SECT. I.

WHEN HENRY, the third of that name, reigned in England, Sir RANDOLPH, a va⯑liant knight of Cornwal, now too old to take a part in the affairs and commotions of the realm, retired to the peaceful enjoyment of thoſe honours and fortunes, which he had purchaſed by a ſeries of hardy ſervices in the field. The eve of his life was engaged in the pleaſing occupation of training up two youths his ſons who were riſing faſt to maturity: in teaching them the ſacred duties which they owed to heaven and to their country, inſpiring them with a gallant love of arms, and poſſeſſing their minds with undaunted courage duly tempered with benevolence and humanity.

The ſeaſon was genial, the evening ſerene and re⯑freſhing; when Randolph wandered forth, with a youth attending him on each ſide, eagerly liſtening to his narrative of wars and glorious dangers. The boys paſſed ſlowly on, with their eyes and thoughts fixed on their father, 'till they were inſenſibly led to the brow of a chalky cliff, commanding a wide and uninterrupted view of the calm unruffled ſea, that now reflected all the rich and glowing crimſon of the ſetting ſun. Here they ſat down, and urgently en⯑treated their father to renew the ſtory of his dangers [6]in the Holy Land, the atchievements of the brave ſoldiers of the croſs; the recent wars in France, and the valour of Earl Richard and his Knights; while the attention of Randolph was fixed on a ſmall barque, now approaching to the ſhore.

Its keel cut ſwiftly and deeply into the ſands, and a general ſhout from the veſſel rouſed the little com⯑pany, whoſe attention was ſtill farther awakened, when they obſerved the deportment of the man who firſt leaped on ſhore. His garb was that of an hum⯑ble pilgrim, whoſe holy vows were leading him to ſome ſcene of devotion; and by his ſide hung a large and trenchant weapon befitting the ſon of honourable war, rather than the votary of religion; his look was pale and ſqualid; but his port erect; and a ſecret greatneſs and manly dignity ſeemed to break through all the gloom of adverſity which ſurrounded him. No ſooner had he touched the ſtrand, than he ſtood for a moment, as it were, in a ſtill and motionleſs ſur⯑prize; then ſalling on his knees, with arms croſſed, and eyes raiſed up to heaven, his looks expreſſed the moſt rapturous gratitude and thankfulneſs, as if for a deliverance from ſome great calamity; whilſt ſome others of the crew, with all appearances of tender re⯑gard, conveyed a young and beautiſul perſonage to ſhore, dreſſed in the ſame habit with their leader. The whole ſcene was extraordinary and affecting: the youths had deſcried it, and ſtarting up, and turn⯑ing to their father, ſeemed to demand the reaſon of this appearance. ‘Come, my ſons, cried Randolph, this ſtranger appears unfortunate; perhaps he may accept of our hoſpitable reception; let our friendly offices not to be wanting, to allay his grief, and to ſupply his neceſſities.’ Thus ſaying, he led them by a winding deſcent towards the ſhore, where the crew were by this time diſembarqued.

Sir Randolph approached the ſtranger, (to whom the reſt of the company ſeemed to pay a particular re⯑gard) with a concern truly humane: when, inſtantly, the eyes of each were fixed in mute ſurprize upon the other.—'My General!'—'My Knight!' Their [7]tongues could utter no more: they ruſhed into each other's arms, and clung together in a tumultuous diſ⯑order of grief, amazement, and affection. At length, words forced their paſſage. ‘Great Earl! cried Randolph, and do I really behold thee? Do I em⯑brace the man, under whoſe command my laſt days of honourable war ſaw glory and victory? Hath my leader ſurvived the dreadful night of tempeſt which diſperſed our ſhips! He whom we imagined buried in the ſeas! Is he at length returned in ſafety? But why this garb? Are theſe wretched weeds be⯑fitting the ſon of an illuſtrious monarch, the con⯑queror of Gaſcoigne, the glory of England? Thou art come, but not to peace and repoſe: danger, difficulty, and diſtreſs, are ſtill prepared for that undaunted ſpirit!'—Am I not in England?" replied the ſtranger. 'Have I not at length, happily ef⯑caped the inſidious attempts of my enemies? What dangers have I now to fear! No, my deareſt [...]! illuſtrious dame! tendereſt wife! In thy arms ſhall I now forget my dangers. To thee I fly, to wipe away thoſe tears, which burſt for that my departure, and muſt have flowed in full ſtreams, during this melancholy interval of my abſence. In thee and thy endearments ſhall all my future hopes be centered: and never, no, never more ſhall WILLIAM be de⯑luded by the ſmiling promiſes of glory, to hazard the chance of arms! Enough hath been already done: enough hath been given to honour and to my country. Peace and retirement, repoſe and tran⯑quillity be now the lot of theſe ſhattered limbs, and this diſtracted, wearied ſpirit!’

Whilſt the Earl thus indulged his flattering pro⯑ſpects of tranquillity, the thoughts of Randolph were buſy and diſordered; he ſurveyed him with a mixture of pity and affection; and half ſuppreſſing the ſigh that laboured in his breaſt, he aſſumed a look of eaſe and complacency, and invited Lord William and his atten⯑dants to partake of the refreſhment which his neigh⯑bouring reſidence afforded. They paſſed on with the pleaſing ſenſations of men, who after a length of days [8]ſpent in a foreign and unfriendly land, began once more to taſte the comforts of a native country, and to ſhare in the ſocial intercourſe of kinſmen and fellow citizens. Their leader turned to the youthful pilgrim, whom he embraced with a tender and affectionate concern; but with ſuch joy as ſeemed clouded by the remembrance of paſt calamities. They retired a few paces as if in private conference, and the elder ſeemed intent in comforting and encouraging. The courteous Knight would not break in upon their private conference, and to leave them the more free to indulge that mutual af⯑fection which they diſcovered, he turned to his youths: 'Behold,' ſaid he, ‘this truly honourable Lord, great in deſcent, powerful in arms; full of the mighty ſpirit of his royal father the ſecond Henry, a monarch fatally ſeduced by the beauty of Roſamond: and (mark the juſt diſpenſations of heaven) heavy was the puniſhment which the mother paid, for her forbid⯑den love: nor hath misfortune ſpared this the off⯑ſpring of an unlawful and unhappy paſſion. Yet let us be juſt to his virtues; and learn from him, that renown is not to be purchaſed but by toil and perils. Under his banners hath your father oftentimes en⯑countered dangers. With him did I haſten to ſup⯑port the cauſe and title of our King, when John had met his fate, and the ſon of France rioted in the calamities of England. With him did theſe old arms contribute to execute the vengeance of our country upon the adherents of the perfidious Lewis; and when the Count Mal-leon revolted from his liege lord, and erected the ſtandard of France in our pro⯑vince of Gaſcoigne, then did he bravely ſecond the efforts of Richard, uncle to our Prince, and led us on to victory. Aſpire to the ſame renown: but ex⯑pect the like fortune: dream not of undiſturbed hap⯑pineſs and tranquillity. By expecting labour and di⯑ſtreſs, you ſhall learn to encounter, and to conquer them, in a glorious and honeſt cauſe.’

Thus far paternal tenderneſs diverted the attention of Randolph from his illuſtrious friend, who in this ſhort interval had been equally engaged. He embra⯑ced [9]his followers, congratulated their happy arrival, and zealouſly extolled their merits and faithful ſervices. The Knight, with all due courteſy, led them on to⯑wards his hoſpitable hall, which ſoon opened to their view, and ſoon received the wearied gueſts. No friend⯑ly care was wanting to recal their languid and droop⯑ing ſpirits. As men juſt ſnatched from the dread gulph of miſery, and ſuddenly reſtored to a degree of happi⯑neſs beyond the hopes and even the conceptions of their dejected thoughts, they gazed each upon his fel⯑low in a ſilent extacy of ſurpriſe and joy; and ſtill more endeared to each other, as ſharers in the ſame misfortunes, their eyes, their hands encountered ſpon⯑taneouſly, and they embraced with an affecting cordi⯑ality and pleaſure. Earl William, who now began to reſume his native dignity, his eyes, as it were newly lightened up, his voice leſs plaintive, his aſpect grea⯑ter, and his port ſtill more princely, earneſtly ſeized the hand of that young perſonage, to whom he ſeem⯑ed more particularly attentive, and thus addreſſed himſelf to his hoſt. ‘O, my friend, here is our dear⯑eſt charge. Know, and reſpect this beautiful maid, for ſuch ſhe is, the daughter of a brave and honeſt ſoldier. His name Les Roches, and once mine ene⯑my: but furtune and his virtues united us in bands of friendſhip, truly ſacred and inviolable. It is by his goodneſs that I now ſee my native land. His gene⯑rous pity ſaved me when the arm of mine enemy was juſt raiſed to ſtrike, to ſtrike me baſely, and trea⯑cherouſly, unknowing, unſuſpecting, and unprovid⯑ed for defence.’ 'Welcome, Lady,' replied the Knight; ‘alas! theſe limbs were not formed for toil or dangerous adventure. But where is thy gallant father? My heart pants to embrace him; an En⯑gliſh heart, which holds a ſoldier dear, of whatever clime or country: and doubly dear, and doubly honoured, ſhall that ſoldier be, who reſtores a noble and beloved ſon to England.’ Here grief threatned to break through the fair reſerve of female modeſty; and had already fallen in gentle drops, down her glow⯑ing cheeks; which the Earl perceiving, checked with a kindly reproving look; then ſoftly entreated Ran⯑dolph [10]to ſummon ſuch of his domeſtics as might be pro⯑per to conduct her to refreſhment and repoſe. Theſe inſtantly appeared, and were inſtructed to perform their offices with all tender and reſpectful care. The maid retired in ſilence: Randolph ſeemed wrapt in delight and wonder, whilſt the Earl purſued her parting ſteps with looks of ſweeteſt complacency and pity. The Knight then turning to the followers of this Lord, 'My friends,' ſaid he, ‘your toils demand retire⯑ment: this roof knows no other happineſs than to greet the approach of worth and valour. It is your's, and uſe it freely. For this night, at leaſt, forget your labours, and indulge your faint and ha⯑raſſed limbs in peaceful reſt.’—'Yes,' ſaid the Earl, ‘to reſt, my dear companions; but bear, with my impatience, and be ſtirring with the dawn; that we may iſſue forth with new-recruited ſpeed, and quick⯑ly gain my caſtle. There ſhall our labours end; there ſhall the gentle Counteſs acknowledge your de⯑ſerts; and there ſhall her long loſt Lord reward your fidelity.—Sir Randolph, you too ſhall accompany us, and ſhare the general joy. We ſhall teach you to receive your fellow ſoldier with a more lively ſympathy, and brighten that honeſt aſpect with gayer ſmiles.’

To this gentle reproof, which ſeemed to have eſcap⯑ed unwarily from the jealouſy of friendſhip, Randolph made no reply; but with a countenance of ſtrict compo⯑ſure, which effectually concealed whatever thoughts or paſſions were now buſy in his mind, he invited Lord William to retire. 'No, my friend,' replied the Earl,— ‘my followers are happily diſpoſed of: at laſt (thanks to the preſerving hand of heaven, and to thee) they enjoy that ſecure repoſe, to which they have been ſo long ſtrangers. I feel my heart eaſed of its op⯑preſſing load. Nor will I give theſe eyes to ſleep, 'till I have heard—Say, what of my wife, what of my friends, of the King and realm, can my good hoſt impart?—But chiefly of my wife; of Ela I would hear all thou canſt deliver; how hath ſhe borne this tedious abſence? Knoweſt thou not of [11]her preſent ſtate? Speak! alas, the grief of my widowed dame ſeems to affect that good [...]. But ſay, is ſhe well.’—Randolph had betrayed ſome agitation at theſe enquities; but quickly recollecting his diſordered thoughts, ‘Her tenderneſs and love for thee have been approved, ſaid he, in the abſence of her Lord: to-morrow thou ſhalt ſee her in her princely caſtle. But now indulge my patience: ſay what means this garb? this appearance of misfor⯑tune? Who are theſe thy attendants?’—'Yes,' ſaid the Earl, ‘I will tell thee all. Sit down,— Thou wilt not be diſpleaſed to hear the ſtory of my misfortunes ſince our laſt dreadful ſeparation.’ Ran⯑dolph obeyed, and the Earl thus began.

SECT. II.

‘HOW can I recal to mind the fatal time, when our victorious army, loaded with the ſpoils of Gaſcoigne, reimbarked, and with hearts of joy and expectation, ſteered towards their native ſhore. Thou, Randolph, who hadſt ſhared the dangers of our war, whoſe hoary head ſtill diſdained to droop beneath its beaver, muſt retain the dreadful remem⯑brance of that night, when winds and ſeas conſpired together, and united their unrelenting fury againſt the bands of England: when the roaring hurricane deaſened us with its horrid menaces, and the frequent lightning ſerved to diſcloſe all the terrors of the gloomy deep. Our army, that had undauntedly de⯑fied the ſwords of France, found now another ene⯑my, againſt whoſe obſtinate aſſaults their courage ſeemed but ineffectual: and every moment preſent⯑ed us with the diſtracting expectation of periſhing in diſhonourable obſcurity. And much doth it rejoice me, that in that extremity of diſtreſs; the bleſſed ſaints were not unmindful of Randolph, that my gallant knight was happily reſcued from deſtruction, to cheer his friends, and enjoy his latter days in peace and dignity. The fate of Saliſbury was more ſevere and [12]affecting. The ſhip which received me and my aſ⯑ſociates was quickly ſeparated from our fleet, a help⯑leſs and ſolitary prey to the violence of the tempeſt, which our pilot had neither ſkill nor ſpirit to oppoſe. And in that dreadful moment, when, raiſed to a gid⯑dy and terrible height, we hung upon the breaking wave, or ſunk down deep into the dark and yawning gulph, then was my dear heart's treaſure, my belov⯑ed dame, preſent to my diſtracted mind: to die was horrible; becauſe to die was to be torn from Ela. Her ſorrows crowded upon my buſy fancy; and I ſunk; O, my friend, how can I ſpeak it! I funk into a coward.—Doth that tear now ſtealing down your furrowed cheek expreſs your pity of my weak⯑neſs, or a ſenſe of my misfortunes?’—The diſor⯑der of the good knight, which could no longer be en⯑tirely concealed, here ſuſpended the narration. Lord William ſeized his hand with a look of ſurprize and concern at his ſenſibility: but Randolph prevented all expoſtulation, by a ſudden and violent effort to reſume his ſerenity. He ſoon recalled his thoughts to a com⯑poſed attention, and at his deſire the Earl proceeded.

‘Heaven was at length pleaſed in ſome degree to controul the violence of the ſtorm. The dawn of morning ſeemed to promiſe us at leaſt ſome reſpite from deſtruction: yet ſtill, helpleſs and deſponding, without courſe or direction, we toſſed as the winds and tides impelled: and when at laſt we deſcried land, that cheering object to wretches who have ſup⯑ported an unequal conteſt with the raging tempeſt, only ſerved to inſpire us with new fears, leſt it ſhould prove the land of our enemy. But alas! it was de⯑creed (and the ſhocking ſcene ſtill dwells on my ima⯑gination in all its horror) that far the greater part of us ſhould never touch the ſhore which lay in view. We ſteered upon a coaſt utterly unknown: the rock which lay in ambuſh to deſtroy us, aſſailed our veſſel; the waves ruſhed impetuouſly through the breach. In that dreadful moment, when hope vaniſhed, when Death ſtood with open arms to receive his prey, the magnanimity of my dear unhappy companions— [13]how ſhall I ſpeak it! They clung round my knees with tears of ſollicitude and zeal for my preſervation. They entreated, they preſſed, they forced me to ſeek for ſafety in the boat, which it was their laſt care to make ready for their beloved captain, with ten more the moſt eminent in command. Reſolute and undiſ⯑mayed even in the very moment of their deſtruction, they hailed our departure and triumphed in our ſafe⯑ty. I hear their ſhouts! they ſtill ſtrike my ears.— O England! can the world boaſt ſuch ſons?—The deep cloſed over them, and ſnatched the dear, afflicting, aweſul object for ever from our eyes. We rowed away in ſilence and aſtoniſhment, full of the terrible idea, and little cheered by the proſpect of land, which we dreaded to find un⯑friendly. Nor were our fears miſtaken; for when our laſt and utmoſt efforts had been exerted to gain the ſhore, ſome wretched fiſhermen who had at firſt gazed in expectation on our veſſel, and at the ſight of armed men, ſled precipitately into the country, ap⯑peared by their garb and language to be French, and convinced us that the proſpect of immediate deſtruction, was only changed for another no leſs dreadful, that of an hard and tedious captivity: that of falling into the hands of men whom we had but now defied and vanquiſhed; and being made the vic⯑tims of revenge for blood ſtill reeking upon our blades.’

SECT. III.

THE lingering hours of night at length paſſed away, and the Matin-bell ſummoned the re⯑verend fraternity to their early devotions. Their pious cares for me were now renewed, their charita⯑ble offices repeated, to oblige and comfort me. The hoary Abbot returned to chear me with his preſence, and his ghoſtly counſel. I was witneſs of the com⯑forts of religion and tranquillity. Happineſs ſeem⯑ed to me the native reſident of the cloiſter; and my repining heart murmured againſt heaven, that had marked me out for the ſtorm and turbulence of life. Another day was ſpent, and another night paſſed away more tranquil and refreſhing: and I roſe with my thoughts fixed on the kind Les Roches, and in anxious impatience for his return. The day advan⯑ced, but my friend ſtill delayed his coming At length the charitable Abbot appeared, not with a front of placid ſerenity, but gloomy and contracted, full of anxiety and grief, which like the infectious blaſt that at once deſtroys the fruits of nature, filled my ſoul inſtantly with I knew not what dreadful and ominous preſage.' 'Unhappy ſon! ſaid he; Mal⯑leon has diſcovered, if not the place of thy con⯑cealment, at leaſt that thou art concealed in this iſland: thanks to the indiſcretion of ſome of thy countrymen which diſcloſed the name of their com⯑mander. His jealouſy points to Les Roches as the author of thy eſcape: vengeance is denounced a⯑gainſt him; and this moment the good Les Roches lies in the damp dungeon.' 'For me! ſaid I: And is charity ſo great a crime? Is tyranny ſuffered to rage thus without controul in France? For me doth my kind preſerver endure the pain of captivity?— With a look in which affection and authority were united, the father here repreſſed my emotion. Son, ſaid he, the time calls for calm and determined meaſures. In this place thou can'ſt not longer [21]abide. Thy coming was not ſecret, and ſhould it reach Mal-leon, alas, I fear the impetuoſity of that proud Count might drive him to violate the ſacred privileges of our houſe. Les Roches, though now unable to aſſiſt thee, is yet anxious ſtill for thy pre⯑ſervation. The peaſant ſent by him to inform me of thy dangers, waits to conduct thee faithfully to the veſſel prepared to convey thee to Rochelle. Thither thy ranſomed friends have already directed their courſe; and from thence ſome fortunate event may conduct thee to thy native country. Tarry here, until the ſhades of night may conceal thy departure. Then iſſue forth: and may all good angels hold thee in their protection! Our prayers' —Here pity ſtopped his voice; and filled his eyes with tears; whilſt I in broken accents laboured to expreſs my ſenſe of his goodneſs, my pity for the kind and injured Les Roches, and my indignation at the baſeneſs of Mal-leon. He ſaw my paſſionate diſorder; he entreated, he exhorted, and he re⯑proved; till perceiving by my wandering and in⯑attention, that my mind was too buſily engaged to admit his ſpiritual counſels, he retired and aban⯑doned me to my own reflections; and theſe were intirely confined to the misfortunes of the generous and kind Les Roches. I accuſed myſelf as the ſole author of his ſufferings; and abhorred the mean deſign of flying, when I had involved my friend in danger. What can the malice of Mal-leon inflict on me (it was thus I reaſoned) if to purchaſe the liberty of my preſerver, I reſign myſelf into his power? To kill me!—That were unnatural. The man I never injured cannot proceed to ſuch an ex⯑travagance of calm unprovoked cruelty. Or if he could, my country could not long be unacquainted with my fate; and would (he muſt be well aſſured) diſcharge all it's vengeance on my deſtroyer. And ſhall the fear of bearing the inſult and triumph of my rival in arms, ſhall the tediouſneſs of captivity or the ſeverities of a priſon, drive me from the man who ſuffers for his goodneſs towards me? Shall I [22]ſacrifice his freedom, perhaps his life, only to haſten my return to England.—The thought appeared odious and diſhonourable. I inſtantly formed the darling reſolution of purchaſing the freedom of Les Roches, by delivering myſelf into the hands of my enemy; and ſpent the remaining hours of day in that ſatisfaction and complacency which ariſe from the flattering ideas of ſelf-applauſe. The ſun de⯑clined; darkneſs gradually prevailed, and at length brought on the hour of my departure. And now, firmly and obſtinately ſettled in my dangerous pur⯑poſe, I received the benediction of the reverend Ab⯑bot, with a countenance of fixed ſerenity, which he, good man, commended, as an indication of my re⯑liance upon heaven. Touched with his goodneſs, I could not ſuppreſs the tears that ſtarted from me, and interrupted my grateful acknowledgements of his charitable care, and his zealous prayers for my pro⯑tection. Our hands were claſped in each other; our eyes rather than our tongues ſpoke the emotions of our breaſts, until the father, who firſt made the effort to repreſs his paſſion, urged the neceſſity of my departure: and while he ardently commended me to every holy faint, I iſſued forth under the di⯑rection of the peaſant my conductor.

I had not departed many paces from the Abbey, when addreſſing myſelf to the guide, with a voice which beſpoke a deliberate and determined reſolu⯑tion, I commanded him to conduct me to the priſon where Les Roches lay confined. The poor man, who was no ſtranger to my quality or to my ha⯑zardous ſituation, expreſſed the utmoſt horror and aſtoniſhment; and in language rude and unrefined, yet ſuch as denoted an honeſt and a tender affection, attempted to remonſtrate againſt ſuch a perilous de⯑ſign. I ſhewed him gold; but this had no effect. I then drew my ſword, and threatened him with the utmoſt ſeverity of vengeance, unleſs he inſtantly obeyed my command. Terror ſeemed to have a greater influence than entreaties or promiſes. He changed his courſe and called on me to follow. [23]Thus directed, I eagerly took the path which I ſuppoſed would lead me to my friend; filled with the high thoughts of obtaining his freedom by a free re⯑ſignation of my own. But after long traverſing the gloomy and tedious way, I found too late that either fear and darkneſs had miſled my conductor, or that he had purpoſely deceived my expectations; for when the dawn began to appear, we found ourſelves ſuddenly prevented from all farther progreſs by a deep and rapid current. The peaſant trembled; but I had no power (however irritated) to puniſh his error, or his miſtaken tenderneſs. Exhauſted as I was, with fatigue and inward agitation, my arm with difficulty took the caſque from my forehead. I dip⯑ped it in the ſtream, and drank deeply; then reſign⯑ing my feeble limbs to the dank ground, inſenſible of all danger, and indifferent to my fate, I funk into a profound ſleep, nor did I awaken till the meridian fun ſlaſhed upon me with it's beams and rouſed me by the full force of their heat and brightneſs. I called on the peaſant; but he had deferted me. I aroſe, and wandered ſlowly along the banks of the river, without purpoſe or direction: and ſo freely did I indulge the wandering of my thoughts, ſo far was I loſt to recollection, that I never once perceived the found of approaching feet, till I was encompaſſed by fix armed men, who proved, as I at once ſuppoſed, the guards of Count Mal-leon.—But, my friend, why ſhould I abuſe thy indulgence, by this minute detail? Night ſteals faſt from us. Let me not for⯑get what thy age demands.' 'No,' replied Ran⯑dolph, 'think not of me; my ſoul is all attention to the misfortunes of my leader. Haſte and give to my impatience the ſtory of thy deliverance, that I too, in my turn, may relate the things which de⯑mand thy ſerious ear.'—The Earl then proceeded.

SECT. IV.

THE ſoldiers required my name, my purpoſe, and deſtination: and as I had long ſince re⯑ſigned all hopes of eſcape, I diſcovered myſelf with⯑out reſerve or difficulty. Two of them were inſtant⯑ly diſmiſſed with a nod, and departed with the moſt precipitate ſpeed. Whilſt the remaining number, with that courteſy and reſpect, which beſpoke them the brave and generous ſons of honourable war, con⯑ducted me to a cottage that lay at ſome ſmall diſtance, faſt by the margin of the current. Here I was trea⯑ted, not with imperious inſolence, the effects of baſe and diſhonourable enmity, but with all humane and kind regards due to a brave unfortunate. This en⯑couraged me to attempt ſome conference with my keepers; who, on their part, diſcovered no reluc⯑tance to gratify their priſoner. From them I learned that my guide had really miſtaken the way, and that I now lay within one hour's diſtance from the caſtle of their Lord. I earneſtly enquired after the fate of Les Roches, and heard with a mixture of joy, and vexation at my own precipitate conduct, that on the preceding night, he had been releaſed from his cap⯑tivity. When I expreſſed my ſurprize and ſatisfac⯑tion at this event, I was told that immediately after that the ſurviving Engliſhmen had been ranſomed by the bounty of Les Roches, and ſuffered, at his inter⯑ceſſion, to depart; Count Savourè had received in⯑formation that one of them had raſhly diſcovered, that the Lord of Saliſbury, their leader, was ſtill in the iſle of Rhè! This inſtantly kindled up a flame of paſſion in his breaſt. He affected to regard the tale of their diſtreſs as vain and fictitious; and expreſſed ſtrong apprehenſions of a conſpiracy formed by his enemies in concert with his officer to ſeize the iſland. In this ſudden and violent fit of rage, he had commanded Les Roches to priſon, and ordered aſtrict guard to watch round the coaſt. The French⯑man, [25]conſcious of his own innocence, exclaimed loudly againſt the ſeverity of his commander; men⯑tioned the inconſiderable number of the Engliſhmen that had appeared, and enlarged on the unreaſona⯑ble nature of the Count's ſuſpicions. He demanded to know, if any man had dared to accuſe him; if he had an accuſer, he defied him to the liſts, and of⯑fered to prove his falſehood and his own loyalty in ſingle combat. Yet with what reſerve ſo ever theſe ſoldiers ſpoke of their commander, I learned clearly that his remonſtrances had not ſo great an effect on Count Savourè, as the power and influence of Les Roches, who though he fought under his command, had himſelf a numerous and formidable body of feu⯑datory vaſſals, that attended him in arms, and were attached to their Chief with an ardent and invari⯑able affection. It appeared plainly, that fear (for cruel natures are moſt acceſſible to fear) had deter⯑mined the imperious Count to releaſe my friend, when the firſt ſudden paſſion of rage had ſomewhat abated, and no appearance of danger had been diſ⯑covered. My guards informed me ſtill farther, that on this very morning, Mal-leon had repented of his lenity; and that his apprehenſions were again a⯑wakened, as he had received information, that on that part of the ſhore which looks towards the main land of France, another veſſel had been diſcovered hovering about the iſland, with an appearance which fully warranted ſuſpicion. I readily concluded that this was no other than the veſſel in which my ranſomed friends had embarked, and which ſtill lay off the ſhore in hopes of receiving me. But without diſcovering this, I contented myſelf with earneſtly diſavowing, in general, all intentions of an hoſtile nature; nor could I ſpeak of the mean fears and in⯑ſolent ſeverity of Mal-leon but with a warm and paſ⯑ſionate indignation. But here our conference was interrupted by the arrival of another body, who came, as they ſaid, to take charge of me, and diſ⯑miſſed the others from their attendance. I now ex⯑pected to be led in triumph to the preſence of my [26]enemy, but ſoon learned that I was to continue for ſome time in my preſent ſituation. At this I ven⯑tured to expreſs ſome ſurprize. But the looks and words of ſullen gloom and moroſeneſs which theſe my new guards aſſumed, obliged me to ſurpreſs all farther enquiries. I ſubmitted patiently to my fate. I was diſarmed, and confined in the cottage under the care of two ſoldiers, who ſeemed to command the party, the reſt of which they had diſpoſed at ſome diſtance, in different ſituations, to watch all ap⯑proaches that might threaten reſcue.

Night advanced upon us, and I was left to my re⯑poſe: but what repoſe remained for a wretch toſſed about thro' all the viciſſitudes of danger, toil, and diſtreſs, by the capricious cruelty of fortune? A thouſand thoughts and a thouſand paſſions encoun⯑tered each other in my diſtracted breaſt. I threw myſelf upon my hard and homely couch; and ſtarted up by turns; like the feveriſh wretch, inceſſantly changing, in fruitleſs ſearch of eaſe. Nature ſeemed to lower upon me, and to thunder terror into my af⯑frighted ears: the loud ſtorm and the roaring torrent broke in upon the ſilence of night, and made darkneſs doubly dreadful. How did I then accuſe the ſlow and indolent advances of time; that tortured me with cruel delay? Oftentimes did I endeavour to compoſe my troubled thoughts; and as often did the terrors of the night awaken my diſtractions. Watchful and diſordered as I was, my ſoul was ſoon tortured with a new and terrible alarm. It was now the dead midnight hour: on that ſide where my chamber looked down upon the troubled river, I plainly heard my two guards in dreadful conference encouraging each other to the horrid purpoſe of murder.' 'It is now, ſaid one, the very moment of execution; he ſleeps: take you this dagger, and let us enter: when we have diſpatched this Engliſhman, my orders are to plunge his body in the river, that it may be thought he has eſcaped: obſerve me well: and be aſſured of the favour of our Count. The dagger is the laſt reſource. No blood if poſſible: our firſt at⯑tempt [27]muſt be by ſtrangling.'—'Accurſed wretch!' cried Randolph, with a ſudden and violent interrup⯑tion, 'what was the crime of Saliſbury? Is ſuperior worth ſo odious and inſupportable? Can envy prove ſo bloody?'—'Oftentimes, ſaid Lord William, have I ſeen death loading the fields of war with frightful carnage: and never did my ſoul ſhrink at his ap⯑proach: but now when he appeared in the form of a calm and deliberate aſſaſſin, I at once loſt all firm⯑neſs. The cold dew iſſued from every pore; I com⯑mended myſelf to heaven; and lay entranced in diſmay. A hideous interval of ſuſpenſe ſucceeded, for the murderers had not yet appeared. The tor⯑ture of this delay was even worſe than death. To this I had reſigned myſelf, or even wiſhed to receive it. Still I lay in ſtupid expectation of the fatal meſ⯑ſengers of death; and ſtill their horrid deed was ſuſpended. A ſudden and violent tumult recalled my dying ſenſes, the noiſe grew nearer and louder. I ſtarted at the claſh of arms: I heard a groan. The crowd preſt in upon me, and I ſaw Les Roches, my kind preſerver, his eyes darting rage, and his wea⯑pon reeking with ſlaughter.' 'There lies the wretch, ſaid he, who dared to lift his ſword againſt my approach.' 'I threw myſelf into his bloody arms, in a rapturous extacy of joy and gratitude, and juſt found breath to exclaim, Gracious powers! am I then reſcued from the baſe murderer's arm?' 'Mur⯑der! cried Les Roches; 'for this horrid purpoſe then wert thou detained here! But it is well: there wanted but this to confirm thoſe brave ſpirits, who feel and will revenge our wrongs. No priſoner now! No concealed fugitive! Lord William ſhall confront his enemy; and take his free courſe, undaunted and uncontrouled in the fair face of day; and ſcorn the malice of this injurious Count. But haſte—and let us join our friends.'

I obeyed the joyful ſummons; but firſt ſearched for my armour, which the guards, whoſe power was now expired, had taken from me. The attendants of Les Roches buckled on my harneſs, and I once [28]more graſped my ſword. I iſſued forth as if re⯑ſtored from the grave, accompanied by Les Roches and his companions, leading away my guards whom they had overpowered. And ſcarcely had we mea⯑ſured out the diſtance of an arrow's flight, when we deſcried a gallant troop marching toward us, who raiſed a ſhout of triumph at our approach, and re⯑ceived us with the joy of brethren and aſſociates. I expreſſed my ſurprize, but was ſoon taught the rea⯑ſon of this appearance, and the cauſe of my ſurpriz⯑ing change of fortune. I now learned that Mal⯑leon, like the unſkilful ſoldier who by the force of his own ill-directed blow is oftentimes tumbled to the ground, was defeated in the purpoſes of his malice, by the blind and furious impetuoſity of that very malice. In his firſt rage of diſappointed re⯑venge, he had injured and inſulted a brave chief; who had ranged his numerous adherents under the banners of this proud Count, and given their ſwords to ſupport his power. The gentle manners of Les Roches had ever commanded the affections of his adherents, and now, when they ſaw their chief thruſt into the vile dungeon, in contempt of all his former ſervices; and for no crime, but the ſuſpicion of having ſpared an helpleſs wanderer, their mutiny, like the noiſe of diſtant thunder, tho' not violent, was yet terrible; and ſtruck the ear with the threa⯑tenings of an approaching ſtorm. Mal-leon quickly perceived the danger, and endeavoured to corred his haſty error, by releaſing Les Roches from his captivity. But little did this ungracious condeſcen⯑ſion allay the ferment of his vaſſals, little did the chief regard this extorted act of juſtice, as the repa⯑ration due to his injured honour and little did it allay the ardor of his affection and ſolicitude for the man he now called his friend. It was his firſt care to employ the liberty he had regained, in my protec⯑tion; and with a few choſen followers he inſtantly haſtened to the ſhore, whither he had directed the faithful peaſant to conduct me. But Saliſbury was not to be found. Yet ſtill flattered with the hope [29]that my ſpeed had prevented him, and that I had already embarqued, he returned with his attendants, to whom he diſtinctly related our firſt encounter in the iſland, and his cares to defend me from the ma⯑lice of my rival. They were taught to love me, to pity my fortunes, and to rejoice in my ſuppoſed e⯑ſcape. The infection ſpread among their aſſociates. I became the general object of their diſcourſe; when ſuddenly, the peaſant who had fled from me in wild affright, to inform his maſter of my ſituation, arri⯑ved and acquainted them, that, amidſt all my dan⯑gers, I had obſtinately reſolved not to abandon my friend, but to ſhare his fortune; in deſpite of all the power and cruelty of Mal-leon. Scarcely had he in⯑formed them of his own error, and the place where he had left me, when the news arrived of my being ſeized, and detained until the Count might declare his pleaſure. Not the flaſhing lightning when it has broken in upon a foreſt of our ſtately oaks, ever raiſed a more ſudden and violent conflagration, than theſe accounts kindled in the minds of the brave ſol⯑diers of Les Roches. It was at once reſolved for ever to abandon the ſervice of a tyrannical and re⯑vengeful Lord, and to reſcue me from his oppreſſive power. But their Chief wiſely laboured to temper and allay the violence which threatened to defeat it's own purpoſe. By his perſuaſion it was determined to act with ſecrecy and caution: to wait until darkneſs might conceal their motions, and to chuſe the dead hour of midnight, to ſurprize my guards, and to ſnatch me from the cruel malice of my enemy. E⯑ternal goodneſs! that directed their hearts, and guided their ſteps, be witneſs for me, with what gratitude I received my miraculous preſervation! No longer the helpleſs victim of fell revenge, no longer crouching under the ruthleſs arm of a ruſſian, I felt my afflictions no more: they vaniſhed like a fright⯑ful dream, which the chearful beams of morning had diſſipated. And I now appeared as indeed a ſol⯑dier, encompaſſed by a hardy band, in the gay trim of war, to which the riſing light gave new luſtre: [30]ſtill farther irritated by the black deſign of murder; loudly encouraging me to rely on their protection, and to bid defiance to the ungenerous cruel Count. Nor was this confidence ſlightly founded; for I learned that by their revolt Mal-leon was deprived of a force, which fully equalled all that yet remained under his command.

SECT. V.

THEY now marched on, publickly diſclaiming all obedience but to their chief Les Roches; not as intending hoſtilities, but determined to retire from the iſland; and to demonſtrate the ſincerity of their declarations, the guards lately overpowered were already freed and courteouſly diſmiſſed; nor was even the ſurviving ruffian detained. Count Sa⯑vourè could not look with unconcern at ſo alarming a defection in his troops. All his remaining force was inſtantly collected, and ſoon we were confronted by a conſiderable body led by the proud Count, that ſtopped our farther progreſs: and while each party drew up in formidable array, each was poſſeſſed with anxiety and expectation. On our ſide, a firm reſolution to ſupport our purpoſe to the laſt, was un⯑alterably fixed in every heart, yet with humane con⯑cern and generous reluctance againſt ſhedding the blood of countrymen, endeared by natural affection, and a long ſocial intercourſe. The little armies ſtood for a while in a ſtate of ſullen inaction lowering upon each other: a delay which ſeemed to declare that neither preſumed on any ſuperiority, and that both expected, and deſired a parly. This was at length propoſed by my friend, and readily accepted.

The commanders on each ſide advanced with a few attendants: and firſt Mal-leon proudly demand⯑ed the reaſon of this appearance of diſloyalty and hoſ⯑tility. Les Roches repelled his accuſation by re⯑counting the injuries that had been offered to his honour and independance: urged the ungrateful re⯑turns [31]made to his free and faithful ſervices, by a vile unprovoked impriſonment, and declared that his ſole purpoſe was to withdraw his arms from a Lord, who had loaded him with wrongs and diſgrace. To this the Count replied, that the preſent appearance diſ⯑covered clearly the neceſſity and the juſtice of his late conduct: that it now plainly appeared, that Les Roches had united with his enemy and the enemy of his country, to tear the iſland from him; and that far from having oppreſſed or injured him, nothing but his own miſtaken lenity had enabled a falſe Frenchman to proceed in this traiterous deſign. For this had he reſcued from him the man who had baſe⯑ly ſtolen upon his territory, to corrupt his dependants, and to arm them againſt their Lord; for this he had murdered his officer, who gallantly oppoſed his un⯑juſt attempt; and for this he now ſtood in arms, ready to ſacrifice his kinſmen and countrymen to the treacherous purpoſe of an Engliſhman, who did not dare to meet him bravely in the field, but la⯑boured to deſtroy him by the ſecret practices of fraud and circumvention.

To this my friend anſwered with a generous warmth, That as my ſoul was incapable of a baſe de⯑ſign, ſo my manner of coming into the iſland plain⯑ly removed all ſuſpicions of any attempt againſt his government: that, caſt as I was upon his ſhore, helpleſs and unattended by any numbers that could create the leaſt fear, my endeavours had ſolely been exerted to elude his ſearch, and to regain my native country: that all his own offence had been an en⯑deavour, tho' fruitleſs, to favour the ſecret retreat of a noble enemy to whom he owed his life and liber⯑ty: nor could he repent of his grateful efforts, when no ranſom was to be accepted, no captivity or re⯑ſtraint was deemed ſufficiently ſevere, for a noble, generous, and unhappy Lord; when the ruffian had been hired to ſhed his blood, and in the dead hour of night dared to lift the murderous dagger a⯑gainſt his unoffending, unſuſpecting innocence.

[32] Suſpicion, grief and indignation now raiſed a con⯑fuſed murmur among the attendants of Mal-leon; the ſame impreſſions, together with the ſtory of in⯑tended murder, quickly reached their aſſociates and ſpread contagiouſly through their lines. While the anguiſh of confuſion, ſhame, revenge, and diſap⯑pointment, turned the aſpect of Count Savourè to ghaſtly pale. Yet, dreading the effects of this diſ⯑covery, he ſoon endeavoured to aſſume a look of com⯑poſure and conſcious integrity; exclaimed loudly againſt the infamous contrivance to deſtroy his ho⯑nour, and vehemently diſavowed all intentions, but ſuch as were fully warranted by the laws of honour⯑able war. This declaration ſilenced the diſorder in his troops; whoſe honeſt hearts could not, without regret, believe their general guilty of ſo black an at⯑tempt: he warmly repeated his profeſſions of inno⯑cence; and called for the ſoldier ſaid to be accom⯑plice to him in whoſe breaſt Les Roches had plunged his ſword. The ſteady villain now ſtood forth, and aſſumed ſuch a countenance as effectually concealed his falſehood from every human eye. In the face of both the armies, falling upon his knees and lifting up his eyes towards heaven, he called on every ſaint to bear witneſs to his innocence, and with horrid imprecations of the divine wrath, declared, that the only orders of his Lord had been to treat their priſo⯑ner with reſpect and care befitting an illuſtrious ſol⯑dier. The conſtancy and the fair appearance of in⯑genuous ſincerity which accompanied theſe ſolemn declarations, failed not of their deſired effect: the troops of Count Mal-leon were fired with indigna⯑tion, and joyed to find that their commander had not acted unworthy of his own and of his country's ho⯑nour; they expreſſed a violent and tumultuous rage againſt the author of this ſuppoſed calumny; whilſt the adherents of the good Les Roches were confoun⯑ded and abaſed. Their eyes were turned upon me, with ſuſpicion and cold diſtruſt; the boldeſt among them ventured to break out into rude invectives, and to propoſe that I ſhould be inſtantly delivered up into [33]the hands of their brave countryman, whom I had ſo baſely abuſed by my horrid imputations. My enemy exulted; my friend, tho' ſtill amply ſatisfied of my truth and honour, was perplexed and grieved; and the late of Saliſbury ſeemed to depend on a ſingle moment of tumult and confuſion; when with an ef⯑fort of deſperate reſolution I ſtepped forth, and both parties hung upon me with looks of mute ſuſpenſe and expectation, I recounted plainly and clearly all my adventures, ſince fortune had driven me to this unkind ſhore; my departure from the Abbey, with a full intention of reſigning myſelf into the power of the Count, in order to preſerve my friend: my being ſeized by the guards, and detained on the ſpot where they had found me, inſtead of being conducted to priſon, or to the preſence of Mal-leon; a circumſtance full of ſuſpicion! I deſcribed that dreadful night in all its horrors, when I had been ſo wonderfully delivered from inſtant death. And if any doubt remained of my truth and ſinceri⯑ty, I offered to make my ſolemn appeal to heaven. There! ſaid I, caſting down my gage, I am ready to prove upon that recreant Lord his vile falſehoods, and to aſſert my own innocence, and his diſhonour, in ſingle combat.

Thou haſt ſeen two gallant bands cloſing with each other; and for a while maintaining the conflict in terrible ſuſpenſe, preſſed and receding, recovering and preſſing, by turns, until one mighty effort deter⯑mines the fortune of the day, and the whole tumul⯑tuous rout of vanquiſhed and victors, pour along the plain. Such had been the war of pailions in theſe two parties, and ſuch was now the force with which both were hurried away. My bold challenge was re⯑ceived with an univerſal acclamation by men too zealous votaries of warlike glory and honour, to de⯑ſire, that baſeneſs and falſehood ſhould be ſupported or concealed. Shame forbad the Count to decline this hardy trial, and tho' appalled by conſcious guilt, he accepted my defiance. Les Roches, whoſe friend⯑ly cares never were diverted from me, demanded an [34]interval of two days to reſtore my haraſſed mind and body to their native vigour, and to prepare me for the encounter. This could not be refuſed; the time, the place, and every previous circumſtance was ſoon adjuſted as the laws of arms require; and each party drew off in ſilent expectation of the event.

On the ſecond morning, as I revolved my late dan⯑gers, and indulged the pleaſing thoughts of my fate being ſoon to be decided by the fair and honourable chance of arms, an officer from count Mal-leon ap⯑peared before the place of my reſidence and demand⯑ed admiſſion to Lord Saliſbury. I received him ac⯑companied by my friend. 'Count Savourè, ſaid he, thirſts not for thy blood. It hath been thy deſire to depart this iſland in peace: he commands me to ac⯑quaint thee that a barque is prepared, and that thou mayeſt, unoppoſed and unmoleſted, ſeek thy native land: he wiſhes not to detain thee, nor regards the honour of vanquiſhing Lord William as the leaſt ac⯑ceſſion to his renown.' My eyes darted fiery indigna⯑tion upon this meſſenger of abject fear. 'I defy his power, ſaid I, and ſcorn his friendſhip. I ſtay not here by his permiſſion, and without his permiſſion will I depart. Thinks he that an Engliſh Lord will fully his fair fame, and meanly ſteal away from ho⯑nourable danger? Bear back my defiance to the man who could entertain ſo baſe a thought. Tell him I ſhall here wait, and wait with impatience for the dawning of to-morrow.' The officer departed: my friend embraced me with tears of joy, whilſt I felt my heart chearful and dilated; and from this over⯑ture derived an happy preſage of victory.

The morning of combat now appeared; nor did I wait the ſummons of my friends, but impatient for the great deciſion, I prevented their officious care and ſtood before them in arms, demanding to be con⯑ducted to the lifts. Theſe were prepared with every accuſtomed proviſion and defence againſt fraud or treachery. And while I entered on one ſide attended by Les Roches and his choſen companions, Count Sa⯑vourè appeared with an equal number of attendants [35]on the other, darting looks of deadly hate, rather than of manly valour. We advanced towards each other, not with the courteſy of honourable rivals, but ſul⯑len and indignant, ſilent and diſdainful. Our aſſiſtants having firſt exacted the uſual oaths, in which we diſ⯑claimed all unlawful methods of defence, all fraudu⯑lent or magical reſources, ſeparated us from each o⯑ther, and pointed out our juſt ſtations. Here while our horſes pawed the ground, impatient to ſtart for⯑ward, we waited the ſignal of the trumpets; when ſuddenly our attendants burſt into the middle ſpace, and called upon us to diſmount. We obeyed; and as I advanced towards the crowd of knights and ſquires, I ſoon diſcovered my dear and reverend friend the Abbot, directing and commanding them with a paternal authority. Two were ordered to take charge of our horſes and our weapons, whilſt the father approached and invited us to a private conference. Lord Mal-leon,' ſaid he, 'hear me, and tremble at thy preſumption: tempt not the wrath of heaven, by expoſing thyſelf to the hazard of arms, in a cauſe which thou knoweſt is unjuſt. And do thou, Lord William, remember, that thou art for bid⯑den to ſeek a brutal revenge.' The Count was juſt preparing to expreſs his indignation at ſuch a bold and unexpected interruption, when the father ſurvey⯑ing him with a look of pity, mixed with ſome degree of ſcorn, proceeded thus: 'The wretch hired by thee to ſhed the blood of this unhappy Lord, tho' ſorely wounded by Les Roches, was yet left with ſome remains of life; the peaſants bore him to our houſe for relief, and ghoſtly comfort. There he ex⯑pired; but not before his parting breath had publickly declared the dreadful purpoſe—but I will not wound thy ears with the horrid recital. Alas! thy ſhame is but too well known. If thou haſt yet the ſmalleſt remains of goodneſs, dare not by this combat to de⯑fy the award of heaven; nor longer purſue this Lord with cauſeleſs hatred.' My rival now ſeemed to ſhrink before me, into all the meanneſs of diſgrace, and abject baſeneſs: whilſt my triumph was more ex⯑alted, [36]than the moſt ſucceſsful event of combat could have given. My eyes were lighted up with indignation, but my heart diſdained reproaches. Whilſt I embraced the reverend father, and freely ſubmitted my arms to his direction and controul, anguiſh, ſhame, remorſe, and envy ſeemed to tear the ſoul of Mal-leon with their united tortures; tears? burſt from him, not the gentle drops of penitence; but tears of vexation, of diſappointed and detected malice. Silent and trembling, he ſeemed irreſolute for ſome moments: then, in ſullen and broken ac⯑cents, he juſt forced out; 'I will not—depart— I will not fight with thee—my priſoner—yet I ſeek no ranſom: retire from this iſland; and henceforth avoid my fury. Here a loud ſhout prevented my reply. The ſoldiers of Les Roches, by this time informed of the tidings which the Abbot brought, and which were no longer ſecret, haſtened to re⯑ceive me with their gratulations; and whilſt they accompanied me to their camp, the baſe Count, followed by a ſilent and dejected party, marched away, and covered his diſgraced head in the receſſes of his caſtle.

SECT. I.

THE good old Knight could not ſuppreſs his exultation at the final iſſue of this dangerous conteſt. He preſt the hand of Lord William with an affectionate warmth, and congratulated him on his vic⯑tory over his baſe and treacherous foe, a victory much more compleat, much more mortifying to his rival, than could poſſibly have been acquired by arms. But the Earl ſoon reſtrained his joy, by acquainting him, that this event did not put an end to his dangers. Randolph once more compoſed himſelf into a grave and earneſt attention, and Lord William thus reſumed the ſtory of his fortunes.

SECT. II.

THUS had I raſhly ventured forth into a wide and unknown ſcene of danger; under the direction of a falſe guide, whoſe treachery was ſoon diſcovered. It was night; and the moon caſt her mild gleam over all the proſpect that lay before us. D'Aumont repeated his aſſurances of friendſhip, ſpoke with chearfulneſs and confidence, encouraging me to hope, and to fix my reliance on his ſervices. I expected every inſtant to be conducted to ſome place of retirement and friendly recepiton. Some⯑times I expreſſed my uneaſineſs, but ever and anon my guide practiſed his arts of ſoothing perſuaſion, and flattering profeſſions, to allay my fears; thus we proceeded for ſome hours: at length, in our tedious progreſs, we paſſed by the ſkirts of a thick foreſt, from whence our ears were firſt pierced with [45]ſhrill and lamentable ſhrieks as if from a female voice, and inſtantly afterwards, there iſſued out a ſmall number of armed men, who ſurrounded us, and demanded our names and quality. My companion, nothing alarmed at this appearance, made the like enquiries on his part, and learned that they were the ſoldiers of Chauvigny Lord of Poictiers. I ſeek that Lord, [ſaid he; when one of the ſoldiers ſur⯑veying him attentively, replied, D'Aumont!— I know thee now! what from Count Mal-leon! I ſtarted at the hideous name, and turning on my companion, perceived that the blood had deſerted his cheeks, and that he ſtood in violent agitations. But ere I could expreſs my wonder, retiring a ſew paces from me he cried out, there ſtands Lord Saliſbury: my purpoſe was to conduct him to Poictiers: he is now your priſoner, and let him be quickly conveyed to your Lord. I ſtood confound⯑ed for a moment at this aſtoniſhing treachery, then quickly drawing my ſword, I ran furiouſly upon D' Aumont; nor was it without the utmoſt difficulty that the ſoldiers reſtrained my juſt vengeance, over⯑powered, and diſarmed me; then leading me into the wood, we joined ſome others of their body, who were intently engaged on a ſpectacle of pity.

A youth who ſeemed juſt riſing to manhood, of graceful form, tall of ſtature, and with limbs of perfect ſhape, lay ſorely wounded upon the ground, languid, pale, and bloody. Over him hung one in the habit of a page, younger and ſtill more exquiſitely beautiful, piercing the air with lamentations, and eagerly employed in binding up the wounds of the fallen youth, with locks of comely auburn, torn from a fair though diſhevelled head. No ſooner bad the ſoldiers proclaimed my name to their aſſociates, than the page, turning up⯑on me with a face which diſcovered one of nature's moſt lovely productions, ſullied and diſordered by grief, juſt exclaimed; O fatal cauſe of all my mi⯑ſery!' then bending down again, as if diſdaining attention to any but one favourite object, reſumed [46]the charitable cares of aſſiſting, and ſupporting the wounded youth; who by this time revived from his trance, and caſt a languid look of love and tenderneſs upon his kind companion. 'O Jacque⯑line, ſaid he, are we then prevented? But thou haſt eſcaped the preſent danger. Nor ſhall force tear me from thee, or time efface thy remembrance.' This was anſwered with deep ſighs and tender looks, which ſpoke an affection ardent and power⯑ful, tho' controuled by the preſence of ſtrangers. Every word and every action increaſed my ſurprize. Utterly unable to conceive how any part of the diſtreſs I now beheld could be imputed to me, I attempted with all courteſy to accoſt the page; who, on the other hand, had no eyes, no ear, no voice for me. But how was my aſtoniſhed ſoul afflicted and confounded, when one of the ſoldiers caſually diſcovered, that this page was no other than a young maiden, and daughter to Les Roches! Whilſt ſhe was buſily employed about the wounded youth, and with the aſſiſtance of ſome ſoldiers raiſing him from the ground, I turned to D'Aumont with looks of rage and anguiſh. Wretch! ſaid I, explain this wonder. Is this the work of thy curſed treachery? No, proud Lord, replied the falſe Frenchman; This youth is ſon to Count Chauvigny, whoſe priſoner I have made thee: but were he mine enemy, I am no murderer. Witneſs for me, that if my nature had been cruel, I might have plunged the dagger into thine own heart. What though I promiſed Mal-leon to uſe all my art to ſeparate thee from thy protector, and to betray thee into the power of the Lord of Poictiers, yet I ſcorn the baſe work of blood! I have uſed my art, and with ſucceſs: I have ſerved my country and my Chief, to whoſe hand the laws of war, and thy fate conſign thee, and to whom thou ſhalt be ſoon reſtored by his friend Chauvigny.

I prepared to retort this inſolence, when the ſol⯑diers interrupted, and commanded me to attend them to Poictiers: whither we now bent our courſe, the [47]wounded youth being ſupported by the ſoldiers, and followed by the ſorrowful Jacqueline. But ſcarcely had we proceeded a few paces, when another and a larger body of armed men was diſcovered, ruſhing precipitately acroſs the plain. My guards nothing doubting but that theſe were friends, took no pains to avoid their approach. As they poured down up⯑on us, their leader caſt his eyes on me, and with plain marks of ſurprize pronounced my name, when inſtantly the whole party fell with the utmoſt fury upon my guards. They in vain endeavoured to ſup⯑port an unequal conteſt, encouraged by the voice and actions of D'Aumont, who fought with deſperate rage. Impatient to take a ſhare in this encounter, I ſuddenly ſnatched my ſword from the ſoldier who had ſeized it, and flew upon my betrayer; but ere I could execute my juſt vengeance, his falſe heart was pierced by another arm. My guard were at length wholly overpowered: a few lay bleeding; the reſt yielded their arms and were made priſoners, together with the wounded youth and his fair attendant al⯑moſt expiring with terror and aſtoniſhment.

And now I learned from my deliverers ſome part of that diſtreſs, in which I had involved the good Les Roches, and the danger which I had eſcaped. Hear the ſtory, as it was then, and afterwards un⯑folded, ſtill more clearly. The delay of our em⯑barkation from the iſle of Rhè had given the im⯑placable Mal-leon an opportunity of diſpatching a meſſenger to Lord Chauvigny, by whom he accuſed Les Roches, of practices againſt his government, and of wreſting from him a priſoner of ſo much con⯑ſequence as Saliſbury. This Lord, fired at the ſuppoſed injury offered to his friend, ſeized the caſ⯑tle of Les Roches, with the too common violence of a neighbouring and more powerful Baron; and carried off his only daughter, as a pledge for my ſurrender, if ſtill in the hands of Les Roches, or as a means of awakening my ſenſe of honour and gratitude, and thus obliging me to return, if already diſmiſſed. Hence the grief and confuſion of the [48]domeſticks, at our arrival, and hence, the diſorder of my friend: who, dreading my impetuoſity and well remembering how raſhly I had reſolved to deliver myſelf to Count Mal-leon, in order to gain his liberty, determined to conceal from me the cauſe of this diſorder, and to try what might be effected by force of arms for the reſcue of his daughter. D'Aumont, with whom he conſult⯑ed, and to whom he ſpoke his fears of my precipi⯑tate generoſity, commended his reſolution; and at he prepared for immediate departure in order to col⯑lect his force, the falſe Frenchman propoſed, that to himſelf ſhould be committed the care of prevent⯑ing me from leaving the caſtle, in his abſence How he abuſed this truſt, thou haft already heard: but heaven was pleaſed to make his treachery the means of my preſervation. Chauvigny who was ſtill further informed of our approach, and of the weakneſs of our retinue, determined to make him⯑ſelf maſter both of mine, and of the perſon of my friend: and no ſooner had I departed from the caſ⯑tle, under the conduct of my perfidious guide, than it was again ſeized by a force detached for that purpoſe, whilſt another body haſtening to ſup⯑port their aſſociates, accidentally encountred Les Roches, diſperſed his followers, and were only pre⯑vented from ſeizing him by the deſperate valour of my ſeven Engliſhmen, whoſe attendance he had re⯑quired, and who now with difficulty ſecured his re⯑treat. A number of his followers thus diſperſed, fled with precipitate haſte towards their private haunts, for preſent ſecurity, and to collect new force for the deliverance of their chief: and in their flight, proved my deliverers.

They now ſubmitted to my direction, and in⯑vited me to ſhare their fortune; and by my perſua⯑ſion they diſmiſſed the ſoldiers of Chauvigny, toge⯑ther with his wounded ſon. I embraced the youth at his departure, who ſeemed confounded and aſhamed at the violence with which his father pur⯑ſued a ſtranger thus ſuperior to revenge. His eyes [49]were turned on Jacqueline, whoſe looks and tears expreſſed all the anguiſh of ſeparation. But the daughter of my deareſt friend was a treaſure not to be entruſted to the mercy of an enemy; and ſhe was therefore detained however reluctant. My deli⯑verers, anxious for our ſecurity, conveyed us with rapid ſpeed to the faſtneſs of an high and dreary mountain, where an humble cottage received, and the kind offices of honeſt poverty relieved us. And here, this maid, whoſe beauty created love and re⯑verence in the breaſt of every beholder, informed me freely of her dangers and diſtreſs. Soon as ſhe had been conveyed to the caſtle of Poictiers, the young Chauvigny already no ſtranger to the charms of Jacqueline, viſited the fair priſoner, and endea⯑voured to allay her ſorrows. Beauty, when diſtreſ⯑ſed, is doubly powerful; and when pity unites with love, no heart can reſiſt their impreſſion. This the youth experienced. His ſoul became to⯑tally ſubdued; nor could he conceal the generous weakneſs. He pleaded, in all the moſt affecting accents of a ſincere and ardent paſſion: nor did he plead in vain. The maid, too ſuſceptible of tender⯑neſs, and too artleſs to conceal her ſenſibility, heard him with indulgence, approved his worth, nor frowned on his love. Yet ſtill a greatneſs and ele⯑vation of ſoul, gave dignity to her female ſoftneſs. She demanded a ſtrong, and to a lover a ſevere, proof of his ſincerity. Reſtore me to my father, ſaid ſhe, then ſpeak thy paſſion. He entreated, wept, and conjured; ſhe anſwered as before: till at length, the youth conſented to the painful taſk of ap⯑proving his ſincerity, by parting with the dear object of his paſſion. A habit was provided to conceal the maid: and at the appointed hour, when guards had been bribed, and ſuſpicion lulled to ſleep, ſhe iſſued forth, under the conduct of her lover, and directed her eager ſteps towards her father's caſtle. And fatal had been the end of this raſh deſign, had not heaven wonderfully inter⯑poſed. They had advanced conſiderably in their [50]progreſs, filled with gay hopes, and inſenſible to danger, when ſome lawleſs rovers of the night, ar⯑reſted, and began to rifle them. The young Lord patiently ſubmitted to their depredations; but alarm⯑ed for his dear companion, and anxious to conceal the ſecret of her ſex from brutal violence, he called upon them to ſpare the page, and with loud denun⯑ciations of vengeance, wildly aſſailed the wretch who was preparing to ſtrip his Jacqueline. A ſud⯑den wound laid him on the earth; the foreſt echoed with the ſhrieks of the diſtracted maid; and in that moment the ſoldiers ſent in purſuit of them (for their departure was not long concealed) happily appeared in view, and drove the robbers from their prey.

SECT. III.

I Adored the preſerving hand of heaven, whoſe influence had appeared ſo evidently in theſe events. The treachery of D'Aumont in ſeeking to deſtroy me, had opportunely conveyed me from the power of my enemies. The violence and oppreſſion of Chauvigny, had proved the means of ſending me deliverers, when fortune ſeemed moſt to frown upon me: and of giving up his own ſon to my mercy. I was now at liberty, if an obſcure and comfortleſs retreat could deſerve that name: I had delivered an helpleſs maid, the dear child and precious trea⯑ſure of my friend, from the power of an oppreſſor: I was attended by honeſt and faithful followers, reſolute to protect, and zealous to oblige me: yet ſtill my ſoul was anxious for the fortune of the kind and generous Les Roches, whoſe virtues ſeemed to have drawn down ruin upon his injured head. Some emiſſaries I ſent forth from time to time, to learn his fate: but no intelligence of his ſituation could be obtained. His caſtle was deſerted, his friends diſperſed, he himſelf loſt in ſome obſcure retirement with my gallant Engliſhmen, or perhaps [51]ſlain by the malice of his purſuers. The proud Lord of Poictiers had in the name of his prince (unwarrantably aſſumed to ſupport his oppreſſion) proclaimed him a traytor; and denounced death againſt thoſe who ſhould preſume to aſſiſt him. Such was the rage and malice of diſappointed pride.

I joined my tears with thoſe of the charming Jac⯑queline at theſe afflicting tidings. Weeks and months paſſed away in the tortures of anxious uncer⯑tainty. Tho' careleſs of my own fate, yet I felt the tendereſt concern for my dear charge; whom I conducted from one retreat to another, as the alarm of danger drove us forward, or the advice of our followers directed. My cares had now taught her to love me, as a parent and preſerver: and the magnanimity which ſhe diſcovered amidſt all her dangers and difficulties, commanded my re⯑ſpect and admiration. She endured fatigue not only with chearfulneſs, but joy; and as if from her in⯑fant years inured to poverty and hardſhips, ſhe ſeem⯑ed to have retained no memory of the eaſe and ſoft⯑neſs of proſperity; nor did the tear ever ſtart from her eye, but at the recollection of her father. A cou⯑rage above her ſex, and a ſurprizing recollection and command of thought much beyond her years, never once deſerted her, in the moſt trying moments: ſo that, whoever beheld her manly garb, and obſerved her determined ſpirit, muſt have ſuppoſed that I was attended by a youth, not yet initiated in arms, but eagerly ambitious to become a ſoldier, and impatient to enter on the courſe of gallant action and renown. She it was who firſt propoſed the deſign of quitting theſe ignoble retreats, and endea⯑vouring to find her father, now, when time had abated the ardor of our enemy's purſuit; and ſhe too ſuggeſted the diſguiſe which effectually con⯑cealed us from jealouſy and malice. By the aſ⯑ſiſtance of our faithful adherents, the habit of a Palmer was provided for each: and thus accou⯑tred, we ventured forth from our retreat; I, the fa⯑ther; [52]ſhe, the blooming ſon; whilſt a few zealous and humble friends, themſelves diſguiſed, watched our ſteps at ſome diſtance, and waited to repel our dangers. Long time we journied on, and often were we indebted to the kind offices of charity, un⯑diſcovered and unſuſpected. Often times have I gratified the curious peaſant, whoſe hoſpitable door was opened for our reception, with the recital of hardy deeds atchieved by his noble countrymen when the chriſtian powers united againſt the infidel: and oftentimes have I repeated my tale, to gain his con⯑fidence, and to lead him to ſome diſcoveries that might direct me to my friend. But never could we receive the leaſt information of Les Roches, or of his fortunes. Oblivion ſeemed to have involved him in her gloomy ſhades, deſerted, abandoned, and forgotten by his unkind, ungrateful country⯑men; yet ever and anon, the remembrance of his goodneſs, and the thought of thoſe calamities in which I had involved him, recurred to torment my ſoul: nor was the melancholy idea ever abſent from the mind of Jacqueline.

Our excurſions were prolonged to a tedious and oppreſſing length. Sometimes the heavy hand of fatigue and languor preſſed ſore upon my dear com⯑panion, and called for all my care and tenderneſs: and theſe were again amply repaid, when the vio⯑lent and complicated griefs that preyed upon my heart threatened me with ſome heavy malady. Thus wandering on, and wearied in a fruitleſs ſearch, chance rather than our own determination led us to the ſea coaſt, where the wide extended ſcene diſplayed before me, awakened all my eager wiſher to reviſit England. Oftentimes did I caſt my eyes forward toward that ſeat of honour and ſecurity, and as oft did they turn back on France, as if in ſearch of my dear and injured friend. Not my own fortunes only were now the object of my thoughts: Jacqueline, the child of my preſerver, the partner of his ſorrows and his ſufferings, demanded a ſhare in my ſolicitude. I had ſtill gold to bribe the ſailor [53]to convey us to a harbour of ſafety. I could not bear the thought of leaving this precious pledge of friendſhip to the care of poor and helpleſs follow⯑ers; and yet my ſoul was pained, when I made an effort to perſuade her to ſeek refuge in an unknown country, and to reſign her laſt faint hopes of em⯑bracing a beloved parent. Here all my addreſs was employed, and every flattering ſuggeſtion urged to quiet her anxiety. All our diſappointed enquiries I converted into arguments of the caution and vigi⯑lance of Les Roches, which muſt have effectually concealed him from the malice of his purſuers. I ſpoke of my own influence in the Engliſh court, of the military power I could command: and conjured her to reſt aſſured that nothing was wanting for his protection but my appearance in England: that there I could command authority and power ſuf⯑ficient to ſupport his rights, and redreſs his injuries. Her great ſoul was animated with new vigour and reſolution at the thoughts of redreſs: and with a firmneſs which would have done honour to the bolder ſex, ſhe freely conſented to ſubmit to my direction, and declared herſelf ready to attend me.

Our two followers, whoſe unwearied zeal had not yet loſt ſight of us, were now employed to pro⯑cure a veſſel to convey us from the land of dan⯑ger and oppreſſion: as two pilgrims, engaged by ſolemn vows to viſit the lately erected ſhrine of St. Thomas of Canterbury; the ſame of which had not been confined to England. Some days paſt in expectation of their ſucceſs, an interval which was employed in comforting my fair charge, and con⯑firming her reſolution. On the morning of a vernal day, we wandered forth from the charitable cot⯑tage, that lately had received us, to indulge our gentle conference without fear or controul. The ſun was climbing to his meridian height, and warned us to repoſe under the ſhade of a ſteeply riſing hill, whoſe trees nodded over us, and embrowned the neighbouring plain. Here we had not long re⯑clined, when the noiſe of jocund mirth ſtruck our [54]ears, and called our attention to two travellers, who lay at ſome diſtance, ſharing their friendly meal. I ſtarted, and liſtened to the well known ſounds; I heard my own native lays, ſweetly rehearſing the renowned deeds of Arthur valiant prince, the an⯑tient wars of Ambroſe the Armoric knight, and the triumphs of Britiſh valour. I melted into tears, (ſuch are the tender emotions which the love of country raiſes in our breaſts) then ruſhing impetu⯑ouſly towards the travellers, I gazed on them with aſtoniſhment; they ſprung from the ground, no leſs ſurprized, and I embraced two of my dear country⯑men, and late companions. They ſurveyed me with joy and wonder, they acquainted me that their fellows were at hand; they aſked by what miracle I had been preſerved; but I at once ſtopped their enquiries by demanding to know the fate of Les Roches. Their cold and mournful looks at the mention of this name, chilled the blood of Jacque⯑line, who had by this time joyned us. 'Say, ſaid ſhe, in breathleſs agitation, 'when, how, where did Les Roches periſh? Could not his followers defend him? Or did they deſert him? Perfidious men! Where were their coward ſwords, when the malice of his perſecutors tore his poor helpleſs body? No faithful friend to defend him? No charitable hand to cloſe his dying eyes?' Here a flood of tears broke forth, while my countrymen wondered at her emotion: and eager to remove her ſuſpicions, de⯑clared, that Les Roches had wanted neither fidelity nor courage to defend him.' 'Lives he? cried the maid; 'where? lead me to him!' And again reſigned herſelf to ſorrow, when the Engliſhmen declared that they were ſtrangers to his fate, nor knew his place of reſidence if yet alive. I interpoſed to moderate her paſſion; then turning to my friends, demanded the full relation of their fortunes, ſince treachery and oppreſſion had laſt torn us from each other.

They had been perſuaded, (as I now learned) that I muſt have been ſeized in the caſtle, and [55]that I now lay under the ſevere oppreſſion of captivity; as Les Roches had inſtantly acquainted them with the ſecret of his daughter's being con⯑veyed to Poictiers, with his apprehenſions of my pre⯑cipitate zeal, and the meaſures he had taken to prevent any raſh purpoſe of throwing myſelf into the hands of my purſuers. They had attended him in his ſudden excurſion to collect his forces, and in the gallant act of defending him, they had been particularly animated by Fitz-Alan, the man whoſe inconſiderate error had firſt diſcloſed my name in the iſle of Rhè, and who now fought with redoubled ſury, to atone for his fatal imprudence. He it was who, when Les Roches lay ſurrounded and diſarmed, hewed his way thro' unequal num⯑bers, and led the brave Engliſhmen to his reſcue. They took their courſe from his direction, and conveyed him to the neighbouring hills, where ſecret and unviſited retreats received him, and where the vigilance and bravery of his followers guarded againſt the approach of frand and violence. His own countrymen, awed by the denunciations of Chauvigny, deſerted their unhappy chief, the help⯑leſs and abandoned victim of fatigue and want. The woods ſupplied his nouriſhment; the naked turf received his devoted head, whilſt the ſidelity and affection of his aſſociates watched his broken ſlumbers. Long time had they attended him from one retreat to another, thro' a ſeries of uniform diſtreſs, without any new or extraordinary change of fortune; 'till on one fatal morning, they whoſe induſtry bad been employed in hunting for food, and they who had the charge of watching near his humble couch, were ſtruck with confuſion and ſur⯑prize, when they came to ſeek their leader. He had ſuddenly diſappeared, nor could their moſt diligent enquiries learn his new reſidence, or inform them of his fate. And now, impatient of their ſituation, and determined rather to yield themſelves into the hands of their enemies, than to waſte a tedious life in diſtreſsful and uſeleſs retirement, they [56]deſcended from their mountains, and boldly adven⯑tured into more known and more frequented paths. Here they ſoon found that the hopes of regaining England were not yet to be reſigned. Purſuit and difficulty had ceaſed: they paſſed on unnoticed and unmoleſted, and at length gained the coaſt, where we were now all happily aſſembled.

The veſſel lay ready to receive us; we em⯑barqued with joy; yet ſtill cautious to guard againſt malice and hoſtility, I continued my diſguiſe. The winds were long unfavourable; and frequently were our ſouls terrified with the moſt alarming menaces of deſtruction. Twice did I embrace my lovely charge, in firm perſuaſion that I had taken my laſt and final farewel; and that the approaching hour muſt have conſigned us to one general ruin. Yet ſtill the holy ſaints denied not their protection. Courage and vigour unabated, ſucceſsfully con⯑tended againſt the angry elements. Haraſſed, waſted, and oppreſſed with toil, we at length gain⯑ed the cheering proſpect of our dear native ſhore. Here out ſhattered veſſel happily arrived; and here we repoſe our wearied limbs under your hoſpitable protection.

SECT. IV.

THE Earl ceaſed; and Randolph, who had liſtened with exact attention, pauſed for a mo⯑ment, in thoughtful ſilence, raiſed his eyes and hands to heaven, in rapturous admiration, and grateful ac⯑knowledgement of that power which had hitherto conducted his friend ſafely through this variety of peril and diſtreſs; then freely exclaimed at the envy of Mal-leon, the tyranny of Chauvigny, and the treachery of D'Aumont, with all the zeal of generous indignation and abhorrence. His tears con⯑feſſed that pity with which he thought on the cruel ſate of Les Roches, and infected the Earl with a ren⯑der emotion of grief for the misfortunes of his dear peril and diſtreſs; then freely exclaimed at the envy of Mal-leon, the tyranny of Chauvigny, and [57]friend and protector. He had not entertained the leaſt ſuſpicion but that his own misfortunes were now compleatly ended; that any thing more remained, but to repair to his caſtle, and comfort his ſolitary Counteſs; yet now, when reſtored to a degree of tranquillity, he again offered at ſome enquiries on his part, of his houſe, his ſon and wife, but was in⯑ſtantly interrupted by Randolph, who reminded him of reſt. The night was far ſpent: fatigue and ſleep, which the agitation raiſed by the recital of his adven⯑tures, had hitherto repelled, now reſumed their pow⯑er, and invaded him with double force. He retired, and at laſt enjoyed the comfort (to him long un⯑known) of peaceful and ſecure repoſe.

Age had made Randolph watchful. He roſe be⯑fore the dawn; and was ſoon joined by the attendants of Lord William, who advanced to greet their hoſt, and to acknowledge his generous cares. Their mutual ſalutations were cordial, and affectionate; the Engliſhmen ſeemed to have forgot their toils; luſty and ſpirited they ſtood accoutred, and pre⯑pared to meet their leader, earneſt to tender their ſervices, and impatient to accompany his progreſs. Nor did they long wait for the appearance of Lord William. He had ſprung from his couch refreſhed and reſtored to life and vigour, and now came forth to embrace the companions of his labours, and to repeat his congratulations. 'My friends,' ſaid Ran⯑dolph, 'bear with us for a moment. I have ſome⯑thing which demands the private attention of the Earl.—Yet—no—It need not be concealed from you. Your counſels may aſſiſt us.' Thus ſpeaking, he led the way towards a private apart⯑ment, whither he was followed by the Earl and his companions, not without ſome degree of wonder and anxious expectation.

Randolph caſt his eyes downwards for ſome mo⯑ments, and was ſilent: then turning them on Lord William, 'For what fortunes,' ſaid he, 'this Earl is preſerved, I know not: but tranquillity ſeems yet to be removed to ſome diſtance from his graſp: [58]ſomething ſtill remains to exerciſe his ſpirit. Ray⯑mond, nephew to that Hubert whoſe councils govern our King, now poſſeſſes his caſtle. There, and through all it's diſtrict, he governs with an abſo⯑lute ſway.'—'What! cried Saliſbury, 'is my pow⯑er er expired! Do I indeed live? Or have my rights been forfeited?—Where were my friends? Hath my Counteſs been ignominiouſly driven out by the uſurper?' Is this the reward of my ſervices? — Randolph here repreſſed his violence: and demanding a calm and patient attention, the Knight thus pro⯑ceeded.

We all know with what uncontrouled power Hubert rules in the court of England: how his ſubtile arts of inſinuation have penetrated into the inmoſt heart of our Henry; and now direct all it's motions and deſigns. Already too dangerous, he ſeeks but to extend his influence and authority, and to heap wealth and honours on his family and dependents. Theſe are his great purpoſes; and to theſe he ſacrifices the reputation of his maſter, and the welfare of his country. To him was ſoon con⯑veyed the falſe intelligence, that Earl William and his Knights, ſeparated from our fleet in the tem⯑peſtuous tumult, had periſhed in the deep. The King heard the tidings with kind concern, and paid the juſt tribute of ſorrow to his unhappy kinſman, and brave ſoldier. The crafty Hubert aſſumed the ſemblance of grief, whilſt his ſoul was buſy in con⯑triving the means of turning this event to his own intereſted purpoſes. He ſeized the eaſy and com⯑plying moment, when the King lay moſt open to his influence: he repreſented the cloſe alliance, in which Raymond his good nephew ſtood to the illuſtrious houſe of Saliſbury: he reminded him, that by the royal bounty, Lord William had ob⯑tained the heireſs of that houſe with her poſſeſſions, and urged that the ſame royal bounty ought now to confer this gift on him, whom nature ſeemed to point out as the true inheritor. In a word, he aſk⯑ed this boon, that Raymond ſhould be permitted to [59]wed the Counteſs, now ſuppoſed a widow, and to enjoy her ample fortunes and her honours.— 'Heavens!' exclaimed the Earl, this man admitted to her bed! — Am I ſo ſoon forgotten? What? not a few months of ſorrow!—Think not hardly of the Counteſs, ſaid Randolph; her dignity of ſoul.—'Yes!' cried William again interrupting him, 'I know it.—It cannot be—proceed, and give me all thoſe ſtrange events.—'The King,' replied Randolph, granted his ſuit without difficulty. Go, ſaid he, command Raymond to prepare for his departure: let him ſummon all his addreſs and eloquence, to prevail upon the gentle Counteſs. No eaſy conqueſt, ſhe; no common prize! My grace waits on her conſent.—Conſent! impoſſi⯑ble! cried Saliſbury; when Randolph again en⯑deavouring to allay the heat of his impatience, earneſtly united his intreaties with thoſe of the Earl's companions, and at length obtained a patient audi⯑ence.

Raymond, thus the old Knight proceeded, was not ſlow to accept this gracious condeſcenſion to his wiſhes. Supported by the power of Hubert, enriched by his bounty, and attended by the flat⯑tering followers of his proſperity, this Lord ſoon prepared all neceſſaries for a magnificent and ſtate⯑ly progreſs. He left the Engliſh court, which now graced the city of Marlborough with it's reſidence (for thither the indiſpoſition of our liege had cauſed it to be transferred) and at the head of a gallant troop of Knights, armed, and capariſoned in all their courtly pride and ſplendor, and implicitly obedient to their leader, he proceeded toward the caſtle of Sa⯑liſbury. The humble villagers gazed on this gay troop, with ſurprize and pleaſure, were ſoon in⯑formed of their purpoſe, and ſoon ſpread the ſtory through all the neighbouring land. The Counteſs had already learned the melancholy tidings of her Lord; and indulged her griefs in ſecret: when, rouſed by the appearance of this retinue, and nothing ſuſpecting the purpoſe of Raymond, [60]ſhe opened her gates wide to his approach, and re⯑ceived him and his attendants with all hoſpitable rites, befitting her own nobility, and the greatneſs of her gueſts. To Raymond ſhe appeared in all the dignity of grief, holding her young ſon, a fair copy of her beauty and her ſorrow. And (if fame ſpeaks true) the charms of the majeſtic mourner, had, in that moment, too powerful an influence upon the heart of Raymond. Love came in aid of his ambition, and inflamed the ardor of his purſuit. With all thoſe ſoothing arts, which courts and their poliſh'd converſe had beſtowed, he laboured to diſpel her gloom, and cautiouſly to introduce the great purpoſe of his arrival. Long time he ſuſpended his declaration: (ſuch is the controuling power of beauty, ſurrounded by the awful beams of chaſte and graceful dignity) yet in every interview was his paſſion confirmed and encreaſed. At length (ſo have we been in⯑formed) he ſpoke his ſuit with humble and anxious heſitation; and was received with ſurprize and ſcornful denial.

Whilſt the Knight thus ſpake, a ſucceſſion of vio⯑lent paſſions had diſtracted the mind of Lord William. His eyes firſt expreſſed an earneſt and tu⯑multuous impatience. He trembled; and the blood retired from his cheeks; then ruſhed back to re⯑ſume it's ſeat, with double force, and glowed with fiery indignation. Again, his tender looks declared, with what love and gratitude and ſympathizing pity, he felt the ſorrows of his beloved Counteſs. Impa⯑tience and anxiety again ſucceeded; and when the Knight pauſed, his looks had grown great, and elevated, and a ſudden exclamation of triumph broke involuntarily from his lips. 'What remains,' ſaid he, 'but that we now go and reſume our authority? What is wanting but our preſence to relieve our Counteſs from this importunate wooer? Come, my friends! let us haſte away. Let us break through that cloud of obſcurity which hath too long conceal⯑ed us: and confound the men who graſp at our rights [61]and honours, with ſuch a precipitate and raſh pre⯑ſumption. Shall Ela weep, and I delay to comfort her: Shall proud intruſion break upon her privacy, and irritate her grief, and do I not fly to relieve her?' 'Beware,' replied the Knight with looks of ſage and rigid caution, 'beware of violence! conſult not with thy paſſions. Thy Counteſs hath, I hope, maintained her firmneſs and conſtant purpoſe to the laſt. Should ſhe—but I cannot fear it.—Yet ſtill Raymond is in poſſeſſion of thy caſtle; he acts as Lord of thy land and inheritor of thy pow⯑er. Canſt thou behold this uſurpation calm and unmoved? Truſt me, I dread thy impetuous re⯑ſentment. Raymond is proud and inſolent; Hu⯑bert crafty, dark, and revengeful. The injurious never can forgive. Shame and diſappointment may drive him to deſperate reſolutions.—Alas, I can⯑not ſpeak half my fears.'

This myſterious language of the Knight, who, however he ſuppreſſed his fear, really dreaded a fatal compliance in the Counteſs, and formed the moſt terrible preſages of broils and blood, kindled up a ſudden flame in the breaſt of Saliſbury. 'Heavens!' cried he, 'if Raymond ſhould have already—'I ſee the danger of my ſituation.—But let us quickly ſeek this invader.' Randolph now ſeemed to condemn his own apprehenſions, which he obſerved might ariſe from doubtful or miſtaken information. His retirement had rendered him the more liable to be deceived; and deſpair of ever ſeeing the return of his friend had made him leſs ſolicitous in his enquiries. However, he ſtill urged caution and calm proce⯑dure. He adviſed that ſome friends ſhould be ſent forward to the caſtle to declare the approach of Earl William. 'This,' ſaid he, 'will give an opportunity to Raymond to retire, without the ſhame of en⯑countring the ſeverity of his aſpect, who comes to drive him from his uſurped ſtate, and without pro⯑voking thee to ſome raſh deed of ungoverned paſſion. Then ſhall we follow; and peace, joy, and conjugal affection ſhall receive thee.' The [62]Earl approved his counſel; and conſented to the deſires of his companions, who preſſed to be the har⯑bingers of his approach. They inſtantly took theſe way: whilſt Randolph diſpatched his meſſengers to ſummon ſuch a number of dependants as might afford an honourable conduct to the Earl, together with the fair Jacqueline, who now came forth not in her diſguiſe; but in a female garb, tho' not magnificent, yet better ſuited to diſplay her modeſt graces, and to give new luſtre to her beauty. It was reſolved that for a few days they ſhould continue with the hoſpita⯑ble Knight; an interval tedious and diſtracting to the Earl, whoſe mind was filled with doubts and fears; impatient to know more than had already been re⯑ceived from the imperfect intelligence of his hoſt, yet dreading to hear ſomething which might fatally wound his peace.

SECT. I.

WHATEVER ſadly-boding thoughts were entertained by Lord William, little did they correſpond with that weight of anguiſh, which, by this time, had oppreſſed his wife; in whoſe caſtle, the inſolence and cruelty of Raymond and his creatures had taken their lawleſs courſe, free from controul. His firſt appearance had been courteous and gentle, befitting a noble viſitant: nor did he diſcloſe his pur⯑poſe, till he had gained the fair opinion of the unſuſ⯑pecting counteſs. Love and wedlock, when firſt made his theme, ſounded like notes jarring and diſ⯑cordant, to the ear exactly tuned to harmony: and when he urged his ſuit directly, a ſudden flood of tears confeſſed her inward emotion, ſuch tears as in⯑dignation and diſdain force from the eyes of diſtreſſed greatneſs, and high-born pride. Raymond ſtood a⯑mazed: and vain were his repeated endeavours to compoſe her diſorder. At length, her paſſions thus found an utterance: ‘And doſt thou know me? Haſt thou ever heard that the greatneſs of ſoul which hath invariably diſtinguiſhed my long train of migh⯑ty anceſtry, is loſt in me?—One year hath not yet elapſed, ſince theſe arms embraced my honoured lord. But had the grave long ſince received him; had time dried up my widows tears, thinkeſt thou that the widow of a Plantagenet—But why talk I thus?—How knoweſt thou? What officious bab⯑ling ſlave hath flattered thee with the lying ſtory that Lord William lives no longer; that the great light of England is extinguiſhed, and that Ray⯑mond may now riſe and ſhine?—It is falſe—I will [64]not think it. Yet, yet will I hope for his return. Should he find thee here, (and this thy purpoſe!) what could defend Lord Raymoud from his reſent⯑ment? Thou knoweſt the mighty ſpirit Earl Wil⯑liam. Fly this moment; and tempt not thy fate. Nay, never frown! How would one ſingle glance of his princely eye confound that haughty confi⯑dence? Know, preſuming lord, that the ſlighteſt probability of his appearance ſhould ſtrike thee with terror.’ Thus ſaying, ſhe turned ſcornfully away; lovely even in her diſdain; and ſuddenly left her ſui⯑tor in wonder and confuſion: who, too deeply affect⯑ed by her beauty, to ſubmit to this repulſe, ſollicited, entreated, and at length rather forced, than was ad⯑mitted to a ſecond interview. Earneſtly did he urge his love, and with all the gentle eloquence of a ſincere and ardent paſſion. Juſt to the deſerts of of Earl Wil⯑liam, he acknowledged his high worth, and his own inferior merit: but the hopes of his return, he treated as deſperate and unreaſonable, and exerted all his art to baniſh from her thoughts the memory of a man, whom fate had long ſince buried in eternal oblivion. —'Behold this boy!' ſaid the Counteſs, claſping her young ſon: ‘in him, at leaſt, Saliſbury ſtill lives. And never can his mourning wife reſign the dear melancholy remmembrance of his greatneſs, while this precious pledge of former love, this lively image of a noble and honourable father, remains to ſooth her ſorrow. Behold him, ſee how all the princely dignity of William already ſits diſplayed in his youthful front: and wonder not that Ela never can deſcend to any other paſſion.’

Thus obſtinate and inexorable, the Counteſs ever added ſcorn and reproof to her denial; inſulted the love, and ſtung the pride of Raymond; whoſe diſ⯑grace was ſoon no ſecret to his attendants. Of theſe, the firſt, and principal in his confidence, was a man nurtured in courts; long practiſed in the arts of flat⯑tery, and the homage of dependance; trained to watch the looks, the ſmiles, the frowns of a ſuperior, to aid his pleaſures, to indulge his paſſions, to love, [65]to hate, as he directed, with an obſequiouſneſs equal⯑led only by the inſolence and oppreſſion which he dealt out with unfeeling ſeverity to all beneath him. Subtile and expert he was in the arts of fraud and cir⯑cumvention; ever attentive to his own private inte⯑teſt; patient, perſevering, and ſagacious in the means of advancing it. His name was Grey. To him Raymond unboſomed his diſordered thoughts; la⯑mented his deſpiſed love, and the unrelenting pride of Ela, which threatened to blaſt all his hopes of ambi⯑tion. The flatterer expreſſed the utmoſt indignation; and as if the reſolution of the Counteſs had been un⯑warranted and injurious, injurious to the honour and dignity of Raymond, he cenſured him with an artful ſemblance of ſincerity and zeal, as if he himſelf had been the cauſe of his own repulſe: He accuſed him of indulging the perverſeneſs and pride of this high dame, by the humble and abject ſtrain of his ad⯑dreſſes. He perſuaded him that in this place he was now abſolute lord and inheritor, who ſhould com⯑mand, and not intreat, graced as he was by the roy⯑al favour, and ſupported by the power of Hubert. The ſlighteſt hint was more than ſufficient to enflame the pride of Raymond. He yielded entirely to the pleaſing deluſion, and already fancied himſelf un⯑doubted heir of the houſe of Salſbury, and maſter of its ample domain. The conditions on which the king had aſſented to his petition, were totally forgotten: and he now determined to act agreeably to that high character, in which his imagination had arrayed him, and to extort that compliance to his wiſhes, which his ſollicitations could not obtain. Every thing was diſ⯑poſed at his command; and the domeſtics and in⯑habitants of the caſtle taught to acknowledge a new lord. To the Counteſs, he affected to appear, not as an humble lover, but an imperious ſovereign maſter. Yet, awed by her dignity and beauty, he acted this part, not without conſtraint and ſhame; and ſtill re⯑pulſed, and ſtill deſpiſed, he required all the artifice and flattery of Grey, to ſuport him in his purpoſe. Yet, this extraordinary change could not fail to alarm [66]the fears of the Counteſs. With ſurpriſe and helpleſſ indignation ſhe found herſelf the priſoner of her gueſt. Her uſual attendants were removed; and new domeſ⯑tics aſſigned, the creatures of her enemy, who per⯑formed the due offices to her and to her infant ſon, not without reſpect and care, but with ſullen ſilence and reſerve: and all her words and actions were free to the obſervation of ſtrange and unfriendly keepers. If Raymond ventured to appear in her preſence, (for ſtill he dreaded the ſeverity of her frown) with wild diſmay, yet with the dignity of injured greatneſs, ſhe demanded an explanation of this myſterious conduct: whilſt he only urged the neceſſity of an abſolute com⯑pliance with his deſires, and left her agitated ſoul to divine the fatal conſequences of a refuſal. Sometimes ſhe endeavoured to expoſtulate; to ſpeak her wrongs boldly, and to menace her oppreſſors; but tears never failed to betray her inward terror, and to diſcover a lively ſenſe of the weakneſs of her widowed ſtate. Sometimes ſhe called upon Lord William, and tor⯑mented herſelf with the remembrance of the virtues and renown of her loſt protector. Sometimes ſhe preſt her ſon with an eager and paſſionate fondneſs to her heart, and invoked every ſaint in heaven to ſave the precious creature. For him much more anxious, than for her own fate, ſhe formed a thouſand viſionary ſchemes to reſcue him from the oppreſſor; which like fantaſtical dreams, vaniſhed, and left her to deſ⯑pair. Raymond, though inſolent and cruel, yet ſtill loved the unhappy Counteſs; nor could he behold her diſtreſs without ſome pangs of remorſe. But his unrelenting minion was ever at hand, to condemn and deride his weakneſs, (ſo he deemed it) and to per⯑ſuade him that nothing but rigid authority and ſevere reſtraint could prevail upon the high mind of Ela, and reduce her to what his abandoned flattery pre⯑ſumed to call a reaſonable compliance. Thus was her reſolution ſtill aſſailed, and ſtill unconquered.

But greater trials remained for this unhappy lady, Grey, whoſe mind was not diſcompoſed by paſſion, and who thought more coolly than his lord, ſeriouſly [67]reflected on the neceſſity of forcing the Counteſs to give her hand to Raymond, in order to eſtabliſh his rightful claim to an inheritance, which promiſed ample advantages to his creatures. And when the proſpect of riches and rewards were preſented to his view, his rapacious ſoul inſtantly became deaf to all the calls of pity; nor was one ſentiment of humanity ſuffered to intrude upon his mind. The enamoured Raymond grew more and more impatient; and every hour lamented the inflexible ſpirit of the Counteſs, and her unalterable averſion to his love. His flatterer ſtill wore a face of friendly anxiety and concern; and, as if he lived only for his lord, ſeemed to feel the diſappointment as his own misfortune: and expreſ⯑ſed that earneſtneſs for conquering this difficulty, with which men generally purſue their private inte⯑reſts. Raymond was charmed with this ſpecious ſhew of zeal and ſincere affection. He called him friend, guardian, and director; he laviſhly promiſed wealth and honours; and entreated him to deviſe ſome means of accompliſhing his wiſhes. Grey ſeemed for a while immerſed in thought: then, as if ſuddenly recollecting himſelf, he aſſumed a look of confidence and exultation. 'It cannot be!' thus he exclaimed: 'This imperious Counteſs cannot for ever prove in⯑ſenſible to the inviting voice of joy and happi⯑neſs. She ſees thy paſſion; and would enflame it by this affected delay. Or if her haughty ſoul be really unmoved, ſomething muſt be thought of— Raymond muſt—yes, my ever honoured lord, thou ſhalt poſſeſs her. Let me be favoured with thy confidence: ſubmit to my direction. For ſome days ſhun her preſence, for there thy weakneſs is diſ⯑covered. Rely on my ſervices; and let it be my part to prevail upon her.'—'Go, ſaid Raymond; 'to you and to your conduct I implicitly reſign my hopes. Prevail, and be great as thou canſt wiſh.'—Thus was the afflicted Counteſs given up to the hands of inſolence and cruelty, without help or friend, without counſel or reſource.

[68] Inſtead of the man whoſe arrogance was tempered by that reverence and love with which her beauty had inſpired him, Ela ſaw now before her an unrelenting, unfeeling vaſſal; in condition, ſuch as her ſoul diſ⯑dained to hold converſe with, and in temper baſe and brutal. He approached her with a rude inſenſibility to her ſtate, and to her ſorrows. Inſtead of pleading the paſſion, or the merits of his maſter, he proudly demanded her compliance. He called upon her to conſider his power, and her own condition: that ſhe was no longer miſtreſs in this ſtately caſtle, which, with all its wide extended lands, had devolved to Raymond; now the maſter even of her and of her ſon; and that ſhe had only to chuſe whether to ap⯑pear as his conſort, in all the luſtre that riches and royal favour can beſtow, or to waſte her ſolitary days in grief and abject dependance.

The Counteſs, though pierced with ſorrow, and ſenſible of her helpleſs condition, ſurveyed the rude minion in diſdainful ſilence. He repeated his bold remonſtrances; yet nothing more could his importu⯑nities extort, than a ſtern command to retire from her preſence. He obeyed: but ſoon returned, and repeat⯑ed his odious inſolence. In that moment her young ſon appeared, and flew with eager and fond careſſes to his mother. At ſight of him, ſhe inſtantly forgot her greatneſs: her griefs burſt forth in a ſudden and violent ſtream. She embraced him with trembling arms: and the boy, though unable to conceive the cauſe, ſympathized paſſionately with the Counteſs. The ſight was pitiful and affecting; but the hardened Grey felt only a ſhort and tranſient ſurpriſe. 'Is he thus dear!' ſaid he: 'know then, that his mother's obſtinacy may prove fatal to her ſon. The charge of him now belongs to Raymond. He beſt knows how to defeat all future attempts to diſpoſſeſs him of his rights.'—The Counteſs ſtarted up in ſpeech⯑leſs amazement: and Grey turned from her with a ſullen menace, that henceforward her ſon ſhould be a ſtranger to her arms. 'Stay!' replied the Counteſs, pale and trembling with terror and virtuous anger: [69] ‘hear me, cruel man—Heavens! is it for this that we are made priſoners within our own walls; ſhut up from ſociety and relief? no acceſs for comfort or friendſhip; no reſource, no ſupport for our helpleſs innocence? And did the bloody purpoſe of a murder⯑er lurk beneath his courtly ſmiles, when Lord Ray⯑mond firſt entered our caſtle? And dreads he not vengeance? Have the friends of William all periſh⯑ed with him?—At leaſt Heaven is our friend; and will repay the cruel deed. O! there is a bleſſed angel ever ready to preſent the cries of infant inno⯑cence before the throne of juſtice, and to implore for vengeance on the arm that hath been lifted againſt it.—Seeks he our love? Miſtaken lord! little doſt thou conceive the fatal conſequences of extorting a feigned conſent, when the heart is ſtill eſtranged. Cold indifference, diſtaſte, averſion, and loathing, ever watch round the bridal bed, and fright away all joy and ſocial comforts—Seeks he our poſſeſ⯑ſions? —Take them! enjoy them freely! and let us retire to ſome ſeat of humble obſcurity; where no curious eye ſhall ever pierce through our receſs; where the name of Saliſbury was never known or uttered by the voice of Fame. There ſhall my child labour with the lowly peaſant: and never ſhall his mother betray the ſecret of his birth. But if his blood muſt be the horrid purchaſe—O let Ray⯑mond ſecure his power and riches beyond the reach of time or fortune. Let me too periſh. Drive not all mercy from your hearts: but ſpare me the dreadful ſight of my child's blood. No! let me be made the firſt victim of your cruelty.’

Pity and humanity for a moment aſſailed the ruth⯑leſs heart of Grey; but ſoon were they repelled. He ſternly anſwered, that ſhe and her ſon might yet be happy; that the conditions were eaſy and honourable: but that diſdain and pride were no good proofs of a mother's tenderneſs: that the fortune of this boy was in her power, and that ſhould he ſuffer, ſhe herſelf would be the author of his ſufferings.—Then call⯑ing the attendants, he commanded them to remove [70]young William. His mother fell upon her knees, ſtretching out her trembling arms in expreſſive ſilence: To her boſom the boy fled for refuge from his infant terrors; ſhe roſe, and claſped him to her breaſt, de⯑vouring the dear object with eyes of frantic fondneſs. The miniſters of cruelty relented and heſitated: but Grey ſeverely repeated his command. They ſur⯑rounded the diſtracted mother and her weeping ſon; ſoon conquered her feeble efforts to detain him, and tore him from her ſtruggling graſp. Her ſhrieks echo⯑ed through the caſtle, and wounded the affrighted ear: till nature, haraſſed and exhauſted by contending with the vaſt affliction, loſt its powers, and the Counteſs lay pale and lifeleſs upon the ground. The tumult in her apartment had already reached the ear of Ray⯑mond, who flew to enquire the cauſe, and now came to be a witneſs of her diſtreſs. He ſoon learned the cauſe, and far from approving the cruelty of his minion, he received him with frowns and reproof. He ordered the female attendants to convey their afflicted lady to her couch, and with all tender cares to recall her dying ſenſes. Thither he himſelf ſoon followed, to reſtore her dear ſon, and to calm her ter⯑rors: but ſhe now had no ear for comfort. The fever had already ſeized upon her; enflamed her eye, and raged in her boiling veins. Her diſordered fancy tormented her with killing images of terror; and his preſence added new force to her delirium. Ray⯑mond felt all the violence of love and diſtraction: and Grey ſtood aghaſt. This ſubtile minion labour⯑ed, firſt, to appeaſe the reſentment of his lord, and then to give him comfort. He himſelf appeared moſt ſollicitous for the recovery of the Counteſs, although his wicked heart ſecretly exulted in her preſent dan⯑ger. Should ſhe live, and at length conſent to accept of Raymond for a huſband, his inſolence muſt then be remembered, and his lord taught to deteſt the author of her ſufferings. Should ſhe ſtill refuſe to give her hand to Raymond, this lord could not long continue his oppreſſion, but muſt ſoon reſign his un⯑juſt pretenſions, and thus daſh all his own hopes of [71]rich rewards. Nay, poſſibly his conduct might here⯑after meet a ſevere puniſhment. Thus he reaſoned: and regarded her death as an event highly to be wiſh⯑ed. An infant heir might eaſily be diſpoſed of, and Raymond inveſted with his rights without controul or oppoſition. Every hour flattered his hopes with deſperate accounts of Ela and her alarming ſituation. His art was exerted to the utmoſt, to divert the atten⯑tion of Raymond from her diſtreſs, to alienate his mind from a woman who had preſumptuouſly inſuited his paſſion; and to dazzle him with the gay view of thoſe fortunes which were now ready to crown his wiſhes. To inflame the pride of this lord, was his artifice and flattery principally directed. And, when he had warmed his imagination with proſpects of riches and magnificence: when he had worked up his pliant mind to the due pitch of inſolence and fierceneſs, he even dared to hint at the neceſſity of defeating all future claims; and with hardened calm⯑neſs and indifference declared, that it muſt be his own care prudently and ſecretly to diſpoſe of young Wil⯑liam. Nor did Raymond, in his preſent temper, hear him with abhorrence or emotion. To ſuch in⯑conſiſtencies is the mind of man hurried by the ty⯑ranny of paſſions. He had juſt expreſſed the tendereſt pity for the Counteſs; and now, when the determin⯑ed villain had propoſed to deſtroy her infant ſon, he ſtarted not at the horrid council, nor refuſed his con⯑ſent.

SECT. II.

BUT that pity which pride and intereſted cruelty denied her, Ela found now in her own ſex. Her principal female attendant, though the creature of Raymond, and by him appointed for her ſervice, had long beheld her ſorrows and maternal fondneſs, with ſecret grief and ſympathy. She had, herſelf, been wife and mother, had long felt and known their endearments and cares. Long had ſhe wept in ſecret [72]for the afflictions of her injured lady, and now attend⯑ed on her ſick couch, with all the fond zeal and con⯑cern, which a woman's diſtreſs could excite in the gentle and feeling mind of woman. Her affection was now undiſſembled (for her Lord enjoined the moſt aſſiduous care, when the diſorder had firſt ſeized the Counteſs:) and that affection was attended with ſucceſs, proportioned to it's ardor and ſincerity. Not time nor fatigue could abate her diligence and kind attention to a beloved miſtreſs, who long lay inſenſi⯑ble of her goodneſs, ſhrinking timorouſly from the hand that preſented relief. At length, however, na⯑ture appeared ſtill unconquered in this ſevere conflict, Reaſon began gradually to regain it's native ſeat, and the Counteſs was reſtored to ſome compoſure. Elinor (ſo was her attendant called) watched the happy mo⯑ment, when ſhe began to ſurvey the objects round her without diſtraction, to offer comfort and conſolation. She preſented her ſon, who ſtood weeping by her ſide, to aſſure her of his ſecurity; and every office which duty and charity could dictate, ſhe buſily per⯑formed to allay the violence of her malady, and to reſtore her languid ſpirit. The Counteſs, touched with her goodneſs, repaid her with the warmeſt ex⯑preſſions of regard and gratitude. Their affection was now mutual, and was ſucceeded by mutual con⯑ſidence. Thus, even amongſt it's enemies, did op⯑preſſed virtue ſo far prevail, as to reconcile one mind, and to attach one relenting heart, to it's injured cauſe. Ela every hour experienced the happy effects of ten⯑der care. She had recovered ſome degree of eaſe and ſtrength: ſhe had leiſure to reflect upon her danger and difficulties: misfortune and ſolitude had effaced the proud thoughts of rank and greatneſs: and without reſerve ſhe opened her ſoul to this attendant; bitterly lamenting the ſeverity of her fate; who, tho' ſhe num⯑bered many and powerful friends, tho' her fortune and condition gave her the command of a formidable band of vaſſals, yet by foul treachery was cut off from all relief, from all poſſibility of complaining, or petitioning for deliverance, ſubjected to the will [73]of inſolent and cruel enemies, and expoſed to all the diſtreſſes of captivity, in that very place, where ſhe was rightful miſtreſs: ſtrange reward for the ſervices of her great father, and her noble huſband! The attendant with ardent prayers, and lively effuſi⯑ons of pity and tenderneſs, gave her ſome ſlight conſolation; but tho' ſhe felt for her diſtreſs, ſhe ſeemed incapable of deviſing any reaſonable means of relief. Hope, patience, and ſuch like terms, which found but harſhly in the ear of affliction, ſhe repeated with a warm but impotent zeal; ſhe even ventured to hint at the expediency of aſſuming an appearance of leſs ſeverity to Lord Raymond; of flattering his fond expectations for a while: thus, to amuſe the buſy and contriving malice of his creature, to gain ſome interval of eaſe, ſome happy reſpite from per⯑ſecution. Time and the interpoſition of heaven might then work wonderfully for her deliverance. But the ſoul of Ela ſtill retained a dignity ſuperior to the arts of diſſimulation. She ſtarted with ab⯑horrence, at the thought of ſullying her bright ſame by any ſuſpicious conduct, any ſemblance of un⯑worthy condeſcenſion. Her high mind dwelt with more pleaſure on the flattering thoughts of redreſs and vengeance. She reflected that the land ſtill con⯑tained many powerful friends to her loſt huſband, and to her noble houſe; ſhe hoped that nothing was neceſſary for her deliverance, and for the puniſhment of her oppreſſors, but to inform them of her dan⯑gerous and diſtreſsful ſtate. Poſſeſſed with theſe thoughts, ſhe conceived the bold deſign of eluding the vigilance of Raymond, and of eſcaping to a religious houſe: there to take ſanctuary with her infant ſon, from thence to repreſent to the King, the cruel inſult offered to the memory of his kinſman and faithful ſoldier, and to demand redreſs of his and her own wrongs from the juſtice of the throne, and the power of her friends. She took no pains to conceal theſe ſentiments; but freely communicated the deſign to Elinor and entreated her aſſiſtance. She enlarged on the power and opportunities of rewarding her [74]fidelity, which ſucceſs muſt give her: ſhe laviſhly poured out gold and jewels. ‘Go, ſaid ſhe, find among the dependants of this proud Lord, if there be courage and humanity in any breaſt to favour a virtuous deſign. Here are rewards! a ſmall portion and but an earneſt of that munificence with which my gratitude ſhall repay the benefit.’ The attendant at firſt ſeemed aſtoniſhed at the boldneſs of the attempt: whilſt the Counteſs renewed her ſollicita⯑tions, a new and ſudden thought ſeemed to ſtart to life within her mind: but before ſhe could give it utterance, their converſation was interrupted; and Elinor commanded to attend inſtantly on Lord Ray⯑mond. She departed with a look, which aſſured the Counteſs of her unalterable attachment; but did not entirely diſſipate her terrors. Theſe were inſtantly awakened at the alarm of every thing new and un⯑expected.

A long interval of ſuſpence encreaſed her anxiety: at length however the faithful attendant returned, and with a chearful aſpect, 'Deareſt Lady,' ſaid ſhe, ‘the bleſſed ſaints ſeem to encourage us to the bold attempt of eſcaping from theſe walls, Lord Ray⯑mond hath appointed his Knights to make ready in three days, to accompany him to the neighbouring woods; there, to purſue the chaſe. He hath en⯑quired of your health: and is perſuaded that you continue ill at eaſe. He hath enjoined the exacteſt care and vigilance in his abſence, and particularly that none be ſuffered to approach your chamber, but in my preſence and by my appointment. The command of the caſtle is to be committed to my brother: and ſtrict ward to be maintained. But he is no friend to oppreſſion. I have already ſounded, and find him apt to our purpoſe.’ Ela paſſionately entreated that this man ſhould be brought before her: but ſoon recollecting the neceſſity of avoiding all ſuſpicion, ſhe contented herſelf with intruſting to Eli⯑nor the important charge of prevailing on him. Into her hands ſhe earneſtly gave up all her ſtore of [75]wealth: and the good attendant prudently and faith⯑fully employed ſuch part of it as was neceſſary to con⯑firm the wavering reſolution of her brother. She prevailed, and returned with the pleaſing tidings that he had conſented to follow the fortunes of the Coun⯑teſs, and to ſeize the approaching occaſion to convey her and her young ſon to any place of ſafety. In the mean time ſhe adviſed that Ela ſhould ſtill continue the appearance of malady and weakneſs, and patiently wait the happy moment of her deliverance. The eyes of this lady brightened up with joy and pleaſure, and her breaſt laboured with the violent emotions of gratitude. 'Gracious powers!' (thus her paſſions forced their way) ‘Is this the vaſſal of an unjuſt op⯑preſſor? This the agent of tyranny and cruelty? Say, whence hath thy gentle manners been ſo ſtrangely aſſociated with ſavage pride and uſurpa⯑tion? Whence hath thy goodneſs and affection been choſen by Lord Raymond to miniſter to his purpoſes? Who art thou, that feel'ſt my affliction, and art thus kindly ſollicitous for my relief?’ The attendant wept, and thus returned anſwer to the en⯑quiries of the Counteſs.

SECT. III.

‘HAPPIER days have I beheld; and better fortune have I experienced. I had a huſ⯑band, lady, brave and honeſt: a ſon too, trained to arms, and exerciſed in deeds of war.—But heaven was pleaſed to take them from me.’— Here her grief broke forth with ſtill greater violence, and redoubled the attention of the Counteſs; nor did ſhe ſoon recover ſuch eaſe as enabled her to proceed in the following manner.

‘Our reſidence was in the neighbourhood of Not⯑tingham, where we lived in peace, removed from the cares of greatneſs, and the bitterneſs of diſtreſs. My huſband was loving; Edmund our only child, the delight of our eyes, and comfort of our advanc⯑cing [76]years. Tho' bred to arms, he was mild and gentle, and tho' nurtured in the humble vale of life, he was brave and generous. Even from his infant years, he had conceived an affection for the daughter (ſhe too the only child) of a neighbouring Franklin, which grew with their ripening age; nor was condemned or controuled. The fond parents beheld this youthful pair of lovers with ſecret joy; and hoped, in them, to tranſmit their names and little inheritances to ſucceeding times. They were betrothed, and but waited for the holy benediction to crown their wiſhes; when war and tumult began to rage in England. John was then our king: he had ſubmitted, and was reconciled to the holy father. He had attempted to recover his domini⯑ons in France; but, abandoned by his diſcontented Nobles, he returned to his kingdom, full of vexa⯑tion and revenge. Ah, Lady! little doth the high⯑born Courtier or the powerful Lord conceive of that weight of miſery which public diſſentions heap upon the lowly ſubject! The King marched like an enemy thro' the land, ſpoiling and ravaging the eſtates of his wayward Barons. He arrived at Not⯑tingham where my Lord of Canterbury, at length, prevailed to ſtop his unfriendly progreſs. He con⯑tinued here for ſome time: his followers, ſecure in his protection, and enriched by his bounty, little regarded the ſevere limits which laws preſcribe. Gay revellers they; who, full of mirth and diſport, beguiled the time in ſong and dance with courtly dames. One of theſe glittering minions of royal favour perchance caſt his wanton eyes on Edyth, the maid betrothed to my ſon. Accurſed be the hour, in which he diſcovered and was enamoured with her beauty! He courted her in gentle guiſe, with fair ſemblance of reſpect and decent love: he dazzled her with a view of coſtly gifts: he pro⯑miſed much, he ſighed often, and ſometimes wept; but all fruitleſs were his endeavours to conquer the integrity of this honeſt maiden. Yet, not entirely diſpleaſed at his flattering arts, ſhe liſtened without [77]terror or abhorrence, whilſt yet his purpoſe was not directly avowed; and ſometimes, yielding to his courteſy, ſuffered him to lead her forth, and to amuſe her ear with tales of courtly pleaſures and ſplendor. The jealous anxiety of Edmund ever watched their ſteps at wary diſtance: 'till at length, when this incautious maid had been conducted to a ſecret path, when ſhe ſuddenly found her helpleſs innocence at the mercy of a luxurious courtier; when he boldly preſt his ſuit, and attempted to force her, trembling and diſmayed, to his wicked purpoſe, her piercing ſhrieks ſoon ſummoned a faithful deli⯑verer to her ſide. Edmund, mad with rage and jealouſy, fatally ſmote the raviſher; and careleſsly leaving him weltering in blood, conveyed away his Edyth, who had fainted with terror and ſurprize, and ſafely depoſited his heart's dear treaſure in her father's dwelling.’

‘An event like this was not to be concealed: nor did the unhappy youth, now mad with paſſion, and deaf to the calls of prudence, fear to avow his bloody deed freely and publicly. Soon was the bo⯑dy diſcovered; and ſoon was Edmund ſeized, and torn from his frantic miſtreſs. An armed band hur⯑ried him away, with loud and tumultuous denun⯑ciations of vengeance; when happily the King, now returning from the chace, deſcried the rout, and diſpatched an attendant to demand the cauſe of ſuch diſorder. Of this he was inſtantly informed; and curious to learn the occaſion of ſuch a preſump⯑tuous violence upon his officer, to view the man who even boaſted of his outrage, he ordered the criminal to be brought before him. My ſon was now led forward; and as he prepared to caſt himſelf at the feet of his Liege, the fiery beaſt which the King beſtrode, frighted at the tumult, began to ſtart and rear up with ungovernable wildneſs. The attendants inſtantly alighted; but before they could ſupport their falling maſter, Edmund had burſt like lightning from the hands of his guards, broke his fall and remounted him. This zeal and vigour [78]were beheld with wonder, and ſecret applauſe. The King himſelf was by no means unaffected by the incident. His looks grew leſs ſevere; and in a tone, not angry, but majeſtically grave, he de⯑manded to know who he was, and what had prompt⯑ed him to this act of blood. My ſon kneeled be⯑fore him, modeſt but not abject; and with an inge⯑nuous plainneſs and freedom, related the unhappy cauſe that had provoked him to this outrage: his love to the betrothed maid; the arts and treachery to which ſhe had been expoſed; the horrid attempt of violation; and his own fatal encounter with the King's-officer. In a word, he ackowledged the crime, and with decent boldneſs declared himſelf reſigned to the puniſhment, and prepared to yield up his forfeit life. The King liſtened with atten⯑tion, and in the natural and unaffected narrative ſaw the full proof of all that had been alledged. With a ſudden warmth, he ſwore by the foot of God, (his uſual oath) that his ſervant had deſerv⯑edly met his ſate; that Edmund was a brave youth, and merited not only pardon, but reward; and that henceforward he ſhould be his ſoldier. The wit⯑neſſeſs of this ſcene were not ſlow to applaud the ſentiments of their ſovereign. They vied with each other in their praiſes of my ſon, whoſe youth⯑ful breaſt was but too ſuſceptible of their impreſſi⯑ons How happy did we then eſteem ourſelves, when we ſaw our child reſcued from deſtruction, graced with the royal favour, and entruſted with an honourable command! To us he paid his filial duty; then flew to the beloved Edyth, to comfort her for⯑row and revive her ſpirit, confounded and depreſ⯑ſed by the late event. Of her, he took a tender leave, with aſſurances of invariable fidelity, and paſſionate vows of ſpeedy return to compleat his happineſs; then departed to perform the duties of his new charge. But we were not as yet totally bereft of our darling object; ſome intervals he found for brief, yet frequent viſitings; to delight us with the ac⯑counts of his advancing fortune. So compleatly was [79]he now poſſeſſed with the thoughts of war and ho⯑nour; ſo elevated and tranſported by the view of courtly ſplendor, and the gay promiſes of youthful ambition, that love ſeemed to hold but a ſecond place within his mind: and the ſighs and half-ſup⯑preſſed tears of Edyth, ſometimes conſeſſed her jealous fear of his eſtrangement. He ſaw, and chid her unjuſt ſuſpicions: to allay them, he pro⯑poſed that the holy Father ſhould inſtantly unite their hands. Their nuptials were ſudden; and their conjugal endearments, alas! too ſoon inter⯑rupted by our ſon's neceſſary attendance on his roy⯑al maſter.’

‘The land was now threatened with all the ca⯑lamities of civil war. A ſecond time had the bold Barons put on their armour, and collected their vaſſals againſt John. My huſband, altho' he bad already ſuffered in their cauſe, yet ſtill adhered with an obſtinate integrity, to that ſide which he deemed the great bulwark of his country. He ear⯑neſtly preſt young Edmund to abandon the ſervice of a prince whoſe ſavour was precarious; ſuddenly and capriciouſly beſtowed; and as ſuddenly and capriciouſly withdrawn. But he was heard with reluctance and averſion. He urged the ſolid com⯑forts of honeſt poverty and contentment; he called it ſhameful (forgive me, Lady, if his homely ſenti⯑ments offend) to unite with repacious foreigners, and to embrue his hands in the blood of country⯑men and brethren. His ſon was ſtill unmoved, and to all his arguments oppoſed one plea, his forfeit life, and the vaſt debt of gratitude he owed the King. A father's authority was then exerted. He was commanded, upon his filial obedience, to attend on the confederated Lords; the terrors of divine vengeance were denounced on his unduti⯑ful obſtinacy. He heſitated; but the flattering proſpects of ambition at length prevailed. He for⯑got the ſubmſſion due to a parent's authority; full of gay hopes and impatient of controul, he haſt⯑ened away to ſerve his liege lord, whilſt my huſband, [80]irritated at his diſobedience, pronounced ſomething like a curſe upon his unhappy ſon, and followed the ſtandard of William de Albinet the commanding Baron.’

‘Thro' the courſe of theſe unhappy conteſts, Ed⯑mund encreaſed in honour; and ſtill more and more approved his active valour. It is too well known with what ſhameful diſregard to the protection of their adherents, the Barons ſuffered a number of the moſt faithful to their cauſe to be ſhut up within the caſtle of Rocheſter, and to be ſorely preſt by the royal army, while they themſelves rioted in London. In a fatal hour, Edmund was commanded to the ſiege of this caſ⯑tle. —O Lady! a few words are ſufficieut for the reſt of his ſad ſtory. How doth the dreadful re⯑membrance pierce my afflicted heart! Many deeds of manhood did he atchieve; and oftentimes did he repel the deſperate valour of the beſieged. At the head of a ſmall party, he at length ven⯑tured too raſhly to approach the caſtle walls; and was ſuddenly encountered by a larger body of the enemy. The conteſt was obſtinate and bloody: but his aſſociates were borne down by numbers, and leſt him, as they yielded, ſingly engaged with a ſoldier, whoſe ſword threatened deſtruc⯑tion. They ruſhed upon each other, they cloſed, they redoubled their deadly blows, 'till at length, a well directed ſtroke from the arm of Edmund fell upon the front of his antagoniſt, cleſt his bearer, and uncovered his wounded head. Ed⯑mund ſtarted! ſtood aghaſt! uttered ſome con⯑fuſed ſounds of horror! how can I ſpeak it! — The ill fated youth—O for ever accurſed be the authors of every civil ſtrife!—had ſmote his fa⯑ther.’ — Here the diſorder of the unhappy mother ſtopped her voice. The Counteſs was ſcarcely leſs affected: ſhe trembled, as if witneſs of the horrid ſcene: and Elinor at length proceeded thus.

‘My huſband, ſtunned and ſaint, was ſinking down; when Edmund ſeized him in his arms, [81]and gently laid him upon the earth. He kneeled before him, in all the bitterneſs of anguiſh and diſ⯑traction. His lamentations were loud and wild; and earneſtly did he implore for pardon; and bit⯑terly did he curſe his own fatal error. The lan⯑guid eyes of his father were fixed kindly upon him; his faltering voice ſpoke forgiveneſs. And now was Edmund preparing to bind up his wound, and to convey him to ſome place of ſafety and relief, when the noiſe of tumult and rout grew loud. He turned his head haſtily, to learn the cauſe; and, in that fatal moment, received a ſhot from a croſs-bow full in his brain. The ſon ſunk down by the ſide of the bleeding father; the routed, and the purſuers (a party of the royal army who had come to the ſupport of their aſſociates) trampled upon their bodies. Edmund had at once expired with a groan. My huſband lived but to relate the dreadful ſtory.’

Here the attendant ſtruggled to ſuppreſs her ſorrow. Not ſo the gentle Counteſs. Her tender mind was deeply pierced; and freely was her pity uttered.—'Thus,' ſaid Elinor, ‘in one accurſed hour, was I bereft of all my comfort. The ca⯑lamity was too great for my weak heart to bear. The relation inſtantly confuſed my brain, and deprived me of reaſon. Long did I continue in a melancholy inſenſibility to my diſtreſs; and per⯑haps, heaven was kind in thus afflicting me. When time, and a brother's tender care, had at length reſtored my diſordered ſenſes, I learned, that the wretched Edyth had been ſeized with the pangs of untimely childbirth, had with pain and ſorrow given her lifeleſs burden to the light, long lan⯑guiſhed in ſickneſs and grief; and was at length re⯑tired to a religious houſe, there to end her wretched days. And there were they ſoon ended. I my ſelf had been deſpoiled of all my poſſeſſions, by the ſury of civil war, in which both parties were equally incenſed againſt my huſband or my ſon. Reſcued from death, and ſupported by the kind⯑neſs [82]of my brother, the vaſſal of Lord Raymond; him have I followed, and by his means have I been placed here; ready to obey our Lord in all humble and honeſt duties: but we have not yet learned to be the baſe inſtruments of oppreſſion.’— Here ſhe pauſed and wept. The Counteſs laboured to comfort, and to inſpire her with hopes of better fortune; repeated her aſſurances of favour and pro⯑tection; and earneſtly declared, that to be happy, ſhe had but to extricate a grateful miſtreſs from her preſent diſtreſs.

SECT. IV.

THE long wiſhed for day at length appeared, when Raymond and his Knights were to iſſue forth, and Oſwald the brother of Elinor was to be warder of the caſtle. The time and manner of eſcape had been duely concerted. The garb of an humble domeſtic had been provided for the Counteſs: in which diſguiſe, ſhe, together with her ſon and faithful woman, were to be conveyed thro' a poſtern gate, which led to a neighbouring wood: there was Oſwald to provide horſes, and from thence to conduct them to a religious houſe, which had been enriched by the pious bounty of Ela, in her more proſperous days: and where ſhe now hoped to find due regard, and inviolable ſanctuary. The day was ſpent in pre⯑paration; in fears and hopes, and anxiety. At length the mid-hour of night approached, the hour ap⯑pointed for departure. Oſwald by means of a truſty ſervant had placed his horſes in the wood: and had ſo ſtationed his men as to prevent them from being witneſſes of his deſign. The Counteſs had put on her diſguiſe, embraced her ſon, and delivered him to the hand of Elinor. Their conductor led them cautiouſ⯑ly and ſilently thro' the caſtle. They had paſſed the gate, and were now ſtretching towards the wood with more enlivened ſteps, when the ſhrill ſound of a horn proceeded from the other ſide of the [83]caſtle, and proclaimed the approach of ſome knight or ſtranger. Oſwald ſtarted, the women trembled; the ſound was loudly repeated; and returned from the adjacent hills: when Oſwald, marking where the full moon diſcloſed a beaten path, and pointing towards the wood, earneſtly preſt them to bend their courſe thither without fear or heſitation, and there to wait his coming; which he promiſed ſhould be ſpeedy. He ſpoke of the preſent alarm as of no moment, but declared himſelf reſolved to learn the occaſion of it. They obeyed; and he returned into the caſtle: where he appeared opportunely to prevent ſuſpicion or detection. The domeſtics were all rouſ⯑ed, and ſome had already mounted the battlements to demand, who, at this dead hour, had approached the caſtle, and on what occaſion. They were anſwered, that there ſtood two perſons at the gates diſpatched by Hubert chief juſticiary, to Lord Ray⯑mond on eſpecial affairs; that they had been miſ⯑guided, and wandered thro' the country until night had overtaken them: that at length they had recover⯑ed the true path, and that their fatigue required im⯑mediate entrance and refreſhment. By the command of Oſwald, they were admitted and entertained with due courteſy. He, tho' determined to abandon the ſervice of Raymond, and impatient to rejoin the Counteſs, and her ſon, yet could not reſiſt the deſire of conferring with theſe meſſengers; and eſpecially when he learned from one of them, who ſeemed of in⯑ferior quality, that they brought ſome intelligence about lord Saliſbury. He invited this man to refreſh himſelf with wine (for the other had retired to reſt.) He entertained him with all hoſpitable kindneſs, and from him learned, that but a little time ſince, ſolemn juſts and tournaments had been held at the Engliſh court, in which a young knight of France (induced as he declared, by the fame of the gallant nobles of Britain) had appeared, and diſtinguiſhed himſelf by his proweſs and courage. That the King and his courtiers had received him with all due ho⯑nours: that in ſome converſations, he had lamented [84]the fate of an Engliſh Lord known in both realms by the name of Saliſbury: who as he was informed, had been purſued by adverſe fortune in Poictou, ob⯑liged to fly before his enemies, abandoned by his few attendants, and accompanied only by a fair and noble lady; and that too ſtrong reaſons there were to fear that he had periſhed. Oſwald heard him with a violent yet well diſſembled emotion; and hav⯑ing prevailed on him to retire, pauſed, tho' ſtill anxi⯑ous to ſeek the Counteſs, and debated within his mind, whether he ſhould communicate this intelli⯑gence or no. As he was not ſufficiently acquainted with the refined and exalted ſentiments of noble minds, he concluded that the hopes of her Lord's return were Ela's only motive for receiving the addreſſes of Lord Raymond with ſuch ſeverity and abhorrence, and that any aſſurances of his death, muſt determine her to accept the tenders of his love: he therefore reſolved freely to declare what he had juſt now heard; and ho⯑ped that ſhe might thus be prevailed on to abandon the deſign of flying, and to return to her caſtle.

The domeſtics were now ſeparated; and ſilence and tranquillity again reſtored: when Oſwald again iſſued forth, ſtill firmly reſolved to obey the com⯑mands of the Counteſs, whatever theſe might be, and faithfully to follow her fortunes, ſhould ſhe be ſtill reſolute to tempt the dangers of flight. He found her at the appointed ſtation impatient of his tedious abſence, and almoſt ſinking under the terrors of night and ſolitude. Elinor ſat by her ſide, ſtill more diſmayed, ſupporting her young ſon, and ſhielding him from the dampy air whilſt he lay compoſed in peaceful ſleep. The moon was haſtening to her decline; and threatened to involve them in all the horrors of darkneſs; when their long expected protec⯑tor at length appeared to relieve their diſtracting fears. He briefly related the occaſion of his delay; the ar⯑rival of theſe meſſengers, and the diſcourſe which he had held with one of them. The bare mention of intelligence about Lord William, raiſed an uni⯑verſal agitation in the Counteſs. The melancholy [85]air which Oſwald aſſumed, encreaſed her terror and impatience: nor had he yet finiſhed his relation, when the blood deſerted the cheeks of Ela. She cloſed her eyes, and died away. Elinor ſhrieked, Oſwald ſupported her; but their cares were a long time ineffectual. At length, the Counteſs raiſed her languid front, and breathed a heart-felt ſigh. 'He was then diſloyal!' ſaid ſhe:—‘A noble la⯑dy! —was ſhe noble?—But alas, I fear, hea⯑ven hath ſeverely puniſhed his guilt?’ Oſwald now perceived his own imprudence, and would have offer⯑ed comfort: but the Counteſs was wholly engaged by her own ſad thoughts. He repeatedly preſt and enforced the danger of her preſent ſituation, and the neceſſity of ſpeedy departure: but no attention could he gain. At length, turning her ſadly ſtreaming eyes ſlowly upon him; 'No, my friend!' ſaid ſhe, ‘theſe languid limbs muſt here find their grave.—Yet —it were a bleſſing to end my days in the manſi⯑ons of devotion, to hear the reverend father ſpeak comfort to my departing ſpirit:—but, I cannot —this frame is too feeble: the hand of death preſſes too ſeverely upon me.—O friends! if ever your hearts knew pity, look upon that boy. He was not born to this wretchedneſs: he hath ſtill noble friends.—If you would atone to heaven for your offences, ſave him; convey him quickly from the power of his enemies. Seek the place appointed for our retreat; there ſave yourſelves and him: there ſhall the friends of his houſe find him reſcued from cruelty and uſurpation: they ſhall protect and defend him; they ſhall aſſert his rights and reward your fidelity. Theſe jewels, theſe treaſures ſhall reward you. My ſon ſhall live to reward you.’—Elinor, kneeling before her with weeping eyes and lifted hands, earneſtly en⯑treated her to collect her ſpirits and to purſue her intended flight: uttering the moſt ardent and paſ⯑ſionate vows that fear or force ſhould never drive her from her beloved miſtreſs.—'If I am beloved,' ſaid the Counteſs, ‘ſhew me thy love; and ſave [86]my child. Think not of me. I can die here: and ſome charitable hand may perhaps be ſound to cloſe my eyes in peace.’ Here ſhe again fainted: nor could all the tender care and ſollicitude exerted to re⯑lieve her, reſtore her to life and ſenſe. Elinor hung weeping over her: Oſwald was diſmayed and diſ⯑tracted: he ſaw the danger of this raſh enterprize, and could think of no reſource: he would have conſulted with his ſiſter; but her mind was engaged only by her miſtreſs. He ſuddenly called to his at⯑tendant, who ſtill continued at ſome diſtance with the horſes: one of theſe he mounted: the Counteſs was raiſed up and placed reclining in his arms. Thus he proceeded gently towards a cottage which lay at ſome ſmall diſtance; whoſe charitable inhabitants roſe at the noiſe of benighted travellers, and ad⯑mitted them. The Counteſs was diſpoſed upon their humble couch, and now once again recovered from her trance. She thanked the tenderneſs of the afflicted Elinor: then calling to Oſwald, with hands and eyes raiſed to heaven, ſhe earneſtly conjured him by all his hopes of future happineſs, to fly with her ſon to ſanctuary, to proclaim his and her wrongs: and particularly to ſeek the protection of the Lord de Warren his father's noble friend; who would receive and ſhield his helpleſs innocence, aſſert his rights, and controul his oppreſſors. Of herſelf ſhe ſpake with indifference; as a perſon on the point of finding refuge from her enemies in the arms of death. Oſwald was ſo perſuaded: he regarded her preſent languid ſtate as the laſt ſad period of her life; and looking tenderly upon his ſiſter, ſeemed to wiſh that ſhe could fly from the reſentment of Lord Raymond. But ſoon were his thoughts checked by the zealous declarations of this friendly matron, that no fear of power, no threats of puniſhment, no motive whate⯑ver ſhould prevail upon her to abandon her dear miſtreſs: ſhe urged him to obey her commands with ſpeed, and to leave them to the protection of hea⯑ven. [87]The honeſt heart of Oſwald was affected: in a paſſionate fit of zeal, he declared himſelf ready to fly with young William. The anxious mother thanked him with her looks: ſhe claſped her ſon with a feeble but tender embrace; and lifting her eyes devoutly towards heaven, commended him to the protection of all the holy angels. His looks con⯑feſſed his infant fear, when ſhe delivered him to his conductor. He wept, and was cenveyed away. Some few tears dropt from the Counteſs; but the recollection of his eſcape, and the hopes of his pre⯑ſervation, ſoon gave comfort to her afflicted mind, and animated her with new life and ſpirit. Her eyes were lighted up anew; her voice leſs faltering, and her frame leſs languid. She now ſeemed to defy her oppreſſors, and declared herſelf reſolved to aſſume her rightful authority and ſtate; to act as miſtreſs of her caſtle and domain, in open defiance of the bold intruders. By the dawn of morning, ſome peaſants were diſpatched to the caſtle to give notice of her preſent ſituation, and to order ſuch conveniencies as were neceſſary for her removal. A litter together with the proper attendants was ſoon ſent for this purpoſe. Elinor, ſtill faithful to her charge, waited on the ſide of her beloved lady: who now again entered her own ſtately hall, and was laid with care and tender offices of duty upon her own couch.

SECT. V.

IN the mean time, confuſion had ſpread among the domeſtics. Morning diſcovered the deſerti⯑on of Oſwald; and ſcarcely had meſſengers been diſpatched to inform Lord Raymond of this event, and the arrival of the two ſtrangers, when they learned the ſituation of the Counteſs, and were direct⯑ed to conduct her back to her apartnient. A ſecond [88]meſſage was inſtantly diſpatched to their Lord, with this alarming intelligence: and, ere long, he ap⯑peared in view, goating the ſides of his courſer, whilſt a few attendants ſtretched after him at ſome diſtance, in vain ſtriving to keep pace with his impa⯑tience. He entered the caſtle with looks wild and diſordered; and flew towards the apartment of the Counteſs; but was ſtopped by ſome of her maidens, who were directed to inform him that her preſent weakneſs and malady required reſt, and could not permit him to approach. He called for Elinor, who appeared before him trembling. He ſternly re⯑proached her with preſumptuous treachery and diſ⯑obedience; and demanded to know where her brother lay concealed, whither and for what purpoſe he had fled. Elinor ſtill trembled and was ſilent: Raymond thundered out terrible denunciations of vengeance; when the Counteſs who heard his rage from the ad⯑jacent chamber, ſuddenly ſent to deſire his preſence. He ruſhed in with glaring looks of fury and diſtracti⯑on; when, riſing her head gently from her pillow, Ela thus accoſted him. ‘Proud Lord, thy power is at an end. I am above thy oppreſſion; I am haſtening to the manſions of peace. My ſon is ſafe. Yes! that honeſt man has conveyed him to the neighbouring monaſtery, whoſe hallowed ſanc⯑tuary ſhall protect him from thee and thy minions. Thither thou canſt not force thy way. Thence, ſhall our wrongs be boldly and loudly echoed thro' the land, and ſoon ſhall the noble friends of Saliſbu⯑ry appear, to end thy uſurpation, to chaſtiſe thy miniſters of cruelty, and to revenge the injuries done even to the meaneſt of Ela's attendants.’— Thus ſpeaking, ſhe turned away with marks of ſcorn; again reclined her head, nor deigned the leaſt regard to his extravagant expreſſions of vexation and furptize. He burſt away in mad diſorder and confuſion: he ranged wildly through the galleries; ſtarted, and endeavoured to collect his thoughts and allay his paſſions; curſt his own raſh folly which [89]had tempted him abroad, afforded this opportunity of detecting and defeating his deſigns and threatened to cover him with ſhame and ſcorn. Then again he ruſhed forward in an agony of rage and vexation, when one of the meſſengers from Hubert approached with reſpectful obeiſance; and obliged him to aſſume ſome appearance of eaſe and compoſure.

From him Lord Raymond learned the ſeveral par⯑ticulars, which his companion had before imparted to Oſwald. But as this man was admitted more in⯑timately into the confidence of Hubert, he was farther directed to declare, that the friends to the houſe of Saliſbury began to expreſs their fears, that the long-protracted reſidence of Raymond in this caſtle, without any intelligence being received of the diſpoſitions of the Counteſs, any aſſurances of her conſent to accept his hand, had raiſed jealouſies and ſuſpicions in their minds; and that Hubert therefore urged him to renew his efforts, if he ſtill continued unſucceſsful; to improve thoſe rumours about Earl William, into full and certain aſſurances of his death, and with all poſſible ſpeed and earneſtneſs to haſten on his own nuptials with the Counteſs. He thanked the ſtranger, and commended his fidelity; he re⯑queſted him to retire for a while, promiſing to con⯑fer more fully with him at better leiſure: then reſigned himſelf to the diſorder of his mind, which this information and advice ſerved to inflame and irritate. He now ſaw the miſguided courſe which he had purſued. He formed the moſt dreadful preſages of that diſhonour which muſt attend his violence and unlawful oppreſſión. His paſſion for the Counteſs was ſtill alive; and for a while he ſeemed reſolved once more to try the gentle arts of love and tenderneſs; but the recollection of her rigour and diſdain, her wrongs and ſufferings, in a moment daſhed all his hopes, and he reſolved to fall at her feet, to implore her pardon, and to retire from her caſtle. For this purpoſe he again approached her apartment, and demanded admittance. Elinor ap⯑peared [90]before him, kneeled, and with many tears implored his indulgence for the weak ſtate of her un⯑happy Lady. 'Heaven only knows,' ſaid the kind attendant, ‘whether ſhe hath yet a few days of life remaining. Let not thy noble nature afflict the already too ſeverely afflicted. Let her die in peace; or if ſhe may yet live, break not on that tranquillity which may be the happy means of reſtoring her.' Wretch!’ cried Raymond, wildly ſurveying her, as ſhe humbled herſelf before him, ‘thou haſt undone me! Accurſed be the ſlave who hath aſſiſted thee to betray me! But why do I think of thee, thou reptile? Come, lead me to this Lady; let me diſpel her maladies, let me give her peace, and leave her.’—Elinor ſtarted up, confounded and aſtoniſhed at this myſterious language, earneſt for an explana⯑tion, yet too much awed and terrified to ſpeak her wiſhes. Raymond ſternly repeated his orders; and in that moment, the inhuman Grey, with all marks of haſte and impatience, ruſhed impetuouſly into the apartment.

He had heard of the eſcape and return of the Counteſs, and of the flight of Oſwald. He had ſpurred on with wild ſpeed to learn more particularly the reaſon and purpoſe of theſe alarming events! his own conſcious guilt had raiſed dreadful preſages in his mind: nor were theſe allayed by the diſorder in which he now found Lord Raymond. To him he addreſſed ſome haſty and imperſect queſtions. Raymond gazed on him for a while with an aſpect which plainly diſcovered an inward ſtrife, and doubt whether to accuſe this man as his evil counſellor, or to entreat his aſſiſtance as a faithful friend. At length, as if bowed down by violence of paſſion, he reclined on his arm, and was led away into another apartment. There he diſtinctly recounted the advices he had received from Hubert; and the jealouſies expreſſed by the friends of the houſe of Saliſbury, which muſt now be enflamed and confirmed by the falſe Oſwald, who had fled to ſanctuary with young William. [91]He ſpoke with pity and tenderneſs of the Counteſs whom his own cruelty had driven from her caſtle, and whoſe flight had been prevented only by her malady and weakneſs. He expreſſed his fears of de⯑tection and diſhonour; that his unwarrantable uſur⯑pation, and attempt upon the conſtancy of Ela, muſt now cover him with ſhame: he therefore declared himſelf reſolved to implore her forgiveneſs, and to retire. The coward heart of Grey felt all the terrors that Raymond had expreſſed, with double force. He was inſtantly filled with the imagination of that power and protection, which were ſoon to ſupport the injured Counteſs: he trembled at the re⯑collection of his own ſhare of guilt and oppreſſion: he commended the purpoſe of Lord Raymond, and urged him to reſign his pretenſions without delay. But amidſt all his fears, cunning had not yet forſaken him. He ſecretly determined to make this reſolution of his Lord ſeem the effect of his own advice, in order to plead ſome merit with the Counteſs, and, in ſome meaſure, to atone for his former inſolence. He there⯑fore propoſed to Raymond, to make him the meſſen⯑ger of his deſign, to entruſt him with the charge of acquainting Ela with his penitence, and his reſigna⯑tion of all hopes or pretenſions to her love or fortune. 'An interview,' ſaid he, ‘can only ſerve to enflame your fond paſſion, and to make a ſeparation doubly painful. No! truſt not your eyes with the too powerful and affecting object.’ Raymond conſent⯑ed; and Grey now prepared to ſummon Elinor, and to deſire admiſſion to the Counteſs; when acci⯑dentally, he aſked Lord Raymond, who ſtill dwelt upon the late events, to what place of ſanctuary Oſ⯑wald had retired. The neighbouring monaſtery of Sarum was no ſooner mentioned, than, ſuddenly ſtarting, as if a ray of comfort had juſt ſhot thro' his ſoul, his eyes kindled, his cheeks glowed, his whole aſpect ſpoke ſurprize and triumph: he eagerly ſeized the hand of his aſtoniſhed Lord; he pauſed; their eyes encountered each other. 'Hope?' ſaid [92]Grey: ‘yet hope!—I muſt depart this inſtant.— But, by all your fond wiſhes, by all your flattering proſpects of love and greatneſs, I conjure you to ſuſpend your purpoſe: ſee not, ſpeak not to this proud Counteſs, till my return.’ Raymond de⯑manded an explanation, but Grey only repeated his injunctions; urged him to retire, and left him filled with aſtoniſhment and expectation.