Memory is like moonlight, the reflection of brighter rays emanating
originally from an object no longer seen; and all our retrospects
towards the past times, as well as our individual remembrances,
partake in some degree of the softening splendour which covers small
faults and imperfections by grand masses of shade, and brings out
picturesque beauties and points of interest with apparently brighter
effulgence than even when the full sunshine of the present beaming
upon them, suffers at the same time the eye to be distracted, and the
mind otherwise engaged by a thousand minor particulars. Nothing gains
more, perhaps, from the impossibility of close inspection than the
manners, the customs, and the things of the past; and, in some
instances, even Nature herself, and Time, that enemy of man's works,
in general so remorseless, seem to take a fanciful pleasure in
assisting the illusion. That which was in itself harsh and rude in
form, acquires as it decays, a picturesque beauty which it never knew
in its prime; and the rough hold of the feudal robber, which afforded
but small pleasure to behold, and little convenience to its inmates,
is now seen and painted with delight, fringed with wild flowers
scattered from Nature's bountiful hand and softened with the green
covering of the ivy.
The old chateau of St. Real, to which the two travellers we have just
left were bending their steps, and to which, for a moment, we must now
shift the scene, was one of those antique buildings, few of which have
outlasted the first French revolution--buildings which, however we may
love to look upon any that do remain, from the magical illusion
regarding former days to which I have just alluded, were,
nevertheless, much better suited to the times in which they were
built, than to the more luxurious present.
Tumults, feuds, insurrections, civil wars, rendered every man's house
his castle in no metaphorical sense; and thus the old chateau of St.
Real, which had been originally built more than 400 years before the
opening of this history, and had been repaired and improved at least a
hundred times during the intervening ages of strife and bloodshed, was
naturally, in almost all respects, much better calculated for defence
against assault than for comfortable habitation. The woody chase,
which swept for many a mile round the base of the little hill on which
it stood, was cleared and opened in the immediate vicinity of the
chateau; and the various avenues were defended with all the accuracy
to which the art of war had arrived in those times. The very garden
was a regular fortification; the chateau itself a citadel. From the
reign of Louis VI., in which its walls had first been raised from the
ground, to the reign of Henry III. with which this tale begins,
although repairs and improvements had, as we have said, been often
made, they were solely military, and nothing had in the slightest
degree been permitted which could change the antique aspect of the
place. Indeed, its proprietors, the Marquises of St. Real, springing
from the most ancient race of French nobility, clung to the antiquity
of their dwelling as if it formed a part and parcel of the antiquity
of their family. Their habits, their manners, their characters,
smacked all of the ancient day; and it was ever with pain that they
suffered any of their old customs to be wrenched from them by the
innovating hand of improvement.
At their gate, even in the times I speak of, hung, for the purpose of
summoning the warder to the wicket, the last horn which, perhaps, was
ever used on such occasions in France; and, though the mouthpiece had
been renewed, and the chain frequently mended, the horn itself was
averred to be the very same which had been hung there in the days of
Philip Augustus. But if the lords of St. Real still maintained some
tinge of the rudeness of their ancestors, it must by no means be
forgotten that it was to the nobler and brighter qualities of former
times that they adhered most strongly. They were a proud but a
chivalrous race, bold, hospitable, courteous, generous, unswerving in
faith and in honour. Their talents, which were by no means
inconsiderable, had been principally displayed in the field; and some
of the sneerers of the court had not scrupled to call them the _Simple
St. Reals_: but, notwithstanding a degree of simplicity, which
certainly did characterise them, they had ever been distinguished,
from father to son, by that discriminating discernment of right and
wrong which is worth all the wit in the world. Never had their word
been pledged without being redeemed; never had their voice sanctioned
a bad action; never had their sword supported an evil cause.
The present Marquis of St. Real, who was an old man who had borne arms
under Francis I. had during the whole of the wars of the League
remained obstinately neuter. He had declared, at the commencement of
these unhappy wars, that he would not unsheathe his sword against his
lawful sovereign, though friendly to the King of Navarre, and allied
remotely to the house of Bourbon; but at the same time he added, that
nothing should ever induce him to join in an unjust and cruel war
against a portion of his countrymen, who were but defending one of the
dearest and most unalienable rights of mankind--their religious
liberty.
Too powerful for either party to entertain the hope of forcing him
from his neutrality by any violent measures, both the League and the
Huguenots spared no means of conciliation, which either wisdom or
cunning could suggest, to win him to their side; for vast domains, in
which the feudal customs of former times remained in full force,
rendered his alliance a thing to be coveted even by the strongest. He
remained unmoved, however; and neither a strong personal friendship
which existed between himself and the Duke of Mayenne, nor the
instigations and artifices of his confessor, could induce him to join
the League, any more than gratitude to the King of Navarre for several
personal favours, horror at the crimes of Saint Bartholomew, or even a
strong belief that the Protestants were right in their warfare, if not
in their religion, could bring him over to the party of the Huguenots.
To avoid wearisome solicitation, he had entirely abandoned the
capital, and remained in the solitude of his paternal estates, wholly
occupied in the education of his son, into whose mind, as principles,
he endeavoured to instil, not knowledge of the world, or of courts,
but all the firm and noble feelings of his own heart. He succeeded;
the Chevalier de St. Real grew up to manhood everything that his
father's fondest hopes could have anticipated: bold as a lion, skilled
in all warlike exercises, and full of every sentiment that does honour
to human nature. But yet, in many things, he was as simple as a child.
Cut off from the general society of Paris, he wanted entirely that
knowledge of the world which was never more necessary than in the days
in which he lived.
On one occasion, indeed, when the infamous Catherine de Medicis, and
her beautiful but licentious train, had visited the chateau of St.
Real for the purpose of winning its lord to the party she espoused,
more than one of her fair syrens had striven, by various arts, to
initiate the handsome Chevalier of St. Real into the libertine
mysteries of that debauched court; but he met them uniformly with that
perfect simplicity which, though joined with much natural good sense,
raised many a secret laugh at his expense, and yet guarded him
effectually from their worst artifices.
The general current of his time flowed on in the various amusements of
the country, as they existed in that age. The chase of the boar, the
stag, and the wolf afforded active exercise for the body, while the
large and ancient library of the chateau--a rare treasure in those
days--yielded occupation to a quick imagination and an energetic mind,
in poring over many a printed tome and many an illuminated manuscript.
Besides these employments, however, both the old lord of St. Real and
his son felt a keen interest in pursuits seldom much attended to by
the feudal nobility of France. They not only lived in the country, and
amongst their peasantry, but they also loved the country and their
peasantry, and delighted in watching and superintending all those
agricultural operations which formed the daily relaxation of many of
the noblest Romans, but which were, in general, looked upon with
indifference, if not contempt, by the new class of chieftains who
sprung from the _élite_ of their barbarous conquerors. The lords of
St. Real delighted in all: they held to the full the opinion of the
old orator, when he exclaimed--"Nec vero segetibus solum et pratis, et
vineis, et arbustis res rusticæ lætæ sunt, sed etiam hortis et
pomariis, tum pecudum pastu, apium examinibus, florum omnium
varietate;" and, though they followed not precisely all the directions
of Liebaut in his _Maison Rustique_, the garden that lay within the
flanking walls of the castle, the orchard which extended from the
outer balium to the barbacan, and the trellised avenue of vines which
ran to what was called the lady's bower, showed taste as well as skill
in those who had designed and executed them.
During several years previous to the precise epoch at which we have
commenced our tale, the old lord of St. Real had seldom, if ever,
slept a night without the walls of his own dwelling. His son, however,
when either business, or that innocent love of a temporary change,
which every man may well feel without meriting the charge of being
versatile, afforded a motive for his absence from home, would often
spend a day or two in the great city of Tours, or at the castles of
the neighbouring nobility. Some communication with the external world
was thus kept up; but the chief companionship of the Chevalier of St.
Real was with his cousin-german the Count d'Aubin, who, though
attached to the court, and very different in mind and character from
his relations, often retired for a while from the gay and busy scenes
in which he mingled, to enjoy the comparative solitude of his estates
in Maine, and the calm refreshing society of his more simple cousin.
The character of Philip Count d'Aubin was one that we meet with every
day. Endowed with passions and talents naturally strong, his passions
had been pampered, and his talents misdirected, by an over-indulgent
parent. A doubt had been at one time entertained of the legitimacy of
his birth, but no one had contested his title; and the early
possession of wealth, power, and influence, with the unrestrained
disposal of himself and of the property which the death of his father
left in his hands, had certainly tended in no degree to curb his
desires or extinguish his vanity. His heart had, perhaps, been
originally too feeling; but the constant indulgence of every wish and
fancy had dulled the former brightness of its sensations; and it was
only at times that the yet unextinguished fight shone clearly up to
guide him through a maze of errors. His very talents and shrewdness
often led him onwards in the wrong: for, possessing from education few
fixed principles of action, the energies of his mind were generally
turned to the gratification of his passions; and it was only when
original rectitude of heart suggested what was good, that reason too
joined her voice to urge him on the road of virtue. He was, in fact,
the creature of impulse; but, as he had unfailing gaiety, and wit at
will, and as a sudden turn of feeling would often lead him to some
noble or brilliant action, a sort of false, but dazzling, lustre hung
about his whole conduct in the eyes of the world: his powers were
overrated, and his weaknesses forgotten. He was the idol and
admiration of the young and unthinking, and even the old and grave
often suffered the blaze of some few splendid traits to veil the many
spots and blemishes of his character.
On the night following that particular day at which it has appeared
necessary to commence this history, the two cousins spent some time
together pacing up and down the great hall of the chateau of St. Real.
The Count d'Aubin had come hastily from Paris, on receiving tidings of
the severe illness of his uncle; and their conversation was of a
wandering and discursive nature, originating in the increasing
sickness of the old Marquis, who was then, for the first time during
many days, enjoying a few hours' repose.
"Faith, Huon, thy father is ill," said D'Aubin, as they descended the
stairs to the hall, "far worse than I deemed him till I saw him."
"He has, indeed, much fallen in strength during the day," replied the
Chevalier de St. Real; "yet I hope that this slumber which has come
upon him may bring a change for the better."
The Count shook his head. "I know not," said he; "but yet I doubt it.
Your father, Huon, is an old man, and old men must die!" His cousin
bent his eyes upon the ground, and slightly contracted his brow; but
he did not slacken his pace, and the Count d'Aubin went on: "Yes,
Huon, however we may love them, however we may wish that they could
live to govern their own vassals and enjoy their own wealth, till
patriarchal longevity were no longer a wonder; and I know," he added,
pausing, and laying his hand upon his cousin's arm--"and I know, that
if the best blood in your noble heart could add to your father's life,
you would pour it forth like useless water;--still, whatever ties may
bind them to us, still they are, as the old men amongst the ancients
did not scruple to call themselves, _pabulum Acherontis_--but food for
the tomb: and none can tell when death may claim his own. I say this
because I would have you prepared in mind for an event which I see
approaching; and I would also have you prepared to take some quick and
immediate part in the great struggle which every day is bringing
towards its climax in this land. Your father's neutrality has
lasted long enough--nay, too long; for it is surely a shame that
you, as brave a youth as ever drew a sword, should have lived to
five-and-twenty years without ever having led his followers to any
nobler strife than the extermination of those miserable _Gaultiers_
who came to ravage our fair plains. True, they were ten times your
number--true that you defeated them like a very Orlando; but that is
only another reason why your valour and your skill should not lie
rusting in inactivity. Should your father die, give sorrow its due;
then call your vassals to your standard, and boldly take one part or
another. Faith, I care not which it be--Harry of Navarre and his
Huguenots, Harry of France and his chevaliers, or Mayenne's brave Duke
and the factious League: but for Heaven's sake, Huon, should fate make
you Marquis of St. Real, cast off this idle, sluggardly neutrality."
Huon de St. Real had listened attentively to his cousin, though every
now and then the flash of some painful emotion broke across his
countenance, as if what he heard contained in each word something
bitter and ungrateful to all his feelings. "Philip! Philip!" said he,
pausing in his quick progress through the hall, as soon as the other
had ceased speaking, "I know that you wish me well, and that all which
you say proceeds from that wish; but let us drop this subject
entirely. My father is ill--I feel too bitterly that he is in danger;
but the bare thought of what I would do with his vassals, in case of
his death, has something in it revolting to every feeling of my heart.
Let us change the topic. Whatever misfortune Heaven may send me, I
will endeavour to bear like a man, and whenever I am called to act, I
will endeavour to act rightly. When that time comes, I will most
willingly seek your advice; but I trust it will be long, very, very
long, before I shall need the counsel of any other than of him who has
heretofore guided and directed me."
The lip of the Count d'Aubin slightly curled at this reply; and,
glancing his eye over the tall, graceful form of his cousin, while he
compared the simple mind and habits of St. Real, with his own worldly
wisdom, and wild erratic course, he mentally termed him an overgrown
baby. Nevertheless, although he was often thus tempted to a passing
scoff or an ill-concealed sneer, yet there was a sort of innate
dignity in the very simplicity of the Chevalier of St. Real, which had
its weight even with his world-read cousin; and, whenever temporary
disappointment, or disgust, or satiety weaned D'Aubin awhile from the
loose society in which he mingled, gave time for quiet thought, and
re-awakened better feelings, leading him to seek, in the advice of any
one, support against the treacherous warfare of his own passions, it
was to none of his gay companions of the capital, nor to monk, nor
priest, nor confessor, that he would apply for counsel; but rather to
his simple, frank-hearted, unsophisticated cousin, St. Real.
"Well, well," said he, "let us change our theme;" and then, after
taking two or three more turns in the hall, he went on; though there
was mingled in his manner a certain natural hesitation with an
affected frankness, which might have shown to any very close observer
of human nature that the Count d'Aubin was touching upon matter in
regard to which, desire was in opposition to some better principle,
and that he feared to hear even the opinion which he courted. "I spoke
but now," he continued, "of Mayenne and the League; and you will think
it strange when I tell you, that I--I, who have ever been as staunch a
royalist as Epernon, or Longueville--would now give a chateau and a
pint of wine, as the vulgar have it, to change my party and go over to
the League, did not honour forbid it."
He spoke slowly and meditatively, fixing his eyes upon the ground,
without once looking in his cousin's face; yet walking with a firm,
strong step, and with somewhat of a sneer upon his lip, as if he
scoffed at himself for the reprehension which--while he acknowledged
wishes that he felt to be wrong--his proud spirit suffered by
comparison with the calm, upright integrity of the Chevalier.
"I do not see that anything could justify such a step," replied St.
Real, far more mildly than the other had expected. "However wrongly
the King may have acted, however unwarrantable the manner in which he
has put to death the Duke of Guise, yet--"
"Pshaw!" interrupted his cousin: "Guise was a traitor--a great, brave,
noble, ambitious, unscrupulous traitor! And though the mode of his
death was somewhat unceremonious, it little matters whether it was an
axe or a dagger which did the work of justice: he was born for such a
fate. I thought not of him; it was of Eugenie de Menancourt I
thought."
"Ha!" exclaimed St. Real, with a start; "no one has injured her?"
"Injured her! No, i'faith!" replied the Count. "Why, my good cousin,
by your grim look, one would deem you her promised husband, and not
me. No, no; had she been injured, her injury had been well avenged by
this time. However, she is in the hands of the League. Her father, as
you know, was wounded on the day of the barricades, and died soon
after the flight of the court. His daughter, of course, would not
leave him while he lived, and, at his death, the Duchess of
Montpensier would fain have had her at the Hotel de Guise; and, though
Eugenie wisely stayed in her father's own house, they would not suffer
her to quit Paris, where she still remains--treated with all honour
and courtesy, mark you, but still a sort of honourable prisoner."
His cousin paused in thought for a moment, and then replied, "But,
surely, if you were to demand her from the Duke of Mayenne, informing
him of the engagement between her father and yourself, she would be
given up to you at once."
"I have done more," replied the Count; "whenever I heard of her
situation, I required, of course, that she should be placed in the
hands of the King, as her lawful guardian, till such time as her
marriage with myself could be celebrated. After many an evasion and
delay, the Duke replied to my application, that the throne of France
was vacant, by a decree both of the Sorbonne and the Parliament of
Paris; that, by the same authority, he himself was lieutenant-general
of the kingdom till such time as a meeting of the three estates should
regulate the government; and that, therefore, none other was for the
time the lawful guardian of Eugenie de Menancourt. In the same letter
he informed me, that the recent death of the young lady's father would
prevent her from thinking of marriage for some time."
D'Aubin paused, shutting his teeth and drawing in his lips, evidently
unwilling to show the full mortification and anger which these
remembrances awoke; and, yet apparently leaving his tale unfinished.
"In regard to the latter part of the Duke of Mayenne's reply, it seems
to me reasonable enough," answered the Chevalier de St. Real; "the
loss of such a father is not to be forgotten in a day."
"Tut, man!" exclaimed his cousin, impatiently. "Wilt thou never
understand a little of this world's ways? Huon, Huon! shut up in these
old walls, thou art as ignorant of the present day as if thou hadst
been born in the times of the first crusade. Nothing modern dare blow
that rusty horn at thy gate--far less walk into the hall. Know, then,
my most excellent, simple cousin, that since the ninth century a great
quarrel has taken place between words and realities, and that they
have separated, never to meet again; that now-a-days promises are of
air, honour is a name, virtue a bubble, religion a mask; and while
falsehood, hypocrisy, and folly walk about in comely dresses, and make
bows to each other in every street, truth lies snug in the bottom of
her well, secure in the narrowness of her dwelling, and the depth that
covers her. The first thing that every one thinks of now is his own
interest; and, sure that if he secures that, the world will give him
credit for all high qualities, he works straight for that one object.
Interest, interest, interest, is his waking thought and his sleeping
dream. Mark me, Huon! Mademoiselle de Menancourt is an heiress--one of
the most wealthy in France; young, beautiful!--you know how beautiful,
Huon; for, by my faith, I could once have been almost jealous of you."
"Of me!" exclaimed the other, stopping suddenly, and looking full in
his cousin's face, while a flush of surprise and indignation, all
unmixed with shame, spread scarlet over his cheek and brow. "Of me!
Philip, you do me great injustice! By my honour, if my hand or my word
could advance your marriage by a single day, you would find both ready
for your service. Tell me, when did I ever give you a moment's cause
for jealousy?"
"Nay, nay! you are too quick!" replied the Count; "I said not that I
was jealous of you; I merely said I could have been so, had I not
known you better. I speak of the time when our late excellent and
easy-virtued queen was here with her ladies. Many a bright eye was
bent upon you, and many a sweet lip was ready to direct you through
the tangled but flowery ways of love, without seeking to plunge you
into the mire of matrimony; yet, in all our rides, there were you,
always at Eugenie's bridle rein."
"Because she was the only pure thing present," interrupted St. Real,
quickly; "and because, Philip--if you will press me--I thought that
she might feel hurt that her promised husband should make love before
her face to one of an infamous queen's infamous followers. Ay, even
so, Philip! Frown not on me, good cousin; for such was the only
interpretation that even I, who am not apt to see actions in their
worst light, could place upon your conduct to Beatrice of Ferrara."
"Beatrice of Ferrara," replied the Count d'Aubin, with a degree of
vehemence which might have made some of his loose companions smile to
hear him use it in the vindication of any woman's virtue under the
sun--"Beatrice of Ferrara was no infamous follower of an infamous
queen; she was, I believe from my soul, as pure as snow,
notwithstanding all the impurity that surrounded her. I knew not that
I had shown her any such marked attention as you tell me; but let all
that pass," he added, musing, "let all that pass: what were we
speaking of before? O! I remember. To return, then, to my tale:
Eugenie de Menancourt is an heiress, with a dowry of beauty and
sweetness far beyond even her wealth; and wily Mayenne well knows that
her hand is a prize for the first man in France. Now, think you, my
good Huon," he continued, growing more and more eager, while the
bright flashing of his eye told that he was moved by some stronger
passion than the mere scorn with which he attempted to clothe his
lips--"now, think you, my good Huon, though he talks so loudly about
religion and zeal, and the state's welfare, that Mayenne has one
other wish, one other object, than to vault into an empty throne, or
play _maire du palais_ to the old idiotic Cardinal de Bourbon!
Ambition--'tis all-snatching ambition, Huon! that is the idol he
worships; and whoever serves him in his schemes shall have the hand of
Eugenie de Menancourt, notwithstanding her father's plighted word to
me."
"But Eugenie will never consent," replied St. Real, calmly.
"Doubt it not, Philip! I have known her from her childhood, as
well as you; and I have often remarked, that, notwithstanding her
gaiety--notwithstanding her seeming lightness of feeling, there was,
when she knew herself to be right, an unchangeable determination in
all her resolves, even in her childhood, that nothing could shake."
"Fie! you know nothing of human nature," replied D'Aubin, with a
scoff; "or rather, I should say, of woman's nature. They are
light--light, Huon, as a dry leaf borne about upon the breath of every
wind that blows. The best of them, believe me, is firm in nothing but
her caprices. Mark me, Huon!" he added, laying his hand upon his
cousin's arm, and speaking with bitter emphasis, "within these ten
days I have seen Mademoiselle de Menancourt. I demanded a pass from
Mayenne; he granted it without a scruple, and free speech also of his
fair ward, as he called her. He was sure of the impression he had
made, and, therefore, kept up all fair seeming. I saw Eugenie; and she
calmly and coldly refused to ratify the promise that her father had
made me. Do you hear? She refused me! She rejected me! She told me she
did not, she could not love me!" And, giving way to a violent burst of
passion, totally opposed to the calm and contemptuous tone in which he
had before been speaking, he dashed his glove angrily down upon the
floor, as if it were the object that offended him.
His cousin looked down in silence. He imagined, and not without
probability, that Mademoiselle de Menancourt must have seen the
licentious manner in which D'Aubin had trifled with the ladies of
Catherine's libertine court, and that she had resented it accordingly.
But, however culpably he might deem that his cousin had acted, he
would not have pressed it on him then for the world; and, besides,
there were sensations in his own bosom, at that moment, which forcibly
called upon his attention, and both surprised and alarmed him.
It is a strange thing the human heart; and, amidst the multitude of
its inconsistencies and its weaknesses, there is none stranger than
that principle which, as a French wit has remarked, is always ready to
point out to us, in the sorrows and misfortunes of our friends, some
topic of consolation for ourselves. As a general rule the sneer is
unjust, though with many it holds good always, and with most at times,
even with the highest and the most conscientious. Good, noble,
generous, with chivalrous ideas of honour and virtue, the Chevalier of
St. Real would sooner have laid his head upon the block than
entertained a thought of doing anything to his cousin's detriment; and
yet there was a degree of vague, undefined satisfaction in his
feelings, when he heard the declaration made by Eugenie de Menancourt,
that she did not and could not love the Count d'Aubin--satisfaction of
which he himself felt ashamed. "Good God! was it for him," he thought,
"to rejoice in his cousin's mortification? What matter for pleasure
ought he to find in the pain of a person he loved? None, surely none.
What is it, then, I feel?" he asked himself; "is it the triumph of
having foreseen that Eugenie de Menancourt would resent the slight put
upon her? Oh, no! Such a vanity can surely afford no gratification to
any reasonable being." Such was the interrogation which St. Real
rapidly addressed to his heart; but an instinctive apprehension of
finding unknown and dangerous matter at the bottom of his own
sensations prevented him from going deep enough.
Whatever it was that he felt, the blood rushed into his face as if he
were committing some evil action; and he remained silent. The keen,
suspicious eyes of the Count d'Aubin fixed upon him, in surprise at
emotions that he did not comprehend; but he said nothing; and just as
St. Real was struggling to speak, the whole place echoed with two such
blasts upon the old horn at the gate, as had not rung amongst those
halls for many a year.
"By heavens! that must be some drunken huntsman, St. Real," exclaimed
the Count, "blowing the horn at the gate, as if he was sounding for
his dogs."
"No, no! it is the ill-favoured dwarf you gave me," replied his
cousin. "He heeds no decencies, and, I verily believe, would blow a
flourish if we were all dying. Many a time have I thought to fell him
with my gauntlet for his insolence; but he is so small, that it would
seem a cruelty to crush such an insect."
"Nay, nay; crush him not, I beseech thee," replied the Count d'Aubin.
"Remember, Huon, it was agreed between us, that when he seeks to quit
thee, or thou growest tired of him, he comes to me again."
"I believe, in truth, the creature loves me," answered St. Real; "and,
were it not for his stupid insolence, I might love him too; for there
are traits of good about him which would redeem many a dark spot."
The Count's lip curled; but he replied, "Call it not _stupid_
insolence, good cousin--call it, rather, clever insolence, for, on my
soul, he was occasionally too clever for such a service as mine, and
such a place as Paris. I know not well how it happened, but many a
deep secret of my bosom seemed somewhat too familiar to his high
ugliness; and so I gave him to you, who had no secrets to trust or to
conceal."
"Thank God for that, at least!" answered St. Real, "for they are ever
a heavy burden. But here comes the incubus:" and as he spoke, the low
door of the hall was opened by a personage of whom it may be necessary
to speak more fully.