The observation may seem trite, that to every period of life is assigned by the Almighty and Munificent Being, who at our creation adapted to each part of our material form the functions that it was to execute and the labours it was to sustain, either peculiar powers of endurance or counterbalancing feelings, which render the inevitable cares and sorrows apportioned to every epoch of our being lighter and more easy to be borne. The woes of childhood are, in themselves, speedily forgotten. The pains are soon succeeded by pleasures, and care, gnawing care, the rack of after-life, is then unknown. Boyhood, eager, enthusiastic, hopeful boyhood, the age of acquisition and expectation, though it may know from time to time a bitter pang, scarcely less in its degree than those that afflict mature life, has so many compensating enjoyments, its own sunshine is so bright, the light that shines upon it from the future is so dazzling, that the griefs serve but as a preparation and a warning, too little remembered when once they are past. Old age, with its decay, with the extinction of earthly hopes, with the prospect of the tomb, has also dulled sensibilities that allow us not to feel many of the more painful things of early years. The blunted edge of appetite may not give so keen a zest to pleasure; but the apathy which accompanies it extends to griefs as well as joys, and, if wisely used, is one of the best preparations for a resignation of that state of being which we have tried in the balance of experience and have found wanting; wanting in all that can satisfy a high and ethereal spirit; wanting in all things but its grand purpose of trial for a life to come. But, besides all this, unto that period of old age, thus prepared and admonished for another state, God himself has also given comfort and consolation, a promise and a hope: a promise brighter than all the promises of youth, a hope brighter than all those that have withered away upon our path of life.

There is still another age, however; an age the most perilous, often the most full of pains; an age when the eager aspirations of youth reach out the hand towards fruition; when the great truths of disappointment break upon us; when we first learn the bitter lesson that hope has told us idle tales, that fortune is of fickle favour, that friendships are too often false, that our own hearts do ourselves wrong, that enjoyment itself is often a vanity and often a vision, that we must suffer, and grieve, and repent in the midst of a world which, shortly before, we fancied was composed of nothing but brightness, and beauty, and happiness. I speak of the time of life when we first put on manhood, and meet all its sorrows at the moment when we expect nothing but its joys. For that period, too, there is a bright compensation given, there is a sustaining principle implanted in our breast, common to the highest and the lowest, the savage and the civilized; a principle that furnishes a balm for many wounds, that surrounds us with an atmosphere of consolation, hope, and joy, and enables us to live on in one splendid dream, even in the midst of hard and dark realities.

That principle is love; and that principle was warm and strong in the bosom of Bernard de Rohan, as, on the day after that in which the conversations we have mentioned in our last chapter took place, he stood, a few minutes before the setting of the sun, under a group of tall fir-trees that had pitched themselves upon a pinnacle of the rock, about ten yards distant from the farther angle of the garden attached to the chateau of Masseran. The trees grew very close together; and, what between scanty soil and the mountain winds, their large trunks had contorted themselves into manifold strange shapes. From this group two or three rows of the same kind of firs ran down the side of the hill into the valley. One would have supposed that they were the remains of some old avenue had the lines been but a little more regular.

The shadow of those trees completely concealed any one who stood beneath them, and the eyes must have been very near that could have perceived Bernard de Rohan as he leaned against one of them, gazing upon a particular part of the garden wall immediately under one of the small watch-turrets. He thus waited some time, with an eagerness of expectation, it is true, which in no other situation or circumstance had he ever known before; but, at the same time, with sweet thoughts, and hopes, and happy memories, which cheered the moments, and made even the impatience that he felt appear like some of those drinks which man has invented to satisfy his thirst, and which are at once pungent and grateful to the taste. He had waited some time, we have said, when at length, as a distant snowy peak began to change its hue and turn rosy with the rays of the setting sun, the small postern door on which his eyes were fixed was seen to move upon its hinges, and then stood ajar. Bernard de Rohan sprang forward, passed the small open space in a moment, and, pushing back the door more fully, stood within the garden of the castle of Masseran.

Scarce a step from the gate, with her hand pressed upon her heart, as if to stop the palpitation of fear and agitation, stood a lady, perhaps of twenty years of age. She was certainly not more; and her beauty, like the morning sun, seemed to have the promise of a long, bright race before it. She was very graceful and very beautiful. The whole form seemed to breathe of a bright and high spirit; but even had it not been that her person so perfectly harmonized with her mind, and was, in fact—as nature probably intended should be the case—an earthly type of the soul within, yet Bernard de Rohan would still have loved her as deeply, as tenderly as he did, for he knew that spirit to be bright and beautiful; he knew the heart to be tender, and devoted, and affectionate; he knew the mind to be pure and high, and fixed in all its purposes of right.

He had been brought up with her from youth; her father had been his guardian, and a parent to him when his own parents were no more. She had fancied herself a sister to him till the hearts of both told them it was happy she was not so. No disappointments had ever befallen them in the course of their affection; no obstacles had been thrown in their way till that time; and yet, though neither opposed, nor troubled, nor disappointed, they loved each other with true and constant hearts, and feared not the result of any hour of trial.

She was very beautiful, certainly. It was not alone that all the features of her face were fine, but it was also that the form of the face itself was beautiful, and the way that the head was placed upon the neck, and the neck rose from the shoulders, all gave a peculiarity of expression, a grace, which is only to be compared to that of some ancient statue from a master's hand. The eyes, too, were very, very lovely, deep blue, and full of liquid light; with dark black eyelashes that curtained them like a dark cloud fringing the edge of the western sky, but leaving a space for the bright light of evening to gush through upon the world. Her complexion was a clear, warm brown; but now, as she stood, there was something, either in the agitation of the moment or in the cold light of the hour, which made her look as pale as marble.

She was pressing her hand upon her heart, and leaning slightly forward, with an eager look towards the door, as if prepared to fly should any one appear whom she did not expect. The instant she saw Bernard de Rohan, however, her whole face was lighted up with a glad smile, and she sprang forward to meet him with the unchecked joy of pure and high affection. They were in a moment in each other's arms.

"My Isabel! my beloved!" he said. "I thought that this man had determined to shut me out from beholding you again."

"And so he would," replied the lady. "So he would if he had the power. But oh! Bernard, I fear him—I fear him in every way: I fear him on my own account, I fear him on yours."

"Oh! fear not, fear not, Isabel," replied Bernard de Rohan. "He can but bring evil upon his own head if he attempts to wrong either you or me. Already has he placed himself in danger. But tell me, my beloved, tell me, is he really absent from the castle, or was it but a pretence to avoid seeing me when I came yesterday?"

"No, he is absent," replied Isabel de Brienne. "In that, at least, there is no deception, for I saw him ride out with but a few horses yesterday towards midday. He took the small covered way by the back of the castle and by the other side of the gardens. I saw him from the window of my chamber in the keep, and I do not believe that he has since returned."

"It must have been to avoid me," said Bernard de Rohan, thoughtfully; "and yet, how could he know that I was here? Did he ever hint at such knowledge, my Isabel?"

"Not to me," she answered; "but I have scarcely seen him since that terrible night. I have been in my mother's sick chamber, to which his cruelty and brutality have brought her. Nor would he ever, even if I had seen him, nor would he ever mention your name to me. He would fain have me forget it, Bernard; but on that score I have much to tell you too."

"I know that I judge your heart right, dear Isabel," replied Bernard de Rohan, "when I say he would find it hard to make you forget that name; and yet I have had warnings within the last two days of many a dark and evil scheme, it would seem, against your peace and mine. A vague hint has been given me that one whom I know to be brave, and whom the world holds to be honest; one who was once my particular friend, and my comrade in many a day of difficulty, and strife, and peril; one who, I know, must be well aware, from many things that I have casually said in thoughtless freedom of heart, that you and I are linked together by promises that can never be broken, has been labouring hard to supplant me in your affection. Yet I will not believe them, Isabel; I will not believe, in the first place, that you would hear one word on such a score from any man. Neither will I believe—though he has certainly lingered strangely away from the army; though he has changed, I may say, marvellously, and from a gay, rash, thoughtless youth, become a cautious, calculating, somewhat impenetrable man—I will not believe that Adrian de Meyrand would do me wrong. No, no, I will trust him still."

"Trust him not, Bernard! trust him not!" replied Isabel. "Trust him not, Bernard! I, at least, know what he is. You say that your Isabel," she continued, gazing on him tenderly, "would not hear one word of love spoken by any other lips than your own. You do her right, dear Bernard. She would not, if she could help it; and even when against her will, against remonstrance and anger, she has been forced to hear such words, she has scarce forgiven herself for what she could not avoid, and has reproached herself for that which was forced upon her. Do you, too, reproach her, Bernard?"

"Oh no," he replied, holding her to his heart, and gazing into the pure bright eyes, which seemed, as they were, deep wells of innocence and truth. "Oh no, dear Isabel; what was done unwillingly needs no reproach: but how was this? Tell me all! De Meyrand, then, has wronged me?"

"If he knew of your love for me, he has," replied Isabel de Brienne; "but promise me, Bernard, that no rash or hasty act will make me regret having spoken to you openly, and I will tell you all."

"None shall, my Isabel," replied her lover. "It is only dangerous rivals, or insolent ones, that require the sword of a brave man. De Meyrand is not the one, and probably may never be the other. Speak, dear one! I must hear all."

"Well, then," she answered, "before we quitted the court, I remarked that this Count of Meyrand paid me assiduous court; and though certainly he was very attentive also to my mother and her new husband, still I avoided him, for there was something in his look and his manner that did not please me. I remarked, however, that many of the nobles of the court—nay, even the king himself—seemed so to smooth the way and remove all obstacles, that he was frequently near me. One day he followed me through the crowded halls of the Louvre by my mother's side, and, when I could not avoid him, poured into my ears a tale of love which I speedily cut short. I told him at once that my heart was given and my hand plighted to another; and I besought my mother to confirm what I said, and stop all farther importunity. He had fascinated her, Bernard; and though she did what I requested, it was but coldly. He left me for the time; but the very next day, while I was alone in my mother's chamber, he came in and pursued the same theme. Then, Bernard, I fear I acted ill. He aroused my anger. I was indignant that he should thus persecute me after what I had said. I treated him with some scorn. I told him cuttingly, in answer to a question which he should not have asked, that, even were I not plighted in faith and bound by affection to another, I should never have felt for him aught but cold indifference. He lost his temper at length, though it was long ere he would leave me; and as he did at length quit the room, I could hear something muttered between his teeth which sounded very much like a menace. Since then I have only seen him three times. Once more at the court; but by that time my brother had returned from Italy. He was with me, and the count did not come near. I have twice seen him here, when I have been forced out by the Lord of Masseran upon the pretence of a hunting-party. He comes not near the castle, however; and, when we did meet, he was distant and stately in his manner, but still there was something in his eyes that made me shudder."

"For the last two days he has been in the same small inn with myself," replied Bernard de Rohan. "I will speak to him to-night, my Isabel, calmly and gently, I promise you; but he must learn to yield this suit if he still entertains it. Nay, look not grieved, dear one. I will keep my promise faithfully, and forgive the past so he offend not in the future."

"I grieve and apprehend, dear Bernard," she replied, "but think not that I would strive to stay you from any course that you yourself judge right. I know you are moderate and just, and that you will not think, as some might do, that you prove your love for me by fiery haste to expose a life on which hangs all my hopes of happiness. Your honour is to me far more than life; but oh, Bernard, judge but the more calmly, I beseech you, of what that honour requires, by thinking that not your life and happiness alone are the stake, but mine also. Having told you all truly, as I ever will through life, I must scarce venture a word more to persuade or dissuade; and yet I cannot think honour can call upon you even to speak angry or reproachful words, when this man himself was not told, by me at least, that it was his friend he was trying to supplant."

Bernard de Rohan's brow was somewhat cloudy, though he smiled. "I fear, my Isabel," he said, "that he knew the fact too well. I can call many a time to my mind when I have dropped words concerning you which he could not mistake. However, I have said I will pass over all that is gone, and now let us think of other brighter things."

"I know not," she replied, "I know not why, Bernard, but a dark shadow seems to overhang me, which prevents my thinking of brighter things. Within the last year, so much has happened to cause apprehension and anxiety, so much to give birth to pain and grief, that my spirit has sunk; and, whereas everything used to seem full of brightness and hope, all is now full of despondency."

"Cheer thee, cheer thee, Isabel," replied Bernard, adding those caresses that cheer far more than words; "I will take thee from the midst of the sad things that must surround thee here. I know, dear Isabel, that thy mother was often harsh and always cold, and, since I and your brother have left you, you have had no support or comfort under the pain which her behaviour must have given."

"Oh, it was not her harshness nor her coldness, Bernard," replied Isabel Brienne; "I could have borne that easily; but when I recollected my dear father—when I remembered all his high and noble qualities—his kindness, his tenderness to her, and saw her again stand at the altar to give her hand to another so unlike him in everything, dark, treacherous, avaricious, and deceitful, it was then I first felt that I really wanted aid and consolation. It was then that I wanted help, I wanted protection and support; and even at that time I would have written to you to come to me with all speed if it had not been for some foolish feelings of shame."

"They were indeed wrong, my Isabel," replied Bernard; "for surely, Isabel, with our faith plighted by your own father's will, with a long, dear intimacy from childhood until now, if you could not repose full, unhesitating trust and confidence in me, where, where could you place it, Isabel?"

"I know it was foolish," she replied, "I know it was very foolish, Bernard; but yet, even now," and she looked down blushing upon the ground, "but yet, even now, the same foolish hesitation makes me scruple to tell you what I firmly believe is the best, nay, is the only plan by which we could hope to avoid the dangers that surround us."

"Nay, Isabel, nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "after saying so much, you must say more. You must tell me all, freely, candidly. The brightest part of love is its confidence. It is that perfect, that unhesitating reliance, that interchange of every idea and every feeling, that perfect community of all the heart's secrets and the mind's thoughts, which binds two beings together more closely, more dearly than the dearest of human ties: more than the vow of passion or the oath of the altar. It is that confidence which, did we not deny its sway, would give to earthly love a permanence that we find but seldom in this world. Oh, Isabel, you must not, indeed you must not, have even a thought that is not mine."

"Nor will I, Bernard," she replied, "nor will I; though I may blush to say what I was going to say, I will not hesitate to say it. It is this, then, Bernard: You must take me hence without delay."

"Oh, how gladly," he cried, throwing his arms round her, and kissing the glowing cheek that rested on his shoulder; "oh, how gladly, Isabel! I waited but for the arrival of your brother to propose that step to you myself. If this Lord of Masseran chooses to refuse me admission, I cannot force my way in, and you may be subject to every kind of grief and pain before I receive such authority from the king or from Brissac as will force him to give you up."

"That is not all, Bernard, that is not all," replied the lady. "This man is deceitful to all. Suppose but for a moment that, finding the King of France obliged to withdraw his troops from Italy, as I hear has been the case, he resolves to betray the trust that has been reposed in him, to submit himself again to the Duke of Savoy, to receive the troops of the emperor. Suppose, Bernard, he removes me and my mother beyond the limits of Savoy, beyond the power of the king of our own country, beyond your reach, Bernard, what would be the consequences then? I should be but a mere slave in his hands. But listen to me still, dear Bernard; there is more, more to be said; I have good reason to believe and know that all these dangers are not merely imaginary, but that he is actually dealing with the empire. I have seen couriers come and go, and heard them converse long with him in the German tongue. I have seen officers who spoke neither French nor Italian surveying the castle, and consulting with him over plans of other fortresses. Twice, also, when I have hesitated to ride forth with him, fearing dangers—I did not well know what—my mother, who is already his complete slave, has held out vague threats to me of removing me to far-distant lands, where my obedience would be more prompt and unhesitating. Now, even now, Bernard," she continued, "I believe that he is gone on some errand of this kind, and it would in no degree surprise me, ere three days are over, to see this place filled with German soldiers."

"Then, dear Isabel," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "we must lose no time. I wrote to your brother to meet me at Grenoble, and I have sent off messengers to him there and at Paris. But we must not wait for his coming. Your father's written consent will justify us, and the king is already aware that this man's faith and adherence to France is insecure. It would have been better, indeed, if your brother had been here, for then he might, in the first place, have openly demanded you at the hands of this man."

"Oh no, no, Bernard," she replied; "I rejoice greatly that Henry is not here. I feel a sort of terror at the idea of his falling into the hands of this Lord of Masseran. You know that Henry's death would place great wealth at the disposal of my mother; and, though it is dreadful to say, yet I do fear there is no act at which this Italian would hesitate to obtain wealth or power, or any of the objects for which men strive on earth. I would not for the world that Henry should put himself into the hands of one so treacherous. If Henry be at Grenoble, we can fly to him at once, and be united there."

"Better, far better, dear Isabel," replied her lover, "that we should be united before we go. There is a priest here who seems to have some regard for me, and who lingers still at the inn, I know not why. He will be easily persuaded to unite our hands, as our hearts are already united, and then my right to protect and defend you will bear no denial. Let it be soon, too, my Isabel. Why not to-morrow night?"

She replied not for a moment or two. Not that she hesitated, not that there was a doubt in her own mind of what her answer must be; but yet she paused, with her hand clasped in that of Bernard de Rohan, and her eyes hid upon his shoulder, while he went on to persuade her, though there needed no persuasion.

"Consider, dear Isabel," he said, "the secret of this postern door is one that may be discovered at any time. He might return within a day. If we were to meet often, our meeting might be discovered. What it is necessary to do, it is necessary to do at once."

It need not be said that Bernard de Rohan's entreaties were successful. Isabel promised to be there at the same hour on the following night, prepared for flight; and Bernard de Rohan undertook to have the contract of their marriage drawn up by some neighbouring notary, and a priest ready and willing to unite them.

"In four or five hours," he said, "we shall be within the pale of France, and, as you saw the other night, we shall have plenty of willing guards thither, dear Isabel. Besides that wilder retinue, too, my own train is down at the hamlet; but, of course, I must bring few people with me, for fear of attracting attention. Have you anybody in the castle, dear Isabel, besides good Henriot, who can give you aid and assistance?"

"Oh yes," replied the lady; "there is the maid who conveyed to you the note to-day. I can trust her."

"She seemed sullen or stupid," replied Bernard de Rohan: "I could not induce her to utter more than one or two words, and those I did not distinctly hear."

"She is very silent," replied Isabel, "but is not so dull as she looks. Give her but one thing to think of, and one object to attend to, and she will execute what she is directed to do well enough; and perhaps it is all the better that she observes nothing which passes round her, and is so sparing of her words."

"Hush!" said Bernard de Rohan. "There is a light upon the terrace, near the castle, and some one seems coming hither. Adieu! dear Isabel, adieu! Though the evening is too dim for them to see us, it is better that I should leave you till to-morrow. But forget not, dear one; and oh! be rather before than after the hour."

Thus saying, he pressed her to his bosom for a moment, and then passed through the postern door. He closed it not entirely, however, for some vague apprehension concerning the sweet girl he had just left behind caused him to pause and listen, till he had assured himself that the person whom he had seen approaching was no unfriendly one. In a few minutes he heard another female voice saying distinctly to Isabel, "Your lady mother, mademoiselle, desires that you would come and play to her on the lute."

"I come, I come, good Maddelene," replied the voice of Isabel de Brienne; and in the clear evening air Bernard de Rohan could hear the sound of receding footsteps.

"Has not the Count de Meyrand returned?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, as he re-entered the kitchen of the little inn, and saw it tenanted only by one or two of his own attendants, the host and hostess, and a waiting-boy.

"He has not only returned, my lord," replied the landlord, "but has gone away again, and, sorry I am to say, gone away altogether. He came back, and departed in great haste, paying for all that he had like a prince."

"This is strange!" replied Bernard de Rohan. "Did he leave no message for me?"

"No message, my lord," replied the host; "he gave your man, Master Martin, a note for you, however; but he has just gone up the hill, and taken the note with him."

"Do you know where the count has gone to?" demanded the young nobleman.

"Oh, to Pont Beauvoisin, on his way to Paris," the landlord answered; "he has been gone wellnigh two hours."

It is a very common piece of policy on the part of hosts, aubergistes, landlords, and others of the same class and character, by whatsoever denomination they may be known, to laud up to the skies the guest just departed, praising in him those especial virtues which they wish to inculcate upon the guest who happens to be their listener. Thus the landlord was proceeding to paint in high colours the generosity and careless liberality of the Count de Meyrand, when some persons speaking, and a loud, rich, buttery laugh, merry in every tone, announced that the good priest, Father Willand, was approaching the auberge with some companion.

"We shall live like clerks now he is gone, we shall live like clerks," exclaimed the voice of the priest. "By the holy mass, he was not content with eating more than his own share of everything, but his very look changed everything that he did not eat, and turned it bad. His aspect was so cold that it chilled the pottage; his look so sharp that it turned the wine sour. I will make a new prayer night and morning: May I never again meet such a companion at an inn as this Count de Meyrand."

Bernard de Rohan found, on the entrance of the priest, that it was his own attendant, Martin, with whom Father Willand had been conversing. The attendant immediately produced the Count de Meyrand's note, which his master read attentively, and with an appearance of satisfaction. "So my friend De Meyrand has gone on business of importance to Paris," he said aloud.

"Ay, as the fox is said to go to his hole," replied the priest.

"I dare say, indeed," replied the young cavalier, "that there are many foxes in that hole, my good father; but still your comparison is not a very pleasant one for the good count."

"The comparison was more aimed at his way of going to Paris than at either Paris or himself," replied the priest. "I repeat, he is gone to Paris as a fox is said to go to his hole; that is, back foremost."

"Nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I never yet saw fox so stupid. Why should a fox go back foremost?"

"To hide the way he goes," answered the priest; "to make the footsteps point out of the hole instead of into it. So the good peasants tell one."

"But how can this apply to the Count de Meyrand?" asked Bernard de Rohan, with his curiosity now considerably excited.

"Because he tells you," replied the priest, "that he is going to Paris, and we watched him from the top of the hill, and saw him turn quite the other way before he got two leagues out into the plain."

"Strange enough!" replied Bernard de Rohan, not choosing to appear as much interested as he really was; "strange enough; but he may well have some friends to see—some town to visit in the way. Come, my good host! come, let us have supper speedily, and give us more light, for the night is growing dark and sombre. Good priest," he continued, turning to Father Willand, and speaking in a low voice, "I have a word for your private ear by-and-by; somewhat to consult upon, regarding which I need sound discretion and good counsel. I beseech you, therefore, pause at the end of the first stoup of wine."

"My son, my son," replied the priest, "men have always made a mistake with regard to the abode of truth. Truth and my brains lie together at the bottom of the second pottle pot, for most men are sure to tell the truth when they get to that pitch; and my brains are never clear, clean, and neat till they have been washed in that quantity at least. Fear not, fear not, I will be careful; though, if you are going to confess yourself, you ought to wish me as drunk as possible, for the penances I enjoin are always light when my knees feel like an unstarched ruff. Were it not better, however, to talk this matter over first, while my good host prepares the supper, and then we can consider it in our cups, you know?"

"It may indeed be as well," replied Bernard de Rohan. "Follow to my chamber, good priest, then. Go on, Martin, with a light;" and, taking his way up the dingy staircase, Bernard de Rohan led the priest to the large square, lofty bedroom which had been assigned him as his place of repose, and which no one would have imagined that lowly and humble-looking inn could boast of. The moment the door was closed and the attendant gone, the priest's eyes assumed a shrewder, but more serious expression, and he said, "Know you that I have been here twice yesterday, and three times to-day, seeking you?"

"In truth, I did not," replied the young cavalier. "On what account did you seek me?"

"To tell you to make good use of your time," answered the priest. "The Lord of Masseran is absent. He, I doubt not, is really gone to Paris; gone to justify himself to the king against accusations which he hears are to be made against him. You have, therefore, time to do all that you would, and nothing is required but to be diligent, quick, and secret."

"I have been all three," replied Bernard de Rohan. "And I just come from the postern by the fir-trees."

"Then you have seen Corse de Leon," said the priest, abruptly. "When and where? For I could not find him, neither yesterday nor to-day."

"I met him this morning," replied Bernard; "I met him this morning, and took him for an old drover, so completely had he disguised himself."

"Then have you seen the lady also?" asked the priest.

"I have, my good friend," answered the young cavalier, somewhat surprised to find how completely his proceedings were divined. "I have seen the lady; and it is in regard to that interview that I wished to speak with you. May I trust to you to do for me to-morrow night one of the offices of your holy function, and—"

"Marry you, in short," replied the priest, "marry you to this fair Isabel of Brienne. Well, my son, I see no impediment—no harm therein. If you have well considered the matter," he added with a laugh, "and have determined to take upon yourself the holy estate of matrimony, far be it from me to prevent you, although I must say, that it was in gracious consideration and providence for our temporal as well as spiritual happiness that our holy church exacted from us an oath not to enter into the condition you so much covet; however, I will put the couples round your necks, and then you must run along the road together as you can; but where shall it be?" he continued. "Tell me the whens and the hows, for that is very needful."

Bernard de Rohan explained to him as much as he judged needful. Indeed, what he was obliged to explain put his plans completely in the power of the priest. Nevertheless, he did not anticipate any evil on that account. All of us, wise and simple alike, are more or less guided in our dealings with our fellow-creatures by various other principles than the dictates of mere reason. The most suspicious man, the most cautious man, will, from time to time, place confidence where it is least deserved, from some motives to which his judgment would refuse its assent. The calm and deliberate politician, who has frustrated many of the cabinet knaves of Europe, and concealed his thoughts from the penetrating eye of diplomacy, has often betrayed his secret to a pretty face, and sometimes let it fall into possession of a roguish valet.

But Bernard de Rohan was neither a very cautious nor a very suspicious man. His nature was frank and confiding; and, wherever he showed himself reserved, he was rendered so by the effect of reason and deliberate consideration. In the present instance he was forced to trust the priest, and he trusted him without regret or hesitation; for there was something in good Father Willand's face and demeanour which was frank and kindly, and, to say sooth, Bernard de Rohan had conceived a prepossession in his favour, which might or might not be justified. He thought, too, that, although his own memory of the good priest's features might have faded in the lapse of many years, and though those features themselves must have been much changed by time since he had seen them—he thought, too, that they were not wholly without some corresponding traces on the tablets of remembrance. Memory has her instincts, too; and often, though we cannot recollect the why or the wherefore, the time or the circumstances regarding an object suddenly presented to us, we feel that it is connected with pleasant or unpleasant things in the past; that there have been causes to love, or hate, or fear a person whose very name and being we have forgotten. Thus was it with Bernard de Rohan and Father Willand; for, though he knew not where they had met before, though he was not sure that they ever had met, he was sure that if they had, there had existed good cause to hold the priest in some esteem.

When all the arrangements for the succeeding night had been made between the priest and the young cavalier, the latter turned to a point connected with the same subject which pressed somewhat heavily upon his mind.

"And now, my good Father Willand," he said, "you must tell me, sincerely and candidly, whether you have reason to be perfectly certain that this Lord of Masseran has betaken himself to the court of France."

"My dear son," replied the priest, "there is nothing upon the earth or under the earth that we have any reason to be perfectly certain of. And, now that you put it in my head," he added, pausing thoughtfully for a moment or two, "now that you put it into my head, there are several reasons for believing that this Savoyard devil has not gone to Paris. In the first place, I advised him to go, which is a strong reason for supposing he would not; he being one of those who think that no man can be sincere in anything. I was so far sincere, however, that I told him what is really the only way of saving his neck from the gripe of the King of France; but I had another object, too, which was to clear the place of his uncomfortable presence. At the same time, there is a second reason for believing that he is not gone to the court of France—"

"There are a thousand," interrupted Bernard de Rohan.

"Ay, but there is one," rejoined the priest, "which, though not one out of your thousand, is stronger than all the rest, namely, that the worthy and truth-loving Lord of Masseran told some of his servants, and those not the most confidential ones, that he had gone to Paris. Now, as he was never known to tell truth in his life when a lie would do as well, this is a second strong reason for believing that he has not gone to Paris. But then, again, on the other hand, we have to recollect that it is very possible he might for once tell the truth, in the hope and expectation that, from his known character, it might be mistaken for a lie, and deceive his dear friends that way. In short, the matter is doubtful; for every saying of the Lord of Masseran is, like one of the learned propositions of the schools on which we dispute so learnedly, compounded of so much lie, that if there be a grain of truth therein, the finest head in France will not separate it in a year. But let me hear, my son, let me hear, what reasons have you to bring forward on the one side or the other?"

"None of very great weight, indeed," replied Bernard de Rohan, unable to divulge the orders, written or verbal, that he bore from the Maréchal de Brissac. "A report, indeed, has reached us in Italy," he continued, "that this man is playing a double part between the courts of France and Austria; and, when I did hear of his departure, I certainly suspected that the end of his journey might be Milan rather than Paris."

"I will soon learn that," cried the priest, "I will soon learn that. What you suspect is anything but improbable. And although—knowing well the object of your journey—he might give out that he went to Paris to clear himself before he saw you, yet the whole may be false together, and he himself be within ten miles of his castle at the present time. One thing, however, is clear, my son, no time is to be lost; and, in the mean time, I will ascertain beyond all doubt what road he took."

"But can you ascertain?" demanded Bernard de Rohan; "is it possible to learn exactly in such a labyrinth-like country as this?"

The priest laughed. "Beyond all doubt, my son, beyond all doubt," he said. "The past we can always ascertain. The future is God's," he added, more reverently; "the future is God's, and must rest in his dark council chamber. But do you not know, have you not yourself seen, that though the peasant and the traveller wander along the sides of these mountains without beholding anything but the gray stone, and the clear stream, and the green bush; though he might whistle all the lays of France and Italy together, and blow all the horns that ever were winded from Naples to the far North, without rousing anything but a roebuck or an eagle, there are particular sounds, to be uttered by particular voices, which would call every bush into life, and change every rock into an armed man? My good friend, my good friend, the mountain is full of eyes; and the Lord of Masseran himself, though he knows it is so, does not know to what extent. There is only one being under the blue eye of heaven that sees it all, and that is the man whom I met with you the other night."

"He is certainly a very extraordinary being," replied Bernard de Rohan, "and I would fain know more of him."

"In all probability you will know more," replied the priest. "But you may meet with thousands like him in various parts of the world. There are three places where you generally find the great rogues congregate—the court, the court of law, and the refectory. The honest man has only two places that I know of—the mountain-side and the highway. There are exceptions, you know; for instance, there is a very honest priest, who has the care of the poor souls in the parish of Saint John of Bonvoisin, just across the frontier line in France. Sinner that I am! what should he be doing here, using his time no better than his patron, Saint Anthony, used his head? Why should he be here, I say, preaching to the stones upon this mountain, when his reverend predecessor preached to fishes and petted a pig? However, the king, a blessing on his good-humoured head, sent the said priest to Bonvoisin to keep him out of harm's way; for that boisterous heretic, Clement Marot, threatened to drive his dagger into him for throwing back some of his ribald poetry on his own head. Then, again, the grave and serious admiral felt aggrieved at his preaching, one Saint Anthony's day, upon the subject of herrings, which he vowed was a satire upon the tax he had laid on the fishery. However, there the good priest is—or, rather, there he is not, but ought to be—one of the honestest men in all France, if you will take his own word for it; a great rogue according to some men, and a good soul according to others. There may be two or three like him in other parts of France; and depend upon it, wherever they are, you will find the poor speak well of them, the widows and the maidens over forty shake their heads and disparage them when they compare them with their reverend predecessor; while some very grave men in the parish look wise and suspect them to be heretics, without being able to prove it."

Bernard de Rohan smiled; but, wishing to hear somewhat more of Father Willand's acquaintance with his friend Corse de Leon, he replied, "I thought that this same good priest you mention, if not a Savoyard by birth, had a Savoyard cure, and that the first of his penitents was our good friend Corse de Leon."

"You are mistaken, my son," replied the ecclesiastic, "you are mistaken altogether. He has no cure in Savoy, though he may have business there; and as to Corse de Leon being a penitent, he is very impenitent indeed. I remember now," he continued, in a thoughtful way, "it is some five or six years since, when I was travelling through a little village called Pommieres, not far from the foot of Mount Rosa, that the people called me to confess a young man who had been crushed under an earth-slip of the mountain. It was difficult to get him to confess at all; and one priest from Saint Maurice had left him. But I set about the matter in a different way; told him I did not think he would die, and had great hopes of his not being damned if he did. He said he would rather die than not; but I argued him out of that, and in the end got him to make a full confession. What he did confess is no business of yours, my son; but I found him to be a man who had suffered many wrongs, and had endured bitter griefs; but one who was naturally as kind of heart as he was bold, fearless, and determined, and as noble and generous in his purposes as he was sometimes wild, fierce, and intemperate in their execution. I sat by his bedside for six weeks, for the three first of which he fluttered between life and death. At the end of that time he recovered, and his frame, like iron tempered in the fire, seemed to become but the stronger and more active for what it had undergone. Two or three years elapsed ere I met him again, and by that time he had become Corse de Leon. The cause of his quitting his native country, France, which was just before I first met with him, was that, on his return from the army, where he had served his king for years, he found his sister injured, insulted, and disgraced by the intendant of a high nobleman who was lately dead. He first sought for justice, but could not obtain it. He then visited the deathbed of the poor girl, and found her head supported by the daughter of that very high noble, and her lips moistened by the hand of—Bernard de Rohan. He turned away as soon as Death had done his work, and, mad for revenge, had sought the house of the intendant. But the generous spirit of two high youths, Bernard de Rohan and Henry de Brienne, had been beforehand with him, and had driven forth with ignominy the oppressor whom he sought. Still, however, the thing rankled on his mind, and the injustice which he had once suffered and but too often seen, turned a portion of his blood to bitterness. But hark! there is mine host knocking at the door to tell us that supper is ready; and what is all human nature compared with supper?"

The evening was dark and somewhat stormy; and, though the hour was the same as that in which Bernard de Rohan had met Isabel on the preceding day, so much less light was there now in the heavens that he could scarcely see the postern gate, while with a beating heart he watched it from the small clump of fir-trees of which we have already spoken. Although a hollow and whistling wind blew sharp and strong among the mountains, the heavy vapours hung unmoved around the peaks; and though there was a reddish glare upon the edges of some of the clouds in the western sky, no light was derived from any lingering rays of the sun. Everything was gloomy, and dark, and cheerless; and yet the heart of Bernard de Rohan beat high with love, with joy, with expectation.

She was to be his, the being whom he had so long, so deeply, so tenderly loved. Within one short hour she was to be his own, bound to him by that indissoluble bond, to which he looked forward all the more joyfully, because it was to be eternal. Whose heart would not beat high at the fulfilment of the dream of years?

At length he thought he saw the door move, and, darting forward, he opened it gently. Isabel was waiting within with the faithful Henriot and her silent maid; and though she trembled very much as Bernard threw his arms around her, it was agitation, not fear, which moved her. The Lord of Masseran was still absent: there was no one likely to interrupt them; and when her lover strove to sooth and to encourage her, telling her that his own men were within sound of his horn, and many more unseen, surrounding them on all sides, she replied by assuring him in a low voice that she had no apprehension, and was ready to follow him whithersoever he would. Still, however, he saw that she was agitated; and, as he led her forth, he poured many a soothing and a tender word into her ear, drawing her nearer to his heart, and seeming to assure her, by every action as well as by every word, that the love and the protection which he was about to vow was as tender, as unchangeable, as the brightest dream of hope and expectation could picture it.

"Do you know the chapel down in the valley, my Isabel?" he asked, as he led her onward down a narrow path that wound along the side of the hill, as close under the walls of the castle as might be. "We have obtained the keys, and the priest is waiting."

"But at this hour," demanded Isabel, eagerly; "can he perform the service at this hour?"

"He has procured full authority," replied Bernard, in the same low tone. "Nothing, dear girl, has been left undone."

"Hark!" said Isabel, stopping. "Did you not hear some voices above?"

He paused and listened, but no sound met his ear. "The echo of our own voices," he answered; "though we speak low, they catch the angles of the rock, and are given back again to our own ears. But let us hasten onward, dearest. Once thou art mine, such apprehensions will cease."

Nothing occurred to interrupt them. Step by step, over the rough and encumbered path, they pursued their way, till at length, in the lowest part of the valley, shut in between the small river and the rock on which the castle stood, appeared an old Gothic chapel. The pinnacles, the towers, the mouldings of the little building, in all their rich tracery, were fully visible; for, as the party descended, the chapel lay exactly between them and a clear part of the stream, so that the glistening surface of the water formed a background to the dark lines of the building, though none of the surrounding scenery, except the bold masses of some adjacent rocks, could be distinguished.

Thither, by another path, which, being cut through the rock, gave admission to the castle at once, had Isabel often come to attend the service on Sundays and on holydays; but all seemed changed as she now approached it; as much, indeed, in regard to the feelings with which she revisited it, as to the aspect of the place itself. Through the windows on the side which they approached, a small ray of light stole forth from the altar like a pure and holy religion in the midst of ages of darkness, and, guided onward by that, they were soon at the door of the chapel. It yielded easily to the hand, and Isabel, half led, half supported by Bernard de Rohan, found herself approaching that altar where the last vow of maiden love was to be spoken. On one side of that altar stood the good priest, Father Willand; but on the other, to the surprise both of Bernard de Rohan and of Isabel de Brienne, appeared the ordinary priest of the place, pale, somewhat agitated, and looking from time to time round the building with a wild and fearful glance.

"Quick!" cried Father Willand, as the party approached; "you have been very long, my children. Let us despatch this business speedily, and put out the lights."

"I am forced," said the other priest, "by commands that I dare not disobey, to be here this night; but I call you all to witness that it is against my will that I am here; and, in case the Lord of Masseran—"

"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed Father Willand, "we don't want you to be here at all, my good friend. All we want is the chapel. I will read the service, brother. Approach, my children, approach;" and, taking up the book, he commenced at once, and in the most abridged form that the Church allowed, the marriage service between Bernard de Rohan and Isabel de Brienne.

The latter needed support not a little; but the quiet maid, who was the only woman that accompanied her, was far too inanimate and statue-like to afford her any. It was in no ordinary circumstances that poor Isabel was placed. True, indeed, she was not called upon to give her hand to one who was nearly a stranger to her, as is but too often the case; true, that with her all the sweet and delicate feelings which surround the heart of woman from her youth were not to be rudely plucked away without preparation, like flowers torn by a harsh and reckless hand, which, while it takes, injures the plant which bore them; true, that she was giving herself to one whom she had long known and deeply loved, and towards whom she had ever looked as to her promised husband; but still she was becoming his bride suddenly, secretly; she was flying with him in darkness and in concealment, with the presence of none of those bound to her by the ties of blood to sanction the new bonds that she was taking upon her.

The fear, too, of discovery and pursuit was superadded to all the other feelings which such circumstances might well produce. She knew that it might not, and probably would not, be long before her mother—who had been left evidently as a sort of spy upon her actions and a jailer of her person, rather than a friend, a protector, and an adviser—might send to make sure that the harsh commands of the Lord of Masseran were strictly observed, and that she did not quit the walls of the castle for a moment during his absence; and she was well aware that the discovery of her flight would produce instant pursuit. Thus, though generally she kept her eyes either bent down upon the ground, or raised with a look of confidence and affection towards Bernard de Rohan, yet from time to time she cast a hasty glance over her shoulder towards the door of the chapel; and, as she did so, she remarked that the same fears seemed also to possess the waiting woman, whose eyes were generally turned in the same direction.

No interruption took place, however. The words, the irrevocable words that bound her and Bernard de Rohan together, were spoken in a low but a firm voice. The ring was upon her finger. The benediction was pronounced, and for a moment, for one short moment, she was clasped as a bride in the arms of him she loved, when there came suddenly a noise as of something thrown down in the small vestry on the right-hand side of the altar.

The priest instantly put out the lights. Bernard de Rohan still held her close to his heart with his left arm, but, at the same time, laid his right hand upon his sword. Before he could draw it, however, three men sprang upon him, two from the vestry itself, and one from a window behind him, through which several had forced a way.

All was now darkness and confusion in the chapel; but it was evident that the number of persons it contained increased every moment. The young cavalier strove violently to free himself, and, by an exertion of his great strength, dragged his assailants hither and thither; but still they clung to him; still, twining round his arms, they prevented him from grasping either sword or dagger, and from reaching the small hunting-horn which he carried at his side, and which he knew, could he but blow it, would bring assistance speedily. Frustrated in his attempt to lift it to his lips, he raised his voice and shouted loudly; but fresh assailants poured upon him; a scarf was tied over his mouth; his hands were pinioned behind, and he found himself irretrievably a prisoner.

All was darkness, as I have said; not the least light appeared in the chapel, and no words were spoken aloud by any one; so that all Bernard de Rohan could hear was the moving of many feet; a low, murmuring whisper, as if of consultation or direction; and the sobbing of a bosom which he knew too well to be that of her he loved best on earth. At one time a voice was raised somewhat louder than the rest, and he thought he distinguished the tones of Adrian de Meyrand. The next moment another voice that he did not know replied, "No, not that way. Keep that door shut. There is another here which leads us thither more quickly."

Now completely overpowered—although his heart burned within him, and he longed for the strength of him who cast down the temple of Gaza to burst the bonds upon his hands—Bernard de Rohan strove no longer with those who held him, for he felt that to struggle was utterly vain. Nevertheless, it was not without rude violence that they dragged him along through the vestry, and from thence by a small door into the open air. The scarf was still over his mouth, so that he could not speak, and could scarcely breathe; but, as there was some slight increase of light, he looked eagerly around him. Isabel, however, was not to be seen. There were some dark, scattered groups here and there, but he could distinguish no one clearly, and was dragged on towards the rock on which the castle of Masseran stood.

Into whose power he had now fallen there was no doubt. The character of the man was well known; and, had Bernard de Rohan thought at that moment of his own probable fate, he could have anticipated nothing but the darkest and most atrocious termination of the act which had been just committed. At that moment, however, he thought alone of Isabel de Brienne; and he remembered, with grief and agony that will not bear description, what might be the consequences to her of falling into the hands of the Lord of Masseran under such circumstances, and beyond the pale of her native country.

They dragged him on, however, across the short space which lay between the rock on which the castle stood and the chapel, to a spot where a doorway presented itself, hewn in the solid stone, under the arch of which appeared a soldier with a light. Into his hands those who brought him thither consigned the young French gentleman, pushing him forward, and saying, "There, take him, and put him where my lord told you."

The man with the light replied nothing, but with another, who had been standing behind him, received the prisoner from the hands of his comrades, and, with somewhat more gentleness than they had shown, led him onward. The moment he had taken a step or two forward, a large, oblong mass of solid rock, which, turning upon a pivot, served the purpose of a door, and, when shut, blocked up the whole passage that led under ground to the castle, rolled slowly to behind him. He went on patiently, for it was clear that no effort of his own could effect anything towards his deliverance; and when he had gone on some way and ascended a small flight of steps, he found another armed man standing with a light at a door plated with iron. Those who followed told him to go in, and he found himself in a dungeon, of which he was evidently not the first tenant, for there was a crust of bread covered with long green mould upon the table, and a broken water-pitcher in one corner of the room. There was a bed, too, with some straw, at one side of the door, and a single chair; but besides these necessaries there appeared hanging from the wall, to which they were attached by a stanchion imbedded in the solid masonry, a large, heavy ring, and some strong linked fetters. At these Bernard de Rohan gazed for a moment fiercely, and then turned his eyes to one of his jailers, who had been removing the mouldy crust from the table and the broken water-cruise from the corner of the dungeon.

The man seemed to understand the look at once. "No!" he said, "no! They are not for you unless you are violent. But we may let you speak now as much as you like;" and he untied the scarf from Bernard de Rohan's lips. The young cavalier drew a deep breath, and then demanded, "What is this? Why am I here? Take notice, and remember that I am an officer of Henry the Second, king of France, now actually on his service; that I came hither from the Maréchal de Brissac, with despatches and messages to the Lord of Masseran; and that bitter will be the punishment of all those who injure or detain me."

The man heard him to the end with the most perfect composure, and then replied, "We neither know nor care, young gentleman, who or what you are, or in whose service you are. We obey the commands of our own lord; and, if you are inclined to give up all resistance and be quiet, we will untie your arms, and let you have the free use of your limbs and tongue. There is only one thing necessary for you to tell us. Will you be quiet and peaceable, or will you not?"

"I have no choice," replied Bernard de Rohan, in a bitter tone. "As you have wrongfully and unjustly made me a prisoner, I have no power of resisting whatsoever you choose to do with me."

"That is talking sensibly," replied the man; "but, in the first place, if you please, we will take away all these pleasant little things from you, as I would rather have them in my hand than my throat." And he deliberately stripped the prisoner of all his weapons, to keep them, as he said, with a laugh, for his use at a future time. He then untied his arms, which were benumbed with the tight straining of the cords with which they had bound him, and saying, "I will bring you some food," he moved towards the door where his companions stood.

"I want no food," replied Bernard de Rohan, gloomily; and in his heart he asked himself if any human being could find appetite to eat in such an abode as that.

"You will come to it, young gentleman, you will come to it," replied the man; "before you get out, you will come to it well enough. I have seen many a one who thought of nothing else all the day long but the time for eating and drinking. Why, it was the only thing they had to do with life. They might as well have been a stone in the wall if it had not been for that."

With this awful sermon upon the imprisonment that awaited him, the jailer set down the lamp he held in his hand and went away. He returned in a minute or two, however, with some food, which he placed upon the table before which the young cavalier was still standing, exactly as the other had left him. The man gave him a cold look, as if merely to see how he bore it, and then once more quitted the dungeon, turning the key in the heavy lock.

Bernard de Rohan remained long in that same attitude, and filled with the same dark and melancholy thoughts. Still, still they pressed upon his brain, although he sought to banish them and to bear his condition with his usual equanimity and fortitude. He was not one ever to give way to despair where any opportunity existed for active exertion; but here he could do nothing. With his own hand he could not right himself. With his own voice he could not plead his cause. Talent or genius he might possess, but all in vain. Vigour and courage were useless. There was but one thing left—endurance; a species of courage which the very bravest do not always possess. Bernard de Rohan strove to summon it to his aid. It came but slowly, however; and, when he thought of Isabel of Brienne, his own sweet, beautiful bride, snatched from him in the very first moment that he could call her so, resolution forsook him, and in agony of heart he cast himself down upon the straw in his dungeon. Was that his bridal bed?

"Now, then, have I not kept faith with you?" said a voice in the chapel.

"Yes, in truth you have," replied a second voice; "but I fear we have been too late. The falling of that accursed horse has lost us the five minutes—the important five minutes on which all success in life so often depends."

"You should not bring fine-pampered Barbary steeds into these wild mountains, count," replied the other voice; "but a bold man is never too late. The lover is safe enough for a long time to come, and you can—"

"Hush! hush!" said the other, as if fearful that their conversation, though the tone in which they spoke was little louder than a whisper, should reach the ears of some one near.

"Oh! she has fainted," said the other. "She sank back upon my arm a minute or two ago. Here! Forli, bring me a lantern!"

A lantern was soon brought, and, one side being opened, the light was suffered to stream full upon the face of Isabel de Brienne. The beautiful eyes were closed; the long, dark lashes rested on the fair cheek; the lips themselves were pale; and there was no indication that the heavy, senseless sleep in which she lay was not the slumber of death itself, except a slight movement of the fingers, as if the cord that tied her wrists caused some corporeal pain, which was felt even through the swoon in which she lay. It was upon her face and form alone that the full light shone, but the feeble rays which found their way around dispelled in some degree, though but slightly, the profound darkness that before had filled the whole building. No one could be seen so as to be recognised; but in various parts of the chapel appeared groups of dark figures, all holding aloof from the spot where the unhappy girl lay, with her head resting upon the upper step of the altar, except two tall and powerful men, who stood close to her, and another, who knelt down, holding the lantern to her face.

"Were it not better to take her away at once?" said one of the voices.

"There is the ring upon her finger!" said the other, without answering the question. "Accursed be that brute for thus delaying us! I will shoot him with my own hand when I get back." He paused a moment, and then continued: "So, he thinks that there is no charm which can ever get that ring off again. But I will find one; and, if I mistake not, there is even now a mighty magician in the Louvre preparing the counterspell. No, no, my good lord, we will not change our plan. I must appear as the deliverer, not as the offender. The time is gone by when ladies fell in love with their ravishers; but where shall it be? Up towards La Chapelle?"

"No, no!" replied the other, "that will not do. You might say I was going to join the emperor. No, better in the valley just above Les Echelles. There, too, my good friend, we shall be free from those who stopped us in our last attempt. It will take us till daylight to get there, and that will be just the time."

"Hush! she is waking!" said the other. "Quick, close the lantern!" and, after a few words more, spoken in a still lower tone, there was a considerable movement in the chapel. Several persons came and went; and Isabel de Brienne, gradually waking again to a consciousness of her unhappy situation, heard the stern tones of the Marquis of Masseran, now speaking in a loud voice, and giving various orders to the people that surrounded him.

"Is the litter not come yet?" he said. "Go, some one, and hasten it: I will take care that no such plots as these are carried on again. Have you got the priest? I trust you have not let him escape."

"He is safe enough," replied one of the others; "he is safe enough, and up at the castle by this time. Here is the litter, my lord."

"Come, fair madam," said the Lord of Masseran, "if you cannot walk, we must have you borne forth. But surely a lady sufficiently active to deceive her own mother, and to find her way hither on such a night as this, may very well walk to the chapel door."

"My lord," said Isabel, faintly, "I did not deceive my mother. It was only one prisoner who concealed her plan of escape from another, compelled—I trust and believe unwillingly—to act the part of a spy and a jailer. I call every one to witness," she added, speaking as loud as her feeble state would permit, "that I protest against your removing me anywhere but to the court of the King of France, my native sovereign."

"Who said we were going to take you anywhere but to his court?" rejoined the Lord of Masseran. "Come, madam, come! Cease arguments and protests; I am your mother's husband, your guardian for the time, and that guardianship you shall not break through very easily." Thus saying, he raised her rudely by the arm, and, half leading, half dragging her, conveyed her to the door of the chapel, and placed her in a horse-litter which stood near. Some farther delay took place while the men around were mounting their horses and arranging the order of their march. When this was completed, however, the Lord of Masseran put himself at the head of his troop, and proceeded at a slow pace, taking a road that led away from the castle.

Isabel, unable to move, lay in the litter and wept; but she remarked that, from time to time, single horsemen passed from the rear to the front, and from the front to the rear, and that manifold were the orders and directions given to the different persons of whom the party was composed. No one, however, spoke a word to her; but it was some consolation to see, as day began to break upon their weary journey onward, that there was the form of another woman among the troopers on before. Isabel thought, too, that she had once heard, during the night, the voice of her maid speaking in a somewhat complaining tone; and the idea of having her society in the state of captivity she was doomed to suffer was no slight alleviation.

It was just at that moment, while the sky was still gray with night, but the rocks, and trees, and mountains round about growing every instant more clear and defined, that a good deal of bustle and agitation became evident in the party of the Marquis of Masseran. A minute or two afterward he halted on the edge of the hill, and was seen speaking eagerly with some of his followers. At the same time the sound of a trumpet was heard, and Isabel thought she could distinguish the galloping of horse. She then saw a number of the Lord of Masseran's followers, who were on before her, dismount, and, unslinging their firearms, fire a shot or two into the valley. A loud volley of musketry from some distant spot was heard immediately afterward, and the marquis, apparently in great haste and agitation, ordered the litter to be brought on with all speed, and driven forward in advance of the party. The discharges of musketry, however, both from his own attendants and from those who seemed to be pursuing him, grew more and more frequent every moment; the smoke drifted down the valley in long white wreaths, enveloping the litter, and making all the objects more indistinct than before; while the galloping of horse was now clearly heard, together with loud voices giving orders. Then came the clashing of swords, and two or three men on horseback were driven fiercely past the litter, contending with others hand to hand. After a short scene of tumult and confusion, the sound of the firing appeared to come from a greater distance. The two men on horseback who were guarding the litter suddenly stopped, gazed around them, and galloped away at full speed. The actual driver slipped down the rocks into the valley below, and seemed to hide himself among the bushes; while Isabel remained alone, with her hands tied, and unable to quit the vehicle in which she had been placed.

A number of voices talking aloud, however, soon met her ear, and a gay and gallant party, somewhat soiled with dust and smoke, rode up to the spot were she lay. The leader of the victorious body sprang from his horse at once; and, while one of his followers caught the reins of the horses in the litter, the Count de Meyrand approached Isabel's side, exclaiming, in a tone of much pity and commiseration, "I fear, indeed, Mademoiselle de Brienne, that you must have suffered terribly. Good God!" he continued, "the villain has actually tied her hands;" and on the spot, with his own dagger, he cut the cords, which had left a deep print on the small, delicate wrists that they had bound. At the same time, he added many a soothing word, but still with a tone of deference and respect, which made Isabel feel that deliverance by his hand was not, as she had at first been inclined to think, more painful than her former captivity. She spoke a few words of thanks for his assistance and attention; and, with an eagerness that waited not to be questioned, Adrian of Meyrand went on to tell her "that he had heard, late on the preceding night, that some violence had been shown to her, in consequence of an attempt she had made to escape from the castle of Masseran, and that her mother's husband was carrying her away far into Savoy.

"I have good reason to know," continued the count, "that this man has secret communications with the enemies of France, and I doubt not that his purpose was to remove you for ever from the neighbourhood of your friends and connexions, from your native country, and from the protection of the king. Although," he added, with a sigh, "I was not sure that my assistance would be acceptable, yet I could not resist my inclination to follow and offer you deliverance. I was afraid of offending you; but these bonds upon your hands, sweet lady, evidently show that you were carried away against your will, and, therefore, what I have done has not been in vain."

His words agreed so well with the suspicions which Isabel de Brienne had before entertained regarding the views and purposes of the Lord of Masseran, that they taught her to put more faith in the count than she might otherwise have been inclined to do. The respectful tone which he assumed, too, removed, as we have said, many anxieties from her mind, and she again expressed her thanks for the service he had rendered her, but still looked bewildered in his face, as if inquiring what was to be done next.

The Count de Meyrand skilfully read that look, and, knowing that her situation placed her entirely in his power for the time, he determined to leave her the utmost appearance of unrestrained liberty so long as she could use it to no effect. He said not a word then in regard to where her steps should be turned, but stood beside the litter with his cap in his hand, and the feather trailing on the ground, as if waiting for her commands.

Isabel was embarrassed: she could have wished to tell him all that had occurred; she could have wished to say, "I am Bernard de Rohan's wife. Protect me for the sake of your friend and companion." But there was a hesitation, a doubt, an apprehension: she had known and she had seen, with a woman's clear insight into all those things that appertain to love, how strong and dangerous was the passion which the Count de Meyrand had conceived for her; and, though timidity had certainly some share in making her hesitate to acknowledge at once her union with Bernard de Rohan, yet an apprehension of endangering him, of making his imprisonment more severe, of putting his very life in peril if she acknowledged her union with him to his rival, confirmed her resolution of taking time to think ere she so acted. What she was next to do, however, was the immediate question; and, after a long and embarrassing pause, she said, half as a question to herself and half to the count, "Where can I go to, and what can I do?"

That question was what Meyrand expected and what he desired. "If I might advise," he said, in an humble tone, "Mademoiselle de Brienne would at once proceed to the court of the King of France, and put herself under the protection of her own sovereign, who is the person best qualified to guide and guard her. She will there also have the counsel and assistance of her brother, and will consequently be restored to that situation of freedom, comfort, and, I trust, peace, of which I must think she was deprived by her mother's marriage with this unprincipled Savoyard."

"But there are many things," said Isabel, in a low tone, "but there are many things, Monsieur de Meyrand—" and, as she spoke, the thought came across her of leaving the man to whom she had so lately given her hand in danger, in grief, perhaps in misery, and of putting many hundreds of miles between them within a few hours after they had pledged themselves to each other to remain together for life.

The Count de Meyrand, however, cut her short. "At all events, dear lady," he said, "it is necessary, very necessary, for us to pass the French frontier immediately. It is at no great distance; and a few hours will place us in our native land. Depend upon it, this good Lord of Masseran will not lose his prize so easily. Every man I have in Savoy is with me here. He can call hundreds to his aid, and, I fear, might overwhelm me in spite of all resistance. If, indeed, you wish to remain in Savoy, I will do my best to protect you; but I fear much the consequences, and I would advise, nay, persuade you, to take the road to France at once. You can determine upon your future conduct afterward, when we are once across the frontier; for, though France holds this country by armed force, still it is not our own; and, while we keep the fortresses, we are obliged to leave the open country to its fate. Ha!" he continued, gazing along the road, down which a party of his attendants were now leading a horse, bearing the poor, quiet soubrette, who had followed her mistress through that eventful night. "Ha! here come some of my people, seemingly with a woman servant. If she be any one you can depend upon, it may be a great comfort for you to have her with you."

"She is my own maid," replied the lady, "and I think, my lord, as you do, that we had better, in the first instance, make our way into France direct, if the distance be not great to the frontier."

"It is but a few hours' ride," replied the count. "But we must lose no time lest the enemy be upon us."

Though Isabel was fatigued and exhausted with sorrow, agitation, and want of rest, she signified her readiness to proceed at once, and the horses in her litter were turned in the direction of the frontier. Her maid, too, weary with the long journey on horseback, took her place beside her mistress in the more easy conveyance; and the Count de Meyrand, riding close to the vehicle, continued to offer to Isabel de Brienne every kindly and soothing attention. Nor was his manner marked by any such signs of admiration or affection as could give her pain; but, at the same time, it must be confessed, she would have been much better satisfied to have been left to a communion with her own thoughts. The mere necessity of travelling any distance under the guidance and protection of a man whose love she had been forced to reject, and who had pressed it upon her in a way that she had felt to be insulting, was painful in the highest degree; and the prospect of having to proceed far in such circumstances was so grievous, that she resolved at all risks to avoid it. What plan she was to form for this purpose was a question which required much thought to answer; but the count took care that she should have no time either for calm consideration or for discussing her future prospects with the woman who accompanied her, and who was, in fact, the only one now with her whom she had known long and well.