fortune to obtain the prize, a ring apparently of considerable value. I
was pleased both with the jewel, and with the manner in which I obtained
it, and never failed to wear it on all solemn festivals; till a person
well skilled in precious stones convinced me, that the diamond was false
and the ring itself scarcely worth three golden shields[3]. Incensed at
having been so grossly imposed upon, I snatched it from my finger, and
threw it over the battlements: the circumstance of its having been the
reward of my address soon made me wish to recover it; but though my
squire was immediately dispatched, he returned without having been able
to find it. I had quite forgotten this ring and all its circumstances;
but on both the two nights preceding Torrenburg’s entry into the Castle
of Sargans, I dreamt, that in traversing the subterraneous passage I
found my lost ring, and that the false stone was changed into a diamond,
which illuminated the whole cavern with its radiance.
Footnote 3:
A coin so called, from its bearing a shield imprest upon it.
“I cannot account for the strong impression, which this dream made upon
my fancy; yet (Heaven knows!) I set but little store upon the treasures
of this world, and were I possest of all the diamonds which the earth
contains, I should only employ them to adorn our Redeemer’s cross; that
cross, which it is my firm resolution to wear in future against the
Saracens, and other enemies of our holy religion. Yet in spite of this
contempt of wealth, and of the little faith which I put in omens, the
repetition of this dream struck my imagination so forcibly, that I could
not rest without ascertaining, whether the vaults did really contain the
ring, which I had so long lost.
“My disagreement with Torrenburg had made it impossible for me to
satisfy my doubts by means of the Castle-entrance: but I thought it by
no means unlikely, that there might be some communication between the
passage and the ruined Abbey of Curwald, which was situated at no great
distance, and was just beginning to be rebuilt.
“I was well acquainted with Father John; a worthy man, who had lately
been appointed the Superior of those few Monks, who had escaped from
Count Donat’s barbarity. He readily acceded to my request, and I
immediately began my work.
“For several days the ruins were examined without success: yet the
assurance of one of the elder Monks, that he remembered having heard
(but merely as a tradition) that a private communication had formerly
existed between the Convent and Sargans, made me unwilling to give up
the pursuit. It was frequently my custom after dismissing my labourers
(wearied with their fruitless endeavours to discover that, which they
were firmly persuaded had no existence) to wander by myself, and mark
the melancholy contrast made by the slowly-rising walls of the new
building, with the ruins of the old one which had not yet been removed.
The vaults beneath the Convent being generally the scene of our
enquiries, as affording us the best chance for finding the so much
wished-for passage, I frequently loitered here alone, after my workmen
had left me for the evening, A fixed melancholy had taken possession of
my soul: in truth, it could not well be otherwise, surrounded as I was
on all sides by memorials of mortality, and the marks of celestial
judgments!
—“Where,” said I often to myself, “where are now the voluptuous
pleasures of the Monks of Curwald? where the pride and power of the
tyrants of Carlsheim and Sargans? The grave has swallowed them all;
nothing remains of them, but the memory of their crimes and the
detestation of posterity!—Herman, still preserve in your heart unshaken
the love of virtue, and not less the hatred of vice: be at once the
terror of the profligate and the friend of the innocent and the
helpless. Bring equally before the world’s eye the rights of the opprest
and the crimes of the oppressor, and unite in one person the protecting
and the avenging angel.”—
“These ideas prest themselves upon my mind with more than ordinary
force, as I sat one evening in one of the Convent-vaults upon a heap of
stones. It was in the vault nearest to those of Sargans; and despairing
of finding the old secret communication, I had at length resolved to
employ my workmen in digging out a new one. They had already commenced
their labours, and were retired after making no inconsiderable progress.
The hour was late; darkness had closed round me, but an iron lamp was
fixed against the wall and guided my steps, as I slowly traversed to and
fro this abode of religious melancholy. The scene was congenial to the
state of my feelings; I consecrated it to secret sorrow; and here it was
that I offered up my prayers for the future, here it was that I poured
forth my tears, while dwelling upon the past. Yes, holy Mother, my
_tears_! The stern and haughty Herman of Werdenberg has wept frequently;
has wept, when if any eye had witnessed the drops, his cheek would have
blushed with shame at the unworthy cause of his sorrow; to _you_ alone,
to the ear of indulgent pity, he scruples not to disclose the secret of
his weakness.
“Lady, my tears streamed for having formed an early attachment for one,
who deserved not my affection. I once adored Emmeline of Sargans; but I
tore her from my heart, convinced that it was impossible for _her_ to be
virtuous, who had been educated in the very lap of vice. Yet Amalberga,
Emmeline’s sister, and who had been educated with her, was modest, pure,
and irreproachable; then why not Emmeline? What had since happened to
that unfortunate was unknown to me; and my disagreement with her
brother-in-law prevented my obtaining that information from him, which I
was now most anxious to obtain; for one of his expressions had cut me to
the very soul, and I strove in vain to banish it from my memory. He told
me, “that my rigour had driven Emmeline into the jaws of perdition;” and
while his words lay heavy upon my heart, I could not but own, that it
was possible for his accusation to be well-founded. An union with an
honest man, such as Herman of Werdenberg boasts himself to be, would
have been the best and most certain means of rescuing her from the power
of her licentious father and the contagion of his example. Yet what
could I do? Say, that I was mistaken in my judgment of Emmeline; still
was it incumbent on me to run so great a risque to preserve her, as to
entrust the care of my honour to one, who I feared would prove a wanton?
“But at all events, these considerations came too late. Nothing was now
left for me but to banish recollections which, (Heaven only knows, why)
intruded themselves upon me so forcibly, and which certainly were the
most absurd and fruitless, with which I could have employed my mind. Yet
still they _did_ employ it in spite of all my efforts, as I sat with my
eyes sometimes fixed on the dark vaults which frowned above me,
sometimes on the glimmerings of the distant lamp, without being
conscious what it was, at which I was gazing. At length incensed at my
own folly I started from my seat, and was quitting the vault abruptly,
when a faint murmur struck my hearing.
“I stopped. It was not the first time, that I had heard something like a
groan, while traversing these vaults; but I had always supposed the
noise to be occasioned by the wind, or else to be the echo of my own
heart-drawn sighs. But now it was not only more loud and more distinct,
but I almost fancied, that it was followed by sounds resembling words
spoken by one in agony.
“I hastened back to the place, which I had just quitted. I shouted, to
observe whether an echo would answer me, but all was silent.—I removed
to a distance; I came back again; I placed my head against the wall of
the cavern; I knelt, and laid my ear to the ground; I heard the noise
again. I endeavoured to trace it; still it continued, sometimes louder,
sometimes weaker; till at length it conducted me to a small iron grating
inserted in the ground, and from whence the wind, which blew upon me,
seemed to be more heavy and chilling, than that which I breathed in the
vaults above.
“And through this opening did a voice now reach me, whose melancholy
tones seemed those of a female! It sounded so audibly, that all my
doubts vanished at once, and all my sensations resolved themselves into
the single eager enquiry—‘By what means I could assist the sufferer?’—
—“Are you then come at last?” answered the voice; “but speak louder, for
I cannot understand what you say!—My senses are so confused ... and my
brain seems to whirl round and round so rapidly!”—
“I repeated my enquiries, but with no better effect.”
—“I hear the sound of your voice, but not your words,” answered the
captive; “and weakness prevents my dragging myself nearer to the
grate—Do you bring me food?—Alas! it is so long since you last visited
me!—I was afraid, that you had died suddenly—Afraid, did I say?—Oh!
Heaven, who would have suspected, that I should ever have dreaded
Luprian’s death!”—
“These words were pronounced slowly, and in broken sentences. I now
stretched my voice to its utmost extent, and dwelt with peculiar
emphasis on the words “Help” and “Liberty.”
—“Liberty?” she repeated; “no, Luprian; at your price it would be too
dearly purchased. Urge me no more to be the partner of your flight:
could I have ever stooped to disgrace, I need not have languished so
long in this dreary dungeon. If I have no choice left but death or
infamy, I prefer the former; leave me, and let me die!—And yet.... Oh!
God in Heaven! To part with even the most miserable existence is so
bitter.... Oh! it is still so bitter!”
“I saw, that it would be vain for me to labour any more at making myself
understood; and the faint tone, in which these last words were uttered,
alarmed me. Yet I spoke once again, but no answer was returned; I
doubted not, that the unfortunate had fainted.
“How I might effect her delivery with the utmost celerity, I knew not;
yet in my anguish and uncertainty I accidentally struck upon that, which
was most prudent: I hastened to the small temporary building inhabited
by Abbot John and his Monks; I related in a few words what had happened,
and requested their advice.
“The Fraternity one and all hastened with me to the vault, every one
bearing a mattock, a pick-axe, or some such instrument. They were holy
benevolent men, resembling the original founders of their Order, and had
escaped as it were by a miracle from the flames, in which their guilty
brethren had perished. They were eager to redeem by their own conduct
the slur, which the crimes of others had brought upon their Convent, and
were as greedy of good actions, as most other Monks are of rich legacies
and well-stored cellars.
“We were now near the vault, and already the beams of the distant lamp
struck our eyes; but on our entrance, those among us who were
best-sighted were aware, that the vault was not so totally unoccupied,
as I had left it. By the glimmerings of a small lanthorn a tall dark
figure was descried, kneeling on the before-mentioned grating. I sprang
forward. The stranger heard my steps, started from the ground, and
rushed by me so suddenly, that I attempted to stop him in vain. I called
to the approaching Monks not to let him pass; but before they could
reach him, his foot stumbled, and he fell prostrate on the ground.
“Totally engrossed by their impatience to rescue the prisoner, my
companions were hastening forwards without paying any attention to the
stranger; but a thought, which passed through my mind like a flash of
light, made me conceive, how important it was to examine him. I
flattered myself, that I should discover in him that same Luprian, whom
the unfortunate had mentioned, and who in all probability was her
gaoler. Should my conjecture prove correct, I considered this meeting as
a great step towards her deliverance: I therefore grasped him firmly by
the arm, and dragged him towards the lamp, in order that I might examine
my prize.
“I beheld a miserable creature, enveloped in the ragged habit of a monk,
and whose bloodless cheeks, sunk eyes, and emaciated limbs would have
excited my deepest compassion, had I not had good cause to harbour
suspicions, that compassion was a sentiment, of which he was but little
deserving.
—“Art thou Luprian?” said I in a thundering voice.
“He sank at my feet, and stammered out an avowal.
—“Wretch!” I continued; “what motive could induce thee to confine an
unfortunate woman in yonder subterraneous dungeon?”—
“He was silent for a few moments; then suddenly starting from the
ground—“You know that she _is_ confined there,” said he with a furious
look, “and knowing that, you know enough to destroy me! Ask me no more
questions; I will answer none!”—
“He threw himself sullenly upon the heap of ruins, and maintained an
obstinate silence. Unwilling to own that I knew no more than his name, I
first endeavoured to terrify him into a disclosure of this mystery; and
finding my threats produce no effect, I had recourse to persuasion,
painting in as strong colours as possible the cruelty of suffering the
unfortunate to remain longer in her prison, and exhorting him to atone
in some degree for his faults towards his captive, by being himself the
instrument to effect her release. In the mean while my companions had
fallen to work with their spades and mattocks; but large pieces of stone
frequently fell into the dungeon below; and the cries of the sufferer,
who dreaded being crushed beneath their weight, convinced them, how
dangerous was this mode of procuring her deliverance, and finally
compelled them to desist from the attempt.
“What was now to be done? While we agitated this question, Luprian stood
with his arms folded, silent and thoughtful, as if He too had been
resolving some difficult point; at length he threw himself on his knees
before us; and on condition that his life and liberty should be secured
to him, he made a proposal, which he swore to fulfil conscientiously.
—“No one but myself,” said he, “can enable you to set that captive free,
and it is in my power to show you such means as are most sure and
speedy. You see how rotten is this vault, and you may judge from the
faint murmur of her complaints, how deep her dungeon is sunk into the
ground. It will at any rate be long, ere you can force your way to her;
and from her extreme weakness it is unlikely, that she should live till
your arrival, even should she escape the imminent danger of having her
brains dashed out by some fragment of the crumbling roof. But only speak
one word to assure me of life and forgiveness, and I will immediately
furnish you with explanations, which (should you refuse my offer) this
dagger shall enable me to take with me to the grave.”—
“The naked steel, which Luprian now pointed towards his bosom, inspired
us with no alarm. It would have been easy to wrest the weapon from his
grasp; but our impatience to assist the unfortunate captive compelled us
to give the required promise. Her complaints had now again ceased to be
audible; and we felt, that not a moment was to be lost, if we meant to
find her still in existence.
“As soon as we had solemnly engaged not to attempt either his life or
freedom, Luprian resigned his dagger to one of the Monks, and informed
us, that in order to accomplish our object it would be necessary to quit
the vault, and seek a different entrance to the lady’s dungeon, which
was well known to him. Accordingly we followed him for some time, till
we arrived at a remote part of the Convent ruins.
—“Here,” said he, stopping before a ruined wall, from which he removed a
few loose stones, and showed us a narrow flight of stairs; “here you
must descend, and these steps will conduct you to the place, of which
you are in search. Now then I have performed my promise, and require the
performance of yours: permit me to retire.”—
“I hastily seized a torch from one of the Monks, and was hastening down
the staircase, without giving myself a moment’s reflection: but the more
prudent Abbot detained me, gave the torch to Luprian, and commanded him
to finish the work which he had begun, before he claimed the reward of
his services.
“Nothing was left for him but to obey. He guided us down about fifty
steps, and after reaching the foot of the stairs we had a subterraneous
passage to traverse of the same length with that, which had led us from
the grating to the ruined wall. It was terminated by an iron door
strongly fastened on the outside, and which had we not detained Luprian,
we should have found no little difficulty, and lost no little time, in
opening. As I made this observation, I cast upon him an accusing glance;
but the door unclosing left me no time to express in words my
indignation at this proof of his intended treachery. We rushed eagerly
into the dungeon, and found it to be a large vaulted cell, of which
darkness had taken such complete possession, that the beams of our
torches were insufficient to dissipate the gloom, and could only shed a
faint glimmering around us. Its only recommendations were its loftiness
and space. By holding our lights on high, we could discern (but with
difficulty) the iron grating inserted in the roof, through which the
complaints of the prisoner had so seasonably reached me. Exactly beneath
it stood a loaf and a flask of wine, which Luprian had just let down
into the dungeon; and in a corner of it stretched on a miserable pallet
the object of our search lay fainting, as indeed we had suspected from
her silence. With the assistance of one of the younger Monks I raised
her from the ground, and bore her to the upper air, which we considered
as the most likely means of bringing her to herself.
“This hope however proved vain. Animation was lost too completely to be
so easily recalled. Above an hour had elapsed since our conveying her to
the Abbot’s dwelling (where no means were neglected that could restore
animation) before we had the least reason to flatter ourselves with
hopes of her recovery. At length with inexpressible delight we saw her
half unclose her eyes; but she instantly shut them again on account of
the pain caused in them by the light, to which they were now quite
unaccustomed.
“We gave her every possible assistance, and after some time she gained
strength and recollection enough to enable her to comprehend the
favourable change, which had taken place in her situation. Tears of joy,
and her clasped hands raised in gratitude to Heaven, were her only
answer. She strove to thank us for the service which we had rendered
her; but emotion choaked her utterance, and to express her sense of our
kindness by looks was not in her power, since the beams of the sun (who
was now risen) were so painful to her eyes, that she had been obliged to
cover her face with a thick veil to save herself from relapsing into
insensibility.
“We therefore carefully excluded day-light from her chamber, and left
her to repose. While she slept, we resolved to take the opportunity of
making Luprian explain a business, which we conceived to be of some
importance, and respecting which our curiosity was raised to the highest
pitch by hearing some of the Monks assert their persuasion, that
Luprian’s features were not unknown to them. The last Abbot of Curwald,
who was supposed to have perished in the conflagration, had borne that
name, and in spite of his pale countenance and meagre form they verily
believed my prisoner to be no other. We were now all impatience to
ascertain this point; but we found, that in order to effect our object
we ought to have been more upon our guard. Occupied by the melancholy
situation of the lady, which excited universal interest and compassion,
not one of us had paid the least attention to her gaoler: now that we
recollected him, he was not to be found. It appeared probable, that he
had forsaken us immediately upon our entrance into the subterraneous
dungeon, since no one remembered to have seen him since that time, nor
indeed to have bestowed a thought upon him. We had now nothing left for
it but to rail at our inattention, and to lay the blame upon each other.
However, we did not think our loss of any material consequence, since we
doubted not the lady’s ability to clear up the mystery; and at all
events the captive was at liberty, and we had effected a good deed.
“She awoke, greatly strengthened by her refreshing slumber: her first
request was to be removed from the society of men, and committed to the
charge of persons of her own sex. We had already agreed with a
respectable widow in one of the neighbouring villages, that the invalid
should be taken to her house, as soon as she was able to bear the
removal. The good woman soon made her appearance, and the stranger’s
impatience to quit the Monastery was so extreme, that we judged her
likely to suffer less detriment from the journey than from delay. The
distance was not great; she was placed in an easy litter; and her nurse
took such good care of her both during her removal and afterwards, that
she was quickly pronounced out of all danger. Her eyes again became
accustomed to day-light; her hearing was no longer hurt by the loudness
of human voices, and she could speak without difficulty: yet has she
never thought proper to disclose her name either to myself, or to the
Abbot who visited her daily.—But let it still remain concealed; there is
at least _one_ title, which after hearing the brief relation of her
sufferings I know well to be her proper right; the title of the purest
and most heroic of virtuous martyrs, a name which deserves to be
engraved on marble, and employed to add sanctity to altars!
“You are surprised, holy Lady, to hear the cold and serious Herman speak
with such enthusiasm; but let it not injure me in your opinion. The
rescued prisoner perhaps was once beautiful, but now she is so no
longer. Sorrow and confinement have robbed her person of every charm,
which could inspire the voluptuary’s heart with passion: yet were I ever
to love again, my soul should be devoted to the perfection of female
virtue, not of female loveliness. Emmeline, the enchanting Emmeline,
with all her train of charms and graces, perhaps, I may in time cease to
remember; but never, oh! never shall I forget the form of my pale
emaciated captive, sinking into the grave the victim of her principles;
never while he has breath, shall that interesting countenance fade from
the recollection of Herman of Werdenberg!
“But I have wandered widely from the object of this long discourse; I
came hither to make a request, to which all that I have said is but an
introduction: the health of this noble persecuted creature, of my
friend, my sister, my preserved one, is now almost re-established. She
begins to consider, what it will hereafter be most expedient for her to
do; and as she says, that she has no relation in the world to whom she
dares confide her interests, she has condescended to ask my advice
respecting her future proceedings. We both agreed, that a convent is the
most proper retreat for her in her present circumstances; and on my
mentioning to her that, which is under your direction, holy Mother, she
received the proposal with rapture.
—“Oh! surely,” she exclaimed, “my mind cannot yet be quite itself again,
or I could not have hesitated a moment respecting my choice.—Helen of
Homburg!—the Convent of Zurich!—Heavenly powers, how could I have
forgotten those dear dear names so long?”—
“She then enquired eagerly, whether Urania Venosta still lived within
these walls; and when I answered in the affirmative, she discovered such
strong emotion, as her gentle despondent manners had little led me to
expect her being capable of feeling. She clasped her hands in ecstacy; a
shower of tears rolled down her pale cheeks, while she sank on her
knees, and returned thanks to Heaven; she then entreated me to leave her
without delay, and prepare a reception for her in your Convent. I would
willingly have first ascertained, whether she was already known to you;
but her impatience would not admit of my postponing my journey for an
instant, and I was compelled to depart unsatisfied.