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WAGNER, THE WEHR-WOLF.
By GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_PART I._
PROLOGUE.
It was the month of January, 1516.
The night was dark and tempestuous; the thunder growled around; the
lightning flashed at short intervals: and the wind swept furiously along
in sudden and fitful gusts.
The streams of the great Black Forest of Germany babbled in playful
melody no more, but rushed on with deafening din, mingling their torrent
roar with the wild creaking of the huge oaks, the rustling of the firs,
the howling of the affrighted wolves, and the hollow voices of the
storm.
The dense black clouds were driving restlessly athwart the sky; and when
the vivid lightning gleamed forth with rapid and eccentric glare, it
seemed as if the dark jaws of some hideous monster, floating high above,
opened to vomit flame.
And as the abrupt but furious gusts of wind swept through the forest,
they raised strange echoes--as if the impervious mazes of that mighty
wood were the abode of hideous fiends and evil spirits, who responded in
shrieks, moans, and lamentations to the fearful din of the tempest.
It was, indeed, an appalling night!
An old--old man sat in his cottage on the verge of the Black Forest.
He had numbered ninety years; his head was completely bald--his mouth
was toothless--his long beard was white as snow, and his limbs were
feeble and trembling.
He was alone in the world; his wife, his children, his grandchildren,
all his relations, in fine, _save one_, had preceded him on that long,
last voyage, from which no traveler returns.
And that _one_ was a grand-daughter, a beauteous girl of sixteen, who
had hitherto been his solace and his comfort, but who had suddenly
disappeared--he knew not how--a few days previously to the time when we
discover him seated thus lonely in his poor cottage.
But perhaps she also was dead! An accident might have snatched her away
from him, and sent her spirit to join those of her father and mother,
her sisters and her brothers, whom a terrible pestilence--_the Black
Death_--hurried to the tomb a few years before.
No: the old man could not believe that his darling granddaughter was no
more--for he had sought her throughout the neighboring district of the
Black Forest, and not a trace of her was to be seen. Had she fallen down
a precipice, or perished by the ruthless murderer's hand, he would have
discovered her mangled corpse: had she become the prey of the ravenous
wolves, certain signs of her fate would have doubtless somewhere
appeared.
The sad--the chilling conviction therefore, went to the old man's heart,
that the only being left to solace him on earth, had deserted him; and
his spirit was bowed down in despair.
Who now would prepare his food, while he tended his little flock? who
was there to collect the dry branches in the forest, for the winter's
fuel, while the aged shepherd watched a few sheep that he possessed? who
would now spin him warm clothing to protect his weak and trembling
limbs?
"Oh! Agnes," he murmured, in a tone indicative of a breaking heart, "why
couldst thou have thus abandoned me? Didst thou quit the old man to
follow some youthful lover, who will buoy thee up with bright hopes, and
then deceive thee? O Agnes--my darling! hast thou left me to perish
without a soul to close my eyes?"
It was painful how that ancient shepherd wept.
Suddenly a loud knock at the door of the cottage aroused him from his
painful reverie; and he hastened, as fast as his trembling limbs would
permit him, to answer the summons.
He opened the door; and a tall man, apparently about forty years of age,
entered the humble dwelling. His light hair would have been magnificent
indeed, were it not sorely neglected; his blue eyes were naturally fine
and intelligent, but fearful now to meet, so wild and wandering were
their glances: his form was tall and admirably symmetrical, but
prematurely bowed by the weight of sorrow, and his attire was of costly
material, but indicative of inattention even more than it was
travel-soiled.
The old man closed the door, and courteously drew a stool near the fire
for the stranger who had sought in his cottage a refuge against the fury
of the storm.
He also placed food before him; but the stranger touched it not--horror
and dismay appearing to have taken possession of his soul.
Suddenly the thunder which had hitherto growled at a distance, burst
above the humble abode; and the wind swept by with so violent a gust,
that it shook the little tenement to its foundation, and filled the
neighboring forest with strange, unearthly noises.
Then the countenance of the stranger expressed such ineffable horror,
amounting to a fearful agony, that the old man was alarmed, and
stretched out his hand to grasp a crucifix that hung over the
chimney-piece; but his mysterious guest made a forbidding sign of so
much earnestness mingled with such proud authority, that the aged
shepherd sank back into his seat without touching the sacred symbol.
The roar of the thunder past--the shrieking, whistling, gushing wind
became temporarily lulled into low moans and subdued lamentations, amid
the mazes of the Black Forest; and the stranger grew more composed.
"Dost thou tremble at the storm?" inquired the old man.
"I am unhappy," was the evasive and somewhat impatient reply. "Seek not
to know more of me--beware how you question me. But you, old man, are
_not_ happy! The traces of care seem to mingle with the wrinkles of age
upon your brow!"
The shepherd narrated, in brief and touching terms, the unaccountable
disappearance of his much-beloved granddaughter Agnes.
The stranger listened abstractedly at first; but afterward he appeared
to reflect profoundly for several minutes.
"Your lot is wretched, old man," said he at length: "if you live a few
years longer, that period must be passed in solitude and
cheerlessness:--if you suddenly fall ill you must die the lingering
death of famine, without a soul to place a morsel of food, or the
cooling cup to your lips; and when you shall be no more, who will follow
you to the grave? There are no habitations nigh; the nearest village is
half-a-day's journey distant; and ere the peasants of that hamlet, or
some passing traveler, might discover that the inmate of this hut had
breathed his last, the wolves from the forest would have entered and
mangled your corpse."
"Talk not thus!" cried the old man, with a visible shudder; then darting
a half-terrified, half-curious glance at his guest, he said, "but who
are you that speak in this awful strain--this warning voice?"
Again the thunder rolled, with crashing sound, above the cottage; and
once more the wind swept by, laden, as it seemed, with the shrieks and
groans of human beings in the agonies of death.
The stranger maintained a certain degree of composure only by means of a
desperate effort, but he could not altogether subdue a wild flashing of
the eyes and a ghastly change of the countenance--signs of a profoundly
felt terror.
"Again I say, ask me not who I am!" he exclaimed, when the thunder and
the gust had passed. "My soul recoils from the bare idea of pronouncing
my own accursed name! But--unhappy as you see me--crushed, overwhelmed
with deep affliction as you behold me--anxious, but unable to repent for
the past as I am, and filled with appalling dread for the future as I
now proclaim myself to be, still is my power far, far beyond that limit
which hems mortal energies within so small a sphere. Speak, old
man--wouldst thou change thy condition? For to me--and to me alone of
all human beings--belongs the means of giving thee new life--of
bestowing upon thee the vigor of youth, of rendering that stooping form
upright and strong, of restoring fire to those glazing eyes, and beauty
to that wrinkled, sunken, withered countenance--of endowing thee, in a
word, with a fresh tenure of existence and making that existence sweet
by the aid of treasures so vast that no extravagance can dissipate
them!"
A strong though indefinite dread assailed the old man as this astounding
proffer was rapidly opened, in all its alluring details, to his
mind;--and various images of terror presented themselves to his
imagination;--but these feelings were almost immediately dominated by a
wild and ardent hope, which became the more attractive and exciting in
proportion as a rapid glance at his helpless, wretched, deserted
condition led him to survey the contrast between what he then was, and
what, if the stranger spoke truly, he might so soon become.
The stranger saw that he had made the desired impression; and he
continued thus:
"Give but your assent, old man, and not only will I render thee young,
handsome, and wealthy; but I will endow thy mind with an intelligence to
match that proud position. Thou shalt go forth into the world to enjoy
all those pleasures, those delights, and those luxuries, the names of
which are even now scarcely known to thee!"
"And what is the price of this glorious boon?" asked the old man,
trembling with mingled joy and terror through every limb.
"There are two conditions," answered the stranger, in a low, mysterious
tone. "The first is, that you become the companion of my wanderings for
one year and a half from the present time, until the hour of sunset, on
the 30th of July, 1517, when we must part forever, you to go
whithersoever your inclinations may guide you, and I---- But of _that_,
no matter!" he added, hastily, with a sudden motion as if of deep mental
agony, and with wildly flashing eyes.
The old man shrank back in dismay from his mysterious guest: the thunder
rolled again, the rude gust swept fiercely by, the dark forest rustled
awfully, and the stranger's torturing feelings were evidently prolonged
by the voices of the storm.
A pause ensued; and the silence was at length broken by the old man, who
said, in a hollow and tremulous tone, "To the first condition I would
willingly accede. But the second?"
"That you prey upon the human race, whom I hate; because of all the
world I alone am so deeply, so terribly accurst!" was the ominously
fearful yet only dimly significant reply.
The old man shook his head, scarcely comprehending the words of his
guest, and yet daring not to ask to be more enlightened.
"Listen!" said the stranger, in a hasty but impressive voice: "I require
a companion, one who has no human ties, and who still ministers to my
caprices,--who will devote himself wholly and solely to watch me in my
dark hours, and endeavor to recall me back to enjoyment and pleasure,
who, when he shall be acquainted with my power, will devise new means in
which to exercise it, for the purpose of conjuring up those scenes of
enchantment and delight that may for a season win me away from thought.
Such a companion do I need for a period of one year and a half; and you
are, of all men, the best suited to my design. But the Spirit whom I
must invoke to effect the promised change in thee, and by whose aid you
can be given back to youth and comeliness, will demand some fearful
sacrifice at your hands. And the nature of that sacrifice--the nature of
the condition to be imposed--I can well divine!"
"Name the sacrifice--name the condition!" cried the old man, eagerly. "I
am so miserable--so spirit-broken--so totally without hope in this
world, that I greedily long to enter upon that new existence which you
promised me! Say, then, what is the condition?"
"That you prey upon the human race, whom _he_ hates as well as I,"
answered the stranger.
"Again these awful words!" ejaculated the old man, casting trembling
glances around him.
"Yes--again those words," echoed the mysterious guest, looking with his
fierce burning eyes into the glazed orbs of the aged shepherd. "And now
learn their import!" he continued, in a solemn tone. "Knowest thou not
that there is a belief in many parts of our native land that at
particular seasons certain doomed men throw off the human shape and take
that of ravenous wolves?"
"Oh, yes--yes--I have indeed heard of those strange legends in which the
Wehr-Wolf is represented in such appalling colors!" exclaimed the old
man, a terrible suspicion crossing his mind.
"'Tis said that at sunset on the last day of every month the mortal, to
whom belongs the destiny of the Wehr-Wolf, must exchange his natural
form for that of the savage animal; in which horrible shape he must
remain until the moment when the morrow's sun dawns upon the earth."
"The legend that told thee this spoke truly," said the stranger. "And
now dost thou comprehend the condition which must be imposed upon thee?"
"I do--I do!" murmured the old man with a fearful shudder. "But he who
accepts that condition makes a compact with the evil one, and thereby
endangers his immortal soul!"
"Not so," was the reply. "There is naught involved in this condition
which---- But hesitate not," added the stranger, hastily: "I have no
time to waste in bandying words. Consider all I offer you: in another
hour you shall be another man!"
"I accept the boon--and on the conditions stipulated!" exclaimed the
shepherd.
"'Tis well, Wagner----"
"What! you know my name!" cried the old man. "And yet, meseems, I did
not mention it to thee."
"Canst thou not already perceive that I am no common mortal?" demanded
the stranger, bitterly. "And who I am, and whence I derive my power, all
shall be revealed to thee so soon as the bond is formed that must link
us for eighteen months together! In the meantime, await me here!"
And the mysterious stranger quitted the cottage abruptly, and plunged
into the depths of the Black Forest.
One hour elapsed ere he returned--one mortal hour, during which Wagner
sat bowed over his miserably scanty fire, dreaming of pleasure, youth,
riches, and enjoyment; converting, in imagination, the myriad sparks
which shone upon the extinguishing embers into piles of gold, and
allowing his now uncurbed fancy to change the one single room of the
wretched hovel into a splendid saloon, surrounded by resplendent mirrors
and costly hangings, while the untasted fare for the stranger on the
rude fir-table, became transformed, in his idea, into a magnificent
banquet laid out, on a board glittering with plate, lustrous with
innumerable lamps, and surrounded by an atmosphere fragrant with the
most exquisite perfumes.
The return of the stranger awoke the old man from his charming dream,
during which he had never once thought of the conditions whereby he was
to purchase the complete realization of the vision.
"Oh! what a glorious reverie you have dissipated!" exclaimed Wagner.
"Fulfill but one tenth part of that delightful dream----"
"I will fulfill it all!" interrupted the stranger: then, producing a
small vial from the bosom of his doublet, he said, "Drink!"
The old man seized the bottle, and speedily drained it to the dregs.
He immediately fell back upon the seat, in a state of complete lethargy.
But it lasted not for many minutes; and when he awoke again, he
experienced new and extraordinary sensations. His limbs were vigorous,
his form was upright as an arrow; his eyes, for many years dim and
failing, seemed gifted with the sight of an eagle, his head was warm
with a natural covering; not a wrinkle remained upon his brow nor on his
cheeks; and, as he smiled with mingled wonderment and delight, the
parting lips revealed a set of brilliant teeth. And it seemed, too, as
if by one magic touch the long fading tree of his intellect had suddenly
burst into full foliage, and every cell of his brain was instantaneously
stored with an amount of knowledge, the accumulation of which stunned
him for an instant, and in the next appeared as familiar to him as if he
had never been without it.
"Oh! great and powerful being, whomsoever thou art," exclaimed Wagner,
in the full, melodious voice of a young man of twenty-one, "how can I
manifest to thee my deep, my boundless gratitude for this boon which
thou hast conferred upon me!"
"By thinking no more of thy lost grand-child Agnes, but by preparing to
follow me whither I shall now lead thee," replied the stranger.
"Command me: I am ready to obey in all things," cried Wagner. "But one
word ere we set forth--who art thou, wondrous man?"
"Henceforth I have no secrets from thee, Wagner," was the answer, while
the stranger's eyes gleamed with unearthly luster; then, bending
forward, he whispered a few words in the other's ear.
Wagner started with a cold and fearful shudder as if at some appalling
announcement; but he uttered not a word of reply--for his master
beckoned him imperiously away from the humble cottage.
CHAPTER I.
THE DEATH-BED--THE OATH--THE LAST INJUNCTIONS.
Our tale commences in the middle of the month of November, 1520, and at
the hour of midnight.
In a magnificently furnished chamber, belonging to one of the largest
mansions of Florence, a nobleman lay at the point of death.
The light of the lamp suspended to the ceiling played upon the ghastly
countenance of the dying man, the stern expression of whose features was
not even mitigated by the fears and uncertainties attendant on the hour
of dissolution.
He was about forty-eight years of age, and had evidently been wondrously
handsome in his youth: for though the frightful pallor of death was
already upon his cheeks, and the fire of his large black eyes was dimmed
with the ravages of a long-endured disease, still the faultless outlines
of the aquiline profile remained unimpaired.
The most superficial observer might have read the aristocratic pride of
his soul in the haughty curl of his short upper lip,--the harshness of
his domineering character in the lines that marked his forehead,--and
the cruel sternness of his disposition in the expression of his entire
countenance.
Without absolutely scowling as he lay on that bed of death, his features
were characterized by an inexorable severity which seemed to denote the
predominant influence of some intense passion--some evil sentiment
deeply rooted in his mind.
Two persons leant over the couch to which death was so rapidly
approaching.
One was a lady of about twenty-five: the other was a youth of nineteen.
The former was eminently beautiful; but her countenance was marked with
much of that severity--that determination--and even of that sternness,
which characterized the dying nobleman. Indeed, a single glance was
sufficient to show that they stood in the close relationship of father
and daughter.
Her long, black, glossy hair now hung disheveled over the shoulders that
were left partially bare by the hasty negligence with which she had
thrown on a loose wrapper; and those shoulders were of the most dazzling
whiteness.
The wrapper was confined by a broad band at the waist; and the slight
drapery set off, rather than concealed, the rich contours of a form of
mature but admirable symmetry.
Tall, graceful, and elegant, she united easy motion with fine
proportion; thus possessing the lightness of the Sylph and the luxuriant
fullness of the Hebe.
Her countenance was alike expressive of intellectuality and strong
passions. Her large black eyes were full of fire, and their glances
seemed to penetrate the soul. Her nose, of the finest aquiline
development,--her lips, narrow, but red and pouting, with the upper one
short and slightly projecting over the lower,--and her small, delicately
rounded chin, indicated both decision and sensuality: but the insolent
gaze of the libertine would have quailed beneath the look of sovereign
hauteur which flashed from those brilliant eagle eyes.
In a word, she appeared to be a woman well adapted to command the
admiration--receive the homage--excite the passions--and yet repel the
insolence of the opposite sex.
But those appearances were to some degree deceitful; for never was
homage offered to her--never was she courted nor flattered.
Ten years previously to the time of which we are writing--and when she
was only fifteen--the death of her mother, under strange and mysterious
circumstances, as it was generally reported, made such a terrible
impression on her mind, that she hovered for months on the verge of
dissolution; and when the physician who attended upon her communicated
to her father the fact that her life was at length beyond danger, that
assurance was followed by the sad and startling declaration, that she
had forever lost the sense of hearing and the power of speech.
No wonder, then, that homage was never paid nor adulation offered to
Nisida--the deaf and dumb daughter of the proud Count of Riverola!
Those who were intimate with this family ere the occurrence of that sad
event--especially the physician, Dr. Duras, who had attended upon the
mother in her last moments, and on the daughter during her
illness--declared that, up to the period when the malady assailed her,
Nisida was a sweet, amiable and retiring girl; but she had evidently
been fearfully changed by the terrible affliction which that malady had
left behind. For if she could no longer express herself in words, her
eyes darted lightnings upon the unhappy menials who had the misfortune
to incur her displeasure; and her lips would quiver with the violence of
concentrated passion, at the most trifling neglect or error of which the
female dependents immediately attached to her own person might happen to
be guilty.
Toward her father she often manifested a strange ebullition of
anger--bordering even on inveterate spite, when he offended her: and
yet, singular though it were, the count was devotedly attached to his
daughter. He frequently declared that, afflicted as she was, he was
proud of her: for he was wont to behold in her flashing eyes--her
curling lip--and her haughty air, the reflection of his own proud--his
own inexorable spirit.
The youth of nineteen to whom we have alluded was Nisida's brother; and
much as the father appeared to dote upon the daughter, was the son
proportionately disliked by that stern and despotic man.
Perhaps this want of affection--or rather this complete aversion--on the
part of the Count of Riverola toward the young Francisco, owed its
origin to the total discrepancy of character existing between the father
and son. Francisco was as amiable, generous-hearted, frank and agreeable
as his sire was austere, stern, reserved and tyrannical. The youth was
also unlike his father in personal appearance, his hair being of a rich
brown, his eyes of a soft blue, and the general expression of his
countenance indicating the fairest and most endearing qualities which
can possibly characterize human nature.
We must, however, observe, before we pursue our narrative, that Nisida
imitated not her father in her conduct toward Francisco; for she loved
him--she loved him with the most ardent affection--such an affection as
a sister seldom manifests toward a brother. It was rather the attachment
of a mother for her child; inasmuch as Nisida studied all his
comforts--watched over him, as it were, with the tenderest
solicitude--was happy when he was present, melancholy when he was
absent, and seemed to be constantly racking her imagination to devise
new means to afford him pleasure.
To treat Francisco with the least neglect was to arouse the wrath of a
fury in the breast of Nisida; and every unkind look which the count
inflicted upon his son was sure, if perceived by his daughter, to evoke
the terrible lightnings of her brilliant eyes.
Such were the three persons whom we have thus minutely described to our
readers.
The count had been ill for some weeks at the time when this chapter
opens; but on the night which marks that commencement, Dr. Duras had
deemed it his duty to warn the nobleman that he had not many hours to
live.
The dying man had accordingly desired that his children might be
summoned; and when they entered the apartment, the physician and the
priest were requested to withdraw.
Francisco now stood on one side of the bed, and Nisida on the other;
while the count collected his remaining strength to address his last
injunctions to his son.
"Francisco," he said, in a cold tone, "I have little inclination to
speak at any great length; but the words I am about to utter are
solemnly important. I believe you entertain the most sincere and earnest
faith in that symbol which now lies beneath your hand."
"The crucifix!" ejaculated the young man. "Oh, yes, my dear father!--it
is the emblem of that faith which teaches us how to live and die!"
"Then take it up--press it to your lips--and swear to obey the
instructions which I am about to give you," said the count.
Francisco did as he was desired; and, although tears were streaming from
his eyes, he exclaimed, in an emphatic manner, "I swear most solemnly to
fulfill your commands, my dear father, so confident am I that you will
enjoin nothing that involves aught dishonorable!"
"Spare your qualifications," cried the count, sternly; "and swear
without reserve--or expect my dying curse, rather than my blessing."
"Oh! my dear father," ejaculated the youth, with intense anguish of
soul; "talk not of so dreadful a thing as bequeathing me your dying
curse! I swear to fulfill your injunctions--without reserve."
And he kissed the holy symbol.
"You act wisely," said the count, fixing his glaring eyes upon the
handsome countenance of the young man, who now awaited, in breathless
suspense, a communication thus solemnly prefaced. "This key," continued
the nobleman, taking one from beneath his pillow as he spoke, "belongs
to the door in yonder corner of the apartment."
"That door which is never opened!" exclaimed Francisco, casting an
anxious glance in the direction indicated.
"Who told you that the door was never opened," demanded the count,
sternly.
"I have heard the servants remark----" began the youth in a timid, but
still frank and candid manner.
"Then, when I am no more, see that you put an end to such impertinent
gossiping," said the nobleman, impatiently; "and you will be the better
convinced of the propriety of thus acting, as soon as you have learned
the nature of my injunctions. That door," he continued, "communicates
with a small closet, which is accessible by no other means. Now my
wish--my command is this:--Upon the day of your marriage, whenever such
an event may occur--and I suppose you do not intend to remain unwedded
all your life--I enjoin you to open the door of that closet. You must be
accompanied by your bride--and by no other living soul. I also desire
that this may be done with the least possible delay--the very
morning--within the very hour after you quit the church. That closet
contains the means of elucidating a mystery profoundly connected with
me--with you--with the family--a mystery, the developments of which may
prove of incalculable service alike to yourself and to her who may share
your title and your wealth. But should you never marry, then must the
closet remain unvisited by _you_; nor need you trouble yourself
concerning the eventual discovery of the secret which it contains, by
any person into whose hands the mansion may fall at your death. It is
also my wish that your sister should remain in complete ignorance of the
instructions which I am now giving you. Alas! poor girl--she cannot hear
the words which fall from my lips! neither shall you communicate their
import to her by writing, nor by the language of the fingers. And
remember that while I bestow upon you my blessing--my dying
blessing--may that blessing become a withering curse--the curse of hell
upon you--if in any way you violate one tittle of the injunctions which
I have now given you."
"My dearest father," replied the weeping youth, who had listened with
the most profound attention, to these extraordinary commands; "I would
not for worlds act contrary to your wishes. Singular as they appear to
me, they shall be fulfilled to the very letter."
He received from his father's hand the mysterious key, which he had
secured about his person.
"You will find," resumed the count after a brief pause, "that I have
left the whole of my property to you. At the same time my will specifies
certain conditions relative to your sister Nisida, for whom I have made
due provision only in the case--which is, alas! almost in defiance of
every hope!--of her recovery from that dreadful affliction which renders
her so completely dependent upon your kindness."
"Dearest father, you know how sincerely I am attached to my sister--how
devoted she is to me----"
"Enough, enough!" cried the count; and overcome by the effort he had
made to deliver his last injunction, he fell back insensible on his
pillow.
Nisida, who had retained her face buried in her hands during the whole
time occupied in the above conversation, happened to look up at that
moment; and, perceiving the condition of her father, she made a hasty
sign to Francisco to summon the physician and the priest from the room
to which they had retired.
This commission was speedily executed, and in a few minutes the
physician and the priest were once more by the side of the dying noble.
But the instant that Dr. Duras--who was a venerable looking man of about
sixty years of age--approached the bed, he darted, unseen by Francisco,
a glance of earnest inquiry toward Nisida, who responded by one of
profound meaning, shaking her head gently, but in a manner expressive of
deep melancholy, at the same time.
The physician appeared to be astonished at the negative thus conveyed by
the beautiful mute; and he even manifested a sign of angry impatience.
But Nisida threw upon him a look of so imploring a nature, that his
temporary vexation yielded to a feeling of immense commiseration for
that afflicted creature: and he gave her to understand, by another rapid
glance, that her prayer was accorded.
This interchange of signs of such deep mystery scarcely occupied a
moment, and was altogether unobserved by Francisco.
Dr. Duras proceeded to administer restoratives to the dying
nobleman--but in vain!
The count had fallen into a lethargic stupor, which lasted until four in
the morning, when his spirit passed gently away.
The moment Francisco and Nisida became aware that they were orphans,
they threw themselves into each other's arms, and renewed by that tender
embrace the tacit compact of sincere affection which had ever existed
between them.
Francisco's tears flowed freely; but Nisida did not weep!
A strange--an almost portentous light shone in her brilliant black eyes;
and though that wild gleaming denoted powerful emotions, yet it shed no
luster upon the depths of her soul--afforded no clew to the real nature
of these agitated feelings.
Suddenly withdrawing himself from his sister's arms, Francisco conveyed
to her by the language of the fingers the following tender
sentiment:--"You have lost a father, beloved Nisida, but you have a
devoted and affectionate brother left to you!"
And Nisida replied through the same medium, "Your happiness, dearest
brother, has ever been my only study, and shall continue so."
The physician and Father Marco, the priest, now advanced, and taking the
brother and sister by the hands, led them from the chamber of death.
"Kind friends," said Francisco, now Count of Riverola, "I understand
you. You would withdraw my sister and myself from a scene too mournful
to contemplate. Alas! it is hard to lose a father; but especially so at
my age, inexperienced as I am in the ways of the world!"
"The world is indeed made up of thorny paths and devious ways, my dear
young friend," returned the physician; "but a stout heart and integrity
of purpose will ever be found faithful guides. The more exalted and the
wealthier the individual, the greater the temptations he will have to
encounter. Reflect upon this, Francisco: it is advice which I, as an
old--indeed, the oldest friend of your family--take the liberty to
offer."
With these words, the venerable physician wrung the hands of the brother
and sister, and hurried from the house, followed by the priest.
The orphans embraced each other, and retired to their respective
apartments.