CHAPTER IV.

Ane gat a twist o’ the craig, Ane gat a bunch o’ the wame, Anither gat lam’d o’ a leg, And syne he went bellowing hame.

THE princess Margaret was overjoyed once more to see her Brunilda’s lover, and she welcomed him with the sincerest regard. She listened with burning indignation to the account of the Dwarf’s treatment of his captives, and to such other parts of his history as he thought proper to relate; for he carefully suppressed, in the presence of the court, his adventures at Eisenac and his release by the gnome, lest the friendship of this good-natured spirit should again subject him to the charge of sorcery; and as he had already smelt fire at Eisenac, he was particularly anxious to avoid so warm a reception elsewhere. He informed the good princess that the girdle would only fit the damsel appointed by destiny to break the enchantment, and of consequence all were anxious to try it. Three of the most beautiful ladies in Misnia attempted, but, strange to relate, in vain, to fix on the magic cestus: it shrunk to nothing round their forms, and Ludolph began again to tremble for the fate of his poor Brunilda. In vain did the most prudish ladies of the court present their slim forms to the girdle,—it would not meet around them. Several of those who had been most rigid in their own conduct, and most bitterly virtuous in regard to that of others, took the girdle with a devout air and a blushing modesty, that quite revived the hope of the Westphalian knight. Alas! the cestus not only refused to clasp the waists of these fair ones, but even flew right out of their hands the moment they touched it; and this circumstance so disheartened Ludolph, that he foolishly enough, ere above twenty ladies had made the attempt, gossiped out the secret of its virtues in the delighted ear of the princess Margaret. That good lady thought the joke too excellent to be confined to so few persons; and there being among the unlucky twenty some whose beauty rivalled that of her beloved Brunilda, she lost no time in publishing the secret, which had all the effect of making them abhor Ludolph, and defeating the plans he was so anxious to carry into effect; for now, not a single woman acquainted with the virtue of the cestus would even try it on, and, instead of laughing with the princess and Ludolph at the unlucky discoveries made by the twenty, they made, much to their honour, common cause against them, and vowed to smother the mischievous knight whenever they could conveniently catch hold of him. It required all the authority of the margrave, who at this juncture arrived at Weimar from the camp, to protect the unfortunate knight from their vengeance, who began to be as much afraid of these beautiful destroying angels as he had been of the fire-loving devils of Eisenac, or even the Yellow Dwarf himself. “Alas! I am surely the most unfortunate of men,” said he to the margrave; “I have been transformed to the detested shape of the Yellow Dwarf, for wishing to deliver your sister out of his hands. I have been very near roasting alive for killing myself. I have been put to the ban for suffering myself to be tormented by my powerful enemy, and now I am in danger of being torn to pieces by the loveliest women in the world, only for being anxious to find one virgin in their company. Ah, my poor Brunilda! what will become of thee?” The margrave comforted the knight with the assurance that he would certainly be successful, if he could but prevail upon the ladies only to try on the girdle, and, in case of their obstinacy, he advised him to put the magic scissors into the hands of Brunilda herself, “For, if she be not worthy to use them,” said the proud Frederic with the bitten cheek, “she is not worthy of liberty, nor the tender love you bear her. For the other conditions, I fear we must despair, since I do not believe there is a knight in my court, no, nor in all the courts of Germany, that will venture to accept the challenge; though, against mortal foes, they are the bravest men in the universe.” The margrave was right. Each knight knew his own secret weaknesses too well to accept the office, when the conditions were stated to them, no one being willing, as they honestly avowed, to hazard an ignominious death, by disregarding the injunctions of the gnome. There was not a man among them who had not, at some time or other, offended by drunkenness, licentiousness, or breaking heads in an unjust quarrel: indeed, with regard to the latter peccadillo, it was scarcely possible, in the time of which I am treating, for it to be otherwise, since not only disputes of chivalry, and all injuries, whether public or private, were settled by the sword, but even cases of felony and suits of law were arranged by the same expeditious decision; so that he of the strongest arm and stoutest heart infallibly gained his cause, whether right or wrong, as his adversary could no longer contend, either for reputation or property, after the dagger of mercy had been struck into his heart, or drawn quietly across his throat.

But, to return to our good Westphalian and his difficulties. After many objections, disputings, hopings, and fearings, the margrave at last found a salvo for Ludolph, and a stainless knight for the service of the king of the oranges. This was his own son, a boy of ten years old, upon whom, finding all other hope fail, he conferred the honour of knighthood, and released him from his martial studies, in which the gallant child spent all his time, and sent him to handle the shears of Atropus, and share in the glory of shaving the orange-coloured beard of the execrable Dwarf. The little knight Herman of Misnia was highly delighted by his admittance to this post of honour, and attached himself fondly to his good cousin Ludolph, who now began making preparations for his march. So great was the terror inspired among the people by the Yellow Dwarf, that it was with much difficulty he could collect troops sufficient to defend the son of the margrave upon this voyage of discovery, as all the nobles, knights, and regulars of Thuringia, were gone to the camp in daily expectation of an attack from the emperor Albert, who, having been just overreached in his views upon Bohemia, by his good cousin Henry of Carinthia, was advancing in no very good humour upon the troops of the margrave of Misnia. After a proclamation of some days, in which Ludolph puffed the vast riches of the diamond mine with almost as much skill as Day and Martin puff their blacking, a number of strays from all parts of the empire gathered themselves together under his standard; and though he could not boast of commanding many of the nobles of Misnia, yet, upon the whole, his troop was about as respectable as David’s at the cave of Adullam, when only those who were in debt, or distress, or discontented, enrolled themselves in his service. But great endings spring from small beginnings. From a captain of half-starved ragamuffins David became a king; and Ludolph hoped that his regiment of black guards would finally conduct him to the feet of a princess. With this notion he set forward, full of expectation, with the youthful knight committed to his charge. On their road, fearful of any other delays, he inspirited his companions by dwelling, with affected rapture, upon the spoils of the diamonds, which were so soon to be at their service, in the sack of the mine. These observations acted like electricity upon his respectable warriors, and sent them galloping towards the confines so rapidly, that before he had either hoped or expected it, they had arrived at the foot of the mystic mountain, where the whole troop made a halt, to await the return of Ludolph, who, with his young companion, was to descend first into the caves, seize the scissors, and then leave the coast clear for the plunderers to attack the mine. Matters were soon settled. The two knights found the entrance with some difficulty, and boldly descended into these dismal abodes, the residence of the infernal spirits who were in the pay of the Yellow Dwarf. After traversing many dreary caverns, they entered the last, where, elevated on a golden pedestal, stood the gigantic statue which held the scissors of fate, and was the guardian of the life of the Yellow Dwarf. Forgetting, in his joy at the sight, the caution of the gnome, he was advancing towards the statue, when a tremendous box on the ear from the marble fist taught him to know his distance. He fell back accordingly, and, young Herman of Misnia approaching, the statue grinned as hideously as his protégé, but made no attempt to injure the boy, as fearlessly he climbed the pedestal, and, without any regard to the rights of property, grasped the magic scissors, and brought them away in triumph. Ludolph received them from his hands with the wildest sensation of delight; but, prudence conquering his emotions, he took his young preserver in his arms and retraced his way to daylight. Here he was greeted with shouts of applause by the soldiers, who, in spite of the entreaties of Ludolph, persisted to ransack the caves, pursuant to their original agreement. In vain did he assure them the margrave’s enemies would furnish more spoils for them than the vaults, and that his share should be divided among them. Vainly did he describe the threatening looks of the statue, and assure them he still felt the tingling of the marble thump in his ear, with which it had complimented him. It was talking to the winds, or, as old Baker quaintly saith, “to as little purpose as if he had gone about to call back yesterday.” Down they all dashed together, neck and heels, with tremendous outcries, into the diamond caverns. But their return was silent and orderly enough. The cave of Trophonius could not have effected a better or more expeditious change. They were all as grave as judges, and every man appeared with his mouth twisted exactly under his left ear. Ludolph could gain but little information as to what had befallen them; all he understood was, that they had seen the statue, who had given the first man such a thundering slap of the face that its shock was felt by all the rest of his companions, and left the consequences which he now beheld, and which they had such good reasons to deplore. But, while the knights of the scissors and their wry-mouthed confederates are pursuing their road to Weimar, let us pop our heads under ground and see what has become of Brunilda.

The poor princess, much disconcerted by the diabolical contrivance of the Yellow Dwarf, gave way, when alone, to that indulgence of grief which she resolutely suppressed in his presence. She had encouraged the visits of the two Dwarfs, in the tender hope that, though they afforded no consolation to herself, they might yield some satisfaction to the bosom of her tormented lover. This being the real state of her feelings, she was deeply distressed when, the day after Ludolph’s release by the gnome, they neglected to pay her the customary visit, and therefore sent to request the presence of her tyrant. He came, and in no very good humour, for he had just failed in the effect of a spell, which he hoped would discover the runaway. He told her, even more brutally than usual, that Ludolph had escaped, that he was endeavouring to discover him, and that, in case he succeeded, of which he had no doubt, he would immediately hang him, unless the princess would save his life by giving her hand to his rival. Delighted by the escape of the knight, Brunilda could not keep her joy to herself, but expressed it so imprudently, and with such heartfelt glee at the Dwarf’s vexation, that it irritated all the bile in his little yellow body, and provoked him to have recourse to his most powerful spells to discover the abode of Ludolph. It was, luckily for the knight, a work of time and difficulty, since the gnome of the mine was at hand to unravel all his charms as fast as the other wrought them; and he was, by this means, obliged to desist, in order to find the invisible enemy who thus thwarted his plans and protected his victim. The indefatigable gnome was still at his elbow, and poor yellow-beard continued as much in the dark at the end of his spells, as he had been at the beginning. All this gave the knight time, which was what the gnome wanted, and the Dwarf remained in ignorance of his movements, till the spirits, who were the guardians of his talisman in the mountain caves, informed him of his danger and the seizure of the magic scissors. Such a contrivance as that of knighting a child the demon had never contemplated, but finding one half of the adventure accomplished, he determined, as far as in him lay, to prevent the achievement of the other. Learning by his fiends, that he was threatened with danger from Brunilda, he made it his principal care that the magic scissors should not be wielded by her, and accordingly penned her up more closely than ever, surrounding her by spells, not only inaccessible to mortals, but even to his own attendant spirits, whom he would not trust too far, lest his tyranny should have inspired them with hatred to his person, and laxity in his service. Among his equals in the demon world he well knew, and feared the indignation of the gnome of the silver mines, whose territories he had invaded, and before whose power, if joined to that of other enemies, he would have good reasons to tremble. These considerations determined his conduct, and, to prevent Brunilda from handling the scissors, and the scissors from approaching his beard, he devised a spell so potent, that he fondly hoped and believed he was safe from the attacks of, and might bid defiance to, all sorts of enemies, natural and supernatural.

In the mean time, Ludolph and his companions had arrived at the court of Weimar, to the great joy of the margrave and his mother, who, looking upon the adventure as nearly finished, entreated Ludolph to lose no time in joining his friend the gnome in the enchanted forest. He himself had no wish to delay the business, and, after making one more unsuccessful attempt to prevail upon the ladies of Misnia to try on the girdle, he set off to present it to his lovely Brunilda; and, arriving near the Orange Tree, was met by the friendly gnome. “It is not yet in my power to introduce you to the presence of the princess,” said he to the count, “as I have not yet conquered the spells by which our enemy has surrounded her: the cavern is inaccessible at present to any human foot, but it is not in the power of the demon to limit my steps in the territory of which I am the legitimate lord. His spirits are as powerful as mine, and thus I am obliged to have recourse to artifice to conquer him, which I should not be able to effect, if he had not, by obtruding into my dominions, placed the secret of his spells in my power. Unlike the free spirits who have existed from the beginning of the world, and who will probably survive its demolition, the Dwarf is mortal born, though, by magic spells, he has lengthened his life many hundred years; but his birth subjects him to death, which will be inevitable, should the infernal power by which he has accomplished his purposes be defeated. To prevent this catastrophe, he has placed his life in a talisman, which he believes unconquerable, but which, I trust, we shall overthrow. Caution is, however, necessary, for his spells are mighty, and the spirits subjected to his command are many. In the interim you shall rest here, and I will provide for your necessities till I shall be able to conduct you to Brunilda, to whom you must explain the virtues of the scissors of fate, for, by an immutable decree which no spirit dares violate, I am restrained from appearing before her till she herself shall summon me.” The gnome then raised a comfortable tent for Ludolph, loaded it with provisions, drew a line of protection about it, and vanished.

Three days passed tranquilly enough with Ludolph, while patiently awaiting the re-appearance of his friend the gnome, but the fourth was beginning to hang very heavy, when the spirit entered the tent in the middle of the night. “I triumph,” said he; “I have unloosed the spell that kept you from the presence of Brunilda. The Dwarf, being mortal born, is subject to mortal necessities, and at this hour he sleeps; rise and throw yourself at the feet of the princess; give me your hand, and close your eyes.” Ludolph obeyed, and the next moment found himself in the apartment of Brunilda. As I, the honest chronicler of the loves of the Westphalian knight and Misnian princess, am no great dealer in sentiment, I shall omit all the particulars of the meeting, and only say how truly happy Brunilda was to receive him, and how grateful she felt towards the obliging gnome, whom she gladly summoned to her presence. To the great relief of Ludolph, who trembled and doubted grievously while making the proposal, she had not the slightest objection, even after she was made acquainted with its virtues, to try on the enchanted girdle, which fitted her graceful form as if it had been purposely made for her: her lover could not help commending the taste of the Yellow Dwarf, and was as much overjoyed at this earnest of success as if he already held the demon’s beard in his hand. The gnome then gave Brunilda the fatal scissors, and telling them that the spirits of their enemy could not perceive them, from the powerful spells by which they were surrounded, desired them to follow his footsteps fearlessly to the inner caverns, where slept the demon, and whom sleep would probably render defenceless. Stretching out their necks and stepping on tiptoe, the lovers followed the gnome to the private apartment of the Dwarf, whom Brunilda anxiously hoped to serve in quality of barber extraordinary. With beating hearts they beheld their guide throw open the door of his chamber, and desire the princess to advance, at the same time approaching the couch of the demon, and drawing back his curtain. Brunilda obeyed; mustering all her courage, and collecting a little army of disagreeable remembrances to her aid, she found herself so strengthened that, like Judith, she resolved to finish the business with a single snip. But the Holofernes of Germany had had more wit than his drunken predecessor, and had taken much better care of his shaggy head; for the Judith of Misnia looked in vain for the yellow beard that was to fall beneath the fatal scissors. That _that_ had disappeared was not wonderful, since the face to which it formed such a remarkable appendage had entirely vanished from the body. There lay the carcase of the Dwarf, sleeping, it might be, but his head was dozing in some other place, for the body was very quietly reposing without it. Poor Brunilda shed tears of vexation, and the gnome looked silly enough to find himself thus completely outwitted; but knowing that he could find no remedy for the disappointment by standing gaping at the demon’s trunk, he drew the lovers from the chamber, conducted Ludolph back to his tent, and again had recourse to his spells, which told him that the Dwarf, fearful of surprise while disarmed by sleep, took off his head every night, and concealed it in some place of safety, but where he could not discover. This was a vexatious incident; but “_ruse contre ruse_,” thought the gnome, and to work he went with a fresh resolution to outspell the yellow conjuror and liberate the lovers. In the mean time the demon awoke from his invigorating slumber, and hastened to replace his ugly head upon his shoulders, and then, head and tail once more united, sat down to consider the possibility of recapturing the knight of Tecklenburgh, in whose hands, notwithstanding the success of his spells, he did not like to leave the magic scissors. Brunilda, it is true, was safe enough; but the Dwarf knew (though Ludolph could not discover them) that there were more virgins than one in the Misnian court; and that the count wanted neither eloquence to persuade such to assist him, nor resolution to attack his enemy, when that difficulty should be conquered. In the midst of these cogitations he was aroused by a summons from the princess, who had not permitted him to approach her since the day after Ludolph’s departure: the little coxcomb was enchanted by the message, and hastened to arrange his looks in the most becoming manner possible, ere he presented himself before the eyes of his lovely captive. Brunilda was in tears when he entered her apartment, and no sooner did she behold him than she poured upon him such a torrent of reproach and abuse, that the Dwarf, though in general tolerably well skilled in the use of that cutting weapon the tongue, stood utterly confounded, and knew not what to reply. She accused him vehemently of the murder of her lover, her dear Ludolph, which secret, she said, had been revealed to her in a dream by her patron saint that very night, and she had therefore sent for him to accuse him to his guilty face. The Dwarf listened in surprise; but this time, far from retorting with his usual bitterness upon Brunilda, he was hugging himself in the notion that the patron saint might have told the truth, and that Ludolph, whom all his arts had failed to discover, might really be no longer an inhabitant of the earth, in which case he flattered himself he might possibly succeed him in the affections of the fair Brunilda, whose hand he coveted no less than her brother’s lands, of which he resolved to dispossess him whenever he should become the husband of his sister. Full of these agreeable hopes and ideas, he soothed the weeping princess as well as the ruggedness of his nature would permit, and assured her, that though her lover was dead, (a circumstance of which he averred he was well aware, though compassion had hitherto prevented his informing her,) yet he had no hand in his death, and would endeavour by every mark of tenderness and attention to reconcile her to this inevitable loss. Brunilda suffered herself to be comforted, and even allowed his yellow lips to press her fair hand, which so delighted the lover, that he released her from her severe confinement, and permitted her to roam at large through the caverns, and occupy her former apartment, where he continued to visit her daily, and daily quitted her with the flattering hope that he had at length discovered the mode of making himself agreeable. Brunilda encouraged this delightful dream by her changed method of conduct; she ceased, after the first two interviews, entirely to reproach the Dwarf, and permitted his attentions without any ill humour. From permitting his devotions, she gradually appeared to desire them, and even frequently condescended to rally him upon the oddity of his dress, and the old-fashioned cut of his hood: he immediately adopted another to gratify her taste, and was exceedingly vain of the notice she took of him. She admired his flowing hair, and even his long beard had ceased to be an object of disgust to her: every thing became beautiful by custom, she said; and she now discovered, what her indignation before had prevented her from observing, that the colour of his beard was the same as that of her great grandfather the emperor Frederic II., who was universally accounted a very handsome man. The Dwarf smirked, bridled, and was equally delighted with Brunilda and himself, since he now hoped no further opposition on her part would be offered to his proposals: he grew excessively fond of, and very indulgent to the princess, suffering her to command in his caverns, and taking great delight in exhibiting to her the riches of which she was so soon to be the mistress. In all ages, among all nations, flattery has ever been the shortest and the surest road to the human heart; and men, however they may affect to smile at this weakness in the gentler sex, are not, whether giants, middle-sized men, or dwarfs, one whit less subject to this poor human frailty than the ladies themselves, in whom it is so pardonable. If Eve yielded to the compliments of the serpent, Sampson was subdued by the witching coaxing of Dalilah; the sage Solomon drank flattery from the lips of seven hundred wives (Heaven pardon the old monopoliser!) and three hundred concubines; Holofernes lost his head for listening to the seducing tongue of Judith; and the mighty Nebuchadnezzar was not sent to grass for any other reason than swallowing down too plentiful a dose of this bewitching opiate: of all these gentlefolks, Eve was certainly least blameable; for it required diabolical power to turn her from the path of right, but the men sunk their virtue before the lustre of black eyes or the gorgeousness of costly attire. As for profane story—O the tens and the fifties that might be enumerated!—but as this is not our present business, let us leave them to see what effect this pleasant medicine, so gently administered, had upon the mind of the little Dwarf. He was, in truth, the happiest of all yellow men; for, deceived by the tranquillity of his life and the strength of his spells, he believed his enemy had given up the task of conquering him, and left him to wear his beard in quiet. Brunilda still continued amiable, and heard him frequently, without any marks of indignation, express his hope that, when the time of her sorrowful mourning for the count of Tecklenburgh should be over, she would listen with compassion to the sufferings of a truer lover. She neither checked nor encouraged these expectations; and the happy demon determined not to forfeit her affection by any precipitation on his part. All this amiable conduct, however, on the part of Brunilda, was, in fact, but a contrivance of the friendly gnome, who thus hoped to extort by her means the secret of his nightly pillow from himself. According to the plan agreed upon by the allies, the gnome, at this period of his enemy’s courtship, began again to disturb and puzzle him by his enchantments; and he succeeded in discomposing the harmony of his feelings so much, that he was obliged to have recourse to Brunilda, and (secure of her attachment to his person) vent all his complaints and vexations in her compassionating bosom. _She_ was all astonishment at the cruel designs projected against her Dwarf by his ungenerous enemies; she implored him pathetically to take care of his head, (a request with which he graciously promised to comply, more for her sake than his own,) and exhibited such anxiety to know if his precautions were sufficient, that the Dwarf almost betrayed his secret, overcome by the excessive vanity her conduct was so well calculated to inspire. Relaxing from his habitual caution, he was about to inform her of some arrangements of his spells, when Brunilda, overacting the part assigned to her, entreated him, if he valued her happiness, to commit his precious head every night to her keeping, promising to guard it with her utmost tenderness and care. At this imprudent request, all his suspicions returned; he eyed Brunilda askance, and gravely told her that, even were she his bride, he could not grant her desire, as it had always been his opinion that the less wives were trusted with the care of their husbands’ heads the better. He left her surlily: he had himself told her of his headless rest, but he did not expect such a request would follow his information; and Brunilda, alarmed by the consequences of her ill-timed petition, summoned the gnome of the mine to her presence. He chid her precipitation, but gave her a small vial containing a delicious cordial, which should repair the mischief. “You may have observed,” said he, “that the Dwarf neither eats nor drinks of your food: prevail upon him once to sup at your table, and pour a few drops of this cordial into his drink: he must take it willingly, or it will have no effect. In the sleep which follows the enchanted draught, he will be partly in my power, and compelled to answer any question you may propose to him. I need not direct you what to ask; but should he reply according to our wishes, summon me to your side, and the business is done.” The gnome gave her the potion, and vanished; while Brunilda diligently applied herself to remove the suspicions of the Dwarf. In a few days she completely succeeded; and the flattered demon, on hearing her frequently complain of the insipidity of supping alone, requested permission to attend her at table during her supper. This request was readily granted, and the visit constantly repeated by the Dwarf, who at length, at her earnest entreaty, consented to partake of her repast. This was continued till all suspicion was removed from the mind of the Dwarf; and in one of his happiest moods she insisted upon his pledging her in wine: he obeyed, and, with the contents of the bowl, swallowed the magic cordial. With what anxiety did Brunilda count the hours till she deemed the Dwarf had retired to rest; how she trembled as she quitted her chamber for that of her tyrant, whose beard, ere day-break, she hoped, would be the reward of her courage! With a beating heart she entered his apartment, and stepping up to him, demanded in a trembling voice—“Dwarf of the Orange Tree, where hast thou hidden thy head?” The stubborn carcase made no reply to this straight-forward question; and Brunilda shivered from head to foot as she considered the possibility of his not yet being asleep, and both hearing and understanding her question. “Should it be so, I am indeed utterly undone,” said poor Brunilda; “for how shall I ever be able to deceive him again, since he must now be aware of my motives.” Another reflection brought more comfort: she recollected, that as the head only can hear, so the head only can answer questions; and she determined to walk quietly through all the caverns, and repeat the question in each. She had but a short time allowed her for action, as the Dwarf was an early riser, and she lost none in putting her scheme in execution. Away she sallied, quick as anxiety would allow her; unwearied she pursued her task, but ranged through every apartment of the subterranean palace without obtaining an answer. She almost thought the Dwarf had removed his head further off, when, passing through a dismal-looking hole in which were two iron pillars, she paused to repeat the charm—“Dwarf of the Orange Tree, where hast thou hidden thy head?” “Here,” replied a well-known voice; “here, in the pillar on your left hand.” Brunilda started at the sound, but quickly recovered her spirits, and turning to the east, summoned, as agreed upon, her coadjutors to her assistance—“Gnome of this mine, I call thee hither: bring with thee my lover, and the magic scissors of fate.” In the next instant her friends were at her side, and the scissors glittered in her hand. She explained in few words the happy result of her enterprise; the gnome struck the pillar with his mace, the massy substance divided, and the ugly head of her detested jailer rolled at the feet of the delighted Brunilda, who, without any apology, seized it, and began most nimbly to ply the magic scissors. At that moment, the Dwarf, awakened by the near approach of morning, flew to replace his head upon his shoulders, and discovered, with the utmost rage and alarm, the intruders upon his premises. The opened eyes of the head now directed the motions of the body, which rushed forward and bounced upon them so suddenly, that Brunilda shrieked and dropped the head, only retaining a grasp of the beard. The Dwarf as nimbly caught it, and endeavoured to wrest it from her; but the princess, invigorated by despair and the exclamations of her friends, kept fast hold of it, and struggled stoutly with the demon. The gnome lent her his assistance, in holding the head for her scissors, while Ludolph kept shoving, thrusting, and hacking with his sword at the invulnerable demon, in the hope of obliging him to loosen his grasp of his head. The struggle continued some minutes, the Dwarf pulling, Ludolph shoving, and Brunilda, utterly regardless of the scratches he was liberally bestowing upon her lover, cutting away at the yellow beard with all her might and main. At length she observed, that the longer she cut, the weaker grew the resistance of the demon, and this gave new force to her delicate fingers; she snipped on till the last hair was separated from the chin, and the yellow head and deformed body both fell senseless together upon the ground. Brunilda was quietly looking upon her fallen enemy, when the magic instrument of her success suddenly sprung from her hand, and she beheld the scissors of fate gliding away rapidly through the air, as if borne off by an invisible spirit. The friendly gnome then conducted the lovers to the margrave’s court, (after demanding from Brunilda the magic belt, which he said would be too dangerous a weapon in the hand of a lady,) and a few weeks after the battle of Luckow, in which the margrave was successful, they were united, to the great joy of all parties, but more particularly of those who expected to be invited to the wedding dinner. But that dinner! O that dinner! why what a glory of gastronomy were the dishes! There was the porpoise stewed in his own oil; beeves roasted whole; and proudly pre-eminent, even among them, the noble wild boar, the standard dish of Germany, showed his grinning tusks, now no longer formidable; roasted cranes, standing upon their long legs, seemed just stepping out of their platters, making a “pretty drollery;” there was the knightly peacock, the bird of chivalry, dressed out in his brilliant feathers; the stately swan, sailing about in his golden dish; while herons, turkeys, geese, and such small fry, graced the magnificent board in quality of side dishes. In short, as the newspapers said, “there were all the delicacies of the season,” which the nobles washed down with floods of Rhenish, until they did not know what they were swallowing. The day was happier than it was long, for all thought its felicity was too short-lived, except Ludolph and his princess, who had many still brighter; as long years of happiness was the reward of their few months of suffering. The gnome of the mine returned to his recovered territories, and, as he had now no farther occasion for their services, never since that time interfered in the concerns of mortals. The princess Margaret lived to a good old age, and died at last in the odour of sanctity, eschewing evil, Satan, sin, and the yellow Demon of the Orange Tree.

DER FREISCHÜTZ; OR, THE MAGIC BALLS.

_From the German of A. APEL_.

Black spirits and white, Blue spirits and grey, Mingle, mingle, mingle, You that mingle may.

“LISTEN, dear wife,” said Bertram, the forester of Lindenhayn, to his good and faithful Anne; “listen, I beseech you, one moment. You know I have ever done my utmost to make you happy, and will still continue to do so; but this project is out of the question. I entreat you, do not encourage the girl any farther in the notion; settle the matter decidedly at once, and she will only drop a few silent tears, and then resign herself to my wishes; but by these silly delays nothing rational can be effected.”

“But, dearest husband,” objected the coaxing wife, “may not Catherine be as happy with William the clerk as with Robert the gamekeeper? Indeed you do not know him: he is so clever, so good, so kind—”

“But no marksman,” interrupted the forester. “The situation which I hold here has been possessed by my family for more than two hundred years, and has always descended down in a straight line from father to son. If, instead of this girl, Anne, you had brought me a boy, all would have been well; he would have had my situation, and the wench, if she had been in existence, might have chosen for her bridegroom him whom she loved best; now the thing is impossible. My son-in-law must also be my successor, and must therefore be a marksman. I shall have, in the first place, some trouble to obtain the trial for him; and in the second, if he should not succeed, truly, I shall have thrown my girl away: so a clever huntsman she shall have. But observe, if you do not like him, I do not exactly insist upon Robert: find another active clever fellow for the girl, I will resign my situation to him, and we shall pass the rest of our lives free from anxiety and happily with our children. But hush!—not another word!—I beseech you let me hear no more of the steward’s clerk.”

Mother Anne was silenced; she would fain have said a few more words in favour of poor William, but the forester, who was too well acquainted with the power of female persuasion, gave her no further opportunity; he took down his gun, whistled his dog, and strode away to the forest. The next moment, the fair curled head of Catherine, her face radiant with smiles, was popped in at the door—“Is all right, dear mother?” said she. “Alas! no, my child; do not rejoice too soon;” replied the sorrowing Anne. “Your father speaks kindly, but he has determined to give you to nobody but a huntsman; and I know he will not change his mind.” Catherine wept, and declared she would sooner die than wed any other than her own William. Her mother wept, fretted, and scolded by turns; till at length it was finally determined to make another grand attack upon the tough heart of old Bertram; and, in the midst of a deliberation respecting the manner in which this was to be effected, the rejected lover entered the apartment.

When William had heard the cause of the forester’s objection,—“Is that all, my Catherine,” said he, pressing the weeping girl to his bosom; “then keep up your spirits, dearest, for I will myself become a forester. I am not unacquainted with woodcraft, for I was, when a boy, placed under the care of my uncle, the chief forester Finsterbuch, in order to learn it, and only at the earnest request of my uncle the steward, I exchanged the shooting-pouch for the writing-desk. Of what use,” continued the lover, “would his situation and fine house be to me, if I cannot carry my Catherine there as the mistress of it? If you are not more ambitious than your mother, dearest, and William the gamekeeper will be as dear to you as William the steward, I will become a woodsman directly; for the merry life of a forester is more delightful to me than the constrained habits of the town.”

“O dear, dear William,” said Catherine,—all the dark clouds of sorrow sweeping rapidly over her countenance, and leaving only a few drops of glittering sunny rain, sparkling in her sweet blue eyes,—“O beloved William! if you will indeed do this, all may yet be well: hasten to the forest, seek my father, and speak to him ere he have time to pass his word to Robert.” “Away,” replied William, “to the forest; I will seek him out, and offer my services as gamekeeper: fear nothing, Catherine; give me a gun, and now for the huntsman’s salute.”

What success he had in his undertaking was soon visible to the anxious eye of Catherine, on her father’s return with him from the forest. “A clever lad, that William,” said the old man; “who would have expected such a shot in a townsman? I’ll speak to the steward myself to-morrow; it would be a thousand pities such a marksman should not stick to the noble huntsman craft. Ha! ha! he will become a second Kuno. But do you know who Kuno was?” demanded he of William.

The latter replied in the negative.

“Lo you there now!” ejaculated Bertram; “I thought I had told you long since. He was my ancestor, the first who possessed this situation. He was originally a poor horseboy in the train of the knight of Wippach; but he was clever, obliging, grew a favourite, and attended his master every where, to tournaments and hunting parties. Once his knight accompanied the duke on a grand hunting match, at which all the nobles attended. The hounds chased a huge stag towards them, upon whose back, to their great astonishment, sat tied a human being, shrieking aloud in a most frightful manner. There existed at that period, among the feudal lords, an inhuman custom of tying unhappy wretches who incurred their displeasure (perhaps by slight transgressions against the hunting laws) upon stags, and then driving them into the forest to perish miserably by hunger, or at least to be torn to pieces by the brambles. The duke was excessively enraged at this sight, and offered immense rewards to any one who would shoot the stag; but clogged his benefactions with death to the marksman, should his erring bullet touch the victim, whose life he was desirous to preserve, in order to ascertain the nature of his offence. Startled by the conditions, not one of the train attempted the rescue of the poor wretch, till Kuno, pitying his fate, stepped forward and boldly offered his services. The duke having accepted them, he took his rifle, loaded it in God’s name, and earnestly recommending the ball to all the saints and angels in heaven, fired steadily into the bush in which he believed the stag had taken refuge. His aim was true; the animal instantly sprung out, plunged to the earth, and expired; but the poor culprit escaped unhurt, except that his hands and face were miserably torn by the briers. The duke kept his word well, and gave to Kuno and his descendants for ever this situation of forester. But envy naturally follows merit, and my good ancestor was not long in making the discovery. There were many of the duke’s people who had an eye to this situation, either for themselves or some cousin or dear friend, and these persuaded their masters that Kuno’s wonderful success was entirely owing to sorcery; upon which, though they could not turn him out of his post, they obtained an order that every one of his descendants should undergo a trial of his skill before he could be accepted; but which, however, the chief forester of the district, before whom the essay is made, can render as easy or difficult as he pleases. I was obliged to shoot a ring out of the beak of a wooden bird, which was swung backwards and forwards; but I did not fail, any more than my forefathers; and he who intends to succeed me, and wed my Catherine, must be at least as good a marksman.”

William, who had listened very attentively, was delighted with this piece of family history; he seized the old man’s hand, and joyously promised to become, under his direction, the very first of marksmen; such as even grandfather Kuno himself should have no cause to blush for.

Scarcely had fourteen happy days passed over his head, ere William was settled as gamekeeper in the forester’s house; and Bertram, who became fonder of him every day, gave his formal consent to his engagement with Catherine. It was, however, agreed that their betrothment should be kept secret until the day of the marksman’s trial, when the forester expected to give a greater degree of splendour to his family festival by the presence of the duke’s commissary. The bridegroom swam in an ocean of delight, and so entirely forgot himself and the whole world in the sweet opening heaven of love, that Bertram frequently insisted, that he had not been able to hit a single mark since he had aimed so successfully at Catherine.

And so it really was. From the day of his happy betrothment, William had encountered nothing but disasters while shooting. At one time his gun missed fire; at another, when he aimed at a deer, he lodged the contents of his rifle in the trunk of a tree: when he came home, and emptied his shooting-pouch, he found, instead of partridges, rooks and crows, and in lieu of hares, dead cats. The forester at length grew seriously angry, and reproved him harshly for his carelessness; even Catherine began to tremble for the success of the master-shot.

William redoubled his diligence, but to no purpose; the nearer the approach of the important day, the more alarming grew his misfortunes; every shot missed. At length he was almost afraid to fire a gun, lest he should do some mischief; for he had already lamed a cow and almost killed the cowherd.

“I insist upon it,” said the gamekeeper Rudolph, one evening, to the party, “I insist upon it that some wizard has bewitched William, for such things could not happen naturally; therefore let us endeavour to loosen the charm.”—“Superstitious stuff!” interrupted Bertram, angrily; “an honest woodsman should not even think of such trash. Do you forget the three things which a forester ought to have, and with which he will always be successful, in spite of sorcery? Come, to your wits, answer my query.” “That can I truly,” answered Rudolph; “he should have great skill, a keen dog, and a good gun.” “Enough,” said Bertram; “with these three things every charm may be loosened, or the owner of them is a dunce and no shot.”

“Under favour, father Bertram,” said William, “here is my gun; what have you to object against it? and as for my skill, I do not like to praise myself, but I think I am as fair a sportsman as any in the country; nevertheless, it seems as if all my balls went crooked, or as if the wind blew them away from the barrel of my gun. Only tell me what I shall do. I am willing to do any thing.” “It is singular,” muttered the forester, who did not know what else to say.

“Believe me, William,” again began Rudolph, “it is nothing but what I have said. Try only once: go on a Friday, at midnight, to a cross road, and make a circle round you with the ramrod, or with a bloody sword, which must be blessed three times, in the name of Sammiel”—“Silence!” interrupted Bertram, angrily: “know ye whose name that is? he is one of the fiend’s dark legion. God protect us and every Christian from him!” William crossed himself devoutly, and would hear nothing further, though Rudolph still maintained his opinion. He passed the night in cleaning his gun, and examining minutely every screw, resolving, at dawn of day, once more to sally forth, and try his fortune in the forest. He did so, but, alas! in vain. Mischiefs thickened round him: at ten paces distance he fired three times at a deer; twice his gun missed fire, and although it went off the third time, yet the stag bounded away unhurt into the midst of the forest. Full of vexation, he threw himself under a tree, and cursed his fate, when suddenly a rustling was heard among the bushes, and a queer-looking soldier with a wooden leg came hopping out from among them.

“Holloa! huntsman,” he began, laughing at the disconsolate-looking William, “what is the matter with you? Are you in love, or is your purse empty, or has any body charmed your gun? Come, don’t look so blank; give me a pipe of tobacco, and we’ll have a chat together.”

William sullenly gave him what he asked, and the soldier threw himself down in the grass by the side of him. The conversation naturally turned upon woodcraft, and William related his misfortunes to him. “Let me see your gun,” said the soldier. William gave it. “It is assuredly bewitched,” said he of the wooden leg, the moment he had taken it in his hand; “you will not be able to fire a single shot with it; and if they have done it according to rule, it will be the same with every gun you shall take into your hands.”

William was startled; he endeavoured to raise objections against the stranger’s belief in witches, but the latter offered to give him a proof of the justice of his opinions. “To us soldiers,” said he, “there is nothing strange; and I could tell you many wonderful things, but which would detain us here till night. But look here, for instance: this is a ball which is sure of hitting its mark, because it possesses some particular virtue: try it; you won’t miss.” William loaded his gun, and looked around for an object to aim at. A large bird of prey hovered high above the forest, like a moving dot;—“Shoot that kite,” said the one-legged companion. William laughed at his absurdity, for the bird was hovering at a height which the eye itself could scarcely reach. “Laugh not, but fire,” said the other, grimly; “I will lay my wooden leg that it falls.” William fired, the black dot sunk, and a huge kite fell bleeding to the ground. “You would not be surprised at that,” said he of the wooden leg to the huntsman, who was speechless and staring with astonishment; “you would not, I repeat, be surprised at that, if you were better acquainted with the wonders of your craft. Even the casting such balls as these is one of the least important things in it; it merely requires dexterity and courage, because it must be done in the night. I will teach you for nothing when we meet again; now I must away, for the bell has told seven. In the mean time—here, try a few of my balls; still you look incredulous—well—till we meet again.”—

The soldier gave William a handful of balls, and departed. Full of astonishment, and still distrusting the evidence of his senses, the latter tried another of the balls, and again struck an almost unattainable object: he loaded his gun in the usual manner, and again missed the easiest! He darted forward to follow the crippled soldier, but the latter was no longer in the forest; and William was obliged to remain satisfied with the promise which he had given of meeting him again hereafter.

Great joy it gave to the honest forester when William returned, as before, loaded with game from the forest. He was now called upon to explain the circumstance; but not being prepared to give a reason, and above all, dreading to say any thing upon the subject of his infallible balls, he attributed his ill luck to a fault in his gun, which he had only, he pretended, last night discovered and rectified. “Did I not tell you so, wife,” said Bertram, laughing. “Your demon was lodged in the barrel; and the goblin which threw down father Kuno this morning, sat grinning on the rusty nail.” “What say you of a goblin,” demanded William; “and what has happened to father Kuno?” “Simply this,” replied Bertram; “his portrait fell of itself from the wall this morning, just as the bell tolled seven; and the silly woman settled it that a goblin must be at the bottom of the mischief, and that we are haunted accordingly.”

“At seven,” repeated William, “at seven!” and he thought, with a strange feeling of affright, of the soldier who parted from him exactly at that moment. “Yes, seven,” continued Bertram, still laughing. “I do not wonder at your surprise; it is not a usual ghostly hour, but Anne would have it so.” The latter shook her head doubtfully, and prayed that all might end well; while William shivered from head to foot, and would secretly have vowed not to use the magic balls, but that the thought of his ill luck haunted him. “Only one of them,” said he internally; “only one of them for the master-shot, and then I have done with them for ever.” But the forester urged him the next instant to accompany him into the forest; and as he dared not excite fresh suspicions of his want of skill, nor offend the old man by refusing, he was again compelled to make use of his wondrous balls; and in the course of a few days he had so accustomed himself to the use of them, and so entirely reconciled his conscience to their doubtful origin, that he saw nothing sinful or even objectionable in the business. He constantly traversed the forest, in the hope of meeting the strange giver of the balls; for the handful had decreased to two, and if he wished to make sure of the master-shot, the utmost economy was necessary. One day he even refused to accompany Bertram, for the next was to be the day of trial, and the chief forester was expected: it was possible he might require other proofs than the mere formal essay, and William thus felt himself secure. But in the evening, instead of the commissary, came a messenger from the duke, with an order for a large delivery of game, and to announce that the visit of the chief forester would be postponed for eight days longer.

William felt as if he could have sunk into the bosom of the earth, as he listened to the message, and his excessive alarm would have excited strange suspicions, if all present had not been ready to ascribe it to the delay of his expected nuptials. He was now obliged to sacrifice at least one of his balls, but he solemnly swore nothing should rob him of the other but the forester’s master-shot.

Bertram was outrageously angry when William returned from the forest with only one stag; for the delivery order was considerable. He was still more angry the next day at noon, when Rudolph returned loaded with an immense quantity of game, and William returned with none: he threatened to dismiss him, and retract his promise respecting Catherine, if he did not bring down at least two deer on the following day. Catherine was in the greatest consternation, and earnestly besought him to make use of his utmost skill, and not let a thought of her interrupt his duties while occupied in the forest. He departed—his heart loaded with despair. Catherine, he saw too plainly, was lost to him for ever; and nothing remained but the choice of the manner in which he should destroy his happiness. Whilst he stood lost in the agonising anticipation of his impending doom, a herd of deer approached close to him. Mechanically he felt for his last ball; it felt tremendously heavy in his hand: he was on the point of dropping it back, resolving to preserve his treasure at every hazard, when suddenly he saw—O sight of joy!—the one-legged soldier approaching. Delightedly he let the ball drop into the barrel, fired, brought down a brace of deer, and hastened forward to meet his friend; but he was gone! William could not discover him in the forest.

“Hark ye, William!” said the forester to him in the evening, rousing him from the torpor of grief into which he had fallen; “you must resent this affront as earnestly as myself: nobody shall dare utter falsehoods of our ancestor Kuno, nor accuse him as Rudolph is now doing. I insist,” continued he, turning again to the latter, “if good angels helped him, (which was very likely, for in the Old Testament we frequently read of instances of their protection,) we ought to be grateful, and praise the wonderful goodness of God. But nobody shall accuse Kuno of practising the black art. He died happily—ay, and holily, in his bed, surrounded by children and grandchildren,—which he who carries on a correspondence with the evil one never does. I saw a terrible example of that myself, when I was a forester’s boy in Bohemia.”

“Let us hear how it happened, good Bertram,” said all the listeners; and the forester nodded gravely, and continued.

“I shiver when I think of it; but I will tell you nevertheless. When a young man, practising with other youths under the chief foresters, there used frequently to join us a town lad, a fine daring fellow, who, being a great lover of field sports, came out to us as often as he could. He would have made a good marksman, but was too flighty and thoughtless; so that he frequently missed his mark. Once, when we ridiculed his awkwardness, we provoked him into a rage, and he swore by all that was holy that he would soon fire with a more certain aim than any gamekeeper in the country, and that no animal should escape him, either in the air or on the earth. But he kept his light oath badly. A few days afterwards an unknown huntsman roused us early, and told us that a man was lying in the road and dying without assistance. It was poor Schmid. He was covered with wounds and blood, as if he had been torn by wild beasts: he could not speak, for he was quite senseless, with scarcely any appearance of life. He was conveyed to Prague, and just before his death declared, that he had been out with an old mountain huntsman to a cross road, in order to cast the magic balls, which are sure of hitting their mark; but that making some fault or omission, the demon had treated him so roughly that it would cost him his life.”

“Did he not explain?” asked William, shuddering.

“Surely,” replied the forester. “He declared before a court of justice, that he went out to the cross road with the old gamekeeper; that they made a circle with a bloody sword, and afterwards set it round with skulls and bones. The mountain hunter then gave his directions to Schmid as to what he was to do: he was to begin when the clock struck eleven to cast the balls, and neither to cast more nor fewer than sixty-three; one either above or under this number would, when the bell tolled midnight, be the cause of his destruction: neither was he to speak a single word during his work, nor move from the circle, whatever might happen, above, below, or around him. Fulfilling these conditions, sixty balls would be sure of hitting, and the remaining three only would miss. Schmid had actually begun casting the balls when, according to what we could gather from him, he saw such cruel and dreadful apparitions, that he at length shrieked and sprung out of the circle, falling senseless to the ground; from which trance he did not recover till under the hands of the physician in Prague.”

“Heaven preserve us!” said the forester’s wife, crossing herself. “It is a very deadly sin undoubtedly,” pursued Bertram, “and a true woodsman would scorn such practice. He needs nothing but skill, and a good gun, as you have lately experienced, William. I would not, for my own part, fire off such balls for any price; I should always fear the fiend would, at some time or other, conduct the ball to his own mark instead of to mine.”

Night drew round them with the conclusion of the forester’s story. _He_ went to his quiet bed, but William remained in restless agony. It was in vain that he attempted to compose himself. Sleep fled entirely from his spirit. Strange objects flitted past him, and hovered like dark omens over his pillow. The strange soldier of the forest, Schmid, Catherine, the duke’s commissary, all rushed before his eyes, and his fevered imagination converted them into the most dreadful groups. Now, the miserable Schmid stood warningly before him, and hollowly pointed to his newly bleeding wounds; then the dark distorted face faded to the pallid features of Catherine wrestling with the strength of death; while the wild soldier of the forest stood mocking his agony with a hellish laugh of scorn. The scene then changed to his mind, and he stood in the forest before the commissary, preparing for the master-shot. He aimed—fired—missed, Catherine sunk down on the earth. Bertram drove him away; while the one-legged soldier, now again a friend, brought him fresh balls; but too late—the trial was over, and he was lost.

In this manner wore away his agonised night, and with the earliest dawn he sought the forest, hoping to meet with the soldier; the clear morning air chased away the dark images of sleep from his brow, and ennerved his drooping spirit. “Fool!” said he to himself, “because I cannot understand what is mysterious, must the mystery therefore be a sin? Is what I seek so contrary to nature that it requires the aid of spirits to obtain it? Does not man govern the mighty instinct of animals, and make them move according to the will of their master? Why then should he not be able, by natural means, to command the course of inanimate metal which receives force and motion only through him? Nature is rich in wonders which we do not comprehend, and shall I forfeit my happiness for an ignorant prejudice only? No! Spirits I will not call upon, but nature and her hidden powers I will challenge and use, even though unable to explain its mystery. I will seek the soldier, and, if I cannot find him, I will at least be bolder than Schmid, for I have a better cause. He was urged by presumption, I by love and honour.”

But the soldier appeared not, however earnestly William sought him; neither could any of those of whom he inquired give him the slightest information respecting him, and two days were wasted in these anxious and fruitless inquiries.

“Then be it so,” exclaimed the unhappy young man; and in a fit of despair he resolved to cast the magic balls in the forest. “My days,” he added, “are numbered to me; this night will I seek the cross road. Into its silent and solitary recess no one will dare to intrude; and the terrible circle will I not leave till the fearful work shall be done.”

But when the shadows of evening fell upon the earth, and after William had provided lead, bullet-mould, and coals, for his nocturnal occupation, he was gently detained by Bertram, who felt, he said, so severe an oppression, that he entreated him to remain in his chamber during the night. Catherine offered her services, but they were, to her astonishment, declined. “At any other time,” said her father, “I should have preferred you, but to-night it must be William. I shall be happier if he will remain with me.”

William hesitated. He grew sick in his inmost heart. He would have objected, but Catherine’s entreaties were so earnest, her voice so irresistible, that he had nothing to oppose against her wishes. He remained in the chamber, and in the morning Bertram’s dark fears had faded, and he laughed at his own absurdity. He proposed going to the forest, but William, who intended to devote the day to his search for the soldier, dissuaded him, and departed alone. He went, but returned disappointed, and once more resolved to seek the forest at night. As he approached the house, Catherine met him. “Beloved William,” said she, “you have a visitor, and a dear one, but you must guess who it is.”

William was not at all disposed to guess, and still less to receive visits; for at that time the dearest friend would have been the most unwelcome intruder. He answered peevishly, and was thinking of a pretext to turn back, when the door of the house opened, and the pale moon threw her soft ray upon a venerable old man, in the garb of a huntsman, who extended his arms towards him; and “William!” said a kind and well-known voice, and the next instant the young forester found himself folded to the bosom of his beloved uncle.

Ah! magic of early ties, dear recollections, and filial gratitude! William felt them all; his heart was full of joy, and all other thoughts were forgotten. Suddenly spoke the warning voice to the tranquil happy dreamer. The midnight hour struck, and William, with a shudder, remembered what he had lost. “But one night more remains to me,” said he; “to-morrow, or never.” His violent agony did not escape the eye of his uncle, but he ascribed it to fatigue, and excused himself for detaining him from his needful rest, on account of his own departure, which he could not delay beyond the following day. “Yet grieve not, William,” said the old man as he retired to rest; “grieve not for this short hour thus spent, you will only sleep the sounder for it.” William shivered, for to his ear these words conveyed a deeper meaning. There was a dark foreboding in his heart, that the execution of his plan would for ever banish the quiet of sleep from his soul.

But day dawned—passed—and evening descended. “It must be now or never,” thought William, “for to-morrow will be the day of trial.” The females had been busied in preparations for the wedding and the reception of their distinguished guest. Anne embraced William when he returned, and, for the first time, saluted him with the dear name of son. The tender joy of a young and happy bride glittered in the sweet eyes of Catherine. The supper-table was covered with flowers, good food, and large bottles of long-hoarded wine from the stores of Bertram. “Children,” said the old man, “this is our own festival; let us, therefore, be happy: to-morrow we shall not be alone, though you may, perhaps, be happier. I have invited the priest, dear William, and when the trial is over”—A loud shriek from Catherine interrupted the forester. Kuno’s picture had again fallen from its place, and had struck her severely on the forehead. Bertram grew angry. “I cannot conceive,” said he, “why this picture is not hung properly; this is the second time it has given us a fright: are you hurt, Catherine?” “It is of no consequence,” replied the maiden, gently wiping away the blood from her bright curls; “I am less hurt than frightened.”

William grew sick when he beheld her pale face, and forehead bathed in blood. So he had seen her in his distempered dreams on that dreadful night: and this reality conjured up all those fearful fantasies anew. His determination of proceeding in his plan was shaken; but the wine, which he drank in greater quantities than usual, filled him with a wild courage, and ennerved him to undertake its execution. The clock struck nine. Love and valour must combat with danger, thought William. But he sought in vain for a decent pretence to leave his Catherine. How could he quit her on the bridal eve? Time flew with the rapidity of an arrow, and he suffered agonies even in the soft arms of rewarding love. Ten o’clock struck: the decisive moment was come. Without taking leave, William started from his bride, and left the house to range the forest. “Whither go you, William?” said her mother, following him, alarmed. “I have shot a deer, which I had forgotten,” answered the youth. She still entreated, and Catherine looked terrified, for she felt that there was something (though she knew not what) to fear, from his distracted manner. But their supplications were unheeded. William sprung from them both, and hastened into the forest.

The moon was on the wane, and gleamed a dark red light above the horizon. Grey clouds flew rapidly past, and sometimes darkened the surrounding country, which was soon relighted up by the wild and glittering moonlight. The birch and aspen trees nodded like spectres in the shade; and to William the silver poplar was a white shadowy figure, which solemnly waved, and beckoned him to return. He started, and felt as if the two extraordinary interpositions to his plan, and the repeated falls of the picture, were the last admonitions of his departing angel, who thus warned him against the commission of an unblessed deed. Once more he wavered in his intention. Now he had even determined to return, when a voice whispered close to him, “Fool! hast thou not already used the magic balls, and dost thou only dread the toil of labouring for them?” He paused. The moon shone brilliantly out from a dark cloud, and lighted up the tranquil roof of the forester’s humble dwelling. William saw Catherine’s window shine in the silvery ray, and he stretched out his arms towards it, and again directed his steps towards his home. Then the voice rose whisperingly again around him, and, “Hence!—to thy work!—away!” it murmured; while a strong gust of wind brought to his ear the stroke of the second quarter. “To my work,” he repeated; “ay; it is cowardly to return half way—foolish to give up the great object, when, for a lesser, I have already perhaps risked my salvation. I will finish.”

He strode rapidly forward. The wind drove the fugitive clouds over the moon, and William entered the deep darkness of the forest. Now he stood upon the cross road; the magic circle was drawn; the skulls and bones of the dead laid in order around it; the moon buried herself deeper in the cloudy mass, and left the glimmering coals, at intervals fanned into a blaze by the fitful gusts of wind, alone to lighten the midnight deed, with a wild and melancholy glare. Remotely the third quarter sounded from a dull and heavy tower clock. William put the casting ladle upon the coals, and threw the lead into it, together with three balls, which had already hit their mark, according to the huntsman’s usage; then the forest began to be in motion; the night ravens, owls, and bats, fluttered up and down, blinded by the glare of light. They fell from their boughs, and placed themselves among the bones around the circle, where, with hollow croakings and wild jabberings, they held an unintelligible conversation with the skulls. Momentarily their numbers increased, and among and above them hovered pale cloudy forms, some shaped like animals, some like human beings. The gusts of wind sported frightfully with their dusky vapoury forms, scattering and reuniting them like the dews of the evening shades. One form alone stood motionless and unchanged near the circle, gazing with fixed and woful looks at William; once it lifted up its pale hands in sorrow, and seemed to sigh. The fire burned gloomily at the moment; but a large grey owl flapped its wings, and fanned the dying embers into light. William turned shivering away; for the countenance of his dead mother gazed mournfully at him from the dark and dusky figure.

The bell tolled eleven; the pale figure vanished with a groan; the owls and night ravens flew screeching up into the air, and the skulls and bones clattered beneath their wings. William knelt down by his hearth of coals. He began steadily to cast, and, with the last sound of the bell, the first ball fell from the mould.

The owls and the skulls were quiet; but along the road an old woman, bent down with the weight of age, advanced towards the circle. She was hung round with wooden spoons, ladles, and other kitchen utensils, which made a frightful clattering. The owls screeched at her approach, and caressed her with their wings. Arrived at the circle, she stooped down to seize the bones and the skulls; but the coals hissed flames at her, and she drew back her withered hands from the fire. Then she paced round the circle, and, grinning and chattering, held up her wares towards William. “Give me the skulls,” she gabbled; “give me the skulls, and I will give thee my treasures; give me the skulls, the skulls; what canst thou want with the trash? Thou art mine—mine, dear bridegroom; none can help thee: thou canst not escape me; thou must lead with me in the bridal dance. Come away, thou bridegroom mine!”

William’s heart throbbed; but he remained silent, and hastened on with his work. The old woman was not a stranger to him. A mad beggar had often haunted the neighbourhood, until she found an asylum in the mad-house. Now, he knew not whether her appearance was a reality or a delusion. In a short time she grew enraged, threw down her stick, and chattered anew at William. “Take these for our nuptial night,” she cried: “the bridal bed is ready, and to-morrow, when evening cometh, thou wilt be wedded to me. Come soon, my love; delay not, my bridegroom; come soon.” And she hobbled slowly away into the forest.

Suddenly there arose a rattling like the noise of wheels, mingled with the cracking of whips and shouting of men. A carriage came headlong, with six horses and outriders. “What is the meaning of all this in the road?” cried the foremost horseman. “Room there!” William looked up. Fire sprung from the hoofs of the horses, and round the wheels of the carriage: it shone like the glimmering of phosphorus. He suspected a magical delusion, and remained quiet. “On, on, upon it!—over it!—down! down!” cried the horseman; and in a moment the whole troop stormed in headlong upon the circle. William plunged down to the earth, and the horses reared furiously above his head; but the airy cavalry whirled high in the air with the carriage, and, after turning several times round the magic circle, disappeared in a storm of wind, which tore the tops of the mightiest trees, and scattered their branches to a distance.

Some time elapsed ere William could recover from his terror. At length he compelled his trembling fingers to be steady, and cast a few balls without farther interruption. Again the well-known tower clock struck, and to him in the dreadful solitary circle, consoling as the voice of humanity, rose the sound from the habitations of men, but the clock struck the quarter thrice. He shuddered at the lightning-like flight of time; for a third part of his work was hardly done. Again the clock struck, for the fourth time!—Horror!—his strength was annihilated, every limb was palsied, and the mould fell out of his trembling hand. He listened, in the quiet resignation of despair, for the stroke of the full, the terrible, midnight hour. The sound hesitated—delayed—was silent. To palter with the awful midnight was too daring and too dangerous even to the dreadful powers of darkness. Hope again raised the sunk heart of William; he hastily drew out his watch, and beheld it pointing to the second quarter of the hour. He looked gratefully up towards heaven, and a feeling of piety moderated the transport, which, contrary to the laws of the dark world, would otherwise have burst forth in loud and joyous exclamations.

Strengthened, by the experience of the last half-hour, against any new delusion, William now went boldly on with his work. Every thing was silent around him, except that the owls snored in their uneasy sleep, and at intervals struck their beaks against the bones of the dead. Suddenly it was broken by a crackling among the bushes. The sound was familiar to the sportsman, and, as he expected, a huge wild boar broke through the briers, and came foaming towards the circle. Believing this to be a reality, he sprung hastily on his feet, seized his gun, and attempted to fire. Not a single spark came from the flint. Startled at his danger, he drew his hunting knife to attack it,—when the bristly savage, like the carriage and the horses, ascended high above his head, and vanished into the silent fields of air.

The anxious lover worked on steadily to regain the time he had so unhappily lost. Sixty balls were cast. He looked joyfully upwards; the clouds were dispersing, and the moon again threw her bright rays upon the surrounding country; he was rejoicing in the approaching end of his labours, when an agonised voice, in the tones of Catherine, shrieked out the name of “William!” In the next moment, he beheld his beloved dart from among the bushes, and gaze fearfully around her. Following her distracted steps, and panting closely behind her, trod the mad beggar woman, extending her withered arms towards the fugitive, whose light dress, fluttering in the wind, she repeatedly attempted to grasp. Catherine collected her expiring strength in one desperate effort to escape, when the long-sought soldier of the forest planted himself before her and delayed her flight. The hesitation of the moment gained time for the mad woman, who sprung wildly upon Catherine, and grasped her in her long and fleshless hands. William could endure it no longer, he dashed the last ball from his hand, and was on the point of springing from the circle, when the bell tolled midnight, and the delusion vanished. The owls knocked the skulls and bones cluttering against each other, and flew up again to their hiding places; the coals were suddenly extinguished; and William sunk, exhausted with fatigue, to the earth; but there was no rest for him in the forest; he was again disturbed by the slow and sullen approach of a stranger, mounted upon a huge and coal-black steed: he stopped before the demolished magic circle, and, addressing the huntsman,—“You have stood the trial well,” said he; “what do you require of me?”

“Of you, stranger, nothing,” replied William; “of that of which I had need, I have prepared for myself.”

“But with my assistance,” continued the stranger; “therefore a share of it belongs to me.” “Certainly not,” replied the huntsman; “I have neither hired you nor called upon you.”

The horseman smiled. “You are bolder than your equals are wont to be,” said he. “Take then the balls which you have cast: sixty for you, three for me. The first hit, the second miss. When we meet again you will understand me.”

William turned away. “I will not meet you again; I will never see you more,” he cried, trembling. “Why do you turn from me?” demanded the stranger, with a horrible laugh: “do you know me?” “No; no,” said the huntsman, shuddering; “I know you not; I will not even look upon you. Whoever you may be, leave me.”

The black horseman turned his steed. “The rising hairs of your head,” cried he with gloomy gravity, “declare that you do know me. You are right; I am he whom you name in the secrecy of your soul, and shudder to think you have done so.” At these words he disappeared, and the trees under which he had stood let their withered branches sink helpless and dead to the earth.

“Merciful Heaven! William,” said Catherine, on remarking his pale and distracted look on his return after midnight; “what has happened to you? you look as if you had just risen from the grave.” “It is the night air,” he replied; “and I am not well.” “But, William,” said the forester, who had just entered, “why then would you go to the forest: something has happened to you there. Boy, you cannot thus blind me.”

William was startled; the sad solemnity of Bertram’s manner struck him. “Yes, something has occurred,” said he; “but have patience for a few days, and all shall be explained to your satisfaction.” “Willingly, dear son,” interrupted the forester; “question him no further, Catherine. Go to your needful rest, William, and indulge in hope of the future. He who goes on in his occupation openly and honestly, never can be harmed by the evil spirits of the night.”

William had need of all his dissimulation; for the old man’s observations so nearly meeting the truth, his forbearing love, and unshaken confidence in William’s honesty, altogether distracted his mind: he hastened to his room, determined to destroy the magical preparation. “But one ball—only one will I use,” exclaimed he, weeping aloud, with his folded hands held up to heaven; “and surely this determination will efface the sin of the deed I have committed. With a thousand acts of penitence I will make atonement for what is past, for I cannot now step back without betraying my happiness, my honour, and my love.” And with this resolution he calmed the tumult of his spirits, and met the rays of the morning sun with more tranquillity than he had dared to hope.

The commissary of the duke arrived; he proposed a shooting party in the forest, before the trial of skill took place. “For, though we must certainly retain the old form,” said he, “of the essay shot, yet the skill of the huntsman is, after all, best proved in the forest: so come, young marksman, to the woods.”

William’s cheek grew pale, and he earnestly tried to excuse himself from accompanying them. But, when this was refused by the chief forester, he entreated at least to be allowed to fire his trial shot before their departure. Old Bertram shook his head, doubtingly: “William,” said he, “should my suspicion of yesterday be just”—“Father!” replied the youth; and no longer daring to hesitate, he departed with them to the forest.

Bertram had in vain endeavoured to suppress his forebodings and assume a cheerful countenance. Catherine too was dejected, and it was not until the arrival of the priest that she recollected her nuptial garland: her mother had locked it up, and, in her haste to open the chest, broke the lock, and was obliged to send into the village for another wreath, as too much time had been wasted in endeavouring to recover the first. “Let them give you the handsomest,” said Anne to the little messenger, “the very handsomest they have.” The boy accordingly chose the most glittering, and the seller, who misunderstood him, gave him a death garland, composed of myrtle and rosemary, intermingled with silver. The mother and daughter beheld and recognised the mysterious intimation of fate; they embraced each other in silence, and endeavoured to smile away their terror, in imputing it to the boy’s mistake. Again the broken lock was tried; it opened easily now; the wreaths were changed, and the bridal garland was twined around Catherine’s brilliant locks.

The sportsmen returned from the forest. The commissary was inexhaustible on the subject of William’s wondrous skill. “It almost appears ridiculous,” said he, “after such proofs, to require any further trial; yet, in honour of the old custom, we must perform what appears superfluous; we will therefore finish the business as quickly as possible. There, upon that pillar, sits a dove, shoot it.” “For God’s sake,” said Catherine, hastily approaching, “do not shoot that dove. Alas! in my sleep last night I was myself a dove, and my mother, while fastening a ring round my neck, on your approaching us became covered with blood.”

William drew back his gun; but the chief forester smiled. “So timid, little maiden!” said he, “that will never do for a huntsman’s bride: come, courage! courage!—or is the dove a favourite, perhaps?”

“Ah, no,” she replied; “it is but fear.”

“Well then,” replied the commissary, “have courage; and now, William, fire!”

The shot fell, and, in the same moment, Catherine sunk, with a loud scream, to the earth. “Silly girl,” exclaimed the commissary, lifting her up: but a stream of blood flowed over her face, her forehead was shattered, for the ball of the rifle was lodged in the wound. William turned, on hearing loud shrieks behind him, and beheld his Catherine pale, weltering in her blood, and by her side the soldier of the forest, who, with a fiendish laugh of scorn, pointed to his dying victim, and cried aloud to William, “Sixty hit, three miss!”

“Accursed fiend!” shrieked the wretched youth, striking at the detested form with his sword, “hast thou thus deceived me?” His agony permitted no further expression, for he sunk senseless to the earth by the side of the victim bride. The commissary and priest in vain endeavoured to console the childless heart-broken parents. The mother had scarcely laid the prophetic garland of death upon the bosom of the bridal corpse, when her sorrow and life expired with her last-shed tear: the solitary father soon followed her, and the miserable William closed his life in the mad-house.

THE FORTUNES OF DE LA POLE.

In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men; Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face, the hair of my head stood up.

_Job_, chap. iv.

EARLY in the seventeenth century, on a very cold November morning, a gentleman of Winchester was returning to his home, by a road which then led by the borders of the New Forest. He was conversing gaily with his attendants, when his dogs arrested the mirth of the party, by darting suddenly into the mazes of the forest, and signifying their discovery of some unusual object by loud and continued howls. Sir Bernard Courtenay instantly followed their track, and was startled by discovering, amid the tangled bushes, the corpse of a man, frightfully mangled, and which appeared to have lain some time in its concealment. Little observation was necessary to point out the identity of the sufferer,—Sir Bernard Courtenay almost instantly recognised an intimate friend; and, with deep and painful commiseration, prepared to assist his attendants to convey the body to its home.

Many conjectures were immediately afloat, as to the cause and perpetrator of this dreadful act, and, as is ever usual in such cases, many more absurd and irrational than just:—there was no apparent possibility of tracing the fact; it appeared to mock all the art and all the power of justice. He had not been robbed—murder alone had been intended, and had alone been perpetrated; so that one fact at least was clear, that this deed had been the work of an enemy: no common one, it was presumed, if the appearance of the corpse might weigh any thing in evidence; it was mangled fearfully, and the frightful distension of the muscles, the grim and rigid expression of the features, the many deep and bloody wounds upon the body, and the firm and powerful grasp with which the strained fingers of one hand clenched a dark lock of human hair, while those of the other as firmly closed over the hilt of a broken dagger, gave tokens that a fierce and terrible struggle had preceded his unexpected destruction. It was hoped, that some corresponding token of wounds and fierce exertion might lead to a discovery of the murderer; for none deemed, after beholding the body, and calling to mind the noble courage of the victim when in life, that the destroyer could pass from that gripe unharmed.

He who had thus fallen, was one for whom every eye had a tear and every heart a genuine sigh; he had been the friend of all, the enemy of none; he was young, beautiful, and brave; and his native town had looked up to him as one who was to add new glory to her venerable name, and new lustre to his own princely blood; and cut off in the beginning of his career, the very high day of his happiness and beauty, and so cut off—who was there that did not lament for John de la Pole? But, though all Winchester, and the county in whose bosom it lies, sorrowed over the corpse of John de la Pole, the agony born from his death was to be found in his family alone; there he had been adored, and there most truly and deeply was his sad destiny accused. His young and lovely wife, scarce past her bridal year,—she who had, long before his marriage, been the secret object of his ardent love, and who, upon the death of his father, became the object of his choice—of her grief it was scarcely possible to think without affright; for, in that convulsion of soul into which, in the first horror of eternal separation from all we love, we invariably fall, she had withdrawn herself from all consolation of her friends—all succour of her attendants; and report whispered that she was using means, though quietly, (in order to avoid public shame,) to shorten a life which was now become odious and burthensome. To this cruel resolution she had been driven by a terrible incident: on the morning of the discovery of the body, she had, believing him to be on his road towards his home, ascended her carriage in order to meet him, and was driving cheerfully through the town, when her progress was arrested by the appearance of the crowd bearing the corpse of her husband. She recognised it at a glance, and, before they were aware of their imprudence, a piercing shriek announced to the people that she did so. She took another searching, distracted look at the body, and shrunk into the arms of her attendants, insensible and silent. _They_ thought she was dead—it would not have been wonderful if she had been; the husband of her soul was lying before her, a deep gash across his throat, another had disfigured his snowy brow, and almost divided his once lofty head, while the bosom upon which she had been accustomed to repose was mangled and rent by stabs and blows too many to number—what an object for a young and loving wife! Remembrance was terrible to her, and the inability of justice to discover the murderer added despair to her grief, and thus compelled her to seek for consolation only in the prospect of death.

As bitter a grief, though perhaps not so deep or desperate, had fastened upon the heart of the only survivor of his family, a youth of twenty, of a beauty and virtue equal to his lamented brother, and who had indeed ample reason for his regrets. John de la Pole had been as a father to his youth, and loved him with a warmth far surpassing the kindness of ordinary brotherhood. Eustace had never been taught to remember that he was the younger, for the fortunes of his house were open to him, and the purse of the elder was common to both. On the marriage of the latter with his beloved Agatha, the younger had timidly hinted at his fears of an interruption to their friendship; but John had remedied this, by generously providing for his brother, and entreating his Agatha to allow him still a home at the castle: which being granted, Eustace, though still fearful of the influence of his lovely sister, continued to reside at home.

But the influence he so much dreaded during his life, became singularly apparent after the death of his beloved John. The will of the latter had indeed left an independence to Eustace, but nothing to support the splendour of that princely house of which he was now sole representative. All was assigned to Agatha,—she was the sole heir of her husband,—the being for whose sake alone he appeared to glory in the possession of wealth. Eustace indeed might still enjoy it, but it was upon a condition which drew the blood from the young man’s cheek as he read, and palsied the warm throbbings of the heart in his bosom; it was, that if John de la Pole should die childless before he had attained the age of thirty, Eustace should espouse his widow. His brother even _entreated_ this sacrifice of him: he said, he knew his heart had been sensible of other charms, but he implored him to yield up this transient gratification to his eternal happiness. He could not endure, he said, the thought of averting from Eustace the fortune of his house; yet still less could he endure to know that Agatha would fill a subordinate state in his family to that in which he had placed her. He shuddered at the thought of her being driven, by this circumstance, to become the wife of another—of one who would love her, and whom she could also love. He besought Eustace therefore, if he valued his repose, to wed her, as no attachment subsisted between them, and he was satisfied to believe that by him she would be treated with gentleness. Agatha he entreated to comply with his last wishes, and accept the hand of Eustace within two months after his death, or be content to resign, with her present rank, the estates to the next of kin. Such was the will of John de la Pole. Eustace, full of grief, instantly retired from the castle of his sister, whom he believed as little inclined to fulfil the conditions of the will as himself, and resigned his spirit for some days to despair; but his friends rallied round him, and represented how much depended upon his calm decision. The next of kin had appeared too, a greedy rapacious man, the son of his father’s sister, who seemed to be sure of his inheritance, and whom John, (it was conjectured,) had purposely named, to stimulate his brother to fulfil his dying injunctions. Hugh de Broke was insolent and brutal, had never been upon kindly terms with his cousins, and had once nearly been murdered by the peasantry for wounding John in a quarrel which occurred a few years before. The inhabitants saw him return with disgust; his early brutalities were remembered; and when he boasted, in his drink, that he knew his cousin before his death intended to make a will in his favour, all Hampshire was ready to accuse him of the murder, and many of its gentlemen would have given half their estates to have been able to substantiate the charge. From earnest desire to action there is but one step: the thought was scarcely uttered by one, ere many endeavoured to prove it a fact, and Hugh de Broke became, from an object of mere dislike, one of abhorrence and suspicion. He was not told of the murmurs afloat respecting him; and he was too much accustomed to signs of dislike, to observe any thing new in their conduct. The eyes that glared upon him had nothing in them peculiarly ferocious to him now; nor did the deep mutterings and suppressed curses as he passed, startle him at this period from his path; he remembered the hatred of other days, and if he _did_ observe any increase of this ill feeling towards him, he attributed their malignity less towards himself in his own person, than against the authority he would be enabled to hold over their actions as the fortunate heir of John de la Pole. At all events, he fortified himself against their inflictions, by resorting in some cases to the exercise of his native brutality, in others to a loud and bitter scorn, which only served to increase their abhorrence and his own unsuspected danger.

The accusers were wary in their proceedings, and silently went on collecting proofs and accumulating evidence, until they believed they had truly in the ruffian kinsman, discovered the murderer of their popular favourite. It was remembered, that after three years’ absence, he had appeared in Hampshire about a month previous to the murder of John, and then had suddenly disappeared, to re-appear as suddenly in Winchester after the contents of the extraordinary will were made public. He had boasted a previous knowledge of this document, and he had taken into his service the man who attended John in his fatal journey, and who, by delaying to follow his master, had given courage to the assassin to make the attack. This man had been dismissed by Eustace with a bitter reproof, and had immediately repaired to De Broke. Fear, or too much security, (it was affirmed,) had dictated the measure of his adoption, after a dismissal which ought to have rendered his services every where suspicious. John, it was urged, had been absent nearly a month, on a visit to a distant friend; he had set out on foot on his return, unaccompanied; for this man, according to his own statement, was commanded by his master to follow him with the horses, one of which (De la Pole’s) had been injured by an accident a few days before; but he had loitered long after, in order to keep an appointment which he had made with a damsel in the establishment of his master’s friend. He was for this loudly accused of treachery; and De Broke ferociously became his champion, with a violence that only defeated the object he had in view. The lock of hair found in the gripe of the corpse was remembered and produced; it was a bunch of thick and clustering curls, and had been forcibly torn from the head of the assassin. The hair of the servant was pale, but it was remarked that Hugh’s was dark and curling, and they sought an opportunity to compare them together. De Broke drove the party from his presence with every mark of contempt, and hardly deigned to assent to the repeated asseverations of his servants, that his hair was much darker, and altogether of a different texture from that produced as taken from the corpse. His conduct was resented warmly. By degrees all the gentry assumed the opinions of the mob; and when, in a violent attack upon his person, it was discovered that his hair had lately been polled in order to facilitate the cure of a wound, and which had hitherto been concealed by the (then) extraordinary contrivance of a peruke, the magistrates made open cause with the people, and Hugh was conducted to prison. There his conduct was sullen and brutal; he would give no explanation, save that the wound in his head arose from a fall from his horse. He was unusually ferocious; and considerably aggravated his case, by his constant threats of deep and deadly vengeance against Eustace de la Pole, who, he insisted, had conspired to cheat him of his estate, in conjunction with his other enemies. Many new proofs appeared against him, and the whole county awaited, in trembling suspense, the event of his anticipated trial.

But these anticipations were not to be gratified: a few nights before the arrival of the judges, Hugh had contrived to escape from his prison, and elude the vigilance of his enemies, by the aid, it was supposed, of his servant, for he also fled the country; and neither master nor man again fell into the hands of justice.

In the mean time, the interval months, the short period of time allowed for most important considerations, were fast wearing away; the two persons most interested in their progress had come to no decision; and though Hugh de Broke had for the present withdrawn his claim, yet he had heirs, who, neither more delicate nor more generous than himself, might endeavour to prove his incapacity, and substantiate their own in place of his. At all events, delays were dangerous, and the fortunes of De la Pole were too considerable to be put to hazard. Eustace loved another, and Agatha could not forget her husband; yet a compliance with the terms of the will became an absolute necessity. Though with averted hearts, they joined hands at the earnest entreaty of friends and relatives; nor would it have been possible to have refused, since even royal majesty evinced a solicitude, that the great fortunes and powerful political interest of the family should not pass into any other hands than those of that loyal and princely blood which had hitherto held them so nobly. Agatha and Eustace became man and wife, and vowed to cherish and love each other till death.

But it was soon evident to all, that this was not either in the power or inclination of the new wedded pair: a deeper sorrow had sunk into their minds, and their calm grief was supplanted by looks and feelings of horror and despair. They spent much of their time together; but their conferences seemed rather to heighten than to soothe their mutual suffering. It was at length remarked, that Eustace never passed his nights in the chamber of his wife, but sometimes in deep groans and anguish in the seclusion of his own apartment, or in wandering wildly through the gloomy mazes of the forest. At such times a stupor would overshadow the spirit of Agatha,—a silent and uncomplaining madness that seemed to render her insensible to suffering; and only upon his return did she vent her keen anguish in words, or dissipate her torture by shrieks as piercing as they were fearful.

Those about them saw no other cause for this mental hell, than the grief which had seized upon them, by constantly contemplating their eternal separation from the being they most loved. It was anticipated that time would effect, if not a cure, at least some amelioration of its bitterness; but time rolled on, and their agonies did not decrease. Nor did the prospect of an heir to their disastrous union afford any pleasure or consolation to their minds; they went through the usual routine of preparation, because, as it appeared, it _was_ usual; there was no joyous anticipation on the part of Eustace,—no tender, trembling hope on the side of Agatha; there was no anxiety, no care; it was a thing unspoken of, unnoted; and when the bustle of the house, the importance of the attendants, and the entrance of the friend, (who, unsummoned, save by the servants, yet judged it necessary to be near her,) told Eustace of the near approaching throes of Agatha, he threw himself upon the ground in the chamber adjoining her, and buried his face in his hands.

Eustace, young, beautiful, and of a gallant spirit, was adored by his household, _all_ the members of which fondly contemplated the birth of an heir, as an event well calculated to calm their mutual suffering, and endear them to each other: and though the maternal anguish of Agatha took place before the usual and expected time, the hopes so affectionately cherished were not shaken by the event; but the conduct of their master gave a wound to their generous devotion. Sad and singular as it was, that of Agatha was scarcely less inexplicable: no groans, no tokens of pain accompanied her physical suffering; and it was apparent that some keener pang of the mind, some woe too deep for utterance, had deadened all sense to merely corporal pain. Her eyes were generally closed, except when some louder noise, or the nearer approach of an attendant towards the couch, forced her to open them, and gaze around her for an instant; but, when her senses were thus for a moment awakened, it was evident the object which had aroused them had no share in their attention. Heedless of all that was passing, she took a shuddering rapid glance around the chamber, as if in earnest search of one whom she yet feared to encounter, and then closed them in evident affright, and sunk anew into stupor and silence;—it was amidst this stupor and silence that her first-born son entered the world.

Eustace had not long remained absorbed in his own painful meditations, ere a mighty shriek from the chamber of Agatha broke upon his ear, and made him partly raise his head from the hard pillow to which he had consigned it. But his soul was dead within him;—he thought no further agony could reach him now—no keener pang could inflict a wound in his already crushed heart; and though the scream was one of horror and dismay, a sound of many voices in grief and consternation, it passed over his senses without further notice, and he again drooped his head to the ground, and, grovelling to earth, seemed as he would bury himself from his anguish in the kindly bosom of his only parent—his last—his truest friend.

But repose was not for him—no, not even the repose of despair—he was again to wake, to feel, to suffer; there was an undreamed of agony near—a sting that was to penetrate his palsied bosom, and awake his crushed soul from the dead; to die would have been bliss, but that was a bliss denied him.

The unhappy young man arose;—a footstep was heard hastily rushing towards his chamber—the wife of Courtenay approached him with a look of commiserating regard, and took his arm to draw him to the apartment of Agatha. She did not speak, but Eustace read in the expression of her features that there was yet more to encounter and to endure. He entered the apartment of his wife—_she_ was lying speechless and insensible upon her couch, utterly incapable of any observation of what was passing around her; and by her side lay a deformed and distorted infant, plunged in the still deeper silence of death.

In the first moment of sorrow, the friend who had so hastily sought the presence of Eustace, had done so under the compelling influence of the circumstance and the time; but a few moments had scarcely elapsed, ere Courtenay recovered sufficient recollection to decide that his wife had judged unwisely in so rapidly flying from the chamber of the poor Agatha, and bursting into that of her husband, dreading the influence the sudden grief might probably acquire over the already racked brain of the latter. With this feeling, Courtenay raised his eye from the dead child to observe the countenance of Eustace, and, if possible, form a judgment as to how he was likely to support this shock: but here his fears gave place to a new feeling, and his grief was overpowered by astonishment at the singular deportment of Eustace: the childless father advanced slowly towards the corse of his infant, and gazed upon it intently for a moment; a spasm of agony passed over his countenance, but there was no surprise mingled with its expression. “And is it indeed _thus_!” he murmured in a low and agonised tone of voice; “and _so_ must my punishment begin!—yet better is it even thus, than that thou, poor distorted thing! shouldst live to reproach thy father, and, by thy sufferings, be an accusing witness against him.” A convulsive shivering seized upon his frame, and he seemed to be struggling with some difficult and awful resolve. At that moment a similar convulsion appeared to extend itself to the body of the infant; its eyes rolled, and one arm suddenly stretched itself out with a convulsive kind of movement, and remained extended, pointing towards Eustace. The struggle was at an end in an instant; the change from distracted to subdued sorrow was the work of a moment. He grew perfectly calm; and turning his looks again towards the infant, and addressing it in a low steady voice, “I thank thee,” he said, “for this warning; thou too shalt not have cause to reproach me; I have hesitated too long; but His will and thine shall be done.” Saying thus, his head drooped upon his bosom as in deep thought, and the extended arm of the child a moment after fell quietly down by its side.

Courtenay, the friend of Eustace, and the near relative of Agatha, now judged that in this moment of calmness, he might venture some expressions of consolation. He deeply regretted that he should have mistaken the sleep of the infant for the last slumber of death, and he urged to Eustace the possibility that the union of medical skill and paternal care might relieve his child from its afflictions, and restore it, in natural beauty, to his love. He continued to dwell some time longer upon well intended topics of consolation, until he perceived that Eustace no longer heard his observations, or even remembered his presence. Suddenly, a new thought appeared to awaken the dormant faculties of the latter. “Has Agatha seen her child?” he demanded. “No,” replied the wife of Courtenay; “she was insensible at the time of its birth, and I instantly rushed from the chamber to seek counsel of my husband: he could give none; but, terrified as myself, followed me hither. Now, I deem, that as the child has uttered no sound since it came into the world, it were better she were told of its death; it will be but an anticipation of what must happen; for surely such an unhappy object cannot long exist.” “I know not that,” observed Eustace, sadly; “but at least do as thou hast said, and remove the child from the castle.” Courtenay retired from the apartment; and the wish of De la Pole was speedily obeyed.

But it seemed as if this unmeasured sorrow had brought calmness to him whom they feared it would annihilate: he sought not the apartment of his wife, but retired tranquilly to his own; and there was a stillness in it throughout the night, wholly unlike the restless pacings and disturbed groans which had hitherto been heard to issue from it. In the morning he went to Agatha: their conference was long and sad, for traces of tears were on her countenance when they parted; but the shrieks and agonies which had formerly distinguished their interviews were no more; she had caught consolation and fortitude from him, and her mind, it appeared, had now grown as resigned and tranquil as his own.

Eustace made a journey to a distant part of the country: he spoke nothing of his intention previous to his setting out, nor of its object on his return; that it had been of importance, could only be collected from the care with which he had concealed it, and the continual occupations which followed his arrival at Winchester. He was constantly employed in writing, and once or twice had had earnest conversations with Courtenay. It was during one of these that he received an unexpected interruption in the person of Agatha, who entered calmly the apartment of her husband, and demanded his attention. Courtenay arose, and was preparing to retire, when Agatha arrested his steps. “That which I have to say is for thy ear also,” she remarked; “stay, therefore, and answer me. Sleeping on my couch in the midday heat, the voices of my damsels in discourse broke upon my ear, and the sound they uttered gave me to know that my infant boy yet lives; wherefore is it that it is not in the bosom of its mother? and why was it ever banished from her care?” There was a dead silence at the conclusion of this speech. Eustace replied not, and the lip of Courtenay trembled. “Eustace fears to reply,” observed Agatha; “he trembles to accumulate more sorrow upon this drooping head; he may, in tenderness, deceive; but thou, Courtenay, knowest not to lie, and from thy lip must the bitter truth come; wherefore is my infant not here?” “We feared it would die,” answered Courtenay; “and, therefore, in thy already terrible agony, wished to spare thee the spectacle of its dissolution.” “But it did not die,” pertinaciously resumed Agatha; “why was it not restored? it might have brought peace and consolation to the bosom of its mother.” “No, madam,” returned the shuddering speaker; “that child would have brought sorrow and dismay, but no joy to the heart of its unhappy parent. We removed it to a distance, fearing the effect of its appearance upon your mind; it is most fearfully disfigured.” “Disfigured!” repeated Agatha, with a thrilling start. A long pause ensued. “Let her behold the boy,” said Eustace, calmly. “Yes! let me behold my boy,” said the mother, while tears of sorrow heightened the lustre of those splendid eyes; “let me behold my boy; I shall not shrink from his sight, even though he be an eternal remembrancer of”—She paused, and sadly turned her eyes towards her husband. “Well, then, thou hast anticipated aright,” said Eustace; “he _will_ be to thee an eternal remembrancer; to me—that ghastly face:—that pointing hand—I will not behold them; yet do I rejoice in thy resolve, for such is thy painful duty, and thus wilt thou share my sacrifice without enduring my suffering.” He retired as he spoke; and soon after, conducted by Courtenay, in silence and secrecy, the hapless mother folded the ghastly boy to her breast.

It is rare that the human mind can dwell upon more than one wonder at a period. The neighbourhood, roused by the idle gossiping of the castle damsels, had begun to be astonished at the disappearance of the heir of De la Pole, who was said not to be dead, but deprived of his mother’s tenderness and his father’s succession; and, offended that there should be a secret, they determined that rendering justice to the injured child should be the apology for their own ungenerous curiosity. From this they were diverted by a singular incident.

A meeting of the gentlemen of the county had been called for some public purpose foreign to this narrative. In the midst of this discussion, it was observed that Eustace de la Pole was absent: this, to many who had known of his recent griefs and habits, was nothing singular; but those who resided more remote from the sphere of his influence, felt authorised to demand his presence and attention in a matter which was supposed deeply to interest the class to which he belonged. A messenger was despatched to request his attendance, and was told that he was preparing to wait upon them; and he who was charged with the embassy had scarcely returned to his employers, ere Eustace de la Pole entered the council-chamber, leading by the hand a tall and graceful youth, whom he placed at the table of the council, and behind whose chair he stood while he spoke. His words were few; but their stunning import threw horror and astonishment over the noble assembly. “I present to you this young man,” calmly said he; “and I have assigned to him his appointed place; mine it must be no longer; he is the son of Hugh de Broke, who is lately dead, and who, a few months since, was accused of the murder of John de la Pole. I come to render him a late, though, I trust, not useless justice, and restore the honour of his house. This youth is not only the heir of the fortunes of De la Pole, but of his father’s innocence, since I only was the murderer of my brother.”

It would not be possible to paint all the feelings of the audience who listened to this singular declaration, nor the contrariety of opinions that pervaded the minds of men upon its disclosure. Some asserted that derangement had fastened upon the mind of Eustace, and that he only imagined the fact; others, that grief had wearied him of existence, and that, preferring to die by other hands than his own, he had chosen this method of escaping from life and its convulsions; but the far greater part (as is ever the case in human judgments) decided for the darker side of the question, and concluded the self-accusation to be just, and were only now interested in analysing his motive. The will of the victim too became a subject of infinite wonder; and when, to every interrogatory (save those which implied the participation of Agatha, which he instantly and earnestly denied,) Eustace remained mute, indignation supplied the place of pity; and among those who had been his intimates and friends, had eaten of his bread and drank of his cup, there were not wanting some, who, baffled in their eager pursuit of the marvellous, and offended that a secret was denied to them, even hinted at the torture, as a means of compelling a discovery of his motives and accomplices.

There are many whose sickly existences find health only in the contemplation of the severer agonies of others; many who, without either hatred or malignity, yet love to feed their unnatural and craving appetites for singularities and horrors; and would rather cherish them with the blood of a dear friend, than suffer them to famish for want of sustenance. In small communities and country places, this inclination in the inhabitants is most apparent: here it was cruelly visible. John de la Pole had always been a popular man, and his destiny had afforded them a feast of blood, for which they felt grateful to his memory; from his murderer they could exact it, and they would: the loudest for justice appealed to the king for the application of the torture, and those who pitied the sufferer did not oppose the petition, as curious to behold the result.

The weak and inquisitive prince who then filled the English throne, saw something singular and mysterious in the conduct of the young De la Pole, and therefore unhesitatingly gave his assent to the sentence of his judges. The torture was borne by Eustace without a groan, though a close imprisonment of some weeks might have weakened his spirit and exhausted his bodily strength. He walked calmly and unsupported to the scene of suffering, conversing steadily with Courtenay, who never for an instant forsook him. From any outward tokens of anticipated agony or terror, it would have been difficult to distinguish the criminal from the spectator: he even smiled as he recognised his acquaintances in the crowd assembled to gaze upon his sufferings. There was only one action remarkable in his bearing at this trying juncture; on ascending the scaffold, and while they were binding his arms, his attention was arrested apparently by some object near him, though no one could be seen by the crowd, and during the whole period of the infliction of the “peine forte et dure,” the victim kept his eyes still fastened upon this spot, but without articulating a word. When the accumulated weights pressed so heavily on his sinking breast as to threaten dissolution, he raised his head to look upon his mangled limbs, and surveyed them in silent attention; he then turned his eyes to the spot which had so long occupied their regards, and, pointing with a slow and solemn motion to the load upon his breast, said, in a clear and steady tone, “Thou see’st!”

Eustace was remanded to prison; his friends, his enemies, those who were neither, all besought him with equal earnestness not to die with this secret sin upon his heart; he smiled at their anxiety, but answered nothing to their queries;—they doubted his guilt, ascribed his conduct to madness, to despair;—he replied by throwing off his cap and shewing the scar in his head, from which his brother, in the last agonising grasp of death, had torn the dark and bloody lock which had once so nearly condemned the unfortunate De Broke,—and they were silenced. He continued steadfast to his purpose—silent, sorrowful, but calm.

And where was Agatha during these scenes of insult and endurance? Had she too forsaken the dungeon of her husband, and given up her soul to exultation in his captivity and anguish? She had once, and only once, demanded admittance to his prison; she had remained with him many hours, and retired, like himself, tranquillised from the interview. Soon after, she formally resigned the castle and its dependencies to him whom Eustace had named as the lawful heir: her own son, and his claims, were now no longer remembered, since the crime of his father had deprived him of the succession, which had been awarded by the king to the son of the injured De Broke. After these arrangements, which were performed in silence and celerity, and with only the casual assistance of Courtenay, Agatha withdrew from her native town, and concealed her person and her sorrow for ever from the eyes of the world.

But her desertion of her husband at the tremendous juncture when he so much needed her help and consolation, was not regarded with indignation by the many who considered the circumstances under which she stood: _that_ husband was a murderer, and of whom? The terrible question needed no reply, and Agatha was speedily acquitted; her absence too was a trivial circumstance compared with that of her husband’s situation. All eyes were turned to the prison at Winchester.

At length Eustace de la Pole was led out to die. It was a splendid day, in the season of autumn, on which his mortal career was to terminate. Consideration for the princely blood which flowed in his veins, had forbidden, in his case, the strangulation by the degrading cord, and the axe and the block had been substituted in its room. The novelty of the circumstance drew many thousands round the scaffold, who awaited, in feverish and almost angry impatience, the arrival of him who was to furnish forth the spectacle of the day. He came,—not indeed as before, with an erect and unassisted step, for his limbs had been crushed, and his physical strength destroyed; but his pale countenance was composed, and his soft rich voice was steady and clear, as he conversed at intervals with Courtenay, the priest, and the executioner, who received him courteously, as, led by the two former, he ascended the steps to the scaffold. Of the crowd around he took no heed, but with calm and silent celerity prepared himself for the block. At sight of the noble young man, bare-headed and disrobed for a sad and ignominious death, there were many who could no longer restrain their tears; and hard-hearted grey-headed men who, hating his crime, believed they could find pleasure in his sorrow, and went thither to feast upon his suffering, now wept loudly for him whom, in their first feeling of horror, they had cursed. He appeared unconscious of this change of temper, and seemed rather disposed to hasten than to retard the preparations, for he laid his head down upon his last pillow before the executioner had entirely completed them. He had himself promised to give the signal for the fall of the axe; and while the multitude were anxiously awaiting this movement, they beheld him suddenly raise his head from the block, and gaze intently upon one particular spot upon the scaffold; all eyes were instantly directed towards it, but to them at least no object was visible. He gazed for a few moments with intense earnestness, then calmly replacing his head upon the block, exclaimed in solemn but eager accents, “Thou see’st!” and gave the signal for his death. The axe fell—heavily, rapidly—it was over—swifter than thought. The executioner held up the gory head to the people; the features were calm, the eyes closed; but before he could utter the customary sentence, they had once more opened and fixed themselves upon the same spot which had attracted the last of their living regards; they appeared slowly to follow the movement of some unseen object round the scaffold, till they reached the opposite side; then they withdrew their gaze, quivered for an instant, dropped, dark and immoveable, for ever.

This, as many strange scenes, was however doomed to be forgotten, like other things. Ten years passed away, and ten other wonders had, during that period, interested or frightened the people of Winchester and its surrounding country. John and Eustace de la Pole were no more remembered, or their story only casually mentioned as belonging to the odd things that were; Courtenay had glided into middle age, and the youth for whom Eustace had done so much, had long since written man.—Ten years! How many and how striking may be the changes of ten years! Courtenay had long pondered over the destiny of Agatha, and sighed to think whither her unhappy fate might have conducted her; but the long interval which passed had almost swept her from his mind, when a letter, in her unforgotten character, was one day put into his hand. It was couched in brief and anxious terms, and conveyed a request that he would immediately proceed to her dwelling. Courtenay was no laggard in the cause of humanity; he did not pause to speculate upon this address, or even to wonder at its abruptness, but he set forward instantly, and the morning of the following day saw him knock at a lonely cottage on the coast of Dorsetshire, in the neighbourhood of Corfe Castle. The door was opened by Agatha herself, who, habited in the black robes which she had worn since the sad death of the last of her husbands, received him with courteous sadness. Years had not dimmed the beauty of her matchless face, but sorrow had been busy with its expression; the same lovely features were there, but their once bright character was gone.

Their meeting was tenderly sorrowful: Agatha said little in explanation until she had conducted her guest into an adjoining chamber, and pointed out one object for his observation. Stretched upon a couch, grown to boyhood, covered with wounds, and unchanged in person, save that his deformities had now grown more manifest, lay extended the ghastly boy, the only child of Agatha and the hapless Eustace. Courtenay trembled as he gazed; but the mother’s looks were calm. “He is dead,” she said, on observing the emotion of her guest; “what Heaven and Nature with so much difficulty spared, the brutality of man has destroyed; he was my joy and sorrow, and many a weary hour have I watched to snatch him from the yawning grave: for ten years he has been my sole care; and for the insults and scorn heaped upon his deformed and idiotic existence, he found compensation in the tenderness of his mother. The small pittance which I derived from my father was sufficient for our wants: and never should I have called upon any former friend, but for the cruel deed of yesterday; robbers from the waters broke into my poor dwelling, and pillaged thence my property. I knew not how it was; I had gone to a distance to buy food, and on my return found the poor idiot thus. My only attendant, an old woman, had been wounded in his defence; and from her I with difficulty learned, that the convulsive movements of the boy, and his pointing hand, as his menacing eye followed their actions, had drawn upon him their wrath and its brutal consequences. I am averse from again appearing in the scenes which I have once and for ever abandoned, and therefore I sent for thee, Courtenay, to spare myself the sad task of interring the pale corpse of my boy, and drawing wondering and inquisitive eyes upon my person and history.”

Courtenay was pleased with the confidence reposed in his friendship. A brother’s love might have done less for Agatha; it could not have effected more. Her wishes were immediately performed; and he was preparing, with unintrusive delicacy, to return to his home, when Agatha for a few moments detained him; “You have deserved unlimited confidence at my hands;” said she, “and you shall obtain it: he who is now numbered with the ignominious dead desired it should be so, and I withhold it no longer. You, in common with all the world, were ignorant of the motives which impelled the unhappy Eustace to the deed which he perpetrated; but you did not, in common with all the world, forsake him in his utmost need: for you he drew up the story of his sorrows, and placed it in my hands to be given to you only when I saw the fitting time; that time hath arrived. The child of sorrow is dead, and I shall still more completely retire from a world where insignificance and poverty are no protection from cruelty and avarice; a convent will shortly receive me, and, if I continue to live, a newer and better existence will be mine: if not, I shall have done wisely in thus obeying the last command of Eustace.”

Courtenay received the packet and retired; he lingered not a moment to relieve the recluse of his presence, but returned to Winchester, after receiving her commands to see her again in three days; he then hastened to his apartment, and, with trembling avidity, read, in the confessions of Eustace, the secret story of the fortunes of De la Pole.

“I know that thou despisest me, Courtenay; I know that thou deemest me no less a fool than a coward; thou didst bring me the means of an honourable death, gavest into mine hands the dagger and the drug, and I have rejected both: we disputed, differed, parted, met again, and again renewed the subject: thou didst even deign to persuade the coward (so thou thoughtest him) to act like a man; but thy entreaties were unheeded and thy counsel rejected; he will die like a thief and a criminal—he will be hooted out of life; and curses will be the torches to give light to his memory, that it sink not into darkness and oblivion.

“Said I not that I was a sacrifice? that my punishment was a propitiatory offering? Now again I say to thee the same thing. Death would have few horrors for me (for it is a thing I covet) without the ignominy of a public execution; to offer my life for my wrong would be nothing, but to offer it up thus!—This alone can satisfy immortal justice; this alone can satisfy the spirit of the murdered man. Read and behold my meaning.

“Thou knowest how fondly, contrary to his father’s hope, John de la Pole loved the beautiful daughter of Philip Forester, thy kinsman; but thou knowest not how much more fervently she was adored by the wretched Eustace, and how tenderly the gentle Agatha returned that love. Hope there was none; for what had I to bribe the greedy father of my love, when John de la Pole could hereafter lay the fortunes of his house at her feet? Philip suspected the state of his daughter’s heart, and had looked deeper than I imagined into mine: he determined that a younger brother was not deserving of his Agatha’s beauty, and, by cold civilities and hints of my father’s and brother’s disapprobation, banished me from his house. One thing alone gave consolation to my blighted heart, the steadiness with which my father resolved against the marriage of John with the object of our mutual passion. In one of the sad conferences which I occasionally, though now but seldom, held with my beloved Agatha, it occurred to my imagination, that though my father had resolved to dispose differently of the heir of his house, he might not object to my union with the object of my choice; and I received permission of my beloved to make the attempt upon his feelings. I did so immediately, and, with a rapture which I dare not now dwell upon, received his permission, and his solemn promise to purchase the approbation of the selfish Forester, by bestowing upon me one-fourth of his more than princely fortune. He arranged to see Forester upon the following day: the same evening I flew to Agatha. O Courtenay! didst thou ever love? Those few blessed hours were the most happy of my life, and the last that were so. We parted; Agatha radiant with happiness; I, to think, to hope, to anticipate, to wish all things could share my transports, to love creation, to love God. In the morning my father was found dead on his couch; and the following month Agatha became the wife of my brother! Courtenay! didst thou ever love?

“Thou wilt ask, where was Eustace when his beloved was thus sacrificed? Alas! sent to a distance, to execute some commands of that brother upon whom I was now so utterly dependent. He had discovered my love, and thus, without my suspecting his intentions, prevented its consequences: he hastened to Agatha, represented the ruin she would bring upon me, and his determination to abandon me for ever, unless she became his wife; Forester, who was his ally, threatened her with his curse; I know not all the artifices used,—I never could listen to the detail. She became the wife of the man she could not love, and I was suffered to wither beneath his roof, while, with calm hypocrisy, he told his own tale, ostentatiously enriched his younger brother, and declared he could not live happy without him. Fool that he was!—stupid, uncalculating idiot! He had torn asunder two burning hearts, and expected to smother their fires; he had separated two devoted beings, compelled them to live in each other’s presence, and yet expected them to forget. Agatha abhorred his sight—his very aspect was loathsome to her. I saw her agonies,—I saw her daily shudderings at every demonstration of his love; and cold dews of death spread over my own heart when I beheld her submitting to his fondness. I implored to be banished from the castle; I entreated to be allowed the sad privilege of beholding Agatha no more: he could not trust me from him, he said; and I was obliged to remain. Merciless idiot! blind looker into the human heart! Had he consented, all might then have been well; but how did he dare thus selfishly sport with torture? He went on a journey for a few weeks; he commanded me to a distant part of the country on business of importance to his interests: I went, but returned ere half the allotted time for his absence had expired—to be alone with Agatha—to see her unrestrained—to mingle my tears with hers: I could not resist this one sad bliss, and I hastened back to enjoy it.

“We met, the lover and the beloved, in grief—in madness—in despair! Oh, wonder not, that when we parted guilt should be added to the burthen of our sorrows; but the terrible consciousness of crime changed at once our natures and our deeds. Agatha’s horror of her husband increased: and, now that she was mine, I determined she should no more be his—to fly, and rob the castle for the means of sustenance. Alas! I feared to expose her to scorn, should we be unable to evade the pursuit of justice; and, even if in this we should succeed, what means had I of subsistence when that slender source should fail, proscribed, as we should be, in every part of our native land? To live on, as I had lately done, was still more impossible; since Agatha herself had armed her bosom with a knife to be turned against her heart rather than again endure the horrors of her husband’s love. Again and again we met in passionate, though gloomy conference; and thus continued to waste the time in fruitless debate until his messenger announced his approaching return. Despair gave wings to my thought; Agatha’s eye glanced on mine; she drew the dagger from her breast, and I snatched it from her hand. Our thoughts had spoken—there was no need of words—we had understood each other without them.

“I hastened to conceal myself in the New Forest, near the road through which he must pass on his return. He had taken his confidential servant with him, and, rather than expose myself to observation, I had determined to fire at him through the trees, calculating and believing that the servant would mistake the attack for that of concealed robbers, and fly, leaving his master to his fate. But I had scarcely arranged my mode of attack ere I heard a footstep in the road; I looked out, and beheld him slowly advancing, with his eyes steadfastly directed towards the towers of his castle, as if he sought out the apartment of his wife. At the sight of him all prudence vanished—all recollection of the calm attack which I had meditated passed away from my mind; I did not even observe that he was alone: hatred and rage filled my heart, and I rushed upon him like a wild beast, tearing him to the earth by the bare strength of sinew, and inflicting many mortal stabs upon his breast: he grappled fiercely with me, struggled hard to rise, and even drew his dagger, which I broke in his grasp before he could strike one blow. He tore a lock of hair from my head, but, during the terrible contest he had not uttered a single word, till a deep and home-directed stroke upon his brow threw him powerless on the sod, then he spoke gaspingly to his brother: ‘Have mercy upon me,’ he said, ‘have mercy; I have wronged thee, but that is not the heaviest of my crimes; I would live to repent: to expiate one, the deepest, darkest, let me live; I dare not die. My father!—I overheard his arrangements with thee—I could not bear to lose her—he was found dead on his couch—I smothered him in the night. Mercy, mercy! O Eustace! let me live,—I am not fit to die!’ But his words raised a wilder fiend in my soul, that scared away the spirit of mercy. He then had been the monster—he!—I raved aloud, ‘Murderer! thou art not fit to live—hell gapes for thee—begone!’ I drew my dagger across his throat; the blood gushed upon my face, upon my hands; he grinned, scowled, gibbered as he sunk, but he spoke and struggled no more.

“I hastened home,—but I saw not Agatha, neither did I seek her during the long and terrible night that followed the sunset crime: I dared not tell her what I had done; I could not have borne to hear her speak of the sin which I had committed. Towards the morning I grew calm; my fears and horror subsided; I thought of the atrocious act of the guilty dead, and, by degrees, persuaded myself that I had done an act of justice; I began to calculate upon the consequences, and seriously consider whether, by this deed, I had really achieved the consummation of my wishes—the possession of my adored Agatha; she was my sister, the widow of my brother; could I legally become her husband? And, allowing the possibility, was it probable that I should be permitted to do so? These considerations gave birth to the action which followed; I forged the extraordinary will which gave the succession to me, but only with the hand of Agatha; and it appeared the more natural, as, during the period of her wedlock, she had borne no child to her husband. That night and succeeding day was thus intently occupied. On the following morning the corpse was discovered by you. I had not seen Agatha, but, on hearing of her meeting the body, hastened to calm her mind, and prepare her for the will, which was opened after the interment. I made use of the pretext of another love, to appear repugnant to the wishes of my brother, and quitted the castle to appease the inquietudes of Agatha, who entreated me not to see her again until I could make her my wife.

“You remember the reading of that will; you remember the arrival of De Broke; poor wretch! his drunken falsehoods, his silly boasts, and above all, his ungoverned insolence, has cost him fatally dear. I was not concerned at the suspicion which fell upon him; on the contrary, I rejoiced it had found such an object: but I trembled with horror when I beheld him conducted to a dungeon, and reflected on the probability of his paying the penalty of my crime. Guilty enough already, this accumulation of sin appalled me, and I determined that innocent blood at least should not cry out from earth against me. In the night previous to the day fixed for his trial, which I dreaded equally, whether he should be condemned or acquitted, I sought his prison, and, by an exaggerated account of the popular rage against him, prevailed upon him to accept the means of escape; his servant who attended him, terrified by the picture I drew of his master’s danger, united his entreaties to mine. Hugh’s courage and fortitude gave way to our solicitations; he fled, and preserved his life at the expense of his honour and his peace.

“I cannot express to you how deep was the pang the ruin of this man’s character gave me, nor how I shrunk from the eyes lifted to mine in commiseration, whenever his name was mentioned before me; even now, now that I have rendered back such severe justice, my heart sickens as I recall the curses which I heard heaped upon his head as the murderer of John de la Pole. I should have suffered less had they branded the criminal unknown, but to hear an innocent man thus accused for me—O Courtenay! thou knowest not, mayest thou never know, remorse.

“I reasoned much even then upon the folly of this conduct; I said, I am a cowardly villain, a sneaking murderer, who fears the consequences of the crime he yet feared not to commit. Why should I be careful of this man’s life? what is his safety to me? his death might be my security, at least would prevent suspicion from falling elsewhere: are not his manners brutal, his heart selfish, avaricious, and cruel? who will miss him from the earth? and by whom will his loss be mourned? But it is my crime for which he will suffer, and the curse of innocent blood will lie upon my head: neither has he injured me, that I should doom him so hardly; I cannot even taste the luxury of revenge. These thoughts disquieted me, and, recurring more frequently than I could bear, influenced my conduct in regard to the prisoner. ‘The means of escape shall be offered to him,’ I said; ‘if, innocent, as he knows himself to be, he be coward enough to accept them, he is worthy of the opprobrium which will cling to him, and I ought not to grieve for that ruin of character which he himself alone will effect.’

“With this wretched sophistry I endeavoured to reconcile my conscience, and, strange to say, I succeeded; care and regret departed from my bosom, and I looked forward to the day of my approaching union with Agatha with an impatience which I found it difficult to control: it came at length, and under happy auspices, for all our friends were assembled around us, and I saw in my beloved’s tranquil smile the scarce concealed joy of her heart.

“You remember that day, Courtenay—you remember the brilliant assemblage and the gay festival of night—you remember how brightly sparkled the jest, how sweetly sounded the song, and how every creature present seemed wrapped in the delicious intoxication of the hour—you remember my parting commands after Agatha had retired, to carouse till the day-break, and make the young sun a witness of your felicity; you did so; it was a scene of joy and splendour. Alas! there was another, and a widely different, passing in a more retired part of the castle.

“I must pause in my narrative here for a few moments; all that has as yet been detailed has been plain and simple fact, subject to no doubts, liable to no misconstructions; hitherto all has been clear; that which will follow is wild, strange, and improbable—mysterious, incomprehensible indeed, yet not less true than that which I have hitherto written. How shall I make you understand what I have to present to your mind? In what words shall I clothe a narrative so extraordinary as to prevent its stamping me with the opprobrium of folly or madness? Even now, in my dying hour, on the very steps of the scaffold, I hesitate at the thought of being lightly esteemed by thee, or my sacrifice regarded as the result of a weakened intellect or a disordered brain: it is more easy to die as a knave than be lamented as a fool.

“Agatha had withdrawn from the hall with her damsels, and I hastened to follow her; she had retired to an apartment adjoining her bridal chamber, and thither, wearied of the noise and mirth of the rioters below, I also hastened. I longed for a delight I had not lately experienced, an unreserved conversation with my wife, and to be allowed to dismiss the coldness which, during the day, I had been obliged to feign towards her. The damsels retired, and we were left to pour out our hearts to each other in the unbounded confidence of our new relations, when we were startled by hearing a slow and heavy foot steadily ascending the stairs; as these were private, leading only to our apartments, Agatha was surprised and offended. ‘Who would intrude at this hour?’ she demanded, while her eyes turned anxiously towards the door. For me, a thrill of horror shot through my inmost heart; I said, relinquishing the hand I had till then so fondly clasped in mine, ‘_That is the step of my brother_!’

“And it was so, Courtenay: a moment more and the door slowly opened of itself to give entrance to its master; John de la Pole entered the room and stood between Agatha and me; his face was as in his dying hour, ghastly and menacing, and every gash of the murderous knife upon his body as frightfully distinct as on the night they were inflicted. In one hand he held a lock of dark hair; the other was extended threateningly towards me; and thus he stood between us, drawn from another world by the crime I meditated against his bed, and an everlasting barrier before it.

“My first emotion was astonishment—a boundless and stupified surprise—then a vague and horrid notion that my brother was not really dead, that he had escaped alive from my hands, and was now come to accuse and surrender me up to scorn. The interval which had passed since his death was obliterated from my mind, and I felt as if that night had been the season of the deed. I spoke in extenuation of my crime, accused his selfishness, cursed his calculating cruelty; I implored his mercy, folded my hands in supplication, and knelt before him in humble debasement. No muscle of his countenance moved, and not a sound escaped through his bruised and blackened lips; he did not even look upon me, but continued to fasten his stony eyes upon the face of Agatha, who stood silent and motionless as himself, gazing like a fascinated thing upon his aspect of horror. I arose from my knees—shut my eyes—tossed my arms abroad to the air—endeavoured to think I was in sleep, in drunkenness, in delirium: no, _he was still there_!—I thought of the agony of tempestuous feeling I had endured on the night following the commission of the crime, and, believing that my jaded mind was suffering under the same infliction, resolved to seek my couch, to restore my exhausted spirits by rest and sleep. I made an effort to move from my place; I knew that motion might recall my scattered senses; and I exerted myself to enter the chamber of Agatha. Wilt thou believe me, Courtenay? the stern shadow anticipated my movement, and, menacing me back, strode silently towards my bridal chamber. At the door its menacing attitude towards me was changed for one of command to Agatha; one bloody finger was raised to beckon her to follow: she did so. Still stupidly insensible, gazing fixedly upon his form, she followed the direction of his hand, and passed after him into the chamber: the door closed upon them without a sound.

“Now I began to think more calmly: the dead, cold thing was gone, and there was life and air in the apartment; the feelings of this world came upon me, and I became sensible of fear. I was safe; but where was Agatha?—_he_ had beckoned her forth—was it reality?—she was gone—had it been the work of imagination, she had still been there—but she might have retired to her chamber alone. This was to be ascertained. I attempted to enter—the door was fast; I called upon Agatha—there was no sound in reply; I reviewed the last scene, considered the incidents of the past, weighed the appearances of the present, and came at length to the terrible conclusion that a spirit of the damned had stood before me, and that Agatha was still in his grasp! You will not wonder that temporary insanity followed this hideous idea: I grew wild at the thoughts of her danger; I shrieked aloud for mercy; I tore my hair in agony, and beat at the closed door with the utmost exertion of strength. I wonder even now that none heard the uproar I made; but my cries remained unanswered—no sound issued from the bridal chamber of the dead, and I continued to rave until nature, exhausted, sunk speechless and senseless to the earth.

“Morning had broken over the apartment when I awoke, and I was some moments in recovering recollection of my state and circumstances; slowly the truth came before me. I was lying extended on the bare ground, the lights had burned out, and there was no trace of visitors having been near me in my sleep. I arose and listened for some sound that might direct my first movements, for now I knew not what to think nor to do. A low sobbing from the chamber of Agatha riveted my attention; I sprung towards the door, and, to my astonishment, it yielded to the slightest touch: I entered; Agatha was there, seated upon the bed, and gazing around her with a look of agonising affright; she saw me on the instant, and rushed into my arms. ‘Thou art here! thou art safe!’ she cried in delirious transport; ‘and for this I am at least grateful; I deemed he had destroyed thee. But thou didst leave me, Eustace. O quit me not, I beseech thee! save me from him, Eustace, for thou alone canst!’ I endeavoured to soothe her anguish, and, after some time, succeeded in restoring her to tranquillity and composure enough to be made acquainted with the real state of our circumstances; and I implored her to inform me whither the ghastly phantom had led her, on their retiring from the chamber. She shuddered at the question, and a wild and strange expression passed over her countenance ere she spoke. ‘I will tell thee,’ she said; ‘yet it is but little that I have to say. To this room we came, and our footsteps wandered no further. Without a word he gave his commands to me, and without a word I obeyed him. I ascended my bridal bed, he had willed it so, and he continued to gaze upon me till my head sunk upon the pillow; then the ghastly thing sat down by my side, and though I closed mine eyes hard that I might not behold him, yet I felt that the shadow of his unearthly face was upon me. Once I looked up in the hope that he was gone; beholding him I shrunk, and would have called upon thee, but the stony eye of the spectre grew larger, and a fiendish pang passed over the immoveable face; then I hid mine in my mantle that I might look upon him no more: insensibility succeeded, and I slept; in the morning I awoke, and he was gone!’

“This was the tale of Agatha; thou wilt doubt its truth, nor can I wonder at thy most natural incredulity: yet I would now give my few short hours of life, precious as they may be, that thou hadst been present and _seen_ her tell this story; I can give thee her words, her form of expression, but what language of mine can portray her looks as she spoke, or describe the harrowing tones of her voice as she cried to me for protection? I doubted not; for these powerful witnesses would have carried conviction to my mind, had I not already beheld the shadowy thing she spoke of.

“What could I offer in consolation? We wept bitter tears together, and mingled our tender grief. If we indulged a momentary hope that it was but an illusion of the brain, and would return no more, we were quickly undeceived at the approach of night. Again came the ghastly shadow, and again was the spirit of Agatha chained by the sleep of death in his presence. Nor were his visitations confined to the dark and silent hour of night; when we met in the morning, to lament our fate and weep from our stuffed bosoms the weight that pressed upon our hearts, then, with a hideous familiarity, he would stand between us, mocking, with his menacing grin and uplifted finger, the agony his presence created.

“_Another_ night came; we sat alone, solitary, speechless, motionless; hour after hour passed, and we moved not, except to cast stern regards towards the door, or listen with repressed impatience to every sound in the castle. Slowly, at last, came the step of the dead, heavily ascending the stairs;—he entered—I rushed to meet him, and the long pent up agony of my soul burst forth in madness uncontrolled. ‘Monster!—murderer!—destroyer of thy father and thy brother! why comest thou thus to torture and not kill? why is thy bloody hand for ever raised, and yet forbearing to fall? If thine aim be vengeance, strike—strike—strike—thou blood-bespotted horror! and rend from hope and from life those who dared to make thee what thou art!—Strike, thou silent, sullen thing! that we may be as thou art, and learn to fear thee not!’

“I darted towards him, but was arrested by some invisible barrier ere I had traversed half the distance between us; I could not reach him, but sunk, as if felled by an unseen blow, helpless and almost senseless, to the ground: _he_ did not even look upon me, but again sternly summoned Agatha from the chamber, as nightly he had done before. I—but wherefore dwell upon these agonies? Suffice it to say, that these accumulated horrors at length drove me from the side of Agatha to solitude and reflection: sorrow came upon my soul—a sorrow less for my crime than for its fatal consequences. ‘Alas!’ I said, ‘perhaps the tormentor is himself more keenly punished by these hauntings than either of his shrinking victims: said he not, in the hour of death, that he too was a murderer? and did he not pray for time in which to expiate the sin? Surely, surely, these visitations must be the hell of the parricide.’

“And a feeling of remorse arose in my mind, as I deemed it possible that these unnatural hauntings might be involuntary. I had stabbed at the life of my brother, and plunged his unprepared spirit into the hell which awaited it; and surely a more bitter one than looking again upon the secret deeds of the survivors, could not well be imagined. Agatha, too, no longer wept over her separation from me, but hourly called upon Heaven for pity and for pardon; madness and anguish passed away from her heart, and sorrow and repentance entered it.

“I could not repent; at least I could not feel self-condemnation to that degree which I had been early taught was so necessary—that perfect sorrow which abhorred the crime and the criminal, and which, they say, is alone the gift of Heaven—_that_ I did not feel: still, still did my inmost soul worship the thought of Agatha, and abhor the treachery of John de la Pole. I could not regret that I had avenged my wrong—I could not repent that I had attempted to make her mine; I knew that were the deed again to do—again should I dare, and perform it.

“Repentance then was not mine; but I despaired of peace, and knew how to punish crime: I was not yet weary of life; and though tears of remorse did not fill my eyes for my brother’s early doom, yet his unnatural tortures now, and Agatha’s suffering, seemed to call for something like justice from my hand. ‘Perhaps, in the stern mood in which I am,’ I said, ‘the sacrifice will be greater than if repentance struck; and, believing myself sure of forgiveness, I hastened to make my peace with Heaven. Yes; I will die—I will inflict death upon myself as I would upon another, and expiate crime with blood!’

“But I hesitated still; death, contemplated so near, in any shape, was horrible; but, dealt by the hand of the executioner—I shrunk from the thought, and could not bear the shadow of a stain upon the honour of my house; so I went on from day to day, dreaming of justice but rendering none, till the birth of Agatha’s son. Thou wast surprised, I believe, at the little emotion I betrayed at its sight: alas! I had long been prepared for some object of horror, and now it was before me. Thou didst behold the action of the ghastly child; thou sawest the menacing finger upraised towards my head, and the calm determination with which I met this image: its presence had banished my indecision. I believed now that Agatha was lost to me for ever,—that Eternal Justice by this sign spoke against me, and, in punishment of my hardness of heart, had thus perpetuated the remembrance of my crime. Now, then, I _resolved_ to die: I communicated my purpose to Agatha, and earthly feelings once more gained the mastery over my subdued spirit, and burst forth in words of grief and reproach, on observing that she evinced no horror at my approaching fate, and scarcely attempted to dissuade me from my purpose! Agatha, for whom I had dared and suffered so much—even she had become indifferent to my destiny: it was indeed time to die! But I did her wrong; sorrow had broken her heart, and repeated scenes of horror had subdued and weakened her spirit. With the feeling common to her sex, she sought consolation only in religion, and thought that to reconcile herself with Heaven was all that was left her now: love had fled with every other human passion, and far from regarding death as an evil, she looked upon it as a passport to bliss, and was more ready to rejoice at than deprecate my fate. Her conduct assisted my resolution. Now, then, the first step was to be made—the most difficult and appalling—the rest would be consequential and easy. It was necessary to begin, and I knew of no better mode than that of rendering justice to the living. Hugh de Broke had been ruined by me, and it was now incumbent upon me to restore him to honour and to happiness: I set out for the distant and humble dwelling in which, since his escape, he had been obliged to conceal his name and dignity: he was stretched upon a sick-bed—a heart-broken and a dying man: it was no physical disease of which he was expiring,—but disgrace had poisoned the fountain of his blood, and shame had eaten its way like a canker-worm to his heart. When he saw me, he shook off his dying listlessness, and sprung upright in his bed. ‘What more wouldst thou have, thou blaster of mine honour!’ he said, ‘of a ruined and dying man? To thy pernicious counsel I owe the shame no after-conduct can efface: cursed, cursed coward that I was! why did I heed or believe thy murderous mercy? Begone, wretch! and let me die. I cannot shake off this load of shame; but I shall sink under its burthen, and bequeath its remorse to thee; go, wretch! and let me die.’

“He was submissively attended by his wife and son, who were earnest with me to relieve him of my presence. Sorrow, and the near approach of death, had softened his heart and chastised the natural brutality of his manners; he looked and spoke more mildly to them, though, with all his failing strength, he continued to heap maledictions upon me. My humiliations were now to begin; I kneeled down by his side, detailed my crime without any palliation, asked his forgiveness for the injury I had done him, and finished by avowing my resolution to deliver myself into the hands of justice, and restore his fame and happiness.

“I was astonished, that during this confession no word had been uttered by him whom it so deeply concerned. I looked up to behold its effect; he was staring wildly at me, the strong energies of his spirit struggling with the grasp of death to gain time to hear its termination; he strove hard to articulate something; and finally, whether he conquered for some few moments the mighty power that was wrestling with him, or that that power had now incorporated itself with his victim, and given him of its potency, I knew not, but he suddenly grew calm and passionless, pain and convulsion left him, his features assumed a pale rigidity, and his voice the solemn earnestness of the grave, as he spoke. ‘I have no time for question,’ he said; ‘but I pray that the truth may be upon thy lips: soon, very soon, shall we meet again; and my pardon shall be truly thine when thou shalt tell me that my boy sits with honour in the halls of his fathers.’ He paused, placed the hand of his son in mine, and expired without a groan.

“What followed, I need not tell thee; the son of Hugh was restored, and Eustace consigned to a dungeon. The attempts of the people to force from me my secret, you know how I resisted; calmly and even proudly I went to my prison and prepared myself to die. I had humbled myself to De Broke, for to him I had done deep and particular injury; but to these men I owed no other reparation than what my life would pay: what right had they then to demand further humiliation of me, or attempt to rend from my bosom the mystery of its secret purpose? I would die unaccusing, save myself; I would die, shrouded in gloomy dignity,—a man to be wondered at and feared, rather than pitied and scorned. I will willingly furnish their greedy eyes with the awful feast of death, but not their vulgar souls with the struggles and humiliations of mine; my body is the law’s—is theirs; my spirit is beyond their judgment. John de la Pole shall sleep on, embalmed in good opinions; I will not raise up his pall to shew them what corruption festers beneath it; I would not tell them what he _was_, though it should even lessen in their thought the horror of what I _am_. Grand and silent death—majestic in thy obscurity—I wait to bid thee welcome!

“Thus far had I written, and thought that my story in the book of life had come to its close, but other events have crowded upon me; and before my death, (which will be on the morrow,) I would tell thee the incidents of the last few days. Thou knowest how calmly I beheld thee depart from my prison, and how little emotion I manifested at my fate; but when thou wert gone, when I was alone, in chains, degraded, the enthusiasm of the moment past, and my spirit inactive, I wept bitter tears at the waywardness of my early fate; yet I relaxed not in my determination; I came hither to die, and nothing was left me but to finish my purpose nobly. It is my will to doom a murderer, and I am he so doomed. I wept, yet persisted; cursed the cruelty which had destroyed me, and yet prayed to my brother for pardon. Of the future I had as yet scarcely thought; hitherto I had been solely employed about the method of quitting this world, without much considering the terms of my admission to another; now I pondered long, with anxiety, but not with fear. Creeds puzzled me—I made not my own heart—I cannot be answerable for its opinions. I have committed a deadly sin—I am about to expiate it with my blood—I cannot do more; and is not this sacrifice greater than the cant of sorrow and the whinings of prayer from one who never prayed before? The one is from myself, the child of my resolution—the other the offspring of fear—But I was distracted still, and bewildered. It was in this disturbed state that I was startled by a light sound in my prison—I listened—a soft voice, for the second time, pronounced in kindly accents, ‘My brother!’ I started up and gazed around me; on the opposite side of my dungeon stood the form of John de la Pole, but not as I had seen him last, pale, menacing, and bloody, but with that mild aspect and gentle look that had distinguished his early brotherhood, ere Agatha’s fatal beauty cut asunder the knot that bound our souls together. ‘Thou hast done well,’ said the gentle spirit, ‘thus to render up thy life for thy crime; thy severe justice hath merited and obtained thy pardon; my sufferings, too, the punishment for unrepented sin, thy firmness hath terminated; and the days of Agatha shall henceforth flow more peaceful. Soon shalt thou be with me, O brother! and the kiss of immortality shall be given to thee by my lips: weep not—doubt not—but bear all things steadfastly; in thine hour of agony I will stand by thy side.’

“A tender grief overpowered my spirit as he spoke, and tears fell from my eyes. I extended my arms as if I would have embraced him, but the barrier between the living and the dead could not as yet be passed, and the shadow receded from my touch. But this visitation had brought joy to my heart and tranquillity to my spirit, and the arrival of Agatha at the prison still further reconciled me to my doom. ‘Thy sacrifice is hallowed,’ she said; ‘thou wilt die, but I must live to expiate my crime, as the slave of thy ghastly son, till Heaven shall call him to itself. _He_ stood by my couch last night; smilingly he looked upon me, as in the days of his early love, and bade me live and hope: in this world I shall behold him no more! but thou, my beloved! thou art for the distant land, and the abode whither he is gone before thee. Oh that I might share thy doom, as I have already partaken thy guilt!’

“We parted—let me not dwell upon that—we parted for ever; for me there remained a mighty duty to fulfil, and from which I did not shrink—no, not even when those who had been my friends sought to wring my secret from my heart by the infliction of the torture: I pitied _them_, but not myself.

“The day of torture came; thou wert by my side, and didst urge a voluntary death to rescue me from agony and the stare of burning eyes eagerly watching my pangs. I rejected thy counsel; yet didst thou not forsake me, but marched to the scene of my infamy by my side. All around, as I went thither, did I look for the promised appearance of my brother, and trembled lest I should not behold him. ‘Surely this is mine hour of agony,’ I said, as I ascended the steps of the scaffold; ‘wherefore is he not by my side?’ And the guest from the other world,—he beneath whose scowl my heart had for months been withering,—was desired with more impatience than ever I had felt for the presence of earthly friends. I had not long to fear or to doubt—he was there before me; on reaching the scaffold, I beheld him standing by the block, and calmly and silently smiling a welcome to his brother. Thou didst behold my firmness, and the multitude saw my composure with wonder; but they beheld not the cause; they saw not that _he_ was looking on, and that I drew in resolution from his smile, and firmness from his awful brow.

“The ineffectual agony was past—curiosity was silenced—and I was condemned to die; and to-morrow I _shall_ die,—from all that I have loved, hated, or valued, I shall be torn to-morrow. The last sunset is falling upon my paper, is gilding my pen as I write; to-morrow it will sparkle upon the edge of the axe, and illuminate a brow from which the inward light will have departed for ever; to-morrow will be the scene of my last humiliation; but _he_ will be there to witness it; and convert it by his presence into a triumph: and, when all shall be over, when the last mortal throb shall be past, what then shall be my destiny? ‘Thou art pardoned,’ he said; ‘and an immortality is before thee!’ Oh, then, let me hope for an immortality of peace! Now, then, I will go sleep—exhausted nature must be recruited for her great labour to-morrow—for these broken limbs, these strained sinews, and this bruised flesh, must needs want repose, ere they can encounter the task of fresh exertion. Serve me well, ye mangled limbs, but to-morrow, and I shall require your service no more.—Courtenay, good night.”

Such was the tale of the fratricide, and of him who was his victim: of her who survived the deaths of both, no more was heard; for upon Courtenay’s going to the cottage at the period she had appointed to receive her last commands, he learned she had quitted it two days previous, but had left a small parcel to be given to him; it contained a few remembrances of herself and Eustace, and the following letter:—

“COURTENAY—

“In giving thee the papers containing our story, I have obeyed the last wish of him whose lightest word was a law to me; but I cannot look on thee again after this communication. Grieve not for me, for my lot will not be wretched; the death of my child has released me from the world, and I hasten to withdraw myself from it: I had arranged all things for the purpose before I sent to request thy presence. Endeavour not to discover me; such search would be fruitless and vain. I retire from the kingdom; and in a convent of Clairs, beneath the habits and rules of the order, and under another name, conceal for ever, from the eyes of the world, the person, the crime, and the sorrow of

“AGATHA DE LA POLE.”

THE LORD OF THE MAELSTROM.