Since Amabel Bloomberg traced the letters which will be found with this, how many years have elapsed! how many changes have taken place! How many persons are now insensible dust, who are described as agitated with such anxious fears and ardent hopes, by the pens of Amabel and the Damsels of Sargans! Accident has also made me mistress of the letters of those unfortunate sisters. Accident, did I say? Surely, it was something more than mere chance, which brought them into the hands of her, who is most able to supply that chasm, which otherwise would have been left in these adventures.

To undertake this task I have both leisure and information sufficient. My fate was too closely united with that of the sisters, to permit the slightest particular concerning them to be concealed from me; and jointly with theirs will my name be handed down to posterity.

Yet is it not an idle vanity, a love of worldly fame, which makes me desire this species of immortality?—Well then, I will repress the wish. Long practised in self-denial, I will make even this last sacrifice to my celestial spouse, and will write, as if I treated of strangers and of interests quite foreign to myself. No one shall know my name except Heaven, to whom alone is thoroughly known, how much I have suffered!

When I entered the world, the course of innocence and beauty lay among a thousand snares and pit-falls, which were the more dangerous from being most artfully concealed. This is a truth which I learnt to my cost, before I sought, and found, tranquillity in a convent.

Amabel was blind to those snares; though they were spread carelessly enough for her to have seen them, had not her own guileless nature thrown a veil over her eyes, and had not female obstinacy made her reject the prudent warnings of her best friends.

The visit to Engelberg, which she had agreed upon in concert with her brother’s wife, was made the next day; and the latter, as young, imprudent, and unsuspicious as Amabel, undertook to excuse her sister-in-law’s absence to the jealous Arnold, and the sick old man, who suffered no quarter of an hour to pass without enquiring for his daughter. However, Juttila engaged to invent some means for satisfying him till Amabel’s return, which was delayed much longer than either of them intended.

How indeed could she return so speedily, since adventures encountered her on the road, on which she little reckoned, and whose nature was of sufficient consequence to have a fearful influence over herself, and over all those who were most dear to her? Alas! the cottage which she left with such a thoughtless heart, she was destined to revisit no more with such content: the fate of the two sisters, which she was so eager to learn, was now enveloped by such impenetrable darkness, that she in vain.... But I am running away from the proper order of events, which in truth it is natural for one of my profession and time of life to do. Be it known to you, my youthful readers that it is not easy for an old doating Nun to transcribe even a verse out of her Psalter, without tacking to it at least a dozen of her own childish observations.

At Engelberg Amabel found the Nun to whom Wolfenrad had directed her to apply, and who was his confidante and the secret instrument for effecting the carrying away of Amalberga. She assured Amabel, that her friend had by no means been forced away; but that on account of the assiduities of the Lord of Landenberg, and the popular disturbances which increased with every day, Amalberga had voluntarily chosen to withdraw herself from Engelberg.

—“Your partiality for the governor,” said the artful hypocrite, “and your incessant pleading in behalf of a man whom she could not love, made the Lady unwilling to let you know her design. I was her sole confidante on this occasion, and I think I have done well in enabling the dear soul to escape from the temptations of the wicked world! She has taken refuge in the Convent of Zurich, under the protection of an old Lady called Urania, who is either her friend or some near relation, for I understand, never was there joy known equal to that of their meeting.”—

In this account Amabel could not discover the least vestige of deception or improbability: still she blamed the Nun greatly for concealing the real cause of Amalberga’s disappearance, by which means the spirit of discontent was encouraged among the people against Landenberg, who bore the odium of having violated the sanctuary, and forcibly carried away an inmate of those holy walls.

The Nun made but an indifferent defence against this charge, and Amabel left her by no means satisfied with her conduct. However, she soon forgot what little had displeased her in the Nun’s conversation, and gave herself up entirely to the joy of being assured, that one of her friends at least was safe in the arms of friendship and of maternal love.

—“Oh! that I could but have the same assurance respecting my beloved Emmeline!” thus said Amabel to herself, as she hastened back to her brother’s cottage; “Oh! that as I pass homewards, chance would but throw Wolfenrad in my way, that I might learn from him what he knows about the dear-one! He might just tell me in half a dozen words, and then hurry away, in order that I might not blush too deep a crimson, when the severe Censurer of my actions looks me in the face, and says with his magisterial air,—‘Now, Amabel! whence do you come, and with whom have you spoken?’—How ridiculous, that Arnold should take it into his head, that an old man like Wolfenrad has designs upon a young creature like me, not yet twenty! Yet ridiculous as it is, his anxiety proceeds from the warmth of his affection for me, and I ought to forgive my good Arnold for the faults of his head, when I recollect the kindness of his heart.”—

Such were the thoughts which occupied Amabel, as she hastily retraced the long way between her home and the Convent; and as she past along, she threw many an anxious look on every side in hopes of seeing the man, who alone could confirm to her the fortunate escape of her friend. Wolfenrad had frequently business that carried him to Engelberg, and it was by no means improbable, that she should encounter him on her way.

In fact, the tempter had long been at no great distance from the fair pilgrim, though without her seeing him; since he stole along concealed by a thick hawthorn plantation, which bordered more than half the road between the village and the Convent of Engelberg.

It is easy for the wicked to guess what steps will be taken by unsuspecting innocence, whose proceedings are the natural result of existing circumstances and feelings. Wolfenrad knew how warmly Amabel’s heart was interested about her friends; he had given her hopes of obtaining intelligence respecting them; he had pointed out the place, where a part of those hopes might be realized; and he was therefore certain of finding her on the road to that place, before many days were elapsed. He had accidentally missed seeing her on her way to Engelberg; but when on her return she was descending the Convent-hill, he espied her from behind the watch-tower which stands at the farthest extremity of the mount, and then hastened to shelter himself behind the hawthorn hedge, in order that he might unseen watch her motions, and discover what temper she was in, before he accosted her.

And thus did he for some time steal along, examining every change of her expressive countenance, and drawing but too just conclusions of the subject, which employed her thoughts. Her look, now gay, now sorrowful, and the impatient glances which she frequently threw around her, would have been sufficient to betray her, even though a few broken sentences, which escaped from her in the anxiety of her mind, had not left him without a doubt of his presence being perfectly welcome.

Wolfenrad’s plans for the innocent girl’s ruin had been so long arranged, that they were ready to be carried into effect at a moment’s warning; nor could he have wished for a more favourable opportunity than the present. The fiercest passion for Amabel reigned in his bosom, and deceived him who was so well skilled in deceiving others. He fancied, that in her impatient looks, in the tone which she used in pronouncing his name occasionally, there was something more than mere friendship for Emmeline, and that love was the motive that made her so anxious to meet him! Immortal powers! Love! love from a girl, pure as innocence itself, for such an earthly dæmon, a dæmon both in person and in mind!

—“Yet however she may be disposed,” ’twas thus he argued with himself, “too abrupt an appearance, too hasty a discovery of my views, might do me a prejudice, and put her too much upon her guard. When her impatience is worked up to the highest pitch, I shall be the more secure of her.”—

And therefore he still remained invisible, and hastened onwards, keeping still a little way before her; so that when the fair pilgrim reached the end of the plantation, and emerged into the open plain, she descried him crossing the path at some distance, as if totally unaware of her approach.

Amabel gave a cry of joy, called him by his name, and flew to join him.

—“Is it you, my fair dame?” answered Wolfenrad. “What would you with me?”—and he stopped, as waiting for her to come up to him.

—“Oh! tell me! tell me! give me some tidings of the damsel of Sargans!”—

—“You have been to Engelberg, and surely must have heard more there, than I am able to tell you.”—

“Oh! no, no, no! Emmeline! speak of Emmeline!”—

—“Why, the Lady Emmeline.... Concealment being absolutely necessary.... But we are close to your jealous brother’s house, and he may take offence at our conference—Farewell! I must find an opportunity of communicating what I know unobserved, when I return from Uri.”—

“From Uri? Heavens! and when do you go thither, and how long shall you remain away?”—

—“I set out to-morrow; as to my stay, I fear the disturbances there will make my return very distant.”—

Amabel’s impatience to know something decisive respecting her friend now grew beyond all bounds. She entreated him at least to put it out of doubt that Emmeline had been saved from the flames, and hesitated not to follow him into a bye-path, which conducted to the Castle. As they passed along, the deceiver began a long and wonderful narrative of Emmeline’s adventures, which occupied his auditor’s whole attention; but as it contained not one syllable of truth, it would be superfluous to relate it here.

—“But one question more!” said Amabel at length, and stopped. “See! night is approaching; we are already at the foot of the Castle-hill, and I have still a weary way to traverse, ere I can regain my brother’s cottage, where, I fear, I must be already missed. You assure me that Emmeline is safe, and is concealed in the neighbourhood: Oh! tell me then where she is concealed, for my bosom pants to embrace her!”—

—“That were easily done. You see the Castle is close at hand: thither have I brought her, and I mean to convey her with me to Uri to-morrow, since the disturbances which prevail in these parts render them an unsafe abode.”—

—“To Uri? To-morrow? Cruel, cruel Wolfenrad! Would you then have removed her, without suffering me to see her for one moment?”—

—“How could I have contrived an interview without betraying the secret? Had not accident thrown you in my way, I should not have had an opportunity of even telling you, that she is in your neighbourhood. However, as soon as she was out of the reach of discovery, you would have received a letter explaining every thing. I left her occupied in writing it, and when finished it was to be delivered to your husband’s care, who is now with her at the Castle, and who has been the chief means of bringing her hither in safety.”—

—“What say you? My husband? Is Edmund then with Emmeline? Oh! lead me to him, dear Wolfenrad, I must accompany you to the Castle; permit me to pass this last evening with the dear lady; or at least suffer me to embrace her once more, and assure her of my unchanged affection, and then my husband can conduct me back to my brother.”—

Wolfenrad heard this proposal with a malicious smile, and answered that for his part he had no objection; but he suggested his fears, lest her taking such a step should displease the suspicious Arnold, who surpassed her husband in jealousy a thousand fold.

—“Oh! heed not that!” exclaimed Amabel; “while I am with you, I can set all suspicions at defiance!”—

She said this thoughtlessly, for she alluded to his age and ugliness. The miscreant however interpreted it to his own taste, and saw in it the confirmation of his insolent hopes. He was on the point of rewarding the avowal by a tender pressure of her hand, which perhaps might have opened her eyes, ere it was too late: but she prevented him by making a thousand fond enquiries respecting her beloved Edmund, which put him again upon his guard, and which were not ended till they arrived at the Castle. The gates were closed: Wolfenrad sounded his horn; the draw-bridge descended. He entered the Castle; Amabel followed him, and the moment that she had passed the threshold, heard with terror the noise of a port-cullis falling behind her.

How strange is it, that we should frequently remain thoroughly blind till we reach a certain point, and then be rouzed at once from our delusions by some unimportant circumstance! Amabel has frequently told me since, that the sound of that port-cullis (though nothing unusual in the Castle) gave her the first indistinct idea of her imprudence and the danger of her situation.

Her voice faltered, as she pronounced the names of Edmund and Emmeline, while she hastily withdrew her hand, which Wolfenrad had now seized with an air of impetuous passion. She looked him anxiously in the face, and her eyes read with horror in his an expression, which explained to her the whole fearful secret.

Yet she was still unwilling to believe that man so great a villain, whom she had long believed so much her friend. It was not till she was convinced, that neither Edmund nor Emmeline were in the Castle; that she found herself totally alone with the wretch, whom she had despised as being too insignificant to be dangerous; and that an old woman, whom (in order to calm the first violence of her feelings) he had produced to her as his wife, was nothing more than a domestic; it was not till then, that she saw the whole business clearly, and the sight was one of such danger, that perhaps had she been a woman of a common mind, it would have thrown her into such a state of bodily insensibility, or of mental dejection, as might effectually have prevented all endeavours to effect an escape. But Amabel was a daughter of Helvetia! that is, she was a woman, whose powers both of body and mind existed in their fullest vigour; neither the first was weakened by luxurious indulgence, nor the second liable to be subdued by imaginary terrors. In spite of all that credulity and imprudence which had betrayed her into her present danger, her imagination was still both clear and acute enough to suggest a means for effecting her rescue, or at least for gaining time.

She appeared reserved and shy, and sat down in silence to the voluptuous entertainment, which was now served up by Wolfenrad’s confidante; the only person, whom he suffered to penetrate into that part of the Castle. Yet did Amabel contrive to give her silence the appearance of being preserved much against her will; she refused not at Wolfenrad’s request to lay aside the large hat, which overshadowed her face, and which (as he complained) concealed from him numberless beauties; nor did she draw away very hastily or with a look of extreme displeasure her soft white hand, when he prest it passionately between his own.

—“May I flatter myself,” said the deceived deceiver, “that Amabel does not absolutely hate me?”—

—“My religion forbids my hating any one.”—

—“And you are not very much offended at my having employed a little artifice to procure myself the happiness of this evening?”—

“—Artifice?—Nay; the effect of accident, and ... and, I am afraid, my own inclination was so much on your side, that....”—

—“My charming Amabel! then I may hope, that Wolfenrad is not entirely indifferent to you!”—

—“Indifferent? Oh! that you are not indeed!—And as to hoping ... why, nobody can prevent your doing that, you know.”—

And with this kind of doubtful and flattering discourse did she long entertain the betrayer, and forgot not to fill the silver bowls from time to time; though the effects of his frequent draughts prevented him from observing, that while she poured wine into his goblet, nothing but water entered into her own.

At the expence of a few disgusting kisses, which were forced from her occasionally, she at length had the pleasure to see Wolfenrad fall senseless from his chair. It was midnight; the old woman had long since betaken herself to rest, and Amabel found herself at liberty to wander through the vacant chambers in search of some means of escape.

Alas! the locks and bars were immoveable, and no keys were to be found.—She at length discovered an unfastened door opening into a balcony; it overhung the middle court; the height was fearful; yet would she have gladly ran the hazard of springing below, if she had not dreaded the meeting there with a greater danger, than that from which she was flying. The Castle-Garrison occupied this quarter. She heard from above the conversation, which passed between the sentinels; and its nature was such as to leave her no hope of finding from them protection or even pity. It also informed her, that Wolfenrad’s bounty, and his winking at their committing the most heinous offences, had united them too closely to his interests, to admit even a chance of their acting in opposition to his will.

She wept in agony! She wrung her hands! At length despair took possession of her whole soul. She eyed for a while the torch, which flamed in her hand, and in a moment of desperate resolution she determined to set the Castle on fire; in hopes of either being able to effect her escape during the conflagration, or at least of saving herself by death from existing for one instant with dishonour.

Thus resolved, she was on the point of quitting the balcony when a well-known name struck her ear. She stopt, and listened. Two sentinels stood beneath the balcony, and she heard one tell the other, that it would be necessary to wake Wolfenrad; for that he (the sentinel) was just returned from the outer wall, and had seen a company of soldiers crossing over the plain; that he had hailed one of them, and found them to be part of those who had accompanied Bloomberg to Sargans, and that their leader with the rest of his troops would follow them before mid-day.

—“Bloomberg their leader?” said his companion. “And since when has the gentle peace-loving Bloomberg turned soldier, and what has Wolfenrad to fear from a fellow, who but yesterday followed the plough?”—

“Faith,” rejoined the first, “this is a time, when every countryman exchanges his sickle and ploughshare for a sword and spear; and I know enough of Edmund Bloomberg to be convinced, that the carrying off his pretty wife will make him rage like a mad bull.”—

—“Carrying off, d’ye call it?” said the other; “I think, she seemed to follow Wolfenrad of her own accord; and if Bloomberg draws his sword upon her account, the more fool Bloomberg!”—

A burst of insulting laughter terminated this conversation, every syllable of which pierced Amabel to the heart; and the soldiers separated, having agreed that it was unnecessary to disturb Wolfenrad that night, and that the news of Bloomberg’s return might safely be delayed till the next morning.

Amabel burst into tears; but she soon recollected, that she had better occupation than weeping. A thousand ideas floated before her mind, inspired by the distant hope which she derived from the assurance, that in a few hours her husband would pass within sight of her prison. The great object therefore was to gain time to wait for his arrival with safety, and find means to inform him of her confinement in the Castle.

Accident furnished her with both. She returned trembling into the apartment, where the vile Wolfenrad still lay sleeping, the most odious picture of intoxication that the eye ever witnessed. Despair made her snatch a knife from the table, and she rushed to plunge it into his heart; but here the softness of woman’s nature got the better of her resolution and her vengeance. She threw down the knife, and hastened into the balcony, that in the free air and under the sky thick sown with stars, she might implore the Creator of that sky to look down upon and assist her in this hour of fear and danger. She rose from prayer much comforted: she turned towards the East, and looked eagerly for the arrival of the dawn, whose approach was already announced. She soon perceived, that the balcony in which she stood, though much too high from the ground to admit of her throwing herself from it without being dashed to pieces, at least commanded an extensive view over the surrounding country, and was admirably calculated for summoning any passing travellers to her assistance.

Oh! now, would but the sleeping Libertine doze away the morning, all might be well! Often did she steal softly into the chamber to see, whether he gave any signs of waking; again the knife attracted her gaze. She seized it, and concealed it in her bosom, as her last resource should all others fail.

It was now broad-day. Wolfenrad stretched himself, yawned, and opened his red eye-lids. Amabel fled to a distant corner, but his voice soon compelled her to return.

—“My charming angel,” said he, “come near me. You filled my goblet last night too generously, and this morning I feel myself still under the influence of the too potent liquor. Beshrew me, but I am marvellously indisposed.”—

—“Let not that trouble you, my dear friend,” answered Amabel, while she advanced a few paces, trembling with apprehension; “while I resided in the Castle of Sargans, Count Donat frequently found himself unwell from a similar indulgence in convivial pleasures; but he soon got the better of his indisposition by using a warm bath, which never failed to restore him to perfect health within an hour. In the next chamber there is a large brazen cistern; the water shall be heated for you without delay, and as soon as your bath is ready, I will call some of your attendants to convey you thither.”—

Without waiting for his answer, she hastened to her new occupation; she soon returned with one pitcher of water, then went back again for another, and thus contrived to get rid of near an hour, never failing as she passed the balcony to cast from it a glance of enquiry, whether there were yet no signs of her deliverer.

It was in vain, that Wolfenrad desired her to call some of the servants to spare her this unnecessary labour. Amabel remonstrated against the impropriety of suffering herself to be seen by strangers in his apartment, and at the same time protested, that she felt the greatest pleasure in taking this trouble, since it was for him that she took it. Wolfenrad knew not how to find terms sufficiently strong to express his gratitude for her attention, and protested, that he had not flattered himself with the idea of possessing so warm an interest in her heart.

He was still expatiating on the satisfaction which this agreeable discovery gave him, when the sound of trampling at a distance struck her hearing. She looked towards the window, and descried a cloud of dust. Down fell the pitcher from her hand.

—“Your bath is ready!” she said in a voice scarcely audible from agitation; and while Wolfenrad staggered into the adjoining chamber, she hastened into the balcony. The horsemen came nearer; she recognized many countenances well known to her; she recognized among them that of Edmund Bloomberg.

His name pronounced in her loudest tone, the cry of “Help for the Virgin’s sake!” and her handkerchief waved in the air towards the horsemen, soon attracted their attention. With equal surprise and terror Bloomberg recognized his wife at a balcony of the Castle, heard her implore assistance, and flew with his brave companions to afford it. What followed, I shall relate briefly: the narrative of this adventure may appear already too circumstantial, since its connexion with the Sisters of Sargans is not at present evident; but it had too material an influence upon the fate of all Helvetia to admit of my passing it over with a slight mention.

Before the Castle-Garrison had time to communicate to their Superior that intelligence, which they ought to have conveyed to him the preceding night, and while all hands were busily employed in guarding against an attack on the main-quarter, Bloomberg and his friends had already forced their way into the Castle at that neglected side, whence Amabel had called to them for assistance.

The bath, in which the still half-intoxicated Wolfenrad hoped to get rid of the effects of his night’s excess, was crimsoned with his blood. Amabel again found herself safe in the hands of her husband, in whose bosom delight contended with indignation. The opposition of the garrison to the complete conquest of the Castle was but trifling; and this fortress would certainly have remained in the hands of the Helvetians (a circumstance to them of the greatest advantage) had their numbers been strong enough to resist the troops, who were shortly after sent against them by the Abbot of St. Gall and other allies of the governor. Bloomberg’s friends were inadequate to maintaining the possession of their conquest, and in a few days afterwards he was compelled to evacuate the Castle.

Hitherto, the resentment of the multitude had been restrained within some bounds: but Amabel’s adventure and the death of Wolfenrad were the signal for open rebellion. The whole country was floated with blood: would that I could say, that the blood which flowed was entirely that of the foes of freedom! But alas! the number of the oppressors was too mighty. The Helvetians were over-powered; and after displaying the sentiments and performing the actions of heroes, Edmund Bloomberg, Arnold Melthal, and his venerable father Henric (to whom patriotism and his daughter’s injuries had restored some of his youthful strength) were constrained to fly from those beloved unhappy vallies, which once had been the favourite abodes of freedom and tranquillity.

The name of “flight” was of itself offensive to Helvetian candour and courage; the place to which they were compelled to address their flight, made it no less painful than disgraceful. Altdorf, which was in the jurisdiction of Gessler, whose tyranny had already been the cause of such bitter sufferings to Henric and Arnold, was the only refuge which remained to them. By remaining here quiet and concealed, till time allowed them to find fresh means of resisting their enemies, they hoped to escape Gessler’s notice; and accordingly they hastened to take shelter at Altdorf, with the brave William Tell, Bloomberg’s half-brother: here also they were sure of a powerful protector in the person of Walter Forest, a man whose situation and native greatness of mind struck awe into the bosom even of the insolent Gessler.

Here then the fugitives remained concealed, and nourished hopes of better times, which perhaps would have made even the present chearful, had not domestic discord obtruded itself into their little circle. The imprudence with which Amabel had thrown herself into the seducer’s snare, in spite of all his warnings and remonstrances, had not passed uncensured by her brother. His bitter reproaches sometimes excited Edmund’s anger, and sometimes his jealousy; and the poor girl would have been absolutely wretched, had not her father sustained her cause, and had not her innocence found a most strenuous advocate in William Tell. It is true, the language of veracity, in which she related her unadorned story, was not to be mistaken; but still it required Tell’s cool unprejudiced nature, and his noble guileless heart, to see every circumstance in its real colours.

He at length succeeded in restoring perfect harmony in Bloomberg’s family, and Amabel blessed him for the second time as the author of all her earthly happiness. Perhaps, her entire reconciliation with her husband was a little forwarded by Arnold’s absence. This impetuous young man had been the ring-leader of those, who at the Easter feast had insulted the Abbot of St. Gall by singing the ballad of “Bishop Ulric;” the Abbot had not forgotten it; and the unfortunate Arnold at length fell into one of the many snares, which had been spread for him by his priestly foe. Doubtless, he would have fallen a victim to the Abbot’s vengeance, had not Werner Bernsdorf, by means which it is unnecessary to relate circumstantially, contrived to release him from his dungeon, and sheltered him in his own house.

Though Amabel had received her husband’s full pardon, still the reconciliation had taken place too freshly to allow her as yet to feel quite at her ease: and now when the news arrived that her brother (whom she loved most dearly in spite of his violence) was a prisoner, she would have had sufficient reason to be unhappy, even had she not been tormented by the most cruel anxiety respecting the fate of the Damsels of Sargans. She ceased not to make enquiries concerning them; and at length she received the confirmation of her bitterest apprehensions. Amalberga was beyond a doubt totally in Landenberg’s power, who (in spite of all Wolfenrad’s assertions to the contrary) kept her confined in the Castle of Rassburg; nor was it less certain, that the Lady Emmeline had perished in the flames of St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary. Report spread far and wide many strange anecdotes respecting that conflagration, which I shall relate in another place; in truth, there is no one better able to give an account of that dreadful incident than myself.

The tears, which Amabel shed for herself and for her beloved friends, were soon required by a still more painful cause: misfortunes now awaited her, which were worthy to be mourned with tears of blood.

The furious Gessler’s insolence increased with every succeeding day. His most earnest care was to discover those who disapproved of him, that he might revenge himself by their torments. At length his pride and folly grew to such a height, that he fixed the plumed bonnet (which he usually wore) upon a lance in the market-place of Altdorf, and ordered, that all who passed should bow before it. The sneering populace obeyed, and contented themselves with whispering to each other, that they had much rather pay their respect to the empty hat, than the wicked head which it was accustomed to decorate: but William Tell and some few others of the principal inhabitants passed by the bonnet proudly and with unbending necks. From that moment did Gessler mark them down as the future victims of his revenge and rancour.

Had the tyrant dared to lay violent hands on Tell, or had he contrived means of stamping the mark of infamy on his reputation; had he sold the wife of his bosom for a slave, or murdered his infants before his eyes; still would all these atrocities have been excelled by that, which now entered his infernal brain. A prize was to be contended for by archers. The sport was interrupted by the arrival of Gessler. What was the horror of all who heard him, when he commanded his guards to seize Tell’s son, a lovely child but four years old, and bind him to the tree which had been selected as a mark for the arrows. He then declared aloud with the most impious execrations, that the heads of six of Tell’s relations (whom he had confined upon some slight pretences) should fall before night, unless the father would engage at a considerable distance to fix a dart into an apple, which should be placed on the head of the child.

How did the father burn with secret indignation, when Gessler dared to lay before him this unnatural proposal! No earthly force could have compelled him to arm his hand for the performance of an action so uncertain and so fearful; yet in fact the bow and arrow could be scarcely called an uncertain weapon in the hands of the most dexterous archer in Helvetia: and after a few moments past in thought he confidently accepted a proposal, whose atrocity (he was certain) was thoroughly felt by all present; and whose consequence he trusted would be the kindling the fire of liberty in every bosom till it should at length break into open flames, and the emancipating his country for ever from its present state of ignominious bondage.

A glance, more expressing contempt than wrath, was darted by Tell’s dark eyes upon the Governor, as he rocked himself backwards and forwards upon his elevated chair of state, and looked down upon the circle of noble Helvetians, whom the sports had attracted to Altdorf, as if they had been creatures of an inferior kind.

Gessler was too void of sensibility to understand the meaning of the glance, which was darted on him by Tell’s piercing eye. He only smiled contemptuously at having compelled the pride of this great mind to stoop itself to his orders, when he saw him press the lovely laughing child, his latest-born, to his heart with passion, and then bear him in his arms to the tree, where he was destined to take his stand. The apple, which was the nominal mark for that arrow, whose point Gessler hoped to see crimsoned with human blood, was fixed on the child’s head by the hands of the unhappy father.

Gessler’s attendants prepared to bind the innocent creature to the tree; but a spark of paternal spirit already burned in the soul of the son.

—“I am an Helvetian!” cried he with boyish eagerness; “I am not afraid of death, but of bonds: why, if my father really wanted to kill me, do you think I would run away?”—

All withdrew from the place, where Death’s intended victim stood calm and sweetly-smiling, like a second Isaac. The multitude, agonized with terror, could scarcely be heard to breathe: Tell had already taken his station. All were still, all dreading, lest the father’s hand, rendered trembling and uncertain by anxiety for his darling, should for the first time miss the mark; when the arrow whistled through the air, and fixed itself in the apple just above the crown of the child’s head, who saw it coming towards him, and smiled as he marked its flight.

Now then all rushed, eagerly to learn the event of this awful scene. Some exclaimed—“He is fallen! he is fallen!”—But the boy had only stooped to pick up the apple which the force of the blow had struck from his head; and he now presented it to his father, who had flown to embrace his rescued darling with speed scarce inferior to that of his arrow.

—“I was certain, father,” cried the child, as he hung round the neck of the breathless Tell, “I was certain, that you were not really going to kill your own William!”—

—“Kill thee?” exclaimed the father; “sooner would I have driven the arrow into my own heart! But eternal curses and sudden death to him, who would have made a man the murderer of his own child! Look!” he continued, while he clasped the boy to his breast with one hand, and with the other drew from his bosom a dart, which he held towards Gessler, “Look, monster! had the first arrow pierced my son’s breast, this should have been buried to the very beard in thine.—For this time thou art safe; but yet rest thou assured, that at the last thou shalt not escape unpunished! Though I may spare thee, Heaven will not.”—

—“Vengeance! vengeance! death and curses to the tyrant! Eternal destruction to the infernal Gessler and all the miscreants who assist him!” thus exclaimed the multitude with one voice; while they closed round Tell in order to conduct him home in safety, and protect him from the Governor’s guards, to whom a signal had been given to fall upon him without delay.

But the friends of liberty were too weak in numbers to resist their powerful oppressors. Before the gallant Tell had retraced half the way to his cottage, his companions were dispersed, and himself delivered into the hands of his enemy. Gessler commanded, that he should be bound, thrown into a vessel which was ready for sailing, and conveyed to the dungeons of Kussnach, as a violator of the respect due to imperial dignity.

No one was suffered to accompany Tell; but his little son clung to the bonds which were cutting the flesh of his father, and cried, that he would throw himself into the flood, if they tore him from him. Gessler’s soldiers had no objection to taking two victims instead of one, and yielded to the child’s request, whom Amabel followed into the vessel without being questioned. The boy was her darling, and it was she who had conducted him to the fatal archery, where it was his destiny to play so principal a part. The cry that he was safe had rouzed her from the swoon into which the sight of his danger had thrown her; and she now found it impossible to part so soon from the cherub, whom she had expected never more to clasp to her bosom but as a corse. She had also no slight grounds for apprehending new dangers for the rescued victim, should she leave him in the hands of his enemies with no other protector than his captive father. Gessler’s servile ministers could not have well pitched upon a more skilful or certain means of inflicting pain on Tell, than by murdering his son before his face.

Amabel was aware of this; and dreading lest this horrible plan of vengeance should occur to the soldiers, she took the first opportunity of enticing the child away from his father, and concealing him in a dark corner of the vessel. Here she charged the little William to remain quiet, and pointing to Tell, bade him observe how quiet his father was lying on the floor, his fettered hands clasped together and raised towards Heaven, whither his eyes directed devout and imploring glances, which reached the Preserver of innocence above the clouds.

—“What is my father doing?” enquired the child at length in a whisper.

—“He is praying for himself and for us,” answered Amabel.

—“Oh! then God will hear him, and help him; and then you know, we can creep out, and take away those ugly cords from his poor bleeding hands.”—

Amabel replied in the manner, which she thought most likely to satisfy the child; and a conversation was carried on in whispers between her and her little companion which gradually became interesting enough to prevent their observing that a dreadful storm was rising, that thick clouds had changed the day into night, and that the light vessel was forced far out of its intended course. The rolling of the thunder, the frequent flashes of lightning, and the heavy torrents of rain at length made both attentive and silent; till William proposed that he should steal to his father under covert of the thick darkness, and spread his little coat over him, for Tell lay entirely exposed to the tempest. Amabel burst into tears as she listened to the kind-hearted boy, then gave him her own cloak, and bade him hasten to alleviate the prisoner’s sufferings.

But Tell showed by no sign, that he was conscious of this affecting testimony of his child’s care: he remained with his hands clasped, and his eyes still fixed upon the heavens. Perhaps, the transactions of that day had blunted all his feelings; perhaps, he was revolving plans of escape, which never fail to occupy the thoughts of the captive hero, and whose future execution frequently prevent his being sensible of the weight of present calamities.

The tempest continued to rage: with every moment the danger of the slight vessel became more imminent. Tell, Amabel, and the child were now left by themselves. The other persons were employed in various quarters, endeavouring if possible to save the ship, which was already deprived of sail and mast. The prisoners were now the happiest of the party: they at least rejoiced in the hope of perishing together. The child too, who had no clear idea of the danger, and fancied that everything went wrong only because his father was in bonds, ceased not to exert all his little powers in endeavouring to untye the cords; but even with Amabel’s assistance he found the task too difficult for his strength.

While they were still employed in this unavailing labour, they heard the cry of distress increase with tenfold violence: presently some one on the upper deck exclaimed—“Now then all is lost! What winds and waves have failed in doing, will be done by the hidden rocks which abound upon this coast, and with which not a soul of us is acquainted. Oh! what would I now give to be as good a pilot as Tell, and to possess his knowledge of these shores!”—

Amabel started up, and listened with more attention. She heard the name of Tell frequently mentioned; and after a few minutes past in contention, some of the sailors approached the place, where she stood by the side of her unfortunate friend.

—“Tell,” said the Captain, “you know, that your life is forfeit to the law; but if you will engage to conduct the vessel safe to land, as a favour we will unbind you, and promise to do our utmost to obtain a milder sentence for you from the Emperor’s mercy.”—

—“I have saved many a vessel,” answered Tell, “in a more desperate situation than the present; and that which has succeeded with me ten times before, I trust, will not fail with me now.—As to what you say about favours, bestow them on those who ask them; I expect mercy from no one, save from Him under whose hand we all now tremble!”—

Tell was unbound, and the rudder committed to his care. William and Amabel still remained close by his side, while the rest of the ship’s company dispersed to their several stations.

Tell’s rudder seemed to command the tempest: he steered confidently through the foaming waves, and already the companions of his danger shouted with joy at the certainty of their escape.

—“And what will be the reward of our preserver?” asked one of the most compassionate among Gessler’s soldiers.

—“What should it be?” answered their leader angrily. “The most he can lay claim to is a speedy death without being previously tortured; or perhaps his sentence may be softened into that of eternal imprisonment.”—

Tell was silent, and cast a despairing look through the dark clouds of the storm towards the Only-one, from whom he had hopes of assistance!

—“Oh! that I had no one here to tremble for, except myself!” said Tell to the afflicted Amabel, who knelt beside him after a silence of some minutes—“how quickly should I be safe from the malice of my enemies!”—

—“And what then would you do?”—

—“The rocks are not lofty! One bold and lucky spring, and I were in safety!”—

—“Throw me into the waves, father!” cried the boy, “throw me into the waves, for I am a hindrance to you!”—

At that moment a tremendous flash of lightning illuminated the whole scene. Tell descried an immense tree at a slight distance growing out of a rock which they were approaching, and extending its arms far over the foaming flood—

“Amabel!” cried Tell, “dare you seize a bough of that tree as we pass under it, suffer the bark to be carried away from you, and cling fast to the branch, till I have time to come to your assistance?”—

—“I dare! I dare!” cried Amabel in the tone of desperation—“But the child! Oh! God! the child!”—

—“Be that my care!—Be prepared!—Now then!” he cried, and was obeyed. He saw that she had fast hold of the bough, and in the same moment he seized the boy with his left arm, with his right turned the rudder to-wards the rock, then sprang boldly from the deck, and left the vessel with its unthankful freight a prey to the raging flood. The tempest seized it; the rudder was broken in the shock, and dreadful was the shriek of the crew, as the fury of the winds and waves drove it far away over the roaring billows. Tell sprang upon the rock unhurt; he hastily climbed up the upper part of the coast, and having placed the boy on the ground, he flew to give Amabel his assistance. But she, who was deficient neither in strength of body or presence of mind, had already found means to gain the rock in which the tree was rooted, had forced her way through all impediments, and had nearly reached the loftiest of the broken cliffs, before he could arrive. He assisted her to attain the summit, when she instantly sank on her knees, and returned thanks to God with all the joy of one just rescued from destruction.

But I forget, that Tell and Amabel are in fact foreign to my story, and I have already suffered myself to dwell on their adventures too long, to the prejudice of my real heroines. I will therefore pass over in silence the circumstances which followed their escape from the vessel, and those which again threw them into Gessler’s power. Suffice it to say, that the dart which the Avenger of human nature seemed to have reserved for that express purpose, the dart which Tell had shown Gessler, in the first burst of his indignation, that very dart pierced the tyrant’s bosom; and thus was Helvetia freed from a monster, who had laid waste her tranquil vallies with circumstances of much greater cruelty, than were ever attributed to fabled dragons in the Legends of Romance.

After performing this dangerous act of justice, Tell betook himself to Stein, where he intended to take refuge with Werner Bernsdorf. Here he found new cause to rejoice at having rid the world of Gessler. Bernsdorf’s new-raised edifice, the admiration of the whole country, lay an heap of ashes! Gessler had thought it too good for a private man, and had threatened to pull it down. Werner laughed at his threats, for it seemed to be no trifle to destroy the property of a man of his consequence, while living in the midst of a neighbourhood, where every arm and every heart were devoted to his service: but he did not reflect, that villany can find a hundred secret means for effecting its purposes. In the depth of the night a fire broke out, which, from its bursting all at once from the four corners of the building, and at a time when all were buried in sleep, gained ground too rapidly to admit of its being got under. Werner and Gertrude saved nothing from the flames, except their lives. Every one exclaimed against secret incendiaries, and no one doubted by whose orders this shameful action had been committed: in fact, there were proofs sufficient to make it morally certain, that the author of this mischief could be no other than Gessler.

The sight of his friend’s distress (for this fire had reduced Werner to beggary) raised Tell’s indignation to the highest pitch. He left Amabel and his son to the care of Gertrude, and hastened with Bernsdorf in disguise back to Altdorf, to consult with Walter Forest and Henric Melthal on the best and speediest means of rescuing Helvetia from her disgraceful yoke. Arnold Melthal also, who had but lately escaped from the dungeons of the Abbot of St. Gall, increased their band; and the union of five men so remarkable for courage and for prudence produced such fortunate and such glorious consequences, as will immortalize their names to the latest posterity^[1].