Bloomberg hastened to Stein, to rejoice with his wife at her escape, and to efface in her embraces the injurious impressions, to which his too easy heart had given way during their separation. Spite and Envy had not neglected the opportunity of calumniating one of Amabel’s noblest actions. Her frank and guileless nature had prevented her from making it a secret, that the admirable William Tell had been the first love of her innocent heart; and her voluntary forsaking her family, in order that she might share the fate of that gallant prisoner (a circumstance of which all Altdorf had been an eye-witness) had found that misinterpretation, which Calumny is always so eager to bestow on those heroic actions, of which she feels herself incapable.

Fortunately the heart of Edmund Bloomberg was not more prone to jealous doubts, than open to conviction. Nothing more than the sight of his excellent brother, and the relation of the true circumstances of the case, was necessary to make him feel the folly of suspecting the integrity of such a man. He requested his lovely wife to forgive his unjust suspicions; and the temporary separation of their hearts seemed to have renewed his former love with such violence, that he could not resolve to tear himself away from her, in spite of his earnest desire to participate with his friends in the glorious attempt to rescue Helvetia from her chains.

Yet was not Edmund entirely idle. His wife’s anxiety respecting the Damsels of Sargans had formerly induced him to make enquiries respecting their fate; but Wolfenrad (whose sole view was to remove the husband, in order that the unprotected wife might fall a prey during his absence) had taken care to direct his search, where he well knew that it must be fruitless. Edmund at length discovered the trick, and incensed at having been sent on such a wild-goose-chase, he hastened back accompanied by a band of well-armed companions, determined to revenge the insult. His vengeance was complete, and now at Amabel’s request he again resumed his search after the Damsels of Sargans: nor was it long before he ascertained, that report had said no more than the truth, when she asserted that Amalberga was a captive in the dungeons of Rassburg, and that Emmeline had really perished among the flames. To rescue the one and to revenge the other now formed the only subject of the conversations, which passed between Gertrude, Amabel, and her husband.

The more they discussed the circumstances, the more dreadful did the fate of the two sisters appear, and the more difficult of execution did they find their plans respecting them. They were conscious, that without some powerful supporter, their strength was insufficient for the undertaking; and Amabel’s thoughts immediately suggested to her the names of two young knights, to whom at a former period the Damsels of Sargans had been by no means indifferent, and who (she doubted not) would still feel so much interest about them, as to forward her wish to avenge the death of the one and procure the deliverance of the other.

On enquiry, it appeared, that but few hopes could be grounded upon the aid of Count Herman of Werdenberg. Suspicions, injurious to Emmeline’s character, had made him resolve to conquer his passion for her: but to eradicate her from his heart had not been found a task so easy, as he imagined; and at length he had quitted Germany, tormented by his unsatisfied love, and by anger at himself for not having succeeded in overcoming it. He was at this time in England, whence his relations had solicited his return most earnestly, but in vain.

But little as was to be expected from Count Herman, so much the more was to be hoped from the noble Eginhart of Torrenburg, and it was resolved that Edmund should hasten to him without delay: it was not long before he returned accompanied by the youthful hero.

There are reasons, which it is unnecessary to disclose, which make it particularly painful to me to trace the name of Torrenburg, and to recollect how closely his fate is interwoven with that of Amalberga of Sargans: but it must be done, and I will not complain. Yes, there ought to be now no sacrifice too difficult for my heart to make: there shall be none!

Eginhart of Torrenburg, who had formerly been as closely bound to Helen of Homburg through motives of policy, as he was now attached by affection and his own choice to the lovely Amalberga, was at length free from his engagements to the former, and at liberty to bestow his hand according to the dictates of his heart.

Helen (alas for that poor Helen!) had been carried off on her bridal-day by that fierce terrific tyrant, Donat, Count of Carlsheim and Sargans: force had compelled her to become his wife! Angels of innocence, where were you then lingering, that you gave the unfortunate no warning-sign of the danger, into which she was on the brink of falling? Yet scarcely can I decide, which would have been the harder fate; to become the victim of Count Donat, or with a heart glowing with love to be delivered into the arms of a husband, whose soul was in secret devoted to another, and whose hand was only given to the wretched Helen from motives of honour and respect for his plighted word.

Instead of the expected bride, the news of her being carried off reached the Castle of Torrenburg, where the wedding was to have been celebrated. Though love had no share in his concern on this occasion, compassion for the unfortunate girl, and the insult thus offered to himself, made the young Count immediately place himself at the head of his vassals, and hasten to rescue the intended victim from Donat’s clutches.

Helen, who had been compelled to assent to this unhallowed union at the Castle of Upper Halbstein, was now ordered to follow her unamiable Lord to another of his fortresses situated southwards among the Rhœtian Alps. She received the command with joy, for at the Castle of Sargans she hoped at least to receive the consolations of friendship. Her step-daughters had been the play-fellows of Helen’s childhood during several weeks; and since their separation occasional letters and messages conveyed by third persons had frequently assured her, that she still lived in the remembrances of her early friends. In their embraces she hoped to find some alleviation of her sufferings: she flattered herself also, that the station which she was now to fill in their house, would give her frequent opportunities of making the situation of the poor girls more happy than it had been hitherto; and this reflexion prevented her from feeling herself quite miserable.

Cruel fate decreed, that her journey, which was made in company with her husband and under the protection of a numerous retinue, should be interrupted by the arrival of the Count of Torrenburg and his forces. It was now, that for the first time she saw the bridegroom, whom fortune had destined never to be hers; for whose character she had ever been taught to entertain the highest admiration; and whose sight (for oh! there never yet was man more formed to captivate the soul of woman) was sufficient to make her feel, how near her happiness had been, and how completely it was now lost to her for ever.

Torrenburg’s valour forced Count Donat to seek his safety in flight, and the trembling Helen was brought before the conqueror. Helen (who believed herself to be no less dear to her destined bridegroom, than He was dear to Her) for a few moments forgot her duty; but melancholy reflexion soon made her tear herself away from the embraces of the beloved warrior, and she commanded him to leave her.

—“My rescue comes too late!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; “I am Count Donat’s wife, and must remain so, though it should break my heart! Oh! Eginhart, restore me to my husband, and forget the unfortunate, whom fate has separated from you for ever.”—

Tears stood glittering in the warrior’s eyes. He advanced, as if he would have detained her, but she peremptorily forbade his nearer approach. She hastened to her palfrey, and giving the reins to the animal, she soon reached the valley, whither Donat and his vassals had directed their flight.

Helen’s conduct on this occasion, which might well have been termed a difficult effort, if virtue and duty did not make every effort easy, was rewarded by her stern husband with coldness, with sarcasms, with reproaches. She arrived at Sargans; and here was Helen destined to find the disappointment of her last poor promised pleasure, the society of her two friends.

Count Donat held out to her as a mark of his complaisance and of his consideration for her happiness, that he had ordered the only one of his daughters who remained to him (for the other had unaccountably disappeared) to quit the Castle. In vain did Helen implore him to recall Emmeline of Sargans from the Sanctuary of St. Roswitha: he was deaf to her entreaties, and she was left a prey to solitude and despair.

Nor had the husband, who had gained her hand by such unworthy means, reason to be entirely satisfied with his situation. The Counts of Torrenburg, Mayenfield, and Homburg, mortally offended at the carrying off of Helen, like a deluge over-ran with their forces the territories of Count Donat. His fortresses were forced and plundered one after another, and they now advanced to attack the Castle of Sargans. But Helen, whose only remaining consolation was derived from the most punctilious discharge of her duties, came forth to throw herself at the feet of her relations; and she implored for peace so fervently and so earnestly, and she asserted with so much solemnity her belief, that being once become the Count of Carlsheim’s wife, it was her duty to live and die with him, (a duty, which she was resolved to fulfill, whatever might be the consequences,) that her intercession was found irresistible. Dearly was Helen beloved by her parents; earnestly did they desire her happiness, which they well knew she never could find in the arms of Donat: but it was by themselves, that she had been taught the merit of sacrificing all other considerations to that of fulfilling her duties; how then could they advise her now to break through the rules, which they had themselves laid down for her?—Peace was granted, and granted solely to Helen’s intercession. The ravisher was left in possession of his unwilling bride; and her relations quitted his territories, having first exacted from him the most solemn and dreadful oath to recompense her for the happy station, of which he had deprived her, by unchanging love and never-ceasing anxiety for her welfare.

Donat took the oath: how he kept it, is a secret to all save the Almighty and Helen: but she has sworn in the presence of God to be silent on this subject, and she will carry that dreadful secret with her to the grave unpublished.

She was very—oh! very miserable! On those days only, when her stern husband was from home, had she any gleams of sunshine. On one of these days an unknown messenger arrived, and desired to speak with the Lady Emmeline of Sargans. He was informed, that she was not at the Castle, and he was conducted to Helen. He brought letters from the Lake of Thun, which he at length confided to her, though unwillingly, and only (as he said) induced by the frank expression of her countenance.

—“But,” said he, “will you deliver them to the Lady Emmeline with your own hands?”—

Helen, who lived at Sargans almost in a state of captivity, knew too well that she was not authorised to give such a promise, and only answered by a melancholy shake of the head. Her look, the suspicious countenances of the attendants, and the well-known character of her husband, alarmed the messenger, and made him suspect that his life was in danger: he stole unperceived to the gate, and hastened away. The packet was thus left in Helen’s possession. She knew, that it would be impossible to deliver it into the hands of her, for whom it was intended; she long sought for opportunities of doing so in vain; and at length ennui, and her anxiety to obtain some further information respecting the Sisters, which might possibly furnish her with the means of alleviating their cruel destiny, induced her to open the letters.

They were from Amabel Melthal and the lost Amalberga. Heavens! what unexpected discoveries did Helen make while perusing them; discoveries, which had no slight connexion with her own situation! God be thanked, that among other things they made it known to her, that nothing but duty to his parents, and consideration for his plighted word, had induced Eginhart of Torrenburg to offer her his hand, while every fond sentiment of his heart had long been Amalberga’s. This discovery at first wounded her to the very soul; but after a time she drew from it reasons for being better satisfied with her fate, and she resolutely banished the beloved youth from her memory, in which till then he had too frequently occupied a place.

Determined to abstract herself entirely from every thing which regarded herself, Helen now determined to consider the happiness of her two friends as her only object in life. She endeavoured to make herself mistress of every circumstance belonging to them. Mention was made in one of Amabel’s letters of an old maid-servant at Sargans, called Bertha, who had been Emmeline’s confidante during the latter days of her abode at her father’s mansion; and in hopes of gaining some further information Helen desired, that Bertha might be brought before her. She was answered, that the old woman had been sick for several weeks, and was now drawing near her end. To the great astonishment of the domestics Helen immediately hastened to Bertha’s chamber, saying, that she would go and comfort her in her last moments.

Helen had but little time allowed her to perform this charitable office: yet that little she employed to the best advantage, and in return Bertha’s gratitude rewarded her more amply, than she had hoped. Bertha, who had fallen ill soon after Emmeline’s departure, had only had time to forward the letter for Amabel; another packet, intended for the Countess Urania Venosta, was still in her possession. She gave it to Helen, and implored her to take care, that it reached its destination. That was not in Helen’s power; she kept it for some time, in constant terror lest her tyrant husband should discover it, and lest it should be the means of drawing down on herself and Emmeline fresh anger and increased sufferings. At length, she resolved at least to put the contents out of Count Donat’s power to bury in oblivion: she broke the seal, and what she read exalted her impatience to rescue the unfortunate writer to a degree, that was almost too strong to admit of concealment.

What Helen suffered at this period is not to be expressed; perhaps her own misfortunes had made her still more compassionate towards those of others, than it was her nature otherwise to be. Three objects were now never out of her thoughts for a moment. The first was, since the Count of Torrenburg was now lost to her for ever, to make known to him the present residence of Amalberga; but how to convey to him that intelligence, she in vain sought to discover. The second was, if possible, to rescue Emmeline from the detested Convent of St. Roswitha; but alas! she had but little hopes of delivering others, while she was herself a captive in the Castle of Sargans. The last was, to obtain possession of the key to that chamber, in which was the secret entrance to the subterraneous passages leading to the dwellings of the Anchorets.

The last seemed to afford her the most probable means of gratifying her two former wishes; perhaps too, she was unconsciously desirous of securing a means of escaping from the Castle, should she ever find such a step necessary. It is at least certain, that in her eagerness to carry her point, she took many steps, which prudence would not justify. Frequently did she repair to that chamber; she found the door guarded by seven locks. Frequently in the dead of the night, when all slept, or seemed to sleep, did she try the house-keys, which were in her charge; and when at length two of the locks shot back from their fastenings, she sank on her knees, and thanked Heaven with a flood of tears. She doubted not, that the rest of the locks would yield to her perseverance; but a sudden noise at no great distance prevented her from pushing the attempt farther that night, and she hastened back to her chamber with a heart filled with delight and expectation.

Joy, at being so near the accomplishment of her wishes, prevented her from sleeping during the remainder of the night, and she employed the vacant hours in revolving her future plans.

—“If,” said she to herself, after giving the matter her most serious consideration; “if I should be so fortunate as to obtain an entrance into the mysterious chamber to-morrow night, I will hasten to the subterraneous passage without losing a moment. A torch, and the clear description of the way given in Amalberga’s letter will guide me to the Hermitage to a certainty, and I need only use more than ordinary diligence, in order to be back at the Castle before day-break; for precious as liberty appears to me, I will not obtain it by improper means. I am Donat’s wife, and privately to withdraw myself from his protection were to commit an act of infidelity and treason against my husband. I will content myself therefore with relating what I know to the good hermits, and entreating them to take the best and speediest means of rescuing Emmeline from her dangerous abode, and for placing the fortunate Amalberga in the arms of Torrenburg!”—

On second thoughts, she reflected, that merely to give this intelligence to the hermits would not be to do enough; it would also be necessary to give some explanation to the Countess Urania respecting the letters which she had opened, and by advising Torrenburg to make Amalberga his wife, to render it clear to him, that she had herself forgotten the tyes which once existed between them. Perhaps too, a threatening letter to the Abbot of Curwald (should all other means fail) might have some weight in inducing him to surrender Emmeline. In order that nothing might delay her on the ensuing night, she rose instantly from her bed, and began to write. But before her letters were concluded, it was morning, and her attendants, or rather her jailors, entered the apartment to wake her. They exprest no little surprise at finding her already out of bed.

—“I presume, noble Lady,” said the eldest of them, “either some joyous foreboding, or some prophetic dream has roused you from your couch so early. Our Lord will return to-day; in truth, we knew this yesterday, but we kept it to make our morning-greeting the more welcome, and also through apprehension lest your joy at this intelligence should spoil your night’s rest.”—

Helen only answered the speaker by one of those expressive glances, with which the open-hearted repay words, which belie the secret mind. She was well aware, that her women who had been so often the witnesses of her sufferings, could not but know the nature of those feelings, which Donat’s return was likely to excite in her bosom. Nor did she alone tremble in the presence of the fierce Count of Carlsheim; every creature that existed in the Castle listened to his name with terror, and nothing but irony had dictated this speech of the insolent Jutta. Yet dared not Helen find the least fault with any one of her female attendants, who were chiefly composed of her husband’s former favourites, and the meanest of whom had more influence with him still, than was allowed to his unhappy wife.

The news of Donat’s return was soon confirmed: it was scarcely mid-day, when she heard the drawbridge resounding beneath the hasty trampling of his black steed. She hastened to receive him at the gate with that smile of submissive duty, which she had accustomed herself always to wear in his presence. He repulsed her offered hand with a furious look, and shut himself up in his own chamber with such of his dependents, as were most in his confidence. An hour elapsed; his chamber-door was thrown open, and Donat rushed out again, to all appearance more incensed, if possible, than before.

—“Arm! arm!” cried he with a voice of thunder, which resounded through the whole fortress, and which soon collected all his soldiers around him, who, wearied with the journey from which they were just returned, were better fitted for repose than for a second expedition; “to horse, and away this instant; business of importance summons us, and which admits of no delay. Talk not of weariness, or exhausted strength! the deed, which now demands your faulchions, could be executed, if your arms were half useless; for I lead you not against stout warriors, but cowardly monks, on whom I swear to be revenged before sun-set!”—

They were too well accustomed to obey Count Donat at the first motion of his finger, to make any remonstrances. In a few minutes all were mounted, and their horses galloped over the echoing draw-bridge into the valley below, whence they disappeared from the eyes of those, who gazed after them, with the rapidity of lightning.

The Castle-inhabitants looked on each other in silent astonishment. The similarity of their present feelings produced a kind of confidence between the Countess and her women; and one of them confessed to her, her being almost certain, that she knew the cause of all this uproar. She would however only impart thus much of her knowledge: on his return homewards the Count had received a letter from one who was in the habit of sending him intelligence, and this letter most probably contained the spark, which had kindled such flames in the bosom of Count Donat; for as soon as he had read it to his confidents, he tore it in a thousand pieces, and trampled it under his feet. Besides this, in the midst of a torrent of execrations he had been heard to mention the Abbot of Curwald and his daughter Emmeline.

—“Emmeline and the Abbot?” exclaimed Helen delighted. “Is it possible, that some benevolent Being should have opened his eyes to the miseries of his daughter? Is it to rescue her, that he departed in such haste? Ah! then why have I so long delayed to take the nearest and surest way for effecting her deliverance? Had I but confest her danger to Count Donat.... Surely the worst of men could not endure, that his child should be overwhelmed in shame and ruin! The depravity of the Nuns of St. Roswitha must have been concealed from Count Donat, or he never would have made his daughter a member of their society!”—

These reflections, which were only half pronounced by Helen, were totally unintelligible to her attendants, who continued to discuss what had past, and to conjecture what was to follow; this occupied them so entirely, that they did not perceive, that their mistress had left them. She had hastened to her husband’s chamber, where she hoped to obtain some insight into the circumstance, which at once both rejoiced and alarmed her.

The fragments of the important letter still lay upon the floor; she eagerly seized them, and having secured herself against interruption, put them again together carefully. She learned from them the truth of what she had just been told; the writer warned Count Donat to beware of the Abbot’s artifices; discovered to him, that St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary was little better than the harem of the Monks of Curwald; and that by enclosing the Lady Emmeline within these sacrilegious walls, he had delivered up his daughter to the passion of her licentious lover.

No wonder, that information like this should have given a deadly wound to Count Donat’s pride: nor (in spite of his own excesses) was he so totally lost to shame as to endure patiently, that his daughter should become the prey of a libertine. He was almost frantic with rage, and for the first time in his life he drew his sword to punish the insulters of virtue.

Helen sank on her knees, and thanked God for this unexpected accomplishment of her wishes. She sent a thousand prayers after her husband for the good success of his expedition: she even went so far, as to begin to make preparations for receiving the rescued Emmeline, whom in fancy she already prest to her heart; and when this agreeable occupation was finished, she turned her thoughts towards guessing at the benevolent writer of the letter, which had induced the father to hasten to preserve his child.

Poor simple Helen! it entered not into her thoughts (and it was not till long after, that she made the discovery) that villainy often performs a seemingly virtuous action, in order to forward its own unholy designs. She knew not, that the author of that letter was Wolfenrad. It seems, that those oppressors of Rhœtian and Helvetian liberty, the lord governors and their assistants, carried on a very close though secret understanding with some of the most potent noblemen, whose object it was equally to bring the inhabitants of these unfortunate countries still more beneath the yoke, and to build upon their subjection the fabric of their own power and grandeur. Among the secret allies of Gessler and Landenberg, Count Donat and the Abbot of Curwald were the most distinguished; and Wolfenrad on account of his well-known skill in penmanship was frequently employed by both the governors to carry on their correspondence both with Curwald and Sargans.

Still the fact was, that neither of these parties meant honestly to each other. Donat and the Abbot were determined only to go hand in hand with the vice-regents so long, as it suited their own views; and these on the other side intended, as soon as they had derived as much benefit as they could from the assistance of the Count and his ecclesiastical ally, to excite a quarrel between them, and then join with the one in plundering the other.

We have already seen, how imprudently Amabel had laid her secrets open to Wolfenrad. Her letters to Emmeline passed through his hands, and he missed not this opportunity to increase his knowledge of the affairs of the Count of Carlsheim; and though Emmeline’s letters to Amabel were not confided to him, by one artifice or another he had not failed to obtain a sight of them. Bloomberg’s simple wife observed indeed, that the seal of Emmeline’s packet had been forced; but she little guest by whom.

The contents of this letter immediately furnished him with the most certain means for producing an irreconcileable hatred between Count Donat and the potent Abbot of Curwald. The power of the latter was beginning to appear dangerous to the Lord Governors; but they could expect nothing but an accession of strength to themselves, while the Count of Carlsheim and the Abbot were mutually weakening themselves in feudal skirmishes. Such was Wolfenrad’s object in writing this warning-letter, whose author was loaded with blessings by the unsuspicious Helen, while waiting with a throbbing heart for the return of her Lord.

The night arrived. She now thought no longer of attempting to open the door of the mysterious chamber, which she had meant to attempt at this hour, since a principal object of her wish to visit the Hermitage was already accomplished. Besides, the design could not then have been possibly executed, since every one in the Castle was still awake, and waiting with impatience for Count Donat’s return.

It was almost morning, when some of her attendants rushed with looks of terror into Helen’s apartment, and entreated her to ascend the upper platform, whence she would discern towards the west indubitable marks of some dreadful conflagration.

—“God preserve us from some mishap!” exclaimed Helen, while she followed her women to the battlements; the whole quarter of the heavens towards Curwald seemed one blaze of red!—“Oh! Donat, Donat, what hast thou done? Were there no gentler means?—Emmeline, my poor Emmeline, where art thou at this moment?”—

Helen’s fears were but too well-founded. Donat, in doing what he thought it right to do, had done it in his usual manner. Wolfenrad’s letter had given him some hints of the midnight revels, which were frequently carried on between the inhabitants of the adjacent Convents of Curwald and St. Roswitha. He made enquiries of the neighbouring peasants, who were no friends of these ecclesiastical libertines; their report confirmed the truth of Wolfenrad’s assertions; and an old man (who declared himself particularly well informed respecting these disgraceful secrets) added—“that on that very night there was to be a superb entertainment given to celebrate the conversion of a Nun, who was the last admitted.”—

—“You may easily guess, valiant knight,” continued the old man, “what they mean by her conversion. I suppose the lady (I saw her brought into the Convent myself, and she seemed to be an angel of innocence and beauty) was a little violent at first; and so they have at last succeeded in taming her stern morality, as many another has been tamed in the same way before her.”—

—“Good heavens!” exclaimed one of the least depraved among Count Donat’s knights; “are such things spoken of in these parts so openly, and yet is Justice silent, and does the Bishop of Coira take no notice of such abominations?”—

—“Oh! the Lord have mercy on me, Sir Knight,” answered the old man, “such things are not talked of openly, or so many fathers would not plunge their children into yonder abyss of infamy! I warrant you, the parents of this converted damsel little thought, when they sent her to St. Roswitha, that they were placing the sweet creature in Satan’s own claws. But when one is speaking to gallant warriors like yourselves, who are able, and perhaps willing to help us, one must be open-hearted. I see that you are all well-armed, and yonder tall gentleman with his eye-brows bent so sternly and his hands clenched seems to feel for what we poor country-folks must suffer under the dominion of these voluptuous Monks, who make us contribute the chief part of our hard-earned gains to the support of their luxury. As to the Bishop of Coira.... I am afraid, you are in the right about him! The notice which he takes.... Aye; were old Hugo of Werdenberg still bishop indeed.... But the present Bishop.... Well! well! he and his boon-companion, the Abbot of St. Gall, make a pair of worthies indeed!”—

While his knights were carrying on this discourse with the peasants, their Lord, whom fury had almost deprived of his senses, was considering what was to be done: the resolution which he took was worthy of his character, was worthy of no one but himself. Entrance into either of the two convents was demanded in vain; every other proposal which his attendants suggested, was rejected as incompetent to effect his object; at length his commands were obeyed, and by midnight St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary was enveloped in flames. It’s true, that a spark of paternal love still glimmered in his heart for the unfortunate Emmeline; but the idea, that in all probability she also had been converted after the fashion of the sisterhood, soon extinguished it, and he resolved to hide her and his shame together in the ashes of St. Roswitha. Impressed with this idea—“Drive them back into the flames!” roared the inhuman Donat, whenever either Friar or Nun tried to rescue themselves from the conflagration, without deigning to examine whether Emmeline might not be one of those unfortunates. The number of monks, whom the flames compelled to attempt their escape from St. Roswitha at this undue time of night, confirmed the reports of the mode of life practised in the convents; and the dresses of the Nuns, who had been arrayed for the feast, proclaimed how little their hearts were estranged from worldly vanities. The fire continued to spread; it now caught the adjacent Abbey of Curwald, and before day-break there remained of both the Sanctuaries and their infamous inhabitants nothing but heaps of smoaking ruins^[2].

Such was the cause of those flames, whose reflexion on the sky excited so much consternation at Sargans: Helen’s heart had not throbbed with sad forebodings without necessity. In the course of the morning Donat returned home, and returned without Emmeline!

Helen flew to meet him, and eagerly enquired, where was his daughter? His answer was a short and cold narrative of the dreadful transaction, which had just taken place, and the consequence was, that overpowered with horror Helen fell senseless at the monster’s feet. When she recovered, her first words were to ask, where he had placed Emmeline, (for she doubted not, that previous to firing the Convent he had provided for his daughter’s safety,) and unfortunately her question was so worded, that it betrayed her more intimate knowledge of the business, than was by any means suspected by Donat. This discovery converted his unfeeling coldness into a degree of fury, that nearly approached delirium. He seized her roughly by the arm, and demanded, in a voice of thunder, how she came to be so well acquainted with his affairs? The unfortunate knew no other way of extricating herself from this dilemma, than repeating what she had heard mentioned by one of her attendants respecting Wolfenrad’s letter, which (she confest) had so strongly excited her anxiety about Emmeline, that she had not scrupled to piece the fragments again together. The storm of rage was now diverted from Helen to the woman, who had given her mistress this intelligence, and who had it in her power to disclose much more important secrets, if she had thought proper.

Incensed at Count Donat’s ill-treatment of her, for which she considered herself as indebted to Helen, Jutta resolved to disclose in her turn all that she thought most likely to injure her mistress. Accordingly she began an accusation, which among a thousand falsehoods contained some truths, calculated to make Helen shudder as she listened to them.

The Countess (Jutta said) had some time before received a packet from an unknown messenger, who afterwards quitted the Castle with all speed, and whose arrival she ordered to be concealed from her husband. She had also received several letters from the hands of the dying Bertha; after reading which she had been frequently seen loitering about the door of that chamber, which (on account of the strange noises frequently heard within) was supposed to be haunted. Nay, on the night before last she had actually tried to force back the locks, but had been scared away, by hearing Jutta’s rosary fall on the ground, while she was watching her Lady’s proceedings concealed behind St. Martin’s statue. She had afterwards seen through the key-hole the Countess busily employed in writing, and during the confusion which followed Count Donat’s arrival, had found means to get the letters into her possession; which to confirm her story Jutta was now ready to lay before him.

These heavy charges against Helen failed not to produce the effect intended. Donat ordered the letters to be brought immediately: He was no scholar; yet was he not so totally deficient in the knowledge of writing, but that he could clearly decypher the addresses, which were written in large characters. His eyes flashed fire, while he spelt the names of “Eginhart of Torrenburg,” “the Abbot of Curwald,” and “Urania Venosta, the widowed Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.” These directions would have been sufficient to condemn the poor Helen, even had she been tried by a more impartial judge. It was certain, that these three persons were her husband’s bitterest enemies; with what propriety then could she be engaged in a secret correspondence with them? In particular, what motive could she have for writing to the Count of Torrenburg, who was her former lover, and had been so long her destined bridegroom? Alas! poor Helen! appearances were sorely against thee! Nor would Donat’s fury give him time to enquire further into the business. In a paroxysm of rage he tore the letters into a thousand fragments, and pronounced Helen to be in a secret correspondence with his implacable foe, the Countess Urania for the purpose of betraying him to his enemies; he asserted also, that she had been privy to the Abbot’s designs upon his daughter, and had encouraged them in order to be revenged on the father; and that she was still in love with the Count of Torrenburg and meant to have fled to him from Sargans, an intention which was sufficiently proved by her midnight efforts to obtain entrance into that chamber, which concealed a private outlet from the Castle. It’s true, that finding Emmeline had quitted that chamber of her own accord, and thinking the knowledge of the secret passage might be of use to himself on some future occasion, the Abbot had not mentioned to Count Donat his suspicions, that such a passage existed; and the room had been merely shut up from the report of its being haunted. But Wolfenrad had learned this secret from the perusal of Amalberga’s letter to Emmeline, and had communicated it to the Count, hoping thereby to increase the merit of his services. Now then Donat had no doubt, that the noises, which had been heard in that chamber, proceeded from no ghosts, but from persons who were waiting to assist his wife in her projected flight. Under the influence of these impressions, Helen was held convicted of the most infamous designs, and condemned to suffer the most exemplary chastisement. She was instantly confined in one of the strongest dungeons, probably in that where Urania had shed so many tears; in the mean while her tyrant with his confidents and those women of the Castle who were most her enemies, sat in council to decide, what punishment would be sufficiently severe to suit her crime.

I am in doubt as to Donat’s reasons for not immediately proceeding to the last extremities with his wife: that sentiment towards her, which he had chosen to dignify with the name of love, had long ago disappeared; and his late atrocious act, which had proved the destruction of the whole Orders of Curwald and St. Roswitha, had left him no scruples to overcome. One murder more or less, what did that signify to a man, who had arrived at so dreadful a height of guilt?—The most probable cause for Donat’s moderation was, fear: Helen was the Count of Homburg’s daughter; was niece to the Count of Mayenfield; and had been affianced to the Count of Torrenburg, who it was well known, would not suffer her to be injured with impunity. These considerations made Donat hesitate, as to the course which he was now to pursue.

Donat past two days in resolving, whether it would not be possible to bring Helen to confess herself guilty. This would justify him in the eyes of her relations for any severity, which he might think proper to inflict upon her; but when he considered his wife’s character, he saw little prospect of persuading her to declare herself infamous. In the mean while Helen was suffered to remain tranquil in her dungeon; and her husband was still meditating how to avoid the vengeance of her friends, when the Castle was unexpectedly attacked by enemies incensed upon a different account. He might indeed have foreseen, that the Bishop of Coira would not pass over the destruction of Cloister-Curwald in silence; occupied however by his anger against Helen, Donat had bestowed no thought upon the Bishop; and the avengers of the Monks of Curwald were at the gates of Sargans, before any one had even bestowed a thought on the possibility of such an attack.

Helen heard from her prison the noise of the assault, the shouts of the victors, and the expiring groans of those who fell beneath their swords; but her spirit was too much broken to enable her to guess at what was passing, or to offer up prayers or wishes for the success of either party. She lay almost in a state of insensibility, when the door of her dungeon was thrown open. The Count of Carlsheim entered, snatched her rudely from the earth, and more by gestures than speech, commanded her attendance. She followed her conductor in silence, like a lamb to the slaughter; he saw, that she was scarcely able to move through weakness, and either out of compassion or cruelty compelled her to swallow a cordial. She gradually recovered herself sufficiently to remark, that her husband was habited like a pilgrim on the point of setting out on some long journey, and that he guided her towards a part of the Castle remote from the clamour of the combat. Here they found a domestic waiting with a torch, who in a low voice and with few words assured his Lord, that the passage was still safe. A door, artfully concealed in the wall, was now unlocked, and Helen was commanded to ascend the stair-case, which presented itself before her.

She was too wreak, too hopeless, to think it worth while to make any reflections on Donat’s unaccountable conduct in regaining the upper apartments of the fortress, (which, she was convinced, was already in the enemy’s possession,) instead of employing these precious moments to effect his escape. They now arrived at the door of that chamber, which concealed the entrance to the subterraneous passages: the touch of a single key was sufficient to make all the seven locks fly back. Donat entered, and compelled his unhappy wife to follow him; he then took the torch from the domestic, and commanded him to execute his orders without delay, and then to provide for his own safety. The servant bowed, and retired.

Now then Helen was at length in that very spot, which she had so anxiously wished to visit, but not with such a companion. Donat paused for a moment; and she could hear distinctly, that the domestic fastened the door through which she had entered, not omitting a single lock. Her tyrant left her no time for reflecting on the purpose for which she had been conducted hither; he hastened to unclose the secret door which led to Urania’s baths, dragged her through it, and then commanded her to proceed, having first taken care to fasten the door after him.

Helen obeyed, and as she moved slowly forwards, through the subterraneous passages, she observed that her husband occasionally examined the side-walls with his hand or foot. At length he stopped before a small door half sunk in the ground; he forced it open with a violence which shook the whole cavern, and held his torch within, in order to examine it.

—“Yes, yes!” said he, “this is it! Found in good time!—Helen, return! or canst thou find the way through these vaults without assistance?”—

She dragged her feeble steps towards him: he grasped her arm, and dashed her with violence down a few steps terminating in a small cave. She sank on the ground with a shriek of pain, which her tyrant answered by a burst of diabolical laughter.

—“Here, traitress!” he exclaimed; “here is the place of your punishment and your perdition; and here is the last nourishment, which you shall ever receive on this side the grave. I give it not out of compassion, but that you may not perish in your present state of stupor, and thus escape the sense of what I have doomed you to suffer.—Eat! revive to the full consciousness of your misery; then die in agony, as others have died here before you!”—

Thus saying, he placed by her side a loaf of bread and a small flask of water, which he had brought with him in his pilgrim’s scrip. She was not in a condition to make him any answer, and listened in morbid silence, while he quitted the cave, flinging the door after him with violence, and carefully barricading it on the outside to prevent her escape.

Nothing now animated the frame of Helen but mere animal life; and even that was half extinguished by the shock which she had sustained the day before and by long abstinence from all nourishment. She was scarcely conscious of what had past, and it afterwards cost her no little difficulty to recall the recollection of it. Instinct made her seize eagerly the food, of which she had so long been deprived; and the relief, which this afforded her, was the first thing, which brought her to herself, and gave her spirits to ask the question—“What has happened to me? Whither have I been conveyed?”—She thought, that she must be the sport of some fantastic vision, and with the sensation of being totally exhausted she closed her eyes, and endeavoured to end her dream.

A violent shock, which made the hollow ground tremble beneath her, forced her to start up in terror; and she now had strength and recollection sufficient to rush forward a few paces, which brought her to the steps, down which Count Donat had so lately dashed her. An instant after she was sensible of a second shock like that of an earthquake, and which was accompanied by a noise so loud, that for a few moments she was completely stunned. On recovering herself, she was sensible of a strong current of air blowing into the cave: her heart beat violently with hope and fear, while she thought it possible, that the late earthquake might have forced the dungeon open. She hastened up the steps, and with rapture ascertained by the touch that the door had been driven from its fastenings, and that nothing prevented her from quitting her prison. With as much speed, as her extreme weakness and the total obscurity would permit, she hastened to profit by this interposition of Providence. She crept along slowly and cautiously, when on turning a corner she perceived a distant gleam of light. With increased hopes she made the best of her way towards it, and found, that it proceeded from Count Donat’s torch, as it lay half extinguished in the rubbish, among which it had fallen.

Without giving herself time to guess, what motive could have induced her husband to throw away his only guide through the gloom, or how he could have found his way out of these intricate passages without its aid, she caught it eagerly from the ground, cleared the wick from the dust with which it was clogged, and made the flame burn brightly; while she frequently cast a look of anxiety round her, lest some one should be advancing to rob her of this invaluable prize. This apprehension made her proceed with still greater exertion of speed; but she had not gone far, before her way was barred by large heaps of stones and earth: she fancied too, that she heard a faint murmur at no great distance, like some one groaning. She stopped; she listened;—it struck her, that from beneath a pile of stones, which seemed to have lately fallen down, there came a voice, whose accents were familiar to her; but before she could recover herself from the horror, which this idea occasioned her sufficiently to ascertain the truth of her suspicions, a third shock, similar to the two first, but if possible more violent and terrible, overpowered her faculties so completely, that she sank upon the earth, unable to move for several minutes. Fortunately her torch was not extinguished by her fall. She rose; the way, so lately open before her, was now completely blocked up by the earth, which had fallen in; and it seemed to her in the first moments of terror, that she saw the roof tottering above, and felt the ground giving way beneath her. Fear gave her strength, and she fled hastily down a side passage, which accident presented to her, nor rested, till she thought, that the place, which she had reached, was not totally unknown to her. She stopped, and looking down discovered lying on the earth, torn from its hinges, and considerably shattered the low door of that dungeon, which Donat had destined for her grave.

She now exerted her whole strength to pass onwards, without falling into an enormous chasm, which had been formed by the late convulsion, and which occupied almost the whole breadth of the passage. She shuddered, as she remarked, that the earth had fallen into the dungeon, and would infallibly have smothered her, had she remained there but a few minutes longer.

She reached the opposite side of the chasm with much difficulty, but unhurt. She was now certain, that the Castle was at no great distance: but she dreaded either to miss the proper road, or to find it rendered impassable by earth and rubbish. Should either happen, she had no alternative left but perishing of hunger in these frightful dungeons: nor had she much time left her for deliberation, since her torch already began to draw towards its end. Observing this, she rushed forwards with desperate resolution, and committed herself to the guidance of chance. Accident, or rather a benevolent Providence directed her footsteps; and she reached the staircase and Urania’s chamber, before her strength entirely failed her. Here then she rested at length; but that rest was insensibility.

After some time her recollection returned. She raised herself, and saw with surprise, that the chamber, which Donat to favour his escape had caused to be fastened so carefully, was filled with people. She felt, that they conveyed her to a couch, and rendered her every possible assistance; and she heard them make a thousand kind enquiries respecting her health and her wishes: but her strength both of mind and body was so completely exhausted, that she found it impossible to pronounce a word, or even make a sign, that she was sensible of their attentions.

It was pain, which enabled her to give the first token of sensation. Her arms and bosom were much bruised, and the blood streamed copiously from a wound on her head. She has never been able to recollect, whether she received these injuries, when Donat threw her down the dungeon steps, or from her being struck by the falling stones while making her escape. The persons, who surrounded her couch, lost no time in binding up her wounds, and the pain of this operation forced from her a feeble cry. Finding that she was now sensible, they repeated their enquiries as to what had happened to her, and how she had been brought into so terrible a condition. She stammered out the word “earthquake!” Where was Count Donat, was the next demand, which she answered by pointing to the private door conducting to the vaults.

She was soon removed to a more quiet chamber, and the care which was taken of her convinced her, that she had not fallen into the hands of enemies.

On the fourth day she was already declared to be convalescent; and it was announced to her, that the Commander of the Bishop of Coira’s forces, which had, conquered the Castle, requested an audience of her. She consented to receive him, and shortly after a young man of prepossessing appearance entered the room.

—“Noble Lady,” said he, “though you are the wife of the cruel owner of this fortress, we are well aware, that you are not a partner in his crimes. His people are some of them slain; others have betaken themselves to flight; and it is in vain, that we have endeavoured to find the place of his concealment. Your pointing out the door into the vaults has not been sufficient; he cannot have made his escape through that passage, since the falling-in of the roof has rendered it impracticable; and had he in his flight been overtaken by the vengeance of Heaven, how could you have avoided the sharing his fate? Be frank with us, noble Lady; I conjure you in the name of humanity, tell us, where he is concealed, and depend on our dealing better with him, than he has been accustomed to deal with others.”—

Helen mustered up all her strength, and endeavoured to relate the circumstances of her escape: but anxiety to be as brief as possible, and her endeavours to conceal Donat’s ill-usage of her, (which she thought, duty to her husband forbade her revealing,) rendered every thing she said obscure and improbable. She mentioned the earthquake, and to prove it showed the bruises and wounds, which it had occasioned her. The stranger, however, assured her, that she must have received them in some other manner, for that no one in the Castle had perceived the slightest symptoms of an earthquake.

Helen, however, endeavoured to establish her assertion; and while recalling the various circumstances which had passed in the caverns, she suddenly recollected the groans, which had struck her hearing. She earnestly entreated, that the heap of rubbish might be examined; she was obeyed; the stones were removed, and beneath them was discovered the shattered and lifeless form of the Count of Carlsheim.

It was now the general opinion, that the violence which Donat had used in forcing open the dungeon-door, had shattered the rotten cavern, had made the supports crack, and had brought down the roof, whose fall had involved in it his own destruction.

Helen’s horror at this discovery, her urgent entreaties that the corse might have christian burial, and the many hours which she past in prayers for the repose of Donat’s spirit, startled the present masters of the Castle not a little. They began to suspect, that she was not by any means so innocent a creature, and so unfortunate a victim of conjugal tyranny, as she had been represented, and as in truth she was. They therefore ceased to trouble her with questions, considering her as the confidante and accomplice of Count Donat’s crimes; but as they had no other fault to lay to her charge, and as the power of her relations compelled them to treat her with respect, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered, she was removed to the Convent of Zurich, and left there with a hint by no means equivocal,—“that all things considered, she would do well to pass the remainder of her days within that sanctuary.”—

Helen’s joy at understanding, that she had been conveyed to Zurich, was indescribable: she immediately requested to see the venerable Countess Urania, and discovered to the patroness of her mother both herself and all that had happened. It was now, that her fate seemed disposed to abate its severity. In an unrestrained intercourse with this excellent woman, who received her with open arms, and to whom she unveiled her whole heart, she looked forward to a life of tranquil happiness. Urania’s conversation poured balsam into her wounded soul, and explained to her many things, which had hitherto appeared to her unaccountable. Donat’s resolution to make her his wife was produced by a former passion, which he had entertained for her mother, and by a desire to be revenged on her father, the Count of Homburg; and that unknown cavern to which he had conducted her, was doubtless the same, in which (as it was reported) the worthy father of such a son had starved to death two of the fugitive monks of Curwald. Oh! Towers of Sargans, what crimes have been committed within your gloomy bounds! And will then the vengeance of the Eternal Judge sleep for ever? Will neither the heavens rain down fire to consume you, nor the earth unclose to swallow you in its womb, and thus prevent you from reminding posterity of those horrible acts, to which you have been so long a witness?—Yet the blood of your barbarous master has purified you, and you are now the abode of innocence and virtue. Peace, long peace be with you, and be with your lawful possessors; and may the curse of retribution only fall on those, who shall dare to deprive those possessors of their right!

Solitude and experience sometimes endow the soul, which has withdrawn itself from earth to devote itself to Heaven, with a prophetic power. Even now I see into futurity! I see, that the family of Carlsheim and Sargans, which has already suffered so much, has still much more to suffer; but again I say it—“Alas for those, by whom the descendants of Amalberga and Emmeline shall be robbed of their lawful inheritance, and compelled to experience the calamities of their predecessors.”—

I have deviated from my narrative, to which I now return.—Helen lived tranquil by Urania’s side, equally unconscious of the evil reports, which were circulated respecting her late misfortunes by her enemies, and of the benevolent intentions of her powerful friends. Her parents soon visited her at Zurich, and now that she was a widow, requested her to accept the hand of her former bridegroom, the Count of Torrenburg: but Helen knew but too well, that no Count of Torrenburg existed for her. She had courageously torn his image from her heart; and she avowed to her friends her knowledge of his passion for Amalberga, and declared, that to see them happy in the possession of each other was now the only wish of her heart.

Helen’s relations listened to this declaration with no trifling regret: they would willingly have rewarded her for her past sufferings by the certainty, that the remainder of her life would be past in happiness with one of the noblest of Helvetian youths. But they had brought with them (for the purpose of persuading Helen to the proposed marriage) some of Torrenburg’s relations, to whom his passion for Amalberga was by no means so unpleasant a subject. She was now a rich heiress; as Count Donat’s only surviving daughter, she was entitled to the extensive domains of Carlsheim and Sargans, and consequently she was a much more advantageous match than Helen. This gave rise to some disputes between the friends of the different parties: but the solemn declaration of Count Donat’s widow, that she never would lay aside that name, at length silenced every opposition; and she obtained from them all a promise, that they would mutually exert themselves to accomplish the only wish, which she indulged on this side of the grave; namely, the union of Eginhart of Torrenburg with Amalberga of Sargans. They were informed by her, that according to Amabel’s letter the lady was concealed in the Convent of Engelberg, and thither they hastened to apprize her of the happiness, which awaited her.

I need not say, that they sought her there in vain; the Count of Torrenburg’s endeavours to discover her were also unsuccessful, till the arrival of Bloomberg, who assured him, that she must be in Landenberg’s power, and that the most likely place to look for her was the Fortress of Rassburg. The consequence of this information was a bond of union between Torrenburg and the Friends of Freedom against Landenberg and his brother in iniquity, the insolent Gessler; and the Count immediately accompanied Bloomberg to Stein, that he might consult with his new allies the best means for effecting Landenberg’s overthrow and Amalberga’s deliverance.

In the mean while William Tell’s plan, for throwing off the Governor’s yoke, and asserting the liberty of his beloved country, had been gradually ripening. The impression, which he and his friends, Walter Forest, Bernsdorf, and the two Melthals, had made upon the general mind was great, and their adherents were numerous; but the success of their enterprise still depended entirely upon its being kept a profound secret. Those men, whose plans were soon to burst out into flames terrible as the explosion of a volcano, and to give posterity an example of heroic devotion to the cause of Freedom, were as yet compelled to work in darkness, and arrange their vast designs in corners and by stealth.

It was not till the 28th of December (being the Festival of St. Alexander) that they ventured to muster their numbers in a large meadow near the Lake of the Four Cantons; this was to be their last conference, and even this they took the precaution of holding under covert of the night. The Count of Torrenburg and Edmund Bloomberg were also present; but the former by his impatience had nearly ruined the whole design. Conscious of his exalted station, and of the valour of his new allies, he could not endure the degrading idea of skulking about in darkness and concealment, as if he were plotting the execution of some crime. He insisted upon an instant declaration of hostility against Landenberg, and that an attempt to rescue his beloved should be made without delay: it was not without difficulty that William Tell convinced him, how impossible it would be to rescue Amalberga any other way than by artifice, without exposing her to the most imminent danger; and that he persuaded him to wait patiently till St. Sylvester’s Eve, when (it was determined) the tyrant should have an open and forcible attack made upon him; though in making that attack, there would still be an absolute necessity for conducting it with the utmost caution.

Amalberga’s friends had obtained some intelligence respecting her present situation. One of Arnold Melthal’s sons, a spirited lad, equally well adapted to daring enterprise and the winding paths of artifice, found means to enter the Fortress of Rassburg in disguise, and examine whether any thing could be attempted towards the rescue of the lady. During her abode on the banks of the Lake of Thun, her sweetness and humility of manners; her majestic air accompanied by the condescension of an angel; the little difference which she seemed to make between herself and the girls of the village, whom she honoured with the name of her companions; all these together had made her an universal favourite; and had not every appearance of a chain been hateful in the eyes of the sons of Freedom, it would have been easy for Amalberga to have established herself as the queen of one of the best people that the earth holds, and to have mounted Helvetia’s throne by general acclamation.

To an eager desire for rescuing this adored lady from the power of Landenberg, was now united the wish to gain possession of the strong Castle of Rassburg; which would secure to Helvetia the success of all those mighty plans, whose accomplishment still lay concealed within the bosom of futurity.

Alwyn, Arnold Melthal’s son, when he ventured to approach the fortress in disguise, was not aware, that his was one of those countenances, which cannot pass unobserved. Fortunately, the eyes, whose notice he attracted, were those of one, by whom features like his were seldom viewed with displeasure. Landenberg happened to be absent, and had left his fair prisoner to the charge of a female attendant, who had formerly stood high in his estimation for the sake of her own beauty, and who now preserved her influence with him by condescending to watch over those, who were in present possession of that heart, to which she was herself become indifferent. Well skilled in manly beauty, she no sooner saw Alwyn pass along with a bucket on his head (for he had obtained entrance into Rassburg under the disguise of a common water-carrier) than she was convinced of his being something better, than his dress denoted. She accosted, and questioned him. His affected simplicity could not deceive her; and he saw himself compelled either to adopt some artifice, or to be reduced to that suspicious silence, which in such a situation would have been scarcely better than a confession of the truth.

—“And so you continue to deny,” continued the girl, “that there is any secret reason for a man like you being here, habited in a manner to which, I am certain, you have never been accustomed? Young man, be frank with me! I should be sorry to give you over to some other questioner, who might use rough means to obtain an answer, or to order that you should be kept in custody, till the Governor returns. Then tell me honestly at once, who you are, and what motive has brought you hither?”—

Alwyn during this speech had examined the countenance of his new acquaintance, and fancied, that he could read in it marks of a partiality for him by no means doubtful. His resolution was taken in a moment, and he threw himself at her feet.

—“What brought me hither?” he exclaimed; “’twas Love, most beautiful of all earthly creatures! But who I am.... Ah! shall I dare to avow myself one of the lowliest among the inhabitants of yonder valley, and thus make it certain, that my suit will be rejected, and myself driven with scorn from the presence of her whom I adore?”—

—“And who is it that you adore?” demanded Ursula.

“You, lovely angel! you!” he exclaimed passionately, while he seized her hand, and prest upon it a thousand kisses; “my heart is devoted to you alone, and your cruelty will kill me!”—

The astonished and delighted Ursula forced herself from his embrace, and fled; but it was not long before she returned, anxious to convince herself, that her half-faded charms had really made so valuable a conquest. To make a woman’s vanity believe any thing flattering, Heaven knows, is no difficult task; and half an hour was sufficient to leave her no doubt of her triumph. She soon grew weary of playing the prude, and she gave him to understand, that he would not find her heart absolutely marble; and thus did the handsome Alwyn find himself involved in an amour, at whose termination he could not guess, and of which, while it lasted, he thought, that he had but little reason to be vain.

At present he reaped no great advantages from his artifice. It was impossible to get a sight of Amalberga, or convey to her a hint, that her friends in the valley were making preparations for her rescue. He was also soon compelled to retire by the return of the Governor, who was now frequently absent for days together from Rassburg on account of the popular disturbances, and who could only bestow a few isolated hours on the prosecution of his suit to the heiress of Sargans. As soon as the warder’s horn announced the Governor’s return, Ursula (who trembled, lest her supposed lover should be discovered by others, as he had been by her) requested him to be gone; yet still there was a secret means left for him to gain entrance into the fortress of the rock, which (disagreeable as it was) for Amalberga’s sake and the general advantage, he did not refuse to employ. At midnight his doating inamorata used to let a bucket down through a chasm in the wall; the rock was steep and flat; the unwilling Lover was then drawn up to the top, where he was obliged to purchase every little scrap of intelligence, which it was requisite for him to know, by a thousand lies and flattering speeches; every one of which, to an heart filled with Helvetian honesty, was scarcely less painful than the stab of a dagger.

He was rewarded, however, for this sacrifice by obtaining the important information, that hitherto Landenberg’s behaviour towards the Lady of Sargans had been restrained within the limits of the most respectful adoration: but that he had assured her with the most dreadful imprecations, that a period was fixed, beyond which he would no longer submit to be the patient victim of her severity. The first day of the ensuing year, he was determined, should make the cruel beauty completely his by fair means or by force. This intelligence induced Alwyn to be more frequent in his midnight visits; he repeated them, till every part of the fortress was become perfectly familiar, and till every little circumstance had been carefully gleaned by him, which might assist his friends in their design of storming the fort and rescuing the lovely captive.

By the Festival of St. Sylvester every necessary preparation was completed; and all the machines were ready to be worked at once in various parts of the country, which might secure the success of an enterprise, of whose views the release of an imprisoned damsel made but a very trifling part—those views were of the most extensive nature; yet if the plan had failed, in spite of the justice of Tell’s cause posterity would no doubt have branded him with the name of rebel, and confounded him with the common herd of unsuccessful adventurers, who have dared to attempt objects beyond their power to attain. But as his plan was arranged with the utmost foresight, and its execution was followed with the most prosperous issue, after-ages have viewed his deed with admiration, have reckoned it as the proudest triumph of the rights of nature over cruelty and oppression, and have bestowed on its author the title of a Hero: so certain is it, that actions are almost always weighed according to their result, and the most impartial judge (without being aware of it) is frequently induced to decide unfairly of events, dazzled by the lustre of the success with which they were attended.