awakened her interest and anxiety so 
 forcibly, that she offered them an immediate 
 asylum in her own house; which they, as" 
 may be supposed, most gratefully accepted. 
 
 The duchessa was at this period m her 
 seventy-sixth year, and was, as Clementina 
 had heard, a most extraordinary woman both 
 in mind and frame. Her grandson was then 
 gone with a particular friend, conte di Elfridii, 
 into Tuscany ; her domestic chaplain, father 
 Rinaldo, she therefore employed to lay before 
 his Neapolitan majesty the grievances his fair 
 
 G 3
 
 vie 
 
 Sicilian subjects complained of; and in due 
 time the marchesa's affairs were securely ar- 
 ranged in Sicily, and proper guardians ap- 
 pointed for her person ; — one a Sicilian noble- 
 man of worth and abilities ; the other the 
 duchessa di Manfrcdonia, with whom she 
 fixed her residence, in compliance with the 
 duchessa's wish and her own.
 
 127 
 
 CHAP.. X. 
 
 WhiI-r all this important business was 
 transacting, the duca di Manfredonia, with 
 conte Elfridii, returned from Tuscany. They 
 had learned by the duchessa's letters a full 
 account of the fascinating fugitives, and came 
 back to Naples on the wings of impatience lo 
 behold them. 
 
 Her exertions for personal safety had for 
 a while suspended the grief of Viola, but not 
 subdued it; and the moment she gained a 
 place of refuge she sunk under the weight of 
 her sorrows, which seemed to press more 
 heavily upon her heart from the short re- 
 spite she had from them ; and for several 
 weeks afcer she reached Naples she was too 
 ill to leave her chamber. 
 
 Clementina felt severely the losses she had 
 so recently sustained : but she had not now 
 the death of both her parents to deplore, nor 
 to mix with her sorrow the dreadful idea of 
 
 G 4
 
 1^28 
 
 being the cause, though the innocent onc^ 
 of the murder of her father and her uncle : 
 she therefore more speedily recovered from 
 her grief, and was seen by the duca and his 
 friend some time before Viola could appear to 
 them. 
 
 The duca di Manfredonia was charmed 
 almost to fa&cination by the beauty, wit, and 
 manners of Clementina ; but still he felt im- 
 patient to behold that phaenomenon, ' a girl 
 not yet seventeen, who could encounter dif- 
 ficulties and dangers in the most formidable 
 shape, to fly from a lover, young, beautiful, 
 seducing, and his country's hero, merely 
 because he was a profligate.' At length he 
 saw Viola in all that interesting languor her 
 sorrows threw around her ; he saw her move 
 in the perfection of graceful dignity ; he heard 
 her bewitching voice, her fascinating conver- 
 sation, given in words of. simple eloquence, 
 spoken 
 
 "" So softly, that, like flakes of feather'd snow. 
 They melted as they fell ^" Dkyden. 
 
 he saw her, heard her, loved her, and de- 
 spaired. 
 
 Lorenzo di Manfredonia was perhaps not
 
 129 
 so strikingly handsome as Don Ambrosio di, 
 Montalvan, but he was more interestingly 
 so : the expression of his countenance pour- 
 trayed more sentiment, more sense and 
 sweetness, than Ambrosio's, and spoke more 
 to the heart than to the fancy : his figure was 
 faultless symmetry and grace ; his disposi- 
 tion, his temper, his heart, his talents, were 
 the perfection of human nature. Yet he 
 doubted his own powers of gaining the affec-- 
 tions of the fascinating marchesa : depreciat- 
 ing his own merits, he thought it would be 
 presumptuous in him to aspire to her, whom 
 he considered the perfection of every beauty, 
 every virtue under heaven ; and the disparity 
 of their years, he believed, independent of 
 every other barrier, would prove an insur- 
 mountable one, since Clementina's * quite 
 old man' was then in his thirty-fourth year. 
 Biit to rescue Clementina from the odium of 
 absurdity, we must remind our readers, that 
 it was natural for a girl not quite sixteen to 
 consider a person more than double her owa 
 age as very ancient ; and the duca thought 
 Viola would look upon him as much too old 
 to appear in the character of her lover. But 
 
 G. 5
 
 130 
 
 with all his sense and penetration he was here 
 mistaken ; for, after two months passed con- 
 €tantly in his society, it became the first wish 
 of Viola's heart. They neither now knew 
 happiness but in each ocher's conversation, 
 every parsing moment discovering to one, 
 some before undiscovered mental treasure, in 
 the other *s possession : they felt existence 
 only in each other's society : and yet the 
 duca's attachment remained as perfect a secret 
 to the marchesa as her predilection was to 
 him, until accident revealed the long-hidden 
 source of many a sigh and blush, of all that 
 pensive, restless sadness, that tinged the 
 cheeks and heaved the bosom of Viola, and 
 strongly marked the manners of Lorenzo. 
 
 The marchesa of Palermo was only to be 
 seen to be admired. Many spitors appeared, 
 all of whom she instantly rejected ; and after 
 each of these rejections the duchessa strongly 
 urged Lorenzo to try his fortune : but still 
 doubting the probability of his success, he 
 feared, by avowing his passion, to make 
 Viola's residence with his grandmother un- 
 pleasant to her. At length the blind urchin, 
 weary of concealment, called in Flora to
 
 131 
 
 assist him. From Viola's earliest days the 
 perfume of the tuberose had been too power- 
 ful for her nerves. Lorenzo, not knowing 
 this, one day presented her with a beautiful 
 branch he had just gathered. They were the 
 gift of Lorenzo : t^he placed them in her 
 bosom, and in a few moments after fell sense- 
 less on the couch upon which she had been 
 sitting. The duca, all terror, agony, dis- 
 may, summoned assistance : the room was 
 instantly ventilated, and all specifics tried. 
 Viola was just recovering— Lorenzo hanging 
 over her in almost di-tracted anxious tender- 
 ness — when Clementina, drawn thither by an 
 account of her cousin's illness, rushed in, and, 
 at one glance developing the cause of this 
 sudden indisposition, grasped at the tube- 
 roses, exclaiming, " These odious flowers 
 have made her ill." 
 
 This sentence roused at once the scarcely 
 recovered Viola — "Oh! leave my flowers,'* 
 she cried : " I would not part with them for 
 worlds." 
 
 "Not for worlds?" exclaimed the amaz- 
 ed Clementina. " From your earliest days I 
 have known you fly from the scent of a tube-
 
 rose, as you would from contagion : vh^t 
 Can have made these so precious to you ?'* 
 
 The question, with the inquiring eye, of 
 Clementina awakened the consciousness of 
 Viola : her voice, her look^ her burning 
 blushes as she strove in vain to account for 
 this sudden fondness for what she had ever 
 before shunned, conveyed to the throbbing 
 heart of Lorenzo the most joyful tidings it 
 had ever known. Ardently he now entered 
 the lists, with many competitors, for her 
 favour, and upon the day she completed her 
 seventeenth year the marchesa of Palermo was 
 united to the duca di Manfredonia. 
 
 Conte Elfridii was one of those indigent 
 nobles who swarm in Naples, and who by 
 fiis uncommonly great talents, and insinuat- 
 ing manners, gained the friendship of Lo- 
 renzo, who had been of considerable service 
 to him in pecuniary arrangements, and upon^ 
 every occasion in which he could evince his 
 regard. The conte was one of those com- 
 mon characters so frequently to be found in 
 'great men's houses— specious, artful, watch- 
 ful of his own interest, and sedulous to con- 
 ceal all his imperfections from those he wish-
 
 133 
 
 cd to please, or to deceive ; and he was so 
 entertaining a companion, so polished, so 
 learned, so apparently amiable, that he stood 
 high in the estimation of the duca and his 
 grandmother, neither of whom entertained 
 the slightest suspicion to his disadvantage. 
 
 The beauty, genius, and playful gaiety of 
 Clementina made a deep impression upon the 
 heart of the insidious Elfridii, whose person 
 was good and face rather handsome : but he 
 feared a repulse, as he was by four years Lo- 
 renzo's senior in age, who had dreaded so 
 much from the disproportion of years be- 
 tween his Viola and himself; and above all, 
 Clementina had no fortune. He therefore 
 concealed his attachment within his own. 
 breast until he saw the marchesa, Clementi- 
 na's equal in youth, beauty, and accomplish- 
 ments, her superior in mental endowments, 
 in rank and fortune, bestow herself upon a. 
 man double her own age, and that a very 
 noble provision had been made by Viola for her 
 beloved cousin. Then the wary Elfridii com- 
 menced his suit. Clementina laughed at his 
 passion, caricatured himself, and then show- 
 ed him all the ridiculous forms her lively
 
 134 
 
 imagination had pourtrayed him in. De- 
 spairing to succeed with her, he applied to the 
 young duchessa, to exert her influence with 
 her cousin in his favour. But Viola possess- 
 ed too much delicacy of mind to interfere 
 where she knew gratitude would sacrifice 
 every thing to her wishes. Besides, Elfridii 
 was no favourite of hers. Although, as her 
 Lorenzo's friend, she treated him with the 
 utmost respect and deference, yet for worlds 
 she would not see him the husband of her be- 
 loved Clementina. 
 
 Disappointed in his success with Viola, 
 Elfridii applied to her husband. But all 
 Lorenzo's interest with Clementina was be- 
 fore engaged by another friend, Altidore 
 (conte Ariosto's only son), who had come 
 from Tuscany to attend the nuptials of Lo- 
 renzo ; and the vindictive Elfridii, incensed 
 at the duca and duchessa not espousing his 
 cause, and compelling Clementina to be his, 
 resolved to avenge his bitter disappointment 
 upon them. 
 
 Altidore di Modena was then in his twenty- 
 fourth year, uncommonly handsome, sensible, 
 le^irned, amiable, and with manners highly
 
 135 
 
 refined and captivating. By intermarriages 
 the families of Manfredonia and Ariosto 
 were connected, and by a long formed and 
 almost hereditary friendship they lived in 
 habits of intimacy in despite of distance. 
 While Lorenzo was yet a youth, and Altidorc 
 a child, a strong attachment commenced be- 
 tween them ; and when Lorenzo arrived at 
 manhood, and was the admiration of all who 
 knew him, he became the model from which 
 the young Altidore formed himself. To be 
 thought in any respect like his friend was the 
 highest gratification of his heart, and to equal 
 him in perfection the height of his ambition ; 
 and even had Clementina Stanhope possessed 
 fewer captivating attractions, she would have 
 been the choice of Altidore, because bhe re- 
 sembled the wife of Lorenzo. 
 
 Altidore's mother had died just before Viola 
 took refuge in Naples, and it was a vijiit of 
 condolence to Altidore which caused the 
 duca's absence at that period. Grief for hi:^ 
 deceased parent prevented Altidore from visit- 
 ing Naples until the nuptials of Lorenzo, 
 when the beautiful Clementina captivated his 
 fancy and won his heart. He was not doom-
 
 136 
 
 ed to sigh in hopelessness ; the attachment 
 was mutual, the consent of conte Ariosto 
 readily obtained ; and the moment Elfridii 
 found his rival was accepted he quitted 
 Naples, full of vindictive ire. The day pre- 
 ceeding the marriage he returned, apparently 
 calm, and reconciled to his bitter disappoint- 
 ment : but it was the dreadful calm and 
 reconciliation that meditated revenge inspired. 
 He attended the nuptials; and when kneel- 
 ing at the altar, whilst the marriage benedic- 
 tion was pronouncing, he solemnly pledged 
 himself to vengeance by blasting the happi- 
 ness of his friend and Viola, whom he accus- 
 ed as the destroyers of his peace.
 
 137 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 Soon after the union of Altldore and Cle- 
 mentina, they were called into Tuscany to 
 receive the last blessing of the dying conte 
 Ariosto ; and in some time after their depar- 
 ture the happiness of the duca and duchessa 
 di Manfredonia was considerably augmented 
 by the birth of a lovely boy^ whom they 
 named Orlando. The dowager duchessa was 
 enraptured at beholding and clasping a great- 
 grandchild in her arms : but 3he did not long 
 survive this happy event ; she lived respected 
 to a fine old age, and was lamented in death 
 by all who had felt the influence of her vir- 
 tues. Her grandson and his amiable Viola 
 were, sincere mourners : her death was the 
 first blow their connubial felicity received : 
 they felt it deeply, and the sorrow it occasion, 
 ed seemed tinctured with sad presages of the 
 future misery of their Hves. They quitted 
 Naples almost immediately, where every sceile
 
 1.38 
 
 so forcibly reminded them of the parent they 
 deplored, and removed to the castle of Man- 
 fredonia ; where we now will leave them for 
 a time to their grief for their excellent grand- 
 mother, to caress their fascinating child, and 
 to enjoy that short period of connubial hap- 
 piness the wicked allovs-ed them to experience, 
 and introduce our readers to some new cha- 
 racters. 
 
 Alphonso conte Arlosto, father to Altidore, 
 had in his juvenal days committed many in- 
 discretions, and not the least among them 
 was marrying, unknown to his family, a beau- 
 tiful plebeian girl, who possessed more art 
 than virtues, while she had the address to 
 jnake the reverse appear to every superficial 
 observer. Soon after the infatuation of the 
 moment was past, the character of Aurora 
 unfolded itself to the repentant and dismayed 
 Alphonso. He shuddered at the unfortunate 
 step he had taken, and, notwithstanding the 
 violence, arts, and ambition of Aurora, con- 
 trived to keep his marriage secret during his 
 father's life ; in consequence of which, the 
 only offspring of this fatal marriage was left 
 to the care of Aurora in its early childhood,
 
 139 
 
 and' Elvira dl Modena learned her first lessons 
 in the school of art, dissimulation, and every 
 evil. When Elvira had attained her fifth year, 
 her hcentious mother vi^as called to that rank 
 and consequence she panted for, by the death 
 of the old ccnte, and for two years disgraced 
 the title of Ariosto by the most reprehensible 
 conduct, and died in her twenty- seventh year, 
 a martyr to her own profligacy. Her then 
 cicisbeo, in a fit of jealousy, by poison rid 
 the world and conte Ariosto of a worthless 
 woman. 
 
 Elvira was too exact an epitome of her 
 mother, in person and disposition, to be dear 
 to her father's heart. He trembled for the 
 vicious bent of her inclinations, and, with a 
 hope of amending them, injudiciously sent 
 her from him, for her education, to one of 
 the most austere convents in France, the rigid 
 rules of which nurtured the seeds of evil al- 
 ready sown in her mind. To deceive her 
 severe guardians she now each moment be- 
 lieved necessary ; and while her understand- 
 ing was highly cultivating, her heart's vices 
 increased and multiplied ; and when' recalled 
 to Palino, at the desire of Isabella, her father's
 
 140 
 
 second wife, she appeared with beauty of ia'ce 
 and figure dazzling to behold, with manners 
 soft, elegant, and seductive, and wearing 
 the semblance of every virtue ; for art had 
 encompassed her heart with its most impene- 
 trable veil, to hide from every eye the un- 
 hallowed shrine of vice. The amiable Isabella 
 idolised her, her young brother adored her ; 
 while her father, charmed and astonished, 
 felt reproach within himself for his former 
 unkindness, and strove, by affectionate indulg- 
 ence, to wipe away all recollection of the 
 past. But Elvira's was that direful mischief 
 which loves to feed on the remembrance of 
 injuries past, and even when smiling to brood 
 on vengeance : her father was her abhorrence, 
 and her mother's detestation of him with her 
 own were twined together in her heart's core 
 by the daemons of hatred and revenge. 
 
 The second marriage of conte Ariosto had 
 taken place in about a year after the death of 
 Aurora ; and as he had chosen his first wife 
 from amongst the dregs of the people, he soar- 
 ed to an opposite extreme, and selected his 
 second from the dsscent of princes, one of the 
 highest families of the Spanish hidalgo, not
 
 141 
 
 more pre-eminent for its uncontammated 
 blood than for its spotless honour. Isabella 
 was one of the most lovely scions of this an- 
 cient tree. In making the continental tour, 
 after the death of Aurora, Alphonso saw her 
 at the Spanish court, was fascinated, and be- 
 came a successful wooer. One child only 
 sprung from this auspicious union, Altidore, 
 the father of our heroine. 
 
 About the period Elvira was recalled from 
 France, conte Ariosto became guardian to 
 Polydore conte Vicenza, a youth of uncom- 
 mon beauty, talents, and every captivating, 
 grace ; but in depravity of heart only could he 
 be equalled by Elvira. A congeniality of 
 sentiment soon drew their kindred hearts to 
 each other. But Polydore's fortune was 
 small, and Elvira's depended solely upon her 
 father's pleasure ; and ambition pointed out 
 other paths to them than love and poverty. 
 
 The duca di Manfredonia was the rich 
 prize Elvira resolved to gain : but he beheld 
 her with indifference, and resisted all her 
 blandishments, even when she appealred in the 
 alluring form of well-acted sorrow upon the 
 death of Isabella j and shortly after, his mar-
 
 142 
 
 riage with Viola cut ofF all her hopes for a 
 short time. Notwithstanding this attempt 
 upon the heart of Lorenzo, Elvira's attach- 
 ment to Polydore remained unconquerable ; 
 and in an unguarded moment she fell a victim 
 to her own depravity and the treachery of 
 conte Vicenza, who had, a few years prior 
 to this period, emancipated from the guardian- 
 ship of her father, and squandered at the 
 gaming-table, and in other licentiousness, the 
 little fortune his faithful guardian had carefully 
 augmented for him. 
 
 Ever anxious for the world's favourable 
 opinion, Elvira, too late, began to tremble 
 for the consequences of her own conduct, 
 and, silencing every argument of ambition 
 within her breast, condescended to solicit an 
 immediate union with conte Vizenza. Her 
 artful blandishments, co-operating with his 
 fears of conte Ariosto, led him on to de- 
 mand Elvira in marriage ; when her father, 
 indignant ^ at Polydore's dissipated conduct, 
 to which he was no stranger, refused his con- 
 sent, and in the most determined manner 
 commanded his daughter to give up every 
 idea of an union with conte Vicenza.
 
 143 
 
 This was the dreadful signal for Elvira's 
 long premeditated vengeance. Her father 
 was almost immediately taken ill of a lin- 
 gering illness, that baffled the skill of the 
 faculty, and which terminated his existence 
 very shortly after the marriage of his son. 
 He breathed his last sigh in the arms of his 
 daughter, whose exemplary care and filial 
 tenderness to her father, during his illness, 
 were the admiration of all Tuscany. She 
 scarcely ever left his chamber from the mo- 
 ment he was confined to it -, administered all 
 his medicines and nourishment herself j and 
 her affliction upon his decease was so violent, 
 that she was reduced by it to her bed, where 
 she was confined for some weeks, refusing all 
 medicinal advice. To rouse her from this un- 
 availing sorrow, her affectionate unsuspecting 
 brother, himself a prey to real grief, advised 
 a change of scene j and as soon as she was 
 able to undertake the journey, his Clementina 
 consigned her to the care of the ill-fated Viola, 
 immediately after the birth of Orlando. 
 
 But before we proceed with our narrative, 
 we must execute the horrid task of com- 
 pletely withdrawing the black veil from
 
 144 
 
 Elvira's heart, and showing to our shudder- 
 ing reader a monster, from whom dismayed 
 nature recoils, Elvira was the murderer of 
 her father. She had administered to him a 
 small portion of a slow but subtle poison, 
 which at first brought on slight symptoms 
 of illness, so slight that it was not deemed 
 necessary to recall his son from Naples, 
 whither he was just then gone to be united 
 to Clementina J and Elvira having assumed 
 the character of chief nurse, she had oppor- 
 tunities of infusing more of this deadly drug 
 in his food, to increase his illness by imper- 
 ceptible degrees as her plan called for it. 
 And her diabolical purpose was at length 
 effected, without any danger of detection ; as 
 for many reasons, affecting to be influenced 
 by that hope which true affection scarcely 
 ever relinquishes, she pretended to disbelieve 
 all idea of her father's danger, and would not 
 summon her brother until almost too late, 
 under the specious pretence of wishing to 
 spare her dear Altidore an unnecessary pang, 
 since she felt, like a supernatural inspiration, 
 a thorough conviction of her adored parent's 
 perfect recovery. And when he breathed his
 
 145 
 
 last, blessing his children, the phrensy of 
 despair seemed to take possession of this arch 
 fiend : she clung to the corse of a parent her 
 6wn hand had deprived of life, and in the most 
 distracted manner lamented his death j ex- 
 cusing the physicians, by their ignorance, as 
 the cause of his not recovering ; and in a 
 frantic tone commanded them to open the 
 body, to inform his heart-broken children 
 what fatal malady had deprived them of their 
 estimable parent. 
 
 But this command the wily parricide knew 
 full well could not be obeyed, as her father 
 had given the most solemn injunctions to 
 his son never to allow his body to be opened : 
 and in his will he further enforced this request, 
 which was occasioned by his adored Isabella 
 having visited an hospital in Florence of which 
 ♦he was the patroness ; and going by mistake 
 into a room where an operation of that kind 
 was performing, by the fatal mistake she 
 caught a fever, which caused her death. 
 
 The exertions Elvira thought it necessary 
 to make, to evince her affliction for the death 
 of her father, accelerated the birth of her 
 child. She retired to her chamber under the 
 
 VOL, I. U
 
 145 
 
 veil of sorrow overpowering her ; and short- 
 ly after her puny boy was conveyed by Bian- 
 ca, her attendant and devoted creature, out 
 of the castle, under the auspices of Elfridii's 
 lenient confessor. By the care of the crafty 
 Bianca, Elvira soon recovered, and was ena- 
 bled to take the unfortunate journey to 
 Naples, her head and heart projecting new 
 mischiefs : for her father had left her too 
 small a portion to gratify Tolydore*s avarice ; 
 and although her generous brother doubled 
 that fortune, it was insufficient for the rapaci- 
 ous Vicenza, whom now, for the sake of her 
 child, Elvira resolved by some means, no 
 matter how iniquitous, to make her husband. 
 Altidore, not in the least aware of the strength 
 t>r cause of his sister's attachment, advised her 
 to think no more of a man who possessed so 
 little affection for her, which his caviling 
 about fortune he thought too plainly 
 evinced. 
 
 Elvira had not been very long at the castle 
 of Manfredonia before a perfect understand- 
 ing subsisted between her and Elfridii. They 
 had each their deep-laid plots to pursue, and 
 were happy in so able an auxiliary 5 besides.
 
 147 
 lady Elvira was completely in the power of 
 Elfridii, from whom Polydore kept no secrets ; 
 and now, to assist their schemes, conte Vicen- 
 za secretly took up his abode in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Manfredonia. 
 
 H 2
 
 J 48 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 It has been already mentioned, that thcj 
 only foible of the duca di Manfredonia's 
 mind was the contemptible opinion he entcrJ 
 tained of his own personal attractions. Had 
 he known how to appreciate properly the 
 favours so lavishly bestowed by Nature on 
 him, he had, perhaps, been spared the suc- 
 ceeding misery of his life. Elfridii, well 
 knowing this circumstance, and how much 
 the disparity of Viola's years with his own 
 had fed upon his mind, was truly sensible 
 how promising a subject Lorenzo was for 
 speedily imbibing the subtle poison he meant 
 to administer. High in the duca's estimation, 
 and his understanding so appreciated, the 
 words of Elfridii bore with them the power 
 of almost instant conviction ; and the fir»t 
 potion of the maddening drug he administered 
 was once at table, by relating, while his eyes 
 were fixed in marked scrutiny upon the in-
 
 nocent Viola, a story of Don Ambroslo'^ 
 enormities lately committed. 
 
 The invidious gaze of Elfridii, by wound- 
 ing the delicacy of the duchessa and awaken- 
 ing her indignation, called forth the bright^ 
 est tints of vermilion upon her lovely cheeks j 
 and as he proceeded, the atrocities he enume- 
 rated of Ambrosio's committing, giving full 
 conviction to the idea she had secretly cherish- 
 ed of his being the murderer of her father, as 
 well as of her uncle— and by awakening a 
 variety of the most painful sensations, all 
 embittered by the agonising thought of her 
 having been the cause of death to both those 
 parents— she at length, after her intelligent 
 countenance had undergone amarked diversity 
 of changes, fell from her seat in a swoon, and, 
 although the duca was almost distracted at 
 beholding his adored wife in such a situation, 
 the apparent cause of her being so, nor the 
 artful exclamations and half articulated whis- 
 pers of Elvira and Elfridii, were not lost upon 
 him, and the dreadful foundation of his fu- 
 ture misery was from that moment laid ; and 
 so skilful were those who built upon it, that 
 in a very short period the baleful pile was 
 
 H 3
 
 150 
 
 formed on which his happiness was sacri- 
 ficed. 
 
 The name of Viola was .now daily disco- 
 vered to be carved with lover-like devices or 
 poesy upon some new tree. A young and 
 beautiful stranger was seen by the vassals and 
 domestics hovering about the castle in various 
 disguises, whom a lady, attired like the du- 
 chessa, often met in the dusk of the evening 
 and in secret places. Our reader will be at 
 no loss to guess that the handsome stranger 
 was the vile Vicenza, who became a Proteus 
 upon the occasion, taking care, however, to 
 avoid the recognition of any of the domestics 
 who knew him ; or that the lady was the 
 diabolical Elvira, properly attired for their in- 
 famous designs : and so well did these vile 
 confederates manage their plot, that in the 
 course of a few weeks the duca di Manfredo- 
 nia almost believed that his wife repented the 
 choice she had made, that the profligate de- 
 graded Ambf oslo had ever been in possession 
 of her affections, and that he himself was the 
 most miserable of men. Yet so fondly did 
 he lean to the belief of her purity, of her 
 superiority over all the world — so tenderly
 
 151 
 
 ■^did he still adore her— that, whenever he 
 contemplated the seraphic sweetness of her 
 expressive countenance, he felt the influence 
 of some resistless power within his mind aris- 
 ing to confute all that he had before thought 
 conviction ; and had not the execrable fiends 
 who had sworn the destruction of his peace 
 been more prolific in diabolical devices than 
 human nature had ever before evinced itself, 
 the smile of Viola would have defeated all 
 their machinations. As it was, Lorenzo was 
 forced into a belief which almost tortured hiiir 
 to madness ;' but he so idolised her whom he 
 thought no longer attached to him, that he 
 could not endure the idea of calling the blush 
 of shame upon her cheek by his upbraidings ; 
 and, avoiding every explanation, he at length 
 unfortunately fled from Manfredonia to the 
 castle of Palino, to unbosom himself to the 
 conte and contessa Ariosto, determined that 
 their advice should guide him. 
 
 The merciless triumvirate were well aware 
 that Viola's was no common female mind ; 
 she had no foibles to work upon ; and the 
 only hope they had of her, was from the sad 
 sympathy her mother's hapless fate had en- 
 
 11 4
 
 16Q 
 
 twined with the very stamina of her heart. 
 They knew she trembled at conjugal indiffer- 
 ence, and shuddered at every tale that told of 
 connubial discord. To sow the seeds of 
 doubt and jealousy in her mind required the 
 most delicate strokes of art ; and Elvira most 
 successfully contrived the means to cause 
 events which awakened inevitably, but im- 
 perceptibly, suspicions of her Lorenzo's af- 
 fection. Her mother's miseries thus impend- 
 ing over her, the dreadful similitude of their 
 fate became at length her mournful contem- 
 plation. Had the constancy of her husband's 
 attachment been openly arraigned by any one, 
 she would have silenced with scorn the base 
 accuser, and spurned with generous indig- 
 nation each intruding suspicion from her 
 breast; but the circumstances which ruined 
 her peace seemed presented by chance alone, 
 so well did Elvira perform her task ; and the 
 flown cheerfulness of Viola, so lately ac- 
 quired and so becoming to her, her languid 
 look, her loss of appetite and rest, all con- 
 spired to confirm Lorenzo in the horrid be- 
 lief that she was wretched because she was 
 his wife.
 
 153 
 
 Viola well remembering her incompara- 
 ble mother never complained, never breathed 
 forth a murmur, resolved, like her, to bear 
 her misery in silence ; and soon, like her 
 hapless mother too, her only comfort was 
 to weep over her child, fold it in her fond 
 arms, and sadly trace out its resemblance to its 
 still adored father : but ever at the sound of 
 Lorenzo's approach she would hastily chase 
 the tears away, and with smiles resign their 
 son to his caresses. But those smiles were so 
 woe-fraught, so indicative of mental anguish, 
 Lorenzo could not support the agony they 
 inflicted in his tortured bosom ; and, to hide 
 his feelings, he would rush from her presence, 
 and leave her to the insupportable belief that 
 disgust at beholding her occasioned his re- 
 treat. 
 
 Viola, when resolving never to complain^, 
 had also determined never to make a con-^ 
 fidant ; for not even to her Clementina would 
 she breathe a sound that could take from the 
 merit of Lorenzo ; and this amiable conduct 
 was afterwards converted by her enemies into 
 proofs of guilt. 
 
 At length, the day on which the duca left 
 n 6
 
 154 
 
 the castle of Manfredonia for that of Palino, 
 the suspicions which Viola had so long and 
 painfully entertained were put to instant flight, 
 by the expression of his countenance, as she 
 caught him gazing upon her a few moments 
 before his departure. She clearly saw that he 
 was wretched, but siaw, too, conviction of her 
 being still in possession of his tenderest affec- 
 tion ; and the impulse of the moment was to 
 throw herself into his arms, and conjure him to 
 reveal to her the cause of his afflictions ; but 
 this wise resolution was defeated by the preci- 
 pitate retreat of the ill-fat^d duca, v/ho, upon 
 perceiving her observation of him, rushed 
 fi^om the apartment, and instantly began his 
 journey, leaving it to Elfridii to announce his 
 departure ; assigning as a cause his having 
 been summoned by express to attend a dying 
 friend at Naples, and was in too great afflic- 
 tion to bear the pang of a parting interview 
 with her. 
 
 That Lorenzo should absent himself from 
 home without bidding her adieu, though 
 plausible his excuse, struck like the cold 
 hand of death upon her throbbing heart 5 but 
 she shed no tear, 'neither did she make any
 
 comment when she received this mortifying 
 inteliigence from Elfridii. But as she now 
 in all her sorrows felt consolation only in the 
 sweet smiles and endearments of her child, 
 she soon quitted the villanous Elfridii, and 
 bent her faltering steps to the apartments of 
 Orlando ; and on her way, in a gallery 
 through which she was about to pass, hung a 
 full-length portrait of Lorenzo. Her eyes 
 * instinctively fixed upon it — her feet became 
 fastened to the spot on which she stood — her 
 arms insensibly entwined across her bosom — 
 her head sunk against a pillar — while mourn- 
 ful sickening fancy saw the days of past hap- 
 piness lilt like pallid phantoms before Loren- 
 zo's picture. At length, a half-stifled sob of 
 grief aroused her from her agonising reverie ; 
 and quickly turning her head, she saw the 
 faithful Bernardo with tears chasing each 
 other down his furrowed cheeks. 
 
 This worthy being had long been made 
 independent by Viola, but nothing could in- 
 duce him to quit her service j and high in her 
 esteem, and in the duca's, he ever experienc- 
 ed the greatest degree of respect from every 
 individual of their family*
 
 " My dear young lady," said the agitated 
 Bernardo, " I can no longer bear to see you 
 thus ; and must take the liberty of speaking to 
 you upon the subject of your misery. Oh, 
 may St. Rosolia defend you, and encompass 
 you with her powers ! for all the devils of 
 Mount jEtna are at w^ork to blast your hap- 
 piness. Be no more deceived — that lady El- 
 vira is a wily serpent that will sting you to the 
 heart. Conte Elfridii Is a monster, more 
 barbarous and ungrateful than even Leopold 
 himself. Oh Father of mercies ! could he be 
 human, and, seeing such a glorious work as 
 this, aim at destroying it ? Yes, inhuman 
 fiends ! they have planned the destruction of 
 your fame and happiness. My deluded lord 
 believes your heart devoted to Ambrosio, and 
 has left the castle almost distracted. It is 
 all too true — 1 suspected, watched, and over- 
 heard their villanous cabals. Dearest lady, 
 delay not ; write to my absent tord. The 
 words of truth must blast at once the tales 
 of falsehood. Commit the letter to my care, 
 and, with the permission of St. Rosolia, if he 
 is upon the surface of the globe I will deliver 
 it to hini y for in bringing back your lost hap-
 
 piness to you, Heaven knOws how freely I 
 would resign my life." 
 
 The agony of Viola's mind upon this intel- 
 ligence cannot be described. Horror at first 
 chained up her faculties, until its icy fetters 
 were thawed as her eyes again rested upon 
 the portrait of her heart's lord ; when, burst- 
 ing into tears of anguish, she caught the hand 
 of Bernardo, and, pressing it with fervent 
 gratitude to her lips, promised to follow his 
 advice on the instant; and immediately re- 
 tiring to her gabinetto, wrote to her deluded 
 husband such a letter, that, had it ever been 
 delivered to him, must have had all the happy 
 effect the faithful Bernardo expected. Ic was 
 written by the chaste and ardent pen of purity 
 and affection ; and every word must have 
 struck with conviction to the heart of Lo- 
 renzo : — but Elvira had followed the foot- 
 steps of the devoted Viola, had overheard all 
 that had passed between her and Bernardo ; 
 and that faithful and ill-fated being was bereft 
 of life by the assassins of the iniquitous con- 
 sociates in his way to Tuscany, whither he 
 was hastening to restore peace to the mind of 
 his lovely aad beloved lady.
 
 158 
 
 f In two days after the departure of the un- 
 fortunate Bernardo from Manfredonia, a let- 
 ter was delivered to Viola by Fidato, the 
 respected steward of the castle. The duchessa 
 had no reason to doubt the authenticity of 
 this letter; it appeared to have been written by 
 Lorenzo ; and she, as well as Fidato, believed 
 it had come with a parcel of dispatches which 
 he had received from the duca by his own 
 courier. This letter was brief, but seemed 
 the ebullitions. of long suppressed tenderness; 
 bun not as if in answer to hers, which she 
 knew could not have reached him. He seem- 
 ed to. hint at the perfidy of supposed friends, 
 and of his having much to communicate to 
 her before he again entered his castle ; and 
 entreated her to meet him at ten o'clock that 
 night unknown to every one, in a temple in 
 the bosom of a close wood at a small distance 
 from the castle. 
 
 This prospect of returning happiness ba* 
 ©ished at once the gloom which had lowered 
 for more than two months over the most ex- 
 pressive of countenances 5 and the smiles of 
 ker heart, in spite of ^1 resistance, spread
 
 159 
 over her face, and influenced her voice, her 
 air, her manner. 
 
 Elvira, completely an adept in the art of 
 plotting, v^as even more than usually insi- 
 nuating in her conversation that day ; was 
 so assiduously attentive to Viola, she seemed 
 her very shadow, and left her not for a single 
 moment. In vain the politeness of the du- 
 chessa strove to veil the disgust she felt for 
 Elvira, or the chagrin she experienced in her 
 presence ; and not without an effort approach- 
 ing to rudeness could she escape from the wary 
 fiend in time for the appointment she conceiv- 
 ed she had with Lorenzo. The spotless puri- 
 ty of Viola was shocked and mortified to see 
 the good father Rinaldo during the whole of 
 that day an attentive observer of her conduct, 
 which seemed most unequivocally to surprise 
 and pain him ; but though the bluish of shame 
 overspread her cheeks, and the tear of grief 
 trembled in her eyes, on finding her purity 
 suspected, she yet consoled herself with the 
 flattering beUef that in a very few hours all 
 would be explained to that good man's satis- 
 faction. 
 
 As the hour of ten drew near, Viola hast» 
 cned to the nursery j and taking the sleep-
 
 160 
 
 ing Orlando in her arms, impressed a kiss of 
 even unusual fervor upon his lips, as she breath- 
 ed the ardent wish that when next she kissed 
 her child the hearts of his parents might be 
 as firmly united as her lips were then with his. 
 This tender idea drew tears of trembling sen- 
 sibility from her eyes j and at this moment a 
 time-piece in the chamber chimed the hour. 
 Hastily kissing her son for the last time, 
 Viola gave him to his too observant nurse, 
 and in visible agitation quitted the apartments 
 of her boy and hastened to the fatal temple. 
 A man was waiting her approach ; his figure 
 was that of Lorenzo's; she rushed into his 
 arms with an exclamation of tenderness, and 
 subdued by a thousand joyful and affecting 
 emotions, fainted ; when the man, no other 
 than the base Vicenza, bore her in that help- 
 less state to a carriage, which was waiting, 
 with some more of Elfridii's creatures, at a 
 little distance from the park, to convey her 
 ffom her husband and her happiness for even 
 When the unfortunate duca di Manfredo* 
 ilia reached the castle of Palino, and impart- 
 ed to his friends there the dreadful suspicions 
 which had been forced into his ingenuous
 
 161 
 
 miiid^ great and terrible was the shock he 
 communicated to the affectionate hearts of the 
 conte and contessa Ariosto ; and the ardent 
 Clementina, although then in a situation to 
 render travelling dangerous to her, instantly 
 proposed making an attempt to reach Man- 
 fredonia before the moment of her confine- 
 ment. Firmly she believed the purity of 
 Viola immaculate, and that all .which had 
 arisen to create suspicion was through the 
 machinations of Ambrosio to blast that hap- 
 piness he envied. She doubted not being 
 able to win every secret from the guileless 
 bosom of Viola, and to clear away, by her 
 personal investigation, every shadow which 
 had fallen upon a fame she believed so spot- 
 less, that even the deposition of the pope 
 himself to the contrary would have been by 
 her disregarded. Her adoring husband shud- 
 dered at the idea of a journey at such a mo- 
 ment, but, dreading more from the tortures 
 uncertainty and anxiety would inflict upon 
 such an ardent mind, acceded to her pro- 
 posal. Lorenzo, catching at once all that 
 hope and confidence which glowed in the 
 bosom of Clementina, saw happiness once
 
 162 
 
 more in view — though bitterly arraigning his 
 own reprehensible and blind creduHty, which 
 had led him to suspect the affection of Viola. 
 
 Altidore, trembling for the safety of his 
 adored wife, arranged for every necessary 
 attendant to accompany her in this anxious 
 journey. The infant Alphonso, then about 
 a year old, was to remain at Palino ; and the 
 time appointed for their departure was just 
 advanced within one short hour, when the 
 artful villanous Elfridii, with haggard looks 
 expressive of fatigue, consternation, grief, 
 arrived, and, in a tone of well-acted distrac- 
 tion, demanding an instant and private 
 audience of conte Ariosto, annovvficed to 
 him the elopement of Viola with Ambrosio. 
 
 This most horrible intelligence could not 
 be concealed from the wretched husband or 
 Clementina. To them therefore the feeling 
 Altidore conveyed it with all the caution his 
 tender affection for both inspired. Bur, gently 
 as the blow was suffered to fall on them, it was 
 in itself so direful, it almost annihilated them. 
 In all the wild derangement of mental despair 
 and anguish, Clementina affirmed her cousin 
 had been basely trepanned away by Ambrosio
 
 163 
 
 and Leopold, and raved of setting out instant- 
 ly to seek her through every circle of the earth. 
 A letter was now put into her hands from 
 Elvira, enclosing one apparently from the 
 fugitive, wliich, without the precaution of 
 such an envelope, the watchful Altidore 
 would not have allowed to reach her at such 
 a moment. This atrocious forgery was to 
 bid Clementina farev/ell for ever. So artfully 
 had Polydore and Elvira composed it, no one 
 could disbelieve its validity. Every line breath- 
 ed the sentiments of a naturally pure mind, 
 seduced by the insidious sophistry of a beloved 
 deceiver ; and every sentence it contained 
 evinced the most agonising struggles betweea 
 virtue and vice ; and acknowledging that she 
 had sacrificed every consideration for Doa 
 Ambrosio, she conjured Clementina to for- 
 get that she yet existed — but not to forsake 
 her boy. 
 
 This epistle was a dreadful conviction 
 Clementina had no means to doubt. It ac- 
 celerated the birth of a still-born child, and 
 for many days her own Ufe was despaired of. 
 At length she was pronounced out of danger. 
 But that playful vivacity, so lately the delight
 
 164 
 of her husband and all around her, was fle^ 
 never to return. The supposed lapse from 
 virtue of that adored being she had believed 
 purity's own child fell heavily upon her sen- 
 sibility, and health and spirits bid her adiea 
 for ever. 
 
 To pourtray the dismay, affliction, and 
 despair of Lorenzo, the wretched husband ^ 
 would be impossible. Woe's most corrosive 
 darts plunged to the inmo^-t recesses of his 
 agonised heart. A letter similar to that pre- 
 pared for Clementina was delivered to him, 
 but with the dreadful addition of confessing,, 
 *' that she was compelled to fty to prevent the 
 birth of Ambrosio's child in the castle of 
 Manfredonia ^" and in all the maddening 
 anguish of v/ounded love and pride Lorenzo 
 returned to Manfredonia, to feed upon his 
 misery, to weep over his deserted child, and 
 alternately to curse and fondly cherish the 
 remembrance of Viola. 
 
 After the fatal success of her diabolical 
 confederacy, Elvira returned to Tuscany, 
 high in the estimation of the wretched duca j 
 her winning attention to bis Orlando, her 
 iasdnating distress and delicacy of conduct
 
 165 
 
 upon the late unfortunate event, her amia- 
 ble anxiety to save as much as possible the 
 tarnished fame of the duchessa from virulent 
 obloquy, all conspiring to raise her to a dis- 
 tinguished place in his estimation. This the 
 wary Elfridii clearly saw ; and as upon Lo- 
 renzo's humility he built his former success, 
 so, now, circumstances having awakened 
 another auxiliary, he resolved to profit by it, 
 and, under the banners of wounded pride, to 
 lead Elvira on to conquest. 
 
 It was in a few months after the amiable 
 ill-fated duchessa had been carried off from 
 her husband's castle, that the emissaries of 
 Elfridii, as if by chance, brought the intel- 
 ligence to Manfredonia of Viola having died 
 in giving birth to a still-born son, at an ob- 
 scure village in Gascony. Father Rinaldo 
 was immediately dispatched thither, by the now 
 almost distracted duca, to ascertain the fact. 
 Elfridii had placed persons there to give the 
 necessary testimony ; and some remarkable 
 trinkets belonging to Viola, purloined for that 
 purpose, were produced to the holy man, to 
 substantiate the evidence. The grief, nay 
 the despair of Lorenzo was now beyond all
 
 166 
 
 expectation, beyond all consolation. Had 
 not the vice and perfidy of Viola been proved 
 incontrovertibly to him, he had been more 
 resigned to her loss. But the Christian's 
 comfort of meeting those they love in a better 
 world was cut off from him ; and the horri- 
 ble agonising idea, that in despite of her 
 crimes his still tenderly adored Viola had de- 
 prived herself of the bliss of Paradise, was an 
 unremitting corroding venom that poisoned 
 the very vitals of his peace. Manfredonia, 
 and indeed all Naples, became obnoxious to 
 him ; and he fled to Palino, to seek the only 
 consblation that now was left to him ; the 
 pleasing anguish of talking to Clementina of 
 what Viola once had been, and mingling his 
 bitter tears with hers. 
 
 In such a moment as this, none but Elfri- 
 dii and Elvira would have thought of luring 
 him into a second marriage 5 none but Elfri- 
 ^i and Elvira could have proved successful. 
 Despair and grief had overthrown the firm- 
 mess and powers of his mind j they worked 
 oipon his mortified pride and his humanity. 
 Elvira assailed him with all her charms and 
 blandishments, Elfridii, with every art that
 
 167 
 couid promote his purpose, strove to persuade 
 Lorenzo that the beautiful, the amiable, the 
 accomplished Elvira, had for years past strug- 
 gled with an unconquerable attachment to 
 him ; that upon his account she had refused 
 many splendid alliances ; and, lovely and 
 fascinating as she was, she was still unmarri- 
 ed, because she could love none but Loren- 
 zo. That to see Elvira his wife had been the 
 first wish of conte Ariosto's heart ; now every 
 obstacle was removed, he panted for this alli- 
 ance ; yet, so great was his delicacy, he 
 sedulously strove to hide those sentiments from 
 all but him (Elfridii). Often Lorenzo seem- 
 ed to listen to the subtle traitor, while every 
 thought was fastened upon the memory of 
 "\'iola. Often the rhetoric of the wily fiend 
 worked upon his feelhigs ; and in one unfor- 
 tunate moment, when his pride and pity were 
 awakened to the highest pitch of animation, 
 he acceded to the proposal of Elfridii for be- 
 coming the husband of Elvira. 
 
 When left by the artful Elfridii to his own 
 reflexions, Lorenzo shuddered at what he had 
 yielded t6. It was then too late. Elfridii, 
 fearing a countermand, had hastened to El-
 
 168 
 vira with the duca's proposal. Lorenzo's 
 honour was now engaged ; he could not re- 
 cede j he strove to reconcile himself to the 
 idea of this involuntary union, beheving that 
 his breaking heart would soon release him 
 from sublunary misery, and that in Elvira he 
 should leave a tender inestimable parent to his 
 Orlando. Shuddering at the union, the duca 
 di Manfredonia led lady Elvira to the altar : 
 th€ recollection how different were his sensa- 
 tions when he plighted his vows to Viola 
 struck dreadfully upon his heart, and twice 
 he fainted ere the awful ceremony was con- 
 cluded. 
 
 High as her specious sister-in-law stood in 
 the estimation of the unsuspecting Clementina, 
 ihe yet felt strongly averse to the union. In 
 vain did Altidore strive to reconcile her to it, by 
 reminding her that it was the only hope in 
 existence for the restoration of his amiable 
 friend's blasted happiness. Fervently she 
 wished to see the re-establishment of Lorenzo's 
 peace, but not by this means. She felt it a 
 slight to the superior charms of her cousin, 
 whose memory, though dreadfully tarnished, 
 she still adored j and although she owned it
 
 was a weakness, she felt jealous and offended. 
 Her affectionate and indulgent husband, per- 
 ceiving how much the idea of visiting Naples, 
 or seeing Orlando at such a moment, pained 
 her sensitive heart, declined for her and himself 
 the pressing invitation of Lorenzo to accom- 
 pany him and his bride to Manfredonia, 
 where a dreadful new calamity awaited him; 
 for the wretched duca had now, in addition 
 to his other woes, to weep for the death of his 
 child, his Orlando. 
 
 The anguish of the poor duca upon this 
 calamity was, as might naturally be expected, 
 dreadful : he had ever tenderly lored his 
 child ; but from the moment he believed his 
 mother had forsaken him, he became if pos- 
 sible more interesting and dear to the heart 
 of Lorenzo. All now that had remained to 
 him of Viola was torn from him ; and his 
 affliction was direfiil, was piteous to behold. 
 Flvira, now in the character of an adoring 
 wife, affected the deepest distress and mortifi- 
 cation at the sorrows of her lord, and at his 
 so much secluding himself from her society. 
 Lorenzo was really shocked at giving pain to 
 her he believed attached to him j he consi- 
 
 VOL. I. I "
 
 170 
 
 dered himself ungrateful co her, did violence 
 to his own tortured feelings to save her from 
 pain, chased from his eyes the tear of grief, 
 appeared with her in company, and wore the 
 smile of happiness in her presence^ while his 
 heart was wrung with the keenest pangs of 
 anguish. 
 
 The death of Orlando was another mining 
 blow to the declining health of Clementina ; 
 and so sensibly was she affected by it, that her 
 adoring husband instantly determined upon a 
 change of scene. He immediately took her 
 the continental tour, made her enter into all 
 the dissipation her delicate state admicted of, 
 and then proceeded with her to England to 
 try the efficacy of her native air ; and during 
 this residence in England was our heroine 
 Victoria born. 
 
 The cold and uncertain climate of Britain 
 soon, however, proved destructive to this deli- 
 cate plant. The London physicians appre- 
 hended a rapid decline, and advised her im- 
 mediate return to the south ; and her almost 
 distracted husband, at her own request, afcer 
 she had visited the tomb of her mother at 
 Qifton, hastened with her to Sicily j but in
 
 171 
 vain. In the castle of Palermo, and In Viola's 
 own apartment, Clementina breathed her last, 
 and in her twenty- first year fell a victim to 
 that deemon of revenge, who had blasted the 
 fair fame of her idolised friend, kinswomar^ 
 and benefactress. 
 
 The remains of the lovely young contessa 
 were conveyed to Tuscany, and there inter- 
 red with all the pomp and respect her rank 
 and virtues called for. Her wretched hus- 
 band shut himself up In his castle with his 
 children, secluded from all society, blending 
 with his poignant grief self-accusation for 
 having taken his adored wife so far north- 
 ward ; and in less than three years, as already 
 stated, he fell another victim to Elfrldii's 
 vlllany. 
 
 The death of Clementina seemed to fill 
 up the measure of the duca di Manfredonia's 
 misery ; he mourned her as a sister, as a 
 friend ; and his heart groaned with anguish 
 to know that with lier was torn from him 
 every individual who would talk with him of 
 what Viola once had been ; that now he knew 
 not that person upon earth, save himself, that 
 did not execrate her memory. He would 
 
 I 2
 
 in 
 
 have flown to sympathise with his distracted 
 friend, had he not been well aware that his 
 presence would only augment the grief of 
 iVltidore; but no longer able to conceal his 
 own, he fled from society ; and, in despite of 
 the flattering murmurs of Elvira, indulged in 
 the most profound and piteous melancholy. 
 At length, the duchessa, with all the appear- 
 ance of the most winning tenderness, proposed 
 a voyage to visit the islands of the Archipe- 
 lago, as an antidote to such unavailing sor- 
 row^ and to benefit his apparently declining 
 health. The wretched Lorenzo, anxious if 
 possible CO fly from himself, gratefully acceded 
 to the proposition. 
 
 They set out upon this expedition, attend- 
 ed by their anxious friend Elfridii, Maratti 
 (a valet recommended by Elvira for the occa- 
 sion, in place of the duca's own respectable 
 one,' who had a most invincible horror of the 
 sea), and in two months after their embarka- 
 tion, ■ Ivira returned to Naples, an inconsola- 
 ble widow, calling forth the commiseration 
 of every hearer, by ihe pathetic account she 
 gave of her Lorenzo's breathing his last sigh 
 in her arms, immediately after breaking a
 
 173 
 
 blo(xl-vessel at sea : — and while all the pomp 
 and religious ceremonies attending the inter- 
 ment of so illustrioas a catholic was going 
 forward, the disconsolate Elvira remained at 
 Naples to bewail her loss, being in too pro- 
 found affliction to form one of the funeral 
 procession to Manfredonia ; and the sincerity 
 of her grief was soon evinced , by her mar- 
 riage with con te Vicenza. 
 
 Q 
 
 I ^
 
 1 74 
 
 CHAP. XIIL - 
 
 As we are not writing a treatise upon edu- 
 cation, we will not lead our readers through 
 all the toils and pleasures father Albert! and 
 signora Farinelli experienced in forming the 
 minds of their pupils, but present them, 
 faultless as nature and their able instructors 
 could make them, to our (we hope) candid 
 reader, at the period when Alphonso had just 
 attained his twenty-first year, and Victoria 
 her eighteenth. France and Spain w^re in- 
 volved at that time in war with Great Britain ; 
 and Alphonso, whose heart glowed with all 
 the ardour of youthful patriotic enthusiasm, 
 chose the honourable profession of arms. In 
 vain were entreaties and expostulations — the 
 frowns of Elvirn, the tears of Victoria, or the 
 advice of father Alberti. His guardian no- 
 longer possessed power to controul his inclina- 
 tions, nor could affection win him from his 
 purpose. A commission therefore was obtain-
 
 1 I.) 
 
 cd ^or him in the Spanish cavalry, as he had 
 no proper y in France ; while in Spaai he 
 possessed considerable estates, which had de- 
 volved to him in right of his grandmother by 
 the paternal side : and after a most tendel' 
 and painful parting with his beloved siscer, 
 and a respectful one with his other friends, 
 he departed to join his regiment, at^ended by 
 his honoured preceptor, who could not tear 
 himself from this child of his affections, but 
 determined, old as he was, and incompatible 
 as he felt it with his holy profession, to follow 
 through all the toils and dangers of v.ar, and 
 to watch over still this prop on which his heart 
 so fondly rested. 
 
 Her separation from Alphonso was the first 
 affliction Victoria's heart had known since her 
 mind had arrived at sufficient maturity to ap- 
 preciate justly the events of life, and she felt 
 it deeply. All around her brought to her 
 fond but sad remembrance the dear compa- 
 nion of her infant days, the friend of her riper 
 years, who was gone, perhaps lost to her for 
 ever. He was now embarked upon the sea of 
 life ; other pursuits, other attachments would 
 weaken his affection for her ; no longer > 
 
 I 4 
 
 4^-
 
 176 
 
 would his sister be the first object of his re- 
 gard ; the band that bound them close in al- 
 most unequalled fondness was now untied ; 
 and absence and stiU nearer claims might re- 
 turn her brother to her, not that tender frater- 
 nal friend he left her. She dwelt upon this 
 mournful idea until a kind of secret horror 
 chilled her mind, caught at length from the 
 painful belief that she should never again 
 behold her brother. She felt appalled, for- 
 lorn, and wretched : the deepest melancholy 
 obscured her former playful vivacity, and it 
 required all the philosophy she had learned 
 from father Alberti, with all the sensible 
 reasoning and tender care of signora Farinelli> 
 to rouse her from this state of sadness. 
 
 Conte Vicenza had ever evinced the strong- 
 est partiality for Victoria, who, unacquainted 
 with the dark shades in his character, looked 
 up to him with the duty and reverence of a 
 child; and to dissipate her sorrow upon the 
 departure of her brother, he projected a thou- 
 sand little plans of amusement likely to allure 
 her innocent and docile mind back to cheer- 
 fulness and peace ; and Victoria, influenced 
 by her lively gratitude, that was ever awake
 
 177 
 
 to the kindness and attention bestowed upon 
 her, made every exertion in her power to 
 contribute to the success of her uncle's be- 
 nevolent efforts to cheer her ; and as the let- 
 ters she frequently received from Alphonsa 
 assured her of his happiness, his health, and 
 safety, her mind was insensibly reassuming its 
 wonted tranquillity, when the mask under 
 which Polydore had appeared to our unsus- 
 pecting heroine, as the possessor of every 
 virtue, dropped at once, and discovered him 
 to her as the most depraved of human beings. 
 His wife, with many other profligate women 
 he had met with, had not impressed him with 
 the most favourable ideas of the sex's purity, 
 and he dared to insult the chaste ears of 
 Victoria by an avowal of an attachment to her, 
 stronger than parental affection. Shocked, 
 amazed, mortified, and indignant, she flew 
 to her Ursuline, and related the dreadful in- 
 sult thus offered to her spotless heart ; and 
 in the midst of her powerful agitation feeling- 
 ly deplored the wretched fate of her beloved, 
 respected aunt, in being united to a man so- 
 devoid of every virtuous principle. 
 The distress and indignation of signora 
 I 5
 
 Farinelll upon this shocking intelligence be- 
 came tinctured with a degree of alarm and 
 uneasiness which she was studious to conceal 
 from her beloved pupil, whose susceptible 
 feelings were already but too much wounded ; 
 and after some deliberation she w^aited upon 
 the duchessa, and without hesitation frankly 
 unfolded to her the conte's depravity towards 
 Victoria, well kno\ving that the information, 
 horrid a^ ic w^as, would not wound the sensi- 
 bility of her auditress. 
 
 Elvira was indeed too much devoted to vice 
 herself to be shocked at its influence over 
 others; but such an adept was she in art, 
 that hhe deceived the amiable guileless, though 
 penetrating Ursuline, into a belief that she 
 felt as she ought to do the criminality of her 
 husband ; and her resentment appeared so 
 just, her indignation so natural, that signora 
 Farinelli placed implicit faith in her solemn 
 promises of dbing every thing in her power 
 to secure her niece's purity from any further 
 insult. 
 
 The chateau was shortly after crowded with 
 gay visitors ; and as the wary duchessa was 
 wdl aware attention to her guests would pre-
 
 179 
 
 vent, in a great degree, her vigilant care of 
 her niece, she, under the plausible pretence 
 of shielding her from the schemes of Poly- 
 dore, while she had in fact a much more 
 powerful though secret spring to actuate her 
 conduct, advised her remaining entirely in 
 her own apartment during their stay, alleg- 
 ing to her inquiring guests, the delicate state 
 of Victoria's health as the cause of her not ap- 
 pearing amongst them. 
 
 Several weeks had thus passed on, Victoria 
 in a political state of confinement, Polydcre 
 projecting mean-, and the duchesra disap- 
 pointing them, for his finding our heroine 
 alone. At length one morning, as Ur^uline 
 and Victoria were paying their respects to the 
 duchessa in her dres.sing-room, a billet was 
 delivered to Elvira, who after perusing it 
 arose, and desiring her niece and Farinelli to 
 remain where they were until her return, de- 
 parted ; and about an hour and a half elapsed 
 before she reappeared, when \Tith tremulous 
 steps she entered, her cheeks pale as death ^ 
 her Hps quivering, her eyes wild, and her 
 whole a pect betraying emovions of the moii 
 violent nature.
 
 180 
 
 " Merciful heaven !" exclaimed Victoria, 
 flying anxiously and affectionately to her, 
 " what is the matter ? What can have thus 
 so alarmed and agitated my dear aunt ?'* 
 
 Elvira pushed Victoria with violence from 
 her. " Go," said she, " leave my presence ! 
 And you, woman," to Ursuline, *' go from 
 my sight for ever !" 
 
 *' Gracious Providence !"* cried Victoria, 
 "what can I have done? Wherein can we 
 possibly have offended ? But I mistake j my 
 beloved aunt is terrified, not angry.** 
 
 The duchessa, averting her face, essayed 
 several times to articulate without tremour 
 before she could distinctly repeat her com- 
 mands to Ursuline and Victoria to be gone. 
 In grief ai)d consternation ihey obeyed ; and 
 several minutes elapsed after they regained 
 their own apartment, before either of them 
 recovered their astonishment sufficiently to 
 speak. At length Victoria broke silence. 
 
 ^*Whajt can be the matter, dearest ma- 
 4am ?" 
 
 *' Heaven and its saints alone can tell ; 
 5ind may they protect my child from harm !" 
 signora Farinelli replied.
 
 181 
 
 ^' But k appears to me, madam, as if my 
 aunt's conduct was the effect of terror, not 
 displeasure." 
 
 " So I thought too," answered Ursuline. 
 " The duchessa's whole appearance strongly- 
 evinced dismay." 
 
 " It must be so," said Victoria; "we can 
 have given no cause for such displeasure ; 
 and she is too good, too just, to condemn 
 without full proof of guilt. Some dreadful 
 alarm has certainly deranged her senses for the 
 moment ; and we have been very cruel to 
 leave her in such a state. I will go back and 
 try wha^t I can do to compose her." Victoria 
 had just reached the door, when Bianca enter- 
 ed without the least ceremony, and with a 
 strongly marked air of insolence addressed 
 the astonished signora Ursuline. 
 
 " The duchessa sends you this purse," said 
 she, " containing the wages due to you, for 
 your attendance upon your pupil, and orders 
 you in the course of one hour to depart from 
 the chateau ; and she has desired me to add, 
 that if you do not go peaceably hence at the. 
 appointed time, you will be compelled to go." 
 
 Ursuline received this unexpected message
 
 182 
 
 in silent grief, too great for utterance ; but 
 Victoria, almost wild with apprehension and 
 amazement, would have flown to supplicate 
 Elvira, had not what she had just heard prov- 
 . ed a shock too powerful for her to sustain, 
 and she fell senseless to the ground Nothing 
 could have roused Ursuline from her stupor 
 but the situation of her darling, whom she 
 clasped to her maternal bosom, and wich her 
 fond endearments recalled to life. 
 
 The moment Victoria's powers returned, 
 she was hastening to the duchessa, when 
 Bianca informed her she was a prisoner, 
 and instantly retreating to the anti-chamber, 
 locked the door upon Ursuline and Victoria. 
 
 Our heroine considered signora Farinelli 
 as a dear and respected parent : Ursuline 
 beheld her lovely pupil as her darling child. 
 To part was worse than death to both. 
 Ursuline saw that parting was inevitable, and 
 her heart was* rending with the agonising 
 thought ; while Victoria, as she sobbed upon 
 the bosom of her maternal friend, still flatter- 
 ed herself, with the sanguine hope of youth, 
 that sornething would yet intervene to prevent 
 their separation j but too full of affliction
 
 185 
 
 were they both to make any preparation for 
 the dreaded departure, or to form any project 
 for preventing it. 
 
 At length Victoria's women were admitted 
 by Blanca, who came with orders to assist 
 them in preparing signora Farinelli's ward- 
 robe for a removal Ursuline could give 
 them no directions ; and they packed up 
 every thing belonging to her, as well as their 
 tears — particularly those of Rosolia the Tus* 
 can girl — would permit. 
 
 The hour elapsed, and Bianca announced 
 the arrival of the carriage that was to convey 
 signora Farinelli from the chateau. Victoria, 
 shrieking wildly, clung to the maternal bosom 
 of her Ursuline, who had not resolution to 
 tear herself from her adored pupil's fervent 
 grasp. Bianca in vain repeated the cruel 
 mandate for her departure. At length, by 
 order of Elvira, several male domestics rush- 
 ed into the apartment ; and, on seeing them, 
 Victoria fell into a death-like swoon. Ursu- 
 line, subdued by tender sensations, and a 
 thousand apprehensions for her beloved child, 
 fainted coo ; and while they continued in that 
 situation the dreadful separation was eifected.
 
 184 
 
 When Victoria recovered from her swoon, 
 the recollection of the irreparable loss she 
 had just sustained must have deprived her 
 again of sense, had not her agonising grief 
 found relief in tears. Bitterly she wept, and 
 fervently she invoked the protection of Heaven 
 for her Ursuline and herself; and as soon as the 
 first gust of her affliction permitted her to ob- 
 serve those about her, she perceived several 
 of the duchessa's women busily employed, 
 under the direction of Bianca, packing up 
 some part of her wardrobe. She thought 
 this strange ; but every thing appeared so 
 now, and she attended not to what she saw : 
 she only wished to be left to the free indul- 
 gence of her grief ; and the moment her con- 
 vulsive sobs allowed her to articulate, she 
 mildly requested Bianca and the other women 
 to depart. 
 
 ** No, ma'am," Bianca pertly replied, ** that 
 we cannot do ; for let us be ever so expedi- 
 tious, we shall scarcely have suincient time 
 to pack up what /think necessary to be sent 
 along with you." 
 
 "What," cried Victoria, almost panting 
 for breathy " am I to leave the chateau too ?
 
 185 
 
 Shall I then be allowed to go with that dear 
 friend I thought for ever lost to me ?" 
 
 " You have lost more than signora Fari- 
 nelii," Bianca replied: "all your own peo- 
 ple are dismissed, even Rosolia ; and worse 
 still, you have lost the affections and good 
 opinion of the duchessa." 
 
 " Heaven forbid !" exclaimed Victoria. 
 *' But what can all this mean ?" 
 
 " Oh, lady Victoria can be at no loss for 
 the meaning, although I see she has benefit* 
 ted so well by the example and council of her 
 artful governess, that she can act a part most 
 naturally." 
 
 " Bianca, dare not to cast a ray of reflexion 
 upon that most amiable of women. The un- 
 warrantable insolencies you level at me 1 can 
 listen to unmoved j but beware how you pre- 
 sume to shock my ears by the smallest insinua- 
 tion against my parent, my friend ; lest I go 
 instantly to my aunt with a just complaint of 
 your unpardonable conduct." 
 
 " Lady Mctoria chooses to forget her being 
 my prisoner : but had I not orders to confine 
 her, the duchessa would not sec her^, for she
 
 186 
 
 has made a vow never more to admit that 
 amiable young lady inro her presence." 
 
 *' Not see me !*' exclaimed Victoria, in an 
 agony of grief; "never more admit me into 
 her presence ! What, my aunt, my guardian, 
 treat me with this unmerited cruehy ! Impos- 
 sible!'* 
 
 " The duchessa di Manfredonia never forms 
 a resolution without well considering the whys 
 and the wherefores ; and the moment my 
 sister signora Bernini arrives, you go from 
 hence into that confinement the duchessa 
 thinks you so justly merit." 
 
 Victoria arose from her seat with all the 
 dignity of injured innocence ; her proud heart 
 rose indignant at her aunt's unjustifiable and 
 unprovoked unkindness, and dried at once 
 the source of tears. She wiped from her 
 lovely face the trace of every tear ; and 
 though her heart bled, her bosom heaved not 
 a sigh. " Oh Alphonso," said she, as she 
 walked with clasped hands up and down her 
 apartment, " now, now do I miss your fra- 
 ternal care, your soothing friendship 1 Were 
 you still near me, I should not be thus in-
 
 187 
 
 suited ; deprived of those who loved me ; 
 condemned unheard, unknowing my ofTence ; 
 and sent like a guiky culprit from the protec- 
 tion of my guardian." 
 
 '' Whilst you merited her protection, you 
 had it/' said Bianca, in a half whisper to her 
 amazed companions. 
 
 Victoria turned precipitately round, and 
 -extending her hand towards the door, calmly, 
 but determinately, spoke : " Bianca,*' she 
 said, "quit these apartments, I am the 
 daughter of conte Ariosto, and you are too 
 presumptuous. I shall myself give orders to 
 these respectable women for what I choose 
 to take with me. Go ; and when my con- 
 ductors are arrived 1 shall be ready, without 
 your inuerfercnce, to attend them to that 
 spot the duchessa di Manfredonia has chosen 
 for the prison of her injured niece." 
 
 The dignify of birth and conscious worth 
 awed the insolent Bianca, who, without dar- 
 ing to demur, silently slunk away. Victoria 
 threw herself into a seat, and soon was lost in 
 melancholy meditations, from which she was 
 at length roused by Bianca, who informed
 
 188 
 
 her, that every thing was ready for her de- 
 parture, which instantly must take place. 
 
 Victoria, summoning all the force of forti- 
 tude she could command, arose with firmness, 
 and followed Bianca. The pride of injured 
 innocence supporting her through the severe 
 trial, she did not shed a tear, or betray the 
 least symptom of emotion, as she passed along 
 those apartments, in which she had spent days 
 of peace and happiness, that seemed now, to 
 her, to be gone for ever. Through part of the 
 shrubbery Bianca led her to a private door, 
 at which the coach waited to convey her away. 
 Close to the door she unfortunately encoun- 
 tered a myrtle which Alphonso and herself 
 had together planted in their days of child- 
 hood, now flourishing full in bosso m; at 
 sight of it her firmness fled at once ; hastily 
 she snatched a branch, and weeping piteously 
 over it, she threw herself, quite subdued, 
 into the carriage, which soon rapidly moved 
 from the^. chateau of conte Vicenza.
 
 I8i) 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 In the coach were two females ; but Vic- 
 toria's affliction was too poignant to allow 
 her to observe them, or the road they were 
 travelling. A total silence therefore pre- 
 vailed, broken only by Victoria's sobs and 
 sighs, whilst they proceeded some leagues 
 south of Paris ; but at length one of her 
 companions broke the gloomy pause, in a 
 soft compassionate voice. 
 
 " I am truly grieved to see lady Victoria 
 in such affliction ; but let her be comforted, 
 for her separation from the duchessa, she 
 may rest assured, will not be long ; nor is 
 the place we are destined to, so very disagree- 
 able. It is certainly a very long and fatiguing 
 journey to the convent of San Jago at Gra- 
 nolles in Catalonia^ and crossing the Pyrenees 
 may be a little unpleasant ; but, when arrived 
 at San Jago, we shall find a cheerful society, 
 even within the convent's walls j and the
 
 190 
 
 domina, I am informed, is a lively as well as 
 an ageeabiC woman. * 
 
 The moment the sound of sympathy reach- 
 ed Victoria's ears, she raised her eyes, and 
 found herself instantly prepossessed in favour 
 of the speaker, who, although Bianca's sis- 
 ter, was really a deserving woman. An 
 Itahan by birth, she had, upon the death of 
 her parents, followed Bianca into France, in 
 a few years after the duchessa had removed 
 there 5 and in a short time became the wife 
 of a Neapolitan musician, named Bernini, 
 who wias settled at Paris, and who obtained 
 a very comfortable subsistence for himself 
 and family by public engagements and private 
 p'pils; but as they had a numerous family, 
 Octavia Bernini readily agreed to her sister's 
 application to her, for attending Victoria into 
 Spain ; for although the undertaking so lonr^ 
 a journey, at only a moment's notice, was 
 extremely inconvenient to her, she thought 
 that to oblijje the duchessa di Manfredonia 
 might prove of future advantage to her belov- 
 ed husband and children, for whose sakes the 
 amiable Octavia was ever ready to sacrifice 
 her own comforts. She was at this period in
 
 191 
 
 her thirty-ninth 3^ear, and had In her counte* 
 nance a sweetness of expression blended with 
 that of intelligence, excessively pre|^ossessing. 
 " If you are to continue with me, madam,'* 
 replied Victoria, with a mournful smile, " I 
 shall not feel quite unhappy." 
 
 Octavia, bowing, said, " she was to have 
 the honour and pleasure o£ remaining about 
 a month at San Jago with lady Victoria." 
 
 As the very long interval of silence had 
 been at last broken by her superiors, Vic- 
 toria's other companion (whom she now 
 observed was Hero, the youngest of the 
 duchessa's women; ventured in her turn to 
 speak. 
 
 " As to the convent," said she, ^^ I hope, 
 for the sake of the poor unfortunates imirmr- 
 ed in it, .hat it is exactly as you describe it 
 to be, signora ; but as far as it concerns lady 
 Victoria and her attendants, I trust it is of 
 little consequence what it is'; since certain I 
 am we shall never be permitted to reach that 
 burial place of the living. You must excuse 
 me, signora, but I hope never to be known 
 to the domina of San Jago, Uvely and amia-
 
 192 
 
 ble as she may be, since a convenjt is of all 
 places in the world the very last I should 
 wish to go to, having from my very cradle 
 a most unaccountable antipathy to those des- 
 perate old dismal places : and here I should 
 not now sit so contentedly, only that I every 
 moment expect the conte Urbino with a re- 
 prieve.** 
 
 Victoria looked amazed ; and signora 
 Bernini demanded who the conte Urbino 
 was ? 
 
 " A nephew of my lord's,'* replied Hero, 
 *' a sister's son; and who, although he is 
 very, xery handsome, is sadly, sadly poor. 
 In short, signora, he has nothing but what 
 my lord Vicenza gives him ; and I hope, 
 upon lady Victoria's account, he may leave 
 him all he is worth." . . 
 
 ** Why, Hero, upon my account?" 
 *' Lady Victoria will not, I trust, be of- 
 fended with us domestics for finding the secret 
 out ; but though short the time since my lord 
 brought conte Urbino to the chateau, we 
 could see what a favourite he is of the du- 
 chessa j we therefore concluded she means
 
 193 
 
 him for the husband of her ward : particu- 
 larly as the young conte is known to be so 
 desperately in love with lady Victoria.'* 
 
 " Impossible, Hero, as we have never yet 
 seen each other ; for since the arrival of conte 
 Urbino at the chateau, I have not appeared 
 in company ; and whenever he paid his re* 
 spects to the duchessa in her own apartment, 
 she had some particular reasons for not allow- 
 ing me to be present." 
 
 " Yes, we all know the duchessa's reason. 
 The comte de Montfort was ever the compa- 
 nion of conte Urbino in those visits ; and 
 comte de Montfort makes no secret of the 
 violence of his passion for lady Vietoria, al- 
 though she has so often and so firmly rejected 
 his suit.'* 
 
 " After my having done so, the duchessa 
 knew it could not be agreeable to either of 
 us to meet in so small a party." 
 
 " No, no,'* said the flippant attendant, 
 with a significant nod of her head, "the 
 duchessa could not bear that he should have 
 any opportunity of seeing lady Victoria, 
 whom he still persists in preferring to herself.*' 
 
 "Hero!" exclaimed Victoria indignantly, 
 
 VOL. I, K
 
 1D4 
 
 *' attempt not to throw any reflexions upon 
 my aunt, for be assured I will not listen to 
 or permit them.*' 
 
 " I cast no reflexions upon the duchessa, 
 whom lady Mctoria forgets is an Italian 
 lady ; and though not now in her own 
 country, it is surely no wonder that she should 
 continue the customs of it ; and every one 
 must allow she could not have a handsomer 
 cicisbeo than young de Montfort.** 
 
 ^' Nay," said Bernini, " I should not only 
 think it a wonder, but extremely reprehensi- 
 ble, to continue in another country the bad 
 customs which fashion only can tolerate in our 
 own ; and even in Italy I have known women 
 of the highest rank who never adopted the (I 
 think inexcusable) custom of cecisbeoism." 
 
 " No handsome Italian married woman 
 ever was without a cicisbeo, I positively 
 affirm,'* replied Hero tartly. 
 
 "And I as positively d^ny your libel,'* 
 
 returned Octavia, good humouredly. . 
 
 «' Young as you were, signora Hero, when 
 you quitted your native country, you yet 
 must remember the fame of the contessa 
 Ariosto's transcendent beauty ; and she was
 
 195 
 
 too firmly attached to her amiable lord, too 
 firmly devoted to every principle that could 
 make a v^'oman estimable, ever to adopt a 
 custom which, at best, gives an appearance 
 of impropriety which the truly pure mind 
 must revolt from.'* 
 
 " You knew my mother then, madam,'* 
 replied our heroine, with a smile of celes- 
 tial sweetness ; whilst a tear of regret for the 
 parent lost, and of gratitude for the just tri- 
 bute paid to her worth, trembled in her eyes. 
 
 " I had the happiness of knowing a great 
 deal of that excellent young lady, by often 
 spending weeks together v^ith my sister 
 Bianca at conte Ariosto's castle in Tuscany, 
 before the lady Elvira's marriage with the 
 duca di Manfredonia." 
 
 " Certainly," said Hero, '' I well remember, 
 both in Italy and in this country, to have 
 often heard of the almost heavenly beauty of 
 the contessa Ariosto, which surpassed my 
 lady's far ; and which, it is thought, was the 
 reason why my lady had such a deadly hatred 
 to her, and was so rejoiced when that amia- 
 ble young lady died." 
 
 "My aunt bear deadly hatred to my 
 
 K 2
 
 mother ! my aunt rejoice when my sainted 
 mother died ! ! — impossible ! impossible !** 
 exclaimed Victoria, pale and trembling with 
 horror and amazement. 
 
 " Lady Victoria may w^ell shudder at such 
 a shocking, unnatural thing ; which is but 
 too true. Indeed many people account for it 
 by the astonishing, nay almost unprecedented, 
 likeness the contessa bore to her cousin the 
 duca di Manfredonia's first wife, whom my 
 lady has some dreadful cause of enmity to; 
 for, it is a known fact, she never hears the 
 name of that lady, or of any thing relating 
 to her, without evincing, in spite of every 
 effort to conceal them, emotions of the 
 most violent nature, expressive of envy, unsub- 
 dued malico, and a thousand bad passions." 
 These were dreadful traits in her aunt's 
 disposition, which Victoria had never before 
 heard of j and inexpressibly shocked, she 
 had not power to rebuke Hero for such asper- 
 sions: but falling into a sad and painful 
 musing upon the possibility of such horrid 
 intelligence being true, she so fervently wish- 
 ed to find her aunt innocent, that she hushed 
 every suspicion which arose in her mind
 
 197 
 against her, and at- length persuaded herself 
 into a belief that Hero only spoke, the calamny 
 of the duchessa's enemies; and signora Ber- 
 nini, distressed at the disagreeable subject 
 given to Victoria's thoughts, and wishing to 
 lead them to something more pleasing, asked 
 Hero, at last, with a jocund air, " How conte 
 Urbino contrived to become so desperately 
 enamoured of a lady whom he had never seen ?'* 
 
 "Rather ask, signora," replied Hero, 
 " how he contrived to see the lady, a hundre4 
 and a hundred times, without her know^ing it." 
 
 "These were, indeed, wonderful contri- 
 
 vances/' 
 
 ''But very true, nevertheless : and more 
 than that, signora, lady Victoria has con- 
 versed with him." 
 
 " More wonderful still!" 
 
 ** And yet 'tis true, signora. My brother 
 Hugo is the conte's valet^ and he has often 
 made me laugh with accounts of all the pranks 
 his lord has played to get a sight of lady 
 Victoria, unknown to conte Vicenza, who 
 has other views for his nephew, as it 
 should seem by the uneasiness he has always 
 shown at the idea of their meeting ; but the 
 
 K 3
 
 • 198 
 young conte, hearing so nnuch of the beauty 
 of lady Victoria, was so anxious to see her, 
 that one evening when she went, attended by 
 signora Farinelli, to the baron de Rarcourt's, 
 to dance with the young ladies, he and H^go, 
 disguising themselves as Savoyards, ^ere 
 admitted among the musicians, and phiyeifor 
 her all the time she dancfd. — 1 hen lady '\ ic- 
 torianext wenttoa masquerade at the baron's.'* 
 
 " Yes," said Victoria, who was now suf- 
 ficiently roused from her reverie to join in the 
 conversation ; " but the baroness only gave 
 it for the amusement of her children, or I 
 should not have been there j and there were 
 none but girls at it." 
 
 " The baroness thought so, but for all that 
 conte Urbino was there as an Amazon, and 
 talked a great deal to lady Victoria. And it 
 is only a very few evenings ago that he and 
 Hugo exhibited a galante-show in lady Vic- 
 torians apartments, when she had madame 
 d'Alembert's children with her.'' 
 
 Victoria was in real astonishment at what 
 she heard ; and signora Octavia demanded the 
 reason Hero had for expecting conce Urbino 
 to rescue them from conventual horrors.
 
 199 
 
 " Dear me, signora ! do you think a man 
 so much enamoured as he is, will allow his 
 idol to be entombed in a monastery, without 
 his making any effort to prevent it ^ He was 
 unfortunately inveigled to the chace this 
 * morninor by the comte de Monfort, and v/as 
 not returned when we came away ; but Hugo 
 was waiting impatiently for his arrival, to tell 
 him tidings that will almost break his heart : 
 so I know he will not lose an instant in exert- 
 ing his influence (which is very great) over 
 the duchessa, to allow him to follow lady 
 Victoria, and escort her back to the dear 
 chateau.'* 
 
 ** Alas," said Victoria, mournfully, " why 
 should I require any advocate with my aunt 
 but justice and affection. This conte Urbino,, 
 madam," particularly addressing signora Ber« 
 nini, '^ I hear is extremely amiable, every 
 way deserving of the partialities he has in- 
 spired ; but it is now little more than a month 
 since his uncle presented him to the duchessa 
 as his intended heir; and in that short period 
 he has stolen so far into the affections of my 
 aunt, as to give birth to a supposition that he 
 possessed influence over her which my di&^ 
 
 K 4
 
 200 
 
 tresses could not awaken. I trust I am not 
 of a jealous or envious disposition, yet I own 
 I feel hurt., keenly hurt, at this. I should 
 require no advocate but the feelings of my 
 own heart, to urge me to forgive the late un- 
 kindness of my aunt.'* 
 
 Victoria now wept abundantly. Signora 
 Octavia strove to comfort her by every means 
 which good sense and benevolence inspired ; 
 while Hero would have quieted the agitation 
 of her mind, by positive assurances of conte 
 TJrbino and Hugo soon arriving to conduct 
 them back to the chateau of conte Vicenza. 
 But vain were all her efforts to inspire Vic- 
 toria with those hopes, which she so firmly 
 ._€ntertained ; and Victoria continued full of 
 mental sadness, notwithstanding the beauties 
 of the country, as they passed through the 
 southern provinces of France, called forth at 
 times her momentary admiration, — and in 
 despite of her melancholy, the prospects pre- 
 sented to their view, in their ascent of the 
 Pyrenees, frequently possessed the power of 
 charming her from the contemplation of her 
 own unhappy situation.
 
 201 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 Since it is not a tour we are attempting to 
 write, our readers will not expect a parti- 
 cular account of all the places our travellers 
 passed through, and stopped at, for rest and 
 refreshment in this compulsatory journey ; 
 and which, by orders of those whom the at^ 
 tendants thought themselves compelled to, 
 obey, was performed with such a degree of 
 expedition, as would have precluded the 
 possibility of our heroine indulging in the 
 laudable curiosity of viewing every thing wor- 
 thy of observation as she passed through such 
 an extent of country, even had her mind been 
 sufficiently tranquil to form such a wish. 
 
 Without accident or alarm of any kind they 
 at length gained the suinrait of the Pyrenees^ 
 and with a heavy heart Victoria entered Spain, 
 although it was then the residence of Al- 
 phonso ; but he was with his regiment alj 
 Cadiz, in Andalusia, expecting every mcM 
 
 K 5
 
 ,-J*" 
 
 202 
 
 ment to embark upon some secret expedition 
 against the interest of Great Britain, and she 
 therefore knew it was next to an impossibility 
 that she should see him, or inform him of her 
 situation, in time for any step to be taken for 
 her reHef or consolation. 
 
 The barren appearance of the country as 
 they descended the mountains gave birth to 
 many gloomy apprehensions w^hich they had 
 not experienced in France ; but these fears 
 were in some measure lulled by the out-riders 
 assuring signora Octavia that they were suf- 
 ficiently armed and prepared to repel the at- 
 tack of any banditti that could molest them. 
 It was past sun-set, and the dusk of evening 
 was gliding fast into the darker shades of night, 
 when, having entered an extensive valley at 
 the foot of the Pyrenees, the»carnage sudden- 
 ly struck out of the main road into a winding 
 path through a thick and gloomy forest. 
 Victotia and Hero felt new alarms ; whilst 
 Octavia, more accustomed to travelling, ap- 
 peared perfectly composed, until the rising of 
 the moon, which in some degree becalmed 
 the fears of her companions, first a\Vakened 
 h^rs, by its bright beams, which now and
 
 203 
 
 then penetrated through the thick foliage of 
 th^ ivood, discovering to her that the road 
 they were slowly passing over was an unbeaten 
 tun, :hat bore not the vestige of a single 
 wheel, or any trace whatever of being fre- 
 quented. Instantly concluding the drivers 
 had mistaken the way, she hastened to inform 
 them of her supposition. For some time they 
 obstinately asserted they were in the right 
 road to Bascara, and Victoria thought all 
 contention with them vain ; but signora Ber- 
 nini now convinced that there was some col- 
 lusion between the postillions and a banditti, 
 roused at once all .he spirit she was mistress 
 of, declared she would not be trifled with, 
 and commanded the attendants immediately 
 to compel the drivers to turn back uo the last 
 inn they had stopped at near the foot of the 
 Pyrenees. 
 
 Murmuring at an order which they consi- 
 dered so unreasonable, the attendants were 
 proceeding slowly to obey, when the sound 
 of many horses' feet against the rocky soil 
 sud'Jtiily assailed their ears. Victor^ia was 
 alarmed, and Octavra by no means devoid 
 oi berious apprehension y but Hero was almost
 
 S04 
 
 frantit with joy, as she had no doubt of its 
 being conte Urbino and attendants coming to 
 conduct them back to France. 
 
 The horses drew nearer and still nearer, 
 when the out-riders in consternation declared 
 the approach of a numerous banditti, v» hich 
 they instantly prepared to engage with. In one 
 moment more the coach was surrounded by 
 a band of armed ruffians ; and the loud clash- 
 ing of swords, and the continued discharge 
 of carabines, announced to the trembling 
 and terror-struck females the imminence and 
 magnitude of their danger ; and scarcely had 
 they time to oiFer up prayers ,to heaven for 
 succour, when the coach door was thrown open 
 by the victorious banditti, and they, almost 
 expiring with v/ell-grounded apprehensions, 
 dragged from the carriage, and each tied to 
 the back of a ruffian on horseback, the ap- 
 pearance alone of whom, without the aid of 
 othe'r circumstances, would have proved suf- 
 ficient to extinguish the flame of courage in 
 more heroic minds. 
 
 ♦ Hero's wild shrieks were soon silenced 
 by her grim conductor, who coolly informed 
 her he should, shoot her through the head
 
 205 
 
 if she did not instantly cease. Resistance 
 Victoria and Octavia were without power of 
 offering, even could resistance avail. De- 
 voutly they consigned themselves to the care 
 of heaven ; but even their pious reliance upon 
 that Being who is the protector of the friend- 
 less was scarcely sufficient to support their 
 fainting spirits when the ruffians rode off with 
 them into the most intricate part of the forest. 
 
 The moon was now completely obscured, 
 and scarcely a ray of light could penetrate 
 through the surrounding gloom. Along nar- 
 row, winding, and uneven paths, these ruf- 
 fians rode, until cautiously descending a sud- 
 den and steep declivity, our three dismayed 
 females found themselves at the brink of a 
 rapid stream, where a boat and some more 
 ruffians were waiting ; into the boat were 
 they hurried, and six oars plied by those 
 ruffians glided them swiftly along. 
 
 Again the moon broke forth in all her 
 splendour, displaying in full force the gloomy 
 horrors of the scenery. For about half a 
 quarter of a league, rocks of an astonishing 
 height bounded the stream on one side, and 
 on the other a lofty and almost impenetrable
 
 206 
 
 wood. At length the wood was suddenly lost, 
 and they were enveloped by slupcndou'' bLck 
 rocks, which seemed to threaten every mo- 
 ment to fall in heavy vengeance .upon them, 
 often almost closing at top for a length of 
 way together, precluding every ray of light,. 
 save what a lantern in the beat afforded ; and 
 very frequently the helmsman seemed to en- 
 counter no trifling share of diiHcuity in navi- 
 gating the boat with safety through this most 
 perplexed labyrinth of rocks. 
 
 At length, after an intricate and dangerous 
 navigation, they approached the mouth of an 
 immense and hideous cavern ; the external of 
 which, on the instant it was beheld, annihi- 
 lating every idea in the mind of the dismayed 
 spectator but that of its leading to immecliate 
 destruction. Into it the boat now glided, with, 
 only the feeble rays of a lantern to light them 
 through this dark and apparently ilhmitable 
 place ; and where the mournful echo of the 
 lofty vaulted roof, made clearer by the influ- 
 ence of the water beneath, resounded the 
 strokes of the oars terrihcally upon the beat- 
 ing hearts uf our fear chilled cap ives. 
 
 For about hC^lt an hour the boat proceed-
 
 207 
 
 ed slowly : an awfully horrid silence prevailed, 
 interrupted only by the convulsive sobs and 
 half stifled cries of Hero. At length a distant 
 ray of light glanced feebly on the water : it 
 was not the light of heaven ; i: seemed like 
 reflected fire, and, brirrhtening and increas- 
 ing as they advanced, added horror to horror 
 by discovering all the terrors of the place. 
 The eve now reaching the boundary of the 
 cavern, beheld in its concave architecture 
 figures of fantastic formation, which, seen in 
 light and shade, and varying their appearances 
 as the boat moved on, seemed like grim 
 spectres floating in the air ; whilst the water, 
 left in one mass of shadow, was seen as a 
 black unfathomable gulf, on the surface of 
 which the light now played in sanguinary rays, 
 like flames of liquid fire. 
 
 Hero, casting her eyes around in wild dis- 
 may, fell at once into a swoon. Bernini, 
 with a soul harrowed up by terror, sat mo- 
 tionless in the sad stupor of horrid amaze- 
 ment and despair ; . while Victoria, shudder- 
 ing and appalled by what she saw and all she 
 apprehended, sunk upon her knees, and, as 
 the only hope §he had left, in defiance of the
 
 208 
 stern interdict from speaking, fervently and 
 audibly consigned herself and two hapless 
 companions to the protection of heaven, im. 
 ploring from its mercy fortitude to bear, as 
 she ought, those trials it might judge proper 
 to inflict upon her. 
 
 Benefidng by the- light, the boat passed 
 more swiftly on, and at last they entered a 
 recess which formed a kind of harbour, that 
 seemed the termination of the cavern. Its 
 roof was low ; and a winding staircase met 
 the edge of the water, where half a dozen 
 more ruffians bearing each a torch (which 
 emitted the hght that guided the helmsman 
 and terrified the captives), were waiting the. 
 arrival of the boat, which they soon hauled 
 close to the steps. 
 
 Victoria and v)ctavia were first lifted out 
 of the boat ; but both, subdued by agonising 
 terrors, were unable to support themselves, 
 a:nd sunk against some of the projections of 
 the rock ; when the boatmen, seeing they 
 \;v'ere unable to walk, bore them, as well as 
 Hero, in their arms, preceded by the torch, 
 bearers, up winding ascents, through narrow 
 passages, trap-doors, and strange-formed iron
 
 ^09 
 works. Into an immense kitchen of Gothic or 
 rather Saracen architecture, where a deform- 
 ed and melancholy-looking old woman was 
 employed, as they entered, in washing the 
 stain of blood from a table and the floor. 
 
 Victoria and Bernini were placed in arm 
 chairs;— Hero on a table, being still insensible* 
 
 " Why," said the old woman petulantly, 
 "Why do you bring your dead bodies litter- 
 ing here, Juan?" 
 
 «« We left all the game we killed to-night 
 behind us in the forest," replied one of the 
 men ; " so put on your spectacles, mistress 
 Teresa, and you will then see, that this, is 
 not a corse yet." 
 
 " More is the pity 1" returned Teresa : 
 *' Poor young woman ! was she my child, I 
 should pray to heaven to close her eyes for 
 
 ever.'* 
 
 <c 
 
 You would, would you T* answered the 
 man, grinning : " that is a good one, d — m 
 me ; and the young woman would be much 
 obliged to you for your kind prayers : but 
 if 1 mistake not, if the wench could speak, 
 she would not cry amen to it."
 
 210 
 
 Victoria and signora Bernini were in a 
 situatioit of mind that our feeble pen is un- 
 able to describe ; and so completely were they 
 subdued by their agonising apprehensions, 
 they had no power to offer that assistance to 
 Hero which humanity would else have in- 
 spired 5 and the ruffians, totally regardless of 
 the state they had terrified her into, were 
 hastening aw-ay, when the old woman desired 
 Juan to remain where he was. 
 
 " I shall do no such thing,** replied Juan, 
 savagely ; *' after such a wearisome scuffle I 
 think it is high time to go and get something 
 to recruit my spirits.'* 
 
 " Ay," cried Teresa, "scuffle or no scuffle 
 you are always ready for gambling and ca- 
 rousing ; but I now tell you that it is Don 
 Manuel's orders that you should assist Diego 
 and me in the domestic business." 
 
 Juan, muttering his discontent, suffered 
 his companions to depart without him ; and 
 then singeing the feathers of a fowl's wing, 
 he applied it to Hero's nose, while Teresa 
 sprinkled her well w^ith water ; and both 
 remedies had such good effect, that Hero soon
 
 211 
 
 recovered from her fit, when her surcharged 
 feelings found relief by tears. 
 
 Teresa now turned her attention upon the 
 other two dismayed strangers ; and particu- 
 l.irly addressing Victoria, the sadness of her 
 features were beguiled by pity into the sem- 
 blance of a cheering smile. " Do not be so 
 dreadfully alarmed, dear donna," said she ; 
 " do not tremble so ; do not fear. Although 
 there was a very cruel murder committed not 
 three hours since in the exact spot where you 
 are now sitting, I dara venture to say no evil 
 will betide you, at least for the present. 
 Come Juan, a glass of win« will do the poor 
 souls no harm." 
 
 Juan produced a flask of w^ine, gave each 
 of the captives a glass-full, and at one draught 
 took the rest himself; and then, in a better 
 humour, began to display his wit at the ex- 
 pence of poor Teresa^ who took all in good 
 humour ; and although they, as well as every 
 one our hapless captives had heard speak 
 since they fell into the hands of the banditti, 
 conversed in Spanish, they w^ere perfectly 
 understood by A^ictoria, who was complete 
 mistress of that language ; and signora Octavia
 
 f21ii 
 
 and Hero, from being natives of Italy, and 
 from having, by a long residence in France, 
 acquired a thorough knowledge of the French 
 language, found themselves by no means at a 
 loss to comprehend w^hat was said, or after- 
 wards to make themselves comprehended. At 
 length Teresa desired Juan to go with her up 
 stairs, that she might prepare an apartment 
 for the strangers. 
 
 "If I do I'll be d d !" replied Juan. 
 
 ^' Nay, but you must 5 for I dare as soon 
 think of attempting my escape from hence as 
 go into the north wing alone, since Don 
 Manuel has ordered me not to do it." 
 
 " That order was owing to your being a 
 woman, and therefore full of devilish curio- 
 sity. But come, if I must go with you, old 
 hunchback, let us begone.'' 
 
 They both now departed ; and as soon as 
 they were gone, Victoria, who before had 
 feared to move her eyes from the first object 
 they had rested upon, ventured to turn them 
 in expressive sadness upon Octavia, who, in a 
 faint and tremulous tone, broke silence. 
 
 " We are indeed in a hapless situiition, 
 lady Victoria."
 
 213 
 
 Victoria sighed, and Hero sobbed acqui- 
 . At this moment the sound of many 
 ~^: ; the murmur of men's voices broke 
 
 earS;, issuing, as it seemed to them, 
 from some apartment at no great distance ; in 
 a moment more and they heard the most 
 violent "peals of laughter, and shortly after 
 the discordant din of various songs, roared out 
 in many voices, with, little less than Baccha- 
 nalian phrensy. Victoria, unable to express 
 all the horrors which at that moment tortured 
 her pure and spotless heart, grasped the hand 
 of Octavia with convulsive agony. 
 
 *' May heaven preserve us from such so- 
 ciety!" exclaimed Bernini, perfectly compre- 
 hending the eloquent gestures of our heroine. 
 " Let us hope, dear young lady, that such a 
 dreadful fate does not await us : let us con- 
 fide in the goodness of all-righteous Provi- 
 dence" 
 
 " who alone can protect the innocent 
 
 in this infernal castle," was audibly repeated 
 by a deep and hollow voice, filling at once 
 the whole immense kitchen; nor could the 
 nicest ear be directed to any particular spot.
 
 i>i4 
 
 iri supposition that it was from thence it had 
 proceeded. The distended eyes of Victoria, 
 Octavia, and Hero, wandered wistfully around 
 in dreadful fear and amazement, but nothing 
 could they see. An awful pause continued for 
 several moments ; — at length Octavia tremu- 
 lously articulated, " Saint Rosolia defend us ! 
 What can this mean ?*' 
 
 " To inspire us with that courage and forti- 
 tude which a firm reliance upon the Almighty 
 only can give," replied Victoria, with awe 
 and piety strongly dehneated upon every line 
 of her expressive countenance. 
 
 *' Alas ! alas!'* convulsively sobbed out 
 Hero, " how could the duchessa have the 
 cruel heart to send us into such a shocking 
 country as this, to fall into such a dreadful 
 place, where murderers stalk about in all we 
 see, and where the very walls have ears, and 
 the air we breathe tongues ? Alas ! alas ! it is 
 too surely a judgment upon me for my wick- 
 ed and irreverend antipathy to convents- 
 Oh ! how do I wish that we w*ere all safely 
 lodged in one, even the worst of them, this 
 
 moment."
 
 S15 
 
 In dreadful comments upon, and mourn- 
 ful lamentations for, their hapless situation, the 
 three dismayed captives passed the horrid in- 
 terval until Teresa and Juan returned, who 
 began busily to cook and prepare for supper.
 
 216 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 *^I wonder/* said Teresa, " that my mas- 
 ter has any stomach for food to-night; I 
 should have thought the dish of blood he has 
 already had, would have been supper enough 
 for him." 
 
 "Pish," replied Juan, *• you think like 
 what you are — an old fool. Blood is no new 
 sight to him ; and I shall eat rny supper with 
 a good appetite I warrant, although I have 
 sent more than one soul post to hell this 
 night. There was warm work in the forest. 
 Your attendants fought hard, ladies, and 
 died bravely." 
 
 This shocking intelligence, and the de- 
 pravity of the boasting murderer, harrowed 
 up the very souls of Victoria and Octavia ; 
 while Hero, now deprived of all reason, in 
 fancy beheld the weapon of death levelled 
 at her, and upon her knees vehemently im- 
 plored Juan to spare her life.
 
 L>17 
 
 ''is the wench mad ?" said he, staring at 
 her: then, famiharly patting her cheek, con- 
 linued, " Do you think that we don't know- 
 better than to put a pretty young woman to' 
 death ? No, noj they are treasures so seldom 
 seen in this castle, that we know how to 
 prize them.'' 
 
 The few remaining particles of Victoria's 
 firmness now fled at once ; she fainted, and 
 fell back in her chair unobserved. 
 
 ?Iero's long absconded courage now re- 
 turned, upon her being assured she was not 
 to suffer death ; and in a tone of hysteric 
 joy and affectation she exclaimed, '^ Oh, dear 
 sir, I am sure you flatter me when you call me 
 pretty, for certainly I am not now fit to be 
 looked at ; for terror is a great enemy to 
 beauty ; and I have been so frightened, and 
 have shed so many tears, I must be quite un- 
 like myself: for people have pretended before 
 now to call me handsome, and have told me 
 of many conquests I have made ; but indeed I 
 do not believe it." 
 
 "No, nor I either," cried Teresa peevish- 
 ly; ''no man in his senses could admire sych 
 a light prating fool." 
 
 VOL. I. I.
 
 ei8 
 
 At that moment a man entered the kitcheii 
 apr>areled like Juan and the other men, but 
 by his air and manner commanding more 
 respect. He appeared to be about thirty-six 
 or seven ; tall, and remarkably wdl formed. 
 His countenance, at once fine and strongly 
 marked, seemed to have suffered much from 
 care, toil, and the rays of a burning sun. 
 His hair was dark, and, parting in the centre, 
 fell in graceful waves on each side his fore- 
 head, giving to that an appearance of ingenu- 
 -ousness which his brow apparently contra- 
 dicted ; for on that, a sternness, or you 
 n^ight almost say ferocity, sac, which, how- 
 ever, an accurate observer would feel inclined 
 to believe placed there by habit rather than by 
 nature. 
 
 " What is the matter, Teresa ?" said he, in 
 a deep-toned voice, as he came in. 
 
 ''Matter enough, Diego, to put one out 
 of patience," replied she. "What do you 
 think of that silly wench, who ought to be 
 terror-struck and breaking her heart at being 
 brought here, or praying devoutly to heaven 
 for protection, is prating away about her 
 beauty and her lovers j but I think she can't
 
 boast much of her discretion that chatters so 
 to such a one as Juan, and encourages the 
 young man to think hghtly of her from her 
 flippancy ; and, all the time, no one would 
 give her a second look when that young 
 donna is present, who sits there quite uncon- 
 scious of her own great beauty" 
 
 " As she is of every thing else at pre- 
 sent," said Diego, first perceiving the situa- 
 tion of our heroine ; and, hastening to her 
 relief, was assisted by Octavia, Teresa, and 
 Juan, in using every means for her recovery, 
 which was at length effected to the manifest 
 joy of all, even of the savage Diego and Juan ; 
 — so resistless are the charms of beauty, when 
 influenced by the pure sweetness of innocence 
 and virtue. 
 
 The men soon after departed to lay the 
 cloth for supper; and Teresa, anxious to 
 calm the too evident terrors of the young 
 donna, began for that purpose to expatiate 
 upon all the comforts she was likely to meet 
 with in her captivity. 
 
 *' This castle,'* said she, " is a fine, magni- 
 ficent, although a very terrible place, donna. 
 It is almost as old as the creation, I verily
 
 '250 
 believe; for it was built by one of the Cata- 
 loiiian princes, as a garrison for himself and 
 his most faithful adherents, in the times of the 
 Saracens invading this country ; and it is full 
 of all sorts of horrible hiding-places, and secret 
 doors and passages, for the concealment of 
 this prince's treasure and people ; although the 
 castle was built in such a situation, amongst 
 rocks and rivers, that it Mas thought next 
 to an impossibility to find it out ; and withal 
 so wonderfully fortified by nature and art, 
 that it was deemed impregnable : and while 
 this prince lived, it remained undiscovered 
 or unsubdued— I do not know^ which, — and 
 was an asylum for many people both rehgious 
 and others : but after this great prince's 
 death, and that the Saracens got possession 
 of this kingdom, this castle by some means 
 fell into the hands of those infidels, v/ho con- 
 verted it into a prison, and invented all sorts 
 of places and instruments of torture and cruel- 
 ty to destroy the poor Christians that fell into 
 their barbarous hands : and now, though the 
 castle has fallen to other (not better) mas- 
 ters, the troubled spirits of those poor mur- 
 dered Christians overrun it, lying hid in all
 
 221 
 
 the secret places, waiting for every opportunity 
 of terrifying all the living with their noises, 
 appearances, and vanishings : and the rats, 
 too, are often as troublesome as the spirits, 
 and nearly scare me as much— and they are 
 both pretty numerous, I am sorry to say, in 
 the room I have been ordered to prepare for 
 you. Ah ! there is some sad mystery about 
 that chamber ; for often on the flcor is the 
 appearance of nevv^-shcd blood sprinkled. 
 Scour it away to-day, and it will appear again 
 to-morrow ; yet no one can account for it, or 
 tell from whence it comes. Well, well, well, 
 it is no matter; but I shall never forget my 
 terror and grief when I was first brought 
 here ; and often I quake for fear now, al- 
 though it is many and many a long year since 
 I was dragged hither, where I have remained 
 a prisoner ever since, and have seen many 
 a sight that would iriake a stouter heart 
 than mine tremble : yet for all that Don 
 Manuel is a good master ; we live well, and 
 want for no comfort but liberty, and to see 
 our friends, or hear whether they are alive 
 or dead. Well, well, I ought not to repine, 
 
 T O
 
 for it was the willof heaven \ — but, dear donna, 
 I was torn from my good old helpmate, my 
 darling daughter, and five as sweet grand- 
 children as you could wish to have. God 
 keep them from this place, and all other harm. 
 Well, I ofcen think It is a lucky thing that 
 I have outlived the keenness of my feelings !" 
 — and Teresa wepr. 
 
 "Poor soul," said Victoria sadly, ''your 
 fate was even more cruel than mine, for I am 
 torn from few that will feel my loss or grieve 
 at my hapless fate ; but tliose few, my bro- 
 ther, my Ursullne, and my poor Rosolia, they 
 will long and sincerely mourn:" — and she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 *' And I," said signora Octavia, in a tone 
 of deep despair^ .'' am torn from an affec- 
 tionate husband and seven sweet adored chil- 
 dren, whom I shall never, never, now see 
 
 more." 
 
 ''Never," replied the comforter Teresa j 
 ♦*for beyond the ramparts of this castle you 
 never more go. Escape is impossible ; I 
 thought of nothing else for many months of 
 jny captivity, but could not effect it, we are
 
 2^3 . 
 
 SO inclosed by impassable rocks and waters ; 
 as the poor old negro, my master shot just 
 now, has often told me." 
 
 ^* By accident the poor negro was shot, 
 I suppose ?" said Victoria, shuddering. 
 
 "Ah, donna, donna ! no accidental shots 
 fly here. Poor lago lived in this castle se- 
 venty-four years : he "was, when quite a child, 
 brought hither by one of the former owners 
 of this horrid place ; and a faithful servant or 
 rather slave he was even to Don Manuel, 
 whom he unfortunately offended this even- 
 ing. The words that passed between them 
 were very mysterious and very dreadful; and 
 the fatal end was, that Don Manuel, in a 
 phrensy of rage, drew a pistol from his belt, 
 and shot my poor old fellow domestic through 
 the head, without my having power to pre- 
 vent him." 
 
 At that moment Diego hastily entered. 
 " I want three more napkins, Teresa," said 
 he : " these ladies sup with Don Manuel." 
 
 Victoria, impressed with the horror of 
 what she had just heard, uttered an involun- 
 tary shriek. 
 
 "What alarms you, donna?" said Diego, 
 
 X^ 4.-
 
 22X 
 
 with a stern frown. *' I said you were to eat 
 your supper with Don Manuel, and not, that 
 he was to eat you, for supper." 
 
 "Don't be savage, Diego," returned Te- 
 resa, " don't be savage. It is very natural 
 for this young creature to be alarmed at every 
 thing she meets wiih here ; but it is no; 
 natural I know to you to be a ruffian." 
 
 " it is both natural and right," said Diego, 
 *' for me to comply with my master's wishes, 
 and rigidly to do my duty." 
 
 "Ah!" replied Teresa, "before you and 
 I entered this castle, Diego, we were used to 
 see that one of the first duties considered by a 
 Christian was kindness to the unfortunate." 
 
 *' Pshaw!" cried Diego, hastily turning 
 from her, and precipitately left the kitchen. 
 
 " Alas, " said Teresa, " how evil company 
 corrupts the best of us. I remember Diego, 
 when I first came here, a youth of about six- 
 teen ; and although he had then served a long 
 apprenticeship to villany, his heart w^as slow at 
 learning the trade ; and whenever he was 
 about to engage, by his master's orders, in 
 ■any bad project, he would cry for hours to- 
 gether about it ; but in the moment of action 
 
 < c
 
 %25 
 
 he was ever foremost in danger ; and when the 
 mischief was over, he would mope up and 
 down the castle hke one troubled in mind, 
 refusing food, and spurning from him the 
 share of spoil oIFered to him. But by degrees 
 this unwillingness to do wrong wore away ; 
 and since the fatal moment that tore from my 
 heart all comfort I had known in this castle, 
 and gave to Diego ailiiciion too, he has 
 strangely altered. To be sure sorrow has 
 different elfects upon diiierent minds : me it 
 has softened almost to childish helplessness, 
 while it has hardened Diego's heart ; for since 
 that black and dreadful hour he has become 
 as bad as the worst of them. But come, do 
 not be so sad, dear donna : I dare be sworn 
 Don Manuel will not have the heart to harnv 
 vou, cruel as he sometimes is. ' 
 
 Supper at length was sent in, and Diego 
 respectfully informed Victoria that Don 
 Manuel expected the honour of her's and the 
 other two ladies' company. Disobedience to 
 this mandate would have been a vain attempt.. 
 Hero, though half afraid, adjusted her dress- 
 Octavia, almost expiring with apprehension, 
 tottering, left her seat; while Victoria three 
 
 I. a
 
 0Q6 
 times essayed to rise, but vain was every ef- 
 fort ; enfeebled by terror, she sunk each time 
 into her chair subdued. 
 
 Diego surveyed her with fixed attention 
 for a few moments, and then spoke in a soft" 
 ened voice. *' I am sorry, donna," said he, 
 '^ that it is not for me to disobey the orders of 
 my master, which were to conduct. you in- 
 stantly to the eating room ; all I can do is to 
 -support you thither, if you will deign to ac- 
 cept my arm. 
 
 *' Be not thus dismayed, donna," conti- 
 nued he, as he assisted her to rise; "for 
 sure I am Don Manuel never can form a wish 
 for injuring you." They moved on — he pro- 
 ceeded. " The ruffian's arm is not the best 
 support for innocence ; though mine, donna, 
 was not always the arm of a ruffian;" and 
 then, as if suddenly correcting himself, he 
 turned to Juan, and sternly bid him conduct 
 the other captives." 
 
 Diego supported the trembling Victoria, 
 followed by her companions, through a long 
 passage lighted by one dim lamp, into an 
 immense hall of Gothic structure, where hung 
 the remains of many a Spanish as well as
 
 Moorish banner. On each side were arrang- 
 ed suits of armour, black with the rust of 
 years, and many a well-battered shield, with, 
 innumerable Moorish trophies.; some of which 
 still remained in tolerable preservation, but 
 the greater part were so much decayed from 
 time and neglect, that few vestiges remained 
 of what they once had been. One lamp from 
 the centre sent its feeble glimmering rays so 
 short a way in this extensive place, that its 
 extremities were left in total darkness ; and 
 no door was perceived by the agitated captives, 
 until Diego threw one open at the end of the 
 hall opposite .to where they had entered, and. 
 discovered to them a large handsome apart- 
 ment, well lit up, in which supper was laid,, 
 and where Don Manuel, with two of his asso- 
 ciates, Garcias and Alonzo, • awaited their ar- 
 rival. 
 
 When Diego threw^ the door open, he with- 
 drew his arm from supporting Victoria ; who, 
 subdued by her agonised feelings, must have 
 instandy sunk to the ground, had she' not 
 clasped a pillar of tRe door-case to save herself 
 from falling. Don Manuel^, perceiving her 
 situation, sprung forward, and with much
 
 courtesy and politeness (at llie same tuiie ar- 
 fccting not to observe her too evident agita- 
 tipn) supported her to the upper end of the 
 t^ble^ and seated her at his own right hand ; 
 Garcias took the place at the bottom of the 
 table; Alonzo sat at his right. Hero at his 
 left^ and Octavia was placed opposite to our 
 heroine. 
 
 Don Manuel^ whom '\'ictoria from his 
 crimes expected to fmd a ruffian as direful in 
 aspect as any of those who brought her to his 
 castle,^. was then in his forty-eighth year, but 
 \^ith the singular advantage of appearing at 
 least ten years younger ; and never was man 
 possessed of more qualities to captivate the 
 fancy. ' His was of the very first order of fine " 
 forms,' adorned with all the attractive ele- 
 gance the graces could be^stow, atteuded by an 
 air of the truest majesty. Nature, it might 
 be well imagined, had not designed him for 
 the worthless being he was, since she had not 
 set the stamp of villany upon his countenance, 
 but formed that, as well as his person, in the 
 most striking mould of m?.nly beauty. Age 
 had but slightly marked its traces upon his 
 brow ; but the burning rays of the sun, to
 
 229 
 
 which he had been much exposed, had con- 
 siderably darkened his complexion, except 
 upon his forehead, which still was beautifully 
 fair. His eyes, dark, brilliant, and inteUigent, 
 ever spoke exactly as he wished them. His 
 voice and smile too were at pleasure, sweetly 
 insinuating ; and, with the most polished 
 manners, he possessed the talent of charming 
 in conversation to an eminent degree : and 
 such was the magic of his art, that even trifles 
 said by him were gifted with the power of 
 fascination. 
 
 The aspect of Garcias was widely different. 
 His form was almost colossal, devoid of grace 
 or symmetry. He wore his heart displayed 
 upon his face, where nature had conspicuous- 
 ly stamped, in her most dark and diabolical 
 characters, villain upon every line. 
 
 Alonzo was many years younger than Don 
 Manuel and Garcias, and had both the ap- 
 pearance and manners of a gentleman. His 
 countenance was handsome, but very far from 
 prepossessing ; for in it could easily be traced, 
 by the discerning eye, expression strongly in- 
 dicative of a corrupt heart. 
 
 Don Manuel's whole attention was devoted
 
 230 
 
 to Victoria, whom he appeared assiduous to 
 please and ti anquillise ; but to restore her bo- 
 som to serenity was a task at that time too 
 arduous even for the subtle Manuel. Yet 
 with so much delicacy did he conduct himself 
 towards her, and so apparent was hi wish to 
 promote her comfort and to diminish her too 
 evident terrors, that, in despite of the dis- 
 tracted state of her mind, she beheld in him 
 a man perfect in the manners of a gentle- 
 man ; and the apprehension of being treated 
 with brutality was at least lulled in her agitat- 
 ed heart. 
 
 From the time the cloth had been removed 
 and the attendants departed, Alonzo fixed 
 his eyes in an earnest and animated gaze of 
 admiration upon Victoria, that must have 
 distressed her had she observed him. But 
 Don Manuel saw it ; and at length, though 
 politely, rebuked him for it. Alonzo, striv- 
 ing to laugh off Don Manuel's reproof, aim- 
 ed at a retort, in which he overstepped the 
 bounds of delicacy. Octavia blushed. Hero 
 half simpered, and looked something like con- 
 fusion ; while V^ictoria, unconscious that any 
 insult had been offered to the ear of purity,
 
 231 
 
 innocently looked up at the moment, and 
 saw Don Manuel dart a glance of such stern- 
 ness at Alonzo, that it silenced the babbler 
 for the night, and made Victoria shudder. 
 
 Although terror and grief had almost de- 
 prived our heroine of her faculties, it soon 
 was evident to Don Manuel that hers was 
 an enlightened and accomplished mind. His 
 conversation, therefore, he adapted to please 
 her reason and charm her fancy ; and so well 
 had he succeeded, that the horrid ideas she 
 had been led to form of him were insensibly 
 vanishing, when the glance he darted at 
 Alonzo dissolved at once the magic of delu- 
 sion. Her innocence had left her in ignorance 
 of the occasion of that glance ; and instead of 
 feeling grateful for it, she trem.bled, and be- 
 lieved him the most ferocious as well as artful 
 of mankind. Nature, she saw, had with a 
 prodigal hand lavished abundantly her favours 
 on his person, while she left, — Victoria be- 
 lieved, — his mind to Art; by whom she 
 doubted not that all his gestures, words, 
 actions, thoughts, were guided. 
 
 Supper had been ended about an hour.
 
 232 
 
 when the castle clock, with slow and awful 
 sound, struck twelve ; when instantly a tre- 
 mendous noise, astounding to the ear and ap- 
 palling to the heart, rolled terrifically beneath 
 the room they sat in, shaking the whole 
 fabric, as if some dreadful convulsion of the 
 earth was about to hurl rocks, building and 
 all, into a heap of ruins. 
 
 Don Manuel, Garcias, and Alonzo, start- 
 ed from their seats dismayed, and precipi- 
 tately hurried the three captives — who were 
 almost annihilated by dreadful apprehensions 
 — into the hall, where Diego, Juan, and 
 Teresa, at the same moment entered with 
 looks aghast. 
 
 " Teresa," exclaimed Don Manuel, en- 
 deavouring to articulate wdthout faltering, 
 *' Teresa, conduct these my respected guests 
 to their apartment ; let them mxcet with 
 every attention and accommodation in your 
 power to bestow : but to this lady (Victoria, 
 whose hand he held] the homage and respect 
 of my vassals must be given, as to \}\q future 
 mistress of this castle, Diego, you already 
 know my wishes 5 therefore to you I need
 
 say no more." Then delivering our heroine's 
 trembling and fear-chilled hand to Teresa, 
 and making a profound and graceful bow, he, 
 with Garcias and Alonzo, rushed through 
 the hall, and with them instantly disap- 
 peaved.
 
 '23i 
 
 CHAP. XVIL 
 
 *'San Jago defend us!" said Teresa, lu 
 an agony of terror ^ '^ we shall all be destroy- 
 ed ! Ah, it must come at last! But why 
 should the innocent — '* 
 
 "Say one word more upon this subject," 
 said Diego, ** and I will silence you for ever. 
 Lead the way." 
 
 " I cannot, indeed I cannot," replied the 
 trembling old woman. " My knees so smite 
 each other through fear, that I cannot walk 
 a step." 
 
 "Move on," said Diego sternly, taking a 
 pistol from his belt. 
 
 Teresa instantly obeyed, but with so much 
 tremor, she nearly threw poor Victoria down, 
 who was not more steady of foot than herself 
 at that moment. Octavia and Hero followed 
 as speedily as the cold shiverings of fear would 
 permit them. Juan, bearing a light, led the
 
 235 
 
 van ; and Diego brought up the rear, still 
 holding a pistol in his hand. 
 
 With slow and trembling steps the terri- 
 fied females measured the whole length of 
 the hall, from thence through a passage 
 into another hall, out of which arose a grand 
 staircase, which they fearfully ascended. 
 
 The staircase terminated in a long gallery 
 hung with tapestry, mouldering from its an- 
 cient splendor, and all the black and shape- 
 less figures of which poor Hero's fears at once 
 transformed into myriads of ghastly spectres ; 
 which Juan no sooner perceived, than, with 
 inhuman mirth, he told her " all the figures 
 there, were skeletons of Christians murdered 
 by the Saracens, which the Moorish ladies 
 afterwards amused themselves with weaving 
 into tapestry ; and that the spirits of those 
 Christians, still roving and restless, often 
 visited that gallery to admire the appearances 
 they had worn in life.'' 
 
 ' Holy Virgin !'' exclained Teresa. " How 
 you talk, Juan, when you know not how soon 
 you may — " 
 
 *' Die and be d d," interrupted the 
 
 profligate. "And what then, hunchback?
 
 If there is a future state, I shall fry ; but so 
 will my betters, and I shall be in good com- 
 pany still. But mind what you are about, 
 Teresa, and walk more steadily; for, if you 
 writhe about so, you will knock the young 
 donna down, which will not be quite con- 
 sistent with that respect Don Manuel ordered 
 you to show her." 
 
 "Ah!" cried Teresa, *' would to heaven 
 I could show her the way out of this dreadful 
 place, where — ' 
 
 *' Teresa, beware," said Diego sternly. 
 " You know the consequence of speaking 
 upon forbidden subjects.** 
 
 *'Well, well," replied Teresa, *' and per- 
 haps to die would be better- than to be 
 plagued with so many secrets upon one's mind, 
 that are every minute drawing one into dan- 
 gerous scrapes.'* 
 
 " Particularly," said Juan, " when cer- 
 tain that, were you to disclose all those se- 
 crets to these ladies, they would go no fur- 
 ther." 
 
 *' Alas ! that is too true," returned Te- 
 resa. 
 
 By this time they reached the end of the
 
 gcilltry, where a long passage branched off 
 on each side ; hi the middle of which, front- 
 ing the gallery, stood an immense semicir- 
 cular folding door ; while a beautiful colon- 
 nade, ranged before it 'in the form of a cres- 
 cent, made in the whole a complete circle ; 
 in the centre of which stood a colossal sta* 
 tue of Neptune, from whose trident was sus- 
 pended a human skeleton in good preserva- 
 tion. 
 
 From this sight Victoria and Octavia shrunk 
 in horror. Hero shrieked. 
 
 "What ails you, ladies?' said Juan with 
 a malignant sneer. " That is only the en- 
 trance to our dissection-room ; perhaps some 
 day or another 1 may have the honour of 
 being appointed to take you to it." 
 
 " Let nothing tempt you to go into that 
 room with him or any one else," exclaimed 
 Teresa with increased alarm , " for that is 
 the grand theatre of every kind of horror. 
 Oh, how my heart shudders when t think of 
 all I know about that room ! Come, for 
 heaven's sake, let us hasten away from it, 
 dear young lady !" and on she led, or rather 
 dragged Victoria along the passage to the
 
 238 
 
 right ; and walking much faster than she had 
 hitherto done, soon got foremost of the 
 group ; and after many a step, they at last 
 reached a door at the termination of the 
 passage, which closed with violence as they 
 approached it; and upon Teresa's attempt- 
 ing to open it, she found it forcibly held 
 against her. 
 
 '' Oh ! Diego,*' cried she, " I may as well 
 die one way as another. Those ghastly sprites 
 are here ready to destroy us, and it is in vain 
 to contend." 
 
 " That I shall presently see," answered 
 Diego, advancing, who strove with all his 
 might to force open the door ; which now was 
 so firmly fastened, that it resisted all his 
 strength aided by Juan's. 
 
 " This is most wonderful !" said Diego, in 
 evident consternation. Then after a pause 
 he continued — " You must have fastened 
 this door by some means when you com- 
 pleted your business here this evening, Te- 
 
 resa." 
 
 "No,'' replied the agitated old woman, 
 ** I certainly did not, as Juan can testify ; and 
 further to prove that I did not, as we now
 
 239 
 came near the door I saw It a-jar ; and so 
 might you all, had you looked." 
 
 " I most undoubtedly saw it so," said Vic- 
 toria ; " and also saw it closed with precipi- 
 tance the moment we approached it." 
 
 "And/* continued Teresa, "when I at- 
 tempted to turn the lock, the knob seemed 
 forcibly held against me ; then for a moment 
 It yielded, and the door was about to give 
 way, when it was suddenly pushed-to with a 
 degree of firmness that my little strength 
 could not oppose." 
 
 "It Is very extraordinary," said Diego 
 thoughtfully. ** I cannot believe in super- 
 natural appearances, and yet no human being 
 can possibly be here. I must however go for 
 some implement to force open this mysterious- 
 ly fastened door." 
 
 " Then you will take the light with you, 
 I suppose," cried Teresa. 
 
 " Undoubtedly, or how should I find what 
 I go for?" 
 
 " Then I'll go with you," replied Teresa, 
 "for here I will not stay in the dark;" and 
 she hobbled after him ; who, taking the lamp 
 from Juan, had moved away. Hero, half 
 shrieking, darted after him, and caught fast
 
 240 
 
 hold of his mantle. Octavia mstlnctively 
 followed ; and Juan, not having a conscience 
 to make darkness comfortable, retreated too : 
 while poor Victoria's feet, unable to perform 
 their function, remained immoveably fixed to 
 a spot close to the door; and as the light 
 which Diego carried away and the party with 
 him lessened to her sight, subdued by her in- 
 supportable apprehensions, she caught hold 
 of the knob of the mysterious door to save 
 herself from falling — but without effe£t, for 
 her trembling Hmbs could no longer support 
 her j and in sinking to the ground, she un- 
 consciously turned the knob, and almost im- 
 perceptibly the door opened, and she fell into 
 the room upon her face, when she felt some- 
 thing glide swiftly by her. 
 
 Victoria uttered a piercing shriek ere her 
 senses forsook her ; and Diego found her ex- 
 tended in a swoon upon the floor of that room 
 his Herculean strength could not force an 
 admission into : for, alarmed by her scream, 
 he instantly returned, followed by the whole 
 party. 
 
 Diego, with much humanity, placed our 
 heroine upon a bed, while Teresa sprinkled 
 her face with water. In a' few moments, how-
 
 -^41 
 
 ever, she began to discover symptoms of re- 
 turning respiration j and in a short time after 
 was sufficiently recovered to inform her impa- 
 tient auditors^ of what had occurred prior to 
 her fainting. 
 
 Diego now hastened with Juan to make 
 diligent search after what had caused so 
 general an alarm ; but no vestige of any per- 
 son having been there could they trace, or 
 place of retreat discover. There was no 
 second door to the room, the windows were 
 closely latticed, and not a part of the chamber 
 but underwent a strict examination — but all 
 without effect; and Diego was at length of 
 opinion, that if any persons had been ther^, 
 they had escaped while Victoria was in the 
 swoon, before he and the rest of the party 
 could return to her. 
 
 Not until our heroine appeared perfectly 
 recovered from her swoon did Diego make 
 any attempt to depart ; and then, with evi- 
 dent reluctance, he reminded Teresa that 
 they must go. 
 
 " Ah ! poor souls, so we must," replied 
 Teresa : " but it grieves my very heart to 
 leave them in such a place. Your baggage 
 
 VOL. !• M
 
 is all uncorded, ready for you to get your 
 night-clothes out; and 'I have made every 
 thing here as comfortable as I could for you. 
 The beds are well aired, although the room 
 smells so musty. Your bed, donna, is the 
 state one ; that on the right for the. eldest 
 lady ; and the small one in the corner for the 
 young woman. The state bed was lain in for 
 a long time until two nights ago, when the 
 poor captive who had it killed himself in a fit 
 of despair.'' 
 
 Diego now, advancing, particularly ad- 
 dressed Victoria. "1 am grieved, donna,** 
 said he, " that I cannot leave Teresa or any 
 other comfort with you ; but you may rest 
 assured that nothing shall molest you this night 
 that I can possibly prevent." While he spoke, 
 he looked earnestly upon our heroine, and 
 the pallid hue of death gradually overspread 
 his fine countenance ; then heaving a deep 
 sigh, (which seemed almost a groan,) his 
 face reassumed its natural complexion ; and 
 making a respectful bow, he, with Teresa 
 and Juan, departed, having previously lit a 
 lamp and set it in the chimney. 
 
 Being now left to themselves, Victoria and
 
 24:3 
 
 Octavia looked piteously upon each other j 
 while Hero relieved her full heart by tears. 
 
 " This, then," said Victoria, after an ago- 
 nising pause, " is our prison, and we know 
 not the fate that awaits us in it : but, that we 
 may deserve the protection of Him who alone 
 can help us, ought we not to supplicate for aid 
 and mercy at that throne where the prayers of 
 the innocent and afflicted were never yet of- 
 fered in vain ?" 
 
 Signora Octavia arose with reverence, and, 
 as well as our heroine, meekly bent her knees, 
 and raised her heart and hands to heaven. 
 Hero instinctively followed their example ; 
 and after spending some time in prayers to the 
 Father of mercies, offered with all the pure 
 fervor of sincere piety, Victoria and Octavi^ 
 arose from their suppliant posture more calm 
 and collected, having caught the emanation 
 of soothing patience and fortitude from the 
 fire of true religion, that burnt brightly, and 
 steadily in their bosoms ; and although Plero's 
 piety was far less firm and genuine, even she 
 felt her terrors much diminished. 
 
 The agitation of (;ur heroine and Octavia 
 having considerably abated, they summoned 
 
 M 2
 
 244 
 
 sufficient courage to fasten the door; but 
 although religion had, by its wondrous influ- 
 ence, renovated their intellectual strength, 
 they had encountered sufficient that evening 
 to banish peace from their bosoms, and rest 
 from their pillows ; and it would be impos- 
 sible for us to convey any just idea of the sen- 
 sations of these unfortunate beings during a 
 long and sleepless night. They threw them- 
 selves, dressed as they were, upon their beds ; 
 where they prayed, talked, and wept, without 
 the intervention of any new event, until the 
 morning sun, whlch^ with difficulty penetrat- 
 ing the lattices of their gloomy prison, found 
 them waking. His cheerful rays, from which 
 guilt shrinks away abashed, in some degree 
 dissipated their apprehensions ; and they about 
 the same time, overcome by fatigue and 
 watching, buried their miseries in a short 
 slumber, which was easily broken by Teresa, 
 who knocked for admission about eight 
 o'clock. 
 
 '' Ah 1 poor souls !" said the compassionate 
 old woman, " your heavy eyes tell me you 
 have had no rest ; and little you are likely 
 to have in this castle until you become used
 
 245 
 
 to it, and then you will sleep as sound as I 
 do. — But have you," and she looked fearfully 
 around, *' have you seen any thing?" 
 
 '* We have not been molested by any one/* 
 Victoria replied. 
 
 " Thank heaven ! I was dreadfully alarmed 
 about you. But you are ready dressed, 
 therefore can now come down to breakfast. 
 My master, Garcias, and Alonzo, have not 
 yet returned, so there is no one below but 
 signior Sebastian. Poor signior Sebastian! 
 He will not molest you. Alas! poor gentle- 
 man, his heart is almoit broken ; but he 
 must hold his tongue as well as I." 
 
 "Pray who is signior 'Sebastian?*' asked 
 Octavia. 
 
 " I am sure I know not ; he was here before 
 me, I believe, and will be here after me, un- 
 less a broken heart sends him out of the world 
 before my hour arrives.'^ 
 
 *' We shtdl find a companion at least, if 
 not a sympathiser, in our misery,'* said Vic- 
 toria mournfully. "■ We shall soon be ready 
 to attend you', good Teresa. But you sa'd 
 Don Manuel was not yet returned. Are 
 you acquainted — Dare you inform"— She 
 
 M 3
 
 '2\6 
 
 paused for a moment, then continued : " Arc 
 you not alarmed for his safety ?" 
 
 "No, no, donna, don*t fear: he will come 
 to no harm in this world : besides, he is 
 often away for months together." 
 
 '' Do you think/' said \'ictoria eagerly, 
 witii a bright ray of hope beaming fromJier 
 intelligent eyes, 'Mo you think, dear good 
 Teresa, that he will be so long absent now ?" 
 
 ** That is quite uncertain, donna. He may 
 come back to-n^ghr, or not these four months : 
 we never can guess at the time of his return. 
 Lat night he had no thoughts of leaving the 
 castle J but that noise always makes him dis- 
 appear. For my part, I know not wh»t to 
 think of it. I have not heard it often : but I 
 am sure it is a foreboder of evil intentions ; 
 for it never comes, 1 have observed, but just 
 as some dreadful crimes are about to be com- 
 mitted in the castle ; and it seems to me as if 
 it came as a Vvarning to the ruffians to desist 
 from their wicked purposes, and I have always 
 remarked its having that effect. But that is 
 not the only mysterious thing here. Well, 
 well, I must not talk about them : fo wc will 
 go down, if you please.''
 
 S47 
 The hapless captives had by this time wash- 
 ed away the trace of many tears, and adjusted 
 their dress sufficiently for neatness and com- 
 fort : they therefore now attended Tcre-a 
 down the same way they had come up the 
 preceding night. Le^s appalled, they pos- 
 sessed in some degree the power of observa- 
 tion J and ail around them they saw bore evi- 
 dent marks of ancient maffnificence, 
 
 o 
 
 ■•J. 4
 
 2AS 
 
 Ci-1AI\ XVII I. 
 
 Teresa u.^hered them into the room they 
 had supped in, and in which breakfast was 
 now prepared , and where sat, leaning pen- 
 sively upon his hand, his elbow resting on a 
 table, a man of a most dignified appearance, 
 who strongly bore in his face and figure the 
 wreck of former uncommon manly beauty: 
 he seemed far advanced in life, for sorrow 
 had hurried him into a nremature old age. 
 
 Melancholy, almost woful, were his counte- 
 nance and deportment j yet so benign and 
 sweetly interesiing was his intelligent face, 
 that it seemed to possess the power of fascina- 
 tion, and in tantly to arrest the attention, 
 respect, pity, and admiration of every beholder 
 who had a heart disposed to virtue. To look 
 upon him and not to become sad, sensibility 
 found impossible, and cheerfulness lied from 
 the bosoms of the compassionate at his ap- 
 proach.
 
 ^49 
 
 The moment Victoria beheld him tears 
 burst from her eyes without her possessing 
 power to restrain them, and, she felt as if she 
 could gladly embrace an increase of her own 
 sorrows to moderate his. 
 
 " Signior Sebastian/' said Teresa, " these 
 are the strangers." 
 
 Sebastian looked up, and arose from his 
 seat at the same moment. Victoria, being 
 foremost of the captives, first met his view; 
 and the instant he fixed his large, dark, and, in 
 despite of sorrow, still fine and piercing eyes 
 upon her, he suddenly clasped his hand?, and 
 in a tone of horror exclaimed, " Alas 1 is thk 
 their victim ?*' 
 
 Victoria, dismayed, caught Octavia^s arm 
 for support; which ISeba^tian perceivings 
 reproached himself for imprudence, and in- 
 stantly approaching her, said in a calm but 
 sweetly-melting tone of deep and heartfelt 
 woe, " Let me not add to your alarms : I 
 was shocked at seeing you in such a place as 
 this ; *and by following the dictates of since- 
 rity and compassion, I was unequal to the 
 specious gallantry of bidding you welcome to 
 the place of my captivity-" With much
 
 250 
 
 kmdness he took Mctoria's hand, and led 
 her to a seat ; then turning to signora Ber- 
 nini with a sad but courteous smile, spoke to 
 her, and conducted her to a chair ; then ob- 
 serving the fast-flowing tears of Victoria, he 
 addressed her in the soft voice of tenderness' 
 and compassion. 
 
 " Do not weep so sadly, my sweet child : 
 I cannot bear to see those tears ; for I alas ! 
 can only sympathise in your tears, without 
 the means of alleviating them." 
 
 " Ah ! signior," replied Victoria, " you 
 have, I fear, in your misfortunes, been little 
 accustomed to the sound of sympathy, or 
 surely you well w^ould know what a mitigat- 
 ing balm tke voice of compassion steals into 
 the afflicted mind." 
 
 The moment Victoria began to speak, a 
 very different assemblage of emotions from 
 what had before marked it, visibly overspread 
 the countenance of Sebastian. The interest- 
 ing melancholy sweetness of his fine and 
 venerable face vanished at once, and was suc- 
 ceeded by a momentary start of painful amaze- 
 ment, which in an instant more, was lost in 
 a strong expression of horror and despair :
 
 251 
 
 while his bosom appeared convulsed with 
 anguish, and he heaved deep groans that seem- 
 ed to rend his very soul. 
 
 *^ Alas !" exclaimed V^ictoria, shocked and 
 grieved, " I fear this good signior is ill, Te- 
 resa : what can we do for him ?" 
 
 *' While he continues so we must take no 
 notice of him,^' Teresa replied, *' as speaking 
 to him would only make him worse. Affect 
 not to observe him, and take some breakfast : 
 he will come to himself presently. Poor soul 1 
 Ah ! his is the heart that is just breaking.'* 
 
 Teresa now handed some chocolate to 
 Victoria, and pressed her much to eat. ^* Ah 
 do, dear donna, do take some nourishment^'* 
 said she beseechingly, *' or you will die for 
 want. Not a morsel of food has passed your 
 lips since here you have been. Diego told 
 me not one bit of £upper did you eat last 
 night." 
 
 Sebastian, now recovered from his painful 
 reverie, heard what Teresa was supplicating 
 for, and his countenance reas.suming i^s ac- 
 customed mournful sweetness, he addressed 
 Victoria with an entreaty to take some f<;od, 
 
 " I cannot indeed, signior.'*
 
 252 
 
 "Sofrow then has deprived you of your 
 appetite : mine it has long since destroyed; 
 and yet 1 force myself to take that nourish- 
 ment necessary to support my fortitude." 
 
 " Do you, signior ; then so will J." She 
 took some bread, and compelled herself to 
 s^vallow it with her chocolate ; while Sebastiaa 
 looked on her with eyes of tenderest com- 
 passion, until he had lost his usual power of 
 forcing himself to eat. Sadder and sadder he 
 became ; and so thoughtful he grew at last, 
 that vain was every effort to engage his at- 
 tention; and at length arising with precipi- 
 tance, and as if unconscious of the presence 
 of *any individual, and without speaking, or 
 even looking around, he suddenly quitted the 
 room. 
 
 '* Ah, poor signior ! he is often so of late,** 
 said Teresa ; *' and I but too well know the 
 cause. May Heaven forgive those who stab- 
 bed us both to the heart !'* and she burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Diego at that moment entered, and, on 
 observing Teresa weeping, cast an angry and 
 reproachful glance at her. 
 
 " Ji^leed, Diego," said she sobbing, " I
 
 253 
 
 have not been disobeying orders : it was the 
 sight of poor signior Sebastian's misery that 
 awakened mine, and called forth these tears 
 in spite of me." 
 
 The before stern countenance of Diego 
 now underwent a marked and sudden change : 
 it softened at once to the tenderness of ex- 
 treme grief; and with a deep sigh, approach- 
 ing to a groan, and in a broken voice of half- 
 stifled sorrow, he bade Teresa to depart. 
 " You are now wanted upon domestic busi- 
 ness," said he, **'and when these ladies require 
 your attendance they will ring for you : and 
 take my advice, Teresa — dry up those un 
 availing tears j they cannot restore the trea- 
 sure we have "^lost, and only endanger your 
 own safety." 
 
 Teresa, wiping her streaming eyes, de- 
 parted ; and Diego, having opened a glass 
 door in the apartment, respectfully addressed 
 our heroine. 
 
 " Donna, " said he, '' this piazza will lead 
 you into the grou^ids, which in former times 
 were considered very magnificent : but al- 
 though now much neglected, and not very 
 pleasing to modern taste, to walk in them
 
 254 
 
 sometimes may not be disagreeable to you, 
 particularly as in the castle you are requested 
 not to ramble without some of us to attend 
 you, except from this room to your own 
 chamber, and into the adjoining library, the 
 door into which now stands open." 
 
 " We have no inclination at present, be- 
 lieve me, signior," Victoria replied^ '^ to ram- 
 ble by ourselves ; but if you will be so good 
 to show us any part of the grounds, we shall 
 consider ourselves as much obliged to you^" 
 
 ** Heavens and earth !" Hero exclaimed : 
 *' surely lady Victoria will not be so mad as 
 to venture with him into the grounds, when 
 who knows — " 
 
 "Your lady kmivs^' said Diego, scorn- 
 fully interrupting her, " that I shall not harm 
 her. However, donna, if you feel the leak 
 alarm, do not go with me." 
 
 " I know not why," replied Victoria with 
 a look of melancholy yet ineffable sweetness , 
 *' but I feel every moment more inclined to a 
 persuasion that I have nothing to apprehend 
 from you." 
 
 A smile of pleasure animated Diego's coun- 
 tenance : the habitual sternness of his brow
 
 Q55 
 
 vanished, and in its stead appeared good 
 nature, ingenuousness, and pity. " To de- 
 serve the honour of your good "opinion," said 
 he, ''shall be my study j and I must so far say, 
 that those who have reposed a confidence in 
 me have never yet found themselves deceived/* 
 Although Teresa had assured them escape 
 was impossible, yet Victoria still found Hope 
 a lingering guest, who, though coldly enter- 
 tained, seemed unwilling to depart : and she 
 felt anxious to examine the grounds about 
 the castle, to learn if she could, from their 
 situation and appearance, if they were really 
 consigned to inevitable destruction : and thus 
 solicitous, she scrupled not to accompany 
 Diego, who led her and her companions along 
 the mossed pavement of a piazza of astonish- 
 ing length, in which were innumerable niches 
 occupied by statues, some of beautiful, some 
 of curious workmanship ; many were in good 
 preservation, but more falhng to decay. At 
 last they approached a small figure of an 
 Apollo in porphyry, little more than half 
 finished, but what was completed of the sta- 
 tue was most exquisitely performed. Diego's
 
 Q56 
 
 €yes seemed instinctively to be caught by it, 
 and suddenly he stopped as if surprised by 
 the unexpected sight of a distressing object. 
 Pale as death he became ; his bosom heaved 
 convulsively, whilst he gazed on the statue 
 with a countenance expressive of grief and 
 horror. A tear at last strayed down his 
 cheeks, which he hastily brushed away, and 
 was about to move on, when he was fixed 
 longer to the spot by a question from Vic- 
 toria, whose attentbn had been awakened 
 fcy the uncommon beauty of the performance, 
 added to the singular circumstance of its 
 being unfinished, with the extraordinary ef- 
 fect the sight of it had upon Diego. She 
 therefore stopped to observe it more minute- 
 ly, and could not forbear at last io ask Diego, 
 who was the sculptor, an'd why the perform- 
 ance was unfinished ? 
 
 After a thoughtful and evidently a painful 
 |)ause, Diego respectfully replied, ^' Donna, 
 it is not from want of inclination, or a proper 
 sense of the honour you confer upon me, by 
 condescending Co ask information from me, 
 that I do not give you all the intelligence you
 
 257 
 
 must naturally wish for; but, donna, answer- 
 ing the questions of strangers, relative to the 
 transactions of this castle, is punished by 
 death. Yet thus far I may, consistent with 
 my duty, tell you concerning this statue : it 
 was the performance of a gentleman who 
 resided many years here, and w ho, when not 
 engaged by more material study, used to amuse 
 his leisure hours with the pencil, the chisel, 
 or some musical instrument. Ah ! his music 
 was what he himself was in mind and person 
 —perfection J and had such an effect, the 
 heart of every hear^? was humanised by it. 
 But it is well Teresa is not here ; the sight of 
 any thing that belonged to him gives a fresh 
 wound to her breaking heart. And this was 
 his amusement when .... and left unfinished 
 by . . . ." Diego's voice now faltered so, that 
 articulation was lost. 
 
 "Alas! he is then dead," said Victoria, 
 much affected. 
 
 *'We will," returned Diego, struggling 
 to recover himself, "we will, donna, if you 
 please, proceed to the grounds, and drop 
 this painful subject for ever." 
 
 Deeply interested, and anxious to hear
 
 . 25S. 
 
 more, as \lctorIa felt herself, she yet saw 
 that to dwell longer on th^ distressmg theme 
 would be cruelty to Diego; therefore she 
 followed him in silence to a large iron gate, 
 through which they entered into the extensive 
 gloomy, though once magnificent, grounds 5 
 "where the ancient and lofty trees, branching 
 at top in close embraces, precluded the rays 
 of the cheerful sun j and the grass-grown 
 walks too plainly evinced how damp, dreary, 
 and desolate was the place they had entered. 
 In a few moments, however, they came upon 
 the grand terrace, where the very great breadth 
 of the walk prevented such a close contaction 
 of the trees ; therefore more air and light were 
 admitted : and when they reached the termi- 
 nation of the terrace, Victoria and Octavia 
 beheld, to their utter dismay and disappoint- 
 ment, that the grounds were hemmed in by 
 a rampart of an immense height, overhung 
 by inaccessible rocks of the lofty Pyrenees ;. 
 and through one vista in the trees, and di- 
 vision among the rocks, they discovered at 
 no- great distance the topsails and streamers 
 of three or four ships apparently riding at 
 anchor in some creek amongst the rocks.
 
 5.59 
 
 " That sentinel,'* said Victoria, pointing 
 to a man standing near a watch-tower upon 
 the ramparts, " that sentlnal must, I should 
 suppose, from his present situation, command 
 a view of the Mediterranean/' 
 
 '* A very beautiful, though an oblique one ; 
 and also, donna, a distant prospect of the 
 coast of France.'* 
 
 "Might we not," said Octavia, endea- 
 vouring to speak without emotion ^ *' might 
 we not, think you, «ignior, be favoured some 
 time with the sight of such a delightful 
 prospect r" 
 
 "Never by me,'' Diego solemnly replied. 
 " I have promised the lady Victoria (for so 
 I think you call her) to protect her from every 
 injury that it may be in my power to save 
 her from : but I did not give any reason to 
 suppose I would aid her in an escape from 
 hence. My duty to my master has ever been 
 unsuspected ; and learn, signora, that it is 
 incorruptible.^' 
 
 The manner in which Diego pronounced 
 these words extinguished every ray of hope 
 at once ; mournfully and despondingly they 
 looked at the insurmountable height of the
 
 ^260 
 
 walls, and full of sadness they soon returned 
 to the castle; when Diego again informed 
 them to where their rambles must be confmed, 
 with a respectful caution not to trespass the 
 bounds prescribed to them. But this was a 
 most unnecessary caution. Fear is an excellent 
 repellent to curiosity ; and they were all too 
 much under its trembling influence to feel 
 either power or inclination to rove about that 
 terrifying and mysterious place. 
 
 Their extraordinary afllictions were of too 
 recent a commencement to admit of sufficient 
 Composure to find amusement cr con\fort ia 
 the library, and one glance at its great extent 
 and gloom made them shrink from the idea 
 of enteriag it : therefore, fuii of mental miseiy, 
 they sadly seated themselves in the eating- 
 parlour, where they uninterruptedly convers- 
 ed upon the dreadful theme of their captivity. 
 
 At length Diego and Juan appeared to 
 make preparations for dinner; and just before 
 it was served, and in the same moment, Se- 
 bastian and Garcias entered. '1 he latter, 
 sullen and morose, made \'ictoria tremble ; 
 particularly as she feared his arrival was a 
 prelude to Don Manners return. The for-
 
 261 
 
 mer, kind and attentive, seemed n^uch more 
 collected, though not less sad than he had 
 been in the morning. His conversation he 
 directed solely to our heroine and Octavia, 
 who were both charmed and astonished at 
 the very superior talents each moment more 
 and more discovered Sebastian to be possessed 
 of, who was in fact a perfect master of all 
 those mental treasures which a powerful un- 
 derstanding, a brilliant genius, aided by all 
 that a highly-finished education could give, 
 assisted by a most insatiable thirst for know- 
 ledge, which gave him an unwearied and 
 intense application that attended him for years, 
 whilst he dived to the very bottom of the 
 most hidden, deep, and intricate springs of 
 learning. Nor did the polish of courts forget 
 to throw its most graceful garb around him ; 
 so that in Sebastian were so happily blended 
 the perfect scholar and the elegant gentleman, 
 that when in the world his society was equally 
 courted and admired, by the high belle of 
 fashion in the ball-room, and the most learn- 
 ed doctor of each university. 
 
 The more Victoria conversed with Sebas-
 
 262 
 
 dan, the more her griefs and apprehensions 
 were tranquillised : while he was present she 
 thought herself secure from danger, and with 
 something hke pleasure she acceded to his wish 
 for her walking with him in the grounds in the 
 evening. Garcias, uninvited, attended the 
 captives upon their excursion, listening with 
 the most profound but gloomy and malign 
 attention to every word that was spoken, with- 
 out once adding a single sentence to the con- 
 versation, which his unwished-for presence 
 rendered embarrassed and reserved. 
 
 In the solitary grounds they took their sad 
 ramble, until the sombre — and now, to our 
 hapless female captives fear-inspiring — twi- 
 light, recalled them to the castle, where in 
 some minutes after their return, the tinkling 
 of a small bell arrested Sebastian's attention ; 
 when hastily pressing Victoria's hand affection- 
 ately, he blessed her with energy ; then turn- 
 ing to Garcias, with marked emphasis said— • 
 
 *' You will do right, signior, to remember 
 that Francisco is in the castle, and disap- 
 proves your present plans ;" and immedi- 
 ately entering the library, soon was lost to
 
 263 
 
 Victoria's view, and with him all her little 
 share of comforc. 
 
 A gloom more dark and diabolical now 
 overspread the horrid countenance of Gar- 
 cias, which conveved to the minds of the 
 hapless captives a renewal of every dreadful 
 apprehension, and fervently they wished and 
 hoped to see Seba^ tian return ; but in vain : 
 he appeared no more that evening ; and as 
 the night advanced their terrors considerably 
 increased, to the high gratification of the 
 arch-fiend Garcias, who with ghastly smiles 
 of malignant triumph sneered at fears, 
 which he, by his savage manners and, his 
 darkly mysterious words and gestures, but 
 too cruelly augmented. 
 
 At length supper-time arrived; and whilst 
 Diego continued in the room Victoria felt 
 Jess appalled , but of the supper she could 
 not partake,- neither could her companions 
 in wretchedness — extreme grief and terror 
 having proved equally destructive to their 
 appetites. Diego, who seemed to under- 
 stand that his presence was ^ome comfort to 
 ©ur heroine, contrived to remain in the room
 
 after supper as long as he could possibly de- 
 vise any excuse for doing so : but at last he 
 was compelled to depart ; and when with 
 slow and awful sound the castle clock struck 
 twelve, our captives found themselves almost 
 convulsed by the tremor of fear and super- 
 stition, which on the instant presented to their 
 sickly fancy an expectation of something 
 horrid occurring upon that signal, similar to 
 the appaUing noise of the preceding night. 
 But agreeably were they disappointed, as 
 nothing more ghastly than Teresa, who ap- 
 peared to conduct them to their chambers, was 
 seen or heard ; and for Teresa herself, Vic- 
 toria was beginning to feel a sincere regard, 
 as Nature had, in forming Teresa's heart, 
 moistened its materials with the sweet milk of 
 human kindness. 
 
 To their dreaded chamber were they at- 
 tended by Teresa and Diego, nothing oc- 
 curring on their way thither to increase those 
 dismal apprehensions they had cause suffici- 
 ent to feel ; and when their lamp was lit, 
 Teresa and Diego departed, the former leav- 
 ing her blessing with them, and the latter a 
 strong assurance of safety through the night.
 
 tG5 
 
 Victoria fastened the door as she had done 
 on the preceding night, and then, as a 
 stronger safeguard, devoutly implored the 
 protection of heaven — an example her two 
 companions omitted not to follow. 
 
 Their trunks were all arranged there, and 
 they now ventured to unlock them to take 
 out some night-clothes ; when, to their 
 amazement, they observed their trunks had 
 not only escaped being plundered, but had 
 evidently never been opened. — For what then 
 had this desperate banditti ventured their lives 
 in taking them captives, if plunder was not 
 their aim ? This was a fre^h mystery, which 
 they could not solve ; and by its ambiguity 
 adding new fears to their former terrors, they 
 shrunk from the idea of going into bed, lest, 
 overcome by fatigue, they should lose the 
 power of watching. Therefore, enfolded in 
 their wrappers, they threw themselves upon 
 their beds, resolving not to sleep, but thus to 
 be ready to arise the moment they should 
 hear the sound of approaching danger. How- 
 ever, downright weariness overcame that de- 
 termination ; and, in defiance of every effort 
 to the contrary, they all slept much more 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 ^66 
 
 than they had done the preceding night; 
 and Teresa, to her infinite joy, found them, 
 when she awoke them in the morning, much 
 less languid and more refreshed than on the 
 foregoing day. .
 
 267 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 Hero was too much enervated by her ter- 
 rors to admil of her assisting our heroine in 
 the task of the toilet ; Teresa therefore of- 
 ficiated, to whom almost the first words 
 Victoria spoke were an inquiry for Sebas- 
 tian. 
 
 "He is now in the parlour, and anxious to 
 see you, donna." 
 
 ''The tinkling of a bell summoned him 
 from us last night," said Victoria. 
 
 " Francisco's bell," replied Teresa. 
 
 "Francisco!'* repeated Victoria, remem- 
 bering the expressive manner in which Se- 
 bastian mentioned him to Garcias, *' Fran- 
 cisco ! I have not yet seen him, I believe." 
 
 "No, donna," replied Teresa, " andpro- 
 bably seldom may. He is one of the mys- 
 teries of this place ; apparently of no con- 
 sequence ; and yet Don Manuel (v^ho is evi- 
 dently master over all) is certainly most un- 
 
 N 2
 
 26S 
 
 accountably afraid of him, and has command- 
 ed us all to obey him implicitly in every 
 thing : and even signior Sebastian treats him 
 with a degree of respect he does not deign to 
 bestow upon Don Manuel himself, to whom 
 he is captive. It is only sometimes Francisco 
 comes amongst us, although he has apart- 
 ments in the castle ; nor does our kitchen 
 always supply him with food/* 
 
 ^*Is Garcias afraid of him?'* asked Oc- 
 
 tavia. 
 
 " Most assuredly : his great civility to 
 Francisco tells that tale at once.** 
 
 " Garcias is not a favourite of yours, I 
 see,' said Octavia. 
 
 *' He ! the inhuman ruffian ! Oh no ! He 
 struck my heart a deadly blow that is fast 
 hurrying me to the grave.'* 
 
 "Ah!" cried Victoria, "what would I 
 not give to know the history you allude to !*' 
 
 «'Alasl" replied Teresa, "and I dare not 
 tell it to you -, my life would pay for it." 
 
 " Then why, dear Teresa, are you so im- 
 prudent as ever even to breathe an intimation 
 of it?" said Victoria.
 
 269 
 By this time our heroine and her compaTiion^; 
 in misery were ready to leave their chamber^ 
 and attended Teresa to the parlour, where 
 they found Sebastian, who received them ail 
 with kindness: but to Victoria' his manntr 
 was that of a fond father to a favourite child ; 
 and when he looked upon her, it was easy to 
 discover, in his intelligent countenance, the 
 highest degrees of pleasure and pain sirug- 
 giing for the ascendency. 
 
 Garcias soon after appeared ; w^ho, with 
 much asperity, reprimanded the trembling 
 Teresa for summoning the women — as he 
 elegantly termed them — before he was ready 
 to receive them. 
 
 ** That circumstance need not discompose 
 your serenity, signior,"' said Sebastian, " since, 
 believe me, you have not suffered by it, as 
 we did not once sully the purity of our con- 
 versation by mentioning your name." 
 
 Garcias knit his heavy brow; the black 
 venom of his vindictive heart ting-ed his whole 
 diabolical countenance : but though agonised 
 with spleen and revenge, he made no reply. 
 
 Encouraged by the presence of Sebastian, 
 Victoria was enabled to eat some breakfast, 
 
 N tj
 
 and so did signora Bernini and Hero. Sebas- 
 tian performed the honours of the table, 
 and appeared less sad, and, although thought- 
 ful at times, infinitely more collected than he 
 had been the preceding day. 
 
 In about an hour after breakfast was ended 
 Sebastian departed, first informing Victoria 
 that he should not have it in his power to Fee 
 her again until supper-time. Garcias soon 
 after disappeared, to Victoria's great relief, 
 as all his darkly malign looks had been direct- 
 ed to her that morning. Shortly after the 
 departure of Garcias, Hero, subdued by that 
 fatigue arising from want of uninterrupted 
 re'rt, sunk into a sound sleep upon a couch 
 in the room^ secure, as Victoria and Octavia 
 were, there awake to watch herr But soon 
 Octavia caught the drowsy infection, and, in 
 spite of the respect she felt for lady Victoria, 
 dropped into a profound slumber in her 
 chair. 
 
 Victoria, now left wholly to the miserable 
 .society of her ov/n thoughts, fell at once 
 into a melancholy train of painful reflexions, 
 which gave birth to such an insupportable 
 anp-uish of heart, that wishing to restore her
 
 2?1 
 
 fortitude, and to renovate her expiring hope 
 of succour, and believing herself at that mo- 
 ment secure from interruption, she devoutly 
 sunk upon her knees, and with all the pure 
 fervor of sincere piety, presented the petitions 
 of her spotless soul before the throne of 
 mercy. She found in her devotion that heal- 
 ing balm which true religion ever proves to 
 the wounded mind j and when she arose from 
 her knees, she telt her agitated spirits sooihed 
 to calmness, her hopes of succour revived, 
 and awakened fortitude pervading htr whole - 
 frame with a degree of courage before un- 
 known to her. And in this moment she 
 resolved, even alone as she was, to enter the 
 Wary: for, wishing to preserve her mind 
 in its then comparatively tranquil state, and 
 believing nothing so likely to effect it ?.s keep- 
 ing it in action, she formed the intention of 
 exploring the library in search of some friend- 
 ly author, who by his precepts, divine or 
 moral, might strengthen her mdnd in her 
 moments of trial. 
 
 The Ubrary was one of the most magni- 
 ficent apartments in the castle. Its roof, of 
 the most curious Saracen architecture, was 
 
 N 4
 
 'lit 
 
 supported by a double colonnade of black 
 marble, richly inlaid with gold. On one 
 side of the room, between the pillars, were 
 book' shelves and statues of ancient sages and 
 heroes ranged alternately ; and on the other 
 v/ere book- shelves placed between the win- 
 dows in the same regular order. The win- 
 dows were of stained glass, thickly latticed^ 
 and looked to the south piazza, the vaulted 
 roof of which dimmed considerably, the light 
 they might otherwise have admitted. The 
 floor was black marble and gold, curiously 
 wrought into a mosaic pavement. Four doors 
 led fi'om this apartment upon the side where 
 the statues were ranged ; and on the opposite 
 side, four windows opened as doors into the 
 piazza ; while each end of the library was 
 pannelled with maps, beneath every orre of 
 which stood a small sophaand a marble table : 
 and from each extremity of the room arose a 
 black marble and gold spiral staircase, wind- 
 ing round a cluster of corresponding pillars, 
 which led into a magnificent gallery that sur- 
 rounded the room above the windows, fur- 
 nished with books and statues exactly similar 
 to the arrangement below.
 
 273 
 On entering this apartment, which ap- 
 peared like the grand aisle of an immense 
 cathedral, Victoria experienced sensations of 
 the most impressive nature. I'he solemn 
 grandeur of the place dedicated so many ages 
 past to knowledge ; the sight of those piles of 
 instruction that animated genius and learning 
 had, with unwearied labour, toiled to be- 
 queath as enlightening legacies to an else 
 ignorant world, which on each side were 
 treasured there ; the sad idea that the hands 
 which had written those surrounding volumes, 
 with those that had from age to age succeed- 
 ing turned those pages over for information 
 and pleasure, were now mouldering in the 
 dust ; all the revolutions that castle had un- 
 dergone from the collecting that library until 
 the present moment, when vice alone dissemi- 
 nated principles there, all at once assailed her, 
 and struck her with a degree of reverential 
 awe approaching to the superstitious ; and she 
 almost imagined that the immortal geniuses 
 whose works were there stored presided still ; 
 and firm in the belief that the truly wise 
 could not be wicked, she fell a kind of religi- 
 ous veneration for the place, as a sacred sanc- 
 
 N 6
 
 ^T4 
 
 tuary protected from the unhallowed ap- 
 proaches of vice. 
 
 After some moments passed in an awful 
 inaction, but during which reflexion played 
 its part, Victoria ventured to advance towards 
 the book-shelves ; and after throwing her 
 eyes cautiously around to assure herself that 
 she had no companion to alarm her, she 
 began to examine the shelves, where she at 
 first found books so defaced by time and 
 damp, and themselves of so ancient a date, 
 that scarcely could she conjecture from their 
 letter what language claimed thgn for their 
 offspring. But, as she proceeded, she could 
 ascertain many Hebrew and Greek authors ; 
 and as she approached the west end of the 
 apartment, she found productions of a much 
 more recent epoch, and many in languages 
 she understood ; but much too learned for 
 her perusal. Yet she continued her researches, 
 still in hopes of finding something to suitbotb 
 her capacity and information ; until, as she 
 was about to pass a window, she discovered^ 
 in its recess a harp, the sight of which in- 
 stantly riveted her to the spot. It seemed an 
 encounter with a friend that might hereafter
 
 soothe her melancholy ; and from an impulse 
 of gratitude she with tremulous touch sounded 
 a few chords ; and then, when they reached 
 her ears, looked fearfully around, alarmed at 
 her own temerity. 
 
 ''First Fear, his hand, its skill to try. 
 
 Amid the chords bew'ilder'd laid j 
 And, back recoil'd, he knew not why, 
 
 E'en at the sound himself had made*." 
 
 Again Victoria ventured to touch the harp, 
 and its sound only awakened echo, and the 
 tremor of anticipating apprehension in her 
 own bosom» Encouraged by this, she again 
 sounded the harp, and again — at every repeti- 
 tion her touch becoming bolder, until her 
 augmenting courage led her on insensibly to a 
 melancholy strain, which she was playing 
 with the most soul-touching pathos, when 
 the sound of footsteps gently approaching 
 stopped her hands with the elettric shock of 
 terror. She turned around in wild dismay 
 to look for an assassin, and beheld Teresa. 
 
 '^Ah^ donna, pardon, pray pardon my 
 
 * Collins.
 
 276 
 
 thus startling you !" said the poor old woman 
 in a voice broken by tears : " but that harp, 
 that harp, drew me hither in spite of me ! Its 
 well known sounds used to give pleasure to 
 my heart; but now, alas! pain— dreadful, 
 deadly pain !'* 
 
 " I will touch it no more, then," replied 
 Victoria, pushing the harp gently from her. 
 
 " Ah ! that too is so like him. — But do, 
 dearest donna, do play on : for although it 
 gives me pain, it somehow, methinks, gives 
 me pleasure too." 
 
 Victoria played again ; but Teresa wept 
 so piteously that Victoria ceased. *' Poor 
 Teresa," said she, " I will distress you no 
 longer — I cannot bear to see you thus.'* 
 
 ** Oh 1" replied Teresa, sobbing, " if I 
 dared to open my full heart to you — if I was 
 allowed to talk of him, I should be less mise- 
 rable than I am. But I was forbid to mention 
 his name, upon pain of death." 
 
 ^' Then why are you continually endanger- 
 ing your life by speaking of him ?' 
 
 Teresa heard her not ; she was then lost 
 in meditation : but, after a long pause, she 
 said, " Surely, donna, I can tell you ali
 
 277 
 without mentioning his dear name ! I shall 
 then ease my full heart without disobeying 
 my master." 
 
 ^' Beware, Teresa ! consider well every 
 possible consequence before you attempt it," 
 said Victoria ; who, although anxious in the 
 highest degree to hear what Teresa had to 
 communicate, yet feared to indulge her in 
 such imprudence. 
 
 *' No bad consequence can arise," replied 
 Teresa who, having started a subterfuge, was 
 eager to relieve her bursting heart, " if I dis- 
 obey not Don Manuel's orders ; v/hich only 
 specified, " that I was never more to mention 
 
 my sweet Theod , my sweet child's 
 
 name, upon pain of death." 
 
 " And you had even now but just escaped 
 doing so ; therefore I implore, I conjure you 
 to drop the dangerous subject for ever." 
 
 "Fear not, dear donna, I will be more 
 cautious ; and do for pity's sake listen to me, 
 for it will give comfort to a breaking heart. 
 But where is the signora and your attendant ?" 
 
 '' Asleep in the parlour." 
 
 " I am glad of that. I do not wish that 
 they should know what I have to relate j 
 their pity would be no comfort to me.'*
 
 278 
 
 *' But be cautious, dear Teresa, before you 
 begin ; look well around — that gallery may 
 contain a listener : should you be found with 
 me, it might create a thousand suspicions. 
 Indeed you had better give up the matter, 
 for the present at least." 
 
 " Do not, dear donna, do not say so ; w€ 
 will trust to Providence for security. Do 
 you sit as if you were playing ; and should 
 you hear any noise, sound the harp: but I 
 really think there is no danger to apprehend 
 just now. as Garcias^ Diego, and Juan are 
 gone on the Ramparts to the muster, which 
 will detain them some time.*' 
 
 *' Well, then, be it so — but be speedy, 
 and speak not above your breath."
 
 ^'^ 
 
 79 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 ^'I THINK I have already told you it was 
 near nineteen years since I was brought hi- 
 ther. Well then, donna, the morning after 
 my arrival here, the most lovely boy that my 
 eyes ever beheld, of between two and three 
 years old, was delivered to my care by Fran- 
 cisco, with a strict charge about doing my 
 duty ; which I could not attend to, my mind 
 being in such a state of distraction, as you 
 can very well suppose from what your feelings 
 now are. However, the charge, had I list- 
 ened to it, would have been unnecessary, for 
 the child's beauty, sweet engaging prattle, 
 and heavenly disposition, 1 do verily believe 
 bewitched me ; for he reconciled me to my 
 sad fate. I loved him with a tenderness far 
 beyond what I ever felt for my own child, or 
 my grandchildren ; and I proved a good, 
 faithful, and affectionate nurse to him. But, 
 dear me ! I had little to do for him to whom
 
 280 
 
 nature had been so kind. His beauty and 
 understanding were astonishingly great, and 
 his constitution and temper as fine as mortal 
 could boast. When he attained his sixth 
 year, signior Sebastian was taken out of one 
 of the castle dungeons, and given the care of 
 the sweet child's education ; and he was fully 
 equal to the task of rearing so great a genius, 
 for he is deeply skilled in science. He ten- 
 derly loved the dear child both for his own 
 sake, and for being the means, under heaven, 
 of having his fetters knocked off, and re- 
 moving him from a noisome dungeon to view 
 again the blessed sun ; and my dear child 
 loved him because he made him wise. Good, 
 signior Sebastian did not make him ; for 
 good he was sent into this world, and good 
 he was sent out of it." 
 
 *' Alas ! then he is really dead ?'' exclaim*- 
 ed Victoria. 
 
 Teresa wept assent, and Victoria felt her- 
 self much affected. At length Teresa pro- 
 ceeded : "As my child advanced in years he 
 was less with me, and more with signior Se- 
 bastian: but his grateful affectionate heart 
 never forgot mej — and can I him? No>
 
 281 
 never, never. Poor lago adored him. Diego 
 was his fag and pla}^mate, and perfectly ido- 
 lised him ; but so did every one that had a 
 spark of virtue in them ; even Don Manuel 
 loved him once, and then used to look upon 
 him with admiration and delight, until some 
 strange whim would come into his mind ; and 
 then he would send the child out of his sight, 
 and be so dejected^ and so restless and 
 wretched, that even those he has injured, 
 must have pitied him." 
 
 " lago taught my child all he knew of 
 music : that was not much ; but a hint was 
 sufficient for my boy ; give him that, and he 
 would soon find his way to perfection. 
 Dancing was taught him by a French captive. 
 Fencing, beside every thing that could make 
 a scholar of him, he learned from Sebastian, 
 who gloried in the talents of his pupil. And 
 well he might, for he was — ah 1 how my 
 heart sickens when I think of what he was 
 little more than one year since ! so tall, so 
 finely shaped, so beautiful in face and mind ; 
 so learned, so accomplished, so mild, and 
 yet so spirited ! Even Garcias trembled at 
 his courage. Gentle as a lamb, playful as a
 
 28^i 
 fawn : — but I will not be tedious, donna ; 
 although, was I to talk of his virtues for years 
 they would seem but as minutes to me, and 
 I should still fmd something to praise him 
 for." 
 
 " The fatal day on which I saw him last 
 I had got a thorn in one of my fingers. Ah ! 
 I little thought how soon one would rankle 
 in my heart. No one could take it out, un- 
 til my child hearing'of it came to my relief: 
 with his quick and penetrating eyes he in- 
 stantly found it out, and soon extracted it, 
 feeling more than- I did in his apprehension 
 of hurting his poor old nurse. Oh, donna, 
 donna! had you but beheld his heavenly 
 countenance, illumined with pleasure at hav- 
 ing effected my relief, at the moment a band 
 of diaboHcal savage ruffians, headed by the 
 prince of mischief, Garcias, entered^ seized 
 my unsuspecting innocent child, unarmed 
 as he was, and dragged him from my sight 
 for ever. Alas ! he had no weapon of de- 
 fence, or it could not have happened. Feeble 
 I, made strong by my affection, flew to his 
 assistance. Vain effort ! Garcias felled me 
 to the ground, and never, never have I since
 
 ■ 2S3 
 
 beheld hiin, or heard the particulars of hi3 
 cruel, cruel fate. The barbarian Garcias 
 told me exultingly that he was dead j and 
 signior Sebastian's misery and anguish have 
 bat too sadly con^rmed the fatal tidings. ■ My 
 despair, with Diego's and poor lago's grief, 
 gave much offence to my master, and we 
 were commanded not to indulge it, or even 
 
 to mention .Thco , my dear lamented 
 
 child's name, upon pain of death. But what 
 can the pain of death be^ to the pain of living 
 as I have since done ?*' 
 
 "Alas!" said our heroine, infinitely af- 
 fected by this artless tale, " alas ! with my 
 whole heart I pity you. My own feelings, 
 unacquainted as i was with this amiable ill- 
 fated youth, but too well tell me what yours 
 and the good Sebastian's must be. But tell 
 me what dasmon could have urged these 
 fiends to the completion of such an execrable 
 deed?" 
 
 '• Garcias : — he it was that urged Don 
 Manuel to that fell crime.*' 
 
 " Monster of iniquity ! what could have 
 been his diabolical motive ?" 
 
 ** Envy, hatred, and revenge. ^ My child
 
 284 
 
 abhorred the vices of Garcias ; and despising 
 him so entirely, could scarcely command the 
 natural sweetness of his manners to wear the 
 appearance of common civility to him. This 
 made Garcias hate him : his virtues caused 
 the wretch's envy ; and, lastly, my child's 
 courage and humanity awakened his deadly 
 vengeance. There is amongst Don Manuel's 
 seamen an English mariner, named Thomas, 
 as much a ruffian in appearance as the rest, 
 but not in nature. To every child, woman, 
 or old man, Thomas is ever kind and gentle j 
 but when fighting with those of equal or 
 superior strength, he is a very tiger. To my 
 child, old lago, and myself, Thomas was 
 ever a willing slave. Many and many are the 
 acts of kindness he has done for us all, and 
 many a lashing has he saved poor lago from, 
 by turning the anger of Don Manuel and 
 Garcias upon himself. Well, donna, Tho- 
 mas would swear away, and do all the good 
 he could find to do in this den of wickedness, 
 and was ever grateful for any kindness he 
 received ; and once, donna, he brought upon 
 himself the great displeasure of Garcias, by 
 rescuing a woman and her infant from being
 
 285 
 
 ^butchered by him, who had poor Thomas 
 chained for it to the ground of a damp and 
 noisome dungeon, where he allowed not 
 one morsel of nourishment to reach him ; so 
 that the unfortunate creature was starving 
 to death, when my sweet, tender-hearted, 
 grateful child heard of it, who, from the 
 humanity and generous warmth of his heart 
 and temper, eager to save a fellow creature 
 from such a cruel fate^ imprudently, with- 
 out the precaution of taking signior Sebas- 
 tian with him, flew to Garcias to expostulate 
 upon his savage barbarity. Garcias answered 
 by attempting to stab the sweet pleader with 
 a poisoned stiletto which the wretch has al- 
 ways concealed about him, but which my 
 child dexterously wrested from the villain, 
 who outrageous at his disappointment, snatch- 
 ed a pistol from the belt of Alonzo, who just 
 then entered. This pistol, directed by Hea- 
 ven, flashed in the pan. The sly lover of 
 mischief, Alonzo, presented Garcias with its 
 fellow, which my intrepid child made himself 
 master of ; and as to save a life, not sacrifice 
 one, was his aim, he imprudently fired it in 
 the air. Frantic with his three disappoint-
 
 i286 
 
 merits, Garclas fiercely drew his hanger, and 
 flew on my innocent child ; and so, unpro- 
 voked, did that dastard Alonzo, who hated 
 hinisfor his virtues. My hero now unsheath- 
 ed his sword in his own defence, and in a few 
 moments, aided by Providence, disarmed 
 them both. Alonzo, quite in character, ran 
 away ; and Garcias, the giant Garcias, pros- 
 trate on the ground, begged for mercy from 
 the arm of youth : — and mercy my child told 
 him he should have, on condition only of his 
 delivering up Thomas into his bands. At 
 this moment Don Manuel, who had been a 
 concealed spectator of the affray, made his 
 appearance, and with a sneer, congratulated 
 Garcias upon his prowess ; then told my 
 child he had nobly won Thomas, who was 
 therefore at his disposal ; and highly compli- 
 mented him upon his valour ; whilst Garcias 
 slunk away boiling with revenge, which he 
 found the fatal time to take." 
 
 " Dear, amiable, ill-fated youth !" exclaim- 
 ed Victoria, " what a glorious ornament has 
 the world lost in him !" For some moments 
 she now paused, extremely affected ; and at 
 length inquired " "What became of Thomas ?"
 
 -■287 
 *'He was then my child's," replied Teresa, 
 '^ who did not leave him, as I now have done, 
 in the cold dungeon. Oh, no ! on wings of 
 compassion he flew to strike off his fetters, 
 and with Diego's assistance, carried the al- 
 most expiring wretch to his own bed, vi^here 
 he watched by him for several days and nightsr 
 with the most anxious care, as if Thomas had 
 been the prop of his own life ; and with his 
 own dear hands (and beautiful ones they 
 were) he fed him. lago and myself made- his 
 kitchen physic ; our best surgeon, Pedro, 
 his medicinal. Among us we set him up 
 again. We were happy, and Thomas truly 
 grateful. Ah, poor Thomas ! the moment 
 he heard his darling's fate, he flew like a 
 madman as he then was upon Garcias, and 
 would certainly have killed him, had he not 
 been prevented by superior force ; however, 
 he gave him several desperate wounds, and 
 one you may have remarked on his cheek, 
 which will mark him for ever. Thomas was 
 of too much consequence to Don Manuel to 
 be put to death ; so they pretended to think 
 him mad, and treated him accordingly, un- 
 til about a month ago, when he was released
 
 from his confinement and sent out on a 
 cruise." Teresa now ceased, and Victoria 
 asked, if she could at all conjecture to whom 
 her lamented child belonged ? 
 
 " I know no more than you do, donna , 
 although I saw his mother once.'* 
 
 *andeed! When? Where? Tell me, tell 
 me, dear Teresa!" 
 
 *' In this very den of wickedness : and al- 
 though it was many years ago, I remember 
 the day well. One morning Francisco came 
 to me in great agitation, and desired me to 
 take the child into the library. 1 did so ; 
 and, to my utter amazement, here saw a 
 strange lady and gentleman, who both seem- 
 ed much agitated, as well as Francisco, who 
 was pale as death, and trembled excessively. 
 •* ^ Is this my child 1* said the lady. 
 ** * It is :* was Francisco's reply. 
 *'She took him in her arms, and kissed 
 him eagerly* ' He is an angel,' said she ; 
 then pushed him gently from her bosom, 
 for the convenience of looking more earnest- 
 ly upon his face ; in doing which, she be- 
 came so deadly pale and faint, that the gentle- 
 man was alarmed, and asked her what was
 
 the matter. To which she faintly replied, 
 * Can you ask ? Do you not see whose coun- 
 tenance he wears ?' The gentleman, evi- 
 dently terrified, spoke to her in a low voice ; 
 and Francisco, who I observed now looked 
 paler than before, and as much agitated as 
 the lady, bade me, in a faltering voice, leave 
 the room, and when the child wanted me I 
 should be called. 
 
 "Dear me! how sad my heart grew! I 
 feared they were come to take away my child, 
 and that 1 should see him no more. lago 
 told me there was some mystery about them 
 which he did not like. They were not come 
 as captives, and there had been a long con- 
 ference between the gentleman and Garcias, 
 and between the lady and Francisco, before 
 the child had been called for. 
 
 "After dinner, to my great joy, I was 
 summoned into the parlour to pacify the 
 child, who was crying for me. Dan Manuel, 
 Garcias, and the gentleman, were in earnest 
 conversation when I appeared. The lady 
 called me to her, and asked me a thousand 
 questions concerning her child, and offered 
 me a heavy purse, which I refused, telling 
 
 VOL, I. o
 
 '290 
 her 1 had no way of spending money, as 
 every thing I wanted was regularly provided 
 for me ; but that, if she wished to bind me 
 to her child for ever, she would have the 
 goodness to send a trifle to my poor family, 
 and let them know I was Hving, well, and in 
 want of nothing but to. see them. Deep as 
 Garcias was in discourse, he heard me, and 
 darted a look at me that turned my blood to 
 ice. The lady perfectly understood his glance, 
 and kindly pleaded in my excuse ; and said, 
 if they would allow her to grant my request, 
 she would pledge her life to manage so as to 
 preclude the possibility of any bad conse- 
 quence arising. Garcias was rudely inflexi- 
 ble, until Don Manuel interfered, who hu- 
 manely ordered my request to be granted, 
 and politely complimented the lady upon 
 proofs she had already given of a prudence, 
 and skill, in management, on which he was 
 content to risk his safety. 
 
 *' I was very grateful for this ; and the lady 
 took down my family's name and abode, and 
 promised to allow them twenty crowns a year 
 during my life as a recompense for my care 
 of her child. After that she again talked of
 
 '20 i 
 the child, and said it would break her heart 
 to part with him, and that she wished to take 
 the sweet engaging prattler with her. It was 
 now the gentleman's turn to be quick of hear- 
 ing, for he immediately exclaimed, ' How 
 could such an absurd wish enter your mind ? 
 You too well know the impossibility of such 
 a thing.* 
 
 '^'Nay,* she replied, while fire flashed 
 from her eyes, * although I too well knew 
 my wish cannot be gratified, it was natural 
 that I should form it ; nor did it merit your 
 displeasure, my lord : but, to be sure, you 
 who know not what parental feelings are, can- 
 not excuse in me, the weakness of a mother.* 
 
 "'Oh!' replied the gentleman, with a 
 spiteful sneer, ' I shall not pretend to dispute 
 upon the subject of feeling with one who has 
 evinced such exquisite sensibility^ who has given 
 such proofs oi filial tenderness,^ 
 
 " The lady only answered with a look of 
 scorn, though she seemed full well to com- 
 prehend his meaning ; for she turned deadly 
 pale, and shook as if she had seen a spectre. 
 By this time the child had fallen asleep, and 
 1 was ordered to take him to the nurserv, 
 
 o 2
 
 292 
 
 where I now went ^^ ith a light heart, as I was 
 now assured he was not to be taken from me ; 
 and another thing that gave me great plea- 
 sure was, my being convinced, by what the 
 lady said about parental feelings, that this 
 was not the father of Theodore, though he 
 certainly appeared to be the lady's husband.'* 
 
 "Nay, Teresa," said Victoria, "did you 
 not comprehend her speech as a sarcasm up- 
 on this unnatural father's want of parental 
 feelhig ?'* 
 
 " Oh, dear donna, do not grieve my heart 
 by such a supposition ; for it is natural that 
 we should be grieved at any one we lov^e 
 springing from a bad parentage : and though 
 this gentleman was certainly a very fine hand- 
 some man, his countenance evidently betrayed 
 the secrets of a bad heart." 
 
 *' I may be wrong. Proceed, dear Teresa.'* 
 *• In about t\\o hours afcer I^had taken the 
 child to the nursery, his mother entered with 
 Francisco. She was in tears, and came to 
 take leave of her boy, who still was fast 
 asleep. She would not let me awake him ; 
 but she wept so over him, and pressed him so 
 tenderly to her bosom, that I wonder she did
 
 not disturb him. At last the gentleman, with 
 Don Manuel and Garcias, came into the 
 rooHT. The gentleman told the lady she must 
 go that moment. She begged for halt an 
 hour longer. The gentleman refused, and 
 she was very angry ; when, without further 
 ceremony, these three hard-hearted men 
 dragged her forcibly from her child, and I 
 never saw her more ; and worse^ she was 
 never, I fear, heard of since.'' 
 
 " Holy virgin !" exclaimed Victoria, shud- 
 dering : ^' surely they did not murder her ? ' 
 
 " Alas ! there was little doubt of that ; for 
 poor lago saw them drag her into that dread- 
 ful chamber where the skeleton hsngs at the 
 door, and saw the three ruffians return in 
 about an hour, but the lady never. He heard 
 her shrieks too, very loud at first, when they 
 dragged her in; but they became fainter, 
 and at last suddenly ceased after a dreadful 
 groan." 
 
 " Ill-fated woman!" sighed Victoria. 
 
 " Ill-fated indeed ; for sure I am her corse 
 had not Christian burial, although I know 
 not what they did with it ; for donna, be- 
 cause she was my child's mother and I then 
 
 o 3
 
 2H 
 
 had a good stock of spirits, I had tlie courage 
 to venture into that room to look after the 
 body ; when, oh ! San Jago ! shall I ever 
 forget what there I saw ? But I must not, 
 dare not tell you, since it would make you 
 more afraid here than you are. So terrified 
 was I by what I saw that I fell into a swoan, 
 in which Don Manuel himself found me, 
 and brought me out of that dreadful place ; 
 and I believe the thorough fright I got saved 
 my life ; for when Garcias wanted that I 
 should receive the punishment due for my 
 rashness, Don Manuel said I had suffered 
 sufficiently.** 
 
 -** But did you make any discovery relative 
 to the object you sought ?" 
 
 '* Oh, no : I suppose they disposed of the 
 body before I sought after it. Dear, dear! 
 what hearts must they have had to mangle 
 such a beautiful creature!" 
 
 *' She w^as very beautiful then ?" 
 *' The most perfect beauty my eyes ever 
 beheld, until I saw you, donna ; yet you aiie 
 very unlike, except in air, which seems to 
 .proclaim in you, as well as in her, that you 
 are of noble bir^h. She then appeared to
 
 29^5 
 be full fifteen years older than you now are,- 
 and her manner seemed to tell that hers was a 
 daring and proud spirit. There was some- 
 thing so grand in her look and in every move- 
 ment, that she appeared as if born to com- 
 mand the whole world. Her face, though 
 perfect in beauty, you could fmd no great 
 pleasure in looking at, for it more surprised 
 than charmed ; while the longer I look at 
 you the more I wish to look: and just so it 
 was with my child ; for your eyes and smile 
 are continually reminding Diego and me of 
 him J for fike you, when he raised his eyes, 
 it was as it were on purpose to delight every 
 beholder; and when he smiled we saw how 
 beauty and goodness improved each other's 
 sweetness. Your smiles, to be sure, have ail 
 been sad since here you have been, while my 
 child's were generally the reverse 3 and ye^ 
 they have the same effect, and find their way 
 with equal speed to the heart. But there was 
 something about my child's mother, even 
 when smiling the most condescendingly, that 
 overawed and made one tremble. Her com- 
 plexion was very fine, and her eyes, I believe 
 wxre black, for her eyebrows w'ere like jet j 
 
 o 4
 
 "296 
 
 but every time she moved them, such flashes 
 like lightning, shot from them, that i feared 
 to look at them,*' 
 
 *-^ It seems to me/' said our heroine, after 
 a thoughtful pause, '' a very extraordinary 
 iaconsistency, this youth s being left to the 
 society of such abandoned wretches as Don 
 Manuel, Garcias, and Alonzo ; at the same 
 time that a man of worth and honour was 
 given the care of his education, and a woman 
 of virtuous principles selected to attend him, 
 at that period of his life when precepts and 
 impressions are likely to take a deep and last- 
 ing root." 
 
 ^' He was not left to the society of Don 
 Manuel and his profligate companions, don- 
 lia. It was very evident that every proper 
 care had been taken of him before he fell to 
 my charge, but by whom I know not ; for 
 1 believe v/e were both brought hither about 
 the same time, as he spoke a language at 
 lirst which I did not understand, which 
 Thomas told me was English. He next fell 
 to my care, and w^as then always with me in 
 the nursery, which is a room quite separate 
 from the oiher inhabited apartments, or in
 
 297 
 the private gardens belonging to the castle 
 It was in my power to teach him all that was 
 necessary for such an infant to know, because 
 I was so fortunate as to have had an educaiion 
 far above my situation in life. My father was 
 a very poor goat-herd in Arragon ; and from 
 the circumstance of ray being deformed, the 
 great lady of our village took compassion on 
 me, and sent me to a neighbouring convent 
 to be educated, that my mind might give me 
 comforts which my appearance deprived me 
 of. It was my benefactress's intention, I be- 
 lieve, that I should continue in the convent : 
 but, alas ! she suddenly died ; and having 
 made no provision for me, I was sent back to 
 my parents, richer by the instructions four 
 years' residence at the convent had made me. 
 than when I left them. 
 
 " it was my father's wish that I should 
 wed the young man who assisted him in the 
 care of our flocks. My husband, though very 
 good, was very ignorant ; but he was willing 
 to learn : so I taught him to read and write, 
 and Indeed all the little knowledge I acquired 
 at the convent. We had only ane child, a 
 gir^j but she, who married a neighbouring 
 
 o 6
 
 298 
 
 lierdsman, having a large family, an<i little 
 to maintain them, I thought it would be a 
 good thing to set up a little day school to teach 
 the ignorant and idle children in the village 
 to read, vi^rite, and work. I did so : — it 
 succeeded very well, and its profits made us 
 very comfortable. So thus you see, donna, 
 J was in the habit of teaching children ; and 
 as I learned every moral as well as Christian 
 duty in the convent, I taok delight in 
 strengthening them in the mind of my sweet 
 child, where I do believe, even had be been 
 left to himself, they would have sprung 
 spontaneously. 
 
 " When he attained his sixth year, he was 
 committed to the care of signior Sebastian, 
 and resided wholly with him. This library, 
 and those adjoining rooms to which yonder 
 door leads, were occupied by Sebastian and 
 his pupil, and they had their meals constant- 
 ly with Francisco, who has apartments sacred 
 to] him, contiguous to signior Sebastian's ; 
 where not one of Don Manuel's associates or 
 his domestics, except Diego and the poor old 
 negro, were ever allowed to enter. Even I, 
 who used to attend upon my child so con-
 
 2§9 
 stantly in Sebastian's apartments, was never 
 in Francisco's. 
 
 " My child was permitted, as he advanced 
 in years, to play all over the grounds, and 
 to go any where with lago or Diego ; and 
 when he grew up, he was allowed to stray 
 where he pleased, except into a few interdicted 
 apartments ; but he never in his life eat a meal 
 at Don Manuel's table, although Don Manuel 
 jometimes dined at Francisco's.'* 
 
 At this moment Victoria heard a noise : 
 hastily she struck a false chord upon the 
 harp 5 and before she could recover her mis- 
 take, to her utter dismay Garcias stood be- 
 fore her.
 
 ;^oa 
 
 CHAP. XXI. 
 
 "Wretch!'* said Garcias, sternly, to 
 Teresa, *' What brought you here ?" 
 
 Victoria's just acquired knowledge of the 
 crimes of Garcias inspired her with such detes- 
 tation and contempt, that, quite indignant at 
 his present insolence, her spirit rose superior 
 to her fears, and with quickness she replied, 
 " My summons." 
 
 *' Your summons ! really ! — And may I 
 presume to ask for what purpose was this old 
 wretch summoned ?** 
 
 *'Idid not before know," returned Vic- 
 toria haughtily, " that my fate was so very 
 degrading as to compel my being accountable 
 to you for my actions j but since, alas ! it is 
 so, I tell you, that my companions in misery, 
 overcome by long watching, have fallen 
 asleep. Left to myself, and wishing to shun 
 my own v/retched thoughts, I came hither in 
 search of a book to allure my mind from
 
 301 
 
 agonising contemplation — I saw this harp-* 
 I wished to play — yet fearing to remain alone, 
 I was happy in Teresa's attendance, which 
 Diego informed me I might call for when I 
 pleased." 
 
 " Well, madam, but as 1 am now here 
 to supply the place of this guardian angel, 
 she may spread her ethereal wings and join 
 her sister seraphs. Go," continued he, wav- 
 ing his hand for Teresa to depart. 
 
 '' Stay, I conjure you, Teresa,'* exclaimed 
 Victoria, with a degree of vehemence not 
 natural to her. 
 
 " I say begone, wretch, as you value the 
 slender thread by which your miserable exist- 
 ence hangs," — and he stampt his foot with 
 violence. 
 
 The trembling Teresa obeyed ; whilst our 
 , heroine felt more indignant than alarmed at 
 his conduct. 
 
 *' Come, come," said the wretch, striving 
 to soften the ferocity of his diabolical coun- 
 tenance into a smile, " smooth that frown- 
 ing brow, and listen with complacency to 
 what I am about to communicate, as it con* 
 cerns your happiness as materially as mine*'*
 
 502 
 
 The wretches softened countenance awak- 
 ened terror in Victoria's mind ; and she would 
 have flown from him to Octavia, had he not 
 prevented her by extending his arms, to con- 
 fine her in the recess of the window where she 
 had been sitting. 
 
 " Be not alarmed,'* said he ; " and learn 
 that it will be your own fault if I am not 
 your friend. The anxious wish you must 
 have to quit this castle, I suppose you will 
 not affect to deny. Patiently hear me, and 
 you will find that I am willing to aid your 
 escape from hence.'* 
 
 Victoria looked incredulously ; and, trem- 
 bling, re-assumed her seat. Garcias took 
 Teresa's chair, and thus began. 
 
 *' Females are too quick-sighted to the 
 admiration they inspire to make it necessary 
 for me to inform you that Don Manuel is 
 seriously captivated by your uncommon per- 
 fections J but as your penetration cannot have 
 reached to the discovery of his intentions, I 
 shall inform you of them. The very moment 
 he returns, it is his fixed determination to 
 make you his : his will is arbitrary ; nor will 
 your concurrence be even asked — he is resolv- "
 
 303 
 
 ed upon the union, and your fate is Inevitable. 
 No more liberty than you now enjoy ever 
 more will be yours ; and in this dreadful 
 castle you will live as long as the caprice or 
 jealousy of your tyrant will permit you. Ter- 
 ror and misery will be henceforth the inmates 
 of your breast : and this decree is inevitable, 
 unless *' 
 
 " Unless what ?** said Victoria, almost 
 breathless with horror. 
 
 " Unless you will listen to the suit of 
 another who adores you, who justly appre- 
 ciates your worth, who prizes your happi- 
 ness above his own, and who has the power, 
 as well as the inclination, to convey you this 
 very night to any asylum you may desire. 
 Yes, loveliest of creatures, I am that man. 
 1 adore you, passionately adore you ; and if 
 you will solemnly promise to be mine, I will 
 this night carry you to a neighbouring con- 
 vent, where a friend of mine, a reverend 
 monk, will join our hands. On these terms, 
 and these only, will I restore you to the 
 world.'* 
 
 *' On these terms, then, never will I retura
 
 304 
 
 to It," said Victoria, bursting into tears of 
 grief, horror, and indignation. 
 
 " Oh revoke that cruel sentence, angelic 
 maid, and beware how you make me your 
 enemy,'' replied Garcias, catching her by 
 the hand. 
 
 The moment Garcias touched Victoria's 
 hand she uttered a loud shrie':, and strove 
 with all her strength to extricate herself from 
 his grasp, but in vain ; he held hc.r hand fast 
 in his, until a tall and horribly cadaverous 
 figure, clad in a strange kind cf flowing 
 •drapery, without noise or any warnirg, stood 
 before them, looking sternly upon Garcias, 
 who, in terror and amazement, preci: itately 
 fled into the piazza. Our heroine, la wild 
 dismay, waited to make no further observa- 
 tions, but swiftly moved towards the parlour, 
 at the door of which she sunk into the arms 
 of Octavia, who, awakened by her shriek, 
 was going in alarm to her assistance. 
 
 When her agitation had in some degree 
 subsided, Victoria related all that occurred 
 in the library to occasion her alarm ; and 
 the conduct of Garcias awakened new ap-
 
 3'05 
 
 prehensions and uneasiness ; while the sin- 
 gular appearance of the stranger, with his 
 extraordinary effect on Gardas, filled them 
 with superstitious fear and amazement ; at the 
 same time that Victoria felt and acknowledged 
 gratitude to Heaven for that interference, 
 whether by substance or shadow, which had 
 rescued her from the further insolence of the 
 wretch Garcias. — Hero soon after awoke ; 
 when these three unfortunate women wanted 
 not themes for conversation to engage them, 
 until Diego and Juan appeared to prepare for 
 dinner ; when the former informed them 
 they were to dine that day alone, as signior 
 Sebastian was obliged to remain for the rest 
 of the day with Francisco ; and Garcias had 
 been suddenly called by unexpected business 
 from the castle. Dinner was shortly after 
 served ; and as there was no one present to 
 intimidate them, they made a much better 
 meal than they had yet done since their cap- 
 tivity. 
 
 During the remainder of that day, Diego 
 was remarkably kind, attentive, and respect- 
 ful to them. He attended them in their walk 
 to protect them from alarms ; selected from
 
 306 
 
 the library some beautiful romances, which 
 he thought might beguile them of their sol- 
 rows ; and when with Teresa he conducted 
 them to their chamber, he left them there 
 with the most solemn assurances of perfect 
 safety through that night : and as by the kind- 
 ness of Diego their spirits laboured not under 
 apprehension of immediate danger, they all 
 enjoyed a comfortable share of sleep ; and in 
 the morning poor Teresa was rejoiced to see 
 her dear young donna less wan and languid 
 than she had hitherto beheld her. 
 
 In the parlour they found Sebastian, who, 
 as usual, received them all with politeness, 
 but Victoria with the cordiality of real afFec- 
 tion: and ihey were scarcely seated at the 
 breakfast-table, when Alonzo made his un- 
 wished-for appearance ; who, after paying 
 his compliments to every one with much civi- 
 lity, addressed a very high-flown strain of 
 eloquence to Victoria, in the form of a mes- 
 sage from Don Manuel, expressive of his 
 regret at being prevented, by unavoidable 
 and urgent business, from paying her every 
 homage and attention in his castle. 
 
 Soon after breakfast they all adjourned
 
 307 
 to the library, where, in a short time, Sebas- 
 tian took leave ; and our heroine found, in 
 the moment of his departure, the friendly 
 prop' upon which she rested snatched away : 
 tor not knowino: how Alonzo would conduct 
 himself, the absence of Sebastian awakened a 
 thousand painful apprehensions, and she be- 
 came comfortless and sad. 
 
 Although Alonzo was in his heart almost 
 as great a villain as Garcias, his manners 
 were not so like a ruffian's. You had every 
 mischief to apprehend from Alonzo's treache- 
 ry, while his cowardice shielded you from 
 unveiled brutality. Victoria's interesting and 
 uncommon share of beauty, her unaffected ele- 
 gance and sweetness of manners, had made a 
 deep impression upon Alonzo's f.ncy ; but fear 
 taught him to conceal it : imd the more ef- 
 fectu Uy so to do, and to ciid his secret pur- 
 poses, he affected to be charmed by the very 
 smnll share of allurements poor Hero had to 
 bocist of, to whom he now paid the most 
 pointed attention, and who received his assi- 
 iuities full as favourably as his vanity could 
 lead him to expect. Hero therefore wished 
 for no other entertainment than the pleasing.
 
 508 
 
 because flattering, conversation of ATonzOy 
 "who abounded in what is termed sinall-talkj. 
 and was possessed of a thousand little seduc- 
 tive artSj which he now hastened to play off 
 against the too susceptible heart of the unwary- 
 Hero; while Victoria and her really sens^'olc 
 companion amused themselves first by read- 
 ing, and then by music. They were both 
 first-rate performers upon the harp ;. ai J after 
 each had performed some pieces of wonder- 
 ful scientific excellence, our heroine, at the 
 earnest request of Octavia, s^ung, to her own 
 accompanimentv some plaintive Italian airs 
 and Venetian hymns. Her voice was melody^ 
 highly cultivated by science, and, although 
 it charmed in every strain, seemed particu- 
 larly adapted to sacred music ; since, while 
 feeling energetically guided her fingers, her 
 soul inspired,- and breathed, in every note she 
 sung. 
 
 Alonzo was astonished and charmed to 
 silence ; nor could all the simpering or shal- 
 low^ stratagems of Hero call back his attention, 
 until Victoria's enchanting strains were no 
 longer to be heard ; and they ceased not, at 
 the earnest solicitation of Octavia, until a few
 
 309 
 
 moments before they were summoned to 
 -dinner. 
 
 Victoria was grkved at not seeing Sebas- 
 tian in the dining-room. Alonzo, who af- 
 fected the manners of Don Manuel, took the 
 upper end of the table, and performed the 
 honours with a degree of civility that almost 
 approached politeness* They had not been 
 long at table, when a negro entered with 
 some flasks of wine ; he was habited like 
 Diego and Juan ; his person was of a com- 
 manding height, of graceful and striking 
 symmetry ; while his face, in despite of the 
 dark cloud that shaded it, beamed with benig- 
 nity and intelligence. After delivering the 
 wine to Diego, he would have retired had not 
 Alonzo aesired him to stay, that by learning 
 to attend at table he might supply the place of 
 Juan, who was wanted in another department. 
 The negro, bowing gracefully, took his sta- 
 tion by Diego's side. 
 
 Victoria, anxious to observe every new 
 person she saw in the castle, to learn from 
 their countenance, if possible, whether she 
 had any thing to hope or fear from them, 
 took an opportunity of stealing a look at the
 
 310 
 
 negro, and caught him in earnest gaze at her. 
 The transient glance of his eyes which mo- 
 desty allowed her to take seemed beaming 
 with pity and good-will. Grateful for the 
 kindness his looks implied, she felt interested 
 for the fate of this young man, whom she was 
 grieved to see in such a place and in such 
 society; and whenever she encountered his 
 eyes, which, without intending it, was pretty 
 frequently, they seemed to speak anxiety for 
 her fate : and although she could by no means 
 tell how far this young man might have it 
 in his power to befriend her, yet she had 
 heard and read of such instances of fidelity, 
 courage, perseverance, and ingenuity among 
 negroes, that she could not divest herself of 
 the flattering hope of his exerting himself in her 
 behalf; and when he departed with the other 
 domestics after dinner, she felt so anxious to 
 learn some account of him, that she had the 
 imprudence to ask Alonzo who he was. 
 
 *' That I know not," replied Alonzo, " but 
 believe, although a negro, his parents were of 
 consequence in South America. He fell into 
 Don Manuel's hands some years ago, and has 
 hitherto had an employment out of the castle ;
 
 311 
 
 but now, upon the decease of an old negro 
 domestic, Don Manuel has selected this one 
 to supply his place. And now, having an- 
 swered your question, donna Victoria, may 
 I not hope you will have the goodness to do 
 so by mine. Why did you wish to know who 
 this negro is?" 
 
 Victoria now felt the force of her impru- 
 dence, and was totally unable to reply. 
 Signora Bernini seeing her distress, and, 
 alarmed for its consequences, relieved her 
 embarrassment by affecting on the instant to be 
 seized with a sudden faintness ; and the com- 
 motion it occasioned, naturally called off 
 Alonzo's attention from the expected reply, 
 which he did not again ask for.
 
 312 
 
 CHAP. XXIL 
 
 In some time after Octavia announced her 
 perfect recovery, Alonzo proposed to walk 
 in the grounds. Hero in a moment was ready 
 to attend him. Victoria in passive sadness 
 arose to go. Bernini followed her example ; 
 and arm in arm they set out : and the lo\ ers, 
 keeping at humble distance, left them unmo* 
 lested to their melancholy tete-a-tete^ until the 
 sombre hue of approaching night reminded 
 them to return. 
 
 Shortly after they entered the piazza Vic- 
 toria heard the sound of voices just beneath 
 her feet; and instinctively looking down- 
 wards, beheld, through a chasm in the flags 
 upon which they walked, a strong torch-light, 
 and several ruffians busily employed deposit- 
 ing a coffin in the earth. Fear of Alonzo pre- 
 vented her exclaiming ; and by a gentle mo- 
 tion of her head and hand she directed Ber- 
 nini's attention to the shocking spectacle. In
 
 S-13 
 
 silent horror they looked and shuddered, as 
 they seemed to stop for Hero and Alonzo^ 
 who were lingering behind them. 
 
 At this moment they were called from 
 their horrid contemplation by the report of a 
 smart cannonading ; issuing, nearly as they 
 could guess, from beneath the eastern ram- 
 part. Alonzo listened for a few moments ; 
 but upon some indistinct shouting, a small 
 discharge of musquetry, and a total cessadon 
 of the cannon^ he suddenly retreated through 
 the garden gate, which he carefully closed 
 after him, leaving the three captives to them- 
 selves and their apprehensions. 
 
 Hero now hastily advanced to Victoria and 
 Octavia, who, shuddering, looked again 
 down upon the chasm as they were about to 
 proceed ; biit the light had vanished, and all 
 there was total darkness and silence. At the 
 same instant a hollow bound against the 
 pavement called their eyes to some paces dis- 
 tance before them, when they Immediately 
 saw a trap- door rise up, and a man spring 
 through it ; after him another, and another, 
 until about twenty armed ruffians appeared, 
 who all rushed, as they arose, towards the 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 ^14 
 
 gardens; but the terrified females, on the 
 first appearance of the men, winged with 
 alarm, ran back to the gate, which in their 
 wild affright they could not open ; and seeing 
 the men approaching fast, they, regardless of 
 Diego's interdict, retreated along the north 
 piazza, the angle of which was close to the 
 garden gate. 
 
 Victoria's speed far outrs^n that of her 
 companions. Bereft of her usual prudence 
 in this moment of terror, she rushed along, 
 unmindful whither, until an immense iron 
 grating in the centre of the piazza stopped 
 her further progress that way. Wildly she 
 looked around for a passage to escape by, 
 and saw in the wall to her right hand, op- 
 posite to the castle, a door open, through 
 which she instantly bounded — the quickening 
 steps of her companions, which echo resound- 
 ed along the vaulted roof of the piazza, aug- 
 menting her apprehensions. She was now 
 in a gloomy grass-grown cloister, she heard 
 the door behind her slap with violence, and 
 at the same moment Hero uttered a piercing 
 shriek. Believing this to be the dying cry of 
 Hero, she gave herself up for lost 5 she no
 
 315 
 
 longer could be said to run, she almost seem- 
 ed to fly, and soon was at the end of the 
 cloister, where a door stood open, through 
 which she darted, and found herself in a 
 thick gloomy wood, among the trees of which 
 she hastily determined to conceal herself, at 
 least while she recommended her soul to 
 Heaven, firmly believing her last hour was 
 arrived. 
 
 Through a thick clump she forced her way ; 
 and while she sunk upon her knees to breathe 
 out that pure and fervent piety her heart was 
 full of, her ears were suddenly assailed by the 
 sound of dreadful blows, frantic cries, and 
 piteous moans. Victoria, appalled with ter- 
 ror, arose in dismay to fmd a new retreat^ 
 but the further she penetrated into the wood 
 the more wofully distinct the horrid sounds 
 became; until moving from spot to spot, 
 with a vain hope of removing from such a 
 shocking interruption, by some hitherto un- 
 explored passage among the trees, she sud- 
 denly found herself in a small amphitheatre 
 formed by the wood, in the centre of which 
 stood a pyramidical monument ; around which 
 a most ghastly figure, covered with wounds
 
 515. 
 
 und gore, was running with great velocity, 
 and with frantic gestures dealing itself dread- 
 ful blows ; while it bhrieked and groaned 
 most horribly, or at intervals exclaimed, in 
 a wild, shrill, and terrific voice — ^* Retribu- 
 tion ! retribution !*' 
 
 Words cannot express the situation of Vic- 
 toria, when the moon, full and bright, dis- 
 covered to her tlie hideous spectre. Her ter- 
 ror was wound up to the highest pitch, and 
 almost fainting, she sunk to the ground ; 
 and at the same moment the phantom sud- 
 denly ceased its. extraordinary exercise, folded 
 its arms across its bleeding breast, and mourn- 
 fully murmuring out — " Ill-fated house of 
 Ariosto !" sunk at once from her view, and 
 she beheld it no more. At this moment she 
 heard a rustling among the leaves, and the 
 sound of approaching footsteps. She was 
 almost convulsed by terror, when a voice 
 exclaimed 
 
 "Lady Victoria! lady Victoria ! for Hea- 
 ven's sake where are you ?• Answer me, I be- 
 seech you, answer me !'V 
 
 The voice was unknown to her, but its 
 tones were those of pity and solicitude.
 
 317* 
 Victoria therefore, wishing to point out the 
 spot she could not rise from, answered by 
 a deep-drawn sigh : to speak at that moment 
 she found impossible. 
 
 In an instant a man threw himself on one 
 knee beside her, and with some difficulty 
 raised her from the ground ; while the bdght 
 beams of the moon dispelled at once all lear 
 of him, by discovering him to be the negro, 
 
 '^ Oh, signior !'' cried Victoria, wildly, 
 
 yet in tremulous accents, " i thank, and 
 
 .Heaven will recompense you for your kind 
 
 compassion to a hapless stranger, torn from 
 
 her friends, protectors, and every comfort." 
 
 " For pity's sake,'* replied the negro, *' be 
 not thus so dreadfully agitated. Compose 
 yourself, if possible, dearest madam. Be- 
 lieve me, you have no danger to appre- 
 hend at present ; and when you have, rest 
 assured the humble friend before you will 
 protect you, while life and liberty are spared 
 to him." 
 
 Victoria attempted to reply, but could 
 not : she burst into tears of genuine grati- 
 tude ; which the negro attempted not to 
 restrain, believing they would be of sei"vice to
 
 318 
 
 her agitated spirits : and he was not mistaken -, 
 Victoria at length became much more calm 
 and collected, and delicately hinted a wish to 
 learn the name of a friend to whom she felt 
 herself so much obliged. 
 
 " Hippolyto del Rosario, madam/' he re- 
 plied, "has the honour of now attending 
 
 vou.'* 
 
 cc 
 
 Signior Hippolyto," said Victoria, " I 
 wish immediately to leave this wood, where 
 the recollection of w-hat I have just beheld 
 may deprive me of that share of courage and 
 selfcommand necessary to enable me to seek 
 my hapless companions, for whose fate I have 
 but too much cause to tremble." 
 
 " They are in perfect safety, signora, and 
 waiting in the cloister in anxious hopes of my 
 being able to bring them some intelligence of 
 you. 
 
 " You have then seen them ?** 
 
 " I have, signora ; and alarmed them much 
 more than I could have wished by my ^pur- 
 suit of them ; but I thought it better to risk 
 that, than allow you to go wherever your 
 natural fears might hurry you, without a 
 protector to guard you from real danger. 
 
 9»
 
 319 
 
 " Then what precipitated me hither was 
 only imaginary." 
 
 " Nothing more, madam : and now I beg 
 you to allow me the honour of conducting 
 you to your friends, who are no doubt sufTer- 
 ing much uneasiness in their solicitude for 
 your safety." Then respectfully placing Vic- 
 toria's arm within his own to support her, 
 who else would have been unable to proceed, 
 he conducted her through a winding path in 
 the wood, which led to the cloister j and as 
 they walked on he continued : — ' 
 
 " Alarmed by your long absence, madam, 
 my anxiety for your safety led me, perhaps 
 officiously, to determine upon going in quest 
 of you ; forming, as I went, an excuse to offer 
 to signior Alonzo for my uncalled-for ap- 
 pearance. I had scarcely turned the angle 
 from the south piazza when I beheld you 
 advancing, and signior Alonzo retreat. 
 Though now assured of your safety, I saw 
 by your manner that you were alarmed, and 
 determined therefore to approach you. I 
 saw the rising of the men ; and instantly con- 
 ceiving the effect their sudden appearance 
 must naturally have upon you, I hastened
 
 3Q0 
 
 forward to assure you that they would not 
 molest you. But you fled, and. were so 
 many hundred paces before me when my 
 pursuit began, that it was impossible to over- 
 take you, even winged as I was by alarm and 
 anxiety. I reached the cloister the moment 
 your terrified attendants entered it, who at- 
 tempted to fasten the door against me ; and 
 vain, for some time, were all my efforts to 
 convince them I was not an assassin. At 
 length they recollected me ; and became suf- 
 ficiently collected to inform me, that you 
 were a considerable distance on before them, 
 and I lost not a moment, madam, in seeking 
 you here." 
 
 "Oh, signior!" replied Victoria, "how 
 good, hov/ compassionate you are! Whilst 
 I have life I must remember your kindness 
 with gratitude. Your active humanity led 
 you on to my assistance, although you could 
 not have imagined how much I stood in 
 need of it ; for it is impossible you could 
 conceive how great the terror I endured has 
 been. Once I should not have been so easily 
 ularm.ed ; but now, consigned to misery, 
 thrown into the very seat of horror, it is not
 
 5il 
 
 strange that my mind is shook, that my reso- 
 lution trembles. To you, signior Hippolyto, 
 I speak without scruple of my misery, my 
 terrors, since you are not an associate here ; 
 for although I now behold you classed among 
 Don Manuel's people, your air, your manner, 
 your accent, language, all proclaim you 
 thrown by misfortune into a situation ungenial 
 to your mind, and far beneath that you are 
 by birth entitled to.'* 
 
 " I was certainly, madam," returned 
 Hippolyto, *' born and educated to fill a 
 much higher situation in life than my present 
 humble one. Fortune delights, in her sportive 
 humours, to vary the conditions of men. In 
 the general opinion of the world my present 
 state may be deemed a fallen one ; but while 
 protecting innocence and beauty from de- 
 struction, and taking even one single pang 
 from sorrow, or an alarm from fear, I am in 
 my own estimation exalted, and must feel 
 happy in my fate.'* 
 
 At this moment they entered the cloister, 
 when they were met by Sebastian, Octavia, 
 and Hero ; when Hippolyto made a respect-
 
 3^2 
 
 ful motion to resign the support of Victoria to 
 Sebastian. 
 
 "No/* said Sebastian: "you only merit 
 that honour, by having earned it." 
 
 "And highly," said Victoria, "as I esti- 
 mate signior Sebastian, I cannot prove my- 
 self so ungrateful as to throw off the kind 
 protection of my nev^r friend the very mo- 
 ment I find other aid." 
 
 " That would be a line of conduct not 
 perfectly consistent with the courtesy, good 
 nature, and gratitude of Donna Victoria's 
 disposition," replied Sebastian. "To these, 
 then, the companions of your alarm and flight, 
 whose loud shrieks drew me, from a soUtary 
 walk, hither, I will give my support.** 
 
 And now they bent their course to the 
 castle. Signora Octavia and Hero, leaning 
 upon Sebastian, led the way : Victoria fol- 
 lowed, supported by Hippolyto ; who found 
 himself so much charmed and flattered by our 
 heroine's kind and condescending attention to 
 him, that he felt totally at a loss for words to 
 express an acknowledgment. He could only 
 look how sensibly he was affected by her 
 goodness j but a cloud obscuring the bright-
 
 323 
 
 nes3 of the moon at that moment, Victoria 
 saw not the brilliant beams of gratitude that 
 sparkled in his fine and intelligent eyes. 
 
 Silently they walked on, Victoria too much 
 exhausted by her late alarm to speak, and 
 Hippolyto too respectful to interrupt her 
 silence. On turning the angle into the east 
 piazza they encountered Alonzo, who, cast- 
 ing a furious look at Hippolyto, snatched 
 Victorio's hand from his arm ; and Victoria 
 would have snatched it in return from Alon- 
 zo, and restored it to her kind protector, 
 had not the recollection of her imprudent 
 question, having already betrayed too much 
 interest about Hippolyto, taught her com- 
 pliance; while Hippolyto, bowing grace- 
 fully retired, with a countenance expressive 
 of sorrow, anxiety, and chagrin. 
 
 Sebastian, more collected, and much less 
 sad than usual, remained the whole evening 
 in the parlour. At supper, Victoria seated 
 by Sebastian, and attended by Diego and 
 Hippolyto, felt inspired with some degree of 
 courage and composure, and in defiance of 
 her late dreadful alarms, conversed with some- 
 thing like cheerfulness and ease.
 
 i 
 At the usual time Teresa and Diego attend- i 
 
 ed to conduct the female captives to their ; 
 
 apartment, where they passed an unmolested ' 
 
 night ; but the occurrences of the evening 
 had agitated the spirits of our heroine too 
 much to permit her rest to be comfortable or 
 unbroken. 
 
 Ten days now passed heavily on, without- 
 the intervention of a single incident worth re- 
 lating. Victoria and Octavia were stiil com- 
 fortless and sad, in the cruel uncertainty of 
 their fate in that terrible castle, and without 
 the smallest prospect of being ever restored 
 to their friends ; but Hero became each hour 
 more and more reconciled to her destiny, 
 Alonzo was indefatigable in his attentions and 
 flattery to her ; and sad and desperate havoc 
 in her too susceptible heart was the conse- 
 quence. . Sebastian's affectionate kindness to 
 Victoria appeared to increase each hour, and 
 he now passed most of his time with her and 
 Bernini in the library or the .grounds ; while 
 Diego and Hippolyto seemed to find no plea- 
 sure equal to that of alleviating the horrors of 
 Victoria's situation as much as was in their
 
 325 
 
 power, by every attention and act of kindness 
 which they could offer 
 
 wn the fourteenth evening of our heroine's 
 hopeless captivity she observed Juan attend at 
 supper in Diego's stead ; and when she and 
 her companions retired to their apartment, 
 he too accompanied Teresa in conducting 
 them to it : and so alarmed and anxious Vic- 
 toria found herself at the absence of this friend, 
 that she ventured to ask Teresa, " was Diego 
 
 ill r 
 
 *' No, donna : he is gone from the castle 
 to buy forage for the horses, and provisions 
 for the family, and will not be home until 
 
 noon to-morrow/' 
 
 When Juan and Teresa were gone, Vic- 
 toria and her companions found themselves 
 so unusually oppressed and overpowered by 
 sleep, that scarcely could they command 
 their proper attention, or keep their eyes 
 unclosed, while they offered up their prayers 
 to Heaven : and their drowsiness increasing 
 urged them to expedition, so that they were 
 soon clad in their wrappers, and laid upon 
 their beds, in the same manner they had
 
 8^6 
 
 passed every night since their captivity; and as 
 soon were buried in a profound repose, not- 
 Avithstanding those fears which the absence of 
 Diego created, whose assurances of safety 
 they felt alarmed at not receiving. 
 
 END OV VOL. I. 
 
 T. Davjs«>n, Printer, Whitefjriars.
 
 
 ^^-
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILL1NOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 01 
 
 12 084210589