the contents of her basket. Father Hilarius (who was no enemy to the
pleasures of the table) had furnished it, as if he had been catering for
himself: the provisions were the most delicate of their kind, and a
small flask of costly and cordial wine had not been forgotten. Now then
she began to think, what could have been his object in conducting her to
this gloomy abode? It was evident, that he had not left her there to
perish through hunger: was it possible, that he had meant honestly by
her, and that this was really the best path, which she could take to
quit the Castle? Suddenly, it struck her, that during their midnight
wandering the Monk had frequently mentioned a subterraneous passage,
which conducted to a small hamlet inhabited in former times by holy
Hermits, and now the abode of simple villagers scarcely less pure in
manners than their predecessors. He had described this passage to her
with such minuteness, that she could not but suppose his account to have
contained instructions for the direction of her progress; she had at the
time paid but little attention to his remarks, not conceiving that she
was at all interested in the subject; but she now carefully mustered up
every hint which he had let fall, and employed her whole strength of
mind in recalling the instructions, which he had given with such
apparent indifference.
Having at length traced the map of her road on her imagination
sufficiently to make her hope, that she should be able to find her way
through the gloomy labyrinth, she ventured to begin her journey. She
carefully avoided various low-vaulted, passages, which presented
themselves on either side of her, and which Father Hilarius had already
warned her not to enter; as he said, that they only led to small
dungeons, in which many victims of the tyrant Counts of Carlsheim and
Sargans had breathed their last, and which now formed the unwholesome
abode of toads, snakes, and other loathsome reptiles. Apprehensive that
her light might fail her, before she could reach the outlet of these
caverns, she fled onwards with all her speed, and hoped with every
moment, that the next would show her the magnificent tomb, raised by
Count Herman of Werdenberg in honour of his wife the lady Emmeline, who
had been long imprisoned in this subterraneous abode. The sight of this
monument would assure her, that she had not mistaken the way; and the
Monk had told her, that she would there find three paths branching out,
of which the middle one would conduct her without a turning to the
cavern’s mouth.
But still she hastened on, and still one taper after the other was
consumed, and still the tomb was not to be descried! Sleep, and fatigue
from the length of the way, began to operate upon her with force almost
irresistible; yet did she not dare to close her eyes, lest during her
slumber the taper should burn out, and leave her in absolute darkness to
wander through the long chain of dungeons and passages, till she
perished. In this painful situation her only advantage was, that her
imaginary fears gradually subsided. Custom and necessity are frequently
the parents of virtue; and Ida, the timid superstitious Ida, who so
lately could only traverse the chambers of the Donat-Fortress with eyes
closed, hands crost, and knees trembling, was now able to tread firmly,
as she hurried along, and feared not to gaze steadfastly on the
surrounding gloom, with which she was now become familiar.
The poor wanderer could only judge from the consumption of her tapers,
that she must have journeyed for a considerable time, and that the mouth
of the caverns could be at no great distance—this belief was confirmed,
when she perceived a faint pale light glimmering through the obscurity
of a narrow passage, which lay before her. The sight inspired her with
renewed vigour. She hastened towards the gleam: but how did her spirits
fail her, when after proceeding for some minutes down the passage she
found, that the light proceeded (not from the day, as she had fondly
hoped) but from a lamp, which served to illuminate with its blue rays a
place, the sight of which a few days sooner would have made her swoon
with horror, and upon which even now she had but too much reason to look
with apprehension and disgust.
It was a round vaulted room, whose sides were hollowed out into niches,
in each of which a coffin was placed; while here and there the eye
rested on a stately marble monument adorned with carved work and
statues.—Ida shrieked, and the taper fell from her hand.
—“Now then,” she exclaimed, “I am lost indeed! What said the Monk?—Above
all, avoid a narrow passage, which lies towards the left; it conducts
into the burying-place of a convent. Should you stray thither, and be
discovered by the Nuns, the object of your flight will be lost
irrecoverably, and you will only have exchanged one prison for another.
The Abbess is entirely devoted to your uncle’s interests, and will not
hesitate to restore you to his power.—Alas! alas!” she continued,
wringing her hands, “how plainly do I now remember every word of his
warning, though at the time I little thought of how much consequence it
was to my safety!—Now remembrance comes too late! I am fallen into the
toils: speedy flight indeed might perhaps yet save me; but sleep sits
too heavy on my eye-lids, and my wearied limbs are unable to bear me
further.—I must yield to the impulse, and repose for a few moments, for
I am fatigued almost unto death!—then should no one discover me during
my slumbers, when I awake, I can re-kindle my taper at yonder lamp, and
shall be able to pursue my pilgrimage with recruited strength and
courage.”—
She then lay down upon the floor near her extinguished taper, resting
her head against an adjacent tomb; nor was it long before she sank into
a profound sleep. Little till then did Ida believe it possible, that she
could sleep among graves and coffins! Still less was she aware, how near
she was at that moment to safety and protection! Oh! how would her
sorrowing heart have been lightened, had she known, that a few hours
must necessarily compel one of her best friends to enter her gloomy
resting-place; one, who at that moment was grieving at the relation of
her flight from the Castle of Torrenburg, which had reached him under
the most scandalous mis-representations, and who was in the most painful
uncertainty respecting her fate and the means of saving and supporting
her. Ida had unconsciously wandered into the cemetery belonging to the
Abbey of Curwald, which was under the direction of her friend and
guardian, Abbot Conrad!—Oh! how eagerly would he have hastened to
embrace and comfort the poor forlorn-one, could some kind angel have
whispered to him in a dream.—“Ida, the unfortunate much-injured Ida
slumbers among the mouldering bones of the Abbots of Cloister-Curwald!”—
Conrad had dispatched messengers on all sides in pursuit of Ida, as soon
as he received the news of her flight, which Count Frederick transmitted
to him without delay. It seems, that what Father Hilarius dreaded with
so much reason, had actually taken place at the Castle of Torrenburg. No
sooner was the first burst of passion over, than the Count’s justice
made him resolve to give his accused niece a personal hearing—the
morning had scarcely dawned, when he sought her apartments. Her
favourite attendant was ordered to apprize her mistress of his approach:
great was his astonishment, when the maid returned extremely agitated,
and informed him, that Ida was no where to be found. Father Hilarius was
immediately sent for; and his explanation of Ida’s motives for flight of
course was such, as served greatly to increase his patron’s indignation,
and throw a still deeper shade upon the character and conduct of the
fugitive. Elizabeth’s bridegroom had disappeared, immediately after
rejecting her hand at the altar; Ida was now become equally invisible:
it required no great ingenuity to connect these two events together.
Nothing could appear more probable, than that Ida had eloped with Henry,
and that she was gone to form an union built upon the ruined happiness
of her best friends, and to exult at having duped those, whose
good-natured simplicity had prevented them from suspecting her
designs.—Count Frederick’s generous heart was shocked beyond expression,
when he thus saw the offences of his niece presented before him in such
gigantic enormity.
—“Monstrous!” he exclaimed! “inconceivable! first she plunges a dagger
in the breast of her benefactor, by robbing him of the woman whom he
adored; next she stabs her dearest friend to the heart by seducing away
the bridegroom, into whose arms she had herself delivered her! now then
she believes, that her infernal work is complete; she knows well, that
all ideas of an union between me and Elizabeth are prevented for ever;
she doubts not, that vexation and disappointed love will soon conduct me
to the grave; and then she means to divide my rich inheritance with the
partner of her iniquities, the false capricious perjured Montfort!”—
Father Hilarius now stepped forward, and represented to him, that it
only depended upon himself to ruin the plans of those, who had so
grossly offended him; and that as to his union with Elizabeth, he for
his part saw no impossibility in the case. The Count eagerly desired him
to explain his meaning; and the obedient Monk proceeded to prove with
the whole force of his eloquence, that Elizabeth deserved pity rather
than blame for her share in these transactions; that she had been
seduced from her duty more by Ida’s arts than by her own inclinations;
and he declared his perfect conviction, that if the Count would now
condescend to make the first advance towards a reconciliation, he would
find her as full of penitence for her error, as grateful for his
proffered affection, and as eager to unite with him in a plan of mutual
revenge, as even the Count himself could desire.—Nor did he make this
last assertion rashly. Father Jacob had already apprized him, that every
thing at the Castle of March was favourable to their views; and he
advised Hilarius to send his patron thither without loss of time, in
order that Elizabeth’s resentment (upon which he chiefly grounded his
hopes of success) might not be allowed time to cool.
Count Frederick took the Friar’s advice, which was greatly strengthened
by a supposed vision of the Patron-Saint of Torrenburg, who had
condescended in a dream that very night to assure Father Hilarius, that
the consequence of a visit to the Castle of March would be an union with
the lovely Elizabeth. Accordingly the Count lost no time in setting out
to renew his once-rejected proposals, habited as a bridegroom, and
attended by a princely retinue. In the mean while the worthy
house-chaplain did not even allow himself time enough to say his
paternoster, before he dispatched letters to the Bishop of Coira and
Abbot Conrad, in which he related the flight of their ward, the Lady Ida
of Werdenberg, in all its circumstances; stating also the alledged
motives and supposed consequences of this step, and above all not
forgetting to place every circumstance in the light most unfavourable to
the Heroine of the Tale. As they perused these letters, the Abbot and
the good Bishop alternately felt indignation at Ida’s errors, pity for
her misfortunes, and anxiety for the dangers in which she had involved
herself. Willingly would they have believed her innocent; but
appearances were too strong against her, and the Abbot little imagined,
that the only person capable of removing the suspicions, which he was so
anxious to efface, at that very moment reposed so near him.
In the mean while Ida awoke greatly refreshed by a sound sleep of
several hours. She re-kindled her taper, and resumed her anxious
journey; yet she delayed it for a few moments, while she endeavoured to
read the inscriptions on the monuments, and ascertain to what order the
Abbess belonged, whom Hilarius had described to her in such odious and
terrific colours. These clearly exprest, that the tombs were raised in
honour of the former Abbots of Cloister-Curwald, in whose cemetery she
was standing at that moment: what blessed information for her agitated
heart!—the door was unguarded.—A marble staircase conducted to the
interior of the Abbey!—But alas! the inscriptions were composed in the
Latin language.—Ida vainly endeavoured to comprehend the meaning; and a
few moments sufficing to convince her, that her endeavours must be vain,
the poor wanderer turned away from the neighbourhood of her friend, and
hastened to meet her ruin.
With trembling limbs and an heart almost bursting with anxiety, she
pursued her gloomy path. She continued to proceed for a considerable
time; and her last taper was almost expiring, when its beams fell upon
the object, which she had wished to behold so long and so anxiously. She
was now certain of having followed the right path, for she saw at a
distance the monument of her progenitrix, the noble Emmeline of Sargans.
The polished and shining surface of the white marble reflected from afar
the gleam of Ida’s taper—the pilgrim hastened towards it with eager joy,
not untempered by religious awe and reverential terror. With
scarce-heard foot-fall, as if she dreaded to disturb the dead silence of
a place thus sanctified, did Ida ascend the steps leading to this
memorial, raised in honour of faithful love and long suffering. It was
some minutes, before she could resolve on venturing near enough to
examine the statues, with which it was adorned. On one side stood a
female angel (the counterpart of the lovely Emmeline) who trod under her
feet the symbols of cruelty and voluptuousness, and who extended to a
kneeling warrior her right hand, on whose wrist was still fastened part
of the chain, which _he_ had broken.—On the opposite side appeared the
same warrior, who with looks of gratitude held a ring towards Heaven,
probably in allusion to the prophetic dream, which had guided Herman of
Werdenberg to the deliverance of his mistress.
—“Spirits of my ancestors!” exclaimed Ida, as overpowered by her
sensations she sank on the loftiest step, and kist the hallowed marble;
“spirits of Herman and Emmeline, hear the prayer of your forsaken
persecuted daughter! _I_ suffer now, as _you_ once suffered;—_I_ am
innocent, as _you_ were then!—save me, ye blessed-ones! save the heiress
of your sorrows!”—
Ida prayed long and fervently.—When she arose, she found that her last
taper was exhausted, and had left her in total darkness; this however
gave her little concern. The religious duties, in which she had just
been engaged, had inspired her heart with enthusiastic courage: besides,
she knew well, that of the three ways branching out of the circular
vault in which she was at that moment, she had only to chuse the middle
one, which (as Father Hilarius had informed her) would conduct her
straight to the outlet of the subterraneous passages. She ascertained
easily by examining the walls, which of the three was the proper path to
take, and then hastened boldly forwards; for she was now persuaded, that
the invisible spirits of her ancestors hovered over her, and she dreaded
no danger, while protected by those celestial guardians.
The Monk had told her true—the way was straight and unembarrassed with
windings: it soon began to ascend, and the delighted wanderer could at
length discover the faint glimmering of day-light, through the distant
opening. But alas! however near may be the goal of our wishes, who shall
dare to count himself secure of reaching it!—Ida had for some minutes
heard a dead hollow noise behind her, and the ill-boding sounds had
already occasioned her sufficient anxiety to make her double her speed.
Still the noise became more audible: and now she could plainly
distinguish the steps of men, whose arms clattered, as they past along.
She looked back, and could perceive the glimmering of faint lights at a
distance. She rushed forwards with increased rapidity: the sounds, which
became every moment louder, convinced her, not only that she was
pursued, but that her pursuers gained upon her.—Fortunately, the opening
was now at hand; she summoned up all her strength and activity to reach
it, sprang through it, and found herself once more restored to air and
light.
—“Praised be Heaven, I am safe!” she exclaimed: when at that moment she
felt a cold hand seize her by the arm.—She shrieked, and fell on the
earth senseless.
It was long, before her recollection returned. When she again unclosed
her eyes, she found herself no longer in the open air. She was placed
upon a kind of couch, in what she supposed to be a tent; a group of men
of terrible and savage aspect surrounded her; and seated on a chest at
no great distance, she perceived a warrior in complete armour, whose
raised visor showed a countenance wild, ’tis true, but still noble and
commanding.
—“At length then we have found her!” said the warrior in a tone of
exultation—“the lovely pilgrim is in our power, whom we so long sought
in vain through yon gloomy vaults and subterraneous passages.—You are
welcome, fair lady: Father Hilarius gave us notice, that we might expect
your visit; and I rejoice to find, that the description which he gave us
of your charms, was far from exaggerated.”—
—“Have mercy on my distress, Sir Knight!” cried Ida, who now rose from
her seat with difficulty, and sank at his feet, while she extended her
fettered hands in supplication towards him.
—“Father Hilarius assured me,” she continued, “that I should find the
habitation of some holy Hermits near the cavern’s mouth: oh! if any such
habitation really exists, in pity guide me thither!”—
—“Compose yourself, lovely girl,” answered the stranger.—“Hilarius has
not deceived you, neither has he deceived _us_.—He promised us the
possession of a treasure, and he has kept his word, though we mean to
make a better use of it than that, for which he consigned it over to us.
He promised you, that you should find here the habitation of certain
Hermits; and he told you true, for you are actually in a Hermitage at
this moment: many years ago was this the retreat of some fugitive Monks,
who were obliged to seclude themselves from the intercourse of mankind;
and it still forms an abode for a band of daring and persecuted spirits,
whom tyranny and injustice have banished from the world. We too are
Hermits, though not quite such holy ones as those, whom you excepted to
meet. But what does that signify? saints, or sinners, I warrant, you
will fare better in our society, than you would with any company of
Monks, that ever concealed hypocrisy under sackcloth.—Take this as a
specimen of the whole canting-tribe. Father Hilarius has commissioned us
to remove you so far from this province, that your face may never be
seen here again: we have engaged to convey you to a place, where beauty
like yours is always a marketable commodity, and sure of fetching a
heavy price: but you are too fair, too good, too noble, to be sacrificed
to the embraces of an infidel: no, child! we mean to do better for you.
You shall remain with _us_, and your priestly enemy shall be foiled in
his treacherous designs.”—
—“First understand,” interrupted Ida, whose indignation in spite of
grief and terror burst forth upon hearing this insolent declaration of
the outlaw; “first understand, to _whom_ you speak! I am no ordinary
captive, no low-born girl the fit associate for a band of robbers!—you
see in me the niece of Count Frederick of Torrenburg!”—
—“Indeed?” replied the outlaw,—“are you then _really_ Count Frederick’s
niece?—why, to let you into the whole secret, we were told as much,
though we did not give the Monk full credit, and suspected _that_ part
of his story to be an invention for the purpose of obtaining a better
price.—But since you are in truth the person whom he mentioned, so much
the better; your rank and expectations make your possession doubly
valuable. I have no sort of objection to exchange my precarious mode of
life for security and opulence, nor by laying aside the title of captain
of a band of outlaws to claim that of Count of Torrenburg in right of my
wife, its lovely heiress. With the assistance of my companions I will
reinstate you in your rights; the previous possession of your hand and
person will entitle me to share your good fortune; and I shall be
indebted to you for my restoration to my proper rank in society, which
necessity has for some time past compelled me unwillingly to resign. Now
then you are apprized of my whole plan, which suggested itself as soon
as Hilarius informed us of your rank, and in which I am fully confirmed
by the powerful impression produced upon my heart by your beauty.”—
He paused: Ida only answered with her tears—after a few minutes past in
expectation of her reply, the robber thus resumed his discourse.
—“You are silent? you weep?—Ha! perhaps you are offended that your hands
are fettered?—be comforted; those white hands shall instantly be
restored to liberty!—instantly undo those bonds, barbarians that you
are! how could it come into your heads, that it was necessary to bind a
poor defenceless girl, whose escape is so impossible?—shame upon your
flinty hearts, how could you bear to treat so inhumanly such innocence
and such charms!”—
The other robbers now hurried to remove the fetters; but their captain
drove them away with curses, and declared, that from that moment no one
except himself should dare to approach his lovely captive on pain of
instantaneous death.—He then kissed the unbound hands of Ida, led her
respectfully into another tent, and there left her alone, after
entreating her to compose her agitated spirits, and assuring her, that
she might rely upon meeting from him with none but the most honourable
treatment.
Ida, equally overcome with mental and bodily fatigue, sank into a state
of unconsciousness and stupor, which the sentinels who were appointed to
guard the entrance of her tent (and who from time to time looked in upon
their charge) interpreted to be a tranquil sleep, and failed not to
bring this welcome intelligence to their captain.—He received it with
the highest satisfaction, hailed this refreshing slumber as the first
step towards the restoration of tranquillity, doubted not that he should
find Ida more composed and resigned to her fate on his evening visit,
and found her almost frantic through despair.
The peremptory manner in which Ida rejected his addresses, and the
little progress which he made in reconciling her to her present
situation, grieved the robber-chief to the very heart, but did not
excite his indignation. He continued to treat her with the utmost
respect and attention. Nothing was denied her except liberty; and
Randolf (for that was the name of the enamoured outlaw) carried his
politeness and deference so far, that he never even presumed to enter
her tent without having previously obtained her permission.
Ida, whose presence of mind gradually returned, and who became collected
enough to reflect on the best means of conducting herself in such
difficult circumstances, could not but feel, that such attention on the
part of Randolf required some return on hers. She was totally in his
power; it was unwise to exasperate him; and she therefore judged it
prudent to allow him permission to pay her a daily visit of an hour,
since she feared with reason, that without this voluntary concession he
might be induced to allow himself greater liberties without asking her
leave.
—“May I, lady,” said he one morning, after she had past some days in his
power; “may I request permission to present to you one of my friends,
who holds in this society the next place to myself?—he is a nobleman,
whom misfortunes have compelled like me to adopt a mode of life, which
we both look upon with abhorrence, and which with the first opportunity
we are determined to exchange for one more honourable.”—
Ida was sufficiently aware, that the _opportunity_ to which he alluded,
was the possession of her hand, by which he hoped to give himself a
claim to the Count of Torrenburg’s rich inheritance. He frequently in
conversation threw out hints of this nature, but which she judged it
most wise to let pass without observation. She now only answered that
part of his speech, which regarded the introduction of his friend, and
to which (as she feared to irritate her jailor by a refusal) she gave an
unwilling consent.
On his next visit he was accompanied by a man, whose countenance was
much more wild and his manners much less prepossessing, than those of
Randolf. The latter presented the new visitor by the name of Sir Gero of
Altheim.