CHAPTER I.

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TALES

FROM

"BLACKWOOD"

Contents of this Volume

_The Surveyor's Tale. By Professor Aytoun._

_The Forrest-Race Romance_

_Di Vasari: A Tale of Florence. By the late

Charles Edwards, Esq._

_Sigismund Fatello_

_The Boxes_

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD."

THE SURVEYOR'S TALE.

BY PROFESSOR AYTOUN.

[_MAGA._ APRIL 1846.]

Good resolutions are, like glass, manufactured for the purpose of being

broken. Immediately after my marriage, I registered in the books of my

conscience a very considerable vow against any future interference with

the railway system. The Biggleswade speculation had turned out so well

that I thought it unsafe to pursue my fortune any further. The incipient

gambler, I am told, always gains, through the assistance of a nameless

personage who shuffles the cards a great deal oftener than many

materialists suppose. Nevertheless, there is always a day of

retribution.

I wish I had adhered to my original orthodox determination. During the

whole period of the honeymoon, I remained blameless as to shares. Uncle

Scripio relinquished the suggestion of "dodges" in despair. He was, as

usual, brimful of projects, making money by the thousand, and bearing

or bulling, as the case might be, with genuine American enthusiasm. I

believe he thought me a fool for remaining so easily contented, and very

soon manifested no further symptom of his consciousness of my existence

than by transmitting me regularly a copy of the _Railway Gazette_, with

some mysterious pencil-markings at the list of prices, which I presume

he intended for my guidance in the case of an alteration of sentiment.

For some time I never looked at them. When a man is newly married, he

has a great many other things to think of. Mary had a decided genius

for furniture, and used to pester me perpetually with damask curtains,

carved-wood chairs, gilt lamps, and a whole wilderness of household

paraphernalia, about which, in common courtesy, I was compelled to

affect an interest. Now, to a man like myself, who never had any fancy

for upholstery, this sort of thing is very tiresome. My wife might have

furnished the drawing-room after the pattern of the Cham of Tartary's

for anything I cared, provided she had left me in due ignorance of the

proceeding; but I was not allowed to escape so comfortably. I looked

over carpet-patterns and fancy papers innumerable, mused upon all manner

of bell-pulls, and gave judgment between conflicting rugs, until the

task became such a nuisance that I was fain to take refuge in the sacred

sanctuary of my club. Young women should be particularly careful against

boring an accommodating spouse. Of all places in the world, a club is

the surest focus of speculation. You meet gentlemen there who hold stock

in every line in the kingdom--directors, committee-men, and even crack

engineers. I defy you to continue an altogether uninterested auditor of

the fascinating intelligence of Mammon. In less than a week my vow was

broken, and a new _liaison_ commenced with the treacherous Delilah of

scrip. As nine-tenths of my readers have been playing the same identical

game towards the close of last year, it would be idle to recount to them

the various vicissitudes of the market. It is a sore subject with most

of us--a regular undeniable case of "_infandum regina_." The only

comfort is, that our fingers were simultaneously burned.

Amongst other transactions, I had been induced by my old friend Cutts,

now in practice as an independent engineer, to apply for a large

allocation of shares in the Slopperton Valley, a very spirited

undertaking, for which the Saxon (as we used to call him) was engaged to

invent the gradients. This occurred about the commencement of the great

Potato Revolution--an event which I apprehend will be long remembered by

the squirearchy and shareholders of these kingdoms. The money-market

was beginning to exhibit certain symptoms of tightness; premiums were

melting perceptibly away, and new schemes were in diminished favour.

Under these circumstances, the Provisional Committee of the Slopperton

Valley Company were beneficent enough to gratify my wishes to the full,

and accorded to me the large privilege of three hundred original shares.

Two months earlier this would have been equivalent to a fortune--as it

was, I must own that my gratitude was hardly commensurate to the high

generosity of the donors. I am not sure that I did not accompany the

receipt of my letter of allocation with certain expletives by no means

creditable to the character of the projectors--at all events, I began to

look with a milder eye upon the atrocities of Pennsylvanian repudiation.

However, as the crash was by no means certain, my sanguine temperament

overcame me, and in a fit of temporary derangement I paid the deposit.

In the ensuing week the panic became general. Capel-court was deserted

by its herd--Liverpool in a fearful state of commercial coma--Glasgow

trembling throughout its Gorbals--and Edinburgh paralytically shaking.

The grand leading doctrine of political economy once more was recognised

as a truth: the supply exorbitantly exceeded the demand, and there were

no buyers. The daily share-list became a far more pathetic document in

my eyes than the Sorrows of Werter. The circular of my brokers, Messrs

Tine and Transfer, contained a tragedy more woful than any of the

conceptions of Shakespeare--the agonies of blighted love are a joke

compared with those of baffled avarice; and of all kinds of consumption,

that of the purse is the most severe. One circumstance, however, struck

me as somewhat curious. Neither in share-list nor circular could I find

any mention made of the Slopperton Valley. It seemed to have risen like

an exhalation, and to have departed in similar silence. This boded ill

for the existence of the L750 I had so idiotically invested, the

recuperation whereof, in whole or in part, became the subject of my

nightly meditations; and as correspondence in such matters is usually

unsatisfactory, I determined to start personally in search of my

suspended deposit.

I did not know a single individual of the Slopperton Provisional

Committee, but I was well enough acquainted with Cutts, whose present

residence was in a midland county of England, where the work of railway

construction was going actively forward. As I drove into the town where

the Saxon had established his headquarters, I saw with feelings of

peculiar disgust immense gangs of cut-throat-looking fellows--"the

navvies of the nations," as Alfred Tennyson calls them--busy at their

embankments, absorbing capital at an alarming ratio, and utterly

indifferent to the state of the unfortunate shareholders then writhing

under the pressure of calls. Philanthropy is a very easy thing when our

own circumstances are prosperous, but a turn of the wheel of fortune

gives a different complexion to our views. If I had been called upon two

months earlier to pronounce an oration upon the vast benefits of general

employment and high wages, I should have launched out _con amore_. Now,

the spectacle which I beheld suggested no other idea than that of an

enormous cheese fast hastening to decomposition and decay beneath the

nibbling of myriads of mites.

I found Cutts in his apartment of the hotel in the unmolested enjoyment

of a cigar. He seemed fatter, and a little more red in the gills, than

when I saw him last, otherwise there was no perceptible difference.

"Hallo, old fellow!" cried the Saxon, pitching away a pile of estimates;

"what the mischief has brought you up here? Waiter--a bottle of sherry!

You wouldn't prefer something hot at this hour of the morning, would

you?"

"Certainly not."

"Ay--you're a married man now. How's old Morgan? Lord! what fun we had

at Shrewsbury when I helped you to your wife!"

"So far as I recollect, Mr Cutts, you nearly finished that business. But

I want to have a serious talk with you about other matters. What has

become of that confounded Slopperton Valley, for which you were

engineer?"

"Slopperton Valley! Haven't you heard about it? The whole concern was

wound up about three weeks ago. Take a glass of wine."

"Wound up? Why, this is most extraordinary. I never received any

circular!"

"I thought as much," said Cutts, very coolly. "That's precisely what I

said to old Hasherton, the chairman, the day after the secretary bolted.

I told him he should send round notice to the fellows at a distance,

warning them not to cash up; but it seems that the list of subscribers

had gone amissing, and so the thing was left to rectify itself."

"Bolted! You don't mean Mr Glanders, of the respectable firm of Glanders

and Co.?"

"Of course I do. I wonder you have not heard of it. That comes of

living in a confounded country where there are neither breeches nor

newspapers--help yourself--and no direct railway communication. Glanders

bolted as a matter of course, and I can tell you that I thought myself

very lucky in getting hold of as much of the deposits as cleared my

preliminary expenses."

"Cutts--are you serious?"

"Perfectly. But what's the use of making a row about it? You look as

grim as if there was verjuice in the sherry. You ought to thank your

stars that the thing was put a stop to so soon."

"Why--didn't you recommend me to apply for shares?"

"Of course I did, and I wonder you don't feel grateful for the advice.

Everybody thought they would have come out at a high premium. I would

not have taken six pounds for them in the month of September; but this

infernal potato business has brought on the panic, and nobody will table

a shilling for any kind of new stock. It was a lucky thing for us that

we got a kind of hint to draw in our horns in time."

"And pray, since the concern is wound up, as you say, how much of our

deposit-money will be returned?"

"You don't mean to say," said Cutts, with singularly elaborate

articulation--"You don't mean to say that you were such an inconceivable

ass as to pay up your letter of allotment? Well, I never heard of such a

piece of deliberate infatuation! Why, man, a blacksmith with half an eye

must have seen that the game was utterly up a week before the calls were

due. I don't think there is a single man out of Scotland who would have

made such a fool of himself; indeed, so far as I know, nobody cashed up

except a dozen old women who knew nothing about the matter, and ten

landed proprietors, who expected compensation, and deserved to be done

accordingly. You need not look as though you meditated razors. The

Biggleswade profits will pay for this more than thirty times over."

"I'll tell you what, Cutts," said I in a paroxysm, "this is a most

nefarious transaction, and I'm hanged if I don't take the law with every

one connected with it. I'll make an example of that fellow Hasherton,

and the whole body of the committee."

"Just as you like," replied the imperturbable Cutts. "You're a lawyer,

and the best judge of those sort of things. I may, however, as well

inform you that Hasherton went into the Gazette last week, and that you

won't find another member of the committee at this moment within the

four seas of Great Britain."

"And pray, may I ask how _you_ came to be connected with so

discreditable a project? Do you know that it is enough to blast your

own reputation for ever?"

"I know nothing of the kind," said the Saxon, commencing another cigar.

"I look to the matter of employment, and have nothing to do with the

character of my clients, beyond ascertaining their means of liquidating

my account. The committee required the assistance of a first-rate

engineer, and I flatter myself they could hardly have made a more

unexceptionable selection. But what's the use of looking sulky about it?

You can't help yourself; and, after all, what's the amount of your loss?

A parcel of pound-notes that would have lain rotting in the bank had

you not put them into circulation! Cheer up, Fred, you've made at least

one individual very happy. Glanders is going it in New York. I shouldn't

be surprised if half your deposit-money is already invested in

mint-juleps, gin-slings, and sherry-cobblers."

"It is very easy for you to talk, Mr Cutts," said I, with considerable

acrimony. "_Your_ account, at all events, appears to have been paid.

Doubtless you looked sharply after that. I cannot help putting my own

construction upon the conduct of a gentleman who makes a direct profit

out of the misfortunes of his friends."

"You affect me deeply," said Cutts, applying himself diligently to the

decanter; "but you don't drink. Do you know you put me a good deal in

mind of Macready? Did you ever hear him in Lear,

'How sharper than a serpent's thanks it is

To have a toothless child?'

You're remarkably unjust, Fred, as you will acknowledge in your cooler

moments. I am hurt by your ingratitude--I am," and the sympathising

engineer buried his face in the folds of a Bandana handkerchief.

I knew, by old experience, that it was of no use to get into a rage with

Cutts. After all, I had no tenable ground of complaint against him;

for the payment of the deposit-money was my own deliberate act, and it

was no fault of his that the shares were not issued at a premium. I

therefore contrived to swallow, as I best could, my indignation, though

it was no easy matter. Seven hundred and fifty pounds is a serious sum,

and would have gone a long way towards the furnishing of a respectable

domicile.

I believe that Cutts, though he never allowed himself to exhibit a

symptom of ordinary regret, was internally annoyed at the confounded

scrape in which I was landed by following his advice. At all events

he soon ceased comporting himself after the manner of the comforters

of Job, and finally undertook to look after my interest in case any

fragment of the deposits could be rescued from the hands of the

Philistines. I have since had a letter from him with the information

that he has recovered a hundred pounds--a friendly exertion which shall

be duly acknowledged so soon as I receive a remittance, which, however,

has not yet come to hand.

By the time we had finished the sherry, I was restored, if not to

good-humour, at least to a state of passive resignation. The Saxon gave

strict orders that he was to be denied to everybody, and made some

incoherent proposals about "making a forenoon of it," which, however,

I peremptorily declined.

"It's a very hard thing," said Cutts, "but I see it's an invariable

rule that matrimony and good-fellowship can never go together. You're

not half the brick you used to be, Fred; but I suppose it can't be

helped. There's a degree of slow-coachiness about you which I take to

be peculiarly distressing, and if you don't take care it will become

a confirmed habit."

"Seven hundred and fifty pounds--what! all my pretty chickens and

their----"

"Don't swear! it's a highly immoral practice. At all events you'll

dine with me to-day at six. You shall have as much claret as you can

conscientiously desire, and, for company, I have got the queerest

fellow here you ever set eyes on. You used to pull the long bow with

considerable effect, but this chap beats you hollow."

"Who is he?"

"How should I know? He calls himself Leopold Young Mandeville--is a

surveyor by trade, and has been working abroad at some outlandish

line or another for the last two years. He is a very fair hand at the

compasses, and so I have got him here by way of assistant. You may think

him rather dull at first, but wait till he has finished a pint, and I'm

shot if he don't astonish you. Now, if you will have nothing more, we

may as well go out, and take a ride by way of appetiser."

At six o'clock I received the high honour of an introduction to Mr

Young Mandeville. As I really consider this gentleman one of the most

remarkable personages of the era in which we live, I may perhaps be

excused if I assume the privilege of an acquaintance, and introduce

him also to the reader. The years of Mr Mandeville could hardly have

exceeded thirty. His stature was considerably above the average of

mankind, and would have been greater save for the geometrical curvature

of his lower extremities, which gave him all the appearance of a walking

parenthesis. His hair was black and streaky; his complexion atrabilious;

his voice slightly raucous, like that of a tragedian contending with a

cold. The eye was a very fine one--that is, the right eye--for the other

optic was evidently internally damaged, and shone with an opalescent

lustre. There was a kind of native dignity about the man which impressed

me favourably, notwithstanding the reserved manner in which he exchanged

the preliminary courtesies.

Cutts did the honours of the table with his usual alacrity. The dinner

was a capital one, and the wine not only abundant but unexceptionable.

At first, however, the conversation flowed but languidly. My spirits had

not yet recovered from the appalling intelligence of the morning; nor

could I help reflecting, with a certain uneasiness, upon the reception

I was sure to meet with from certain brethren in the Outer House, to

whom, in a moment of rash confidence, I had intrusted the tale of my

dilemma. I abhor roasting in my own person, and yet I knew I should have

enough of it. Mandeville ate on steadily, like one labouring under the

conviction that he thereby performed a good and meritorious action,

and scorning to mix up extraneous matter with the main object of his

exertions. The Saxon awaited his time, and steadily circulated the

champagne.

We all got more loquacious after the cloth was removed. A good dinner

reconciles one amazingly to the unhappy chances of our lot; and, before

the first bottle was emptied, I had tacitly forgiven every one of the

Provisional Committee of the Slopperton Railway Company, with the

exception of the villanous Glanders, who, for anything I knew, might,

at that moment, be transatlantically regaling himself at my particular

expense. His guilt was of course inexpiable. Mandeville, having eat

like an ogre, began to drink like a dromedary. Both the dark and

the opalescent eye sparkled with unusual fire, and with a sigh of

philosophic fervour he unbuttoned the extremities of his waistcoat.

"Help yourselves, my boys," said the jovial Cutts; "there's lots of time

before us between this and the broiled bones. By Jove, I'm excessively

thirsty! I say, Mandeville, were you ever in Scotland? I hear great

things of the claret there."

"I never had that honour," replied Mr Young Mandeville, "which I

particularly regret, for I have a high--may I say the highest?--respect

for that intelligent country, and indeed claim a remote connection with

it. I admire the importance which Scotsmen invariably attach to pure

blood and ancient descent. It is a proof, Mr Cutts, that with them the

principles of chivalry are not extinct, and that the honours which

should be paid to birth alone, are not indiscriminately lavished upon

the mere acquisition of wealth."

"Which means, I suppose, that a lot of rubbishy ancestors is better than

a fortune in the funds. Well--every man according to his own idea. I am

particularly glad to say, that I understand no nonsense of the kind.

There's Fred, however, will keep you in countenance. He says--but I'll

be hanged if I believe it--that he is descended from some old king or

another, who lived before the invention of breeches."

"Cutts--don't be a fool!"

"Oh, by Jove, it's quite true!" said the irreverent Saxon; "you used to

tell me about it every night when you were half-seas over at Shrewsbury.

It was capital fun to hear you, about the mixing of the ninth tumbler."

"Excuse me, sir," said Mr Mandeville, with an appearance of intense

interest--"do you indeed reckon kindred with the royal family of

Scotland? I have a particular reason personal to myself in the inquiry."

"Why, if you really want to know about it," said I, looking, I suppose,

especially foolish, for Cutts was evidently trotting me out, and I more

than half suspected his companion--"I do claim--but it's a ridiculous

thing to talk of--a lineal descent from a daughter of William the Lion."

"You delight me!" said Mr Mandeville. "The connection is highly

respectable--I have myself some of that blood in my veins, though

perhaps of a little older date than yours; for one of my ancestors,

Ulric of Mandeville, married a daughter of Fergus the First. I am very

glad indeed to make the acquaintance of a relative after the lapse of so

many centuries."

I returned a polite bow to the salutation of my new-found cousin, and

wished him at the bottom of the Euxine.

"Will you pardon me, Mr Cutts, if I ask my kinsman a question or two

upon family affairs? The older cadets of the royal blood have seldom an

opportunity of meeting."

"Fire away," said the Saxon, "but be done with it as soon as you can."

"Reduced as we are," continued Mr Mandeville, addressing himself to me,

"in numbers as well as circumstances, it appears highly advisable that

we should maintain some intercourse with each other for the preservation

of our common rights. These, as we well know, had their origin before

the institution of Parliaments, and therefore are by no means fettered

or impugned by any of the popular enactments of a later age. Now, as you

are a lawyer, I should like to have your opinion on a point of some

consequence. Did you ever happen to meet our cousin, Count Ferguson of

the Roman Empire?"

"Never heard of him in my life," said I.

"Any relation of the fellow who couldn't get into the lodging-house?"

asked Cutts.

"I do not think so, Mr Cutts," replied Mandeville, mildly. "I had

the pleasure of making the Count's acquaintance at Vienna. He is, I

apprehend, the only heir-male extant to the Scottish crown, being

descended from Prince Fergus and a daughter of Queen Boadicea. Now,

you and I, though younger cadets, and somewhat nearer in succession,

merely represent females, and have therefore little interest beyond a

remote contingency. But I understand it is the fact that the ancient

destination to the Scottish crown is restricted to heirs-male solely;

and therefore I wish to know, whether, as the Stuarts have failed, the

Count is not entitled to claim in right of his undoubted descent?"

I was petrified at the audacity of the man. Either he was the most

consummately impudent scoundrel I ever had the fortune to meet, or a

complete monomaniac! I looked him steadily in the face. The fine black

eye was bent upon me with an expression of deep interest, and something

uncommonly like a tear was quivering in the lash. Palpable monomania!

"It seems a very doubtful question," said I. "Before answering it, I

should like to see the Count's papers, and take a look at our older

records."

"That means, you want to be fee'd," said Cutts. "I'll tell you what,

my lads, I'll stand this sort of nonsense no longer. Confound your

Fergusons and Boadiceas! One would think, to hear you talk, that you

were not a couple of as ordinary individuals as ever stepped upon

shoe-leather, but princes of the blood-royal in disguise. Help

yourselves, I say, and give us something else."

"I fear, Mr Cutts," said Mandeville, in a deep and choky voice, "that

you have had too little experience of the vicissitudes of the world to

appreciate our situation. You spoke of a prince. Know, sir, that you see

before you one who has known that dignity, but who never shall know it

more! O Amalia, Amalia!--dear wife of my bosom--where art thou now!

Pardon me, kinsman--your hand--I do not often betray this weakness, but

my heart is full, and I needs must give way to its emotion." So saying,

the unfortunate Mandeville bowed down his head and wept; at least, so I

concluded, from a succession of severe eructations.

I did not know what to make of him. Of all the hallucinations I ever

had witnessed, this was the most strange and unaccountable. Cutts, with

great coolness, manufactured a stiff tumbler of brandy and water, which

he placed at the elbow of the ex-potentate, and exhorted him to make a

clean breast of it.

"What's the use of snivelling about the past?" said he. "It's a

confounded loss of time. Come, Mandeville, toss off your liquor like a

Trojan, and tell us all about it, if you have anything like a rational

story to tell. We'll give you credit for the finer feelings, and all

that sort of nonsense--only look sharp."

Upon this hint the Surveyor spoke, applying himself at intervals to the

reeking potable beside him. I shall give his story in his own words,

without any commentary.

"I feel, gentlemen, that I owe to you, and more especially to my

new-found kinsman, some explanation of circumstances, the mere

recollection of which can agitate me so cruelly. You seemed surprised

when I told you of the rank which I once occupied, and no doubt you

think it is a strange contrast to the situation in which you now

behold me. Alas, gentlemen! the history of Europe, during the last

half-century, can furnish you with many parallel cases. Louis

Philippe has, ere now, like myself, earned his bread by mathematical

exertion--Young Gustavson--Henry of Bourbon, are exiles! the sceptre

has fallen from the hands of the chivalrous house of Murat! Minor

principalities are changed or absorbed, unnoticed amidst the war and

clash of the great world around them! Thrones are eclipsed like stars,

and vanish from the political horizon.

"Do not misunderstand me, gentlemen--I claim no such hereditary honours.

I am the last representative of an ancient and glorious race, who cut

their way to distinction with their swords on the field of battle.

Roger de Mandeville, bearer of the ducal standard at the red fight of

Hastings, was the first of my name who set foot upon English ground.

Since then, there is not an era in the history of our country which does

not bear witness to some achievement of the stalwart Mandevilles. The

Crusades--Cressy--Poitiers--and--pardon me, kinsman--Flodden, were the

theatres of our renown.

"I dare not trust myself to speak of the broad lands and castles

which we once possessed. These have long since passed away from us. A

Birmingham artisan, whose churl ancestor would have deemed it an honour

to run beside the stirrup of my forefathers, now dwells in the hall of

the Mandeville. The spear is broken, and the banner mouldered. Nothing

remains, save in the chancel of the roofless church a recumbent marble

effigy, with folded hands, of that stout Sir Godfrey of Mandeville who

stormed the breach of Ascalon!

"I was heir to nothing but the name. Of my early struggles I need not

tell you. A proud and indomitable heart yet beat within this bosom; and

though some of the ancient nobility of England, who knew and lamented my

position, were not backward in their offers, I could not bring myself in

any one instance to accept of eleemosynary assistance. Even the colours

which were spontaneously offered to me by the great Captain of the age,

were rejected, though not ungratefully. Had there been war, Britain

should have found me foremost in her ranks as a volunteer, but I

could not wear the livery of a soldier so long as the blade seemed

undissolubly soldered to the sheath. I spurned at the empty frivolity

of the mess-room, and despised every other bivouac save that upon the

field of battle.

"In brief, gentlemen, I preferred the field of science, which was

still open to me, and became an engineer. Mr Cutts, whose great

acquirements and brilliant genius have raised him to such eminence in

the profession"--here Cutts made a grateful salaam--"can bear testimony

to the humble share of talent I have laid at the national disposal; and

if you, my kinsman, are connected with any of the incipient enterprises

in the north, I should be proud of an opportunity of showing you that

the genius of a Mandeville can be applied as well to the arts of peace

as to the stormy exercises of war. But even Mr Cutts does not know how

strangely my labours have been interrupted. What an episode was mine!

A year of exaltation to high and princely rank--a year of love and

battle--and then a return to this cold and heavy occupation! Had that

interval lasted longer, gentlemen, believe me, that ere now I should

have carried the victorious banners of Wallachia to the gates of

Constantinople, plucked the abject and besotted Sultan from his throne,

and again established in more than its pristine renown the independent

Empire of the East!"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Well said, Mandeville!" shouted Cutts. "I like

to see the fellow who never sticks at trifles."

"No reality, sirs, could have prevented me; but I fear my preface is too

long. About two years ago I was requested by the projectors of the great

railway between Paris and Constantinople to superintend the survey of

that portion which stretches eastward from Vienna. I accepted the

appointment with pleasure, for I longed to see foreign countries, and

the field abroad appeared to me a much nobler one than that at home. I

had personal letters of introduction to the Emperor, who treated me with

marked distinction; for some collateral branches of my family had done

the Austrian good service in the wars of Wallenstein, and the heroic

charge of the Pappenheimers under Herbert Mandeville at Lutzen was still

freshly and gratefully remembered. It was in Vienna that I made the

acquaintance of our mutual kinsman, Count Ferguson, whose claims to

hereditary dignity, I trust, you will reflect on at your leisure.

"Do either of you, gentlemen, understand German?--No!--I regret the

circumstance, because you can hardly follow me out distinctly when I

come to speak of localities. But I shall endeavour to be as clear

as possible. One evening I was in attendance upon his majesty--who

frequently honoured me with these commands, for he took a vast interest

in all matters of science--at the great theatre. All the wealth, beauty,

and talent of Austria were there. I assure you, gentlemen, I never gazed

upon a more brilliant spectacle. The mixture of the white and blue

uniforms of the Austrian officers, with the national costumes of the

nobility of Hungary, Wallachia, Moldavia, Transylvania, and the Tyrol,

gave the scene the appearance of a studied and gorgeous carnival. The

glittering of diamonds along the whole tier of the boxes was literally

painful to the eyes. Several of the Esterhazy family seemed absolutely

sheathed in jewel armour, and I was literally compelled to request the

Duchessa Lucchesini, who was seated next me, to lower her beautiful arm,

as the splendour of the brilliants on her bracelet--I, of course, said

the lustre of the arm itself--was so great as to obstruct my view of the

stage. She smilingly complied. The last long-drawn note of the overture

was over, the curtain had risen, and the _prima donna_ Schenkelmann was

just trilling forth that exquisite _aria_ with which the opera of the

_Gasthaus_ begins, when the door of the box immediately adjoining the

imperial one opened, and a party entered in the gay Wallachian costume.

The first who took her place, in a sort of decorated chair in front,

and who was familiarly greeted by his Majesty, was a young lady, as it

seemed to me even then, of most surpassing beauty. Her dark raven hair

was held back from a brow as white as alabaster by a circlet of gorgeous

emeralds, whose pale mild light added to the pensive melancholy of her

features. I have no heart to describe her further, although that image

stands before me now, as clearly as when I first riveted these longing

eyes upon her charms!--O Amalia!

"Her immediate companion was a tall stalwart nobleman, beneath whose

cloak glittered a close-fitting tunic of ring-mail. His looks were

haughty and unprepossessing; he cast a fierce glance at the box which

contained the Esterhazys; bowed coldly in return to the recognition

of the Emperor; and seated himself beside his beautiful companion. I

thought--but it might be fancy--that she involuntarily shrank from his

contact. The remainder of the box was occupied by Wallachian ladies and

grandees.

"My curiosity was so whetted, that I hardly could wait until the

Schenkelmann had concluded, before assailing my neighbour the Duchessa

with questions.

"'Is it possible?' said she. 'Have you been so long in Vienna,

chevalier, and yet never seen the great attraction of the day--the

Wallachian fawn, as that foolish Count Kronthaler calls her? I declare

I begin to believe that you men of science are absolutely born blind!'

"'Not so, beautiful Lucchesini! But remember that ever since my arrival

I have been constantly gazing on a star.'

"'You flatterer! But seriously, I thought every one knew the Margravine

of Kalbs-Kuchen. She is the greatest heiress in Europe--has a

magnificent independent principality, noble palaces, and such diamonds!

That personage beside her is her relation, the Duke of Kalbs-Braten, the

representative of a younger branch of the house. He is at deadly feud

with the Esterhazys, and the Emperor is very apprehensive that it may

disturb the tranquillity of Hungary. I am sure I am glad that my own

poor little Duchy is at a distance. I wish he would not bow to me--I am

sure he is a horrid man. Only think, my dear chevalier! He has already

married two wives, and nobody knows what has become of them. Poor Clara

von Gandersfeldt was the last--a sweet girl, but that could not save

her. They say he wants to marry his cousin--I hope she won't have him.'

"'Does he indeed presume!' said I, 'that dark-browed ruffian, to aspire

to such an angel?'

"'I declare you make me quite jealous,' said the Lucchesini; 'but speak

lower or he will overhear you. I assure you Duke Albrecht is a very

dangerous enemy.'

"'O that I might beard him!' cried I, 'in the midst of his assembled

Hulans! I tell you, Duchessa, that ere now a Mandeville----'

"'_Potz tausend donner-wetter!_' said the Emperor, good-humouredly

turning round; 'what is that the Chevalier Mandeville is saying? Why,

chevalier, you look as fierce as a roused lion. We must take care of

you old English fire-eaters. By the way,' added he very kindly, 'our

Chancellor will send you to-morrow the decoration of the first class of

the Golden Bugle. No thanks. You deserve it. I only wish the order could

have been conferred upon such a field as that of Lutzen. And now come

forward, and let me present you to the Margravine of Kalbs-Kuchen, whose

territories you must one of these days traverse. Margravine--this is the

Chevalier Mandeville, of whom I have already told you.'

"She turned her head--our eyes met--a deep flush suffused her

countenance, but it was instantly succeeded by a deadly paleness.

"'_Eh, wass henker!_' cried the Emperor, 'what's the meaning of

this?--the Margravine is going to faint!'

"'Oh no--no--your Majesty--'tis nothing--a likeness--a dream--a

dizziness, I mean, has come over me! It is gone now. You shall be

welcome, chevalier,' continued she, with a sweet smile, 'when you visit

our poor dominions. Indeed, I have a hereditary claim upon you, which I

am sure you will not disregard.'

"'_Hagel und blitzen!_' cried his imperial Majesty--'What is this? I

understood the chevalier was never in Germany before.'

"'That may be, sire,' repeated the Margravine with another blush. 'But

my great-grandmother was nevertheless a Mandeville, the daughter of that

Field-marshal Herbert who fought so well at Lutzen. His picture, painted

when he was a young cuirassier, still hangs in my palace, and, indeed,

it was the extreme likeness of the chevalier to that portrait, which

took me for a moment by surprise. Let me then welcome you, cousin;

henceforward we are not strangers!'

"I bowed profoundly as I took the proffered hand of the Margravine. I

held it for an instant in my own--yes!--by Cupid, there _was_ a gentle

pressure. I looked up and beheld the dark countenance of the Duke of

Kalbs-Braten scowling at me from behind his cousin. I retorted the look

with interest. From that moment we were mortal foes.

"'_Unser Ritter ist im klee gefallen_--the chevalier has fallen among

clover,' said the Emperor with a smile--'he has great luck--he finds

cousins everywhere.'

"'And in this instance,' I replied, 'I might venture to challenge the

envy even of your Majesty.'

"'Well said, chevalier! and now let us attend to the second act of the

opera.'

"'You are in a critical position, Chevalier de Mandeville,' said the

Lucchesini, to whose side I now returned. 'You have made a powerful

friend, but also a dangerous enemy. Beware of that Duke Albrecht--he

is watching you closely.'

"'It is not the nature of a Mandeville to fear anything except for the

safety of those he loves. _You_, sweet Duchessa, I trust have nothing

to apprehend?'

"'_Ah, perfide!_ Do not think to impose upon me longer. I know your

heart has become a traitor already. Well--we shall not be less friends

for that. I congratulate you on your new honours, only take care that

too much good fortune does not turn that magnificent head.'

"I supped that evening with the Lucchesini. On my return home, I thought

I observed a dark figure following my steps; but this might have been

fancy, at all events I regained my hotel without any interruption. Next

morning I found upon my table a little casket containing a magnificent

emerald ring, along with a small slip of paper on which was written,

'_Amalia to her cousin--Silence and Fidelity._' I placed the ring upon

my finger, but I pressed the writing to my lips.

"On the ensuing week there was a great masquerade at the palace. I was

out surveying the whole morning, and was occupied so late that I had

barely half an hour to spare on my return for the necessary

preparations.

"'There is a young lady waiting for you upstairs, Herr Baron,' said the

waiter with a broad grin; 'she says she has a message to deliver, and

will give it to nobody else.'

"'Blockhead!' said I, 'what made you show her in there? To a certainty

she'll be meddling with the theodolites!'

"I rushed upstairs, and found in my apartment one of the prettiest

little creatures I ever saw, a perfect fairy of about sixteen, in a

gipsy bonnet, who looked up and smiled as I entered.

"'Are you the Chevalier Mandeville?' asked she.

"'Yes, my little dear, and pray who are you?'

"'I am Fritchen, sir,' she said with a curtsy.

"'You don't say so! Pray sit down, Fritchen.'

"'Thank you, sir.'

"'And pray now, Fritchen, what is it you want with me?'

"'My mistress desired me to say to you, sir--but it's a great

secret--that she is to be at the masquerade to-night in a blue domino,

and she begs you will place this White Rose in your hat, and she wishes

to have a few words with you.'

"'And who may your mistress be, my pretty one?'

"'Silence and Fidelity!'

"'Ha! is it possible? the Margravine!'

"'Hush! don't speak so loud--you don't know who may be listening. Black

Stanislaus has been watching me all day, and I hardly could contrive to

get out.'

"'Black Stanislaus had better beware of me!'

"'Oh, but you don't know him! He's Duke Albrecht's chief forester, and

the Duke is in _such_ a rage ever since he found my lady embroidering

your name upon a handkerchief.'

"'Did she, indeed?--my name?--O Amalia!'

"'Yes--and she says you're so like that big picture at

Schloss-Swiggenstein that she fell in love with long ago--and she is

sure you would come to love her if you only knew her--and she wishes,

for your sake, that she was a plain lady and not a Princess--and she

hates that Duke Albrecht so! But I wasn't to tell you a word of this,

so pray don't repeat it again.'

"'Silence and fidelity, my pretty Fritchen. Tell your royal mistress

that I rest her humble slave and kinsman; that I will wear her rose, and

defend it too, if needful, against the attacks of the universe! Tell

her, too, that every moment seems an age until we meet again. I will

not overload your memory, little Fritchen. Pray, wear this trifle for my

sake, and----'

"'O fie, sir! If the waiter heard you!' and the little gipsy made her

escape.

"I had selected for my costume that night, a dress in the old English

fashion, taken from a portrait of the Admirable Crichton. In my hat I

reverently placed the rose which Amalia had sent me, stepped into my

fiacre, and drove to the palace.

"The masquerade was already at its height. I jostled my way through a

prodigious crowd of scaramouches, pilgrims, shepherdesses, nymphs, and

crusaders, until I reached the grand saloon, where I looked round me

diligently for the blue domino! Alas! I counted no less than thirteen

ladies in that particular costume.

"'You seem dull to-night, Sir Englishman,' said a soft voice at my

elbow. 'Does the indifference of your country or the disdainfulness of

dark eyes oppress you?'

"I turned and beheld a blue domino. My heart thrilled strangely.

"'Neither, sweet Mask; but say, is not Silence a token of Fidelity?'

"'You speak in riddles,' said the domino. 'But come--they are beginning

the waltz. Here is a little hand as yet unoccupied. Will you take it?'

"'For ever?'

"'Nay--I shall burden you with no such terrible conditions. _Allons!_

Yonder Saracen and Nun have set us the example.'

"In a moment we were launched into the whirl of the dance. My whole

frame quivered as I encircled the delicate waist with my arm. One hand

was held in mine, the other rested lovingly upon my shoulder. I felt the

sweet breath of the damask lips upon my face--the cup of my happiness

was full.

"'O that I may never wake and find this a dream! Dear lady, might I

dare to hope that the services of a life, never more devotedly offered,

might, in some degree, atone for the immeasurable distance between us?

That the poor cavalier, whom you have honoured with your notice, may

venture to indulge in a yet dearer anticipation?'

"I felt the hand of the Mask tremble in mine--

"'The White Rose is a pretty flower,' she whispered--'can it not bloom

elsewhere than in the north?'

"'Amalia!'

"'Leopold!--but hush--we are observed.'

"I looked up and saw a tall Bulgarian gazing at us. The mask of course

prevented me from distinguishing his features, but by the red sparkle

of his eye I instantly recognised Duke Albrecht.

"'Forgive me, dearest Amalia, for one moment. I will rejoin you in the

second apartment----'

"'For the sake of the Virgin, Leopold--do not tempt him! you know not

the power, the malignity of the man.'

"'Were he ten times a duke, I'd beard him! Pardon me, lady. He has

defied me already by his looks, and a Mandeville never yet shrunk from

any encounter. Prince Metternich will protect you until my return.'

"The good-natured statesman, who was sauntering past unmasked, instantly

offered his arm to the agitated Margravine. They retired. I strode up to

the Bulgarian, who remained as motionless as a statue.

"'Give you good-evening, cavalier. What is your purpose to-night?'

"'To chastise insolence and punish presumption! What is yours?'

"'To rescue innocence and beauty from the persecution of overweening

power!'

"'Indeed! anything else?'

"'Yes, to avenge the fate of those who trusted, and yet died before

their time. How was it with Clara of Gandersfeldt? Fell she not by

thy hand?'

"'Englishman--thou liest!'

"'Bulgarian--thou art a villain!'

"The duke gnashed his teeth. For a moment his hand clutched at the hilt

of his poniard, but he suddenly withdrew it.

"'I had thought to have dealt otherwise with thee,' he said, 'but thou

hast dared to come between the lion and his bride. Englishman--hast

thou courage to make good thy injurious words with aught else but the

tongue?'

"'I am the last of the race of Mandeville!'

"'Enough. I might well have left the chastising of thee to a meaner

hand, and yet--for that thou art a bold fellow--I will meet thee. Dost

thou know the eastern gate?'

"'Well.'

"'A mile beyond it there is a clump of trees and a fair meadow-land. The

moon will be up in three hours; light enough for men who are determined

on their work. Dost thou understand me--three hours hence on horseback,

with the sword, alone?'

"'Can I trust thee, Bulgarian?--no treachery?'

"'I am a Wallachian and a duke!'

"'Enough said. I shall be there;' and we parted.

"I flew back to Amalia. She was terribly agitated. In vain did I attempt

to calm her with assurances that all was well. She insisted upon knowing

the whole particulars of my interview with her dreaded cousin of

Kalbs-Braten, and at last I told her without reserve.

"'You must not go, Leopold,' she cried, 'indeed you must not. You do not

know this Albrecht. Hard of heart and determined of purpose, there are

no means which he will not use in order to compass his revenge. Believe

not that he will meet you alone: were it so, I should have little dread.

But Black Stanislaus will be there, and strong Slavata, and Martinitz

with all his Hulans! They will murder you, my Leopold! shed your young

blood like water; or, if they dare not do that for fear of the Austrian

vengeance, they will hurry you across the frontier to some dreary

fortress, where you will pine in chains, and grow prematurely grey,

far--far from your poor Amalia! Oh, were I to lose you, Leopold, now, I

should die of sorrow! Be persuaded by me. My guards are few, but they

are faithful. Avoid this meeting. Let us set out this night--nay, this

very hour. Once within my dominions, we may set at defiance Duke

Albrecht and all the black banditti of Kalbs-Braten. I have many friends

and feudatories. The Hetman, Chopinski, is devoted to me. Count Rudolf

of Haggenhausen is my sworn friend. No man ever yet saw the back of

Conrad of the Thirty Mountains. We shall rear up the old ancestral

banner of my house; give the Red Falcon to the winds of heaven; besiege,

if need be, my perfidious kinsman in his stronghold--and, in the face of

heaven, my Leopold, will I acknowledge the heir of Mandeville as the

partner of my life and of my power!'

"'Dearest, best Amalia! your words thrill through me like a trumpet--but

alas, it may not be! I dare not follow your counsel. Shall it be said

that I have broken my word--shrunk like a craven from a meeting with

this Albrecht;--a meeting, too, which I myself provoked? Think it not,

lady. Poor Mandeville has nothing save his honour; but upon that, at

least, no taint of suspicion shall rest. Farewell, beautiful Amalia!

Believe me, we shall meet again; if not, think of me sometimes as one

who loved you well, and who died with your name upon his lips.'

"'O Leopold!'

"I tore myself away. Two hours afterwards I had passed the eastern gate

of Vienna, and was riding towards the place of rendezvous. The moon was

up, but a fresh breeze ever and anon swept the curtains of the clouds

across her disc, and obscured the distant prospect. The cool air played

gratefully on my cheek after the excitement and fever of the evening;

I listened with even a sensation of pleasure to the distant rippling

of the river. For the future I had little care, my whole attention

was concentrated upon the past. I felt no anxiety as to the result of

the encounter; nor was this in any degree surprising, since, from my

earliest youth, I had accustomed myself to the use of the sword, and was

reputed a thorough master of the weapon. Neither could I believe that

Duke Albrecht was capable, after having given his solemn pledge to the

contrary, of anything like deliberate treachery.

"I was about half-way to the clump of trees, which he of Kalbs-Braten

had indicated, when a heavy bank of clouds arose, and left me in total

darkness. Up to this time I had seen no one since I passed the sentry;

but now I thought I could discern the tramping of horses upon the turf.

Almost mechanically I loosened my cloak, and brought round the hilt of

my weapon so as to be prepared. When the moon reappeared, I saw on

either side of me a horseman, in long black cloaks and slouched hats,

which effectually concealed the features of the wearers. They did

not speak nor offer any violence, but continued to ride alongside,

accommodating their pace to mine. The horses they bestrode were large

and powerful animals. There was something in the moody silence and even

rigid bearing of these persons, which inspired me with a feeling rather

of awe than suspicion. It might be that they were retainers of the duke;

but then, if any ambuscade or foul play was intended, why give such

palpable warning of it? I resolved to accost them.

"'Ye ride late, sirs.'

"'We do,' said the one to the right. 'We are bent on a far errand.'

"'Indeed! may I ask its nature?'

"'To hear the bat flutter and the owlet scream. Wilt also listen to the

music?'

"'I understand you not, sirs. What mean you?'

"'We are the guardians of the Red Earth. The guilty tremble at our

approach; but the innocent need not fear!'

"'Two of the night patrole!' thought I. 'Very mysterious gentlemen,

indeed; but I have heard that the Austrian police have orders to be

reserved in their communications. I must get rid of them, however.

Good-evening, sirs.'

"I was about to spur my horse, when a cloak was suddenly thrown over

my head as if by some invisible hand; I was dragged forcibly from my

saddle, my arms pinioned, and my sword wrested from me. All this was

the work of a moment, and rendered my resistance useless.

"'Villains!' cried I, 'unhand me--what mean you?'

"'Peace, cavalier!' said a deep low voice at my ear; 'speak

not--struggle not, or it may be worse for you; you are in the hands

of the Secret Tribunal!'"

During the course of his narrative, Mr Mandeville, as I have already

hinted, by no means discontinued his attentions to the brandy-and-water,

but went on making tumbler after tumbler, with a fervour that was truly

edifying. Assuming that the main facts of his history were true, though

in the eye of geography and politics they appeared a little doubtful,

it was still highly interesting to remark the varied chronology of his

style. A century disappeared with each tumbler. He concentrated in

himself, as it appeared to me, the excellencies of the best writers of

romance, and withal had hitherto maintained the semblance of strict

originality. He had now, however, worked his way considerably up the

tide of time. We had emerged from the period of fire-arms, and

Mandeville was at this stage medieval.

Some suspicion of this had dawned even upon the mind of Cutts, who,

though not very familiar with romance, had once stumbled upon a

translation of Spindler's novels, and was, therefore, tolerably up

to the proceedings of the _Vehme Gericht_.

"Confound it, Mandeville!" interrupted he, "we shall be kept here the

whole night, if you don't get on faster. Both Fred and I know all about

the ruined tower, the subterranean chamber--which, by the way, must have

looked deucedly like a tunnel--the cord and steel, and all the rest of

it. Skip the trial, man. It's a very old song now, and bring us as fast

as you can to the castle and the marriage. I hope the Margravine took

Fritchen with her. That little monkey was worth the whole bundle of them

put together!"

The Margrave made another tumbler. His eye had become rather glassy, and

his articulation slightly impaired. He was gradually drawing towards the

chivalrous period of the Crusades.

"Two days had passed away since that terrible ride began, and yet there

was neither halt nor intermission. Blindfold, pinioned, and bound into

the saddle, I sate almost mechanically and without volition, amidst the

ranks of the furious Hulans, whose wild huzzas and imprecations rung

incessantly in my ears. No rest, no stay. On we sped like a hurricane

across the valley and the plain!

"At last I heard a deep sullen roar, as if some great river was

discharging its collected waters over the edge of an enormous precipice.

We drew nearer and nearer. I felt the spray upon my face. These, then,

were the giant rapids of the Danube.

"The order to halt was given.

"'We are over the frontier now!' cried the loud harsh voice of Duke

Albrecht; 'Stanislaus and Slavata--unbind that English dog from his

steed, and pitch him over the cliff. Let the waters of the Danube bear

him past the castle of his lady. It were pity to deny my delicate cousin

the luxury of a coronach over the swollen corpse of her minion!'

"'Coward!' I exclaimed; 'coward as well as traitor! If thou hast the

slightest spark of manhood in thee, cause these thy fellows to unbind my

hands, give me back my father's sword, stand face to face against me on

the greensward, and, benumbed and frozen as I am, thou shalt yet feel

the arm of the Mandeville!'

"Loud laughed he of Kalbs-Braten. 'Does the hunter, when the wolf is in

the pit, leap down to try conclusions with him? Fool! what care I for

honour or thy boasted laws of chivalry? We of Wallachia are men of

another mood. We smite our foeman where we find him, asleep or awake--at

the wine-cup or in the battle--with the sword by his side, or arrayed in

the silken garb of peace! Drag him from his steed, fellows! Let us see

how lightly this adventurous English diver will leap the cataracts of

the Danube!'

"Resistance was in vain. I had already given myself up for lost. Even at

that moment the image of my Amalia rose before me in all its beauty--her

name was on my lips; I called upon her as my guardian angel.

"Suddenly I heard the loud clear note of a trumpet--it was answered by

another, and then rang out the clanging of a thousand atabals.

"'Ha! by Saint John of Nepomuck,' cried the Duke, 'the Croats are upon

us--There flies the banner of Chopinski! there rides Conrad of the

Thirty Mountains on the black steed that I have marked for my second

charger! Hulans! to your ranks. Martinitz, bring up the rear-guard, and

place them on the right flank. Slavata, thou art a fellow of some

sense----'

"'Ay, you can remember that now,' grumbled Slavata.

"'Take thirty men and lead them up that hollow--you will secure a

passage somewhere over the morass--and then fall upon Chopinski in the

rear. Let two men stay to guard the prisoner. Now, forward, gentlemen;

and if you know not where to charge, follow the white plume of

Kalbs-Braten!'

"I heard the cavalry advance. Maddened by the loss of my freedom at such

a moment, I burst my bonds by an almost supernatural exertion, and tore

the bandage from my eyes. To snatch a battle-axe from the hand of the

nearest Hulan, and to dash him to the ground, was the work of a

moment--a second blow, and the other fell. I leaped upon his horse,

shouted the ancient war-cry of my house, 'Saint George for Mandeville!'

and dashed onwards towards the serried array of the Croats, which

occupied a little eminence beyond.

"'For whom art thou, cavalier?' cried Chopinski, as I galloped up.

"'For Amalia and Kalbs-Kuchen!' I replied.

"'Welcome--a thousand times welcome, brave stranger, in the hour of

battle! But ha!--what is this?--that white rose--that lordly mien--can

it be? Yes! it is the affianced bridegroom of the Margravine!'

"With a wild cry of delight the Croats gathered around me. 'Long live

our gracious Margravine!' they shouted--'long live the noble

Mandeville!'

"'By my faith, Sir Knight,' said the Count Rudolf of Haggenhausen, an

old warrior whose seamed countenance was the record of many a fight--'By

my faith, I deemed not we could carry back such glorious tidings to our

lady--nor, by Saint Wladimir, so goodly a pledge!'

"'May I never put lance in rest again,' cried Conrad of the Thirty

Mountains, 'but the Margravine hath a good eye--there be thews and

sinews there! But we must take order with yon infidel scum. How say you,

sirs--shall this cavalier have the ordering of the battle? I, for one,

will gladly fight beneath his banner----'

"'And so say I,' said Chopinski, 'but he must not go thus. Yonder, on

my sumpter-mule, is a suit of Milan armour, which a king might wear

upon the day he went forth to do battle for his crown. Bring it forth,

knaves, and let the Mandeville be clad as becomes the affianced of our

mistress.'

"'Brave Chopinski,' I said, 'and you, kind sirs and nobles--pardon me if

I cannot thank you now in a manner befitting to the greatness of your

deserts. But there is a good time, I trust, in store. Suffer me now to

arm myself, and then we shall try the boasted prowess of yonder giant of

Kalbs-Braten!'

"In a few moments I was sheathed in steel, and, mounted on a splendid

charger, took my station at the head of the troops. Again their applause

was redoubled.

"'Lord Conrad,' said I to the warrior of the Thirty Mountains, 'swart

Slavata has gone up yonder with a plump of lances, intending to cross

the morass, and assail us on the rear. Be it thine to hold him in

check.'

"'By my father's head!' cried Conrad, 'I ask no better service! That

villain Slavata oweth me a life, for he slew my sister's son at

disadvantage, and this day will I have it or die. Fear not for the rear,

noble Mandeville--I will protect it while spear remains or armour holds

together!'

"'I doubt it not, valiant Conrad! Brave Chopinski--noble

Haggenhausen--let us now charge together! 'Tis not beneath my banner you

fight. The Blue Boar of Mandeville never yet fluttered in the Wallachian

breeze, but we may give it to the winds ere long! Sacred to Amalia, and

not to me, be the victory! Advance the Red Falcon of Kalbs-Kuchen--let

it strike terror into the hearts of the enemy--and forward as it pounces

upon its prey!'

"With visors down and lances in rest we rushed upon the advancing

Hulans, who received our charge with great intrepidity. Martinitz was my

immediate opponent. The shock of our meeting was so great that both the

horses recoiled upon their hams, and, but for the dexterity of the

riders, must have rolled over upon the ground. The lances were shivered

up to the very gauntlets. We glared on each other for an instant with

eyes which seemed to flash fire through the bars of our visors--each

made a demivolte----"

"I say, Cutts," whispered I, "it occurs to me that I have heard

something uncommonly like this before. Our friend is losing his

originality, and poaching unceremoniously upon _Ivanhoe_. You had better

stop him at once."

"I presume then, Mandeville, you did for that fellow Martinitz?" said

Cutts.

"The gigantic Hulan was hurled from his saddle like a stone from a

sling. I saw him roll thrice over, grasping his hands full of sand at

every turn."

"That must have been very satisfactory. And what became of the duke?"

"Often did I strive to force my way through the press to the spot where

Kalbs-Braten fought. I will not belie him--he bore himself that day like

a man. And yet he had better protection than either helm or shield; for

around him fought his foster-father, Tiefenbach of the Yews, with his

seven bold sons, all striving to shelter their prince's body with their

own. No sooner had I struck down one of them than the old man

cried--'Another for Kalbs-Braten!' and a second giant stepped across the

prostrate body of his brother!"

"_The Fair Maid of Perth_, for a rump and a dozen!" was my remark.

"Meanwhile, Conrad of the Thirty Mountains had reached the spot where

Slavata with his cavalry was attempting the passage of the morass. Some

of the Hulans were entangled there from the soft nature of the ground,

the horses having sunk in the mire almost up to their saddle-girths.

Others, among whom was their leader, had successfully struggled through.

"Conrad and Slavata met. They were both powerful men, and well matched.

As if by common consent, the soldiers on either side held back to

witness the encounter of their chiefs.

"Slavata spoke first. 'I know thee well,' he said: 'thou art the

marauding baron of the Thirty Mountains, whose head is worth its weight

of gold at the castle-gate of Kalbs-Braten. I swore when we last met

that we should not part again so lightly, and now I will keep my oath!'

"'And I know thee, too,' said Conrad; 'thou art the marauding villain

Slavata, whose body I intend to hang upon my topmost turret, to blacken

in the sun and feed the ravens and the kites!'

"'Threatened men live long,' replied Slavata with a hollow laugh; 'thy

sister's son, the Geissenheimer, said as much before, but for all that I

passed this good sword three times through his bosom!'

"'Villain!' cried Conrad, striking at him, 'this to thy heart!'

"'And this to thine, proud boaster!' cried Slavata, parrying and

returning the blow.

"They closed. Conrad seized hold of Slavata by the sword-belt. The

other----"

"He's off to _Old Mortality_ now," said I to Cutts. "For heaven's sake

stop him, or we shall have a second edition of the Bothwell and Burley

business."

"Come, Mandeville, clear away the battle--there's a good fellow. There

can be no doubt that you skewered that rascally duke in a very

satisfactory manner. I shall ring for the broiled bones, and I beg you

will finish your story before they make their appearance. Will you mix

another tumbler now, or wait till afterwards? Very well--please

yourself--there's the hot water for you."

"They led me into the state apartment," said Mandeville, with a kind of

sob. "Amalia stood upon the dais, surrounded by the fairest and the

noblest of the land. The amethyst light, which streamed through the

stained windows, gorgeous with armorial bearings, fell around her like a

glory. In one hand she held a ducal cap of maintenance--with the other

she pointed to the picture of my great ancestor--the very image, as she

told me, of myself. I rushed forward with a cry of joy, and threw myself

prostrate at her feet!

"'Nay, not so, my Leopold!' she said. 'Dear one, thou art come at last!

Take the reward of all thy toils, all thy dangers, all thy love! Come,

adored Mandeville--accept the prize of silence and fidelity!' And she

added, 'and never upon brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry be

placed.'

"She placed the coronet upon my head, and then, gently raising me,

exclaimed--

"'Wallachians! behold your PRINCE!'"

Mr Mandeville did not get beyond that sentence. I could stand him no

longer, and burst into an outrageous roar of laughter, in which Cutts

most heartily joined, till the tears ran plenteously down his cheeks.

The Margrave of Wallachia looked quite bewildered. He attempted to rise

from his chair, but the effort was too much for him, and he dropped

suddenly on the floor.

"Well," said I, after we had fairly exhausted ourselves, "there's the

spoiling in that fellow of as good a novelist as ever coopered out three

volumes. He would be an invaluable acquaintance for either Marryat or

James. 'Tis a thousand pities his talents should be lost to the public."

"There's no nonsense about him," replied Cutts; "he buckles to his work

like a man. Doesn't it strike you, Freddy, that his style is a great

deal more satisfactory than that of some other people I could name, who

talk about their pedigree and ancestors, and have not even the excuse of

a good cock-and-bull story to tell? Give me the man that carves out

nobility for himself, like Mandeville, and believes it too, which is the

very next best thing to reality. Now, let's have up the broiled bones,

and send the Margrave of Wallachia to his bed."

THE FORREST-RACE ROMANCE.

(EXTRACTED FROM PAPERS DATED 1773.)

[_MAGA._ FEBRUARY 1833.]

I passed my examination with some credit, and was appointed

assistant-surgeon to my ship, then lying at Portsmouth. As she

was expected, however, to sail every tide to join the fleet off

Cherbourg,[A] I was not sent down at once, but received instructions to

be on board the Gull tender, at Sheerness, in eight days. In the mean

time, with my appointment, and twenty guineas in my pocket, a light

heart and a tolerable figure, I went down into Surrey, to Bromley Hall,

the seat of an excellent friend, from whom I had long had an invitation.

I found the house fall of visitants, chiefly young people about my own

age, all making merry, and had little difficulty in being admitted of

their crew. I never saw so many happy, fair and handsome faces together,

as were there assembled for the next week--but by far the loveliest of

the fair faces was that of a young lady from the west, called Fane; and

none, perhaps, was happier than my own, when beside her. She delighted

in botany; and although I at that time knew little more of the science

than would have enabled me to make a tolerable guess at the dried drug

in a medicine-chest, yet the temptation was so great that I could not

resist the opportunity of becoming her more constant companion, by

undertaking the office of her tutor. My inadequacy must have been soon

betrayed; nevertheless, we continued to pursue our studies, with as

regular attendance as ever on my part, and as implicit attention on

hers, till mutually we arrived at the tacit understanding that, provided

we looked at the flower together, it mattered little whether I assigned

it a right or a wrong place in our rare classification. We soon

exchanged the garden for the fields and green lanes; and often before

the others had risen to their daily vocations of riding or sailing,

we would contrive a ramble in search of some unknown species of an

unheard-of genus, to the romantic borders of Holmsdale, which lay within

a half mile of Bromley, with the apology of the children for our guides,

who rarely failed to find inducement enough in the rabbit-warren or

rookery to leave us alone in our search through the glades and avenues

of the old holm oak and the furze. It cannot be expected that, with

these occasions constantly falling out, an ardent youth of nineteen, as

I then was, should long conceal feelings fostered by such appliances of

time and circumstance; nor need it be wondered at that, before even the

week had elapsed, I had avowed my passion, and had not been altogether

unsuccessful in eliciting a confession of its return. My exultation on

that evening must have been very apparent, for next morning, as I came

down stairs, having lain much later than usual, my host Mr Blundell met

me, and took my arm as he bade me good morning, then led me into the

library, and, "Harry, my fine fellow," said he, in his good-natured way,

"you must get the M.D. to your name, and make something handsome of your

own, before you begin to run away with the hearts of our girls here in

the country."

[Footnote A: This must have been in 1758.]

"'Pon my soul, sir," stammered I, while I felt myself blushing to the

eyes, "I--I--we were only pulling flowers, sir."

"Ah! my dear boy," he sighed and went on, "take care that, while you

pull the flowers, you do not plant thorns for both hereafter." I had

expected nothing short of thorns for my roses; but he surprised me a

little when he proceeded: "Ellen is my ward: she is a good girl, and

will be a rich girl; and you know very well I would not be acting as a

guardian worthy such a trust, if I encouraged the addresses of one whose

fortune is still to make, and whose attachments, Harry, have still to

undergo the changes of the most fickle time in his life. Come, tell me

candidly, now, how far has this business gone?"

Here was a pretty reckoning to be run up under a hedge. I was silent and

sheepish for a while; but told him honestly all about it, so soon as I

could speak without choking on every second word.

"Surely," said he, when I had done, "you must have been aware of the

great impropriety of trying to engage this young lady's affections

without my sanction--I am her guardian, you know."

"I declare, my dear sir, I never knew that you were her guardian," I

exclaimed; "I never knew she had any fortune to guard."

He smiled, and asked, "Were you ever in love before, Harry?"

"Never, sir, upon my honour--except once--but that was nothing."

"Nothing to this, I suppose," he replied; "and this, I daresay, will be

nothing to the next. Tut, man! I was a young fellow once myself, and

remember many a time when I would have given my eyes to have walked to

church with one pretty girl, and my head, I suppose, if I could, to have

walked home with another. I was just your age then--what age _are_ you

now, Harry?"

"Nineteen _past_, sir" (it was not a week since my birthday).

"Ay, ay, I was just about nineteen myself then--but no matter. You

would see the propriety, my dear boy, of going up to London in the mean

time, were it not that Ellen is obliged to leave us to-day; it is no

arrangement of mine, I can assure you. If I thought it necessary to get

either of you out of the other's way, I certainly would pack _you_ off,

and keep Ellen with me; but the fact is, I am only joint trustee in this

business: her other guardians insist on having her away to the house of

one of them, to whose nomination I have been over-persuaded to consent.

He is needy, and the allowance may be an object; but I would rather pay

the money out of my own pocket twice told, than let her go down among

them. However, it cannot be helped: she must leave us. Poor thing! with

such a fortune and so many connections--keeping myself out of the

question, without whose sanction, thank Heaven, they cannot marry

her--there never was a more friendless dependent."

"And has Miss Fane no brother, no father alive?" inquired I.

"Mother, sister, and brother, all the family are dead," replied Mr

Blundell, "excepting her father, who, I am sorry to say, is still alive

to everything but a proper sense of his own respectability and his

child's happiness. His last instructions were dated London, but what

he is doing there, or where, or how he lives, I cannot tell."

He had now forgotten my misdemeanours in his own confidential regrets,

and I had forgotten my confusion in eagerness to know something more of

one who, I felt, for all the careful old gentleman's prudent veto, was

not yet quite out of my reach; although the mention of her fortune,

while it made the prize (why should I be ashamed to confess it?) much

more seriously valuable, had inspired me with a fear of failure

proportionate to the enhanced advantages of success.

"What a pity, sir," I said, going cunningly to work, "that testators do

not attend more to the interests of their legatees in the appointment

of equally careful guardians, if they think one not enough."

"Ah, it was the doing of the law, not of her grandfather, else Fane

would never have had the control of a penny of it; but had it not been

for me, he would have had it all. I fought her battle stoutly though,

and kept matters square enough till I was induced to consent to the

admission of this other worthy, as a sort of balance-wheel to keep our

ill-sorted motions from bringing everything to a stand."

"And pray, sir," I went on, elated with my success, "who may this

vexatious umpire be?" I fairly overshot the mark.

"That's no affair of yours, Harry, just now. Go on with your profession,

get half-a-dozen years over your head, and a decent independence at

least in your pocket, and then I shall be very happy indeed to put the

son of an old friend in the way of a good match; but never, Harry, never

let your wife have to say that _she_ made a man of you, while you have

head and hands and health to make a man of _yourself_."

"Dear sir, you are quite right; and believe me, I would never dream of

acting otherwise--only--had I not better see about Miss Fane's _hortus

siccus_, as you say she goes to-day?"

"I have saved you that trouble, Harry: she is gone before you were out

of bed."

I am afraid I proved but dull company during the few hours of my stay at

Bromley Hall after this disappointment. I took my leave that evening,

and, to tell the truth, came up to London in a fuming passion, for

I could get no satisfaction whatever, notwithstanding my numerous

inquiries; I could not even ascertain the boarding-school at which she

had been in town. All I knew amounted to this, that I was in love, and

likely to continue so; but with whom exactly, I could not tell, farther

than that she was a lovely girl, an heiress, and the ward of my careful

friend Mr Blundell, in conjunction with her father--a character, I

feared, not too respectable--and some one else of much the same stamp,

with whom she now was about to be placed, not less against her own and

Mr Blundell's will than mine. But I had little time to indulge in

regrets or speculations; I found the Gull with her mainsail set at

moorings in the Medway, and hurrying on board forgot everything for a

while in the bustle of getting the little schooner under weigh. As we

stretched out of the Nore, however, with a steady breeze and smooth

water, in the summer evening, when the difficulties of crooked pilotage

and frequent alterations in our course had been exchanged for the quiet

relaxation of fair wind and open sea-room; and when the boat had begun

to take her work into her own hand, like a strong and willing labourer,

laying herself to the water, and sending the crew from her sloped deck

to lounge about the companion, and lean into the sunset over her high

weather-rail, with folded arms and half-shut eyes; then, as I looked

across the glittering expanse, where the level sun danced upon every

wave between us and the hazy shore, I insensibly began to people the

filmy and golden-grained air with my old familiar images again; and long

after the failing radiance had spent itself in the eastern gloom, and

long after the waters had ceased to roll in even the reflected splendour

of the upper sky, I continued sowing their dim and restless floor with

waving visions of green fields, and flowery plats, and airy coppices,

till the bright enchantress of them all seemed to be won back to my

side, and I wandered with her again through the long day of sunshine,

forgetful alike of sea, and ship, and sorrow, and the fast-falling

shadows of night.

The chill breeze sent me below at last, and, wearied with a day of

unusual fatigue, I turned into my berth; but was long kept awake by an

angry altercation between the commander and his mate, who were drinking

together in the main cabin. What they disputed about I could not

understand, but I heard enough to convince me that the command had been

intrusted to a person of no very amiable temper; in fact, I had hardly

ever met a more disagreeable man than our petty captain, or one on whose

countenance habitual violence and intoxication had contracted a more

repulsive look.

In the morning we were off Dungeness, with a steady south-easterly

breeze, that gave us a favourable run to Portsmouth that evening. Here

we joined three others on the same destination, and, standing out again,

made so much of it during the night, that when I came on deck next

morning I found ourselves and consorts beating up with a light wind

abreast of Cherbourg, the coast about which was just beginning to be

distinguishable. There had been a good deal of disputing the day

previous on board the Gull; and the captain's tyrannical conduct had put

every one on board in a state of angry excitement. For my own part, I

avoided coming in contact with him, except at meals, when I could not

help it, and then I had only to dread the want of social humanity which

I never failed to meet; but it was far otherwise with the crew; he

knocked them about with whatever came to hand without mercy, and openly

kept up his mastery by exciting himself to a pitch of sufficient

violence with quantities of brandy.

We could not yet distinguish any of the fleet; for the wind had come

round to the south, and was still getting lighter; but at last we

plainly heard the noise of a heavy cannonade. It was the first time

in my life that I had heard a shot fired in anger; and as every deep

explosion came through the air, my heart beat faster and faster, and,

natural fear mingling with natural impatience, I stood engrossed in

pleasingly fearful feelings, till I was roused by the voice of the mate,

crying that there was a ship to windward. As our fleet lay between us

and the shore, we had no fear of its proving an enemy, and farther than

as an object of casual speculation, the sail attracted little notice,

till at length, as we stood up Channel, with the ship, which seemed a

large merchantman, going full before the wind, that had now freshened,

under a heavy press of sail, about a mile to windward on our bow, the

mate gave it as his opinion that we ought to speak him, and learn how

the fleet lay. Now, about a quarter of an hour before this, one of the

men having grumbled at a cuff, the Captain had taken me regularly to

witness the mutiny; and, going to his arms' chest, had stuck a pair of

pistols in the breast of his jacket, with which he had paraded the deck

for a few minutes, in tenfold truculence, and had then gone below again,

where he now sat over his articles of war and brandy-bottle. The cabin

light was partly open to admit air; and he made his inquiries, and gave

his orders, without coming on deck. "What colours does the fellow show,

sir?"

"He is canvass to the mast-head, sir, and I cannot see his flag; but I

think I know the cut of his royals: he's a merchant victualler, if I

don't mistake, belonging to the leeward division, standing across to

Portsmouth--for stores, I suppose."

"I don't care what you suppose, sir--what is his name?"

"The Prince Frederick."

"Ah--eh!--old Manson's craft?"

"Yes, sir."

"What course do you lie, sir?"

"Hard upon the wind: if he hold on, we will cross his wake close

astern."

"Well, do now as I desire you, sir. Let the boat away as many points as

will run you under his bows--and hold on your course till I give you

farther orders." Then, in an under-growl to himself, "Ah, ha, he

thought he had swamped me about that d----d business of his Son's and

the Phoenix; but I'll show the old costermongering rogue that I can

cross his bows, both on shore and at sea"--here he raised his voice

again--"and, hilloa, sir! order him, as soon as he comes within hail, to

run under my stern, and round to leeward, till your commander questions

him on his Majesty's service. And clear away that gun in the bows there,

for, by ----, if he does not put his helm up, I'll fire into him, as I

would into a huxter's stall!"

We accordingly fell away to leeward, and the vessels rapidly neared each

other. The stranger had studding-sails set from the very top-gallant

royals to the chain-plates; and a more splendid sight my eyes never

beheld than he presented, spooming down, swift and steady through the

fresh, green, sparkling seas that sheeted off round either bow in a

continuous jet, glassy, unbroken, and in colour like the purest

amethyst, till it foamed away down the broadside in white boiling eddies

of froth. We were now within hail: the mate took the trumpet, and

shouted his orders as he had received them: there was no answer. The

stranger still held on his course, right before the wind.

"He won't alter his course, sir," said the mate to the captain. "What is

to be done?"

"Hold on, as I ordered you, sir; bring up under his lee; and if he don't

slacken sail, fire your gun into him, and be d----d! Ah, is it luffing

you are, you mutinous lubber? must _I_ overhaul you?" And he laid hold

of a handspike, and came up the companion, his eyes glaring, his teeth

set, and a torrent of curses hissing through them, hot and horrible. He

kicked the mate into the scuppers, and laid hold of the tiller, round

which he lashed its lanyard with a second turn, before he had given

more than one look at the stranger; and while knotting the lashings,

reiterated his orders with double vehemence about the gun. If ever the

devil had possession of any man, he was in him then. It all occurred

in less time than a minute; but so inexperienced at sea was I, that I

apprehended a fight more than anything else; although, as the tiller

was lashed, I saw it was next to impossible for the vessels to escape

running foul. The seamen were all in consternation, crowding from the

bows, and clamouring advice, entreaties, and denunciations, without the

slightest effect, on their captain. He held a pistol in his hand, and

swore he would shoot the first mutineer who should dare to interfere.

But, at the second look he took at the tower of canvass now stooping

down upon us, within half a stone's throw, he dropped the tiller,

staggered back, and clapt both his hands over his eyes. When he withdrew

them to grasp the tafferel, against which he had stumbled, one might

have thought that he had been smearing his face with white paint, so

deadly pale was he grown all on the sudden; but his eyes were fixed and

glazed, his mouth wide open, his lips livid, and shaking like jelly, his

hair on end, his limbs in a loose palsy, his knees going against and

over one another. It was a moment of dreadful confusion. I was thrown

down by the rushing about of the crew; and, as I looked up from among

the trampling crowd, through whose feet I rolled like a log, I saw, all

at once, between me and the blue sky, over our quarter, the jib-boom of

the ship pushed through the serene air with a smooth and equable motion,

but swift and irresistible in the whole wing of the wind. It caught

us by the lifts of the mainsail, and we were gently pushed over for

an almost imperceptible moment; then came a sharp crash, and the

main-topmast toppled down, tearing and smashing everything in its

descent, and making the started planks fly from stern to stern,

as it drove right through the deck into the cabin. At the same

moment the ship's jib-boom sprung high into the air, and from among

her pile of sails that were now bellying out almost overhead, there

leaped down, like an eagle from his cloud, the whole broad-winged

fore-top-gallant-mast, royals and all, with a swoop upon our deck. All

the men round the tiller were struck down; some with broken limbs,

and all dreadfully bruised, but none was killed save their miserable

commander; he was killed where he stood still paralysed against the

tafferel. I saw him struck by the jagged stump of the broken mast, as it

fell; he dropped shrieking over the low bulwark, and sank with his face

downwards. I saw no more, for the bows of the ship here caught us astern

with a crushing shock, that drove the schooner right under water, up to

the main hatchway, and I was floated off in the sea. The first thing I

can remember after that catastrophe, was the roaring as if of a thousand

cataracts about my ears, and a consciousness that I was hauled through

the water like a fish in a net. This was indeed the case: I had been

entangled in the loose wreck of rigging that fell on board the Gull; and

when the ship, after grazing her stern, drew these masts and sails after

her, by the numerous ropes that still remained unbroken, I was carried

along, and would certainly have perished, had not the lightness of the

wreck, and the rapidity with which it was dragged, kept me on the

surface; yet even there I was never nearer anything than suffocation,

from the overwhelming tumult of the broken water which was now sheeting

over my head and shoulders, and falling in foam upon my feet like the

very jets round the ship's cutwater. I saw that I must perish if I did

not get out of the rush; and having with infinite labour disentangled

myself from the rope round my middle, by which I was held, made a

desperate exertion, and succeeded in drawing myself forward, and

climbing up the connecting rigging at the bows, till I got my head out

of the spray. So soon as I was out of immediate peril I relaxed my

exertions for a few minutes to take breath; and although I frequently

cried for help, I could not make myself heard, for my voice, as well as

my strength, was almost exhausted, and once or twice I was on the point

of giving up the struggle, and dropping into my deep death-bed, through

pure inability of longer hanging on. At last, finding my cries

fruitless, and feeling that, without some extraordinary exertion, I must

face the abhorred change without further preparation, I collected all

the energies of my remaining strength, and with an effort that left me

as weak as an infant, drew myself up by the sheer force of my arms, and

grasped the fore-chains; then slowly clambered to the dead-eyes, gained

the rail of the bulwark, doubled over it like a sack, and fell on deck

insensible. When my senses began to collect, and before I had yet opened

my eyes, I remember congratulating myself in my own mind on my escape,

and dimly contrasting the oozy bed of the sea with the warm berth in

which I either was, or was about to be placed. But it was cold--cold.

I opened my eyes; I was lying in a dripping coil like a bundle of wet

sea-weed, the deck flooded all round with the water still running from

my clothes and hair. I dried the blinding spray from my eyes, and,

raising myself upon my elbow, looked about. There was not a soul there

but myself!

I swallowed a strange pang that arose from my heart, and looked out for

something to make a noise with; there was nothing to be had--the decks

were free from everything but tar and tallow. I had never seen such

dirty decks before, yet there was nothing loose lying about. I had not

yet risen--I was afraid to rise--so I pulled off my shoe, and began to

hammer on the deck with the heel of it; then to call and to whistle.

There was no answer! I started up with another pang that made the water

gush to my eyes, and ran astern without looking either to the right or

left. I stretched myself half over the tafferel, and looked for the

schooner. I saw her lying far away astern, a water-logged wreck, with

the other tenders bearing up to her, and signals flying from all their

masts. I tossed my arms and shouted, in the wild hope that I might still

be taken on board some of them. Alas! I felt the unmanned ship speeding

on her dark errand beyond the hope of being overtaken. All the frightful

stories of the Flying Dutchman came back with unnatural vividness upon

my memory. I remembered the unaccountable terror of the wretched captain

of the Gull, his horrible fate, and the invisible agency by which it

seemed accomplished. I thought myself in superhuman hands, and my heart

sank, and my breath failed, and I swooned for fear, as I had already

fallen senseless from fatigue. Let it be remembered that I was a very

young man; although I feel that apology need hardly be made for a fear

so dreadful, and, in such circumstances, so natural, that not even at

this day would the wealth of worlds induce me to spend another hour in

the same ignorance of my situation that then afflicted me. I lifted

my head from the deck with a bewildering recollection of all that had

passed, but as my eye rested on the tall and shining sails overhead, I

could not think that a fabric so beautiful was made to bear any but a

human crew. Be her navigators who they might, I knew that it was the

same whether I faced them fore or aft; so I leaped up, and forced myself

forward, that I might put an end to my horrible suspense at once. From

few, if any, do I apprehend contempt on account of this avowal. The awe

of preternatural agency is part of this life's natural religion; and

sanctioned as it is in the revealed religion that has been vouchsafed to

us, let no man scorn me for acknowledging its influence, while his own

soul must tell him that he is a being existing he knows not how, among

he knows not whom. I am not ashamed to confess, that I walked the deck

of that deserted vessel in excessive fear; from companion and hatchway

I expected every moment to see some inconceivable horror ascend;

and although I held in my breath, and kept myself drawn up in rigid

determination not to flinch from anything that a Christian man should

confront, yet, with all the preparation I could muster, I felt that the

twirling of a straw upon that bare deck would have upset me. My senses,

however, were not so totally overwhelmed in awe and wonder as to prevent

my perceiving that there really was something unusual in the appearance

of things on deck. There were four wide funnels, one under each of the

main and fore shrouds--things I had never seen in any ship before. The

ports were larger than usual, and had, which seemed very strange, their

hinges below. The decks were smeared and slippery, as I have before

observed, with tar and tallow. I looked up with a lightened heart to the

yard-arms;--there were the grappling-irons swinging from them one and

all! I ran into the main-cabin without one hesitating pause--I was

rushing desperately to be satisfied, and I _was_ satisfied. The cabin

was stripped of its furniture; troughs were laid along each side; they

ran into the main-hold, and terminated in sally-ports at either quarter;

they were stuffed with reeds in sheaves bound together with matches,

and steeped in composition. It was evident--I was in a fire-ship; it

accounted for everything. I ran to the sally-port; there was the black

track of the gunpowder, and the spot plainly marked where the match had

been extinguished. The ship had missed taking fire, and stood out to

sea. I ran out on deck--threw off my clothes to dry--got a remnant of a

sail, and rubbed myself into life and warmth once more; then wrapping

myself in a canvass cloak very fairly cut from the fore stay-sail, I lay

down in the sunny scuppers, and without a single thought of navigating

the vessel--it never entered my head, once I had got the horrible deceit

of my fear removed--gave myself up to the enjoyment of my security

and rest so heartily, that at last, like a wearied child, I dropped

involuntarily asleep. I could not have slept more than an hour when I

was awakened by the snapping of a royal studding-sail boom, for the

breeze had been freshening ever since I came on board, and was now

straining spars and canvass at a pitch that threatened to carry away

everything. The new dangers of my situation rose in fearful array before

me, as I considered with myself the probable consequences. I was driving

right on shore at a rate that must smash the vessel to pieces the moment

she would take the ground; and how to shorten sail or lie to, I could

not tell. Everything was fast, and my single strength could not suffice

to slacken away anything of consequence. The vessel could never be put

upon another course with all her yards braced square. There was little

or no chance of my falling in with any sail in the Channel in such

dangerous times. The wind was getting round to the east again, and I saw

plainly that if it settled there, and still carried me before it, I must

drift to the Atlantic, and die of hunger, unless I could subsist on

tallow and brimstone (since nothing more eatable had been left on

board) till the final catastrophe of going on shore, that sooner or

later must befall me. Even if I should fall in with a sail, how were

they to know that I was in distress? and if they did, how was I to bring

the ship to? or (unless it fell a dead calm) how was a boat to be sent

on board me driving at such a rate? I went to the wheel to try what

I could do; not much caring though I should lay her fairly on her

beam-ends; for, if she should not founder outright, I thought even such

a state would be better than the rapid ruin she was then threatening me

with. I brought her up till I shook the wind out of her canvass. She

reeled and staggered for a moment like a drunken being, then all at once

her lighter sails were taken aback with a slap that beat away booms, and

tore down yards and tackling with a succession of crashes, flappings,

and snaps like gun-shots, which threw me into such confusion, that I let

go the wheel, and ran for the cabin, in dread of having my brains beaten

out by a falling spar, like the luckless captain of the Gull. I sat down

in despair among the tubs of composition and piles of oakum steeped in

turpentine, with which the place was crammed, and listened to the

effects of my rashness still sounding overhead, and making themselves

known even below by the mad plunges of the vessel, that pitched me at

length into a corner, where I lay till she righted, and went off dead

before the wind once more. The rigging when I came on deck presented a

strange sight. All the great sails had filled again, but the lighter

ones were flying in lumbering streamers from every yard-arm like

ribbands from a tattered cap; while booms and blocks went swinging

through the confusion, knocking against the standing spars, and adding

at every stroke some new disaster to the ruinous uproar. I would have

almost changed places with Phaeton. I would as soon have laid my hand

upon the fiery mane of a courser of the sun, with all the zodiac reeling

underfoot, as have touched a spoke of that fatal wheel during the next

hour. I went below again, and got between decks by the communication

from the cabin, where I saw the arrangement of the combustibles, which

put the nature of the vessel beyond all doubt. The troughs crossed each

other between four barrels of composition, placed one under each of the

above-mentioned funnels. Chambers were loaded opposite all the ports, to

blow them open and give the flame vent. Powdered resin and sulphur were

scattered plentifully in all directions, and a mixture of combustibles

like soft dry paste filled the bottoms of all the troughs, on top of

which the reeds were tied with matches innumerable. The breeze now began

to take off, and continued to lull away during all the afternoon, having

settled at length at about south-east, so that my fears of drifting past

the Land's-end were now almost at rest. I dressed myself in my dried

clothes, but dared not kindle a fire;--every spot was ready to start

into flame with the merest spark; even in the after-cabin the berths

were stowed full of old turpentine and oil jars, and dusted with meal of

resin. I walked the deck till evening, and with departing light of day

distinguished St Michael's Mount, rising in a grey and purple haze high

into the ruddy horizon. The night fell chilly and thick, and I went into

the cabin and tried to make up my mind for the worst. But I could not

long bear to stay there, it was so lonely and dismal. There was a sort

of company in the wind and the struggling sails on deck, but below,

everything was deadly dark and silent. So, chilly as it was, I wrapped

my cloak of canvass once more about me, and sat down on the forecastle,

shivering with cold and apprehension, and gazing, till my eyes grew

strained and dizzy, into the monotonous gloom ahead. I could not see any

star, but I think it must have been about one o'clock, when the heavy

washing of the seas about our bows was broken by the distant murmur of

breakers. Had I heard my death-bell tolling, it could not more surely

have impressed me with the certainty of my immediate fate; and yet the

very growling of that merciless band, into whose strangling tumult I so

soon expected to be cast, came upon my numbed senses with a rousing and

invigorating influence; for the dull uncertainty of my former state had

been altogether stupifying. I rose and took my post once more by the

wheel, determined to use my experience to the best advantage in

counteracting or seconding the wind as I saw necessary, so far as its

very limited command would go.

The tumult of broken water now became louder and louder, but instead of

advancing on my ear as before, out of the darkness ahead, it growled

away down the night on our starboard beam in an oblique direction, which

I could not account for, till, looking over the stern, I saw, by the

dim glimmer of the ship's wake, that we were making more lee than head

way; that, in fact, the ship was driving broadside on, in a powerful

tide-race along a reef of rocks, through some opening in which, or past

which altogether, I did not despair of being yet carried by the current,

as I heard no surf loud enough to tell of its running anywhere against

them, except beyond one breach in their line, comparatively smooth. The

coast was now distinguishable ahead, black, high, and precipitous. It

advanced higher and higher up the sky, till it almost seemed to overhang

our forecastle, and I now felt the ship swing round in the sweep of the

current, and saw the breakers running white astern as we swept clear

of them, right through the reef. There rose presently a rustling

sound about the bows; then a heavy grating all along the keel, a dull

prolonged concussion, and the tide broke on her as she stuck--fast in

a sand-bank. It was pitch dark. The breakers were on all sides; but

the ship lay in smooth water among them. It would have been madness to

attempt swimming on shore; where, even if I should escape the violence

of the current and surf, I must spend the long morning on the bleak

hill, weighed down by wet clothes, and ignorant of my road. Under these

considerations, particularly as there was no fear of the ship yielding

to any sea likely to run there, during the calm state of the weather, I

determined to remain on deck till day; and now, considering my safety

almost certain, I mingled my supplications with thanksgivings, and,

falling on my knees, blessed God with tears of gratitude and delight;

then wrapping myself up once more behind the shelter of the bulwark,

went to sleep. I started up from a dream of home, for I distinctly heard

the stroke of oars alongside. I was on the point of calling out when

some one close under the quarter said, in a low but (to my morbidly

sensitive ear) a clear whisper, "By ---- I believe they _have_ deserted

her! But look sharp, my lads, for you may find plenty of them still,

skulking behind the bulwarks." I heard this with an accompaniment of

cocking fire-arms and unsheathing cutlasses; and with the horrifying

suspicion that they were a gang of Cornwall wreckers, I crept in

renewed and redoubled terror into the cabin. Just as I concealed myself

behind the door, which opened on the quarter-deck from under a high

poop, the boat's crew sprung on deck with lanterns and levelled weapons.

Two tall and rather fine-looking men led the party, and so soon as they

saw that there was no fighting for them on deck, drew their company

together round the main-mast, and proceeded, to my inexpressible relief,

to take possession of the ship in the name of his Majesty George the

Third, by virtue of certain letters of marque and reprisal, empowering

them, Adam and Hiram Forrest, of Forrest-Race, Esquires, to set upon by

force of arms, subdue, and take all ships, vessels, goods, wares,

munitions of war, &c. &c. of, or belonging to, the French nation. Now

was my time to discover myself (and I confess I had a thought or two

about my claim to a share of the prize-money).--One step I made

from my position, but the noise arrested me with its immediate

consequence--half-a-dozen muskets levelled at the door. "Keep together,

men! they are barricaded in the cabin!--go aft, Hiram, with four hands,

and break open the door, while I secure the forecastle and hatchways,"

cried the elder leader. His associate sprung towards my place of

concealment at the head of four fellows, brandishing their naked

cutlasses; and bursting open the door with a drive of his foot, rushed

in--a pistol in one hand, a drawn sword in the other. I thought it most

prudent to keep clear of the first rush of their irruption, and so had

retreated quietly to the after-cabin, where I concealed myself in one of

the berths close by the stern-port. They soon found the cabin equally

deserted with the deck; and as they went stumbling about with their one

lantern through the lumber of combustibles, filled it with exclamations

of amazement.

"Why, here's no crew that I can see but a regiment of paint-pots--that

must have been a rat that we heard, sir," said one.

"D----n me, Tom, I say, what sort of a devil's drawing-room have we

here?" muttered another, as he stood turning over a mop of oakum with

his toe; "and what sort of a damnable smell is this?" snuffing at a

box of composition.

"The devil's _own_ smell--brimstone, by ----!" cried a fourth, shaking a

cloud of sulphur from his fingers; and one fellow rummaging through the

troughs pulled up a bundle of reeds and tossed them out on the floor,

exclaiming, "Nothing but rush-lights in these here lockers, Master

Hiram--rush-lights and mouldings of white biscuit, as I take it--light

diet that, I may say, sir, for a ship's company." Just then some lumber

getting loose, rolled out of an upper berth among them, and three or

four smart cuts were made at it before they saw what it was. I had

taken them as a hint to lie quiet a little longer, when their leader

started suddenly, and, after standing for a moment at the heel of the

mizen-mast, gave a strong shudder, and ordered the men out of the cabin.

"Off, off to the forecastle every man of you!--off, I say, and send

Captain Forrest here." The men withdrew, muttering exclamations of

amazement as he drove them out on deck, whence he presently returned,

accompanied by the other. He locked and bolted the door after him, and

led his companion up to the mast, then throwing the light full on it,

asked in a whisper, that thrilled through me where I lay, "Do you know

that?" "What?" "That splinter of steel buried in the wood." The elder

Forrest, without one word of reply, snatched up the lantern and ran

round the cabin, holding the light over his head, and gazing at

everything with a strong expression of astonishment; then stuck the

lantern down upon a barrel-head, slapped his hands against his thighs,

and exclaimed, "Hah!--Now may I be damned if it is not the old Phoenix

come back again!--but Hiram, I say, by Heaven I cannot understand

this--she is not the same boat, and yet she is--I thought I knew her

deck although it is strangely altered--but what is the matter with you?"

for the younger one stood pale and trembling, and here grasped him

convulsively by the arm.

"What ails you, Hiram? I say,--I hope you are not _afraid_?"

"Yes, by ----" (with a slow and solemn asseveration), "I _am_ afraid,

Adam Forrest!" the other answered, gasping; "I _am_ afraid, for I saw

him there as plainly as I see you, clinging round the mast as he did

that night, when he held on till you shore through his wrist with your

cutlass, and snapped it an inch deep in the solid wood below! and if I

go in _there_" (pointing to the after-cabin without even raising his

averted face),--"if I go in _there_, I will see the others!--Come on

deck--I am sick."

"Stay where you are--you must not expose yourself to the men,--tut,

tut!--What! after all we have seen together, to let a trick of your

fancy get the better of your manhood in this disgraceful way!--Why,"

and he mused for a moment, "it _is_ odd enough too, that she should

come here without hands, and all to give us a second crop off her old

timbers; but egad, I have it! I'll lay my life Tom has been overhauling

her in the Channel, and has sent the old bird adrift, well knowing to

whose door the Race would bring her!--Ah! poor Tom! many an ugly job he

has brought me through; however, they say that _Gull thing_ that I got

him the command of is a switching fast sailer, and if he has but a

stanch crew, he may make a good thing of it yet--that is, if he can only

keep from getting more than moderately drunk. But come along till we see

what this after-cabin has got for us. We have our letters of marque

now, and need not be ashamed to show our faces under that authority to

man or devil!--Come," and he dragged his reluctant associate almost

close to the spot where I lay, in another and still more dreadful

relapse of horror. The young man leaned against a timber, with his head

sunk upon his breast, and shuddered violently.

"Adam," said he at length, "we have never thriven in anything since the

night we had that business in this abominable den of blood. You and I

then were, or ought to have been, country gentlemen, and he was no

more than a careless sailor at worst; but with all the money we got

in Bordeaux for the fruits of our villany, we are three miserable

adventurers to-day, if the damning cargo she carries has not sunk the

Gull already--Mother of God defend me! there is young Manson!" I can no

more account for it now, than I could help it then, but the truth is, I

had risen at this mention of the Gull in a sort of reckless frenzy, for

I had no control over either my words or actions, and started out on the

floor before them, a very ghastly and hideous spectacle; for I was pale

and haggard with fear and desperation, and my face was bloody from a

scratch I had got in the dark. The eyes of the repentant sinner fastened

on me as I rose, and his terror was full as horribly depicted on his

countenance, as that of his already punished associate had been on his;

he fell flat on his face, and even the hardened ruffian at his side

leaped back with a shout of horror as I rose before him with my hands

held up, and a storm of denunciation that I could not control bursting

from my lips. What I said I did not even then know, but it soon betrayed

my mortal nature, and Forrest, with a blow of his fist, struck me back

whence I had risen, then drew a pistol and came close up to me to make

sure. I prayed for mercy now as wildly as I had before denounced

vengeance, and in the extremity of my terror shut my eyes and clung to

the very boards. A flash first came through my closed eyelids, and then

a rushing and flapping burst of flame like interminable lightning. The

pistol had burned priming, but even that had been enough to set fire to

an open can of turpentine that was upset from a locker above by the

thrust he had made after me with the weapon. The liquid starting into

fire and smoke over the exploding gunpowder, flowed down in a waving

river of flame, and spreading on the resined floors, and catching the

loose combustibles all round, raised such a chaos of fire, smoke,

hissing, sputtering, and suffocation, that I had only power to feel

myself unwounded, and with my coat over my head, to pitch myself bodily

against the port below me. I literally sank through a little pool of

flame, but I burst open the port as I had expected, and found myself the

next moment in the sea. It was now low water, and the stream that I had

feared would sweep me among the breakers was totally subsided; but I

could see nothing clearly for the first minute, only a dazzling and

flashing of light through the spray, that swept over my head from the

broken water on the rocks. The first thing I saw distinctly was a trail

of flame writhing like a tail round the stern of the ship, as if the

great black hulk had been lashing herself into the furious fit, that in

another minute burst out from every vent and funnel in spouting and

roaring jets of fire, that blazed up into the rigging as high as the

lower masts, and pierced the night for miles round, with a splendour

strong as the light of the sun at noonday. I got upon the nearest of the

rocks (by the fall of the water they now rose much nearer than they had

before seemed to do), and rising out of reach of the surf, contemplated

a spectacle the grandest and most appalling I ever witnessed. The ship

had run aground upon the landward side of a tongue of sand, that

stretched (like half the string of a bent bow) partly across a curve of

the coast, thus intercepting whatever the current from the opposite side

might sweep into the bay; and there settling on a rapidly shelving bank,

had fallen over as the water left her, till her masts and rigging lay

almost across the narrow channel between. On shore an overhanging

precipice rose right opposite, and close under her lee--so close that

her rigging sloped up to within a stone's-throw of the jutting rock.

Between the base of this rock and the water's edge, there was a stripe

of greensward, evidently artificial, forming a platform of perhaps

thirty yards across, which widened away at one side into a lawn with

haycocks and shrubbery, while there was a good deal of planting visible

up the back of the ravine. An old-fashioned straggling house stood

almost under the precipice, facing the platform on one side, and the

lawn on the other. Its steep roof of grey slate, and slender chimneys,

made a gaunt and spectral show in the ruddy glare, contrasted with the

black mass of rock behind, and the boiling flashes of the surf tossed up

almost to its fantastic porch in front. I looked at the ship--the

fore-hatchway had torn up with a tremendous burst, and the massy planks

and bars of wrought-iron were scattered on either side; but the black

tarpaulin rose like a canopy over the body of flame that followed, and

was dissipated into smoke and ashes, without ever coming down. And now

the breeze tossing that blaze about through the rigging in rolling and

heavy volume, like a great tongue, it roared at every wallowing flap,

and licked up square-sails, stay-sails, and studding-sails, as though

they had been so much tinder, while the port-chambers successively

exploding, thundered and flashed down either broadside, then vomited out

their voluminous, flaring streamers of fire, that curled and climbed up

into the conflagration till consumed amid the general flame. All the

water out of the ship's shadow blazed to the blazing pile; but wherever

her hull momentarily intercepted its light, the sea seemed to heave more

heavily, and with a lurid glow like blood. The boat's crew had now

pushed off from the quarter; I saw all on board save the two miserable

beings I had left in the flames of the cabin: but the men had scarce

pulled the boat's length from the vessel's side, when a figure leaped up

on the quarter rail from deck--he looked as if he had risen out of hell;

for his head was singed bald, and his face and hands were all livid,

swollen, and bloody, from the scorching. It was the elder Forrest. He

was tossing his arms and howling. The men pulled back, the boat shot

into the shadow of the ship, and in the sudden difference of light I

lost them for an instant; but the great flame of the forecastle took a

sweep to windward, and showed them again, close under the quarter. All

their faces glowed like copper, as they turned them up to the crimsoned

figure wavering above, for Forrest had now seized a rope, that dangled

still unconsumed from the mizen-yard arm, and was swinging to and fro,

as the scorching flame behind him swayed forward or collapsed; but their

faces fell, and a cry of horror burst from them all as it gave way, and

the wretch, after balancing a moment on his narrow footing, fell back

into the fire;--there was a puff of smoke and ashes, a long heaving

roll of the flame, a shriek that rung shrilly over everything, and the

seamen, silent and horrified, pushed off again, and made for the shore.

And now the whole rigging was in a light flame, and the dance of sparks

to leeward, where it eddied round the chimneys and gables of the old

house, looked like a great spangled mantle shaken out in the sky.

Beneath, smoke was curling in white eddies from every door and window,

and the fate of the doomed dwelling seemed fixed, to burn first, while

anything remained in it that would burn, and then to be swept from its

foundations by the final explosion, out of reach of which I had all this

time been painfully making my way, sometimes clambering over the rocks

high and dry, and sometimes swimming. I gained the dry land at last,

about three hundred yards astern of the vessel, and rounding the

shoulder of a hill, lay down among the grass in the sudden pitchy

darkness behind it, till my eyes had a little recovered from the effects

of the excessive light, and I was able to see my way into the country. I

was between two steep hills; that behind me was lurid in the dim

reflection of the sky, but a ruddier haze than ever the sunset had

thrown over it, glowed across the track of air above, and bore a crown

of fire to the top of the higher hill opposite, on which every stock and

stone showed like iron at a forging heat. Through this red region I had

to pass to reach the inland. Pursuing a horse-track that led over it, I

gained the limits of darkness again, without once turning to look at

the scene behind--I had beheld enough. Suddenly I heard the sound of

hoofs in the valley beyond, and turning, beheld a riderless horse toss

up his mane like a fiery crest over the illuminated mountain, then

plunge into the darkness between. I laid hold of the reins as he rushed

past me, determined to use the opportunity of escape; and having checked

him with some difficulty, threw myself into the saddle and gave him

head. He bore me down the open hill like the wind; but when I got among

the precipices below, through which the road was intricately carried, I

was reluctantly obliged to draw up a little for fear of accidents. I was

unwilling to do this, as well from the desire of making my escape to as

great a distance as possible from the explosion, as from the conviction,

growing every moment stronger, that I heard some one on horseback in

pursuit. Now, I had no doubt that the animal I rode had thrown another

rider immediately before being caught by me; and I thought it most

probable, that whoever was now pursuing, had been in company with him

when his horse had first run off. Be that as it might, I had had enough

of Forrest-Race and its inhabitants, to make me determined, if I must be

overtaken, to conceal myself by the road-side, and let my pursuer look

after the runaway at his leisure. However, I tried to make the most of

my chances in the mean time, and pushed on as rapidly as prudence would

allow; but in ten minutes more, I found I had no prospect of escape; I

heard the clatter of the horse, and once or twice the cries of the rider

behind, and was just preparing to dismount, and looking back to try what

I could see, when there shot up a column of fire, a hundred feet and

more over the top of the highest mountain, and hill and valley, road,

rock, and river, leaped out into astonishing splendour before me. Every

object, for three or four seconds, was apparent in steady and intense

light. I saw the perilous road down which I had come, and wondered how

my horse had kept his footing at all; but my wonder was considerably

greater when, about half a furlong behind, I saw my pursuer, as plainly

as I ever saw my own mother, to be a woman--dressed, at least, in a

female habit, and light as Diana, while she sat her rearing and plunging

hunter through the wild tumult of his terror. But, before I could take a

second look, down stooped the night again in tenfold power of darkness,

while there burst through the shaken sky such a concussion, as with its

tremendous and stunning violence beat the poor animal I bestrode, and

myself along with him, flat down upon the ground, among the rebounding

echoes and black darkness. I escaped from the fall unhurt, and the horse

stood still and trembling, till I remounted, for I now was no longer

desirous of escaping my pursuer. I was hardly in the saddle again, when

I heard a sweet voice at my side--"Now, Heaven have mercy on us,--this

is a fearful night!--How could you leave me in this way, George?--Ah!

you could not help it, poor fellow--but did I not see you thrown after

the grey ran off?--Why do you not answer, George--are you hurt?"

"In the name of God, Ellen Fane, what do you do here?" I exclaimed, in a

voice that I could hardly think my own. She screamed aloud, for it was

indeed she, and checked her horse till he almost went on his haunches; I

seized him by the bridle to keep him from backing over the precipice.

"Keep off--keep off," she cried. "Oh, have mercy on me if you are a man

or a Christian, for I am a helpless girl, and in danger of my life!--Oh,

only help me to get to Truro, and I will pray for you--indeed I will--as

long as this miserable existence lasts!"

I was agitated by contending emotions--innumerable--indescribable; but I

made a struggle to compose myself, and implored her not to be alarmed.

"And, oh, Ellen, Ellen!" I cried, "do you not yet know me?"

"Henry!--Mr Jervas!" she exclaimed, and would have fallen to the ground

had I not drawn our horses together, and supported her sinking frame

upon my breast. There was not a sound in the air, that had so lately

been torn with dreadful noises, except the low sobs of my companion,

whose tears were flowing unrestrained upon my bosom, and the dreamy

plashing of the river beside us, as it hastened to drown its murmurs in

the moan of the sea, that came heavily at intervals on the wind like a

lamentation. The wind that was now abroad was barely strong enough to

lift a curl or two of the long and lovely tresses that lay clustering on

my breast. All the light in the sky was insufficient to show more than

the dim outline of the hills rising black around us against the paler

gloom of the heavens. Everything was steeped in profound tranquillity,

but the uproar that this quiet had succeeded was less confounding a

thousand times, than the tumultuous feelings which agitated my heart in

the midst of that solemn and oppressive calm.

"Tell me, Ellen, is it possible that you can have been under the same

roof with this villain Forrest?"

"Alas, poor wretch!" she exclaimed, "he was burned to death--he and his

cousin Hiram."

"Murderous ruffians!--robbers, dogs, and pirates! what better fate did

they merit?" I exclaimed, forgetting that she was ignorant of their

piracy.

"Nay, indeed, Mr Jervas, they were only doing their duty. You know that

they would have been obliged to fight with the crew, had not the ship

been deserted. Oh, although Mr Forrest was a harsh and selfish man, and

although I came here so much against my own wishes, yet, believe me, you

wrong him with these horrid names; but tell me, I beseech you, how did

_you_ come here? Surely you cannot have come all the way from Bromley

Hall?--Pray tell me."

"Could I show you my dripping clothes, my bleeding hands, my scorched

and smarting face," cried I, "you might then guess where I come

from--from the midst of breakers and fire, out of the hands of pirates

and assassins, who would fain have stained with my blood that fatal ship

that they once before polluted with the massacre of her crew, but which

God in his justice has guided over the seas to be a destruction for them

and theirs. I came in the French fire-ship!"

This was indignantly, bitterly, and thoughtlessly spoken; and I was well

rebuked by her placid reply. "Let us pray to be protected in our

distress, for, alas! I fear you are distracted, and I scarcely know,

myself, whether I am awake or not."

"I would give all I value in the world, except your good wishes, Ellen,

that this _were_ a dream; but it is too true--listen now (and I solemnly

assure you there is no deception in what I say), and I will tell you

all;" and so I related to her everything that had occurred from the time

of our dancing the last rigadoon together in Bromley Hall, up to our

present meeting among the Forrest-Race Hills.

"And now, Ellen, that these wretches themselves have been tossed out

like burned cinders from the fire, and that their house has been blown

stone from stone to the foundation, can you doubt that the hand of

Providence has been put forth in their punishment, as plainly as in our

reunion after so sudden a separation, and one which threatened to last

for years, if not for life? and can you for a moment doubt that I have

been brought here thus fearfully and strangely to be a protector to you

now, and a cherisher and protector to you till death part us?"

"Oh, do not talk of happiness to me; I feel that I am doomed to be

miserable and the cause of misery; the avenging hand lies heavy on us

all. But let us hasten to Truro, and hurry up to Bromley, and get my

dear guardian's advice, before----" she burst into renewed tears, and

then exclaimed, "Alas, alas, ill-fated Mary Forrest! you had little

thought, when you went to sleep to-night, that you should be awakened by

the light of your husband's death-fire!"

"The miserable woman!" I cried, "what has become of her?"

"She will soon be with her brothers, I trust, in safety; they took her

and her baby in the boat to Falmouth, but I was sent off with George the

gardener, on horseback, as you see, for Truro. Poor George has suffered

with the rest; his horse was frightened by the fire and threw him on the

hill; let us go back and see if he is hurt."

I with difficulty dissuaded her from delaying us by such a fruitless

search, and represented my own miserable condition.

"Oh that the sky would clear," she cried, "and show us how to go! there

is a cottage somewhere near us where you can get dried. You will perish

if you remain in wet clothes any longer--but can it be that you are all

this time riding bare-headed?" and she drew up her horse, and pulling a

handkerchief from her neck, tied it, yet warm from her bosom, round my

cold temples and dank hair. Every touch of her fingers streamed a

flood of warmth to my heart; my very brain derived new vigour from

the comfortable cincture; and having kissed her gentle hands again

and again, I recommenced to explore the road with indefatigable

perseverance. At length, after a tedious ride over a bleak and almost

impracticable track, we saw the low roof of the cottage rise between us

and the sky. A feeble light struggled for a moment over the common as

we approached, and then disappeared. Having with some searching found

a stake to which to tie the horses, we advanced to the door; it opened,

and we entered the cabin's only apartment. In one corner, on a low

truckle, lay an old man bedridden and doting. In the middle of the

floor, a child of about eight years was lighting a candle at the embers

of a wood fire; she screamed as we stood before her, and flew to the

bedside of the cripple, who mumbled and moaned at the disturbance, but

did not seem to comprehend its cause. The little girl's large dark eyes

bespoke terror and amazement till my companion addressed her, "My pretty

Sally, do you not remember the lady who gave the gown to your mother,

and the money?" The little thing then let go its hold of the old man's

quilt, and shading the candle from the open window, dropped a timid

curtsy and said, "They are all gone down to see the burning at the Race,

and they told me to keep the candle in the window till they would come

back; but the draught blows it out, madam."

"Lend me the candle, my dear, and we will kindle a nice fire which the

draught will only make burn the brighter, and _that_ will do far

better," said my companion, and began--beautiful being!--to pile up the

wood and clean the hearthstone, with as prompt and housewife-like an

alertness as though she had herself been a daughter of the carefullest

cottager. The blaze soon crackled up through the grey smoke, and while

I stretched myself along the earthen floor, and basked in the pleasant

glow, she busied herself in the corner with the little girl--how, I

could not imagine, till I heard a rustling of straw and the bleat of

a goat. I looked round, and beheld her kneeling on the ground, and

milking the poor ragged animal, with hands that took from their pious

and charitable employment a loveliness far purer than ever the flowers

of the green lane at Bromley had shed over them. She bore the milk warm

in a wooden bowl to my lips as I lay; and the child brought me bread. I

ate and drank, and blessed them, and tears gushed from my eyes.

"And now my pretty Sally," said my sweet friend, patting the dark head

of the little maiden, "does not your mother plait straw hats?"

"Oh!" cried the child, lifting up her tiny hands, "there is a

_beautiful_ one in the chest for Simon Jones, madam; but he has gone

to be a soldier, and has got a hat now that shines like glass, and

has lovely feathers in it."

"Then give it to me for this gentleman, and I will give you all this

money for your mother." I had my own purse in my pocket, but felt that

it would gratify her not to interfere, and did not. So, after a great

deal of coaxing, she at length prevailed on the child to open the sacred

box, and take out the hat with reverential hands, into which she put a

sum that made the poor little creature hold them up even higher than

at the mention of the admirable Simon Jones. I being thus refitted and

refreshed, we prepared to take the road again, the less reluctantly, as

we had already consumed the last log of wood in the house. So, after

raking the embers together for fear of accident, and kissing our little

benefactress, we remounted, and turned our horses' heads along the road

to Truro. Here we arrived before day, and having knocked up the people

of an inn, got admitted with some difficulty. It was now my turn to

take care of my companion, and I did my best to repay her kindness. I

procured refreshments, saw to the horses, and bade her good-night, just

as the morning dawn was breaking. I got two or three hours' sleep, and

had my clothes thoroughly cleansed and dried before the coach arrived in

which we were to proceed, when I placed the horses at livery in the name

of Mr Forrest's executors, and took my seat beside all that was now

dearest to me in the world. We were two days and a night on the road,

for the proprietor of the coach would not permit it to run on the

Sabbath, and we therefore spent all the second day, which was Sunday, in

the little village where we stopped on the previous night. We went to

church together, and after service wandered about the environs. That was

the most delightful morning I had ever spent. It was then I persuaded

her to promise that if Mr Blundell and her father refused to sanction

our union, she would never marry another. I had little thought when

exacting an engagement so important, of the heavy responsibility we both

undertook. I thought only that the possession of so much goodness and

beauty--I will not do injustice to my enthusiasm _then_, though I might

add "riches" to the list, did this refer to any other day--would make me

the happiest of living men; and I urged and entreated till I made as

sure of the divine prize as ever man did in Courtship's lottery, before

the final certainty of marriage.

We arrived at Bromley Hall on the evening of Monday. I need not try to

describe how my worthy friend stared when he saw us walk in together,

whom he had sent little more than a week before, as widely asunder as

east and west could separate. Nevertheless, he met his ward with open

arms.

"Ellen, my darling child, welcome back to me!--but what the devil do

_you_ mean, sir?" cried he, with a ludicrous comminglement of anger and

goodwill upon his face, while he seized my hand with the grasp of a

thief-catcher, and held me at arm's-length in the middle of the floor.

"I have the strangest story to tell you, sir," I began----

"Some trumpery excuse," cried he, "for thwarting my desires, and

neglecting your own business, sir--Why have you not gone on board your

vessel yet? Ah, I'll warrant, you would rather be running after

heiresses than facing the French cannon."

"Indeed, my dear sir, you wrong Mr Jervas very much," interrupted my

fair friend in good time, for I was on the point of making a most

indignant reply; but she stopped short, blushing and confused at the

betrayal of any interest towards one in whom she took so much, till I

broke the awkward silence which succeeded by requesting my host to grant

me his private ear for a very few minutes.

"Very well, sir, very well; here is the same spot where you made all

your fine promises to me not a week ago" (he had led me into the

library); "so sit down, and let me hear what you have to say for

yourself in this very suspicious business." I surprised myself by the

manliness and confidence with which I told my story, and avowed my

determination never to forego a claim so sanctioned by Providence, and

so fully recognised by the party most concerned.

"But trust me, sir, I have more pride than to act otherwise than you

once so prudently advised me," said I; "I will return immediately to my

profession, and you shall not again see me in the character of a suitor

till I can come in one that will be worthy such an errand."

I stopped to hear what he would say to this; but he made no reply;

indeed, he hardly seemed to have heard the latter part of my story at

all, for he looked utterly bewildered and confounded.

"Henry," at length, said he, after long rubbing his temples, and twice

or thrice ejaculating, "God help us!" "you have brought yourself into a

situation where you will have need for all the patience and resignation

you possess--Sit down,"--for I had risen with a sudden apprehension

of something dreadful. "Sit down, and bear this like the man you have

shown yourself to be. You remember what I once told you of Ellen's

father--that he was living in a manner disgraceful to us all in London.

Well, Henry, keep your seat. I wrote the other day to inquire about him

from a friend in the Admiralty. You are unwell, Harry; let me ring for

something for you."

"For God's sake, sir," I gasped, "tell me the worst at once."

"It is bad enough, Harry, but here it is:--I was informed in answer

that Mr Fane had obtained the command of the tender, Gull, and had

just sailed for Cherbourg."

"By Heaven, it is not possible!--that wretch the father of _my_ Ellen!

Oh, sir, it is impossible! it is impossible," I reiterated; "what was

his christened name?"

"Harry, Harry!" he exclaimed, "be calm, I beseech you, and do not drive

me more distracted than I am already. Mr Fane's name was Thomas--Tom

Fane. You see, my dear boy, that this is all too true. Bear it like a

man, or you will make children of us both; and rather try to aid me in

considering how it is to be revealed to _her_, than make yourself unfit

to join in alleviating her misery. I say nothing now, Henry, about your

proposals--be that as you may think fit hereafter, for such a calamity

as this must alter everything; only this I conjure you to, let us not

now desert the innocent girl in the time of her affliction."

But I could not bear up against the agony of my feelings, as I was at

length forced to admit the horrible conviction. I was utterly unable to

take a part in the solicitous cares of my friend. In vain did he

persuade--chide--denounce,--I wept, and groaned in the bitterest and

deepest despair. After trying every means that prudence and humanity

could suggest, he led me at last to my bedroom, where he left me, with

the assurance that, in the mean time, nothing should be disclosed to

Ellen (in whose presence I had not been trusted again even long enough

to bid good-night--nor had I desired it), and promised, at parting, to

make my apologies below, on the ground of sudden illness. I spent a

night, if possible, more miserable than the evening. Not one minute's

sleep, not one minute's respite from horrible thoughts--I tossed in

bodily fever, and mental disorder still more insufferable, through all

the long hours (although but few in number), till the grey dawn appeared

around me. And now I am going to make a shameful confession. I rose with

the first light, strong enough to show the shape of things, and stole

like a thief out of my window. I could no longer bear the thought of

being married to a murderer's daughter, and had made up my mind to fly

from Bromley Hall. I dropped safely to the court, and ran across the

lawn, impelled by shame, and selfishness, and pride, and turned my steps

with a dastardly speed along the road towards London. I ran on till

broad daylight, when, after ascending a steep hill, I threw myself

behind a clump of furze by the road side, being utterly exhausted by my

impetuous speed and contending passions. The bright freshness of the

sunrise glittered over wide and rich lowlands beneath me. The breeze

came up, heavy with meadow sweet and new mown hay--a delicious bath for

my hot forehead. The singing of birds was showered forth from every bush

and blossoming hedgerow, and a milk-white heifer came lowing up a lane,

and stood placid and ruminating in the warmth beside me. I could not

help thinking of the Sunday, when I had sat with Ellen on just such a

hill, and had overlooked just such a sweep of meadows and pastures--and

could I think of that scene, and forget how I had then vowed to cherish

and support her through good and evil report, and how she had promised

that she would never marry man but me? Could I forget how she had bared

her bosom to the bleak wind, that she might bind my brows when I was

perishing with cold? Could I forget how she had stooped to menial

occupations in a hovel, to get me fire, and meat, and drink, when I was

wet, and hungry, and athirst? And could I now be the false, the base and

recreant villain, to leave her in her premature widowhood alone, exposed

to all the calamity of sudden abhorrence and bereavement? It was beyond

the obstinacy of pride to resist the influence of such reflections. I

found myself looking round at the white chimneys of Bromley, where they

rose among the trees behind me: I burst into tears like a child, and,

with a revulsion of feelings as complete as when I had first felt myself

longing to escape from her, I turned my steps back again towards Ellen's

dwelling.

I had hardly descended the hill when I met the London coach--I would

have given twenty fares for a seat on it half an hour before; and even

now, when the driver checked his horses as he passed, and asked me, was

I for London, I felt a renewal of the conflict almost as fierce as ever:

But my better genius conquered. I continued on my way, and reached the

house again before seven o'clock. I wished to get in unobserved, and

appear at breakfast as if nothing had happened, but my host himself met

me as I crossed the lawn. We exchanged a melancholy salute, and he

turned with me, without even asking where I had been. We walked into the

library together, and I took up a book, and turned away to avoid his

eye, in which a tear was trembling as well as in my own. He sat down to

read his letters, sighing as if his heart would break while he opened

one after another, till suddenly he caught me by the arm, and drew me

close to him. I had been standing in his light; but it was not _that_

that made him grasp me so closely. "Harry, Harry, thank God, with me!"

he cried, in a voice tremulous with joy, "she is safe! she is safe!--our

dear girl is safe from even a shadow of disgrace!--But why do I talk of

disgrace?--here, read that letter, and thank God!"

This is a copy of the letter, which he here put into my hands:--

"MY DEAR BLUNDELL,--I have made a sad mistake about poor Fane.

I was called on to visit him suddenly this morning, and found

him in his last moments at a miserable lodging in the Barbican,

where he expired to-day at four o'clock. Before his death, he

told me the circumstances connected with the command of the

Gull. It appears that, when the commission came, he was unable

to move in its use from gout and the effects of long

dissipation, and that the Forrests of the Race being in town,

prevailed on him, for a trifling sum, to give up the papers to

a vagabond namesake of his own (but no connection, as far as I

can understand), who had been an old associate of theirs in

Cornwall. This fellow went down to Sheerness, and took the

command unquestioned, in the hurry of preparation for sea,

and, as I mentioned in my note of yesterday, has set sail for

the fleet. By the by, there are dark reports in the Admiralty

about the Forrests and the old Phoenix (Manson, jun.), that

was supposed to have gone down at sea two years ago. The story

goes, that they and this fellow Fane (against whom an order is

already issued, on the elder Manson's application), made away

with the crew at the Race, into which she had driven at night,

and getting the ship off by the next tide, sailed her to

Bordeaux, where they sold her to the Messrs Devereux, and

fitted out their letter of marque with the money. Of course,

this is in confidence. I have often warned poor Ellen's father

of Adam Forrest, and told him how improper the situation was

for her (I _know_ Forrest designed getting her for his cousin),

but he was in the fellow's debt, and therefore under his

control; so that, although he disliked the thing as much as I,

my representations had no effect. His death must be a relief to

us all, yet I cannot but lament him--bold, generous, and

honourable he always was, even to the last; and, now that he is

gone, let us say nothing of the one deforming vice.--Believe

me, most truly yours," &c. &c.

For five days I had been torn from my former self by a continued series

of disaster and passionate suffering, and so constantly and rapidly had

each astonishment succeeded the other, that I was become, I thought, in

great measure callous to the most surprising change that could now

possibly take place. But here I was placed all at once, and that when

least of all expected, on the same ground as when I had parted from

Ellen on the night before our first separation; and all the intermediate

ordeal of terror and despair was past, and from it I had come out a

bolder, truer, and happier man. It may well be credited, then, that my

thanks to the Providence, through whose inscrutable hands I had been

thus kindly dealt with, were full and fervent; and it may well be

supposed how Ellen wondered, with blushes and doubtful confusion, what

the embrace, so sadly tender yet so ardent, might mean, when both her

guardian and her lover congratulated her on the dispersion of her

threatened calamities. Natural sorrow took its course; and grief for the

parent, wretched as he was, claimed its indulgence of time and solitude.

I had not forgotten the advice of my excellent friend, about making a

man (worthy such a wife) of myself by my own exertions; and receiving

official directions to join the fleet, after I had made the necessary

depositions, I left Ellen with her tears scarce dried, on the

understanding that I should return, so soon as of age, and claim her

for my own.

DI VASARI.

A TALE OF FLORENCE.

BY THE LATE CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ.

[_MAGA._ DECEMBER 1826.]

CHAPTER I.

"It is the Plague Fiend--the King of Fever!

Look! at his garments of the grave;

His bloodless lip, white cheek, and glassy eye!

See how he shoots, borne on his car of fogs, over our city!"

It was somewhere about the middle of the fourteenth century, or, to fix

dates more precisely, in the autumn of the year 1343, that the great

plague, described by various Italian writers, and especially by

Boccaccio in his Decameron, for the sins or admonition of the Tuscans,

fell upon the rich and beauteous city of Florence. The means by which

this calamity, after spreading desolation through the Levant, and also

through many of the maritime cities of Italy, was first introduced into

Florence, have been matter of dispute. Some historians declare, that it

first came in by the dealing of certain Jews; who introduced into the

town, and bartered with the inhabitants, large quantities of condemned

apparel--clothes belonging to the dead--which they had bought privately,

getting them at a low market, in the infected city of Ancona. And of

this suspicion, whether it was well or ill founded, the accused in the

end bore the consequences; for, with only twelve hours allowed for

preparation, in the fourth week of the disease, they were driven beyond

the walls of the city; the streets in which they had dwelt being

levelled with the ground, and themselves adjudged to death in case they

attempted to return. Other writers, however, assert, on the contrary,

that the malady itself was never "infectious;" but merely "endemic;" and

that it was not imported at all, but arose from some malaria, or general

predisposition to disease in the atmosphere. And certain it is, which so

far goes to set up the theory of these last speculators, that the

weather, during the whole of the spring and summer preceding the

visitation, had been unusually close and sultry. Foul and offensive

exhalations had proceeded, in a remarkable degree, from all pools, and

fens, and marshes, in the neighbourhood of the city. The bed of the

Arno, though afterwards replenished by sudden and heavy rains, had, at

one period, sunk lower than the oldest citizen ever remembered to have

seen it. Insects, moreover, in all fields and gardens, had appeared in

numbers quite unprecedented; so as even, in many places, combined with

the effect of the drought, entirely to destroy vegetation. And--a

circumstance which still more attracted notice--the rats, both in the

houses of Florence, and in the farms in the neighbouring villages,

multiplied with such rapidity, and to such an excess, that all temporal

remedies being found unavailing, it was thought necessary to have

recourse to the aid of the church, and formally to _excommunicate them_.

The success of this extraordinary measure, or how far it operated at

all, does not appear; but the fact of its being applied, is distinctly

stated in all the chronicles of the time. Notice was formally read in

open church against the rats; that, unless they withdrew from all

houses, wheat-stacks, barns, or granaries, in Florence and the vicinity,

within four days from the date of those presents, process of

"deprivation" would be issued against them. And a curious feature in the

superstition of the time was, that the officer of the spiritual court,

appointed to maintain the interests of all "non-appearing defendants,"

interfered _for the rats_, and actually obtained leave to "enlarge the

rule" for their departure, from four days to six, on the ground that the

_cats_ of the city, knowing of the order, would be upon the watch to

intercept them.

During a considerable time, however, from whatever cause the distemper

in Florence arose, it seems that the authorities of the state had

presence of mind enough strenuously to maintain, that it was _not_ the

"plague." The increasing deaths which occurred in the meaner and closer

quarters of the city, were declared to proceed from the _Typhus

Carcerum_, or putrid gaol fever. Cleanliness was recommended, and a

cheap antiseptic process about all houses, and charitable distribution

of wine and food by the richer citizens among the needy. Separation

of the infected people from the sound, by removing them to distant

hospitals, was in a few instances accomplished by force; and those

who contradicted the official statement, or expressed their own alarm

too obtrusively, were thrown into prison, here and there, as public

agitators. But the truth, even by these expedients, was not long capable

of being concealed. Some of the offenders who were sent to gaol for

clamouring about the plague died of it in confinement, without waiting

for the formality of a trial. The physicians who had attended the sick

in the city began themselves to be attacked with illness; and hurried

through their visits at the fever hospitals, in spite of their published

certificates that nothing serious was the matter. At length Brother

Gasparo Marcelli, a monk of the Dominican Convent of Santa Croce, who

had been slightly indisposed on the night of the Feast of St Michael,

was found dead in his bed on the next morning, and with appearances

which admitted of no equivocation. The alarm quickly ran through the

monastery; the prior and several monks were seized with sickness. The

deceased had been one of the most popular confessors in Florence; and

three of his penitents, who had never dreamed that fever might enter

palaces, were dead--almost between the next sunrise and sunset--in

different directions of the city. Upon which, personal apprehension

among the higher classes superseding every consideration of public

policy, those who had most actively chastised the terrors of other

persons, could now make no secret of their own. The rich began openly

to provide for their safety. The seditious, always active in moments

of danger, thundered against the government for its deception. The

executive power gave up its doubts, whether real or pretended; and it

was openly confessed that THE PLAGUE WAS IN FLORENCE.

The panic which spread through the city upon this admission became,

as might have been expected, an evil scarcely second to the original

calamity. Almost all parties had been vehement in desiring to have the

declaration. It could do nothing but mischief to any. When it came, by a

strange seeming anomaly in the ordering of men's minds, numbers began

directly to question or discredit it. While among the lower classes (who

had been the most anxious to get it), doubt or belief made little

difference, for few had any power to act upon it at all.

Day and night, as soon as the proclamation came out, the streets

and squares of Florence were filled--the gates of all the palaces

surrounded--with carriages and waggons, loading up household furniture,

pictures, and treasure, and carrying them away into the country. Long

trains of mules and horses, and companies even of persons on foot, were

seen moving, first at night, to avoid too open publicity, but very

soon in broad day, and without disguise, out at all the gates of the

city. But still these fugitives were chiefly from among the landed

proprietors, and the small capitalists who had ready money at command;

and the bulk of the population yet had ties, which, in spite of danger,

confined them to the place. For the merchant was bankrupt if he gave up

his trade. And the farmer paused where he had to leave ungathered crops

behind him. The physician staid, for he hoped in some antidote; and

if he could live, the sickness was his harvest. The monks staid; most

because their convent was their only home; some because they hoped its

privacy would shut out danger. Public officers staid, to save the posts

they had; or in the hope that their resolution would be the means of

promoting them to better. The vast tribe that lived only by their daily

labour had no choice but to stay; for to want the day's meal was to

starve, and they had no way to gain it but by staying where they were,

and going on to exercise their calling. So that, upon the whole, as soon

as it became lawful to declare the extent of the mischief, vast hordes

became very unwilling to confess it; and it was the progress of death

itself, in the end, rather than the desertions, numerous as they were,

occasioned by the fear of it, which brought the great crowd of the city

of Florence, first to little, and then to nothing.

For the evil in the future is no evil, and this it is that laughs

theorists and legislators to scorn! the reckoning which shall come

hereafter ever is forgotten, against but a little measure of advantage

offered in the present. The vengeance of Heaven, is it sure? we trust

that it is far off. The axe, and the gibbet? "Chance" may save us from

them; and though that deliverance hangs on the one ace cast with two

dies, every sinner believes that it will be his own! The thief plans a

robbery--executes it--escapes with the booty--and the "chance" that has

saved him brings a hundred to the gallows! The projector trades against

probability--wins in the teeth of principle--His very blindness--which

could not see the risk--passes for sagacity, and crowds are beggared who

follow his example! This "chance" it is--this "hope"--which makes

fools--and fools are villains--of us all! Its seeds are rooted in the

strongest minds; and in the weak they flourish even to insanity. The

liar elects to speak on "hope." The gamester arranges to live (in a

castle) upon it. But woman's brain--there is its chosen seat of

quicksand empire!--where to desire an impossibility, and to account upon

it, are but as one. Hope it is that makes her frail. Hope makes her

false. Hope makes her the dupe of those who care not for her, and the

curse of those who do. She fires a palace, and "hopes" that it will not

burn. Casts herself into the sea, and "hopes" that the waters will quit

their bed to leave her upon land. Her confidence--and this perhaps is

the case with all of us--becomes invariably more unbounded in proportion

with the real desperateness of her condition. And the worst of all

is--that, as human nature is constituted, for nothing of all this is

there any remedy!

And "Hope" worked strange wonders in the earlier stages of the plague;

especially among those who had all to gain and little to lose; a sort of

persons, whose fearlessness, and spirit of reliance, since the world

began, has always been proverbial. There is a point to which you

civilise mankind; but beyond which education cannot go. You seem to tame

the wolf, while he sees you hold the whip over him: but--blood will have

its way--he flies at your throat at last, if you give him opportunity.

Man's instinct makes him war on man! 'Tis trash! my strength _must_ be

my neighbour's weakness. The miller, when his granaries are full,

laughs loud, and well he laughs--he buys a lordship--out of the ruined

harvest. What is that flood that wastes my neighbour's fields but

blessing, so it doubles, in the common market, the produce of my own? Go

to! they who gain by the dead, when did they love the living? When agues

thrive, do not the sextons delve merrily? Does not the surgeon fatten on

the miseries, the headsman on the vices of mankind? In no general

blessing yet did all men ever find contentment; in no common infliction

have there not always been some who saw a good. Battles and blood make

soldiers generals. Revolts and revolutions peasants princes. Out of

broken windows, as the adage tells us, do there not arise rich glaziers?

And he who _wants_ a fortune may find one even in the PLAGUE.

And, accordingly, among the most curious results of the visitation, when

it first began to show its strength in Florence, was the extra quantity

of actual rejoicing, as well as of mourning; the great increase of

hilarity in the midst of tears; and the decided, immediate gain to

individuals, which arose out of the thinning in the numbers of the

community. Husbands, many, wept for the death of their wives; wives,

often, for the death of their husbands; both, constantly, for the deaths

of their children; for these were, generally, losses, at least in some

sort, of present sources of happiness; disturbances of long habit and

existing arrangements; and no benefit (to balance) accruing to the

survivor. But sons did not always mourn for their fathers--nephews for

their uncles--younger brothers, destined to exertion and poverty, for

their elders, who had shut them from title and estate: those who were

the best disposed to do all this, often could not do it; their wants,

in spite of themselves, were relieved, and their desires of pleasure

administered to--they thought that they grieved for the fate of the

dead--perhaps they did grieve; but before the bell had ceased tolling,

they would not have had him live again. For even the comparatively poor

who died, had _something_ to leave behind them, which was an object to

those as poor, or poorer, than themselves. Very soon the constant

occurrence of such falls of fortune began to make men expect and look

for them. They could not help recollecting the fact, that there was

_one_ particular life stood between them and happiness. The possibility

of a change would just present itself--the wish, perhaps not yet. And

among the labouring classes, too, the diminished number of hands at work

in every calling soon gave the remainder high rates of wages, which they

spent in idleness and excess. The mere passage of wealth into fresh

hands, always unthrifty, created an immense demand out of the very

general mourning and distress for articles of cost and luxury. All who

had been rich, had not drank choice wines, or maintained brilliant

equipages. All who rose from poverty did so--often to the most prodigal

dissipation of their means--on the instant. Until even the very same

calamity which in a few months made the city absolutely a desert, in its

outset actually gave a new and increased impulse to its pleasurable and

commercial movements!

In the mean time, however, the shroud-maker plied his needle almost as

rapidly as the maker of new robes; and, as the fury of the pestilence

increased, all this jollity, which at first had some show of the mirth

of madness about it, ran on till, like the merriment produced by wine

in company, by degrees, it broke into bloodshed and misrule. In the

beginning of the scourge, the succession to an estate or a title had

not carried with it--as of course--a notice that the inheritor was only

tenant for an hour. But when the deaths had risen to more than a hundred

a-day in the city, and when the man who became heir to an estate in one

twenty-four hours left it to somebody else--or perhaps left it without a

claimant--in the next, this general state of insecurity, added to the

extraordinary description of hands into which property passed, seemed

first to repeal all sanity and principle; and soon led to the wildest

and most unheard-of outrages.

The successor to a splendid mansion--the fifth or sixth remove perhaps

within a month--seized possession--it might be, with a title--but

certainly without waiting for the forms of law to ratify it. Great

quantities of personal property, of houses and movables especially, were

sometimes left in a few hours without _any_ certain claimants at all;

and ruffians and outcasts--the police of the city being virtually almost

extinct--fought and scrambled for the right of rifling such possessions

in open day. Antonio Malespini, the servant of a goldsmith who had fled

the city and died under the walls of Pisa, produced a will, alleged

to have been left by his master, bequeathing to him the whole of his

effects. On the very next day, this title passing undisputed, there were

twenty claimants for similar successions! From inheriting after those

who had fled and died, it was but one step farther to presume the death,

and a man's flight then at once conveyed his effects to those who stayed

behind. And within the expiration of eight-and-forty hours farther (no

interference by the authorities taking place), both lie and forgery

began to be considered unnecessary; and the rights of health and

strength became the only rights acknowledged in the new community.

It was then that the general tumult and terror reached its height; and

that Florence appeared like a city delivered over to pillage, in which

each man made his best of what came next him; or rather like a vast ship

tost in a tempest, under which she could not choose but founder, and

where each man, according to the usage of desperate mariners, resolved

to live, at common cost, the short while longer that existence lasted.

Domestics, left in charge of their masters' houses, burst open the

cellars and cabinets, and used the treasure as their own. The richest

garments were seen worn by common beggars; the most costly wines

intoxicated the lowest of the population. All safe people fled the city

at every hazard, or shut themselves up, and refused to communicate even

with each other; and a scarcity of food--in the very excess of valuables

and money--began to aggravate the general distress. Those physicians who

still lived now made off, with one consent, to secure what they had

gained. The monks barred the gates of their convents: some would say no

mass; and scarce any would confess the sick any longer. Some men lay

dead or dying in their houses, and none would come to aid or bury them.

Others were found with marks of violence on their bodies and their

chambers rifled; and none could say, nor did any inquire, who had done

it. The hired nurses, it was reported, poisoned their patients; and one

beldam confessed afterwards to having caused the death of five women, by

administering the _eau forte_ (_aqua fortis_) to them instead of common

water. Brute strength, and freedom from the plague, became the only

sources of power; and the slave spat in the face of his master. Those

few who still dwelt within the city, or near it, watched armed, and

shut their doors by day; for murders were done even in the broad light.

The cemeteries now became choked, and there was more room in the streets

and market places. Houses got cheap, and graves were hard to come by.

The great _fosse_ which had been hastily opened and consecrated, at the

back of the Spedale St Martino, ran over with bodies, from all ranks,

ages, and conditions, which night after night were cast promiscuously

into it. And, to quote the words used by a writer of the time, in

describing the state of Florence at the close of the malady--almost for

want of matter to feed upon--"Worth was useless; strength gone; glory

sullied; title was buried; honours were forgotten; greatness humiliated;

dignity scorned;--and of the good and of the evil equally perished the

memory!"

* * * * *

It was on one night, however, about this time, in the month of October,

when the ravages of the plague were at their height; when no stranger,

unless he were insane, or sought his death, could have been expected to

enter Florence, nor any inhabitant any longer abided there, but such to

whom it would have been ruin as bad as death to leave it;--it was on one

night while affairs were in this condition--the night of the vigil of St

Luke--that two horsemen, moving on a track once the most frequented of

all Italy, but to which the tread of travellers had now become almost a

thing forgotten, were seen rapidly stretching towards the city from the

eastward, by the road that led from the direction of Arezzo.

The foremost rider was a cavalier scarce twenty years, apparently, of

age; clad simply, but elegantly, in the travelling dress of a Tuscan

gentleman of that day. His vest, which was of the richest velvet,

slashed and embroidered in the fashion of the time, was covered, on back

and breast, by the strong "Jazeran," or scaled corslet, which was the

armour then generally worn in Italy, and which, while it was less

cumbrous than complete steel, was yet fully proof against the thrust

either of lance or poniard. A belt of gold, four fingers broad, drawn

tightly round the waist, and clasped by a jewel of price in front,

marked the division between the bottom of the "Camiciuola," or upper

garment, and the long breeches and stockings of woven silk,--the

"Calzoni alla pantalona"--which, with yellow Morocco boots and massy

spurs of gold, terminated the lower portion of the figure. And the broad

"mantello" or cloak, of ample extent--on foot or horseback, still the

constant equipment of every Italian gentleman--gathered plaidlike round

the body, clinging upon the bridle shoulder, and passing under the right

arm, so as to clothe the bust and loins, yet leave the sword-hand

free--swelled with the damp and unwholesome "libeccio" which blew in the

rider's face, and seemed to bring a death in every gust, as he lifted

his strong horse, all dust and foaming--plunging with short springs, and

gathered almost upon its haunches--down the last sharp pitch of hill

which marked the boundary of the Apennines, and carried the traveller

forward into the fair valley of the Arno.

The hard unbeaten road clattered hollow beneath the footsteps of the

steeds, as both the strangers plied onwards, at a steady yet rapid pace,

in the direction of Florence. Did they know the peril to which they

went? It seemed they did, or should do so: for the long arm of the

calamity reaching to the distance, spoke already too plainly to be

mistaken. The whole route along which they were passing had but a short

time back been lined with populous and flourishing villages: the houses

yet remained, but every door and window now was barred and bolted; and

the hare and the rabbit gazed on the passenger through the broken hedges

in every garden. Three months since, and, if the moon shone bright,

looking down from that raised road into the vale beneath, a hundred

palaces were seen rearing their marble fronts amid the delicious woods

and waters of the Val d'Arno! Three months since, and, if the night was

dark, the very tapers that glistened in those mansions, from their

bowers and lattices, showed in the deep vale like a world of stars below

the gazer's path, in mimic rivalry of those that reigned above! Now, all

was solitude on the near approach, and gloom and darkness in the

distance. The marble mansions, black and silent, stood like the

sepulchres of former greatness, for the spirits that gave life to them

had departed. No song, sung by Italy's voices, rose from the cot of the

peasant; there was no music of dancing feet; no tinkling of the guitar

or the theorba. There stood the village church! but its doors hung open,

swinging on their hinges with every blast. The village inn remained: but

no smoke poured now from its chimney; and the branch that should have

invited the traveller was dead and leafless. Here and there a few stray

dogs, lean and masterless, who seemed to have grown wild as the hares

and foxes had grown tame, barked and sneaked off as the strangers

approached. The frogs croaked hoarsely in the marsh land; and the lizard

rustled through the long rank grass that grew upon the tops of the

cabins or loose stone wall. But other tokens of inhabitancy--or even of

existence--in their path, the travellers found none.

In the realms of death, we look for solitude and silence; on the

battle-field, when the fight is done, and in the lone churchyard; but

not within the beat and haunts of men. The foremost horseman halted his

speed one moment as he advanced deeper into the cheerless scene. With

every point in that prospect his eye had been familiar! it could not be

all death--all darkness--all ruin--in a few short weeks? Here and

afar--at hand and in the distance--it could not be that all were gone!

There was surprise and impatience in the stranger's look, rather than

sadness:--alarm and incredulity, rather than woe or grief.

"Jacopo!" he exclaimed, turning hastily to his attendant--and speaking

rather as a man who makes a comment than asks a question--"I see no

light in the palace or gardens of the Orsini?"

The individual to whom this question was addressed followed his master's

eye slowly, as he raised himself from the pommel of his saddle.

"Nevertheless, my lord," he said, "they should be here, for they have

not fled, although they retired beyond the walls of the city."

"But the Vitrani too--their villa is all gloom?"

The reply was given in a more subdued tone. "It is too true, my lord!

The Marchioness and both her daughters were among the first victims of

the disease."

"But it cannot surely be with all thus?" pursued Di Vasari, with

increasing agitation. "This house--Cinthio da Pontelli's?"

"There are weeds, my lord, in its garden; and the pedestals of its

statues are grown green with moss."

"But the Counts Di Bruno--Lord Vincent, and his brothers?" continued the

alarmed inquirer.

"May be here, my lord; or may have fled; or may have perished," returned

the party questioned, "the last of them. They were living and safe two

days since, when I set out for Arezzo; but half that time has made

strange havoc in many a noble house, since your lordship quitted

Florence."

The stranger started as the last words fell upon his ear, from his own

inward thought, as though an asp had stung him! Striking his strong

horse on both sides with the spur, as one who had already paused too

long, and suddenly recollected himself, involuntarily at the same

instant he curbed the fierce animal with the rein, until it stood

erect--striking at the air, and reared almost beyond the perpendicular.

Then stooping low, with slackened bit, and signing to his companion to

follow, the rider once more plied both scourge and steel, with the

strong impulse of a man who strives by mere motion to escape from his

own sensations. With hoof of speed, he scattered into foam the shallow

brawling stream of the Mugnone: dashed onwards, and looked neither to

the right nor left, through the picturesque villages of La Loggia and

Benevento. At the convent of St Giovanni, the evening prayer was saying;

but he bent on his steed's neck as he passed; crossed himself; and again

rode forward. The nuns of Spirito Santo sang a requiem for a departed

sister: but though the lights beamed on his path through the stained

windows of their chapel, he still kept on his way. By the shrine of Our

Lady of Florence he pressed; and he saw it not, for he uttered no vow.

He crossed the "Giustiziere," or area of public execution; but had no

time even to breathe an _Ave_ for the souls of the thousands who had

suffered upon it. Nor checked he in his long gallop, until entering the

"Via di Querci"--the wide, fair avenue of trees, by which Florence is

approached on the road which leads from Arezzo. This point at length

being won, he held in his well-breathed horse, who still obeyed the rein

with difficulty; and soothed the gallant brute with voice and hand, as

they turned more slowly towards the _Porta alla Croce_, or eastern gate

of the city.

* * * * *

The narrow, ill-paved road, now known as the Via dei Mal-contenti, by

which Florence is entered in the Quartiere alla Croce, was, in the 13th

century, a mere straggling suburb, inhabited by the meanest artisans of

the city. At the particular time, however, to which our tale refers, it

was altogether without occupants of any description; not so much because

those who originally dwelt in it had been all cut off by the plague, as

that better lodgings were to be had in the upper parts of the town, for

taking, and therefore no one thought fit to remain in it. From this long

street, or lane, which was in entire unbroken darkness, some more

reputable avenues branched on the right hand--the Via Ghibellina, the

Via Jesu Cristo, and the Via di Mecca; and, looking up these, here and

there, a dull light might be seen glimmering through the lattices of an

upper window; and, in such situations, low moanings, and sometimes

shrieks of grief, were to be heard, as of some who lamented for the

dead, or were themselves perhaps shortly to be so. But, for the greater

part, the houses in all the streets within the city, like those in the

villages eastward of the walls, bore the aspect of abandonment and

desertion. Doors closely barred, and battened with spars on the outside;

unless where they had been burst open, on suspicion of containing dead,

or else in search of plunder. Casements open in abundance; flapping and

swinging to and fro in the wind; but all wreck and disorder, or total

emptiness, within, and, in some places, wide gaps, with heaps of

half-burnt ruins, obstructed the way--the remnants of fallen houses,

with others falling, half destroyed, and blackened by smoke and fire;

for, among the minor scourges which, during the time of the plague, had

visited the city, conflagrations, wilful or accidental, had been

frequent and extensive.

Familiar as both travellers were with this _locale_, they had yet

difficulty in getting their horses forward, so completely dark were the

narrow streets, and encumbered with rubbish of every description. They

had looked for a light by the shrine of "Our Lady of Grace;" but even

the hopes of the pious were fled; not a shrine in all Florence had a

taper now burning before it. The splendid and extensive Palazzo di

Borgo, the mansion of the family of Antilla, lay in their way; but its

lords had left all for life, and fled to Lucca; and the huge building,

towering above all but ruin--frowned in dark and sullen silence. They

passed, still amid the signs of emptiness and dilapidation, over the

Piazza Santa Croce--the great area for gymnastic exercises of the city;

crossed the narrow bridge, with the rivulet and sewer, which ran under

the walls of the Church of St Jacops tra i Fossi; but so fearfully was

the population diminished, and so deep the dread which (except a few

desperate wretches) the survivors had of each other, that the busiest

streets of the city, and the most gorgeous squares and terraces, were

all alike wrapped in gloom and desertion. Nor was it until turning

northwards, and winding for some time in the direction of the river,

they reached the Piazza Santa Maria--the square in which stood the

"Spedale," or great hospital of Florence--that any decided signs of life

and activity, or, indeed, of human existence, presented themselves.

At this point, however, there was light and activity enough--and both

riders instinctively tightened their reins, as a sharp turning at right

angles threw them in front of the "Spedale;" for so sudden a change,

from the thickest darkness to a glare of illumination--as of a thousand

lamps alight at once--might have startled many steeds, worse tutored, or

less true.

The building itself was a bold and striking object; lofty and

well-proportioned, though heavy in its style of architecture; and

so extensive as to form, with its tributary offices, one entire side

of the quadrangle, or "Piazza," in which it stood. Under ordinary

circumstances, the traffic and bustle of such an establishment, which

was of capacity to furnish accommodation for all the charitable purposes

of the city, must have been considerable and imposing; but, at this

period, the immense accession of duty, and consequently of activity,

which the calamity of the time had thrust upon it, rendered some of its

features extraordinary and interesting in the highest possible degree.

The overwhelming excess of patients poured into the house (vast numbers

being still every day compelled to be rejected) had called every

lobby--every crevice and corner--in addition to the ordinary apartments

allotted to the sick, into requisition; and the building being profusely

furnished, up to the very fourth story, with windows and lattices of

ventilation--from the immense additional array of lamps and candles in

every quarter, which its increase of business and multiplication of

inhabitants presented--the whole front of the edifice blazed like

the face of an immense lantern; and, in spite of the damp breath

of the sufferers within, which condensed in streams upon the glass

window-panes, and dimmed their transparency, poured out a volume of

light, not merely across the whole area of the Piazza, but into the

very recesses of the houses on the farther side of it.

In the mean time, the hoarse roar, less of suffering or grief, than of

hurry and trade, that went on within the edifice, rose at intervals so

high as to be dumbly and indistinctly heard on the outside. Shadows upon

the white-clouded window-panes were seen rapidly passing and repassing.

And the space in the immediate vicinity of the Spedale, especially the

ground and dwellings of the square of Santa Maria, which had long

been deserted--for, at the very commencement of the infection, every

hospital, as might well be expected, soon cleared a neighbourhood round

it--presented a curious spectacle to the attention, even under the

general appalling circumstances of the time. The Piazza, or square

itself, which was unpaved, stood fetlock-deep in mire and filth; for

the gravedigger had more than work enough to do; and the duty of the

scavenger was little heeded. In the earlier stages of the pestilence,

clothes and bedding, the property of those who died, had been used to

be burnt in the front of the hospital; that custom was now laid aside,

either because there was no authority to enforce it, or because it had

been found unavailing; but the original pile of half-consumed rags

and ashes still remained, grown cold and mouldy, for man and horse to

flounder through. All the houses in those three sides of the square

which consisted of dwellings--the Spedale forming the fourth--without

an exception stood open; they had been broken into and rifled by the

hospital servants (who ransacked all before them in their nightly

rounds) for what they contained; and the wood-work of the doors and

staircases had gone to make fires to burn the bedding with. The area of

the Piazza was strewed all over with matters of domestic litter: pots,

pans, broken furniture, worn-out kitchen utensils, and remnants of

apparel, cast forth from the hospital. In the centre of the square there

was a marble fountain playing; but to little purpose, for another rose

within the walls of the Spedale; and no creature out of the building,

though perishing of thirst, would have ventured to taste such water.

Some evil jester, desirous, perhaps, to spend the last hour of his life

in mischief, had thrown an old saddle into the reservoir into which the

stream discharged itself; and broken away all the teeth of the couchant

lion, from whose mouth the chief _jet_ issued.

"And this immense house is full, then!" said the Chevalier Di Vasari,

as he paused for a moment in front of the hospital. The speaker had

interests enough of his own, and vital ones, to contend with; but--it

was not in man--the very criminal who went to the scaffold, could not

have beheld such a scene without wonder and curiosity.

"Put on, my lord, if you love your life, put on," exclaimed Jacopo.

"Full! Ay, it has been filled, and emptied again, into the great fosse

behind it,--Your lordship shudders? Spirits of the blest! if you could

but have seen that fosse when it was dug!--twenty times over in the

course of the last month. Hark again, Signor!--for Mercy's sake put

on!--to the roar of voices inside the building!--and those black

shadows, how they flit to and fro again upon the windows, though the

steam on the glass hinders our seeing what goes on within! Full? my

lord, it is full now!--and the Hospital of St Roque is full!--and so is

the Lazaretto--that was the gaol--Sancta Maria!--and the Church of the

Padri Reformati is turned, besides, into an hospital!--and the Prigione

delle Stinche is open for the sick; and----"

Farther yet would the enumeration have gone, but that a noise, as if of

loosening bolts and bars in the hospital, interrupted it. In the next

moment, one of the massy folding-doors at the great entrance was flung

open; and, right hand and left, from its farthest extremity, as far as

the eye could see, down to that very door, the common corridor of the

house appeared on each side closely set with pallets. Every bed was

occupied doubly, and even trebly; or rather the whole range of beds--for

each touched the other--was formed into one great litter; crowded with

sufferers, in all moods and in all stages of disease. Some--they might

be living, or they might be dead--all that could be seen was a strange

shapeless lump, rolled in the wretched bed-clothes! Others, covered up

in hoods and caps, incapable of speech, stared from the pillows with

their glassy eyes and ghastly faces--that the viewer shrank to look

on them! Some, furious and strong in agony, sat in their beds

bolt upright,--raving, tossing their arms, and muttering horrible

imprecations--hideous objects of misery. The most fearful of all were

the most healthy,--those whom they called the "Convalescents;" and

who glided about in their long, white, shroud-like hospital-gowns and

dresses; looking and moving like creatures emerged from the grave--even

more appalling to Nature than those who were ready to descend into it.

"This is too hideous!" exclaimed Di Vasari, turning his horse away.

Pages are insufficient sometimes to convey that impression which the

eye takes in in a moment. But a cry now arose of "Room, room!" and

between the double row of beds, jolting carelessly along the corridor,

two hospital servants appeared, bearing a long tray--that looked

ike a shutter with handles to it--covered with a sheet. Out they came,

swinging through the hall-door, and descended the steps in front of

the building.

"Santa Madonna! it is one of the dead,--a corpse fresh of the

plague,--and we stand here!" cried Jacopo.

"Twenty-five this makes!" said the hindmost bearer, stopping, as he

came down the stairs, to trim the load in its descent.

"Twenty-seven it makes, if I can count," returned the other; "and by

this time last night, we had thirty-one."

As he spoke, they reached the bottom of the staircase. In turning the

corner, one of the carved ornaments of the balustrade caught the cloth

that covered the shutter; and, at the next step--the corpse lay naked!

It was the body of a man--and of a fine one. The plague had evidently

made brief work with him. Still robust--almost florid--full of flesh and

muscle--no victim of decay--no sign of age or of consumption. The tree

had been struck in its full strength! The limbs and the trunk were those

of a living man still. But the face was distorted and discoloured; and

there was one broad dark badge upon the breast, that showed what it was

had done the business.

The bearers never stopped to recover their wretched pall, but shouldered

onwards to a small, low, grated door. Jacopo's eye followed--he knew the

place well--it was the door of the dead-house.

The key turned, and the door opened; there was no light within. The two

men entered. There was a sound as of some heavy mass falling upon soft

ground. It was the fall of a body of flesh and blood, which no other

object in the creation falls like; and they returned, in a moment, freed

from their burthen. And then a cry arose, to "make haste, and close the

hospital gates again;" for the sick were gathering round them, and

trying to escape--tumultuous--like lost spirits on the bank of the

infernal river!

The crash as the heavy gates were slammed together roused the Chevalier

from the stupor in which the scene had plunged him. Slowly pressing

his horse with the spur, and followed by his attendant, he again rode

forward. They left the ground upon the right hand, which now forms

the Piazza di Granduca, passed the high towers of the Duomo, or chief

Cathedral; and entered the great thoroughfares of the Porta via de

Repoli, and the Via della Scala, intending to cross the river at the

Pont St Trinita. But the passage along the south or farther bank of the

Arno (as the travellers stood) was now wholly impracticable. This

portion of the town had comprehended what was called the Jews' Quarter;

and, on the expulsion of that wretched race, the whole neighbourhood in

which they dwelt had been given up to destruction. Their houses had been

torn down, and fire laid to their synagogue; and one of the last acts of

authority on the part of the government, had been the barricading, as

far as possible, and publicly forbidding all passage through, or

entrance into, their demesne.

"Does your lordship wish to cross here?" asked Jacopo. "The north bank

would be the best."

"I know not that," replied Di Vasari. "Our arrangement above may have

failed; and this, if we can accomplish it--that is, the passage here--is

certain."

The moon, which just then began to rise, threw a dim and dusky light

over the long, narrow, squalid lines of building, which had formed the

abode of the banished Israelites. The sheds and stalls on which they had

exposed their tattered ware for sale were torn down, and left lying in

the streets. Heavier and inferior articles of property, such as in the

general abundance of plunder had not been thought worth carrying away,

were strewed up and down, and here and there, for sport, had been

gathered in heaps and set fire to. Nothing living stirred, but an

amazing swarm of the black house-rats--which had gone on multiplying,

in spite of Papal fulmination, during the plague--dark and obscene as

the hillocks of litter over which they gambolled. It seemed a locality

which, in such a time of terror and contagion, the boldest man might

have felt a dislike to enter.

"We shall not have failed above, my lord," said Jacopo. "And, at worst,

it is but fording the river higher up, which would be safer a thousand

times than passing here. It is tempting fortune to approach a place like

this."

"In Heaven's name, by the north bank be it then," returned Di Vasari;

"for we already lose time." And, leading the way by the Piazza della

Gracia, and through the Borgo Ogni Santo, in a few minutes the

travellers had again cleared the city by the Porto Pisano, now the Porto

el Prata. Resuming here their former rapid pace, they kept the high-road

some half mile towards Cajano; then turned southward once more where the

little rivulet, the Torrente Terzolle, crossed their path; and kept the

edge of the stream as it darted through a copse of Alpine trees, to

empty itself into the main river.

"This is the spot, my lord," said Jacopo, as they reached a point where

the wood grew thickest; throwing himself from his horse, to clear the

way, and assist the progress of his master.

The Chevalier sprang lightly down; he paused for no assistance; and, in

a few moments, both travellers had halted upon the banks of the Arno.

CHAPTER II.

"It is late, and that castle seems lulled in sleep,

But within its walls are tapers gleaming;

And along its apartments the females creep,

With steps all hush'd, and eyes that are streaming."

For oh! softly glides that serpent, whose sting is the surest death; and

smooth shows that dark water, which has blackest rocks beneath it. There

is silence, and calmness, and all is still, without the walls of the

Arestino Palace; but a volcano of fever and of passion--of fierceness,

rage, and fury--flames within!

It is night, and the lady of that bright palace lies upon a bed from

which she never more must rise! Is it the course of age--Nature's

slow wane--that calls upon the lady?--No! She shows yet in beauty's

fullest--loveliest--prime. Her youth has seen its spring, but scarce

yet fallen into summer. July has yet to come, though May has passed

from us! And all that was the opening blossom--bud of love--now

revels in the glorious flower. Not age? Not age. Why then--the

plague?--Why ay--the plague! for there be other plagues--is it not

so--than pestilence? There is the fire that burns, and the famine

that pines us--the sun-stroke that withers, the tempest to wreck--there

is the mildew that blasts, and the quicksand that swallows--there

are floods--lightnings--hurricanes--earthquakes--fear ye for

these? Alas! for every one poor life that dies by such slight

accidents--think!--think of ambition--envy--avarice--false honour--glory

in arms--the lust of beauty--pride--the thirst of power--the zealot's

triumph--and the soldier's dreams!--for every single wretch, since order

first arose, that perished, cut off by nature's shock or violence--how

many thousands--say!--have drawn their timeless fates from that worst

spring of human woe, the human heart?

Alas! alas! Yet why is the lady thus passing--untouched by sickness--in

the pride of youth? Enough--enough! she sleeps--or shortly shall do so.

Oh, gentle Death, there is no sleep blest and secure but thine! Revenge!

"'tis Heaven's prerogative, not ours." So say divines; but men think

otherwise when injury stirs them. Now, all her crimes, with all her

charms, rest in eternal silence! Has the owl shrieked, or the bat struck

on the window? No! these are the death-tokens of sterner regions. But

the livelong night yon thistlefinch has sung under the casement--she

sings the last dirge of the Lady of Arestino! Yet the lady's fault was

common in the land where she lived. Common? Ay, common! Common as the

penalty--she is dying--which has followed it.

She dies! and justly--let her meet her doom! She is the ruin of a name

that never knew reproach before. The honour of a noble house is

gone--their shield is sullied! Blood may wash out the spot--but what

the stain? Scorn crooks her white lip, and says, "That shall endure

for ever!"

And if, for such a crime, blood must be spilled--what slave is he denies

that blood should be the blood of woman?--For man--ay, smile!--he has

wronged me. And though his body were a poisonous plant that it

were death to touch, I'd cast myself upon it! cut--carve it--to

morsels--motes. He dies, though LIFE died with him--for I am suffering!

but--in death--he shall have justice.

Man wars on man. It is his instinct--compact. He injures--stabs

me! Granted. What should stay him? Is it love for his fellow--kindness

--charity? What will--for "love" or "charity"--that "fellow" do for him?

Will he honour in poverty? Defend in danger? Abstain to prey upon when

time shall serve? No!--none of these, methinks. He may deride his

weakness; insult his misery; publish for sport the tale that maddens

him; maltreat and crush, as far as strength and law will serve! Away

then with the jest of "Duty"--my "Practice" towards my neighbour is to

eye him as my spoil!

Man breaks no faith with man, for he has pledged none. He casts away

no fame, no reputation. He does not wreck the heart that blindly

trusted--leaned upon--him. He does not, for an hour's indulgence,

whim, or vanity, give up all honour--name--esteem--respect--rank

--kindred--friends--the world--for ever! This is the sacrifice that

woman offers. Let her demand it from her lover--see if he dares to make

it? Ask him--let the mistress that he sues to ask him!--to lie--to

beg--to steal--to take a blow--be branded as a wretch--shunned by the

honoured of his own sex--scorned even by the worthy of the other? His

answer is--that he can bleed--can die--can give up fortune--hope--nay,

even her love--but may not lose his _caste_--live in the world's

contempt--his own disgust--for ever.

Yet fate had dealt harshly with the lady of Arestino! She was a wife,

but she was the unwooed, unwilling wife of a proud and unfeeling

husband. Eight years she had been wedded, and eight years her heart had

slept as dead; or, waking, waked but to swell with sullen bitterness

against that power by which its rights had been despised. He who is

wise, though his self-love may suffer, makes his wooing otherwise than

this. He will not trust his all of hope in life to one whose every hope

in life himself has blasted! Ye who seek service, love, or safety, seek

it with the free! Will ye have chains?--then look that they be chains

of adamant! ye made a traitor when ye made a slave.

* * * * *

Chained to the twisted roots of a tall willow which hung its branches

across the stream, and almost hidden from view by the drapery of weeping

foliage that surrounded it, a light skiff lay pulling in the soft

current of the Arno. Towards this point the travellers made their way

with rapid and anxious steps, and, as if by common agreement, both in

silence. The Chevalier, pressing strongly through the low copsewood,

was the first that reached it; and when he saw the stream, and the

small boat rippling upon it, he never spoke one word, but drew a

long-repressed breath, as of one relieved from much apprehension, and

forthwith fell upon his knees, and returned thanks to Heaven. For a

gleam of hope seemed to make it possible that his journey might yet

be a fortunate one; and though the business was such as Heaven might

scarcely countenance, yet the Chevalier had a kind heart, and was a

good Catholic; and he could not help feeling that gratitude was due

somewhere. And, for the rest, he had no nice scruples, or reserves of

pride, that he should check his feelings in the sight of his domestic;

for those were days in which the distinctions of rank made no question;

they were understood and settled; and a nobleman might even pray to God

by the side of his vassal, without looking for assumption, or supposing

any infraction of his dignity.

But it was on the north bank of the river that the Chevalier and his

attendant had halted. It was hard upon the hour of midnight now, and the

moon was up, for she was near her full; and the prospect which, under

her broad light, presented itself, southward and west of Florence, over

one of the richest plains of Italy, was singularly opposed to the scene

of ruin and desertion which had exhibited itself in the country eastward

of the city. On their left, winding along the stream, lay the "City of

Flowers" itself, glorious and rich as ever, even in that brief distance.

The work of man remained entire, where man himself was fallen; and the

tall spires of the Italian churches glittered with their gilded vanes

in the cold moonshine, as they lightly shot upwards, towering into the

clear blue sky. In front was the south bank of the Arno, scarce three

bow-shots across--crowded with splendid palaces and villas--the chosen

seat of half the great and gay of Florence. And this spot, by some wild

hazard or caprice, the pestilence had scarcely touched on. It might be

that the west winds, which had prevailed almost constantly since the

commencement of the malady, had carried the city's infection in an

opposite course; but certainly all here was safe--all lived and

flourished.

The rich moonlight played among the trellised vines, and trembled in the

orange groves in the wide gardens of these mansions, which stretched

themselves, sloping downwards, to the very margin of the river. The

lilies that grew in the last flower-bed bent their white necks as they

sprang to kiss the stream; and the perfume which they exhaled rose the

sweeter from its cool freshness.

And the Arno itself was no tide-water, no stream for traffic here.

Though bolder and deeper, then, at the bridge of Florence, than its

current flows at present, yet the little draught that was carried upon

it never came above the city. A light breeze from the southward had just

swept the mist from the surface of the water; and the white fleeces of

weed which floated on its shallows, gently waving with the motion of the

stream, gave lustre by their contrast to the deeper blue tint of those

calm, unruffled, basin-like, unfathomable pools, which seemed to drink

up the strong light from above, rather than to reflect it, so glorious

was the brightness of the scene. There was a calm, a repose, at that

hour, on the banks of that bright river, as if peace and safety had

reigned throughout the world. Yet the silence was not the silence of

desolation--it was not the repose of death--but the repose of nature

sleeping. The soul felt as though it could lie down for ever upon those

green banks, content, and happy, and at rest; and a voice seemed to

float across the bright still water, calling on it to come and dwell

beneath its lucid deepness.

But there are minds to which repose must live a stranger; hearts which

in the tomb alone can hope for slumber, or the folding of the hands to

sleep: the eye of the Chevalier Di Vasari gazed on the mild scene before

him, but in his soul there was a fever which defied its influence. Two

months before, and at that same hour, he had stood, as he stood now,

upon the banks of the Arno; he had crossed that river then to fly from

Florence, pursued by danger, and struggling for his life. He now

returned. For what?--for love, or vengeance? What was his hope--his

wish? He scarce knew what. End as his errand might, it must be in

perplexity, in wretchedness!

It was no time, however, then, for thought. A task was to be done; the

hour was arrived, and the way lay open before him. Passing his horse's

rein to his attendant, he first loosened the long cloak from his

shoulder, and cast it over the loins of the reeking, yet still untired

brute. "Poor Bayard!" he said, patting the gallant animal's neck, who

thrust his nose against his master's breast, as if acknowledging the

attention, "you have striven hard to-night for a work in which you have

but little interest! Look to him well, Jacopo," continued the Chevalier;

"and--take my sword also--see that your own horse be well clothed up,

for they are sweating both; and when the day breaks, the air from the

river here will be cold and chilly."

"Your lordship will not go quite unarmed?" said the domestic, as he took

the offered sword from his master's hand.

"I scarcely know that," returned the latter, in a melancholy tone. "A

light foot, and the skill of a physician, would be the gifts most like

to aid me now. But should I need defence, which Heaven avert, my poniard

here, Jacopo, would be the better weapon, which lies as close and silent

till I want its service, next my own heart, as it would do the next

moment within that of my enemy."

As he spoke, the Chevalier drew from its sheath (within his vest) a

dagger of unusual breadth and strength, and rich and costly workmanship.

The handle of the weapon was of gold embossed; the sheath of the same

metal, set with jewels; the blade of pure Damascus steel, but wrought

with curious emblems. It was an heirloom in the family of Di Vasari,

brought from the East by their first ancestor, famous in the wars of

Spain and of the Crusades; and for eight score years, sleeping or

waking, that dagger had never left the bosom of the leader of their

house.

"This is defence--more than defence enough!" said the Chevalier, as he

slowly replaced the instrument in its scabbard. The broad blade flashed

as he waved it in the moonlight; and the name of the first proprietor,

"DI VASARI" showed in cold, dull characters, like unpolished silver,

worked upon the dark unburnished steel.

At that moment the deep tones of the great bell at the Duomo chimed

midnight. The Chevalier drew his boat shoreward, and cast off the

fastening which confined it.

"Sleep not, Jacopo, I charge you!" were his last words. "Look to our

horses carefully. It is three hours yet to daylight; and within two,

at farthest, expect my return."

A long low neigh from the black horse Bayard followed the skiff as it

pushed off from the shore. Silently, yet swiftly, as it cut through the

glassy water, the fish were scared that fed or sported at the bottom.

Plunging from sedge and shallow, they turned their broad sides to the

moonlight, as they shot along; and showed, exaggerated in the liquid

medium as by a lens, to twenty times their real bulk.

Still the oars touched the stream lightly; there was no plash, no

rolling in the thowls; they scarcely broke the water as they dipped.

Jacopo marked his master's progress steadfastly till the boat gained the

centre of the stream. A small islet, planted with willow and acacia,

here broke the view across; the little skiff shot round it like a

swallow on the wing, but then could be discerned no farther.

"Be quiet, knave!" exclaimed the valet, checking a second neigh of

anxiety from the black horse, as the bark disappeared. "I doubt I had

better make thee fast yet, or thou'lt be off into the river after our

master, and leave me here behind." He unbitted both the horses, loosened

the girths of their heavy saddles, and clothing them as well as he might

with the spare mantello and their own housings, fed them copiously with

meal that had been brought along. Then, first feeling for the rosary

within the breast of his garment, he drew his good broadsword from its

scabbard, gave a last glance to see that his beasts were in safety, and

seated himself, with his face to the river, at the foot of the most

convenient tree he could select. And in this position, well on the alert

to guard against surprise, and recommending himself especially to the

protection of St Jago, with his weapon in one hand, and his wine-flask

in the other, in silence he expected the event.

* * * * *

It was a chamber for luxury to dwell in, that in which the Countess

Arestino lay, suited to tastes which knew no limit but their will, and

decked for climates to which winter was a stranger. The walls were hung

with draperies of pale-blue silk; richly wrought carpets--the treasures

of the East--were spread at intervals upon the floor of shining marble.

Oil from the Tuscan olive, mixed with frankincense and myrrh, burned

in silver lamps, whose pale flames lighted the lofty chamber without

sullying its delicious coolness. And in every window, flowers disposed

in vases of alabaster, each carved with the work of half an artist's

life, loaded the light breeze which whispered through the lattice with

the richest odours of the season.

The painting of the roof--alone a masterpiece!--was executed by such

hands as already, if not noble, claimed little less than noble's

deference, and showed more even than noble's pride. The mattressed

couches, ranged around the chamber, suiting in colour with its pale-blue

tapestry, were of a satin, rich, and quaintly patterned, and bordered

with embroidery of flowering silver. And those couches, with their

pillows of down and velvet--light and elastic as they bounded to the

touch--were harsh and rude compared with the bed on which the Countess

lay--but she slept not.

"Giuletta! Giuletta! The twelfth hour is passed, and still comes he not?

Camilla--Girl, canst thou hear nothing--is Camilla surely at the gate?"

"What, nothing! why then the messenger----? Yet he had _not_ failed; it

was impossible!"

"The danger, perhaps?" doubtfully whispered a dark-haired girl, who

watched beside the turret-stair.

"Danger! When had Lorenzo di Vasari gone back for danger!"

"Sickness?"

"Why, sickness?----Yet, no--no--he was not sick--it was not that!--Once

more, Giuletta--for mercy! How sayest thou! All is silent still? Then

he would not come! He was false--faithless--perjured--fled to his

new minion--wedded to another!--Why, rather than that, let him have

died--have perished! by plague--by flood--by fire--by knife or poison!

Was not she, the Countess, dying--(and did she shrink to die?)--dying

for the love she had borne him? Let her behold him lifeless! Mark his

last gasp! Hear his last sigh! Know that he died without help--without

hope--but let her not know him the husband of Perline di Francavilla!"

Following on that last word, like its response or echo--raised,

spell-like, by its utterance--a distant foot is heard upon the winding

turret-stair. Light as it falls, the Countess's ear has caught and

recognised it! Low as it treads, the rush with which it comes is that

of lightning. In one moment more the tapestried door has flown open--a

cavalier, hurried and travel-worn, flings himself by the Countess's

bedside. The door is closed; the attendant has left the chamber; the

Knight has redeemed his faith; and the lady and her lover--it is for

the last time--are to be alone together!

The Chevalier di Vasari held his lady's hand clasped within both his

own; and he so held it long, and spoke not. He pressed it to his burning

forehead, not to his lips; his face was buried in the drapery of the bed

by which he knelt; and his sobs, although repressed with pain, were deep

and audible. Justly condemned by his mistress, or unjustly; false to his

vows, or true; he was at least no lover of profession, no idler, who

gained and flung away for pride: but what he felt, he spoke right on,

whether from the heart or from the senses (which are nearer akin,

perhaps, in the purest passion, than philosophers will admit); and if

he had changed--why was it, but because, in love, there can be no such

pledge as "Constancy?" because men can hold no control over an emotion

which is as involuntary as their laughter or their tears;--and because

he who promises, but for one day, the continuance of his passion to a

woman--if he were to promise the continuance of life, might as well have

the power to perform!

And if Love, as sure he is so, be the child of accident--of situation;

warmed in this hour, and cherished by that which chills and wastes him

in the next; aided to-day by absence, which makes that precious which

possession held too cheap; to-morrow, triumphing by that very presence

which overcomes, when at a distance we might have denied;--if these be

truths--as sure they are--take one truth more, and let who can gainsay

it--love, born amidst zephyrs, lives but in a storm! Flowers may charm;

but these have thorns; which, cease to pique, and he will cease to

worship them. Pain is his food, of life--far more than pleasure!

mistresses or wives, the women who goad us to distraction are those ever

from whom we have the hardest task to part. Di Vasari was of that age,

and of that temperament, in which absence was likely to weaken a passion

rather than increase it. We sigh to Eugenia of Sophia's coldness, and

end in forgetting Sophia altogether! But the heart that wanders is

not lost for ever. He had quitted Florence with unwillingness--in

horror--almost in despair. Quitted it only, at last, because, unhappily,

his stay might have aggravated those dangers which were past his hope to

aid. And was it in man, now, that he could look upon that beautiful

form--that form which he had so loved, so worshipped--and fancy but the

possibility of its destruction--of its decay! See those dark eyes, into

which he had so often gazed for hope and happiness--their lustre yet

undimmed, but shining over a pallid cheek, and soon to shine no more!

That long black hair which flowed in ringlets down a neck so full and

white! Those fair round arms and polished throat--these are charms to

live, and still have power, long after the transient red and white,

which charms the first observer, is familiar! Could he behold his

mistress--so young and beauteous still--so soon to be resigned for

ever--now before him, and not forget that any other woman lived, on whom

he ever had bestowed a thought? not feel that, without her life--her

love--her safety--life--all the world--to him, would be no longer worth

possessing?

The Countess gazed upon her lover as he knelt; and she, too, for a long

space, gazed without speaking; for with her, far less than even with Di

Vasari, was there that full indulgence of grief which soothes and

satisfies the heart: but her thoughts were those of doubt--and fancied

wrong--and wounded pride--and passion scorned or slighted. Fierce as had

been the paroxysms which that day had convulsed and shaken her; bodily

pain, and mental suffering; her pride still towered over all; her beauty

showed untainted! Scorning death in his triumph; hating his approach,

yet smiling on it; never more carefully than in that hour--her last of

life--had the Countess's toilet been adjusted. Her force of mind, and

feverish heat of purpose, rose even above the anodynes which gave her a

temporary release from personal suffering. Excited as she already was by

passion, almost to frenzy, the very narcotics which should have deadened

the brain's action, turned to stimulants, and served only to add new

fury to its purpose. Her cheek had lost its tint of freshness. Her eyes,

that glistened with tears repressed, had something of wildness in their

expression. And her lips had faded from their ruby hue. But, other than

this, her beauty was still uninjured; all her features were full and

animated; it was scarce possible to contemplate her as a being who in a

few hours should cease to move--to think--to have intent--existence.

At length the Countess spoke. Her hand lay passive in her lover's grasp.

But it was cold--damp--and nerveless--trembling;--it suffered, not

returned, his ardent pressure. "You would see me once more then,

Lorenzo?" she said; and her words were uttered with pain and difficulty.

For though her features remained unmoved, her eyes were blind with

tears; and the tone of her voice was more terrible in its hollow, wilful

steadiness, than if she had at once resigned the contest, and given way

to the storm of grief that overwhelmed her.--"You have left Arezzo, and

safety, and your new bride that shall be, to watch the last moments of

one who can now no more be worth your thinking of; but who, whatever may

be the faults she has to answer for, dies for one only, Lorenzo,--the

fault of having loved you!"

The Chevalier's cheek was paler even than that of the Countess. His

voice was drowned with sobs--he could not speak--the words choked him in

their utterance. He lifted his face from the velvet covering in which

it had lain buried--he clasped his hands together;--the hand of the

Countess fell from his grasp.--"And is there then," at last he said,

"oh God!--is there then, Angiolina, indeed no hope?"

"For me, Lorenzo," said the Countess, "there is no hope. Worlds could

not purchase for me another hour's life. We meet now for the last time!

You are ill, Lorenzo,--you have travelled far--I should not have sent to

you--I trouble you too much. But I am going on a long journey--a travel

from which I shall not return. I am a weak creature--too weak--but I am

dying. Bless you, Lorenzo, for thinking of me this once! I shall die

now content--content and happy. For I shall not have seen him, for whom

I sacrificed both life and honour--while I still lived--devoted to

another."

Avarice, ambition, terror, may have mercy; but there is one passion

lurks within the human breast, whose very instinct's murder. Once

lodged within the heart, for life it rules--ascendant and alone! Sports

in the solitude like an antic fiend; it feeds on blood, and rivers would

not sate its appetite. Minds strongest in worth and valour stoop to

meanness and disgrace before it. The meanest soul--the weakest--it can

give courage to, beyond the daring of despair! What is the sting which

no balm can assuage? What is the wound that death alone can heal? What

is the injury that--once done--can never be repaired? whose is the sword

that, once when drawn, the scabbard must be cast away for ever? When is

it that man has no ear but for the tale that falls like molten lead upon

his brain; no eye but for the plucked-out heart of him he hates; no

hand but for that clutch--that one last clutch--which earth may not

resist--that gripes his dagger? Who is it that bears about him a life,

horrible to himself, and dangerous to the world? Who has been wise,

yet now will cast away reason?--was kind and pitiful, yet mimics the

humanity of the wild dog? Who is it hews his foe to mammocks; writes

"Acquittal" on his tomb--and dies? Who is it that stabs, yet will not

blame; drinks--as his draught of life--another's blood; yet feels there

is but one relief--to shed his own? That wretch is JEALOUS! Oh! talk not

of remembrance--consciousness beyond the grave!--once sleeping, let the

jealous never wake again! Pity him, whatever his crimes! Were they ten

thousand fathom past the reach of mercy, they are punished. The gamester

whose last piece is lost--the merchant whose whole risk the sea has

swallowed up--the child whose air-bubble has burst,--may each create

a bauble like the former! But he whose treasure was in woman's love;

who trusted as men once trust, and was deceived!--that hope once

gone! weep--search--regret--despair--seek thyself blind--there

is again no finding--no restoring it! Woman! symbol of woe, and

nature's weakness! gamester of hope and happiness! thy love must be

integral--single--perfect--or be nothing. Like the glass toy that has

amused thy childhood, entire it sparkles, shining, bright, and precious;

but from the farthest thread--the finest--break off but one fibre--it is

gone--form--shape--design--material--substance! That flaw has shivered

it to countless atoms; and where the jewel was, a heap of dust, which

men despise and trample on, alone remains!

"Lorenzo!" said the Countess, in a hurried tone,--"Lorenzo, a chill is

creeping over me. It is cold now--cold as the grave--I feel that I am

dying. It is terrible, Lorenzo, to die so young! You will pray for

me, though you have ceased to love me? Think of me, once more--only

once--when Perline di Francavilla is your happy bride. Do not let her

triumph too far; but think of me even on your bridal day, one moment,

before you forget me for ever. For then, oh, Lorenzo--then--I shall be

a thing fit only to forget. A poor, passive, nameless thing, beyond

the reach of memory or sensation. And the tears of my friends, and the

triumph of my foes, will be alike; for they will both be unknown and

unnoticed by me."

"Angiolina!" cried the Chevalier, "if you would not destroy me quite,

have mercy!"

"Have you not now come from Arezzo, Di Vasari?"

There are moments in which, even to serve its need, the heart revolts

from falsehood.--There was no answer. "Have you not daily seen Perline

di Francavilla there? Have you not--perjured as you are--have you not

pledged your false heart to her?"

"Then, never--by all my hopes in heaven!" exclaimed the Chevalier, urged

almost beyond self-control; and changing his tone from that of sorrow

almost into one of injury and recrimination--for if his conscience did

not entirely acquit him of blame, yet neither was he guilty in the

extent to which he was accused.--"Forced, by your own command--would I

had never listened to it!--to quit Florence, chance more than purpose

led me to Arezzo. If I have seen Perline di Francavilla there,"

continued the speaker--and here his voice did falter something--"it has

been only in that common intercourse, which the long connection of our

houses rendered unavoidable. But your token said, that you were in

sickness--in danger--What was Perline, then, or all the world, to me?

Am I not here to save--to perish for--Angiolina--to perish with you?

For why should one live on, who now can live only to a sense of

wretchedness! If I had wronged your trust--say that I had been light and

thoughtless--he trifles with the richest gem in fancied safety, who hugs

his treasure close, and feels its value when its loss is threatened.

Angiolina, you have wronged me. You will regret to have done so; but my

errand shall be fulfilled. I came to aid--to avenge--or perish with

you."

The words of the Chevalier were wild; but he spoke them heartily, and

his manner was sincere. For the outward act too--it was at some

hazard--and the plague still raging--that he had returned to Florence.

It was at some hazard that he stood, even at that moment, unaided, and

almost unarmed, within walls where but a whisper of his name would have

armed an hundred swords against his life. But Perline di Francavilla

lived!--the Countess saw but that--would live and triumph--when she

should be no more--despised--forgotten. The helplessness--the

hopelessness--of all defence against such a consummation--the very

sense of that helplessness seemed to exasperate her almost to frenzy.

Eagerly grasping her lover's hands, her action seemed to demand the

repetition of his promise. But the words which should have expressed the

demand were wanting. A sudden, but sinking change was taking place in

the lady's appearance--the poison had run its course; and the crisis of

her fate was approaching.

Slowly drawing her hand across her brow, as if to clear the mist that

made her vision indistinct, she seemed anxiously to search out some

object, which the fading sight had scarcely strength enough to reach.

At that moment, a dial, which faced the feet of the couch on which she

lay, struck, with its shrill bell, the first hour of the morning.

The stroke seemed to fall upon the Countess, and paralyse her remaining

faculties.

"Angiolina!" cried the Chevalier, springing from the floor--"Angiolina!

speak, for mercy's sake! Angiolina!--she is dying!"

His attention was quickly called to his own safety: a footstep as he

spoke approached distinctly through the corridor.

"Angiolina!" He started to the door by which he had entered. "Ruin and

despair!" it was closed without--it would not open.

The footsteps came on still. Why, then, there was but one hope--his

dagger was in his hand.

The Lady Angiolina heard--she saw what was passing. She moved--she

pointed. No--it was wrong--not there! She made a last effort--she

_spoke_, once more. "_Yonder_, Lorenzo--_There--there!_"

It was but the advantage of a moment. The curtains of the couch on which

the Countess was lying parted the coming and the going guest. The light

fall of the swinging door by which the new visitor entered the chamber,

echoed the heavy drop of that which had shut the Chevalier from view.

* * * * *

It was not the Count di Arestino whose approach had created this alarm,

but that which followed made the presence of his Lordship speedily

desired. The female who entered the chamber found her mistress lying

insensible, and in a state which left little doubt of her immediate

dissolution. From that moment the Countess lived nearly two hours, but

she never spoke again. Her confessor came. He pressed the cross to the

lips of the expiring lady, and some said that she shrank from it; but

the most believed that she was insensible, and the last absolution

of the dying was administered. The Count Ubaldi stood by his wife's

bedside. He wore no outward semblance of excessive grief. It might be

that his heart bled inwardly; but he scarcely dreamed who had knelt on

that same spot so short a time before him.

"It was at the bell of one," said Giuletta, in a low voice to her

companion, "that my lady desired me to waken her. And when I came, as

the clock struck, I found her even alone, and thus."

As she spoke, the shrill tongue of the dial once more struck the hour

of two. A slight struggle agitated the features of the Countess at the

sound! she clasped her hands as if in prayer, or from some suddenly

excited recollection.

In another moment the source of all the anxiety expressed around was at

an end. The domestics yet wept; the confessor still bent with the sacred

image over his penitent; the Count Arestino still gazed coldly on--upon

what? It was not upon his wife--for the Countess Arestino was no more.

CHAPTER III.

"For though he 'scaped by steel or ball,

And safe through many a peril pass'd,

The pitcher oft goes to the well,

But the pitcher comes home broke at last."

The judges of Florence were met, and there were crowds round the gate of

the Palazzo di Governo; for a criminal, sentenced to death that day, was

to suffer the torture before he underwent his final doom.

Of what crime had the prisoner been guilty? He was a common robber,

guilty of a hundred crimes, for any of which his life was forfeit. But

there was one charge to which, guilty or not guilty, he refused to

plead; and as a disclosure was important, he was to be racked to induce

him to confess.

On the morning of the Vigil of St Luke it was that Lorenzo di Vasari had

quitted Arezzo. His journey had been taken on the sudden, and no one had

been acquainted with its object. Various circumstances in the manner of

his departure led to the inference that his absence was to be a short

one; and yet two months had elapsed since he had so departed, and

intelligence of his course, or of his safety, his family had none.

It was strange--and men declared it so--where the Chevalier Lorenzo

could be hidden. He had been traced to Florence. On that dark night, and

in those deserted streets, when he felt most sure no eye beheld him, he

had nevertheless been seen, mounted on his black horse, and followed by

his servant, first passing the column of Victory in the Via di Repoli,

and afterwards halting in conference upon the Ponta St Trinita.

But those who had seen the travellers as they paused upon the bridge,

were themselves night prowlers, digging after hidden spoil in the Jews'

Quarter, and they had not watched them, for they had business of their

own, more urgent, to attend to. It was recollected that they had at

length ridden off westwards, in the direction of the Porto Pisano; but

with that movement all traces both of master and attendant ceased.

Now this disappearance was strange; and except that there had been foul

play in some quarter, what other solution could be imagined for it? Why

had the Chevalier Lorenzo first quitted Florence? It was not from fear

of the plague, for he had returned in the height of it. And when was it

that he had so returned--himself to disappear so strangely? when but on

the very night, and almost at the very hour, that the Countess Arestino

had died! The belief of all made the duty of none. Men might suffer

wrong, and never know they suffered it; or they might be wronged, and

yet sit down contented. But yet the Count Ubaldi, by those who knew him,

was scarcely numbered as one who would so sit down; and there had been

a rumour once, though it had passed away, which joined the name of the

Chevalier di Vasari too closely with that of the Lady Angiolina. And had

Lorenzo's true kinsman, the soldier Carlo, lived, less doubt had drawn

his sword for vengeance or for explanation.

But "true Carlo" was dead--your honest men are ever so--dead in the wars

of Germany and Spain. And Gonsalvo di Vasari, the last relative and next

heir, seemed less curious to revenge his kinsman's death than to

inherit. No man in Florence doubted Gonsalvo's courage, but still his

dagger slept in its sheath. It might be he believed his cousin had taken

no wrong; or it might be that--take the worst to be proved--his

conscience whispered he might have juster cause of quarrel. But week

after week elapsed, and even month after month; and though all concluded

the absent Lorenzo to be dead, yet no certain tidings even of his death

could be obtained, so that the title to his large estates remained in

abeyance. The disappearance of the servant Jacopo, too, seemed more

puzzling to many people than any other part of the affair. When one

morning, about ten weeks after the absentees had been lost sight of, and

while men were still debating whether they had been swallowed up,

horses, arms, purses, and all, by some local earthquake, or translated

suddenly to the skies, and there converted into constellations, as a

great mob was sweeping over the piazza Santa Croce, conducting a robber,

who had just been condemned, to the place of execution, a citizen, whom

accident or curiosity had drawn close to the person of the culprit,

suddenly exclaimed, that "he wore a cloak which had belonged to Lorenzo

di Vasari!"

"Holy Virgin! will you not hear what I say?" insisted the person who

thus stopped his fellow-creatures on their passage to the other

world.--"Should I not know the cloak, when I made it myself?" he

continued. Which was at least so far likely to be true, that the

spokesman was a tailor.

"But the man is going to be hanged, and what more can you have if he had

stolen fifty cloaks?" replied the superintending officer, giving the

word that the cavalcade, which had halted, should again move forward.

The chief party (as one would have thought) to this dispute--that is,

the prisoner who sat in the cart--remained perfectly silent; but the

interruption of Nicolo Gozzi bade fair, nevertheless, to be overruled.

For the culprit was no other than the famous Luigino Arionelli, or, as

he was surnamed, "Luigino the Vine-dresser," who had been the terror of

all Florence during the period of the plague; and a great many people

had come out to see him hanged, who were not disposed to go home

disappointed of the ceremony. And the provost, too, who commanded, was

well disposed to get rid of the interference, if he could; for since the

law had resumed its powers, despatch (in matters of justice) was rather

the order of the day. The disorders which had to be regulated were many

and dangerous; and the object being to get rid of such as suddenly as

possible, a good many of the delays which were used to lie between the

commission of crimes and their final punishment had been agreed to be

dispensed with. So that, upon the whole, Signor Gozzi's remonstrances

were generally treated as impertinent; and it was a moot point, whether

he did not seem more likely to be personally added to the execution,

than to put a stop to it; when luckily there came up a servant of the

house of Di Vasari, attracted by the uproar, who identified the cloak

in question, not merely as having belonged to the Chevalier Lorenzo, but

as being the same which he had worn on the night of his disappearance.

This strange declaration--backed by a recollection that Gonsalvo di

Vasari's interests must not be treated lightly--decided the commander of

the escort in favour of delay; and the culprit, who had been observed to

pay deep attention to all that passed, was reconducted to prison. When

questioned, however, both casually in his way back to the jail by the

officer of justice, and formally, afterwards, by Gonsalvo di Vasari

himself, he maintained a determined silence. A sort of examination--if

such it could be called when no answers were given--was prolonged for

several hours; but no further facts were discovered; and not a word,

either by persuasions or menaces, could be extorted from the prisoner.

In the end, the chief judge, the Marquis Peruzzi, to whose daughter

Gonsalvo di Vasari was affianced, suggested that time should be given

for consideration, and that--Arionelli being retained in close

confinement--all proceedings should be staid for four days. This

recommendation was agreed to, not because it was the course which any

one desired to take, but because it was the only course, under the

circumstances, which seemed open. Arionelli was then shut up anew under

close caution. Gonsalvo di Vasari and his friends betook themselves to

study how they might hunt out fresh evidence; or, against the next day

of examination, work upon the prisoner so that he should confess. And

the gossips of Florence had enough of employment in discussing the

singular providence which had at last led to the detection of the

Chevalier's murderer, puzzling what could be the object of his present

silence, and disputing whom his disclosures would impeach.

* * * * *

"Bring in the prisoner," said the presiding judge.

The day of examination was come, and the judges had taken their seats in

the Palazzo di Governo. The Gonfaloniere, the Marquis Peruzzi, sat as

president, with Gonsalvo di Vasari and the Count Arestino, both as

members of the Council. Two secretaries, with writing implements before

them, sat at the head of a long table placed below the president's

chair; and a few ushers and inferior retainers of the Court,

distinguished by their robes and wands, waited in different quarters of

the apartment. But no other members of the Council than those already

described were present, for the affair was one rather of individual than

of general interest; and the heads of Florence were still too much

engaged with private calamities and difficulty, to have any more leisure

to spare than was absolutely necessary for the service or direction of

the public.

"Let the prisoner be brought in!" said the Marquis Peruzzi.

One of the secretaries signed to an attendant, who rang a small

hand-bell which stood upon the table.

Upon which the folding-doors at the lower end of the hall were thrown

open, and a guard of soldiers, marching in, ranged themselves (a

precaution temporarily adopted in that stormy period) on two sides of

the chamber. The prisoner, Arionelli, came next, handcuffed and heavily

ironed, followed by six or seven unpleasant but not formidable-looking

persons, the servants of the executioner. The doors were then again

closed and carefully fastened, as if to prevent the possibility of

intrusion from without; the soldiers rested their lances, but remained

in an attitude of attention; and a curtain was drawn aside by some

unseen hand from a recess in the south side of the apartment, which

showed the rack and its apurtenances prepared, and the machinery for the

water torture.

"Luigino Arionelli!" then said the chief secretary, "do you yet repent

you of your contumacy; and will you confess to this tribunal that which

you know touching the fate of Lorenzo di Vasari?"

The culprit, to whom this demand was addressed, had he been forty times

an outlaw, was a man of excellent presence. Of a stature sufficient to

convey the impression of much bodily command and strength, yet boldly

and handsomely, rather than very robustly, proportioned; the rich

cavalier's dress in which he had been disguised when he was first taken,

and of which he still wore the faded remains, accorded well with a

deportment as high and unconstrained as that of any noble in whose

presence he was standing. His countenance was pale, and something worn

as with fatigue; perhaps it was with anxiety; for a dungeon, and the

prospect of being hanged on quitting it, are not the best helps to any

man's personal appearance. But he looked at the rack straightforward and

steadily, not as with a forced defiance, but as at an object for which

he was prepared, if not with which he was familiar; and when he spoke,

there was neither faltering in his voice nor apprehension in his

feature. "Carlo Benetti!" he said, when the chief secretary had done

speaking--"nay, never bend your brow, my lord, for I have worse dangers

than your displeasure to meet already. I am at the point of death, when

men in most ranks are equal. Have nothing left to lose, so may make

shift to bear the heaviest farther penalty you can inflict. Therefore

write down--and see you blur it not--that unless upon terms, and not

such terms as the rack to begin, and the gibbet to conclude with,

neither you nor your masters shall have any information from me."

The Gonfaloniere turned his eye slowly on the instruments of torture.

"Do you not fear," he said, "to die upon that wheel? Reflect! it is a

fate to which you have not yet been sentenced; and it is one, compared

with which, the death you have to suffer will be as the pleasures of

paradise set against the torments of purgatory."

"When I became a robber," returned Arionelli, coolly, "I looked for

some such fate. I reckoned with myself, that I could scarcely live

gaily, and not die irregularly. I wished to rein a fleet horse in the

field, rather than wait on one in the stable. To sing and thrum on

my guitar in idleness half the night, rather than hold the plough,

or ply the hatchet, in labour all day. In short, I wished to feed

luxuriously--drink freely--have a brave mistress--spurn at law and

honesty--in brief, my lord, become a nobleman, not having been born one;

and I was content to pay something, at a long day, for the change."

The prisoner's demand was for his own life secured, and for pardon of

two of his comrades, who were not yet brought to trial. The disclosures

which he could make were desirable; but these were terms on which the

State could not purchase them.

"Between the rope and the wheel," added Arionelli, "it is but an hour's

endurance, which troubles me little."

"We will try the strength of that endurance," said the President,

turning to Gonsalvo di Vasari, who slightly assented. "Executioner! do

your duty. Let the prisoner strip."

The executioner and his assistants then proceeded immediately to strip

the culprit naked to the waist, which they did almost in silence, and

very temperately, without any show of violence or roughness; but yet the

cold, ready, business-like civility of their manner--the expeditiousness

with which they stripped a man for murder and agony, as they might have

stripped him for the bath--chilled the heart with more sickness than a

demeanour of coarseness or ferocity would have done.

The outlaw smiled bitterly; but it was a smile of confidence and

impatience rather than insolence. "Gonfaloniere!" he cried, "once more

beware! One moment's haste may kill your hopes for ever. Crack but a

sinew--strain but a single limb--let your blind rage but do the smallest

act that makes Arionelli's life not worth preserving,--not all the

wealth that Florence holds shall ever buy your secret: I die, and it

dies with me."

No notice was taken of this menace, except by an order to complete the

necessary preparations. The criminal was bound to the rack. An attendant

had brought the pot of water which stood by to wet the lips of sufferers

in their extremity. And the cords were tightened, ready for the first

pull, which was commonly followed by a dislocation of both the wrists

and shoulders.

At this point many gave way; and it was the custom to try the resolution

of culprits under it by a moment's suspense. But Arionelli uttered no

word, nor gave any look, which could be construed into an appeal for

mercy. His cheek was flushed--hands clenched--the lips strongly drawn

in--the teeth set firm together; but in the whole countenance there was

but one expression--that of defiance and disdain; and all eyes were

fixed, and all ears were open, for the moment of allowance had expired;

when, just as the Gonfaloniere's hand was raised to give the last sign

for which the executioner waited, and the prisoner was collecting his

strength to meet the impending shock, Gonsalvo di Vasari, who had

watched the whole scene in silence, but with the closest attention, made

a movement to interfere.

A consultation of some length ensued between the judges, or rather

between the first two of them, Gonsalvo di Vasari and the President

Peruzzi; for the Count Arestino, although many had been curious to think

whether he would or would not be present at the process, seemed merely

to have taken his seat as an ordinary member of the council, without

feeling any peculiar interest in it. The discussion at the table was

carried on in a low tone; but the prisoner watched its progress with an

eye of keen and penetrating inquiry. Presently (as well as might be

judged from his gestures) the Gonfaloniere appeared to yield to some

proposal from Gonsalvo di Vasari; and the latter wrote a few words on a

slip of paper, and handed them to an usher, who bowed and left the room;

after which the President made some communication (which was not heard)

to the Count Arestino; and Gonsalvo himself took up the examination.

"You demand, then," said Gonsalvo di Vasari, addressing Arionelli, "your

own life, and a pardon for two of your associates who are in custody, as

the price of the confession which you are to make relative to the

disappearance of the Chevalier Lorenzo di Vasari?"

"As the price of my full answer to all your questions on that subject,

as far as my knowledge goes, my lord," was the reply--"provided, in the

mean time, your lordship causes these cords to be loosened, which give

me pain something unnecessarily, and which another turn would have drawn

too tight for the advantage of your lordship's objects, or of mine."

"And these associates, for whose lives you covenant?" continued Di

Vasari, when the prisoner's request had been complied with.

"Are my friends, my lord--men of my own band. They came, indeed, after I

was taken, to rescue me at the scaffold; and the least I can do now is

to let our cause go together."

"And what if your obstinate silence (to repay that intended obligation)

should cause them to die a death of torture, as you are like to do

yourself?"

"They will be as able to endure such a fate as I am. I play for the

higher stake--our lives. And if the die goes against me, we must

suffer."

"And when their turn upon the rack comes," interrupted the Gonfaloniere,

"then _they_ will disclose your secret."

"That they will tell you no word of it, my lord, I have the best

security--they know nothing of it themselves."

"You are called," said Gonsalvo di Vasari, "Luigino Arionelli. Are you

not that Luigino Arionelli who is known by the name of 'The

Vine-dresser?'"

"I am known by an hundred names, and seen in an hundred shapes,"

returned the robber. "Ask your officers how many they have seen me in,

in this last month, and in this very city? I am the Venetian monk from

Palestine, who was preaching at the Cross in the Piazza dei Leoni, while

the three great houses beyond the square were emptied, on the fifth day

of the plague. And I was the Austrian officer who came with his long

retinue to the inn of 'The Golden Flask' (the host will remember what

fell out in that lodging), bringing letters and despatches to the

Gonfaloniere from Cologne. I was the Genevese physician, who got good

practice, and some money, by the 'infallible remedy against the

plague;' and your lordships see, whatever I did for others, I had skill

enough to keep clear from it myself. And it was I who ransacked half the

houses in the Quartiere St Giovanni in only one night; robbing in a

bull's hide, disguised with horns, when two fathers of the Order of

Mercy met me, and ran away, mistaking me for the devil."

"Have you not a wife, or a mistress, who is called Aurelia la Fiore?"

"I have. Close with my proposal!" said the outlaw, who seemed excited by

the conversation. "I would live, and be once more at liberty, for her

sake!"

"Is she your wife, or your mistress only?"

"As chance will have it, not my wife according to the usages of our

church. But she might have been. As far as affection is worth--passion,

devotion--the asking in vain no prize which hand can win, or sacrifice

which heart can make; as far as to have no rival--never to have had a

rival--in the heart of her husband, so far she is my wife! There are

women, perhaps, worse treated, and wives--the wives of princes--worse

deserving."

"Was not this Aurelia the daughter of an oil-farmer near Ferrara?"

"She was. Then you have heard the tale? I stabbed the noble who thought

her worth dishonouring, and would have borne her from me. Fortune had

shared her stores more evenly between us than he imagined. To him she

gave the wealth to purchase pleasure; to me the hand to win it. I was a

vine-dresser then; and, but for that event, might have been one still."

"Does Aurelia know this secret, which you would sell to us?"

"That you shall know, my good lord, after you have bought it from me."

"Where is Aurelia now?"

"If you inherit not your kinsman's patrimony, Gonsalvo di Vasari, till

you learn that, your patience, as well as your purse, shall fare the

harder."

"What if she were in our power?"

The robber smiled contemptuously at the supposition.

"What if I should tell you that she is _here_--in chains and peril--and

that every insolence you utter added to her danger?"

"That would be almost a false assertion, Gonsalvo di Vasari; and the

mouths of your race should be clear from dishonour."

"Why, let him then see!" exclaimed Di Vasari, starting from his seat. A

door opposite to the recess in which the prisoner stood was thrown open;

and a female--it was Aurelia herself--bound, and guarded by Gonsalvo's

servants, stood before him.

The recoil of the outlaw burst his bonds like threads; the cords that

tied him seemed to fall off by witchcraft more than to be broken. But

the effort was involuntary; it was followed by no movement, and

indicated no purpose. For one moment the hands of the guards were upon

their swords; but a single glance was enough, and showed the precaution

was needless.

The shadow of that passing door, as it swung slowly to upon its muffled

hinges, seemed to sweep every trace of former expression from

Arionelli's countenance. Familiar with objects of danger and alarm, a

moment sufficed him to perceive that the ground on which he had stood,

as on a rock, was gone. One convulsive shudder ran through his frame, as

the high clear voice of Aurelia pronounced, in trembling agony, the name

of "Luigino!" He bowed his face, as one who abandoned further contest,

and seemed to await what was to come.

"Luigino Arionelli," said Gonsalvo, coldly, and in the measured tone of

conscious power, "do you yet repent you of your obstinacy; and will you

make confession as to the fate of Lorenzo di Vasari?"

A pause ensued, and the robber attempted to rally his faculties; but the

effort was unsuccessful. At length he spoke, but not as he had before

spoken; there was a difference in the steadiness of his tone, and a

still wider in the carelessness of his manner.--"You know, my lords," he

said, "that the power is now yours. There was but one creature on earth

for whom I could have wept or trembled, and she is in your hands. The

struggle is over; I and my companions have lived like men; and I trust

we shall die like men. Let my wife depart; she has done the state no

wrong, and has no knowledge of that which you desire to learn. And as

soon as she shall have passed the boundaries of the Florentine

territory, I will confess the whole--much or little--that I can disclose

of the fate of the Chevalier di Vasari."

The very deep, though repressed, anxiety with which the speaker put this

proposal, seemed to imply a doubt how far it could be accepted. He was

not mistaken; those who held the power, knew the tenure by which they

held it, and that tenure they were not disposed to part with.

"Trifle not with the sword and with the fire, if you are wise,

Arionelli!" said Gonsalvo di Vasari. "Press not too far upon the

patience of this court. She whom you call your wife stands, no less than

yourself, within the scope of our danger. Whatever mercy is extended to

her, must be upon your full and unconditional submission; and not until

all questions which may be put to you have been answered satisfactorily.

Therefore I caution you once more; speak instantly, and without reserve;

and press no longer on the forbearance of this tribunal; for you guess

not the fate which you may draw down upon yourself if you do so."

The outlaw's passion rose in his fear's despite. "And press _me_ not too

far, my lords," he exclaimed, "if _you_ are wise. For once remove the

temptation of Aurelia's safety--and ten thousand times the torments you

command shall never win an answer from me. Take heed, good Gonfaloniere,

what you do! Ask your slaves here, if, at the foot of the gibbet, I

shrank from the death which was before me. You have the power; beware

you strain it not too far. I am in your chains--defenceless--helpless.

Those arms are bound, whose strength, if they were free, perhaps the

stoutest soldier here might find too much to cope with. But go one point

only too far--To tear the hook from the fish's entrails is not to land

him! You cannot kill the robber Luigino, though you kill him in

extremest tortures, but you kill the secret which you want--the secret

for which he dies--at the same moment."

If there be truth in threats like these, it is a truth for which no man

(until they are executed) ever gets credit. He who will die, and die

content, for his own vengeance, is the exception to the common rule.

Arionelli was bound again to the wheel, and with cords which were

stronger than before. Up to that moment his wife had never spoken. Her

eyes had remained fixed upon the earth, and there were no sobs

accompanied the large drops which fell from them; nor signs scarcely

that she wept, beyond the convulsive heaving of her bosom. Once, when

the dark attendants surrounded her lover, her lips opened to speak; but

she only sank upon her knees--the lips were closed again--and one long

shriek issued from them, that seemed to cleave the very roof of the

palazzo. And then came the command from Gonsalvo di Vasari--not that

which she dreaded, but another--cool, distinct, calculating, and delayed

until the confinement of Arionelli was complete.--"Official, bind

Aurelia la Fiore, and let the question by water be administered to her."

An obvious effect was perceptible upon the countenances of the

soldiers in the hall when this command was uttered. The outlaw

himself was bound--this time his bonds did not give way--and when

he heard the words, they seemed to paralyse--to engender a doubt

that he miscomprehended--rather than to alarm him. He turned his eye

rapidly from his kneeling wife to the judges. Its expression was not of

humility, and scarcely that even of entreaty. His appeal was not that of

a culprit to the mercy of a judge, but the demand which man makes upon

man--upon the common feeling of his fellows--"In the name of God!" was

all that he exclaimed, "you cannot mean it?"

Nevertheless, however, the men in black surrounded Aurelia, who stood

motionless, attempting neither effort nor remonstrance; and having

raised her from the ground, were proceeding to cut the laces which

held her bodice; for a part of the horrible system was, that all who

suffered, male or female, were stripped naked before the application of

the question. The soldiers, though, from their cold silence and averted

looks, they evidently disliked their duty, showed no disposition to

flinch from it; and a passionate flood of tears burst from the eyes of

the unhappy Aurelia, as the first infamous preparations for adding

degradation to the tortures which she was to endure, were completed.

The cold sweat poured in streams down Arionelli's forehead.--"In the

name of Heaven," he cried, "hold but one moment! If you are men, you

will not do this deed! Gonfaloniere! my Lord di Vasari! Count of

Arestino! will you--as your souls may answer it--will you degrade this

helpless and innocent female--and in the presence of her husband?

Villains! cowards! slaves!" pursued the outlaw, violently, seeing that

his words produced no cessation of the proceedings,--"have you not this

frame, more noble than your own, but on which you may trample, still

unbent and unbroken? Cannot you burst these sinews with a nod? Rend and

destroy, with but a word, these limbs, whose force, naked as they are,

and even in bonds, your pale hearts quail at? Am I not bound before

you? Will not these miscreant agents delight to crush a frame to ruin,

which shames, and shows their own too mean and insignificant? and yet

will you--dare you--touch such a piece of Heaven's handiwork as

that woman! My Lord Gonfaloniere--you have daughters--Man--if you

are one--look at her! Is she more fit than they are for a deed

of blood?--Di Vasari!--Gonsalvo!--Villain!--Usurer!--you are a

man--young--passionate--can you look upon such a form as hers--and

if she had sought your very life a thousand times--would you see it

mangled, disgraced, and ruined?--Gonfaloniere!--Count Arestino!--Mercy!

This wretch I waste my words on. If he can do the deed--no matter with

what cause--my words must be too useless to dissuade him from it!"

"Luigino Arionelli!" said the Gonfaloniere, more mildly, "why, if this

female's safety be so precious to you, do you not secure it, and answer

the questions which we propose?"

"It is because----" The outlaw hesitated.--"Now, Gonfaloniere--you are a

human creature--make that toad-like wretch take his base hands from her!

Now she has fainted--let her not be bound! Villain! rogue! bare but one

spot of her fair flesh, and you shall yet expire in tortures!--Marquis!

Now thanks and blessings! Let the villains stand from her. Captain!

Gentleman of honour! You wear a sword--I have seen you use it in the

fight--support her--and may your own wife or sister never ask the same

assistance, or lie in the same need!--All who know me--robber as I

am--know that I never inflicted injury or insult on a woman. I sent back

the Podesta of Trieste's daughter to her father safe, and without

ransom, when the villain churl refused to pay it. Why, thanks! Aurelia!

Wife! look up! Oh treat me--robber as I am--but as a man! Let me be

free--only to sustain her; and command or question what you will."

"Luigino!" said the Marquis Arestino, who seemed something affected by

the outlaw's passion, though reasons perhaps prevented his doing

anything which might be construed into the showing him favour--"the

court in mercy has granted this momentary delay; why is it that you do

not use it to confess?"

"It is because--because," continued Arionelli, passionately, but

not violently, "my hope is over--I have nothing to confess. It is

because--as I stand in this danger--as I have a soul--I have nothing

that can assist you in what you desire to know. When I was stopped and

brought back to prison from my way to execution, I was ignorant even of

how it arose that I was suspected of this crime. I saw your anxiety for

the information which you thought I possessed; and would, if I could,

have gained a promise of life for myself and my comrades before I

declared the truth. You will not blame me for this effort? It was not

quite base or selfish; for, win or lose, it included those who had put

themselves in danger to aid in my escape. But it is over now. I give it

up. The cloak which your people recognise, may or may not, for aught I

know, have been taken from the Signor Lorenzo di Vasari. But it was the

property--this is all I know--of a robber of my band, who died ten days

before my apprehension."

The countenances of the judges darkened. "Where is this man?" asked the

secretary Benetti; "how did he obtain this spoil, and is he one of those

already in our power?"

"He is dead, as I have declared already," said Arionelli--"dead of the

plague. I have proof of this. Send for the visitors of the Ospedale St

Sulpice, and ask whether two of them did not find, fourteen days since,

in the upper floor of a deserted house in the Rua Pulita, a man dead

of the plague; and, in the same apartment, a garment of bull's hide,

curiously fitted with a mask and horns? This last garment was mine--I

named it before--and it was left there by accident. By the farther

token that the directors of St Sulpice commanded the finders to burn it

privately, lest its profane exhibition should scandalise the church."

"That is true, my lord," whispered the chief secretary to the

Gonfaloniere; "the fact was known to us when it happened."

"The man who was found in that apartment," continued Arionelli, "was

called Dominico Torelli: and he died with the cloak which you now

challenge in his possession. How he obtained it I know not, for I saw

little of his pursuits. We were on ill terms because at other times he

had concealed his booty, instead of bringing it fairly to division.

Those who follow our profession think but little about forms of burial;

when he was dead, his arms and money were shared by such of his

associates as were at hand. This rich mantle and the doublet that I wear

fell to another's lot; but they struck my fancy, and I purchased them."

Gonsalvo di Vasari listened patiently till the outlaw had concluded, but

it was with the air of a man who was not unmoved by anything that was

saying.

"We are approaching the truth," said he, coldly; "but we must have it

fully. Mark me, Arionelli! Your object is seen, and you deceive yourself

to hope it can prevail. This dead robber, whom you would palm upon us,

if ever he had existence, was your comrade, your follower. The crime for

which you would make him answerable no single hand ever committed; and

the spoil obtained was too large to have been so lightly disposed of, as

you would persuade us, or concealed. Now listen to me. There are some

in Florence know I am not used to trifle. The clue which lies in my

hands now to my kinsman's fate--whether of life or death--words will not

induce me to give up. Therefore be wise, and speak at once; for, by the

great Heaven, there is no hope that fraud or obstinacy will avail you!

If you should find resolution enough to die silent under this torture, I

will try whether your wife here has strength to be equally

contumacious."

The rage of the hunted wolf was in the robber's countenance. He saw his

danger--saw that he was caught in his own toils. The very error of his

judges (more than their mercilessness) led inevitably to his

destruction.

"Gonfaloniere!" he cried, furiously--"Gonsalvo di Vasari! Hold

once more! Reflect--there is a line beyond which human suffering

does not pass! The meanest wretch in Florence, who cares not for his

own life, holds the fate of the highest among ye at his mercy. You

feel that you dare not, for fifty times your titles and possessions,

commit this villany you meditate, and let me live. There are

others--companions--friends--reflect on it!--who will be left behind,

and whom an act like this will rouse to certain vengeance. You have no

fault to charge on this helpless woman. You can gain nothing of that

you seek from her. You sacrifice her to gain that which cannot be

gained--for, so help me Heaven in my last hour, I have it not!--from

me. Beware! for no deed like that of tyranny and baseness ever passed

unpunished. Do not drive a trodden-down wretch to desperation! Do not

rush uselessly upon an act which will stand alone in the annals of

infamy and crime!--Or, tell me at least," continued Arionelli,

passionately, "if there is indeed no hope--no chance--of mercy! Before

you ruin your own objects, and mine, past helping--Signor di Vasari--I

know whom it is I have to deal with--Definitively--what is it that you

demand?"

"For the last time," said Gonsalvo di Vasari, "that this Court will

deign to question--full confession as to the fate of my cousin, the

Chevalier Lorenzo."

"If he be dead?"

"A token of his death, and the story of its manner."

"And though he _be_ dead, shall Aurelia then be free?"

The Gonfaloniere replied--"Of that you have our pledge."

The outlaw paused for a moment, anxiously, and in thought.--"My Lord di

Vasari," he said, "I have already sworn that I had no share in your

cousin's fate. I believe that he has fallen. But means of inquiry I have

none, except by message to those who are beyond your warrant, and who

knew more of Dominico Torelli's latter course than I know. Who but

myself can do an errand such as this? Who else can search out those who

hold life only while they are not found? And me you will not part with?

There is but one resource. Aurelia knows the haunts of my band; she can

seek those whose aid I need, and will be trusted by them as myself. Let

me then be carried back to prison; and let her depart whither I direct;

and if in twenty-four hours she return not with some intelligence, my

life shall answer the event."

"Would it not be safer to reverse that arrangement?" said Gonsalvo,

significantly,--"to retain Aurelia here in prison; and suffer you,

Arionelli, in whom I trust more than you credit, to depart?"

A long silence followed, which was broken at last by the robber; but

the tone in which he spoke, and his manner, was, for the first time,

strangely contrasted with the expression of his features. "My Lord!" he

said, interrupting the Gonfaloniere, "let us close this conference."

(And his voice was steady, even to seeming unconcern; though his

countenance was deadly pale, and his eye was livid and glassy, and his

lips seemed to perform their office with an effort--as if some swelling

in the throat choked up the utterance.) "The proof which Signor Gonsalvo

demands may be furnished more easily than I had recollected. Two men

of my band are now in your jails of Florence. One of them is named

Vincentio Rastelli: he is the lesser offender--set him free. Let Aurelia

and myself then be carried back to prison--only one demand _must_ be

conceded--that our dungeon shall be the same. Let Rastelli have free

access to me at will, and free passage to go and come, unfollowed and

unwatched, wherever I shall send him. Promise that, my bond being

kept--before I die--I shall see Aurelia at liberty. And before midnight

to-morrow, Signor Gonsalvo shall have that put into his hands, which

shall for ever set his mind at rest as to the fate--whatever it has

been--of Lorenzo di Vasari."

* * * * *

It was the hour of midnight on the morrow; and Gonsalvo di Vasari sat in

his library alone; and he rejoiced in the fortune of his arrangements.

The robber Rastelli had been set at liberty. He had visited Arionelli

in his prison. He had gone upon one mission, and had returned as

unsuccessful; but at once again he had sped forth upon another. Was it

possible that the outlaw might yet fail? Scarcely so! for Aurelia's

sake, his strength would be put forth to the utmost. Would the agent

make sure of his own safety and escape? This was not likely, for already

he had once returned; and the fidelity of such people, generally, to

their friends and leaders, was as well known as their enterprise and

ferocity.

It was not likely either that Arionelli would have taken his course,

without feeling a strong reliance upon its success. A few hours

then--nay, a few moments now--were to put him in possession of that

evidence which would end all doubt as to his cousin's rich inheritance.

For Aurelia--her safety was promised; but her liberty--this evidence

obtained--might be a matter for consideration. The outlaw himself would

die upon the scaffold. It was pity that so much beauty as Aurelia's

should be cast away.--Meantime Gonsalvo di Vasari sat alone in his

palace; and the hour of midnight was passed, and yet there was no

messenger. He arose and opened the lattice--the moon shone brightly--but

the streets of Florence were at rest. Was it possible that he should be

trifled with! A servant was summoned. But--no!--no person had appeared.

At that instant, a man, wrapt in a dark cloak, was seen stealing across

the Piazza of St Mark. His form was robust, and his step firm; it was

the figure of the robber--of Rastelli. He paused a moment under the

shadow of the church of St Benedick, as if to watch if any one observed

him; then crossed the square--the portico concealed him;--but it was

the hour--the very moment--it must be the messenger!

There was a hasty tap at the door of the cabinet----

"My lord--he has come."

"Admit him."

"He did not stay."

"Where is his message?"

"My lord, it is here."

The servant placed a small iron casket in the hands of his master; a

folded packet accompanied it; and retired.

Gonsalvo broke the seal of the packet. There was not a word--the paper

was blank. But it contained a small key, apparently that of the casket,

of a singular form and workmanship.

The letter was a blank! The chest then, which was in his hands,

contained the secret? Gonsalvo hesitated. Was it fit that the deposit

should be at once opened? Was it not more fit that the disclosure

(whatever it was) should be public--in the presence of the Gonfaloniere,

and in the apartment of the Senate?

And yet it might be that the casket contained matter hostile to his

desires, rather than tending to assist them. It might be that the proof

even of Lorenzo's death failed wholly; and such truth, once openly

declared, could never be got rid of.

He poised the chest in his hands. It weighed heavily. What could be its

contents? Perhaps the written confession of Arionelli, or some of his

companions. At all events, the course of a private search was safe: a

public one might be made formally, in the morning, if convenient.

He took the key, secured the door, approached the taper, and cautiously

examined the lock of the casket.

The key entered freely. It turned in the lock. The bolt shot. The hand

that lay upon the lid tightened its grasp to lift it open.

At that moment the magazine within exploded. The chest, with a report

that shook the apartment, burst into a thousand atoms. The household of

Di Vasari was alarmed. His domestics rushed in a body to their master's

chamber. They tried to enter, but the door was fast. They knocked, but

no answer was returned. While they stood irresolute in horror and alarm,

an officer of justice, attended, came thundering at the gate. The prison

of the Seralio had been alarmed in the night. The robber Arionelli and

his wife were dead by poison, and the Gonfaloniere in council desired

the presence and assistance of Signor di Vasari. The affrighted

domestics burst the door open. The message from the State was answered

by the spectacle within. On the floor lay Gonsalvo di Vasari--dead; his

garments scorched; his face and hands discoloured; his body mangled with

a shower of balls; and the shell of the fatal casket at his feet.

CHAPTER IV.

"Then lay us together for ever to rest,

For the grave ends all strife, and all sorrow:

As the sun, which, at eve, sinks in blood to the west,

Rises calm and serene on the morrow!"

Forty years had passed over from the date of these events; and the

horrors of the plague of Florence were forgotten. The tale lived in the

recollection of a few old people who had escaped the wreck; but their

accounts wavered between fiction and reality, and were held as

exaggerations among the juniors. Times had changed, and things had

changed with them. The ploughshare passed over that ground which had

been the site of palaces in the time of the pestilence; and churches

stood, and streets, where cemeteries had been glutted with the remains

of thousands. Those who listened to the stories of mortality--of five

hundred dead in one week, and three hundred in another--counted the

numbers as men hear of thousands dead upon a field of battle: they

believed the fact, because it was avouched, but scarcely could

understand the possibility.

And with the traces of the plague, other wonders of the time had

disappeared. The mystery of Lorenzo di Vasari's fate was forgotten. The

desperate revenge of the outlaw Arionelli lived only in the songs of the

lower classes, or in the legends of those who still exercised his

dangerous profession. The Count Arestino had long paid the debt which

all men owe. His sins might, or they might not, be forgiven; but he was

gone to his reckoning--had briefly, indeed, followed her whom his

vengeance had sent thither perhaps too soon. The great crowd who had

lived in that earlier day were now departed or departing; they gave up

the post of action and existence to those who had been children in their

day.

And in the Chateau Arestino now, there was feasting and all delight. It

was the autumn again, and the hedges of myrtle on the banks of the Arno

gave out their most delicious scent. The roses that hung faint with the

noonday's heat, gathered new life in the cool of the twilight, as they

drooped their heads to drink of that fresh stream; and the last rays of

the sun fell with a mellowed brightness upon the red and yellow leaves

of the chestnut tree, or lingered, where the eye paused with less

effort, among the dark-green branches of the olive.

And in the halls of the castle, too, there was a sound of music, and of

dancing, and of revelry. And gay forms flitted lightly along its lofty

corridors, or dashed in mimic pursuit, with the light step and lighter

laugh of youth, through its water-side arbours and gardens. And there

were gallant forms of cavaliers, their crests nodding brightly in the

sun; and fair, transparent, sylph-like figures of females, their flowing

drapery catching in the light breeze, and but adorning the form it

seemed to hide, sported gaily through hall and bower. That day was the

new lord's wedding-day. He had wandered long abroad, unknowing of his

rich inheritance. But all since his return was splendour and fitting and

decoration. For he had sighed sometimes at the thought of that palace

when he had little hope to possess it. And now it would become his

favourite seat--he kept his day of bridal there.

And his bride was come, and her fair bridesmaids; and she was welcomed

by the grey-haired domestics who hoped to live yet in ease and comfort

from her bounty. And all was gaiety and sparkle. There was the light

boat plied upon the river, filled with such freight as showed as though

the nymphs fabled to dwell in ocean's depths had risen to glide upon its

surface. And the speckled trout checked at the long line, or snapped the

brittle wand, while shouts of triumph or of laughter--equally

gay--hailed his appearance above water or his escape.

And in the midst of all this tumult, the bride and her attendants,

with girlish curiosity, wandered through the rich saloons, and even

through every chamber in the castle. The pictures--the china--the

statues--nothing was spared from their curious view. "And what was this?

and whence came that? This painting, was it from Venice or from Rome?

That armour, was it of the French or of the Danish workmanship? Those

jewels too--and those rich plumes, now of past fashion, that filled the

Garde-robe--whose had they been? from what great ancestor of Theodore's

had they descended?"

The attentive governante's answer was always ready. She had the

knowledge and the memory fitting to her station. The china was from one

illustrious house--the statues, in succession, from another--the armour

had belonged to the first or to the third Lord of Arestino, famous

for his conduct in the wars of Charlemagne, against the Saracens or

elsewhere. But the jewels and plumes had been the property of the Lady

Angiolina Arestino, the wife of the last Count Ubaldi, and one of the

handsomest women of her time; "Who died," said the ancient governante,

"on this very day forty-four years, even on the very night of the Vigil

of St Luke; and on the same night that the young Chevalier di Vasari,

whom some--Heaven pardon them!--accounted her lover, was basely

murdered. How my lady met her death, some doubted, for the Lord Arestino

was of an unforgiving temper, and severe! But it was a strange business,

at least for the Chevalier and his attendant, who disappeared on that

night, and no traces were ever heard of them more!"

"But the Chevalier's body was found, was it not, good Beatrice?" said a

fair Florentine girl; "I am sure I have heard that it was; and that he

was one of the noblest cavaliers of his time. And that is a beautiful

bust--if it was like him--which stands in the Church of St Marco, on the

tomb erected to his memory!"

"His _body_ was found, with your ladyship's leave, three months

after he was missing; but never the persons by whom he met his death.

And up to this time, the servant who waited on him, and who I always

thought had a share in his murder, has never been heard of. Some say

that there were signs of his escape to France, and that his master's

famous black horse, Bayard, was many years afterwards recognised in

the capital of that country. I do not know how that was; but I just

recollect the finding of the Chevalier Lorenzo's body, poor gentleman!

He was found dead in a ravine, scarce four miles from the city; stripped

of everything--naked--no doubt by those who had robbed and murdered him;

and would never have been recognised but for his sword, which was found

beside him, lying broken within a few yards of the spot where he fell!"

"But the Count Ubaldi----, my Lord Theodore's ancestor--he died, too,

early--did he not?" said the fair Lady Amina.

"He did, by your ladyship's pleasure--alas! he did--soon after his lady;

and her death was sudden--it was said that she was poisoned. It was all

in the dreadful time of the plague, before the eldest of you, fair

signoras--before your mothers almost, I might say--were born. Poor lady!

it was in this very chamber, this chamber we now stand in, that she

died."

"Good Heaven!" said the Lady Amina, "in this chamber? Surely this was

not the Countess Angiolina's bed on which I am leaning?"

"Not the bed, your ladyship," said Beatrice, "but all the other

furniture of the room is exactly the same. These are the pictures which

used to hang in it; and the marble busts; and those fine flower-vases,

of which my lady was so fond. This cabinet contained her jewels, and

many of them remain still. Some of the diamonds his lordship, the count,

presented to the nuns of St Agnes la Fontagna. But the turquoises are

here, that my lady wore mightily, for they became her complexion. And

the pearls, too; but they are spoiled, quite black with age and want of

wearing! That robe-chest, too--I pray your ladyship's pardon for the

dust upon it--this house has been unused and empty so long--and servants

will neglect where one is not always--that chest was her ladyship's, and

I daresay contains choice fineries, for it stood always in her chamber,

and has never been opened since she died."

This last fact seemed more extraordinary than any of the wonders which

had preceded it. "Has it really never been opened!" said the young Lady

Olympia. "But what a pity that such beautiful ornaments should have

been left to decay!"

"Never opened, may it please your ladyship; nor could it, but by

violence," returned the governante. "For it is a Spanish piece of work,

and was sold to my lady by a foreign merchant, who told the secret

of opening it only to her. It opens, your ladyship sees, with some

spring--Heaven knows where! but there is neither lock nor bolt. Nobody

could open it ever but my lady; and I am sure, since I lived in this

house, I have tried a hundred times."

There could scarcely fail, in such an assembly, to be some desire as

strong as the governante's to see the fair Countess's hidden treasure;

but the having to open the chest by force was a difficulty too

formidable rather to surmount. To have performed such a feat

(independent of any other objection) would apparently have required

strong assistance; and therefore, whatever anxiety curiosity felt,

modesty checked its expression; and the gay party proceeded on their

rambling review, amidst various strange conjectures as to the manner of

Di Vasari's death; or comments upon the conduct of the Count Ubaldi,

and the unhappy fate of his fair lady.

But at the close of the evening, when the song rose loudest, and the

feast was still enlivening the hall, there were two female forms seen

to glide with lighted tapers along the oaken gallery, and enter the

light-blue chamber; it was the beautiful bride--the Lady Amina--and her

favourite companion, Olympia Montefiore.

The Lady Amina led the way, laughing; but there was a touch of

apprehension mingled in her smile. "For Heaven's sake," said she,

pausing in the doorway, "let us go back!"

"What folly! what can we have to apprehend!" was the reply.

"But Theodore may have missed us."

"And if he has!--Is it not his wedding-night, and can anything you do

displease him? Besides--to-morrow he will cause the chest to be opened

himself."

"Then let us wait until to-morrow; and we can then see it."

"Yes! and then everybody will have seen it--and it will not be worth

seeing!"

As the beautiful tempter passed her companion, and knelt beside the

case, her figure looked like that of Psyche, bending on the couch of

Cupid.

"If we should not be able to open it after all!" said the bride, half

fearful, half laughing.

"We will--depend on me," said the other, anxious and excited. "I know

the secret of these Spanish chests. My father has one--they are common

now in Venice--the spring is concealed--but once know the situation of

it--as I do--and it is simple."

"But--I tremble all over!"

"Why, what nonsense!"

"But--I'll go away if you don't stop."

"But only think how we shall laugh at Lavinia and Euryanthe! Now--hold

the taper. It is but one touch. Now--I have it. There!--do you

see?--Now--Amina--now--hold here--help me while I lift the lid----"

* * * * *

Within the chest there lay a skeleton--stretched at its length, and

bleached to whiteness. There was a jewel mocked one of the bony fingers;

and a corslet of mail enclosed the trunk. And the right hand

clutched--as though yet in question--a long and massive dagger. Its

handle was of gold embossed; its blade was of the manufacture of

Damascus. And on that blade, though rusted here and there, were

characters which still appeared distinctly. Their pale brightness

flashed as the light of the taper fell upon them; they formed the

name--and they told the fortunes--of DI VASARI.

SIGISMUND FATELLO.

BY FREDERICK HARDMAN

[_MAGA._ DECEMBER 1848.]

CHAPTER I.

THE OPERA.

It was a November night of the year 184-. For a week past the

play-bills, upon the convenient but unsightly posts that disfigure the

boulevards, had announced for that evening, in conspicuous capitals, the

first performance of a new opera by a popular composer. Although the

season of winter gaieties had scarcely begun, and country-houses and

bathing-places retained a portion of the fashionable population of

Paris, yet a string of elegant carriages, more or less coroneted,

extended down the Rue Lepelletier, and deposited a distinguished

audience at the door of the Academie de Musique. The curtain fell upon

the first act; and a triple round of applause, of which a little was

attributable to the merits of the opera, and a good deal to the

parchment palms of a well-drilled _claque_, proclaimed the composer's

triumph and the opera's success, when two men, entering the house at

opposite sides, met near its centre, exchanged a familiar greeting, and

seated themselves in contiguous stalls. Both belonged to the class which

the lower orders of Parisians figuratively designate as _gants jaunes_;

the said lower orders conscientiously believing primrose gloves to be a

covering as inseparable from a dandy's fingers as the natural epidermis.

The younger of these two men, the Viscount Arthur de Mellay, was a most

unexceptionable specimen of those _lions dores_ who, in modern French

society, have replaced the _merveilleux_, the _roues_, and _raffines_ of

former days. Sleek of face and red of lip, with confident eye and trim

mustache, his "getting up" was evidently the result of deep reflection

on the part of the most tasteful of tailors and scrupulous of valets.

From his varnished boot-heel to the topmost wave of his glossy and

luxuriant _chevelure_, the severest critic of the mode would in vain

have sought an imperfection. Born, bred, and polished in the genial

atmosphere of the noble faubourg, he was a credit to his club, the

admiration of the vulgar, the pet of a circle of exclusive and

aristocratic dames, whose approving verdict is fashionable fame. His

neighbour in the stalls, some years older than himself, was scarcely

less correct in externals, although bearing his leonine honours much

more carelessly. Like Arthur, he was a very handsome man, but his pale

face and fair mustache contrasted with the florid cheek and dark

hair of his companion. The Austrian baron Ernest von Steinfeld had

acquired, by long and frequent residences in Paris, rights to Parisian

naturalisation. He had first visited the French capital in a diplomatic

capacity, and, after abandoning that career, had spent a part of every

year there as regularly as any native _habitue_ of the Club Grammont,

the Chantilly race-course, and the Bois de Boulogne. Although a German

and a baron, he was neither coarse, nor stupid, nor smoky. He did not

carry a tobacco-pipe in his pocket, or get muddled at dinner, or spit

upon the floor, or participate in any other of the nastinesses common

to the majority of his tribe. A nobleman in Austria, he would have been

accounted a gentleman, and a highly bred one, in any country in the

world. He was of old family, had been much about courts, held a military

rank, possessed a castle and fine estate in the Tyrol, mortgaged to the

very last _zwanziger_ of their value, was somewhat _blase_ and troubled

with the spleen, and considerably in debt, both in Vienna and Paris.

He had arrived in the latter capital but a fortnight previously, after

nearly a year's absence, had established himself in a small but elegant

house in a fashionable quarter, and as he still rode fine horses,

dressed and dined well, played high and paid punctually, nobody

suspected how near he was to the end of his cash and credit: and that

he had sacrificed the last remnant of his disposable property to provide

ammunition for another campaign in Paris--a campaign likely to be final,

unless a wealthy heiress, a prize in the lottery, or an unexpected

legacy, came in the nick of time to repair his shattered fortunes.

The second act of the opera was over. The applause, again renewed, had

again subsided, and the hum of conversation replaced the crash of the

noisy orchestra, the warbling of Duprez, and the passionate declamation

of Madame Stolz. The house was very full; the boxes were crowded with

elegantly dressed women, a few of them really pretty, a good many

appearing so by the grace of gas, rouge, and costume. The curtain was

no sooner down than de Mellay, compelled by the despotism of the pit

to silence during the performance, dashed off at a colloquial canter,

scattering, for his companion's benefit, a shower of criticisms,

witticisms, and scandal, for which he found abundant subjects amongst

his acquaintances in the theatre, and to which the baron listened with

the curled lip and faint smile of one for whose palled palate caviare no

longer has flavour, scarcely vouchsafing an occasional monosyllable or

brief sentence when Arthur's gossip seemed to require reply. His eyes

wandered round the house, their vision aided by the double glasses of

one of those tremendous opera-telescopes by whose magnifying powers, it

is said, the incipient wrinkle and the borrowed tint are infallibly

detected, and the very _tricot_ of Taglioni is converted into a cobweb.

Presently he touched the arm of Arthur, who had just commenced an

animated ocular flirtation with a blue-eyed belle in a stage-box. The

baron called his attention to a box on the opposite side of the theatre.

"There is a curious group," he said.

"Oh, yes," replied de Mellay, carelessly, levelling his glass for a

moment in the direction pointed out. "The Fatellos." And he resumed

his mute correspondence with the dame of the azure eyes.

Steinfeld remained for a short space silent, with the thoughtful puzzled

air of a man who suspects he has forgotten something he ought to

remember; but his efforts of memory were all in vain, and he again

interrupted Arthur's agreeable occupation.

"Whom did you say?" he inquired; indicating, by a glance rather than by

a movement, the group that had riveted his attention.

"The Fatellos," replied de Mellay, with a sort of surprise. "But, pshaw!

I forget. You were at Venice last carnival, and they have not been

twelve months at Paris. You have still to learn the affecting romance of

Sigismund and Catalina: how the red knight from Franconie did carry off

the Paynim's daughter,--his weapons adapted to the century--bank-notes

and bright doubloons, in lieu of couched lance and trenchant blade. Why,

when they arrived, all Paris talked of them for three days, and might

have talked longer, had not Admiral Joinville brought over from Barbary

two uncommonly large baboons, which diverted the public attention. They

call them Beauty and the Beast--the Fatellos, I mean, not the baboons."

The persons who had attracted Steinfeld's notice, and elicited this

uncomplimentary tirade from the volatile viscount, occupied one of the

best boxes in the theatre. In front were two ladies, likely to be the

more remarked from the contrast their appearance offered with the

Parisian style of beauty. Their jet-black hair, large almond-shaped

eyes, and complexion of a rich glowing olive, betrayed their southern

origin. Behind them sat a man of five-and-thirty or forty; a tall,

high-shouldered, ungainly figure, with a profusion of reddish hair, and

a set of Calmuck features of repulsive ugliness. His face was of an

unhealthy paleness, excepting about the nose and cheekbones, which were

blotched and heated; and the harsh and obstinate expression of his

physiognomy was ill redeemed by the remarkably quick and penetrating

glance of his small keen grey eyes.

"Do you mean to say yonder ungainly boor is the husband of one of those

two beautiful women, who look as if they had stepped out of a legend of

the Alhambra, or of a vintage-piece by Leopold Robert?"

"Certainly--husband of one, brother-in-law of the other. But I will tell

you the whole story. Sigismund Fatello is one of those men born with a

peculiar genius for money-getting, who, if deposited at the antipodes

without a shoe to their foot, or a sou in their pocket, would end by

becoming millionnaires. Although little heard of in good society till a

year ago, he has long been well known on the Bourse, and in foreign

capitals, as a bold financier and successful speculator. Two years ago

he had occasion to go to the south of Spain, to visit mines offered by

the Spanish government as security for the loan of two or three of

his millions. Amongst other places he visited Seville, and was there

introduced to Don Geronimo Gomez Garcia Gonfalon (and a dozen other

names besides), a queer old hidalgo, descended from Boabdil of the

Bloody Crescent, or some such Moorish potentate. The don dwelt in the

shadow of the Giralda, and possessed two daughters reputed fair;--you

see them there--judge for yourself. With one of these Fatello fell

desperately in love, and asked her in marriage. The lady, who had

no wish to abandon her native land for the society of so ugly and

unpleasant a helpmate, demurred. But the suitor was urgent and the papa

peremptory. Old Boabdil had an immense opinion of Fatello, was dazzled

by his wealth and financial reputation, and insisted on his daughter's

marrying him, vowing that he himself was poor as a poet, and that if

she refused she should go to a nunnery. After the usual amount of tears,

threats, and promises, the marriage took place. The descendant of the

Saracen made an excellent bargain for his child. Fatello, infatuated by

his passion, would have agreed to any conditions, and made immense

settlements on the beautiful Catalina. His father-in-law, like an old

semi-African hunks as he was, pleaded poverty, hard times, forced

contributions, and so forth, as excuses for giving his daughter no other

portion than a few rather remarkable diamonds, and some antiquated plate

dating from the kings of Granada, and better suited for a Moorish museum

than a Christian sideboard. Fatello, whose dealings with the Spanish

government had given him no very exalted idea of the opulence of Spanish

subjects, cared not for the old boy's maravedis, and credited his plea

of poverty. A few weeks afterwards, Fatello and his wife being still in

Seville, Boabdil retired for his usual siesta; but not reappearing at

the usual hour, a servant went to awaken him, and found him purple with

apoplexy. The unfortunate Saracen never spoke again. The next day he was

buried (they lose no time in those warm latitudes); and behold, when the

will was opened, he had left upwards of three millions of reals to his

disconsolate daughters--about four hundred thousand francs to each of

them. When the decencies had been observed in the way of mourning, and

Fatello had finished his affairs, he brought his wife and her sister to

Paris, took a magnificent hotel in the Faubourg St Honore, and gave

Lucullian dinners, and entertainments such as are read of in the Arabian

Nights, but rarely seen in the nineteenth century."

"And were his fetes well attended?"

"Not quite immediately. At first everybody asked who this M. Fatello

was, and nobody could tell. All sorts of queer stories were got up about

him. Some said he was a Polish Jew, formerly well known in Prague, and

who had commenced his fortune by attending horse-fairs. Others--misled

by his name, which has an odd Italian sound--swore he was a Lombard,

continuing the financial and speculative traditions of his race. He

himself claims to be of a good Alsatian family; and I believe the truth

is, that his father was a small proprietor in a northern department, who

sent his son to Paris, as a boy, to seek his fortune, which, by virtue

of industry and arithmetic, he has been lucky enough to find. But people

got tired of asking _who_, and changed the interrogation to _what_. This

was much more easily answered--'The signature of Sigismund Fatello is

worth millions upon every Exchange in Europe,' was the prompt reply. You

know our good Parisians, or rather, you know the world in general. If

John Law or Dr Faustus returned upon earth, with wealth proceeding from

the devil or a swindle, and gave banquets and balls, their rooms would

not long be empty. No more were those of Fatello, against whom, however,

nothing improper was ever substantiated, except a want of ancestors,--a

venial offence, in these days, to be charged against a millionnaire!

With a citizen king, and Jews in the chamber, _or_ upon _argent_ is the

truest blazonry, my word for it."

"By their assistance, then, he has got into good society?" said

Steinfeld.

"Into almost the best. He has not made much progress beyond the Seine;

but on this side the water he is everywhere in good odour. They make

much of him at the Tuileries and in diplomatic circles; and in the

Chaussee d'Antin, amongst the aristocracy of finance, his money gives

him right to a high place. And if he plays the Amphitryon this winter

in the style he did the last, there is no saying whether some of our

stiff-necked countesses of the _vieille roche_ may not relent, and

honour his halls with their transcendental presence. His entertainments

of all kinds are quite superlative; and if he be a plebeian and a brute,

his wife and sister, on the other hand, are graceful as gazelles, and

date from the Deluge. He is an ugly-looking monster, certainly," added

the handsome viscount; "but fortune has atoned for nature's stinginess.

A man may forget his resemblance to a chimpanzee when he has millions in

his strong-box, one of the finest houses, and best filled stables, and

prettiest wives in Paris,--when he possesses strength and health, and

has every prospect of living long to enjoy the goods the gods have

showered upon him."

"Wrong in the last particular,--quite wrong, my dear viscount," said

a bland and unctuous voice behind de Mellay. The young men turned and

found themselves face to face with a comely middle-aged personage, whose

smug costume of professional black was relieved by a red ribbon in the

button-hole, and who, gliding into the stall in their rear, whilst they

were engrossed with their conversation, had overheard its latter

sentences.

"Ha! doctor," exclaimed the viscount, "you here, and eavesdropping! How

am I wrong, most sapient and debonair of Galens?"

Dr Pilori was a physician in high practice, and of a class not uncommon

in Paris,--at once a man of pleasure and a votary of science. With

a fair share of talent and an inordinate one of self-conceit, he

had pushed himself forward in his profession, applying himself, in

conformity with the Parisian rage for _specialites_, particularly to

one class of complaint. The lungs were the organ he had taken under his

special protection: his word was law in all cases of pulmonary disease.

He was physician to an hospital, member of the Legion of Honour, and of

innumerable learned societies; his portrait graced the shop-windows

of medical booksellers, whilst his works, on maladies of the lungs,

occupied a prominent place on their shelves. His patients were numerous

and his fees large. So far the man of science. The man of pleasure

occupied a gorgeous apartment in the vicinity of the Madeleine; gave

smart and frequent soirees (as one means of increasing his connection),

where singers of the first water gave their notes in payment of his

advice. He was frequently at the opera,--occasionally at the Cafe de

Paris,--lived on bad terms with his wife, and on good ones with a

ballet-dancer, and was in request as an attendant at duels amongst the

young dandies of the clubs, with most of whom he was on a footing of

familiarity amounting almost to intimacy.

"How am I wrong, doctor?" repeated de Mellay.

"In your prediction of Fatello's longevity. Of course it is of him you

speak?"

"Of no other. What ails him?"

"He is dying of consumption," gravely replied Pilori.

The viscount laughed incredulously, and even Steinfeld could not

restrain a smile, so little appearance was there of a consumptive habit

in the robust frame, and coarse, rough physiognomy of the financier.

"Laugh if you please, young gentlemen," said the doctor. "It is no

laughing matter for Monsieur Fatello, I can tell you. His life is not

worth a year's purchase."

"You have been prescribing for him then, doctor?" said Arthur,

maliciously.

"I have," said the physician, suffering the hit to pass unnoticed. "No

longer ago than yesterday he consulted me for a trifling indisposition,

and, in studying his idiosyncrasy, I detected the graver disease. What

do you think he called me in for? I ought not to tell these things, but

the joke is too good to keep. He was annoyed about the blotches on his

face--anxious for a clear complexion. In what strange places vanity

finds a corner! Poor fellow! he little thinks how soon the worms will be

at work upon his cuticle."

"You did not tell him, then?" said de Mellay, still doubtful of the

doctor's sincerity, and with a sort of shudder at his dissecting-room

style.

"What was the use? The seeds of decay are too deeply set to be

eradicated by the resources of art. Although to a non-medical eye he

presents little appearance of pulmonary derangement, the malady has

already taken firm hold. Probably it is hereditary. It advances slowly

but surely, and will not be turned aside. The forms of that terrible

disease are many and various, from the _pulmonia fulminante_ of Spain,

and the _galloping consumption_ of our island neighbours, to those more

tedious varieties whose ravages extend over years, to kill as surely at

last. But I do not tell you that I _shall_ not inform M. Fatello of his

condition. It is our duty to strive to the last, even when we have no

hope but in a miracle. I shall see him to-morrow and break the matter to

him."

"And send him to Italy or Madeira, I suppose," said Steinfeld, with an

appearance of greater interest than he had previously taken in the

conversation.

"What for? As well let him die in Paris, where he will at least have all

the alleviations the resources of art and high civilisation can afford.

But enough of the subject. And you, young gentlemen, say nothing of what

I have told you, or you will damage my reputation for discretion."

The rise of the curtain put a period to the conversation, and, before

the act was over, a box-keeper delivered a letter to Dr Pilori, who,

after reading it, rose with a certain air of importance and solicitude,

and hurried out of the theatre,--his sortie provoking a smile amongst

some of the habitual frequenters of the stalls, who were accustomed to

see this manoeuvre repeated with a frequency that gave it the air of

an advertisement. The opera over, Steinfeld and de Mellay left the house

together, and, whilst driving along the boulevard, the sentence of death

pronounced so positively by Pilori upon Fatello was the subject of their

conversation. The viscount was incredulous, took it for a hoax, and

would have amused the club by its repetition, and by a burlesque of

Pilori's dogmatical and pompous tone, had not Steinfeld urged him to be

silent on the subject, lest he should injure the indiscreet physician.

Arthur promised to say nothing about it, and soon forgot the whole

affair in the excitement of a _bouillotte_-table. Steinfeld, equally

reserved, neither forgot the doctor's prophecy, nor doubted the

conviction that dictated it. De Mellay's gossip about the Fatellos had

doubtless excited his curiosity, and given him a wish to know them; for,

two days afterwards, his elegant _coupe_ drove into the court of their

hotel, and a dandified secretary of legation presented, in due form, the

Baron Ernest von Steinfeld to the wealthy financier and his handsome

wife and sister.