CHAPTER I.

TOWARDS the cloſe of the ſix⯑teenth century, this caſtle was in the poſſeſſion of Ferdinand, fifth mar⯑quis of Mazzini, and was for ſome years the principal reſidence of his family. He was a man of a voluptuous and imperious character. To his firſt wife, he married Louiſa Bernini, ſecond daughter of the count della Salario, a lady yet more diſtinguiſhed for the ſweetneſs of her manners and the gen⯑tleneſs of her diſpoſition, than for her beauty. She brought the marquis one ſon and two daughters, who loſt their amiable mother in early child⯑hood. The arrogant and impetuous cha⯑racter of the marquis, operated power⯑fully upon the mild and ſuſceptible na⯑ture of his lady; and it was by many perſons believed, that his unkindneſs and neglect put a period to her life. [6] However this might be, he ſoon after⯑wards married Maria de Vellorno, a young lady eminently beautiful, but of a character very oppoſite to that of her predeceſſor. She was a woman of infi⯑nite art, devoted to pleaſure, and of an unconquerable ſpirit. The marquis, whoſe heart was dead to paternal ten⯑derneſs, and whoſe preſent lady was too volatile to attend to domeſtic concerns, committed the education of his daugh⯑ters to the care of a lady, completely qualified for the undertaking, and who was diſtantly related to the late marchio⯑neſs.

He quitted Mazzini ſoon after his ſecond marriage, for the gaieties and ſplendour of Naples, whither his ſon accompanied him. Though naturally of a haughty and overbearing diſpoſi⯑tion, he was governed by his wife. His paſſions were vehement, and ſhe had the addreſs to bend them to her own pur⯑poſe; [7] and ſo well to conceal her influ⯑ence, that he thought himſelf moſt in⯑dependent when he was moſt enſlaved. He paid an annual viſit to the caſtle of Mazzini; but the marchioneſs ſeldom attended him, and he ſtaid only to give ſuch general directions concerning the education of his daughters, as his pride, rather than his affection, ſeemed to dic⯑tate.

Emilia, the elder, inherited much of her mother's diſpoſition. She had a mild and ſweet temper, united with a clear and comprehenſive mind. Her younger ſiſter, Julia, was of a more lively caſt. An extreme ſenſibility ſub⯑jected her to frequent uneaſineſs; her temper was warm, but generous; ſhe was quickly irritated and quickly ap⯑peaſed; and to a reproof, however gen⯑tle, the would often weep, but was never ſullen. Her imagination was ardent, and her mind early exhibited ſymp⯑toms [8] of genius. It was the particular care of madame de Menon to counter⯑act thoſe traits in the diſpoſition of her young pupils, which appeared inimical to their future happineſs; and for this taſk ſhe had abilities which entitled her to hope for ſucceſs. A ſeries of early misfortunes had entendered her heart, without weakening the powers of her un⯑derſtanding. In retirement ſhe had ac⯑quired tranquillity, and had almoſt loſt the conſciouſneſs of thoſe ſorrows which yet threw a ſoft and not unpleaſing ſhade over her character. She loved her young charge with maternal fond⯑neſs, and their gradual improvement and reſpectful tenderneſs repaid all her anxiety. Madame excelled in mu⯑ſic and drawing. She had often forgot her ſorrows in theſe amuſements, when her mind was too much occupied to de⯑rive conſolation from books, and ſhe was aſſiduous to impart to Emilia and Julia a power ſo valuable as that of beguil⯑ing [9] the ſenſe of affliction. Emilia's taſte led her to drawing, and ſhe ſoon made rapid advances in that art. Julia was uncommonly ſuſceptible of the charms of harmony. She had feelings which trembled in uniſon to all its vari⯑ous and enchanting powers.

The inſtructions of madame ſhe caught with aſtoniſhing quickneſs and in a ſhort time attained to a degree of excellence in her favourite ſtudy, which few per⯑ſons have ever exceeded. Her manner was entirely her own. It was not in the rapid intricacies of execution, that ſhe excelled ſo much as in that deli⯑cacy of taſte, and in thoſe enchanting powers of expreſſion, which ſeem to breathe a ſoul through the ſound, and which take captive the heart of the hearer. The lute was her favourite in⯑ſtrument, and its tender notes accorded well with the ſweet and melting tones of her voice.

The caſtle of Mazzini was a large ir⯑regular [10] regular fabrick, and ſeemed ſuited to receive a numerous train of followers, ſuch as, in thoſe days, ſerved the nobi⯑lity, either in the ſplendour of peace, or the turbulence of war. Its preſent fa⯑mily inhabited only a ſmall part of it; and even this part appeared forlorn and almoſt deſolate from the ſpaciouſneſs of the apartments, and the length of the galleries which led to them. A melan⯑choly ſtillneſs reigned through the halls, and the ſilence of the courts, which were ſhaded by high turrets, was for many hours together undiſturbed by the ſound of any foot-ſtep. Julia, who diſcovered an early taſte for books, loved to retire in an evening to a ſmall cloſet in which ſhe had collected her favourite authors. This room formed the weſtern angle of the caſtle: one of its windows looked upon the ſea, be⯑yond which was faintly ſeen, ſkirting the horizon, the dark rocky coaſt of Calabria; the other opened towards a [11] part of the caſtle, and afforded a proſ⯑pect of the neighbouring woods. Her muſical inſtruments were here depoſit⯑ed, with whatever aſſiſted her favourite amuſements. This ſpot, which was at once elegant, pleaſant, and retired, was embelliſhed with many little ornaments of her own invention, and with ſome drawings executed by her ſiſter. The cloſet was adjoining her chamber, and was ſeparated from the apartments of madame, only by a ſhort gallery. This gallery opened into another, long and winding, which led to the grand ſtair⯑caſe, terminating in the north hall, with which the chief apartments of the north ſide of the edifice communicated.

Madame de Menon's apartment open⯑ed into both galleries. It was in one of theſe rooms that ſhe uſually ſpent the mornings, occupied in the improve⯑ment of her young charge. The win⯑dows looked towards the ſea, and the room was light and pleaſant. It was [12] their cuſtom to dine in one of the lower apartments, and at table they were al⯑ways joined by a dependant of the marquis's, who had reſided many years in the caſtle, and who inſtructed the young ladies in the latin tongue, and in geography. During the fine even⯑ings of ſummer, this little party fre⯑quently ſupped in a pavillion, which was built on an eminence in the woods belonging to the caſtle. From this ſpot the eye had an almoſt boundleſs range of ſea and land. It commanded the ſtraits of Meſſina, with the oppoſite ſhores of Calabria, and a great extent of the wild and pictureſque ſcenery of Sicily. Mount AEtna, crowned with eternal ſnows, and ſhooting from among the clouds, formed a grand and ſub⯑lime picture in the back ground of the ſcene. The city of Palermo was alſo diſtinguiſhable; and Julia, as ſhe gaz⯑ed on its glittering ſpires, would en⯑deavour in imagination to depicture its [13] beauties, while ſhe ſecretly ſighed for a view of that world, from which ſhe had hitherto been ſecluded by the mean jealouſy of the marchioneſs, upon whoſe mind the dread of rival beauty operated ſtrongly to the prejudice of Emilia and Julia. She employed all her influence over the marquis to detain them in retirement; and, though Emilia was now twenty, and her ſiſter eighteen, they had never paſſed the boundaries of their father's domains.

Vanity often produces unreaſonable alarm; but the marchioneſs had in this inſtance juſt grounds for apprehenſion; the beauty of her lord's daughters has ſeldom been exceeded. The perſon of Emilia was finely proportioned. Her complexion was fair, her hair flaxen, and her dark blue eyes were full of ſweet expreſſion. Her manners were dignified and elegant, and in her air was a feminine ſoftneſs, a tender timidity, which irreſiſtibly attracted the heart of the beholder. The figure of Julia was [14] light and graceful—her ſtep was airy—her mien animated, and her ſmile en⯑chanting. Her eyes were dark, and full of fire, but tempered with modeſt ſweetneſs. Her features were finely turned—every laughing grace played round her mouth, and her countenance quickly diſcovered all the various emo⯑tions of her ſoul. The dark auburn hair which curled in beautiful profuſi⯑on in her neck, gave a finiſhing charm to her appearance.

Thus lovely, and thus veiled in ob⯑ſcurity, were the daughters of the no⯑ble Mazzini. But they were happy, for they knew not enough of the world ſe⯑riouſly to regret the want of its enjoy⯑ments, though Julia would ſometimes ſigh for the airy image which her fan⯑cies painted, and a painful curioſity would ariſe concerning the buſy ſcenes from which ſhe was excluded. A re⯑turn to her cuſtomary amuſements, however, would chaſe the ideal image [15] from her mind, and reſtore her uſual happy complacency. Books, muſic, and painting, divided the hours of her leiſure, and many beautiful ſummer evenings were ſpent in the pavillion, where the refined converſation of ma⯑dame, the poetry of Taſſo, the lute of Julia, and the friendſhip of Emi⯑lia, combined to form a ſpecies of happineſs, ſuch as elevated and highly ſuſceptible minds are alone capable of receiving or communicating. Madame underſtood and practiſed all the graces of converſation, and her young pupils perceived its value, and caught the ſpi⯑rit of its character.

Converſation may be divided into two claſſes—the familiar and the ſenti⯑mental. It is the province of the familiar, to diffuſe chearfulneſs and eaſe—to open the heart of man to man, and to beam a temperate ſunſhine upon the mind.—Nature and art muſt conſpire to render us ſuſceptible of the charms, and to [16] qualify us for the practice of the ſecond claſs of converſation, here termed ſenti⯑mental, and in which madame de Menon particularly excelled. To good ſenſe, lively feeling, and natural delicacy of taſte, muſt be united an expanſion of mind, and a refinement of thought, which is the reſult of high cultivation. To render this ſort of converſation irre⯑ſiſtibly attractive, a knowledge of the world is requiſite, and that enchanting eaſe, that elegance of manner, which is to be acquired only by frequenting the higher circles of poliſhed life. In ſen⯑timental converſation, ſubjects intereſt⯑ing to the heart, and to the imagina⯑tion, are brought forward; they are diſ⯑cuſſed in a kind of ſportive way, with animation and refinement, and are never continued longer than politeneſs allows. Here fancy flouriſhes,—the ſenſibilities expand—and wit, guided by delicacy and embelliſhed by taſte—points to the heart.

[17] Such was the converſation of madame de Menon; and the pleaſant gaiety of the pavillion ſeemed peculiarly to adapt it for the ſcene of ſocial delights. On the evening of a very ſultry day, hav⯑ing ſupped in their favourite ſpot, the coolneſs of the hour, and the beauty of the night, tempted this happy party to remain there later than uſual. Return⯑ing home, they were ſurpriſed by the appearance of a light through the bro⯑ken window-ſhutters of an apartment, belonging to a diviſion of the caſtle which had for many years been ſhut up. They ſtopped to obſerve it, when it ſuddenly diſappeared and was ſeen no more. Madame de Menon, diſturbed at this phaenomenon, haſtened into the caſtle, with a view of enquiring into the cauſe of it, when ſhe was met in the north hall by Vincent. She related to him what ſhe had ſeen, and ordered an immediate ſearch to be made for the keys of thoſe apartments. She appre⯑hended [18] that ſome perſon had penetrated that part of the edifice with an intention of plunder; and, diſdaining a paltry fear where her duty was concerned, ſhe ſummoned the ſervants of the caſtle, with an intention of accompanying them thither. Vincent ſmiled at her appre⯑henſions, and imputed what ſhe had ſeen to an illuſion, which the ſolemnity of the hour had impreſſed upon her fancy. Madame, however, perſevered in her purpoſe; and, after a long and repeat⯑ed ſearch, a maſſey key covered with ruſt was produced. She then proceeded to the ſouthern ſide of the edifice, ac⯑companied by Vincent, and followed by the ſervants, who were agitated with impatient wonder. The key was ap⯑plied to an iron gate, which opened into a court that ſeparated this diviſion from the other parts of the caſtle. They entered this court, which was overgrown with graſs and weeds, and aſcended ſome ſteps that led to a large door, [19] which they vainly endeavoured to open. All the different keys of the caſtle were applied to the lock, without effect, and they were at length compelled to quit the place, without having either ſatiſ⯑fied their curioſity, or quieted their fears. Every thing, however, was ſtill, and the light did not re-appear. Ma⯑dame concealed her apprehenſions, and the family retired to reſt.

This circumſtance dwelt on the mind of madame de Menon, and it was ſome time before ſhe venturned again to, ſpend an evening in the pavillion. After ſeveral months paſſed, without further diſturbance or diſcovery, another oc⯑currence renewed the alarm. Julia had one night remained in her cloſet later than uſual. A favourite book had en⯑gaged her attention beyond the hour of cuſtomary repoſe, and every inhabitant of the caſtle, except herſelf, had long been loſt in ſleep. She was rouſed from her forgetfulneſs, by the found of the [20] caſtle clock, which ſtruck one. Sur⯑priſed at the lateneſs of the hour, ſhe roſe in haſte, and was moving to her chamber, when the beauty of the night attracted her to the window. She open⯑ed it; and obſerving a fine effect of moon-light upon the dark woods, lean⯑ed forwards. In that ſituation ſhe had not long remained, when ſhe perceived a light faintly flaſh though a caſement in the uninhabited part of the caſtle. A ſudden tremor ſeized her, and ſhe with difficulty ſupported herſelf. In a few moments it diſappeared, and ſoon after a figure, bearing a lamp, proceed⯑ed from an obſcure door belonging to the ſouth tower; and ſtealing along the outſide of the caſtle walls, turned round the ſouthern angle, by which it was afterwards hid from the view. Aſto⯑niſhed and terrified at what ſhe had ſeen, ſhe hurried to the apartment of madame de Menon, and related the cir⯑cumſtance. The ſervants were imme⯑diately [21] rouſed, and the alarm became general. Madame aroſe and deſcended into the north hall, where the domeſtics were already aſſembled. No one could be found of courage ſufficient to enter into the courts; and the orders of ma⯑dame were diſregarded, when oppoſed to the effects of ſuperſtitious terror. She perceived that Vincent was abſent, but as ſhe was ordering him to be called, he entered the hall. Surpriſed to find the family thus aſſembled, he was told the occaſion. He immediately ordered a party of the ſervants to attend him round the caſtle walls; and with ſome reluctance, and more fear, they obeyed him. They all returned to the hall, without having witneſſed any extraor⯑dinary appearance; but though their fears were not confirmed, they were by no means diſſipated. The appearance of a light in a part of the caſtle which had for ſeveral years been ſhut up, and to which time and circumſtance had [22] given an air of ſingular deſolation, might reaſonably be ſuppoſed to excite a ſtrong degree of ſurpriſe and terror. In the minds of the vulgar, any ſpecies of the wonderful is received with avi⯑dity; and the ſervants did not heſitate in believing the ſouthern diviſion of the caſtle to be inhabited by a ſuper⯑natural power. Too much agitated to ſleep, they agreed to watch for the remainder of the night. For this purpoſe they arranged themſelves in the eaſt gallery, where they had a view of the ſouth tower from which the light had iſſued. The night, how⯑ever, paſſed without any further diſturb⯑ance; and the morning dawn, which they beheld with inexpreſſible plea⯑ſure, diſſipated for a while the glooms of apprehenſion. But the return of even⯑ing renewed the general fear, and for ſeveral ſucceſſive nights the domeſtics watched the ſouthern tower. Although nothing remarkable was ſeen, a report was ſoon raiſed, and believed, that the [23] ſouthern ſide of the caſtle was haunted. Madame de Menon, whoſe mind was ſuperior to the effects of ſuperſtition, was yet diſturbed and perplexed, and ſhe determined, if the light re-appeared, to inform the marquis of the circum⯑ſtance, and requeſt the keys of thoſe apartments.

The marquis, immerſed in the diſ⯑ſipations of Naples, ſeldom remember⯑ed the caſtle, or its inhabitants. His ſon, who had been educated under his immediate care, was the ſole object of his pride, as the marchioneſs was that of his affection. He loved her with ro⯑mantic fondneſs, which ſhe repaid with ſeeming tenderneſs, and ſecret perfidy. She allowed herſelf a free indulgence in the moſt licentious pleaſures, yet con⯑ducted herſelf with an art ſo exquiſite as to elude diſcovery, and even ſuſpici⯑on. In her amours ſhe was equally in⯑conſtant as ardent, till the young count Hippozitus de Vereza attracted, her at⯑tention. The natural fickleneſs of her [24] diſpoſition ſeemed then to ceaſe, and upon him ſhe centered all her deſires.

The count Vereza loſt his father in early childhood. He was now of age, and had juſt entered upon the poſſeſſion of his eſtates. His perſon was grace⯑ful, yet manly; his mind accompliſhed, and his manners elegant; his counte⯑nance expreſſed a happy union of ſpirit, dignity, and benevolence, which form⯑ed the principal traits of his character. He had a ſublimity of thought, which taught him to deſpiſe the voluptuous vices of the Neapolitans, and led him to higher purſuits. He was the choſen and early friend of young Ferdinand, the ſon of the marquis, and was a fre⯑quent viſitor in the family. When the marchioneſs firſt ſaw him, ſhe treated him with great diſtinction, and at length made ſuch advances, as neither the ho⯑nour nor the inclinations of the count permitted him to notice. He conduct⯑ed himſelf towards her with frigid in⯑difference, which ſerved only to inflame [25] the paſſion it was meant to chill. The favours of the marchioneſs had hitherto been ſought with avidity, and accepted with rapture; and the repulſive inſenſi⯑bility which ſhe now experienced, rouſ⯑ed all her pride, and called into action every refinement of coquetry.

It was about this period that Vincent was ſeized with a diſorder which in⯑creaſed ſo rapidly, as in a ſhort time to aſſume the moſt alarming appearance. Deſpairing of life, he deſired that a meſ⯑ſenger might be diſpatched to inform the marquis of his ſituation, and to ſig⯑nify his earneſt wiſh to ſee him before he died. The progreſs of his diſorder defied every art of medicine, and his viſible diſtreſs of mind ſeemed to acce⯑lerate his fate. Perceiving his laſt hour approaching, he requeſted to have a confeſſor. The confeſſor was ſhut up with him a conſiderable time, and he had already received extreme unction, when Madame de Menon was ſummon⯑ed to his bed ſide. The hand of death [26] was now upon him, cold damps hung upon his brows, and he, with difficulty, raiſed his heavy eyes to Madame as ſhe entered the apartment. He beckoned her towards him, and deſiring that no perſon might be permitted to enter the room, was for a few moments ſilent. His mind appeared to labour under op⯑preſſive remembrances; he made ſeve⯑ral attempts to ſpeak, but either reſolu⯑tion or ſtrength failed him. At length, giving Madame a look of unutterable anguiſh, "Alas, madam," ſaid he, "Heaven grants not the prayer of ſuch a wretch as I am. I muſt expire long before the marquis can arrive. Since I ſhall ſee him no more, I would impart to you a ſecret which lies heavy at my heart, and which makes my laſt moments dreadful, as they are without hope." Be comforted" ſaid Madame, who was affect⯑ed by the energy of his manner, "we are taught to believe that forgiveneſs is never denied to ſincere repentance."

"You, madam, are ignorant of the [27] enormity of my crime, and of the ſe⯑cret—the horrid ſecret which labours at my breaſt. My guilt is beyond re⯑medy in this world, and I fear will be without pardon in the next; I therefore hope little from confeſſion even to a prieſt. Yet ſome good it is ſtill in my power to do; let me diſcloſe to you that ſecret which is ſo myſteriouſly connected with the ſouthern apartments of this caſtle." "What of them!" exclaimed Madame, with impatience. Vincent re⯑turned no anſwer; exhauſted by the ef⯑fort of ſpeaking, he had fainted. Ma⯑dame rung for aſſiſtance, and by proper applications, his ſenſes were recalled. He was, however, entirely ſpeechleſs, and in this ſtate he remained till he ex⯑pired, which was about an hour after he had converſed with Madame.

The perplexity and aſtoniſhment of Madame, were by the late ſcene height⯑ened to a very painful degree. She recollected the various particulars rela⯑tive to the ſouthern diviſion of the [28] caſtle, the many years it had ſtood un⯑inhabited—the ſilence which had been obſerved concerning it—the appearance of the light and the figure—the fruit⯑leſs ſearch for the keys, and the reports ſo generally believed; and thus remem⯑brance preſented her with a combina⯑tion of circumſtances, which ſerved only to increaſe her wonder, and heighten her curioſity. A veil of myſtery enveloped that part of the caſtle, which it now ſeemed impoſſible ſhould ever be pene⯑trated, ſince the only perſon who could have removed it, was no more.

The marquis arrived on the day after that on which Vincent had ex⯑pired. He came attended by ſervants only, and alighted at the gates of the caſtle with an air of impatience, and a countenance expreſſive of ſtrong emo⯑tion. Madame, with the young ladies, received him in the hall. He haſtily ſaluted his daughters, and paſſed on to the oak parlour, deſiring Madame to [29] follow him. She obeyed, and the mar⯑quis enquired with great agitation after Vincent. When told of his death, he paced the room with hurried ſteps, and was for ſome time ſilent, at length ſeating himſelf, and ſurveying Madame with a ſcrutinizing eye, he aſked ſome queſtions concerning the particulars of Vincent's death. She mentioned his earneſt deſire to ſee the marquis, and repeated his laſt words. The mar⯑quis remained ſilent, and Madame pro⯑ceeded to mention thoſe circumſtances relative to the ſouthern divion of the caſtle, which ſhe thought it of ſo much importance to diſcover. He treated the affair very lightly, laughed at her conjectures, repreſented the ap⯑pearances ſhe deſcribed as the illuſions of a weak and timid mind, and broke up the converſation, by going to viſit the chamber of Vincent, in which he re⯑mained a conſiderable time.

On the following day Emilia and Julia dined with the marquis. He was [30] gloomy and ſilent; their efforts to amuſe him ſeemed to excite diſpleaſure rather than kindneſs; and when the repaſt was concluded, he withdrew to his own apartment, leaving his daughters in a ſtate of ſorrow and ſurpriſe.

Vincent was to be interred, accord⯑ing to his own deſire, in the church be⯑longing to the convent of St. Nicholas. One of the ſervants, after receiving ſome neceſſary orders concerning the funeral, ventured to inform the marquis of the appearance of the lights in the ſouth tower. He mentioned the ſuper⯑ſtitious reports that prevailed amongſt the houſhold, and complained that the ſervants would not croſs the courts after it was dark. "And who is he that has commiſſioned you with this ſtory?" ſaid the marquis, in a tone of diſpleaſure; are the weak and ridiculous fancies of women and ſervants to be obtruded upon my notice? Away—appear no more before me, till you have learned to ſpeak what it is proper for me to [31] hear." Robert withdrew abaſhed, and it was ſome time before any perſon ven⯑tured to renew the ſubject with the mar⯑quis.

The majority of young Ferdinand now drew near, and the marquis deter⯑mined to celebrate the occaſion with feſtive magnificence at the caſtle of Mazzini. He therefore ſummoned the marchioneſs, and his ſon, from Na⯑ples, and very ſplendid preparations were ordered to be made. Emilia and, Julia dreaded the arrival of the marchio⯑neſs, whoſe influence they had long been ſenſible of, and from whoſe pre⯑ſence they anticipated a painful reſtraint. Beneath the gentle guidance of Madame de Menon, their hours had paſſed in happy tranquillity, for they were igno⯑rant alike of the ſorrows and the plea⯑ſures of the world. Thoſe did not op⯑preſs, and theſe did not inflame them. Engaged in the purſuits of knowledge, and in the attainment of elegant accom⯑pliſhments, [32] their moments flew lightly away, and the flight of time was mark⯑ed only by improvement. In Madame was united the tenderneſs of the mother, with the ſympathy of a friend; and they loved her with a warm and inviolable affection.

The purpoſed viſit of their brother, whom they had not ſeen for ſeveral years, gave them great pleaſure. Al⯑though their minds retained no very diſtinct remembrance of him, they look⯑ed forward with eager and delightful expectation to his virtues and his ta⯑lents; and hoped to find in his com⯑pany, a conſolation for the uneaſineſs which the preſence of the marchioneſs would excite. Neither did Julia con⯑template with indifference the approach⯑ing feſtival. A new ſcene was now opening to her, which her young ima⯑gination painted in the warm and glow⯑ing colours of delight. The near ap⯑proach, of pleaſure frequently awakens [33] the heart to emotions, which would fail to be excited by a more remote and ab⯑ſtracted obſervance, Julia, who in the diſtance, had conſidered the ſplendid gaieties of life with tranquillity, now lingered with impatient hope through the moments which withheld her from their enjoyments. Emilia, whoſe feel⯑ings were leſs lively, and whoſe imagi⯑nation was leſs powerful, beheld the approaching feſtival with calm conſider⯑ation, and almoſt regretted the interrup⯑tion of thoſe tranquil pleaſures, which ſhe knew to be more congenial with her powers and diſpoſition.

In a few days the marchioneſs arriv⯑ed at the caſtle. She was followed by a numerous retinue, and accompanied by Ferdinand, and ſeveral of the Italian nobleſſe, whom pleaſure attracted to her train. Her entrance was proclaimed by the found of muſic, and thoſe gates which had long ruſted on their hinges, were thrown open to receive her. The [34] courts and halls, whoſe aſpect ſo lately expreſſed only gloom and deſolation, now ſhone with ſudden ſplendor, and echoed the ſounds of gaiety and glad⯑neſs. Julia ſurveyed the ſcene from an obſcure window; and as the triumphal ſtrains filled the air, her breaſt throb⯑bed, her heart beat quick with joy, and ſhe loſt her apprehenſions from the mar⯑chioneſs in a ſort of wild delight hither⯑to unknown to her. The arrival of the marchioneſs ſeemed indeed the ſignal of univerſal and unlimited pleaſure. When the marquis came out to receive her, the gloom that lately clouded his countenance, broke away in ſmiles of welcome, which the whole company appeared to conſider as invitations to joy.

The tranquil heart of Emilia was not proof againſt a ſcene ſo alluring, and ſhe ſighed at the proſpect, yet ſcarcely knew why. Julia pointed out to her ſiſter, the graceful figure of a young [35] man who followed the marchioneſs, and ſhe expreſſed her wiſhes that he might be her brother. From the con⯑templation of the ſcene before them, they were ſummoned to meet the mar⯑chioneſs. Julia trembled with appre⯑henſion, and for a few moments wiſhed the caſtle was in its former ſtate. As they advanced through the ſaloon, in which they were preſented, Julia was covered with bluſhes, but Emilia, tho' equally timid, preſerved her graceful dignity. The marchioneſs received them with a mingled ſmile of conde⯑ſcenſion and politeneſs, and immediately the whole attention of the company was attracted by their elegance and beauty. The eager eyes of Julia ſought in vain to diſcover her brother, of whoſe features ſhe had no recollection in thoſe of any of the perſons then preſent. At length her father preſented him, and ſhe perceived with a ſigh of regret, that he was not the youth ſhe had obſerved [36] from the window. He advanced with a very engaging air, and ſhe met him with an unfeigned welcome. His figure was tall and majeſtic; he had a very noble and ſpirited carriage; and his countenance expreſſed at once ſweet⯑neſs and dignity. Supper was ſerved in the eaſt hall, and the tables were ſpread with a profuſion of delicacies. A band of muſic played during the re⯑paſt, and the evening concluded with a concert in the ſaloon.

CHAPTER II.

THE day of the feſtival, ſo long and ſo impatiently looked for by Julia, was now arrived. All the neighbour⯑ing nobility were invited, and the gates of the caſtle were thrown open for a ge⯑neral rejoicing. A magnificent enter⯑tainment, conſiſting of the moſt luxuri⯑ous and expenſive diſhes, was ſerved in the halls. Soft muſic floated along the vaulted roofs, the walls were hung with decorations, and it ſeemed as if the hand of a magician had ſuddenly meta⯑morphoſed this once gloomy fabric into the palace of a fairy. The marquis, notwithſtanding the gaiety of the ſcene, frequently appeared abſtracted from its enjoyments, and in ſpite of all his efforts at cheerfulneſs, the melancholy of his heart was viſible in his countenance.

In the evening there was a grand [38] ball: the marchioneſs, who was ſtill diſtinguiſhed for her beauty, and for the winning elegance of her manners, appeared in the moſt ſplendid attire. Her hair was ornamented with a profu⯑ſion of jewels, but was ſo diſpoſed as to give an air rather of voluptuouſneſs, than of grace, to her figure. Although conſcious of her charms, ſhe beheld the beauty of Emilia and Julia with a jea⯑lous eye, and was compelled ſecretly to acknowledge, that the ſimple elegance with which they were adorned, was more enchanting than all the ſtudied artifice of ſplendid decoration. They were dreſſed alike in light Sicilian habits, and the beautiful luxuriance of their flowing hair, was reſtrained only by bandellets of pearl. The ball was opened by Ferdinand, and the lady Ma⯑tilda Conſtanza. Emilia danced with the young marquis della Fazelli, and acquitted herſelf with the eaſe and dig⯑nity ſo natural to her. Julia experi⯑enced [39] a various emotion of pleaſure and fear when the count de Vereza, in whom ſhe recollected the cavalier ſhe had ob⯑ſerved from the window, led her forth. The grace of her ſtep, and the elegant ſymmetry of her figure, raiſed in the aſſembly a gentle murmur of applauſe, and the ſoft bluſh which now ſtole over her cheek, gave an additional charm to her appearance. But when the muſic changed, and ſhe danced to the ſoft Si⯑cilian meaſure, the airy grace of her movement, and the unaffected tender⯑neſs of her air, ſunk attention into ſi⯑lence, which continued for ſome time after the dance had ceaſed. The mar⯑chioneſs obſerved the general admira⯑tion with ſeeming pleaſure, and ſecret uneaſineſs. She had ſuffered a very painful ſolicitude, when the count de Vereza ſelected her for his partner in the dance, and ſhe purſued him through the evening, with an eye of jealous ſcru⯑tiny. Her boſom, which before glow⯑ed [40] only with love, was now torn by the agitation of other paſſions more vio⯑lent and deſtructive. Her thoughts were reſtleſs, her mind wandered from the ſcene before her, and it required all her addreſs to preſerve an apparent eaſe. She ſaw, or fancied ſhe ſaw, an impaſ⯑ſioned air in the count, when he addreſſ⯑ed himſelf to Julia, that corroded her heart with jealous fury.

At twelve the gates of the caſtle were thrown open, and the company quitted it for the woods, which were ſplendidly illuminated. Arcades of light lined the long viſtas, which were terminated by pyramids of lamps that preſented to the eye one bright column of flame. At irregular diſtances buildings were erected, hung with variegated lamps diſpoſed in the gayeſt and moſt fantaſtic forms. Collations were ſpread under the trees; and muſic, touched by unſeen hands, breathed around. The muſici⯑ans were placed in the moſt obſcure [41] and embowered ſpots, ſo as to elude the eye and ſtrike the imagination. The ſcene appeared enchanted. Nothing met the eye but beauty, and romantic ſplendor; the ear received no ſounds but thoſe of mirth and melody. The younger part of the company formed themſelves into groups, which at inter⯑vals glanced through the woods, and were again unſeen. Julia ſeemed the magic queen of the place. Her heart dilated with pleaſure, and diffuſed over her features an expreſſion of pure and complacent delight. A generous, frank, and exalted ſentiment ſparkled in her eyes, and animated her manner. Her boſom glowed with benevolent affec⯑tions; and ſhe ſeemed anxious to impart to all around her, a happineſs as unmix⯑ed as that ſhe experienced. Wherever ſhe moved, admiration followed her ſteps. Ferdinand was as gay as the ſcene around him. Emilia was pleaſed; and the marquis ſeemed to have left his [42] melancholy in the caſtle. The mar⯑chioneſs alone was wretched. She ſup⯑ped with a ſelect party, in a pavillion on the ſea ſhore, which was fitted up with peculiar elegance. It was hung with white ſilk, drawn up in feſtoons, and richly fringed with gold. The ſofas were of the ſame materials, and alter⯑nate wreaths of lamps and of roſes en⯑twined the columns. A row of ſmall lamps placed about the cornice, formed an edge of light round the roof which, with the other numerous lights, was re⯑flected in a blaze of ſplendor from the large mirrors that adorned the room. The count Muriani was of the party;—he complimented the marchioneſs on the beauty of her daughters; and after lamenting with gaiety the captives which their charms would enthral, he mentioned the count de Vereza. "He is certainly of all others the man moſt deſerving the lady Julia. As they danced, I thought they exhibited a per⯑fect [43] model of the beauty of either ſex; and if I miſtake not, they are inſpired with a mutual admiration." The mar⯑chioneſs, endeavouring to conceal her uneaſineſs, ſaid, "Yes, my lord, I al⯑low the count all the merit you ad⯑judge him, but from the little I have ſeen of his diſpoſition, he is too volatile for a ſerious attachment."—At that in⯑ſtant the count entered the pavillion: "Ah, ſaid Muriani, laughingly, you was the ſubject of our converſation, and ſeem to be come in good time to receive the honours alloted you. I was interceding with the marchioneſs for her intereſt in your favour, with the lady Julia; but ſhe abſolutely refuſes it; and though ſhe allows you merit, alledges, that you are by nature fickle and inconſtant. What ſay you—would not the beauty of lady Julia bind your unſteady heart?"

"I know not how I have deſerved that character of the marchioneſs," ſaid [44] the count, with a ſmile, "but that heart muſt be either fickle or insenſible in an uncommon degree, which can boaſt of freedom in the preſence of lady Julia." The marchioneſs, mortiſied by the whole converſation, now felt the full force of Vereza's reply, which ſhe imagined he pointed with particular emphaſis.

The entertainment concluded with a grand firework, which was exhibited on the margin of the ſea, and the company did not part till the dawn of morning. Julia retired from the ſcene with regret. She was enchanted with the new world that was now exhibited to her, and ſhe was not cool enough to diſtinguiſh the vivid glow of imagination from the co⯑lours of real bliſs. The pleaſure ſhe now felt, ſhe believed would always be renewed, and in an equal degree, by the objects which firſt excited it. The weakneſs of humanity is never willing⯑ly perceived by young minds. It is [45] painful to know, thatwe are operated upon by objects whoſe impreſſions are variable as they are indefinable—and that what yeſterday affected us ſtrongly, is to-day but imperfectly felt, and to-mor⯑row perhaps ſhall be diſregarded. When at length this unwelcome truth is re⯑ceived into the mind, we at firſt reject, with diſguſt, every appearance of good, we diſdain to partake of a happineſs which we cannot always command, and we not unfrequently ſink into a tem⯑porary deſpair. Wiſdom or accident, at length, recall us from our error, and offers to us ſome object capable of pro⯑ducing a pleaſing, yet laſting effect, which effect, therefore, we call happi⯑neſs. Happineſs has this eſſential dif⯑ference from what is commonly called pleaſure; that virtue forms its baſis, and virtue being the offspring of reaſon, may be expected to produce uniformity of effect.

The paſſions which had hitherto lain [46] concealed in Julia's heart, touched by circumſtance, dilated to its power, and afforded her a ſlight experience of the pain and delight which flow from their influence. The beauty and accom⯑pliſhments of Vereza, raiſed in her a new and various emotion, which reflec⯑tion made her fear to encourage, but which was too pleaſing to be wholly re⯑ſiſted. Tremblingly alive to a ſenſe of delight, and unchilled by diſappoint⯑ment, the young heart welcomes every feeling, not ſimply painful, with a ro⯑mantic expectation, that it will expand into bliſs.

Julia ſought with eager anxiety to diſcover the ſentiments of Vereza to⯑wards her; ſhe revolved each circum⯑ſtance of the day, but they afforded her little ſatisfaction; they reflected only a glimmering and uncertain light, which inſtead of guiding, ſerved only to per⯑plex her. Now ſhe remembered ſome inſtance of particular attention, and then [47] ſome mark of apparent indifference She compared his conduct with that of the other young nobleſſe; and thought each appeared equally deſirous of the favour of every lady preſent. All the ladies, however, appeared to her to court the admiration of Vereza, and ſhe trembled leſt he ſhould be too ſenſible of the diſtinction. She drew from theſe reflections no poſitive inference; and though diſtruſt rendered pain the pre⯑dominate ſenſation, it was ſo exquiſite⯑ly interwoven with delight, that ſhe could not wiſh it exchanged for her former eaſe. Thoughtful and reſtleſs, ſleep ſled from her eyes, and ſhe long⯑ed with impatience for the morning, which ſhould again preſent Vereza, and enable her to purſue the enquiry. She aroſe early, and adorned herſelf with unuſual care. In her favourite cloſet ſhe awaited the hour of break⯑faſt, and endeavoured to read, but her thoughts wandered from the ſubject. [48] Her lute and favourite airs loſt half their power to pleaſe; the day ſeemed to ſtand ſtill—ſhe became melancholy, and thought the breakfaſt hour would never arrive. At length the clock ſtruck the ſignal, the ſound vibrated on every nerve, and trembling ſhe quitted the cloſet for her ſiſter's apartment. Love taught her diſguiſe. Till then Emilia had ſhared all her thoughts; they now deſcended to the breakfaſt room in ſilence, and Julia almoſt feared to meet her eye. In the breakfaſt room they were alone. Julia found it impoſ⯑ſible to ſupport a converſation with Emilia, whoſe obſervations interrupt⯑ing the courſe of her thoughts, became unintereſting and tireſome. She was therefore about to retire to her cloſet, when the marquis entered. His air was haughty, and his look ſevere. He cold⯑ly ſaluted his daughters, and they had ſcarcely time to reply to his general enquiries, when the marchioneſs enter⯑ed, [49] and the company ſoon after aſſem⯑bled. Julia, who had awaited with ſo painful an impatience for the moment which ſhould preſent Vereza to her ſight, now ſighed that it was arrived. She ſcarcely dared to lift her timid eyes from the ground, and when by ac⯑cident they met his, a ſoft tremour ſeized her; and apprehenſion leſt he ſhould diſcover her ſentiments, ſerved only to render her confuſion conſpicu⯑ous. At length a glance from the marchioneſs recalled her bewildered thoughts; and other fears ſuperceding thoſe of love, her mind, by degrees, re⯑covered its dignity. She could diſtin⯑guiſh in the behaviour of Vereza no ſymptoms of particular admiration, and ſhe reſolved to conduct herſelf towards him with the moſt ſcrupulous care.

This day, like the preceding one, was devoted to joy. In the evening there was a concert, which was chiefly per⯑formed by the nobility. Ferdinand play⯑ed [50] the violincello, Vereza the german ſlute, and Julia the piano forte, which ſhe touched with a delicacy and execu⯑tion that engaged every auditor. The confuſion of Julia may be eaſily ima⯑gined, when Ferdinand, ſelecting a beautiful duet, deſired Vereza would accompany his ſiſter. The pride of conſcious excellence, however, quickly overcame her timidity, and enabled her to exert all her powers. The air was ſimple and pathetic, and ſhe gave it thoſe charms of expreſſion ſo peculiarly her own. She ſtruck the chords of her piano forte in beautiful accompani⯑ment, and towards the cloſe of the ſe⯑cond ſtanza, her voice reſting on one note, ſwelled into a tone ſo exquiſite, and from thence deſcended to a few ſimple notes, which ſhe touched with ſuch impaſſioned tenderneſs that every eye wept to the ſounds. The breath of the ſlute trembled, and Hippolitus en⯑tranced, forgot to play. A pauſe of [51] ſilence enſued at the concluſion of the piece, and continued till a general ſigh ſeemed to awaken the audience from their enchantment. Amid the general applauſe, Hippolitus was ſilent. Julia obſerved his behaviour, and gently raiſ⯑ing her eyes to his, there read the ſen⯑timents which ſhe had inſpired. An exquiſite emotion thrilled her heart, and ſhe experienced one of thoſe rare mo⯑ments which illumine life with a ray of bliſs, by which the darkneſs of its ge⯑neral ſhade is contraſted. Care, doubt, every diſagreeable ſenſation vaniſhed, and for the remainder of the evening ſhe was conſcious only of delight. A timid reſpect marked the manner of Hippolitus, more flattering to Julia than the moſt ardent profeſſions. The evening concluded with a ball, and Julia was again the partner of the count.

When the ball broke up, ſhe retired to her apartment, but not to ſleep. Joy is as reſtleſs as anxiety or ſorrow. She [52] ſeemed to have entered upon a new ſtate of exiſtence;—thoſe fine ſprings of affection which had hitherto lain con⯑cealed, were now touched, and yielded to her a happineſs more exalted than any her imagination had ever painted. She reflected on the tranquillity of her paſt life, and comparing it with the emo⯑tions of the preſent hour, exulted in the difference. All her former pleaſures now appeared inſipid; ſhe wondered that they ever had power to affect her, and that ſhe had endured with content the dull uniformity to which ſhe had been condemned. It was now only that ſhe appeared to live. Abſorbed in the ſingle idea of being beloved, her imagi⯑nation ſoared into the regions of roman⯑tic bliſs, and bore her high above the poſſibility of evil. Since ſhe was be⯑loved by Hippolitus, ſhe could only be happy.

From this ſtate of entranced delight, ſhe was awakened by the ſound of mu⯑ſic [53] immediately under her window. It was a lute touched by a maſterly hand. After a wild and melancholy ſymphony, a voice of more than magic expreſſion ſwelled into an air ſo pathetic and ten⯑der, that it ſeemed to breathe the very ſoul of love. The chords of the lute were ſtruck in low and ſweet accom⯑paniment. Julia liſtened, and diſtinguiſhed the following words:

An interval of ſilence followed, and the air was repeated; after which the muſic was heard no more. If before Julia believed that ſhe was loved by [54] Hippolitus, ſhe was now confirmed in the ſweet reality. But ſleep at length fell upon her ſenſes, and the airy forms of ideal bliſs no longer fleeted before her imagination. Morning came, and ſhe aroſe light and refreſhed. How different were her preſent ſenſations from thoſe of the preceding day. Her anxiety had now evaporated in joy, and ſhe experienced that airy dance of ſpi⯑rits which accumulates delight from every object; and with a power like the touch of enchantment, can transform a gloomy deſert into a ſmiling Eden. She flew to the breakfaſt room, ſcarcely conſcious of motion; but, as ſhe enter⯑ed it, a ſoft confuſion overcame her; ſhe bluſhed, and almoſt feared to meet the eyes of Vereza. She was preſently relieved, however, for the count was not there. The company aſſembled—Julia watched the entrance of every perſon with painful anxiety, but he for whom ſhe looked did not appear. Sur⯑prized [55] and uneaſy, ſhe fixed her eyes on the door, and whenever it opened, her heart beat with an expectation which was as often checked by diſappoint⯑ment. In ſpite of all her efforts her vivacity ſunk into languor, and ſhe then perceived that love may produce other ſenſations than thoſe of delight. She found it poſſible to be unhappy, though loved by Hippolitus; and ac⯑knowledged with a ſigh of regret, which was yet new to her, how tremblingly her peace depended upon him. He neither appeared nor was mentioned at breakfaſt; but though delicacy prevent⯑ed her enquiring after him, converſation ſoon became irkſome to her, and ſhe retired to the apartment of Madame de Menon. There ſhe employed herſelf in painting, and endeavoured to be⯑guile the time till the hour of dinner, when ſhe hoped to ſee Hippolitus. Madame was, as uſual, friendly and cheerful, but ſhe perceived a reſerve in [56] in the conduct of Julia, and penetrated without difficulty into its cauſe. She was, however, ignorant of the object of her pupil's admiration. The hour ſo eagerly deſired by Julia at length ar⯑rived, and with a palpitating heart ſhe entered the hall. The count was not there, and in the courſe of converſa⯑tion, ſhe learned that he had that morn⯑ing ſailed for Naples. The ſcene which ſo lately appeared enchanting to her eyes, now changed its hue; and in the midſt of ſociety, and ſurrounded by gaiety, ſhe was ſolitary and dejected. She ac⯑cuſed herſelf of having ſuffered her wiſh⯑es to miſlead her judgment; and the preſent conduct of Hippolitus convin⯑ced her, that ſhe had miſtaken admira⯑tion, for a ſentiment more tender. She believed too, that the muſician who had addreſſed her in his ſonnet, was not the count; and thus at once was diſſolved all the ideal fabrick of her happineſs. How ſhort a period often reverſes the [57] character of our ſentiments, rendering that which yeſterday we deſpiſed, to day deſirable. The tranquil ſtate which ſhe had ſo lately delighted to quit, ſhe now reflected upon with regret. She had, however, the conſolation of believing that her ſentiments towards the count were unknown, and the ſweet conſciouſ⯑neſs that her conduct had been govern⯑ed by a nice ſenſe of propriety.

The public rejoicings at the caſtle cloſed with the week; but the gay ſpirit of the marchioneſs forbade a return to tranquillity; and ſhe ſubſtituted di⯑verſions more private, but in ſplendour ſcarcely inferior to the preceding ones. She had obſerved the behaviour of Hip⯑politus on the night of the concert with chagrin, and his departure with ſorrow; yet diſdaining to perpetuate misfortune by reflection, ſhe ſought to loſe the ſenſe of diſappointment in the hurry of diſſipation. But her efforts to eraſe him from her remembrance were ineffectual. [58] Unaccuſtomed to oppoſe the bent of her inclinations, they now maintained unbounded ſway; and ſhe found too late, that in order to have a due com⯑mand of our paſſions, it is neceſſary to ſubject them to early obedience. Paſ⯑ſion, in its undue influence, produces weakneſs as well as injuſtice. The pain which now recoiled upon her heart from diſappointment, ſhe had not ſtrength of mind to endure, and ſhe ſought relief from its preſſure in afflicting the inno⯑cent. Julia, whoſe beauty ſhe ima⯑gined had captivated the count, and confirmed him in indifference towards herſelf, ſhe inceſſantly tormented by the exerciſe of thoſe various and ſplenetic little arts, which elude the eye of the common obſerver, and are only to be known by thoſe who have ſelt them. Arts, which indivi⯑dually are inconſiderable, but in the aggregate, amount to a cruel and deci⯑ſive effect.

[59] From Julia's mind the idea of happi⯑neſs was now faded. Pleaſure had with⯑drawn her beam from the proſpect, and the objects no longer illumined by her ray, became dark and colourleſs. As often as her ſituation would permit, ſhe withdrew from ſociety, and ſought the freedom of ſolitude, where ſhe could indulge in melancholy thoughts, and give a looſe to that deſpair which is ſo apt to follow the diſappointment of our firſt hopes.

Week after week elapſed, yet no mention was made of returning to Na⯑ples. The marquis at length declared it his intention to ſpend the remainder of the ſummer in the caſtle. To this determination the marchioneſs ſubmit⯑ted with decent reſignation, for ſhe was here ſurrounded by a croud of ſlatterers, and her invention ſupplied her with continual diverſions: that gaiety which rendered Naples ſo dear to her, glittered in the woods of Mazzini, and reſound⯑ed through the caſtle.

[60] The apartments of Madame de Menon were ſpacious and noble. The windows opened upon the ſea, and command⯑ed a view of the ſtraits of Meſſina, bounded on one ſide by the beautiful ſhores of the iſle of Sicily, and on the other by the high mountains of Calabria. The ſtraits, filled with veſſels whoſe gay ſtreamers glittered to the ſun beam, preſented to the eye an ever moving ſcene. The principal room opened upon a gallery that overhung the grand ter⯑race of the caſtle, and it commanded a proſpect which for beauty and extent has ſeldom been equalled. Theſe were formerly conſidered the chief apart⯑ments of the caſtle; and when the mar⯑quis quitted them for Naples, were al⯑lotted for the reſidence of Madame de Menon, and her young charge. The marchioneſs, ſtruck with the proſpect which the windows afforded, and with the pleaſantneſs of the gallery, deter⯑mined to reſtore the rooms to their for⯑mer [61] ſplendour. She ſignified this inten⯑tion to Madame, for whom other apart⯑ments were provided. The chambers of Emilia and Julia forming part of the ſuit, they were alſo claimed by the mar⯑chioneſs, who left Julia only her favou⯑rite cloſet. The rooms to which they re⯑moved, were ſpacious but gloomy; they had been for ſome years uninhabited; and though preparations had been made for the reception of their new inhabi⯑tants, an air of deſolation reigned with⯑in them that inſpired melancholy ſenſa⯑tions. Julia obſerved that her cham⯑ber, which opened beyond Madame's, formed a part of the ſouthern building, with which, however, there appeared no means of communication. The late myſterious circumſtances relating to this part of the fabric, now aroſe to her imagination, and conjured up a terror which reaſon could not ſubdue. She told her emotions to Madame, who, with more prudence than ſincerity, [62] laughed at her fears. The behaviour of the marquis, the dying words of Vincent, together with the preceding circumſtances of alarm, had ſunk deep in the mind of Madame, but ſhe ſaw the neceſſity of confining to her own breaſt, doubts which time only could reſolve.

Julia endeavoured to reconcile her⯑ſelf to the change, and a circumſtance ſoon occurred which obliterated her pre⯑ſent ſenſations, and excited others far more intereſting. One day that ſhe was arranging ſome papers in the ſmall drawers of a cabinet that ſtood in her apartment, ſhe found a picture which fixed all her attention. It was a mi⯑niature of a lady, whoſe countenance was touched with ſorrow, and expreſſed an air of dignified reſignation. The mournful ſweetneſs of her eyes, raiſed towards Heaven with a look of ſuppli⯑cation, and the melancholy languor that ſhaded her features, ſo deeply af⯑fected [63] Julia, that her eyes were filled with involuntary tears. She ſighed and wept, ſtill gazing on the picture, which ſeemed to engage her by a kind of faſcination. She almoſt fancied that the portrait breathed, and that the eyes were fixed on her's with a look of pene⯑trating ſoftneſs. Full of the emotions which the miniature had excited, ſhe preſented it to Madame, whoſe min⯑gled ſorrow and ſurprize increaſed her curioſity. But what where the various ſenſations which preſſed upon her heart, on learning that ſhe had wept over the reſemblance of her mother! Deprived of a mother's tenderneſs before ſhe was ſenſible of its value, it was now only that ſhe mourned the event which lamentation could not recall. Emilia, with an emotion as exquiſite, mingled her tears with thoſe of her ſiſter. With eager impatience they preſſed Madame to diſcloſe the cauſe of that ſorrow which ſo emphatically marked the fea⯑tures of their mother.

[64] "Alas! my dear children," ſaid Madame, deeply ſighing, "you en⯑gage me in a taſk too ſevere, not only for your peace, but for mine; ſince, in giving you the information you require, I muſt retrace ſcenes of my own life, which I wiſh for ever obliterated. It would, however, be both cruel and unjuſt to with-hold an explanation ſo nearly intereſting to you, and I will ſa⯑crifice my own eaſe to your wiſhes."

"Louiſa de Bernini, your mother, was as you well know the only daugh⯑ter of the count de Bernini. Of the misfortunes of your family, I be⯑lieve yon are yet ignorant. The chief eſtates of the count were ſituated in the Val di Demona, a valley deriving its name from its vicinity to Mount Aetna, which vulgar tradition has peopled with devils. In one of thoſe dreadful erup⯑tions of Aetna, which deluged this valley with a flood of fire, a great part of your grandfather's domains in that quarter [65] were laid waſte. The count was at that time with a part of his family at Meſ⯑ſina, but the counteſs and her ſon, who were in the country, were deſtroyed. The remaining property of the count was proportionably inconſiderable, and the loſs of his wife and ſon deeply af⯑fected him. He retired with Louiſa, his only ſurviving child, who was then near fifteen, to a ſmall eſtate near Cat⯑tania. There was ſome degree of rela⯑tionſhip between your grandfather and myſelf; and your mother was attached to me by the ties of ſentiment, which, as we grew up, united us ſtill more ſtrongly than thoſe of blood. Our plea⯑ſures and our taſtes were the ſame; and a ſimilarity of misfortunes might, per⯑haps, contribute to cement our early friendſhip. I, like herſelf, had loſt a parent in the eruption of Aetna. My mother had died before I underſtood her value, but my father, whom I re⯑vered and tenderly loved, was deſtroyed [66] by one of thoſe terrible events; his lands were buried beneath the lava, and he left an only ſon and myſelf to mourn his fate, and encounter the evils of po⯑verty. The count, who was our neareſt ſurviving relation, generouſly took us home to his houſe, and declared that he conſidered us as his children. To amuſe his leiſure hours, he undertook to finiſh the education of my brother, who was then about ſeventeen, and whoſe riſing genius promiſed to reward the labours of the count. Louiſa and myſelf often ſhared the inſtruction of her father, and at thoſe hours Orlando was generally of the party. The tranquil retirement of the count's ſituation, the rational em⯑ployment of his time between his own ſtudies, the education of thoſe whom he called his children, and the conver⯑ſation of a few ſelect friends, anticipated the effect of time, and ſoftened the aſ⯑perities of his diſtreſs into a tender complacent melancholy. As for Louiſa [67] and myſelf, who were yet new in life, and whoſe ſpirits poſſeſſed the happy elaſticity of youth, our minds gradually ſhifted from ſuffering to tranquillity, and from tranquillity to happineſs. I have ſometimes thought that when my bro⯑ther has been reading to her a delightful paſſage, the countenance of Louiſa diſ⯑covered a tender intereſt, which ſeem⯑ed to be excited rather by the reader than by the author. Theſe days, which were ſurely the moſt enviable of our lives, now paſſed in ſerene enjoyments, and in continual gradations of improve⯑ment."

"The count deſigned my brother for the army, and the time now drew nigh when he was to join the Sicilian regiment, in which he had a commiſſion. The abſent thoughts, and dejected ſpi⯑rits of my couſin, now diſcovered to me the ſecret which had long been con⯑cealed even from herſelf; for it was not till Orlando was about to depart, that ſhe perceived how dear he was to [68] her peace. On the eve of his de⯑parture, the count lamented with fa⯑therly, yet manly tenderneſs, the diſ⯑tance which was ſoon to ſeparate us. "But we ſhall meet again," ſaid he, "when the honours of war ſhall have rewarded the bravery of my ſon." Loui⯑ſa grew pale, a half ſuppreſſed ſigh eſ⯑caped her, and to conceal her emotion ſhe turned to her harpſichord."

"My brother had a favourite dog which, before he ſet off, he preſented to Julia, and committing it to her care, begged ſhe would be kind to it, and ſometimes remember its maſter. He checked his riſing emotion, but as he turned from her, I perceived the tear that wetted his cheek. He departed, and with him the ſpirit of our happi⯑neſs ſeemed to evaporate. The ſcenes which his preſence had formerly en⯑livened, were now forlorn and melan⯑choly, yet we loved to wander in what were once his favourite haunts. Louiſa [69] forbore to mention my brother even to me, but frequently when ſhe thought herſelf unobſerved, ſhe would ſteal to her harpſichord, and repeat the ſtrain which ſhe had played on the evening before his departure."

"We had the pleaſure to hear from time to time that he was well; and though his own modeſty threw a veil over his conduct, we could collect from other accounts that he had be⯑haved with great bravery. At length the time of his return approached, and the enlivened ſpirits of Julia declared the influence he retained in her heart. He returned, bearing public teſtimony of his valour in the honours which had been conferred upon him. He was re⯑ceived with univerſal joy; the count welcomed him with the pride and fond⯑neſs of a father, and the villa became again the ſeat of happineſs. His per⯑ſon and manners were much improved; the elegant beauty of the youth was [70] now exchanged for the graceful dignity of manhood, and ſome knowledge of the world was added to that of the ſciences. The joy which illumined his countenance when he met Julia, ſpoke at once his admiration and his love; and the bluſh which her obſerv⯑ation of it brought upon her cheek, would have diſcovered even to an un⯑intereſted ſpectator that this joy was mutual."

"Orlando brought with him a young Frenchman, a brother officer, who had reſcued him from imminent danger in battle, and whom he introduced to the count as his preſerver. The count re⯑ceived him with gratitude and diſtinc⯑tion, and he was for a conſiderable time an inmate at the villa. His manners were ſingularly pleaſing, and his under⯑ſtanding was cultivated and refined. He ſoon diſcovered a partiality for me, and he was indeed too pleaſing to be ſeen with indifference. Gratitude for [71] the valuable life he had preſerved, was perhaps the ground work of an eſteem which ſoon increaſed into the moſt af⯑fectionate love. Our attachment grew ſtronger as our acquaintance increaſed; and at length the chevalier de Me⯑non aſked me of the count, who con⯑ſulted my heart, and finding it favour⯑able to the connection, proceeded to make the neceſſary enquiries concern⯑ing the family of the ſtranger. He ob⯑tained a ſatisfactory and pleaſing ac⯑count of it. The chevalier was the ſe⯑cond ſon of a French gentleman of large eſtates in France, who had been ſome years deceaſed. He had left ſeveral ſons; the family eſtate, of courſe, de⯑volved to the eldeſt, but to the two younger he had bequeathed conſiderable property. Our marriage was ſolem⯑nized in a private manner at the villa, in the preſence of the count, Louiſa, and my brother. Soon after the nuptials, my huſband and Orlando were remand⯑ed [72] to their regiments. My brother's affections were now unalterably fixed upon Louiſa, but a ſentiment of deli⯑cacy and generoſity ſtill kept him ſilent. He thought, poor as he was, to ſolicit the hand of Louiſa, would be to repay the kindneſs of the count with ingrati⯑tude. I have ſeen the inward ſtruggles of his heart, and mine has bled for him. The count and Louiſa ſo earneſtly ſoli⯑cited me to remain at the villa during the campaign, that at length my huſ⯑band conſented. We parted—O! let one forget that period!—Had I accom⯑panied him, all might have been well; and the long—long years of affliction which followed had been ſpared me."

The horn now ſounded the ſignal for dinner, and interrupted the narra⯑tive of Madame. Her beautious audi⯑tors wiped the tears from their eyes, and with extreme reluctance deſcended to the hall. The day was occupied with company and diverſions, and it [73] was not till late in the evening that they were ſuffered to retire. They haſtened to Madame immediately upon their being releaſed; and too much in⯑tereſted for ſleep, and too importunate to be repulſed, ſolicited the ſequel of her ſtory. She objected the lateneſs of the hour, but at length yielded to their entreaties. They drew their chairs cloſe to her's; and every ſenſe being abſorb⯑ed in the ſingle one of hearing, fol⯑lowed her through the courſe of her narrative.

"My brother again departed with⯑out diſcloſing his ſentiments; the effort it coſt him was evident, but his ſenſe of honour ſurmounted every oppoſing conſideration. Louiſa again drooped, and pined in ſilent ſorrow. I lamented equally for my friend and my brother; and have a thouſand times accuſed that delicacy as falſe, which with-held them from the happineſs they might ſo eaſily and ſo innocently have obtained. The [74] behaviour of the count, at leaſt to my eye, ſeemed to indicate the ſatisfaction which this union would have given him. It was about this period that the mar⯑quis Mazzini firſt ſaw and became ena⯑moured of Louiſa. His propoſals were very flattering, but the count forbore to exert the undue authority of a father; and he ceaſed to preſs the connection, when he perceived that Louiſa was really averſe to it. Louiſa was ſenſible of the generoſity of his conduct, and ſhe could ſcarcely reject the alliance without a ſigh, which her gratitude paid to the kindneſs of her father."

"But an event now happened which diſſolved at once our happineſs, and all our air drawn ſchemes for futurity. A diſpute, which it ſeems originated in a trifle, but ſoon increaſed to a ſerious de⯑gree, aroſe between the Chevalier de Me⯑non and my brother. It was decided by the ſword, and my dear brother fell by the hand of my huſband. I ſhall [75] paſs over this period of my life. It is too painful for recollection. The ef⯑fect of this event upon Louiſa was ſuch as may imagined. The world was now become indifferent to her, and as ſhe had no proſpect of happineſs for her⯑ſelf ſhe was unwilling to with-hold it from the father who had deſerved ſo much of her. After ſome time, when the marquis renewed his addreſſes, ſhe gave him her hand. The characters of the marquis and his lady were in their nature too oppoſite to form a happy union. Of this Louiſa was very ſoon ſenſible; and though the mildneſs of her diſpoſition made her tamely ſubmit to the unfeeling authority of her huſ⯑band, his behaviour ſunk deep in her heart, and ſhe pined in ſecret. It was impoſſible for her to avoid oppoſing the character of the marquis to that of him upon whom her affections had been ſo fondly and ſo juſtly fixed. The com⯑pariſon increaſed her ſufferings, which [76] ſoon preyed upon her conſtitution, and very viſibly affected her health. Her ſituation deeply afflicted the count, and united with the infirmities of age to ſhorten his life."

"Upon his death, I bade adieu to my couſin, and quitted Sicily for Italy, where the Chevalier de Menon had for ſome time expected me. Our meeting was very affecting. My reſentment towards him was done away, when I obſerved his pale and altered counte⯑nance, and perceived the melancholy which preyed upon his heart. All the airy vivacity of his former manner was fled, and he was devoured by unavail⯑ing grief and remorſe. He deplored with unceaſing ſorrow the friend he had murdered, and my preſence ſeem⯑ed to open a freſh the wounds which time had begun to cloſe. His afflic⯑tion, united with my own, was almoſt more than I could ſupport, but I was doomed to ſuffer, and endure yet more. [77] In a ſubſequent engagement my huſ⯑band, weary of exiſtence, ruſhed into the heat of battle, and there obtained an honourable death. In a paper which he left behind him, he ſaid it was his intention to die in that battle; that he had long wiſhed for death, and waited for an opportunity of obtaining it with⯑out ſtaining his own character by the cowardice of ſuicide, or diſtreſſing me by an act of butchery. This event gave the finiſhing ſtroke to my afflic⯑tions;—yet let me retract:—another misfortune awaited me when I leaſt expected one. The Chevalier de Menon died without a will, and his brothers refuſed to give up his eſtate, unleſs I could produce a witneſs of my mar⯑riage. I returned to Sicily, and to my inexpreſſible ſorrow found that your mother had died during my ſtay abroad, a prey, I fear, to grief. The prieſt who performed the ceremony of my mar⯑riage, having been threatened with [78] puniſhment for ſome eccleſiaſtical of⯑fences, had ſecretly left the country; and thus was I deprived of thoſe proofs which were neceſſary to authenticate my claims to the eſtates of my huſband. His brothers, to whom I was an utter ſtranger, were either too prejudiced to believe, or believing, were too diſho⯑nourable to acknowledge the juſtice of my claims. I was therefore at once abandoned to ſorrow and to poverty; a ſmall legacy from the count de Ber⯑nini being all that now remained to me."

"When the marquis married Maria de Vellorno, which was about this pe⯑riod, he deſigned to quit Mazzini for Naples. His ſon was to accompany him, but it was his intention to leave you, who were both very young, to the care of ſome perſon qualified to ſuper⯑intend your education. My circum⯑ſtances rendered the office acceptable, and my former friendſhip for your mo⯑ther [79] made the duty pleaſing to me. The marquis, was, I believe, glad to be ſpared the trouble of ſearching further for what he had hitherto found it dif⯑ficult to obtain—a perſon whom incli⯑nation as well as duty would bind to his intereſt."

Madame ceaſed to ſpeak, and Emilia and Julia wept to the memory of the mother, whoſe misfortunes this ſtory recorded. The ſufferings of Madame, together with her former friendſhip for the late marchioneſs, endeared her to her pupils, who from this period endea⯑voured by every kind and delicate at⯑tention to obliterate the traces of her ſorrows. Madame was ſenſible of this tenderneſs, and it was productive in ſome degree of the effect deſired. But a ſubject ſoon after occurred, which drew off their minds from the conſider⯑ation of their mother's fate to a ſubject more wonderful and equally intereſt⯑ing.

[80] One night that Emilia and Julia had been detained, by company, in ceremo⯑nial reſtraint, later than uſual, they were induced by the eaſy converſation of Ma⯑dame, and by the pleaſure which a re⯑turn to liberty naturally produces, to defer the hour of repoſe till the night was far advanced. They were engaged in intereſting diſcourſe, when Madame, who was then ſpeaking, was interrupted by a low hollow ſound, which aroſe from beneath the apartment, and ſeemed like the cloſing of a door. Chilled into a ſilence, they liſtened and diſtinctly heard it repeated. Deadly ideas crowded upon their imaginations, and inſpired a terror which ſcarcely allowed them to breathe. The noiſe laſted only for a moment, and a profound ſilence ſoon enſued. Their feelings at length relaxed, and ſuffered them to move to Madame's apartment, when again they heard the ſame ſounds. Almoſt diſtracted with fear, they ruſhed into Madame's apart⯑ment, [81] where Emilia ſunk upon the bed and fainted. It was a conſiderable time ere the efforts of Madame recalled her to ſenſation. When they were again tranquil, ſhe employed all her endea⯑vours to compoſe the ſpirits of the young ladies, and diſſuade them from alarming the caſtle. Involved in dark and fearful doubts, ſhe yet commanded her feelings, and endeavoured to aſ⯑ſume an apperance of compoſure. The late behaviour of the marquis had con⯑vinced her that he was nearly connected with the myſtery which hung over this part of the edifice; and ſhe dreaded to excite his reſentment by a further men⯑tion of alarms, which were perhaps only ideal, and whoſe reality ſhe had cer⯑tainly no means of proving.

Influenced by theſe conſiderations, ſhe endeavoured to prevail on Emilia and Julia, to await in ſilence ſome con⯑firmation of their ſurmiſes, but their terror made this a very difficult taſk. [82] They acquieſced, however, ſo far with her wiſhes, as to agree to conceal the preceding circumſtances from every perſon but their brother, without whoſe protecting preſence they declared it utterly impoſſible to paſs another night in the apartments. For the re⯑mainder of this night they reſolved to watch. To beguile the tediouſneſs of the time they endeavoured to converſe, but the minds of Emilia and Julia were too much affected by the late occur⯑rence to wander from the ſubject. They compared this with the foregoing cir⯑cumſtance of the figure and the light which had appeared; their imaginati⯑ons kindled wild conjectures, and they ſubmitted their opinions to Madame, entreating her to inform them ſincerely, whether ſhe believed that diſembodied ſpirits were ever permitted to viſit this earth.

"My children," ſaid ſhe, "I will not attempt to perſuade you that the [83] exiſtence of ſuch ſpirits is impoſſible. Who ſhall ſay that any thing is impoſ⯑ſible to God? We know that he has made us, who are embodied ſpirits; he, therefore, can make unembodied ſpi⯑rits. If we cannot underſtand how ſuch ſpirits exiſt, we ſhould conſider the li⯑mited powers of our minds, and that we can not underſtand many things which are indiſputably true. No one yet knows why the magnetic needle points to the north; yet you, who have never ſeen a magnet, do not heſitate to believe that it has this tendency, be⯑cauſe you have been well aſſured of it, both from books and in converſation. Since, therefore, we are ſure that no⯑thing is impoſſible to God, and that ſuch beings may exiſt, though we can not tell how, we ought to conſider by what evidence their exiſtence is ſup⯑ported. I do not ſay that ſpirits have appeared; but if ſeveral diſcreet unpre⯑judiced perſons were to aſſure me that [84] they had ſeen one, I ſhould not to be proud or bold enough to reply—"it is impoſſible." Let not, however, ſuch conſiderations diſturb your minds. I have ſaid thus much, becauſe I was un⯑willing to impoſe upon your underſtand⯑ings; it is now your part to exerciſe your reaſon, and preſerve the unmoved confidence of virtue. Such ſpirits, if indeed they have ever been ſeen, can have appeared only by the expreſs per⯑miſſion of God, and for ſome very ſin⯑gular purpoſes; be aſſured that there are no beings who act unſeen by him; and that, therefore, there are none from whom innocence can ever ſuffer harm."

No further ſounds diſturbed them for that time; and before the morning dawned, wearineſs inſenſibly overcame apprehenſion, and ſunk them in repoſe.

When Ferdinand learned the circum⯑ſtances relating to the ſouthern ſide of the caſtle, his imagination ſeized with avidity each appearance of myſtery, [85] and inſpired him with an irreſiſtible de⯑ſire to penetrate the ſecrets of this deſo⯑late part of the fabrick. He very rea⯑dily conſented to watch with his ſiſters in Julia's apartment; but as his cham⯑ber was in a remote part of the caſtle, there would be ſome difficulty in paſ⯑ſing unobſerved to her's. It was agreed, however, that when all was huſhed, he ſhould make the attempt. Having thus reſolved, Emilia and Julia waited the return of night with reſtleſs and fear⯑ful impatience.

At length the family retired to reſt. The caſtle clock had ſtruck one, and Julia began to fear that Ferdinand had been diſcovered, when a knocking was heard at the door of the outer chamber.

Her heart beat with apprehenſions, which reaſon could not juſtify. Ma⯑dame roſe, and enquiring who was there, was anſwered by the voice of Ferdinand. The door was chearfully opened. They drew their chairs round him, and en⯑deavoured [86] to paſs the time in converſa⯑tion; but fear and expectation attracted all their thoughts to one ſubject, and Madame alone preſerved her compo⯑ſure. The hour was now come when the ſounds had been heard the preced⯑ing night, and every ear was given to attention. All, however, remained quiet, and the night paſſed without any new alarm.

The greater part of ſeveral ſucceed⯑ing nights were ſpent in watching, but no ſounds diſturbed their ſilence. Fer⯑dinand, in whoſe mind the late circum⯑ſtances had excited a degree of aſtoniſh⯑ment and curioſity ſuperior to common obſtacles, determined, if poſſible, to gain admittance to thoſe receſſes of the caſtle which had for ſo many years been hid from human eye. This, how⯑ever, was a deſign which he ſaw little probability of accompliſhing, for the keys of that part of the edifice were in the poſſeſſion of the marquis, of whoſe [87] late conduct he judged too well to be⯑lieve he would ſuffer the apartments to be explored. He racked his invention for the means of getting acceſs to them, and at length recollecting that Julia's chamber formed a part of theſe build⯑ings, it occurred to him, that according to the mode of building in old times, there might formerly have been a com⯑munication between them. This con⯑ſideration ſuggeſted to him the poſſibi⯑lity of a concealed door in her apart⯑ment, and he determined to ſurvey it on the following night with great care.

CHAPTER III.

THE caſtle was buried in ſleep when Ferdinand again joined his ſiſters in Madame's apartment. With anxious curioſity they followed him to the chamber. The room was hung with tapeſtry. Ferdinand carefully ſounded the wall which communicated with the ſouthern buildings. From one part of it a ſound was returned, which con⯑vinced him there was ſomething leſs ſolid than ſtone. He removed the ta⯑peſtry, and behind it appeared, to his inexpreſſible ſatisfaction, a ſmall door. With a hand trembling through eager⯑neſs, he undrew the bolts, and was ruſhing forward, when he perceived that a lock with-held his paſſage. The keys of Madame and his ſiſters were applied in vain, and he was compelled to ſubmit to diſappointment at the very moment when he congratulated him⯑ſelf [89] on ſucceſs, for he had with him no means of forcing the door.

He ſtood gazing on the door, and inwardly lamenting, when a low hollow ſound was heard from beneath. Emilia and Julia ſeized his arm; and almoſt ſinking with apprehenſion, liſtened in profound ſilence. A footſtep was diſ⯑tinctly heard, as if paſſing through the apartment below, after which all was ſtill. Ferdinand fired by this confirma⯑tion of the late report, ruſhed on to the door, and again tried to burſt his way, but it reſiſted all the efforts of his ſtrength. The ladies now rejoiced in that circumſtance which they ſo lately lamented; for the ſounds had renewed their terror, and though the night paſſed without further diſturbance, their fears were very little abated.

Ferdinand, whoſe mind was wholly occupied with wonder, could with dif⯑ficulty await the return of night. Emi⯑lia and Julia were ſcarcely leſs impati⯑ent. [90] They counted the minutes as they paſſed; and when the family retired to reſt, haſtened with palpitating hearts to the apartment of Madame. They were ſoon after joined by Ferdinand, who brought with him tools for cutting away the lock of the door. They pauſed a few moments in the chamber in fear⯑ful ſilence, but no ſound diſturbed the ſtillneſs of night. Ferdinand applied a knife to the door, and in a ſhort time ſe⯑parated the lock. The door yielded, and diſcloſed a large and gloomy gal⯑lery. He took a light. Emilia and Julia, fearful of remaining in the cham⯑ber, reſolved to accompany him, and each ſeizing an arm of Madame, they followed in ſilence. The gallery was in many parts falling to decay, the ceil⯑ing was broke, and the window ſhutters ſhattered, which, together with the dampneſs of the walls, gave the place an air of wild deſolation.

They paſſed lightly on, for their ſteps [91] ran in whiſpering echos through the gallery, and often did Julia caſt a fear⯑ful glance around.

The gallery terminated in a large old ſtair-caſe, which led to a hall below; on the left appeared ſeveral doors which ſeemed to lead to ſeparate apartments. While they heſitated which courſe to purſue, a light flaſhed faintly up the ſtair-caſe, and in a moment after paſſed away; at the ſame time was heard the ſound of a diſtant footſtep. Ferdinand drew his ſword and ſprang forward; his companions ſcreaming with terror, ran back to Madame's apartment.

Ferdinand deſcended a large vaulted hall; he croſſed it towards a low arched door which was left half open, and through which ſtreamed a ray of light. The door opened upon a narrow winding paſſage; he entered, and the light re⯑tiring, was quickly loſt in the windings of the place. Still he went on. The paſſage grew narrower, and the frequent [92] fragments of looſe ſtone, made it now difficult to proceed. A low door cloſed the avenue, reſembling that by which he had entered. He opened it, and diſ⯑covered a ſquare room, from whence roſe a winding ſtair-caſe, which led up the ſouth tower of the caſtle. Ferdi⯑nand pauſed to liſten; the ſound of ſteps was ceaſed, and all was profoundly ſilent. A door on the right attracted his notice; he tried to open it, but it was faſtened. He concluded, therefore, that the perſon, if indeed a human be⯑ing it was that bore the light he had ſeen, had paſſed up the tower. After a momentary heſitation, he determined to aſcend the ſtair-caſe, but its ruinous condition made this an adventure of ſome difficulty. The ſteps were decay⯑ed and broken, and the looſeneſs of the ſtones rendered a footing very inſecure. Impelled by an irreſiſtible curioſity, he was undiſmayed and began the aſcent. He had not proceeded very far, when the [93] ſtones of a ſtep which his foot had juſt quitted, looſened by his weight, gave way; and draging with them thoſe ad⯑joining, formed a chaſm in the ſtair⯑caſe that terrified even Ferdinand, who was left tottering on the ſuſpended half of the ſteps, in momentary expectation of falling to the bottom with the ſtone on which he reſted. In the terror which this occaſioned, he attempted to ſave himſelf by catching at a kind of beam which projected over the ſtairs, when the lamp dropped from his hand, and he was left in total darkneſs. Terror now uſurped the place of every other inter⯑eſt, and he was utterly perplexed how to proceed. He feared to go on, leſt the ſteps above, as infirm as thoſe below, ſhould yield to his weight;—to return was impracticable, for the darkneſs pre⯑cluded the poſſibility of diſcovering a means. He determined, therefore, to remain in this ſituation till light ſhould dawn through the narrow grates in the [94] walls, and enable him to contrive ſome method of letting himſelf down to the ground.

He had remained here above an hour, when he ſuddenly heard a voice from below. It ſeemed to come from the paſſage leading to the tower, and per⯑ceptibly drew nearer. His agitation was now extreme, for he had no power of defending himſelf, and while he re⯑mained in the ſtate of torturing expec⯑tation, a blaze of light burſt upon the ſtair-caſe beneath him. In the ſucceed⯑ing moment he heard his own name ſounded from below. His apprehen⯑ſions inſtantly vaniſhed, for he diſtin⯑guiſhed the voices of Madame and his ſiſters.

They had awaited his return in all the horrors of apprehenſion, till at length all fear for themſelves was loſt in their concern for him; and they, who ſo lately had not dared to enter this part of the edifice, now undauntedly ſearch⯑ed it in queſt of Ferdinand. What [95] were their emotions when they diſ⯑covered his perilous ſituation!

The light now enabled him to take a more accurate ſurvey of the place. He perceived that ſome few ſtones of the ſteps which had fallen, ſtill remain⯑ed attached to the wall, but he feared to trust to their ſupport only. He ob⯑ſerved, however, that [...] [...] itſelf was partly decayed, and conſequently rugged with the corners of hal [...] worn ſtones. On theſe ſmall projections he contrived, with the aſſiſtance of the ſteps already mentioned, to ſuſpend himſelf, and at length gained the unbroken part of the ſtairs in ſafety. It is difficult to determine which individual of the party rejoiced moſt at this eſcape. The morn⯑ing now dawned, and Ferdinand deſiſt⯑ed for the preſent from farther enquiry.

The intereſt which theſe myſterious circumſtances excited in the mind of Julia, had with-drawn her attention from a ſubject more dangerous to its peace. The image of Vereza, notwith⯑ſtanding, [96] would frequently intrude upon her fancy; and awakening the recol⯑lection of happy emotions, would call forth a ſigh which all her efforts could not ſuppreſs. She loved to indulge the melancholy of her heart in the ſolitude of the woods. One evening ſhe took her lute to a favourite ſpot on the ſea ſhore, and reſigning herſelf to a pleaſing ſadneſs, touched ſome ſweet and plain⯑tive airs. The purple fluſh of evening was diffuſed over the heavens. The ſun, involved in clouds of ſplendid and innumerable hues, was ſetting o'er the diſtant waters, whoſe clear boſom glow⯑ed with rich reflection. The beauty of the ſcene, the ſoothing murmur of the high trees, waved by the light air which overſhadowed her, and the ſoft ſhelling of the waves that flowed gently in upon the ſhores, inſenſibly ſunk her mind into a ſtate of repoſe. She touch⯑ed the chords of her lute in ſweet and wild melody, and ſung the following ode:

Having ceaſed to ſing, her fingers wandered over the lute in melancholy ſymphony, and for ſome moments ſhe remained loſt in the ſweet ſenſations which the muſic and the ſcenery had inſpired. She was awakened from her reverie, by a ſigh that ſtole from among the trees, and directing her eyes whence it came, beheld—Hippolitus! A thou⯑ſand [99] ſand ſweet and mingled emotions preſſ⯑ed upon her heart, yet ſhe ſcarcely dar⯑ed to truſt the evidence of ſight. He advanced, and throwing himſelf at her feet. "Suffer me" ſaid he, in a tre⯑mulous voice, "to diſcloſe to you the ſentiments which you have inſpired, and to offer you the effuſions of a heart filled only with love and admiration." "Riſe my lord," ſaid Julia, moving from her ſeat with an air of dignity, "that attitude is neither becoming you to uſe, or me to ſuffer. The even⯑ing is cloſing, and Ferdinand will be impatient to ſee you."

"Never will I riſe, Madam," replied the count, with an impaſſioned air, "till"—He was interrupted by the marchioneſs, who at this moment en⯑tered the grove. On obſerving the po⯑ſition of the count ſhe was retiring. "Stay Madam," ſaid Julia, almoſt ſinking under her confuſion. "By no [100] means," replied the marchioneſs in a tone of irony, "my preſence would only interrupt a very agreeable ſcene. The count, I ſee, is willing to pay you his earlieſt reſpects." Saying this ſhe diſappeared, leaving Julia diſtreſſed and offended, and the count provoked at the intruſion. He attempted to re⯑new the ſubject, but Julia haſtily fol⯑lowed the ſteps of the marchioneſs, and entered the caſtle.

The ſcene ſhe had witneſſed, raiſed in the marchioneſs a tumult of dread⯑ful emotions. Love, hatred, and jea⯑louſy, raged by turns in her heart, and defied all power of controul. Subject⯑ed to their alternate violence, ſhe expe⯑rienced a miſery more acute than any ſhe had yet known. Her imagination, invigorated by oppoſition, heightened to her the graces of Hippolitus; her boſom glowed with more intenſe paſſion, and her brain was at length exaſperated almoſt to madneſs.

[101] In Julia this ſudden and unexpected interview excited a mingled emotion of love and vexation, which did not ſoon ſubſide. At length, however, the delightful conſciouſneſs of Vereza's love bore her high above every other ſenſation; again the ſcene more brightly glowed, and again her fancy overcame the poſſibility of evil.

During the evening, a tender and timid reſpect diſtinguiſhed the behavi⯑our of the count towards Julia, who, contented with the certainty of being loved, reſolved to conceal her ſenti⯑ments till an explanation of his abrupt departure from Mazzini, and ſubſe⯑quent abſence, ſhould have diſſipated the ſhadow of myſtery which hung over this part of his conduct. She obſerved that the marchioneſs purſued her with ſteady and conſtant obſervation, and ſhe carefully avoided affording the count an opportunity of renewing the ſubject of the preceding interview, which when⯑ever [102] he approached her ſeemed to trem⯑ble on his lips.

Night returned, and Ferdinand re⯑paired to the chamber of Julia to pur⯑ſue his enquiry. Here he had not long remained, when the ſtrange and alarm⯑ing ſounds which had been heard on the preceding night were repeated. The circumſtance that now ſunk in ter⯑ror the minds of Emilia and Julia, fired with new wonder that of Ferdinand, who ſeizing a light, darted through the diſcovered door, and almoſt inſtantly diſappeared.

He deſcended into the ſame wild hall he had paſſed on the preceding night. He had ſcarcely reached the bottom of the ſtair-caſe, when a feeble light gleamed acroſs the hall, and his eye caught the glimpſe of a figure retiring through the low arched door which led to the ſouth tower. He drew his ſword and ruſhed on. A faint found died away along the paſſage, the windings of [103] which prevented his ſeeing the figure he purſued. Of this, indeed, he had obtained ſo ſlight a view, that he ſcarce⯑ly knew whether it bore the impreſſion of a human form. The light quickly diſappeared, and he heard the door that opened upon the tower ſuddenly cloſe. He reached it, and forcing it open, ſprang forward; but the place was dark and ſolitary, and there was no appear⯑ance of any perſon having paſſed along it. He looked up the tower, and the chaſm which the ſtair-caſe exhibited, convinced him that no human being could have paſſed up. He ſtood ſilent and amazed; examining the place with an eye of ſtrict enquiry, he per⯑ceived a door, which was partly con⯑cealed by hanging ſtairs, and which till now had eſcaped his notice. Hope invigorated curioſity, but his expecta⯑tion was quickly diſappointed, for this door alſo was faſtened. He tried in vain to force it. He knocked, and a [104] hollow ſullen ſound ran in echoes through the place, and died away at diſtance. It was evident that beyond this door were chambers of conſiderable extent, but after long and various at⯑tempts to reach them, he was obliged to deſiſt, and he quitted the tower as ignorant and more diſſatisfied than he had entered it. He returned to the hall, which he now for the firſt time de⯑liberately ſurveyed. It was a ſpacious and deſolate apartment, whoſe lofty roof roſe into arches ſupported by pil⯑lars of black marble. The ſame ſub⯑ſtance inlaid the floor, and formed the ſtair-cafe. The windows were high and gothic. An air of proud ſublimity, united with ſingular wildneſs, charac⯑terized the place, at the extremity of which aroſe ſeveral gothic arches, whoſe dark ſhade veiled in obſcurity the ex⯑tent beyond. On the left hand appear⯑ed two doors, each of which was faſten⯑ed, and on the right the grand en⯑trance [105] from the courts. Ferdinand de⯑termined to explore the dark receſs which terminated his view, and as he traverſed the hall, his imagination, af⯑fected by the ſurrounding ſcene, often multiplied the echoes of his footſteps into uncertain ſounds of ſtrange and fear⯑ful import.

He reached the arches, and diſcover⯑ed beyond a kind of inner hall of conſi⯑derable extent, which was cloſed at the farther end by a pair of maſſy folding doors, heavily ornamented with carving. They were faſtened by a lock, and de⯑fied his utmoſt ſtrength.

As he ſurveyed the place in ſilent wonder, a ſullen groan aroſe from be⯑neath the ſpot where he ſtood. His blood ran cold at the ſound, but ſilence returning, and continuing unbroken, he attributed his alarm to the illuſion of a fancy, which terror had impregnated. He made another effort to force the door, when a groan was repeated more, [106] hollow, and more dreadful than the firſt. At this moment all his courage forſook him, he quitted the door, and haſtened to the ſtair-caſe, which he aſcended al⯑moſt breathleſs with terror.

He found Madame de Menon and his ſiſters awaiting his return in the moſt painful anxiety; and, thus diſappoint⯑ed in all his endeavours to penetrate the ſecret of theſe buildings, and fa⯑tigued with fruitleſs ſearch, he reſolved to ſuſpend farther enquiry.

When he related the circumſtances of his late adventure, the terror of Emi⯑lia and Julia was heightened to a de⯑gree that overcame every prudent conſi⯑deration. Their apprehenſion of the mar⯑quis's diſpleaſure, was loſt in a ſtrong⯑er feeling, and they reſolved no longer to remain in apartments which offered only terrific images to their fancy. Ma⯑dame de Menon almoſt equally alarm⯑ed, and more perplexed, by this combi⯑nation of ſtrange and unaccountable [107] circumſtances, ceaſed to oppoſe their deſign. It was reſolved, therefore, that on the following day, Madame ſhould acquaint the marchioneſs with ſuch par⯑ticulars of the late occurrences as their purpoſe made it neceſſary ſhe ſhould know, concealing their knowledge of the hidden door, and the incidents im⯑mediately dependant on it; and that Madame ſhould entreat a change of apartments.

Madame accordingly waited on the marchioneſs. The marchioneſs having liſtened to the account at firſt with fur⯑prize, and afterwards with indifference, condeſcended to reprove Madame for encouraging ſuperſtitious belief in the minds of her young charge. She con⯑cluded with ridiculing as fanciful the circumſtances related, and with refu⯑ſing, on account of the numerous viſi⯑tants at the caſtle, the requeſt preferred to her.

It is true the caſtle was crowded with [108] viſitors; the former apartments of Ma⯑dame de Menon were the only ones un⯑occupied, and theſe were in magnificent preparation for the pleaſure of the mar⯑chioneſs, who was unaccuſtomed to ſa⯑crifice her own wiſhes to the comfort of thoſe around her. She therefore treat⯑ed lightly the ſubject, which, ſeriouſly attended to, would have endangered her new plan of delight.

But Emilia and Julia were too ſeriouſly terrified to obey the ſcruples of deli⯑cacy, or to be eaſily repulſed. They prevailed on Ferdinand to repreſent their ſituation to the marquis.

Meanwhile Hippolitus, who had paſſ⯑ed the night in a ſtate of ſleepleſs anx⯑iety, watched with buſy impatience, an opportunity of more fully diſcloſing to Julia, the paſſion which glowed in his heart. The firſt moment in which he beheld her, had awakened in him an admiration which had ſince ripened into a ſentiment more tender. He had [109] been prevented formally declaring his paſſion by the circumſtance which ſo ſuddenly called him to Naples. This was the dangerous illneſs of the mar⯑quis de Lomelli, his near and much valued relation. But it was a taſk too painful to depart in ſilence, and he con⯑trived to inform Julia of his ſentiments in the air which ſhe heard ſo ſweetly ſung beneath her window.

When Hippolitus reached Naples the marquis was yet living, but expir⯑ed a few days after his arrival, leaving the count heir to the ſmall poſſeſſions which remained from the extravagance of their anceſtors.

The buſineſs of adjuſting his rights had till now detained him from Sicily, whither he came for the ſole purpoſe of declaring his love. Here unexpected obſtacles awaited him. The jealous vigilance of the marchioneſs, conſpired with the delicacy of Julia, to with-hold from him the opportunity he ſo anxi⯑ouſly ſought.

[110] When Ferdinand entered upon the ſubject of the ſouthern buildings to the marquis, he carefully avoided mention⯑ing the hidden door. The marquis liſtened for ſome time to the relation in gloomy ſilence, but at length aſſuming an air of diſpleaſure, reprehended Fer⯑dinand for yielding his confidence to thoſe idle alarms, which he ſaid were the ſuggeſtions of a timid imagination. "Alarms," continued he, "which will readily find admittance to the weak mind of a woman, but which the firmer nature of man ſhould diſdain. Degenerate boy! Is it thus you reward my care? Do I live to ſee my ſon the ſport of every idle tale a woman may repeat? Learn to truſt reaſon and your ſenſes, and you will then be worthy of my attention."

The marquis was retiring, and Fer⯑dinand now perceived it neceſſary to de⯑clare, that he had himſelf witneſſed the ſounds he mentioned. "Pardon me, [111] my lord," ſaid he, "in the late inſtance I have been juſt to your command—my ſenſes have been the only evidences I have truſted. I have heard thoſe ſounds which I can not doubt." The marquis appeared ſhocked. Ferdinand perceived the change, and urged the ſubject ſo vigorouſly, that the marquis ſuddenly aſſuming a look of grave im⯑portance, commanded him to attend him in the evening in his cloſet.

Ferdinand in paſſing from the mar⯑quis met Hippolitus. He was pacing the gallery in much ſeeming agitation, but obſerving Ferdinand he advanced to him. "I am ill at heart," ſaid he, in a melancholy tone, "aſſiſt me with your advice. We will ſtep into this apartment where we can converſe with⯑out interruption."

"You are not ignorant," ſaid he, throwing himſelf into a chair, "of the tender ſentiments which your ſiſter Julia has inſpired. I entreat you by [112] that ſacred friendſhip which has ſo long united us, to afford me an opportunity of pleading my paſſion. Her heart, which is ſo ſuſceptible of other impreſ⯑ſions, is, I fear, inſenſible to love. Pro⯑cure me, however, the ſatisfaction of certainty upon a point where the tor⯑tures of ſuſpence are ſurely the moſt intolerable."

"Your penetration" replied Ferdi⯑nand, "has for once forſaken you, elſe you would now be ſpared the tortures of which you complain, for you would have diſcovered what I have long ob⯑ſerved, that Julia regards you with a partial eye."

"Do not," ſaid Hippolitus, "make diſappointment more terrible by flat⯑tery; neither ſuffer the partiality of friendſhip to miſlead your judgment. Your perceptions are affected by the warmth of your feelings, and becauſe you think I deſerve her diſtinction, you believe I poſſeſs it. Alas! you de⯑ceive yourſelf, but not me!"

[113] "The very reverſe," replied Ferdi⯑nand; "tis you who deceive yourſelf, or rather it is the delicacy of the paſſion which animates you, and which will ever operate againſt your clear percep⯑tion of a truth in which your happineſs is ſo deeply involved. Believe me, I ſpeak not without reaſon;—ſhe loves you."

At theſe words Hippolitus ſtarted from his ſeat, and claſping his hands in fervent joy, "Enchanting ſounds!" cried he, in a voice tenderly impaſſion⯑ed; "could I but believe ye!—could I but believe ye—this world were para⯑diſe!"

During this exclamation, the emoti⯑ons of Julia, who ſat in her cloſet ad⯑joining, can with difficulty be imagin⯑ed. A door which opened into it from the apartment where this converſation was held, was only half cloſed. Agi⯑tated with the pleaſure this declaration excited, ſhe yet trembled with appre⯑henſion [114] left ſhe ſhould be diſcovered. She hardly dared to breathe, much leſs to move acroſs the cloſet to the door, which opened upon the gallery, whence ſhe might probably have eſcaped un⯑noticed, leſt the ſound of her ſtep ſhould betray her. Compelled, therefore, to remain where ſhe was, ſhe ſat in a ſtate of fearful diſtreſs, which no colour of language can paint.

"Alas!" reſumed Hippolitus, "I too eagerly admit the poſſibility of what I wiſh. If you mean that I ſhould re⯑ally believe you, confirm your aſſertion by ſome proof." "Readily," rejoined Ferdinand.

The heart of Julia beat quick.

"When you was ſo ſuddenly called to Naples upon the illneſs of the mar⯑quis Lomelli, I marked her conduct well, and in that read the ſentiments of her heart. On the following morning, I obſerved in her countenance a reſtleſs anxiety which I had never ſeen before. [115] She watched the entrance of every per⯑ſon with an eager expectation, which was as often ſucceeded by evident diſappointment. At dinner your de⯑parture was mentioned:—ſhe ſpilt the wine ſhe was carrying to her lips, and for the remainder of the day was ſpirit⯑leſs and melancholy. I ſaw her inef⯑fectual ſtruggles to conceal the oppreſ⯑ſion at her heart. Since that time ſhe has ſeized every opportunity of with⯑drawing from company. The gaiety with which ſhe was ſo lately charmed—charmed her no longer; ſhe became penſive, retired, and I have often heard her ſinging in ſome lonely ſpot, the moſt moving and tender airs. Your return produced a viſible and inſtanta⯑neous alteration; ſhe has now reſumed her gaiety; and the ſoft confuſion of her countenance, whenever you ap⯑proach, might alone ſuffice to convince you of the truth of my aſſertion."

"O! talk for ever thus!" ſighed Hip⯑politus. [116] "Theſe words are ſo ſweet, ſo ſoothing to my ſoul, that I could liſten till I forgot I had a wiſh beyond them. Yes!—Ferdinand, theſe cir⯑cumſtances are not to be doubted, and conviction opens upon my mind a flow of extacy I never knew till now. O! lead me to her, that I may ſpeak the ſentiments which ſwell my heart."

They aroſe, when Julia, who with difficulty had ſupported herſelf, now impelled by an irreſiſtible fear of inſtant diſcovery, roſe alſo, and moved ſoftly towards the gallery. The ſound of her ſtep alarmed the count, who, apprehen⯑ſive leſt his converſation had been over⯑heard, was anxious to be ſatisfied whe⯑ther any perſon was in the cloſet. He ruſhed in, and diſcovered Julia! She caught at a chair to ſupport her trem⯑bling frame; and overwhelmed with mortifying ſenſations, ſunk into it, and hid her face in her robe. Hippolitus threw himſelf at her feet, and ſeizing [117] her hand, preſſed it to his lips in expreſ⯑ſive ſilence. Some moments paſſed before the confuſion of either would ſuffer them to ſpeak. At length re⯑covering his voice, "Can you, Madam, ſaid he, forgive this intruſion, ſo unin⯑tentional? or will it deprive me of that eſteem which I have but lately ventured to believe I poſſeſſed, and which I value more than exiſtence itſelf. O! ſpeak my pardon! Let me not believe that a ſin⯑gle accident has deſtroyed my peace for ever."—"If your peace, Sir, depends upon a knowledge of my eſteem," ſaid Julia, in a tremulous voice, "that peace is already ſecure. If I wiſhed even to deny the partiality I feel, it would now be uſeleſs; and ſince I no longer wiſh this, it would alſo be pain⯑ful." Hippolitus could only weep his thanks over the hand he ſtill held. "Be ſenſible, however, of the delicacy of my ſituation," continued ſhe, riſing, "and ſuffer me to withdraw." Saying this [118] ſhe quitted the cloſet, leaving Hippoli⯑tus overcome with this ſweet confirma⯑tion of his wiſhes, and Ferdinand not yet recovered from the painful ſurprize which the diſcovery of Julia had exci⯑ted. He was deeply ſenſible of the confuſion he had occaſioned her, and knew that apologies would not reſtore the compoſure he had ſo cruelly yet unwarily diſturbed.

Ferdinand awaited the hour appoint⯑ed by the marquis in impatient curioſity. The ſolemn air which the marquis aſ⯑ſumed when he commanded him to at⯑tend, had deeply impreſſed his mind. As the time drew nigh, expectation in⯑creaſed, and every moment ſeemed to linger into hours. At length he repair⯑ed to the cloſet, where he did not re⯑main long before the marquis entered. The ſame chilling ſolemnity marked his manner. He locked the door of the cloſet, and ſeating himſelf, addreſſ⯑ed Ferdinand as follows:

[119] "I am now going to repoſe in you a confidence, which will ſeverely prove the ſtrength of your honour. But before I diſcloſe a ſecret, hitherto ſo carefully concealed, and now reluctantly told, you muſt ſwear to preſerve on this ſub⯑ject an eternal ſilence. If you doubt the ſteadineſs of your diſcretion—now declare it, and ſave yourſelf from the infamy, and the fatal conſequences, which may attend a breach of your oath;—if, on the contrary, you believe your⯑ſelf capable of a ſtrict integrity—now accept the terms, and receive the ſecret I offer." Ferdinand was awed by this exordium—the impatience of curioſity was for a while ſuſpended, and he he⯑ſitated [...] her he ſhould receive the ſecret upon ſuch terms. At length he ſignified hi [...], conſent, and the marquis ariſing, drew his ſword from the ſcab⯑bard.—"Here" ſaid he, offering it to Ferdinand, "ſeal your vows—ſwear by this ſacred pledge of honour never to [120] repeat what I ſhall now reveal." Fer⯑dinand bowed upon the ſword, and raiſing his eyes to Heaven ſolemnly ſwore. The marquis then reſumed his ſeat, and proceeded.

"You are not to learn that, about a century ago, this caſtle was in the poſſeſſion of Vincent, third marquis of Mazzini, my grandfather. At that time there exiſted an inveterate hatred between our family and that of della Campo. I ſhall not now revert to the origin of the animoſity, or relate the particulars of the conſequent feuds—ſuffice it to obſerve, that by the power of our family, the della Campos were unable to preſerve their former conſe⯑quence in Sicily and they have there⯑fore quitted it for a foreign land to live in unmoleſted ſecurity. To return to my ſubject.—My grandfather, believ⯑ing his life endangered by his enemy, planted ſpies upon him. He employ⯑ed ſome of the numerous banditti who [121] ſought protection in his ſervice, and after ſome weeks paſt in waiting for an opportunity, they ſeized Henry della Campo, and brought him ſecretly to this caſtle. He was for ſome time confined in a cloſe chamber of the ſouthern build⯑ings, where he expired; by what means I ſhall forbear to mention. The plan had been ſo well conducted, and the ſecrecy ſo ſtrictly preſerved, that every endeavour of his family to trace the means of his diſappearance, proved ineffectual. Their conjectures, if they fell upon our family, were ſupported by no proof; and the della Campo's are to this day ignorant of the mode of his death. A rumour had prevailed long be⯑fore the death of my father, that the ſou⯑thern buildings of the caſtle were haunt⯑ed. I diſbelieved the fact, and treated it accordingly. One night when every hu⯑man being of the caſtle, except myſelf, was retired to reſt, I had ſuch ſtrong and dreadful proofs of the general aſ⯑ſertion, [122] that even at this moment I can not recollect them without horror. Let me, if poſſible, forget them. From that moment I forſook thoſe buildings; they have ever ſince been ſhut up, and the circumſtance I have mentioned, is the true reaſon why I have reſided ſo little at the caſtle."

Ferdinand liſtened to this narrative in ſilent horror. He remembered the te⯑merity with which he had dared to pene⯑trate thoſe apartments—the light, and figure he had ſeen—and, above all, his ſituation in the ſtair-caſe of the tower. Every nerve thrilled at the recollection; and the terrors of remembrance almoſt equalled thoſe of reality.

The marquis permitted his daughters to change their apartments, but he com⯑manded Ferdinand to tell them, that in granting their requeſt, he conſulted their eaſe only, and was himſelf by no means convinced of its propriety. They were accordingly re-inſtated in their [123] former chambers, and the great room only of Madame's apartments was re⯑ſerved for the marchioneſs, who expreſſ⯑ed her diſcontent to the marquis in terms of mingled cenſure and lamenta⯑tion. The marquis privately reproved his daughters, for what he termed the idle fancies of a weak mind; and deſir⯑ed them no more to diſturb the peace of the caſtle with the ſubject of their late fears. They received this reproof with ſilent ſubmiſſion—too much pleaſ⯑ed with the ſucceſs of their ſuit to be ſuſceptible of any emotion but joy.

Ferdinand, reflecting on the late diſ⯑covery, was ſhocked to learn, what was now forced upon his belief, that he was the deſcendant of a murderer. He now knew that innocent blood had been ſhed in the caſtle, and that the walls were ſtill the haunt of an unquiet ſpirit, which ſeemed to call aloud for retribu⯑tion on the poſterity of him who had diſturbed its eternal reſt. Hippolitus [124] perceived his dejection, and entreated that he might participate his uneaſi⯑neſs; but Ferdinand, who had hitherto been frank and ingenuous, was now inflexibly reſerved. "Forbear," ſaid he "to urge a diſcovery of what I am not permitted to reveal; this is the only point upon which I conjure you to be ſilent, and this, even to you, I can not explain." Hippolitus was ſurprized, but preſſed the ſubject no farther.

Julia, though ſhe had been extremely mortified by the circumſtances attend⯑ant on the diſcovery of her ſentiments to Hippolitus, experienced, after the firſt ſhock had ſubſided, an emotion more pleaſing that painful. The late converſation had painted in ſtrong co⯑lours the attachment of her lover. His diffidence—his ſlowneſs to perceive the effect of his merit—his ſucceeding rap⯑ture, when conviction was at length forced upon his mind; and his conduct upon diſcovering Julia, proved to her [125] at once the delicacy and the ſtrength of his paſſion, and ſhe yielded her heart to ſenſations of pure and unmixed delight. She was rouſed from this ſtate of viſion⯑ary happineſs, by a ſummons from the marquis to attend him in the library. A circumſtance ſo unuſual ſurprized her, and ſhe obeyed with trembling cu⯑rioſity. She found him pacing the room in deep thought, and ſhe had ſhut the door before he perceived her. The authoritative ſeverity in his countenance alarmed her, and prepared her for a ſub⯑ject of importance. He ſeated himſelf by her, and continued a moment ſilent. At length, ſteadily obſerving her, "I ſent for you, my child," ſaid he, "to declare the honour which awaits you. The duke de Luovo has ſolicited your hand. An alliance ſo ſplendid was be⯑yond my expectation. You will re⯑ceive the diſtinction with the gratitude it claims, and prepare for the celebra⯑tion of the nuptials."

[126] This ſpeech fell like the dart of death upon the heart of Julia. She ſat mo⯑tionleſs—ſtupified and deprived of the power of utterance. The marquis ob⯑ſerved her conſternation; and miſtaking its cauſe, "I acknowledge," ſaid he, "that there is ſomewhat abrupt in this affair; but the joy occaſioned by a diſ⯑tinction ſo unmerited on your part, ought to overcome the little feminine weakneſs you might otherwiſe indulge. Retire and compoſe yourſelf; and ob⯑ſerve," continued he, in a ſtern voice, "this is no time for fineſſe." Theſe words rouſed Julia from her ſtate of horrid ſtupefaction. "O! Sir," ſaid ſhe, throwing herſelf at his feet, "for⯑bear to enforce authority upon a point where to obey you would be worſe than death; if, indeed, to obey you were poſſible." "Ceaſe," ſaid the marquis, "this affectation, and practiſe what be⯑comes you." "Pardon me, my lord," ſhe replied, "my diſtreſs is, alas! un⯑feigned. [127] I cannot love the duke." "Away," interrupted the marquis, "nor tempt my rage with objections thus childiſh and abſurd." "Yet hear me, my lord," ſaid Julia, tears ſwelling in her eyes, "and pity the ſufferings of a child, who never till this moment has dared to diſpute your commands."

"Nor ſhall ſhe now," ſaid the mar⯑quis. "What—when wealth, honour, and diſtinction are laid at my feet, ſhall they be refuſed, becauſe a fooliſh girl—a very baby, who knows not good from evil, cries, and ſays ſhe cannot love. Let me not think of it—My juſt anger may, perhaps, out-run diſcretion, and tempt me to chaſtiſe your folly.—At⯑tend to what I ſay—accept the duke, or quit this caſtle for ever, and wander where you will." Saying this, he burſt away, and Julia, who had hung weep⯑ing upon his knees, fell proſtrate upon the floor. The violence of the fall completed the effect of her diſtreſs, and [128] ſhe fainted. In this ſtate ſhe remained a conſiderable time. When ſhe recover⯑ed her ſenſes, the recollection of her calamity burſt upon her mind with a force that almoſt again overwhelmed her. She at length raiſed herſelf from the ground, and moved towards her own apartment, but had ſcarcely reach⯑ed the great gallery, when Hippolitus entered it. Her trembling limbs would no longer ſupport her;—ſhe caught at a banniſter to ſave herſelf; and Hippo⯑litus, with all his ſpeed, was ſcarcely in time to prevent her falling. The pale diſtreſs exhibited in her countenance terrified him, and he anxiouſly enquired concerning it. She could anſwer him only with her tears, which ſhe found it impoſſible to ſuppreſs; and gently diſ⯑engaging herſelf, tottered to her cloſet. Hippolitus followed her to the door, but deſiſted from further importunity. He preſſed her hand to his lips in ten⯑der ſilence, and withdrew ſurprized and alarmed.

[129] Julia, reſigning herſelf to deſpair, indulged in ſolitude the exceſs of her grief. A calamity, ſo dreadful as the preſent, had never before preſented it⯑ſelf to her imagination. The union propoſed would have been hateful to her, even if ſhe had no prior attach⯑ment; what then muſt have been her diſtreſs, when ſhe had given her heart to him who deſerved all her admiration, and returned all her affection.

The duke de Luovo was of a charac⯑ter very ſimilar to that of the marquis. The love of power was his ruling paſ⯑ſion;—with him no gentle or generous ſentiment meliorated the harſhneſs of authority, or directed it to acts of bene⯑ficence. He delighted in ſimple undiſ⯑guiſed tyranny. He had been twice married, and the unfortunate women ſubjected to his power, had fallen vic⯑tims to the ſlow but corroding hand of ſorrow. He had one ſon, who ſome years before had eſcaped the tyranny of [130] his father, and had not been ſince heard of. At the late feſtival the duke had ſeen Julia; and her beauty made ſo ſtrong an impreſſion upon him, that he had been induced now to ſolicit her hand. The marquis, delighted with the proſpect of a connexion ſo flattering to his favourite paſſion, readily granted his conſent, and immediately ſealed it with a promiſe.

Julia remained for the reſt of the day ſhut up in her cloſet, where the tender efforts of Madame and Emilia were exerted to ſoften her diſtreſs. Towards the cloſe of evening Ferdinand entered. Hippolitus, ſhocked at her abſence, had requeſted him to viſit her, to alleviate her affliction, and if poſſible to diſcover its cauſe. Ferdinand, who tenderly loved his ſiſter, was alarmed by the words of Hippolitus, and immediately ſought her. Her eyes were ſwelled with weeping, and her countenance was but too expreſſive of the ſtate of her mind. Ferdinand's diſ⯑treſs, [131] when told of his father's conduct, was ſcarcely leſs than her own. He had pleaſed himſelf with the hope of uniting the ſiſter of his heart, with the friend whom he loved. An act of cruel authority now diſſolved the fairy dream of happineſs which his fancy had form⯑ed, and deſtroyed the peace of thoſe moſt dear to him. He ſat for a long time ſilent and dejected; at length, ſtarting from his melancholy reverie, he bad Julia good night, and returned to Hippolitus, who was waiting for him with anxious impatience in the north hall.

Ferdinand dreaded the effect of that deſpair, which the intelligence he had to communicate would produce in the mind of Hippolitus. He revolved ſome means of ſoftening the dreadful truth; but Hippolitus, quick to apprehend the evil which love taught him to fear, ſeized at once upon the reality. "Tell me all," ſaid he, in a tone of aſſumed [132] firmneſs. "I am prepared for the worſt." Ferdinand related the decree of the marquis, and Hippolitus, ſoon ſunk into an exceſs of grief which defi⯑ed, as much as it required, the powers of alleviation.

Julia, at length, retired to her cham⯑ber, but the ſorrow which occupied her mind, with-held the bleſſings of ſleep. Diſtracted and reſtleſs ſhe aroſe, and gently opened the window of her apartment. The night was ſtill, and not a breath diſturbed the ſurface of the waters. The moon ſhed a mild radi⯑ance over the waves, which in gentle undulations ſlowed upon the ſands. The ſcene inſenſibly tranquillized her ſpirits. A tender and pleaſing melan⯑choly diffuſed itſelf over her mind; and as ſhe muſed, ſhe heard the daſhing of diſtant oars. Preſently the perceived upon the light ſurface of the ſea a ſmall boat. The ſound of the oars ceaſed, and a ſolemn ſtrain of harmony (ſuch [133] as fancy wafts from the abodes of the bleſſed) ſtole upon the ſilence of night. A chorus of voices now ſwelied upon the air, and died away at diſtance. In the ſtrain Julia recollected the mid⯑night hymn to the virgin, and holy en⯑thuſiaſm filled her heart. The chorus was repeated, accompanied by a ſolemn ſtriking of oars. A ſigh of extacy ſtole from her boſom. Silence returned. The divine melody ſhe had heard calm⯑ed the tumult of her mind, and ſhe ſunk in ſweet repoſe.

She aroſe in the morning refreſhed by light ſlumbers; but the recollec⯑tion of her ſorrows ſoon returned with new force, and ſickening faintneſs over⯑came her. In this ſituation ſhe receiv⯑ed a meſſage from the marquis to at⯑tend him inſtantly. She obeyed, and he bade her prepare to receive the duke, who that morning purpoſed to viſit the caſtle. He commanded her to attire herſelf richly, and to welcome him with [134] ſmiles. Julia ſubmitted in ſilence. She ſaw the marquis was inflexibly reſolved, and ſhe withdrew to indulge the an⯑guiſh of her heart, and prepare for this deteſted interview.

The clock had ſtruck twelve, when a flouriſh of trumpets announced the approach of the duke. The heart of Julia ſunk at the ſound, and ſhe threw herſelf on a ſopha overwhelmed with bitter ſenſations. Here ſhe was ſoon diſ⯑turbed by a meſſage from the marquis. She aroſe, and tenderly embracing Emi⯑lia, their tears for ſome moments flow⯑ed together At length ſummoning all her fortitude, ſhe deſcended to the hall, where ſhe was met by the marquis. He led her to the ſaloon in which the duke ſat, with whom having converſed a ſhort time, he withdrew. The emotion of Julia at this inſtant was beyond any thing ſhe had before ſuffered; but by a ſudden and ſtrange exertion of fortitude, which the force of deſperate calamity [135] ſometimes affords us, but which infe⯑rior forrow toils after in vain, ſhe re⯑covered her compoſure, and reſumed her natural dignity. For a moment ſhe wondered at herſelf, and ſhe formed the dangerous reſolution of throwing her⯑ſelf upon the generoſity of the duke, by acknowledging her reluctance to the engagement, and ſoliciting him to with⯑draw his ſuit.

The duke approached her with an air of proud condeſcenſion; and taking her hand, placed himſelf beſide her. Having paid ſome formal and general compliments to her beauty, he proceed⯑ed to profeſs himſelf her admirer. She liſtened for ſome time to his profeſſions, and when he appeared willing to hear her, ſhe addreſſed him—"I am juſtly ſenſible, my lord, of the diſtinction you offer me, and muſt lament that reſpect⯑ful gratitude is the only ſentiment I can return. Nothing can more ſtrongly prove my confidence in your generoſity, [136] than when I confeſs to you, that paren⯑tal authority urges me to give my hand, whither my heart can not accompany it."

She pauſed—the duke continued ſilent.—"'Tis you only, my lord, who can releaſe me from a ſituation ſo diſtreſſing; and to your goodneſs and juſtice I ap⯑peal, certain that neceſſity will excuſe the ſingularity of my conduct, and that I ſhall not appeal in vain."

The duke was embaraſſed—a fluſh of pride overſpread his countenance, and he ſeemed endeavouring to ſtifle the feelings that ſwelled his heart. "I had been prepared Madam," ſaid he, "to expect a very different reception, and had certainly no reaſon to believe that the duke de Luovo was likely to ſue in vain. Since, however, Madam, you acknowledge that you have already diſ⯑poſed of your affections, I ſhall certainly be very willing, if the marquis will re⯑leaſe me from our mutual engagements, to reſign you to a more favoured lover."

[137] "Pardon me, my lord," ſaid Julia, bluſhing, "ſuffer me to"—"I am not eaſily deceived, Madam," interrupt⯑ed the duke,—"your conduct can be at⯑tributed only to the influence of a prior attachment; and though for ſo young a lady, ſuch a circumſtance is ſome⯑what extraordinary, I have certainly no right to arraign your choice. Permit me to wiſh you a good morning." He bowed low, and quitted the room. Julia now experienced a new diſtreſs; ſhe dreaded the reſentment of the marquis, when he ſhould be informed of her con⯑verſation with the duke, of whoſe cha⯑racter ſhe now judged too juſtly not to repent the confidence ſhe had repoſed in him.

The duke, on quitting Julia, went to the marquis, with whom he remained in converſation ſome hours. When he had left the caſtle, the marquis ſent for his daughter, and poured forth his re⯑ſentment with all the violence of threats, [138] and all the acrimony of contempt. So ſeverely did he ridicule the idea of her diſpoſing of her heart, and ſo dreadfully did he denounce vengeance on her diſ⯑obedience, that ſhe ſcarcely thought her⯑ſelf ſafe in his preſence. She ſtood trem⯑bling and confuſed, and heard his re⯑proaches without the power to reply. At length the marquis informed her, that the nuptials would be ſolemnized on the third day from the preſent; and as he quitted the room, a flood of tears came to her relief, and ſaved her from fainting.

Julia paſſed the remainder of the day in her cloſet with Emilia. Night re⯑turned, but brought her no peace. She ſat long after the departure of Emilia; and to beguile recollection, ſhe ſelected a favourite author, endeavouring to re⯑vive thoſe ſenſations his page had once excited. She opened to a paſſage, the tender ſorrow of which was applicable to her own ſituation, and her tears flowed [139] anew. Her grief was ſoon ſuſpended by apprehenſion. Hitherto a deadly ſilence had reigned through the caſtle, interrupted only by the wind, whoſe low ſound crept at intervals through the galleries. She now thought ſhe heard a foot-ſtep near her door, but preſently all was ſtill, for ſhe believed ſhe had been deceived by the wind. The ſucceeding moment, however, con⯑vinced her of her error, for ſhe diſtin⯑guiſhed the low whiſperings of ſome perſons in the gallery. Her ſpirits, al⯑ready weakened by ſorrow, deſerted her; ſhe was ſeized with an univerſal terror, and preſently afterwards a low voice called her from without, and the door was opened by Ferdinand.

She ſhrieked and fainted. On re⯑covering, ſhe found herſelf ſupported by Ferdinand and Hippolitus, who had ſtolen this moment of ſilence and ſecu⯑rity to gain admittance to her preſence. Hippolitus came to urge a propoſal, [140] which deſpair only could have ſuggeſt⯑ed. "Fly," ſaid he, "from the au⯑thority of a father who abuſes his pow⯑er, and aſſert the liberty of choice, which nature aſſigned you. Let the deſperate ſituation of my hopes plead excuſe for the apparent boldneſs of this addreſs, and let the man who exiſts but for you, be the means of ſaving you from deſtruction. Alas! Madam, you are ſilent, and perhaps I have forfeited by this propoſal, the confidence I ſo lately flattered myſelf I poſſeſſed. If ſo, I will ſubmit to my fate in ſilence, and will to-morrow quit a ſcene which pre⯑ſents only images of diſtreſs to my mind.

Julia could ſpeak but with her tears. A variety of ſtrong and contending emotions ſtruggled at her breaſt, and ſuppreſſed the power of utterance. Fer⯑dinand ſeconded the propoſal of the count. "It is unneceſſary," my ſiſter, ſaid he, "to point out the miſery which awaits you here. I love you too well [141] tamely to ſuffer you to be ſacrificed to ambition, and to a paſſion ſtill more hateful. I now glory in calling Hippo⯑litus my friend—let me ere long re⯑ceive him as a brother. I can give no ſtronger teſtimony of my eſteem for his character, than in the wiſh I now ex⯑preſs. Believe me he has a heart wor⯑thy of your acceptance—a heart noble and expanſive as your own." "Ah, ceaſe," ſaid Julia, "to dwell upon a character of whoſe worth I am fully ſenſible. Your kindneſs and his merit can never be forgotten by her whoſe misfortunes you have ſo generouſly ſuf⯑fered to intereſt you." She pauſed in ſilent heſitation. A ſenſe of delicacy made her heſitate upon the deciſion which her heart ſo warmly prompted. If ſhe fled with Hippolitus, ſhe would avoid one evil, and encounter another. She would eſcape the dreadful deſtiny awaiting her, but muſt, perhaps, fully the purity of that reputation, which was [142] dearer to her than exiſtence. In a mind like her's, exquiſitely ſuſceptible of the pride of honour, this fear was able to counteract every other conſideration, and to keep her intentions in a ſtate of painful ſuſpence. She ſighed deeply, and continued ſilent. Hippolitus was alarmed by the calm diſtreſs which her countenance exhibited. "O! Julia," ſaid he, "relieve me from this dread⯑ful ſuſpenſe!—ſpeak to me—explain this ſilence." She looked mournfully upon him—her lips moved, but no ſounds were uttered. As he repeated his queſ⯑tion, ſhe waved her hand, and ſunk back in her chair. She had not fainted, but continued ſome time in a ſtate of ſtupor not leſs alarming. The importance of the preſent queſtion, operating upon her mind, already haraſſed by diſtreſs, had produced a temporary ſuſpenſion of reaſon. Hippolitus hung over her in an agony not be deſcribed, and Ferdi⯑nand vainly repeated her name. At [143] length, uttering a deep ſigh, ſhe raiſed herſelf, and like one awakened from a dream, gazed around her. Hippolitus thanked God fervently in his heart. "Tell me but that you are well," ſaid he, "and that I may dare to hope, and we will leave you to repoſe." "My ſiſter," ſaid Ferdinand, "conſult only your own wiſhes, and leave the reſt to me. Suffer a confidence in me to diſ⯑ſipate the doubts with which you are agitated." "Ferdinand," ſaid Julia, emphatically, "how ſhall I expreſs the gratitude your kindneſs has exci⯑ted?" "Your gratitude," ſaid he, "will be beſt ſhewn in conſulting your own wiſhes; for be aſſured, that whatever procures you happineſs, will moſt ef⯑fectually eſtabliſh mine. Do not ſuffer the prejudices of education to render you miſerable. Believe that a choice which involves the happineſs or miſery of your whole life, ought to be decided only by yourſelf."

[144] "Let us forbear for the preſent," ſaid Hippolitus, "to urge the ſubject. Repoſe is neceſſary for you," addreſſing Julia, "and I will not ſuffer a ſelfiſh conſideration any longer to with-hold you from it.—Grant me but this requeſt—that at this hour to-morrow night, I may return hither to receive my doom." Julia having conſented to receive Hip⯑politus and Ferdinand, they quitted the cloſet. In turning into the grand gal⯑lery, they were ſurpriſed by the appear⯑ance of a light, which gleamed upon the wall that terminated their view. It ſeemed to proceed from a door which opened upon a back ſtair-caſe. They puſhed on, but it almoſt inſtantly diſap⯑peared, and upon the ſtair-caſe all was ſtill. They then ſeparated, and retired to their apartments, ſomewhat alarmed by this circumſtance, which induced them to ſuſpect that their viſit to Julia had been obſerved.

Julia paſſed the night in broken ſlum⯑bers, [145] and anxious conſideration. On her preſent deciſion, hung the criſis of her fate. Her conſciouſneſs of the influence of Hippolitus over her heart, made her fear to indulge its predilection, by truſting to her own opinion of its fide⯑lity. She ſhrunk from the diſgraceful idea of an elopement, yet ſhe ſaw no means of avoiding this, but by ruſhing upon the fate ſo dreadful to her imagi⯑nation.

On the following night, when the in⯑habitants of the caſtle were retired to reſt, Hippolitus, whoſe expectation had lengthened the hours into ages, accom⯑panied by Ferdinand, reviſited the clo⯑ſet. Julia, who had known no interval of reſt ſince they laſt left her, received them with much agitation. The vi⯑vid glow of health had fled her check, and was ſucceeded by a languid delica⯑cy, leſs beautiful, but more intereſting. To the eager enquiries of Hippolitus, ſhe returned no anſwer, but faintly ſmil⯑ing [146] through her tears, preſented him her hand, and covered her face with her robe. "I receive it," cried he, "as the pledge of my happineſs;—yet—yet let your voice ratify the gift." "If the preſent conceſſion does not ſink me in your eſteem," ſaid Julia, in a low tone, "this hand is your's." "The conceſſion, my love (for by that tender name I may now call you) would, if poſſible, raiſe you in my eſteem; but ſince that has been long incapable of ad⯑dition, it can only heighten my opinion of myſelf, and increaſe my gratitude to you: gratitude which I will endea⯑vour to ſhew by an anxious care of your happineſs, and by the tender attentions of a whole life. From this bleſſed mo⯑ment," continued he, in a voice of rapture, "permit me, in thought, to hail you as my wife. From this mo⯑ment, let me baniſh every veſtige of ſor⯑row—let me dry thoſe tears," gently preſſing her cheek with his lips, "never [147] to ſpring again."—The gratitude and joy which Ferdinand expreſſed upon this occaſion, united with the tenderneſs of Hippolitus, to ſoothe the agitated ſpirits of Julia, and ſhe gradually reco⯑vered her complacency.

They now arranged their plan of eſ⯑cape, in the execution of which no time was to be loſt, ſince the nuptials with the duke were to be ſolemnized on the day after the morrow. Their ſcheme, whatever it was that ſhould be adopted, they therefore reſolved to execute on the following night. But when they deſcended from the firſt warmth of enterprize, to minuter exa⯑mination, they ſoon found the difficul⯑ties of the undertaking. The keys of the caſtle were kept by Robert, the con⯑fidential ſervant of the marquis, who every night depoſited them in an iron cheſt in his chamber. To obtain them by ſtratagem ſeemed impoſſible, and Ferdinand feared to tamper with the ho⯑neſty [148] of this man, who had been many years in the ſervice of the marquis. Dangerous as was the attempt, no other alternative appeared, and they were therefore compelled to reſt all their hopes upon the experiment. It was ſettled, that if the keys could be procured, Ferdinand and Hippolitus ſhould meet Julia in the cloſet. That they ſhould convey her to the ſea ſhore, from whence a boat, which was to be kept in waiting, would carry them to the oppoſite coaſt of Calabria, where the marriage might be ſolemnized without danger of interruption. But, as it was neceſſary that Ferdinand ſhould not ap⯑pear in the affair, it was agreed that he ſhould return to the caſtle immediately, upon the embarkation of his ſiſter. Having thus arranged their plan of ope⯑ration, they ſeparated till the following night, which was to decide the fate of Hippolitus and Julia.

Julia, whoſe mind was ſoothed by the [149] ſraternal kindneſs of Ferdinand, and the tender aſſurances of Hippolitus, now experienced an interval of repoſe. At the return of day ſhe awoke refreſhed, and tolerably compoſed. She ſelected the few clothes which were neceſſary, and prepared them for her journey. A ſentiment of generoſity juſtified her in the reſerve ſhe preſerved to Emilia and Madame de Menon, whoſe faithfulneſs and attachment ſhe could not doubt, but whom ſhe diſdained to involve in the diſgrace that muſt fall upon them, ſhould their knowledge of her flight be diſcovered.

In the mean time the caſtle was a ſcene of confuſion. The magnificent preparations which were making for the nuptials, engaged all eyes, and bu⯑ſied all hands. The marchioneſs had the direction of the whole, and the ala⯑crity with which ſhe acquitted herſelf, teſtified how much ſhe was pleaſed with the alliance, and created a ſuſpicion [150] that it had not been concerted without ſome exertion of her influence. Thus was Julia deſigned the joint victim of ambition, and illicit love.

The compoſure of Julia declined with the day, whoſe hours had crept heavily along. As the night drew on, her anxiety for the ſucceſs of Ferdinand's negociation with Robert, increaſed to a painful degree. A variety of new emotions preſſed at her heart, and ſub⯑dued her ſpirits. When ſhe bade Emilia good night, ſhe thought ſhe beheld her for the laſt time. The ideas of the diſ⯑tance which would ſeparate them, of the dangers ſhe was going to encounter, with a train of wild and fearful antici⯑pations, crowded upon her mind, tears ſprang in her eyes, and it was with dif⯑ficulty ſhe avoided betraying her emo⯑tions. Of Madame too, her heart took a tender farewell. At length ſhe heard the marquis retire to his apartment, and the doors belonging to the ſeveral cham⯑bers [151] of the gueſts ſucceſſively cloſe. She marked with trembling attention the gradual change from buſtle to quiet, till all was ſtill.

She now held herſelf in readineſs to depart, at the moment in which Ferdi⯑nand and Hippolitus, for whoſe ſteps in the gallery ſhe eagerly liſtened, ſhould appear. The caſtle clock ſtruck twelve. The ſound ſeemed to ſhake the pile. Ju⯑lia felt it thrill upon her heart. "I hear you," ſighed ſhe "for the laſt time." The ſtillneſs of death ſucceeded. She continued to liſten, but no ſound met her ear. For a conſiderable time ſhe ſat in a ſtate of anxious expectation not to be deſcribed. The clock chimed the ſuc⯑ceſſive quarters, and her fear roſe to each additional ſound. At length ſhe heard it ſtrike one. Hollow was that ſound, and dreadful to her hopes, for neither Hippolitus nor Ferdinand ap⯑peared. She grew faint with fear and diſappointment. Her mind, which for [152] two hours had been kept upon the ſtretch of expectation, now reſigned itſelf to deſpair. She gently opened the door of her cloſet, and looked upon the gallery, but all was lonely and ſi⯑lent. It appeared that Robert had re⯑fuſed to be acceſſary to their ſcheme, and it was probable that he had be⯑trayed it to the marquis. Overwhelmed with bitter reflections, ſhe threw herſelf upon the ſopha in the firſt diſtraction of deſpair. Suddenly ſhe thought ſhe heard a noiſe in the gallery; and as ſhe ſtarted from her poſture to liſten to the ſound, the door of her cloſet was gently opened by Ferdinand. "Come, my love," ſaid he, "the keys are ours, and we have not a moment to loſe; our de⯑lay has been unavoidable, but this is no time for explanation." Julia, almoſt fainting, gave her hand to Ferdinand; and Hippolitus, after ſome ſhort expreſ⯑ſion of his thankfulneſs, followed. They paſſed the door of Madame's chamber; [153] and treading the gallery with ſlow and ſilent ſteps, deſcended to the hall. This they croſſed towards a door, after open⯑ing which they were to find their way through various paſſages to a remote part of the caſtle, where a private door opened upon the walls. Ferdinand car⯑ried the ſeveral keys. They faſtened the hall door after them, and proceeded through a narrow paſſage terminating in a ſtair-caſe.

They deſcended, and had hardly reached the bottom, when they heard a loud noiſe at the door above, and pre⯑ſently the voices of ſeveral people. Ju⯑lia ſcarcely felt the ground ſhe trod on, and Ferdinand ſlew to unlock a door that obſtructed their way. He applied the different keys, and at length found the proper one, but the lock was ruſted, and refuſed to yield. Their diſtreſs now was not to be conceived. The noiſe above increaſed, and it ſeem⯑ed as if the people were forcing the [154] door. Hippolitus and Ferdinand vain⯑ly tried to turn the key. A ſudden craſh from above convinced them that the door had yielded, when making another deſperate effort, the key broke in the lock. Trembling and exhauſted, Julia gave herſelf up for loſt. As ſhe hung upon Ferdinand, Hippolitus vainly en⯑deavoured to ſoothe her—the noiſe ſud⯑denly ceaſed. They liſtened, dreading to hear the ſounds renewed; but, to their utter aſtoniſhment, the ſilence of the place remained undiſturbed. They had now time to breathe, and to conſider the poſſibility of effecting their eſcape, for from the marquis they had no mer⯑cy to hope. Hippolitus, in order to aſ⯑certain whether the people had quitted the door above, began to aſcend the paſſage, in which he had not gone many ſteps, when the noiſe was renewed with increaſed violence. He inſtantly re⯑treated; and making a deſperate puſh at the door below, which obſtructed [155] their paſſage, it ſeemed to yield, and by another effort of Ferdinand, burſt open. They had not an inſtant to loſe, for they now heard the ſteps of perſons deſcend⯑ing the ſtairs. The avenue they were in opened into a kind of chamber, whence three paſſages branched, of which they immediately choſe the firſt. Another door now obſtructed their paſ⯑ſage, and they were compelled to wait while Ferdinand applied the keys. "Be quick," ſaid Julia, "or we are loſt. O! if this lock too is ruſted!"—"Hark! ſaid Ferdinand." They now diſcovered what apprehenſion had before prevented them from perceiving, that the ſounds of purſuit were ceaſed, and all again was ſilent. As this could hap⯑pen only by the miſtake of their purſu⯑ers, in taking the wrong route, they re⯑ſolved to preſerve their advantage, by concealing the light which Ferdinand now covered with his cloak. The door was opened, and they paſſed on, but [156] they were perplexed in the intricacies of the place, and wandered about in vain endeavour to find their way. Often did they pauſe to liſten, and often did fan⯑cy give them ſounds of fearful import. At length they entered on the paſſage, which Ferdinand knew led directly to a door that opened on the woods. Re⯑joiced at this certainty, they ſoon reach⯑ed the ſpot which was to give them li⯑berty.

Ferdinand turned the key, the door uncloſed, and to their infinite joy diſ⯑covered to them the grey dawn. "Now, my love," ſaid Hippolitus, "you are ſafe, and I am happy."—Immediately a loud voice from without exclaimed, "Take, villain, the reward of your perfidy!" at the ſame inſtant Hippo⯑litus received a ſword in his body, and uttering a deep ſigh, fell to the ground. Julia ſhrieked, and fainted. Ferdinand, drawing his ſword, advanc⯑ed towards the aſſaſſin, upon whoſe [157] countenance the light of his lamp then ſhone, and diſcovered to him his father! The ſword fell from his grſap, and he ſtarted back in an agony of horror. He was inſtantly ſurrounded, and ſeized by the ſervants of the marquis, while the marquis himſelf denounced vengeance upon his head, and ordered him to be thrown into the dungeon of the caſtle. At this inſtant the ſervants of the count, who were awaiting his arrival on the ſea ſhore, hearing the tumult, haſtened to the ſcene, and there beheld their belov⯑ed maſter, lifeleſs and weltering in his blood. They conveyed the bleeding bo⯑dy, with loud lamentations, on board the veſſel which had been prepared for him, and immediately ſet ſail for Italy.

Julia, on recovering her ſenſes, ſound herſelf in a ſmall room, of which ſhe had no remembrance, with her maid weeping over her. Recollection, when it returned, brought to her mind an energy of grief, which exceeded even [158] all former conceptions of ſuffering. Yet her miſery was heightened by the intelligence which ſhe now received. She learned that Hippolitus had been borne away lifeleſs by his people, that Ferdinand was confined in a dungeon by order of the marquis, and that her⯑ſelf was a priſoner in a remote room, from which, on the day after the mor⯑row, ſhe was to be removed to the cha⯑pel of the caſtle, and there ſacrificed to the ambition of her father, and the ab⯑ſurd love of the duke de Luovo.

This accumulation of evil ſubdued each power of reſiſtance, and reduced Julia to a ſtate little ſhort of diſtraction. No perſon was allowed to approach her but her maid, and the ſervant who brought her food. Emilia, who, though ſhocked by Julia's apparent want of confidence, ſeverely ſymphathized in her diſtreſs, ſolicited to ſee her; but the pain of denial was ſo ſharply aggra⯑vated by rebuke, that ſhe dared not again to urge the requeſt.

[159] In the mean time Ferdinand, involv⯑ed in the gloom of a dungeon, was re⯑ſigned to the painful recollection of the paſt, and a horrid anticipation of the future. From the reſentment of the mar⯑quis, whoſe paſſions were wild and ter⯑rible, and whoſe rank gave him an un⯑limited power of life and death in his own territories, Ferdinand had much to fear. Yet ſelfiſh apprehenſion ſoon yielded to a more noble ſorrow. He mourned the fate of Hippolitus, and the ſufferings of Julia. He could attribute the fai⯑lure of their ſcheme only to the treach⯑ery of Robert, who had, however, met the wiſhes of Ferdinand, with ſtrong apparent ſincerity, and generous intereſt in the cauſe of Julia. On the night of the intended elopement he had conſigned the keys to Ferdinand, who, immediately on receiving them, went to the apartment of Hippolitus. There they were detained till after the clock had ſtruck one, by a low [160] noiſe, which returned at intervals, and convinced them, that ſome part of the family was not yet retired to reſt. This noiſe was undoubtedly occaſioned by the people whom the marquis had em⯑ployed to watch, and whoſe vigilance was too faithful to ſuffer the fugitives to eſcape. The very caution of Ferdi⯑nand defeated its purpoſe; for it is pro⯑bable, that had he attempted to quit the caſtle by the common entrance, he might have eſcaped. The keys of the grand door, and thoſe of the courts, re⯑maining in the poſſeſſion of Robert, the marquis was certain of the intended place of their departure; and was thus enabled to defeat their hopes at the very moment when they exulted in their ſuc⯑ceſs.

When the marchioneſs learned the fate of Hippolitus, the reſentment of jealous paſſion, yielded to emotions of pity. Revenge was ſatisfied, and ſhe could now lament the ſufferings of a [161] youth, whoſe perſonal charms had touch⯑ed her heart as much as his virtues had diſappointed her hopes. Still true to paſ⯑ſion, and inacceſſible to reaſon, ſhe poured upon the defenceleſs Julia her anger for that calamity of which ſhe herſelf was the unwilling cauſe. By a dextrous adapt⯑ation of her powers, ſhe had worked upon the paſſions of the marquis, ſo as to render him relentleſs in the purſuit of ambitious purpoſes, and inſatiable in revenging his diſappointment. But the effects of her artifices exceeded her in⯑tention in exerting them; and when ſhe meant only to ſacrifice a rival to her love, ſhe found ſhe had given up its ob⯑ject to revenge.

CHAPTER IV.

THE nuptial morn, ſo juſtly dread⯑ed by Julia, and ſo impatiently awaited by the marquis, now arrived. The marriage was to be celebrated with a magnificence which demonſtrated the joy it occaſioned to the marquis. The caſtle was fitted up in a ſtyle of grandeur ſuperior to any thing that had been before ſeen in it. The neighbour⯑ing nobility were invited to an enter⯑tainment which was to conclude with a ſplendid ball and ſupper, and the gates were to be thrown open to all who choſe to partake of the bounty of the marquis. At an early hour the duke, attended by a numerous retinue, enter⯑ed the caſtle. Ferdinand heard from his dungeon, where the rigour and the policy of the marquis ſtill confined him, the loud clattering of hoofs in the court yard above, the rolling of the [163] carriage wheels, and all the tumultuous buſtle which the entrance of the duke occaſioned. He too well underſtood the cauſe of this uproar, and it awakened in him ſenſations reſembling thoſe which the condemned criminal feels, when his ears are aſſailed by the dreadful ſounds that precede his execution. When he was able to think of himſelf, he won⯑dered by what means the marquis would reconcile his abſence to the gueſts. He, however, knew too well the diſſipated character of the Sicilian nobility, to doubt, that whatever ſtory ſhould be invented would be very readily believed by them; who, even if they knew the truth, would not ſuffer a diſcovery of their knowledge to interrupt the feſti⯑vity which was offered them.

The marquis and marchioneſs receiv⯑ed the duke in the outer hall, and con⯑ducted him to the ſaloon, where he par⯑took of the refreſhments prepared for him, and from thence retired to the cha⯑pel. [164] The marquis now withdrew to lead Julia to the altar, and Emilia was ordered to attend at the door of the cha⯑pel, in which the prieſt and a numerous company were already aſſembled. The marchioneſs, a prey to the turbulence of ſucceeding paſſions, exulted in the near completion of her favourite ſcheme. A diſappointment, however, was pre⯑pared for her, which would at once cruſh the triumph of her malice and her pride. The marquis, on entering the priſon of Julia, found it empty! His aſtoniſhment and indignation, upon the diſcovery, almoſt overpowered his reaſon. Of the ſervants of the caſtle, who were immediately ſummoned, he enquired concerning her eſcape, with a mixture of fury and ſorrow, which left them no opportunity for reply. They had, however, no information to give, but that her woman had not appeared during the whole morning. In the priſon were found the bridal habili⯑ments which the marchioneſs herſelf [165] had ſent on the preceding night, toge⯑ther with a letter addreſſed to Emilia, which contained the following words:

"Adieu, dear Emilia; never more will you ſee your wretched ſiſter, who flies from the cruel fate now prepared for her, certain that ſhe can never meet one more dreadful.—In happineſs or miſery—in hope or deſpair—whatever may be your ſituation—ſtill remember me with pity and affection. Dear Emi⯑lia, adieu!—You will always be the ſiſter of my heart—may you never be the partner of my misfortunes!"

While the marquis was reading this letter, the marchioneſs, who ſuppoſed the delay occaſioned by ſome oppoſition from Julia, flew to the apartment. By her orders all the habitable parts of the caſtle were explored, and ſhe herſelf aſſiſted in the ſearch. At length the intelligence was communicated to the chapel, and the confuſion became uni⯑verſal. The prieſt quitted the altar, and the company returned to the ſaloon.

[166] The letter, when it was given to Emi⯑lia, excited emotions which ſhe found it impoſſible to diſguiſe, but which did not, however, protect her from a ſuſpi⯑cion that ſhe was concerned in the tranſ⯑action, her knowledge of which this let⯑ter appeared intended to conceal.

The marquis immediately diſpatched ſervants upon the fleeteſt horſes of his ſtables, with directions to take different routes, and to ſcour every corner of the iſland in purſuit of the fugitives. When theſe exertions had ſomewhat quieted his mind, he began to conſider by what means Julia could have effected her eſ⯑cape. She had been confined in a ſmall room in a remote part of the caſtle, to which no perſon had been admitted but her own woman, and Robert, the confi⯑dential ſervant of the marquis. Even Liſette had not been ſuffered to enter, unleſs accompanied by Robert, in whoſe room, ſince the night of the fatal diſ⯑covery, the keys had been regularly de⯑poſited. Without them it was impoſ⯑ſible [167] ſhe could have eſcaped; the win⯑dows of the apartment being barred and grated, and opening into an inner court, at a prodigious height from the ground. Beſides, who could ſhe de⯑pend upon for protection—or whi⯑ther could ſhe intend to fly for con⯑cealment?—The aſſociates of her for⯑mer elopement were utterly unable to aſſiſt her even with advice. Ferdinand, himſelf a priſoner, had been deprived of any means of intercourſe with her, and Hippolitus had been carried life⯑leſs on board a veſſel which had im⯑mediately ſailed for Italy.

Robert, to whom the keys had been intruſted, was ſeverely interrogated by the marquis. He perſiſted in a ſimple and uniform declaration of his inno⯑cence; but as the marquis believed it impoſſible that Julia could have eſcap⯑ed without his knowledge, he was or⯑dered into impriſonment till he ſhould confeſs the fact.

[168] The pride of the duke was ſeverely wounded by this elopement, which prov⯑ed the exceſs of Julia's averſion, and com⯑pleated the diſgraceful circumſtances of his rejection. The marquis had care⯑fully concealed from him her prior at⯑tempt at elopement, and her conſequent confinement; but the truth now burſt from diſguiſe, and ſtood revealed with bitter aggravation. The duke, fired with indignation at the duplicity of the marquis, powered forth his reſentment in terms of proud and bitter invective; and the marquis, galled by recent diſ⯑appointment, was in no mood to re⯑ſtrain the impetuoſity of his nature. He retorted with acrimony; and the con⯑ſequence would have been ſerious, had not the friends of each party interpoſed for their preſervation. The diſputants were at length reconciled; it was agreed to purſue Julia with united, and inde⯑fatigable ſearch; and that whenever ſhe ſhould be found, the nuptials ſhould be [169] ſolemnized without further delay. With the character of the duke, this conduct was conſiſtent. His paſſions, inflamed by diſappointment, and ſtrengthened by repulſe, now defied the power of obſtacle; and thoſe conſiderations which would have operated with a more deli⯑cate mind to overcome its original in⯑clination, ſerved only to encreaſe the violence of his.

Madame de Menon, who loved Julia with maternal affection, was an intereſt⯑ed obſerver of all that paſſed at the caſ⯑tle. The cruel fate to which the mar⯑quis deſtined his daughter, ſhe had ſe⯑verely lamented, yet ſhe could hardly re⯑joice to find that this had been avoided by elopement. She trembled for the future ſafety of her pupil; and her tran⯑quillity, which was thus firſt diſturbed for the welfare of others, ſhe was not ſoon ſuffered to recover.

The marchioneſs had long nouriſhed ſecret diſlike to Madame de Menon, [170] whoſe virtues were a ſilent reproof to her vices. The contrariety of their diſ⯑poſitions, created in the marchioneſs an averſion which would have amounted to contempt, had not that dignity of vir⯑tue which ſtrongly characterized the manners of Madame, compelled the former to fear what ſhe wiſhed to deſpiſe. Her conſcience whiſpered her that the diſlike was mutual; and ſhe now rejoic⯑ed in the opportunity which ſeemed to offer itſelf, of lowering the proud in⯑tegrity of Madame's character. Pre⯑tending, therefore, to believe that ſhe had encouraged Ferdinand to diſobey his father's commands, and had been ac⯑ceſſary to the elopement, ſhe accuſed her of theſe offences, and ſtimulated the marquis to reprehend her conduct. But the integrity of Madame de Menon was not to be queſtioned with impunity. Without deigning to anſwer the impu⯑tation, ſhe deſired to reſign an office of which ſhe was no longer conſidered wor⯑thy, [171] and to quit the caſtle immediately. This the policy of the marquis would not ſuffer; and he was compelled to make ſuch ample conceſſions to Madame, as induced her for the preſent to conti⯑nue at the caſtle.

The news of Julia's elopement at length reached the ears of Ferdinand, whoſe joy at this event was equalled only by his ſurprize. He loſt, for a moment, the ſenſe of his own ſituation, and thought only of the eſcape of Julia. But his ſorrow ſoon returned with ac⯑cumulated force when he recollected that Julia might then perhaps want that aſſiſtance, which his confinement alone could prevent his affording her.

The ſervants, who had been ſent in purſuit, returned to the caſtle without any ſatisfactory information. Week after week elapſed in fruitleſs ſearch, yet the duke was ſtrenuous in continu⯑ing the purſuit. Emiſſaries were diſ⯑patched to Naples, and to the ſeveral [172] eſtates of the count Vereza, but they returned without any ſatisfactory infor⯑mation. The count had not been heard of ſince he quitted Naples for Sicily.

During theſe enquiries a new ſub⯑ject of diſturbance broke out in the caſ⯑tle of Mazzini. On the night ſo fatal to the hopes of Hippolitus and Julia, when the tumult was ſubſided, and all was ſtill, a light was obſerved by a ſer⯑vant as he paſſed by the window of the great ſtair-caſe in the way to his cham⯑ber, to glimmer through the caſement before noticed in the ſouthern build⯑ings. While he ſtood obſerving it, it vaniſhed, and preſently re-appeared. The former myſterious circumſtances relative to theſe buildings ruſhed upon his mind; and fired with wonder, he rouſed ſome of his fellow ſervants to come and behold this phenomenon.

As they gazed in ſilent terror, the light diſappeared, and ſoon after, they ſaw a ſmall door belonging to the ſouth [173] tower open, and a figure bearing a light iſſue forth, which gliding along the caſ⯑tle walls, was quickly loſt to their view. Overcome with fear, they hurried back to their chambers, and revolved all the late wonderful occurrences. They doubt⯑ed not, that this was the figure formerly ſeen by the lady Julia. The ſudden change of Madame de Menon's apart⯑ments had not paſſed unobſerved by the ſervants, but they now no longer heſita⯑ted to what to attribute the removal. They collected each various and uncommon circumſtance attendant on this part of the fabric; and, comparing them with the preſent, their ſuperſtitious fears were confirmed, and their terror heightened to ſuch a degree, that many of them re⯑ſolved to quit the ſervice of the mar⯑quis.

The marquis ſurprized at this ſudden deſertion, enquired into its cauſe, and learned the truth. Shocked by this diſ⯑covery, he yet reſolved to prevent, if [174] poſſible, the ill effects which might be expected from a circulation of the re⯑port. To this end it was neceſſary to quiet the minds of his people, and to prevent their quitting his ſervice. Hav⯑ing ſeverely reprehended them for the idle apprehenſion they encouraged, he told them that, to prove the fallacy of their ſurmiſes, he would lead them over that part of the caſtle which was the ſubject of their fears, and ordered them to attend him at the return of night in the north hall. Emilia and Madame de Menon ſurprized at this procedure, awaited the iſſue in ſilent expectation.

The ſervants in obedience to the com⯑mands of the marquis, aſſembled at night in the north hall. The air of de⯑ſolation which reigned through the ſouth buildings; and the circumſtance of their having been for ſo many years ſhut up, would naturally tend to inſpire awe; but to theſe people, who firmly believed them to be the haunt of an [175] unquiet ſpirit, terror was the predomi⯑nant ſentiment.

The marquis now appeared with the keys of theſe buildings in his hands, and every heart thrilled with wild expecta⯑tion. He ordered Robert to precede him with a torch, and the reſt of the ſervants following, he paſſed on. A pair of iron gates were unlocked, and they proceed⯑ed through a court, whoſe pavement was wildly overgrown with long graſs, to the great door of the ſouth fabric. Here they met with ſome difficulty, for the lock, which had not been turned for many years, was ruſted.

During this interval, the ſilence of expectation ſealed the lips of all preſent. At length the lock yielded. That door which had not been paſſed for ſo many years, creaked heavily upon its hinges, and diſcloſed the hall of black marble which Ferdinand had formerly croſſed. "Now," cried the marquis, in a tone of irony as he entered, "expect to en⯑counter [176] counter the ghoſts of which you tell me; but if you fail to conquer them, prepare to quit my ſervice. The peo⯑ple who live with me, ſhall at leaſt have courage and ability ſufficient to defend me from theſe ſpiritual attacks. All I apprehend is, that the enemy will not appear, and in this caſe your valour will go untried."

No one dared to anſwer, but all fol⯑lowed, in ſilent fear, the marquis, who aſcended the great ſtair-caſe, and enter⯑ed the gallery. "Unlock that door," ſaid he, pointing to one on the left, "and we will ſoon unhouſe theſe ghoſts." Robert applied the key, but his hand ſhook ſo violently that he could not turn it. "Here is a fellow," cried the marquis, "fit to encounter a whole legion of ſpirits. Do you, Anthony, take the key, and try your valour."

"Pleaſe you, my lord," replied Anthony, "I never was a good one at [177] unlocking a door in my life, but here is Gregory will do it." "No, my lord, an' pleaſe you," ſaid Gregory, here is Richard." "Stand off" ſaid the marquis, "I will ſhame your cow⯑ardice, and do it myſelf."

Saying this he turned the key, and was ruſhing on, but the door refuſed to yield; it ſhook under his hands, and ſeemed as if partially held by ſome per⯑ſon on the other ſide. The marquis was ſurprized, and made ſeveral efforts to move it, without effect. He then order⯑ed his ſervants to burſt it open, but, ſhrinking back with one accord, they crid "for God's ſake, my lord, go no farther; we are ſatisfied here are no ghoſts, only let us get back."

"It is now then my turn to be ſatiſ⯑fied," replied the marquis, "and till I am, not one of you ſhall ſtir. Open me that door." "My lord!"—"Nay," ſaid the marquis, aſſuming a look of ſtern authority—"diſpute not my com⯑mands. I am not to be trifled with."

[178] They now ſtepped forward, and ap⯑plied their ſtrength to the door, when a loud and ſudden noiſe burſt from with⯑in, and reſounded through the hollow chambers! The men ſtarted back in af⯑fright, and were ruſhing headlong down the ſtair-caſe, when the voice of the marquis arreſted their flight. They re⯑turned with hearts palpitating with ter⯑ror. "Obſerve what I ſay," ſaid the mar⯑quis, "and behave like men. Yonder door," pointing to one at ſome diſtance, "will lead us through other rooms to this chamber—unlock it therefore, for I will know the cauſe of theſe founds." Shocked at this determination, the ſer⯑vants again ſupplicated the marquis to go no farther; and to be obeyed, he was obliged to exert all his authority. The door was opened, and diſcovered a long narrow paſſage, into which they deſcended by a few ſteps. It led to a gallery that terminated in a back ſtair⯑caſe, [179] where ſeveral doors appeared, one of which the marquis uncloſed. A ſpa⯑cious chamber appeared beyond, whoſe walls, decayed and diſcoloured by the damps, exhibited a melancholy proof of deſertion.

They paſſed on through a long ſuite of lofty and noble apartments, which were in the ſame ruinous condition. At length they came to the chamber whence the noiſe had iſſued. "Go firſt Robert, with the light," ſaid the marquis, as they approached the door, "this is the key." Robert trembled—but obeyed, and the other ſervants followed in ſilence. They ſtopped a mo⯑ment at the door to liſten, but all was ſtill within. The door was opened, and diſcloſed a large vaulted chamber, near⯑ly reſembling thoſe they had paſſed, and on looking round, they diſcovered at once the cauſe of the alarm.—A part of the decayed roof was fallen in, and the ſtones and rubbiſh of the ruin fall⯑ing [180] againſt the gallery door, obſtructed the paſſage. It was evident, too, whence the noiſe which occaſioned their terror had ariſen; the looſe ſtones which were piled againſt the door being ſhook by the effort made to open it, had given way, and rolled to the floor.

After ſurveying the place, they re⯑turned to the back ſtairs, which they de⯑ſcended, and having purſued the ſeveral windings of a long paſſage, found them⯑ſelves again in the marble hall. "Now," ſaid the marquis, "what think ye?—What evil ſpirits infeſt theſe walls? Henceforth be cautions how ye credit the phantaſms of idleneſs, for ye may not always meet with a maſter who will condeſcend to undeceive ye." They acknowledged the goodneſs of the mar⯑quis, and profeſſing themſelves per⯑fectly conſcious of the error of their former ſuſpicions, deſired they might ſearch no farther. "I chuſe to leave nothing to your imagination," replied [181] the marquis, leſt hereafter it ſhould be⯑tray you into a ſimilar error. Follow me, therefore; you ſhall ſee the whole of theſe buildings." Saying this he led them to the ſouth tower. They re⯑membered, that from a door of this tower, the figure which cauſed their alarm had iſſued; and notwithſtanding the late aſſertion of their ſuſpicions being removed, fear ſtill operated pow⯑erfully upon their minds, and they would willingly have been excuſed from farther reſearch. "Would any of you chuſe to explore this tower?" ſaid the marquis, pointing to the bro⯑ken ſtair-caſe; "for myſelf I am mor⯑tal, and therefore fear to venture, but you who hold communion with diſem⯑bodied ſpirits, may partake ſomething of their nature, if ſo, you may paſs with⯑out apprehenſion where the ghoſt has probably paſſed before." They ſhrunk at this reproof, and were ſilent.

The marquis, turning to a door on [182] his right hand, ordered it to be unlock⯑ed. It opened upon the country, and the ſervants knew it to be the ſame whence the figure had appeared. Hav⯑ing re-locked it, "Lift that trap-door, we will deſcend into the vaults," ſaid the marquis. "What trap-door, my lord?" ſaid Robert, with encreaſed agi⯑tation, "I ſee none." The marquis point⯑ed, and Robert perceived a door which lay almoſt concealed beneath the ſtones that had fallen from the ſtair-caſe above. He began to remove them, when the marquis ſuddenly turning, "I have al⯑ready ſufficiently indulged your folly," ſaid he, "and am weary of this buſineſs. If you are capable of receiving convic⯑tion from truth, you muſt now be con⯑vinced that theſe buildings are not the haunt of a ſuper-natural being; and if you are incapable, it would be entirely uſeleſs to proceed. You, Robert, may therefore ſpare yourſelf the trouble of removing the rubbiſh; we will quit this part of the fabric."

[183] The ſervants joyfully obeyed, and the marquis locking the ſeveral doors, re⯑turned with the keys to the habitable part of the caſtle.

Every enquiry after Julia had hitherto proved fruitleſs, and the imperious na⯑ture of the marquis, heightened by the preſent vexation, became intolerably oppreſſive to all around him. As the hope of recovering Julia declined, his opinion that Emilia had aſſiſted her to eſcape ſtrengthened, and he inflicted upon her the ſeverity of his unjuſt ſuſ⯑picions. She was ordered to confine herſelf to her apartment till her inno⯑cence ſhould be cleared, or her ſiſter diſcovered. From Madame de Menon ſhe received a faithful ſympathy, which was the ſole relief of her oppreſſed heart. Her anxiety concerning Julia daily encreaſed, and was heightened into the moſt terrifying apprehenſions for her ſafety. She knew of no perſon in whom her ſiſter could confide, or of [184] any place where ſhe could find protec⯑tion; the moſt deplorable evils were therefore to be expected.

One day as ſhe was ſitting at the win⯑dow of her apartment, engaged in me⯑lancholy reflection, ſhe ſaw a man ri⯑ding towards the caſtle on full ſpeed. Her heart beat with fear and expecta⯑tion, for his haſte made her ſuſpect he brought intelligence of Julia, and ſhe could ſcarcely refrain from breaking through the command of the marquis, and ruſhing into the hall to learn ſome⯑thing of his errand. She was right in her conjecture; the perſon ſhe had ſeen was a ſpy of the marquis's, and came to inform him that the lady Julia was at that time concealed in a cottage of the foreſt of Marentino. The marquis rejoiced at this intelligence, and gave the man a liberal reward. He learned alſo, that ſhe was accompanied by a young cava⯑lier, which circumſtance ſurprized him exceedingly, for he knew of no perſon [185] except the count de Vereza with whom ſhe could have entruſted herſelf, and the count had fallen by his ſword! He immediately ordered a party of his peo⯑ple to accompany the meſſenger to the foreſt of Marentino, and to ſuffer nei⯑ther Julia nor the cavalier to eſcape them on pain of death.

When the duke de Luovo was in⯑formed of this diſcovery, he entreated and obtained permiſſion of the marquis to join in the purſuit. He immediately ſet out on the expedition, armed, and followed by a number of his ſervants. He reſolved to encounter all hazards, and to practiſe the moſt deſperate ex⯑tremes rather than fail in the object of his enterprize. In a ſhort time he over⯑took the marquis's people, and they proceeded together with all poſſible ſpeed. The foreſt lay ſeveral leagues diſtant from the caſtle of Mazzini, and the day was cloſing when they entered upon the borders. The thick foliage [186] of the trees ſpread a deeper ſhade around, and they were obliged to pro⯑ceed with caution. Darkneſs had long fallen upon the earth when they reach⯑ed the cottage, to which they were di⯑rected by a light that glimmered from afar among the trees. The duke left his people at ſome diſtance; and diſ⯑mounting, and accompanied only by one ſervant, approached the cottage. When he reached it he ſtopped, and looking through the window obſerved a man and woman in the habit of peaſants ſeated at their ſupper. They were con⯑verſing with earneſtneſs, and the duke, hoping to obtain farther intelligence of Julia, endeavoured to liſten to their diſ⯑courſe. They were praiſing the beauty of a lady whom the duke did not doubt to be Julia, and the woman ſpoke much in praiſe of the cavalier. "He has a noble heart," ſaid ſhe, "and I am ſure by his look belongs to ſome great fa⯑mily." "Nay," replied her compa⯑nion, [187] "the lady is as good as he. I have been at Palermo, and ought to know what great folks are, and if ſhe is not one of them, never take my word again. Poor thing, how ſhe does take on! It made my heart ach to ſee her."

They were ſome time ſilent. The duke knocked at the door, and enquir⯑ed of the man who opened it concerning the lady and cavalier then in his cot⯑tage. He was aſſured there were no other perſons in the cottage than thoſe he then ſaw. The duke perſiſted in affirming that the perſons he enquired for were there concealed, which the man being as reſolute in denying, he gave the ſignal, and his people ap⯑proached, and ſurrounded the cottage. The peaſants, terrified by this circum⯑ſtance, confeſſed that a lady and cava⯑lier, ſuch as the duke deſcribed, had been for ſome time concealed in the cottage, but that they were now de⯑parted.

[188] Suſpicious of the truth of the latter aſſertion, the duke ordered his people to ſearch the cottage, and that part of the foreſt contiguous to it. The ſearch ended in diſappointment. The duke, however, reſolved to obtain all poſſible information concerning the fugitives; and aſſuming, therefore, a ſtern air, bade the peaſant, on pain of inſtant death, diſcover all he knew of them.

The man replied, that on a very dark and ſtormy night, about a week before, two perſons had come to the cottage, and deſired ſhelter. That they were unattended, but ſeemed to be perſons of conſequence in diſguiſe. That they paid very liberally for what they had, and that they departed from the cot⯑tage a few hours before the arrival of the duke.

The duke enquired concerning the courſe they had taken, and having re⯑ceived information, re-mounted his horſe, and ſet forward in purſuit. The [189] road lay for ſeveral leagues through the foreſt, and the darkneſs, and the pro⯑bability of encountering banditti, made the journey dangerous. About the break of day, they quitted the foreſt, and entered upon a wild and moun⯑tainous country, in which they travelled ſome miles without perceiving a hut, or a human being. No veſtige of cul⯑tivation appeared, and no ſounds reach⯑ed them but thoſe of their horſes feet, and the roaring of the winds through the deep foreſts that overhung the mountains. The purſuit was uncertain, but the duke reſolved to perſevere.

They came at length to a cottage, where he repeated his enquiries, and learned to his ſatisfaction that two per⯑ſons, ſuch as he deſcribed, had ſtopped there for refreſhment about two hours before. He found it now neceſſary to ſtop for the ſame purpoſe. Bread and milk, the only proviſions of the place, were ſet before him, and his attendants [190] would have been well contented, had there been ſufficient of this homely fare to have ſatisfied their hunger.

Having diſpatched an haſty meal, they again ſet forward in the way pointed out to them as the route of the fugitives. The country aſſumed a more civilized aſpect. Corn, vineyards, olives, and groves of mulberry trees adorned the hills. The vallies, luxuriant in ſhade, were frequently embelliſhed by the windings of a lucid ſtream, and di⯑verſified by cluſters of half-ſeen cotta⯑ges. Here the riſing turrets of a mo⯑naſtery appeared above the thick trees with which they were ſurrounded; and there the ſavage wilds, the travellers had paſſed, formed a bold and pictu⯑reſque back-ground to the ſcene.

To the queſtions put by the duke to the ſeveral perſons he met, he received anſwers that encouraged him to pro⯑ceed. At noon he halted at a village to refreſh himſelf and his people. He [191] could gain no intelligence of Julia, and was perplexed which way to chuſe; but determined at length to purſue the road he was then in, and accordingly again ſet forward. He travelled ſeve⯑ral miles without meeting any perſon who could give the neceſſary informa⯑tion, and began to deſpair of ſucceſs. The lengthened ſhadows of the moun⯑tains, and the fading light gave ſignals of declining day; when having gained the ſummit of a high hill, he obſerved two perſons travelling on horſe-back in the plains below. On one of them he diſ⯑tinguiſhed the habiliments of a woman; and in her air he thought he diſcovered that of Julia. While he ſtood atten⯑tively ſurveying them, they looked tow⯑ards the hill, when, as if urged by a ſudden impulſe of terror, they ſet off on full ſpeed over the plains. The duke had no doubt that theſe were the per⯑ſons he ſought; and he, therefore, or⯑dered ſome of his people to purſue [192] them, and puſhed his horſe into a full gallop. Before he reached the plains, the fugitives, winding round an abrupt hill, were loſt to his view. The duke continued his courſe, and his people, who were a conſiderable way before him, at length reached the hill, behind which the two perſons had diſappeared. No traces of them were to be ſeen, and they entered a narrow defile between two ranges of high, and ſavage mountains; on the right of which a rapid ſtream rolled along, and broke with its deep reſounding murmurs the ſolemn ſilence of the place. The ſhades of evening now fell thick, and the ſcene was ſoon enveloped in darkneſs; but to the duke, who was animated by a ſtrong and im⯑petuous paſſion, theſe were unimport⯑ant circumſtances. Although he knew that the wilds of Sicily were frequently infeſted with banditti, his numbers made him fearleſs of attack. Not ſo his attendants, many of whom, as the [193] darkneſs increaſed, teſtified emotions not very honourable to their courage; ſtarting at every buſh, and believing it concealed a murderer. They endea⯑voured to diſſuade the duke from pro⯑ceeding, expreſſing uncertainty of their being in the right route, and recom⯑mending the open plains. But the duke, whoſe eye had been vigilant to mark the flight of the fugitives, and who was not to be diſſuaded from his pur⯑poſe, quickly repreſſed their argu⯑ments. They continued their courſe without meeting a ſingle perſon.

The moon now roſe, and afforded them a ſhadowy imperfect view of the ſurrounding objects. The proſpect was gloomy and vaſt, and not a human ha⯑bitation met their eyes. They had now loſt every trace of the ſugitives, and found themſelves bewildered in a wild and ſavage country. Their only re⯑maining care was to extricate themſelves from ſo forlorn a ſituation, and they liſ⯑tened [194] at every ſtep with anxious atten⯑tion, for ſome ſound that might diſco⯑ver to them the haunts of men. They liſtened in vain; the ſtillneſs of night was undiſturbed but by the wind, which broke at intervals in low and hollow murmers from among the mountains.

As they proceeded with ſilent caution, they perceived a light break from among the rocks at ſome diſtance. The duke heſitated whether to approach, ſince it might probably proceed from a party of the banditti with which theſe moun⯑tains were ſaid to be infeſted. While he heſitated, it diſappeared; but he had not advanced many ſteps when it re⯑turned. He now perceived it iſſue from the mouth of a cavern, and caſt a bright reflection upon the overhanging rocks and ſhrubs.

He diſmounted, and followed by two of his people, leaving the reſt at ſome diſtance, moved with ſlow and ſilent ſteps towards the cave. As he drew [195] near he heard the ſound of many voices in high carouſal. Suddenly the up⯑roar ceaſed, and the following words were ſung by a clear and manly voice:

The laſt verſe was repeated in loud chorus. The duke liſtened with aſto⯑niſhment! Such ſocial merriment, amid a ſcene of ſuch ſavage wildneſs, appear⯑ed more like enchantment than reality. He would not have heſitated to pro⯑nounce this a party of banditti, had not [196] the delicacy of expreſſion preſerved in the ſong, appeared unattainable by men of their claſs.

He had now a full view of the cave, and the moment which convinced him of his error, ſerved alſo to encreaſe his ſurprize. He beheld by the light of a fire, a party of banditti ſeated within the deepeſt receſs of the cave, round a rude kind of table formed in the rock. The table was ſpread with proviſions, and they were regaling themſelves with great eagerneſs and joy. The coun⯑tenances of the men exhibited a ſtrange mixture of fierceneſs and ſociality; and the duke could almoſt have imagined he beheld in theſe robbers a band of the early Romans before knowledge had civilized, or luxury had ſoftened them. But he had not much time for medita⯑tion—a ſenſe of his danger bade him fly, while to fly was yet in his power.

As he turned to depart, he obſerved two ſaddle horſes grazing upon the her⯑bage [197] near the mouth of the cave. It inſtantly occurred to him that they be⯑longed to Julia, and her companion. He heſitated, and at length determined to linger awhile, and liſten to the con⯑verſation of the robbers, hoping from thence to have his doubts reſolved. They talked for ſome time in a ſtrain of high conviviality, and recounted in exultation many of their exploits. They deſcribed alſo the behaviour of ſeve⯑ral people whom they had robbed, with highly ludicrous alluſions, and with much rude humour; while the cave re⯑echoed with loud burſts of laughter and applauſe. They were thus engag⯑ed in tumultuous merriment, till one of them curſing the ſcanty plunder of their late adventure, but praiſing the beauty of a lady, they all lowered their voices together, and ſeemed as if debating upon a point uncommonly intereſting to them. The paſſions of the duke were rouſed, and he became certain that it [198] was Julia of whom they had ſpoken. In the firſt impuſe of feeling, he drew his ſword; but recollecting the number of his adverſaries, reſtrained his fury. He was turning from the cave, with a deſign of ſummoning his people, when the light of the fire glittering upon the bright blade of his weapon, caught the eye of one of the banditti. He ſtarted from his ſeat, and his comrades inſtantly riſing in conſternation, diſcovered the duke. They ruſhed with loud vocife⯑ration towards the mouth of the cave. He endeavoured to eſcape to his peo⯑ple; but two of the banditti mounting the horſes which were grazing near, quickly overtook and ſeized him. His dreſs and air proclaimed him to be a perſon of diſtinction, and rejoicing in their proſpect of plunder, they forced him towards the cave. Here their com⯑rades awaited them, but what were the emotions of the duke, when he diſco⯑vered in the perſon of the principal rob⯑ber, [199] his own ſon! who, to eſcape the galling ſeverity of his father, had fled from his caſtle ſome years before, and had not been heard of ſince.

He had placed himſelf at the head of a party of banditti, and pleaſed with the liberty which till then he had never taſted, and with the power which his new ſituation afforded him, he became ſo much attached to this wild and law⯑leſs mode of life, that he determined never to quit it till death ſhould diſſolve thoſe ties which now made his rank only oppreſſive. This event ſeemed at ſo great a diſtance, that he ſeldom allowed himſelf to think of it. Whenever it ſhould happen, he had no doubt that he might either reſume his rank without danger of diſcovery, or might juſtify his preſent conduct as a frolick which a few acts of generoſity would eaſily ex⯑cuſe. He knew his power would then place him beyond the reach of cenſure, in a country where the people are ac⯑cuſtomed [200] to implicit ſubordination, and ſeldom dare to ſerutinize the actions of the nobility.

His ſenſations, however, on diſcover⯑ing his father, were not very pleaſing; but proclaiming the duke, he protected him from farther outrage.

With the duke, whoſe heart was a ſtranger to the ſofter affections, indigna⯑tion uſurped the place of parental feel⯑ing. His pride was the only paſſion affected by the diſcovery; and he had the raſhneſs to expreſs the indignation, which the conduct of his ſon had exci⯑ted, in terms of unreſtrained invective. The banditti, inflamed by the oppro⯑brium with which he loaded their order, threatened inſtant puniſhment to his te⯑merity; and the authority of Riccardo could hardly reſtrain them within the limits of forbearance.

The menaces, and at length entrea⯑ties, of the duke, to prevail with his ſon to abandon his preſent way of life, were [201] equally ineffectual. Secure in his own power, Riccardo laughed at the firſt, and was inſenſible to the latter; and his father was compelled to relinquiſh the attempt. The duke, however, boldly and paſſionately accuſed him of having plundered and ſecreted a lady and ca⯑valier, his friends, at the ſame time deſ⯑cribing Julia, for whoſe liberation he offered large rewards. Riccardo deni⯑ed the fact, which ſo much exaſperated the duke, that he drew his ſword with an intention of plunging it in the breaſt of his ſon. His arm was arreſted by the ſurrounding banditti, who half un⯑ſheathed their ſwords, and ſtood ſuſ⯑pended in an attitude of menace. The fate of the father now hung upon the voice of the ſon. Riccardo raiſed his arm, but inſtantly dropped it, and turn⯑ed away. The banditti ſheathed their weapons, and ſtepped back.

Riccardo ſolemnly ſwearing that he knew nothing of the perſons deſcribed, [202] the duke at length became convinced of the truth of the aſſertion, and de⯑parting from the cave, rejoined his peo⯑ple. All the impetuous paſſions of his nature were rouſed and inflamed by the diſcovery of his ſon, in a ſituation ſo wretchedly diſgraceful. Yet it was his pride rather than his virtue that was hurt; and when he wiſhed him dead, it was rather to ſave himſelf from diſ⯑grace, than his ſon from the real indig⯑nity of vice. He had no means of reclaiming him; to have attempted it by force, would have been at this time the exceſs of temerity, for his at⯑tendants, though numerous, were un⯑diſciplined, and would have fallen cer⯑tain victims to the power of a ſavage and dexterous banditti.

With thoughts agitated in fierce and agonizing conflict, he purſued his jour⯑ney; and having loſt all trace of Julia, ſought only for an habitation which might ſhelter him from the night, and [203] afford neceſſary refreſhment for him⯑ſelf and his people. With this, how⯑ever, there appeared little hope of meet⯑ing.

CHAPTER IV.

THE night grew ſtormy. The hol⯑low winds ſwept over the moun⯑tains, and blew bleak and cold around; the clouds were driven ſwiftly over the face of the moon, and the duke and his people were frequently involved in to⯑tal darkneſs. They had travelled on ſilently and dejectedly for ſome hours, and were bewildered in the wilds, when they ſuddenly heard the bell of a mo⯑naſtery chiming for midnight prayer. Their hearts revived at the ſound, which they endeavoured to follow, but they had not gone far, when the gale wafted it away, and they were abandoned to the uncertain guide of their own conjec⯑tures.

They had purſued for ſome time the way which they judged led to the mo⯑naſtery, when the note of the bell re⯑turned upon the wind, and diſcovered [205] to them that they had miſtaken their route. After much wandering and dif⯑ficulty they arrived, overcome with wearineſs, at the gates of a large and gloomy fabric. The bell had ceaſed, and all was ſtill. By the moon-light, which through broken clouds now ſtreamed upon the building, they be⯑came convinced it was the monaſtery they had ſought, and the duke himſelf ſtruck loudly upon the gate.

Several minutes elapſed, no perſon appeared, and he repeated the ſtroke. A ſtep was preſently heard within, the gate was unbarred, and a thin ſhivering figure preſented itſelf. The duke ſoli⯑cited admiſſion, but was refuſed, and reprimanded for diſturbing the convent at the hour ſacred to prayer. He then made known his rank, and bade the friar inform the Superior that he requeſted ſhelter from the night. The friar, ſuſpicious of deceit, and appre⯑henſive of robbers, refuſed with much [206] firmneſs, and repeated that the convent was engaged in prayer; he had almoſt cloſed the gate, when the duke, whom hunger and fatigue made deſperate, ruſhed by him, and paſſed into the court. It was his intention to preſent himſelf to the Superior, and he had not pro⯑ceeded far when the ſound of laughter, and of many voices in loud and mirth⯑ful jollity, attracted his ſteps. It led him through ſeveral paſſages to a door, through the crevices of which light ap⯑peared. He pauſed a moment, and heard within a wild uproar of merriment and ſong. He was ſtruck with aſto⯑niſhment, and could ſcarcely credit his ſenſes!

He uncloſed the door, and beheld in a large room, well lighted, a company of friars, dreſt in the habit of their order, placed round a table, which was profuſely ſpread with wines and fruits. The Superior, whoſe habit diſtinguiſhed him from his aſſociates, appeared at the [207] head of the table. He was lifting a large goblet of wine to his lips, and was roaring out, "Profuſion and confuſion," at the moment when the duke entered. His appearance cauſed a general alarm; that part of the company who were not too much intoxicated, aroſe from their ſeats; and the Superior, dropping the goblet from his hands, endeavoured to aſſume a look of auſterity, which his roſy countenance belied. The duke re⯑ceived a reprimand, delivered in the liſping accents of intoxication, and em⯑belliſhed with frequent interjections of hiccup. He made known his qua⯑lity, his diſtreſs, and ſolicited a night's lodging for himſelf and his people. When the Superior underſtood the diſ⯑tinction of his gueſt, his features relaxed into a ſmile of joyous welcome; and ta⯑king him by the hand, he placed him by his ſide.

The table was quickly covered with luxurious proviſions, and orders were [208] given that the duke's people ſhould be admitted, and taken care of. He was regaled with a variety of the fineſt wines, and at length, highly elevated by mo⯑naſtic hoſpitality, he retired to the apart⯑ment allotted him, leaving the Superior in a condition which precluded all cere⯑mony.

He departed in the morning, very well pleaſed with the accommodating principles of monaſtic religion. He had been told that the enjoyment of the good things of this life was the ſureſt ſign of our gratitude to Heaven; and it appeared, that within the walls of a Sicilian monaſtery, the precept and the practice were equally enforced.

He was now at a loſs what courſe to chuſe, for he had no clue to direct him towards the object of his purſuit; but hope ſtill invigorated, and urged him to perſeverance. He was not many leagues from the coaſt; and it occurred to him, that the fugitives might make [209] towards it with a deſign of eſcaping into Italy. He therefore determined to travel towards the ſea, and proceed along the ſhore.

At the houſe where he ſtopped to dine, he learned that two perſons, ſuch he deſcribed, had halted there about an hour before his arrival, and had ſet off again in much ſeeming haſte. They had taken the road towards the coaſt, whence it was obvious to the duke they deſigned to embark. He ſtayed not to finiſh the repaſt ſet before him, but in⯑ſtantly re-mounted to continue the pur⯑ſuit.

To the enquiries he made of the per⯑ſons he chanced to meet, favourable an⯑ſwers were returned for a time, but he was at length bewildered in uncertainty, and travelled for ſome hours in a direc⯑tion which chance, rather than judg⯑ment, prompted him to take.

The falling evening again con⯑fuſed his proſpects, and unſettled his [210] hopes. The ſhades were deepened by thick and heavy clouds that enveloped the horizon, and the deep ſounding air foretold a tempeſt. The thunder now rolled at a diſtance, and the accumu⯑lated clouds grew darker. The duke and his people were on a wild and dreary heath, round which they looked in vain for ſhelter, the view being termi⯑nated on all ſides by the ſame deſolate ſcene. They rode, however, as hard as their horſes would carry them; and at length one of the attendants eſpied on the ſkirts of the waſte a large man⯑ſion, towards which they immediately directed their courſe.

They were overtaken by the ſtorm, and at the moment when they reached the building, a peal of thunder, which ſeemed to ſhake the pile, burſt over their heads. They now found them⯑ſelves in a large and ancient manſion, which ſeemed totally deſerted, and was falling to decay. The edifice was [211] diſtinguiſhed by an air of magnificence, which ill accorded with the ſurround⯑ing ſcenery, and which excited ſome degree of ſurprize in the mind of the duke, who, however fully juſtified the owner in forſaking a ſpot, which pre⯑ſented to the eye only views of rude and deſolated nature.

The ſtorm encreaſed with much vio⯑lence, and threatened to detain the duke a priſoner in his preſent habitation for the night. The hall, of which he and his people had taken poſſeſſion, exhi⯑bited in every feature marks of ruin and deſolation. The marble pavement was in many places broken, the walls were mouldering in decay, and round the high and ſhattered windows the long graſs waved to the lonely gale. Curio⯑ſity led him to explore the receſſes of the manſion. He quitted the hall, and entered upon a paſſage which conducted him to a remote part of the edifice. He wandered through the wild and ſpacious [212] apartments in gloomy meditation, and often pauſed in wonder at the remains of magnificence which he beheld.

The manſion was irregular and vaſt, and he was bewildered in its intricacies. In endeavouring to find his way back, he only perplexed himſelf more, till at length he arrived at a door, which he believed led into the hall he firſt quitted. On opening it, he diſcovered by the faint light of the moon, a large place, which he ſcarcely knew whether to think a cloiſter, a chapel, or a hall. It retired in long perſpective, in arches, and terminated in a large iron gate, through which appeared the open coun⯑try.

The lightenings flaſhed thick and blue around, which together with the thunder, that ſeemed to rend the wide arch of Heaven, and the melancholy aſpect of the place, ſo awed the duke, that he involuntarily called to his peo⯑ple. His voice was anſwered only [213] by the deep echoes which ran in murmurs through the place, and died away at diſtance; and the moon now ſinking behind a cloud, left him in total darkneſs.

He repeated the call more loudly, and at length heard the approach of footſteps. A few moments relieved him from his anxiety, for his people appeared. The ſtorm was yet loud, and the heavy and ſulphureous appearance of the atmoſphere promiſed no ſpeedy abatement of it. The duke endeavoured to reconcile himſelf to paſs the night in his preſent ſituation, and ordered a fire to be lighted in the place he was in. This with much difficulty was accom⯑pliſhed. He then threw himſelf on the pavement before it, and tried to endure the abſtinence which he had ſo ill ob⯑ſerved in the monaſtery on the preced⯑ing night. But to his great joy his at⯑tendants more provident than himſelf, had not ſcrupled to accept a comforta⯑ble [214] quantity of proviſions which had been offered them at the monaſtery; and which they now drew forth from a wallet. They were ſpread upon the pave⯑ment; and the duke, after refreſhing himſelf, delivered up the remains to his people. Having ordered them to watch by turns at the gate, he wrapt his cloak round him, and reſigned himſelf to re⯑poſe.

The night paſſed without any diſ⯑turbance. The morning aroſe freſh and bright; the Heavens exhibited a clear and unclouded concave; even the wild heath, refreſhed by the late rains, ſmiled around, and ſent up with the morning gale a ſtream of fragrance.

The duke quitted the manſion, re⯑animated by the cheerfulneſs of morn, and purſued his journey. He could gain no intelligence of the fugitives. About noon he found himſelf in a beau⯑tifully romantic country; and having reached the ſummit of ſome wild cliffs, [215] he reſted to view the pictureſque ima⯑gery of the ſcene below. A ſhadowy ſequeſtered dell appeared buried deep among the rocks, and in the bottom was ſeen a lake, whoſe clear boſom reflected the impending cliffs, and the beautiful luxuriance of the overhanging ſhades.

But his attention was quickly called from the beauties of inanimate nature, to objects more intereſting; for he ob⯑ſerved two perſons, whom he inſtantly recollected to be the ſame that he had formerly purſued over the plains. They were ſeated on the margin of the lake, under the ſhade of ſome high trees at the foot of the rocks, and ſeemed par⯑taking of a repaſt which was ſpread upon the graſs. Two horſes were gra⯑zing near. In the lady the duke ſaw the very air and ſhape of Julia, and his heart bounded at the ſight. They were ſeated with their backs to the cliffs upon which the duke ſtood, and he therefore ſurveyed them unobſerved. [216] They were now almoſt within his pow⯑er, but the difficulty was how to deſ⯑cend the rocks, whoſe ſtupendous heights, and craggy ſteeps ſeemed to render them impaſſible. He examined them with a ſcrutinizing eye, and at length eſpied, where the rock receded, a narrow winding ſort of path. He diſmounted, and ſome of his attendants doing the ſame, followed their lord down the cliffs, treading lightly, leſt their ſteps ſhould betray them. Imme⯑diately upon their reaching the bottom, they were perceived by the lady, who fled among the rocks, and was preſent⯑ly purſued by the duke's people. The cavalier had no time to eſcape, but drew his ſword, and defended himſelf againſt the furious aſſault of the duke.

The combat was ſuſtained with much vigour and dexterity on both ſides for ſome minutes, when the duke received the point of his adverſary's ſword, and fell. The cavalier, endeavouring to eſ⯑cape, [217] was ſeized by the duke's people, who now appeared with the fair fugi⯑tive;—but what was the diſappointment—the rage of the duke, when in the perſon of the lady he diſcovered a ſtran⯑ger! The aſtoniſhment was mutual, but the accompanying feelings were, in the different perſons, of a very oppoſite na⯑ture. In the duke, aſtoniſhment was heightened by vexation, and embittered by diſappointment:—in the lady, it was ſoftened by the joy of unexpected deli⯑verance.

This lady was the younger daughter of a Sicilian nobleman, whoſe avarice, or neceſſities, had devoted her to a con⯑vent. To avoid the threatened fate, ſhe fled with the lover to whom her affec⯑tions had long been engaged, and whoſe only fault, even in the eye of her father, was inferiority of birth. They were now on their way to the coaſt, whence they deſigned to paſs over to Italy, where the church would confirm the bonds [218] which their hearts had already formed. There the friends of the cavalier reſided, and with them they expected to find a ſecure retreat.

The duke, who was not materially wounded, after the firſt tranſport of his rage had ſubſided, ſuffered them to de⯑part. Relieved from their fears, they joyfully ſet forward, leaving their late purſuer to the anguiſh of defeat, and fruitleſs endeavour. He was remounted on his horſe; and having diſpatched two of his people in ſearch of a houſe where he might obtain ſome relief, he pro⯑ceeded ſlowly on his return to the caſtle of Mazzini.

It was not long ere he recollected a circumſtance which, in the firſt tumult of his diſappointment, had eſcaped him, but which ſo eſſentially affected the whole tenour of his hopes, as to make him again irreſolute how to proceed. He conſidered that, although theſe were the fugitives he had purſued over the [219] plains, they might not be the ſame who had been ſecreted in the cottage, and it was therefore poſſible that Julia might have been the perſon whom they had for ſome time followed from thence. This ſuggeſtion awakened his hopes, which were however quickly deſtroyed; for he remembered that the only per⯑ſons who could have ſatisfied his doubts, were now gone beyond the power of recall. To purſue Julia, when no tra⯑ces of her flight remained, was abſurd; and he was therefore compelled to re⯑turn to the marquis, as ignorant and more hopeleſs than he had left him. With much pain he reached the vil⯑lage which his emiſſaries had diſcover⯑ed, where fortunately he obtained ſome medical aſſiſtance. Here he was ob⯑liged by indiſpoſition to reſt. The an⯑guiſh of his mind equalled that of his body. Thoſe impetuous paſſions which ſo ſtrongly marked his nature, were rouſed and exaſperated to a degree that [220] operated powerfully upon his conſtitu⯑tion, and threatened him with the moſt alarming conſequences. The effect of his wound was heightened by the agita⯑tion of his mind; and a fever, which quickly aſſumed a very ſerious aſpect, co-operated to endanger his life.

CHAPTER VI.

THE caſtle of Mazzini was ſtill the ſcene of diſſention and miſery. The impatience and aſtoniſhment of the marquis being daily increaſed by the lengthened abſence of the duke, he diſ⯑patched ſervants to the foreſt of Maren⯑tino, to enquire the occaſion of this cir⯑cumſtance. They returned with intelli⯑gence, that neither Julia, the duke, nor any of his peopl [...] were there. He there⯑fore concluded, that his daughter had fled the cottage upon information of the approach of the duke, who, he believed, was ſtill engaged in the purſuit. With reſpect to Ferdinand, who yet pined in ſorrow and anxiety in his dungeon, the rigour of the marquis's conduct was unabated. He apprehended that his ſon, if liberated, would quickly diſcover the retreat of Julia, and by his advice and aſſiſtance, confirm her in diſobedience.

[222] Ferdinand in the ſtillneſs and ſolitude of his dungeon, brooded over the late calamity in gloomy ineffectual lament⯑ation. The idea of Hippolitus—of Hippolitus murdered—aroſe to his ima⯑gination in buſy in truſion, and ſubdued the ſtrongeſt efforts of his fortitude. Julia too, his beloved ſiſter—unpro⯑tected—unfriended—might, even at the moment he lamented her, be ſinking under ſufferings dreadful to humanity. The airy ſchemes he once formed of fu⯑ture felicity, reſulting from the union of two perſons ſo juſtly dear to him—with the gay viſions of paſt happineſs—floated upon his fancy, and the luſtre they reflected, ſerved only to heighten by contraſt, the obſcurity and gloom of his preſent views. He had, however, a new ſubject of aſtoniſhment, which often withdrew his thoughts from their accuſtomed object, and ſubſtituted a ſenſa⯑tion leſs painful, though ſcarcely leſs powerful. One night, as he lay rumi⯑nating [223] on the paſt in melancholy de⯑jection, the ſtillneſs of the place was ſuddenly interrupted by a low and diſ⯑mal ſound. It returned at intervals in hollow ſighings, and ſeemed to come from ſome perſon in deep diſtreſs. So much did fear operate upon his mind, that he was uncertain whether it aroſe from within or from without. He looked round his dungeon, but could diſtinguiſh no object through the im⯑penetrable darkneſs. As he liſtened in deep amazement, the ſound was re⯑peated in moans more hollow. Ter⯑ror now occupied his mind, and diſ⯑turbed his reaſon; he ſtarted from his poſture, and, determined to be ſatisfied whether any perſon beſide himſelf was in the dungeon, groped, with arms ex⯑tended, along the walls. The place was empty, but coming to a particular ſpot, the ſound ſuddenly aroſe more diſtinctly to his ear. He called aloud, and aſked who was there; but received no anſwer. Soon after all was ſtill; and after liſtening [224] for ſome time without hearing the ſounds renewed, he laid himſelf down to ſleep. On the following day he men⯑tioned to the man who brought him food, what he had heard, and enquired concerning the noiſe. The ſervant ap⯑peared very much terrified, but could give no information that might in the leaſt account for the circumſtance, till he mentioned the vicinity of the dun⯑geon to the ſouthern buildings. The dreadful relation formerly given by the marquis, inſtantly recurred to the mind of Ferdinand, who did not heſi⯑tate to believe, that the moans he heard came from the reſtleſs ſpirit of the mur⯑dered della Campo. At this conviction, horror thrilled his nerves; but he re⯑membered his oath, and was ſilent. His courage, however, yielded to the idea of paſſing another night alone in his pri⯑ſon, where, if the vengeful ſpirit of the murdered ſhould appear, he might even die of the horror which its appearance would inſpire.

[225] The mind of Ferdinand was highly ſuperior to the general influence of ſu⯑perſtition; but, in the preſent inſtance ſuch ſtrong correlative circumſtances appeared as compelled even incredulity to yield. He had himſelf heard ſtrange and awful ſounds in the forſaken ſou⯑thern buildings;—he received from his father a dreadful ſecret relative to them—a ſecret in which his honour, nay even his life, was bound up. His father had alſo confeſſed, that he had himſelf there ſeen appearances which he could never af⯑ter remember without horror, and which had occaſioned him to quit that part of the caſtle. All theſe recollections preſented to Ferdinand a chain of evidence too powerful to be reſiſted, and he could not doubt that the ſpirit of the dead had for once been permitted to reviſit the earth, and to call down vengeance on the deſcendants of the murderer.

This conviction occaſioned him a de⯑gree of horror, ſuch as no apprehenſion [226] of mortal powers could have excited, and he determined, if poſſible, to pre⯑vail on Peter to paſs the hours of mid⯑night with him in his dungeon. The ſtrictneſs of Peter's fidelity yielded to the perſuaſions of Ferdinand, though no bribe could tempt him to incur the reſentment of the marquis, by per⯑mitting an eſcape. Ferdinand paſſed the day in lingering anxious expecta⯑tion, and the return of night brought Peter to the dungeon. His kindneſs expoſed him to a danger which he had not foreſeen; for when ſeated in the dun⯑geon, alone with his priſoner, how eaſily might that priſoner have conquered him, and left him to pay his life to the fury of the marquis. He was preſerved by the humanity of Ferdinand, who in⯑ſtantly perceived his advantage, but diſ⯑dained to involve an innocent man in deſtruction, and ſpurned the ſuggeſtion from his mind.

Peter, whoſe friendſhip was ſtronger [227] than his courage, trembled with appre⯑henſion as the hour drew nigh in which the groans had been heard on the pre⯑ceding night. He recounted to Ferdi⯑nand a variety of terrific circumſtances, which exiſted only in the heated imagi⯑nations of his fellow ſervants, but which were ſtill admitted by them as facts. Among the reſt, he did not omit to mention the light and the figure, which had been ſeen to iſſue from the ſouth tower on the night of Julia's intended elopement; a circumſtance which he embelliſhed with innumerable aggra⯑vations of fear and wonder. He con⯑cluded with deſcribing the general con⯑ſternation it had cauſed, and the conſe⯑quent behaviour of the marquis, who laughed at the fears of his people, yet condeſcended to quiet them by a for⯑mal review of the buildings, whence their terror had originated. He related the adventure of the door, which refuſ⯑ed to yield—the ſounds which aroſe [228] from within, and the diſcovery of the fallen roof; but declared, that neither he, nor any of his fellow-ſervants be⯑lieved the noiſe, or the obſtruction pro⯑ceeded from that, "becauſe, my lord," continued he, "the door ſeemed to be held only in one place; and as for the noiſe—O! Lord! I never ſhall forget what a noiſe it was it was a thouſand times louder than what any ſtones could make."

Ferdinand liſtened to this narrative in ſilent wonder!—wonder, not occaſioned by the adventure deſcribed, but by the hardihood and raſhneſs of the marquis, who had thus expoſed to the inſpection of his people, that dreadful ſpot which he knew from experience to be the haunt of an injured ſpirit; a ſpot which he had hitherto ſcrupulouſly concealed from human eye, and human curioſity; and which, for ſo many years, he had not dared even himſelf to enter. Peter went on, but was preſently interrupted [229] by a hollow moan, which ſeemed to come from beneath the ground. "Bleſ⯑ſed virgin!" exclaimed he: Ferdinand liſtened in awful expectation. A groan longer and more dreadful was repeated, when Peter ſtarting from his ſeat, and ſnatching up the lamp, ruſhed out of the dungeon. Ferdinand, who was left in total darkneſs, followed to the door, which the affrighted Peter had not ſtopped to faſten, but which had cloſed, and ſeemed held by a lock that could be opened only on the outſide. The ſenſa⯑tions of Ferdinand, thus compelled to remain in the dungeon, are not to be imagined. The horrors of the night, whatever they were to be, he was to en⯑dure alone. By degrees, however, he ſeemed to acquire the valour of deſpair. The ſounds were repeated at intervals for near an hour, when ſilence returned, and remained undiſturbed during the reſt of the night. Ferdinand was alarm⯑ed by no appearance; and at length, [230] overcome with anxiety and watching, he ſunk to repoſe.

On the following morning Peter re⯑turned to the dungeon, ſcarcely know⯑ing what to expect, yet expecting ſome⯑thing very ſtrange, perhaps the murder—perhaps the ſupernatural diſappear⯑ance of his young lord. Full of theſe wild apprehenſions, he dared not ven⯑ture thither alone, but perſuaded ſome of the ſervants, to whom he had commun⯑icated his terrors, to accompany him to the door. As they paſſed along he re⯑collected, that in the terror of the pre⯑ceding night he had forgot to faſten the door, and he now feared that his priſoner had made his eſcape without a miracle. He hurried to the door, and his ſurprize was extreme to find it faſtened. It in⯑ſtantly ſtruck him that this was the work of a ſupernatural power; when, on calling aloud, he was anſwered by a voice from within. His abſurd fear did not ſuffer him to recognize the voice [231] of Ferdinand, neither did he ſuppoſe that Ferdinand had failed to eſcape; he, therefore, attributed the voice to the being he had heard on the preced⯑ing night; and ſtarting back from the door, fled with his companions to the great hall. There the uproar occaſion⯑ed by their entrance called together a number of perſons, amongſt whom was the marquis, who was ſoon informed of the cauſe of alarm, with a long hiſtory of the circumſtances of the foregoing night. At this information, the mar⯑quis aſſumed a very ſtern look, and ſeverely reprimanded Peter for his im⯑prudence, at the ſame time reproaching the other ſervants with their undutiful⯑neſs in thus diſturbing his peace. He reminded them of the condeſcenſion he had practiſed to diſſipate their former terrors, and of the reſult of their exa⯑mination. He then aſſured them, that ſince indulgence had only encouraged intruſion, he would for the future be ſe⯑vere; [232] vere; and concluded with declaring, that the firſt man who ſhould diſturb him with a repetition of ſuch ridiculous ap⯑prehenſions, or ſhould attempt to diſ⯑turb the peace of the caſtle by circula⯑ting theſe idle notions, ſhould be ri⯑gorouſly puniſhed, and baniſhed his do⯑minions. They ſhrunk back at this reproof, and were ſilent. "Bring a torch," ſaid the marquis, "and ſhew me to the dungeon. I will once more condeſcend to confute you."

They obeyed, and deſcended with the marquis, who, arriving at the dun⯑geon, inſtantly threw open the door, and diſcovered to the aſtoniſhed eyes of his attendants—Ferdinand!—He ſtart⯑ed with ſurprize at the entrance of his father thus attended. The marquis darting upon him a ſevere look, which he perfectly comprehended—"Now," cried he, turning to his people, "what do you ſee? My ſon, whom I myſelf placed here, and whoſe voice, which [233] anſwered to your calls, you have tranſ⯑formed into unknown ſounds. "Speak, Ferdinand, and confirm what I ſay." Ferdinand did ſo. "What dreadful ſpectre appeared to you laſt night? Re⯑ſumed the marquis, looking ſtedfaſtly upon him: gratify theſe fellows with a deſcription of it, for they cannot exiſt without ſomething of the marvelous." "None my lord," replied Ferdinand, who too well underſtood the manner of the marquis. "Tis well," cried the marquis, "and this is the laſt time," turning to his attendants, "that your folly ſhall be treated with ſo much le⯑nity." He ceaſed to urge the ſubject, and forbore to aſk Ferdinand even one queſtion before his ſervants, concern⯑ing the nocturnal ſounds deſcribed by Peter. He quitted the dungeon with eyes ſteadily bent in anger and ſuſ⯑picion upon Ferdinand. The marquis ſuſpected that the fears of his ſon had inadvertently betrayed to Peter a part of the ſecret intruſted to him, and [234] he artfully interrogated Peter with ſeeming careleſsneſs, concerning the circumſtances of the preceding night. From him he drew ſuch anſwers as ho⯑nourably acquitted Ferdinand of indiſ⯑cretion, and relieved himſelf from tor⯑menting apprehenſions.

The following night paſſed quietly away; neither ſound nor appearance diſ⯑turbed the peace of Ferdinand. The marquis, on the next day, thought pro⯑per to ſoften the ſeverity of his ſuffer⯑ings, and he was removed from his dun⯑geon to a room ſtrongly grated, but ex⯑poſed to the light of day.

Meanwhile a circumſtance occurred which increaſed the general diſcord, and threatened Emilia with the loſs of her laſt remaining comfort—the advice and conſolation of Madame de Menon. The marchioneſs, whoſe paſſion for the count de Vereza had at length yielded to ab⯑ſence, and the preſſure of preſent cir⯑cumſtances, now beſtowed her ſmiles [235] upon a young Italian cavalier, a viſitor at the caſtle, who poſſeſſed too much of the ſpirit of gallantry to permit a lady to languiſh in vain. The marquis, whoſe mind was occupied with other paſſions, was inſenſible to the miſconduct of his wife, who at all times had the addreſs to diſguiſe her vices beneath the gloſs of virtue and innocent freedom. The intrigue was diſcovered by Madame, who, having one day left a book in the oak parlour, returned thither in ſearch of it. As ſhe opened the door of the apartment, ſhe heard the voice of the ca⯑valier in paſſionate exclamation; and on entering, diſcovered him riſing in ſome confuſion from the feet of the marchio⯑neſs, who, darting at Madame a look of ſeverity, aroſe from her ſeat. Madame, ſhocked at what ſhe had ſeen, inſtantly retired, and buried in her own boſom that ſecret, the diſcovery of which would moſt eſſentially have poiſoned the peace of the marquis. The mar⯑chioneſs, [236] who was a ſtranger to the ge⯑neroſity of ſentiment which actuated Madame de Menon, doubted not that ſhe would ſeize the moment of retalia⯑tion, and expoſe her conduct where moſt ſhe dreaded it ſhould be known. The conſciouſneſs of guilt tortured her with inceſſant fear of diſcovery, and from this period her whole attention was employed to diſlodge from the caſtle, the perſon to whom her character was committed. In this it was not difficult to ſucceed; for the delicacy of Ma⯑dame's feelings made her quick to per⯑ceive, and to withdraw from a treatment unſuitable to the natural dignity of her character. She therefore reſolved to depart from the caſtle; but diſdaining to take an advantage even over a ſuc⯑ceſsful enemy, ſhe determined to be ſilent on that ſubject which would in⯑ſtantly have transferred the triumph from her adverſary to herſelf. When the marquis, on hearing her determination [237] to retire, earneſtly enquired for the mo⯑tive of her conduct, ſhe forbore to ac⯑quaint him with the real one, and left him to incertitude and diſappointment.

To Emilia this deſign occaſioned a diſtreſs which almoſt ſubdued the re⯑ſolution of Madame. Her tears and in⯑treaties ſpoke the artleſs energy of ſor⯑row. In Madame ſhe loſt her only friend; and ſhe too well underſtood the value of that friend, to ſee her depart without feeling and expreſſing the deep⯑eſt diſtreſs. From a ſtrong attachment to the memory of the mother, Madame had been induced to undertake the edu⯑cation of her daughters, whoſe engaging diſpoſitions had perpetuated a kind of hereditary affection. Regard for Emi⯑lia and Julia had alone for ſome time detained her at the caſtle; but this was now ſucceeded by the influence of con⯑ſiderations too powerful to be reſiſted. As her income was ſmall, it was her plan to retire to her native place, which [238] was ſituated in a diſtant part of the iſland, and there take up her reſidence in a convent.

Emilia ſaw the time of Madame's de⯑parture approach with increaſed diſtreſs. They left each other with a mutual ſor⯑row, which did honour to their hearts. When her laſt friend was gone, Emilia wandered through the forſaken apart⯑ments, where ſhe had been accuſtomed to converſe with Julia, and to receive conſolation and ſympathy from her dear inſtructreſs, with a kind of anguiſh known only to thoſe who have experienc⯑ed a ſimilar ſituation. Madame purſued her journey with a heavy heart. Separated from the objects of her fondeſt affecti⯑ons, and from the ſcenes and occupati⯑ons for which long habit had formed claims upon her heart, ſhe ſeemed with⯑out intereſt and without motive for ex⯑ertion. The world appeared a wide and gloomy deſert, where no heart welcom⯑ed her with kindneſs—no countenance [239] brightened into ſmiles at her approach. It was many years ſince ſhe quitted Calini—and in the interval, death had ſwept away the few friends ſhe left there. The future preſented a melancholy ſcene; but ſhe had the retroſpect of years ſpent in honourable endeavour and ſtrict inte⯑grity, to cheer her heart and encourage her hopes.

But her utmoſt endeavours were una⯑ble to repreſs the anxiety with which the uncertain fate of Julia overwhelmed her. Wild and terrific images aroſe to her imagination. Fancy drew the ſcene;—ſhe deepened the ſhades; and the terrific aſpect of the objects ſhe preſented was heighted by the obſcurity which in⯑volved them.