the associates, that the antipathy, which Gero’s first appearance had
excited in her bosom, had not been excited without good grounds. He
possest not the smallest share of that delicacy and respectful
attention, by which her lover was characterized. He permitted himself to
make the most licentious and offensive observations upon the
extraordinary charms of her person, and raised her original disgust to
abhorrence by blaming Randolf for having suffered his passion to remain
so long ungratified; assuring him at the same time, that he would have
dealt far differently with his own lovely mistress, had not her
religious habit terrified him from using force, and thereby drawing down
the vengeance of offended Heaven.—For it seems, this wretch, though he
trampled upon all laws human and divine, was still a slave to the
grossest superstition, and trembled at the very sight of a veil or a
rosary.
—“She has now been some days in your possession,” observed Randolf;
“have you made any progress with the fair Nun?”—
“Not I!” replied Gero; “she is a miracle of beauty, its true, but her
obstinacy equals her charms. Since the day that I captured her on the
road to Zurich, I have been able to obtain nothing from her but tears
and entreaties for her liberty: and as to proceeding to violence, I am
too much afraid of the resentment of holy mother church, or I should put
an end to her resistance before to-morrow morning.”—
During this conversation Ida remained silent, and abandoned herself to
the melancholy reflections excited by the increased consciousness of the
execrable society, of which she was so unfortunately become a member.
But now when she found that she had a companion in misfortune, and that
a person of her own sex (a virtuous and persecuted Nun) was so near her,
a sentiment of secret satisfaction and hope infused itself into her
bosom.
—“Oh! Sir Knight,” she exclaimed, addressing herself to Randolf, “how
happy would you make me, could you but procure for me the company of Sir
Gero’s captive! it is disgraceful, it is dreadful, for a young maiden to
be alone in a society entirely composed of men and strangers; and I
feel, that the presence of a person of my own sex would be to me a
source of the greatest consolation! it would conduce beyond all else to
make me endure my confinement with resignation! oh! good Sir Randolf,
plead for me with your friend, and persuade him to allow me this
unexpected pleasure!”—
The smile, with which she accompanied this request (’twas the first
which played upon her lips, since she became a captive) was
irresistible. As she pronounced the last word, she extended her hand
towards him, and he kissed it with rapture. A wish, exprest in a manner
so fascinating and so unlooked for, was a law to the enamoured robber;
and addressing himself immediately to his companion, he enforced her
request with so much energy, that Gero though with a sorry grace found
himself compelled to grant it.
—“Now then” said Randolf, as he left the tent with Gero, “now then you
can judge for yourself, which of our modes of treating our captives is
the most likely to succeed at the long run. When did your Nun ever speak
to you with such gentleness, or favour you with so sweet a smile? when
did she ever extend her hand towards you of her own accord, and suffer
you to press your lips upon it? credit me, Gero; send her to my
mistress, and I will bet my head upon it, that before long half her
obstinacy and aversion will have disappeared. You see, how complaisant I
have made the lady Ida; and it only requires a little kindness and
flattery well applied to make our religious ladies, just as tame and as
obliging as their sisters of the wicked world.”—
In the course of the day Randolf returned to inform Ida, that she must
not expect the visit of the captive Nun till after midnight.
—“My friend,” said he, “is obliged to keep it a profound secret from the
greatest part of our companions, that such a prisoner is in his
possession. That he has a mistress, indeed, they are aware; but it would
make a terrible uproar in our community, were it known that Gero had
carried off a Nun; and many among our associates, who would think
nothing of half a dozen murders, would expect the rocks to fall and
crush us the very next moment, for daring to lay sacrilegious hands upon
a damsel dedicated to Heaven. To be sure, we violated no sanctuary to
get at her, for we found her trotting along the high road, when she
ought to have been quiet within the walls of her Convent: but still the
very sight of a veil has such influence over the common rabble, that
Gero does not think it prudent to bring her to your tent except under
the protecting shadow of night. He also implores you by me to reward him
for this compliance with your wishes, by persuading her to lend a more
favourable ear to his passion: he is also desirous of learning her name,
which hitherto she has obstinately concealed; and above all he is
anxious, that she should lay aside her religious habit, which hourly
exposes him to danger from his superstitious associates. I know, what
you are going to observe: you believe, that it is nothing but respect
for this habit, which preserves her from Gero’s violence; but I swear to
you by everything that is most sacred and solemn, that neither she nor
yourself have anything to fear from the men who adore you. Our
intentions towards you are the most honourable: we have great designs in
hand, whose nature I am not as yet permitted to disclose to you; but be
assured, that should they succeed, the Countess of Werdenberg and the
fair Nun will have reason to bless the day when they fell into our
hands, and thus escaped the being immured for life within the gloomy
walls of a Convent; a fate, from which _she_ has been rescued, and to
which _you_ were doomed.”—
The prudent Ida, (who saw that favours, which had cost her so little,
were so well rewarded by her grateful admirer) took good care not to
contradict the robber. She answered him by a thousand thanks for his
intercession with Gero, and for his assurances of regard for her
welfare; and she then dismissed him with a smile so gracious and so
sweet, as riveted his chains for ever. When beauty, and sense are united
in the same woman, alas! what puppets in her hands are the mighty lords
of the creation!
Midnight arrived—the hearts of both the captives throbbed with
impatience for the moment of meeting, though they knew not, what made
them so impatient. Never seemed time to move so slowly with Ida, as
while she waited for the stranger’s arrival; and on her side the lovely
Nun quite trembled with joy, while she followed her conductors to the
tent, in which (so Gero had informed her,) she should find a companion
in captivity, whose heart was prepared to sympathize in her
misfortunes—the robbers conducted her to the door of the tent; but
thinking it would be most agreeable to the ladies, that their first
interview should pass without intruders, they suffered her to enter
alone.
It was well for both the captives, that this meeting took place without
witnesses.—Ida was sitting in a melancholy posture, when she heard an
approaching footstep.—She started up, and beheld by the pale gleams of
her lamp a tall light figure, whose face was covered with a thick veil,
advancing from the entrance of the tent. She hastened to meet her, but
uttering a loud cry, she started back again. The religious habit worn by
the stranger was but too well known to her.—It was the long grey garment
decorated with a golden cross upon the breast, in which she had so often
seen the Nuns gliding through the cloisters of Engelberg; and the white
veil, edged with black and falling to the very ground, was of that
particular form appropriated to the order of the Zurich Sisters. The
veil was now hastily thrown back; Ida gazed eagerly upon the Stranger’s
features, and astonishment, joy, and tenderness were carried to the
highest pitch.
—“Constantia!” exclaimed Ida.—“Oh! Heaven! it is my Constantia!”—
—“Ida! my Ida!” shrieked the Nun, and clasped her almost fainting sister
to her bosom.
And now the Sisters wept for joy to think, that they were once more
united; and now they wept for grief at reflecting, that this union had
only made each a partner in the other’s captivity. At length having
sufficiently collected their scattered thoughts, they made mutual
enquiries as to the events, which had produced a meeting so unexpected.
Ida related the long and fearful tale of adventures, which had so
rapidly crouded upon her since Elizabeth’s wedding: on the other hand,
Constantia briefly stated, that on her way back to her Convent at
Zurich, her party had been encountered by a band of robbers: the
Cloister-Vassals, whom the Abbess had sent to protect her, were soon put
to flight; and thus was she brought into the hands of Gero, whom she had
the misfortune to inspire with so violent a passion, that he purchased
her from his companions with his share of the booty arising from the
whole produce of their excursion.
The night past away in mutual congratulations on this meeting so
unexpected; and when morning broke, they recollected, that their plans
for the future were still unarranged. They had now only time to settle,
that as the knowledge of Ida’s rank had only served to make the robbers
consider her possession as of double value, it would be most prudent to
conceal Constantia’s real title; and accordingly she resolved to resume
her former appellation of Mary Tell, an appellation under which she had
past the only happy part of her existence.
When Randolf the next morning inquired of Ida, what she thought of the
fair Nun, she replied, that her society was extremely pleasing, and
would be much more so, were it not for a certain coldness and reserve,
which probably would wear off upon further acquaintance. In a few days
she informed Gero, that she had discovered the name of his mistress to
be Mary Tell; and thus did Constantia avoid the dangerous importance
attached to the title of a Countess of Werdenberg. By her sister’s
advice, she abated somewhat of the haughty coldness, with which she had
hitherto represt the addresses of her ferocious lover; though they both
judged it unwise for her to comply with his request, that she should lay
aside her religious habit. This had hitherto been the means of
protecting her against more violent means of enforcing his passion; and
they were of opinion, that too many restraints could not well be imposed
upon an affection so ill-regulated as the sentiment, which Gero
dignified with the name of love. However, gentle looks and expressions
of gratitude for his attentions were not occasionally refused by
Constantia: Gero had been so little accustomed to be thus mildly treated
by her, that even these trifling condescensions appeared to him of
inestimable value; and when in return for his assurances of future
respect, she one day deigned to extend towards him her alabaster hand,
the robber was so transported, that he took the first opportunity of
thanking Ida upon his knees for a change, which he attributed entirely
to her powerful influence, and which he implored her to exert still
further in his behalf.
—“Noble lady,” said he, “you have often heard Randolf hint, that we have
great plans in agitation, whose chief object is the promotion of your
interests; nor are they unconnected with the happiness of myself and my
adorable Nun. A dreadful oath forbids my saying more on this subject at
present; but rest assured, when the time for explanation arrives, that
explanation will be such, as must perforce content you. In the mean
while suffer me to make to you one request. It is necessary for the
success of our undertaking, that yourself and the lovely Mary (together
with our jewels, gold, and all things which we possess of value) should
be removed from this valley to a retreat at some distance. During the
journey, and your residence at this new abode, promise me, that you will
keep a watchful eye over your fair companion, on whose attachment I can
by no means rely with the same confidence, which Randolf places on
yours. In this respect, he is far more fortunate than his friend; since
the kind reception, which he never fails to meet from you, in spite of
the awe with which your modest air and dignified demeanour inspires him,
leaves but little doubt, that you are sensible of his worth, and will in
time be disposed to reward so steady an attachment. Besides this, I am
convinced, that you have too much solid understanding to think of
escaping from a place, whose very nature will convince you on your
arrival, that any such attempt must be unsuccessful: but no one can say,
what dangerous impossibilities a Nun may not be induced to undertake,
animated by religious enthusiasm, and confident in the supposed
protection of the Saint, to whom her service is dedicated. These
illusions may heat her brain, till she desperately braves every peril,
overlooks every difficulty, and will draw down inevitable ruin on her
own existence, while she leaves me to lament over my baffled hopes. Then
mark me, Lady!—watch over Mary’s steps with unceasing assiduity: when we
again meet, restore her to me safe and lovely, as I now leave her; or
never hope to see yourself re-instated in your claims by the valour of
my arms and those of my companions, nor restored to society by the
acknowledged title of Countess of Werdenberg, and heiress of the wide
domains of Torrenburg, Carlsheim, and Sargans.”—
This speech, which was begun in a kneeling posture and in the softest
tone, which a voice so naturally rough could adopt, assumed as it
proceeded an air of menace, and was terminated by Gero with a terrible
frown and a loud stroke upon the brazen pommel of his sword. Nearly the
same discourse was repeated to her in the evening, (though conveyed in
much milder language) by Randolf. She delivered such a reply, as
circumstances compelled her to give, and trembled, as she listened to
some obscure hints and disjointed observations, which fell from the
outlaw, but which no solicitations could induce him to explain. However,
she had heard enough to excite in her mind the most painful
apprehensions, though not enough to certify their being well-grounded.
The preparations for setting out were soon completed: the treasures were
packed up; and the Sisters were now informed, that the place of their
destination was a narrow valley situated in the heart of the Mountains
of Hapsburg. Gero and Randolf took a tender but respectful leave of the
fair travellers, who were escorted by a small band of soldiers, composed
of such members of this lawless society as were unfitted by advanced
years for taking part in that great undertaking, to assist in which, the
young and active were detained. The ladies set forward, but not till Ida
had made some observations, which rendered her doubly impatient to
commence her journey.
—“Oh! my sister,” she said, as soon as she found an opportunity of
conversing without being overheard, “did you not observe among Randolf’s
followers countenances, which you had seen before? In spite of their
change of dress, I am certain, that the two who rode next to Gero were
Friars, who often visited the Castle of Torrenburg.”—
—“Alas!” answered Constantia, “it is not now, that I learn for the first
time, that a perfect understanding subsists between these robbers and
the unworthy members of some religious community. During my confinement
in Gero’s tent I frequently observed monks among his visitors; of whose
principles you will judge, when I inform you, that they made no scruple
to counsel my encouraging the licentious addresses of my jailor, though
they were thoroughly persuaded, that I was a dedicated Nun: they offered
to release me from my vows, laughed at (what they termed) the absurdity
of my prejudices, promised me entire absolution, and advised me to pay
no more respect to my veil, than they did to their cowls and
scapularies. Conceive, dear Ida, my sufferings, while compelled to
listen to such profane suggestions, and to repress the indignation,
which they excited in my bosom.”—
—“And have you then no guess,” demanded Ida, “what is the object of an
union so singular?—Did they never let fall a syllable, whence you could
collect the nature of this mysterious enterprize, on which they are now
departed?”—
Constantia declared her perfect ignorance on the subject.
“Alas! alas!” resumed Ida, “dreadful apprehensions force themselves upon
my mind! Randolf frequently suffered hints to escape him, which the more
that I reflect on them, serve but to confirm my fears the more. The
robbers have a private understanding with the false Hilarius.—The Monks,
whom I discovered in Randolf’s train, are of the same order with that
betrayer!—It’s true, Count Frederick has treated me cruelly and
unjustly, and now little merits, that I should feel anxiety on his
account. Yet, oh! that I were but near him for one half hour, that I
might warn him of the dangers, which hang over him and his, and which I
would willingly avert, though the price were the last drop of my blood
and the last breath existence.”—
The Sisters had full leisure in the wild solitude to which they were
conveyed, to communicate to each other their mutual fears and melancholy
forebodings. Ida’s insinuating manners soon rendered her a favourite
with her grey-headed guards; and the persuasion of Constantia’s
religious vocation made them bow with superstitious reverence at her
approach, and hold it an honour to be suffered to kiss the hem of her
sanctified garment. In consequence of these prepossessions in their
favour, the Sisters had no other reason to complain of their treatment
in confinement, than the confinement itself.
The place, in which they now resided, was inaccessible to all, except
the robbers, and the rays of the sun. It was a flat spot surrounded by a
chain of snow-covered mountains; one narrow footpath hewn in the rock
was the only entrance, whose windings were known to none except the
ferocious inhabitants of this valley; and which the sudden descent of
weights of snow and of ice-splinters[1] from the over-hanging rocks
frequently rendered for some time impracticable even for them. The
Sisters shuddered, as they gazed upon the gigantic masses of rocks of
ice, which glittered coldly around them as far as the eye could reach;
and they could not conceal their terrors at reflecting, that a single
motion of those cloud-covered summits would be sufficient to convert the
valley into their inevitable grave. The chief of their guards, however,
upon hearing them make this remark assured them, that this never _would_
happen, because it never _had_ happened yet.
Footnote 1:
Avalanches.
—“You must know, fair ladies,” said he, “that I am one of the most
antient among the heroes, who have the honour to serve under the banners
of Sir Randolf of Mansfeld. While I was but a child, I fled hither with
my poor father, then the innocent victim of monkish persecution, and we
found a kind refuge in the bosom of these mountains. The man, who was
then at the head of this hospitable community, had been acquainted with
the first institutor of the band, and had learned from him many
remarkable particulars respecting this valley; some of them in good
truth enough to curdle the young blood in your veins with very terror:
but as to such an accident as that which you apprehend, never had such a
thing been known to happen. Therefore set your hearts at rest, ladies:
the valley lasted out _his_ time; you see, it has almost lasted out
_mine_, and I warrant you, it will last out yours also.”—
The Sisters had no better means of passing the tedious hours of
captivity than in listening to the old robber’s never-ending narratives:
besides, they thought it by no means impossible, that in the warmth of
discourse some particulars might escape him, which might tend to the
improvement of their own situation. They therefore often entreated him
to relate the adventures of his father, who had been so unjustly
persecuted; as also to tell them, what he had learnt, from his first
captain, respecting the original founder of this society of freebooters,
and to give them some account of the various singularities of the
mountains. They could not be better pleased to listen, than the old man
was to talk; and he answered these inquiries at much greater length,
than I shall repeat at present: with his persecuted father we have no
occasion for concerning ourselves; and as to the wonders of the
mountains, we are likely to obtain a more particular description of them
from another quarter: the only point then, which need be repeated for
the gratification of the curious, is the manner, in which the habitation
of holy Anchorets became converted into a retreat for banditti.
Whoever is acquainted with the antient history of Sargans, cannot but
remember, that these private recesses of the mountains were inhabited by
a society of fugitive Monks from Cloister Curwald. The institution of
this society took place in the time of Count Ethelbert of Carlsheim; and
it was continued by the occasional reception of new members, as often as
death reduced the number, to which it had been limited by its founder,
Abbot Christian. That number was six; but for want of novices it was
reduced to two, at the period, when Luprian, the licentious Abbot of
Cloister-Curwald, (flying from the vengeance of Count Herman of
Werdenberg, and from the punishment due to his inhuman treatment of the
Lady Emmeline) was conducted by chance to this secluded Hermitage.
The pious Anchorets received him with the most benevolent welcome: they
gave full credit to his tale of persecuted innocence, and looked upon
the virtuous sufferer as an angel conducted thither by the hand of
Heaven, that he might comfort and sustain them under the infirmities of
age, and might close their eyes, when death should draw nigh their stony
couches. This last piece of service Luprian lost no time in rendering
them. He imagined, that they possest concealed treasures of immense
value, which would enable him to lead once more a life of luxury in some
foreign country, could he but obtain the inheritance of his hosts. In
consequence of this persuasion, the old hermits slept in the grave
sooner, than nature had intended; and Luprian without an hour’s delay
ransacked every corner of the cave. His expectations were cruelly
disappointed. He found nothing more than the usual possessions of an
Anchoret; cowls, scapularies, crosses, and a few relics of saints and
martyrs. But of gold or jewels there appeared not the slightest vestige;
and Luprian had the mortification to find, that he had committed one of
the most horrible crimes ever perpetrated on earth, without deriving
from it even the most insignificant advantage.
Yet was it not its guilt, which made him lament the commission of this
action; no, ’twas its having been committed without reward. His
conscience was by no means of so delicate a texture, as to make him feel
uncomfortable, while inhabiting the scene of this atrocious murder. On
the contrary, he resolved on making this well-concealed retreat the
theatre of fresh offences, and immediately employed himself in
collecting a set of men, whose hearts were depraved, whose characters
were blasted, and whose prospects in the world were ruined like his own.
These he conducted to the mountain-valley, and became the founder of a
band of free-booters, which had now existed above a hundred years, and
which had brought inexpressible calamity on all the neighbouring
country. The rich and the poor, the nobleman and the peasant, alike
mourned over their ravaged fields, and plundered dwellings, their
murdered children and dishonoured wives; and yet did the authors of all
this mischief set punishment at defiance, protected by their secret
caverns and their snow-clad impracticable rocks.