------------------------------------------------------------------------
Feudal Tyrants; or The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans. Vol. III
◆ ◆ ◆
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FEUDAL TYRANTS;
OR,
_The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans_.
A ROMANCE.
_TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN._
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
◆ ◆ ◆
BY M. G. LEWIS,
AUTHOR OF
_The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c._
◆ ◆ ◆
VOL. III.
═══════════════════
_SECOND EDITION_.
═══════════════════
The portals sound, and pacing forth
With stately steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of regal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go.
— GRAY.
══════════════════════════════════
London:
Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho,
FOR J. F. HUGHES, WIGMORE STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
──
1807
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FEUDAL TYRANTS,
&c. &c. &c.
═════════════════════
PART THE FIFTH.
═════════════════════
COUNT DONAT’s DAUGHTERS.
PART II.
◆ ◆ ◆
MEMOIRS
Found in the Cell of a Nun, after her Decease, in the Convent of Zurich.
Since Amabel Bloomberg traced the letters which will be found with this,
how many years have elapsed! how many changes have taken place! How many
persons are now insensible dust, who are described as agitated with such
anxious fears and ardent hopes, by the pens of Amabel and the Damsels of
Sargans! Accident has also made me mistress of the letters of those
unfortunate sisters. Accident, did I say? Surely, it was something more
than mere chance, which brought them into the hands of her, who is most
able to supply that chasm, which otherwise would have been left in these
adventures.
To undertake this task I have both leisure and information sufficient.
My fate was too closely united with that of the sisters, to permit the
slightest particular concerning them to be concealed from me; and
jointly with theirs will my name be handed down to posterity.
Yet is it not an idle vanity, a love of worldly fame, which makes me
desire this species of immortality?—Well then, I will repress the wish.
Long practised in self-denial, I will make even this last sacrifice to
my celestial spouse, and will write, as if I treated of strangers and of
interests quite foreign to myself. No one shall know my name except
Heaven, to whom alone is thoroughly known, how much I have suffered!
When I entered the world, the course of innocence and beauty lay among a
thousand snares and pit-falls, which were the more dangerous from being
most artfully concealed. This is a truth which I learnt to my cost,
before I sought, and found, tranquillity in a convent.
Amabel was blind to those snares; though they were spread carelessly
enough for her to have seen them, had not her own guileless nature
thrown a veil over her eyes, and had not female obstinacy made her
reject the prudent warnings of her best friends.
The visit to Engelberg, which she had agreed upon in concert with her
brother’s wife, was made the next day; and the latter, as young,
imprudent, and unsuspicious as Amabel, undertook to excuse her
sister-in-law’s absence to the jealous Arnold, and the sick old man, who
suffered no quarter of an hour to pass without enquiring for his
daughter. However, Juttila engaged to invent some means for satisfying
him till Amabel’s return, which was delayed much longer than either of
them intended.
How indeed could she return so speedily, since adventures encountered
her on the road, on which she little reckoned, and whose nature was of
sufficient consequence to have a fearful influence over herself, and
over all those who were most dear to her? Alas! the cottage which she
left with such a thoughtless heart, she was destined to revisit no more
with such content: the fate of the two sisters, which she was so eager
to learn, was now enveloped by such impenetrable darkness, that she in
vain.... But I am running away from the proper order of events, which in
truth it is natural for one of my profession and time of life to do. Be
it known to you, my youthful readers that it is not easy for an old
doating Nun to transcribe even a verse out of her Psalter, without
tacking to it at least a dozen of her own childish observations.
At Engelberg Amabel found the Nun to whom Wolfenrad had directed her to
apply, and who was his confidante and the secret instrument for
effecting the carrying away of Amalberga. She assured Amabel, that her
friend had by no means been forced away; but that on account of the
assiduities of the Lord of Landenberg, and the popular disturbances
which increased with every day, Amalberga had voluntarily chosen to
withdraw herself from Engelberg.
—“Your partiality for the governor,” said the artful hypocrite, “and
your incessant pleading in behalf of a man whom she could not love, made
the Lady unwilling to let you know her design. I was her sole confidante
on this occasion, and I think I have done well in enabling the dear soul
to escape from the temptations of the wicked world! She has taken refuge
in the Convent of Zurich, under the protection of an old Lady called
Urania, who is either her friend or some near relation, for I
understand, never was there joy known equal to that of their meeting.”—
In this account Amabel could not discover the least vestige of deception
or improbability: still she blamed the Nun greatly for concealing the
real cause of Amalberga’s disappearance, by which means the spirit of
discontent was encouraged among the people against Landenberg, who bore
the odium of having violated the sanctuary, and forcibly carried away an
inmate of those holy walls.
The Nun made but an indifferent defence against this charge, and Amabel
left her by no means satisfied with her conduct. However, she soon
forgot what little had displeased her in the Nun’s conversation, and
gave herself up entirely to the joy of being assured, that one of her
friends at least was safe in the arms of friendship and of maternal
love.
—“Oh! that I could but have the same assurance respecting my beloved
Emmeline!” thus said Amabel to herself, as she hastened back to her
brother’s cottage; “Oh! that as I pass homewards, chance would but throw
Wolfenrad in my way, that I might learn from him what he knows about the
dear-one! He might just tell me in half a dozen words, and then hurry
away, in order that I might not blush too deep a crimson, when the
severe Censurer of my actions looks me in the face, and says with his
magisterial air,—‘Now, Amabel! whence do you come, and with whom have
you spoken?’—How ridiculous, that Arnold should take it into his head,
that an old man like Wolfenrad has designs upon a young creature like
me, not yet twenty! Yet ridiculous as it is, his anxiety proceeds from
the warmth of his affection for me, and I ought to forgive my good
Arnold for the faults of his head, when I recollect the kindness of his
heart.”—
Such were the thoughts which occupied Amabel, as she hastily retraced
the long way between her home and the Convent; and as she past along,
she threw many an anxious look on every side in hopes of seeing the man,
who alone could confirm to her the fortunate escape of her friend.
Wolfenrad had frequently business that carried him to Engelberg, and it
was by no means improbable, that she should encounter him on her way.
In fact, the tempter had long been at no great distance from the fair
pilgrim, though without her seeing him; since he stole along concealed
by a thick hawthorn plantation, which bordered more than half the road
between the village and the Convent of Engelberg.
It is easy for the wicked to guess what steps will be taken by
unsuspecting innocence, whose proceedings are the natural result of
existing circumstances and feelings. Wolfenrad knew how warmly Amabel’s
heart was interested about her friends; he had given her hopes of
obtaining intelligence respecting them; he had pointed out the place,
where a part of those hopes might be realized; and he was therefore
certain of finding her on the road to that place, before many days were
elapsed. He had accidentally missed seeing her on her way to Engelberg;
but when on her return she was descending the Convent-hill, he espied
her from behind the watch-tower which stands at the farthest extremity
of the mount, and then hastened to shelter himself behind the hawthorn
hedge, in order that he might unseen watch her motions, and discover
what temper she was in, before he accosted her.
And thus did he for some time steal along, examining every change of her
expressive countenance, and drawing but too just conclusions of the
subject, which employed her thoughts. Her look, now gay, now sorrowful,
and the impatient glances which she frequently threw around her, would
have been sufficient to betray her, even though a few broken sentences,
which escaped from her in the anxiety of her mind, had not left him
without a doubt of his presence being perfectly welcome.
Wolfenrad’s plans for the innocent girl’s ruin had been so long
arranged, that they were ready to be carried into effect at a moment’s
warning; nor could he have wished for a more favourable opportunity than
the present. The fiercest passion for Amabel reigned in his bosom, and
deceived _him_ who was so well skilled in deceiving others. He fancied,
that in her impatient looks, in the tone which she used in pronouncing
his name occasionally, there was something more than mere friendship for
Emmeline, and that love was the motive that made her so anxious to meet
him! Immortal powers! Love! love from a girl, pure as innocence itself,
for such an earthly dæmon, a dæmon both in person and in mind!
—“Yet however she may be disposed,” ’twas thus he argued with himself,
“too abrupt an appearance, too hasty a discovery of my views, might do
me a prejudice, and put her too much upon her guard. When her impatience
is worked up to the highest pitch, I shall be the more secure of her.”—
And therefore he still remained invisible, and hastened onwards, keeping
still a little way before her; so that when the fair pilgrim reached the
end of the plantation, and emerged into the open plain, she descried him
crossing the path at some distance, as if totally unaware of her
approach.
Amabel gave a cry of joy, called him by his name, and flew to join him.
—“Is it you, my fair dame?” answered Wolfenrad. “What would you with
me?”—and he stopped, as waiting for her to come up to him.
—“Oh! tell me! tell me! give me some tidings of the damsel of Sargans!”—
—“You have been to Engelberg, and surely must have heard more there,
than I am able to tell you.”—
“Oh! no, no, no! Emmeline! speak of Emmeline!”—
—“Why, the Lady Emmeline.... Concealment being absolutely necessary....
But we are close to your jealous brother’s house, and he may take
offence at our conference—Farewell! I must find an opportunity of
communicating what I know unobserved, when I return from Uri.”—
“From Uri? Heavens! and when do you go thither, and how long shall you
remain away?”—
—“I set out to-morrow; as to my stay, I fear the disturbances there will
make my return very distant.”—
Amabel’s impatience to know something decisive respecting her friend now
grew beyond all bounds. She entreated him at least to put it out of
doubt that Emmeline had been saved from the flames, and hesitated not to
follow him into a bye-path, which conducted to the Castle. As they
passed along, the deceiver began a long and wonderful narrative of
Emmeline’s adventures, which occupied his auditor’s whole attention; but
as it contained not one syllable of truth, it would be superfluous to
relate it here.
—“But one question more!” said Amabel at length, and stopped. “See!
night is approaching; we are already at the foot of the Castle-hill, and
I have still a weary way to traverse, ere I can regain my brother’s
cottage, where, I fear, I must be already missed. You assure me that
Emmeline is safe, and is concealed in the neighbourhood: Oh! tell me
then _where_ she is concealed, for my bosom pants to embrace her!”—
—“That were easily done. You see the Castle is close at hand: thither
have I brought her, and I mean to convey her with me to Uri to-morrow,
since the disturbances which prevail in these parts render them an
unsafe abode.”—
—“To Uri? To-morrow? Cruel, cruel Wolfenrad! Would you then have removed
her, without suffering me to see her for one moment?”—
—“How could I have contrived an interview without betraying the secret?
Had not accident thrown you in my way, I should not have had an
opportunity of even telling you, that she is in your neighbourhood.
However, as soon as she was out of the reach of discovery, you would
have received a letter explaining every thing. I left her occupied in
writing it, and when finished it was to be delivered to your husband’s
care, who is now with her at the Castle, and who has been the chief
means of bringing her hither in safety.”—
—“What say you? My husband? Is Edmund then with Emmeline? Oh! lead me to
him, dear Wolfenrad, I _must_ accompany you to the Castle; permit me to
pass this last evening with the dear lady; or at least suffer me to
embrace her once more, and assure her of my unchanged affection, and
then my husband can conduct me back to my brother.”—
Wolfenrad heard this proposal with a malicious smile, and answered that
for _his_ part he had no objection; but he suggested his fears, lest her
taking such a step should displease the suspicious Arnold, who surpassed
her husband in jealousy a thousand fold.
—“Oh! heed not that!” exclaimed Amabel; “while I am with _you_, I can
set all suspicions at defiance!”—
She said this thoughtlessly, for she alluded to his age and ugliness.
The miscreant however interpreted it to his own taste, and saw in it the
confirmation of his insolent hopes. He was on the point of rewarding the
avowal by a tender pressure of her hand, which perhaps might have opened
her eyes, ere it was too late: but she prevented him by making a
thousand fond enquiries respecting her beloved Edmund, which put him
again upon his guard, and which were not ended till they arrived at the
Castle. The gates were closed: Wolfenrad sounded his horn; the
draw-bridge descended. He entered the Castle; Amabel followed him, and
the moment that she had passed the threshold, heard with terror the
noise of a port-cullis falling behind her.
How strange is it, that we should frequently remain thoroughly blind
till we reach a certain point, and then be rouzed at once from our
delusions by some unimportant circumstance! Amabel has frequently told
me since, that the sound of that port-cullis (though nothing unusual in
the Castle) gave her the first indistinct idea of her imprudence and the
danger of her situation.
Her voice faltered, as she pronounced the names of Edmund and Emmeline,
while she hastily withdrew her hand, which Wolfenrad had now seized with
an air of impetuous passion. She looked him anxiously in the face, and
her eyes read with horror in his an expression, which explained to her
the whole fearful secret.
Yet she was still unwilling to believe that man so great a villain, whom
she had long believed so much her friend. It was not till she was
convinced, that neither Edmund nor Emmeline were in the Castle; that she
found herself totally alone with the wretch, whom she had despised as
being too insignificant to be dangerous; and that an old woman, whom (in
order to calm the first violence of her feelings) he had produced to her
as his wife, was nothing more than a domestic; it was not till then,
that she saw the whole business clearly, and the sight was one of such
danger, that perhaps had she been a woman of a common mind, it would
have thrown her into such a state of bodily insensibility, or of mental
dejection, as might effectually have prevented all endeavours to effect
an escape. But Amabel was a daughter of Helvetia! that is, she was a
woman, whose powers both of body and mind existed in their fullest
vigour; neither the first was weakened by luxurious indulgence, nor the
second liable to be subdued by imaginary terrors. In spite of all that
credulity and imprudence which had betrayed her into her present danger,
her imagination was still both clear and acute enough to suggest a means
for effecting her rescue, or at least for gaining time.
She appeared reserved and shy, and sat down in silence to the voluptuous
entertainment, which was now served up by Wolfenrad’s confidante; the
only person, whom he suffered to penetrate into that part of the Castle.
Yet did Amabel contrive to give her silence the appearance of being
preserved much against her will; she refused not at Wolfenrad’s request
to lay aside the large hat, which overshadowed her face, and which (as
he complained) concealed from him numberless beauties; nor did she draw
away very hastily or with a look of extreme displeasure her soft white
hand, when he prest it passionately between his own.
—“May I flatter myself,” said the deceived deceiver, “that Amabel does
not absolutely hate me?”—
—“My religion forbids my hating any one.”—
—“And you are not very much offended at my having employed a little
artifice to procure myself the happiness of this evening?”—
“—Artifice?—Nay; the effect of accident, and ... and, I am afraid, my
own inclination was so much on your side, that....”—
—“My charming Amabel! then I may hope, that Wolfenrad is not entirely
indifferent to you!”—
—“Indifferent? Oh! that you are not _indeed_!—And as to hoping ... why,
nobody can prevent your doing that, you know.”—
And with this kind of doubtful and flattering discourse did she long
entertain the betrayer, and forgot not to fill the silver bowls from
time to time; though the effects of his frequent draughts prevented him
from observing, that while she poured wine into his goblet, nothing but
water entered into her own.
At the expence of a few disgusting kisses, which were forced from her
occasionally, she at length had the pleasure to see Wolfenrad fall
senseless from his chair. It was midnight; the old woman had long since
betaken herself to rest, and Amabel found herself at liberty to wander
through the vacant chambers in search of some means of escape.
Alas! the locks and bars were immoveable, and no keys were to be
found.—She at length discovered an unfastened door opening into a
balcony; it overhung the middle court; the height was fearful; yet would
she have gladly ran the hazard of springing below, if she had not
dreaded the meeting there with a greater danger, than that from which
she was flying. The Castle-Garrison occupied this quarter. She heard
from above the conversation, which passed between the sentinels; and its
nature was such as to leave her no hope of finding from them protection
or even pity. It also informed her, that Wolfenrad’s bounty, and his
winking at their committing the most heinous offences, had united them
too closely to his interests, to admit even a chance of their acting in
opposition to his will.
She wept in agony! She wrung her hands! At length despair took
possession of her whole soul. She eyed for a while the torch, which
flamed in her hand, and in a moment of desperate resolution she
determined to set the Castle on fire; in hopes of either being able to
effect her escape during the conflagration, or at least of saving
herself by death from existing for one instant with dishonour.
Thus resolved, she was on the point of quitting the balcony when a
well-known name struck her ear. She stopt, and listened. Two sentinels
stood beneath the balcony, and she heard one tell the other, that it
would be necessary to wake Wolfenrad; for that he (the sentinel) was
just returned from the outer wall, and had seen a company of soldiers
crossing over the plain; that he had hailed one of them, and found them
to be part of those who had accompanied Bloomberg to Sargans, and that
their leader with the rest of his troops would follow them before
mid-day.
—“Bloomberg their leader?” said his companion. “And since when has the
gentle peace-loving Bloomberg turned soldier, and what has Wolfenrad to
fear from a fellow, who but yesterday followed the plough?”—
“Faith,” rejoined the first, “this is a time, when every countryman
exchanges his sickle and ploughshare for a sword and spear; and I know
enough of Edmund Bloomberg to be convinced, that the carrying off his
pretty wife will make him rage like a mad bull.”—
—“Carrying off, d’ye call it?” said the other; “I think, she seemed to
follow Wolfenrad of her own accord; and if Bloomberg draws his sword
upon her account, the more fool Bloomberg!”—
A burst of insulting laughter terminated this conversation, every
syllable of which pierced Amabel to the heart; and the soldiers
separated, having agreed that it was unnecessary to disturb Wolfenrad
that night, and that the news of Bloomberg’s return might safely be
delayed till the next morning.
Amabel burst into tears; but she soon recollected, that she had better
occupation than weeping. A thousand ideas floated before her mind,
inspired by the distant hope which she derived from the assurance, that
in a few hours her husband would pass within sight of her prison. The
great object therefore was to gain time to wait for his arrival with
safety, and find means to inform him of her confinement in the Castle.
Accident furnished her with both. She returned trembling into the
apartment, where the vile Wolfenrad still lay sleeping, the most odious
picture of intoxication that the eye ever witnessed. Despair made her
snatch a knife from the table, and she rushed to plunge it into his
heart; but here the softness of woman’s nature got the better of her
resolution and her vengeance. She threw down the knife, and hastened
into the balcony, that in the free air and under the sky thick sown with
stars, she might implore the Creator of that sky to look down upon and
assist her in this hour of fear and danger. She rose from prayer much
comforted: she turned towards the East, and looked eagerly for the
arrival of the dawn, whose approach was already announced. She soon
perceived, that the balcony in which she stood, though much too high
from the ground to admit of her throwing herself from it without being
dashed to pieces, at least commanded an extensive view over the
surrounding country, and was admirably calculated for summoning any
passing travellers to her assistance.
Oh! now, would but the sleeping Libertine doze away the morning, all
might be well! Often did she steal softly into the chamber to see,
whether he gave any signs of waking; again the knife attracted her gaze.
She seized it, and concealed it in her bosom, as her last resource
should all others fail.
It was now broad-day. Wolfenrad stretched himself, yawned, and opened
his red eye-lids. Amabel fled to a distant corner, but his voice soon
compelled her to return.
—“My charming angel,” said he, “come near me. You filled my goblet last
night too generously, and this morning I feel myself still under the
influence of the too potent liquor. Beshrew me, but I am marvellously
indisposed.”—
—“Let not that trouble you, my dear friend,” answered Amabel, while she
advanced a few paces, trembling with apprehension; “while I resided in
the Castle of Sargans, Count Donat frequently found himself unwell from
a similar indulgence in convivial pleasures; but he soon got the better
of his indisposition by using a warm bath, which never failed to restore
him to perfect health within an hour. In the next chamber there is a
large brazen cistern; the water shall be heated for you without delay,
and as soon as your bath is ready, I will call some of your attendants
to convey you thither.”—
Without waiting for his answer, she hastened to her new occupation; she
soon returned with one pitcher of water, then went back again for
another, and thus contrived to get rid of near an hour, never failing as
she passed the balcony to cast from it a glance of enquiry, whether
there were yet no signs of her deliverer.
It was in vain, that Wolfenrad desired her to call some of the servants
to spare her this unnecessary labour. Amabel remonstrated against the
impropriety of suffering herself to be seen by strangers in his
apartment, and at the same time protested, that she felt the greatest
pleasure in taking this trouble, since it was for _him_ that she took
it. Wolfenrad knew not how to find terms sufficiently strong to express
his gratitude for her attention, and protested, that he had not
flattered himself with the idea of possessing so warm an interest in her
heart.
He was still expatiating on the satisfaction which this agreeable
discovery gave him, when the sound of trampling at a distance struck her
hearing. She looked towards the window, and descried a cloud of dust.
Down fell the pitcher from her hand.
—“Your bath is ready!” she said in a voice scarcely audible from
agitation; and while Wolfenrad staggered into the adjoining chamber, she
hastened into the balcony. The horsemen came nearer; she recognized many
countenances well known to her; she recognized among them that of Edmund
Bloomberg.
His name pronounced in her loudest tone, the cry of “Help for the
Virgin’s sake!” and her handkerchief waved in the air towards the
horsemen, soon attracted their attention. With equal surprise and terror
Bloomberg recognized his wife at a balcony of the Castle, heard her
implore assistance, and flew with his brave companions to afford it.
What followed, I shall relate briefly: the narrative of this adventure
may appear already too circumstantial, since its connexion with the
Sisters of Sargans is not at present evident; but it had too material an
influence upon the fate of all Helvetia to admit of my passing it over
with a slight mention.
Before the Castle-Garrison had time to communicate to their Superior
that intelligence, which they ought to have conveyed to him the
preceding night, and while all hands were busily employed in guarding
against an attack on the main-quarter, Bloomberg and his friends had
already forced their way into the Castle at that neglected side, whence
Amabel had called to them for assistance.
The bath, in which the still half-intoxicated Wolfenrad hoped to get rid
of the effects of his night’s excess, was crimsoned with his blood.
Amabel again found herself safe in the hands of her husband, in whose
bosom delight contended with indignation. The opposition of the garrison
to the complete conquest of the Castle was but trifling; and this
fortress would certainly have remained in the hands of the Helvetians (a
circumstance to them of the greatest advantage) had their numbers been
strong enough to resist the troops, who were shortly after sent against
them by the Abbot of St. Gall and other allies of the governor.
Bloomberg’s friends were inadequate to maintaining the possession of
their conquest, and in a few days afterwards he was compelled to
evacuate the Castle.
Hitherto, the resentment of the multitude had been restrained within
some bounds: but Amabel’s adventure and the death of Wolfenrad were the
signal for open rebellion. The whole country was floated with blood:
would that I could say, that the blood which flowed was entirely that of
the foes of freedom! But alas! the number of the oppressors was too
mighty. The Helvetians were over-powered; and after displaying the
sentiments and performing the actions of heroes, Edmund Bloomberg,
Arnold Melthal, and his venerable father Henric (to whom patriotism and
his daughter’s injuries had restored some of his youthful strength) were
constrained to fly from those beloved unhappy vallies, which once had
been the favourite abodes of freedom and tranquillity.
The name of “flight” was of itself offensive to Helvetian candour and
courage; the place to which they were compelled to address their flight,
made it no less painful than disgraceful. Altdorf, which was in the
jurisdiction of Gessler, whose tyranny had already been the cause of
such bitter sufferings to Henric and Arnold, was the only refuge which
remained to them. By remaining here quiet and concealed, till time
allowed them to find fresh means of resisting their enemies, they hoped
to escape Gessler’s notice; and accordingly they hastened to take
shelter at Altdorf, with the brave William Tell, Bloomberg’s
half-brother: here also they were sure of a powerful protector in the
person of Walter Forest, a man whose situation and native greatness of
mind struck awe into the bosom even of the insolent Gessler.
Here then the fugitives remained concealed, and nourished hopes of
better times, which perhaps would have made even the present chearful,
had not domestic discord obtruded itself into their little circle. The
imprudence with which Amabel had thrown herself into the seducer’s
snare, in spite of all his warnings and remonstrances, had not passed
uncensured by her brother. His bitter reproaches sometimes excited
Edmund’s anger, and sometimes his jealousy; and the poor girl would have
been absolutely wretched, had not her father sustained her cause, and
had not her innocence found a most strenuous advocate in William Tell.
It is true, the language of veracity, in which she related her unadorned
story, was not to be mistaken; but still it required Tell’s cool
unprejudiced nature, and his noble guileless heart, to see every
circumstance in its real colours.
He at length succeeded in restoring perfect harmony in Bloomberg’s
family, and Amabel blessed him for the second time as the author of all
her earthly happiness. Perhaps, her entire reconciliation with her
husband was a little forwarded by Arnold’s absence. This impetuous young
man had been the ring-leader of those, who at the Easter feast had
insulted the Abbot of St. Gall by singing the ballad of “Bishop Ulric;”
the Abbot had not forgotten it; and the unfortunate Arnold at length
fell into one of the many snares, which had been spread for him by his
priestly foe. Doubtless, he would have fallen a victim to the Abbot’s
vengeance, had not Werner Bernsdorf, by means which it is unnecessary to
relate circumstantially, contrived to release him from his dungeon, and
sheltered him in his own house.
Though Amabel had received her husband’s full pardon, still the
reconciliation had taken place too freshly to allow her as yet to feel
quite at her ease: and now when the news arrived that her brother (whom
she loved most dearly in spite of his violence) was a prisoner, she
would have had sufficient reason to be unhappy, even had she not been
tormented by the most cruel anxiety respecting the fate of the Damsels
of Sargans. She ceased not to make enquiries concerning them; and at
length she received the confirmation of her bitterest apprehensions.
Amalberga was beyond a doubt totally in Landenberg’s power, who (in
spite of all Wolfenrad’s assertions to the contrary) kept her confined
in the Castle of Rassburg; nor was it less certain, that the Lady
Emmeline had perished in the flames of St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary. Report
spread far and wide many strange anecdotes respecting that
conflagration, which I shall relate in another place; in truth, there is
no one better able to give an account of that dreadful incident than
myself.
The tears, which Amabel shed for herself and for her beloved friends,
were soon required by a still more painful cause: misfortunes now
awaited her, which were worthy to be mourned with tears of blood.
The furious Gessler’s insolence increased with every succeeding day. His
most earnest care was to discover those who disapproved of him, that he
might revenge himself by their torments. At length his pride and folly
grew to such a height, that he fixed the plumed bonnet (which he usually
wore) upon a lance in the market-place of Altdorf, and ordered, that all
who passed should bow before it. The sneering populace obeyed, and
contented themselves with whispering to each other, that they had much
rather pay their respect to the empty hat, than the wicked head which it
was accustomed to decorate: but William Tell and some few others of the
principal inhabitants passed by the bonnet proudly and with unbending
necks. From that moment did Gessler mark them down as the future victims
of his revenge and rancour.
Had the tyrant dared to lay violent hands on Tell, or had he contrived
means of stamping the mark of infamy on his reputation; had he sold the
wife of his bosom for a slave, or murdered his infants before his eyes;
still would all these atrocities have been excelled by that, which now
entered his infernal brain. A prize was to be contended for by archers.
The sport was interrupted by the arrival of Gessler. What was the horror
of all who heard him, when he commanded his guards to seize Tell’s son,
a lovely child but four years old, and bind him to the tree which had
been selected as a mark for the arrows. He then declared aloud with the
most impious execrations, that the heads of six of Tell’s relations
(whom he had confined upon some slight pretences) should fall before
night, unless the father would engage at a considerable distance to fix
a dart into an apple, which should be placed on the head of the child.
How did the father burn with secret indignation, when Gessler dared to
lay before him this unnatural proposal! No earthly force could have
compelled him to arm his hand for the performance of an action so
uncertain and so fearful; yet in fact the bow and arrow could be
scarcely called an uncertain weapon in the hands of the most dexterous
archer in Helvetia: and after a few moments past in thought he
confidently accepted a proposal, whose atrocity (he was certain) was
thoroughly felt by all present; and whose consequence he trusted would
be the kindling the fire of liberty in every bosom till it should at
length break into open flames, and the emancipating his country for ever
from its present state of ignominious bondage.
A glance, more expressing contempt than wrath, was darted by Tell’s dark
eyes upon the Governor, as he rocked himself backwards and forwards upon
his elevated chair of state, and looked down upon the circle of noble
Helvetians, whom the sports had attracted to Altdorf, as if they had
been creatures of an inferior kind.
Gessler was too void of sensibility to understand the meaning of the
glance, which was darted on him by Tell’s piercing eye. He only smiled
contemptuously at having compelled the pride of this great mind to stoop
itself to his orders, when he saw him press the lovely laughing child,
his latest-born, to his heart with passion, and then bear him in his
arms to the tree, where he was destined to take his stand. The apple,
which was the nominal mark for that arrow, whose point Gessler hoped to
see crimsoned with human blood, was fixed on the child’s head by the
hands of the unhappy father.
Gessler’s attendants prepared to bind the innocent creature to the tree;
but a spark of paternal spirit already burned in the soul of the son.
—“I am an Helvetian!” cried he with boyish eagerness; “I am not afraid
of death, but of bonds: why, if my father _really_ wanted to kill me, do
you think I would run away?”—
All withdrew from the place, where Death’s intended victim stood calm
and sweetly-smiling, like a second Isaac. The multitude, agonized with
terror, could scarcely be heard to breathe: Tell had already taken his
station. All were still, all dreading, lest the father’s hand, rendered
trembling and uncertain by anxiety for his darling, should for the first
time miss the mark; when the arrow whistled through the air, and fixed
itself in the apple just above the crown of the child’s head, who saw it
coming towards him, and smiled as he marked its flight.
Now then all rushed, eagerly to learn the event of this awful scene.
Some exclaimed—“He is fallen! he is fallen!”—But the boy had only
stooped to pick up the apple which the force of the blow had struck from
his head; and he now presented it to his father, who had flown to
embrace his rescued darling with speed scarce inferior to that of his
arrow.
—“I was certain, father,” cried the child, as he hung round the neck of
the breathless Tell, “I was certain, that you were not _really_ going to
kill your own William!”—
—“Kill _thee_?” exclaimed the father; “sooner would I have driven the
arrow into my own heart! But eternal curses and sudden death to him, who
would have made a man the murderer of his own child! Look!” he
continued, while he clasped the boy to his breast with one hand, and
with the other drew from his bosom a dart, which he held towards
Gessler, “Look, monster! had the first arrow pierced my son’s breast,
_this_ should have been buried to the very beard in _thine_.—For this
time thou art safe; but yet rest thou assured, that at the last thou
shalt not escape unpunished! Though _I_ may spare thee, Heaven will
_not_.”—
—“Vengeance! vengeance! death and curses to the tyrant! Eternal
destruction to the infernal Gessler and all the miscreants who assist
him!” thus exclaimed the multitude with one voice; while they closed
round Tell in order to conduct him home in safety, and protect him from
the Governor’s guards, to whom a signal had been given to fall upon him
without delay.
But the friends of liberty were too weak in numbers to resist their
powerful oppressors. Before the gallant Tell had retraced half the way
to his cottage, his companions were dispersed, and himself delivered
into the hands of his enemy. Gessler commanded, that he should be bound,
thrown into a vessel which was ready for sailing, and conveyed to the
dungeons of Kussnach, as a violator of the respect due to imperial
dignity.
No one was suffered to accompany Tell; but his little son clung to the
bonds which were cutting the flesh of his father, and cried, that he
would throw himself into the flood, if they tore him from him. Gessler’s
soldiers had no objection to taking two victims instead of one, and
yielded to the child’s request, whom Amabel followed into the vessel
without being questioned. The boy was her darling, and it was she who
had conducted him to the fatal archery, where it was his destiny to play
so principal a part. The cry that he was safe had rouzed her from the
swoon into which the sight of his danger had thrown her; and she now
found it impossible to part so soon from the cherub, whom she had
expected never more to clasp to her bosom but as a corse. She had also
no slight grounds for apprehending new dangers for the rescued victim,
should she leave him in the hands of his enemies with no other protector
than his captive father. Gessler’s servile ministers could not have well
pitched upon a more skilful or certain means of inflicting pain on Tell,
than by murdering his son before his face.
Amabel was aware of this; and dreading lest this horrible plan of
vengeance should occur to the soldiers, she took the first opportunity
of enticing the child away from his father, and concealing him in a dark
corner of the vessel. Here she charged the little William to remain
quiet, and pointing to Tell, bade him observe how quiet his father was
lying on the floor, his fettered hands clasped together and raised
towards Heaven, whither his eyes directed devout and imploring glances,
which reached the Preserver of innocence above the clouds.
—“What is my father doing?” enquired the child at length in a whisper.
—“He is praying for himself and for us,” answered Amabel.
—“Oh! then God will hear him, and help him; and then you know, we can
creep out, and take away those ugly cords from his poor bleeding
hands.”—
Amabel replied in the manner, which she thought most likely to satisfy
the child; and a conversation was carried on in whispers between her and
her little companion which gradually became interesting enough to
prevent their observing that a dreadful storm was rising, that thick
clouds had changed the day into night, and that the light vessel was
forced far out of its intended course. The rolling of the thunder, the
frequent flashes of lightning, and the heavy torrents of rain at length
made both attentive and silent; till William proposed that he should
steal to his father under covert of the thick darkness, and spread his
little coat over him, for Tell lay entirely exposed to the tempest.
Amabel burst into tears as she listened to the kind-hearted boy, then
gave him her own cloak, and bade him hasten to alleviate the prisoner’s
sufferings.
But Tell showed by no sign, that he was conscious of this affecting
testimony of his child’s care: he remained with his hands clasped, and
his eyes still fixed upon the heavens. Perhaps, the transactions of that
day had blunted all his feelings; perhaps, he was revolving plans of
escape, which never fail to occupy the thoughts of the captive hero, and
whose future execution frequently prevent his being sensible of the
weight of present calamities.
The tempest continued to rage: with every moment the danger of the
slight vessel became more imminent. Tell, Amabel, and the child were now
left by themselves. The other persons were employed in various quarters,
endeavouring if possible to save the ship, which was already deprived of
sail and mast. The prisoners were now the happiest of the party: they at
least rejoiced in the hope of perishing together. The child too, who had
no clear idea of the danger, and fancied that everything went wrong only
because his father was in bonds, ceased not to exert all his little
powers in endeavouring to untye the cords; but even with Amabel’s
assistance he found the task too difficult for his strength.
While they were still employed in this unavailing labour, they heard the
cry of distress increase with tenfold violence: presently some one on
the upper deck exclaimed—“Now then all is lost! What winds and waves
have failed in doing, will be done by the hidden rocks which abound upon
this coast, and with which not a soul of us is acquainted. Oh! what
would I now give to be as good a pilot as Tell, and to possess his
knowledge of these shores!”—
Amabel started up, and listened with more attention. She heard the name
of Tell frequently mentioned; and after a few minutes past in
contention, some of the sailors approached the place, where she stood by
the side of her unfortunate friend.
—“Tell,” said the Captain, “you know, that your life is forfeit to the
law; but if you will engage to conduct the vessel safe to land, as a
favour we will unbind you, and promise to do our utmost to obtain a
milder sentence for you from the Emperor’s mercy.”—
—“I have saved many a vessel,” answered Tell, “in a more desperate
situation than the present; and that which has succeeded with me ten
times before, I trust, will not fail with me now.—As to what you say
about favours, bestow them on those who ask them; I expect mercy from no
one, save from Him under whose hand we all now tremble!”—
Tell was unbound, and the rudder committed to his care. William and
Amabel still remained close by his side, while the rest of the ship’s
company dispersed to their several stations.
Tell’s rudder seemed to command the tempest: he steered confidently
through the foaming waves, and already the companions of his danger
shouted with joy at the certainty of their escape.
—“And what will be the reward of our preserver?” asked one of the most
compassionate among Gessler’s soldiers.
—“What _should_ it be?” answered their leader angrily. “The most he can
lay claim to is a speedy death without being previously tortured; or
perhaps his sentence may be softened into that of eternal
imprisonment.”—
Tell was silent, and cast a despairing look through the dark clouds of
the storm towards the Only-one, from whom he had hopes of assistance!
—“Oh! that I had no one here to tremble for, except myself!” said Tell
to the afflicted Amabel, who knelt beside him after a silence of some
minutes—“how quickly should I be safe from the malice of my enemies!”—
—“And what then would you do?”—
—“The rocks are not lofty! One bold and lucky spring, and I were in
safety!”—
—“Throw me into the waves, father!” cried the boy, “throw me into the
waves, for _I_ am a hindrance to you!”—
At that moment a tremendous flash of lightning illuminated the whole
scene. Tell descried an immense tree at a slight distance growing out of
a rock which they were approaching, and extending its arms far over the
foaming flood—
“Amabel!” cried Tell, “dare you seize a bough of that tree as we pass
under it, suffer the bark to be carried away from you, and cling fast to
the branch, till I have time to come to your assistance?”—
—“I dare! I dare!” cried Amabel in the tone of desperation—“But the
child! Oh! God! the child!”—
—“Be that my care!—Be prepared!—Now then!” he cried, and was obeyed. He
saw that she had fast hold of the bough, and in the same moment he
seized the boy with his left arm, with his right turned the rudder
to-wards the rock, then sprang boldly from the deck, and left the vessel
with its unthankful freight a prey to the raging flood. The tempest
seized it; the rudder was broken in the shock, and dreadful was the
shriek of the crew, as the fury of the winds and waves drove it far away
over the roaring billows. Tell sprang upon the rock unhurt; he hastily
climbed up the upper part of the coast, and having placed the boy on the
ground, he flew to give Amabel his assistance. But she, who was
deficient neither in strength of body or presence of mind, had already
found means to gain the rock in which the tree was rooted, had forced
her way through all impediments, and had nearly reached the loftiest of
the broken cliffs, before he could arrive. He assisted her to attain the
summit, when she instantly sank on her knees, and returned thanks to God
with all the joy of one just rescued from destruction.
But I forget, that Tell and Amabel are in fact foreign to my story, and
I have already suffered myself to dwell on their adventures too long, to
the prejudice of my real heroines. I will therefore pass over in silence
the circumstances which followed their escape from the vessel, and those
which again threw them into Gessler’s power. Suffice it to say, that the
dart which the Avenger of human nature seemed to have reserved for that
express purpose, the dart which Tell had shown Gessler, in the first
burst of his indignation, that very dart pierced the tyrant’s bosom; and
thus was Helvetia freed from a monster, who had laid waste her tranquil
vallies with circumstances of much greater cruelty, than were ever
attributed to fabled dragons in the Legends of Romance.
After performing this dangerous act of justice, Tell betook himself to
Stein, where he intended to take refuge with Werner Bernsdorf. Here he
found new cause to rejoice at having rid the world of Gessler.
Bernsdorf’s new-raised edifice, the admiration of the whole country, lay
an heap of ashes! Gessler had thought it too good for a private man, and
had threatened to pull it down. Werner laughed at his threats, for it
seemed to be no trifle to destroy the property of a man of his
consequence, while living in the midst of a neighbourhood, where every
arm and every heart were devoted to his service: but he did not reflect,
that villany can find a hundred secret means for effecting its purposes.
In the depth of the night a fire broke out, which, from its bursting all
at once from the four corners of the building, and at a time when all
were buried in sleep, gained ground too rapidly to admit of its being
got under. Werner and Gertrude saved nothing from the flames, except
their lives. Every one exclaimed against secret incendiaries, and no one
doubted by whose orders this shameful action had been committed: in
fact, there were proofs sufficient to make it morally certain, that the
author of this mischief could be no other than Gessler.
The sight of his friend’s distress (for this fire had reduced Werner to
beggary) raised Tell’s indignation to the highest pitch. He left Amabel
and his son to the care of Gertrude, and hastened with Bernsdorf in
disguise back to Altdorf, to consult with Walter Forest and Henric
Melthal on the best and speediest means of rescuing Helvetia from her
disgraceful yoke. Arnold Melthal also, who had but lately escaped from
the dungeons of the Abbot of St. Gall, increased their band; and the
union of five men so remarkable for courage and for prudence produced
such fortunate and such glorious consequences, as will immortalize their
names to the latest posterity[1].
Footnote 1:
Bernsdorf’s real name was Staufacher.