parties, that Hilarius had occasionally introduced some of the principal
robbers into the Castle in various disguises, in order that they might
become thoroughly acquainted with the nature of the place, which they
were to attack; might spy out the weaker parts of its defences; and by
being aware of the obstacles to their designs, might be prepared to
overcome them. Confiding in the terrific tales respecting the ghosts,
which haunted it, he had even ventured frequently to give his allies
midnight entertainments in the deserted chambers of the Donat-Fortress.
The superstitious domestics shook with terror, as they saw gleams of
light streaming through the worm-eaten casements, and doubted not, that
the ghosts of the antient tyrants of Carlsheim and Sargans had invited
all the other infernal spirits to a feast in their former earthly
residence. In this manner had the Count’s enemies frequently been within
a few hundred yards of him unsuspected; while he (good man) was
dreaming, that his barred portals and lifted draw-bridge secured him
against any possible attack.
Yet his good fortune so ordained it, that the striking this important
blow, was still delayed from time to time: Hilarius too was of opinion,
that the fittest time for making the long-meditated attack would be
immediately after the Count’s decease, when the want of lineal heirs
must necessarily produce much confusion among the numerous claimants,
and when in all probability the Castle’s inhabitants would be found
entirely off their guard. The impatient robbers were by no means
satisfied with this opinion: they were for making the attempt
immediately; but unless they could convince Hilarius, their opposition
availed them nothing. He consented to their taking possession of the
Donat-Fortress; but he took care to keep it well locked and bolted, so
that the supposed spectres could not by any means invade the inhabited
part of the Castle, till it should be his own good will and pleasure to
admit them.
It was at this period, that the Countesses of Werdenberg were
acknowledged by Count Frederick, and were immediately considered by the
Monk as obstacles to his designs. Looking upon Constantia as destined to
the veil, his whole undivided hatred was monopolized by Ida; and he
never rested, till he had ruined her in her uncle’s good opinion, nay
(by means of her mysterious flight) in the good opinion of the world. I
have already related, in what manner he delivered her into the power of
the robbers; who gratified him doubly, first by relieving him from a
person whose absence he wished, and whose blood he was not quite villain
enough to shed with his own hands, and secondly by rewarding him for the
possession of so lovely a girl with a considerable sum of money.
As to what became afterwards of the unhappy Ida, that was a matter of
little interest to Father Hilarius: but it would have been a matter of
very _great_ interest, if he had guest Randolf’s intention of giving
himself a legal claim to the inheritance of Sargans by the possession of
her hand, and of reinstating the detested Ida hereafter in those rights,
of which the Monk had taken so much trouble to deprive her.
The daily presents, which Frederick’s generosity bestowed on his
spiritual guide, made the latter by no means anxious to see the moment
of his patron’s dissolution. He had forwarded to the utmost of his power
Elizabeth’s marriage, not only on account of the advantages promised
both to himself and his Convent by the superannuated lover, whenever
this union should be accomplished, but also from being persuaded, that
the affectionate care of such a wife would be giving the Count a new
lease for many years of existence.
But when the Monk perceived Elizabeth’s decided aversion to himself, and
that her remonstrances had already produced a degree of coolness in her
husband towards both his person and his counsels, he found it necessary
to hasten the execution of his plans. The venom of spite and vengeance,
which had so long been working in his heart, at length overflowed; the
glimmering sparks of treason broke into flames; his intercourse with the
Warriors of the Mountain grew more close than ever; and the peaceable
inhabitants of the Castle were almost terrified out of their senses at
the frequent feasts given by the ghosts of the antient Lords of Sargans.
The reports relative to the goblins of the Donat-Fortress at length
reached Elizabeth. She had the rashness on one of these terrific nights,
when all the other inmates of the Castle went about obstinately with
their eyes and ears shut, as obstinately to keep hers wide open.
Unattended, she ventured to approach the deserted chambers; and the
sounds which reached her, as she stood without, convinced her, that if
they really proceeded from spirits, those spirits must needs have
retained a considerable portion of their former earthly habits.
Not the most distant suspicion of what really was the occasion of this
uproar, was likely to suggest itself to her mind. She only concluded,
and very naturally, that the belief in apparitions served some of her
domestics as a cloak to hide their midnight and dissolute entertainments
from the knowledge of their superiors. This was a practice, to which as
mistress of the family she thought it absolutely necessary to put an
immediate stop. Accordingly, without loss of time she informed her
husband of what she had observed, and of what she supposed to be the
fact: the household was immediately summoned, and ordered to attend
their Lord and Lady to the haunted chambers, which they were determined
to examine without a moment’s delay.
But the uninvited guests were already aware of their approach. One of
Elizabeth’s women was in the confidence of the Monk, and hastened to
warn him by a signal previously agreed upon, that danger was at hand.
Hilarius immediately insisted, that the lights should be extinguished,
and that the Banditti should retire with all speed through the secret
passage, which (he asserted) would be the most spirit-like way of taking
their departure. But the robbers, who were heated with wine, declared,
that it was high time for them to lay aside the characters of spirits,
and that they never should find a more prosperous moment for making
their long-meditated attack, than the present. The continual
postponement of this attack had long made them suspect their ally of
playing them false, and they had prepared themselves for taking the
power out of his hands with the very first favourable opportunity—the
caverns below were filled with Banditti: those who were in the fortress
were no inconsiderable number; and confident of a fresh supply of troops
if necessary, they rushed forwards to meet the Lord of the Castle,
without deigning to summon to their assistance their friends in the
cavern. Indeed, they looked upon victory not only as certain, but easy,
when their only antagonists were terrified domestics, headed by no
better generals than an inexperienced female, and a gray-headed man just
escaped from the bed of sickness, and weighed down by the number of his
years. Accordingly, without listening to the Monk’s remonstrances, they
rushed towards the great portal; and Elizabeth with her followers no
sooner entered the court, in which the Donat-Fortress was situated, than
to their utter surprize they found themselves attacked on all sides.
How lively were the colours, in which the enraptured Frederick described
to me this the most glorious transaction of Elizabeth’s life!—with what
enthusiasm did _he_ relate, with what enthusiasm did _I_ hear, how in
this moment of consternation Elizabeth alone preserved her presence of
mind and the look of undaunted resolution; how, when her terrified
attendants recoiled at the approach of the supposed spectres, she showed
them the sword, which gleamed in the weak hands of their aged master,
urged them to defend a life so precious, and shamed them by reproaches
into following his example; how she wrested from the hand of a beardless
robber the weapon, which he already pointed against her husband’s heart,
and instantly buried it in the assassin’s own; how when the weak old
Frederick was at length struck to the earth, she threw herself before
him, and made her breast his shield; and how while occupied in this
generous office, and while thus devoting her own life in order to
preserve his, she received a wound upon her brow, whose scar now forms
the noblest ornament of the most lovely face in all Helvetia!
Frederick was wounded, and his attendants conveyed him away from the
scene of action; but Elizabeth still maintained her post, directing by
her advice, and invigorating by her presence the small but faithful body
of her retainers. The Banditti found by this time, that victory was not
to be so easily gained, as they had hitherto expected; and they thought
it prudent to summon to their assistance the lurkers in the
subterraneous caverns. Elizabeth perceived, that the numbers of the
assailants was suddenly and alarmingly increased. Every moment seemed to
add to their strength, and it was evident, that unless some means of
preventing the foe from profiting by this new accession of power could
be discovered, every thing was lost. Fortunately, in this critical
moment the eye of the Heroine rested upon the portcullis, which on
account both of its weight and workmanship was esteemed a master-piece
of art. She sprang forwards; she still grasped the sword, of which she
had deprived the robber, and with a single blow she severed the
sustaining cord. It fell with a heavy crash, and destroyed in its
descent several of the new-comers, who were over-hasty in flying to the
assistance of their hardly-pressed companions.
—“Courage, my friends!” exclaimed Elizabeth with a sudden burst of joy;
“resist your enemies but for a few minutes longer, and we are safe!
hark, how the alarm-bells make the air resound! and see! the
castle-portals are thrown open! rejoice! rejoice! our preservers are at
hand!”—
It had been one of the Countess’s first orders, that the alarm-bells
should be sounded without delay, and as soon as any signs were observed
of obedience to the signal for assistance, that the Warder should set
wide the gates for the reception of those, who might hasten to their
relief. She was obeyed; but no one expected, that these precautions
would bring them any more powerful succour than the presence of a few
bands of peasants, armed in haste, and unaccustomed to such midnight
attacks; or else perhaps the troops of some of the neighbouring
noblemen, but who were all at too great a distance to admit of their
reaching the Castle of Torrenburg, before the business should have been
finally decided.
But Elizabeth, when she gave these orders, was better aware of their
importance. The terrible event, which I have just been describing, took
place on the night preceding St. Martin’s festival. St. Martin’s day was
also the birth-day of the Count of Torrenburg; a day, which Elizabeth
now celebrated for the first time, since she became a wife, and which
she was determined to distinguish by a most splendid entertainment. For
many weeks had her messengers been employed in traversing the
neighbouring provinces, for the purpose of inviting the most
distinguished noblemen and their families to be present at a tournament,
to be held at the Castle of Torrenburg in honour of the nativity of its
Lord. Count Frederick, though he was now too much enfeebled by age to
admit of his taking a part in them himself, still delighted in
witnessing such martial sports: they recalled to him many a pleasing and
many a glorious occurrence of his honourable life; and Elizabeth had not
failed to select for his amusement on his birth-day that particular
species, which, her own observation and the experience of others had
given her reason to know, would be most acceptable to her husband.
It was on this very night, that the invited guests were expected at the
Castle, accompanied by their wives and daughters with a numerous
retinue. It had been settled, that they should not arrive till after
midnight, in order that their being in the Castle might continue unknown
to the Count till the next morning; when it was Elizabeth’s design to
conduct him (still ignorant of what was going to take place) to the
prepared lists, where he would unexpectedly find himself seated in the
circle of his best friends and well-wishers, in order to witness that
kind of entertainment, in which he most peculiarly delighted. All her
preparations had been made with the greatest secrecy; none but a few of
her most immediate friends and domestics were in her confidence; and
therefore few except herself were aware, that the alarm-bells were
sounded for the purpose of calling to her assistance those expected
guests, who (she was certain from the lateness of the hour) must needs
be at no great distance.
Her hopes were soon verified. The draw-bridge had scarcely fallen, when
it re-echoed under the hasty trampling of horses’-hoofs. The court-yard
was soon filled with soldiers, who without staying to demand what was
the matter, hastened with drawn swords to assist the Countess and her
faithful supporters. Elizabeth was a heroine in the moment of need; but
her heart was still that of a weak and tender female. She was anxious to
rejoin her bleeding husband; her wound was painful; and still more
painful to her feelings was the sight of the blood, which streamed
around her, and of the mangled corses with which the pavement was
strewed. Most joyful was she, when she found herself at liberty to
resign her dangerous and hateful post; her friend of youth, Richard of
Ulmenhorst, and Count Oswald of March (her brother) took the command of
her forces; and she now flew to the chamber of that husband, who but a
few minutes before had been indebted to her for his life. She found,
that his wound (it was but a slight one) was already drest; and that he
was earnestly insisting, that his attendants should lead him to rejoin
his glorious wife, and suffer him either to conquer by her side, or
perish with that dear one: they sank into each other’s arms, and melted
into tears of joy at finding themselves once more in safety. Seldom have
youthful lovers, even in their happiest moments, felt such unmixed
pleasure, as was now felt by Elizabeth, while she clasped the decrepit
Frederick to her heart.
Before day-break the victory was complete. The knights, who had been
invited to a mock-fight, and had found one so serious, did not leave
their work only half finished—the portcullis was raised again; every
corner of the Donat-Fortress was investigated: the entrance to the
subterraneous vaults was found open and unguarded, and these also
underwent an examination. Here a considerable number of the free-booters
were discovered, and after an obstinate resistance slaughtered; but a
few of them found means to effect their escape from the caverns, and
carried the news of this disaster to their associates in the valley of
Halsberg.
Gero was one of the first, who fell in the assault; Randolf was taken
prisoner: as to the author of all this mischief, the infamous Hilarius,
he was found to all appearance lifeless in one of the caverns, whither
he had retreated during the heat of the combat. He had suffered so
severely both in the conflict, and from the pressure of those, who (like
himself) crowded to take refuge in the secret vaults, that though life
was not quite extinct in him, he expired, before he had time to
acknowledge his numerous transgressions, and receive their absolution.
My knowledge of his private transactions and views was gleaned from the
writings, which were afterwards found in his chamber, and in his cell at
the Convent, of which he was so unworthy a member. These papers were
confided to me by the Bishop of Coira; and their contents were such as
rendered them highly improper to meet the eyes of the laity; who are
already but too apt to scoff, when a church-man slips, and from whom the
servants of Religion ought carefully to veil the errors of her unsteady
children.—But the love of truth, the interests of justice, and the
welfare of two poor persecuted creatures, made it necessary for me to
place everything in the clearest light before the eyes of her, who (I am
certain) needs only to be convinced, that they are _really_ persecuted,
in order to become their most strenuous defender.
So entirely had their evil star the ascendant, that even this overthrow
of their enemies only served to make the Sisters appear in the eyes of
the world in a still more odious point of view. Hilarius died without
having time to acknowledge the pains, which he had taken to effect Ida’s
ruin: it was not till lately, that I obtained the certainty of the
Monk’s perfidy, and of the innocence of my poor wards; facts appeared so
strong against her, that even I for a considerable time was compelled to
give up the fruitless office of defending her; and the proofs, which
spoke so loudly in her disfavour, seemed to increase in number with
every fresh occurrence. Several of the robbers had been made prisoners,
and underwent a close examination respecting the authors of their
enterprize and its object. Among other things, they confest, that a
damsel, understood to be a Countess of Werdenberg, had made a long abode
in their society; that she was evidently the object of their captain’s
affection; and that it was reported among the Banditti, that she had
consented to become his wife, on condition of his establishing her
claims to the domains of Sargans and Carlsheim by force of arms.
Randolf, being questioned respecting these assertions, in a great
measure confirmed them; he only denied, that Ida had ever given her
consent in express words to the enterprize; but he profest his firm
belief, that on those conditions he had every reason to believe her
disposed to unite her fate with his. He had dropped such plain hints of
his designs against the Count, that she could not possibly have
misunderstood him, though her discretion made her prefer the appearing
ignorant of a scheme, whose object was the ruin of her former
benefactor: but as she must have gathered his intention from various
circumstances, and as she continued to treat him, not merely with
unabated, but even with increased complaisance, he had certainly good
reason to suppose, that his meditated plan was by no means disagreeable
to her.—Alas! poor Ida! had she dared to abate that complaisance, and to
express the sentiments of abhorrence, with which the robber’s views
inspired her, what would have been her reward?—ill usage; death perhaps;
or what would have been still worse, life with the loss of honour!
But these reflections did not occur to Randolf or his hearers; they
believed his arguments to be well founded, and that Ida had approved of
the design, which had so nearly terminated her benefactor’s existence.
That she had been privy to it, is true: she had not misunderstood
Randolf’s hints, though she was not aware of the exact nature of his
intentions; but no sooner was she in safety, than her first object was
to provide for that of the Count of Torrenburg.
The village, which at length afforded them security and rest, was called
Edel-Bothen: here they were compelled to pass the night and the
succeeding morning, in order to recover from the fatigues of their late
painful journey; and it was from hence, that a messenger was dispatched
to the Castle of Torrenburg with a letter, written by Constantia in a
disguised hand and without a signature. Ida, who still trembled at the
thoughts of being either compelled to give her hand to the old Count of
Montfort, or to seclude herself for life within the dreary walls of a
cloister, was unwilling to let her incensed uncle know, where she might
be found; and Constantia, though she had herself no motive for
concealment, was afraid of being the means of discovering her sister.
With much difficulty, and after many unsuccessful attempts, the
following lines were at length completed, and a peasant was dispatched
with them to the Castle of Torrenburg.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Count of Torrenburg!_
Peruse these lines from an unknown but sincere friend, who trembles,
lest the warning should come too late. In your domestic priest, the
worthless Hilarius, you nourish a traitor, whose plans if successful
will terminate in your destruction. He has already driven many innocent
persons into the jaws of ruin: and now to finish his career with a
master stroke of villainy, he meditates the overthrow of his generous
benefactor. Secure him, and let him and his papers undergo a strict
examination. Above all, set a watch over the Donat-Fortress, and let the
private entrance be carefully closed up, which you will find on the left
hand of the window in the large chamber, which terminates the southern
wing of the ruins. That entrance communicates with a subterraneous
passage, well known to the robbers, who have so long been the terror of
Helvetia, and with whom Hilarius carries on the most intimate
correspondence. Hasten then to prevent their making any ill use of their
knowledge of this communication; and if this warning should be in time
to save you from danger, the writers of this letter will thank Heaven as
for a benefit conferred upon themselves.
* * * * *
This well-meant epistle did not reach the Castle of Torrenburg till
several days after St. Martin’s day. It was read aloud at the Count’s
table, when the hall was almost filled with knights and ladies, who were
assembled there on account of the festivities, with which Elizabeth
thought it right to celebrate her Lord’s escape from the perilous
Banditti. The letter, while reading, was frequently interrupted by loud
bursts of scornful laughter and expressions of derision from the whole
assembly; yet ’tis said, that Frederick and Elizabeth did not laugh, and
were quite silent. It was easily guest, from whom this unavailing
warning came; and Count Oswald of March, (whose family pride had been
stung to the quick by young Montfort’s conduct on the bridal day, and
whose affection for his sister made him the inveterate enemy of any one,
who offered her any injury or unkindness) insisted upon being allowed to
answer the letter.
According to her instructions, Ida’s messenger had no sooner delivered
the letter, than he hastened away from the Castle: but two horsemen were
dispatched after him in all haste, and the peasant was compelled to
return for an answer. That answer pained the Sisters to the very heart;
they preserved it carefully; they read it over and over again, and every
time with fresh pain; and they at length showed it to me, as a proof of
their total renunciation by their uncle. Count Oswald had written as
follows.
* * * * *