SECT. I.

IN the religious houſe to which Oſwald had retired, was a Monk, called Reginhald, whoſe mind but ill ſuited his profeſſion, or his reſidence in a ſeat of piety. He was brother to Grey, and by his intereſt had been not long ſince admitted into the Monaſtery, and promoted to ſome degree of dignity and authori⯑ty. His manners were equally brutal with thoſe of Grey, but leſs diſguiſed by art and hypocriſy. He was like him, abject and ſervile, but by no means ſo well ſkilled in the arts of flattery: inſolent and aſſum⯑ing, but not careful to diſtinguiſh between thoſe who feared and thoſe who defied his power. Hence was he frequently controuled and mortified by his bre⯑thren, whom he dreaded from a conſciouſneſs of his own exceſſes; and who deteſted and ſcorned him in⯑deed, yet feared the power which ſupported, or ſeemed to ſupport him. They regarded his brother as the fa⯑vourite of Lord Raymond, and Lord Raymond as heir to the houſe of Saliſbury, and already poſſeſſed of all its greatneſs. To purchace his protection, therefore, they turned their eyes from his offences, and ſuffered him to diſgrace and diſturb their houſe by ſcandalous exceſſes, utterly ſubverſive of holy diſcipline and or⯑der. Drunkenneſs, and riot, and lewdneſs, had oft⯑entimes profaned their walls with impunity. They [96]lamented theſe enormities of their unworthy brother; but, inſtead of diſcloſing and puniſhing them, lament⯑ed to each other in ſecret, leſt they ſhould forfeit the favour and protection of Lord Raymond; although the miſcreant had been ſcarcely known, and was utterly unnoticed and diſregarded by this Lord.

Grey had conceived a ſudden hope of preventing the effects which the flight of Oſwald threatened, by means of this Reginhald; and, if not of gaining young William into his own power, at leaſt of pre⯑venting any emiſſaries from ſpreading the intelligence of his eſcape to ſanctuary, and the diſtreſſes of his mo⯑ther. This it was that determined him to depart in⯑ſtantly, and to viſit this monaſtery! but his brother, active and officious in every deed of baſeneſs, had al⯑ready prevented his deſires, Oſwald had happily reached the monaſtery, and Reginhald was among the firſt to demand the reaſon of his appearance. Scarce⯑ly could he reſtrain his paſſion until Oſwald had com⯑pleated his ſtory; and, then, burſt forth with un⯑bounded rage into the vileſt and ſevereſt reproaches. He charged him with falſehood and treachery; de⯑clared himſelf reſolved inſtantly to learn the real na⯑ture of his crime, and purpoſe of his flight; and, for this reaſon, to repair in perſon to the caſtle. In the mean time, with an aſſumed air of authority, he ordered that this fugitive ſhould be ſtrictly guarded, and kept from all intercourſe till his return. Oſwald heard his brutal virulence and paſſion, not without ſome terror, which was noted, and regarded as an indication of guilt. The directions of Reginhald were obeyed, and he himſelf now haſtened to inform his brother of this event. He met him when he had but juſt rode a few paces from the caſtle; whither Grey inſtantly returned with the Monk.

They retired to a private conference with equal eagerneſs, and with minds equally prepared for out⯑rage or treachery. The Monk prevented the enquiries of his brother, by relating what had juſt now paſſed at the monaſtery. Grey expreſſed a ſullen joy, when informed that Oſwald was cloſely guarded, and, for [97]the preſent, effectually prevented from ſpreading his ſaucy tale, or purſuing the deſign for which he had fled. He commended the zeal of Reginhald; and, ſeizing his arm with an aſpect, earneſt, and myſteri⯑ouſly ſolemn, he declared, that both their future for⯑tunes depended on confining Oſwald from all inter⯑courſe, and gaining young William into their own power and diſpoſal. The rude Monk, whoſe firſt thoughts were ever to recur to violence, inſtantly de⯑clared for ſeizing both, and forcing them from their retreat: but he was ſtopped by Grey, who cenſured ſuch procedure as dangerous and unwarrantable; and pronounced it neceſſary to purſue meaſures the moſt deliberate and moſt cautiouſly concerted. He pro⯑ceeded to diſcloſe all the tranſactions of Lord Ray⯑mond from his firſt arrival at the caſtle of Saliſbury, all the efforts made to ſhake the conſtancy of Ela, and all the oppoſition and diſdain of that proud Coun⯑teſs. He began to explain how much their fortunes muſt be advanced by finding means of conquering her reſolution, and by the final ſucceſs of Lord Raymond in obtaining full and indiſputable poſſeſſion of the lands and dignities of the houſe of Saliſbury. But Reginhald, conſcious that his own ſecurity from diſ⯑grace and puniſhment depended on the influence and protection of this Lord, needed no inducement to concur in the deſigns and practices of his brother. He broke in upon his diſcourſe with a paſſionate heat, and loudly condemned all his late proceedings. 'Why,' ſaid he, ‘was not I made acquainted with your difficulties? why were not their hands forci⯑bly joined? I ſhould have at once pronounced the nuptial benediction over them, and without regard to female pride or ſcruples, have united them for ever in thoſe bands, which no human power can rend aſunder.’—Grey again began to condemn his violence, and to urge the neceſſity of caution, when their conference was ſuddenly interrupted by a do⯑meſtic, who ſurpriſed them by declaring that he ſought the Monk, and had in charge to conduct him to the Counteſs.

[98] The mind of this unhappy lady had long been vio⯑lently agitated, the true cauſe of that languor and malady which oppreſſed her gentle frame. The hopes ſhe had conceived of the ſafety of her ſon, and the ſpeedy arrival of friends and deliverers, had acted on her haraſſed ſpirits like a powerful medicine, and checked the progreſs of her diſorder. She had now leiſure to turn her thoughts to her huſband, and to weigh thoſe accounts of his fate which Oſwald had raſhly conveyed to her. The idea of his diſloyalty was piercing: ſhe revolved it frequently: ſhe reaſon⯑ed on the intelligence ſhe had received; ſhe believed; ſhe doubted; ſhe indulged her ſuſpicions; and ſtrove to baniſh them, by turns. Ill were thoſe reflections ſuited to reſtore her impaired health; yet ſhe dwelt upon them. The faithful Elinor, from whom ſhe could not conceal her thoughts, in vain endeavoured to compoſe her diſtractions, and to allay her inward grief: ſtill ſhe tormented herſelf with reflections on the ſuppoſed falſehood of her Lord, and on his un⯑happy fate; when the attendant caſually diſcovered from a window the approach of Reginhald, and ob⯑ſerved with ſome ſurpriſe that a religious man, who by his habit ſeemed of the neighbouring monaſtery, was now entering the caſtle. ‘He comes with news of my ſon,’ ſaid the Counteſs haſtily; ‘Let him be called hither.—And, alas, this diſtracted breaſt hath but too much need of ſpiritual counſel and comfort.’

A domeſtic was inſtantly diſpatched to ſeek the Monk; who now appeared before the Counteſs. Naturally baſe and mean, and never before admitted into ſuch a preſence, he ſtood abaſhed and confuſed; and the conſciouſneſs of his own vile purpoſes ſerved to increaſe his diſorder, His aſpect, in which the ſen⯑ſual and malignant paſſions had fixed their ſeat, and his deportment, which was that of the rude hind or midnight brawler, not of the holy and lettered clerk, were ſurveyed by the Counteſs with ſudden diſguſt. She ſhuddered, as at the view of ſome loathſome ani⯑mal: yet, aſſuming a placid air, and endeavouring to [99]conceal her diſlike, ſhe aſked of his order and reſi⯑dence. No ſooner had he named the brotherhood of Sarum, than raiſing herſelf from the couch on which ſhe leaned, 'You then' ſaid ſhe, ‘bring me news of my ſon—diſpatched to acquaint me with his ſafe ar⯑rival within your holy walls—Is it not ſo?’ Regin⯑hald coldly anſwered, that her ſon was ſafe, and had been depoſited in the monaſtery hy his conduc⯑tor. The Counteſs, with claſped hands and earneſt accents, uttered a prayer for his protection. Elinor was tenderly affected; and uniting her fervours with thoſe of her beloved miſtreſs, commended young William to every ſaint and holy angel. The Monk ſtood unmoved, and ſcarcely could aſſume the appear⯑ance of devotion, juſt as far as to pronounce a cold aſſent to their petitions. The Counteſs was on the point of imploring his protection for her ſon, but the diſguſt which ſhe had conceived at his aſpect, and which was encreaſed by his demeanour, repreſſed that thought. She contented herſelf with ſpeaking her hopes in general, that his innocence and his wrongs would not fail to raiſe him friends in the houſe of pie⯑ty and charity. She ſpoke of the oppreſſion which ſhe herſelf had ſuffered, in terms of bitterneſs and indignation: and ſeemed to demand, as her juſt right, the vigorous interpoſition of every good man for her relief, but more eſpecially the dutiful and faithful of⯑fices of thoſe holy men who had experienced her fa⯑vour and munificence. The ſilence of Reginhald gave her an occaſion of repeating and enforcing her diſcourſe: but her diſcourſe was directed to an un⯑friendly ear. The wicked Monk had fixed his eyes upon an object, which totally diverted his attention from the Counteſs. Near her couch there ſtood a ta⯑ble, on which, among ſome female ornaments, was depoſited a ring, an ancient and precious jewel, which had long been the diſtinguiſhing ornament of her noble houſe, and bore its enſigns armorial curiouſ⯑ly impreſſed. The ſight of this inſtantly ſuggeſted a treacherous purpoſe to the Monk; for which it was neceſſary to poſſeſs himſelf of the jewel. His ſitua⯑tion [100]was convenient for ſeizing it, unnoticed by Ela or her attendant. He watched a favourable moment to convey it to his boſom; and, having once ſecured his prize, he was more at leiſure to anſwer the diſ⯑courſe of the Counteſs, to aſſume ſome appearance of gravity, and to affect the dignity and ſpiritual authori⯑ty of his function. He declared, that, within their walls, her ſon could not ſuffer wrong: but that it was neceſſary to ſend him thither for protection. Nature and the royal pleaſure pointed to his noble kinſman Raymond as his true protector.— The Coun⯑teſs prepared to expreſs her indignation, but with an inſolence which he miſtook for grave authority; he warned her to beware of froward pride. ‘Their liege Lord, he ſaid, had graciouſly conſidered her wi⯑dowed ſtate, and provided relief and comfort.— Her hand, her affection, and her obedience were now due to Lord Raymond: ſuch was the King's com⯑mand. Heaven had approved his kind purpoſe, and would not fail to puniſh that obſtinacy and haughty perverſeneſs, which rejected its bleſſings.’—And dar⯑eſt thou, abandoned and hateful wretch,'—thus did the Counteſs ſuffer her virtuous anger to break forth: ‘Dareſt thou profane the name of heaven? art thou devoted to its ſervice, and doſt thou flatter the baſe⯑neſs, and wouldſt thou promote the lewd purpoſes of him who hath renounced its laws, and defies its ven⯑geance?’ —'Thy obſtinacy be upon thine own head!' This was the reply of Reginhald, who was hardened againſt all reproof, and impatient to ſeek his brother. He turned away in ſullen diſdain, and left the Coun⯑teſs in wonder and juſt reſentment at his brutal inſo⯑lence; nor did this interview tend to allay the fears and ſuſpicions of a fond mother. ‘If the oppreſſion of Lord Raymond could have its miniſters and fa⯑vourers among the profeſſed votaries of religion, where might innocence find refuge; or where ſeek its juſt redreſs?’ She now dreaded that the ſacred privileges of ſanctaury might not find the due regard, as her enemy ſeemed to have corrupted the reverend brethren, and to have gained them over to his wicked [101]purpoſes. She wiſhed ſhe had contended with her malady, and accompanied her ſon; again ſhe wiſhed ſhe had not raſhly entruſted him to falſe and treache⯑rous guardians. ‘Her preſence might have proved a ſufficient protection to him: Raymond could not dare openly to have raiſed his arm againſt him: and ſurely the outrage and uſurpation of this Lord could not long be concealed.’—Thus did ſhe con⯑demn her conduct, and torment her ſoul with gloomy and terrible imaginations; tho' yet unacquainted with the dangers and diſtreſs now prepared for herſelf and her ſon.

SECT. II.

REGINHALD had ſought his brother, and recounted all his interview with Ela. Grey ſtill accuſed him of violence and turbulence, and urged the neceſſity of well-timed diſſimulation, of art, cau⯑tion, and ſmooth addreſs. The Monk was provoked at this affectation of ſuperior wiſdom; and inſtead of retorting his reproof, diſplayed the ſtolen jewel, in ſilent and contemptuous triumph. Grey was too well verſed in the arts of fraud and miſchief, not to con⯑ceive at once, that this ring was to be uſed for deceiv⯑ing the brethren of the monaſtery, or abuſing Oſwald, as occaſions might require, by pretended orders and directions from the Counteſs. He viewed it eagerly, and regarded it, (not without reaſon) as an inſtrument of his purpoſes, too important to be intruſted wholly to the violent hands of Reginhald. He commended his zeal and addreſs, which he, confidently promiſed, ſhould, in due time, meet their full reward: he invited him to refreſhment; reminded him of his ſatigue: and that the hour of reſt approached: he promiſed that by the dawn of morning, he himſelf would be ready to ac⯑company him to the monaſtery, where he made no doubt of happily accompliſhing their purpoſes, and lay⯑ing a firm foundation of their future fortunes. Regin⯑hald yielded to his inſtances, and retired. Grey re⯑paired [102]without delay to the apartment of Lord Ray⯑mond, and appeared before him with a face of joy and ſatisfaction. He congratulated him upon the pro⯑ſpect of a ſpeedy and final accompliſhment of his wiſhes: he briefly related the conduct of his brother at the monaſtery, his reception of Oſwald, and the means already taken to prevent that traytor from officiouſly ſpreading his tale: he declared his pur⯑poſe of ſeeking him inſtantly in his retirement; and was fully aſſured (he ſaid) that by the aſſiſtance of the Monk, (whoſe zeal and vigilance he praiſed) he ſhould be able to bring Oſwald to that puniſhment which his falſehood merited, and to gain young Wil⯑liam into his abſolute diſpoſal, the ſure means of pre⯑vailing over the pride of Ela, and engaging her to a full compliance with his wiſhes. Raymond wonder⯑ed; but Grey repeated his confident aſſurances of ſuc⯑ceſs, and departed with requeſting his Lord patiently to wait the events, which the ſucceeding day muſt produce.

It was now night; but fraud and intereſted malice are ſtrangers to reſt. The Monk was wholly engaged by the thoughts of future favour and preferment; and Grey watched, like the great enemy of mankind, to enſnare the innocent, and to ſeduce the weak. He buſily revolved in his mind the late tranſactions, and his future deſigns. He thought of an expedient which Reignhald had mentioned, that of forcibly joining the hands of Raymond and the Counteſs, and pronounc⯑ing the nuptial bleſſing without regard to her conſent; an expedient which he now conſidered not as the ſug⯑geſtion of raſhneſs and unexperienced heat, but ſuch as the beſt guided policy might have recourſe to, and ſuch as their deſigns might neceſſarily require. In the mean time, he reſolved, if poſſible, to reſerve the diſpoſal of young William to himſelf, and even to ſecrete him from Lord Raymond's power. If this Lord ſhould prove ſucceſsful, he might forget the ſervices of his creature, or not reward them to the full extent of his wiſhes. The poſſeſſion of this boy might hereafter enable him to revenge ſuch neglect, by unexpectedly [103]producing a young heir to aſſert his rights: or if the Counteſs ſhould be relieved from her preſent oppreſſi⯑on, and her ſuitor recalled, or forced from her caſtle; the important ſervice of reſtoring her ſon might atone for his former inſolence, and ſhield him from puniſh⯑ment: or ſhould it be neceſſary for his purpoſes to de⯑ſtroy this child; this might be done more ſecurely in ſome place of private retirement; and more accepta⯑bly to his Lord, when executed without his know⯑ledge or participation. His own intereſt was the ſole object of his thoughts, and as to the means of ad⯑vancing it; to him, all were equally indifferent.

The dawn of morning ſtole upon him, while he was anxiouſly engaged in theſe reflections: and Re⯑ginhald now ſtood before him, urging him to purſue his intended courſe without further delay. He firſt ſummoned ſome choſen vaſſals of Raymond, and, in the name of that Lord, ordered them to follow his ſteps at ſome diſtance, and to hold themſelves ready to obey his orders. The brothers then took their way, and ſoon reached the monaſtery. Here they found, that, notwithſtanding the directions of Regin⯑hald, the Lord Abbot had been made acquainted with the arrival of Oſwald; had examined him in perſon, had heard, and was duely affected by his ſtory; pro⯑miſed him protection, and that he would aſſiſt in all honeſt means of gaining redreſs for the injured Coun⯑teſs; and that at this very time he was ſhut up in the apartment of Oſwald, hearing, examining, and en⯑quiring ſtill more minutely into the circumſtances of all thoſe events which he related with ſo much con⯑fidence, and with ſuch appearance of integrity. The brothers congratulated each other on arriving ſo op⯑portunely; and, at their deſire were conducted into the ſame apartment. Oſwald ſtarted and trembled at the ſight of Grey; who, with a demeanour grave and ſolemn, and with well affected humility, addreſſed himſelf to the Abbot in the following manner:

‘Reverend father! This humane attention to the appearance of diſtreſs will be rewarded; and heaven forefend but that it ſhould meet the juſt return of [104]praiſe from every honeſt tongue: nor is there leſs honour due to your pious and charitable cares, be⯑cauſe, in the preſent caſe, they are not called forth by real danger or calamity. You have entertained a fugitive already pardoned by his Lord; and an infant whom his fond mother is at this moment im⯑patient to embrace.—You wonder: but, vouchſafe me a favourable ear, I ſhall unſold what ſeems ſo ſtrange and perplexing. This venerable brother⯑hood muſt have heard how the royal ſavour hath been extended to Lord Raymond, hath inveſted him with all the power and dignity of the houſe of Salibury, hath conſigned to his protection the wi⯑dow of that noble houſe, and deſtined his hand for that of the gentle Counteſs. When Raymond firſt arrived at her caſtle, to execute the orders of his liege Lord, he found her, alas! ſunk deep in ſor⯑rowful reflections on the fate of her unhappy Lord, and but ill diſpoſed to liſten to his honourable paſſion; nor could his noble nature permit him to break in too precipitately upon her melancholy, by declaring his ſuit, and demanding her conſent.’— Here Oſwald would have interrupted his diſcourſe, but Grey, with a mild, yet commanding look, claim⯑ed a free and undiſturbed audience. The Abbot ſeemed to aſſent; and the craſty minion proceeded thus: ‘A decent interval of retirement was allowed to her grief; and in the mean time her ſuitor was entertained with the reſpect due to his greatneſs: nor was ſhe long a ſtranger to his purpoſe; nor did ſhe diſdain his ſuit, although ſhe ſtill deemed it diſhonourable openly to admit a ſecond lover, until ſhe had fully paid her duty to the memory of Lord William. In this interval, heaven was pleaſed to afflict the unhappy Lady with ſevere ſick⯑neſs: her fever was violent, and long and obſtinate was her delirium. She raved, I know not how, of force and oppreſſion; ſhe called upon her late Lord, who ſhe declared was yet alive, now in her caſtle, and concealed from her by treachery and cruelty. She ſpoke of blood, of murder, of her ſon, his [105]dangers and his enemies. Even when her bodily diſorder began to abate, the diſorder of her mind was ſtill unconquered: nor were thoſe wild viſions yet diſpelled, which had ſo long tormented her. Her Diſcourſe indeed ſeemed more conſiſtent, though the diſcourſe of madneſs, and, unhappily, impoſed on the weakneſs and inexperience of her attendants. They indulged her madneſs, and per⯑ſuaded her to fly, for they believed that Lord Ray⯑mond was really her perſecutor: who, on his part, was only anxious for her recovery. For this, were his prayers inceſſantly breathed to heaven. For this, did he bind himſelf by ſolemn vow, to reward the devotion of your houſe, with ample donations: nor was his piety unnoticed, or his prayers rejected. Scarcely had the diſtraction of this Lady prompted her to ſend away her ſon, and to retire from the caſtle, when heaven was pleaſed, as it were mira⯑culouſly, to awaken her from her frightful dreams, and reſtore her unſettled reaſon. The firſt ſign of recollection which ſhe diſcovered, was, her orders to thoſe who had been deceived by her diſtraction, and raſhly conveyed her at midnight from her caſtle, to conduct her back again. She was obeyed, and inſtantly called for Lord Raymond, acknowledged her infirmity, and entreated his pardon and indul⯑gence. He, noble and gentle Lord, expreſſed no⯑thing but the moſt rapturous joy at this happy change; earneſtly preſſing her to reward his love, and crown his wiſhes. No longer now reluctant, or inſenſible to the happineſs which heaven and the royal favour had ordained for her, ſhe only requeſt⯑ed that ſome little reſpite might ſtill be granted, ſome time allowed to pay what farther duties the memory of her late Lord demanded. This holy fa⯑ther came opportunely to confirm her in thoſe ſen⯑timents, and to direct her pious intentions. By his perſuaſions am I ordered to attend him hither, di⯑rected by Lord Raymond, to enquire by what means and in what manner he may moſt effectually diſcharge his vow, and by the gentle Counteſs to [106]deſire, that a ſolemn requiem ſhall, without delay, be performed by this reverend brotherhood to her departed Lord. I am ſtill farther to declare, that ſhe reflects with confuſion on the late diſorder of her mind, which had driven her young ſon from her arms; that ſhe is impatient to embrace him; that, at her requeſt to Lord Raymond, he hath ſree⯑ly and fully pardoned the flight of this his attend⯑ant. Nothing now remains, but that both return, and ſhare in that general joy which reigns in the caſtle.’—The Abbot wondered, and heſitated; Oſ⯑wald prepared to ſpeak, but Grey again prevented him.—‘To remove doubts, or ſcruples,’ ſaid he, turning to Reginhald, ‘let us produce the token of our truth and fairly delivered charge. Behold, Lord Abbot, this ancient ring, the well-known ſig⯑net of the Counteſs, entruſted to us from her fair hand! By this ſhe ſpeaks her pleaſure, that young William be inſtantly delivered to our care, that, without delay, we may conduct him to her noble preſence.’

The Abbot had liſtened with ſuſpicion and diſtruſt, nor was his perplexity diſſipated by the concluſion of this ſpeech. The accounts which he had received from Oſwald ſeemed natural and conſiſtent; thoſe of Grey ſubtile and improbable: and, yet, this ring was ſuch an atteſtation of his truth and integrity, as ſeem⯑ed to warrant a full aſſent. He wavered for a while, but endeavoured to perſuade himſelf that the orders which Grey delivered were real, and demanded his compliance; timorous by nature, and poſſeſſed with ſtrong imaginations of the power of Raymond, and the danger of his diſpleaſure. He therefore laboured to ſuppreſs all his doubts; affected to be fully convinc⯑ed and ſatisfied; and conſented to deliver up young William to be conducted back to his mother by the Monk and Grey; who diſſembled their joy, and ſtudied to compleat their ſucceſs, by ſeducing Oſwald from his retreat. They exerted all their artifice to perſuade him that the reſentment of his Lord had totally ſub⯑ſided; that he could not but conſent to the deſires [107]of the gentle Counteſs, and forgive an honeſt though miſtaken zeal for the ſervice of a Lady, who in a few days was to be united with him, in the bands of love and wedlock. Oſwald heſitated; he knew the falſe⯑hood of ſome part of what Grey had declared; yet he conceived that he muſt have delivered this jewel from the hand of the Counteſs, and by her command; and that, of conſequence, ſhe muſt have been reconciled to her ſuitor. He thought it natural, on ſuch a re⯑conciliation, to conceal ſome late tranſactions: thus he endeavoured to account for the miſrepreſentations of Grey: yet ſtill he feared and doubted.—Grey, as by the authority of his Lord, and in his name, not only pronounced his full pardon, but aſſured him of favour and reward. The Abbot condemned his ir⯑reſolution as weak and criminal, as highly prejudicial to his own intereſt, and an undutiful ſuſpicion of the truth and honour of his maſter. The ſimplicity and inexperience of the vaſſal gave force to theſe ſollici⯑tations; he dreaded to renew the diſpleaſure of Ray⯑mond by delay or heſitation: he conſented to return, and reſigned himſelf to Grey, who now led away his victims in triumph.

The party which Grey had appointed to attend him, ſoon appeared in view, obeyed his ſignal, and advanced. At the ſight of armed men, the miſguided Oſwald felt all his ſuſpicions renewed; he trembled; and his fears were inſtantly confirmed. Grey, with an air of ſullen authority, ordered him to be ſeized and bound; he attempted to expoſtulate, but was ſi⯑lenced with all the inſolence of a ſucceſsful malice, committed to a guard, and led away a priſoner to the caſtle; and, there, was this friend to the afflicted and oppreſſed conſigned to the dreary dungeon. The infant heir of Saliſbury was entruſted to others of the party, whoſe ſervices Grey purchaſed by rich bribes, and in whom he chiefly confided. A kinſman he had upon the diſtant coaſt of Devon, to whom they were directed to convey their charge with ſtricteſt care. Thus he reſolved to diſpoſe of the young Lord for the preſent, as he relied on the attachment of this kinſ⯑man, [108]and by his means might hereafter remove him to ſome ſafe and ſecret reſidence, as his future pur⯑poſes might require.

SECT. III.

THUS far the wicked arts of Grey had been compleatly ſucceſsful: and, now, he haſtened to the preſence of Lord Raymond with his flattering congratulations. He acquainted him in a few words, that all the miſchief which the flight of Oſwald had threatened was now effectually prevented; that he had ſafely diſpoſed of young William with ſuch guar⯑dians as were devoted to his, and to his maſter's ſer⯑vice; and that the falſe ſlave who had attempted to betray him, was now his priſoner. Raymond won⯑dered; embraced his minion, and applauded his ad⯑dreſs and vigilance. In his firſt violence of pride and reſentment he pronounced that Oſwald ſhould inſtant⯑ly be hanged upon the next tree. But Grey reſtrain⯑ed his paſſion; and entreated him to ſuſpend the fate of this vaſſal; and to reſerve the power of granting his forfeited life to the requeſts of Ela, if this might hereafter contribute to conciliate her regards. At the name of Ela, Raymond fighed, and turned upon his creature, with an aſpect of perplexity and ſorrow. 'Truſt me,' ſaid he, ‘I am weary of this unprofit⯑able purſuit; and would to heaven I had never ſeen this proud dame; never felt the power of her beau⯑ty! —This morning was I unexpectedly ſummoned to her preſence. I ſaw the charming mourner: I ſaw her tortured with fears. She had juſt diſco⯑vered the loſs of an ancient ring, the uſual orna⯑ment of her hand, and although ſhe knows not by whom, or for what purpoſe, it may have been ſe⯑creted, yet this incident hath awakened her ſuſpi⯑cions, and ſhe dreads ſome farther deſign upon her peace. But chiefly ſhe fears for her ſon: ſhe con⯑demns her late conduct as weak and precipitate, and repents of having truſted the boy from her ſide. [109]At firſt, ſhe made an effort to preſerve her dignity, and, in the language of greatneſs and affected diſ⯑dain, demanded how long my uſurpation was to be continued. I interrupted her with humble and ar⯑dent expreſſions of love: ſhe wept, and was ſtill deaf to my ſollicitations. Yet, methought, ſhe ſpoke of her late Lord with leſs pride and exultati⯑on. If, ſaid ſhe, he hath indeed paid the debt of nature, may heaven look on his offences with mer⯑cy, and protect his helpleſs infant, and injured wi⯑dow! then, with earneſt and affecting accents ſhe entreated me to accept of all her wealth and mag⯑nificence, to indulge my wiſhes freely with the rich inheritance of her lordly houſe: but not to purſue the ruin of an helpleſs infant: to ſuffer his mother to follow him in peace; to hide her grief, and waſte her few melancholy days in the holy retirement of the monaſtery.—O my friend, who could ſtand unmoved at her diſorder? But I did not ſuffer all my emotion to break out. I contented myſelf, in general, with entreating her to baniſh all gloomy thoughts, to expect happy days, to ſtudy her real happineſs, and to command it. I then retired, im⯑patiently expecting your arrival, and your ſage and friendly counſel.’

The ſucceſs which had hitherto attended the prac⯑tices and deſigns of Grey, gave him authority and conſequence with his Lord, and encouraged him to urge his advice boldly and violently. When he had firſt informed him in general of the tranſactions of the monaſtery, he preſt him to conſider ſeriouſly that new incidents might ariſe, new dangers threaten him, which might not always be prevented. He ſpoke with ſeverity of his irreſolute and timid conduct: aſked, if it was his purpoſe to abandon all his glorious hopes, to return diſgraced and rejected; to encounter ſcorn and reproach, as a perſon unworthy of the regards of this Lady, preſumptuous and unjuſt. Nothing could ſecure his honour from ruin, or perhaps his life from revenge, but his immediate nuptials with the Coun⯑teſs. Of this he ſpoke, as of an event abſolutely in [110]the power of Raymond, and delayed only by his miſ⯑taken tenderneſs. He was heard with earneſt ſur⯑priſe: but when his Lord began to plead the difficul⯑ties he had encountered, and the obſtinacy of Ela in denying her conſent, he haſtily interrupted him.— 'Let a day be appointed,' cried this minion, ‘for the celebration of your nuptials, let it be known through the land, let your attendants be ordered to prepare for this event, and your knights directed to hold themſelves in ſuch readineſs as the joyful occaſion requires.—Let the reſt be my care.’ Raymond, who ſtill preſerved a tender affection for the Counteſs, and remembered with horror how dangerouſly ſhe had been affected by the inſolence of Grey, heſitated, and inſiſted on a full explanation of this myſterious lan⯑guage. Grey again urged the abſolute neceſſity of prevailing in his preſent undertaking, both for his ho⯑nour and his ſafety: the eternal infamy, nay, the ut⯑ter impoſſibility of receding, after having already proceeded thus far. To this he added ſome artful praiſes of the Counteſs, and many animated obſerva⯑tions on the happineſs of that man who ſhould poſ⯑ſeſs ſuch a treaſure of beauty. When the paſſions of his Lord had by ſuch diſcourſe been raiſed to the ut⯑moſt degree of fervour, he began to flatter his hopes: 'This Lady,' ſaid he, ‘you at firſt found reluctant, and no wonder: for ſhe had not been aſſured that Lord William was really no more. Of this ſhe now ſeems perſuaded, but regards his death as an event too recent, to admit another wooer. What though ſhe hath diſcovered ſuch impatience of your love? what though ſhe hath attempted to eſcape from this place? would ſhe not have perſevered in her deſign? would ſhe not have continued her flight, if this reluctance and averſion had not been artfully aſſumed to give her honour and reſpect in the general eye? She affects to ſummon friends to reſcue her from your power; but ſhe hopes that they will interpoſe, and perſuade her to accept your hand: but do we delay 'till ſome new ſuiter ſhall ar⯑rive, and, under the pretence of relieving the op⯑preſſed, [111]and revenging her wrongs, ſhall ſucceſs⯑fully court her love, and build his own fortune on your diſgrace and ruin?’—Raymond was moved, and ſeemed ready to pay implicit obedience to the dictates of his creature.—Grey then ſpoke of the zeal of Reginhald his brother, and his entire devotion to the ſervice of his noble patron. ‘This faithful Monk, ſaid he, will be of uſe. Obſerve the Counteſs for ſome days; continue your fond wooing with all modeſt and reſpectful duty, but with un⯑abated zeal. She will ſoon experience that the flight of Oſwald hath not proved effectual to collect her creatures round her: and the diſappointment will depreſs her proud ſpirit, and convince her that her own and her ſon's fate ſtill depend on you. The day on which your attendants are taught to expect your nuptials, may perhaps find her conſenting to your wiſhes: but why ſhould we demand or expect her formal conſent? Reginhald ſhall join your hands by virtue of his ſacred authority, and pronounce the ſolemn benediction which ſhall make her your's for ever. Her heart ſhall ſecretly applaud this gen⯑tle violence. At leaſt, her ſon, reſtored to her arms, ſhall be the purchaſe of your pardon.’—Little of art was required to diſguiſe or palliate the baſeneſs of this deſign, ſo effectually had he prepared the mind of Raymond for its reception, by raiſing the ſtorm of paſſions to darken and confound his reaſon. This Lord at once reſigned himſelf to the guidance of his minion, and conſented to purſue ſuch meaſures as he ſhould dictate. The Monk was now ſummoned before him, and appeared in the moſt abject abaſe⯑ment and ſervility. Raymond thanked him for his zeal, promiſed to repay his ſervices, and ordered him to obſerve exactly the directions of his brother. Re⯑ginhald bowed lowly, and attempted to ſpeak his duty and ſubmiſſion, but in diſordered and ungraceful lan⯑guage; then retired with Grey.

Theſe wicked agents, thus inveſted with full au⯑thority, and prompted by their hopes of intereſt and ſavour, vigorouſly purſued the work of oppreſſion and [112]deceit. Reginhald repaired to his monaſtery (ſo was he directed by his brother) where he urged the fathers to proceed, without delay, in their obſequies to the deceaſed Lord, as his widow now prepared, and had appointed a day for her ſecend nuptials, which were only delayed, 'till theſe religious rites had firſt been duely performed. The reverend clerks were arrayed in their ſacred veſtments, and chaunted forth the ſo⯑lemn requiem. The neighbouring peaſants caught the religious ſounds, curiouſly enquired the cauſe of theſe extraordinary devotions, and ſpread the tidings of the intended marriage thro' the adjacent country. In the mean time, the attendants and domeſtics of Raymond were taught to expect the nuptials of their Lord on a day aſſigned, and ordered to hold them rea⯑dy for this joyful event. The found of buſy prepara⯑tion was loud thro' all the caſtle, and was heard even to the apartment of the Counteſs, who wondered, enquired, and was not long a ſtranger to the cauſe. She conceived it to be no other than an artifice of her importunate wooer, to deceive the friends of her houſe, and to deſtroy the credit of Oſwald, her faith⯑ful emiſſary (of whoſe confinement ſhe was yet unin⯑formed.) With ſcorn and indignation ſhe reflected on the baſe attempt to ſully her bright fame, and to per⯑ſuade her friends, that, in defiance of the ſtrict re⯑ſtraints of decent widowhood, and the reſpect which the memory of a noble huſband claimed, ſhe had, within the ſpace of a few months, liſtened to the ſollicitations of a new ſuitor, and conſented to receive the hand of her oppreſſor. If the honour and reve⯑rence with which ſhe reflected on Lord William had been ſomewhat impaired by her ſuſpicions of his diſ⯑loyalty, a new and more violent averſion to Lord Ray⯑mond now poſſeſſed her mind, and there ſtill kept up an inflexible reſolution never to acknowledge his pre⯑tenſions to her inheritance, or to accept his love. In ſuch diſpoſitions ſhe received the viſits of this Lord with diſdain, nor anſwered his tenders of affection, but by inveighing with all the bitterneſs of contempt and abhorrence againſt the mean deceit which he was [113]now practiſing. Raymond was abaſhed: he could not deny the accuſation, but, with an ill-affected open⯑neſs, declared that he had indeed aſſured his friends, that his wiſhes would be ſpeedily crowned, as he would not ſuppoſe that ſhe could ever continue thus unreaſonably obdurate, and obſtinately inſenſible to her own happineſs.

Such were their interviews; and ſuch the fixed a⯑verſion and proud diſdain of the Counteſs, unſubdued by oppreſſion, grief, and fear. Her tedious and me⯑lancholy hours were ſtill waſted in alarms for her ſon, in anxious expectation of relief; of the arrival and vigorous interpoſition of her friends, and of the de⯑feat and diſgrace of her oppreſſor. In vain did ſhe inceſſantly enquire, complain, condemn the ſlow pro⯑cedure of thoſe who ſhould fly to aſſert her cauſe. No meſſenger of deliverance appeared, no voice of comfort did ſhe receive: but on the morning of that day, which Raymond had preſumptuouſly proclaimed his marriage-day, ſhe ſtill found herſelf the helpleſs and joyleſs priſoner of her falſe gueſt.

SECT. IV.

RAYMOND, now on the point of executing his bold purpoſe, trembled with anxiety, doubt, and ſollicitude. Grey himſelf felt an inward agitati⯑on, although he laboured to encourage and confirm his Lord. The Monk alone ſtood ſtupidly inſenſible of the importance or of the baſeneſs of the deſign. The attendants were diſpoſed in their appointed ſtati⯑ons; and joy and feſtivity ſeemed prepared. The a⯑partments of the Counteſs alone were ſad and ſolitary, where Elinor was ſtill ſuffered to perform all kind offices to her afflicted Lady. At the appointed hour, Raymond appeared before her, and firſt in gentle terms reproached her unkind coldneſs and ſeverity; but urged his love in a manner more bold and pe⯑remptory. She was ſilent: he renewed his inſtances: ſhe breathed a deep ſigh, and looked up to heaven as [114]if complaining of her unmerited diſtreſs, her helpleſs ſtate, which expoſed her to theſe inſolent and hateful ſollicitations. He ſeized her hand; ſhe ſtruggled to diſengage herſelf, whilſt her eyes darted fiery diſdain. In that moment the brothers entered. At ſight of Reginhald ſhe ſhuddered with horror and diſmay, though yet unacquainted with the purpoſe of his ap⯑pearance. A ſolemn pauſe of ſilence enſued; the Counteſs trembling; Raymond confounded; and the brothers, who could not behold this diſorder without ſome faint emotion, collecting new force, and arm⯑ing themſelves againſt the aſſaults of pity.

An encouraging glance from Grey, at length, em⯑boldened his Lord to break ſilence. He conjured the Counteſs by all her hopes of peace, all the tenderneſs ſhe felt for her darling ſon, no longer to delay her own happineſs; no longer to continue thus perverſely inſen⯑ſible of his juſt pretenſions to her love. He now ſtood before her, he declared, to claim thoſe rights which the royal favour had conferred upon him; that neither his honour nor his love, permitted him, any longer, to flatter her pride, or to indulge her weak ſcruples.— She fell upon her knees, and began to utter-an ear⯑neſt and paſſionate vow, that ſhe never would conſent to accept his hand; but Raymond and his aſſociates quickly interrupted and raiſed her from the ground. Nor was her great ſpirit yet ſubdued by this rude violence: ſhe turned upon them with looks of aſtoniſh⯑ment and diſdain. Raymond entreated; Grey re⯑proved her pride; and Reginhald denounced the ven⯑geance of heaven againſt her obſtinacy: whilſt the tender mind of Elinor, wounded deeply by the diſtreſs of her dear miſtreſs, thus ſurrounded with cruelty and oppreſſion, eaſed itſelf in unavailing tears. Raymond ſtill held the hand of Ela; and the impious Monk, who had waited for the ſignal from Grey, ſuddenly began to pronounce the marriage rites; but was in⯑ſtantly interrupted by loud and piercing ſhrieks fre⯑quently and violently repeated both by the Counteſs and her attendant. The unhappy Lady could not [115]long ſupport this violent emotion; ſhe ſunk down up⯑on her couch; and Raymond hung over her with a mixture of tenderneſs and vexation. After a long in⯑terval of faint and breathleſs depreſſion, ſhe ſeemed to revive, and prepared to ſpeak. Reginhald ſeized the moment of her recovery, and again began the holy office.—But in that inſtant a new and unexpect⯑ed interruption checked his profane purpoſe, and con⯑founded the baſe attempt of uſurpation and cruel op⯑preſſion. The ſound of haſte and trepidation ſeemed to approach the chamber. Raymond ſtarted! the brothers ſhook at the alarm; a voice was heard cal⯑ling loudly on Grey. He iſſued forth; Raymond and the Monk followed: they ſaw a domeſtic pale and breathleſs with haſte, who juſt found words to de⯑clare that Lord William was on his way, and would ſpeedily reach the caſtle.

Not the condemned criminal when he receives his final ſentence; not the ſinner, yet unconfirmed in guilt, when the ſudden craſh of thunder appalls his ſpirit, ever ſhrunk into ſuch abject conſternation, as Ray⯑mond now experienced from this ſhocking intelligence. Grey was ſcarcely leſs confounded, although he fear⯑ed only for his ſafety, and had no ſenſe of wounded honour. They haſtened into an adjacent apartment, where Reginhald alone was ſufficiently compoſed to examine this meſſenger of terror; who informed them, that his appointed duty had led him to ſome diſtance from the caſtle, where he had diſcovered a ſmall company of travellers, who, on his nearer ap⯑proach, appeared in diſorder and perplexity: that they had demanded his condition and place of reſi⯑dence, and on their part informed him, that they were the attendants and meſſengers of Lord William, who had landed on the coaſt of Cornwall, and was ſoon to reſume the poſſeſſion of his caſtle: the infor⯑mation they had receive on their way of the nuptials of the Counteſs had filled them with conſternation; three of them had reſolved to return and convey this intelligence to their Lord, whilſt an equal number [116]now haſtened forward, if poſſible to prevent ſo fata a purpoſe.—'Behold!' ſaid he, pointing down⯑wards from the window which commanded a ſull view of the caſtle-gates, ‘their ſpeed hath equalled mine, and they are now entering.’—Grey ruſhed out, and ordered the domeſtic to follow. He received the un⯑welcome gueſts with an appearance of reſpect. They were conducted to an apartment, and entertained with due courteſy by the man who had brought the news of their arrival, and who now had ſtrict charge, that for a while they ſhould be kept from any inter⯑courſe or conference with the other attendants.

A ſmall ray of hope ſeemed to dart through the gloom which had poſſeſſed the mind of Grey, when he found that Lord William himſelf was not yet ar⯑rived. A little reſpite ſeemed of moment, as it al⯑lowed him to reflect, and to concert his ſuture mea⯑ſures. At firſt, he thought of abandoning his Lord, and ſecuring himſelf by flight; but although Ray⯑mond ſhould not be able to revenge ſuch deſertion, the power and reſentment of Lord Hubert were terri⯑ble, and could not fail to deſtroy him. Gay hopes of ſharing in the riches of this great houſe of Saliſbury, had long poſſeſſed his imagination; and he now felt the moſt implacable hatred of the man who was ap⯑proaching to defeat theſe gay hopes. His malice and his fears conſpired to recommend the moſt deſperate courſe of action. He reſolved to make one daring ef⯑fort more, and, if poſſible, ſtill to eſtabliſh the pre⯑tenſions of his maſter, and to remove his rival by a bold aſſaſſination.

In ſuch diſpoſitions did this wicked minion return to his Lord. He found him ſunk in deſpair, and tor⯑tured with diſtraction. Scarcely had he begun to ſpeak, when Raymond, ſtarting up in frantic emoti⯑on, ſeized upon him with dreadful menaces of ven⯑geance, as the treacherous murderer of his honour and his peace; and curſt himſelf and his vile ſeducer in all the bitterneſs of remorſe. Reginhald fled, and ſought to hide himſelf from the terror of his reſent⯑ment. [117]Grey, without the leaſt expoſtulation, the leaſt attempt to allay the fury of his Lord, ſuffered the violence of paſſion to take its free courſe, and to waſte its force in fruitleſs execrations. And ſoon was the ſtorm allayed; and Raymond as if recovering from a ſudden phrenzy, ſoftened into grief and tender⯑neſs condemned his own extravagance, and entreat⯑ed his favourite to adviſe, direct, and extricate him from this difficult and dangerous ſituation.

Grey neither endeavoured to palliate the diſgrace, nor to leſſen the danger, which his lord dreaded. He obſerved that Raymond had indeed proceeded ſo far as to leave no doubt that he had diſregarded the con⯑ditions impoſed by the King, and had attempted the moſt lawleſs acts of oppreſſion. His own part in theſe tranſactions he repreſented as the effects of his un⯑bounded zeal for the ſervice of his maſter; a zeal which threatened to involve him in the fatal conſe⯑quences of an injured huſband's vengeance. Such diſcourſe only ſerved to irritate the pain which Ray⯑mond felt. 'Is there no way to retreat with ho⯑nour?' cried he, 'no! nor with ſafety,' returned his minion, ‘Let us not think of retreat. We are engaged, and muſt purſue our purpoſe. You won⯑der; but the way is obvious, and there is but one way. Perhaps this huſband comes but ſlightly at⯑tended: you have Knights and men of arms. Nay, ſtart not. Shall we tamely hold our throats, and re⯑ceive death from him? No; this arm ſhall prevent the blow.’—Raymond had long been accuſtomed to reſign himſelf to the guidance of this favourite: by him he had been gradually led on from one exceſs to the other; and ſo thoroughly was his mind prepared to receive the very worſt impreſſions, (ſuch is the fatal conſequence of the firſt deviation from virtue) that, inſtead of trembling at this laſt propoſal, he ſeemed only ſollicitous to know the ſureſt means of effecting it.—And, here again, the favourite aſſumed that ſuperiority which the pliant temper of his Lord, and an intimate acquaintance with his weakneſs and unjuſt [118]deſigns had given him. He deſired that all future meaſures ſhould be entruſted to him; that from him the attendants ſhould be directed to receive their or⯑ders. Raymond acquieſced, yet not without the ut⯑moſt anxiety, and moſt melancholy preſages. His re⯑tirement was diſturbed and painful: all the inhabitants of the caſtle plainly perceived that ſomething extraor⯑dinary had occured; ſomething to diſorder their Lord, and to perplex his deſigns. The Counteſs alone felt ſome degree of comfort: ſhe fondly imputed the ſud⯑den retreat of her perſecutors to ſome happy event which the flight of Oſwald had produced, ſome ap⯑pearance of her friends, or ſome accounts of their motions. Hence was her haraſſed mind enabled to recover from the violent ſhock which it had juſt now received.

In the mean time, the vigilant and crafty Grey, once more, ſought the meſſengers of Earl William, who by this time were much alarmed at the manner of their reception. He met them with courteous looks, and declared, that the Counteſs, who was now ill at eaſe, and could not admit them to her preſence, had ſent to inform herſelf particularly of the intelli⯑gence which they brought. They related briefly the landing of William, the place of his preſent reſi⯑dence, and his intention of ſpeedily returning to his own caſtle. Grey received the account with coldneſs and affected diffidence: he obſerved, that ‘the moſt poſitive aſſurances had been received that Earl Wil⯑liam had periſhed in France; that, if he really was approaching he muſt be received with due reſpect: but, if envy or malice ſought to diſturb the ap⯑proaching happineſs of Lord Raymond by falſe in⯑telligence, his power was great, and his reſentment would be violent. By his directions, they were for a ſhort time to be ſtrictly guarded, leſt they ſhould alarm the minds of his friends by rumours which might poſſibly prove groundleſs; if otherwiſe, a few days would releaſe them.’—They gazed upon each other with ſurpriſe, but it was in vain to expoſtulate; [119]they appealed to time to confirm the truth of their de⯑clarations: and Grey then proceeded to ſummon ſome of the boldeſt and moſt zealous of the attendants on Raymond, who were conducted to their Lord, and by him commanded to receive their orders from his favourite, and implicitly to follow his direction.

Theſe commands Grey pretended to explain more fully. He told them, that, from advices lately receiv⯑ed, their Lord had good reaſon to apprehend a falſe deſign to drive him from thoſe poſſeſſions, which he ſo juſtly claimed, and from whence alone he hoped to derive the power of rewarding his faithful follow⯑ers; that they were to arm themſelves with ſpeed, and carefully to guard all the approaches to the caſtle, againſt force or treachery. Nor were they ſlow to ex⯑preſs their zeal and chearſul obedience. And now this wicked minion ſtood prepared at the head of a reſolute and well appointed band, to oppoſe the en⯑trance of Lord William, and to plunge a dagger in his heart.

Long they waited in anxious expectation of their invaders, but in vain; no invaders appeared, no dan⯑ger threatened them. Grey began indeed to hope that theſe ſtrangers had been employed to deceive them, and to raiſe theſe falſe alarms for ſome purpoſe yet undiſcovered; perhaps by ſome friends of the Counteſs, who had learned or ſuſpected her preſent condition. He viſited the meſſengers frequently, in⯑ſulted them on the appearance of falſehood which their intelligence now ſeemed to wear; menaced, and endeavoured to terrify them into a confeſſion of the real purpoſe of their coming. They ſteadily adhered to their former declarations, and related ſuch circum⯑ſtances of the fortunes, the dangers, and the arrival of Lord William on the coaſt of England, as but too plainly demonſtrated their truth and integrity. Grey was convinced, but diſſembled his conviction. He waited impatiently for the approach of the Earl, but no intelligence could be received: no unuſual appea⯑rance, no arrival of ſtrange and unexpected viſitants, [120]had broke in upon the ſilence and tranquillity of the adjacent lands. The diſappointment ſerved but the more to perplex and alarm him: his vigilance was not relaxed; he kept his force collected about him, and ſtill ſtood reſolved to meet his danger, and confirmed in his bloody purpoſe.

SECT. I.

THE three faithful followers of Earl WILLIAM who had determined to return to their Lord, found him juſt iſſuing forth from the hall of Ran⯑dolph, at the head of a ſmall body of attendants. At ſight of them his mind was ſilled with ſad preſa⯑ges. He turned upon his ancient friend with ſur⯑prize: then both ruſhed forward, impatient to learn the cauſe of this unexpected return; and inſtantly received the melancholy tidings, that whilſt their companions had brought the news of the Earl's arri⯑val to the caſtle of Saliſbury, they had returned to acquaint him, that the Counteſs had given her hand to Raymond, and that his nuptials had been ſolemni⯑zed on the very day of their approach.

The bitterneſs of this intelligence was too great e⯑ven for the great ſoul of WILLIAM. He ſunk into a ſilent diſmay, and ſeemed unwilling or unable to contend with deſpair. The Knight, whoſe ſuſpect⯑ing thoughts had been prepared for this account, ſtrove to rouſe and comfort him, but a long time were his efforts fruitleſs. The afflicted Lord ſcarcely forced out, at long and heavy intervals, ſome broken ſighs, ſome confuſed and imperfect expreſſions, of anguiſh, of reſentment, at the ſuppoſed unkindneſs of his wife, and the weakneſs and unworthineſs of her fatal com⯑pliance. At length, ſuddenly ſtarting from this extreme of depreſſion to that of the moſt violent fury, he ut⯑tered dreadful denunciations of vengeance againſt the deſtroyer of his peace, and called on his friends to at⯑tend him inſtantly to his caſtle, and to aſſiſt him in a brave and joſt revenge. But here the caution of the [122]old Knight interpoſed, and with difficulty prevailed on him to return to his friendly roof, and there to conſult maturely upon the moſt prudent meaſures. The Earl obeyed, yet ſeemed intent only on the moſt violent and daring courſe. In vain did Randolph remind him of the inſufficient numbers of his retinue, and the ſu⯑perior advantages of the uſurper. The ſtorm of paſ⯑ſion was ſtill loud and terrible; nor could the Earl lif⯑ten to danger or difficulty: the injuries which his honour had ſuſtained were the ſole object of his thoughts, and revenge his ſole purpoſe.

The fair Jacqueline ſoon perceived a confuſion and diſorder ariſing from ſome unexpected incident; and, impatient to learn the cauſe, appeared before her hoſt and her protector. Randolph accoſted and entreated her to unite her gentle perſuaſion, and to prevent Lord William from ruſhing precipitately on ruin. 'No!' cried the Earl, haſtily interrupting him, ‘the attempt is not raſh, nor the purpoſe deſperate. What tho' my wife hath ſo ſoon forgotten me? What tho' the ab⯑ſence of a few months was too great for her impati⯑ence? What tho' ſhe hath accepted a ſecond huſband? Have my numerous dependents too been falſe? Have they forgotten me? No! let us collect them! let us fire their brave ſpirits to revenge their injured Lord; and let his fury fall with its due force upon this adulterous pair.’—Jacqueline ſeemed loſt in conſuſion: Randolph again interpoſed, and urged the danger of venturing, thus weakly attended, to ſeek his vaſſals, and openly to give defiance to Raymond. But now the noble maid recovered from her firſt fur⯑priſe, and her great ſoul began to beam forth thro' all her virgin reſerve. ‘Where is that power and influ⯑ence, ſaid ſhe, in the court of England, which Lord William boaſted? If his own wrongs cannot there find redreſs, if he muſt have recourſe to the precarious chance of arms, in vain have I ſought relief in this ſtrange land; in vain have I indulged the pleaſing hopes of regaining my loſt inheritance, and (if he ſtill ſupports the miſeries of oppreſſion, my injured parent. Will not the king protect.— [123]He ſhall give me juſtice, cried William.’ ‘This arm raiſed him to the throne: this arm can tear him from it.’ Then embracing her with a paternal ſond⯑neſs, 'The ſpirit of thy brave father,' ſaid he, ‘dwells in thee. Yes, fair partner of my fortunes, the King ſhall give me juſtice. Let my wife, no, the wife of Raymond now, enjoy for a while her foul diſloyalty. My vengeance ſhall be firſt directed a gainſt the great author of my wrongs, the proud Hubert. In the face of his miſguided Sovereign, before the gallant Nobles of England, will I pro⯑claim his baſeneſs, and demand full redreſs. Let us haſten to the royal preſence: there ſhall my friends croud round me, and my vaſſals attend my orders.’

Randolph was pleaſed at this reſolution, which William conſidered as the moſt honourable, but he as the ſafeſt courſe. The time, the manner, and all the circumſtances of their departure were now ſettled with more temper and compoſed deliberation. The Knight inſiſted to accompany his noble friend, toge⯑ther with his band of followers: Jacqueline conſent⯑ed ſtill to reſide in Cornwall, until the Earl had ob⯑tained, firſt, the ſull redreſs of his own injuries, and, then, the happy means of reſcuing her father, or of revenging his fate. The little troop was ſoon prepar⯑ed to enter on their march, and ſoon took their way with no ungallant ſhow. The mind of Lord Willi⯑am was ſtill gloomy and diſordered. He thought on his wife: the tenderneſs of her former love, the noble nature which all hen actions had invariably diſplayed, recurred to his mind, but now ſerved only to aggia⯑vate his deſpair. Her ſtrange and precipitate compli⯑ance with the deſires of Raymond was perplexing: but to be ſo ſoon forgotten was tormenting: and ever and anon he unboſomed his diſtracted thoughts to the friendly Knight.

'Fooliſh and wretched is the man' (thus would he exclaim) ‘who builds his happineſs on the frail and inſtable affection of woman. O my friend! how ſecurely did I conceive our loves to have been found⯑ed! [124]how firmly did her heart ſeem linked to mine: Can I forget the time, when all the noble youth of England courted the ſmiles of the rich and beautiful heireſs of Earl Patrick, when her eyes marked me out as their moſt worthy object, and her love graced my riſing fame? Can I forget the day when I was firſt, publickly diſtinguiſhed by her favour? The ſo⯑lemn jouſts were prepared: the Knights glittered in their pompous array: we were ſurrounded with all the beauties of the land; but our thoughts and deſires were fixed on Ela. How did I labour to engage her intention by my gorgeous entry? Well do I remember the device which then adorned my ſhield, and which my youthful pride had dictated. It was an eagle towering in air, with his eyes fixed on the ſun; and theſe words beneath; NOT AK⯑ROGANT BUT CONSCIOUS OF NOBLENESS. We traverſed the liſts in ſolemn ſtate; and each champi⯑on, as he paſſed, made low obeiſance towards the place where Ela ſat; but each unnoticed, 'till, Wil⯑liam pacing proudly by, and paying the juſt homage to her high beauty, ſuddenly ſhe let fall the knot of ribbons which adorned her lovely arm. I ſeized, kiſſed, and fixed it in my creſt: and on that day did my gallant deeds conſeſs my zeal to merit her high regards. Many a ſpear was bravely ſhivered: but, ere our appointed courſes were finiſhed, a loud and ſudden ſhriek aſſailed our affrighted ears: we turned and ſaw the ſcaffold, where this fair dame was ſeat⯑ed yielding to its load. I burſt like lightning to her reſcue; and, amidſt all the officious and vigorous in⯑terpoſition of the croud, which the dangerous in⯑cident had collected, this arm it was which ſaved her—And did our loves decreaſe? Was my heart ever eſtranged? Was it one moment ſeduced to any other object?—And, yet, ſo ſoon to be forgotten! the falſe tidings of my death ſo eagerly received!’

Randolph was ſtudious to divert him from this me⯑lancholy ſubject. Revenge, he knew, was grateful to the high foul of William; and he laboured to inſpire him with hopes of a brave revenge. He ſpoke of [125]the arts that had been uſed to influence the weak⯑neſs of widowed, unfriended, unaſſiſted woman; of the craft of Hubert, and his iniquitous abuſe of the royal favour. 'But now,' ſaid he, ‘the King ſhall know this minion: he ſhall know with what mali⯑cious purpoſe of oppreſſion and unjuſtice his falſe heart conceived, and his falſe tongue uttered the ly⯑ing tale of Earl William's death; and ſpeedily ſhall he execute the full vengeance due to the wounded honour of his brave kinſman.’—With eyes darting indignation, and ſounds of diſdain, the Earl replied, that his own influence and reputation in England, his noble friends and numerous adherents, had made Kings; and that he relied on theſe much more than on the juſtice of young Harry. 'Alas' ſaid he, ‘lit⯑tle can thy honeſt heart conceive of that craſt and wily inſinuation with which this courtier hath wound himſelf to the heart of his eaſy Prince. He alone directs and commands him. The nobleſt ſpi⯑rits of England are inſolently ſcorned; and the re⯑moteſt corner of the realm feels his pernicious in⯑fluence.’ 'Good heaven,' cried Randolph (ſtill la⯑bouring to divert the Earl from the gloomy ſubject which lay deeply fixed in his mind, and was ever ready to rife and torment him) ‘When ſhall our diſ⯑tracted country feel the bleſſings of a wife and vir⯑tuous rule? ſhall faction and tumult for ever diſturb the land, and forbid avarice and ſlaviſh adulation for ever ſurround the throne? Is the inſolence of ill⯑gotten power to know no controul? Sad and gloomy is the proſpect!—And yet, the ſpirits of my brave countrymen, tho' depreſſed and overborne, are ſtill unbroken. They have already contended, and they may again contend for the great prize of freedom. Perhaps (and truly pleaſing it is to indulge that hope) England may yet experience ſome happy age, when wiſdom, and valour, and virtue ſhall conſpire to bleſs and to exalt her. Some glorious Monarch may yet hold her imperial ſceptre, flouriſhing in all the pride of youth, loved and revered by his grate⯑ful people, and dreaded by the enemies of juſtice [126]and his kingdom. Perhaps the pious care of ſome illuſtrious parent may have formed his mind to all princely virtues; perhaps ſome noble friend of ex⯑alted merit and unſullied integrity may have aided the glorious work. Wiſdom and juſtice may guide his councils, and valour lead forth his victorious armies: the united voice of a happy people may bleſs him, and the united force of all his enemies may ſink before him. If heaven ſhould be thus gracious to our country, could its tranſcendent fa⯑vour admit of any acceſſion?—Yes! let the happi⯑neſs, diſſuſed from the throne, be reflected back on ſuch a Monarch. Let him be amply rewarded, in a princely conſort, fitted to grace his royal ſeat, and relieve his generous cares.—Then let the ardent prayers of his people be accepted. Let the princely pair flouriſh, and very late pay the debt of nature: from heir to heir let their virtues be tranſ⯑mitted; and immortal be the glories and bleſſings of their reign!’

The ſpirit of the good Knight was elevated and in⯑flamed by this idea of public ſelicity, the moſt exalted and compleat which his imagination could form: and William ſeemed to forget his private grief, and to be wrapt in the ſame pleaſing dream. And now they ap⯑proached towards the city of Marlborough where Henry ſtill held his court. The diſtant view of this royal ſeat raiſed a violent agitation in the breaſt of Saliſbury. He was now on the point of breaking from his obſcurity, and once more ſhining forth in his native ſphere: and he ſelt all the emotion of an high and noble mind, impatient of wrongs, ready to urge them boldly and reſolutely to ſeek redreſs. He enter⯑ed the city, when ſuddenly his ſpirit was ſtill farther agitated by a ſtrange and unexpected encounter. A ſmall, but gallant, troop approached him, headed by a youth of noble port. Their leader had already fixed his eyes upon him, with marks of wonder; and, ſtop⯑ing, as if deprived of all power of motion, pronounced the name of Saliſbury. William came forward with courtous demeanour, attentively ſurveying the ſtran⯑ger, [127]who at once ended his ſuſpence, yet encreaſed his wonder, by declaring himſelf the young Lord of Poictiers, that Chauvigny whom his generoſity had reſtored to an injurious father. A ſudden exclamation of ſurprize burſt from the Earl, and an interval of ſilence enſued: at length he was enabled to exclaim —‘Good heavens! the ſon of the oppreſſor and murderer of my friend:—And in England!—The father too, perhaps, is ready to inſuit our wrongs, and boaſt of his perfidious cruelty.'—With his aſhes' replied the youth, 'let his errors alſo lie buri⯑ed, Doſt thou love the good Les Roches? He is my friend and father: extend thy love to me, and ſay, bleſs me with the happy tidings, that the fair Jac⯑queline hath eſcaped the ſtorm of contention and misfortune, and lives in ſaſety.'—Would to hea⯑ven!' cried the Earl, 'that her father were now in England, to embrace and bleſs her; to be witneſs of her noble nature, and to thank the faints for her preſervation.’—The young Lord could no longer reſtrain his impatient ardour; they had both alighted, and he now ruſhed on Earl William, and clung round his neck, with all the extravagance of joy. 'What tho,' ſaid he, ‘the brave Les Roches be ſtill purſued by the ſeverity of fortune; he may be reſcued; he may be yet reſtored to honour and happineſs. Lord Wil⯑liam will not deny his aſſiſtance; he will aid me with his power, whilſt I labour to reſtore him!’— ‘Now, cried the Earl, I am indeed thy friend.— But we are at the Engliſh court. Here muſt I make a trial of my power. If the name of Saliſbury be not forgotten; if a few months of obſcurity have not totally effaced the remembrance of my birth, my actions, and my ſervices, I ſhall yet obtain re⯑dreſs of my private wrongs; and, if he ſtill ſur⯑vives, I ſhall relieve my friend.’

Thus ſaying, he ruſhed forward, with an aſpect of Fiery reſentment and indignation. Chauvigny turned back with his followers, and attended him, expecting ſome important diſcovery, ſome explanation of what the Earl had haſtily and obſcurely hinted. They ſoon [128]reached the very centre of greatneſs and magnificence; and, now, the long loſt Earl of Saliſbury once more appeared in becoming ſtate amidſt the nobles of Eng⯑land, ſhining like the great light of heaven when juſt emerged from a dark and baleful eclipſe. His ancient friends embraced him; his peers crowded round him, impatient to learn the ſtory of his wonderful delive⯑rance. Not ſo the craſty Hubert; he heard of his arrival with terror, and beheld him with confuſion and diſmay. The young king haſtened to congratu⯑late his noble kinſman, who ſunk upon his knee, loudly calling for juſtice and redreſs. Henry raiſed him, and demanded the cauſe and purpoſe of his pe⯑tition. The Earl collected his great ſpirit, and, with locks of terror and diſdain, pointed to Hubert, whilſt ſilence and ſuſpence poſſeſſed the croud of no⯑bles. 'Come forth,' ſaid he, ‘thou wicked author of my wrongs! come forth, and meet the venge⯑ance due to thy treachery.—Here ſtands the wretched caitiff, (ſuch this arm ſhall prove him) who baſely ſeized the fatal moment of my abſence to deſtroy my peace and happineſs for ever. Bear witneſs for me, ye warlike Barons and Nobles of this land, with what zealous loyalty I laboured to ſupport the cauſe of Henry, and to eſtabliſh our rightful King on that royal feat: for him and for our country have I encountered the toils and deſperate calamities of war, the fury of proud foes and formidable hoſts, the rage of ſtorms and waves, and the dangers of the tempeſtuous ocean. Scarcely have theſe ſhattered limbs ſupported the painful taſk of honour, and wonderful hath my deliverance been. And what is my recompence? Whilſt I fought in Gaſcoigne, this pernicious courtier, who never experienced the hazards and diſtreſſes of the field, never knew aught but the luxurious eaſe of a palace, contrived the ruin of the brave harraſſed ſoldier. He choſe out his minion, his nephew, the unworthily ennobled Raymond: he filled the royal ears with falſe and malicious tales of my death; he ſent his creature to ſeize my caſtle, my power, [129]and my extended domain; and to inſult my unhap⯑py Counteſs with his adulterous love: he hath a⯑buſed her weakneſs; he hath deceived her credu⯑lity, or perhaps by force poſſeſſed himſelf of her bed. I ſeek not for reparation: my wrongs wiſt not admit of this; but I call for juſt puniſhment, for vengeance due to that deadly wound my honour hath thus ſuſtained. To the juſtice of my liege Lord I fly,—to your royal juſtice, rather than to the influence which Saliſbury ſtill maintains, and the power which he ſtill commands in England.’

Henry was embarraſſed and diſordered by the bold⯑neſs of this addreſs. The precipitation with which he had yielded to the deſires of Hubert now appear⯑ed in the true light, and covered him with confuſi⯑on. He prepared to accoſt the Earl in ſuch ſoothing terms, as he could command in this diſorder of his thoughts, when the favourite, verſed in all the re⯑fined arts of diſſimulation, haſtily prevented him, and thus aſſumed the ſemblance of a generous impatience of all cenſure or ſuſpicion:

‘That I rejoice at the happy arrival of Earl Wil⯑liam, the ſaints are witneſſes: that I believed him dead ſurely cannot be deemed a crime, when ſuch repeated aſſurances were received, that he had ſhared the fate of his unhappy countrymen. What though I too indulgently conſented to the wiſhes of my nephew, and obtained him permiſſion to woo the gentle Counteſs, whom all the land regarded as a widow? What force, what fraud, what injury was meditated? What injuſtice hath been committed? What vile diſhoneſt purpoſes have been purſued, that vengeance is ſo loudly denounced? The ſoul of Raymond is noble, and his procedure hath been honourable. True, he ſought the Counteſs; he found her deep in ſorrow; he indulged her ſorrow; nor urged his paſſion with the importunity of vio⯑lent love. He waited, if, happily, time and his tender cares might move the Counteſs to liſten to his ſuit; but, thanks to the interpoſing providence of heaven, his ſuit could not prevail.—Go, Lord [130]William, repair to thy princely caſtle: there thy wiſe waits to receive thee; there ſhalt thou find her unaſſailed and unpolluted. Go, and be happy; and, when thou reflecteſt on thine own credulity, learn to forgive thoſe who too eaſily received the falſe ſtory of thy death.’

The Earl gazed in ſilence, doubting, yet willing to believe theſe happy tidings. Hubert repeated his aſſurances with an aſpect ſteady and compoſed. By 'my Holidame!' exclaimed the King, ‘it rejoiceth us that Lord William hath now found his ſuſpici⯑ons falſe: not the unexpected deliverance and hap⯑py arrival of our noble conſin give us greater joy. But let us forget all jealouſies, and depiſe all falſe rumours.—Embrace, and forgive Lord Hubert, command our power, and enjoy the reward of thy gallant toils.’—The courtiers echoed the ſenti⯑ments of their prince, and William with a conſtrain⯑ed ſubmiſſion gave his hand to Hubert: his noble friends were collected round him, and renewed their congratulations: the King by his careſſes ſeemed willing to efface the remembrance of that eaſineſs with which he had yielded to the deſires of his ſa⯑vourite, and this favourite, by an aſſumed affection and humbleneſs of deportment, ſought to quench all remains of animoſity in the mind of the injured Earl; but conſcious, of his own artifice and hypocriſy, he naturally ſuſpected that readineſs of belief, with which Saliſbury ſeemed to yield his declarations, as well as that ſudden calm of peace and reconciliation, in which his fury ſeemed to ſubſide. He had in⯑jured, and therefore hated him: he had affirmed boldly to divert the preſent ſtorm; but, whether the Counteſs had already yielded to Raymond, or whether he had forcibly poſſeſſed himſelf of her bed, as yet he knew not: and poſſibly Lord William might detect his falſhood, and return with double fury, to urge his wrongs, and ſeek his juſt vengeance. Such thoughts he revolved for a while in his buſy mind; and then confirmed himſelf in the dreadful purpoſe of concealing his baſeneſs, and providing [131]effectually for his ſafety and power by the immediate deſtruction of this Lord.

Far other thoughts now employed the Earl. He had by ſlow degrees, and by the repeated arts of refined and ſteady hypocriſy, been wrought into a firm perſuaſion, that Hubert had declared the truth; that his meſſengers had been deceived; and that his wife ſtill preſerved her loyalty: and he freely in⯑dulged theſe delightful thoughts, which naturally in⯑ſpirited an enlivened joy and complacency. The gra⯑cious condeſcenſions of the King he received with juſt returns of duty; he ſhared in the delight which his noble friends expreſſed at their return; and, al⯑tho' he wondered, yet was he affected with due pleaſure, at the zeal and love which the young Lord of France diſcovered, at that earneſtneſs of friend⯑ſhip which ſeemed ſo kindly intereſted in his ſortunes. But not the ſplendour and pleaſures of a court, not the affection of friends, nor the ſmiles of royal fa⯑vour, could detain him in the city of Marlborough. He was impatient to ſeek his own noble manſion, and his attendants held themſelves in readineſs to accom⯑pany him. Without any delay, but what refreſhment neceſſarily demanded, he took a dutiful leave of the King; he received the repeated aſſurances of Hubert, that his nephew had already retired from the caſtle, and that the Counteſs waited to embrace him with unabated love; and he departed at the head of his little troop, now reinforced by the followers of Lord Chauvigny, who declared his reſolution to attend the Earl of Saliſbury.

They took their way; and William, who had hi⯑therto been totally engaged by his own great affairs, was now more at eaſe, and more at leiſure to recall the tender ſentiments of friendſhip, and to think on the good Les Roches. 'Gentle Lord,' ſaid he, ad⯑dreſſing himſelf to young Chauvigny, ‘how have I deſerved this zealous attachment, theſe extraor⯑dinary inſtances of your affection? Say, what ſur⯑priſing events have brought thee hither? Say, how hath Les Roches merited thoſe tender names, I think [132]thou gavedſt him, of friend and father? What of his fortunes canſt thou inform me? If he indeed ſur⯑vives, where ſhall I ſeek him? How ſhall I reſtore his daughter?’—The mention of Jacqueline bright⯑ened the countenance of her lover with a momentary joy, which was inſtantly clouded, and with a ſigh which awakened all the ſears of William, he exclaim⯑ed at the ſeverity with which fortune had purſued his generous friend. 'I ſtill hope,' ſaid he, ‘and on that hope reſts all my comfort, that he is now in England, but whither driven, or where he may now lay his melancholy head, alas, I know not. It is my purpoſe to ſeek him; and in this good pur⯑poſe Earl William ſurely muſt aſſiſt me.—Let me unfold the ſtory of our fortunes, and no longer wonder to ſee Chauvigny in this land.’—They rode ſlowly on apart from their aſſociates, all but the good old knight; and the Frenchman thus began.

SECT. II.

HOW can I reflect on that credulity, with which my father yielded to the falſe and ma⯑licious Renreſentations of Mal-leon, and that un⯑merited ſeverity with which he purſued our gene⯑rous friend? Peace and forgiveneſs to his departed ſpirit!—If thou haſt already heard how the hunted fugitive ranged through the wild and deſart mountains, ſpare me the odious recital: yes, thou muſt have heard. Thy brave Countrymen, who long defended him, muſt have at length found their Lord. Their valour only could have reſcued thee from the ſnares of envy and cruelty. And, may due honour and reward attend that Fidelity, which guarded the unhappy devoted head of Les Roches! Long time they watched over him in his melancho⯑ly retreat: nor was it their want of vigilance, but his own abſence of thought and careleſs inattention to danger, which at laſt ſeparated him from their protection.

[133] It was on the morning of a night of broken and diſordered ſlumbers, that the unhappy Lord ſtarted from his hard couch, full of inward grief, and a⯑gitation. The woody covert where he had ſought repoſe, at firſt concealed his motions from the En⯑gliſhmen, who watched at ſome diſtance. Inſenſi⯑bly was he led on, wrapt up in ſad and painful re⯑flection; and wandered ſolitary down the winding path, which led from the mountain, was divided, and gradually loſt in a vale incumbered with ſhrubs and rocks, and watered by a reſounding current. At length, he awakened as from a dream, ſtared round on the awful proſpect, and ſought to gain his companions. But, alas! he had wandered too far, and too incautiouſly. Perplexed and confound⯑ed, encompaſſed with ſteep hills, which the luxu⯑riant hand of nature had cloathed with a wild mag⯑nificence of foreſt; and, ever and anon, diverted from his courſe by the rocky fragments which the torrent ſeemed to have waſhed down into the val⯑ley; his eyes ſearched in vain for the path which he had taken: he haſted on, and pauſed by turns, without direction, nor totally free from terror; when ſuddenly he deſcried a venerable perſonage, clad in the habit of auſtere piety, on which the ſilver beard deſcended from a grave and emaciated viſage. The hermit advanced, raiſing his ſhrivelled hands in holy benediction over our aſtoniſhed friend; and, as Les Roches bowed before him, he enquired with ſurprize what fate or chance had led him into this rude and ſolitary retreat.

The afflicted Lord, awed by his reverend aſpect, yet comforted by that benevolence which beamed forth from his looks, and ſoftened all his accents, freely acknowledged that he was the wretched child of calamity, driven to the deſart by perſecution and oppreſſion; and that he ſought the neighbour⯑ing hills, where a few friends, the two ſharers in his misfortune, waited his return. The reverend father, who ſaw his anguiſh, comforted, exhorted, [134]and by degrees ſo far gained on his confidence, that he freely acknowledged his name and quality, and briefly related the events which had driven him from the ſociety of men. The hermit was moved, and, pointing to his cell, which lay at no great diſtance, There, ſaid he, ſhalt thou find re⯑fuge, 'till theſe ſtorms of calamity have waſted their violence. Come, on, my ſon, enter and partake of my homely refreſhment: your friends too ſhall be my care. Tarry there: I know all the wind⯑ings and ſecret paths of theſe unfrequented hills; I ſhall ſoon find them: and here ſhall they enjoy a more ſecure, and, perhaps, leſs uncomfortable re⯑treat. The Baron made obeiſance, and accept⯑ed the generous invitation. The hermit laboured up the precipice with ſlow and painful ſteps, to⯑wards the place which Les Roches had deſcribed; but here he found no unhappy ſtrangers: all was ſilence and ſolitude. He returned full of fears and ſad forebodings, which his tenderneſs of nature had dictated. He entered his cave, but this too was ſilent and ſolitary: no gueſt appeared; no afflicted Lord waited his arrival.

However cautiouſly Les Roches had directed his courſe, however ſecret and retired he had choſen his reſidence, ſtill had his motions been long watch⯑ed by ſome baſe and ignoble men, allured by the rewards promiſed to thoſe who ſhould diſcover and ſeize him. Four ſordid hinds, diſguiſed in the garb of wood men, had diligently traced him thro' all his various progreſs, but ſtill were terrified and kept at wary diſtance by the vigilance and well known valour of his attendants. The moment of his ſeparation had not eſcaped them: they exulted, and reſolved to ſeize this critical occaſion. They purſued his ſteps, and haſtened down to the valley by different routs to them well known.—They lay unnoticed, impatient to ſnatch their prey: they marked the late conference, and ſaw the hermit depart; and no ſooner was he loſt in the diſtant wood, than ruſhing furiouſly into the cave, and [135]drawing their concealed weapons, they ſeized the unhappy Lord unprepared for reſiſtance. In vain did he enquire the cauſe, and endeavour to expoſ⯑tulate: they ſternly commanded him to attend their pleaſure, and hurrying him precipitately away, directed their courſe towards the caſtle of Poictiers, filled with the delightful idea of thoſe rewards they were to receive for a ſervice ſo important. Their victim attended them, patient and reſigned to their inſolence, diſdaining all entreaties and complaints; and was at length conducted into our hall, as a man indifferent to his fate, and prepared boldly to meet the worſt that oppreſſion could inflict.

But here he found a ſtrange and unlooked for reception; and all the ſanguine hopes of his ſordid hunters were loſt in confuſion and diſgrace. For⯑tunately ſome followers of Les Roches, who had been made priſoners, and were examined by my fa⯑ther, diſtinctly recounted the events in the Iſle of Rhè, and fired his brave ſpirit with indignation and contempt for the Count Mal-leon. He began to lament the precipitate and miſguided ſeverity with which he had purſued our friend, and to revere the character of Lord Saliſbury. In that moment he received the account of my flight, with true pater⯑nal grief and anxiety. His joy at my ſpeedy re⯑turn was equally extravagant; and ſoon was he in⯑formed of the generoſity that reſtored me to his arms. Alas! theſe violent and repeated impreſſions were too great for his weak and diſordered frame. He had long been oppreſſed by a dangerous mala⯑dy, which, as it had inflamed and irritated his ſpirit to an unuſual degree of impatience and fret⯑ful violence, ſo was it, in return, inflamed and ir⯑ritated by the events which this violence had pro⯑duced. Too late did he lament his fatal raſhneſs, and utter his ineffectual wiſhes to make a full atone⯑ment. On the very morning when Les Roches arriv⯑ed at Poictiers, we were alarmed with the ſymptoms of his diſſolution, and in theſe arms did he expire.

Too intent on paying the mournful offices of my [136]deceaſed parent, I could ſcarcely give a thought to Les Roches; I had juſt the power to iſſue my com⯑mand that he ſhould be treated nobly. Thus did he continue for ſome time a priſoner, unnoticed, and uncertain of his fate: an interval which we after⯑wards lamented bitterly. To that we imputed the loſs of Jacqueline; to that, the diſtreſſes of Lord William; which our imaginations repreſented in the moſt frightful form, all derived from my unhappy delay in ſeeking and offering him protection. At length the remains of Lord Chauvigny were inter⯑red with all ſolemn rites befitting his exalted condi⯑tion. I now became Lord of his power and domain, and ſoon found leiſure to think on the father of my beloved Jacqueline. The hinds who had made him my priſoner, and now applied for their reward, faw me fall at his feet and embrace him, with all the rap⯑ture of affection and reverence. They would gladly have a merit of preſerving and conveying him to my caſtle: nor ſhould I have denied their reward, but that their rude inſolence had aggravated the diſtreſ⯑ſes of my friend. I inſtantly pronounced him free; I vowed to devote all my influence and power, to make atonement for his unmerited ſufferings; to exert the moſt zealous efforts of love and friendſhip to regain his daughter and to relieve Lord Saliſbury. But Les Roches was indeed re-inſtated in full poſſeſ⯑ſion of his lands and caſtle: but, not all our moſt diligent enquiries, not all our vigilance and labour, in traverſing the wildeſt and moſt unfrequented parts of our province, could obtain the leaſt information of his daughter, or his friend; ſo ſecretly had Saliſ⯑bury choſen his retreat: or perhaps he was then con⯑tending with ſtorms and waves: perhaps ſecurely landed on his own native ſhore. This laſt thought was pleaſing, and we were inclined to indulge it.— Thus while my breaſt was filled with all the impa⯑tience of love, and paternal fondneſs equally predo⯑minant in Les Roches, we ſoon concurred in the adventurous reſolution of ſeeking the dear treaſure in England, which fortune had ſo unkindly torn [137]from us. Thither, ſaid we, hath Jacqueline been conducted by her noble protector, and there ſhall we find both utterly deſpairing to regain Les Roches. Inflamed with ſuch hopes, we inſtantly prepared our retinue, a gay and gallant train: we ſoon reach⯑ed the coaſt, and ſoon were we embarked: alas, too ſoon! little ſuſpecting the ſevere reverſe of fortune, that now threatned to confound all our flattering expectations.—The ſea was rough and ſtormy, our bark ſtout and amply furniſhed, but our mariners were unſkilful; and long time did we contend with all the violence of the winds, and long time were we driven from our deſtined courſe. And, when at laſt, after various dangers and difficulties, we were cheared with the hopes of ſpeedily gaining the Engliſh coaſt, ſuddenly we found ourſelves aſſailed by a bold pira⯑tical veſſel, and threatened with a ſevere captivity. The hoſtile intentions of our adverſary were but too plainly diſcovered, as he bore down upon us. Our force was inſtantly collected, and we reſolved to de⯑fend our liberty with due ſpirit. Tortured at the thought of being prevented from purſuing my de⯑ſign, I raved in all the wildneſs of frenzy and deſ⯑peration, which the good Les Roches endeavoured to reſtrain, himſelf equally reſolute, but inſpired with a more deliberate and rational courage. No ſooner had the enemy cloſed with us, than this gal⯑lant Lord, earneſt to prevent me in the purſuit of danger, leaped on board his veſſel, was followed by a few attendants, and there maintained a bloody and unequal conflict. We preſt forward, earneſt to ſecond this bold attack; the pirate was alarmed at our numbers and our reſolution, when, ſuddenly, the violence of the ſurge ſeparated our veſſels; and as we endeavoured to regain our former ſtation, anxious for the reſcue of our companions, we were ſhocked with the view of the pirate flying before us. His veſſel was of quicker ſail, and his mariners more expert. He left us in rage and anguiſh, utter⯑ing fruitleſs execrations, and ſtraining our limbs in fruitleſs efforts to regain our captive friends. In the [138]bitterneſs of grief and diſappointment, I reſolved to continue the purſuit, if happily ſome favourable incident might bring the enemy once more into our reach; and for a while the purſuit was continued. But the ſtorm was loud, and my followers too ſenſi⯑ble of their danger. They forced me to make to⯑wards land; and, after much hazard and difficulty, we were at length diſembarked on the ſouthern coaſt of England.—We recounted our late adventure to the inhabitants of the coaſt, who well knew the pi⯑rate we deſcribed, and had oftentimes ſuffered by his depredations. They informed us that his name was William de Moriſco, a bold adventurer, who had of late frequently infeſted their dwellings, and probably, ere long, might alarm them by another deſcent: that his exactions had ever been ſevere, but that his nature, rude as it was, diſcovered no wanton cruelty, no malicious thirſt for blood; that an honourable ranſom might prevail upon him to ſet our friends at liberty. I was comforted by this intelligence, and waited for a time, in hopes of ſome favourable opportunity of recovering Les Roches: but no veſſel appeared; no intelligence was received.

Unable to ſupport this delay, I reſolved once more to ſeek the enemy at ſea. My followers I knew would prove averſe to ſuch an attempt; and the occaſion demanded more ſkilful mariners, and a veſſel more compleatly appointed than our's, which by this time had felt the ſeverity of winds and ſeas. I therefore formed the bold deſign of applying for aſſiſtance directly at the Engliſh court. A young King, jealous of his honour, could not be unmoved at the inſults offered to his territory by this obſcure adventurer: he muſt readily fa⯑vour the generous purpoſe of purſuing and engage⯑ing him: and, if Lord Saliſbury hath now regain⯑ed his native country, he cannot be leſs zealous to reſcue his friend; he muſt effectually aid my endeavours.—Thus I reaſoned; and, leaving a part of my retinue on the coaſt to treat for the [139]ranſom of our friends,' if the pirate ſhould appear, I proceeded to the court of England, where jouſts and tournaments were prepared for the entertain⯑ment of the King, now recovering from a tedious ſickneſs. In theſe I engaged; nor was I diſgraced, or my attendants unnoticed. Henry vouchſafed his attention to the ſtranger, and received me with a princely welcome. I called myſelf a young Lord of one of thoſe provinces of France that acknow⯑ledged the Engliſh juriſdiction; and declared the whole ſtory of my adventure on the voyage to⯑wards England. The King was duly affected with indignation, commended the gallant reſolution I expreſſed of ſeeking the pirate, and readily pro⯑miſed to entruſt the chaſtiſement of this inſolent plunderer to my command.

Lord Hubert, whom I ſoon found to be princi⯑pal in the confidence of his maſter, echoed the ſen⯑timents of Henry: he frequently held converſe with me, and enquired much about the affairs of my province. Diſcourſe of the late wars naturally introduced the name of Saliſbury: I ſighed, and Hubert haſtily demanded if I could ſay aught of the fortunes of this Lord. The melancholy air which I aſſumed, redoubled his attention: I told him that Lord William had landed in France, had been purſued by the fury of his unjuſt enemies, fled with a noble maid whoſe father had deeply ſnared in his calamities; and, ſince he was not by this time returned to his native country, I ſeared for both.—Hubert, with an impatience and violence to me unaccountable, haſtily interrupted me, by declaring that William muſt have periſhed; and this was delivered in a tone and manner which indicated too plainly, that he felt a peculiar plea⯑fure in this perſuaſion. I was alarmed; I cauti⯑ouſly avoided all farther explanation, and coldly aſſented to his opinion: but Hubert, naturally jealous, and practiſed in the arts and policy of courts, ſuſpected my ſilence. He was ſenſible that I had ſuppreſſed ſome part of my ſtory: he treated [140]me with diſtance and reſerve, and my ſuit ſped but coldly. Frequently did I remind him of the royal promiſe I had received, and urged him to iſſue the orders neceſſary for enabling me to ſeek the pirate. I was long tortured with delays, 'till, quite wearied out by the inſincerity of a miniſter, who interpoſed like a baleful cloud between me and the favour of his prince, I ſought a convenient hour, and once more kneeled to young Henry. He graciouſly directed me to repair to the coaſt with⯑out farther delay, and at the ſame time command⯑ed that a veſſel ſhould be there prepared, ready to receive and to acknowledge me commander. I bowed, and kiſſed the royal hand: I collected my attendants:—I met Lord William.

In a happy hour!' replied the Earl:—'but, gentle Lord, be not diverted from thy purpoſe: haſte thou to the coaſt, I ſhall but viſit my caſtle, and ſtraight follow thee, if happily we may yet recover our noble friend. Jacqueline ſhall receive us at our joyful return, and thank thee for her father.

SECT. III.

CHAUVIGNY prepared to anſwer, when their conference was ſuddenly interrupted by the ap⯑proach of a ſtranger, who, with gentle aſpect and deportment, addreſſed himſelf to Saliſbury, and kind⯑ly congratulated his ſaſe return to England. The Earl beheld him with ſurpriſe tempered with due courteſy, and, ere he could demand his name, the ſtranger obſerved with earneſtneſs that the dampy ſhades of night were approaching faſt; and pointing to a fair dwelling, which lay at ſome ſmall diſtance, invited the Lords to accept of reſidence and refreſh⯑ment under his roof, 'till morning. 'There,' ſaid he, ‘ſhall your retinue be alſo entertained; and there ſhall Lord William receive ſome pleaſing intelli⯑gence from the caſtle of Saliſbury.’ Without farther heſitation or enquiry, the Earl joyfully aceepted [141]this invitation, and, preſſing forward as his hoſt di⯑rected, entered a goodly hall, which ſeemed decked and prepared for his hoſpitable reception.

Little did this Lord conceive of the danger which now awaited him; of the deſperate purpoſes of Ray⯑mond and his aſſociates, and the ſecret malignity of Hubert who for ſome time had entertained a deſign againſt his life, and heſitated only about the mears of execution. Conſcious of the vengeance due to his own baſeneſs and ſalſehood, and firmly determined to prevent it, he revolved many different ſchemes of de⯑ſtroying Earl William either by force or fraud. In the midſt of ſuch bloody thoughts he was ſurpriſed by the arrival of a meſſenger from Lord Raymond, who deſired a private conference: Raymond and his wick⯑ed minion had for ſome time been perplexed and con⯑founded. The intelligence of the three Engliſh men (whom they ſtill kept under reſtraint) was clear and explicit: they adhered invariably to their firſt ac⯑count, and frequently repeated their declarations with an ingenuous appearance of truth, wondering that their Lord was not yet arrived. On the other hand, Saliſbury did not appear; no farther intelligence was received, no diſcoveries made by thoſe ſent out to watch his approach. In this ſuſpence and uncertain⯑ty, Raymond, whoſe mind was too violently agita⯑ted to ſuggeſt any calm and deliberate counſels, and Grey, whoſe wiles ſeemed to be at length exhauſted, concurred in the expediency of diſpatching an emiſ⯑fary to Lord Hubert, to inform him of their ſituation, and to deſire his direction. Reginhald was appoint⯑ed for this purpoſe, and recommended as a perſon in whom Hubert might confide. The Monk now ap⯑peared before him and delivered his letters; (having already received the dreadful intelligence that William was now ſafe in the town of Marlborough.) The piercing eye of Hubert, long uſed to ſcan the counte⯑nances of men, and there to read their thoughts, nar⯑rowly ſurveyed the aſpect of Reginhald, and ſormed too juſt conceptions of his temper and diſpoſition. He enquired particularly into the meaſures his nephew [142]had purſued; and the Monk anſwered to his queſtions in ſuch a manner, as admitted Hubert to a thorough knowledge of his wicked heart. Fully perſuaded that he now had a proper inſtrument of his deadly purpoſe, he diſmiſſed the Monk for a while, and appointed an hour for a ſecond conference.

The dark deſign he now meditated required ſtill ſome farther aſſiſtance. A man there was at this time attendant on the court, whom the craſty miniſter had frequently made the agent of his oppreſſion and unju⯑ſtice. He had often times ſent him out to harraſs the land by ſevere and fraudulent exactions, and had ſuf⯑fered him to be enriched by a ſhare of the ſpoil. Tyrrel (ſo was he named) lived but by the favour of Hubert, who reſerved him for his wicked purpoſes; yet might at once take away his life with a fair ſem⯑blance of public juſtice, ſhould he at any time rebel againſt his ſovereign pleaſure. This man was now ſummoned before him; and, with a brow of care and anxiety, as if ſome deſign of moment poſſeſſed his mind, Hubert commanded him inſtantly to repair to his houſe, which lay near the road Lord William was to take; to invite this Lord; to entertain him with all noſpitable rites; and, in ſome other matters which ſhould hereafter be explained more fully, to ſubmit entirely to the guidance of a Monk whom he ſhould ſpeecily ſend to him, and whom he was alſo to entertain. Tyrrel was alarmed at this myſterious language: he knew the deſperate unrelenting ſpirit of his maſter, and ſuſpected that ſome bloody deſign was now to be executed; and that his houſe was to be the fatal ſcene of violence or treachery. He trem⯑bled and heſitated, for he was not yet conſummate in villainy: but Hubert thundered in his ears the moſt terrible denunciations of vengeance and utter deſtruc⯑tion, ſhould he betray the leaſt reluctance, the ſmall⯑eſt defect of zeal and alacrity in executing his orders. Tyrrel bowed before him with a ſlaviſh ſubmiſſion, and promiſed full obedience.

Still he had to practice with Reginhald; but here he expected, and indeed found an eaſy taſk. The [143]Monk was again ſummoned to his preſence. The di⯑ſtinction and apparent confidence with which he was treated, ſerved to intoxicate his baſe mind, and to prepare him for ſome deed of violence or miſchief: Hubert artfully commended his fidelity, and promiſed to reward it, but lamented the danger in which Ray⯑mond and all his adherents were now to be involved. Lord William, he obſerved, muſt ſoon reach his ca⯑ſtle; the ſhame of diſappointment and the violence of hatred and revenge muſt ſoon fall on Raymond; and the zeal of his faithful friends muſt appear odious and criminal. Then, with well-affected perplexity and terror addreſſing himſelf earneſtly to the Monk, he deſired his ſage counſel in this dangerous emergen⯑cy. Reginhald, with an awkward and abject abaſe⯑ment, declared that he was totally unable to adviſe, but ready to follow the directions of Lord Hubert with implicit ſubmiſſion. The ſubtle courtier ſeized him by the hand, applauded his zeal, and laviſhed the ampleſt promiſes upon him. 'Be bold,' ſaid he, ‘and be happy.—There is but one way—Let us pre⯑vent the attempts of our common enemy—by de⯑ſtroying him.’—Reginhald took fire at this propo⯑fal: he at once freely offered himſelf to be the agent, and ſeemed impatient to learn the means of executing a deſign ſo ſuited to a heart that never felt humanity or remorſe.

Hubert haſtily produced a phial filled with a dead⯑ly poiſon. 'Behold,' ſaid he, ‘the ſure means of de⯑ſtroying our enemy. Let it be thy care to preſent Lord William with this fatal draught, and name the reward of ſo great a ſervice.’—And now he pro⯑ceeded to explain his fell purpoſe to the Monk more particularly. He diſmiſſed him fully inſtructed, and impatient for the execution. Reginhald was received by the abject creature of Hubert, and inveſted with abſolute authority over his domeſtics; Tyrrel watch⯑ed the approach of Lord William; this Lord accepted his inſidious invitation; and the Monk was brought before him, as a perſon from whom he was to receive ſome particular intelligence of his Counteſs. The [144]Earl was earneſt in his enquiries, and Reginhald prompt in his falſe aſſurances. He declared (as he had been inſtructed by Hubert) that he had for ſome time reſided in the caſtle of Saliſbury, employed in admini⯑ſtring ſpiritual conſolation to a domeſtic of the Coun⯑teſs; that he had frequently ſeen this Lady, been wit⯑neſs of the melancholy of her widowed ſtate, and of the affection with which ſhe cheriſhed the memory of her Lord. A ſuitor indeed had viſited her; but ſhe had obſtinately ſhut her ears againſt all his ſollicitati⯑ons; and Lord Raymond was long ſince retired in de⯑ſpair.

Theſe ſtudied falſehoods had all the effect for which they were intended. The heart of William was dila⯑ted with joy: he embraced his friends with that warmth of affection which ſudden good fortune natu⯑rally excites: then, turning again to Reginhald, re⯑peated his eager enquiries about his wife, his ſon, his houſe; and received ſuch anſwers as confirmed his joy. He now ſecretly condemned his own raſh ſuſpicions of the Counteſs; his love was redoubled; he was impa⯑tient to receive her in his arms; and all the lively im⯑preſſions of delight and ſatisfaction which he felt were communicated to his friends. Chauvigny embraced him in joyful congratulation; Randolph forgot his ſuſpicions, and wore a face of ſerenity and pleaſure. A generous repaſt was prepared, and the board was graced with the moſt enlivened ſocial feſtivity.

The falſe hoſt knew full well the dreadful purpoſe now to be executed, and dared not oppoſe, though he ſhuddered at the thought of it. To Reginhald he reſigned the abſolute command of his domeſtics. The wicked Monk was officiouſly attentive to oblige Lord Saliſbury; eager to promote the joy of the table, but leſs intent on ſharing in this joy, than in providing for the gueſts. He had now mixed the fatal draught, and ſaw the poiſoned bowl in the hand of an attendant, ready to be delivered to Lord William. He ſtood unnoticed in a diſtant part of the hall; his heart panting, his limbs trembling, and his haggard eyes fixed upon the Earl. He ſaw [145]him receive the bowl; he retired towards the en⯑trance of the hall; he heard him ſalute his hoſt and his aſſociates; he turned, and ſaw him raiſe the poiſon towards his head.—In that inſtant he ruſhed impetuouſly out, regardleſs of thoſe who were enter⯑ing with equal haſte; mounted his horſe, which ſtood prepared by his appointment, and in an ex⯑travagance of horrid and malignant joy, fled to Lord Raymond with the important news that the Earl of Saliſbury was no more.

The joy of Raymond was extravagant. With eyes all on fire, and accents faltering with impati⯑ence and emotion, he demanded the particulars of this ſurpriſing intelligence; and the ſhameleſs and abandoned wickedneſs of Reginhald ſcrupled not to declare the whole of his adventures ſince his late departure from the caſtle. He was heard with ea⯑gerneſs and anxiety. At the mention of poiſon Raymond trembled; the blood forſook his cheeks, and his brow beſpoke horror and conſternation: but Grey laboured to quiet his diſordered ſpirit, by ob⯑ſerving, that he had taken no part in the deed; that it was paſt and irrevocable; that now, he had but to conſider how to approve this event to his own ad⯑vantage, to the intereſts of his love and fortune. The wretch who hath once deviated from the paths of goodneſs, is eaſily reconciled to the horrors of his progreſs in iniquity. The thoughts of this Lord were ſoon turned to the flattering proſpects of happineſs which were preſented to his imagination: his firſt emotions of joy and triumph returned; he commended the zeal and daring ſpirit of Reginhald; and Grey joined in the applauſe, although his wicked heart ſecretly repined at the ſhare which his brother might now boaſt, in advancing the deſigns of Lord Raymond; and envied the vaſt rewards which his ſervices might juſtly claim.

Raymond was now ſully perſuaded that all his wiſhes were ſpeedily to be crowned with ſucceſs; that future difficulties would gradually vaniſh. In his preſent ſtate of exultation he forgot the obſtinacy [146]with which the Counteſs had hitherto oppoſed his deſires, and flattered himſelf with the hopes that a little time, together with a full and clear aſſurance of the death of Saliſbury, would prevail on her to liſten more favourably to his ſuit. For a while he reſolved to ſuſpend his ſollicitations; but, as the proſpect of ſucceſs ſerved to inflame his paſſion, he obſtinately adhered to his reſolution of poſſeſſing the proud Lady, and even of recurring once more to violence, if vio⯑lence ſhould be neceſſary. With an affected lenity and generoſity he ordered the three followers of Wil⯑liam to be diſmiſſed, when he had firſt ſeverely re⯑proved them, for preſuming to diſturb the minds of his friends by falſe intelligence. They returned to⯑wards the houſe of Randolph, ſtill wondering at the delay of their Lord, and impatient to acquaint him with thoſe important tidings, which the unhap⯑py Oſwald had found means of giving them in their confinement, notwithſtanding the vigilance of their guards.

Nor did theſe late extraordinary events, which had engaged all the attention of Raymond and his creatures, fail to excite the wonder and expectation of the Counteſs. They had ſuſpended her perſecu⯑tion, and now gave her leiſure to indulge her hopes of relief and deliverance. Such hopes ſhe had not yet reſigned, though tormented by delay and painful diſappointment. Some fears indeed ſometimes aroſe, to cloud the pleaſing thoughts ſhe was ſtudious to entertain: yet when ſhe reflected how abruptly Ray⯑mond had retreated from his wicked purpoſe of for⯑cibly poſſeſſing himſelf of her bed, under the pre⯑tence of a nuptial ceremony; when ſhe conſidered the appearances of commotion and diſorder which were evidently diſcoverable in the caſtle; ſhe ſeemed to have good reaſons to perſuade herſelf, that ſome intelligence muſt have been received, equally favour⯑able to her, and confounding to her oppreſſor. She expected every moment to hear of the vigorous and effectual interpoſition of ſome friends to affert the rights, and to redeem her from her preſent captivity; [147]yet did ſhe frequently lament to her faithful attendant, that her reſcue was ſo long delayed. Whatever con⯑ſolation Elinor could give, was now diſſembled and conſtrained; for Oſwald had been enabled to convey to his ſiſter an account of the ſeizing of young William, and his own return and confinement. She was but too well acquainted with the violence of Ela, too much alarmed with the dread of her relapſing into her for⯑mer malady, to entruſt this fatal intelligence to her ear. With a heart oppreſſed with grief and terror, ſhe aſſumed the aſpect of eaſe and ſerenity. When the Counteſs expreſſed her fears, a ſigh ſometimes eſcaped from the attendant; but it ſeemed the ſigh of friendly ſympathy; and in her moments of plea⯑ſing thoughts, and expectations, Elinor had ever at command ſome general expreſſions of comfort, ſome effuſſions of pious confidence in the great protector of innocence, to brighten the dawn of hope which aroſe within her gentle miſtreſs. But ſhe was ſoon to be undeceived; too ſoon was her heart to be pierced with the moſt dreadful didings.

SECT. I.

THE two brothers who had proved ſuch zealous agents in oppreſſion and cruelty, were once again to aggravate the diſtreſſes of the Counteſs. The diſcontent and envy which Grey had conceived towards Reginhald ſince his laſt arrival, which he was not ſtudious to conceal, together with the inſo⯑lence and preſumption of this Monk, founded on the opinion of his great ſervices, produced mutual coldneſs and contempt in their wicked hearts, and threatened to diſſolve their iniquitous union. A new and unexpected incident now ſerved to light up their animoſity.

Some enormities of Reginhald had lately been diſ⯑covered in the monaſtery, too great to be concealed or palliated. A country maiden had been ſeduced to a compliance with his ſenſual deſires. He had for ſome time conſorted with her, until by degrees his brutal paſſion grew ſated, and required ſome new object. He fixed his laſcivious eyes upon the concu⯑bine of one of his aſſociates in revelling, and made ſome attempts to poſſeſs her; which had provoked her paramour to utter the moſt violent menaces againſt the Monk. To appeaſe his reſentment, Re⯑ginhald baſely propoſed to give him up the unhappy victim of his own lewdneſs. The man was not yet ſo abandoned to all ſenſe of virtue, as not to feel the utmoſt abhorrence at this inſtance of tranſcendent villany. Leſs ſcrupulous to acknowledge his own ſhame, as he was not of the clerical order, and too violently provoked againſt the Monk to admit any thought of reconciliation, he only waited to procure [149]ſuch proofs as might confirm his information; then ſeized the moment of Reginhald's abſence, produced the wretched woman he had corrupted, as well as her he had attempted, and wounded the ears of the reverend fraternity with a full detection of their wicked brother: the whole cloiſter was inſtantly filled with ſorrow and indignation. Every inſtance of outrage and irreverence which he had committed was now recalled to mind, and repeated by every tongue. How often he had diſturbed or diſgraced their religious houſe, was now freely told; how often his inoffenſive brethren had been expoſed to his inſolence or malice; how often his beaſtly re⯑vels had been prolonged, until, rouſed by the matin-bell, he had mixed his debauchery with their early devotions. It was at length reſolved to ſend a deputation to the caſtle of Saliſbury to de⯑mand that Reginhald ſhould be ſent back to the mo⯑naſtery, there to here his accuſers, and to ſuffer the puniſhment due to his accumulated baſeneſs.

The perſons entruſted with this commiſſion were now arrived. The Monk was made acquainted with the purpoſe of their coming, and affected to treat them with defiance and contempt, although he was too conſcious of his guilt not to feel the moſt violent ſecret emotions of terror. He ſought his brother, and demanded his advice and aſſiſtance in this emer⯑gency. They choſe for their private conference a garden belonging to the caſtle, in which the Counteſs had chiefly delighted in her happier days, and which ſhe now ſometimes viſited, to refreſh her haraſſed mind. Grey liſtened to the ſtory of his brother's danger, with a provoking coldneſs and inſenſibility. Reginhald rudely vaunted his important ſervices to Hubert and Raymond, and ſeemed to expect, as his juſt right, their full protection in this his preſent difficulty. Grey at length broke ſilence by lament⯑ing this fatal diſcovery, which he induſtriouſly repre⯑ſented as in the higheſt degree dangerous and terrible. The Monk could ſcarcely reſtrain his impatience, at the affected air of ſuperiority which his brother aſ⯑ſumed, [150]and the inſolence of reproof and cenſure which his words conveyed. Grey, as if ſtill de⯑ſirous to mortify him to the utmoſt, continued his diſcourſe by obſerving with what zeal he had labour⯑ed to recommend a man to the notice of Lord Ray⯑mond, who, he feared, muſt now appear, in the general eye, as unworthy of the favour of this Lord, and that he himſelf muſt ſhare in his diſgrace. —'Dog!' exclaimed the Monk, flying furiouſly upon his brother, who was alarmed, and retired from his violence, which he endeavoured to allay, by haſtily promiſing his friendly interpoſition with Lord Raymond.—'Thy interpoſition!' cried Regin⯑hald; ‘Am I to depend on thee, thou caitiff? Is this my reward? Am I to ſue thee for the protection of thy great friends? Who was it that ſaved them and their pernicious minion from diſgrace and ruin? Thou, indeed, could'ſt ſteal away from ſanctuary the infant heir of Saliſbury: but this was the daring hand which preſented the fatal draught to the father.’ —Here a loud and piercing ſhriek broke off their diſcourſe. Ela and her kind attendant had taken their ſeat unnoticed, in an adjoining bower, and heard the laſt paſſionate exclamations of the Monk. The emotions of the Counteſs was too great to be ſuppreſſed. The brother ſtarted, were confounded, and haſtily ſeparated; whilſt Elinor fled with frantic ſpeed to ſummon aſſiſtance to her miſtreſs.

She was ſoon conveyed to her chamber, and laid upon her couch, languid and ſilent. Elinor hung over her with ſtreaming eyes, and ever and anon en⯑treated her to give vent to her ſorrows; but they were too great for utterance. Her eyes indeed were ſometimes raiſed to heaven with all the expreſſion of ſilent miſery, and then, again, gently cloſed, as if in⯑viting the kind and healing hand of death to cover them in eternal darkneſs. But no complaints did ſhe breathe, no exclamations of anguiſh did ſhe utter. At length her frame ſeemed convulſed, and violently agitated: a torrent of tears poured down her lovely cheeks, and Elinor conceived ſome hopes that her [151]great ſoul was now ſtruggling to ſhake off the into⯑lerable weight of ſorrow. But the calm which ſuc⯑ceeded was the calm of inſenſibility: ſhe gazed round her with a vacant eye, and all her nobleneſs of na⯑ture ſeemed irrecoverably loſt in ſenſeleſs melancholy.

The diſorder of her apartment had reached the cars of Raymond, and, in the violence of ſurpriſe and anxiety, he once again ruſhed into her pre⯑ſence. —With all the bitterneſs of remorſe, he viewed the majeſtic ruins of exalted beauty and greatneſs, the fatal effect of his lawleſs paſſions. His haughty ſoul melted into pity: he demanded the cauſe of her diſ⯑order, and received from Elinor a diſtinct account of the horrid diſcourſe to which her unhappy Lady had been witneſs. All the train of dreadful paſſions that attend on detected guilt, tore the heart of Raymond with their united tortures. He ſtarted, and wildly traverſed the chamber: he pauſed; bent his eyes again upon the Counteſs: then, turning ſuddenly from the afflicting object, uttered terrible execrations upon himſelf and his vile ſeducers. He fell upon his knees, and addreſſing himſelf to Ela, as if ſhe were ſenſible of his diſcourſe, he paſſionately vowed to reſtore her ſon to her arms, and inſtantly to abandon her caſtle.—Again, riſing ſuddenly, and iſſuing forth with wild precipitation, he called loudly for Grey; who appeared before him trembling, and, to pre⯑vent his rage, began with curſing the brutal violence of Reginhald.—'Bid my Knights prepare,' ſaid Ray⯑mond; 'let my retinue ſtand ready before the gates: —we muſt depart.'—The countenance of his crea⯑ture expreſſed ſurpriſe and diſſatisfaction.—‘No ex⯑poſtulation! none of thy damned arts!—Where haſt thou beſtowed the ſon of this unhappy wo⯑man? See that he be inſtantly conveyed back to her caſtle. Do it, ſlave, or woe upon thy head! Haſte!—anſwer me not.—Give out my orders for departure.’—Then, once more entering the chamber of the Counteſs, with all the remorſe and anguiſh of a man at length awakened to a ſenſe of [152]his unjuſt miſguided conduct, when it was now too late to be corrected or repaired; he gazed diſtracted⯑ly upon her, and with a deep and diſmal groan pro⯑nounced a ſolemn farewell. Then, turning quickly upon Elinor, who wept by his ſide: 'Speak to her,' ſaid he; ‘ſhe diſdains, and juſtly, to hold converſe with a villain. Say, that her perſecution is now erded. Tell her I know not, I contrived not the murder of her huſband. Let her pronounce his doom, and the officious ſlave that acted the foul deed ſhall die. Her ſon lives, and ſhall yet be happy in her embraces.—Hear me woman! Tell her I am gone: gone, never more to torment the weak unfriended, ſolitary widow.—Yes! theſe cheeks are yet lovely; that form ſtill noble. But what of that? For me! for me could Heaven have reſerved ſo rich a treaſure? Horrid preſumption!’ —Elinor kneeled before him, petitioned with all hu⯑mility for the enlargment of her brother, and that, to aſſiſt her in the neceſſary attendance of the un⯑happy Counteſs, he might be ordered to reſide for ſome time in the caſtle.—'Curſed caſtle!' cried Raymond; ‘curſed be the hour in which I firſt entered theſe fatal walls! And for ever curſed be the ſlaves who forced me, againſt my better rea⯑ſon, to perſevere in cruelty!’

In the midſt of this frenzy, he was ſurpriſed into ſome degree of compoſure by the appearance of a ſtranger, who forcing his way violently into the apartment, approached towards the Counteſs, with an air and aſpect of affection and reverence. He ac⯑coſted her, without deigning to caſt a look upon Lord Raymond; and ſoon perceived the wretched ſtate to which ſhe was reduced. 'What!' cried he, ‘no ear for joy and comfort! no voice to greet the arrival of an old faithful ſervant!’—Raymond, ad⯑vancing with a ſtern and haughty frown, demanded to know who he was, and what the cauſe of this bold unmannered intruſion. ‘Queſtion thy own baſe hinds,’ ſaid he, ‘who dared to forbid my approach.—Nay, let thy weapon reſt; I have a [153]ſword as keen, and an arm as brave as thine.’ —Raymond here attempted to ſummon his attend⯑ants. —'Beware, proud Lord,' continued the ſtran⯑ger; ‘poor as I am, ſingle as I ſtand in the midſt of thy creatures, I fear not the power of Lord Raymond. The leaſt violence done to this perſon would be inſtantly repaid with ten-fold vengeance. If this noble dame hath been reduced to her pre⯑ſent ſtate of miſery by thee—hear, and tremble. Yes! thou haſt cauſe to tremble: my Lord, my gracious maſter, the princely Saliſbury, approach⯑es, and, before the cloſe of day, ſhall reſume his rightful power and authority within theſe walls.’ —Here, Elinor, who had liſtened in amazement, fell ſuddenly on her knees, returned thanks to hea⯑ven with the moſt rapturous devotion, and called paſſionately upon her miſtreſs to hear the joyful tidings; but was anſwered only by a deep and heart⯑felt ſigh.

The ſoul of Raymond was harrowed with conſter⯑nation. He ſtood ſpeechleſs and motionleſs, and ſuffered the ſtranger to depart without further queſ⯑tion. He found himſelf on the brow of a preci⯑pice, whither he had been fatally miſled by the wickedneſs of his flatterers, and now was prevented from retreating. Juſtice followed cloſe upon him, and vengeance was ready to puſh him head long down. After an hideous pauſe of diſmay, he ruſhed out, and once more called ſuriouſly for Grey: but Grey had heard the fatal intelligence, and hid him⯑ſelf from the fury of his Lord, which echoed loudly through the halls. The attendants were collected round him, whom he ordered inſtantly to prepare for their departure, and to retire from this accurſed place. He loudly and frequently cried out, ‘To horſe!’ ſtill ranging madly through the caſtle in ſearch of Grey. In this ſtate of diſtraction he chan⯑ced to eſpy the Monk, who trembled and ſhrunk from him, in abject terror. 'Traitor! cried Raymond,' ſeizing him by the throat, ‘thy falſehood hath done this. Thou haſt liſtened to my enemies, and [154]been their agent to abuſe me by thy falſehoods, to deceive and deſtroy me: but thou at leaſt ſhalt feel my vengeance.’ Reginhald fell at his feet, and would have expoſtulated; but the ſtorm in the breaſt of Raymond was too violent to be allayed by his ſubmiſſions. The unhappy Lord, fully perſuad⯑ed that the Monk had purpoſedly framed a tale to luil him into falſe ſecurity, called to his followers, and commanded them to hang up the traitor.— 'There,' ſaid he, ſternly, repeating his command, and pointing to a large oak which ſtood in view, near the caſtle walls; ‘there let me ſee my ſentence executed without delay.’ And without delay did they proceed to execute this dreadful ſentence. The wicked Reginhald, condemned by the man for whom he had proceeded to ſuch enormous guilt, was led away, in vain imploring mercy, urging the unme⯑rited ſeverity of his fate, and gnaſhing his teeth in rage and deſpair. Grey, from his place of conceal⯑ment, was terrified with the view of his brother in the agonies of death, and tortured with the fear of becoming the next victim to the diſtracted violence of Raymond.

SECT. II.

THE dreadful intelligence, now received, was ſpeedily and fatally confirmed to theſe wicked intruders. Heaven had graciouſly watched over the Earl of Saliſbury, and, with a wonderful hand, reſ⯑cued him from the brink of deſtruction. Juſt in that moment when the cup, poiſoned by the Monk, had reached and wet his lips, a ſudden exclamation from Chauvigny ſurpriſed and diſcompoſed him. He ſtart⯑ed and withdrew the fatal draught. The noiſe was loud in the hall, and the crowd encreaſed: his eyes quickly encountered Les Roches ruſhing eagerly for⯑ward: the cup fell from his hand, and he preſt on with equal ardor to meet the embraces of his long-loſt friend. They clung together in that tumult of [155]joy which knows no words: and, when at length Les Roches found leiſure to turn to Chauvigny, the gentle youth, preſſing him earneſtly in his arms, compleated his happineſs, by exclaiming, that Jac⯑queline too was ſafe. Nature was exhauſted by theſe violent emotions, and Les Roches ſunk down upon a ſeat, breathleſs and ſilent. Again recovering, he caſt his eyes round, and ſurvey'd the well-known countenances of his followers and aſſociates, the at⯑tendants of Chauvigny, and ſome of the brave ſol⯑diers of Lord William. He ſtarted up, and preſſed the hands of each: then again, turning to his two noble friends, again he gazed upon them with eager joy, and again they renewed their embraces. 'Now,' ſaid the Earl, ‘I ſhall indeed return home in tri⯑umph: now are all my toils, my terrors and dan⯑gers, amply recompenſed’ Then, reſuming his ſeat at the table, he invited Les Roches to ſhare in their repaſt, and to allow ſome indulgence and re⯑freſhment to his fatigue.—‘And haſt thou, in⯑deed, preſerved my daughter?’ cried the French⯑man. ‘Let me ſee her! let her father take the dear treaſure to his arms! Is ſhe well? Is ſhe at hand?’ —‘Safely beſtowed under the hoſpitable roof of this good Knight,’ replied William, and point⯑ed to Randolph. ‘The noble maid ſhall ſtraight be ſummoned to meet thee, and ſoon ſhall ſhe ſhare thy joy.’—Thanks to the eternal goodneſs! re⯑plied Les Roches, ‘that goodneſs which hath been pleaſed to unite us to each other by mutual and repeated offices of friendſhip. Lo! for my daugh⯑ter, I preſent thee with a giſt as precious.’ Then beckoning to one of his followers, who had enter⯑ed with him, the man retired, and ſoon return⯑ed, leading young William in his hand, who flew to his father with tears of infant joy. The aſtoniſh⯑ment of the Earl could ſcarcely allow him leiſure to return the fond endearments of his ſon. He looked wildly on his friend, and ſeemed to demand an ex⯑planation of this wonder. 'Yes,' ſaid Les Roches, ‘thou doſt embrace thy ſon, reſcued from danger, [156]perhaps from deſtruction.—But be calm. Thou ſhall be ſatisfied. Hear then the ſtory of my for⯑tunes, ſince I was laſt ſeparated from thee, my deareſt Chauvigny. A few words will relate it all.’

‘Thou haſt already heard (Lord William) how much I am indebted to this noble youth. He hath informed thee, no doubt, of our preparations for ſeeking thee in England, and of our adventure with the pirate who attempted to ſeize our veſſel; little ſuſpecting that ſtrength and deſperate reſolu⯑tion which ſoon taught him to conſult his ſafety by a precipitate flight. Juſt in that inſtant when the ſwelling waters had ſeparated our ſhips, and our enemies were crouding their ſails, to eſcape from that force which they had raſhly provoked, their captain had been borne down by the preſs, and lay at the feet of one of our brave followers, whoſe ſword was now ready to deſcend with fury upon his head. But I ſtopped his arm; and, perceiving our ſituation, that we were unſeconded, and now ſurrounded by our enemies, I deemed it madneſs to provoke them by any farther reſiſtance. I yield⯑ed myſelf a priſoner; and the few who had leaped on board with me, ſoon followed my example. At firſt, the attention of our enemies was wholly engaged on ſecuring their eſcape. When they had left our veſſel at ſufficient diſtance, their captain accoſted me, and, with a gloomy courteſy, thanked me for reſcuing him from his danger. I anſwered, that, as he had experienced our valour, and, when we ſtill might have ſold our liberties at a dearer rate, we had declined the effuſion of blood, I hoped he would treat us nobly. He demanded to know who we were, and what our purpoſe. He had taken us, he ſaid, for merchants; that, as he approached, our numbers and appearance had alarmed his people; but, as we had made every attempt in our power to avoid him, he was encou⯑raged to perſevere in his deſign of attacking us: that he himſelf lived by plunder, and he ſuſpected, that we were engaged in the ſame purſuit.’— [157]If ſo we might unite our force with his, and ſhare his fortunes.

‘To convince him of his miſtake, I informed him freely of my country, my condition, and my deſti⯑nation, earneſtly conjuring him to reſtore me to my companions, and promiſing the moſt ample rewards for a ſervice ſo important.’ ‘Let me once regain my countrymen,’ ſaid I, ‘and they ſhall enrich thee with ſuch a ranſom, as ſhall exceed thy wiſhes.’ But not all my promiſes could prevail up⯑on ‘the pirate again to ſeek our ſhip. He had ex⯑perienced our force, and dreaded a ſevere revenge for his attempt. Yet my repeated ſollicitations at length ſo far prevailed, that, after ſome time inef⯑fectually roving in ſearch of prey, he propoſed to keep three of my companions and myſelf on board, to land the reſt, with a ſmall number of his own men, on the coaſt of England, (as it was probable our friends had ſought this coaſt) and that, if they could regain them and ſend back the ſtipulated ranſom, I ſhould then be free. I gladly embraced this propoſal. The pirate ſteered towards the land: the coaſt was alarmed at the ſight of his veſſel: but to prevent all oppoſition, we choſe the dead hour of night, and ſent off our men in a boat, which brought them unnoticed to ſhore. They travelled for ſome time, ere they had the good for⯑tune to find thoſe of our attendants whom Lord Chauvigny had left to treat for my liberty. At length, however, they were found; and the men returned, unmoleſted, with my ranſom. To this I added a rich jewel taken from my finger, which I preſented to the pirate, in acknowledgement of my gratitude.’

‘I now haſtened to join my friends, and from them I learned that Lord Chauvigny had proceeded to the city of Marlborough. I was earneſt to fol⯑low him, but my fatigues demanded ſome refreſh⯑ment. I was conducted to the houſe of an inhabi⯑tant of the coaſt, who received me with all hoſpi⯑table kindneſs.—Let us unite in adoring the invi⯑ſible [158]power that directed my ſteps thither!—The friendly repaſt was prepared for me; nor were my followers neglected. I was pleaſed at the honeſt un⯑deſigning affection of my hoſt, and taught to revere the generous people amongſt whom fortune had now placed me. At the hour of reſt, I was courte⯑ouſly conducted to my chamber, but my mind had been too long and too violently agitated to admit repoſe. I revolved the dangers and diſtreſſes I had experienced: I thought of the great purpoſe for which I had viſited this country: I thought of my daughter and my friend: I ſometimes indulged my hopes of finding them, and, again, checked and condemned theſe flattering imaginations. Thus did I paſs the weary night, 'till rouſed by a voice in the adjacent chamber. I liſtened attentively, and heard my hoſt in earneſt conference with his wife.’ "I like not," ſaid he, ‘this meſſage from the caſtle of Saliſbury.’—‘I ſtarted at the name, and re⯑doubled my attention.’—‘This boy is to be care⯑fully guarded and concealed. But wherefore? Lord Raymond is to wed the widow of the Earl. Why then this concealment, unleſs he purpoſes to deſtroy the young heir? I know the ſoul of Grey; and though he be my brother, our ſouls are not allied. I dread his temper. Nature formed him ſtern and cruel; nor do I doubt but that he may eaſily be wrought upon to act a deed of blood. But ſhall my humble dwelling be made the ſcene of murder, of an infant's murder.’—‘His wife here began to chide his jealous fears; but they ſeemed to have taken too deep root in his mind to be eaſily removed.’ ‘What, tho' my houſe ſhould not be made the place of execution?’ ſaid this good man; ‘What, though they ſhould not proceed to the ut⯑moſt pitch of cruelty? Their purpoſe cannot be honeſt, and I am made their accomplice by con⯑cealing him.’—I had heard enough; and now "I buſily revolved this alarming diſcourſe.

‘It was evident that the ſon of my preſerver was expoſed to danger—perhaps abandoned by his [159]widow—(pardon me, Lord William, if my ſuſ⯑picion was raſh and ungentle)—certainly conceal⯑ed for ſome myſterious purpoſe. A ſtranger ſeemed to pity and to fear for him; What then became a friend? What was the part of Les Roches? Were his father ſtill alive, Heaven hath now enabled me to reſtore him to his arms: but, if he really hath periſhed, ſurely it muſt be my care to protect and cheriſh this boy, to form the unhappy orphan to honour and virtue, to make him worthy of his il⯑luſtrious deſcent, and enable him, in due time, to aſſert his native rights.’—Thus I reaſoned; and, ‘riſing with the early dawn, ſummoned my follow⯑ers, communicated this important diſcovery, and deſired their counſel and aſſiſtance. They readily concurred in the deſign of reſcuing the young Lord from his preſent danger. By their advice I waited the appearance of our hoſt. I accoſted him gently, and led him on to diſcourſe of his ſituation, his condition, his friends and his country. He an⯑ſwered me without reſerve, 'till I at length menti⯑oned the name of Earl William, and aſked if he could inform me of the fortunes of this Lord, and his noble houſe. He ſtarted, and anſwered, heſi⯑tating and confuſed. I at once ſternly told him, I was no ſtranger to the deſigns formed againſt the young heir of that houſe: that, as I had been a friend to the father, I reſolved to be a protector to the ſon, who, I knew, was concealed under this roof. If he would conſent to give him up peaceably into my hands, the ſervice ſhould be duly reward⯑ed; if not—I had force ſufficient to reſcue him from danger. The man trembled, and, without delay, reſigned his charge into my hands.—And now was my mind poſſeſſed with new fears and ſcruples. Methought I had been too raſh. A mother's ten⯑derneſs, perhaps, hath concealed this Boy, and for a weighty cauſe, no doubt. How then ſhall the news of this violent removal afflict her ſoul? What terrors muſt ſhe feel? Yet, ſtill, upon mature reflection, I deemed it the ſafeſt courſe to convey [160]this youth to Marlborough, where I hoped to gain ſuch intelligence as might direct my future conduct. Thither we bent our courſe; and, near this place, did I receive thoſe joyful tidings, which brought me to deliver up my dear charge into his father's care.’

"From my ſoul I thank thee," replied the Earl.— ‘Yet hath thy tale renewed ſome doubts and ſuſpi⯑cions —but let ſuſpicions ſleep till to-morrow.’ Then, ſtarting up earneſtly, he aſked with a loud voice, ‘Who of my brave followers will undertake the charge of repairing inſtantly to Cornwall, bearing to the fair Jacqueline the chearing news of her father's arrival, and conveying her to my caſtle?’ Fitz⯑alan ſtood forth, and with five more who defied toil and fatigue, inſiſted that this pleaſing charge ſhould be intruſted to them. They departed, each freſh and vigorous, as the ſturdy hind that riſes to his morning labours. And now Lord William, turning kindly towards Les Roches, attempted once more to ſpeak his joy and gratitude. But ſuddenly his voice failed, his cheeks grew pale, a cold dew iſſued from his pores, his whole frame was diſordered, and he ſunk faintly down. The gueſts aroſe in confuſion and amazement. Tyrrel trembled in an agony of terror, nor was his conſternation unobſerved.— 'Treaſon!' cried Chauvigny, ſeizing the falſe hoſt, ‘and this ſword ſhall revenge it.—But what revenge on thee, thou wretched ſlave?—Say, Haſt thou indeed murdered this noble Lord? Hath thy vile hand dealt him poiſon? Confeſs thy villainy, or this moment is thy laſt.’ The abject Tyrrel had fallen on his knees, and now loudly and vehement⯑ly aſſerted his innocence; but, when terrified by the view of inſtant death, he ſcrupled not to confeſs, that by the direction of Lord Hubert, he had in⯑vited the Earl to his houſe, but that he was not privy to any deadly purpoſe; if ſuch had heen con⯑certed, the Monk alone was privy, the Monk alone had executed it. Reginhald was ſought for, but he had fled, which confirmed their ſuſpicions, and filled [161]the hall with grief and diſmay. William alone ſeemed unmoved. He gently preſſed the hand of Les Roches: 'my enemies have prevailed,' ſaid he, ‘the ſnares of Hubert have caught me.— Alas! thou knoweſt him not.—Viſit my caſtle, comfort my wife, and Oh! continue thy kind pro⯑tection to my ſon.’

The grief of Lord Chauvigny was outrageous: that of Les Roches had choaked his voice. He hung over the languid Earl, in ſilence and conſterna⯑tion; whilſt, on the other hand, the boy clung paſſionately round the knees of his father. The ſcene was affecting; and even the rough ſoldier, to whom death had been long familiar, melted into tears.—'Poiſoned! and by Lord Hubert!' was repeated with ſorrow and indignation. The diſmal tidings were ſoon caught by buſy tongues, ſpread abroad, and propagated thro' the land, to aggravate the diſgrace the wicked favourite was ſoon to expe⯑rience.

His afflicted friends conveyed the Earl to his couch. And now, the good old Randolph, whoſe venerable face had worn the deepeſt marks of ſorrow, ſeemed to be ſuddenly enlivened by a gleam of hope. He pauſed, appeared earneſt to collect his diſſipated thoughts, and now looked as a man unexpectedly vi⯑ſited by comfort. The eyes of his friends were fixed upon him, as if demanding an explanation; when, addreſſing himſelf haſtily to Lord William, he aſked of his preſent ſtate, whether his pain was encreaſed or his languor more oppreſſing? He thanked the gentle Knight, and declared, that now he ſeemed more at eaſe.—'Yes,' cried Randolph, ‘and ſoon ſhall this malady ceaſe, and ſtill ſhall William live.’—The Frenchmen were aſtoniſhed, but the Knight confi⯑dently repeated his joyful aſſurances, Experienced and ſagacious, and accuſtomed to ſurvey all objects with more calmneſs and compoſure than young Chauvigny, he revolved all the incidents, ſince their arrival at the houſe of Tyrrel. He had marked the aſpect of the Monk, and from thence had formed [162]the blackeſt ſuſpicions of his temper and deſigns. He had marked his officious cares, and obſequious zeal in attending on the Earl. He had marked how, at the firſt entrance of Les Roches, the cup had dropt from the hands of Saliſbury. He recollected, that after this the Monk had not been ſeen; and juſtly concluded, that this was the fatal cup which had been prepared for his friend; that the fell pur⯑poſe of Hubert had been happily deſeated by his ſudden ſurpriſe; and that the poiſonous mixture, which, if drunk muſt have inſtantly proved fatal; had now, when but juſt ſcarcely taſted, raiſed a temporary diſorder in the frame of William, which nature, ſtill free from deep infection, would ſoon be able to overcome. Theſe thoughts, which he com⯑municated to his noble companions, were received with joy; and ſoon were they confirmed by that eaſe and vigour which the Earl gradually recovered. Tyrrel had been ſecured, and was now examined at more leiſure. His diſcoveries ſerved to convince them of what was really the truth, that he indeed connived at the baſe deſign, but had not been directly an aſſiſtant. But he was not an object worthy of noble revenge. Againſt Lord Hubert was vengeance loudly denounced, and the ſoul of Saliſbury was on fire to inflict the full ſeverity of juſtice on his treachery and unrelenting malice.

His reſentment and indignation were ſtill to be more inflamed. The unhappy Oſwald, who had for ſome time groaned under a ſevere captivity, at length had found means to make ſome impreſſion on the heart of his keeper, who kindly conſented to re⯑lax his hardſhips. When the meſſengers of Lord William were confined, he had deſired, and was ſe⯑cretly admitted to hold ſome conference with them. The keeper was witneſs, with what clearneſs and ingenuous honeſty they entered into the detail of all their fortunes, and declared that their Lord muſt, ere long, appear to confront his enemies. The man was alarmed: he had heard the ſtory of Oſwald, and he heard it now repeated with honeſt pity and [163]indignation. He was perſuaded that the power of Lord Raymond was ſoon to expire; and that he ſhould do an acceptable ſervice to the Earl, by fa⯑vouring the eſcape of that man who had been pu⯑niſhed for his affection to the Counteſs. He revolved theſe thoughts for ſome time; at length liſtened to the ſollicitations of his priſoners, and ſuffered Oſ⯑wald to eſcape. He lay concealed for a while, re⯑ſolving to take his way cautiouſly towards Cornwall; but ſoon learned the important tidings, which, by this time, began to ſpread through the adjacent country, that the Earl of Saliſbury had arrived at Marlborough, and was preparing to return to his caſtle. He therefore changed his courſe, and directed his wary ſteps towards the royal ſeat. Fortunately, he encountered Fitz-Alan and his companions, who informed him where he might find their noble maſter. He entered the hall of Tyrrel at midnight, and demanded to be inſtantly conducted to the Earl. Alarmed at that general ſorrow and diſmay which dwelt upon every face, he ventured to enquire, and was ſoon informed of the cauſe. Alas!' ſaid he ‘if the malice of his enemies hath reached the Earl, how ſhall Oſwald hope to eſcape?’ Then, ſitting down in mournful ſilence, he paſſed the heavy hours in all the bitterneſs of anguiſh and deſpair, 'till the dawn of morning.

The friends and vaſſals of the Earl, who by this time began to collect round their Lord, had ſcarcely felt the alarm of his danger, when they received the joyful tidings of his recovery. Oſwald too was cheared, and again demanded immediate admittance to the Earl. And he was ſoon admitted, for his ap⯑pearance and demeanour promiſed ſomething extra⯑ordinary. He kneeled before Lord William, and wept.—'I come,' ſaid he, ‘from thy caſtle. I come to tell thee of thy unhappy Counteſs.’—The agi⯑tation of the Earl grew violent: but he commanded him to proceed, and he heard him with breathleſs attention; 'till Oſwald, who began to relate all the events of the caſtle of Saliſbury, which he had known, [164]proceeded without reſerve to deſcribe the oppreſſion of Lord Raymond, with an artleſs and ingenuous freedom. The rage of William was kindled: he ſtarted wildly from his ſeat, and thundered out the moſt terrible denunciations of vengeance and deſtruc⯑tion. —‘So may this arm proſper. So may this good ſword do me ſervice in the hour of danger, as I will revenge thee, noble dame! And may I be curſed, and ſcorned, and vile as thou, thou recre⯑ant Lord, if I forget thy treachery and oppreſſion. —But come, my friends! let us away!—O mur⯑derous thief! Is it thus thy wolfiſh nature hath ſtolen in upon my helpleſs fold!’—His friends la⯑boured to recal him to calmneſs and attention. Oſ⯑wald proceeded in his tale, and filled the breaſts of all his hearers with the moſt enlivened indignation. He concluded with relating the reception of the meſ⯑ſengers, and his own eſcape, humbly imploring the protection of the Earl againſt his incenſed Lord. 'May heaven forget me,' replied William, ‘if I forget thy honeſty. But come, my friends! if ever pity ſoftened your breaſts, if ever manhood dwelt in your noble hearts, aſſiſt me in puniſhing the injuries of my gentle Counteſs.’—Here young William entered, and ran fondly to embrace his fa⯑ther. At ſight of him Oſwald fell upon his knees, and with an extravagance of pious joy, thanked the gracious powers who had preſerved him. The boy turned and acknowledged his former protector. Thus was the truth of all that Oſwald had delivered won⯑derfully confirmed; and William renewed his thanks and promiſes of favour. The attendants were ſum⯑moned: every moment brought in more and more of the Earl's vaſſals: Les Roches, Chauvigny, and Randolph vied with each other in their expreſſions of zeal and impatience to redreſs the injured. All were ready to take their way, and William enjoyed the pleaſing thoughts of ſurpriſing the baſe uſurpers in the midſt of their preſumption. But Fitz-Alan had prevented this ſurprize. He could not ſuppreſs his impatient affection for his noble miſtreſs. To de⯑light [165]her with the firſt joyful tidings of her Lord's approach, he had turned aſide and viſited the caſtle; and there did he raiſe that confuſion which had overwhelmed Lord Raymond, and his wicked crea⯑ture.

SECT. III.

BUT whilſt the anguiſh and conſternation of Raymond, which aroſe from ſhame and remorſe, grew every moment more violent; Grey, who was concerned ſolely for his perſonal ſafety, gradually regained ſome ſhare of recollection, and began to conſider of the means to ward off the impending danger from his own head. His chief reliance was on the important ſervice which he conceived to be in his own power, that of diſcovering the reſidence of young William, and reſtoring him to his father. But ſtill farther to encreaſe his merit, and to atone for paſt offences, he determined to betray his maſ⯑ter, and to give him up, naked and defenceleſs, into the hands of his enemies. This baſe reſolution once formed, no time was to be loſt in executing it: Raymond was preparing to depart; this muſt be inſtantly prevented. He flew among his followers and attendants: he repreſented the danger which now threatened them, in the moſt alarming colours: he told them, that their Lord had long proceeded in a courſe of injuſtice and oppreſſion, which muſt be revenged with indiſcriminate fury on all who had accompanied him: that he now prepared to retire, hoping, that, whilſt the injured Earl was taking a bloody vengeance on his innocent followers, he might eſcape in the confuſion: that the only means of providing for their ſafety, of approving their in⯑nocence, and of diſarming the reſentment of Lord William, was to continue in their preſent ſituation, without any appearance of hoſtile intentions, any purpoſe of oppoſing the entrance of the rightful Lord of this caſtle, and to oblige their leader alſo to ſtay [166]and anſwer for his own actions. To the nobler few he hinted theſe things with caution, and they receiv⯑ed his inſinuations with diſdain, loudly declaring that they were reſolved to live or die with Raymond. To the baſer and the greater number he ſpoke more plainly. To them he ſcrupled not to declare, that the violent paſſions of their Lord had diſordered his underſtanding, and aſked, with well-affected terror, who could be ſafe, after the outrageous dealing with his unhappy brother, whoſe only fault was, that he had ſerved Lord Raymond (alas!) with too blind and too violent a zeal.—They heard him with approba⯑tion, and readily conſented to ſubmit to his direction, in this dangerous emergency.

The unhappy Raymond was now reduced to the loweſt ſtate of human wretchedneſs; tormented with the conſciouſneſs of his own guilt and weakneſs; un⯑able to repair, or to atone for the miſchief he had occaſioned; pierced with all the ſtings of remorſe; unable to conceal his diſgrace, yet ſtill too great of ſoul to bear it: helpleſs and ſolitary, whilſt the arm of vengeance was lifted againſt him; deſerted by his followers, and betrayed by the man whoſe wick⯑ed arts had ſunk him into this depth of miſery. Grey, on the other hand, ſeemed to have compoſed his fears, and to enjoy a ſhort lived triumph. He had collected a party round him, which gave him the command of the caſtle. His Lord had retired to give his diſtractions ſome moments of reſt; and his creatures now iſſued out orders to his aſſociates, to watch his motions, and even to oppoſe his departure by force.

In the midſt of his preſumption, he ſought Lord Raymond, whom he had but now avoided, with the moſt abject terror: with an inſolent compoſure he deſired him to explain his intentions.—‘Oh! are you come?' cried Raymond:—I have com⯑manded my people to prepare for departure. Let us this inſtant be gone!'—'Whither?' ſaid Grey. How ſhall we eſcape? Whither ſhall we fly? The powers of Earl William are at hand.—But what of [167]that? His reſentment is not directed againſt us. We have not ſought to pollute his bed. We have not deſtroyed the repoſe and happineſs of his wife.’ —His Lord ſtarted up in ſudden fury, as if pre⯑paring to puniſh this inſolence: But Grey, nothing diſmayed, bad him compoſe his paſſions: they had already proved too violent.—'Alas!' ſaid he, ‘What was the crime of my unhappy brother?— Guilty indeed he was, but not to thee, cruel Lord. But I will not upbraid thee now.—Thoſe fol⯑lowers, whom Raymond cannot protect, he muſt no longer hope to command.—Nay, my Lord, ſeek not to paſs: here thou haſt no longer power; this chamber muſt content thee: here muſt Earl William find thee. Anſwer him as thou mayeſt.’ —There only wanted this treacherous inſolence, to fill up the mighty ſum of miſeries, under which Raymond groaned. He found himſelf indeed a priſoner, guarded by his own people, and in the abſolute power of his perfidious creature. He ſtood in mute ſurpriſe; and Grey was juſt preparing to repeat his inſolence, when the noiſe of horſemen called him ſuddenly forth.

A ſmall troop had been deſcried at a conſiderable diſtance, preſſing towards the caſtle, with the moſt violent and precipitate ſpeed. Thoſe of Raymond's attendants, who had refuſed to unite in the treachery of Grey, firſt eſpied their approach, and, mounting their horſes, called for their Lord to ſtand on his de⯑fence, or bravely to lead them againſt the enemy (for ſuch they deemed them.) But Grey now ap⯑peared, and with a ſudden recollection of thought, told them, in the name of Raymond, that no reſiſt⯑ance was to be attempted: that their Lord feared not nor would oppoſe theſe viſiters: but that he directed his friends to march a mile eaſtward of the caſtle, and there to expect him. They obeyed; and Grey now obſerved the little troop more diſtinctly, won⯑dering at the ſmall number, and ſtruck with a ſudden and inſtinctive terror, when he diſcovered Lord Wil⯑liam (whoſe perſon he well knew) at the head of this [168]company. He gazed earneſtly round him, yet ſtill but a few perſons only were in view.—'By heaven!' cried Grey, ‘he comes not with a force to drive us hence, but to make himſelf our priſoner:’ then haſtily ordered his aſſociates to ſuffer theſe men to enter unoppoſed and unmoleſted, and, inſtantly after⯑wards, to ſhut faſt the caſtle-gates. He curſed his own folly and raſhneſs, which had led him to betray himſelf to Lord Raymond. He now ſaw a noble occaſion of repairing his fault, and, inſtead of per⯑ſevering in his reſolution of giving up Raymond into the hands of the Earl, he now deemed it in his power, and judged it the wiſeſt courſe, to give up the Earl into the hands of his Lord.

SECT. IV.

WILLIAM had indeed expoſed himſelf to the utmoſt danger, by his ungoverned violence. He had taken his way at the head of a princely re⯑tinue, well appointed, and zealous to vindicate his cauſe; ſo that now his port was that of a warlike Baron, marching to aſſiſt his King, againſt ſome ſudden invaſion. Part of his powers was directed to advance towards the caſtle by different approaches, ſo as to ſurround it, and prevent the eſcape of Ray⯑mond or his people. He himſelf, at the head of a choſen band, attended by the two French Nobles, ruſhed directly forward. But the impetuoſity of the Earl ſoon left his attendants at a diſtance, all but young Chauvigny and a few others, who with diffi⯑culty kept pace with him. They arrived at the caſ⯑tle-gates, without perceiving that they were come unſupported; and William, far from recollecting his danger, ruſhed on with furious and impatient ardour, 'till he had reached the apartment of the Counteſs.

He flew to take her in his arms, and ſtarted back in an agony of terror and ſurprize, at the diſcovery of her unhappy condition. He called upon her with earneſt, yet tender accents; and now nature ſeemed [169]to make ſome efforts to ſhake off its lethargic weight. The Counteſs trembled, as at ſome extraordinary appearance; gazed with a look leſs vacant, as if the dawn of reaſon were returning; ſighed and wept.— 'Art thou,' ſaid the Earl, turning to Elinor, who buſily aſſiſted him to ſupport her miſtreſs, ‘Art thou that good matron, whoſe cares have adminiſtered comfort to my wife?—Heaven ſhall reward thee: and William ſhall not be unmindful of thy honeſt affection. But ſay—conceal not the truth: Whence this ſad diſorder in her noble mind? Hath not her oppreſſor compleated his vile deſign? Hath he not forcibly taken poſſeſſion of her bed?’—Elinor aſ⯑ſured him, that heaven had been pleaſed to preſerve her from ſuch pollution; but that, ſurprized by the ſhocking tidings of his death, ſhe had lately fallen into this her preſent ſtate of melancholy.—William again preſſed the hand of Ela. 'Speak to me,' cried he; ‘ſay that thou rejoiceſt at my return.—No word of congratulation! No look of joy? Is this the happineſs which my buſy fancy formed? Is this my reception?’—The Counteſs gazed upon him, and ſeemed in violent agitation: but ſtill ſhe was unable to return his affection. Reaſon had not yet regained its ſeat.—At length, the Earl, whoſe heart was torn with anguiſh, bounded furiouſly from the ground where he had fixed his knee, and loudly de⯑manding the vile murderer of his peace, iſſued forth in ſearch of Raymond.

By this time the caſtle was in confuſion. Chau⯑vigny and his few attendants had been prevented, by ſuperior numbers, from following Earl William. They expreſſed their ſurprize, and now began too late to perceive their danger. One of them, ſudden⯑ly taking a horn from his ſide, prepared to give ſo ſhrill a blaſt, as would have reached the ears of their companions, and quickened their ſpeed: but Grey, who now had the ſole command, as ſuddenly pre⯑vented him, by declaring with a ſtern inſolence, that the leaſt alarm ſhould prove immediate death to Lord William. His deſign, which he now ſought to ex⯑ecute, [170]was to raiſe a violent broil and tumult in the caſtle, and to aſſaſſinate the Earl, in the confuſion. —The preſence and interpoſition of Raymond he deemed neceſſary; and he haſtened to ſummon this Lord, to embrace the fair occaſion of deſtroying his rival, which fortune preſented to him. At firſt entering the apartment, his eyes were wounded by an object of terror, which at once confounded all his deſigns. Raymond had fallen upon his ſword, Grey ſtarted back in amazement; and, in that mo⯑ment, William entered and ſaw the unhappy Lord, pale and bleeding on the ground, who ſhut his lan⯑guid eyes, as if aſhamed to meet the countenance of him he had wronged. The art, the hypocriſy, the boldneſs and recollection of Grey, all deſerted him. He ſtood trembling and confounded, awed by the preſence of the Earl, as by that of a ſuperior being. At length he attempted to retire; but William, draw⯑ing his ſword, forbad him with a terrible authority, and demanded the meaning of what he now beheld. Raymond, lifting his eyes faintly, juſt found breath, at broken and painful intervals, to declare, that his own hand had done it.—‘I have indeed wronged thee, Lord; nor could I endure thy triumph, and my own ſhame, yes, I have deſtroyed the nobleſt Lady.—But there ſtands the accurſed wretch, the falſe and traiterous’—Here his emotion grew too violent for his languid condition. He was ſeized with a ſudden pang; he groaned and expired.

The Earl then, turning to Grey, exclaimed ‘Yes! Thou art the wretch who laboured to aggravate the diſtreſſes of Ela, with ſuch infernal diligence. Thou art he who baſely ſtole away my ſon.’— Grey fell upon his knees, ſupplicating for mercy with the moſt abject and ſervile fear, and promiſing to reſtore young William. The Earl raiſed his arm, and prepared to ſtrike the miſcreant.' 'Kill me not!' cried Grey, ‘or thy ſon is for ever loſt. I alone know the ſecret of his preſent reſidence.’ Here a ſudden and violent ſhout arreſted the ſword of Willi⯑am. His followers had arrived, had quickly forced [171]the gates open, and ruſhed in a rapid torrent, through the halls. Les Roches and Chauvigny, Randolph and Oſwald, directed by the out-cries of Grey, and the loud rage of Saliſbury, forced in, juſt as the wicked agent of oppreſſion was entreating for mer⯑cy. At ſight of Oſwald, deſpair pierced his ſoul heart; and when he eſpied young William led on and protected from the violence of the rout, he cloſed his eyes, and crouched to receive the deadly blow. 'O ſhame to manhood!' cried Randolph, ‘ſhall ſuch a ſlave die by the arm of William?—Look there! noble Lord: (pointing from the window to the body of Reginhald, which ſtill hung from the oak) behold! thy juſt vengeance is prevented. Behold the puniſhment which befits ſuch vileneſs!’ "Be it ſo," cried William, ‘well doſt thou inſtruct me!’ And, without farther reſpite, was Grey led forth to ſhare the fate of his wicked brother.

The view of blood and death allayed the joy of William and his noble friends. The good old Knight was moved, and now ſeemed to regret that the juſt puniſhment of Grey, had not been inflicted but by ab⯑folute and violent power. All the late diſmal effects of lawleſs oppreſſion crouded into his mind; and he felt the want of that ineſtimable bleſſing, a wiſe, righ⯑teous, and well attempered rule.

The thoughts of Ela, and her unhappy condition, ſtill diffuſed a gloom over the countenance of the Earl. His thanks and congratulations were grave and ſolemn. The body of Raymond was removed; his attendants were ſuffered to depart unmoleſted; order and tram⯑quillity were reſtored in the caſtle; and Lord William was at leiſure to inform his noble friends of that ter⯑rible impreſſion, which her misfortunes had made upon his wife. They had ſcarcely begun to offer con⯑dolence and comfort, when Elinor appeared with ear⯑neſt looks, beſeeching the Earl inſtantly to viſit her afflicted Lady. The ſight of him had awakened her to ſome degree of reaſon, and his removal had ex⯑cited in her mind a violent and dangerous emotion of fear and anxiety. He haſtened to her preſence, lead⯑ing [172]his young ſon, who ran to the arms of his mother. She hung upon the dear objects with tenderneſs and pleaſure, and uttered ſome words of joy. That me⯑lancholy which had clouded her noble mind, began gradually to diſſipate. At length ſhe looked, as if rouſed from a dream of miſery; returned the ardent careſſes of her huſband, and breathed out her pious thanks to that goodneſs which had preſerved him. A little time ſo far contributed to compoſe her mind, that ſhe required the ſtory of her huſband's fortunes and dangers. But this he ſuſpended, until her health ſhould be confirmed, and her mind leſs ſubject to vio⯑lent emotions.

Jacqueline was now arrived; had embraced her fa⯑ther and her lover, and was preſented to the Counteſs. At ſight of her, Ela felt ſome agitation, and recol⯑lected the tidings which Oſwald had conveyed to her. But when William informed her, that he had ſaved and protected this maid from danger; that ſhe was daughter to a dear friend, to whom he owed his life; and betrothed to a noble youth, both of whom were now in the caſtle; ſhe embraced her with a tender af⯑fection, and ſecretly felt ſome ſhame at her former ſuſpicions. And now the two Barons of France, and the old Knight, were admitted to offer their congratu⯑lations to the Counteſs. The friends of Earl William crouded from different parts to ſhare his joy, and the caſtle was for ſome days a ſcene of gladneſs and feſti⯑vity. But Chauvigny, impatient to compleat his hap⯑pineſs gently urged to Les Roches the neceſſity of re⯑turning to France. William was ſoon acquainted with their purpoſe. 'Not ſo!' ſaid he, ‘Shall I not be witneſs of the happieſs now to crown the virtues of that dear maid, the lovely companion of my dan⯑gers, and comforter of my diſtreſs? Here, even here, ſhall her plighted hand be given to Lord Chauvigny!’ —Les Roches conſented; the nuptial rites were pre⯑pared, and celebrated with all due ſolemnity.

The two ſons of Randolph had attended Jacqueline to the caſtle; and now ſhe earneſtly entreated their father to permit them to accompany her to France. [173]'They ſhall be my Knights,' ſaid ſhe, ‘and ſhall be treated with all honourable care.’ The Counteſs re⯑queſted, with equal earneſtneſs, that Randolph would permit them to live with her ſon. But the fond father could not yield to theſe ſollicitations: he declared that his ſons muſt firſt endeavour to render themſelves more worthy of ſuch favour.

The faithful Elinor ſtill attended on her beloved miſ⯑treſs, and was entertained with an affection which made the remembrance of her former misfortunes leſs bitter. Her brother too found that reſpect and reward which his honeſt zeal had ſo juſtly merited.

The reſentment of the Earl againſt Lord Hubert was in ſome degree diſarmed, when he received the tidings, that this wicked favourite had forfeited the royal grace, and was ignominiouſly baniſhed. He now reflected on his wrongs without emotion. Ela too ſeemed to forget her ſufferings; and each was the more endeared to the other, by the late dangers and diſtreſs of their ſeparation.