The young bridegroom looked pityingly at Madame, and she saw that he did

so. As the company were leaving the room Arthur came up to the lady, and

began talking idly to her, but when the room was empty of all but

themselves--when the little bride had flown to her room, and the general

had gone to consult with his officers--she said in answer to some

question of his, “Cavalier!”

Quickly he answered, “You may trust me, lady. Speak, speak.”

“May I speak, even if my head is in danger?”

“You shudder. Be not afraid. Speak, whoever you are; I will save you.

Speak softly, or thou mayest be heard.”

“Save me! too late. The fate of Charles will be the fate of his wife.”

“The queen, the queen!” the young lord whispered, half in respect, half

in fear, and he sank upon his knee.

“‘Tis a mockery to kneel to me.”

“I swear to save your majesty, or be lost myself.”

“My lord, my lord, you speak vainly. Leave me. You cannot save me, and

would involve yourself in ruin. Rise, sir, rise!”

He immediately obeyed, and stood humbly before her.

“Well, my lord?”

“I will save your majesty.”

She turned hopelessly away, but the next moment she was smiling

cheerfully, as Elvira, holding a white lace veil in her hand, came

running up to her companion of so many pleasant weeks.

“Am I not charming? Am I not as white as snow? Am I not like a lily? Ah,

ah! This is my wedding dress; and my hair, Signor Arthur, is perfumed

with the roses thou hast brought me; and on my neck are the pearls thou

gavest me.”

They both praised her and her dress, but the young coquette kept her

eyes upon the veil.

“Madame Henrietta, dost love me?”

“Does a mother love her child?”

“Ah, well, then I would know how this long veil of mine will look

on me, by seeing how ’twill look on thy dear head. Now

stoop--stoop--stoop--madame, as though I were a queen, and you were to

be dubbed a knight.”

“Nay,” said the young lord, as the lady was about to kneel.

“But I say I will,” said the bride.

“I would I could as easily assure thee lasting happiness, fair girl,”

said the lady, gravely. And kneeling, her head was soon enveloped in the

beautiful lace veil.

The bridegroom looked on helplessly, and seemed troubled at this act.

“Charming--charming,” cried the laughing Elvira. “Who can see your

blushes now? You look like a bride yourself. Pray now, who could tell

you from me?”

The young lord suddenly started, and his grave face lighted up with

hope.

“Nay, wear it--wear it,” said Elvira. “I must leave you for a little,

young bride and bridegroom; for I have yet to put on my diamonds. Stay

here--stay here.” And she ran laughing from the room.

“Thou art saved--thou art saved!”

It was the young lord who spoke, and, as he did so, the imperilled queen

for one moment hoped, but the next she was deep sunk in despair, and

only breathed the air of liberty again when the colonel entered the

room, and coming up to her, said: “The fairy Elvira should not hide her

face beneath that envious mantle--let me raise it.”

“Nay, nay,” said Arthur.

“No? Surely! May Heaven bless thee, niece--daughter! May good Heaven

bless thee, and keep thee as happy as thou art now I hope--thou dost not

speak?”

“She hath vowed neither to speak nor show her face till we are one.”

“So--so: but ’tis time we had set out--so follow me--follow me!”

And he left the room.

The queen was about taking off the veil.

“Stay--stay, your majesty;--’tis a miracle! Who shall know you? And have

I not a pass from the castle?”

“Nay--I fear for thy life, my lord.”

“Nay, queen; to refuse would be to cast from thee Heaven’s gift.

Come--come.” And he led her respectfully towards the door. But there

stood a wild-looking puritan--Captain Richard Forth to wit--his sword

drawn, and his eyes flashing.

“Thou shalt draw steel for her,” and he stood immovable in the doorway.

In a moment the lord’s sword was out of its sheath, but the queen ran

between the thirsty weapons, and in so doing her veil was deranged, and

her face seen.

“I forbid thee, my lord, and thou--man of blood.”

“‘Tis not she, ’tis Madame Henrietta,” murmured the puritan, and lowered

his sword.

The lord’s sword, however, was still raised.

“Thou canst go, Arthur Talbot; thou mayest take her with thee. Go, both

of ye, in peace. Go, and I prophecy that thou shalt weep bitter

tears--that thou shalt sit apart and lonely, that thou shalt yearn for

thy distant country, that thou shalt float in a sea of misfortunes.

Begone! thou wanderer.”

Then the young lord trembled as he thought of his bride whom he was

about to desert. But the loyalty of a cavalier was his honor; so he

turned to the door and led Madame Henrietta over its threshold.

The puritan stood erect and motionless in the room waiting for

retribution. He--he the rejected, the insulted, would triumph.

Through the window he saw them reach the bridge, pass it, pass the gate,

to horse and away, away!

Still he waited.

Then came footsteps towards the room, those of the bride, her father,

and several attendants.

“Arthur--Arthur,” said the young bride coming in laughingly for the

crowning veil. “Ah captain! good day! Master Talbot--is he here?”

“He was but an instant since.”

“And--and now?”

“He hath fled, he hath deserted thee!”

Then there was a great cry and a start.

“And the lady--Madame Henrietta--gone also?”

Soon horsemen were flying from the castle--the rattle of drums calling

to arms spread over the place--every soul about the castle was hurried

and frightened. All but Captain Richard Forth, who stood cold and

gratified, nursing his vengeance, and saying it was a judgment.

But as he hears the alarm bell, he hears mixed with it a strange wild

cry--near him--almost at his ear.

Still the call to arms was repeated--still the alarm-bell rang out its

dismal warning, and again the dull appealing cry was heard.

This time he knew whence it came. It was uttered by Elvira.

Wildly she was looking before her, and tearing the bridal flowers she

wore to shreds, and breaking into bits the lace about her dress.

“She--she wears the white veil! He looks on her, he smiles, and whispers

that she is _his_ bride. And I, whom now am I? Elvira is his bride--am

not _I_? Elvira? why is he not here?”

Then wanderingly she placed her trembling right hand upon her head. “No,

no,” she cried, and dropped the hand to her side.

“Elvira--dear daughter--speak to me.”

“No--no--NO--I am not Elvira.”

“How pale thou art, Elvira.”

“And--and thy eyes are fixed and staring.”

“The judgment is heavy,” said the Captain, implacable. “Thus heaven

punishes perfidy. SHE IS MAD.”

And yet the captain stood calmly as the general fell despairingly at his

feet.

“But thou wilt return--mine Arthur--thou wilt return. I will faithfully

wait for thee--wait--wait! And thou wilt come, Arthur. I will weep, I

will weep for thee.”

“Tears, tears,” said Captain Richard Forth; “tears for such as

he--heaven’s tears. MAIDEN, I WILL AVENGE.”

“Oh! how my heart throbs; and before my eyes is a great rain of blood.

Arthur, Arthur, help me--help--help!”

Then all those puritans there standing cursed him, and “the woman.”

“Let not house, nor shore, harbor these accursed. Let their heads be

free to the scorn of the wind and the storm, and may the dogs bark

wrathfully at them. Let the whole earth war with them through life, and

cast them from her bosom when dead. Let them live wishing for death. Let

heaven be unapproached by them.”

CHAPTER III.

So she remained, day after day, ever waiting for the bridegroom’s

return, and dismally decking herself in what she took for marriage

garments. Sometimes she would take a soldier walking on the ramparts for

him she had lost. But she would soon discover her mistake, and then she

would sit patiently waiting and gazing from the window.

When, too, the sound of drum or trumpet reached her ears, she would

imagine herself again going through the terrible scene when she

discovered Arthur’s flight.

Meanwhile, Captain Richard Forth held fast by his vow of vengeance; and,

like a soldier, calmly waited for the hour of the fight.

The doctors who were called in to Elvira could give no hope; but one

said that perhaps a sudden joy or grief might restore the lost reason.

On one of many days, the colonel was conversing with the captain, when

the luckless girl wandered near them.

Her uncle addressed her kindly.

“Prithee, who art thou?” she made answer to the uncle she had loved so

well.

“What!” said he, assuming a heart-breaking cheerfulness; “dost not know

me Elvira?”

“Ah! truly, truly. He is waiting for me. Quick, quick! Thou wouldst not

surely keep a bridegroom waiting. Quick--quick--quick.”

Then she perceived the stern puritan, Richard Forth, who was now

weeping.

“Verily, ’tis a tear on thy face. Ah, thou, too, hast loved, and art

forgotten. I love thee for thy lost love.”

It was on this occasion, after the lady had been induced to return to

her apartment, that the colonel took the captain into his confidence.

“Thou must save this man.”

“How?--whom?”

“Lord Arthur Talbot.”

“Save Arthur Talbot? And again? It is not in my power to do so.”

“If thou couldst save him wouldst thou?”

“‘Twould be by death.”

“The flight was not Talbot’s fault alone; at least, ’twas as much the

fault of his loyalty, for she was a royalist.”

“The arm that striketh him shall go unpunished. He is outlawed; he that

will may kill him. He shall die.”

“Is thy vengeance justice, man? or is it jealousy? Again, the hand that

shall slay him will also slay Elvira. Then thou shalt hear remorse

whispering in the storm, and thy life will be a burden to thee. Forget

this hate; forgive--mercy!”

For a little while the stern puritan held up his head. Then it fell.

“I will forget this hate--I will save him.”

“‘Tis the proof of thy patriotism, Richard.”

“If his heart be open--not if he cometh armed. Not if he bear arms

against his country.”

“No, no--then no mercy, Richard, no mercy.”

“What if he were among the cavaliers now encamped near us, who, it is

rumored, will attack us at daybreak?”

“His blood be on his own head. Let him perish.”

CHAPTER IV.

Not two hours after that conversation, Lord Arthur Talbot came rapidly

towards the house which the general, now encamped at some distance from

his fortress, occupied. It was a large house near the camp. Surrounded

by an enclosure of tall trees, and high walls, this house stood, and in

its old weed-filled garden, the witless lady sometimes wandered. Some of

the windows of the house opened down to the grounds, and to a wide

terrace.

Arthur reached the wall, soon clambered to the top, and was just

dropping to the ground when a sentinel espied him and fired. But he

missed his aim, and the next moment the lord was on the grounds of the

house.

“Safe,” he muttered thankfully, and looking about him he thought how

sweet it was to see the house and garden once again, to see his dear

native land, which he quitted three months before to save a queen, who

was now in safety and comparatively happy. What joy he thought it would

be to tell his Elvira the glorious truth--that he had saved a queen from

death--and had restored a mother to her children. His heart beat as he

thought of her joy when he had told his tale, and proved his honor and

his love for her. He was loyal too, even though a royalist, and had

never thought of bearing arms against his country.

As he moved hesitatingly towards the house, the lost lady passed the

open windows, singing a ballad her lover had taught her.

He started, and turned towards the spot whence came the welcome sound.

So gently he began singing the ballad. Nay--he sang it quite through,

and yet no answer was made.

As he concluded, there were heard the sounds of steps near him. He fled

into the shadow of some friendly trees, as his beating heart told him of

the coming of the puritans.

Nearer and nearer came the sound. Surely, ’twas a picket of soldiers.

They passed on, and their steps were lost in the distance. He stood

again beneath the windows, and once more chanted the ballad she so

loved.

She came to one of the casements--slowly--slowly--dreamily.

“It has ceased--the loved wind, which sings his song.”

She stepped through the open window on to the terrace.

“Ah, my Arthur, where art thou?”

“Here, dearest, by thy side--at thy feet.”

“Thou! is’t thou?” And she put her arms about him. “Thou dost not

deceive me?”

“I deceive thee! never, Elvira.”

“I tremble; why? Is misfortune near?”

“No--no; be joyful. Love smiles beneficently upon us.”

“How--how long is it since I saw thee?”

“Three weary months.”

“No, no; three centuries of sighs and agony. And have I not called to

thee--Arthur--Arthur--return!”

“But she was in danger, and I saved her.”

“And--and thou lovdst her?”

“I?--her?”

“Is she not thy wife?”

“Nay--”

“Nay, but _is_ she?”

“I love her whom I have ever loved--whom I shall love till death is with

me--and ’tis _thee_.”

“Ah! then he did _not_ love her. Then I will love him better than

ever--better than ever. Yet tell me, if thou didst not love her, why

didst thou follow her?”

“Her life was in danger.”

“Whose life, love? Whose?”

“The queen’s; she was the queen.”

“The queen!”

“A moment more, and she would have been doomed to the scaffold.”

“Then--then thou dost love me?”

“Art thou not in my arms? Doth not my heart tell thee how I love thee? I

would rather die than part from thee. Each waking moment since we parted

I have thought of Elvira, and dreamt of her each minute that I slept;

and when I was on the sea, I said my love was as boundless as the

waves.”

“I am dying with joy--dying; and yet--yet I am afraid; I am quite

afraid. Put your hand upon my heart. Now, _doth_ it beat?”

As she laid his hand upon her breast, there was heard the sound of a

drum-roll. Immediately it destroyed the partial sense with which she had

been blessed while speaking to her lover.

“Hark!” she said, hurriedly and terribly, “I know the sound, but now I

fear it no longer. Yes, I tore her veil from off her head, and trampled

on it. I did--I did. And--and thou wilt not leave me?”

“Great powers?” he cried, looking into her dreamy eyes; and in a great

whirl of fear, he fell back from her.

There came floating on the air the exchange of the watchword, “England

and Cromwell.”

“Come,” he said, moving towards the house: “let us go in.”

Then she was seized with a violent paroxysm. Calling out that he wished

to leave her--to go back to her for whom she had been deserted. She

poured forth shriek upon shriek till the air was all astir.

Alarmed at the sudden discovery he had made, he tried to fly from her,

but she clung to him--still shrieking that he would leave her, and that

he was going to the woman with whom he had fled.

“Be silent.”

“He would fly me--”

“Oh--be silent.”

“Help--help--for pity’s sake!”

“Ah!”

Then came the alarmed puritans, running in from all sides. From the

house--from the garden--over the walls they streamed--nearer and nearer,

till they surrounded the lover and his mad bride.

While he, all his fear merged in overwhelming sorrow, stood gazing at

her who was then his ruin; for had she not called his dread enemies

about him?

Amongst the rest came Captain Richard Forth. And as he saw his enemy in

his power--his enemy wearing his sword, and come secretly in the

night-time from the puritan camp--he saw he was unworthy to live, and he

cried, “The ungodly shall perish from off the face of the earth. Thou

hast crept to death, Arthur Talbot; thou hast crept here to death!”

The dreadful word made a dreadful impression on the lady. She trembled

violently, pressed her hands about her head, and uttered the word over

and over again. Was this the great terror that might save her? The

learned doctor had said a sudden joy or terror might restore her.

“Arthur,” she cried at last, in a tone far different from that in which

she had spoken to him but a minute since, and fell upon his breast. She

was saved! So he had returned to restore her to reason, and she--she had

destroyed him.

Even in the one word, “Arthur,” she betrayed him.

“Arthur Talbot,” they cried aloud; and each man drew his breath hard,

and grasped his sword.

“Let the unrighteous perish; let no hand be stretched forth to save

him.”

Said the captain, “Thou art brave enough not to fear death, Arthur

Talbot. Be prepared--thou art of the camp of the lost--thou shalt surely

die.”

“He die? and have I caused his death? I who love him better than I love

my life?”

The stern puritan, as he watched the effect of his hasty speech upon the

poor lady’s countenance, was sorry he had spoken.

Said the puritans among themselves--“Behold a judgment. Is he not

delivered into our hands? Then he must surely die!”

“Fear not,” said the lost man to his destroyer--she whom he loved so

well. “Fear not, death is easy to the brave, and I am brave, or thou

wouldst have never loved me.”

The captain and the colonel looked hesitatingly one at the other, and

then at the cavalier. The puritans murmured and cried aloud.

“What! shall not the sword fall when the Lord hath bidden it to

destroy?”

“I have killed him, I have killed him,” she exclaimed, now miserably

sane.

“Fear not, my own Elvira.”

Again the puritans cried out--

“Wherefore shall we not destroy the enemy?”

Suddenly a trumpet sounded.

A moment, and the face of the colonel was full of joy, and yet wet with

new-born tears. The message was a pardon signed by Cromwell, for all

cavaliers who should lay down arms before the action.

Said Lord Arthur Talbot. “I have never borne arms against the nation. I

have belonged to no camp. I have arrived in England but this evening,

and came hither from the vessel.”

The puritans forgot themselves, for they gave a shout of joy.

And even the bitter Captain Richard Forth was heartily glad to find that

Arthur Talbot’s blood had not been shed.

So the young bridegroom did not die, and the bride did not therefore

destroy him, and his marriage at last took place, sanctified by the

glorious truth that he, the bridegroom, had saved a human life. Not only

the life of a queen, but the life of a loving mother.

LA FIGLIA DEL REGGIMENTO. (DONIZETTI.)

THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT.

CHAPTER I.

Take any young creature of warm, generous disposition, put a military

coat on her fair young shoulders, a smart military hat on her head, and

hang a little brandy keg over her right hip, and then you have a

delightful vivandiere of the grand army--a very honest, decent kind of

girl.

_Our_ vivandiere was called the daughter of the regiment, for she knew

no other parents than the rough, but warm-hearted soldiers. They found a

little child on the field of battle; they nurtured her, and called her

“Marie.”

Many units of her collective father were knocked over before Marie grew

to be a very pretty girl; but, spite of continual arrivals, seeing their

daughter for the first time, there were many who remembered Marie being

found, and with her a letter, and nobody better than Sergeant

Sulpice--who always kept the letter, and who, in fact, had picked it and

Marie up when he was a full private, and quite a new recruit.

Well, they taught Marie to tap her drum at a very early early age, and

she tapped it till she was nearly seventeen; and on her birthday, and

all other social festivals, she tapped it very loud and fast.

The French were scudding all over Switzerland, and nobody was more

frightened, then and there, than the Marquise de Berkenfelt. As a rule,

the Swiss opposed the French bravely, but the marquise was a disgrace to

her title.

She stood among the villagers of her particular village trembling far

move than the young girls. As for the marquise--fifty, if a day!

She could not return to the castle, and yet she could not stay where she

was,--and then, the enemy might be down on them in a moment.

“Plan--plan--rataplan,” away in the distance.

The marquise’s steward immediately assured her that the men were

retreating, and the marquise was immensely glad to hear it. She would

not, however, go back to that castle of hers, but chose to sit on a

secluded rock, while the steward went to reconnoitre. Barely was she

left to herself than Sergeant Sulpice was walking rapidly past her.

“By the lock of a musket, if they could fight as they can run, we should

be sent back to France in a week. Aye, run--run--as though peace was not

proclaimed. Hallo! here comes Marie--Marie of the 11th.”

“Oh’ é--é--é--Salute, Sulpice.”

“Here comes the heart of the regiment.”

“Well--I think I begin to do you credit.”

“Angel.”

“Pooh--nonsense. Soldier! Born in a camp--the roll of the drum my only

lullaby--a drum my only toy--except you--you grizzly old father, you.”

“The regiment is lucky to have a Marie.”

“Marie is lucky to have a regiment, you mean. Why, each man was her

carriage when she was a child--her rations were better than any

one’s;--yes she ate and drank to the trun--trun--trun of the drum. And

now--now I’m grown up--every man touches his shako to me.”

“They revere you.”

“Revere, nonsense--they love me. Don’t I too have all the pleasure of

the camp!”

“Yes, and who takes care of the camp?--who has a kind word and hand for

a wounded man, while she gives the other hand to him who comes to help

her?”

“Yes--and who is it fills your glasses--and sings you songs?”

“Yes--and who makes us happy?”

“Why, _not_ the daughter of the regiment!”

“Oh--of course not!”

“Now--now--now--Sergeant--attention. Right about face.

Ma-a-a-r-r-rch!”----

“Tum--tum--tum--Ra-ra-ra-ra.”

And so--drilling her drum--she and the sergeant march off to the camp.

Barely had they marched off from the neighborhood of the marquise, when

following them or rather her, with his eyes, came a young Swiss--as

handsome as you would have him, ladies--perfection.

Truth to tell, Tony _was_ handsome.

Also truth to tell, he had fallen in love with Marie. And love, the

conqueror, had even whispered to him to turn traitor to his country, and

enlist in the ranks of the army, and, it need not be said, the ranks of

the glorious 11th. Then he would be near _her_--then, perhaps, he should

some day marry her. And he _might_ become a general. And she--she would

be the general’s lady. “Why not?” He was honest (except in the matter of

patriotism), good-humored, and handsome--why should she _not_ fall in

love with him?

But seeing the sergeant and Marie returning, he ran to shelter and to

shadow immediately.

“Well, but Sulpice,--why not say it as we walked along? What need to

come to this quiet spot as you call it?”

“Because I want to speak to you in private.”

“Attention!”

“You are a fine tall girl, and you are handsome.”

“Is _that_ what you want to tell me in private. Why I’m told so _fifty_

times a day.”

“And----”

“Oh there’s an end!”

“And--and you ought to look out for a husband.”

“You mean a husband ought to look out for me. Plenty of time--plenty of

time.”

“Plenty of time? Then who was that you were talking to at our last

encampment?”

“Who--who? Let me see; ah, the Tyrolese youth who saved my life, you

know!”

“Your life? How?”

“Attention! but what’s that noise?”

For there was a great disturbance as though somebody was being pushed

about, and as though somebody was rather objecting to it.

“A spy--a spy--a spy.”

And the next moment Tony was being lugged before the sergeant by as many

of the brave 11th as could conveniently keep a hold on him at one and

the same moment. He butting, kicking, and struggling all the while.

“Spy--no spy--I want to be a soldier.

“‘Tis he--’tis he.”

“What the young Tyrolese, Marie?”

“Of course it is, Sulpice; who else could it be? Your servant,

Tyrolese--what brings you here?”

“Hang him--hang him--a spy!” shrieked out a full dozen of the brave

11th.

“What--hang him--who saved my life?”

“Cré-é-é-é--’tis another affair that--he shall live,” decided also at

least a dozen of the brave 11th.

“But for him I should have been at this moment at the bottom of a

frightful precipice. Yes; and he nearly lost his own life.”

“Brother--he’s a brother--he shall be one of us!” was the dictum of the

men of the brave 11th. “Give him a welcome. Marie--a glass of brandy.”

Briskly Marie poured it out.

“Long live the French--my new friends,” said the new recruit, raising

his glass.

“Hurrah--hurrah.”

Then was heard a roll of the drum--the call to camp in fact.

“Come--come--comrade,” said they to Tony. But Tony showed a desire to

stay; and so also did Marie. So she called out, “Leave him with me, I’ll

answer for him. You know--he’s my prisoner.”

But they wouldn’t part with him, and hurried him away.

She was preparing to follow the soldiers--when with a run he was at her

side, quite out of breath. She did not care about following the soldiers

now. Truth to tell, she sat down on a bank and began chatting.

“Here I am, you see.”

“What already?”

“La--when I gave them the slip--the sergeant roared like a bull.”

“Ah--my father!”

“(Confound it.) No--one near him.”

“Well--_he’s_ my father.

“I mean the old man.”

“And _he’s_ my father too!”

“Why, the whole regiment?”

“Exactly so. The whole regiment is my father.”

“Ah! I see.”

“But now tell me, why have you followed the regiment? I thought when I

said good bye to you that I should never, never see you again.”

“I don’t think you did think so, because you must have known I couldn’t

live away from you, because you must have known I loved you, and I _do_

love you.”

“Ha, ha!”

“Will you not believe me?”

“Well--I don’t know.”

“From the moment I saved you--I have known no rest.”

“Ah--then you had better not have saved me. But want of rest don’t prove

you love me!”

“But I have left my friends and my country to follow you!”

“Such desertion I can’t pardon!”--

“And I would die for you--and I will!”

“Oh nonsense--why die? When a youth loves a girl he should live for

her.”

“Marie!”

“Ah--well. Here’s the decision of the court martial:--I think you _do_

love me. And--and _I_ don’t feel so free as I did.”

“Then you do not hate me.”

“Hate!--no--no. Here am I,” she thought, “Who always hated the

enemy,--here am I--talking with one of them--and--and not disliking to

talk! And--and Tony,” she said, slyly, “that flower you gave me--I have

it now.”

Whereupon and thereupon he clasped her to his heart like a man.

“Ho--ho-ho--by the lock of a musket,” said Sergeant Sulpice, coming up

in time to witness this delightful embrace. “The Tyrolese, who just now

escaped!”

“Sergeant--I’m Marie’s husband’s self.”

“Traitor!”

“Tut--tut--tut--sergeant,” said the little vivandiere, coming before

Marie’s husband’s self--like a bastion--“qui-i-i-iet.”

“I say Marie is already promised to the bravest in our ranks.”

“Pooh! a girl can’t marry her own father, you know. Besides, your own

words prove Tony’s right. You say I’m promised to the bravest man in the

regiment,--well, he’s of the regiment--and was either of _you_ so brave

as to save my life?”

“Good--Marie--good!”

“Si-i-i-i-ilence--private!”

“I may speak, sergeant.”

“I say she shall marry one of us.”

“Shall--sergeant? Then here it is. I will marry Tony, and I will marry

nobody else but Tony.”

“Gone over to the enemy bag and baggage. But as for you, my man, I’ll

break your bones.”

“Attention--march--Tony.” And away the two went, leaving Sergeant

Sulpice boiling with rage.

He was walking away, when the marquis’s steward approached very

respectfully.

“Captain--pardon.”

“By Bacchus--if she marries him.

“Him--captain--pardon.”

“Hullo! there, don’t be afraid.”

“Captain.”

“Ser-r-rgeant.”

“Surely, surely, sergeant, this lady would ask a favor.”

“Oh, Sir! I’m terribly frightened. I was endeavoring--I am still

terribly frightened--but your men stopped me. I was endeavoring to reach

my castle--my castle of Berkenfelt.”

“Berkenfelt.”

“Berkenfelt. Do you know my castle of Berkenfelt?”

“Now, what connexion can there be between Captain Bazancourt and that

name.” The grizzly sergeant said this amusingly, but it had a strange

effect on the aristocrat.

“Captain Bazancourt, did you say Captain Bazancourt?”

“Yes, you know him perhaps!”

“Know him--yes--my sister--I think--was secretly married to him--and

their daughter.”

“Marie? She is the pearl of the regiment.”

“Does she live?”

“She does if _I_ do. Steady, lady, steady.”

For the lady had to lean against the bank on which Marie had been

sitting.

“I’faith, Marie’s fortune is made.”

“But the proof, the proof.”

“The proof--this letter, then!”

And from his stout breast the sergeant pulled forth a tough old pocket

book, and from the book he took a letter.

This letter had been written just before the battle in which the captain

fell. He had confided it and the child to a servant, who was unluckily

knocked over by a stray shot. The child was found sitting by the dead

servant, and there being no clue beyond the letter, which simply named

the castle of Berkenfelt, the child was then and there adopted by the

regiment, and taught to carry brandy keg, be good-humored and brisk, and

beat a drum, as, indeed, has already been explained.

The lady took the letter I discovered with some emotion, but in the

midst of it, she contrived to say, “I hope she has been well brought

up.”

“Brought up, marquise, in the most genteel and polite manner!

“I’m sure her aunt--I am, of course, her aunt--I’m sure I’m very glad to

hear it.”

“Par-r-r-r-bleu! Par-r-r-r-bleu! Here you are, Sulpice, and there you

are wanted.--Par-r-r-bleu!”

“Great impossibles--can that be her,” asked the marquise of herself. And

the steward opened his eyes at this terrible talking young woman.

“‘Tis she,” said the sergeant to the lady.

“Co-r-r-r-bleau!” again commended Marie, marching up to the sergeant.

“Cor-r-r-r-bleu, do you call this duty, Sergeant Sulpice?”

“Why, she’s positively pulling his moustache,” said the marquise, so far

forgetting her dignity as to speak familiarly with her own

house-steward. “What an education.”

The steward was dolefully and properly shocked.

“Come--come--old grumbler, come along, or I’ll pull you by your grizzly

upper-lip.”

“Order--order.”

“Come--come along, then; the whole family is waiting for you.”

“Marie--we’ve lost one of the family.”

“When--how--where--what--whom?”

“You!”

“Parbleu! What do you mean?”

“The owner of the old letter is found.”

“Co-r-r-r-bleu! Where is he?”

“She.”

“Well, where is she?”

“Here--here--dear girl! I am your--aunt.”

“Niece--you my aunt? Cor-r-r-r-par-r-r-bleu. Exchange for another

regiment--no!”

“Your soldier’s life is over now, Marie.”

“Not till my life is--”

“NIECE!”

“Oh.”

“Read the letter, Marie--I, your father Sulpice, bid you read the

letter.”

She took the old letter, which she had never much, thought of--for,

whereas, somebody belonging to it had deserted her--she had found scores

of fathers. She took the letter. Read it through. Let it fall. Covered

her face with her hands. And the little daughter of the regiment quite

wept again.

“Come, niece, come away. I have a pass, elegant, I presume, to my

castle--my Castle of Berkenfelt.”

“Surely, marquise, I--I--dare say you will be happy, Marie.”

“Come, niece, come.” Then turning to the steward,

“Order our carriage.”

_Our_ carriage. The vivandiere’s carriage.

The marquise marched up in great state to her niece. But at that moment

there was a tremendous to-do on the drums, and the next moment a score

or so of stout soldiers, Tony among them, came forward. By this time

they were quite friendly with Tony, and had somehow cause to perceive

what an admirable arrangement his marrying their daughter, the

vivandiere, would be.

“Ah, there you are, Marie.”

“Pray, _who_ is this young man?”

“Pardon, lady--Marie’s husband. Her fathers have said so.

“Fall back, private--fall back. There’s a general of division has

stopped the match.”

“What?”

“Yes, comrade--Marie leaves us. The letter has done its work. This is

Marie’s aunt.”

Perhaps many of the brave eleventh would have disputed this position

with the butt end of a musket or so, but respect for their daughter

stopped such a frightful proceeding; yet with one mighty voice they

cried out,

“Marie going to leave us. No, no, she won’t leave us.”

“Leave us--no, no, Marie. Leave us--leave me, Tony?”

“I must, I must.” She was a very different being now from the brisk

vivandiere. Before, she was all smiles, now she was all tears. “I must

go. For shame, do not make me worse than I am.”

Tony took off his hat, which was decorated with the gay French cockade,

and looked upon the innocent little fluttering ribbons with horror, for

they told him he was bound to the regiment, and could not follow her.

“Pray is our carriage ready.”

“Good-bye, oh! good-bye all--all of you; and dear, dear Tony.”

The soldiers were rude enough to push the marquise aside, that they

might shake the hands of Marie, and some actually kissed her.

“Men!” was the only remark the marquise could make. “Men!”

“Good-bye, oh! good-bye all--all of you; and dear, dear Tony.”

“When _will_ that carriage be ready?”

The carriage was ready at last, but as she stepped into it, she turned

her head to her then old companions.

They had hoped she was going to run away to them, under which evidence

of preference they would have defied the marquise, but the next moment

she was seated, and “our carriage” rolled away.

Her eyes were upon her old friends till she could see no more for tears

and distance.

And there poor Tony stood despairingly watching the carriage, his hat

pressed with both hands to his heart, and the cruel, triumphant little

ribbons fluttering about in the breeze.

CHAPTER II.

At home in the grand castle, dressed, no longer like a vivandiere, but

like a real young lady, sat Marie. She was not happy, but she cannot be

said to have been utterly miserable--that sparkling young girl could not

be utterly miserable; but she was half way on the journey to utter

misery, and she, erst vivandiere, did not like the road.

To be dressed in the fashion--to learn lessons--to make curtseys to

grand folks--all these things want an early apprenticeship. If you go

into the business after you have gone out of pinafores, you are pretty

sure to fail.

And Marie failed signally. Every day there arose a series of contentions

between Marie and the marquise; and when the young lady was seated

amongst the grand people of an evening, listening to vapid songs about

Venus, and Phillis, and all the rest of the delicately-finger-topped

crowd, she longed to get up, bang a drum, sing the rataplan, and show

them all how they marched in the brave eleventh. But she did not at any

time carry such a wish into practice, or the young duke, whose name it

is perfectly needless to know, would certainly not have proposed for her

hand and heart, as the young duke certainly did, to Marie’s great

concern.

When, some little time after, Marie had become a lady, the war broke out

again--when again the old regiment was near “my Castle of

Berkenfelt”--and when the grizzly Serjeant Sulpice was wounded, the

marquise could not refuse Marie’s request that the sergeant should

remain at the castle till he could again fight in the field. So, rash

with mild gratitude, the marquise let this tempter into her fold.

Tempter he was--for, from the day he made his appearance, pale as to his

face, and his arm in a sling, he never lost an opportunity of praising

up the regiment camped not half-a-score of miles away, and depreciating

the value of the castle.

But at no time did he so asperse the castle, the marquise, and all their

surroundings, as on that terrible day when it was understood that at 6

P.M., the duke, the duke’s mother, the duke’s brother, and all the

duke’s noble friends would come to assist at the signing of the marriage

contract.

On that particular morning the sergeant was more indignant than ever;

for, from the great drawing-room, where he had to sit, per command, he

looked into an adjoining room, and saw the little vivandiere, who could

trip you a measure so that you could hardly see her feet, the little

vivandiere trying to slide through a solemn minuet and signally failing

in the attempt.

For four mortal hours did the indignant sergeant mark this saltatory

misery, and he was meditating an assault and crash upon the extorting

dancing-master, when that unlucky professional withdrew, and Marie came

running in to Sulpice.

“Oh, I could have slipped about no more, if I had died for it; like a

dead march, only not so brisk.”

“Patience, patience, daughter.”

“Patience, indeed--how’s the arm by this time?”

“O! great deal better.”

“Well--I’m very glad to hear _that_--still you need not leave us

directly.”

“What--what? A vivandiere counsel a sergeant of the grand army to

desert!”

“Oh--no--no, leave of absence, sergeant.”

“Ah, it seems _you_ have leave of absence from your aunt.”

“Not for long, she’s coming here. Now the dancing is over, the word is

‘singing.’ Such slow singing, I want to dash my hands down on the keys

to make just a little stir, you know. And she says I shall sing to-night

before the company, but he is wrong. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”

“Or-r-r-r-der.”

“I say I won’t--I won’t--I won’t! And I won’t marry the duke, and I

won’t marry anybody but Tony.”

“Ah, Marie, how can you help yourself?”

“If I don’t help myself, I’m sure nobody else will, not even Sergeant

Sulpice.”

“Hush!--here she comes--full dress parade.”

“And in stalked the marquise.”

“Thank the chances I have found it--this superb romance. Hem--hem!--’Tis

a beautiful romance. Come, Marie--there you stand like a simpleton. Come

to the piano this moment.”

“Yes--aunt.”

“There--now begin.”

“Ve-e-e-nus.”

“Very good.”

“Venus--the goddess of love.”

“Enchanting, my dear--go on. I will play slowly.”

“Venus--Venus--descends fr-r-ra-rom above.”

“Quite admirable--now, go on.”

“Marie!” this was the sergeant, creeping up behind the chaste back of

the marquise, and whispering to the vivandiere. “Marie--rata--”

“Rataplan--rataplan--rataplan.

Rataplan--plan--plan--plan--plan--plan-n-n. Rub-a-dub. Dub-a-rub.”

“My DEAR--what are you singing there?”

“Oh--certainly--aunt.”

“Ve-e-enus--Venus--comes down to dark earth.”

“Ve-_he-he_-nus appears--to light she gives birth.”

“Ra-ta--PLAN--Marie!”

“Each soldier says it--each soldier vows.”

“MADEMOISELLE! I _beg_. Now pray begin all over again--and when you come

down at the end of the sixth line--to ‘sigh’--mind you sigh just like

Venus.”

“Oh--I can’t. Oh--I won’t. I like the sound of the drum better. There!

Rub-a-dub-dub-dub--Rataplan--rataplan.”

“How dare you?”

“Rataplan--rataplan--rataplan.”

Useless was it that the marquise stepped with dignity after the

vivandiere at this declaration of war.

“Now, fall in there. Right about face. Ma-r-r-rch.”

“Girl!”

“Rataplan--rataplan!”

Tramp, tramp, up and down the room went the soldier and the girl, the

marquise continually following and expostulating.

At last she could bear it no longer, so she took advantage of marching

right to the door-post with them, not to wheel, but to keep straight on

through the doorway, and to fluster up to her own apartments.

And very apropos had she retreated, for barely had she gone when the

military manœuvres were brought to a close by an announcement of the

steward, as he stood judiciously outside the door, prepared to run in

case of military assault--an announcement to the effect that one of the

brave eleventh was at the door.

Whereat the steward flew on one side to make room for a charge on the

part of both sergeant and lady, who both rushed to the door to welcome

the visitor.

And who was that visitor from the brave eleventh?

Tony! and a score more, who came storming the place as though they had a

right to do so. And when they reached the grand drawing-room, where the

duke was to be received, they set up such a shout as almost paralyzed

the marquise, who, as she did not come to ascertain the cause of the

uproar was, perhaps, temporarily deprived of the power of action or

remonstrance.

“Hurrah! Marie--Marie!”

And there was to be seen the spectacle of “a young lady in fashionable

attire,” shaking the hands of a score of common soldiers, and giving to

special favorites a friendly dig in the ribs with her fair little

fingers.

Common soldiers, all but one--Tony!

Hopeless despair is sometimes success. Tony, fighting madly for welcome

death, lived throughout all to be Captain Tony, and to wear a cross of

valor.

She immediately, after a few confidential words with the captain,

proposed comfort of an ardent kind to the soldiers. “Aye! Aye,” said

they “where’s your keg, Marie?” And then and there the vivandiere’s keg

appeared in the person of the butler, who came to the door trembling.

And the next moment he was borne off in trembling triumph to the assault

of his own cellars.

Marie was not the girl to give way to much sentiment, so the next moment

or so she was talking briskly with her old comrades.

“So, here we three are again, eh!”

“Yes, Marie, as in the old days.”

“How long ago they seem, Sulpice. And so you are a captain, Tony.”

“Yes, and a very brave captain too.” This was not the remark of the

captain himself, but of his sergeant.

“Now Sulpice, sit down there. Good: now the captain will sit on one side

of you and I will sit on the other. There. And now I must begin.

Sergeant Sulpice, you must help us!”

“Help whom, Vivandiere?”

“Marie, and Marie’s captain.”

“How?”

“Speak to the marquise.”

“I’d rather storm a fort.”

“Sergeant Sulpice, you must help us. I say it--you must speak of our

troth.”

“Yes--and we did pledge our troth, Marie--did we not?”

“Surely; but I am speaking to the sergeant. You see, sergeant, the poor

captain is deeply in love with me; and--yes--I think I am deeply in love

with the captain. Well, sergeant, you must help us?”

“Yes, sergeant--I, your captain, tell you--you must help us.”

“Confound you both.”

And the sergeant moved his chair--but Marie moved hers, as also did the

captain his.

“Yes--yes--yes,” said the sergeant. And barely had he registered the

promise in a strong bass voice, when the marquise entered the room. She

was almost paralyzed again at the sight of the third party.

“Aunt--aunt--this is he who once saved my life; and--and I love him.”

“Love! To use the word openly, like that!”

“But, marquise, this is Tony--her husband!”

“Silence, sir--the Duke of Krakentorp is Marie’s husband. Love, indeed!

A soldier--a common soldier!”

“Pardon me, marquise--but Tony is a captain now.”

“Then, if he is an officer, he knows, I presume, the laws of good

breeding; and when I tell him his presence is distasteful,”--here the

grand lady curtseyed, for the captain, without another word, retired,

but not without a certain look from Sulpice, who, having given the

promise, was proceeding to keep it. He looked Tony from the presence of

the marquise, and then he looked Marie also from her presence.

“Ah, I would speak to you alone, Sulpice.”

“And I have a precisely similar desire, marquise.”

“You know I am determined on her marrying the duke.”

“Ah!”

“And I depend on _you_ to bring Marie to reason.”

“Ah!”

“And I think when you have heard me, you _will_ bring Marie to reason.

If you do not--no one will--for she loves you better than me--though I’m

... her ... aunt.”

“Ah!”

“Did you ever fall in love?”

“Par-r-r-rbleu.”

“_I_ have fallen in love. _I_, ridiculous and fantastic as you think

me.”

“Not at all, marquise--not at all.”

“And I have been married--and to a soldier!”

“Cor-r-r-r-rbleu.”

“And knowing the misery I suffered from that marriage--knowing the

misery which _must_ follow all such matches--”

“I don’t see it.”

“You don’t see as the wife, sergeant--I would not wish such a marriage

for my daughter--if I had a daughter.”

“Ah!”

“And--and I have a daughter.”

“Par-r-r-rbleu!--what’s her name?”

“Marie!--Yes. She is my daughter. And now, sergeant--if you would oppose

the aunt, you will not oppose the mother. I tell you a marriage with the

captain would be misery. So you will persuade her to marry the duke--a

man of high character, I assure you, sergeant.”

“I--yes--certainly.”

“Then go at once to her, for I hear a carriage at the door.”

Away went the sergeant--as dejected as though the brave eleventh had

been signally defeated and cut to shreds.

“Ting--ting”--went the castle bell. The visitors came pouring in, and

amongst them the duke and his mother, the duchess; with the inevitable

notary.

When Marie came in with the sergeant, she ran to the marquise, and

embraced her with more warmth than she had ever shown. In one dismal

word or two she promised to obey her newly-found mother.

Then the preparations went on for signing the unavoidable contract.

Meanwhile, the high-flown marquise was asking herself whether the duke

was altogether so admirable a party, and she was beginning to see it

more clearly than she had seen for many years, the joys of that early

martial life of hers, and the happy, loving husband _her_ captain made.

And while she sat recalling that old time there was a great whirr from

without. The next moment twenty common soldiers of the brave eleventh

had burst into the room, headed by the Captain Tony. For love _will_

make cowards of us, as he will, at his capricious pleasure, make us

heroes of bravery.

And then, and there, before all that fine company, they called out in a

loud voice to the marquise’s daughter, addressed her as Marie, reminded

her of vivandiering days, and recommended her to desert.

The grand ladies were immensely shocked at this awful exposition; for it

is needless to say that the story of Marie’s discovery had not, at any

time, formed part of the marquise’s aristocratic confidences; and,

indeed, the marquise herself was ready to shrink into the ground; but

when she remembered the old dare-devil time--the spirit which had

prompted her to marry the dead captain, now rose against the shocked

indignation of the grand people present; and then Marie’s tears--and

then a rather strong fear that the duke would cry off; why all those

reasons were as good as a crack advocate speaking for Captain Tony. And

the consequence was, that when the notary respectfully asked for the

name of the bridegroom--as though he did not know it--the marquise gave

judgment in Tony’s favor, and surprised the notary, and the whole

aristocratic company, by turning to the captain, and leading him up to a

quill-pen dipped in ink.

And so Marie was given away before, at all events, a portion of the

brave eleventh, and certainly with that portion’s full approbation.

The aristocratic ladies were shocked; but the marquise, by the lightness

of her own heart, and the brightness of Marie’s eyes, knew she had

judged wisely; and so she fearlessly looked the grand ladies full in the

face.

* * * * *

Rataplan! Rataplan! Marie is the Daughter of the Regiment still!

NORMA. (BELLINI.)

CHAPTER I.

Rome, all powerful, had thrown out her arms to the east and the west, to

the north and to the south, and boasted of being mistress of the world.

She had conquered all Germany and Spain, and overcome the Gauls; and not

only the Gauls, but the Druids, that powerful and wonderful priesthood,

the relics of whose mysterious rites yet remain in various parts of the

world.

This priesthood rose several times against the Roman yoke, and proved

over and over again that they were not wanting in bravery, daring, or

hardihood.

At the conquest of Gaul, the Pro-Consul appointed to Cambria, was named

Pollione. Near his palace was the sacred Druidic Forest, within which

dwelt the mysterious priesthood.

The High Priest was Oroveso; but higher in the awe and veneration of the

Gauls stood his daughter Norma. Proud, beautiful, and cold, she stood

amongst them, uttering the decrees of their faith, and believed by all

to be inspired of God. All bowed before the High Priestess--the spotless

virgin.

But ah! was she spotless--pure? No! seen by the Roman Governor but to be

loved by him, she had forgotten her state, her holiness--and soon she

was his wife.

Yet she was the High Priestess before the people, and the priests

trembled as she passed them; while she herself often trembled as she

performed the mystic symbolic rites, and she thought of her

children. For she had two children--this proud, reverenced, high

priestess--children whom she loved when no eyes beheld her but their

own; often she ran to their little bedsides when she feared they might

have been discovered; but up to the time when their father changed

towards her, no one but herself, their father, and the faithful

Clotilda, knew of their existence.

For the Roman grew cold to her, and often as she stood high and grand at

the altar, her heart was beating. Yet she knew not why he had forsaken

her.

Hark to the pompous march! List to the solemn step of marching hundreds!

Who are these coming grandly in the night through the sacred grove?

These are the Druids, the pure priests dressed in heavy white garments,

their holy beards flowing to their chests.

See!--some of them speed to the hill-side to hail the moon’s up-rising,

and they call their followers to prayers by the clashing of grave bells.

When the moon, the emblem of their God, is throned in the boundless sky,

Norma will come to gather the sacred miseltoe clinging to the holy oaks.

Hark, how they vow to destroy and sweep the Romans from the land!

Grandly they pass away again, chanting till the still air is full of

sound.

But who are these two, flitting from tree to tree?--they are not clothed

in flowing white--there is the flash of metal from their limbs. They are

not Gaul or Druids, they are Romans.

The one is Pollione--the other Flavio.

“Why comest thou to this sacred forest--has not Norma told thee death

lies within?”

“Why hast thou uttered that dread name?”

Hark! he doth admit he loveth her no more; the mother of his children.

His new love is a priestess too, and he calleth her Adalgisa; he hath

entreated her to fly to Rome with him. Still he speaketh, when booming

on the night air is heard the sound of bells, and behold the air is

suffused with soft moonlight.

Then the Romans fled--for again the sacred march rippled through the

air; louder and louder, as they came to the high altar. Norma--proud as

ever; defying fear and walking grandly amidst them all.

On she comes to the sacred oak, bearing a golden reaping hook in her

right hand. High she mounts the steps of the grand altar, as the sacred

fires flicker in the breeze, and as the stately march rolls on. She

knows there have been mutterings of hate against the Romans--fearlessly

she bids them live in peace till she tells them to raise their arms.

Terribly she threatens those who shall take no heed of what she says;

she stands there in power unspeakable, and they tremble before her.

Then she cuts the sacred misletoe, and as it falls from the trees it is

caught in a pure white cloth. High does the chief priestess cast her

eyes to the placid moon, as she prays for its blessing.

“Chaste goddess, whose silver beams deign to fall on our sacred

plant--let thy rays come to us unshadowed by a cloud. Calm these rash

men who thirst for war; calm them; spread over our land the peace and

quiet of thy boundless sky.”

See how they bow the head before their great high priestess as she

addresses the greatest emblem of their faith.

Then she turns her face from the illuminating moon, and high above them

speaks the ordeal which they believe their god speaks to them through

her. See how they bow as she tells them she--she only will utter the

war-cry--let their swords rest till she bids them flash from their

scabbards.

The sacred rites are ended. Solemnly the reverend men have moved away.

The priestess is perhaps fondling her two children. The sacred fires die

out, and for a little the altar stands deserted in the midst.

Then comes Adalgisa, trembling and prostrate. See her kneeling before

the altar, the sacred fires flickering dimly here and there. What a

contrast is she to Norma, who walks proudly and fears naught! Adalgisa

is bowing, trembling; no mighty prayer issues from her lips, but a timid

appeal. Yet she thinks of the Roman who loves her and whom she loves.

Then as she confesses this to herself, she bows lowly before the altar

of the temple she has shamed; and yet heavily she trembles as she thinks

of the chief priestess and the decree, if she but discovers that

Adalgisa loves the enemy.

Still she is kneeling when the Roman comes creeping softly towards her.

She cries affrightedly as he touches her, and clings to the altar. Yet

he speaks.

Hark how he pleads!

“Thou art weeping.”

“No, no; but I pray--thou durst not speak to me as I pray.”

“‘Tis a false God thou prayest to. Come with me--come with me--pray to

the gods _I_ love--the true gods!”

“Let me go--let me go.”

“Where thou goest I follow, Adalgisa!”

“Thou mayest not follow me to the sacred Temple!”

“The Temple--hast thou not whispered that thou lovest me?”

“Yet do I offer myself to the service of the Temple.”

“Ah! if thou wouldst sacrifice--let my blood be shed. Thou wiliest my

destruction.”

“Hast thou not willed mine? Didst thou not whisper to me as I knelt

happy and innocent at the altar?”

“There are nobler altars in Rome, dearest. Wilt thou not kneel at them

with me?”

“Rome--thou goest to Rome?”

“When the day dawns thou wilt go with me.”

“No, no.”

“To Rome and its pleasures. Doth not thy heart tell thee thou art

willing to be with me?”

“Ah! I fear thee.”

“Yet thou lovest me.”

Hark, then--oh shame upon her priestly virgin robes; she promises to see

him yet again, and then to fly with him.

See, she steals away, and she--her better nature rising--will to the

arch-priestess go, and seek her assistance and advice.

CHAPTER II.

Yes--the priestess--the proud priestess is now the happy, yet fearing,

mother. See her clasping her children, and turning, affrightedly, to the

mouth of their cavern-house at every sound, however slight.

The sound increases--’tis a footstep! The children are hurried away, and

the next moment Adalgisa is at the feet of the high priestess.

She tremblingly tells the story of her love. But the proud Norma is not

angry--does not upbraid her! Why? Does she not think of the time when

Pollione whispered loving vows to her?

At last she asks, “Who is he--thy lover?”

“Not a Gaul--a Roman.”

“A Roman--and he is named--”

Again a footstep. This time a rapid, haughty one--’tis that of Pollione.

Well he knows the entrance to the house. He comes to see Norma. As he

marks Adalgisa he starts. And she, the young maiden, says, “This is

he--this is he who loves me.”

“He--Pollione!” See Norma standing proudly, and yet as though turned to

stone.

“The very one.”

“He!--do I hear--do I see?”

O, the world of anger on her face as she looks upon the man before her.

Now she knows why he has deserted her. Now she learns the meaning of his

cold words and frequent absences. Then vengeance whispers her--she has

but to call, and they shall both die--he, the traitor, and this weak,

cruel girl! Then jealousy swept over her, and she eagerly looked at her

rival. But Adalgisa coming trembling and kneeling near her, and standing

far away from the Roman, she was full of pity, and she said:--

“I would that thou hadst died--I would that thou hadst died before thou

hadst seen him.”

Threateningly raising his hand, he turned to go his way, but she

commanded him to stay; and in spite of himself he did remain. Again rage

possessed her.

“I read thy thoughts--but is she not in my power--can I not destroy

her?”

“Thou shalt not do this!”

“And shalt thou stay my hand?”

He ran to Adalgisa and implored her to fly with him--but the virgin drew

back from him, and again clung to Norma. But the priestess, jealous to

blindness, flung the maiden from her, and bade her follow her paramour.

“Ah! no--ah! no--Norma.”

Suddenly she relented--bent down quickly and kissed the acolyte. Then

she rose toweringly high and bade him depart.

“Begone--forget thy vows, thy vows--begone! I curse thee. My voice shall

whisper to thee on the winds and in the waves. Go--alone! She shrinks

from thee, she whom thou wouldst destroy--I defy thee. Go--alone.”

He met her look at first--but soon quailed before her. Then with his eye

down-cast, he moved towards Adalgisa--but Norma stood defyingly between

them.

So conquered--he turned, and left the place.

Behold her before the kneeling girl--her face towards him as he creeps

away; firm, defying, protecting--she has conquered him--she, the sinning

high priestess; she, but a woman; she, one of a conquered race--Norma!

She has fought and beaten the powerful Roman. She stands proudly,

defiantly; _he_ creeps away abashed, his very life her gift, the gift of

her whom he has deserted.

CHAPTER III.

Who is this, creeping towards two sleeping children? Who is this with an

uplifted dagger, and an awful frown upon her face? ’Tis Norma--mad with

jealousy and hate, stealing in the dark to kill his children and her

own.

Nearer and nearer the infants--nearer still; they are sleeping--they

will not see the hand that strikes them--a loving hand--loving hand!

“If--if I do not destroy them--if they live here, soon or late the

flaming pyre will steal them. If--if in Rome, they would be slaves! No,

no, never slaves! Let them die. Why can I not strike--are they not

Pollione’s children? What are they to me? He is dead to me--let _them_

die also.”

She raises the savage knife, high--higher still. Then she lets fall the

blade. They are her sons--they are her sons! And fearing for herself,

she calls to Clotilda, the faithful keeper of her secret, and bids her

seek out and bring Adalgisa to the cavern--once a home!

“Adalgisa, I am sick to death. I will tell thee all my shame. Thou hast

knelt to me--ah well! I now kneel to thee. Take them--my children, and

guard them well--for no more have they a mother. Lead them to him--lead

them to him--bid them kneel before him! Perchance to Adalgisa a kinder

husband he may be than he has been to Norma! Take them; watch over them.

I ask not for them fortune, honors. I only ask that they may not be

slaves, abandoned and forgotten. Ah! remember, Adalgisa, ’twas for thee

he did forget me.”

“Ah! Norma--hope yet--hope ever. I’ll to the Roman camp, and move his

pity; and all may yet be well; hope on, hope ever.”

High and proud yet, the priestess forbade the girl to seek Pollione;

but, turning to her children, for their sake she faltered; and at last

bade Adalgisa go.

So away to the Roman camp went the maiden; while sick at heart, the high

priestess lay in the cavern, weeping.

Meanwhile, the Druids were planning a surprise and massacre of the Roman

camp. In spite of the high priestess’s commands, they had met to plot,

and at their head stood Oroveso, her father. Angrily, and with heavy

brows, they met; angrily, and with heavy brows, they separated--nerving

themselves for the coming blow.

CHAPTER IV.

Again she stands near the altar--this time the sacred spot where hangs

the symbolic shield, which, being struck, gives forth the sound of

thunder. None but Norma may raise this dreaded warning--none.

As she stood near the altar, she thought, would Adalgisa be successful?

Would he return to her, repentant and loving? And as she asked herself

these questions, behold the sun was overcast, and thunder muttered in

the air.

Suddenly Clotilda ran in; her features had told her message of

dismay--Adalgisa had wept and prayed in vain.

As she stood there, her first thought was her madness in letting the

virgin go; that she could have been so weak as to let him look upon her.

Why--why if she prayed and knelt to him, she was but more beautiful, and

more surely drew his love upon her. Then she thought that Adalgisa had

planned the appeal to the Roman but to escape from her fury. Then

suddenly she relents, for the messenger tells how Roman honor has

overcome temptation. How the herald has been held sacred, and a free

passage given her back to the sacred forest. Her face softens as

Clotilda tells how the virgin humbly prays that she may take the vows,

and dedicate herself to the service of the Temple. And now again her

face is angered; ’tis at the last news the messenger has brought, that

Pollione has vowed to tear Adalgisa from the very Temple--from the very

altar.

“Let the blood of the base Romans flow,” she cried. Then quickly she

turned to the golden shield, the sound of which emulated the rolling

thunder, and beat on it three times.

Then arose the sacred answering cry of the Druids, and from all sides

came they running towards the sound--masses on masses--their weapons in

their hands. On they came--in they rushed, till the whole temple was

filled--a forest of angry steel ready to bathe in Roman blood.

“War!” she cried--“extermination--slaughter! Sing ye the hymn of

battle.”

Up rose the sacred hymn--high-sounding amidst the waving oaks--floating

away on the winds, and threatening the southern invaders. Louder

and louder spread the sacred war cry--death, destruction,

extermination!--“Let the Romans fall! Let their legions be mown down

like grass!--Let the wings of their eagles strike the ground. May our

god descend on the rays of the sun to bless and rejoice in the triumph

of his faithful children.”

Then she trembles in her passion as she sees the high priest, her own

father, prepare to ask the question she knows that he must ask.

“AND THE VICTIM?”

The victim! When the stern, savage Druids warred, they called for a

human victim, as a sacrifice to their gods--as an offering and

atonement for their sins--as a sacrifice worthy to propitiate their gods

to grant them victory.

“AND THE VICTIM?”

Slowly she replies:--“The terrible altar never lacks a victim!”

Suddenly rose loud cries of anger; and through the thick throng of

worshippers there ran several armed Gauls, bearing in their midst a man

dressed in Roman garments.

“A Roman found in the sacred temple.”

Who was this man--this Roman? She, Norma, trembled as she saw him; and

she whispered the word “Pollione!”

There was a suppressed cry of joy amongst the Druids--their gods had

sent this sacrifice--this Roman, their enemy, who had dared to enter the

sacred forest.

“Take thou the sacred sword and slay him.”

He who spoke was Oroveso; she who heard--she who stretched forth her

hand for the weapon--was Norma.

And as she took the sword, the Druids saw the Roman start and turn pale,

and they said amongst themselves that he was afraid.

Slowly she came down from the altar, the shining weapon in her hand.

Slowly she came near him--not a pitying look upon her face. Slowly she

lifted the sword against him, as he raised his arm to receive the blow.

And then--then she was weak; and she, the high priestess, let fall the

point of the sacred weapon from before the enemy and the victim. In a

mighty voice they called forth--“Slay him!”

But she said she must question him, and bade them retire for a little

space.

Slowly and angrily they departed, and left her standing alone with him

in the Temple.

“So at last thou art in my power. There is no hope for thee.”

“I do not fear thee.”

“Now swear--swear that from this hour thou wilt think no more of

Adalgisa, and I will give thee life, and thou shalt go from before mine

eyes.”

“I will not swear.”

“Dost thou know that my rage is terrible?”

“I fear not thy rage.”

“And thy children?”

As she spoke he trembled, and with a cry of joy she cried out that he

feared her at last.

“Spare them--spare them. Let me die alone.”

“Thee alone?--all the Romans who are in Gaul shall die, and even

Adalgisa shall perish in the flames.”

“Pity!--pity!”

“What? Canst thou ask pity of Norma? Ah! she knows no more what pity is.

See how I sate myself--how I glory in thy fear for her, and for

yourself! Thou shalt suffer, as I have suffered.”

Then she struck the sacred shield once more, and again the priests and

the armed men came swarming to the Temple.

“Behold” she cried, “I have found another victim to your rage. A

priestess forsworn; who hath forsworn her vows; who hath betrayed her

country; who hath angered the god of her people!”

With one vast shout they asked for her name.

“Build the pile,” she said.

Again they cried out for the name of the accursed.

Then over her heart swept a flood of pity for the maiden she was about

to denounce. “What right had she, a guilty wretch, to revenge herself

upon an innocent creature? Had not Adalgisa pitied her? had she done her

any wrong? Could the poor girl save herself from loving the traitor? Had

not she herself, she, Norma, fallen?”

As she hesitated, the crowd about her again demanded the offender’s

name.

Yet she hesitated. Then, turning to the trembling Roman, who each moment

feared to hear her name the name of Adalgisa, the high priestess raised

her right hand to her head, took from it the holy wreath, worn as the

badge of purity; bent low her head, and said, “_I--I_ am that guilty

one!” So her better nature had conquered. All pride and anger gone! In

her rage she would have denounced Adalgisa; but her sense of justice

triumphed, and she denounced herself.

With a world of shame and repentance seething within him, the Roman

cried, “No! believe her not, she speaketh knowing not what she sayeth!”

Still hiding her face, she said, “Norma speaketh the shameful truth!”

And she saw her white-headed father draw away, degraded, from his

brethren.

She crept up to her husband, and in her looks she told him what a loving

wife he had destroyed. Then she whispered it was a destiny that they

should die together, their ashes mingling on the same pile, and the same

winds scatter them abroad.

All his old love for her returned in this sublime moment. Joy--a dying

joy for her filled all his soul. She saw him look upon her as of old,

with loving eyes, though they were now filled with pitying tears.

“Pardon!” he cried--the most blessed words she could hear; for women

will die that they may forgive men; “Pardon!”

But ere she could speak, her father crept up to her, and whispered that

she had spoken falsely--that she was not so fallen--that she was yet

pure. Then aloud he cried, “If the unyielding god who sees us holds back

his angry thunder thou art guiltless!” Again he whispered, “Norma--my

daughter--thou art guiltless.”

What is it that she says which makes him start in horror? What is it

that makes the blood redden his aged forehead? She has told him of her

children--her living children.

He draws his robe from her, as though pollution were in her touch. His

trembling feet bear him from her--his daughter--the once proud,

magnificent high priestess.

But she follows him--prays to him to save them. Still his head is erect,

and his eyes are tearless. She is his own flesh and blood. She bids him

think of her own early days; she hoarsely cries that in a few minutes

she shall be dead, and again she prays him to seek her children, who are

with Clotilda, and to watch over them. Gradually his head falls lower

and lower on his breast. At last, without fear of pollution, he lays his

hand upon her head, and promises to fulfil her last desire.

The angry priests, muttering together, draw near--fall upon her, fling

over her the black veil of death, and bear her away to the burning pile.

High blaze the flames, lapping about her--falls on the body of the slain

husband the flickering red light--the Roman, who has died, pierced by

scores of wounds.

The victim is sacrificed. Let them march on to victory. Their god is

appeased! the sin which was amongst them, which has drawn the favor of

heaven from them, is purged away by fire. Now, let the Romans fall--let

Gaul be free!

High blaze the flames, the red reflexions shimmering from each

white-robed priest, from the robes even of her weeping father. Higher

and higher till the victim is turned to light ashes for the wind to

drift whithersoever it will!

ROBERTO IL DIAVOLO. (MEYERBEER.)

ROBERT THE DEVIL.

THE PROLOGUE.

Richard II., Duke of Normandy, who lived some forty years before the

conquest of Great Britain by William, was without an heir to his

dukedom. He prayed wearily for an heir--but never a child had he. At

last he made a vow, in the presence of his courtiers, that if the

demon’s power could grant him a son, he would dedicate that son to the

demon himself--sell him and his soul to the fallen angel!

The courtiers were breathless with astonishment.

Soon they remarked a change in the king, of which he himself was not

aware. His face altered--his brow grew dark and heavy--his step slow,

firm, and yet light. All color left his cheeks, and his lips grew pale

and thin. The veins of his forehead could be traced--a deep blue color

wandering beneath the skin; and his eyes grew mournful in their light.

His hair fell about his head in deep waving folds--and he seemed the

victim of utter despair. Yet he was known by all as the duke--the same

as ever, and yet wholly changed. Nobody who had known him before this

change came on but bowed to him as the duke; yet all who had so known

him whispered that he was changed as never man changed who was not

possessed of a devil.

Then great wonders began to be marked in Normandy. Storms would rise

without warning and sweep over the land as though heaven was wrath. And

while the storms lasted, moans were heard in the air--low, wailing,

gentle moans--like the sighs of angels. Then, too, from the deep caverns

came loud clattering laughs--peal on peal--like mocking thunder.

Soon it became known that an heir would be born to the duke. Then might

be seen stretching across the heavens a great flaming sword of fire, its

edge ever trembling and surrounded by vaporous clouds.

At last, in a louder strain than any of that year--in the midst of

shrieking winds such as had never before been heard by all who

lived--the heir was born. Duke Richard was no longer childless!

Very beautiful was the child. But those who saw him, noticed that his

features were like his father’s, that his skin was colorless, and that

his eyes lacked the sparkling brightness of infancy.

The attention of the courtiers being fully roused, they began to observe

that the father regained his old looks and ways. His color came back;

his eyes again flashed brightly, the sound of his foot was again heard,

and once more he laughed. And they said among themselves that the change

they had marked was caused by anxiety, and that now his son was born to

him, he was himself again.

Yet a few years, and there was more strange court news. The child was as

no other child; he would tear birds to pieces, screaming with joy the

while; and waking in the night,--he would creep from his bed, open the

shutters of his windows to the wind, and remain there with these same

winds tearing about his head till the day came--when he would slink away

to his bed. He did not love the light, and when night time came, then

only was it that his eyes sparkled.

Yet a little--and then it was known that he only was gentle when both

his mother, and his foster-sister, Alice, were with him. Then he was as

child-like as any other child, and would lisp his prayers quite readily.

But Alice away, and his mother distant, again he became the strange

weird creature he was whispered to be.

Then came the rumor a few years later, of an old white-haired man being

found dead, a child’s jewelled dagger remaining in his breast.

Yet a few more years, and the whispers running through the court

trickled out amongst the people, that the duke’s son was a demon!

Sad grew the father, sadder and sadder. But it was remarked that though

his face grew grave and thoughtful, it was quite unlike the face he wore

in that awful year before his son was born. And then it was whispered

that if that time were referred to, the duke seemed lost, confused, and

that then, and only then, something of that terrible look could be seen

upon his countenance.

At last the heir was really grown a man; as handsome as any other in

Normandy, as brave as any knight at court. But it was observed by many,

that, handsome as he was, there was still a threat of the features which

his father wore the year before he, Robert, was born.

Soon the people grew to detest the heir to the throne; for he swept

through the land like a destroying angel. They abhorred him, and then it

was they called him ROBERT THE DEVIL!

Then, broken-hearted, utterly cast down, but never wearing the old

terrible look, the father, greyhaired and weary of the world, exiled his

only son from Normandy, forbade him the land of his birth, and drove him

from it.

Henceforth, till the old duke died, the people never felt the hand of

“Robert the Devil.” They heard of him, brave, fearless, terrible--ever

conquering, never conquered, never even wounded. They heard of him, a

monster--firing, destroying, waking up war wherever he placed his foot;

and they trembled as they thought of the time when he should come to

reign over them.

Meanwhile the old duke and the sorrowing lady prayed, hourly for their

lost son; and joined in their prayers the lost son’s foster-sister,

ALICE.

THE LEGEND.

PART I.--THE TEMPTER.

A world of tents--to the right, to the left--before or behind--a world

of tents. And not dismal little canvas tents--but brave erections in

cloths of gold and silver, and gay colors.

Truth to tell, all this was evidence of a tournament, given by the Duke

of Messina.

Many knights intended to compete in this tournament. Hence, that

sea-shore near Palermo was gay as a garden with colored tents, bright

gold, shining armor, and brave knights, sumptuously attired.

But no braver knight, more bravely attended, nor surrounded with more

magnificence, was there than the unknown, whose arrival had created such

a stir in the gorgeous camp.

This unknown knight, as he came from the tent erected for him in the

centre of his people’s brilliant little encampment, was the observed of

all observers.

“Dost know who he is?”

“Wherefore comes he?”

“I have heard that he will take part in the tournament.”

Calmly the unknown knight came amongst the host of gentlemen, bowing and

smiling gravely. They made way for him--nay, some drew forward stools,

and soon the whole body of knights were seated about tables, more or

less magnificent, as the owner knight was rich and brave, or brave only.

But he who drew on him as much attention as the unknown knight himself,

was his companion, a tall, solemn-looking man. His brow was heavy and

dark, his step slow, firm, and yet light; no color was in his face, his

lips were pale and thin, and the veins of his forehead could be

traced--a deep blue color wandering beneath his skin. His eyes were

mournful, his hair fell about his head in deep, waving folds, and a kind

of settled despair seemed to hang upon him, and weigh him down.

This companion of the unknown knight was dressed in garments of sombre

hue, which hung in beautiful sweeping folds about his person. His hands

were delicate and white, and had in them a trembling motion, which was

at great variance with the close, firm mouth--little, small, delicate

hands, beautiful to look upon, and yet, somehow, they looked like claws,

the fingers seemed to turn so naturally to the palms.

The knights commenced drinking and dicing at the various tables. Still

the stranger knight and his companion sat by themselves at their table

of bright metal, inlaid with a winding pattern of jet.

Suddenly the companion whispered the knight, who thereupon, with a

smiling face, turned to the body of gentlemen and saluted them, raising

his goblet to them, and emptying it at a draught.

The knights readily responded to the appeal, and the next moment began

conversing gaily with the two strangers.

The conversation, however, was soon interrupted by the arrival of two

men, the one a squire of the stranger knight, the other a simple-looking

country fellow, carrying his cap in his hand, and looking about him

bashfully.

“Sire,” said the squire, softly, “this pilgrim is a songster, and he

cometh from Normandy.”

“Normandy--dear, dear Normandy,” said the young knight, and as he spoke

the words he looked handsomer than before.

“_Dear_ Normandy,” said the grave, noiseless companion, as the hand

lying on the table twitched. “_Dear_ Normandy--I thought she had driven

thee from her soil.”

The young knight frowned the truth of these few words; and then turning

to the pilgrim troubadour, gave him some money, and asked him what he

could sing.

“Ho--ho!” said the minstrel, laughing and yet trembling in the presence

of the splendid company. “Ho--ho! I can sing all songs; but, my faith,

the best is the history of our young duke, whom they call Robert the

Devil. He hath the evil eye on him, my masters.”

Here he turned to the crowd of warriors who were drawing near, and did

not mark the young knight place his right hand quickly upon his dagger.

“Sing of Robert, minstrel; sing of Robert the Devil.”

Again the companion spoke. “‘Tis but a poor minstrel.”

The knight, obediently, it seemed, moved his hand from the weapon, and

said, “True!” Then loudly he called to the minstrel, “Begin, thou.”

“Oh, long ago, in Normandy,

A valiant prince there chanced to reign;

He lived in peace--his wife he loved,

And yet he lived a life of pain.

No child had he; for years and years

He knelt at shrines--he knelt and prayed;

But all in vain--yes all in vain

Was every sacrifice he made.

Then loud he swore, before the court,

That if a son to him were born,

He would devote him to the fiend,

And let his soul from Heaven be torn.

And then in time there came a son,

Of all the land, the dread and shame--

Robert--Robert--the demon’s own;

And truly he deserves the name.

Not long ago--but at this day

The valiant prince--if you’ll believe--

He lives--he lives--as does the son,

For whom the duke doth ever grieve.”

As the gallants laughed at the ballad, and the earnestness with which it

was sung, the minstrel stood with his back to the young knight. The next

moment, the poor wanderer felt himself thrown to the ground; and,

looking up, he saw a bright dagger high in the air above him. But

restraining the holder of it, was a small white hand, the fingers of

which seemed clawed about the other’s wrist.

“‘Tis but a poor minstrel!” he also heard a voice say.

Again the angry hand gave way, and fell to the young knight’s side; but

he bade some of his people seize the unlucky singer.

“I am Robert,” he cried haughtily, and looking with defiance at the

knights.

“The fiend!” cried the minstrel, falling on his knees.

“An hour for thy prayers, and the hour following thy purgatory! The next

tree shall bear thee as its fruit.”

“Good, my prince; verily we have come all the way to see thee, bearing a

holy message.”

“Message--we--who is your companion?”

“She who shall be my wife, if thou wilt let me live, master.”

“A Normandienne, Bertram; a _Normandienne_. Are there any women,

think’st thou, their equals? Well, minstrel, thy wife’s eyes have gained

for thee a pardon. Send her hither.”

“Good master.”

“Thou art courageous!”

Some well-meaning man-at-arms here gruffly pulled the young minstrel

away; and the last he saw of Robert was that he turned inquiringly to

the knights, and that they all seemed eager to please him and be near

him.

Yet quickly he turned from the knights, as he heard the footsteps of

several men approaching, and with them the patter of a pair of light

feet.

Then came in the midst of those rough, shaggy men-at-arms, a young,

pure-looking girl. She had one of those faces not eminently beautiful,

and yet at which you gaze with a kind of awe; holiness too proud to ask

the aid of mere beauty! Men seemed to grow better as they looked upon

this holy young face.

“Alice, dear Alice--my sister Alice!”

“My prince--my prince!” and the young creature flung herself upon the

ground near Robert.

“‘Tis my sister, gentlemen--our breath mingled on the same breast.” And

stooping he lifted Alice from the ground.

Strange--his face seemed much lighter than it was, and his very voice

happier and freer.

As for his companion, whom he called Bertram, he rose from the table,

kept his eyes from the girl, and moved away--farther away--farther

away--till he was lost to sight in the midst of the tents.

The knights and gentlemen about seemed to know that she would speak to

him privately, for they withdrew, and soon left a wide space between

themselves and the girl Alice.

“Prince, Alice. Call me not prince. For I am to thee ever brother. So,

thou hast come to see the exile? I have striven to die since last I saw

dear Normandy; but I bear a charmed life, methinks. And now here, Alice,

love itself is my enemy. But thou dost not say why thou hast come.”

“My duty hath brought me hither.”

“Thou wast ever dutiful.”

“The duty I owe to a dear mistress bringeth me to thee.”

“Thou dost speak of my dear mother whom heaven bless.”

“Then is she blessed in heaven.”

“She--my mother!”

“And when thou shalt next see her, thou shalt be in heaven too.”

“Dead--dead--my mother dead!”

As he spoke Bertram glided from behind one of the tents, but the next

moment was lost again. He turned his face angrily away as tears fell

from the young knight’s eyes.

“‘Go,’ thy mother said, ‘go, my Alice, to him, and say that, though he

has made my heart bleed all his life, I love him heartily; that my last

thoughts are for him; that I will pray for him and watch him through his

dark hours of temptation. Tell him a terrible power enwraps him, but

thou--thou,’ and she laid her hands upon my head, O brother--‘thou shalt

be his guardian spirit. I know that I may will it so. The hour must come

when between me and the evil I have named my son must make his choice.

Be thou near him then, O Alice, be thou near him, that he may pass

surely on the narrow way to me!’ Then she lay down, whispering that she

would her son were by to close her eyes--and so thy mother died.”

He hung his head and wept for pity and for love of that dear mother.

“You weep, my brother. I have yet more to tell thee. Before she spoke

these last sad words, she placed a paper in my hands--her will--and she

said, ‘Bid him read it when he thinks he is worthy to read it.’”

“That is not now, Alice. Keep this will; something tells me ’tis best in

thy hands. Read my mother’s will now! now that I am borne down with

sorrow, against which I do rebel with all my strength. And, sister

Alice--I love a lady who, I fear, doth dread me.”

“Dread thee?”

“She is the princess of Sicily. Her father looked on me with but a

troubled eye--and so I strove to steal her. But they fought bravely for

their princess, and they saved her. I was down--down upon the ground,

and I feared never more to see my own dear land--when a noble knight

came to my rescue and delivered me. They fell before his arm as the

blades of corn before the reaper. He saved me and he is my dear friend,

my dear loving friend!”

As he spoke, Bertram was standing not far off; his face wearing a grave,

almost a gracious smile, and his white right hand high above him playing

with the folds of a flame-red tent.

“And the princess, brother--does she love thee?”

“Alas, sister--how should I know?”

“Nay--write to her.”

“And who shall be my herald?”

“Who--I will be thy herald!”

He called quickly, and from his tent came a page. To this child he gave

a rapid order, and the next minute he was writing a letter to the lady

whom he would have stolen. When he had finished, he pressed the hilt of

his dagger on the seal, as was the custom of the day.

“Go--sister of mine--fortune be with you!”

As she turned, she saw the knight, Bertram.

She was not afraid of him, but she seemed to know he was her enemy.

“Brother--who is that man?”

“Ah--Bertram! This is the noble friend I told thee of--wherefore dost

thou regard him so strangely?”

“At home, in our village church, there is a picture which tells how the

Archangel conquered Satan; and methinks I see in this man a resemblance

to--”

“The Archangel?”

“No, verily, the other.”

“Ha!--go, sister.”

She obeyed him with a kind of fearless fear--a courage mixed with a

desire to avoid this man.

“Thou art on good terms with thy conquest.”

“Gratitude, Bertram.”

“A good word--a _good_ word.”

“Were I bluntly candid, Bertram, I should say that near thee I never

feel so honest as when thou art distant; but now as I stood by Alice, I

marvelled much how I seemed to enjoy all things about me, and how much I

felt inclined to good.”

“I love thee, Robert, as a father would his son--his only son.”

“Aye--but truly the advice of a father is ever godly.”

“Is it likely I am the fiend? Tush!--drown your cares; rejoin the

knights and cavaliers--do as they do--_thou art no worse than they_!”

“Verily!”

“_And thou art rich!_”

Diligently the white knight, as the knights began to call the pallid

Bertram--diligently the white knight arranged the gaming tables, and

when his friend took the dice-box into his hand, he came and stood near

him, slightly smiling.

“Thou shouldst double the stakes, Robert,” said the white knight, after

the youth had lost freely. “Fortune hates the niggard hand. Double,

friend, double.” And here the white hand gathered up the dice.

“Well, double the stakes!”

“Nay--if thou treblest, then thy chance is almost a surety.”

“Treble the stakes!”

Thrown, and lost.

“Fortune hates the niggard hand; hesitate not--play!”

Again the rattle of the dice was heard, again the knight lost.

Again, and yet again, he played and lost! Then he even wagered the

jewels from his robe; then his horses, and his armor. Yet with fell

purpose fortune turned her back upon him.

“Fortune doth try thee, Robert. Still tempt her: she loveth the brave.”

Again he plays--again he loses.

“Gold is only a bauble--fling it, fling it, fling it away.”

At last he had played away all--all! There was yet the sword at his

side, and the dagger with which he had threatened the poor minstrel.

Another moment and they were lost too. He, Robert of Normandy, had

disarmed and beggared himself.

But in a moment his natural rage swept over him and he was frantic. With

a threatening look at the knights about him, he wrested a battle-axe

from a soldier near at hand, and was flying madly at the victorious

group. Then indeed, Bertram showed himself a loving friend. He held the

youth back, he entreated the gentlemen to pardon his ungracious anger.

He shielded him. And all the while he trembled like a woman.

PART II. THE DECREE.

Not far from the camp stood the poor minstrel, waiting for his

sweetheart Alice. While he was waiting, the knight Robert’s catastrophe

was achieved, and he was lying in the white knight’s camp; lying with

his face upon the ground, and the will to evil strong within him.

Raimbault the minstrel waited for some little time, and was beginning to

think Alice would never come; when he heard a footstep, a light

footstep, like but yet unlike the step of Alice. He turned, and before

him stood the knight Bertram, his face more pallid than ever in the

moonlight.

“Thou art Raimbault.”

“Verily; whom the knight Robert would have hanged.”

“He hath a strong will. Wherfore art thou here?”

“To meet Alice, my good wife, so please thee.”

“She is very poor.”

“She hath a rich heart, and is no poorer than I.”

“See, now, thou art richer than she is now.”

“Verily, he hath given me gold; real, real gold!”

And the minstrel did not read contempt in the pale face; contempt that

gold should make men happy.

“Thou art noble, and I will obey thee.”

(Oh! man, man, how weak art thou.) “So thou art to be married?”

“Yes, now that the young prince has been discovered.”

“Folly!”

“Folly, nay, Alice is a good girl!”

“Good! Were I thee, I would wait, and be joyful. Thou art rich; with

gold man can do all things; and I have given thee gold.”

“Verily.”

“Be happy--feast--sin! Thou art young, there is time to repent--_time to

repent_! (He smileth; his eyes brighten; he is lost.) Go, good

Raimbault, Alice will follow thee; she may be thy slave. Go, go!”

The minstrel, weak and maimed with evil thoughts, went away stumbling in

the darkness.

Then the smile passed away from Bertram’s face--there was only to be

read in it terrible despair battling with small hope! As a faint,

warning, unearthly sound swept through the air, he trembled; and then he

muttered that he had gained another soul! That he should have mercy

shown him--mercy to him, the ambassador! Again the wild cry swept

through the air, and Bertram’s head fell. Clasping his hands together,

he moved slowly into a deep lightless cavern, and was lost in the

darkness.

Treading lightly through the moonlight then came Alice, to meet

Raimbault, who was surely waiting for her--surely.

“Raimbault--Raimbault!”

No answer.

“When I bade Normandy adieu,

Thus said a hermit sage to me,

Damsel, to one beloved and true,

Thou shalt e’er long united be.

Raimbault--Raimbault!”

The wild, wailing cry swept past her very lips as she ended her little

ditty. As she heard it she trembled, and felt sure the very ground below

her shook.

She began to run away, afraid, but a single word detained her--a single

word, streaming through all the air--“Robert!”

“Robert!” She knew her duty was to watch over him till he had read his

mother’s will, so she stood still, trembling no longer. Then she thought

the sound came from a dark corner near, and lightly walking to it, she

peered in, and then drew back with mighty fear. She sped quickly to a

rustic cross by the roadside; she fell at its feet, and lay senseless.

Forth from the cavern came the white knight. The doom, then, was

irrevocable; unless Robert freely gave himself up--and before the

morrow--they would be parted. Parted from Robert, whom he loved so much.

“By his own will--by his own will, he must be won.”

Suddenly he turned, as he heard a weak womanly cry, and he saw Alice

lying at the foot of the cross.

“Thou here, Alice? What ailest thee? Thou dost draw away. Nearer--come

nearer; nearer, I say. Dost fear me?”

Still she clung to the cross, the closer and more firmly as he

approached.

“What didst thou hear?”

“Nothing.”

“What didst thou see?”

“Nothing--nothing.”

“Come near me.”

With a loud cry, she crossed herself.

“Ah! thou knowest me!”

“I do not fear.”

“Thou shalt surely perish, utterly--thou and thine! What hast thou seen?

What hast thou heard?”

“Nothing--nothing.”