Sir Henry entertained not the least doubt of its being Ferrand who had taken Louise; nor, from his general character, but that he would endeavour to retain her, though in open defiance to the Governor's command. That he was devoid of principle or honour, he had given an indubitable proof, in his intended assassination of Harland; nor would the affair, Sir Henry apprehended, yet end without an effusion of blood. The courage of Sir Henry was cool but constant: an injury offered to himself, the benevolence of his disposition would induce him rather to pardon than resent; but this outrage to a sister he sincerely loved affected him more keenly; and he determined, should Ferrand prove the aggressor, to hazard, or even lose his life, to effect her liberation. With his mind absorbed in a labyrinth of conjectures, and plans for his procedure, he arrived at the Governor's country residence, and, on inquiring for Ferrand, was shown into a library.

The East-Indian received him with a constrained civility; which, however, ceased on learning the purport of his visit: and, in answer to Sir Henry's demand, if his sister were there? he haughtily replied, he was not answerable to any one for his conduct, nor would he be questioned like a school-boy, or dictated to!

"It is not my intention, Sir," said Sir Henry loftily, "to dictate to you; for my question, if you refuse to answer it, your servants, I doubt not, will give the information I want: if not, I shall proceed to the executive part of my commission."

Ferrand bit his lip, and, stamping with passion, exclaimed, "What farther insults am I to receive? I have been rejected by a proud menial; my love contemned; insulted by a rival; reproved for my just vengeance, and treated as a prisoner!—and now—on what authority is the finger of suspicion pointed at me? Search the fleet; you may, perhaps, find her with some of her gallant countrymen!"

As he uttered the last sentence, he flung from the room, leaving Sir Henry to proceed as he should think proper. Sir Henry was not long in determining: he summoned the attendants, and, showing the Governor's order, demanded to be admitted into every apartment. But Louise was not to be found; and Sir Henry at last was persuaded she was not in the power of Ferrand. The suspicion too that she might have been torn away by some of the French officers who daily visited the Marchioness, added to his perplexity. Had Ferrand, he thought, been guilty, he would rather have braved the action; but, on the contrary, he appeared wholly actuated by rage at his restriction.

Uncertain how to act, or where to proceed to recover Louise, he returned to the Marchioness's, where the impatient Harland had unwillingly remained. His countenance told the success of his commission; and scarcely could his tongue confirm it, ere Harland exclaimed—"I knew it—I knew it! Fool that I was to yield to the command of an interested dotard, and idly lose the moments which may have teemed with danger to her. But I will find her, though hell and earth combine to hide her from me!"

He rushed out of the house, followed by Sir Henry, who asked which way he proposed to direct his course?—"The island is before me," answered Harland distractedly, "nor will I leave a single spot unsearched!"

Sir Henry mentioned the suspicion to which Ferrand had given rise, and proposed requesting of the Governor that an inquiry might be made through the fleets. Harland eagerly agreed to the measure; to which the Governor as readily consented. Commissioners were accordingly deputed to the several vessels, whilst Harland and Sir Henry, after vainly searching the town, directed their course to the surrounding plantations: but disappointment still attended them; the lovely fugitive was no where to be discovered, though the most liberal rewards were offered to those who could give intelligence respecting her.

For four days they continued their search, scarcely allowing themselves the rest and refreshment nature required, when, to add to their distress, they were informed the fleet was ready to sail, and only waited for a favourable wind.

"God of Heaven prevent it!" exclaimed Harland, "for if Louise be not found, I can sooner forfeit my commission, my honour, nay my life, than lose her! What can be done, Sir Henry? Which way can we go?"

"Chance, or rather Providence, George," answered Sir Henry dejectedly, "must direct us. Though the unfortunate girl I am afraid is too well secreted to be discovered by any means we can use."

"Drive me not mad, Sir Henry, by the supposition," said Harland; "rather encourage me with hopes, though delusive ones, than tear my heart by such a truth."

"Alas, Harland," answered Sir Henry, "I would encourage hope in you, but it is dead in my own bosom. Louise, I am afraid, is irrecoverably lost."

"I must not, will not lose her," cried the frantic Harland. "Ferrand, the villain Ferrand, too surely has her in his power! But I will instantly go to the grove, despite of his uncle's prohibition, and force the truth from him."

He turned into a path which conducted to the Governor's seat, and Sir Henry, after a moment's hesitation, followed him. "I will go with you, Harland," he said; "if Louise be secreted at the Grove, my assistance may be requisite; and the Governor, in that respect, I doubt not, will pardon our transgressing the bounds he has prescribed. If she be not, my presence will be equally necessary, as your passion may otherwise hurry you into too great excesses."

They were here interrupted by the appearance of a skirmish in an adjoining enclosure; and, on their nearer approach, beheld an old negro defending himself with a stake against four others who were armed. The odds were too great to demand a moment's hesitation how to act: they hastened to his rescue, and, after a slight contest, compelled their opponents to retreat. Sir Henry then directed his attention to the old man, who had fallen to the ground apparently lifeless.

"The poor wretch, I believe, is dying," said Harland, as he assisted Sir Henry to raise him, "and here no assistance can be had." Sir Henry supported him against his knee. The negro faintly opened his eyes, and regarded them with a wild surprise, which, as recollection returned, gradually settled to a look of stern ferocity.

"How can we remove him?" said Sir Henry, "To leave him thus is impossible."

"To take him with us is equally impossible," answered Harland, impatiently, "and the day, Corbet, wears apace."

"Yet cannot I leave him to perish," said Sir Henry. "Try, my good fellow, if you can walk or stand."

"Let me die where I am," answered the negro sullenly.

"Leave him—leave him, Sir Henry," exclaimed Harland; "Louise is of more consequence than a worthless runaway slave, for such I am certain he is; and to her, I think, a brother's hand ought to be extended."

"And shall be, Harland," said Sir Henry, with emotion. "Yet, as a man, is this slave my brother, and to him shall my hand be extended also. I feel the weight of his afflictions, the misery of his life passed in slavery; and, with him, could curse the hand that first forged chains for a fellow-creature!—A few minutes, and he may be better; and we will then prosecute our search for my unfortunate Louise."

During this speech the old negro had raised himself from the knee of Sir Henry, and grasped his arm, with that anxious confidence the unhappy only can feel when relieved by the hand of benevolence; each word struck as a chord on his heart, and told him he was supported by a friend.—"Seek you Louise de St. Ursule?" he hesitatingly asked. The quick ear of Harland caught the sound, and, springing toward him, he demanded if he knew aught of Louise? "I do," answered the slave, with reserve, "and if this European seek her, will direct him to her."

"Tell me this instant," said Harland; "on your life I charge you!"

"You may take it, if you please," said the negro coolly, "and afterward find her if you can. I am a slave, and, as you said, a runaway! If I discover the European woman to you, in return, perhaps, you would deliver me to a merciless master, to expire beneath the whip."

Harland deserved not the supposition; cruelty formed no part of his character, though truly the child of pride. Unused to entreat, he had demanded the information he would not have regretted half his fortune to have obtained. The answer of the slave stung him to the heart; and, though Louise was at stake, he would have retorted with the wildest acrimony, had not Sir Henry prevented him, by saying to the slave—"If you be the means of restoring Louise to us, I promise to procure your pardon, if the interest of the Governor can effect it; and your liberty, if your owner will dispose of you."

The slave half rose, looked wistfully in the face of Sir Henry: the name of liberty sounded sweetly on his ear, and made his heart beat with unwonted velocity. Yet a momentary doubt shot across his brain. Mankind had ever been his enemy; could he then give credit to the flattering promise?—The countenance of Sir Henry beamed with philanthropy and truth; suspicion vanished; and, rising from the ground, he cried—"I will believe you.—Pursue the path you are in, and I will conduct you to her."

"You forget your late accident," said Sir Henry; "let me assist you."

"I am, I believe," said the old man, "more capable of walking than you. Slavery has inured me to fatigue. Neither am I materially hurt. I was exhausted when you came to my assistance, and stunned by the last blow I received. But your timely interposition saved my life, and freely now shall you command it."

He conducted them, by private paths, to a plantation near Ferrand Grove; in which, after some time, he pointed out a small cottage, so concealed by the foliage that it might have escaped the eyes of a casual observer.—"I can proceed no farther," he said, "without danger of being seen and retaken, which would inevitably bring me to a merciless death. There is the cottage I yester-evening fled from; and there is Louise de St. Ursule confined."

Harland heard no more, but rushed through a gateway which opened to the cottage. The soft voice of Louise, broken by a plaintive sob, reached his ear; and, a moment after, that of Ferrand, speaking in a threatening tone. With a resistless force, the maddened effort of the moment, he burst the door, and the next instant brought him to the presence of Louise and his rival.

Ferrand started at the unexpected apparition, but drew his sword, perceiving the point of Harland's already at his breast; whilst Louise, with a scream of mingled joy and terror, attempted to throw herself into the protecting arms of her lover; but was withheld by one of Ferrand's attendants, who, recalling to mind his master's assailant, endeavoured to force her to the interior part of the cottage. In this he was prevented by Sir Henry, who had followed Harland, and who now sprung to the rescue of his sister. A few minutes would have decided the conflict in favour of the adventurers, but the domestics, alarmed by the tumult and the screams of Louise, hastened to the assistance of their master. They were, therefore, obliged to act on the defensive; and, to add to their distress, Louise, after vainly struggling for emancipation, sunk senseless at the feet of Ferrand. Another moment and she had been torn from their sight; when Ferrand, thrown off his guard by her fall, received a wound from Harland: he staggered—and the servant, who was raising the fair cause of the contention, extended his arm to save his master. It was a moment granted by fortune. Quick as lightning Sir Henry tore her from him, and, defended by Harland, conveyed her out of the cottage. By the time they had passed the gate, Ferrand, however, was sufficiently recovered to order the servants, who had officiously attended to him, to pursue them, and force Louise back. They hastened to execute his commands, but the narrowness of the path prevented their passing to impede the flight of the fugitives. The sword of Harland was opposed to those who first presented themselves; but fearing they would force their way through the underwood, and thus surround them, he hastily bade Sir Henry—save Louise! Sir Henry, accordingly, after an anxious but vain look for the old negro, and desiring the Lieutenant to follow him, entered the nearly trackless path by which they had been conducted to the cottage.

Louise soon revived; and, after a few incoherent exclamations of joy, and thankfulness at her deliverance, anxiously inquired after Harland. "I hope in a few minutes he will join us," answered Sir Henry. But scarcely were the words pronounced when they heard a violent tumult, and immediately after distinguished the voice of Ferrand, commanding his people to pursue Louise. His anxiety for George was instantly absorbed in apprehension for the safety of his sister, and, supporting her on his arm, they again fled.

Night soon concealed them from farther danger, and the hapless Harland retook possession of their imaginations. The timid Louise, with tearful eyes, endeavoured to pierce through the gloom, or entreated Sir Henry to stop and listen if perchance his distant footfall, or voice, could be heard. But all was silent—and busy fancy quickly portrayed him as sinking beneath the vengeance of his furious rival. Sir Henry's thoughts did not present a more cheerful picture; he entertained not a doubt but Ferrand had overpowered the Lieutenant; and an idea of assassination presented itself to his imagination, which the ferocious character of the East-Indian but too justly authorised. Could he have left Louise, he would instantly have retraced his way to the cottage, but no friendly roof presented itself which might have afforded shelter for the lovely maid; he had therefore no alternative but to proceed, though every nerve trembling with anxiety to return and aid the unfortunate Lieutenant.

It was nearly the hour of midnight when they arrived at the Marchioness's, where Louise had again the satisfaction of being folded to the bosom of her generous benefactress. An inquiry after Harland followed the embrace. The tears of Louise informed her some accident had happened; and, on her applying to Sir Henry for an explanation, he gave a concise relation of the evening's adventures; at the same time declaring his intention of instantly returning. The Marchioness could not oppose his determination, but applied herself to console Louise, who appeared nearly overpowered by her emotions.

Sir Henry advanced to her, and tenderly taking her hand—"Indulge not this immoderate grief, my dear girl, which can only add to our present distress. Summon your fortitude. George may be wounded—he may be overpowered; or, which is most probable, he may have missed his way in the plantations. I yesterday, my dear girl, despaired of ever beholding you again; yet, when least expected, Providence conducted us to you. Hope, then, for the best. I will proceed, with the utmost expedition, to his assistance, if he need it: and if our fears are prophetic—but you must not indulge the idea.—Harland shall live, and live to bless my Louise!"

The enthusiasm with which Sir Henry pronounced the last sentence, imparted a hope to the heart of Louise, he dared not himself indulge. She faintly smiled through her tears: Sir Henry again repeated—"Hope for the best!" and was hastening out of the room, when a loud peal at the outward door arrested his steps, and, the minute after, Harland, with breathless impatience, rushed into the room, followed by the old Negro.

"My dearest, loveliest girl!" he exclaimed, clasping the delighted Louise to his bosom; "am I again so blessed as to behold you?—Nor will I part from you again, my Louise, till the Church's sanction has placed it beyond the power of aught but death to separate us!"

"But you are wounded, Harland," said the Marchioness anxiously; "let me procure you some assistance."

Harland, indeed, had forgotten his wounds, and the joy Louise at first experienced on seeing him, prevented her observing his pallid countenance, or the blood which had stained his clothes. She now with trembling lips joined in the Marchioness's request, that a surgeon might be sent for. Harland complied,—"though the hurts I have received," he continued, "are not such as to require a moment's consideration. But the dastardly villain, Sir Henry, who inflicted them, shall yet feel the power of my arm!"

The last words were uttered with a vehemence which declared Ferrand not only the man alluded to, but that he had been guilty of some atrocity they were as yet unacquainted with.

"Ah, Harland!" sighed Louise, "if you have any regard for my peace, resign all thoughts of revenge, in which perhaps yourself, not Ferrand, might become the victim!"

"In every other circumstance of my life," said Harland, "Louise shall be my monitor; but I cannot tamely pass by the injuries I have received. To Sir Henry I am indebted for your preservation—to yonder slave for my own!—Not two hours since he saved me from the assassin's hand!"

The countenance of Louise assumed a paler hue at this relation.—"Yonder slave!" she faintly repeated.—"It is the villain who forced me to the cottage of Ferrand."

The old slave, who had hitherto remained near the door, now advanced:—"I am, it is true, Madam," he said, "the man who, by the commands of an imperious master, took you from your friends: yet am I not deserving the name of villain! The slave—but not the man, was guilty of the action!—By preserving you from dishonour, I incurred the usage which drove me a naked fugitive from my ancient home. These Europeans saved me from a cruel death, and promised the richest reward a wretched slave could receive, if I would conduct them to you. I did more—and let the action prove a Negro's soul to be susceptible of gratitude!"

Louise blushed her recantation of the sentiments she had entertained respecting the slave. "You have raised my curiosity," said the Marchioness, "to the highest degree: but as I am certain my Louise, and you, my young friends, are greatly in need of repose; I will repress it till the morning, when I shall expect to have it gratified by an ample relation of every incident."

Louise thankfully acceded to the Marchioness's proposal of retiring, and again took possession of her former apartment; whither one of the Marchioness's daughters accompanied her, that no farther attempt might be made, without the knowledge of the family or the means of assistance. Harland likewise, after a surgeon had attended him, retired, as did Sir Henry, to the apartments which had been prepared for them, and where repose, the sweetest they had long experienced, rewarded them for the toils and anxieties of the day.

It was late in the morning when they assembled at the breakfast-table; where the Captain and Frederick, having been previously informed of the successful termination of Sir Henry and Harland's search, attended them. Mutual compliments and congratulations passed, and after breakfast the Marchioness reminded them of the last night's arrangement, and Louise began her relation, as follows:

"I had not, my dear Madam, retired many minutes to my apartment, on the night I was forced away, when Rachel, (who has chiefly attended on me since our arrival in St. Helena) after apologizing for the liberty she was going to take, with a well-counterfeited appearance of concern, began to relate a tale of a distressed family, highly deserving, she said, of compassion and relief, who wished to apply for your beneficence, but wanted a friend to speak for them: and, knowing my influence, she had given her word, she said, to ask my assistance.

"I inquired more particularly into the nature of their distress; and she so insensibly engaged my attention by her interesting but artful tale, that the time passed unheeded till long after the usual hour of repose. I was first recalled to a sense of my improper conduct, by a light footstep on the outside of my apartment. Unsuspicious of danger, I was hastening to see who it was, and to apologize, if by my heedlessness I had disturbed any part of the family; when two men entered the room, and before I could call for help, Rachel threw a handkerchief over my head, which she tied so securely across my mouth, that the power of speech was entirely prevented. My struggles were equally inefficacious: my hands and feet were bound, and I was then carried silently down the stairs, and conveyed to the cottage of Ferrand; where freeing me from my bonds, they left me to reflections painful in the highest degree. The idea that they designed to murder me, which had taken possession of my mind on our first entrance into the plantation, then gave place to fears far better founded, and I dreaded the moment which would bring Ferrand to my sight.

"An old female soon attended, to show me to a chamber: I endeavoured to interest her in my favour, and to prevail on her to aid me in returning to my friends. But she heard me with indifference, spoke in praise of Ferrand, who, she said, would visit me in the evening, and, advising me to seek repose, again left me. Thankful, and somewhat easier by hearing Ferrand was not under the same roof with me, I determined to take advantage of the respite allowed, and if possible effect my escape. I hastened to the window—it was secured by strong iron bars, and the door had been locked and bolted on the outside by my female gaoler. Disappointed in the faint hope I entertained of liberty, I yielded to a momentary despair, and, bursting into tears, threw myself on the bed. Reflection, however, soon showed me the inutility of my grief: many hours were to pass before Ferrand would come to the cottage; I therefore endeavoured to calm my agitation, that I might, if possible, meet him with firmness and resolution. Then again I dreaded the uncontrolled licence of his passions, or that Harland or my brother, learning who had taken me away, might be involved in a quarrel, which would terminate in the loss of their lives.

"It was noon when my attendant entered with refreshments; and a smile, I thought truly demoniacal, played on her features as she again launched out in praise of her master, and the happy life I might lead if I were but compliant with his wishes. I listened to her in silence, as my spirits were too dejected to permit my answering her; and she left me, I believe highly satisfied with her own eloquence. The afternoon passed comfortless; evening arrived; and I was forced from reflections on a more deserving lover, to the presence of Ferrand. He accosted me with an exultation and assurance that implied he thought the conquest over me completely gained, by the success of his stratagem: he did not, therefore, patiently listen to my reproaches and animadversions on his conduct; but, after a violent paroxysm of passion, reminded me he was then the master of my fate. He was willing, he said, to join his destiny with mine by a lawful union; but, if I rejected his offer, I must answer to myself for any measures he might pursue. I could not conceal the terror occasioned by this declaration; the courage I at first exerted forsook me, and tears and entreaties were my only defence. The next day, and the next, passed with little variation; Ferrand sometimes strove to soothe, but more often to terrify me to compliance. The third evening a violent bustle in the lower rooms raised my hopes that my brother and Harland had gained intelligence of my prison, and were come to my deliverance. With a throbbing heart I listened to catch the welcome sound of their voices; but the tumult gradually ceased; all became quiet; and I was obliged to resign myself to a state rendered more horrid by the short-lived but sanguine hope I had indulged of liberation.

"I did not see Ferrand again till late the next day; when he informed me the fleets had sailed, and that Harland and my friends had left the island. I cannot attempt to describe the agony of mind I endured on receiving this intelligence. He renewed his offer of immediate marriage, but I turned from him with horror. My sorrow renewed his anger; he repeated his threats—declared he would grant me only till the morning to determine whether I would accept his honourable proposal, or submit to a state of infamy; and was proceeding in his invectives, when the door was burst from its hinges, and the entrance of my Harland and Sir Henry proved the falsity of Ferrand's report, and changed my sorrow to joy."

Louise ceased speaking, and Harland, who had with difficulty restrained his impatience during the latter part of her relation, exclaimed—"And think you, my Louise, I will not chastise the villain for his conduct?—I should be undeserving the affection you have honoured me with to let it pass unpunished!"

The Marchioness smiled.—"At present, Harland, we will think of your marriage with Louise. You have sufficiently proved your knight-errantry by her rescue: and as for Ferrand, I think he is punished enough, in the loss of his mistress, for the steps he took to obtain her. Had you, my young friend, been the rejected lover, I do not think your passions would have been more under control than his have been."

Harland looked confused. The Captain returned the Marchioness's smile. "Harland, I believe, Madam, feels the force of the words you have uttered: and let their plain truth, George, recommend them to your consideration. Your character for courage has been long established: but that courage, if it lead you to revenge, degenerates to assassination; nor could I then regard you in a more respectable light than the hired Bravo! Too much blood has already been shed. Leave Ferrand then to the dictate of his own conscience for what he has done, and yield to the happiness which awaits you. Our stay here may be limited to a few hours, and it is highly necessary your union with Mademoiselle St. Ursule should take place before we part with the Marchioness."

The latter part of this speech reconciled George to its preceding reproof; and he earnestly entreated the marriage might take place that very evening.

"To-morrow morning it shall," said the Marchioness; "but some little preparation is necessary: our worthy friend the Governor is not yet acquainted with our Louise's return: and one piece of justice yet remains to be performed: Rachel ought not, nor shall she escape punishment, for her assistance toward the destruction of Louise."

The lovely girl here interceded for the guilty Rachel; who, she said, had certainly been bribed by Ferrand to the action. "That very consideration," the Marchioness replied, "added to her guilt; as it proved her ingratitude to a generous mistress." And as Sir Henry and his friends sided with the Marchioness, Louise was obliged to submit.

Rachel was therefore ordered to appear; but, after repeated summonses, was declared to have absconded! On the return of Louise she indeed became certain the part she had taken in betraying her to Ferrand must be discovered; and, to avoid punishment, she secretly conveyed her clothes to the house of a friend, and early in the morning departed for the cottage. The Marchioness was therefore necessitated to leave her punishment to the future vigilance and justice of the Governor; to whom a servant was dispatched to acquaint him with Sir Henry and Harland's success: and composure being once more restored, that lady reminded Harland his evening adventures were yet to be related. George bowed, and immediately began:

"I guarded the pass from the cottage, my dear Madam, till my Louise was out of sight; when I endeavoured also to retreat, and should have succeeded, had not Ferrand (recovered from the effects of our late rencounter) come from the cottage. Perceiving my sweet girl was escaped, he turned the effects of his rage against me, who did not patiently receive the onset; and a far more furious contest than the former commenced. Blinded by rage against my principal adversary, I too much disregarded the number and power of his servants, who then found means to surround me, and treacherously assailed me behind. In consequence of this I was overpowered and dragged to the ground. 'Secure him!' was all Ferrand uttered, as he darted past me, with some of his servants, to pursue Sir Henry. His orders, however, were punctually obeyed by those who remained, and I was in an instant effectually secured.

"You, my friends, who so well know my irritable temper, may judge of my rage at the restriction and indignity I endured. The only power I retained was that of speech, and I vented my passion in vain defiance and imprecations against Ferrand. After some time I was carried into the cottage; and thence again removed to a rude cave or grot in a retired part of the plantation: a place apparently formed for murder and the blackest deeds; and where I was left on a few rushes to exhaust the residue of my rage.

"Some time elapsed, when Ferrand presented himself, with a light in one hand, his sword in the other; fury and madness were depicted in his countenance, and reflected with additional force by the red glare of the torch.

"'You—scoundrel, at least, have not escaped me!' he vociferated as he advanced, 'and shall now pay for the slights and indignities I have endured! For you, Louise rejected me; and has placed a serpent in my heart: but some of its stings shall yet reach her in the person of her minion!'

"My satisfaction at the certainty of Louise's escape, was absorbed in returning fury at this address. I struggled to shake off my fetters; demanded to be free; and that our pretensions might be ultimately decided by the sword!

"'They shall be!' he repeated with increased vehemence. His hand was raised to plunge his sword into my bosom, when the old slave darted from the entrance, and, before its point could reach me, arrested his arm! A scuffle ensued: but Ferrand was by no means able to contend with his slave; who soon wrested the sword from him.—

"'Villain! Degenerate wretch!' he exclaimed, nearly choked with rage, 'thy life shall answer for this interference!'

"'My life!' repeated the old man, grasping him firmly by the collar and shaking him. 'Thine is now completely in my power!—and here may I revenge the blows, the usage, thou hast unjustly dealt me: but I scorn to embrue my hands in thy blood. Begone!—and thank the mercy of thy slave, thou art not now grovelling in the dust!'

"He cast him to the entrance, and Ferrand, who had shrunk with terror when in the hands of the stern negro, hastened toward the cottage, calling for help, and vociferating the names of his servants. The old man snatched up the torch, which lay burning on the ground, and, placing it in the earth, hastily applied himself to extricate me from the fetters with which I had been loaded. Fully sensible of the inevitable death he had preserved me from, I endeavoured to express the gratitude which swelled in my heart, and promised not only to join with Sir Henry in procuring his liberty, but to add such a recompense as should evince my sense of the obligation I owed him.

"'To Sir Henry, and the European woman,' he replied, 'you are indebted for your preservation. From what I over-heard, I learned you were the friend of one, the destined husband of the other: and, for their sakes, was I coming to liberate you, when the haughty Ferrand passed me: and let the danger you have been in teach you this lesson—never to scorn a fellow-creature, or despise his afflictions, because he is beneath you. The lowest weed you carelessly trample on, is not without its virtues; and is equally the work of the Creator as the loftiest pine of the forest. As men, we all are equal: nor are the circumstances of life so certain, but the monarch may be indebted for his existence to the hand of a slave!' He raised me from the ground; and, as a sentiment of shame arose for the cause of this reproach, I accepted his proffered arm in silence, for my limbs were at first too benumbed to admit of my walking without assistance. The voice of Ferrand, directing his servants as he again approached the recess, informed us not a moment was to be lost; and my companion, dashing out the torch, with hasty steps conducted me into the plantation. By paths well known to himself, he guided me across the tangled wilderness to the high road, where he first broke silence, by informing me we were out of danger. We, however, continued our way with the utmost expedition, as my soul burned with impatience to be convinced that my beloved Louise was not only freed from the power of Ferrand, but that she was also safe under the protection of her amiable benefactress."

The comments on this account of Harland, were interrupted by the arrival of the Governor, who, after congratulating him on the recovery of Louise, likewise requested to be informed of the particulars respecting her disappearance and restoration. Louise and Harland therefore briefly recapitulated the foregoing events; Harland only enlarging on those circumstances wherein the old slave was concerned. The Governor listened with attention to their relations, and with visible concern and impatience to what had passed in the cave. When Harland concluded, he appeared for some moments absorbed in reflection, and then desired to see the slave. Sir Henry and Harland looked anxiously at each other, and would have interceded in behalf of the old man, but were prevented by his entrance; their apprehensions on his account, however, ceased, as the Governor said—

"So, Carlo—I find you have been a principal actor in the adventures of our European friends. You have undoubtedly acted right as a man, but not with the obedience and respect due from a slave to his owner. I am, however, so well pleased with the termination of this affair, I rather wish to reward than punish you. For your preservation of this gentleman, I therefore pardon your desertion: for your forbearance on the life of my Ferrand, I give you your liberty!"

"Liberty—liberty!" shouted the old man; "oh, bless my ears with a repetition of the word! Say again that I am free, and I will indeed believe you!"

"From this moment," repeated the Governor, "I declare you free; and these your friends are witnesses of that declaration."

Carlo sunk at the feet of his generous master; embraced his knees; and, whilst the tears of gratitude rolled down his cheeks, in broken accents breathed his thanks. The Governor appeared affected—

"At how easy a price," he cried, addressing the Captain, "might man, would he reflect, dispense happiness on a fellow-creature. I declare, till this moment I never felt the irresistible power of nature, or how nearly allied the free man was to the slave. Rise, Carlo; I will make it my business to provide for you in a manner more suitable to your deserts."

"That," said Harland, "shall be my care. The obligations I am under to Carlo, can never be repaid; but I will instantly assign over to him, property to the value of two thousand pounds, as an acknowledgment for the services he has rendered me, and as a peace-offering for the sentiments I once expressed; and if he will go with me to England, I will settle him to his satisfaction, either in a mercantile or agricultural situation."

Carlo rose from the feet of his late master, and grasping Harland's arm, said energetically—"I thank you!—my heart feels your bounty, but I cannot speak its sentiments. Not to England, however, do I wish to go. Give me half the wealth you have named, and let me return to Coromandel; the land where first I drew my breath; the land whence, ere fourteen revolving seasons had marked my life, I was basely torn from freedom, friends, and kindred!—but I beg your pardon; in this moment when my soul is overflowing with joy—with gratitude—I ought not to intrude a tale of misery, or vex your ears with woes which no longer exist."

"I have often, Carlo," said the Governor, "thought you superior to a common slave; but the duties of my situation, and my own more immediate concerns, prevented my ever questioning you on the subject; but as the late events have introduced you more particularly to our notice, these your friends, I doubt not, will excuse my inquiring by what accident you were forced into slavery?"

"Forced indeed!" ejaculated Carlo. "For till then I was gay and free as the breeze which lightly fanned my native groves.—I had one day, Sir, been with some of my youthful companions, laving my limbs in the expanded ocean, when a party of European sailors came to the spot where we were: they found us unarmed—an easy prey; and, seizing us in spite of resistance, forced us on board their vessel, and brought us to this island, where we were consigned to slavery! It is true, my chains for years were formed with flowers. The late Governor became my master; and when memory brought to mind the past, or painted the distraction of my parents for my loss—if I madly reprobated the hand that tore me from them, or sunk in despondence, wept, and sighed for liberty; he would deign to soothe my sorrows; on hearing my tale, he did more: he promised to restore me to my friends and country! But alas—grief for the loss of her offspring, had closed the number of my mother's days; my father sought his child, to redeem him—and perished in the search!

"My generous benefactor, on being informed of these events, declared he would in future supply the place of the parents I had lost; I should be the child of his adoption, and as such he would provide for me. I was accordingly instructed in those sciences by which Europeans claim superiority over ruder climes; and never had he cause to regret his beneficence. At his death, he said, I should be free and affluent; nay, would then have given me liberty, but that he feared to lose me. Ah! he knew not, that the strongest chains which can be forged, are those of gratitude and affection!

"His death happened too suddenly for him to fulfil his intentions in my favour; and his sordid relations, who had long regarded me with jealous envy, sold me with the rest of his slaves!

"Then indeed I first experienced the horrors of slavery: those who had courted my acquaintance in the days of prosperity, when it was no longer in my power to render them services, ceased to know me: my friendship was no longer sought—I was disregarded—forgotten! Till then, hope had cheered my days and shed her influence on my slumbers; she then deserted me—and each succeeding day was marked with misery!

"Many, indeed, have been my afflictions: nor do I count the loss of an humble, but faithful companion, who was rudely torn from my arms, the least I have endured. After twenty years absence, I was once more brought to St. Helena, and bought, my noble master, by you. But far different was I from what I had been in the days of my youth: affliction had gradually marked my brow with gloom, and deadened the milder virtues of my heart! I was appointed by you, to attend on your nephew; who—but he had never experienced woe; how then could he judge of that, he wantonly inflicted on others!

"By him I was commanded, with his favourite valet, to force Mademoiselle de St. Ursule to the cottage; which was easily effected with the assistance of Rachel. The sight of her, I could not but regard as a victim, rekindled a spark of pity in my bosom: that she disliked your nephew and loved another, I had discovered in his moments of passion; I thought of the wife who had been forced from me: a pang shot through my heart, and I wished if possible to save her: but Marguerite too well knew the duties of her office, to entrust the keys of her chamber in my possession.

"The offers of your nephew were rejected by that lady; and on the third day of her confinement, he vowed, by force or stratagem, to effect his purpose. The sibyl of his pleasures proposed drugs, which she accordingly prepared, and mixed in a beverage for the lovely prisoner. The indignation of my soul could then be no longer restrained. I dashed the vessel to the floor, and, forgetting I was his slave, reproved him for his ungenerous proceedings!

"What followed, I scarcely need relate: he struck me, and, summoning my fellow slaves, ordered me to be punished—even to death! But indignation gave me strength, I broke from them, and sought refuge among the rocks. My enraged master, as I yester-evening learned, joined himself in the fruitless pursuit, he ordered after me.

"The remembrance of the lady whom I wished to save, returned with the morning; I thought I might perhaps be able to effect her deliverance, or at least inform her friends where she was; and for that purpose was, toward the close of the day, retracing my steps to the plantation which surrounds the cottage, and where I thought I might lie concealed, when I was suddenly attacked by four of my late companions, and but for the assistance of these gentlemen, should there have resigned my being! They, however, preserved me, and with you, have this day restored me to life—to hope—to happiness! My faithful Mella bears her bonds in my native land, and thither would I return, that she too may be free; and with me hourly offer up her prayers for those, whose beneficence had unbound the chains of our slavery!"

"And you shall return, Carlo," said the Marchioness, "if I have any influence with these gentlemen. I am going to Pondicherry; and you shall return with me. The present of your generous young friend will be sufficient to establish you; and under the protection of my husband, the Governor, you yet may experience the happiness you so truly deserve."

The Governor and Harland readily agreed to the Marchioness's arrangement; and Carlo retired, anticipating with impatience the hour which would restore him to his native land, and his long-lost Mella.

The Governor soon after took his leave, as did the Captain, who, with Frederick and Sir Henry, returned on board: Harland only remaining at the Marchioness's.

At last the hour so ardently wished for arrived, which was to unite the lovely Louise to Harland. Sir Henry and his friends attended: the Governor likewise honoured the ceremony with his presence, and by his generous behaviour endeavoured to atone for his former restriction on George, which the well-known disposition of his nephew (who had shut himself up in gloomy discontent at the Grove) rendered highly necessary. A numerous company had been invited to pass the day at the Marchioness's, not only in honour of Louise's nuptials, but also as a farewell visit, the next day being appointed for their embarkation. The thoughts of separation, however, were superseded by the pleasure which prevailed, and animated every countenance.

In the course of the evening, Sir Henry, who by the friendship of the Captain had procured a draft on a merchant at Pondicherry, for a thousand pounds, sought Carlo, and, taking him into a private room, presented him with it, saying—"I must beg your acceptance, Carlo, of this mark of my friendship. I believe I possess a place in your esteem, and I wish you not to forget me. With part of this, procure the liberty of your Mella; and may the rest add to the comforts of your age."

"Forget you!" repeated Carlo emphatically. "Never, Sir Henry! You were the first who spoke peace to my wounded spirit.—Yes, from this I will indeed redeem my Mella; and her presence shall prove a perpetual memento of your friendship. A few hours, Sir Henry, and I shall behold you no more: here, then, take an old man's blessing; and may you experience happiness equal to that you have conferred on me!"

Sir Henry shook his hand, and Carlo, sinking on his knee, pressed that of his youthful benefactor to his bosom and his lips, and, repeating his blessing, hastily withdrew. Sir Henry then returned to the Captain; who soon after took his final leave of the amiable Marchioness and the Governor.

The next morning Sir Henry and Frederick attended to conduct Harland and his bride on board. The painful moment of separation was arrived: the Marchioness and her daughters endeavoured to appear cheerful and collected; but the respectful and affectionate behaviour of Louise had too much endeared her to them to permit them to part without regret; nor could the obtrusive tear be restrained.

"We may meet again, my dear girl!" said the Marchioness, as the signal-gun warned them to depart. Harland gently forced his Louise from the arms of her early friends, and, placing her in the barge, they were soon conveyed on board. The signal was given to weigh—Louise faintly murmured the name of her benefactress; who with her daughters still sighed a blessing and adieu, as the unfurled sails swelled with the breeze which conveyed them from the romantic cliffs of St. Helena.

The mind of Harland now enjoyed a serenity hitherto unknown; the mildness of Louise, the increasing knowledge of her virtues, whilst they added to his love, softened the harshness of his manners: and, from experiencing the sweets arising from beneficence, he was taught to regard the happiness of others, as conducive to his own.

It was one of those evenings when the serenity of the heavens shed its influence on mankind, and harmonized the mind to happiness, that the Captain, with his youthful companions, after long enjoying the tranquil beauties of the declining day, retired to his cabin. The careful mariner, freed for a time from toil, reclined in easy repose on the deck, or carrolled his humble ditty, as he watched the different vessels, of which he might be deemed in part the safeguard. A transient peace possessed every bosom: when Harland, after a considerable pause, addressing his Louise, said—"I have often designed, my dear girl, to request some account of the occurrences attending your childhood; of which I have hitherto had a very imperfect knowledge: the present moment is favourable for the relation, which I think would prove equally gratifying to Sir Henry and our friends."

"There is not any thing in the account, Harland," replied Louise, "to repay your attention in the hearing: a monastic life affords but little variety."—However, as Sir Henry and Frederick joined in the request, she without farther hesitation complied.

"Of the manner in which I was left at the gate of the Convent, you have already, Harland, been informed. I was found there in the morning by the portress, and by her carried to the mother St. Claire, the venerable Abbess. The meanness of my clothes by no means accorded with the valuable miniature tied round my neck; but rather tended, as the worthy Abbess said, to show that my parents were actuated by shame, not poverty. She, however, hesitated not a moment to take me in, and, after an ineffectual search to discover the authors of my being, determined to rear me, and dedicate my life me to the God who had placed me under her protection.

"I was accordingly given to the care of a lay sister, who faithfully discharged her trust; and as my infant mind expanded, the Abbess became each day more partial to me. The friendship of the mother St. Claire was followed by the real or pretended love of the other inmates of the Convent, and I was soon the avowed favourite of all.

"Amongst those, however, who evinced a sincere regard for me, was the sister Françoise; between whom, and the venerable Abbess, my early affection was divided. Under their more immediate care, I was instructed in every useful and ornamental branch of education; and their approbation and praise were the rewards of my diligence. Thus passed my earlier days, unclouded with a sorrow; sister Françoise and the Abbess were all the world to me, nor knew I of one beyond the walls of the Convent.

"The frequent visits, however, paid to the other children by their friends, could not but lead me, at length, to reflect on the difference of my lot. No father, no mother, ever inquired for me; and the first sigh that ever swelled my bosom, was for those relations, whom fate prohibited me from ever knowing."

A half-stifled sigh escaped Sir Henry; which was gently returned by Louise, who, after a moment's pause, again proceeded.

"Sister Françoise soon observed, and learned the cause of my dejection. 'You have no acknowledged parents, Louise,' she said; 'but I will be your mother, and you shall love me as a daughter.' She burst into tears; I kissed them off her cheek as she embraced me, and, pleased with the idea of mother, soon regained my cheerfulness. From that time, I became the nearly inseparable companion of sister Françoise: I addressed her by the name of mother, I believed her such, and fully did her tenderness authorise the title.

"It was not till I was fourteen, that mother St. Claire put into my possession the miniature found with me, and informed me of the circumstance which had placed me under her protection, and of her intentions that I should take the veil. The latter intelligence, repugnant as it was to my inclinations, affected me less than the knowledge of my orphan state. 'And is not sister Françoise then my mother?' I would have asked; but tears impeded my utterance; and, throwing my arms round the neck of St. Claire, I wept in silence. She tenderly embraced me; and when the violence of my grief was abated, exhorted me to resignation to the state that Providence had assigned me; and explained the reasons which rendered a life of seclusion necessary to one, who without friends could only look for infamy and destruction in the world.

"'Yet do not, dear mother,' I exclaimed, 'force me to be a nun—at least, not yet!'

"'Force you, my child!' repeated the venerable woman, 'never! Forced vows cannot be sincere; and sincere indeed ought those to be, which are offered to your God! You yet are young: but two years hence, if I be in existence, I hope to receive you at the altar. I have pointed out the dangers which would attend you, in a world you are a stranger to; you know the peaceful happiness, the security which reign within these walls: let both be the subject of your reflections; and too well am I assured of the sense, the goodness of heart my girl possesses, to doubt her cheerful acquiescence in the lot assigned her."

"Never before had my heart refused accordance to the sentiments or wishes of this my earliest friend; but the fascinating picture, the young Victoire, and Julie de Valois, (for three years my intimate companions) had often painted of the world, had first engaged my attention by its novelty, then taught me to wish for those pleasures, with which I thought it abounded. The world,—however, its gaieties—all were absorbed in the circumstance of my deserted infancy; and I left the worthy Abbess, overwhelmed with the only real sorrow I had ever known.

"Instead of going to my beloved mother, as I had hitherto termed her, I sought the gloomy solitude of the cloister; and was indulging in an unrestrained flow of tears, when the approach of two nuns caused me to retreat into an adjoining chapel. They seated themselves at the entrance, nor could I then have re-passed without discovery; which would have exposed me to a severe reproof from sister Brigide (one of them), for my intrusion into a place, sacred to the sisterhood. They, however, continued their discourse without the slightest suspicion of unhallowed ears, and I soon found sister Françoise was the subject of their conversation.

"'I, who have been an inmate here these six-and-thirty years,' said sister Brigide, 'am less regarded by the superannuated mother St. Claire; I may, however, one day be head of this convent; then woe betide some, whom I shall not name.'

"'How long is it since she took the veil?' asked the other, whom, by her voice I discovered to be a sister lately professed. 'Fourteen years,' answered Brigide: 'just after the Abbess's favourite Louise was left here; and much I mistake, if Françoise be not really her mother!'

"'Her great partiality to the child,' answered sister Marie, 'may certainly justify the suspicion.'

"'Suspicion'—repeated Brigide; 'I have proofs—facts, indubitable ones! I know more of sister Françoise than she thinks.'

"The curiosity of Marie thus raised, induced her to press Brigide to an explanation; whilst I scarcely respired lest a syllable of the important intelligence should escape me.

"'It is now about fifteen years,' said Brigide, 'since sister Françoise, then Mademoiselle de Colline, was a reigning belle; though, for my part, I never could discover the surprising beauty they say she possessed: being, however, the youngest daughter, she was designed for a monastic life; but was by nature more inclined to vows of love than religion. By her artful coquetries she at last fascinated a young Englishman who was on his travels, and who demanded her of her father in marriage. Monsieur de Colline refused him, he being an heretic; and the gallant apparently ceased his addresses; but after a lapse of some time, he was detected one morning by her father, descending from her chamber window. Justly enraged at the depravity of his daughter and the young fellow, Monsieur de Colline seized his pistols, and as the lover was scaling the garden-wall, a brace of bullets brought him to the earth!

"'Not satisfied with this victim to his injured honour, he hastened to the apartment of his daughter, taxed her with her crime, and was proceeding to tell her the vengeance he had taken, when the guilty wretch fell into fits, and was discovered to be in a state of pregnancy!

"'Her sisters, who before had been inclined to pity her, then abandoned her to the fury of her father; and happy had it been, if she had then expiated her sin by the loss of life; but an old servant, who had been privy to her amour, preserved her from the effects of his passion. She was, however, by his order, confined in an obscure part of the Chateau, and treated with the greatest rigour; but, instead of bewailing her fault, she only deplored the loss of her lover! There, with the assistance of her old confidant, she was delivered of an infant: its sex I never learned, or what became of it; but about that time Louise was found at the gates of the convent!'

"'Oh, a clear case—a clear case!' exclaimed sister Marie. 'But, with all the search they say St. Claire caused to be made for the parents, do not you think it strange these circumstances did not lead her to them?'

"'Not at all,' replied Brigide. 'The events I have related were transacted in too secret a manner to let suspicion even point a finger at the De Collines; nor do I believe there is another in the Convent, except the Abbess, who is acquainted with these particulars respecting her; nor should I have known them, but for the old confidant I mentioned; who, about five years since, became a lay sister, and died here. She too was very fond of Louise: and a few words she one day inadvertently uttered, raised my suspicion there was more concerning sister Françoise than I knew; and I determined never to rest till I had discovered what it was; and by a thousand questions, and indeed by pretending I was in the confidence of Françoise, I learned what I have now related.'—

"Sufficient indeed," interrupted Sir Henry, starting from his seat, and pacing the cabin, "to blast her character; but not to draw the tear of pity, the unhappy—injured Françoise deserved! Not even a convent, I find, can screen the unfortunate from malice and detraction!—But proceed, my dear Louise; I meant not to interrupt you."

"And did you, my brother," asked Louise, "ever before hear the misfortunes of Françoise?"

"I learned them from herself, Louise."

"From herself, Sir Henry! When did you know her?"

"Not till after you, my sister, left the convent. And here let me endeavour to do justice to her character. To the lover sister Brigide mentioned, Françoise, on her father's refusal, was privately united: and, by the assistance of the old servant, who witnessed their marriage, he was secretly admitted into the house. This intercourse had continued several months, when her father saw, and shot the unhappy husband; who was soon after found nearly lifeless, by some peasants, and by them conveyed to the house of a surgeon.

"In Monsieur de Colline's subsequent interview with Françoise, she avowed her marriage; but he either did not—or would not believe her. He caused her to be confined, and fearing, if she persisted in her declaration of marriage, he could not force her to take the veil; he not only informed her, her lover was dead, but, to further his purpose, that her infant likewise expired soon after its birth. By him it was indeed doomed to expiate, by its death, the supposed fault of its wretched mother: but Providence preserved it for a better fate.

"Françoise, however—her heart nearly broken by the double loss of her husband and child—gladly availed herself of the fate designed her, to escape the reproaches of her father, and the taunts of her sisters, and threw herself into the convent of St. Ursule; where she took the veil at the very time her husband, recovered of his wound, was searching the country to discover her: but Monsieur de Colline had taken his measures too effectually; and at last, supposing her dead, he returned to England. At the old man's death, however, the letters the unhappy Henry had addressed to Françoise, and to him, were discovered by his Confessor; as likewise the Monk who had married them; and as her husband was then living, a dispensation was obtained, and sister Françoise, freed from her vows, returned with my father to England."

"Your father! O God, my brother!" exclaimed Louise, clasping her hands. "Tell me, I entreat you, if Françoise de Colline was really my mother!"

Sir Henry appeared confused—distressed: but at last said—"Seek not, my dear girl, the knowledge which cannot add to your happiness, but would plunge me still deeper in the gulf of misery. Your mother lives: and you shall one day know her. The time, alas! will too soon arrive, when every midnight deed must be brought to light: but, till then—let not the hand of Louise level an unnecessary shaft at my bosom!"

Louise could urge no farther; her anxiety to be satisfied on this subject, yielded to the visible concern and agitation her question had occasioned Sir Henry. She sighed, and a pause ensued, from which they were relieved by the Captain requesting her to proceed in her narrative.

"Little more passed," continued Louise, "between sister Brigide and Marie, than what I have related. The latter mentioned the miniature found with me, as a proof that must instantly confirm the truth of Brigide's allegation; but Brigide ridiculed the idea. She had seen the miniature, she said, it was not of Françoise: but Monsieur de Colline and his daughter were both too cunning, she added, to leave any proof with me, which must discover them; the miniature was a trinket, by which if ever they chose to reclaim me, they could; but a ring or a seal would have answered the purpose equally the same.—They were here interrupted by the arrival of another nun, with whom they proceeded to the refectory; whilst I, freed from the danger of detection, hastened to the cell of sister Françoise, and, throwing myself into her arms, exclaimed—'I am—I am your child; oh, do not attempt to deceive me, but say that you are indeed my mother!'

"Sister Françoise was at first alarmed at the wildness of my address, but, on my relating the discoveries of the morning, her agitation far exceeded my own.—'No—no, Louise,' she sighed, 'you are not my child: would to heaven that you were: but I am indeed widowed—and childless!'

"She wrung her hands, and, bursting into tears, sunk on her humble couch. I mingled my tears with hers; I strove to soothe her; yet still urged my claim to maternal acknowledgment. She referred me to the miniature:—'The resemblance you bear to it, Louise,' she said, 'must convince you it was done for a parent; but no likeness can be traced in it to me. Cease then to wring my soul by forcing to remembrance, scenes long since passed. I love you, Louise; but utterly disclaim all kindred with your blood. Be satisfied then with my affection, nor ever again renew this subject to me or any one!'

"Thus prohibited, I forbore to speak, but sighed in secret over the mystery of my birth; my mind by degrees lost its serenity, and I was apprehended to be in a decline; when the Marchioness de Valois came to the Convent. The friendship of her lovely daughters had before introduced me to her notice; she regarded me with an eye of pity, and proposed my going with her to Montpellier. The worthy St. Claire readily consented; and taking an affectionate leave of her and sister Françoise, for the first time in my life, I re-passed the gates of the Convent.

"What were my sentiments of the various objects I beheld, I shall leave to your own conceptions; all indeed was wonder, joy, and amazement! The amiable Marchioness, pleased with my inquiries and remarks, pointed out and explained whatever she thought worthy my notice or regard. She did more: she traced the grief which oppressed me to its source, and wiped the tear of dejection from my cheek. She taught me to look forward with hope, and to rely with confidence on the wisdom of Providence, which, in its own time, would develope the mystery that distressed me. The friendship of this amiable woman, the paternal behaviour of the Marquis, who joined us at Montpellier, and the amusements of that celebrated place, to me so novel, soon restored my wonted cheerfulness and health; and, after an absence of three months, I returned to the Convent; where the increased infirmities of mother St. Claire, and a fever with which sister Françoise was seized, called forth all my tenderness and attention.

"They were repaid by the restoration of this mother of my affection, and the mild serenity of the venerable Abbess; who, unalarmed, awaited the hour of dissolution, with a smile of confidence and peace, that anticipated the reward of a life passed in piety and benevolence. Her fondness for me appeared daily to increase; but, to my great surprise and satisfaction, she no longer urged my taking the vows, or even expressed a wish for my engaging in a monastic life.

"Thus passed a twelvemonth, happy as those I had formerly known; when the Marchioness again came to the Convent, to take Victoire and Julie finally from under the care of St. Claire.

"It was then that she declared her intentions in my favour; to which St. Claire added—'For this reason, my child, I have long ceased importuning you to enter on your probation. You dislike the life of a nun, and, how much soever I wish for your society, I prefer your happiness and real advantage to my own gratification. Here you would be secure from the storms and cares of life; but, from what I have learned respecting sister Brigide, who will undoubtedly be my successor, you could hope for nothing more, save the peace arising from internal religion; and even that, the mother of a sisterhood has it in her power to disturb, though not to destroy. With me, you might experience the happiness a life of religion is calculated to afford; but see, my child,' and she turned a glass whose last sands were running out, 'my hour is nearly expired! To the Marchioness then I resign you.—Let the religion, the precepts I have inculcated, the example I have given you, prove the guides of your conduct.—Transfer the obedience you have shown me, to her; and may every happiness attend you!'

"Tears of affection and gratitude were my only answer; I could not speak, but, sinking at her feet, hid my face on her knees; the world I had sighed for, faded on my imagination before this instance of her love; and the thoughts of leaving her far outweighed the life of liberty she had awarded me.

"Orders, however, were given for my departure; nor did St. Claire provide for me as the orphan of her charity, but as the child of her tenderest regard. To the former marks of her munificence, she added many valuable presents. 'They will remind you of my lessons, Louise,' she said, 'even in the assemblies of the gay. I shall feel the loss of your attentions, but sister Françoise will supply your place; and remember, my child, whilst I have life, you shall be welcomed here with open arms!'

"All was soon prepared, and receiving her final blessing, with that of sister Françoise, I followed the Marchioness to her carriage.

"We proceeded to Paris, where a continued round of amusements for some time banished reflection, and the remembrance of the worthy St. Claire. Pleasure, however, at length lost its attractions, and only in the friendship of the Marchioness, and a few select families, I found that real satisfaction I had in vain expected in the more brilliant, but dissipated circles of the fashionable world.

"Twelve months had elapsed, since I quitted the Convent; I had repeatedly written to St. Claire and sister Françoise, but never received an answer: and as we were then going to the Marquis's country seat, the Marchioness consented that I should cross the country to Rennes. It was late in the evening when I arrived at the Convent; painfully anticipating the intelligence of St. Claire's death: there, instead of the benevolent mild old sister Marthe, who first succoured my helpless infancy, a lay sister I had never seen, attended the summons to the gate, and demanded my business?

"'Is mother St. Claire still living?' I tremulously asked.

"'She has been dead eleven months,' replied the portress; 'and mother St. Brigide is now the head of this Convent. If you wish to speak with her, send in your name and business, and I will endeavour to gain you admittance.'

"'Oh no,' I exclaimed—'not with her: but tell sister Françoise, her child—her Louise, wishes to see her.'

"'Louise—sister Françoise!' she repeated with a frown. 'There is no such sister within these walls.'

"'O God!' I cried. 'Is she too dead?'

"'I have positive orders,' said the portress, 'not to answer any questions, or take in any message from you.'—She closed the grate: and Jacques hearing what passed, of his own accord drove to an hotel, where I passed the night in mournful reflections, and the next day, with an oppressed heart, rejoined the Marchioness at Rohan.

"No occurrence happened from that time, till nearly a twelvemonth after, when the Count de Dreux declared himself my admirer. He was nearly fifty—vain, self-sufficient, and affected; but likewise rich; and, for the last consideration, the Marquis advised my encouragement of his addresses: to the Marchioness, however, I avowed my real sentiments respecting him; and she gave him a gentle, but positive refusal. At the same time she undeceived him respecting my birth, by which he had supposed me nearly related to her; and that consideration, I believe, reconciled him to her rejection; but though he ceased to regard me as longer worthy his honourable addresses, he still pursued me, as an object of desire.

"At that time the Marquis was unexpectedly appointed Governor of Pondicherry; for which place he was ordered immediately to depart.

"The Marchioness accompanied him to L'Orient, whither I should likewise have attended her with Victoire and Julie, but indisposition obliged me to remain at the Chateau. The opportunity was too favourable to the projects of the Count, to be neglected; he wrote me a passionate letter, with a brilliant offer of settlements, jewels, &c.: of which I did not deign to take the least notice. My silence produced a second, on the supposition that he had not been sufficiently liberal: and he sent a carte blanche. To evince my contempt, I tore the letters, and returned them in a cover; and, as I was surrounded by faithful servants, and two days elapsed without hearing of him, I apprehended no farther molestation or danger.

"On the morning of the third, however, a courier, covered with dust, and apparently fatigued, arrived at the Chateau. He came, he said, from L'Orient, where the Marchioness, who had been overturned in her carriage, was in the most imminent danger. He brought a letter, as he pretended, from her femme-de-chambre, which repeated the information, and begged my immediate presence, as Victoire and Julie were in the greatest affliction.

"Alarmed at this account of my beloved benefactress, I gave orders for a chaise to be instantly prepared; and, without an idea occurring that the tale might be fictitious, assisted my maid to pack up a change of apparel. The chaise was soon ready, and I set out for L'Orient, attended by Janette, the false courier, and two old servants, who, on hearing the accident which had happened, entreated they might accompany me. We proceeded with great expedition, and were within a few miles of L'Orient, when, on passing a thicket, two men on horseback suddenly approached; one stopped the horses, whilst the other, presenting a pistol to Jacques, threatened to shoot him if he offered to proceed. The faithful Grégoire, perceiving the situation of his fellow-servant, would have advanced to his assistance, but was withheld by the pretended messenger; who seized him by the collar, and a scuffle immediately ensued. A carriage then approached, from which the Count himself alighted; and, opening the door of my chaise, he attempted to force me out. Vain would have been my resistance, had not a sailor, attracted I believe by my screams, darted from the thicket, and with a bludgeon struck the Count to the ground.

"What directly followed, I cannot say, as I fainted; but, as Janette afterwards informed me, the men who first stopped us, seeing their master fall, sprung to defend him, and old Jacques finding himself at liberty, without regarding the sailor who had so gallantly come to our assistance, or Grégoire, drove off with the utmost velocity.—When I recovered, we were far from the scene of contention; and as Jacques, equally alarmed as myself, still urged the speed of his horses, we soon arrived at L'Orient.

"I found my beloved benefactress well, but dejected from the departure of the Marquis, who had sailed the day before. On relating my tale, she expressed her satisfaction at my escape from the Count; and, convinced the greatest care was necessary to guard me from his machinations, determined in future not to trust me from her own immediate protection.

"Soon after this, Grégoire arrived, and informed us that the men who first stopped us, prepared to pursue me; but were remanded by the valet, on the supposition that the Count was dead.—After some time, however, he showed signs of returning life and sense, and whilst they were replacing him in his carriage, to re-convey him to a seat he possessed near the spot, (whither he had proposed to carry me), the sailor, who had at first been secured, made his escape again into the thicket. As for Grégoire, he was no longer regarded either in a hostile or amicable manner, and accordingly remounted his horse, and followed us to L'Orient.