leave me?—Heavenly mercy! what will become of me! take me with you,
Urania, or stab me before you go! foreboding terrors weigh down my
heart! dreadful as my sufferings have been already, I feel that I have
still much more to endure! Urania, we shall never meet again!”—
I prest my trembling friend to my heart with affection, recommended her
the kindness of her attendants, and then hastened, where I was far less
invited by courage and resolution than by urgent necessity and despair.
We gave the reins to our coursers, flew over the plain, and soon reached
the winding pass through the mountains, where our brave friends had been
subdued by treachery and malice. Ah! what a dreadful sight! the place of
combat floated with blood! various were the occasions presented to
induce our pity to stop, in the hope of rescuing from death some of his
yet lingering victims: but still more weighty considerations compelled
us to close our ears against the cries of suffering humanity, and pursue
our progress without delay. However, I failed not to leave some of my
people behind to discharge those offices, which I would so much more
gladly have fulfilled myself; and I charged them (in case any thing of
importance could be learned from those who still survived) to lose no
time in bringing me the information.
It was from them, that I learned the road, which the forces of the Abbot
of St. Gall (whose number trebled ours) had taken with the captive
knights. It was not yet evening, when I reached the fortress, which had
been pointed out to me as the prison of my friends.
We prepared for storming the walls. I possest among my followers several
experienced warriors, who supplied my want of intelligence in affairs of
this nature, and who seemed to derive double strength from witnessing my
resolution, the resolution of a distracted woman! It was not long,
before we saw a white flag waved by the besieged; and soon after (having
received our solemn promise for the security of his invaluable person)
we beheld on the battlements the robber of my beloved friends, the
oppressor of the unprotected innocent, in short the execrable Abbot of
St. Gall.
I had taken off my helmet to cool my burning cheeks; and my ringlets
still adorned with flowers, which in my haste I had forgotten to remove,
streamed freely in the wind of evening: the Abbot therefore easily guest
at my sex and name.
—“You are welcome, fair damsel of Sargans!” said the monk with a
malicious smile; “the friends, of whom you are in pursuit, are no longer
inmates of these walls: then forbear to persecute the innocent! lay
aside that heavy armour, which so ill befits your sex, and enter to
partake with us, poor monks, of a friendly though frugal
entertainment!”—
I was already preparing to return the insulter such an answer, as his
insolent speech demanded; but ere I had time to speak,—“treachery!
treachery!”—was shrieked in my ears by an hundred voices. I looked
round, and saw the glittering of hostile swords. My people were beaten
back, and the ground was strewed with their corses—the soldiers of the
perfidious Abbot had stolen upon us through secret passages, had taken
my followers by surprise, and were hewing for themselves a way to me
with their faulchions. Terror deprived me of my senses! what would have
become of me in this dreadful moment of confusion and fear I know not,
had not my faithful Gertrude, who had followed me to battle with
undaunted courage, been close to my side; and ere I fell, she caught me
in her arms. The loss of my helmet made it easy for me to be recognized
by my pale and feminine features. She seized the casque of one of the
Abbot’s soldiers, who happened to be struck down near us, and concealed
my face with it; she then wrapped me in his cloak, on which the Abbot’s
coat of arms was emblazoned; and under favour of this disguise she
succeeded in extricating me from the throng, and in conducting me in
safety towards the side, from which the combat seemed at that time to be
retiring.
I recovered myself, and we hastened to seat ourselves on horseback.
Gertrude convinced me that my presence was now quite unavailing, and
that my being taken prisoner would be unavoidable, if I suffered the
least delay. In truth, my nerves had been too much shaken by this last
dreadful piece of treachery to admit of my adopting any other resource
than flight, the woman’s constant refuge.
The darkness of the night enabled us to escape; and we arrived in safety
at the castle, which (while unacquainted with my own want of strength
and ability, and the power and perfidy of the foe with whom I had to
deal) I had left with such sanguine hopes of victory. We were obliged to
traverse the narrow pass through the mountains, where the fatal
ambuscade had been stationed in the morning: as I hastened through it,
methought the groans of dying men sounded in my ears, and my hair stood
erect, and my blood ran cold, as I listened. Woman’s weakness re-assumed
it’s rights; and she, who so lately had dared to trust herself among
hostile faulchions, now trembled at a sound, at a shadow, which only
existed in her over-heated imagination.
I reached the Castle more dead than alive. We found the Castle-gates
closed. We called in vain for admittance; no signal was attended to;
every thing within seemed to be silent as the grave: no glimmering of
light was visible in the high-arched casements, and we were compelled to
pass the night in a small ruined chapel at no great distance from the
Castle.
Convinced, that nothing but the fear of being surprised by the enemy
could have induced the Castle’s inhabitants to observe such obstinate
discretion, we waited for morning with the utmost impatience and
anxiety. Perhaps the enemy might pursue the fugitives hither, and make
himself master of the Castle, before our vassals could be summoned to
its defence? perhaps, it might already have been attacked, and might be
at that very moment in possession of the foe? I had left the Countess of
Mayenfield but ill-protected. My anxiety to rescue my uncle and Count
Ethelbert had induced me to leave no one behind, except our women, the
old seneschal, the warder, and a few domestics.
At break of day we again approached the Castle; we then perceived (what
the extreme darkness of the night had before prevented our discovering)
that the draw-bridge had not been raised. We crost it, and on
approaching the gates had the satisfaction to see them opened for our
admittance by the Seneschal. We were received by the weak old man with
every appearance of alarm: the first questions which were asked on both
sides related to our return unaccompanied, and to the ghastly appearance
of the old man; but neither of us could restrain impatience sufficiently
to give an answer. I hastened into the court yard, anxious to embrace my
friend, and consult with her, what precautions should be taken for our
future safety; but the first thing, which met my eyes on entering, was
an heap of bleeding corses!
I started back in horror, and wished to ask, what dreadful events had
taken place in my absence; but fear and agony choaked my words. Besides,
I was soon summoned to the assistance of Gertrude, at whose feet the
Seneschal (who probably had exhausted his little remaining strength in
opening the gates) had now fallen senseless.
Yet while so many scenes of terror are reserved for my pen, why do I
dwell with such minuteness on the first? I will not describe, how the
whole shocking mystery gradually unfolded itself; I will rather state at
once and briefly the total sum of my misfortune.
The only object which after the loss of Ethelbert and my uncle was still
dear to me, my friend, my Edith, she too had been torn from me during my
unfortunate expedition. Scarcely had I quitted her, when a troop of
unknown enemies had forcibly gained entrance; had either slain or
mortally wounded the few male inhabitants of the Castle; had confined
the women in the upper apartments; and when they retired after their
bloody work, had conveyed away with them the Countess of Mayenfield and
her weeping children! The robbers closed the doors after them and fled,
leaving the Castle in that fearful solitude, which had occasioned me so
much anxiety and surprise. The Warder and the Seneschal were the only
men, whose wounds had not already terminated their existence; but
fainting through loss of blood they heard not the signals, which I made
to obtain admittance. It was morning, before they were sufficiently
recovered to examine into the circumstances of the former day; and while
the first had dragged his feeble steps towards the Countess’s apartment,
the other had sought the Castle-portal, with the intention of obtaining
assistance from the neighbouring villagers.
The Countess’s women, with their hands still fettered, now threw
themselves at my feet, and enquired, what was become of their beloved
mistress, whom I had imprudently left behind under such inadequate
protection. Grief for her loss overpowered our apprehensions of further
danger; and had our foe thought proper to make use of the present
opportunity, he would have found us an easy prey.
About mid-day, some peasants in the neighbourhood arrived, and brought
with them the young Minna of Mayenfield, whom they had found weeping and
bewildered among the mountains.
—“Oh! dear, dear lady!” she exclaimed, while she threw herself into my
arms “my mother! oh! what have the villains done with my mother!”—
I could only answer with my tears. The child too was in such dreadful
agitation, that it was long before I could obtain from her an
explanation of the manner, in which the Countess had been conveyed away:
as for herself, the ravishers became weary of her incessant tears and
shrieks, and abandoned her among the mountains. How painful must the
unhappy mother have felt this parting with her only daughter! nothing
could have induced her to submit to it, except the threat of her
persecutor to deprive her also of the baby at her bosom.
The evening was far advanced, before I could recover myself sufficiently
to take some precautions for our security, and make such enquiries, as
appeared to me highly necessary; the gates were carefully fastened; the
draw-bridge was raised. As our strength was unequal to the task of
burying the dead, we were obliged to throw the corses into a ruined
well, situated in a back-corner in a remote part of the Castle: and this
melancholy duty being performed, we employed ourselves in collecting
every circumstance, which might assist us to guess at the authors of our
late misfortune.
The Seneschal, before whose bed the consultation was held, produced many
weighty reasons for asserting, that the Abbot of St. Gall (to whose
account we were inclined to set down any wickedness) in the present
instance was perfectly innocent. As to the person, at whose door he was
disposed to lay the blame, he obstinately refused to give the least
hint; but he made no scruple of avowing that he was not without
suspicions.
The little Minna, who now never stirred a moment from my side, and to
whom we were not paying the least attention, interrupted us to
say,—“that she had never heard the Abbot of St. Gall speak, and that she
was sure, that the voice of the chief robber was not unknown to her,
though she could not recollect where she had heard it. She had even said
as much, while in his power; but the only reward of her recollection had
been a blow, which struck her senseless at his feet. Shortly after she
had been forced from her mother’s arms, and left among the mountains.”—
—“Alas, my child,” said I, “you were probably deceived by some fancied
resemblance!—But what must now be done? where is the messenger, who
informed us yesterday of the fatal ambuscade?—Perhaps, he may be able to
give us some insight into the author of this second attack.”—
—“Ah! would to God,” answered the old Seneschal, “that I had either
examined that messenger more circumstantially, or at least had watched
him closer! yet who could have imputed treachery to Dietrich, or suspect
a man, who seemed to be at the point of death, of an intention to
escape?”
—“To escape?” I exclaimed; “has Dietrich fled? when and how did this
take place?”—
—“We were all busy in making preparations for binding up his wounds, of
whose pain he complained bitterly, but which it seems none of us ever
saw. We left him alone for a few moments, and in the meanwhile he
disappeared. We sought him long, but he was not to be found; and we
finished by conjecturing, that courage and fidelity had induced him to
follow you in spite of his wounds, and to endeavour at contributing to
his master’s rescue; though we doubted not from his apparently weak
condition, that he must have died by the way.”—
—“And why should not your conjecture have been well-founded? Dietrich
was ever one of Count Venosta’s most faithful servants.”—
The Seneschal assured me, that during the hostile attack which followed
close on the heels of Dietrich’s disappearance, circumstances had
occurred, which made him view the fellow’s escape in a very different
light. He was proceeding to explain himself more clearly, when the sound
of a trumpet threw us all into the most violent alarm! every one
hastened to the place, where duty or inclination called them: the Warder
ascended the watch-tower; my terrified damsels fled to conceal
themselves; in the mean while, I and the little Minna descended to the
lower battlements, in order to inform myself at once of the extent of my
danger.
—“Almighty powers!” I exclaimed, on casting a fearful look on the plain
before the fortress, which was now covered with warriors; “is it
possible?—my uncle’s banner?—Count Ethelbert’s soldiers too!—surely this
must be a dream!”—
Count Venosta now advanced before the rest, in order to answer in person
the usual questions, which the Warder asked from the tower; but I had
not patience enough to wait for the termination of this ceremony. The
Castle-gates were thrown open; the draw-bridge was let down; and I
already was clasped in the arms of my beloved uncle, ere I had yet
convinced myself, that his delivery was real.
—“Yes! my dear child!” exclaimed Count Leopold, as soon as I had
recovered myself from the first tumult of delight and astonishment;
“yes! I am free, and knowest thou, to whom we are both indebted for life
and all that we possess? ’tis to this hero, whose character I have so
long mistaken, and from whom my suspicions have till now with-held the
only gift, which is worthy to reward his merits!”—
—“What!” I replied—“Count Ethelbert? he, who was made prisoner at the
same moment with yourself?”—
—“Heaven be thanked, that he escaped!” interrupted my uncle. “While the
Abbot’s soldiers (after their successful ambuscade among the mountains)
were conveying me to their lord, Count Ethelbert was employed in
collecting his remaining vassals, whom he had left behind to protect his
castle: with these he hastened to my succour, and this morning saw my
deliverance effected. Oh! my Urania, help me to discharge my debts to
this excellent man! none but yourself can do it!—Draw near, Count
Ethelbert, and receive the hand of the sole heiress of all those
possessions, of which your ancestors formerly were the lords; the hand
of one, who boasts a still more precious title, the hand of that
beloved-one, whom you have so long adored in secret.—Why advance you
not? stretch forth your hand, and clasp that, which Urania has not
hesitated to extend towards you.”—
Ethelbert was still silent for a moment: at length he advanced a few
steps, his left hand placed on the hilt of his sword, his right upon his
bosom.
—“Count Venosta,” said he, “have I demanded of you the hand of the
heiress of Sargans?”—
—“I understand; you allude to my intended union with the Countess of
Mayenfield.—But fear not, that I need recall my words: when I have
restored your paternal possessions, I shall still have enough remaining
to confer a rich dowry on my wife.”—
—“I speak not of that: I only ask, have I ever entreated you to make me
the lovely Urania’s husband?”—
—“No, and I can well guess the reason of your silence! your fortunes are
fallen; your heart is proud; you dreaded a rejection: but surely now
there can exist no difference between us. You are my preserver; I offer
you in gratitude my dearest treasure, and you love Urania with too much
passion to reject her hand.”—
—“Yes, Count Venosta; yes, I love her!—but my pride requires that all
the world should know, that I became your nephew through your own
free-will; without your having been moved to pity by lovesick
entreaties, and without my having been obliged to enter into humiliating
explanations.”—
—“My friend! my preserver! why pain me by recollecting at such a time
... but you shall be satisfied!—Now then, all the world may know, that I
freely offer my niece’s hand to the Count of Carlsheim, supplicate him
to accept it, and wait his answer with impatience.”—
—“And you, lady?” said Ethelbert. —“Urania! pronounce my doom!”—
I was silent; I blushed and cast down my eyes. Oh! this noble pride,
which made him hesitate to accept the hand of the richest heiress in
Helvetia, lest he should be suspected of having sought it through
interested motives, would have gained him my heart, had it not already
long been his! my uncle was the interpreter of my looks; I did not
contradict him; my lover clasped me in his arms for the first time, and
I heard myself called by the title, which was dearest to me in the
world.
These moments were heavenly! alas! how soon were they interrupted by the
most bitter recollections!—my uncle turned from the scene of our
happiness, and enquired—“where he should find the Countess of
Mayenfield!”—
Oh Heaven! what did I suffer at hearing that question! what did I
suffer, when compelled to answer it! vainly should I attempt to describe
Count Venosta’s situation, when informed of the loss of his beauteous
Edith!
Men express grief and resentment in a different manner from us, helpless
females. My narrative of Edith’s carrying off was followed not by idle
complaints, but by active exertions to recover her. The wearied soldiery
again seated themselves on horseback, and were ordered to scour the
country round in pursuit of the ravishers. I was myself too much
interested in the business to oppose my uncle’s orders; but Count
Ethelbert, who retained more presence of mind than the rest, enquired,
whither we should first direct our course in hopes of delivering the
Countess?
—“Doubtless,” answered my uncle, “the place most likely to be converted
into her prison must needs be the nearest fortress belonging to the
perfidious Abbot; no one can doubt, that this misfortune is a work of
his hand.”—
Here I interrupted him by stating, that I had heard the Seneschal very
positively contradict this supposition; and I entreated, that before the
expedition set out, the old domestic might be examined, as he seemed to
possess more information on the subject, than he had yet imparted to
_me_. Unfortunately, we found on enquiry, that shortly after my uncle’s
arrival the Seneschal had expired of his wounds; and Count Venosta (who
in the violence of his despair preferred acting upon uncertainties to
remaining entirely idle) immediately entered upon his search after the
unfortunate Edith. At the end of several months of fruitless enquiry, we
were obliged to abandon all hopes of success.
It was during this period of anxiety, which seldom permitted my uncle
and Ethelbert to lay aside their armour, that I received the name of
Countess of Carlsheim. The ceremony was sad and solemn, prognosticating
the days, which were so soon to follow it.
I was now the wife of my lover, and enjoyed that sort of happiness,
which most women enjoy who marry a warrior-husband; I was the object of
a wild tempestuous passion, whose expressions were sometimes so rough
and violent, that they might have been mistaken for those of hatred. In
truth, I had fancied, that the happiness of marriage was somewhat
different; but alas! what girl does not fancy the same, and find at
length that she has been deceived?
No information could be obtained respecting the Countess of Mayenfield.
The Abbot of St. Gall persevered in asserting his claim to her
possessions; and the deep melancholy, which took possession of my uncle,
betrayed but too plainly, that his love for the dear lost-one was
stronger, than he had dared to acknowledge either to her, or to himself.
—“My children,” said he one day to me and Ethelbert, “Edith is lost to
me, and with _her_ the joys of life! It was folly in me to expect on the
brink of the grave, that I should be so singularly fortunate, as to feel
my eyes closed by the hand of affection. I have suffered for that folly;
I feel that my powers of life are hourly growing weaker, feel that the
day of death is at hand. The few evening hours which remain, before the
night of the grave closes around me, will I dedicate to solitude and
repose. All that I possess is now your property; I only reserve for
myself the pleasant vale of Munster, and the Castle of Upper Halbstein
on the banks of the Rhine. I will hide myself in the distant shades of
the _first_, when opprest by serious melancholy thoughts, and repair to
the _second_, whenever more lively moments make me wish for the society
and comfort of Ethelbert and his beloved Urania.”—
I opposed this determination of Count Leopold; but my husband did not
second me. He saw, that this arrangement was greatly to his advantage;
and I had already found on several occasions, that he was not quite so
incapable of attention to his own interest, as I had formerly supposed.
It by no means occurred to him, that Count Venosta proposed to do too
much for us; on the contrary, he lost no time in giving solidity to my
uncle’s kind declarations, and only appeared to lament, that the deed of
gift had not included his whole property. The waving shades of the vale
of Munster and the proud castle on the Rhine seemed to have acquired
double charms in his eyes, since Leopold declared his intention of
retaining them for himself; and their value was increased beyond bounds
on Ethelbert’s being given to understand, that my uncle did not intend
to leave them to us even at his death, but destined them for a bequest
to that beloved woman, whom he could not resolve to give up all hopes of
recovering.
Count Venosta (that honest open-hearted man, who withheld no sentiment
from those, whom he looked on as his children) was amusing himself one
day with the youthful Minna, whom the recollection of her mother
rendered inexpressibly dear to him. Ethelbert remarked, as if by
accident, that the child already had acquired the sedate appearance of
the station, which she was hereafter to occupy.
—“What station?” asked my uncle with surprise.
Minna, who had been accustomed to hear her future lot pronounced by my
husband almost daily, answered with her accustomed candour—“What other
shelter can a poor orphan expect to find, except a cloister?”—
—“What?” exclaimed Count Leopold, while he prest her still closer to his
bosom, “you poor? you an orphan, while Venosta lives? No, no, my child;
I know too well, what I owe to the memory of your excellent mother! Let
who will forsake you, never shall you be forsaken by me!”—
Count Ethelbert had never been partial to the Damsel of Mayenfield; from
that day he began to hate her.
Minna too on _her_ side seemed to harbour towards my husband a secret
aversion; whose expressions she would have been unable to restrain, had
he not also inspired her with sentiments of the most unbounded terror.
—“Ah! dear Countess!” she said to me one day, when she found me weeping
at having made new discoveries of his evil dispositions, discoveries
which almost every day afforded; “you know not yet, what a bad, bad man
he is! Scarcely do I dare to tell it you; but that voice which I heard
among my mother’s ravishers.... I am certain, _quite_ certain, that
voice was Count Ethelbert’s—I had _then_ never heard it speak but so
gently and so kindly.... But the first time that I heard him rage, I
recollected it that instant. How could I have been deceived? Oh! I
remember too well the terrible sound! But I have been silent till now,
for I tremble when I but think of the cruel manner, in which he used me,
when (while imploring him to take pity on my mother) I let fall, that I
was sure of having heard his voice before.”—