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 jIJORN to an elevated rank in society, and educated in 
 the sphere of a court, Albert de Montfort shrunk from tli^ 
 approaching frown of poverty, and prudently resolved, 
 while an opportunity-offered, to fly to the chateau of Mont-*- 
 noir, situated on the coniines of Lombardy, the melancholy 
 asylum of him and his unfortunate family. Previously to the 
 Revolution in France, De Montfort held the hereditary rank 
 of Marquis, enjoyed a large estate bequeathed to his wife, 
 and possessed many lucrative situations under the govern¬ 
 ment. Gifted by nature with a benign heart and an able 
 head, he was revered by all who knew him, but neither vir¬ 
 tue nor talents were a protection against the ^discriminating 
 fury of the people, who pull down one tyranny and set up 
 another. In the summer of l?9-> the Marquis and Madame 
 de Montfort, their daughter Serina, and the venerable Abbt? 
 Besant, quitted their house in the Place de Vendome, and, 
 disguised as peasants, passed the barrier of Paris. Six hun¬ 
 dred louis d’ors and some jewels composed the whole of 
 their fortune. On their second day’s route, they purchased 
 an old cabriolet, in which they travelled ; and, to avoid sus¬ 
 picion, the tesk of conversing was consigned to the Abbe, 
 who, as-a native of Languedoc, spoke the provincial dialect 
 fluently. On the third day, a tempest of thunder, lightning. 
 
 and rain, compelled them to take shelter'under the skirts of 
 a thick wood :—“ The storm will be soon over,” said De 
 
 Montfort; but- when will the slonn subside that crimsons 
 over my distracted country, and destroys her children : 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 4 
 
 the happy villagers you 7ust now described ? they labour 
 and are happy.’ 7 The innocent remarks of Serina often si¬ 
 lenced, l)c* Montfortr The fourth- morning rose with a beuu- 
 tifulVerbrnty; add, At had a similar el feet on their minds.. 
 Having" crossed 'the Ap'penines, and arrived at Milan, the 
 M.^arqiujs’sdiyst" snqYjirje.sAyfKe after an old and rich friend,' a 
 Monsieur I^rtdit’r. VThp r ‘Marquis's high spirit enjoined his 
 wife and daughter not to betray a word of their reduced cir- 
 cums-'CanPpL «■'&* 'tdfepehdeficc on another was what he never 
 could sM'omftdo; r ' />!*. Dodier was the godson of Dc Mont- 
 fort’s hither. The gamekeeper of the old Marquis having 
 lost his life in his service, recommended “bis son, a shrewd 
 boy, to the protection of his master. He was brought up 
 with Albert, aud became his companion ; and at the [death 
 of the old Marquis he left young Dodier the chateau and Urre 
 of Montnoir, in Lombardy, with the most considerable part 
 •f his property, to the great mortification of Albert. 
 
 Fourteen years bad passed without any letters from M. 
 Dodier, whose pride, on De Montfort’s arrival, instantly be¬ 
 came alarmed, lest the Marquis should expose his former 
 station in life at Milan, where he passed as a near relation 
 of the late Marquis de Montfort. For this reason, he made 
 strong professions of friendship to Albert, not only to en¬ 
 hance his own consequence, but to promote an idea he had 
 conceived of marrying his son to Serina de Montfort. The 
 chateau of Montnoir had been uninhabited for seventeen 
 years, nearly the period since the old Marquis had expired : 
 he had given it as a marriage-portion to his wife, a Milan 
 lady, who died while Albert was in bis infancy. M. Dodier 
 never visited the chateau; he hated solitude; in his temper 
 he was sordid, avaricious, tyrannical, and treacherous; in 
 his person, low in stature and ill-formed. Previously to 
 becoming possessed of Montnoir, he married a humble female, 
 who was delivered of a son, and died the year following. 
 The boy, (Argand,) as he grew up, pro\ed his legitimacy, 
 by being the perfect epitome of his father. 
 
 The melancholy ideas imprinted On De Mont fort’s mi ml 
 were but ill suited to a scene of mixed society; and, finding 
 the house of M. Dodier too much frequented for his exiled 
 circumstances, lie requested permission to make the chateau 
 of Montnoir the residence of iris family, to which his friend, 
 after a time, reluctantly consented. On their arrival at the 
 chateau, they found, it inhabited by two domestics, Orsano 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER- 
 
 5- 
 
 Cormozzo and his mother Aquilina. The former was in his 
 person gigantic, swarthy* and'crooked ; and his voice was as. 
 discordant as his visage was deformed and ferocious. He 
 met Monsieur de Montfort’s family at the outer gate, as he 
 had just returned from wood-cutting, when his long black, 
 heard, sunken eyes, and wooden shoes, startled Madame de 
 Montfort and her daughter. Entering the first court of the 
 chateau, they had no reason to be better pleased with the mo¬ 
 ther of Cormazzo; her meagre masculine figure and scowl¬ 
 ing brow were objects of an unfavourable presentiment. 
 She gazed on the fugitives with a malignant curiosity, and 
 then, muttering a malediction, hurried into her apartment, 
 which was in the lower story of a corner tower. Orsano 
 kindled a fire in a gloomy saloon, where the new visitors 
 passed the evening. The portrait of the old Marquis often 
 drew tears into their eyes, suspended among the musty 
 tapestry and heraldry of their ancestors. From the ceiling, 
 was hung a heavy antique Chandelier, in which a single 
 taper was lighted, that gave a gloom to the surrounding 
 objects. •* ' • 
 
 Albert de Montfort had married his wife against his fa¬ 
 ther’s consent, after which they sat out for England.. The 
 old Marquis was a rigid Catholic, and he laid so heavily to 
 heart the marriage of his son with a heretic, that he fell 
 into an incurable melancholy, and soon after died. Except 
 in this, the Marquis had always been an indulgent parent. 
 When Albert heard of his illness, lie hastened to Paris,, 
 and was kindly received y but he came too late to restore 
 his fathers peace. The physicians ordered him-change of 
 climate, and the situation of Madame de Montfort prevent¬ 
 ing either her or her husband from accompanying their fa¬ 
 ther, M. Dodier travelled with him to the forest of Mont- 
 noir, where letters to Paris soon brought the account of his 
 dissolution. The Marquis’s will, though it gave a larger 
 share of his property to M. Dodier, limited it to his life 
 only; after which it was to revert to Serina de Montfort, 
 who, at her grandfather’s decease, was about three months 
 old; in case of her death, it returned to the heir of the 
 Dodier family. 
 
 At the period of their exile from Paris, the Marquis wa» 
 in his 3/th year, and his wife was one year younger. The. 
 philanthropic Abbe had been his tutor from infancy, and 
 
 I i3 
 
* 
 
 6 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 was determined to be the faithful companion of his pupil’s 
 ihisfortunes. . Though their antique asylum was in the bosom 
 of an extensive forest, its lofty towers rising above the foliage 
 presented to th$ eye the outstretched plains of Lombardy, 
 and the majestic and tremendous Alps. Alter the charms of 
 novelty had a little subsided, De Montfort sunk into de¬ 
 spondency : his country, the abandonment of connection, 
 and the hastening poverty of his family, were a phalanx of 
 misfortunes that goaded him every hour, and planted on his 
 countenance the looks of a heart broken by persecution. 
 In one of their evening excursions through the long vista 
 that intersected the forest, the Marquis abruptly stopping, 
 exclaimed, “ Have you courage to return to Paris with me, 
 and end this load of misery, by death !”—“ My father,” 
 returned Scrina, “ we have health and hands to toil cheer¬ 
 fully for our necessities.—It is your misery, not our own, 
 we would relieve !”—“Can I suffer you to toil/' said De 
 Montfort, “ while the insinuating fawning villain, who 
 wormed me out of my father’s property, enjoys life in opu¬ 
 lence ? Shall 1 remain in sufferance -beneath the roof that 
 was the dowry*of my mother, and skulk over these vast do¬ 
 mains fike a coward ? I tell you, this serpent Dodicr is my 
 evil genius! Serina, he thinks that I will give you to his 
 son;.—no !—I would rather see you expire, than be the vic¬ 
 tim of such a base alliance !” 
 
 At this juncture, M. Dodier joined them abruptly at the 
 corner of the vista: he had overheard the whole conversa¬ 
 tion, but concealed his feelings infinitely better than De 
 Montfort, who, on reaching the .castle, retired to his cham¬ 
 ber. The following morning, M. Dodier proposed the ob¬ 
 ject of his visit in private to the Marquis; which was, the 
 union of Argaud and Serina. The proposal was rejected 
 with indignation; mutual sarcasms and irritation ensued, 
 till the Marquis put an end to the altercation by striking 
 his opponent. Madame de Montfort and Serina now rushed 
 in to mitigate the mutual rancour, but Dodicr palliated the 
 affront, and ascribed it to the warmth of De Montfort’s 
 unguarded temper. This generous treatment in a moment 
 calmed De Montfort’s passion, and he threw himself on 
 Dodier’s neck, declaring, “ that he was still the friend of 
 one who could so easily excuse hh> misconduct.” De Mont- 
 fort’s despondency increasing, Dodier readily adopted an 
 idea of Senna's, and invited her father to return with him 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 7 
 
 to Milan for a month. Their joint arguments at last were suc¬ 
 cessful, ami, having taken a tender farewell of his wife and 
 daughter, he set off one evening with his Italian friend. 
 Serina loitered at the gate till the noise of the chariot-wheels 
 were undistinguishablc from the gusts of wind that howled 
 over the distant Appcnines, and then retired to rest. The 
 night was stormy, and a thousand apprehensions for the 
 Marquis’s safety for several hours disturbed their rest, 
 till the wind dying away, they gently sunk to repose.— 
 Every day now made the gloom of the castle more insup¬ 
 portable. The injunctions of the Marquis, respecting their 
 little fortune, never was a moment from his wife's mind. 
 An iron box now contained all their means of future sub¬ 
 sistence, and she felt alarm from the dangers of banditti, 
 and the aspect of Orsano and his mother. 
 
 A fortnight alter the Marquis had. left the chateau, Ma¬ 
 dame de Montfort, as she sat concealed in th e jalousie of her 
 window, saw Ursa.no and his mother enter. They advanced 
 softly to a small closet, which contained the iron chest; in 
 Orsano’s hand was a hatchet, and his countenance wore a 
 horrible grin of delight. He had just raised his arm to the 
 door of the closet, when Serina entered the chamber, and 
 the intruders retired. When Madame de Montfort men-v 
 tioned her suspicions of Orsano to Serina, it was immedi¬ 
 ately determined to examine every part of the chateau, and 
 deposit the iron box in some secure niche. The next morn¬ 
 ing a letter came from the Marquis, informing them his 
 health was much amended, and charging them most strictly' 
 to watch the treasure. “ Thus it is,” said Madame de 
 Montfort : “ your father’s pride is such, that he would ra¬ 
 ther exterminate his race, than live on the bounty of ano¬ 
 ther.” Serina was shocked at the violent idea, and deter¬ 
 mined that night, with her mother, to explore the unfre¬ 
 quented chambers of the old castle. 
 
 Intent at night on their object, they crossed the square 
 court of the cloisters, and ascended a narrow flight of stairs 
 to a gallery, whore several doors opened to a variety of 
 apartments. Regardless,of the night chill, and the bones 
 of their ancestors buried in the chapel beneath, they en¬ 
 tered the first door, which grated on its iron hinges. The 
 room was a vast and lofty library, on a shelf of which 
 stood a volume cf Ariosto. Serina endeavoured to re¬ 
 move it, but it was so pressed between the shelves, that it 
 
s 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 required a strong effort to remove it; in doing which, a false 
 door swung open, and presented a dark recess to tiieii \iew. 
 At this moment the hollow sound oi footsteps seemed to ad¬ 
 vance along the gallery t they listened, and, heating no¬ 
 thing, again approached the recess. Before the} had time 
 to examine its interior, a deep sigh obtruded itself on their 
 ears, but they saw no object near them. On inspecting the 
 recess, it instantly occured that it was a chapel of the de¬ 
 ceased Marquis, "about ten feet square. Beneath the cru¬ 
 cifix of ebony was a small door, most neatiy fitted into 
 the wall. They almost despaired of opening this closet, 
 when, recollecting, that an iron bar stood near the window 
 of the adjoining library, Scrina hastened with the light to 
 fetch it. Madame tic Montfort was no sooner in daikncss, 
 and alone, than a deep and melancholy voice pronounced* 
 “ Seek no farther \ n —-When Serina returned with the iron 
 bar, their joint efforts forced open the door. i he first ar¬ 
 ticle was a book of devotion, the leaves of which were ce¬ 
 mented together by a congealed substance; the second was 
 a carpet of tapestry; the third was a poniard, corroded 
 with rust, and the handle richly studded and inlaid with 
 gold. Madame de Montfort uttered a groan of horror, and. 
 Serina, having replaced the articles, rose to quit the chapel. 
 Raising her eyes towards the latticed window, which threw a 
 feeble light into the recess, she beheld a pale and hideous 
 visage. Overwhelmed with terror, as they must pass the 
 terrific object in their return along the gallery, they paused. 
 On looking again, the awful face w as gone ! Encouraged by 
 this circumstance, they retraced the steps they had taken, 
 and reached their chamber at. dawn, before any one was 
 
 - stiring in the chateau. _ ' . 
 
 It weis on this terrifying night, that M. Dodier had in? 
 vited a large assembly to his house at Milan ; w hen the per¬ 
 son of the’ Marquis captivated the fancy of a beautiful 
 youno- Italian lady, the daughter of the Count Cuculli, a 
 Tuscaivnobleman. M. Dodier had long been the slave both 
 of her beauty and wealth, and a day was fixed for their 
 marriage; the lady s obedience aiose fioui ne\oi having c t 
 any particular partiality for one object more than ano¬ 
 ther. It chanced one night at the gaming-table that M. 
 Dodier won 20,000 sequins of the Count. Rendered des¬ 
 perate, he proposed the hand of his daughter against double 
 the sum he had lost.. r Ike Count again lost, and $ospiu> 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER, v 
 
 was tht' pledge of her father’s indiscretion, All the preli¬ 
 minaries of the nuptials had been settled at the time she Saw 
 the Marquis at M. Dodior's ; and in a few moments his eyes 
 and unassuming worth did more than all the beaux of Milan 
 sighed for; they awakened 'in her l/osom the passion of love 
 tmd the tear of sensibility. Her action and look soon be¬ 
 trayed her to M. Dodier, whose mind stained one with false¬ 
 hood and the other-with treachery. Alter supper was over, 
 De Montfort handed Sospira to her carriage; in descending 
 the stairs, M. Dodier heard the lady ask De Montfort how 
 long he should remain in Milan. “ Only a few days, re¬ 
 plied lie; “ before which, 1 hope to be present at your mar¬ 
 riage with my friend Dodier/’—“Never!” cried Sospira; 
 “ never will I yield mv hand to such a being \” 
 
 j *j n 
 
 The following morning the Count wailed on M. Dodier, 
 to inform him of his daughter’s vow to reject him, and to 
 retire to a convent if she were refused by the man who had 
 last night captivated her affection. “ Thank heaven,” ex* 
 claimed M. Dodier, “ then that man, the Marquis de Mont- 
 fort, is married !—He has insulted the honour of your fa¬ 
 mily ; for, 1 heard him extort the vow which she repeated to 
 you so solemnly ! Now shall the miscreant seek from stran¬ 
 gers that bounty which I have so liberally bestowed 1 ” The 
 Marquis was writing'at this time in another room, and over¬ 
 heard the conversation. The cowardly Dodier shrunk at 
 the sight of him os he rushed into the room.—“ Dodier,” 
 said he, “ I shall expect you at day-break in the forest near 
 Montnoir-Castle.—At \our peril fail not !”—lie afterwards 
 gave every satisfaction to the Count, and they parted confi¬ 
 dential and firm friends. The one proceeded in the even¬ 
 ing to the chateau; the other set out the following morning 
 for Tuscany. 
 
 It was the Marquis’s custom during his absence daily to 
 write a line of remembrance to hrs family, but in the last 
 * 2 A hours nothing had been sent. Evening came, and Ma¬ 
 dame de Montfort loitered in the avenues of the chateau 
 till night closed. In passing over the draw-bridge they were 
 overtaken by Orsano, who had been cutting wood ; a dis- ; 
 contented'murmur hung upon his lips as they wished him 
 good night, and they passed on to their apartment. The 
 uneasiness of Madame de Montfort at length determined 
 the good Abbe to go to the cottager’s, about half a league on 
 the skirts of the forest, where the courier left all letters di- 
 
10 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 rectcd for the chateau. It was eleven o’clock when he set 
 out, taking the Marquis’s favorite spaniel with him to be¬ 
 guile the way. The Abbe was* answered from the cottage- 
 window', that no letters had been left by the courier, and 
 turned his footsteps back through the forest. “ He is re¬ 
 turned !” exclaimed Serina, as the Abbe rushed in, faint 
 and covered with blood. “ My father—” said Serina, “ Will 
 bleed to death,” rejoined the Abbe, “ if I do not return in¬ 
 stantly to the forest.” Madame dc Montfort uttered a 
 shriek, and ran to the drawbridge; in passing the outer gate 
 beyond the moat she heard a deep groan—another fol¬ 
 lowed, and she marked the spot whence the sounds pro¬ 
 ceeded. Encouraged by the presence of the Abbe Besant 
 arid Orsano, she supported- her trembling steps to the scene 
 of misery. 
 
 In proceeding, Orsano stumbled over the root of a wi¬ 
 thered tree, and extinguished the light of his lantern.—The 
 groans had ceased, but the body was distinguishable in the 
 gloom, on which Madame de Montfort threw herself, and 
 clasped it in an agony of grief, exclaiming, “He is dead, 
 gone for ever !” The Abbe Bcsant -assisted her to raise the 
 body, from which the blood flowed profusely. The respi¬ 
 ration of the wounded man now returned as the fainting-fit 
 subsided; and, having placed him on his feet, they sup¬ 
 ported him to the Castle, where they arrived just as the 
 morning dawned. The stranger, however, it appeared, on 
 a closer inspection, was not De Montfort; and a general" joy 
 overspread the little family. Jn a short time he had reco¬ 
 vered, and, hearing Madame de Montfort speak to Serina in 
 English, Mr. Dorville addressed her in the same language, 
 and repeated the particulars of the outrage. His postilion 
 liavina lost the route in Montnoir-forest, he had alighted to 
 make inquiries at a distant cottage, in the window of which 
 he saw a light. He had not proceeded far before a man 
 stabbed him with a poniard, and repeated the blows till he 
 fell motionless: Fie perfectly remembered that the assassin, 
 as he gave the last wound, exclaimed, “ Receive thy death 
 from the exiled De Montfort F” 
 
 The Abbe and the Marchioness were struck dumb at this 
 relation; and the countenance of Orsano wore a malignant 
 smile, who, as he- quitted the room, uttered a threat that 
 the assassin De Montfort should not escape him. Dotwiile 
 sakl that he should know the villain by his voice, and vowed 
 
TIIE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 II 
 
 to bring kim to punishment wherever he met him. Madame 
 de Montfort now explained to him that the name he had 
 mentioned was that of her unfortunate husband, who had 
 been driven to desperation by some iicnd, but was no prac¬ 
 tised murderer. Ilcr fender and agonized intercession, to 
 spare the husband of her love, drew from Dorville a solemn 
 promise, that he wpuld hide the business for ever in his own 
 bosom ; and he proposed, that he might avoid giving evi¬ 
 dence, to set off in a few hours from the chateau. Serina 
 was fortunately absent during the revelation of the dreadful 
 secret; and Madame de Montfort hoped it was unknown to 
 Orsano, as it was told in English. The latter having found 
 the carriage in the forest, and brought it to the Castle, 
 Dorville departed ; and the Marchioness felt a heavy load 
 removed from her Spirits at the generous flight of this 
 noble stranger. 
 
 Occupied with fear for the fate of the Marquis, she has¬ 
 tened to her chamber; from which she was in a few minutes 
 alter summoned by the sound of horses trampling over the 
 drawbridge.—It was the Marquis himself, who instantly 
 alighted, and with the most unembarrassed air embraced his 
 wite ; he was armed with a blunderbuss, which appeared co¬ 
 vered with blood.—1 !e had scarcely pressed his lady "to his 
 bosom, when four armed men rushed in, seized him," bound 
 Ins arms with cords, and hurried him into a carriage waiting 
 at the outer gate. The presence and shrieks of the Marchio¬ 
 ness exposed her to particular notice ; blood appeared on her 
 arm, and she was placed in another carriage as an accom¬ 
 plice. While they tied her with cord's, Orsano and one of 
 the men searched the apartments, where they found' a hand¬ 
 kerchief and neckcloth stained with blood: the little-iron 
 chest was secured, the recess visited, and the poniard in 
 the secret closet was drawn forth ; after which, all these ar¬ 
 ticles of proof were inclosed in a trunk, and the unfortunate 
 pair, with their daughter, set ofl’ from the chateau guarded. 
 The Marchioness had requested that the Abbe might attend 
 them, but, from some cause, he had been missing from the 
 time of Dorville’s disclosure. 
 
 I hey passed near the spot of the assassination, from which 
 to the chateau the track of blood might be traced ; the vi¬ 
 sible agitation ot the: Marchioness at the sight of the i san¬ 
 guinary place was also noticed by the guards. At midnight 
 they reached the prison of Milan, amidst the execrations of 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 It 
 
 the mob: here they were placed In different cells; Serin* 
 was conducted to the story of a lofty tower, which com¬ 
 manded an extensive view of Lombardy. The culprits were 
 each chained, except Serina: and the anguish of the Mar¬ 
 chioness was much heightened by being imprisoned at the 
 side of her husband, without the possibility of communi¬ 
 cating with him. She could hear his groans, and trace his 
 restless hours by the rattling of his chains ; the hours of the 
 day struck on the clock, but not a ray of light irradiated 
 her prison-darknesS. About eight o'clock, the jailor opened 
 the door of the cell, and permitted hoi* to walk a few mi¬ 
 nutes in a square open court, surrounded with high spikes. 
 “ Will they allow the Marquis the same indulgence ?” de¬ 
 manded the Marchioness in a piteous tone. “ Alas! madam,” 
 said Angus Maiilet, the jailor, “ our’s is a cruel and a silent 
 office,—I am tired of it."—“ I read in vour face,” said the 
 Marchioness, “ that you are a pitving angel, sent to sup¬ 
 port me in my misery i” lie then conducted her to her 
 cell, and the Marchioness ventured to request him to in¬ 
 troduce Serina to her the following night when the prison 
 was still. To urge him to conduct her to her husband was 
 impossible, as Maiilet did not keep the key of his dungeon. 
 Having promised, if possible, to execute her request, Ma¬ 
 dame de Montlbrt earnestly imreated him to carry a mes¬ 
 sage to M. Dotlier,-who was powerful, and could intercede 
 with effect for a mitigation of their sorrows. Maiilet pro¬ 
 mised to undertake the task, though perpetual imprison¬ 
 ment would be the consequence of detection. At midnight, 
 the time when the Marchioness expected Maiilet and her 
 daughter, a surly ruffian entered the dungeon, aud said he 
 suspected some treachery was going forward ; in a moment 
 after, Maiilet came to the door with his lamp, which the 
 Marchioness blew out, and bid him fly for his life.—The 
 ruffian now sprang alter him, and returned in a few minutes 
 to place his' prisoner in another apartment, into which a 
 sloping light entered ; its floor was two feet above the 
 ground, and it opened to an outlet of the prison. Three 
 weeks were passed in this apartment, before she again saw 
 Maiilet, whose wife had learned where the .Marchioness 
 was now imprisoned, from hearing her call on her husband's 
 name as she was passing in the street. Maiilet spoke to her 
 - from the outside of the prison, and hence she learned, that, 
 in leaping the wails that night to escape detection, he had 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 dislocated I]is shoulder. ! am now come," said he, “ to 
 lender von any Service I can, before 1 leave Milan.—If I 
 
 am discovered here, my punishment will be severe.-My 
 
 lellow-jailor overheard the conversation between your da ugh-* 
 ter and myself, wherein 1 offered to assist vour escape.—Be 
 brief therefore, Madam, if you have any thing to communi¬ 
 cate."—“ Wi 11_ yqu carry a message from me to Dodier?” 
 said the Marchioness. “'Alas!’’ replied Maillot, “ know you 
 wot that vour husband is the murderer of Dodder ?" The 
 Marchioness shrieked ; the guard was alarmed, and Maillet 
 in a moment made his escape—Every gleam of hope now 
 vahi-hed from the bosom of De Montfort and his wife , and 
 inevitable death seemed to be their mutual portion. A num¬ 
 ber of circumstances, almost amounting to proof, combined 
 to eliminate the Marquis.—Dodier had accepted the Mar¬ 
 quis’s challenge, but had not been seen since the evening the 
 latter left the < itv of Milan. 
 
 Monsieur Locar, as the friend of each, had followed them 
 to propose an accommodation.—After sending notice to the 
 justice of the peace, he followed, and reached the forest 
 before day-break. On approaching the chateau, a foot- 
 pdssenger ran towards him, and said that a murder had been 
 coHvmiticd not fur off, and that he was passing at the time. 
 M. Locar then returned with the peasant to endeavour to 
 find the spqt, but they were bewildered till the dawn opened, 
 and shewed they had taken a wrong path. The peasant re¬ 
 lated that he was returning to his village' v hen he heard the 
 sound of voices approach, and concealed himself behind 
 one of the forest-trees.—A voice then said, “ .Receive thy 
 death from the exiled De MontfortThe assassin upon 
 this mounted his lioise, and escaped. “ Presently after," 
 continued the peasant, “ the assassin returned, listened to 
 the dying groans of Ids victim, and left this Spaniel howling 
 over the body .—1 secured the dog; alas! Signor, it is the 
 Marquis de Montfort’s, and his name is on the collar.—1 
 then followed the sound of footsteps, saw the' assassin let 
 into Montnoir-castle, and I was going to alarm the village 
 when I met you." 
 
 M. Locar on his return met the two carriages of the po- 
 lice-ofliccrs, and. sen: “them to the Castle, where the inha¬ 
 bitants, as before mentioned, were made prisoners. Every 
 search had been made for M. Dodier, and the absence of 
 
 K k 
 
14 
 
 TUX BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 the Abbe confirmed die suspicion that he was a party in th# 
 disposal of him. The Marquis was at length put oil his 
 trial, and supported the shock with a manly dignity and 
 firmness. The evidence of the peasant, of 31 . Locar, and 
 Orsano, went strongly to corroborate each other. Orsano 
 testified the uneasiness of the Marchioness on that night, 
 and an expression of anxiety she uttered for the safe return 
 of her Lord. The other articles in the trunk were Severally 
 produced and identified. The prisoner started aghast at the 
 sight of the poniard ; and'wns asked if he knew it.—“ It was 
 my father’s !” said he, and he heaved a deep sigh. Tire 
 Marchioness was how placed .'at the bar beside him; and 
 they looked at each other with gr$jG too big for utterance. 
 The little iron chest was next exhibited; at the sight of 
 which, the Marquis, clasping his hands, exclaimed, “ Now 
 lead us to the scaffold ! and terminate, the menaces of po¬ 
 verty and procrastinated suffering.—1 have nothing to urge 
 in my vindication farther,—Death will bring Independence,, 
 and with-it tranquillity V* The prisoners were then re-con- 
 ductcd to their dungeons. 
 
 From the place of Serina’s confinement, she could observe, 
 on the evening of her father’s trial, that several men were 
 erecting # a scaffold in the prison-yard below; ignorant of 
 whom it was for, she inquired, and was briefly answered — 
 for the Marquis de Montfort! The dreadful news made her 
 utter a piercing shriek, after which a weight of despair 
 seemed to settle on her mind. Thc_night she passed in 
 prayers to share her father’s fate; and the following morn¬ 
 ing the tolling of the bells and the din of the populace an¬ 
 nounced the approaching execution. While she was occu¬ 
 pied by these deep and afflicting objects, a voice impres¬ 
 sively pronounced her name, and a paper was thrust through 
 the aperture in her prison-door.—It contained aa invitation 
 to her to be ready to depart in half an hour, when the gates 
 would be opened to one who had an equal power and incli¬ 
 nation to serve her. From her window she could sec her 
 deliverer hurry through the jail-door, muffled up in a large 
 cloak, and give the jailor money. The disguised person in 
 a few minutes after returned, and, having cautiously shut 
 the door of Serina’s apartment, explained to her that com¬ 
 miseration for her situation, now her father and mother 
 were inevitably doomed to death, had induced him to offer 
 ker a safe conduct to ail asylum, where compassionating 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 IS 
 
 friends would comfort and protect her. Scrina hesitated : 
 but the stranger being peremptory, she permitted him ter 
 conduct her; and, having passed the hi-1 gate, as they con¬ 
 tinued to pass under the prison-wall, the broken accents of 
 anguish burst troin the lips of Serina in the name of her 
 unfortunate parent;.—The stranger, grown desperate from, 
 his danger, seized Serina, and in his arms transported her 
 to his carriage, which drove off with violent rapidity, nor 
 stopped till it reached the chateau of Montuoir. 
 
 Serina during her journey discovered her deliverer was a 
 priest, of a young and interesting 'mien, and his behaviour 
 was of the most friendly kind. Having placed his fair charge 
 on the sofa in an inner apartment of the chateau, he re¬ 
 tired. The coarse reflections of Aquilina, on the fate of 
 ] >e Montfo.t, increased the distress ol her mistress; and, a* 
 the night advanced, every hour augmented her terror at 
 being alone, afid unprotected.—She thought she heard an 
 indistinct humming in an adjoining room, and rose to listen 
 at her door, but all was silent. Concluding it was Aqui- 
 lina, she called to her to bring a light, and conduct her to 
 her chamber; but receiving no answer, she advanced across 
 the court-yard by the light or the rising moon.—In looking 
 round, she observed alamo hung near Aquilina’s den, and 
 made directly towards it. A man she now observed darted 
 towards the mouldering steps, ascended to the gallery, and 
 entered the door of the library. The terrified Serina ran to 
 Aquilma, wnom she found busily employed in preparing a 
 supper, and demanded if she knew the man, and what was 
 his business at the chateau. Un lerstamling by the manner 
 *ic ha n th at this was the case, Serina took a lamp, - 
 
 and proceeded to her apartment. The step of the man fol¬ 
 lowed close, and overtook her at the moment her quick mo¬ 
 tion had extinguished the light. The man now seized her, 
 and demanded if she did not know him ?—She only answered 
 a loud shriek, w hich relieved her from the pressure of 
 his grasp. Alight in a few minutes gleamed towards her, 
 and shewed her the young priest, who, taking her hand 
 wilh tenderness, told her that the object of her alarm was 
 Aigund, the young, and amiable son of i\[. Dodicr, who 
 only waited her consent to espouse and make her happy. 
 
 I liis speech was followed by the re-appearance of Arg nd, 
 who declared his determination not to be trifled with.—Th«r 
 
 k. k 2 
 
16 ' 
 
 the blood-stained dagger. 
 
 priest interceded with him to abate his violence, to which 
 Argahd replied aside, that in one hour more the whole mys¬ 
 tery might be unravelled, and his purpose defeated. The 
 priest now drew the son of Dodier on one side, apparent'y 
 to remonstrate on his precipitate behaviour; but every kind 
 intention of the priest was frustrated by the entrance of 
 Ors ano, whom Argand ordered to do his office; he then 
 seized the petrified fx'rinu, and carried her into the IB 
 brarv, where she was placed in a chair, unable to resist or 
 expostulate. Argand mocked her terrors; and told her that 
 he would leave her for a few minutes, while Orsano guarded 
 the door.— A confused .whispering was soon after heard in 
 the gallery, and, as the clock struck twelve, Serbia heard 
 the chains of the drawbridge let down. By the light of a 
 dull lamp, in the gallery, she soon perceived a figure ad¬ 
 vance to her, whom she recognised to be the elder Dodier.. 
 1,4 You shall not now escape mef’ he uttered in a harsh 
 voice, planting himself fcetvVeen her and the door.—“For 
 whom did my parent perish V } exclaimed Serina, and sunk 
 inanimate at his feet. When she had recovered, he forced 
 her into the private chapel, near the recess, and ordered 
 Argand to call Orsano and his wife as the witnesses of his 
 son’s marriage with Serina. 
 
 While he was-gone,, Senna again inquired for whom her 
 parents had suffered, and Dodier said, “ Do you not know 
 that the Marquis here in the forest, at midnight, murdered 
 a wretched traveller, and afterwards concealed the body? 
 Part of the victim’s clothes were also found in the chamber 
 of your mother.” Seiina * bricked with horror,- and ex¬ 
 claimed, “ lie lives! and my parents have died innocent \” 
 Argand having returned with Orsano and Aquilina, Dodier 
 ordered Serina either to permit the marriage to take 
 place, or accompany him to a small house he had on the 
 forest. At the conclusion of this menace he seized her arm, 
 and dragged her through the library into the gallery, where, 
 scarcely visible in the faint light, the feeble form of Madame 
 de Montfort advanced toward them !—Serina rushed to her- 
 arms, and Dodier instantly made Ids escape. As he tra¬ 
 versed the forest, the image of Madame de Montfort pur¬ 
 sued his cruel cowardly soul. A dreadful storm, intermixed 
 with awful thunder and lightning, made him take shelter at 
 the post-house, the master of which arose from Jus bed on 
 hearing his name, and prepared v. Hie and accommodations. 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 17 
 
 A peal of thunder made the host exclaim, “ God have mercy 
 on the guilty.— I don't remfember such a night since the old 
 Marquis died.—The villagers then could not help thinking 
 he was-”—“ Thinking what?” exclaimed Dodier, sei¬ 
 
 zing him by the collar; then, recollecting himself, he asked 
 who had changed horses there the preceding night. “ Why/' 
 replied the host, “ the Marquis, with Madame, and tiie 
 young Englishman, who was wounded in the forest some 
 time since.—After getting some refreshment at Montnoir- 
 Castle, he went to Bologna, where the news reached him 
 that l)e Montfort was accused of his assassination.—Upon 
 hearing this, he instantly new to Milan, and arrived there 
 at the moment previous to the execution. At this juncture, 
 a courier entered the prison-court, who announced that he 
 had actually overtaken a messenger with letters from M. 
 Dodier to his son ; and produced a letter in his hand-w riting, 
 dated since his supposed murder. The proof could not be 
 resisted; De Montfort and his wife were liberated, and 
 their property restored. The Englishman is taking every 
 means to trace out the assassin, whose identity he is cer¬ 
 tain of/’—“How!” cried Dodier, “certain of his iden¬ 
 tity Yes,” replied the* host, “from a million.—Sus¬ 
 
 picion has alighted on the old Abbe ;—bur, whoever the vil- 
 Jain be that would have endangered th.c life of the good 
 Marquis, i hope to see him gibbeted; don’t you, Signor?” 
 Dodier looked frowningly at the post-master; and, having 
 called for his horse, departed. 
 
 In the evening lie reached Milan, where he received the 
 welcome of his friends on his return; to whom he stated 
 that, vexed at the refusal of the Signora Sospira, he had 
 followed her father to Florence ; but, finding her adverse to 
 his wishes, he had set out for the forest of Montnoir, to 
 answer the challenge of the Marquis. M. Dooier now de¬ 
 termined to remove the Marquis from the chateau, and 
 sent him a letter to that efiect, in which he stated that it 
 was no longer possible to protect a man who was stigmatized 
 as an assassin. De Montfort received the letter with con-, 
 tempt, and was breathing his indignation against Dodier,. 
 when Dorville entei wi.— Lhe Marquis endeavoured to sup¬ 
 press his anger, and, taking the arm of Dorvillc, led him 
 into the saloon, taiking upon different subjects, which but 
 ineffectually concealed his agitation. His wife and daughter 
 
 K k 3 
 
IS 
 
 Till: BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 liad just joined them for a promenade, when a servant ar¬ 
 rived from Dodier, demanding' an answer to the letter.— 
 During the time the Marquis retired with him, the Mar- 
 chiones frankly explained their situation to Dorville, who 
 offered to intercede with the cruel Dodier. The Marchio¬ 
 ness requested him not to hint such an intention to her hus¬ 
 band, ivho shortly after joined them, and declared his re¬ 
 solution of leaving the chateau on the following morning.—- 
 After some beautiful airs on the mandolin by Serina, every 
 sound of who^e accompanying voice vibrated to the heart of 
 Dorville, the whole family at ten o’clock retired to rest, and 
 rose on the following-morning to prosecute their journey 
 to Leghorn. Dorville, seeing the shattered state of their 
 old cabriolet, offered the use of his coach as he was 
 going the same route, and should be happy to be the com¬ 
 panion of their journey. Mademoiselle dc Montfort Se¬ 
 conded the proposal, and their little iron box being firmly 
 fastened before the carriage, thev all entered Dorvillc’s ve- 
 
 9 w * ' •/ 
 
 hicle, De Montfort’s servant occupying the old cabriolet.— 
 They terminated their first dav’s route at a village near 
 Milan. The villagers were dancing on the green before the 
 door of the auberge, and Dorville led Serina to the top of 
 the dance, while the Marquis and his wife, looking on, 
 seemed for a while to share the general hilarity. 
 
 As Dorville conducted his fair partner to the house, he 
 put a letter into her hand, the contents of which being very 
 mysterious, he charged her to read when she was alone, 
 and reflect on before she communicated the contents to the 
 Marquis. During supper, they were attended by the woman 
 of the house, who possessed an unceasing fund of anecdote 
 and loquacity ; in the course of which, she proceeded in this 
 manner :—“ Signor, I once lived at the. chateau of Mont- 
 Jtcir, and, sad to sav, our Signor, who was a very good and 
 great mail, died by Iris own hands.—He was at prayers when 
 Lc killed himself; from which hour the north wing of the 
 chateau has been shut up, as if it were ilTested by an evil 
 spirit i”—“ I see it clearly !” said tire Marquis, pacing the 
 room in the. greatest agitation ; and the woman, taking tire 
 expression literally, departed in a great hurry. Serina at 
 midnight, by the light of her lamp, opened her letter, ha¬ 
 ving previously observed that nothing stirred in the-auberge, 
 a lid i hat her door was fastened. The contents were these ; 
 ** Secure the daughter, as the Marquis will probably escape. 
 
THE BLOOD-STAIXED DAGGER. 
 
 II 1 C 1 V fo! 00 or persuasion she must be your’s, before 
 the events transpire which will destroy our hopes, or she 
 must die!—Be secret—-farewell .” 
 
 As Seri nil laid the paper on the table, almost overcome 
 with amazement*, she beheld in the mirror before her the 
 stern features of a man looking ovei her shoulder.—Fixed 
 in mute astonishment, it was some minutes before she had 
 
 courage to turn round, but nothing mortal was near her._- 
 
 Faking the lamp she examined the chamber; the- door was 
 secure, and she saw no visible means by which any one 
 could have entered. Willing to persuade herself it was but 
 an illusion of fancy, she began to re-examine the letter, 
 when a deep sigh startled her.—A groan succeeded, and she 
 heard these words articulated, “Touch not the paper!— 
 your life depends on your ignorance!”, Serina, convinced 
 there was reality in what she heard, flew to her door, un¬ 
 bolted it, and rushed into her father’s chamber, where she 
 told the mysterious visit slic had received, but from pru¬ 
 dential reasons concealed the secret of the letter. At day¬ 
 break they entered Senna’s room, and discovered a door 
 concealed behind some tapestry, but no one was there, nor 
 could'Serina see the letter, which she had left on the table. 
 The hostess, next morning, was questioned, who knew no¬ 
 thing more than that a traveller had- stopped there during 
 the night, after she was in bed, and before day-break had 
 proceeded on his way. 
 
 Dorville observed the gloom on Serina’s countenance, 
 and anxiously waited for a proper opportunity to converse 
 with her on the subject of the vFit. The party now con¬ 
 tinued their journey, and safely arrived at Bologna, at which 
 place they retired to an inn.— f I he serenity of the evening 
 inviting them to take a walk before supper, they went to the 
 Palazzo Publico, opposite to which is a superb fountain. 
 In returning from their promenade, the Marquis observed 
 i young woman in an agony of tears, silting on the steps of 
 the fountain: he loitered behind to observe, and saw her 
 :ill a large flask at the reservoir.—As he advanced towards 
 ler, the mourner, delicately clad, and unveiled; regarded 
 inn with sympathetic solicitude, and at last exclaimed, 
 
 Merciful heaven! it is lie!” She then hastened away 
 irom the spot, hurried through the Piazzas, and,, after va- 
 ious windings, stopped at a small parte < where. i)e Mont- 
 tort followed close, and intercepted her from entering at tka 
 
20 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 moment the door opened. — “Alas'/' said the incognita , 
 “ why do you follow me?—You have already shared those 
 tears which now fall for the afflictions of another; but 
 what will you feel, when you learn that the anguish in my 
 
 bosom proceeds from-/’ A voice now calling Juliana, 
 
 she ran to the foot of some stairs in a small court-yard, De 
 Montfort following her. Stopping on a sudden, she ad¬ 
 dressed him: “I perceive you are interested in my fate; 
 you shall know my misfortunes, though it will only wound 
 your sympathizing heart, and not recompense you for your 
 pains/'—“ This is all I require/' said the Marquis. Ju¬ 
 liana then introduced him into a back inner apartment, 
 poorly furnished, in a recess of which stood a wretched 
 narrow bedstead; beside it was a lamp on a chair. Juliana 
 then advanced with a deep sigh, and, drawing back the cur¬ 
 tains, displayed a young man, whose breathing only disco¬ 
 vered signs of existence. He seemed to sleep, for which 
 Juliana gratefully raised her eyes to heaven; she then 
 quitted the gloomy chamber, promising to return in a few- 
 minutes. De Montfort had no knowledge of the young 
 man, who shortly after awoke, and called for Juliana. The 
 Marquis advanced to him, and asked if he could render him. 
 any service.—The young man upon this regarded him with 
 fixed attention, uttered an ejaculation of horror, and sunk 
 senseless before him. The Marquis held him in his arms, 
 till he believed he grasped only a lifeless body, when he 
 laid the unknown corpse down, and, placing his purse of 
 twenty louis d’ors on the table, hastened into the street. 
 When he reached his hotel, he told the singular adventure to 
 Dorville, who persuaded the Marquis to proceed on his 
 journey without delay, lest, as at Milan, he should be ac¬ 
 cused of murder. In consequence of this advice, they 
 quitted Bologna at sun-rise. Till they arrived at the inn 
 .where they meant to sleep, De Montfort could not forget 
 the person and the tears of Juliana, nor the dying stranger. 
 
 The auberge being full of travellers, Dorville lay for that 
 night at a neighbouring house. Mademoiselle de Montfort 
 slept at the end of a Icing gallery, its whole length from the 
 Marquis; in her chamber was deposited the valuable lug¬ 
 gage of Dorville, as being a place of security. Serina 
 scarcely had sunk to sleep, when her rest was disturbed by 
 footsteps in her chamber.—Unfolding her curtains gently, by 
 the glimmering light of a lamp, she perceived a man only 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 «1 
 
 a low pares from her bed. He wore a black mask, and in 
 his hand lie held a poniard. She counterfeited -sleep, and 
 heard a voice say, £ ‘ Dorvillc, prepare for instant death!" 
 The "figure now fetched the lamp, a net passed it before her 
 eye-lids : he then replaced it behind the cabinet, and re¬ 
 turned t <2 the bed-side, uttering a deep groan. The ruffian, 
 then grasping her hand, exclaimed, “ Senna, counterfeit 
 sleep no longer!—On your prudence depends your life !— 
 Keen your eyes shut, and answer .faithfully to my questions* 
 Relate what you know of the foreigner travelling with you ?" 
 “ He is an English gentleman, of the name of Dorviiie, 
 and we are travelling'to Florence," said Serina ‘faintly.—• 
 “ He must die!" said the stranger. Serina trembled, ami 
 said he had saved the life of her father. “ I came here," 
 continued the villain, “ thinking to find him with his bag¬ 
 gage.—This visit was not meant for von!—Now mark me ! 
 —The restless spirit of murdered innocence demands retri¬ 
 bution, and haunts me continually.- Progressive crimes 
 have rendered the name of De Montfort hateful to me, and 
 both he and Dorvillc must die for the crimes of others.— 
 “ Both perish !" exclaimed Serina. “ The name* of De 
 Montfort," proceeded the assassin, “ is stained with inno¬ 
 cent blood ! His name shall perish !—Now swear never to 
 disclose to any one the visit of this night !—There is one 
 event, indeed, which will depend on yourself, that may save 
 your father!—I shall visit you again, and then you shall 
 know the power of exercising it. You will find on your 
 cabinet, a small crucifix of ebony, on which is impressed 
 the word Remerhber !—Now kiss it, and swear if you see a 
 similar talisman, you will not notice it." lie pressed the 
 poniard on'her bosom as she kissed the cruciiix, and swore 
 to be secret. On reviving, she lay terrified till the morning 
 dawn, when she arose to examine her chamber; on the ca¬ 
 binet lay the terrible crucifix, at the back of which was en¬ 
 graven the word Remember !"—The tears gushed from her 
 eyes as she reflected on the dreadful sccrecv she had bound 
 herself to, and the. disorder of her mica next morning was 
 visible to her friends, who saw her bosom labouring with, 
 a despondency they could not penetrate.—A father’s life 
 depended on her being secret, but would not ensure that 
 of Donillc, whose destruction was to be hastened if she 
 broke her oath. 
 
55 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 The inn where they stopped to sleep the next night, was 
 situated in a beautiful valley. Serina made he^extjusedjS? 
 early in the evening, retired to her chamber, wherc^ throw¬ 
 ing herself on the.bed, she soon fell into a profound sleep. 
 Dorville, missing Serina, stole from his friends, and entered 
 her chamber in search of her.—At the siidit of Serina 
 
 o 
 
 sleeping he drew back, but her agitated features arrested his 
 attention.—In a faint voice she exclaimed, “ Unhappy 
 Dorville!—Wretched father 1 Oh ! spare him, do not mur¬ 
 der him !”—Dorville, finding her begin to move, descended 
 
 'OCT 7 
 
 the stairs, and with a heavy heart wandered on the high 
 road, wrapped in thought, till he entered a wood, whose 
 dark foliage suited his pensive state of mind.—The words 
 “ Unhappy Donille," escaped forcibly from his lips, as he 
 continued moving on, absorbed in reverie, till the object of 
 his contemplation advanced behind him, and remarked, that 
 his absence having made her apprehensive for his safety, 
 she had come to seek'him. “Charming Serina," said he, 
 “what should molest me?”—“If any danger s'hould ap¬ 
 proach you," said Serina, “ I would-” 
 
 At this juncture a rude looking peasant came up to them 
 from behind the trees, and addressed. Dorville. “Signor," 
 said he, “ it is one of your description I am in search of. 
 
 1 am driven by necessity to undertake this task—but follow 
 me to the skirts of the forest, and there my conduct will 
 explain itself." Seeing the man unarmed, Dorville consented 
 to go, nor would Serina forsake him. They proceeded to • 
 gether till they came to a cottage, under the brow of a steep 
 mountain. “ Here,” said the peasant, “ lies a poor sick man, 
 broken hearted and dying :—1 have supported him till alt 
 my means are exhausted, and I should be loath to see him 
 perish at last !"—The visitors each gave him their purse, 
 and agreed to defer seeing the sick man till the following 
 morning, as the night had rapidly advanced:—they there¬ 
 fore returned to the auberge, conducted by the peasant’s 
 son. Early the next morning, the whole party repaired to 
 the cottage, and, previously to entering the sick room, the 
 countryman said, that the object of his solicitude? he had 
 found on the road-side faintipg, and that he was an old 
 French abbe. Madame de Montfort instantly rushed in the 
 chamber, where, on a poor but clean bed, she recognized 
 the good old Abbe Besant. 11 is feeble eyvs and extend¬ 
 ed hands soon shewed that he recollected them. The 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 23 
 
 Marquis, determined to wait the event of Besant’s illness, 
 would have had Dorville proceed in his journey, but he con¬ 
 stantly protracted it till the morrow. Near the foot of the 
 mountain was a small cheap house, most romantically situa¬ 
 ted, which the Marquis hired, and removed his family to. 
 3 hither the Abbe was moved, and soon recovered. Dorville 
 requested to reside with his friend fora short time.—Their 
 habitation belonged to the Abbot of a neighbouring convent, 
 who in bis heart partook very little of the holiness* requisite 
 for that sanctified station. 
 
 As soon as the Abbe Besant was perfectly recovered, he 
 gave the following account of his absence.— 1 “ When/' said 
 he, “ Mr. Dorville was wounded, knowing the Marquis to 
 be incapable of such an outrage, I set off for Milan. At 
 M. Dodier’s I was informed, that he and the Marquis had 
 departed the previous day to fight a duel in Montnoir forest. 
 Knowing that 1 must have seen them in passing, I made in¬ 
 quiries, without success, at the gates of the city, and was 
 on the point of returning to the chateau, when a courier 
 from Bologna informed me, that a few leagues off only he 
 had met such a person as 1 described. Anxious for the 
 safety of the Marquis 1 , I hired a post-chaise, and arrived at 
 [Bologna with only two louis in iny pocket. * I now com¬ 
 menced my journey on foot, still receiving at every post an 
 account of a person having passed with great caution and 
 secrecy. I found myself ne day quite exhausted with fa- 
 jtiguo and heat, and sat down upon a bank, near the skirts 
 of a wood: night overtook me; its cold dews struck to my 
 r* lli JV ’ tendered me incapable of farther progress, in 
 which state the humane peasant Jacinto found me." 0 
 
 The Marquis then comfoited the good Abbe, and in- 
 bmned him that he had been pursuing M. Dodier to Tiw- 
 3aI, y» u ^° followed the Count Cucurii, to obtain his 
 laugh or s hand.—The Marquis having perceived the atten- 
 ums ol Dorville to hh daughter, his pride took the alarm, 
 md he determined to demand a speedy explanation. It had 
 -‘ccn an invariable rule of Senna to confess once a month, 
 md she now embraced to opportunity of going to the Abbot 
 h the convent, on the monthly Friday set apart for hearing 
 onfessions, unwilling to omit, any longer what she con¬ 
 nived to be an indispensible duty.— She went early in the 
 ay; but so many had assembled "before her, that the Abbot 
 ppointed her to come in the evening. It was near sunset 
 
 l 
 
24 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 wlien Mademoiselle de Montfort readied theconvcnt, where 
 the Marquis accompanied her, and was to wait without the 
 gates till she returned.—One of the fathers led her to the 
 chapel, where she was requested to remain, till Pinctta, the 
 Abbot, was at leisure. While she waited in the chape!, a 
 Gothic door opened to an inner apartment: it stood a jar, 
 and Serina was tempted to approach the threshold. On the 
 table stood a luxuriant collection of fruits and wines, and 
 the furniture of the room little accorded with an abode of 
 penance and humility.. T he Abbot appeared somewhat con¬ 
 fused at finding her in his apartment; recovering himself, 
 however, he led her to an elegant sopha; and, seating him- " 
 self beside her, seemed inclined to converse upon any*other 
 subject than that she came upon. The Abbot’s person, 
 which was hale and lusty, ill accorded with the lessons of 
 mortification he said he underwent for the love of holiness. 
 Expressing a wish to depart, the Abbot conducted her to 
 the chapel, where he desired her to remain a few ininutes tiil 
 he returned. 
 
 While she impatiently waited, a venerable monk, # his head 
 covered with his cowl, and nearly bent double with age, 
 moved along the chapel, and., opening a small door, in¬ 
 stantly vanished.—Serina followed through where the Monk 
 had passed, and, taking a lamp, descended a flight of steps 
 to a narrow passage, where another door conducted her to 
 a long vault, cm the sides of which were, stone coffins, and 
 at the farther end a figure of the Holy Virgin, before which 
 two dim tapers were burning.— Seeing the aged Monk re¬ 
 clining in a pensive attitude on one of the coffins, she ran 
 to him, but lie instantly disappeared in the gloom. In a 
 moment after, something with a ringing sound dropped on 
 the stone floor : by the light of her lamp she beheld it wy* 
 the same blood-stained dagger she had first, discovered in 
 Montnoir chateau!—Horror and surprize rendering her 
 desperate, she resolved to arm herself with it, and stooped 
 to pick it up: in doing this, her eye caught the figure of 
 the Virgin, the head of which bowed, and a deep groan ran 
 along the vault.. The mind of Serina, naturally supersti¬ 
 tious, interpreted this as a favourable -omen; and shea se¬ 
 cond tune stretched forth her hand towards the poinaid. * 
 r i jie Virgin again bowed her head, and Mademoiselle de 
 Montfort immediately grasped the handle; but no sooner 
 had she raised it from the ground, than the image seemed 
 
the blood-stained dagger. 
 
 25 
 
 eonvulsed, the tapers and her lamp fell extinguished, and a 
 thundering voice exclaimed “ Remember! 1 !;e poniaid 
 now dropped from her hand at this token of the Virgin's 
 displeasure, and she was just sinking to the earth, when a 
 glimmering light moved on the right hand side slowly to¬ 
 wards her I as she advanced, the visionary flame receded*/ 
 at length she touched a thin woollen curtain, through-which 
 the light appeared to float, and perceived, on drawing it 
 aside*a meagre venerable father, who expressed much sur¬ 
 prize at finding her there.—lie was kindly conducting her 
 out of the convent, when the Abbot appeared, dismissed the 
 Monk, and led Serina to the altar of his ceil, to confess.— 
 Serina drew the crucifix of ebony from her bosom, and was 
 tremblingly beginning to make hei confession, when toe 
 alter shook, and Remember!” was again repeated.— 
 “ Your onlv hope," sakl the priest, in a low solemn voice*, 
 “ depends on a'full confession.—This awful warning implies 
 fcome deep crime. ' Senna hesitated, di\ided between her 
 sacred oath and confessional duty.—Upon a second re¬ 
 buke, she placed her.quivering lips to the grating, and made 
 a full confession to the attentive Abbot, who charged her to 
 keep the secret as she valued her soul s health ; and, as sne 
 had committed some heinous offences in the eye of the 
 church, lie should appoint her in a few days a certain pe¬ 
 nance.—lie then conducted her, with many tender glances, 
 to one of the monks, into whose charge he delivered her, 
 and she returned safely to Ohateau-ncuf, wheic she. found, 
 her mother in the deepest distress at hei absence. 
 
 The Marquis, having waited tiil twilight, inquired at the 
 convent for his daughter, and, being told she was gone, ex¬ 
 plored every place in searching for her. On his return, die 
 found Dorville was absent, and immediately concluded, that, 
 either from treachery or his persuasion, she hao deserted 
 her home. The Marquis was not within when Dorville re¬ 
 turned to clear himself from every suspicion. Equally dis- 
 tracked.with De Montfort,'he rushed .out of the house, and 
 wandered till midnight,* calling repeatedly on Seiina.—— 
 Some, time after her re-appearance he entered, and she joy¬ 
 fully welcomed his return.—Dorville seemed extremely agi¬ 
 tated, and to the question if he had seen the Marquis, ha 
 returned * a sullen answer'in the -affirmative* During this 
 state of consternation, the Marquis’s voice was heard, de~ 
 . . , , L 1 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 26 
 
 mantling entrance. Serina flew to open the door, and Dof- 
 vilie, after viewing him with an incensed eve, abruptly re¬ 
 tired to his chamber. The Marchioness conjured the Mar¬ 
 quis to explain the cause of his emotions, and, after re¬ 
 peated solicitations, she extorted a promise, that on the fol¬ 
 lowing day every circumstance' should be fully elucidated. 
 
 The dawn was just beginning to brighten, when the restless 
 and distressed Dorville tapped at the door of Mademoiselle 
 de Montfort’s room, and requested the interview of a few 
 moments. Having arisen, she unlocked the door, and ho 
 entered her apartment. He was completely dressed for 
 travelling. Taking Serina’s hand, he pressed it to his heart, 
 while his lips quivered, as he told her that the dreadful mo¬ 
 ment had arrived in which he must quit her for ever !—• 
 •‘‘Your father’s safety,” continued he, “depends on my 
 departure. There are wrongs, nay crimes, which demand 
 the hand of justice !”—“Crimes! — Whose crimes?” ea¬ 
 gerly demanded Serina.—“ Your father’s !” rejoined Dor- 
 ville. “ I meant, to have departed without revealing my in¬ 
 juries, or wounding your sympathizing bosom: let me be 
 gone, and hide the rest!”—“ No,” added Mademoiselle de 
 Montfort; “ not till you recal your accusation.—These in¬ 
 human calumnies are uttered against a friend that loves you, 
 
 and only seeks-”—“To destroy me,” added Dorville.— 
 
 ** Yes, like a cowardly assassin, seeks my life!—Last night 
 I went in search of you ; I did not expect that he, for whose 
 misfortunes I have felt the sharpest sorrow, would cross my 
 path to murder me !—Returning through yonder vineyard, 
 he seized hold of me ; we struggled ; 1 was the strongest, 
 and he fled.—As I hastened towards home. I met a goatherd, 
 who said that he bad seen the Marquis running along the 
 winding path.—You saw howjie regarded me when he came 
 in: it was your beloved self that arrested my indignation, 
 and who now gives me the keenest pang in leaving this once- 
 friendly mansion.”—“ Ah ! Dorville,” said Serina; “his 
 faculties are impaired ; he must have been insensible of 
 what he did. Pity him, therefore, and let that generous 
 feeling stay your resolution to depart.”—“It is irrevocably 
 fixed l” replied Dorville. 
 
 The lovers had occupied an hour in separation, when a 
 stirring vin the Marquis’s chamber at length decided the 
 struggle, and Dorville rushed to the dooi\—“ Adieu, dear 
 youth l” said Serina.—With an impassioned kiss be tore 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 27 
 
 faimself from her. From the casement of her chamber she 
 watched him along the valley, fill he was visible no longer. 
 The Sudden departure of Dorville excited no surprize in De 
 Montfort’s manner, and after breakfast he quitted the room, 
 muttering the name ol Dorville. During the remainder of 
 the autumn, De Montfort’s mental inquietude increased 
 every day. Wild starts, unconnected expressions, and pa¬ 
 roxysms of melancholy, formed his general habits. Fart of 
 his time he employed in incoherent writings, and wandering 
 in the surrounding scenery. 
 
 The pleasure which hope had presented in flie solitude of 
 the mountains was entirely banished by the Marquis’s de¬ 
 rangement. Scrina was no less grieved than her mother j 
 the ambiguous expressions of the midnight visitor, and the 
 mysteries daily augmenting, worked powerfully on Serina’s' 
 
 mind, already strongly tinctured with superstition. She 
 possessed the only clue which darkened the fate of her fa- 
 
 mily, and her grief was rendered more acute by the injunc¬ 
 tion Pinetta had laid on her. In this deranged state D® 
 Monttort continued, till winter - begad to deform the face of 
 nature. One moonlight frosty night, as the Marquis and 
 Besant were walking from the convent, when they came to 
 that part ol the wood which was near Chuteau-neuf, D® 
 Monttort abruptly stopped. “ Here,” said he, “ is the very 
 spot on which 1 was eternally disgraced.—1 am fallen, de¬ 
 graded, despicable !—My trial before the tribunal in Milan 
 has made me a coward, and thus subjected me to insult l- 1 — 
 Know, Besant, there are men who would take advantage of 
 past events, in order to commit new outrages, which, through 
 the peculiar circumstances of time and place, would turn 
 against the person injured.”-—“ Can theie be such a vil¬ 
 lain ?” said Besant. “ Yes!” replied De Montfort, “ if Dor¬ 
 ville be in existence!” 
 
 The Abbe expressed his astonishment, and, as they pro¬ 
 ceeded home, the Marquis related the several private conver¬ 
 sations he had detected Dorville in with Serina.—“ I con-* 
 suited,” continued he, “my wife on his behaviour, and 
 she had remarked a peculiarity of manner, and an evasion 
 ot her questions, that seemed to cherish some unhandsome 
 design.—This alarmed my paternal fondness ; for, the dawgh- 
 tet of De Montfort, though humbled in adversity, is infi¬ 
 nitely superior to the richest dishonour.-- On the night I 
 
 LI 2 
 
 i 
 
2S 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 accompanied Serina to the convent, you witnessed my soli¬ 
 citude for her return. Having been told there that she had 
 quitted it some time, 1 wandered about in despair, and was 
 returning hopeless to Ghateau-neuf, when a ruffian darted 
 from the path-side and struck me !—I could not distinguish 
 him accurately in the dark, but suspicion suggested that the 
 coward was Dorville. I called him.by his name, but he 
 made no answer; he ran from me, and I followed as fast as 
 I was able, till I tame within a few yards of f’hateau- 
 neuf, where I saw him enter.—What followed after4s known 
 to you already/' 
 
 By the time the story was concluded, they had reached 
 home. On the following day the whole adventure was un¬ 
 folded to the Marchioness and Serina by. De Montfort, 
 who seemed surprized that his daughter expressed so little 
 indignation at the turpitude of Dorvill'e. She suddenly ran 
 to her father, and demanded the exact spot where he had 
 been assaulted.—“ It was/' replied the Marquis, “ at the 
 cross, which is visible from the front gate of the convent." 
 “ Heaven be praised !" exclaimed Serina, “ then is the 
 worthy Dorville innocent, and my beloved father equally 
 guiltless!" The conflict in her bosom overpowered her, 
 and she fell into his arms. As soon as Serina recovered, 
 she explained her interview with Dorville on the morning 
 of his departure, and his statement of the rencountre; 
 hence all parties were satisfied there existed a mistake.— 
 The Marquis, however, purposed in the evening taking the 
 Abbot’s opinion on the business. The latter was decidedly 
 of opinion that Dorville was guilty, and that Senna’s ex¬ 
 cuse was but a tale of the most subtle hypocrisy, to shield 
 ‘ the misconduct of her lover, and deceive her indigent fa¬ 
 ther.—Ilis daughter’s behaviour, could it be true, was a 
 dee]) wound aimed at bis peace. 
 
 As be walked home, ruminating on tliis new load of an¬ 
 guish, he saw Serina running to meet him.—As she smiled, 
 be caught her to his bosom.—“ 1 cannot believe you guilty, 
 my child," said he: “thou art deceived!" He then led 
 her by the arm till they came opposite to the cross, where 
 lie had received the blow. Looking sternly at her, be said, 
 “ Is there no interposing angel that whispers to you the un- 
 disguized frankness which a child owes to a parent? Is not 
 a father’s security of more consequence than a promise of 
 secrecy made to a villain?” The extreme agitation of Sc- 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 29 
 
 rina confirmed the Marquis's suspicion, and he continued: 
 “ Tell me faithfully, lives there not a wretch who seeks my 
 destruction ?" 
 
 The question was of the most distressing kind.—Serina 
 gazed earnestly on the Cross, recollected the stern injunc¬ 
 tion of Pinetta, and above all the sacred oath she had 
 taken, which she religiously resolved not to disclose. The 
 Marquis, whose questions merely related to Dorville, find* 
 ing Serina returned no answer, broke from her, vowing that 
 he would wash away his infamy in the blood of Dorville.— 
 “ By the holy host of heaven," exclaimed Serina, following 
 him, “ he is not guilty of the blow!"—“ Why then are you 
 thus agitated ?" rejoined her father. “ If you know aught 
 against my honour or my life, you are bound to disclose it/' 
 Serina’s heart was full; she would have told him all, but 
 superstitious fear barred her tongue. Equally agitated, 
 they were returning home, when at the corner of the wood 
 they were overtaken by the Padre Paulo, who came from 
 the Abbot, to request an interview the next morning with 
 Serina. / 
 
 Early the following day, Mademoiselle de Montfort re¬ 
 paired to the convent, and was introduced to the lordly 
 Abbot. “ Lovely fugitive," said he, “ your persecutions 
 and your errors demand my pity.—Mine are the pure dic¬ 
 tates of holy fervour for your eternal happiness.—Behold 
 that cross!—and tremble while I unfold the crime you have 
 impiously committed,, and dared to conceal from me in an 
 act of confession.—This foul deed has been revealed to me 
 from heaven,, in repeated and awful dreams !—In the Cha¬ 
 teau of Montnoir is a chapel, consecrated to holy rites:—- 
 that sanctuary was plundered by sacrilegious hands at the- 
 solemn hour of midnight ! The crime is punishable with 
 death !”—Serina fell at his feet in an agony of terror.-— 
 
 “ All that remains of my duty," continued the Ahbot, “ is. 
 to inflict the penance!"—“ Name it!" cried Serina faintly., 
 
 “ You arc to return to the sacred chapel of Montnoir re¬ 
 plied the Abbot;. “ and on the spot where your unhallowed 
 hands violated tho holy, altar, pass six months in darkness*, 
 prayer, and penitence!"—“ Not to Montnoir !" exclaimed 
 Serina.—“ To that place will I never return !" The Abbot 
 was startled at her firmness,, and, telling her to be secret,. 
 Jie dismissed her till the morrow, promising in the mean. 
 
 LI: 3 
 
30 
 
 TIIE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 time to pray for a mitigation of her punishment. Seriria 
 then proceeded to Chateau-neuf; and all the remainder of 
 the day, and the followings night, meditated on the correct 
 information conveyed to the Abbot through his miraculous 
 dreams. A . 
 
 •‘On the following morning, the Marquis conducted Serina 
 to the convent. The philosophy of nature occupied their 
 minds as they went along ;—they reasoned backwards to the 
 great First Cause and were almost persuaded that the Maker 
 of the vast universe co.uld not be a dealer in partial little 
 systems of faith ; or that the benevolent Jacinto was not as 
 much an object of his care as the pampered Abbot. While 
 Serina was absorbed in reflection, they reached the Convent; 
 and the Marquis left her, promising to return in a short time. 
 -—Ou being conducted to the Abbot’s apartment, she found 
 him seated before a blazing fire, with a luxuriant break¬ 
 fast of fruit and wines, of which he drank profusely.—The 
 Abbot invited Serina to partake of his repast, but she de¬ 
 clined the offer'; he then complimented her personal beauty, 
 and hinted at the happiness of Dorville in such a posses¬ 
 sion, whom hie considered as unworthy of her, and the base 
 assaulter of her father.—“ He must be abandoned/’ conti¬ 
 nued the Abbot; “ and it is easy to discern the object who 
 in justice ought to supply his place.—Your concessions are 
 due to M. Dodier, whose hospitable mansion you made the 
 scene of sacrilegious violation.—He hot only consents to 
 bury your transgression in oblivion, but offers you his son 
 A rgand i n marriage.” 
 
 
 Did you dream,” said Serina 
 firmly, “ that the Divinity wished me to perform this as an 
 act of penance?—Never shall Serina be the wife of such a 
 being as Argand.”—“ Impious wretch !" exclaimed Pinetta, 
 “ prepare to meet conviction.—Come with me !’’ He then 
 grasped her arm firmly, and led her through the chapel to the 
 stone steps; descending which, they chine to a vault where 
 the frtgure of the bending Virgin had worked an the credulity’ 
 of Serina; thence they traversed a long passage, till they 
 came to a small chamber, illuminated by a dull lamp. The 
 Abbot, having introduced her, and recommended prayer 
 and contrition, locked the door on the outside, and left her 
 overcome with horror. 
 
 In tiiis dreary seclusion she remained till near midnight, - 
 when a monk entered: his cowl entirely concealed his fea¬ 
 tures and age, but, as he passed in the circular rays of the 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 31 
 
 lamp, Serina thought his exterior resembled that of the 
 Monk whom she had seen gliding along the chapel, and sit¬ 
 ting on one ol the stone coffins, on a previous night. Taking 
 the hand of Mademoiselle de Montfort, he conducted her 
 through various intricate windings till they came to a Gothic 
 door,'that admitted her into a spacious garden belonging to 
 the Convent, llcr guide continued to lead her to a root-* 
 house in a wilderness at the extremity of the garden ; not 
 far from which she knew a narrow gate opened to the vine¬ 
 yard. The Monk desiring her to wait a tew minutes till ho 
 returned, she entered the root-house.—The intense cold¬ 
 ness of the night, and the darkness, augmented her uneasi-i 
 ness when she found the Monk did not return.—In a few 
 minutes after, the voice of the good Padre Paulo asking if 
 any one was within, she rushed to him, and was led into 
 the impenetrable gloom of a grove of firs.—“ Here conceal 
 'yourself,'” said he, “ till I return with the key of the gate. 
 When you are safe out of the garden, 1 will explain this 
 base mystery, which I have by chance detected.” Hearing 
 a footstep hurrying through the wilderness, Serina darted 
 from her concealment, and was instantly conducted through 
 the gate, o\er which a lamp hung before the image of a saint,, 
 and shewed the figures of two men waiting beneath the walls. 
 They rushed forward, and seized her.—“ Oh ! Father Paulo,” 
 exclaimed Serina, “ protect me—save me !” In the next mo-, 
 nient her conductor received a mortal stab, and foil dead 
 before her ! The murderer endeavoured to - seize her in his 
 arms, but the piercing shrieks she uttered alarmed the fa¬ 
 thers, who rang the Convent-bell, to raise the peasantry. 
 The villains had escaped before the Monks came to the 
 gate, who now bore the body into the chapel, whither Se¬ 
 lina followed, and saw the Abbot l’inetta waiting m ex¬ 
 treme perturbation. 
 
 Scarcely bad the dead Monk been deposited on the pave¬ 
 ment, when the Padre Paulo entered. Astonished at seeing 
 Paulo alive, Serina snatched the cowl from the face of the 
 assassinated, and' beheld the visage of the younger Dodier! 
 “ O horror!” exclaimed the Abbot: “This is the work of 
 De Montfort 1” Scarcely had he uttered the words, when 
 the ill-fated Marquis rushed into the chapel, and. reeled 
 against the wall, while a stream of blood gushed from his 
 bosom. Serina and the Padre Paulo dew to support the 
 sinking man, who was fainting from loss of blood.—The 
 
32 
 
 TOE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 good Monk the 1 ran to fetch a styptic, the application of 
 which stopped the sanguary torrent, and the Marquis be¬ 
 gan t shew signs of returning life. The Abbot led Serina, 
 aside, arid told her that all these dreadful evils had arisen 
 from her rejection ot young Dodicr, whose only object ■was 
 to convey hei to her father s house, and in his presence 
 make another offer of his hand in holy wedlock. “ The vil¬ 
 lains,” continued the Abbot, “ who seized you at the gate 
 of our Convent are the confederates of Dorvillc, that mon¬ 
 ster, who seeks your father’s life and your dishonour!” 
 “ Dorvillc a murderer !” exclaimed Serina. At these words 
 the Marquis started from the couch he was laid upon:— 
 j,et no mail bear my guilt !” exclaimed lie : “ I met the 
 villain in a dark labyrinth, near the convent; we encountered 
 .—we struggled together: in the contest, after he had wound¬ 
 ed me, 1 wrenched the stiletto from him, and 4 stabbed Ar- 
 gand !"—“ Your victim, said the Abbot, “ was not Argand 
 ft was Dorville ! ;; Serina now sunk at her father’s feet; at 
 which moment the Marchioness and Besant entered.—Pinetta 
 counselled the family to make their escape, while De Mont- 
 fort’s confession of murder was still a secret. Serina assured 
 the Abbot that the villain who murdered Argand was not 
 Dorvillc ; hence Pinetta drew the conclusion that they were 
 ruffians hired by Dorville, who, while watching against 
 any interruption, encountered the Marquis, by whom he- 
 was stabbed, and had since flown. 
 
 One of the Monks, who had been dispatched to the post- 
 house, brought word that a carriage had passed soon after 
 midnight, with two travellers, one of whom seemed des¬ 
 perately wounded, and almost expiring. lhe little faim’y 
 now took their leave ot the Abbot, and, when they reached 
 home, once more prepared for an expeditious flight, com¬ 
 pelled by the imperious call of self-preservation, 'ihey en¬ 
 tered the old cabriolet, and after a rude jouiney ailived at 
 Mascjiere, where they entered an Inn, and a surgeon was 
 sent for to dress the Marquis’s wounds, lie pronounced it 
 impossible to proceed on the journey without endangering 
 his patient’s life ; in consequence of which, the Marchioness 
 hired some apartments at a farm-house, on the road to 
 Caffagiok), contiguous to his surgeon. De Mont fort had 
 mental as well as bodily wounds to ^niggle with : he con¬ 
 sidered himself as the murderer of Dorville—he, who had 
 preserved his life, and illuminated the gloom of exile with 
 
THK BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 33 
 
 the balm of friendship.—His daughter also felt a perpetual 
 I)Ung lhc reflectlon t!l at DorviUe, whom she esteemed 
 hand ! ian llV,n§, imd been slain by her father’s 
 
 If was at the close of day that Do Montfort's family took 
 possession ot their new asylum, which, being situated on an 
 upland commanded * mountainous and romantic view.— 
 Hithei he was conveyed, and most tenderly nursed bv his 
 wile and daughter, while the good. Besant u.tceasimdy 
 prayed for his recovery. One morning. Senna arose at dawn, 
 o walk to the surgeons.with the pleasing intelligence of her 
 lathers convalescence, when she saw, by the pale glimpse 
 o day four Monks bearing a coffin on their shoulders, 
 while a filth marched belore with a crucifix. She followed at 
 a distance, and observed them entering a buiW-^round: 
 In returning from the surgeon’s, the Monks w e reaper form ‘ 
 nig the last sad offices; Senna gave a benign sigh to the 
 departed spirit, and then returned home. The Marquis, 
 
 1 inning had a refreshing sleep on the following night, his 
 ever began to abate, and his wound to exhibit the most 
 favourable appearance. At the close of the day, which at 
 dawn had presented so solemn a spectacle, Senna, absorbed 
 in reflection, wandered to the burial-ground, where her at¬ 
 tention-was soon attracted by an aged Monk, who knelt 
 beside the new-made grave, and strewed it with branches of 
 eveigieens. As he was retiring, his eyes met those of Se- 
 nna-—“ Bless you, lady,” said he, in a meek voice; “ the 
 [ ,r 0t ll ? ose winter-evenings is cold.”—“ You did not seem 
 so legard it, good father,” remarked Serina, “ while your 
 •)iety was employed in decorating .yonder humble grave.”— 
 lde was a stranger,” said the Monk ; “and perished by the 
 land of an assa.stn rravehnig through a wood near 
 Vlonte Carelli only three nights since, he was barbarously 
 hindered. Senna fell senseless into the arms of the 
 T onk » w “°> at a Joss how to recover her, alternately wept 
 a',icl prayed. When she came to, the good father comti- 
 
 I In L..I ^ * .1 . 
 
 nted: -Ijc was brought to the auberge at Masccre at 
 uuimght, wounded and covered with blood; he was then 
 
 • I . /lvv,u j w miij 
 
 peec bless, and soou after died. The stranger who was with 
 Jim left a purse of gold for his burial, and said he was a <>al- 
 aiit^ gentleman ; but I neither know his name nor his per. 
 on. v.eima then rose, and, taking the arm of her reve- 
 eiKl conductor, suffered him to lead her home in silence.* 
 
34 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 She had often heard her father express his hopes that Dor- 
 vilie was alive; and it became now a,n object of her greatest 
 anxiety to keep this certainty of his "death Irom him, in his 
 weak and perilous condition. A succession of events had 
 lately tended to reason down the pernicious, tenets which 
 her zealous gouvernante had instilled into her early years.—- 
 The more she reflected, the more did the absurdity of jud¬ 
 ging by the code of interested priests appear unnatural, ihe 
 remorse she had long felt on her mind for the oath she had 
 taken was removed by the death ot Argand, to whom she 
 attributed her compulsion, and the letter which Dorville 
 had picked up at Montnoir. To him she also laid the at¬ 
 tack her father had received in the wood near Chateau-neuf, 
 and the supposed miracle which had abused her reason m 
 the Convent. 
 
 Supposing that with him all danger was at an end, she 
 now thought it unnecessary to incur any reproof on the sub¬ 
 ject, by mentioning the oath to her father, in little more 
 than a month he was so much amended, that he joined his 
 daughter in her evening walk's, and was introduced to the 
 good Monk Jerome, whom Serina had not cautioned to say 
 any thing of the murdered and interred stranger. It was in 
 the twilight of a clear and serene winter’s clay, as they wcie 
 passing the burial-ground, that his grave attracted De Mont- 
 fort’s notice. “Come,” said Serina, “ let us return home ; 
 the clouds look threatening, and the evening is cold. . 
 took her hand to depart just as Jerome entered the cime- 
 t j erc< __« Father,” said de Montfort, “ I have been ^in¬ 
 specting this beautiful simple grave.—Whose is it ? A 
 traveller’s,” replied Jerome ; “ a stranger to him adorned 
 it thus : but 1 never sought tp know farther. -It is an idle 
 curiosity which probes the wound it has not skill to heal! 
 
 “ A stranger’s grave, and so honoured by a stiangci ! ie 
 joined the Marquis; “it is singular! I o-morro\y I wil 
 speak with you farther on the subject; so till then iaicvvel, 
 good father/’ 
 
 Serina, after they had returned home, watched an op¬ 
 portunity to steal away to the convent, which "'as situated 
 at the foot of a mountain, and had its wicket cvei open to 
 the weary or indigent traveller. When sue enteied the 
 chapel, the brotherhood, consisting of ten men, were per¬ 
 form ins mass for the soul of the murdered stianger ! At 
 the conclusion, Jerome^hasteu.ed to her, and, .finding her 
 
 / 
 
the blood-stained dagger. 
 
 35 
 
 stirs xvr" r - - 
 
 thus?”—“Oh i ho is h;*rmv f” * \ ^ <0 -' ou f ,cn 6 r *«vc 
 
 sorvi-fi » , , ha PP> ! exclaimed Serina • “ l, ( . ,i rt 
 
 SCI Ned to be so :-ho wa«_ '* <c \- I * ^ de- 
 
 1 our love, !” continued 
 
 the AJonk. She shrieked • amI . * i *' ! co *- li »ued 
 
 tie subsided, slm 3^ 
 
 *"'<%» I shall depart—h»t I shall “jT" y ° u! ~ 1 "* 
 
 «**»■• »»« ‘he,, my L ^ 
 
 pave, and to have its turf th r,',- t, j i : * W} " u ? same 
 iThc wecpiiy maid then refused h<* oWto V'" 11 * 
 
 “ •« *<* late, and departed, f f howc ' 
 
 Scarcely had Mademoiselle' de Montfort cnrittnJ r.m 
 Jerome, when the night proved storm v • rh^ ^ ^ Father 
 
 n the mountains, and the impetuous\orients"ru‘ t H°" C |! 
 «/? *»*« "'e valleys. At midLht no tidim,, V 
 >t her, and a general consternation prevailed in the fa' 
 
 Je Montfort, wild with affliction, fancied ,h-, 
 
 nentary str.te she had lost her way, and perished 7 * . ^ 
 
 xhausted, in the overwhelming waters A^ ’t Ik * 
 apnstranecs of Ins wile and the Abbe, De fc feri V'' 
 '"„ed to seek af.er Serina ; and, bavin* obt d ,e t . * 
 
 e uishcd forth to brave the fury of the wintrv pip antern * 
 
 tests' ™;r ;; h £?r 
 
 I ood* father itli'^eTasfasrL^ctuTd ‘b/STr h ,nd - 
 
 ;r c i ai,iiis -ponthi d ni: 11 :,"^ 
 
 l0m i n ‘ eve O' cottage-door, without success Tha 
 ■eon had begun to glimmer faintly over the 7 e 
 
 furned through the ^ate of thn ^ SCenc ils 
 
 Teyt If i" Sensible "With 
 
 supported her home ’uncoLcto^s o'f ‘JhZ^hfrZl: 
 ■-H«U »lUp ’ W “ PUt 10 bed ’ and *U into a 
 
36 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 The Marquis hastened next morning to Father. Jerome, 
 to interrogate him ; and his questions were so pointed to 
 the Monk, that it required the greatest address to avoid 
 breaking his promise to Selina. “ Your secret, said Je¬ 
 rome, “ shtvli npvei ,pa.s;» these lips ! - The tears which your 
 daughter has slien will wash way your stains, as the blood 
 of von buried victim, has appeased, your resomment.- 
 
 oi won puiicw •T'j „ r 
 
 “ What crime vi^m^cnrd Dc Montfort, grasp- 
 
 in* Jerome's arm. The Monk was silent. “ i chme, said 
 tie Marquvs-i^etmusk^thw^ose corpse lies beneath that 
 turf, which a.suaugex,.,you t.pht me, had .decorated r. _ Be 
 calm," replied the Monk.- “My fidelity is impervious to 
 threats or adulation.-1 have no right to condemn or to- 
 punish \ ou.— i lament alike for your sorrows and your er- 
 r>rs.—.Seek therefore no farther, for I have made a solemn 
 promise of secrecy to your daughter, which i cannot \io- 
 
 ", _ [t is as 1 suspected," exclaimed the Marquis, Hith 
 
 a'deep siph : “Senna's love for Dorville has overcome her 
 filial affection, and thus are a father’s hopes sacrificed to 
 the memory of a lover !—Keep but your promise, however, 
 and I shall still be satisfied." The Monk laid his hand upon 
 his heart in token of acquiescence, and the Marquis re¬ 
 turned home, assured that the stranger’s grave must-be that 
 
 of Dorville. ‘ 
 
 On his arrival, he informed his wife that circumstances 
 
 made their immediate flight necessary, and they must re¬ 
 commence their pilgrimage in a.lew mours. I he shattered 
 
 cabriolet was again brought forth, and in the evening the 
 little family once more set forward over tugget no n mo. 
 impassable roads, their minds as desponding as toe dreari¬ 
 ness of the surrounding scenery. They proceeded, on their 
 journey till at midnight they came to a thick forest in the 
 
 vicinity of Fonte Buona, between Caffagiolo and Horence. 
 The night being hazy and dark, they quitted the mam-road 
 to avoid a deep and rapid stream which rushed from an ad¬ 
 jacent mountain, pursuing the tracK oi cam age-Mi eels a 
 a path that wound through the forest.—On a sudden-th 
 guide stopped, and. declared that he had lost his way, and 
 would proceed no farther, among quarries, precipices, and 
 banditti. The threats of the Marquis were unavailing: the 
 Marquis proposed to walk on foot m search oi some cot- 
 tage^ut this was rejected by his friends. An hour bad 
 elapsed in this state of exposure and uncertainty, when die 
 
THE DLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 3f 
 
 sound of horses' hoofs and mingled voices were heard ap- 
 pr■••aching.—They seemed to advance but slowly from the 
 darkness and impediments the recent storm had scattered 
 every where.—The postillion, alarmed, quitted the carriage 
 K) hide in the adjacent wood, while De Montfort and Be- 
 sant resolved to defend the women and their property to the 
 last extremity. 
 
 As the horsemen advanced, a smothered groan struck, 
 new terrors into their bosoms. The Marquis now challenged 
 the strangers, told them he was benighted, and claimed their 
 assistance. “ What are you said one of the horsemen. 
 “Travellers!" said De Mpntfort. “ Then pass !" returned 
 one of the men, turning out of the narrow road among the 
 underwood. “ Oh ! rescue me !—rescue me !” was now eja¬ 
 
 culated by a female voice, N as one of the horsemen darted for¬ 
 ward, to avoid any farther questions from De Monttort. The 
 underwood entangling the feet‘of his horse, the Marquis ad¬ 
 vanced w ithin a Few paces of the stranger, and, telling Besant 
 to gua.nl the cabriolet, he endeavoured to catch in the dark 
 at the bridle of the » >rsc. —The man, guessing his intent, 
 now addressed him by name. “ Hasten not, De Montfort, 
 thy fatal hour!” said he : “advance but one step farther, 
 and you die-on the spot The horse continuing entangled 
 in the wild brambles; the rider alighted, while De Montfort, 
 secured behind a tree, watched the event. The villain then, 
 supposing himself safe, took a lady that sat before him in his 
 arms, and placed Herat the* loot of the tree; at the same 
 time threatening to stab her if she uttered a single word 
 till he returned. lie then stole out of the thicket, and left 
 the fair captive aldne with the Marquis ; who, stooping for¬ 
 ward, and stretching forth his hand, placed it on a cold and 
 panting bosom.—“ W ho, and what are you ? ’ softly whis¬ 
 pered the Marquis.—.Vlas! De Montfort, is it you l’ ex¬ 
 claimed the lady, as she convulsively grasped his hand. 
 “ Speak quickly!" said the Marquis; - “ how came .you 
 here ?" “Alas! 1 know not," she replied ;/“the villain's 
 features and his voice are both disguized ! 1 would rise, but 
 my feet are bound with cords, and three desparadoes guard 
 me; hazard not, therefore, De Montfort, thy precious life 
 in the vain-hope of rescuing me !" Two of the men now 
 entering the thicket, the Marquis retreated behind the tree. 
 “ Do you think they are armed ?” said one. “ Most likely," 
 
 M m 
 
t v 8 TfiE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 said the ether ; c ‘ but I should not fear of dispatching the 
 .Marquis, it I can but get him within the reach of this good 
 stiletto.—But where did you leave the lady ; she is the ob¬ 
 ject now ? ’ “ At the foot of a tree about ten paces off; my 
 
 horse will never be able to clear the underwood, and therc- 
 fbre N \ve must carry her off.” At this* moment a shriek from 
 the cabriolet echoed through the forest. “ Here,” said the 
 lady, “ take this ring, hasten, and save yourself!—Oh, De 
 Montfort, death terrifies not me!” The Marquis took the 
 ring, sprung from his concealment, and hastened to the car¬ 
 riage, which one of the mules had backed into the thicket 
 and overset, without doing any other damage than alarming 
 the females.—The other mule had been detached, and was 
 4 * 0 1 to be found. 
 
 The villains took the opportunity of the confusion to 
 escape, and, when De Montfort returned to the tree, the lady 
 was gone. He had no clue to discover this mystery but the 
 ring, and of this in his vexation he was wholly forgetful.— 
 The postillion now came from his lurking-place, finding the 
 danger over, and De Montfort asked him if there was any 
 abode to which they might adjourn till day-light.—Finding 
 now no alternative, they waited till the dawn, which pre¬ 
 sented them with a white frost on all the trees and bushes. 
 1 he little circulation still left in their veins was now al¬ 
 most frozen up, by the direful intelligence of the Marquis, 
 fhat the iron box', containing their treasure, was lost,or taken 
 from the carriage!—He turned to his wife, who was struck 
 dumb with astonishment and grief; and hid his face in her 
 bosom. u Think of it no more, my Albeit!” exclaimed 
 the Marchioness. “ With a conscience free from guilt, you 
 arc yet rich!” “ Where is Dorville ?” cried the Marquis, 
 grasping her hand. “ He did but deserve his fate,” answered 
 Madame de Montfort. “ He gave the first assault, and 
 
 you in your defence- “ Murdered him !” interrupted 
 
 the Marquis. 
 
 The Abbe, finding the conversation was distressing to the 
 feelings of all, interrupted it by calling the Marquis’s at¬ 
 tention to the shattered stale of the cabriolet, which re¬ 
 quired to be tied with ropes before they could proceed.— 
 Understanding from the postillion that it was not half a post 
 to Florence, they consigned the caic of the vehicle to him, 
 and agreed to walk, the faithful Abbe leading the way.—• 
 tlhey had scarcely proceeded half a league, when they per- 
 
T1IE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. « 0 
 
 roiu-'d, on entering the great road branching from the 
 skirts of the forest, the absent mule tied to a tree, with two 
 zeehins lying on the bank by its side. The postillion uttered 
 a thousand ejaculations for finding his poor animal; and 
 the Marquis was not without hopes., that this might finally 
 lead to the restoration of his little fortune. Having pro¬ 
 cured some poor wine and coarse bread at a cottage-door, by 
 which they passed, they found themselves sufficiently invi¬ 
 gorated to proceed, and after a short rest approached to¬ 
 wards the splendid metropolis of Tuscany. At noon they 
 stopped at a small auberge in the suburbs of' Florence, the 
 hostess of which was inordinate in her charges, and coarse 
 in her manners. Here De Montfort changed his last louis- 
 d or to pay the postillion, whose charge diminished it one 
 half. 1’hc Marquis now proposed joining the separate 
 stocks till some plan for their future support could be esta¬ 
 blished. Madame de Montfort produced two crowns, and 
 a miniature of her mother set in gold.— Serina had only 
 three paoli and the ebony cross.—The Abbe Besant a small 
 quantity of silver, and the gift of Dorville at Chateau-neuf. 
 'i he Marquis added to the store the remainder of the loois 
 d’or, and tee valuable ring presented to him by the lady in 
 the forest.—With delight the Marquis viewed a gem of such 
 brilliancy in ins possession.-—He returned the gotd snuff' box 
 and the portrait; but when he came to the ebony cross he 
 demanded of Serina how it came into her possession.—She 
 was silent, looked confused, and trembled.—“ This cross is 
 the same on which 1 carved the word “Remember!” said 
 the Marquis ; “ I shall never forget it!” The Marquis then 
 quitted the room, and Serina confessed that she had re¬ 
 ceived it from Argaiul. The Marchioness questioned her 
 no farther, supposing it had been found in the chateau of 
 Montnoir, and was presented by Argand as a token of 
 esteem.—The Marchioness quieted her husband when he re¬ 
 turned respecting the cross, and Serina retired well satisfied 
 with the little deception to her bedchamber. 
 
 Deeply absorbed by melancholy at the situation~ of her 
 friends and the death of Dorville, she traversed her room 
 till past midnight. As the weather w r as temperate, she 
 opened the window ot a balcony, w hich overhung a narrow 
 walk on the bunks of the beautiful Arno. The inoon shone 
 clear; and, tempted by its refulgence on the silent playful 
 
 Mm2 
 
40 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 stream, she leaned over the railing, full of Father Jerome 
 and Dorville’s grave.—The clock had just struck one, when 
 she invoked the name of the murdered youth, and wished 
 that his form might appear before her!—If did appear, and 
 she shrieked!—Her father and mother rushed into her 
 chamber, and without hesitation she told them what she had 
 seen. They believed her. terrors to be imaginary, and tried 
 every persuasion .to render her tranquil. The dawn at 
 length appeared, and a thousand times she repaired to the 
 balcony during the day; but the little path beneath her win¬ 
 dow was seldom frequented, being rugged and retired. 
 
 On the next night she mounted the balcony, determined 
 to see if the similitude would re appear ; and, if it did not, 
 to conclude that what she had seen was the effect of a hur¬ 
 ried imagination. —The clock struck one, and the form 
 slowly stalked under the window 7 . Serina, now convinced, 
 rushed into her chamber, and threw herself on the bed, 
 subdued by the powers of terror. On the following morn¬ 
 ing she related the second account of the vision to her pa¬ 
 rents, and they determined at night to examine into its 
 reality themselves ; but it came not, and they attributed 
 the whole to the despondency of Senna’s mind.—The inso¬ 
 lence of the landlady now grew to such a height, that it was 
 insufferable, and, as soon as the dusk of the evening came 
 on, De Montfort and Besant quitted the auberge, to seek 
 for a more comfortable habitation. Strolling homeward by 
 the banks of the Arno, he saw a beautiful little villa, on the 
 gate of which was a bill, that apartments were to be let.— 
 With a trembling hand he knocked at the door, which was 
 instantly opened with a smile by the owner of the dwelling. 
 De Montfort explained the business of Ins visit, and Signor 
 Cattivo, who was an attorney, led the Marquis through 
 every apartment. The uncommon condescension of Signor 
 Cattivo, who surfeited the Marquis with fulsome praises, 
 had induced the latter to think that a sum too high for his 
 wretched finances would be demanded for the rent; but, 
 with the greatest civility, Cattivo sunk the price to that of the 
 Marquis. The business being concluded, they returned to 
 their ferocious hostess, and her demand exceeding the 
 whole amount of their finances to discharge, a most dis¬ 
 tressing dilemma ensued : from this, however, they were 
 extricated by the Abbe emptying a purse of gold on the 
 table. “Are we discoveredexclaimed the Marquis.— 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 41 
 
 « No/* replied the Abbe: “ the spirit of Dorville will for- 
 give me this,” as he toik out of his pocket a paper machee, 
 snuff-box !—The hostess was immediately satisfied, and the 
 whole family set out for their new lodging. Signor Cattivo re¬ 
 ceived them with an overacted civility, which the Marquis 
 returned with a coldness, almost amounting to disgust. 
 
 Adversity had taught them a lesson of economy, and it 
 became necessary, before they had eaten up the produce of 
 the Abbe’s gold snuff-box, to fix on some plan of increasing 
 their little store. Private tuition was fixed on as the most 
 eligible pursuit,, and Signor Cattivo promised to obtain a 
 number of pupils for Madame Berthier. The Marquis,,who 
 could not divest hiinself of that vain pride which springs 
 from an illustrious lineage, had assumed the name ol Ber¬ 
 thier. The assiduous Cattivo did all he could to captivate 
 and amuse the mind of the fascinating Mademoiselle Ber¬ 
 thier, and the Marquis found in his library the works suited 
 to a refined taste. 
 
 The renovating spring had now commenced its all-cheer* 
 ing course, and seemed to give new being to every thing but 
 Senna, whose sorrows were increased by the disgusting at¬ 
 tentions of Signor Cattivo, whose character and practice wer* 
 as respectable as the carrying on the dirtiest causes would 
 permit. — In one of the solitary and beautiful rambles, 
 which lay at the back of the lawyer’s house, Scrina was one 
 day followed by him ; she hastened away, buthe soon.over¬ 
 took her, and, grasping her hand, said, “ Mademoiselle 
 Berthier, your person and. qualifications were formed to 
 grace a> higher sphere than they do at present. Assert this 
 influence, and make me the instillment of. raising you to pros¬ 
 perity.—I am authorized to make proposals to you by one 
 who knows you well!” “■ Dishonourable wretch V' cried 
 
 Serina,. “ it is impossible Silly pauvera /” exclaimed. 
 
 Cattivo, “ this is no time for the daughter of the exiled in¬ 
 digent De Montfori to play the hypocrite. — Your consent 
 may snatch your father from, destruction; Refuse, and you 
 wjll see him punished lor the heinous crime of robbing a 
 venerable parent ot his only daughter. Merciful heaven! 
 exclaimed Scrina, “ this infamous calumny is worthy only 
 of such a wretch as thyself!”—As the daughter of an as¬ 
 sassin/* rejoined Cattivo, “ do you think the world will 
 credit vour interested assertion ?—ihe btood he shed in th# 
 
 Mmx.3 t 
 
42 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 wood near Monte Corelli calls for retribution.—The person 
 m possession of the horrid secret revealed it to me; to all 
 of.iers it is yet unknown ; it now depends on yourself to 
 ujy it for e\ei in oblivion. The terms of secrecy I am not 
 authorized to mention; but, if you will accompany me this 
 night to Cortona, you will there lincl one devoted to your 
 
 The Marquis and his wife advancing up the plantation, 
 C atuvo took his leave, and Serbia related all that had passed, 
 incur consternation was unutterable.—Suspicion for a mo¬ 
 ment alighted on Father Jerome'; *and whoever the infor¬ 
 mant was, it was certain that he must have been a party in 
 carrying off the young lady in the wood near Fonte Buona. 
 ihe Marquis waited anxiously the whole day for the return 
 a ^! V0, a letter came lor the* Marquis, stating 
 
 t at, if he wished to rescue his honour from an implied 
 stigma, he would instantly meet a friend who was waiting 
 or nn on the Ponte Vecchio. ihe Marquis, unobserved 
 by his wife, immediately charged his pistols, and repaired 
 thither. Twilight came; night succeeded; and the little 
 family were almost frantic at the Marquis’s absence. The 
 Abbe Besant then set out on the search, inquiring every 
 where, and describing the person of ins friend. On the 
 
 i onte Vecchio a stern looking stranger accosted him:_“ If 
 
 you are a friend of Monsieur Berthier*s, and seek him, I 
 "wall conduct.you to his abode.”—Besant accompanied the 
 messenger, and, after traversing various avenues and streets, 
 be was conducted to the walls of a dismal prison. — lie 
 learned from this man, Jeronymo, who was the jailor, that 
 her finer was accused of robbery; that the property was 
 lound upon him, and that he attempted the life of the per- 
 son who apprehended him. The Abb6 requested admission, 
 but, this being impracticable till day-light, lie resolved to 
 wan patiently for that hour.—Before the dawn, however, 
 the Abbe set out for the house of Signor Cattivo.—To 
 withhold the cruel intelligence from Madame de Montfort 
 and Senna availed little, when the knowledge of it mriht 
 be rendered more severe by delay. Accompanied, there¬ 
 fore,. by the jailor, who would not -leave lnni, as he was a 
 principal .witness, he proceeded to Signor Cattivo's, and en¬ 
 tered the lower apartment, the door of which unfastened — 
 Proceeding up stairs, he found the lights’burning, the curtains 
 €iosed > aild eve) 7 thing awfully quiet. The" Marchioness . 
 
 i 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER, 
 
 43 
 
 and her daughter were no where to he found !—and, on 
 opening the windows of the saloon, by the dawning light he 
 beheld the floor sprinkled with blood. Horror seized every 
 faculty, and, after having obtained’a few minutes indulgence 
 to fortify himself, he hastened to impart the dreadful elope¬ 
 ment to the imprisoned De Montfort. When they returned, 
 the jailor had orders to admit no one to the Marquis ; the 
 good Abbe was therefore compelled to wait till noon, at 
 which time the examination took place-in the public hall. 
 “ The only evidence thftt can convict you/’ sax! the Judge 
 to the Marquis, “ has not yet arrived : nevertheless, the 
 court can proceed as to its forms, since you resisted when 
 taken, and the property has been found upon you. What 
 plea have you to urge ¥’ “ I reserve my defence till I am con¬ 
 fronted with my accuser,” said De Montfort. 
 
 At this instant the Count Cuculli entered the court.— 
 “ Can I believe my senses T exclaimed the Count.—“ Is 
 this the Marquis de Montfort!”—The ring which had been 
 presented by the unknown lady was now produced, and the 
 principal evidence, Signor Cattivo, was called into court.— 
 De Montfort then related, in an unembarrassed manner,* the 
 adventure in the forest near Fonte Buona, and his story 
 struck conviction into every bosom. The wretch Cattivo, 
 now begged to be heard in his turn:—-he began by request¬ 
 ing the Court not to be biased by an artful tale : that, know¬ 
 ing the ring w'el!, and having seen it in Monsieur Ber- 
 thier's possession, by a certain inode of proceeding he had 
 discovered from his own daughter, that he was the man that 
 had forced the Signora S(fspira from her father’s protection. 
 “ I demand that my daughter may be sent for,” exclaimed 
 De Montfort. A messenger was dispatched, and soon re¬ 
 turned with the intelligence that she and her mother had 
 absconded.—The horror which thrilled through the bosom 
 of the Marquis was contrasted by the insulting smile of 
 Signor Cattivo.—“ Yes,”' cried he, “ she had not courage 
 to enter the court: she is by this time many posts from 
 Florence!” ' 
 
 The Count Cuculli, though he had twice met the Marquis 
 at Mr. Dodicr's, had never seen Madame de Montfort, or 
 Serina. He did not entertain, the slightest idea that the 
 beautiful Berthier was the daughter of the Marquis, or he 
 could have developed the tale which Cattivo had repeated. 
 'The Count Cuculli now requested to close the evidence— 
 
4i 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 declaring, that he did not believe the Marquis guilty of the 
 robbery, and that he should not appeal to a public tribunal 
 to redress his wrongs.—In consequence of this, Dc Montfort 
 was released, and he adjourned with Cuculli to a neigh¬ 
 bouring tavern. The Count now addressed him : “ My 
 dear Sospira’s fatal passion for you, and the wretched state 
 
 to which she has long been reduced on your accounts-” 
 
 u On my account !” exclaimed the Marquis.—“ Yes, if in¬ 
 sanity may be so called,” added the Count; “may well 
 make you shrink !—To the privation of reason you hav^ 
 added the infamy of dishonour, and my swprd shall give mo 
 Vengeance! —*“ 1 never prolessed to love your (laughter; 
 her loss of reason cannot rest with me,” said De Montfort. 
 “ When you were condemned to die at Milan,” continued 
 th e count, “ she Irom that moment resigned herself to de¬ 
 spair—Dodier was her informant; he frequently corres¬ 
 ponded with his son Argancl, and th us every transaction at 
 Milan was communicated/’ 
 
 The Marquis, after uttering an execration on the name of 
 Dodier, entered largely irrtr a justification of his conduct, 
 and the majesty of truth convinced the Count of the Mar¬ 
 quis’s innocence.—The Count then returned the ring to De 
 Montfort, desiring he would keep it as a pledge of renewed 
 friendship, and requested he would come to his house the 
 .following morning ; after which, they separated, the Count 
 being still ignorant ot De Montfort’s assumed name and 
 real situation. The Abb6 Besant joined De Montfort as 
 soon as he quitted the tavern, and they repaired to the house 
 ot Cattivo, where the blood on the floor evidently shewed 
 that some deed of horror had been perpetrated.— Dis¬ 
 tracted with a thousand conjectures, the Marquis’s mind 
 conceived the idea that, as his father’s fortune devolved on. 
 Serina at the death of Dodier, it was highly probable that* 
 that arch villain had forced her away for the porpo.se of as¬ 
 sassination!—Again they set out on the search, and came 
 home at night, determined to wait the return of Cattivo, 
 and compel him to declare the truth.— The Abbe Besanl in. 
 vain inculcated the lesson of, submission and hope :—the last 
 event had made the Marquis a bankrupt of every prospect 
 and comfort. 
 
 The attorney continuing his absence, the Abbe Besant 
 advised an application to the police, whose vigilance might 
 Boon supply some intelligence of the fugitives. The Mar- 
 
4 b 
 
 the blood-stained dagger. 
 
 quis approved of the scheme, and they proceeded to the 
 public office.—Nothing could be done without paying down, 
 fifty zee hi ns, to detray the expense, of dispatching messen¬ 
 gers ; they therefore returned home, to canvas over the 
 means that were to be pursued to provide for their accu¬ 
 mulated wants. Divested of money, and too*proud to soli¬ 
 cit assistance, the gem presented by Count Cuculli was 
 draw'll forth, as the last resource?. For this purpose, with 
 an agonized heart, he quitted the house of Signor Cattivp, 
 and passed several shops where he might have offeied this 
 pledge of friendship for sale. While he was traversing the 
 street, indulging the retrospect of insulted honour i»nd in¬ 
 digent banishment, he saw lie was opposite the house of a 
 lapidary. He looked attentively at the artisan, who was 
 standing at his door, and with ready zeal asked if he had 
 any commands. “ I have a gem which I wish to dispose Oi, 
 said the Marquis, presenting it for inspection. On exami¬ 
 nation, the artisan said that lie knew the ring, for he, had 
 set it ; and handed it to a young man, who was at woik with 
 his back to the Marquis., “ It is the same,” said the work¬ 
 man, averting his face from the regard of De Montfoit. 
 
 ■“ This ring,” said the lapidary, “ is of great value, and I 
 cannot be the purchaser, unless you consent to let me men¬ 
 tion the circumstance to the Count Cuculli, who can be spo¬ 
 ken with in the morning. v “ I should have no objection, 
 replied the Marquis, “ to your going to the Count, but I 
 want a sum of money immediately.—Take my word for the 
 present, and give me half its worth. ’ 
 
 While the Marquis spoke, the young man abruptly rose, 
 and quitted the shop ; the former, however, apprehensive 
 that unpleasant consequences might follow, and plainly see¬ 
 ing that the lapidary became more sceptical because of his 
 ■embarrassment, took up the ring, and darted through the 
 open door into the street. As he hastily retreated, to an¬ 
 nounce his ill success to the Abbe, on a sudden he found he 
 was at the door of the Count Cuculli. After pausing a mo¬ 
 ment, he determined to combat the haughty principles of 
 his mind, and apply to his friendship for succour, lie had 
 raised his hand to the knocker, when a person called to him 
 to stay and listen to what he had to say.—A young man 
 then advanced, and with a respectful bow addressed him : 
 “ Generous- De Montfort,” said he, “the time is arrived 
 when gratitude and humanity call upon me to repay what I 
 
*6 
 
 TIIE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 hft\c iccei\cd. This small [jacket will unravel the mystery. 
 Hike it, for 1 must be gone !” De'Montfort took the packet, 
 and lntieated the stranger to stay; but he disappeared 
 , ! ,nstant - He was eagerly bending his footsteps towards 
 
 home, when he met the Abbe Besant on the Route Nuevo, 
 and impatiently inquired the success of his researches. 
 
 Alas . said the Abbe, “ it is reported that your wife has 
 e ojied wuh a galiant, in a splendid carriage, and they wcr« 
 ^een t , nig the road lor Cortona. I have traced the ru- 
 
 for'pisu » a “ lt0 ’ " h °’ " 0t two ll0urs since > quitted Florence 
 
 *■ i hank God they live !” exclaimed the Marquis. “ For 
 the rest I am satisfied. Now Besant, I have another mys- 
 tiry to develope, so let us hasten home.” This the Abbe 
 said was impossible, as Signor Cattivo had barricadoed his 
 house before leaving Florence; they therefore entered the 
 ist place of a public resort which presented itself. Havinu 
 obtained a private room, the Marquis unsealed the packet? 
 and to his infinite astonishment beheld the very purse, with 
 the twenty. Louis, which he had left at Bologna, in the 
 c tain bet of Juliana. '1 he mystery was in an instant deve¬ 
 loped, and the Marquis blessed heaven for such a seasonable 
 supply. •< Now," said he, “ will we seek my wife and 
 au^ iter . Befoie day-break they had deposited half their 
 treasure tor the expenses of the police, and departed from 
 I-loience. They travelled, with all diligent inquiry, till 
 ey came to Coitona; but no one had seen an equipage on 
 
 , e road at the t!me they mentioned; and they Were 
 ajout to quit the place, when, in ascending a mountain, 
 w.nch was to terminate their pursuit, a noble pile of Go¬ 
 thic architecture presented itself. They learned from their 
 guide that it belonged to a. wealthy French nobleman, of 
 the name of Beaulieu. “ O heaven !" exclaimed the Mar- 
 quis, “ what destiny next awaits me I” then, grasping the 
 ‘ s mii(L he said, “ let 11 s instantly return to Florence !” 
 
 ‘ Vou alarm me!" cried the Abbfe/—“Was not Beaulieu 
 Jour t j lend, whose fortune you assisted in augmenting?—« 
 Was he not your confident and associate not three years 
 since, when in your prosperity ?” The Marquis’s agitation 
 increased with every word the Abbe uttered, and, after some 
 smuggles, be exclaimed, “ He was the villainous confident 
 
 ^ho [ ia d not the honesty to save me from a deed that-” 
 
 A* the Marquis suddenly stopped, he drew from his bosom 
 
THU BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 47 
 
 * . 
 
 the crucifix of ebony; every feature was convulsed; the 
 cold drops glistened from every pore on his forehead.— 
 “ lies ant,’' said he, “ this dear cross, the sight of which 
 agonizes me beyond concealment, was once a pledge of faith !" 
 At this interesting moment the postillion informed them, they 
 were arrived at Cortona ; and the Marquis, alighting from 
 the carriage, entered the auberge. Learning nothing satis¬ 
 factory of the Marchioness and Serina, they returned to 
 Florence. 
 
 As they entered the city, the carriage was stopped, and 
 the following note was delivered to the Marquis : —“ Lose 
 not a moment, but instantly repair to the house of Count 
 Cuculli, where you will tind the treasures you have been 
 divested of. If you possess a shadow of your former spirit, 
 you will crush your enemy, and avenge your injuries. If 
 not, remain despised and dishonoured !" The Marquis, 
 leaving the Abbe to pay the postillion, snatched his pistoij 
 and Hew to the Count's, where, on opening the door of the 
 saloon, he beheld .Madame de Montfort, Serina, and the 
 Count Cucuhi. In tlie first transport of rage, he pointed his 
 pLtol at Cuculli, and would have fired, if his wife had not 
 
 lad driven her from the villain Cattivo's. 
 
 “ On the morning/’ said she, “ when you were conveyed 
 •° prison, the Count Cuculli received a visit from a friend, 
 nforming him that the beautiful Bert bier would in a few 
 lours be unprotected, and be the easy victim of her misfor- 
 unes ; one thousand zechins was to be the price of her dis- 
 lonour. I he Count heard the tale with abhorrence, and, 
 hough Mademoiselle Berthier was wholly unknown to him, 
 leteimined to watch the seducer. On meeting you, not 
 .nowing you had assumed the name of Berthier, it was not 
 nentioned ; but he had then frustrated the scheme of the 
 ibain, by coming to Signor Cattivo's, on the night of your 
 nest. We cautiously concealed your absence till day¬ 
 break, when four masked villains rushed into the room 
 here we sat, and seized Serina. At this juncture the sword 
 t the Count pierced the villain who had grasped your 
 hiid. A torrent of blood gushed from his wound; his 
 
48 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 companions made their escape. Tim Count then conducted 
 ns to his mansion, and dispatched messengers to find out 
 Monsieur Berthier, while I, not having your permission, did 
 not venture to disclose our real name." 
 
 At this moment, the Count entered the room, and De 
 Montfort sprang to beg forgiveness. Their kindred soujs 
 were soon reconciled, and their mutual errors consigned to 
 oblivion. The Count requested that Do Montfort would 
 not seek to know the villain whom his sword had punished; 
 “You know him, then?” eagerly asked the Marquis. I 
 do,” replied the Count. “ I am under particular obliga¬ 
 tions to him, which nothing but his attack on unprotected 
 virtue should have made me violate.” De Montfort after¬ 
 wards produced the letter delivered to him on his return to 
 Florence, which Cucitlli instantly recognized to be the hand¬ 
 writing of the rascal Cattivo. 
 
 ° . " 
 
 A messenger was now dispatched to the Abbe, who was 
 
 waiting in the greatest anxiety for the return of the Marquis, 
 and he was soon made a partaker of the general joy.— 
 Early the next morning, De Montfort and the Abbe repaire ’ 
 to the house ot the artisan, and saw the young man, whom 
 he had left at Bologna, in a dying state. De Montfort re¬ 
 quested to know his name, that- he might return thanks for 
 his generous and benevolent assistance. The young man, 
 finding it impossible to shun an explanation, said, “ I did 
 but return that which was your own; you saved my life ; 
 and that part ol the money, which necessity then compelled 
 me to use, 1 have since replaced by industry !”—At this 
 moment Juliana rushed in, and clasped the Marquis’s hand. 
 “Accept,” said she, “the grateful tears of joy, the over¬ 
 flowings of a full heart The master of the house next 
 entered, and the young man, snatching Juliana’s arm, hur¬ 
 ried her out of the room.—The Marquis .then addressed the 
 lapidary, upon the history and name of his young man, and 
 he replied i.. this manner:—“ He is a French emigrant; his 
 name is Guillaume Cosson ; he has engaged himself to 
 learn my trade ; but his abilities and manners deserve a su¬ 
 perior situation.—-The young woman you saw is his wife ; 
 she supports herself with honourable industry by teaching 
 music. Her beauty is excelled only by her virtue, but, alas! 
 that very excellence has subjected her to base proposals.— 
 Hitherto she has not told her husband, fearful of rendering 
 him unhupp) ; for, what could lie do against- the power, 
 
 v 
 
49 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 wealth, and bravos of Monsieur Beaulieu ?”—“ Beaulieu V* 
 exclaimed De Montfort, “ how that name haunts me !—• 
 But he shall not undermine her peace, or her husbands 
 honour ; she shaH reside with my family, and I will be her 
 protector!” 
 
 When the Marquis returned to the Count’s, he learned 
 from him that Madame Cosson was Sospira’s instructress in 
 music, and that he had saved her from the snares of the 
 miscreant Cattivo. “ I see in this Beaulieu/' said Madame 
 l)e Montfort, “ the villain who insulted my daughter/’— 
 
 “ I give you my honour,” replied Cuculli, “ that it was not 
 he.—Wait patiently, and you shall know your enemy/’— 
 Madame De Montfort and Serbia now hastened to tne lodg¬ 
 ings of Juliana, where they left a letter of invitation, as' 
 she was not at home. On their return, they found the 
 house and effects of the generous Cuculli seized for a large 
 sum, and legal possession taken by the infamous attorney, 
 Cattivo.—Besant waited at the gate to inform them where 
 the Count and Marquis had retired, and the latter imme¬ 
 diately took apartments in the house of a musician. ‘ Ma¬ 
 dame De Montfort had written several letters to England, 
 requesting an asylum while the political storm continued in 
 France. Lady Charlotte Finch was still living, but, never 
 having acknowledged the Marquis since his clandestine mar¬ 
 riage, the pride of De Montfort had, till now, obstinately ! 
 shrunk from the idea of receiving assistance. The Count 
 Cuculli's affairs rendering a short absence from Florence 
 necessary, he privately quitted it, previously taking leave 
 of the Marquis* and giving him the sum of three hundred 
 zechins as a token of his friendship.—Rich now in com¬ 
 parison of what he had been, the Marquis hired a small 
 cheap house for two months, in the Vall’ombrosa, deter¬ 
 mining quietly to wait till letters arrived from England. 
 Their little abode was enchantingly situated on the banks of 
 the Arno; it was every thing that was romantic and pic¬ 
 turesque; and had been selected for them by the musician 
 whom de Montfort had quitted.—Madame De Montfort and 
 Syrina were delighted with the grounds and scenery of Vall’- 
 oiribrosa, and saw no mystery in the small rent to be paid for 
 this elysiUm. 
 
 On the evening of their arrival, Mademoiselle De Mont- 
 'fort, weary with straying about the grenruLj was returning 
 
 N ft 
 
 pi 
 
5(5 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAIN'ED DAGGER. 
 
 W ? farqu ! s ’ "'T* ,hrou g t > a thick grove of oran«e. 
 tree , she observed an elegant pavilion, formed in the Asia¬ 
 tic style. On entering the building, she was charmed with 
 the luxury of its furniture, and sat herself down on a superb 
 to contemplate the terrestrial beauties of this fairy 
 palace. In this inviting situation, sleep visited her, and 
 her mind, little influenced by the objects around her, re- 
 verted to past scenes.—In a vast cavern she dreamed she 
 saw the bleeding body of Dorville and her father in chains 
 
 A h aU1 ? M?- t ien descended, unfettered De Montfort 
 and breathed life into the mangled Dorville, who arose, and 
 th his icy lips embraced her. His voice awoke her from 
 the dream and she looked wildly round for the .reality of 
 her disturbed imagination. It was star-light when she rose 
 to go out ol the pavilion, at the entrance of which, to her 
 profound consternation, stood the form of Dorville’ She 
 recoiled with horror, and fell on the sofa.—The figure fol¬ 
 lowed her, articulating, “Fly me not ! Ai the break of 
 day I must leave you for ever !—Therefore shun me not !" 
 Senna was softly stealing to the door, when somethin* 
 caught hei hand, and forcibly detained her. “ Maria whv 
 do you shun me ?” cried Dorville. “ I have travelled’ from 
 Ptsit to take my leave of you: at day-break I leave Naples ” 
 Sennas joy at finding Dorville was in existence was quickly 
 changed to the most agonizing torture, when she heard by 
 
 Jus own confession was devoted to another._She vet 
 
 remained silent, and Dorville continued:—“Tell me Ma¬ 
 rfa, has Monsieur Beaulieu commanded you not to see me ? 
 -he whose falsehood merits your detestation.—It is he who 
 has advised this chilling reception, while he revels in the 
 charms of Mademoiselle Bcrthier!” Senna started, and 
 Dorville resumed his entreaties: « Well may you be sur¬ 
 prised at Ills duplicity; but all Florence knows that Cattivo 
 
 was the agent whose address won the beautiful emigree_ 
 
 Returning from Fisa, I met him on the road, and he tobl 
 me she was the victim of Beaulieu." “ It j s a falsehood !” 
 cued Senna, in a tone of stern indignation. “ Heavenly 
 Powers !'' exclaimed Dorville, “ it is the voice of Serina De 
 Montfort. and he threw himself on his knees before her 
 Leave me. said Serina, “ nor insult my sorrows with a 
 new effort of hypocrisy.— I believed you dead; the wound 
 
 you received from the Marquis--—” « What wound 
 
 idiere?” .exclaimed Doodle, starting from the ground^ 
 

 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 51 
 
 V 
 
 Tn the wood near Monte Carelli,” replied Serina, 11 on 
 Hie night when you encountered my father, and Argand was 
 nnudeied! Ah, Donille, I have since that mourned you 
 as dead ! By all that is sacred,” said Dorville, “ I am 
 ignorant oi what you mean. 1 have never quitted Florence 
 since I left Chateau-neid, except within this month to go to 
 
 Fisa, where-” The voice of I)e Montfort now called 
 
 to Serina from the portico, and she requested Dorville to 
 a\oiu him, till she could clear up the deception each seemed 
 to lie under: The blow Dorville supposed he had received- 
 trail the Marquis, and which he was inclined now to resent, 
 alaimcd Serina for the consequences of a rencontre, and 
 she earnestly conjured him, if a spark of his former affection 
 yet lemained, to quit the pavilion.—lie consented* on her 
 promise of forgiveness, and the lovers, hearing the footsteps 
 jpi De Montfort approach, agreed to meet on the same spot 
 the following night., .when Dorville had a circumstance of the 
 utmost importance to disclose. 
 
 The Marquis, as he led Serina in to supper, observed tht 
 smiling serenity of his daughter’s countenance; and, though 
 a slight pang of jealousy now and then obtruded itself on 
 Maiia,s account, she nevertheless felt the delightful hssu-* 
 ranee that she still retained the affections of his'soul. The 
 next day she visited the pavilion, and was pensively sitting 
 on the sofa, canvassing the passion of Dorville for Maria, 
 vvheii the Marquis and his wife entered, and observed her 
 in tears. They earnestly inquired the. cause of her perturba¬ 
 tion, and Serina promised not to withhold it longer than th* 
 morrow, when her mind would be more calm. °-\s the hour 
 advanced in which Serina was to meet Dorville, her agita¬ 
 tion increased. The name of Maria excited her jealousy,°and 
 Dorville’s acquaintance with the profligate Beaulieu alarmed 
 her for his honour. Ibis nobleman shone as a rich and 
 powerful aristocrat in the court of Versailles, previously te 
 the revolution. Foreseeing the storm in France, he retired 
 with all his wealth to Italy.—The Marquis, in the early 
 pait of his life, had been the favorite of Beaulieu, but lie 
 was too generous and independent long to enjoy his con. 
 fide nee. Mons. Beaulieu at the age of sixty had married a 
 young lady ot seventeen ; her union was the choice of her 
 parents, while her heart confessed a more suitable attachment. 
 The object of her esteem was the young Chevalier Tardieu 
 
 " N n 2 • 
 
$2 
 
 TOE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 \vhose father had fallen a martyr to the American cause. — 
 It was three years after this the young Chevalier became 
 enamoured of the lady, and she returned his passion—II« 
 saw her leu a victim to the altar, and henceforward deter¬ 
 mined to avoid the woman who never could be his. A little 
 before the revolution, th<*Chevafier Tardicu, hunting in the 
 dorest of Vincennes with the King, received a violent con¬ 
 tusion by a tall, and was carried to a neighbouring chateau 
 lor succour.—It was the abode of Count Beaulieu—The 
 sensations of Madame Beaulieu were no less acute than 
 t lose of Mons. Tardieu. They conversed,Hrtm the Count, 
 one day entering abruptly, caught the young man on his 
 knee before her. 
 
 Before night M. Tardieu received a lettre-de-cachet, im¬ 
 prisoning him fifty miles .from Paris. Dc Montfort remon¬ 
 strated warmly against this act of power, and through his 
 interest a pension was continued to young Tardieu, which hatV 
 been paid to his father. Madame Beaulieu was shortly after 
 removed to an old chateau in Gascony, where the effect 
 of seclusion and severity soon terminated her existence.—r 
 Ihe. completion of the Revolution liberated Tardieu, and 
 he then learnt the untimely death of Madame Beaulieu ; 
 after which, being under some embarrassments, he went to 
 Languedoc, and married the beautiful Mademoiselle d« 
 Mongo, who was the protegee of an old duchess : the union 
 Madame Tardieu had formed gave an ofience that was un- 
 pa i (I on able, and she was driven from her roof without any 
 other friend than the object of her affections. 
 
 It was (he close of day when Mademoiselle de Montfort 
 reached the pavilion; not finding Dorville come, she strolled 
 about the orange-grove till every object was wrapped in 
 daikness, and was proceeding towards the house, when she 
 heard some one approaching on horseback.—The horseman 
 alighted, and led her towards the pavilion.—As soon as 
 tney entered, the door was closed, and Serbia became 
 Manned. “ Ah ! Dorville, said Senna, “ what horror 
 do you meditate ?”—- u Rash girl/’ replied the stranger, “ I 
 am not Dorville!—Be silent, and you are safe.—ft is not 
 you I am in search of.—Revenge is my object! my delight V* > 
 I lie terror of Serina now increased, when she discovered the 
 stranger* to be the same who bad extorted her oath when he 
 threatened the destruction of the Marquis and Dorville.— 
 
 L it-my father’s life you still seek ?” exclaimed Serina. 
 
the blood-stained dagger. 
 
 53 
 
 «* Wliile he lives,” said the stranger, “ I am not safe.-r 
 
 have a dagger too for your preserver, Cuculli, when my 
 great act of vengeance is performed. Ha! I hear the ap¬ 
 proach of one of my victims !.—Maria was honest when she 
 apprised me of this night’s visit. The footsteps now ap¬ 
 proached the pavilion, and the villain, throwing Serina from 
 him, bid her u Remember!” and rushed to the door. “ Fly, 
 my father,” cried Serina, “ from the daggeifcof an assassin !” 
 The Marquis and Dorvillc rushed in the pavilion almost at 
 the same instant, and the ruffian in ihe darkness escaped. 
 
 “ Villain!” cried Dorvillc, seizing the MarquisiJ“ you are 
 the monster who would destroy me !”—“ Dorville !” ex¬ 
 claimed the Marquis; u d.a^,.'Do^’v ill®'-live ?” The Abbe 
 and the Marchioness now enrered with fkuntaaux, and be¬ 
 held the Marquis and Dyille firmly graJBig each other.' 
 Serina rushed between JhfU’ father and her lover, and en¬ 
 treated they would return >o the house, and, hear Her ex|)Et-. 
 nation.—Here she unfolded tE^ manner in jwrnch her dread— 
 ful oath had been imposed, an*^ declared that the person 
 who had escaped from the pavilion was the same from 
 whom the Count Cuculli had rescued her. Tfie remaiiAler 
 of the evening passed in mutual reconciliation, and Dor-, 
 ville, who talked of setting off for Florence, was persuaded' 
 to stay all night. , „ ‘ 
 
 When Dorville left Serina at Chateau-neuf, he proceeded 
 without stopping till he reached Florence, where, in a few 
 days, he was presented to Monsieur Beaulieu, at his house' 
 on the banks of the Arno. It was here that Dorville found 
 
 had emigrated from the opera- 
 profligate admirer. Maria; in-' 
 a rich Englishman, resolved to" 
 during the absence of Beaulieu, 
 or twelve days to the baths at 
 Pisa. In short, she succeeded in captivating him for a 
 short time, till he discovered that the sums he lavished went 
 only to enrich her minions, among whom Cattivo was one of 
 the most favoured. 
 
 When Beaulieu was at Cortona, the house at Florence 
 was the temple of assignation, and it was in the way thither 1 
 that Serina had twice seen him from the window of the 
 auberge. The rapacity and inconstancy of Maria very soon* 
 fci'Cpming notorious,. Dorville determined to take- a final 
 
 Maria d’Alembert, who 
 house at Paris with her 
 formed that Dorville was 
 make a conquest of him, 
 who was ordered for ten 
 
 K- 
 
 n. 3 -. 
 
 hi 
 
5 * 
 
 TilE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 leave of her. _ With this intention he arrived at VaM'om- 
 hrosa on the night he had the first interview with Serina — 
 J he next day he called at M. Beaulieu’s, to explore the 
 mystery which had placed the Marquis’s family at the villa 
 
 ST ^ AlerabeV ' By his cur iosity he betrayed 
 t upsed, Manas vanity was piqued, and mutual iccrimina- 
 uon ensued j he confessed his love for Serina, and his de- 
 
 llved 8 't 1 ' !° ie ‘ *n‘ C Mar< l ms know under, whose roof he 
 Jived,—which intelligence Maria immediately conveyed to 
 
 m ? 0 r riW «**» absent from Florence’ 
 
 11 he night on which he met Serina in the pavilion, no 
 
 A,/^ h ’ u i OCC, . 1 '^‘ J . 01 nixing any discovery; and 
 when eattivo infornjcij^m^jat Beaulieu hud gotten Ma- 
 
 Seiii°' Se 6 B eit ^!8^ ln h ,s power’ he did not suspect it was 
 
 7 he ^concealed ruffian’s declat%ion to Serina, that h« 
 vas livormed o*f Domlle’s visit % Mademoiselle d’Alem¬ 
 bert determined., him to corns* her to reveal his name; 
 •and.this object w^Ae subjflft of their conversation the 
 next morning. A viSTdf Mademoiselle d’Alembert ap- 
 peared the best plan, and after breakfast Dorville and De 
 Montfort set out for Florence. M. Beaulieu was not at 
 Jmme 5 and his mistress was engaged till ten o’clock with 
 company. Having dined with Dorville at his lodgings, and 
 called on Mons. Cosson and Juliana, they repaired at the 
 appointed hour to their rendezvous; but the porter had re- 
 ce'yed an order to admit only Dorville, and on no account 
 Do -Marquis.—No persuasion could arrest Dorville from 
 seeing her, and he was introduced alone. She received him 
 vv - uh contemptuous effrontery, and refused to answer his in¬ 
 terrogatories.—After much time lost in entreaties, she rose, 
 •and went into the adjoining saloon. When she returned, 
 Dorville asked, why she refused to see De Montfort. “ Be¬ 
 cause he is an assassin !” Maria replied. “ 1 learned this from 
 signor Cattivo.”—“ Who is your lover,” rejoined Dorville; 
 
 that wretch who would have ensnared Mademoiselle de 
 -Montfort; but her injured father will not fail to punish him. 
 j his agent in the mischiefs of Beaulieu had contrived to in¬ 
 troduce a rival to your interest with him, but the Count 
 Cuculb saved the destined victim from ruin.”—“ 1 see his 
 villany in every action !” exclaimed Maria. 
 
 1 heit conversation was interrupted by a servant entering 
 -U> say that supper was served in the saloon.—Thither they* 
 
54 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 adjourned, but Dorville refused to cat. Anxious to effect 
 the object ot Ins visit, he asked d’Alembert again if she 
 would reveal the author of the outrage at Vairombrosa, and 
 give up the scoundrel Cattivo. “ I will give him up/’ said 
 JMaria, in a malignant tone, “ but not till my revenge is 
 glutted. Dorville, in less than an horny you shall beliold 
 a night of marvellous exploits; hut you may depart if you 
 please, and the secret shall remain inviolate.” Determined 
 not to relinquish the pursuit, he continued traversing the 
 saloon, till, thirsty with rage, he filled a glass from a "flask 
 which stood on the table, and throwing himself on a sofa y 
 in a shoit time sunk in a stupor to sleep. During this time, / 
 Dc Montfort remained in the street anxiously 'waking for 
 the return of Dorville, and was ascending the portico when 
 he saw two men cautiously stealing beneath the colonade. 
 Placing himself in a dark niche, lie observed them occa¬ 
 sionally peeping from their hiding-place,'and was ruminatin'* 
 on the purpose of these bravos, when the door of Maria's 
 abode was gently opened, and a man came forth.—He was 
 instantly attacked by the villains, upon one of whom Dg. 
 Montfort rushed, and wrested from him a poniard; the 
 other fled ; and the person^ whom he thought he had saved, 
 hdl dead on the steps of the portico. As the assassins escaped 
 they cried “ Murder!” and De Montfort, beinp; on the 
 spot,.was arrested by the guard. The dead body was car¬ 
 ried into the vestibule, and proved to be that" of Mons. 
 Beaulieu ! As soon as Maria beheld the lifeless corpse, she 
 exclaimed, “ Ah ! treacherous Cattivo !” Dorville, stag¬ 
 gering into the vestibule, feebly cried out, “ Support me— 
 
 1 am poisoned !” and he fell : at this moment Maria whis¬ 
 kered to him, “ Spare me! and I will save De Montfort.” 
 Flic parties were then taken to prison, and confronted the 
 lext morning, when the Marquis was liberated on t^e con¬ 
 cision of Mademoiselle d’Alembert that the murder was 
 
 lone by Cattivo; and orders were instantly issued out to 
 irrest him. 
 
 r Ihc police-officer returned from his house with an account 
 hat he had flown to Cortona, and thither the Marquis and 
 Jorville, (who by timely medical assistance had ejected the 
 oison,) set ofl, accompanied by four officers, while Mons. 
 !osson hastened to communicate these events ro Madame 
 )e Monttort and her daughter, who repaired to Florence, 
 ad there awaited the Marquis’s return. When the party 
 
TIIE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 56 
 
 arrived at Cortona, Cattivo was not to be fo.\and. The news 
 of Beaulieu’s death had not reached Cortona, and the of¬ 
 ficers were dispersed in the vicinity of the chateau, while 
 De Montfort and Dorville remained to guard the outer 
 gates. The domestics provided a splendid supper for their 
 guests, as Dorville was well known to the family since his 
 residence in Tuscany, and the Marquis before he quitted 
 Paris. Among the domestics who waited at supper, De 
 Montfort remarked one who was very old and feeble, and 
 who looked at them with a peculiar eye of interest aiul sor¬ 
 row. “ Do you Know me ?” said the Marquis. “ I remem¬ 
 ber you a boy,” replied old Antoine. “ It is just nineteen* 
 years since I entered the service of M. Beaulieu. I have al¬ 
 ways resided at the chateau in Gascony.” “ Then yod 
 knew Madame de Beaulieu ?” said the Marquis. “ I did,” 
 rejoined Antoine. “ She was a persecuted angel;—and, if f 
 
 blared tell all I know, I could discover such-but mine 
 
 has been a life of sorrow and secrecy, and I could not how 
 encounter the revenge of my master.” “ Reveal what you 
 
 know,” said De Montfort, “ and we will defend you.”- 
 
 “ Then know,” said Antonie, “ that Madame Beaulieu 
 
 lives! and-” Here he was interrupted by the entrance' 
 
 of the steward, whose look frightened old Antoine, and made 
 the friends suspect him as an agent of Beaulieu. They de¬ 
 manded more wind, and sat at table till past midnight. The 
 warmth of the evening induced them to walk- round the* 
 court-yard before they retired to rest : all was still in the 
 castle ; the clock had just tolled one, when a deep and me¬ 
 lancholy groan vibrated towards them.—\Vhilethey listened, 
 the words “ Oh ! De Montfort!” were pronounced, and no¬ 
 doubt existed but the sounds proceeded from some agonized, 
 sufferer. They waited a considerable time to hear if any 
 other token was exhibited; during which, the dawn had ra¬ 
 pidly advanced, and they were surprized by the-presence of 
 Antoine, who had just time to say, before the steward joined 
 him, that he was ordered with letters immediately to Flo¬ 
 rence. This sudden removal of Antoine convinced Dorville 
 that there v was much to be explored; and, after breakfast; 
 they proceeded to examine the apartments in that wing 
 whence the sounds had proceeded. They traversed a long 
 gallery, and entered a small dark room, the door of. 
 which appeared only like a pannel in the wainscot.—In it 
 was a bed, which seemed to have been occupied the pre- 
 
Till- BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. $7 
 
 /ceding; night, and was still humid with tears. Suspecting 
 niar, it jt were Madame Beaulieu’s prison, she was removed 
 4iom it during the. day, least she might be discovered, they 
 determined to re-commence their search at night. At din¬ 
 ner the Marquis questioned the morose steward, and ^a- 
 • thered from him that Antoine had the care of her when 
 ^>ve; and, as they had every reason to suspect she was not 
 deuv!, they determined the following night to force this surly 
 domestic to confession. I11 the moan time the Marquis re¬ 
 lated to Dorville the history of Tardieu's love for Madame 
 Beaulieu, and hi$ surprise at never having heard from him 
 Slnce . lus liberation from imprisonment, and subsequent 
 marriage. “ This night therefore/'said the Marquis, “ will 
 " c medicate to the cause of Madame Beaulieu, and, if I sur¬ 
 vive it, I will deposit the fatal secret which has Ion* agi¬ 
 tated me in your bosom.’’’ 
 
 At the silent hour of midnight, De Montfort and Dorville 
 began to traverse the court, in hopes that the sound of their 
 footsteps would rouze the * concealed sufferer'. The wary 
 steward was that night on iiis guard, and watched them 
 from his chamber-window. They continued to walk more 
 than an hour, and in their circle round approached the 
 ?uard, who kept watch at the outer gate. « What a solitary 
 nansion this is ! said De Montfort to the guard. “ Ha* 
 t always been thus ?” « When it belonged “to the Count 
 -uculli, replied the man, “ it was the abode of feasting 
 md merriment.—Great rewards have been offered for the 
 ecoveiy of his daughter, who has been forced away from 
 inn, and nobody can tell what is become of her.” “ How 
 /J me Moils. Beaulieu possessed of this chateau ?” said the 
 Marquis. “ He won it at the gaming-table,” replied the 
 ;uard. “ It was the great failing of the good old Count: 
 t is from the same cause that Dodier has lately seized on 
 II Ins property at Florence.—After his son, the Abbot of 
 lie Convent near Monte CareIJi is-the next heir.—His sister 
 as the v,ife ot Dodier, and, at the time they were married, 
 e was poor enough. He was the eleve of the Cardinal 
 >oiosi, who, as the report says, died suddenly!—You un- 
 erstand me. After which he got rich, and from a poor 
 1011k became an Abbot.” “ For what sum,” said the Mar- 
 
 uis, “did Dodier seize the effects of the Count?”_ 
 
 For 20,000 zechins!” and De Montfort recollected that it 
 as the piecise sum which was to have been cancelled by 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 $S 
 
 Dodicr’s marriage with Sospira. At this moment, a piercing 
 shriek issued from the chateau.—They immediately repaired 
 to the small room in the gallery, and" forced open the door. 
 No person was there, but on the table lay a small stiletto; 
 a chain was on the bod, and the pillow was again moist with 
 .tears. While they stood contemplating these objects, the 
 morose steward entered, whom they seized, and, putting a 
 pistol to his head, ordered him on pain of death to disclose 
 the secret resident of the chamber, lie then conducted 
 them through a grated window in the room to the balcony, 
 and thence they entered a winding staircase till they came to 
 the attic story, where a room was placed in the loft. On 
 approaching the door, they heard a noise like two persons 
 • struggling; the Marquis burst open the door, and with hor¬ 
 ror beheld the frantic daughter of Cucuili forcibly confined 
 in the arms of Aqualina Cormazzo. The Marquis sprang 
 towards her, and, snatching Sospira to his bosom, exclaimed, 
 
 Dli, heaven, it is for me that you suffer this afflicting de¬ 
 rangement !” The beautiful maniac then took a garland 
 from her own head, and, placing it on his, said, “ There i» 
 a crown loryou !—it will never fade where I have placed it ! w 
 On a small couch ol woven cane lay several pieces of cord, 
 one of which Dorville happening to touch, Sospira 
 shuddered. “ I will talk no more/' said she, “ of Dc 
 Montfort,—but make my garland quietly, if you will no£ 
 bind me." As Sospira stretched forth her hand, the Mar¬ 
 quis observed a wedding-ring on her finger, and learned 
 from she steward, that she was married to Dodier, and that, 
 since the ceremony, which had been performed some time, 
 he had never seen her. “ Who could sanction the base 
 act !” asked Do Montfort. “ The Abbot Pincta, at his 
 convent/’ replied the steward ; “ soon after Dodier stole 
 her from her father’s house near Fonte Buona,—since which 
 she has been a prisoner here. Beaulieu hated the Count, 
 anc] Dodier wanted to get rid of his wife, so they swore to 
 assist each other. Beaulieu, resolved to possess your daugh¬ 
 ter, employed Dodier to seize her, when she was rescued by 
 Cucuili. I was one of those who assisted M. Dodier and 
 Cattivo on that dreadful night when the latter was wounded, 
 since which time he has been confined to his "chamber till 
 within these few days.” 
 
 I hey now led Signora Sospira from the melancholy apart¬ 
 ment to the grated chamber, where- she seated herself on 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 
 lie bed, and began to adjust the flowers in her garland : till 
 ?. C * IoiuU)rt led her forth, preparatory to conveying her to 
 jorence Just as they were departing in Dorville's car- 
 iage a horseman brought a note from Dodier, directed for 
 Iqualina. Ihe Marquis seized it, and it ran thus * “ B« 
 igilant, as I suspect some treachery. When Sospira is dead 
 ou know the reward that is to repay your labours.—! 
 ave a safe retreat both for my wife and you in the moir*- 
 uns ^ of Sicily whence you shall shortly hear from me 
 gam. Ilawng left the police-officers to guard the domes- 
 cs atthe chateau, before noon the Marquis and Dorville 
 ■ft Cortona for Florence, whither they arrived, and imme- 
 latcly repaired to the lodgings of Cosson, who had just 
 red a convenient and handsome house, which the same 
 iv became their abode. Part of the story of Sospira l,a* 
 ng been detailed, the Abbe was dispatched to make inoui- 
 es concerning the Count Cuculli. When the Marquis ami 
 ossou were alone, the latter announced that lie had exne- 
 Jnccd an nmoiidnrcnt in his fortune which, he thanked 
 Mien, would enable lmn in some measure to repay the 
 nrqms for Ins former generous assistance, 'i'he Marquis 
 schumed having done any thing more than his duty, and 
 e young man proceeded;—-* You attracted my attention 
 I saw you enter the prison-yard at Milan; 1 heard your 
 >ry, and I determined to save yon.—One of the jailors by 
 .nice lodged in the same house with me.—We had con- 
 
 , a I >la " fo , r > our escape, in the execution of which 
 I mounted the prison-wall, the eentinel shot me in the 
 -■ast, and Maillet was severely wounded." We both fled 
 o Bologna, where Juliana met you at the fountain, ami 
 ’ compaiuon to France.” The story of Cosson was inter- 
 )ted by the entrance of the Abbe, who learned that Ma- 
 Dpisdle d Alembert had escaped from prison, and that 
 Count Cuculli resided at the house of his brother, the 
 ircpus I noli, on the borders of the lake of Perugia_ 
 
 wT.°n hC m 110 ","'- <ia - v ’ the Marquis, with Scrina, 
 
 ' P , ’ jn<l D “ rvillc ’ departed for the lake, leaving the . 
 •rchioness at Cosson’s, expecting letters from Jinglapil.— ' 
 eiemng they reached the asylum of the Count, the Villa 
 Marino and the venerable old nobleman once more. felt 
 joy of beholding his daughter, which was much abated 
 
 r l ' e " k a \ ,nf 0 '.'r e : 0( ,he marlla ge with Dodier, Taking 
 ■e of the beautitul maniac, Dorville and De Montfort re- 
 
 V 
 
6 © 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 turned to Florence, where he found letter# from Lady Char¬ 
 lotte Finch, the mother of Madame de Montfort, who by 
 order of her physicians was on her route to Italy.' The 
 wretched state of the suffering Sospira had determined De 
 Montfort, as a duty, to take every means of pursuing thcr 
 villain Dodier. Without delay, therefore, at the end of. 
 three days, lie bid. his wife and daughter prepare to accom¬ 
 pany him and Dorvilie to Naples. No news in the mean 
 time had arrived respecting Maria or Cattivo ; and, on 
 sending to Cortona, they found the steward and Aqualiim 
 had escaped. 
 
 The friends took their leave of Cosson, with the liveliest 
 gratitude for his civilities. Their route lay through a lux¬ 
 uriant country, and they continued with rapidity till they 
 stopped at an aitberge in the beautiful valley of San Monte- 
 roni. At evening they proceeded on their journey, and 
 Serina observed, as Dorvilie handed her into the carriage, 
 that his hand trembled.—“ Are you not well?” said she; 
 “ vou seem fatigued and overpowered.” Dorvilie thanked^ 
 her for her solicitude, and Madame de Montfort added, 
 “ Thank heaven we shall soon reach Naples.” “ Too soon V* 
 replied Dorvilie. “ Have you ever been there before?*' 
 asked the Marchioness. “Never!” replied Dorvilie! “yet 
 I had rather suffer a thousand deaths than visit that vortex 
 of pleasure and dissipation!” Without penetrating farther 
 into the cause of his antipathy to that city, they rallied him 
 on his opinions, and proceeded on their route. At night they 
 stopped at Torrinieii, where the inquietude of Dorvillcs 
 mi nd seemed every moment to augment. Nothing material 
 occurred till they reached Rome, where the travellers rested 
 a couple of days, to view the ruins of that mistress of the 
 Western world. A despondency seemed extending itself over 
 the heart of Dorvilie, which alarmed Serina, for his health 
 and intellects. Twice he had been on the point of disclosing 
 the secret cause of his inquietude, when the unexpected pre¬ 
 sence of the Marquis arrested the explanation. Serina saw 
 hi* struggles, and gave him her pity—her esteem : her good¬ 
 ness drew from him the uniform acknowledgement of his own 
 unworthiness, and an assurance that the recollection of one 
 former event rendered him for ever unworthy of a place in 
 her bosom. 
 
 Early in the morning the travellers proceeded on their 
 journey, and stopped to dine near the lake Albano. At- 
 
THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 6 1 
 
 traded by the beauties of the place, they proposed staying 
 here a night, and wandering about its vicinity.—In the 
 evening the Marquis and Dorville strolled towards the lake, 
 while Madame de Montfort and Serina visited a neighbour¬ 
 ing convent of Grey Sisters. The convert lay in the bosom 
 of a forest, and, when night approached, the Abbess coun¬ 
 selled them to depart, as the night had commenced. They 
 accordingly took leave, and hurried along the winding path 
 which conducts from the convent. They had nearly reached 
 the outskirts of the forest, when two men pursued, and 
 seized them.—Each of the robbers laid hold of one, de¬ 
 claring they only wanted to secure Mademoiselle Dc Mont¬ 
 fort. The shrieks of Serina were heard by the driver of a car¬ 
 riage on the road, then at the edge of the forest, the traveller 
 in which ran to their assistance, and discharged his pistol 
 into the breast of one of the villains, who immediately 
 escaped.—-Their deliverer was M. Cosson, who was going to 
 Napies to assist a friend, and now joined their party.—ITey 
 stopped at a hotel facing the Bay, and, as it was lat* 
 before they arrived, they did not propose retiring to rest 
 till after midnight. Cosson then went to his chamber, and 
 Dorville proposed to take a turn by the sea-side, to whiek 
 the Marquis, invited by the moonlight scenery, consented,* 
 As they proceeded, the Marquis said, “ Dorville, the still¬ 
 ness and solemnity of the hour invites me to unfold to you 
 the fatal secret of my bosom.—In the early part of my life 
 I conceived a passion for a beautiful girl, young and unac¬ 
 quainted with the world, like myself; we lived but for eac^ 
 other. Her father was an honest tradesman, and my Coli- 
 notte became the protegee of her distant relation, the Vis¬ 
 countess Barraud, who was a rigid bigot, and averse to our 
 marriage. Every day continued to augment our affection* 
 till Colinette was recalled to Paris, and the Viscountess put 
 into my hand a letter from my father, commanding me to 
 renounce, her. On the day when we parted, she gave me % 
 cross of ebony, as a pledge of faith between us. I snatched 
 it eagerly, with a trembling hand engraved the word, “ Re¬ 
 member 1 ' on it, and then, replacing it on her bosom, bid 
 her keep it for my sake. When Colinette set out for Paris, 
 I departed for Versailles. On my arrival I flew to my fa¬ 
 ther, and only waited till a banquet he had given was ovei*^ 
 to tell him of my despair. Before his friends retired, I se- 
 
 O u v 
 
$2 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 reived a letter iTora the object of my idolatry, stating, that 
 jer father would immure her in a convent the following day 
 I was raving like one deprived of reason, when Beaulieu* 
 the friend in whom I placed implicit confidence, entered 
 the room, and, having heard my distress, bid me rely en¬ 
 tirely on his exertions to render us both happy. At day¬ 
 break my father paid me a visit in bed, and*sternly iold me, 
 that, if I wished to retain the name of son, I must with- 
 out hesitation, set out on my travels, and die Abbe Besant 
 might accompany me. There was no appeal: the next 
 day we departed for Flanders, and had scarcely got three 
 posts from Pans, when a letter from my inhuman friend 
 reached me, stating, that Colinette’s father was shut up for 
 ever ,n the Bastile -We proceeded on our route dIl f Ja 
 taken a arm,ugly ,11 and my father was sent for, as I was 
 reduced to extreme danger. He planted a fresh dagger in 
 my heart by the information that Colinette was jusT mar¬ 
 ried, and her father dead ! When I had somewhat amended, 
 la . 11S ’ but neitherColinette nor her husband could 
 
 factTb 1 C ! ° f'" ain Beaulj ™. whose lettre-de- 
 cachet had imprisoned and murdered my Colinette’s father 
 
 and flew to the Viscountess Bar'raud, who drove me from her 
 
 :° r ’ r A "“ ln 1 out on n, y travels, and thcnVsaw Hen¬ 
 rietta Finch.—She was amiable, and I married her. On my 
 retuin to l aris, a short time before my father’s death, I 
 found myself censured as the seducer of Colinette, and the 
 destroyer of her father and I traced the calumny to Beau¬ 
 lieu ; but, when I taxed him with it, he denied it. From this 
 period I became a favourite at court, arid the rival of tire 
 Count lieanlieu, whose secret raneour continued to increase 
 Six years after my marriage, lire Viscountess Barraud senf 
 for me. She was on her death-bed, a,,d I arrived in time 
 to learn from her bps that my Colinette had never been 
 m.niicd, and that her falher was still the inhabitant of a 
 dungeon. She expired before 1 could ask where Colinette 
 was to be found, and all I could do was to exert myself for 
 the liberation of her father, which the villain Beaulieu aJu 
 prevented; and thus have- my wrongs rested since his flie 
 to Italy, to avoid the revolutionary fury ” ° 
 
 As the Marquis finished his narrative, the morning had 
 dawned, and they observed at a little distance a m-om, „f 
 iaxzarom enter a boat, and row towards the opposite shore 
 «f Sicily, a circumstance that excited the notice of he 
 
THE B LO (>D -ST A IN E D DAGGER, 
 
 63 
 
 JMaiquis, who resolved to pursue them, if his inquiries 
 respecting Dodier should prove unsuccessful.—The following 
 dny was devoted to this purpose; andy not being able to traca 
 1 tat at eh fiend, the Marquis, Dorville, and Cosson, hired 
 a vessel to^carry them in pursuit of the lazzaroni. Made¬ 
 moiselle de Montfort rose early in the morning to writ® 
 letters, and entered the*saloon* for that purpose, where Dor¬ 
 ville soon joined her. His despondency alarmed Serina, 
 who, taking his hand tenderly, while her eyes were suffused 
 with tears, asked him. the cause of his affliction. “ Alas \” 
 said Dorville, “ tlie fatal secret can no longer be con¬ 
 cealed !—I am married \” Serina shuddered. “ Oh, Serinal”' 
 returned Dorville, my wife was the object of my father’s 
 choice. It was hei wealth that won him, and mv title was 
 the chat m that attracted her. Since the first year we haye 
 never seen each, other, and our dislike is mutual.’— Serina 
 then red tod to her chamber, and sought relief in tears and 
 vain regrets. 
 
 In the evening, every thing being ready, the three friends 
 set sail with a prosperous breeze ; 'but, towards midnight, a 
 fiesh gale sprung up, which in an hour augmented to u tem¬ 
 pest. The storm continued till the dawn began, to break, 
 when it was found that the vessel had been driven back to 
 the east side of the island of Caprea, and it was judged 
 proper by the pilot to run into a creek near the Promontory# 
 This being effected, they instantly repaired to the house of 
 a fisherman, near the beach ; and, as they could not repair 
 their damage before the following morning, while the wo¬ 
 men endeavoured to sleep, the Marquis and his friends pro¬ 
 ceeded to examine the island. At the close of day, De 
 
 /»’1 ( ^ the shore, observed th« same 
 
 group of lazzaroni, who had on the preceding morning de¬ 
 parted from Naples, get into their boat, and row back with 
 the utmost expedition.;—1 he Marquis then returned to the 
 islander s hut, where a supper was provided. They were 
 just letiring to rest, when one of the sailors belonging txj 
 then \ esse I lushed in ; and called their attention to some 
 torches which seemed to move about the side of the Pro¬ 
 montory next them, and then disappeared in the earth.— 
 Ihe fisherman said such lights were seen there every night, 
 and that he supposed the place was haunted, as many had 
 there, but none ever returned.—From this account, 
 
 O o 2 
 
 gone 
 
« 4 - 
 
 THE BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 the Marquis and his friends, with four jailors, well armed, 
 proceeded with flambeaux to the spot, and entered the lofty 
 arch of a stupendous ruin : passing into a spacious hall, 
 they ascended to a broad staircase, which conducted to a 
 large apartment, in which two men were sleeping, with se¬ 
 veral flasks of wine, and two poniards before them.—One of 
 them had his right hand covered with blood, and seemed 
 much wounded.—Having secured these ruffians, they con¬ 
 tinued wandering through underground recesses, till they 
 came to a cavern on the sea-shore. T hey observed the 
 track of human steps leading to a niche in the farther cor¬ 
 ner of the recess, which terminated in a point, before which 
 a large stone was placed, as if by the hand of nature; by 
 their united efforts this barrier was removed, and in an inner 
 cave were discovered weapons and chests of various descrip¬ 
 tions ; and, among the rest, the little iron box of the 
 Marquis, containing his property entire.—Unablo- to form 
 any conjecture how this precious treasure became the pro¬ 
 perty of these unknown banditti, they replaced the chests 
 and the stone, and retired with that of De Montfort.— 
 Having secured their prisoners, the whole party soon after 
 set sail from Caprea; and had not proceeded far from land, 
 vvhen one of the banditti requested permission to make his 
 defence. His impressive manner struck the Marquis, and 
 lie requested him to go on. 
 
 “ Life,” said he, “ is of no value to the wretched ; and, 
 if you wish to do me a kindness, suffer me to die. The blood 
 which stains my arm is the first I ever shed illegally, and it 
 shall be the last.—I am one of a chosen band of exiled 
 nobles, whose souls are lofty, and whose wrongs are infinite. 
 
 •—I am a Frenchman, your countryman, fourteen years exiled 
 from France for having challenged a court-parasite, who had 
 seduced my sister. Had I not obeyed, i should have been 
 condemned to perish in a dungeon with my father !—When 
 the energies of nature are checked by the tyranny of des¬ 
 potic rulers, the mind, goaded by wrongs, pants for revenge. 
 For my services under the gallant La Fayette, what was my 
 recompense? I found rny sister robbed of innocence, and 
 a father condemned to the Bastile 1”—“ Who condemned 
 him?” cried the Marquis eagerly. <* Albert de Montfort!” 
 replied the prisoner.—“ The seducer of my sister was the vil¬ 
 lainous Count Beaujieu !”— u Thy father and sister s name'?” 
 inquired the Marquis, pale and trembling. “ Antoine ! v 
 
Tim BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 GS 
 
 replied tlie man. “ Mv sister was the beautiful Colinette 
 de Rigaud 1”—“ Lives she still ?” cried the Marquis.' “ She 
 does !” whispered Cosson. “ When we reach Naples I will 
 elucidate this mystery.” De Rigaud continued'*. “ Now, 
 Frenchmen, think ye not I deserve praise tor taking the 
 villain’s life !” — “ Whose life?” inquired Dorville. “ De 
 Montfort’s !” replied De Rigaud.—“ Last night he hired a 
 boat to carry him across to Sicily : and, seeing we were to 
 appearance lazzaroni, he engaged 1 us. He was a valuable 
 passenger, for he had a small iron chest with him, on which 
 was the name of Albert de Montfort.—All my soul was up 
 in arms at beholding the murderer of my peace and 
 honour.—I asked it he were the Marquis, and he confessed 
 ho was.—The proof was sufficient: 1 seized my dagger in 
 the moment when he was unguarded, plunged it into his breast, 
 and gave him to the deep !”—“ No plea can sanction this 
 assassination!” said Cosson. “ I grant it, said De Ri¬ 
 gaud ; “ but were mine common feelings ? Torn from my na¬ 
 tive soil, my kindred scattered, and my father imprisoned 
 at the will of a tyrannical noble!—Ask your hearts, anu, it 
 they pronounce me guilty, give the wheel to youi countiy- 
 man, who was the murderer of his father!”—“ Unbind 
 him !” said the Marquis; the sailors loosed, the coids. 
 
 “ Thou shalt be free.”—“ Come, then, blessed Freedom !” 
 cried De Rigaud, and he instantly plunged into the waves, 
 which parted to receive him, and then closed tor evei. 
 
 Madame de Montfort, escaped this dreadful scene, being 
 in the cabin ; nor drd the terrified De Montfort withdraw 
 his eyes from the fatal spot till they were landed on the quay 
 at Naples. With the sincerest grief lie regretted the fate of. 
 De Rigaud, and heaped imprecations on the head ot Beau¬ 
 lieu. The moment the Marquis arrived at the auberge, he 
 requested to speak with Cosson in private. Now, my 
 friend,” said De Montfort, “ elucidate what remains ob-- 
 scure in this eventtul history.—It Colinette still lives . 
 “She lives!” replied Cosson, “and has long buried her 
 sorrows in the gloom of a cloister^ To snatch a paient. 
 from the Bastile, she sacrificed her honour to Beaulieu.— 
 In two months after he was released, but on condition thafr 
 fee should pass the remainder ot his days in solitude, to 
 avoid the vengeance which would follow your knowledge of. 
 his emancipation.”—“ Heaven can-witness, cried De 
 
 O o 3 
 
06 
 
 the BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER/ 
 
 fort, “ I abhorred the deed."—Your neglect of Coli- 
 nette, continued Cosson, “ authorized her resentment, 
 and your marriage confirmed .her affliction. She was also 
 svvmn to secrecy, so that no one, not even the Viscountess 
 Barraud, knew Antoine de Rigaud was liberated.—The un¬ 
 fortunate victim of Beaulieu gave to the world a daughter, 
 end retired soon after to a convent, while her father,^igno¬ 
 rant of the sacrifice his child had made, was sent to a cha¬ 
 teau of Beaulieu's, in Gascony/'—“ He lives!" exclaimed 
 De Montfort, *< and 1 have seen him!" Cosson pro¬ 
 ceeded:—“ The melancholy story of Colinette I have lately 
 received, written by her own hand,—Previous to her eter¬ 
 nal seclusion, she sent you a little ebony cross to Mont- 
 nmr; you were then in England. Her daughter was 
 adopted by the Duchess Barraud, (the mother of the Vis¬ 
 count,) and she has lately, by her death, received consi¬ 
 derable property. She was educated at Paris, and thence 
 removed to Languedoc, where 1 married her." 
 
 Juliana now entered the room, and the Marquis pressed 
 the likeness of the unfortunate Colinette to his bosom.—. 
 Having hired some new apartments at a hotel in Naples, 
 Madame de Montfort, before supper was finished, made an 
 excuse to retire, and left the party in earnest conversation. 
 Passing along the second gallery, she observed a glimmer* 
 Jng light in a side-room, and, hearing nothing stir, she 
 gently opened the door, and saw a superb velvet coffin in 
 the middle of the chamber. On reading the plate, it 
 proved to be the corpse of her mother, Lady Charlotte 
 finch, who had expired on her journey near Naples. The 
 Abbe Besant, who had been sent out to meet her, had made 
 Madame de Montfort's peace with her mother, who had be¬ 
 queathed her a splendid fortune. 
 
 While Madame de Montfort was thus engaged, a monk 
 iiad entered to the party at supper, and asked for the Mar¬ 
 quis.— u My business," said the Monk, “ is to console the 
 flying. If you would see the last of one who owns he has 
 basely injured you, follow me." Nothing could deter the 
 Marquis. The Monk conducted him to the inner chamber 
 ©f a convent, wnere, on a narow pallet, lay the expiring 
 Dodicr! — i he Marquis shuddered ! “ I come not to re¬ 
 proach you," said De Montfort; « your peace is iiwdi vritb 
 »ie, may heaven grant the same !" 
 
TIIK BLOOD-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 6f 
 
 “ Hear my confession!’' said the dying man : “ it will 
 ease my. last moments.—My father was the faithful servant 
 of vour's, and for some trifling offence the Marquis shot him 
 basely through the heart, in the forest of Montnoir.—The 
 deed was attributed to accident.—At the supposed point of 
 death he confessed the deed, and, as a recompense, promised 
 to leave me all his fortune.—But when he recovered, a recon¬ 
 ciliation took place between you, and his friendship cooled 
 towards me.—We quitted Paris for Montnoir, and there, dis¬ 
 puting on some subject, he reproached me with ingratitude. 
 —We parted ; he retired to his chapel;—the spirit of re¬ 
 venge was my guide.—With his own dagger the horrid deed 
 was effected !-- 
 
 “ I had nearly forgotten my hatred to the name of De 
 Montfort, when from your hand I received a blow; this, 
 added to the rejection of my son in marriage, determined 
 me to destroy you. Meeting Dorville in the forest, I mis¬ 
 took him for you, and stabbed him; and afterwards learn¬ 
 ing, that he should know the assassin from a million, I en¬ 
 gaged an associate, Orsano Cormazzo, to kill him, who, till 
 the moment of his death, never ceased with me to follow you. 
 —He was wounded near Monte Carclli. VVe were escaping, 
 after I had stabbed the good father Paulo"- 
 
 The pang of annihilation now seized Dodier, and he rolled 
 lifeless from the pallet on the pavement. He was ignorant 
 of his son's having (lied by his own hands; hence the old 
 Marquis’s property reverted to Serina, and Dodier’s personal 
 property to his wife, Signora Sospira. The Monk informed 
 De Montfort that Dodier was stabbed by some lazzaroni, 
 whom he had hired to carry him to the opposite shore ; after 
 which, he was thrown overboard; but struggled till he was 
 taken up by a boat making to land, and thus was deposited 
 in his convent. 
 
 The Marquis hastened back to the hotel, where he 
 found Besant had arrived with old Antoine de Higaud ; 
 the corpse of Lady Finch was sent off to the family-vault 
 in Scotland, and De Montfort proceeded to, Tuscany, to 
 serve his friend Count Cuculli. Dorville remained at Na¬ 
 ples with his wife, who had been ordered there a shc*rt time 
 previously to his arrival, and was in a deep decline. Stopping 
 at the convent of the lake Albano, the Marquis’s party re- . 
 cognized among the nuns the wife of Beaulieu.—Opening 
 Jier faint eyes, she exclaimed, on seeing Cosson, “ Oh! 
 
6 S 
 
 THE I5L00D-STAINED DAGGER. 
 
 Tardieu !,” and fell into his arms. “ Restored to existence 
 when 1 thought you had long ceased to live,” said Tardieu, 
 may this moment of meeting terminate all your sorrows; 
 your husband is no more !”—Madame Beaulieu’s counte¬ 
 nance expressed the anticipation of that happiness she was 
 not destined to experience. u This habit,” said she, “ is 
 merely probationary, and will not impede a union which 
 our adverse fate has so long delayed—The Abbess knows 
 all my story, and will with joy release me.” Tardieu shruok 
 from the task of destroying her newly-raised hopes by the 
 disclosure of his marriage with Juliana. He had not power 
 to speak, but, embracing her for the last time, rushed out 
 of the porch, and darted along the winding path r at the same 
 time pointing to the Marquis to account for his inability to 
 stay. The story of his marriage was explained to her, and 
 she resigned herself to the ordination of heaven. The Mar¬ 
 quis felt the highest and most unexpected pleasure in learn¬ 
 ing, that Cosson was the son of his friend, the gallant Tar- 
 dicu.—Madame Beaulieu, not long after, claimed her hus¬ 
 band’s property at Florence, and joined their party. Sig¬ 
 nora Sospira’s faculties, in a few weeks, by kind treatment, 
 were entirely restored. At Florence they learned, that Cat- 
 tivo had fallen by the hands of Cosson, on the skirts of the 
 forest near the lake Albano, and that he had previously mur¬ 
 dered Maria, who had been the companion of his flight, and 
 whom he had destroyed in revenge for her having betrayed 
 hi.n.—De Mont fart and his family, accompanied by the Abbe 
 Besant, and the venerable Antoine, who were the partners 
 at their prosperity, not long after sailed for England, where 
 Dorvi lie joined them a few months after their arrival. Here- 
 turned a widower, and was united to the virtuous Serina. 
 
 THE EKB. 
 
 \ 
 
 FREDERIC 
 
( «9 ) 
 
 FREDERIC STAUN, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 REVENGE OF DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 The writer of this article, when abroad, in proceeding 
 
 towards S-, was obliged to enter a large and deep forest. 
 
 About the middle of the route he observed eight crosses of 
 wood, placed by the side of each other, and which from 
 time appeared to he much decayed. The number of the** 
 pious erections excited his curiosity, and he journeyed 
 slowly on, in the expectation of meeting some one who 
 might elucidate the object of his research.—At length an old 
 wood-cutter appeared, who, sitting himself down on the 
 stump of a tree, related the following history. 
 
 “ An age has now elapsed since a young gentleman, of the 
 
 name of Frederic Staun, lived in the village of D-His 
 
 character was good aud pious, and several of his relatives 
 still exist in the village.—He was the son of an unfortunate 
 father: who, after having entirely dissipated his fortune, was 
 obliged to exist in poverty and misery. — Frederic was 
 enamoured of Catherine Tourville, the daughter of a rich 
 farmer in an adjacent village, by whom, as well as her parents, 
 he was warmly beloved. While the lovers indulged in (lie 
 mutual pleasures of reciprocal affection, a war broke out 
 with a neighbouring Prince, and Frederic was constrained to 
 become a soldier. Previously to his departure, he swore 
 eternal fidelity to his Catherine, and promised to return in 
 a twelvemonth to espouse her. The charming girl, on her 
 side, vowed a hundred times to know no other love; and, 
 having shed a torrent of.tears at their cruel separation, Fre¬ 
 deric quitted the village to join a regiment of cavalry, then 
 recruiting in his canton. For a considerable time did Ca¬ 
 therine continue to weep at his absence, and pray for his 
 safe return: nor were her wishes indifferent to her family, 
 all of whom, except her mother, felt an interest in the for- 
 
70 
 
 FREDERIC STALIN'. 
 
 tunc of the young soldier. Madame Tourville was the first 
 ho endeavoured to depreciate Frederic in the opinion of 
 
 her f b J ect was to detach her affection frortt 
 s ci nice, and to inspire her with a passion for another 
 note wealthy. The fortunate person whom she had selected 
 ioi the prosecimon of her scheme was a rich widower of 
 ' *.• F an | C and ’ ^ she very well knew the cupidity 
 
 1- J . hl ?f band » vvho after wealth as the first good, but 
 
 o L T""? 1 , that h f r uUI t--esAt any obstacle 
 I • f 1011 ( 'j k '’ prudential scheme for the interest 
 
 st „>, " y ; ,l Vhcn she consulted her husband, he in- 
 
 , ? seconded her endeavours to overcome the resistance 
 
 hi,-'~ r , huy represented in the ablest manner to 
 did « t C u' t!U " il<lv » l,til ses to be enjoyed with Mr. F. (who 
 the nronerf 11 ^Itietli year,) when compared with 
 
 •7w L„ r ber tM ? t lnvur - “ Frederic,” said they, “ is 
 
 vin-iml”, ®' m (“ rtlme » which he may extra- 
 
 f * ,, y spun , as las father did before- hinvj he will return- 
 uaim y at once dissipated and extravagant.—Nay, 
 wh ie you are hopelessly expecting him, year after year, he 
 
 ohm- ?!!■. !*.?!’ , be "? e W0UI >« J '-<I or Slain.” These and . 
 
 rfr“ ein » maf}e Iltlle iinpressibnum the faithful M'a- 
 morse e Tourville; and all the concession she made to 
 
 I>pVmv h h eS t ,K i lrea l S ° f her l )are nts was, that, she would, 
 b stow her hand on Mr. F. if, in the space of one year, Fre- 
 
 enc did neither write to her nor return. “ I have sworn, * 
 V, f : e » to wait during a year, and I will on no account 
 
 f V f nm <£ a ' 1 example of falsehood.”-^ 4 Right,” said her 
 lei ;* , A promise solemnly sworn to should be reli-- 
 
 ° f?-* ved * a ^ er ^ ie time of its limitation is pass- 
 ’ the obligation is no longer binding/' At length the 
 year glided away ^ no letters came, and Frederic had not 
 ivr r p e * " 1 ( > 1 riy .after, the names of the young' lady and 
 
 l ’ . ’ X,( ^ K P Ul ll P m bans, and published by the minister of 
 ie c mi ch the day of the wedding was also fixed. After 
 sixteen months of service, the regiment was ordered into gar- 
 ii son, aiK iF. Staun obtained leave of absence for a few weeks, 
 e aril vet afthe village of 1>—, on the previous evening 
 .. , 10 ™ ai nage-day of his beloved Catherine. — Having 
 
 2- i & ltec tom his horse, and entered an inn, he inquired the 
 ileus of tie village, and learned that Mademoiselle Tour- 
 vilie was to be married on the following morning.—When he 
 receive the afflicting intelligence, he -demonstrated the 
 
FREDERIC STAUN. 
 
 71 
 
 •mnsi perfect indifference; and, seating himself at the table 
 he Oidcied supper to be provided, during which he enterl 
 tamed the company m the room with the history of the 
 events during the war, and the battles in which he had been 
 personall\ engaged. —At break of day he saddled his horse 
 •ana, without saying any thing, quitted the village.— In the 
 ™ 0a ',' ,he parents of Catherine rose early in the mornimr 
 to adorn themselves, and prepare for the celebration of the 
 
 «’ho L 8 ® 6 ' T\ A | ge '! er ? • g!, ' cty sat on tlle countenance of all 
 
 nessofMr F 7 I ! a '’ d ‘ hey cvnsi<lered the happi- 
 “ Com|,lcte - — Tl,e ! a «?r. however, seemed 
 rl „ 1<? 0,1 y cxct ‘pt Catherine, who did not rejoice 
 n ° ccas ’°n- A melancholy hung upon his brow, which 
 t. uld be attributed to no other cause than the change of 
 condition he was about to enter into. — The looks of the 
 qbedicnt Mademoiselle Tourville corresponded to his, but 
 hci unhappiness arose from giving her hand where her heart 
 
 rite on | rSC k- ” 5 h ° m P lese " tirat '»t of his approaching 
 ate, and nduch was justly due to him from having made 
 
 nmselt a party to a plan of retaining his rival’s letters from 
 
 leaching the hand ot Catherine, during his absence. — The 
 
 •lorses were attached to two chariots, richly adorned with 
 
 lowcis and libbons; and the nuptial-party, consisting of the 
 
 onde and bridegroom, her father and mother, and four re-. 
 
 lattons, commenced their procession to the parish-church 
 
 l ay by the very S P®‘ in the forest that has so much 
 
 Anted you, cunosity, preceded by music and trumpets _ 
 
 \rrived at the middle and most gloomy part of the forest 
 
 lie r'i r r T ‘ e, i v° m am0ng tlie trees > placed himself in 
 lie road, and hied ins carbine at the petrified Catherine — 
 
 lorrm to, a moment appalled all the party; during which, 
 
 be horseman drew two pistols from hi. belt, and sncces- 
 
 ivcty shot the bridegroom and the mother of his Catherine — 
 
 er father shared the same fate by a blow on the head from 
 
 !’ , e ] >ls ° 5 ’ an< l> u P°n a disposition being manifested 
 J the relatives to secure the assassin, he attacked them as 
 hey alighted from the carriage, with his sabre and th^y’ all 
 e l victims to h,s fury. _ .He then re-loaded one of hriph- 
 ols, and in the mean time informed one of the attendants 
 rho had been slightly wounded, that his name was Frederic 
 - aun, and that to himself only were the love and hand If 
 Mademoiselle Tourville plighted in this world ! — Unwill- 
 10 **-> sa,d I^deric to the Valet, “ without a juslifi- 
 
 
FREDERIC STAUN. 
 
 7t 
 
 cation, you shall know my injuries. — After a hard cam¬ 
 paign, in which I had written several letters to Catherine, I 
 at length received one in her own hand-writing, in which 
 
 she informed me that she was about to leave D---, and 
 
 settle at some distance with a husband whom her parents 
 had selected.—My grief was unutterable.—We were ordered 
 into garrison; and 1 then wrote to my friend Mr. F— for a 
 confirmation of the baseness of Mademoiselle Tourviilc; 
 he corroborated the letter of my rejection,—1 then obtained 
 leave of absence, and set off to reproach the perjured Tour- 
 
 ville. On my arrival near the village of D-, I learned 
 
 that it was my friend who was her lover, and who had inter¬ 
 posed between my happiness and Catherine/'—Then, decla¬ 
 ring that, as he had lived for her, so he would perish with 
 her, he mounted the carriage; and, having saluted the dying 
 Catherine, he blew out his brains, and fell into her arms. 
 ■—The expiring bride recognized her lover, and her last 
 words were, — “ Oh ! Frederic, I am the victim of my pa- 
 renrs! My heart was ever thine! I die to join thy de¬ 
 parted spirit V* — As a memorial of this dreadful event, th® 
 eight bodies were deposited here, and as many crosses 
 erected. The remains of the assassin were afterwards trans¬ 
 ported to B-—. His tongue was cut out at the place of ex¬ 
 ecution, his members were torn in pieces with red hot pin* 
 curs, and his carcase placed on the wheel. — Every couple, 
 who proceed from the village of D— to the parish-church 
 to bo married, always stop at this spot in the forest, and 
 pray for the souls of the eight unfortunate victims/' 1 
 
 Such was the talc which the wood-cutter recited, — Ha¬ 
 ving given him a trifling gratification for his intelligence, 
 the writer repaired to the fatal spot again, and with the 
 jnost lively sensations contemplated the group of crosses.— 
 They naturally inspired reflections oh the destructive ven¬ 
 geance which violent love and disappointment inspire.—Were 
 such the general practice of rash and indiscriminating pas¬ 
 sions, what a scene of anarchy and horror would human so¬ 
 ciety present! — Let every one, therefore, respect and pro¬ 
 mote the energy of good laws, which exist for the purpose 
 of rendering redress to the injured; and, in snatching the 
 poniard from the hand of the assassin, place it in thos« of 
 justice. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Frmteil by J. H. JsLaxt, 23 1 Wajimk-Sijuarc, 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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