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SICILIAN ROMAN CE.


S.
CA
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SICILIAN ROMANCE.
2n rº
BY THE AUTHORESS OF THE
CAs TI.Es of ATHL IN AND DUNBAYNE.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
------es
volume II.
-
- -
“I could a Tale unfºld.”
L O N D o N:
PR IN T E D F o R. T. Hook HA M, N Ew B O N D - 3 T R E E T.
M D C CXC II ,
Tr, Đ a


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i
A
SICILIAN ROMANCE.
CHAPTER VII.
OWARDS the close of day Ma.
dame de Menon arrived at a small
village situated among the mountains,
where she purposed to pass the night.
The evening was remarkably fine, and
the romantic beauty of the surrounding
scenery invited her to walk. She follow-
ed the windings of a stream, which was
lost at some distance amongst luxuriant
groves of cheſnut. The rich colouring of
evening glowed through the dark foliage,
which spreading a pensive gloom around,
offered a scene congenial to the present
temper of her mind, and she entered the
shades. Her thoughts, affected by the
. Vol. II. B ruſ.


( 2 )
ſurrounding objects, gradually funk into
a pleasing and complacent melancholy,
and she was insensibly led on. She still
followed the course of the stream to where
the deep shades retired, and the scene
again opening to day, yielded to her a
view so various and sublime, that she
paused in thrilling and delightful won-
der. A group of wild and grotesque
rocks rose in a semicircular form, and
their fantastic shapes exhibited Nature in
her most sublime and striking attitudes.
Here her vast magnificence elevated
the mind of the beholder to enthu-
siasm. Fancy caught the thrilling sen-
sation, and at her touch the towering
steeps became shaded with unreal
glooms; the caves more darkly frowned
—the projecting cliffs assumed a more
terrific aspect, and the wild overhanging
shrubs waved to the gale in deeper
murmurs. The scene inspired Ma-
daine with reverential awe, and her
thoughts involuntarily rose, "from Na-
ture up to Nature's God." The last dy-
in or
ing


( 3 )
ing gleams of day tinted the rocks and
shone upon the waters, which retired
through a rugged channel and were lost
afar among the receding cliffs. While she
listened to their distant murmur, a voice
of liquid and melodious sweetness arose
from among the rocks; it sung an air,
whose melancholy expression awakened
all her attention, and captivated her heart.
The tones swelled and died faintly away
among the clear, yet languishing echoes
which the rocks repeated with an effect
like that of enchantment. Madame
looked around in search of the sweet
warbler, and observed at some distance
a peasant girl seated on a small projec-
tion of the rock, overshadowed by droop-
ing sycamores. She moved slowly to-
wards the spot, which she had almost
reached, when the sound of her steps
startled and silenced the syren, who,
on perceiving a stranger, arose in an
attitude to depart. The voice of Ma-
dame arrested her, and she approach-
B 2 ed.


( 4 ) -
ed. Language cannot paint the sensa-
tion of Madame, when, in the disguise
of a peasant girl, she distinguished the
features of Julia, whose eyes lighted up
with sudden recollection, and who sunk
into her arms overcome with joy. When
their first emotions were subsided, and
Julia had received answers to her enqui-
ries concerning Ferdinand and Emilia,
she led Madame to the place of her con-
cealment. This was a solitary cottage,
in a close valley surrounded by moun-
tains, whose cliffs appeared wholly inac-
cessible to mortal foot. The deep soli-
tude of the scene dissipated at once Ma-
dame's wonder that Julia had so long
remained undiscovered, and excited sur-
prize how she had been able to explore
a spot thus deeply sequestered ; but
Madame observed with extreme con-
cern, that the countenance of Julia no
longer wore the smile of health and
gaiety. Her fine features had received
the impressions not only of melancholy,
but


( ; )
•
but of grief. Madame sighed as she
gazed, and read too plainly the cause of
the change. Julia understood that sigh,
and answered it with her tears. She
pressed the hand of Madame in mourn-
ful silence to her lips, and her cheeks
were suffused with a crimson glow. At
length, recovering herself, “ I have
much, my dear Madam, to tell," said
she, “ and much to explain, 'ere you
will admit me again to that esteem of
which I was once so justly proud. I
had no resource from misery, but in
flight; and of that I could not make
you a confidant, without meanly in-
volving you in its disgrace." "Say no
more, my love, on the subject," replied
Madame; "with respect to myself, I ad-
mired your conduct, and felt severely
for your situation. Rather let me hear
by what means you effected your escape,
and what has since befallen you."—
Julia paused a moment, as if to stifle her
rising emotion, and then commenced her
narrative. -
B 3. &g You


( 6 )
“You are already acquainted with the
secret of that night, so fatal to my
peace. I recall the remembrance of it
with an anguish which I cannot con-
ceal ; and why should I wish its con-
cealment, since I mourn for one, whose
noble qualities justified all my admi-
ration, and deserved more than my
feeble praise can bestow; the idea of
whom will be the last to linger in
my mind till death shuts up this pain-
ful scene." Her voice trembled, and
she paused. After a few moments she
resumed her tale. "I will spare my-
self the pain of recurring to scenes
with which you are not unacquainted,
and proceed to those which more imme-
diately attract your interest. Caterina,
my faithful servant, you know, attend-
ed me in my confinement; to her kind-
ness I owe my escape. She obtained
from her lover, a servant in the castle,
that assistance which gave me liberty.
One night when Carlo, who had been
appointed my guard, was asleep, Nicolo
crept


( 7 )
crept into his chamber, and stole from
him the keys of my prison. He had
previously procured a ladder of ropes.
O! I can never forget my emotions,
when in the dead hour of that night,
which was meant to precede the day of
my sacrifice, I heard the door of my
prison unlock, and found myself half
at liberty My trembling limbs with
difficulty supported me as I followed
Caterina to the saloon, the windows of
which being low and near to the terrace,
suited our purpose. To the terrace we
easily got, where Nicolo awaited us with
the rope ladder. He fastened it to the
ground; and having climbed to the top
of the parapet, quickly slided down
on the other side, There he held it
while we ascended and descended ; and
I soon breathed the air of freedom again.
But the apprehension of being retaken
was still too powerful to permit a full
enjoyment of my escape. It was my
plan to proceed to the place of my
B 4 faith-


( 3 )
faithful Caterina's nativity, where she
had assured me I might find a safe asy-
lum in the cottage of her parents, from
whom, as they had never seen me, I
might conceal my birth. This place,
she said, was entirely unknown to the
marquis, who had hired her at Naples
only a few months before, without any
enquiries concerning her family. She
had informed me that the village was
many leagues distant from the castle,
but that she was very well acquainted
with the road. At the foot of the walls
we left Nicolo, who returned to the
castle to prevent suspicion, but with an
intention to leave it at a less dangerous
time, and repair to Farrini to his good
Caterina. I parted from him with many
thanks, and gave him a small diamond
cross, which, for that purpose, I had
taken from the jewels sent to me for
wedding ornaments."
CHAP-


( 9 }
- CHAPTER VIII.
gº BOUT a quarter of a league from
the walls we stopped, and I as-
sumed the habit in which you now see me.
My own dress was fastened to some hea-
vy stones, and Caterina threw it into the
stream, near the almond grove, whose
murmurings you have so often admired.
The fatigue and hardship I endured
in this journey, performed almost wholly
on foot, at any other time would have
overcome me; but my mind was so.
occupied by the danger I was avoiding,
that these lesser evils were disregarded.
We arrived in safety at the cottage,
which stood at a little distance from,
the village of Farrini, and were re-
ceived by Caterina's parents with some
surprize and more kindness. I soon
perceived it would be useless, and
even dangerous, to attempt to preserve
the character I personated. In the eyes.
of Caterina's mother I read a degree of
B 5 ſu-


( 10 )
ſurprise and admiration which declared
she believed me to be of superior rank; I,
therefore, thought it more prudent to
win her fidelity by entrusting her with
my secret than, by endeavouring to con-
ceal it, leave it to be discovered by
her curiosity or discernment. Accord-
ingly I made known my quality and
my distress, and received strong as-
surances of assistance and attachment. For
further security, I removed to this se-
questered spot. The cottage we are now in
belongs to a sister of Caterina, upon whose
faithfulness I have been hitherto fully
justified in relying. But I am not even
here secure from apprehension, since for
several days past horsemen of a suspicious
appearance have been observed near
Marcy, which is only half a league from
hence."
Here Julia closed her narration, to
which Madame had listened with a mix-
ture of surprise and pity, which her eyes
sufficiently discovered. The last circum-
- - ſtance
t


( 11 )
~
ſtance of the narrative seriously alarmed
her. She acquainted Julia with the pur-
suit which the duke had undertaken ;
and she did not hesitate to believe it a
party of his people whom Julia had de-
scribed. Madame, therefore, earnestly
advised her to quit her present situation,
and to accompany her in disguise to the
monastery of St. Augustin, where she
would find a secure retreat; because,
even if her place of refuge should be dis-
covered, the superior authority of the
church would protect her. Julia ac-
cepted the proposal with much joy. As
it was necessary that Madame should
sleep at the village where she had left
her servants and horses, it was agreed
that at break of day she should return to
the cottage, where Julia would await
her. Madame took an affectionate leave
of Julia, whose heart, in spite of reason,
funk when she saw her depart, though
but for the necessary interval of repose.
At the dawn of day Madame arose.
B 6 Her


[ 12 I
Her ſervants, who were hired for the
journey, were strangers to Julia, from
them, therefore, she had nothing to ap-
prehend. She reached the cottage before
sun-rise, having left her people at some
little distance. Her heart foreboded evil,
when, on knocking at the door, no an-
swer was returned. She knocked again,
and still all was silent. Through the
casement she could discover no object,
amidst the grey obscurity of the dawn.
She now opened the door, and to
her inexpressible surprise and distress,
found the cottage empty. She pro-
ceeded to a small inner room, where lay
a part of Julia's apparel. The bed had no
appearance of having been slept in, and
every moment served to heighten and
confirm her apprehensions. While she
pursued the search, she suddenly heard
the trampling of feet at the cottage door,
and presently after some people entered.
Her fears for Julia now yielded to those
for her own safety, and she was undeter-
mined


( 13 )
-
mined whether to discover herself, or
remain in her present situation, when
she was relieved from her irresolution
by the appearance of Julia.
On the return of the good woman,
who had accompanied Madame to the
village on the preceding night, Julia went
to the cottage at Farrini. Her grate-
ful heart would not suffer her to depart
without taking leave of her faithful
friends, thanking them for their kind-
ness, and informing them of her future
prospects. They had prevailed upon
her to spend the few intervening hours,
at this cot, whence she had just risen
to meet Madame.
They now hastened to the spot where
the horses were stationed, and commenced
their journey. For some leagues they
travelled in silence and thought, over
a wild and picturesque country. The
landscape was tinted with rich and vari-
gated hues; and the autumnal lights,
which streamed upon the hills, produced
a ſpi-


( 14 )
a ſpirited and beautiful effect upon the
scenery. All the glories of the vin-
tage rose to their view: the purple
grapes flushed through the dark green of
the surrounding foliage, and the pros-
pect glowed with luxuriance.
They now descended into a deep val-
ley, which appeared more like a scene of
airy enchantment than reality. Along
the bottom flowed a clear majestic
stream, whose banks were adorned with
thick groves of orange and citron trees.
Julia surveyed the scene in silent com-
placency, but her eye quickly caught
an object which changed with instanta-
neous shock the tone of her feelings.
She observed a party of horsemen wind-
ing down the side of a hill behind her.
Their uncommon speed alarmed her,
and she pushed her horse into a gallop.
On looking back Madame de Menon
clearly perceived they were in pursuit.
Soon after the men suddenly appeared
from behind a dark grove within a small
diſtance


( 15 )
diſtance of them; and upon their nearer
approach, Julia overcome with fatigue
and fear, sunk breathless from her horse.
She was saved from the ground by one of
the pursuers, who caught her in his arms.
Madame, with the rest of the party, were
quickly overtaken; and as soon as Julia
revived, they were bound, and re-con-
ducted to the hill from whence they had
descended. Imagination only can paint
the anguish of Julia's mind, when she saw
herself thus delivered up to the power of
her enemy. Madame, in the surround-
ing troop, discovered none of the mar-
quis's people, and they were therefore
evidently in the hands of the duke.
After travelling for some hours, they
quitted the main road, and turned into
a narrow winding dell, overshadowed
by high trees, which almost excluded
the light. The gloom of the place in-
spired terrific images. Julia trembled
as she entered; and her emotion was
heightened, when she perceived at some
- diſtance,


( 16 J
diſtance, through the long perspective
of the trees, a large ruinous mansion.
The gloom of the surrounding shades
partly concealed it from her view; but,
as she drew near, each forlorn and de-
caying feature of the fabric was gradually
disclosed, and struck upon her heart a
horror such as she had never before ex-
perienced. The broken battlements,
enwreathed with ivy, proclaimed the
fallen grandeur of the place, while the
shattered vacant window frames exhibited.
its desolation, and the high grass that
overgrew the threshold, seemed to say
how long it was since mortal foot had
entered. The place appeared fit only for
the purposes of violence and destruction:
and the unfortunate captives, when they
stopped at its gates, felt the full force
of its horrors.
They were taken from their horses,
and conveyed to an interior part of the
building, which, if it had once been a
chamber, no longer deserved the name.
Here
|


( 17 )
:
Here the guard said they were directed
to detain them till the arrival of their
lord, who had appointed this the place of
rendezvous. He was expected to meet
them in a few hours, and these were
hours of indescribable torture to Julia.
and Madame. From the furious pas-
sions of the duke, exasperated by fre-
quent disappointment, Julia had every
evil to apprehend; and the loneliness of
the spot he had chosen, enabled him to
perpetrate any designs, however violent.
For the first time, she repented that she
had left her father's house. Madame
wept over her, but comfort she had none
to give. The day closed—the duke did
not appear, and the fate of Julia yet
hung in perilous uncertainty. At length,
from a window of the apartment she
was in, she distinguished a glimmering
of torches among the trees, and pre-
sently after the clattering of hoofs con-
vinced her the duke was approaching.
Her heart funk at the found; and throw-
1ng
*


( 18 )
ing her arms round Madame's neck, she
resigned herself to despair. She was
soon roused by some men, who came to
announce the arrival of their lord. In
a few moments the place, which had
lately been so silent, echoed with tumult;
and a sudden blaze of light illumin-
ing the fabric, served to exhibit more
forcibly its striking horrors. Julia ran to
the window; and in a fort of court be-
low, perceived a group of men dismount-
ing from their horses. The torches
shed a partial light; and while she
anxiously looked round for the person
of the duke, the whole party entered the
mansion. She listened to a confused up-
roar of voices, which sounded from the
room beneath, and soon after it sunk
into a low murmur, as if some matter of
importance was in agitation. For some
moments she sat in lingering terror,
when she heard footsteps advancing to-
wards the chamber, and a sudden gleam
of torch-light flashed upon the walls.
“ Wretched


( 19 )
“ Wretched girl | I have at least secured
you !" said a cavalier, who now entered
the room. He stopped as he perceived
Julia ; and turning to the men who
stood without, "Are these," said he the,
"fugitives you have taken º’ "Yes,
my lord."—“Then you have deceived
yourselves, and misled me; this is not
my daughter." These words struck the
sudden light of truth and joy upon the
heart of Julia, whom terror had before
rendered almost lifeleſs ; and who had
not perceived that the person entering
was a stranger. Madame now stepped for-
ward, and an explanation ensued, when
it appeared that the stranger was the
marquis Murani, the father of the fair
fugitive whom the duke had before
mistaken for Julia.
The appearance and the evident flight
of Julia, had deceived the banditti em-
ployed by this nobleman, into a belief
that the was the object of their search,
and had occasioned her this unneceſ-
ſary -


( 20 )
ſary distress. But the joy she now felt
on finding herself thus unexpectedly at
liberty, surpassed, if possible, her pre-
ceding terrors. The marquis made Ma-
dame and Julia all the reparation in
his power, by offering immediately to
reconduct them to the main road, and
to guard them to some place of safety
for the night. This offer was eagerly
and thankfully accepted; and though
faint from distress, fatigue, and want of
sustenance, they joyfully remounted
their horses, and by torch-light quitted
the mansion. After some hours travel-
ling they arrived at a small town, where
they procured the accommodation so
necessary to their support and repose.
Here their guides quitted them to con-
tinue their search.
They arose with the dawn, and con-
tinued their journey, continually terri-
fied with the apprehension of encounter-
ing the duke's people. At noon they
arrived at Azulia, from whence the
monastery,


( 21 )
monaſtery, or abbey of St. Augustin,
was distant only a few miles. Madame
wrote to the Padre Abate, to whom she
was somewhat related, and soon after
received an answer very favourable to
her wishes. The fame evening they re-
paired to the abbey; where Julia, once
more relieved from the fear of pursuit,
offered up a prayer of gratitude to hea-
ven, and endeavoured to calm her for-
rows by devotion. She was received by
the abbot with a fort of paternal affec-
tion, and by the nuns with officious
kindness. Comforted by these circum-
stances, and by the tranquil appearance
of every thing around her, she retired to
rest, and passed the night in peaceful
slumbers.
In her present situation she found
much novelty to amuse, and much se–
rious matter to interest her mind. En-
tendered by distress, she easily yielded to
the pensive manners of her companions,
and to the serene uniformity of a monaſ-
f tlC


( 22 )
tic life. She loved to wander through
the lonely cloisters, and high-arched
aisles, whose long perspectives retired
in simple grandeur, diffusing a holy
calm around. She found much plea-
sure in the conversation of the nuns,
many of whom were uncommonly ami-
able, and the dignified sweetness of
whose manners formed a charm irre-
sistibly attractive. The soft melancholy
impressed upon their countenances, pour-
trayed the situation of their minds, and
excited in Julia a very interesting mix-
ture of pity and esteem. The affection-
ate appellation of sister, and all that en-
dearing tenderness which they so well
know how to display, and of which they
so well understand the effect, they be-
stowed on Julia, in the hope of winning
her to become one of their order.
Soothed by the presence of Madame,
the assiduity of the nuns, and by the
stillness and sanctity of the place, her
mind gradually recovered a degree of
complacency to which it had long been
a ſtran-


( 23 )
a ſtranger. But notwithstanding all her
efforts, the idea of Hippolitus would at
intervals return upon her memory with a
force that at once subdued her fortitude,
and sunk her in a temporary despair.
Among the holy sisters, Julia distin-
guished one, the singular fervor of whose
devotion, and the pensive air of whose
countenance, softened by the languor of
illness, attracted her curiosity, and ex-
cited a strong degree of pity. The nun,
by a fort of sympathy, seemed particu-
larly inclined towards Julia, which she
discovered by innumerable acts of kind-
ness, such as the heart can quickly un-
derstand and acknowledge, although
description can never reach them. In
conversation with her, Julia endeavour-
ed, as far as delicacy would permit,
to prompt an explanation of that more
than common dejection which shaded
those features, where beauty, touched
by resignation and sublimed by religion,
shone forth with mild and lambent
lustre.
The


( 24 )
The duke de Luovo, after having
been detained for some weeks by the
fever which his wounds had produced,
and his irritated passions had much pro-
longed, arrived at the castle of Mazzini.
When the marquis saw him return, and
recollected the futility of those exer-
tions, by which he had boastingly pro-
mised to recover Julia, the violence of
his nature spurned the disguise of art,
and burst forth in contemptuous im-
peachment of the valour and discern-
ment of the duke, who soon retorted
with equal fury. The consequence
might have been fatal, had not the
ambition of the marquis subdued the
sudden irritation of his inferior pas-
sions, and induced him to soften the
severity of his accusations, by sub-
sequent concessions. The duke, whose
passion for Julia was heightened by the
difficulty which opposed it, admitted
such concessions as in other circum-
stances he would have rejected; and
thus each, conquered by the predomi-
nant


( 25 )
nant passion of the moment, submitted
to be the slave of his adversary.
Emilia was at length released from
the confinement she had so unjustly suf-
fered. She had now the use of her old
apartments, where, solitary and dejected,
her hours moved heavily along, embit-
tered by incessant anxiety for Julia,
and by regret for the lost society of
Madame. The marchioness, whose plea-
sures suffered a temporary suspense du-
ring the present confusion at the castle,
exercised the ill-humoured caprice,
which disappointment and lassitude in-
spired, upon her remaining subject.
Emilia was condemned to suffer, and
to endure without the privilege of com-
plaining. In reviewing the events of
the last few weeks, she saw those most
dear to her banished, or imprisoned by
the secret influence of a woman, every
feature of whose character was exactly
opposite to that of the amiable mo-
ther she had been appointed to succeed.
Vol. II. C The


( 26 )
The ſearch after Julia still continued,
and was still unsuccessful. The asto-
nishment of the marquis increased with
his disappointments; for where could
Julia, ignorant of the country, and des-
titute of friends, have possibly found an
asylum ? He swore with a terrible oath
to revenge on her head, whenever she
should be found, the trouble and vexa-
tion she now caused him. But he agreed
with the duke to relinquish for a while
the search; till Julia, gaining confi-
dence from the observation of this cir-
cumstance, might gradually suppose her-
self secure from molestation, and thus
be induced to emerge from conceal-
Illent.
CHAP.


( 27 )
CHAPTER IX.
EANWHILE Julia, sheltered in
the obscure recesses of St. Au-
gustin endeavoured to attain a degree of
that tranquillity, which so strikingly cha-
racterized the scenes around her. The
abbey of St. Augustin was a large mag-
nificent mass of Gothic architecture,
whose gloomy battlements, and majes-
tic towers, arose in proud sublimity
from amid the darkness of the surround-
ing shades. It was founded in the
twelfth century, and stood a proud
monument of monkish superstition and
princely munificence. In the times
when Italy was agitated by internal com-
motions, and persecuted by foreign in- .
vaders, this edifice afforded an asylum
to many noble Italian emigrants, who
here consecrated the rest of their days
to religion. At their death they en-
riched the monastery with the treasures
which it had enabled them to secure.
C 2. The


(. 23, )
The view of this building revived in
the mind of the beholder the memory
of past ages. The manners and charac-
ters which distinguished them arose to
his fancy, and through the long lapse of
years he discriminated those customs
and manners which formed so striking
a contrast to the modes of his own times.
The rude manners, the boisterous pas-
sions, the daring ambition, and the gross
indulgences which formerly characteri-
zed the priest, the nobleman, and the
sovereign, had now begun to yield to
learning—the charms of refined conver-
sation—political intrigue and private ar-
tifices. Thus do the scenes of life vary
with the predominant passions of man-
kind, and with the progress of civiliza-
tion. The dark clouds of prejudice
break away before the fun of science,
and gradually dissolving, leave the
brightening hemisphere to the influence
of his beams. But through the pre-
sent scene appeared only a few scattered
rays,


( 29 ) -
rays, which served to shew more forcibly
the vast and heavy masses that concealed
the form of truth. Here prejudice, not
reason, suspended the influence of the
passions; and scholastic learning, myste-
rious philosophy, and crafty sanctity,
supplied the place of wisdom, simplicity,
and pure devotion. -
At the abbey, solitude and stillness,
conspired with the solemn aspect of the
pile to impress the mind with religious
awe. The dim glass of the high-arched
windows, stained with the colouring of
monkish fictions, and shaded by the
thick trees that environed the edifice,
spread around a sacred gloom, which
inspired the beholder with congenial
feelings.
As Julia mused through the walks,
and surveyed this vast monument of
barbarous superstition, it brought to her
recollection an ode which she often re-
peated with melancholy pleasure, as the
composition of Hippolitus.
C 3 SUPER.


( 30 )
S U P E R S T I T I O N.
an Op-e.
HIGH mid Alverna's awful steeps,
Eternal shades, and silence dwell,
Save, when the gale resounding sweeps,
Sad strains are faintly heard to swell ;
Enthron'd amid the wild impending rocks,
Involved in clouds, and brooding future woe,
The demon Superstition Nature shocks,
And waves her sceptre o'er the world below.
Around her throne, amid the mingling glooms,
Wild—hideous forms are slowly seen to glide;
She bids them fly to shade earth's brightest blooms,
And spread the blast of Desolation wide.
See 1 in the darkened air their fiery course 1
The sweeping rain settles o'er the land,
Terror leads on their steps with madd'ning force,
And Death and Vengeance close the ghastly band!
Mark the purple streams that flow!
Mark the deep empassioned woe!
Frantic Fury's dying groan
Virtue's sigh, and Sorrow's moan
Wide—wide the phantom's swell the loaded air
With shrieks of anguish—madness and despair |
Ceaſe


( 31 )
Ceaſe your ruin spectres dire
Cease your wild terrific sway !
Turn your steps—and check your ire,
Yield to peace the mourning day !
She wept to the memory of times
past, and there was a romantic sadness
in her feelings, luxurious and indefina-
ble. Madame behaved to Julia with
the tenderest attention, and endeavoured
to withdraw her thoughts from their
mournful subject, by promoting that
taste for literature and music, which was
so suitable to the powers of her mind.
But an object seriously interesting
now obtained that regard, which those
of mere amusement failed to attract.
Her favourite nun, for whom her love
and esteem daily encreased, seemed de-
clining under the pressure of a secret
grief. Julia was deeply affected with
her situation, and though she was not
empowered to administer consolation to
her sorrows, she endeavoured to miti-
gate the sufferings of illness. She nursed
- C 4 her


( 3.2 )
her with unremitting care, and seemed
to seize with avidity the temporary
opportunity of escaping from herself.
The nun appeared perfectly reconciled
to her fate, and exhibited during her
illness, so much sweetness, patience, and
resignation, as affected all around her
with pity and love. Her angelic mild-
ness, and steady fortitude, characterized
the beatification of a faint, rather than
the death of a mortal. Julia watched
every turn of her disorder with the ut-
most solicitude, and her care was at
length rewarded by the amendment of
Cornelia. Her health gradually im-
proved, and she attributed this cir-
cumstance to the assiduity and tenderness
of her young friend, to whom her heart
now expanded in warm and unreserved
affection. At length Julia ventured to
solicit what she had so long and so ear-
nestly wished for, and Cornelia unfolded
the history of her sorrows. -
“Of the life which your care has
pro-


( 33 )
prolonged," said she, "it is but just
that you should know the events;
though those events are neither new,
or striking, and possess little power
- of interesting persons unconnected with
them. To me they have, however,
been unexpectedly dreadful in effect,
and my heart assures me, that to you
they will not be indifferent.
"I am the unfortunate descendant of
an ancient and illustrious Italian family.
In early childhood I was deprived of a
mother's care, but the tenderness of my
surviving parent made her loss, as to my
welfare, almost unfelt. Suffer me here
to do justice to the character of my no-
ble father. He united in an eminent.
degree, the mild virtues of social life,
with the firm unbending qualities of the
noble Romans, his ancestors, from whom
he was proud to trace his descent. Their
merit, indeed, continually dwelt on his
tongue, and their actions he was always
endeavouring to imitate, as far as was
C 5 conſiſt-


- ( 34 )
conſiſtent with the character of his times,
and with the limited sphere in which he
moved. The recollection of his virtue
elevates my mind, and fills my heart
with a noble pride, which even the cold
walls of a monastery have not been able
to subdue.
My father's fortune was unsuitable to
his rank. That his son might hereafter
be enabled to support the dignity of his
family, it was necessary for me to assume
the veil. Alas! that heart was unfit to
be offered at an heavenly shrine, which
was already devoted to an earthly object.
My affections had long been engaged
by the younger son of a neighbour-
ing nobleman, whose character and ac-
complishments attracted my early love,
and confirmed my latest esteem. Our
families were intimate, and our youth-
ful intercourse occasioned an attach-
ment, which strengthened and expanded
with our years. He solicited me of my
father, but there appeared an insuperable
barrier


( 35 )
r
barrier to our union. The family of
my lover laboured under a circumstance
of similar distress with that of my own
—it was noble—but poor My father,
who was ignorant of the strength of my
affection, and who considered a mar-
riage formed in poverty as destructive
to happiness, prohibited his suit.
Touched with chagrin and disappoint-
ment, he immediately entered into
the service of his Neapolitan majesty,
and sought in the tumultuous scenes of
glory, a refuge from the pangs of diſ.
appointed passion.
To me, whose hours moved in one
round of dull uniformity—who had no
pursuit to interest—no variety to ani-
mate my drooping spirits—to me the
effort of forgetfulness was ineffectual.
The loved idea of Angelo still rose
upon my fancy, and its powers of cap-
tivation, heightened by absence, and,
perhaps, even by despair, pursued me
with incessant grief. I concealed in
C 6 ſilence


( 36 )
filence the anguish that preyed upon
my heart, and resigned myself a willing
victim to monastic austerity. But I was
now threatened with a new evil, terrible
and unexpected. I was so unfortunate
as to attract the admiration of the mar-
quis Marinelli, and he applied to my
father. He was illustrious at once in
birth and fortune, and his visits could
only be unwelcome to me. Dreadful
was the moment in which my father
disclosed to me the proposal. My dis-
tress, which I vainly endeavoured to
command, discovered the exact situation
of my heart, and my father was af-
fected.
After a long and awful pause, he ge-
nerously released me from my sufferings,
by leaving it to my choice to accept the
marquis, or to assume the veil. I fell
at his feet, overcome by the noble disin-
terestedness of his conduct, and instantly
accepted the latter.
This affair removed entirely the dis-
guiſe


( 37 )
guiſe with which I had hitherto guarded
my heart;—my brother—my generous
brother 1 learned the true state of its af.
fections. He saw the grief which preyed
upon my health ; he observed it to
my father, and he nobly—oh how no-
bly! to restore my happiness, desired to
resign a part of the estate which had al-
ready descended to him in right of his
mother. "Alas! Hippolitus," conti-
nued Cornelia, deeply sighing, "thy
virtues deserved a better fate."
"Hippolitus !" said Julia, in a tre-
mulous accent, "Hippolitus, count de
Vereza I’’ “ The fame," replied the
nun, in a tone of surprize. Julia was
speechless; tears, however, came to her
relief. The astonishment of Cornelia.
for some moment surpassed expression;
at length a gleam of recollection crossed
her mind, and she too well understood
the scene before her. Julia, after some
time revived, when Cornelia tenderly
approaching her, "Do I then embrace
my


( 38 )
f
my sister!" said she, "United in senti-
ment, are we also united in misfor-
tune 2'' Julia answered with her sighs,
and their tears flowed in mournful sym-
pathy together. At length Cornelia re-
sumed her narrative.
"My father, struck with the conduct
of Hippolitus, paused upon the offer.
The alteration in my health was too ob-
vious to escape his notice; the conflict
between pride and parental tenderness,
held him for some time in indecision,
but the latter finally subdued every op-
posing feeling, and he yielded his con-
sent to my marriage with Angelo. The
sudden transition from grief to joy was
almost too much for my feeble frame;
judge then what must have been the ef-
fect of the dreadful reverse, when the
news arived that Angelo had fallen in
a foreign engagement! Let me oblite-
rate, if possible, the impression of sensa-
tions so dreadful. The sufferings of
my brother, whose generous heart could
ſo
-


( 39 )
ſo finely feel for another's woe, were on
this occasion inferior only to my own.
After the first excess of my grief was
subsided, I desired to retire from a world
which had tempted me only with illu-
sive visions of happiness, and to remove
from those scenes which prompted re-
collection, and perpetuated my distress.
My father applauded my resolution, and
I immediately was admitted a noviciate
into this monastery, with the Superior of
which my father had in his youth been
acquainted.
At the expiration of the year I re-
ceived the veil. Oh I well remember
with what perfect resignation, with what
comfortable complacency I took those
vows which bound me to a life of re-
tirement, and religious rest.
The high importance of the moment,
the solemnity of the ceremony, the sa-
cred glooms which surrounded me, and
the chilling silence that prevailed when
I uttered the irrevocable vow—all con-
ſpired


( 4o J
ſpired to impress my imagination, and
to raise my views to heaven. When I
knelt at the altar, the sacred flame of
pure devotion glowed in my heart, and
elevated my soul to sublimity. The
world and all its recollections faded
from my mind, and left it to the influ-
ence of a serene and holy enthusiasm.
which no words can describe.
Soon after my noviciation, I had the
misfortune to lose my dear father. In
the tranquillity of this monastery, how-
ever, in the soothing kindness of my
companions, and in devotional exercises,
my sorrows found relief, and the sting
of grief was blunted. My repose was of
short continuance. A circumstance oc-
curred that renewed the misery, which
can now never quit me but in the grave,
to which I look with no fearful appre-
hension, but as a refuge from calamity,
trusting that the power who has seen,
good to affict me, will pardon the im–
perfectness of my devotion, and the too
fre-


( 41 )
frequent wandering of my thoughts to
the object once so dear to me."
As she spoke she raised her eyes,
which beamed with truth and meek as-
surance, to heaven; and the fine devo-
tional suffusion of her countenance seem- .
ed to characterize the beauty of an in-
spired saint.
"One day, Oh! never shall I forget
it, I went as usual to the confessional to
acknowledge my sins, I knelt before
the father with eyes bent towards the
earth, and in a low voice proceeded to
confess, I had but one crime to deplore,
and that was the too tender remem-
brance of him for whom I mourned,
and whose idea impressed upon my
heart, made it a blemished offering to
God.
I was interrupted in my confession
by a sound of deep sobs, and raising my
eyes, Oh God, what were my sensations,
when in the features of the holy father,
I discovered Angelo l His image faded
like


( 4.2 ) *
:
like a vision from my sight, and I
sunk at his feet. On recovering I found
myself on my matrass attended by a
sister, who I discovered by her conver-
sation had no suspicion of the occasion
of my disorder. Indisposition confined
me to my bed for several days; when I
recovered, I saw Angelo no more, and
could almost have doubted my senses,
and believed that an illusion had crossed
my sight, till one day I found in my cell
a written paper. I distinguished at the
first glance the hand writing of Angelo,
that well-known hand which had so
often awakened me to other emoti-
ons. I trembled at the sight; my beat-
ing heart acknowledged the beloved
characters; a cold tremor shook my
frame, and half breathless I seized the
paper. But recollecting myself, I paused
—I hesitated: duty at length yielded
to the strong temptation, and I read the
lines. Oh I those lines 1 prompted by
despair, and bathed in my tears! every
word
*
ſ
-
*-
*
t


( 43 )
word they offered gave a new pang to
my heart, and swelled its anguish almost
beyond endurance. I learned that An-
gelo, severely wounded in a foreign en-
gagement, had been left for dead upon
the field; that his life was saved by
the humanity of a common soldier
of the enemy, who perceiving signs
of existence, conveyed him to a
house. Assistance was soon procured,
but his wounds exhibited the most
alarming symptoms. During several
months he languished between life and
death, till at length his youth and con-
stitution surmounted the conflict, and
he returned to Naples. Here he saw
my brother, whose distress and asto-
nishment at beholding him occasioned
a relation of past círcumstances, and of
the vows I had taken in consequence of
the report of his death. It is unne-
cessary to mention the immediate effect
of this narration; the final one exhibited
a very singular proof of his attachment
and


( 44 )
and deſpair;—he devoted himself to a
monastic life, and chose this abbey for
the place of his residence, because it
contained the object most dear to his
affections. His letter informed me that
he had purposely avoided discovering
himself, endeavouring to be contented
with the opportunities which occurred of
silently observing me, till chance had
occasioned the foregoing interview.—
But that since its effects had been so
mutually painful, he would relieve me
from the apprehension of a similar dis-
tress, by assuring me, that I should see
him no more. He was faithful to his
promise; from that day I have never
seen him, and am even ignorant whe-
ther he yet inhabits this asylum; the ef-
forts of religious fortitude, and the just
fear of exciting curiosity, having with-
held me from enquiry. But the moment
of our last interview has been equally
fatal to my peace and to my health, and
I truſt


( 45 )
I truſt I shall ere very long be released
from the agonizing ineffectual struggles
occasioned by the consciousness of sacred
vows imperfectly performed, and by
earthly affections not wholly subdued."
Cornelia ceased, and Julia, who had
listened to the narrative in deep atten-
tion, at once admired, loved, and pitied
her. As the sister of Hippolitus, her
heart expanded towards her, and it was
now inviolably attached by the fine ties
of sympathetic sorrow. Similarity of
sentiment and suffering united them in
the firmestbonds of friendship; and thus,
from reciprocation of thought and feel-
ing, flowed a pure and sweet consola-
tion.
Julia loved to indulge in the mourn-
ful pleasure of conversing of Hippolitus,
and when thus engaged, the hours crept
unheeded by. A thousand questions
she repeated concerning him, but to
those most interesting to her, she received
Il O


( 46 )
no consolatory answer. Cornelia, who
had heard of the fatal transaction at the
castle of Mazzini, deplored with her its
too certain consequence.
CHAP-


( 47 )
CHAPTER X.
ULIA accustomed herself to walk in
the fine evenings under the shade of
the high trees that environed the abbey.
The dewy coolness of the air refreshed
her. The innumerable roseate tints
which the parting fun-beams reflected
on the rocks above, and the fine vermil
glow diffused over the romantic scene
beneath, softly fading from the eye, as
the night-shades fell, excited sensations
of a sweet and tranquil nature, and
soothed her into a temporary forgetful-
ness of her sorrows.
The deep solitude of the place sub-
dued her apprehension, and one evening
she ventured with Madame de Menon
to lengthen her walk. They returned
to the abbey without having seen a hu-
man being, except a friar of the monas-
tery, who had been to a neighbouring
town to order provision. On the fol-
lowing


t 48 )
lowing evening they repeated their
Walk; and, engaged in conversation,
rambled to a Considerable distance from
the abbey. The distant bell of the mo-
nastery sounding for vespers, reminded
them of the hour, and looking round,
they perceived the extremity of the
wood. They were returning towards
the abbey, when struck by the appear-
ance of some majestic columns which
were distinguishable between the trees,
they paused. Curiosity tempted them
to examine to what edifice pillars of
such magnificent architecture could be-
long, in a scene so rude, and they went
on.
There appeared on a point of rock
impending over the valley the reliques
of a palace, whose beauty time had im-
paired only to heighten its sublimity.
An arch of ſingular magnificence re-
mained almost entire, beyond which
appeared wild cliffs retiring in grand
perspective. The sun, which was now
ſetting,


( 49 )
ſetting, threw a trembling lustre upon
the ruins, and gave a finishing effect to
the scene. They gazed in mute wonder
upon the view; but the fast fading light,
and the dewy chillness of the air, warned
them to return. As Julia gave a last
look to the scene, she perceived two men
leaning upon a part of the ruin at
some distance, in earnest conversation.
As they spoke, their looks were so at-
tentively bent on her, that she could
have no doubt she was the subject of their
discourse. Alarmed at this circumstance,
Madame and Julia immediately retreat-
ed towards the abbey. They walked
swiftly through the woods, whose shades,
deepened by the gloom of evening,
prevented their distinguishing whether
they were pursued. They were surprized
to observe the distance to which they
had strayed from the monastery, whose
dark towers were now obscurely seen
rising among the trees that closed the
perspective. They had almost reached
Vol. II. D the


( 50 )
the gates, when on looking back, they
perceived the same men slowly advancing,
without any appearance of pursuit, but
clearly as if observing the place of their
retreat.
This incident occasioned Julia much
alarm. She could not but believe that
the men whom she had seen were spies
of the marquis;—if so, her asylum was
discovered, and she had every thing to
apprehend. Madame now judged it ne–
cessary to the safety of Julia, that the
Abate should be informed of her story,
and of the sanctuary she had sought in
his monastery, and also that he should be
solicited to protect her from parental
tyranny. This was a hazardous, but
a necessary step, to provide against the
certain danger which must ensue, should
the marquis, if he demanded his daugh-
ter of the Abate, be the first to ac-
quaint him with her story. If she acted
otherwise, she feared that the Abate, in
whose generosity she had not confided,
and


( 51 )
and whose pity she had not solicited,
would, in the pride of his resentment,
deliver her up, and thus would she
become a certain victim to the duke de
Luovo.
Julia approved of this communica-
tion, though she trembled for the event;
and requested Madame to plead her
cause with the Abate. On the following
morning, therefore, Madame solicited a
private audience of the Abate; she ob-
tained permission to see him, and Julia,
in trembling anxiety, watched her to
the door of his apartment. This confe-
rence was long, and every moment
seemed an hour to Julia, who, in fear-
ful expectation, awaited with Cornelia
the sentence which would decide her
destiny. She was now the constant
companion of Cornelia, whose declin-
ing health interested her pity, and
strengthened her attachment.
Meanwhile Madame developed to the
Abate the distressful story of Julia. She
D 2 praiſed


( 52 )
praiſed her virtues, commended her
accomplishments, and deplored her si-
tuation. She described the characters
of the marquis and the duke, and
concluded with pathetically represent-
ing, that Julia had sought in this mo-
nastery, a last asylum from injustice and
misery, and with entreating that the
Abate would grant her his pity and pro-
tection.
The Abate during this discourse pre-
served a sullen silence; his eyes were
bent to the ground, and his aspect was
thoughtful and solemn. When Ma-
dame ceased to speak, a pause of pro-
found silence ensued, and she sat in anxi-
ous expectation. She endeavoured to
anticipate in his countenance the answer
preparing, but she derived no comfort
from thence. At length raising his
head, and awakening from his deep re-
verie, he told her that her request re-
quired deliberation, and that the pro-
tection she solicited for Julia, might in-
volve
".


( 53 )
volve him in serious consequences, since,
from a character so determined as the
marquis's, much violence might reason-
ably be expected. "Should his daugh-
ter be refused him," concluded the
Abate, “he may even dare to violate
the sanctuary.” - -
Madame, shocked by the stern indif.
ference of this reply, was a moment
silent. The Abate went on. "What-
ever I shall determine upon, the young
lady has reason to rejoice that she is ad-
mitted into this holy house; for I will
even now venture to assure her, that if the
marquis fails to demand her, she shall
be permitted to remain in this sanctuary
unmolested. You, Madam, will be
sensible of this indulgence, and of the
value of the sacrifice I make in granting
it; for in thus concealing a child from
her parent, I encourage her in disobedi-
ence, and consequently sacrifice my
sense of duty, to what may be justly
called a weak humanity.”
D 3 Madame


( 54 )
Madame listened to this pompous de-
clamation in silent sorrow and indig-
nation. She made another effort to in-
terest the Abate in favour of Julia, but
he preserved his stern inflexibility, and
repeating that he would deliberate upon
the matter, and acquaint her with the
result, he arose with great solemnity,
and quitted the room.
She now half repented of the confi.
dence she had reposed in him, and of
the pity she had solicited, since he disco-
vered a mind incapable of understand-
ing the first, and a temper inaccessible
to the influence of the latter. With an
heavy heart she returned to Julia, who
read in her countenance, at the moment
she entered the room, news of no happy
import. When Madame related the
particulars of the conference, Julia pre-
saged from it only misery, and giving
herself up for lost—she burst into tears.
She severely deplored the confidence
she had been induced to yield; for she
In OW


( 55 )
now saw herself in the power of a man,
stern and unfeeling in his nature: and
from whom, if he thought it fit to be-
tray her, she had no means of escaping.
But she concealed the anguish of her
heart; and to console Madame, affected
to hope where she could only despair.
Several days elapsed, and no answer:
was returned from the Abate. Julia
too well understood this silence. -
One morning Cornelia entering her
room with a disturbed and impatient
air, informed her that some emissaries
from the marquis were then in the mo–
nastery, having enquired at the gate for
the Abate, with whom, they said, they
had business of importance to transact.
The Abate had granted them immediate
audience, and they were now in close
conference.
At this intelligence the spirits of Ju-
lia forsook her; she trembled, grew pale,
and stood fixed in mute despair. Ma-
dame, though scarcely less distressed,
- D 4 retained


( 56 )
retained a presence of mind. She un-
derstood too justly the character of the
Superior, to doubt that he would hesi-
tate in delivering Julia to the hands of
the marquis. On this moment, there-
fore, turned the crisis of her fate —this
moment she might escape—the next she
was a prisoner. She therefore advised
Julia to seize the instant, and fly from
the monastery before the conference was
concluded, when the gates would most
probably be closed upon her, assuring
her, at the same time, she would ac-
company her in flight.
The generous conduct of Madame
called tears of gratitude into the eyes of
Julia, who now awoke from the state of
stupefaction which distress had caused.
But before the could thank her faithful
friend, a nun entered the room with a
summons for Madame to attend the
Abate immediately. The distress which
this message occasioned can not easily be
conceived. Madame advised Julia to
eſcape
* ,
s


( 57 )
eſcape while she detained the Abate in .
conversation, as it was not probable that
he had yet issued orders for her detention.
Leaving her to this attempt, with an as-
surance of following her from the ab-
bey as soon as possible, Madame obeyed
the summons. The coolness of her for-
titude forsook her as she approached the
Abate's apartment, and she became less
certain as to the occasion of this sum-
II 1011S.
The Abate was alone. His counte-
nance was pale with anger, and he was
pacing the room with flow but agitated
steps. The stern authority of his look
startled her. "Read this letter," said
he, stretching forth his hand which
held a letter, “ and tell me what that
mortal deserves, who dares insult our
holy order, and set our sacred preroga-
tive at defiance." Madame distinguish-
ed the hand writing of the marquis, and
the words of the Superior threw her into
the utmost astonishment. She took the
D ; - - letter.


( 58 )
letter. It was dictated by that spirit of
proud vindictive rage, which so strongly
marked the character of the marquis.
Having discovered the retreat of Julia,
and believing the monastery afforded
her a willing sanctuary from his pur-
suit, he accused the Abate of encourag-
ing his child in open rebellion to his
will. He loaded him and his sacred
order with opprobrium, and threatened,
if she was not immediately resigned to
the emissaries in waiting, he would in
person lead on a force which should
compel the church to yield to the supe-
rior authority of the father.
The spirit of the Abate was roused by
this menace; and Julia obtained from
his pride, that protection which neither
his principle or his humanity would
have granted. “ The man shall trem-
ble," cried he, "who dares defy our
power, or question our sacred authority.
The lady Julia is safe. I will protect
her from this proud invader of our
rights,


( 59 )
rights, and teach him at least to vene-
rate the power he cannot conquer. I
have dispatched his emissaries with my
answer."
These words struck sudden joy upon
the heart of Madame de Menon, but
she instantly recollected, that ere this
time Julia had quitted the abbey, and
thus the very precaution which was
meant to ensure her safety, had probably
precipitated her into the hand of her
enemy. This thought changed her joy
to anguish ; and she was hurrying from
the apartment in a fort of wild hope,
that Julia might not yet be gone, when
the stern voice of the Abate arrested her.
"Is it thus," cried he, "that you re-
ceive the knowledge of our generous
resolution to protect your friend ? Does
such condescending kindness merit no
thanks—demand no gratitude 2° Ma-
dame returned in an agony of fear, lest
one moment of delay might prove fatal
to Julia, if haply she had not yet
D 6 quitted


( 6o )
quitted the monastery. She was con-
scious of her deficiency in apparent gra-
titude, and of the strange appearance of
her abrupt departure from the Abate,
for which it was impossible to apologize,
without betraying the secret, which
would kindle all his resentment. Yet some
atonement his present anger demand-
ed, and these circumstances caused her
a very painful embarrassment. She
formed a hasty excuse ; and expressing
her sense of his goodness, again at-
tempted to retire, when the Abate frown-
ing in deep resentment, his features in-
flamed with pride, arose from his feat.
"Stay," said he, “whence this impa-
tience to fly from the presence of a be-
nefactor —If my generosity fails to ex-
cite gratitude, my resentment shall not
fail to inspire awe.—Since the lady Ju-
lia is insensible of my condescension, she-
is unworthy of my protection, and I will
resign her to the tyrant who demands
her.” -
To.


( 61 )
To this speech, in which the offend-
ed pride of the Abate overcoming all
sense of justice, accused and threatened
to punish Julia for the fault of her
friend, Madame listened in dreadful
impatience. Every word that detained
her struck torture to her heart, but the
concluding sentence occasioned new ter-
ror, and she started at its purpose. She
fell at the feet of the Abate in an agony
of grief. “ Holy father," said she,
“ punish not Julia for the offence which
I only have committed; her heart
will bless her generous protector, and
for myself, suffer me to assure you that
I am fully sensible of your goodness."
"If this is true," said the Abate,
“ arise, and bid the lady Julia attend me."
This command increased the confusion
of Madame, who had no doubt that her
detention had proved fatal to Julia. At
length she was suffered to depart, and
to her infinite joy found Julia in her
own room. Her intention of escaping
had


( 6.2 )
had yielded, immediately after the de-
parture of Madame, to the fear of being
discovered by the marquis's people.
This fear had been confirmed by the
report of Cornelia, who informed her,
that at that time several horsemen were
waiting at the gates for the return of
their companions. This was a dreadful
circumstance to Julia, who perceived it
was utterly impossible to quit the mo-
nastery, without rushing upon certain
destruction. She was lamenting her
destiny, when Madame recited the par-
ticulars of the late interview, and deli-
vered the summons of the Abate.
They had now to dread the effect of
that tender anxiety, which had excited his
resentment; and Julia suddenly elated to
joy by his first determination, was as
suddenly sunk to despair by his last. She
trembled with apprehension of the com-
ing interview, though each moment of
delay, which her fear solicited, would, by
heightening the resentment of the Abate,
only increase the danger she dreaded.
At


( 63 )
At length by a strong effort she re-
animated her spirits, and went to the
Abate's closet to receive her sen-
tence. He was seated in his chair, and
his frowning aspect chilled her heart.
"Daughter," said he, "you have been
guilty of heinous crimes. You have
dared to dispute—nay openly to rebel,
against the lawful authority of your fa-
ther. You have disobeyed the will of
him whose prerogative yields only to
ours. You have questioned his right
upon a point of all others the most de-
cided—the right of a father to dispose
of his child in marriage. You have
even fled from his protection—and you
have dared—insidiously, and meanly
have dared, to screen your disobedience
beneath this sacred roof. You have
prophaned our sanctuary with your
crime. You have brought insult upon
our sacred order, and have caused bold
and impious defiance of our high prero-
gative. What punishment is adequate
to guilt like this "
The


( 64 )
The father paused—his eyes sternly
fixed on Julia, who, pale and trembling,
could scarcely support herſelf, and who
had no power to reply, "I will be
merciful, and not just," resumed he,
"I will soften the punishment you de-
serve, and will only deliver you to your
father." At these dreadful words, Julia
bursting into tears, funk at the feet of
the Abate, to whom she raised her eyes.
in supplicating expression, but was
unable to speak. He suffered her to
remain in this posture. "Your dupli-
city, he resumed, "is not the least of
your offences.—Had you relied upon.
our generosity for forgiveness and pro-
tection, an indulgence might have been
granted;—but under the disguise of
virtue you concealed your crimes, and,
your necessities were hid beneath the
mask of devotion.” -
These false aspersions roused in Julia
the spirit of indignant virtue; she arose
from her knees with an air of dignity,
that


( 65 )
that struck even the Abate. "Holy fa-
ther," said she, "my heart abhors the
crime you mention, and disclaims all
union with it. Whatever are my of—
fences, from the fin of hypocrisy I am
at least free 3 and you will pardon me if
I remind you, that my confidence has
already been such, as fully justifies my
claim to the protection I solicit. When
I sheltered myself within these walls, it
was to be presumed that they would
protect me from injustice; and with
what other term than injustice would
you, Sir, distinguish the conduct of
the marquis, if the fear of his power did
not overcome the dictates of truth?"
The Abate felt the full force of this
reproof; but disdaining to appear sensi-
ble to it, restrained his resentment. His
wounded pride thus exasperated, and all
the malignant passions of his nature thus
called into action, he was prompted to
that cruel surrender which he had never
before seriously intended. The offence .
which


( 66 )
which Madame de Menon had uninten-
tionally given, his haughty spirit
urged him to retaliate in punishment.
He had, therefore, pleased himself with
exciting a terror which he never meant
to confirm, and he resolved to be fur-
ther solicited for that protection which
he had already determined to grant.
But this reproof of Julia touched him
where he was most conscious of defect;
and the temporary triumph which he
imagined it afforded her, kindled his
resentment into flame. He mused in
his chair, in a fixed attitude.—She saw
in his countenance the deep workings
of his mind—she revolved the fate pre-
paring for her, and stood in trembling
anxiety to receive her sentence. The
Abate considered each aggravating cir-
cumstance of the marquis's menace, and
each sentence of Julia's speech; and his
mind experienced, that vice is not only
inconsistent with virtue, but with itself
—for to gratify his malignity, he now
diſ-


( 67 )
discovered that it would be necessary to
sacrifice his pride—since it would be
impossible to punish the object of the
first, without denying himself the gra-
tification of the latter. This reflection
suspended his mind in a state of torture,
and he fat wrapt in gloomy silence.
The spirit which lately animated Ju-
lia, had vanished with her words—each
moment of silence increased her ap-
prehension ; the deep brooding of his
thoughts confirmed her in the appre-
hension of evil, and with all the
artless eloquence of sorrow, she en-
deavoured to soften him to pity. He
listened to her pleadings in sullen still-
ness. But each instant now cooled the
fervour of his resentment to her, and
increased his desire of opposing the mar-
quis. At length the predominant fea-
ture of his character resumed its origi-
nal influence, and overcame the work-
ings of subordinate passion. Proud of
his religious authority, he determined
never


( 68 )
never to yield the prerogative of the
church to that of the father, and re-
solved to oppose the violence of the mar-
quis with equal force.
He therefore condescended to relieve
Julia from her terrors, by assuring her
of his protection ; but he did this in
a manner so ungracious, as almost to
destroy the gratitude which the promise
demanded. She hastened with the joy-
ful intelligence to Madame de Menon,
who wept over her tears of thankful-
ness.
*
CHAP.


( 69 )
i
CHAPTER XI.
- EAR a fortnight had elapsed with-
out producing any appearance of
hostility from the marquis, when one
night, long after the hour of repose,
Julia was awakened by the bell of the
monastery. She knew it was not the hour
customary for prayer, and she listened
to the sounds, which rolled through the
deep silence of the fabric, with strong
surprize and terror. Presently she heard
the doors of several cells creak on their
hinges, and the found of quick foot-
steps in the passages—and through the
crevices of her door she distinguished
passing lights. The whispering noise
of steps increased, and every person of
the monastery seemed to have awakened.
Fier terror heightened ; it occurred to
her that the marquis had surrounded
the abbey with his people, in the de-
sign of forcing her from her retreat ;
and


( 70 ) .
and she arose in haste, with an intention
of going to the chamber of Madame de
Menon, when she heard a gentle tap at
the door. Her enquiry of who was
there, was answered in the voice of Ma-
dame, and her fears were quickly dissi-
pated, for she learned the bell was a
summons to attend a dying nun, who
was going to the high altar, there to
receive extreme unction.
She quitted the chamber with Ma-
dame. In her way to the church, the
gleam of tapers on the walls, and the
glimpse which her eye often caught
of the friars in their long black habits,
descending silently through the narrow
winding passages, with the solemn toll
of the bell, conspired to kindle imagi-
nation, and to impress her heart with sa-
cred awe. But the church exhibited a
scene of solemnity, such as she had never
before witnessed. Its gloomy aisles were
imperfectly seen by the rays of tapers
from the high altar, which shed a soli-
tary


( 71 )
tary gleam over the remote parts of the
fabric, and produced large masses of
light and shade, striking and sublime
in their effect.
While she gazed, she heard a distant
chanting rise through the aisles ; the
sounds swelled in low murmurs on the
ear, and drew nearer and nearer, till a
sudden blaze of light issued from one of
the portals, and the procession entered.
The organ instantly sounded a high and
solemn peal, and the voices rising alto-
gether, swelled the sacred strain. In
front appeared the Padre Abate, with
slow and measured steps, bearing the
holy cross. Immediately followed a
litter, on which lay the dying person
covered with a white veil, borne along
and surrounded by nuns veiled in white,
each carrying in her hand a lighted
taper. Last came the friars, two and
two, cloathed in black, and each bear-
ing a light.
When they reached the high altar, the
bier


[ 72 )
bier was rested, and in a few moments
the anthem ceased. The Abate now ap-
proached to perform the unction; the
veil of the dying nun was lifted—and
Julia discovered her beloved Cornelia |
Her countenance was already impressed
with the image of death, but her eyes
brightened with a faint gleam of recol-
lection, when they fixed upon Julia,
who felt a cold thrill run through her
frame, and leaned for support on Ma-
dame. Julia now for the first time dis-
tinguished the unhappy lover of Corne-
lia, on whose features was depictured
the anguish of his heart, and who hung
pale and silent over the bier. The ce-
remony being finished, the anthem
struck up ; the bier was lifted, when
Cornelia faintly moved her hand, and it
was again rested upon the steps of the
altar. In a few minutes the music ceased;
when lifting her heavy eyes to her
lover, with an expression of ineffable
tenderness and grief, she attempted to
ſpeak,


( 73 )
ſpeak, but the sounds died on her
closing lips. A faint smile passed over
her countenance, and was succeeded
by a fine devotional glow ; she folded
her hands upon her bosom, and with a
look of meek resignation, raising to-
wards heaven her eyes, in which now
funk the last sparkles of expiring life—
her foul departed in a short deep sigh.
Her lover sinking back, endeavoured
to conceal his emotions, but the deep
fobs which agitated his breast, betrayed
his anguish, and the tears of every spec-
tator bedewed the sacred spot where
beauty, sense, and innocence expired. -
The organ now swelled in mournful
harmony; and the voices of the assembly
chanted in coral strain, a low and so-
lemn requiem to the spirit of the de-
parted.
Madame hurried Julia, who was al-
most as lifeless as her departed friend,
from the church. A death so sudden,
heightened the grief which separa-
Vol. II. I. tjon


( 74 )
z
tion would otherwise have occasioned.
It was the nature of Cornelia's disorder,
to wear a changeful but flattering as-
pect. Though she had long been de-
clining, her decay was so gradual and
imperceptible, as to lull the apprehen- *
ſions of her friends into security. It was
otherwise with herself; she was conscious
of the change, but forbore to afflict
them with the knowledge of the truth.
The hour of her dissolution was sudden,
even to herself; but it was composed,
and even happy. In the death of Cor-
nelia, Julia seemed to mourn again that
of Hippolitus. Her decease appeared
to dissolve the last tie which connected
her with his memory.
In one of the friars of the convent,
Madame was surprized to find the father
who had confessed the dying Vincent.
His appearance revived the remem-
brance of the scene she had witnessed at
the castle of Mazzini ; and the last
words of Vincent, combined with the
circumstances which had since oc-
curred,


( 75 )
curred, renewed all her curiosity and
astonishment. But his appearance ex-
cited more sensations than those of
wonder. She dreaded, left he should
be corrupted by the marquis, to whom
he was known, and thus be induced to
use his interest with the Abate for the
restoration of Julia.
From the walls of the monastery, Ju-
lia now never ventured to stray. In the
gloom of evening she sometimes stole
into the cloisters, and often lingered at
the grave of Cornelia, where she wept
for Hippolitus, as well as for her friend.
One evening, during vespers, the bell
of the convent was suddenly rang out ;
the Abate, whose countenance expressed
at once astonishment and displeasure,
suspended the service, and quitted the
altar. The whole congregation repaired
to the hall, where they learned that
a friar, retiring to the convent, had seen
a troop of armed men advancing through
the wood; and not doubting they were
E 2 the


( 76 )
the people of the marquis, and were ap-
proaching with hostile intention, had
thought it necessary to give the alarm.
The Abate ascended a turret, and thence
discovered through the trees a glittering
of arms, and in the succeeding moment
a band of men issued from a dark part
of the wood, into a long avenue which
immediately fronted the spot where he
stood. The clattering of hoofs was now
distinctly heard; and Julia, finking with
terror, distinguished the marquis head-
ing the troop, which soon after sepa-
rating in two divisions, surrounded the
monastery. The gates were imme-
diately secured ; and the Abate, de-
scending from the turret, assembled
the friars in the hall, where his voice
was soon heard above every other part
of the tumult. The terror of Julia
made her utterly forgetful of the Padre's
promise, and she wished to fly for con-
cealment to the deep caverns be-
longing to the monastery, which wound
under the woods. Madame, whose pe-
netration


( 77 )
netration furnished her with a just know-
ledge of the Abate's character, founded
her security on his pride. She there-
fore dissuaded Julia from attempting to
tamper with the honesty of a servant
who had the keys of the vaults, and ad-
vised her to rely entirely on the effect of
the Abate's resentment towards the mar-
quis. While Madame endeavoured to
soothe her to composure, a message from
the Abate, required her innmediate atten-
dance. She obeyed, and he bade her fol-
low him to a room which was directly
over the gates of the monastery. From
thence she saw her father, accompanied
by the duke de Luovo ; and as her spirits
died away at the sight, the marquis called
furiously to the Abate to deliver her in-
stantly into his hands, threatening, if she
was detained, to force the gates of the
monastery. At this threat the coun-
tenance of the Abate grew dark: and
leading Julia forcibly to the window,
from which she had shrunk back, "Im-
E 3 pious


( 78 )
piteous menacer" said he, "eternal ven-
geance be upon thee! From this mo–
ment we expel thee from all the rights
and communities of our church. Ar-
rogant and daring as you are, your
threats I defy." "Look here," said
he, pointing to Julia, “ and learn that
you are in my power; for if you dare
to violate these sacred walls, I will
proclaim aloud in the face of day, a
secret which shall make your heart's
blood run cold ; a secret which involves
your honour, nay, your very existence.
Now triumph and exult in impious me-
nace " The marquis started involunta-
rily at this speech, and his features un-
derwent a sudden change, but he endea-
voured to recover himself, and to con-
x -
!
ceal his confusion. He hesitated for a
few moments, uncertain how to act—to
desist from violence was to confess him-
self conscious of the threatened secret;
yet he dreaded to inflame the resent-
ment of the Abate, whose menaces his
OWn


( 79 )
own heart too surely seconded. At
length—“ All that you have uttered,"
said he, "I despise as the dastardly sub-
terfuge of monkish cunning. Your
new results add to the desire of recover-
ing my daughter, that of punishing you. .
I would proceed to instant violence, but
that would now be an imperfect re-
venge. I shall therefore withdraw my
forces, and appeal to a higher power.
Thus shall you be compelled at once to
restore my daughter and retract your
scandalous impeachment of my honour."
Saying this, he turned his horse from
the gates, and his people following him,
quickly withdrew, leaving the Abate ex-
ulting in conquest, and Julia lost in asto-
nishment and doubtful joy. When she re-
counted to Madame the particulars of the
conference, she dwelt with emphasis on
the threats of the Abate ; but Madame,
though her amazement was heightened
at every word, very well understood
how the secret, whatever it was, had
E 4 been


( 8o )
been obtained. The confessor of Vin.
cent she had already observed in the mo-
nastery, and there was no doubt that
he had disclosed whatever could be col-
lected from the dying words of Vincent.
She knew also, that the secret would
never be published, unless as a punish-
ment for immediate violence, it being
one of the first principles of monastic
duty, to observe a religious secrecy upon
all matters entrusted to them in confes-
sion.
When the first tumult of Julia's emo-
tions subsided, the joy which the sud-
den departure of the marquis occa-
sioned, yielded to apprehension. He had
threatened to appeal to a higher power,
who would compel the Abate to surren-
der her. This menace excited a just
terror, and there remained no means of
avoiding the tyranny of the marquis, but
by quitting the monastery. She there-
fore requested an audience of the Abate;
and having represented the danger of
her


( 81 )
her present situation, she intreated his
permission to depart in quest of a safer re-
treat. The Abate, who well knew the mar-
quis was wholly in his power, smiled
at the repetition of his menaces, and de-
nied her request, under pretence of his
having now become responsible for her
to the church. He bade her be com-
forted, and promised her his protection;
but his assurances were given in so diſ.
tant and haughty a manner, that Julia
left him with fears, rather increased than
subdued. In crossing the hall, she ob-
served a man hastily enter it from an op-
posite door. He was not in the habit of
the order, but was muffled up in a
cloak, and seemed to wish concealment.
As she passed he raised his head, and Ju-
lia discovered—her father He darted
at her a look of vengeance; but before
she had time even to think, as if suddenly
recollecting himself, he covered his face,
and rushed by her. Her trembling
frame could scarcely support her to the
E. 5 apart-


( 82 )
apartment of Madame, where she sunk
speechless upon a chair, and the terror
of her look alone spoke the agony of
her mind. When she was somewhat re-
covered, she related what she had seen,
and her conversation with the Abate.
But Madame was lost in equal perplexi-
ty with herself, when she attempted to
account for the marquis's appearance.
Why, after his late daring menace,
should he come secretly to visit the
Abate, by whose connivance alone he
could have gained admission to the mo-
nastery And what could have influenced
the Abate to such a conduct These
circumstances, though equally inex-
plicable, united to confirm a fear of
treachery and surrender. To escape
from the abbey was now impracticable,
for the gates were constantly guarded ;
and even was it possible to pass them,
certain detection awaited Julia with-
out from the marquis's people, who
were stationed in the woods. Thus en-
compaſſed


( 83 )
compaſſed with danger, she could only
await in the monastery the issue of her
destiny.
While she was lamenting with Ma-
dame her unhappy state, she was sum-
moned once more to attend the Abate.
At this moment her spirits entirely for-
sook her; the crisis of her fate seemed
arrived ; for she did not doubt that the
Abate intended to surrender her to the
marquis, with whom she supposed he
had negotiated the terms of accommo-
dation. It was some time before the
could recover composure sufficient to
obey the summons; and when she did, "
every step that bore her towards the
Abate's room, increased her dread. She
paused a moment at the door, 'ere she
had courage to open it; the idea of
her father's immediate resentment arose.
to her mind, and she was upon the point.
of retreating to her chamber, when a
sudden step within, near the door, de-
stroyed her hesitation, and she entered the
E 6 cloſet.


( 84 )
cloſet. The marquis was not there,
and her spirits revived. The flush of
triumph was diffused over the features
of the Abate, though a shade of unap-
peased resentment yet remained visible.
“ Daughter," said he, “ the intelli-
gence we have to communicate may re-
joice you. Your safety now depends
solely on yourself. I give your fate
into your own hands, and its issue be
upon your head." He paused, and
she was suspended in wondering ex-
pectation of the coming sentence, "I
here solemnly assure you of my protec-
tion, but it is upon one condition only
—that you renounce the world, and de-
dicate your days to God." Julia listened
with a mixture of grief and astonish-
ment. “ Without this concession on
your part, I possess not the power, had
I even the inclination, to protect you.
If you assume the veil, you are safe
within the pale of the church from tem-
poral violence. If you neglect or re-
fuſe


( 85 )
fuſe to do this, the marquis may apply
to a power from whom I have no ap-
peal, and I shall be compelled at last to
resign you."
“ But to ensure your safety, should
the veil be your choice, we will procure
a dispensation from the usual forms of
noviciation, and a few days shall con-
firm your vows." He ceased to speak;
but Julia, agitated with the most cruel
distress, knew not what to reply. "We
grant you three days to decide upon
this matter," continued he, "at the ex-
piration of which, the veil, or the duke
de Luovo, awaits you." Julia quitted
the closet in mute despair, and re-
paired to Madame, who could now
scarcely offer her the humble benefit of
Consolation.
Meanwhile the Abate exulted in suc-
cessful vengeance, and the marquis
smarted beneath the stings of disappoint-
ment. The menace of the former was too
seriously alarming to suffer the marquis
to


( 87 )
woods surrounded by the marquis's
people, made escape impossible. From
a marriage with the duke, whose late
conduct had confirmed the odious idea.
which his character had formerly im-
pressed, her heart recoiled in horror,
and to be immured for life within the
walls of a convent, was a fate little less
dreadful. Yet such was the effect of
that sacred love she bore the memory
of Hippolitus, and such her aversion to
the duke, that she soon resolved to.
adopt the veil. On the following even-
ing she informed the Abate of her de-
termination. His heart swelled with
secret joy; and even the natural severity
of his manner relaxed at the intelli-
gence. He assured her of his approba-
tion and protection, with a degree of
kindness which he had never before
manifested, and told her the ceremony
should be performed on the second day
from the present. Her emotion scarce-
ly suffered her to hear his last words.
- Now


( 88 )
Now that her fate was fixed beyond re-
call, she almost repented of her choice.
Her fancy attached to it a horror not
its own ; and that evil, which, when
offered to her decision, she had accepted
with little hesitation, she now paused
upon in dubious regret; so apt we are
to imagine that the calamity most cer-
tain, is also the most intolerable !
When the marquis read the answer of
the Abate, all the baleful passions of his
nature were roused and inflamed to a
degree which bordered upon distraction.
In the first impulse of his rage, he
would have forced the gates of the mo-
nastery, and defied the utmost malice
of his enemy. But a moment's reflection
revived his fear of the threatened secret,
and he saw that he was still in the power
of the Superior.
The Abate procured the necessary dis-
pensation, and preparations were imme-
diately began for the approaching ce-
remony. Julia watched the departure
of


( 89 )
of those moments which led to her fate
with the calm fortitude of despair. She
- had no means of escaping from the
coming evil, without exposing herself to
a worse; she surveyed it therefore with
a steady eye, and no longer shrunk from
its approach.
On the morning preceding the day
of her consecration, she was informed
that a stranger enquired for her at the
grate. Her mind had been so long ac-
customed to the vicissitudes of appre-
hension, that fear was the emotion which
now occurred; she suspected, yet scarcely
knew why, that the marquis was be-
low, and hesitated whether to descend.
A little reflection determined her, and
the went to the parlour—where to
her equal joy and surprize she beheld-
Ferdinand -
During the absence of the marquis
from his castle, Ferdinand, who had
been informed of the discovery of Julia,
effected his escape from imprisonment,
and


( 90 )
and had hastened to the monastery in the
design of rescuing her. He had passed
the woods in disguise, with much dif-
ficulty eluding the observation of the
marquis's people, who were yet dispersed
round the abbey. To the monastery,
as he came alone, he had been admitted
without difficulty.
When he learned the conditions of
the zibate's protection, and that the fol-
lowing day was appointed for the con-
secration of Julia, he was shocked, and
paused in deliberation. A period so
short as was this interval, afforded little
opportunity for contrivance, and less
for hesitation. The night of the present
day was the only time that remained for
the attempt and execution of a plan of
escape, which if it then failed of success,
Julia would not only be condemned for
life to the walls of a monastery, but
would be subjected to whatever punish-
ment the severity of the Abate, exaspe-
rated by the detection, should think fit
tC.


( 91 )
to inflict. The danger was desperate,
but the occasion was desperate also.
The nobly disinterested conduct of
her brother, struck Julia with gratitude
and admiration ; but despair of success,
made her now hesitate whether she
should accept his offer. She considered
that his generosity would most probably
involve him in destruction with herself;
and she paused in deep deliberation,
when Ferdinand informed her of a cir-
cumstance which, till now, he had pur-
posely concealed, and which at once dis-
solved every doubt and every fear.
“ Hippolitus," said Ferdinand, “ yet
lives." "Lives 1’’ repeated Julia faintly,
—“ lives! Oh! tell me where—how."
—Her breath refused to aid her, and she
sunk in her chair, overcome with the
strong and various sensations that pressed
upon her heart. Ferdinand, whom the
grate with-held from assisting her, ob-
served her situation in extreme distress.
When she recovered, he informed her
- that


( 92 )
that a servant of Hippolitus, sent no
doubt by his lord to enquire concern-
ing Julia, had been lately seen by one
of the marquis's people in the neigh-
bourhood of the castle. From him it
was known that the count de Vereza
was living, but that his life had been
despaired of; and he was still confined,
by dangerous wounds, in an obscure
town on the coast of Italy. The man
had steadily refused to mention the place
of his lord's abode. Learning that the
marquis was then at the abbey of St.
Augustin, whither he pursued his daugh-
ter, the man disappeared from Maz-
zini, and had not since been heard of.
It was enough for Julia to know that
Hippolitus lived; her fears of detec-
tion, and her scruples concerning Fer-
dinand, instantly vanished; she thought
only of escape—and the means which
had lately appeared so formidable—so
difficult in contrivance, and so dangerous
in execution, now seemed easy, certain,
and almost accomplished.
They


( 93 )
They consulted on the plan to be
adopted; and agreed, that in attempting
to bribe a servant of the monastery to
their interest, they should incur a danger
too iminent, yet it appeared scarcely
practicable to succeed in their scheme
without risquing this. After much con-
sideration, they determined to entrust
their secret to no person but to Madame.
Ferdinand was to contrive to conceal
himself till the dead of night in the
church, between which and the monas-
tery were several doors of communica-
tion. When the inhabitants of the ab-
bey were funk in repose, Julia might
without difficulty pass to the church,
where Ferdinand awaiting her, they
might perhaps escape either through an
outer door of the fabric, or through a
window, for which latter attempt Fer-
dinand was to provide ropes.
A couple of horses were to be stationed
among the rocks beyond the woods, to
convey the fugitives to a sea-port, whence
- they


( 94 )
they could easily pass over to Italy.
Having arranged this plan, they se-
parated in the anxious hope of meeting
on the ensuing night.
Madame warmly sympathized with Ju-
lia in her present expectations, and was
now somewhat relieved from the pres-
sure of that self reproach, with which the
consideration of having withdrawn her
young friend from a secure asylum, had
long tormented her. In learning that Hip-
politus lived, Julia experienced a sud-
den renovation of life and spirits. From
the languid stupefaction which despair
had occasioned she revived as from a
dream, and her sensations resembled
those of a person suddenly awakened
from a frightful vision, whose thoughts
are yet obscured in the fear and uncer-
tainty which the passing images have
impressed on his fancy. She emerged
from despair; joy illumined her coun-
tenance; yet she doubted the reality of
the scene which now opened to her
view.
w
-
:


( 95 )
view. The hours rolled heavily along
till the evening, when expectation gave
way to fear, for she was once more sum-
moned by the Abate. He sent for her
to administer the usual necessary exhor-
tation on the approaching solemnity ;
and having detained her a considerable
time in tedious and severe discourse,
dismissed her with a formal benedic-
tion.
CHAP-


( 96 )
CHAPTER XII.
HE evening now sunk in darkness,
and the hour was fast approaching
which would decide the fate of Julia.
Trembling anxiety subdued every
other sensation ; and as the minutes
passed, her fears increased. At length
she heard the gates of the monastery
fastened for the night ; the bell rang
the signal for repose ; and the passing
footsteps of the nuns told her they were
hastening to obey it. After some time,
all was silent. Julia did not yet dare to
venture forth ; ſhe employed the present
interval in interesting and affection-
ate conversation with Madame de Me-
non, to whom, notwithstanding her
situation, her heart bade a sorrowful
adieu.
The clock struck twelve, when she
arose to depart. Having embraced her
faithful friend with tears of mingled
- grief


( 97 )
grief and anxiety, she took a lamp in
her hand, and with cautious, fearful
steps descended through the long wind-
ing passages to a private door, which
opened into the church of the monas-
tery. The church was gloomy and deso-
late ; and the feeble rays of the lamp she
bore, gave only light enough to dis-
cover its chilling grandeur. As she
passed silently along the aisles, she cast
a look of anxious examination around
—but Ferdinand was no where to be
seen. She paused in timid hesitation,
fearful to penetrate the gloomy obscu-
rity which lay before her, yet dreading
to return.
As she stood examining the place,
vainly looking for Ferdinand, yet fear-
ing to call, lest her voice should betray
her, a hollow groan arose from a part
of the church very near her. It chilled
her heart, and she remained fixed to the
spot. She turned her eyes a little to
the left, and saw light appear through
Vol. II, F the
-


( 93 )
the chinks of a sepulchre at some dis-
tance. The groan was repeated—a low
murmuring succeeded, and while she
yet gazed, an old man issued from the
vault with a lighted taper in his hand.
Terror now subdued her, and she ut-
tered an involuntary shriek. In the suc-
ceeding moment, a noise was heard in
a remote part of the fabric ; and Ferdi-
nand rushing forth from his conceal-
ment, ran to her assistance. The old
man, who appeared to be a friar, and
who had been doing penance at the mo-
nument of a faint, now approached.
His countenance expressed a degree of
surprize and terror almost equal to
that of Julia's, who knew him to be
the confessor of Vincent. Ferdinand
seized the father ; and laying his hand
upon his sword, threatened him with
death if he did not instantly swear to
conceal for ever his knowledge of what
he then saw, and also assist them to
escape from the abbey.
“ Ungracious


( 99 )
1 * >
“ Ungracious boy ſ” replied the fa-
ther in a calm voice, “ desist from this
language, nor add to the follies of youth
the crime of murdering, or terrifying
a defenceless old man. Your violence
would urge me to become your enemy,
did not previous inclination tempt me
to be your friend. I pity the distresses
of the lady Julia, to whom I am no
stranger, and will cheerfully give her all
the assistance in my power."
At these words Julia revived, and
Ferdinand, reproved by the generosity
of the father, and conscious of his own
inferiority, shrunk back. "I have no
words to thank you," said he, “ or to
entreat your pardon for the impetuosity
of my conduct ; your knowledge of my
situation must plead my excuse." "It
does," replied the father, "but we
have no time to lose —follow me."
They followed him through the church
to the cloisters, at the extremity of which
was a small door, which the friar un-
locked. It opened upon the woods.
F 2 “ This
4:257.8%


( 100 )
* This path," said he, “ leads
through an intricate part of the woods,
to the rocks that rife on the right of the
abbey; in their recesses you may secrete
yourselves till you are prepared for a
longer journey. But extinguish your
light ; it may betray you to the mar-
quis's people, who are dispersed about
this spot. Farewell ! my children, and
God's blessing be upon ye."
Julia's tears declared her gratitude ;
she had no time for words. They step-
ped into the path, and the father closed
the door. They were now liberated
from the monastery, but danger awaited
them without, which it required all their
caution to avoid. Ferdinand knew the
path, which the friar had pointed out,
to be the fame that led to the rocks
where his horses were stationed, and he
pursued it with quick and silent steps.
Julia, whose sears conspired with the
gloom of night to magnify and trans-
form every object around her, ima-
gined
…”


( 101 )
gined at each step that she took, she
perceived the figures of men, and fan-
cied every whisper of the breeze the
found of pursuit.
They proceeded swiftly, till Julia
breathless and exhausted could go no
farther. They had not rested many
minutes, when they heard a rustling
among the bushes at some distance, and
soon after distinguished a low sound
of voices. Ferdinand and Julia instant-
ly renewed their flight, and thought
they still heard voices advance upon the
wind. This thought was soon confirm-
ed, for the sounds now gained fast upon
them, and they distinguished words
which served only to heighten their ap-
prehensions when they reached the ex-
tremity of the woods. The moon, which
was now up, suddenly emerging from
a dark cloud, discovered to them seve-
ral men in pursuit; and also shewed to
the pursuers the course of the fugitives.
They endeavoured to gain the rocks
where the horses were concealed, and
F 3 which


( 102 )
which now appeared in view. These they
reached when the pursuers had almost
overtaken them—but their horses were
gone ! Their only remaining chance of
escape was to fly into the deep recesses
of the rock. They, therefore, entered
a winding cave from whence branched
several subterraneous avenues, at the ex-
tremity of one of which they stopped.
The voices of men now vibrated in tre-
mendous echoes through the various
and secret caverns of the place, and the
found of footsteps seemed fast approach-
ing. Julia trembled with terror, and .
Ferdinand drew his sword, determined
to protect her to the last. A confused
volley of voices now sounded up that
part of the cave where Ferdinand and
Julia lay concealed. In a few moments
the steps of the pursuers suddenly took
a different direction, and the sounds
funk gradually away, and were heard no
more. Ferdinand listened attentively
for a considerable time, but the stillness
- of


( I of )
|
of the place remained undisturbed. . It
was now evident that the men had quit-
ted the rock, and he ventured forth to
the mouth of the cave. He surveyed
the wilds around, as far as his eye could
penetrate, and distinguished no human
being ; but in the pauses of the wind he
still thought he heard a found of distant
voices. As he listened in anxious
silence, his eye caught the appearance of
a shadow, which moved upon the ground
near where he stood. He started back
within the cave, but in a few minutes
again ventured forth. The shadow re-
mained stationary ; but having watched
it for some time, Ferdinand saw it glide
along till it disappeared behind a point
of rock. He had now no doubt that
the cave was watched, and that it was
one of his late pursuers whose shade
he had seen. He returned, therefore,
to Julia, and remained near an hour hid
in the deepest recess of the rock; when,
no found having interrupted the pro-
F 4. found


( ro4 )
found ſilence of the place, he at length
once more ventured to the mouth of the
cave. Again he threw a fearful look
around, but discerned no human form.
The soft moon-beam slept upon the
dewy landscape, and the solemn stillness
of midnight wrapt the world. Fear
heightened to the fugitives the sublimity
of the hour. Ferdinand now led Julia
forth, and they passed silently along the
shelving foot of the rocks.
They continued their way without
farther interruption ; and among the
cliffs at some distance from the cave,
discovered to their inexpressible joy,
their horses, who having broken their
fastenings, had strayed thither, and had
now laid themselves down to rest. Fer-
dinand and Julia immediately mounted;
and descending to the plains, took the
road that lead to a small sea-port at some
leagues distance, whence they could
embark for Italy.
They travelled for some hours through
gloomy
--


( 105 )
gloomy forests of beech and cheſnut ;
and their way was only faintly illuminated
by the moon, which shed a trembling
lustre through the dark foliage, and
which was seen but at intervals, as the
passing clouds yielded to the power of
her rays. They reached at length the
skirts of the forest. The grey dawn
now appeared, and the chill morning
air bit shrewdly. It was with inex-
pressible joy that Julia observed the
kindling atmosphere ; and soon after the
rays of the rising fun touching the tops .
of the mountains, whose sides were yet
involved in dark vapours.
Her fears dissipated with the dark-
ness.—The fun now appeared amid
clouds of inconceivable splendour; and
unveiled a scene which in other circum-
stances Julia would have contemplated
with rapture. From the side of the hill,
down which they were winding, a vale.
appeared, from whence arose wild and
lofty mountains,whose steeps were cloathed
F 5 with,


( 106 )
with hanging woods, except where
here and there a precipice projected its
bold and rugged front. Here, a few
half withered trees hung from the cre-
vices of the rock, and gave a picturesque
wildness to the object; there, clusters of
half seen cottages, rising from among
tufted groves, embellished the green
margin of a stream which meandered in
the bottom, and bore its waves to the
blue and distant main.
The freshness of morning breathed
over the scene, and vivified each colour
of the landscape. The bright dew-drops
hung trembling from the branches of
the trees, which at intervals oversha-
dowed the road; and the sprighly music
of the birds saluted the rising day. Not-
withstanding her anxiety, the scene dif-
fused a soft complacency over the mind
of Julia.
About noon they reached the port,
where Ferdinand was fortunate enough
to obtain a small vessel ; but the wind
- WaS


* -- ( 107, )
was unfavourable, and it was past mid-
night before it was possible for them to
embark. -
When the dawn appeared, Julia re-
turned to the deck; and viewed with a
sigh of unaccountable regret, the re-
ceding coast of Sicily. But she observed
with high admiration, the light gra-
dually spreading through the atmo-
sphere, darting a feeble ray over the sur-
face of the waters, which rolled in so-
lemn soundings upon the distant shores.
Fiery beams now marked the clouds,
and the east glowed with increasing ra-
diance, till the fun rose at once above
the waves, and illuminating them with
a flood of splendour, diffused gaiety and
gladness around. The bold concave of
the heavens, uniting with the vast ex-
panse of the ocean, formed a coup dæil,
striking and sublime. The magnifi-
cence of the scenery inspired Julia with
delight; and her heart dilating with
high enthusiasm, she forgot the sorrows
which had oppressed her.
F 6 The


( 108 )
The breeze wafted the ship gently along
for some hours, when it gradually funk
into a calm. The glassy surface of the
waters was not curled by the lightest air,
and the vessel floated heavily on the bo-
som of the deep. Sicily was yet in view,
and the present delay agitated Julia with
wild apprehension. Towards the close
of day a light breeze sprang up, but it
blew from Italy, and a train of dark .
vapours emerged from the verge of the
horizon, which gradually accumulating,
the heavens became entirely overcast.
The evening shut in suddenly; the
rising wind, the heavy clouds that loaded
the atmosphere, and the thunder which
murmured afar off, terrified Julia, and
threatened a violent storm.
The tempest came on, and the cap-
tain vainly sounded for anchorage : it
was deep sea, and the vessel drove fu-
riously before the wind. The darkness
was interrupted only at intervals, by the
broad expanse of vivid lightnings,
which,


I Io9 I
which quivered upon the waters, and
disclosing the horrible gaspings of the
waves, served to render the succeed-
ing darkness more awful. The thun-
der which burst in tremendous crashes.
above, the loud roar of the waves be-
low, the noise of the sailors, and the sud-
den cracks and groanings of the vessel,
conspired to heighten the tremendous.
sublimity of the scene.
Far on the rocky shores the surges found,
The lashing whirlwinds cleave the vast profound;.
While high in air, amid the rising storm,
Driving the blast, sits Danger's black'ning form.
Julia lay fainting with terror and sick-
ness in the cabin, and Ferdinand though
almost hopeless himself was endeavour-
ing to support her, when a loud and
dreadful crash was heard from above.
It seemed as if the whole vessel had
parted. The voices of the sailors now
rose together, and all was confusion and
uproar. Ferdinand ran up to the deck.
and


( 11o )
and learned that part of the main mast,
borne away by the wind, had fallen
upon the deck, whence it had rolled
overboard. -
It was now past midnight, and the
storm continued with unabated fury.
For four hours the vessel had been driven
before the blast; and the captain now
declaring it was impossible she could
weather the tempest much longer, or—
dered the long boat to be in readiness.
His orders were scarcely executed, when
the ship bulged upon a reef of rocks,
and the impetuous waves rushed into the
vessel:—a general groan ensued. Fer-
dinand flew to save his sister, whom he
carried to the boat, which was nearly
filled by the captain and most of the
crew. The sea ran so high that it ap-
peared impracticable to reach the shore;
but the boat had not moved many
yards, when the ship went to pieces.
The captain now perceived by the flashes
of lightning, a high rocky coast at
about the distance of half a mile. The
IncIn


( 111 )
men struggled hard at the oars; but
almost as often as they gained the sum-
mit of a wave, it dashed them back
again, and made their labour of little
avail.
After much difficulty and fatigue
they reached the coast, where a new dan-
ger presented itself. They beheld a
wild rocky shore, whose cliffs appeared
inaccessible, and which seemed to afford
little possibility of landing. A landing
however was at last effected ; and the
sailors, after much search, discovered a
kind of path-way cut in the rock, which
they all ascended in safety.
The dawn now faintly glimmered,
and they surveyed the coast, but could
discover no human habitation. They ima-
gined they were on the shores of Sicily,
but possessed no means of confirming
this conjecture. Terror, sickness, and fa-
tigue had subdued the strength and spi-
rits of Julia, and she was obliged to rest
upon the rocks.
The


( 113 )
tle erminence crowned with woods. It
was the first human habitation they had
seen since they embarked for Italy; and
Julia, who was almost sinking with fa-
tigue, beheld it with delight. The cap-
tain and his men hastened towards it to
make known their distress, while Ferdi-
nand and Julia slowly followed. They
observed the men enter the villa, one of
whom quickly returned to acquaint
them with the hospitable reception his .
comrades had received.
Julia with difficulty reached the edi-
fice, at the door of which she was met
by a young cavalier, whose pleasing
and intelligent countenance immediately
interested her in his favour. He wel-
comed the strangers with a benevolent
politeness, that dissolved at once every
uncomfortable feeling which their situa-
tion had excited, and produced an in-
stantaneous easy confidence. Through
a light and elegant hall, rising into a
dome, supported by pillars of white
marble,


--( 114 )
marble, and adorned with busts; he led
them to a magnificent vestibule, which
opened upon a lawn. Having seated
them at a table spread with refreshments,
he left them, and they surveyed with
surprize, the beauty of the adjacent
scene.
The lawn, which was on each side
bounded by hanging woods, descended
in gentle declivity to a fine lake, whose
smooth surface reflected the surrounding
shades. Beyond appeared the distant coun-
try, rising on the left into bold romantic
mountains, and on the right, exhibiting
a soft and glowing landscape, whose
tranquil beauty formed a striking con-
trast to the wild. sublimity of the oppo-
site craggy heights. The blue and dis-
tant ocean terminated the view.
In a short time the cavalier returned,
conducting two ladies of a very engag-
ing appearance, whom he presented as
his wife and sister. They welcomed
Julia with graceful kindness; but fa-
tigue


( 1 15 )
\
tigue ſoon obliged her to retire to rest,
and a consequent indisposition encreased
so rapidly, as to render it impracticable
for her to quit her present abode on that
day. The captain and his men pro-
ceeded on their way, leaving Ferdinand
and Julia at the villa, where she ex-
perienced every kind and tender affec-
tion.
The day which was to have devoted
Julia to a cloister, was ushered in at
the abbey with the usual ceremonies.
The church was ornamented, and all the
inhabitants of the monastery prepared to
attend. The Padre Abate now exulted in
the success of his scheme, and anticipated
in imagination, the rage and vexation
of the marquis, when he should discover
that his daughter was lost to him for
ever.
The hour of celebration arrived, and
he entered the church with a proud
firm step, and with a countenance
which depictured his inward triumph;
he


( 116 )
he was proceeding to the high altar,
when he was told that Julia was no
where to be found. Astonishment for
a while suspended other emotions—he
yet believed it impossible that she could
have effected an escape, and ordered
every part of the abbey to be searched—
not forgetting the secret caverns be-
longing to the monastery, which wound
beneath the woods. When the search
was over, and he became convinced she
was fled; the deep workings of his dis-
appointed passions fermented into rage
which exceeded all bounds. He de-
nounced the most terrible judgments
upon Julia; and calling for Madame de
Menon, charged her with having insulted
her holy religion, in being accessary
to the flight of Julia. Madame endured
these reproaches with calm dignity,
and preserved a steady silence; but she
secretly determined to leave the monas-
tery, and seek in another, the repose
which she could never hope to find in
this,
The


( 117 )
The report of Julia's disappearance
spread rapidly beyond the walls, and
soon reached the ears of the marquis,
who rejoiced in the circumstance, be-
lieving that she must now inevitably
fall into his hands.
After his people, in obedience to his
orders, had carefully searched the sur-
rounding woods and rocks, he with-
drew them from the abbey; and having
dispersed them various ways in search
of Julia, he returned to the castle of
Mazzini. Here new vexation awaited
him, for he now first learned that Ferdi-
nand had escaped from confinement.
The mystery of Julia's flight was now
dissolved; for it was evident by whose
means she had effected it, and the mar-
quis issued orders to his people to secure
Ferdinand wherever he jº. found.
º
CHAP,


( 118 )
CHA PTER XIII.
IPPOLITUS who had languished
under a long and dangerous ill-
ness occasioned by his wounds, but
heightened and prolonged by the dis-
tress of his mind, was detained in a small
town on the coast of Calabria, and was
yet ignorant of the death of Cornelia.
He scarcely doubted that Julia was now
devoted to the duke, and this thought
was at times poison to his heart. After
his arrival in Calabria, immediately on
the recovery of his senses, he dispatched
a servant back to the castle of Maz-
zini, to gain secret intelligence of what
had passed after his departure. The
eagerness with which we endeavour to
escape from misery, taught him to en-
courage a remote and romantic hope,
that Julia yet lived for him. Yet even
this hope at length languished into de-
spair, as the time elapsed which should
have


(. 119 )
have brought his servant from Sicily.
Days and weeks passed away in the ut-
most anxiety to Hippolitus, for still his
emissary did not appear; and at last, con-
cluding that he had been either seized
by robbers, or discovered and detained
by the marquis, the count sent off a
second emissary to the castle of Maz-
zini. By him he learned the news of
Julia's flight, and his heart dilated with
joy ; but it was suddenly checked, when
he heard the marquis had discovered
her retreat in the abbey of St. Augustin.
The wounds which still detained him
in confinement, now became intolerable.
Julia might yet be lost to him for ever.
But even his present state of fear and
uncertainty was bliss compared with the
anguish of despair, which his mind had
long endured. 4.
As soon as he was sufficiently recover-
ed, he quitted Italy for Sicily, in the
design of visiting the monastery of St.
Augustin, where it was possible Julia *
might


( 120 )
might yet remain. That he might pass
with the secrecy necessary to his plan,
and escape the attacks of the marquis,
he left his servants in Calabria and em-
barked alone. -
It was morning when he landed at a
small port of Sicily, and proceeded to-
wards the abbey of St. Augustin. As he
travelled, his imagination revolved the
scenes of his early love, the distress of
Julia, and the sufferings of Ferdinand,
and his heartmelted at the retrospect.
He considered the probabilities of Julia's
having found protection from her fa-
ther in the pity of the Padre Abate; and
even ventured to indulge himself in a
flattering, fond anticipation of the mo-
ment, when Julia should again be re-
stored to his fight.
He arrived at the monastery, and his
grief may easily be imagined, when he
was informed of the death of his be-
loved sister, and of the flight of Julia.
He quitted St. Augustin's immediately,
- without
* ***.
i


( 121 )
without even knowing that Madame de
Menon was there, and fat out for a town
at some leagues distance, where he de-
signed to pass the night.
Absorbed in the melancholy reflec-
tions which the late intelligence ex-
cited, he gave the reins to his horse,
and journeyed on unmindful of his
way. The evening was far advanced,
when he discovered that he had taken
a wrong direction, and that he was
bewildered in a wild and solitary scene.
He had wandered too far from the
road to hope to regain it, and he had
beside no recollection of the objects
left behind him. A choice of errors,
only, lay before him. The view on his
right hand exhibited high and savage
mountains, covered with heath and
black fir; and the wild desolation of
their aspect, together with the dange-
rous appearance of the path that wound
up their sides, and which was the only
apparent track they afforded, deter-
mined Hippolitus not to attempt their
Vol. II, G aſcent.


( 122 )
aſcent. On his left lay a forest, to which
the path he was then in led; its appear-
ance was gloomy, but he preferred it to
the mountains ; and since he was uncer-
tain of its extent, there was a possibility
that he might pass it, and reach a vil-
lage before the night was set in. At
the worst, the forest would afford him a
shelter from the winds; and however he
might be bewildered in its labyrinths, he
could ascend a tree, and rest in security
till the return of light should afford him
an opportunity of extricating himself.
Among the mountains there was no pos-
sibility of meeting with other shelter,
than what the habitation of man afford-
ed, and such a shelter there was little pro-
bability of finding. Innumerable dan-
gers also threatened him here, from which
he would be secure on level ground.
Having determined which way to
pursue, he pushed his horse into a gal-
lop, and entered the forest as the last
rays of the fun trembled on the moun-
tains.


( 123 )
º
tains. The thick foliage of the trees
threw a gloom around, which was every
moment deepened by the shades of even-
ing. The path was uninterrupted, and
the count continued to follow it till all
distinction was confounded in the veil
of night. Total darkness now made it
impossible for him to pursue his way.
He dismounted, and fastening his horse
to a tree, climbed among the branches,
purposing to remain there till morning.
He had not been long in this situation,
when a confused sound of voices from a
distance roused his attention. The
found returned at intervals for some
time, but without seeming to approach.
He descended from the tree, that he
might the better judge of the direction
whence it came ; but before he reached
the ground, the noise was ceased, and
all was profoundly silent. He conti-
nued to listen, but the silence remaining
undisturbed, he began to think he had
been deceived by the singing of the
G 2 wind


( 125 )
encreaſed its effect, and a secret dread
he knew not wherefore, stole upon his
heart.
The silence and the character of the
place made him doubt whether this was
the spot he had been seeking; and as he
stood hesitating whether to proceed or
to return, he observed a figure standing
under an arch-way of the ruin; it car-
ried a light in its hand, and passing
silently along, disappeared in a remote
part of the building. The courage of
Hippolitus for a moment deserted him.
An invincible curiosity, however, sub-
dued his terror, and he determined to
pursue, if possible, the way the figure
had taken.
He passed over loose stones through
a sort of court, till he came to the
arch-way ; here he stopped, for fear
returned upon him. Resuming his
courage, however, he went on, still en-
deavouring to follow the way the figure
had passed, and suddenly found himself
in an enclosed part of the ruin, whose ap-
G 3 pearance


( 126 )
pearance was more wild and desolate than
any he had yet seen. Seized with un-
conquerable apprehension, he was re-
tiring, when the low voice of a distressed
person struck his ear. His heart funk
at the found, his limbs trembled, and he
was utterly unable to move.
The found which appeared to be the
last groan of a dying person, was re-
peated. Hippolitus made a strong ef-
fort, and sprang forward, when a light
burst upon him from a shattered case-
ment of the building, and at the same
instant he heard the voices of men
He advanced softly to the window,
and beheld in a small room, which was
less decayed than the rest of the edifice,
a group of men, who from the savage-
ness of their looks, and from their dress,
appeared to be banditti. They surround-
ed a man who lay on the ground wound-
ed, and bathed in blood, and who it
was very evident had uttered the groans
heard by the count.
The
-


( 127 ).
The obscurity of the place prevented
Hippolitus from distinguishing the fea-
tues of the dying man. From the
blood which covered him, and from the
surrounding circumstances, he appeared
to be murdered ; and the count had no
doubt that the men he heheld were the
murderers. The horror of the scene
entirely overcame him ; he stood rooted
to the spot, and saw the assassins rifle the
pockets of the dying persons, who in a
voice scarcely articulate, but which des-
pair seemed to aid, supplicated for mer-
cy. The ruffians answered him only
with execrations, and continued their
plunder. His groans and his sufferings
served only to aggravate their cruelty.
They were proceeding to take from him
a miniature picture, which was fastened
round his neck, and had been hitherto
concealed in his bosom ; when by a sud-
den effort he half raised himself from
the ground, and attempted to save it
from their hands. The effort availed.
G 4 him.


( 128 )
him nothing ; a blow from one of the
villains laid the unfortunate man on the
floor without motion. The horrid bar-
barity of the act seized the mind of
Hippolitus so entirely, that forgetful of
his own situation, he groaned aloud,
and started with an instantaneous design
of avenging the deed. The noise he
made alarmed the banditti, who look-
ing whence it came, discovered the
count through the casement. They
instantly quitted their prize, and rushed
towards the door of the room. He was
now returned to a sense of his danger,
and endeavoured to escape to the exte-
rior part of the ruin ; but terror bewil-
dered his senses, and he mistook his
way. Instead of regaining the arch-
way, he perplexed himself with fruitless
wanderings, and at length found him-
self only more deeply involved in the
secret recesses of the pile.
The steps of his pursuers gained fast
upon him, and he continued to perplex
himſelf


( 129 )
himſelf with vain efforts at escape, till
at length, quite exhausted, he sank on
the ground, and endeavoured to resign
himself to his fate. He listened with a
kind of stern despair, and was surprized
to find all silent. On looking round,
he perceived by a ray of moon-light
which streamed through a part of the
ruin from above, that he was in a fort
of vault, which, from the small means
he had of judging, he thought was ex-
tensive.
In this situation he remained for a
considerable time, ruminating on the
means of escape, yet scarcely believing
escape was possible. If he continued
in the vault, he might continue there
only to be butchered ; but by attempt—
ing to rescue himself from the place he
was now in, he must rush into the hands
of the banditti. Judging it, therefore,
the safer way of the two to remain where
he was, he endeavoured to await his fate
with fortitude, when suddenly the loud
G 5 voices


( 130 )
voices of the murderers burst upon his
ear, and he heard steps advancing
quickly towards the spot where he lay.
Despair instantly renewed his vigour;
he started from the ground, and throw-
ing round him a look of eager despera-
tion, his eye caught the glimpse of a
small door, upon which the moon-beam
now fell. He made towards it, and
passed it just as the light of a torch
gleamed upon the walls of the vault.
He groped his way along a winding
passage, and at length came to a flight
of steps. Notwithstanding the dark-
ness, he reached the bottom in safety.
He now for the first time stopped to
listen—the sounds of pursuit were
ceased, and all was silent Continuing to.
wander on in effectual endeavours to
escape, his hands at length touched cold
iron, and he quickly perceived it be-
longed to a door. The door, however,
was fastened, and resisted all his efforts
to open it. He was giving up the at-
tempt


( . 131 j -
tempt in despair, when a loud scream
from within, followed by a dead and
heavy noise, roused all his attention.
Silence ensued. He listened for a con-
siderable time at the door, his imagina-
tion filled with images of horror, and,
expecting to hear the found repeated.
He then sought for a decayed part of the
door, through which he might discover
what was beyond; but he could find
none ; and after waiting some time with-
out hearing any farther noise, he was.
quitting the spot, when in passing his,
arm over the door, it struck against
something hard. On examination he
perceived to his extreme surprize that:
the key was in the lock. For a mo-
ment he hesitated what to do; but curio-
sity overcame other considerations, and
with a trembling hand he turned the
key. The door opened into a large and
desolate apartment, dimly lighted by a
lamp that stood on a table, which.
was almost the only furniture of the
G 6 place.


( 132 )
place. The count had advanced seve-
ral steps before he perceived an object,
which fixed all his attention. This was
the figure of a young woman lying on
the floor apparently dead. Her face
was concealed in her robe; and the long
auburn tresses which fell in beautiful
luxuriance over her bosom, served to
veil a part of the glowing beauty which
the disorder of her dress would have re-
vealed.
Pity, surprize, and admiration strug-
gled in the breast of Hippolitus; and
while he stood surveying the object
which excited these different emo-
tions, he heard a step advancing to-
wards the room. He flew to the door
by which he had entered, and was for-
tunate enough to reach it before the en-
trance of the persons whose steps he
heard. Having turned the key, he
stopped at the door to listen to their pro-
ceedings. He distinguished the voices
of two men, and knew them to be
- thoſe


rt 133 )
thoſe of the assassins. Presently he
heard a piercing shriek, and at the same
instant the voices of the ruffians grew
loud and violent. One of them ex-
claimed that the lady was dying, and
accused the other of having frightened
her to death, swearing with horrid im-
precations that she was his, and he would
defend her to the last drop of his blood.
The dispute grew higher; and neither
of the ruffians would give up his claim
to the unfortunate object of their alter-
cation. -
The clashing of swords was soon after
heard, together with a violent noise.
The screams were repeated, and the
oaths and execrations of the disputants
redoubled. They seemed to move to-
wards the door, behind which Hippolitus
was concealed; suddenly the door was
shook with great force, a deep groan fol-
lowed, and was instantly succeeded by a
noise like that of a person whose whole
weight falls at once to the ground,
Por


( 134. )
For a moment all was silent. Hippoli-
tus had no doubt that one of the ruffians
had destroyed the other, and was soon
confirmed in the belief—for the sur-
vivor triumphed with brutal exultation
over his fallen antagonist. The ruffian
hastily quitted the room, and Hippolitus
soon after heard the distant voices of se–
veral persons in loud dispute. The
founds seemed to come from a chamber
over the place where he stood; he also
heard a trampling of feet from above,
and could even distinguish, at intervals,
the words of the disputants. From these
he gathered enough to learn that the
affray which had just happened, and the
lady who had been the occasion of it,
were the subjects of discourse. The
voices frequently rose together, and
confounded all distinction.
At length the tumult began to sub-
side, and Hippolitus could distinguish
what was said. The ruffians agreed to
give up the lady in question to him who
had


( 135 )
had fought for her; and leaving him to
his prize, they all went out in quest of
farther prey. The situation of the un-
fortunate lady excited a mixture of pity
and indignation in Hippolitus, which
for some time entirely occupied him;
he revolved the means of extricating
her from so deplorable a situation, and
in these thoughts almost forgot his own
danger. He now heard her sighs; and
while his heart melted to the founds, the
farther door of the apartment was thrown
open, and the wretch to whom she had.
been allotted, rushed in. Her screams.
now redoubled, but they were of no
avail with the ruffian who had seized
her in his arms; when the count, who
was unarmed, insensible to every im-
pulse but that of a generous pity, burst
into the room, but became fixed like a
statue when he beheld his Julia strug-
gling in the grasp of the ruffian. On
discovering Hippolitus, she made a sud-
den spring, and liberated herself; when,
running


( 136 )
running to him, she sunk lifeless in his
arillS. -
Surprize and fury sparkled in the eyes
of the ruffian, and he turned with a sa-
vage desperation upon the count; who,
relinquishing Julia, snatched up the
sword of the dead ruffian, which lay
upon the floor, and defended himself.
The combat was furious, but Hippoli-
tus laid his antagonist senseless at his
feet. He flew to Julia, who now re-
vived, but who for some time could
speak only by her tears. The transi-
tions of various and rapid sensations,
which her heart experienced, and the
strangely mingled emotions of joy and
terror that agitated Hippolitus, can only
be understood by experience. He raised
her from the floor, and endeavoured
to soothe her to composure, when she
called wildly upon Ferdinand. At his
name the count started, and instantly
remembered the dying cavalier, whose
countenance the glooms had concealed
from


( 137 )
from his view. His heart thrilled with
secret agony, yet he resolved to with-
hold his terrible conjectures from Julia,
of whom he learned that Ferdinand,
with herself, had been taken by banditti
in the way from the villa which had
offered them so hospitable a reception
after the ship-wreck. They were on
the road to a port whence they designed
again to embark for Italy, when this
misfortune overtook them. Julia added
that Ferdinand had been immediately
separated from her; and that, for some
hours, she had been confined in the
apartment where Hippolitus found her.
The count with difficulty concealed
his terrible apprehensions for Ferdi-
nand, and vainly strove to soften Julia's
distress. But there was no time to be
lost—they had yet to find a way out
of the edifice, and before they could
accomplish this, the banditti might re-
turn. It was also possible that some of
the party were left to watch this their
- abode


( 138 )
abode during the absence of the rest,
and this was another circumstance of
reasonable alarm.
After some little consideration, Hip-
politus judged it most prudent to seek
an outlet through the passage by which
he entered; he therefore took the lamp,
and led Julia to the door. They entered
the avenue, and locking the door
after them, sought the flight of steps.
down which the count had before
passed; but having pursued the wind-
ings of the avenue a considerable time
without finding them, he became cer-
tain he had mistaken the way. They,
however, found another flight, which
they descended, and entered upon a pas-
sage so very narrow and low, as not to
admit of a person walking upright.
This passage was closed by a door,
which on examination was found to be
chiefly of iron. Hippolitus was startled
at the sight, but on applying his strength
found it gradually yield, when the im-
- priſoned


( 139 )
priſoned air rushed out, and had nearly
extinguished the light. They now en-
tered upon a dark abyss; and the door
which moved upon a spring, suddenly
closed upon them. On looking round
they beheld a large vault; and it is not
easy to imagine their horror on discover-
ing they were in a receptacle for the
murdered bodies of the unfortunate peo-
ple who had fallen into the hands of the
banditti.
The count could scarcely support the
fainting spirits of Julia; he ran to the
door, which he endeavoured to open, but
the lock was so constructed that it could
be moved only on the other side, and
all his efforts were useless. He was
constrained, therefore, to seek for ano-
ther door, but could find none. Their
situation was the most deplorable that
can be imagined; for they were now
inclosed in a vault strewn with the dead
bodies of the murdered, and must there
become the victims of famine, or of the
sword. The earth was in several places
thrown.


( 140 )
thrown up, and marked the boundaries
of new made graves. The bodies which
remained unburied were probably left
either from hurry or negligence, and ex-
hibited a spectacle too shocking for
humanity. The sufferings of Hippo-
litus were increased by those of Julia,
who was sinking with horror, and who
he endeavoured to support to a part of
the vault which fell into a recess—where
stood a bench.
hey had not been long in this situa-
tion, when they heard a noise which
approached gradually, and which did
not appear to come from the avenue
they had passed.
The noise increased, and they could
distinguish voices. Hippolitus believed
the murderers were returned; that they
had traced his retreat, and were coming
towards the vault by some way un-
known to him. He prepared for the
worst—and drawing his sword, resolved
to defend Julia to the last. Their ap-
- prehen-


( 141 )
prehenſion, however, was soon dissipated
by a trampling of horses, which sound
had occasioned his alarm, and which
now seemed to come from a court-yard
above, extremely near the vault. He
distinctly heard the voices of the ban-
ditti, together with the moans and sup-
plications of some person, whom it was
evident they were about to plunder.
The sound appeared so very near, that
Hippolitus was both shocked and sur-
prized; and looking round the vault,
he perceived a small grated window
placed very high in the wall, which he
concluded overlooked the place where
the robbers were assembled. He recol-
lected that his light might betray him;
and horrible as was the alternative, he
was compelled to extinguish it. He
now attempted to climb to the grate,
through which he might obtain a view
of what was passing without. This at
length he effected, for the ruggedness of
the wall afforded him a footing. He
beheld


( 142 ) .
beheld in a ruinous court, which was
partially illuminated by the glare of
torches, a group of banditti surrounding
two persons who were bound on horse-
back, and who were supplicating for
mercy.
One of the robbers exclaiming with
an oath that this was a golden night,
bade his comrades dispatch, adding he
would go to find Paulo and the lady.
The effect which the latter part of
this sentence had upon the prisoners in
the vault, may be more easily imagined
than described. They were now in to-
tal darkness in this mansion of the mur-
dered, without means of escape, and in
momentary expectation of sharing a fate
similar to that of the wretched objects
around them. Julia overcome with dis-
tress and terror, funk on the ground;
and Hippolitus, descending from the
grate, became insensible of his own
danger in his apprehension for her.
In a short time all without was confu-
ſion


( 143 )
fion and uproar; the ruffian who had
left the court returned with the alarm
that the lady was fled, and that Paulo
was murdered. The robbers quitting
their booty to go in search of the fugi-
tive, and to discover the murderer,
dreadful vociferations resounded through
every recess of the pile.
The tumult had continued a consider-
able time, which the prisoners had
passed in a state of horrible suspence,
when they heard the uproar advancing
stowards the vault, and soon after a num-
ber of voices shouted down the avenue.
The sound of steps quickened. Hip-
politus again drew his sword, and placed
himself opposite the entrance, where he
had not stood long, when a violent
push was made against the door; it
flew open, and a party of men rushed
into the vault.
Hippolitus kept his position, protest-
ing he would destroy the first who ap-
proached. At the sound of his voice
they


( 144 )
they ſtopped; but presently advancing,
commanded him in the king's name to
surrender. He now discovered what
his agitation had prevented him from
observing sooner, that the men before
him were not banditti, but the officers
of justice. They had received informa-
tion of this haunt of villainy from the
son of a Sicilian nobleman, who had
fallen into the hands of the banditti,
and had afterwards escaped from their
power. -
The officers came attended by a
guard, and were every way prepared to
prosecute a strenuous search through
these horrible recesses.
Hippolitus enquired for Ferdinand,
and they all quitted the vault in search
of him. In the court, to which they
now ascended, the greater part of the
banditti were secured by a number of
the guard. The count accused the
robbers of having secreted his friend,
whom he described, and demanded to
have liberated.
With


( 146 )
was hollow. On close examination,
they perceived by the light of their
torch, a trap door, which with some
difficulty they lifted, and discovered be-
neath a narrow flight of steps. They all
descended into a low winding passage,
where they had not been long, when
they heard a trampling of horses above,
and a loud and sudden uproar.
The officers apprehending that the
banditti had overcome the guard, rush-
ed back to the trap-door, which they
had scarcely lifted, when they heard a
clashing of swords, and a confusion of
unknown voices. Looking onward,
they beheld through the arch, in an in-
ner fort of court, a large party of ban-
ditti who were just arrived, rescuing
their comrades, and contending furiously
with the guard.
On observing this, several of the
officers sprang forward to the assistance
of their friends; and the rest, subdued
by cowardice, hurried down the steps,
letting


( 147 )
letting the trap door fall after them
with a thundering noise. They gave
notice to Hippolitus of what was passing
above, who hurried Julia along the pas-
sage in search of some outlet or place of
concealment. They could find neither;
and had not long pursued the windings
of the way, when they heard the trap-
door lifted, and the steps of persons
descending. Despair gave strength to
Julia, and winged her flight. But they
were now stopped by a door which
closed the passage, and the sound of
distant voices murmured along the walls.
The door was fastened by strong iron
bolts, which Hippolitus vainly endea-
voured to draw. The voices drew near.
Aftermuch labour and difficulty the bolts
yielded—the door unclosed—and light
dawned upon them through the mouth
of a cave, into which they now entered.
On quitting the cave they found them-
selves in the forest, and in a short time
H 2. reached


( 148 )
reached the borders. They now ven-
tured to stop, and looking back per-
ceived no person in pursuit.
CHAP-


( 149 }
CHAPTER XIV.
HEN Julia had rested, they fol-
lowed the track before them,
and in a short time arrived at a v lage
where they obtained security and re-
freshment.
But Julia, whose mind was occu-
pied with dreadful anxiety for Fer-
dinand, became indifferent to all around
her. Even the presence of Hippolitus,
which but lately would have raised her
from misery to joy, failed to soothe her
distress. The steady and noble attach-
ment of her brother had funk deep in
her heart, and reflection only aggra-
vated her affliction. Yet the banditti
had steadily persisted in affirming that he
was not concealed in their recesses; and
this circumstance, which threw a deeper
shade over the fears of Hippolitus, im-
parted a glimmering of hose to the mind
of Julia.
H 3 A more


( 150 )
A more immediate interest at length
forced her mind from this sorrowful
iſubject. It was necessary to determine
upon some line of conduct, for she was
now in an unknown spot, and ignorant
of any place of refuge. The count, who
trembled at the dangers which envi-
roned her, and at the probabilities he
saw of her being torn from him for ever,
suffered a confiderarion of them to over-
come the dangerous delicacy which at
this mournful period required his silence.
He entreated her to destroy the possi-
bility of separation, by consenting to
become his immediately. He urged
that a priest conld be easily procured
from a neighbouring convent, who would
confirm the bonds which had so long
united their hearts, and who would
thus at once arrest the destiny that so -
long had threatened his hopes.
This proposal, though similar to the
one she had before accepted; and though
the certain means of rescuing her from
the
{,


( 151 )
the fate she dreaded, she now turned
from in sorrow and dejection. She
loved Hippolitus with a steady and ten-
der affection, which was still heightened
by the gratitude he claimed as her de-
liverer ; but she considered it a propha-
nation of the memory of that brother
who had suffered so much for her sake,
to mingle joy with the grief which her
uncertainty concerning him occasioned.
She softened her refusal with a tender
grace, that quickly dissipated the jea-
lous doubt arising in the mind of Hip-
politus, and encreased his fond admira-
tion of her character. -
She desired to retire for a time to
some obscure convent, there to await
the issue of the event, which at present
involved her in perplexity and for-
IOW.
Hippolitus struggled with his feelings,
and forbore to press farther the suit on
which his happiness, and almost his
existence, now depended. He enquired
H 4 3t


( ; 52 )
at the village for a neighbouring con-
vent, and was told, that there was none
within twelve leagues, but that near
the town of Palini, at about that dis-
tance were two. He procured horses ;
and leaving the officers to return to Pa-
lermo for a stronger guard, he, accom-
panied by Julia, entered on the road to
Palini.
Julia was silent and thoughtful; Hip-
politus gradually funk into the fame
mood, and he often cast a cautious look
around as they travelled for some hours
along the feet of the mountains. They
stopped to dine under the shade of
some beech trees; for, fearful of disco-
very, Hippolitus had provided against
the necessity of entering many inns.
Having finished their repast, they pur-
sued their journey; but Hippolitus now
began to doubt whether he was in the
right direction. Being destitute, how-
ever, of the means of certainty upon
this point, he followed the road before
him,


( 153 )
him, which now wound up the side of
a steep hill, whence they descended into
a rich valley, where the shepherd's pipe
sounded sweetly from afar among the
hills. The evening fun shed a mild
and mellow lustre over the landscape,
and softened each feature with a vermil
glow that would have inspired a mind
less occupied than Julia's, with sensa-
tions of congenial tranquillity.
The evening now closed in ; and as
they were doubtful of the read, and
found it would be impossible to reach
Palini that night, they took the way to
a village, which they perceived at the
extremity of the valley.
They had proceeded about half a
mile, when they heard a sudden shout
of voices ecchoed from among the hills
behind them; and looking back per-
ceived faintly through the dusk a party
of men on horseback making towards
them. As they drew nearer, the words
they spoke were distinguishable, and
H 5 Julia


( 154 )
Julia heard her own name sounded.
Shocked at this circumstance, she had
now no doubt that she was discovered
by a party of her father's people, and
the fled with Hippolitus along the val-
ley. The pursuers, however, were
almost come up with them, when they
reached the mouth of a cavern, into
which she ran for concealment. Hip-
politus drew his sword; and awaiting
his enemies, stood to defend the en-
tran Ce.
In a few moments Julia heard the
clashing of swords. Her heart trem-
bled for Hippolitus ; and she was upon
the point of returning to resign herself
at once to the power of her enemies,
and thus avert the danger that threatened
him, when she distinguished the loud.
voice of the duke.
She shrunk involuntarily at the sound,
and pursuing the windings of the ca-
vern, fled into its inmost recesses. Here
she had not been long when the voices.
ſounded.


( 155 )
ſounded through the cave, and drew
near. It was now evident that Hippo-
litus was conquered, and that her ene-
mies were in search of her. She threw
round a look of unutterable anguish, and
perceived very near, by a sudden gleam
of torch-light, a low and deep recess
in the rock. The light which belonged
to her pursuers, grew stronger; and she
entered the rock on her knees, for the
overhanging craggs would not suffer her
to pass otherwise; and having gone a.
few yards, perceived that it was termi-
nated by a door. The door yielded to
her touch, and she suddenly found her-
ſelf in a highly vaulted cavern, which
received a feeble light from the moon.
beams that streamed through an open-
ing in the rock above.
She closed the door, and paused to
listen. The voices grew louder, and
more distinct, and at last approached so
near, that she distinguished what was,
said. Above the rest she heard the
H 6. voice


( 156 )
voice of the duke. It is impossible
she can have quitted the cavern," said
he, “ and I will not leave it till I have
found her. Seek to the left of that rock,
while I examine beyond this point."
These words were sufficient for Julia;
she fled from the door across the cavern
before her, and having ran a considerable
way, without coming to a termination,
stopped to breathe. All was now still ;
and as she looked around, the gloomy
obscurity of the place struck upon her
fancy all its horrors. She imperfectly
surveyed the vastness of the cavern in
wild amazement, and feared that she had
precipitated herself again into the power
of banditti, for whom alone this place
appeared a fit receptacle. Having lis-
tened a long time without hearing a re-
turn of voices, she thought to find the
door by which ſhe had entered, but the
gloom, and vast extent of the cavern,
made the endeavour hopeless, and the
attempt unsuccessful. Having wander-
ed


( 158 .)
was, now assisted her, and she found a
door, which she perceived was not the
one by which she had entered. It was
firmly fastened; she discovered, how-
ever, the bolts and the lock that held it,
and at length unclosed the door. It
opened upon a dark passage, which she
entered.
She groped along the winding walls
for some time, when she perceived the
way was obstructed. She now discovered
that another doorinterrupted her progress,
and sought for the bolts which might
fasten it. These she found; and strength-
ened by desperation forced them back.
The door opened, and she beheld in a
small room, which received its feeble
light from a window above, the pale
and emaciated figure of a woman, seated,
with half closed eyes, in a kind of elbow
chair. On perceiving Julia, she started
from her seat, and her countenance ex-
pressed a wild surprize. Her features,
which were worn by sorrow, still re-
tained


( 159 )
tained the traces of beauty, and in her
air was a mild dignity that excited in
Julia an involuntary veneration.
She seemed as if about to speak, when
fixing her eyes earnestly and steadily
upon Julia, she stood for a moment in
eager gaze, and suddenly exclaiming,
"My daughter!" fainted away.
The astonishment of Julia would
scarcely suffer her to assist the lady, who
lay senseless on the floor. A multitude.
of strange imperfect ideas rushed upon
her mind, and she was lost in per-
plexity; but as she examined the fea-
tures of the stranger; which were now
re-kindling into life, she thought she dis-
covered the resemblance of Emilia 1.
. The lady breathing a deep sigh, un-
closed her eyes; she raised them to Ju-
lia, who hung over her in speechless
astonishment, and fixing them upon her
with a tender earnest expression—they
filled with tears. She pressed Julia to
her heart, and a few moments of ex-
quiſite,


( 160 )
quiſite, unutterable emotion followed.
When the lady becaem more composed,
“ Thank heaven l’” said she, “ my
prayer is granted. I am permitted to
embrace one of my children before I die.
Tell me what brought you hither. Has
the marquis at last relented, and allowed
me once more to behold you, or has his
death dissolved my wretched bondage?"
Truth now glimmered upon the mind
of Julia, but so faintly, that instead of
enlightening, it served only to encrease
her perplexity.
"Is the marquis Mazzini Irving?"
continued the lady. These words were
not to be doubted; Julia threw herself
at the feet of her mother, and embracing
her knees in an energy of joy, answered
only in sobs. -
The marchionesseagerly enquired after
her children, “ Emilia is living," an-
swered Julia, “ but my dear brother—"
“ Tell me," cried the marchioness,
with quickness. An explanation ensued;
When
-


( ić, )
When she was informed concerning Fer-
dinand, she sighed deeply, and raising
her eyes to heaven, endeavoured to as-
sume a look of pious resignation; but
the struggle of maternal feeling was vi-
sible in her countenance, and almost over-
came her powers of resistance.
Julia gave a short account of the pre-
ceding adventures, and of her entrance
into the cavern; and found to her inex-
pressible surprize, that she was now in a
subterranean abode belonging to the
southern buildings of the castle of Maz-
zini ! The marchioness was beginning
her narrative, when a door was heard to
unlock above, and the found of a foot-
ſtep followed.
“ Fly!" cried the marchioness, "se-
crete yourself if possible, for the marquis
is coming." Julia's heart funk at these
words; she paused not a moment, but
retired through the door by which she
had entered. This she had scarcely
done, when another door of the cell
WaS ..


| 16.2 )
was unlocked, and she heard the voice
of her father. Its sounds thrilled her
with a universal tremour; the dread of
discovery so strongly operated upon her
mind, that she stood in momentary ex-
pectation of seeing the door of the pas-
sage enclosed by the marquis; and she
was deprived of all power of seeking re-
fuge in the cavern.
At length the marquis, who came
with food, quitted the cell, and re-
locked the door, when Julia stole forth
from her hiding place. The marchioness
again embraced, and wept over her
daughter. The narrative of her suffer-
ings upon which she now entered, en-
tirely dissipated the mystery which had
so long enveloped the southern build-
ings of the castle.”
“ Oh! why," slid the marchioness,
“ is it my task to discover to my daugh-
ter the vices of her father ? In relating
my sufferings, I reveal his crimes . It is
now about fifteen years, as near as I can
gueſs


( 163 )
gueſs from the small means I have of
judging, since I entered this horrible
abode. My sorrows, alas ! began not
here ; they commenced at an earlier pe-
riod. But it is sufficient to observe, that
the passion whence originated all my
misfortunes, was discovered by me long
before I experienced its most baleful
effects.” -
Seven years had elapsed since my
marriage, when the charms of Maria de
Vellorno, a young lady singularly beau-
tiful, inspired the marquis with a passion
as violent as it was irregular. I ob-
served with deep and silent anguish, the
cruel indifference of my lord towards
me, and the rapid progress of his pas-
sion for another. I severely examined
my past conduct, which I am thankful
to say presented a retrospect of only
blameless actions; and I endeavoured by
meek submission, and tender assiduities,
to recall that affection which was, alas !
gone for ever. My meek submission
W3S


( 164 )
was confidered as the mark of a servile
and insensible mind ; and my tender
assiduities, to which his heart no longer
responded, created only disgust, and ex-
alted the proud spirit it was meant to
conciliate."
"The secret grief which this change
occasioned, consumed my spirits, and
preyed upon my constitution, till at
length a severe illness threatened my
life. I beheld the approach of death
with a steady eye, and even welcomed
it as the passport to tranquility ; but it
was destined that I should linger through
new scenes of misery."
"One day, which it appears was the
paroxysm of my disorder, I sunk into a
state of total torpidity, in which I lay
for several hours. It is impossible to
describe my feelings, when, on recover-
ing, I found myse f in this hideous
abode. For some time I doubted my
senses, and afterwards believed that I
had quitted this world for another; but
I was


( 165 )
I was not long suffered to continue in
my error, the appearance of the mar-
quis bringing me to to a perfect sense of
my situation."
“ l now understood that I had been
conveyed by his direction to this recess
of horror, where it was his will I should
remain. My prayers, my supplications
were ineffectual ; the hardness of his
heart repelled my . ſorrows back upon
myself; and as no entreaties could pre-
vail upon him to inform me where I
was, or of his reason for placing me
here, I remained for many years igno-
rant of my vicinity to the castle, and of
the motive for my confinement."
"From that fatal day, until very
lately, I saw the marquis no more—but
was attended by a person who had been
for some years dependant upon his
bounty, and whom necessity, united to
an insensible heart, had doubtless in-
duced to accept this office. He gene-
rally brought me a week's provisions, at
ſtated


( 166 )
ſtated intervals, and I remarked that
his visits were always in the night.”
“ Contrary to my expectation, or
my wish, nature did that for me which
medicine had refused, and I recovered
as if to punish with disappointment and
anxiety my cruel tyrant. I afterwards
learned, that in obedience to the mar-
quis's order, I had been carried to this spot
by Vincent during the night, and that
I had been buried in effigy at a neigh-
bouring church, with all the pomp of
funeral honour due to my rank."
At the name of Vincent Julia started;
the doubtful words he had uttered on
his death bed were now explained—the
cloud of mystery which had so long in-
volved the southern buildings broke at
once away: and each particular circum-
stance that had excited her former ter-
ror, arose to her view entirely unveiled
by the words of the marchioness.—The
long and total desertion of this part of
the fabric—the light that had appeared
through


( 167 )
through the casement—the figure she
had seen issue from the tower—the mid-
night noises she had heard—were cir-
cumstances evidently dependant on the
imprisonment of the marchioness; the
latter of which incidents were produced
either by Vincent, or the marquis, in
their attendance upon her.
When she considered the long and
dreadful sufferings of her mother, and
that she had for many years lived so
near her ignorant of her misery, and
even of her existence—she was lost in
astonishment and pity."
"My days," continued the mar-
chioness, "passed in a dead uniformity,
more dreadful than the most acute vicissi-
tudes of misfortune, and which would
certainly have subdued my reason, had
not those firm principles of religious
faith, which I imbibed in early youth,
enabled ſne to withstand the still, but
forceful pressure of my calamity."
The insensible heart of Vincent at
length


( 168 )
Tength began to soften to my misfortunes.
He brought me several articles of com-
fort, of which I had hitherto been deſ.
titute, and answered some questions I
put to him concerning my family. To
release me from my present situation,
however his inclination might befriend
me, was not to be expected, since his life
would have paid the forfeiture of what
would be termed his duty."
"I now first discovered my vicinity
to the castle. I learned also, that the
marquis had married Maria de Vellorno,
with whom he had resided at Naples, but
that my daughters were left at Mazzini.
This last intelligence awakened in my
heart the throbs of warm maternal ten-
derness, and on my knees I supplicated
to see them. So earnestly I entreated,
and so solemnly I promised to return
quietly to my prison, that at length,
prudence yielded to pity, and Vincent
consented to my request.
"On the following day he came to
the


{ 169 )
the cell, and informed me my chil-
dren were going into the woods, and
that I might fee them from a window
near which they would pass. My nerves
thrilled at these words, and I could
scarcely support myself to the spot I so
eagerly sought. He led me through
long and intricate passages, as I guessed
by the frequent turnings, for my eyes
were bound, till I reached a hall of
the south buildings. I followed to a
room above, where the full light of
day once more burst upon my fight, and
almost overpowered me. Vincent placed
me by a window, which looked towards
the woods. Oh what moments of
painful impatience were those in which
I awaited your arrival "
"At length you appeared. I saw
you—I saw my children—and was nei-
ther permitted to clasp them to my
heart, or to speak to them You was
leaning on the arm of your sister, and
your countenances spoke the ſ, rightly
- Vol. II. I - happy


* ( 172 )
haſpy innocence of youth-Alas! you
knew not the wretched fate of your mo-
ther, who then gazed upon you ! Al-
though you were at too great a distance
for my weak voice to reach you, with
the utmost difficulty I avoided throwing
open the window, and endeavouring to
discover myself. The remembrance of
my solemn promise, and that the life of
Vincent would be sacrificed by the act,
alone refrained me. I struggled for
some time with emotions too powerful
for my nature, and fainted away."
“ On recovering I called wildly for
my children, and went to the window—
but you were gone! Not a l the en-
treaties of Vincent could for s me time
remove me from this station, where I
waited in the fond expectation of f cing
you again—but you appeared no more
At last I returned to my cell in an extasy
of grief which I tremble even to re-
me...ber.” -
“ This intº rview, so eagerly sought,
and so reluctantly, granted, proved a
ſource
w


( 171 )
ſource of new misery—instead of
calming, it agitated my mind with a
restless, wild despair, which bore away
my strongest powers of resistance. I
raved incessantly of my children, and
incessantly solicited to see them again—
Vincent, however, had found but too
much cause to repent of his first indul-
gence, to grant me a second.”
“ About this time a circumstance
occurred which promised me a speedy
release from calamity. Above a wee
elapsed, and Vincent did not appear.
My little stock of provision was exhaust-
ed, and I had been two days without
food, when I again heard the doors that
led to my prison creek on their hinges.
An unknown step approached, and in a
few minutes the marquis entered my
cel ! My blood was chilled at the fight,
and I closed my eyes as I hoped for the
last time. The found of his voice re-
called me. His countenance was dark
and sullen, and I perceived that he
I 2 [ICl il-


( 172 )
trembled. He informed me that Vincent
was no more, and that henceforward his
office he should take upon himself. I for-
bore to reproach—where reproach would
only have produced new sufferings, and
with-held supplication where it would
have exasperated conscience and in-
flamed revenge. My knowledge of
the marquis's second marriage I con-
cealed.”
* He usually attended me when
night might best conceal his visits ;
though these were irregular in their re-
turn. Lately, from what motive I can-
not guess, he has ceased his nocturnal
visits, and comes only in the day."
"Once when midnight encreased the
darkness of my prison, and seemed to
render silence even more awful, touched
by the sacred horrors of the hour, I
poured forth my distress in loud lamen,
tation. Oh! never can I forget what I
felt, when I head a distant voice answer
to my moan A wild surprize, which
W2S


( 173 )
was strangely mingled with hope, seized
me, and in my first emotion I should
have answered the call, had not a recol-
lection crossed me, which destroyed at
once every half-raised sensation of joy.
I remembered the dreadful vengeance
which the marquis had sworn to execute
upon me, if I ever, by any means, endea-
voured to make known the place of my
concealment; and though life had long
been a burden to me, I dared not to in-
cur the certainty of being murdered.
I also well knew that no person who
might discover my situation could effect
my enlargement ; for I had no relations
to deliver me by force, and the marquis
you know, has not only power to im-
prison, but also the right of life and
death in his own domains. I, therefore,
forbore to answer the call, though I
could not entirely repress my lamenta-
tion. I long perplexed myself with en-
deavouring to account for this strange
circumstance, and am to this moment
ignorant of its cause."
! 3 Julia


( 174 )
Julia remembering that Ferdinand
had been confined in a dungeon of the
castle, it instantly occurred to her that
his prison, and that of the marchioness,
were not far distant; and she scrupled
not to believe that it was his voice which
her mother had heard. She was right
in this belief, and it was indeed the
marchioness whose groans had formerly
caused Ferdinand so much alarm, both
in the marble hall of the south buildings,
and in his dungeon.
When Julia communicated her opi-
nion, and the marchioness believed that
she had heard the voice of her son—her
emotion was extreme, and it was some
time before she could resume her narra-
tion.
“. A short time since," continued the
marchioness, "the marquis brought me
a fortnight's provision, and told me that
I should probably fee him no more till
the expiration of that term. His ab-
sence at this period you have explained
!!M


( 175 )
in your account of the transactions at
the abbey of St. Augustin. How can
I ever sufficiently acknowledge the obli–
gations I owe to my dear and invaluable
friend Madame de Menon Oh I that it
might be permitted me to testify my
gratitude.” w
Julia attended to the narrative of her
mother in silent astonishment, and gave
all the sympathy which sorrow could
demand. "Surely," cried she, "the pro-
vidence on whom you have so firmly re-
lied, and whose inflictions you have sup-
ported with a fortitude so noble, has con-
ducted me through a labyrinth of mis-
fortunes to this spot, for the purpose of
delivering you ! Oh let us hasten to fly
this horrid abode—let us seek to escape
through the cavern by which I entered."
She paused in earnest expectation
awaiting a reply. "Whither can I
fly f" said the marchioness, deeply sigh-
ing. This question spoken with the
emphasis of despair, affected Julia to
tears, and she was for a while silent.
I 4 “ The


( 176 )
“The marquis," resumed Julia,
“would not know where to seek you, or
if he found you beyond his own domains,
would fear to claim you. A convent
may afford for the present a safe asylum;
and whatever shall happen, surely no
fate you may hereafter encounter can be
more dreadful than the one you now
experience."
The marchioness assented to the truth
of this, yether broken spirits, the effect
of long sorrow and confinement, made
her hesitate how to act; and there was
a kind of placid despair in her look,
which too faithfully depicted her feel-
ings. It was obvious to Julia that the
cavern she had passed wound beneath
the range of mountains on whose oppo-
site side stood the castle of Mazzini.
The hills thus rising formed a screen
which must entirely conceal their emer-
gence from the mouth of the cave, and
their flight, from those in the castle.
She represented these circumstances to
hes


( 177 )
her mother, and urged them so forcibly,
that the lethargy of despair yielded to
hope, and the marchioness committed
herself to the conduct of her daughter.
"Oh I let me lead you to light and
life l’’ cried Julia with warm enthusiasm.
* Surely heaven can bless me with no
greater good than by making me the
deliverer of my mother." They both.
knelt down ; and the marchioness with
that affecting eloquence which true piety
inspires, and with that confidence.
which had supported her through so.
many miseries, committed herself to the
protection of God, and implored his.
favour on their attempt. ty
They arose, but as they conversed.
farther on their plan, Julia recollected
that she was destitute of money---the-
banditti having robbed her of all ! The
sudden shock produced by this remem-
brance almost subdued her spirits;,
never till this moment had she under-
stood the value of money. But she
15. com-


( 178 )
commanded her feelings, and resolved
to conceal this circumstance from the
marchioness, preferring the chance of
any evil they might encounter from
without, to the certain misery of this
terrible imprisonment.
Having taken what provision the
marquis had brought, they quitted the
cell, and entered upon the dark passage,
along which they passed with cautious
steps. Julia came first to the door of
the cavern, but who can paint her dis-
tress when she found it was fastened :
All her efforts to open it were ineffectual.
—The door which had closed after her,
was held by a spring lock, and could
be opened on this side only with a key.
When she understood this circumstance,
the marchion.cſs, with a placid resigna-
tion which seemed to exalt her above
humanity, addressed herself again to
heaven, and turned back to her cell.
Here Julia indulged without reserve,
and without scruple, the excess of her
grief. The marchioness wept over her.
“ Not


( 179 )
“Not for myself," said she, "do I grieve,
—I have too long been inured to miſ.
fortune to sink under its pressure. This
disappointment is intrinsically, perhaps,
little—for I had no certain refugs
from calamity—and had it even been
otherwise, a few years only of suffering
would have been spared me. It is for
you, Julia, who so much lament my
fate; and who, in being thus delivered
to the power of your father, are sacri-
ficed to the duke de Luovo—that my
heart swells."
Julia could make no reply, but by
pressing to her lips the hand which
was held forth to her, she saw all the
wretchedness of her situation ; and her
fearful uncertainty concerning Hippo-
litus and Ferdinand, formed no inferior
part of her affliction. * *
“ Hſ," resumed the marchioness,
“ you prefer imprisonment with your
mother, to a marriage with the duke,
you may still secrete yourself in the paſ-
I 6 - ſage
w


( 181 )
inceſſantly haunted her imagination.
When the marquis brought food to
the cell, she retired to the avenue lead-
ing to the cavern, and escaped dis-
covery.
CHAP,


( 182 )
CHAPTER XV.
HE marquis, meanwhile, whose
indefatigable search after Julia
failed of success, was successively the
slave of alternate passions, and he poured
forth the spleen of disappointment on
his unhappy domestics.
The marchioness, who may now more
properly be called Maria de Vellorno,
inflamed, by artful insinuations, the pas-
sions already irritated, and heightened
with cruel triumph his resentment to-
wards Julia and Madame de Menon.
She represented, what his feelings too
acutely acknowledged,—that by the ob-
stinate disobedience of the first, and the
machinations of the last, a priest had
been enabled to arrest his authority as
a father—to insult the sacred honour
of his nobility—and to overturn at once
his proudest schemes of power and am-
bition. She declared it her opinion,
that


( 183, ),
!
that the Abate was acquainted with the
place of Julia's present retreat, and up-
braided the marquis with want of spirit
in thus submitting to be outwitted by a
priest, and forbearing an appeal to the
pope, whose authority would compel the
Abate to restore Julia.
This reproach stung the very foul of
the marquis; he felt all its force, and
was at the fame time conscious of his
inability to obviate it. The effect of
his crimes now fell in severe punishment
upon his own head. The threatened
secret, which was no other than the im-
prisonment of the marchioness, arrested
his arm of vengeance, and compelled
him to submit to insult and disappoint-
ment. But the reproach of Maria funk
deep in his mind; it fomented his pride
into redoubled fury, and he now repelled
with disdain the idea of submission.
He revolved the means which might
effect his purpose—he saw but one—this
was the death of the marchioness.
- The


( 184 )
The commission of one crime often
requires the perpetration of another.
When once we enter on the labyrinth of
vice, we can seldom return, but are led
on through correspondent mazes to de-
struction. To obviate the effect of his first
crime, it was now necessary the mar-
quis should commit a second, and con-
ceal the imprisonment of the marchioneſss
by her murder. Himself the only liv-
ing witness of her existence, when she
was removed, the allegations of the
Padre Abate would by this means be un-
supported by any proof, and he might
then boldly appeal to the pope for the
restoration of his child.
He mused upon this scheme, and the
more he accustomed his mind to con-
template it, the less scrupulous he be-,
came. The crime from which he would
formerly have shrunk, he now surveyed
with a steady eye. The fury of his
passions, unaccustomed to resistance,
uniting with the force of what ambition
- termed


( 185 )
termed necessity—urged him to the
deed, and he determined upon the mur-
der of his wife. The means of effecting
his purpose were easy and various; but
as he was not yet so entirely hardened
as to be able to view her dying pangs,
and embrue his own hands in her blood,
he chose to dispatch her by means of
poison, which he resolved to mingle in
her food.
But a new affliction was preparing for
the marquis, which attacked him where
he was most vulnerable; and the veil
which had so long overshadowed his
reason was now to be removed. He was
informed by Baptifta of the infidelity of
Maria de Vellorno. In the first emotion
of passion, he spurned the informer from
his presence, and disdained to believe
the circumstance. A little reflection
changed the object of his resentment ;
he recalled the servant, whose faithful-
ness he had no reason to distrust, and
condescended to interrogate him on the
subject of his misfortune.
He


( 136 )
He learned that an intimacy had for
some time subsisted between Maria and
the cavalier de Vincini; and that the
assignation was usually held at the pa-
villion on the sea shore, in an evening.
Baptista farther declared, that if the mar-
quis desired a confirmation of his words,
he might obtain it by visiting this spot
at the hour mentioned.
This information lighted up the wildest
passions of his nature; his former suf-
ferings faded away before the stronger
influence of the present misfortune, and
it seemed as if he had never tasted mi-
sery till now. To suspect the wife upon
whom he doated with romantic fondness,
on whom he had centered all his firinest
hopes of happiness, and for whose sake
he had committed the crime which em-
bittered even his present moment, and
which would involve him in still deeper
guilt—to find her ungrateful to his love,
and a traitorefs to his honour—produced
a misery more poignant than any his
imag-


( 187 )
imagination had conceived. He was
torn by contending passions, and oppo-
site resolutions:—now he resolved to
expiate her guilt with her blood—and
now he melted in all the softness of love.
Vengeance and honour bade him strike
to the heart which had betrayed him,
and urged him instantly to the deed—
when the idea of her beauty—her win-
ning smiles—her fond endearments stole
upon his fancy, and subdued his heart;
he almost wept to the idea of injuring
her, and in spight of appearances, pro-
nounced her faithful. The succeeding
moment plunged him again in uncer-
tainty; his tortures acquired new vi-
gour from cessation, and again he ex-
perienced all the phrenzy of despair.
He was now resolved to end his doubts
by repairing to the pavillion; but again
his heart wavered in irresolution how to
proceed should his fears be confirmed.
In the mean time he determined to
watch the behaviour of Maria with se-
vere vigilance.
- They


( 188 )
They met at dinner, and he observed
her closely, but discovered not the smallest
impropriety in her conduct. Her smiles
and her beauty again wound their fas-
cinations round his heart, and in the
excess of their influence he was almost
tempted to repair the injury which his
late suspicions had done her, by confes-
sing them at her feet. The appearance
of the cavalier de Vincini, however, re-
newed his suspicions; his heart throbbed
wildly, and with restless impatience he
watched the return of evening, which
would remove his suspence.
Night at length came. He repaired to
the pavillion, and secreted himself
among the trees that embowered it.
Many minutes had not passed, when he
heard a found of low whispering voices
steal from among the trees, and foot-
ſteps approaching down the alley. He
stood almost petrified with terrible sen-
sations, and presently heard some per-
sons enter the pavillion. The marquis
In QWE
-


( 191 )
of awakening penitence; and exaspe-
rated pride without exciting shame,
heard the upbraidings of the marquis
with impatience, and replied to them
with acrimonious violence.
She boldly asserted her innocence, and
instantly invented a story, the plausibi-
lity of which might have deceived a
man who had evidence less certain than
his senses to contradict it. She be-
haved with a haughtiness the most in-
solent; and when she perceived that the
marquis was no longer to be misled, and
that her violence failed to accomplish
its purpose, she had recourse to tears and
supplications. But the artifice was too
glaring to succeed; and the marquis
quitted her apartment in an agony of
resentment. - -
His former fascinations, however,
quickly returned, and again held him
in suspension between love and ven-
geance. That the vehemence of his
passion however, might not want an
object,


( 192 )
objećt, he ordered Baptista to discover
the retreat of the cavalier de Vincini.
on whom he meant to revenge his
lost honour. Shame forbade him to em-
ploy others in the search.
This discovery suspended for a while
the operations of the fatal scheme, which
had before employed the thoughts of
the marquis; but it had only suspended
—not destroyed them. The late oc-
currence had annihilated his domestic
happiness; but his pride now rose to
rescue him from despair, and he centered
all his future hopes upon ambition. In
a moment of cool reflection, he con-
sidered that he had derived neither hap-
piness or content from the pursuit of
dissipated pleasures, to which he had
hitherto sacrificed every opposing con-
sideration. He resolved, therefore, to
abandon the gay schemes of dissipation
which had formerly allured him, - and
dedicate himself entirely to ambition,
in the pursuits and delights of which
he
s


( 194 )
of his foul, and he gazed upon her with
eyes of stiffened horror. Alarmed by
his looks, she fell upon her knees to
supplicate his pity.
Her attitude recalled his bewildered
senses ; and endeavouring to assume a
tranquil aspect, he bade her rise, and
instantly quitted the cell, fearful of the
instability of his purpose. His mind
was not yet sufficiently hardened by
guilt to repel the arrows of conscience,
and his imagination responded to her
power. As he passed through the long
dreary passages from the prison, solemn
and mysterious sounds seemed to speak
in every murmur of the blast which
crept along their windings, and he often
started and looked back.
He reached his chamber, and having
shut the door, surveyed the room in
fearful examination. Ideal forms flitted
before his fancy, and for the first time
in his life he feared to be alone. Shame
only with-held him from calling Bap-
- tiſta


( 195 )
s
tiſta. The gloom of the hour, and the
death-like silence that prevailed, assisted
the horrors of his imagination. He half
repented of the deed, yet deemed it
now too late to obviate it; and he threw
himself on his bed in terrible emotion.
His head grew dizzy, and a sudden
faintness overcame him; he hesitated,
and at length arose to ring for assistance,
but found himself unable to stand.
In a few moments he was somewhat
revived, and rang his bell ; but before
any person appeared, he was seized with
terrible pains, and staggering to his bed,
sunk senseless upon it. Here Baptista,
who was the first person that entered
his room, found him struggling, seem-
ingly in the agonies of death. The
whole castle was immediately roused,
and the confusion may be more easily
imagined than described. Emilia, amid
the general alarm, came to her father's
room, but the sight of him overcame
her, and she was carried from his
K 2 - pre-


( 196 )
preſence. By the help of proper appli-
cations the marquis recovered his senses,
and his pains had a short cessation.
"I am dying," said he, in a faulter-
ing accent ; “ ſend instantly for the
marchioness and my son."
Ferdinand in escaping from the hands
of the banditti, it was now seen had fal-
len into the power of his father. He
had been since confined in an apartment
of the cattle, and was now liberated to
obey the summons. The countenance
of the marquis exhibited a ghastly
image 5 Ferdinand, when he drew near
the bed, suddenly shrunk back, over-
come with horror. The marquis now
beckoned his attendants to quit the
room, and they were preparing to obey,
when a violent noise was heard from
without; almost in the same instant the
door of the apartment was thrown open,
and the servant who had been sent for
the marchioness, rushed in. His look
alone declared the horror of his mind,
for


( 197 )
for words he had none to utter. He
stared wildly, and pointed to the gallery
he had quitted. Ferdinand, seized
with new terror, rushed the way he
pointed to the apartment of the mar-
chioness. A spectacle of horror pre-
sented itself. Maria lay on a couch
lifeless, and bathed in blood. A poig-
nard, the instrument of her destruction,
was on the floor ; and it appeared from
a letter which was found on the couch
beside her, that she had died by her
own hand. The paper contained these
words:
To the Marquis de Mazz.INI.
" YOUR words have stabbed my
heart. No power on earth could re-
“ ſtore the peace you have destroyed.
"I will escape from my torture. When
“ you read this, I shall be no more.
"But the triumph shall no longer be
K3 your's-


( 199 )
|
and he became tolerably easy. He
waved his hand for the attendants to
leave the room; and beckoning to Fer-
dinand, whose senses were almost stun-
ned by this accumulation of horror, bade
him sit down beside him. “ The hand
of death is now upon me," said he 3
“ I would employ these last moments
in revealing a deed, which is more dread-
ful to me than all the bodily agonies I suf-
fer. It will be some relief to me to dis-
cover it." Ferdinandgrasped the hand of
the marquis in speechless terror. “ The
retribution of heaven is upon me," re-
sumed the marquis. "My punishment
is the immediate consequence of my
guilt. Heaven has made that woman
the instrument of its justice, whom I
made the instrument of my crimes;
that woman, for whose sake I forgot con-
science, and braved vice—for whom I
imprisoned an innocent wife, and after-
wards murdered her."
At these words every nerve of Ferdi-
K4. nand


6, 202 )
murder had been committed at a distant
period; and he resolved, therefore, to
have the ground of the cell dug up,
and the remains of his mother sought
for.
When the first violence of the emo-
tions excited by the late scenes was sub-
sided, he enquired concerning Maria
de Vellorno.
It appeared that on the day preceding
this horrid transaction, the marquis had
passed some hours in her apartment;
that they were heard in loud dispute;
—that the passion of the marquis grew
high 5–that he upbraided her with her
past conduct, and threatened her with
a formal separation. When the mar-
quis quitted her, she was heard walking
quick through the room, in a passion of
tears ; the often suddenly stopped in ve-
hement but incoherent exclamation;
and at last threw herself on the floor,
and was for some time entirely still.
Here her woman found her, upon whoſe
º: Cntrancº
* -- **
ºr ºr
- .


( 203 )
entrance she arose hastily, and reproved
her for appearing un-called. After this
she remained silent and sullen.
She descended to supper, where the
marquis met her alone at table. Little
was said during the repast, at the con-
clusion of which the servants were dis-
missed ; and it was believed that during
the interval between supper, and the
hour of repose, Maria de Vellorno con-
trived to mingle poison with the wine of
the marquis. How she had procured
this poison was never discovered.
She retired early to her chamber ;
and her woman observing that she ap-
peared much agitated, enquired if she
was ill 2 To this she returned a short
answer in the negative, and her woman
was soon afterwards dismissed. But she
had hardly shut the door of the room,
when she heard her lady's voice recall-
| ing her. She returned, and received
some trifling order, and observed that
Maria looked uncommonly pale ; there
K 6 WaS


( 204 )
was besides, a wildness in her eyes which
frightened her, but she did not dare to
ask any questions. She again quitted
the room, and had only reached the
extremity of the gallery, when her mis-
tress's bell rang. She hastened back,
Maria enquired if the marquis was gone
to bed, and if all was quiet : Being an-
swered in the affirmative, she replied,
“ This is a still hour, and a dark
one Good night!"
Her woman having once more left
the room, stopped at the door to listen;
but all within remaining silent, she re-
tired to rest.
It is probable that Maria perpetrated
the fatal act soon after the dismission of
her woman; for when she was found
two hours afterwards, she appeared to
have been dead some time. On exa-
mination a wound was discovered on
her left side, which had doubtless pene-
trated to the heart, from the suddeness
of her death, and from the effusion of
blood which had followed.
The


( 205 )
Theſe terrible events so deeply affected
Emilia, that she was confined to her
bed by a dangerous illness. Ferdinand
struggled against the shock with manly
fortitude. But amid all the tumult of
the present scenes, his uncertainty con-
cerning Julia, whom he had left in the
hands of banditti, and whom he had
been with-held from seeking or rescu-
ing, formed perhaps the most affecting
part of his distress.
The late marquis de Mazzini, and
Maria de Vellorno, were interred with
the honour due to their rank in the
church of the convent of St. Nicolo.
Their lives exhibited a boundless indul-
gence of violent and luxurious passions,
and their deaths marked the conse-
quences of such indulgence, and held
forth to mankind a singular instance of
divine vengeance.
CHAP.


- ( 299 )
lent ſtorm of wind and rain arose. The
road lay through a wild and rocky coun-
try, and Ferdinand could obtain no
shelter. His attendants offered him their
cloaks, but he refused to expose a ser- -
vant to the hardship he would not him-
self endure. He travelled for some miles
in a heavy rain ; and the wind, which
howled mournfully among the rocks,
and whose solemn pauses were filled by
the distant roarings of the sea, height-
ened the desolation of the scene. At
length he discerned amid the darkness
from a far, a red light waving in the
wind ; it varied with the blast, but ne-
ver totally disappeared. He pushed his
horse into a gallop, and made towards
it.
The flame continued to direct his
course; and on a nearer approach, he
perceived, by the red reflection of its
fires, streaming a long radiance upon
the waters beneath—a light-house situ-
ated upon a point of rock which over-
hung


( 212 )
Party agreed to quit the cell at the re-
turn of night. But this being a night
on which it was known the marquis
would visit the prison, they agreed to
defer their departure till after his ap-
pearance, and thus elude the danger to
be expected from an early discovery of
the escape of the marchioness.
At the found of footsteps above, Hip-
politus and Julia had secreted themselves
in the avenue; and immediately on the
marquis's departure they all repaired to
the cavern, leaving in the hurry of
their flight untouched the poisonous
food he had brought. Having es-
caped from thence they proceeded to
a neighbouring village, where horses
were procured to carry them towards
Palermo, Here after a tedious jour-
ney they arrived, in the design of em-
barking for Italy. Contrary winds had
detained them till the day on which
Ferdinand left that city, when apprehen-
sive and weary of delay, they hired a
small vessel, and determined to brave
the


( 213 )
!\
\
C
the winds. They had soon reason to
repent their temerity; for the vessel had
not been long at sea when the storm
arose, which threw them back upon the
shores of Sicily, and brought them to
the light-house, where they were dis-
covered by Ferdinand.
On the following morning Ferdinand
returned with his fiends to Palermo,
where he first disclosed the late fatal
events of the castle. They now settled
their future plans; and Ferdinand haſ.
tened to the castle of Mazzini to fetch
Emilia, and to give orders for the re-
moval of his household to his palace at
Naples, where he designed to fix his fu-
ture residence. The diress of Emilia,
whom he found recovered from her in-
disposition, yielded to joy and wonder,
when she heard of the existence of her
mother, and the safety of her ſſter.
She departed with Ferdinand for Paler-
mo, where her friends awaited her, and
where the joy of the meeting was con-
siderably heightened by the a, i.e. ance
of