cided what to do. At length he said, "Madame | man an air of superiority of dignity even, la Baronne de Mühlhausen was aware of the (such is the force of truth!) that awed the marriage." servant he questioned, and made the mistress quail. The baroness coloured, but remained for some time silent. It was true that she knew of the marriage. She had proposed the visit to Felsenberg on this day, because she was aware of De Sablons' intention of being there for the purpose of claiming his bride; and she had hoped to gratify her curiosity in witnessing the dénouement of an affair which had hitherto been carried on so secretly. But now the business wore a different aspect. From what had transpired, there appeared a probability that her protegé and favourite, the accomplished Chevalier, would turn out an intriguing adventurer. The proud and noble lady shrank in dismay at the idea of having been the dupe of a roturier, un homme du peuple; and she said, with some hesitation, in reply to his appeal, "I heard of your marriage from yourself only, sir. You best know whether the information was correct." "I demand that your servants be summoned, Madame de Felsenberg," he said abruptly, turning to the countess : "those who were present at our marriage." "Will you be pleased to name those members of my household you wish to interrogate, sir?" she said calmly. "I have already named them," he replied. "Johann Barneck and Esther Griffindale." Lady Felsenberg hesitated a moment, but gave the order. The two servants were summoned, and soon made their appearance at the door of the saloon. The gray-headed Barneck advanced, and the countess trembled. She knew the honourable integrity of his character, and notwithstanding his entire and faithful devotion to her, she had never dared to tamper with him. It was evident he knew the purpose for which he had been summoned; for there was fear, anxiety, and indecision on his face. She saw this, and Esther Griffindale saw it too. With the ready tact and address of one equally devoted, and much less scrupulous, she displaced her companion, and, planting herself before him, presented herself with a low curtsey and most submissive air to the sullen Chevalier, who, somewhat mollified by the humility of her manner, was led to hope she might be induced to speak the truth, and he said gently, "Esther, you remember the second of June ?" After a pause of silence, during which Barneck stood apparently stupid and bewildered, the question was repeated, "Do you remember the second of June, when you were a witness to your lady's marriage?" Esther, evidently trembling for the result, again sprang to the rescue. With a cry of distress she exclaimed, "Oh, I am ill! I am faint, my head is giddy!" Clinging to Barneck for support, she whispered a few emphatic words in his ear. A third time the question was repeated ere he replied; then, raising his right arm slowly, he waved his cap in the air, and said, "My lady is a good lady, and a noble lady. Five times since dinner we drank her health, and five times after supper we will drink it again. Long life to my noble lady!" "The fool is drunk!" said De Sablons, who now saw himself utterly baffled in the design of substantiating the fact of his marriage, and gave it up for the present as hopeless. Turning proudly to the assembled company he said, “I am the victim of a base conspiracy! I have no means now to prove that I am the husband of Madame de Felsenberg: but I solemnly declare that I was married to her in the adjoining chapel, by Father Saldorf on the second of June, in the presence of her two servants. I appeal to the just God and every holy saint, to witness that this is the truth." "And do you dare to appeal to God and his saints?" said the Gräfin now somewhat excited, "you who 66 Mother, dear mother! oh forbear!" said Her man again in an anxious whisper. "What I dare to do, madam," cried De Sablons with a bitter emphasis on his words, "you have yet to learn, and may some day know to your cost!" He now again bowed to the company and quitted the room, followed by Durochet and his other friends. The countess, as he disappeared, sank pale and exhausted into a seat. Blanche and her children closed round her. "Some wine," she said in a whisper, "Give me some wine." The wine was brought, and eagerly swallowed. "The second of June, noble sir?" she repeated, She desired the supper should be immediately reflecting as if endeavouring to recall some event served, and was promptly obeyed. The guests to her memory. "The second of June-I think-seated themselves. She made a desperate effort yes-I recollect it perfectly. It was the day the to rally her failing strength and spirits, and suc young ladies went to Schwetzingen; and my lady, ceeded. Mirth and hilarity reigned at the hospi who was to have gone with them, was ill, and table board. Whatever opinions might have did not leave her bed all day." been formed of the strange scene they had so lately witnessed, there seemed now a universal determination to enjoy the present, without refe rence to the past, or anticipation of the future. "Liar! you may go!" said De Sablons, in a voice of thunder, pushing her aside, and addressing Barneck. "And you, old man; are you too prepared to disgrace your gray hairs by perjury—to utter a deliberate lie on the border of the grave?" There was a stern frown on his brow, and a solemn tone in his voice, that gave to this bad The lady herself set them the example. She was gay, brilliant, witty. But nature could not be thus outraged long with impunity. Her gay spirits and her merry laugh, were but the mask that covered a reproving conscience, a sink ing heart, and a spirit fearfully foreboding a disastrous future. Spite of the sophistry with which she had striven to stultify her understand ing and indulge her hatred, she knew and felt that in quitting the path of truth and right, she had entered on a stormy and perilous career. She had outraged and defied the man she had sworn to love, honour, and obey, and had thereby excited the anger, and roused the spirit of revenge, in the bosom of one she knew to be reckless and unprincipled. While the lofty hall echoed with a peal of laughter, raised by a witty jest she had uttered, the glass in which she had pledged the health of her guests fell from her hand, and she sank back on her seat, pale and motionless. She was carried to her chamber. The guests soon after retired, and the next day quitted Felsenberg, without again seeing their hostess. CHAPTER X. Under circumstances such as these, the departure of their guests was a great relief to the young members of the family; who no sooner found themselves freed from the now irksome task of entertaining them, than they met to consult on the measures to be taken, in a position so singular and so embarrassing. After a short debate, it was decided, that Herman should go to his mother and once again try to bring her to reason. artful; a most accomplished intriguer. I fully acquit Madam de Mühlhausen who introduced him. He would dupe the keenest and most acute observers, if he chose to do so. I am not free to relate even to you, Herman, all I have heard of his history, nor the means by which I obtained my information; nothing but the fact that he is a wretch without honour, principle, or feeling!" Herman said no more, but rising from his seat, slowly and with a heavy sigh left the room. A few days only had elapsed, during which a gloomy tranquillity seemed to reign in the house, and a sort of listless gravity to have taken place of the light step, and cheerful air which had once characterized its youthful inmates, when a very fine day once again sent forth the family in different directions. Herman went off to the woods to hunt, the Gräfin walked to Ziegelhausen, a hamlet in the valley about half a league from the castle, while Gertrude and Blanche were busy with the plants which required shelter from the coming winter. The days were now short, and the sun was already sinking, when Herman, somewhat weary, on his way home was abruptly accosted by one of the foresters, who, breathless with haste, told him he had seen in a very secluded part of the forest, several armed men, who appeared anxious to conceal themselves; that he had watched them unseen, and had ascertained that several horses also were ready-saddled and tethered to the trees beneath which they stood. "I am sure," said the man, "they are after no good, so close to the Schlangenweg, and my lady often goes to Ziegelhausen." On entering her room, he saw that although she appeared to be very languid and looked very pale, the expression of her face was calm and quiet, and she tried to smile as she held out her hand to him. But the smile was forced and unnatural, and even the attempt to appear cheerful ceased," as she looked at the grave and melancholy countenance of her son. As he seated himself beside her, she said,—“Herman, you ought to rejoice that this miserable, but necessary business is over. I confess it was a terrible task; but it is sometimes necessary to do wrong in order to restore right." "Mother" he replied gravely, we will not discuss the right or the reason in this affair, but I entreat you to reflect on the propriety-the necessity of conciliating the Chevalier De Sablons. Suffer me, I beseech you-authorize me to treat with him; let us endeavour to purchase his silence and forbearance. If you cannot-will not acknowledge him as your husband, although he is so, let us bribe him not to urge his claims as such." "It cannot be !" she replied. "No, there is no middle course to take with a man like this. He is a villain! You cannot bind a man without principle. He would take the bribe, promise, and laugh at you for expecting him to keep it. No. There is no other course than open and steady defiance." And you are sure you are not deceived in the ill opinion you have formed of him?" "No, no. Alas no! The proofs of his infamy are too many, too clear, too convincing to admit of doubt. I feel assured that my life even would be in peril, were I in his power. He is infinitely "Ha!" said Herman considerably alarmed, she is gone there to-day. Sound your horn, Staubfuss, and follow me!" So saying he ran off towards the Schlangenweg, bitterly regretting that he had quitted the hunters to return on foot and alone. He ran on for about half a mile, and had nearly as much more to reach the place the forester mentioned, when a shrill scream rose from the valley, and a cry for help met his ear. In a moment afterwards, the sound of galloping horses mingled with the cries. He was still on the mountain road, the safe regular descent yet distant. It was impossible to reach it in time to intercept them on their way. There was but one means: it was to descend by the Bärengang, a difficult and dangerous cleft in the rocks, steep and precipitous; but urged by fear and affection for his mother, he threw himself down, and happily arrived uninjured at the bottom. The man who had warned him of the danger, had followed his rapid course till they came to the Bärengang, but here his courage failed, so that Herman was now alone. The narrow and winding road on which he now was, made many turns, so that he had time ere the horsemen came up, to sound a long and shrill blast on the hunting-horn suspended from his neck. Again and again it echoed through the forest, was repeated by the caverned echoes, and answered by distant shouts. men. He had not leisure sufficient to reflect on the unequal contest in which he was about to engage ; for the hollow thundering sound of the horses' hoofs, announced the approach of several horseHe had no time to think. He could only feel that his mother was in danger, and crying for help. That she was in the power of a man with whom she had declared her life even would be perilled, (for he could not doubt that the cries came from her;) and he obeyed the impulse of native courage and warm affection, in seeking to save her. With a pale face, notwithstanding the strong muscular exertions he had so lately made in descending the Bärengang-a mouth firmly closed, and a brow sternly contracted-he stood half concealed by the surrounding trees, still and determined; and as the first horseman came up considerably in advance of two others who followed, he sprang forth. With desperate courage and a strong arm, he seized the bridle rein and bore the startled horse back on its haunches, parried the blow of De Sablons' sword-for it was indeed he—with his only weapon, the long hunting knife he had drawn from his belt, and buried it to the handle in the horse's side. The poor animal made one mighty bound forward, striking down Herman, and fell dead on the ground beside him. Not much hurt and still animated by the daring energy which had urged him to the struggle, he was instantly on his legs again. Wildly shouting for help, he raised his mother from the body of the dead horse, near which lay De Sablons, one of his legs entangled in the stirrup-leather which had twisted round it. With a fierce oath he severed it with his sword, and arose. The two other horsemen were by this time up, and Durochet, the foremost, shouting to the other who had thrown himself from his horse and seized the countess, whom Herman was compelled to abandon, by the fierce attack of De Sablons. "Fling her up! Fling her up!" shouted Durochet. The unhappy lady was rudely thrown into his arms, and he prepared to fly, while Herman and De Sablons were engaged in a deadly and most unequal conflict, the result of which was not long doubtful. The son lay bleeding on the earth, and the mother's fate appeared to be decided, when a wild and ringing cry arose, heard simultaneously from many points: loud shouts announced help at hand. Hunters, foresters, and wood-rangers, armed with axes, spears, and hunting-knives, bounding forward from every side, surrounded the place, closing in with bold and resolute faces. The game was up! The lady was rescued by her people. De Sablons and his companions fled. The wounds Herman had received were not found to be dangerous ones, and he soon recovered; but the tranquillity of the family, so fearfully broken up, was not speedily restored. They lived now in the constant fear of some fresh attempt on the part of De Sablons, to seize the person of his imprudent and unhappy wife, who found herself compelled to submit to a sort of imprisonment which was irksome to her. She dared no longer visit and chat with her humble dependants in their cottages, as she had been in the habit of doing, without previously giving notice, that a strong escort might be ready to attend her; and a vigilant watch was kept up round the castle. Many times were the guardians of her liberty put on the qui vire, and their activity roused by reports of ambuscades: and every stranger who appeared in the neighbourhood was subjected to a rigid examination. At length they were relieved from this wearying and ceaseless worry, by the intelligence that De Sablons and his companions had quitted the country. Cautiously they listened to tidings so agreeable, and not till they had ascertained, as they believed, its truth, did their vigilance relax. The servants, the luggage, the Chevalier and his friends, were all traced to a place far distant, and the family of Felsenberg once more rejoiced in a fancied security. Alas! they little knew the wily foe they had to contend with. The winter had now set in. A sharp, clear, cold atmosphere stripped the last leaves from the trees, and covered the ponds and lakes with ice. Skating had superseded hunting. It was a favourite amusement with Herman, and he rejoiced at sight of the frozen surface of the waters. One fine morning he had risen with the sun and repaired to a somewhat distant lake; scarcely had he reached it, when he was followed by a messenger with evil tidings. The Gräfin had disappeared. Esther, on going to her room early, as had been her custom, found it vacant, the bed tumbled, the bed-clothes on the floor, and every thing in confusion. The window of an adjoining cabinet which looked on the moat was found open, the iron bars which defended it having been removed. Doubtless through this opening she had been carried off. Herman and a number of the men-servants were soon mounted, and scouring the country in every direction, but in vain. In vain they questioned every one at all likely to give information by which she might be traced. The only intelligence they could obtain was from a Kohl-brenner (charcoal burner) whose hut stood on the outskirts of the forest. He said that a little after midnight, he had been airing the coal mounds, when he was accosted by a stranger, who inquired if there was not a short road to Schneidersheim; he said there was, and going with him to show him the way, he saw him join two other persons, one of whom was enveloped in a large cloak, and appeared to be forced forward unwil lingly, and compelled to advance. At Schneidersheim they could obtain no tidings, and after a long and useless tour they returned home, without even a hope to cheer them. The next day-the second-third-all passed in the same restless, anxious, persevering search. Poor Herman, harassed and worn with such unremitting toil, was nevertheless never easy during the short intervals which were absolutely necessary for food and repose. The moment he sat down, the idea of his unhappy mother in the | At length she continued her narrative. search. More than a week had passed in this perplexity, and Herman had again returned from a fruitless expedition, and heard that no news had arrived. Worn down with fatigue, spiritless and exhausted, he threw himself on a seat and burst into tears. The strong and courageous young man was wholly subdued. He sat and wept like a woman. Women weep easily. It is often a great relief to them. But tears are not lightly wrung from a man. It is terrible to see tears flowing down a man's face. Gertrude and Blanche who were present, felt it so; they crept to his side, anxious to console him. Gertrude threw her arms round his neck, and mingled her tears with his; and Blanche, cold and shy as she had been for some time past, stood leaning over him with a look of grief and affection. After a time they became more calm, and sat down to talk over the efforts which had been already made, and to form fresh plans for the future. "This is the ninth day since she was carried off," said Blanche. A mournful silence succeeded this observation. The sun had set, and the evening was fast closing in, as they remained in melancholy rumination, when some one entered the room and closed the door. It was too dark to see who it was, but a voice uttered a few faint sounds that electrified the whole party. It was the voice of Lady Felsenberg. Herman sprang from his seat with renewed vigour, but trembling with joy. He placed her on a seat and stood before her; while the two girls knelt joyfully beside her, eagerly questioning the poor, weary, and exhausted lady, who was sinking with hunger and fatigue. "Give me food," she said; "I have had none since yesterday." Wine and food restored her strength, and she told her short tale to her anxious and rejoicing audience. But when lights were brought in, they saw with grief that she was very pale and much emaciated. Her face had a worn and withered look. Short as her absence had been, it seemed to have done the work of years. me. "On the Friday night," she said, "Esther had scarcely quitted the room, and I had lain down in my bed and was sinking to sleep, when I was roused by a slight noise of something moving near I sat up and listened, but all was still. I believed I had been mistaken, and being weary I was soon in a profound slumber. From this I was again aroused by a sense of suffocation. Some one had placed a bandage over my mouth and was in the act of fastening it. It was De Sablons. He commanded me to get up and dress myself. I resisted, and although I could not speak, I hoped to be able to make noise enough to awaken Esther." With a heavy sigh she said, "It is a hateful subject! and sometimes I wish, Herman, I had taken your advice and tried a compromise, instead of defying him." Again she stopped, but in a moment after added, vehemently, "No! no! He is a wretch ! a wretch! nothing could bind him." She then went on more calmly. "When I resisted, he uttered a few words in a low voice, which seemed to curdle my blood. I submitted. He wrapped me in a thick cloak, and lowered me from the window of an adjoining chamber from which he had previously found means to remove the bars. He let me down into the arms of Durochet, that wretched tool of a more daring villain! We crossed the frozen moat and passed the postern, of which he had a key; and for some hours of that night I was sometimes carried and sometimes dragged, or driven forward, till at length we entered a building, and ascended a flight of steps. "When the stifling garments were removed which enveloped my head, I found I was in a lofty square chamber, with green and mouldering walls, a rotten and worm-eaten floor. It was lighted by windows far too high to allow a possibility of reaching them. I was soon informed for what purpose I had been conveyed there. It was announced to me that this ruined building was to be my prison, and my grave, unless I released myself by acknowledging De Sablons as my husband. They fed me on bread and water. That I heeded not. I could have laughed at that. But the villains found means to inflict mental tortures on me that were hard to bear. They knew on what point I was most vulnerable. The cowards struck at me through my children. Their threats, their fatal predictions were directed towards Gertrude, Blanche, and, above all, to Herman. They menaced me too with horrible indignities: but I will not dwell on these sad hours. A merciful Providence defeated their plans, and sent me a release when I least expected it. I know not even now whether my escape was the result of accident or design; but, on the eighth day of my captivity, the sun had set, and I had no light, when my attention was attracted by a slight noise at the door of the room. Absorbed in mournful thoughts, at first I did not heed it; but it became louder and was repeated at intervals, and I arose from my seat and listened. creaking sound ceased, and I thought it must have been the wind, which you know was high last night, that had shaken the door: but as I approached it, a puff of cold air blew in my face, that astonished me, for I felt assured it must be open. It was so. The "I looked out and listened, but neither saw nor heard any one. It was quite dark, and the cold wind was sweeping round the old building. I descended the stairs and crossed a court-yard. No one was visible; I passed through an opening The countess paused. Her countenance pain- in the wall and found I was in the open country. fully expressed the mingled feelings of disgust and Dark as it was, I was afraid to proceed, but still indignation with which she recalled the outrage more afraid of being dragged back to the gloomy and indignities, to which she had been subjected. I chamber: I therefore crept cautiously on. I heard a dog bark at some distance, and directed my course towards the sound. At length I came to a place that appeared to be a rick-yard, with a quantity of loose straw lying at the foot of a stack. Here I passed the night wrapped up in the cloak in which I had been carried off. Spite of this covering, I suffered much from the cold, and still more from anxiety lest I should be discovered by my enemies. "As soon as the day dawned, I crept cautiously out, and looked round. To my great joy I found I was not more than two leagues from Staubeck, and yet I have occupied the whole day in getting home. I was obliged to make a long round, not daring to come by the direct road, lest I should fall in with the wretches who were doubtless in search of me. I am strongly inclined to believe I owe my liberty to the young man who supplied my food in the absence of my other jailors; for more than once I caught his eye fixed on me with, I thought, a look of pity, which half induced me to try and gain him over to my interest." (To be continued.) IMAGINATION pictured A solitary man A VISION OF SOLITUDE. Though high in his unsocial heart He seem'd kept from his kind apart, Beneath such full-blown sails as press Who sat in his lone chamber, For having lived so long alone; There came no other answer Will sometimes utter, from the mounds "Let others live for others, O'er the abyss thy thought shall fix That shall not crumble like the bricks But, when the storm has rived the oak, "While others vainly labour Thus man becomes a worm that crawls From digging pits and rearing piles To turn aside, at last, and die " Unsoothed by any smiles. Were there not some remaining Bearing the weight of wisdom's head More wretched than the toiling slave "Well you might be unhappy In this so lovely world! But paramount are peace and hope Still, even here, true Love alone Can more than compensate Distress |