Orphan of the Rhine 12

THE ORPHAN OF THE RHINE

PART 12

 

The midnight clock has told and hark! the bell

Of Death beats slow; heard ye the note profound?

It pauses now, and now with rising knell.

Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.

--MASON

The strange variety of events that had recently occupied the thoughts of Madame Chamont, prevented her from paying her respects to the Lady Abbess so frequently as had been her custom; who beginning to feel uneasy at her absence, sent a message by Father Benedicta to invite her to the convent. Not more anxious to obtain that consolation which the conversation of the Superior afforded, than to be released from the society of the steward, whose haughtiness of deportment rather increased than diminished, she readily acquiesced; and Laurette, who was usually the companion of her walks, was allowed to accompany her on her visit.

The features of the venerable Abbess were animated with a smile as she came forward to receive them, but an expression of deep dejection soon afterwards succeeded.

Believing that she had met with some new cause of distress, Madame Chamont would have requested permission to have shared it with her; but fearful of intruding upon the sacredness of her sorrow, she remained silent with her eyes fixed upon the ground, till the Superior, in a voice which she could scarcely command, informed her that the sister Cecilia was so ill, that all hopes, founded on human assistance, were likely to prove inefficacious. 'But as her life,' resumed the Abbess, 'has displayed an example of the most uniform piety, penitence, and submission; so her serenity at the approach of death indicates that the hope of acceptance she has cherished is not founded on error. If you will attend me to her cell,' continued the Superior, 'you will witness the most perfect tranquillity in the midst of exquisite suffering.'

Madame Chamont, who had every reason to believe that the beautiful vestal had of late carefully avoided meeting with her, though she could not easily account for it, would have excused herself from visiting her cell; observing, that the presence of a stranger, in the last moments of existence, might be considered as an intrusion. But every objection that she offered was instantly removed by the Abbess, who seemed so anxiously to desire her attendance, that she was compelled to yield to the proposition. As they were proceeding along the cloisters on their way to the chamber, they were met by a nun, who advancing hastily towards the Superior, informed her that for the last two hours the sister Cecilia had been rapidly declining; and, as the moment of her departure was supposed to be near, her Confessor was in waiting to perform the usual ceremony for the repose of her soul.

The Abbess replied only with a sigh, and a look directed eloquently towards heaven, and then taking the hand of Madame Chamont, with the fond affection of a mother, led her to a small door between two columns which opened into the apartment.

Here on a mattress, at the end of the room, lay sister Cecilia. She was attended by two nuns, who were seated on stools by her side, and who, by the silent movement of their lips, appeared to be engaged in devotion.

Beneath a dim gothic casement on the eastern side of the apartment, stood Father Benedicta. He held a missal in his hand, and seemed to be so entirely abstracted from worldly affairs as not to observe their entrance.

The fair sufferer, who was apparently too near death to feel any acute pain, cast a glance of filial tenderness upon the Abbess, and another, not less affectionate, towards Madame Chamont. Her fine blue eyes were not so radiant as before her illness, but in other respects she was but little altered; her features still retained the same interesting expression, and though overspread with that livid hue, which indicates approaching dissolution, were still lovely.

'Daughter,' said the Superior, seating herself on the bed by her side, 'I have brought Madame Chamont to see you; I thought a visit from her would not be unpleasant.'

The nun smiled serenely, and then, with a motion of her hand, invited her to come forwards; whilst the Abbess walked towards the window where the Confessor was stationed.

'Perhaps I have been unkind to you,' cried sister Cecilia, addressing herself to Madame Chamont, in low and mournful accents; 'you have discovered a tender interest in my misfortunes, and I have hitherto denied you my confidence. You wrote to ask me if I ever had a daughter, or had cause to lament the loss of one? The answer I returned was as true as it was concise--I never had one. But had I not previously taken a vow never to disclose any incident of my past life to any other than my Confessor, the amiable sympathy you discovered for my irremediable calamities, would have induced me to reveal them; but this sacred vow, which has long bound me to secrecy, reaches but to the confines of the grave. Father Benedicta is acquainted with my story, and has my permission to give you any information you may desire upon this subject immediately on my decease.'

Madame Chamont thanked the nun gratefully for her attention, who being much exhausted by this slight exertion, uttered a benediction, and then closing her eyes, fell into a gentle doze.

As soon as she awaked from this short slumber, the sisterhood were summoned, by the ringing of a bell, to attend the mass.

The Monk was now arrayed in his priestly robes, and the ceremony was performed with a degree of solemnity that was at once awful and impressive.

Madame Chamont attended to these pious rites with a devout enthusiasm peculiar to her character; they reminded her of the last moments of her revered mother, and sighs, which she was unable to subdue, frequently convulsed her bosom.

As soon as these holy acts of devotion were concluded, the Lady Abbess and the rest of the assembly, except the nuns whose business it was to attend upon the dying, arose to depart. But the former being recalled by the Monk, at the request of the sister Cecilia, remained in the apartment, whilst Madame Chamont retired in procession with the rest of the nuns.

Had she not been withheld by earthly connections, how willingly would Madame Chamont have committed herself to this holy retirement. The placid countenances of the sisters, the gentleness, the humility of their deportments, the air of solemnity that dignified their movements, were so grateful to her feelings, that she was tempted to believe, from a transient review of the subject, that peace was only to be enjoyed in the solitude of a cloister.

The deepening shades of the evening now convinced her of the necessity of quitting the convent, and calling for Laurette, who had remained below in the Abbess's parlour, they returned to the castle.

The next day the Father Benedicta was commissioned by the Superior, to inform Madame Chamont of the death of sister Cecilia, which event had taken place a few hours after her departure; and also to request, if her spirits were equal to the task, that she would attend the funeral of the nun, which was fixed for the evening of the ensuing day.

Seduced by that pleasing melancholy which scenes of solemnity inspire, she assented to the proposal; and calling the Monk into a saloon which was unoccupied, she besought him to acquaint her with some circumstances relative to the departed sister, particularly that of her name and former residence.

'Her name,' replied the Father, 'which I am now permitted to disclose, is Di Capigna.'

Madame Chamont started; a blush passed suddenly across her cheek, but instantly disappeared, leaving it more wan than before.

'Her place of residence,' resumed the Father, 'before the commencement of her misfortunes, was Naples.' Madame Chamont's countenance became still paler; whilst, without appearing to observe her emotions, the Monk continued.

'She formed an attachment in early youth, an attachment not more unfortunate than dangerous. Her lover was an Italian Noble of high rank and immense possessions, but of libertine unstable principles; he had been long initiated in all the arts of intrigue; and being entirely divested of that energy of soul which resists evil inclinations, became a slave to every passion that tyrannizes in the heart of man. He seduced her affections under the appearance of sincerity, and finally prevailed upon her to relinquish the protection of her only surviving parent, and to become an inmate of his mansion.

'The father of the misguided Signora was no sooner informed of his daughter's dishonour, than it began to have an alarming effect upon his constitution: he raved incessantly of his child, though he persisted in refusing to see her; and soon afterwards fell a victim to his own and his daughter's calamities.

'The Signora was no sooner acquainted with his death, which she was conscious of having hastened, than she fled from her lover, and suddenly became the most austere of penitents. She undertook a pilgrimage to the Chapel of Loretto, and afterwards consigned her youth, beauty, and almost matchless accomplishments to the shades of a cloister.

'It is now upwards of fourteen years,' resumed the Father, 'since she entered into the convent; and whatever irregularities may have marked her former conduct, her penitence, her tears, and her sufferings have been sufficient to expiate them.--Yes, her late exemplary life,' continued the Monk, after a momentary pause, 'whatever errors she may have committed previous to her retirement, we may venture to hope, with humility, will ensure her eternal felicity.'

The conversation was here interrupted by the presence of Laurette, who advancing towards the Father with an easy and sprightly air, drew her chair near his, and seated herself by his side.

The holy Benedicta, who loved her with parental affection, gazed placidly upon her beautiful face, and then taking her hand, continued--'The death of the sister Cecilia presents to all, particularly to the young and the sanguine, an awfully important lesson; let us consider it, my daughters, and endeavour to profit by it--She was once rich, lovely, and celebrated; but, by one act of unrestrained error, became miserable, despised, and abject. A whole life of austerity was scarcely sufficient to purify her contaminated soul, and to prepare it for that unknown change that awaits us all. The sting of conscience is, perhaps, the most acute pang which the regenerated mind can endure. It is a wound we carry unhealed to the grave; and at the hour of separation, when the parting spirit requires every aid that conscious integrity can bestow, is, unless softened by the interposition of divine grace, more dreadfully afflictive than at any other period of existence.'

Madame Chamont perceiving that the latter part of this discourse was delivered in a faltering voice, raised her tearful eyes from the ground, on which they had long been riveted, and fixing them upon the countenance of the Father, saw it was distorted by emotion: he seemed to feel acutely the terrible sensation he had been describing, and finding himself observed, embarrassment deprived him of the power of proceeding.

But the pang of remorse was not of long continuance; hope reanimated his breast, and the same placid expression which his features usually wore, returned with more affecting interest.

He was unconscious of Madame Chamont's being informed of his story, though he knew that she had released his friend from captivity, and consequently that she had made herself acquainted with some of the most remarkable events of La Roque's past life. Perhaps there was nothing that the Father so ardently desired as to conceal from the knowledge of the world the dissipated follies of his youth, though the cause of this reluctance to reveal them could not be easily ascertained; as of all men he was the most meek, humble, and unassuming, the least apprehensive of censure, and by no means solicitous to secure the applause of the multitude. To his God only, he was accountable for his actions, and not to frail humanity. In his service he preserved an uniform austerity of life, suffering all the mortifications and bodily inflictions which the severity of his order required. By this method he endeavoured to erase from his mind the melancholy remembrance of the past; or, if it could not be forgotten, at least to blunt the poignancy of his feelings with the comforts of religion, attended by the elevated, and not presumptive hope, that the atonement was accepted.

When the Monk had regained his composure, he continued the subject till the chime of the vesper-bell, which was heard faintly on the wind, warned him of the hour of prayer, and precipitated his departure from the castle.

On the succeeding day Madame Chamont prepared, at the request of her friend, to attend the funeral of the sister Cecilia; and putting on a long black robe, with a veil of the same colour, but little different either in form or texture to those worn by the order of Penitents, she took her missal, her crucifix, and her rosary, and repaired to the convent.

She was met at the gate by a friar, who usually attended for the purpose of opening it, and on enquiry for the Abbess, was directed to the Refectoire, where the nuns, who had taken the eternal veil, were already assembled.

They all arose on her entrance, and courteously offered her a seat by the fire, which, as the evening was cold and damp, she consented to accept. When the first salutations were over, a mournful silence ensued, which was interrupted at intervals by deep and heartfelt sighs, proceeding from the farther end of the room.

Curiosity induced Madame Chamont to turn; it was Father Benedicta, who had taken a place in a remote corner, to conceal what he mistook for weakness, but what was really the effect of his humanity.

The hollow tolling of the bell, and the entrance of four lay brothers, who passed hastily through the room, and departed at a contrary door, announced the moment was at hand in which the remains of the beautiful penitent was to be consigned to its last cold and cheerless abode.

As soon as these religious men had passed through the Refectoire, the Superior gave orders for the assembly to remove to the edge of the chapel-yard, to wait there till the body was disposed in the order in which it was to be conveyed, and to be in readiness to attend it from thence to the place of destination.

Having arrived within the gate of the burial-ground, they stopped, and in a few minutes beheld the melancholy procession stealing solemnly towards the spot. The coffin was supported by the four lay brothers from the Carthusian Monastery, who were commissioned to attend for the purpose; a friar walked before, holding in one hand a crucifix of ebony, and in the other a small image of the Virgin; six of the same order moved slowly behind bearing torches, followed by the novices and boarders of the convent; these advanced at a short disttance, bearing baskets of myrtle, laurel, and other evergreens, to decorate the new-made grave of their departed sister.

The procession was now joined by the Lady Abbess, Madame Chamont, and the train of nuns, who proceeded between the corpse and the following monks, till they reached the door of the chapel; here they were met by Father Benedicta, who being the sister Cecilia's Confessor, was requested to officiate at the last mournful office, that of interment.

Having arrived at the interior of the edifice, the coffin was deposited in a recess scooped out in the wall for similar occasions, beneath the image of a Magdalen in the act of penitence. The chapel was dimly lighted, except near the altar, which was splendidly adorned with a profusion of valuable paintings and consecrated tapers. At some distance from this stood the venerable Father: a gleam of light, which fell upon his face, marked the shadowy lines of sorrow softened by resignation; the hood which he usually wore being thrown back upon his shoulders, as soon as the service was begun, the whole of his countenance was visible and impressive.

At first his voice was low and faltering but as he resumed the discourse, his words regained their accustomed solemnity of expression, his features no longer retained the cloud of dejection but assumed the vivid glow of hope and confidence.

An exhortation to survivors succeeded, delivered with all the moving graces of eloquence: every auditor listened with reverence as the holy Father proceeded, and felt impressed with the spirit and fire of devotion as he continued to expatiate upon the beauty of holiness, and the misery inseparable from vice and immorality.

As soon as this was concluded, the nuns, who had seated themselves in the aisles during the ceremony, attended by the monks and the rest of the congregation, advanced towards the burial-ground, whither the deceased was borne, in the same order as before, till they reached the edge of the grave. As they passed along the chapel on their way towards the place, strains, almost divine, echoed through the cloisters, which being aided by the voices of the choir, had a charmingly sublime effect, tending to preclude as unholy every earthly idea, and to wrap the mind in deep religious musings.

When the procession arrived at the consecrated spot, the tones of the organ were still heard, and the voices that accompanied it, being softened by distance, sounded to the ear of enthusiasm like the chaunt of angels.

Madame Chamont listened with undescribable sensations till the notes died into silence, and the Father made a sign for the coffin to be committed to the earth. A short prayer was then delivered with much fervency and emphasis, which was often interrupted by the sobs of the audience, who loved the sister Cecilia with the most refined affection and tenderness. Madame Chamont's tears flowed fast; and as she returned towards the convent, her feelings became so acute that she was compelled to take the arm of a nun for support.

As it was nearly dark when the funeral rites were concluded, the Abbess used many arguments to prevail upon her friend to continue with her during the night; but unwilling to leave her young charge, who she considered might be uneasy at her absence, declined the proposal; and, attended by one of the superior domestics of the convent, walked thoughtfully towards the castle.

Deeply impressed by the awful scene she had witnessed, Madame Chamont retired early to her room, and feeling little inclination to sleep, placed herself in a large antique chair which was fixed at the side of her bed, and taking her pen, her customary resource in the moments of dejection, she endeavoured to beguile the solitary hours by inscribing the following lines to the memory of the unfortunate Signora Di Capigna:

DIRGE

Meek Flower, untimely doom'd to fade.

Ere half thy op'ning sweets were known.

To pine in drear Misfortune's shade.

Alike forgotten and unknown.

Tho' rob'd in more than mortal charms.

To quit thy peerless earthly frame.

o waste thy sweets in Death's cold arms.

That slowly, but relentless came.

Ah! what avails the vermeil dye.

The charm that Beauty's step attends.

The ruby lips, the halcyon eye.

And ev'ry grace that Nature lends;

Since all must meet the direful blow:

Nor could thy powers, Oh! Genius, save;

For thee the tear shall ever flow.

To grace thy silent, early grave.

And there no thistle rude shall grow.

No weedy flower of baleful hues;

But there the mournful poppy blow.

And bathe thy turf with opiate dews.

No spectre wan shall haunt the way.

Nor screaming owl with boding cry;

But Cynthia's bird, of sweetest lay.

Shall sooth the zephyr's evening sigh.

When Madame Chamont had finished this little plaintive memorial, she began to ruminate upon the subject of Father Benedicta's discourse on the evening preceding the funeral. As the beautiful nun was indisputably proved to be the Signora Di Capigna, agreeable to her former supposition; from her own declaration she was assuredly not the mother of Laurette, as she had verbally confessed, within a few hours of her death, that she never had a daughter; which was perfectly consistent with the assertion which her letter contained previous to this event. This certainly communicated a slight gleam of satisfaction to her mind; for if Laurette was not the daughter of this unfortunate nun, it appeared highly probable that she was the orphan child of some deceased friend of the Marchese's, whom pity had induced him to patronize; and possibly, should time and reflection fix the attachment between her and Enrico upon a still firmer basis, no adverse circumstances might prevent their union.

Chapter 8

 

Oh! Conspiracy!

Sham'st thou to shew thy dang'rous brow by night.

When evils are most free? Oh! then by day

Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough

To mask thy monstrous visage?

--SHAKESPEARE

Paoli had not been long resident in the castle before Madame Chamont was convinced, that the uneasy apprehensions she had experienced previous to his arrival, were not groundless; and that the noble part she had taken in liberating the unfortunate from the grasp of oppression, an unforeseen accident had early discovered.

The sullen reserve which had hitherto marked the behaviour of the steward, and was peculiar to his character, was soon after his arrival augmented; and he frequently fixed his eyes upon Madame Chamont, when he accidentally and unavoidably met her, with a look conveying a shrewd and malicious expression. This she perceived with some appearance of emotion; whilst her tormentor, who seemed to derive pleasure from her embarrassment, endeavoured, as much as possible, to increase that distress he was conscious of having excited, with a repetition of his former conduct.

That he had already visited the dungeon, and that his suspicions were directed to her, nearly amounted to conviction; but why he should suspect her, as the immediate cause of La Roque's escape from captivity, without some recent information which might lead to the conjecture, was at once strange and unaccountable. But from this state of surmise and perplexity she was soon afterwards relieved, by the certainty that a full discovery was the consequence of a trifling inadvertency; which convinced her that she had every thing to fear from the rage of her enemies, and that on her part the most strenuous exertions of heroic fortitude were necessary.

The bracelet which she had dropped from her arm, whose loss she lamented because adorned by the portrait of her father, was found by Paoli amid the files and other instruments which she had employed in the accomplishment of her design, in the dungeon of the turret.

This he secured and presented to her when she was amusing herself in the selection of some of the finest flowers which the gardens produced, to ornament the windows of the oriel; informing her from whence he had taken it, and demanding, in an imperious and authoritative tone, for what purpose she had visited the tower.

Being unprepared for an answer, Madame Chamont did not immediately reply; nor could the conscious rectitude of her conduct, which had hitherto dignified her misfortunes, prevent her from feeling some portion of that acute pain, which is inseparable from the performance of decided wrong.

The hesitation of her manner, and the paleness of her looks were a sufficient confirmation of the truth of the conjecture; and the haughty steward, having thus openly avowed the circumstance which had led to the supposition, after eyeing her with a malignant sneer, that insulted and wounded her feelings more than the severest invective, retired from her presence, with the self-important air of a man who congratulates himself upon some new and valuable discovery.

Soon after this event, Ambrose was dispatched with a letter to the nearest town, addressed to the Marchese; which Paoli informed Madame Chamont was respecting some business which was to be transacted before his return into Italy, which could not be conducted without the directions of his Lord; and at the same time avoiding any hint that could justify the opinion that it had any relation to herself.

Some weeks passed without any material occurrence; in which time the steward, in the presence of Madame Chamont, still preserved that stately kind of reserve, which necessarily forbids the communication of sentiment; seeming to regard the family at the castle as people of an inferior order, whose welfare and happiness were entirely dependant upon himself, and over whom he was permitted to exercise an unlimited power.

This behaviour could not pass without the deserved imputation of arrogance; and Madame Chamont, who possessed a delicate sense of propriety, and had been early taught to make reflections upon character, though she did not allow herself to yield to the impulse of a quick resentment, was not insensible to the indignity that was offered her, and anticipated, with somewhat of impatience, the moment of his departure.

A letter from the Marchese, that was directed to Paoli, in answer to that which had been recently conveyed to him, was now brought to the castle. The joy evidently expressed in the countenance of the steward, on the perusal of it, could not pass unobserved; but the contents, or even the subject of the epistle, was carefully concealed.

Madame Chamont, who was too well acquainted with the disposition of the Marchese, not to be assured that she had much to fear from his resentment, should he arrive at the knowledge of La Roque's release, which she had every reason to believe would be the case, that she felt depressed and uneasy whenever this was the subject of her thoughts; and so terrifying were her apprehensions at times, that nothing but the applause of her own heart, that internal reward of virtue, could have supported her under them.

It was not without some astonishment that she perceived a considerable alteration in the manners of Paoli soon after the receipt of the letter: He appeared at some times unusually animated, joined frequently in conversation, and lost much of that haughtiness of demeanour which had hitherto precluded the advances of freedom.

To account for this sudden alteration was no very easy task, though Madame Chamont could not forbear surmising, that it was assumed for the concealment of some deep design; but from whatever motive it proceeded, it contributed much to the comfort of that part of the family who were entirely unsuspicious of the cause.

Laurette, whose heart was still occupied by the image of Enrico, took every opportunity of being alone, when her necessary assistance in the household concerns did not render her presence indispensable, that she might ramble alone and unobserved in those walks which his society had endeared; where she frequently remained till the close of the day, recollecting every sentiment he had expressed, every object he had admired, and soothing herself with the hope that she still lived in his remembrance.

One evening, after having wandered for some time through the groves and shrubberies surrounding the mansion, which were wild, lonely, and beautiful, she was tempted to prolong her walk, and striking into a new path, which apparently led into a wood not immediately connected with the castle, she felt an irresistible inclination to follow the track, and proceeded in it rapidly.

Having reached the precincts of the wood, she heard the trampling of mules as advancing towards the spot, and stopped for a few moments to distinguish whither they were going. She had not remained long in this situation before voices were heard, which seemed to approach nearer, and were soon afterwards succeeded by loud bursts of laughter, evidently proceeding from intoxication. Alarmed at the consequence of venturing so far unattended, she receded from the borders of the forest, and being afraid lest she should be overtaken before she could arrive at a place of security, ran swiftly towards home.

As soon as she had entered the gate leading into the second court, the tolling of the vesper bell, which informed her she had been absent too long, directed her towards the chapel.

The family were already assembled to render thanks for the blessings of the day; and, as she placed herself in the aisle where the congregation were kneeling, Madame Chamont's looks seemed gently to reproach her inattention to the hour. Laurette felt severely the reproof, and secretly determining not to merit it again, joined in devotion with more than her accustomed earnestness.

As soon as vespers were concluded, Paoli requested that Madame Chamont would indulge him with a few moments' conversation in private, as he wished to consult with her respecting some repairs that were wanting on the other side of the edifice. Our heroine fixed her eyes upon her governess as the proposal was made, and perceived that she appeared much concerned, though the cause was unknown to her, and that she seemed unwilling to comply. After having made some objections, chiefly arising from the lateness of the evening, which the steward removed by observing that the moon was unusually bright, and that the distance was so trifling as to preclude the possibility of danger, she assented; Laurette, who innocently besought permission to attend them, was repulsed by a frown from Paoli, and not daring to dispute his authority, returned to the interior of the castle.

As the evening was cold and rather damp, she ordered a fire to be made in the saloon; and taking one of her favourite authors from her store of books that were arranged in an antique piece of furniture, designed for the purpose, she sat down by the cheerful blaze, and endeavoured to amuse herself with reading.

When nearly an hour had elapsed, she began to be alarmed at Madame Chamont's absence, which appeared protracted beyond the time which business required; and desiring Dorothée to accompany her, walked by the side of the rampart wall till she had reached the northern buildings, the way she recollected they had taken.

The melancholy stillness that universally prevailed, increased the uneasy sensation that was stealing upon her spirits; and as she looked anxiously around without distinguishing those she was in search of, her fears began to augment, and she felt irresolute in what manner to act.

The apparent dissatisfaction and reluctance with which Madame Chamont had yielded to the steward's proposal, recurred frequently to her thoughts, though she was unable to form any conjecture as to the reason of it, since there was nothing very surprising or singular in the request.

Yet, notwithstanding the probability of his having something to communicate in private, which could not well be dispensed with, she was not unacquainted with the malignant disposition of the steward; and had oftentimes beheld with astonishment the causeless aversion he seemed to have conceived for her amiable protectress, ever since she had been capable of forming a judgment upon the subject.

Having pursued their way for a considerable time without better success, they mutually agreed to return, and to send Ambrose immediately in search of them.

This was no sooner determined than they saw Paoli walking by the side of the wood. He was alone, and unconscious of observation, was moving slowly and thoughtfully along.

Dorothée being anxious to know what was become of her lady, called to him, and roused him from his reverie. As he turned and advanced towards them, he betrayed some symptoms of confusion; but recollecting himself, proceeded to inform them that as he was conducting Madame Chamont along the northern side of the battlements, a party of banditti rushed suddenly from the wood, and, regardless of her cries, or the threats and remonstrances that he had uttered, seized upon her with violence, and placing her upon a mule, in spite of every effort he had exerted to effectuate her release, fled instantly away. The alarm this strange adventure occasioned had, he added, so entirely deprived him of the power of action, that he was undetermined what mode to pursue; and was meditating on the most probable method of overtaking them, when he was roused from these reflections by the voice of Dorothée.

Laurette, being overcome with grief and apprehension, was insensible to the latter part of the discourse, for she had fainted in the arms of her attendant, who, after many attempts to recall her to life, was obliged, with the assistance of the steward, to convey her into the castle.

Dorothée, though she had more command over her feelings, was not less affected, and besought Paoli to send Ambrose immediately, accompanied by some of the peasantry, in pursuit of the ruffians. To this proposal he readily assented, though there appeared but little probability of success; and Ambrose, with a party of men armed and mounted, were instantly dispatched.

However unlikely it was that a few simple cottagers, headed by an old servant, who was equally unskilled in the use of arms, should succeed in an attack against a band of robbers, it was a hope that conveyed a solace to the bosom of Laurette, and after many intreaties she was at last prevailed upon to retire to her bed.

To be continued

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